Beecher_Norwood.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']
INTRODUCTION
Since the introduction of railways, thousands of
curious travellers, every summer, have thronged
New England, have seen its manufacturing villages,
and admired its general thrift. But those who
know its scenery only by the river valleys, know
little of it ; and those who have seen its people
only in cities, are little acquainted with New-
England character.
Men speak of Yankee character as if there was
but 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, is there so large a proportion of the
population which is original, contrasted, and indi-
vidualised 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
species as the genus New England.
The scenery of New England is picturesque
rather than grand. Scarcely any other excursion
could be planned which would so well fill a summer
vacation as one which, winding leisurely up through
the western portions of Connecticut, of Massachu-
setts, and of Vermont, reached a climax at St
Alban's, on the eastern shore of Lake Champlain;
a place in the midst of greater variety of scenic
beauty than any other that I remember in
America. On the east rise the successive masses
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. O
of the White Mountains, seemingly close at hand;
on the west is Lake Champlain, swarming with
green islands, and beyond its waters, westward,
rise the Adirondacs, not in chains or single peaks,
but in vast broods, a promiscuous multitude of
forest-clothed mountains. On the north is scooped
out in mighty lines the valley of the St. Lawrence ;
and, in clear days, the eye may spy the faint
glimmer of Montreal.
Such a ride from New Haven to St. Alban^s,
from Long Island Sound to Lake Champlain, can
scarcely be matched for the charms of its scenery,
the number and beauty of its villages, for the
general intelUgence and culture of its people, for
the universal thrift following 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. Commerce and manufac-
turing 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 neighbourhoods and hill-towns y
retain the manners, morals, institutions, customs
B 2
4 NORWOOD; OR,
and reUgion of the fathers. The interior villages
of New England are her brood-combs.
Our simple story of domestic life wiU take us to
a point intermediate between the rugged simpli-
city 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 Connec-
ticut Eiver. Passing between these hiU-mountains,
we enter a great vaUey 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 bar-
riers on three sides, while its waters on the west
were stayed by the slopes of those hills, which, in
the middle of Western Massachusetts, are alf that
remain of the famous Green Mountains.
Look with my eyes, good reader, upon the town
of Norwood, that, refusing to go down upon the fat
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 5
bottom-lands of the Connecticut, 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
feirer village glistens in the sunlight, or nestles
under arching elms I It is a wonder that Nor-
wood was ever allowed to venture so near to the
low grounds of the Connecticut ; for it was early
settled, not far from thirty years after the Pil-
grims' 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 sentinel, or a hawk upon the topmost
bough, to spy danger at its first appearing? Or
had he some unconscious sense of the poetic beauty
of the Scriptural city set upon a hill some Jeru-
salem, 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 high and
broad-backed hill, where the summer came last,
and departed earliest; where, while it lingered,
6 NORWOOD; OB,
it was purest and sweetest ; where winter was
most austere, and its winds roared among the
trees, and shook the framed houses^ with eodi
awfnl grandenr, 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 pass away !
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
the people, all dependent upon their skill and
activity for a living, and all striving to amass
property enough to leave their families at their
death in independent circumstances.
The lower class of a New England village is
chiefly composed of the hangers-on those who
are ignorant and imbecile, and especially those
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 7
who, for want of moral health, have sunk, like
sediment, 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 inquisitorial cha-
racter, either powerfully determines men to good,
or 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 sen-
timent, though strong and high in moral tone,
had been, by peculiar influences, so 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
8 nobwood; oe,
western limit. It would have had no claims to
beauty had it not been rich in the peculiar glory
of New England its elm trees. No town can
fail of beauty, though its walks were gutters, and
its houses hovels, if venerable trees make magni-
ficent 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 miles, and from the Atlantic to
the head waters of the Mississippi; yet, in New
England, we find the elm in its greatest size and
beauty, fully justifying Michaux's commendation
of it to European cultivators, as "the most mag-
nificent vegetable of the Temperate Zone." Though
a lover of moisture and richness, the elm does not
flourish so well upon pure vegetable soils as 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 of country, amidst
so much beauty of scenery, enriched, though with
charming and inexpensive simplicity, with so
much beauty of garden, yard, and dwelling, can-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 9
not elsewhere be found upon the globe. 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 par-
ticularly by the elm. The elms of New England !
They are as much part of her beauty as the
columns of the Parthenon were the glory of her
architecture !
Their towering trunks, whose massiveness well
symbolises Puritan inflexibility ; their overarching
tops, facile, wind-borne and elastic, hint the end-
less 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 returning again, after every im-
pulse, 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 or Lancaster without elms ! Or
10 NORWOOD; OR,
Hadley, Hatfield, Northampton, or Springfield!
New. Haven without elms would be like Jupiter
without a beard, or a lion shaved of his mane !
And so, reader, as one loves to approach a
mansion through an avenue of' elms, we have led
you through a short discourse of trees to our
homely story.
"I
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 11
CHAPTEE II.
ABIAH CATHCART.
Abiah Cathcart was an honourable specimen of
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 intelli-
gent skiU and knowledge of their business by an
insatiable and tormenting industry. He thought
out his work, and then worked out his thoughts.
He was a man of great bodily strength ; of calm-
ness and patience, joined to an inflexible will. His
face accurately recorded his nature. It was large-
firamed, not mobile, but clear and open in expres-
sion; 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."
12 NORWOOD; OE,
He received from his parents a healthy body, a
sound judgment, 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 his own boys afterward with some quiet pride,
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 seasoned by
one's own toil or skill. He used to say that plea-
sure was wholesome and indispensable when one
had earned a right to it, but that amusement got
for nothing relaxed a man and demoralised him.
When he was eighteen years old, Cathcart
bought his time of his father for 200 dollars.
These were considered very liberal terms in those
days. A son's services for three years before his
majority were no small part of the working capital
of a small farin.
Being master of his time, he considered and
made an inventory of his goods and properties.
First, there was a good stout body, six feet high
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 13
uid well developed; a face and head that an
honest man need not be ashamed to carry through
the world. Next, he 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
fiather's flock; a pair of new thick boots for
Sundays, an every-day pair, an axe, a brave
heart ^honest and steadfast ; this was all that he
carried out of his father's house. No I He car-
ried likewise his father's blessing, ^unspoken, but
not the less real ; and his mother's prayers, silent
and gentle, but which could 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 he 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 themselves. This
was the measure of his dream.
This ought not to seem diflBcult. And it would
not be, in new regions, where land may be had for
a nominal price, and where the climate prolongs
)
14 NORWOOD; OE,
the Bummer, while it straitens the winter within
narrow bonnds. But in old New England, in the
neighbourhood of large towns, where land is ex-
pensive, 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 fEtmily.
Thus did Abiah Cathcart 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 peer-
age ; and to be proud of it is his right. It is not
the empty pride of money, but pride of skill, of
patience, of labour, of perseverance, and of honour
which wrought and secured the wealth.
When he left his father's house he hired out at
teaming, twelve dollars a month and found. Cath-
cart had this sign of a sound nature that he loved
a horse. His employer gave him some discretion
in buying and selling ; and soon, by purchase and
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 15
exchange, Cathcart had made up the best team in
the neighbourhood. Nothing went over the road
that everybody stared at more than his horses. It
pleased him to see men pull up, look over the
horses, and exclaim :
" That's a team for you ! I say, mister, will you
sell those horses?"
He was pleased almost every day. His horses
were moderately large, but compact, and the very
models of strength. Look at them 1 The fine ear,
the clean and finished look of their heads, and,
above all, the large lively eyes that easily change
expression, and you will see that they have nerve
as well as muscle. If you doubt, you should see
them when a heavy load threatens to stall them,
^the rousing, the 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 company, loved to feed them, loved to
take his book (he was ever and always a reader)
at noon, after his frugal meal was done, and sit by
his team, while the horses ground their oats, or
cracked and craunched their Indian com. Do you
wonder, reader, at such pleasure? Then you
16 NORWOOD; OB,
know little of some scenes of life. Ask an old
Western wagoner, what have been the happiest
honrs of his life ; and he will tell you,
" WeU, stranger, Tve seen some pretty jolly
times. But, for solid comfort, I think Fve enjoyed
the most when I was laying in my waggon near
a creek, and the fire was flickering among the
trees, and I was jest goin' to sleep, I think I never
heard anything quite so pleasant as my horses, at
both ends of the waggon, chankin' com ! "
His employer died. It being autumn, Cath-
cart engaged to clear off a piece of mountain
wood, and haul it to town, at so much a cord.
Doing well at this, the next fall he took a contract
for making charcoal, and became abnost a hermit
in the woods chopping, piling, and tending the
heap ; and, until he had completed 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
himself rich ^for he had earned a thousand dollars
and won a royal woman's heart
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 17
CHAPTEE III.
RACHEL LISCOMB.
Eaohel Liscomb, daughter of Deacon Liscomb
tall, slender, straight, 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
gifte of speech, whose bearing and looks are a full
equivalent for speech. A farmer's daughter she
was well practised in work. But 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 Cath-
cart. She went but little from home, except on
Sunday to church, and to the singing-school.
But twice had Cathcart visited her father's house,
VOL. I. c
18 NORWOOD; OB,
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.
Our finer feelings are like the evening primrose,
all the sunlight but shuts them closer. And yet,
when evening comes and dews are faUing, if you
will watch, you shall see the twilight with gentle
influence unroll them one by one, with visible
motion, each blossom throwing forth, as it opens,
its offering of delicate odour.
They were walking silently and gravely home
one Sunday afternoon, under the tall elms that
lined the street for half a mile. Neither had*
spoken. There had been some little parish
quarrel, and on that afternoon the text was, " A
new commandment I write unto you, that ye love
one another." But, after the sermon was done,
the text was the best part of it. Some one said
that Parson Marsh's sermons were like the meet-
ing-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 essayed to speak, but was stiU silent.
He plucked a flower from between the pickets of
\
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 19
the fence, and unconsciously pulled it to pieces,
as, with troubled face, he glanced at Kachel, and
then, as fearing she would catch his eye, he looked
at the trees, at the clouds, at the grass, at every-
thing, and saw nothing nothing but Eachel.
The most solemn hour of human experience is not
that of death, but of life when the heart is born
again, and from a natural heart becomes a heart
of love ! What wonder that it is a silent hour
and perplexed ?
Is the soul confused? Why not, when the
Divine spirit, rolling cleared across the aerial
ocean, breaks upon the heart's shore with aU the
mystery of heaven ? Is it strange that uncertain
lights dim the eye, if above the head of him that
truly loves hover clouds of saintly spirits ? Why
should not the tongue stammer and refuse its
accustomed offices, when all the world ^skies,
trees, plains, hills, atmosphere, and the solid
earth ^spring forth in new colours, 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 ! Then, for the first time, when one so loves
that love is sacrifice, death to self, resurrection,
c 2
20 NORWOOD; OB,
and glory, is man brought into harmony with the
whole universe; and like him who beheld the
seventh heaven, hears things unlawful to be
uttered I
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 throwing its shifty network of
hope and fear along the ground before him !
How strangely his voice sounded to him as, at
length, all his emotions could only say, " Bachel,
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.' Eachel, will you help me
keep it?"
At first she looked down and lost a little colour ;
then, raising her face, she turned upon him her
large eyes, with a look both clear and 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 21
home hand in hand. 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. This woman's life had been
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
"Eachael, this is for ever ^for ever;."
She again said nothing, but turned to him with
a dear 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 atmos-
phere ; and all the way home he was as one walk-
ing in a luminous cloud. He had never felt such
personal dignity as now. He that wins such love
is crowned, and may caU 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
22 NORWOOD; OR,
that night but bad reason to bless him. The
children found him unusually good and tender.
And Aunt Keziah said to her sister
" Abiah's been goin' to meetin' very regular for
Homo weeks, and I shouldn't wonder, by the way
lio looks, if ho had got a hope. I trust he ain't
docoivin' himself."
lie 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
(athcart and Kachel Liscomb, both of this town,
and tliis is the first publishing 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 recognised. It was one of the marks, like the
meeting-house, the brick store, and Gallup's tavern,
by which people knew that this was the town of
Dennis.
One day there appeared in the county paper
two lines: ^^ Married: On ^ at the hou9e
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 23
of the bride^8 father^ Aliah CatTicart and Rachel
lAcombr
What a slender body is that for the world of
meaning contained in it I
From 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 honoured 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, manliness seemed
the only thing worth living for, and truth and
purity seemed to him so noble that he strangely
hungered for them. 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. No-
thing before was even beautiful, if judged by his
present sensibility. These experiences did not
clothe themselves in language, nor work out in
ideas and images, for he was of too practical a
24 NORWOOD; OR,
nature. But they filled him with tenderness and
manliness.
As the day drew near of his marriage he felt
a thousand reluctances and scruples. He feared
that Eachael 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 admitted to such intimate relations.
Her every word was simple, every thought was
truth, every feeling pure ; and word, thought, and
feeling moved gently upon him in an atmosphere
of love. He worshipped God with reverence ; he
worshipped Eachel 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 neighbourhood, he was gay and jovial at the
wedding; but down deep in his soul he was as
solemn, before Rachel, as if Grod spoke and he
listened.
How wondrous are the early days of wedlock in
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 25
young and noble souls! How strange are the
ways of two pure souls, wholly finding each other
out ; between whom for days and months is going
on that silent and unconscious intersphering of
thought, feeling, taste, and will, by which two
natures are clasping, and twining, and growing
into each other !
Happy are they who know how, and happy was
Cathcart, 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 one root in which resides the secret of pro-
ducing immortal flowers, it is love.
26 NORWOOD; OR,
CHAPTER IV.
STARTING IN LIFE.
After his marriage, 'Biah Catlicart (as he was
familiarly called by his neighbours), not without
much thought and consultation, determined 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 was, besides, twenty acres of woodland,
lying three miles away, mountain lots, as they
were called. On the home farm there was an
old-fashioned farm-house of two stories.
But instead of one-story additions in the rear,
such as are now built 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 long since ceased to cover
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 27
the clapboards on the sides ; the roof was patched
and cumbered with moss, and the water-gutters
at 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
Cathcart took in hand the old house.
"You see. Doctor, that I've got a job here.
Old Templeton's 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 chimney-tops over again ; filling
and pointing won't do. I suppose you will shift
your flower-garden, too, from the roof to the
ground?"
" Flower-garden ? "
"Yes, poor things," said the doctor, going to
the back eaves and standing upon an old wash-
bench, where he could look upon the low roof.
28 NORWOOD; OR,
** I wish I bad this old mossy roof, or one just
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 oreep over decaying things and cover
thoir homeliness with such a cheerful garment !
Did you over think that in the animal kingdom
thort) was no beauty in death ? A crow, a dog, or
a woundtnl deer dies, and is soon consumed.
Thoy stHm to have bad their time when alive.
But vt^getation, with fewer privileges in life, has
more comeliness after death. Nobody makes
lirouda for trees, and so nature takes care of
them and bides them under new life ^making
beauty do sexton^s work, and shroud death with
the gtmnents of lifix I was over yesterday at the
ravine, and foimd an old tree trunk, half decayed,
on aixd around which was a garden such as no
ganlener could makew It lay on the edge of the
wood ; the steam of the brook had kept its mosses,
of which I counted many species, in admirable
health and colour. Ah, it was Uke a trunk of
emerald! Down on the south side, where the
leaves had kept them wann all winter, were
bloodroot blossoms, white as snow, shooting up
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 29
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 Baffael 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 anybody'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 who'll 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 ! We should soon have
moss growing over us, as it is over old Templeton
though, by the bye, he never suffered when on
earth from too much water, I'm thinking ! Hiram
Beers says he wouldn't touch it when 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! It would
make any gardener's reputation if he could plant
such a little moss-Eden as this. Well, if you
30 NORWOOD; OB,
choose to be healthy rather than beautiful, you
must have your own way. I'll be back in a
couple of hours. Widow Nance, poor thing, is
about spent! Save me some of the moss that
great patch yonder, with cherry stones heaped
along its upper edge."
And with that he carried away his great blue
eyes, and white face, wide at the top, but 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
away with him. Rachel says the doctor's face
and presence is better than most doctors' medi-
cine ; and it is reviving. I always feel after he's
gone as if there was more in everything about me
than I had any notion of before, though I can't
exactly tell what it is."
It was about two o'clock when Dr. Wentworth
returned, and, not seeing Cathcart, 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 de-
stroying is apt to infuse.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 31
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 ahingle thoughtfully, as if it were alive ;
and then 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, " Cut-tark-cut,
cut, cut!" Eeceiving no answer, with a low-
crooning noise in his throat, he cocked his eye,
first at the doctor, then 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 picking
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 his hat-band, laid down his
32 NORWOOD; OB,
hat on the well-stone^ while he unrolled the
ricketty old windlass and sent down the remnants
of a bucket for water. It was an old-Eishioned
well, of mysterious depth. If you looked down its
narrow and dark throaty you saw nothing. K you
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 hardly enough, at last,
to serve for a good drink. " Well, *Biah, I un-
derstand the old proverb, * Truth is at the bottom
of the well.' K I 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 till you have
lived a while here and changed every association.
I shall see the terrible sight that I witnessed
when old Templeton had delirium tremens. He
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 33
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 condition. The bams were utterly dilapi-
dated ; the fences were poor ; the soil had been
fleeced, and scarcely any thing that was bad in
husbandry had been left untried upon this much-
enduring farm.
But this universal deterioration had so depre-
ciated the market value of the place, that Cathcart
was enabled to buy it ^making a payment o^ a
thousand dollars, and borrowing the rest, with his
own time to pay it off. If he had been industrious
and frugal before, he was far more so now. What
he lacked in capital he must make up in enter-
prise.
For a year or two the struggle was close. His
wife was his equal in industry and frugality.
Her patience was never even ruffled. At four in
summer and at five in winter the light blazed on
the hearth and there were sounds in the barn.
After the cattle were foddered and until daylight
he worked at " closing " boots and shoes, earning
VOL. I. D
34 NORWOOD; OB,
thus a small addition to his means. At dark the
same labour was resumed. This rigid, methodical
industry was cheerfully pursued without intermis-
sion for years, and at length began to produce its
results. One by one each field had been deepened,
for Cathcart said, "No farmer owns any deeper
than he can plough."
Little by little the near lots were cleared of
stone, which reappeared in stone walls, built with
a breadth and accuracy fit for a castle-wall, and
wliich at length were carried round 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 number of division fences was greatly re-
duced, Cathcart believing that far more ground
was wasted by fences than any good farmer could
afford. 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, Cathcart
argued, constituted, in ten years, a heavy tax on
industry.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAl^D. 35
In such a climate, in such a soil, and in such
a community, a farm will not pay, unless it be
made to move with the accuracy of a machine,
and with an economy which reaches into the most
minute elements.
Availing himself of Dr. Wentworth's library,
he had read the best works on husbandry, and
extracted from them enough to guide his practice
to a result far beyond that which was common in
the neighbourhood. Whoever had, at first, criti-
cised 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 roUed on, and Cathcart 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, in due time,
take their places in our history.
D 2
30 korwood; ob.
CHAPTEE V.
THE WENTWORTHS.
^
The night on which Rose Wentworth was born,
was furnished 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 fresli 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 vegetable world was going on. If one feels
the influence of the seasons upon his natal hour,
it was fit that Dr. Wentworth's first-bom 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 odour of
opening buds, which to some sensitive persons is
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 37
strangely exhilarating, and which stirs the mind
with subtle suggestion, and, after the long im-
prisonment of winter, sets the tremulous imagina-
tion into wild delight.
In the afternoon there had been several peals of
thunder, which at that early season awakened sur-
prise 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 ; pitying eyes ! For
years she had stood a door-keeper for this sad
world, and all that came in had begun their life
with cries and wails, as if to prophesy their future.
Had pity for those bom into sorrow and crying at
last stamped itself in her very features ?
38 NORWOOD; OR,
When tlie thunder broke forth suddenly, and
rolled away in the distance with softened cadence.
Mother Taf't moved to the front door. Her walk-
ing was of that quiet kind that seemed to have no
more footsteps in it than has the shadow of a 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
liad thrown off their silky catkins, and were in
leaf; the lilac buds were swollen large; the elm
was covered with chocolate-coloured blossoms ; the
'pyrus japonica was reddening its clusters of crim-
son buds; the green- wooded /oray^Aia was pushing
yellow flowers ; and the soft maple drew bees to
its crimson tassels. In the border, peonies were
breaking ground ; snowdrops and ^5rocuses were
in bloom, as also hepaticas. The grass was be-
coming vividly green, and honey-suckles espe-
cially over the trellis at the front door were
pushing new leaves. Yes, nature was fairly at
work! The sap flowed agaia Life was once
more organizing myriads of curious textures and
forms with silent forces infinite and almost omni-
potent.
The Doctor searched not as one who would take,
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 39
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 are 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 blossom earliest?"
"What?" said Pete, looking perplexed.
" Where can you get the earliest May-flower ?"
"May-flowers why, on Howlet's Hill, of course,"
said Pete, as if 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 don't know the ins and outs of the
fields yet. But bring up the horses and drive me
there. Don't let grass grow under your feet."
Passing through a pine wood, where no flowers
were yet growing, and ascending the hill, through
an open wood where hemlock and deciduous
trees were mixed, they came near the top to a
half-cleared space, to the eye brown and barren,
40 nouwood; or,
except here and there clumps of evergreen kal-
niias. Pete's eye was seldom at fault.
''There's some, Doctor, by that stump; and
there's some beyond, ever so much." Clearing
away the leaves he revealed the sweetest flower
that opens to the northern sky. It is content,
though lying upon the very ground. It braves
the coldest winters. All the summer cannot ela-
borate a perfume so sweet as that which seems to
have been born of the very winter. It is like the
breath of love. The pure white and pink blossoms,
in sweet clusters, lie hidden under leaves, or grass,
and often under untimely snows. Blessings on
thee! Thou art the fairest, most modest, and
sweetest-breathed of all our flowers !
Enough for a wreath soon gathered, and brought
home the fittest 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, Was bom
Rose Wentworth.
Dr. Reuben Wentworth was born in the old
town of Norwich, Connecticut, in one of the old
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 41
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 Massachusetts, and to this, circumstance,
probably, it was owing that he studied at Harvard
University. A respectable student in the regular
course, he had the reputation of being very busy
with studies outside of the course. He early mani-
fested a strong taste for natural science, but was
never satisfied with that part which the books
contain, but, with an instinct as strong as that
which leads an infant to its mother's breast for
food, he turned from the dry descriptions and
classifications to the living things themselves. At
first, it was almost wholly an instinct, the sensi-
bility of exquisite taste. But to this was added,
by gradual unfolding, a rational element, and then
a moral sympathy, until he found himsQlf united
to the organised system of nature with every part
of his being.
This task did not detach him from the love of
books, nor of society, nor of art and litera-
42 ''^ NORWOOD ; OB,
ture. He had warm sympathy for everything
human, and for all the proper works of man ; but
under and behind it was a strong and silent sym-
pathy and alliance with nature ; silent, for, during
all his education, Keuben Wentworth had a vague
impression that his tastes, if fully disclosed, would
render him liable to the charge of being a dreamer,
and a poetical idealist.
The uncle, whose purse had carried him through
college, was an old bachelor of fifty years spry,
lean, and chipper Ebenezer by 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 passed everywhere as
Uncle M. He wrote his name Eb. Wentworth
tying them together with a long flourish, as if
afraid they would get separated. He used 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. You have to take
them all down to find either one. Our children
go trudging aU their lives with their load of names,
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 43
as if they were old Jews returning with an assort-
ment 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 of 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 con-
tained a great deal of good sense, and of shrewd
observation. It was full of whims, too, and ludi-
crous exaggerations, particularly when any one
opposed him. There was no excess and no ab-
surdity which he would not zealously defend, if
some sober and literal man sought logically to
comer him. He disputed axioms, refused to
admit first principles, laughed at premises, and
ran down conclusions, dogmatised and madly
asserted, with the merriest and absurdest indiffer-
ence to all consistency and for which there is no
parallel unless it be that of a very lively horse
in a very large pasture, with a very gouty man
trying to catch him.
44 NORWOOD; OR,
But this was superficial. At bottom Uncle Eb.
was a stem moralist, and loyal to the last degree
in his conduct to lionour and truth.
If you had a pet theory, or an assumptions
argument, or a logical brat prigged up with
pretentious authority, Uncle Eb. was the most
dangerous of men to entrust it with. He was a
sore trouble to theologians, and a nuisance to
theorists. But if you were dying, he was just
the man to entrust your estate with. Punctual,
exact, sharp, disinterested, but pragmatical :
he neither would cheat nor allow cheating.
There was no more vapouring, no more wild
caracoles of the horse aforesaid in open fields;
but, like the horse in harness, he settled down
to his work with edifying sobriety and regu-
larity.
"Well, Eeuben, you graduate this summer.
What next ? What are you going to do ? You are
pretty well stufied with trash. It will take several
years to forget what you ought not to have learned,
and to get rid of the evil effects of foolish instruc-
tion. 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.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 45
It's not till practical life melts it that the ground
yields anything. Men get over it quicker in some
kinds of business 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
aflford to be a gentleman, and so you must choose
among other callings."
" Can't a man, Uncle Eb., be a gentleman in
any respectable calling ? "
'*0h 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 be a superfluity, and a class
of them simply a nuisance. A gentleman should
have feeling ^but should hide it People of much
sentiment are like fountains, whose overflow keeps
a disagreeable puddle about them. He should
have knowledge, but not like your educated men
of our day whose knowledge sings and crows, and
cackles with every achievement. Hjs know-
ledge should be like apples in autumn hanging
silently on the boughs ^rich, ripe, and still. A
46 NORWOOD; OR,
gentleman should be business-like by instinct.
Affairs in his hands come to pass silently and
without ado, as Nature compasses her results
the vastest range and round of spring work
making less noise than one store or shop. I
tell you, Eeuben, a gentleman is a rare speci-
men. He requires so much in the making that
few are made."
" But people consider you a gentleman, Uncle
Eb."
" Tut, tut no ridicule, young man ! I am
gentlemanly! That's another thing. I have
worked too hard, showing that I had not enough
power. Power works easily. I have fretted too
much. Fretting is a perpetuetl confession of
weakness. It says, * I want to, and can't.' Fret-
ting is like a little dog pawing and whining at a
door because he can't get in. No, no. A gentle-
man is like a fine piece of statuary, and must
not be used like a caryatides to hold up porti-
coes or cornices. He must be so fine that
he accomplishes more while doing nothing than
others do with all their bustle. He must be
better than other men at the start, or he will
grow rough in trying to mend matters, and so be
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 47
like the best of common men, who only succeed
in getting ready to live when it is time for them
to die."
" Is not Squire Perkins a gentleman ? "
"Good and polite! But not my gentleman.
His grain is not fine. His mother was a sailor's
widow, hearty and good-natured, but coarse in
substance. AU that Judge Perkins can claim is
good nature, which is a mere matter of health.
Good digestion you are good-natured ; bad
digestion ^you are morose! 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 grace that's
going is nothing but food. Paul said the king-
dom was not meat and drink. Very likely not
hereafter. But it is here. Good steak and light
bread is benevolence. Coffee is inspiration and
humour. Good tea is tenderness and spright-
liness facts very humbling of our excellences.
But they're facts. Perkins is a good fellow. But
if he were old, had the rheumatism, and were to
have his money stolen, he would be as sour as a
crab-apple."
Young Wentworth was amused at his uncle's
48 NORWOOD; OR,
crotchets, and loved to oppose him just enough to
keep the old gentleman on the edge of extrava-
gance, without being fairly driven over into
absurdity.
" No, Keuben, gentlemen are foreordained fix)m
all eternity. They can't be hurried up and put
together on order, like a box of shoes for the
southern market. A gentleman must see every-
body without looking, and know everybody with-
out inquiry, and say just the right thing to
everybody without trying to; and, above all, he
must make everybody in his presence do the best
things they know how to do. That's the touch-
stone. 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. That will never do. The gentleman is
a natural king. He has the intuition 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 dwel-
ling-houses."
"Very well, uncle, I will give up being a
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 49
gentleman. Such a brilliant exception to good
and well-bred men I was not bom to be. What
next?"
" You should never make a clergymen of your-
self. You are not bad, but then you're not good.
A man should be bom 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 combinations. Men are
like trees, each one must put forth the leaf that
is created in him. Education is only like good
culture ^it changes the size, but not the sort.
The men that ought to preach should be ordained
in birtL The laying on of hands can't make an
empty head fiill, nor a cold heart warm, nor a
silent nature vocal. A minister is 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 moral natures,
and may not cultivation develope them ? "
"So many trees have sweet sap besides the
maple, but the maple only is so sweet as to be
profitable for sugar. Corn-stalks have saccharine
matter as weU as sugar-cane. But we plant one for
VOL. L E
50 NORWOOD; OB,
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 grain. Find out
whether a man's head is fertile in moral ideas. It
is not enough that he should know what is right
when he sees it. He should see it before it
exists. New good, new truth, better justice should
suggest itself to him on every side. He is an
inventor of better good than men now possess.
Ymr head, Eeuben, does not run clear; you
think a matter is right if only it is beautiful, with
a little touch of wildness in it. Besides, the oflSce
of a minister won't agree with your natural car-
riage. You would run when you were expected
to walk. You have no respect for rules. You
would scare everybody once a month with some
naturalistic 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 it is
not ! Natural religion is generally considered as
poor stuff. Imported is thought more of than
home-made ; broadcloth proves better than linsey-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 51
woolsey. The Chnrcli thinks that it will not do
to make religion too easy ; folks might take it up
of themselves. Ton were not bom for a pulpit.
Pew men are. Pulpits are queer places candle-
sticks whose candles won't bum 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
you upon my honour that I won't be a clergy-
man."
In early life Uncle Eb. had been deeply
wounded in a love affair, and saw his treasure
borne off by a young minister. He had never
married, and he never quite forgave the profes-
sion. But, it is only just to say, that while he
made cynical speeches about ministers in general,
he had conceived the warmest attachment to
many clergymen in particular.
"Perhaps you think I had better be a law-
yer?"
"There's worse things than that. But you
would never make your bread at that business.
E 2
52 NORWOOD; OB,
It's a hot and drastic profession. Yoa will
see men chiefly on the selfish side. You will be
^ways making a porridge of somebody's dirt
Pretty good fellows lawyers are; but I wonder
at it."
" I declare, uncle, I believe you mean to make
a schoolmaster of me."
'^No, sir; a man should never be a school-
master. That's a woman's business. Be a pro-
fessor or nothing I Even then it's a poor business.
Who ever heard of a college professor that was
not poor ? They dry up in pocket like springs
after the wood is cut off from the hills. They
are apt to get very dry in other ways, toa A
man that teaches cannot afford to know too much.
A teacher is like a needle. He should be small
and sharp. If large, he cannot run easily through
the garments to be made. The College President
ought to be a great man a sort of specimen,
something for the boys to remember as a pattern
of a man."
" Well, uncle, as I am not a bom gentleman,
and can't make a good minister, am too good to
be a lawyer, and must not be a schoolmaster ; as
I am too fat to be a professor, and not grand
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 53
enough for a president, ^I am afraid I shall have
to go to sea for a living ; for I am not fit to work,
and should sell myself out of house and home, if
I was a merchant."
" There is just one thing left, and a business
proper for you ; you should be a doctor ! You
love nature. Tou love chemistry and botany.
You 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, espe-
cially 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.
That you want it, is enough."
54 kobwood; ob.
CHAPTER VI.
WANDEBINa THOUGHTS.
Young Wentworth, after graduating, took a regu-
lar course of medicine in Boston, with an average
standing. By his uncle's liberality he spent a
year in Vienna, and one in Paris. Longer he was
to have remained. But his uncle's sickness brought
hiTn home, only in time to spend a few days
with him before the eccentric but kind man died.
His property was left to young Wentworth, and it
proved greater than men had suspected. Some
fortunate 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 pursue his profession &om taste and kind-
ness rather than from urgent necessity.
Refusing most flattering overtures for a city
practice, Dr. Wentworth sought a sphere in Nor-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 55
wood, where he could be in daily and intimate
converse with nature.
" She w 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 humour; some stir in you vague sus-
picion, 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 dispo-
sition, as well as in judgment and philosophic
sense, he was still more fortunate in the rare gift
of bearing unconsciously about with him an atmo-
sphere which inspired health in body and soul upon
those susceptible to subtle influences.
This was a notable element in his medical prac-
tice. His skill consisted in persuading men to get
well. Sickness is very largely the want of will.
Everything is brain. There is thought and feeling
not only, but will; and will includes in it fer
more than mental philosophers think. It acts
universally, now as upon mind, and then just as
5i KOBWOOD ; OB,
much upon the body. It is another name for life-
force. Men in whom this life or will-power is
pfreat, resist disease, and combat it when attacked.
To array a man's mind and will against his sick-
ness 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 medi-
cine, and often cured by his presence those whom
drugs would have scarcely helped. These cures
through the spirit of the patient he regarded as fSsir
the most skilful and plulosophicaL
'* Nothing ails her. It is only her imagination,''
said the nurse to him one day.
" Only the imagination ! That is enough.
Better suffer in bone and muscle than in the ima-
gination. If the body is sick the mind can cure
it ; but if the mind itself is sick, what shall cure
that?"
These elements of character, in time^ would
have procured for him constant employment, even
had he been poor, and in need of immediate occur
pation. But as he had a competence, and abun-
dant occupation in his grounds and books, and in
pleasant society, to which his tastes strongly
inclined him, he found his professional services
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 57
from the first in great demand, and fuiTiished
another instance of the willingness of men to aid
those not in need, while 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 speculation upon the social prospects of
this promising physician and surely the bene-
volence 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 connection. It is to be hoped that they
were abundantly gratified, when he found a wife,
without their help. Certainly, there was no
offence that alienated their sympathy; for, when
Dr. Wentworth, returning from a fortnight's
absence, appeared, on Sunday morning, in his
pew, at church, that pew became the centre of
the church, and outmastered the choir and the
pulpit !
58 nobwood; ob,
Who is this woman that is better than all of
us ?" looked at least a score of girlish feces ^and
another score of graver mother faces. Five or six
in different parts of the house, in the most grave
and decorous manner, spoke or whispered each
to some neighbour an edifying comment, as
follows :
" How old should you take her to be ? "
"At least twenty-fiva"
" Thirty ! not a year less."
" I don't think she cares much about dress,
do you ? She's rather too plain, if anything."
" Perhaps she depends on her manner. Do you
notice how she 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 you see her hands? Has she many
rings ! "
" Do you know if the doctor got anything by
her? Of course he don't need it. He's got pro-
perty enough of his own. But then, I think, it
TILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 59
tends to peace in the family, if both bring a little
property. Money is of no use without piety. But,
when a man has 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 ain't worth look-
ing 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 preparatory
lecture and to sacrament, then you may know she's
pious."
The sermon over, and the services ended, the
mroister, the deacons, and a few of the leading
members were introduced to the new comer.
They hoped for a better acquaintance. Thev
should be happy to call. They hoped she was
pleased with Norwood. How did she like the
church ? Had she recovered from the fatigue of
her journey? Had she ever been in Norwood
before ? Deacon Trowbridge solemnly hoped she
would be strengthened to meet her responsibili-
0 sscswdDH': ok,
aoB. Axfci OLhr f^cy uii dxy Daftfon IQiUe Ten-
ared cm m c.jgL.p'iTnfait.
" Well Ba^iLm. Dr. Wranvorti jJl^s was fond
f flcirec& uid I kurw iie'd jdc^ m good one when
he cizx^ to chvXise^'"
If the people wiofpes^ a few oTiat opinionsin
duQvch, it was m mesn? Kt-iraits of that hairefit
which wmred dming ^ intennissioii. Exoeptthe
minister, the doctor w^as. nndonbtedly, the most
impcHtant man in Norwood.
^Took ns rather by sarprisiek Jndge? Some
folks thought the doctor needn\ 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
fcunily. I know them rery welL Came over in
the Mayfiffwerr
** Did she ? Why, she don't look so old ? "
"Bless you, looks are deceiying," 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 his sister walked in a stately and
quiet manner, without a word; and, as he care-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 61
ftdly latched the gate, Dr. Wentworth and his
wife were passing. Of course, 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 neighbours, aU 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
neighbour to the eldest sister.
** I don't think anything about it."
"But you noticed her, didn't you ? "
" No more than I did others. I hope to find
her a pleasing person, when I shall know her.
Did you not think the sermon unusually 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
something about ^minding our own business, or
something ^no doctrine nothing but morality.
Do tell me where the text was."
i
62 SGEWOOD ; OB,
Hiiam Been, as usual, bad gathered about bim
a knot of young men aroand the draicb-door, and
of those staying dnring the intennissioii, and quite
a nnmber of girls had been drawn to hear what
Hiram woold say ; tar Hiram's speeches belonged
to the whole town."
''I think the doctor is a lore of a man;
and oh, I should like to know about his court-
ship."
Hiram overheard the whisper in which a miss
of fifteen had said this to her companion, and,
assuming a confident air, he says
"Why, Matilda, I know all about it. I drove
the doctor over, you know, and he told me all
about it."
"He did? Oh, do tell us ! "
" That I will every word. You see the doctor
meant to marry Miss Naxon, till he saw Miss
Ferris ; and he might have decided between them:
but then Miss Greenleaf 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, you see, would have been
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 63
two griefe to one joy ^not a fair bargam. So he
was forced to go to Boston,"
" Why, what did he go to Boston for ? "
"Well, that's a pretty question! That's the
only place to go to ! Why, if a man wants any-
thing he alius goes to Boston. Everything 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 all the raih-oads go to
Boston? and sailors say ^you ask Tommy Tafts
if you start anywhere clear down in Floridy and
keep up along the coast, you will fetch up in
Boston. They have to keep things tied up around
there. They festen 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 would be covered down like
Herculaneum. Of course, the doctor went to
Boston. Every single one of the first chop folks
was married off the week afore he got there but
one. There was just one left. But she was the very
best of the Ipt. The doctor saw her in Old South
church. She was a singin' * Come ye disconsolate.'
The minute she set her eyes on the doctor "
64 NORWOOD; OB,
By this time the boys were snickering and the
girls giggling, and our honest-faced little ques-
tioner began to doubt Hiram's authenticity.
"Now, Hiram, I don't believe a word you say."
** Well, if you don't believe me, you just ask
the doctor himself."
Not a smile was on his faca He looked at his
listeners one by one with a quizzical solemnity for
a second, and then, as one who remembered press-
ing duties elsewhere, 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 waggon.
" I should be glad to see the old mansion look
ing life-like again, as it did when Saltonstall was
alive. Fine 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 hadn't lived there years, and had Agate
Bissell for housekeeper ; and a smarter and better
you won't find if you sarch the whole State. Any-
body that takes her place has got to stir round.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 65
Tm one that don't VKeve therell ever be any
better housekeeper in that 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 wasn't for the name of 't. 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 deanin' and lookin', and huntin' and
rubbin'."
" Yes-, Polly, I guess 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!"
Even Polly was liable to temptation, and her
face looked as it had forty years ago, when com-
pliments had brought a smile to it. But she was
so thin all nerve, bone, and skin that smiles
VOL. I. F
66 nobwood; ob,
slipped off easily, and left the same anxious and
earnest face.
"There's no wastin' where Agate Bissell is.
She can make a cent go as far as most folks"
shillin'. She had a hard time of it, too. The
doctor's not particular, and he wouldn't let her
put his study to rights. You know it's a great
room, running the whole depth of the house, and
fiill of books and stuff, and pictures^ and engravings,
and stacks of all sorts of things, and the table full
of rubbish, and chairs full of portfolios, and he'd
never let Agate Bissell 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 cat's board by it
She is dreadful particular ! "
There was something in the deacon's tone which
did not suit his wife, and she sharply edified him
"I wish you was half as particular. Deacon
Marble, with your tongue, as Agate Bissell is
with her hands. Then you wouldn't make such
foolish speeches as you do. You must needs
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 67
compliment her, right in church, and afore the
minister ! "
" 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. It sticks like burrs,
and makes folks think you like 'em more^ you
do. Talking roses and poses to the girls is not
becoming 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 put
an end to the discourse, which was likely from
this point to become personal, he succeeded.
How they ever made a deacon out of Jerry
Marble I never could imagine! His was the
kindest heart that ever bubbled and ran over.
He was elastic, tough, incessantly active, and a
prodigious worker. He seemed never to tire, but
after the longest day's toil, he sprang up the
moment he had done with work, as if he were
a fine steel spring. A few hours' sleep sufficed
him, and he saw the morning stars the year round.
His weazened face was leather colour, but for ever
p 2
68 nobwood; ob,
dimpling and changing to keep some sort of con-
gruity between itself and his eyes, that winked
and blinked, and split over with merry good nature,
lie always seemed aflElicted when obliged to be
sober. He had been known to laugh in meeting
on several occasions, although he ran his face be-
hind his handkerchief and coughed, as if that was
the matter, yet nobody believed 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 spi-
ritual condition called sleep. He was blameless
of the act. He had struggled against the tempta-
tion 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 stirred himself up,
and fixed his eyes on the minister with intense
firmness, only to have them grow gradually nar-
rower and milder. If he held his head up firmly,
it would with a sudden lapse fall away over back-
ward. If he leaned it a little forward, it would
drop suddenly into his bosom. At each nod, re-
coveiing himself, he would nod again, with his
eyes wide open, to impress upon the boys that
he did it on purpose both times.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 69
In what other painful event of life has a good
man so little sympathy as when overcome with
sleep in meeting time? Against the insidious
seduction he arrays every conceivable resistance.
He stands up a while; he pinches himself, or
pricks himself with pins. He looks up help-
lessly to the pulpit as if some succour might
possibly come thence. He crosses his legs un-
uncomfortably, and attempts 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! What tossing wakefulness there! what
fiery chase after somnolency ! In his lawful bed
a man cannot sleep, and in his pew he cannot
keep awake ! Happy man who does not sleep in
church ! 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
70 kobwood; ob.
Deacon MaiUe was brought to a sore strait. But,
I hare reason to think that he would haye wea-
thered 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 langhed out lond, with a frank
and mnsical explosion, and then suddenly disap-
peared backward into his mother's lap. That
laugh was just too much, and Deacon Marble
could no more help laughing than could Deacon
Trowbridge help sleeping. Nor could he conceal
it. Though he coughed, and put up his handker-
chief and hemmed it wa a laugh, deacon!
and eyery boy in the house knew it, and liked
you better for.it so inexperienced were they !
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 exist-
ence. There was no gradation or perspective
in her conscience. The least wrong was a full-
sized sin ; and the smallest sin was worse than we
^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 71
can measure. Great sins were a terror for the
future life, not for this. Of many edifying in-
structions 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 ! 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 God. I always said
that I couldn't imagine why they ever made ypu
deacon ^a man whose eyes and face are always
agoin' as if they were maJdn' fan of the sacred
oflBce."
The image raised by these last words seemed
to touch the deacon's sense of the ludicrous, and
he fell under the temptation again, though riding
home on Sunday in fall sight of his neighbours.
"I declare. Deacon Marble, you will bring re-
proach on religion." And, looking at him through
72 noewood; OB,
her spectacles,'whose glasses were about four times
the size of the eyes that snapped behind them, she
continued, " I think deacon-timber was scarce when
they picked you out."
"Mercy on us, Polly! I didn't make myself
a deacon, and I didn't make myself, anyhow.
I s'pose I perform pretty much as I was built.
But I never saw any harm in laughing. If it's
a sin, I can't see what the Lord lets so many
funny things happen for. I don't go and make
things funny. They come to me. The whole
world is full of queer things, and it ain't 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 heard you
snicker at a Mineral. Besides, it leads to deceit.
You know you hadn't any nose-bleed when you
went out of church last 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 on the boy's ear."
Poor Marble went off into another burst at the
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 73
remembrance. " Why, Polly, he thought it was a
fly, and he raised his big hand, so sly and cunning,
to give the fly a wipe, and hit his own ear," ^at
which point he went off again into a chuckle, pro-
ducing 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
come to pray at their bedsides. And when
Widow Nance's cow died in 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 findin'
fault with 'em. Somebody ought to have a kind
side to 'em."
"^
74 NORWOOD; OB,
" They should behave better, then. There's no
excuse for wickedness. * First pure, then peace-
able,' deacon, That settles it. I wish you was
like Deacon Trowbridge. Did you ever see Pete,
and Hiram Beers, and Ephe Barnes hanging round
him? Do you believe he'd spend his money in
givin* gingerbread and fire-crackers to all the
tatterdemalion boys, on trainin' days?"
Deacon Marble admitted facts. The very idea
of such conduct seemed to raise a picture before
him unsuited to sobriety.
" What are you laughing at now ? You are as
fall of levity as flies are. Would you laugh if you
was dying? I really believe you would! To
think of it! A deacon, at your time of life,
chirpin' as if you was a cricket and goin' round,
as if you was nothin' better'n a bird singing and
hoppin', instead of being a deacon, with an im-
mortal soul in him ! Sometimes I am afeerd you
are in the gall of bitterness yet Ton ought to
examine your evidences, deacon. Laughing is not
one of the signs of grace, I'm sure. It's awful to
be deceived; and you've a good many reasons
to fear that you are deceivin' yourself."
Don't confound Mrs. Polly Marble with a mere
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 75
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 her 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 of 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 read the * Missionary Herald '
every month, and the * Boston Eecorder' every
week, without the omission of a line. She remem-
bered whatever passed 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
76 NORWOOD; OB,
confounded with those which spring from irritable-
ness, but must rank with the conscientious labours
of anxious natures, who feel conscientiously called
to make the world better, and who use their
tongue as the most convenient instrument at
hand.
But ^this will never do !^ J We have quite
forgotten Dr. Wentworth and his happy house-
hold. But so really happy were they all in that
old mansion, that they never seemed more mellow,
genial, and hospitable than since this little child
came, that they would not have known it if the
whole world had neglected them.
Two years had passed busily and happily away,
when the event occurred of which we have spoken
in the fifth chapter, and a girl was given to the
household. The mother would call it Eose for
that was a favourite sister's name. The father
called it Bose, for that united her to the flowers
he so much loved. Others called her Eose,
because it was so sweet a name for a girl ; and,
therefore, she was named Eose Wentworth.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 77
CHAPTEE VII,
A MERRY CHAPTER.
A WAGGON loaded with empty barrels drove up to
Tommy Taft's one morning.
" Mr. Brett wants to know if you can fix those
barrels to-day. The heads want resetting, and all
of 'em want hoops. These two, he says, want two
iron hoops apiece, besides the hickory."
"Gtet away with your barrels! Do you think
I'm going to work to-day ? No, by Josey, I don't
as long as * I can read my title clear.' 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 up there now. I'm
goin' up to the prospect. Work ! Not by a jug-
full! Tumble off your barrels! They won't
spile afore to-morrow. Where's old Smasher?
78 NOBWOOD; OB,
Come 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 Taft was about forty-five years old. A
big head he had, round, and bald down to the top
of his e^xs, but at that point, for some reason, the
hair refused to retreat, and sprang up with such
vigour that it looked like an abattis, as if the hair,
driven down from the heights, determined to
make a stand and fight for its rights. His eyes
were small, grey, sunk deeply beneath bold eye-
brows, whose hair was wonderfully luxuriant,
curling over and standing out in immense profu-
sion. 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, and his manner of all sorts
that ever were found in man, except, always, a
refined manner. He had been a sailor all his long
life, and brought inland into this quiet village all
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 79
the odd and outlandish ways which a seafaring
life in olden times was wont to breed.
Why is it that children take to these great,
shaggy natures, seemingly attracted by those very
appearances which would seem likely to repel
them? Children act by sympathy. A warm
heart attracts them, and when once a child's con-
fidence is gained, these rudenesses of person be-
come agreeable, 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 under fifteen, certainly. His poor old shop
and house was the fascination of all the young
folks of the village and of the country round.
The ground floor was a cooper shop and general
tinkering establishment ; upstairs were two rooms,
plain to rudeness, and as rough in furnishing as if
they had been hewed out and fitted by a sailor's
axe on a desolate island after a shipwreck, 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-natured he
seemed always to be comically in sympathy with
80 nobwood;'ob,
his wife, in external things. He was always good-
natured when he was sober. He was sober nearly
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 exercise 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 recovd!red 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 hos-
pital with him ; their skates and sleds in winter,
and their kites, and traps, and gun-locks in sum-
mer, were his peculiar charge, and his invariable
answer was, "Oh, we mustn't charge children
anything." The cheery old fellow was full of
quips and pranks, of stories of adventure, drawn
from his former seafaring life, or from the full
volume of sailors' yams which had accumulated in
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 81
his long years of cruising. While he was Avilling to
take compensation from grown people, he was sure
to reject any attempt on the parents' part to re-
quite 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 tinkered back
to its duty.
If a poor creature's bucket was going to pieces,
in some mysterious manner it got to itself a new
hoop, and the bail 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 render 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 outburst, and
to everybody according to his kind.
VOL. L G
82 nobwood; oe,
It was impossible to separate between his
humour and earnestness, between conviction and
waggery.
Good Parson Buell sometimes visited his shop
in the regular rounds of parochial duty, and
attempted to talk faithfully with him. Tommy
owned everything, made no resistance, yea,
went before the minister and beyond him, in self-
accusations.
" Do you 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 know-
ledge. To set under such preachin' as I do,
Parson Buell, and not to be better'n I am, is a
great sin ; and Pm afeerd that I get harder and
harder, and that I am puttin' ofif the day of repen-
tance, 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 repent, that's sartain! Why
shouldn't I? It is well said that it is time for
sinners to be surprised in Zion. The rest of the
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 83
varse, too, is very alarmin'. * Who among us shall
dwell with devourin' fire, and who among us
shall dwell with everlastin' burnings ? ' It is sar-
tinly 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
scoflBng. Dr. Buell himself could not have uttered
them in a manner more entirely proper. He
never seemed in haste to finish the conversation.
He would follow the parson to the gate, still des-
canting 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 fipom his pastor. He laughed and bubbled
over with fun, and contrived some new plaything,
or rejoiced the urchin with some queer story, and
sent him home happy as a king.
Tommy Taft was always a sailor. Among
other notions was that of eating with his sheath-^
a 2
^
84 NORWOOD; OR,
knife, which was an exaggerated jack-knife, with
a hole bored in the handle and tied to his belt,
which he wore instead of suspenders, by a long
yarn or string. At table he would draw out old
Rouser, as he 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 run up on
the knots and rugged bark of an oak-tree. What-
ever rough usage she received at his hands,
none ever knew of it from her ; whatever discre-
pancy or uncongeniality 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 physician
or the nurse, she knew who was sick. Better
than the clergyman, she knew who was in sorrow.
Nor is it extravagant to say, that, better than all
these, she knew the art of bringing consolation to
those who were in sorrow. Whatever the history
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 85
of her own past life, her victory had made her a
leader for others in the dark land.
When Widow Barnes* only boy was brought
home dead, flung from a horse in a drunken race,
on a muster-day, the first person who came, after
his companions had laid him down, was Mother
Taft. All that night she was with her ^in silence
herself doing everything, listening to the mother's
distracted utterances, keeping away intrusive cu-
riosity; and, with exquisite instinct^ encouraging
her grief, that it might spend itself, and be the
sooner comforted.
When Maggie Keech had 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 sickness, and when she
was again strong enough to work, secured for her,
in a neighbouring town, a place. Happily, the
babe had died.
Go where you would, you would soon meet
Mother Taft there, if there wis trouble. Like
Uncle Tommy, she received wages of the pros-
perous, but of those in moderate circumstances,
nothing would she take. She served others for
the reason that birds ^ sing, because she loved to ;
86 * kobwood; OB,
for the reason that dews fall upon flowers, because
such is the nature which the heavens gave it.
Bom in the air, the dew hides in the daytime,
but comes to all things in their night and dark-
ness to deck them in beauty.
How odd that she should ever have married
such a man! But they were so utterly unlike
that she could not help it. Her peacefulness felt
the attraction of his great, boisterous way. Her
silence marvelled at his elemental talk, which
rained, and blew, and at times burst out into
squalls, as if his mouth were the very cave of the
winds. Her trustful simplicity admired his shrewd-
ness and penetration of human nature. Her literal
soul that never conceived a jest, nor understood
wit, or humour, how could it help 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 just what it thinks.
CJommon people are restrained by law, by moral
teachings, by public sentiment, by interest, by
fear. Their real thoughts are smothered, or kept
alive in silence. They dare not coin them into
^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 87
words and put them in circulation. They become
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^ with nothing to gain or lose by men's
opinions, and determined to say what he has a
mind to.
He runs against custom, throws down the fences,
plunges across gardens and fields I If, however,
he has a human heart, and at bottom is just and
kind, men come to admire his audacity and to enjoy
his blunt speeches, especially if he have great
faults. Men's infirmities 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
wis never "overcome," but sometimes he was
"exalted" by strong drink ^that was another re-
deeming fault. Being a sinner, men forgave his
liberties !
"No work to-day. Tell old Brett, if he don't
like it, to cooper his own barrels ! We've got a
jT, up at the doctor's. I'm going to put on
88 NORWOOD; OR,
Smasher and go up and see how things are gettin'
on.
Soon he bolted out upon the street, and, on
coming up to the comer, 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 waggon
runnin' away. Was that your leg. Tommy, making
such a rattle ? Why don't you ile it ? When you
go along the street, I should think a hundred cup-
board-doors were caught in a gale of wind !"
Haying thus exchanged amiable salutations,
Hiram came over. " How are you, old customer,
anyhow?"
" Jolly as a crew just paid offi Goin' down to
see my lady. Old woman been down there for a
^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 89
month child bom two days ago goin' down to
see it."
All the children bom 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
loud enough for a deaf man's ears a new
salutation.
" Good morning, Parson BueU, good morning !
You're looking well. Study too much, I expect ;
but ye stand it welL Good sermons ain't drawn
up easy as buckets of water ! Have to work for
'em. Mighty sermon that, Sunday morning!
This old sinner felt it. Says I, ' If there wasn't
another soul that knew it, there was two in that
audience that knew what a good sermon was, and
that was Parson Buell and Tommy Taft ! ' Am
goin' down to Wentworth's. Wouldn't you like to
go ? I'm not ashamed to be seen walkin' with you !
You see, I can get you in. Wouldn't let common
folks in so early. But Ma'am Taft, you know,
has advantages, and will give us a sight."
)
90 nobwood; oe,
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 Lord ! they die
off like apple-blossoms, half on 'em afore they're
bigger'n mice. And the rest of 'em have a hard
time gettin' grown, and when you've got 'em
growed, half the folks are paddling round as if
they 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. Tou
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 if 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 well 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 91
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 realised.
Though visitors were not yet expected, yet Mother
Taft proved a friend at court Parson Buell had
humoured queer Tommy Taft not expecting that
he would succeed. When he found himself in-
vited in, he fain 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 fiirther. Can't get away now. Must go in if
ye're civil"
*^ But, Taft," said the perplexed worthy, " I have
another errand. You must excuse me."
" Parson Buell, you know excuses are dangerous.
You shouldn't shirk your duty. Duties never
conflict, you said, only Sabby-day morning last
Don't you remember? Hope you don't forget
your own sermons, Parson? That's other folks'
business."
And so, like a slow ship with a tug pulling away
at its side, Buell found himself, half laughing and
half vexed, ushered in by Tommy under circum-
stances slightly inclining to the ludicrous.
92 nobwood; or,
The babe was brought down by Mother Taft,
Agate Bissel following. She was now again
housekeeper, as she had been prime minister to
Mrs. Wentworth ever since her arrival in Nor-
wood. 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 incon-
veniences arising from her hard manner, her in-
flexible precision, and her despotic regularity.
Tommy seized the babe from his wife's arms,
and fjEiirly danced with delight. He chuckled,
and chirrupped, and Ho-ho'd, as if his reason had
left him. Eough as he was, no nurse ever held a
babe more tenderly and dexterously.
But when he suddenly thrust it upon Parson
Buell, who was talking with stately Agate Bissell,
the good minister held it in his hands 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 you 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 ofiSce of a nurse, and, full as
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 93
much, from the oflBcious humour 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 stayed away. P'rhaps
it weren't asked about it ! Very 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.
Tou stick to that good man like a burr. TouVe
no more respect for your betters than a bull has
for good manners."
"What now, Miss Bissell?" said Taft, with
an innocent and injured look ; " would you have
me run away from the minister ? "
" No ; but you had no need to make a nurse of
him, and make him feel ridiculous with this baby
in his irms."
"He did look ridiculous, didn't he?" said
Tommy, with 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
L
94 nobwood; ob,
sober air, "that babies wern't bom like books!
Then they wouldn't trouble anybody could put
'em up on a shel^ have 'em always dry take 'em
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 precision. "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. Everything 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^et far along ? 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 folk 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 were small," said Agate Bissell, straight-
ening up, and turning somewhat scornfully away
from Tommy to his wife, who, good soul, sat
quietly by, as if the conversation was merely a
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 95
little wind out of the window whistling through
the sweet-brier bushes.
" There'd have been lots of crying and sobbin'
if I had died young," said Uncle Tommy, with a
wink at his antagonist.
Nothing ever provoked Agate Bissell so much
as one of Uncle Tommy's winks. She deigned
neither a word nor a look but walked out of the
room, pale and straight as a candle, and as if she
thought that with her all the light would go out
too.
Mother Taft mildly expostulated. "Fatiier,
what do you love to provoke her for? She's so
good."
" I'd as lief tend flowers with a crowbar as to
have one of them old maids about with little
babies. I wonder she don't take the little creetur
in her work-bag and walk off to prayer-meetin'
with it ! You need to watch her, mother, or she'll
bile down a catechism instead of mint or catnip,
when the child has wind."
And with that he insisted on another look at
Eose, who lay sleeping, 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
")
96 NORWOOD; OB,
really looked beautiful as he gazed on the child,
and his face seemed to catch something of the
purity and brightness of childhood.
How strangely such a tender spot appears in an
old, rude nature, like Tommy's ! Eough in speech,
audacious in manner, a nonconformist 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 beauty upon
them!
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 bunches of vivid green
mistletoe most beautiful ^rejoicing as if decay and
death were better to it than life.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 97
CHAPTER VIII.
A SOBER CHAPTER.
For months, little Rose lay- sleeping for the
greatest part of the time, folded up in the finest
wool, waking into good nature for an hour, and
then gently sinking back into the land of sleep
and dreams. The doctor came often to the un-
conscious 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 waits 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 the tiny bud in which no
colour yet begins to appear."
^ Ah, well, children don't come up blossom first,
like hyacinths, and that great red amaryllis. They
VOL. I. H
^
98 nobwood; OB,
are like laylocks and honeysuckles, 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 of medicine."
^^ She is food and medicine to me, at any rate.
I have two lives now."
** Ah I and then you do not count me ?"
"Certainly; you and I count one, and Eose
makes two."
A vast elm grew upon the eastern side of his
dwelling, not far from a clear brook, which made
its way from the hills down through the meadows
to the Connecticut river. On this rich soil and
VILLAGB LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 99
near a copious supply of water, which the elm so
much loves, it had become one of those immense
domes of which almost every New England village
has one at least, but in which Norwood was pecu-
liarly rich. The huge trunk rose some fifteen
feet before dividing, and then sent off a number
of separate stems, each one of which might, if
alone, constitute a large tree. These, still sub-
dividing, at last spread out into a vast concave,
and the pendulous branches, with graceful curves,
returning on every side like a network of 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 afternoons, 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 whirl-
H 2
)
100 NORWOOD; OR,
ing 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 affirming
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 said 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 organisation and subtler uses, but there
came a point at which it touched something
higher than itself spiritual existence, not to be
known by the senses which can only act in their
onvn province of matter ^but to be discerned by
the soul, which could recognise its own exist-
ence, and had intuition of the spiritual element
in creation.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 101
" It is remarkable, Doctor, that you, a physiolo-
gist, should incline to the spiritual faith, while
Judge Bacon, of sound education, and not given
to the physical sciences, should hold, as I suspect
he does, the physical theory of mind."
" Judge Bacon has no ideality. Imagination is
the very marrow of faith."
"But you have often told me that I had no
ideality ^whatever that may mean. How is it
that the deficiency does not work in the same
direction in both cases ? "
"It does. You may differ in regard to facts
and convictions ; but both of you insist upon re-
ducing all truth to some material equivalent 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 upon the semi-material
form which language and philosophical statements
give to thought. The further you can bring a
truth from its spiritual condition, and the more
nearly it is incarnated, the more satisfactory is to
you the evidence of its existence. But with me,
I accept facts which appeal to my senses as the
lowest possible truth, and as appealing to the lowest
"i
102 NORWOOD; OR,
ayenne of my mind. Nature is more than a
Tast 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
aflfections seeking an inlet upon men, which flow
fixm God, and which reach men, rightly sensitive,
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,j perhaps
you can teach me how to help myself in the same
way."
" Look at Eose, Dr. Buell, with her hand full
of dandelions. Don't you see that a beam of sun-
light has struck through the leaves, and is pouring
gold on the child's head? See her wink, and
puzzle, the darling I "
" What does that sunlight mean to her ? "
"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 leaves as
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 103
if it had a life of its own. It kindles beauty out
of homeliness itself if it but touches it."
** What then?"
** There is more meaning in sunlight than a
child knows, or can know."
"More meaning? That is, I suppose, there
are effects which the child does not notice or
appreciate."
" Do you believe that the sunlight can produce
any effect not provided for in its original constitu-
tion? Tou believe that God created it. Did
He not know and design every element, and every
effect?"
" Surely : surely I believe it."
**0f course you believe it, in a general and
abstract manner. Look through these evergreens!
See that clump of hollyhocks, white on yellow,
and rose on crimson, so they stand, and the light
&lls on them alone, through that opemng among
the trees. They are transfigured I The light
seems to palpitate upon them, and on the crimson
blossom it fairly trembles! Is that all mere
materiality ? Is there no moral around them ? "
" Tou don't mean that a hollyhock is a moral
and accountable being? It is an unreasoning
104 NORWOOD; OR,
and unconscious thing, acted upon, but not
acting."
" Hold 1 Does it not act ? Does it not send
sheets of light to my eyes ? Does not that raise
up a thousand fancies and yearnings ? Do I not,
in its exquisite effects, almost see through matter,
and into the other life ? And is not that clump,
with its atmosphere of light, the instrument pro-
ducing 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 design that they should do it ? They
have a moral function, even if they have no moral
naiure ! "
"I understand you. Doctor. You hold that
there are two kinds of moral agents one con-
scious and voluntary, and the other unconscious
and involuntary. But how many do you suppose
in this town, besides yourself, ever saw or thought
of such things in a hollyhock bush ? It is mere
fancy. It is not sober fact."
** Fancy is itself a fact, just as much as in argu-
ment, a leaf, or a stone. God made the soul to be
played upon by its fellows, by the whole round of
visible nature, by invisible things, and more than
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 105
ally by Himself. If shaking leaves stir up the
soul, there was a power in them to do it, as much
as in the soul to be agitated. I insist on a living.
Divine power in physical things. Why should
men be so anxious to degrade nature? Is it
unsafe to believe that God's eye follows every
sparrow, and that EUs taste unrolls every flower,
and that His feelings have an alphabetic expres-
sion in all natural forms, harmonies, colours,
contrasts, and affinities."
" But if this were so, would there be so few even
of educated men who derived any influence from
those things ? "
** I will answer you by asking. If the Bible is
God's word, declaring His counsel, as we both
believe, would there, out of ten hundred million
people on the globe, be less probably than a
hundred million that derive a single influence
fix)m it ? In both cases eyes have they, but they
see not"
For a long time Dr. Buell sat silent and
thoughtful. Had it been a logical statement or
the true meaning of a line of Scriptural texts, he
would have been full of resources of argument.
But, deficient in imagination, and trained to
106 NORWOOD; OR,
reject it in all investigations as an element of
error, he yet could not but perceive that Dr.
Wentworth, by its ministration, found in nature a
ground for religious faith which he did not, while
at the same time he reverently accepted and
eminently exemplified the teachings of the New
Testament.
He rose and walked for a few moments along
the edges of 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 the circuit of the great elm.
"Doctor, there may be something in your
views. When you state them they strike me as
having substance ; but when I attempt of myself
to think of them, they melt in my hands. When
you say that natural objects have moral ends, you
do not mean that they constitute a part of the
commands, motives, and intelligent duties included
in moral government ? "
" I surely believe that they supplement these
things. Physical laws are Divine commands, and
so far they are a part of moral government
Whatever affects a man's soul is, for the time
VIIJLAGB LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 107
being, a moral influence. The advent of Christ
may be a more augast and inmiensely more fruit-
fill influence than the breaking forth of a lily
from the ground ; but when our Saviour said,
* Behold the lilies ! ' lilies were ordained to act a
part in morals."
" Do you think that a flower, in and of itself,
has any moral meaning."
** Do you think that words, in and of themselves,
have any signification? Words mean whatever
they have the power to make us think of when we
look on them. Flowers mean what sentiment
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 not 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? I 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, un-
less you mean it in a metaphorical way, I am
puzzled."
108 NORWOOD; OB,
"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 wovM blossom if the
moles did not eat up the bulbs at such a fearful
rate! These underground radicals! you can
hardly rid a garden of them when once they
become numerous and neighbourly. 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 much like well,
excuse me, ^like most folk's notions of moral
tmtL The moles see the bottom and nothing
else. Imagine a mole forming a philosophical
theory of my bulbs ? In mole's language, what-
ever that is, he would say: *A hyacinth is a
vegetable creation put under ground for the
benefit of moles. It is round, of a sweetish taste,
quite juicy, and wholesome for moles. It has
been held by some moles that a hyacinth has an
existence above ground, and speculatists have
gone so far as to say that this root is only a kind
of starting point, while the best part of the plant
is above ground. But there is no evidence of that,
and it is doubtless a vagary of the imagination.' "
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 109
The minister could not help laughing at this able.
" 1 admit so much of this," said he, " that truths
may have only their bulbs in this world, and their
stems and blossoms higher up ; but, even so, how
are we to know anything about these fragrant
blossoms if they are in another medium, and above
our reach or investigation ? "
"The first step toward knowing is to be con-
scious of not knowing. If truth can be suflSciently
learned through our senses, we shall take no
further pains, and be content with a little, as if it
were the whole.*'
" But ftdmit, Doctor, that nature is full of some
hidden meanings, as you call them, how will you
detect them ? How will you distinguish between
a mere fancy and a substantial reality ? "
"Is a thought necessarily any truer than an
imagination? Is a thought anything but the
impression produced upon a faculty by a certain
kind of truth ? Is not an imagination the impres-
sion produced 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 it3 kind, as much as
of another ? It takes five senses to report to us all
110 nobwood; ob^
the qualities of matter. It takes twice as many
mental feculties to determine all the properties
and relations of a truth. Knowledge is (like
"white light) that condition of mind which is pro-
duced at the point where all the faculties on which
a truth falls join their reports."
"And so you would regard the imagination as
needful to a scientific investigation ? "
**No man without imagination can by any
possibility be an acute observer, nor a sound
reasoner even upon physical facts, still less upon
truths which involve some mental qualities ? "
"Do you think, then, that poets are our best
philosophers, theologians, legists, and savans ? "
"There is scarcely a great poet who would
not have been eminent as philosopher or theo-
logian. There is not one theologian or philo-
sopher 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
feeling, live on. This is the universal and im-
mortal part. No man can express the great truths
of human life without employing all his moral and
YILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. Ill
8BSthetic nature. No man ever delivers great
truths worthily without rising into eloquence and
even into poetry."
" What do you understand to be the diflference
between prose, eloquence, and poetry ? "
" Prose is the work-day df ess in which truths do
secular duty. 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 up-
ward toward God ! "
" Tour version is itself poetic, but not philoso-
phical. Tou give me a picture, not a discrimina-
tion and definition."
" Well, common prose is the language of the
intellectual faculties, acting with ideality. When
you add the fire and figures which the imagination
inspires, it is eloquence. K now you give it
musical qualities, in time, flow, and rhyme, it is
poetry. Or, again, when human truths are spoken
as they exist in their physical relations, that is
prose, science, or whatever you 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 you have
112 NORWOOD; OB,
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 yegetable 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 strictly philosophical to infer
they were adapted. That so few perceive it, or
experience it consciously, is no more a presump-
tion against its nature and proper uses than the
indifference of mankind to the movements of the
planets as evidence that 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
am. I do not know that that is, however, any
presumption in your favour."
**I am happy exceedingly happy. One condi-
tion 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 instrument in
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 113
good order. But that is but a beginning. Some-
thing must play upon the instrument And who
performs, and from what musical score, will deter-
mine the character of the concert. 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."
** Go on make your application.'*
" Well, to be plain, I do not think that you are
happy, because it does not seem to me that you
hold converse with those truths which inspire
happiness. Tour God is historic ^mine is living.
Your God is in a temple mine everywhere. You
have excogitated and built up, element by element,
attribute by attribute, a conception of God, to
which by resolute concentration 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 dixfx image or sense of
Divinity. But even at that your conscience, not
love, clothes Him. You have little help from
your affections; less from ideality; none from
taste and beauty; and, really, you worship an
abstract thmgkt a mere projection of an idea not
VOL. r. I
114 nobwood; ob,
a whole Mind, a Living Being! You and I wor-
ship the same Being, and agree in the main as to
the moral elements which glow in His nature;
but we differ practically in our way of reaching
Him."
"I find Gk)d in Christ the Saviour. I seek
Him 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 revecded in Christ
as a man. There is a perpetual commentary
upon the New Testament running through human
life, and you are afraid to read it I But, besides
the endless interpretations which the human soul
is imfolding, the whole natural world is Ml of
those very truths and meanings of which I was
speaking a little while ago. Sounds and silences,
colour, forms, the life of insect and animal, and the
endless play of cause and effect, I accept first, as
scientific facts, with certain scientific relations.
Or, to speak exactly, I accept the report which
they make to my perceptive reason. But they
create in my breast, besides all that, such heights
and depths of sensibility that I know that they
have a moral relation to my moral sentiments, and
VILLAGE LIFE m NEW ENGLAND. 115
that while science, like the mole, knows the root
and bulb, faith alone, acting in a spiritual sphere,
recognises the developed stem and blossoms."
Although Dr. Wentworth's manner was usually
quiet, almost producing an impression of indiffer-
ence and impassiveness, he had, during this con-
versation, grown very earnest. Every lineament
of his large, pale face glowed, and his eyes ex-
changed 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
didy four thousand years ago ? * The earth is the
Lord's and the fulness thereof, the world and they
that dwell therein!' ^now, to-day, here in this
field ^yonder, over that meadow -just as much as
in' Palestine. * Thou crownest the year ^Thou
visitest the earth ^Thou makest the outgoings
of the morning and evening to rejoice. The
Lord sitteth upon the flood ; yea, the Lord sitteth
king for evermore ! ' Do you think that I can be-
lieve this universal presence of God ^in the sun,
I 2
116 nobwood; or,
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
scientific names and a recitation of the order in
which phenomena happen ? Is there nothing of
God in flowers, in forests, in birds, in insects, in
my poor garden, in yonder valley, along the
mountain-flank, in those thunder-heads looming up
white over the horizon yonder? or is this all 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 is nature mere phenomena ? or
is it God's phenomena, meant to convey something
deeper than the body catchesHSomething 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 I would a Botany
which does not contain living plants, but only
word descriptions of them. K I would see the
plant itself, I must go out of the book to nature.
And the Bible cannot contain the truth itself,
only the word-formsy the lettered symbols of
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 117
truth. God does not liye in a book. Man
does not live in a book. Love, faith, joy,
hope, do not, cannot live in a book. For the
living truth we must go outside of the Bible,
which is but to religion what a Botany is to
gardens, meadows, and all their flowers! I am
not ashamed to own that I feel as if some sort of
positive relationship existed between me and every
living thing. A spice bush, a clump of wild
azaleas, 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 a child 1 was taught to
abhor are of God's family and mine. Since I
accepted the New Testament, all the world has
become my Bible. My Saviour 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 his-
tory. I live in a Bible. But it is an unbound
book! It is wider than that, I can reach its
bounds. It is enough for me that I believe when
it is said, * All things were made by Him, and with-
out Him was not anything made that was made.' "
118 NORWOOD; OB,
Dr. Buell walked slowly homeward, as one who
saw nothing bat his own thoughts. To all who
found fault with the rigour of his teachings, and
the remorseless logic with which he pushed " the
doctrines" that to him were the very soul and
marrow of life, it might be replied ^the children
and the poor loved him ! What says such a
fact? This: that he had a deep and tender heart ;
that while his head was like the granite rocks
that crop out of the sides of the hill, his heart
was like the nooks and hollows between, in
which soil deep and rich had collected. The
figure might be further pressed ; for, as betry-
bearing vines growing in the rich mould, climb
up over the rock, and cover its grim face with
a veil of comeliness, so out of the heart, full
often,* grow forth affections and sympathies that
go fiEur to hide the severe beliefe of the head. In
his pulpit. Dr. Buell, a man of earnest con-
science, clear logical intellect^ narrow in his
range of thought, but intense along those lines,
was jealous of the faith. He would not accom-
modate it. He would not make it soft or beauti-
ful. "The truth should be as a drawn sword.
Men are in danger every hour and moment!
i
VILLAGE LIFE m NEW ENGLAND. 119
How dare I spend my time in etching pleasing
pictures on the blade, when God sends me to
swing it oyer their heads as a flashing threat ? "
But, when he came among the sick and the
poor, when consolation was the duty, his soul
seemed to seek relief and compensation for the
stem fulfilment of his intellectual duties ! Children,
too, found his smile sweet, and his ways most com-
panionable. To be sure, he thought, they were
involved in a common ruin ; but the evil, 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 odours."
On this homeward walk, however, the good man
was shut up in himself. Cherub the blackest of
all black boys threw a cartwheel two several
times in his most accomplished manner, without
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 flower of far
more attractive fragrance, and wondered at him
that he passed without a word or a gesture. Not
120 NORWOOD; OR,
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.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 121
CHAPTEE IX.
AGATE BISSELL.
Agate Bissell was the stem child of a severe
experience. Her father was poor, and would
have been industrious but for an unfortunate
habit of drinking. Her mother was a woman
of decision, of pride of character, of high moral
feeling, but subject from childhood 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-bom daughter, was Agate. Nowhere ex-
cept 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
122 NORWOOD ; OB,
had fired her imagination. There was something
in the hopefuhiess of the stem prophet amidst
abounding troubles that seemed peculiarly con-
genial to her. In particular she dwelt upon the
fifty-fourth chapter; so often as she read it, so
often as she stayed her sorrow on its exultant
promises, that 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
Here had she read, till they mingled with her
waking and sleeping thoughts, those words of
sublime consolation! Naturally high-minded
and sensitive, every aspiration had been almost
crushed. Her husband, a good-natured man,
could not be redeemed from his cups, and to
her proud spirit it seemed as if she were bound
to a dead body. Awful thoughts sometimes rose
up iu her, a horror of temptation, which sent her
flying to her chamber for prayer and Scripture,
like a dove flying from before a swift-pursuing
hawk. Then she would read: "For thy Maker
is thy husband ; the Lord of Hosts is His name.
. . For the Lord hath called thee as a woman
forsaken and grieved in spirit For a small
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 123
moment I have forsaken thee, but with great
mercies will I gather thee."
On some days the clouds came low down, and
there was no horizon of hope. Her little chil-
dren were hungry, her husband drunk, her own
strength giving way, and all the future like an
on-coming storm. Then she would read, "For
the mountains shall depart and the hills be re-
moved, but My kindness shall not depart from
thee, neither shall the covenant of My peace
be removed, saith the Lord that hath mercy on
thee. thou afiOicted, tossed with tempest, and
not comforted, behold, I will lay thy stones with
fair colours, and lay thy foundations with sap-
phires. And I will make thy windows of Agates,
and thy gates of carbuncles, and all thy borders
of pleasant stones. And all thy children shall be
taught of the Lord, and great shall be the peace
of thy children."
This touched to the quick. For her husband
there remained only the sentiment of duty. 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 honourable
124 nobwood; OB,
life, she would willingly have died deaths
daily.
In her poor little dwelling, it may be supposed,
were no luxuries. No pictures, no print so big as
her baby's hand, hung on the walL She knew no
rest, no amusement. Her whole being was a con-
centrated purpose to bring up her children so
that their life should be happier than hers had
been. For that, the sun shone for that, summer
and winter came for that, the Sabbath inserted
a seyenth golden link in the iron chain of toil
^for that, the whole world existed to her, and
time itself drew on its train of days and nights I
On her feet, in work, wrestling against poverty ;
on her knees, in prayer, wrestling against tempta-
tions and despair, she reared her children, hoping
in them at last to find an end of sorrow and a
beginning of joy.
When Agate was just bom she looked upon
her face with anguish. She seemed to see all
her own miseries stored up for this child. She
ahnost felt a pang of gmlt 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN ETEW ENGLAND. 125
wished to look in her face. Long before the
minister sprinkled this little new-comer, her
mother had baptised her with tears.
As soon as she could sit up (and the poor
recover from the birth of children sooner than
the prosperous! ^A rigorous nurse art thou, O
Poverty! ^a stem physician, and, though skil-
ful, bitter cruel!), weak, sad, alone, except her
little children, her days were darker than any-
thing but the nights. There was little difference
in the twenty-four hours, except that the night
was darkness 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-worn Bible to her. It opened of
itself to her favourite chapter. The leaves there
were like a travelled road. Let the book fall open
a hundred times, and every time it would open at
the same placa Then she read : " I will make
thy windows agate%r A window is that by
which light comes through upon our inward dark-
ness, or by which we look out of dai-kness into
lightr 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
126 NORWOOD; OB,
was she knew not, bnt it must needs be some-
thing glorious and hopefiiL ^^And all thy chil-
dren shall be taught cf the LordJ' That was the
very anguish-longing of her heart I She seemed
to have it borne in upon her that children are the
Lord's windows, through which mothers look forth
out of pain and darkness into hope and happi-
ness I She seized the happy thought : " I will call
her Agate. Perhaps the Lord will make her like
a window to my darkness." Thus she was 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 fan-
cies, or mere carelessness, so often selects them.
But sometimes a name is a history. It is like a
pictured vase. We see the figures without think-
ing in what fiimace those colours were fastened,
and by what fire the glazing was fused I Is there
in any history a record of the heart more touching
and simple than that of old? "And it came to
pass as Bachel's soul was departing, for she died,
that she called his name Ben-oni" (son of my
sorrow).
VILLAGE LITE IN NEW ENGLAND. 127
Growing up in such circumstances, it may well
be supposed that Agate's life was one which
would bring her to more acquaintance with work
and vigour of duty, than with those lighter
graces which commonly belong to prosperous
childhood.
With as much natural conscience as her mother,
she had a less intense pride. She could not sym-
pathise with that shuddering horror at her father's
presence, which her mother, by all her struggles,
could never subdue. Agate stood between them,
loving both, and was, indeed, a medium a win-
dow through which each looked upon the other,
coloured with the hues of the medium.
When at thirteen years of age, her father died
^unreformed, stupefied Agate really mourned.
Her mother saw the turf placed upon his grave
without a tear. Her soul said, God hath avenged
me ! For years the mother and children struggled
on. Agate, besides daily work, had, as it were,
carried away captive a certain amount of educa-
tion. No one but he who has tried it knows what
power of learning there is in a mind every faculty
of which is tensely strained with desire and neces-
sity. She read with eyes that pierced. What she
128 hobwood; 0B9
read was as if it had been burned in. At seven-
teen, she taught the summer-school in her neigh-
bourhood. Her brothers were her care at home as
welL At twenty-two her mother went to her
rest On the last day of her life her mind wan-
dered 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 overshadow her. ^^ Agate, Agate,
he's come. Put him to bed. Oh, God ! " 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 ^I am
coming." Before the sun went down she had
departed, and her troubled day was over.
Agate BisseU was respected by aU her neigh-
bours. Her common sense, her energy, her truth
dear 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 what was better ^the open and strong
&ce of a sensible and kind-hearted woman. There
was that in her face which one would not willingly
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 129
see kindled. Her power of indignation was terri-
ble. Young Templeton 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 lives.
Her heart, bound around with cords of restraint,
should it once go free, and love, would seek its
mate as eagles fly.
It might have been. It never was. One evening
he waited 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 light
of gentle feelings rested upon it.
They returned home that night, Tom Templeton
and Agate Bissell. Afterward they never again
spoke to each other. What the history was
neither ever said he for shame, and she for
scorn. For years his name kindled upon her face
a look so stem and deep in moral indignation,
that one would not willingly look upon it. That
VOL. I. K
130 NORWOOD; OB,
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 house-
keeper. One had better play with fire than with
her name. And^yet^ under this strong-featured
pale fece, who can tell what stores of love were
lying, like gold undug, in fields over which the
plough runs and vulgar harvests wave, because no
one suspects the gold below or knows how to
extract the treasure 1
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 131
CHAPTEE X.
DB. WBNTWORTH'S MANSION.
We take shame to ourselves for having never
asked our friends into the doctor's house^ but left
them, inhospitably, to wander about Norwood as
best they might. Not that they are in danger of
lacking accommodations ; for Norwood is not un-
accustomed to company. Hither come hundreds
every summer for the pleasure of its wholesome
air and the beauty of its chcirming scenery. There
is no lack of hospitable hotels ; nor are the land-
lords unskilled in catering. For all that^ our
readers had a right to expect an invitation to the
doctor'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 exceed-
ingly 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 blama
K 2
132 NORWOOD; OB,
Approach the old-fashioned mansion through
the front yard. First take notice of the roof.
The ancient New England architects seemed to
have had a vagne idea of a mansard roof. As the
attempt 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 double-
leaved roof in a manner that invariably suggested
a pair of great eyes ! And as there was an open,
ornamental railing carried along the eaves and up
the gables of the roof, resembling a stifif 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 intermediate spaces filled
with flowers.
A porch of some architectural pretension bestrid
the front door, and was itself at once a protection
from rain and a trellis for honeysuckles.
The windows on either side were small, if com-
pared with modem windows, and filled with glass
that seemed even more diminutive.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 133
No mean little entry receives you, as is too often
the case in modem houses. The hall of a dwelling
gives you the first impressions. Sometimes on
entering you fear that by some mistake you have
got into a clothes-closet ; at others you enter upon
a space so small that it is only by a dexterous inter-
change of civilities between yourself and the door
that you can get in or the door be shut. In some
halls, so called, a man sees a pair of corkscrew
stairs coming right down upon him, and fears lest
by some jugglery 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 the opening of inside ones, the
timid stranger stands a chance of being impaled
on the latch, or flapped front and rear; for,
vigorous springs attached to the doors work with
such 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
134 horwood; OB,
only and find yoorself walking into a sweetmeat
closet!
A yoong beau, having acquitted himself well of
ihe last critical sentences, and executed a half-
backward, and wholly awkward march towards the
door, with inefiable satisfSsiction, opens and steps
into the china closet ! The little girls gi^le ; the
little boys laugh out ; the young ladies are con-
fused, and the beau still more so. But, what if
it had been the cellar door? On one occasion,
visiting a thrifty friend whose dining-room and
sitting-room were one, we came near descending
headlong into his cellar, which, for convenience
probably, opened into the dining-room. We once
saw three like and equal doors in a sitting-room.
The one was the true door of departure ; the next,
the cellar ; and the third, a bedroom. There was
only one chance in three for a stranger.
Do you not think that a house reveals the archi-
tect's disposition? I do. We know much of a
writer from his style. The style of a cautious
nature will have involved parenthetical sentences,
full of qualifications and limitations. An open and
imperious disposition is shown in short sentences,
direct and energetic. A -secretive and proud mind
I
VILLAGB LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 135
is cold and obscure in style. An affectionate and
imaginative nature pours out luxuriantly, and
blossoms all over with ornaments.
The same is true with artists who really deserve
the name. They paint what they see and feel,
and it is this self-part that gives the style. Some
subtle part of every man's own spirit goes with his
work, is incarnated in it, and gives to it that
undiscoverable something which marks and dis-
criminates one artist from another. 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, trans-
fuse into his work something of his nature, too?
Every house has an expression. Every room has
a disposition. Some houses are precisionists.
They are pinched and crimped, and you almost
expect to see a starched ruffle and white apron on
them.' Others are generous and hospitable. Every
time you look at them they seem to say : " Why
don't you come in ? I am waiting for you." Some
dwellings are stately and dignified, and some are
cosy and jolly. Every day I see houses that can-
not repress their scorn at beggarly houses in their
neighbourhood I The door has an excluding air
136 HOHWOOD; OB,
The windows are supercilious, and the very cor-
nice has a curl of well-bred contempt. But it is
in the interior of men and houses, that the real
disposition must be found, The moment you
enter some dwellings, your heart cries out spon-
taneously, ** 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 I But
shiyer as I do when you enter as I do, this selfish-
ness in brick and mortar! The architect was a
mean and narrow soul, I know ! His ceilings are
only fifteen feet high. I wonder he did not go on
up with them till they were as high as he felt
himself to be above common men. What a good
ice-house this would make 1 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 welcome you.
On its sides hang large maps. Toward the farther
end rise a flight of stairs six feet wide. They say
to you, plain as words can speak, " Do not weary
VILLAGE LIFE IK NEW ENGLAND. 137
yourself." The short rise and broad 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 across the whole width of the
hall. And the space was still further augmented
by a large bow-window, circling out backward,
which the Doctor had built and filled with
coloured 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 summer; the
window on the one side, and the lower hall and
upper hall on the other ^giving ample command
to the eye of all that was going on. In summer
it was a favourite resort ; and in winter the blaze
of coloured light always gave a kind of sunrise
cheer to the hall.
Midway of 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
of hours, 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
138 NOBWOOD ; OR,
oflf the easy ways of all the rest of the dwelbng.
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 which 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 was the best timekeeper. 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. Nothing less than
snch matchless graces as in him do reside will
ever tempt her 1 "
Kose who must be moved forward in our
story six years ^took up her father's imaginations,
and wove about the old clock all manner of fan-
ciful notions. She was a double child. Her
outward nature was sensible, practical, worldly;
her inward nature was deep in feeling, solemn,
and mystical, but veined and traced throughout
with the richest flow of imagination. None
except her father knew the inward life ; nor he,
nor she herself, except in a dim and twilight
way.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 139
She was just 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
occultation of pictured stars, and especially of the
great plump-faced inoon, that, like some men,
always seemed scared because it couldn't see
anything was a perpetual, though unspoken
pleasure. But we linger. Opening on the left,
as you enter, is the Doctor's grand resort his
library. The room ran through the whole depth
of the house. The ceiling was only about nine
feet high. The centre was crossed by a dressed
beam, and the cornice all around the room was
formed 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 windows. The sides of the
library were filled with cases, and the whole
range of English literature was stored in them.
The best authors in the modem languages, too,
held their tongues eloquently in this Walhalla.
140 NORWOOD; OR,
Drawers stuffed with curious pamphlets; lower
cases with folios, atlases, &c.; portfolios and
volumes of costly engravings^ ^all evinced the
Doctor's tastes. Not like the orderly study of
Parson Buell was Dr. Wentworth's. No long
rows of books stood stiff and stem on the shelves,
like soldiers on parade. Some books were out
visiting; some, in an affectionate mood, were
leaning over on an accommodating neighbour;
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 whose scholars had gone out
to play.
Here was the true peace-society. Old quarrels
were hushed here. Heretic and orthodox stood
in silent truce. The men that kept the world in
a racket in their time, Luther and they of the
Vatican, Milton and Salmasius, Arminius and
the whole Synod of Dort, Jesuits and Jansenists,
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 141
the ancients, mediaeval scholastics, modem Ke-
formers were patient with each other and with
the rising fame of modern scientific authors.
Books are the true metempsychosis they are
the symbol and presage of immortality. The
dead men are scattered, and none shall find them.
Behold, they are all here ! they do but sleep.
At your summons everyone shall speak and in-
struct you in the best experiences of his life !
Turning from the hall, as you come in at the
front door, to the right, you enter the large
parlour; and, next to it, the sitting-room; 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
comer of the house, and which was of such dimen-
sions 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 dwellings 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, hospitality,
142 NORWOOD; OR,
and elegant taste. They are passing away. Per-
haps we have nothing to regret. Convenience
and beanty have their modem architects. Yet,
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! 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 bom. 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 coflSn, they would walk upon a beam of light
and shine in glory. Alas! some are bom like
the dandelion ^glowing bright, soon changing to
a fairy globe, and by the first wind dashed out
and gone.
^
VILLAOB LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 143
Paint the man as the mother's thoughts do,
then paint him as he really lived. Hang the two
portraits side by side and write, What he was to be,
and then What he was. Life has no sadder con-
trast
Shall I? It is audacious, and yet for your
sake, reader, I would do much. Well, come, I
will even venture. This is Agate Bissell's room.
So 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 your curiosity and my love
of accurate description prevail, and, as usual,
politeness must give way when it is not con-
venient. No rocking-chair, three common chairs
one lower than the others for sewing, a maho-
gany bureau, with an old-fashioned mirror above
it, which had been in that very place a Jiundred
years, and had seen ah ! what had it not seen I
But most honourable of all friends is the looking-
glass, that will not speak, that keeps no secret
journal for future treachery, that meets you with
the very face that you bring to it, that beholds all
your weaknesses without chiding, and never hints
advice, into whose placid depths sink, as into a
144 nobwood; ob,
sea, in titter forgetfulness, all the secrets which
have figured on its face.
What if one had the power to recall from this
cold and passionless glass all that it had 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 owu beauty, vain
and giggling looks, grave and sad looks of those
who hate to grow old, vexed looks of those who
have cut 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
their grey whiskers and covering their baldness
with the few strawy locks yet left, simple and
wondering looks of curly and woolly Phillia, whose
honest, homely face 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! Positive, precise,
sprightly to tartness, who more than thou lived
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 145
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 honour
those words, old maid! When all things are
hereafter untied, and the contents of various
bundles disclosed, it is my opinion that as many
noble, self-denying virtues will be found tied up
with precise bow-knots in some of those vertical
rolls called Old Maids as in any other that shall
appear.
Open the upper drawer! Here we have few
laces, one or two ornaments seldom worn, and
then only as a special honour to some much
honoured friend. Be touched, as I am, with a
certain tear-breeding feeling, to see how little
the poor have to represent their finer tastes!
Some jewels, however, are laid up for them here-
after.
The next drawer. This is fine Knen. Not
much of it ! But it is as white as snow. Not a
stitch is broken. How finely folded! How
orderly! Agate need not be ashamed that it
is so little. She makes it enough by wise
VOL. I. l
146 kobwood; or,
economy, and what she misses some poor shirer-
log creature is wearing, for she is silently gener-
onsL All the fine linen of the saints is not that
which is made up into ascension robes. Some
ct it may yet be found in bureau drawers.
Did you ever see a room that had so little in
it that looked so comfortable? Find a speck of
dirt! Yet it is not distressingly neat. It has
not that coffin and shroud snugness.that you see
in some rooms. It is generous and home-like,
A true woman lives in it. That furnishes any
room, and subdues its very walls, at length, to
humane and gentle expression !
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 147
CHAPTEE XL
ROSE CULTURE.
How happy are proud people ! No. Eather how
happy are people of pride ! That does not hit it
exactly.
How fortunate are people with a sovereign self-
esteem ! I appeal to every one who ever felt the
quality, whether pride or self-esteem. Either of
them cover or describe that peculiar faculty which
inspires in men the sense of their own being, of
personal worth, of eminent sel&ess not necessarily
selfishness.
Why are they fortunate ? In such persons there
is apt to be a central content. They are always
consciously right. They always speak aright.
Whatever they do is right. Whatever they
own is of the best. Whatever submits itself to
their protection is right. Eighteousness is the
very quality of their experience. Why should
L 2
148 NORWOOD; OB,
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 deduction of
reason.
But not all of this tribe of self-esteem M-e so
happy. All 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
all his life. Then the sense of ownership and self-
appropriation acts chiefly in the sphere of duty.
Agate Bissell could not be said to have pride
of character so much as pride of duty. She saw
everything in the light of duty, and she measured
duty by the high requisitions of an intense pride.
Everyone 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 beautiful, unless in some way
allied to practical duty. Happiness, springing
from duty, was not altogether 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 fa-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 149
mily that did not feel the pressure of honest
Agate's conscience, and respect it, too. It made
no difference that her good sense restrained her
from meddling with other people's consciences-
It is impossible for an energetic nature* to move
about among men under the power of any great
central faculty, and not electrify them. You may
carry a torch for yourself, but cannot keep the
light out of other people's eyes.
" Eose, have you put away your night-clothes?"
'* Yes, ma'am."
"Are you sure you folded them up and laid
them in their proper place ? "
A smUe came over Bose's fair face, for she r^
collected that she had laid them on a chair, and
not under the pillow.
" Bose, it is just as easy to do things right as
wrong. Go right up and place them as they
ought to be, and then come down to your lesson."
For Eose was already a proficient with the needle,
and for an hour in the morning and one in the
afternoon, she was under Agate's special instruc-
tion in reading and writing. But on Saturday the
lessons were in the Scriptures and the Catechism.
Bose, by nature, was one of the fortunate ones who
150 nobwood; or,
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 full and
vital, that her happiness seemed little checked
because stopped in this or that 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. Polly. "Mebbe, you'll find
enough human natur' in her to suit you, afore
you get through. I've seen just such children
before. There's Hotchkiss till his boy was ten
years old, he was so good that his folks was
afeered he wa'n't long for this world. Ever since,
though, they have felt easier, for if there ever was
a critter that had his full share of total depravity
it is that Paul Hotchkiss. If he's ever convarted
tho', he'll be a smart man, especially if he has it
thorough."
"That may be true, Mrs. Marble. In this
world it is not safe to trust appearances."
" That's just what I say to my deacon. You
know. Miss Agate, that there never was a kinder
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 151
creetur nor a better man than he is, if it wa'n't
for that wicked levity. After all I've done for
him, I don't see that he's got over it a mite. I
tell him that nobody is sure, as long as he is
livin' in this world of temptation. When a man
is safely in his coffin, then we may be comfortable
^that is, if he had a hope."
" I sometimes think," said Agate, " that I should
like Eose better if she had a little more ^well, a
little more nature : some sparks flung off now and
then makes you sure there's fire, and that it is
not all ashes."
" Well, I really think I shouldn't trouble my-
self about that. You can't tell by the way a bean
comes up what sort of leaves it's 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 few 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 is
depraved. Everybody is, even ministers have it,
tho' I reely don't see but that grace has subdued
it in Dr. Buell. Of course Eose is and I
shouldn't worry a bit if I was you. It'll come out
in time."
162 NORWOOD; OB,
Mrs. Marble, if there's any such thing as spoil-
ing 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 unsettled
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,
after I'd got through the questions, Dr. Went-
worth called Bose.
"'Bose, what do the apple-trees principally
teach?'
"Bose understands her father, and her face
looked funny all over; but she turned to me
as^ if she didn't want to make fun of the Cate-
chism.
** * Answer him, Bose,' said I ; * answer your
fether!'
** 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 went off with her in his arms down into the
garden."
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 153
"Well, Agate, you needn't be discouraged.
You know you have the promises. Besides, his
wife is a precious woman, and that's in your
favour."
**It would almost break my trust in God, if
Eose shouldn't do well. No ^nothing will ever
do that, I hope ! But then, you can't have such
a child by you for six or seven years and not have
your heart bound up in her. I can tell you, Mrs.
Marble, there's more dangerous idols than those
made of wood and stone."
"A good deal worse. *Eyes have they, 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 feer'd. I tell my
boys so, of 'en."
" If anything could spoil Eose, 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 run with them. There is that
naturaJy Pete ! I do believe Eose would go from
me to him any day. The Doctor lets him carry
her about the meadows and woods, and down
through the swamp, by half days together."
" Well, I'd never consent to that. I'd like to
154 NORWOOD; OB,
see Fete Sawmill about my house! He'd get a
piece of my miud about the quickest I He don't
do her any good 1 "
**The Doctor thinks Pete is a true child of
nature. He is not more'n half-witted, anyhow.
But the fellow is curious about knowing all sorts
of things that are going on in the woods, especially
if there is no use in them."
"That's what I tell the Deacon. * Deacon
Marble,' says I, * if you would shove out of ye all
your knowin's 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 downstairs are stored away."
" As if Pete were not enough. Tommy Taft is
round with Eose, and Hiram Beers rides her out
every chance he can get There's about twenty
people in this town that seems to think that they
own Eose I "
No other person could be allowed to say these
things but herself. Should a neighbour, or one
whom she less confided in than Polly Marble, in-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 155
dulge in unfavourable reflections, Agate would
soon enable them to understand that they were
meddling with affairs which did not concern
them.
Now and then, however, but with reserve, she
intimated to Mrs. Wentworth her fears for Eose's
"bringing up;" for if there was one thing in
this whole world which Agate had determined
should come to pass, and had staked her life on
it, it was that Bose should grow up good and
pious."
" Do see that child 1 She'll be stung to death,
as sure as she's alive. Bose, Eose, come away
from those bees come here this minute 1 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 I should have had as
many stings stuck into me by this time as a baked
ham has of cloves I She comes home with her
pockets full of trash, and with vines hanging about
her neck, and with her hands full 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 oft to
156 noewood; or,
another. And she's so good-natured and so quiet
and sweet, that you never think it's wilfulness.
But she's got her father's will in her, if it is
covered up. She knows what she's about"
" Only yesterday I was sitting," said her mother,
**in the bow window just as twilight was coming
on, with my sewing in my lap. It was getting
too dark to see well, when Eose came march-
ing in : * Ma, I've got something for you.*
' Bring it here, child,' said L And she emptied
her apron into my lap, in a sober and satisfied
way. Of all things in this world, it was a great
toad, speckled, fat ugh I I screamed, and
flounced it upon the floor. I was startled in good
earnest, for if there is anything disgustful, next
to a snake, or a green worm, or a spider, it is a
toad."
"What did she do?"
**Do? She looked at me with surprise, ^then
demurely picked up the loathsome creature and
walked out with it. I spoke so sharply that I was
afraid I had hurt the poor child, and so I went
out, and she was sitting on the oflset laughing
all over, as if it was the merriest experience of all
her life!"
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 157
Quite unconscious of these remarks, the object
of them, a chubby child of six years old, was
standing by the very edge of the shelf on which
scores of hives were ranged. Bees were flying
out with great activity, and coming in, swinging
heavily down, with laden thighs. At first a few
whirled around Eose as if to warn her off. But,
seeing at, a glance who it was, and reporting the
news to their companions, their excitement and
curiosity subsided, and the child was suffered to
go as near as she pleased and to do as she liked.
If one lit on her hand, she suffered it to creep
over undisturbed. Sometimes an in-flying bee
would get caught in her hair ; she took no pains
to help it out, but suffered them to go and come
as they would. Sometimes she would gather
flowers and bring them toward the hives, and
watch the workers as they eagerly sought the
honey.
" That child is the Doctor's own self in petti-
coats," said Agate BisselL
"I believe that the Doctor could stuff his
pockets full of bees," said his wife, "and they
would be contented. But if I go near the bee-
shed the angry things fly at me as Kex does at a
158 noewood; oe,
beggar. They know I am afraid of them. They
dash at me with such a way that I never wait to
see what they mean to do, and thus they chase
me fiedrly out of that part of the garden."
** I wonder the Doctor will keep them ; at any
rate so many. There must be as many as fifty
hiyes^ and more coming on."
" Oh, it's his music. He would not hear a word
against his bees. On bright days, that are still
and warm, he lies down by the window yonder on
purpose to hear them 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 Kose carried it thither. I say Eose's father
did. But the Doctor, you know, likes pleasant
sounds, as a kind of mental stimulus. The plea-
sure 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
anything troubles him, he h'kes to get where
he can hear the bees, and then he seems to
grow quiet."
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 159
"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 ghastly. He couldn't eat on that day
before he operated, and trembled when he left
the house like a leaf. But they say as soon as he
took the knife his hand was firm and his body
like steel. When he reached home I could not
get him food quick enough he almost cried for
it, and was sharp and peevish, till he had eaten
enough, which I thought he never could do, and
then he went out by the window, where he could
see the verbenas and the beds of petunia, and the
rows of gladiolus, and laid down, and let the bees
chant to him. I quite forgave the creatures their
spite at me, when I saw how much comfort he
took. After a while he fell asleep, and woke up
in half an hour as fresh and merry as he always
is."
"I hope Eose will have his knack of being
happy. Isn't it queer that she takes so to Pete ?
She is so peculiar about liking and not liking. I
think they are a match. He is as fond of curious
notions as she is. But, then, I don't like her
160 NORWOOD; OR,
going oflf 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
about poor Pete. He thinks him the only Chris-
tian 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 about, 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. Went-
worth 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 161
which the Doctor figured ludicroudy. But there
was withm it all such an unmistakable fondness,
and such playfulness, that no one failed to see
that she worshipped as well as 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 colour was faded, not
a form was withdrawn from the picture which
love first drew. One word in the morning of
earnest love filled the whole day with happiness.
With increasing power came also a growing sensi-
bility. Never when he first spoke of affection
was it 80 hard, with open face, to listen, as now
after eight yeaa of intimacy. The blush came
more deeply than at first, the eye felt more
quickly, the nerve trembled more freely. What-
ever there was in her nature susceptible of develop-
ment, was wholly commanded by her husband.
She honoured his strength. She rejoiced in his
growing influence. She sympathised with his
tastes so far as their unlike natures would permit.
But to have owned these feelings would have
been as impossible as to have spoken in the
tongues of angels. It would seem as if, while her
VOL. I. M
162 NORWOOD; OB,
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, as a fence against prying eyes.
The gai'den was the Doctor's paradise. Every
day, therefore, he heard from his wife some amus-
ing narration of its 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 indict-
ment varied. Now the flowers had beguiled him ;
now the bees had infatuated him ; now the birds
had quite flown away with his wit ; now Eose 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 suflSce to
discriminate and sharply to separate her from
shallow, talkative women, whose tongues, like a
turnpike, lie open to all the travel that comes
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 163
along. It was ftdl of kindness, even when banter-
ing. It was often witty, and always shrewd. It
ran on as a vine grows, a morning glory, or a
cypress vine, twining round and round whatever it
may touch, and throwing out buds and blossoms
at every joint
^' There is Bose, mounted and riding. It is the
last we shall see of her till dinner," said Agate
BisselL
**Longer than that. She goes out to Cathcart's,
you remember, for the day. Of course Pete is her
carriage.'
M 2
164 NORWOOD; OR,
CHAPTEK XII.
PETE SAWMILL.
Pete Sawmill himself deserves a portrait. He was
a huge fellow, black as night, standing full six feet
five in his stockings. " Good for wadin'," he used
to say. " That's how I went fishin' fust. I didn't
know what they gave me such legs for, if it wasn't
to wade brooks with ! " He derived his name from
his strength, and the fact that he at one time
worked in a neighbouring sawmill. The boys were
telling a story one day of a bear that had in earlier
times, while the men were cutting logs in the
neighbouring woods, wandered into the mill, and,
seeing the men's dinner on the log, soon mounted
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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 165
third slash cut to the bone, and brought the en-
raged animal around, with a furious hug at the
remorseless saw, which soon rolled him off the log,
with sad rents in his garments. This story was
once told in 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
powerftdly that it could not get into motion. How-
ever that may be, the story was always told of
him when his name excited curiosity.
Pete was one of those peculiar natures that can
never be organised into society ; but live, as mar-
mots do, by burrowing, in the neighbourhood of
men, without living among them.
He had the strength of two ordinary men, but
had little regular use for it. Good nature was
constitutional and laughing may be said to have
constituted the greater part of his language. He
began his sentences with a flourish of te he'a^ and
they mostly deliquesced into guttural chuckles.
When, on public days, trainings, and elections and
cattle shows, Pete's discretion in drink had shown
itself to be small, he was never known to quarrel.
He settled down in some comer, and talked and
166 NORWOOD; OB,
laughed to himself with very much the same
somids which issae from a black pot of hasty
pudding, as it boils and splutters.
But these periods were not frequent, and then
Pete was in demand for such work as required
strength. For short spells he would put forth ex-
traordinary strength. " I'd rather have Pete to
lay stone-walls with than a yoke of oxen," said
Eirmer Jones ; " and, as for thrashing, he's a per-
fect machine."
" I love to see him chop wood," said a neighbour.
" I think Pete prides himself on the way he swings
an axe."
"Well, he's a right to. Just take him on a
frosty morning, put a good CoUin^s axe in his
hand, and then see him lay off his jacket and
mount on a big log, and then he lets in 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,
^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 167
and try it this way and that, afore they find out
the splittin'-vein. But Pete sees it the minute he
lays his eye on a stick. I saw him one day when
Bose Hadley 'd been whaling away at a big oak
log till he was out of breath, take the axe, and
turn the log over, and look at both ends, and then
square away and let fly, and the axe went through
the log so slick, that it fell apart like two boards,
and his axe went a rod out of his hands."
" Pete don't know much," said another ; " but
what he does know comes to him mighty natural."
" I don't know about his being so 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 old Harvey himself. Then he has a natural
turn for horses, specially if nobody else can
manage them. Pete, somehow, gets in with
them, as if they was related."
" He's pretty good in a garden, too. Everything
lives that he puts out. I'd rather have him set a
tree for me than to do it myself. Pete ain't
growed away from natur' so far but what he knows
what's goin' on in beast and bird. There ain't his
equal at fishin' in these parts. The fish just cum,
I do believe, and ask him to catch 'em."
168 NORWOOD; OR,
" He don't take on airs about it neither. He
ain't stingy. He'd just as soon take you to the
best brooks and the best places as not But then
that's nothin'. Very like you can't catch a
fish. The trout knows who's after 'em. They
want Pete to catch 'em, not Tom, Dick, and
Harry."
*' You mind that time he caught that trout out
of Hulcomb's mill-pond, don't you ? No ? Well,
it had been known that there was an awful big
fellow living in there. And I know a hundred
folks had tried for him. Gentlemen had come up
from New Haven, and from Bridgeport, and from
down to New York, a-fishin', and ever so many of
'em had wound up with tryin' their luck for that
big trout, and they had all sorts of riggin'. One he
tried flies, and another worms; sometimes they
took the momin' and sometimes the evenin'. They
knew the hole where he lay. He's been seen
breaking 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 deacon
thought the trout meant to aggravate him. The
deacon, you know, is a little waggish. He often
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 169
tells about that trout. Sez he, ' One Sunday morn-
ing, 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
bow, and going down with something for breakfast.
Gracious I says I, and I almost jumped out of the
waggon. 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 of talk cooled me
off. But I do say, that for about a minute I wished
I wasn't a deacon. But 'twouldn't made iny differ-
ence, for I came down next day to miU on purpose,
and I came down once or twice more, and nothin'
was to be seen, tho' I tried him with the most
temptin' things. Wall, next Sunday I came along
agin', and to save my life I couldn't keep oft*
worldly and wandering thoughts. I tried to be
sayin' my Catechism. But I couldn't keep my eyes
off the pond as we came up to the willows. I'd got
along in the Catechism as smooth as the road, to
the Fourth Commandment, and was sayin' it out
loud for Polly, and jist as I was sayin' : " What is
required in the Fourth Commandment ?" I heard
a splash, and there was the trout, and afore I could
170 NORWOOD; OR,
think, I said : " Gracious, Polly ; I must have that
trout." She almost riz right up: "I knew you
wan't sayin' your Catechism hearty. Is this the
way you answer the question about keepin' the
Lord's-day ? I'm ashamed. Deacon Marble," says
she. ** You'd better chjmge your road, and go to
meetin' on the road over the hilL If I was a
deacon, I wouldn't let a fish's tail whisk the whole
Catechism out of my head ; " and I had to go
to meetin' on the hill road all the rest of the
summer/
" Wall, Pete he worked down to the mill for a
week or two ^that's as long as he stays anywhere,
except at Dr. Wentworth's, and he lets him come
and go about as he pleasea And so, one day, says
he, * I'm goin' to catch that big trout' So, after the
sun was gone down, and just as the moon riz and
lighted up the tops of the bushes, 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 being
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
^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 171
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, and the trout with
him, and he weighed between three and four
pound."
172 NORWOOD; OR,
CHAPTEE XIII.
ROSE AKD ALICE.
It was a mid-June day, the very balmiest day of
the sweetest month of the New England summer.
All that foreign poets say of May, in our northern
land must be applied to June. The boisterous
winds that rage in March, the cold nights that
undo all that warm April days have done, the
chilling rain blown from the east upon aguish
May, are all past All the scars of winter are
healed, and the conflicts of the spring have issued
in a perfect victory ; for whose celebration the
leaves shake out their ample folds, and the flowers
lift up their banners in every field, and through
the forests. Their enemy is destroyed. Frosts
are dead, and flowers are jubilant.
It would seem that this day of Eose's visit to
Alice Cathcart was, above all other June days,
transcendant in mild glory. Never were the blue
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 173
heavens deeper and bluer. Never were clouds
softer, or sailing in white islands with more tran-
quil errands. They did not troop with that stem
and briUiant march that they seem to have in
October days, as if they mustered, afar away,
to some call unheard of men for battle or for
vengeince of storms ; but they moved gently, as
if they carried in their plushy depths sleeping
infants, and serenely swaying them rocked their
slumbers into sleep, in a peace high above earthly
sounds, and higher even than dreams can fly.
But what foolish creatures birds are! They
saw nothing of all this beauty, or else they would
not have filled the air with such a racket Blue-
birds whispered their brief syllable of music. The
meadow-lark, who wears a black heart upon its
yellow breast as if all the year it had a sorrow
incurable, wailed out its wild, sweet dirge. Eobins,
plump and familiar, called and sung, in sober
jollity, from every orchard, from gardens and
fields, from skirts of bushes, and the edges of the
forest our most familiar and sweetest-singing
summer birds.
I wrong the sparrow, which begins earlier, sings
more constantly, and holds out longer than the
174 NORWOOD; OR,
thrush, singing its exquisite strain ^faulty only in
that it is too short, till summer is almost over, till
the Sim bums the grass, till flocks are silent,
till the locusts and the crickets come. No wonder
Bose caught her breath, as a song-sparrow broke
out in its tenderest strain right above her head,
while they were passing a garden edged with
trees, and then clapped her little hands as if
asking for more. Who has not done the like, or
felt like doing it.
But Pete, on whose shoulders Eose sat with
about as much tax upon his strength as an
epaulette imposes upon a soldier's shoulder,
strided on, to get clear of town and the out-
skirts, and reach the brook, where he left the
road, and sought, if not a nearer, yet a pleasanter
way, across lots, to 'Biah Cathcart's.
Pete was entirely happy. He had Eose on his
shoulder, who sat perked up there with all a
queen's joy, and none of her cares. Without
knowing why, she felt the influences of the day,
and feelings 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 175
air about her, filled with sweet exhalations from
the ground, and odours from the woods, and
sounds of every kind.
But Pete, himself only an overgrown child,
was, if possible, happier yet. BUndly along his
nerves crept something of the atmospheric influ-
ences, 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 of which Eose was
quite unconscious. The venatorial instinct seems
in undeveloped men to be the rude germ of that
which in civilised men grows into scientific wisdom.
Persons of fine organisation, but without education,
are often far more quick to discern, and far more
in sympathy with, the instincts and habits of
animals, than wiser men are. There is a political
economy of the woods and fields, as weU 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 what every wild creature
176 NORWOOD; OR,
would do, and had also, apparently, a fascination
over them. To what else could be referred the
almost utter tameness to him of creatures shy and
wild to all others? The quail would not rise,
but ran before him as it is known to do before the
horse. A partridge would not fly jfrom its nest,
and seemed sure that Pete 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 exclude his rights of
snaring and fishing; for how could he claim a
place in the human family if he had 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.
Kex, a Newfoundland dog, that seemed to be
another Pete running on all fours, seemed this day
to be in an ecstatic state. He got out of town
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 177
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 excitement in
defence of their calves, while two or three
brood mares with pokes on, their colts footing it
fleetly in advance of them, disappeared over the
hill.
"Come back, Eexl you nigger, you! Come
here, you liar, you ! Te said you would behave if
I'd let you come."
Bex, 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 a bit of round hill, fed a few dozen
sheep, and he could no more help going off into
them, than a gun can when a spark lights on the
powder. In one half minute there was not a sheep
to be seen. K they had been blown away by the
wind, as leaves are, they could hardly have made
such expedition as when Bex suddenly appeared
among them.
" Hup I Hup ! Bex, you villain ! Come down !
Come down, you rogue!"
Almost before the sentence was finished, Bex,
VOL. L N
178 NORWOOD; OR,
with a look of the most undisturbed good nature,
came over the wall like a grasshopper, leaping
first, and looking afterwards; and, as the wall
stood upon the crest of a bank, no sooner had he
cleared it than he performed a summersault, and
rolled down in a manner of which any dignified
dog should have been ashamed, but at which Bose
laughed till she almost fell off her roost
Bex seemed really penitent, and might have
finished the journey with credit if Widow Hubbard
had not kept geese. The moment he rose the
little hill which overlooks the brook, he' saw, and
slipping 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 having got.
wing, flew sqawking for a hundred rods, and came
down of sheer inability to keep up. But long
before they alighted, Bex had let all alone, and
stretched away up the brook to take a smeU and
a scratch at a woodchuck's hole which never
failed to throw him into a paroxysm of excite-
ment since the day that he ran a marmot into it.
The great succulent leaves of the skunk's cab-
bage were fully expanded. In places where the
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 179
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 pro-
fusion.
By the time that Eose had reached the same
point, Kex, his ardour abated, sat on his haunches,
panting, his red tongue hanging out, and the
utmost propriety stamped upon every feature.
How little are dogs to be trusted ! This decorum
is not skin deep. Tou would think him a judge.
His thoughts run upon duty, moderation, pro-
priety ! If you believe it, just let a red squir-
rel or a chipmunk 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
N 2
180 NORWOOD; OR,
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 nature !
From her lap full of various treasure, Eose
looked along the winding brook, along the narrow,
level meadow, which stretched far inland, along
the jutting edges of the forest, to the far-off blue
hills. She forgot where she was. The scene grew
shadowy and fantastic. Already, before she knew
the words by which men express it, nature was
teaching her something of the Infinite. The
visible was leading her to the invisible, and she
saw dimly, or felt, the power of the world to
come!
Of old, God spoke, in watches of the night, to
young Samuel sleeping in the Tabernacle. And
still God speaks to the young in the greater taber-
nacle of nature, calling them with voices or
influences which, if understood, would reveal
strange and deep things well worthy to be known.
Pete was sprawled upon the ground, watching
a petty ant-hill and its little fiery swarm, and
was coaxing the ants to crawlup on his black
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 181
hand, when Bose summoned him to resume the
journey.
They came to the pine woods in which winds
always seemed to Eose to be moaning and sighing,
where melancholy birds cried, '* Cree-ah, cree-ah,"
with so sad a tone, that Kose could have cried for
them. Through this strip of pine, smelling fra-
grant of resin, upon the cast-oflf and dead leaves
that never more rustle, but cover the ground with
soundless carpet, Pete strided, stopping only to
point up to a crow's nest Then they came to a
hard wood grove, fiill of wild azaleas and kalmias.
Partridges nested in the part 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 Bose a hole where
flying squirrels lived, and stopped 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 have heard it, for they had
hardly cleared the grove before it filled the woods
with its solitary ecstasy. Eex knew the ground
and though there were endless temptations in the
0wamp yonder, and quails on the edge of the wood,
and partridges among the thick underbush under
182 kobwood; ob,
the ledge, and infinite delight all ronnd, yet his
tender heart knew that he was drawing near to
Spark, a black and tan terrier, now only separated
from him by the width of a field.
As Bex came over the wall into the door yard.
Spark let forth such a stream of barking and
yelling that it seemed as if the heat of his rage
had melted the separate notes into a molten solu-
tion of bark, which terminated as suddenly as it
began, when Kex came trotting up, proud as a lion,
carrying his ridged tail straight up in the air like
a banner. They ran round each other with most
fEumliar 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 bam a rat, or
perhaps a weasel, or who knows, it may have been
a ^whatever 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 bam and
its sheds.
The appearance of Eex vaulting over the wall
was the signal that Bose was near. Alice had
been waiting impatiently, and good Eachel Cath-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 183
cartj who filled the whole house with her pre-
sence, and yet seldom spoke, and then not above
a melodious whisper, had she said what she felt;
would have owned that the day was a little
brighter for Eose's coming ; and so when Eex's
black muzzle came over the wall, and set off
Spark, everybody 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 colour, 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 waU, and Pete sailed up to the door, giggling
and gurgling, as was his manner of salutation.
Pete gave Eose atoss, 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 Eachel Eose always called her aunt
stood looking at them as if, for a moment, all the
world looked bright, and children, at least, had a
right to be happy.
And now, what were the girls to do ? Do ? ^the
184 nobwood; oe,
morning was not long enough for their pressing
necessities ! First, they ran to Alice's room, and,
with much 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! There was a session up garret, which
was general play-room, and where all sorts of stow-
aways and good-for-somethings crippled chairs,
dilapidated bureaus, old fire-fenders, and boxes of
various patterns give endless room for rummag-
ing. If they find anything, weU and good; if
they do not, they make it all up, saying: "Oh,
Bose, what if we should open that drawer, and then
you should see a gold bird, and he should jump
out and fly up on that clothes-line, and begin to
sing ! " &c.
But Eose, to-day, was to see more substantial
things; for it was the cheese-day, and Aunt
Rachel's cheeses, like everything from her hands,
admitted of no rivalry. Already the curd was
formed ; but Eose was called to see it broken up,
salted, drained, and pressed. With wonder she
inspected the cheese-room, where some two score
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 185
cheeses, of various ages, lay ranged upon the suc-
cessive shelves.
" These are old," said Alice, pointing to the top-
most 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 per-
form under Aunt Bachel's directions.
Nothing could long detain the children from the
only city of a child's desires ^a huge old-fashioned
bam 1 There is something in its homely simpli-
city, in its negligence, that puts them at ease. No
carpets hold them in caution ; no furniture lords
it over the freedom of their motions. No valetu-
dinarians or nervous people are incommoded by
their noise. It is a very castle of liberty to them !
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. Swal-
lows fly in and twitter up emd down about their
nests plastered under the ridge-pole. Flocks of
hens come to the door, look in first with one eye,
186 NORWOOD; OR,
and then with the other, each one calling " Cut-
cut-cutarkut ! " or else suppressing in her throat
some remark not prudent to utter !
To-day both doors, wide and high, stood 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 and frolicking. With a wild outcry
a hen flies oflf her nest. One would think she
had been threatened, attacked, and every right
rudely invaded 1 Instead of that she has only
laid an egg! Many of her superiors make all
the noise without the egg. The children run for
it ; they search for others, and oh, joy of excite-
ments! ^find a new nest with ten eggs in it!
They bear their treasure and triumph of discovery
to the house with exultation. They race back
again for their sport. Their bonnets are gone,
their cheeks are flushed everything 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 excite-
^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 187
ment and fairly screaming with fury at the das-
tardly rat, who has not the rat-hood to come forth
and show himself openly, but meanly takes
advantage of his hole !
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 ihe slippery ears of unshelled com,
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 everybody has forgotten
when. It is very deep ^they peer over, and look
down, and can see nothing; and that is always
very terrible when one is looking into darkness ;
and they both run away, and then laugh because
they ran.
It is noon. Ah, how clear the sky! How
sweet the air ! How full of clover smell ^great
red clover, which spreads out just below, whole
188 nobwood; or,
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 fiither 1 " cries Alice,
and mns for him, and Bose hard after, and both
get kissed for their pains, and one is mounted on
one shoulder and one on the other ; while Barton
Cathcart, in tow pantaloons, barefoot, tanned, 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 fuU-grown men. And
Papa Cathcart must wash his great head and tan-
coloured neck and short hair all over ^and Barton
Cathcart must wash his soiled hands and tanned
face and Bose and Alice must wash their red
faceB and white hands I
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 her. The doors stood wide open, and the
windows stood wide open, and before long mouths
^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 189
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 dogs could
not wait. Kex, with the most beseeching eager-
ness, licked his chops, and Spark whined and
trembled, and half-barked, as much as to say,
" I can't stand it much longer."
They all ate the two hired men ate, and the
man that hired them ate, and the boys ate, and
the girls, and even the dogs ate, snapping the
morsels and scraps from time to time flung to
them, and swallowing them so suddenly that
it was as if they had been flung down a well.
Where was Pete ? Gone back to tovm to tell
the Doctor and Mrs. Wentworth that Eose would
stay all night, and that Pete was to come back
with some fish spears, and that a party would be
formed to go 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 only seven and eight years
190 NORWOOD; OB,
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 long, nor was the return so de-
layed but that Pete arrived in ample time to
secure his dinner.
i
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 191
CHAPTER XIV.
THE NIGHT FISHING.
Long had Alice been promised that she should
see some night fishing. What it should be filled
Rose with mysterious imaginations. Hardy and
tough Barton, who that afternoon had vacation in
honour of Miss Rose, being three years her senior,
felt the importance 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
waggon came round ; the girls were charged with
extra shawls for use when returning. The light
along the West was yet a day light, but was
rapidly fading. Great clouds lay banked up far
192 NORWOOD; OR,
away in the south-west, and flashes of light shoot-
ing through them told of distant thunderstorms.
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 rocky and gravelly
streams found in mountain regions, which emi-
grants 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 water 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 honje-sickness.
Broad Brook was of mountain origin. Into it
came Glover's Brook from the ravine, famous for
its wildness and its trout, and Twist's Eiver, and
ever so many more mountain-fed litUe 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 pre-
ferred to spread itself, and to brawl over a wide
bottom, and to wind along the edges of the hills.
VIIiLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 193
with meadows on one side and rocks on the other,
now and then circuiting off 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 were 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.
The 'roar of the brook, its wild and threatening
look, at first daunted Rose and Alice, and brought
them close to each other, to Barton's great edifi-
cation. That was because they were girls ! He
would show theml 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, gird-
ing a bag about them to hold the fish, began to
move up the stream. From the banks, under
'Biah Cathcart's cire, the girls watched the
strange and wild scene. The smoky torches
threw a red glare on the water, whose wrinkled
VOL. I. o
194 NORWOOD ; OR,
&ce gave back the light in broken flashes. The
bank obscurely loomed out from the other side,
jutting forward, seemingly, 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, swing-
ing around, deepened a little. Barton plunged
down his spear, and, with some commotion and
tussle, held it there. His torch had almost fallen.
But regaining his foothold, he soon lifted a large
sucker above the water, the first prize of the
evening. Scarcely was his trophy secured be-
fore Pete, who had been bending and searching
the bottom, was seen 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 imagined 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 195
them, were lit up with an atmosphere such as no
unenchanted trees ever knew. The water seemed
to be some living thing, and scowled or laughed,
winked and blinked, as if it knew something wild
and dreadful. Now the stream left the hill, and
moved between 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 rocks, 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 'Biah Cathcart 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? Eose 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 dangerous
o 2
196 NORWOOD; OR,
cha^sm, if Rose told him to; and when, as they
rounded a clump of bushes, Pete came near the
bank, and 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, oh
painters, to render me in true form and colour
that scene the wrinkle-faced 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 trans-
lated from the real world into- one of dreams?
The dizzy gravel at the bottom appeared to her to
be running and racing ; the water seemed like so
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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 197
beneath, and 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 carriage
gazing down upon this strange procession.
"Mercy, look dovm into that river 1 What is
it, Hiram?"
"Wal, as near as I can see, it's a nigger
sprouted and blossoming into a white folk. If
'Biah Cathcart warn't a sober man, I should say
that hindermost one was he, and his darter on his
back. And if that one ahead ain't Pete and the
Doctor's Eose, I'll never kiss my wife again.
Scissors and pumpkins ! if that ain't a spree !
and here it is after nine o'clock at night ! Hullo
there! where's Aunt Rachel? and where's the
rest of the family ? Ain't there any more comin' ?
You might jest as well have finished out the frolic
and brought along everything 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
198 NORWOOD; OB,
the sport. Pete gurgled and giggled ; *Biah 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 bigger 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 distant thunder was heard. They must
hasten back. Blinded and bewildered by the
unnatural light 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 traversed in a straight line
to bring them to the waggon. Following Pete,
they soon were safely seated, and the horses, im-
patient and restive, as if by instinct aware that a
storm impended, no sooner had their heads turned
homeward than they dashed off with full course.
The sparks flew from under their feet. They
grew more eager with each turn of the road, and
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 199
'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 second by their rapid
passing. The wind was swaying the trees and
rolling up the damp dust* of the road, and the
thunder shook the very ground as it fell nearer
and nearer. They were not afraid. They secretly
gladdened with the growing turmoil.
Aunt Eachel had been uneasy ever since the
children left. Kex had been kept in the house
lest his freaks should disturb the 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 Kachel's fears grew
painftil. Every thunder-roll increased her alarm.
The big drops were beginning to smite the panes
of glass, when Eex bounced up with excitement
and gave a roaring bark which could mean nothing
but their arrival. In good time ! for, just as the
party tumbled out and the girls were borne in,
the torrent descended ; and when the light from
the open door struck out into the air, the sheets
200 NOBWOOD; OB,
of water seemed literally to fulfil Hiram's hyper-
bole, that rivers of water would fill the heavens.
"Oh, father," said Kachel Cathcart, "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 Dr. Wentworth say ? "
" Say ? Why, he would say that such an expe-
lience was better than 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 here himself,
he would have enjoyed it better than any of us.
Don't you think so, Eose ? "
Bose sagely assented.
" Why, father, you seem as much excited as the
children ! "
" Why not ? I hope never to get over being
young. I look back on this night as if I had
been walking in a cave full of crystals. I shall
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 201
never forget it, and I'll warrant the children never
will. Such things clean off the drudgery and
sameness of life, and reach toward a deeper
meaning. At any rate, that's what the Doctor '11
say to-morrow. You see if he don't."
202 NOB wood; ob,
%
CHAPTEE XV.
LIGHTS AND gHADOWS.
After a day of so much excitement the two girls
would scarcely be held from sleep by the violence
of the storm. Only at one or two tremendous
peals of thunder did they start from their slumber
and listen to the sweeping wind, which rattled
every window, roared in the chimneys, and shook
the whole house. Then suddenly the tumult
would cease. Not a drop of rain would fidl. 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 cut off.
Nor did the light that fell upon their faces, as
Aunt Kachel came for her last care before retiring,
disturb an eyelid. The darkness and the light
are alike to those whom God translates into the
mysterious world of sleep. Strange world ! in
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 203
which we dwell in unconsciousness a quarter part
of all our lives ! Is fourscore years then so long,
that from it must be subtracted a full fourth
part?
To one of Eachel's peculiar habit of mind the
spectacle of sleep is always solemn and myste-
rioua Where do their spirits wander? Voyag-
ing along the dark continent, through what
influences do they glide ? What guardian spirits
convoy them? Or what spiteful sprites would
annoy them ? If they were dead, would they not
lie just as now they do? Kachel shuddered as
she tucked them 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 which have tasked the
deepest thinkers. Carefcd thinking 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 questions which man can ponder.
The very intensity of religious conviction at once
204 XOBWOOD; OB,
the cause of so much that is good, and the occa-
sion of so mnch ill repute tends, at length, to
breed among the common people an aptitude for
deep moral problems.
But Bachel never sought such subjects. They
came to her, and came largely through her feel-
ings 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 scared
at the impressions that 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 inequitableness. 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 infinite truth, some revelation.
These were not thmbgkts, but vague feelings.
Nor are such tendencies uncommon among
common people. There are many fine natures
hidden under coarse forms. Powerful impressions
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 205
are produced on many who cannot resolve them
into ideas, and still less fashion them to words.
Along the fmrow, by the work-bench, in the
chamber, or in the kitchen, have been thousands
silently plying the unknown with as solemn an
earnestness as that of those who write books to
prove how little man can know of the Unknow-
able!
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 fishes ?
But this evening, as if stirred up by the excite-
ment of the night and the storm, Kachel seemed
to gaze upon Alice as one who sends a child afar
oflF. 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 messen-
gers to fulfil decrees ? Is this child like a dyer's
thread, whose colours, diflFerently 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 anyone hinder it ? or help it ? Mmt it be ?
is it decreed? ^will my darling's life unfold
as inevitably as a rose-pit into a rose-bush? an
206 nobwood; ob,
apple seed into an apple-tree? Most I let her go,
as one would cnt loose a skifE^ and let it drift ont
into the wide ocean? It may founder or strand
upon a desolate island, or monsters may seize it,
or rough men, seeing it helpless on the sea, snatch
up its little voyager into some ship of foreign
tongue, on rude and dangerous voyages ! Already
Bachel felt that Alice was gone out of her arms,
and that dull aching which came from the soul's
deep sense of pilgrimage from the habit of soli-
tary thought, from its pining after truths beyond
the boundary lines was a premonition of sorrow.
Kachel left the children and went down stairs.
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 great kitchen she went, and, closing the doors,
ere long she was bowed in prayer. No words
escaped her. Yet tears were there many, and
many sighs. But as the storm had spent itself
out of doors, 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 ?
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 207
Not to him that asketh. But to him that is bom
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 idealised, that clothes the
minutest shades of life with transcendent import-
ance, and sees refinements in duty far beyond
common eyes, cannot help stamping the character
with a peculiar experience.
The broad common sense of her husband was
only just enough touched with the imagination to
give richness and plain and practical refinement.
But he was not wont to spend thought either upon
his own states of mind, or upon the subtle ques-
tions which dazzle or darken natures of a mystical
tendency. He knew all the doctrines of religion
as she did. He read the same books, listened to
the same sermons; but the result in each was
utterly imlike. There was not simply definiteness,
but uniformity of conception in his mind. Once
having explored a doubt and mastered it, it never
rose again. Once having traced the proofs of any
proposition to an intellectual conviction, that
truth stood for ever clear and firm.
208 NORWOOD; or,
Rachel lacked that philosophical grip which
holds a trath to its place, and compels it to a
decent and conventional behayioor. Tmths came
and went above her head as summer clouds do,
casting down their shifting shadows in endless
variety, and never twice alike. A fear which
was mastered yesterday was as ftesh to-day as
the new wind of March, which blows no less
to-day because it was spent and hushed yesterday
evening.
If in her childhood truth had risen upon her
mind in its wider aspects, 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 presenta*
tion to her mind of sterner views of Divine justice
and of the requisitions of Divine purity.
Winged with imagination and coloured with
fear and exquisite sensibility of conscience, her
thoughts ranged those vast fields of truths so fami-
liar to New England pulpits, not as if affright
with some near and impending terror, but as sad with
long-familiar truth, whose glory and beauty cast
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 209
down shadows and twilight upon our mortal state
and stained all human life.
That this was a feeling rather than a conviction
Xnade 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 produced a moping, tear-shedding
woman who carried her shadow over all the house-
hold. Kachel had a peculiar charm of personal
presence. Her sympathy was so quick, her good-
ness so deep, her intuitions so fine, that she took
hold upon all who came near her, and evinced a
singular, power of producing happiness in them.
Nothing of her own moods appeared to ordinary
observers except a fine sadness, which passed
among her friends, not apt to distinguish 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 knowTi, lower them in men's approbation.
And sometimes, too, the rebound from these airy
and endless musings into practical kindness brings
grateful relief. At any rate, Kachel was known
VOL. L p
210 NORWOOD; OB,
neither by her children nor her friends as one of
an unhappy experience, but as one of the few that
were far more than they seemed, whose reserve
was that of inward occupation and depth rather
than of timidity or of pride.
The morning came to the happy children*
Alice was to return with Eose, and spend the day
in town, and Eose 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 feirer sight than two maidens,
just emerging from childhood, twined together in
love, gentle, strong, sincere, and full of fimcies?
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 surface ?
All the simplicity of childhood is yet theirs, while
dawning duties and social proprieties begin to jut
out like the buds in early spring ! How beautiful
the contrast between AUce, sensitive, reserved,
and full of innate dignity whose cheek changed
colour to her feelings, shifting almost as the colours
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 211
flash from a humming-bird's back as he quivers
among flowers, and Bose, fair-skinned, of a brown
hair that might be called suppressed auburn,
free, frank, strong, and loving, who seemed con-
scious of the life and meaning of every living
thing except herself. She had that perfect health
which produces unconsciousness of self. Alice
accepted mirth, but never created it. Eose
sparkled with it. Her thoughts moved in a bril-
liant atmosphere. In certain of her moods, events;,
people, and even soulless objects, sparkled with
gaiety and humour. The two girls might be
called, in the language of art, Light and Shadow.
p 2
212 NORWOOD; OR,
CHAPTER XVI.
STORIES FOR CHILDREN.
If a day in a country farm-house is joyous 'to
town-people, not less exhilarating to country
friends is a day in a town mansion. Alice, in
her silent and gentle way, seemed to absorb happi-
ness from the verj' air. That sensitive timidity,
which was like an outer-garment to her really
courageous and resolute nature, suffered no em-
barrassment in Dr. W^entworth's family. Agate
Bissell's plain speech and direct manner never
left an unfavourable impression. There was a
flow of honesty and undisguised kindness which
children instinctively recognised. Her whole con-
duct was indulgent, though her language seemed
monitorial and even magisterial.
Mrs. Wentworth was one whose soul shone
through her face, and gave it an almost trans-
parent look. She lived under the influence of her
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 213
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. Penetration is her ruling
trait. Your second glance would convince you
that sympathy was more strongly indicated. If
she spoke you would conclude 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 anything from her
she is to be trusted.
As for Doctor Wentworth, nobody saw through
him, and everybody 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 temperate.
His moods ran through the whole scale of
faculties. He was various as the separate days.
He carried the germs of everything which bore
fruit in other men's characters, and so could put
himself into sympathy with every kind of man.
A great talker at times; yet even when most
214 NORWOOD; OR,
frank he was yet more silent than talkative, and
left the impression of one who had only blown the
foam off from mifathomable thonghts.
What a place was his house for children I An
old mansion, quaint and voluminous, stored full of
curious knick-knacks, more curious books, and
most curious engravings ; yet the interior of the
house was even less attractive to children than
the grounds about it Such dainty nooks there
were ; such pet mazes among the evergreens, such
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,
of before unseen beds of flowers, such wilder-
nesses 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 them-
selves 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 the ground, as if the time were near
for them to fall asleep. Dr. Wentworth came in
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 215
from his patients and joined the children. Then
there was racing and frolicking ! Then you might
have seen three children indeed !
But, after a time, Eose began to persuade her
father to tell some stories. Story-hunger in
children is even more urgent than bread-hunger.
And so, at length, he suffered himself to be led
captive to his favourite tree, where scores of times
he had been wont to weave fables and parables
for Eose fictions that under every form whatso-
ever still tended, in his child's imagination, to
bring Nature home to her as God's wonderfiil
revelation, vital with sentiment and Divine truth.
Sitting upon the ground, with one child on either
side, leaning upon his knees and looking up into
his face, he began :
"ANXIOUS LEAF.
" Once upon a time a little leaf was heard to
sigh and cry, as 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 to die on the ground T The twig
216 NORWOOD; OB,
told it to the branch on which it grew, and the
branch told it to the tree. And when the tree
heard it, it rustled all over, and sent back word
to the leaf, * 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
and singing. Every time the tree shook itself and
stirred up all its leaves, the branches shook
themselves, and the little twig shook itself, and
the little leaf danced up and down merrily, as
if nothing could ever pull it off. And so it grew
all summer long till October. And when the
bright days of autumn came, the little leaf saw
all the leaves around becoming very beautiful.
Some were yellow, and some scarlet, and some
striped with both colours. Then it asked the tree
what it meant And the tree said, *A11 these
leaves are getting ready to fly away, and they
have put on these beautiful colours 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 colour, it saw that the branches of
the tree had no colour in them, and so the leaf said,
' Oh, branches ! why are you lead colour and we
golden ? ' * We must keep on our work-clothes.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 217
for our life is not done ; but your clothes are for
holiday, because your tasks are over/ Just then
a little pufif 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 fire in the air, and then it feU 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 relate fables to chil-
dren! How daintily do they carry on the con-
scious dramatic deception! They know that if
the question were once got in upon them, " Are
these things trtief the bubble would burst,
and all its fine colours would disappear. Chil-
dren are unconscious philosophers. They refuse
to pull to pieces their enjoyments to see what
they are made o Kose knew as weU her father
that leaves never talked. Yet Kose 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
218 NORWOOD; OR,
interpretation of truths that lay hidden in creation
waiting for her.
What is one story? A mere provocative of
another.
"Do tell us another, father. That was so
short."
" Tes, Doctor, do tell us some more," said Alice ;
and then, colouring a little, she said, ** Eose can
have them every day, but I cannot only once in
a great while."
"Alice, you must make your father tell you
stories."
** He does sometimes, but 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 the children's charming arts of coax-
ing, he began another story :
"THE FAIRY FLOWER.
" Once there was a little girl whose name was
Clara. She had a very kind heart, but she was an
only child, and had been petted so much that she
was like to become very selfish. Too late her
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 219
mother lamented that she had indulged her so
much, and strove to repair the mischief, and to
make Clara think of other people's happiness, and
not solely of her own. On some days nothing
could be more charming than Clara's ways. She
was gentle and obliging, and sang all day long,
and made every one who came near her happy by
her agreeable manners. Then everybody admired
her, and her mother and aunt were sure that she
was cured of her pettish dispositions. But the
very next day all her charming ways were ex-
changed. 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 summer
night, after such a miserable day, Clara went to
her room. The moon was at its full, and poured
through the window in such floods that she needed
no other light. Clara sat down by the window
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 back on the easy chair. No soooner had she
shut her eyes than a strange thing happened. An
220 NORWOOD; OR,
old man, very feeble, came in, and in his basket,
which he seemed hardly able to bear, was a hand-
ful of flowers and two great stones. He came to
Clara and said, ' My daughter, wHl you help me'?
for I am too old to carry this load. Please make
it lighter.' Then Clara looked at him with pout-
ing and said, * Go away ! ' Then he said, ' I am
poor and suffering. Will you not lighten my
load?' Then Clara condescended to take the
flowers out of his basket. They were very beau-
ful, and she laid them in her lap.
*' The old man said :
" * My daughter, you have not lightened my
basket you have only taken the pleasant things
out of it, and left the heavy, heavy stones. Oh,
please lift one of them out of the basket ! '
" Then Clara 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 221
sun sbone 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 that would come to it.
"And then the crystal old man took 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 ! 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 beau-
tiful 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 morning, 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 flower, nor feel its shadow. And she longed.
222 NORWOOD; OB,
and longed, and longed; but what could a tender
flower do with a hard rock ? And the flower asked
the brook, * Can vou help 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 won-
derful speech in Latin, Greek, and Syriac, with
some words fit)m the great language that was
before all other languages. And he alit upon the
flower, and tetered up and down till she thought
her back would break ; but nothing could she
learn how to make her shadow stay upon the
rock.
*' Then she asked a spider ; and he spun a web
from her bright blossoms, and fastened it to the
rock, and bent her over, and tied her up, till she
feared she should never get loosa But all his
nice films did her no good, and her shadow would
not stay upon the rock.
"Then she asked the wind to help her, and
the wind blew away the 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 223
grows by the side of 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 con-
sume 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 rock.*
When the flower breathed this benevolent wish,
there were flutters and whispers all around, but
the flower thought it was only the brook.
" The next day came that way a beautiful girl.
She was gathering ferns, and mosses, and flowers,
Wherever she saw a tuft of moss she said, * Please
dear moss, may I take you ? ' And when she saw
a beautiful branch with scarlet leaves, she said,
' Dear bush, may I take these leaves ? ' And then
she saw a beautiful columbine growing by the edge
of a rock, and she said, *0h, sweet columbine,
may I pluck you ?' And the flower said, * Please,
I must not go till my shadow is fastened on the
rock.' Then the young lady took from her case
224 3roxwooD; oel
a peIk:^{L and in a nnjinezit trace! the shadow ot
the ejlari:.bui*^ op*) a the rook^ and when die had
done she reich.ed her hand and took the stem low
down, and h^A^ it ofL Then Gan sprang np
fifom her chair bv the window, and there stood
her mother, saving :
** ' Mv dear Jaoghter, you should not fall asleep
bj an open window, not even in summer, my
child. How damp you are! Come, hasten to
bed.'
" It was many days before Clara could persuade
herself that she had only dreamed. It was many
months before she told the dream to her mother.
And when she did, her mother said
" * Ah, Clara, would that all girls might dream,
if only it made them as good as your dream has
made yon.' "
The Doctor seemed quite interested in his own
story, and sat silent for a moment, that the good
impression might settle in the girls' minds. He
was awakened to attention by some little flutter,
and saw Eose nodding in a gravely humorous way
to Alice, as if she meant to say
" I hope, Alice, that you will take this lesson to
heart, and never be naughty again!"
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 225
"Ah, rogue Bose!" said the Doctor. "Is that
the way you pay me for my trouble. You
shaU "
Eose, 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 should come to Bose. Harm did
come. She was, after nimble turns and skilful
evasions, so amused at her father's mishap in
rushing upon a sweetbriar when he thought to
have seized her, that her strength dissolved in
laughter. She was caught, and her hands tied with
honeysuckle vines, and her 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 th^ sen-
tence that, for irreverence and rebellion, she
should be doomed to hear another story, which he
called
"COMING AND GOING.
" Once came to our fields a pair of birds that
had never built a nest nor seen a winter. Oh,
how beautiful was everything! The fields were
VOL. I. Q
!S5 yKnpir%}eD : obl.
Jul ji l.ve??v ii&i *i^ :^::^^^ ^'^^ growing' tall,
jni -iix* *** 1^v*T^ 'unrmmg droTifhere. Then
HjaBie ji "iijr riT'i^ rt~l :u ^ingnig; imi die other Mrd
sniiL ^ Wjhj -x^Mi jfjm id -amj ^* and he answered :
^Tbe niez!$ aiki ne. jmi die bees uM. me^ and
^be vimis jmtii jeciivi*^ lotd. im& md the hfaK ^j
ttud 3ie. md ymsL a^id ise szoe-* Then his mate
SKwered. *^^ei im. I %il ^foa u jbg?'' And
he moL ^Er^^rr :izBe "pm. siicTiishs hi tends* grass
far cie ae^ lod ;fvflnr time jour soft wings
dataerett jf ^iriai l;r las' ^iod fieadBezs to Une
AeaescL^ T!hsi ii$ 32a&^ sid. "What are toq
ngm^^UHToc?^ A:xd ae siswspbL ^I am sii^ii^
^bcnz e^gnrifiTTg :iad ULchm^. it k beeanse I am
jO oarry thac I sng:^
*]^Hiaioy irrf Irci* :^peekkd eggs were in
the Zc azii h^ imice sa&L " Is dteie anTthii^
ia an tne w\ydd jt^ pn?tCT di$ mj- eggs?" Thesk
dfeey botL hxhiEd drwn on ^isaae people that were
paagk^ by. ^nd poied duem l!eeaiftse dfeer were not
Uri^ and had no Ilir:^&^ with eggs in them ! Th^i
the faiijer-bod smg a mi^aneholr sdi^ because
be jfftkd (rAks that had no nesis^ bat had to live
in hoodesL
^ In a week or two, one day, wh^i the &ther-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 227
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 fea-
thers, and then another, and another, till five little
birds were bom !
" 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 them. Away
each one flew. The moment the little birds heard
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 anybody be happier?' said the father-
bird to the mother-bird. *We will live in this
tree always, for there is no sorrow here. 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 the 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
q2
228 NORWOOD; ob,
see them leave the nest and sit crumpled up upon
the branches. There was then a great time I One
would have thought the two old birds were 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 to
another, and the parents praised him, and the
other little birds wondered how he did it. And
he was so vain of it that he tried again, and flew
and flew, and couldn't stop flyings till he fell
plump down by the house-door ; and then a little
boy caught him and carried him into the house,
and only three birds were left. Then the old birds
thought that the sun was not bright as it used to
be, and they did not sing as often.
" In a little time the other birds had learned to
use their wings, and they flew away and away,
and found their own food and made their own
beds, 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 ?'
" And he answered
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 229
" * I can't sing ^I can only think and think ! '
" ' What are you thinking of ? '
" 'I am thinking how everything changes ^the
leaves are falling down from oflf 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 us fly away together !'
" Then they rose silently, and, lifting themselves
far up in the air, they looked to the north far
away they saw the snow coming. They looked to
the south there they saw green leaves! 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 cold; others
crept into crevices and holes, and lay torpid.
Then it was plain that it was better to go than
to stay!"
230 NORWOOD; OR,
ROSE WENTWORTH
Rose was going on seven years olA Never did
girl give less cause of anxiety; never 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 ? Was she not of fine disposi-
tion ? Of good parentage, with careful training,
with every advantage that wealth could procure,
what possible reason had Agate for her seriousness
and anxieties ?
There are many people who seem to regard
anxiety as a religious duty. They seem to think
that no state of mind is substantial which is not
ballasted with cares.
If Agate Bissell expected to pass her life in
Dr. Wentworth'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 a solitary flower, but only the first bud
that blossomed why should she not be anxious,
and inflict upon herself all that unnecessary pcdn
that is usually deemed proper by painstaking
people ? Why should she not imagine evils that
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 231
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
other reason for seriousness of mind than this
vague anxiety. She was a Christian not only in
disposition, but she firmly believed the Christian
teachings of Dr. BuelL Until Bose was converted
there were no right affections in her. She had
been taught that natural excellences, amiable dis-
positions, in unregenerate people, have no moral
excellence, and do not diminish that perpetual
danger which overhangs every child of Adam
until he becomes a Christian. Many hold these
views, but few believe 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 Bose was lovely, docile,
and obedient, if in her heart, concealed yet, but
.if^#lr^ rav X *iji^ WotiL ilUt iUlIIIIIir It
ffmA4r i M AtAsd^ 1 iiir iimi sbhuic Jt
fAh/fh^ i^f H/ntm sgr^jfarui her i^eck, s/ud
' A(^A, ( /V Iwe the Sarioor. I tfai
tlUti M^^fi dny, Mt4i auk Him to loTe me. ]
Nfyi iimi timfh m ri//t(iing made that Jesus d
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 238
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 oflfend-
ing one^of those little ones, against which such
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 substitute
a diluted sentimentalism for the sober realities
of a true religious experience ?
Agate had often talked with Mrs. Wentworth on
thisj subject ; but she was so much in sympathy
with her husband's opinions that Agate doubted
whether her judgment was clear and unbiassed.
It is not strange, then, that Agate in a manner
sounded Mrs. Folly Marble on this general sub-
ject.
" 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 never for-
get it, I guess 7^ I know there's some folks thinks
different. Them Episcopal folks say that children
234 NORWOOD; ob,
git good gradually. But I say that if a man don't
know the times and seasons of his own hearty he
likely hasn't had much religion anyhow."
" But do you suppose a work of grace can exist
in the soul, 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 too ! Men are natu-
rally like bags full of weed seeds. The Lord first
shakes 'em empty, and then fills 'em up with pre-
cious 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 deal gently with young people ? Is
not that the meaning of the Scripture, ^He shall
carry the young in His arms ' ? " *
" Agate, I always say that it's best to be on the
sure side. It 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, you will
be apt to find it out. People nowadays git religion
too easy. I was under conviction nigh about two
months. I was awfully striven with afore I give
up. Young people now seem to get along too
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 235
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 anybody 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 chil-
dren, let them do pretty much as they please, and
yet they grow straight up, are converted, come
into the Church, and do well all their lives ; then,
again, others are taught and governed, and
restrained, and watched in every particular, 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 ! " said Aunt Polly Marble, pushing
her spectacles a little closer to her eyes, and look-
ing through them with a doubly earnest look,
"there is no mystery about it It's all election.
That does it!"
Agate seemed troubled in countenance, and
said
236 nobwood; ob,
" I wish I knew more about that doctrine. If
one only knew who was elected we could feel easy.
And if a man was not elected, there would be no
need of spending much time on him. Working
for men that are not among the elect is like
sewing without any thread in your needle ; a good
deal of work and nothing to show for it"
"It's a precious doctrine though, even if you
don't understand it. You may not know, but
the Lord does, and it doesn't become us to be too
pryin'."
" Yet, I think a mother might be excused for
being anxious about her own children. If anybody
ever did offer a child up to God, I have that child 1
If she was my own flesh and blood I could not do
more for Kose ! "
" Don't you think her father might do a little
more to help out. 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 the Bible a good deal, and wants Bose
to. But he's got so many things in his head that
you can't find in the Bible, that I don't know
VILLAGE LIFE IN KEW ENGLAND. 237
what'U become of Eose. I'm afraid her soul will
be snared with worldly knowledge."
" Why don't you talk with Dr. Buell ? He is
a safe and a sound man, and likely he could tell
you something about bringing up 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 everything that's good, and the minute the
children get a chance they learn themselves every-
thing that's bad I ''
This conversation did not bring to faithfiil
Agate's heart much comfort.
Meanwhile Eose, the subject of so much anxiety,
lived in imbroken joyfulness. She 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 loved
and somewhat feared the simple but stately
manners of Dr. Buell; she loved her mother
(imev. vir itT Itftu^ uwr^ liL T^s. -ins mnwfrF
"
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 239
CHAPTEE XVII.
A NEW ENGLAND SUNDAY.
Time waits for no man, and least of all for story
writers. Our readers must move six years forward
at a step, and rest for one Sunday in Norwood,
where travelling on a 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 flavour 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,
summer and winter, we parts of nature. He
should have been brought up by parents who had
done the same thing, as they were by parents even
more strict, if that were possible; until not
:Mf :Bamroz.
fffick i-fT ;- * " sajE^&Q^ r. "vlj t luii. tuj soaur
i '^TXiiar Ji*T it: 'smeci^ jmL miabmB^i x.
am jLuz Zs ^/ -I tf- ^1- 'Zr kL ini& mit xiSKiE^
^ma^SL IzA ubL fT^^apft miL mao!^ jm lus dEL Hr
Orflr uL ui?: iiTix ?^Kit Tiff Lorf* yucL Tie
m^ 'mvt r:yv\nxt tr^rej y^saria^ is sis' oipcBSer s
ttK^ 4siiC 'rzLi*: "tjaTTTTig iKiif lioipr #m?qg To^t
AUKMi^ V^^T, TrmniLj Tsft'f bsicfcets aad bftireli
^^ fortiii xt( bIl:v. trmnpiiiff iGimL The XQl
te iwk;t- r^xJy the brook otSitmoes noisv. Lute& I
%u yniAfif pine woods what a cawing of crows!
\/Aut HM ^*\ii, in a wood still more ronote^ other
im^% urn ttfwwering. But eren a crow's tbroat to-
ilny in muHutHl })o they think, becaose thej have
Ultu'k iUftiiM on, that thej are parsoDs, and have a
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 241
right to play pulpit with all the pine trees ? Nay. "
The birds will not have any such monopoly, they
are all singing, and singing all together, and no
one cares whether his song rushes across another's
or not. Larks and robins, blackbirds and orioles,
sparrows and bluebirds, mocking cat-birds and
wrens were furrowing the air with such mixtures
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 re-
gularity ; and, like a country singing-master, he
flew down the ranks, singing all the parts himself
in snatches, as if to stimulate and help the lag-
gards. In vain. Sunday is the birds' day, and
they will have their own democratic worship.
There was no sound in the village street. Look
either way not. a vehicle, not a human being!
The smoke rose up soberly and quietly, as if it
said. It is Sunday! The leaves on the great elms
hung 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
VOL. I. R
242 nobwood; or,
scarcely change for the better on the seventh
day!
But oh, the sun ! It had sent before and cleared
every stain out of the sky. The blue heaven was
not dim and low, as on secular days, but curved
and deep, as if on Sunday it shook off all encum-
brance which during the week had lowered and
flattened it, and sprang back to the arch and sym-
metry of a dome. All ordinary sounds caught the
spirit of the day. The shutting of a door sounded
twice as far as usual. The rattle of the bucket in
a neighbour's yard, no longer mixed with hetero-
geneous noises, seemed a new sound. The hens
went silently about, and roosters crowed in psalm-
tunes. And when the first bell rung, nature
seemed overjoyed to find something that it might
do without breaking Sunday, and rolled the sound
over and over, and pushed it through the air, and
raced with it over field and hill, twice as far 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 time and
another, when the day was fair, and the air moving
in the right way, from every one of them steeples,
and I guess likely they've all heard our'n."
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 243
" Come, Rose I " said Agate Bissell, at an even
earlier hour than when Rose usually awakened
" Come, Rose, it is the Sabbath. We must not
be late Sunday morning of all days in the week.
It is the Lord*s-day."
There was little preparation required for the
day. Saturday night, in some parts of New Eng-
land, was considered almost as sacred as Sunday
itself. After sundown on Saturday night no play
and no work, except such as is immediately pre-
paratory to the Sabbath, were deemed becoming
in good Christians. The clothes had been laid
out the night before. Nothii^ was forgotten. The
best frock was ready; the hose and shoes were
waiting. Every article of linen, every rufSie 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 kindest face, and nobody laughed,
but everybody made it up in smiling. 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
B 2
244 NORWOOD; OR,
hair for that very day. Aunt Toodie, the cook (so
the children had changed Mrs. Sarah Good's
name), was blacker than ever and shinier than
ever, and her coffee better, and the cream richer,
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 sub-
dued everything 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 proclaim
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 ofiScial airs, and the
clock felt the responsibility of doing it for
the whole mansion !
And now came mother and catechism, for Mrs.
Wentworth 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 245
world of good-natured discouragement, and de-
clared that there should be an opposition set up
a catechism of Nature, with natural laws for
decrees, and season for Providence, and flowers
for graces ! The younger children were taught
in simple catechism. But Kose, having reached
the mature age of twelve, was now manifesting
her power over the Westminster Shorter Cate-
chism, and, as it was simply an achievement of
memory and not of the understanding, she had '
the book at great advantage, and soon subdued
every question and answer in it. As much as
possible the Doctor was kept aloof on such occa-
sions. His grave questions were not to edification,
and often they caused Kose to stumble, and
brought down sorely the exultation with which
she rolled forth, " They that are eflfectually called
to do in this life partake of justification, adoption,
sanctification, and the several benefits which in
this life do either accompany or flow from them."
" What do those words mean, Eose ?"
"Which words, pa?"
"Adoption, sanctification, and justification?"
Kose hesitated, and looked at her mother for
rescue.
246 NORWOOD; or,
"Doctor, why do you trouble the child? Of
course she don't know yet all the meaning. Bui
that 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 subjecting them to some risk, is it not?"
" It might be so with eggs^ but not with cate-
chism. That will 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
has 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 247
carries too much clay with him, while nothing
stuck to poor Arthur. Great was the lad's pride
and exultation on a former occasion when his
mother advanced him from the smaller catechism
to the dignity of the Westminster Catechism. He
could hardly wait for Sunday to begin his con-
quests. He was never known after the first
Sunday to show any farther impatience. He had
been four weeks in reaching the fourth question,
and two weeks already had he lain before 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 is 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 unable to extract anything more.
" Eternal," says the mother.
" Eternal," says the boy.
248 NORWOOD; ob,
" Well, go on ; God is a spirit, infinite, eternal ;
what else?"
" 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 ! 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
but of him or into him during the exercise. But
his sorrow soon fled, for the second bell had rung,
and it was just time to walk, and "everybody was
going," the servant reported. The Doctor had
been called away, and his wife and the children
moved down the yard, Kose, with demure pro-
priety, and Arthur and his eight-year old brother,
Charles, with less piety manifest in deportment,
but, on the whole, with decent demeanour. The
beauty of the day, the genial season of the year,
brought 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 249
low voice they spoke to each other in single
sentences.
" A fine day ! There'll be a good congregation
out to-day."
"Yes; we may expect a house-full. How is
Widow Cheney ^have you heard ? "
" Well, not much better ; can't hold out many
days. It will be a 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 not. I believe she sunk into a quiet
way ; and it looks as if she would go off easy."
"Sunday is a good day for dying it's about
the only journey that speeds well on this day."
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 children;
and every member blossomed forth in his best
apparel, like a rose-bush in June. Do you know
that man in a silk hat and new black coat ? Pro-
bably it is some stranger. No; it is the car-
penter, Mr. Baggs, who was racing about yester-
250 NORWOOD ; on,
day with his aleeyes rolled np, and a dust-and-
business look in his fiice! I knew yon wonld not
know him. Adams Gurdner, 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 tblks proud of their children ! See
what groups of them! How ruddy and plump
are most ! Some are roguish, and cut clandestine
capers at every chance. Others seem like wax
figures, so perfectly proper are they. Little
hands go slyly through the pickets to pluck a
tempting flower. Other hands carry 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 the
steeple. It was the licensed noise of the day.
In a long shed behind the church stood a score
and half- score of waggons, and chaises, and
carry-alls, the horses already beginning the fore-
noon's work of stamping and whisking the flies.
More were coming. Hiram Beers had " hitched
up," and brought two loads with his new hack.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 251
and now, having secured the team, he stood with
a few admiring young fellows about him, remark-
ing on the people as they came up.
" There's Trowbridge she'll git asleep afore the
first prayer's over. I don't b'lieve he's heerd a
sermon in ten years. I've seen him sleep standin'
up in singin'.
" Here comes Deacon Marble. Smart old
feller, ain't he ? wouldn't think it, jest to look at
him I Face looks like an ear of last summer's
sweet Cornwall dried up; but I tell ye he's got
the juice in him yit. Aunt Polly's gittin' old,
ain't she? They say she can't walk half the
time lost the use of her limbs ; but it's all gone
to her tongue. That's as good as a razor, and a
sight better 'n mine, for it never needs sharpenin*.
" Stand away, boys ; there's 'Biah Cathcart
Good horses not fast, 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 that they lost their sobriety. Barton
alone remained sober as a judge.
252 NORWOOD; or,
**Here comes * Dot-and-go-one ' and his wife.
They're my kind o' Christians. She's a saint, at
any rate."
" How is it with you. Tommy Taffc ? "
"Fair to middlin', thank'e. Such weather
would make a handspike 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 must'nt
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. Turfmould,
the sexton and undertaker, who seemed to be in
a pensive meditation upon all the dead that he
had ever buried. He looked upon meji in a mild
and pitying manner, as if he forgave them for
being in good health. You could not help feeling^
that he gazed upon you with a professional eye,
and saw just how you would look in the condition
which was to him the most interesting period of a
man's earthly state. He walked with a soft tread,
as if he was always at a funeral ; and, when he
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 253
shook your hand, his left hand half followed his
right, as if he were about beginning to lay you
out. He was one of the few men absorbed by his
business, and who unconsciously measured all
things from its stand-point.
" Good-morning, Mr. Turfmould ! How's your
health ? How's business with you ? "
" Good the Lord be praised ! I've no reason
to complain."
f And he glided silently and smoothly into the
church.
'* There comes Judge Bacon, white and ugly,"
said the critical Hiram. "I wonder what he
comes to meetin' for. Lord knows 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. And he won't repent, that's certain.
He don't believe the Bible. They say he don't
believe in God. Wal, I 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 other-
wise bad. He would not do a positively bad deed
254 NORWOOD; OB,
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 expressions 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, in-
flexible and unfeeling when seeking his rights or
interests; and his selfishness was the more
ghastly as it clothed itself in the language and
manners of gentle goodwill.
** He talks to you," said Hiram, "just as Black
Sam lathers you ; a kind of smooth rubbing goes
OD, and you feel soft and satisfied 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 you don't feel the razor. But I
tell you, when you git away your skin smarts.
You've been shaved."
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 255
" Here comes the Bages, and the Weekses, and
a whole raft from Hardscrabble," said Hiram, as
five or six one-horse waggons drove up. At a
glance one could see that these were farmers who
lived to work. They were spare in figure, brown
in complexion everything worn oflf 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 a leisure day in summer.
" Them fellers," said Hiram, ** is just like stones.
I don't believe there's any blood or innards in 'em,
more'n in a crowbar. They work early, aiid work
all day, and in the night, and keep workin', and
never seem to git tired except Sunday, when
they've nothin' to do. You know when Fat Porter
was buried, they could'nt git him into the hearse,
and had to carry him with poles, and Weeks was
one of the bearers, and they had a pretty heavy
time of it, nigh about three hours, what with liftin'
and fixin' him at the house, and fetchin' him to
the church door, and then carryin' him to the
graveyard, and Weeks said he hadn't enjoyed a
Sunday so much he couldn't tell when. * Hiram,'
sez he, * I should like Sunday as well as week days
V
s:^ T33rroD: OK.
: - "i.^ 'TTs. a i: -HI I zitowtiil tired dam'
^'' r_:' r!jc " -AT.* -iSkML HizaiiL "^ tfaat tiler
3tf*^r V -zsjufi- ie ID Ji HaCTi*mhhlft. Tlwy
sirs. '^ -L:. ^^ -: ^*'".^ ^inn*r:iini thfnnia r T-fb*
vr uifc^. 1.1 Ztr^ zn ^ suul that ^some day
VA." .V .-.. .-1:;^^.- c:: ziiioiaL-ed or dropped^, and
3. -*."' Z-aSe-? -2. '^'^r: cfaev die off IH A
J'-:, r-. T--.-.-. Jc.- -uiiau Ticiuiic any one of 'em
a^MSki:: % 'ur^.'iLar Jia& liMitc it. Bat I gaeas
ibi' ^:i ~ -i&-. ~ vL^.jc-x ^mai, tzeil a grsve ^ix, a^ if
I'^fcir;:^ Uii" 1:- iL^'AL msdnsMl tae yoim^ folks
fcLN;a- Ills* Tit^a* rxi femnre mazhtxitr, he
"ji^iu ' i'^"Si z^^ Ji. "iitf iiiLT* *Zi2DA tollm', and
litf^r'.i -i ^"ui v :tfi:3i*. j^: n* *"'^ dsnt make
A j ij^'. iojil ^i*^ 7"it Tail nif wbece the text i&
M^^ ^ c V jTii: i.'ia: iiiear !ijLr%&cr tkejll get
r:-3 r^ciii::'!: vuc -ilifii iaank bra squeal and
a ri^Zr iz-i ":ik:i:i: cc wag^-^ns, wbich showed
Hariri^ cc*: :ir jecfie all safely into chnrch,
Hiram bestowed his anendon on the horses.
The whole green was lined with horses. Every
hitching post and the railing along the side-walk
and at the fronts of stores, were closely occupied.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 257
Seeing Pete leaning on Dr. Wentworth's gate,
Hiram beckoned him over, and employed him in
his general tour of inspection as a bishop might
employ his chaplain. Here the reins had been
pulled under a horse's feet ; next, a horse had got
his bridle off; another had backed and filled till
the waggon wheels were cramped; and at each
position Hiram issued orders to Pete, who good-
naturedly, and as a "inatter indisputable, did as he
was ordered. If Hiram had told Pete to shoulder
one of the horses he would have made the
attempt.
" Look 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. Jest feel how hot it is. Pete,
you get a bucket of water, and put a little warm
in it to take off the chill, and wash that off, and
take him out of harness. I swow! and I don't
know but what 1 ought to say, I swear ! for it's
Sunday work. Anyhow, if Blakeslee don't know
aiiy better than that he ought not to own a horse.
There he is in church, a-hearin' the Gospel, and
feelin' all over as comfortable as a cruller, and he's
left his horse out here to the flies and the sun
VOL. L S
258 NORWOOD; or,
with a shoulder that's a disgrace to Christianity.
But that's the way with us pretty much all 'round.
If we are good here, we are bad there. Folkses'
good and bad is like a board-teeter, if one end
goes up, 'tother is sure to go down."
It was curious to see Pete's superiority to Hiram
in the matter of dogs. In several waggons lay
the 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 mysterious power that Pete had over
animals. Even dogs in whom a sound conscience
was buttoned on an ugly temper, practised a surly
submission to Pete's familiarity.
It was nearly twelve o'clock, when Dr. Went-
worth, returning froDci his round of visits, found
Hiram sitting on the fence, his labours 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. Somebody must take care of
the outside a^ well as inside of church. Dr. Buell
rubs down the folks, and I rub the horses ; he sees
that their tacklin' is all right in there, and I do
the same out here. Folk and animals are pretty
VILLAGB LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 259
much of a muchness, and theyll bear a sight of
takin' care of."
" Whose nag is that one, Hiram ^the roan ? "
" That's Deacon Marble's."
" Why, he seems to sweat, standing still ! "
Hiram's eye twinkled.
"You needn't say nothing Doctor, but 1
thought it a pity so many horses shouldn't be
doin' anything ! Of course, they don't know any-
thing about Sunday, it ain't like workin' a
creatur' that reads the Bible, so I just slipped
over to Skiddy's widder she ain't been out doors
this two months, and I knew she ought to 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 didn't
He pull oxen and sheep out of ditches, and do all
that sort of thing ? ' If she'd knew that I took the
Deacon's team she'd been worse afraid. But 1
knew the Deacon would like it ; and if Polly
didn't, so much the better. I like to spite those
folks that's too particular ! There, Doctor, there's
the last hymn ! "
It rose upon the air, softened by distance and
s 2
260 NORWOOD; or,
the enclosure of 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 side-
walks 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 better myself. It'll do good
know it I Fqel better myself; I need just such
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 261
preachin' mouldy old sinner need a scourin'
about once a week. DreflFnl wicked to hev
such doctrine, and not be no better ain't it,
Doctor?"
262 NORWOOD; oe,
CHAPTER XVIII.
A NEW ENGLAND SUNDAY.
We are not to suppose, in a New England town,
that the measure of a sermon's effect is to be
judged by the impression 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 scho-
larly 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 problems often the most remote from ordi-
nary life. Many of these homely and awkward
bodies carry in them fine machinery. A sermon,
therefore, falls upon such an audience as the
waters do upon millwheels. However much it
may sparkle and rush upon the great external
wheel, that is but a small part of the effect pro-
duced. The whole interior is set in motion
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 263
spindles twirl, looms clank, and the whole build-
ing is filled with buzzing activity.
When the congregation breaks up they carry
out the subject with them. It probes them, ex-
cites them, sharpens them ; and in scores of homes
for the day and week, around the table, young
and old controvert, defend, or variously follow
out the Sunday sermon. In this way the com-
munity is seasoned with religious thought Even
if sometimes a too exclusively doctrinal discourse
draws upon itself the charge of being unprac-
tical, it can seldom be charged with emptiness or
mere sentimentalism. There is apt to be food
in it for men. Let us listen to some of the
comments :
Judge Bacon walks with Mr. Gallup and
knowing that Mr. Gallup would repeat what-
ever 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. It was a very clever
performance. As a specimen of special plead-
ing, I think it would have ranked high in any
court."
JI4 ifiaTirraa: A.
- V-i^ 3.T ,ir.'rr.^g _x Tiling ?
^tfk^ ^^ -^^r- :iiAv iiir AT :&ar ^ez!& ^nciL a
.^mir-f T.tf^i- -rrit) acfTPT int iis mot in. a
^SllunA iLTjin rear ^ -fuL t jetyr* iiL wa wailb-
m4r -tf -/uigB 2ttL*aa i iutir r ;^ nuimfflitT^ inter-
* "J^^i.- J^iti:r=i. aeea ^ic limrcfl* tai? Believe
* 7 -.t, ti-.t;," Btiti J::ti^ Boccn. ^mfiing know-
'^^^7' '^ ^^ ^"^ ^^^ ^^ perserefaziee (Ht iAiiiit& I
a^f; t'jAyf'XvAfA Xfj peraeTere. Toa ^kewld haye
ti^^rJ it it wad likewise profitable for sinners.
VVfjAt ^Jid yon pjear of onr matters in New York?
U i\\h failure bad ? Shall we secoie much for onr
" Oh, aunt, I wish our minister didn't preach
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 265
such long sermons," said a blooming girl of twelve
to a sensible but rigid and conscientious aunt,
Miss Ecdeston, who was not only determined
to be good, but fiercely determined ; and just as
determined that everybody that she had anything
to do with should be good too. She was angu-
lar and something stern outwardly, but true as
steel within; straightforward, truthful, and as
unbounded in kindness 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 1
is the ruin of many souls. The rod is what folks
need."
" But, aunt, don't you think a sermcm that in-
terests you does 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 is only to give us
266 NORWOOD; OR,
the truth as he 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 enough in every one of 'em, if we were in
a right state of mind, to do us good. It is bad
manners to find fault with your food at table, and
and a good deal worse at church."
The Cathcarts went to the Wentworths. On
a plain table stood some crackers and cheese, some
plain gingerbread, and a plate of butter, while
fragrant tea drew all eyes toward the head of the
table.
Cathcart, in a very clear and concise manner,
stated to the Doctor the substance of the sermon.
He applauded it as an intellectual effort, but
inclined to doubt if it was strictly Scriptural.
" I am inclined to think that the Arminian and
Calvinist, when not under controversial fire, hold
the facts substantially alike. The issue 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."
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 267
"There are two sides to that, Cathcart," said
Wentworth; "New England metaphysics have
been a powerful agent against materialism. It
may be that at any given time, a high doctrinal
sermon is not so edifying as a simple practical
one would be. But a 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 is always to be considered
in such discussions, not only as to the effect of
preaching 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 execu-
tion. Either extreme becomes unfruitful. High
philosophic thought may, and should, lead to
broad practical applications."
" I see what you mean. True doctrinal preach-
ing, though it lies high, should, like clouds, before
it gets through, come down to the ground in rain."
268 NORWOOD; or,
" Exactly. Look at the history of New Eng-
land mind in a large way. 1 think we owe every-
thing to her theologians, and most to the most
doctrinaL They were shut out from the world
in danger of becoming provincial and narrow.
The outlet was found ^not in cosmopolitan social
customs, nor in art or literature, but in theology.
Such men as Edwards, Hopkins, Smalley, West,
Bellamy, Backus, Burton, Emmons, lifted up the
New England mind into a range of speculation
and conviction that ennobled and strengthened it
as art never could have done."
" You are right ; but I don't see what you can
do with your consistency, for I've heard you trim
Dr. BueU to his face for his metaphysical sermons."
" Only for word-sermons ; thought-sermons can-
not be too high. But a tangle of reasonings made
up mostly of nice distinctions of words is an impo-
sition on philosophy. BueU does not often get
into this vicious style. ' But I could show you
good specimens of 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 ? "
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 269
" He is like a man who draws a bucket of water
from a deep, deep well, ^like yours, for instance,
sixty feet deep, good water, clear, cold, whole-
some ; 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 you cannot reach is as far off from
you two feet below the face of the well as if it were
at the bottom again."
Farmers, having looked to their horses, and
given them a wisp of hay, or a few oats, were sit-
ting about in groups, talking of various things, but
every one of them, first or last, had something to
say of the sermon. Many a quaint originality was
dropped unnoticed. Many a homely illustration
was suggested full of real poetry without its form.
Some, of better information, and habits of reading,
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 ser-
mon, he expressed himself promptly :
'' Them pesky Methodists is gittin' in this town,
X14ri^ a. '^-rL "T ":: Xtr*?- JIL -=rS.-T7i*S. JOii
ir : : :.z- 7-'zz:i- i-;rr'i=: iinpi^ 13 c
lutExr ^ r - zr^ ii.-TiiL"
2: f iL'- ii T3TL ~y;n: r jl 3nHL i^ nn;e mh
* If^ ii.i^ ffc'";^- fczji n d.-c'i rxn iia mocii. it
d;*cns tiiit tLrrr- TftLi ziz- zrwsc ibcci it: tin
caet}Jja^' els.^ Le f^ll frii^zi. iLit wan"! veiy high
up ij^fitL'rr. A r^ZoTT "5 apt to be smarted up, if
\kit fixllh from grace, I tell je ! It s like fiedlin' off
the H^yiith jjide of ilount Holyoke."
'ilie more tljoughtful men refused to discuss the
cimm In real life that some instanced. It was a
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 271
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 there were some passages
that looked like falling from grace. But they were
speedily captured by ranks of others; and as
there was no one present who cared to be thought
Arminian, 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 they think they've
proved it ; but that ain't worth shucks for argu-
ment."
As soon as the afternoon service was over, every
horse on the green knew that it was time for biTn
to go home. Some grew restless, and whined
for their masters. Nimble hands soon put them
into the shafts, or repaired any irregularity of har-
ness. Then came such a scramble of vehicles to
the church door for the older persons; while
young women and children, venturing further 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
272 NORWOOD; OR,
arise along every outward-going road. In less
than ten minutes not a waggon or chaise was
seen upon the village green. They were whirl-
ing homeward at the very best pace that the
horses could raise. Stiff old steeds vainly essayed
a nimbler gait, but gave it up in a few rods, and
fell back to the steady jog. Young horses, tired
of long standing, and with a strong yearning for
evening oats, shot along the level ground, rushed
up the little hills, or down upon the other side,
in the most un-Sunday-like haste. The scene was
not altogether unlike the return from a military
funeral, to which men march with sad music and
slow, hui from which they return nimbly march-
ing to the most brilliant quick-step.
In half an hour Norwood was quiet again. The
dinner on Sunday, when, for the sake of the out-
lying population the two services 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 changed.
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.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 273
Devout and age-sobered people sat in a kind of
golden twilight of meditation. The minister in
his well-ordered house, tired with a double ser-
vice, mingled thoughts both glad and sad. His
tasks were ended. He was 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 stubborn stuff of which his
people's dispositions were made, that there re-
mained 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, Eose 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 time - as is spent at church. And
though she never, impliedly even, rebuked the
Doctor's resort 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
VOL. I. T
ir^ xoRWoor; GfE,
TiliiLjiTs Iljt^! any cme, upon that day, made
Apitt i. Tiii:. ziiiea?^ for some plain end of neces-
n ir TLtcrr} . sitt wonid have deemed it a personal
afirvKi;
Suyui.^ IV7ft^ lilt Lord-daT. Agrate acted as if
an} i!5t vii i: i:r. ii-^r own jileasnre wonld be literal
and v:.^TT:TLri: fit\Vinir.
-V\t i^;vt sii. day for om* own work. We
ouch: li.^: ii ieirnid^t ihe Lord one whole day."
Twi i*rr^i:ni?ian:\2? disn^eaaed honest Agate's
tvins.utMi:*: . Tilt onr was that the incursion of
snnimer ^^:^:: .irs ir.mi the cny was tending mani-
fofLiT -;: rtuA lir Salihaxh. especially after the
tiiirLi iirrri.-^ Thr other was that Dr. Went-
wotlL t .'w'li. .x^.^asivTnally, aQow Jndge Bacon to
cjbdl ii. iuiid li.*:iss viih iim topics suggested by
tbr j-mi.cif. Sif v^n.v tipressed herself in this
wise :
-' Ehhrr Smidsy is wcrth keeping or it is not
If yon d? kr^p it. it ought to be strictly done.
Bat lairrly Sunday is laxelling out at the end.
We take it on like a sommer dress, which in
the morning is clean and sweet, but at night
it is soiled at the bottom and much rompled
all over."
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 275
Dr. Wentworth sat with Eose on one side and
her mother on the other, in the honeysuckle-
comer, 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 conversation upon this very
topic.
"I think our Sundays in New England are
Puritan and Jewish, more than Christian. They
are days of restriction rather than 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 truth that the early
Christian Sunday was a day of triumph and of
much social joy. It would be 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 a larger social liberty
in each family. Much might be done to make it
attractive to children, and to relieve older persons
from ennui. But, after all, we must judge things
by their fruits. If you bring me good apples, it
T 2
276 NORWOOD; or,
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 her Sundays. 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
motive power. Almost every cause which has
worked benignly among us has received its inspir-
ation and impulse largely from this One Solitary
Day of the week.
" It is true that all the vegetable growths that
we see about us here depend upon a great variety
of causes ; but there is one cause that is the con-
dition of power in every other, and that is the
Sun ! And so, many as have been the influences
working at New England 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 277
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 Eight-
eousness ! "
"The Jews called it the Sabbath a day of
rest. Modem Christians call it the SurCs 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 strikingly characteristic of
the real spirit of the two days, in the ancient
and modem 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 thanksgiving days. But
the higher and richer moral nature which has
been developed by Christianity enables com-
munities to sustain one day in seven upon a high
spiritual plane, with the need of but very little
social help, and without the feasting element at
all."
" That may be very well for a few saints like
.rr !roB:woQD; ob^
viHt uni 31^. Dix^tor. but it is too Tii'g^ for the
'Qiuirrrr r qihi^ Common people fimi tiie stnet
Smuiiivx i ,^rrttK vimiiiyaiiGe* md clamiesdnidT aet
* L u^ccbt t. rbiire are a few in evy aodetj
rifetf tn^ ^v 'ik^ir :^eiLsiious nacare. Smu^^ must
V .4 u^i bir n du^n. i dark room. No
'mitfiift^r itK'^ Ixituuk: diioagiL But it is not ao
wttk tic' ^^nini^. '.ULsuphisdcutetL labonzmg- daas
;ii \XT Zu^raniL If it came tao a vote yon
KHud juvi riiac die durmtHS of New KngTand
^vvitiu ) rill* .u'lieiuiiss of the^ day, eresn if
^jRwvti uu a die jhi jOri'PieaR^ Tieir instxnct
it^ ruric^ Tt js jn jb^ervaoce that has alwap
w^.yrixHi :n ^**?r v*i5*eTs upiin die common people,
.msi oc* r \\Hr 3.' .'iiuoire she narne^ I shonid call
inmcay U^a Fvo^ JtLo':^ Di.T.
* Kvfn vie ace y p en!erre diat the Iwkse of the
braia iE full v.'f vie^rcciisn^ and the eofooal hrain
i$ iadkz.s wfdi L:'::ectnr. I Bteaa that the laws
and n^Iaiio/C^ wbicL pnO'W can of men's lelatioiis in
^Tsical tbiiLgs are tbe sternest and hardest^ and
at erery step in ifce ascent toward reason and
spiritnalitT the reladms grow moie kindly and
free.
i
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 279
" Now, it is natural for men to prefer an animal
life. By-and-by they will learn that such a life
necessitates force, absolutism. It is natural for
unreflecting men to complain when custom or in-
stitutions 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
Sunday liberty. It is only the liberty of the senses
that suffers. A higher and nobler civil liberty,
moral liberty, social liberty, will work out ot it.
Sunday is the common people's Magna Charta."
"Well done. Doctor! I give up. Hereafter
you shall see me radiant on Sunday. I must
not get my hay 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
280 NORWOOD; OR,
for the sun to go down, and your Sun-daj 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
that you may not become so spiritual as quite to
disdain the body. I really think, for this world,
the body has some respectable uses yet. Good
night, Eose. The angels take care of you, if there
is one of them good enough."
And so the judge left.
They sat silently looking at the sun, now but
just above the horizon. A few scarfs of cloud,
brilliant with flame-colour, and every moment
changing forms, seemed like winged spirits, half
revealed, that hovered round the retiring orb.
Mrs. Wentworth at length broke the silence.
"I always thought, Doctor, that you believed
Sunday over-strictly kept, and that you were in
favour of relaxation."
" I am. Just as fast as you can make it a day
of real religious 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 pro-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 281
prieties. Liberty is not an outward condition.
It is an inward attribute or rather a name for
the quality of life produced by the highest
moral attributes. When communities come to
that condition, we shall see fewer laws and
higher morality.
" The one great poem of New England is her
Sunday ! Through that she has escaped material-
ism. That has been a crystal dome overhead,
through which Imagination 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 religious life.
The Sabbath has been the nurse of that. When
she ceases to have a Sunday, she will be as this
landscape is now growing dark, all its lines
blurred, its distances and gradations fast merging
into sheeted darkness and night.
" Come, let us go in ! "
282 NORWOOD; or,
CHAPTER XIX.
GOING TO COLLEGE.
Barton Cathcart was brought up on a farm, by
a farmer, with no other thought than that he
would, Kke his father, live by steady and hard
work. Early he manifested ambition, but it
developed in the line of his duties. Thoroughly
above his years, industry and fidelity marked him
from childhood. His tenacity of purpose was
remarkable, and had it not been controlled by
judgment, in later years it would have become
obstinacy.
He was ambitious of doing men's work, and, at
ten years of age, in labour that required tact and
quickness rather than strength, he was fully as
serviceable as a man. He was eager to prove
himself tough, refused in the coldest winter to
wear an overcoat, rejoiced to brave storms, and
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 283
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 fourteen, there
began to rise in his mind dim questionings
whether he should after all follow husbandry.
The books which he had read furnished so many
heroes that he found his allegiance to hard work
somewhat sh&ken. Sometimes he dreamed that
he would be a merchant, and that, after a success-
ful 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 admiration by some trials
that had gone on in Norwood, and he caught the
contagion of the common people, who look upon a
smart lawyer as one of the most enviable of men.
But all these dreams were as nothing to the
influence of a single question which Kose put to
him one Sunday evening at her father's :
" Barton, don't you mean to go to college ? " [ *"
" No ; I never really thought of it. What makes
you ask me ? "
2SI 50EV00D; OB,
* I sbould lie to ct mx^elt I ehonld like to
know t Tt-rriiiiiur. Bnt women don't go to college.
If I wert A man I sbonld oertainly go."
* WLai wvinld Ton do there. Rose ? "
* I dvTL 1 know. I conld tell better afterwaida
IVmi vdn i.V.Tnt that ron would like to be a
mmkaex, Rinonr''
Thtre are ome impressians that come upon as
with the foTf^e of prophecies. Barton had never
before" onoe tbonght of a college, except as a vague
pktoie^ a plaoe of wonderftd men who knew all
manner of wonderfdl things. Like a tnie New
England K^r, he looked with admiration npon any
Tonng man that "^had been to college.'' Intelli-
gence and morality are the household ideals of
New England. The Amherst College buildings
he had seen as they glimmered far across the
Connecticut river valley, and had 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
a&r off.
These few words of Eose's had struck a chord
which never ceased vibrating. He thought of it
all the way home. Every day he found the sub-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 285
ject intruding upon him. Finally, it had so pos-
sessed his 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 weari-
ness 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 sympathise
with his ambition to rise in the world. Great, then,
was his surprise when one evening he made a full
disclosure of his thoughts, to find that Eachel 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 col-
lege?"
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 quarter of
it. He sat with the book which he had been
reading on his knee, and his forefinger in it for a
mark, looking into the fire.
l!8C kocwoqd; ob,
Wliui (itlier picture-lKK^ lias such colonr. BaA
iniiiiiv uovelrr of desigii, sneL BaggeBtrreDefiB fts
tlie iarmerV pictnre-boc^ on the Itand-irons ?
TLtsre ^ert flamee sLcKitm^ up like ^nres at
diurciiet: in the culome of simseL On the front
log vue a niiiuic Lnntiiig-scene. Along the sar-
aoe ran a faint line of blue gas, ifiscdng at litde
intenalb irom crackfi, and this seemed like i&bbitB
or faxe8. Then from the end of the log a flame
like a Lonnd ; it leaped orer and caught the gas,
and raced across the whole front and disappeared,
as if around a comer. Sarton s nnea&y thoughts
were well nigh as tfial and fieiy as the flames
before hiuL He glanoed at his mother. She
was excited too. Her eye was bright, a colour was
on her cheeky her hand was more nervously
quick.
Bachel came, at length, and sat down by him.
" Barton, your words seem to me like an open-
ing 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 287
willing. Yet the day you leave us will be a day
of pangs more than when you were bom."
" 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 dull 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
storms travelling over it always, and many
288 NORWOOD; or,
enemies. Yet every one must venture. If I
were sure that you had made your peace with
God"
She paused.
The fore-stick broke in two, and showers of
sparks rushed up the fire-place, and great meaty
coals rolled down upon the hearth, while the
whole fire seemed to ease itself, and settled down
into new positions, as if a restraint had been
removed.
It was a relief to both of them, and Barton put
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 to 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 you
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 289
your time and help you besides, he would expect
you to help yourself. You know his mind. If he
had ever so much money he would not give it to
you. He thinks that the earning is a moral pre-
servation. It wiU require patience and courage
to get an education."
"I have patience and courage," said Barton,
quietly. " Did you ever know me give up any-
thing that I had undertaken? Did not father
say that he didn't believe anybody else would
ever have got down that wood on the mountain-
lot, in the deep snow, that I did ? But he never
knew half what I went through. Didn't I 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 a-bed, 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 ! "
" But an education is only a beginning what
do you mean to do afterwards ? "
^ I don't know. If a man is well educated, I
guess he can do pretty much as he^leases. Maybe
I'll be a lawyer or a minister."
VOL. L u
i- vii -tli-c: Zii^ IIP- nflL kesT -jomisl im
miit ttifii^ uiit Uinrar ^nii- '!3fsna TOiiiii;^
XL im ;iiru iimtiL XBneL in ior "tifr "timtw*n
tOft iymur in ii J^tiliBvi: nf itciiisr if TtnaE* jaiBfe.
ii^ja, li* u**v7^inKTg if jmiHwE.TiiiiaF 39516^^
linr ^nu^ ui i!raB*rR*c servKjt if Jis tniumsiL
^mtu^ it 'tu*: iiai rrr anc 'Uabl ZiiiOi *Lkmije!5
* 33ftin .!,. T^iir la'.ckfflr bt* jnt -wexc tkp ct to
jWj^ :x;trt *tu^U2iL T:ni esamoi ficrfiar ^oBlEfew
%u iu ^*r at a orj3ie2^ I duaVi Ictt aaajr one
^fXHfsm^jsAifjJx. If TOd hfjQBe to kam isuneyin ^
iMi t^-iil ^ir^ m/e a pk4 of my bim Aod a map
44 iUin (M^tifii^ Til gire ym toot timeu It won't
Aip fur a (anii/;r' boy to go to collie, and no
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 291
to know more about land than if he came from a
city."
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 was
expected to find out his own way, and to master
the art and mystery 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 thxit to find
out too. If there is no book, then I must get
somebody to tell me, and I mil too, or I'll know
the reason why."
Barton's first step was to explore his fitther'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
surveying was large and difficult, or simple and
easy, he could not tell. Accordingly he examined
every book in his father's book-cases. Here were
Scott's and Henry's Commentaries on the Scrip-
tures. Here were a few law books. There were
u 2
292 NORWOOD; or,
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 nnmber of books was in the depart-
ment of Natural History and in the art and science
of farming, on which his father's reading had been
extensive. There was also Rees' Cyclopaedia, and
a few of Scott's and Cooper's novels ; but no book
on surveying.
** Was there not one ? Had it been removed
purposely ? Was it loaned ? I don't care
there are books someivherCy and I'll find out
where."
Old 'Biah knew what was going on, but never
spoke a word. **We are 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 yourself. Lead is as good as steel
when the knife is in your pocket. Put it to hard
work and see which keeps its edge ^that tells
the difference between good temper and none
at all."
When they were working in the field, if his
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 293
boys asked him a question 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 but to use ? " In this way his children
were early inclined to observe and study for them-
selves.
But once, when Barton had been to Springfield,
and returned by a different route, having to visit
several outlying neighbours 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 coun-
try. Ask questions ! "
A spirit of independence could scarcely fail to
grow up imder such influences, and when, through
inexperience, it tended to extremes, old Cathcart
would say: "He is independent who troubles
people the least, and helps them the most. Never
let anybody carry you or your burdens if you 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 studied navigation; maybe sarveying and
navigation are enough alike for him to help
me.
CHAPTER L
CONSULTATIONS.
The next night, not long after dark, a knock was
heard at Tommy Taft's shop-door. Tommy was
sitting in his rough old chair, that seemed to have
been once a part of a pork-barrel. The front had
been sawed away halfway down, leaving the rest
of the staves for a back; and a seat was laid
across the open part ; and the whole was covered
with some cheap stuff, so that it answered the
purpose of luxury far better than do most of
the chairs which seem designed to make visitors
so uncomfortable that their calls shall be short.
" Who's there? come in !" roared out Tommy,
laying down his pipe.
VOL. II. B
2 NORWOOD; OR,
But several reasons precluded obedience to the
vociferous command which he repeated. In the
first place, the door below was fsistened ; and, in
the next place, had Barton made good his en-
trance, his way among barrels and benches,
akavu^ 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,
" I am afraid, ma'am, Whipple's child is worse.
They were to send if they needed me."
The stairs came down into the corner of the
shop. Loosening the rude wooden bolt, she opened
the door.
" Why, Barton Cathcart, of all things in the
world! Whoi is the matter? Is your mother
sick ? Is anything the matter at home ?"
" Nothing, Mother Taft," said he, hastening to
relieve her honest anxiety. " I only came down
to see Tommy about some business."
By this time Tommy's wooden leg was busy up
stairs, pounding and slapping at each step as he
made toward the head of the stairs. Each step
shook every board in the floor, as if a flail, or
rather trip-hammer, were at work on a wager.
S
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 3
As Barton came in sight, Tommy seemed en-
raptnred.
**Why, boy, ^why, lad, come up here! Let
me get my hands on you ^that's all ! Come up
here, my chap, if you dare, just come up here !"
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 laughed 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 ? What's the
matter? What do you want, my hearty? Any
mischief up, eh? Anything broke? Anything
smashed ? What is it, I say ; what's the matter ? "
And, without waiting for an answer, he plumped
Barton into' his own b{u*r6l 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
cai, that sat dozing by the fire. " Clap on some
more stuff, woman. Let's have more fire. Nights
are nights, now, d'ye know! Skates broke, eh ?
No ? Gun out of order ? Traps gone ? No ?
Well, what is it? Didn't come from Parson
B 2
4 nobwood; or,
Buell, did ye? Had my dose last week Good
man. Looks after the old simier. He needs it.
Have to keep tryin' the pumps. Some day, afore
you know it, hell founder. No hope. Bad bu-
siness. 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 ye."
** Sartin, sartin. I don't want to talk ^go on.
Somethin's the matter, I know. Come down to-
night. No, ^no not for nothin', I know. Come,
jest tell us what it is; and don't keep an old
fellow with his anchor neither up or down. But,
boys wiU be boys," said Tommy, giving Barton an
affectionate slap on his knee.
" Well," said Barton, striking in resolutely, as
one who means to make his way in a crowd, " I
want to find out something, and I don't know who
to go to. Tommy; and I thought perhaps you
would know."
" Of course I know. What's an old sailor good
for but to know all the odds and ends, and crinkum-
crankums for young folks ? The only joDy folks
in this world are young folks that ain't good for
H
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 5
nothin' yet, and old folks that's past doin' much.
All the rest of the world are livin' in a pucker
and a fume all the time. I tell you, Barton, I'm
the only sensible man in this town. Did ye ever
see such a stewin' and brewin' as goes on for
nothin' among these folks, that are rubbin' and
grindin' round to make money, and then usin' it
to make more money, and that to make more, and
haven't time to stop and enjoy it a little 1"
There is no telling to what lengths of discourse
Tommy would have gone, for he seemed in pecu-
liarly good spirits to-night at Barton's visit.
Barton was one of Tommy's prime favourites.
But the old fellow was a good deal puzzled
when the errand came out.
** Tommy, I want to learn something about sur-
veying. I'm going to college."
"Thunder and lightnin'! Goin* to college?
make a map to find your way from here to Am-
herst, eh?"
" Father is so 'fraid that his children will de-
pend 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 stent; and so I've got to learn something
6 NORWOOD ; OB,
about surveying, to let him see that I've got
spunk enough to study ; and I won't ask father
anything about it," said Barton, laughing, "not
if I have to invent surveying all over again.
Now I thought that as you knew about naviga-
tion, 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 lamin'. 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 findin' 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 Ed-
wards ? 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,
VILLAGB LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 7
and was proceeding to fill a tin pan with them,
when Barton cut short his hospitable intent Go
he must. His errand must be speedily performed.
The night was wearing, and it would not do to be
out late.
" But why on airth don't you ask your father,
Barton? I guess he could tell you as well as
anybody."
" You know my father, Tommy. He's queer
about some things. He's always stirring tis up to
find out things. He seems set not to tell us any-
thing that we can dig out ourselves."
" That's the old man all over. But good for
you-^ood 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 teU me why the moss grew on one side
of a tree more than 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 help myself, he'll
help me."
"And is he as strict with Alice?" asked
8 NORWOOD; OR,
Mother Taft, who had listened silently to the con-
versation.
" Yes ; but rather softer. But she ias to hunt
the dictionary for her words, and he won't let her
read a sentence that contains a place, or river, or
custonij 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 which grows on one.
And after a while it is just as easy, and a little
easier, to find out your own things than 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 big
ones ! splendid ! You always know where the
best trees are. Tommy."
"No; that's Pete's work. Pete knows every
nut, and every squirrel, and every berry that
grows in these parts. You see my leg does very
well to walk with; a little noisy, perhaps, es-
pecially when you're late to meetin' and walk up
the aisle in prayer-time ; but it's no use on a
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 9
chestnut-tree. A wooden leg is a good thing
though, 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 hoi ho! hoi Never
have rheumatism in that leg, neither. Don't
catch cold when I get it wet. Toes never cold on
that leg ^he ! he 1 he 1 No corns. Nobody steps
on my toes.' Don't cost much for blackin'. It's
a real convenience. Sometimes I think legs were
a mistake ; ain't worth as much as it costs to keep
'em up."
" I suppose, then, you 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 don't like to be
odd, ye know," said Tommy, winking at Barton,
as if to save him from taking the speech literally. -
" So queer, you know, to wake up in the night,
and turn over just one leg ! Then my old
Smasher makes such a noise that everybody 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
10 nobwood; or,
mudi manners. Never could keep him still ; and
it's the worst leg to have treadin' on your toes
that ever you saw."
As Tommy Taft thus ran on^ his eye seemed to
linger fondly upon Barton, and his rough voice
grew less turbulent. All 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, I didnt 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 helplessness in his way, that Barton was
aflTected 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, anyhow."
"It's all right If a boy's got anything par-
ticular in him it'll certainly git out somehow, and
it ain't much use to try to stop it. If you do, it'll
only twist and twirl it, like a seed with a board on
it, that will come up and creep out sideways, and
gits up in spite of hindrance, only with a cruel
crooked stem. I might 'a made a smart man
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 11
anoe, bnt they meddled with me, and I was fierce
well, no matter. Old Tommy missed it. Bnt
yon won't. Yonll be all right. Barton, boy!
On the hnll, Fm glad of it. Folks that stay to
hum are like coasters sloops and schooners like,
that ran 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 ta"
Tommy seemed likely to spend the night in
talking, and Barton abruptly bid Mother Taft
good-night, and climbed down stairs, while Tommy
from the top was still adding some further re-
marks.
Mr. Edwards received Barton with a calm and
dignified welcome, and expressed no surprise. He
acted as one must who for forty years had been
used to having boys come to him for everything.
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
12 NORWOOD; OR,
eye, which was mild and gentle in repose, but
kindled like an eagle's under excitement ; his face
was white ; his hair remained thick only around
the sides of his head, while upon the top it was
very thin, and everywhere gray. His habitual
sobriety was underlaid with a genuine relish of
humour, which seldom brought out a laugh, some-
times 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 his love,
never spoken, but never, after years and years,
less tender and fresh and romantic than in the
days of his youth, burned like a lamp in some
obscure chapel, fed by pious hands, unseen by
day to the passers-by, but in darkness and secresy
for ever shining before the shrine of Love I
A widowed sister was the only companion of his
house. Her hands performed the whole labour of
the household. Like her brother, she was intel-
ligent ; but, like him, she was not fond of talking.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 13
He conversed freely when solicited, but never
offered conversation. And when he did speak,
there was something slightly formal, ^it was not
pedemtic, but measured, as if he were translating
his sentences from another language into his mo-
ther's tongue. Brother and sister were deeply
attached to each other, but would no more think
of expressing it than two roses on the same stem
would make love in any way except by glowing
in the same light, carrying the same dew, and
shaking to the same wind.
Every night, when the tea things were removed,
the curtain dropped, the fire trimmed (and he was
especially fond of a fire of hickory wood, the al-
most only luxury that he would have, regardless
of expense), he took his book and she her work,
and he would read aloud. Sometimes when ex-
citing events were abroad, it would be a news-
paper ; 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 enjoyment of
the same ideas. Sometimes he would pause in
reading, and for a moment comment, or criticise,
or unfold his knowledge which was ample
14 NORWOOD; OR,
upon some obscure point Bnt, usnaHy, little
was said, even in long pauses, both reflecting in
silence.
There is something very wonderful in the fruit-
fulness of silence ! Congenial natures may learn
almost to forego speech, and yet maintain inti-
mate sympathy and knowledge of each other.
There grow up, insensibly, an instinct and an in-
tuition in the eye, in the ear, and in every sense,
which finely divide up and distribute the usual
ftmctions 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 habits and read his classic authors,
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 gardenand yard in
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 15
Slimmer, and to yarious quiet exercises, walks and
errands in winter. The evening was for home
and reading. There was no Sunday there. Every
day was Sunday.
Except a slight difference on washing and iron-
ing days, you might call every day of the week a
Sabbath, so alike were they ^all silent, meditative,
and tranquil. Twice as much was going on up
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 ever was heard within the
mansion. Their lives were as nearly spiritual as
can be conceived. It is true that both of them
had bodies, but they were subordinated to the
mind'^B uses so utterly that they seemed to dry
up and turn white as if they despaired of their
lights as fleshly bodies and were getting ready to
take on a spiritual state in sheer despair.
'* Come in. Barton ; sit down. What brings
you to town so late ? No ill news, I trust ?"
" Nothing but some business with you is the
matter. I wanted to talk with you about survey-
ing and about going to college."
"Why, Barton, are you going to leave the
i
16 nobwood; OB,
fenn ? I thought you were to be the great fiEumer
of this neighbourhood? What will your father
say?"
" He is willing; at any rate, he has given con-
sent*'
" What put it into your head? The last time
I talked with you, you were bent upon husbandry.
It was to be a stock-farm, grass, grain, cattle, the
finest grass, the plumpest grain, the choicest
stock, mountain pastures, great bams. All these
are fled. Some new ambition ?'*
Barton did not acknowledge to himself the
germ and spring of aU these plans. He, perhaps,
would have honestly denied their origin. So
subtle are the influences that begin afar oflF 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
obvious. Many men see the growth of trees only
when leaves are unfolded; but some notice the
swelling of the bud. Yet more sensitive observers,
before a bud swells, know by the purpling of the
twigs and branches that a change has begun.
But long before the ruddy colour came, there was
VILLAGE LIFE IS NEW ENGLAND. 17
a 8tir within, and the march from winter to
sammer 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 Eose; nor did he even admit himself
that Bose had any important influence upon his
life or thoughts. That she was his sister Alice's
very twin sister, as it were, he knew, and he called
her his sister too.
Sister 1 sister! that is a sweet word, but ex-
ceedingly mischievous, too, in the realm of love !
It is a word for devout enthusiasm, for unselfish
love, for unblushing friendship, for faithfulness
and honest intimacy, for friendship without passion,
for love without sultry ardours. Brother and
sister! That is the most simple and beautiftil
confluence of the sexes I
But that word sister is the covered way of love !
It is the mask which bashfulness wears before it
gains boldness enough to say love. It is a gentle
hypocrisy, under which souls consent to remain
and dream, in hope by-and-by of a rapturous
waking ! It is the half-way house between friend-
ship and ardent affection. It is a neutral ground,
on which men and women agree to commit no
VOL. n. c
^5^ NORWOOD; OB,
sM(kV^^v aetioiiy and where both parties make
tw^li^ li break the agreement Under the names
U\^Ou^r and sister how fast intimacies grow!
Wlrnt bold words are spoken ! What deep glances
MV t^xohanged ! Love is war. The friendship of
A bi\)tlier and sister^ unrelated, is a truce, in
which both parties are secretly preparing for the
iHiaet and victory.
First comes acquaintance that is May; then
(Viendship ^that is June ; then brother and sister-
hood ^that is July; and then love, which is
August ; but July and August are so much alike
tliat no one can tell when one stops and the other
begins !
Barton unfolded to Mr. Edwards, briefly, his
ambition to surprise 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 practical lessons in the
Add.
The ne3Et Sunday found Barton, during the
intermission of service, as usual, at Dr. Went-
worth's. Nothing of his week's work did he
VILLAGE LIFE IN KEW ENGLAND. 19
speak. He had a natural delicacy of pride, and
seldom spoke of himself, never of his inward feel-
ings, save to his mother.
Bose did not question him. She walked with
him into the green-house and stood among the
plants, speaking of common things.
She instinctively knew that something had
happened to Barton. His way was different ; his
carriage was different. She merely noticed it
and did not inquire or even reflect upon it Yet
Barton knew that she knew something ailed him,
for she unconsciously looked at him with that
gaze of her father's, as if she saw something open-
ing up before her in his own heart It was a rare
sensitiveness to truth, which was peculiarly dis-
played toward Nature, but was as real, though
less manifested, toward society, that gave to Eose
an* almost unerring insight of people's disposi-
tions.
By her original constitution Eose was exqui-
sitely susceptible of impressions, and her father's
training had educated this tendency, so that she
saw infinitely more, in looking upon the same
things, than others did ; heard and discriminated
far more of the memorable sounds which fill the
c 2
20 isemwooD ; m^
day, than did her CQmpiiioB& TIub world is not
tiie sftme world to any two perseiis ia it. Bui
between the lowest hmnaKk organisation and the
behest, the diffierenee ia so wide, that the worid
which each sees would not be reec^nised by ibe
other. The thermometer and barometer are the
perpetual witness of men's coarse and insensitiTe
natores. They say to ns eyery hoar, ^ See what
woiid effecting changes are going on, which you
are not fine enough to notice, but whidi we feel
and indicate."
But the sphere of effects not perceiyed, in
human lifi^ is eyen greater than in ihe natural
world. Eyery feeling which rises in the soul has
its own signal in the body. If our eyes were fine
enough, if our minds were sensitiye enough, we
should see the fietce and carriage of men going
through endless yariations, as the soul moyes
through all its affluent moods. Now, we see only
the extreme manifestations. Fear, rage, hate,
loye, mirthi are discernible at their full tides.
Finer natures perceiye their remote conditions,
their subtle influences ; but it is a feeling, a mere
blind consciousness of change, or difference, rath^
than a defined perception.
s
VILLAGE LIFE IN HEW ENGLAND. 21
Bose had to a singular degree this fine and in-
e&ble sympathy with matter and with mind.
She had it without being conscious of it She
was not aware that she lived far deeper into life
than others did. Of all things that lived about
h&r, herself was almost the only one which she
did iK)t take cognizance of.
She judged that Barton had something to say
to her, and so she had naturally gone to the
green-house. He said nothing to her, except of
the plants, of the decline of the season, and so
she felt that it was something not to be told. To
know that one has a secret is to know half the
secret itself.
When the afternoon s^vice was done, Mr.
Edwards walked on with Bose and her father
and mother, on the way to his own house be-
ycmd;
"And so 'Biah Oathcart is going to send his
son to college ? *'
^ Ah," said the doctor, " that is something new.
When did you hear it ? "
"Barton came to see me last week. He is
to come to the academy the next term, and thinks
that in two years he can enter Amherst."
"
22 NORWOOD; OB,
"WeD, well, these boys run away with their
fathers' plans, as kittens do with a knitter's ball
of yam ^roll it all over the room and snarl at it
terribly ! "
And so Bose now perceived what was the thing
which she had felt ^Barton was to go to college.
She was glad. He wonld be a 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
honours ? 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 she was happy.
From the hour of his decision. Barton was con-
sciously changed. A new Jife 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, Kachel," said his father,
" if Barton was sorry for his choice ; now that he
comes to think of leaving it, he likes the farm
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 23
better than he knew. He clings to his work as
if he were sorry that he must leave it."
Eachel's sympathy interpreted Barton more
accurately. She 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 con-
sciously falling from, would redoable caution and
endeavour.
** I don't think Banon 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 most 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
recognised. Barton was proud as well as faith-
ful. There was a reason in himself which he
felt, but never analysed or understood, why he
did faithfully 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. Barton's planning was for the
24 HOBWOOD; OB,
time a part of bis own sell His w(xk was kni-
self. Solf-respect included not his mind and
person alone, but whatever bis person ocmoenied
itself about And to slight bis work was to al^^
bimselfl
And we should likewise add, what so many
know, that he who has once learned to work
with thoughtful interest and genuine ambition on
a farm will never lose the enthusiasm. Every
year men high in professional places artists,
judges, clergymen, senators, teachers go back in
vacation to the old homestead, and feel Ibe old
inspiration of work. They swing the flail, they
follow the plough, they swing the scythe, or axe,
with enthusiasm, and often with secret wishes
that they had never forsaken them ; at any rate,
with a half-purpose of retiring from crowded ways
and feverish pursuits to the calm and wholesome
joys of husbandry.
All bail Work! Man lost Paradise by the
temptations that beset indolence. He will regain
it by those wholesome qualities which are the
fruit of intelligent work! The curse, **thou
sbalt earn thy bread in the sweat of thy brow,"
wm not a curse on work, but on drudgery. It is
VILLAGE LIFE IN HEW ENGLAND. 25
time tliat the cnrse on the ground should be
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 out drudgery and
bring in leisure, and then men shall eat their
bread under cool shadows with unsweated brows !
26 KOBWOOD; OB,
i
CHAPTER IL
MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. (TO BE BEAD OB
SKIPPED.)
Long before the Amazon reaches the ocean, it
has grown so wide that from the channd 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 a period beginning
not far from fourteen in young lives, when child-
hood 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 27
coldest temperaments and in the slenderest
natures. Bat, in persons of vigour of body and
strength of feeling, there is frequently 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 tantalising fancies,
seems transformed from its previous self, and be-
comes a new nature.
The mere access of impetuous feeling is not
by any means the most striking change that
odcurs. There is frequently the appearance of
new {oree in the mind, the displacement of old
ones, and an entire change of proportion and
balance in the moral and intellectual faculties. A
mild and docile boy springs up before his as-
tonished pa];ent defiant and unteachable. 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 yield-
ing nature sometimes stiffen and show an un-
expected strength. Children who had early and
chiefly acted from motives of approbation begin
28 NORWOOD ; OB,
t4 fiil the sterner and more wholesome law of
prMo. Faults fall off at once, against which
iiuwo, mother, and teacher had laboured assi-
(luously and in yain.
Now moral forces are developed into activity.
Anpirations b^in to quicken the souL Ambitions
Krow nobler. A scorn of all authority which
cloos not conform to reason or to generous views
c)f duty is frequently seen, and just as frequently
niiMunderstood. The exultation of hope and the
de(3|H3Ht sadness of despondency alternate in the
samo bosom. There is also in some natures, in
Mirango 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
liko the dawning of spring in the forest All
things good and bad are quickened alike. The
dove oomes, and the hawk also; the singing
thruibi and the oawing crow; harmless insects,
And stinging ones ; innocent worms, and noxious
reptiles i The spice-bush and the nettle ; the
frttgreut blossoms, and ill-cented poisonous
weeds, all move together and break forth into
lifof But as every day the returning sun,
TILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 29
movijQig high/er, brings on the summer, the things
comely and useful gain ascendancy, 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 oyer-
grown with poisonous plants or waste weeds;
but these things are exceptional; and summer
brings^ in vast excess oyer incidental eyil, the
richest stores of inestimable benefit.
All natures come to their manhood through
some experience of fermentation! With some
it is a ferment of passions ; with some, of the
affections; and with richly endowed natures it
is the ferment of thought and of the moral
nature.
Wholesome labour is for this, as for a thousand
other critical experiences of life, an antidote or a
remedy. But what shall saye one from that
passage dl the thoughts, that struggle of the
moral nature, which lies between so many noble
youth and their full manhood? Nothing! It
may be adjourned, but sooner or later it comes.
tt may be masked, tempered, but a full and yital
nature is weaned from boyhood with as many
30 NORWOOD; OR,
tears and sorrows as first he was weaned from his
mother's breast.
Barton Cathcart escaped the constitutional
disturbance of the passions partly by his in-
herent nature, partly by the influences of home
and its education, and perhaps full as much by
the wholesome moral influence of physical labour.
But there slumbered elements in his soul which
would yet arouse, though the time was not
come.
From his father Barton inherited strong com-
mon sense, sobriety of judgment, and a rarer gift,
an instinctive sense of what is trtie, which may
co-exist with an argumentative faculty and with
logical power, but which is separable from both
of them, and is superior to both. From his mother
came imagination, and that subtle sympathy with
invisible things which produces interiomess 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 with-
out words.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 31
FoY a year he pursued his studies with a stub-
bom persistence. The elements of language, and
the grand forms of learning, furnished 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 experience a satisfaction
in the consciousness of power.
Although Barton had maintained that intimacy
with Dr. Wentworth's family in which he had
been reared, it was not until his second year at
the academy that his companionship with Bose
Wentworth began to include an interchange of
thoughts, and reasonings, and even discussions.
Accustomed to her father's society, and familiar
from her childhood with his discussions of ques-
tions in a spirit far deeper than usually prevails,
it is not surprising that Bose, 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 enjoyments
which spontaneously sprung up in her soul, she
was Barton's superior.
What impression Bose Wentworth produced
32 NORWOOD; OB,
upon others shall be left for them to say, at their
own time and in their own manner. But it is for
us to 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 &olic, and
which in Eose prevented any of that little-girl
saintship of manner which many are fond of de-
picting. She was buoyant, joyous, free-moving,
and artless. Every side of her mind was de-
veloped. Deep and rich in moral feelii^, strong
and fine in the affections, quick and fruitful in
intellect^ she had, under home influence, been
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 origina
endowments. But there are other elements more
subtle, but of profound value in the structure of
that most wonderful of all architectures the cha-
racter; built up of invisible materials, without
sound or force, permanent in its nature, yet in
form flexible, and prolific in change. Chief among
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 33
these is to be reckoned Bympathy 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 in-
fluence from the moral sentiments by whose side
they have lived scores of years. And the reverse,
also, is witnessed when the affections have neither
softened nor warmed the moral sentiments, or
seemed to have had any intercourse with them.
Many men's passions act without curb or influence
from the reason, and are limited and restrained
only by their own selfish interests.
This non-intercourse may be the result of edu-
cation or of the want of it. But there is an
original aptitude in this matter. Congruity and
inter-sympathy tend in some natures to entwine
harmony and unity in the mind'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 disin-
tegrated musicians in a mutinous orchestra, play
VOL. II. , D
34 NORWOOD; OR,
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 efforts. Their endowments are
ample, but they are frittered away uselessly. But
where the happy temperament unites in an ori-
ginal and spontaneous harmony all the parts of
one's nature, the augmentation of force is but
a small part of the good fortune. There is" a
breadth, a variety, a depth, a fertility of expe-
rience which yields to single lives more of joy
than is possessed by scores of ordinary men.
Education is popularly supposed to be the un-
folding of mental forces. Far more important in
education is the inspiration of facile intercourse
between all parts of the mind, the opening up of
free trade and active commerce between all its
faculties.
Eose was gifted to the last degree in her con-
stitutional endowments. Every part of her nature
was in sympathetic relations to every other part.
There were no repulsions or discrepancies between
her mental powers. They were in exquisite sym-
pathy ; they were in singular symmetry ; they
were in perfect harmony.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 35
Barton had a strong and large nature, but not
reconciled within itself. There were great con-
flicts yet to be endured; the more painful, because
unintelligible. They might have wrecked his
peace had it not been for help coming from out-
side of himself. But that help did not come till
late, and then was followed soon by other expe-
riences, by the exaltation, heat, and fusion of a
great struggle.
The transition from girlhood to womanhood is
marked by the development of sentiment rather
than by conflicts of passion. That balance and
harmony of nature with which Eose was endowed
had its fortunate parallel in her external condi-
tion. Every circumstance about her conspired to
give to her mind a natural development. A
mother's love, strong and rich, was seasoned with
a genial religious element which gave to it the
colour 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 under-
standing and of her spiritual nature. She was
D 2
36 nobwood; or,
bome upon his nature as a soft, white cloud
is borne up and wafted by the whole atmosphere.
The cloud fades out and reappears, is absorbed
and comes again, is white or crimson, or golden,
according to the pulses of colour which beat in
the air. Yet Kose, though by charming sympathy
thus easily melted into her father's moods, never
lost her own individuality, but had a spring and
force of selfness which held her to the centre of
her own proper and distinct nature.
Her father's influence had given a full develop-
ment to that all-sided sympathy both with society
and with nature, which never exists without form-
ing a rich and deep life. The result in Kose was,
that she derived enjoyment from every side with-
out effort, and almost without consciousness. She
sat happily while the shrewish wrens sung, and
listened to Agate, to Mother Taft, to Mrs. Polly
Marble. She 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 fa-
miliar life as is that bird's song unlike the sound
of familiar field-notes. She looked up to Dr.
Buell with affectionate awe. His moral philo-
sophy seemed no more discrepant with her father's,
^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 37
because it was diflTerent, than one species of flower
or tree seemed at variance with others, from
which they only difiered. But love is the acting
force of a woman's life, and love is the organis-
ing centre. In some this element is mild, easily
susceptible, and as strong at the very first as ever
afterward. In others in lies deep, inaccessible,
capable of transcendent power; but unreached
by ordinary influences, it goes sometimes all
through life undeveloped, reserved for a better
life.
Eose 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 was a power beneath, should it ever
develop, that would surprise even an ardent ex-
pectation.
38 nobwood; or,
CHAPTER III.
TWILIGHT DAWN.
\
The time had come for Barton Cathcart to enter
college. He had finished his preparatory studies
in a manner peculiarly like himself. His appli-
cation, without any external flurry or pretence,
had been intense. To a real intellectual appetite
he added a pride which intensified his endeavours.
A difficulty 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 against every obstacle. His form had
attained its full proportions. He was tall, athletic,
nimble as a deer, strong and enduring. Though
intense application took something of colour from
his cheek, the necessity of much outdopr exercise
had maintained his essential vigour. No one in
his class ranked him in any study. No one
in the village approached him on the ball ground,
-VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 39
or in races. His sedate kindness, his honourable
spirit, joined to his scholastic ability, made him
the pride of the young men, and the whole town
hoped, when young Cathcart entered Amherst
College, that he might " take the Valedictory."
It was Midsummer. He had been to Amherst
for examination and matriculation, and was now
at home, awaiting the opening term. The atmos-
phere on the day of whose evening we shall speak
had been very pure, the sky of a deep and even
solenm blue. A peculiar 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 the atmos-
phere a sadness and tenderness that seemed bom
of storms overcome. At least so Bachel felt, and
so Barton thought, as the sun went down below
a horizon without a line or hand's- width of cloud
^and the moon shone from the opposite quarter.
The day's work was done. That charm of tender
melancholy which comes so often with twilight
had stolen over mother and son, as they sat in
the door enjoying this silent communion the more
40 NORWOOD; OR,
because so near the last of such scenes. Eachel
remembered how he looked when as a babe he
first lay in her arms, as if it were but yesterday.
There he sat, a young man! She remembered
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 never
looked nobler to her than in this flush of rosy
twilight upon the growing moonlight. One whole
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 parlour, where no lamp was
burning, playing melancholy Scotch airs, and sing-
ing ballads in a low and soft voice. Out in the
wheat-field came a whip-poor-will, and sat upon
a flat rock 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 41
yet to drive away a singing bird was almost like
driving away joy from her own door. It was but
a jlitting thought. The bird flew, and in a field
more remote tuned again its softer, sadder note.
" In a few days, Barton, you will go. The place
will miss you. You have been a good son, and
faithful at work. The blessing pronounced upon
obedient children will surely rest upon you."
** Mother, I shall not be far away. It will not
seem like a journey or a voyage."
" Ah, my son, in separations, though great dis-
tances may be more, short ones are never less
painful. Absence is the main thing. Every child
that goes away leaves one channel less for the
heart to flow 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 near the door, holding each other's
hands. The evening scene, the song of the whip-
poor-will, the approaching separation, a vague
shudder, as there arose for a flitting moment an
i
42 NORWOOD; OB,
impression of the great out-rolling future of life,
an undefined and painful thought of Rose, and
now his mother's words, wrought in Barton such
an intensity of feeling, that, when Eachel laid
her hand upon his raven-black hair, he could no
longer contain himself, but leaning his head upon
his mother's lap, he wept as if the floods were
broken loose. Her tears fell with his. Some
words more 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 love utterly without passion,
without colour of selfishness, deep as life, and
stronger than death 1
The next day came Dr. Wentworth, Rose, 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.
K Barton was susceptible to the contagion of
love, this was a dangerous day! Rose was in
great spirits. Her love for Alice had never shown
itself before in ways so beautiful. She was in
sympathy with everyone, and with each upon his
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 43
own plane. Her words were not forced, but
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 leaving home in the full expectation of lite-
rary honours. Barton, too, felt only pleasure in
Rose's company. Could he have said that Eose
was to him only like a sister? Yes, he could
have said it sincerely. But is every sincere say-
ing 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 plain
to us ? In things of the heart our knowledge is
as a little child lying in a skiff upon the ocean,
seeing only the sides of the petty boat, but nothing
of the great underlying sea that heaves it 1
Eose believed herself to be only Barton's friend
and sister ^Bose was right when she thought so.
Barton thought himself only Bose's fnend and
brother. Why, then, were there moments of
sharp pain? ^flashes of love-pride that seemed
44 NOBWOOD; OR,
for a second to lay bare the secret pl8ices of bis
soul, as a long flash of lightning at night sharply
reveals the whole landscape in unnatural light ?
Kose and Barton stood alone, talking, under
the great elms that shaded Cathcart's yard.
"I am sorry that you leave us. Barton. Nor-
wood 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
are all proud of you. Barton."
Such tribute was peculiarly grateful to pride,
and much pride had Barton ; and yet he waited
as if Kose had not yet said what he wanted.
In a low tone, as if meditating and speaking
unconsciously, he said :
" You feel pride, and Alice feels love, for me."
"Alice does not love you any better than I
do," said Kose, laying her hand upon Barton's
arm in the most frank and familiar manner.
^ We both of us love you, and everybody is proud
of you, I wish I felt as sure of my own brothers
as I do of you. You will be good and noble, and
I think that is being great."
Her words did not confer pleasure ; something
was wanting.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 45
Just then came that same whip-poor-will and
lit upon the flat stone in the wheat-field, and
began his love-song, so loud and so near that,
besides the clear whistle, which alone is heard at
a distance, 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 oflf ! Barton's whole
soul thrilled. Was it a bird^ or a bird-enclosed
spirit, that came to him last night with his mother,
and that came again to-night with Eose ? Was
there some omen in this coupling with its wild,
melancholy song his mother and Eose, as of the
two most intimately concerned in his destiny?
The 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.
** Eose, that bird has a strange effect upon me.
It came last night and sang. It seemed un-
earthly. What does it seem to you ? "
" It affects me painfully, too. It seems to stir
the imagination toward the spirit world. It
46 nobwood; ob,
makes faTniliar things seem strange. Somehow I
feel bewildered, as if I were neither in the body
nor out. Barton, do you eyer feel bodi happy
and unhappy at the same time? Do you ever
feel as if you were alone in the world ? as if your
tilioughts took you into r^ons where no one
oouM go with you, and reyealed to you things
which you could not utter? I often feel sa
That bird has started me off to-night. I wish
that I were a penetrating spirit, free from the
body, and could go everywhere, and find out all
things, and moTC freely as the air does, and as
widely as the light ! I feel as if something were
always hovering near that I never catch. When
I look on flowers it seems to me I see everything
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-woods 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 47
of my own, I am sure I should feel differently.
I could find out things ; couldn't I, Barton ? I
am very happy, but I always seem to be waiting
for something."
Poor child ! There is an army of waiters in
this world. The tears were running down her
cheeks, and yet Bose 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 anything so beautiful. He never had.
The 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 thought and
feeling of his nature rose up to tell him that of all
of human kind Rose Wentworth was best beloved.
He c6uld never call her sister again. The in-
tensity of his feeling showed everything in a
48 nobwood; OB,
white light. In the exaltation of this sndden
transport he learned that the mind may carry
on many processes at once. He did not for a
moment deceive himself in supposing that Eose
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 plead-
ings of his own feelings. Bose stood before him
as something holy, to be won, not by surprise or
importunity, but by the free movements of her
own nature, or not at alL
*' Can I ever be that which will draw her to me
of her own choice ? Till then, for my own sake
and for her sake, I wQl not speak."
" 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 teU me ? "
"Oh, Eose! "
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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 49
**Eose, 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, Kose, with God ! Come, it is dangerous
for us to remain here, the air grows damp ^let us
go in."
Dimly and painfuUy Eose began to perceive
the change in Barton and its meaning. The
thought that arose in her mind was quick, clear,
brief, and then it sank down, down, down below
all other thoughts, below all common feelings,
down below her communings with her father, be-
low her very yearnings, down where the soul's
germs are formed, as far down as the bottom of
the sea, where pearls lie undisturbed by storms,
is from the top, ^there fell her secret thought,
and there it rested 1
VOL. IL
60 NORWOOD; OR,
CHAPTEE IV.
A CONFESSION.
It was plain to young Cathcart from that hour
that his life had found the point on which it would
turn. Had he never before suspected the secret ?
In all his years of familiar intercourse had he
never plainly raised the question of the precise
nature of his feelings toward Kose ? Had there
never been moods or happy moments of meeting
or of parting at which the secret bore witness of
the true state of things ?
Many men are timid of others, and shy of
revealing their secret thoughts to another. But
there is a form of sensibility springing from a
manly pride which work shyness of one's own
self. Men refuse to think on the results of
thinking. They dimly perceive what is coming
and veil it. Natures capable of suflfering from
subtle influences guide their thoughts with as
VILLAGE LIFE IN mSW ENGLAND. 51
mnch 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
briars.
But i^ young Cathcart's case there was another
fact, that his feelings had really not grown to a
ripeness for disclosure. Where love is a mere
passion, or where it is largely an imaginative
sentiment, it is susceptible of sudden develop-
ment 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
tnown, in its incipiency nor discriminated from
common good-will ^from confidence founded upon
respect, from genial sympathy, from mere like-
ness and unison of feeling. Love is seldom seen
in its full and perfect form. For that it requires
a greatness of nature that does not come often ;
and two natures, both large and various, yet un-
like, though not discordant, are still rarer. In
ordinary life the affection of love is a mere
melody the music of a single afiection. But in
its higher form, love is many melodies wrought
into a harmony. It is a point at which every
E 2
52 NORWOOD; OB,
power and faculty of one's nature comes to a
unity, and the whole being becomes symmetrical
and harmonious. An experience so simple in its
final form, but so complex in all the elements
which lead to it, is not the growth of an hour.
If in some natures it springs up in youth, it must
yet, like summer flowers, have gone through a
development from the seed or root to the blossom
and the fruit.
Barton Cathcart had not reached the fruit, nor
even the blossom. He had found out what was
the name of that fragrant vine which was twining
around his being. But of its unfolding, and of
all the clustered experiences that yet lay undis-
closed within it, he knew nothing.
When Eose was going, with her family, to
retm'n home. Barton seemed calm and self-
possessed outwardly, but within his feelings
flowed like fast-rushing waters in moonlight,
flashing the soft light from their unquiet sur-
faces with such abruptness that the moon would
hardly know its own light, so wild and disordered
did it seem ! K, in the going to and fro, he was
alone with Eose, he avoided her as if her presence
brought pain ; but, when they came again among
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 53
the families, Barton clung to her side and sported
and frolicked as if they were brother and sister
indeed. It was a double instinct. He would not
renew with Kose that perilous conversation ; and
he would not disclose, by any change of manner
to others, that there was in his heart any other
feeling toward Eose than that which had always
existed between the members of their warmly
attached families.
And so had begun, in pain and struggle, that
experience, whose real and final nature it is to
bring peace. And, in some natures. Love is bom
of Peace, nourished in tranquillity, and from the
first brings forth joy and peace. It knows no
struggle, but only gradual development. But
in other natures love has a controlling work to
perform before it may rule in peace. Like a
stream bom in the mountains, it hides itseK
among rocks, it is driven over them in foam and
ftiry, it is shut up in dark pools, and steals away
through ravines and cliffs, stiU gathering power
but finding no quietj until, far away from its
sources, it has fulfilled its course ; at length its
pure waters, flowing through flower -breeding
meadows, rest in deep lakes where all its agita-
54 nobwood; or,
tions are forgotten in deep tranqniUity. Not one
star that shone upon it all the way down the
mountain could it reflect again except in torn and
scattered beams of light. Now every star of
heaven is at home in its bosom I
When Rose was gone Barton felt a joy of reliefc
He was calm. This is the nature of intense excite-
ment, which brings 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 the window upon the yard and
the near fields, which lay white with moonlight,
and he marvelled at his own calmness. What
had become of his heart ? Where were his feel-
ings?
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 feeUngs, while in others
it grates sharply against the nerve. Was there
ever storm in such a hemisphere as this ? Were
ever these tranquil lieavens black with rolling
clouds ? Were these trees that loom up between
light and dtu*k, as if they were spirits, ever twisted
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 55
and strained by groaning winds? Was his own
soul that lay within him, as if asleep for very
peace, sharply torn, whirled with revolution,
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 awakened by its own sweet half-strain, sud-
denly 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 neighbourhood. 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 as 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 before 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 sup-
pressed by a sharp reaction of prida The slight
56 NORWOOD; OR,
conflict aroused him, and he rose to retire to
bed. Behold his mother stood by his side ! So
silently had she entered, and so absorbed had
been his thoughts, that he had not heard her
footstep. How long she had watched him he
knew not. There was at first a quick feeling
of discovery. It seemed as if his own thoughts
and fancies had been walking forth in visible
form, and that his mother must have seen them.
But Eachel was a prophet. She did not need
outward actions or the sound of words at least
to interpret her children's thoughts. She had
inward sight. To Barton's sudden interjection,
or interrogatory :
"Mother!" she made no other answer than
to draw him down to his seat. The moon gave
light enough to make looks and forms more em-
phatic than if the light had been clearer. Bachel
asked no question, nor made explanation, but
spoke as if announcing a result of long conver-
sation in the 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.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 57
" I am not going to leave you. But you are
leaving me."
" But^ mother, how can I go to college and not
leave you ? I thought you were glad "
"It is not separation that I fear, but separa-
tion 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 me! " There was something solemn
and inexpressibly tender in his mother's tone and
manner. It seemed as if all motherhood lay at
the door of his heart, begging to come- in !
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 mother may come! And the soul
is yet its own, though mother and God have
looked upon its secrets I
58 NORWOOD; OB,
Barton would have spoken, but his mother
stopped him by 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 be a great fear, or or other
feeling, when you need to speak, whether it be of
good or evil, of victory or trouble, that you will
surely come to the place where you were bom ;
where your head lay in infancy, where you have
lived and loved freely until now I 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 will come back to me."
Inexpressibly affected by a manner not usual
to his mother, a certain loftiness of authority, and
an exquisite tenderness, Barton, like a brook pent
up and at length breaking through, 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 an-
other.
" And as I stood by her, mother, a light seemed
to shine out from her, and something not of my-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 59
seK 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 darkness rose inside of me a
horror of fear that I was seeking to sacrifice Kose
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 ; but you have
your father's judgment, and will control it. But
now things were like to have been bom out of
due time. You had almost followed the inspira-
tion of your own heart, and not the openings 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 burning 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
60 xobwood; ob,
seafions ? Beware of seeking more than yon earn.
With what will you buy her heart? Boee is
many in ona Of all that I ever knew of woman-
kind she is alone. She comes slowly to woman-
hood 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?
W^ill you not, by study and true piety, bring to
her by-and-by, a nature that shall command, not
supplicate ?"
The candle had burned low. It flamed up and
threw an unwonted 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.
His mother saw the morning star arise. She
had come forth before it.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 61
CHAPTEE V.
THE FAEEWELLS.
The earlier stages of cerebral excitement quicken
the external semes. Objects become more clear,
somid more significant, and, according to the
nature of our own feelings, the exterior world is
sad or gay. But a higher degree of excitement
works toward reason and sentiment, and the mind
is absorbed in its own creations. Nature grows
dim, and passing events seem like the silent pas-
sage of dreams.
For all the next day Barton saw sunlight as if it
were moonlight. 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 put-
ting 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 separa-
tion. It was not a score of miles to Amherst, but
62 NORWOOD; OR,
it seemed to Barton like putting the Atlantic
Ocean between himself and the farm on which he
had been reared. The air seemed full of sad fare-
wells. The well whose windlass was so familiar
to his hand, the tools with which he had laboured,
the cattle and their stalls, the old threshing-floor
from which his flail had sent mellow sounds
through all the neighbourhood, particular 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
Bose had stood, was, and for ever after would
be, like a consecrated temple. Its choir was all
day long singing in its tops, and at half hours
Barton found himself under it dreaming and won-
dering, looking like one who had lost something
or found something, he could not exactly tell
which.
The old farmer neighbours, who respected 'Biah
Cathcart, passing on their errands to and from
town, stopped to make inquiries or to express
their interest in the young man.
Old Cyrus Mills was driving past, on his way to
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. bd
town, and seeing Barton in the front door, pnlled
up. His horse was always in favour of stopping.
" Mornin' I So you're goin^ to college ?"
"Yes, sir."
*When?"
"In a day or two."
"Take stage?"
" No, sir father's waggon."
The old man was about siKty years old, with
small bones and no flesh 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 ? 'Spose you mean to preach, don't you ? Most
of 'em do over to Amherst My boy's talkin'
'bout eddication too. Shouldn't wonder if Nicholas
fetched it one of these days."
" Nicholas is a smart fellow," said Barton. " He
ought to make a good scholar."
"Middlin'. But not so good, I expect, as his
brother would La' 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 ha' strained himself and got
64 NORWOOD; OB,
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 mouth, like one ringing a door-belL
Evidently the bell was far down in 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 called for, and began
to amble along the dusty road.
Barton sat, after dinner, a half-hour by the tree,
a clump of lilacs hiding him from passers-by. A
waggon with two men, going toward town, came
to a walk in front of the house, and Barton had
the benefit of the men's opinion.
"Old 'Biah Cathcart's got a snug place owe
anything?"
" Net's I knows. 'Taint like him. Likely got
money out 'tinterest. '11 need it afore his boy
gets through college."
"Oh, Barton? Yes; I've heerd. Is he one
of 'em?"
"Can't tell what a boy is when he's tied to
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 65
his mother's apron-strings. Barton 's good fellow
enough, but a proud cuss. It takes these proper
fellows to raise the devil when they get their
liberty. Hell cut a figure among the gals ! "
" They say 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 over the 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 evening air of all the summer insects
that fly in it.
Toward evening, on his way home from town,
Elishe Townsend ^familiarly called ' Uncle 'Lish"
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
behind ^wouldn't answer when she whinnied
would follow horses that it didn't belong to
wouldn't keep the right road, but raced into by-
ways and lanes would canter off like mad at
VOL. IL F
66 NORWOOD ; OB,
very little whiffet of a dog that chose to run out
after it. The poor mare seemed anxious and ner-
vous, 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 anything out of
such a colt as this! It is a dreadful world for
colts. Nobody can tell how a mare feels ! "
Uncle 'Lish himself was simple, sensible, good,
and merry. But, as everything has its contrasts,
so he carried on the seat by his side a little terrier-
dog, that didn't laugh, was not merry nor fat, but
whose muzzle bristled with a pepper-and-salt co-
loured beard, sticking straight out every way.
Shining, down among the hairs, 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 waggon-bottom
only for the sake of jumping up again uf)on the
seat. He would start up and put his paws on
the back of the seat, to see if anybody was behind.
Perhaps they were before ! he whirled round to
see. ' If Uncle 'Lish jerked the reins, he would
bark. If the old man saluted any one, every hair
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 67
on his fece seemed to open up to let out the ex-
ceedingly sharp bark that he felt it his duty to
issue. And when his master stopped to talk for a
moment, he always laid one hand on "Dove"
that was his name! as if he were a pistol, and
liable to do damage unless he kept hold of the
lock!
** And so you're goin' to college, Barton?" at
which Uncle 'Lish shook his sides with laughing.
"Don't, Dove! ^there's a good dog. Well, I
allers thought so; told your mother them black
eyes wouldn't allers hunt squirrels and wood-
chucks." At which quaint conceit he shook again,
not boisterously, but as a large jar of jelly shakes,
when turned out. Dove gave a dive into the
waggon, ran between his master's legs, and, look-
ing out fiercely, he sought to balance his master's
levity by the fierceness of his hair, and eyes, and
ears, all of which in their several ways were work-
ing with emphasis.
" Wal, folks '11 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
F 2
68 NORWOOD; OB,
over him, whfle he looked foil at Barton, as if to
see whether he really did take in the whole thing
that he was saying.
"You mean, Kobert, I suppose," said Barton,
relaxing a little to the mood of the owner of the
mare and the dog.
"Yes, you've guessed it Prhaps somebody
told you? No great secret though. Been to
school for a year steady. Payin' bills all time,
and he aimin' nothing.' Be still Dove, 'taint
nothin', do be still! Baise a boy expense all
the way ^lam 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? ^biUs
again ^all winter all summer ^boy's off ^that's
the last of him ! " Which tragical issue of rais-
ing children seemed to Elisha Townsend a perfect
comedy.
" Wal, somebody must go to college, you, know.
May as well be our folks as anybody else's. Who
knows?" And the jelly vibrated again with tre-
mulous mirth. " Mebbe he'll preach, if he gits
convarted. Then his mother and I, mebbe, '11
ride over to his parish ^see him in the pulpit
VILLAGE LIFE JN NEW ENGLAND. 69
folks a lookin' up at him and he goin' it just
like BuelL Won't it pay? Guess 'twill. Any-
how '11 let him try it."
The nearest approach to a line drawn between
the common people and an aristocratic class in
New England is that which education furnishes.
And there is almost a superstitious reverence for
a ^^coUege ed/ULcationJ* If a man has been to
coUege, 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 like a title in a decayed family.
It saves the pride and ministers pleasure to the
vanity, long after it has in every other respect
become utterly useless.
We suspect that an examination would show
that a majority of the graduates of New England
colleges were farmers' and mechanics' song. Some-
times it is the youngest son. But, not unfre-
quently, it is the first-bom; and, in such cases,
the reflex influence upon the family itself is
striking. A family that has a son in college
stands higher in the neighbourhood from that
hour. Every child in the family feels the in-
fluence. The girls must have more schooling;
70 iroswooD; ob,
the other bo\^ catch the'anibitian. We recall an
iDBtanoe, where out of seren sons but one escaped
the college course, and he aft^ pieparing for
ccdlege was stopped by sickDess.
Barton, aside from his own striking diaracter,
found himself looked upon with respect on all
flideSy as a yomig man of promise the heir of
college honours. ETeiybody looked at him in
chnrch. Dr. Baell shook hands with him after
service, and asked when he would leave, and
hoped to hear the best things of hinu His fother^s
old friends manifested their interest in him in
their several ways. The boys who had played
ball with him on the green, or who had hmited
and fished with him, were a little proud that
their Barton was going to college.
Tommy Taft, who was every year more crumpled
up with rheumatism except the wooden leg, in
which he declared he never remembered to have
had a single twinge of the rheumatics ^was par-
ticularly 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.
Youll be a spanker yet. If they've got any
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 71
scholars over there that can run faster than you,
I should like to see *em, that's all. Lord, what a
baU player ! Excuse the swearin*, Barton. You
ain't a church member, you know, I never swear
afore members, unless I'm mad, or or so so. I
don't believe there's a man over there that can
throw and ketch like you; and as for battin', I
never see a ball rise so like a bird and sail off
through the air as youm do. Of course you'll
take the honours. Tou pitch quoits to a p'int
and you can wrestle, side-holt, back-hug arm's
length, any way, I don't care which ; and as for a
long 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 sledgehammer at arm's
length, or throw it haK as far, for that matter, as
you can."
B8ix)n could not but smile at Tommy's notions
of a student's qualifications. But if old Taft was
ignorant of books and college, he was shrewd
enough about human nature. He had the art of
touching the very marrow of people's thoughts.
72 NORWOOD; OB,
He would roll up conyersation, apparently as a
blind^ and rattle away, half in humour and half
in sheer impudence, with the minister, or the
lawyer, or the schoolmtister, with any church
member of some pretension; but before he had
done he would contrive to get in a word that went
to the quick and lanced some secret tendency, or
exposed some weakness which good manners usu-
ally 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 "I 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 kn^w," 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. So 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 thing, when a man's made
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 73
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 for all your purposes
to preach, I ain't no objection."
And with the last sentence he gave Barton
another sharp look that, in spite of himself,
brought a little colour 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 human nature if you do not hold an
honourable career. Tou are more likely to break
dowft in health. Tou are too fierce in pursuit,
desperate in tenacity, and you have about know-
ledge the same avariciousness which one sees in
men in matters of money an insatiable greed of
more, to which money is only like fuel to fire.
Remember that much of knowledge is growth,
not accumulation. The life that one is living in
74 NORWOOD; OB,
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 on the best steel is beholden to the
services of homely horn for ability to be usefoL
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 warehouse, and
education a process of stuflSng it full of goods.
Don't think your mind to be a pickaxe 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 know-
ledge. Do not study for ideas alone, but train for
condition. Get and keep a healthy brain. Keep
it fine. Train it to sharp and accurate impres-
sions. Give it lunge and vigour. Make it like
a mirror, before nature, or a daguerrean plate.
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.
TILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 75
Quantity and quality of nerve mark the distinctions
between animals and between men &om 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's hand
in both of his, and giving him a cordial adieu,
which Barton felt with grateful warmth at his
heart for weeks after.
Rose was never more friendly, never more open
and sister-like, than when Barton came to say
farewelL It was a matter of much anxiety with
him. He was not altogether sure whether he had
kept his secret from Bose at her visit to his
father^s house. He thought, he hoped that he
had. Bose was so honest and frank that if she
had read his heart she surely would in some way
have manifested it. If she should be sensitive
and uneasy, then he should infer that she had
learned the secret of his heart If she should be
restrained and formal, that would indicate an
effort to hide her knowledge. If she were exces-
sively gay, and whirled along in conversation with
unnsual profusion, he should augur iU of that sign.
i
76 soewood; ob.
But Rose gare him no occasiMi for anxiety.
She saw him at the front gate, and ran ont to
meet him, as she had always dene, throwing back
from her face the clustering golden brown corlp,
and looking into his fi^ce at once with fi:ankne8s
and sympathy. Nor did she leare him to begin
the conyersation.
**Come, Sir CoU^ian, yon hare sared your
reputation. Fve been thinking abont yon all day.
The first thing when I waked this morning I said
to myself, ^I wonder if that ridicnloos Barton will
think that onr yisit the other night was good-bye
enough ? If he does not come and spend a whole
evening here he shall not be forgiven.' "
"And pray, my blooming Bose, what was the
penalty that my coUege sense has so happily en-
abled me to escape ?"
*' Oh, Sir Brook ! I had conjm^d every influence
in nature. I had commanded the birds not to
sing to you, the fish not to mind your hook, and
all the flowers to flout you. When you would
puU 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
VILLAGB LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 77
bring Alice with you ? She is your very blossom,
Barton ! Aaron's rod without a blossom was but
a stick. But with its blossom it was a rod of
power and beauty both."
*^Keally, 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 ! I am sure a blossom without a stem is
as badly off as a stick without a blossom ! You
would think that I was a prince if you saw how
daintily I am treated at home ! , Only father
keeps to his old way. He goes on just as regular
as ever; treats me as if I were twelve years old;
gives me sound sentences and good judgments;
holds me up sharply to everything I say, and asks
my reasons. A good professor was lost when our
ferm got a good farmer, I'm thinking."
Kose was already an accomplished musician,
and it had always been Barton's delight to listen
to her rendering of music, especially Beethoven's.
There is in this incomparable master, the Shake-
speare of music, those elements which are sure
to win all who have a genuine love of nature.
f
78 NORWOOD; OB,
As there is hardly a scene in human life for
which yon shall not find some fit pass^e in
Shakespeare, so there is scarcely a scene or sound
in nature for which you may not select a strain in
Beethoven which suggests or interprets it.
Eose played Barton's favourite 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
music destroyed but that, the germs of all might
be found in that, and the kingdom of sound be
re-created.
Then they recalled the many scenes of their
cliildhood ; 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
to travel with Eose and her mother in Europe,
though this might prove a mere day-dream;
and, by the time that Barton should have com-
pleted his college course, Eose would return, a
woman full of accomplishments, and wise with
a world of foreign sights.
When Barton had said good-bye and turned
his steps homeward, he was sure of two things.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 79
the one, that Bose was rmconscious of his heart's
secret ; and the other, that Bose was the star of
his life. And, alas ! he bitterly felt that she was
lifted up so far abore 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 foUow Bose through the
coming years in expectation of winning her 1
** What then ? " said Barton to himself. " It is
Bose or no 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
duty, whatever comes. I will be a man, and ac-
complish something so help me God ! "
After B6u1x)n had left, Bose repaired to her
room. She sat in her window looking upon the
checkered ground, where the leaves and the
moonUght played at lights and shadows with
the daintiest dalliance. Bose was not a sentimental
girl, in the ordinary meaning of that phrase. She
was not accustomed to weave fancy scenes around
her ownseK and form a centre to imaginary pic-
tures. Her life was so full and active, her whole
80 KOBWOOD; OB,
nature was so rounded and healthy, that she found
satisfaction in the actiTe use of her faculties day
by day.
While ideality gare to every one of her Acuities
the quality of aspiration, this tendency was never
followed by discontent Her ideal life was not an
escape fiom an uncomfortable reality. Her real
life was full and joyous, and ideality was employed
only to deepen and refine it.
Young, ardent, enthusiastic, sensitive, and sym-
pathetic, it may seem impossible that she should
distinctly know that Barton had passed beyond
the period of simple friendship without experi-
encing a profound impression fix)m it.
Yet so it was. She felt for Barton an undis-
guised affection. She never remembered the time
when she did not She believed that he was
firmly attached to her.
It would be difficult to analyse the impression
made by the revelation of the night of the Elm
Tree. A gentle wonder possessed 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 its romantic unfoldings. Every day she
revelled in the joys and duties of that day. Her
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. ' 81
heart slumbered slumbered without dreams.
Nothing had yet overshadowed her spirit and
spoken from above, in tones which rouse the
sleeping soul like a resurrection trumpet Her
time had not come. And so, though she loved
Barton, it was not with that commanding love
which fuses all the feelings, harmonises all the
faculties, and brings the whole soul under the
dominion of one supreme emotion !
vol . IF. u
S2 soswood; or.
CHAPTER VI.
FBAXK BSEL.
Like the sea^ which never seems fuller by any
amount of rain, nor emptier by any continuance
of drought) so a city seems always full, even in
summer, and only fuU in winter. The people
whom you know may be gone, and the city may
seem socially empty and Toid, but never numeri-
cally. The crowd is always there, surging along
the streets, coming and going with endless in-
dustriea And yet, if one follows the great line
of summer travel, he will think that the great
dtiea must have emptied their contents into cars,
steamboats, seaside hotels, mountain houses, in-
Imid mammotb caravansaries at &shionable springs,
and even into the very wilderness.
In general this migrating column is guided by
one of two instincts. The one part is seeking a
orowdj and the other part is seeking to get rid of
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 83
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 farmhouses, 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 weekdays
where, if a waggon 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 patri-
archal arms about solitary farmhouses who ex-
change the street for mountain streams, make
bargains with the brooks, and cast their cheats
for trout rather than for men !
Yea I let me abide with the artist in fine
scenery, or stroll with some learned professor,
who shall put uncouth names on familiar flowers,
G 2
84 so&wooD ; OB;,
and kt me know what bog it was that bit me,
and wiiat bird sung to me I Bat, aboxe all, let
me bare the best of all company for a thoughtfol
man, good beahk wfthia and solitude wfthoat!
Yet sc^itnde is apt to become exeeedinglj solitary
and lonesome, therefore it should not long be
frontinued- Let rare and ripe firiends dwell within
reach ; tor it is solitude that gires zest to society,
and goodly company it is that prepares yon for
the joys of solitnde. Aloneness is to social life
what rests are in mnsic. Sounds following silence
are always sweetest.
The other day I got me to a solitary comer,
where pine-trees, maples, and spruces had leagued
against the sun and quite expelled him. There,
upon a root swelling out above the ground, I sat
me down, and leaning against the trunk I deter-
mined 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 doAvn the feathers
on its black head and won its confidence. Then
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 85
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
anthems to be deemed their common conversa-
tion. 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 hi^ feathers. He
ran his bill down through his ash-speckled breast,
he probed the wings, and combed out the long
coverts. He ruffled up his whole plumage and
shook it robustly. Then, his solitary toilet com-
pleted, he flew into a tree nearer the road, where
he could look out but not be seen, and began 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 so sweetly as they who, like the wood-thrush,
sit on the twilight edge of solitude and sing to the
men who pass by in the sun-light outside.
86 NORWOOD; OR,
It was this union of seclusion and publicity that
made Norwood a place of favourite resort, through
the summer, of artists, of languid scholars, and of
persons of quiet tastes. There was company for
all that shunned solitude, and solitude for all that
were weary of company. Each house was secluded
from its neighbour. Yards and gardens full of
trees and shrubbery, the streets lined with vener-
able trees, gave the town, at a little distance^ the
appearance 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 the gentle
conflict between sounds and silence with such
dreamy joy? or make idleness seem so nearly
like meditation ? or more nimUy chase the
dreams of night with even brighter day-dreams,
wondering every day what has become of the day
before, and each week when the week had gone ;
and in autumn what had become of the summer,
that trod so noiselessly that none knew how swift
were its footsteps I 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 usu-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 87
ally arrange to miss both. June is the month of
gorgeous greens October the month of all colours.
June has the full beauty of youth October has
the splendour of ripeness. Both of them are out-
of-door months. If the year has anything to tell
you, listen now I If these months teach the heart
nothing, one may well shut up the bool^ of the
year.
Three years had Barton Cathcart 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. Eose 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 farmhouses, in boarding-houses, in hotels.
Some came for a few days, lounged, fished, and
departed. Some came for the season. Children
were as plenty as flowers. Picnics were in vogue.
Bides and excursions occupied much time. The
88 NORWOOD; OR,
sober Yankee people looked with a doubtiBg eye
upon the waste of so much precious time. But
as the money spent went into their hands, they
every year grew more inclined to accept the swarm
of idlers as a ProYidential gift.
This year came 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 ofif the foam
you will find some drink." This figure must not
prejudice Frank Esel's temperance reputation.
He was not a ban vivant ; and his only intoxica-
tion was that of his own excessiye good spirits.
Of a florid complexion, befitting a sanguine
temperament, with brown hair which curled all
over his head, blue eyes which were a perpetual
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 favourite, received with marked par-
VILLAGE MFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 89
tiality, and encouraged by generous favour, was
not spoiled nor corrupted into puppy conceit
He retained his honest 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 passably 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 harbour, 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 principle, 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 staunch teacher.
Men anchor each other. Frank's anchor was his
mother. She was his ideal of all excellence ^the
90 NORWOOD; OR,
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 into
bayous; these were but delays of that stream
which set steadily forward to his mother. She
was not only his most intimate companion, but
he seemed to gather up in his heart all those
affections which are usually distributed under
the several heads of son, lover, husband. His
fether 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 bird
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. Once a friend, coming on invitation to
tea and to spend the evening, was surprised at
seeing Frank dash through the door with his
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 91
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,
saying ^''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
love. It was fortunate that her property abund-
antly 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 thickly 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 expensive.
He never threw away money. It only disappeared !
It oozed out like wine through a wormy stave,
drop by drop. It melted in his palm like a
snow crystal, which dissolves while you look at
92 NORWOOD; OR,
it. It rose and departed as the drops of dew in
the morning do from grass and leaf. It evaporated
as delicate perfumes do, and left no trace behind.
" What has become of my money ? I am sure
my pockets have been picked! I have not put
my hands into my pocket to-day, mother. Some-
body must have done it for me! "
" Eeally, Frank," would answer his mother, in
the most genial and humorous manner, " I think
you blame yourself needlessly. I must have for-
gotten to give you any this morning. I am
getting old. I see it by the failure of my memory
in such matters."
*' Mother, how wicked you are I You know
that I had twenty-five dollars only yesterday, and
that I have had no expenses, and that 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 was an encounter like two butter*
flies, that go gracefully whirling round each other
in the air. On the whole, Frank's mother seemed
so proud of her gay and beautiful boy, that one
would be inclined to think that, on the whole, she
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 93
was glad that he could not keep his funds. When
before did the son have all the conscience and
heap on himself a wealth of blame and chiding ?
and the parent defend him and palliate the faults,
and justify every infirmity ?
How many young heirs will pray for such a
mother as soon as they have read this ? But then
they must be such sons !
It was not money alone that Frank found it
difiScult to trace. He could as little tell what had
become of his time and various labours. Return-
ing home &om his studies he would exclaim :
"Eeally, it does not seem as if I had accom-
plished a thing this whole week ! "
And it is but just to him to say that he was
usually right in his judgment.
And yet everybody liked Frank. Everybody
respected him. He was true and sound at heart.
He had excellent judgment and fine taste. But
that invisible nerve of continuity and combina-
nation was lacking. Bring a case to him and his
counsel would be excellent; but to conduct a
series of cases from day to day, especially his
own, he could not. He studied life much as
butterflies study botany a little here, a little
94 NORWOOD; OR,
there, daintily, beautifully, superficially. But his
pure, firesh, enthusiastic love for his mother was
the one exception. That never varied nor changed.
That was the one constant force of his life, and
held him grandly in the orbit of virtuous man-
hood.
Well, artists must go into the country in sum-
mer, and Frank was an artist He painted, and
therefore must sketch. His mother could not
be persuaded to leave home. She was a flower
that would not bear transplanting, and must be
left to grow where it sprouted. But him she
resolutely sent away. His letters should cheer his
absence.
" I shall comfort myself in thinking, Frank, how
much you are seeing and learning. It will not do
for a young fellow 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 95
absurd to come all the way to the Connecticut
nver 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 impossible of representa-
tion by the pencil. However, I am not confining
myself to landscape. I am studying figures. I
have several studies of cattle which good judges
admire. I have also a capital barn-yard scene
hens, ducks, &c. I have found some most comical
people, and have taken lively sketches of them,
which I know you will like,
" Last week I did my drawing with a pole. I
drew fish out of the brook. This I learned from
some New York artists. I begin to understand
metropolitan art. A brandy-flask, a fishing rod,
and a fiist 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 feUow here whom
I found sitting before a most charming view,
busily at work painting a board fence, with a pig-
96 NORWOOD; OR,
weed growing Dy it, and talking about conscience,
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 sub-
jects. He said 'that there could be no true
success without humility. An artist must paint
what he sees.. Nothing in nature is to be despised.
He should begin at the bottom and work his
way up. It is man's arrogance and egotism that
lead him to disdain these lower forms of existence.
A conscientious artist, if humble, would not
select only the garish things of nature, but stoop
to her lowliest creatures.'
" I replied ' Art is not like science, to investir
gate and register all natural objects and pheno-
mena. 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 succeeded
to advance to a potato field. I wish I had his
patience and self-denial, however. He is very
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 97
poor, but refuses to paint anything that will sell,
for fear he will sacrifice his art By-and-by
hunger will drive him to some other work."
* *
' "My dearest mother, I am a hero! All the
town says so. It is fearful how I am admired
and praised! My head is turned with compli-
ments, and my heart is gone entirely ! Let me
tell you. Day before yesterday I was sauntering
along the street, when I heard an outcry. Look-
ing down the road I saw a horse dashing wildly
toward me, and a young woman, who had en-
tirely lost control of him, sitting in the buggy.
She looked like marble for paleness and for
perfect stillness. Every one seemed horror-struck.
The horse was coming toward me at a fearful
rate. To head him off 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 his
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 hardly can tell
how I succeeded in doing it. I only know that
VOL. II. H
98 NORWOOD; OR,
every step I took I was more and more deter-
mined 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
eflfort I flung my left arm about his neck, and
with my right arm I blinded his eyes, hanging with
my whole weight upon his head. The horse
seemed staggered and bewildered. Some one
dashed past me and cried, 'Hold on to him a
minute!' I could not see what he did, but
learned afterward that a man named Hiram
Beers had snatched the woman out of the wag-
gon. The horse began to plunge. I heard voices
crying out, *Let him go ^let him go!' 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 wonder-
ful 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 beau-
tiful 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 99
said with infinite sweetness and wonderful so-
lemnity * I thank you, sir, for my life and my
father ' and in uttering that name her heart
seemed to give way, and she wept like a child.
"Everybody cried, *Kose, step right in here,
and rest you a minute,' cried one. *Eose, 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
arm's, and leaning on him, with some little help
from' me, she reached home. She 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 eame 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 wo-
man, 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
H 2
100 NORWOOD; OB,
has told me of your noble courage. I 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. Buell, as I learned his
name to be, in the most tender and earnest
manner, laid his hands upon my head, and said,
with tears in his eyes, * The blessings of this whole
town, young man, are yours ! and may the
blessing of the Lord for ever abide upon you.'
If anybody 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 them stepped out to thank me, and shake
hands. A white-faced man, scholarly-looking,
rather precise and genteel Judge Bacon, they
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 remark-
able. 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 you, young man.
VILLAGE LIFE IN KBW ENGLAND. 101
Fve 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, ^hen you struck him sideways
and then quirled your arm over his neck, I saw
that you knew what you's about. I never saw
anything cuter. You've done enough for one
day, I guess, and you'd 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.
I am never happy but I wish for you. And now, I
am sure, you would be very happy. I shall
write you every day."
102 nobwood; oe,
CHAPTEE VII.
" Norwood, October 10, 1857.
"A DISCOVERY, my darling mother! ^a dis-
covery! We are related! I don't mean that
you and I are. You already have a suspicion of
that. But Miss Eose and her mother are our rela-
tions ! But let me tell it in the order of history.
"The next morning after the runaway, in
which Miss Bose 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, surrounded 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 103
proper things to say, Miss Eose herself appeared
at the door, and advanced to meet me with a cor-
diality as warm as if she had known me as long
as you have, and with a fervour 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 Eose was spared
any awkwardness of inquiring who I was. You
used to tell me, mother mine, that boys could not
understand how mothers felt. Now, oh 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-posses-
sion, with a countenance beaming with sympathy,
looked me fall 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 con-
fused. 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
large^ in a picture. I don't know. She seemed
106 NORWOOD; OR,
and Mrs. Wentworth invited me with the manner
of command to make myself at home with them.
And never was the virtue of obedience more
comely in my eyes. Blessings for ever on the tin-
peddler, on runaway horses, and on the heroines
that preside over such occasions ! "
* * * *
" October 20th.
" I am going to school ! I have found a real
academy of art ! Dr. Wentworth knows every-
thing. He is like the coast of Maine where I
sketched last summer, it makes no diflference
where you come down to the shore, it is deep
water at once. You 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 Eose for my
abilities, I thought I could surely venture in my
own department !
** I don't know how she did it, but, in an hour, I
felt as though I was a born fool. Miss Eose has
the kindest heart and the mo^ truthful tongue
that I ever met ! She is tender of everybody's
feelings; yet no one can be long with her and
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 107
not see everything in dearer light, in higher rela-
tions, with a more minute accuracy; and this
advancement in one's own perception works in
him the sense of his own inferiority. When I am
alone, nature seems to me a vast congeries of
wonderful things. But when I am with Miss Kose,
nature rises before me in new aspects, ^it has a
unity, a meaning, a fruitfdlness of sentiment that
I never dreamed o 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 neighbours.
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 domestic life,
and I find myself insensibly under her influence,
regarding these groups of plants as having a sort of
semi-human life. Miss Uose speaks of the dis*
positions of the various plants and of their pri-
vate habits very much in the same way that one
would of their neighbours. I believe that she is
as Etmiliar with birds, insects, and animals, as she
is with the vegetable kingdom.
108 NORWOOD; OR.
" She made a remark yesterday that struck me.
" * What it was worth while for God to create,
and what He thinks of importance enough to con-
tinue from generation to generation, ought to seem
to intelligent persons of sufficient importance 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 God unread, unlocked at ?'
" I have ridden on horseback twice with Miss
Eose and a party of several others ; have been at
two pic-nics, one fishing excursion, and at one sail-
ing 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. No one can be dull where she
is. She has much humour 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
fiashes of light that run along the surface of deep
water; and yet she seems to enjoy in others the
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 109
ntmost gaiety and even that frivolity which high
spirits are apt to produce. By the way, Miss Kose
rode the very horse whose running away brought
me to so much happiness. Good courage that!"
" October 2l8t.
"Your 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 in my whirling enthusiasm for Miss Went-
worth. When will you learn that your boy is an
enthusiast foams first and settles afterwards?
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, oh loving inquisitor ! Kose 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 bosom. I have not taken leave of my
senses. I admire her more than any human being
that ever threw^light on my path but love is
another thing."
."By the way, I had a comical time, a few
110 NORWOOD; OB,
nights ago. An odd creature, Tommy Taft by
name, was standing at the Doctor's yard-gate as I
came out. He has a striking face, and very sin-
gular manner ; both jolly and rude, and yet not
altogether unpleasing.
" * Good evening, sir. Is Miss Eose at home V
*' * She is,' I replied.
"*Do you know whether she's going to Boston
soon?'
' ' I do not I am not apprised of Miss Eose's
fiiture intentions.'
"*P'rhaps the young cap'n's a relation of the
family ? '
"I was a little vexed with liis manner even
more than his direct questions, which fact he saw
before I could speak.
** * Mussy on us, how quick young folks take fire
nowadays ! 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'rhaps you don't want
questions asked ? Well, shouldn't wonder ! '
"*Who are you,' said 1, peevishly, *that you
stop me here ? ' My sentence was cut short by
the arrival of Dr. Wentworth, who fSamiliarly
addressed this queer jumble of wood and flesh.
"^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. Ill
* Why, Tommy, you're better of your rheumatism !
Glad to see you getting about but you must take
care of this night air. Come in. Kose has some-
thing for Mother Taft. She was going over pre-
sently with it.'
*' * That's jest the reason I shan't go in. Doctor !
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 Cathcart lately. Doctor ? How's
he gettin' along ? They tell me he beats the Imll
class, and is the fust man there. Only one year
more, and then he'll be home; and, to tell the
truth, Doctor, I'd give more to see him in Norwood
once more than all the scrumptious city folks in
the land!'
** The Doctor laughed, bid Tommy go home, and
passed in. *Who is this Cathcart, I wonder?' I
said to myself. The next afternoon Miss Eose
was sitting in the morning-glory nook, as it is
called, or rather she was sitting before it, and
working upon a picture of it. She has in her
portfolio the sketches of all the favourite points
about home, Honey-suckle bower; The Green-
112 NORWOOD; OB,
house in Winter ; The Elm-tree ; The Evergreen
Twilight; and a dozen others. For though the
Doctor's grounds and garden seem, in a general
view, much like any other gentleman's highly-
kept grounds, yet I have learned from Miss Eose
that each part has something distinctive 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 Eose promises that
her father shall unfold to me.
"I am sure I never saw such a collection of
Ipomeas and Convolvuluses before, and though
this evening they were shut up, all except the
Buona 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 morn-
ing the blossoms and at evening the foliage,' said
she. *0f all flowers, this is, perhaps, the most
remarkable in sentiment of all that gi'ow in our
climate, at any rate.'
" ' What sentiment do you suppose a flower
to have, Miss Eose ? ' said I, more to hear
what she would say than to criticise her remark.
"'The sentiment which it naturally inspires
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 113
in him that looks on it. What do you think of
when you look upon a trellis of morning-glories in
full blossom?'
" * Why I should think they were glorious I '
***Is that all ? and you an artist.*
"*Why should an artist see any more than
anybody else that has good eyes?'
" * Then why is he an artist at all ? No man
has any call to an artist life unless Ood has
enabled him to see in nature what it is not given
common eyes to see.'
"*But a man cannot see what is not to be
seen.'
"'That's a blind man's reason for not being a
guide to othera'
" * But what do ym see, Miss Eose, 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 beautiful handwriting, without understanding
a word of the language, and then call himself a
poet!'
" I felt the colour come in my face. A man
VOL. IL I
114 NOBWOOD; OB,
does not like to be held up between the finger
and thumb, as if be were a butterfly, not even
if the operator is a beautiful girl, and her face
full of quiet roguery, and her manner ever so
gentle.
"I certainly did not intend rudeness, in my
reply, though I committed it. It seemed for the
moment as if Miss Eose had pointed her remarks
to me personally and disparagingly, though a
moment's reflection might have satisfied me that
having never seen anything of mine beyond the
merest sketch, she could not have intended a
criticism. But, for the instant, I drew back from
the subject, and just then my last night's scene
with Tommy Taft occurring to me, I inquired
somewhat abruptly *Miss Kose, who is Barton
Cathcart?'
"The moment I had said it, I felt that it
looked like a hidden question designed to sur-
prise 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 :
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 115
** *He watched me, very much as a dog hangs
round a suspicious character, determined to know
what he has come for.'
*' Miss Eose 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 you knew Barton Cathcart,
and if you will return next summer, you 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 natures that it is
worth your while to have for a friend a deep
well, that never dries.'
" * Is he good-looking V
** * Everybody is handsome whom you love and
respect. But Barton does not need any such
gloss. His figure is fine, and his countenance
noble.'
I 2
116 NORWOOD; OR,
"'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 he does speak, one is
never tired of hearing him.'
" * Your description is relishful. Pray tell him
that I am coming again next summer and on
purpose to make his acquaintance.'
"'He is a true husbandman. His friendship
does not reap alone. It sows as well. You are
always the richer for his company.'
" * I rather dread these " improving " people
these good folks that go round building every-
body up. I have an Aunt Shillingby, one of the
kindest hearts alive, but wherever she goes she is
bent upon " doing good," and she moralises and
talks, and advises and questions, and incessantly
races with her tongue, till I 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 Cathcart.
But he has a vital nature peculiarly stimulating,
but in no wise demonstrative or noisy. The sun
is no mechanic because it builds up all the
world's growths. The winds are not engineers
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 117
because they urge ships and mills. A man may
stimulate your whole nature without oflBcious or
garrulous habits.'
" After a moment's pause, Miss Eose 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 Eose? And is a nature
that has the fanatical element in it capable of
heroism ?
"*He has the heroic element, in that he is
strong, patient, capable of suffering without com-
plaint, and because on occasion he would give
everything in the world, his life itself, for that
which he loved or for whatever he 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
118 NORWOOD; OB,
and thouglits for outward realities. I can easily
imagine circumstances in which Barton would
see the whole world in the colour 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 Kose, you were speaking a little while
ago of that which gave a man the right to call
himself an artist.'
^ * I suppose being an artist gives the right to the
name. Jly father, you must understand, is my
instnictor in all my philosophy. My opinions are
a pale reflection of his. He divides men of your
calling into two classes decorators and artists;
and artists again into those that please and those
that teach. 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 matter, not
mind, in nature. An artist ought to see grace,
lieauty, tenderness, and subtle fancies in nature,
which common eyes fail to see; and when he
^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 119
reproduces an object it should seem more attractive
to common eyes than the original is, because the
artist has expressed in colour something more
than others would have seen. Father says that
it is the amount of oneself in a picture that de-
termines whether it is made by an artist or an
artizan.'
"* Bravo, bravo 1 You shall give lectures, to
convince ninety-nine in every hundred artists that
they have no vocation ! With such views as these
before my mind, I shall never try my pencil again.
What ! Frank Esel going about to express in his
picture what Nature did not express! Never
shall a young gentleman so humble as I am be so
presumptuous ! I shall bum my brushes ! '
" * It may be all well for you to bum 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
trath 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 I think
your raillery is right. Pray excuse me for my
120 NORWOOD; OB,
lecture ; but, if it had been my father, Mr. Artist^
you would have gathered more ideas.'
** * And less pleasure.'
" ' Though he would not have let you off in so
short a time.'
"*Its brevity is the only fault of your dis-
course.'
" * But there come the girls 1 No, you must not
go. We three young ladies have no beau to-night
but you, and you must not deny your services.
Miss Laura Bacon and Alice Cathcart came with
their parents to an informal tea; and, as every
well-arranged table is twice set for the eyes as
well as for the palate we shall draw upon your
skiU for help. Sir Artist I '
" I could not but admire the grace of her car-
riage. Tou know how much I criticise the care-
less and slovenly way in which young ladies are
permitted to carry themselves. If one had to
choose between a fine and graceful carriage of one's
person, and beauty of face, I think ladies would
consult their interest by choosing the former.
Miss Eose 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 121
elastic tread and a firm hold upon the ground.
I have never seen her move nervously or, indeed,
in any haste. She expresses deliberation, but sug-
gests nimbleness.
"We went to the house. The tea-table was
already spread. I was sent to collect leaves,
with special instructions, ^both green leaves and
coloured ones, oak-leaves, chestnut-leaves, hickory,
and liquidamber the most star-like of all leaves.
Of coloured leaves maple, yellow, and scarlet,
the crimson of the Nysaa, and that glowing and
brilliant thing ^the sumach-leaf.
" While I was gone, came Judge Bacon and his
slightly 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 went where they pleased, did as they
pleased. But, although an artist, I was learning
of Miss Kose how to adorn a table with materials
so common as to be within every one's reach, and
which, in the end, were so effective that I am sure
I never saw table more charming in my life.
** Green leaves were first pinned together by
their own stems into a plat, and then made into
circular m(xtB the points of the leaves well-
122 ' NORWOOD ; OB,
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 gi-asses, and the
butter-dish 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 hives, Miss Kose had
herself 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 coloured
leaves yellow and scarlet maple-leaves, golden-
coloured hickory-leaves, deep purplish leaves of
the sweet-gum, and they were so arranged that
the highest point of colour was at each end, and
a gradation of colour tending all the way back to
green, resulted in the front in a real summer-
green tuft of leaves. I was never more struck
with the effects which can be produced by a skil-
ful use of mere foliage, without flpwers, and I never
before felt how coarse are the heaps and stacks of
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 123
flowers which are piled upon decorated tables in
comparison with this delicate and almost flowerless
use of leaves. It was inexpensive beauty, requir-
ing but a few moments to prepare it, and tended
to connect social enjoyment with natural object^ in
a manner that is characteristic of this whole house-
hold.
** While I was busy with the young ladies,
Miss Kose I have described, ^liliss Alice Cathcart,
a dark-haired 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 scab-
bard of politeness; while, I say, I was tearing
myself away from the gentlemen and devoting
myself disinterestedly to these three young ladies,
the gentlemen were sitting under the great elm
conversing. This is a wonderful 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 upward to the very zenith. A strange
glow fell upon all the village. Trees and houses
n
124 nobwood; or,
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 Eose 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 recognise 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 am drawn to
her irresistibly. She is good, she is true, she is
simple, she is beautiful, and yet this fascination
is not love ! She sobers me. I do not feel the
exhilaration in her presence that I do with others.
Life seems deeper; nature more solemn. She
has power to stir my soul, even if she does not
influence 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. Besides my own
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 125
darling mother, never was so motherly a woman
as Mrs. Wentworth, She is always genial, oft^n
gay, and sometimes brilliant. But in every mood
a serene kindness beams from her face. Mother,
the expression of kindness in a rich nature is even
more beautiful than any expression of intellect!
I have put in my note-book : * Beauty is of the
disposition. Love is the type of perfect beauty.'
" Everyone did what pleased him. No one was
pursued with teasing politeness. I wish I could
repeat the half of what was said during the even-
ing ; but it could not be done. But I have jotted
down in my note-book many things that an artist
should remember and investigate.
" The autumn is growing more gorgeous. Every
day is perfect, and yet the next seems better!
And every day has a secret joy, to me more dear
than all the colours of the trees express, that
my pleasant vacation will so soon end in a yet
more pleasant coming home ! 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 reaching
126 NOBWOOD; OB,
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 my
very lips ! "
VILLAGE LIFE IN IIEW ENGLAND. 127
CHAPTEE VIII.
While Frank Esel and the young ladies were
pleasantly preparing for tea, there were sitting or
lying on the ground under the great elm, Parson
Buell, Judge Bacon, Mr. Edwards, an eccentric
merchant and manufacturer, Mr. Brett by name,
whose whole life was pragmatically benevolent,
and whose conscience 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 con-
servatory ? I wonder you do not add one to your
house. I am sure you spend too much money on
benevolence. You owe a little now and then to
selfishness. Why, my dear fellow, you live as
though you thought it to be your first duty not
to enjoy the wealth which a kind Providence has
sent you."
128 nobwood; or,
Mr. Brett was a nenrous man, and talked all
over when he became 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, I 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 families 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 you send missionaries to South Africa,
it is only fair that you should receive the Cape-
bulbs in return; if you send Bibles to South
America, why not receive orchids in exchange?
We have more Bibles than we can use, and they
have more plants. A fair and legitimate com-
merce. Thus we export missionaries and import
roses, and both parties exchange superfluities for
objects of value."
" Come, come, Judge Bacon," said Parson Buell,
with a grave smile, for Brett was looking wofuUy
puzzled at the judge's way of putting duty, " I
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 129
wish we had more men that were unjust to selfish-
ness, as you say brother Brett is."
"But, then, reyerend sir," said Bacon in a
comical, mocking tone, *' do you not think that
he ought to have a conscience in the matter of
making benevolence appear pinching and frugal
to unloveliness ? One reason why I don't be-
come rich is the fear that I shall live as aus-
terely as brother Brett does. One might just
as 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
greenhouse, hire a gardener, and live in a little
more luxurious way ? "
"You have touched the very point," said
Brett ^^luTMvy. I'm sure that it is my duty
to provide my family with the necessaries of
life; but luxuries I am not so clear about. I
never feel happy when I am persuaded to obtain
them. I have my scruples whether a Christian
may, in the present state of the world, indulge
in luxuries."
" Is that so?" replied the teasing judge, affect-
ing a manner of great concern. "Is that so, my
VOL. II. K
130 NORWOOD; OB,
dear Ascetic? You must give me leave to say
that I think you, sir, already on the side of self-
indulgence. Calf-skin boots! ppon my word. A
beaver hat ! when a felt one would equally well
shield your head at but quarter the expense!
And that glaring violation of economy, a broad-
cloth coat, instead of linsey-woolsey I 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 ! "
**ror all that" said Mr. Brett, who smiled
rather faintly, as if he was not altogether sure
but that it might be his duty to retrench 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 green-house, and to be at
the annual expense required for a gardener, when
down at the factories there is so much to be done
among the workmen, for schools, and clothing,
and libraries ? *'
" That's a fair question," said Buell, *' and I
should like to hear your opinion, gentlemen.
I confess that I am puzzled more by the practical
application of it than by the principal itself. I
have no doubt of a Christian man's liberty to
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 131
use his wealth for his ovm household, but how
far, by what rule to limit it, I do not clearly see."
Judge Bacon, who had the art of being elegant
in negligence, was lying upon his side on the
ground, with his head resting on his left hand,
while with the other he was playing nature, as
he styled it, to a worm. Laying dovm 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 about your worm, learned judge,
solve the minister's practical problem," said Cath-
cart.
" Oh, gentlemen, that 1 might be troubled, as
Brett is, by wealth that I don't know how to
use ! Brett, exchange with me ! 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 other ques-
tions of finance, with which I am the rather fami-
liar."
The ex-schoolmaster brought back the question,
E 2
IS:; NORWOOD; or,
iul said lu^ thought no matter more important
than to furnish some clue by which a Christian
man mirht determine where Eights ended and
Duty In^gan in the use of wealth.
*'Not a lawful distinction," said the judge;
Mill his rights are duties, and all his duties
rights."
** Well, what are both put together ? How
much may a man use for his own household
and solf? How largely may he lay out his
ostuto, and convert it to mere beauty instead
of uso? How largely may he store his dwell-
ing with art tn^asuros, and spread a sumptuous
tablo, and yot stiv, * None of us liveth unto him-
self?*"
Dr. Wont worth, who had listened as if he heard
not, now began 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. You see, gentlemen,
he has been firing up for some time, and there
will be no more chance for us if he once begins !
What the world of letters lost, Wentworth, when
you chose medicine! We have lost a Burke
and got only Dr. Wentworth ! Let me deal with
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 133
Brett, whose conscience is like a spider on the
window, always spinning webs to keep out the
light. I think a man has at least the natural
rights of the animal kingdom. If an eagle has
a right to all the feathers that can fairly grow
on his body, and a sheep to all the wool that can
grow on his skin, and a butterfly to all the colours
on his wings, and a bird to all the music he can
make, a man has a right to what property he
honestly accumulates."
"Tut, tut," said Mr. Edwards, "you don't half
know your lesson. Eagles shed their feathers, and
keep young by moulting. Sheep are sheared for
their own comfort and everybody's convenience,
and birds sing for all the town, as well as for
themselves ; while the butterfly, that piece of
painted uselessness, comes late and goes early,
as if Nature had no use for things that did not
contribute to others' good. So, judge, you must
go to the foot of your class."
" I am dumb, Mr. Schoolmaster. Now let the
Doctor speak. I am sure it is not safe for him or
us to restrain him longer."
Notwithstanding Judge Bacon's banter, the
Doctor seemed in no hurry to express his mind,
)
134 NORWOOD; OB,
being apparently absorbed with a favourite little
dog, whose vivacity and vitality seemed inex-
haustible.
" Why should the Doctor leave his companion
for our poor society ? " said Bacon.
**That petty shag of a dog which he amiably
teases is not to be left unblessed and solitary!
Benevolence will still find ways of conferring
happiness! That dog runs like an eight-day
clock. Does he ever need winding-up, Doctor? "
" I think, gentlemen, that the matter in hand
is far less diflScult," said Wentworth, " than it is
made to seem."
"The subject that is in your hand, Doctor?"
said the teasing judge.
"No mistake can be greater than for one to
speak of his family," said Dr. Wentworth, *' as of
Bometliing separate from the community 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
instead of the whole body? The family is the
digesting organ of the body politic. The very
way to feed the community is to feed the family.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 135
This is the point of contact for each man with the
society in which he lives. Through the family,
chiefly, we are to act upon society. Money con-
tributed there is contributed to the whole. To be
sure, this is not to exclude other benefactions;
but, when you have built churches, schools, and
libraries, established public charities, all of which
are very noble and necessary, it remains true that
the best gift which one can offer to the state is
the living gift of virtuous, intelligent, and enter-
prising children ?
" Nothing is more remote from selfishness than
generous expenditure 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 neighbourhood,
not for himself alone. He who surrounds his
children with books refines their thoughts by
early familiarity with art, is training them for the
State. In no other way could he spend so much
money so usefully for the State. He that actu-
ally rears good citizens presents to the State better
properties, far nobler than ample funds or costly
buildings.
^^A man may, of course, be selfish in family
136 NORWOOD; OB,
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 laid 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 take its whole glory on my head,
and nothing below can get a fair share, and my
roots are drinking out of the ground an enormous
supply of food and moisture, and I am under con-
demnation for this great selfishness of my life.*
I comforted the arborescent penitent the best way
I could. * Everything, my great heart,' said I,
'that makes you 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-
bourers stop and rest under you ; all the village
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 137
is proud of your beauty ; sick people look at you
out of their windows and are comforted. Besides,'
how many myriads of insects and- how many thou-
sands of birds are kept by you, and, in turn,
disport themselves for our happiness ! It is true
that it takes a great deal to keep you, but you
pay it all back a hundred-fold in use and
beauty.' "
"Well done, poet," said Bacon, clapping his
hands, in which all joined.
" Jotham could not have mended your parable,"
said the minister.
. Edwards archly remarked that the tree was
even more personally useful than one could
imagine, who had not been a schoolmaster and
needed switches for lazy boys.
"Pray, Dr. Wentworth," said Buell, "go on
with your remarks. Your discourse needs an
application."
" Whatever expenditure refines the family and
lifts it into a larger sphere of living, is really
spent upon the whole community as well. K no
man lives better than the poorest man, there will
be no leader in material things. A community
needs examples to excite its ambition. A noble
138 nobwood; or,
dwelling is, in part, the property of all who dwell
near it. Fine grounds not only confer pleasure
directly to 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 everything which makes
the Church noble and beautiful is an honour to
GJod. The same principle applies to the domestic
household. Every element that adds to the plea-
sure and refinement of the family puts honour and
dignity upon the family state. Whoever makes
home seem to the young dearer and more happy
is a public benefactor. All dissipated young men,
of course, are not children brought up in meagre
economy. But it is very certain that children
whose homes are not interesting to them by afiec-
tion or by attractive objects are more easily
tempted into places and company &aught with
danger.''
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 139
" These are weighty views," said Parson Buell :
" 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 me!" said Bacon, "must I begin
at my time of life to adorn and ^what is it ?
dignify yes, that was the phrase * honour 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 immorality of a frigid
house a barren yard and a flowerless garden ! "
" 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 you will be always wanting more
things than it can hold; it will be always too
large, for you cannot get what things you already
have half taken care of. You wiU fight with red
spiders one week and with aphides the next, and
140 NORWOOD; OR,
with the white scale all the time. Yoiir water-
pipes will get out of order once a month ; your
gardener will be out of order all the time. He
won't let you touch your own things will always
know more than you do, and have a good excuse
for 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 precious
stock of tender things. My dear Brett, if you
stand in need of patience if you 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 tor-
mented 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 ! "
All laughed at the comical distress predicted.
" But," said Brett, " I suppose there are faithful
men and gardeners, and that it is with a green-
house as with a store or factory if a man selects
poor agents, he must expect shiftless work. K
worse comes to worst, I can perhaps coax Jaquin
to move his shop up here, and work in my green-
house."
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 141
" Who is Jaquin, Brett? Some of your factory-
village men?"
" Yes, a shoemaker with a taste for everything.
Every day he has a new invention. He has ex-
hausted the subject of warming and ventilating,
and he works them out for his own mere pleasure.
Being very fond of flowers, he has built himself
a little greenhouse, thirty feet long, and taken off
ten feet for his shop; and he has contrived a
teakettle of a stove, that, while it heats water for
circulation through his pet greenhouse, furnishes
him heat for the shop. He has got together a
very tolerable collection of plants, and any gar-
dener might be proud to have his stock in as high
health as he keeps his."
" But, gentlemen," said Wentworth, " it would
be wrong to let our scofiSng judge corrupt your
ideas of the comforts of a greenhouse. Let me
tell my experience. In the first place, I did not
try to make it too large. I rejected all mere
curiosities, far-fetched and diflScult of treatment,
and contented myself with common things that,
for reasonable care, would return a generous sup-
ply of flowers. I like common flowers best; new
flowers are like strangers, that put you upon your
142 noewood; or,
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 storm going on out of doors, and snow
blinding the air, and winds howling through the
trees, open the door into your conservatory, and
behold summer is all around you ! Besides, what
picture of landscape was ever so charming as to
sit across the room and look through the door
upon such green and blossoming vegetation ? One
hour pays for a year's care. Then, too, a sprig
of flowers on the table in February or March is a
" However, I think every man that ever loved
flowers knows that the chief delight consists in
giving them away. Much as I enjoy 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 143
to the patient's mind. It is the nerve-power that
cures, after alL Whatever rouses up the brain
pleasantly is apt to do the patient good. And
I carry about as many flowers, in many places,
as I do pills."
" Without doubt," said Bacon, " with equal
safety to the patient."
" At any rate, a gentleman will find an argu-
ment of benevolence for making a greenhouse,
which will fully neutralise any fear of selfish-
ness."
" There goes the tea-bell," said the judge,
affecting a joyful alacrity, " and here comes the
fairest of all messengers. Miss Eose, good even-
ing ! Tou were always an angel of mercy ! Do
take your father off; and, as we are all faint with
listening, I am sure you shall never again greet a
pilgrim band so glad of a little refreshment ! "
144 NORWOOD; OR,
CHAPTER IX.
A NEW LIFE.
Frank Esel returned from his summer wander-
ings, reveries, and conversations with a divided
heart. Never had he loved his mother more,
nor hungered more for home. Yet there was a
shadow on his brightness. He evidently had
much to think of. 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 ?"
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 145
"Not exactly. In feet 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 dis-
satisfied, without knowing how to amend."
" Thunder I What's got into you ? I should
think you had run afoul of a minister, or stum-
bled into a church-door!"
" I might do worse ! "
" Why, you're going to preach, I'll bet ! Come,
out with it ; I'll join your church 111 turn dea-
con when you become parson 1 You and I together
ought to run the machine 1"
"No such good news. Lew. My reformation
does not reach outside of my art. But, to tell the
truth, I don't see what the you and I are
painters for?"
" For ? What does anybody paint for ? Be-
cause it's an agreeable way of getting a living.
It's genteel ; light work in 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 me that one cannot live an earnest life
VOL. II. L
146 vobwood; ob,
in nich a way. At any rate, IVe got to find ont
how to do something more, or qnit."
Frank's mother perceived the difierence in
her son's moods. The change to serioosness was
great He b^;an to read Easkin's 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 fnll power npon
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 men go on and I
have no part in them ? Shall men emerge
painfully, before my eyes, from rudeness, and I,
ordained a priest of beauty, reach forth no hand
to help?"
Frank Esel looked back upon his joyous dal-
liance with art in former days with repugnance.
His old portfolios lie brought out to bum. Many
of his sketches he did destroy. But, while in the
act, it occurred to him that an occasional sight of
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 147
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 ques-
tion her son. From his summer's letters, she
knew that he had been greatly delighted with
Eose Wentworth. Whatever solicitude or cu-
riosity she may have felt to know the real state of
his heart, she did not deem it proper to be in-
quisitive.
If, indeed, Frank could have formed a connec-
tion with Dr. Wentworth's family, she would have
esteemed her son and herself most . fortunate.
That something had greatly influenced her son,
was too plain to be missed 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 be-
came a marked feature of his life. She hardly
knew her own son. His tenderness for her was,
if anything, greater than before. Now and then
L 2
148 NORWOOD ; OR,
bis old boisterousness of glee would break out
again, and he would frolic witb ber in a wbirl of
gaiety almost delirious. But sucb seasons grew
rare. He seemed more and more like one full
of some inward and controlling purpose, toward
wbicb be was turning all tbe forces of bis life.
On tbe otber band, be spoke of Eose witb tbe
utmost frankness. Scarcely a day/ passed tbat
gome word of bers was not repeated. Tbis did
not seem compatible witb tbe sbyness of begin-
ning love.
One day bis motber ventured to say :
" Frank, it seems to me tbat Eose Wentwortb
is your model, and tbe very arbiter of your
opinions. Sbe must be a remarkable young
woman."
Witb no disturbance of manner Frank replied
ingenuously :
"I do not tbink tbat I owe so mucb to wbat
Miss Eose said as to wbat sbe was berself."
" You mean tbat sbe drew you to ber by tbe
cbarms of ber person more tban by ber conver-
sation?"
"No, not tbat. I was tbinking of tbe influence
wbicb I bave derived from tbat family in my own
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 149
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 Euskin. We were sitting
on the door-step one evening, and Miss Eose was
questioning her father about some statement of
Euskin's that seemed extravagant. He replied :
" * It is extravagant, my dear. Euskin is full
of wildness, and tangles himself up with himself
like a vine twisting on itself. You read Euskin
just as you explore a region, finding many trea-
sures and much that you avoid. He has his briar
thickets, his contorted trees, his muddy morasses.
But, taken as a whole, the landscape is rich and
grand. Euskin 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 sub-
limity, in winter and summer, of the music which
the wind draws from their boughs and tops.'
"Then, turning to me, he said :
" * Have you studied Euskin ?'
** I replied * I have read portions extracts
from his works.'
** After a pause, he said, in a very gentle way.
150 nobwood; ob,
in an undertone, but earnestly * My young friend,
Boskin is not to be read in extracts, nor simply
read either. You ought to take him as an infec-
tion. 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
off much. You will retain, perhaps, little. But
your whole constitution will be changed. You
will observe differently, think differently, reason
differently, all the rest of your life.*
** * But, father,' said Eose, * 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 weU, is to begin
shaping him in our thoughts to an ideal perfect-
ness. Then comes the shock of disclosure. Every-
body is imperfect, and strong natures, strong
enough to overturn old errors and fight great
battles, are likely to be too strong to walk
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 151
safely in harness and drag our phaetons and
chaises.' "
Frank had been led along by his reminiscences
till he forgot the point he had started for. After
a moment's pause he started up.
" Oh, mother, I forgot to say the only thing I
meant to that which I most felt in the Went-
worths was the intimate relationship and personal
sympathy which existed between them and nature^
Her father has brought Miss Eose up to feel that
all of nature is, literally but a way which God has
of making known to us His feelings, tastes, and
thoughts. It was so from her infancy that sounds,
colours, 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 never before met with such
deep insight, such a pure love, such reverent
admiration, such fulness and richness of know-
ledge, in a young person, too, most accomplished
and attractive."
" I should have thought, Frank, that such charms
would have been irresistible."
His only reply was
" Too unequal ; too unequal."
tISl NORWOOD; OB,
Thfk irinter rolled away speedily. Frank Esel
wM never so little pleased with the result of his
irork. He had never laboured so hard. But men
beginning new courses are like ploughed meadows.
The roughness and waste are indispensable pre-
cursors 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 lifework, he came out of repeated dis-
couragements 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
dty. But this year his mother would go with
him ; and, early in July, Frank, in over measure
of joy, found himself again in Norwood, and among
friends that he had learned to regard as his bene-
factors.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 153
CHAPTER X.
LEAVING COLLEGE.
Barton's four years were ended. The senior
vacation had come and passed. He had won the
first honours of his class, and there was not a
member of the class ^not even the two who had
most nearly between his rivals that did not
heartily accord to him the first rank. He was
not simply first as a student, but as a good feUow.
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 invalidated. He was, if possible, more vigo-
rous and elastic than when he entered college.
When he returned to take the honours of his class
at commencement, it was agreed by every young
154 nobwood; ob^
lady of taste that a finer form and nobler face had
neven been seen in those streets.
His townsmen were rightly prond of Barton's
distinction. His father was universally respected.
Barton himself was popular. His intimate friends
were among the most influential citizens. All Nor-
wood looked forward this year to the Commence-
ment-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 I 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 honours, was a
glimpse of paradise I What these honours 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 sea-faring life might easily
be mistaken for miUs. Did they drill boys there,
as on shipboard ? or what on earth did they do ?
When Barton explained their studies and recita-
tions, Tommy looked wise and nodded his head
knowingly, but it is doubtful if he had any very
luminous ideas on the subject.
I
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 155
The Commencement-day proper was on Wed-
nesday, but there were services on Tuesday which
Dr. Wentworth wished to hear, and duties which,
as a trustee, he had to perform, which required
him to go over on Tuesday. Tommy Taft was "
to come over on Wednesday in an early convey-
ance arranged for this occasion.
The morning came. Eose 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-coloured Morgan horses matched to a
hair, and, what is more rare, matched in gait
and spirit, came out of the yard on tiptoe. 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 just 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
156 NORWOOD; OR,
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 headpiece 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 ? "
** You've got a pretty pair of gulls there, ^a
pretty pair as ever I laid eyes on. A fellow
might be proud of bein' captain in such a consam."
** 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 as that afore him, and
sech folks behind him as I'm goin' to drive ? I
teU you Wentworth's a whole team, and his wife's
a woman, I teU ye! and Eose," said Hiram,
slapping his leg in a kind of ecstacy, " Eose is
well, she's enough to make a feUer ctoss 'cause
he ain't young and handsome and rich, and she in
love with him ! I teU you. Tommy, I'm out for
a day of it. And it's my opinion that Solomon,
in all his glory, never went over to commence-
ment rigged out like this."
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 157
The conversation was cut short by the arrival
of the 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 complimiBnted that one of
its boys was to carry off the honours.
Hiram took the lead. Not a smile was on his
fece. 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 that he met, whether he knew them or not.
Hiram rounded up with a driver's flourish be-
fore the house at which the Doctor and his party
had taken rooms.
Already the town was astir with excitement.
Commencement-week is the one week of the year
that every 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 indignant 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
158 NORWOOD; OR,
to celebrate the year's harvest. New England
never made provision for amusements.
On the next morning Eose was called early,
for her father 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 will
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
np from below the horizon as if from a crater of
colours. Long beams of light rayed out, fanform,
as if there had been a fibrous structure to the
light
They had scarcely turned to look upon this
flaming East before they were joined by Barton
Cathcart, who had in some unaccountable man-
ner learned of Kose's intention to see the sunrise
upon the valley of the Connecticut.
They had hardly exchanged greetings when the
sun shot its light along the notched ridges of the
hills on the south, of which Mount Holyoke and
Mount Tom are the westward summits.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 159
At the same instant it glowed along the west,
and upon Sugar-loaf at the north. In a moment
more the valley, in its length and breadth, was
full of light. A slender film of white hovered
along the line of the Connecticut river. Beyond
it, shining out and glittering, the white-housed
villages looked out from among the trees on the
far hill-sides.
" This is a 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
Eigi and upon other Swiss mountains ? "
**Tes. It is a sight of unequalled grandeur;
but from high mountains the landscape is gene-
ralised by its distance from the eye. It excites
the imagination more than the feelings. It in-
spires a kind of separateness and lonesomeness,
which seem to be constituent elements of the
sentiment of grandeur.
"But if one would feel nearness and affection
perhaps lower but more pleasurable emotions
he must be near the objects seen. A hill for
prospect should be so placed as to get a wide view
without great elevation,"
i
IW^ kobwood; OB,
"^ fiutan," said Bose, ^^is this a fayourite re-
Kttcf thestndents?"
^ I suspect not^'' said Barton, smiling as if the
idea were even comical. '^I have been here
many scores of times, both at morning and at
erening, and I remember to have met bnt once
or twice any of the boys here. Indeed, I have
been attracted to it by its solitude."
"Ton must have seen this valley in many fine
varieties of atmosphere," said the Doctor, '*if you
have frequented this place. Few 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 con-
ditions, but not in all the fine intermediate gradap
tioDS. 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 the wonderful vestures which
God lets down upon the earth."
Barton's appearance was striking. Eose's pre-
sence, his own approaching farewell to the scenes
of so much enjoyment, stirred him to the utmost
feeling. But, according to his nature, he re-
pressed all signs of it, and grew calm as he
VILLAGE LIPB IN NEW ENGLAND. 161
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
chord well strung. Yet there was no stolen glance
at Eose. There was neither hiding nor revealing.
There was on both parts simplicity and ingenu-
ousness.
" Some mornings there must have been which
stand out in your memory with peculiar force ? "
said Bose.
"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 impres-
sive. It seemed as if a flood had submerged the
earth and drowned all the living people, and I
wis left a soKtary spectator, looking out over
this wide, desolate, and silent sea. But so soon
as the sun rose, its action was magical. There
seem to be in vapour very different degrees of
sensibility to the sunlight. It is often sluggish,
and is little affected by hours of sunshine. But
this morning no sooner did the rays pierce it
VOL. II. M
162 nobwood; or,
than it began to writhe and twist and roll np
in all forms of convolution, as if suffering pain.
In a moment openings appeared, through which
I saw the earth beneath, and the first distinct
picture happened to be Norwood itseK, 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 colour. All the West
glowed with it. It ascended to the zenith. It
seemed to pour over and down to the very hori-
zon in the East A slight haze, or rather scales
of tliin vapour, filled the hemisphere, and these
were saturated with rose colour. Gradually it
changed to flame colour, and then the landscape
was more wonderful still. Fearful it was. It
seemed to be like a universal conflagration. I
^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 163
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 looking,
the colour was caught up again out of the air.
Things resumed their common look, and the
glory had left no eflfects behind."
"No eflfects?" said Kose. "Did it not leave
its eflTect upon your mind? Did it not leave a
new colour in the imagination ? new conceptions
of Divine power ? "
** In truth it did. It awakened all my mother
in me."
"What?"
"My mother has the sense of infiniteness and
mysteriousness more than any that I have ever
known. Something of her spirit I have in-
herited."
"I know what you mean," said Kose, quickly.
" This is the true moral effect," said Dr. Went-
worth, " of the more impressive natural pheno-
mena. Men grow intensely egotistical. They
M 2
164 NORWOOD; OR,
are saturated in human life, as if God had made
nothing but men, and men only in their every-
day 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 wears out
the over-busy day."
Barton and Eose 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 sepa-
ration.
Those who are ripe and fixed in their opinions
may be separated 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 in 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
VILLAGE LIFE m NEW ENGLAND. 165
toward a common centre, or whether develop-
ment has been dissimilar and repellant. There
is in every sensitive soul a fine jealousy that re-
fuses, 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 ! " His manner said, " Four years
ago, as boys and girls, we were friends. You
have passed on to a higher level."
Bose had more than attained to the utmost
bounds which his imagination had ever placed
for improvement. Barton, more than ever, felt
in her presence a kind of hopelessness. His love
for Eose had with manhood gained strength and
breadth. The interviews during his senior vacap
tion 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 not at alL
If she had seemed good and noble before, she
seemed to his riper judgment yet lovelier, and
further removed from need of him.
But the consciousness of a feeling far deeper
164 NORWOOD; OR,
are saturated in hnman life, as if Grod had made
nothing but men, and men only in their every-
day uses and employments. Whatever gives a
shock to this trite ^otism, 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 wears out
the over-busy day."
Barton and Bose 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 sepa-
ration.
Those who are ripe and fixed in their opinions
may be separated 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 in 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
VILLAGE LIFE DT NEW ENGLAND. 165
toward a common centre, or whether develop-
ment has been dissimilar and repellant. There
is in every sensitive soul a fine jealousy that re-
fuses, 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 !" His manner said, " Four years
ago, as boys and girls, we were friends. You
have passed on to a higher leveL"
Bose had more than attained to the utmost
bounds which his imagination had ever placed
for improvement. Barton, more than ever, felt
in her presence a kind of hopelessness. His love
for Bose had with manhood gained strength and
breadth. The interviews during his senior vaca-
tion 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 not at alL
If she had seemed good and noble before, she
seemed to his riper judgment yet lovelier, and
further removed from need of him.
But the consciousness of a feeling far deeper
166 NORWOOD; OR.
than he supposed Bose suspected, the eonstraint
which he laid upon it^ the attempt which he made
to leave Bose 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 solicitous for
his own standing, but from a high and conscien-
tious determination not to embarrass the woman
whom he most honoured and loved.
When Tommy Taft reached Amherst on Com-
mencement-day, his first desire was to ascend the
hill, and inspect the college buildings.
He 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.
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 filling all
the air with exhilarating sounds. All was excite-
ment and bustle.
By great boldness and some strength. Tommy
forced himself near the front of the gallery.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 167
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 put-
ting his wooden leg upon his toe, never failed
to produce a sudden retraction of that mem-
ber. Of course, as he deftly slipped himself
forward into the crevice thus opened, he was
quite unconscious of any mischief. Any one
could see that who looked upon his hard, un-
moving face.
Through all the weary variety Tommy kept
watch. Others changed places, 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
was 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 ap-
peared, the old man seemed in raptures.
" Now you'll hear him. That's the boy I Now,
hark!"
letf NORWOOD; OR,
At the passages which elicited commendation.
Tommy's foot joined in with an emphasis that
left nothing to be desired in the way of noise.
Far different were Bachel 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 Uttle
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, aU looking up
with admiration and sympathy, and her own
son the centre and cause of all! She scarcely
heard what he said. When loud plaudits startled
her, she looked as one roused from reverie.
At length the valedictory was delivered. It was
indeed a farewell. Barton had felt in his very
soul, and probably more than any of his class-
mates, the full sentiment of parting, and it gave
a tenderness and solemnity to both his words
and manner, which touched all the audience to
tears.
When the services were closed, many there
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 169
were who congratulated Barton. But, with a fine
delicacy, there were more who ofiered respectful
congratulations to 'Biah Cathcart and Rachel.
Both seemed wiUing to avoid their son in such a
crowd. They extricated themselves from the
throng, and repaired to their lodgings, that none
might look upon the joy of a family whose love
and pride had that day been so signally blessed.
170 nobwood; OB,
CHAPTEE XL
DOCTOB BUELL's SOBBOW.
The trustees of Norwood Academy consulted the
uniyersal wish when they appointed Barton Cath-
cart to take charge of the institution. 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 best known him
from his boyhood. On the other hand, there
were weighty reasons for assuming this position.
It gave him an immediate pecuniary support. It
spared him a precipitate choice of his profession.
It brought him home for a term of 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 171
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 intermediate suffering.
But another reason more influential than all was,
perhaps, the least demonstrative in his thoughts.
He would be near to Eose Wentworth.
In this case, as in so many others, in the life
of every honourable nature, his feeUngs proved
wiser than any mere reasonings would have done.
Kose was not' one likely to " fall in love." She
might grow to love. But it would be a gradual
unfolding.
Being richly benevolent, affable with all, buoy-
ant in spirits, one not deeply acquainted with her
nature would be apt to imagine himself rapidly
advancing in her good 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.
If Barton had been far wiser than he was in
172 NORWOOD; OB.
reading the secrets of the heart, he could not
have done better than by leaving his hopes to
Time, and to the results of a renewed intercourse,
no longer as children, but as man and woman de-
veloped by study, and ripened by some degree
of experience in adult life.
Barton entered upon his duties with a calm
earnestness which marked his nature. His spirit
was soon felt in the whole schooL Before the
winter closed, the Academy was filled to its utmost
capacity. Selecting his own assistants, he brought
to his aid those who would work in fall sympathy
with him.
He did not confine his efforts to the school alone.
The village Lyceum opened for him a sphere of
activity which he was not slow to enter.
He was foremost among the young men in all
exhilarating and manly sports. He joined- a mili-
tary 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.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 173
In school he was the master, and out of school
the genial leader of his boys, and in both spheres
ruled them apparently without an effort.
It was during this winter and spring of 1858
that two events occurred that produced the great-
est effects upon his after life. Before entering
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. But 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 family
life, with all its peculiarities.
The minister's house was as white as paint
could make itj and its window-blinds were of no
flimsy Paris-green colour, but of a good old-
fashioned green ^so green thatj you would almost
think it black. Not a blind is open on the front
all is dosed, orderly, clean. A fixnt-door yard
there is ; in one comer, an elm-tree, whose wide-
curving branches were the only graceful thing
about the place; a row of maple-trees kept in
a line along one side of the yard ; and in the far
comer, a clump of lilacs, seven or eight stems
174 hobwood; ob,
springing &om a centre, and grown ahnost to the
dimensions of trees.
At the back of the honse was a yegetable
garden; and, at the fetr end, a stable large enough
fofr a cow and a horse, and for the shelter of an
Qld-fitshioned chaise. An outlying lot of land
sofficed to furnish the hay reqnired for the horse
and cow, and a small strip was devoted to pota-
toes. The horse was the parson's Biyoarite. He
literally had no faults. He was never known to
kick, or to bite anything but food. Hay consti-
tuting his principal food, a larger quantity was
required than would have been if oats or com
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 pro-
ducing excitement not, however, because he was
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 175
lifeless, but from mere self-possession ; for a peck
of oats (a rarity seldom ventured !) at the other
extremity quickly showed that there was life in
him.
He was safe. *' Slow and sure," was his maxim.
When the good parson was once seated in the
chaise, the events were as follows : when the self-
possessed animal, with his head and neck declining
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 his 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 his back, with a gentle
slap, and pulled one of them with some decision.
The time had come. The horse started, walked
into the road, and then, after several admonitions,
fell into an easy jog, which satisfied the parson'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 secured
to this matchless horse long life and immunity
176 nobwood; ob,
from strains. Dr. Buell innocently told Hiram
Beers that he never used a bottle of liniment in
his life I
Hiram waited till the parson was out of hearing,
and then discoursed :
"Wal, rd bet on that! Bottle of liniment!
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 of that crittur ! If there was two
of 'em, they wouldn't go a mile an hour ; and four
such horses good gracious ! it would take a yoke
of oxen to start 'em anyhow."
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 glistening, the side walls were
white; enter the parlour, a large room, consecrated
to company, and if the walls had been cut through
banks of snow could not have been whiter or
colder. The sitting-room was white and clean.
The chambers were all white and all dean, and
)
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 177
every chamber was like every other one, and they
altogether lay like half-a-dozen eggs in a nest.
One or two extraordinary water-colour 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 his invariable comment
was, " My wife's paintings ! when she was younger
and less occupied. I am told that they are re-
markable." They certainly were.
A portrait also, much smoked and tanned, hung
over the fire-place. It was grim and sharp-eyed.
Very badly painted, one derived from it a pleasure
in thinking, " Nobody ever looked like that !"
The furniture of the house was very plain, in
nowise tending to self-indulgence. The single
symptom of luxurious ease was the rocking-chair.
But if once you sat down in it the illusory
notion of luxury vanished. It was wooden through-
out 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 the house know whether tl^e rocking-
chair was in active use. We are obliged to say that
VOL. n. N
i
178 kobwood; or,
it was a treacherous chair. The rockers had been
carved to such lines, that if you ventured beyond
a very gentle motion the chair would give a back-
ward lurch, as if going over; and there are few
things more unsatis&ctory to a sober-minded
person, careful of appearances, than to be carried
over backwards in the midst of quiet conversation.
It is true that the chair never did go over. The
diape 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 equili-
brium, the chair stopped and set itself firmly, as
if it had been blocked, returning again to its
normal state only upon a violent effort of its
occupant. The neighbours were aware of this pro-
pensity, 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 anybody to fall ! "
The Doctor's study was the room of the house.
Two sides thereof were occupied by shelves laden
with books. The supply of theology was large.
The critical apparatus for studying both the clas-
sical languages and the Hebrew tongue was ample.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 179
Histories, sacred and profane abounded. Select
English literature was represented. The Doctor's
excellent sense was shown in the exclusion &om
his library of aU novels, against which, if we were
not writing a history which admits of no delay,
we should pause to speak. The * Pilgrim's Pro-
gress,' Milton's * Paradise Lost,' Scott's * Lady of
the Lake,' and kindred poems, * Don Quixote,' and
two or three of the Waverley series, were found
there. But these were not, in his judgment, pro-
perly to be called novels. They were beneficial
stories. By novels he meant ** fictions of an inju-
rious 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..
Eegularity 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
well.
But in spite of him his books would be pictu-
resque. Some were in paper, and some in leather ;
some were of octavo size, and some duodecimo ;
some few had gilt backs, and others sombre black ;
N 2
180 noewood; ob,
paper backs in red, in green, in blue, in gray,
and russet, still added to the mixture. Some fat
and thick books stood in a good-natured way, as
if saying, ^'^ We've got all we want inside!"
while, next to them, some thin volume would
look as if pinched in its stomach and for ever
hungry for contents. There were aristocratic
volumes ^tall, most respectable, and self-import-
ant; and next to these, perhaps, a dumpy little
volume, squat, like an asthmatic shoemaker.
Even Dr. Buell, when the afternoon sun poured
a yellow light into his favourite study, and lit up
all the various faces of his books, was conscious
in a dim way that there was something more
pleasant 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
the logical faculty, strong by nature, had struck
out its roots by use into all the ground, with such
resolute and exhausting growth, that the imagi-
nation, 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 pene-
trated every faculty of his mind, and gave rest
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 181
to none of them. As not unusually happens,
he felt most condemned for those very qualities
in which he excelled. Neither weather, nor
weariness, nor occupation, nor sickness in any
common measure, could hold him back from
those ministrations which he had assumed. Un-
selfish to a degree unusual even with the bene-
volent, he reproached himself every day with
self-indulgence. Never sparing himself or his
time when the poor or the sick needed his minis-
terial oflBces, he carried in his heart a feeling
that he was guilty of much waste of time and of
negligence in the best use of that time which he
employed.
Wjith the material world he had no other re-
lations than such is served the practical and
material wants of men. There was little beauty
to him in the seasons, though much of usefulness.
Colours had little charm for him. Forms seldom
attracted Jiis notice. In short, the artist's eye, and
the poet's sympathy for nature, seemed utterly
foreign to his mind.
Mrs. Buell was one of those women who, alone,
are feeble and colourless, but who, when joined
to others, derive to themselves the strength and
182 nobwood; ob,
character of their surroundings. Like a vine, she
had all the strength of the tree around which
she twined and upon which she grew. Her
Other's house had been always the 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 re-
served 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 oflBce, and her
household duties seemed to her a perpetual
religious service, as much so as if she had lived
in a temple, he a priest and she priestess. With
a sweet confiding nature she accepted her hus-
band's mind, and only used her own when his
was not at hand. She never disputed his word
or doubted his wisdom. And when, inadvertently,
she expressed views not in agreement with 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 183
the colour of the sky and clouds that lay above
her.
Of a sweet disposition, always inclined to do
right almost without 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
neighbours thought that he was not a saint.
Therein they differed with 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 be-
came her god. All that he did was right. All
184 NOSWOOD; OB,
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 sim-
plicity. She wondered that other people did not
talk more about him. Dr. Wentworth was a
great man, because he was warmly attached to
her husband. She would not hear a word against
Tommy Taft; and she took every word of his
speeches to her husband as literal and sober
verity.
^ There must be a seed of grace in him," she
would say, " or he would not be so fond of good
men."
We may be sure that this did not escape
Tommy's eye. He would call at the parson's
house when he was pretty sure not to be at
home.
^ The Doctor's not at home, you say ? That's
my luck! But what a blessin' to this town to
have such a minister in't! Sez I to Hiram,
t'other day, sez I, 'Hiram, you ought to be a
better man than you be, seein' you have sech
extraordinary preachin* and example.' But
Hiram, you know, marm, though nowise vicious.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 185
is not given to speritual things. More's the pity !
But what a privilege it must be to you, marm,
to be his wife ! Eemarkable that sech a blessin'
should be given to just one woman ! Your hus-
band 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 anybody had told me that Dr. Buell
swore, I wouldn't a b'lieved it on oath. Impos-
sible ! 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
things they will do don't you think its kind o'
natural to swear? Not profane swearin', of
course, but pious swearin'."
"My dear," said Mrs. BueU to her husband,
" don't you think Tommy Taft is near to the king-
dom ? He seems to me to have much that's good
in him. I can't but hope there's a work going
on slowly in him."
186 NORWOOD; OB,
" Yes ^very slowly."
For several winters Mra Buell had suflfered
from colds. Each year her system seemed le68
able to resist attacks and more and more weak-
ened by them. She was herself not aware of
danger. But her husband, instructed by Dr.
Wentworth, was seriously uneasy. As winter
drew near, her strength seemed failing. She
struggled bravely and hopefully. But each month
reduced the number of hours in which she could
attend to household duties. Her face grew thin,
but even more beautiful every week. Her 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 her, and which had long been defined and
clearly visible to him.
During the autumn. Dr. Buell had taken his
wife, on various pretexts, to ride with him far
oftener than was usual. As cold weather ap-
proached, he prepared his house for winter with
more care than ever before. New arrangements
for heating were introduced. The windows were
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 187
calked and the doors Ksted 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
muflSed indirections, as though to put his fears
into words would give them some advantage.
This could not last. Little by little the invalid
}delded 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 little personal services to her hus-
band. 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 duly laid upon his coat.
One by one, even these small but precious duties
of love were taken from her, and she seemed to
188 nobwood; OB,
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, smooth-
ing the ends, and by dainty touches here and there
giving the look of neatness and simplicity for
which Dr. Buell was noted.
On this morning the bell tolled long for the
minister. The deacons looked uneasily toward
the door. Such a thing as tardiness was never
known in Dr. Buell. What could keep him ?
Deacon Trowbridge, big with an innocent sense
of the importance 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 in 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 189
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 accus-
tomed offices. She laid back the collar of his
vest, raised his shirt collar, and sought to clasp
his neck with the cravat, but her little strength
was gone. Panting, and smiling sadly, she sought
to cover the failure by pleating the cravat a little
differently, and again rose to place it round her
husband's neck.
Her hand trembled and failed. Now, for the
first time, the grief brought forth the confes-
sion :
*' Oh, my husband, I shall never do it again. I
am dying, and I must leave you."
Clasped in his bosom, she gave way to a par-
oxysm of weeping. There was silence. Tears
poured down his face. With ineffable 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 him, in broken sentences, wet
190 NORWOOD; OB,
with tears, as if it were an ofiFering of flowers wet
with dew, and in solemn simplicity he gave her
back to God, from whose hand he had taken her.
The clouds 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 irresistible fer-
vour. Once or twice he came so near to the
expression of feeling that all the house grew still,
and the ticking of the round clock on the singing
gallery could be plainly heard all over the church.
It was but a moment's weakness, and his strong
heart overcame the tendency, and his work went
on to the end unfalteringly. Few ever forgot the
strange solemnity of that morning.
Meanwhile a new energy seemed to fill the
minister's soul. As he had been jealous always
lest anything should withdraw him from his work,
by any self-indulgence, so now 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 his neighbourhood meetings, he
was present at all the committees and various
VILLAGE LIFE EST NEW ENGLAND. 191
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 pre-
paration 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 searching 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 favoured 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, that she was willing to leave her
husband. StiU more trying was it that she had
to confess, that she loved her husband more than
192 NORWOOD; OR,
anything else. ,^ Her soul had as yet no wings, but
would cling and brood in its nest.
Her husband was jealous for the honour of his
Master, and sincerely mourned that his beloved
dung to him witli such utter and undivided love.
Agate Bissell, who had lived in the house ever
since Mrs. Buell ceased to leave her room, though
profoundly sympathising with the minister in his
religious views, yet had a sympathy with a woman's
nature which enabled her to help both of them.
"Why do you worry the poor child. Doctor?
She can't give you up while the Lord keeps you
both together! Seems to me it will be time
enough to let go of you when the Lord takes off her
hand. As long as we are living God wiU give us
living grace, and he won't give us dying grace till
it's time to die. What's the use of trying to feel
like dying when you ain't dying ^nor anywhere
near it? It seems to me that folks that are
afraid of not following the Lord, might sometimes
be afraid of going before him when not called."
Dr. Buell made no reply. He looked upon
Agate with a thoughtfid, wondering look, as if
grateful for unexpected help. At length he said,
as if hoping help in other points
\
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 193
" I have prayed tliat the Lord would make to
her a fuller disclosure of his glory, and that he
would give her such an assurance of her accept-
ance, as would leave us a comforting evidence
afterwards."
" You want your wife to be submissive to God*s
will. Are yaa 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 than 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, while you are groping for feelings in a poor,
feeble, dying creature, that is too weak to manage
her thoughts or feelings."
Dr. Buell was used to Agate Bissell's straight-
forward sense, and now he was more than willing
to take the implied rebuke continued in her words.
Indeed, his solicitude, his fear of not being faithful,
VOL. II. o
194 nobwood; ob,
his anxiety that nothing should be left undone in
this last great experience of life departure from
it ^had somewhat disturbed that nice judgment
which he manifested in ministering to others in
their last sicknesses.
It was past the middle of February, and so near
to March that already its searching winds were
abroad, that the crisis of Mrs. Buell's disease was
reached. On a Sunday morning, brilliant but
blustering, Dr. Buell proceeded as usual to the
church. His wife had not for a long time seemed so
well. She lay propped up with pillows. Her wan
and wasted face was refreshed this morning with
a return of almost childlike beauty. Flowers
brought by Rose Wentworth stood near. At her
husband's appearance, a very sweet smile went
over her fece, and as he stooped to kiss her, she
whispered : " The Lord is very good. He sends
me great peace to-day. Good-bye ! Come back
again scJbn, dear husband ! "
It was the Angel of Peace, whose wings were
already bearing her up above all storms or sor-
rows
Dr. Buell was gone scarce half an hour before
the sufferer groaned with pain. For a few mo-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 195
ments 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. She 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
Eose was sent to call Dr. Buell. He was in the
closing passages of hia sermon when he saw the
door of the church open and Eose 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 was not meet that
his private feelings should disturb the services of
the sanctuary !
No sooner had he come forth than Eose met
him. Without waiting for her message, he said :
** Let us hasten ! Is she worse ? "
"No; better!"
"Is it so? God help me I"
Bewildered and hardly conscious of surrounding
o 2
"1
196 hobwood; ob,
thingSy he entered the room where his wife lay.
He gazed long upon her. Then, in a wandering way,
he stretched ont his arms and called her, ^ Eliza !
Eliza ! " He sat down upon the side of her bed.
He placed his hands upon her face. He took her
poor little hand in his. There was the wedding-
ring, and no other had she oyer worn ! All the
past seemed to come back upon him.
" Dead ? Impossible ! ^Eliza ! speak ! just one
word ! Speak ! Oh, my wife ! "
Then with all the fond names which he had
ever used, he plead with her.
Agate and Kose withdrew ^let us draw back !
This first sorrow is for the soul's self only, and for
God!
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 197
CHAPTEE XII.
THE TWO SEXTONS.
" Good morning, Mr. Turftnould," said Tommy
Taft. "Fine weather. Very busy you were
yesterday ! a solemn day."
" Yes, Mr. Taft, a fine funeral as fine a funeral
as ever I see. Such lessons must have an effect
on the careless and worldly."
^ You must be a judge of sech matters, by this
time, Turfmould ! "
"I've been in my business nigh about thirty
year. I've done most of the respectable buryin'
hereabouts, and though I say it that shouldn't say
it, I've is good a judgment about a funeral as the
next man ! "
" I thought the hull country had turned out. I
never saw so many folks in that church. There
must have been fifty carriages."
"Fifty? nearer a hundred! Then there was
198 kobwood; ob,
six ministers from out of town, besides all that
liyes here. Generally a funeral in the week time
18 like a shadow in one spot. Bat yesterday it
was a cloudy day all oyer town. Indeed, it was
just like Sunday.**
" Only a good deal more so.**
" Yes a good deal more sa It was certahily
edifyin'."
"Ah!" said Tommy Taft with a look of great
fflmplidty, " the ministers were all very weU, but
Dlks couldn't keep their eyes off fix)m you and
that beautiful coffin."
" A better coffin was never brought into town.
Poor thing! I knew her taste. She was awfdl
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 comer, just as she
would have done herseli^ poor sufferin' creature, if
she had been there. But she was a kind things-
very good to folks in distress, and I felt like
suitin' her if I could. I just said to myseli^
* Turfinould, this is the last time you can pay he^
back anything for all she did for your child, poor
thing !'
'* I tell yer, Mr. Taft, I never quite liked the
^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 199
way that funeral was served on my child ! Tomp-
kins hasn't got the feelin's that our profession
requires. Do you s'pose I would take advantage
of himy if he'd had a body in his housoj and one of
his own bodies, too, a child, or a wife, or some-
thin' like that ? That's no time to run a fellow,
when he's doin' his own moumin.* Nobody loves
his child any better'n I did mine. And there
wasn't a puttier girl in this town, that was allowed
on all hands. Yes, sir. They used to call her the
lily of the grave-yard they did. That 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
puttin' 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 anything,
and I didn'^t say anything, and Bhoda didn't say
anything. 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't stir; and I never saw two folks look so
much alike as they two did ; and both of 'm, you
200 NORWOOD; OR,
know, was called Ehoda 1 I never was in sneh 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 Eose. She'd been comin' every day, and
fetchin' things, and she loved Ehoda dearly. The
child just worshipped Eose. Well, she came in
and had some flowers, and she walked straight up
to the bed, and said, * Ehoda, Ehoda!' and then
she sort o' came to the meanin' of things; and she
looked with her great blue eyes at the poor dead
thing, with such a lovin' way, that I raly thought
the child's face was gittin' brighter; and once
I thought she was comin' to ; her face trembled
like ; but it was just my eyesight, you know
when tears are movin' round you can't see very
correct."
At this he wiped his eyes with the back of his
hand ; and drawing a large red handkerchief &om
his pocket, he gave a sonorous blowing, sounding,
as Tommy Taft said, like the rams' horns around
Jericho.
" Well, I was sittin' on the foot of the bed,
tryin to git over it, when the door opened agin,
and Ehoda's mother came in ^that is my Ehoda
"^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 201
^my wife, jrou know, and walked right np to
the mother. And afore she had time to say a
word, Bhoda she riz right up, and gave such a
scream as never was heard afore, I do believe. It
cum from the very heart Oh, Lord, how it hurt
me ! * Bhody, Ehody,' sez I, * don't for pity
sakes ! ' But I didn't need to say so, for that's
the last time she ever opened her mouth. I don't
wonder. There was a year's feelin' in that one
scream, and it killed her. She sort o' fell in her
mother's arms, and Bose and she got her on the
bed, and she lay sleepin' like through the night,
and in the momin' 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
materials for a fimeral. Well, I found it putty
hard. Bose, she sent for Alice Cathcart, and
they wouldn't let anybody touch her but them-
selves ; and Bose, she put flowers 'round her, and
said she was the sweetest flower of 'em all ; and
Bose kept smilin' and cryin' softly all the time,
and was as gentle, and lovin', and careful 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
202 nobwood; ob,
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
Yoioe was sweet and comfortin' ; but as she went
on, I seemed to cum to myself just as she was
readin', ^And Jems saidy Suffer little cMdren to
eome unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is
the kingdom of Heaven. And he took them up in
his arms, and put his hands upon them and blessed
ihemJ It seemed as if I heard somebody say this
in the air; and I felt as if I knew what had become
of Bhody, and her mother, too for she wam't
more'n a child 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 fiineraL 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 way of edgin' into my custom.
When young Brace was buried, everybody 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 sometime, in like
circumstances, you know. Well, this is the way
I got out of it: I'd been sittin' still after Eose
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 203
left off readin', and I heard somebody talkin' in
the room where Ehody was both of 'em and I
went to the door, and there was Kose and Alice
kneelin' down by the pillow, and Eose was prayin'.
Such a sweet prayer I never did hear. It 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 I went back and sot down,
and all my feelin's was changed, and I said : * Git
thee behind me, Satan. Tompkins %hall have this
fimeral;' and so he did. I'll say this for him,
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. Mebbe
if it had been me, I should have done so too. It
makes a difference, you know, whose house a
ftmeral's in. And when we was all in the car-
riages, 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 be-
sides, I knew the mother 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
204 NORWOOD ; OR,
in his satisfaction with 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 Mends ; and so I thought it fsiir, when the
minister's wife was goin' to be buried, to show
him some attention, so I asked him to officiate
with me. Every body knew that it was my
funeral, and, it looked right to let folks see that
there wasn't no jealousy. I think such a great
loss ought to produce a solemnizing effect on
everybody, particularly the young. I always try
to make my funerals means of grace to somebody.
Everybody'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 thought I ought to
ask Dr. Buell if he had anything specially im-
provin' to suggest. But he turned as pale as
ashes when he saw me, and shuddered all over as
if he had a chill comin' 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.
VILLAGB LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 205
" But I went over to Tompkins, and he and I
consulted about it.
" * Tompkins,' says I, * this is a peculiar occa-
sion.'
" * Yes,' says he, * it is. It's enough to make
one's reputation.'
" *Now I want,' says I, *to have just such a
funeral as would suit her, so that if she could
come back, she'd say, "I thank you, Mr. Turf-
mould; 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 gone
just as much as if she's livin'.'
" * Well,'' that's easy enough,' said Tompkins.
* We can slick up everything with extra care, and
have a double inspection of all the materials '
** * Well, that of course ; but I was thinkin'
about the grave. You know you can't dig a grave
and have no dirt. Deceive ourselves 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
^
206 noewood; ob,
gravel and stuff from rattlin' in when the coffin is
down.'
" * That's a good idea/ sez he, *and I think all
your arrangements are good. They are new, and
ought to be fashionable.'
^ * I don't care for fashion,' says I. * I think it
will be comfortin' to the minister and respectful
to her memory. I've seen things managed quite
the contrary. You know when Bidwell's wif
died, they put him in the coach with his sister-in-
law, and they had 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, Turfmould. Jones is
no sort of a manager. He just spoilt my wife's
whole fimeraL I never took a bit of comfort in
it from beginning to end.'
" *But Dr. Buell had no reason to say that,'
gays 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.' "
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW lENGLAND. 207
For some reason Tommy Taft seemed to enjoy
this exhibition of professional feeling with the
utmost inward satisfaction. He let the sexton go
on uninterrupted, except a word here and there
to set him forward again."
Well, Mr. Turfmould," said Tommy, at length,
" it's a serious loss to the town, but that's nothin'
to what 'tis to Dr. Buell. I really pity him.
There's no mistake the minister feels it. He acts
as though he'd lost somethin', and didn't exactly
know where to look for it."
208 NORWOOD; ob.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE FRUIT OP SORROW.
Nothing strikes all value out of the ordinary
aflTairs of life so soon as sorrow. It works alike in
all, but the deepest natures are the most affected
by it. A single blow descends, and the world is
changed, and rises before the eye as another crea-
tion. 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 themr
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 209
selves to the senses in sombre colours. Values
are changed or destroyed. Life is empty and
effort useless. In thoughtful natures next arise
anxious questionings. The breaking up of the
heart seems, for a time, to overturn the conclu-
sions of the reason itself. Men doubt their most
settled beliefs, and bold scepticisms invade the
secret calm of Faith. While the nobler senti-
ments 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 not pass through !
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 horrible doubts assailed him
such wicked feelings coursed through his heart,
that he almost believed himself given over of
God. His very struggles increased his difficulty.
They heightened the excitement, and carried him
VOL. II. P
210 NORWOOD; OB,
further from rest and nearer to a morbid condi-
tion. His discourses on the first Sunday after
the burial of his wife were even more impressive
than usual, and his flock admired the faith which
lifted him above such sorrow. On the second
Sunday a marked change was visible. His sermon,
like his own soul, was irregular and unbalanced.
The quick eye of Dr. Wentworth discerned the
minister's condition. Now it was that friendship
could make itself felt. He affected to have much
need of the minister. He carried him to-day in
one direction to counsel a dying person to-
morrow he consulted him respecting some orphan
cliildren. 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 exer-
tion of the will," said Dr. Wentworth. "Already
the tone of your nerves is lost. You are still
)
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 211
further reducing yourself by attempting to re-
strain 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 firom trouble sent of God, except by going
to the hand that has afflicted ?"
"He seeks God who accepts His laws," said
the Doctor. "The best prepartion 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 violated
laws of mind."
Dr. Wentworth's efibrts availed so &r as to
rescue the minister from the danger of breaking
down in health. Little by little his spirits rose.
Yet life seemed changed and emptied. He turned
p 2
212 nobwood; ob,'
all his powers into his ministerial work. A new
fervour filled his preaching. His appeals became
more tender and solemn. It was noticed that
gradually the audience was filling up. Men
listened with more earnestness. Week after week
the community were moving together in one direc-
tion, under the influence of the profoundest sentir
ments which can inspire the human souL
Judge Bacon was sitting [in Dr. Wentworth's
library, one Sunday evening, and seemed unr
usually talkative. Yet there was an emphasis
and point not ordinarily observed in his half-
negligent and polished manner.
" The parson has a grand batttie on hand."
' Ah ! I don't understand ? "
"Why, he has for several weeks past been
sweeping around the people with his grand doc-
trines; and now the circle is formed, and he is
driving in toward the centre. Oh, you'll see rare
slaying before long!"
Dr. Wentworth made no answer, but sat as one
who is meditating.
' 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 213
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
will 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, afterwards 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 revivals ?"
^^ Certainly.''
" You surprise me ! I had supposed that you
were too firm and intelligent a believer in Natural
Law."
" It is on that ground that I believe in Eevivals.
In every department of life men are moved in
masses, and as it were with social contagions.
Few men in anything 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, ^^and men have been animal in nature;
214 nobwood; or,
and it is no wonder that their animcd feelings
should be excited."
" On the contrary," replied the Doctor, ** animals
are not subject to social enthusiasms, or only in
the most rudimentary manner. Men are sus-
ceptible of such excitement, in proportion as they
recede from animal conditions. In art, in amuse-
ments, in social improvement, in patriotism, men
tend to act in masses, to be kindled by each other
to enthusiasm; and such conditions develop, not
obstruct, the active i)owers. This social excite-
ment is favourable to taste, affection, judgment,
and reason. I do not know why moral emotions
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 fetculties as well as
to others ? and study for moral results as they
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 215
do for social or aesthetic? Are not the moral
sentiments subject to laws as much as any other
parts of the mind ? "
" Yes ; but church people imagine that revivals
descend upon them from above, that they are
mysterious and divine, ^that the less human
agency is concerned in them the purer they will
bel"
"It is only another instance/' said the Doctor,
" in which a fact is recognized before the theory
of its causation is understood. I do not the less
believe that a divine influence is experienced be-
cause it pursues the channels of established law*
Men account for phenomena by natural laws, as
far as their knowledge goes, and then they ascribe
whatever is left over, beyond their knowledge of
causation, to superior beings. The higher ranges
of human experience are the most complex and
subtle, and seem mysterious because the lines of
causation are finer and more spiritual. But the
profoundest mysteries of human experience will
one day be found to furnish the most admirable
illustrations of the universality and constancy of
natural laws."
" I don't see, Doctor ; but you are as bad as the
210 kobwood; ob,
rest of tlicm. I shall have to be a philosopher
without company. It will never do for as to
Hubrnit to tin's influence. An enthusiasm 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."
I'hc Doctor continued
*' All nations pretending to moral life have been
Kul)ject to these outbursts of feeling. It is all
very well to declare that a gradual and constant
progress in goodness would be better. Such is
not the law of development. Nations advance by
[Miroxysms. The race has gone up, not by steady
imi)rovcment but by leaps with long rests between.
At a later period, when society has reached a
higher plane than at present, progress may become
even, uniform, and constant. At present that
8e(jms impossible. And we are to regard these
moral freshets as admirable, relatively to the
wants of the whole commimity."
Here the discussion ended, for that time.
We have little idea of the power of truths till
we see their action, without obstruction, upon a
whole community that is aroused to a sensitive
and sympathetic condition. Truths ordinarily run
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 217
through societies as gold does in rocks a thin
vein shut in by wide measures of stone. 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 com-
munity are aroused, made sensitive and sympa-
thetic, and give to truth 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 hold-
ing some great truth with a common enthusiasm.
And if the truth is a profound moral truth, and
the enthusiasm a moral enthusiasm, no man can
measure the cleansing, inspiring, and strength-
ening influence arising &om such a unity and
intensity of experience as it produces.
The indirect effects of those moral experiences
called revivals, in vivifying the moral sense, ele-
vating the sentiments, and giving to daily life
a larger moral element ^in bringing over secular
things the shadow of the Infinite, are so impor-
tant that they should be accounted great benefits.
218 nobwood; OB,
quite independently j^of the special personal re-
formations which they work,
This religious movement, which was itself re-
motely connected with Dr. Buell's bereavement,
was one of the occurrences which we alluded to
in the last chapter as having an important in-
fluence upon Barton's life. It brought to a head
a long train of moral symptoms.
With his mental organization, and with the
domestic influences which had from his child-
hood been acting upon him, Baxton Cathcart
could hardly fail to be of a religious turn. But
in New England, pre-eminently, the religious
dispositions and affections are 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 whose 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 is the demand
intensified that right affections shall proceed from
right beliefe.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 219
Young Caihcart, during the last two years of
his college course, had found his religious life
passing from a state of acquiescent acceptance
into one of eager questioning. His Beason was
asserting its sovereignty. Should he believe be-
cause his parents and teachers did? Should he
suffer himself, among so many sects, holding
widely different beliefs, to be located without
any deliberate 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 proposed 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
220 NORWOOD; OB,
imagination as well as the reason, in re-establish-
ing faith.
At one time he would drift far away from ail
positive belief. All the more familiar truths
seemed paralyzed. As men look back upon na-
tions in the olden time, and know that amid
their fondest convictions they were in profound
error that their gods were myths, their histo-
ries half fables, and their theology a mere fio-
tion ; so now and then it came home to him with
ghastly distinctness, that a time would come when
men would look back upon him and his gene-
ration in the same manner.
From these dreary solitudes Barton would
rebound, after a time, into an enthusiastic re-
acceptance of all his childhood faith. He was
enraged at himself and at his intellect for rob-
bing 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 tides. He was swept far
out into the solitudes of the sea, where some-
times silent mists, and sometimes mighty storms
befell him. Then, with inexpressible relief the
n
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 221
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 painful-
ness of this dreary uncertainty at length had be-
come so great that he relinquished all thought
of religious themes, in so far as he could, and
assisted himself in his efforts by excessive appli-
cation to study. During the first year after he
graduated, he had contrived to smother his difiS-
culties, and to maintain a peace which he hoped
would become permanent.
In this state of mind when a deep religious
movement began in Norwood, he found that his
troubles were only covered up, not extinguished.
His mother's solicitude that he should rise into
an open and earnest religious life was extreme.
She ventured but a few words, but they were
like arrowa Dr. Wentworth and his family left;
Barton to follow his own bent without seeking
to force it. Dr. BueU, kindly but firmly, pressed
him with considerations of duty. Barton shrank
fh)m disclosing his real state. K he had reached
any settled convictions he would have had cour-
age to avow and defend them ; but to say that
22S saswooD; ob,
libe rBiigian of hk chUdbood bad let go and
dropped sitbt hum him, and that lie held in
doabt all that thoae moat dear to him hdd in m
UesBed oertaintr, wub to mal^ himself the tuv
lim of feelings worse than pity. He lived in m
eonrmuTiTtT idiere to be an imbeUeTer was to be
enminaL
A new miseiT b^ell him. The oonscioiisneas
of a secret life utterly at discoid with his seem-
ing life, and with that of those dearest to him,
began to raise in him the fear that he was prai
tkbig inanoentr ; that he was living a fiedae
and doable life. He abhorred duplicity. He
loved truth and frankness. And yet, in matteia
of the most vital moment, he was living a life
utterly different from that which all tiiat knew
him supposed. At times his distress grew so
great that he was on the point of disclosing his
fcolingH. But to whom? Not to his mother.
I'hat would pierce her without relieving him^
Not U) li(me. He shuddered at the thought It
would fi(5 like lotting night down upon his already
faint liopOH. Should it be to Dr. Buell ? But the
iJoeior, li(3 thought, had never doubted as he had,
and (juld, therefore, have no sympathy with one
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 223
upon whom an argament and a text produced
little salutary eflfect The question was soon
answered for him*
"I have called," said Parson Buell to Dr.
Wentworth, "to speak with you concerning our
common friend, Barton Cathcart. I have talked
with him several times on the great subject on
which so many are interested. But I obtained
no response. It was plain to me that his thoughts
* were disturbed, and from certain signs I am led
to fear that his views are unsettled. I am dis-
tressed 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. Per-
haps 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
indisposed 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. Eose on
224 NORWOOD; ob,
the next morning told her father that Barton
had been questioning her on many points 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 re-
port to Dr. Bnell.
"I think Barton has stumbled at the letter,
but has not fallen from the spirit of the Eecord.
Unskilful handling of his ovm case has made
him morbid. He desires the truth as an un-
weaned 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 in the track of
physical science. It arises from the introduc-
tion of a. totally new method of investigation. It
must be met on its own ground. If the distin-
guishing doctrines of grace have their types and
root in nature, as I believe they have, then evi-
dence from that source will reach the trouble.
The alphabetic forms of moral truth found at
large in the world will serve to teach one at
length how to read those clearer manifestations
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 225
of the divine nature, and of moral government,
which are perfectly disclosed only in the life and
teachings of Our Saviour."
But we prefer to let Barton Cathcart speak for
himself. From a private journal we extract a
few passages.
BARTON CATHCART's JOURNAL.
** Jum 10. To-day has been. full of excitement.
I have seen Eose. Why do I seek to unsettle her
peace ? Should I love her, if her soul wandered
as mine does? Am I not dravm 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
aud I none ? Everything with her tends to fulness
of peace, and to gaiety 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
between faith and scepticism. 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.
VOL. II. Q
^
226 NORWOOD; or,
" Dr. Wentworth told me yesterday that my
trouble was that I was living in my own person-
ality ; that I was too low down to see the truth ;
that I should never reason thy ^^J through ; that
moral truth could not be perceived by pure
reason ; that it must have 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 har-
mony ; 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 any one, can help me. But bow to come to
that exaltation? Am I to believe what I don't
believe, in the hope that it will kindle my moral
feelings to luminousness ? Am I to stultify my
reason first, in order to educate it ?
*' Yet, the Doctor knows the courses of scientific
thought; he certainly has kept pace with the
knowledge of sceptical schools, and yet he is a
Christian believer. He seems to caiTy nature and
Christianity in harmony. He is certainly at rest*
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 227
That I do know. I have too sure 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 at rest in unbelief. Judge Bacon
chills me. I rebound from Wentworth because
he believes, and from Bacon because he does not.
His cold touch shocks me. I feel when he talks
about religion as I should if my mother was dead,
and I saw a surgeon using her body for anatomical
demonstrations. All my life is woven into Chris-
tian faith; to rid myself of it is to tear every
thread that connects me with the past, with child-
hood, with home, with taste, with love, with know-
ledge itself. What is a thread worth drawn out
of the fabric ? That is a man separated from the
influences and beliefs that formed him, and which
are woven into society. Dr. Buell warned me
against becoming fascinated with specious unbe-
lief, said that the pride of my heart would deceive
me and flatter me to my ruin. Great God ! what
is there attractive in not believing ? It is living
torture. I am like a man who, walking uncon-
sciously, has slipped into a dry well, whose sides
defy climbing. I am alone, men walk a hundred
Q 2
\
228 NORWOOD; OR,
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 am alone there I am
without food or water or companionship, at the
bottom of a well, looking up in despair of ever
again feeling benign influences! Fascinations
of scepticism ! They are to me the fascinations
of the torture-room, they are as attractive as
nightmares in a fever ! !
" To all the rest, is this secret horror, that I am
separated by my miserable state from Eose. She
could never love me, could she see what a soul
1 bear. I would not deceive her if I could. Could
a man of honour, if he was diseased, be so foolish
as to hide it from a woman whom he honoured
knowing that he would secure her hatred when she
discovered it ? But how much more is a soul and
mind in disorder than a body ? I dare not love
liose and lose her. I do love her, and despair of
ever coming nearer to her. She would not love
me, I know, if she knew me. I would not be
united to her if she, in her divine jcindness, would !
What, marry a mere nurse ! a soul nurse ! Marry
for my own sake, and not for hers ! Bring her
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 229
no peace? no joy? no larger life than she had
before ? I wish that I could worship God as easily
as I can Bose.
" Jwwe 15. ^My school, at any rate, is helped
by my inward disquiet. I seek relief in labour
and thought. I fly from those sad and dreary
moods, introverted and self-conscious. They ruin
me and would poison every one should I infect
them. I watch my scholars, to see if they know
that I am swinging like an unlighted star in a
great circuit of darkness, eternal motion, without
light or rest. I shrink from them as if I were
false to my place, and had no business with child-
ren. Oh ! those dear faces, turned up to me with
such clear trust, I look upon them with unutter-
able feelings. Grod! suffer not contagion to go
from me I I redouble my energy. I seek to fire
them with ardour and honour. I seek to so
burden myself with duties toward them that I
shall have no room for suffering myself.
" They certainly answer to my exertion. All
the nobler natures are inspired by me with almost
romantic zeal. I see by their eyes admiration
and fondness ; but it falls upon me as the ardour
of worshippers once fell on marble gods. I am
^
230 NORWOOD; or,
cold to it. I have that sense of unmanly suffer-
ing, of soul disquiet, of utter ruin.
" Jwwe 20. A strange experience befel me yes-
terday. My day'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 my room, and began that pecu-
liar song which indicates the absence of its mato.
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 love for love,
it seems to me very exquisite, though very sad.
I sat in the window till the light had faded, the
song growing more and more restless and almost
expostulatory. Soon the bird flew, and I heard
it again further off; and, after a little, it seemed
to have flown yet further, and its now waning
notes died out 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 of
the village trees. There lay Holyoke and its
silent fellows brooding in sombre silence. I was
VILLAGE LIFE IN KEW ENGLAND. 231
inexpressibly sad. I seemed alone, helpless, un-
happy. I involuntarily called out, ^Mt/ Q-od, why
hast thou forsaken me?* What followed I can
account for only as a phantasy. Or was it real?
Is there still an inspiration? I did not thinh It
was seeing rather ! The whole heaven seemed full
of ineffable gentleness. It seemed as if I was
caught up into it, and felt borne in upon me a
sense of God's care for 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 all my darkness, and that all this trouble
of soul was like the trouble which a seed feels
when yet under ground dying that it may sprout
and live. Then, all unbidden, there spnmg up in
me such a desire to praise God as I had never
felt before or imagined. For the first time in my
life I had a conception of infinite love. I had
heard the words before. Now I had a sense of
the thing itseK. All my soul seemed urgent to
utter itself and I could not speak a word I The
psalms rushed before me in which trees, moun-
tains, sun, moon, stars, all nature, were called
upon to join in praising God. But how strangely
different in effect] Before, I had read them as
232 kobwood; ob,
ooe hears HandeFs Hessiah^ in fragmente, m a
piano. Now it was as I imagine the Messiah to
have been when thousands of singers and instm-
ments gave it forth in all its grandeur at West*
minster Abbey. Erer}i:hing within me became
heroic. I could have yielded my life with ineffiUle
joy to please God. All complaining seemed to
me like dust which one kicks with the feet I
was absorbed and almost identified with this Uni-
versal Presence. And now, as I remember hp
the strangest part of the experience, though at the
time it did not strike me as such, was the nour-
ishing pity with which I looked upon mysel I
seemed to comfort myself, as if niy higher self
was consoling a lower sel I felt a true and in-
eflGable pity and sorrow for myself, for my doubts
and yearnings, for my longing ambitions and un-
satisfied strivings; and it seemed to be borne in
upon me, in a way such as no words could have
done it, that all my faculties, tendencies, aspira-
tions, had their natural and perfect fulfilment in
God, and not in attaining anything in myself.
I remember a sort of figure that seemed to come
forth from nature to me that flowers never
blossomed inwardly, into themselves, but out-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 233
wardly, into the light, and that all the beauty
they had, either of form or colour, was what they
borrowed from the light which they received
and reflected, and so a soul, it seemed to me, was
never happy or beautiful except when it was un-
folding into God.
" How long my trance lasted I cannot say. I
threw myself upon the bed without undressing.
A tide of tranquil delight gently flowed through
my soul. I asked myself whether, were it God's
will, I could yield up all my prospects in life.
The mere thought of pleasing God seemed rap-
turous. 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 glorified 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 feelings, the ambi-
tions and pursuits of my life, seemed under a
shadow stained, and poor, and degrading. I
never imagined before what it meant to be a man,
nor how far I had been from it. In those blissful
moments I tested my feelings for Eose. If
234 NORWOOD; OB,
anytliing in my life had before seemed to me
pure and noble, it was my hidden love for that
nobler creature. But I was amazed to perceive
how, in the light of His countenance, the very
fragrance and blossom of my heart seemed rank
and coarse. My whole life withered, and my
virtues dropped like blackened leaves. And yet
this unbeauty, this moral poverty, brought joy.
Bight over against me rose to a stately height the
conception of a Being whose very nature it was,
gpontaneously and with deep yearning, to love
and embrace such unworth. I remember think-
ing ^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 me 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 day 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 went
asleep in summer and awaked in winter. I ran
to the window and saw all things as I had been
^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 235
wont to see them.^ Birds were singing ^men and
boys walking waggons rolling the smok^ rising
pale against the sky, hardly crooked by a breath
of wind. The vision had been caught up. In
its place was the great working world. I never
was so sad to be awaka I longed for something
lost. Tet I am wonderfully quieted. I do know
that there is a realm of truth. I cannot well be
made to believe that there was nothing divine in
this exaltation and spiritual insight. It is an in-
expressible relief to feel a certainty that Nature has
a Master. Now I will seek Wentworth again, and
see what he means when he says that the Bible
interprets Nature, and that Nature nourishes the
truths of the Bible, and that they are parts of
one development, and in harmony.
" July 1. The town is filling with strangers ;
also come back acquaintances. Young Frank Esel
has come, and is of course much at W.'s. Exceed-
ing good company. His genial gaiety refreshes
me. We have much in common. I don't think
that Eose mn flirt Tet she is a woman, and is
pleased with attention, and seems fond of Esel.
They are much together. They work together,
236 NORWOOD; or,
drawing and painting in the open air, and holding
laige discourse.
" There comes, too, this summer, one Heywood,
from Virginia. I am told that he is highly accom-
plished, and I perceive that he is elegant. I met
him once or twice, and am drawn to him, as he
seems to be toward 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.
^eywood does not intend practising law. He
tells me that his tastes lead him in the directioa
of Political Economy, to which in reality he de-
votes most of the time which is supposed to be
spent in Law.
" Augtist 1. Something has happened I am sure.
Frank Esel seems much disturbed. Bose is even
more kind to him than before. But I think it is
sisterly. He still visits much at the Doctor's.
But he is less buoyant. A dash of sadness. I
find him looking fixedly at me, as if studying my
innermost thought. Poor soul. I shall not be in
his way. He leaves for home soon.
"^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 237
" I learn that Hey wood is to be heir of the
Chandler property, and that he is to reside here.
He has property in the South, and if he inherits
the Chandler estate he will be one of the wealthiest
men in these parts. Chandler is said to be worth
half a million. Chandler's wife and Heywood's
mother are sisters, so that there is relationship
between them. He lives with them now. I covet
his royal ease in society. He is charming even
to men, and I do not wonder that ladies welcome
his attentions. He has a high bearing without
haughtiness, and he is truly considerate of every
one, and kind to overflowing. If all Southerners
are such as he, I am henceforth in love with
them. Such as I have met, however, have been
different.
238 nobwood; or,
CHAPTER XIV.
TOM HEYWOOD.
The most noisy and ostentatious influences of
summer are not those which chiefly shape ita
destiny. It is the sum of small and even inoon*
spicuous things, acting in gentle continuity, that
give tone and character to the year. Frosts,
that in summer become dews; dews, that ia
winter are transformed to frosts ; tiny mosses and
silken grasses ; the up-sucking of moisture by
hidden and silent roots; the fall of outwoxn
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
swing the globe itself around its circuit these
undemonstrative and modest influences silent,
precious, invisible attractions ^are the great
workers of Nature.
Nor is the analogy wanting in the soul of man.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 239
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 recurrence, fashion the character.
The unexpressed thoughts of Barton Cathcart,
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
nndermine 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 ten-
dence 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 towards health was
imperceptible at any single point. But the morbid
symptoms have been checked, and a curative ten-
dency 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 Eose ;. but
240 XOBWOOD; OR,
never repeetmg himself. It was his wcmt to (
verse of some principle or process, or of
imagined case, although the subject matter was in
reabty 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 ha^e been otherwise
impossible to one so sensitive.
Bose, peculiarly sagacious in penetrating dia-
racter, discerned, in a certain general way, and
appreciated Barton's state of mind. Nor was she
insensible to the attractions arising from the very
troubles of so noble a nature.
The suffering of a great nature, if silently borne
and uncomplainingly, is irresistibly affecting. In
Barton there was the greatest energy and the
greatest helplessness, the strength of a vigorous
manhoo^l and infantine weakness. To common
eyes his lot seemed eminently fortunate. He was
the envied man of the village. Every one pre-
dicted the most auspicious future. But Bose
knew that all the outward; portion was hollowed
out and ma^le empty by the disquiet of his mind.
\\'hen Cathcart met Bose in the presence of
others, he joined in the common conversation, or in
"\
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 241
the amusements with a gaiety that rendered^ his
presence charming. But no sooner were they
thrown together alone than to Eose he began
speakiDg of deeper themes, and in a tone of
earnest, and, at times, almost anguishful enthu-
siasm. She could not but perceive that to her he
brought the treasure of his inmost, deepest nature*
Nor could Eose hide from herself the fascination
of such an intercourse. It was a mute appeal 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
reveres, there must be to her imagination some-
thing of divinity to caU 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, at length produce a great crisis. Some easily
yield up the delusion, call it romance, and consent
VOL. n. B
tc lirr? & l3f nf isecic ui txhl love, which has in
at &: w'. g ^aJ r^ uii ild:^ oosaempt Otbets there
7e. c cirixief z^rcl-d. viM cumot loBe jGedth in
LcT?w ib:u:;^ iLer sftily admit that they haye
irypei h. Tbey kDv^ that thei is a life which
tLrj rrrTfT liT^ ; cL&t tho^e might arise ont ol
tfceir L^Arts a l:r-? so rneat, so pine so oomniand*
in? ani sui^fviL^. that all other experiences of
fLfftune wc^d, ic oompirison, be of little moment
Boralty azkd Fortune haTe no light to fill the
raolt of life when Lore is edipsed or has gone
down. But if Lore be regent, every other light
mar go oat, and it will 11 the life with a light that
shall make poTerty itself luniinons and sickness
and toil bright and joyons.
3Iany and many a heart there is that has missed
its aim, confessed its defeat. Some, then, dis-
tribute 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 faithful
to the end !
Itoso was one of the few who knew beforehand.
VILLAGE LITE IN NEW ENGLAND. 243
and as by an inspiration^ that she must love up-
ward, and that the man to whom 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-shadowing power in Barton, the
want of that commanding energy, which held her
aflfections 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 with Kose, he was uncon-
sciously led in a wiser way.
Some of his feelings we have seen in the record
of his journal. But he was not destined to main-
tain his honourable reserve without some painful
struggles. The appearance in Norwood of Mr.
Thomas J. Heywood was an event intimately con-
nected with his whole after life.
Heywood's mother had an only sister living
here, and that fact, joined to the reputation of the
B 2
1
pij*.'*r irr '.itrtirh uui btrtimifril iceniarj;. leti lirm to
*iiL'05e y.irTni:ii ji ^rrIVp52lLe jD jny of ihe
iumir-i prints ?i iirraL^ion in y^w ITnglATt^ ir
:! fflTTinier? r^^ rr. Xo 'Miaiierable fatimai^ bad
^TT r.^t :rrrTera tiiese rv} asrers. Tm mother
had niarrit-i ^arij jtnd ilTaj? had Krai in the
Sjaiii. V-jats !lilL to -^e sure, been oec&&KiaIlj
iiitar:iiiinir^i : bur :Iiiic Tas ilL Thev loved eadi
other ,:et.tinse riiey Oiui tie same mother, and
because tKev Ii'*-Hi iondr-^iis of miles apart. Had
they lived roir^dier. TitTeriy diferent tastes and
aaaiiciatioiis vcold have pn.^Tieed discord. As it
waa, e?ii?a fm.igined the other to be what she
wisliel her to be, or what she imagined that
she was-
Heywood, or as he always called himself and
was called in his home, Tom Heywoo^l, was abont
Barton's age, of peculiarly winning manners,
uniting a certain lofty air to a genial unili-
arity.
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 bom to fortune. If to this be
VILLAGE LIFE m NEW ENGLAND. 245
added the society of cultivated people, and com-
panions 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 probable that he per-
ceived 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 he was very attractive, and that when
he should find a woman of qualities admirable
enough, he had only to pass through the decorous
processes of approach and acquaintance, and to
propose himself to her with due ardour, to be duly
and heartily accepted. This slightest bit of con-
ceit was almost unknown to himself. It was the
unconscious effect upon a sensible and honourable
nature of having been a supreme favourite from
childhood. But it did not stain through and
affect his manners. It remained latent, restrained
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
246 kobwood; ob,
family. So well was he pleased, that the next
season he returned early, and with 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 their family, and took the place of a
son, their only child, who had died a few years
before, just as he was entering upon manhood. It
was said by those who thought they knew, that
it was Josiah Chandler's intention to make Hey-
wood his heir. However this may have been,
there can be no reasonable doubt that Mrs.
Chandler proposed in her heart to secure that for
him which 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 very generally
spoken of as Bose's suitor. But the same thing
has been said of Frank Esel, of Barton Cathcart^
and of several others, and all the stories about
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.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAjND. 247
We prefer to let Heywood give his own impres-
sions of Norwood and its people.
HEYWOOD TO HIS BBOTHEB.
" My dbab Hal. : In spite of your predictions,
I am settled in Norwood ! It ianoi a, huge jumble
of bricks, as you predicted, nor a noisy manu-
facturing town swarming with operatives. On the
contrary, I find an extremely attractive village, of
a few thousand inhabitants, nestled down close
upon the Connecticut river, and in sight of goodly
hills. To be sure, these mountains, as tbey are here
called, would cut a sorry figure by the side of the
mountains in old Virginia, but they are quite pro*
mising 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 separating them from the street by deep
ornamental yards. There is an air of elegance
and of seclusion given the buildings which, 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.
248 NORWOOD; or,
" Behold me, then, prying and spying, sharp as
a lynx, but just as a judge a political economist
of whom Henry C. Carey need not be ashamed I
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 ! Already I feel my feco
sensibly longer. My features are changing into a
sharper and more inflexible cast! I no longer
spend my money 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 Komans,' 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
over all 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 249
recognise your friend I How long I shall enjoy
my metamorphosis 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 fall dis-
closure of all at home, which I hardly dare think
about for fear an unmanly home-sickness may
befal me. But, good-bye 1 Be virtuous, and you
shall be happy 1
Tom Heywood,
" 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 ! What would they thipk
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 miles from herel Is
this New England ? Have I not held my peace,
as if even to speak of field-sports would banish me
from all respect? I am informed that while
racing is discouraged, trotting is so much in vogue,
ikMOi. a uprininunL iuis. ii euusmnfis -tie duel
"' jdvi^ ou^ tiAC ^^unniBRr latb anr miijii s
j^ur Ata ^riruUMt f If^'m kuois inn I 3nw dfisA
ftumi^ JUttt^^ irjc:ii uiJ v n di&asiit naor of dummg
^ I Auufeft ^finr T3XiL V mj puBUmgA. ^idll fte
k^^r Utttti iitr jbMOiic* A iiPumKL''$ ywnoiijH, yam
kuvw, it Mod Vy ^jojXAiiji. ^ik pflt uT like Ifioaac, ;
Ml /'^ w.alci Hur, wt ]ft!car k due fkkJL, joad the
nnr'^'^stju to hk BBf/THZB.
** ll$siftkMf iifrHT IhA^ (fjr \(mi kn^ and rabsian-
ii$i\ U4if^, V^/u Hfts ilus UsHt ot all conespcMideatBL
^' V'/tif UdUtm HTh pic'turea. Stiaiige, that a
^h^'^ri //f i^fM^r^ with mere lines and blotdiea,
lefi'/ul/l f/fi/ipr Uyfor^i the mind, more clearly than
\ti%\ui\u^^ t'AinUi ilof ohysfdH which they only aoggest
l/y i\th Ittw of ttK)/x;iiition, but don't represent in
ili Hl'mUUtHi d5greo in form or colour I After
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 251
reading your letter, do I not see the dear old
home in living form ? father ^tall, dignified, fiery,
and yet rmming 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 account of matters coining in
early from the garden with flowers for the break-
fast table. But homesickness is unweanedness*
Its existence and severity show how much need
there was of removing from home, and of learning
to live by one's self.
" I am sure I have enough to do, and matters
of a kind congenial to my tastes. I am studying
this Yankee people with the utmost zest. Of
course many of them 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
characters, as there, if anywhere, is apt to be
found originality and eccentricity. I had an
252 nobwood; ob,
impression that the rigour 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 peculia-
rities. They open up well already,
"In the south there is more liberty of (ictionf
and in the north of thought Law is not so strong
among us. A population thinly scattered through
wide territory are obUged to take their afiiedrs into
their own hands, and are less likely to wait for
redress or opportimity for the slow process of law.
Men here live in attrition, yet universally respect
the law. Among the lower classes Law is put
instead of Eeligion. Yesterday a man had been
aggrieved by a neighbour. I heard him say, in a
great passion, * PU 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 activity. It is something fearful to
me. Leisure and laziness seem to be regarded as
equivalents. There is a constant pushing industry.
VILLAGE LITE IN NEW ENGLAND. 253
I see this strikingly in the conveniencies about
their 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 experience what wealth there is in
economy. And what economy is possible when
people put as much thought and earnestness into
every detail of life as they do herel It is a
perfect study and amusement for me. Brought
up to hear the Yankees stigmatized as stingy and
mean, I cannot divest myself of a certain contempt
for their minute frugality, and their everlasting
calculations, and the repression of impulse in favour
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 a fellow
called Hiram Beers, who seems to have an eye on
this 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 fool as he is from being a
gentleman.
" Did I tell you that I had bought a horse ?
H Mfffiehti \ifjr^'^miih i5f ii:fs !filtfi Tmai waA
of //Illy t'otu^thilu'^ U hk purnirMiP- HiiEHm bgb
JA i/iy ^^////l au^tzL Br tLe v^tj. if yvm. wuk t
/'all liiffi //e^riTy nobody wooM Ibupw wftuB }(!
l/i/7f]iil, on a w:ok cUy. Hiram k bi
tli//u(/li tluTfo njay lje a boiidred
nlioiiU, only li/) in Hiram!
^ Von nii^^ht H/.*ttrch all the Old \
mu'U It H\H'mni'.u and not find it He is the gnmtk
of ihiM 'iiniifiunity, oa much as air phmts are cf
ftiM trf^|if!M. JIo iH a mixture of deaooD, doctor,
jonkny, jiviinr, fttnl philosopher if you can imagine
yt\m\. ihfii ronipound would be. He is of that
nnrvouM intn|Miminont that sleeps little, eats little^
works in(M*HHiititly, thinks and talks for his own
mro rcliof. And yot, contradictory as it may
sound, ho j)rohic(iS tho impression on you of a
shrewd, catitioiis and considerate man. He is
always saying somo Innnorous thing, and giving
half-laughs, as if ho had thought of something
else and could not afford tlie rest of a laugh. He
knows everybody that over lived in Norwood.
Every summer, when tho town is thronged.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 255
Hiram knows who has come, where he stays,
when he goes. It is the same, apparently, for
the whole neighbourhood. And as for horses,
his knowledge is intuitive, and almost a homely
omniscience.
" Behold me, then, sitting in the oflSce of the
Mansion House, the very disciple of this cute and
curious Yankee teacher !
" * Beers, I want a good horse '
" * My name, is Hiram ; I keep Beers for Sun-
day. When I get my meetin' clo's on, I expect
folks to call me Mr. Beers, or Hiram Beers ; but
week days I go and come on Hiram. What was
you sayin' ? '
" * Can you tell me where to look for a good
horse?'
*' ' Wal, Bledsoe's got abeout the best steppin'
creetur that I 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 after
ye take yer hand off her hide ; and the lovin'ist
eye ye ever saw in a man's head, or a womem's
either.'
" ' What does he ask for her ? '
" * Wal, I don't know,' said Hiram, glancing at
256 NORWOOD; ok,
one or two persons 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 children, I expect you may get
a bargain out of him for the mare.'
" * But I asked you for a horse that I could
but/*
** * Mebbe you did. But all I heerd you say
was, Can you tell me where I can look for a
good horse? Now you can look at Bledsoe's
horse for a year runnin', and he won't charge
you nothin'.'
" I coloured a little, but Hiram did not move a
feature, or look away from an empty fire-place
into wliich every now and then he squirted a
volley of tobacco spittle.
" Presuming that I had neglected a proper fee,
and that there was the rub, after a few minutes I
quietly slipped a dollar bill into his hand. Slowly
unrolling it, he examined the engraving, read the
signatures, held it up to the light, and then
gravely handed it back to me.
"'Yes, Mr. Hey wood, that's a good bill '
ginooine no counterfeit about it.'
VILLAGE LIFE m NEW ENGLAND. 257
" * Keep it, Hiram keep it.'
"*What should I keep it for? You don't owe
me anything ! '
"'Well, Hiram, I onght to pay you for any
information I can get.'
" Oh, you think the information about Bled-
soe's mare is worth a dollar, do ye? Wal, I
don't. Put up your money to pay your debts
with. When I've aimt it, it'll be time to pay
me. If ye want me to lay myseK out for
you on a good horse, say so, and then I'll tell
you what I'll do it for. I don't want no charity
yet.'
( Yery well. I wish a good horse, as good a
horse as can be had, without going to an ex-
travagant price, and I am willing to pay your
expenses and trouble if you will 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, you 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! Black as a
coal, and not a spot on him. Docile and obe-
VOL. II. s
258 noewood; oe,
client, but Mith immense spirit. I had not driven
a half mile before I was satisfied.
"'Hiram, this'U do. I'll take him. What's
the price ? '
"'Well, now, you was bom down South,
wam't you? If you had been bom along the
Connecticut you'd asked the price first, and held
ofi* a good bit, afore you let a fellow know
whether you was pleased or not. Howsumever,
it's all right. I thought I'd try you, and so I
brought the best one first. If you'd neglected
this, you'd sartainly have 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 two ten dollar bills.
Hiram took one of them, folded it carefully, put
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 to solilo-
quise. * Yes, old fellow president of a bank
no doubt rich as medder land. Made it all your-
self, too. I 'spose you bought at just what folks
said. I 'spose you paid twice as much as you
promised! That's the way hereabouts in New
England. That's the way to get rich,' and with
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 259
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 benig-
nant air with which a relaxing father gives back
a forfeited jack-knife to a repentant boy, he lec-
tured 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 everybody. They fall in with a low sort of
people and foreigners, mere hangers-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 imder. You may
pour in all day and they won't fill up. But
they are not our 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 airnd it, he's a mean cuss if he takes it
anyhow, unless he's extremely old, very lame,
s 2
20 50BWOOD; OB
and ain't got no chfldreiiy nor lelatioiis, and is
af^rd of goin' to the poorfaoosa That's the
Terv diSVrrenoe between an Irishman and a
Yankee ; a Yankee wants his own money, an
Iruhman wants yotirs.'
'^I was too mach amused to find faolt wilh
Hiram's airs, espe;iallT as he gare me to nndo^
stand that he highly esteemed my jadgment in
stable matters, and in the under societj of the
town, YOU may be sure Hiram's opinion esta-
blishes my reputation ; for he is the oracle."
HETWOOD TO HIS BEOTHEB.
"3Iy Dear Hal. Ton rally me upon the
character of my acquaintances, and compliment
me upon the improvement which will appear when
I return from this elysium of gardens, workmen,
ostlers, &c. It would be a pity that you should
fail of your own enjoyment since I certainly
have mine. A\'orking people, in a community
where work is the badge of servitude, cannot re-
present the value and personal excellence of
working men in a different state of society where
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 261
notliing is more honourable than labour ; where
all, more or less, perform it ; where men are taught
rom childhood that manliness and honour re-
quire one to be personally as much as possible
independent of others' help, and to perform
with our person a large part of the oflSces which,
with us, servants 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 never have learned but by living
among them. The common people of such com-
munities 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 devourers of newspapers. It
would be impossible to find in all New England,
in the remotest and rudest portions, such neigh-
bourhoods 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
:^J- KoirvroQD; ob,
r.^nzvsrjJMi^z a$ yei. I am beooming waimlj
:::'.-. ^;^-.*i iL L v.imixr man liere, who lias been
:-ii.i-.-Aj li-Tr sui- iie left college, and who de-
wju^i ^:v.-.}V-:^ f.c iiie pulpt. But same troable
o: mi'ji. I kii. V nji what, seems to shnt that
hT^*i.-jr, sjlL Lit 2* UC'W, in his leisuTe, Btodjmg
Ltt wri. J.:ijv LaAvn. and so we are muck
* I fU5jic-.'T :li: there is more than the love of
s.'ien.v iLa: lakt^ Rirton Caihcart to Dr. Went-
wortLV Lcuse. Tiiei^ is a Miss Bose Wentwoith,
j*-u thc'uid uadrisiand, whom, not her featoies,
but L*rr c-ipressioa makes handsome. When her
face kiL'ilrs. as it easily does, it is surprisingly
attra/nive. Quite learned, I am told, and espe-
f:ikiUy a L^ver of the fields and forest^ as all
rnaidc-iLS, at the sentimental periods of their lives,
;iro or ought to be. This inclination was inherited
from h^:r father. Dr. Eeuben Wentworth, and
i\if: V:U(lfiTicy became fixed by his careful edu-
riiiKtu of his daughter. This I am told by
infiidH of the Doctor, who look upon him not
only fiH a man of remarkable skill in his profes-
sion, hut UH an original nature in as utter eonr
iiiiHi with tlio surrounding people as an opal is
VILLAGE LIFE IS NEW ENGLAND. 263
with the rock in which it is embedded. Judge
Bacon, an astute New England man, himself a
notable character, calls Dr. Wentworth an ideal-
istic naturalist with a practical shell on. By the
way, Barton's own sister and his only one, Miss
Alice Cathcart, was at Dr. Wentworth's yesterday.
Like her brother, she is brunette. Both of them
have high blood ^I know it by the clearness 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 the animal nature ; and this is what I call
high breeding.
" The two young ladies. Miss Eose and Miss
Alice, are of one age to a night and a day and
call themselves the twins with two mothers.
"My acquaintances are limited and casual.
'With Judge Bacon, more than with any one, I
have had familiar intercourse. He is one who
might have been bom in Virginia. What higher
compliment 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.
2^ snsifDOB : ysL
7^ .v^T -Tsiir- Urra Z ^JBLT "liar Z inL reamnsr ffiu?-
jentW '" V.ir iiifinia I wre 7011 fitk rAotf E
icifi^ "liAt "'11 f^iTiiii "nxher iiear it sgaztBv
1
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 265
CHAPTER XXXV.
HETWOOD BETURNS ESEL DEPARTS.
While Hey wood was spending the winter at his
father's house^ and enjoying all the recreations
which abounded in the hospitable old Virginian
mansion, he found himself unwittingly thrown into
an attitude of defence of his Northern Mends.
Although he was thoroughly Southern in his pre-
possessions and prejudices, yet he was highly
endowed with the sentiment of justice, and it was
not consistent with his honourable nature to hear
his late acquaintances undervalued and stigmatized,
when he 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 wit-
nessed in Northern society, and opposed the violent
tone which prevailed among his companions. He
266 nobwood; or,
was not one of those whose pride it is, returning
from foreign travel, to boast that they have seen
nothing worthy of imitation in all their journeys
a confession 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 educa-
tion. 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 favourite sister, " be a
good boy, and own how much better you like the
South than you do that mean New England."
" Most certainly, fair Kate, I prefer the South,
but without prejudice to New England. You ought
to think well of a land which gave you such a
mother as ours."
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 267
" Ah ! mother came away from the North when
she was but 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. Every one
respected him for his solid worth."
"No matter, Tom; mother is a Virginian and
not a Yankee. All her habits and thoughts have
been formed here, and everybody says that she is
a true specimen of a Southern lady."
"I am not a whit behind you in love for
mother and admiration for our own native State ;
but if you mean to imply that only in the South
can be found gentlemen and ladies of the highest
breeding, I cannot go with you. Nay, I know
from my own observations that this very New
England, which you so little know, or you would
not so detest it, is full of families that no man can
but respect and admire. I speak from my own
knowledge. No one could see Farmer Cathcart,
who works daily for his living, and not respect his
sturdy independence and admire his great intelli-
gence. His daughter Alice^ ah I Kate, if she
were here you would need to look out for your
2 lOHS^On :
Mvnvr.inii V'Ttl mil :^ tf
InTj* t ^^^mi^ "*! yfii, OL 111 izdikt laeaHiaiBk n
r -wr^niU^r -iiso: 7*11 ^^-^ ^ame 'lack igrp-r Pap;.
ir*i7 liil jvi mc inur me if ^faua? jjc^^ka
'* ^^^ntr^r .1111^:2* 'Jaa ':aiic mw j nuwanjiL E
j^.nr SitiVar I'-^n* v y-iw rjigjimi ir & wife. ^&t
^u*/^/*5/.^.v*r,t. lisr.^:f:iL I "izii fas I cnly maoi
* ifetx \Y/A.ryx^ M j-.Jir i*rL -nr -ni uie pare of
rM5r#^ ''Z ::,j ir^rjiiA, v pripuse fcr Xks Waal-
** ^/f //--rv; v':,^ oili AEd I dai't meia to
(prj /'/-J t^*^; ;.V/tjTe tLo^igh it woald lescoe one
vvm^ HikukHh inrl, and by brrnging h into good
Wic:uA*j it r/iig/it 1/5 the making of her."
"O/f/i/;, ry^r/je, my dear sister, this is all Tcry
well for/;tirjg. But, I tell you in good eamest^^
itiat it jji iiot jiLt nor wise for the people of our
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 269
one country to spend their time in deepening pre-
judices and promoting alienation. The times are
hot enough already. I confess that I dread the
future, unless there can be infused more modera-
tion and mutual respect on both sides."
** Who cares ? " said young Hillyer. ** Let times
grow bad I 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 winking. I hope I may see the day
that we shaU try it on ! "
" Well, Hillyer," replied Hey wood, with a grave
countenance, **it will be a terrible day for our
country if the North and South should go to
arms. I have no doubt of our valour, but I have
just as little of theirs. They are not a people who
like fighting. They will be slow to enter upon it.
But, if ever it is thrust upon them, they will take
up war like a trade and 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 pros-
pering in every element that makes States strong,
and I do not believe that she is likely to be
270 NORWOOD; OB,
checked now. But this talk is all folly. At any
rate, Grod grant that we may never put to proof
our respective opinions."
With such views, it will not surprise our readers
to learn that 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 apostacy
from the true Southern spirit. "I will never,
never forgive those Yankees 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 stature. 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 good judgment in business. He
had no passions. He was always calm. He was
never carried away by immoderate expecta-
tions; never speculated. He was one of the
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND, 271
few men whose success did not unsteady or so
excite that he could not take sure aim. For
twenty years he increased his gains surely and
gradually. For ten years more wealth came
faster. Everything he touched seemed to prosper.
Had his son lived, he would have gone on accumu-
lating probably to the end of life. But that death
seemed to give a shock to his whole nature. Why
should he go on toiling without an end or aim in
life except to amass property, of which abeady
he had far more than he could employ? Mr.
Chandler had no ambition to be thought rich.
Indeed he was far richer than any one knew.
He began to wind up his affairs, to consummate
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 under his
scrutiny. Conveniences of every kind were mul-
tiplied. 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 anything went wrong no one
272 NORWOOD; or,
knew it If things succeeded beyond his expecta-
tion, no one knew that He kept his own coonseL
One would have thought that it was in his eyes
a mortal sin to speak of his own afiairs, not a
man in town would have been personally so little
missed.
After he moved into his mansion, ererythii^
fell into orderly arrangements, seemingly without
special effort from any one. He was mildly pious.
He never knowingly did wrong. He presumed
himseK to be sinful, as he had been assured that
he was ; and it was a cardinal practice with him
not to contradict. He observed 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
nuruber of books. Then first it was found out
that Josiah Chandler had a curious taste for books,
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 273
with a specialty of love for old books. No one
had ever heard him speak of books. No one had
seen boxes unloading at his door. He was
the last man in town who would have been sus-
pected of such a mania. Yet on examination Dr.
Wentworth found a large collection of rare tracts,
scarce books ^illustrating 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 anyone. How much he had read of
them no one knew. It was certain that he knew
something of every volume, especially its biblio-
graphical history. That same instinct of facts
which had given him such, success in business
was manifest in this dry and silent amusement of
his leisure.
How grateful ought we to be to that distribu-
tive Providence which draws men and women to
each other, not by agreements and likenesses, but
also by differences. Otherwise, people coming
together by elective affinities 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
VOL. n. T
hmj. tti:^ TLr tiii. .ijiL lilt euL -pmud ie ihit
t^ TT.r:^*. 17UtfJai]L WkMlAL fiNH. Mwmw. 4k;w3
r*rr;ftii Ii:r^ ii^ im. mzi aM ee2biiibe exftgsvzib-
irrir- -iiurr ^rifiazzR- iir Jiff ndi^ Se lots ]ttd
-i^ilr-ri^ 'ZZL'Uzji. anL ^mos ivafcj. AH xke towB
ft. t^^LuT Tir-n X jsaacsB "aiK anme Jkauiftda Sex-
7'll. -UtT intaSi wmUBL IE -Sl^ piMEL boHBiiM If
^t'tii7iiits TTtGia. mil in. Jksr jsmamer gnre
ui.. :'^r't!iiL niAa oi^ jtftt i,3*nc liy aie rosy,
i^iriciiv^ :rtinrt, "voi; diaoitf aoii sparkles on
ii sir*:u:^. uf 'ziti itauzizil v3=rcnESts do upon
:^f?: Mil 3^.11^010. T:iiTf5w
Ii :n^j :aM tji.tt:! ^-'it^ ^ ^tl^ like unto Joeiah
^ *iijLT:.jfr. NriTuiirr : liifni Lfci any illiKanin^
ib^^ 5;i :^:a;j:^ zl ioj^ct zxb.isc abecJiESe litenJnesB;
RVr yk rri:ctr. iiii lirrir *rtwci. without charit-
Ao-; cc ruL^Ti zi2?ts. bct izL meidleaB tmtli-
u.;.tv?w Atlc :i:cz:^i a wiie woman, yet she
sjV'-KK^ CvU wi:i ;jk I::cnkl tmthMness which fie-
vj^u ^u^Y A:ocai-vi m-ro. dAXostomed to the indi-
i\Htuxu.5K tao duscnisesw and the deceptions of
(^vu^tw ^ht wik a large, portlj woman, of a
WHnu\ Imt tJue and energetic countenance. She
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 275
was in every way superior to her husband except
in the singular talent for making and administer-
ing wealth. She could converse; he could not.
She had tastes refined by literature and good
society ; he was one of those men that you would
forget to notice, and, whether he was cultivated,
really you forgot to inquire !
She studied with profound sympathy the writ-
ings of Jonathan Edwards and Madame 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 Scripture from
Scott's Bible, and then came rivers of inter-
pretations, and notes, and improvements which
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! 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 un-
preached sermons. After he had read to the
limit of time, he would break oflF 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
T 2
27t HmtWOOD; OB,
unmatched condition in which she lived? Did
she marry for wealth ? She seemed to care little
tor it. exivpt as a means of kindness. Did she in
T^Htth hare more imagination than now, and snffer
hor^'It to see him through iridescent mists of lore
.^wakent\l by fimcy? And having awakened to
the l.teral reality, did pride lead her ever after
t' ivnT the mistake by an appearance of affeo-
livut ? It she was playing a part, it was snperbly
iloiu\ No man, however sharply he might dis-
oriiuiiiato. could detect the slightest signs of
rttVcvttxl rv^irani On the contrary, there were all
the tekens of a reaL enduring affection.
Apito r^isiiell had been sceptical, but even she
yieUUxl :
^ hV no us^\ Whi may as well give it up. That
won\a!\ lU^x? love that man, what there is of him,
and it is the lAmfs wonder !*
Hewuxnl ha^l Kvn brought up in an atmos-
pheric i^f l\v^{\itality. There was a certain large-
ue^ in the lunm^Ufe of his fathers house. There
was alwaN'^ mort^ or lecs of company. Every one
was tiw to evme and go according to his own
pood ph^uiiuro. There were horses in the stable
for such as would ride: guns and rods for such
as loveil the tield and the stream. Seldom was
there a day when the fiunily was at home, when
the young people could not find enough com-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 277
panions for all summer sports and amusements.
Enjoyment was not casual and special. It was
the ruling element.
It must be confessed that the change to Nor-
wood habits was great, and that in his aunt's
mansion the contrast was still more violent. 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 househould with his mother's, but to
consider it as a new species to be studied by
itself, he began to find points of curiosity and
of attraction. He recognized, also, a distinct
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 manifest pleasure.
Not remarkable for insight and analysis of the
subtle elements of character, she saw those broad
effects which are developed in action with accu-
at-" JUL
*fT3=*i. Li. ums: V9fe^ 2lT & sbbH TmTfttM There
vctt- X X73K- ar vr::^:^. Ji ^imiii soi lis^^ beoi
*r-:--ii- Tbr ^-crr [^^"wit aaflBwc Ids jvcsefice
a.- ^- r&i2rr=:r & ^am imwf ic a ^^^n^^M^ time.
j:.1 ^.-^ nr^ ^Lific: y annwi . jibl iv^^er seen, md
wt:. r.T jvyv. jcsftn iiffi. lime siidi gionoos
f^^.^^ ft' F^r^^r.-m ^'^ TuiL Sfywodd. and Birton
Fttul^ Tii^-. isft TTatTTfffcTTt^ los idQUKT at Dr.
T~eii*fr T-u. 3. EIs^ AaniEiciaL lud liot abated.
Ir sm^ c aJl 1^ TaiiA^~Qix:T, lie lawi found him-
jeif 12i:k ani m.T* ncnei i-nrud tomaid that
iDicaa:au:i.ir of ieelair ik'cy cine oeases to be the
auea:? oc nTm^^ih" uii thr inipzieiit loses coatzol,
and evrcy cctif^rs is e6c in tbe cviloor of passkmate
kTft. TLi? pv'wini: ieelizu: cofaki not ul to be
ohs^MTtxi by Kv!^* It trcaibled her. So mach
was tht^re in Frank ^i to admiie, so sound was
hi$ niV^ &axni\ his heart was so good, and his
tast^ 5o iv^ned. that ose Wentworth placed a
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 279
sincere value upon his friendship. Few women
can decline a proflTered love without wounding
both pride and vanity. Not many men are
noble enough to accept friendship when their
love has been refused. Pride and vanity, too
deeply wounded by defeat, often change to anger,
and men seek to undervalue what they have failed
to secure.
Keturning home with Miss Wentworth from
an afternoon's gathering in the village, Frank
Esel thought that she had never seemed so
beautiful as on this day. It chanced that the
Doctor and Mrs. Wentworth had gone out to
make some evening call. The young folks were
in the other part of the house, and Eose sat in
her father's library. There rose in Frank's heart
an impulse, ' 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 which 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 colour came and vanished, and so much was
he agitated 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
1
i!*0 xoirwooD; ob,
vbei: tie t-r^ is fipEd. whole fields of thon^t
sf-ni.z up hezore the mind like pictnreB, and all
pr:j7est5i:n of Ti^w seems to gire place to in-
staataiKi:iszie^B of si^rfat.
In C'C^ and the same instant Bose saw and
de:er=iineti all th-^se things, riz : that a crisis had
conie in Frank EseVs feelings, that the tide was
too ^t^:nJ^ to be staved or tnmed aside, that
should he be snfiered to poor out all his hearty
he woul'i in the neeeasary disappointment which
mr.$t betali hinu not only greatly soffer in pride,
luit lo^ by reboond a position of friendship full
of pK\isiin to loth of them, that it was tai better
tiiat slie sliould herself take the initiative, and
nu^^tinjr his rising feeling, forestal it Her pnr-
jHVik^ \T;u$ taken instantly ; and when Frank, sud-
denly rising, came toward her, with glowing cheek
and an eye almost wild, she rose to meet him,
and, extondiniT her hand to his, she said, with a
voitv in which command and kindness were
blended,
** 3[y dear cousin Frank, come and sit down by
nio on the sofa, until I say what I am sure you
will forgive me for saying. Our acquaintance has
been a joy to me. I have learned much from
you, and much more I hope to learn. I value
your friendship, and ask for it Frank, I am
grateful and proud of your good and kind thoughts
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 281
of me. It would be a grief all my life if any
darkness should come between us. No, my dear
cousin, do not speak 1 know what you would
say. I know that you would be sorry z/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 ! Do not think ill
of me, Frank that I decline what has not been
offered. I would have had it otherwise. And
now 1 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
not detain you ^I hear voices ^father is return-
ing. Come hither to-morrow night, and be your
own old noble seK, and my friend. Pardon the
pain I am sure that you will believe it kind-
ness."
" One word, if I may one word. Miss Went-
worth "
1
*3^^:. MUffji ^cum. EMt! I aam aaiy be-
vfIiiK3rffi! Kij I ^olt sa, I wH Bot adk liie
i ae case! :m h: ^e S^is ie^ net Ic. Wenl-
wcnii i2ii ni? vtd^: hn Fraak itujuKiJ indeed
IS ne hihi siiii. ^^^^ .irce bevuisred. He ms
gcsn^ en w:thoc jargagiiij till the Doelor
wpukez
^Gccd ergrr'g. Mr. kL Uliidier amj^ ao
fist ? (be eTiaim^ k 3?j yet qKnt !*
^How do T.311 CfX sir; ^I mean good n^^
sir : ^I quite forgot-"
"^ WiiT. what is an this?" said Dr. Wentwortli
to his wife. Wh^t hjs happened to Esel? He
talks as if he ha*l been diinkiiig ? **
His wife, with woman's wit, suspected the state
of the case, and oqIt replied :
'' Oh, it's some little dispute, I dare say. But
if nothing is said to ns, we had better not in-
quire."
Leaving the door vard, Esel turned firom mere
habit in the direction of his rooms. But so
absorbed was he in thought that he walked slowly
past his boarding-house, far along the street^
under the darkness of the great elms, ^sometimes
pausing, once or twice crossing the street with-
out knowing it. The alternation between feeling
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 283
and thought in a mind painfully stirred as Esel's
was cannot be set down in any words. Yet,
leaving out the hundred flushes of shame, the
sharp pangs of regret, the reaction of gene-
rous feelings we may give a faint notion of his
state.
"And so it is ended: (a deep sigh.) Then
that was not to entice me that she spoke. There
was no need of it. Eose could not do it either.
IVe brought it on myself (a blush stole over his
face, growing hotter and hotter.) All my re-
solutions and my better judgment thrown aside,
and the sweetness of infatuated feeling was
followed 1 (then speaking aloud) and so plainly
did I show it that she saw it, and knew what I
was going to say, and anticipated me, ^foiled !
outwitted ! ^fooled ! (His voice sounding in the
silence seemed to annoy him, and he became
silent.) Friendship ? ^ifs easy to convert friend-
ship 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 will 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
n
284 hobwood; ob,
her. God saw it Bat I would have giyen my
whole life to beooming 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 boming 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 had strayed out of the vil-
lage, and was more than half a mile beyond
the road toward Cathcart's. He sat down upon
a large white rock as if he were looking at a
land8oai)e, though the darkness and silence were
remarkable.
Tho hoaven was fall of concealed clouds. Now
and thou a distant flash of lightning revealed
tlunn, and long ranges of ** thunder heads" shone
brilliantly out, but in a second sank back into
darknoiw. Low rolls of heavy thunder sounded
tlu^ (H)nung. on of a storm. A fitful wind swept
through tho near woods with a sound like rushing
wiitt^rH. In a moment it was gone; not a leaf
lativtMl, nor a sound was uttered. An unweaned
mir hlniitod from the pasture; a short bark from
a dirttiiut l()g, instantly broken off, gave to the
silnf a profbunder influence. Again and again
the cloud ridges and mountains shone out and
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 285
receded into darkness. Esel sat as if watching
this grandest phenomenon of summer, the advance
through the heavens of a great storm. But he
saw nothing, or was, at least, unconscious of seeing
anything. The flashes grew more frequent, the
thunder advanced and rolled with deeper cadence,
large drops of rain, slung from the clouds, smote
the earth a few only, and they suddenly ceased.
A whirl of wind rolled up 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 fine sound
filled the air ; it was the rain descending in good
earnest, and sounding upon a million 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. For-
tunately 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 off
a part of his clothes, and throwing a cloak loosely
286
SOBWOOD; OB,
I
abcmt him, Fnmk Eb^ sat down by
window.
The storm h^d wagted its sabstanoe,
appeami to hare driven forward Uki
vandnxr armr, ^oBe artilleiy was sdll
in tbe ikr frmt, while doud-atniggleEB
in the rear.
There was aomething in this war of
ments that suited sel*s disturbed feeli
his mind fell off from the aoene befioire [
waDdt-red back to his childhood. Teais
the thi^cAt erf his mcftber. He sboTe
iw^-'tbeir the disc^innectdd sMnes of his d
thai rose rp before him. and to fed tba
ibai Tt'jx one, for his rery identitr
siippbi: froii !hizn. and he could haitll
ldme2: ft^el tlua he was diat peraon w]
resDem^sricvi ir a:^ many piy and bapp
lieoKViS. Ii was pu^ midnight. A diil
OTr hiTT., azi be pa2c9ed his doak dose
lam. Bzi be w^^s no warmer. He d
wi3sv^w a^i rehired to his bed. bat tbe s
At WiiijCtt^ towatri asoci^. be feD into
^^y $^i2tS*r. *3i i^?ii=?d all rranrier of c
AU ti^ *i*y jcCowb;^ be w*s kcguid a
^tjfes^ Ki^ k!feew 8)oc waa( ailed him
Mr%^l vMft Wlitt^ ioL tW psass to see th
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 287
gardness of his own face. Toward evening,
remembering Eose Wentworth's wish, he deter-
mined 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 Kose 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 disap-
pointment 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 sinca But it will pass with a good
Bleep."^
Dr. Wentworth, overhearing a word, came from
his library.
" What, Esel, did you say you were not well ? "
He approached and examined him. ^ Esel, you
should return to your room ; I will send you some
remedies. It may be but a cold, it may- come to
something more."
The next day the Doctor found him in a high
i^p^ iCLi ut Timtf ^mnmeiL imi wmnderias* His
3iL'iiii::r vii^ seSL iic FsT nHiLj wceis lie ]aj
leinic^ A^ jetra. in* derer Ii^ Kt?ii It was
^r'^n*. ?*ei^ j?^ iikp^ ii eciiui be mowd ; and
xo:^ Iff .*-jiiiii Mir :ae juoek^^ k^ lelamed to
]iijfr iLinif. Ijit^ Iii ^aac oe b^d diedriied for
SiLai^ i^kr iM] j.mre? A ^hrrg oc tas woiU. It had
=!Srii -zmj ^ 3lIlet^ fit aevi?afi diiiMsIit& It was
Ikf 4 rfmifnL:r*hL rara at aoijaher mrid, not
Triid .'iiiuict:!: :c i^ iGuI vas set ^Mfft^ oonse^
j?m-!L 1^ iiijK XK ciiu4i^b&i^ us to m shrine,
iizL^trli V ij^ rciKsshCii vith eTen m deep^
5ftfiz-r ^""A" r^TT. K-r zjtl KEtfome a man. For
bf Lii itetxcue a viisctf^e tix SofTiaing, the only
acbxIziisceT irio ciz bria^ Enoi to thor tnie
TT^^ "-*-' Ee Li piLSB^ thivxigh his yoath-
tine will ^ccn-iir^ jot. Then came the real
aw^enin^ Ctf bis i::telk%!t whei^ new flights
seemed like iii^ii;iaoBS^ and cast a shadow upon
all that went l^oie. At last came Snfieringf
Not that play of care cff rexaticHi, which only
creases the sonl s snr&ce as a puff of wind
wrinkles the waters, but sorrow which moyes the
foundations, and so deepens one's nature. No
one has suffered enough until he is patient of
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 289
suffering. '^Made perfect through suffering T'
Men stamped with this brand have God's mark
on them.
But one should not imagine Esel as a dis-
couraged or a broken man. He was never so
strong as now. He had in early years insensibly
been drawn under the influence of that vicious
school of self-contemplatists whose victims re-
volve around themselves all their lives, watch-
ing the development of their own genius and
by self-culture attaining to self-consciousness.
Esel's natural generosity 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 ex-
ercise of those faculties by which he sought it.
His sickness and previous experiences left upon his
mind a deep impression that, in so far as he him-
self was concerned, life was ended. Now, what-
ever power he possessed was to be spent for others.
All his ambitions now assumed the form of kind-
nesses. 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 :
VOL. n. u
290 NORWOOD; OB,
.... "K you had been living out of the
line of action of your Gitrongest fiaculties ; 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 bom to be an artist. All your
faculties and feelings harmonize in the pursuits
of art Why should you change? You speak of
self-denial as necessary. Do not search for it.
Whenever a lower course, a less worthy feeling,
contest better ones, deny them. Do not seek pain
for its own sake. Suffering is, like many chemical
agents, wholesome when combined by nature in
organic forms of fruit or grain, but separated and
employed alone, superstimulating 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 sacred associa-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 291
tion. It becomes a famUy talisman. When it passes
on into another generation, it renews its labour
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, Christianly considered,
the education of the community by the ministra-
tion 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, &c. ? Men collect
funds to put books gratuitously in the dwellings of
the poor, why should not some Christian artist
spend a portion of his time in ministering beauty
to households of the worthy poor ?
"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 cheer the poor and crippled ; to stand
in schools ; or, with faint symbolic power, to bring
into gaunt churches, some wealth and grace of
natural beauty. What, if one were to visit the
poor-house in each town, and minister, not alone
to the social feelings, to the physical wants,
but to the taste and sympathy of its inmates, with
gifts of beauty?
u 2
HOBWOOD; OB,
*I hiTe often mairelled that, in a time of sach
and libenJitT, so little should be done with
^'^Mt. Xew England might be made a magni-
*^^^ F*t itli but a slight expense, if only
one dcdinOed himself to doing good thiough the
loT^ erf beauty. Every great road, every bye-
nai oD&necting towns and villages, or neigh-
Kax^xis if concert were secured, might not
^iily he judiciously planted, but, by a little study
and care in Uie selection, all the fine trees might
in lime he employed, one road being lined with
^^^ axKUhex with elms, another with pines or
*|nii\^ another with maples, another with purple
KfHvhtxs, and so on, until every county would
hiWMwe an arKretum. Such is the spirit of
t^nulatii^n that if a single town should perfect
this ^ork, other towns would catch the inspira-
tit^w, and Uk* work would go on with energy
until an \uulotJied road would become a reproach.
AU this is a j^art of the work of true benevolence.
If \ou would t-oaoh within the church, you must
m^Nk ordination at the bands of man. But whose
biN^rt jHH^ver iiod has touched with a spirit of
In^ntnt^loniv is ordained to go forth into society
und phMU^h tho tiosj^el to every creature, each
nuin wpi^iking in tlie language of his own busi-
hont**
Mw'l hiul novor been so busy as now, and was
VILLAQB LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 293
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 a sacred lamp, which hermit hands
trim and feed in some recluse's cell or cave, fer
away from the fever of the world.
294 nobwood; ob.
CHAPTER XVL
CONTBASTS.
If people are attracted by their opposites, as some
hold, there was every reason to expect that a
strong sympathy would draw Heywood and Cath-
cart together; for, they represented in a striking
manner contrasting elements. Heywood's fetce
was fine, even beautiful Blue eyes, chestnut
hair, inclining to curl, fine complexion, and fresh
colour, need it be said that his was a sanguine
temperament ? Cathcart's striking in appearance
rather by expression 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. Hey-
wood's face was genial, and when excited radiant.
His whole soul shone through it Excitement
shot fire through every feature of Cathcart's &Lce ;
but every one felt that more lay behind than was
expressed. There was a sense of repressed feeling
and reserved enthusiasm. Heywood would flame
soonest, Cathcart would bum the longest.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 295
They were contrasted in mental qualities. Bar-
ton Cathcart's mind was reflective, Tom Heywood's
perceptive. Both were reasoners; but Hey wood
loved physical facts, and reasoned upon them.
Cathcart 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. Cathcart
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
like to utter, whatever he had wrought out in
thinking, and he left the impression that in his
firankness he had expressed all that he had
thought.
On the other hand, Barton Cathcart, without
seeming reserved, left the impression that he
offered you but a sheaf 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 dis-
position took on. Heywood's conscience deve-
veloped in the form of Honour. Cathcart's moral
sense had been trained as a deep, reflective, reU-
gious feeling, rather than as a social element.
Heywood did right, as in the sight of men;
Cathcart, as in the sight of God. Both were kind
with great disinterestedness; but in the South-
296 NORWOOD; OB,
emer it was demonstratiye and generoos. Leas
d^nonstnttive in the Northerner, perhaps lesB
piompt^ and far less attractive, it endured longer
and achieved more. In the one it was a blossom,
in the other a fruit
Hey wood had been reared in affluence, and had
never learned to work, nor to have sympathy with
those who did. Barton Cathcart had been inured
from childhood to toil, and was drawn by vital
sympathy to all who laboured. The Yirginion
was bom to command. He had looked down upon
men from tlie 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 own 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. Beared
an Episcopalian, Heywood regarded religious truths
as something settled beyond all questioning
worked out and fixed as definitely as are the
elements of mathematics. He had never searched
the grounds of truth. The Church he believed to
have been shaped and patterned by God as much
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 297
as the natural world was. He would as soon hare
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 mi-
nistry a part of the constitution of the world.
Barton Cathcart had been reared even more ear-
nestly to believe in revealed religion. But, from
his 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 chal-
lenged for them the utmost scrutiny of Eeason.
Cathcart, from an early period, felt himseK drawn
into deep thought He could not rest with tradi-
tional knowledge and hereditary faith. He pur-
sued inquiries into the nature of the human mind^
whose nature will in the end determine all for-
mulas, as its philosophy has in every age fashioned
all theologies. He analyzed the doctrines of the
Church, and disputed many of them. Led on by
an indomitable desire of knowing the very truth,
he explored the Bible for himself with indefatig-
able zeal. Finding the extreme reactionary Pro-
testant doctrine, that the Bible was the sole
fountain of 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.
:mifjf3Wk& ID ':xat -wHiMmtr YasiuHL as tke act
A injBc He !iiTCiL due t&ifr Cbnck i
ppw^w
:i^ini i^ r^^^iisruii ^bml Gum^ of hm hthfm, bot
^te ovnikd :ii}t :]iii2i!is&uiii phxIoBopkial in qiiiaiit fe-
w^ n ?ec^?iiiis 3iacaeis in aax odis 1^^ thm
in 4a ^mmeruiiT. is was a a^ not of intel-
tuevttGW .i.vw afi cc siTni (b^adL He ahrank with
9^^ttt^c^;air AJrn to ii^:QEt iront diat free sjpint
^ m^curv ;UDi ijscnsBiiHi wiiidi lie hand in New
X^i^v^ t;i vX'acmst w^re tiiese joongr Bien in their
vn3% vH utx\ la^tioa C&dBL^art^s fi^edMn in seaicli-
u%*: tlto fv^xiitioa;s oc religioos tnith did not
^^wMii h*l( ^ ^tiua^ to Herwoodas toGathcart
ivo4itwvl UcvxrvNvi $ atter leTitr regarding hmnan
Ur^ *%uvl *vv^tv. FtvMn his cMdhood Barton had
U^iKv*^^ M\tK %\x\^ vWf^e^ solemnity npon a man's
il^r K^ UW ^U^w, iSocietT did not seem to him.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 299
as it nearly did to Heywood, a contrivance for his
pleasure and aggrandisement. On the contrary,
he was oppressed with a sense of duty to society,
which tasked him, and, after his utmost industry,
still chastised him for negligence.
Barton could not imagine how Heywood could
look with such a frivolous eye upon human society,
and yet be so conscientious almost superstitious
about religious forms of thought and 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, these young
men became warm friends. Friendship is not
the result of reasoning, but of sympathy; and
sympathy is a thing too mysterious for solution.
Why do some like the smell of sandal-wood and
others sicken at it ? Why is bitter agreeable to
some and offensive to others ?
Lovers sit in the early ecstacy, saying. Tell me
why you love me ? And then, when every reason
is given that fancy can suggest, does not every
one know 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
aoO kokwood; ob,
people lore, DOt only without the leaTe of leaacMi,
bot against all it piatesta. There is a wisdom
of feeling, aa well as of thought. GalcnlaticHL is
as often wrong as inspiration. The intuilaons ot
oar moral sentiments 8eldn mialead na. The
paasions need the rein and curb, bat moral sen-
timents need the spar.
Sach differences eoald not bat stir np frequent
discossions between these friends. DiscossicNiis
carried on from day to day b^an to work their
nataral effect upon Heywood. Questions began
to arise in his mind. Doubts b^an to hover un-
bidden over themes before unsullied by the Euntest
uncertainty. He shrank back from the expe-
rience.
^ 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
it 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 Hey-
wooil, '*to consider what I shall do. But the
case is this : here is a river so wide that neither
you uor I can see the further bank. It is a tur-
bultoit and dangerous water. I see a bridge
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 301
which has a good and solid abutment on this side.
As far as the eye can reach the bridgeway is
secure and ample. 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 1"
"Your illustration is ingenious at least," said
Barton. " Now give me my turn. We are upon
an island in the ocean, desiring to return to our
homes. Many vessels appear, and offer to take us
off. All claim to be safe and eflBcient. Shall a
man use his reason and judgment in determining
whether any of them, and, if any, which is safe
and trustworthy ? "
"There is no end to figures," said Heywood,
"you can prove any thing and disprove any thing
by ingenious illustrations. I've seen many a jury
led to the very deuce by a lawyer skilful in me-
taphors and similes, although the facts and the
law were against his case. But the fact is.
Barton, I am no Yankee. I am not troubled with
that intolerable curiosity which puts your people
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 most restlessly inquisitive creatures ^always
fretting themselves to find out something that
was hidden away on purpose. K Nature has a
802 NORWOOD; ob,
secret, a Yankee, FU be bound, will pick fhe
lock whore it is kept, or be eaves-dropping till
he gets hold of it The fact is, there is too much
brain here in New England. Everybody 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, * Canst
thou find out the Almighty to perfection?' there
were no Yankees about. Since then, five hundred
ministers in this very New England think they
have done it! They have found God out all
that He has done, why He did it ; what He has
not done, and why He could not do it! Did you
hear that young sprout preach, last Sunday after-
noon, fresh from New Haven ? He was amazingly
precocious. He went on glibly unfolding moral
government. *God rmist do this,' and, *God,
from the nature of things, cannot do that' There
was not a thing about the Infinite and Eternal
which he did not fancy himself entirely familiar
with 1 Pah ! I hate so much disturbance. A gen-
tleman wants a decorous faith, a good, plain,
sensible worship ; and then, with a good conscience,
he turns to the enjoyment of life, leaving to the
Deity and excuse me ! ^to the Yankees the ma-
nagement of unfathomable mysteries."
Barton could not help laughing at Hey wood's
banter, extravagant as it seemed.
I
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 303
" Well, Heywood," 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 moral nature of
the Jew, the intellectual spirit of the Greek, and
the practical tendencies of the Eoman."
" Indeed I Did he say whence they derived the
element of 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! that will do. You
have given reasons enough already, why Virginia
should send her daughters to New England for
education and her sons for wives! The State
that yields the best schools and finest women
ranks highest."
It might be supposed that on a subject so all-
engrossing as politics had become in the spring
and summer of 1860, two young men like Cath-
cart and Heywood would find themselves often in
collision. But Heywood had not adopted the
extreme views that prevailed in the South on
the subject of slavery. He regarded the insti-
tution as a misfortune. But he apologised for
it, as a thing entailed upon the South, and for
301 kobwood; ob,
which no pneaent remedy could be found. Thongh
HeywixJ deemed it prudent to abstain from an
active part in politics, yet it was plain he did not
csre to hsiTe it concealed that his sympathy was
with his Southern kindred. By a sort of under-
standing:, at length, Tom Heywood and Cathcart
aToided all discussions on current topics. But
when did two clouds oppositely charged ever come
twther without drawing each other's lightning?
Thon comes the thundercrash ; afterwards it clears
up. ai^d for days the air will be purer. But such
o'A^ik^s between friends are safer in almost any
o::.;r matter than politics. In spite of every
cii^NT^ thtn* found themselves less intimate, less
;ii;vtvavite and txinfiding. Oth^ causes also
l^:.:;\j an*i tempted to more alienation.
Ueifcv\vis aunt had secretly determined to
*jViTx^ v^ }\uns to tving about a connection between
U^V4.^ \\^:t\rth and young Heywood, In the
li^^t |v;l^^\ ^i^e deemed the connection one emi-
ne^^l^x lit to Iv^ made. They seemed suited to
^^ \t^)sr. Wa^K he not a fine fellow, handsome, of
)^*4a)^\a))!Y ttVMiiiers. of good disposition, of good
llamiK aini A^tnvtions? Was not Eose of noble
|\i\N3Jn^4KN\ v,u\sl v\ineh\ a woman of genius, yet of
mi\^ vKuiu\tk* qwalitieis, of great culture, trained
1%^ xv)v9i(H\^lktu aiKl withal free from pedantry?
WJm^I iunMV \\^iM W wanting? Nothing except
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 305
the consent of the parties. Match-making is an
art so fascinating that it is no wonder that people
become addicted 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-
kindled, 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 honest and
plain-speaking way that inspired confidence. She
was shrewd and prudent. She was really unsel-
fish. 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 that when young
people came to her for advice, she should give it.
Having given advice, it was natural that she
should be interested in seeing what became of it.
But she was not a match-maker ! That she dis-
approved 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
VOL. IL X
300 NORWOOD; OB,
witli thinking, between matchmaking and a mere
influencing one to make one's own match. Sug-
gestion, reasonable influence, and suitable advice
(lid not amount to match-making.
She beheld these two young persons, Heywood
and Itose Wentworth, and saw what fix)m inex-
perience they might have failed to perceive, that
they were "just made for each other."
She made various occasions of meeting at her
house, and in her grounds "no party, a mere
gathering of neighbours in the most familiar
way ; " teas and door-yard pic-nics all in a
manner so natural and accidental, that she could
not forbear to admire the fortunate happenings
of things. When people of sagacity set on foot
plans with foresight, if they are of a devout
turn of mind, they often see the hand of Provi-
dence wonderfully stretched out in their behalf.
Wlien ]Mrs. Chandler had sent some rare old
books of prints over to Dr. Wentworth, had heaped
up ilrs. Wentworth's table with fruit, apologizing
tluit their grounds produced so much more than
they could use that it was a kindness if the neigh-
bours would help her to use it, it was natural that
the Doctor 8 family should all come over, without
formality, to spend an evening, and just as natural
that Mrs. Cliandler and her husband should return
the visit And when, after the elderly people
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 307
were seated in a manner evidently studied for
their pleasure, and Eose and Heywood 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 providential this
is ! If I had had the ordering of it myself, the
Lord could not have pleased me better ! " The
more she thought about it the more Providence
seemed to smile. The more Providence favoured
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 arrange the
bridal party, she had seen the ceremony, she had
been to church on the first Sunday after their
return from the bridal trip, and she had drank 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 tliose tender
X 2
X*8 xoewood: or,
wT^ t ^.rst-^ *ii^saDTning love, ^^lich discover
3i*wiv-!iiirr:e*i -e^^Die as snreiv as a bed of
rnurnoaette miDie :ia it looks is detected by its
iituur. 3ut* it^asroir iw are the pictures of imsgi-
nanoiu i '^ntt'dctii mind needs something^ less
wntuoi ind more sabstaatiaL Whr did not
UevwiKHi jiaike some prosrress? Did not Bose
pitHuse um : '^r was there some impedinient ?
It \vas nam :hac ao visible progress was made.
niort^d^rt\ :hoii:rti averse to matchrmakrng, it was
piToper riiat lErs. Chandler shonld take oba^i-
vatiin2: .ind dnd Hit the latitnde and longitnde of
i^oulii it Ih* that Heywood was already engaged
in Vinrinia : Hie thouirht was startling. TTth
annt did nor wiut loiiir tor a providential opening ;
lnt, on Heywoi^ i's retium tiom an excursion, fell
into (Conversation with him.
'* Have you had a pleasant time, Heywood ? of
r*ourse yi)u have. I cim see by your fiskce. Wben
I i|||s yininpr, they did not have as many rides
an3 pic-nios iis they do now ; though I fancy the
young women then were more sedate, less fri-
volous and pleasure-seeking than now."
" Jless me, aunt, I do not know what yon
would call propriety, if the Norwood giris are
not prrpcr ! I wish you might see some of oar
lii^hflycrs in the South ! '*
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 309
" I suppose you naturally would prefer the so-
ciety of Southern 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, and 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 comes. 1
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 superla-
tively modest! 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 especially. You asked me a plain
question, and I gave you a plain answer."
*I0 !I0Kwdod: chl
* V za* Ttimr aiiiit?s^ Sir Malapert; whom yon
ukve liii ini^rr oiiimnon this aftemoon by your
fittrTni:::^ 'r*?*'a-^*, low many of them do you
HMWVT iiLic T t '"iia lare rbr the asking?'*
*''V!y :i* i atrm. This sounds conceited
-i T'-r. Air.c* ut Z look at it in this way: I
irKw -jiz L Ld -i Treeentabie yoraig gendeman^
wuu ^^t:?* -Tu.'iV" j!?Kd pnspet.tSk I eannot deny
rtie ^l::: i n^ .*vr^ rhar my presence is agree-
^U^ *t "Ue ^luiir lauit?s^ I take it fiwr granted
that :iit V ul ^xp^-'t to cHiterthe matrimonial state
wmtie^i^r i ;iirui.ne .dfer is made: and it does not
ieem vr.^riu i ic jliI ro imagine that a I^y who
rHiwi\-T s ;.- uir .fcaiin-'i*5 Tith marked &TOixr would
.-KWPt your nfi-r. iiouid you press a suiL'*
V a .nrr* it-ver more miscukiHi in your life.
I \v:Il insr.mve but a ingte one Boee Went-
wortii. r vjsi v:tii :ui my heart that you mi^t
win her: but :t ^vil aot be done just fay the
asking; let me re? LL yi'u^"*
^ Way, there wa:? not one of the party so cor-
dial and oraiik. I went home with her^ and she
seemed a grod deal softened and sentimentaL
iShe talked ot trees and tiowers. and of the ^irit
md an inner liie. I think I understand such
things. If I hotl juit said the word, I fcdly be-
beye that I should now be asking your approba-
tion to our union.''
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 311
"This passes all belief 1 I lose faith in you,
at least in your good judgment. You have no
more conception of Kose Wentworth than you
have of those who live in the stars. If you had
presumed upon her cordial ways and mentioned
love, I should like to have stood by and seen her
large eyes flash upon you."
" Why, aunt, do you think that 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 her-
self, until something rouses her. She is capable
of rising into grandeur if circumstances favoured.
If by the wisest and most skilful wooing you
could win Kose, you would be the happiest of
living men ; and twenty years hence you would
find your happiness but just begun 1 "
"Why, aunt, you rather pique my curiosity.
If you really think that she is so hard to win, I
am almost disposed to try."
** 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
312 NORWOOD; OR,
lost; yet in silence and darkness they are ger-
minating 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 Heywood has received some notions that
will work in him. But what if Eose should not
take a fancy to him ? Of course she likes him ;
but that does not mean anything in particular.
She is a world too kind and generous, and likes
everybody, and Heywood has been fooled by it
He thinks that kindness is love. That's just like
a man! But then he has all his life been run
after and praised, poor fellow. He is to be pitied,
not blamed."
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 313
CHAPTER XVII.
VARIETIES
Nothing enhances the value of an object more
than to know that others value it and are com-
peting for it. Mrs. Chandler furnished both
stimulants to Heywood. I cannot say how she
obtained the information, but she had been led
to believe that Barton Cathcart had directed his
attentions toward Miss Wentworth. Some such
stories had risen and died out in the village. The
signs all failed. Mrs. Chandler, perhaps, had
not even heard of them. One day, however, she
returned home after a visit to Dr. Wentworth'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
Cathcart should marry Eose Wentworth?"
Her husband looked at her with simplicity, and
said:
" I suppose so."
314 nobwood; ob,
" Do you think it would be a good match ?"
^' I don't see any objection^ proyided the parties
arc willing."
"J Jut really, my dear, I can't hardly imagine
that Kom; should prefer such a man, unless it was
her only chance. But then you can never telL
G(.'tting in love is like picking garden flowers in
the night You may get a violet^ or you may
pick a nettle. It seems to me that Bose might do
better than to take Cathcart."
Tom Hey wood 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 suscepti-
ble and simple ; and that, as a man of honour, it
was his duty, having a far better knowledge of life
and especially of aifairs of the heart, to see to it
that she was not harmed.
lie was so far influenced by his aunt's remarks
from time to time that he was determined at cmy
rate to probe the matter, and to see just how
things really were. His visits became more
frequent, and his attentions were assiduous. He
cx(rted himself in conversation, he went through
the usual musical routine on such occasions, and
alter a considerable period he found himself in
just the same place as at the beginning. It was a
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 315
new experience, and piqued his pride. He began
to perceive some zest in this pursuit. On the
whole, he was glad that Miss Wentworth had
not dropped into his hands as easily as he at
first feared. He was satisfied that Miss Kose
was genuine ; that there was no artfulness ; that
she was playing no part
He absented himself for a time, but at his next
visit his absence excited no remark. He dis-
cussed the ladies of Norwood, and expressed
admiration for one or two in particular. He
found Miss Kose the most generous of critics
and the most discriminating of friends. 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 respect which he had
never felt before for a pretty woman. He now read
favourite authors aloud, and indulged in criticisms.
He discussed various questions in literature, in
art, in science. If Hey wood chose to talk of gay
trifles, so did she. Just as naturally and un-
affectedly did she follow and accompany him if
music or painting were the theme. If he intro-
duced a discussion, liose entered with zest, but
never with heat, into philosophical reasonings,
and in matters of natural science proved herself
far better informed than was Hey wood. He could
316 NOBWOOD, &0.
not deny that a more intimate acquaintance
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 pro-
gress. 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 which he was warded off. Nothing
could be discovered but simple, artless, straight-
forward conduct.
It would not be just to leave the impression
that Hey wood's pride alone, or chiefly, had wrought
in him a determination to press his suit to an
issue. At every step ^le found warmer senti-
ments kindling. Admiration had passed on a
stage, and began to take on the colours of love.
Love, once entertained, throve; and with a genuine
affection there came a great change over him, and
for the better. A deep and true love is full of
humility and gratitude. Heywood dropped that
^ ill-fitting conceit which veiled his real goodness,
and his overweening confidence in himself gave
way to diffidence. Once or twice, arming himself
with a determination to bring his fate to an issue,
he found himself, he knew not how, carried away
from his purpose, and as far from success as ever.
At last he determined that, with whatever
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 317
abruptness it was necessary, he would make
known to Kose his sentiments, and, at least,
know whether or not he was to be blessed.
There was to be the weekly gathering at Dr.
Wentworth's on the morrow. The house and
grounds lay open to all family friends. No for-
mality 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 his 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 roamed 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 Jook, a word with an em-
phasis, or for a passing sentence, and if both
parties be in sympathy, it is surprising to see by
how many accidents they are favoured. They are
sent on some errand, one to help the other; or
they are left alone, every person about them
?" KORWOOD; OR,
ia*T-.Tu: tr.i? raost natural reasons in the world for
jT'i \^ of. Th? very sun seems to wink at them
:,\-;.^-. :he Kinking leaves. The shadows that
r*:tr aS. u: them serve as a protecting screen.
y: I . -; :.'.r^ favours fortunate love 1 No one knew
:- .v.- . .c::aj^^ of such circumstances better than
H,; V xL X. one had less art to discei;p oppor-
iV, :::; ayyointed morrow, therefore, Heywood,
^::. i o.Ar:::::.i: grace, passed from group to group,
*3^: :x^ :4 ;vrsi.u in the grounds was there who did
IK^ :i\ I :h,i: Heywoo^l had paid them most agree-
*:Ie ^vr^^::j^I Attention. Certainly Alice Cathcart
lhsi^h5 :5.^ :th reason. Heywood took his place
b\ b^ c 6,U\ a:ivI either he found her in her happiest
lUvwU vT h^i the art to dn\w forth her hidden
|v^x^r; for AlivV fairly blossomed. Eose, who
l^tH'^ x^hcit tr^\iure lay hidden deep within, was
\Wl^htv\{ to hiive others perceive it. Barton had
wovv^r 54k vtt his sdjiter so radiant, and exhibit such
tvx^w^ v^/ vvuv rscition. She met Heywood*s com-
|\)uu\H\ts iuui fatxMv them lack as a mirror throws
U*v*iv tao suuliirht taut falls upon it; and when,
iu HU eiuxnmter of wit that followed, Alice fairly
\tuu|uisuv\l hiuu lleywooil, plucking a wreath of
Ou^ h\xiu\\ ?iUoklo vine, and twining in it a spray
\Kr twv* of oiiiusou fuchsias, with fine manner
uIUhxhI tv* oivwu her, saying, with a humorous
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 319
modesty: "The Muses are to be crowned, not
contended with."
All clapped and cried Bravo I bravo ! and no one
seemed so radiantly happy as Kose, except Alice
herself. She seemed strangely brilliant; and
when the beautiful, glossy, green leaves, and the
glowing colours of the fuchsia were laid upon her
raven hair, Heywood called all to witness how
much she resembled Kaflfaers picture of " Poesie''
Dr. Wentworth and his friends repaired to the
old drooping elm. Soon they fell into conversa-
tion. I know not how the subject of cathedrals
came up, but Dr. Wentworth called to Eose :
'* My child, bring me two or three volumes of
Britten's ' Cathedrals of England.' Perhaps some
of these nimble gentlemen will help you."
Heywood was standing by Alice, though listen-
ing to everything that concerned Kose. He would
have sprung to fulfil the intimation, but at that
moment Alice was addressing a question to him.
Barton Cathcart quietly moved toward the house,
and, repairing to the library, brought out the
volumes. One of them was opened to the ground
plan of York Minster, and lain 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
320 NORWOOD; OR,
notion of Divinities either from the material world,
or from man himself. I suspect that much of
what we have been taught to regard as a stupid
idolatry was regarded, in its time, by intelligent
worshippers, only as a kind of symbolism. Trees
were supposed to contain deities. Fire was the
element through which gods manifested them-
selves. If I had lived before the days of Eevelar
tion, I should have worshipped the Sun, or Trees."
" On such a day as this, Doctor," said Bacon,
" I think you would be glad to run under your
tree-god to get rid of your sun-god. But I sup-
pose you would divide the year between them,
and say prayers to the sun in winter, and to the
trees in summer."
"You were speaking 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, however, between the im-
pression 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 that you saw as you expected to be?"
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 321
asked Eose, 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 nor devotion that first drew me to York
Minster. It was curiosity. But I was over-
whelmed 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 presenti-
ment, one almost feels that he is drawing near to
the Eternal City! By some subtle sympathy,
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 Niagara. I found
myself stepping proudly, like a conqueror, and
moving with the dignity of a prince. But in a
cathedral-experience this is tempered by certain
other influences, which inspire tenderness and
sadness. Now if upon this state of mind there
arises a solemn chant, boriie 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
VOL. II. Y
322 NORWOOD; OR,
most solemn and tender associations of his life,
coming back to him in such a bewildering place,
fringed with murmuring echoes, is it strange that
the spirit seems to drop the body, and to hover,
in its full glorious liberty, on the bounds of the
Infinite and the Eternal?"
Judge Bacon watched the Doctor, as he pro-
ceeded, with a 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 it when at heart he was in full sym-
pathy with the person against whom it was
directed.
"I confess. Doctor," said he, with mock sad-
ness, " 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, accord-
ing to my observations," said Parson Buell. " In-
deed I have regarded you as one of the wakeful
and watching."
"Ah, that is the minister's fault. Instead of
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 323
the absurd method now pursued of doctrinal ex-
amination, if I were set to select clergymen, I
should pick and determine by their somniferous-
ness. I would settle the man that yielded sleep,
and turn away every candidate that kept me
awake. A minister should be a true Pulpit
Poppy! But go on. Doctor, as your remarks
were not half an hour long, I know that you
had but just entered on the topic of cathedrals."
" The cathedral is really a symbol of Christi-
anity ; complex, multitudinous, sublime ! It was
not enough for men to make the 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
their very doors and windows so that they should
frame to the eye the figure of the cross ; but some
bold man determined that the cross should be
reared in proportions so vast that a Christian as-
sembly could worship, not before it, but within it.
Look upon this ground plan. It is a noble cross.
A cathedral stript of its accessories is but a sub-
lime cross, subsidizing to itself the resources of
society. The gorgeous windows, the elaborate or-
naments, the exquisite carvings of men, beasts and
foliage, silently represent the homage which art,
man, and nature, pay to the cross. Symbolism
can go no further. Every city of England has,
lying in tranquil grandeur, within it an architec-
Y 2
TCEL -r-ii r^C UIK OK- ^EHICL ,31We WHOLiBS
ssn Jaii Is: TiirrmiiT JUL. ia:-?Ffimxii:SHr.: snr
lAxt^ '^Ilij- sain &' lii- \Aagr cr^^Ft inousiD jl
iv.'izs CKL 111 'vouan^Fv mr jl ist ixmiaaBffls
jiM^ ir isniiz^'.a- "Fails' ^^ ^ tiHt siifiic JBUd
1 IIIH 111: ru3 C MTSSJjteCSirDt:'"
Tt^: .~ 1 ;^ iwit-ML " ALL I fSU. l^iiL inw^^^ 3it^
. L^Xi& nrI -SrOTi ID JL ii fiOlIt X9X^ OH ak
i? yiir ir. i^niL ^imiffisntrin. n^ I icb ja TIid-
tiusdSi'^ I wi*iiiL Tdlimr-T -srrfw- mL, TTonr jtbets for
xliv T.itt' Tic itciisr t l^f- itili be."^ s&id Rose,
wjii juic liuuiirtfL iifir ^liu:^ i:* rrrt Aiiffe a xkauer
- Tie di.T ijfcd itiain. -wshzil like this, tboogli a
i&:o(lL taj-l i^r, ii ItrsJiig iii Julj. Hie aftemooii
wiis well ^ixjiiicei. &iju the sun was sank so low
tiua ii pciirt\i iis ligLt tiirough the exlialatiis
VILLAGE LIFE IS NEW ENGLAND. 325
rising from the ground very, much as the sun is
now doing," said the Doctor, turning toward the
West "See how these evergreens seem fairly-
banked up against a very cloud of light ! Well,
I had little idea of the interior of Winchester
Cathedral, 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 the 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 Eeve-
lation and Joy, that were symbolized I To com-
plete 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 impres-
sive gesture.
" My dear Doctor, if one could only go to meet-
ing in a cathedral, what joy would it be ! Espe-
cially for children, what a god-send under a dull
sermon. Now what can children do in church?
The sermon they can't imderstand. They are not
allowed to 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
3S6 hobwood; or,
witk mj handkerchiet Bat a cathedral affords
boundless amnaement for the eyes. While a pro-
mie^ fiiaaj:e was droning in my ears, I could busy
mrseli in tracing the cdoars in the windows,
lak^n-jr oat the ridieoloos old saints, or recalling
ihi* amusing legends If the discourse ran on
kvcrine the Ttable act of giving a stone to
thc^ who want bread ^I could study the curious
carrinc^i stoDe foliage, stone dragons, stone beasts,
in all their Tarieties ! Look here, Doctor, ^I be-
liere that cathedrals would convert me ! What a
pity thdkt w^ have none! One of the benefits
w-j:jx**i I antkn^^tte from the spread of Komanism
tt ALcrva fe$ the introduction of the Boman Civil
\a^ dcx^i ot cathedrals to put to shame the plain-
rt?ji * r,i^^cic^:JKses, and also to ally religion
'^ Vvx: misirht as well sigh for barons' castles,
ivrir^s^iV pAlacvtSv Roman forums, Greek temples,
KiT^i ni^r. pvTamiis^ Men forget that all institu-
tkv,x5^ v^;::om5w sc1kx1s of painting, special forms of
^rv'hit^vtx::^, an? the outworking of the inward
j^^ri^ vV an Age. When that spirit changes, or
sJn'^ vHilx it i$ in vain to attempt to reproduce its
tUv*^"^^ tfvvrws again* e^tcept as dead memorials*
^iJv^sirab h^d their epoch. They represent a
K s^xl.w^to (vrivvl as it were, in the moral world.
\\ X ^^^V^*^^ ** ^'^^ attempt to bring back ancient
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 327
manuscripts with their splendid illuminations, in-
stead of printed books; or to re-introduce the
armour 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 by, by copying its dead
forms. If it was good for anything in its own
time, that is the very reason why it will be out of
place in our time."
"For gracious' sake, Doctor, pause! What
have we done to deserve such a discourse ? Be-
think you ! It is not Sunday ! A gentleman in
Boston sent his Irish servant to his wine cellar to
draw from a cask of choice Madeira a specimen
glass. The servant forgot to turn the faucet and
all night the stream trickled ^ran ^trickled, until
not a drop was left."
"Well, Judge, what then?"
" Sure enough, I begin to see that the case will
not apply to you ; for the cask did at length run
dry, and stop. You run dry enough, but never
stop. But, at the risk of starting you off again,
I cannot help saying that, after such a sentimental
description as you gave of the effects of a cathe-
dral on ffou, to follow on with the statement that
cathedrals have no longer any function are dead
mere mighty museums, is peculiarly refreshing to
a logical mind ! "
328 NORWOOD; or,
"Both things are true, nevertheless. I was
speaking of old cathedrals, in whose presence a
thousand years rise np in dim procession, whose
very strangeness stirs the imagination, in which lie
buried kings and prelates whose doings filled their
own age and gave colour to history, to walk in
them is like a vision of the Kesurrection ! Gene-
rations 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 exceeding
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 number, of every age, and all tongues,
lifting up a common praise to God ! Your own
heart, for the moment, seems to express a devo-
tion as wide as creation, and to be the instru-
ment 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 thou-
sand years ? A clean, new cathedral, in America,
is a solecism. 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.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 329
Use deadens romance. They are for pilgrims,
far-comers, not for the resident inhabitants. For
a few, of romantic tendency, they may retain 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 monu-
ments of the sincerity of a strong but rude age
to poets and antiquarians ! "
" Keligion seems to have had a hard time in this
world. It is so busy with its institutions, its go-
vernments, its doctrines and orders that it has
little time to bestow on wen."
" That is more true than you meant. But it
is not true of religion more than of justice, of
beauty, of every organized principle."
" Yoii are right for once, Doctor," said Judge
Bacon. " The law is an analogous case in point.
We go back with great interest and profit to the
Boman 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
code were to be introduced bodily into modem
courts, they would be in incessant conflict with
society in all its interests."
Dr. Wentworth resumed :
** Cathedrals and liturgies, after losing their
original force and function, derive a secondary
value as a connecting medium between remote
330 Norwood; or,
periods and ages. Their associations are like mis-
tletoe on aged trees, which have a value which
the trees do not. The attempt 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 Church that breathes
through them. To forsake these, and to make
modem 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 gran-
deur by setting out starveling Lombardy poplars."
" But," said Judge Bacon, " you ought to admit
that a Puritan cathedral would be proper. Its
structure might be new, but its spirit, which ac-
cording 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 lan-
guage ; 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. Went-
worth, accepting the new direction thus suggested
for the conversation, "with men in a minority.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. S31
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. Their experience breathes in the psalms,
and in the major and minor prophets. No mis-
take is more utter than to suppose the Books of
Prophecy are filled with prophesying, or that the
special predictions 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 was sure to be a losing game ; that
the Invisible Power, who sat silent behind the
clouds while everything seemed to overwhelm the
good and promote the bad, was nevertheless
awake, aroused and terribly in earnest for truth
and justice ; and that he seemed remiss only be-
cause Jehovah worked in larger circles than those
in which men wrought, and brought events to
their account and judgment a little later and
332 NORWOOD; or,
lower down than men desired and expected. These
are those elements of the prophetic books that
will always make them the refuge of the op-
pressed. But the Puritan, if he went to the Old
Testament for consolation and strength, certainly
did not find there the peculiar intellectual ele-
ments which marked him. The intellectual con-
trast 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. Emotion is the 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."
"You mean that ought to do it," said the
Judge. "I wish to my soul it did! It was a
poor exchange that the Puritan made when he
bargained off imagination for logic, emotion for
metaphysics, moral consciousness for proo A
genuine Yankee Puritan thinks that he can prove
anything. 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 some-
body doubt the multiplication table, that he
might prove it. I am tired of logic, and argu-
ment, and doctrine, and discussion. The fact is,
Doctor, since Tommy Hey wood has been in town,
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 333
I have taken to the Episcopal Church, where
everything is cut and dried, and the service is so
long that the sermon has to be short. I have
serious thoughts of joining."
"I am glad, Judge, to learn that you have
serious thought about anything religious. The
New England theologians have not been poetic,
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 undervalued the
imagination, and sought to replace it with solid
reasonings. I must admit that, at some period,
they 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 dealt with great moral truths in such a
manner that the imagination of their people has
been powerfully developed. The impression that
New England men are practical and shrewd, but
not imaginative or aesthetic, has arisen from the
fact that peculiar influence prevented the de-
velopment 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
334 NORWOOD ; OR,
of Dante are not 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 of thought traversed by New England
theology, involving the philosophy of the human
nund, 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 relations 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 la fact, however, it led ^to immense fer-
tility 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,
without old superstitions, without anything for the
eye or ear, sustained purely by the exercise of
reason and in directions where the reason de-
pended largely upon the imagination. In other
lands, the popular faith rested upon an order
of men lifted into splendid authority. The New
England clergyman was a plain citizen, utterly
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 335
disdaining all trappings. Elsewhere, cathedrals,
festive days, and gorgeous ceremonies sustained
men's belief. It is hardly possible to make bar-
renness more bare of all appliances for the senses
than was New England. Yet there arose in the
popular mind a vast and stately system of truth,
covering two worlds."
"Take breath, Doctor, let us see! elm-trees,
cathedrals, pre-Kaphaelitism, the Old and New
Testament, the Puritan, New England clergymen,
and New England theology ! I put it to you, as
a humane and honest physician, whether there
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 is 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 their 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, fighting winter storms with its
SSr mscmxjci ool
tZ Ti2ii:u5if! Tie oIt tree fit to repre-
onr ii:HrrT-i:nT2jr l*-cie is the one that is
m ST^9ifL n. irxieT ft 3z aiiier. There ! what
dci TOD 8hT vj tbii2 tf a fpacimen of discourse in
TOur own reiii ? *
^It i^ tLaroQ^ilr weH aid," replied Went-
woriii. - ani if we wei& at libertr now to select
the tre^ of Liberty, undoabte-Uy that would be it
But it La5 been done for us. The elm is historic
It is identified not only with American ideas and
men, bat with the great struggles of liberty. The
Pittsfield elm, now a mere wreck, was a rallying
point in oar Revolution, as it had been before
among the aborigines. What shall we say of the
dims in Springfield, in Hadley, in Hatfield, which
bttvo played a part in colonial history? And
what of that famous Boston Common elm, which
in t MuHsachusetts what the Charter Oak was to
t\mnootirut?"
'Stop ^top. Now you are on my ground.
^f\\ii %\\\\\ \m tho llosUm Common was not the
OlM^rhr 0^k of Jlassaehusetts. It was another
^\\\ \\y^^ Nxhioh WW have prol^bly forgotten. I
^M^^^^ lUo oil olm that sUxd on the comer of
l^v^^,^ ^ua M,sJv^^y ^lixH^ iu Boston, now Essex
Avs.i \^ ^^^^^V^^^^^ *5,xvl^ rUnied in 1646, it was
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 337
Boston. I don't believe there was ever a city in
the world where the men in authority had such
hard 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 appeared. In the
night the dew, or Puck, had shaped in golden
letters and nailed with a spike upon the elm,
* Tree of Liberty' The offence was remembered,
and in 1775 the British soldiers cut down the
dangerous tree."
'' Thank you. Judge. If any tree should be
adopted as the national symbol, it is the American
elm ^the historic ' Tree of Liberty' "
" I forgot to say," said the judge, with a know-
ing 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 fortune
to boot. For we should have the miracle of the
oil and meal over again. The wood would never
give out. It would grow on his hands faster
than ever it did on its own roots."
VOL. II. z
338
KOSWOOD; OSp
** We are agreed, then, the elm is the Tree of
Liberty. It is the XatioDal Tree I *
The Bun went down. Pete Sawmill was busy
jittftfliig from the kitchen to the table, spread in
an adjoining space among erei^green trees. The
comiiany broke up and repaired thither for tea.
Seats were arranged in nooks and ooTerts, among
the shrubbery, and friends fonned into groups
here and there, in the most unconstrained liberty.
Rose flitted hither and thither with hospitable
attt'utions, seeming to take no part for heiself
extvpt the pleasure of serving. So Heywood
found to his chagrin. An evil Eite hampered him
all the evening. Nothing fell out fintimately ;
and he returned home under a doad. Alice
remained for the night
"Why, Alice," said Rose, when they had re-
imired to their rooms, " what a woman of society
you have become I You used to admire my free-
dom in company. It is now my turn to enTv yoo.
I never saw you so brilliant."
Alire smiled. Yet the expreasicm of her hee
waH not altogether of pleasure. As clouds ooming
HMI K*ing, in a bright moonlight evening, seena Id
UtnUi or brighten the lawn, 93 in akcnaxui
ttU-iiAUnf thoughts and sad ones cast thcsr naffle^
^iffim i|^n Alice's face.
I! I
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 339
CHAPTER XVIIL
NUTTING ITS JOYS AND DISASTERS.
When Autumn days come, Nature, like a retired
merchant, changes its manner from thrift and
bustling industry to languid leisure and to osten-
tatious luxury. The sun rises later and sets
earlier than when it had all the summer crops
on hand and was playing universal husbandman.
There is no nest-building now, and no bird-
singing which is a purely domestic arrangement,
designed on the birds' part to keep peace in the
family while the children are being r^tised, 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
z 2
340 NORWOOD; or,
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 colours. 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 past life and solemnly thinks upon
the advancing future. Along the fencerows, where
seeds and late berries may be found, birds hop
silently, as if ashamed to be seen. Soon they \vill
change their solitary ways and collect in flocks.
To-day, the fields will swarm with them; to-
morrow, there will not be one left, and they will be
picking their food many degrees of latitude south.
In the gay sadness of autumn. Barton Cathcart,
now released from his school, wandered about with
his gun. Sometimes he brought home from the
hills his bag full of squirrels, and sometimes from
the bosky coverts he secured many brace of
partridges. At other times, he wandered all day
without once firing his gun.
Barton loved field sports, yet not so keenly that
he chased through the woods and coverts without
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 341
observation. He stopped to trace the lines of
lichen on stones, or the exquisite mosses in damp
and shaded nooks. Many squirrels ran and hid
while he stood under the yellow-leaved nut-trees
admiring the russet hickories, the brilliant maples,
scarlet, pink, and yellow. He remembered what
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 the low sounds of the
winds that chanted through the trees, and cast
down to the ground multitudes of yellow leaves,
on which they had just been playing. 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
him, or sprung from branch to branch overhead,
barking and chattering in full security. Ah, these
great October days! October woods I 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
Eose and Alice had so often had around the old
farm-house.
342 NORWOOD; OR,
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 himseK had been a living
actor.
But young Cathcart's mood was not wholly a
sentimental sympathy 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 demeanour. He fancied that he
perceived in Rose Wentworth a growing pleasure
in Heywoods attentions. He resisted the im-
pression stoutly. He cast it out with a resolute
effort. It returned again. When the mind is ill
at ease and restless, a forbidden thought, in spite
of all its efforts, will play about it as at night a
moth whirls about a lamp ; and, like this foolish
moth-miller, the more it is hurt by the flame
through which it dashes, the more irresistible
seems the attraction, until singed, maimed and
sore, the poor insect lies crumpled up beneath
the light which lured it to its destruction.
It is not to be imagined that Cathcart had for
the several years past lived in an unbroken dream
of hope, while at the same time he had taken no
direct steps .to secure his position in Miss Went-
worth's regard.
Until he was established in life, or had a near
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 343
prospect of it, he did not deem it honourable, cer-
tainly not wise, to disclose to Miss 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
faultered to tell. Even in a nature as self-
restrained and silent as Barton Cathcart'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; but, whatever time
could be wrung from sleep and amusement, com-
patible with health, he bestowed upon the study
of law. But his school was ended. His legal
preparation was already far beyond what has
been found suflBcient to set up many .a successful
lawyer. But it was not enough for him barely to
succeed. After another year spent at Cambridge
he hoped to have laid a foundation on which he
1%4 sokwood; ob
onui bmlii :cr lire. WTien, therefore, during
diw wmmer, ae bad aoticed Hej wood's increasiiig
mxen^ -ji L'r. Wentvonh's fstmilT, he conld not
u^rbei&r Q:i^.i:fine3k The matter was not helped
by Torr.Tiy TATt'* ;ifectionate solidtnde.
-Lixk L^r^, BiiTton, what is your opinion
of that st^uiLem teller that's come to live at
Chaniler'?"
** lly opinion. Tommy, is Tery Etyourable. He
is a perfect gentleman and an honourable man.
I think very highly of him."
**\Vt;ll, 1 s'posed so by the way you and he
^ent round together. They say he's goin* to git
Gliandlor's money. I've no objection. Mrs. Chand-
ler '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 fetter for all it
does. But I guess that southern feller wants a
leetle moreen money."
" I should hope so, Tommy. Money is useful in^
its way ; but it takes more than that to make a man."
* Siirtaiu ! But some folks thinks they have the
right to the best of everything jest because they've
(^t. mon\v. Now, for my part, I don't b'lieve
Ihat wulhoru feller goes down to Dr. Wentworth
to p t pill?^. tf hoV sick as often as he goes there,
\Wn ir^ ^ ^^^ ^^ ^i^' ^^ doctor-stuff ain't
liKvh toouiv!''
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 345
Barton knew that Tommy Taft's judgments of
affairs were seldom mistaken, and these hints fell
in with his own fears. Yet he had no wish to
make Tommy a confident of his hopes and fears.
The colour came slightly to his cheek and he was
silent.
"It's my opinion that Miss Kose knows who
she likes," added Tommy, sententiously, at the
same time nodding his head corner-wise several
times at the ground, as if the grass had disputed
him.
"I presume she does," said Barton. "Most
rational people do."
"There was that Boston feller that was here
two or three summers, 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 while I let 'em swing. I seed
that she looked down on him ; and I'm thinkin'
Miss Eose won't choose below her."
Barton did not care to prolong the conversation
"'^''^'^rife^SssaJgiy Taft ; but, except by an abrupt de-
parture, he could not easily stop him. The
moment that any one showed an anxiety to avoid
any 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
?li yoEWDar*: ck.
1
L
rrr rr-r*r ior amzET would iii'VT call Infn
rr ^L^ rr--:-r asnit. ^ Jve aeen em a ^ood deal
at 7^ I L.:r=^ inn^, anc Jve noticed liiat she sort
i l.:k^ tuh^ azi doLT look at bim so stca^lit
tc ^ ^^^"Sr-Iisr ar siftr di#s tP Other foIkB. And
SET r^-^ !;:n *. man'^ im; and he's tliere
aisivr rTar- dey ol cnit arzant or another. To
i*r :r^ r r 4 r?'tfi: iiia!?e to ro to, and every
iKiCT i XT husL "I2*B!*^: hoL thfin,** Mid Tammy,
ra 1 im.wTTtr mt. "^inepe's m diffezence, you
kii.w. 1: -iitt 4.iL^i bbican the bt pleased with
TiTTi .T 1^7" itilrfr xiid*^ oaEme alcmg then aU signs
y^' 'ZliiC f *
An r.Tmrry rii?w5*d hs hows at the ground
xr ti^ zruis: s.LJtZLi zi f!siphatic manner.
Tt-^t v^.iri *? & !*-TLraiatkm of Barton Cath-
."tir: iTizs. Titej irrfiAied him like the spines
* WtC T.ncziT, I pr^escme it's her own bnsi-
r:^^ I: sir :;i:Tc^i I suppose we ought to be."
r. -nr^iT drew ri^^r^Ii up to his full height, and
t;:rr.:rc iii ^v iirwtly on Barton, without any
j^tir.c i" -i tv^ne or banter in his manner, said:
* Ivirtor., n\v K\t, Fre know'd you ever since
\^ni \^is 5^ hiirh. I took to you naterally. I've
jvt Kvii pivniJor of you than I ever was of any
thiUiT on :!ihip or shore; and if I could, see you
timri iinl to Koso, I wouldn't care a wink if I didn't
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 347
live an hour afterward. 'Taint 'no use, boy, for
you and me to be coverin' up things. I know ye
better'n you 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 ain't any chimney ? 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 daro
say he ever forgot his 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 afiection which old
Tommy bore to him. He was also affected by the
fact that the old man, hanging on the skirts of
society, poor, and now growing every year more
and more feeble, had evidently been watching for
his interest, during years of absence, with paternal
fidelity. Besides all this, a proud and sensitive
nature finds it far easier, often, to speak con-
fidingly to one in a station below him than to an
equal or a superior.
Whatever may have been the influences moving
348 nobwood; or,
him, Barton felt that it would be a great relief to
lean on another's judgment.
"Well, Uncle Tommy, what would you do if
you were in my place ? "
" Now that's sensible like, Barton, my boy. I'd
go right to that fellow, and ask him plump what
he's after. K he's just foolin' round for the fun
on't, he ought to understand that there's other
folks lives in this world as well as him. And if
he is in 'amest, why, then, the woman has got to
choose between ye, that's alL"
" I'll do it, by heavens ! " 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 ! It's like hittin'
a ball the same way it's roUin' 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,
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 349
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 for 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 workmen 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 minister 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 splash, 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 Taft. When he awaked, he woke
with only half of himself, and that the poorest part.
But the impulse of the night before remained.
Barton left Tommy Taft resolved to see
350 NORWOOD; or,
Heywood and to have an understanding with him.
He went to Mr. Chandler's house. But already
in his walk thither his purpose was somewhat
shaken. For, as he reflected how he would break
the matter to his friend, he began to see so many
diflBculties that his purpose wavered. "Shall I
ask him what his intentions are towards Miss
Wentworth ? What if he should reply by asking
me on whose authority I inquire? She has a
father and mother; have they deputed me to
watch over their daughter's weKare ? 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 gentleman to solicit her affection.
What would Rose think if she knew that I had
interrogated Heywood 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 ! Where do you keep your-
self lately ? Are you hidden in the woods, or have
you gone home to live like a hermit? What
are you doing now-a-days ! Since your school was
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 351
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 some 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 with-
out 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 go everybody, 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 Eose has laid injunc-
tions upon all her friends. Let all the squirrels
take notice ! Not a nut do we mean to leave be-
hind us, and any winter stores which they may
desire should be put up immediately ! "
Barton, who had started rather fiercely on his
errand, returned with a sense of having escaped a
great blunder.
"This comes, '\ 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 it
afterward. I will keep my own counsels, and act
upon my own proper judgment, and especially, 1
do not tliink I shall go to Tommy Taft again.
Z wL MXE3BL :zi' vior
"WMF iffwtHyrac. jmi
-eefiiz^ JjtfTccL.T' Gnsmnb. TTifr -wanmnityai
US' sax "D-jji ^nxT' oKt iir -wrnrnifr. Wijr Jii
? ^ -=tiT^ 'tiB Bc-m: - ITijr ni 5fr mst at
3kin lk& mI ntusr aumir Tngspwy izL ISit^ k ms
-ssir-'inil^ ToitiL :atf Siiiujica. ^p: fiifii and
!!-u*2-ui^ ^a iifC iir laif ^sgngfltniu ILt v^ioo
^(Ht^!n^L ijr tiii; iiSDHimiunL ikw a i&Se' cr two
niin T7:t:*i2f rj^n^r^ i mt* inf Lir &j2!Iky cur skirted
^:^Tu 'uitfir fiia& 2i^*fiur isie (n^nifire of tihis mge
K^* rllsw '2nz JiLi -^ miL^ bodL wats^ a laiine. ooe of
liX!^ 3i:^ rrrmoaiiie- ami po^tncTrSi^iiDe places in the
cv^i:i^ ijiii net; tine lesi ;4ii2a:aL!tiTe to manj because
ite^ fxvi oif dieiur. i^xf water weie fiOed with tzout.
XvQ t;]ur tLDjoL the opening of this lariiie the dinner
^a$ tv b^ e&t^xK; aziid aQ the baskets and pack-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 355
ages pertaining thereto were put under charge of
Hiram Beers, who also had a general oversight
of all the " critters," as Deacon Marble 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 ne^glect of
it. Yet, with occasional exceptions, it had for
many years been a kind of parish re-union. The
minister, the deacons, the trustees, the staid and
dignified old members were expected to turn out,
to renew their youth and gallantries ; and, even
more than on Thanksgiving Day, certain antics
and frivolities were permitted among church
members, which, on any other occasion, would
have savoured of a levity that Aunt Polly Marble
would have witnessed with severe disapprobation.
Early on that morning there began to wend
along the road families of young and old, parties
of young men and maidens, a few on horseback,
many in waggons 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 Eachel 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
2 A 2
356 NORWOOD; OB,
make haste, and one or two with specimens oi
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!"
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, Eose 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 occasions felt his own superiority over
all the rest of mankind.
Dr. Buell rode in his favourite chaise, carrying
with him a neighbouring minister who had preached
for him 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 conscience and a good digestion, well-
exercised, had given such admirable proportions
that all men wondered how he and his wife, who
was not a whit less blessed than her husband,
could sit in one seat, or how one ordinary horse
could draw them !
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 357
Hiram kept up a running fire as they severally
arrived.
"Good momin', Dr. Buell; drive in here
that's a good hitchin' spot. Don't stop now. I'll
take the darlin' out of the thills, and see that he's
fastened &11 right. You'd better go on and keep
the deacons in order. There's no tellin', when a
horse or a 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.
" Bless me, deacon ! Good morning, marm !
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 them tree-tops ! "
" Yes, yes ; I'll bet on you and the squirrels I "
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 pos-
ture, as if he could not afford to lose a good
thing.
358 NORWOOD; or,
And we think so too, and will present it for
him. The deacon was waiting to say :
" If I get oa a squirrel, Hiram, he'll not be worth
much!"
There is an unending charm that goes with the
supple gaieties of the young. But another interest,
scarcely less, though of a different kind, attends
the occasional outbreak of youthful frolics among
the old. Here were the yellow woods full of
happy people ; and, among them, many old men
and women of stem morals and severe manner of
life, most of them stiffened with hard labour, and
not more than once or twice in a year seeking
pleasure or recreation for their own sakes. Many,
many years it is since they sprang into the trees
as do those nimble youngsters who are making
the chestnuts rattle from the topmost boughs.
But they remember their youthful feats, and
boast them, and banter each other. Hiram seemed
determined to have some of the old gentlemen up
in the trees :
" I tell ye. Deacon Trowbridge, I think you're
as smart yet as Deacon Marble is, though he
takes on sech a nimble sort of steppin' 'round. It's
my opinion that, at a fair climb, you'd beat him."
** Oh, Hiram, I'm too heavy ^though I'm pretty
spry yet. You see, brother Marble hasn't got so
much to carry up with him ! "
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 359
" No, nor so much strength to do it with."
" I tell ye what," said Deacon Marble, quite
in the spirit of a boy, "1*11 stump you, Trow-
bridge, to try it. I'll give you that big tree with
low branches, and I'll take that slim one and
beat you."
They soon pulled oflf 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 his head. If each
jerk upward had carried 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.
360 NORWOOD; or,
The shouts of merriment soon drew many to
this rather unusual scene, and, among others, the
deacons' wives. Mrs. Trowbridge gave way to
unrestrained laughter. She was a natural laugher.
She laughed with her mouth, 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, r" I should as soon"
and again she was swept away from her remark,
like one carried out from shore by a refluent wave,
"I should as soon expect" the words were
drowned in laugh "to see" . . . "to see
. . . a but ,' at which she fairly seemed
to dissolve, and could no longer hold herself up,
" a butter-tub climb a tree ! "
Far other were the emotions which filled the
soul of Polly Marble when she beheld the scene.
A fire blazed behind her 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 she gained relief:
" Deacon Marble, you'd better come down ! An
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 361
old man like you a courtin' 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 pufifin' and red on the ground, and the other
up in the tree-top ! No, it's no laughin' matter !
It's a sin and a shame, and I'm surprised that
anybody should laugh at such levity and foUy,"
giving poor Mrs. Trowbridge a look of reproof
that ought to have sobered her, but which in
fact served to renew her agony of laughing, 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 yourself and I don't think you have a
speck you'll come down ! Everybody'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 you to be a squirrel he'd a
made you 80?"
^'^^ hobwood; om^
- IXin't, Polly, don't Tm comm' dowa. Jiet
Kvk lion\ I waut to tell ye aometlizn^!''
Ino4iutiou8 Polly I WiU you nerer kam tiie
A\\^il lulniHM of that husband of yours ? Sie thi-
lnH^ uudor the treo to hear what he has to sar,
)ift!4 a:( U" irivt^ a rousing shake to the branch od
%,vh hfc vms lying. Down came the chestnuts,
A3^i .v n inuno the chestnut-burrs ! They rattled
, Srr KyimH tliey pattered on her shouldeia^
v; .^81*^ hiui^-Hi frivolous burr, given to levity,
! ^ V yrc in^w ;ifwclaele8 and knocked them quite
'. K' T,)qKt^ %k)* was soon on the ground, and
%VM u. Aiitt lui^v WA the impression on his spouse
wK^ %ctk Yfrii^fiT iW aol of getting off the limb
^v ^^M.v ik %tr )dM ImvHurhl upon her the chest-
^iv ^viMMfc % in MMcy,
^ it ^ ;^W Jb^nikVtt vHtiif ? OK what a politician
^^ ;p % MMJMi i^ ^'(i v*(ULy feepi out of the church
s%*K^ ^taML 4^^ti^ lk# luilK widely separated,
i^As ^sM^"^ "w^ mttik tii aairtL The young
\^\K-.i .ou^S?^ iiai^^ wi l&itf wnr young picked
^^ *K Xv^^M* ^K*. CW w charming.
VV ^ .\mHv\w1 litg^ ji^ ttwify w?9 as busy as
v^\ *i^ ^wiN i;i^ Ag^fiw P^/ ^fiifci^? Af trwsL The
H.-KsV Vs^v vx W JNCWW? j3WUi WW had full
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 363
looking at His venturesomeness was equal 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 incredibly short time, and
the Doctor's brown bags, replenished from Pete's
labours, began to stand out with fatness.
Heywood had made himself agreeable to the
various parties. His aunt had joined the Went-
worths, and Eose seemed not displeased with the
attentions which he paid her. In truth, there was
something in Heywood's manner peculiarly win-
ning. He was strong, frank, manly; but in
everything an innate refinement manifested itself,
and that unconscious self-possession and quietness
which come from long familiarity with good so-
ciety. Eose 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 honestly aMrm. That it was more than
an impression upon her imagination I do not
believe. This certainly is much, and in perhaps
a 'majority of cases it is final and effectuaL But
while Bose was pleased with Heywood, and found
his presence more and more agreeable, she began
361 50BWOOD; OB,
to look more closel j at her own feelings, at her
relations and his to other pec^le.
During the whcde summer Boae had peroeiyed
a declensi(m of attention in Barton Cathcart to-
wards her, and nearly in the proportion in which
Heywood had grown more attentive. It seemed
as if one were quietly withdrawing and gi'ving
place to the other.
There are many things which we do not value
if only we can have them, but which we pain-
fully nuss if they are withheld. Every one has
noticed how little effect praise produces on him,
and yet how distinctly he feels the lack of it when
it is not given. While Barton seemed at home
with her, and the long acquaintanceship, and
childhood associations clustered about their funi-
liar intercourse, Bose did not fairly estimate the
value at which she held Barton. But when he
seemed to fall off, when in his stead another, 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 ques-
tioning within herself
He^-wood she believed to be true and rights
minded. She thought that his nature was trans-
mn^nt. He was one who could never appear in
Inv ^*i^^ty without drawing to him aU eyes, and
tHmia never be known without drawing to him as
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 365
well the confidence 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, bril-
liant in society, and true-hearted. These quali-
ties 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 contrast was not so much displayed.
Eose had felt a vague uneasiness through the
summer, that Barton, though seeming the same
in maimer as ever, had less and less frequented
her father's house. During his vacation he had
but once visited them ; and now, suddenly, with-
out any leave-taking, he had gone away, to be
absent for months. Rose was surprised and
piqued by this seeming want of care for her,
who had been his friend from childhood. It did
not seem as if 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 mea-
sure, 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
mm m^ -vmtiMxl tua oemi. c: -mBsare m. JBcnmL
ttwr^' tuvtu^ iron, ti^r liimaa cf -c^^^bv ^i^it
flUltf. tMLHL tSKVel ITiftflL SBXI t&TV SKI. IIlKEP
w^ugutXi]^. mui^L imngiu n. imi ol -tae one sifr
iall'Usm)tf: nuc UfmiiinT. iom: oc: ike otibsr s-
^j^KUii^ tAicQu9iib. sifC caaosneiiil senrhy. Tfar
i^Ujttr i^te IruniiL u: Hi^mprL imx isstmL bf-
U4 i^4tt^ i^jifU' J M^ ft ^nuffsr aimir :^3^ abk^ md
ii/4iAA^^ 4xuusAitii&. 3^iHF -fiflc iK- wm yssteA from
^^^ W/n2}C:r taufi it 9BiDad k if li^ -vw
tu:^iuUt Mi4r*ttfali*j* jjBi it. it v pesi^iK bm the
11^4; |i.;i M/ tliit fcKAtODi aod fcare due generoiB
II. oMjilit iMit Ui litt thought that these anahrses
mn'ii iiiiiilu hy llJi. They are but the i^liflaso-
uU\m\ iMmiiiiu and Bolution of certain impres-
uiuwH wiul ooiivic'tiouH iu Irnv mini And it was
I^Pij^mbury in cimw the3m out with some distinct-
jM'tt, iii i'^'ili^' tii au(^ouut for her present course.
[\(\, i.V muo of thiMia fortunate accidents which
u5iu U^ uUoiul laiHUca, iu the woods, Heywood
^^^1 UvuvA Wl wuuUw^hI ofl* from the family.
VILLAGB LirE IN NEW ENGLAND. 367
Either chestnuts lay thicker toward a little 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 col-
lected in some eddying pool, or else they were
attracted by the mossy beauty of a beech-tree,
whose roots had been partially undermined, but
whose undiminished green yet braved the frosts.
There sat Eose, 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 !
Why did Eose 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 imagi-
nation hushes every caution, sees all events in
heightened colours, and bears one as in a deli-
cious dream, over paths and through experiences,
which, though distinct, seem unreal, magical,
enchanting !
Have you 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
368 NORWOOD; or,
more like a thonght 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 scenes unapproachable. But, once seek to
possess it, lay but your lightest finger upon it,
and' the arch and orb collapse, and the brilliant
picture disappears !
The horn sounded for the dinner. Calls were
heard for one and another, and for Eose. Soon
she was seen slowly coming up the dell. Her
eyes showed that she had been weeping. Hey-
wood was with her, as one who is absent. Some-
thing between sadness and sternness was in his
face. I know not what had passed; nor how
Eose excused herself for permitting what she
had always before forestalled and prevented.
Perhaps she did not excuse herself. Perhaps
her sense of regret at Barton's neglect and un-
ceremonious 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 had
ever been seen before. But even greater pangs
were just before her.
The stream near whose border Eose had been
sitting came down, not far above them, from a
ravine of singular beauty. At the point where
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 369
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, and rose to a considerable height,
and then sloping oflf 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
you 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
plunge, the waters far up might be seen rushing
down an incline on the shelving rocks at an angle
of forty-five degrees. On either side of this cham-
ber the rocks were stratified, and shrubs and
plants grew in their seams. The more adven-
turous among the young men, by dexterous use
of their toes in these rifts, and by grasping
firmly the roots or stems with their hands,
climbed up the steep face of the rocks, and
ascending above the cascade, followed up the
ravine to new falls and romantic passages. Al-
ready a dozen, against the protestation of the
ladies, had scattered themselves along the pre-
cipitous clifis. Heywood, who sat buried in
VOL. II. 2 B
370 SOBWOO&; ok,
thought, teemed soddeslr lo *wmke, and be^yan
climUng the dangeroos wmj. Xo one could be
more adioit; jet eresk he could not afibrd to go
along that perilous war with wandering thoughts.
Huddeuly there arose a wild outor. Those below
looked up to Bee the qlash oi water along the
inclined way above the fidl, and quicker than
ttiought, shot out over the faH^ Herwood was
seen descending toward the pool beneath! Within
it lay many rocks broken off by frosts and hidden
by the water, and no more dangerous place for a
I)Iunp;(} could well be found.
Into the boiling pool he dropped and disap-
{NMircKl. In a moment ^it seemed to Bose an
ftgn a dark form emerged along the edge of
(lin |KH)I. Instantly, on the alarm, there was a
niKli Irom every direction. But Pete, who was
hiiir way up the cliff, seemed fairly to glide down
thf nido of the rock, so nimbly did he descend ^
Mttd llrnt of all ho was by Heywood's side, and
\\t\oi\ him frtmi the water, and laid him upon the
inoMV nuMwIow just beyond.
I h\ \\\ntworth was sent for, and soon arrived.
IIovw^hhI lny likt one dead. The wet hair fell
Uit'k ih^wx luH white temples. Bose chafed his
IuiiuIm, nnd giuutHi u|Mn him with an expression
of ihd^oriUiblt^ anindi. With a faint cry, as
Pot^ Uid Hoy wood u]X)n the moss, Alice Catbcart
VILLAaE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 371
fell into her father's anus fainting. But already
Heywood began to revive. He had been stunned
by the fall. Arrangements were speedily made to
convey him to 'Biah Cathcart's, the nearest point
at which he could receive needed attention, and
where Dr. Wentworth could make a more critical
examination of his hurts.
CHAPTER L
CONVALESCENCE.
Heywood revived a little. But lie was unable
to stand, and it was necessary to carry him out of
the gorge. It was not diflScult to convey him
to the opening. But here he was stopped. The
only mode of entrance or exit was by a narrow
ledge, some six feet above the brook, and this
path was so diflScult 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 af-
forded 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
VOL. IIL B
7
2 NORWOOD; OR,
firm head, was not diflScult or perilous. It was
often accompKshed, and had been, as we have
seen, to-day, by ladies, and was a bit of bravery
which enhanced the pleasure of an excursion to
the glen. But a path which could 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 impracticable,
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 him up the face of the rocks to the slope
above, and convey him thence down an old char-
coal-burners' road.
An exclamation of fear and wonder called all
eyes to Pete's doiugs. 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 Kose used to be when he strode all over
the country with her, and laying him diagonally
across his breast, so that his own long left; arm
passed under Hey wood's right arm, over his loins,
with a firm clasp, such as only great strength
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 3
and length of limbs could have eflfected. But
Heywood groaned with pain, and Pete relinquished
this hold. After a moment's pause, Pete lifted
Heywood again, and laying him back to back,
so that his own head would come at Heywood's
neck, he held him fest with his right arm upon
his shoulder, leaving his 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 sUppery 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 bafiBed
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
TBiah Cathcart's waggon, in which Hejrwood was
speedily conveyed to Cathcart's house.
It was with clouded face and more suffering
than she had ever experienced that Rose followed
with her father in the steps of the injured man.
B 2
4 NORWOOD; OR,
Alice, in full sympathy with Eose, seemed even
more affected, but in a different way. They
appeared to have changed natures Kose was
sunk in thought; Alice was demonstrative in
her feeling. But neither of them spoke.
As soon as they arrived, Heywood was con-
veyed 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 head, whether severe
or not, could not be determined except by after-
symptoms. It was judged wise not to attempt
to remove him to Mr. Chandler's, and, for several
weeks, he was the guest of the Cathcarts.
The centre of authority in a household is per-
manent, but the centre of interest fluctuates
almost from day to day : now, it is a little child
around which all revolve ; a long-absent friend,
or a child returned from school, for a day or two,
holds all other interests 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 patient, it may
be, can neither speak nor see, yet any member
of the family, rising up or sitting-down, going
out or coming in, is conscious that he is affected
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND.
by the relations of his action to the comfort of
the sufferer. And so sickness is a silent legis-
lator, and lays its law upon the domestic common-
wealth.
If Heywood had sought out a place in which
to be sick, he could not have selected more skil-
fully. The social atmosphere of the place was
cheering and soothing. The order and quietness
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 inmates, and in part too by the propor-
tions and style of the rooms and passages, the
colours and details of form ^all contributed im-
portant elements.
The blue room was wainscotted for about four
feet from the floor. The residue of the sides were
papered with pale pearly blue. The ceiling had
a faint tint of the same colour.
In this room stood an old-fashioned Becretary
of solid mahogany; on another side the book-
shelves; and all the chairs were old-fashioned,
heavy, and of mahogany. The windows, too,
were old-fashioned, with small six-by-eight panes
of glass, with inside folding shutters. From the
bed one could look out into the sitting-room;
through the open door, and through a window on
6 NORWOOD; OB,
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 oppo-
site horizon, through its own windows, every
morning the sunlight fell.
For a day or two Heywood seemed stupified;
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 would call his mother ; and when Kachel
Cathcart, who was seldom beyond ear-shot, came
to his side, a perplexed smile would come over
his face, as if he was conscious that he had made
some mistake, but was unable to discern what the
mistake was.
During this time his aunt, Mrs. Chandler, re-
mained continually with him, dividing the care
with Kachel Cathcart.
One morning, while Mrs. Chandler went home
for an hour or two, Alice sat in Heywood's room.
The window stood open. The autumnal sun and
autumnal air gave a peculiar charm to the day.
Nature seemed as one who has been at a ban-
quet. The hills glowed with brilliant colours.
The near trees were like jovial maskers in a
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 7
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 re-
ference 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 evergreens 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 bril-
liant vine took liberties with a sober tree, re-
minding 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! 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 colours changed when
her eye moved over the external prospect. Yet
Heywood'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
8 NORWOOD; OR,
beauty. Now, she listened to murmurs of the
bees, then to the pretentious buzzing of the flies,
that seemed inspired to-day with more than
usual affection. They insisted on familiarity.
They refused to take offence at the utmost ruder
ness. 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 foot-
fall!" 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 her 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 brettsts smooth. She turned to the bed !
It was only a long breath a sigh in his sleep 1
A woodpecker, with little sharp claws that could
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 miser-
ably healthy, and this critic flew away with a
harsh, grating note of disgust.
Surely he moved ! No. His eyes are dosed.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 9
He sleeps. 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 close up to the
heaven ? la 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 wiaged pursuers !
Some one called her :
"Alice!"
She started and went to Heywood. It was his
first lucid morning.
" Where am I ? What has happened ? "
Alice in her joy could hardly answer his
questions. Her face was radiant ; but with
strong restraint upon her feelings she quieted
herself, as if a&aid 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 him, 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 clue, helped him to regain some
faint hold of memory in the past
"Wentworth? Ah I remember. Were we
10 NORWOOD; OB,
not in the woods ? Let us see. Did not something
happen to Miss Rose ? Was she hurt ? "
Then an expression of sadness fell upon Hey-
wood'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 away. She turned
to the door to summon her mother. Dr. Wentworth
was already with his hand upon the latch.
" Ah, Alice, how is our patient ? Worse ? Tour
face carries bad tidings."
" No, Doctor, good tidings. He is in his mind
again."
"Well then, my dear, you could afford a glad-
der look for a friend's improvement. But I must
see for myself."
Heywood improved every day after this, though
at first slowly. His 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 which hung
upon him seemed to the Doctor a not favourable
sign. 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 11
reason her manner of reading rendered Heywood
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 word or look was suflScient.
Every day she culled from papers and from maga-
zines such passages as she thought likely to please
him, and was never better pleased herself than
when Heywood's interest in her reading led him
to remarks and 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 feint impression of the glen into which the
party had entered. But there was an indistinct
impression on his mind that somehow Eose had
been connected with his fall and . injury. This
subject seemed painful to Alice.
** Alice, were you there when I fell ? "
**Tes. I saw it all. It was fearful beyond any
experience of my life."
" I was climbing ? "
" Yes ^you had risen higher than the falls."
** And was Eose climbing ?^'
"No."
12 NORWOOD; OK,
" How came she to fall, then ? "
She did not"
How did I fall, then?"
" You slipped."
"And she held fast?"
" She had nothing to do with you."
" I am sure she had," said he, looking doubtingly
at Alice.
But as the subject seemed unwelcome to the
gentle Alice, after once or twice renewing his
questions, he dropped the subject. As strength
returned, so Heywood sought to relieve his kind
friends of the task of nursing, or at least to lighten
them. His thoughts naturally reverted to his
Virginia home ; and as he found Alice interested
in his reminiscences, he was quite willing to solace
himself by describing the scenes of his childhood,
his father's plantation, mansion, and household.
A listener more sympathetic one could not desira
than was Alice. She delighted to sit upon her low
sewing chair near the window. Thus the light
was thrown upon Hey wood'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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 13
nightly frosts, its cold rains, its vigorous winds,
had stripped the trees, and the forests were bare.
Orchards yet maintained a show of damaged leaves.
The white oak and the beech 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 dis-
consolate for the loss of summer. It was with sur-
prise, when Heywood first went to his window, that
he saw the change. A month had transformed the
fields and hills. He had left them glowing with
gorgeous colours. Now they were sad and sombre.
Nor did he fail to draw an analogy between his
own hopes then and his prospects now.
But great as had been the physical changes
during his sickness and recovery, yet more won-
derful changes had taken place in society than in
nature. The great political contest had closed
in the election to the Presidency of the United
States of Abraham Lincoln a name then but little
known, but since spoken in every comer of Chris-
tendom, and added to the role of those upon whom
Time has no power. Of all the strifes and strug-
gles Heywood knew nothing. And, as 'Biah Cath-
cart, little by little, detailed the narrative of
events, and recounted the early steps that were then
taking place in that great and terrible tragedy of
civil conflict, Heywood, free from those influences
14 NORWOOD; OR,
which were swaying so many of his friends in
Virginia, entered warmly into Cathcart's feelings
for the integrity of the nation.
Heywood could not conceal from himself with
what regrets he left this hospitable farm-house of
'Biah Cathcart's, to return to his aunt's. He had
already stayed a fortnight after Dr. Wentworth
gave him permission to remove. There was a
charm in its quiet which suited both his feelings
and his physical condition. The family, too, grew
upon his respect and affection. He found in 'Biah
Cathcart, 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
farmer. His wife, Kachel Cathcart, seemed like
a second mother. With scarcely an element of
character like his own mother, she yet produced
, upon Heywood the same effects that he re-
membered at home. Alice, too, on nearer
acquaintance, and after her timidity was broken
through, disclosed a wealth of character 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 nation. The letters. from
his home gave evidence of the intensity of southern
feeling.
^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 15
A few extracts from his letters, written or
received, will serve to shew the influences acting
upon him.
..." Father says that separation will come,
and he does not care how soon. If South CaroUna
goes out, and a convention is already called to
frame an ordinance of secession, he says that every
southern state will follow ^will have 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 gentlemen who
visit us. He derides the idea of war! 'I 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 labourers.
They are a sordid set, fit for drudgery, but not for
fighting.
**He is vexed that you do not write. It is
two months since we have heard a word from you.
From some hints in your last letter, he suspects
that you are entangled with some fair Yankee
damsel; and sister says she knows who it is.
Father frets and fnmes. * Every man that loves
ItJ NORWOOD; OE,
the South should be at his post Tom has no
business, when Virginia is getting ready to lead
the new Bepublie, to be dallying in the North.
He ought to shew his colours 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 saddle again. We are laying
out for great sport this winter. Shall we have
you to help ? "
HEYWOOD TO HIS BROTHER HAL.
. "I do not wonder that my silence
attracts attention. For, though I am not a very
diligent correspondent at any time, yet I seldom
allow ten weeks to pass without a letter. But
you may now know, I did not care that you
should before, ^that I have been confined to my
room f^r some six weeks, on account of injuries
received by a fall. I was climbing rocks, 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
rusli into war, as I fear, it will be the climax of
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 17
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 peacefully allowed. There is an under
spirit among this people that politicians don't
take into account. The Southern opinion of
their courage is founded upon a difiference 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
reluctance to fight. But should they once be
aroused by circumstances which appealed to
patriotism and duty, you may depend upon it
that they will show not toly courage, but an in-
domitable perseverance which will wear out op-
position. And should the question be 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 to be spared the dread-
fdl necessity of lifting my hand against my own
State, yet I should deem that, terrible as 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
VOL. in. c
18 nobwood; or,
the most honoured 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, thougli rapidly improving, was yet de-
licate, and rendered him specially liable to
excitements. He fondly hoped that by some
fortunate arrangement the great parties to the
conflict might harmonize their difierences, 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 events 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 the
rising flood, and to control its ravages, which dis-
dain all interference and sends them back in
dismay to wait and watch what the waters will
do, so the wise men and the managers found
themselves dealing with uncontrollable events,
that were working out their own career, and
would not suffer men to restrain them.
VILLAGE LIPB IN NEW ENGLAND. 19
About the middle of February, fearing the
boisterous weather of March in Massachusetts,
and hoping by change of scene and association
to put the finishing stroke upon his recovery,
Heywood bid farewell to his Mends in Norwood
and left for New York, on his way to Charleston
in South Carolina.
2
20 NORWOOD; OB,
I
CHAPTER II.
THE OLD MAN 8 JOURNEY.
Since winter shut in, in good earnest, and
snows were deep, and the winds were search-
ing. Tommy Taft found himself every month
less able to get about. His last visit had been
at Dr. Wentworth's, hoping to hear something
about Barton Cathcart, whose continued ab~
sence the old man found it hard to bear. He
asked no questions. The sturdy old fellow would
scarcely be beholden to any one even for in-
formation. 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 colour of his wife's earnings.
His last visit, we said, was at Dr. Wentworth's.
It was a fine winter day, in January. It was one
of those days in which nature is both brilliant
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 21
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 parlour-window into this
air; or, bundled up in furs, you have shot
through the snow in a brilliant sleigh, protected
from cold ; or you have such vigour of health,
that your warm blood, 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 insen-
tient family of sleeping children, and tucks
up the flower-roots, and broods upon all the
buried, waiting, hybemating 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 concern. And then, after one of
those wild winter revels, when the snow has
blinded the air, and whirled and shifted through
every crevice, and heaped itself against fence
and hedge, and settled down in sheltered places
k
22 ^ NORWOOD; OK,
in mountain-drifts, how the morning will come in
with open face and charming expression, as
if there had been no quarrel all night, nor a
saucy wind, nor a pitiless storm, but all was
good and beautiful, and not nature, but the lame
and feeble were at fault, if anybody was chilly, or
cold, or suffering !
It was on just such a morning that Tommy Taft
grunted and stopped, now and then, for breath, as
he made his way to Dr. 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
kindness, opened it to the old man, saying :
'* Keally, Mr. Taft, I pity anybody who has to be
out on 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. You are sick,
Taft, and you 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 much used up. Eh ? Do
you think. Agate, he would give me anything for
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 23
my wooden leg ? Eh ? It's getting monstrous
heavy now-a-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, Agate. I've ben on
the road to it seventy years, and 1 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 heard that anybody complained of his fare."
This was said in a peculiar tone, that might be
banter, or sad earnest, and Agate could not tell
which. She looked earnestly at Tommy and said :
" Taft, have you made your preparations ? Have
you done anything to get ready ? "
"I've ben gittin' ready as long as I can re-
member; and as to preparations, you know that
Turfmould and I are neighbours, and he's agreed
to do the right thing by me. Don't be afraid,
Agate. I shall be a landholder before long. Turf-
mould makes good titles. I guess mine '11 hold."
^ Taft, I don't know what to make of you."
**You don't need to make anything. I am
24 nokwood; ob,
made up already, and hare been as long as I
can remember, though if I was to be made up
agin. Agate, I don't know anybody that would
do it better than you, eh ? " said Tommy, 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 fiose,
who came in just as Agate was ready and anxious
to pass out
Bose went to the old man with an affectionate
cordiality that seemed more like a child's love for
a grandparent than the greeting of a neighbour
or benefactor.
Tommy tried to rise, but Bose 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!
Father tells me that the winter goes hard with
you. I know you will be glad to know that we
have heard from Barton Cathcart. He wrote to
fjEither on some business. He is very happy, and
talks of living in the West."
" Living in the West ? " said Tommy, with un-
affected surprise, as if his feelings had been hurt ;
**lmng in the West? and I sha'n't see him agin?
Die and not see the boy agin ? I can't have it ;
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 25
indeed, Miss Eose, I can't. You must write and
tell him so. There ain't but one Barton Cathcart
in this world, and, if other folks don't know liis
value, I do. I'd rs^er die to-morrow, if I could
see him to-night, than live a year and not see him.
I tell you. Miss Rose," said Tommy, with a
solemnity which she had never seen him manifest
before, " I can't die till I see Barton. I want to
ask him something. I want to know " and
with that he 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."
Rose could make nothing out of these sentences.
But looking at Tommy as if it was all plain, she
said:
"Barton writes that he will be home in Feb-
ruary, and I've no doubt he will 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 as 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 afeerd of an attack."
Tommy had become subject to paroxysms of
26 NORWOOD; OB,
iorcro jmin in the stomach. During their con-
tintjiinc(.* 1)0 was peculiarly unwilling to have any
OJio proHcjut, C5vcn his wife. He would shut him-
nolf up in Ills loft, and growl and groan by himself
Thami attiKjks were becoming more frequent, and
th() wliolo HyHtem was becoming weakened by this
affoctiori. 'i'o liis daughter's inquiry, Dr. Went-
wortli ropliod :
" Thi) iliHovLHO is obscure. I suppose it to be a
cancHjrouH afloction of the stomach. That it will
provt) fatal, I do not doubt ; but whether he will
drop olV Huddouly, or be gradually worn out with
HuflcU'infi;, I (uuiuot tell.**
Tho 1)1(1 man bravely resisted all sympathy. He
wouUl allow no one to pity him. He had nothing
to say about, his own suflorings, and was angry at
any allusiDU to them. Mother Taft, herself feeble,
hovtUHHl aroiuid tho old man with a kind, helpless
pity, whioh sho dareil not speak, and could not
hido, Tho nuwt unlovely side of his character
Tonutty Taft showed to Ids wife. This habit was
CH)utrt^iou^ for sovoral others in the village were
known to havt the same disagreeable trait For-
twnatoly, it was oontintHl to tJte one sex !
As the tJd man rLse to dejart^ liose felt a pre-
^utinunt. that she sliould never see him again.
She was just alwut- heaving home to make a visit
U her ri'iativis in Boston, which should have been
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 27
made during the holidays, but was prevented by
her mothers transient illness. As he moved
slowly toward the door, she recalled the days of
her childhood, how many times he had frolicked
with her, how many little games he had taught
her, what fiinny stories he had invented to amuse
her visits at his rude quarters, and her heart was
deeply touched with the old man's sufiferings,
which, every time she saw him, seemed to be
gaining ground. When Tommy turned at the
front door, as Kose reached out her hand to say
good-bye, a tear rolled down her cheek and fell
upon the old man's hand.
" Grood-bye, dear Uncle Tommy ; I shall never
meet you again until we meet in Heaven."
At first the old man seemed annoyed at her
feeling, and said somewhat harshly :
"What you cryin' for? I ain't dead yet?
That's funeral business." But, changing his tone,
Tommy Taft for a moment seemed to identify
Barton with Kose. Looking tenderly at her out
from under his great shaggy eyebrows, he said:
"It's jest as like as not that what you say is true ;
and if I don't see him again, you 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 stumblin' in alone ; and I shouldn't
like to take the wrong turn, you know. This kind
28 NORWOOD; OR,
o' journey 's one a fellow can't go back on. If 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 humour, and never at all in its relations
to his own future condition. It was not the lan-
guid 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 I
Eose 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 con-
fessing his inability to see how to tread its way,
would have touched the sympathy of one far less
sensitive than Eose.
Looking tenderly at the old man, Eose repeated
the words :
" * Though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou
art with me ; thy rod and thy stafi^, they comfort
me.
" That's it," said the old man, " you've hit it
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 29
exactly. If Barton was along, I had as lief
trudge as not."
"Barton could not help you. There is One
who has said, * I am the Way, and the life,' He
can help you."
" I shouldn't wonder. But I know Barton, and
he's got a 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 enough.
Ton must understand, Miss Rose, that I don't care
much about myself; but, 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 Dr. Buell, he would not have
suffered Tommy Taft to rest on any such human
affection as a security in death. But Eose, with-
out reflecting on the theological aspects of the case,
was glad to see in the old man any thoughtful-
ness 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 Cathcart had gone to the great war which
broke forth in the spring, like the conflagration of
a continent.
30 NORWOOD; OR,
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 Cathcart before
he died. His spirits were depressed, and his
temper not the best. Dr. Buell, faithful to his
fractious parishioner, still visited him from time
to time, hoping that in some favourable hour he
might cast light into his darkened mind. One day
a knock sounded at his door.
"Come in or stay out, as suits ye best," said
Tommy.
Dr. Buell entered.
** Come in. Doctor. You're always at work on
the old sinner. Eeally, I had a pain this morning
that liked to let me through."
" I hope, Taft, that you find yourself willing to
depart, if it be God's will."
" WeU, well, as to that. Doctor, I guess when a
clock has run down it stops, not because it has
a mind to, but because it can't belp it ! "
"Yet one may have Christian resignation to
events which he cannot control It is a very
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 31
solemn thing to die, Taft^ and the fature is dark
to those who have no hope in the Saviour."
*^ When a ship 's driven in by gales, and has to
make a harbour, it 's mighty convenient to have a
lightrhouse ; 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 doubt. You was always very clear. I often
said that if a man didn't understand you he
needn't go to meetin' anywhere, 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 with pity. The old man's
pale face, his weakness, the nature of his disease,
indicated that he had not long to live. He hesi-
tated a moment in doubt whether it would be
worth while to suggest praying with the sick man,
who sat propped up iu bed.
** Taft, if it would be pleasant if you desire it,
that is I shall be glad to pray with you."
" No objection in the world I If I was one of
the elect I'd do it myself."
"Is there anything that you would like me
specially to soUcit?"
32 sic:wi: os.
''If h's prcror. ^isd jo^ d&e sftaae to too, ask
llk Ixri to s^oi Buwa Oiihcafft iMsne, and let
me see Utt hoj oiure mose afone^ I iie !"*
TcfinmT Taft hsid a Lfti^ lueaid aikI &re. Usually
there was a nigged and sN&ewbit ^larp expies-
skm to his fefttaies. Bit sickiiess had tmned his
face pale, his bo^y ade locks ifre rery gier, and
his eyes peered out firom under his brow with
more than ccmmooi brightness^ He did not shnt
them while Dr. BneU payed. He looked over the
form rf the kneeling minister with an expression
in which mirth was blended with pain. It seemed
to say:
"Poor fellow! It don't take much to make
you happy!"
It was yery plain that Tommy did not accept
any one as priest but Barton Cathcart, and that
the only thread by which his rugged nature could
be led was the single golden strand of affec-
tion.
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
northern covert for hybernation. On the first day
of March it was, that Tommy Taft had been un-
quietly sleeping in the forenoon, to make up for
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 33
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 indus-
trious and moral clock began striking, whir-r-r,
one ; whir-r-r, two ; whir-r-r, three ; (Tommy jerked
his head a little as if something vexed him in his
sleep ; (" whir-r-r, four ; whir-r-r, five ; whir-i^r,
six; ("Keep still, will ye? let me alone, old
woman ! d your medicine ; " whir-r-r, seven ;
whir-r-r, eight ; (" 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 simpli-
city of a child, his face fairly glowing with joy,
and looking now really noble, he cried :
" Barton, my boy, Barton, I knew you
wouldn't let the old man die, and not help him !
I knew it ! I knew it ! "
After the first surprise of joy subsided, Tommy
pushed Barton from the edge of his bed :
" Stand up, boy ; turn roimd ! 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 retiu-n from the
West, his health and prospects, the old man re-
turned to the subject that seemed to lie nearest
his heart.
VOL. III. D
34 korwood; OB,
** They're 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
bound. Bnt I am an old salt ^I know my
owners!*' said Tommy, with an affectionate wink
at Barton.
" Oh, my boy, you'ie back agin ; it's all right
now. Don't you let me go wrong. I want you to
tell me just where you're goin', and 111 bear right
up for that port! You know. Barton, I never
cheated you, when you was a boy. I took care
of ye, and neyer told you a lie in my life, and
neyer got you in a scrape. You 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 his face.
"My dear old Tommy, we won't part com-
pany. We're both bound to the same land.
GUxi will, I fervently hope, for Christ's sake, for-
give all our sins, and make us meet for everlast-
ing life!"
"Amen!" roared out the old man. "Goon.
You reaUy believe in it? Come here. Barton, sit
down on the edge of the bed, look me in the bu^,
and no flummery, do you really believe that
there's another world ? "
I do, Tommy ; I believe it in my very soul ! "
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 35
** That's enough ; I believe it too, just as sartain
as if a shipmate had told me about an island I'd
never seen, but he had."
"Nov, Barton, give me the bearin's oft. D'ye
believe that there's a Lord that helps a poor fel-
ler to it?"
" I do. Christ loves me, and you, and all of us.
He is glorious 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 a 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 remem-
bering his own experience, and some of those
wonderful crystals which he had dug out of the
ridges of the Old Testament, and which he had
set in his memory with even more feeljng than
before, made up in part by the renewal 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
you?"
"Sartain!"
D 2
36 NORWOOD; OR,
" 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. Didn't I tell
ye, old woman, when Barton came it would be
plain sailin'?"
" * And the Lord passed by before him, and pro-
claimed, the Lord, the Lord God, merciful and
gracious, long-suffering, and abundant in good-
ness and truth.
" ' Keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving im*-
quity 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 chil-
dren's children, unto the third and to the fourth
generation,' Exodus, xxxiv. 8, 9.
" 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 retained not his anger for
ever, because he delighteth in mercy.
" He will turn again, he will have compassion
upon us ; he will subdue our iniquities ; and thou
wilt east all our sins into the depths of the sea.' "
Micah, vii. 18, 19.
" Now that's to the p'int, Barton. The Lord
will tumble a feller's sins overboard like rubbish,
or bilge-water and the like, when a ship is in the
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 37
middle of the ocean ? Well, it would puzzle a
feller to find 'em agin after that. Is that all ? Fm
to report to him ? "
" Yes, Tommy ; you are to report to Grod just
as I should report to you if you was a shipowner,
and I was the captain, and had made mistakes
and losses on the voyage. Suppose you loved me
just as you do now, and I was to come back to you
and make a clean breast of it, what would you do
tome?"
'* Do ? You know what I'd do ? I'd say Barton,
hold your yawp ; not another word atween us. I
care more for you than for every d dollar of
the cargo."
Barton did not stop for Tommy's adjectives.
" 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 plea-
sure at aU that the wicked should die, saith the
Lord God ?^"
"Well, now, this is honourable! 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
fevour as not ? "
38 NORWOOD; OB,
"Whati8it,Taft?"
** Would ye mind sajrin' a little prayer ^for me
^it makes no diflference of course ; but jest a
line of introduction in a foreign port sometimes
helps a feller amazin'ly."
Barton knelt by the bedside and prayed. With-
out reflecting at the moment on Uncle Tommy's
particular wants, Barton was following in prayer
the line of his own feelings ; when, suddenly, he
felt Tommy's finger gently poking his head.
" I say, Barton, ain't you steerin' a pint or two
oflf the course ? I don't seem to follow you."
A few earnest, simple petitions followed, which
Taft seemed to relish.
"Lord forgive Tommy Taft's sins! ('Now
you've hit it,' said 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 right spot now.') Give him peace while he
lives. ('No matter about that the DoctorTl
give me opium for that! go on.') And, at his
death, save his soul in Thy kingdom, for Christ's
sake. Amen."
" Amen. But didn't you coil it away rather too
quick?"
The fact was, that Barton was not used to the
office of public prayer, and still less to the running
^
VILLAGB LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 39
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 didn't come a minit too soon. I'm tired
now; but I want you to come back to-morrow.
I've got somethin' to teU you. I never let you
know nothin' about my life, and I've a mind to
teU you. Oh, it was a cruel shame for my unde
to treat me so ! I might have made a man if I'd
had half a chance. No matter. But I want to
say one thing : Barton, when Tm gone, you won't
let the old woman suffer? She's had 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, you know I never had much money. I
never laid up any couldn't. Now you won't let
me come on to the town for a funeral ^will ye ?
I should hate to be buried in a pine coffin, at town
expense, and have folks laugh that didn't dare
open their head to me when I was 'round town !
And then. Barton, you'll put old Smasher in with
me I Of course, it ain't any matter, but I'd rather
take my leg along, if it's all the same to other folks ! "
42 nobwood; ob,
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 Doctor Buell.
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 good Lord was mercifuL"
"God's mercies and man's saving evidences
are not to be confoimded," said Parson Buell.
" All that man can do is to inquire whether, in
the judgment of charity, one's life or dying ex-
perience gives evidence of gracious affections.
Tommy Taft's character was marked with many
strong excellences, but he would be bold who
should say that his was a Christian life."
** But do you not think there is some evidence
that, at last, he was led to put faith in the
Saviour?" said Barton.
*'My own pastoral visits developed nothing
particularly encouraging," replied Dr. BuelL
** Your narrative is certainly more hopefuL Yet,
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 43
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 a
momentary glow of feeling, in the last hour, I
should think. Barton, 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 himself to
Barton for very love. He followed him to Christ.
True love is mediatorial. If to any state of mind
God would reveal himself, it would be love and
submission. It was not regular. What repent-
ance is ever logical ? Will a shepherd refuse a
returned sheep because it followed home a bell-
wether, instead of the shepherd's own call ? "
**I perceive, gentlemen, with all due submission
to your superior gifts," said Judge Bacon, blandly
smiling and waving his hand with a gesture that
seemed to put away the whole discussion, " that
your wisdom increases as your knowledge fails.
Poor Taft is gone. That is all you know about it.
But no ! You mount up above all facts, logic, or
vision, and one weaves for him a garment of
salvation while the other pulls out the stitches I
"
44 NORWOOD; OB,
Ah, what tailors of cloud-clothes yon would make !
If Taft had been a deacoD, 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 better than a
rough tongue and a warm heart ? "
" A thousand pardons, my young friend," said
the judge, accepting with perfect good nature
the implied comparison, "I yield, I yield. I
shall put Tommy into the calendar, and hereafter
swear by St. Taft He excelled in the grace of
swearing ! "
"I fear that he was profane," said Parson
Buell, " though not in my presence."
" No ? I am surprised ! " returned the judge,
" However, swearing is for the most part 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 ! ' Tommy
Taft would have said ' D it I ' Both meant
the same thing. A bold man means swear, and
says it. A timid man means swear, but says
* Gracious 1' All interjections are swearing, a
kind of latent oath, are they not parson ? "
** Swear not at all ; let your communication be
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 45
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 inter-
jection, or by raising the culpableness of bye-
words."
" Well, well, doctor or minister, whichever of
you conquers, I perceive that both of you in your
hearts have put Tonmiy in heaven, and that he is
as well off as if he had died at a stake a martyr
for religion."
** By no means," replied Buell. " There are
infinite degrees of excellence and of happiness in
heaven. One may enter as a 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
voyage, 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 have found few persons who do
not contrive to believe that their friends are
40 horwood; OB,
mviHl tt ifi other people's friends that we remit
to jtiMlinf^. Our own are, by some mediation of
iiflctc*ijon and grief, rescued. Indeed the Infante
aiict the) JStemal are words without meaning till
grjof jniorprets them. Tears are like chemical
rci-ii^c'nfn, whoe touch brings out colours. When,
limHtig cMir boloved in our arms, we come &ce to
invo with of^mu'ty, all our reasonings retreat into
our litMirfn. Min do not deny their beliefs. But
th(7 will not lot them speak. Like light in a
riok nnun, iho.y must bo turned down and softened,
and Honu^tiniuM, Ix^fore the morning comes, they
go out."
"Truth/' n^plitxl Buell, **is not less true
bocauso our sympathies flow out against it. The
sun slunos on in npito of weak eyes. Has a man
a right to put a bandage on his eyes, and call it
sunset ? *'
They had reached Dr. Wentworth's mansion,
and all turned in thither. It was a bright, but
coldly blustering day. The hickory fire cheerily
blazed on the hearth." The conservatory door
stood wide open, and the eye discerned an artifi-
cial summer there, whose greenness 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
VILLAGE LIFE IK NEW ENGLAND. 47
in the room. Its light, its warmth, and the sight
of plants and flowers all helped to illusion. A
canary bird hanging in the coDserratory 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 brings 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 !
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 discus-
sion.
" Wheu 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 dimen-
sions would it already be ! I know very well
what you are both thinking of. 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 specimens, 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 the level of Nature ?'
48 NORWOOD; OR,
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 will look
very sober ^he always does but he will look
soberer yet, and trust that you are not going off
into mere natural religion. Then you will say
that you prefer natural to unnatural religion. He
will then look hurt, and you will grow dignified.
Then after a while the Doctor will very mildly ask
whether you think the deductions of science are
upon an equality with the doctrines of Christ?
and you will say they are infinitely below them
not because they are science, but from the
nature of the truths themselves, one relating to
matter, and the other to the soul. Whereupon 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 midnight ! and
then everything will be left just as it was before,
to be gone over again at some future meeting.
" Ah, there is nothing so improving as philo-
sophical discussion ! 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.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 49
'^ A most agreeable and discriminating scoffer/'
said Dr. Baell, as the door closed.
" Oh no, not scoffer, which implies something
bitter or malignant. I think he has a conscience,
and that, in spite of his badinage, he is not with-
out serious thoughts and purposes."
The tea was announced. Barton sat in the
place which Eose 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 farther facts relating
to Tommy Taft. He appeared unusually vivaci-
ous. 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. Went-
worth 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 Eevelation tend
to unsettle faith. In my own case, it has led me
back to my childhood faith again. I was brought
up, in effect though not in theory, to look upon
VOL. m. E
i
50 koewood; ob.
Nature as something dangerous, having no rela-
tion to religious feelings, and, indeed, as a store-
bouse of infidel dangers. I had never heard a
minister employ Xature as an auxiliary of the Bible,
as if there had been not one, but a converging
series of revelations, all witnessing to the same
truths, but in differing degrees of clearness, the
full light and disclosure coming in Christ Jesus!"
The Doctor answered :
" And yet the Old Testament is a storehouse of
religious feeling 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 the Bible, and they are deter-
mined that they will defend the Bible against the
aggressions of insidious Nature !
"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.
*ror 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.' "
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 51
" 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 so; but
when, under your help, I found the great truths
of the Bible indicated and corroborated in Nature,
I was wonderfully strengthened. Indeed, I con-
sider that the turning point in my history."
" There are a variety of influences which make
religious difficulties almost a disease," said Dr.
Wentworth. "A person cannot ravel out the
threads of religious belief which from his child-
hood have woven the figures of taste, fancy,
affection, and reason itself, without doing a vio-
lence to his nature which few have the strength
to survive.
"The process is itself destruction, but it is
made worse by the odium attached to scepticism
especially in New England, where it is deemed
the mother of all immorality. This public senti-
ment 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
supposes to be purely intellectual, whereas they
are a mixture of intense feelings, of fancies, and
of unregulative reasonings a medley, as far from
philosophy as possible, but peculiarly well calcu-
E 2
52 NORWOOD; OR,
lated to produce morbid conditions both of body
and soul."
Barton replied :
"I need no testimony on that point. I now
wonder, as I look back, that my reason was
spared. But it was in some respects this very
intensity of suJBfering that worked a cure. I be-
came satisfied 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 dis-
credit the existence of a God. The question came
home Are you prepared to follow out your rea-
sonings, 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 settled
as before, only I should be unsettled in a different
place ; I should be acting in that remote region
just as uncertainly and insincerely as before I had
sacrificed my Christian faith."
" Certain natures must ferment," said Dr. Went-
worth. ** 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,
VILLAGE LIFE IK NEW ENGLAND. 53
but all the experiences which have since sprung
from these words, in good men, and so is the sub-
stance 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
sceptics, without moral depth or moral honesty."
" It was at the point of this rebound in me,
from the darkness and horror of atheism, that I
was helped to a degree of which you were never
conscious by an almost accidental train of con-
versation 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 difficulties of the Scriptures.
I pricked up 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 was such property;
if, upon presenting his claims, it was made over
to him. But what if, instead of regarding po9-
semon as the best argument in favour of the
genuineness of the will, he should indicate his
-j4 SiOx:wooD ; .
liiZ^jf^'jrhj tri sireirc^ieas br pickmg flaws
iritL ti-r zTi'-mar, qiazrelliB^ with the mes-
lienzer. iiisdtiitiiLZ a 5j:e3al pl-sa on the doctrine
oi probabilities in the case?' Oat of that yiew
came great relief to me^ I said. 'Here is the
will and Testament of my Father. Let me take
possession of the contents rather than criticise
them.' I ccsidered the New Testament ideal
of human life its pattern of character, its
delineation of the ends of a tme life, its code of
* moral sentiments and said to myself * Is there
anything nobler than this? Has Nature any-
thing better to teach me?' I considered the
conception formed in scripture of God, his
universal Fatherhood, his Kemedial Nature as
manifested in Christ, the whole, as it now seems
to me, marvellous and transcendent attributes
of excellence; and I contrasted this positive,
eflFulgent, sympathetic Being, with that uncer-
tain, protean, pulseless, soulless Solitude which
Pantheism and Atheism call God. The contrast
W6W salutary. It really brought my pride and
my moral sense over on to the ground of my
(childhood beliefl It seemed to me 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.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 55
"In connection with this, came to my relief
this view: *I am undertaking to construct a
theory of the universe as the condition prece-
dent to my own life. But I have a personal
duty. I have to develope a character, to per-
form 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 Testa-
ment, and I could not help saying to myself,
*What book is this which an earnest man, de-
siring to live a 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 imbrued with the truth as I
found it in Christ, most tender in my feelings,
I have seemed to have on various occasions
borne in upon me a tide of influences which I
could account for on no theory of ordinary
causes, and which I have come to believe were
divine. 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
56 NORWOOD; OR,
mind respecting Revelation. I am more than
dubious of much of the philosophy in which reli-
gious truth is clothed in the pulpit. But this I
know ^I have found the road to Manhood ; I know
my duty to society; I have a sure faith in im-
mortality ; I behold the glory of a God worthy to
be praised. I accept as my guide, friend and
Saviour, his Son, the Eedeemer of the world.
And I believe that he gives forth to me the Holy
Spirit. I never could have said as much 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
communion.
VILLAGE LIFE IK NEW ENGLAND. 57
CHAPTEE IV.
CHANGE OF LATITUDE.
It was on an overcast day that Hey wood entered
Charleston harbour. It was not that low and
smothering cloudiness which shuts in and di-
minishes a prospect, but one of those gray, lower-
ing skies which cause everything 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 construction. For Major Anderson, on
the 26th of December, 1860, acting upon his own
military judgment, had abandoned Fort Moultrie,
upon Sullivan's Island, on the north side of the
harbour, and had conveyed his whole force to
Sumter, 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 move-
ment took the authorities by surprise. Had Beau-
"T*
58 NORWOOD; OR,
regard 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
from 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 aijy rate, per-
form his duty in such a manner as not to molest
the plans of the Confederacy.
To reduce Fort Sumter would require the
erection of many batteries. No other spot in
the harbour of Charleston could have been selected
where a fort that commanded the entrance could
be itself so dominated from every side by batteries
on the shore.
As the steamer neared this fort, all eyes were
were turned toward this centre of attraction, and
opinions were exchanged among officers and passen-
gers as to the probable fate of its garrison. So
little was then known of war, and especially of
improved artillery, that the most extravagant
opinions were expressed both on the one side and
on the other. Heywood felt the tears rising to
his eyes as he looked upon the stars and stripes
waving over the fort His soni revolted against
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 59
the folly and crime of those who should dare to
touch that sacred emblem of the country's glory !
As he stood gazing, he unconsciously said aloud,
" God keep thee, flag of my fathers 1 "
**You, a Virginian," said the captain, "and
praying for that Northern flag ? I am a Southern
man, and if I lived in Charleston I would have
that rag down as soon as powder and shot could
fetch it down I 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 scowl-
ing water ^signs of a coming storm all seemed
to him in keeping with the events transpiring.
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 bright-
ness, and the storm wail. A mightier storm will
soon burst ! "
Heywood soon landed and repaired to his hotel ;
nor did he regret that the day and night were
60 NORWOOD; OR,
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 midst 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 Vir-
ginian home had no such luxuriant growths as
he witnessed here. The Lamarque rose, the
Obromatella, the various Noisettes and Tea roses
which he had been wont to see grown under glass,
or if out of doors, subject every winter to frosts
which pruned them to the ground, here grew from
year to year in open gardens, becoming large and
luxuriant, and hanging in clusters of magnificent
buds and blossoms in wonderful profusion.
He strolled through the streets to gain some
general idea of the city. The finest dwellings,
however, seemed half hidden by high brick walls
around the yards. Over the tops hung many a
vine, or clump of climbing rose. Now and then
some open gate, or some more generous and open
fence, enabled him to look through and see beds of
early bulbs in full blossom, the long glossy leaves
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 61
of laurel, the deep green and polished leaves of
the Bettisporum.
The air was delicious. .It was perfumed and
balmy. Heywood strolled on from street to street
in the early morning with unaflfected delight
Suddenly he was challenged by a sentinel, and
warned off from bounds which he was just cross-
ing. 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!
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 cart in his
lot with instant enthusiasm with the exultant
and glorious movement for Southern independ-
ence. 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
far more than did any of Hey wood's other friends,
and who, therefore, was relied upon for advice
62 horwood; ob,
with more confidence than they would be whose
identification with the North would of necessity
give one colour to all their counseL
. . . " You can imagine the state of feeling
hero by nothing which you read or hear in the
North. It was the opinion of many in Massa-
chuiietts that much that was done and said here
VfOH merely for political efiect. I confess to have
)tad the same notion; but I have it no longer.
TheH(j people are in terrible earnest. I do not
mmn to myself to be in the same country or
nation m when at the North. If every man I
wot talked to me in a foreign language, he would
Jmrdly be more an alien. Nowhere in the city
or harlour, except at Fort Sumter, is the flag of
the United States flying; everywhere it is the
I'almetto flag! The people are intensely ex-
hilarated there is no resisting such a current.
I am no more a secessionist than I was in Nor-
wood ; 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 cowardice.
Every night, when I reflect on the whirl and
excitement of the day, I am ashamed that I do
not show my colours. But one must be brave
indeed who would deliberately leap into the fire.
It would be scarcely less than this to avow sincere
attachment to the Union. I have seen one act of
-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 63
ferocity and heard of others, which for the sake
of the South I will not repeat. But I am deter-
mined, at all hazards, to state to some of the lead-
ing gentlemen my true convictions
"Since I have made known to my father's
friends my Unionism, 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 with them to their
political consultations. I am thus put in posses-
sion 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 co-operation. 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 oflScer to Washington, with a committee of
citizens, to induce the government to withdraw its
troops from the fort. Lieut. Hall is the oflScer.
But he says distinctly to the committee that he
shall advise his government to maintain their pos-
session of the fort. In hope of changing his view,
and of convincing him that there is no chance
whatever of Union, and that secession is a fact
1
64 kohwood; ob,
aoooinplished and ended, the managers here last
night arranged a meeting for conference, and as
my case needed treatment also, I was brought in.
" Mr. said, frankly, at the opening of the
conference^ that he should speak without disguise.
It was something in this wise :
** * The people of the North and South are
eaentially different There is no hope of their
aasimilation. Their climate, industries, political
opinions, social customs, cause and will maintain
these differences. It is useless to try and conduct a
government together. Perpetual disagreement and
jangling must follow. That the leading thoughtful
political men of South Carolina have long been
satisfied of the soundness of these views. That they
were fully determined at all hazards to separate from
the North. It was not 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 because 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.
That the real motive lay in the prospect of a
ftiture which could not be realised without separ-
ation. To make new arrangements, to devise
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 65
peace measures, concessions, compromises, was to
prescribe for the wrong disease. The South really
had no grievances whatever. That it had am-
bitions, 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
harbour could serve no useful purpose ? '
" I do not know what Lieut. Hall will do, but
my eyes are 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. Vir-
ginnia is true to the Union. But what if the
flames that are here 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 ?
g.^*'I have been making a tour of the batteries
with Gren. 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 ! Every
point of land from which a battery can be made
to bear on Sumter has been seized. Great num-
VOL. ni. p
66 sobwood; or,
bers oi men are perfectiiig the works. Huge
cannon are lying under corer and waiting the
completion of the ww^ks. In many batteries
cannon are already moonted. In Fort Moultrie,
the artillery destroyed by the garrison when they
took possession of Fort Somter, has been re-
placed. Everything 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, he has either premised
or left upon those who have visited him the impres-
sion that a promise was given ; yet the flag waves
there a defiance to the Confederate flags which
fly from the beleaguering 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 frem
Home volition of its own. It lifted itseK 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 dropped again. Then, though
1 felt no quickening wind where I stood, it was plain
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 67
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 ! '
Beauregard, too, had watched the same scene.
I know not what his thoughts were. He seemed
pensive. There is a singular combination in his
expression. His face is dull, his eye fiery, so that
his whole countenance is like ashes, with fire
raked up beneath it.
" With some emphasis he said :
* * It shall not fly there long.'
" I aaked 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 analyses his
feelings before speaking :
" In our fathers' day that was the flag of the
Union. But it has been made sectional by Northern
fanaticism. It no longer suggests protection and
friendship, but injustice and aggression. We look
upon it as it is, not as it was. And yet, sir, if
Major Anderson would evacuate the fort, and
relieve this harbour of the threat implied in his
presence here, I should be saved a painful neces-
sity.'
F 2
68 NORWOOD; OR,
"'Then you do not sympathise with those who
wish to humble 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
make this southern realm a grand empire. The
climate is perfect. It is a garden on the pattern
of a continent ! 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 combines in it the patriarchal sim-
plicity of the Hebrew and the fine organization of
the Roman. The negro out of 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 civilization. In a
hundred years the great schools of science and
of painting, the colleges and universities of
America, will be here ! When I see that flag
standing in the way of all this glorious progress,
and forbidding it, I would fire upon it if it were
thrice as glorious as it has been, but has ceased
to be!'
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 69
^' I think he was sincere. He is an enthusiast.
He has the air of a man who has great self-
confidence and is not unwilling to express it.
On that account he is fit to represent the South
Carolinians. They are certainly eager, opiniona-
tive, and prodigiously confident. I inquired :
" ' Will it be a difficult task to breach the fort,
and likely to be attended with much loss of life ? '
"He replied :
" * We and they are well protected from artil-
lery fire. Anderson is a good officer, and will
not expose his men. If blood is spilt, it will be
in storming after the fort is breached.'
"*Will raw troops be serviceable in so des-
perate an enterprise as assailing a breach ? '
** ' Sir, the Southerner is a natural soldier 1 His
courage is such, by nature, that it is hardly a
credit to him to be brave, any more than for a
horse to be strong or a hound swift. The Northern
man is dull, slow, peaceful. If ever, it will be
years before he learns to fight. The Southern
soldier is quick, fiery, intense, overwhelming.
We shall sweep everything before us ! '
*'* Is there no way of avoiding actual conflict ?
Might not the fort be starved out ? I am told that
the garrison are not permitted to draw provisions
any longer from Charleston.'
" * So far as I am concerned, I would defer oper-
70 NORWOOD; OB,
ations, provided Anderson would state the day
when want of provisions would compel him to sur-
render ; at any rate, if it were a near day.'
" ' I am sure he would. He is an honourable and
Christian gentleman. I would cheerfully under-
take the missioA. I am a Southern 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 harbour
with wonderful beauty. The channel guard-boats
were under way to their night-watch on the bar,
that no vessels may steal in for the relief of the
fort. To the seaward, the harbour opened out
grandly. The atmosphere, the setting sun, the
meeting of the harbour 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 Pinckney, and of every fort and battery
around the harbour, came silently down, and
twilight seemed like a peacemaker 1 All the
tokens of defiance and war were wrapped in
quick-coming darkness. The little steamer on
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 71
which we returned sped toward the city, whose
outlines were lost in the dusk, but painted again
in the lights that shot out along either shore
and irom the south battery. The few craft that
lay off at anchor showed 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 contribute
in a small degree to avert a collision.
"Without delay I sought out Gov. Pickens
and suggested the plan. He met me cordially,
but hesitated on hearing my eiTand. He spoke
of consulting the Government at Montgomery.
"*But, sir, if South Carolina is sovereign enough
to withdraw from the Union and repel the soldiers of
the Union from her shores, she is sovereign enough
to negociate a peaceful evacuation of Fort Sumter.'
" Oh, there's authority enough. I would take
it anyhow; but it may not be expedient.'
" ' Expedient ! 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 bloodshed. But
then we have but six or seven, out of fifteen, that
have acted. This sluggishness will ruin 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
72 hobwood; or,
to retam ; but once let tlie GrOTemment at Wash-
ington fire one gon npon ship or man, and that
flash will set on fire the whole South ! Some of
us are in &TOur of bringing on ^e issue by strik-
ing; 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
parlours to-night. The sons of Virginia are always
welcome in Charleston ! '
"I plead fatigue, and hastened back to my
lodgings, and have saved myself from many un-
pleasant musings by writing this account to you.
"The clouds are very dark. While I was in
Norwood I thought them wind-clouds, of threat"
ening look and harmless contents. Now they are
lurid with fire, and portend terrible disaster, if
some happy expedient does not succeed in con-
veying the electricity silently to the ground !
"The whole city is feverish and inflammable.
It seems to me that a spark would explode the
community. Moderation is unknown. It is dan-
gerous 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 leadership in this disruptive
movement, gives me standing and character, which
I maintain by holding my peace, and so get the
additional credit of being deep and cautious ! "
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 73
CHAPTEE V.
BOMBABDMENT OP FOBT SUMTEB. HETWOOD's
LETTEB CONTINUED.
"-4iPn?.10. ^I am informed to-day, by Gov.
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
oommunicated the same to his government at
Montgomery. There is 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 ar-
tillery can. Unless bloodshed is needed for some
political purpose, I cannot imagine a reason
for bombarding. Meanwhile the city swarms
with troops arriving with every train, while
those hitherto camping here have been dis-
tributed to the forts and batteries. Business is
almost dead. It seems like a military holiday.
The current for secession and a Southern Ke-
public rushes like a mighty stream. Nothing
74 NORWOOD; OR,
can stay it, and nothing resist. It amounts, if
not to a phrensy, yet to an irresistible enthu-
siasm. Every one is exhilarated. The most
extravagant pictures are drawn of the future of
this new empire. Last night I heard several
of the leading men and managers of aflfairs dis-
cussing the prospect. * Bombard the fort commit
the State irrevocably by shedding blood. The
government at Washington cannot do less then
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.' Turning
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 consolidation thereby
of fifteen States, to prevent war, than by tem-
porizing to go at length into a conflict which,
though not doubtful in issue, will sacrifice hun-
dreds 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 one. The South will not yield easily.
The North will be even more tenacious.'
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 75
''Some of the gentlemen were curious to
know more of my opinion of the North, which I
gave. But the majority laughed to scorn the
idea of Northern courage. What is most singu-
lar is, that the men who most doubt Northern
fighting qualities were themselves from the North,
or were bom of Northern parents! One or
two fiery spirits declared that with a thousand
picked men they could march from Charleston
to New York ; that there were more in number
in the North who would greet them than would
fight, and that in less than a year peace would
be established. The meeting broke up, and as
we walked together I again and with wamth
urged upon Gov. Pickens to use his influence to
prevent actual hostilities. I know not why,
with my sentiments plainly disclosed, I am
treated with so much confidence by gentlemen
who are in the most secret councils of secession.
But so it is. He replied to my importunity :
" * Hey wood, I honour your fidelity to your
convictions, and I do not wonder at your opinions
respecting the North. Yet, you are Southern,
and you will be obliged to join us. Events will
prove stronger than men's wills.'
** * But not, I trust, than men's principles.'
" * All honest men agree in principles. It is
the application of principles that creates a dif-
76 nobwood; or,
ference of opinion upon public aflfairs. For
instance : You believe in justice, and so do I.
But what w just ? That is the question between
the North and South. We believe in humanity.
But which is the surest way of being humane?
Sometimes forbearance will constitute humanity.
Sometimes aggression is more humtme than peace.
To fire upon Sumter will prevent a civil war.
Tou think not. It is not a diflference of princi-
ples, but of judgment. You believe that the
happiness of the population will be consulted by
unity of national life. We believe that two
nations are better than one. We agree as to
the principle, viz., the duty of seeking the hap-
piness of the people. We diflfer as to means
only. I say that you are one of us. I mean
that your sympathies go with the land of your
birth. Events are transpiring 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, when you see that the rupture cannot
be prevented, to take sides against your father
and kindred, against your State, against all your
companions, and against the South and all its
glorious future ! Your honour 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
VILLAGE LIPE IN NEW ENGLAND. 77
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 do not want seces-
sion, and threaten it only to secure for the
South certain further concessions which shall
prolong its political ascendancy. 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 se-
cession and even welcome it, but with a distinct
understanding among themselves that it is the
shortest 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 North-western States will dissolve their con-
nection 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
78 NORWOOD; OB,
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 slie will be as little heard of as
Nova Scotia or Newfoundland.
*' * The tliird class is the only one that has
a clear and distinct plan and principle. All
the others are drifting and catching at accidents,
and hoping for lu(.ky 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
live together. What is the use of a divorce,
if 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 :
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 79
"*How can you speak with such confidence
of success when you admit that you are a small
minority^ and that the two other classes consti-
tute the wealth and the influential men of the
South?'
" * Because, in a revolution, the men who
stand still are powerless. Those men who pur-
pose energetic action suit the temper of such
times. In peace, conservatives and, in revolu-
tion, radicals ^will always lead. Hardly one
man in Montgomery wanted secession. 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 therefore every oppor-
tonity 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
I spoke. He was opposed to secession. He
could have been bribed easily to maintain the
Union.'
"^Bribed?'
" ' Yes, with the offer of the Presidency of
it. An ambitious obstinate man, subtle rather
than strong. A wise manager of common affairs,
but not large enough for comprehensive and
complex matters. He will do very well, how-
o
80 nobwood; or^
ever, to pilot us out of the Union. He is proud
and persistent, and will not easily be bamboozled/
" * How do you regard Stevens ? '
** * A sagacious man, without any belly/
" ' What do you 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
is like a cock-sparrow flying with a storm, hoping
t3 manage it.'
" * Stevens certainly ranks high among the
people.'
" * He ought to. He is honest, and a sagacious
critic of historical events. He is wise about
things that have already happened. But he has
no constructive wisdom. He has neither the
imagination, 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,' said he.
We came to a grave, upon which stood, in altar-
form, a large white slab of marble. By the faint
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 81
light of the moon, I saw cut upon the middle of it
^nothing above and nothing beneath it, alone,
simple and large, ^the name
CALHOUN !
" For a moment or two there was silence. At
length, my companion spoke :
" *Had HE 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 suffered
to go over. He died, and no one is found worthy
to bear his mantle ! Being dead, he yet speaketh.
From this spot goes forth the iniluence which will
found a new nation. Men will come hither, in
later days, upon pilgrimages, as they have hitherto
to Mount Vernon ! '
"*I have always deemed his ingenuity acute,
but impracticable.'
" * Impracticable ? Is the Bible an impracticable
book because people are not wise enough to prac-
tise its truths? All men of seed-thoughts are
esteemed impracticable in their own 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 as the result of Calhoun's teaching ? '
VOL. IIL G
82 NORWOOD; OR,
"* There's 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
separate States in the Union are the lever by
which we shall pry the Union apart. A great
man ! and wiser than his times ! '
'* * It has always seemed to me that he was the
apostle of the Ketrograde, not of the Advance,
and your plans seem to me to be based on the
philosophy of disintegration. You may hold to-
gether for a time by external pressure ; but there
is no cohesion in Calhoun's State ; it is all cen-
trifugal and explosive in its analyses and ultimate
tendencies.'
"The clock in the church opposite struck
twelve. I plead my health as a reason for re-
turning. On the way back, the Governor told me
that, on the morrow, Sumter would be formally
summoned to surrender ; that if anything further
were done toward mediation, he would notify
me.
^^ April 11. ^At two o'clock this afternoon Gen.
Beauregard formally demanded the evacuation of
Fort Sumter. *A11 proper facilities will be
afforded,' so the summons ran, ' for the removal
of yourself and command, together with com-
pany, arms and property, and all private pro-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 83
perty, 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 circumstances, may be
saluted by you on taking it down.' Major An-
derson replied : * My sense of honour and my ob-
ligations to my Government prevent my compli-
ance.' He stated incidentally that starvation
would soon compel evacuation. I caught at thb
sentence. It seemed a ray of light and hope.
I urged the General to communicate it to his
Grovemment In due time came from Secretary
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 agree
that in the mean time he will not use his guns
against us, unless ours should be used against Fort
Sumter, i/ou are tJms to avoid the efftman of blood. If
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 Go-
vernor'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.
Beauregard expected to open fire before morning I
Why should that be ? Was there some trick in
this message ?
G 2
84 nobwood; ob,
" So confident was I that peace would be pre-
served, that I inwardly triumphed over the crowds
in the streets of Charleston, who, aware of the im-
minent bombardment, filled the public ways as
on a holiday, gaily dressed, exuberant in spirits,
as if the city were one vast wedding-feast. They
were crowding the East and South Battery streets,
and the Whitepoint garden, hoping to be specta-
tors of a nation's funeral! 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 forebod-
ings. I inwardly said, as I left the chattering
crowd, 'Eeap all the darkness which the night
brings ; you shall see no flames to-night ! ' Yet
my heart was heavy. I was experiencing probably
the reaction of long excitement. It was past mid-
night before we set off in the boat, and it was
after one o'clock when we reached the fort.
"On approaching the postern we were chal-
lenged, but after a few minutes' delay, permitted
to land and enter the foi-t. The gentlemen of
our party were Major Lace, Col. Chism, Koger A.
Pryor, Senator Chestnut, and myself.
The written message was delivered to Major
Anderson :
" * If you will state the time at which you will
evacuate Fort Sumter, and agree that in the
TILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 85
mean time 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 oflScers
4JI of them young men. He seemed about fifty
^his hair touched with grey; his stature about
fiye feet eight ; his forehead square ; his face in-
telligent, mild, but full of firmness.
** The interior of the fort, about an acre large,
was in much confusion. Unmounted cannon lay
upon the ground ; material for various purposes
was heaped up. It was now the morning of tlie
12th ^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
promise that, unless meanwhile 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
comer for consultation. I was oveqoyed at the
happy termination of this dangerous matter. I
congratulated Major Anderson and his officers, and
we all hoped that the storm was past, and that
better counsels would bring brighter days to the
country.
86 NORWOOD; OR,
"After about fifteen minutes, the gentlemen
who had been consulting returned, and handed to
Major Anderson a paper containing the following
message :
" * By authority of Brig.-Gen. Beauregard, com-
manding the Provisional Forces of the Confederate
States, we have the honour to notify you that he
will open the fire of his batteries on Fort Sumter
in 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 one 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 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 !
But what could I do, untrained, and ignorant of
war, except to consume provisions already wasted
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 87
to the minimum ? With a heavy hearty 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 chang-
ing, and a faint twilight came stealing over the
harbour, every moment growing brighter. You
have noticed that at no moment of the day has
light such a virgin effect as between twilight and
sun-rise. Everything 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 harbour ; but
within that silver setting the water lay dark and
palpitating. Out of its bosom rose Sumter
sheer up from the water, which lapped its very
base on every side. How serene and secure the
fort looked I How beautifully the morning bright-
ened around it, though as yet the sun was far
down below the sea !
*' I was startled by the roar of a mortar a little
behind me. Out of its white smoke rose, with
graceful curve, a bomb that hurtled through the
air and burst right above the fort ! * Cursed be
the hand that fired that shot I May violence over-
take the wretch, and a disgmceful death ! ' I did
not know that it was my own State that broke
the peace ! Edmund Euffin it was, an old man,
^
88 NORWOOD; OB,
with white hair that hung down in profusion OTer
his shoulders, and was now flying wild, his eyes
bright with an excitement either of fanaticism or
insanity !
"This single shot given, there was a dead
pause for a moment or two. A flock of wild
duck, startled from their feeding-ground, flew
lilitting along the face of the water, and were
lost behind the fort. The peace was gone ! This
tranquil harbour was changed to a volcano ! Jet-
ting 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 ! Now that the circle was once
on fire it flamed incessantly. Gun followed gun
^battery answered battery and the earth 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 Sim 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 com-
mand peace ! Still no gun from the fort replied.
Two hours of bombarding, and not a shot in re-
turn! But at seven, in the morning, a roar
from the lower tier of guns gave notice that the
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 89
fort had roused itself and joined in the affray.
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 with the seventy men
battling for the flag against five thousand !
" The Confederate flag and the palmetto were
flying together over the forts. My soul spumed
them! I felt that I was among enemies. The
roar went on. As I drew near the city, I began
to hear the church bells ringing wild with joy !
Crowds everywhere lined the wharves, filled the
streets, covered the roofs of the hitherward
houses. The people had been out all night !
Many, discouraged at the delay, had begun re-
turning to their homes. But the first sound of
a gun brought them back with alacrity. One
would think that the humbling of the national
flag was the most joyous occasion in the world !
Worn out with excitement and want of sleep,
disgusted and indignant, I spumed 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 air 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
90 NORWOOD; OB,
disorder my imagination. I dreamed that I was
at Norwood, and conversing with Miss Eose,
when Dr. Wentworth entered, and his voice
broke like a sound of thunder upon me, and the
dream, changing, led me now with Cathcart, and
now with Wentworth, among sand-batteries and
forts. These dissolving views changed, and it
was Miss Eose, or Alice that was in distress
the house seemed crumbling and falling part by
part with terrible crash, and I utterly unable
to stir! I started up from such disturbed
visions. All the afternoon the same continuous
firing filled every part of the city with its sound.
Volumes of black smoke rolled up from the fort.
It was on fire ! Its guns fired but infrequently.
Every time the smoke rolled away I looked
anxiously through the glass to see if the flag still
waved. The sun went down upon it ! All night,
but at intervals of fifteen minutes, the bombard-
ment went on. People who had expected to
reduce the fort in a few hours seemed discouraged
at this protracted 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, Cum*
mings' Point on the east, Moultrie on the north,
and the floating battery on the west, together with
the smaller intermediate batteries. As far as I
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 91
could discern, the walls of Sumter had suffered
little. No breach appeared. The barbette guns
were knocked away. But though they were the
heaviest, they had never been used. The be-
siegers aimed to sweep them with such a fire
that the men could not work them. Again the
smoke rolled up from the fort, and flames could
now be seen. Moultrie poured a continuous
stream of red-hot shot upon the devoted fort
At last came noon. The firing ceased. Boats
were putting off to the fort. By one o'clock it
was noised abroad that the garrison had surren-
dered. It was true 1 On Sunday noon, they
were to salute the flag and evacuate the fort.
" If the week days were jubilant, how shall I
describe the Sabbath! The churches were
thronged with excited citizens. In many of
these all restraint was thrown off, and the
thanksgiving and rejoicing for the victory swept
everything like summer winds. I 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
sounded 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.
92 kobwood; ob.
Beat your ploughshares into swords, and your
pruning-hooks into spears; let the weak say,
I am strong. Multitudes, multitudes in the
valley of decision; for the day of the Lord is
near in the valley 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 in time to see
through my glass, the flag descending from
over Sumter 1 The drama is ended ! or rather
opened ! Who can teU 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 hand of God !
"To-morrow I shall bid farewell to these un-
happy scenes. I go to Eichmond, and thence
home. Shall I ever see Norwood again? I
know not why my spirits sink so low. I am fuU
of forebodings. Probably weakness and fatigue
are reasons enough. But over the future hangs
a dark cloud which I would that I might pierce
and know what it hides 1 Should I never see old
friends again, I would not willingly be forgotten
of them ^for I can never forget And so.
Farewell.
"Tom Heywood."
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 93
CHAPTER VI.
THE AEOUSING.
The March winds had blown themselves ont.
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 chest-
nut woods was turning to a ruddy brown. The
peach-blossom buds were swelling fast. The wil-
lows 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 themselves
against fences to free the old coat and give place
to the new. The herds owned the fervid im-
pulses 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."
94 NORWOOD; OB,
The oxen are yoked, and the plough is set
agoing. Blackbirds follow the furrow, and pick
for fat grubs. The redwinged starling from the
swamp sounds its medley a cross between a
cackle and a whistle. No more ice ! no more
snow I Cold winds yet contend for the mastery,
and new-dropped lambs shiver, and frisking calves
cuddle in sheltered spots from its rough breath.
" But, ah ! the south is propitious ! The sun is
ascending from the south, and bringing with
him all treasures. Look I do you not see those
low-lying clouds in the south glorious and jTiddy?
They are harvests which the sun is driving
forward red apples, purple grapes, yellow com,
and wheat. Full of gifts is thy bosom, oh south !
Listen to the sounds which every wind wafts
from the south. It is the bluebird in the orchard,
just come from its southern home. Eobins 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. Oh, gorgeous south I whose days are
summer round the whole year, to thee fly our
birds in autumn; and thence again, tuned and
re-fledged, they come to us in spring! From
thee come new life and joy. Peace be on thee,
mother of all good ! and far from thy fields be
harm and sorrow thou that art full of blessings !
TiLLAaE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 95
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 !
When the telegraph shot the news of the bom-
bardment of Fort Sumter through every State,
men held their breath. They could scarcely un-
derstand. Like those suddenly overtaken by an
immeasurable grief, they stood silent, listening,
waiting for something to say, " It is a dream ! it
is not truel" As the day wore on, a sharp curi-
osity 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. Ru-
mour was busy. The reality of war was eating
slowly into men's consciousness. None had be-
lieved it. Such unnatural violence can be possible
only to the insane! Was ever nation happier?
Was ever prosperity so continuous, and its fruits
in material wealth so wonderful ?
If war begins, the South is too shrewd to begin
it. She has ruled the land for fifty years, and if
96 nobwood; or,
as wise the English aristocracy, 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!
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 al-
ways ruined. Intense excitements were charac-
teristic of our national life. But free speech had
always proved a safety-valve to men's passions.
Men waxed hot, raged and denounced; then, as
after a thunder storm, every one went on his way
in a clearer sky and purer air !
Though it had year by year been threatened ;
though the threats grew sterner as the election of
Ml*. Lincoln approached ; though the act of seces-
sion was accomplished, and seven States threw,
off their allegiance to the Government; though
South Carolina day and night was girding Fort
Sumter with batteries, and gangs of slaves, by the
thousand, were heaping up the sands of the shore
into ^ast fortifications, and the lighthouses had
been darkened, the buoys of Southern harbours
removed, judges had resigned, forts had been
seized, and sworn public oflScer after officer had
YILLAOE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 97
proved treacherous, yet the innate hopeftdness of
the people and the security bred by long peace,
prevailed. Men would not believe that there
could be war.
On Sunday morning, the 14th of April, it was
known that Sumter had surrendered. The scales
fell from men's eyes !
Thebe was wab!
The flag of the Nation had been pierced by
men who had been taught their fatal skill under
its protection ! The nation's pride, its love, it
honour suffered with that flag, and with it trailed
in humiliation !
Without concert, or council, the whole people
rose suddenly with one indignation to 'vindicate
the nation's honour. 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
stem ; 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 muskets ! All the region round about
came forth. Never had such an audience gathered
in that house. Every face had in it a new life.
VOL. III. H
98 nobwood; ob,
Dr. Baell .was not wont to introduce into his Sab-
bath services topics allied to politics, nor did he
mean to change his habit to-day.
His sermon, weighty, and on themes which usu-
ally are accounted 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 haye been deliberate, and afterwards
owned that he was neyer so glad to get through
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 the country. He
prayed for the Government, for the men in Fort
Sumter, who had been like the three children in
the fiery furnace, for the flag, and for all in autho-
thority, that they might have wisdom and courage
to vindicate it I
The house was still so still that the ear ached
between every pause. The word Amen set loose
an army of handkerchiefs, and people wiped more
eyes than were ever wet at once in that house.
Just as Dr. Buell rose to give out the closing
hymn, he saw the choir rising as if to give an
anthem. The minister sat down ; but he quickly
rose up again, and every man in the house, as the
choir sang the Star SpangUd Barmer. Such a
YILLAOE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 99
scene had never been known in sober Norwood!
And when the last strain died, it was with difS-
cnlty that the minister could repress an open
** Why didn't you let 'em ? " said Deacon Mar-
ble. " It's enough to make the stones cry out. I
never felt so sorry before that I hadn't a house
fuUofboys."
Aunt Polly for once found nothing to rebuke
in the Deacon. " This is the Lord's work. Sun-
day isn't a bit too good to teach men that they
ought'er save the country I My grandfather dug
the sile out from under this church to git saltpe^,
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 them-
selves."
The whole population seemed to be in the
street I 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 dis-
cordant notes there were. Tough old Hunt, far-
mer up in " Hardscrabble," as a poor neighbour-
hood was called, in spite of angry eyes and frown-
ing brows would have his say : " I alius told you
H 2
^
100 NORWOOD; OR,
that the Abolitionists would bring blood on ns.
Now I hope they're satisfied. They've been teasin'
and worryin' the 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 up ! The boys ain't in a tem-
per to hear such talk. You'll git hurt afore you
git through a hundred speeches like that !"
Old Hunt was a small, wiry man, about sixty
years of age, with black hair, and a turbid hazel
eye, that looked cruel when he was wrathfuL
Hiram's words set him aflame.
"Where's the man that's goin' to stop my
tongue? This is a free country, I guess! I
%hall say what Fve a mind to
Just then, Hiram, who saw that trouble was
brewing, changed the attack from the old man
to his horse, who was as fiery and obstinate as
his master, and already had exhausted his pa-
tience and fodder, in a long Sunday under the
horse-shed. While the old man was standing in
his waggon, 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 waggon, and the
horse was heading for home with a speed unbe-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 101
ooming 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 med-
ley of utterances, which, addressed sometimes to
his horse and sometimes to Hiram, and sometimes
to the imaginary Abolitionists, formed a grotesque
oration.
" Oh, you won't stop, wiU ye ? (a jerk) You
d d Abolitionists (turning back his head)
^Come down, ye beast! (to his horse) ^free
country ! everybody do as he choses 1 Can't stop
me, tell ye why don't you stop hold up ! No !
I won't hold my jaw, for none of ye ! I'U break
your jaw if you don't stop, ye de beast
Abolitionists tell ye !" and with that 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 teU 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 buUets, and
the side that can stand that longest is goin' to rule
this country, that's all."
Old Mr. Turfmould ventured to say, without
102 nobwood; OB,
meaning any harm ^merely as a moral reflec-
tion "Ah, Mr. Beers, it's awM killin' folks,
and hnddlin' em into holes without funerals or
decent fixins of any kind.*'
"Shut up, yon blasted old owl!" said Hiram.
" This thing's goin' to be fought out, that's sar-
tain, and we won't haye nobody hangin' back at
home. A man that won't fight when his flag's
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, ^' that the Goyemment 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'ye got for
it ! Secede ! rob the government ! 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 ain't goin' to fight now, we'd
better swap clothes with the women, and let them
try awhile. I tell ye we toill fight 1 "
Deacon Trowbridge was like a green hickory
YILLAaE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 103
fire on a winter's morning. It requires the utmost
skill and blowing to get it to bum, but when once
it is started, it blazes and crackles with immense
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! Ye can't
help it. I don't want to help it ! It's the Lord's
will, and I'm desperate willin'. If my boys some
on 'em don't go, I'll disown 'em. Don't want no
cowards on my farm ! "
Home with Dr. Wentworth walked Dr. BuelL
He had lately grown even more intimate than
dttxing the years before. He was 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 in the
house felt it a pleasure to serve him. He thus
gathered the firuits of a wise household without
either the care or responsibility of maintaining
its organization.
Agate Bissell, who was housekeeper, teacher,
nurse, and companion, 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, but silently, upon them, with
104 NORWOOD; OR,
hungry eyes, as if she besought some word of
sympathy. The conversation went on. Instead
of giving it in broken fragments, we condense
the remarks of Dr. Wentworth, as if it were one
speech.
"It must comel the argument is ended! 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 bloodshed. For thirty years, it is now
apparent, that the two great halves of this nation
were deepening into radically antagonistic con-
victions 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, ex-
cept in a few arbitrary and artificial arrangements,
cannot be controlled by the Federal Government,
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 105
except by such an increase of its powers as would
prove fatal to local liberty.
" Whenever a considerable number of contigu-
ous 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 commimity to diverse,
strange, and unnational customs, morals, political
principles, and civic feehngs, 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 nationality, it does not follow that in coming
tim^ the ripe fruit may not drop of itself, without
opposition, and be gathered up cheerfully and
willingly. States wiU 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 vast bulk of
such an empire of States is too great to be con-
veniently grouped in one Federal Government,
there might be less resistance. Now the tendency
is setting towards unity. That may expend
itself. The next tide may be to variety. But
106 NORWOOD; OR,
who can tell? National life allows no prophet to
unveil it
** Probably if you and I were in the South, we
should join with it. This conflict is but opening.
It looks now as if all the Southern 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 honourable, and will resist
disunion; but when he sees it accomplished, he
wiD go with his State, and probably join the
Southern army."
Alice Cathcart was one of those whose stillness,
both in speech and motion, is so great that her
very presence seems swallowed up in the person-
ality 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 sud-
denly, and with passionate vehemence, she ex-
claimed :
"Never! He will never betray his country!
It is a shame to slander one who cannot answer
for himseK!"
Had a piece of artillery gone off in the room,
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 107
it would hardly have startled the company more
than gach a speech from the gentle, silent Alice !
The Doctor smiled and would have replied^ bnt
Alice disappeared. Mrs. Wentworth found her
in a flood of tears^ and folded the dear child to
her boBom^ without words^ comforting her by the
sympathy of a loving embrace.
The sun had gone down. Eyery household in
Norwood and wide about was a scene of excite-
ment. That night prayer was a reality I Neyer
before had the children heard from their Others'
lips such supplications for the country. Never
before had the children's hearts been open to join
so fervently in prayer themselves. Men seemed
to be conscious that they were helpless in the
presence of an immeasurable danger ! By Faith
they laid their hearts upon the bosom of God,
till they felt the beatings of that great Heart
whose courses give life and law to the Universe !
108 nobwood; ob,
CHAPTER VII.
ECHOES FROM THE NORTH.
" Whereas, The laws of the United States have
been for some time pasty and now are, opposed,
and the execution thereof obstmcted in the States
of South Carolina, Greorgia, Alabama, Florida,
Mississippi, Louisiana, and Texas, by combinations
too powerfhl to be suppressed by the ordinary
eonrse of judicial proceedings, or by the powers
Tested in the marshals by law ; now^ therefore, I
Abraham 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 aggre-
gate number of 75,000, in order to suppress said
combinations, and to cause the laws to be duly
executed."
This was the answer of the people, speaking
by their Government, to the acts of secession, and
to the assault upon the nation's flag and fortress
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 109
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 !
Our noblest sentiments, when assailed, never
deliberate. A wise man foreseasons his honour,
love, purity, patriotism, with reason. When
touched with harm they burst forth into action
as instantaneously as powder touched with fire
into flame ! When the flag was abased, the
nation shuddered. No one had suspected how
deep in the heart of the people was the senti-
ment of patriotism. For two generations men
had been buying and selling, making and dis-
tributing, 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 into a
greedy game of policy, and great principles, no
longer debated or tolerated, sat in the capitol,
like decrepit old men crooning of the golden
days of old.
The lowering of the nation's flag before the
guns of South Carolina pierced the pride and
honour of the North to the quick. The outburst
.was universal and unpremeditated. The morn-
ing and evening of a single day saw peace
utterly laid aside, and twenty millions of people
110 NORWOOD; OR,
filled with the spirit of war. Men would not
tolerate argument, and trampled upon mer-
cenary considerations. Before, men had seemed
swallowed up in material interests, and dead to
heroic sentiments. The trumpet sounded the
resurrection, and in an instant they came forth
into a life of heroic sentiment, and, placing
honour, duty and patriotism high above all sordid
interests, they offered up to their country their
ease, their wealth, and life itseK I Passions
there were, but they were auxiliaries of the
moral sentiments, lending to them force and
fire. For a people's war a free, intelligent^ re-
ligious people is not bred either of a greedy
ayarice, nor of royal pride and ambition. It
was war for the Commonwealth, nay, more re-
fined yet, a war, unparalleled in magnitude and
cost, waged for the Principles on which alone
commonwealths can stand! It was kindled not
by the 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 comers,
among the ignorant and roving, nor chiefly among
labouring men, but pre-eminently in academies
and colleges, in Sabbath schools and churches.
No one held himseK aloof. There was a generous
competition who should go, and men strove for
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. Ill
a place in military companies as at other times
for honour and wealth. The whole community
wei moved to the core by the power of the
unseen. It was an enthusiasm for an abstract
sentiment, for an invisible quality of patriotism
for law, for liberty, for government. This was a
sublime spectacle, of the spirit of government
rising up in the very sources of all government 1
The same scenes were at the same time occur-
ring in the Southern States. Even more fiery
was the outbreak, because the people were of
more demonstrative natures. Pity it is that
admiration 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 disapprobation of the secret and
potential causes which were at work need not
withhold from the common people the credit
of the most earnest sincerity, witnessed by offer-
ing up all that man holds dear for the cause
which they had been misled to believe was the
cause of liberty and of honour !
And thus it came to pass that thirty millions
of men, divided into two bands, went seeking
each other through the darkness and mystery of
war. Neither part considered or cared to pon-
der what was before it. Like two warriors
112 nobwood; ob,
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 dangerous ford!
Towards both parties came travelling great
sorrows and disasters. 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 Kke a storm spray
driven in from the ocean !
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 storms move in upon
society, and no man feel the chill of the shadow
which they cast forward? Eight before the
nation were clouds dripping blood, and full of
wasting fire. None saw. Bight before them
were heaped-up corpses, armies of the dead^
suffering, fear, famine, and pestilence, but men
heeded them not !
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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 113
justice, a better Mendship, a more lasting bro-
therhood !
Fort Sumter was evacuated April 14; the
President's proclamation came Monday, the 15th ;
and before sundown of that night, Barton Cath-
cart's company were on the green, ready to
leave on the cars that night. This promptitude
was the more remarkable because at least one
half of its numbers lived out of the village, and
several of them some miles distant. Arthur
Wentworth, now twenty years old, fortunately
was at home from college, and promptly joined
his company.
There is no one scene which so stirs a country
town as the departure from it of the first com-
panies for war. Mothers, sisters, and lovers
look upon the men with yearning admiration;
and the imagination heightens the sense of
mysterious danger into which they are going.
But on this day parents were scarcely less eager
to send, than were their sons to go. The city
of Washington the capital was threatened !
'Biah Cathcart came to town, with his wife
Eachel. He was calm and stem. She was sin-
gularly exalted. Her soul said :
** What am I tljat the Lord should permit me
to send my son to the defence of his govern-
ment ? Great are his mercies, oh my soul."
VOL. in. I
114 NORWOOD; OB,
Miss Wentworth was absent from home. She
had gone from Boston down to Maine, before the
tidings of war broke over the country. Imme-
diately she started for home. But so promptly
had Barton moved that he had been in Boston
several days before Bose reached Norwood. But
Barton, in the whirl of preparation, had found
time to write a few lines to Hose :
"April 15, '61.
"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.
I am sad at leaving you, whom I love more than
father and mother, or all beside. This will sur-
prise you, but it is no sudden experience. It
has been the secret of my life. From my boy-
hood I have cherished it ; whether with more of
pain than of cheer I cannot tell. The hunger 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 out scarce anything
would remain worth keeping. It has^ inspired
and cheered, it has chidden and restrained. In
the fire of this love, whose flame I might not
show, every feeKng of my life has been tempered.
VILLAGE LIFB IN NEW ENGLAND. 115
" Only within the year have I been in circum-
stances to justify me in an honourable solicitation.
But a shadow fell upon me. Another came
before me. Pardon me. I would not speak of
it, but I may never return, and for our childhood
friendship's sake you 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 happi-
ness would shed some faint joy on my disap-
pointment. I know not whether, even if you
were free, you could love me. Have I said too
much ? It is as nothing to the unsaid. The
silence of my heart through years now yearns
for an expression. Only let me hear one word
from you ; 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 ! But let
me not go in the chill of utter silence.
"Barton."
This letter he hastily did up, and being obb'ged
to employ 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
I 2
116 NORWOOD; OR,
Barton's orders with extraordinary 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 Bidwell's, and to Carrington's, and to
Eaton's, and crossing through the woods, and
past the red school-house ; he had come down by
Marsh's, and Morris', warning one man at each
placa
" What is it, Pete ? " said grandma Carrington.
" You're wanted," said he with a half guzzling
laugh. " Captain Cathcart wants Tom right off,
with all his regimentals. They're going to-night"
" Tom is out plowin'. Here, Roxy ! Eoxy !
Where's that child ? When you 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 'U 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 117
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 re-
cognizes a long-absent friend, his lips parted, and
the rum disappeared as a drop of water sinks into
parched ground.
Thence Pete betook himself, now inwardly com-
forted, around the Owl Swamp, over on to the
turnpike to Belden's ; but Belden's son Will had
gone into town, partly on an errand, and partly for
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 management 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
honour, every one abhorring 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 of his last glass, and the sight of the
decanter put him into a radiant mood. A large
glass was poured off, the old man applauding and
swearing horribly. But Pete's instinct of obedi-
118 NORWOOD; OB,
ence was proof against further persuasion. He
knew that Barton had ordered him to report to
him agtun in the quickest possible time, and so, in
spite of the sparkling of the liquor which old
Belden held up before his face, and shook till it
foamed, he departed. It was full time.
On his way back he thought of ever so many
funny things, and saw oyer so many queer sights.
At any rate, at every other step he sizzled put a
laugh.
At any other time Barton would have perceived
Pete's condition; but now amid the excitement
which pervaded the town, he scarcely noticed his
exhilaration.
He gave him the letter to Miss Kose, with par-
ticular direction not to lose it, and to hand it that
night to Dr. WentwortL 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 paper of fish-
hooks, and a bit of newspaper over all. Every
moment was precious if Pete was to fulfil his
errands.
His senses were fast retiring into obscurity ; yet
he had retained the impulse to go to Dr. Went-
worth's after he had lost all idea of the reason for
going. The Doctor was called after tea into the
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 119
kitchen to see Pete, who at once, giggling and
shuffling, made a faint attempt to give him from
his hat a paper.
The Doctor read :
"At the last moment, I have got me a few
things, as you suggested, at Wadsworth's. Please
settle the bill. Barton."
"What's aQ this? This must be for Barton's
farther. Pll give it to him to-morrow. Mrs.
Good, you had better let Pete lie down in the
out-room."
What became of Barton's letter to Eose was
never certainly known. Pete was up before day-
light 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 Rose never received it, and
wondered and grieved that Barton should again
have left town abruptly without a word of fare-
well.
For, the second day after his departure, came
Eose home. Her brother was gone, and she had
passed within a few squares of him in Boston, not
dreaming that he was in the city.
" Mother, did Barton call to say good-bye ? "
*' He was too busy. We all went out to see him
off, and shook hands with him at the cars. I never
saw him so*radiant. He stood eviden tly the first
120 korwood; or,
man among men in that hour. And his military
dress was wonderftdly becoming. EeaUy I quite
fell in love with him."*
Eose was silent for a time, and then, with en-
forced naturalness, asked :
*'Did you say that Barton left any word for
me?"
*' Nothing that I heard of. There was only half
a day to summon 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 ! "
Eose sat silent, buried in thought Early she
plead the fatigue of journeying and retired. It
was but masked somnolency. Sleep sometimes
courts you till you yield, and then coquettishly
flies. So it was with Eose.
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 the thinking part,
and, in the darkness, especially following early
sleep, and just preceding the morning, the mind
-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 121
easily penetrates things obscure, and disentangles
things perplexed, and unrolls things most in-
volved.
There may be a sleeplessness of pleasureable
excitement. And sometimes this is an exquisite
pleasure. One has something to learn of luxury
who has never laid awake with joy. One then
seems to float peacefully in an atmosphere of joy.
Pure, continuous delight flows from every nerve,
and from every faculty.
But there is an excitement of half-bom feelings,
of evanescent fancies, where thoughts but begin,
and vanish, where feelings start without develop-
ing 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 may be touched, to the dew,
to the things it lays upon, to the song of birds,
and to the companionship of friends! Such as this
last excitement filled Eose's night, and glad was
her morning.
122 nokhtood; or.
CHAPTEK VIIL
FIRST FRUITS.
The most striking trait in camp life to Barton
was the feeility shown by his men in adapting
themselves to entirely new eircomstances. It was
a complete revolution in their method of life.
Many of his men was accustomed to all the refine-
ments of wealth, and all of them had been reared
in abundance. There were fifteen graduates of
colleges, and five under-graduates. There were,
besides, several students of medicine and of law,
and five men who were in commercial business.
The others were intelligent mechanics, machinists,
factory men, youug 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,
now dealing in cattle, or buying up in autumn
whatever line of produce promises to advance in
market; in short, the moveable merchants, the
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 123
cavalry of trade. With one accord they fell into
the proprieties of their new life, and in a few days,
like a well-made machine, everything began to move
smoothly. By the last of the week the. regiment
to which they belonged was despatched to Washing-
ton. 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
chestnut colour, 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 more agility than the best He was a leader
on the base-ball ground ^loud and merry in his
outcry, intense and impetuous at footrball. He
lacked something of strength at wrestling, but made
it up in deft agility. He was the pride of his class,
and so pure and loving in his noble nature that
neither envy nor jealousy, as yet, had been shown
124 NORWOOD; OR,
by any. All the signs pointed him out as poet.
All the signs too pointed him out as artist. But
not less did he promise to become an orator.
Fate made him a soldier. To Barton he was
dear for double reasons ^for his own sake and
for another's. In the company and regiment
he became a universal favourite 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 Eose, some months later, he
wrote :
" Washington, July 14, 1861.
" Ah, Kose, you should be a soldier ! or, if that
is forbidden, come as a fairy vivandiere, 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. Camp-
life, the march, the drill, is a perpetual dream. I
wake into a surprise of pleasure each morning.
My enjoyment reminds me of Parson Buell's fa-
vourite 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 Cap-
tain Cathcart are the same. No more to be com-
pared are they than the seed is to the blossom !
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 125
Our Cathcart is your Barton developed 1 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 let-
ting 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 study-
ing. I wake, and he is still at his books and
maps. I infer, therefore, that he never sleeps,
and that is the opinion of the camp. Yet he is
never fagged out, but affable, obliging, and the
very life of good fellowship. His care for me is
beyond words. Though he is rigorous toward me
more than toward any other officer, yet I feel that
there is a tenderness in his strictness which is very
touching. By the way. Barton's advancement will
be luck for several of us. I go up a step, and am
to be first-lieutenant. That's very well for a be-
ginning. But I'll come home a general ! Prepare
the ceremonies for my return! I read Major
Cathcart your last letter. It was so full of home
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.
126 NORWOOD; OB,
" * I tell you, Major,' said I, *by virtae of my
authority as a doctor's son, that you shall not
tax yourseK 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 off-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 rigor-
ous 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 as we are.'
" * Yes, that is true ; and therefore I say that
there is no calculation possible. Every thing is
contingent. They may fight or 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 exhausted
his influence to prevent precipitation. But there
is such a clamour for an advance that we shall
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 127
have to go. Politicians, and editors, and red-
faced patriots have it all 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. He laughed, and looked proudly
at me, and said :
"Men with chestnut hair, blue eyes, and san-
guine temperament are apt to have hopeful pre-
sentiments.'
" The signs of a movement increase. I shall
write again as soon as it is over.
" Arthur."
On the 21st of July was fought the battle of
BuU Kun, a most victorious defeat. It ended
all over-confidence in the North. It inspired the
South with such vain-glorious confidence that
they failed to put forth that power for a year
or more, which it had, and then it was too late.
It ended all lingering ideas of peace. It ended all
farther notions of a union party in the South;
for, after that battle, those in the South who had
held aloof, hoping a peaceful settlement, were
swept by the current, and obliged to accept the
new government as existing de factOy whatever
opinions they yet cherished of it de jure. It cast
the most profound gloom upon the loyal States
128 NORWOOD; OR,
a night of shame and sorrow. But out of that
night there arose a morning of Purpose such as had
not dawned before ! There was to be a long and
thorough war, and preparation must be broad
and thorough ! The whole after fruit of this de-
feat 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 morn-
ing. McDowell's right wing, crossing Bull Kun
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 War-
ronton turnpike, and were assailing the centre
upon the heights where Beauregard had concen-
trated 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 Valley.
Wearied by long conflict, spent with heat, fa-
mished 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 in-
YIIiLAQE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 129
creased. Men already broken np in organiza-
tion streamed tnmnltuously back toward Bull
Bun. The contagion spread. Fright grew wild.
Men rushed over each other, across all obstacles,
stumbling, leaping, with wildest 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, cohering, essay to
stop the wild flight. They availed nothing, and
were themselves entangled and swept away. A
handful of regulars evinced the power of disci-
pline, and, without attempting the hopeless task
of holding back the ront, sought only to check
pursuit until the fugitives could cross the stream.
Once across Bull Kun, 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 shot thrown across
from the Confederate batteries had fallen among
the waggons, 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 oflf upon the
team horses. Many got their waggons about;
but, tangled in the crowd of fugitives, the up-
VOL. III. K
130 irosfwCKSiD; asL,
p*ciiiur IcmdHT i^nd i^ l&^t heaaadDg more
de{^^en!S3L. ^-ax^^on Ikidted mi& m;t^dii the road
beicazz^e jfizzm^: tbesr ^w&grrsois eomii^ on, ap-
sBt "^ 'w^s;cii^ cm 1^ roftd-rsi^ hat only to clear
M W4T ics- Ji Tt jfiGlacm af 33 :9oeaies. Crowds of
atixesEis^ Hfsm^is ctf Gcm:3^ess, v^men and chil-
drem Ltti ootme mt Jts ito a iSestirie soie^ and were
eaxtgial in d;^ tcan^wd, ^OEid ^K^nt i^wnng on in the
The regcment to whkli Baiton belonged had
done good senic^ and hid soffieied sererely.
Many of his own ocmiqpany had t^Sl&L But his
men were ccmqHcnoas fer steadiness. By two
o'clock the colonel and Uenteiiant-colonel had
been wounded, and the command deTolTcd upon
Major Gathcart When the loat began, he was
able to hold his men^ and with incredible efforts,
to form a sort of reaiguardL Bat his already di-
minished regiment melted &st His own Norwood
company were firm. But they were only a hand-
fill, and the first determined onset of the pursuing
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 scarcely
lost sight of Arthur Wentworth, and now he was
convoying him as best he might toward the
bridge. Suddenly from his right thero swept
YILLAQE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 131
around a detachment of Confederates that poured
their fire upon the spot where Barton stood, and
with loud yells rushing in upon them separated
Barton &om his men, and swept him away a
prisoner.
A shot struck Arthur in the neck. He plunged
forward. Sergeant Belden, and two others of his
townsmen, caught him and drew him aside, and by
singular address, after exceeding exertions, con*
veyed him across the stream. At Centerville
Arthur was placed in an ambulance, and lay as if
asleep. Through that sweet moonUght 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-
shaken forest and seeks more peaceful places, his
spirit had lifted itself higher than battle and above
its stroke or sound I
Will Belden it was that said, " Arthur, do you
suffer much?" and hearing no answer, he laid
his hand upon him as to awake one asleep. He
touched his face and drew back in awe and
silence !
No blood had issued from his wound, near the
base of the brain, and his face was not ghastly,
K 2
132 nobwood; ob,
but seemed, in the eariy twilight^ as the face of
one who sleeps and dreams pleasantly, so sweet
was the expression that had spread oyer it.
That day the telegraph spread the tidings to
Norwood. The message boy handed the dispatch
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!"
" Arthur is dead ! " 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 hands, and could not understand
why.
" Dead ? dead, Agate ? Who's dead ? "
" Arthur Wentworth is dead ! "
*' 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
YILLAQE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 133
honseholcL She ordered for the children what
their daily needs required ; she had made every
arrangement for Dr. Wentworth to go to Wash-
ington long before he came in to tea ; she minis-
tered to the darkened room ; and all quietly, never
mistaking, or confusedly giving an order twice,
but in the stillness of severe self-possession.
134 hobwood; or.
CHAPTEK IX.
CONSOLATION.
It was the morning of Sunday, July 28, 1861.
Even for that month the morning was singularly
glorious. The wind set from the north-west when
it breathed at all, and brought the fresh savour of
thunder-storms which had played solemn music
through the night.
The air was cool. Its moisture gave to the light
a peculiar and almost 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 1 On
every side the earth glows with marvellous beauty.
The Lord is in his Soly Temple, he said, in low
tones, to himself. He could not well add. Let aU
the Earth keep silence ; for, out of every tree and
bush, from the orchard, from the tops of the elms,
VILLAGE LITE IN NEW ENGLAND. 135
from the meadows and fields there went up such an
ecstacy 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 disson-
ance.
Dr. Wentworth was intensely calm. It was
the calmness of every faculty, keenly alive but
in equipoise. The eflfort 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 handful of leaves and blossoms, sayings
in a half-whisper and in broken sentences, as if
reciting in part, and thinking the rest " He cometh
forth as a flower and is cut down : he fleeth also a
shadow and continueth not;" and then pausing,
he added aloud, with inexpressible S6tdness, " The
eye of him that hath seen him shall see him no
more. As the cloud is consumed and vanisheth
away, so he that goeth down to the grave shall
oome up no more, neither shall his place know
him any more."
He laid down the flowers, of which his hand was
over full, and forgetting them in a moment, he
136 voBWOOi); ob,
began plucking others, mimnniing, as if to the
shrabs, ^'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 treeh clnmp of gathered flowers
and in a gentle, aimless way, straightened out
some of the spray and tangled vine work, as if
he were putting little children to bed, meanwhile,
hardly abore his breath, reciting :
" 0, the hope of Israel, the Saviour thereof in
time of trouble, why shouldst thou be as a stranger
fn the land ? Why shouldst thou be as a man
astonished, as a mighty man that cannot save ?
Yet thou, Lord art in the midst of us, and we
. are called by thy name. Leave us not ! "
His thoughts had reached their saddest when he
broke forth into that most utterly hopeless of all
the utterances of old : " Are not my days few ?
cease then, and let me alone, that I may take
comfort aJittle before I go whence I shall not
return, to the land of darkness and the shadow of
death ; a land of darkness, as darkness 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 137
the Old Testament is so Ml of wailing, and,
withoat nttering them, he repeated in his mind
that passage in Hebrews that is like a sunrise:
^ But ye are come onto Mount Zion and into the
city of the living Grod, the heavenly Jerusalem,
and to an innumerable company of angels," and
the rest
He walked on, seemingly forgetful of his flowers
and looking forth and upward upon the wide arch
above, full of morning sunlight, he leaned against
the summer-house door, long looking up :
" Therefore they are before the throne of Grod
and serve him day and night in his temple and
He that sitteth 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 lead them
unto living fountains of waters; and Grod shall
wipe away all tears from their eyes."
As he stood half chanting in a low voice these
words, Kose approached him, but stood silent
After a little, she quietly moved past her father
and came into the summer-house from the other
side. The sight of Bose seemed to open in her
&ther'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
138 NORWOOD ; OR,
something terrible in the uncontrolled weeping of
a strong man! Bose 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 green oak leaves upon his
coffin. The singular charm of the morning, the
strain 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 a 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 dovm a
shower from every branch.
It was while her father was gone to Washington
that Kose had 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 saw the Invisible, in the
presence of whom all the earth is as a shadow, and
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 139
its noises as silence, and its sorrows, like the sighs
of childhood, soon hushed in sleep and forgetful-
ness ! 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 her cheeks, but only in sympathy.
The tumult and paroxysm of his grief soon passed,
and her father, relieved by his long-needed out-
burst, came after a little to a peace not to be
disturbed. Father and daughter communed
together of the dead. He spoke of his hopes, his
ambition, his joy and affection for his oldest-bom
son.
"If he could have been spared to render
something more of service to the cause, I could
have more willingly yielded him. But 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 Eose, " 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-bom
of many families are to be slain. 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
140 nobwood; ob,
who have stood foremost in this community should
lead, and in this great day of suffering set the
example of sacrifice and consecration. What is
there worth living for, and even more worth dying
for, if it be not our own country ? "
**My daughter, you speak eagerly, enthusias-
tically. You are excited by what you have passed
througL"
" I was excited ; but, father, I am calm now,
and I shall be to the end "
Then hesitating, as if uncertain whether to go
on, she said, at length :
** Father, while you were gone aft^r 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. I had 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 ray mind. I implored His help. I read the
scenes in Bethany, where Lazarus was sick ; while
the Saviour, though knowing it, delayed to come ;
and the sisters' anguish at their brother's death !
Wlien 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
TILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 141
came to me a sense of the tenderness of Jesus
towards 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 suffering was permitted for the sake
of spiritual good, which they did not understand,
nor He explain. In some way, that very not
explaining seemed to convey to my mind a sense
of the wonderful nature of spiritual life, which lay
so far above human experience or language that
the Saviour made no effort whatever to expound
it. My heart yielded I rested on Christ as a
little child."
Rose paused for a moment, and then resumed :
"Father, what I am going to say you will
understand better than L 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, Rose ? tell me all"
"I laid dowa upon the bed, and was asleep.
How long I had been asleep I cannot telL I heard
Arthur calling to me, * Rose ! Rose I ' I opened my
eyes Arthur was there, though I saw nothing of
him, but as it were the print of his &ce in the air.
As I looked, the room disappeared, and I seemed
to be in the air. Before me I saw unfolded in the
sky lurid clouds connected and rising in a proces-
)
142 NORWOOD; OR,
sion, 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."
Kose 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 aiid suflFering.
Thus far I had not noticed anything 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 primary. 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 were no
figures to my senses, and yet my spirit discerned
these representations as clearly as my senses did
the other. As I looked, Arthur came again, and
all around us there seemed to be an ineffable
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 143
peace, and his love seemed to fill the air all about
us with rosy light, as if it had been a radiancy of
some burning lamp. I was inexpressibly happy,
and Arthur was about to tell me something,
saying, in a significant way, * Eose ! Rose ! '
when Agate stood by my bedside, and the morning
was advanced, and my vision was all gone. Now,
I know what you will say, father, and I do not
doubt that I dreamed ; but what I think remark-
able is, that my whole feeling is changed. I have
not had a ripple of trouble since. There is to be
great trouble in the land ^battles and multitudes
of slain and wounded. I am to devote myself to
this service, and care for the sick and wounded. I
am no longer agitated. I know what that peace
is which passes all understanding."
They were here summoned to breakfast, and all
the family seemed to have felt that morning that
the Sabbath sun had risen upon them with heal-
ing in its wings.
" Shall I wind the clock to-day ? " asked Agate
Bissell of the Doctor.
"No, Agate, not to-day. Both ceased 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 Bun was fought, the great black clock in the
144 NORWOOD; OR,
hall had been forgotten and had run down. Agate,
whose last duty on Saturday night before going to
bed was to wind up the clock, 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 moment; and
halted. On returning from afternoon service it
was discovered. But the Doctor said :
" Do not wind it. To-morrow we will have it
examined."
Afterwards Agate superstitiously believed that
it stopped with the speeding of that ball which
struck Arthur. And Doctor Wentworth 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."
With this day ended all struggla It was the
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 145
day of life from the dead. It was the Lord's day
pledge of resurrection and immortality. 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 ascend-
ing Saviour moved; and their faith sought the
child among the overliving and the for ever
joyful, where sorrow and sighing has passed away !
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 Christian faith could have
believed 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 the first day
of the week, when the doors were shut, * * came
Jesiis and stood in the midst and saith unto them.
Peace he unto ycfuJ'
VOL. in.
146 btokwood; ob.
CHAPTEB X.
APTER FKt'lTS.
Had an entire stranger entered Dr. Wentworth's
{sLmiljy he would scarcely have suspected that a
great sorrow had beifallen it. He might remark
a tenderness manifested bv one toward another,
unnsoal even in the circle of affectionate people.
The voice of singing was there, but the music
flowed deep, carrying few bubbles upon its sur-
face. Even mirth re-asserted its wholesome sway,
but it was manifested more by the dewy fresh-
ness given to conversation than by a positive
eflSorescence of its own. In this case, happily,
sorrow worked upon the moral sentiments and
developed a serene and high joy ! There was no
drug in it deadening to the sensibility. All of
life had become richer by what it had lost. The
heavens seemed nearer. The L'ghtest duties and
most trivial offices of daily life seemed coloured
with celestial hues. When Death is interpreteii
it means Life. Its ministry is to enrich life, not
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 147
to rob it. It takes away the flesh, but pours
back along the way upon which the departing
spirit went a flood of h'ght and influence which
heightens the colours and doubles the value of
all that remains behind. The worth of common
tilings depends upon the sentiments which we
have twined around them. Sorrows are gar-
deners, and 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 stake carries its twining morning-
glory, and mosses picture the stones, and glowing
ampelopsis tufts the walls with its autumnal red.
Eose and her mother were 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 we are afflicted."
"Father! you know I did not mean that.
Shall we put on the customary mourning clothes?"
"If it is indispensable to your comfort. Do
not do it to please me unless you follow the
Scriptural example."
L 2
148 NORWOOD; OB,
" What example is there, father?" said Rose.
" Read in the twentieth chapter of John," re-
plied the Doctor, " and about the middle of the
chapter; ^let me see ^there it is ^the eleventh
and twelfth."
Hose read aloud " But Mary stood without
at the sepulchre weeping; and as she wept she
gtooped down and looked into the sepulchre '*
"Yes," interrupted her father, "that is too
often our way in grief we * stoop down' and
we Mook into the sepulchre.' Except by a mi-
racle, they that look into the grave for their dead
will find darkness, and gloom, and decay. But I
interrupted you 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 Francia, before RaflFaelle's day," said Dr.
Wentworth, "in a noble Pieta, which is now in
the National Gallery in London, represents an
angel at the head of Christ, with the expression
of Jiope, as one who was looking forward into the
future, while the other angel at the feet wears
the sorrowful look of one who remembers the past.
The idea is very beautiful. Since I first saw it I
have always interpreted this passage in John's
gospel in the same way. Two angels, Hope and
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 149
and Memory, but both in shining white, sat in
Christ's sepulchre. The angel of sorrow wore
white as much as his fellow. Demonic sorrow
should wear black ; but Christian faith shows us
angels yet hovering at the grave's mouth. Our
Arthur is not sleeping there. He is awake, and
in Heaven. Why should I wear black for him ?
His life was Christian and beautiful. He died as
a pure oflFering to Duty and Patriotism why
should I 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 than ever, pre-
sent in everything, and everywhere, pure, sainted
most beautiful. Why should I put on black?"
" I think," said Mrs. Wentworth, " that one
is shielded by mourning costume from care-
less inquiries, and from unfeeling intrusion of
people."
" No doubt," said her husband, " in a few in-
stances 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. Went-
worth, ** that it is congenial to one's feelings, in
a great sorrow, to avoid bright colours, and to be
clothed in darker ones."
**That is a matter of education. In so far as
150 nobwood; OB,
high colours have come to signify gaiety and
pleasure, there may be a good reason for dis-
missing them. K one would mark one's grief,
why not by the colour 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 yiet, in the public mind," said his
daughter, "there is a seeming want of respect
to the memory of the departed, if we make no
diflFerence in our ways."
"It is not the custom of our people to sym-
bolize their feelings by a change of dress, with this
solitary exception. If a man becomes 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
grievous experience, he does not change his garb.
The one solitary and exceptional case is bereave-
ment! But there is in domestic sorrow a deli-
cacy, 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 151
private griefe. But, even if one were permitted
to announce this one side of domestic experience
by change of garb, the question still remains,
whether egression should be given to the weak-
ness of natural feeling, or the triumph of Christian
fiuth? Whether we should symbolize the dark-
ness of the grave as unenlightened 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 community where death is sur-
rounded with associations of terror, where the
young are reared to a horror of the sepulchre,
where present grief rises up like a dark cloud
and shuts out the heaven, where in sermon,
services, conversation, and dress everything
conspires to shroud death and the grave with
darkness. Has sorrow a right to be selfish ? May
it bear false witness against immortality ? Has a
Christian under bereavement a right to declare
by his conduct, ' There is no light in the grave,
none beyond it, and no comfort for the bereaved
but only black, black, black sorrow 1' I never
meet one muffled in black from head to foot,
without 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
n
152 NORWOOD; OB,
out. of tlu'ir blissful rest in heaven, would be
tbtnr choice that I should be shrouded like one
in ili^g|air, or robed as one who mourns, but with
ChriHtiiin ho^w?**
Notliing further was replied, and the subject
drojipoil,
A grout eJiango had taken place in Bose. At
luugtl), A\o had an object in life, which was of
aulUcient magnitude and interest to develop and
occupy all her ix)wers. Hitherto her life had
been bright, tranquil, and happy. Yet, at times,
there had crept upon her a deep sense of dissatis-
faction with hersolfl What was she accomplish-
ing? To wait in elegant idleness for some do-
mestic 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 de-
sisted 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. Some-
YILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 153
times she thought of art as a field of useftdness,
bnt 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 for every power which she possessed. Her
brother's early fall seemed 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 parti-
cular way in which she could enter this field of
humanity, yet she never for a moment doubted
that she was called of Grod, and that He would, in
His own time and manner, open her path before
her.
With her mother she did not speak of her in-
tentions. To her &ther she disclosed her wishes,
and when his natural shrinking fix)m the thought
of the toil and exposure were overcome, he be-
gan to aid Bose 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 furmsh a proper basis
for right nursing. In conversations, he gave her
also much information upon gunshot wounds, sur-
gery, and particularly on military surgery. He
enlarged upon hospital treatment air, cleanli-
ness, and the medicinal effect of cheerfiibiess and
154 kobwood; ob,
moml sontimoiits. Bose's industry was unremit-
ting, llor jHwer of acquisition, always remark-
able, was stimulated to the highest d^ree. She
aoon iHUUHMVixl a love of the study for its in-
trinsio iiUonvt, and brought to the study of
medicine lui enthusiasm, an apprehensiveness,
a taot imd delicacy whicii few medical students
possess.
Not content with books, she insisted upon riding
Mrith 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 North, was filled
with zeal, both in raising the quota required
of Massachusetts by the call for a half-million of
men, and in providing for the soldiers' comfort in
the camp and for necessaries for sickness and
wounds. Old linen came to a good market!
Bandages of all widths, and in endless quantities,
were provided. Lint was scraped in every house.
yiLLAQE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 155
Sick dresses, drawers, shirts and stockings, held
high jubilee, and found themselves in great
honour. Sewing circles in every church ! sewing
circles in almost every other house ! sewing circles
on every day of the week, except Sunday ; and
even then, there was unrebuked talk about sewing
circles !
About the middle of this summer was organised
the most magnificent voluntary charity ever re-
corded. Experience had found, in every nation,
that the medical department of the army, however
thoroughly organised and faithftdly served, had,
by virtue of its connection with the machinery of
the army, a certain 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 Sanitary Commission undertook not to
supersede, but to supplement and assist, the medi-
cal 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 organi-
sation, which, by voluntary contributions from
citizens, disbursed during four years, of money
and material, between twenty and thirty millions
of dollars !
156 NORWOOD; OB,
It was October before Kose let her mother know
of her intentions. She had prepared herself to
meet any objection, and adduce any persuasion
necessary to overcome maternal reluctance inspired
by love. To her surprise, the announcement of
her purpose was received with prompt favour, and
a vehement opposition was raised in an unexpected
quarter.
" Kose," said her mother, " I am glad you are
going. You are the very one to go. I wish I
could go too."
" Well," said Agate Bissell, with a look of un-
feigned amazement, "I have heard a good deal
about the singularities of the Wentworths, but this
beats them all ! I wonder what will come next ! "
" 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 ! I guess you've little idea of what
soldiers are, or what camp life is ! "
" But somebody must go," said Eose, smiling at
Agate's earnestness.
'* To be sure there must But homely folks
aren't all dead yet, nor old folks, nor middle-aged
folks. When all these are used up it will be time
to try the young and handsome ones ! "
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 157
" Really, Agate," said Eose, very much amused,
** I never knew you so complimentary before. I
think I shall have to go, even if I wear a veil to
save the young soldiers' hearts while I dress
their wounds. It would be sad indeed to make
worse wounds than one cures ! "
** Do you mean to say, Miss Eose, that you are
going? or only that you are thinking about
it?"
" As sure as my Kfe is spared, Agate, I shall go,
and that before many days."
" Then, as sure as my life is spared, you won't
go alone ! *'
*'What, Agate," said Mrs. Wentworth, **you
don't mean to go yourseKl "
" 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."
^
li \^m? Wt^ntS(ky coi which this scene occmred.
The utii Miindiy was fixed as the day for depar-
ture, A^raie, ihouirh ready, uight or day, to leave,
was y ft irlad of lie resjiite, chiefly because mi the
nejct Aftt'Tnot-m she would have one more oppor-
tunity tf atJcuiliiur the female prayer-meeting.
Let u Itvvk in im the meeting.
In a small i\xm, alx^ut three in the afternoon,
were iTrttliertd nine women, every one of them
mothers, ejttvpt Apite l^isselL
PtUy Marble \\ as thejft, with her great spectaclea
mc'Unted up on lier withered face, as if the sun had
used them as lonst'^s and dried every particle of
moisture out of the features Whind them. One
or two others were melancholy and silent women,
plain farmers' or mtvhanics* wives, who had evi-
^leutly struggltNi much with sorrow. Miss Fifkins
was there a sliarp saint, who ferreted out people's
sins with a zeal and j\ssiduity which rendered her
grace most savory. In action she was really kind.
Her hand was bountiful. In sickness she knew
no limit to service. No one in trouble had ever a
better friend. It was her tongue that played the
part of Law, while her heart acted the Grospel.
Her prayers were often but salutary lectures.
When any wickedness had disturbed tlie town she
was apt to have great liberty in prayer at the
next meeting. "There is no use in mincing
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 159
matters. Sin is exceedingly sinfiil, and we may
as well out with it, as to smother it all up with
excuses and mercy and all that sort of thing."
Grood 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.
There was a smile spread out under her very skin,
which nothing could rub out. Trouble had tried
it, but foiled. Stern religious views had tried it,
but her round, rosy face smiled on. Age now \\ as
trying it ; but though it could dry up the hair,
change its colour, convex the eye-ball and disturb
its functions, it did not get on with the face. That
shone and smiled at fifty very much as it did at
twenty-five.
Mrs. Goodhue came unfailingly to prayer meet-
ing I could never tell why ; for, as soon as the
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 to pray, and always said, in a sweet
voice, " No, I thank you." So much for externals.
There is another side.
A mother 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 dano:er
160 NORWOOD; OR,
of eternal ruin. She is imploring gucconr. 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 uttered,
and low sighs on every side attest the sympathy.
Eespect such a scene! Eespect is a poor and
barren word for such fervour of faith and fidelity
of love.
And now Agate prays. She has imparted to
her friends her impending journey and errand.
Her heart is full. There is not a word for herself.
She prays for the country, for the church, and 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 that Rose may be wise in directing
dying sinners to the Lamb of God that taketh
away the sins of the world. As she proceeds, all
formality of tone is gone. At last Agate is free,
when she can, without let or hindrance, pour forth
that silent soul in full utterance before God. Her
words rise in power and dignity. She falls into
the language of the Old Testament. She seems
greater than woman some prophetess returned to
our days with wealth of affection and chastened
familiarity ! She pours out her innermost feelings
before her Eedeemer ; and so real is it, that, stand-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 161
ing, 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 utterance 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
unusual in her look or manner. It was no un-
usual feeling that she had experienced. The
hidden life was mightier and nobler in Agate
than the revealed 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 over-
past.
There were two surprises in reserve for Rose
before she left. Alice Cathcart came on Saturday
night, as she often did, to pass the Sabbath day
in town, and on this night 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.
VOL. ni. M
162 nobwood; ob,
"Yes. Do yon know that, nntil he reached
Washington, he knew nothing 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 this 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 I "
While they thus sat in the open door, talking
of the loved and absent, and both of them think-
ing, 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 that plaintive call for its mate
which one hears so often in summer. It is the
robin's sweetest and most spirited song, and few
strains there are that surpass it in tenderness,
clearness and brilliancy. Kose had always asso-
ciated this evening robin-song with the idea of a
love-call to one absent. To-night it seemed more
yearning and passionate than usual. She fol-
lowed the bird with her eye. At first he sat
patiently and sang. Then, as if surprised that no
response followed, it gave new force to its call.
Now, growing restless, it changed place, singing
t
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 163
in turn from several trees, and jerking itself
nervously, as if really alarmed at last lest it were
forsaken. It seemed to Rose to say, " The night
is coming on. Where is my love? Oh! is he
harmed? Am I forsaken?" It grew dark
rapidly; the song ceased; the bird flew sUently
away as if there was nothing left to sing for.
There was silence in the air and among the trees.
Bose too became silent and thoughtfdl. At
length she said, abruptly,
" Colonel Cathcart ! Who would have dreamed
in the old happy days, when we were all children,
and he was so shy and yet so bold, that we should
grow to this? he in the army, and I in the
army hospitals ! I did not see him, Alice, before
he left. You will meet him next week, but I
shall be in Washmgton. This is playing at cross-
purposes."
Alice had something else to tell; but, as if
there was a pleasure in keeping 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 :
" Eose, won't you tell anybody if I will tell you
something ? "
" Of course not, if it is a secret."
**Well, I too am going with you and Agate.
M 2
164 NORWOOD; OR,
Father has consented ; mother always wanted me
to go. But I am to wait till next spring. Then,
if the war is not over, father says I may go out
in the service of the Sanitary Commission and
join you. And Hiram Beers says he's too old to
go a soldiering, but that if Agate can find out
that he can do anything to help in the hospitals,
he'll wind up this winter and come out in the
spring with me."
Joined as their lives had ever been, it was a
joy to Eose that they were to. be inseparable
still; and though some months were to elapse
before Alice would come to her, yet by that time
Eose would have become used to the work, and
could smooth the way for Alice.
The seed sown by Florence Nightingale
brought forth a plentiful harvest in America.
Wherever hospitals were established were found
women of energy and devotion who gave their
time to ministrations of mercy. They came from
every position in society; yet to the honour of
true culture be it said, that women from circles
of wealth and refinement led in this merciful
crusade.
Mrs. Wentworth, with maternal anxiety, would
have overloaded our pilgrims with preparatives.
Agate Bissell, however, refused all help.
"Why, Mrs. Wentworth, we are not going
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 165
where fine clothes will do us any good. Few
things and strong, are all we want. When they
are used up we'll send for more."
"She is right," said Dr. WentwortL "A life
among field hospitals is as near a total revolution
of ordinary experience as can be conceived. It
will be a spectacle of Christian refinement going
down to the very border of savage life on an errand
of lova 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-sacrificing Benevolence,
But what M Agate building up with her needle,
Eose?"
''Well, father, it may be called a Paradise of
Pockets ; otherwise, nursing aprons."
*' You may laugh now," said Agate, very com-
posedly, "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 fronts pockets 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,
166 NORWOOD; OB,
scissors, and comb and brushes, a pocket for yials,
and one for a good brandy flask.
The cloak may be described as a congeries of
small bags, so arranged that the wearer, if strong
enough to stand up under the load, could carry
in it a reasonable supply of comforts and restora-
tives for a small household.
Although the Doctor made merry over Agate's
contrivances, he admired her sagacity in fore-
seeing the nature of her work.
" It is not every one who has served in a cam-
paign that is as well instructed as Agate seems
to be before she has seen a single wounded man."
*' Anybody that ever did any nursing," said
Agate, " can imagine pretty much what they've
got to do. In the hospitals I expect we shall
have everything provided. But in the fields 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
fervour and tenderness with which he prayed for
all who went forth to succour the needy, mani-
festly showed that his thoughts were with Agate
and Eose. Indeed, though not his custom, he
spent the Sabbath evening with the Wentworths.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 167
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 ivell prepared as if there
had been no unusual outfit going on, and by ten
o'clock on Saturday night the last stitch had
been fastened, the last string tied, everything
was packed and laid ready for early departure
on Monday.
"Why, Agate," said Mrs. Wentworth, **you
will work on Sundays, shall you not, "when
you are in the field ? "
"Of course I shall. Works of necessity and
of mercy are proper on Sunday. When folks
live at home and have the whole week to them-
selves there need not be many such works left
for Sunday not if they have any conscience
about it. But I think now-a-days folks make
Sunday a kind of rubbish day. They save up all
the little odds and ends, through the week, that
won't pay, and then on Sunday call 'em works
of necessity and mercy. I call 'em works of
laziness. Anybody that wwnJt^ to keep Simday
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 what it is
to have a day full of real peace, up to the brim,
from morning to night, and sweet as milk."
168 NORWOOD; OR,
"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 some-
thing about the world ; but Fm mistaken if other
people don't learn something about a real plain
New England woman. It's a pity that some
man had not the good sense to win so much sense
and goodness."
" Perhaps," said Mrs. Wentworth, with a slight
cast of her eye at the other side of the room,
" some other people are of your mind."
"What?" said the Doctor, '* you don't
mean "
" I don't mean but I think Dr. Buell does."
Why will people pry into other people's busi-
ness? There sat Dr. Buell properly enough,
neither saying soft things to Agate nor ex-
changing 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 pro-
fit. Her judgment was worth any wise man's con-
sideration. Dr. Buell was grateful for it, and
expressed his sense of thanks by the cordiality
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 slily hinted to
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 169
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 humour. 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 fall 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 innocent manner, " ideas about
what?"
Agate walked out of the room with some
emphasis in her movement; yet her principles
enabled her to keep good-natured.
On Monday they left for Washington, to enter
upon their new and strange duties.
170 SQKVO(H; ML
CHAPTER XL
A SW LITE.
It was indeed a new life to Bose mcne than to
Agate ; (or Bcee's life had dealt less with business
and more with sentiment^ while Agate's had been
toined to [tactical affidr& There was a hoqatal
in Washington which had suffered from the in-
competence both of nurses and surgeons. After a
few weeks the medical director of the department
was glad to place Agate Bissell there as a super-
intendent and matron, while Bose became her
assistant.
Agate's entrance upon her duties was the signal
of alarm among a multitude of unworthy atteur
dants. 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 racing and scampering, hiding and
peeping out of holes, alarm and cunning ; but, one
by one, each culprit was surprised and dispatched,
to the great comfort and stillness of the household.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 171
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 had things afore like
this!'*
" That's so ; the old 'un is a cap'n. I tell ye she
drills 'em, she does. When she fust came and I
heerd her dressin' down some of the nusses,
I 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 hunting instinct. She brought everything to
order. She established a method for all things,
and compelled its observance, or dismissed the
refractory. She stood very little upon ceremony.
She expressed her opinion upon persons just as
unhesitatingly as upon things. Every day her
heart yearned more and more for " her boys," as
she called the patients. In a month's time a per-
172 NORWOOD; OR,
feet revolution had taken place. The hospital,
which was the very worst, had risen to become a
model. She did not confine her labours to her
subordinates. She had lived too long with Dr.
Wentworth not to know what conscientious me-
dical 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 pur-
pose. One morning 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
surgeon 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 brought the blood to his cheeks.
" Well, well," said the surgeon, with iU-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 may indulge a brutal appetite 1 And then
do you dare, sir, attempt to face me down with
your impudence ? You'd better pull off those
shoulder-straps and resign."
" There is a great fuss over a little matter," said
the surgeon, who was more alarmed than he was
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 173
mlling 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. Ill pull oflf
that shoulder-strap before you're a week older."
When he was gone, some of the attendants were
greatly alarmed, dreading his influence with his
superiors.
"Oh, ma'am, hell have it jest his own way.
He'll get up a report, and them 's above him will
think it all right, and, first thing we know, you'll
be sent off to some other work. I've seen how
things go here."
" Don't you be troubled,^' said Agate, quietly,
and went on with her work.
"Sure enough, within a week came a new
matron with an order superseding Agate Bissell.
As the woman seemed to be both sensible and
kindly, Agate said :
"I wish you would withhold this matter till
afternoon."
" Certainly, madam, if it will make a difference
with you."
"It rnay make a good deal ^with some other
folks."
Agate immediately gave things in charge to
Eose, put on her bonnet and shawl, and started for
the White HoUse. She had never been used tx)
174 kobwood; ob,
riding in hacks; and, although the distance was
great and the walking very had, she biavely 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 inspec-
tion, however, seemed favourable. He pointed to
the stairs aiti said :
"Go up.'*
Not knowing whither, Agate obeyed and went
up. Landing in a wide hall, a folding door
stood open, in which she saw some fifteen or
twenty people waiting. |^ doorkeeper stood at
the first door on the right as she entered, receiv-
ing cards, which he carried into the President*?
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 youll do
it yourself, on this card ! "
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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 175
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 Eichmond. 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 smaller table
at which sat a long, lean, grandfatherish man.
He was running his left hand through stiff and
long black hair, now beginning to be struck
through with grey. His features were large, and
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'am," said he, in a broad country
accent, his voice somewhat drawling and shrill,
" this is Agate Bissell, I 'spose. What can I do
for you."
"You can do nothing for we," said Agate
Bissell, firmly, but with great respect; for she
had a profound New England reverence for a chief
magistrate of the nation, queer as she thought the
specimen now before her "you can do nothing
for me, but you can do a good deal for the
soldiers."
"Well, what is it?"
Agate briefly narrated her experience, to which
176 NORWOOD; 0B
the President listened gravely, and she ended by
saying:
" I wish, Mr. President, that yon would ask the
chief medical director here, to look into this
matter with his own eyes, and not to take his
opinion from drunken underlings, who, while
soldiers shot down in battle are lingering and
dying before him, is lying beastly drunk, and then
would turn out of charge those who rebuke
him. Oh, Mr. President, how can anybody doubt
the doctrine of total depravity when they see the
wretches robbing wounded soldiers, eating the de-
licacies sent to them, and drinking their cordials,
and letting their wounds stink and rot, &om 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 you go and talk to him just 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 state-
ment, and make inquiry in person, and if it is
true, put her back, and pray for twenty more
such women. " A. Lincoln."
"There do you go yourself. If anything
turns up, and it don't go rights you come to
me again. Let me see. Agate Bissell ^Agate
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGJiAND. 177
Bissell ^yes, I'll remember your name and some
time m come down and see how you're getting
along."
Armed with this, Agate soon found the medical
director. It required but little to satisfy him.
She was reinstated, the assistant surgeon was dis-
missed the service, and great fear fell upon all
who had to do with Agate !
That evening Kose said " What kind of a man
did you find the President to be?"
"A very good man, said Agate but I didn't
see much President about him. But I 'spose he
had not got his official clothes on, and so he did
not rumple up his feathers much."
While Agate played the General, Kose, in her
own way, was quite as efficient. She had, what
many noble fellows in this labour of love had
not, ample command of money. She sought to
cheer the sick and wounded by relieving the bar-
ren wards of their cold and forlorn appearance.
She procured cheerful engravings, suited to the
tastes of the men, and hung them where they
could easily see them. She went daily to the
green-houses for flowers, and distributed them
through the wards. " It does not require masses
of flowers," she would say. " A single bud with
a leaf, by a cot, is often far more prized than a
large bouquet would be." In this way, the con-
VOL. III. N
178 NORWOOD; OB,
valescents had each some token, and many of the
men begged leave to send home these offerings to
their mothers or sisters.
Eose showed great skill in conversation with
the men, and imparted to them much religions
trath. He must have been a hardened man in-
deed who could not listen to her sweet voice
reading in low tones by his bedside the Psalms
of David, or the Evangelists.
** Why, Tom," said a wounded man to an Irish
soldier, who lay next him, " I thought you was a
CathoUc? How dare you let a heretic read the
Bible to you!"
" She's no hiritic, I tell ye. D' ye think they
make hiritics of such as thim ? Ye couldn't keep
her out of hivin, more'n you can keep the 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,
McClellan made his ill-fated campaign of the
Peninsula, Agate, Eose, and Alice, who had joined
them, followed the army and served in the bri-
gade and regimental hospitals. During battles,
they hovered upon the edge of the conflict, pre-
paring food for the wounded, aiding in binding
up their wounds, furnishing them with stimulants,
and comforting the dying. Kow it was that Hose
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 179
found her whole soul drawn forth. Every power
was taxed. She rose to the necessities of the
hour in a manner which made her the admiration
of all. Perhaps she could 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 sense. She
had evidently inherited her father's medical tact
and insight ; and, though she avoided taking the
surgeon's work out of their hands, her quickness
and aptitude were of continual service even to
medical men.
But far more than these things was Bose
noticed for her courage and her power of in-
spiring men with hope, and cheer, and courage.
Her resources of thought, her wealth of feelings
her great power of expression, her imagination
and humour seemed endless. Indeed Alice wrote
truly when she said to her parents that Bose had
broken forth into a new life. All those resources
which lay untaxed in her former quiet life were
now developed into an even and steady enthu-
siasm. Her pity and tenderness made her pre-
sence to the sick and wounded Uke a light shining
upon them from their own home. In diflFerent
places, she earned for herseK among the soldiers
pet names. They played upon her name^ and
N 2
180 nobwood; or,
styled her the " Ever-blooming Eose " And when
she brought coffee, or fragrant tea, made as no
else knew how to suit it to their taste, they natu-
ally called her the " Tea-Kose." In other camps
she was known as the "Norwood Beauty,"
and she was beautiful! The constant play of
courage, pity, benevolence, and the enthusiasm
of patriotism had given to her face a radiant
outlook peculiarly charming.
She accompanied the troops and returned with
them from the Peninsula. She returned to Wash-
ington to care for the multitudes of wounded that
came in from Pope's disastrous campaign. She
went with the waggons of the Commission to
Antietam, and hovered 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 nekr to the battle that shot
were flying around it in every direction, were col-
lected multitudes of the wounded. The surgeon
was in the act of amputating a shattered leg.
Eose stood near, his only assistant. The saw had
half-severed the bone, when a cannon-shot struck
him dead. The patient was left bleeding. Seized
with an inspiration, Eose, without an instajit's
hesitation, put her hand to the saw, completed
the severing, tied the arteries, joined the flaps.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 181
and bound up the wound. The man recovered.
She had often been called the "Surgeon's Daugh-
ter;" but now the men changed it, and called her
the " Daughter-surgeon."
Alice was never separated from Eose. They
worked together, rode and travelled together,
slept together. Scarcely less than Eose was
Alice admired and beloved by the common sol-
diers. She often sang to them in the hospitals,
wrote their letters home, received 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 fol-
lowed the flag through darkness and blood, toiling
as no soldiers on the march toiled, enduring hard-
ships which none surpsissed, facing all the dangers
of the battle-field and many others in hospitals
even more perilous than bullet or shell, and in
many instances oflfering their lives as a sacrifice
to humanity and religion ! The evangelists of a
true gospel were they, sowing the good seeds of
peace in the farrows of war !
Alice Cathcart was not less patriotic in her
feelings than Eose. But for some reason, she
added to these generous impulses a peculiar pity
and tenderness toward the sick and wounded rebel
prisoners. This disposition drew forth from Hiram
Beers many criticisms and discussions.
182 NOBWOOD; OR,
" I think you might use your time better'n to
be curin' up the fellows that fought us, so's to fight
agm.
"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 you
won't catch me adoptin' sech a scaly set o' chil-
dren, m tell ye, you're fattenin' 'em up agin
to shoot down our boys. It's like geese and
chickens goin' round to cure up all the sick
foxes."
"Would you let them suffer, Hiram? would
you see them die without a crumb from our
stores?" said Alice, in a plaintive way.
" Wal, mebbe I'd give 'em the crumbs, but I
wouldn't give 'em a slice round the whole loaf.
The fact is, you give 'em cakes and ginger-bread,
and that's running kindness into the ground, I'm
thinkin'," said -Hiram.
Agate Bissell came to the rescue.
" Hiram Beers, you old hypocrite, what do you
want to teaze that child for? You know you
don't believe a word you're saying. I should
like to know who 'twas that ran about last week
for clothes and stockings for the shivering pri-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 183
soners ; and who 'twas that looked after those two
boys in ward ten, when we were in the hospital ?
You know you are 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
position. 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 labour of love unregarded.
Little by little the young officer showed a plea-
sure in her presence, and a docility which he
manifested to no one else. That pride and re-
pugnance 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 follow a mother. As he
declined, Alice, as often as she could snatch time,
184 NORWOOD; OR,
read to him the Word of God, or sang hymns in a
low, sweet 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 hardly help saying, * Where
have we met before?' Last evening, when I
sung to him, a tear ran down his cheek and he
said, * That's my brother's favourite hymn.' He
turned his face to me and said :
"*Will you be kind enough to tell me your
name ? '
"I repeated that it was Alice Cathcart, of
Norwood, in Massachusetts."
"He seemed agitated, and looked intently at
me, and repeated it several times ^ Ah ! Alice
Cathcart.' Then, pausing as if his mind ran
back over some memory, he said, musingly,
'Alice Cathcart! That is very singular, that
both of us should have fallen under your care.'
" * Both of us ? ' I asked, inquiringly. * Have
I ever met you before ? "
" I was just 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 sum-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 185
moned to her patient. Mid-September fogs
clouded the air and drenched the grass and
leaves with wet. She felt a chill shivering as
she hasted to meet the call. He was fest 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 still 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 oflScer, that Agate Bissel in-
sisted 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 valuables. On
186 NORWOOD; OR,
examining them there was found several letters
from his home one from his brother, a colonel
in the rebel army and his own name,
Henry C. Heywood,
Lynchhurghy Va.
Agate called Eose to her.
"This young man is your friend Tom Hey-
wood's brother ^the brother Hal he used to
mention so often."
Kose was scarcely less afiTected than Alice had
been. For a moment she was overcome; but
quickly recovering herself, she enjoined upon
Agate the most profound secresy.
"For reasons which I cannot tell, you must
not mention this name to Alice. It will do no
good, and will do much harm."
Agate's sharp sagacity needed no further help.
She had her own thoughts, but was satisfied to
leave Kose 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.
"My Dear Madam. After your son was
wounded and captured on the second day of
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 187
the battle of Antietam, he came to the hospital
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 sent messages, had not his death
been more sudden than he anticipated. I pray
you to allow me, as a friend of Mr. Thomas
Heywood, to express my deep sympathy with
you.
"EosB Wentworth."
188 NORWOOD; OB,
CHAPTER XII.
THANKSGIVING.
When November came in 1862, came also in
Norwood the renowned Thanksgiving Day, the
holiday of old New England fix)m its founding.
The Pilgrims found it written, "They that sow
in tears shall reap in joy. He that goeth forth
and weepeth bearing precious seed, shall doubt-
less come again with rejoicing, bringing his
sheaves with him." This beautiful poetry was
translated 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 profane and misleading
festivities Christmas, New Tear's, and Saints'
days without number, being laid aside. Both
days, the Day of Fasting and the Day of Thanks-
giving, were to be esteemed religious days, and so
kept. On the forenoon of each the people were
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 189
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
upon public affairs. So that the 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 anywhere, a Fast Day ought to flourish in
New England. Not that its people were acerb
and superstitious, but they derived their ten-
dencies from fathers who had suffered persecu-
tions, and to whom "strong crying and tears"
were familiar ; and as the religious convictions
of its people are deep, and their views of duty
stem, one day in three hundred and sixty-five for
public fasting could not seem unreasonable.
In the beginning, it was a day of fasting. The
steps of decline are melancholy and instructive.
"Nothing should be eaten between the rising
and the setting of the sun," would seem a plain
rule. But many people refused such rigour, and
ate their breakfast with the foresight that it must
last till supper, leaving out dinner by way of fasting.
But soon, while breakfast and supper were left
as abutments on each side, the span was so long
190 nobwood; or,
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 haye
thus grown up from a stake driven down or a
mere lodgment of brush. And so it was with
Fast-day. Crackers and cheese became premises
of an argument. If crackers may be eaten with-
out 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 favour of gingerbread.
Thus, with lamentable blindness, dough-nuts
were added; and to dough-nuts (with astonish-
ing 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
mall, but young and tender ; and to this, cold
corned-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 dishes was happily eschewed. CJold 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 191
eating; and finally, the spirit of abundance,
making a judicious selection. At first, all intel-
ligent creatures fasted. Then servants began to
be excused; then delicate 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-fed Thanksgiving
day, like a new moon, grew bright and round,
and lay upon the year's horizon like a joyful
pumpkin upon the ridges of a Yankee corn-field ;
the pumpkin I sign and symbol in the calendar
of New England of jovial festivity I And, now,
Thanksgiving may be seen any year, in the
mellow days of November, round and jolly, with
all the air of a fat old English Christmas ; while
in April, amidst blustering winds and pinching
frosts, its de&auded 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 Self-gratulation flourishes
in New England, while Humiliation loses popu-
larity every year.
Bose Wentworth and Alice Cathcart returned
192 NORWOOD; OR,
home, after the great labours of summer and
autumn, to recruit, and to spend the Thanks-
giving. 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 Eose, 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 been tumbled out of a box.
Rose and Alice meant to slip away without
notice ; but in some way it was known, and they
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 193
had to pass the ordeal of gratitude. Next to
ingratitude, the most painful thing to bear ia
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 those who can gracefully receive them.
Both Rose and Alice found this out when rough
men thanked them for their very lives, and others
professed that they had been more than mothers
to them, and some craved them to accept a button,
or some token of their prowess captured in battle.
Amidst cheers, and some tears, too, on hard
cheeks, the girls got away; and, though their
faces were homeward and their hearts eager,
there was a heavy feeling that they had turned
their backs upon that which had taken hold even
deeper than Home.
After the natural overflow of gladness at being
once more at home had somewhat subsided, Eose
was conscious of a dull disquiet, a sense of the
emptiuess of former pleasure. Common duties and
the ordinary flow of vUlage life were tame and
flavourless. 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 natural afiection,
VOL. in.
194 NORWOOD; OR,
inasmuch as her own home failed to furnish that
deep content which she formerly 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 suflferings even, of the
hospital, the march and the battle-field. 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
persons came in, as if they would reproach her for
indolence.
But the winter soon wore away, and in March
both Alice and Eose returned to their labours
again, and prepared to enter the campaign of
Chancellorsville with that glorious army whose
only fault it was, that it was too large for its
commander, a noble soldier 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
un'v\ orn as if the winter had been a long vacation.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 195
"Why, Agate," said Eose, "I never saw yon
look so well ! A little pale just a little. But
I suppose that is because you have all winter
been under a roof. Field work will revive your
colour."
Eose handed her a package of letters, and
among them one from Dr. Buell, saying archly,
as she saw the colour come to Agate's cheek :
"On second thought, I do not know but
you have as much colour in your cheek as
ever."
"Eose, you think that you know a good deal.
But I tell you, if you do, then you know more
than I do! You may read the letter and wel-
come," said Agate, extending the open letter to
her. It ran :
" Norwood, March 14, 1863.
" Miss Agate Bissell Dear Madam: At Miss
Eose's suggestion, I write you a line, lest under
the accumulation of labours, and in hours of
weariness, you may be in danger of believing
yourself forgotten. Truly, every pious and pa-
triotic heart here at home thanks you for your
excellent and most praiseworthy labours in behalf
of our sick and wounded soldiers. Doubt not that
many prayers ascend for you daily, mine among
the number. The Lord is preparing you, it may
be, for future important labours, in a school where
o 2
106 NORWOOD; OR,
SO much of patience and of wisdom are required,
and whatever may be the divine counsels which
respect the future, may He overrule all to his own
honour and glory.
" The meetings are well attended. A gracious
spirit is found in the female prayer -meeting.
Polly Marble is dead, and the Deacon is very
much afl9icted. 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.
" There has been an interest in the church this
winter, and several persons give pleasing evidence
of a saving change. May they run welll All
your friends will rejoice when your duties shall
allow you to return home, and none more than
your friend and affectionate pastor,
"Jedediah Buell."
The campaign of Chancellorsville opened in
May, 1863. General Barton Cathcart for he
had been advanced in rank, learning of his
sister's presence, sought her out immediately
after the withdrawal of his brigade to the north
side of the Eapidan. Kose Wentworth was en-
gaged in the hospital transport service, and spent
most of her time, for weeks, upon the steamboats
that conveyed the wounded fi'om the dep6ts along
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 197
the Potomac to Washington. Barton failed to see
her. But Agate Bissell and his sister Alice, as
soop as the army settled again in its former
camps, he found. The movements of the army
to the west and north soon separated them again,
nor did they approach each other afterwards till
the great battle of Gettysburgh, toward which
we will now wend our way.
Early in June, 1863, Lee began, with great
skill of secrecy to transfer the bulk of his army
from before Hooker's lines to the Shenandoah
valley, preparatory to a sudden invasion of Mary-
land and Pennsylvania, by which masterly move-
ment he had good reason to hope that the war
would be removed from Virginia, which had
already suffered incredible ills as the chief
battle-ground, to Pennsylvania, where an army
might be easily susta,ined; 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 such 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 un-
sobriety of expectation. There were good and
198 NORWOOD; OB,
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 Chancellorsville, in May, the
army under Lee had, in numbers, equipment, but
above all in the confidence of its own irresistible-
ness, 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 Fredericksburgh,
of Second Bull's Run, and of Chancellorsville.
One general only had that army had, or de-
sired, after it was fairly organized. Both the
North and the South bore witness to his ability
^the South by an enthusiastic admiration and
confidence; 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 in-
vincible 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 Northern fields take
their turn of blasting, blood, and flame.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 199
With their feces aglow with the victory of
Chancellorsville, Lee's army skilfully glided past
Hooker, entered the valley of the Shenandoah,
drove out or consumed the loyal forces, and, in
the last days of June, burst into the Cumberland
valley, in Pennsylvania. Their cavalry, like the
biting scud of a storm, spread instantly, and
scoured all the defenceless region to the banks
of the Susquehannah. With promptness and ad-
mirable decision, Lee stretched out Ewell's corps
and dividing it, as with its right hand, seized
York, thus threatening Baltimore and Washing-
ton ; with his left hand he seized Carlisle, aiming
at Harrisburgh and Philadelphia ; while his main
body lay at Chambersburgh, 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 cut ofif his line of com-
munication with Virginia. To compel Hooker to
let this enterprise alone, Lee drew back his ad-
vanced corps from York and Carlisle, with orders
to concentrate with the centre, which poured
through a pass in the South Mountain, upon
Gettysburgh, a small village in the eastern skirts
of the mountain range ; and so, Lee said, in effect,
200 koewood; ok,
if you loach my line of communication I will seize
Washington.
But before this movement was known, or even
half-way developed, Hooker retired from com-
mand, and the fifth commander in order came
to the head of the Army of the Potomac Igno-
rant of Lee's purposes, and knowing in general
only tliat he was advancing to the centre of
Pennsylvania, Meade, abandoniug Hooker's plan,
spread his army along the eastern side of the
South Mountain, parallel to Lee's line, deter-
mined to follow him to the Susquehannah and
bring him to battle.
But two marches had Meade made, bringing
his army up nearly abreast of Grettysburgh, some-
what to the east and south-east of it, when he had
reason to believe that Lee was concentrating on
the east of South Mountain. Meade's left wing,
three corps, under Reynolds, advanced upon Get-
tysburgh to discover the enemy, as well as to hide
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 Gettysburgh, and was there stumbled
upon the next day, June 30, by the advanced
guard of the Southern army. Thus the two
armies approached each other, big with terrific
battle, as unconscious of the imminent shock as
n
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 201
are two summer clouds, charged with storms, and
moving 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
Gettysburgh ; ^three days, on which the Southern
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 back again
to the dark caves of the sea.
This was a battle between the men of the
tropics 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 labour, made
war on the rocks of the North, where men by
hard labour 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 4th
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
202 NORWOOD; OR,
the conflict and given moral significance to the
Eebellion.
But we have overrun our story, or, rather, gone
before to prepare a way for the maiden's feet to
tread.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 203
CHAPTER XIII.
ON THE MARCH.
A GREAT excitement filled Washington when it
was known that Lee had entered Pennsylvania.
The darkness which had hung painfully over his
movements was cleared away. The sweep of
Jenkins' cavalry, the rapid movement of Ewell
upon the Susquehannah, the opening of the rebel
general's plans with such decision as indicated his
sense of power and confidence of victory, were
enough to account for excitement. But an inva-
sion was something new. The intrusion of Lee
the year before into Maryland scarcely punctured
the rind of the Free States. But now it was
reaching at the core. Such an uproar was never
known among the farmers of Pennsylvania. The
old Dutch settlers at last experienced a thrill!
Three years had they probably been in doubt
whether hostilities had broken out or not. They
were conservative men. They would not be car-
ried away with rumours. Newspapers they rarely
204 NORWOOD; OR,
saw, and then only to doubt tliem. But the
cavalry raids, the sweeping up of their stock,
the sudden departure . of horses from the plough
and waggon, and the farewell cackles of expiring
hens, were things to be believed. In fine, eighty
thousa'hd men, with Lee at their head, had power
to drive a new idea into the heads of the Pennsyl-
vania Dutch around Gettysburgh. But once in,
that idea of war wrought mightily. They raised
a clamour that filled the State. Like Munchau-
sen's horn, which, when hung neap the fire, played
all the tunes which had been frozen up in it
through the winter, so all those hopes and fears,
doubts and enthusiasms, which play out of com-
mon 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 echoing through the cities of the country as
if the last day had indeed come !
All manner of wild rumours filled Baltimore
and Washington. As Soon as Hooker's army had
crossed the Potomac, it was known to the Sani-
tary Commission that a great battle must soon be
fought. Energetic measures were taken to pre-
pare succour for the wounded. Waggons were
loaded with clothing, food, cordials, blankets,
tents, and with all those numberless delicacies
often so much better to the sick and wounded
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 205
than medicine. Nurses and ladies were sum-
moned. It behoved the Sanitary Commission to
be on the ground as soon as a blow was struck.
This was its golden opportunity. Its mission was
not to supersede the Medical Department of the
army, but, being more lithe and nimble, to antici-
pate the regular- unfolding of organized succour;
to meet exigencies not otherwise provided for; to
fill up gaps and intervals, and to perform, by the
presence of women, as noble as ever ministered in
temple or sanctuary, those offices of consolation
and Christian- instruction to the dying, or despe-
rately wounded, which transcended tjie functions
of the Medical Department.
Signs multiplied of urgent - danger and impe-
tuous haste. The great hour of Destiny was ad-
vancing. The Departments of Government, the
city of Washington and the whole region round
about were like a boiling caldron. As if more
fuel were needed, Stuart and his large body of
cavalry sought to jfegain Lee's army, and crossing
the Potomac at Seneca Creek, swept up through
Maryland, flirting their wings in the face of
Washington and Baltimore as they passed, and
stirring up all the region as if they had been
flying dragons.
No wonder, when, on thei 28th of June, the
sentinels and citizens saw mounted men looking
206 NORWOOD; OB,
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 ru-
mours, mixing truth and the fictions of fear, filled
the air.
Hiram Beers started forth with a line of eight
waggons, to overtake the army. Others were
speedily to follow, while the railroads were to be
employed, so soon as the battle-field was deter-
mined, for the bulk of transportation. He took
the Eockville road, aimiug 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. I guess the enemy hasn't made up his
mind to stop, yet awhile, and if he's gobbled up
trains ahead of me, it stands to reason that he'll
be gone afore I git there."
" There's no tellin', stranger," said the old man
who was informing him, " how many there is of
'em. I beam tell that the country's full on 'em.
Jake Armistead has been out, you know, in the
rebel army, though he's home now, and Union
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 207
too, till his wounds get well, and he sez, there
must be nigh about ten thousand, and that they
cover the hull country thick as pigeons in acorn
time. I reckon, stranger, that they'd like to take
a look at your waggons."
Hiram pushed his hat up a trifle, on his fore-
head, and drawing a knife out of his pocket, as
if utterly at ease, said, as he began slowly and
smoothly to curl the shavings off the edge of a
white pine stick :
" Thank'ee, sir. I guess they've got something
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 hundred
thousand men at Frederick, and there's a hun-
dred 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 send down a million men,
right off."
There had collected, by this time, quite a
crowd around BKram's teams, and he was im-
proving the time while his horses eat oats to
20? NORWOOD; OB,
make a saJctair impresskm on the Maryland
mind.
An ex-rebel soldier seemed somewhat better
informed:
" Lee has got York, and Carlisle, and, in a day
or two. hell hare Harrisbnrgh ; and then look out
for fan!*'
Hiram looked at him fixedly, as one who is in
doobt whether he wiU impart a secret :
"WeU, I gaes3 it won't 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
Lee's nibblin', you may depend on't hell find
that he's caught."
" Ah, old Yank, you can't come that over me.
Lee's used to nibblin' Yankee cheese. He ate
some at Fredericksburgh, and he's jest been
nibblin' a pretty large cheese at Chancellors-
ville, and, by the time you'll get there. I guess
you'll find the old rat has gnawed his way
out."
Nothing daimted by the laugh, Hiram, with a
look of undisturbed confidence, just a little
touched with pity for their ignorance, walked
away toward his waggons.
" Do you really think," said one of his drivers,
in au anxious tone, " that it's safe to go on?"
"Safe? what are you 'feard of? Lee is jest
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 209
like a walnut in a nut-cracker. They'll smash
him, sure."
"I shouldn't care about bein' caught. A
prisoner on foot, trottin' along with cavalry, don't
feel as comfortable as if he was to hum !"
" Is that so ? " said Hiram, very soberly.
" Wal, it is, I tell ye mebbe you hain't tried
it ? I've travelled ye see, and don't want to do
it any more. Th^ 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 scratchin'.
Another 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
anybody 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,
VOL. III. p
210 nobwood; ob,
when right ahead ^fizz! bang! whang! bang!
and then, behind in the lin^, yon hear it again
whang! bang! and a hundred horsemen whirl
in on yon, cut out your waggons, and, afore the
soldiers can get up, twenty waggons are driyin'
off like mad, and rebel soldiers a-prickin' the
mules with bayonets, and afore you fairly know
which eend you stand on, they're all in the
mountains and you're dividin' your clothes with
the ragamuffins."
ESram laughed at the descriptive misery, but
ordered forward the teama
" I've no idea of lettin' them Southern fellers
have the handling of these goods. Pretty busi-
ness for our folks to set up nights to knit stockins,
and then have the rebels put 'em on to fight our
boys with 1 They didn't have an apple parin' at
our town to make apple-sarse for Lee's army,
I guess! Golly I what would Marm Marble say
if she should hear that the rebs had got her dried
apples and pumpkins? No, no; they shan't
poke their nasty fingers into my sweetmeats.
I didn't fetch these nice liquors for their accom-
modation. Liquor is a good thing in its place.
But, as a general thing, I'm of opinion that the
very worst place you can put good liquor iato
is a feller's stomach! If a feller's been tapped
with a bullet, that may make a difference. But
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 211
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 amazin' oversight somewhere. There's
been a sight of liquor got through the wrong
place, then ! "
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 himseK on the subject of
armies:
**If there ever was anything that beat all
creation in bein' expensive, it's an army. It
runs off property as fast as a river does water.
It's waste, waste, waste ! 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 tiore dangerous than its fore-
p 2
212 nobwood; or,
end. It's like Gran'ther Morse's old musket, that
would tear you to pieces if you were before it^
and kick you to pieces if you stood behind it The
odIj place where it was safe was hangin' up over
the fire-place to hum. An army is a very dan-
gerous thing, anyhow, and awful extravagant. I
s'pose we must fight it through now, though. Don't
see no other way. But, if ever this war's over,
I'm goin' to jine an Everlasting Peace Society."
As the party journeyed on, at every mile
evidences multiplied that the army was not far
away. Stragglers abounded. The main army
seemed to have done no damaga One would
not except 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 through it in profound leisure drifting
so slowly and gently that they hardly seemed to
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 213
move, were soft and small clouds. So long had
Bose now been trained in scenes of pain and
terror that her heart knew its own courage;
and though 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, Kose's thoughts floated peacefully as those
flecks of brilliant cloud, dazzling white, mixed
with shades and shadows.
"Bootless and stemless, ye grow, O clouds!
The winds that roar upon forests shake no sounds
out of your silent forms. Without seed or sowing,
ye grow. Ye wither without frost, or the axe,
and pass away in an hour. Ye grow alike in
winter as in summer, and shake down from your
boughs drops or flakes in both seasons. Yet no
man may plant you, nor till you, nor play hus-
bandry in the realm where ye dwell."
"I s'pose you're thinkin', Miss Rose," said
Bfiram, " that it's time to have something to eat.
Well, I shouldn't wonder if 'twas."
" Yes, Hiram, I was thinking of harvests, but
not exactly such as could be eaten."
" Well, I'll see what can be done. The fact is,
the soldiers are yonder, fillin' all the road, and I
don't b'lieve we can git along much further. You
wait a bit, and I'll go and see."
214 NORWOOD; OB,
In a moment Eose was dreaming again, with
her face turned toward the clouds.
"Out of such stillness of white come storms!
Ye are the mothers of thunder ! Hidden there is
the lightning ! Now ye are palaces of silence, but
to-morrow all the sounds of storm shall resound
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 changes
in battle to mighty wrath, to awful cruelty, to
remorseless slaughter. Even now who knows?
while 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 Eose 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 jfrom
Gtettysburgh some say it's all on our side, and
some say t'other way, and nobody knows any-
thing about it. But the headquarters is movin',
and the whole army is goin' ahead. If you mean
to get there to-night we must be stirrin', I can
tell ye."
Rose consulted with the agents of the Commit
sion in charge of the company, and it was consi-
dered useless to attempt to force their way along
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 215
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 coloured man stood
at a little distance grinning and looking at Bose
in the most extraordinary manner.
An outcry from Alice was Barton Cathcart's
introduction. She sprung out of the carriage and
threw herself into his arms with impassioned fond-
ness. He looked down upon his sister with a look
of the proudest love. For a moment the blood left
Uose's cheek, 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 Kose coming to you."
Bose's first impulse was not to intrude upon
him. Her next and better thought was, "It is
Barton, my childhood friend ;" and in a moment
every other thought was gone, and with a gladness
scarcely less demonstrative than Alice's, Bose
reached both her hands to Barton. But he was
more embarrassed. Bose's warmth of manner
seemed to touch him. He had prepared for a
more formal meeting.
** This is very kind, Miss Wentworth."
**No, no, Barton ^I am not Miss Wentworth
216 borwood; OB,
to Tou ^I am Bose ; the same names which we
used in childhood, if yon please.'*
A throng erf* memories crowded his mind His
heart was like a Tortex in which strong feelings
whirled. He wonld have spoken, bnt seemed like
one who hesitates which of many things to say
first. He fixed upon Bose a look so fall of in-
quiry, and yet so imploring and hungry, a look
full of eagerness and helplessness, that Bose to
her dying day never forgot it. Words are of the
flesh, opaque. Looks are of the spirit, luminous.
The pause was embarrassing. Bose 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 de-
layed ? The roads are choked up with the army.**
" You had 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 incoherent In a moment Barton was
gone. It was a dream ! They awake to see him
disappear among the throngs beyond !
It was late before they reached the vicinity of
GettysburgL AU the way Barton's look dwelt
with Bose. The most emphatic revelations of the
soul are made through glances of the eye. By
the looks only can the soul signify complex
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 217
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 common language. But
a look is almost as immaterial as a thought.
A glance is a fit incarnation of a thing so tender
as love. Not what they say, do we remember of
absent friends ; but, how they looked while saying
it. We live upon the meaning of the expressions
of the face more than of the tongue. The silences
which speech carries along with it are often 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 moon 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 bam near
at hand.
"Aha!" said Hiram, "there is a Dutch bam.
Now we shall stumble over the hovel pretty
soon."
"Why, what do you mean ?" said Agate.
" I mean," replied Hiram, " that them Pennsyl-
vany Dutch think more of their horses than they
do of themselves. A feller travellin' round here
218 nobwood; ob,
awhile almost wishes he was a horse. The houses
are mean ; the bams are magnificent/'
Hiram, for once, had to take back his words,
for they approached a large and comely farm-
house, which would have done no discredit to the
elm homes of New England. Everything 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 Dutch-
man sees an army. I guess they think the day
of judgment is cum. They will if there's much
fightin' to-morrow."
He was again mistaken. The fieimily were abed
and soundly slept. A rap at the door brought
the owner out of bed, and his honest face to the
door.
" Gan we git leave to stay here to-night?" said
Hiram.
"Why, of course you can. Come right inl
Women ? ^why, women ? out this time o' night ?
That's too bad. Mary ! Mary, I say ! "
By this time his good wife Mary came forth,
the smiles endeavouring to chase the sleepiness
off from her face, as she was tying a string here, or
buttoning there, or hooking up her dress behind.
" Seems to me you're abed early, uncle, 'aren't
ye?" said Hiram.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 219
** Wal ^pretty. But we go to bed early ; we
get up early, too."
" Liked to have got up this time 'fore you got
to bed," said Hiram, winking.
**Yes, yes, yes," said the honest old farmer,
with an unmeaning laugh.
** Don't you know the army's all round you ?"
" Yes ; but they won't touch nuthin'. They're
welcome to 't, if they do."
"How far is it to town?"
" Wal ^'bout three miles ; three and a half say
four miles. Depends little on which way you go."
After Hiram had seen to the horses, he followed
the soimds, and soon came upon the waggon trains
peurked for the night. The rumbling of artillery
still was heard in the roads near by. Eeserve
artillery and ammunition trains had turned into
fields on either side of the road. Soldiers were
still crowding onward. 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
morning, he was to go. An ofiScer, with his head
bandaged, gave him the information.
Buford's Cavalry and Wadsworth's Division of
220 vobwood; OB,
Beynolck' Corps had held the heads of Hill's and
Longstreet's Corps, coming from Chambersborgh,
in cheek, 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 Gettysburgh. This was the first day's %ht.
Himin returned to the house, and after a generous
sup{)er the party wero glad to retire. The day
had been enough fatiguing. The morrow would
try thorn yet more.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 221
CHAPTEE XIV.
GETTYSBURGH.
Long before sunrise on the Wednesday morning
of the second of July our party were astir. Early
as they were, the good housewife was before them,
and a bountiful breakfast awaited them. After
the farmer's wife had learned jfrom Agate the
business which took such beautiful ladies as Bose
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 Gettysburgh ; but if
any of your friends are wounded, or you want to
send anybody 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 marked contrast with the brutal
demeanour of the Dutch farmers around Getty s-
222 kqbwood; ob,
borgh on those awful days, they were leavingy
when, having talked a moment with his wife, he
came back and said :
" I reckon Td 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
fightin' to-day, and 111 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 Mend, by lanes, and through cart-
roads in the wood, and by crossing sown fields,
brought them, at last, to the rear of that long 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 in-
stances cheers were raised for them, and "God
bless you!" was showered upon them by regi-
ments and brigades who had seen them on other
battle-fields. Indeed, there were few regiments
in the army of the Potomac, where Agate Bissell's
name was not known and honoured. At certain
points, where bodies of soldiers were at rest, the
men flocked around them, and shook hands with
them as old friends.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 223
What's all that?'' said a soldier of the
Pennsylvania to one of his comrades, who saw
the stir and heard some cheering around their
carriage.
"What is it? Why, its the old one with her
two doves. There ain't many boys in this regi-
ment that don't know Mother Bissell and the
Kose of Norwood ! "
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 not recognized, he
almost sulked like a pouting boy :
"Why, don't you know me, Aunty Bissell?
Tm your Willie!"
Agate turned upon him a quick look.
."Take off your cap! Why, Willie Woolsy!
I never should have known you I "
And then, patting his head and smiling proudly
on him, she said :
"Why, Willie, how you have improved! how
fat and rosy you are! 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 succoured on the
battle-field, or nursed in the hospitals, or trans-
ported on steamers on the Potomac to Washing-
ton, or fed and clothed at various times and
224 NORWOOD; OR,
different 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 Sanitary Commission
had been able to secure no transportation on the
railroad; and fortunate it was that thanks to
Hiram Beers' enterprise so many waggons 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 away. Again, from
another quarter, it pattered for a half-hour, and
gradually died out like an expiring drum-beat.
Noon came; and no battle. All was suspense.
No one that they could reach could give the infor-
mation. Would Lee retreat ? or was not Meade
willing to give battle?
The afternoon wore on. The wounded of the
day before were in Gettysburgh or beyond, or, if
brought behind the Northern lines, it was three
miles to the north of the position chosen by the
Commission for the first station.
It was after two o'clock. They were resting.
Suddenly the great hulking body of Pete SawmiD
rose up before them ; and Pete, gurgling and
laughing, seemed overjoyed to see his old friends.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 225
" Well done I as sure as soot,** said Agate,
** here's our Pete ! I'm as glad to see your
homely black face, Pete, as if you were as 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 out
of the socket, and giggling and laughing, in a
way more silly than usual. He sidled up to Eose,
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
tons."
" He, he, he I I guess I do. I don't b'long to
nobody else, except the gin'raL"
" Where is Barton ?" said Alice and Eose almost
in the same breath.
" You see them woody hummocks yonder ? "
"Yes."
"Well, the gineral he's along beyond them,
furder up, up toward that way, and a leetle over."
This very luminous description was given with
a serious, s6lemn air, for Pete's heart in every
battle was much moved at the danger into which
Barton Gathcart wmld throw himself.
VOL. ni. Q
226 NORWOOD; OR,
" He's allers runnin' to find it and fetch it. He
might jest as well wait. Ye see, danger will
come itself when they're fightin' such all-fired
battles."
"Pete," said Eose, "do you think we could
see Barton's position if we were to go on to that
hiU?"
"Sartain; I'll take you." Pete seemed as if
he were literally about to take Eose as in the old
days, when she rode upon his shoulder.
Eose laughed and dashed past him nimbly, on
her way to the edge of Little Eound Top. As
she ascended the ridge the scene began to open
upon her.
On reaching the summit, the view was ob-
structed by the fringe of woods through which
the road passed. But by climbing a little to the
south of the road, Eose obtained a clear view of
the ridge on whose slopes lay the Northern army,
extending from where she stood two miles north
towards Gettysburgh, which, from this point, was
tucked up so close to the northern head of the
ridge that only the western skirts of the village
could be seen, fringing out into the valley. A
mile and more across from where she stood look-
ing west, was a range of low and rounded hills,
foreslKilad in spots, or dotted with orchards. On
the southern half of the line they were so carved
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 227
out by the wear of waters for ages, that they
seemed like huge beads half buried in the
ground; but further north, and over against
Gettysburgh, the terrace was less scarped and
ran with an easier slope. Above and beyond
these hills, to the westward, rose others, and
wide strips of forest, and ten miles away the
blue mass of the South Mountains 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 rolling hills, and cut
into with dells and tangles of wood and rock.
The upper half, or that nearest Gettysburgh,
was scooped out and smoother. Along the line
of swells between these two sorts of valleys had
been placed the left wing of Meade's army, form-
ing an angle of about 45 degrees with the ridge
on which the rest 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 occupied, was Lee's
whole aim in the second day's battle. For four
hours the fight here raged with excessive violence.
The best troops of both armies were in the strug-
gle. Neither before nor since has there been more
thorough fighting, of all arms, with heroic tenacity
and an indomitable will that did not know how to
Q 2
228 nobwood; ob,
let go. And when darkness ended the conflict,
the Northern troops, though on the whole worsted,
had been only pushed back to their true position
along the ridge, with the natural fortresses of
Great Kound Top and Little Bound Top inex-
pugnably guarding the left of their line. But
this is in anticipation.
Pete had followed Eose with more than usual
gravity. He seemed like an uneasy hound that
smeUs something in the distance 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
hunter. 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, wjaiting for some
unguarded moment, or indefensible posture, to
spring with concentrated strength and loud roar
upon the other ! In a vague and rude way Pete
felt some such battle instinct. He watched the
hills opposite.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 229
"There they are?"
*'Who?"
"Why the rebs don't you see 'em ?"
" Where do you mean ? " said Rose, shading her
eyes with her hand.
" Eight over in the hedge of them woods don't
you see the light flash ? That's the sun shinin' on
their guns. There 'tis ag'in ! Them 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 position, and, pointing his muzzle out
toward the scene of impending conflict, looked
intently upon the fields.
" Pete, what ought they to do ?" said Rose, in-
nocently, to her humble companion, and with as
much faith in his judgment as if he were some
black Napoleon.
" I dun know. I expect they better come back
here."
The scuds of white cloud that held their indolent
course through the air early in the morning were
now aU gone away, and had left the heavens un-
230 iroRWOOD; ob,
Mcarred and unfturowed. The son now, half way
down from the meridian, shot bock floods of light
along the path it had just traTelled, but could not
change its bine. Far np, the yanlt was paled a
little bnt bine it was clear, tender blna But,
nearer the ground and along the horizon, the raddy
sunlight flooded all things with a peculiar golden
hue. The air seemed rich, the earth dreamy, and
the landscape that lay before Bose's eye seemed
to her imagination as if in a tranquil meditation.
The distant jets of white smoke, the faint re-
ports of sharpshooters' rifles, or occasional ripplea
of skirmishers' firing seemed only like the plash-
ing of a tranquil sea upon the shore sound joit
enough to make stillness palpable. Eyerything
conspired to fill Bose with imaginations con-
trasting with the impending scenes. A wood-
thrush not far from her, in a solitary clump of
trees, was singing in a plaintive way to an answer-
ing thrush beyond. An oriole flew into a near
tree, and sang shrill as a clarionet. Flowers were
thick among the stones. A bush of sassafras stood
just at her hand, and she was almost unconsciously
breaking off the tender and fragrant tips to refresh
her mouth.
Bose had risen into that state of imagination in
which outward things begin to take on the colours
of one's own thoughts, and to stand dressed in
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 231
human feelings. The whole heavens above her
head said to her, ** There is no war in me ! " the
whole valley answered. " It is peace with me ! "
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 rocks, all were so many
tokens of peace.
Suddenly, right over against her, came a peal of
thunder! Up rose a curling wreath of smoke.
Quickly through it flashed fierce forks of flame ;
loud and earth-shaking roars came like the rolls
of surf upon the shore, in quick succession. The
battle had begun ! 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 !
Bose was fixed and fascinated. She could 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 withered
and shrunk back. They were but the first line.
Eight on, behind them, came Longstreet's masses,
that were not to be daunted fire-proved, annealed
in scores of battles ! Little could Eose see but the
general aspect. The loyal lines bore up stoutly
and well. They were pushed and bent; but, like
232 soewood; ob,
a trasty bow, gpnmg back again. The conflict
became many-sided. Far onward, to the left of
the Union lines, emerged the Confederate troops.
New batteries seemed to spring np cTerywhere;
and battle, like forks of flame in a burning town,
Vindling whereTer a spark fell, flashed forth, from
point to point, on erery swell of land ^in the
groTes ^through wheat fields, bnt, more than all,
right oyer against her, where the heayen was
ablaze with artillery, and irresistible masses of
Confederate soldiers broke down Sickles' centre,
and droTe back his men from Sherfy's peach
orchard. For an hoar, which seemed an age, she
gazed. Troops were hastening &om Hancock and
firom Slocnm, drawn from the centre and right, to
brace np the broken lines. The fight was creep-
ing np 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 com-
bats raged in muffling woods and thickets. She
had never stood where the whole field lay open.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 233
where the two armies stretched out their masses in
visible opposition and the whole work of destruc-
tion could be seen. She turned away, and hastened
by the road which, running from the very ground
of conflict, hugged Little Bound Top where she
had been standing; and moved over 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 battle. Their numbers
increased.
Who shall describe the roar of battle ? K one
will know the mechanism and anatomy of battle,
let him read our American Napier (William Swin-
ton). If he would see a gorgeous picture of the
out-playing of this anatomy, the army charge, the
tough and tugging fight, the swirl and hurricane,
let him read the brilliant picture-writing of the
military Dore of America (G. A. Townsend). But
who shall describe the shadow of the battle ? Who
shall picture the battle of the hospital? Who
shall make into history what passes before the
nurses and surgeons ?
The place chosen for the hospital proved to be
in the line of fire, and shot and shell soon came
down into the very tents, and men who had
escaped the battle and cleared its skirts were
reached and slain under the surgeons' hands.
Another place was chosen. But scarcely had the
234 !ifORWOOD; OB,
sorgeons' tables been set before whistling balls
drove them thence. A third place, nearly astride
of Bock Creek, was finally established. The
wonnded men were now pouring in in fearful
numbers. Long lines of men lying on the ground
covered 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 stationed women and
men to supply to the fainting and overspent, as
they passed, both nourishment and stimulants.
Eose suggested to Agate that the point which she
had that afternoon visited would be weU situated
for a station. Fires were built, hot tea and coffee
were kept in full supply, milk punch, wines, and
other stimulants were at hand. Many who had
climbed thus far, but were exhausted, were here
revived by welcome nourishment and hobbled and
shuffled over the hill to the hospital fields.
No sooner had Eose found some active work
to do than all her fancies fled, and she settled
back into a stem, 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 235
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, Kose's body, fed
by some inward supply, seemed as fresh and nimble
as at the beginning.
" How can you 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 Kose was engrossed in supplying the suf-
fering, Hiram appeared from over the hill with the
ambulance corps, aiding the wounded, but chiefly
engaged in scolding Alice. Kose had, for an hour
or two, missed her, and supposed that she had
gone back over the hill toward the corps hospital.
Instead of that, Alice had quietly ventured for-
ward. Pete carried her effects, and acted as her
body-guard ; and, lured by some fascination, Alice
had ventured down almost upon the edge of
battle outrunning, at last, the boldest of the
ambulance corps, encouraging the stretcher-bearers
to come on ; for so terrible had been the fire here
that the men whose duty it was to succour and
bear away the wounded shrank from the spot. All
the stores which Pete could carry were soon con-
sumed, Alice was urging the attendants to more
236 kobwood; ob,
yentnresomeness, when the clond of battle which
had bent and moved outward, suddenly came rain*
ing back. A large body of Virginian troops were
pressing back our line& Just then, speeding to
the succour 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 dashed up to her very
feet. Just then some one snatched her by the
arm and violently dragged her back.
" WTiat on earth ails ye ? Do you want to be
killed ? TMiat sort of a place do you call this
for a handsome woman? Come out o' this I
Come, come, I say! If this ain't crazinessi
Never mind, I swow you're a brave girl! By
jimminy, I never thought ye had so much in
you!"
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 here 1 What a fool you be. No
need on't. What business had you 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 relieve the wounded
men who have been fighting for you and for me."
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 237
"Well, you might wait tiU the men fetched 'em
out."
"Hiram, the ambulance men shrunk; their
very officers hid. I 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 luUed, Hiram could not
refuse his admiration ; but the moment shot began
to whiz and swirl about her, he fell to scolding
Alice again :
*',You are a brave girl, anyhow. Tou ought to
have been a soldier. I'm proud of your pluck.
Gosh ! look out there come shells and shot a
pretty place for a woman ! Tou want a gardeen
over you. I wonder you'd be such a fool. There,
then, now we're kind o' behind this swell they
won't hit us. I vow, Alice, but you've arnt an
epilet to-day."
When Alice saw Rose, she ran to her with
a piercing cry :
" Oh, oh, oh, Kose I I have seen him. I have
seen ! "
"Who? Barton?"
" Yes ; but not him. I've seen Heywood. He
was rushing in at the head of his men just as
Barton came up. Oh it is dreadful that he is
fighting on the rebel side 1 But, oh how noble
he looked. In that awfiil whirlpool of war he
23S Sr^EWCOD : OB*
WM^d utiA h^^aariril j& when lie a in. our Uk-
ryiin ! *'
* Bat 'iid jon iee BArtan?'* mid Base, i
ia a trrrror. * W;as he there r~
^ Y^ he wria nshiii;r rirftc soBmst
There: waa an awfoi erriah. Oh God! I iiope
Heywood is safe.''
Eofte, trembling, ciiiild 5*TtirceI"T isostaiii IieEsdf ;
bat in a moment her courage c&me again-
** Ali4?e. think only of Bmton. He k tout
brother ! lla j Gtjd preserve thoee whs are defend-
ing the right, and ^ni ^^peedy oTerthrow to thoae
liiio wonld destroy their goremment I "
Alice only shaddereii, but miade no ie{^.
The snn went down, bat still the battle nged
in the twilight. The left of the Union army, moeh
twisted and broisei^ had been shored back and
gadly rent, bat, on the whole, had secured a
better groond than it had lost ; and at eight o'clock
the sounds of battle died away on this part of the
field ; though fSar away, to the Union right, for a
half-hour longer the conflict sounded on. But by
nine o'clock there was silence. Yes, with more
than four thousand men a silence which should not
be broken tiU the last trump !
In the two days, the Union army had lost, in
killed, wounded, and missing, nearly twenty
thousand men An equal loss, doubtless the
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 239
enemy had sustained. And the third great day
was yet to come.
That night, within a circle of five miles' dia-
meter, there were from both armies together
between twenty and thirty thousand wounded
men! All farmhouses and barns were filled.
Every sheltered field was covered with sufferers.
Hospital touched hospital. If one had. come from
the north behind Bound Top, the first field-hospital
would have seemed to contain the wounded of the
whole battle; but at every mile, round toward
Gettysburgh, he would meet another, and another,
until he would wonder what could be left, of the
fighting army which had shook off from its boughs
such another army of withered men 1 And if the
circuit were continued, Gettysburgh was full ; and,
moving over upon the western ridges where the
Confederate army lay, the same mighty trail of
blood held on its way. And thus some thirty
thousand men, welded together by blood, twined
around the greot central armies like a gory
belt!
The fighting was ended. The great toil of
mercy was but just begun. All night long, men
were brought in. Parties scoured the fields hunt-
ing for the wounded. Many had crept out of the
storm of battle and hidden under fences, or among
rocks, or in thickets, and, their strength failing.
240 NORWOOD; OB,
they could neither come forth nor make known
their presence. Hundreds died whom prompt
succour might have sared. When the moon rose
and threw its faint hght through the moving scuds
of cloud, there might have been seen many a stal-
wart fellow fast fainting unto death. Some clasped
in their hands the photograph of wife and chil-
dren, some of lover ; and they were found dead
in the moraing, the last smile yet lingering on
their manly features.
The hospitals enlarged their bounds through all
the adjacent fields. The bams in the neighbour-
hood had been taxed for straw ; but, he was fortu-
nate who had under him anything but the fresh
grass half covered with a blanket
Hundreds of wounded rebels had been captured
and lay among our men, subject to the same kind-
ness. In the hospital there was peace. Wounds
were coimted as amicable settlements.
The South, impulsive and unrestrained in the
expression of feeling, the North, grave and self-
contained, more apt to repress than to show feel-
ing both carried into battle and into the hospital
their peculiarities. The Southern brigades, im-
petuous and fiery, charged yelling and noisy.
The Northern men, sometimes hurrahing, yet
oftener sternly sUent, put their feelings into
blows.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 241
The rebel wounded groaned and cried out
The surgeon's knife set loose their tongues. The
Northern wounded lay quiet, suppressed the groans,
fighting their pains as stubbornly and silently as
they had fought the rebels.
Yet it was not all sad in the field hospitals.
The slightly wounded kept up excellent spirits.
After their hurts were dressed, and they were
washed, and refreshed with food and cordials,
they became cheerful and chatty. One might
have heard in the early night hundreds of nar-
ratives which they were recounting to each
other, some sad and some grotesque, and some
even gay.
Poor Agate for once quite lost her self-posses-
sion 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 eyesight !
" Aunty Bissell w this you ? " He said, in a
gentle, plaintive voice.
*' Yes, Willie, it is. God bless you, 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 me! Stay with me, won't
VOL. III. B
242 NORWOOD; ob,
yon ? Do take hold of my hand. Say something
to me. I shall die! Oh^ mother, mother,
mother ! Aunty, don't leave me. Do say some-
thing to me ! "
Agate bowed down by his side, and while the
cannon were yet sounding in the distance, and
the air filled with departing souls, she sent up a
fervent prayer for the lad.
But others needed care. She hurried from one
to another, returning often to speak to Willie,
finding him each time weaker, and always whisper-
ing either a petition or his mother's name. At
the very last, as it grew dark, his mind flickered
and seemed working at some childhood remem-
brance.
" 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 victory.
Rose was struck with one man's experience. A
bluff and brawny man he looked.
" Wal," said he to some who had been asking
him about the conflict, " I remember while we was
in Sharfy's peach orchard, and the firin' was just
beginnin', that a sparrow was singin' in a peach
tree. E-r-rip went the rifles. That'shet hiT^ up.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 243
But he began agin. Wh-ang! went the cannon,
and for about five minutes they fired and he fired,
they fired and he fired back again. But I b'live
at last they got the upper hand of that sparrow !
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 re-appeared 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 ?"
" That's the way to hunt for Barton I K any-
body'd know where Barton was, Pete would."
" Well, did you find Pete ?" said Alice.
"Yes, I did."
"Hiram, why don't you tell me if you 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
guess he's blue too. Sent his love to you, Alice,
and good-bye to all the rest, if he never sees you
again; ^would come over, but has jest got word
that he may have to move over to the right wing
B 2
244 NORWOOD; or,
there by daylight to-morrow morning, to drive
out a parcel of rebs that's crept in miawares like."
" Thank God, he is safe," said Kose.
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 oflSces. It was
about midnight when he laid down near a fire,
around which sat or lay a score or two of
wounded men. He heard them talking of their
day's work. A sergeant in the 146th New York
was talking:
" I had 'nuff on't too. 'Twas my regiment that
was in the brigade that charged in to support
Sickles. And we did support him. too. And we
hadn't more'n time to turn round after that charge
before they told us to go at Little Round Top, and
we did go at it, and we took that too. Charged
bayonets twice within fifteen minutes. And what
was the queerest thing, out of that regiment of
800 men we didn't lose but thirty-three in them
two charges. But most o' them was officers. In
that charge up Little Eound 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 comp'ny 'n both leften-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 245
ants, 'n I do' no how many more. I found myself
in command o' that comp'ny pretty sudden.
"Well, after the hottest o' that fightin' was
over, I lay down behind a rock and went to
sleep; told my second-sargeant to wake me up
if there was anything. Well, pretty soon some-
body came 'n waked me up, 'n said Gen. Warren
wanted to see me.
" You see, where we was was jest before brigade-
headquarters ; 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
rocks a reg'lar nest on 'em big boulders
standin' up endways, ledges and all sorts o'
things. Now a lot o' rebel sharpshooters they'd
get into them rocks, and they was awaitin. There
couldn't a hat 'a ben showd on top o' that rock on
Little Round Top 'thout it had a ball slap through
it, and them generals they wanted to get up on
there 'n reconnoiter.
" So I went up in the tent. Warren he knowd
me; 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
246 NORWOOD; OR,
you take some skirmishers, and go down in there,
and clean out them sharpshooters?' Well, that
was a command, you know, jest as much as if he'd
said I must go and do it. So I said, ' Yes ; 1 want
sixty men, and I don't want nobody but volunteers
neither.' So he said I might go and git 'm. So
I went down to my regiment, 'n I 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-^ail. Then I went to another regi-
ment, 'n got twenty-five more ; that was sixty-five,
all told. So I got 'em all ready, and I arranged
with Warren that, when I'd got down in the valley
and got things all straight, I'd wave a handker-
chief, 'n then they could git up on the rock. Then
I told my men, *Now,' says I, *we must break
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 fire till you
see me do it. I'm agoin' to git a good place, and
blaze away jest as fast as I can, so 's to make 'em
think there's a whola 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 247
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 ns a comin', and
picked off about a dozen kiUed and wounded ; so
when we got down among them ledges and boul-
ders, about two hundred yards away from where
the sharpshooters was, I had 'bout fifty-five men.
So I. went tc^ork a-blazin' away, and the boys
they got down behind the stones, and, amongst
us, we kep' up a hell of a fire ; for every one 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 fel-
lers.' 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 oflScers they^hopped up on
the rock. 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'
248 xorwood; ob,
alongside o* me, Sargeant Weaver his name was,
and he see a place where one o' the rebels was a
firin' out ot So I looked, and there the feller had
built up a little place between two rocks dth
loose stone, and he'd put a big rock across on top,
and thei^ he was, a firin' through a porthole at
us. So Wearer he wanted to fire at him, and says
I, ' Go ahead; So Weaver fired, but he didn't hit
him. Well, I had my gun already, and I watched
close, and when this here feller drew back to load
up again (here the speaker imitated the move-
ments of one ramming down a buUet), I could
jest see the back of his head one side of that are
rocL So I let him have it, and the bullet struck
him right in the middle of his neck, right here
(toueliiug 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 charged 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 sup-
port 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 249
the whole of that are two hundred yards, and kept
it too.
" When I went up to see Warren^ he said all
sorts o' tilings to me, and promised to give me a
medal and a commission, and all that But I don'
'spect to git 'em. Folks forgit easy."
By four o'clock on Friday morning, July 3rd, 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 remotest 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 morn-
ing, 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 bandages, nothing. Following the road,
over the northern edge of Little Kound 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
250 NORWOOD; OR,
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 oflScer, half
reclining, half sitting, either was asleep, or was
dead. It was Tom Heywood.
Alice paused at a few steps; then, venturing
nearer ^pale, very pale spoke as if she would
waken him from sleep.
" Mr. Heywood I Mr. Heywood !"
Timidly, yet eagerly, she came close to him,
laid her hand upon his arm ; it fell heavily as
she pressed it. She touched his hand and the
truth flashed upon her, he was dead! As one
bewildered, and even yet uncertain but that
he slept, she gazed upon his calm and noble
face.
" Speak to me ! Do wake ! It is Alice Alice
Cathcart ! Oh, Heywood, I would speak to you if
it were I lying so ! He is not dead ! It cannot be
death!"
Then looking long and wildly, as a child looks
shudderingly into some dark room at night, she
lowered her voice and said, in a hoarse whisper :
" He is dead ! God, take im ! "
Already the light seemed vanishing, and Alice
fell fainting upon Heywood's breast. At last
she had found upon his bosom a brief rest of
love !
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 251
A man lying in the hedge of the thicket called
out to Hiram, who soon after was coming that
way:
" I say 1 I say, stranger I "
" Well, what's up ? Where are ye ? Oh, there
you are. Are you hurt badly?"
" No matter 'bout me jest yet. I kin wait.
But I reckon somebody oughter take care of that
gal yonder. She's got a fit o' faintin'. That man
there is Col. Heywood. He commanded our boys.
He was shot yisterday 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 car-
ried 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 I Alice! Poor, thing, her
heart's broke. I alius suspected how 'twas. There
there that's right ; open your eyes. Gracious !
don't groan so don't, child! It'll all be right,
poor little thing ! "
As she revived, Alice looked at Hiram in a
scared and bewildered way. Little by little her
memory came with consciousness.
** Hiram, let me go back."
" Why, Alice, don't," said Hiram, in a coaxing
war. jc :he ^rnt^ tfme 'in^rmtj^ iesr genthr by the
haxuL
-^ Kiraau I fnc z^ tt rifm. He is mC dead! If
we oalv JO .jrnL-k ie will come ttx IK go, Hiram
tii: j .
ita was net in !uz3Uul natme to re^t. A dioit
walk bpm^b.:: ULenL ;igafa to Heywood. The mo^
meat they rf^ai!lied Iu ceec with sudien leynkioii
ot feeimgy Alice stopped dborC
"^ Hiraniy he w detibd ! He will iieTer speak
again ! OL how noble ! I he not beaotiM ?"
- Why. Alice, I didn't know as he was in love
with yon!"
Had he pierced her with a sword she could
not have shown a face of angmsh sach as she
instantly exhibited. Then, in a low and half
whispered tone she said a slight colour coming
to her pale cheek :
" No ^he did not lore me. But I loved him.
And now he never will know it. Oh, Hiram, he
was good and noble ! "
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?"
"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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 253
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 ex-
actly know why, to wipe his hat; an operation
less needful, as it was a straw hat.
Alice sat down by Heywood, apparently uncon-
scious that any one was present. Her 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 I to pick the fairest and
noblest! The wicked and ugly have escaped,
and he is gone, so good! so good! Eyes that
shall never see again lips that shall never
speak hands which are death cold! So true
so beautiful so good ! He was good ! Hush ! he
stirred! Hiram?"
Hiram had tact enough not to oppose Alice, and
humouring her idea that Heywood was only in a
swoon, he said :
"I guess. Miss Cathcart, we better take him
over, and let the doctors see if anything can be
done for him. Mebbe hell come to."
" Oh, yes ! Hiram, dear Hiram, do take him to
the camp."
"Well, if you'll go back, I'll see to 't. You
254 nobwood; ob,
can't be no help here, and you may be oy^
there.**
Directing some of the ambulance men to remoye
the body, he led Alice away to Bose.
In a sonny field, close up under the edge of a
grove, and about half way between Little Bound
Top and the bridge across the Bock Creek, of the
Baltimore turnpike, a grave was prepared. A
chaplain from the sixth corps, of his own church,
read the solemn burial 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. Bose
had plucked from the near trees some burnished
oak-leaves ; and hastily plaiting them to a 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 Bose that they should
send Alice to the farmhouse of old father Lobdell,
where they had spent Wednesday 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 arrai^ed
her apparel with more than common care, stepped
forth calmly, but firmly, to her mercifol duties.
Her face was serene, but without smiles. Her
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 255
care and pity, always striking, had in them now
an austere tenderness that struck the rudest men
with awe and admiration, as if an inspired priestess
were among them. Nor, to the end, did Alice
ever mention Hey wood's name, nor for one waking
hour did she ever forget it !
256 korwood; ob,
CHAPTER XV.
THE LAST ENDEAVOUB-
On the third day of July, and the third of the
complex battle of Gettysburgh, Lee, haying in
vain assaulted the left of the Union line on the
day before, 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 tlie eastern slope of Gulp's Hill. But
by four in the morning Meade attacked the in-
trusive 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
battle-field and brooded for the space of two
hours. Birds sang again, though the ground be-
neath 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 257
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 clangour 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 Kidge, 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 im-
mense cannonading. The slopes of Oak Eidge
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 smoke rolled up
white and bluish -gray, as storm-clouds lift and
roll up the sides of mountains. From every direc-
tion came the flying missiles -r cross-ploughing
Cemetery Hill with hideous furrows, in which to
plant dead men. Shot flew clear over the ridge
caissons sheltered behind the hill were reached
and blown up. Horses standing harnessed to
reserved artillery, in places before secure, were
smitten down. Strange was the discordant music
VOL. III. 8
258 NORWOOD; ob,
of the miHsilo sounds, for which thete were
no puum^R, that filled the air. Some went hia-
in^, Hoiuo flow with mufiSed growl, some tiboA
out u i^UHJiiiip: sound like the rush of waten;
Monut (uirritHl with them an intense and nudig-
nuut howl ; Home spit and sputtered in a spiteM
nuiuner; otht^rs whirred, or whistled, or span
thrtuulM of tt^uor or treble sounds. But whaterer
tilt) varioty in this awful aerial music, all meant
di^ath. If a thousand meteors had bnrst^ and
tmoh one flung doNvn shattered masses of me-
teorite gtouo, it would have scarcely seemed
nutiH) likt) a dt^lupfe of iron rain than now it did.
Oinlt^rlit^ and aids found the roads and fields on
tho far Hidt^ of the hill, safe before, now rain-
iujjf with biillt^ts. Jleado's headquarters were
riddhwl and his stall' driven to another quarter.
In half un hour all the fields were cleared and
tht^ nitn W(*ro under cover. Fortunately, the
f^iuuuy'n artillery was elevated too much. The
Union 8olili(Ts escaped with comparatively little
harm, while the reverse of the hill was excoriated
with shot luul shell. In the burial-ground on
the \\om\ of Cemetery l{id^e, projecting toward
the village of Gettysburgh, fell the iron hail,
rending the graves and splintering the monu-
ments. Flowers growing on graves were rudely
picked by hurtling iron. Soldiers who had fallen
VILLAGE LIFE IK NEW ENGLAND. 259
at Fair Oaks, and had been brought here for
burial, far away from all thought of battle, in this
quiet Pennsylvania vale, were still pursued 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 hours, there came moving across
the valley fifteen thousand men to take posses-
sion of that ridge! As they moved from afar
the Union artillery smote them; but they did
not heed it. As they drew near, still rent by
shot and shell, earnest, eager, brave, ^there
burst upon their right flank a fire of musketry
and artillery that quite crumpled up and swung
back their men upon their centre. Next, their
left wing was utterly riddled and routed by the
sharpness of the musketry; and what part was
not captured fled and escaped. But the massive
centre, with men as brave as ever faced death,
stem, headlong, pushed right up to Hancock's
lines, and across them, but could come no further !
Like a ship whose impetus carries it few up upon a
shoal, from which it cannot recede when it would,
several brigades had shot, by the terrible momen-
tum, so far up, that when from the slopes of the
cemetery, and from the artillery on Meade's left
s 2
260 NORWOOD; OR,
wing, they were enfiladed, while Hancock, with
fresh brigades drawn from his left, met them in
front with a fire 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 artil-
lery 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 the sun ! When the sun went
down on that 3rd 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 coming anniversary day as
now, when all those thousands of men joyfully 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 Gettysburg!!. Ewell's corps of Lee's
army withdrew from the town and Howard's troops
immediately took possession.
There ^^as great joy throughout the Union arm v.
( fficers congratulated each other ; the men were
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 261
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 the prescience of the scope of this
victory in its relation to public affairs. The
climax was reached. Henceforward the Con-
federate cause was subject to decline, weakness and
extinction.
The work of burying the dead engaged large
details of soldiers. The wounded were sought out
more assiduously. Lee having withdrawn his
right wing from before Round Top and concen-
trated his whole force on the hills over against
Gettysburgh, there could be no danger in going
over on the field of battle. Belief parties were
busy. Among the rocks of Eound Top and
Devil's Den 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 wounded died unsuccoured in those dark
spaces, and that the bones of many yet lie buried
but unsepulchred, with the huge rocks around
them as stones of hiding rather than of memorial.
262 NORWOOD; ob.
The farmhouses were filled with wonnded ; biuiis
were filled; the fields were as full as, in a few
days, thev would have been of sheaves of the
wheat which had been so strangely threshed by
the feet of wounded men. The town was full ;
all the sheltered spots and nooks were fulL A
large number of the enemy's wounded, particu-
larly 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
despatched, 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 cheerfulness 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 Gettysburgh, and the wives
of the farmers living in the region, devoted them-
selves to the care of the sufierers with heroic
devotion. But the stolid farmers and men of the
district round about the town, manifested neither
patriotism nor humanity, practising every extor-
TILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 263
tion, 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 !
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 sorrowful scene
that it could well look upon. Three days had
converted a peaceful valley into a Golgotha.
No form of injury which the human body can
receive was wanting. The ingenuity of nature
in the production of life is not greater than the
ingenuity of death in the destruction 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 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. Another, with wounds on every
limb, the lungs pierced, bones broken, the head
torn, trampled on by men, run over by artillery,
stabbed, shot, hacked, bruised, given up by sur-
geons, still clung to life and climbed back again to
health ! The fields bore ghastly harvests of suffer-
ing men. The sun came up and shined upon them
as if they were but heads of yellow wheat. Their
264 nobwood; or,
tremblings and shrinkings were to Nature only as
the quivering of leaves in the frolicsome wind;
heir 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 ! Nature exults ! 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 which 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 and change the
air with his sympathy to a soberer hue ? Alas !
this great field of war was but a point, a mere
punctuation point of blood, in the history of that
world which groans and travails in pain until
now ! As the midwife, in the throes and groans
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 265
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 Merciful 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. The Long
Suffering !
And God has taught the Sun to see beyond
and through the beginnings of things to their
ends.
For the sun for ever sees life and not death.
It beholds in the revolution of the sod, not the
roots that die, but the harvests which shall 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
the price of a nation's life ! The instruments of
their great conflict were carnal, but its fruits
spiritual.
War ploughed the fields of Gettysburgh, and
planted its furrows with men. But, though the
seed was blood, the harvest shall be peace, con-
cord, liberty, and universal intelligence. For
every groan here, a hundred elsewhere ceased.
For every death now, a thousand lives shall
266 sobwood; ob,
be happier. Indiyidnals suffered; the natkm
revived!
8hine on, O Sim ! that beholdest eyermore the
future ! Thou wilt not, glorious Eye of Hope,
ever lix)king at the ends, be veiled or mourn
because the ways are rough through whidi Grod
sends universal blessings !
I cannot say that such thoughts as these passed
through the mind of Kose 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
about Barton."
" There comes Hiram," said Eose, " he will do
as well. What a brave fellow Hira'm is 1 He has
shown more courage, and performed more work,
too, in succouring the wounded, than if he had
carried a musket. All the brave men are not in
the ranks."
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 267
Something disquieted Hiram Beers this morning.
He had little to say and seemed fidgetty. He
picked up things only to lay them down, and
worked without any purpose. At last, he gave
way:
" 'Tain't no use, Eose ; you may's well know it
fust as last. I've got a letter for you from
Barton, and I expect it's the last one you'll ever
git from him."
Eose stopped, and, raising herself to her fiill
height, looked fixedly and even commandingly
upon Hiram.
"Hiram, has Barton fallen?"
'^I don't know; I'm afraid so. I can't find
nothin' of him. Pete's gone; nobody's seen
him to-day. Barton's oflScers say they saw 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 everywhere for his
body and can't find it. I was up there the night
before the last battle. He said something would
happen to him in that fight. He felt it. He told
me to wait till he wrote this letter. If he got out
safe, I was to bring it back to him ; but if he was
killed, I was to give it to you."
Eose took the letter, and read :
" I have a presentiment, Eose, that something
will befall me to-morrow. K you receive these
2G8 NORWOOD; ob,
lines I shall have fallen, and my words will be
forgiven as of one dead. Bose, 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 sym-
pathy; 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 refusal 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, Eose,
is love for you ! My last wishes and prayers in-
voke blessings on you ! I go toward darkness ;
but there is a light beyond. In Heaven, oh. Rose !
in Heaven I shall meet you, and say, I love thee !
without fear or repulse.
"Barton Cathcart."
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 ? whai
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 269
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, is love for you ! " And he will never
know that I loved him more ! Noble soul, if thou
art in heaven, God will tell thee how thou art
loved ! And he wTote to me ! wrote to tell me
all this when first leaving Norwood ! Where is
that treacherous letter that did not fulfil its
message ? "
Kose called to Alice. There was something in
her manner so high and commanding, that Alice
scarcely believed that this was Kose. She had
never seen her in a mood of such exaltation.
" Alice, my sister, Barton has left us ! " Alice
could not look paler than she already was, but
a ghastly, ashen hue came over the white of her
fair face. " Bead this, Alice. Can you not ? Let
me read it to you."
With a firm, low voice, Eose read every word
vdthout faltering. Barton's words of love seemed
to inspire her soul. There was a triumphantness
in the gentlest of her tones that showed that sorrow
had in it an overmastering joy.
Alice looked upon Eose with wonder.
In a low and solemn way, with a wondering,
inquiring look, she said :
" I cannot understand you ! It all seems
270 NORWOOD; on,
dreadful to me! God is full of anger toward
us both."
" Alice, God loves us both ! Oh, I know not
what joy that would have been, of loving, had
Barton lived and loved me, when even in death
it is so fuU of joy and thrilling. I am more
glad than sorrowfiiL He loved me! loved me
always ! loved me to the end ! My heart sings :
only my eyes weep ! * Come, Alice, let not people
see us."
They walked along the edges of the woods.
Again the little birds were singing, ^the melan-
choly pee-wee, the pine-warbler, the vireo. They
came to Heywood's grave. The sun shone
brightly upon it. Already some one had trans-
planted, from the edges of the wood, clumps of
flowers.
Poor Alice, tears running down her cheeks,
turned to Eose :
'* Oh, Eose, tell me how to feel as you do ! My
heart was sunk down so low that there is no more
light for me! I have envied the dead around
me. I want to go. God does not love me enough
to let me die!"
" Alas, Alice, grief poisons you I me it cheers.
I am glad that I suffer. Death has divided you
from your lover ; but has given mine to me.
Barton's death has made him mine. Oh, noble
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 271
soul ! oh, heavenly hero ! oh, spirit walking free
in glory ! death, that separates others, unites us.
I am thine! I am henceforth wedded till thou
come for me ! Oh, Alice, why should I be sad ?
My heart is with him. My thoughts walk with
him. My life is lifted up higher than sorrows
ever fly ! "
" Oh, Eose ! you make me feel worse than ever.
You seem gone away from me. I cannot follow
you. When he fell, the whole world fpll too, to
me. I cannot see any thing that is bright. I do
not love anybody now nor you, nor father, nor
mother, nor myself. Oh, my heart is very angry.
God is cruel, Eose ! I will speak it. God is
cruel to me ^very cruel. I don't want to live ;
and, if I were to die, he would not love me
thefrer
Eose 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
you than for myself. You do not know what you
say ^that you love nothing. Your heart is like
a bird driven into the woods by a thunderstorm.
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."
" Eose, I am not selfish, I shall give my whole
272 5G3ir00D; OB,
life iTTij :cr rclie:^ I vas noc ael&^h. I did not
^k grea.: "aiirLineas r':r ziysell I only wanted
Lini ro Ive 2ie eaoG^Ii ro lee me love him. I
wvxil'i ii:t liiiTTr tr^.dLl'fti Lizi. I could haye kept
tn:cille oxci r.h\ and helped him a little, and
loTcd when I ccold sund a little way off and look
at him. Ee "aroald never love me as Barton loved
yon. Koee. Ob. yoa will never know all of that!
Bat ii after a great while he should say, ' Alice,
I am always happier when you are by me,* oh.
Rose, the angels in the insurrection will say no-
thing so sweet as that would be I But he will
never say it now ! ^
Kose caught at Barton s name.
* Did Barton confide his feelings to you,
Alice?"
" TeSy he did. Xo. he did not. I mean I knew
them without his saying annhing. And I am
sure he knew mine. And we both knew that the
other knew all ; and so when he would say a few
words and stop, I knew all the rest ! "
" It is strange very strange tliat 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 you, and felt as Barton did, I should
liave known it, just as I know the morning is
come when it floods my window with light."
^
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 273
Eose mused a moment :
" My time had not come. I was like one who
hears sounds in his sleep and turns them all into
the fabric of his dream. Surely I knew ! and- yet
I knew not. It was like seed sown before the
ground is warm. But the summer floods me now.
Every seed is a blossom !"
They sat for awhile, silent and thoughtful;
then Alice pointed to a clump of columbines that
blossomed by the edge of a rock.
" Eose, you are like those flowers, and trouble
seems to move you as the wind does them, only
to show the sparkle of the sunlight with every
motion. I am like the shadow which they cast
upon the rock, that perishes by night, and is but
a shadow all day."
Eose 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.
"0 my soul, thou art crowned to-day! O
Death, thou hast taken his presence from me;
thou hast given me his heart ! In one moment I
am bereaved and wedded, I am cast down and
exalted I Barton, thou didst all thy life love me
without response? I, too, all my life will love
thee, alone and unrequited ! "
Eose took Alice to her bosom and kissed her,
with a strange and solemn tenderness which
VOL. III. T
jTi 50HW00D; iJSU
-^n^nsiit reftzs nronL aer eyes. Bat Bqb nmriier
^eut nor '^vHfi sAfL
" Alice, .jiii '^XL snow rbax BartDiL had wntteiL
me-.-''
-L iiiL''
-Way iiii voa nevor nientioiL it? Wisw k
:isteriy r I knesir out of ir. Yo letter haft ever
*xme ro me nTiiL Rirton. I was- sad and dazk
c bar -le ^en away fonsetdn^ ir osnn^ little fix-
his ciiildhcHxL iiMuL''
'* I vaa BOX p^mitted* Boae. Barton, aolemnly
enjoined ^lence: tipon. my honom; I waa not tz
mention Iiis 3eeret'^
'Hh. Alice, this is a day of great joy^ and
^inT)^ oonnot reau^h tao ir, nor pinck it (fawn.''
r oan only see Lrrref ap3n griefl Se is gone,
ami Barton is ;pjne- I Tould that I, too, were
gone."
- PiXir Alice iear Ali(?e if only Heywood
wouU speak to you out of the air. or coming in
the vision of the night, saying: 'I do wholly love
thee, Alice,' would you not triumph orer grief?"
Alice shuddered with intensity of feeling.
' Yes ! if I might know that he loved me, and
would always love me, I would go through a thou-
ajid years of sorrow and be glad all the way !
lMt, oh, Kose, Rose, he did not love ma It was
you not me/'
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 275
And Alice wept like a little child. Rose com-
forted her as a mother comforts her child, and,
withdrawing her from thoughts of herself, Eose,
half to Alice and half to herself, went on :
" At last I am free. No more checking. No
more self-deceiving. No more suffering and mis-
naming of one's deepest life. No more shame for
the heart's best fruit. I am beloved and I love !
1 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 1' "
** Oh, Rose, I do not understand you. I cannot
rise as you 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 ! It is noble to love with an
unsullied love ! Not those who love are poor, but
those who do not He was poorer that knew not
bow 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
T 2
276 NORWOOD; or,
the heavens cover, something of his nobleness and
honour. 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 j)art of his
voice, saying, *Eose, I love thee I' "
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, until soon the whole heaven
was sheeted, and rain began to fall; at first
gently, but with increasing quantity, until it
poured abundantly.
Great battles are said to bring on rain-storms.
A great rain certainly set in on Saturday after
the battle. Eock Creek, 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 dis-
coloured. It began to gather volume. 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 become 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 hospital lay upon both
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 277
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 fur-
ther inland, to which the surgeons be^an to
remove the men. All was haste. Whatever
help could be got was impressed. Men with
with stretchers were busy carrying the badly
Vounded. 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 Balti-
more pike was overflowed, its planks lifted and
floated away. The whole night was one of toil
and anxiety.
With the morning came joy to Eose. On the
second day of the battle word had been tele-
graphed to the northern cities for surgical aid.
The enormous accumulation of wounded men, of
Union and rebels, overtaxed the exertions of the
medical corps. To this summons speedily came
many scores of men eminent in their profession,
for a short service in the field, and among them
Dr. Wentworth. Although he arrived on Satur-
day, it was not until Sunday afternoon that Eose
278 NOiiwoOD; or,
met her father and then she had to search for
him. For, not waiting even to brusli the dust
from his clothes, nor for food, Dr. Wentworth,
within half an hour after reaching Gettysburgh,
was established and 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 energy and perseverance of the regular
surgeons of the army, working night and day, and
with all the help which they received from volun-
teers from the profession abroad, it was three or
four days before the first round was completed.
In some of the field -hospitals the wounded were
treated as they came, without regard to the side
to which 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 prostrated, and
they could not endure the operations necessary.
Almost every man died. A strange fatality at-
tended some hospitals. In some places almost
every wound led to lockjaw, 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 generated by
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 279
sickness and wounds when vast numbers of men
are clustered closely in disadvantageous circum-
stances is of frightful malignancy. Men fall away
like leaves in an October day when east winds
strike the trees.
A m ong the memorials and monuments, the
eulogies and honours so deservedly bestowed
upon the soldiers and officers 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 their extra*
ordinary zeal and labour. Often much exposed
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 super-
natural 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 un-
weariedly, 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, fitst and last, two
thousand women, during the war, left homes of
USA 3R:wqod; gb.
r^nemeat aiui ccmibrtL aeeepted #F^fj liduddup
)f the deiii aiul the mskzdw of the ounp and of
the hi'j(4pit;il. with li heroiiaii not szrpaffied by the
Aoldier^ Women earriied with them the im^ma-
tioa ot' Ii'jve anii datj^ and brought to the camp
the retnembraacf^ ot' home, to the iiciepital the
i^yht^r granei ot' hnmaoftT. and eferrwbere a spirit
of 3elf--aacrice and iAeHtj^ that Aaoe like a lain-
bo^ npon a acowlmg clooil of war.
It 9eem5 fit. therefore, that araosg the testi-
monies of a nation's gratitiide some recognition
should be gi^en to this rear-guard of hnmanitj!
At least it wonld be a wise and comelj act for the
GoTemment of this Nation, in the Cajtal, to rear
a monument, and inscribe it
TO
THE nEBOIC SUBGE0X3 XSJ THE NOBLE WOMEN
WHO
LAID DOWN THEIR LIVES FOR THE NATION !
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 281
CHAPTER XVI.
THE MOUNTAIN COVERT.
The tidings which Hiram Beers brought to Bar-
ton's friends will require us to go back a day or
two, and to trace the events connected with Barton
Cathcart's fate.
No one who saw the calmness and cheerftdness
with which Barton awaited the famous charge of
Pickett upon the left centre of the Union lines,
on Friday afternoon, would dream that he was
sad or foreboding. It was not the darkness of
despondency or pain. Coming 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
282 NORWOOD; or,
u fi^htinj; character, was made brave in exigencies
by hi8 tidelity. He took good care of his own
jM^rson, unltHw General Cathcart was in danger;
then ho almost lost sense of his own peril in his
unxi(ty lor his master.
\\*h(n the grand charge of Pickett's corps had
almost cx|Hmded its force, there was concentrated
U|M)U it^ overtasked ranks such a fire, on either
ilank and in the fronts as no mortal men might en-
d\\n\ Hundreils dropi)ed their muskets and fell
Hat u|H)n the ground to escape the sweep of fire.
A thouwmd men were captured. The enemy re-
tirtnl miHcnly, fighting from point to point,
brok(n up into small bodies. The utter de-
Htriiction of this, the flower of Lee's army, might
huv( b(H4i accomplished had Meade possessed re-
Hurv(s of iV(\sh troops. As it was, several brilliant
chur;::(^ wcirc made, and in all several thousand
prisoner's captured. It was in such a charge that
Barton Cathcart was first severely wounded in the
tlii^h, and then, separated from his men, he found
himself surrounded with Confederate soldiers, and
borne away in the whirl of the retreating masses.
At first, he sought to break through and regain
his own side, but a bayonet thrust through the
right arm still further disabled him, and he was
swept away across the valley, and in half an hour
was within Lee's lines. He was speedily sent to
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 283
the rear. He lay all night in the open fields,
suffering much from his wounds, and musing with
some surprise upon his 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, while he pictured to himself
the fate of prisoners in southern prisons, increased
the feeling that he had escaped death for a worse
fate.
When the morning dawned on Saturday, July 4,
his spirits had fallen low. The excitement of bat-
tle was over. Just before the dawn came that
titter sinking of the spirits which those in trouble
so well know. It would seem as if between dark
and dawn there 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 waking, 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 mo-
ments of delirious 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
284 NORWOOD; or,
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 ymV said Barton,
putting his hands upon his brawny arm, to make
sure.
" Yez, sir, it's me ^'tain't nobody else. I guess
I owns them feet," said Pete, extending a foot
which would answer for a small boat; the shoe,
at any rate, suggesting some such idea.
" How in the world did you get here ? did you
dropdown? I thought it was a dream. Tve 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, and 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 nig-
ger, and took care of Gineral Cathcart, and they
larfed considerable, and so they brought me to
jest the right place, for the very fast thing I seed
this momin' was you."
All day Lee was sending back his trains, his
wounded and prisoners. Cathcart was despatched
about noon. It soon began raining. Pete was
never a moment away from Barton's side. As the
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 285
ambulance in which he was conveyed approached
the pass through the South Mountain, Pete grew
cheerful. It was evident that he purposed some-
thing unusual. He said in a low tone to Barton,
at a time when the guards were a little in ad-
vance " 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 side ? "
"But I want you to be ready, and if I see a
chance, you must be spry, as spry as you kin with
that leg."
A heavy rain was now descending. The road
was much choked up, and the trains moved with
diflSculty. 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 watch-
ing 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 front caused
a halt and a little confusion. One or two
shots were heard in the distance. Some one
said that the pass aheal, was in possession of
the Union troops. The guards near the ambu-
lance stepped forward for a moment to speak
with their commander. Pete looked cautiously
2S6 soawooD; oa,
aboat, withc^nt turning his head. There were no
floldieis within several rod&
To the rip:ht, as nearly as he could diacover, the
rocks did not rise precipitoosly ; bat there seemed
some kind of openin;r. In &ety a small stream
descended and crossed the road not far below
them, and it was some damage to the rade bridge
that had checked the column.
Seizing the favourable momait, Pete came to
the rear of the ambulance, silently, and reached
in his long arm. He gave Barton Xme or two
emphatic twitches, as much as to say :
** Now is your time."
As fast as his wounded leg would allow, Barton
worked his body toward the back of the vehicle.
No sooner had his legs hung down from it than
Pete, turning his back to his master, took Barton
on liis shoulders and darted instantly into the
thicket. His movement was not a moment too
soon. The driver, seeing his prisoner gone,
cried out. The soldiers, catching a glimpse of
Pete, fired upon him, and several of them dashed
after hira. But at each step the thicket 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 traversed the inner walls of
the abdomen, and came out at the front.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 287
Every step now grew more difficult. The
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 his way, sometimes in it, sometimes
along its rough and rocky edge ; at other times,
turned away from the stream by some insuper-
able 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 accommodations.
The chances seemed poor. The heavy spruce-
boughs swept in their faces, shaking ofif showers
of drops, which could scarcely add to their dis-
comfort, for they were drenched to the skin
already. None but Pete could have proceeded
a step in such 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 in-
credible labour 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
almost precipitous rocks. The way seemed effec-
tually shut up, unless he could find a path by the
288 NORWOOD; or,
channel of the brook itself. Carefully laying his
burden down, Pete descended to the stream and
fqllowed it up. He found that it now issued from
a sort of gateway, by a series of cascades, which
were quite shallow, and that the ascent was at an
inclination which made it scarcely more difiBcult
than a pair of stairs. Eetuming 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 from the stream, and
groping along a kind of gravelly bed in Search of
higher ground that should not be affected by the
overflow of the stream that might be expected,
should the rain continue all night, Pete at length
reached some shelving rocks, which furnished 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 furnish
his master with something softer than a rock.
The hours passed slowly and gloomily. Barton
could not sleep from the pain of his wounds. Pete
was sleepless from anxiety about his charge. The
rain at times sickened. Once Pete could discern
the clouds above growing thinner and letting
VILLAQE LIPB IN NEW ENGLAND. 28&
through a faint light from the moon. Midnight
passed, although they could not determine the
tima 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 every sound, noticed with
alarm the change rom 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
faithful soul would not impart his alarm to his
master. He said to himself *^ 6osh-a-beely I don't
I wish it was light I I don't like this place I
don't now. Maybe we've got trapped?" 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 suddenly be filled by the rising torrent and
become a rock-bound 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 drown all other sounds. He reached down
his foot, and drew it up again quickly. The
stream was rushing along swiftly by the very rocks
VOL. IIL u
290 NORWOOD; OR,
on which they lay! He waited a half-hour,
and sounded again. The distance was lessening !
The water was rising! He moved cautiously
first in one direction, and then in another to find
on every side that they were shut in ! A horror
began to fill Pete's soul. He had brought Barton
hither to be drowned ! Once alarmed, he had no
resource in reflection to restrain and moderate it.
The poor fellow wept. Speak he would not, for
fear of alarming Barton, though he might have
shouted, without danger of being heard in the
thunder of the cataract !
He 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!
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, perhaps, if one could only see,
there might be a way of escape hardly a step
off! Poor Pete gained a slight hope from the
very 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 291
hundred yards up, the stream came pelting
down with a tremendous plunge, and with that
massive 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 that 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.
Could 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 rheumatism,
which left all its joints swollen and twisted, pro-
jected from the sides of the rocks, almost at right
angles. To catch the boughs and swing himself
into the tree, to spring from it upon the rocks
where the block upon which Barton lay had once
been, was but the work of a moment. But how
to get Barton there? He could help himself
but very little.
The need was pressing. The water was running
clear over the surface of the rock. Pete descended,
helped Barton to his feet, placed him in a selected
u 2
292 NOBWOOD; OB,
spot, then springing again into the hemlock, and
reaching down, he took Barton under the armpits
and drew him upon the trunk. The tree quivered.
Should its roots give way, all was over with them !
Pete did not wait for inspection. It was this or
nothing. The hardest feat was yet to do. Mov-
ing back along the trunk, he came to the point
least distant &om the 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 fell
forward, and was safe at last !
VILLAQB LIFE IN NBW ENGLAND. 293
CHAPTEB XVIL
A NIGHT AND A DAY IN THE MOUNTAINS.
The first step had been taken. But it might
be called a step away from danger, rather than
a step toward safety. They were safe at least
from the peril of waters. On looking back,
one now could by the moming light 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 occupied but a small space.
But heavy rains brought down from the moun-
tain sides such sheets of water as had the power
suddenly to swell the rill to a torrent, and as
the exit was quite narrow, the 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
294 NORWOOD; OB,
which they had just escaped. There was a de-
pression 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 dimb to
the summit. Had Pete only 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 Parton up as easily 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 power. Could Barton have helped
himseK enough to cling around Pete, it would
have bettered matters. But the severe strain
of battle for two days and two nights, his wounds,
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.
\
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 295
After surveying the several sides and selecting
the most feasible, Pete returned to Barton and
slowly and with extreme dijBSculty 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 rocks were insuper-
able. But on the right a perpendicular faced
rock was laced with roots, and overhung with the
branches of some stunted trees in a way that, if
Pete could but have the use of both arms and feet,
he could easily ascend. But how to hold on to
Barton and climb with but one hand !
At length, Pete's ingenuity vanquished that
difficulty. Barton seemed like a dying man.
He moaned when any violent exertion stirred
up his paiDS. He was quite helpless. Pete first
tried by passing his sash about him to lash Bar-
ton 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 endeavours failed for the same reason.
Barton hung down so low that he was quite un-
manageable. At length an idea struck Pete.
Whether it was an instinct derived from his pre-
existent state, wherein Pete must have been a stal-
wart bear, or whether he remembered that animals
carry their yoimg in their mouths, or whether.
296 NORWOOD; OR,
still more probably^ he remembered the pennies
which he had earned (and drank up) in Norwood,
for lifting men off 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 Cathcart'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 &om
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 cub, den- dat's what I say !
Mighty strong mouf ! "
" Oh, lord, lord ! I tink it be debbil cotcht a
sinner gwine to eat him up oh, lord-^a-
marcy ! "
" Shut up, nigger ! I know what ee be ! It's a
reb. Don't you see his'n clothes ? He's reb ossifer !
Git me some rocks, nigger ! If he tote dat feller
under here, I smash him head ! "
Pete had come to the very place designated,
and our story would have had an abrupt termina-
VILLAGE LIFE m NEW ENGLAND. 297
tion had not the more intelligent of the two
negroes above observed something in the uniform,
as Pete laid down his burden, that looked less like
a rebel than he at first supposed. Whereupon, a
parley ensued.
" I say, dar, you better stop ! "
Pete, much surprised, looked in every direction
at this summons ; but could see no one.
** Who's that? " he said; and instantly imagin-
ing help at hand, he added: "Where are you?
Jist come and give us a lift, will ye ? I'm afeered
the gineral will die."
Two wooUy heads protruded from the bushes, on
the summit above him, the one looking cautiously
and the other timidly down upon him.
"Whobedat? W'at you got dar ? Kebel?"
** No, it is Gineral Cathcart of the Union army.
We got away from the rebs last night. He's
badly wounded. Can't ye give a fellow a lift
now?"
"You wait now, I tell ye! 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, though rather rough ; but
his speech at once bespoke him of the excellent
298 NORWOOD; ob,
and honourable family of Friends, or, as the world
will have it, Quakers.
He needed no explanations. Union or rebel, a
wounded man must not die unhelped. Dispatch-
ing one of his men for some halters, he soon had
made a line long enough and strong enongh to
lift Barton up. Pete was at the summit quite as
soon. A walk of about five minutes conveyed
them to a rude hut, built originally by charcoal
burners, but now patched a little and made tenant-
able. Pete speedily told his story, and learned,
on the other hand, that he had stumbled upon a
hiding place of cattle and horses. Within a stone's
throw there were a hundred and more cows and
oxen, and some three score fine horses, the half of
the neat stock and two-thirds of the horses belong-
ing to Paul Hetherington, the father of the comely
youth who had rescued them. Several contra-
bands, who during the war had escaped from Vir^
ginia, and who had found employment on Hether-
ington'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 knowledge. He had been much among
the wounded at the battle of Antietam. He had
already conveyed to Gettysburgh, on two several
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 299
days, a load of various comforts for the wounded.
But, sorely to his regret, he could not devote him-
self to the work of humanity, being needed at
home to superintend this new department 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 Cathcart to receive
some succour. Wounded twice upon Friday after-
noon, his weary progress on Saturday, the addi-
tional 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 stimulants, all this had
brought him down to such 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 hours, and all his ap-
pearance indicated the approach of this cata-
strophe. 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.
300 NORWOOD; OB,
Jacob Hetherington was a rigid temperance
man, as also was his Mher, and the yonng man
prosentod such a wholesome cheek, a skin so pnre^
an eye so unstained with morbid blood, that he
was a walking commendation of abstemiousnesBi
Albeit not given to violence, yet, if any one had
doubted whether a "total abstainer" conld be
strong, he had only to repair to some green and
grassy spot 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 he sorely regretted that
somebody of an opposite view was not in his camp.
Ho had strictly forbidden the use of intoxicating
drinks among his father's hired men, and now,
when lio would have given a river ftdl 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 off.' I never seed it
agin."
" I am afraid that your master will suffer for
want of stimulants. He may die for want of a gill
of brandy."
l\.*to was a good deal troubled.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 301
"Brandy? why don't you give 'im whiskey?
Our folks give 'em whiskey when the brandy
gives out."
"But I have no whiskey. There is none in
eamp. None of my men ever touch it."
" S'pose you jest ask 'em. Mebbe some on 'em
got it accidental lika"
Jacob had no hope in the matter. His orders
had been peremptory. He knew that his men
would obey. Besides he did not believe that they
could use whiskey and he not perceive it. Yet he
called his men.
" Have any of you got a little whiskey ?"
They all looked horror struck I No, none of
them.
" This gentleman will die on our hands, I fear,
unless I can procure some immediate reliefc Sam,
I think you had better go down to the settle-
ment 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 yet 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, sah, I jis 'member, dat Dutchman, las'
302 NORWOOD; ob,
night, had a bottle. I see him drink snthin,
and den he hide 'em in de rock. He wanted me
to drink 'course I wouldn't^ 'case I knew 'twas
whiskey."
Pete was impatient.
"What's the use, you nigger, in lyin* so? If
you've got a bottle, 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. His only donbt
respected the amount of contents left. All three
of the coloured men had tasted it, and none of
them hurried themselves.
Sam soon appeared bearing a junk bottle in
whi(;h a cob served 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 anything there.
He held it up to the sky for the same pur-
pose. He smelt of it.
" I guess um whiskey spects so ! mighty bad
stuff," said Sam, with the most virtuous look of
disgust at this dangerous substance. "Massa
nebber let a nigga have um put de debbil in de
nigga."
The grave smile that lay upon Jacob's face in-
dicated that he had his own opinion of this new
miracle of whiskey from the rocks, and of the
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 303
story about the Dutchman hiding it there, but he
eagerly took it, turned out its contents alas!
but slender into a tin cup of coffee.
"Better than none, but far from 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! but cunningly as he had secreted them,
Sam found them, showing that he had the
natural gifts of a detective xmder 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 loffcy man-
ners toward his humble attendants, the awfulness
of that knowledge which they thought he pos-
sessed, served to make him an object of hardly
less than reverence.
Descending rapidly from the point where the
cabiQ was, they came to a kind of basin, sheltered
on all sides by ridges. It might once have been
a lake. From springs breaking out here ran that
stream which had nearly swallowed up Pete dur-
ing the night. And the reason of its sudden rise
was soon apparent. All the rain falling on these
slopes was conveyed as by a tunnel to the one
304 nobwood; ob,
outlet, and an hour's hard rain was enough to set
the brook a roaring ; while a haK-day's rain sent
down through the narrow defile such torrents of
water as stirred it to a rage and a violence awful
to behold !
In this mountain basin were collected about a
hundred head of cattle, of Paul Hetherington's
and his neighbours. Eude divisions were at-
tempted to keep them somewhat separate, lest
being strangers they should punish each other.
For cattle partake of human feelings in this re-
spect, that they quarrel with all that do not
belong to their barnyard. In spite of short com-
mons they looked remarkably welL A rebel
quarter - master 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 grey
Conestoga 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-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 305
blood stallion, between chestnut and sorrel, with
white feet, and with a disposition not the most
amiable. He seemed angry at his rude 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 quietly but firmly
right up to him, and in a minute the stallion eat
out of his hand, and whinnied when Pete left him.
K his companions had reverenced Pete before,
they worshiped him now. This fascination which
he seemed to exercise over the animal kingdom
addressed itself to Sam's understanding far more
effectively than if Pete had spoken ten modem
languages and built St. Peter's church.
The mountain air was peculiarly exhilarating
to Pete. The longer he stayed with these con-
trabands the more amiable he became, and when
he returned to the cabin after an hour's absence,
he was extremely gracious ; he laughed, and
chuckled, and sputtered by turns, in a manner
VOL. III. X
306 NORWOOD; or,
which, in any other person, would have indicated
an over-doee of whiskey. It could not be, how^
ever, tliat Tom had secreted any more mounr
tain dew : for Jacob said that his men were all of
them tomj^erate, except, of course, that unlucky
Dutchman, who had gone down to prepare fodder
and grain to be brought up in the night, and on
whost^ shoulder? Siim put all the blame of con-
cvaling whiskey I At any rate, Pete fell asleep,
as well he might, after the toils of the two days
and nights whii'h he had borne in so stalwart a
miumer.
Jacob Hetherington had grave anxieties. He
appnx*iated Barton s critical condition. It was not
I)ossible in this place to render him such service
as he instantly needeil. He determined, there-
fore, to get him down to his father s house as soon
as jx)ssible. As a first step, he set to work to
learn whether the rebel army had left the neigh-
bourhood and cleared the pass. It was but a
mile across from his cattle camp to the pass
through which Lee*s army was 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 307
mile from the road. On a careful recoimoissance,
Jacob concluded that it would not be safe to
venture down much before sundown. As Ewell
did not leave the lines before Gettysburgh 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 everything and everybody,
and in a maze and wonder at his strange sur-
roundings.
The sight of Barton restored his consciousness,
and he gradually came to his recollections. A
rude litter had been constructed. Halter ropes
and odd straps were woven back and forth as a
substitute for a canvass bottom. A rough blanket
was laid upon it, and Barton laid thereon. The
two black servants carried him the first part of
the descent and then, they returning to their
charge, Jacob and Pete took their places. When
they reached the cleared fields it was dusk. Avoid-
ing the roads, Jacob, who knew the whole region
familiarly, moved across lots, by ways both nearer
and more obscure. It was full dark when they
entered the avenue leading up to the wide-
faced stone house where Paul Hetherington
lived. As they entered the dwelling the change
seemed to Pete like a translation from purgatory
X 2
-Iij8 NOBWOOO : OB,
u .1*^1 v.*n. ?.uii Eetiierimrton .^eppefl brwaid*
I Mil iijiu. -nnur-y ^niiiu with a larse lace, long
'v^T.v.--a "iu* iiifiiith. JiniL eyebrows (aa every grand
:ii4r- iiiu.Mr if* . L iiiirri imi wide biow, but wider
rhii.i .i;'j::i. .la.r oi.^v ciuinirincr colour womlong^
m -*^; ' *;iar v.im nue Then he was palm, but grej
*:itMi .r A.nU.t^i : .mtl. altuirether, aucli a fine,
iarj-- man ;w w*;ii:ii. in any company^ p^t^rte
aiiivii-.'atn-.n .ini rpef^t.
Hirt :jii'^ rr?*r itit^i l-.y ita texture to right living ;
hy \z^ vhi/'t^ rVanie ;uiti .^hiipe to lararenesH of
natPire : hy it.^ eye and brow to sagacity and
thou a;ht. miners : by it-? mouth to a suppreased
h n m on r^jrn ern^j*. Here was stuff tor a statesman.
ff=: rfii-'jY.* have be^:n an archbishop. Had he
W:r a creT.-'rTa!, h;.^ very presence would have been
wortfi half an anny. He might have made any-
t)iiTi:. Ffe wa^ oiily a Quaker. Yet one could
not help ytfiyinir :
' What a pity that such a man should have no
sphere worthy of his nature ! "
The proff;r reply would have been :
" What a hapf)y land that can afford to have
Mur'-h uwu for jirivato citizens! "
Martha Ilethorinf^m, his wife, about fifty-five
ycarH of n|^(% was tlio very and proper wife for
pjinl Ilcihcrin^ton. Sho was of rather full
habit ; yot \w.t i'aco was j)alo, but not cadaverous.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 309
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 her countenance had gradually
been supplied by the expression which, year by
year, crept over it. One would be apt to say,
" That is the handsomest homely face that ever I
saw." Three children blessed their household.
Jacob was the youngest, and the only son. The
eldest daughter was like her mother, and had mar-
ried and settled in life ; the other, resembling her
fether, was living at home. Two other daughters
there had been, but they were no longer living.
While we are telling you all these things, you
may be sure they were not standing still listening
to their own praises. The best room was always
prepared. Into a bed, whose linen shone like
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 sounds of family
life without being in their very midst.
:;h NORWOOD; ob.
I HArTEE XVIIL
TBF SOITRISE.
1: r^ .x. iT xn^i: T*^ iill hinls alike to soar high, or
'.' Au:"v.i u; i.^u: uiviu iho ^ing. The wing must
K xlu,:W\ , Uw ^i-wsc*Jo nin^^ be ample, the neire
si:\u^ ,. S:vl ^ T*^ hjuiir long in the air without
^^'^^-in'sc^ ^:;mLI h;rvl:s with short and blunt
\:iu:x *..\ 3;^x^i;x ^:&.T iho gTOTincL QuBJls and
.va: V: \,i';^ i :\^;::: .-u),; x^ wxlcvx^k love the earth,
.a;.; !\_. .vr. U:; j:r.v,::n.: villi more delight than
v:,; \ ::\ ^ ^^.^ ^ur, Tnorefore their enemies
:v4N.-\ ri.15.; ::-... Ai.: ;hoir nest^ ^the rat, the
^vvftsvl, ti:;' i\.':v;ai. ,sr: the swine, and other
V.v^ii ors IV, Any . Sr.. a11 1^ .n^.s sx\i-eiating, finches,
}*Arr\^\*5s i::r,:s::;^ V;:i\5 low and fly low. Their
vx^uTvies itrv* neiThor wivlo nor daring. They hop
aiv^iiiT v^n the T^^ip^ in htxli^^ or hoTer, giggling
and simplc^hearitvl, in low-branched trees. In
i*ence-i\\vj^ iats lurk lor them. In the woods,
small hawks, blue-jays, and shrikes dcTour them.
Even darkne:s does not coTer them from the
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 311
goggle-eyed owl, whose soft wings are as noiseless
18 death. Then come bolder birds, that seldom
descend below the tops of forests, that live
high up above mousing enemies and are more
familiar with the sun than with the shade. And
higher than all are the long-winged birds, that
hang over the ocean, that beat about in storms,
gulls ; petrels. Or, istill higher, falcons, condors,
eagles, ^that brood upon the sunlight and lie
upon the mere air as if it were water imder 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, or are known of
their father, who through ages is giving and for-
getting, begetting and forsaking, creating and
devouring. And yet, no wing was ever framed
that could soar for ever. The gull at last alights.
The falcon builds a nest, and seeks it. The eagle
has a tome among the rocks. Only man's thoughts
312 kobwood; en;
ns^ hiirhor than the eagles wmg. h^^g ^r
X\\o sun, and walk in the celesdal arjr. mi
wo niirht, iior weariness, nor somw. But evcB
Faith itsi'lf may not always abide in tbese hi^
loli;Uts. The heart most come bank to iis ]
rhnniirh all of Sunday RQ|e Wentwortii soaned
lip iUh^vo all trouble. The ^nn went down vith-
oxxt briuiriniT darkness to her. But, an the 6tk,
whilo tlio r:vnip were waking up, and Heades
iliiatt^ry army Ix^gan to creep out in pnisoit, Boee
i*hai\iHHl, stnuowhat after mid-day, to meet Colonel
Fnuik Eik^l. ^ ho was hurrying forward to orertake
hi n^irimout
"Miss Wontworth a thousand blessings on
you ! I know that you hovered somewhere about
lion\ iu^uoml Cathoart told me of your presence.
ry tlio way, you have heard that he was woxmded
tuul taloui?"
*' I lit anl that ho had fallen that he was
**l\\ul. Miss Wontworth? dead? Upon my
wiriK yiu*ro mistaken! it must be a false report.
1 was mt far from him in the fight. I saw him
go in, ami ho and a dozen more men were gobbled
up. But he was alive, and wounded, and a
prisoner 1 know ; for several of the men escaped
during the night, who saw him within Lee's lines,
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 313
and, though little able to walk, yet he was not
apparently wounded dangerously."
If Eose had been caught up by a whirlwind, or
swept down in the current of the over-full Kock
Creek, she could not have been more whirled
about and helpless than she was at this astound-
ing news.
** Not dead ! ^not dead ! alive ? a prisoner ?
alive ! Oh, do not say such things ! It cannot
be! Alive? alive? Oh, my soul, be still 1 Do
not believe it ! "
" Cousin Eose," said Esel, moved by the inten-
sity of her manner, " 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
you joy, and am heartily glad to surprise you with
such good news. God bless you, my dear cousin,"
and with that he put spurs to his horse and dis-
appeared.
Eose stood like one dreaming. Then she started,
as if to go to her patients. Suddenly she stopped
and turned to go after Agate. Then, with another
sudden change, she started to find her father. All
her settledness of heart was gone. She had fallen
down out of the clouds to her nest quite near to
:aH rTinniL init i#-i!ul "ti fsnterieaa? n^one .citihif
IT oiimaii iitt. "Vjiitt iiu* tihh- wi ijriiur ifiBfflt !
"lOi^ "-'^in mil T1H2L :ii iitit jbBiL liTTHTii !taBS mtft
IHT.
-X*!':!.** mi Li*^ laii ic miiBC y^it jsni U It a
4b!rw laii ^aa. i le ieigeL EiE I Ofv fed Ind,
;i;^7 vZw I :sitil j^.m. Eii:B& i;akR- ^a^Ji maamy left
^H-i'aan. Eijri:ii nut fiaiif ! CdAsbibI Edd
if h w;irf A in to iiio-w bis ireliiz^w Bet h V a
pity to feeL r^i f.-^r nothin', I swow ; if I bain t
die*! eT^ery tmc-e- IVe tiijii^ht on\ an*i new it^s
jost 50 many te^ir? tkrowei away ! Well, well, I
Tum, but it * j*Iiy ! that i?, suppDgm' it 3 tme.'*
" Hiram, yon mii^ go with me to Agate BisselL
l5arton rnast not be left thus. Something mnst
be done immefliateiy for his release.
The glad tirlings spread joy in the little hand.
Agate poke not a word. She stood firmly, list-
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 315
ened to every syllable, her face shining brighter
with each confirmation. Then stepping to one
side with her face toward the woods, she stood for
a while in prayer of thanksgiving. At length,
lifting her apron for a handkerchief and \tiping
her eyes, she came back to Eose, with an intensity
of feeling that seldom escaped her, and put her
arms about her and kissed her forehead " Eose,
it is the Lord that slayeth, and the Lord maketh
alive. Blessed be the name of the Lord ! "
Alice was certainly glad, but joy had but poor
chance in her heart. Like plants that grow under
shade trees, it came up pale and feeble, and could
not blossom into laughter.
" Agate," said Eose, " what shall be done ? Will
you look after my men ? I can do nothing further
until I have released Barton."
" Child, what can you do ? You must wait."
" What will waiting do ? Is he not even now
moving down toward those hideous Southern
prisons? It were better to have died outright,
under the bright sun, than to mould, and decay,
and die piecemeal, in those dens of cruelty. No, I
will this instant find General Meade."
" Head-quarters is moved," said one of the men;
" the gineral has gone."
" But I can overtake him."
" Eose," said Agate, " you are wild. What could
I
**^rmf5S!u ](H9i[e L). X jnc i ip tTra? Gm be
i&iip XM imj 11 in iziHr mi^ msL^ I fnoe hes
ffkZ jinHU.Jur '^ijHi& 11 -Limk 'jL7
'^ Bar I t'.TUiL iFfC & 3iii : ^b? eBemTVi Ima
I ^jui *^ ' j^mtoL iLi 1 "^
'ir.wnr:{pj: ^rxcmsisJ Aiii tsiSL in a pitTiKr tone
bccc m.cir :{! ciie i^Ttinr^AJbie iidJKicSL vill ifeot hdp
B^rCf'jti. It B ni J :i]imi& jii inkse;. jui vill admit of
tt ^.- mmf in at^jQ. I will 20 to him. There ii
v/t ?Djrm ^nfXi:zb. in tbe sky, ikh- water enough in
th^ rivf^Tf' ss^*i Bfjise, Wji^nz mi the turbulent
stT^^m Yjhljw Ler, -to hinder me. Everything
will help me ; everrthin^ will give way to that
coura:re Hhirrh fill* my si3uL God is in me. I
know that this purpot^ is not of man! He who
kept Barton in the battle will keep me.*
Agate was more convinced by Kose's appeal to
God and her declaration of her trust in Him than
by anj'thing presented to her reason. The evi-
dences of piety were more to her than the evi-
dences of her own judgment.
^ Rose, if God has called you to this work I
don't doubt that He will open the way. But you
ought to examine your heart and know whether
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 317
this is of God, or whether you are following your
own aflFections ! And, though we trust to Provi-
dence, 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 head-quarters,
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."
" Then I will go to Virginia. I will find his
prison."
"Suppose you did ^you could not storm the
prison. They wouldn't let you in nor Barton out.
It's pretty much as they say in Kichmond about
such things, I guess."
" Then I'll go to Richmond. I will see every
man in authority. 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 endeavour ! I can do anything 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 Eose,
in came Pete Sawmill, making two or three jumps
which a deer might envy, and then, in a trans-
port of rude delight, he tumbled over and over,
and rolled on the ground, as an extremely merry
iBii y.LST if'^s tZ^ hs -w^ ii& ai leeTTngg &r too
^uuru^ fts -m*^ -aii :r i:i Zi^ tf oe otitis.
exTTVaifatc *: & iiMir^ ji^^fOAcle scssft. Pete m-
i:me: irie riirrr liLK Bat^.il liaii esc^vd ; that
itr zjmI z^n -'n afc^r^T ins.? z'i 'inartteis ; tfaal be
hir iad l::F*ky TzzitLcd oel Dr. Wentwofth, who
*e rncrtlj ^ tczc chx witfa. him : uid thai the
I!ttjr tL-r-c^Lt :k r.Tir5e tubi better go OTer toa
Bjse aai'i to Xpxe : 1 r-jm not see that I
vas I^i r The Li ird's hazhi has been in all this
atranq^ work."
- Hi^ name be praised ! " =aid Agate, whisper-
inziy.
Paoi Hetherinston had brought Pete oyer,
taking care at the same time to fill his waggon
with sach ec-mforts tor the wounded as he could
proTide. Jacob Hetherington remained at home
to superintend the descent of the cattle and horses
firom the mountain fastnesses. Paul excused the
inflifferent quality of his team by explaining that
his best horses were hidden away. They rode
briskly away from Gettysburgh, and across the
very ground which was yesterday held by Lee's
rear-guard. As they proceeded Pete pointed them
to a field with scattering shade trees in it.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 319
"There 'twas. There's where I found the
gineral, under that tree, fast asleep."
Along the road were marks of the haste with
which Ewell had retreated. Broken waggons,
dead animals, muskets, knapsacks, were strewn
along the ways.
The sixth corps of Meade's army had closely
followed, and were yet lying near Fairfield, some-
what impeding the journey to Hetherington's
house.
When once fairly on the road, Dr. Wentworth,
who had not before seen Rose for more than a few
moments, said :
" I thought it likely that Agate Bissell would
come ; but I am glad she sent you, Bose. I have
hardly seen you for a moment."
" I needed no sending, father. No one could
have been permitted to go to Barton but me. It
is my errand."
And with that she drew from her bosom Bar-
ton'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 Farm gently 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
us "
320 kobwood; ob,
And ^-ith that she laid her head upon her
fether'8 breast and burst into tears, and wept
violently, and almost convnlsively. It was welL
After such high and long-continued strain nature
demanded relief. Bose had come down out of the
high and bright 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 mighty possibly, have been
seen that his large and grave face was slightly
inclined, so that the merest glance of Bose's agita-
tion, and her father's protecting caress, might have
entered his eye ; but he turned his face square to-
wards his horses, and sat immovable till they drove
up the avenue of venerable old cherry trees which
lined the way from the road to the house, trees
that now hung full of ripe cherries and red robins.
The fruit was over-abundant. The sun, lying
low, was shining aslant through the trees, and
filling them with a kind of golden vapour. They
seemed to be tabernacles for birds. Catbirds
miawed and jerked their tails nervously ; robins
breathed a low pympf^ or were wholly silent;
cedar birds, jays, brown thrushes, and numberless
other fruit-loving birds, fluttered and flew as the
waggon went on, coming back again the instant
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 321
it had passed, as waters open and shut to the
passage of a ship.
I think, sir," said Dr. Wentworth, "that the
boys don't stone the birds in these grounds."
**Nay; the only stones which I allow to be
thrown are cherry-stones. Thou art aware, doubt-
less, that music hath little place among Friends ;
but it is brought to us, even as the prophet's
food was, upon wings."
The dwelling-house, of dark grey stone, now
stood out plainly. It did not stretch up ambi-
tiously, but lay broad upon the ground, having
the expression, not only of roominess, but of hos-
pitality. 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
MLen 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
culinary vegetables, without a weed or withered
stalk.
To Eose, who had so long been used to the
rudest scenes, and to the very paradise of disorder,
VOL. IIL T
322 SwoQ]; qb^
tlio ftxceamre nfMxkGm tm. every himd produc?ed
mmiHh'm^ of the impTveaeioa of fine art. Bnt
littl'! time had ther for octward ob0eryatioii&
Martha Hetheringtcii stootl in. the open poreh^
thfj dwr wide open behini her.
"Thw art welcome htiBe PtaL The yoimg
man tmnh thy friends. I fiear. Doctor^ thee hast
i'mi(t on a poor errand. Alight I Is this his
t*\HU*r ? ** Hfiid 3Iartha, turning to Boee.
" It JH my daughter," said Dr. Wentworth.
Patil, hcmevor, explained it with his eye. One
Uh}\{ midic'^'d ; and 3Iartha tenderly helped Sose
IVoMi tlin waggon, and gaye her in charge to her
iHiu\r\y daughter.
" ll()Mi?" Haid Martha.
Two voiroH answered, one saying:
" What, ma ? " and the other, WTiat, ma am ? "
MiirMia Jlcitherington smiled. *^Is thy name
Unn ?*'
" lUmn Wcmtworth!"
And tluH in Hose Hetherington. Surely ye
nImmiM lil(n each other!"
Dr. Wrntworth went at once to Barton's bed-
h'\i\('. Ilo found him in a low and sinking con-
dition. Unfore making more close examination, be
^ti\i' him more ample stimulants, together, also,
with opium, wliich had not been administered ;
and the stimulants only in a gradual manner.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 323
*' 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 restoring his ebbing strength was
used.
" Had this wound upon the abdomen been deep,
he would have died before this, let's see : Satur-
day night, Sunday night, Monday night, forty-
eight hours. Had the intestines been sundered,
he would have died within twenty-four hours.
Should there be an inflammation of the perito-
neum, I should fear, in his exhausted condition,
that he could not stand up under it. Should
there be only a local inflammation and the suppu-
ration of the wound itself, there will be hope."
It was uncertain whether Barton was conscious
of the presence of his friends or not. He lay with
haK-closed eyes, either dreaming or carrying on a
fevered process of thought. No groans escaped
him, but sometimes sighs. Rose stood by him,
outwardly calm. But who shall unroll that which
filled her heart, as she gazed upon Barton's blood-
less 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 Rose gazed upon him, she
momently expected him to speak. She wondered
T 2
w^ 'lar^ *9ikl le i iwar. and jet so utterly
'4t*stsaDn^ Sit^ ^mxuL jAve zfrieii worlds for one
v^ xr ov iJiii II ^eecoickiiL. After mil this
L.2%Lrr II li^ '^T7 iir ois. shcold he now at
tn.r^ m^. A^iw-iur sutaiiur oc duKt deep trea*
sxi^ ;i It*" ji^irr t- n^ hj hest Tery side, and
CK'w r ^x ^ iii woJi* iier words were in his
-i^ tfRL lijfr Jami JL Ihss, ^ad tjA boC know their
ii'w Tfzriiit^ 3 ^ai ^nniie=r bow mace terrible
:iic^ -T^tta i 'lus^ ! T-ft Tunriier of them is so
1 i-UL ^ ^ ntfiMizKiL v"9iitace ti one who tells ns
-3iic JOT 'MftiT^ jcQ- wgfclVnff AwsT fiom us, along
r^L:^ ^ tile :iJ2pLG : cm wbiis night so dark as
-^*ir :t V^i^ it-TO-jf^Ly y^i^ti^g? How deep is
tae :iatxru.n^Lc* aei! Ecs iir deeper is that
x:ri* ^i-ci Ijlc^j aroii? v.:i the line of fiear
idmc^ con :;i3. ic 3a: ci:ca:i !
^ VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 325
CHAPTEE XIX.
THE QUAKER HOME.
Compared with the labours of the past two days,
the anxieties and excitement of Barton's case
brought home so closely to him by the knowledge
of Kose's feelings, seemed to Dr. Wentworth like
rest. But ia 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 cir-
cumstances, for Dr. Wentworth to go out to
Martha Hetheriagton's table that eveniag 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 exquisite simplicity of
every arrangement. After somewhat satisfying
the more urgent craving of appetite, Dr. Went-
worth could not help saying :
**I am trying to see what it is that renders
your table so beautiful, without ornament. I
k2fi 50SW0QD : iJBf.
jjkv- uTvar^ ^:?tp?^iLed die iunily ts&ble to be a
.;iiii M urar. t liaM^ sbitp^L lUid -^o to be made as
^ muier** ji .ts iniHimtj5 a* may be. The act dt
-^T\iiir -i :tc**ii jie )i die Luwiest. Biit :eiety" has
Tdirfvvra imiuui j; ^neii tiiomiurh. aasoeiatioiift of
.u&^'tiDa juui '^irial eflioymeais chat we searcefj
p^^rr'p-iv^* die jr^mir -m *ii the verv thim^ im which
die zjunt^ wo:^ "^preaftL That a le&ied and deli*
'^ase per^ia iia been taTiringv or ^ympariieticalty
*haiair:iiir !t::uiiteiiaziee while others talk, we re-
member, but iu:t that ^he hai^ be^i e&tmg:. Bet^
it jiM will ext^nae the r^nark. something in your
table stnkea me mij^t agreeably. There are, I
perceive, degrees in neatnesw''
Hw hr;ftt replieii : * Our ciL^tcans disallow osteit-
titioa-^neiA, but enjVjin order and neatness. That
i:i the one channel throngh which the imagination
ban play. Jla-^.ic is not in yogne with ns. Oar
UTiiUM^meiiU 2kTe grave and frugaL We do not
c]iff(Me Xf) exf)08e onr yoimg people to dangerous
vanities by the use of colours, that so largely
ent^;r intr the fascinations of the world's people.
It is not strange that neatness should become
jfiuch in our hands, since we are obliged to ex-
press by it all that the world s people do by forms
and colours and sounds."
" Ah, I see ; like the blind man, whose ears
inako up by acuteness something of the lost
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 327
sense. One might expect far more to be made of
neatness when the whole imagination is concen-
trated upon it, than if the taste were distributed
through many channels."
"High colours and brilliant garments," said
Hetherington, "do not harmonize with spiritual
states. Colours bring the mind down toward
matter. As our thoughts reach into the realm of
holiness, they instinctively dispossess all objects
of colour. We never imagine angels in blue, or
red, or yellow, but always in white."
" But God made flowers," said Wentworth ; " He
coloured the woods. He fashioned clouds, and
spanned the rainbow, and made gorgeous sun-
sets."
"True; all these are of the earth earthy.
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.
Colours 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, colours, 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.
22& soswoQD; s;
Tbcfe M need in ihk worli o evsr kelpL Sini-
pLtrlTr, dieikeey ddkl * srai c)f)D. tk the xnTkible
lighi, tfe cbiedBst loaiiift ol* gnee;. Some seek
relizitjn tiiroctrfi gjjnretXB c^^nooiesy by which
the senses Are nuile dnmk, and the consciesiee
atnmblea into idoLfttrr ; ^sme by cxdinazices that
Oanrp the place ol' God and truths and become a
snare; some bv fonns of won^iip and noiefy
services oi music and lituaL All of these rouse
up the sensDoos nature. The sfizH is Teikd by
them The J hinder and exclude the pore light
of diyine tnith, even as npon windows the m-
tastic forms and colours which men's hands haye
painted there throw back npon their makers
their own fiEuicies, but keep out the light of Grod's
sun."
" I conceive your view to be largely true," said
Dr. Wentworth, "and important But it is partial,
in that such abstraction is possible only to highly
organized minds. In your way, you fall into the
same error, methinks, that the greatest thinkers in
my own church have. That conception of holiness
which was easy to Jonathan Edwards, because he
was a poet and an ethical genius, was impossible
to men of slender intellect, of no imagination, and
of a penurious moral sense. In this unconscious
way great natures oppress the weak. It is put-
ting children to the stride of the giant. It is like
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 329
teaching conic sections and the calculus in primary
schools. Men are taught to feel guilt for not
possessing religious experiences which they are
no more capable of than Mrs. Hemans was of
Milton's poetry, or Tupper of writing Homer's
epics."
Hetherington paused, as if considering the
matter, and after a little resumed :
" There is much to be considered in thy words.
Nevertheless, the things which men cannot per-
form 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 his head 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!
Of a nature as large as his own, reared from a
standpoint haK round the circle from his, and so
antipodal; sympathetic and hospitable to others'
thoughts, loving rather to think with and com-
pare thoughts than to dispute ; capable of seeing
things from other people's grounds, and of sus-
pecting what was the absolute truth whose partial
tiue- tnaii. j*^ noiiiiiT prcimoiniitaaDS af it; eurrpng
Mil mi'iiefriiOteieid lifer OKT ]iEkidUi2aoia iftfiiiMi Pinaiiiftg die
vikokr iLT^iiejT df i^iiinm^a life. flUE^ tbe hope of
tiiLfr Lie iic^ oQUBie : hesifftilT in sTinpiihT with his
omiA i^'.% Ttt ifeGit luerBerii]]^ it to be moie duoi a
sect ; 21 ref^ressied kTiiB;g: citfiiie. but loTii^ good-
ttf^&i: soA MAAidfi^^ass rather than the ccHnnum things
in hnmhn natore; and, abore all, beliering in
Gcid, aod therefore n(t accepting the golden dost-
S{iftf'\L^ of the eeets as the whole mine, bat giandly
wahliif^ and willing, with large content, to wait
tlif: ^Ltv when de^th should spring up into Being,
Power, Purity, Knowledge.
Both of these men were loyal to their sect, but
hirger. Like vines planted in a garden, they
fiovered the walls, over-topped them, and climbed
into the neighbouring trees, bearing as much fruit
in the grf:jat common highway as in the garden.
Such men are sometimes called unbelievers, be-
cause they believe so much more than others.
Great souls know each other. Tears are the
servitors of slower natures, and nurse them into
mutual confidence. There are certain touches
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 331
that fine natures know instantly, conclusive of all
the rest, the freemasonry of the sons of God !
What was sleep compared with such commu-
nion? It was long past midnight before they
separated, who never separated in all their after
lives I And in those hours, alone, in confidence,
unobstructed by a fear, they spoke of the deep
things of life, and moved together over realms
and royalties of meditation where each had so
often passed as solitary travellers !
Eose Wentworth would fain have watched by
Barton's side all night, but her father forbade,
and enjoined sleep.
" I 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 Barton, have wrought
a super-excitement, which, if it goes on, will be
dangerous. You rmiBt sleep, and here are the
means of procuring it," at the same time preparing
for her an opiate. "Tour 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. "K when I
return to-night there is no sign of peritoneal
excitement, and his strength is kept up, I shall
3S2 nobwood; ob,
hnvt^ \\o]M\ But ho will graze so near tixtft if ht
\v\uli1 only 1(H)k ovct he might see deadL*
Tht^ (luu wan rining when Pete apposral triA s
atyU.h inan\ to tiik^ the Doctor bsck to Gk*ty-
kur^h IviW^o Mtill nlopt It was ten oVJock
bi^tori' Mht' ap|HMinHl, and even then, for a idiik^
tlio lrtharjj:ii* loml hung over her.
If l^iul llt'tlu'ringUm had fonnd a frigid in Dr.
\VtntNorth. 8o hin wife had found a EiToniite is
his ila\if;:ht(T, I^Tartha seldom mistook in jndgii^
(HH^ph^ honi sho mot. If anything, she was
slightly inrliiuHl to judge less fevourably than
hi'r hushand ; hut, thon, on that account she was
ortt^utr right, rtH)|lo helped her, and made her
al^itiil j\hlgn\tn\ts truo. When, therefore, she
tAKk Kost^ at ou(M to her heart, it was a compli-
ment, Nhirh Ivoso did not as well understand as
tlid Marthirs own family.
Littlt^ could bo dono for Barton. He was either
unt*onscious or wtuuhTing in mind. Martha drew
IvostH lVon\ hin\ lus much as possible. She must
Khow \wv tht s]ring house.
** What is that ?" said Kose, pointing to a queer
stai'k of bricks under a tile shed close by the
hous(.
" That is our ovon," said Martha.
u\Vhat out of doors? Wo build ours into
the kitchen chimney."
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 333
" It is the way of our fethers. The other perhaps
is more convenient."
They walked a few rods upon a path of flat
stones, carefully laid down, and kept free from
weeds and gyass. 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 fall of
the smell of butter and milk first met them.
If the house had seemed clean to Kose, what
would 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, thanking God 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 the table was tickled whenever it
could spill something on the floor that would spoil
its ridiculous conceit of its own exceeding white-
ness.
**What is that?" said Martha Hetherington,
1
334 NORWOOD; ob,
with moi^ animation than belonged to that en-
fc^rwil tranviiiillit y which she usually bore ^ what
W that ? Verily it is a fly ! That silly girl, Polly,
hac!^ U'lt the dcH.)r ajar, or some of these nettings
are moved in the windows."
Ihe dy buzzed and bolted out of the opened
divr asj Ji^uvldenly as a heretic from before a bench
\i bi&iho(^ or a thief ijxun the &ce of a magistrate.
'He knew that he had no business here, the
guilty tiiiu^ ! That fly lies in wait, I sometimes
think, auil when 1 come he always disappears, but
when Tolly cvmt^ he presumes on her heedless-
utvs. Twi^v letbre, this summer, Polly left the
dvKr ojvn and 1 found that fly here."
luHt^ wa^s deU^litt\l with this excessive neatness,
tlio MTV brilliancv of cleanness.
*' lUw cuii you ^vutrive to be so remarkably
ut^it y I never 5aw anything like it in my life."
'"Ah. eliiUl, 1 vi;^h thee might have seen my
luotherV :pring house ! That UKi9 clean. But she
wiis naturally neat. It is but an acquired virtue
with me!"
A dcKr ojK^neil out of this room into the spring
chimil)er. The i^ool air and the creamy smell
came up out of it, to Eose's great delight De-
scending 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 335
them, another series of like construction, sup-
ported upon iron brackets, let into the side walls.
Into these spring-water, gushing up from the rock
within the chamber itself (which had been built
over a strong and unfailing spring), and flowed
with a gentle motion through all the troughs, and
made its exit on the farther side. Into this living
water the pans of milk were set. A part of the
pans were glass, and a part silver. At any rate, if
they were not silver, they were tin polished to
such brightness as Kose never saw before. The
names of twenty-five cows hung above their
respective contributions. Here were "Crumple,"
"Brindle," "Queen," "Violet," "Daisy," "Sukey,"
"Bla)kface," "Fawn," " Cherry," and all the other
honoured names of the barn-yard.
Next, they went to the bam. Such a sight
Kose 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 different eleva-
tions, led into each lower story. The mows for
hay, now well nigh empty, made Kose dizzy to
look down into. They were vast enough to hold
hay for the "cattle on a thousand hills." The
grain room, the root cellars, the straw sheds,
tie mill room where, by water-power, roots and
\
336 NORWOOD; ob,
hay were cut* and grains ground; the harness,
and waggon* and tool roonm seemed like parts
of a (dry rather than of a bam to her eye^ accus-
tomed only to the ^niag and small bams of New
England. Everywhere, glass windows, with ^-
temal shutters^ were provided. The wood-work
was paintel as in a dweUing-jionse. Besides the
bam proper, there were lean-tos, sheds, sheep
bams^ straw bams* cattle sheds, a horse bam, and
colt pens. ^ontil Eose was fiurly bewildered!
Water flowed everywhere, spdt over nowhere.
In one comer, the water spurted from no one
could tell where, into a stone tank; and, oveiv
flowing, disappeared ^no one conld see how.
There was water for each cattle yard, for the
flheep yard, tor the colt yard. Xo half-rotten
barrels, nor leaking wooden troughs were seen up
if) their knees in puddles of their own making.
f^veiy thing was stone. The water came in an
orderly manner, sparkled and dimpled in a quiet
and orderly way, gravely moved off again, and
der.'oroasly disappeared. It was good Quaker
water, and neither sung, nor danced, nor wore
profane bubbles.
Nothing could have been more soothing and
restful to Eose. Nor was the excitement suffered
to slacken. All day long, were coming down from
the mountains the returning horses, cows, and
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 337
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 in a low and
rudimentary way ^to the aflfections and domestic
local attachments of human creatures.
Even more exhilarated were the horses. It was
deemed best to bring both cattle and horses into
yfi*ds and bams, 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 department. The day passed slowly
away. Bose anxiously waited her father's return.
He came at about dark, but could give little
comfort
" It is well, thus far. But we are in the dark
respecting this last wound. It is not safe to probe
it. We cannot know the extent of the injury
internally. It may be trifling. It may be serious
to the last degree. We can only wait the develop-
ment of the case. I^ in a week's time no other
dangerous symptoms occur. Barton is safe. Mean-
while, it is necessary that his system should be
VOL. IIL z
ai^ susiKNiD; m.
hbA irmJj vider the infliipnnR of (^inm, and his
lie hepL up widi aoorifihmpjit and stiina*
"i
Jhe war dap; of vMnneaB and of trial &r
an^ere w Bose dian all the watdbdng and
wrrke of the hospitaL All sweet exdtements
menzA the bodr, and increaae the strength upon
vhich ther diav. But aoerb excitements, in
which halJ-hopele85 fear plays at battledore and
ehotlleeoek with oooiage, soon fever the soul with
anxious soqKsise; and suspense, above all other
elements;^ is the very poison of the mind. Bose
would gladly have stayed by Barton s side every
moanoit. But Martha Hetherington would not
suffer it. The watch was divided between the
three. Little there was to be done.
Barton remained quite unconscious of what was
going on. Whether it was the disturbance of the
brain by the inflammation of his wounds, or whe-
ther 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
fragmentary orders to his men. But it was like a
trance or sleep-walking. He took notice of no
questions he seemed looking into some distant
place, and to be separated wholly from the persons
and events around him.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 339
The two Boses ^Rose Wentworth and Rose
Hetherington came together as naturally as two
drops of dew. They had the true conditions of
friendship. They were unlike, and yet both were
true-hearted and deeply imbued with moral senti-
ment. LoYCy whose roots do not reach down to
the religious feeling, cannot be rich or enduring.
It is a summer herb not a shrub or tree able to
seek its many summers through many winters.
They wandered together, talked much, communed
much, and began, before they separated, to love
much. The Quaker woman had looked at life
from a side so new to Rose tibiat she attributed the
freshness and novelty to some originality of dis-
position in her friend. On the other band, the
Yankee woman amazed her more simple friend by
her knowledge of literature, of art, and of the
great outside world.
With true delicacy, all questions were forborne
in regard to Rose's relations to Barton. Every
one in the household, of course, knew that there
was love between them. But the mother, the
daughter, the fether left Rose to her own liberty
of silence or speech, just as it should please her.
Rose loved to go at evening, when the cows were
brought from pasture, and the men or women
milked them. One must have been little con-
versant with country life, or very deficient in sen-
z 2
340 hobwood; or,
tunent who does not know the enjo3rin^itB which
may be foond in bams and their sorronndings,
among them is the smell of grain or hay, the
pleasure (rf Hatching the feoe and manners of
fpiiited horses, the pecoliar restlessness and
almo^ motherliness belonging to the la^e-eyed,
good-jianued, end-chewing cow. Then there were
wrens chanering in the most yixenish 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
rooC and thexu from some invisible impulse, dis-
charged themsdTes into the air, and flew headlong
toward some distant field; then, chsLngiTig their
minds, wheeled about some bolting right up
into the air, some dividing to the right or to the
left ; and then, all of them streaming headlong
luck to the roof again, circling round and round,
as if it were hot a dozen dropping down, and the
re^ swinging cmce more round the bam, where at
1*^ all alight, save one. which flies oflf to another
buikiia^; the rpst wont go to him and so, after
a UltK\ he vttnes to them, and then they run
4iA^ m1i other cnxming and stmtting, for all
iK^ wwi^i as if they were human beings, in gay
?i^NJ^^ inst^e^ of being the simple, iimocent
4^\x^ tW they awu One could find simple
^M^t ii m^atciiii^ soeh scenes lor hours. Bose
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 341
found them tranquillizing, too, from the contrast
with the cruel scenes to which she 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 delightfal to Kose in this great
Quaker ferm, so utterly unlike any that she had
ever seen, the time hung heavily upon her hands,
and anxiety wore upon her heart.
At length, upon Sunday, Dr. Wentworth,
after considering Barton's whole condition, pro-
nounced him decidedly convalescent. The opiates
were' no longer needed. It was a day of
intense excitement to Eose. When will the
stupor pass away ? Will his mind come out of
this eclipse? Oh, what will he think when he
first recognises me ? The hours passed on. Kose
would not leave the room. It was noon, and
Barton was very quiet. The middle of the after-
noon came. A mortal fear stole over her. His
mind may be permanently affected ! His suffer-
ings and hardships may have overstrained his
brain! Hours passed on. Rose stood by the
window. The sun was descending behind the
mountain. It poured down a flood of light over
all the fields near and far. Long shadows
mimicked the shapes of all things and turned
them into burlesque. Through the half-opened
342 noewood; ob,
shutters the light streamed into the room. It Ml
across the bed, and flashed upon the pale ieuce of
the sick man, who stirred, opened his ejes^ that
uo longer stared, but seemed fall of itipftumg-
Kose came instantly to his side. She sat silently
gazing. Barton tamed his eyes npon her in a
wondering, troubled way. Bose kneded 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 yon know your
Rose?"
Ho unclosed his eyes, and in a weak and feeble
manner put his hands to his eyes, as if to brash
away films that were misleading his sight.
lie put his hand timidly out, to touch her, as
if to make sure whether it were an illusion or
a reality. His hand was clasped in both of hers.
She leaned toward him. He felt her kiss upon
his brow. Slowly and with difliculty he spoke :
" Is this Rose ? my Rose ? I mean *'
" Yes, Barton, your own Rose ; you mK live.
Barton oh, Barton, live, live ! " She spoke with
anguishful intensity, 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 his eyelids. After a
VIIJ[iAGB LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 343
moment's pause, Barton raised his eyes to Rose
with a look of utter imploring, as if he would say
^ Do not let me be deceived, nor send me back
again to hopelessness."
Her eyes were fiill of gladness and love, if one
could have seen them behind Bose's tears.
" God has been very gracious to us both, Barton.
He has brought us together, and nothing shall ever
divide us again."
Seeing how greatly he was agitated, though
with joy, Rose, though her soul longed for utter-
ance and would have poured a tide of golden
sentences into his willing ear, refrained, from fear
of injury, saying :
"Barton, my own, and for ever my own, you
are too weak we must neither of us speak more
now."
He strove to lift his head ^he would have put
his arm about 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, " K 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 back the shutter, and the
whole tide of sunlight streamed across the bed and
fell upon Barton and upon Rose, with so sudden
344 NORWOOD; ob,
an illumination that Boee, in her higb-wroo^t
joy, looking fnll into the son, said ''It is the
bIcHing of God! We are accepted of Him,
] Wton I and nothing shall put us asunder ! "
But why need we linger with these lovers
thmugh the long weeks of Barton's recovery,
maile short by the joys of love ?
Oh, those mountain hours I those days of July !
From morning to evening, moments sped as
bubbles on a mountain stream, that come, 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
thoy need whose souls are radiant with joy. Love
was more than medicine and better than food !
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 345
CHAPTER XX.
THE ELM TREE.
Two years went by. The war had ended. Lee
had laid down his army and Johnson had capitu-
lated. One by one the scattered fragments of
the Confederate army had surrender^, or dis-
persed. Barton Cathcart had returned home and
laid aside his stars and sword. He had, after the
wounds healed and his strength returned, joined
his corps again. He had fought through the
murderous tangle of the Wilderness, hammered
at the entrenchments of Spotsylvania^ flanked the
dangerous works upon the North Anna, plunged
into the butchery of Cold Harbour, and lay
through the sickly autumn and the long winter
in the trenches before Petersburgh. He had had
part in the last grand battles, stormed Lee's lines,
earned every step by desperate endeavour, and
after every advantage, found Lee still firm, de-
fiant, desperate. No one so well knew the incom-
parable skill and bravery of that now waning
army of Northern Virginia as they who for four
346 BconrooD; c
jemis had fon^t it^ and now, in the hour of its
sapr^ne disaster, were grinding it to powder
rather than forcing its surrender; and wbai, at
l^igth, cut off from its lines of retreat by that
lion of the battle-field, whose ramping cayalrj
lay crouched across his only path, his artillery
gone^ his trains tak^i or destroyed, his anunnni-
tkm expended, his chief officers slain, or wounded,
or captured, his men reduced to a handful, orer^
weaned by nights without deep^ and days taxed
to the uttennost, Lee's army yielded, Gr^ietal
Cathcart, and eyeiy other braye man, in their
admiration felt that the heroism of Lee s army
was the oidy worthy measure of the perseyerance
and brayery 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 eyil cause, belonged to the system
under which they were reared, but their military
skill and heroic brarery belonged to the nation,
that will neyer cease to mourn that such yalour
had not been expended in a better cause, and that
the iron pen must write: ^The utmost valour
misdirected and wasted."
But all this had passed away, and another year
besides. It was in October that all Norwood re-
joiced in the marriage of Boee and Barton. That
wedding shall not be lightly dismissed. After so
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 347
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 !
The town made this its own wedding. Every
motherly heart in Norwood felt that she had a
part in marrying Eose 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 the sun came up tempered and
geniaL It had finished the chase of summer. It
had triumphed. All the fields of corn yet un-
gathered, whose loose rows were punctuated with
yellow pumpkins; all the reaped fields, all the
withered stalks even, bore witness to the sun's
victory. October is the month that crowns the
sun. Then, he moves through the gorgeous ap-
parel which nature wears, no longer a warrior
fierce in battle, but a victor, content with his
victories, and everywhere shedding abroad the
tokens of his royal complacency. The days were
soft and hazy. Even at noon the lenient sun
would not sufier its heat to go forth. Not even
frosts excited his displeasure, slyly creeping after
his footsteps at night. The sun reposed all day
upon the gorgeous hills, spread with sumptuous
appareL Trees made love to each other. The
chestnut glowed benignantly at the yellow-
348 NORWOOD; or,
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 ampelopsis had
climbed into the cedars, and was peeping out to
see what it was that Nature was whispering and
the trees were blushing at. The dew this morn-
ing 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 &r away. They tried a single
note, but would not sing their ringing love songs
in the broken notes of autunm voices.
But not the hills or mountains purpled witb
colour, nor the warm-leaved trees, nor the wink-
ing dew, nor summer-seeking birds, nor the soft
and silvery haze that hung upon the morning
like a bride's veil, nor the late coming asters,
that would whisper of summer to the very snow,
nor the great elm that stood drooping its
branches, but lifting high its top in a mighty
meditation of grace and beauty not these^ nor
whatever else glorifies this bridal wreath of
nature, seemed half so sweet to Rose and Barton
as did the looks which they gave and took, the
low-toned words linked toe^ether bv silence more
full than words.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 349
On the night before this morning so glorions,
Eose had said :
**Coine early to-morrow, Barton come very
eajly. I shall walk once more in my favourite
paths in the garden before breakfast."
Kose slightly blushed as she added, smiling :
"When the golden gate has once shut upon
us, Barton, Bose Wentworth will never be seen on
earth again ; so you must be with me in my last
minutes."
Barton was silent. After a moment, Bose
doubled up her little soft hand, and slowly knock-
ing Barton's brow three times, said, demurely :
" Open sesame let me in."
"My own!" 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! 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 be a sea-
nymph, and gather white corals from the very-
depths, and bring out hidden treasures from its
caves ! Begin, then ! Tell me ! "
350 NORWOOD; OB)
" Oh, Eose, mine ihe lips are the key of the
mouth, and I pledge you 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 katydids, nor gurgling crickets, and yet some
soft sounds I certainly heard ? Not birds, surely !
I think it must have been the plash of one
honeysuckle blown against another. Yet there
is no wind to move them! I hear it again!
Listen ! It is like the &lling of a drop of dew
into the silver lake from some birchen leaf!
No, that is rude. It is as if two dreams floating
in the night had clashed ; or like the joining of
two prayers of love on their way upward; or
nay, it was a kiss! pure, sacred, holy! It is
the soul's symbol, when words fail it. It is the
heart's sigh, or interjection, when it has a feel-
ing for which there is no expression !
A soft cloud had hid the moon. It began to
move away. The light shone out again.
'* Barton, I do believe you mean not to tell me
after all. What is that shame-faced secret ? "
"You will smile, I know. But I feel it. I
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 351
want everyone that has been with me m danger
and trouble to be present in my great joy to-
morrow. Colonel Stanton, who befriended me
when I was a prisoner after Bull Bun, 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. Eose, mj 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 married. I know that it would to
many sound foolish. But no one but a soldier can
know a soldier's feeling for a fedthful horse ! "
. "No one but a soldier and a soldier's wife."
replied Bose. "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 super-
stition. 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 fevourite
walk in the morning for the last time, and I would
not be alone."
-
352 horwood; or,
The day broke over the hills, bent evidently on
being present at the wedding. It came in golden
tietises^ and in silver vapours, and infinite jewelry
of dew, and it lit up all the world with joy as it
came ; but Roee and Barton forgot, as they stood
in the arbour, that there was anybody happy but
themselves. Could it be possible that there was
any joy left?
Dr. Wentworth was as calm, outwardly, as if
only the usual business were going on. Hia &ce
shone. His voice was lower and richer than
usuaL His eye carried in it a perpetual bene-
diction.
The great mansion was vocal in every room.
Guests were present from the east and west and
south. The town swarmed with friends come to
the wedding. 'Biah Cathcart renewed his youth,
and EacheFs face shone with unexpressed thanks-
giving. 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, bam, and
place, why should he not consider this occasion as
a femily matter ?
Pete Sawmill was triumphant. Great was the
honour 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
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 353
Deacon Trowbridge, "that Pete ain't mnch in
the intellects, but he's got a heart as big as an
ox." And nobody was surprised to leam that
Pete was to live with Barton Cathcart for life ;
nor that he appeared 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 affcer
these vanities, and it was not believed that, if he
was pleased, anybody else would be hurt,
Eose had laboured long and often with P^te
about his besetting sin, with slight amendment of
it. His army life had not developed his temper-
ance principles. He was always penitent on such
occasions ; always promised to do so no more ; and
he never did, until the next temptation came.
But one day Pete feirly got it into his head, or
heart rather, that his conduct was a grief to Bose
a real sorrow. Instead of expostulating and
reasoning with him, as heretofore, Bose on the last
occasion had burst into tears.
" Oh, Pete, 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 u^. I can't bear
VOL. III. 2 A
J5k sobwood; obu
c 3ms&: Z tuit bear it; ' and Boses tears Ml
'3xr .- mw^r b^oie conaeions of being
in H^vkf^ r ^iL'd pe(L regaid that any human
jkKnic wHttik -rr :br hrm. He was very awk-
vtuttlr ii agpuood 'Jr hiTiMBif. He^ shmBed his
vt lad Tzmbkea Mrtck ilia hands^ ^md Mb deeply
JDL ii:^ ^*fBecs ir somechiDi^ that was not tiiease
.b .7W TRMiimaft. ^lobably and hinbb^^ed and
stuten%i Ji dh^ 3Kjii 'tistreaain^ manner; tiH liie
viiLit vnin( ai^ tsow jiexpzessbly ImiieiQiis Ibr
*JLa^ mo *tTe?ed Juer mt^ with, her htnJIrayfhTpf,
.ttfiUL nt Mr Im ou iieep isqbl aodibifr Iaagh.tar.
3uc :v 3tmi^ diii v.^T)e3i^ oit Buiie:^ taee was the
JKC ufiitftuoL. 3b^ uhumrhi^ that he hiibd done
^niit X'^wit iamak?* lu itr. joni ie exploded m an
.*xiiata.'n.iinar^ oaiisiuit* n /rvuiir, ttnt Wwii:ni^ and
ii\vTiuii. .liid ininiistdw vviiii-ii lifiojimded fiotse.
dt fwT I'ikiw iiiuuii: Ail jver;, md rangLed ks
laiivii* jkUAL wirtm? .u)'ur n die^ iir^ in. the- msjst aim-
jL*^ -uia iwi^-^inL iiuaner piiibiew iad Dcai^ilT
:ip jic Facrsun DUifiTiv Aiui ^mLbied iiaailA2r into
rr./A^.. jL tile .'om-nir iermon^
* vif V wibh. Tunfl cL'v^ mje- saamrtiLm^ Dew !
I^ Ikictk^jr tmAsMi^ifi vkski ht mmA liaTe taken
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 355
something too mucli already. But, after scmie
questioning, Pete broke out in a medley of grief
again quite like that in Eose's presence, but not
so excessive.
" I ain't goin' to have no more rum ; it's making
her cry ; and I ain't goin' to drink any more rum :
I want you to give me somethin'."
It was evident that Pete was inquiring after the
temperance pledge, and the Doctor at length be-
came satisfied of the fact. Accordingly, 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 tp 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 Ked
sea when they first reached it. But it answered
no purpose. Pete made his mark, and was faith-
ful to his new promise. A few tears did more for
him than much exhortation.
Throughout the great wedding-day, Pete carried
himseK most becomingly, dividing his attention
during the ceremony between Barton and Barton's
war-horse. He was much disappointed when Bar-
ton, after the ceremony, did not mount and repeat
some of the brilliant feats of horsemanship which
he had seen him perform. But supposing that,
for some good reason, Barton had changed his
mind, he led the scarred horse back to his oats.
2 A 2
"
356 ^OBWOOD; OB
At noon, wh^i all the companr were waB&mkiedf
and eyeiyfaody was mi^iy cbattm^ and ebmlk^gsiBg,
all at once the ehureh-faell broke out nlo die
mriNt musical of inYitatfons. To be ssie^ its doty
was* to ring at twelTe everjr day. Bot any one
rrmld tell that ^bere was more than thai in it to-
flay. Its paternal sool had a weddii^ tiiooglEt in
it. It was no measured, doctrinal ling, fit tor
Snnday. It was noiBaifdl,fiiiieTal ring, thidE and
heary. It was a real, out-springing, merry ring,
a?i of a bell that would like to kick [up its heek
and dance on the green with the best of them.
Before the bell had done ringing, a moTement
was seen about Dr. Wentworth's mansicm. Frcmi
the front door issaed first Dr. Bnell and a brother
clergyman, then came Dr. and Mrs. Wentworth,
and then came Rose and Barton ; (while the boys
that were peeping 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 flocks 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 Bose and her husband, under the very
flickering shadows and checkering golden light
that had amused her when a babe. While Parson
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 357
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 Will Belden, on one leg
and a crutch. On Kose's side stood Eose Hether-
rngton, **too pretty for anything," said several
young gentlemen near by. Then, in the simple
forms of the good old times, the ceremony pro-
ceeded; and Parson Buell, at its close, laid his
hands upon their heads, bowed to his touch, and
blessed them I And they were blessed !
No salutation of mere ceremony followed. Bar-
ton turned to Eose with an embrace that seemed
like to have merged her into himself. Eose put
her ajms with full love about her husband. For
a second they stood folded, some words they whis-
pered, and there were few dry eyes that looked on
them. Even Judge Bacon wiped his eyes, and
declared that ^ it was remarkably good, positively
affecting, and so unexpected, too."
There was but one event that befel the party
which filled them with astojoishment, and that
was the sudden and unexpected decease of Agate
Bissell. None out of Dr. Wentworth's family
even knew that she was ailing, that under a fair
appearance a hidden fire was in her heart, that
would surely ^take away her name from among
those who had so long known it and loved it.
358 KOBW(X ; o,
8fae had manifested, while Boee s wedding ser-
rice proceeded, a tremuloosnessy as Gf one con-
HcioiLsly weak, but who had determined not to
give way till Bose was married. But Agate could
hold out no longer. Scarcely had Bose leceiTed
the HalutatioDS of her own kindred before her
father called her aside and her husband alsoi, and
quite a stir arose and excitement amcmg the
crowd as Dr. Buell, with some dignity and firm-
nesH a if repressing a nervons tremble, approached
Agate Bi88ell,and taking her by the hand, walked
to the very place where Bose and Barton had
been standing, and stood before the excited crowd,
who wondered that even at a wedding Parson
Bnell should venture on snch a bold jest ! Then
vfimo forth Parson Edwards D wight Bigelow, with
whom Buell had many a night held glorious was-
wiil of theology, discussing till after midnight,
whether sin was bom in the nature of a child or
hcjjrnn only when developed by action; what was
tli(^ nature of generous and right actions anterior
to a saving change ; whether conversion stood in
tli(^ ac^t of choice on the sinner's part, or was an
irroHiHtiblo and efficacious influence exerted upon
him ab extra. Over these and kindred savory
deliphts they had dissipated many a night
1'hore stood Parson Buell and Agate Bissell,
and made answer to the solemn inteiTOgatories,
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 359
and she gave away her name, and with a blush as
tender and beautiful as if she were just seventeen,
she accepted her bridal kiss from Dr. Buell.
Deacon Marble was all artremble. 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. How-
somever, she couldn't help it. Well, well, well
Agate, you've took us in this time. This is the
best one yit ! I dew say, when I saw Parson Buell
a-kissin' you, I sort of shivered all over. But you
stood it beautiful. But no merit, you know, no
merit, cos I s'pose you're used to it, eh ? "
Agate, who really looked queenly, replied :
"Why, Deacon Marble, my husband never
kissed me before in his life."
" You don't, now ! I can't hardly b'lieve that.
Dr. Buell is a nice and strict man. But courtin',
you know, and engaged, why kissin' is accordin' to
natur' and grace too. I kissed Polly a hundred
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 kissed Agate Bv^ll before ! "
This quite overthrew the good deacon he
laughed immoderately, and repeated the story to
every one on the ground, as an instance of remark-
able wit.
960 90KW00D; o^
'^Fact is, I meant to hmre Agate myself;
wagii't spry eDoogh fired too hi out of town.
Ministers get the fast fick among the gals, any-
how. Polly would hare liked it amazin'.'*
^ Which?" said Hiram, giring him a nndge
with his elbow.
-Which what?"
- Which of yon two would Polly been glad for
Agate to marry? "
- Good goody** said the deacon, aU in a twinkle ;
- ift had been me was marryin' Agat^ and Folly
had been here, wouldn't she would have had
enough to say ? Why she would have said ^ my
husband ; ' ^why, stop if Polly*d been here, die'd
a 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 endeavoured to explain to several, but some-
how failed to make it as fresh as when it happened
of itsel
Colonel Esel seemed to have charge of Bose
Hetherington, and not to be displeased with the
fair Quakeress. (Jallant Will Belden, who had
borne Arthur out of Bull Bun, hobbled about as if
he were one of the femily. 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.
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 361
" Ah, Eeuben, if Arthur could only have been
spared to see this ! I should have been too
happy."
Tears ran down her cheeks. Dr. Wentworth
stood silent for 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 think of him," said Wentworth, wiping his
eyes, " without sorrow or tears, my dear ; that is,'*
beginning to be conscious of the tears running
down his cheeks, " without any except the tears
of affection and fond memory ^"
The rest of his exposition he made to his
pocket-handkerchief.
Mother Taft was grown very feeble. But she
was like a winter apple that grows sweeter the
longer it is kept. She seemed like an overjoyed
child.
" If Taft had a-lived to see this ! Eose married
to Barton, and then Agate Bissell married a
minister, too ^that's a'most like gorn' to heaven I
To think that I carried Eose 'round in my arms
the minute she was bom and a sweet child she
was I I didn't dream I should be here and see her
standin' up with Barton! May be I shall 'tend
362 kobwood; OB,
her babies jest as I did her. Bnt I don't belieye
I shall ever live to see them married offl I am
getting old ; but somebody 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 h^rn with the
bone."
And so the kind old soul went on talking, with-
out caring whether anybody heard or not ^her
own voice seeming to be a comfort to her.
Every one was joyM ; yet it was a joy strangely
mixed. There were some absent who might have
been there, and some dead who would never
return I But it was a grief that fitted well with
joy, and deepened it. Tears smiled, and smiles
wept.
As the evening came on, and Mrs. Wentworth
walked toward the mansion with Eachel 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 deter-
mined to give her life to the instruction of the
poor black children. She has gone to Lynchburgh,
where ?U8 parents lived, you know, and I hope she
is happier now."
But the people are dispersing. The sun is just
VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 363
setting. Some linger, and seem reluctant to leave.
II you, too, reader, linger and feel reluctant to
leave Norwood, I shall be rejoiced and repaid for
the long way over which I have led you.