Chapter I: Want to Go Home, 364 (3)

When the emigrants came to the sea-port, every thing was new and exciting to the juvenile imagination of Fritz. The ships out in the harbor looked like great white birds, sailing through the air. How pleasant it must be thus to glide over the wide waters! But between a ship in the distance, and the ship we are in, there exists the usual difference between the ideal and the actual. There was little romance in the crowded cabin, with hundreds of poor emigrants eating, drinking, and smoking, amid the odour of bilge-water, and the dreadful nausea of the sea. Poor Fritz longed for the pure atmosphere and fresh-flowing brook, at the mill. However, there was always America in prospect, painted to his imagination like Islands of the Blest. Uncle Heinrich said he should grow rich there; and a fairy whispered in his ear that he himself might one day possess a Copenhagen clock, bright and new, that would play its tunes decently and in order. “No, no,” said Fritz to the fairy, “I had rather buy Father Rudolph’s clock; it was such a funny old thing.” “Very well,” replied the fairy, “be diligent and saving, and perhaps I will one day bring Father Rudolph’s clock to crow and sputter to thee in the New World.”

But these golden dreams of the future received a sad check. One day, there was a cry of “A man overboard!” It occasioned the more terror, because a shark had been following in the wake of the vessel for several days. Boats were lowered instantly; but a crimson tinge on the surface of the water showed that their efforts were useless. It was not till some minutes after the confusion subsided, that Fritz perceived his Uncle Heinrich was missing. Terrible had been that crimson stain on the water; but now, when he knew it was the life-blood of his last and only friend, it made him faint and dizzy, as if it were flowing from his own veins.

Uncle Heinrich’s hard-earned savings were fastened within the belt he wore; and a bundle of coarse clothes, with a few tools, were all that remained of his worldly possessions. The captain had compassion on the desolate child, and charged nothing for his passage, or his food. When the vessel came within sight of port, the passengers, though most of them poor, raised a small fund for him by contribution. But who can describe the utter loneliness of the emigrant boy, when he parted from his ship-companions, and wandered through the crowded streets of New York, without meeting a single face he had ever seen before? Lights shone in cheerful basements, where families supped together; but his good-hearted mother, and his dear little blue-eyed Gretchen--where were they? Oh, it was very sad to be so entirely alone, in such a wide, wide world! Sometimes he saw a boy turn round to stare at his queer little cap, and outlandish frock; but he could not understand what he said, when he sung out, “There goes what they call a Flying Dutchman.” Day after day he tried for work, but could obtain none. His funds were running very low, and his heart was extremely heavy. As he stood leaning against a post, one day, a goat walked slowly towards him from a neighboring court. How his heart leaped up to greet her! With her came back images of the castle on the Rhine, the blooming terrace, his kind father, his blessed mother, and his darling little sister. He patted the goat’s head, and kissed her, and looked deep into her eyes, as he had done with the companion of his boyhood. A stranger came to lead the animal away; and when she was gone, poor Fritz sobbed as if his heart would break. “I have not even a goat for a friend now,” thought he. “I wish I could get back to the old mill again. I am afraid I shall starve here in this foreign land, where there is nobody to bury me.”

In the midst of these gloomy cogitations, there was an alarm of fire; and the watchmen sprung their rattles. Instantly a ray of hope darted through his soul! The sound reminded him of Father Rudolph’s Blacking Box; for one of its tipsy tunes began with a flourish exactly like it. “I will save every cent I can, and buy materials to make blacking,” thought he. “I will sleep under the planks on the wharves, and live on two pence a day. I can speak a few words of English. I will learn more from some of my countrymen, who have been here longer than I. Then, perhaps, I can sell blacking enough to buy bread and clothes.”

And thus he did. At first, it went very hard with him. Some days he earned nothing; and a week of patient waiting brought but one shilling. But his broad face was so clean and honest, his manners so respectful, and his blacking so uncommonly good, that his customers gradually increased. One day, a gentleman who traded with him made a mistake, and gave him a shilling instead of a ten-cent piece. Fritz did not observe it at the moment; but the next day, when the gentleman passed to his counting-house, he followed him, and touched him on the arm. The merchant inquired what he wanted. Fritz showed the coin, saying, “Dat not mine.” “Neither is it mine,” rejoined the merchant; “what do you show it to me for?” The boy replied, in his imperfect English, “Dat too mooch.” A friend, who was with the merchant, addressed him in German; and the poor emigrant’s countenance lighted up, as if it had become suddenly transparent, and a lamp placed within it. Heaving a sigh, and blushing at his own emotion, he explained, in his native tongue, that he had accidently taken too much for his blacking, the day before. They looked at him with right friendly glances, and inquired into his history. He told them his name and parentage, and how Uncle Heinrich had attempted to bring him to America, and had been devoured by a shark on the way. He said he had not a single friend in this foreign land, but he meant to be honest and industrious, and he hoped he should do well. The gentlemen assured him that they should always remember him as Fritz Shilling, and that they would certainly speak of him to their friends. He did not understand the joke of his name, but he did understand that they bought all his blacking, and that customers increased more rapidly after that interview.

It would be tedious to follow the emigrant through all the process of his gradually-improving fortune. As soon as he could spare anything from necessary food and clothing, he went to an evening school, where he learned to read, write, and cipher. He became first a shop-boy, then a clerk, and finally established a neat grocery-store for himself. Through all these changes, he continued to sell the blacking, which arrived at the honour of poetical advertisements in the newspapers, under the name of Schelling’s Best Boot Polisher.

But the prosperity thus produced was not the only result of his acquaintance with Father Rudolph. The dropped stitches of our life are sometimes taken up again strangely, through many intervening loops. One day, as Fritz was passing through the streets, when he was about sixteen years old, he stopped and listened intently; for he heard far off the sounds of a popular German ballad, which his grandmother and the peddler often used to sing together. Through all the din and rattle of the streets, he could plainly distinguish the monotonous minor cadence, which had often brought tears to his eyes when a boy. He followed the tones, and soon came in sight of an old man and his wife singing the familiar melody. A maiden, apparently somewhat younger than himself, played a tamborin at intervals. When he spoke to her in German, her face kindled, as his own had done, at the first sound of his native tongue in a strange land. “They call me Röschen,” she replied; “these are my father and mother. We came from the ship last night, and we sing for bread, till we can get work to do.” The soul looked simply and kindly through her blue eyes, and reminded him of sister Gretchen. Her wooden shoes, short blue petticoat, and little crimson jacket might seem vulgar to the fashionable, and picturesque to the artist; but to him it was merely the beloved costume of his native land. It warmed his heart with childish recollections; and when they sang again the quaint, sad melody, he seemed to hear the old brook flow plaintively by, and see the farewell moonlight on the mill. Thus began his acquaintance with the maiden, who was afterwards his wife, and the mother of his little Gretchen.

Of these, and all other groups of emigrants, for many years, he inquired concerning his parents and his sister; but could obtain no tidings. At last, a priest in Germany, to whom he wrote, replied that Gretchen had died in childhood; and that the father and mother had also recently died. It was a great disappointment to the affectionate heart of Fritz Schelling; for through all his expanding fortunes he had cherished the hope of returning to them, or bringing them to share his comfortable home in the New World. But when he received the mournful news, he had Röschen to love, and her parents to care for, and a little one that twined herself round his heart with fresh flower-garlands every day.

At thirty-five, he was a happy and a prosperous man. So prosperous, that he could afford to live well in the city, and yet build for himself a snug cottage in the country. “We can go out every Saturday and return on Monday,” said he to Röschen. “We can have fresh cream, and our own sweet butter. It will do the children good to roll on the grass, and they shall have a goat to play with.”

“And, perhaps, by-and-by, we can go there to live all the time,” rejoined Röschen. “It is so quiet and pleasant in the country; and what’s the use of being richer than enough?”

The site chosen for the cottage overlooked the broad, bright river, where high palisades of rock seemed almost like the ruins of an old castle. Fritz said he would make a flower-carpet on the rocks, for the goat to browse upon; and if a stork would only come and build a nest on his thatched roof, he could almost fancy himself in Germany. At times, the idea of importing storks crossed his mind; but his good sense immediately rejected the plan. It is difficult to imagine how those venerable birds, with their love of the antique and the unchangeable, could possibly live in America. One might as well try to import loyal subjects, or an ancient nobility.

When house and barn were completed, the first object was to secure honest, industrious German tenants to till the soil. Fritz heard of a company of emigrants, who wished to sell themselves for a specified time, in order to pay their passage; and he went on board the ship to see them. A hale man, who said he was about sixty years old, with a wife some five or six years younger, attracted his attention by their extreme cleanliness and good expression of countenance. He soon agreed to purchase them; and in order to prepare the necessary papers, he inquired their names.

“Karl Schelling and Liesbet Schelling,” replied the old man.

Fritz started, and his face flushed, as he asked, “Did you ever live in the old castle at Rüdesheim?”

“That we did for several summers,” rejoined Karl.

“Ah, can you tell us any thing of our son Fritz?” exclaimed Liesbet, eyeing him eagerly. “God bless him wherever he is! We came to America to find him.”

“Mother! Mother! do you not know me?” he said; and threw himself into her open arms, and kissed the honest, weather-beaten face.

“I see it has gone well with you, my son. Now, thanks be to God, and blessed be His holy name,” said Karl, reverently uncovering his head.

“And where is Gretchen?” inquired Fritz, earnestly.

“The All-Father took her home, to Himself, soon after you came to see us at Rüdesheim,” replied Liesbet. “She was always mourning for the brother, poor little one! It troubled us to go away and leave you behind us, without saying farewell; and I feared no blessing would follow it. But we were very poor, and we thought then we should come to you in two or three years.”

“Don’t speak of that,” said Fritz. “You were always good parents to me, and did the best you could. Blessings _have_ followed me; and to meet you thus is the crowning blessing of all. Come, let us hasten home. I want to show you my good Röschen, and our Gretchen, and Karl, and Liesbet, and Rudolph, and baby Röschen. My small farm overlooks a river broad and beautiful as the Rhine. The rocks look like castles, and I have bought a goat for the children to play with. The roof of our cottage is thatched, and if a stork would only come and build her nest there, then dear father and mother might almost imagine themselves again at Rüdesheim, with plenty to eat, drink, and wear. If Father Rudolph’s Blacking Box were only here,” added he, laughing, “I should have all but one of my boyish dreams fulfilled. Ah, if dear Gretchen were only here!”

The fairy who whispered to Fritz when he was crossing the Atlantic, told him if he were diligent and saving, she would perhaps bring him the old clock; and she kept her promise better than fairies sometimes do; for it chanced that the heir of Father Rudolph came to America, and brought it with him. The price Fritz offered for it was too tempting, and it now stands in his thatched cottage. Its carved black case, inlaid with grotesque figures of birds and beasts in pearl, is more wonderful than a picture-book to the children. When any of them are out of health, or out of humour, their father sets the old bewildered tunes agoing, and they soon join in a merry mocking chorus, with “Cluck, cluck, cluck! Whirr, whirr, whirr! Rik a rik a ree!”

NOTE.--The accidental purchase of his parents by a German emigrant actually occurred a few years since; and this story was suggested by the fact.

HOME AND POLITICS.

FOUNDED ON AN INCIDENT THAT OCCURRED IN NEW YORK, DURING THE
EXCITEMENT ATTENDING THE ELECTION OF PRESIDENT POLK.

O friendly to the best pursuits of man!
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace,
Domestic life.
COWPER.

At the bend of a pleasant road winding under the shade of a large elm, stood a small school-house. It was a humble building; and the little belfry on the top seemed hardly large enough for the motions of the cow-bell suspended there. But it was a picturesque feature in the landscape. The elm drooped over it with uncommon gracefulness, and almost touched the belfry with its light foliage. The weather-beaten, moss-grown shingles were a relief to the eye of the traveller, weary of prim staring white houses. Moreover, a human soul had inscribed on the little place a pastoral poem in vines and flowers. A white Rose bush covered half one side, and carried its offering of blossoms up to the little bell. Cypress vines were trained to meet over the door, in a Gothic arch, surmounted by a cross. On the western side, the window was shaded with a profusion of Morning Glories; and a great rock, that jutted out into the road, was thickly strewn with Iceland moss, which in the springtime covered it with a carpet of yellow stars.

It was at that season it was first seen by George Franklin, a young New York lawyer, on a visit to the country. He walked slowly past, gazing at the noble elm slightly waving its young foliage to a gentle breeze. Just then, out poured a flock of children, of various ages. Jumping and laughing, they joined hands and formed a circle round the elm. A clear voice was heard within the school-house, singing a lively time, while measured strokes on some instrument of tin marked the time. The little band whirled round the tree, stepping to the music with the rude grace of childhood and joy. After ten or fifteen minutes of this healthy exercise, they stopped, apparently in obedience to some signal. Half of them held their hands aloft and formed arches for the other half to jump through. Then they described swift circles with their arms, and leaped high in the air. Having gone through their simple code of gymnastics, away they scampered, to seek pleasure after their own fashion, till summoned to their books again. Some of them bowed and courtesied to the traveller, as they passed; while others, with arms round each other’s necks, went hopping along, first on one foot, then on the other, too busy to do more than nod and smile, as they went by. Many of them wore patched garments, but hands and faces were all clean. Some had a stolid, animal look; but even these seemed to sun their cold nature in the rays of beauty and freedom, which they found only at school. The whole scene impressed the young man very vividly. He asked himself why it could not be always thus, in the family, in the school, every where? Why need man forever be a blot on Nature? Why must he be coarse and squalid, and gross and heavy, while Nature is ever radiant with fresh beauty, and joyful with her overplus of life? Then came saddening thoughts how other influences of life, coarse parents, selfish employers, and the hard struggle for daily bread, would overshadow the genial influences of that pleasant school, which for a few months gilded the lives of those little ones.

When he repassed the spot, some hours after, all was still, save the occasional twittering of birds in the tree. It was sunset, and a bright farewell gleam shone across the moss-carpet on the rock, and made the little flowers in the garden smile. When he returned to the city, the scene often rose before his mind as a lovely picture, and he longed for the artist’s skill to re-produce it visibly in its rustic beauty. When he again visited the country after midsummer, he remembered the little old school-house, and one of his earliest excursions was a walk in that direction. A profusion of crimson stars, and white stars, now peeped out from the fringed foliage of the Cypress vines, and the little front yard was one bed of blossoms. He leaned over the gate, and observed how neatly every plant was trained, as if some loving hand tended them carefully every day. He listened, but could hear no voices; and curiosity impelled him to see how the little building looked within. He lifted the latch, peeped in, and saw that the room was empty. The rude benches and the white-washed walls were perfectly clean. The windows were open on both sides, and the air was redolent with the sweet breath of Mignonette. On the teacher’s desk was a small vase, of Grecian pattern, containing a few flowers tastefully arranged. Some books lay beside it, and one had an ivory folder between the leaves, as if recently used. It was Bettine’s Letters to Günderode; and, where it opened at the ivory folder, he read these lines, enclosed in pencil marks; “All that I see done to children is unjust. Magnanimity, confidence, free-will, are not given to the nourishment of their souls. A slavish yoke is put upon them. The living impulse, full of buds, is not esteemed. No outlet will they give for Nature to reach the light. Rather must a net be woven, in which each mesh is a prejudice. Had not a child a world within, where could he take refuge from the deluge of folly that is poured over the budding meadow-carpet? Reverence have I before the destiny of each child, shut up in so sweet a bud. One feels reverence at touching a young bud, which the spring is swelling.”

The young man smiled with pleased surprise; for he had not expected to find appreciation of such sentiments in the teacher of a secluded country school. He took up a volume of Mary Howitt’s Birds and Flowers, and saw the name of Alice White written in it. On all blank spaces were fastened delicate young fern leaves, and small bits of richly-tinted moss. He glanced at the low ceiling, and the rude benches. “This seems not the appropriate temple for such a spirit,” thought he. “But, after all, what consequence is that, since such spirits find temples everywhere?” He took a pencil from his pocket, and marked in Bettine’s Letters: “Thou hast feeling for the every-day life of nature. Dawn, noon-tide, and evening clouds are thy dear companions, with whom thou canst converse when no man is abroad with thee. Let me be thy scholar in simplicity.”

He wrote his initials on the page. “Perhaps I shall never see this young teacher,” thought he; “but it will be a little mystery, in her unexciting life, to conjecture what curious eye has been peeping into her books.” Then he queried with himself, “How do I know she is a _young_ teacher?”

He stood leaning against the window, looking on the beds of flowers, and the vine leaves brushed his hair, as the breeze played with them. They seemed to say that a young heart planted them. He remembered the clear, feminine voice he had heard humming the dancing-tune, in the spring time. He thought of the mosses and ferns in the book. “Oh, yes, she _must_ be young and beautiful,” thought he. “She cannot be otherwise than beautiful, with such tastes.” He stood for some moments in half dreaming reverie. Then a broad smile went over his face. He was making fun of himself. “What consequence is it to me whether she be either beautiful or young?” said he inwardly. “I must be hungry for an adventure, to indulge so much curiosity about a country schoolmistress.”

The smile was still on his face, when he heard a light step, and Alice White stood before him. She blushed to see a stranger in her little sanctuary, and he blushed at the awkwardness of his situation. He apologized, by saying that the beauty of the little garden, and the tasteful arrangement of the vines, had attracted his attention, and, perceiving that the school-house was empty, he had taken the liberty to enter. She readily forgave the intrusion, and said she was glad if the humble little spot refreshed the eyes of those who passed by, for it had given her great pleasure to cultivate it. The young man was disappointed; for she was not at all like the picture his imagination had painted. But the tones of her voice were flexible, and there was something pleasing in her quiet but timid manner. Not knowing what to say, he bowed and took leave.

Several days after, when his rural visit was drawing to a close, he felt the need of a long walk, and a pleasant vision of the winding road and the little school-house rose before him. He did not even think of Alice White. He was ambitious, and had well nigh resolved never to marry, except to advance his fortunes. He admitted to himself that grace and beauty might easily bewitch him, and turn him from his prudent purpose. But the poor country teacher was not beautiful, either in face or figure. He had no thought of her. But to vary his route somewhat, he passed through the woods, and there he found her gathering mosses by a little brook. She recognized him, and he stopped to help her gather mosses. Thus it happened that they fell into discourse together; and the more he listened, the more he was surprised to find so rare a jewel in so plain a setting. Her thoughts were so fresh, and were so simply said! And now he noticed a deep expression in her eye, imparting a more elevated beauty than is ever derived from form or colour. He could not define it to himself, still less to others; but she charmed him. He lingered by her side, and when they parted at the school-house gate, he was half in hopes she would invite him to enter. “I expect to visit this town again in the autumn,” he said. “May I hope to find you at the little school-house?”

She did not say whether _he_ might hope to find her there; but she answered with a smile, “I am always here. I have adopted it for my home, and tried to make it a pleasant one, since I have no other.”

All the way home his thoughts were occupied with her; and the memory of her simple, pleasant ways, often recurred to him amid the noises of the city. He would easily have forgotten her in that stage of their acquaintance, had any beautiful heiress happened to cross his path; for though his nature was kindly, and had a touch of romance, ambition was the predominant trait in his character. But it chanced that no woman attracted him very powerfully, before he again found himself on the winding road where stood the picturesque little school-house. Then came frequent walks and confidential interviews, which revealed more loveliness of mind and character than he had previously supposed. Alice was one of those peculiar persons whose history sets at naught all theories. Her parents had been illiterate, and coarse in manners, but she was gentle and refined. They were utterly devoid of imagination, and she saw every thing in the sunshine of poetry. “Who is the child like? Where did she get her queer notions?” were questions they could never answer. They died when she was fourteen; and she, unaided and unadvised, went into a factory to earn money to educate herself. Alternately at the factory and at school, she passed four years. Thanks to her notable mother, she was quick and skilful with her needle, and knew wonderfully well how to make the most of small means. She travelled along unnoticed through the by-paths of life, rejoicing in birds, and flowers, and little children, and finding sufficient stimulus to constant industry in the love of serving others, and the prospect of now and then a pretty vase, or some agreeable book. First, affectionate communion, then beauty and order, were the great attractions to her soul. Hence, she longed inexpressibly for a home, and was always striving to realize her ideal in such humble imitations as the little school-house. The family where she boarded often disputed with each other, and, being of rude natures, not all Alice’s unassuming and obliging ways could quite atone to them for her native superiority. In the solitude of the little school-house she sought refuge from things that wounded her. There she spent most of the hours of her life, and found peace on the bosom of Nature. Poor, and without personal beauty, she never dreamed that domestic love, at all resembling the pattern in her own mind, was a blessing she could ever realize. Scarcely had the surface of her heart been tremulous with even a passing excitement on the subject, till the day she gathered mosses in the wood with George Franklin. When he looked into her eyes, to ascertain what their depth expressed, she was troubled by the earnestness of his glance. Habitually humble, she did not venture to indulge the idea that she could ever be beloved by him. But when she thought of his promised visit in autumn, fair visions sometimes floated before her, of how pleasant life would be in a tasteful little home, with an intelligent companion. Always it was a _little_ home. None of her ideas partook of grandeur. She was a pastoral poet, not an epic poet.

George did come, and they had many pleasant walks in beautiful October, and crowned each other with garlands of bright autumnal leaves. Their parting betrayed mutual affection; and soon after George wrote to her thus: “I frankly acknowledge to you that I am ambitious, and had fully resolved never to marry a poor girl. But I love you so well, I have no choice left. And now, in the beautiful light that dawns upon me, I see how mean and selfish was that resolution, and how impolitic withal. For is it not happiness we all seek? And how happy it will make me to fulfil your long-cherished dream of a tasteful home! I cannot help receiving from you more than I can give; for your nature is richer than mine. But I believe, dearest, it is always more blessed to give than to receive; and when two think so of each other, what more need of heaven?

“I am no flatterer, and I tell you frankly I was disappointed when I first saw you. Unconsciously to myself, I had fallen in love with your soul. The transcript of it, which I saw in the vines and the flowers attracted me first; then a revelation of it from the marked book, the mosses and the ferns. I imagined you _must_ be beautiful; and when I saw you were not, I did not suppose I should ever think of you more. But when I heard you talk, your soul attracted me irresistibly again, and I wondered I ever thought you otherwise than beautiful. Rarely is a beautiful soul shrined within a beautiful body. But loveliness of soul has one great advantage over its frail envelope, it need not decrease with time, but ought rather to increase.

“Of one thing rest assured, dear Alice; it is now impossible for me ever to love another, as I love you.”

When she read this letter, it seemed to her as if she were in a delightful dream. Was it indeed possible that the love of an intelligent, cultivated soul was offered to her, the poor unfriended one? How marvellous it seemed, that when she was least expecting such a blossom from Paradise, a stranger came and laid it in the open book upon her desk, in that little school-house, where she had toiled with patient humility through so many weary hours! She kissed the dear letter again and again; she kissed the initials he had written in the book before he had seen her. She knelt down, and, weeping, thanked God that the great hunger of her heart for a happy home was now to be satisfied. But when she re-read the letter in calmer mood, the uprightness of her nature made her shrink from the proffered bliss. He said he was ambitious. Would he not repent marrying a poor girl, without beauty, and without social influence of any kind? Might he not find her soul far less lovely than he deemed it? Under the influence of these fears, she answered him: “How happy your precious letter made me, I dare not say. My heart is like a garden when the morning sun shines on it, after a long, cold storm. Ever since the day we gathered mosses in the wood, you have seemed so like the fairest dreams of my life, that I could not help loving you, though I had no hope of being beloved in return. Even now, I fear that you are acting under a temporary delusion, and that hereafter you may repent your choice. Wait long, and observe my faults. I will try not to conceal any of them from you. Seek the society of other women. You will find so many superior to me, in all respects! Do not fear to give me pain by any change in your feelings. I love you with that disinterested love, which would rejoice in your best happiness, though it should lead you away from me.”

This letter did not lower his estimate of the beauty of her soul. He complied with her request to cultivate the acquaintance of other women. He saw many more beautiful, more graceful, more accomplished, and of higher intellectual cultivation; but none of them seemed so charmingly simple and true, as Alice White. “Do not talk to me any more about a change in my feelings,” he said, “I like your principles, I like your disposition, I like your thoughts, I like your ways; and I always _shall_ like them.” Thus assured, Alice joyfully dismissed her fears, and became his wife.

Rich beyond comparison is a man who is loved by an intelligent woman, so full of home-affections! Especially if she has learned humility, and gained strength, in the school of hardship and privation. But it is only beautiful souls who learn such lessons in adversity. In lower natures it engenders discontent and envy, which change to pride and extravagance in the hour of prosperity. Alice had always been made happy by the simplest means; and now, though her husband’s income was a moderate one, her intuitive taste and capable fingers made his home a little bower of beauty. She seemed happy as a bird in her cozy nest; and so grateful, that George said, half in jest, half in earnest, he believed women loved their husbands as the only means society left them of procuring homes over which to preside. There was some truth in the remark; but it pained her sensitive and affectionate nature, because it intruded upon her the idea of selfishness mingled with her love. Thenceforth, she said less about the external blessings of a home; but in her inmost soul she enjoyed it, like an earthly heaven. And George seemed to enjoy it almost as much as herself. Again and again, he said he had never dreamed domestic companionship was so rich a blessing. His wife, though far less educated than himself, had a nature capable of the highest cultivation. She was always an intelligent listener, and her quick intuitions often understood far more than he had expressed or thought. Poor as she was, she had brought better furniture for his home, than mahogany chairs and marble tables.

Smoothly glided a year away, when a little daughter came into the domestic circle, like a flower brought by angels. George had often laughed at the credulous fondness of other parents, but he really thought _his_ child was the most beautiful one he had ever seen. In the countenance and movements he discovered all manner of rare gifts. He was sure she had an eye for color, an eye for form, and an ear for music. She had her mother’s deep eye, and would surely inherit her quick perceptions, her loving heart, and her earnestness of thought. His whole soul seemed bound up in her existence. Scarcely the mother herself was more devoted to all her infant wants and pleasures. Thus happy were they, with their simple treasures of love and thought, when, in evil hour, a disturbing influence crossed their threshold. It came in the form of political excitement; that pestilence which is forever racing through our land, seeking whom it may devour; destroying happy homes, turning aside our intellectual strength from the calm and healthy pursuits of literature or science, blinding consciences, embittering hearts, rasping the tempers of men, and blighting half the talent of our country with its feverish breath.

At that time, our citizens were much excited for and against the election of General Harrison. George Franklin threw himself into the melée with firm and honest conviction that the welfare of the country depended on his election. But the superior and inferior natures of man are forever mingling in all his thoughts and actions; and this generous ardor for the nation’s good gradually opened into a perspective of flattering prospects for himself. By the study and industry of years, he had laid a solid foundation in his profession, and every year brought some increase of income and influence. But he had the American impatience of slow growth. Distinguished in some way he had always wished to be; and no avenue to the desired object seemed so short as the political race-course. A neighbour, whose temperament was peculiarly prone to these excitements, came in often and invited him to clubs and meetings. When Alice was seated at her work, with the hope of passing one of their old pleasant evenings, she had a nervous dread of hearing the door-bell, lest this man should enter. It was not that she expected, or wished, her husband to sacrifice ambition and enterprise, and views of patriotic duty, to her quiet habits. But the excitement seemed an unhealthy one. He lived in a species of mental intoxication. He talked louder than formerly, and doubled his fists in the vehemence of gesticulation. He was restless for newspapers, and watched the arrival of mails, as he would once have watched over the life of his child. All calm pleasures became tame and insipid. He was more and more away from home, and staid late in the night. Alice at first sat up to wait for him; but finding that not conducive to the comfort of their child, she gradually formed the habit of retiring to rest before his return. She was always careful to leave a comfortable arrangement of the fire, with his slippers in a warm place, and some slight refreshment prettily laid out on the table. The first time he came home and saw these silent preparations, instead of the affectionate face that usually greeted him, it made him very sad. The rustic school-house, with its small belfry, and its bright little garden-plat, rose up in the perspective of memory, and he retraced, one by one, all the incidents of their love. Fair and serene came those angels of life out of the paradise of the past. They smiled upon him and asked, “Are there any like us in the troubled path you have now chosen?” With these retrospections came some self-reproaches concerning little kind attentions forgotten, and professional duties neglected, under the influence of political excitement. He spoke to Alice with unusual tenderness that night, and voluntarily promised that when the election was fairly over, he would withdraw from active participation in politics. But this feeling soon passed away. The nearer the result of the election approached, the more intensely was his whole being absorbed in it. One morning, when he was reading the newspaper, little Alice fretted and cried. He said, impatiently, “I wish you would carry that child away. Her noise disturbs me.” Tears came to the mother’s eyes, as she answered, “She is not well; poor little thing! She has taken cold.” “I am sorry for that,” he replied, and hurried to go out and exult with his neighbour concerning the political tidings.

At night, the child was unusually peevish and restless. She toddled up to her father’s knees, and cried for him to rock her to sleep. He had just taken her in his arms, and laid her little head upon his bosom, when the neighbour came for him to go to a political supper. He said the mails that night must bring news that would decide the question. The company would wait for their arrival, and then have a jubilee in honour of Harrison’s success. The child cried and screamed, when George put her away into the mother’s arms; and he said sternly, “Naughty girl! Father don’t love her when she cries.” “She is not well,” replied the mother, with a trembling voice, and hurried out of the room.

It was two o’clock in the morning before George returned; but late as it was, his wife was sitting by the fire. “Hurrah for the old coon!” he exclaimed. “Harrison is elected.”

She threw herself on his bosom, and bursting into tears, sobbed out, “Oh, hush, hush, dear George! Our little Alice is dead!” Dead! and the last words he had spoken to his darling had been unkind. What would he not have given to recall them now? And his poor wife had passed through that agony, alone in the silent midnight, without aid or consolation from him. A terrible weight oppressed his heart. He sank into a chair, drew the dear sufferer to his bosom, and wept aloud.

* * * * *

This great misfortune sadly dimmed the glory of his eagerly-anticipated political triumph. When the tumult of grief subsided, he reviewed the events of his life, and weighed them in a balance. More and more, he doubted whether it were wise to leave the slow certainties of his profession, for chances which had in them the excitement and the risks of gambling. More and more seriously he questioned whether the absorption of his faculties in the keen conflicts of the hour was the best way to serve the true interests of his country. It is uncertain how the balance would have turned, had he not received an appointment to office under the new government. Perhaps the sudden fall of the triumphal arch, occasioned by the death of General Harrison, might have given him a lasting distaste for politics, as it did to many others. But the proffered income was more than double the sum he had ever received from his profession. Dazzled by the prospect, he did not sufficiently take into the account that it would necessarily involve him in many additional expenses, political and social, and that he might lose it by the very next turn of the wheel, without being able to return easily to his old habits of expenditure. Once in office, the conviction that he was on the right side combined with gratitude and self-interest to make him serve his party with money and personal influence. The question of another election was soon agitated, and these motives drove him into the new excitement. He was kind at home, but he spent little time there. He sometimes smiled when he came in late, and saw the warm slippers by the fire, and a vase of flowers crowning his supper on the table; but he did not think how lonely Alice must be, nor could he possibly dream what she was suffering in the slow martyrdom of her heart. He gave dinners and suppers often. Strangers went and came. They ate and drank, and smoked, and talked loud. Alice was polite and attentive; but they had nothing for her, and she had nothing for them. How out of place would have been her little songs and her fragrant flowers, amid their clamor and tobacco-smoke! She was a pastoral poet living in a perpetual battle.

The house was filled with visitors to see the long Whig procession pass by, with richly-caparisoned horses, gay banners, flowery arches, and promises of protection to every thing. George bowed from his chariot and touched his hat to her, as he passed with the throng, and she waved her handkerchief. “How beautiful! How magnificent!” exclaimed a visitor, who stood by her. “Clay will certainly be elected. The whole city seems to be in the procession. Sailors, printers, firemen, every thing.”

“There are no women and children,” replied Alice; and she turned away with a sigh. The only protection that interested _her_, was a protection for _homes_.

Soon after came the evening procession of Democrats. The army of horses; temples of Liberty, with figures in women’s dress to represent the goddess; raccoons hung, and guillotined, and swallowed by alligators; the lone star of Texas everywhere glimmering over their heads; the whole shadowy mass occasionally illuminated by the rush of fire-works, and the fitful glare of lurid torches; all this made a strange and wild impression on the mind of Alice, whose nervous system had suffered in the painful internal conflicts of her life. It reminded her of the memorable 10th of August in Paris; and she had visions of human heads reared on poles before the windows, as they had been before the palace of the unfortunate Maria Antoinette. Visitors observed their watches, and said it took this procession an hour longer to pass than it had for the Whig procession. “I guess Polk will beat after all,” said one. George was angry and combated the opinion vehemently. Even after the company had all gone, and the street noises had long passed off in the distance, he continued remarkably moody and irritable. He had more cause for it than his wife was aware of. She supposed the worst that could happen, would be defeat of his party and loss of office. But antagonists, long accustomed to calculate political games with a view to gambling, had dared him to bet on the election, being perfectly aware of his sanguine temperament; and George, stimulated solely by a wish to prove to the crowd, who heard them, that he considered the success of Clay’s party certain, allowed himself to be drawn into the snare, to a ruinous extent. All his worldly possessions, even his watch, his books, and his household furniture, were at stake; and ultimately all were lost. Alice sympathized with his deep dejection, tried to forget her own sorrows, and said it would be easy for her to assist him, she was so accustomed to earn her own living.

On their wedding day, George had given her a landscape of the rustic school-house, embowered in vines, and shaded by its graceful elm. He asked to have this reserved from the wreck, and stated the reason. No one had the heart to refuse it; for even amid the mad excitement of party triumph, everybody said, “I pity his poor wife.”

She left her cherished home before the final breaking up. It would have been too much for her womanly heart, to see those beloved household goods carried away to the auction-room. She lingered long by the astral lamp, and the little round table, where she and George used to read to each other, in the first happy year of their marriage. She did not weep. It would have been well if she could. She took with her the little vase, that used to stand on the desk in the old country school-house, and a curious Wedgewood pitcher George had given her on the day little Alice was born. She did not show them to him, it would make him so sad. He was tender and self-reproachful; and she tried to be very strong, that she might sustain him. But health had suffered in these storms, and her organization fitted her only for one mission in this world; that was, to make and adorn a home. Through hard and lonely years she had longed for it. She had gained it, and thanked God with the joyfulness of a happy heart. And now her vocation was gone.

In a few days, hers was pronounced a case of melancholy insanity. She was placed in the hospital, where her husband strives to surround her with every thing to heal the wounded soul. But she does not know him. When he visits her, she looks at him with strange eyes, and still clinging to the fond ideal of her life, she repeats mournfully, “I _want_ my _home_. Why don’t George come and take me _home_?”

* * * * *

Thus left adrift on the dark ocean of life, George Franklin hesitated whether to trust the chances of politics for another office, or to start again in his profession, and slowly rebuild his shattered fortunes from the ruins of the past. Having wisely determined in favor of the latter, he works diligently and lives economically, cheered by the hope that reason will again dawn in the beautiful soul that loved him so truly.

His case may seem like an extreme one; but in truth he is only one of a thousand similar wrecks continually floating over the turbulent sea of American politics.

TO THE TRAILING ARBUTUS.

Thou delicate and fragrant thing!
Sweet prophet of the coming Spring!
To what can poetry compare
Thy hidden beauty, fresh and fair?

Only they who search can find
Thy trailing garlands close enshrined;
Unveiling, like a lovely face,
Surprising them with artless grace.

Thou seemest like some sleeping babe,
Upon a leafy pillow laid;
Dreaming, in thy unconscious rest,
Of nest’ling on a mother’s breast.

Or like a maiden in life’s May,
Fresh dawning of her girlish day;
When the pure tint her cheeks disclose
Seems a reflection of the rose.

More coy than hidden love thou art,
With blushing hopes about its heart;
And thy faint breath of fragrance seems
Like kisses stolen in our dreams.

Thou’rt like a gentle poet’s thought,
By Nature’s simplest lessons taught,
Reclining on old moss-grown trees,
Communing with the whisp’ring breeze.

Like timid natures, that conceal
What others carelessly reveal;
Reserving for a chosen few
Their wealth of feeling, pure and true.

Like loving hearts, that ne’er grow old,
Through autumn’s change, or winter’s cold;
Preserving some sweet flowers, that lie
’Neath withered leaves of years gone by.

At sight of thee a troop upsprings
Of simple, pure, and lovely things;
But half thou sayest to my heart,
I find no language to impart.

THE CATHOLIC AND THE QUAKER.

For _thee_, the priestly rite and prayer
And holy day, and solemn psalm;
For _me_, the silent reverence, where
My brethren gather, slow and calm.
J. G. WHITTIER.

It was one of Ireland’s greenest lanes that wound its way down to a rippling brook, in the rear of Friend Goodman’s house. And there, by a mound of rocks that dipped their mossy feet in the rivulet, Friend Goodman walked slowly, watching for his little daughter, who had been spending the day with some children in the neighbourhood. Presently, the small maiden came jumping along, with her bonnet thrown back, and the edges of her soft brown ringlets luminous in the rays of the setting sun. Those pretty curls were not Quakerly; but Nature, who pays no more attention to the regulations of Elders, than she does to the edicts of Bishops, would have it so. At the slightest breath of moisture, the silky hair rolled itself into spirals, and clustered round her pure white forehead, as if it loved the nestling-place. Jumping, likewise, was not a Quakerly proceeding. But little Alice, usually staid and demure, in imitation of those around her, had met with a new companion, whose temperament was more mercurial than her own, and she was yielding to its magnetic influence.

Camillo Campbell, a boy of six years, was the grandson of an Italian lady, who had married an Irish absentee, resident in Florence. Her descendants had lately come to Ireland, and taken possession of estates in the immediate neighbourhood of Friend Goodman, where little Camillo’s foreign complexion, lively temperament, and graceful broken language, rendered him an object of very great interest, especially among the children. He it was with whom little Alice was skipping through the green lane, bright and free as the wind and sunshine that played among her curls. As the sober father watched their innocent gambols, he felt his own pulses quicken, and his motions involuntarily became more rapid and elastic than usual. The little girl came nestling up to his side, and rubbed her head upon his arm, like a petted kitten. Camillo peeped roguishly from behind the mossy rocks, kissed his hand to her, and ran off, hopping first on one foot and then on the other.

“Dost thou like that little boy?” inquired Friend Goodman, as he stooped to kiss his darling.

“Yes, Camillo’s a pretty boy, I like him,” she replied. Then with a skip and a bound, which showed that the electric fluid was still leaping in her veins, she added, “He’s a funny boy, too: he swears _you_ all the time.”

The simple child, being always accustomed to hear _thee_ and _thou_, verily thought _you_ was a profane word. Her father did what was very unusual with him: he laughed outright, as he replied, “What a strange boy is that!”

“He asked me to come down to the rock and play, to-morrow. May I go, after school?” she asked.

“We will see what mother says,” he replied. “But where didst thou meet Camillo?”

“He came to play with us in the lane, and Deborah and John and I went into his garden to see the birds. Oh, he has got such pretty birds! There’s a nice little meeting-house in the garden; and there’s a woman standing there with a baby. Camillo calls her my donny. He says we mustn’t play in there. Why not? Who _is_ my donny?”

“The people of Italy, where Camillo used to live, call the Mother of Christ Madonna,” replied her father.

“And who is Christ?” she asked.

“He was a holy man, who lived a great many years ago. I read to thee one day about his taking little children in his arms and blessing them.”

“I guess he loved little children almost as well as thou, dear father,” said Alice. “But what do they put his mother in that little meeting-house for?”