Thou delicate and fragrant thing!Sweet prophet of the coming Spring!To what can poetry compareThy hidden beauty, fresh and fair?Only they who search can findThy trailing garlands close enshrined;Unveiling, like a lovely face,Surprising them with artless grace.Thou seemest like some sleeping babe,Upon a leafy pillow laid;Dreaming, in thy unconscious rest,Of nest’ling on a mother’s breast.Or like a maiden in life’s May,Fresh dawning of her girlish day;When the pure tint her cheeks discloseSeems a reflection of the rose.More coy than hidden love thou art,With blushing hopes about its heart;And thy faint breath of fragrance seemsLike kisses stolen in our dreams.Thou’rt like a gentle poet’s thought,By Nature’s simplest lessons taught,Reclining on old moss-grown trees,Communing with the whisp’ring breeze.Like timid natures, that concealWhat others carelessly reveal;Reserving for a chosen fewTheir wealth of feeling, pure and true.Like loving hearts, that ne’er grow old,Through autumn’s change, or winter’s cold;Preserving some sweet flowers, that lie’Neath withered leaves of years gone by.At sight of thee a troop upspringsOf simple, pure, and lovely things;But half thou sayest to my heart,I find no language to impart.
Thou delicate and fragrant thing!Sweet prophet of the coming Spring!To what can poetry compareThy hidden beauty, fresh and fair?Only they who search can findThy trailing garlands close enshrined;Unveiling, like a lovely face,Surprising them with artless grace.Thou seemest like some sleeping babe,Upon a leafy pillow laid;Dreaming, in thy unconscious rest,Of nest’ling on a mother’s breast.Or like a maiden in life’s May,Fresh dawning of her girlish day;When the pure tint her cheeks discloseSeems a reflection of the rose.More coy than hidden love thou art,With blushing hopes about its heart;And thy faint breath of fragrance seemsLike kisses stolen in our dreams.Thou’rt like a gentle poet’s thought,By Nature’s simplest lessons taught,Reclining on old moss-grown trees,Communing with the whisp’ring breeze.Like timid natures, that concealWhat others carelessly reveal;Reserving for a chosen fewTheir wealth of feeling, pure and true.Like loving hearts, that ne’er grow old,Through autumn’s change, or winter’s cold;Preserving some sweet flowers, that lie’Neath withered leaves of years gone by.At sight of thee a troop upspringsOf simple, pure, and lovely things;But half thou sayest to my heart,I find no language to impart.
Thou delicate and fragrant thing!Sweet prophet of the coming Spring!To what can poetry compareThy hidden beauty, fresh and fair?
Only they who search can findThy trailing garlands close enshrined;Unveiling, like a lovely face,Surprising them with artless grace.
Thou seemest like some sleeping babe,Upon a leafy pillow laid;Dreaming, in thy unconscious rest,Of nest’ling on a mother’s breast.
Or like a maiden in life’s May,Fresh dawning of her girlish day;When the pure tint her cheeks discloseSeems a reflection of the rose.
More coy than hidden love thou art,With blushing hopes about its heart;And thy faint breath of fragrance seemsLike kisses stolen in our dreams.
Thou’rt like a gentle poet’s thought,By Nature’s simplest lessons taught,Reclining on old moss-grown trees,Communing with the whisp’ring breeze.
Like timid natures, that concealWhat others carelessly reveal;Reserving for a chosen fewTheir wealth of feeling, pure and true.
Like loving hearts, that ne’er grow old,Through autumn’s change, or winter’s cold;Preserving some sweet flowers, that lie’Neath withered leaves of years gone by.
At sight of thee a troop upspringsOf simple, pure, and lovely things;But half thou sayest to my heart,I find no language to impart.
Forthee, the priestly rite and prayerAnd holy day, and solemn psalm;Forme, the silent reverence, whereMy brethren gather, slow and calm.J. G. Whittier.
Forthee, the priestly rite and prayerAnd holy day, and solemn psalm;Forme, the silent reverence, whereMy brethren gather, slow and calm.J. G. Whittier.
Forthee, the priestly rite and prayerAnd holy day, and solemn psalm;Forme, the silent reverence, whereMy brethren gather, slow and calm.J. G. Whittier.
Itwas one of Ireland’s greenest lanes that wound its way down to a rippling brook, in the rear of Friend Goodman’s house. And there, by a mound of rocks that dipped their mossy feet in the rivulet, Friend Goodman walked slowly, watching for his little daughter, who had been spending the day with some children in the neighbourhood. Presently, the small maiden came jumping along, with her bonnet thrown back, and the edges of her soft brown ringlets luminous in the rays of the setting sun. Those pretty curls were not Quakerly; but Nature, who pays no more attention to the regulations of Elders, than she does to the edicts of Bishops, would have it so. At the slightest breath of moisture, the silky hair rolled itself into spirals, and clustered round her pure white forehead, as if it loved the nestling-place.Jumping, likewise, was not a Quakerly proceeding. But little Alice, usually staid and demure, in imitation of those around her, had met with a new companion, whose temperament was more mercurial than her own, and she was yielding to its magnetic influence.
Camillo Campbell, a boy of six years, was the grandson of an Italian lady, who had married an Irish absentee, resident in Florence. Her descendants had lately come to Ireland, and taken possession of estates in the immediate neighbourhood of Friend Goodman, where little Camillo’s foreign complexion, lively temperament, and graceful broken language, rendered him an object of very great interest, especially among the children. He it was with whom little Alice was skipping through the green lane, bright and free as the wind and sunshine that played among her curls. As the sober father watched their innocent gambols, he felt his own pulses quicken, and his motions involuntarily became more rapid and elastic than usual. The little girl came nestling up to his side, and rubbed her head upon his arm, like a petted kitten. Camillo peeped roguishly from behind the mossy rocks, kissed his hand to her, and ran off, hopping first on one foot and then on the other.
“Dost thou like that little boy?” inquired Friend Goodman, as he stooped to kiss his darling.
“Yes, Camillo’s a pretty boy, I like him,” shereplied. Then with a skip and a bound, which showed that the electric fluid was still leaping in her veins, she added, “He’s a funny boy, too: he swearsyouall the time.”
The simple child, being always accustomed to heartheeandthou, verily thoughtyouwas a profane word. Her father did what was very unusual with him: he laughed outright, as he replied, “What a strange boy is that!”
“He asked me to come down to the rock and play, to-morrow. May I go, after school?” she asked.
“We will see what mother says,” he replied. “But where didst thou meet Camillo?”
“He came to play with us in the lane, and Deborah and John and I went into his garden to see the birds. Oh, he has got such pretty birds! There’s a nice little meeting-house in the garden; and there’s a woman standing there with a baby. Camillo calls her my donny. He says we mustn’t play in there. Why not? Whoismy donny?”
“The people of Italy, where Camillo used to live, call the Mother of Christ Madonna,” replied her father.
“And who is Christ?” she asked.
“He was a holy man, who lived a great many years ago. I read to thee one day about his taking little children in his arms and blessing them.”
“I guess he loved little children almost as well as thou, dear father,” said Alice. “But what dothey put his mother in that little meeting-house for?”
Not deeming it wise to puzzle her busy little brain with theological explanations, Friend Goodman called her attention to a small dog, whose curly white hair soon displaced the Madonna, and even Camillo, in her thoughts. But the new neighbour, and the conservatory peopled with birds, and the little chapel in the garden, made a strong impression on her mind. She was always talking of them, and in after years they remained by far the most vivid picture in the gallery of childish recollections. Nearly every day, she and Camillo met at the mossy rock, where they planted flowers in blossom, and buried flies in clover-leaves, and launched little boats on the stream. When they strolled toward the conservatory, the old gardener was always glad to admit them. Flowering shrubs and gaudy parrots, so bright in the warm sunshine, formed such a cheerful contrast to her own unadorned home, that little Alice was never weary with gazing and wondering. But from all the brilliant things, she chose two Java sparrows for her especial favorites. The old gardener told her they were Quaker birds, because their feathers were all of such a soft, quiet color. Bright little Camillo caught up the idea, and said, “I know what for you so much do like them: Quaker lady-birds they be.”
“And she’s a Quaker lady-bird, too,” said theold gardener, smiling, as he patted her on the head; “she’s a nice little lady-bird.” Poll Parrot heard him, and repeated, “Lady-bird.” Always after that, when Alice entered the conservatory, the parrot laughed and screamed, “Lady-bird!”
Near the door were two niches partially concealed by a net-work of vines; and in the niches were statues of two winged children. Alice inquired who they were; and Camillo replied, “My little sister and brother. Children of the Madonna now they is.” His mother had told him this, and he did not understand what it meant; neither did Alice. She looked up at the winged ones with timid love, and said, “Why don’t they come down and play with us?”
“From heaven they cannot come down,” answered Camillo.
Alice was about to inquire the reason why, when the parrot interrupted her by calling out, “Lady-bird! Lady-bird!” and Camillo began to mock her. Then, laughing merrily, off they ran to the mossy rock to plant some flowers the gardener had given them.
That night, while Alice was eating her supper, Friend Goodman chanced to read aloud something in which the word heaven occurred. “I’ve been to heaven,” said Alice.
“Hush, hush, my child,” replied her father.
“But Ihavebeen to heaven,” she insisted. “Little children have wings there.”
Her parents exchanged glances of surprise, and the mother asked, “How dost thou know that little children have wings in heaven?”
“Because I saw them,” she replied. “They wear white gowns, and they are the children of my donny. My donny lives in the little meeting-house in Camillo’s garden. She’s the mother of Christ that loved little children so much; but she never said any thing to me. The birds call me lady-bird, in heaven.”
Her mother looked very sober. “She gets her head full of strange things down there yonder,” said she. “I tell thee, Joseph, I don’t like to have the children playing together so much. There’s no telling what may come of it.”
“Oh, they are mere babes,” replied Joseph. “The my donny, as she calls it, and her doll, are all the same to her. The children take a deal of comfort together, and it seems to me it is not worth while to put estrangement between them. Divisions come fast enough in the human family. When he is a lad, he will go away to school and college, and will come back to live in a totally different world from ours. Let the little ones enjoy themselves while they can.”
Thus spake the large-hearted Friend Joseph; but Rachel was not so easily satisfied. “I don’t like this talk about graven images,” said she. “If the child’s head gets full of such notions, it may not prove so easy to put them out.”
Truly, there seemed some ground for Rachel’s fears; for whether Alice walked or slept, she seemed to live in the neighbour’s garden. Sitting beside her mother in the silent Quaker meeting, she forgot the row of plain bonnets before her, and saw a vision of winged children through a veil of vines. At school, she heard the old green parrot scream, “Lady-bird!” and fan-tailed doves and Java sparrows hopped into her dreams. She had never heard a fairy story in her life; otherwise, she would doubtless have imagined that Camillo was a prince, who lived in an enchanted palace, and had some powerful fairy for a friend.
* * * * *
It came to pass as Joseph had predicted. These days of happy companionship soon passed away. Camillo went to a distant school, then to college, and then was absent awhile on the Continent. It naturally happened that the wealthy Catholic family had but little intercourse with the substantial Quaker farmer. Years passed without a word between Alice and her former playfellow. Once, during his college life, she met him and his father on horseback, as she was riding home from meeting, on a small gray mare her father had given her. He touched his hat and said, “How do you do, Miss Goodman?” and she replied, “How art thou, Camillo?” His father inquired, “Who is that young woman?” and he answered, “She is the daughter of Farmer Goodman, with whom Iused to play sometimes, when I was a little boy.” Thus like shadows they passed on their separate ways. He thought no more of the rustic Quaker girl, and with her, the bright picture of their childhood was like the remembrance of last year’s rainbow.
But events now approached, which put all rainbows and flowers to flight. A Rebellion broke out in Ireland, and a terrible civil war began to rage between Catholics under the name of Pikemen, and Protestants under the name of Orangemen. The Quakers being conscientiously opposed to war, could not adopt the emblems of either party, and were of course exposed to the hostility of both. Joseph Goodman, in common with others of his religious persuasion, had always professed to believe, that returning good for evil was a heavenly principle, and therefore safe policy. Alice had received this belief as a traditionary inheritance, without disputing it, or reflecting upon it. But now came times that tested faith severely. Every night, they retired to rest with the consciousness that their worldly possessions might be destroyed by fire and pillage before morning, and perhaps their lives sacrificed by infuriated soldiers. At the meeting-house, and by the way-side, earnest were the exhortations of the brethren to stand by their principles, and not flinch in this hour of trial. Joseph Goodman’s sermon was brief and impressive. “The Gospel of Love has power to regenerate theworld,” said he; “and the humblest individual, who lives according to it, has done something for the salvation of man.”
His strength was soon tried; for the very next day a party of Pikemen came into the neighbourhood and set fire to all the houses of the Orangemen. Groans, and shrieks, and the sharp sound of shots, were heard in every direction. Fierce men rushed into their peaceful dwelling, demanding food, and ordering them to give up their arms.
“Food I will give, but arms I have none,” replied Joseph.
“More shame for you!” roared the commander of the troop. “If you can’t do any thing more for your country than that, you may as well be killed at once, for a coward, as you are.”
He drew his sword, but Joseph did not wink at the flash of the glittering blade. He looked him calmly in the eye, and said, “If thou art willing to take the crime of murder on thy conscience, I cannot help it. I would not willingly do harm to thee, or to any man.”
The soldier turned away abashed, and putting his sword into the scabbard, he muttered, “Well, give us something to eat, will you?”
The hours that followed were frightful with the light of blazing houses, the crash of musketry, and the screams of women and children flying across the fields. Many took refuge in Joseph’s house,and he did all he could to soothe and strengthen them.
At sunset, he went forth with his serving-men to seek the wounded and the dead. Along the road and among the bushes, mangled bodies were lying in every direction. Those in whom life remained, they brought with all tenderness and consigned to the care of Rachel and Alice; and, as long as they could see, they gathered the dead for burial. In the evening, the captain of the Pikemen returned in great wrath. “This is rather too much,” he exclaimed. “We did’nt spare your house this morning to have it converted into a hospital for the damned Orangemen. Turn out every dog of ’em, or we will burn it down over your heads.”
“I cannot stay thy hand, if thou hast the heart to do it,” mildly replied Joseph. “But I will not desert my fellow-creatures in their great distress. If the time should come when thy party is routed, we will bury thy dead, and nurse thy wounded, as we have done for the Orangemen. I will do good to all parties, and harm to none. Here I take my stand, and thou mayest kill me if thou wilt.”
Again the soldier was arrested by a power he knew not how to resist. Joseph seeing his embarrassment, added: “I put the question to thee as a man of war: Is it manly to persecute women and children? Is it brave to torture the wounded and the dying? Wouldst thou feel easy to think of itin thy dying hour? Let us part in peace, and when thou hast need of a friend, come to me.”
After a brief hesitation, the soldier said, “It would be a happier world if all thought as you do.” Then, calling to his men, he said, “Let us be off, boys. There’s nothing to be done here.”
A fortnight after, triumphant Orangemen came with loud uproar to destroy the houses of the Catholics. It was scarcely day-break, when Alice was roused from uneasy slumbers by the discharge of musketry, and a lurid light on the walls of her room. Starting up, she beheld Colonel Campbell’s house in a blaze. The beautiful statues of the Madonna and the winged children were knocked to pieces, and crushed under the feet of an angry mob. Vines and flowers crisped under the crackling flames, and the beautiful birds from foreign climes fell suffocated in the smoke, or flew forth, frightened, into woods and fields, and perished by cruel hands. In the green lane, once so peaceful and pleasant, ferocious men were scuffling and trampling, shooting and stabbing. Everywhere the grass and the moss were dabbled with blood. Above all the din, were heard the shrill screams of women and children; and the mother of Camillo came flying into Joseph’s house, exclaiming, “Hide me, oh, hide me!” Alice received her in her arms, laid the throbbing head tenderly on her bosom, put back the hair that was falling in wild disorder over her face, and tried to calm her terror with gentle words.Others came pouring in, and no one was refused shelter. To the women of Colonel Campbell’s household Alice relinquished her own little bedroom, the only corner of the house that was not already filled to overflowing. She drew the curtain, that the afflicted ones need not witness the bloody skirmishing in the fields and lane below. But a loud shriek soon recalled her to their side. Mary Campbell had withdrawn the curtain, and seen her husband fall, thrust at by a dozen swords. Fainting-fits and hysterics succeeded each other in quick succession, while Alice and her mother laid her on the bed, and rubbed her hands and bathed her temples. Gradually the sounds of war died away in the distance. Then Joseph and his helpers went forth to gather up the wounded and the dead. Colonel Campbell was found utterly lifeless, and the brook where Camillo used to launch his little boats, was red with his father’s blood. They brought him in tenderly, washed the ghastly wounds, closed the glaring eyes, and left the widow and the household to mourn over him. Late in the night they persuaded her to go to rest; and, when all was still, the weary family fell asleep on the floor; for not a bed was unoccupied.
This time, they hoped to escape the conquerors’ rage. But early in the morning, a party of them came back, and demanded that all the Catholics should be given up to them. Joseph replied, as he had done before: “I cannot give up my helplessand dying neighbours, whether they be Pikemen or Orangemen. I will do good to all, and harm to none, come to me what may.”
“That’s impartial, anyhow,” said the captain. He took some Orange cockades from his pocket, and added, “Wear these, and my men will do you no harm.”
“I cannot conscientiously wear one,” replied Joseph, “because they are emblems of war.”
The captain laughed half scornfully, and handing one to Alice, said, “Well, my good girl, you can wear one, and then you need not be afraid of our soldiers.”
She looked very pleasantly in his face and answered, “Ishouldbe afraid if I did not trust in something better than a cockade.”
The leader of the Orangemen was arrested by the same spell that stopped the leader of the Pikemen. But some of his followers, who had been lingering about the door, called out, “What’s the use of parleying? Isn’t the old traitor nursing Catholics, to fight us again when they get well? If he won’t serve the government by fighting for us, he will at least do to stop a bullet as well as a braver man. Bring him out, and put him in the front ranks to be shot at!” One of them seized Joseph to drag him away; but Alice laid a trembling hand on his arm, and said, beseechingly, “Before you take him, come and see the wounded Orangemen, with their wives and children, whommy father and mother have fed and tended night and day.” A pale figure, with bandaged head and one arm in a sling, came forth from an adjoining room and said, “Comrades, you surely will not harm these worthy people. They have fed our children, and buried our dead, as if we were their own brothers.” The soldiers listened, and, suddenly changing their mood, went off shouting, “Hurrah for the Quakers!”
Some days of comparative quiet followed. Colonel Campbell was buried in his own garden, with as much deference to the wishes of his widow as circumstances would permit. She returned from the funeral calmer than she had been, and quietly assisted in taking care of the wounded. But when she retired to her little room, and saw a crucifix fastened on the wall at the foot of her bed, she burst into tears and said, “Who has done this?”
Alice gently replied, “I did it. I found it in the mud, where the little chapel used to stand. I know it is a sacred emblem to thee, and I thought it would pain thee to have it there; so I have washed it carefully and placed it in thy room.”
The bereaved Catholic kissed the friendly hand that had done so kind a deed; and tears fell on it, as she murmured, “Good child! may the Holy Virgin bless thee!”
Balmy is a blessing from any human heart, whether it be given in the name of Jesus or Mary, Godor Allah. Alice slept well, and guardian angels rejoiced over her in heaven.
* * * * *
Success alternated between the contending parties, and kept the country in a state of perpetual alarm. One week, the widow of Colonel Campbell was surrounded by victorious friends, and the next week, she was in terror for her life. At last, Camillo himself came with a band of successful insurgents. During a brief and agitated interview with his mother, he learned how kindly she had been sheltered in their neighbour’s house, and how tenderly the remains of his father had been treated. When she pointed to the crucifix on the wall, and told its history, his eyes filled with tears. “Oh, why cannot we of different faith always treat each other thus?” was his inward thought; but he bowed his head in silence. Hearing loud voices, he started up suddenly, exclaiming, “There may be danger below!” Following the noise, he found soldiers threatening Friend Goodman, who stood with his back firmly placed against the door of an inner room. Seeing Camillo enter, and being aware of the great influence his family had with the Catholics, he said, “These men insist upon carrying out the dying Orangemen who are sheltered here, and compelling me to see them shot. Is it thy will that these murders should be committed?”
The young man took his hand, and in tones of deep respect answered, “Could you believe that Iwould suffer violence to be done to any underyourroof, if I had power to prevent it?” Then turning to his soldiers, he said, “These excellent people have injured no one. Through all these troubled times, they have been kind alike to Pikemen and Orangemen; they have buried our dead, and sheltered our widows. If you have any respect for the memory of my father, treat with respect all who wear the peaceful garb of the Quakers.” The men spoke apart for awhile, and soon after left the house.
As Camillo passed by the kitchen door, he saw Alice distributing boiled potatoes to a crowd of hungry children. A soldier stood by her, insisting that she should wear a cross, which was the emblem of the Pikemen. She mildly replied, “I cannot consent towearthe cross, but I hope God will enable me tobearit.” The rude fellow, who was somewhat intoxicated, touched her under the chin, and said, “Come, mavourneen, do be a little more obliging.” Camillo instantly seized his arm, and, exclaiming, “Behave decently, my lad! behave decently!” he led him to the door. As he went, he turned towards Alice with an expression she never forgot, and said, in a low deep tone, “Words are poor to thank you for what you have done for my mother.”
The next day, when he met Alice walking to meeting, he touched his hat respectfully and said, “I scarcely deem it prudent for you to be in theroads at this time, Miss Alice. Armed insurgents are everywhere abroad; and though there is a prevailing disposition not to injure the Quakers, still many of our men are too desperate to be always controlled.”
She smiled and answered, “I thank thee for thy friendly caution; but I trust in the Power that has hitherto protected me.”
After a short pause, he said, “Your place of meeting is two miles from here. Where is the horse you used to ride?”
“A soldier took it from me, as I rode from meeting several weeks ago,” she replied.
“You see then it is, as I have said, unsafe for you to go,” he rejoined. “Had you not better turn back?”
With great earnestness she answered, “Friend Camillo, I cannot otherwise than go. Our people are afflicted and bowed down. The soldiers have nearly consumed our provisions. Our women are almost worn out with the fatigue of constant nursing and perpetual alarms. All are not unwavering in their faith. It is the duty of the strong to sustain the weak; and therefore it is needful that we meet together for counsel and consolation.”
The young man looked at her with affectionate reverence. The fair complexion and shining ringlets of childhood were gone, but a serene and deep expression of soul imparted a more elevated beauty to her countenance. He parted from her with ablessing, simply and fervently uttered; but he entered the adjoining fields, and as he walked along he kept her within sight until she arrived safely at the place of meeting. While he thus watched her unseen, he recollected how often his taste had been offended by the quaint awkwardness of the Quaker garb; and uttering aloud the sequel to his thoughts, he said, “But beautiful and graceful will her garments be in heaven.”
Soon after this interview, he departed with a strong escort to convey his mother and other Catholic women into a less turbulent district. Alice bade them farewell with undisguised sadness; for we learn to love those whom we serve, and there seemed little probability that they would ever return to reside in that troubled neighborhood.
The next time she saw Camillo, he was brought into her father’s house on a litter, senseless, and wounded, as it was supposed, unto death. All the restoratives they could think of were applied, and at last, as Alice bent over him, bathing his temples, he opened his eyes with a dull unconscious stare, which gradually relaxed into a feeble smile, as he whispered, “My Quaker lady-bird.” Some hours afterward, when she brought him drink, he gently pressed her hand, and said, “Thank you, dear Alice.” The words were simple, but the expression of his eyes and the pressure of his hand sent a thrill through the maiden, which she had never before experienced. That night, she dreamed ofwinged children seen through flowering vines, and Camillo laughed when the parrot called her “Lady-bird.”
Sorrow, like love, levels all distinctions, and melts all forms in its fiery furnace. In the midst of sickness and suffering, and every-day familiarity with death, there was small attention paid to customary proprieties. No one heeded whether Camillo were tended by Alice or her mother; but if Alice were long absent, he complained that she came so seldom. As his health improved, they talked together of the flowers they used to plant on the mossy rock, and the little boats they launched on the rippling brook. Sometimes, in their merriest moods, they mocked the laughing of the old green parrot, and the cooing of the fan-tailed doves. Thus walking through the green lanes of their childhood, they came unconsciously into the fairy-land of love! All was bright and golden there, and but one shadow rested on the sunshine. When Camillo spoke of the “little meeting-house in the garden,” and the image of “My donny,” she grew very thoughtful; and he said with a sigh, “I wish, dear Alice, that we were of one religion.” She smiled sweetly as she answered, “Are we not both of the religion of Jesus?”
He kissed her hand, and said, “Your soul is always large and liberal, and noble and kind; but others are not like you, dear Alice.”
And truly, when the war had ceased, and CamilloCampbell began to rebuild his demolished dwelling, and the young couple spoke of marriage, great was the consternation in both families. Even the liberal-minded Joseph was deeply-pained to have his daughter “marry out of Society,” as their phrase is; but he strove to console Rachel, who was far more afflicted than himself. “The young people love each other,” he said, “and it does not seem to be right to put any constraint on their affection. Camillo is a goodly youth; and I think the dreadful scenes he has lately witnessed have exercised his mind powerfully on the subject of war. I have observed that he is thoughtful and candid; and if he does but act up to his own light, it is all I ask of him. He promises never to interfere with the freedom of Alice; and as she has adopted most of our principles from her own conviction, I do not fear she will ever depart from them.”
“Don’t comfort thyself with any such idea,” replied Rachel. “She will have pictures of the Virgin Mary in her house, and priests will come there to say over their mummery; and small beginnings make great endings. At all events, one thing is certain. Alice will lose her membership in our Society; and that it is which mainly grieves me. She is such a serious, sensible girl, that I always hoped to see her an esteemed minister among us.”
“It is a disappointment to me also,” repliedJoseph; “but we must bear it cheerfully. It certainly is better to have our child go out of the Society and keep her principles, than it would be to have her stay in Society and depart from her principles, as many do.”
Mary Campbell was more disturbed than Rachel Goodman. In the first paroxysm of her distress, she said she wished she had been killed in the war, rather than live to see her only son married to a black Protestant.
“Not a black Protestant, dear mother, only a dove-colored one,” rejoined Camillo, playfully. Then he kissed her, and reminded her of the story of the crucifix, and told her how noble and gentle, and good and sensible, his Alice was. As he talked, a vision rose before her of the little bedroom in the Quaker’s farm-house; she saw Rachel and Alice supporting the drooping-heads of poor homeless Catholics, while they offered drink to their feverish lips; and memory melted bigotry. She threw herself weeping into Camillo’s arms and said, “Truly they did treat us like disciples of Jesus. I once said to Alice, ‘May the Holy Virgin bless thee;’ and I now say, from my heart, May the Holy Virgin bless you both, my son.”
And so Catholic and Quaker were married, according to the forms of both their churches.
The Society of Friends mostly withdrew from companionship with Alice, though they greeted her kindly at their meetings. The Catholics shook theirheads and complained that Camillo Campbell was already half a Quaker. Both prognosticated evil consequences from such a union. But the worst that happened was, Alice learned that there might be superstition in the cut of a garment, as well as in veneration for an image; and Camillo became convinced that hatred and violence were much greater sins than eating meat on Fridays.
Note.—The course here described as generally pursued by Quakers during the Irish Rebellion, and the effect stated to be produced on the soldiers of both parties, are strictly true.
“I am growing old; my sight is failing very fast,” said a famous watch-maker of Geneva, as he wiped his spectacles to examine several chronometers, which his two apprentices laid before him. “Well done! Very well done, my lads,” said he. “I hardly know which of you will best supply the place of old Antoine Breguet. Thirty years ago, (pardon an old man’s vanity,) I could have borne away the palm from a hundred like ye. But my sight is dim, and my hands tremble. I must retire from the place I have occupied in this busy world; and I confess I should like to give up my famous old stand to a worthy successor. Whichever of you produces the most perfect piece of mechanism before the end of two years shall be my partner and representative, if Rosabella and I both agree in the decision.”
The grand-daughter, who was busily spinning flax, looked up bashfully, and met the glance of the two young men. The countenance of one flushed, and his eye sparkled; the other turned very pale, and there was a painfully deep intensity in his fixed gaze.
The one who blushed was Florien Arnaud, ayouth from the French Cantons. He was slender and graceful in figure, with beautiful features, clear blue eyes, and a complexion fresh as Hylas, when the enamored water-nymphs carried him away in their arms. He danced like a zephyr, and sang little airy French romanzas in the sweetest of tenor voices.
The one who turned pale was Pierre Berthoud, of Geneva. He had massy features, a bulky frame, and clumsy motions. But the shape of his head indicated powerful intellect, and his great dark eyes glowed from under the pent-house of his brows, like a forge at midnight. He played on the bass-viol and the trombone, and when he sang, the tones sounded as if they came up from deep iron mines.
Rosabella turned quickly away from their expressive glances, and blushing deeply resumed her spinning. The Frenchman felt certain the blush was for him; the Genevan thought he would willingly give his life to be sure it was forhim. But unlike as the young men were in person and character, and both attracted toward the same lovely maiden, they were yet extremely friendly to each other, and usually found enjoyment in the harmonious contrast of their different gifts. The first feeling of estrangement that came between them was one evening, when Florien sang remarkably well, and Rosabella accompanied him on her guitar. She evidently enjoyed the graceful music with all her soul. Her countenance was more radiantly beautiful than usual, and when the fascinating singer rose to go, she begged him to sing another favorite song, and then another and another. “She never urgesmeto sing with her,” said Pierre, as he and Florien retired for the night. “And with very good reason,” replied his friend, laughing. “Your stentorian tones would quite drown her weak sweet voice, and her light touch on the guitar. You might as well have a hammer-and-anvil accompaniment to a Canary bird.” Seeing discontent in the countenance of his companion, he added soothingly, “Nay, my good friend, don’t be offended by this playful comparison. Your voice is magnificently strong and beautifully correct, but it is made for grander things than those graceful little garlands of sound, which Rosabella and I weave so easily.”
Pierre sprang up quickly, and went to the other side of the room. “Rosabella and I,” were sounds that went hissing through his heart, like a red-hot arrow. But his manly efforts soon conquered the jealous feeling, and he said cheerfully, “Well, Florien, let us accept the offer of good Father Breguet. We will try our skill fairly and honorably, and leave him and Rosabella to decide, without knowing which is your work and which is mine.”
Florien suppressed a rising smile; for he thought to himself, “Shewill knowmyworkmanship, as easily as she could distinguish my fairy romanzas from your Samson solos.” But he replied, right cordially, “Honestly and truly, Pierre, I think weare as mechanicians very nearly equal in skill. But let us both tax our ingenuity to invent something which will best please Rosabella, Her birth-day comes in about six months. In honor of the occasion, I will make some ornaments for the little arbor facing the brook, where she loves to sit, in pleasant weather, and read to the good old grandfather.”
“I will do the same,” answered Pierre; “only let both our ornaments be machines.” They clasped hands, and looking frankly into each other’s eyes, ratified the agreement. From that hour, they spoke no more to each other on the subject till the long-anticipated day arrived. The old watch-maker and his grandchild were invited to the arbor, to pass judgment on the productions of his pupils. A screen was placed before a portion of the brook, and they sat quietly waiting for it to be removed. “That duck is of a singular color,” exclaimed the young girl. “What a solemn looking fellow he is!” The bird, without paying any attention to her remarks, waddled into the water, drank, lifted up his bill to the sky, as if giving thanks for his refreshment, flapped his wings, floated to the edge of the brook, and waddled on the grass again. When Father Breguet threw some crumbs of cake on the ground, the duck picked them up with apparent satisfaction. He was about to scatter more crumbs, when Rosabella exclaimed, “Why, grandfather, this is not a duck! It is made of bronze. See how well it is done.”
The old man took it up and examined it. “Really, I do not think any thing could be more perfect than this,” he said. “How exquisitely the feathers are carved! and truly the creature seems alive. He who beats this must be a skilful mechanician.”
At these words, Pierre and Florien stepped forward, hand in hand, and bowing to their master, removed the temporary screen. On a black marble pedestal in the brook was seated a bronze Naiad, leaning on an overflowing vase. The figure was inexpressibly graceful; a silver star with brilliant points gleamed on her forehead, and in her hand she held a silver bell, beautifully inlaid with gold and steel. There was a smile about her mouth, and she leaned over, as if watching for something in a little cascade which flowed down a channel in the pedestal. Presently, she raised her hand and sounded the bell. A beautiful little gold fish obeyed the summons, and glided down the channel, his burnished sides glittering in the sun. Eleven times more she rang the bell, and each time the gold fish darted forth. It was exactly noon, and the water-nymph was a clock.
The watch-maker and his daughter were silent. It was so beautiful, that they could not easily find words to express their pleasure. “You need not speak, my master,” said Pierre, in a manly but sorrowful tone; “I myself decide in favor of Florien. The clock is his.”
“The interior workmanship is not yet examined,” rejoined his amiable competitor. “There is not a better mechanician in all Switzerland, than Pierre Berthoud.”
“Ah, but you know how to invest equally good workmanship with grace and beauty,” replied the more heavily moulded Genevan.
“Study the Graces, my boy; make yourself familiar with models of beauty,” said old Antoine Breguet, laying a friendly hand upon the young man’s shoulder.
“I should but imitate, and he creates,” answered Pierre, despondingly; “and worst of all, my good master, I hate myself because I envy him.”
“But you have many and noble gifts, Pierre,” said Rosabella, gently. “You know how delightfully very different instruments combine in harmony. Grandfather says your workmanship will be far more durable than Florien’s. Perhaps you may both be his partners.”
“But which of us will bethine?” thought Pierre. He smothered a deep sigh, and only answered, “I thank you, Rosabella.”
Well aware that these envious feelings were unworthy of a noble soul, he contended with them bravely, and treated Florien even more cordially than usual. “I will follow our good master’s advice,” said he; “I will try to clothe my good machinery in forms of beauty. Let us both make a watch for Rosabella, and present it to her on her next birth-day. You will rival me, no doubt; forthe Graces threw their garlands on you when you were born.” “Bravo!” shouted Florien, laughing and clapping his hands. “The poetry is kindling up in your soul. I always told you that you would be a poet, if you could only express what was in you.”
“And your soul expresses itselfsoeasily,sofluently!” said Pierre, with a sigh.
“Because my springs lie so near the surface, and yours have depths to come from,” replied his good-natured companion.
“The worst of it is, the cord is apt to break before I can draw up my weighty treasures,” rejoined Pierre, with a smile. “There is no help for it. There will always be the same difference between us, that there is in our names. I am a rock, and you are a flower. I might be hewed and chiselled into harmonious proportions; but you grow into beauty.”
“Then be a rock, and a magnificent one,” replied his friend, “and let the flower grow at your feet.”
“That sounds modestly and well,” answered Pierre; “but I wish to be a flower, because——”
“Because what?” inquired Florien, though he half guessed the secret, from his embarrassed manner.
“Because I think Rosabella likes flowers better than rocks,” replied Pierre, with uncommon quickness, as if the words gave him pain.
On New Year’s day, the offerings, enclosed in one box, were presented by the good grandfather. The first was a golden apple, which opened and revealed on one side an exquisitely neat watch, surrounded by a garland tastefully wrought in rich damaskeening of steel and gold; on the other side was a rose intertwined with forget-me-nots, very perfectly done in mosaic. When the stem of the apple was turned, a favourite little tune of Rosabella’s sounded from within.
“This is surely Florien’s,” thought she; and she looked for the other gift with less interest. It was an elegant little gold watch, with a Persian landscape, a gazelle and birds of Paradise beautifully engraved on the back. When a spring was touched, the watch opened, a little circular plate of gold slid away, and up came a beautiful rose, round which a jewelled bee buzzed audibly. On the edge of the golden circle below were the wordsRosa bellain ultramarine enamel. When another spring was touched, the rose went away, and the same melody that sounded from the heart of the golden apple seemed to be played by fairies on tinkling dew-drops. It paused a moment, and then struck up a lively dance. The circular plate again rolled away, and up sprung an inch-tall opera-dancer, with enamelled scarf, and a very small diamond on her brow. Leaping and whirling on an almost invisible thread of gold, she kept perfect time to the music, and turned her scarf most gracefully. Rosabella drew a long breath, and a roseate tinge mantled her beautiful face, as she met her grandfather’s gaze fixed lovingly upon her. She thought to herself, “There is no doubt now which is Florien’s;” but she said aloud, “They are both very beautiful; are they not, dear grandfather? I am not worthy that so much pains should be taken to please me.” The old man smiled upon her, and fondly patted the luxuriant brown hair, which shone like threads of amber in the sun. “Which dost thou thinkmostbeautiful?” said he.
She evaded the question, by asking, “Which doyou?”
“I will tell thee when thou hast decided,” answered he.
She twisted and untwisted the strings of her boddice, and said she was afraid she should not be impartial. “Why not?” he inquired. She looked down bashfully, and murmured, in a very low voice, “Because I can easily guess which is Florien’s.”
“Ah, ha,” exclaimed the kind old man; and he playfully chucked her under the chin, as he added, “Then I suppose I shall offend thee when I give a verdict for the bee and the opera-dancer?”
She looked up blushing, and her large serious brown eyes had for a moment a comic expression, as she said, “I shall do the same.”
Never were disciples of the beautiful placed in circumstances more favourable to the development of poetic souls. The cottage of Antoine Breguet was