CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE WINDING-UP.
Yes, reader, we must settle accounts now. I have only briefly to narratethe final fates of some of the personages whose acquaintance we havemade in this narrative, and then you and I must shake hands, and for thepresent separate.
Let us turn to the curates--to the much-loved, though long-neglected.Come forward, modest merit! Malone, I see, promptly answers theinvocation. He knows his own description when he hears it.
No, Peter Augustus; we can have nothing to say to you. It won't do.Impossible to trust ourselves with the touching tale of your deeds anddestinies. Are you not aware, Peter, that a discriminating public hasits crotchets; that the unvarnished truth does not answer; that plainfacts will not digest? Do you not know that the squeak of the real pigis no more relished now than it was in days of yore? Were I to give thecatastrophe of your life and conversation, the public would sweep off inshrieking hysterics, and there would be a wild cry for sal-volatile andburnt feathers. "Impossible!" would be pronounced here; "untrue!" wouldbe responded there; "inartistic!" would be solemnly decided. Note well.Whenever you present the actual, simple truth, it is, somehow, alwaysdenounced as a lie--they disown it, cast it off, throw it on the parish;whereas the product of your own imagination, the mere figment, the sheerfiction, is adopted, petted, termed pretty, proper, sweetly natural--thelittle, spurious wretch gets all the comfits, the honest, lawfulbantling all the cuffs. Such is the way of the world, Peter; and as youare the legitimate urchin, rude, unwashed, and naughty, you must standdown.
Make way for Mr. Sweeting.
Here he comes, with his lady on his arm--the most splendid and theweightiest woman in Yorkshire--Mrs. Sweeting, formerly Miss Dora Sykes.They were married under the happiest auspices, Mr. Sweeting having beenjust inducted to a comfortable living, and Mr. Sykes being incircumstances to give Dora a handsome portion. They lived long andhappily together, beloved by their parishioners and by a numerous circleof friends.
There! I think the varnish has been put on very nicely.
Advance, Mr. Donne.
This gentleman turned out admirably--far better than either you or Icould possibly have expected, reader. He, too, married a most sensible,quiet, lady-like little woman. The match was the making of him. Hebecame an exemplary domestic character, and a truly active parish priest(as a pastor he, to his dying day, conscientiously refused to act). Theoutside of the cup and platter he burnished up with the bestpolishing-powder; the furniture of the altar and temple he looked afterwith the zeal of an upholsterer, the care of a cabinet-maker. His littleschool, his little church, his little parsonage, all owed their erectionto him; and they did him credit. Each was a model in its way. Ifuniformity and taste in architecture had been the same thing asconsistency and earnestness in religion, what a shepherd of a Christianflock Mr. Donne would have made! There was one art in the mastery ofwhich nothing mortal ever surpassed Mr. Donne: it was that of begging.By his own unassisted efforts he begged all the money for all hiserections. In this matter he had a grasp of plan, a scope of actionquite unique. He begged of high and low--of the shoeless cottage bratand the coroneted duke. He sent out begging-letters far and wide--to oldQueen Charlotte, to the princesses her daughters, to her sons the royaldukes, to the Prince Regent, to Lord Castlereagh, to every member of theministry then in office; and, what is more remarkable, he screwedsomething out of every one of these personages. It is on record that hegot five pounds from the close-fisted old lady Queen Charlotte, and twoguineas from the royal profligate her eldest son. When Mr. Donne set outon begging expeditions, he armed himself in a complete suit of brazenmail. That you had given a hundred pounds yesterday was with him noreason why you should not give two hundred to-day. He would tell you soto your face, and, ten to one, get the money out of you. People gave toget rid of him. After all, he did some good with the cash. He wasuseful in his day and generation.
Perhaps I ought to remark that on the premature and sudden vanishing ofMr. Malone from the stage of Briarfield parish (you cannot know how ithappened, reader; your curiosity must be robbed to pay your elegant loveof the pretty and pleasing), there came as his successor another Irishcurate, Mr. Macarthey. I am happy to be able to inform you, _withtruth_, that this gentleman did as much credit to his country as Malonehad done it discredit. He proved himself as decent, decorous, andconscientious as Peter was rampant, boisterous, and---- This lastepithet I choose to suppress, because it would let the cat out of thebag. He laboured faithfully in the parish. The schools, both Sunday andday schools, flourished under his sway like green bay trees. Beinghuman, of course he had his faults. These, however, were proper,steady-going, clerical faults--what many would call virtues. Thecircumstance of finding himself invited to tea with a Dissenter wouldunhinge him for a week. The spectacle of a Quaker wearing his hat in thechurch, the thought of an unbaptized fellow-creature being interred withChristian rites--these things could make strange havoc in Mr.Macarthey's physical and mental economy. Otherwise he was sane andrational, diligent and charitable.
I doubt not a justice-loving public will have remarked, ere this, that Ihave thus far shown a criminal remissness in pursuing, catching, andbringing to condign punishment the would-be assassin of Mr. RobertMoore. Here was a fine opening to lead my willing readers a dance, atonce decorous and exciting--a dance of law and gospel, of the dungeon,the dock, and the "dead-thraw." You might have liked it, reader, but _I_should not. I and my subject would presently have quarrelled, and then Ishould have broken down. I was happy to find that facts perfectlyexonerated me from the attempt. The murderer was never punished, for thegood reason that he was never caught--the result of the furthercircumstance that he was never pursued. The magistrates made ashuffling, as if they were going to rise and do valiant things; butsince Moore himself, instead of urging and leading them as heretofore,lay still on his little cottage-couch, laughing in his sleeve, andsneering with every feature of his pale, foreign face, they consideredbetter of it, and after fulfilling certain indispensable forms,prudently resolved to let the matter quietly drop, which they did.
Mr. Moore knew who had shot him, and all Briarfield knew. It was noother than Michael Hartley, the half-crazed weaver once before alludedto, a frantic Antinomian in religion, and a mad leveller in politics.The poor soul died of delirium tremens a year after the attempt onMoore, and Robert gave his wretched widow a guinea to bury him.
* * * * *
The winter is over and gone; spring has followed with beamy and shadowy,with flowery and showery flight. We are now in the heart of summer--inmid-June--the June of 1812.
It is burning weather. The air is deep azure and red gold. It fits thetime; it fits the age; it fits the present spirit of the nations. Thenineteenth century wantons in its giant adolescence; the Titan boyuproots mountains in his game, and hurls rocks in his wild sport. Thissummer Bonaparte is in the saddle; he and his host scour Russiandeserts. He has with him Frenchmen and Poles, Italians and children ofthe Rhine, six hundred thousand strong. He marches on old Moscow. Underold Moscow's walls the rude Cossack waits him. Barbarian stoic! he waitswithout fear of the boundless ruin rolling on. He puts his trust in asnow-cloud; the wilderness, the wind, and the hail-storm are his refuge;his allies are the elements--air, fire, water. And what are these? Threeterrible archangels ever stationed before the throne of Jehovah. Theystand clothed in white, girdled with golden girdles; they uplift vials,brimming with the wrath of God. Their time is the day of vengeance;their signal, the word of the Lord of hosts, "thundering with the voiceof His excellency."
"Hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow? or hast thou seen thetreasures of the hail, which I have reserved against the time oftrouble, against the day of battle and war?
"Go your ways. Pour out the vials of the wrath of God upon the earth."
It is done. The earth is scorched with fire; the sea becomes "as theblood of a dead man;" the islands flee away; the mountains are notfound.
In
this year, Lord Wellington assumed the reins in Spain. They made himgeneralissimo, for their own salvation's sake. In this year he tookBadajos, he fought the field of Vittoria, he captured Pampeluna, hestormed San Sebastian; in this year he won Salamanca.
Men of Manchester, I beg your pardon for this slight _resume_ of warlikefacts, but it is of no consequence. Lord Wellington is, for you, only adecayed old gentleman now. I rather think some of you have called him a"dotard;" you have taunted him with his age and the loss of his physicalvigour. What fine heroes you are yourselves! Men like you have a rightto trample on what is mortal in a demigod. Scoff at your ease; yourscorn can never break his grand old heart.
But come, friends, whether Quakers or cotton-printers, let us hold apeace-congress, and let out our venom quietly. We have been talking withunseemly zeal about bloody battles and butchering generals; we arrivenow at a triumph in your line. On the 18th of June 1812 the Orders inCouncil were repealed, and the blockaded ports thrown open. You knowvery well--such of you as are old enough to remember--you made Yorkshireand Lancashire shake with your shout on that occasion. The ringerscracked a bell in Briarfield belfry; it is dissonant to this day. TheAssociation of Merchants and Manufacturers dined together at Stilbro',and one and all went home in such a plight as their wives would neverwish to witness more. Liverpool started and snorted like a river-horseroused amongst his reeds by thunder. Some of the American merchants feltthreatenings of apoplexy, and had themselves bled--all, like wise men,at this first moment of prosperity, prepared to rush into the bowels ofspeculation, and to delve new difficulties, in whose depths they mightlose themselves at some future day. Stocks which had been accumulatingfor years now went off in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.Warehouses were lightened, ships were laden; work abounded, wages rose;the good time seemed come. These prospects might be delusive, but theywere brilliant--to some they were even true. At that epoch, in thatsingle month of June, many a solid fortune was realized.
* * * * *
When a whole province rejoices, the humblest of its inhabitants tastes afestal feeling; the sound of public bells rouses the most secludedabode, as if with a call to be gay. And so Caroline Helstone thought,when she dressed herself more carefully than usual on the day of thistrading triumph, and went, attired in her neatest muslin, to spend theafternoon at Fieldhead, there to superintend certain millinerypreparations for a great event, the last appeal in these matters beingreserved for her unimpeachable taste. She decided on the wreath, theveil, the dress to be worn at the altar. She chose various robes andfashions for more ordinary occasions, without much reference to thebride's opinion--that lady, indeed, being in a somewhat impracticablemood.
Louis had presaged difficulties, and he had found them--in fact, hismistress had shown herself exquisitely provoking, putting off hermarriage day by day, week by week, month by month, at first coaxing himwith soft pretences of procrastination, and in the end rousing his wholedeliberate but determined nature to revolt against her tyranny, at onceso sweet and so intolerable.
It had needed a sort of tempest-shock to bring her to the point; butthere she was at last, fettered to a fixed day. There she lay, conqueredby love, and bound with a vow.
Thus vanquished and restricted, she pined, like any other chaineddenizen of deserts. Her captor alone could cheer her; his society onlycould make amends for the lost privilege of liberty. In his absence shesat or wandered alone, spoke little, and ate less.
She furthered no preparations for her nuptials; Louis was himselfobliged to direct all arrangements. He was virtually master of Fieldheadweeks before he became so nominally--the least presumptuous, the kindestmaster that ever was, but with his lady absolute. She abdicated withouta word or a struggle. "Go to Mr. Moore, ask Mr. Moore," was her answerwhen applied to for orders. Never was wooer of wealthy bride sothoroughly absolved from the subaltern part, so inevitably compelled toassume a paramount character.
In all this Miss Keeldar partly yielded to her disposition; but a remarkshe made a year afterwards proved that she partly also acted on system."Louis," she said, "would never have learned to rule if she had notceased to govern. The incapacity of the sovereign had developed thepowers of the premier."
It had been intended that Miss Helstone should act as bridesmaid at theapproaching nuptials, but Fortune had destined her another part.
She came home in time to water her plants. She had performed this littletask. The last flower attended to was a rose-tree, which bloomed in aquiet green nook at the back of the house. This plant had received therefreshing shower; she was now resting a minute. Near the wall stood afragment of sculptured stone--a monkish relic--once, perhaps, the baseof a cross. She mounted it, that she might better command the view. Shehad still the watering pot in one hand; with the other her pretty dresswas held lightly aside, to avoid trickling drops. She gazed over thewall, along some lonely fields; beyond three dusk trees, rising side byside against the sky; beyond a solitary thorn at the head of a solitarylane far off. She surveyed the dusk moors, where bonfires were kindling.The summer evening was warm; the bell-music was joyous; the blue smokeof the fires looked soft, their red flame bright. Above them, in the skywhence the sun had vanished, twinkled a silver point--the star of love.
Caroline was not unhappy that evening--far otherwise; but as she gazedshe sighed, and as she sighed a hand circled her, and rested quietly onher waist. Caroline thought she knew who had drawn near; she receivedthe touch unstartled.
"I am looking at Venus, mamma. See, she is beautiful. How white herlustre is, compared with the deep red of the bonfires!"
The answer was a closer caress; and Caroline turned, and looked, notinto Mrs. Pryor's matron face, but up at a dark manly visage. Shedropped her watering-pot and stepped down from the pedestal.
"I have been sitting with 'mamma' an hour," said the intruder. "I havehad a long conversation with her. Where, meantime, have you been?"
"To Fieldhead. Shirley is as naughty as ever, Robert. She will neithersay Yes nor No to any question put. She sits alone. I cannot tellwhether she is melancholy or nonchalant. If you rouse her or scold her,she gives you a look, half wistful, half reckless, which sends you awayas queer and crazed as herself. What Louis will make of her, I cannottell. For my part, if I were a gentleman, I think I would not dareundertake her."
"Never mind them. They were cut out for each other. Louis, strange tosay, likes her all the better for these freaks. He will manage her, ifany one can. She tries him, however. He has had a stormy courtship forsuch a calm character; but you see it all ends in victory for him.Caroline, I have sought you to ask an audience. Why are those bellsringing?"
"For the repeal of your terrible law--the Orders you hate so much. Youare pleased, are you not?"
"Yesterday evening at this time I was packing some books for asea-voyage. They were the only possessions, except some clothes, seeds,roots, and tools, which I felt free to take with me to Canada. I wasgoing to leave you."
"To leave me? To leave _me_?"
Her little fingers fastened on his arm; she spoke and looked affrighted.
"Not now--not now. Examine my face--yes, look at me well. Is the despairof parting legible thereon?"
She looked into an illuminated countenance, whose characters were allbeaming, though the page itself was dusk. This face, potent in themajesty of its traits, shed down on her hope, fondness, delight.
"Will the repeal do you good--_much_ good, _immediate_ good?" sheinquired.
"The repeal of the Orders in Council saves me. Now I shall not turnbankrupt; now I shall not give up business; now I shall not leaveEngland; now I shall be no longer poor; now I can pay my debts; now allthe cloth I have in my warehouses will be taken off my hands, andcommissions given me for much more. This day lays for my fortunes abroad, firm foundation, on which, for the first time in my life, I cansecurely build."
Caroline devoured his words; she held his hand in hers; she drew a longbreath.
"You are saved?
Your heavy difficulties are lifted?"
"They are lifted. I breathe. I can act."
"At last! Oh, Providence is kind! Thank Him, Robert."
"I do thank Providence."
"And I also, for your sake!" She looked up devoutly.
"Now I can take more workmen, give better wages, lay wiser and moreliberal plans, do some good, be less selfish. _Now_, Caroline, I canhave a house--a home which I can truly call mine--and _now_----"
He paused, for his deep voice was checked.
"And _now_," he resumed--"now I can think of marriage, _now_ I can seeka wife."
This was no moment for her to speak. She did not speak.
"Will Caroline, who meekly hopes to be forgiven as she forgives--willshe pardon all I have made her suffer, all that long pain I havewickedly caused her, all that sickness of body and mind she owed to me?Will she forget what she knows of my poor ambition, my sordid schemes?Will she let me expiate these things? Will she suffer me to prove that,as I once deserted cruelly, trifled wantonly, injured basely, I can nowlove faithfully, cherish fondly, treasure tenderly?"
His hand was in Caroline's still; a gentle pressure answered him.
"Is Caroline mine?"
"Caroline is yours."
"I will prize her. The sense of her value is here, in my heart; thenecessity for her society is blended with my life. Not more jealousshall I be of the blood whose flow moves my pulses than of her happinessand well-being."
"I love you, too, Robert, and will take faithful care of you."
"Will you take faithful care of me? Faithful care! As if that roseshould promise to shelter from tempest this hard gray stone! But she_will_ care for me, in her way. These hands will be the gentleministrants of every comfort I can taste. I know the being I seek toentwine with my own will bring me a solace, a charity, a purity, towhich, of myself, I am a stranger."
Suddenly Caroline was troubled; her lip quivered.
"What flutters my dove?" asked Moore, as she nestled to and thenuneasily shrank from him.
"Poor mamma! I am all mamma has. Must I leave her?"
"Do you know, I thought of that difficulty. I and 'mamma' have discussedit."
"Tell me what you wish, what you would like, and I will consider if itis possible to consent. But I cannot desert her, even for you. I cannotbreak her heart, even for your sake."
"She was faithful when I was false--was she not? I never came near yoursick-bed, and she watched it ceaselessly."
"What must I do? Anything but leave her."
"At my wish you never shall leave her."
"She may live very near us?"
"With us--only she will have her own rooms and servant. For this shestipulates herself."
"You know she has an income, that, with her habits, makes her quiteindependent?"
"She told me that, with a gentle pride that reminded me of somebodyelse."
"She is not at all interfering, and incapable of gossip."
"I know her, Cary. But if, instead of being the personification ofreserve and discretion, she were something quite opposite, I should notfear her."
"Yet she will be your mother-in-law?" The speaker gave an arch littlenod. Moore smiled.
"Louis and I are not of the order of men who fear their mothers-in-law,Cary. Our foes never have been, nor will be, those of our own household.I doubt not my mother-in-law will make much of me."
"That she will--in her quiet way, you know. She is not demonstrative;and when you see her silent, or even cool, you must not fancy herdispleased; it is only a manner she has. Be sure to let me interpret forher whenever she puzzles you; always believe my account of the matter,Robert."
"Oh, implicitly! Jesting apart, I feel that she and I will suit--_on nepeut mieux_. Hortense, you know, is exquisitely susceptible--in ourFrench sense of the word--and not, perhaps, always reasonable in herrequirements; yet, dear, honest girl, I never painfully wounded herfeelings or had a serious quarrel with her in my life."
"No; you are most generously considerate, indeed, most tenderlyindulgent to her; and you will be considerate with mamma. You are agentleman all through, Robert, to the bone, and nowhere so perfect agentleman as at your own fireside."
"A eulogium I like; it is very sweet. I am well pleased my Carolineshould view me in this light."
"Mamma just thinks of you as I do."
"Not quite, I hope?"
"She does not want to marry you--don't be vain; but she said to me theother day, 'My dear, Mr. Moore has pleasing manners; he is one of thefew gentlemen I have seen who combine politeness with an air ofsincerity.'"
"'Mamma' is rather a misanthropist, is she not? Not the best opinion ofthe sterner sex?"
"She forbears to judge them as a whole, but she has her exceptions whomshe admires--Louis and Mr. Hall, and, of late, yourself. She did notlike you once; I knew that, because she would never speak of you. But,Robert----"
"Well, what now? What is the new thought?"
"You have not seen my uncle yet?"
"I have. 'Mamma' called him into the room. He consents conditionally. IfI prove that I can keep a wife, I may have her; and I _can_ keep herbetter than he thinks--better than I choose to boast."
"If you get rich you will do good with your money, Robert?"
"I _will_ do good; you shall tell me how. Indeed, I have some schemes ofmy own, which you and I will talk about on our own hearth one day. Ihave seen the necessity of doing good; I have learned the downrightfolly of being selfish. Caroline, I foresee what I will now foretell.This war _must_ ere long draw to a close. Trade is likely to prosper forsome years to come. There may be a brief misunderstanding betweenEngland and America, but that will not last. What would you think if,one day--perhaps ere another ten years elapse--Louis and I divideBriarfield parish betwixt us? Louis, at any rate, is certain of powerand property. He will not bury his talents. He is a benevolent fellow,and has, besides, an intellect of his own of no trifling calibre. Hismind is slow but strong. It must work. It may work deliberately, but itwill work well. He will be made magistrate of the district--Shirley sayshe shall. She would proceed impetuously and prematurely to obtain forhim this dignity, if he would let her, but he will not. As usual, hewill be in no haste. Ere he has been master of Fieldhead a year all thedistrict will feel his quiet influence, and acknowledge his unassumingsuperiority. A magistrate is wanted; they will, in time, invest him withthe office voluntarily and unreluctantly. Everybody admires his futurewife, and everybody will, in time, like him. He is of the _pate_generally approved, _bon comme le pain_--daily bread for the mostfastidious, good for the infant and the aged, nourishing for the poor,wholesome for the rich. Shirley, in spite of her whims and oddities, herdodges and delays, has an infatuated fondness for him. She will one daysee him as universally beloved as even _she_ could wish. He will also beuniversally esteemed, considered, consulted, depended on--too much so.His advice will be always judicious, his help always good-natured. Erelong both will be in inconvenient request. He will have to imposerestrictions. As for me, if I succeed as I intend to do, my success willadd to his and Shirley's income. I can double the value of their millproperty. I can line yonder barren Hollow with lines of cottages androws of cottage-gardens----"
"Robert! And root up the copse?"
"The copse shall be firewood ere five years elapse. The beautiful wildravine shall be a smooth descent; the green natural terrace shall be apaved street. There shall be cottages in the dark ravine, and cottageson the lonely slopes. The rough pebbled track shall be an even, firm,broad, black, sooty road, bedded with the cinders from my mill; and mymill, Caroline--my mill shall fill its present yard."
"Horrible! You will change our blue hill-country air into the Stilbro'smoke atmosphere."
"I will pour the waters of Pactolus through the valley of Briarfield."
"I like the beck a thousand times better."
"I will get an Act for enclosing Nunnely Common, and parcelling it outinto farms."
"Stilbro' Moor, however, defie
s you, thank Heaven! What can you grow inBilberry Moss? What will flourish on Rushedge?"
"Caroline, the houseless, the starving, the unemployed shall come toHollow's Mill from far and near; and Joe Scott shall give them work, andLouis Moore, Esq., shall let them a tenement, and Mrs. Gill shall metethem a portion till the first pay-day."
She smiled up in his face.
"Such a Sunday school as you will have, Cary! such collections as youwill get! such a day school as you and Shirley and Miss Ainley will haveto manage between you! The mill shall find salaries for a master andmistress, and the squire or the clothier shall give a treat once aquarter."
She mutely offered a kiss--an offer taken unfair advantage of, to theextortion of about a hundred kisses.
"Extravagant day-dreams," said Moore, with a sigh and smile, "yetperhaps we may realize some of them. Meantime, the dew is falling. Mrs.Moore, I shall take you in."
* * * * *
It is August. The bells clash out again, not only through Yorkshire, butthrough England. From Spain the voice of a trumpet has sounded long; itnow waxes louder and louder; it proclaims Salamanca won. This night isBriarfield to be illuminated. On this day the Fieldhead tenantry dinetogether; the Hollow's Mill workpeople will be assembled for a likefestal purpose; the schools have a grand treat. This morning there weretwo marriages solemnized in Briarfield church--Louis Gerard Moore, Esq.,late of Antwerp, to Shirley, daughter of the late Charles Cave Keeldar,Esq., of Fieldhead; Robert Gerard Moore, Esq., of Hollow's Mill, toCaroline, niece of the Rev. Matthewson Helstone, M.A., rector ofBriarfield.
The ceremony, in the first instance, was performed by Mr. Helstone,Hiram Yorke, Esq., of Briarmains, giving the bride away. In the secondinstance, Mr. Hall, vicar of Nunnely, officiated. Amongst the bridaltrain the two most noticeable personages were the youthful bridesmen,Henry Sympson and Martin Yorke.
I suppose Robert Moore's prophecies were, partially at least, fulfilled.The other day I passed up the Hollow, which tradition says was oncegreen, and lone, and wild; and there I saw the manufacturer's day-dreamsembodied in substantial stone and brick and ashes--the cinder-blackhighway, the cottages, and the cottage gardens; there I saw a mightymill, and a chimney ambitious as the tower of Babel. I told my oldhousekeeper when I came home where I had been.
"Ay," said she, "this world has queer changes. I can remember the oldmill being built--the very first it was in all the district; and then Ican remember it being pulled down, and going with my lake-lasses[companions] to see the foundation-stone of the new one laid. The twoMr. Moores made a great stir about it. They were there, and a deal offine folk besides, and both their ladies; very bonny and grand theylooked. But Mrs. Louis was the grandest; she always wore such handsomedresses. Mrs. Robert was quieter like. Mrs. Louis smiled when shetalked. She had a real, happy, glad, good-natured look; but she had eenthat pierced a body through. There is no such ladies nowadays."
"What was the Hollow like then, Martha?"
"Different to what it is now; but I can tell of it clean differentagain, when there was neither mill, nor cot, nor hall, except Fieldhead,within two miles of it. I can tell, one summer evening, fifty yearssyne, my mother coming running in just at the edge of dark, almostfleyed out of her wits, saying she had seen a fairish [fairy] inFieldhead Hollow; and that was the last fairish that ever was seen onthis countryside (though they've been heard within these forty years). Alonesome spot it was, and a bonny spot, full of oak trees and nut trees.It is altered now."
The story is told. I think I now see the judicious reader putting on hisspectacles to look for the moral. It would be an insult to his sagacityto offer directions. I only say, God speed him in the quest!
THE END.
ESTABLISHED 1798
T. NELSON AND SONS
PRINTERS AND PUBLISHERS