'Three little boys that a-sliding went,All on a summer's day,'
'Three little boys that a-sliding went,All on a summer's day,'
met with an enviable fate, compared with that of these children of wisdom. The captain's boat never entered the wished-for haven; the philanthropist failed to make the lion and the lamb lie down together in peace and safety; and the unhappy phrenologist, in his 'meditations among the tombs,' erred in pronouncing upon the traits of mind that once inhabited the poor fragments he had gathered up; and he found his science blown to atoms, because he mistook the cranium of a fool for that of a philosopher!—a mistake which the vanity of an author might possibly make in his own case, with far better opportunities of judging aright.
A science that could survive an attack like this, must have hadbrainsindeed to support it; and he who ventured to proclaim its truth, after a world's laugh had announced its folly, must have possessed more than an ordinary share of moral courage.
But the science of Human Nature survived this satire, and having outlived the sneers of learned prejudice, and the obstreperous mirth of vulgar ignorance, now commands much of the serious attention of mankind.
The world had long known the principal facts which suggested phrenological inquiry, but had omitted to pursue the investigation necessary to form a correct conclusion from them. Established theories in government, civil and moral, and in mental philosophy, presentedgreat obstacles to such an inquiry as has finally been made. For many centuries, man had been regarded as a depraved moral being—instinctively inclined to do wrong—without a countervailing good sentiment; and the phrenologist has not yet been forgiven, in certain quarters, for his refutation of this slander. To him it was obvious, that no man could be found devoid of any good attribute. One is condemned for injustice; may he not be benevolent? Another professes to hate mankind, and yet loves his own offspring, and cherishes them with the most tender solicitude and care. One is a coward, but nevertheless benevolent and just; another is cruel, and yet he is enthusiastic and brave. Here is a prodigal; but he is kind and noble in his dispositions, and may yet return to paternal love, with forgiveness and blessings upon his head. There, again, is a thorough hater, and yet by the influence of the same temperament, a most ardent lover, whom no maiden would despise. Who had failed to observe as much as this?—and yet where was the apologist of his race—the defender of man's moral nature against the charge of total depravity?
Again: The intellects of men varied in activity and strength, and this difference was known to be early developed in persons born and nurtured under the same roof, and subjected to the same mental and moral discipline. The father who discovered that his son could not easily acquire a knowledge of words, but could nevertheless demonstrate with readiness the most difficult problem in mathematics, observed the fact in profitless silence. The phrenologist pointed the father to the conformation of his child's brain as the origin of his mental peculiarity; and demonstrated, that the effect which the parent had observed in silent wonder, had an adequate cause. For this he was ridiculed; while he who stupidly believed in the effect without the cause, was reverently regarded as both orthodox and wise.
The world knew that the genius of Fulton was not adapted to the writing of romance, while no one ever supposed that Sir Walter Scott was possessed of mechanical skill; yet it was regarded as mere accident, or great good fortune, that these distinguished men stumbled into a career of thought which demanded the world's admiration; and few dreamed that the causes of their varied excellence were as great and different, as the effects were dissimilar. Burns walked a poet behind his plough; and yet no other Scottish farmer seemed a poet 'ready made,' although he may have been as strong, as tall, and equally handsome. Theremusthave been some difference in the head of Scotia's own bard—something that elevated his nature, and lifted him above his walk in life. To adopt his own language, he must have been 'one of Nature's noblemen, who derived the patent for his honors directly from the Almighty;' and yet, by whatoutward sealthe patent was impressed which conferred the native title to distinction, the world knew not, and but for phrenology, never would have known. Pope
'Lisped in numbers,for the numbers came;'
'Lisped in numbers,for the numbers came;'
and so did Zerah Colburn; and yet how different theirnumberswere! So wonderful was this latter individual, when a merechild, that he was esteemed by his friends as an intellectual prodigy; and parental love, fondly doting on its gifted child, and admiring
——'such wisdom in an earthly shape,Showed up a 'Colburn' as we show an ape.'
——'such wisdom in an earthly shape,Showed up a 'Colburn' as we show an ape.'
People had not ceased to wonder at the brilliancy of the boy, when his mediocrity as a man produced a second surprise. He excelled in nothing but numbers—and that was very mysterious indeed!
Woman has three characteristics, in great perfection and strength, to wit: fear, attachment, and veneration; so much so, that a wag might define woman to be 'a timid, affectionate, and religious animal.' Now the phrenologist has observed, that at certain points where he has located the organs of cautiousness, adhesiveness, and veneration, woman's head is much fuller than man's. The most ordinary observer will admit this to be the fact, upon inspection; but the answer he will be likely to make, will be, that this is so, because she is a woman; whereas she happens to be a woman,because this is so! Without the full manifestations of these organs of the mind, woman's nature would be radically changed; her gentle dependence upon man for safety and protection would cease; her meek reliance upon her Creator, and her distinguished reverence for sacred things, would fail; and the gentleness, grace, and piety of her sex would depart from her. Ambition would usurp the place of loveliness; the lord of the creation would have to bear asister'near the throne;' and a rough contest for dominion would as much distinguish the sexes, as they are at present characterized by the fullest manifestation, of mutual courtesy and kindness.
Before phrenological investigation and discovery, man's moral and intellectual nature seemed destined to perpetual mal-treatment. The passion of fear was appealed to alike, to quicken the intellectual faculties and moral sentiments of youth. If one failed to acquire a lesson in a particular study with the same facility as another, it was set down to his indolence; if one betrayed an unruly propensity, which another did not manifest, it was charged to the general corruption of human nature; and the lash, in either case, was regarded as the blessed quickener of mental and moral dulness. The lesson was no better acquired, nor was the dangerous propensity diminished in activity, after the application of this remedy; and yet the rod and the delinquent urchin remained inseparable companions.
The youth who, under the influence of angry excitement, had taken vengeance on his fellow, was never found to have had his destructiveness attempered with benevolence through the influence of scourging; nor has he who neglected mathematics, for the love of poetry, ever been flogged into an admiration of the exact sciences. The world was wondering at the reason of the failure, when the phrenologist stepped forth and informed them; but they laughed at him, and whipped the children still!
Again: The man who was never forbidden to steal, may never have stolen; while another, to whom has been repeated every day of his life the command, 'Thou shalt not kill,' may nevertheless commit murder; and yet both have been treated as though they possessedthe same sentiments and passions in an equal degree; and so of course they have received the same moral discipline. In him who knows no fear, how vain the attempt to inspire terror as the preventor of crime! And yet how readily would a noble sentiment respond to your appeal, and come to the rescue, when his virtue was at its greatest need, had it been trained to do so? Pride often concedes what cannot be obtained from a love of justice, while love of approbation will bestow in charity such sums as put benevolence to the blush for her scanty gifts. Cautiousness often gives to vice the fair aspect of virtue; while ingenuousness and courage often expose the purest man to accusation and censure. The love of glory may stimulate to deeds of heroism, which the dauntless patriot cannot excel; and people may worship the hero for braving danger in their behalf, when it was only his vanity he designed most particularly to serve.
The courtier approaches the minister of state with flattery, and obtains power and place; the robber awaits his sojourn through a lonely wood, and by putting in bodily fear, obtains his gold; while the thief secretly creeps into his mansion, and carries off his choicest plate and richest jewelry. Would the minister, the courtier, the robber, and the thief, profit by the same moral lecture, and the like mental discipline? Men often possess great religious reverence, who are as often detected at cheating in trade. Is the world right in denouncing such as hypocrites? May not great veneration and acquisitiveness, with moderate conscientiousness, produce this result? What correction has been applied to defects like these? Not the right one, surely. The patient wants no more religion than he has got, but a little more integrity. Quicken his conscientiousness, and he is cured.
Whose benevolence is heightened by fear? Who refrains from theft for the hope of reward? The just man tells you he has nodesireto steal. Will the fear of punishment inspire devotion? The devout man 'feelsto adore' his Creator. Will fear convince the atheist of his error?—or the hope of reward convert him to a reasonable faith? Both of these have been lavishly dealt out to him, with very little effect. There are those who love contention better than truth. Will argument convince such? They avoid nothing so much as conviction, which puts an end to contention, and of course to all the pleasure derived from it. Such interpose combativeness between your argument and their reason, and your blows fall thick upon the shield only, and arouse it to more and more resistance. Why spin out the night in fruitless argument? Let them alone, and they will be convinced as soon as the spirit of strife slumbers, and reason assumes her throne.
The phrenologist observed all this, and much more; and he could not fail to conclude, that men's intellectual and moral natures varied almost indefinitely. Here was one distinguished for passion, there another for philosophy; one was celebrated for the brilliancy of his fancy, another for the solidity of his judgment. Here was a mathematician, there a poet; here a mechanic, and there a musician; and those who resembled each other in mental dispositions, still varied in activity and strength; so that there was as much difference in theirintellectual as in their physical power. Again, as we have seen, their sentiments were unlike. Benevolence was contrasted with meanness in every condition of human life, and conscientiousness warred with injustice, wherever man was found; so that the moral aspects of men, differed no less than their countenances.
Hail, great Hygeïa! Healing Goddess, hail![14]And lend one moment to a touching tale;One moment stay thy pestle-driving hand,And let thy half-compounded physic stand:That tale is this: I have a subject here,Not anatomical—but very near;A starving vot'ry of the 'healing art,'Who shows its wond'rous power in every part:But cannot find the language to describe,In proper guise, a member of thy tribe.Oh! then vouchsafe me a 'composingdraught,'Potent as ever willing patient quaff'd!*****I thank thee, for I feel it working now,Andcompositionflows, no matter how.
Hail, great Hygeïa! Healing Goddess, hail![14]And lend one moment to a touching tale;One moment stay thy pestle-driving hand,And let thy half-compounded physic stand:That tale is this: I have a subject here,Not anatomical—but very near;A starving vot'ry of the 'healing art,'Who shows its wond'rous power in every part:But cannot find the language to describe,In proper guise, a member of thy tribe.Oh! then vouchsafe me a 'composingdraught,'Potent as ever willing patient quaff'd!*****I thank thee, for I feel it working now,Andcompositionflows, no matter how.
'FELIX QUI POTUIT RERUM COGNOSCERE CAUSAS.'
Thedoctor sate sole in his easy chair,And his visage was stamped with the marks of care,And his vacant eye said, as plain as eye could,That his mind was digesting but meagre food.At all events, it were safe to say,That his own wise thoughts were its food that day.What ails thee, doctor?[15]Are patients thin?Nay, I know what you mean by that ready grin:Don't suppose I thought physic would make a man thrive,When he's specially blessed, if it leaves him alive:No; I knew that the veriest wretch that liesOn street-pick'd straw, and with wistful eyesCovets thesteamof the baker's bread,With which he could never afford to be fed,If he puts in his stomach one nauseous pill,Will make himself only moreretchédstill:All this I can fathom; but now I mean,Are your 'visits,' like angels', far between?TheAngel of Death, that is, of course,That rides the pale steed, alias 'Pallida Mors?'Pray have you not 'cases' enough, to payFor your coat of black and your breeches of gray?Your perpetual mourning for visiting-friends,Who, (alas for your purse!) met untimely ends?Or art sad, that the dose, 'horasomnisumendum,'Which was meant to soothe suff'rings, should very soon end 'em?And lamentest, with tears such as doctors weep,That the patient, in consequence, slept hislong sleep?Or art thinking, if longer you could not have kept him,If your dose had been 'pilulæ, numero septem?'Now don't be down-hearted; for people enoughStill live who will patronize medical stuff;And to whom do you think that a man would come quickerTo find out his ailment—in short, be 'made sicker?'[16]But softly! It's wasting one's breath to plyA doctor with questions, and get no reply;{ And indeed, as he's sitting companionless,{ For a wiser man 't would be hard to guess{ That I had been making amentaladdress:So I'll call into service that eye of the mind,Which can see though its owner be never so blind,And in my own absence can safely dependOn the word of my fancy—a poet's best friend;And will venture to say my report shall compareWith the best ever written, it matters not where.For the truest reporter, (his minutes will show,)Though he uses 'short hand,' often draws 'the long bow.'The doctor, alone, as I said before,Was pond'ring some mystical subject o'er;It puzzled him sorely to know what to think,And, the scales being even, which side to make sink.Now made he a gesture, with eloquent hand,As one who explains what he can't understand;And anon, with his finger laid fast by his nose,Impatiently heard what he meant to oppose;Then, with sagest look and a lengthened face,He seem'd to maintain t' other side of the case;But however he view'd it, before or behind,He never could see it at all to his mind;And he made a wry face, as a doctor will,When he sets the example of taking a pill.But one thing he determin'd—at once to set out,And fathom the matter beyond a doubt.'The long and the short of the matter is this:I'll visit this personage—vis-à -vis!Come, saddle me up my snow-white horse,That looks like some phthisical donkey's corse,When, surmounted by me, with my 'phials of wrath,'He carries me round on my death-dealing path,{ Hobbling along in the murky night,{ And glimmering pale through the dim twilight,{ With a little more spirit, an excellent sprite.'But alas! he will travel no road besideThe road to that patient's—the last who died!In that case, to be sure, I used exquisite skill,But—it's rather too early to carry my bill:Let him stand—for I'll own he has duty enough,And 'Recipiatpabuli quantum suff.''No manwho inhabits the smallest roomThat ever had tenant, (this side of the tomb,)Let its shape or its furniture be what they may,If his seat have been in it for day after day;If its little odd corners, the hardest to find,Were familiar as bosom-friends, time out of mind;If his coat have hung here and his boots lain there,And his breeches been toss'd about any where;No man ever left such a well-known spot,Uncertain if soon to return or not,But he stopped at the door, though he knew not why,And took a last look, and perhaps heav'd a sigh.So the doctor paused at the open door,With his hat in his hand that he always wore;(Its crown was low and its brim was wide,And an old prescription was stuck inside.)It seemed as the sight of his elbow-chairEmbodied each lurking shade of care;'What a thankless life is this we lead!'He murmur'd, as murmurs the broken reed,That whispers low at the river's side,To the wind that is ravaging far and wide.But bless me! where am I? I ought to compareA Doctor Despondent to something less fair.'Tis strange what a walk a man's fancy will takeTo find out a figure, for simile's sake.But he said, in a very sad tone indeed,'What a thankless life is this we lead;[17]The good Samaritan's part is mine—Like him I administer 'oil and wine;'[18]But those who see me depart to-day,Will think me an incubus, passing away:Oh!—speaking of incubi—would not a wifeMake something less bitter this dose of a life?She would clean out my phials, and make out my bills,And would do to experiment on with my pills:{ I'll consider——' he said, as he shut the door,{ And put on the hat that he always wore,{ In his haste precipitate, 'hind side before.He hurried on foot to the car-dépôt;The engine was puffing, in haste to go.He seated himself on the hindmost seat,And he lean'd back his head, and he put out his feet,And he looked a peculiar look with his eye,And the man who sat opposite, wondered why;And he wondered more, when he heard him sayThatsteamlocomotion had had its day;But what he was thinking, or what he could mean,That man did not know: it remains to be seen.
Thedoctor sate sole in his easy chair,And his visage was stamped with the marks of care,And his vacant eye said, as plain as eye could,That his mind was digesting but meagre food.At all events, it were safe to say,That his own wise thoughts were its food that day.What ails thee, doctor?[15]Are patients thin?Nay, I know what you mean by that ready grin:Don't suppose I thought physic would make a man thrive,When he's specially blessed, if it leaves him alive:No; I knew that the veriest wretch that liesOn street-pick'd straw, and with wistful eyesCovets thesteamof the baker's bread,With which he could never afford to be fed,If he puts in his stomach one nauseous pill,Will make himself only moreretchédstill:All this I can fathom; but now I mean,Are your 'visits,' like angels', far between?
TheAngel of Death, that is, of course,That rides the pale steed, alias 'Pallida Mors?'Pray have you not 'cases' enough, to payFor your coat of black and your breeches of gray?Your perpetual mourning for visiting-friends,Who, (alas for your purse!) met untimely ends?
Or art sad, that the dose, 'horasomnisumendum,'Which was meant to soothe suff'rings, should very soon end 'em?And lamentest, with tears such as doctors weep,That the patient, in consequence, slept hislong sleep?Or art thinking, if longer you could not have kept him,If your dose had been 'pilulæ, numero septem?'Now don't be down-hearted; for people enoughStill live who will patronize medical stuff;And to whom do you think that a man would come quickerTo find out his ailment—in short, be 'made sicker?'[16]
But softly! It's wasting one's breath to plyA doctor with questions, and get no reply;{ And indeed, as he's sitting companionless,{ For a wiser man 't would be hard to guess{ That I had been making amentaladdress:So I'll call into service that eye of the mind,Which can see though its owner be never so blind,And in my own absence can safely dependOn the word of my fancy—a poet's best friend;And will venture to say my report shall compareWith the best ever written, it matters not where.For the truest reporter, (his minutes will show,)Though he uses 'short hand,' often draws 'the long bow.'
The doctor, alone, as I said before,Was pond'ring some mystical subject o'er;It puzzled him sorely to know what to think,And, the scales being even, which side to make sink.
Now made he a gesture, with eloquent hand,As one who explains what he can't understand;And anon, with his finger laid fast by his nose,Impatiently heard what he meant to oppose;Then, with sagest look and a lengthened face,He seem'd to maintain t' other side of the case;But however he view'd it, before or behind,He never could see it at all to his mind;And he made a wry face, as a doctor will,When he sets the example of taking a pill.But one thing he determin'd—at once to set out,And fathom the matter beyond a doubt.
'The long and the short of the matter is this:I'll visit this personage—vis-à -vis!Come, saddle me up my snow-white horse,That looks like some phthisical donkey's corse,When, surmounted by me, with my 'phials of wrath,'He carries me round on my death-dealing path,{ Hobbling along in the murky night,{ And glimmering pale through the dim twilight,{ With a little more spirit, an excellent sprite.
'But alas! he will travel no road besideThe road to that patient's—the last who died!In that case, to be sure, I used exquisite skill,But—it's rather too early to carry my bill:Let him stand—for I'll own he has duty enough,And 'Recipiatpabuli quantum suff.''
No manwho inhabits the smallest roomThat ever had tenant, (this side of the tomb,)Let its shape or its furniture be what they may,If his seat have been in it for day after day;If its little odd corners, the hardest to find,Were familiar as bosom-friends, time out of mind;If his coat have hung here and his boots lain there,And his breeches been toss'd about any where;No man ever left such a well-known spot,Uncertain if soon to return or not,But he stopped at the door, though he knew not why,And took a last look, and perhaps heav'd a sigh.So the doctor paused at the open door,With his hat in his hand that he always wore;(Its crown was low and its brim was wide,And an old prescription was stuck inside.)
It seemed as the sight of his elbow-chairEmbodied each lurking shade of care;'What a thankless life is this we lead!'He murmur'd, as murmurs the broken reed,That whispers low at the river's side,To the wind that is ravaging far and wide.But bless me! where am I? I ought to compareA Doctor Despondent to something less fair.'Tis strange what a walk a man's fancy will takeTo find out a figure, for simile's sake.But he said, in a very sad tone indeed,'What a thankless life is this we lead;[17]The good Samaritan's part is mine—Like him I administer 'oil and wine;'[18]But those who see me depart to-day,Will think me an incubus, passing away:Oh!—speaking of incubi—would not a wifeMake something less bitter this dose of a life?She would clean out my phials, and make out my bills,And would do to experiment on with my pills:{ I'll consider——' he said, as he shut the door,{ And put on the hat that he always wore,{ In his haste precipitate, 'hind side before.
He hurried on foot to the car-dépôt;The engine was puffing, in haste to go.He seated himself on the hindmost seat,And he lean'd back his head, and he put out his feet,And he looked a peculiar look with his eye,And the man who sat opposite, wondered why;And he wondered more, when he heard him sayThatsteamlocomotion had had its day;But what he was thinking, or what he could mean,That man did not know: it remains to be seen.
END OF PART FIRST.
BY MISS SEDGWICK.
'Whyweep ye then, for him, who, having wonThe bound of man's appointed years, at last,Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labors done,Serenely to his final rest has passed;While the soft memory of his virtues yetLingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set.'
'Whyweep ye then, for him, who, having wonThe bound of man's appointed years, at last,Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labors done,Serenely to his final rest has passed;While the soft memory of his virtues yetLingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set.'
Bryant.
Themaster of our village post-office for many years past was an old man; but the real dispenser of its joys and sorrows was his son, a youth who performed its duties with intelligence, exactness, and delicacy. Some persons may not be aware how much the last quality is called into requisition in a village post-master. Having the universal country acquaintance with his neighbors' affairs, he holds the key to all their correspondences. He knows, long before the news transpires, when the minister receives a call, when the speculator's affairs are vibrating; he can estimate the conjugal devotion of the absent husband; but most enviable is his knowledge of those delicate and uncertain affairs so provoking to village curiosity. Letters, directed in well-known characters, and written with beating hearts within locked apartments, pass through his hands. The blushing youth steals in at twilight to receive from him his doom; and to him is first known the results of a village belle's foray through a neighboring district. Our young deputy post-master rarely betrayed his involuntary acquaintance with the nature of the missives he dispersed; but, whenever sympathy was permitted, his bright smile and radiating or tearful eye would show how earnest a part he took in all his neighbors suffered or enjoyed. Never was there a kinder heart than Loyd Barnard's—never a truer mirror than his face.
Every family, however insignificant in the stranger's eye, has a world of its own. The drama and the epic have their beginning, their middle, and their end, in the material world. The true story of human relations never ends, and this seal of immortality it is, that gives a dignity and interest to the affections of the humble and unknown, beyond that which fiction and poetry, even when it makes gods and heroes its actors, can attach to qualities and passions that are limited to this world's stage. This intrinsic dignity I claim for the subjects of my humble village tale.
Loyd Barnard's father, Colonel Jesse Barnard, belonged to thatdefunct body, the aristocracy of our country. He served in the revolutionary war, he did good service to the state in the subsequent Shay's rebellion, and, though he afterward inexplicably fell into the ranks of the popular or democratic party, he retained the manners and insignia of his caste—the prescribed courtesies of the oldrégime, with the neatly tied cue, and the garment that has given place to the levelling pantaloon. He even persevered in the use of powder till it ceased to be an article of merchandise; and to the very last he maintained those strict observances of politeness, that are becoming, among us, subjects of tradition and history. These, however, are merely accidents of education and usage. His moral constitution had nothing aristocratic or exclusive. On the contrary, his heart was animated with what we would fain believe to be the spirit of our democratic institutions, a universal good will. The colonel was remarkably exempt (whether fortunately or unfortunately each according to his taste must decide) from the virtue or mania of his age and country; and consequently, at threescore and ten, instead of being the proprietor of lands in the West, or ships on the sea, he possessed nothing but his small paternal estate in B——, a pretty, cottage-looking dwelling, with a garden and an acre of land. As far back as the administration of Jefferson, he had received the appointment of post-master; and, as the village grew with the prosperity of manufactures and agriculture, the income of the office has of late amounted to some five or six hundred dollars. This, with the addition of his pension as a revolutionary officer, made the colonel 'passing rich;' for by this time his sons and daughters were married, and dispersed from Maine to Georgia, and the youngest only, our friend Loyd, remained at home. 'Passing rich' we say, and repeat it, was the colonel. Those who have never seen an income of a few hundred dollars well administered in rural life, can have no conception of the comfort and independence, nay, luxury, it will procure. In the first place, the staples of life, space, pure air, sweet water, and a continual feast for the eye, are furnished in the country, in unmeasured quantity, by the bounty of Providence. Then when, as with the colonel, there are no vices to be pampered, no vanities to be cherished, no artificial distinctions to be sustained, no conventional wants to be supplied, the few hundred dollars do all for happiness thatmoneycan do. The king who has to ask his Commons for supplies, and the Crœsuses of our land who still desire more than they have, might envy our contented colonel, or rather might have envied him, till, after a life of perfect exemption from worldly cares, he came, for the first time, to feel a chill from the shadows of the coming day—a distrustful fear that the morrow mightnottake care of itself.
Among other luxuries of a like nature, (the colonel was addicted to such indulgences,) he had allowed himself to adopt a little destitute orphan-girl, Paulina Morton. She came to the old people after all their own girls were married and gone, and proved so dutiful and so helpful, that she was scarcely less dear to them than their own flesh and blood. Paulina, or Lina—for by this endearing diminutive they familiarly called her—was a pretty, very pretty girl, in spite of red hair, which, since it has lost the favor some beauty, divine ormortal, of classic days, won for it, is considered, if not a blemish, certainly not an attribute of beauty. Paulina's friends and lovers maintained that hers was getting darker every day, and that even were it fire-red, her soft, blue eyes, spirited, sweet mouth, coral lips, and exquisitely tinted skin would redeem it. Indeed, good old Mrs. Barnard insisted it was only red in certain lights, and those certain Ithuriel lights Loyd Barnard never saw it in; for he often expressed his surprise that any one could be so blind as to callauburnred! In these days of reason's supremacy, we have found out there are no such 'dainty spirits' as Ariel, Puck, and Oberon. Still the lover is not disenchanted.
'Lina, my child,' said the old lady, one evening, just at twilight, while the burning brands sent a ruddy glow over the ceiling, and were reflected by the tea-things, our 'neat-handed lass was arranging,' 'Lina, do you expect Mr. Lovejoy this evening?'
'No, ma'am.'
'To-morrow evening, then?'
'No, ma'am; I never expect him again.'
'You astonish me, Lina. You don't mean you have given him his answer?'
Lina smiled, and Mrs. Barnard continued; 'I fear you have not duly considered, Lina.'
'What is the use of considering, ma'am, when we know our feelings?'
'We can't afford always, my child, to consult feelings. Nobody can say a word against Mr. Lovejoy; he made the best of husbands to his first wife.'
'That was a very good reason whysheshould love him, ma'am.'
Mrs. Barnard proceeded, without heeding the emphasis onshe. 'He has but three children, and two of them are out of the way.'
'A poor reason, as I have always thought, ma'am, to give either to father or children for taking the place of mother to them.'
'But there are few that are calculated for the place; you are cut out for a step-mother, Lina—just the right disposition for step-mother, or step-daughter.'
Paulina's ideas were confused by the compliment, and she was on the point of asking whether step-daughter and daughter-in-law expressed the same relation, but some feeling checked her, and instead of asking she blushed deeply. The good old lady continued her soundings.
'I did not, Lina, expect you to marry Mr. Lovejoy for love.'
'For what then, ma'am, should I marry him?' asked Lina, suspending her housewife labors, and standing before the fire while she tied and untied the string of her little black silk apron.
'Girls often do marry, my child, to get a good home.'
'Marryto get a home, Mrs. Barnard! I would wash, iron, sweep, scrub, beg to get a home, sooner than marry to get one; and, beside, have I not the pleasantest home in the world?—thanks to your bounty and the colonel's.'
Mrs. Barnard sighed, took Lina's fair, chubby hand in hers, stroked and pressed it. At this moment, the colonel, who had, unperceived by either party, been taking his twilight nap on his close-curtainedbed in the adjoining bedroom, rose, and drew up to the fire. He had overheard the conversation, and now, to poor Paulina's embarrassment, joined in it.
'I am disappointed, Lina,' he said; 'it is strange it is so difficult to suit you with a husband; you are easily suited with every thing else.'
'But I don't want a husband, Sir.'
'There's no telling how soon you may, Lina; I feel myself to be failing daily, and when I am gone, my child, it will be all poor Loyd can do to take care of his mother.'
'Can I not help him? Am I not stronger than Loyd? Would it not be happiness enough to work for Loyd, and Loyd's mother?' thought Paulina; but she hemmed, and coughed, and said nothing.
'It would be a comfort to me,' continued the old man, 'to see you settled in a home of your own before I die.' He paused, but there was no reply. 'I did not say a word when William Strong was after you—I did not like the stock; nor when the young lawyer sent his fine presents—as Loyd said, 'he had more gab than wit;' nor when poor Charles Mosely was, as it were, dying for you, for, though his prospects were fine in Ohio, I felt, and so did Mrs. Barnard, and so did Loyd, as if we could not have you go so far away from us; but now, my child, the case is different. Mr. Lovejoy has one of the best estates in the county; he is none of your flighty, here to-day and gone to-morrow folks, but a substantial, reliable person, and I think, and Loyd said—' Here the brands fell apart; and, while Paulina was breathless to hear what Loyd said, the old colonel rose to adjust them. He had broken the thread, and did not take it up in the right place. 'As I was saying, my child,' he resumed, 'my life is very uncertain, and I think, and Loyd thinks—'
What Loyd thought Paulina did not learn, for at this moment the door opened, and Loyd entered.
Loyd Barnard was of the Edwin or Wilfred order; one of those humble and generous spirits that give all, neither asking nor expecting a return. He seemed born to steal quietly and alone through the shady paths of life. A cast from a carriage in his infancy had, without producing any mutilation or visible injury, given a fatal shock to his constitution. He had no disease within the reach of art, but a delicacy, a fragility, that rendered him incapable of continuous exertion or application of any sort. A merciful Providence provides compensations, or, at least, alleviations, for all the ills that flesh is heir to; and Loyd Barnard, in abundant leisure for reading, which he passionately loved, in the tranquillity of a perfectly resigned temper, and in a universal sympathy with all that feel, enjoy, and suffer, had little reason to envy the active and prosperous, who are bustling and struggling through the chances and changes of this busy life. His wants were few, and easily supplied by the results of the desultory employments he found in the village, in the intervals of his attention to the post-office. As much of what we call virtue is constitutional, so we suppose was Loyd's contentment; if it was not virtue, it was happiness, for, till of late, he had felt no more anxiety for the future than nature's commoners—the birds and flowers.
'Ah, my son,' said the old gentleman, 'you have come just in the right time—but where is Lina gone?'
'She went out as I came in, Sir, and I thought she looked as if she had been weeping.'
'Weeping!' echoed the colonel; and 'Weeping!' reëchoed the old lady; and 'could we have hurt her feelings?' asked both in the same breath.
'Why, what, in the world have you been saying to her, mother?'
'Nothing, Loyd—nothing—nothing—don't look so scared. We were only expostulating a little, as it were, and urging her to accept Mr. Lovejoy's offer.'
Loyd looked ten times paler than usual, and kept his eye rivetted on his mother, till she added, 'But somehow it seems as if she could not any way feel to it.'
'Thank God!' murmured Loyd, fetching a long breath. Both parents heard the unwonted exclamation, and to both it was a revelation. The Colonel rose, walked to the window, and, though the blinds were closed, stood as if gazing out, and the old lady jerked her knitting-needle from the sheath, and rolled up the knitting-work, though she was not in the seam-needle.
It is difficult in any case for parents to realize how soon their children pass the bounds of childhood, and how soon, among other thoughts incident to maturity, love and marriage enter their heads. But there were good reasons why the Colonel and his wife should have fancied the governing passions and objects of ordinary lives had never risen above their son's horizon. They considered him perfectly incompetent to provide for the wants of the most frugal family, and they had forgotten that love takes no counsel from prudence. It was too late now to remember it.
The Colonel, after repeated clearings of his throat, taking off his spectacles, wiping and putting them on again, said, 'Are youattachedto Lina, my son?' He used the word in its prescriptive rustic sense.
'Yes, Sir.'
'Strange I never mistrusted it!—How long have you been so, Loyd?'
'Ever since I was old enough to understand my feelings; but I did not, till very lately, know that I could not bear the thoughts of her becoming attached to another.'
'Do you know what Lina's feelings are?'
'No, Sir.'
'But surely you canguess, Loyd,' interrupted his mother.
'I canhope, mother—and I do.'
'The sooner, my son, you both get over it the better, for there is no kind of a prospect for you.'
'My child,' said the good old man, gently laying his hand on the shoulder of his companion of fifty years, 'trust in Providence; our basket and store have been always full, and why should not our children's be? Loyd now does the business of the post-office; while I live they can share with us, and, when I am gone, it may so be, that the heart of the ruler will be so overruled, that the office will be continued to Loyd.'
Loyd, either anticipating his mother's opposing arguments, or himselfimpelled irresistibly to the argument of love, disappeared, and the old lady, who, it must be confessed, lived less by faith than her gentle spouse, replied:
'The office continued to Loyd! Who ever heard of old Jackson's heart being overruled to do what he had not a mind to?'
'My dear child!'
'Well, my dear, do hear me out; don't the loaves and fishesallgo on one side of the table?'
'Why, we have had our plates filled a pretty while, my dear.'
'Well, my dear, old Jackson could not take the bread and butter out of the mouth of a revolutionary officer.'
'I am sure he has proved that hewouldnot.'
'No, my dear,couldnot. Why, even his own party—and we all know what his party are in old Massachusetts—'
'About like the other party, my dear.'
'My dear! how can you say so! Why, his own party are the most violent, given-over, as it were, and low-lived people; yet they would be ashamed to see you turned out of office.'
'They would be sorry, I know; for we have many good friends, and kind neighbors among them; there's Mr. Loomis, Harry Bishop, and Mr. Barton.'
'Mr. Barton! Lyman Barton! My dear, every body knows, and every body says, Lyman Barton has been waiting this last dozen years to step into your shoes. The post-office is just what he wants. To be sure he is a snug man, and lives within his means; but then he has a large growing family, and they are obliged to be prudent, and there would be enough to say heoughtto have the office. And, beside, is he not always working for the party? writing in the paper? and serving them every way? And who was ever a Jackson man, but for what he expected to get for it? No, no, my dear, mark my words! you won't be cold, before Lyman Barton will be sending off a petition to Washington for the office, and signed by every Jackson man in town.'
'I don't believe it, my dear; I don't feel as if Lyman Barton would ask for the office.'
'Well, my dear, you'll see, after you are dead and gone, how it will be—you may laugh—I meanIshall see, if I am spared—you always have, colonel, just such a blind faith in every body.'
'My faith is founded on reason and experience, my dear. Through life I have found friends kind to me beyond my deservings, and far beyond my expectations. I have got pretty near the other shore, and I can't remember that ever I had an enemy.'
While this conversation was in progress, there was atête-à -tête, on which we dare not intrude, in another apartment of the house. The slight veil that had covered the hearts of our true lovers dropped at the first touch, and both, finding a mine of the only riches they coveted, 'dared be poor' in this world's poor sense. Secured by the good colonel's indulgence, for the present they were too happy to look beyond the sunshine that played around them for any dark entanglements to which their path might conduct them. In any event, they did not risk the miseries of dependence, nor the pains of starvation. Nature, in our land, spreads an abundant table; and thereis always a cover awaiting the frugal and industrious laborer (or even gleaner) in her fruitful fields. Any thing short of absolute want, perhaps even that, it seemed to our young friends happiness to encounter together.
Oh ye perjured traffickers in marriage vows! ye buyers and sellers of hearts—hearts! they are not articles of commerce—buyers and sellers of the bodies that might envelope and contain celestial spirits, eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow ye die! To-morrow your home, that temple of the affections, which God himself has consecrated, shall be their tomb, within whose walls shall be endured the torpor of death with the acute consciousness of life!
Our simple friends wotted not of the miseries of artificial life. These had never even crossed the threshold of their imaginations. The colonel gave his hearty consent for the asking, and his prudent help-mate was too true-hearted a woman to withhold hers. There are those wise as serpents, if not harmless as doves, in village life; and such shook their heads, and wondered if the colonel calculated to live and be post-master for ever! or if Loyd could be such a fool as to expect to succeed to the office, when every body knew it was just as good as promised to Mr. Barton! Loyd Barnard, a steady,consistent(our own side is always consistent) whig, expect the tender mercies of the Jackson party! No, Loyd Barnard indulged no such extravagant expectation. He had stood by 'old Massachusetts' through her obstinate or herconsistentopposition to the general government, and he expected to reap the customary reward of such firmness or—prejudice. To confess the truth, he thought little about the future, and not all of the Malthusian theories. His present happiness was enough, and it was brightened with the soft and equal light of the past. As to Paulina, it was her nature,
'Ne'er to forgather wi' sorrow and care,But gie them a skelp as they're creepin alang.'
'Ne'er to forgather wi' sorrow and care,But gie them a skelp as they're creepin alang.'
The preliminaries being adjusted, it was agreed on all hands that the wedding should not be deferred. Quilts were quilted—the publishment pasted on the church door—and the wedding-cake made. Never had the colonel seemed better and brighter; his step was firmer, his person more erect than usual; and his face reflected the happiness of his children, as the leafless woods warm and kindle in a spring sunshine.
At this moment came one of those sudden changes that mock at human calculations. An epidemic influenza, fatal to the feeble and the old, was passing over the whole country. Colonel Barnard was one of its first victims. He died after a week's illness; and though he was some years beyond the authorized period of mortality, his death at this moment occasioned a general shock, as if he had been cut off in the prime of life. All—even his enemies, we should have said, but enemies he had none—spoke of the event in a subdued voice, and with the sincerest expressions of regret. The grief of his own little family we have not space to describe, or, if we had, how could we depict the desolation of a home from which such a fountain of love and goodness was suddenly removed? Notwithstanding the day of the funeral was one of the coldest of a severe January,the mercury being some degrees below cipher, and the gusty, cutting wind driving the snow into billows, numbers collected from the adjoining towns to pay the last tribute of respect to the good colonel.
There is a reality in the honor that is rendered at a rustic funeral to a poor, good man, a touching sincerity in sympathy where every follower is a mourner.
The custom, growing in some of our cities, of private funerals, of limiting the attendants to the family and nearest friends of the deceased, is there in good taste. The parade of ceremony, the pomp of numbers, the homage of civility, and all the show and tricks of hollow conventional life, are never more out of place, never more revolting, than where death has come with its resistless power and awful truth. But a country funeral has, beside its quality of general sorrow, somewhat of the nature of the Egyptian court that sat upon the merits of the dead. The simplicity and frankness of country life has truly exhibited the character of the departed, and if judged in gentleness (as all human judgments should be rendered) it is equitably judged.
The colonel's humble home was filled to overflowing, so that there were numbers who were obliged to await the moving of the procession in the intense cold on the outside of the house; and they did wait, patiently and reverently—no slight testimony of their respect.
The coffin was placed in the centre of the largest apartment, in country phrase, the 'dwelling-room.' Within the little bedroom sat the 'mourners;' but a stranger, who should have seen the crowd as they pressed forward one after another, for a last look at their departed friend, might have believed they were all mourning a father. They were remembering a parent's offices. There was the widow, whom he had visited in her affliction; there the orphans, now grown to be thriving men and women, fathers and mothers, whom he had succored, counselled, and watched over; there were those whom he had visited in prison; there were sometime enemies converted to friends by his peace-making intervention; there was the young man reclaimed by his wise counsel and steady friendship, for the good colonel had a 'skeptic smile' for what others deemed hopeless depravity, and believed