PAPERS FROM OVERLOOK-HOUSE.

By Caspar Almore

PHILADELPHIA
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
1866.

Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTORY LETTER.

Overlook House, October 10, 1864.

My Dear Friend:—At last, as if borne to you by some scape-grace of a messenger, these papers, copied from the time-discoloured manuscripts, so carefully preserved in the old book-case, which with its dark lustre, its bright brass ornaments, is still the prominent object in our library, are destined to reach the hands into which they should long ago have been placed.

I well remember the evening on which you first heard of them, and listened to my attempt to read them to you; perplexed as I was with the faded lines, traced by fingers which can write no more.

You will not forget our drives, previously, during the day, and late in the afternoon, in consequence of my week-day service in the old church. Perhaps the ancient edifice would need the excuse of days of architectural ignorance, but no Cathedral on earth can surpass it, in its claim to occupy a place amid scenes of surpassing beauty and sublimity. There it stands alone, on the slope of an immense hill, with the whole range of the mountains from the water-gap to the wind-gap full in view—glorious walls to sustain the great blue dome of heaven! The great solitude of the road that winds along the grave-yard, has often caused me to think of distant friends, and has riveted them to my soul with still more indissoluble bonds. And the Great Friend has been the great relief from oppressive loneliness, as I thus stood in one of the beautiful gates of the Eternal Temple. As to that quiet grave-yard itself, the "rhetoric of the dead" is there well spoken, and they whose ashes are here deposited, do not find "second graves" in our short memories.

You will tell me that all connected with my church is not always solemn. Your perverse memory will never forget the leader of the choir; nay, the useful man who was often choir itself. He sang at least with energy. Unfortunately—oh well do I remember my fearful victory over my features, when I first became cognizant of the fact; a victory at a time when a smile had endangered my claims to due ministerial sobriety; unfortunately he had the habit of marking time emphatically, by raising himself on his toes, and simultaneously elevating his hand, his chin, his eyes, and his hair. Yet that was but a slight trial to us both. The man was better than either of us; and the first impression having subsided, we found that he did well in calling forth the voices of the congregation. You will recollect our return home, as we refused all offers of hospitality, although the snow was falling, and we were warned not to risk the drifts, promised by the rising wind. We would not be detained, as we had set our hearts on passing the evening together in the old mansion of my fathers. On we drove, the sound of the bells sweeping in wild merriment over the great fields of snow, or rising to a louder chime as we passed through the forest, under a thousand triumphal arches, of boughs laden with white honors. Only once, and where the road was in a ravine, was I afraid that you would be exposed some hours to the storm, until we should hear the voices of hunters, and the bay of their dogs, sent to seek us, after our custom, when any one is lost in the snow. Happily we extricated ourselves, and soon saw the lights gleaming from the windows of the house upon the hill.

How pleasant the welcome of our good old Cæsar, the man of dark hue, who had no desire to be the first man in the village, nor the second man at Rome; but was all eagerness to have a place, however lowly, in the Eternal City! Another glad welcome in the hall; a net-work of questions from little threads of voices, and the seats before the great wood-fire, one of the few remaining representatives of the profuse customs of the fathers; one witness that our forests are not yet all swept away. Did we not give ample tributes to the repast prepared by Cæsar's wife! Two hungry men rescued from snow waves, we proved that one could feast on Dinah's poetry of food, and yet, in the ensuing night, behold no magnificent bandit, with a beard that would have done credit to a Roman Centurion, and a dagger that honored the sense of sublime danger, by the assurance that if it was to give us our death-blow, it was no coarse weapon; the grand villain peering over you with an eye in which the evil fires take refuge when conscience is in ashes. You know that in that coming night, you did not even see the "fair ladie," now your wife, borne away from you, in a mysterious coach, by some ruffians clad in splendid mantles, while you were palsied, and could not move to seize the sword, or gun, or could not call for aid. How pleasant was that evening! From your weed rose the cloud that no counterblast, royal or plebeian, has ever yet been able to sweep away from the lips of men. Knitting by her little stand, sat one, whom to name is to tell, in a word, the great history of my best earthly happiness. I am sure her sweet thoughts, when spoken, were as the fragrance of flowers over our homelier fields; while her gentle sympathy added to our strength, and her instinctive and pure impressions, aided our conceptions, as gentle guides, and taught us how wisdom was linked to minds swayed by goodness. What a bond has she been of our long-enduring friendship! We talked of the old times—of the ancient famed hospitality of the house. We spoke of those who came there at Christmas—when the hymn of Milton seemed to be read in a grand audience chamber—at the Spring when the world seemed again so young—at Autumn where the mountains and hills were all a glow, as if angels had kindled them with a fire, burning, but not consuming them, turning them into great altars, by which man could stand, and offer his adoration. Then we spoke of the papers that had been read among the assembled guests. I told you their history; a history further recorded in the fourth chapter; the last of the four chapters preliminary. These were written by my grandfather. As your curiosity was awakened, I drew forth some of these, from the old book-case in the library, and read them as I could. You insisted that I should decipher them, and let you send them to the press; send them to some one of your honorable publishers, so that many eyes could read, what few eyes have rested on, in this distant solitude. Julia seconded the proposition. What had I to do, but to obey! Some years have passed, and you have often complained of my procrastination. Shall I make excuses? Excuses are the shadows which the irresolute and idle, the evil, keep ever near, as their refuge from just accusation. The moment you feel the least loss of self-respect in seeking them, the moment you have to search to find them, take heed of them. Those formed to be giants, often live in them, and then life is consequently the life of the dwarf. I knew that I could have sent the papers long ago, had I written two or three lines each day, since I gave my promise. Julia, who, woman-like, always convicts me when I excuse myself, and consoles me, and defends me, when I am in the ashes, and contrite with self-upbraiding, who is never severe with me, but when I spoil the children by keeping them up too late at night, says, that I never allow a literary effort to encroach on my great duties; that I have had so much to do, that I could not sooner perform my promise. She laughs, and says that the dates I annex to my papers, during my progress in this work, show how I was interrupted, and that if the histories of intermediate parochial work were given, the book would be a strange record. Often the sick and suffering have caused long intervals to elapse in these labors. When I could attempt the work, the change in the current of my associations has been a relief. Julia has wished me to write histories of the lives of some of those, who composed various papers in the old case. Of course, some of the authors have been passing utterly from the minds of a race, that cannot remember, but the least remnant of those who have gone before. We lament the ravages of time. Multitudes are forgotten on the earth, whom it would be a blessing to have in perpetual remembrance. Alas! we have also to confess, that time conceals the story of innumerable others, when it is well that it should be buried in its deepest oblivion.

I hope that I have copied these papers with commendable accuracy. We trust that they will add to the happiness of those who read them, and prove at the same time to be profitable. May they increase kind impressions! May they sow seeds that shall have the sun and dew that never falls on growth that is evil! Man has tablets in the heart, for inscriptions greater, and more enduring, than those of the great ledges of rock in the far East.

As one would hesitate to write the outlines of his coming destiny, if such a pen of Providence could be ready for his hand, so he, who has any love for others, would pause before he would carve, even in faintest letters, one word on these, which could sully the surface, where the indestructibility warns us, that all is an eternal record with Him, whose eye is too pure to look upon iniquity. I need not attempt, like authors of a former age, to solicit a favorable criticism, from the "gentle reader." If I say, here, that the hall has rung with peals of laughter, as some of the papers of the old book-case have been read, that some have shed tears over the Ghost of Ford Inn, and said, it is too sad, these assurances will not predispose one who shall open the proposed volume, to utter a favorable opinion. These waifs must be cast on the waters, like all other similar ventures. We must wait, and learn where Providence shall waft them.

Will these papers outlive this decaying house? Will men love us because we have sent them forth? Will we, because of them, be grasped with a kindlier hand? Will they soften hearts in this trying world, and aid men to a greater charity?

But I must pause. Lamps will grow dim. Warnings will come, that letters may attain to too great prolixity. Readers are often not sufficiently sagacious, to know that when Homer nods, he has a design. Can I apply, what old Dr. South, the great and witty preacher said, when he printed the sermon at the Royal mandate, that the Majesty of the Realm must excuse the length of the discourse, inasmuch as he had not had time to make it shorter? Or, shall I remember the severe speech, doubtless a dutiful necessity, a knife to remove such a miserable vanity as often makes men worse than useless; the severe speech of an Eastern Divine, who, when the young preacher waited all day in vain for a compliment, to his morning's discourse, and said, in desperation, as the evening waned in the study, "Doctor, I hope that I did not weary your people with the length of my discourse," had for reply the quiet answer, "No, sir; nor by the depth of it."

So, as you have the infirmity of going to sleep over the most interesting discourse, as the lamp is going out, as I am nervous, sitting up at such a late hour, as the paper is all written over, and I have none other near at hand, I release you. Go to sleep, but wake the world to-morrow, and then say that I am your friend.

A friend of many years,
Caspar Almore.

OVERLOOK.

CHAPTER I.

ARRIVAL AT THE VILLAGE.

I stepped from the stage-sleigh, in the village of Overlook, at the post-office: for there the driver stopped to leave his mail-bag. That important article, which, as a boy, I used to regard with undefined dread, for I associated it with a poor wretch, who was hung for laying villanous hands upon one, in a desolate road, was the old-fashioned leather sack, full of iron rivets.

Perhaps at the time when this writing may reach the press, such a contrivance may have become antiquated; and therefore I had better add to my description, that a weighty chain passed through iron rings, to secure the opening; and finally, there was the brass padlock, at which the Indian gazed with such contempt, when he said, "Brass lock upon leather! that makes my knife laugh." I stepped from the heavy stage-sleigh into the one sent for me by Judge Almore, and it was like passing from a heavy craft on the waters, into one of lesser make, and lighter burden. John Frake, the farmer at Overlook Manor, had driven over for me. His horses seemed exhilarated by the bells, and we dashed forward in splendid style. John Frake was a character; a real man in energy, work, and talk; frank, and good-hearted.

As we drove along, in a loud voice, that permitted not a word to be lost by the melody of the bells, he made his comments upon all things, and especially on the inhabitants along the streets of the village.

"Dr. Norkin lives there," he said, pointing with his whip to a comfortable house. And then as if pondering the beginning of a long train of thought, he added,

"Those Yankees are unaccountable smart people."

"The doctor is a Yankee, then?"

"Oh no! there aint enough Yankee in him to make a spot on the map of Massachusetts. Not but that the doctor has lots of common sense, and keeps all that he has got ready for use, when wanted, as ready as my plough to go through the ground. But those Yankees have the most uncommon ways of putting things together; just as if you took something out of the middle of the earth, and made it fit something on the top of a mountain."

"Yes, but I don't see what Yankees have to do with the doctor."

"I'll tell you what I was thinking about. I was once at the mountains, forty miles off, where there is a mineral spring. There is where ladies and gentlemen go to drink water, eat all manner of things at the tavern, and get well, when they never have been sick. Iron in the water at the springs! Bless you; it would not divide the nails in a horse-shoe in a month, to the whole army of the Revolution, if they had drunk of nothing else. Well our judge and the family followed the fashion. Fashion is a runaway horse that carries a great load of straw behind him, and sometimes he has after him things much better than straw. I drove up to bring them home. But the judge was taken sick just before I got there, and sent for our doctor here, to come up and cure him. In the night, after I got there, one of your uncommon Yankees, who seemed to be well off, and to do fifty things, from what I could gather, to make money, had a bad attack; unlike anything I ever heard of around here. He was awful bad. I heard the racket, and went into his room.

"'My friend,' says I, 'you do look awful bad'—for I always speak my honest sentiments, in a sick-room, or out of it. 'I thank you for your sympathy,' says he—and yet somehow it sounded as if he didn't. I presumed he didn't want any one to talk to him. 'Send down for Dr. Norkin,' says the landlord. 'He is here;' this is what he said to the sick man. 'He lives forty miles off—at Overlook. But he is here, attending on Judge Almore—who has been ill.'

"The sick man, after a groan or two, raised himself up in his bed. It was as good as the best apple, to see how quickly he seemed to ungear his mind from his sick body. He gave a long thought. Then he said,

"'Did the judge send for that doctor, because he was in the house at the time when he was taken sick? Or did he send all the way to Overlook for him to come here to him?'

"'He sent for him to Overlook,' says the landlord, before I could put in a word.

"'Then I'll see him,' says he—speaking quickly out, and firm like, as if he was a king. Now wasn't that cute? I tell you such men think faster, and a great way before other people. Well; it's a free country, and all people aint bound to do their thinking alike."

We now came to the entrance of the lane, that led up to Overlook House.

Two large cherry trees stood on either side of the gate. I drew the attention of my companion to them. They were very venerable, and their winter boughs showed some signs of decay.

"Them big trees,"—said he. "Either of them, I'll engage is as old as three average men. They say a man averages thirty years of life. Now they are full ninety years old, and big at that."

"You have lived long with the judge?"

"Bless your heart, sir, long indeed. But he's a good man. There's few that don't say so—well, thank God, it is those kind of people that don't. When he speaks and acts, you feel that our Lord has taught him his religion—just as we know it is Sunday, when we wake and hear the church-bells ringing, and all the sun-light seems full of the sweet sound, and all the sound as if it had gone through the bright sun. I do love Sunday."

Here we were close to the house. "Come and see me," he said, "down at my house there. It is not as big as the judge's, but then there is room in it for a hearty welcome. I will give you a glass of good cider, or two, or three, for that matter. As for wine, I never keep any. It seems to me to be poor stuff, as if it was trying to be brandy, and couldn't." The mission of the sleigh was now over. I and my trunks were at the porch of the house. So the worthy farmer and I parted for the present.

CHAPTER II.

THE WELCOME AT OVERLOOK-HOUSE.

A colored servant man, of most respectable appearance, and of quiet manners, evidently glad of my arrival ushered me into the house, saying that Judge Almore would be home in a short time, as he had gone but a little distance on the farm; and that his good lady would come down stairs in a few minutes. The hall of the house was large, and decorated with Indian relics; with long deer-horns, also, and other trophies of the hunting ground. I was hastened into an adjoining room, which I had scarcely entered, before I felt the invigorating heat from the great fire-place. There the hickory logs seemed doing their best, with their immense flame, to make me feel as if I was cared for, a stranger from a distance. On the hearth there was a small mountain of glowing coals. How pleasant it is to sit before such a fire, and to think that our interminable forests, will supply abundant fuel, for the inhabitants of our cities for hundreds of years to come. Even when New York, and Philadelphia, Trenton, and Boston, may, two or three centuries hence, have each two or three hundred thousand inhabitants, and that expectation of their increase in population, is not so chimerical as it seems, and when the country round them, may be so cleared and cultivated, that in a circle of fifteen or twenty miles in diameter, the farm-houses may generally be in sight of one another, it is probable that the decrease of our woods will scarcely be perceptible.

But as I gazed into the flames which soon removed all chilliness from my frame, I had no time for lengthened speculations on the future of our land; for Mrs. Almore entered the room, and greeting me with great cordiality, assured me of my welcome. As I was engaged in conversation with this most estimable lady, I found myself called on to regret her visitation with a great affliction. Her cheerful countenance and manner, however, proved that she had not permitted it to hang over her as a cloud, to darken her days, or to make her selfish in her expectation of attention. The affliction was a great deafness, one evidently of long duration, and incurable; so I judged from the evidence of her loud tones, almost shouting when she addressed me. I flatter myself that I can cause any one to hear me speak, who has the ability to know, that a pistol is discharged not far from his ear. And I always feel great commiseration for those who hear with difficulty. Meeting with such, I regard the power of my lungs, as a gift, particularly designed for their service and enjoyment. Indeed I undesignedly secured a legacy from an aged aunt, by the assiduity I exhibited in informing her of what was said around her, when others neglected her, as she thought, because it was so difficult to make her to hear. Trained as I had been in the past, I have to confess, that my powers of loud speech, were never more taxed than on the present occasion. The loud tones in which we commenced our conversation, were gradually increased; I perceived that as she raised the pitch of her voice, it was a delicate intimation to me, that I must speak with increased effort, if I would secure a perfect hearing. As we were engaged in this polite rivalship, each being, not only a diligent hearer, but a good speaker, a most comfortable-looking African woman, of very dark hue, entered to receive the orders of her mistress. She desired to know, as it soon appeared, some particulars concerning the approaching meal; and also to receive some orders which pertained to the room I was to occupy. The good mistress then stepped aside and drew near to the swarthy domestic. To my surprise, the lady dropped her voice to a good undertone, and gave her directions, as it were, "aside." She is one of those deaf persons, I said to myself, who can understand what others, with whom they are familiar, have to say when they see the motion of their lips. I once met with a man who had this singular gift. He possessed it to such an extent, that strangers, who conversed with him, never knew that he did not hear a word which they spoke. Yet what could I do now! I was compelled to hear what was said. How strange it was, that the good lady overlooked the fact, that I must hear all that could be heard by Dinah. And this Dinah was now informed what set of china should be placed on the table for my special benefit. From what she hinted, I inferred, that there was some special honor in this arrangement; as it proved to her that the Holemans, who took tea with them the night before, having made use of a decidedly inferior service, were some grades less respectable than myself—though the mistress, when the insinuation was made, peremptorily declared, that the aforesaid Holemans were very worthy people, and should always be treated with great respect, as valued friends, in her house. An occasion was also taken, on the mention of the white and gold china, to administer a cutting reproof to Mrs. Dinah, for a nick in the spout of the tea-pot,—which circumstantial evidence, clearly and hastily summed up, proved to be the result of carelessness in the kitchen. To this attack, Dinah, as I must honestly testify, made persistent defense, and gave some most curious rebutting testimony. And I am also under obligation to state, that even when most excited by the charge, she never even made the most distant allusion, to the possibility that the cat had anything to do with this domestic calamity. Such was the honor of the kitchen in the good old times. I also learned, incidentally, some curious information concerning the comparative ages of some chickens, which had lately been cooped up and fattened.

I gleaned besides, some antiquarian lore concerning a venerated "comfortable," that was intended for my bed,—and a hint that some portion of its variegated lining had been the valued dress of a grandmother, worn by her on some memorable occasion,—a proud record in the family history. Some very particular directions were also given for my comfort, so that my ideas on the art of house-keeping, were greatly expanded; and I was ready to look on each lady, who ruleth over a house, as a minute philosopher.

Dinah was also informed, that she was forbidden to act on a speculative principle, which she advanced, with great assurance; namely, that bachelors did not see, or know anything; that it was only married men who did; being set up to it by their wives, who made a mighty fuss in another house, when all the time they knew things wasn't as tidy at home. She was told not to act on any such miserable sophistry—that things were to be done right, and kept right—no matter whether any one noticed them, or not. In the course of conversation, my having come from New York was the subject of an allusion; whereupon the dark woman slipped in the observation, that she did wish she could get to that place, for she "was afraid that she should die, and have nothing to tell."

After all this important business was transacted, there was a hasty, and sudden digression for a moment, in the shape of a kind inquiry into the present state of the health of the hopeful heir of the said Dinah, who was spending the chief portion of his days in a cradle. I was, I must confess it, very much astonished to learn, from the reply and descriptions of the mother, that there is such a wonderful sympathy, between the teeth which are trying to make their way into the world, and the mechanism of a juvenile which is concealed from human sight in his body. It seemed to me a marvellous proof of the manner in which such little creatures maintain their hold on life, that he could possibly have endured such astonishing internal pains; and, also, that all the world ought to know the sovereign virtues of an elixir, which was compounded at Overlook House. Its virtues, unlike the novel devices that are palmed on the public with such pretentious certificates, have been tested by the infants of several generations.

All cabinet meetings must have an end. So Dinah disappeared, after a furtive glance at my person; drawing her conclusions, I am assured, whether I would be a suitable husband for Miss Meta.

Soon after the hall door opened, and this young lady entered. Her mother introduced me to her in the same high pitch of voice, in which she conducted her conversation with strangers.

She said a few kind and pleasant words to me; and with a voice raised to an imitation of the maternal precedent, though without the loss of its indescribable sweetness. She was evidently anxious, that her mother should feel, that she was to be a party in our brief conversation.

As I looked at her, I thought that a sweeter, more etherial form, a face more radiant with affections pure as the air over the snow, an eye to rest on you, as if it said, that every one on whom it fell was a new object for sympathy, had never met my view, and I thought then, and think now the more confidently, that I have made a good use of my eyes during my pilgrimage in the world. After the interchange of the few words to which I have alluded, she was about leaving us; but before she reached the door, her mother called to her, and arrested her steps. The good lady addressed her, in the same low tones in which she had formerly conversed with Dinah.

As I looked at her again, I felt that I repressed the exhibition of signs of unrestrained admiration. She seemed, indeed, as if she had grown up in the midst of the beauty of the natural world, and had been moulded to a conformity with all that we witness of grace in the field, or in the forest. The mother spoke in a manner half playful, half serious. "So Miss Meta this is the old way. You expected the arrival of this young gentleman, quiet, good-looking, evidently a person of good sense, and your father says, of most estimable character. And there you have on your old shawl, your old bonnet, and your hair blown about in the wind as if it had never had a brush applied to it. You are so careless about your appearance! You know that I have often spoken to you on the subject. And yet, on the most important occasions, you neglect all my advice. You will be laid upon the shelf yet. You will die an old maid. But do not blame me. Do go, and brush your hair, and put on another frock, and make yourself presentable. And after that, go and see that Dinah arranges everything right. I will give you credit for order, and expertness as a house-keeper. Old maids, however, are often very good house-keepers. So go, and do as I tell you. I don't mean to say that you are a dowdy, but I want to see you more particular."

"My revered mother," said Meta, with a most grave inclination of the head, and with a slight pomp of declamation, "your will is law. My dress, for the next two or three weeks, shall be a grand deceit, as if it was my habit to be as particular as the young Quakeress, who once visited us, and who was as exact in arranging her robes, as the snow is, in taking care, that there shall be grace in its unblemished drifts. I intend, in fact, to be irresistible. Henceforth let all young men, quiet, respectable, who have not cross eyes, and who fascinate a mother, and give occasion to all her sanguine hopes of matrimonial felicity for a daughter, beware of Meta. They are as sure of being captives, as the poor little rabbits I so pity, when once they unwisely venture, to nibble at the bait in one of Peter's celebrated traps. So, best of mothers, forgive the past. Wisest of counsellors, for a brief space, farewell."

After the retreat of the daughter silence endured for a little while, while I walked to the window, and enjoyed the extensive and beautiful view. The residence of the Judge was on a hill, overlooking a picturesque village, and hence the name of the mansion which in time dispelled a very ugly name, from the small town, and gave its own designation to the place—the name of such a collection of dwellings generally becoming permanent when the post-office is established in its limits. After this I was engaged in the survey of some fine old plates upon the wall, and the picture of a portly old gentleman, whose dress indicated that he had lived in the olden time. I was seeking to find some clue to his character and history in his face, when Mrs. Almore rose, and crossed the room and joined me.

It was evident that the picture was too important for me to look upon it and not know what was due of admiration for him, of whom this uncertain resemblance was all that remained on earth,—the frail shadow of a shadow. I saw at once that she had a formidable history to relate, and that she had often told it to those who gazed on the form on the wall. I suspected that some family pride was gratified by the narrative; and prepared myself for some harmless amusement, as I was to watch and observe how the vanity would expose itself. But she had not got beyond some dry statistics, the name, the age, the offices held in the State in the good olden time, when such honors were always a pledge of merit in the possessors, before the Judge entered the room, without our observing it. He drew near, heard for a moment, with the greatest astonishment, the loud tones of the lady, who now addressed me.

He extended his hand to me, with very kind, but dignified, courtesy, and, after giving the assurance that I was most truly welcome on my own account, and for the sake of my father, who had been a fellow-student with him at Princeton College, and almost a life-long friend, he turned to the lady by us, his honored wife, and exclaimed,—

"My dear, I heard your elevated voice outside of the house, and in the extreme end of the hall. You really alarmed me. At first I could not imagine what had occurred in the room. Why do you speak in such tones of thunder to my young friend? Is this a new style of hospitality for Overlook-House?"

"You told me that our guest, Mr. Martin, was deaf." So spoke the good hostess, with a look of frightened inquiry, a perturbed glance at myself,—with a countenance that expressed a desire for relief,—while her tone was expressive of a great misgiving.

"I beg your pardon," said the Judge; "you are under an entire mistake. I told you that he wrote to me, some time ago, that he had met with an accident and become very lame. But when I told you this I remember that you were very much abstracted. I presume that you were deeply absorbed in some new order for your household, or in the state of Dinah's noisy heir. I never heard that Mr. Martin was deaf for a moment in his life. I told you that he was lame."

"Are you sure—are you sure that he is not deaf?"

"I am sure that he hears as well as either of us. And,—at least as far as you are concerned, that is to say that he could not have a better sense of hearing. He might possibly, it is true, be abstracted, when any one spoke to him, and imagine that he said 'deaf,' when in reality the speaker said 'lame.'"

"Dear me! my future peace is destroyed. It is worse than if a ghost intended perpetually to haunt me—for the ghost would come only in the dark; but this disaster will torture me day and night. I have buried myself under a mass of ruins from which I cannot extricate myself." And the lady looked as if an anaconda was threatening to creep in among us.

"I am sure that Mr. Martin will forgive you. He has only been annoyed by a loud conversation for a short time. It will be a pleasing variety to hear you address him in a gentle voice. Since he had such evidence of the pains you have taken to entertain him when you thought him deaf, he is assured that you will not change your desire to make him feel at home and to know that he is among friends, now that you hear so well."

"Judge, you have no sympathy. You should have taken care that I did not fall into such a terrible mistake. I often notice that you speak to me, and turn and go away, as if you never watched to observe whether I understood you or no. I have often felt it, Judge, often felt it,—although I kept my feelings on the subject to myself. And now you see the consequences. You see where you have landed me. And I am the one to suffer all the evil that results from such indifference. What shall I do? Here is Meta. Meta, what shall I do? Mr. Martin is not at all deaf. Somehow, your father did not impress what he said on my mind. I am sure that this is not the first time that I have misunderstood him, and I never have any desire to fall into error. People that are so accurate and so careful as he is, not to be guilty of any mistake in their professional duties, so accurate as they say he is when on the bench, are often careless of smaller matters at home. Meta, Mr. Martin can hear. My dear, he can hear as well as you or I."

"Let me, my dear mother, enter into your Christian joy, now that your sorrow over his supposed affliction is relieved. You know that it is an unmingled pleasure to you to learn that he is not afflicted with so great a calamity as you supposed."

"Very well, Meta."

"And then, mother, as far as I am involved in the consequences of your mistake, he knows that I appear in my present fascinations; see my smooth hair, and this frock almost new, not in my own will, or in accordance with my usual habits, but solely from a sense of filial duty. I am so charming, because of my reverential regard for the injunctions of my mother."

"Meta, can you never be still?"

"And then, mother, if there be a little art in my dress, if snares lurk around me to secure those who come near me, this does not proceed, in the least possible degree, from any guile in me. It is the mere expression of the anxiety of a mother that her daughter should not attain the condition of some of the best people on the earth. I allude to a class of my sex who are ignorantly, I will not say uncharitably, supposed to make the world uncomfortable through their inflexible devotion to minor morals."

"Meta, unless you are silent I shall have to leave the room."

"Well, mother, then I am mute. How fortunate it was that I was the only person with whom you conversed in the hearing of Mr. Martin!"

"Meta, you drive me mad. I did have another conversation, which he heard."

"Oh, do tell us! What happened? It could not have been as interesting to him as the one which you held with me. I shall not use my brush for some time without thinking about it. Do tell us. As Nancy often says, I am dying to hear all about it."

"Oh," said I, "Miss. Meta, all that your mother said was of no importance. She cannot care, when she reflects upon it, whether I heard it or no."

"But, Mr. Martin, then tell us what she said. It put my father and myself under a lasting obligation."

"Mr. Martin can be more considerate than you are."

"Yes, madam, because he has heard all. I will be as considerate as you please, if I can only acquire the same information. Well, walls have ears. And if ever walls heard anything, I am sure ours have heard to-day. They will speak in due time. Father, who has been in the room with mother since Mr. Martin arrived? I must ask Ben."

"Meta, I take my departure. If nothing is heard of me to-day or to-morrow, search the mill-pond. Oh, what a difference there is between being lame, or deaf! I cannot forgive your father. Really, he ought to be more cautious. I cannot forgive him."

CHAPTER III.

THE CHRISTMAS LOG IN THE KITCHEN.

The day after my arrival, Miss Meta and I were returning home, after we had driven several miles over the country in a sleigh. Our nearest conception of the ecstasy of those who shall hereafter have wings, with which they can fly over earth and sea, on a bright morning, racing with the larks, or some ambitious hawk, or, on some most fortunate hour, even with the eagle, is attained when we glide thus over the snow. But far above all the other pleasure of the time, was the sweet companionship of her whose laugh was merrier than the bells, which Cæsar had hung around the horses with a profuse generosity. I have wondered at the mysterious manner in which some of the loveliest beings with which God enriches this earth are developed before our view, on occasions when we might expect that we should obtain the least insight into their character.

How is it that the ineffable purity of a woman, her depth of affection, her capacity for sympathy, which even in its lesser degrees renders her such a blessing in a world of so much trial, can, in some instances of great perfection, appear with such evidence in a few words, in an act which requires but little self-denial, in a tone of sorrow for small suffering, or of joy for some one who is happy! There are some men in whom you place perfect confidence as soon as you once behold the eye kindled with an earnest expression, and hear their voice. After all the disappointments one endures in life from misplaced trust one may freely confess that if we have spent many years on the earth, and at last say in our hearts there are none in whose professions we can repose, the fault is in ourselves. We judge ourselves to be true men, and we cannot be a miracle, standing alone as such, amid all the rest of the human family. But if we can assuredly pronounce of some men that they are worthy of our utmost confidence as soon as we become acquainted with them, much more can we confide in our impressions, thus quickly formed, of some of the gentler portion of our race. How many years have passed since I formed my first impressions of Meta! and how true they were! Quickly, inaudible prophecies, in their silence arresting your mind and eliciting homage, were made known in her presence, and gave promise of endless charities to adorn her daily life. There was an imperious necessity in her noble nature, elevated as no power of earth could accomplish, to perform with strict exactness even the least duties, as one who heard him say that the least of his commandments can by its observance aid us to the attainment of the true life.

An enthusiast might have said that her very laugh was too pure for earth. All pure influences, too good for us, are needed by our necessities. It is well for earth that we have not only those among us who, though not criminal in human estimate, are of the earth earthy, and of whom the world is worthy. Her joy always proclaimed the freedom given the blest here below, and that it never could subvert the deep gravity of her nature—as the bark that moves so gaily in the sun and wind, by a sudden check reminds us that it cannot drift into danger, but is secure; for the hidden anchor holds in its just bounds.

We had crossed a stream upon the ice, and were now ascending the hill from whose summit we could see Overlook-House in the distance. The great forest was on either side of the way. Suddenly we espied three men holding a consultation over an immense log. It had just been severed from a huge tree, which the saw and axe had laid low, the great branches sweeping the snow as they came crushing down into heaps, and here and there revealing the dead leaves and the wintry grass.

Near them stood—models of patience—four oxen, looking as if the cold air could never discompose them, and attached to a sled whose strong runners seemed to defy any weight that could be heaped upon them. I recognized the men as servants belonging on the estate of the Judge. They were negroes, slaves,—slaves in name, awaiting a near year of emancipation fixed by the law of the State. They were perfectly aware that they could have their freedom at any time from their master,—freedom in name; for they now possessed it in reality.

Nothing could be more comfortable than their general appearance. Their dress was warm, and such as any laboring man could desire. At the present moment their happiness seemed perfect. They surrounded the log with an exhibition of exuberant animal spirits, with transport in such excess that it never could have been crowded into the frame of a white man.

As we drew near, one was demanding attention, in a most triumphant manner, to sundry vast knots which protruded from the log. Then the trio made the wood ring with shouts of merriment, and threw themselves into inimitable contortions.

"What causes all this excitement?" I asked. "Why should that log cause all the effect which the greatest wit could hope to produce?" "They are preparing," was the answer, "a back-log for the kitchen chimney. It is to be put in the fire-place this evening, the night before Christmas, after all the fire has burnt down required for an evening meal. As long as any portion of it lasts, they have holiday. In winter they have so little to do, that it would puzzle them to say what change the holiday makes in their labor. Their imagination acts on a traditionary custom. Hence they take it for granted that they have an easier time than in the month before or after. They go into the wood and select the largest tree and the one which can afford the log most likely to last. Before they retire to rest, they take great care to arrange the brands and coals so that it shall not burn during the night. They often throw water upon it when it seems to burn too rapidly. And as to their wisdom, I think that on the present occasion they have made an admirable choice."

We now drew near, and spoke to the Africans. They eagerly called the attention of their young mistress to the wonderful qualities of the severed trunk. Assertions were made concerning fabulous quantities of buckwheat-cakes, that would be eaten before that vast cylinder would be reduced to ashes. There was not the slightest idea that any member of the family of the Judge would feel the least interest different from their own. In fact they felt that all joined them in their conspiracy against—they knew not what,—a conspiracy for some great imaginable benefit unknown.

"You had better hasten," I said, observing their oblivion as to the work before them; "for the sun is sinking, and the night will soon be upon us. There is no moon to-night."

"Master," said one, "what is the reason why the moon always shines on bright nights, when we do not want him, and not on dark nights, when we can't see where we go?"

Happily, before I could summon my philosophical knowledge for practical use, and deliver then and there, from my oracular sleigh, a lecture which would do honor to my Alma Mater, while I, in a lucid manner, removed the perplexity of my inquirer, he was called away to make diligent use of one of the great levers provided for the occasion. The rolling of the log on the sled was hard work,—so hard that I gave Meta the reins, and volunteered my assistance. I did well as to the physical application of power. Yet I found these men, in this instance, possessed of more practical natural philosophy than myself. The toil was seasoned with much wit,—that is to say, wit if the laughter was to be the test. And there is no epicure who can exceed the African in enjoyment when he is feasting on his own witticisms.

Meta told me that I must by all means be a witness to the process of rolling the log on the kitchen hearth. So we led the way home, our fleet horses leaving the oxen, with their vast and important load, far behind us. On our arrival home, we found the wife of the doctor, with the Judge and his good lady. She was a pleasant person, and added to the conversation of the evening the remarks of an acute and cultivated mind. She had one protruding weakness. It was her pride in her family, which was a very respectable one in the part of the country from which she came. She had been educated in the idea, that they were the greatest people in the world,—a wide-spread delusion in the land. This led her to assure me, at least a dozen times in the evening that her family were very "peculiar." "This tea very fine! Yes, it is remarkably good. I am sure that it cannot be excelled. And I must say to you, that my family are very peculiar. They are very peculiar in their fondness for excellent tea."

"The Judge's family not exclusive! No; certainly they are very much beloved, and, mingling with others, have done great good to our community. But I must say that my family are, perhaps, too exclusive. They are peculiar, very peculiar. They do not like to associate with uncongenial persons."

"What a grand Christmas fire! Well I suppose I inherit the love of such a blaze. How cheerful it is! Well my family are peculiar, very peculiar; they always like to have a cheerful, a good warm fire. They are peculiar." So "peculiar" I soon discovered meant that they were very remarkable, very distinguished people. It was to be supposed that all that they did, indicated that they were made of clay finer than all the rest used in the formation of other people. Common things touched by their hands became gilded and refined. Wherever they were, there was a pyramid above the common elevation, and on its summit was their appropriate place. Was the doctor on that platform? Or was he only holding to it by his elbows and yet with his feet far above the earth on which common men had their place where they could stand?

With the exception of this folly the lady was, as I have said, an acquisition to our evening party. She was evidently one who had a kind heart, and devotedly attached to her Lord and Master. In after days I found her to be one of my most valued friends and advisers. As respects their ability to become such true friends, an ability which truly ennobles man, I have no doubt that her family were peculiar, very peculiar indeed.

The evening was quickly passing away when we were summoned, according to the order which Meta had given, to the wing of the house where was the kitchen, that we might see the great log rolled into the fire-place. The kitchen was a very large room, such as were built of old by prosperous settlers in our land, when they had acquired enough of this world's goods, to make such additions to the log cabin in which they began their farming life, as they in their full ambition of space could desire.

How often are the dwelling-houses in our country a curious history of the gradual increase of a family in prosperity!

The kitchen of the Judge was evidently designed by a frontier architect, as a great hall of refuge for a large family. The windows were planned when there need not be loop-holes where Indians prowled around, and might need the admonition of a rifle-ball to teach them to keep at a respectful distance. The glasses in them were small, and the pieces of wood in which they were inserted would have been strong enough for the rounds of a ladder. There was room for all things. One could churn, another spin, another mend a net; children could find appropriate nooks where they could con the spelling-book and study the multiplication table in times when the rod was not spared; neighbors making a friendly call could find a vacant space where they could sit and partake of cider and homely cakes, and if they had any special business, which a citizen would settle in two minutes, could spend an hour in preliminaries of a very vague kind, in generalities not glittering, and coming to the subject, only when they were farthest from it, and all could be transacted without any one being in the least degree incommoded.

One of the prominent objects in the kitchen at Overlook-House was the rafters above you. The ceiling was resting upon them, in the form of thick boards, which were the floor of the rooms above. From these guns were suspended on wooden forks, just as they were cut from the tree and stripped of their bark. Fishing rods were hung there in the same manner. In some places parcels of dried herbs were tied to large nails driven into the timbers. Here and there a board was nailed to the rafters, forming a shelf. On one side of the room was a great bench with a board back much higher than the head of any person who could sit upon it,—which back by an ingenious device could be let down and make a table,—the rude sofa beneath answering for solid legs.

Near this useful combination was a box on rockers—as a cradle. There lay the heir of Dinah. Its little dark head on the white pillow was like a large blackberry, could it have existed out of its season and fallen on the pure snow. Dinah, who was near it, was a character. Her sayings were memorable. One day she was speaking of a bad man who had found his way for a brief season to Overlook, and said in a state of great indignation, for he had cheated the people by some act of bare-faced villany, "Master, if the devil doesn't get that man I want any of the folks to tell me what is the use of having a devil?"

But the most singular portion of the room was the great fire-place and the arrangements connected with it. It was a structure perfectly enormous, and the stones required for its erection must have made a large opening in the quarry. It was deep and high. An ox could easily have been roasted whole before it. Over it was a shelf which no one in these degenerate days could reach. On either side were two small closets,—made in the deep wall,—the door of each being made from a wide plank, and secured by a large wooden button. In the back of the fire-place, on one side of it, was the door of a great oven,—rivalling in size, I presume, the tomb of the ancient grandee in the east—where the traveler slept, perhaps on some of the very dust of the proud man who gloried in the expectation of a kingly sepulchre. On either side of the room on a line with the vast fire-place were two doors opening into the air, and exactly opposite to each other. The broad hearth extended from door to door, being flagged with large smooth stones. Each door was framed of heavy oaken timber,—the boards in consequence of the depths of the frame being sunk as deep panels. Each had a heavy wooden latch, and a vast curved piece of wood was the handle by which it was to be opened.

On the great pavement in front of the fire-place stood Cæsar, a man with a frame finely developed. His twin brother Pompey dwelt on an adjoining farm,—so resembling him as one of the colored people said that you could "scarcely tell them apart, they were so like one another, especially Pomp." He had a rough coat thrown over him,—a fur-cap on his head, and he held in one hand an iron chain that trailed on the stone hearth and in the other a lantern emitting a blaze of light.

When we were all in our places Cæsar directed one of the boys to open the door on the right hand. There on the snow revealed by the light of his lantern, was the famous log on a line parallel with the stone paving that crossed the end of the room. Around this log, he with the help of the boy fastened the iron chain, securing it with a spike partially driven into the wood with a heavy hammer. The door on the left was then thrown open, and we saw by the lights borne by several of the laborers, that the oxen which had drawn the great segment of the trunk from the forest were standing there upon the snow waiting to complete their labor for the evening. The long chain extending across the whole width of the room was drawn through the door and fastened to the yokes of the oxen.

Then came the chief excitement of the time. A quantity of snow was thrown down at the entrance where the log lay in ponderous quiet, and beaten down with spades and the heavy boots of the men. All were now directed to stand some distance from the chain for fear of any accident. Then Cæsar gave the order. There was a sudden movement without. The words of command which oxen are supposed to know, were spoken to put them in motion. There was a loud snapping of whips. The chain was heaved in the air and rose and fell. The huge log was drawn forward. It passed the door and glided along on the stone pavement, like a great ship moving through the water after its sails have suddenly been lowered, and it proceeds by its acquired impulse. When it had reached the front of the vast aperture where it was to be slowly consumed, Cæsar gave his prompt order. It was immediately obeyed, and the oxen were brought to a pause in their exertions. It was evident from the absence of explanation to those without, and from the perfect composure of the master of the ceremony, that similar scenes were of frequent occurrence.

The chain being removed and the oxen led away, the log was rolled by the application of the levers to its place. There it lay, the crushed snow melting and falling on the hot hearth, the singing sound of the steam rising from the stones.

So there was the measure of the fancied increase of freedom from labor during the Christmas season. Nothing now remained but the gathering of all the household to the evening devotions. The Judge read the Scriptures, and after the singing of a hymn offered up the prayers. There was an indescribable reality in the attention, and a fervor in the kneeling church in the house. It led you to reflect how One who came down from above and took our nature upon him has taught man how to make his life on earth the dawn of an eternal day. I had felt the presence of God in the shades of the great mountain forest during past hours. But here in the stillness of this evening worship, as the light of the Redeemer revealed the grandeur of all that is immortal in men, of all that stands ever so near the portal of endless glory, as all earthly distinctions faded away among those who to the eye of faith, were now the sons of God,—distinctions overlooked at this hour, as the last fragment of the moulted plumage is unknown to the eagle soaring in its strength, no words could better express the sentiment of the time than those noble ones of old,—"This is none other than the house of God; this is the gate of heaven."

CHAPTER IV.

HOW THE OVERLOOK PAPERS CAME TO BE WRITTEN.

"I believe," said the Judge one morning shortly after my arrival, "that I must supply you with pen and paper, and assign to you a task."

"What can I do? Tell me how to be useful."

"Do not offer too hastily. Let me inform you of a custom which is observed here like the laws of the Medes and Persians.

"All our guests, at our festival seasons, and I hope that whenever it can be in your power you will be present, are most seriously enjoined to bring with them a contribution to our Overlook Papers. From each is demanded a story, a poem, or an essay. In the evening these are read. And indeed, I require from each of my friends who receives an invitation, if he cannot accept it, still to transmit his paper.

"These or copies of them are preserved in the huge book-case in the library. We sometimes draw upon the old collection, and it is pleasant to revive the old associations as they are again read to a happy circle. I ought to have sent you word, and told you to prepare your paper. It is an unusual thing for me to be guilty of such an omission. As I have been negligent I must now enjoin you to prepare to do your part with the others."

"My dear sir, has ever any guest written a paper after his arrival here?"

"Come! come! I have never asked any guest to do it after he came, who could probably accomplish it more easily than yourself."

"What shall I write?"

"Whatever you please. A Poem if you will."

"I might make the attempt. But will poetry come 'under compulsion?' Surely not 'under compulsion.' Shall I cudgel my brains? Will Pegasus go at my will when I smite him with my staff? How long might I sit here, the image of despair, and what despair on monumental marble, as desolate as the poet with fixed eye, unable to indite a line? How long might I be like the hopeless bird—all promise, but not one unfolded gleam of beauty? In this free air am I to find the poetic pressure of a prison? In this old cheerful home, a poet's garret? With your abundant and hospitable board before me, can I write as famous men of old, when they wanted a dinner? Am I to sit here, as one has said, waiting for inspiration as a rusty conductor for a flash of lightning? My dear sir, I surely can plead exemption. Let me come here, if we live, next Christmas season or at the early spring or autumnal gathering. I will provide two if you please. If the first should weary, then the circle can hope that I have kept the best for the last."

"I do not think that it will answer for one to be a hearer who has no paper of his own. So let me insist on your compliance."

"Well sir, if you insist on it, I must see what I can do. Would you object to my producing a poem already published by me in a New York paper?"

"I am sorry to say that would not be in accordance with our rules. The piece must be composed for our social gathering."

"Well I must then make the attempt. I would weave a short romance out of some story I have heard in my travels. But I am always afraid of the sad being who, searching to the fag-end of memory says, after hearing you, and approving, let me see, I have heard that, or something like it, before! I once learned a lesson and received a nervous shock which easily returns, as I was about to address a meeting, and under a sudden impression asked the most knowing inhabitant of the village, 'Did any of the speakers who have addressed you ever tell such a story?' 'Oh! yes,' said he, with sudden alarm, 'Every one who has been here has told that story.' Yet that was my main stay, argument, illustration, eloquence. I had to do the best I could without it. Since then I am in a trepidation lest I fall into the pit from which I kept my feet at that time."

"Well so much the better. Such caution will insure variety."

"Do not be too sure of that. Excessive care often leads us to the very errors it would avoid."

So our conversation closed. The paper was written and read. I looked some time ago in vain for my piece among the Overlook papers. Strange to say, it was not there. I saw the Judge originally endorse it and tie it up in the collection. Meta told me when I expressed my surprise that the document was missing, that she must confess that when she was younger and more silly, and had her taste less cultivated, she took it one day, after I had left her father's, secretly from the pile. Regarding it as of such small consequence, she had not put it back in its place; and as it was also particularly weak in having a few sentences evidently meant for her to understand as no one else could. She will find it, she says, when she next examines her old papers and letters. And she assures me that it must be safe, because the old house would not trouble itself to destroy it; the Overlook moths would not dare to touch it, and that it is destined to outlive its author, even if he had brass enough in him to make a monument.

I.

DR. BENSON, OR THE LIVING MAN EMBALMED FOR TWENTY YEARS.

The United States is the oldest country in the world. Many of its institutions are of a venerable antiquity which cast those of Europe into the shade. By their side those of Great Britain, France and Germany seem but of yesterday. The honest impressions of each man substantiate these assertions so clearly that all argument on the subject would be as great a work of supererogation as that of carrying shade to a forest. Ages, countless ages, as all reflecting men are aware, have been requisite for the development of man into the highest type of civilization. Not less, it is obvious, than five thousand years could elevate any human being into a genuine Yankee. Such an immense space of time must have elapsed before man, passing through each primeval epoch, could have worn away on Plymouth Rock the caudal appendages that impeded the progress of humanity.

We have such remarkable institutions among us, such progressive theorists upon all possible subjects, that the foundations of our cities must have been laid simultaneously with those of the Pyramids.

A like conviction arises as we compare our accomplished financiers who can raise up in any plain, mountains of gold, and turn little streams of promise into seas of bank notes, with the Indian magician whose alchemy transmuted mutterings and strange figures in the ashes into comfortable fires, venison, bear's meat, and a variety of comforts for his terror-striking wigwam. Are there not noted streets in our cities where some men have discovered the philosopher's stone?

And then look on the systems of our modern politics. Each man can see what glacier periods have been over the land, what thickness of ice impenetrable to pure rays from above, melted from beneath, ice which has ground down to dust the ancient heights of honor, of modest nature distrusting itself. Yes, we are the oldest people in the wide world.

Even the little village where my history directs our attention has one savor of dignified antiquity. It has had a long series of names in no rapid succession. Our antiquarians have not paid sufficient attention to this subject of the succession of such names borne by our villages and towns. One cause is our nervous apprehension, that such a study will reveal a former state of society which people of strong prejudice may not mention to our honor. Citizens who have long purses acquired in the sale of farms divided into town lots, who have highly educated and refined children, do not wish any one to contradict them while they intimate their illustrious descent, by saying that they remember when their father or grandfather dwelt at Scrabbletown, Blackeye or Hardcorner. The honest truth is that these names of these rural towns do indicate the transmigration of the souls of the places into different social forms. They often tell of the original solitude, the cluster of poor dwellings of men a little above the Indian, of small taverns springing up as the devil has sown the seed, of the free-fights, of the loose stones in the roads, the mud immeasurably deep, of the reformation with the advent of the itinerant preacher, of the church, of the school-house, of the rapid progress in general prosperity. In place of yielding to the seductive influence of the disquisition which offers itself to my toil, I shall consider it sufficient to say of our village that it was honored by becoming the residence of Dr. Benson. It is sufficient for me to inform my reader that at the time when my history commences his fame and occupation gave the title to the place. Indeed, in his honor it bore successively the names of Pill-Town, and Mortar and Pestle city.

His general history was not one that is uncommon in our land. Many a man of small education, but who has had a natural turn for the study of simple means for the cure of ordinary diseases in a country neighborhood has acquired considerable skill, and done more good, and far less evil, than could have been anticipated. In fact the ignorant often lean on such a man with special confidence. They prefer his services to those of the well-taught and meritorious physician. For they think it easily explicable, that the learned doctor should often cure the diseased. Books have taught him what medicines are needful for those who are sick. But around the quack there is a delightful cloud of mystery. His genius was surely born with him. He has stumbled on his remedies by some almost supernatural accident. And then there is the exciting and most pleasant doubt whether he has not had some dealings with the devil. You have moreover this advantage, that you acquire all the benefit of his compact with the evil one, without any guilt on your part. All that is evil lies on the head of the practitioner.

How noble the calling of the true physician! What more need we say of his office than that in every sick-room he can look to the Redeemer, and feel that he employs him to do, what he was continually doing by his own words when he was on the earth? "Without the power of miracles,"—I quote from memory words that fell from the lips of one very dear to me whose voice is no more heard on earth, and I fear I mar the sentence,—"Without the power of miracles, he goes about doing good, the blessed shadow of our Lord; and by him God gives sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf, enables the lame to walk and raises up those almost fallen into the sleep of death."

As I write, the manly form of our family physician, the form that we laid in the grave a few years ago, rises before me. Oh! what unselfishness, what high sense of honor and professional duty, what compassion for human infirmities, what a grand and enduring perception of the brotherhood of man, of the one family of rich and poor, learned and ignorant, didst thou then learn, our dear kind friend, in thy innumerable ministrations! Literary men have too often indulged in cheap humor at the cost of the physician. It is easy to caricature anything grand and sacred. It is easy to cure in the pages of the novel the sick man who plays his pranks at the expense of the doctor, and eats his meat, and drinks his wine when the medical advice assures him that he must fast or die. Just imagine one of these literati to send for his physician in haste.

"Doctor," he exclaims, "it is well you have come! Do give me some relief."

"Wait a moment," exclaims the physician! "I have something to read to you."

"Read to me, doctor! Why I am ill,—alarmed. Depend upon it, I am very sick. Prescribe for me at once."

"Prescribe for you! Why hear what you wrote concerning physicians. If they are what you describe, you should never ask them to come near your sick bed."

"But I wrote only in jest. I described the pretender."

"No, my dear sir, your assault is without limitation. Your attack is against all men of my profession. Your words were adapted to aid the ignorant popular prejudice against our art. I will read to you."

I cannot but think that, in such a case, there are not a few writers of light literature, who would be forced to perceive the meanness of their assault on a noble profession.

Our hero commenced his public career in a blacksmith's shop, where he gave assistance in the useful work done by his master on the anvil. There he displayed a curious talent for healing the diseases of the horses, which the farmers brought to the place. This gave him some notoriety. And he never was sent for to heal as a veterinary doctor, on any occasion, when he did not have the confidence of a man whose eyes pierced far through the skin, and saw the secret causes of disease.

A change in his fortunes occurred, when a skilful physician, who fled from France in a time of great political trouble, came to reside in his neighborhood. All the spare time that our hero could command he spent in serving him in his fishing excursions—rowing his boat for him, and pointing out the best places where he could cast his hook—an act that seemed to be his best solace as an exile. The good stream or lake that well repaid his skill and patience in the use of his rod, was almost to him for a season, a Lethe between him and beautiful France.

The amiable Frenchman was not destined long to endure any sorrows on our soil. At his death, Benson became the possessor of his few books, his few surgical instruments and some curious preparations. He rented a small house near the blacksmith's shop and tavern, and placed his books, the instruments, some strange bones, a curious stuffed animal, and some jars and bottles prominently in the window. He also had some unaccountable grandeur of scientific words, understood by all to be French—a public supposition in evidence of his having been a favorite pupil of the doctor. And then, as he was a capital fellow at a drink, it is no marvel that he acquired practice with rapidity. And as money flowed into his pocket, unhappily the whisky, in a proportionate manner, flowed down his throat. But as he had an established reputation, he of course received the compliment: "I would rather have Benson to cure me if he was drunk than to have any other doctor to cure me if he was sober." Such was the confidence of the men of Pill-Town in his skill.

Oftentimes when his brain was excited by his potations, he would wander off into the woods and seek roots and plants, talking to himself in strange words, and bent, apparently, on some great discovery. He began to throw out vague hints to some of his companions that he knew of some strange secret, and could perform a work more wonderful than he had ever before done in all his practice. But as his associates never dreamed that any one would make experiments on the bodies of men, and as his talk of philosophy seemed to be in the clouds, they, more akin to the clods of earth, heard him with blank minds, so that when he had done talking, there was no more impression left, than the shadows of passing birds left on their fields.

Once as he sat with a friend over a bottle of famous whisky, which is your true leveler, placing the man of science on a level with the ignorant boor, he gave him a full account of a singular adventure which he had with an Indian physician. It was a peculiarity of the doctor that his memory and power of narration increased, as he imbibed increasing quantities of his primitive beverage. He said that he had wandered away from home one fine morning, and been lost in the distant forest. He became very weary and fell asleep. His slumbers were broken by some sounds that were near to him, and looking through the bushes he saw a majestic Indian who was searching with great diligence for some roots, whose use he had imagined no man knew but himself. The doctor said that he rose, and approaching him with due professional dignity, informed him that he supposed he was one of the medical fraternity. His natural conjecture proved to be very correct. They soon became very sociable, and pledged each other in several good drinks from a flask which the white man fortunately carried in his pocket. The savage M. D. finally took him to his laboratory, and in return for some communications from one well versed in the modern state of medical science in France, which the red man listened to with the most intense admiration, he disclosed a variety of Indian cures. Above all he told of a marvelous exercise of his power, and related the secret means employed under the assurance of the most solemn promise that it should not be divulged. Dr. Benson told his friend that this great secret was in his mind morning and evening; that when he waked at night it haunted him, and that he could not cease to think of it if he would make every attempt.

When the bottle was nearly empty he said that if his hearer would promise great secrecy he would relate the narrative of the Indian. The other gave the required assurances. Three times however the doctor repeated one specific caution,—"Would he promise not to tell it to his wife?" and receiving three most earnest pledges, that no curtain inquisition should exert its rack so successfully, as to extort any fragment of the confidence, the relater proceeded without fear. I will tell you, said he, how the red-skin doctor influenced the welfare of a great Indian Prince.

Awaha was king of a tribe whose territory bordered on one of the great northern lakes. The eagle soaring when the heavens were filled with the winged tribes, was not more conspicuous and more supreme in grandeur, than he, when he stood among all the assembled warriors of the north. As the thunder-peal when the bolt tore the great oak on the mountains, so that it must wither and die, exceeded all the other tumult of the storm, so the shout he uttered in battle was heard amid the fierce cries of conflict.

The hearts of all the beautiful maidens moved at his approach, as the graceful flags and wild-flowers move when the breath of the evening wind seems to seek rest as it passes over the quiet lake. The Indian mothers said that it was strange that he sought no wife, when his deeds had gone before him, and seemed to have softened the hearts of such as the wisest of his race might have chosen for him. He had come from the battles a great warrior. Were there not daughters of his tribe, who became more stately and more grave, as though they heard great battle songs when he came near? Were not these fitted to be the wives of great braves,—the mothers of sons whose fame would last in war-songs? Surely the great warrior had need to speak to one who would be saddest of all when he was away, and most glad when his shadow fell upon the threshold! He speaks not, and the air around him is too still. The sunbeams seemed wintry, waiting for his voice. He seemed to leave the paths through the forest very lonely. The great mountain's summit must not ever be alone, covered with ice and snow, bright in the sun and in the moonbeams. Let spring come and cover it with soft green, and let the sweet song fill its trees, as the warm light streamed over it from the morning.

Many of the tribe marvelled that he did not seek for a bride the beautiful Mahanara. Some said that it was whispered among those who knew her best, that her thoughts were as the scent of the sweet vine she had planted and trained over the door of her wigwam, intended for the narrow circle at home, but drifting away far off on the fitful breeze; for when she would not, she sighed as she remembered the young warrior.

Once, some of the village girls told her that they heard that he had chosen a bride who lived far beyond the waters, and the great ridge of the Blue Mountains.

She replied, and her words seemed to die as they reached the ear, that the one whom he had chosen for his wife, ought not to plant the corn for his food but where the flowers covered the sod which she was to overturn in her spring tasks, that she must bring him water from the spring on the high hills where the Great Spirit had opened the fountains with his lightning, and where in vallies the pure snow lingered longest of all that fell in the winter; that when he came back from the hunter's far journey or from the terrors of his war path, her face must assure him of all the love and praise of his tribe, as the lake tells all the moon and stars shed abroad of glory in the pure midnight.

The story that was a secret sorrow to her was false, and no maiden should have whispered it. It came not over a path that was trodden by warriors. The dove would not fly in the air which was burdened by such tidings. Awaha loved her, and because she feared to meet him freely, and seemed to turn away as he drew near, he thought that she loved him not.

One night he fell asleep by the great fire of the hunters. The companions of the chase had counted their spoils, and spoke with joy of their return, of the glad smiles that awaited them, of the hum of the voices of the children as they drew near to the village.

He dreamt that he came near to his solitary dwelling-place. He was all alone on the path of the forest. He heard the unending sounds which are in the great wilderness, none of which ever removes the lonely shadow from the heart,—the shadow that has fallen on endless generations, that speaks of countless graves amid the trees, and of countless hosts that are out of sight in the spirit land.

That I could hear, he thought, one voice breaking the stillness of my way! That I could look to the end of the thick trees and know that when I issued from their darkness, as the light would be above me, so the light would be in my home.

As he was thus borne away by the fancies of the night he murmured the name of Mahanara.

By his side was her brother, who loved him more than his life. He heard the name, and rejoiced in the assurance which it taught him. When he spoke of the murmur of the dream the next day, as they were alone on the great prairie, he received the open confession. And then the brother uttered words which filled the heart with hope.

When they returned from the hunting-grounds he directed his steps to the dwelling of her father,—crossing to reach it, the little stream that she loved to watch as it foamed amid the white stones that rested in its bed.

Around the walls were trophies of the chase and of the battle. But the wild songs and the stories of former days were no more heard from his lips. He seldom spoke but of the Spirit-land, and in strange words for the home of the Indian, prayed that the Great One would teach the tribes to love peace. He said he was going to new hunting grounds, but not to new war paths. The people of the wilderness that he would meet in the sky would speak in voices that never would utter the cry of strife.

When the evening came upon them, and the old man sat silent, looking gladly on the stars, Awaha said to Mahanara, "Walk with me to these fir-trees that echo murmurs to yon stream."

"Mahanara's place is here," she said gently. "Here she can prepare the corn and the venison, and spread the skins for her guest. But in the fir-grove there is no door for her to open. There she cannot say, Welcome. There she cannot throw the pine-knot on the flames to brighten the home for thy presence. Stay here and say some words of the Spirit-land to my father. I will sew the beads, and weave the split quills, and the voices I shall hear shall be pleasant like the mingling of the murmurs of the rill and of the wind when the leaves that we see not are in motion, sounds which I so love, for they were among the first sounds I heard by the side of my mother."

Then he replied, "I must say here what I would have said to thee under the stars and the night. Why was it not said in the days that are past? The stream could not come to the water-flower, for it was frozen. The sun came the other day, and the winter-power took off its bonds from the stream. Long have I loved thee—loved thee here as I wandered in the village—loved thee far off on the prairies—loved thee when the shout told that the vanquished fled from our onset. Be my bride, and the Great Spirit will know where is the Indian whose step on earth is the lightest."

He saw that the tears were falling fast as he spoke, and that she did move as a maiden at the plea of her lover.

"Thou hast waited," she said, "to move thy flower until the winter has hold of its roots in the ground hard as the rock. Hadst thou come before the snow had melted, then Mahanara had gone with thee. Then together we had cared for him who can go out on the hunt no more. But seest thou these links of the bleached bone carved with these secret symbols? Seest thou the fragment of the broken arrow-head? Thou knowest how these bind me to another. I will pray for thee to the Great Spirit. A warrior's wife may pray for a warrior. Seek thou another and a better bride among the daughters of our tribe."

"It cannot be," he said. "I shall go away from the land where the sun shines, like the lone tree amid the rocks. It shall wither and die, and who will know that it ever cast its shade for the hunter."

"Ah not so," she said, "it is the shadow of to-day. Seek the wife that is on the earth for thee. If she has sorrow send for me and I will hold up her fainting head. If I comfort her, then shall I also comfort thee. I will speak the praises of thy tribe and she will love me."

Awaha sat in his lonely house day after day, and friends looked on him in sorrow and said that the Great Spirit was calling him, for his last path was trodden. They sought me in their sorrow, not regarding the long weary journey. My home is in a deep dark cave on the side of the mountain. The great horn from the monster that has never roamed the forest since the Indian began to hand down the story of his day hangs on the huge oak at the entrance. The blasts shake the forest, and I hear it far down below the springs in the earth where I burn my red fires.

In vain I tried all my arts to drive from him the deep and lasting sorrow. So I sought the aid of my mother whose home is near the great river that pours its waters from the clouds—over which the storm of heaven seems to rage in silence. She heard my story, and she arrayed herself in her strange robe bright with the skins of snakes from a land where the sun always keeps the earth green and warm. On her head were the feathers of the eagle and of the hawk.

She kindled her fire on the stones that were heaped together and threw in them bones and matted hair.

Then she drank of the cup, death to all but for her lips, and poured that which was left on the flame. The fire told her the story of days that were to come. She said that Awaha must live. When three winters had come and gone Mahanara would be alone, for wrapped in his hunting skins, the braves would lay her husband in his grave. Let him live—let Awaha live—for he and Mahanara shall yet dwell among their people. The vine shall fall. It can twine around another tree. Let Awaha live.

So I sought him—and his eye was dim—he scarce knew the voices of those around him. I gave him the precious elixir which my mother alone on earth could draw from roots such as no eye of man has ever seen. The young men placed him on a litter and bore him to a far off river. There we made the raft, covered it with leaves, and we floated gently onward to my cave. Then I said leave him with me. In a few days he will have strength and shall go down these waters to his canoe. A new home shall he seek where there are no paths ever trodden by Mahanara. There he shall not look round as the breeze moves the bushes, as though she was near him. He shall not see flowers there which shall say, you gathered such for her in the warm days when the Indian village was full of hearts as bright as the sun shining down upon it. The woods everywhere has a place for the warrior. There are no mountains where the battle-cry cannot echo. There are no red men where the great man shall not be great. I then gave him strange food that a hunter from the spirit land once threw down at the tent of my mother when she had healed his little child that he left to the care of his tribe. I then compounded in the cup which was white and shining, as it had been on a high rock for ages to be bleached in the moonbeams, the draught that he was to drink that he might sleep for three years. I laid him gently in the clift in the rock above my cave. The warm spring ran winter and summer beneath the place of his rest. I covered him with light bruised roots that would add to his strength. I placed over him the cedar boughs, matted, so that the rain could reach him. Over these, folds of leaves well dried in the heat of the cavern. I laid the loose stones over all and scattered the dust there which the beasts flee from, waking the echo of the forest. There he slept until the great stillness come over the husband of Mahanara, and the great song had told of his wisdom, of his battles, as the warriors stood by his grave.

One day she sat by the side of the stream,—and not on the bank where she had often chanted the wild song to Awaha. Her hands were forming the beautiful wampum belt. I came to her, and as we spoke of past days, her eye rested on the chain of Awaha, that I wound and unwound as if I thought not of it, before her eyes that rested on it for a moment only to look away, and to look far down into the deep water.

I laid it secretly near her,—and left her, crossing on the white stones of the stream, and passing into the deep forest.

When the dark night came over all the village, I crept silently to her wigwam. There she sat by the fire and pressed the chain to her heart, and looked sadly on the flames that rose and fell, and gleamed on one who was near and unknown.

He must live. So I sought him when the red star was over the mountain. Three moons more could he have slept, and have yet been called from his sleep to see the bright sunbeams.

Oh how beautiful the warrior, when all the coverings were taken away, and I saw him again as on the day when he first fell into his slumber.

As I waked him, he said, "yesterday you said that I should live. I feel strange strength after the sleep of the night that is past."

When he fell asleep a great night had crept up to his eye,—and he saw not the hunting-ground,—the fierce battle,—the wigwam,—but darkness,—and beyond it darkness,—and beyond that the land of all spirits. Now his eye was sad,—but he looked as one who heard voices call him to go forth, and be not as the stone that lies on the hill-side.

I sought Mahanara, and told her that he would come back from far, and would seek her as the bride of a warrior. I sent him to her home, and he trod the forest paths as the sunshine sweeps from wave-crest to wave-crest in the brook that hurries on, leaving the sound of peace in its murmurs. So out of the years they met, as the breeze so sweet from over the wild-flowers and trees of the valley, and the wind that carried strength from the sides of the mountain.

"Can you marvel that they call me the great medicine man among the tribes? Thou art a great brother. Thy fire-water is good. The white men honor thee. Thou keepest the sod that is wet with tears from being turned over. They call thee the very great man of thy tribe." I will not tell you all that he said of me. Let others learn that of him, and speak of it. Then he said,—"Brother tell thou me more of thy wonderful powers. I will teach thee how to mingle the cup for the sleep of many years." "So he told me," said the doctor, "how to compound the mixture. And the secret no one shall hear from my lips. If you will, I will put you to sleep for as long a time as you can desire. Put your money out at interest. Go to sleep until all you have has been doubled. Then let me wake you, and you can enjoy it."

This desire to put a fellow-creature into this sleep took possession of the doctor, and it was his dream by day and night, when he was tipsy, or half ready to become so. He tried to persuade a good-natured negro, Jack, who lived near his premises, to indulge in the luxury. But Jack assured him that he was as much obliged to him as if he had done it.

At last he formed his plan, and attempted to carry it into execution. There was Job Jones, who lived, nobody knew how, and nobody cared whether he lived or not. When he could gain a few coppers, he was a great and independent statesman at the tavern. And when he had no pence, he walked along in the sun as if he had no business in its light, and with a cast-down look as if he thanked the world for not drowning him, like supernumerary kittens.

So one evening the doctor easily enticed Job to his office. Then he partook of whisky until he lost all sense of all that occurred around him. The poor fellow soon fell asleep. The great experimenter dragged him to a box prepared for him in the cellar. Then he poured down his throat the final draught, and covered him with great boughs of cedar. He then ascended to his office. His first thought was that of triumph. "There," he said, "was that shallow Doctor Pinch, the practitioner at the next village, who had called him an ignoramus, and said that he was not fit to be the family physician of a rabbit. He had written the account of the boy who had fallen down and indented his skull, and that some of his brains had to be removed,—all done so skilfully by Doctor Pinch, that he was ever after, a brighter fellow than ever before. His mother always boasted of the manner in which the doctor had 'japanned' his skull. But what will he be when I wake up Job? Sleep away, Job! You will have for years to come, the easiest life of any man in these United States. No want of shoes, or clothes, or whisky. When you wake you shall have a new suit, after the fashion of that coming time. Doctor Pinch! Pooh! what is Doctor Pinch to Doctor Benson?"

After a little while a cry of murder rang through his half intoxicated brain. A great chill crept over his frame. The night became horrible in its stillness.

He must try the old resource. It never failed, whisky must restore the energy. He took up the glass from the table. It fell from his hands as if he was paralyzed.

He had made a fearful mistake. The cup of whisky which he had poured out for himself was the last drink which he had ministered to Job. He had taken the sleeping draught by mistake.

When they came, he thought and found him so still, so senseless, and that for days he never moved, would they not bury him! Then he might smother in the grave! Or waking some twenty years hence, he would wake in some tomb, some vile epitaph over him, written by that Pinch, and call for aid, and die, and die.

He saw himself in his coffin. The neighbors were all around him. The clergyman was ready to draw an awful moral against intemperance from his history. He was about to assure his hearers that no one could doubt what had become of such a man in another world.

His brain became more and more confused. He sank on the floor senseless. So Job slumbered in the box, and the doctor on the floor of the office.

Twenty years have elapsed. Dr. Benson wakes. It is a clear morning. How has the world changed! There, out of his window he sees the village. That row of neat dwellings is his property. He has a pleasant home to wake in. His wife is the very personification of happiness and prosperity. The clothes in which he arrays himself are a strange contrast to the miserable habiliments in which he fell down to sleep on the office floor twenty years ago. There is the spire of the church—and thank God, he loves to enter there as a sincere and humble worshipper.

What a change in this lapse of years! What an awakening! How is the world altered!

If the doctor's voice reached the ear of the intemperate man, he said, "Friend, better the fang of the rattlesnake than your cup. The bands that you think to be threads, are iron bands that are clasping you not only for your grave, but forever. Awake! and see if the good Lord will not give you a world changed, as the world has thus been to Dr. Benson."

II.

THE GHOST AT FORD INN—NESHAMONY.

PART FIRST.

There, where the time-worn bridge at School House Run,
Spans o'er the stream unquiet as our lives,
You find a place where few will pause at night;
Where the foot-fall is quick, and all press on
As if a winter's blast had touched the frame,
And men drew to themselves. Oft there is seen,
So men aver, the quiet gliding ghost.

Descend yon hill, near woods so desolate,
With upward gloom, and tangled undergrowths,
And shadows mouldering in the brightest day.
Near is the Indian spring's unmurmuring flow.
The summit now is gladdened by the Church.
You leave all village sounds, and are alone,
On grass-worn paths your feet emit no sound.
The thick damp air is full of dreary rest,
And stillness there spreads out like the great night.

Upon the left, hidden by aged oaks,
Is a small cedar grove; where broken winds
Are organ-like with requiem o'er some graves.
A low stone wall, and never-opened gate
Protect the marble records of the dead.

To stand at sunny noon, or starry night
Upon the arch, where you can yield the soul,
Captive to nature's impress, power with peace,
Is stillness from afar. The solitude
Seems linked with some far distant, distant space
In the broad universe, where worlds are not.
Unrest with rest is there. We often call
That peace, where thoughts are deep, but where the soul
Moves as the great, great sea, in mighty waves.
Here memories for tears, forgotten thoughts
Come without seeking. Just as the winds of May
Bring with unlaboring wings, from unknown fields,
Sweet scents from flowers, and from the early grass.

The fearful man, who left the village store,
Near to the cross roads, where the untutored tongue
Supplies the gossip of the printed sheet,
Has here beheld the mist-like, awful ghost.
The rustic lover under midnight stars,
Detained so long by Phebe's sorceries,
His little speech taking so long to say,
Has had his faith sore tried, as he has asked,
Will I, next week, pass here alone, again?
Far the most haunted spot lies yet beyond,
Follow the road until you reach the Ford,
There at the mouldering pile of wall and logs,
Where once the floating raft was as a bridge,
A pure white spirit oftentimes is seen.
She sometimes wanders all along the shore;
Sometimes from off the rocks, she seems to look
For something in the waters. Then again
Where the trees arch the road that skirts the bank,
And night is like the darkness of a cave,
This gentle spirit glides. Earth's sorrow yet,
Its burden, weary burden, borne alone.

Sad is the story of her earthly life.
You see that lonely house upon the green,
With its broad porch beneath that sycamore.
'Tis now a pleasant undisturbed abode.
There lingereth much of ancient time within:
Long may it cling there in these days of change!
Quaint are the rooms, irregular. The bright fire
Glows from the corner fire-place. Often there
I sit, and marvel o'er the shadowy past.
It is a place of welcome. Loving hearts
Extend the welcome. Angels welcome thus.
Dear sisters, reading there the purest page,
Planning some act of gentleness to wo,
The selfishness of solitary life,
Not finding place amid your daily thoughts,
For you commune with that activity
Of love most infinite, that once came down
From the far Heaven, to human form on earth.
The music of the true, the harmony
Of highest thoughts, that have enthroned as kings
The best in heart, and head of all our race,
Have their great kindred echoes as you read.
O as your prayers ascend, pray oft for me,
And then I shall not lose the name of friend.
The golden link that bindeth heart to heart
Forever, is the Love and prayer in Christ.
Since the Great Being gives me love at home,
The Diamond payment for my worth of dust,
Gives me that bright and daily light of earth,
I'm bold, and covetous of Christian love.

This house, in ancient days a wayside inn,
Has sheltered men of mark. Here Washington
Rested his weary head without despair,
Before the sinking tide rose with bright waves
At Trenton, and the spot where Mercer fell.
Here youthful La Fayette was also seen,
Whose smile, benign in age, was joy to me,
As my loved Father, at our fire-side spake
To him, as the true Patriot speaks to those
Who win a nation's homage by their toils.
Here even now, on an age-colored pane,
The letters, diamond-cut, show Hancock's name.

The war had found the host of the Ford Inn
A happy man; no idler round a bar;
For his chief calling was upon his farm,
With rich fields open to the sun, amid
The dense surrounding forests, where the deer
Still lingered by the homes of laboring men.
He bore arms for his country. And he heard
The last guns fired at Yorktown for the free.

One little daughter played around his hearth;
Oft tracked his steps far in the furrowed field;
Looked up with guileless eye in his true face.
After each absence short, her merry shout
Of greeting at his coming, rose as sure
As sounds from those dark cedars on the shore,
When the winds rise and break their mirror there.

Oh happy child! She also learned the love
That places underneath her the strong arms
Of Him who held the children when on earth,
Journeying along his pathway to the cross.
She opened all her gentle Heaven-touched heart
To all the unknown teachings of her home.

The wild-flower's beauty passed into her thoughts,
And as she gazed, and saw in earth and sky,
In every form the love of God stream forth,
She knew of beauty that could never fade.
For He, from whom these emanations came,
Will never cease to be a God revealed.

Happy the child, for her fond parents both
Had souls to kindle with her sympathies.
They learned anew with her the blessed love,
Which makes the pure like children all their days.
With her pure mind repassed the former way,
Their age and youth blended at once in her.

There was a small church in the little town
Of Bristol, some miles distant, over which
A loving pastor ruled with watchful care.
He came from England,—and but few had known
That he was bishop, of that secret line
Which Ken, and other loyalists prolonged,
Prepared for any changes in the realm.
The good man loved his people at the ford.
The child's expanding mind had ample seals
Of his kind guidance. From his store of books
He culled the treasures for her thoughtful eye.

Another memorable influence,
To add refining grace, came from the town.
One, whose sweet beauty threw a woman's charm
Over a household, seeking health in air,
That rustles forest leaves, that sweeps the fields,
Came to their home, and was not useless there.

She threw round Ellen, in resplendent light,
What Ellen knew before, in fainter day.

The lady was so true in all her grace,
Such open nature, that the child, all heart,
Could think, could love, could be as one with her.
How sad, that the refinement of the world,
Should often be the cost of all that's true!

From the volcano's side the dreadful stream,
That buried the great city, pressed its way,
To every room of refuge. Prison ne'er
Gave bondage like those dark and awful homes.
Around each form came the encrusting clay:
Death at the moment. Dying ne'er so still.
In passing ages all the form was gone:
The dark clay held the shapes of what had been,
And when the beauteous city was exhumed,
Into those hollows, moulds of former life,
They poured the plaster, and regained the form,
Of men, or women, as they were at death.
So all that lives in nature, in the heart,
Is often, living, buried by the world,
By its dead stream. Dust only can remain.
And in its place the statue—outward all
The form of beauty—the pretense of soul.

How the child basked in all her loveliness!
Unconscious, she was moulded day by day,
Sweet buds that in her heart strove to unfold,
Had waited for that sun. And Ellen saw
Her mother in changed aspect. The soft charms
Of her new friend, revealed at once in her,
More of the woman's natural tenderness.

The gentle child, had not a single love
For all the varied scenes of bank and stream—
And these to her were almost all the earth,
But as each glory centered round her home.
If the descending sun threw down the light
Tinged with the mellow hues of autumn leaves,
Upon the waters till they shone as gold,
And yet diminished not the million flames
That burnt upon the trees, all unconsumed,
It was to her a joy. But deeper joy
Came with the thought, that all her eye surveyed,
Was but a repetition of the scene,
When her fond mother, at some former day,
Had by her side blessed God for these his works.
And all the softest murmurs of the air
Recalled her father's step, and his true voice.
Thus home entwined itself with every thought,
As that great vine with all that wide-branched oak.

PART SECOND.

And in this quiet scene, the child grew up,
To know not inequalities of lot,
Of any rank dissevering man from man.
Once from the splendid coach, the city dame
And her young daughter entered the Ford Inn.

As Ellen gazed upon the little one
Whose eye recalled the dove, and then the gleam
That morning threw upon her much loved waves,
And on the tresses, like the chesnut fringe
In full luxuriance, she came forth and stood
With such a guileless, and admiring love,
That tenderness was won. And then they strolled
O'er Ellen's favorite haunts. She asked the child,
Have you such waters, and such trees beside
Your home far off? The little languid eye
Gazed vacantly on all the beauty there,
And then, as one who had not heard the words,
And least of all could give forth a response
To nature's loving call, even as it passed
To her, through Ellen's eyes, and Ellen's voice,
And from her kindled soul,—she turned again,
Absorbed in the small wagon which they drew,
And to the stones they skimmed upon the stream.

Just for a brief space, down there seemed to fall
A veil between the two—a veil like night.
All Ellen's greater, deeper swell of tides
Of soul, forever dashing on the cliffs
On which mind's ocean-great forever beat
Their swell of thunder, here could find no height
That could reverberate. And yet her heart
Was all too noble, high, serenely pure,
Too Christ-taught ever thus to stand apart.

The tender gentleness, the laughing eye,
The soul responsive to the moment's joy,
The power to love, the softening sympathy
With every bird or squirrel that appeared,
Or rabbit, scarce afraid, with wondering eye,
The love of parents, her sweet talk of friends,
And above all, a heart to beat so true
To all that One in heaven had said to her,
Were most alluring powers. Ellen forgot
Wherein they differed: And their souls then chimed
As sounds of bells, blended in summer's wind.
So, as if sunbeams faltering on the bank,
The cloud departing, creep o'er all the green,
Her brightening interest rested on the child.

And when they parted at the bridge of logs,
Though the child's dress was gorgeous, and the pomp
Of city livery from the chariot shone,
While the soft tear was in our Ellen's eye,
There still dwelt all unknown in her sweet mind,
All free from pride, the deep inspiring wish,
That she could raise this merry-hearted one
Above herself: and then there came the thought,
Unconscious, causing sorrows—higher aims—
That the one gone was poor, and she was rich.

There was a loneliness, and so she sought
Her mother; whose companionship was peace:
Who ever won her to her wonted rest.

There is a poetry in many hearts
Which only blends with thought through tenderness:
It never comes as light within the mind
Creating forms of beauty for itself.
It has an eye, and ear for all the world
Can have of beauty. You will see it bend
Over the cradle, sorrow o'er the grave.
It knows of every human tie below,
The vast significance. Unto its God
It renders homage, giving incense clouds
To waft its adorations. By the cross,
It hears the voice, "How holy all is here!"
It speaks deep mysteries, and yet the clue
Is most apparent to the common mind.
Its sayings fall like ancient memories;
We so accept them. Natures such as these
Are often common-place, until the heart
Is touched, and then the tones from gates of heaven.
Such are the blessed to brighten human life—
To give a glory to our earth-born thoughts—
To teach us how to act our deeds as kings,
Which we might else perform as weary slaves.
They give us wings, not sandals, for the road
Full of dry dust. And such the mother was.
So as we tell you of the child, there needs
No voice to say, and such the woman was.

One day she sought her father in the field,
Just before sunset, ready for his home.
And as they reached the rocks along the shore,
Where the road turns, to meet the deep ravine,
Nigh unto Farley, a faint cry for help
Rang in their ears. It was a manly voice
Grieving through pain. They turned aside, and found
A stranger, who had fallen, as he leapt
From out his boat. His fallen gun and dress
Proclaimed the sportsman. Aid was soon at hand,
And in their dwelling he found friends, and care.

Days past. His mother came, and soon she found
He spake to Ellen, Ellen unto him;
As they spake not to others. And it seemed,
Such a perpetual reference in his talk,
As if he had not now a single thought,
Which had not been compared with thought of hers.

At first her pride was moved. And while she stood
Irresolute, the spell was fixed: as when
The power of spring thaws winter to itself.
She knew her son was worthy: and she knew
Here, in the wide-world must he seek a wife.
And in due time she was his fair-haired wife.

They had a rural home across the stream.
Their lights at night answered the cheerful light
Of her paternal home. Their winter's fires
Mingled their gleam upon the dark night wave,
Or on the ice. By summer's winds her voice
Was wafted o'er the waters, as she sang:
And loving hearers blessed her in their hearts.

Oh! what a joy, when in her arms they placed
Her son—ah doomed to be her only born!
Her cup of happiness seemed now so full.
And then the Father, knowing all to come,
Gave her more grace, and so she loved him more,
And had no Idol. But, as days rolled on
Such sorrow came, I scarce can tell the tale.
She saw her husband's manly strength all gone.

There was a withering tree, in the spring time,
Which on the lawn, seemed struggling to assume
The Autumn's hues amid the world's full green.
He faintly smiled, and said, "So do I fade."
Soon it was dead. He lingered slowly on.
Hopes came: hopes faded. From the early world
'Tis the same story. It was well for her,
In this her sorrow, she had learned to weep
In days of bliss, as she had read the page
Which tells of Jesus bearing his own cross.

His mother came, but Ellen was repelled
By the stern brow of one who met the shock
And would not quail. That hard and iron will
Was so unlike her firmness. She was one
Who had ruled abjects. Sorrow seemed a wrong.

The parting time drew near. And then as one
Who asked as one gives law. "This little boy
Should dwell with me. Thereby shall he attain
All discipline to form the noble man.
Even as I made his Father what he was,
So will I now, again, care for the child.
Let him with me. And he shall often come
And visit you. This surely will be wise."
We need not say that Ellen too was firm.

A mother's love! In all the world a power,
To educate as this! Could any wealth
Of other learning recompense this loss!
Would this stern woman ripen in his heart
Fruits, that angelic eyes beheld with joy?
"When the boy grew, at times she'd gladly send
With thanks, the child to all this proffered care."
But now—to send him now! Why at the thought
A darkness gathered over all the world.
From all things came a voice, "All, all alone,
The husband is not—the child far away."

There was strange meaning in the angry eye;
A strange defiance, and an unknown threat,
Enmity and a triumph. As if a triumph gained.
A nation crushed, her husband's mother looked,
No flush was on her face—her voice the same.

Coldly she said, farewell. And Ellen held
The child with firmer grasp, when she was gone.
Then she had sorrow that they thus should part;
For she felt all the reverence death made due,
And also mourned rejection of her love.

As the child slept one night, watched by his nurse,
She crossed the river on the bridge of logs,
To reach her parents. Under the bright stars
The Neshamony, and its hurried waves,
Rising and falling all around her path.
No peace in all the Heavens that she could see
Was like her peace. "I suffer here," she said,
"But suffering, I shall learn more love for all."

She had returned. Her footsteps died away,
Her parents stood yet in the open air,
Where they had parted with her for the night.

Then o'er the stream there came an awful cry.
It was her cry. Oh agony to hear!
It stilled all sounds besides. It seemed to make
The wide-arched Heavens one call to echo it.
Parents and others rushed there with affright,
In breathless terror. Nurse and child were gone.
Each wood around, and every forest road
Gleamed all the night with torches. But no cheer
Rose to proclaim a trace of faintest hope.
One traveler said, that on a distant road
He met a carriage, hurrying with strange speed,
And heard, in passing, cries of a young child.
In vain they follow. Hopeless they return.

Oh wondrous, the ingenious plan devised
By that poor mother to regain her child!
Her parents tried, as if for life and death
To give her aid: and saw that she must die:
For patience such as hers was all too grand
To linger long on earth. She day by day
Trod her old haunts. But never did she see
The Heaven, or beauteous world. Her pallid lips
Moved with perpetual prayer. And when she leaned
On those who loved her, the storm-tossed at rest,
She was as quiet as in days, when she
Was but an infant. When they spoke of hope
She smiled. It was a smile of love, not hope.
It was indeed simplicity to one,
Just on the threshold where His people pass,
And where, forever, they have more than hope.

All saw that she attained a mystic life,
That was not of the earth. What might she had
To love the sorrowing! By the dying bed
She seemed as if she had not known a pang,
Her voice so peaceful. Little children round
Gazed sorrowful: and in their confused thought
Deemed that the anguish of her little child
Weeping its mother, was her dying pain;
And thought how desolate fond hearts would be
If they were gone, as was her little one.

One sweet Lord's Day she knelt down at the rail,
In her loved Church, and had forgot all grief,
Receiving there the hallowed Bread and Wine,
And the one shadowed forth had strengthened her,
So that she fed on food come down from Heaven.
The others moved. But she was in her place.
The Pastor came, and found that she was dead.
Oh how the tears of Christians fell that day!
Oh how they thanked God for her good release!
And so she went to her eternal rest.

But men, unreasoning, said they saw her form,
Oft in the night, along the river shore—
Oft at the Ford, which now is crossed no more.
And men will say, in firmness of belief,
That when the Inn was closed, and no man dwelt
In its forsaken walls, a light was seen
In Ellen's room. And then they also say,
That pure while flowers which never grew before,
Now come with Spring, where her bright spirit walks.
My children say, that if you hear the owl
Along her pathway, you may hasten on
Sure that her spirit will not meet you there.
But should you hear a bird of plaintive song,
Break the night's stillness, then go far around
By field and wood—for you may see her form
Along the shore she gladdened with her life—
A shore of many sorrows at the last.

III.

MY FIRST ATTEMPT AT BIOGRAPHY;—OR, LITERATURE FOR A FAIR WIDOW.

I had just concluded my first cause at the bar. My duty had been the defence of a man, whom the jury, without leaving the box, condemned to be hung. My friends said that I spoke very eloquently. I consoled myself for my want of success, by remembering that my client had put into my hands, sorry evidence of his innocence, in place of having allowed me to arrange the circumstances of his murderous deed, so that the testimony against him might have at least, some degree of inconsistency and doubt. But the rash creature formed his plan for killing a man out of his own head. A poor, stupid, blundering head it was.

I have always regarded that trial with a cool, philosophical mind. I think that any gentleman, who indulges himself in that rather exceptionable occupation of shedding the blood of his fellow-man, without first consulting a lawyer, deserves to be executed. And, verily, this fellow got his deserts.

Well, as I sat in my office, perfectly calm and composed, some hours after the case was decided, I received a pretty note from a widow lady. I had often met her at our pleasant little evening parties. She was on a visit to one of her friends in our green village; was very pretty, was said to be quite agreeable, and it was obvious that she was much admired by the gentlemen. As to her age—to say the least on that subject, which I consider, in such a case, to be the only gentlemanly mode of procedure—she was some years older than she wished to be accounted.

Her particular friends said that she had been very beautiful as a girl. She was one of that select class, scattered over our country, concerning each of whom there was a family tradition, that on some occasion of public ceremonial, General Washington had paused and stood opposite to her in mute admiration. I know that the great Father of his country was reported to have paid such a tribute to one of my maiden aunts—and that the story procured from her nephews and nieces a large portion of respect. I boasted, as a boy, of this fact—regarding it as a sprig of a foreign aristocratic family, would the honors of his aunt, the Duchess. But an unreliable boy at our school matched this history from the unwritten archives of his vulgar relatives. So, in great disgust, I held my tongue on the subject for the future.

Well, thought I, as I mused over the note of the widow, the formation of some of her letters indicating a romantic turn of mind; this is, indeed, a strange, a very strange world. Here I have just done with a client who must get himself hung. A dull, stupid fellow; a blockhead of the most knotty material, "unwedgeable" by any possible force of common sense; a spot on the face of the earth! Hang him! Hanging is too good for him. He was a fellow who had neither eyes, nor nose, nor mouth for the attracted observation of a jury, nor any history, nor any ingenuity in his murderous deed,—as a thread on which a poor advocate could suspend one gem of argument, one gem of eloquence to blaze and dazzle the eyes of the twelve substantial citizens, whose verdict was to life or death. And now here is a call to attend to some legal business to be done in the sunshine of a fair lady's favor! Has she heard of the rare ability displayed in the defence of this man who is so soon to be suspended in the air, as a terror to evil doers? Or has she been allured by my good looks and agreeable manners? Handsome!—a few years older than myself, and then a good little fortune, which my legal knowledge could protect. Well, if this world be odd, I must make the best of it. Society is a strange structure; and happy is the man who is a statue ready for his appropriate pedestal.

It is unquestionably an amiable trait in human character which clothes those, who by special circumstances acquire marked relations with us, in attractions which surpass ordinary charms.

I must freely confess that I never saw the widow look so interesting as at the hour when I made my visit. I presented myself with dignity, as one who represented learning at the bar, and future dignities on the bench. She received me kindly. There was a seriousness in her demeanor, an obvious earnestness, as of one who had a burden on the mind, so that I perceived that the occasion was one of great importance.

I ought here to inform the gentle reader that it had been my good pleasure, instigated by ambition natural to young men, and as a relaxation from my graver studies, to indite various articles in prose and verse for the Newark Democrat;—a paper which was supposed by the editor, the host at the Bald Eagle Inn, the headquarters of the ruling political party in our town, and also by several members of the Legislature who could read any kind of printing, to exert a great influence over the destinies of our country.

There was one contribution of mine, entitled, "The Flame Expiring in the Heart," which obtained great admiration, and was committed to memory by a number of the young ladies at Miss Sykes' boarding-school. It was copied into both of the New York papers. Just, however, as it seemed to be securing a place for itself in American poetry, some one, urged by envy, and under the instigation of very bad taste,—some said it was Paulding, some Washington Irving,—but that was simply slanderous,—I say some one of more self-conceit than of the gift of appreciation of pure versification, and of elevated sentiment, wrote a reply. It had a hypocritical dedication as if the author of the aforesaid poem was affectionately addressed, and as if the utmost tenderness of sorrow was displayed in sympathy. To crown all, the coarseness of the writer was shown in the title, "A Bellows to Fan the Expiring Flame of Alonzo in the Newark Democrat."

However it is not necessary for me to dwell on my literary career. I was compelled to allude to it, in order that you could understand the reasonableness of the conduct of the lady under the circumstances which I now describe.

After a few words of greeting, she at once descended into the "midst of things." She informed me that the reasons of her sending for me, were her convictions of my goodness of heart, which she gleaned, no doubt, from the tone of my poetry, of my elevated desire to promote the interests of science and of letters, and her high idea of my literary abilities, particularly as a writer of prose.

Here I felt that her critical skill was in error. She had not, perhaps, as much natural capacity for the admiration of sterling poetry as of prose. Without intending to hint that I pretend to the false humility of undervaluing my prose style, I am satisfied, that to say the least, my poetry is in all respects its equal. But to return from this brief digression; the fair one proceeded to say, that she perceived that I had a remarkable gift in narrative.

Now, her deceased husband, she said, was a very remarkable man. A true account of his abilities and virtues need only be placed before the public attention to secure him a perpetual remembrance among men. It would be a great wrong,—indeed it would be robbing the world of a just claim, that his character, writings, and his general history should not be widely known. As she discoursed on the subject, she became a little romantic; and when she began to expand her views, and to adopt the figure of a flower concealed from the gaze of men, lying buried in the dark recesses of the forest, which ought to be brought out before the common view, I doubted whether the sentence had not been previously studied. This only proved, of course, her faithfulness to the memory of her husband; and her desire that I should enter into her sympathies.

She proceeded to say, that she had selected me as his Biographer. If I complied with her wishes, I would find that I had undertaken a task in which I would have intense interest, and be stimulated to exertion. She could tell me of eminent men who had spoken of him in terms of exalted praise. He had once sent to a distinguished scholar in Germany, a strange petrifaction; and the learned man had written a long essay, in which he described it, and made it the basis of remarks on nature in general, and took occasion to speak of his American correspondent as a learned man, and one who wrote in magnificent sentences. Indeed, I was to find no difficulty in collecting the greatest abundance of material for a memoir. She wished this composition to be prefixed to a large volume in manuscript which he had prepared for the press some years before his lamented close of life. The volume was a treatise on "Fugitive impressions, and enduring mental records."

Now had this proposition been made by a man, I should have declined the undertaking. In that case law would have appeared as a jealous master,—its study long, and life very short. But as it was, the lady had sufficient power to extort a promise that I would devote myself to the work.

The gratitude of the fair one, was, in itself, no small fee for the labor which was before me. I felt that it was necessary to arrange with her, that I could consult with her at all times, as I proceeded with my work, and that she should hear me read over a page at any time, or even sentences, if I needed her advice. These proposals satisfied her that I was about entering on my duty in earnest, and she became so affable, so pleased with me, that I anticipated that every page of my work would secure me a pleasant visit.

My first plan was to make a tour to the village which had the honor to number a few years ago, Dr. Bolton, who was to be so famous by means of my well-rewarded pen. And I must confess that my arrival at Scrabble Hill, for such was the name of the place, was attended with circumstances so very dismal, that my ardor would have been damped, had not a bright flame sent its warmth, and cheering rays through my mind.

I remembered that my very absence from Newark was a perpetual plea for me, to the lady whom I sought to serve. And this consoled me, as I drove along the street of the place. The dwellings were poor. They were more dismal than houses falling into ruins; for it was evident that they had been run up as ambitious shells, and never finished. The men went about with coats out at the elbows, and seemed to drag along languidly to the blacksmith's shop, or to the inn. The whole place looked as if it had no thought of better days. My sudden presence, and the appearance of my horse and gig, promised, as the opened eyes of the gazers assured me, to exercise the mental faculties of the inhabitants, in the highest degree of which they were capable.

The inn was no better than the rest of the village. The landlord was one of the most imperturbable of human beings. I verily believe that his wife told the truth when she asserted, as I inquired whether he could not be sent for, to sit with me, tired of my solitude in the evening, that I need not think of such a thing, for "John Hillers was no company for nobody." And this remark, I thought, was accompanied with the suggestion hinted in her manner, that she herself would be a far better gossip. Her exact adherence to the truth was, I presume, equally manifested, when I asked as a hungry man, "What have you in the house?" and she replied, "Not much of anything."

After a wretched meal in a room half heated from a stove in the adjoining kitchen, and where the fire-place was full of pieces of paper, and of empty bottles labelled "bitters," I began to reflect on the nature of my undertaking. The great responsibility devolved on one who should attempt the biography of so great a man as Doctor Bolton, all at once assumed a new aspect. My vanity and self-confidence began to ooze away. These rainbows faded, and a very dull sky was all that was left.

Was I able to do justice to so great an ornament of my native land? The reputation of a man sometimes depends on the ability of his biographer. A good memoir is a bright lamp, which guides the eyes of men to works, otherwise, perhaps, doomed to lie in obscurity forever. And when they are opened, it throws a gleam on the page, which secures attention, and elicits admiration. All the civilized world sees its great books in the light supplied by a few critics. Hence the critical biographer may enhance all the merit of the author, who is his subject. On the other hand, if he usher the unknown book before the public, by a dull and weak narrative, and criticism, men will imagine that he has been selected as a congenial mind, and will slight even the treatise of a man like Doctor Bolton.

In the morning the sun began to shine,—for I ought to have said that when I entered the village I drove through a dull misty rain. I took heart, and determined to prosecute my researches with ardor. What is to be done must be done, and let us try and do all things well.

The first person on my list of those who could give me information, was Mrs. Rachel Peabody. I found her at home. She seemed much surprised and mystified, when I told her that I was about writing a life of the doctor,—but not at all astonished that when I sought information, I should come to her.

The reference to the past excited her mind. For an hour or more she poured forth her recollections. And gentle reader, my page would present a strange array of information, could I accurately record the words that flowed from her lips. Her chief idea of the doctor, was, that he carried with her help, advice, and warm cabbage leaves, Eliza Jane, Faith Kitty, and John Potts, of the house of Peabody, through a variety of unaccountable diseases. Hitherto I had been a creature, hardened at the cry of little children. Now when I learnt what a sad time they often had, when their teeth were ready to force their way through the gums, I am prepared to bear all the noise which they can make, with a patience that will cause me to be a favorite with every mother.

I must confess that I left the mansion of the Peabodys very much perplexed, to know what I could weave, of this conversation into my biography. Had I gleaned a fact, that ought to live in the memory of men, long after marble monuments shall have crumbled into dust? As I formed my enduring statue, was I now able to take my chisel into my hand, and leave its immortal line? I flattered myself that I had a presentiment, that I should yet discover in this narration, some evidence of the greatness of the celebrated physician.

And now I was to call on Miss Mary Phelps—a lady of great respectability—advanced in life—who had spent her years in maiden meditation fancy free.

Miss Phelps was certainly one of the most homely creatures, on whom my eyes were ever compelled to rest. If she had qualities of mind and heart, sufficient to compensate her for her external appearance, she was indeed an angel within.

But I quickly ascertained, that such a theory was impracticable. Her temper was, evidently, a torment to those around her. The airs of a foolish girl had not disappeared from her manner. She even received me with a ridiculous affectation of shyness, and when she glanced at me her eyes fell quickly to the ground.

"Madam," said I, "I have been referred to you as to one who could give me valuable information, for an important work which I have in hand?"

"Oh, sir—" and her looks indicated intolerable disgust, and great defiance,—"you are one of the folks hired to take the census, and you want Papistical statements about the ages of people, that ain't as old as you wish them to be."

"Oh, no—nothing of the kind. I am engaged in writing a life of Doctor Bolton. As his appointed biographer, I wish to attain all the knowledge I can concerning him. For this reason I have visited this village, where he once resided,—such a successful practitioner; and the object of such universal love and admiration. You have dwelt here a great many years." Here the lady frowned in a very ominous manner. "That is to say, you lived here as a child, and continued here until the present maturity of your powers has been attained. I have therefore to inquire of you, whether you can give me any information about him—anything that would throw light on his character. After all it is your gentle sex who retain the most tender, and lasting impressions of such a man."

Here Miss Phelps' demeanor became a most unaccountable procedure. Her eyes fell upon the floor. She looked as if she thought, that deep blushes were on her sallow, sunken cheeks. She became the most wonderful representation of modesty, sensibility, and embarrassment.

I waited patiently, but there was no response.