Chapter I: Want to Go Home, 364 (5)

Two years from the day of Pierre’s return, on the anniversary of the memorable birth-day, he said. “Now, my father, I have done all that art _can_ do. Come and see the beautiful one.” He led him into the little room where Rosabella used to work. There she sat, spinning diligently. The beautifully formed bust rose and fell under her neat boddice. Her lips were parted, and her eyes followed the direction of the thread. But what made it seem more fearfully like life, was the fact that ever and anon the wheel rested, and the maiden held the suspended thread, with her eye-lids lowered, as if she were lost in thought. Above, the flower-stand, near by, hung the bird-cage, with Florien’s artificial canary. The pretty little automaton had been silent long; but now its springs were set in motion, and it poured forth all its melodies.

The bereaved old man pressed Pierre’s hand, and gazed upon his darling grand-child silently. He caused his arm-chair to be brought into the room, and ever after, while he retained his faculties, he refused to sit elsewhere.

The fame of this remarkable android soon spread through all the region round about. The citizens of Geneva united in an earnest petition that the artist might be excused from any penalty for the accidental murder he had committed. Members of the State Council came and looked at the breathing maiden, and touched the beautiful flesh, which seemed as if it would yield to their pressure. They saw the wild haggard artist, with lines of suffering cut so deeply in his youthful brow, and they at once granted the prayer of the citizens.

But Pierre had nothing more to live for. His work in the world was done. The artificial energy, supplied by one absorbing idea was gone; and the contemplation of his own work was driving him to madness. It so closely resembled life that he longed more and more to have it live. The lustrous eyes moved, but they had no light from the soul, and they would not answer to his earnest gaze. The beautiful lips parted, but they never spoke kind words, as in days of yore. The image began to fill him with supernatural awe, yet he was continually drawn toward it by a magic influence. Three months after its completion, he was found at daylight, lying at its feet, stone dead.

Antoine Breguet survived him two years. During the first eighteen months, he was never willing to have the image of his lost darling out of sight. The latter part of the time, he often whistled to the bird, and talked to her, and seemed to imagine that she answered him. But with increasing imbecility, Rosabella was forgotten. He sometimes asked, “Who _is_ that young woman?” At last he said, “Send her away. She looks at me.”

The magic-lantern of departing memory then presented a phantom of his wife, dead long ago. He busied himself with making imaginary watches and rings for her, and held long conversations, as if she were present. Afterward, the wife was likewise forgotten, and he was occupied entirely with his mother, and the scenes of early childhood. Finally he wept often, and repeated continually, “They are all waiting for me; and I want to go home.” When he was little more than eighty years old, compassionate angels took the weary pilgrim in their arms, and carried him home.

A SONG.

Hush! hush! Love lies at rest,
Like a bird in her nest,
Like dew in a lily’s breast,
Love is sleeping.
Roses breathe fragrant sighs
Over his drowsy eyes,
But, ah, how still he lies!
Love is sleeping.

Drive the honey-bees away!
Let not the sun’s bright ray
Over his features play!
Love is sleeping.
Lest his slumbers should fly,
Gentle Music draw nigh,
With your sweet lullaby!
_Keep_ him sleeping!

Ha! his cheek grows warm
Under the magic charm,
And he moves his white arm!
Love is dreaming,
His little limbs shiver,
His soft eye-lids quiver,
Like rays on a river:
Love is waking.

UTOUCH AND TOUCHU.

“Nothing left
But what _you_ touch, and not what _touches you_.”
LEIGH HUNT.

“Thou hast the fairy coin, which, in wrong hands
Is merely stones and leaves;--in thine, true gold.”
J. R. LOWELL.

It was a bright autumnal day, when two boys went forth to gather nuts. One was keen-eyed and self-important in his gait. The other had mild, deep eyes, and his motions were like flowers swaying to a gentle breeze. Alfred, the keen-eyed, mounted the tree and shook it. “I should like to own a dozen such trees,” said he, “and have all the nuts to myself.”

“Oh, see how beautifully the setting sun shines slanting through the boughs, on the trunk, and branches! It glows like gold!” exclaimed Ernest.

“If the sun were like old Midas, that we read about at school, there would be some fun in it,” replied Alfred; “for if it turned all it touched into gold, I could peel off the bark and buy a horse with it.”

Ernest gazed silently at the golden sea of clouds in the west, and then at the warm gleams it cast on the old walnut tree. He stood thus but a moment; for his companion aimed a nut at his head, and shouted, “Make haste to fill the basket, you lazy fellow!”

The nuts were soon gathered, and the boys stretched themselves on the grass, talking over school affairs. A flock of birds flew over their heads towards the south. “They are flying away from winter,” said Ernest. “How I should like to go with them where the palms and cocoas grow! See how beautifully they skim along the air!”

“I wish I had a gun,” rejoined Alfred; “I would have some of them for supper.”

It was a mild autumnal twilight. The cows had gone from the pastures, and all was still, save the monotonous noise of the crickets. The fitful whistling of the boys gradually subsided into dreamy silence. As they lay thus, winking drowsily, Ernest saw a queer little dwarf peep from under an arching root of the walnut tree. His little dots of blue eyes looked cold and opaque, as if they were made of turquoise. His hands were like the claws of a bird. But he was surely a gentleman of property and standing, for his brown velvet vest was embroidered with gold, and a diamond fastened his hat-band. While Ernest wondered who he could be, his attention was attracted by a bright little vision hovering in the air before him. At first, he thought it was a large insect, or a small bird; but as it floated ever nearer and nearer, he perceived a lovely little face, with tender, luminous eyes. Her robe seemed like soap-bubbles glancing in the sun, and in her bonnet, made of an inverted White Petunia blossom, the little ringlets shone like finest threads of gold. The stamen of a White Lily served her for a wand, and she held it towards him, saying, in tones of soft beseechment, “_Let_ me touch your eyes!”

“You had better touch _my_ wand. You will find it much more to the purpose,” croaked the dwarf under the walnut root. “Look here! wouldn’t you like to have this?” and he shook a purse full of coins, as he spoke.

“I don’t like your cold eyes and your skinny fingers,” replied Ernest. “Pray, who _are_ you?”

“My name is Utouch,” answered the gnome: “and I bring great luck wherever I go.”

“And what is your name, dear little spirit of the air?” asked Ernest.

She looked lovingly into his eyes, and answered, “My name is Touchu. Shall I be your friend for life?”

He smiled, and eagerly replied, “Oh yes! oh yes! your face is so full of love!”

She descended gracefully, and touched his eyes with her Lily-stamen. The air became redolent with delicate perfume, like fragrant Violets kissed by the soft south wind. A rainbow arched the heavens, and reflected its beautiful image on a mirror of mist. The old tree reached forth friendly arms, and cradled the sunbeams on its bosom. Flowers seemed to nod and smile at Ernest, as if they knew him very well, and the little birds sang into his inmost soul. Presently, he felt that he was rising slowly, and undulating on the air, like a winged seed when it is breathed upon; and away he sailed, on fleecy clouds, under the arch of the rainbow. A mocking laugh roused him from his trance, and he heard Utouch, the gnome, exclaim jeeringly, “There he goes on a voyage to one of his air-castles in the moon!” Then he felt himself falling through the air, and all at once he was on the ground. Birds, flowers, rainbows, all were gone. Twilight had deepened into dreary evening; winds sighed through the trees, and the crickets kept up their mournful creaking tones. Ernest was afraid to be all alone. He felt round for his companion, and shook him by the arm, exclaiming, “Alfred! Alfred, wake up! I have had a wonderful fine dream here on the grass.”

“So have I,” replied Alfred, rubbing his eyes. “Why need you wake me just as the old fellow was dropping a purse full of money into my hand?”

“What old fellow?” inquired Ernest.

“He called himself Utouch,” answered Alfred, “and he promised to be my constant companion. I hope he will keep his word; for I like an old chap that drops a purse of gold into my hand when I ask for it.”

“Why, I dreamed of that same old fellow,” said Ernest, “but I didn’t like his looks.”

“Perhaps he didn’t show you the full purse?” said Alfred.

“Yes, he did,” replied Ernest; “but I felt such a love for the little fairy with tender eyes and heart-melting voice, that I choose _her_ for my life-friend. And oh, she made the earth _so_ beautiful!”

His companion laughed and said, “I dreamed of her, too. So you have preferred that floating soap-bubble, did you? I should have guessed as much. But come, help me carry the nuts home, for I am hungry for my supper.”

* * * * *

Years passed, and the boys were men. Ernest sat writing in a small chamber, that looked toward the setting sun. His little child had hung a prismatic chandelier-drop on the window, and he wrote amid the rainbows that it cast over his paper. In a simple vase on his desk stood a stalk of blossoms from the brilliant wild flower, called the Cardinal. Unseen by him, the fairy Touchu circled round his head and waved her Lily-stamen, from which the fine gold-coloured dust fell on his hair in a fragrant shower. In the greensward below, two beautiful yellow birds sat among the catnip-blossoms, picking the seed, while they rocked gracefully on the wind-stirred plant. Ernest smiled as he said to himself, “Gone are the dandelion blossoms, which strewed my grass-carpet with golden stars; and now come these winged flowers to refresh the eye. When _they_ are gone to warmer climes, then will the yellow butterflies come in pairs; and when even they are gone, here in my oboë sleep the soft yellow tones, ever ready to wake and cheer me with their child-like gladness.”

He took up the instrument as he spoke, and played a slight flourish. A little bird that nestled among the leaves of a cherry tree near by, caught the tones of the oboë and mocked it with a joyous trill, a little sunny shower of sound. Then sprang the poet to his feet, and his countenance lighted up like a transfigured one. But a slight cloud soon floated over that radiant expression. “Ah, if thou only wert not afraid of me!” he said. “If thou wouldst come, dear little warbler, and perch on my oboë, and sing a duet with me, how happy I should be! Why are man and nature thus sundered?”

Another little bird in the Althea bush, answered him in low sweet notes, ending ever with the plaintive cadence of the minor-third. The deep, tender eyes of the child-man filled with tears. “We are _not_ sundered,” thought he. “Surely my heart is in harmony with Nature; for she responds to my inmost thought, as one instrument vibrates the tones of another to which it is perfectly attuned. Blessed, blessed is nature in her soothing power.” As he spoke, Touchu came floating on a zephyr, and poured over him the fragrance of mignonette she had gathered from the garden below.

* * * * *

At the same hour, Alfred walked in his conservatory among groves of fragrant Geraniums and richly-flowering Cactuses. He smoked a cigar, and glanced listlessly from his embroidered slippers to the marble pavement without taking notice of the costly flowers. The gardener, who was watering a group of Japonicas, remarked, “This is a fine specimen that has opened to-day. Will you have the goodness to look at it, sir?” He paused in his walk a moment, and looked at a pure white blossom, with the faintest roseate blush in the centre. “It _ought_ to be handsome,” said he. “The _price_ was high enough. But after all the money I have expended, horticulturists declare that Mr. Duncan’s Japonicas excel mine. It’s provoking to be outdone.” The old gnome stood behind one of the plants, and shrugged his shoulders and grinned. Without perceiving his presence, Alfred muttered to himself, “Utouch promised my flowers should be unequalled in rarity and beauty.”

“That was last year,” croaked a small voice, which he at once recognized.

“Last year!” retorted Alfred, mocking his tone. “Am I then to be always _toiling_ after what I never _keep_? That’s precious comfort, you provoking imp!”

A retreating laugh was heard under the pavement, as the rich man threw his cigar away, exclaiming impatiently, “The devil take the Japonicas! what do I care? they’re not worth fretting about.”

* * * * *

Weeks passed and brought the returning seventh day of rest. The little child, who caused homemade rainbows to flicker over the father’s poem, lay very ill, and the anxious parents feared that this beautiful vision of innocence might soon pass away from the earth. The shadows of a Madeira-vine now and then waved across the window, and the chamber was filled with the delicate perfume of its blossoms. No sound broke the Sabbath stillness, except the little bird in the Althea bush, whose tones were sad as the voice of memory. The child heard it, and sighed unconsciously, as he put his little feverish hand within his mother’s, and said, “Please sing me a hymn, dear mother.” With a soft, clear voice, subdued by her depth of feeling, she sang Schubert’s Ave Maria. Manifold and wonderful are the intertwining influences in the world of spirits! What was it that touched the little bird’s heart, and uttered itself in such plaintive cadences? They made the child sigh for a hymn; and bird and child together woke Schubert’s prayerful echoes in the mother’s bosom. And now from the soul of the composer in that far-off German land, the spirit of devotion comes to the father, wafted on the wings of that beautiful music. Ernest bowed his head reverently, and sank kneeling by the bed-side. While he listened thus, Touchu glided softly into his bosom and laid her wand upon his heart. When the sweet beseeching melody had ceased, Ernest pressed the hand of the singer to his lip, and remained awhile in silence. Then the strong necessity of supplication came over him, and he poured forth an ardent prayer. With fervid eloquence, he implored for themselves an humble and resigned spirit, and for their little one, that, living or dying, good angels might ever carry him in their protecting arms. As they rose up, his wife leaned her head upon his shoulder, and with tearful eyes whispered:

“God help us, this and every day,
_To live_ more nearly as we _pray_.”

* * * * *

That same morning, Alfred rode to church in his carriage, and a servant waited with the horses, till he had performed his periodical routine of worship. Many-coloured hues from the richly-stained windows of the church glanced on wall and pillar, and imparted to silk and broadcloth the metallic lustre of a peacock’s plumage. Gorgeous in crimson mantle, with a topaz glory round his head, shone the meek son of Joseph the carpenter; and his humble fishermen of Galilee were refulgent in robes of purple and gold. The fine haze of dust, on which the sunbeams fell, gleamed with a quivering prismatic reflection of their splendour. From the choir descended the heavenly tones of Schubert’s Ave Maria. They flowed into Alfred’s ear, but no Touchu was with him to lay her wand upon his heart. To a visitor, who sat in his cushioned pew, he whispered that they paid the highest price for their music, and had the best that money could command. The sermon urged the necessity of providing some religious instruction for the poor; for otherwise there could be no security to property against robbery and fire. Alfred resolved within himself to get up a subscription immediately for that purpose, and to give twice as much as Mr. Duncan, whatever the sum might be. Utouch, who had secretly suggested the thing to him, turned somersaults on the gilded prayer-book, and twisted diabolical grimaces. But Alfred did not see him; nor did he hear a laugh under the carriage, when, as they rolled home, he said to his wife, “My dear, why didn’t you wear your embroidered shawl? I told you we were to have strangers in the pew. In so handsome a church, people expect to see the congregation elegantly dressed, you know.”

But though Utouch was a mocking spirit, Alfred could not complain that he had been untrue to his bargain. He had promised to bestow any thing he craved from his kingdom of the outward. He had asked for honour in the church, influence at the exchange, a rich handsome wife, and superb horses. He had them all. Whose fault was it, that he was continually looking round anxiously to observe whether _others_ had more of the goods he coveted? He had wished for a luxurious table, and it stood covered with the rarest dainties of the world. But with a constrained smile he said to his guests, “Is it not provoking to be surrounded with luxuries I cannot eat? That pie-crust would torment my sleep with a legion of nightmares. It is true, I do not crave it much; for I sit at a loaded table ‘half-famished for an appetite,’ as the witty Madame de Sevigné used to say. Again and again, he asked himself, why all the fruit that seemed so ripe and tempting on the outside was always dry and dusty within. And if he was puzzled to understand why he _seemed_ to have all things, and yet really _had_ nothing, still more was he puzzled to explain how Ernest _seemed_ to have so little, and yet in reality possessed _all_ things. One evening, at a concert, he happened to sit near Ernest and his wife, while they listened to the beautiful Symphony by Spohr, called the Consecration of the Tones. Delighted as children were they, when they began to hear the winds murmur through the music, the insects pipe, and one little bird after another chirp his notes of gladness. How expressively they looked at each other, during the tender lulling Cradle-Song! and how the expression of their faces brightened and softened, as the enchanting tones passed through the lively allegro of the Dance, into the exquisite melody of the Serenade! But when Cradle-Song, Dance, and Serenade all moved forward together in delightful harmony, a three-fold chord of lovely melodies, the transparent countenance of Ernest became luminous with his inward joy. It was evident that Touchu had again laid her thrilling wand upon his heart.

“How the deuce does he contrive always to delight himself?” thought Alfred. “I wonder whether the music really _is_ any thing uncommon.”

In order to ascertain, he turned from Ernest to watch the countenance of a musical critic near by; one of those unfortunate men, who enjoy music as the proof-reader enjoys the poetry he corrects in a printing-office. How can a beautiful metaphor please him, while he sees a comma topsy-turvy, or a period out of place? How can he be charmed by the melodious flow of the verse, while he is dotting an i, or looking out for an inverted s? The critic seemed less attentive to his business than the proof-reader; for he was looking round and whispering, apparently unconscious that sweet sounds filled the air. Nevertheless, Utouch whispered to Alfred that the critic was the man to inform him whether he _ought_ to be delighted with the music, or not. So, at the close of the Symphony, he spoke to him, and took occasion to say, “I invited a French amateur to come here this evening, in hopes he would receive a favourable impression of the state of music in America. You are an excellent judge of such matters. Do you think he will be satisfied with the performance?”

“He may be _pleased_, sir, but not _satisfied_,” replied the critic. “The composition is a very fine one, but he has doubtless heard it in Paris; and until you have heard a French orchestra, sir, you can have no conception of music. Their accuracy in rhythmical time, amounts to absolute perfection.”

“And do you think the orchestra have played well to-night?”

“Tolerably well, sir. But in the Cradle-Song the clarionet lagged a little, once or twice; and the effect of the Serenade was injured, because the violoncello was tuned one-sixteenth of a note too low.”

Alfred bowed, and went away congratulating himself that he had not been more delighted than was proper.

The alleged impossibility of having any conception of music unless he went to Europe, renewed a wish he had long indulged. He closed his magnificent house, and went forth to make the fashionable tour. Ernest was a painter, as well as a poet; and it chanced that they met in Italy. Alfred seemed glad to see the friend of his childhood; but he soon turned from cheerful things, to tell how vexed he was about a statue he had purchased. “I gave a great price for it,” said he, “thinking it was a real antique; but good judges now assure me that it is a modern work. It is so annoying to waste one’s money!”

“But if it be really beautiful, and pleases you, the money is _not_ wasted,” replied Ernest; “though it certainly is not agreeable to be cheated. Look at this ivory head to my cane! It is a bust of Hebe, which I bought for a trifle, yesterday. But small as is the market value, its beauty is a perpetual delight to me. If it be not an antique, it deserves to be. It troubles me that I cannot find the artist, and pay him more than I gave for it. Perhaps he is poor, and has not yet made a name for himself; but whoever he may be, a spark of the divine fire is certainly in him. Observe the beautiful swell of the breast, and the graceful turn of the head!”

“Yes, it is a pretty thing,” rejoined Alfred, half contemptously. “But I am too much vexed with that knave who sold me the statue, to go into raptures about the head of a cane just now. What makes it more provoking is, that Mr. Duncan purchased a _real_ antique last year, for less money than I threw away on this modern thing.”

Having in vain tried to impart his own sunny humour, Ernest bade him adieu, and returned to his humble lodgings, out of the city. As he lingered in the orange-groves, listening to the nightingales, he thought to himself, “I wish that charming little fairy, who came to me in my boyish dream, would touch Alfred with her wand; for the purse the old gnome gave him seems to bring him little joy.” He happened to look up at the moment, and there, close by his hand, was Touchu balancing herself tip-toe on an orange-bud. She had the same luminous, loving eyes, the same prismatic robe, and the same sunny gleam on her hair. She smiled as she said, “Then you do not repent your early choice, though I could not give you a purse full of money?”

“Oh, no indeed,” replied he. “Thou hast been the brightest blessing of my life.”

She kissed his eyes, and, waving her wand over him, said affectionately, “Take then the best gift I have to offer. When thou art an old man, thou shalt still remain, to the last, a simple, happy child.”

THE BROTHER AND SISTER.

But show me, on thy flowery breast,
Earth, where thy _nameless_ martyrs rest!
The thousands, who, uncheered by praise,
Have made one offering of their days.
MRS. HEMANS.

“Hurra!” exclaimed John Golding to his sister Esther. “See what Mr. Brown has bought with Biddy’s eggs!”

The boy’s eyes sparkled, and his hands trembled with delight, while Esther’s more serious countenance lighted up with a quick smile.

The treasure John exhibited with such exultation, was a worn copy of Goldsmith’s Manners and Customs. The title-page declared that it was _adorned_ with plates; but readers accustomed to the present more beautiful style of publishing would have been slow to admit that the straight, lank figures, daubed with engraver’s ink, were any ornament to the volumes. To the unpractised eyes of John and his sister, they were, however, gems of Art; and the manner in which they were obtained greatly increased their value. The children had received a cake and two little chickens from a neighbour, in payment for picking cranberries. Never did chickens give rise to such extensive speculations; not even the imaginary brood of the famous milk-maid. The chickens would become hens, and the hens would lay eggs, and Mr. Brown, who drove the market-wagon, would sell the eggs, and there were ever so many books in Boston, and who could guess what wonderful stories they would buy with their eggs? The vision was realized in due time. The chickens did become hens, and laid eggs; and Mr. Brown listened good-naturedly to John’s request to sell them and buy “a book, that had pictures in it, and told about countries a way off.” Goldsmith’s Manners and Customs came as the fruit of these instructions, and was hailed with an outburst of joy.

Most boys would have chosen to buy marbles or a drum; but John’s earliest passion had been for a book. The subtle influences which organize temperaments and produce character, are not easily traced. His intellectual activity certainly was not derived from either of his parents; for they were mere healthy sluggish animals. But there was a tradition in the neighbourhood, that his maternal grandmother was “an extraordinary woman in her day; that few folks knew so much as she did; and if her husband had been half as smart and calculating, they would have been very fore-handed people!”

The children of the “extraordinary woman” inherited her husband’s inert temperament, but her own energetic character re-appeared in her grandchildren; and they had the good fortune to be born in New England where the moral atmosphere stimulates intellect, and the stream of knowledge flows free and full to all the people. Esther was as eager for information, as her more vivacious brother; and though, as a woman, her pathway of life was more obstructed, and all its growth more stinted, she helped to lead him into broader avenues than she herself was allowed to enter. Being two years older than he, it was her delight to teach him the alphabet, as soon as he could speak; and great was her satisfaction when he knew all the letters in her little, old primer, and could recite the couplet that belonged to each. They conveyed no very distinct idea to his mind, but Esther’s praise made him very vain of this accomplishment. A dozen times a day, he shouted the whole twenty-four, all in a row, and was quite out of breath when he arrived at:

“Zaccheus he
Did climb a tree,
His Lord to see!”

The mother, who was a kindly but dull woman, took little interest in their childish scrambling after literature; but she sent them to the town-school, for the sake of having them out of the way; and she was somewhat proud that her children could “read joining-hand,” as she called it, earlier than neighbours of the same age. One day, when the minister of the village called, she told John to bring his book about Manners and Customs, and let the minister hear how well they could read. The good old man was much pleased with the bright boy and his intelligent, motherly sister. When their mother told him the story of the eggs, he patted them on the head and said: “That’s right, my children. You can’t be too fond of your books. They are the best friends in the world. If you ask them, they will tell you about every thing!” This remark, uttered in a very serious tone, made a deep impression. That evening, as brother and sister sat on the door-step, eating their supper of bread and milk, the sun set bright and clear after a transient shower, and a beautiful rainbow arched the entire heavens. “Oh, Esther, look at that pretty rainbow!” exclaimed John. “Ah, see! see! now there are two of ’em!” He gazed at the beautiful phenomenon with all his soul in his eyes, and added: “As soon as we have eggs enough, we will get Mr. Brown to buy a book that tells how rainbows are made, and where they come from.” Esther replied, that she did wish the hens would lay three eggs a day.

When the market-man was commissioned to purchase another volume, he declared himself unable to find one that told where rainbows came from. In lieu thereof, he brought Bruce’s Travels; and an unfailing source of entertainment it proved. Thus month by month their little library increased, and their intellectual craving grew fast by the food it fed on. They gathered berries, picked chips, ran on errands, rose early, and worked late, to accumulate sixpences.

When this is done merely to obtain animal indulgences, or for the sake of possessing more than others, there is something degrading in the servile process; but when the object is pursuit of knowledge for its own sake, all creeping things become winged. Beautiful it is to see human souls thus struggling with poverty and toil, sustained only by those ministering angels, Hope and Faith! Those who have life enough to struggle thus, are all the stronger for the contest. For the vigorous intellect it is better to be so placed than to be born in palaces. Jean Paul says truly: “Wealth bears far heavier on talent than poverty. Under gold mountains and thrones, who knows how many a spiritual giant may lie crushed down and buried?”

Esther and her brother were troubled with no ambitious conjectures whether or not they could ever become spiritual giants; they simply felt that the acquisition of knowledge was present delight. They thought little of hats and shoes, till father and mother said these must be bought with a portion of their wages; but after that, they were doubly careful of their hats, and often carried their shoes in their hands. Thus were they, in their unconscious earnestness, living according to laws which highest reason would prescribe for the whole social fabric. They worked industriously at manual labor, but always with a spiritual end in view; and that spiritual end was their own chosen recreation. They practised the most careful economy, but it was neither mean nor painful, because it was for a noble use, not for the mere sake of accumulation.

Though the poor parents were obliged to appropriate a portion of the children’s juvenile earnings, there was one little fund that was entirely their own. The two chickens had a progeny of chickens, and these, in process of time, likewise laid eggs. John picked up every stray grain of oats he could find, because he had heard it was a good kind of food to increase eggs; and busy little Esther saved all the oyster shells she could find, to pound for the hens in winter, when there was no gravel to furnish material for the shells. The cackling of a hen was to them an important event. Esther smiled at her knitting as she heard it, and John, as he plucked the weeds, raised up his head to listen. Hens have been often laughed at for proclaiming all abroad that another egg is in the world; but John’s brood had a right to crow over their mission. Cackle away to thy heart’s content, thou brown little feather-top! Never mind their jibes and jeers! Thy human superiors often become world-famous by simply obeying an impulse, which, unconsciously to themselves, evolves extensive and progressive good; and thou art not the first prattling egotist, who has worked for far higher results than he had the ability to comprehend. Let him who laughs at thy cackling, measure, if he can, what share thy new-laid egg may have in changing the destiny of man! It will aid in the culture of a human soul. It will help to develop and stimulate individual thought. And if generously aimed and fearlessly uttered, may not that individual thought pervade and modify the entire opinion of society? And is not law the mere record of aggregate opinion?

Truly the cackling hen brought no such thoughts to simple Esther and her brother John. To them it merely announced that another egg was laid, and thereby another cent gained toward the purchase of a new book. They talked the stories over by the light of the moon, or recited to each other favorite passages from Burns and Bloomfield. When the field-labourers took their noon-day rest, you would be sure to find John hidden away in the shade of a haystack, devouring a book. His zeal attracted the minister’s attention, and he often stopped to talk with him. One day, he said to the mother, “This boy will make something extraordinary. He must get an education. He must go to college, ma’am.”

“Bless my heart, I might as well think of sending him to the moon!” she replied.

But Esther heard it with a quick blush of pleasure and pride; and henceforth the one absorbing thought of her life was how to assist in sending John to college. Busily she calculated how much could be earned in two years by knitting, and binding shoes, and braiding straw. John listened with rapture to her plans, but his triumph was checked midway by the recollection that his sister could not go to college with him. “Why, Esther, you have always been my teacher,” he said. “You learn faster than I do, and you remember better. Why don’t _women_ go to college?”

“They couldn’t be lawyers, and ministers, and judges, if they _did_,” answered Esther.

“Why not?” said John.

Esther’s knowledge and reflection on the subject stopped there, and she simply replied that women never _had_ done such things.

“Why, yes, they have,” said John. “The Bible says that Deborah was a judge; and Queen Elizabeth was more than a judge; and we read the other day that Isabella of Spain knew how to direct an army, and govern the state, better than her husband, King Ferdinand. I am sure I don’t see why women _shouldn’t_ go to college.”

The boy, in the eagerness of brotherly love, had started ideas which he was too ignorant to follow. But in his simple question lies the germ of thoughts that will revolutionize the world. For as surely as there is a God of harmony in the universe, so surely will woman one day become the acknowledged equal and co-worker of man, in _every_ department of life; and yet be more truly gentle and affectionate than she now is.

But Esther was too young to reflect on such matters. She loved her brother, and she wanted him to go to college; and with unquestioning diligence she applied her faculties to the purpose, in every way that was left open for her. She scarcely allowed herself time to eat and sleep, and grudged herself every article of apparel, so zealous was her sisterly love. Poor girl! there was no one to teach her the physical laws, and she knew not that toiling thus perpetually, without exercise for the body, or recreation for the mind, was slow suicide. Month after month she laboured, and seldom spoke of pains in her side, and confused feelings in her head. Even her favourite luxury of reading was almost entirely relinquished; and John had little leisure to read to her such books as were entertaining. The minister had offered to hear him recite Latin and Greek once a week, and he was too busy with the classics, to have time for Voyages and Travels. He often repeated his lessons to his sister, and from his bald translations she here and there gleaned a few ideas; but this kind of mental effort was little profitable, and less enlivening. Blessed Nature stood ever ready to refresh and strengthen her. The golden dandelion blossoms smiled brightly in her face, and the trees stretched their friendly arms over her in blessing; but she had no time to listen to their kind voices. It would have been difficult to lure her aside from her arduous path, even if she had known that it would lead to an open tomb.

When an object is pursued with such concentrated aim and persevering effort, it is almost always attained. John taught school in the winters, and worked at whatever his hand could find to do in the summers. Esther hoarded all her earnings, to add to the Education Fund, as they called it: and their good friend the minister borrowed a hundred dollars for them, to be repaid according to their own convenience. At last, the darling hope of many years was realized. John went to college, and soon ranked among the best scholars of his class. His sister still toiled, that he might have a sufficiency of books and clothing. He studied hard, and taught school during college vacations, and returned home at the end of four years, attenuated almost to a skeleton.

The new milk and cheese-whey, the breath of the cows, and the verdure of the fields, refreshed him, and in some degree restored his exhausted strength. But now he was fretted with the question, what to do with the education he had acquired with so much hardship. An additional expenditure of time and money was required to fit him for either of the professions. He was not stimulated by any strong preference for either of them, and his generous soul resisted the idea of taxing his sister’s strength any further for his own advantage. The old question of his boyhood returned with additional force. Why should she, with her noble nature and admirable faculties, be forever penned up within the small routine of petty cares, and mere mechanical efforts? Why should she not share his destiny, and enjoy with him a more expansive atmosphere for soul and body? To this end he resolved to labour. He would earn money by the readiest means that offered, and devote his earnings to her improvement. But Esther said, “If you educate me, dear John, what can I _do_ with my education? I can do nothing but teach school; and for that I am sure my health is not adequate. The doctor says I must take as much exercise as possible.”

“The doctor!” exclaimed John. “Why, Esther, you never told me you had been ill enough to consult a physician.”

“It is merely a slight difficulty in my lungs,” she replied. “I am going to spin on the great wheel this winter; and I think that will cure me. Do not trouble your kind heart about me, my dear John. While I have any health and strength, I will never consent to be a burden upon you, however much you may urge it. I do not believe that sisters ought to depend on brothers for support. I am sure it is far better for the characters of women to rely on their own energies. But sometimes I think we have not a fair chance in the world. I often wish, as you do, that it was easy for us to obtain a more liberal education, and customary to use that education in a freer scope for all our faculties. But never mind, dear brother, the door of _your_ cage is open, and the world is all before you. Go where you will, I know you will never forget the sister, who loves you so dearly. You are destined to go far ahead of me in life; but your good heart will never allow you to be ashamed of your poor untutored Esther.”

John folded her close to his heart, and turned away to hide the gathering tears. He was more than ever desirous to do something for the high culture of that generous and affectionate soul. The way to earn a moderate income was soon opened to him. The widowed sister of one of the college professors wanted a private tutor for her sons; and John Golding was recommended by her brother. Here he came in contact, for the first time, with the outward refinements of life. Charming music, harmonious colours, elegant furniture, and, above all, the daily conversation of a cultivated woman, breathed their gentle and refining influences over his strong and honest soul. At first, he was shy and awkward, but the kindly atmosphere around him, gradually unfolded the sleeping flower-buds within, and without thinking of the process, the scholar became a gentleman. By careful economy, he repaid Esther the sums she had advanced for his education; but the question was forever renewed how he should manage to have her share his advantages, without sacrificing her noble spirit of independence. His visits to the old homestead reminded him, sometimes a little painfully, that he was leaving his family far behind him in the career of knowledge and refinement. His father chewed tobacco, without much regard to cleanliness. His kind old mother _would_ cut the butter with the same knife she had used in eating. She had done so all her life, but he had never before noticed it, and it vexed him to the heart to find himself so much annoyed by it now. His serious, gentle sister, was endowed with an unusual degree of natural refinement, which is usually a better teacher of manners, than mere conventional politeness. But once, when he brought home one of his pupils, she came out to meet them dressed in a new gown, of dingy blue and brick-red, with figures large enough for bed-curtains. He blushed, and was for a moment ashamed of her; then he reproached himself that his darling Esther could seem to him in any respect vulgar. The next week he sent her a dress of delicate material and quiet colours, and she had tact enough to perceive, that this was a silent mode of improving her taste.

The most painful thing connected with his own superior culture was the spiritual distance it produced between him and his honest parents. Their relative positions were reversed. Father and mother looked up with wondering deference to their children. Like hens that have hatched ducks, they knew not what to make of their progeny, thus launching out on a fluid element, which they had never tried. But he perceived the distance between them far more clearly than they could. He could receive the whole of _their_ thought, but was constantly obliged to check the utterance of his own, from a consciousness that allusions the most common to him, would be quite unintelligible to them. “The butterfly may remember the grub, but the grub has no knowledge of the butterfly.” With Esther he had unalloyed pleasure of companionship; for though ignorant of the world, and deficient in culture, she was an intelligent listener, and it charmed him to see her grow continually under the influence of the sunshine he could bring to her. How he loved to teach her! How he longed to prove his gratitude by the consecration of all his faculties and means to her use!

In little more than a year after he left college, a delightful change came over his prospects. A brother of the widow in whose family he had been tutor, was appointed ambassador to Spain, and through her influence he selected John Golding for his private secretary. Esther, true to her unselfish nature, urged him by all means to accept the offer. “When you were a little boy,” said she, “you were always eager to know about countries a great way off. But we little thought then that our cackling hens would ever bring you such a golden opportunity.”

John’s satisfaction would have been complete, if he could have taken Esther with him to that balmy clime. But she had many objections to offer. She said her rustic manners unfitted her for the elegant circles in which he would move; and he replied that she would catch the tone of polished society far more readily than he could. She reminded him that their parents needed his assistance to repair the old dilapidated homestead, and to purchase cows; and that he had promised to devote to their use the first money he could spare. He sighed, and made no answer; for he felt that his pecuniary resources were altogether inadequate to his generous wishes. Again the question returned, “Why cannot women go abroad, and earn their own way in the world, as well as men?” The coming ages answered him, but he did not hear the prophecy.

At last the hour of parting came. Painful it was to both, but far more painful to Esther. The young man went forth to seek novelty and adventure; the young woman remained alone, in the dull monotony of an uneventful life. And more than this, she felt a mournful certainty that she should never behold her darling brother again, while he was cheered by hopes of a happy reunion, and was forever building the most romantic “castles in Spain.” She never told him how very ill she was; and he thought her interrupted breath was caused merely by the choking emotions of an over-charged heart.

He deposited with a friend more money than he could have prevailed upon her to accept, and made a choice collection of books and engravings, to cheer her during his absence. To the last moment, he spoke of coming for her next year, and carrying her to the sunny hills of Spain. With a faint smile she promised to learn Spanish, that she might be able to talk with her brother Don Scolardo; and so with mutual struggle to suppress their tears, the brother and sister, who had gone so lovingly, hand in hand, over the rough paths of life, parted just where the glancing summit of his hopes rose bright before him.

A letter written on board ship was full of cheerful visions of the quiet literary home they would enjoy together in the coming years. The next letter announced his arrival in Spain. Oh, the romantic old castles, the picturesque mills, the rich vineyards, the glowing oranges, the great swelling bunches of grapes! He was half wild with enthusiasm, and seemed to have no annoyance, except the fact that he could not speak modern languages. “I ought not,” said he, “to complain of the college-education for which we toiled so hard, and which has certainly opened for me the closed gateway of a far nobler life than I could probably have entered by any other means. But after all, dear Esther, much of my time and money was spent for what I cannot bring into use, and shall therefore soon for get. Even my Latin was not taught me in a way that enables me to talk freely with the learned foreigners I meet. By the light of my present experience, I can certainly devise a better plan of education for my son, if I ever have one. Meanwhile, dear sister, do not work too hard; and pray study French and Spanish with all diligence; for laugh as thou wilt at my ‘castles in Spain,’ I will surely come and bring thee here. Think of the golden oranges and great luscious grapes, which thou wilt never see in their beauty, till thou seest them here! Think of seeing the Alhambra, with its golden lattice-work, and flowery arabesques! Above all, imagine thyself seated under a fig-tree, leaning on the bosom of thy ever-loving brother!”

Poor Esther! This description of a genial climate made her sigh; for while she read it, the cold East winds of New England were cutting her wounded lungs like dagger-points. But when she answered the precious letter, she made no allusion to this. She wrote playfully, concerning the health of the cows and the hens; asked him to inform her what was cackle in Spanish, for she reverenced the word, and would fain know it in all languages. Finally, she assured him, that she was studying busily, to make herself ready to reside in the grand castle he was building. The tears came to her eyes, as she folded the letter, but she turned hastily aside, that they might not drop on the paper. Never in her life had she been willing to let her shadow cross his sunshine.

It was the last letter she ever wrote. She had sought to crown her brother with laurels on earth, and his ministering angel crowned her with garlands in heaven.

* * * * *

Three years afterwards, John stood by her humble grave in his native village. The tears flowed fast, as he thought to himself, “And I once blushed for thee, thou great and noble soul, because thou wert clothed in a vulgar dress! Ah, mean, ungrateful wretch, that I was! And how stinted was thy life, thou poor one!--A slow grinding martyrdom from beginning to end.”

He remembered the wish she had so meekly expressed, that women might have a more liberal education, and a wider scope for their faculties. “For thy sake, thou dear one,” said he, “I will be the friend and brother of all women. To their improvement and elevation will I consecrate my talent and my education. This is the monument I will build to thee; and I believe thy gentle spirit will bless me for it in heaven.”

He soon after married a young woman, whose character and early history strongly resembled his beloved sister’s. Aided by her, he devoted all his energies to the establishment of a Normal School for Young Women. Mind after mind unfolds under his brotherly care, and goes forth to aid in the redemption of woman, and the slow harmonizing of our social discords.

Well might little brown feather-top cackle aloud; for verily her mission was a great one.

THE STREAM OF LIFE

In morning hours,
Full of flowers,
Our swift boats glide
O’er life’s bright tide;
And every time the oars we raise
The falling drops like diamonds blaze.

From earth and sky
Comes melody;
And ev’ry voice
Singeth, “Rejoice!”
While echoes all around prolong
The cadence of that wondrous song.

Above each boat
Bright fairies float,
Mounting on air
To castles there.
The earth is full of glorious things
All tinged with light from rainbow wings.

Dear Friendship’s smile,
And Love’s sweet wile,
Make Life all bright
With genial light,
And seem to shine with steady ray,
That ne’er can change, or fade away.

* * * * *

More slowly glides life’s _evening_ boat,
And withered flowers around it float.
The drops fall dark from weary oars,
And dismal fogs shroud all the shores.

Like widowed bird that mourns alone,
Sings Music, in her minor tone,
Of flowers that blossom but to die;
And echoes answer plaintively.

Bright fairies change to limping hags;
Their rainbow wings to dingy rags.
Dark heavy clouds sail through the air,
Where golden castles shone so fair.

Strong hearts grow faint, and young ones old;
Friendships decline, and Love is cold.
Dim twilight changes morn’s ideal
To flick’ring shadows, all unreal.

But joy remains, if we have thrown
Fresh flowers to boats around our own.
Though currents part us far and wide,
Sweet perfumes live from flowers that died.

Or if our blossoms formed good seeds,
Such as the growing future needs,
Those little germs perchance may yield
Rich waving crops in Time’s ripe fields.

Though dark the tide we’re drifting o’er,
It brings us near that brighter shore,
Where longing souls at length will know
The use of this world’s changing show.

Meanwhile, though sunlight has gone down,
Life’s ev’ning wears a starry crown,
Where weary ones, who look above,
May read the letters, “God is love.”

THE MAN THAT KILLED HIS NEIGHBOURS.

THE PRINCIPAL INCIDENTS OF THIS STORY ARE FACTS.