Graham's Magazine, Vol XXXIII, No. 6, December 1848

But seeds of discontent sown in one mind, are by some Mesmeric sympathy conveyed into another, and another, till a rapid, wide-spread growth is the unlooked for consequence; yet Mrs. Tiptop waited for another visit from the deacon, before breaking the subject to any one else, even to "dear Mr. Tiptop;" so she was not to blame for the disaffection that was springing up around her. Deacon Heedful arrived even sooner than she had anticipated – and most unexpected to her was his account of the spreading influence that had so mysteriously come to light. The deacon's doubts were now matured into a strong sense of duty, and, to the complete satisfaction of Mrs. Tiptop, he had decided to take a stand in the matter.

The only proposition she made was that the leading clergyman of her native town should be invited to exchange one Sabbath with Mr. Worthiman. This he promised should be effected, and took his leave for the purpose. As the parsonage was in his way home, he called to pay his respects to his minister, whom he found confined to the house by an indisposition that would prevent his preaching the following Sabbath; so he requested the deacon to read a sermon, as usual under such circumstances. This was opportune for proposing to call in the aid of a neighboring minister, which Mr. Worthiman acceding to, the matter was soon arranged, and word given out through the village that Mr. Newlight would fill the pulpit the coming Sabbath.

Providence, or some invisible agent, seemed on the side of Mrs. Tiptop, under the inspiration of which she went from house to house, promising the parishioners a treat new to them from Mr. Worthiman's pulpit.

The Sabbath was an anxious one to her, and an eventful one in the Congregational church of Green Valley; the spirit-stirring tones of Mr. Newlight's voice – his forceful manner, and novel forms of presenting old truths, had such an electric effect upon his audience that Mrs. Tiptop's eyes drank their fill of satisfaction, and gratified ambition began to revel in her brain. Nothing was talked of the succeeding day but Mr. Newlight's great sermon; and wishes were openly expressed, mostly by the younger members of the congregation, that Mr. Worthiman was more like him. Dissatisfaction spread like an infectious disease, and before the year expired, a meeting had been called to confer on the subject – the church was divided against itself, and the iron had entered the soul of poor Mr. Worthiman. But the oldest and best of his people, those who had been the pillars of the church, were not to be so easily moved out of place, and the result was, that the disaffected members – including at least one half – immigrated in a body, under the lead of Deacon Heedful and Mrs. Tiptop; were formed into another church, built a modern house of worship, and called a new-school minister to fill its pulpit.

Mr. Lion was a man of strong sense, strong principle, and strong will. His wife was an English lady of family and attainments, who, under the influence of a fervid attachment, had left a high-born circle of friends in her native land, to share the lot of an humble American clergyman, when too young to have attained that maturity of good-breeding which accommodates itself, without apparent effort, to the accidents and diversities of society. Having few attributes of mind, and no tastes in common with the secluded inhabitants of Green Valley, but possessing a kind heart and an amiable temper, she endeavored to conform, so far as native refinement would permit, to the habits and wishes of her husband's pastoral charge.

For the first six months succeeding Mr. Lion's installation the triumph of the immigrants seemed complete. Deacon Heedful was reappointed to the office he held under Mr. Worthiman's ministration, and Mrs. Tiptop assumed her undisputed place of honor next to the minister's wife – introduced a maternal association, and a female prayer-meeting among the women of the congregation, in the exercises of which she invariably took the lead, and made herself so prominently useful, that Deacon Heedful often prayed that she might live to be "a mother in Israel." Even the spirit of discord for a time appeared to be exorcised from their midst, while admiration of the new minister and his lovely wife was the absorbing passion of the day.

But the evil spirit that had built the church was not long to be denied his right to a place in it, and before many months began to show himself in various forms and guises. First, there arose an indistinct murmur that Mr. Lion did not visit his people familiarly and often enough; nor did he make pastoral tea-visits with his wife, as was Mr. Worthiman's custom. Then a whisper was heard that Mrs. Lion seemed to consider herself of "better flesh and blood" than others; that even Mrs. Tiptop wasn't a confidential friend of hers; but they guessed her piety was no better than theirs, by the fashionable way in which she dressed. Then, the new minister and his wife cared more for each other than they did for their parishioners, as they frequently walked out together without stopping to call on any of them. Thus, in various quarters, discontent began to show itself, and somehow or other could always be traced back to Mrs. Tiptop, who evidently felt chagrined at not being invited to share the secrets of Mrs. Lion's household.

But now an unlooked for arrival at the new minister's gave fresh impulse and direction to the evil genius of Green Valley. The new-comer was a sister of Mrs. Lion's, just from England, who, it was understood, would be a future inmate of the family. Miss May proved to have the disadvantages, in the eyes of the village belles, of beauty, accomplishments, and independence of mind and purse. Brought up, and having just completed her education in the city of London, she was now a bird let loose in the free air of the country, whither she had been drawn by affection for her sister, and a desire, not unmingled with romance, to see the land of liberty, and exult in the freedom of its rural scenes. And exult she did– now in the woods and fields gathering wild-flowers, and now, mounted on her English pony, galloping over the hills and away – the villagers said, "none knew where" – the stared-at of all starers, if not "the admired of all admirers." Though Miss May was sweet enough to savor all the village with amiability, and musical enough to harmonize the whole, the venom of the serpent made her sweetness gall to the senses of her brother's envious flock, and her music was discord in their ears.

One morning, as Miss May was riding rapidly over a bridge, her pony stumbled on a loose plank and threw her over his head so violently, that she was taken up senseless by a miller who lived on the stream, and conveyed into his humble abode, where the good man committed her to the care of his wife, while he went for the doctor. Now the village physician, who was a middle-aged, married man, had a bachelor brother connected with him, who was the envy of the village beaux for his gentlemanly air and good looks, he it was who, in this instance, hastened to answer the urgent call of the miller. Dr. Mannerly, on his arrival, found Miss May recovering from her unconsciousness, and quite alarmed at seeing herself in such strange circumstances; but his gentleness, joined with the homely manifestations of kindness and concern on the part of the miller and his wife, soon composed her mind, and after the doctor had taken some blood from her beautiful arm, she was enabled to rise and receive his assurance that she had sustained no very serious injury by the fall. Being, however, too much bruised to mount her pony again, she accepted the doctor's polite offer to take her home in his buggy.

Before night Miss May's adventure was the gossip of the village; especially her ride homeward with the doctor, who was observed to look uncommonly interested, and to be engaged in earnest conversation with his fair companion; nor did it escape the vigilant eye of Mrs. Tiptop that the doctor's buggy stood at the minister's gate every day for a week thereafter, and longer each successive time than she thought necessary for a professional call. And then, when Miss May appeared again on her pony, Dr. Mannerly was by her side, on his own high-mettled horse, (the doctor never rode a tame animal, nor perpetrated a tame remark;) this happened, too, again and again, so that it was soon a settled matter that Miss May and the doctor would be a match.

In the course of a few months, an unusual stir was apparent at the new minister's; the blinds were thrown open in the east parlor, and people were seen bustling through the hall as if in preparation for some important event. As Mr. Lion never received "donation visits," as the custom is with village-ministers, the bustle meant nothing less than Miss May's wedding – and for once, the gossip had some foundation in truth.

Late in the afternoon a handsome carriage drove up to the house, from which alighted a foreign-looking gentleman, of some twenty-five years, who was pronounced to be an English acquaintance of Mrs. Lion's who had been invited to the wedding. And a wedding, true enough, it was, for Dr. Mannerly came hurrying along toward the minister's about dark, equipped from top to toe, and wearing the white vest that decided him to be the happy man. And now the uninvited multitude envied the very lights that made brilliant "the east room," and no language could express their mortification, when the honest chaise of Mr. Worthiman dropped himself and wife at the new minister's door.

But a greater surprise awaited them the following morning, when the carriage that brought the Englishman to the village, was seen rolling rapidly away, and in it, seated by the stranger, was the heroine of all their surmises.

The doctor visited his patients as usual on that day, and the village newspaper announced the marriage, at Green Valley, of Sir Edward Sterling, of London, England, to Miss Rosina May, of the same metropolis.

Mrs. Tiptop and her followers were dumb-founded! But the evil genius, paralyzed for the time, revived ere long again with fresh vigor, and became so vexatious to Mr. and Mrs. Lion, that a dismissal was asked for and obtained from the Second Congregational Church of Green Valley, which, at the last accounts, was about calling a NEW MINISTER.

THE GARDENER

BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH

From dewy day-dawn to its dewy close,Between the lark's song and the whippo-wil's,With life as fresh and musical as fillsTheir varied round, in quiet joyance goesThe faithful gardener, spying out the foesOf queenly Beauty, whom, for all the illsThey wrought her reign, his hand in pity kills.That pure-eyed Peace may in her realm repose.He bears cool water to the drooping flowers,And gently crops o'erflushed exuberance;Trains the young vines to crown imperial bowers,And guardeth well fair buds from foul mischance;Let others find what prize befits their powers,His deeds put smiles on Nature's countenance.

ONE OF THE "SOUTHERN TIER OF COUNTIES."

BY ALFRED B. STREET

A realm of forest, hill and lake I sing,Nestling in wild and unknown lovelinessBeneath the "Empire State's" protecting wing;But be not too inquisitive and pressIts name – my motto must be, reader! "StatNominis umbra" – I'll not tell that's flat.But this much I will say; it bears the nameOf a brave warrior, who, in times of old,Burst through the forests like a flood of flame,And on the savage foe deep vengeance told.And well that warrior kept unstained the wreathReaped by his sword in fields of blood and death.And to be more explicit – on the westThe Chihohocki 1 laves its mountain sides;East the grim Shawangunk uprears its crest,And monarch-like this forest-land dividesFrom that whose name superfluous 't were to utterIf mention's made of golden "Goshen butter."Within this realm Dame Nature's mantle wideHas scarcely yet been rent by human toil;Here tower the hill-tops in their forest pride,There smile the sylvan valleys, though the soilIs such, in truth, no wonder people choseTo leave Dame Nature to her wild repose.Yet pleasant are the sights and sounds when SummerWakens the forest depths to light and life;The woodpecker, a red-plumed, noisy drummer,Times to the thrasher's clearly flourished fife;The partridge strikes its bass upon its log,And with his deep bassoon chimes in the frog.The stream reflects the leaf, the trunk, the root,The sunlight drops its gold upon the moss,Whose delicate fringes sink beneath the footOf the quick squirrel as it glides across;And, glancing like a vision to the eye,Through the tall trees the deer shoots, dream-like, by.Fancy your wearied foot has clambered nowThe Delaware's steep hill, and then glance back.The splendid sight will put you in a glow!There winds the river in its snake-like track,Whilst rural beauty laughs upon your view —Meadows of green, and fields of golden hue,And then White Lake, expanding far away!Oh, its pure waters gleam before me now!It sheds upon my world-worn heart a rayBright as the crystal beauty of its brow.Loveliest of lakes! this pulse must cease to beatEre I forget thee, beautiful and sweet!M., too, (the village,) is a lovely place,Clustered midst grain-fields rich and orchards green,With the grand woods around – in blended graceNature and Art at every point are seen.Brimmed is it with good fellows, and those pearlsOf man's prosaic being – witching girls.Yet there are places in this rising countyWhere Nature seems determined not to grow;Where travelers merit an especial bountyFor perseverance, where the starving crowWould pass, disdaining to arrest his flight;(But these things in strict confidence I write.)The earth is sprinkled with a scanty growthOf ragged, scrubby pine, and here and thereA lofty hemlock, looking as if loathTo show its surly head – while grim and bareThe ghosts of former trees their mossy locksShake, but all else is one great bed of rocks.Yet there is beauty even there when greenAnd sunbright – there the ground-pine twines its fringe,And the low whortleberries give the scene(So thick their downy gems) a purple tinge,And mossy paths are branching all about,But if you meet a rattlesnake, look out!Hour after hour, the stranger passing throughThis member of the "southern tier" will seeNaught but the stretching forests, grand, 't is true,But then life's naught without variety,Though if he seeks with care to find that charm,He 'chance may stumble on some stumpy farm,And then the road called "Turnpike," "verbum sap!"Now climbing o'er some mountain's rugged brow,Now plunging headlong in some hollow's lap,Still, "vice versa," laboring on you go,How high soe'er the hill, it has its brother,You're scarce down one before you go up t'other.The people, too, who live – I mean, who stayIn their green Alpine homes, (I like a touchOf the sublime,) presents a queer arrayOf three most interesting species – Dutch,Yankee and mongrel – and this triple mixtureForm when they meet a very curious picture.They call one "smart" who's keen at overreaching,"Tonguey" the babbler of the loudest din,They'll travel miles on Sunday to a "preaching,"And seek next day to "take their neighbor in,"And the word "deacon," in this charming region,Covers, like charity, of sins a legion.And there's another race, "half flesh, half fish,"That live where rolls the Delaware its flood,Ready to fight or drink as others wish,Not as they care; whose speech is loud and rude,Half oath half boast, and think that all things slumberWhen "Philadelfy" markets fall in "lumber."Their toil is pastime when the river leapsOn, like a war-horse foaming in his wrath,With thundering hoof and flashing mane, and sweepsThe forest fragments on its roaring path,What time the Spring-rains its mild current thresh,And make what vulgarly is called a "fresh."Then from deep eddy and from winding creekHis mammoth platform the bold raftsman steers,And, as his giant oar he pushes quick,With song and jest his wearying labor cheers,Whilst confident in skill he fearless driftsBy swamping islands and o'er staving rifts.From rafts we glance to saw-mills – oft you meetTheir pine-slab roofs and board-piles by some brook,And, with the splashing wheel and watery sheetFlinging its curtain o'er the dam, they look,(When tired of gazing at the endless woods,)Though saw-mills, pleasant in their solitudes.

THE EXHAUSTED TOPIC

BY CAROLINE C —

What shall I write about? A sensible question enough for me to address to you, good reader, were I a worn-out school-girl, with a mind quite like an "exhausted receiver" on the one subject, frightful, dismal, and hated at all times to her. But, thanks be to Time, I am no school-girl – and it is rather a foolish question, this same one I have proposed, considering that for sixty long seconds my mind has been fully determined as to what I will write about this morning.

I have been looking over a file of old magazines, which are now scattered about me in most beautiful confusion, for the sole purpose of discovering in the steps of how many "illustrious predecessors" I am to follow, when I expatiate on that, which, by the last tale in the last new magazine, seems to be still a marvelous object in creation, namely, "The Coquette."

And oh the poems, and tales, and essays, by the Mrs.'s and Misses – the Mr.'s and Esqr.'s, let alone the Dr.'s and Rev.'s, who have not disdained to pour forth their thoughts like water on this exhausted (?) topic! I will spare you, through mere Christian charity, dear reader, from listening to their enumeration.

By this time, if you are any thing of a magazine or newspaper reader, you must necessarily have arrived at some conclusion as to this tribe of humans. Well, what do you think of coquettes in general, my friend – what do you think of those with whom you have had to do with in particular? According to Johnson, a coquette is "a gay, airy girl, who by various arts endeavors to gain admirers." Natural enough, all that, I should say.

When women are blessed (?) by a kind Providence with beauty, does it not follow rapidly on the heels of the truth, that they are meant and made to be admired, and loved, and wooed by the gender masculine? And when the admiration and homage of men's hearts are offered at the shrine of beauty – and the favored fair one tastes the cup of adulation man forces to her lips, say, ye wise ones! is there any thing so very unnatural in the fact that her human heart cries "more?" Why, even that poor, miserable daughter of the horse-leech was not content with saying "give!" once, it must needs be "give —give!"

Now, in all fairness, I put the question to you – what warrior, after a brilliant achievement in one battle – after one glorious conquest over his foes, was content ever after to dwell in a quiet obscurity, and suffer his name to be at last almost forgotten by men, because of his very inaction? Tell me, was that shining light so often lit and re-lit on the Mountain of Warning for the benefit of the sojourners in the vallies of the world – I mean Napoleon Bonaparte? Was Cortes? Was Alexander?

What author, after writing one book that took the reading world by storm, ever after that blessed day laid down his pen and said, "I have done." Did any of those glorious beings who, with their death-stiffened fingers can write for us no more? Are the writers of our day satisfied with one brilliant and successful effort in the field of literary labor? Bear witness, oh, Bulwer, and Dickens, and Cooper, and James, to the absurdity of such an idea! Wait – I would be truthful – even as I write there comes before me a bright remembrance of one glorious bard, living, voiceless now– our own well-beloved Halleck; but even he may awake, and speak yet – and so make way with the exception to my rule.

And what does the warrior battle for? Tell it not in this wise, wide-awake century it is all for country and the good of man! We are a wise people, WE! Such humbugging is too ancient. Say out plainly it is for glory, for distinction, for place in the higher room, and we will honor you for your honest words! And what does the author labor and strive for, through dreary days and sleepless nights? Is it for the enlightenment of mankind – the improvement of his fellows? Who will say that this is not oftenest, when indeed it is thought of at all, the secondary consideration? Ay, yes! there are such things as poor misguided scribblers dipping their pens in their life-blood, wherewith to leave a mark on the pages of time, "to be seen of men!" There is such a thing as a "lord of creation," pining for distinction, and braving every distress, and even death, for – Fame! Yes, we have records of sons of Genius who have died because men recognized not the light they set before them. I mind me, and I "weep for Adonais! he is dead."

I tell you, among men it is rare to find one who, after he has tasted the honey of applause and world-admiration, but will taste, and continue to taste, until he has cloyed himself, and almost (I do not say quite) sickened the patient bystanders.

Is there, then, any thing wonderful in the fact that woman loves admiration? With such noble examples before her, why should she not? I know it has been hinted broadly that it is heartless, and selfish, and sinful, in a woman, merely for her personal gratification, to make wrecks of the hearts of men(!!) and that coquetting is set down among masculines in the catalogue of sins as one of the blackest dye. But, if man, in his wonderful wisdom, can suffer himself to be so fooled, pray whose fault or sin is it? If he rests his happiness on the smiles of one woman, which is a rarer thing than ye think, oh, maidens! whom shall he blame, if the smile does not always await him? Whose fault is it if he does not continue to please, when the eyes of the fair one are awakened to his numberless "short comings?" And some day when a more favored one of nature draws near with his homage, why should the old lover listen in amaze to cold words and colder sentiments? Trust me, if men would only apply to this subject of our consideration one iota of the coolness and calmness of unprejudiced thought which distinguishes many of their other musings, they might some day come to a just conclusion.

But enough of this; I have given a preface– and I know a case in point – more satisfactory than all my arguments I think it will prove; and I imagine it will clear me from all suspicion, or charge, if you should prefer it against me, of entertaining wrong opinions on this important subject.

From a far longer time since than I can well remember, till within two years past, the Cleveland family were our next door neighbors. Florence, the eldest daughter, was a very dear friend of mine, and I would not make her the heroine of this story to-day, were it not for the following fact. Two years ago the whole family emigrated to Wisconsin; and now that they are gone so very far "out of the world," I think no blame should be attached to me for giving her "experience" to the good public. Sure am I, that buried as she is in the backwoods, she will never know that I have seized upon her as a "subject" whereabout to expatiate. But if you should chance to meet Florence in your wanderings, reader, do not, I pray you, wound her feelings, by touching on this topic.

Every body said Flory was a coquette – and adopting as a settled point the sentiment that "what every body says must be true," I suppose she was; that is, she was "a gay, airy girl, who was fond of admiration;" and I will not deny that she may have exerted herself the least bit in the world to obtain it. But I do repel most indignantly the idea that she was artful and designing, or that she ever regularly set a trap to ensnare any human heart.

Florence, when she parted from us, was of middle height, very fair, and her cheeks wore the bloom of early roses; her hair was of a light, glossy brown – and, oh, those beautiful ringlets! I can vouch for the truth of it, they never emerged from curl-papers – (and by the way, how refreshing and pleasant now-a-days it is to see any thing natural, even a paltry curl!) Then her eyes, "deeply, divinely blue," sometimes filled with a sober, tranquil, holy light, and again dancing, beaming, and running over with joy and happiness.