Chapter I: Want to Go Home, 364 (4)

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 the old 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 I _have_ been 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 I used 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 the world,” 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 it in 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 helpless and 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, “I _should_ be 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, whom my 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, God or 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 I would suffer violence to be done to any under _your_ roof, 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 to _wear_ the cross, but I hope God will enable me to _bear_ it.” 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 the roads 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 a blessing, 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 of winged 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 Camillo Campbell 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,” replied Joseph; “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 their heads 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.

THE RIVAL MECHANICIANS.

“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, a youth 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 for _him_. 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 urges _me_ to 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, “_She_ will know _my_ workmanship, as easily as she could distinguish my fairy romanzas from your Samson solos.” But he replied, right cordially, “Honestly and truly, Pierre, I think we are 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 be _thine_?” 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; for the 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 itself _so_ easily, _so_ fluently!” 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 words _Rosa bella_ in 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 think _most_ beautiful?” said he.

She evaded the question, by asking, “Which do _you_?”

“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

“In a glade,
Where the sun harbours; and one side of it
Listens to bees, another to a brook.
Lovers, that have just parted for the night,
Dream of such spots when they have said their prayers;
Or some tired parent, holding by the hand
A child, and walking toward the setting sun.”

In the stillness of the night, they could hear the “rushing of the arrowy Rhone.” From a neighbouring eminence could be seen the transparent Lake of Geneva, reflecting the deep blue heaven above. Mountains, in all fantastic forms, enclosed them round; now draped in heavy masses of sombre clouds, and now half revealed through sun-lighted vapour, like a veil of gold. The flowing silver of little waterfalls gleamed among the dark rocks. Grape-vines hung their rich festoons by the roadside, and the beautiful barberry bush embroidered their leaves with its scarlet clusters. They lived under the same roof with a guileless good old man, and with an innocent maiden, just merging into beautiful womanhood; and more than all, they were both under the influence of that great inspirer, Love.

Rosabella was so uniformly kind to both, that Pierre could never relinquish the hope that constant devotedness might in time win her affections for himself. Florien, having a more cheerful character, and more reliance on his own fascinations, was merely anxious that the lovely maiden should prefer his workmanship, as decidedly as she did his person and manners. Under this powerful stimulus, in addition to the ambition excited by the old watch-maker’s proposal, the competition between them was active and incessant. But the groundwork of their characters was so good, that all little heart-burnings of envy or jealousy were quickly checked by the predominance of generous and kindly sentiments.

One evening, Rosabella was reading to her grandfather a description of an albino squirrel. The pure white animal, with pink eyes and a feathery tail, pleased her fancy extremely, and she expressed a strong desire to see one. Pierre said nothing; but not long after, as they sat eating grapes after dinner, a white squirrel leaped on the table, frisked from shoulder to shoulder, and at last sat up with a grape in its paws. Rosabella uttered an exclamation of delight. “Is it alive?” she said. “Do you not see that it is?” rejoined Pierre. “Call the dog, and see what he thinks about it.”

“We have so many things here, which are alive and yet not alive,” she replied, smiling.

Florien warmly praised the pretty automaton; but he was somewhat vexed that he himself did not think of making the graceful little animal for which the maiden had expressed a wish. Her pet Canary had died the day before, and his eye happened to rest on the empty cage hanging over the flower-stand. “I too will give her a pleasure,” thought he. A few weeks after, as they sat at breakfast, sweet notes were heard from the cage, precisely the same the Canary used to sing; and, looking up, the astonished maiden saw him hopping about, nibbling at the sugar and pecking his feathers, as lively as ever. Florien smiled, and said, “Is it as much alive as Pierre’s squirrel?”

The approach of the next birth-day was watched with eager expectation; for even the old man began to feel keen pleasure in the competition, as if he had witnessed a race between fleet horses. Pierre, excited by the maiden’s declaration that she mistook his golden apple for Florien’s workmanship, produced a much more elegant specimen of art than he had ever before conceived. It was a barometer, supported by two knights in silver chain-armour, who went in when it rained, and came out when the sun shone. On the top of the barometer was a small silver basket, of exceedingly delicate workmanship, filled with such flowers as close in damp weather. When the knights retired, these flowers closed their enamelled petals, and when the knights returned, the flowers expanded.

Florien produced a silver chariot, with two spirited and finely proportioned horses. A revolving circle in the wheels showed on what day of the month occurred each day of the week, throughout the year. Each month was surmounted by its zodiacal sign, beautifully enamelled in green, crimson and gold. At ten o’clock the figure of a young girl, wearing Rosabella’s usual costume, and resembling her in form and features, ascended slowly from behind the wheel, and at the same moment, the three Graces rose up in the chariot and held garlands over her. From the axle-tree emerged a young man, in Florien’s dress, and kneeling offered a rose to the maiden.

It was so beautiful as a whole, and so exquisitely finished in all its details, that Pierre clenched his fingers till the nails cut him, so hard did he try to conceal the bitterness of his disappointment at his own manifest inferiority. Could he have been an hour alone, all would have been well. But, as he stepped out on the piazza, followed by Florien, he saw him kiss his hand triumphantly to Rosabella, and she returned it with a modest but expressive glance. Unfortunately, he held in his hand a jewelled dagger, of Turkish workmanship, which Antoine Breguet had asked him to return to its case in the workshop. Stung with disappointed love and ambition, the tempestuous feelings so painfully restrained burst forth like a whirlwhind. Quick as a flash of lightning, he made a thrust at his graceful rival. Then frightened at what he had done, and full of horror at thoughts of Rosabella’s distress, he rushed into the road, and up the sides of the mountain, like a madman.

* * * * *

A year passed, and no one heard tidings of him. On the anniversary of Rosabella’s birth, the aged grandsire sat alone, sunning his white locks at the open window, when Pierre Barthoud entered, pale and haggard. He was such a skeleton of his former self that his master did not recognize him, till he knelt at his feet, and said, “Forgive me, father. I am Pierre.”

The poor old man shook violently, and covered his face with trembling hands. “Ah, thou wretched one,” said he, “how darest thou come hither, with murder on thy soul?”

“Murder?” exclaimed Pierre, in a voice so terribly deep and distinct, that it seemed to freeze the feeble blood of him who listened. “Is he then dead? Did I kill the beautiful youth, whom I loved so much?” He fell forward on the floor, and the groan that came from his strong chest was like an earthquake tearing up trees by the roots.

Antoine Breguet was deeply moved, and the tears flowed fast over his furrowed face. “Rise, my son,” said he, “and make thy escape, lest they come to arrest thee.”

“Let them come,” replied Pierre, gloomily; “Why should I live?” Then raising his head from the floor, he said slowly, and with great fear, “Father, where is Rosabella?”

The old man covered his face, and sobbed out, “I shall never see her again! These old eyes will never again look on her blessed face.” Many minutes they remained thus, and when he repeated, “I shall never see her again!” the young man clasped his feet convulsively, and groaned in agony.

At last the housekeeper came in; a woman whom Pierre had known and loved in boyhood. When her first surprise was over, she promised to conceal his arrival, and persuaded him to go to the garret and try to compose his too strongly excited feelings. In the course of the day she explained to him how Florien had died of his wound, and how Rosabella pined away in silent melancholy, often sitting at the spinning wheel with the suspended thread in her hand, as if unconscious where she was. During all that wretched night the young man could not close his eyes in sleep. Phantoms of the past flitted through his brain, and remorse gnawed at his heart-strings. In the deep stillness of midnight, he seemed to hear the voice of the bereaved old man sounding mournfully distinct, “I shall never see her again!” He prayed earnestly to die; but suddenly an idea flashed into his mind, and revived his desire to live. Full of his new project, he rose early and sought his good old master. Sinking on his knees he exclaimed, “Oh, my father, say that you forgive me! I implore you to give my guilty soul that one gleam of consolation. Believe me, I would sooner have died myself, than have killed him. But my passions were by nature so strong! Oh, God forgive me, they were _so_ strong! How I have curbed them, He alone knows. Alas, that they should have burst the bounds in that one mad moment, and destroyed the two I best loved on earth. Oh, father, _can_ you say that you forgive me?”

With quivering voice he replied, “I do forgive you, and bless you, my poor son.” He laid his hand affectionately on the thick matted hair, and added, “I too have need of forgiveness. I did very wrong thus to put two generous natures in rivalship with each other. A genuine love of beauty, for its own sake, is the only healthy stimulus to produce the beautiful. The spirit of competition took you out of your sphere, and placed you in a false position. In grand conceptions, and in works of durability and strength, you would always have excelled Florien, as much as he surpassed you in tastefulness and elegance. By striving to be what he was, you parted with your own gifts, without attaining to his. Every man in the natural sphere of his own talent, and all in harmony; this is the true order, my son; and I tempted you to violate it. In my foolish pride, I earnestly desired to have a world-renowned successor to the famous Antoine Breguet. I wanted that the old stand should be kept up in all its glory, and continue to rival all competitors. I thought you could super-add Florien’s gifts to your own, and yet retain your own characteristic excellencies. Therefore, I stimulated your intellect and imagination to the utmost, without reflecting that your heart might break in the process. God forgive me; it was too severe a trial for poor human nature. And do thou, my son, forgive this insane ambition; for severely has my pride been humbled.”

Pierre could not speak, but he covered the wrinkled hands with kisses, and clasped his knees convulsively. At last he said, “Let me remain concealed here for a while. You _shall_ see her again; only give me time.” When he explained that he would make Rosabella’s likeness, from memory, the sorrowing parent shook his head and sighed, as he answered, “Ah, my son, the soul in her eye, and the light grace of her motions, no art can restore.”

But to Pierre’s excited imagination there was henceforth only one object in life; and that was to re-produce Rosabella. In the keen conflict of competition, under the fiery stimulus of love and ambition, his strong impetuous soul had become machine-mad; and now overwhelming grief centered all his stormy energies on one object. Day by day, in the loneliness of his garret, he worked upon the image till he came to love it, almost as much as he had loved the maiden herself. Antoine Breguet readily supplied materials. From childhood he had been interested in all forms of mechanism; and this image, so intertwined with his affections, took strong hold of his imagination also. Nearly a year had passed away, when the housekeeper, who was in the secret, came to ask for Rosabella’s hair, and the dress she usually wore. The old man gave her the keys, and wiped the starting tears, as he turned silently away. A few days after, Pierre invited him to come and look upon his work. “Do not go too suddenly,” he said; “prepare yourself for a shock; for indeed it is very like our lost one.”

“I will go, I will go,” replied the old man, eagerly. “Am I not accustomed to see all manner of automata and androides? Did I not myself make a flute-player, which performed sixteen tunes, to the admiration of all who heard him? And think you I am to be frightened by an image?”

“Not frightened, dear father,” answered Pierre; “but I was afraid you might be overcome with emotion.” He led him into the apartment, and said, “Shall I remove the veil now? Can you bear it, dear father?”

“I can,” was the calm reply. But when the curtain was withdrawn, he started, and exclaimed, “Santa Maria! It _is_ Rosabella! She _is_ not dead!” He tottered forward, and kissed the cold lips and the cold hands, and tears rained on the bright brown hair, as he cried out, “My child! my child!”

When the tumult of feeling had subsided, the aged mourner kissed Pierre’s hands, and said, “It is wonderfully like her, in every feature and every tint. It seems as if it would move and breathe.”

“She _will_ move and breathe,” replied Pierre; “only give me time.”

His voice sounded so wildly, and his great deep-set eyes burned with such intense enthusiasm, that his friend was alarmed. They clasped each other’s hands, and spoke more quietly of the beloved one. “This is all that remains to us, Pierre,” said the old man. “We are alone in the world. You were a friendless orphan when you came to me: and I am childless.”

With a passionate outburst of grief, the young man replied, “And it was I, my benefactor, who made you so. Wretch that I am!”

From that time the work went on with greater zeal than ever. Pierre often forgot to taste of food, so absorbed was he in the perfection of his machine. First, the arms moved obedient to his wishes, then the eyes turned, and the lips parted. Meanwhile, his own face grew thinner and paler, and his eyes glowed with a wilder fire.

Finally, it was whispered in the village that Pierre Berthoud was concealed in Antoine Breguet’s cottage: and officers came to arrest him. But the venerable old watch-maker told the story so touchingly, and painted so strongly the young man’s consuming agony of grief and remorse, and pleaded so earnestly that he might be allowed to finish a wonderful image of his beautiful grandchild, that they promised not to disturb him till the work was accomplished.