Chapter III (2)

“Farewell, my friends,” said the Lady Alice, turning to her faithful attendants, “I look for no mercy at the hands of these cruel men, whose pastime is death; yet though they may torture the body, unto the mercy of my Redeemer do I humbly commit my soul. May God forgive these my enemies, for in their blind rage they know not what they do; pray for them, my friends.”

“Come, none of your cant here, if you please, madam; if we want any praying done, we’ll call on yonder long-nosed, whining saint,” cried Jeffreys pointing to Hickes, who, with Nelthorpe at his side, and both closely bound together with ropes, and guarded on either side, was now brought forward.

Lest by appearing to recognize the Lady Alice they might increase her danger, the prisoners took no notice whatever of her who for their sakes was now in such peril, and met her glance as they would that of a stranger. Nelthorpe, indeed, essayed once to speak, for the purpose of acquitting the Lady Alice of all knowledge of himself and companion, but his speech was cut short by vile taunts and curses.

These wretched men had slept soundly through the night, and with the stupor of heavy fatigue still hanging about them, heard too late the tramp of their pursuers, and forgetting in their sudden alarm the secret panel, sprung through a window, and endeavored to conceal themselves in some of the outbuildings; but vainly—they were soon dragged forth, and knew that from the jaws of the blood-hound Jeffreys, _death_ was to be their only release.

And now, without any delay, the prisoners were brought to trial, the Lady Alice being first placed at the bar, charged with treason, in concealing or harboring persons disaffected to the king, and known to have been concerned in the late insurrection.

Many of the jurors were of the most respectable men of Hampshire, and all shrunk from convicting an amiable and exemplary female, for a crime (if crime it could be called) which certainly arose from the purest and noblest emotions of the heart. But Jeffreys was not to be so robbed of his prey.

Witnesses, forestalled by his vindictive spirit, appeared against her, and those who would have testified in her favor, were so put down by the bold-faced cunning of these hirelings, as to do more injury than good to the cause which they came to sustain.

The Lady Alice was then called upon for her defence. In a modest and dignified manner she addressed the Court. She began by saying that she knew not the men who had sought her protection, nor had she asked for what offence they were thus hunted down; it was enough that famished and weary they required her assistance, and that assistance she had freely rendered them; “Yet for this, gentlemen,” she continued, “I am arraigned for treason. Has charity, then, become a crime? Is it a capital offence to relieve the wants of our suffering fellow beings; and must the cold voice of prudence overcome the Divine precepts of Jesus? Now God forbid!”

She was here interrupted by an insolent remark from the judge; and if allowed again to speak, it was only to draw upon herself his coarse, unfeeling ribaldry.

The jury retired, their sympathies more than ever excited for the unhappy lady.

Their consultation was too long for the patience of the judge. He grew furious at their delay—stamping and swearing like a madman. “He sent a messenger to tell them that if they did not instantly return, he would adjourn the Court, and lock them up all night. Thus put to the torture, they came, but came only to say they doubted whether the charge had been made out. Jeffreys expostulated with them vehemently, and after another consultation, they gave a reluctant verdict of ‘Guilty!’”[1]

This was received by demoniac joy by Jeffreys, who immediately proceeded to pass sentence, which was, that the most unfortunate Alice Lisle should that very afternoon be _burned alive_!

This dreadful sentence caused universal horror, and moved the pity even of the most devoted supporters of the king. The judge was overwhelmed with petitions and prayers for mercy; but the only mercy he granted was a few days’ delay ere the dreadful sentence should be accomplished.

During that time the royal clemency was eagerly solicited, and many persons of the highest rank interceded with James for the release of Alice Lisle. Ladies of the Court entreated his mercy. Feversham, flushed with recent victory, pleaded for her; and even Clarendon, the brother-in-law of the king, spoke in her behalf.

It was all in vain.

Scarcely less cruel than his cruel judge, James was inexorable, and only so far showed his clemency as to commute the sentence from _burning to beheading_!

But peace—peace, such as the world can neither give or take away, went with Alice Lisle into that dark, cold prison, to which her enemies consigned her. Those damp walls, in whose crevices the slimy lizard made its bed; though they shut her out from the world—from friends—from freedom—they could not imprison her soul, nor crush the spirit of the martyred Alice, as it ascended in prayers to the Heavenly Throne. Divine love and holy trust in the promises of her Redeemer illumined her dark dungeon with the brightness of heaven; and when led forth to the scaffold—death was swallowed up in victory.

Alice Lisle was beheaded in the Market Place at Winchester, Anno Domini, 1685.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

-----

[1] Macaulay.

* * * * *

WE ARE DREAMERS ALL.

BY RICHARD COE, JR.

We are dreamers all! the babe that lies
Asleep on its mother’s breast,
In a dream of peace will sweetly smile,
As if its spirit were e’en the while
By angel ones caressed!
We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the lover dreams
Of a fair one by his side;
Of the happy hour when he shall stand
Before the altar, to claim the hand
Of his bright and beauteous bride!
We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the poet dreams
Of the laurel-wreath of fame;
He struggles and toils for weary years,
And awakes at last with sighs and tears,
To grasp but an empty name.
We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the Christian dreams
Of a promised rest above;
Of the pleasant paths of Paradise—
Of a home of peace beyond the skies,
Prepared by the Saviour’s love!
We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! but oh! to me
The Christian’s dream be given!
For bright as his dream on earth may be,
He wakes to a blest reality
When he opes his eyes in Heaven!
We are dreamers all!

* * * * *

MARY NORRICE.

BY JEANNIE DEANE.

Mary Norrice! With that name how many blessed memories come flitting by, like bright-winged passage-birds, leaving in their flight a sadness—a feeling of brightness gone!

It was the bright and merry autumn-time when I met thee, Mary, and thou wert in thy girlhood—beautiful and care-free. _Another_ autumn-time—the time when withered leaves go whirling over barren places where flowers erst were blooming, and dancing to a wild mournful measure over the graves where _human_ flowers are meekly sleeping—_then_ saw I thee, sweet Mary, on thy bridal morning, and orange-flowers were in thy hair. And then another autumn-time—a sad and withering autumn-time, and they laid thee in the _grave_. Alas! that one so pure, so good as thou wert, should lie _there_! Alas! for thee, sweet Mary Norrice!—and yet _joy_ for thee! Joy! joy for thee!

“An airy fairy Lillian” was my friend Mary—so “innocent-arch, so cunning-simple,” that she was an especial favorite, the “bright particular star” among that joyous band of school-girls where I saw her first. Dark, roguish eyes, soft brown curls clustering about a low sweet forehead, and a sunny, bright complexion had Mary Norrice.

For two bright years that went by on an angel-wing, she was my constant companion—my best, dearest friend, and in this time, I became well acquainted with the beauty, trustfulness, and purity of her character. If there was _any_ fault in Mary, we girls used often to say, it was in her adoption of the Catholic religion. It might have been Mary’s imaginative disposition which inclined her to this belief; or perhaps because it was the faith of her mother, who had died when Mary was very young, and whose memory she cherished in her heart’s “holy of holies.” Beautiful it was to see that fair child kneeling at morning before an elegantly wrought crucifix, her mother’s dying gift; her white fingers straying among the pearls of her rosary: or at evening, her slight form bending in the moonlight, the white night-robe falling gracefully about her, a few curls escaping from the delicately laced cap! her white hands crossed on her beating breast—and her dark eyes full of prayer—as she commenced with “Mary Mother.” It was a scene to look upon, and feel that a pure spirit dwelt in her heart, and beamed forth from the child-like, sinless face which looked in pure devotion up to Heaven.

Years are gone since the sweet voice of Mary Norrice was _hushed_—but often when I sit alone in the thoughtful twilight, a “smiling band of early hours come clustering about my memory,” and I can almost believe that those soft brown curls touch once more my cheek! that dear head seems again to nestle lovingly down upon my shoulder—and the little hand feels warm in mine—as looking out together upon the evening-star, I hear the now stilled voice, singing once more, so unutterably sweet and spiritual, its evening song—“Ave Sanctissima!”

One evening when quiet, an unusual guest, seemed to reign throughout the seminary of G——; when the hum of subdued voices, and the softened tones of some distant harp or guitar echoed through the halls only at intervals, we sat together in the big, old-fashioned parlor—Mary, her cousin Claude Norrice, who was the pastor of the village, and myself. Mary was looking from the window somewhat sadly—Claude was gazing into her large dark eyes fondly and earnestly, while my poor foolish heart was weaving a bright fabric for those two gifted beings who sat beside me—a dream which I was to waken from, even before that bright ray of moonlight which was sleeping in its holiness upon Mary’s brow, and which I had been watching for the last ten minutes, should pass away. So golden and so fleeting is the light which hope flings on the fairy fabric of _love_.

“Sing us something, Cousin Mary,” said Claude, and her musical voice stole upon our hearts in its magic sweetness, chanting softly that song she loved, “Ave Sanctissima!” Insensibly my heart was yielding to the strain, and I walked in old cathedrals “high and hoary,” listening to some fair nun, as she chanted her mysterious vesper-hymn; when my fancies were suddenly dispelled by Claude’s voice, begging Mary would choose some other song.

“It is very beautiful,” said he, “and seems doubly so, Mary, sung by your dear voice; but the devotion it expresses for an ideal object is very disagreeable to me.”

I was called from the room at that moment, and when I returned an hour later, I knew that Claude Norrice had told his cousin how dearly and truly he loved her, how indispensable was her presence—her affection to his life’s pathway. Mary stood before him, her head erect, as she said proudly and with flashing eyes—

“I’m not to be treated as a mere child, Claude Norrice—I tell you again that nothing you can say to me—no professions of affection you have made, shall lure my heart from the faith of my _mother_.”

And she bowed her head in veneration as she spoke that name, and crossed her fair white arms upon her breast as if she would still its wild beatings. But I saw her cheek grow white as he bowed down and kissed her forehead, and I saw her lips quiver fast, as he said:

“The shadow is on my heart, Mary—the shadow which your cruel words have cast there, and it can never be effaced. God forgive you, Mary—and Father in Heaven, help me! help me!”

Again he bowed down and kissed her, long and wildly—turned his face toward me pale with agony, and rushed from the room.

“Claude! _dear_ Claude, forgive me,” murmured Mary as she slept that night; raising her pale face from her pillow, and clasping her hands as if she prayed. And often in that long, weary night she would wake with a sudden start, and lifting her eyes toward the crucifix, pray wildly—“Ave Mary! Madonna! help me!” When she would place her hand beneath her pale cheek, weary with her grief, and sleep again, murmuring all the while of Claude—her mother and Heaven.

There were no vows of eternal affection exchanged when Mary Norrice and I stood on the shaded piazza of G—— Seminary, watching for the old green coach, which was momentarily expected to take her to her city home. No vows were needed—we loved each other with that trustfulness, that confidingness which asks no pledge. Mary had promised to write me very often, and this I assured her would be a panacea for every human ill.

Not quite three months after we left school, I received from Mary the following hastily written letter:

“You will make big eyes, Jeannie, dear, when I tell you that I
am just about to commit matrimony—only think of _that_! In one
little week I am to slip my head into the sacred noose, and who
think you is to help me bear the gentle yoke? Arthur Monterey,
of whom you have often heard me speak, is the “lucky man,” and
though he is a deal older than myself, I dare say we shall learn
to love each other very much. He is very handsome, talented, and
very much esteemed; but more than all, he is of my own
religion—of the same faith as my sainted mother. You will
“haste to the wedding” Jeannie, because you remember you long
ago promised to act as bride’s-maid on the occasion of this bit
of a ceremony. _Au revoir_, Jeannie dear, come to your own,

“MARY.”

I was not surprised that Mary was to marry a catholic, but I _was_ surprised to hear her speak of learning to love Arthur Monterey—_learn_ to love him! Mary Norrice with her loving, enthusiastic nature, _learn_ to love the man who was to be her husband!

The sunlight fell in through the windows of stained glass, glancing upon the high forehead of her betrothed, and bathing in its warm rich light the snowy bridal robes of Mary Norrice.

The vows were spoken; a golden circlet glistened on Mary’s finger, and she was bound in joy and sorrow, for “weal or wo,” to go through life’s pathway by the side of Arthur Monterey. Mournfully fell the tones of the organ upon my ear, for in my heart it was two years agone, since I saw Mary standing in the moonlight, and I heard Claude Norrice say in a voice low with despair—“God forgive you, Mary!”

Arthur Monterey was a very handsome man, but there was a stern expression on his proudly curved lip, and about his high intellectual forehead, which made me fear for Mary. In the few weeks of gayety which followed their marriage, I saw but little of him, though when with us, he seemed very proud of his wife’s rare beauty and fascinations, and was wholly devoted to her.

Winter, spring, and summer passed away, and in the autumn I received a letter from Mary, saying that her husband was traveling, and begging me to come to her. There was a terrible feeling at my heart as it looked once more into those once merry eyes, now so large and sad—and somehow a thought of _death_ as I kissed those lips so mournful and resigned in their expression.

One evening we sat together in Mary’s room, at twilight—her head rested on my shoulder, one pale hand supporting her soft cheek, as the other swept the chords of her harp, with her own peculiar grace and magic. Mournful and low was the prelude; and sad, and spirit-like the dear voice which sang once more to me “Ave Sanctissima!” Midnight had passed, and yet we sat by the open window—the moonlight falling in through the curtains of snowy muslin, its beams as pure, as spiritual as the frail creature who sat beside me, and whose face I fancied grew paler in its light.

We stood within the church again—and Mary’s robes were snowy white; but her brow was paler than before—the long dark lashes fell upon a lifeless cheek—and the pale hands were crossed upon a hushed breast.

With mourning for the young and fair, solemnly echoed the deep tones of the organ through the high arches; and there were white faces, and stilled sobs around the coffined—beautiful—the coffined—_dead_.

In a package directed to me, which I opened after her death, Mary wrote these lines—

“I trusted in ideal worth, dear Jeannie—I have laid my heart’s best and holiest affections as a sacrifice upon the altar of my religion. I am dying now, and promise me you will bring some of those deep-blue violets from my mother’s grave, and plant them on my own—_then_ I shall sleep. My husband has been kind to me—but his love is not that for which my heart has yearned.

“If you do not think it wrong, Jeannie dear, you may give my bible to cousin Claude, that same bible which he gave me so long ago. I have placed a curl among its leaves—in Heaven I shall be his _wife_—there are no _tears_ there.”

Bitterly did Claude Norrice weep as he held that long bright curl first in the sunshine, then in the shade; but there was a glance of joy in his dark religious eye as he murmured, “Mine in Heaven—Mary Norrice! in Heaven—mine _forever_!”

I stood beside him in the spot where Mary’s earthly part is lying. The shadow of the willow-tree waved sadly to and fro upon the white marble cross, on which was graven “Mary Monterey, aged seventeen—there are no tears in Heaven.” As I saw Claude Norrice gather a tuft of violets from the grave, and press them to his lips in an agony of grief, I wept that one so young and beautiful should die. But when I thought of the many high imaginings, the lofty hopes, and holy aspirations the sleeper there had taken hence to Heaven—when I thought how fair the flowers are, how sweet the music, and how white are the angel’s wings in Paradise, I said in my heart—joy for thee, dear Mary Norrice! Thou art gone _home_!

“Joy! joy forever! thy task is done,
The gates are passed—and Heaven is won.”

* * * * *

DEATH OF THE PATRIARCH

[Genesis. Chap. xlix.]

BY MRS. JULIET H. L. CAMPBELL.

The day declined in Egypt, and the faintly fluttering breeze
Drooped, with dew-laden pinion, ’mid the dark pom’granate trees;
The purple grapes, like clustering gems, hung heavy on the vine,
Half bursting with their luscious pulp, and rich with ruddy wine,
The broad green leaves that shadowed them throughout the noontide
glare,
Now, quivering, fanned their glowing rinds, and cooled the brooding
air;
While hitherward, and thitherward, the date tree and the palm,
Their graceful branches, slowly swayed, majestically calm.

The day declined in Egypt, and the sun had sought the west,
Where, like a king whose destiny was done, he sunk to rest,
While palace, dome, and pyramid, gleamed with celestial fire,
And heaven’s burnished battlements, glowed like a funeral pyre.
But in the zenith of the sky, transparent clouds, and white,
Rolled hurriedly athwart the blue, their billowy zones of light,
And parting in translucent waves, as the sea was doomed to do,
A throng of white-winged angels, swept that gate of glory through.

The day declined in Egypt, and an old man looked his last
Upon evening’s fading glories, for his life was ebbing fast;
And dim, to him, the rosy earth, though beautifully bright,
And dark, to him, the western heaven, though bathed in golden light.
Yet, though his feeble sight no more might trace the forms of earth,
His kindling soul looked from its clay, prophetically forth;
Futurity’s enfolding shroud rolled heavily away,
And ages, yet to be revealed, their secrets to the day.
Nations unborn around him thronged, with all their _deeds_ and _doom_,
And the Patriarch glowed with prophecy, on the confines of the tomb.

The day declined in Egypt, and the Patriarch’s sons drew nigh,
To hear their father’s parting words, receive his parting sigh.
A noble band of brothers they, the princely twelve, who came
And bowed their stately heads before that worn and weary frame.
“Draw near, my sons,” the old man said, “while I reveal to ye,
The hidden things, of old ordained, in latter days to be.

“REUBEN! beginning of my strength! my first born and my flower,
_The excellency of dignity, the excellency of power_!
But what are lofty gifts to thee, while thy impulsive heart
Will prompt alike the generous deed, or choose the baser part!
Unstable as the waves thou art, I read thy nature well,
And dignity and power are _vain_, for _thou shalt ne’er excel_.

“LEVI and SIMEON, brethren ye, in wickedness and wile!
My soul abhors your cruelty, mine honor shuns your guile!
Lost and accursed shall ye be by God’s avenging wrath,
And scattered wide, like sifted chaff, upon the whirlwind’s path.

“Thou, princely JUDAH, nearer draw, my proud and peerless one,
Mine eyes would rest once more on thee, my lion-hearted son;
I see thy calm, majestic front, thou generous, true, and just!
In _thee_ the children of thy sire, for aye shall place their trust.
The gathering of the nations around _thy_ house shall be;
_And until_ SHILOAH’S _coming the sceptre rests with thee_!”

And thus, as round their prophet sire, the awe-struck brethren wait,
To each of all the listening twelve, he speaks, unfolding fate.
The brawny breast of ISSACHER, heaves heavily and high,
As years of cruel servitude arise before his eye;
Luxurious ASHER’S curving lip, half wreaths into a smile,
As visions of voluptuousness, flit o’er his brain the while;
And BENJAMIN, exulting hears of his successful toil—
“_At morn thou shalt pursue the prey, at eve devour the spoil._”

But JOSEPH, of the steadfast soul, triumphant over wrong,
Round thee, the best belovéd one, the choicest blessings throng.
Of the deep that lieth under, of the far spread heavens above;
Of thy home and of thy household, in thy life and in thy love,
The words wherewith he blesseth thee, o’er all prevaileth still—
_Unto the utmost boundary of the everlasting hill_.

The day declined in Egypt, and from fertile mound and plain,
The golden sunlight fades away—night gathers dark again.
The clouds roll their dark billows back, and through the rifts on
high;
The solemn stars, in marshaled hosts, tread up the midnight sky;
While chanting, through the firmament, the errant angels come;
They lead the unfettered spirit up, in triumph to its home.

* * * * *

A MONTICELLO DAY.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

Monticello is one of the loveliest villages upon which the sun shines. It occupies, in two rows, the aides and summit of a steep hill, surrounded by orchards, grain-fields, and meadows; which in turn are girdled by the unbroken wilderness. The single street is formed by the broad turnpike, with smooth grassy margins that extend like carpets of emerald up to the very porches, from the edges of the highway. Two side-walks fringed with maples, (the most beautiful shade trees in the world) form, with their brown stripes, the only interruption to the smooth green margins above referred to. The street (or highway more properly speaking) is hard and smooth as a sea-beach, over which the wagon-wheel rolls as evenly and swiftly as over the surface of that very important invention of modern times, the Plank road. Indeed it is more like the glide of the rail-car over the T road than any thing else, and the way that a span of Halsey’s horses can whirl a carriage through the street of the village, “is a caution” to lazy folks.

The houses are mostly new and uniformly painted white, and peep out from their rows of maples in the most agreeable and picturesque manner. In fact, so sylvan is the whole appearance of Monticello, buried as it is amongst its leaves, that it looks like some huge bird’s nest in the branches of an enormous tree. It is an isolated place, too, tucked away behind the Shawanyunk Mountain, and although placed upon a hill, is as far removed from the busy world as it well could be. It is true, Hamilton’s red coach crawls daily from Newburgh on the Hudson, through it, carrying the mail with great regularity and despatch, (good conscience,) on its snail-like pace to Lake Erie, but if the line depended only for its continuance upon its passengers, its life would be short indeed. In fact, if Uncle Sam’s “pap” (as Uncle Jack says) were not freely bestowed, it would not really last longer than a chicken with the pip.

Such being the state of things, it may readily be imagined that we villagers have every thing to ourselves, as far as the great world without is concerned, and that we are very little troubled with any affairs except our own. It is true they furnish trouble enough of themselves, but they are generally of such a nature that the detachment of grannies and old maids from the main body of the village which take a most pious and praise-worthy care of the morals of the place, can usually settle them over a long “tea drink” at one or the other of their dwellings.

With these preliminaries I now proceed to endeavor to sketch the gliding of a summer’s day over our beautiful village, albeit my touches may be skill-less, and my colors faint.

Not yet sunrise! What a sweet gray delicate light glimmers in the air, and how fresh and cool the universal hue over every object. The sky is stainless, pure as the thoughts of Innocence, and bright as the dreams of the happy, although it wants the splendor of the risen sun. Faint, faint, as the memory of other days to the aged are those few white stars throbbing in the mid-sky, sinking deeper and deeper in the lustrous heavens. In the east is a wreathed cloud, just above the spot where the sun is expected, and evidently awaiting the period for it to burn under the glance of the orbed God, like the arch-angel nearest to the Throne of the Mighty. The west is dusky with the outlines of the forest upon it misty and undefined, as if the breath of the vanished night was still lingering there. Nothing is there to arrest my gaze; but the east draws my eye toward it with the power of a magnet. The east! solemn and mysterious spot in the wide heavens! how it sways, with its mighty influence, the whole human race.

Upon its brow did the splendid Star of the Nativity blaze out with its sudden glory, upon the astonished eyes of the shepherds upon the hill-side, and there was the group of angels unveiled to the cowering mortals who heard, as they shuddered upon their mother earth, the glad anthem of “Peace on earth—good-will to men,” pealing through the brightened heavens, and echoing even down to the dim, night-clad scene around them.

From the east did the steps of the “wise men” come when they brought their gifts of “frankincense and myrrh” to the hallowed infant in the manger. And even now, as the first level ray streams across the desert, does the wild Arab check the lofty step of his camel, and kneeling toward the east, join in the praise then ascending from a thousand minarets, that “God is great and Mahomet is his Prophet.”

To the east then will I turn, and with no infidel praise in my heart, but with the feeling of pure gratitude to that beneficent Being who has watched my pillow through the “dangers of the past night,” I gaze upon it. Ha! that sudden flash, like the leaping of flame upon the altar! How the wreathed cloud starts into light—how it brightens, how it glows! like the iron in the furnace, how it turns to sudden red! Now o’er its downy surface a crimson flush is spread! now its edges burn with gold, it is a glorious banner now, burning, gleaming, flaring, glaring on the east’s illuminated brow.

What a splendid object! and yet but a few moments ago it was nothing but a wreath of cold gray vapor—a fragment doubtless of that dim blanket which kept the stars from shining the past night. What a splendid object, and yet the tints will soon fade, and it will once more turn to a dim curl of cloud insignificant and hueless. Solomon’s mantle will change to a garment that a beggar would scorn, particularly if the morning should be cold. Garments of cloud may be very romantic, but they would prove deucedly uncomfortable, particularly in winter I fancy, although the sun does turn them into golden, crimson, and jeweled glories.

But the east is kindling brighter and brighter, and at last a spot, directly beneath the cloud, is burning almost like “white heat.” That is the bath of splendor into which the sun will rush when it spurns the mountain top and launches into the heavens. And see the lower edge now burns with a fire that sears the very eyeball, and ha! yes, there comes the sun. Up, up, with slow and stately, and solemn motion as yet, up, up, with seeming accelerated speed; now it launches into its bath of splendor, and in plain Saxon, it is sunrise.

Two broad streams of light roll toward me. One comes flashing directly in front, tipping the summit of “Tonner’s hill,” and placing, quick as thought, bright caps of gold upon the pines and hemlocks of the next ridge this way, thence lighting upon “Brownson’s Hill,” and helmeting the pines and hemlocks of that locality, and thence hitting here and touching there, it bathes with rosy splendor the chimneys of the village, and they straightway, like altars just touched by flame, begin, every mother’s son of them, to smoke. And not your blue, common smoke either, but smoke of _lapis lazuli_, or whatever other hue is radiant and rich.

The other beam shoots off to the left, and leaving the valley-meadows below Tonner’s, still steeped in their silver down of mist, it glorifies the summits of the next wood, and spreads in a huge ring of golden glow upon the tops of the forests that form the framework of “Pleasant Pond.” One towering pine that plumes a green turban of a hill near the liquid silver of the pond, has caught the splendor upon its apex, and how the glad light there laughs and sparkles and dances. Like the brain of a poet when the pure fire descends upon it, it seems to break out into a glow of inspiration, and hark! borne to the fine and subtle ear of fancy, through the intervening space thus sounds the song of this Memnon of the forest—its sunrise hymn—

Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its light and its splendor!
Hail to its keen swift arrows! hail to its joy and its gladness!
Light rushes up from the east, as from an eternal fountain,
And straightway all Nature glows like steel that burns in the
furnace!
Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its radiant splendor!
Hail to the wings of its speed! to its glad and its glorious
presence!

It comes to the dusky east like a thought of fire to the brain!
It comes to the brightening east, like a “bridegroom to his
bride!”
It comes to the glowing east like liberty to the slave!
And Nature laughs out in its splendor, and turns into light in its
joy.
Sing pæans, sing pæans all Nature! about pæans to God in His
glory!
He rolls up the sun in His might! He spreadeth the wings of the
morning!

Arise, oh! man, and come forth! glad morning calls out to arise!
Break, break the fetters of slumber! lo! beauty is here to salute
thee!
Here freshness, here splendor, here beauty! yes, purity, beauty,
and health!
Health in the soft sweet air, and beauty on earth and in heaven!
Wake man from the fetters of sleep! come forth and rejoice in this
gladness.
Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its light and its splendor!
It comes like a seraph from heaven! yea, from heaven, and fresh
with its glory!
And lighting upon the dim Earth, the dim Earth straight bursts
into beauty.
Hail to the morning, hail! it comes with the speed of its pinion
To turn the dim Earth into splendor, to clothe it in garments of
light!
Hail to the morning, hail! all hail to its glorious presence!
Peal upward, rise upward my song! hail beautiful morning! all
hail!

And thus endeth the first chapter.

* * * * *

Scene the second, is after breakfast, for the inhabitants of Monticello generally, notwithstanding the invocation of the smitten pine to them, with almost the single exception of myself, don’t trouble themselves about rising until nature is pretty well aired. In other words they are, nearly all, late risers.

This, however, is a sweeping remark, and does not include the various “hired helps” of the village, who are now sallying out of their respective domiciles, milk-pail in hand; and soon at every gate, and in every green lane I hear the whizzing sounds of the milk streaming in slight threads of pearl into the fast mantling pails beneath. Neither does it include poor Hank Jones who, shaking in every limb from the want of his morning dram, is hastening to the nearest bar-room; nor “Loafing Joe” either, who, I believe, never goes to bed, and who is always astir with the earliest bird, and who now, with the seeds of the hay-mow which afforded him his last night’s couch, and his hat all crushed up, giving good evidence that he has used it for a night-cap, is lounging, with his customary slouching gait, along the maple-sidewalk leading from Hamble’s. But these morning sights and sounds soon vanish—the cows wend their lazy way, lowing, to their respective sweet-scented pastures—the “helps” disappear with their foaming pails—poor lost Hank, after swallowing a draught sufficient to set his stomach in a flame, leaves for home, and even “the Loafer” has turned up the “Stone Store road” toward his little cabin on the hill-side. (He lives on the summit of “Antimony Hill,” the name for the bluff at the left of the road, forming the termination of “Coit’s Ridge.” I have a story to tell about that “Ridge” one of these days.)

The village is buried in quietude, and so, I’ll go to breakfast. Well, breakfast has been dispatched, and I am again at my post, pencil in hand, to note down events as they shall occur. Ah! there comes “Squire Belldong” along the turnpike from his dwelling, after having discussed his first meal of the day. I’ll hasten up and follow him into “Saint’s” store, for I see he is bound there—that is always his first stopping-place. There’ll be some fun now. He is the greatest mischief-maker in the village, pursuing his trade out of pure love for it, for nothing delights him so much as “setting people by the ears,” as he calls it. He is a lawyer, and as he lives by this laudable business, perhaps he should not be blamed. At any rate, living or no living, he follows the business up with the pertinacity of a greyhound after a hare.

“Good morning, Saint! how are you this fine morning!” is his first salutation to the keeper of the store.

“Good morning, Squire! I am very well! How are you and your family!”

“Very well, I thank you! although I didn’t sleep very well last night!”

“Ah! what was the matter?”

“Old John P.’s dog kept up such a confounded barking and yelling, that I couldn’t sleep a wink. However, there was a deuced quick stop put to it about two o’clock as I should judge.”

“How was that?”

“A pistol shot I fancy. I heard the report, and one yell from the dog, and then all was as quiet as could be wished.”

Here Saint John began to pick up his ears. He stopped measuring some calico which he had been busy on, and said—

“The deuce! Who could have shot him?”

“Loafing Joe they say. At least old Wheeler, whom I met at the upper end of the village, told me so.”

“There’s a chance for a suit for you, Squire! John P. will complain, wont he?”

“No doubt of it. Well Joe has got nothing, so he must e’en go to jail!”

“Good riddance for the village. I wish the vagabond was always there.”

“So do I. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Squire.”

Over goes the mischief-maker to Hamble’s across the road.

“Good morning, Hamble!” as he enters the bar-room, where he finds that worthy making his lemons still sourer by looking at them.

“Have you heard the news, Hamble!” elevating his heels on the bar-room table, and deliberately drawing out a cigar. “By the way, Hamble, give me a light.” (He is also the most free and easy fellow in the world.)

“News! no—what news?”

“They say that old Wheeler shot John P.’s dog last night!”

“_They_ say! _who_ says? _They_ say means nobody.”

“Well, _they_ say in this case means your own son-in-law. Saint John just told me so.”

“Where! I don’t believe it!”

“Well, you are very polite, Hamble. (Puffing away at his cigar in the most imperturbable manner possible.) Saint told me so in his own store not a minute ago. (Knocking off the gray ashy tip of his cigar with his little finger.) However, it is a secret. Don’t say to Saint that _I_ told you, for he’ll be angry with me.”

“Not I. I shant probably think of it again.”

Down goes Belldong, not half satisfied yet, to Claypole’s store.

“Hellow, Claypole! how goes it with you this beautiful summer’s morning? Heigho! I’m so confounded sleepy, I can hardly see.”

“What’s the matter now, Squire?”

“Why I was kept awake nearly all night, last night, by that infernal dog of John P.’s. By the way, have you heard the news?”

“No! what is it?”

“Saint John shot that devilish dog last night.”

“N-o! you don’t say so!”

“Yes, but I do say so, and know so too.” (Very positively, at the same time throwing away the stump of his cigar.)

“Why, who told you so?”

“Hamble—not a minute ago. He’s good authority isn’t he? About his own son-in-law, too?”

“Why, yes—he’s the best kind of authority, considering whom he tells it of.”

“Well it’s true, no doubt of it. However, don’t say I told you that Hamble told me. It might get me into trouble.”

“Of course not. I shant bring your name in. But who would have thought it? However, I am glad of it on the whole. That dog was the perfect horror of the whole village with his yowling and yelling. I declare, on the whole, I’m rejoiced at it. We’ll have some peace nights and stand a chance of sleeping some. I vow to you, the other moonlight night he made such a noise I couldn’t close my eyes. I got up and opened the window, and what should I see (you know it was as bright as day) but that infernal creature, planted on his four legs with his tail as stiff as a mackerel, yowling at the moon, as if he was in the last stages of the hydrophobia. I was so mad that I took one of my old boots, and may I be hanged, if I didn’t hit him slap, right on his head. He had just opened his great mouth for another yowl, but it changed to a yell double quick time, I tell you, and the way he streaked it round the corner was nothing to nobody. Ha! ha! ha! Well, I’m glad he’s dead, any way.”

“He! he! he! so am I. Well, good morning.”

Opposite walks he, straight as a bee-line, to Nate’s store.

“Well, Nate, how are you?”

“Pretty well, how is it with yourself?”

“So as to be stirring, though I’m sleepy as the deuce. Have you heard the news this morning, Nate?”

“News, no! (Nate is as keen after news as after money, and that is saying all that can be said on the subject.) What news? Do tell me, Squire?”

“Well, I mean to tell you. You know John P.’s big dog, don’t you?”

“Yes. I hear him often enough nights to know him. What of it?”

“He’s been shot.”

“Good! First rate. But who shot him?”

“Old cheese, your brother-in-law up at the tavern there.”

“What, Hamble! You don’t say so!”

“But I do say so. And I say further, (but this you mustn’t repeat for the world, Nate, that is, with me as your authority—now you wont, will you?)”

“No, no, no, I tell you. What was you going to say further?”

“Why, I was going to say further, (and of course you wont repeat it as you’ve promised not,) that Claypole told me so.”

“Whew! Who would have believed it? I’m devilish glad of it though, anyhow.”

Down, as fast as his legs (and they are long ones,) can carry him, stalks the mischief-maker to Wiggins’ tavern.

“I say, Wiggins, how goes the morning with you? Had many customers at the bar yet, eh!”

“Well, not a great many, Squire! It’s rather airley yet.”

“So it is. You’ve heard the news this morning, doubtless, Wiggins?”

“News! no. What news, Squire?”

“Why, John P.’s infernal great yowling dog has been shot!”

“Shot—dog—John P. Why, you don’t say so, squire!”

“No. _I_ don’t say so, but Nate Hemstitch does, and further more he says who shot him.”

“_The deuce_ he does. Who was it?”

“I’ll tell you, if you’ll promise not to bring me in the scrape.”

“I promise of course. Now, who was it?”

“Well, Nate says that Bill Claypole did it.”

“BILL CLAYPOLE! Well—who—would—have—supposed it. I’m all struck into a heap!”

“So am I, and I haven’t been struck out of it yet. Ha! ha! ha! Well, I must go to my office. Good morning.”

And away goes Belldong after having, like a great spider, woven a web of mischief all over the blessed village, that isn’t untangled in a month, and will probably be the cause of divers fisticuffings, if not lawsuits.

In the meanwhile, the sun has glided higher and higher on his golden wheel up his steep blue eastern pathway. The day promises to be a real Titian, where a splendid coloring steeps the landscape in a lake of light, where the rich yellows and deep blacks lie side by side in distinct gradations, where the leaves embroider their ghostly counterfeits on the sidewalks, where the sky is glittering in its most cerulean intensity, and the air is so crystal clear that the outlines of the distant hills seem as if traced with a hair-pencil on their azure background. The morning shadows, however, are commencing to shrink back, so that an edging of sunlight stripes the left border of the village street, whilst the street itself is bathed in deep gold, and the white houses opposite sparkle from the breaks in the glossy foliage with the most radiant and beautiful effect.

The country wagons now begin to roll in. Old Taggett appears with his ox-cart creaking like “Deacon Morgan, with his voice like a wagon,” and urging his piebald steeds with a goad as long as Mrs. T.’s tongue (and that is long enough in all conscience).

Deacon Decker is also in the village, having driven from “Decker’s Settlement” since sunrise, with eggs and butter to exchange for goods and groceries at Saint John’s store; and, as I’m alive if here doesn’t come old Deacon Lackstir, urging his fat lazy horses to an unwonted trot, as if on especial and driving business.

He is making his way to Esq. Loop’s, and I’ll enter the precincts of “Pettifogger’s Delight,” to see what constitutes his hurry.

“Good morning, Squire Loop,” says the deacon, drawing in his breath through his mouth all puckered up as if in the act of whistling. “How you do this morning? How is your wife and children? Doing well under Providence, I trust! Well, squire, I’ve come this morning with a little piece of paper to have you sue on’t. I don’t want to be deficient in Christian meekness, but it’s scripter doctrine, you know, ‘to pay what thou owest.’ He! he! he!”

Whilst the old deacon is thus giving evidence of his “Christian meekness,” I take the opportunity to look over the justice’s docket.

Ha! by all that’s laughable, there is a suit to come off to-day.

“Nirum Coger _vs._ Jacob Kettle”—plea, slander. “For that whereas the said defendant did on divers days and times, to wit, on the 4th day of July, A. D. 1847, being then and thereunder the influence of strong drink, and at the instigation of the devil, did, with sticks, staves and stones, to wit, with a sharp instrument commonly called the tongue, say, utter and publish, in the presence and hearing of divers respectable persons of the village, and to their great scandal, that he (meaning the said Nirum) was an infernal thief, and that he (meaning the said defendant) could prove it; and furthermore, that he (meaning the said Nirum) had stole a sheep and hid its ears in a stump,” &c. &c. &c.

Here’s fun enough in prospect for the greatest stoic in the universe. “I will be there! At eleven o’clock—and it is within a few minutes of the time now. So I’ll e’en take a seat.”

In a few minutes Nirum comes stumping over, on his crutches, from his little saddler’s shop opposite, and after him, mimicking his gait in the most ludicrous manner, comes his opponent, the most incorrigible vagabond in the whole village, not excepting “Loafing Joe” himself. Abe Kettle is certainly the very personification of blackguardism. “You are as great a vagabond as Abe Kettle,” is a perfect proverb throughout the place. This will be a rich trial, depend upon it.

By and by the jury (the standing one of the village,) come stringing in, looking very solemn and important. Esquire Loop takes his seat at his desk, “spectacles on nose,” and calls over the case.

“Nirum Coger.”

“Here.” (Propping himself up on his crutches.)

“Abraham Kettle.”

“Here.” (Suddenly overtaken with lameness himself, and limping up to the desk.)

“Gentlemen, are you ready to proceed?”

“Yes, your honor,” squeaked little “Blackberry,” who was counsel for the plaintiff, and popping up from his chair.

“I aint, your honor,” interrupts Abe.

“Why not pray?” asks the justice, looking over his spectacles at him with a magisterial frown.

“I haint got no witness.”

“That’s your own fault, not mine. Constable, call the jury.”

“I’ll make affidavy that it weren’t no lachees on my part, your honor. I hope Mr. Coger wont take no advantage nor nothen.”

“You needn’t set there and lie, Abe Kettle,” says Nirum. “You haint got no witness anyhow, and you knows it.”

“Well, heave ahead!” says Abe, taking his seat at the desk. “All I want is to criss-cross your witnesses, to show that this here suit is a spite suit. All spite and malice, your honor, _and_ nothen else.”

“Constable call the jury,” again commands the justice, blowing his nose with a snort like that of a Pleasant Pond bull-frog.

Hereupon this functionary, (who by the way, was the perfect terror of all the apple-hooking boys in the place, and, next to his dog, the greatest dependence, the owner of the said dog had for the preservation of his orchard,) commenced calling over his jury list, and finding them all “on the spot,” (the magical shilling would always bring about that phenomenon,) the justice began the usual swearing in.

“James Bat, John Slow, Jacob Slush.”

Hereupon three vagabonds showed themselves.

“The evidence you shall give, (here the justice evidently forgot the form of the oath, and began to fumble the leaves of his ‘Justice’s Manual,’ with a sneaking and puzzled look.) Ah! oh! shall give between, what’s his name, plaintiff, and A. B. defendant shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing _but_ the truth. Kiss the book!” snatching up an old song book near him, (the justice is purblind without his spectacles, and they had at that juncture slipped down to the very tip of his nose.) They obeyed, and the rest of the jury were all called and sworn in the same manner.

The first witness called for the plaintiff was a thick-headed Dutchman, who could not manage to speak English, and who looked as if it were beyond his management altogether to keep his eyes open. He testified to the plaintiff and defendant being together in Wiggins’ bar-room on the 4th of July last, and in the course of a quarrel which sprang up between them, that the defendant had said that the plaintiff was a thief—(“And so he is,” ejaculated Abe, at this point of the testimony, which elicited a loud “_Silence!_” from the justice, and a grin of rage from Nirum)—and that he had ‘stolen a sheep and hid its ears in a stump.’

Nothing could be more clear, but what was that to Abe?

“Are you through, little Blackberry?” asked he of the opposite counsel.

Young Kellogg looked at him indignantly for a moment and then, drawing himself up, said—

“I demand the protection of the court here, from the impertinence of this person.”

“Mr. Kettle, call the counsel by his name, or I shall be obliged to commit you.”

“Why, your honor, I thought his name was Blackberry. Loafer Joe says it is, and besides I never heerd him called by any other name, your honor. He’s always called ‘little Blackberry’ whenever they tell of his hoss runnen away with him last Gineral Trainen!”

“No matter what Loafer Joe says—you must call him by his name, _Mr. Kellogg_, whenever you speak to him.”

“Well, your honor, all’s the same to Abe. Are you through, Mr. Kellogg?”

“Yes, and I demand judgment; the case is made out.”

“Not as you knows on, little Black—Mr. Kellogg I mean. Jest you wait a bit—jest wait till I criss-cross this here witness a little might. Mr. Slump, (addressing the witness,) who was present when I said that aire?”

“Loafer Joe was, and I was too.”

“Hem—ha—was there any one else?”

“Not as I seed.”

“Very well—put that down your honor. What did I say was the reason I called him by his name?”

“You didn’t call him by his name. You said up and down, he was a thief.”

“_Very well!_ but what was the reason I said he was a thief?”

“Because you said that he’d stole a sheep and hid its ears in a stump!”

“Now, Mr. Slump, be careful—remember your oath; false swearen is a state’s-prison matter—are you sarten I said a sheep! Didn’t I say a calf?”

“Calf!”

“Yes, calf—_be careful now_—remember state’s-prison!”

The witness began to open his eyes and looked puzzled, and somewhat frightened.

“You see, your honor, he looks skeered. Put that down, that he looks skeered. _Answer_, Mr. Slump!”

“Calf!”

“Yes, calf!” bawls out Abe, and striking the table with his fist.

“Well, I don’t know but you did. Sheep—calf—calf—sheep—same thing.”

“It may be in Dutch, but it isn’t in English by a long shot, Mr. Slump. Put that down, your honor, this ere intelligent witness doesn’t know the difference between a calf and a sheep. He says, your honor, that I said calf—and didn’t I also say _his_ ears, availing Nirum’s, instead of _its_ ears.”

“Well, I don’t know but you did,” gasps out the witness, looking frightened out of his wits.

“Put that down, your honor. I said _his_ ears instead of _its_. I call for a nonsuit.”

“Call for a nonsuit!” ejaculates Kellogg, in a tone of indignant surprise—“on what ground, pray!”