The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 13, No. 78, April, 1864

Many writers speak well of age, and it certainly is not without its advantages, meeting everywhere, as it does, with respect and indulgence. Neither is it, so the books say, without its own peculiar beauty. An old man leaning upon his staff, with white locks streaming in the wind, they call a picturesque object. All this may be; still, I have tried both, and must say that my own leaning is towards youth.

Remembering the desire of the poor widow, that Rachel should be "made of," I continued to walk home with her from evening-school, and to pay her many little attentions, even after I had left the Squire's. The widow was right in saying, that, when folks saw that I "set store" by her, they would open their eyes. They did,—in wonder that "the schoolmaster should be so attentive to Rachel Lowe!" We were "town-talk." I often, in the school-house entry, overheard the scholars joking about us; and once I saw them slyly writing our names together on the bricks of the fireplace. Everybody was on the look-out for what might happen.

One evening, in school-time, I stood a long while leaning over her desk, working out for her a difficult sum. On observing me change my position, to rest myself, she, very naturally, and almost unconsciously, moved for me to sit down, and I took a seat beside her, going on, all the while, with my ciphering. Happening to look up suddenly, I saw that half the school were watching us. I kept my seat with calmness, though I knew I turned red. I glanced at Rachel, and really pitied her, she looked so distressed, so conscious. That night she hurried home before I had put away my books, and for several evenings did not appear.

But if she could do without me, I could not do without her. I missed her face there at the end of the back-seat. I missed the walk home with her: I had grown to depend upon it. She was just getting willing to talk, and in what she said and the way she said it, in the tone of her voice and in her whole manner, there was something to me extremely bewitching. She had been strangely brought up, was familiar with books, but, having received no regular education, fancied herself ignorant, and different from everybody.

Finding that she still kept away from the school, I resolved one night to call at the Squire's. It was some time after dark when I reached there; and as I stood in the porch, brushing the snow from my boots, I became aware of loud talking in the kitchen. Poor Rachel! both Mrs. Brewster and Sarah were upon her, laughing and sneering about her "setting her cap" for the schoolmaster, and accusing her of trying to get him to come home with her, of moving for him to sit down by her side! Once I heard Rachel's voice,—"Oh, please don't talk so! I don't do as you say. It is dreadful for you to talk so!" I judged it better to defer my call, and walked slowly along the road. It was not very cold, and I sat down upon the stone wall. I sat down to think. Presently Rachel herself hurried by, carrying a pitcher. She was bound on some errand up the road. I called out,—

"Rachel, stop!"

She turned, in affright, and, upon seeing me, hurried the more. But I overtook her, and placed her arm within mine in a moment, saying,—

"Rachel, you are not afraid of me, I hope!"

"Oh, no, Sir! no, indeed!" she exclaimed.

"And yet you run away from me."

She made no answer.

"Rachel," I said, at last, "I wish you would talk to me freely. I wish you would tell what troubles you."

She hesitated a moment; and when, at last, she spoke, her answer rather surprised me.

"I ought not to be so weak, I know," she replied; "but it is so hard to stand all alone, to live my life just right, that sometimes I get discouraged."

I had expected complaints of ill treatment, but found her blaming no one but herself.

"And who said you must stand alone?" I asked.

"That was one of the things my mother used to say."

"And what other things did she say?"

"Oh, Mr. Browne," she replied, "I wish I could tell you about my mother! But I can't talk; I am too ignorant; I don't know how to say it. When she was alive," she continued, speaking very slowly, "I never knew how good she was; but now her words keep coming back to me. Sometimes I think she whispers them,—for she is an angel, and you know the hymn says,

'There are angels hovering round.'

When we sing,

'Ye holy throng of angels bright,'

I always sing to her, for I know she is listening."

Here she stopped suddenly, as if frightened that she had said so much. The house to which she was going was now close by. I waited for her to come out, and walked back with her towards home. After proceeding a little way in silence, I said, abruptly,—

"Rachel, do they treat you well at the house yonder?"

She seemed reluctant to answer, but said, at last,—

"Not very well."

"Then, why stay? Why not find some other home?"

"I don't think it is time yet," she replied.

"I don't understand you. I wish—Rachel, can't you make a friend of me, since you have no other?"

"I will tell you as well as I can," she replied, "what my mother used to say. She said we must act rightly."

"That is true," I replied; "and what else did she say?"

"She said, that that would only be the outside life, but the inside life must be right too, must be pure and strong, and that the way to make it pure and strong was to learn to bear."

"Still," I urged, "I wish you would find a better home. You cannot learn to bear any more patiently than you do."

She shook her head.

"That shows that you don't know," she answered. "It seems to me right to remain. Why, you know they can't hurt me any. Suppose they scold me when I am not to blame, and my temper rises,—for I am very quick-tempered"—

"Oh, no, Rachel!"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Browne! Suppose my temper rises, and I put it down, and keep myself pleasant, do I not do myself good? And thinking about it in this way, is not their unkindness a benefit to me,—to the real me,—to the soul of Rachel Lowe?"

I hardly knew what to say. Somehow, she seemed away up above me, while I found that I had, in common with the Brewsters, only in a different way, taken for granted my own superiority.

"All this may be true," I remarked, after a pause, "but it is not the common way of viewing things."

"Perhaps not," she answered. "My mother was not like other people. My father was a strong man, but he looked up to her, and he loved her; but he killed her at last,—with his conduct, he killed her. But when she was dead, he grew crazy with grief, he loved her so. He talked about her always,—talked in an absent, dreamy way about her goodness, her beauty, her white hands, her long hair. Sometimes he would seem to be whispering with her, and would say, softly,—'Oh, yes! I'll take care of Rachel! pretty Rachel! your Rachel!'"

I longed to have her go on; but we had now reached the bars, and she was not willing to walk farther.

"I have been talking a great deal about myself," she said; "but you know you kept asking me questions."

"Yes, Rachel, I know I kept asking you questions. Do you care? I may wish to ask you others."

"Oh, no," she replied; "but I could not answer many questions. I have only a few thoughts, and know very little."

I watched her into the house, and then walked slowly homewards, thinking, all the way, of this strange young girl, striving thus to stand alone, working out her own salvation. I passed a pleasant night, half sleeping, half waking, having always before my eyes that white face, earnest and beautiful, as it looked up to me in the winter starlight, and in my ears her words, "Is not their unkindness a benefit to me,—to the real me,—to the soul of Rachel Lowe?"

But spring came; my school drew to a close; and I began to think of home, Aunt Huldah, and Fanny. I wished that my sister could see Rachel. I knew she would appreciate her, for there was depth in Fanny, with all her liveliness. Sometimes I imagined, just imagined, myself married to Rachel. But then there was Aunt Huldah,—what would she say to a foreigner? And I was dependent upon Aunt Huldah. Besides, how did I know that Rachel would have me? Was I equal to her? How worthless seemed my little stock of book-learning by the side of that heart-wisdom which she had coined, as it were, from her own sorrow!

My last day came, and I had not spoken. In fact, we latterly had both grown silent. I was to leave in the afternoon stage. I gave the driver my trunk, telling him to call for me at the Squire's,—for I must bid Rachel good-bye, and in some way let her know how I felt towards her. As I drew near the house, I saw that she was drawing water. I stepped quickly towards the well, but Sam appeared just then, and I could not say one word. She walked into the house. I went behind with the water-pail, and Sam followed us into the porch. Rachel was going up-stairs, but I took her hand to bid her good-bye. Mrs. Brewster and Sarah were in the kitchen, watching. "Quite a love-scene!" I heard them whisper. "I do believe he'll marry her!"

Now, although I was by nature quiet, yet I could be roused. Bidding good-bye to Rachel had stirred the very depths of my nature. I longed to take her in my arms, and bear her away to my own quiet home. And when, instead of this, I thought of the life to which I must leave her, it needed but those sneering whispers to make me speak out,—and I did speak out. Taking her by the hand, I stepped quickly forward, and stood before them.

"And so I will marry her!" I exclaimed. "If she will accept me, I shall be proud to marry her!"

"Rachel," said I, turning towards her, "this is strange wooing; but before these people I ask, Will you be my wife?"

The astonished spectators of our love-scene looked on in dismay.

"Mr. Browne!" exclaimed Mrs. Brewster, "do you know what you are doing? I have no ill-will to the girl; but I feel it my duty to tell you who and what she is."

"I know what Rachel Lowe is, Madam!" I cried, almost fiercely; "you don't,—you can't!"

Then, turning to the trembling girl, I said again,—

"Rachel, say, will you be my wife?"

At this moment Sam came forward. His face was pale, and he trembled.

"No, Rachel," said he, "don't be his wife! Be mine! I haven't treated you right, I know I haven't; but I love you, you don't know how much! The very way you have tried to keep me off has made me love you!"

"Sam! stop!" cried his mother, in a rage. "What do you mean? You know you won't marry that girl!"

"Mother," exclaimed Sam, "you don't know anything about her! She is worth every other girl in the place, and handsomer than all of them put together!"

"Sam!" began Miss Sarah.

"Now, Sarah, you stop!" cried he. "I've begun, and now I'll tell

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1

There are three accounts as to the time of the birth of "St. Arnaud, formerly Leroy." That which makes him oldest represents him as being fifty-eight at the Battle of the Alma. The second makes him fifty-six, and the third fifty-three. In either case he was not a young man; but, though suffering from mortal illness, he showed no want of vigor on almost every occasion when its display was required.

2

The advocates of youth in generals have never, that we are aware, claimed Hamilcar Barcas as one of the illustrations of their argument; yet he must have been a very young man when he began his extraordinary career, if, as has been stated on good authority, he was not beyond the middle age when he lost his life in battle. He was a great man, perhaps even as great a man as his son Hannibal, who did but carry out his father's designs.

3

At Fontenoy the Duke of Cumberland was but half the age of the Comte de Saxe. In that battle an English soldier was taken prisoner, after fighting with heroic bravery. A French officer complimented him, saying, that, if there had been fifty thousand men like him on the other side, the victory would have been theirs. "No," said the Englishman, "it was not the fifty thousand brave men who were wanting, but a Marshal Saxe." Cumberland was ever unlucky, save at Culloden. Saxe was old beyond his years, being one of the fastest of the fast men of his time, as became the son of Augustus the Strong and Aurora von Königsmark.

4

Henry V. was present, as Prince of Wales, at the Battle of Shrewsbury, before he was sixteen; and there is some reason for supposing that he commanded the royal forces in the Battle of Grosmont, fought and won in his eighteenth year. He was but twenty-eight at Agincourt. Splendid as was his military career, it was all over before he had reached to thirty-six years. The Black Prince was but sixteen at Crécy, and in his twenty-seventh year at Poitiers. Edward IV. was not nineteen when he won the great Battle of Towton, and that was not his first battle and victory. He was always successful. Richard III., as Duke of Gloucester, was not nineteen when he showed himself to be an able soldier, at Barnet; and he proved his generalship on other fields. William I., Henry I., Stephen, Henry II., Richard I., Edward I., Edward III., Henry IV., and William III. were all distinguished soldiers. The last English sovereign who took part in a battle was George II., at Dettingen.

5

See Norfolk County Records, 1657; New England Historical and Genealogical Register, No. II. p. 192. The moral lapse of the first minister of Hampton at the age of fourscore is referred to in the third number of the same periodical. Goody Cole, the Hampton witch, was twice imprisoned for the alleged practice of her arts.