The experiences of the French Revolution, many of whose terrors she had witnessed, had had a powerful influence on the mind of Emily, in making her feel how mistaken had been those views of human progress which come from the mere unassisted reason, when it rejects the guidance of revealed religion. She was in a mood to return to the faith of her fathers, receiving it again under milder and more liberal forms. I think the friendship of Harry was of great use to her in enabling her to attain to a settled religious faith. They were peculiarly congenial to each other, and his simplicity of religious trust was a constant corrective to the habits of thought formed by the sharp and pitiless logic of her early training.
A residence in Boston was also favorable to Emily’s recovery, in giving to her what no person who has passed through such experiences can afford to be without, – an opportunity to help those poorer and more afflicted. Emily very naturally shrank from society; except the Kitterys, I think there was no family which she visited. I think she always had the feeling that she would not accept the acquaintance of any who would repudiate her were all the circumstances of her life known to them. But with the poor, the sick, and the afflicted, she felt herself at home. In their houses she was a Sister of Mercy, and the success of these sacred ministrations caused her, after a while, to be looked upon with a sort of reverence by all who knew her.
Tina proved a lively and most indefatigable correspondent. Harry and I heard from her constantly, in minute descriptions of the great gay world of London society, into which she was thrown as wife of the American minister. Her letters were like her old self, full of genius, of wit, and of humor, sparkling with descriptions and anecdotes of character, and sometimes scrawled on the edges with vivid sketches of places, or scenes, or buildings that hit her fancy. She was improving, she told us, taking lessons in drawing and music, and Ellery was making a capital French scholar of her. We could see through all her letters an evident effort to set forth everything relating to him to the best advantage; every good-natured or kindly action, and all the favorable things that were said of him, were put in the foreground, with even an anxious care.
To Miss Mehitable and Emily came other letters, filled with the sayings and doings of the little Emily, recording minutely all the particulars of her growth, and the incidents of the nursery, and showing that Tina, with all her going out, found time strictly to fulfil her promises in relation to her.
“I have got the very best kind of a maid for her,” she wrote, “just as good and true as Polly is, only she is formed by the Church Catechism instead of the Cambridge Platform. But she is faithfulness itself, and Emily loves her dearly.”
In this record, also, minute notice was taken of all of the presents made to the child by her father, – of all his smiles and caressing words. Without ever saying a word formally in her husband’s defence, Tina thus contrived, through all her letters, to produce the most favorable impression of him. He was evidently, according to her showing, proud of her beauty and her talents, and proud of the admiration which she excited in society.
For a year or two there seemed to be a real vein of happiness running through all these letters of Tina’s. I spoke to Harry about it one day.
“Tina,” said I, “has just that fortunate kind of constitution, buoyant as cork, that will rise to the top of the stormiest waters.”
“Yes,” said Harry. “With some women it would have been an entire impossibility to live happily with a man after such a disclosure, – with Esther, for example. I have never told Esther a word about it; but I know that it would give her a horror of the man that she never could recover from.”
“It is not,” said I, “that Tina has not strong moral perceptions, but she has this buoyant hopefulness; she believes in herself and she believes in others. She always feels adequate to manage the most difficult circumstances. I could not help smiling that dreadful day, when she came over and found us all so distressed and discouraged, to see what a perfect confidence she had in herself and in her own power to arrange the affair, – to make Emily consent, to make the child love her; in short, to carry out everything according to her own sweet will, just as she has always done with us all ever since we knew her.”
“I always wondered,” said Harry, “that, with all her pride, and all her anger, Emily did consent to let the child go.”
“Why,” said I, “she was languid and weak, and she was overborne by simple force of will. Tina was so positive and determined, so perfectly assured, and so warming and melting, that she carried all before her. There was n’t even the physical power to resist her.”
“And do you think” said Harry, “that she will hold her power over a man like Ellery Davenport?”
“Longer, perhaps, than any other kind of woman,” said I, “because she has such an infinite variety about her. But, after all, you remember what Miss Debby said about him, – that he never cared long for anything that he was sure of. Restlessness and pursuit are his nature, and therefore the time may come when she will share the fate of other idols.”
“I regard it,” said Harry, “as the most dreadful trial to a woman’s character that can possibly be, to love, as Tina loves, a man whose moral standard is so far below hers. It is bad enough to be obliged to talk down always to those who are below us in intellect and comprehension; but to be obliged to live down, all the while, to a man without conscience or moral sense, is worse. I think often, ‘What communion hath light with darkness?’ and the only hope I can have is that she will fully find him out at last.”
“And that,” said I, “is a hope full of pain to her; but it seems to me likely to be realized. A man who has acted as he has done to one woman certainly never will be true to another.”
Harry and I were now thrown more and more exclusively upon each other for society.
He had received his accession of fortune with as little exterior change as possible. Many in his situation would have rushed immediately over to England, and taken delight in coming openly into possession of the estate. Harry’s fastidious reticence, however, hung about him even in this. It annoyed him to be an object of attention and gossip, and he felt no inclination to go alone into what seemed to him a strange country, into the midst of social manners and customs entirely different from those among which he had been brought up. He preferred to remain and pursue his course quietly, as he had begun, in the college with me; and he had taken no steps in relation to the property except to consult a lawyer in Boston.
Immediately on leaving college, it was his design to be married, and go with Esther to see what could be done in England. But I think his heart was set upon a home in America. The freedom and simplicity of life in this country were peculiarly suited to his character, and he felt a real vocation for the sacred ministry, not in the slightest degree lessened by the good fortune which had rendered him independent of it.
Two years of our college life passed away pleasantly enough in hard study, interspersed with social relaxation among the few friends nearest to us. Immediately after our graduation came Harry’s marriage, – a peaceful little idyllic performance, which took us back to the mountains, and to all the traditions of our old innocent woodland life there.
After the wholesome fashion of New England clergymen, Mr. Avery had found a new mistress for the parsonage, so that Esther felt the more resigned to leaving him. When I had seen them off, however, I felt really quite alone in the world. The silent, receptive, sympathetic friend and brother of my youth was gone. But immediately came the effort to establish myself in Boston. And, through the friendly offices of the Kitterys, I was placed in connection with some very influential lawyers, who gave me that helping hand which takes a young man up the first steps of the profession. Harry had been most generous and liberal in regard to all our family, and insisted upon it that I should share his improved fortunes. There are friends so near to us that we can take from them as from ourselves. And Harry always insisted that he could in no way so repay the kindness and care that had watched over his early years as by this assistance to me.
I received constant letters from him, and from their drift it became increasingly evident that the claims of duty upon him would lead him to make England his future home. In one of these he said: “I have always, as you know looked forward to the ministry, and to such a kind of ministry as you have in America, where a man, for the most part, speaks to cultivated, instructed people, living in a healthy state of society, where a competence is the rule, and where there is a practical equality.
“I had no conception of life, such as I see it to be here, where there are whole races who appear born to poverty and subjection; where there are woes, and dangers, and miseries pressing on whole classes of men, which no one individual can do much to avert or alleviate. But it is to this very state of society that I feel a call to minister. I shall take orders in the Church of England, and endeavor to carry out among the poor and the suffering that simple Gospel which my mother taught me, and which, after all these years of experience, after all these theological discussions to which I have listened, remains in its perfect simplicity in my mind; namely, that every human soul on this earth has One Friend, and that Friend is Jesus Christ its Lord and Saviour.
“There is a redeeming power in being beloved, but there are many human beings who have never known what it is to be loved. And my theology is, once penetrate any human soul with the full belief that God loves him, and you save him. Such is to be my life’s object and end; and, in this ministry, Esther will go with me hand in hand. Her noble beauty and gracious manners make her the darling of all our people, and she is above measure happy in the power of doing good which is thus put into her hands.
“As to England, mortal heart cannot conceive more beauty than there is here. It is lovely beyond all poets’ dreams. Near to our place are some charming old ruins, and I cannot tell you the delightful hours that Esther and I have spent there. Truly, the lines have fallen to us in pleasant places.
“I have not yet seen Tina, – she is abroad travelling on the Continent. She writes to us often; but, Horace, her letters begin to have the undertone of pain in them, – her skies are certainly beginning to fade. From some sources upon which I place reliance, I hear Ellery Davenport spoken of as a daring, plausible, but unscrupulous man. He is an intrigant in politics, and has no domestic life in him; while Tina, however much she loves and appreciates admiration, has a perfect woman’s heart. Admiration without love would never satisfy her. I can see, through all the excuses of her letters, that he is going very much one way and she another, that he has his engagements, and she hers, and that they see, really, very little of each other, and that all this make her sad and unhappy. The fact is, I suppose, he has played with his butterfly until there is no more down on its wings, and he is on the chase after new ones. Such is my reading of poor Tina’s lot.”
When I took this letter to Miss Mehitable, she told me that a similar impression had long since been produced on her mind by passages, which she had read in hers. Tina often spoke of the little girl as very lovely, and as her greatest earthly comfort. A little one of her own, born in England, had died early, and her affections seemed thus to concentrate more entirely upon the child of her adoption. She described her with enthusiasm, as a child of rare beauty and talent, with capabilities of enthusiastic affection.
“Let us hope,” said I, “that she does take her heart from her mother. Ellery Davenport is just one of those men that women are always wrecking themselves on, – men that have strong capabilities of passion, and very little capability of affection, – men that have no end of sentiment, and scarcely the beginning of real being. They make bewitching lovers, but terrible husbands.”
One of the greatest solaces of my life during this period was my friendship with dear old Madam Kittery. Ever since the time when I had first opened to her my boyish heart, she had seemed to regard me with an especial tenderness, and to connect me in some manner with the image of her lost son. The assistance that she gave me in my educational career was viewed by her as a species of adoption. Her eye always brightened, and a lovely smile broke out upon her face, when I came to pass an hour with her. Time had treated her kindly; she still retained the gentle shrewdness, the love of literature, and the warm kindness which had been always charms in her. Some of my happiest hours were passed in reading to her. Chapter after chapter in her well-worn Bible needed no better commentary than the sweet brightness of her dear old face, and her occasional fervent responses. Many Sabbaths, when her increasing infirmities detained her from church, I spent in a tender, holy rest by her side. Then I would read from her prayer-book the morning service, not omitting the prayer that she loved, for the King and the royal family, and then, sitting hand in hand, we talked together of sacred things, and I often wondered to see what strength and discrimination there were in the wisdom of love, and how unerring were the decisions that she often made in practical questions. In fact, I felt myself drawn to Madam Kittery by a closer, tenderer tie than even to my own grandmother. I had my secret remorse for this, and tried to quiet myself by saying that it was because, living in Boston, I saw Madam Kittery oftener. But, after all, is it not true that, as we grow older, the relationship of souls will make itself felt? I revered and loved my grandmother, but I never idealized her; but my attachment to Madam Kittery was a species of poetic devotion. There was a slight flavor of romance in it, such as comes with the attachments of our maturer life oftener than with those of our childhood.
Miss Debby looked on me with eyes of favor. In her own way she really was quite as much my friend as her mother. She fell into the habit of consulting me upon her business affairs, and asking my advice in a general way about the arrangements of life.
“I don’t see,” I said to Madam Kittery, one day, “why Miss Deborah always asks my advice; she never takes it.”
“My dear,” said she, with the quiet smile with which she often looked on her daughter’s proceedings, “Debby wants somebody to ask advice of. When she gets it, she is settled at once as to what she don’t want to do; that ‘s something.”
Miss Debby once came to me with a face of great perplexity.
“I don’t know what to do, Horace. Our Thomas is a very valuable man, and he has always been in the family. I don’t know anything how we should get along without him, but he is getting into bad ways.”
“Ah,” said I, “what?”
“Well, you see it all comes of this modern talk about the rights of the people. I ‘ve instructed Thomas as faithfully as ever a woman could; but – do you believe me? – he goes to the primary meetings. I have positive, reliable information that he does.”
“My dear Miss Kittery, I suppose it ‘s his right as a citizen.”
“O, fiddlestick and humbug!” said Miss Debby; “and it may be my right to turn him out of my service.”
“And would not that, after all, be more harm to you than to him?” suggested I.
Miss Debby swept up the hearth briskly, tapped on her snuffbox, and finally said she had forgotten her handkerchief, and left the room.
Old Madam Kittery laughed a quiet laugh. “Poor Debby,” she said, “she ‘ll have to come to it; the world will go on.”
Thomas kept his situation for some years longer, till, having bought a snug place, and made some favorable investments, he at last announced to Miss Debby that, having been appointed constable, with a commission from the governor, his official duties would not allow of his continuance in her service.
CHAPTER L.
THE LAST CHAPTER.
IT was eight years after Tina left us on the wharf in Boston when I met her again. Ellery Davenport had returned to this country, and taken a house in Boston. I was then a lawyer established there in successful business.
Ellery Davenport met me with open-handed cordiality, and Tina with warm sisterly affection; and their house became one of my most frequent visiting-places. Knowing Tina by a species of divination, as I always had, it was easy for me to see through all those sacred little hypocrisies by which good women instinctively plead and intercede for husbands whom they themselves have found out. Michelet says, somewhere, that “in marriage the maternal feeling becomes always the strongest in woman, and in time it is the motherly feeling with which she regards her husband.” She cares for him, watches over him, with the indefatigable tenderness which a mother gives to a son.
It was easy to see that Tina’s affection for her husband was no longer a blind, triumphant adoration for an idealized hero, nor the confiding dependence of a happy wife, but the careworn anxiety of one who constantly seeks to guide and to restrain. And I was not long in seeing the cause of this anxiety.
Ellery Davenport was smitten with that direst curse, which, like the madness inflicted on the heroes of some of the Greek tragedies, might seem to be the vengeance of some incensed divinity. He was going down that dark and slippery road, up which so few return. We were all fully aware that at many times our Tina had all the ghastly horrors of dealing with a mad man. Even when he was himself again, and sought, by vows, promises, and illusive good resolutions, to efface the memory of the past, and give security for the future, there was no rest for Tina. In her dear eyes I could read always that sense of overhanging dread, that helpless watchfulness, which one may see in the eyes of so many poor women in our modern life, whose days are haunted by a fear they dare not express, and who must smile, and look gay, and seem confiding, when their very souls are failing them for fear. Still these seasons of madness did not seem for a while to impair the vigor of Ellery Davenport’s mind, nor the feverish intensity of his ambition. He was absorbed in political life, in a wild, daring, unprincipled way, and made frequent occasions to leave Tina alone in Boston, while he travelled around the country, pursuing his intrigues. In one of these absences, it was his fate at last to fall in a political duel.
* * * *
Ten years after the gay and brilliant scene in Christ Church, some of those who were present as wedding guests were again convened to tender the last offices to the brilliant and popular Ellery Davenport. Among the mourners at the grave, two women who had loved him truly stood arm in arm.
After his death, it seemed, by the general consent of all, the kindest thing that could be done for him, to suffer the veil of silence to fall over his memory.
* * * *
Two years after that, one calm, lovely October morning, a quiet circle of friends stood around the altar of the old church, when Tina and I were married. Our wedding journey was a visit to Harry and Esther in England. Since then, the years have come and gone softly.
Ellery Davenport now seems to us as a distant dream of another life, recalled chiefly by the beauty of his daughter, whose growing loveliness is the principal ornament of our home.
Miss Mehitable and Emily form one circle with us. Nor does the youthful Emily know why she is so very dear to the saintly woman whose prayers and teachings are such a benediction in our family.
* * * *
Not long since we spent a summer vacation at Oldtown, to explore once more the old scenes, and to show to young Master Harry and Miss Tina the places that their parents had told them of. Many changes have taken place in the old homestead. The serene old head of my grandfather has been laid beneath the green sod of the burying-ground; and my mother, shortly after, was laid by him.
Old Parson Lothrop continued for some years, with his antique dress and his antique manners, respected in Oldtown as the shadowy minister of the past; while his colleague, Mr. Mordecai Rossiter, edified his congregation with the sharpest and most stringent new school Calvinism. To the last Dr. Lothrop remained faithful to his Arminian views, and regarded the spread of the contrary doctrines, as a decaying old minister is apt to, as a personal reflection upon himself. In his last illness, which was very distressing, he was visited by a zealous Calvinistic brother from a neighboring town, who, on the strength of being a family connection, thought it his duty to go over and make one last effort to revive the orthodoxy of his venerable friend. Dr. Lothrop received him politely, and with his usual gentlemanly decorum remained for a long time in silence listening to his somewhat protracted arguments and statements. As he gave no reply, his friend at last said to him, “Dr. Lothrop, perhaps you are weak, and this conversation disturbs you?”
“I should be weak indeed, if I allowed such things as you have been saying to disturb me,” replied the stanch old doctor.
“He died like a philosopher, my dear,” said Lady Lothrop to me, “just as he always lived.”
My grandmother, during the last part of her life, was totally blind. One would have thought that a person of her extreme activity would have been restless and wretched under this deprivation; but in her case blindness appeared to be indeed what Milton expressed it as being, “an overshadowing of the wings of the Almighty.” Every earthly care was hushed, and her mind turned inward, in constant meditation upon those great religious truths which had fed her life for so many years.
Aunt Lois we found really quite lovely. There is a class of women who are like winter apples, – all their youth they are crabbed and hard, but at the further end of life they are full of softness and refreshment. The wrinkles had really almost smoothed themselves out in Aunt Lois’s face, and our children found in her the most indulgent and painstaking of aunties, ready to run, and wait, and tend, and fetch, and carry, and willing to put everything in the house at their disposal. In fact, the young gentleman and lady found the old homestead such very free and easy ground that they announced to us that they preferred altogether staying there to being in Boston, especially as they had the barn to romp in.
One Saturday afternoon, Tina and I drove over to Needmore with a view to having one more gossip with Sam Lawson. Hepsy, it appears, had departed this life, and Sam had gone over to live with a son of his in Needmore. We found him roosting placidly in the porch on the sunny side of the house.
“Why, lordy massy, bless your soul an’ body, ef that ain’t Horace Holyoke!” he said, when he recognized who I was.
“An’ this ‘ere ‘s your wife, is it? Wal, wal, how this ‘ere world does turn round! Wal, now, who would ha’ thought it? Here you be, and Tiny with you. Wal, wal!”
“Yes,” said I, “here we are.”
“Wal, now, jest sit down,” said Sam, motioning us to a seat in the porch. “I was jest kind o’ ‘flectin’ out here in the sun; ben a readin’ in the Missionary Herald; they ‘ve ben a sendin’ missionaries to Otawhity, an’ they say that there ain’t no winter there, an’ the bread jest grows on the trees, so ‘t they don’t hev to make none, an’ there ain’t no wood-piles nor splittin’ wood, no nothing’ o’ that sort goin’ on, an’ folks don’t need no clothes to speak on. Now, I ‘s just thinkin’ that ‘ere ‘s jest the country to suit me. I wonder, now, ef they could n’t find suthin’ for me to do out there. I could shoe the hosses, ef they hed any, and I could teach the natives their catechize, and kind o’ help round gin’ally. These ‘ere winters gits so cold here I ‘m been a ‘most crooked up with the rheumatiz – “
“Why Sam,” said Tina, “where is Hepsy?”
“Law, now, hain’t ye heerd? Why, Hepsy, she ‘s been dead, wal, let me see, ‘t was three year the fourteenth o’ last May when Hepsy died, but she was clear worn out afore she died. Wal, jest half on her was clear paralyzed, poor crittur; she could n’t speak a word; that ‘ere was a gret trial to her. I don’t think she was resigned under it. Hepsy hed an awful sight o’ grit. I used to talk to Hepsy, an’ talk, an’ try to set things afore her in the best way I could, so ‘s to git ‘er into a better state o’ mind. D’ you b’lieve, one day when I ‘d ben a talkin’ to her, she kind o’ made a motion to me with her eye, an’ when I went up to ‘er, what d’ you think? why, she jest tuk and BIT me! she did so!”
“Sam,” said Tina, “I sympathize with Hepsy. I believe if I had to be talked to an hour, and could n’t answer, I should bite.”
“Jes’ so, jes’ so,” said Sam. “I ‘spex ‘t is so. You see, women must talk, there ‘s where ‘t is. Wal, now, don’t ye remember that Miss Bell, – Miss Miry Bell? She was of a good family in Boston. They used to board her out to Oldtown, ’cause she was ‘s crazy ‘s a loon. They jest let ‘er go ’bout ’cause she did n’t hurt nobody, but massy, her tongue used ter run ‘s ef ‘t was hung in the middle and run both ends. Ye really could n’t hear yourself think when she was round. Wal, she was a visitin’ Parson Lothrop, an’ ses he, ‘miss Bell, do pray see ef you can’t be still a minute.’ ‘Lord, bless ye, Dr. Lothrop, I can’t stop talking!’ ses she. “Wal,’ ses he, ‘you jest take a mouthful o’ water an’ hold in your mouth, an’ then mebbe ye ken stop.’ Wal, she took the water, an’ she sot still a minute or two, an’ it kind o’ worked on ‘er so ‘t she jumped up an’ twitched off Dr. Lothrop’s wig an’ spun it right acrost the room inter the fireplace. ‘Bless me! Miss Bell,’ ses he, ‘spit out yer water an’ talk, ef ye must!’ I ‘ve offun thought on ‘t,” said Sam. “I s’pose Hepsy ‘s felt a good ‘eal so. Wal, poor soul, she ‘s gone to ‘er rest. We ‘re all on us goin;, one arter another. Yer grandther ‘s gone, an’ yer mother, an’ Parson Lothrop, he ‘s gone, an’ Lady Lothrop, she ‘s kind o’ solitary. I went over to see ‘er last week, an’ ses she to me, ‘Sam, I dunno nothin’ what I shell do with my hosses. I feed ’em well, an’ they ain’t worked hardly any, an’ yet they act so ‘t I ‘m ‘most afeard to drive out with ’em. I ‘m thinkin’ ‘it would be a good thing ef she ‘d give up that ‘ere place o’ hern, an’ go an’ live in Boston with her sister.”
“Well, Sam,” said Tina, “what has become of Old Crab Smith? Is he alive yet?”
“Law, yis, he ‘s creepin’ round here yit; but the old woman she ‘s dead,” said Sam. “I tell you she ‘s a hevin’ her turn o’ hectorin’ him now, ’cause she keeps appearin’ to him, an’ scares the old critter ‘most to death.”
“Appears to him?” said I. “Why, what do you mean, Sam?”
“Wal, jest as true ‘s you live an’ breathe, she does ‘pear to him,” said Sam. “Why, ‘t was only last week my son Luke an’ I, we was a settin’ by the fire here, an’ I was a holdin’ a skein o’ yarn for Malviny to wind (Malviny, she ‘s Luke’s wife), when who should come in but Old Crab, head first, lookin’ so scart an white about the gills thet Luke, ses he, ‘Why, Mistur Smith what ails ye?’ ses he. Wal, the critter was so scared ‘t he could n’t speak, he jest set down in the chair, an’ he shuk so ‘t he shuk the chair, an’ his teeth, they chattered, an’ ‘t was a long time ‘fore they could git it out on him. But come to, he told us, ‘t was a bright moonlight night, an’ he was comin’ ‘long down by the Stone pastur, when all of a suddin he looks up an’ there was his wife walkin right ‘long-side on him, – he ses he never see nothin’ plainer in his life then he see the old woman, jest in her short gown an’ petticut ‘t she allers wore, with her gold beads round her neck, an’ a cap on with a black ribbon round it, an’ there she kep’ a walkin’ right ‘long-side of ‘im, her elbow a touchin’ hisn, all ‘long the road, an’ when he walked faster, she walked faster, an’ when he walked slower, she walked slower, an’ her eyes was sot, an’ fixed on him, but she did n’t speak no word, an’ he did n’t darse to speak to her. Finally, he ses he gin a dreadful yell an’ run with all his might, an’ our house was the very fust place he tumbled inter. Lordy massy, wal, I could n’t help thinkin’ ‘t sarved him right. I told Sol ’bout it, last town-meetin’ day, an’ Sol, I thought he ‘d ha’ split his sides. Sol said he did n’t know ‘s the old woman had so much sperit. ‘Lordy massy,’ ses he, ‘ef she don’t do nothin’ more ‘n take a walk ‘long-side on him now an’ then, why, I say, let ‘er rip, – sarves him right.”
“Well,” said Tina, “I ‘m glad to hear about Old Sol; how is he?”
“O, Sol? Wal, he ‘s doin’ fustrate. He married Deacon ‘Bijah Smith’s darter, an’ he ‘s got a good farm of his own, an’ boys bigger ‘n you be, considerable.”
“Well,” said Tina, “how is Miss Asphyxia?”
“Wal, Sol told me ‘t she ‘d got a cancer or suthin’ or other the matter with ‘er; but the old gal, she jest sets her teeth hard, an’ goes on a workin’. She won’t have no doctor, nor nothin’ done for ‘er, an’ I expect bimeby she ‘ll die, a standin’ up in the harness.”
“Poor old creature! I wonder, Horace, if it would do any good for me to go and see her. Has she a soul, I wonder, or is she nothing but a ‘workin machine’?”
“Wal, I dunno,” said Sam. “This ‘er world is cur’us. When we git to thinkin’ about it, we think ef we ‘d ha’ had the makin’ on ‘t, things would ha’ ben made someways diffurnt from what they be. But then things is just as they is, an’ we can’t help it. Sometimes I think” said Sam, embracing his knee profoundly, “an’ then agin I dunno. – There ‘s all sorts o’ folks hes to be in this ‘ere world, an’ I s’pose the Lord knows what he want ’em fur; but I ‘m sure I don’t. I kind o ‘hope the Lord ‘ll fetch everybody out ’bout right some o’ these ‘ere times. He ain’t got nothin’ else to do, an’ it ‘s his lookout, an’ not ourn, what comes of ’em all. – But I should like to go to Otawhity, an’ ef you see any o’ these missionary folks, Horace, I wish you ‘d speak to ’em about it.”
THE END.
Cambridge: Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.
* The dissent of Major Broad of Natick, and several others, on the grounds above stated, may still be read in the report of the proceedings of the Convention that ratified the Constitution.
* Dr. Cotton Mather’s “Magnalia.”
* “When this harsh, discouraging doctrine is deduced from the Scriptures themselves, is not my first duty to honor God? Whatever respect I owe to the sacred text, I owe still more to its Author, and I should prefer to believe the Bible falsified or unintelligible to believing God unjust or cruel. St. Paul would not that the vase should say to the potter, Why hast thou made me thus? That is all very well if the potter exacts of the vase only such services as he has fitted it to render; but if he should require of it a usage for which he has not fitted it, would the vase be in the wrong for saying Why hast thou made me thus?”
“Yes,” said Bill; “the Oldtown folks call their minister’s wife Lady yet.”
“Well, that ‘s a little comfort,” said Miss Mehitable; “one don’t want life an entire dead level. Do let us have one titled lady among us.”
* Cambridge Platform Mather’s Magnalia, page 227, article 7.