At the foot of the Alleghany Mountains
stands the flourishing village of Hollidaysburg.
On the banks of the blue Juniata, that winds on till
it buries its waters in the rolling Susquehannah, stood
the elegant mansion of Esquire Clinton, the village
lawyer. He had lost his young wife many years
since, and Henriette, his only child, shared largely
in the affection of her father. Her every wish
was gratified, and she was educated in the fashionable
etiquette of the place. She was the guiding star
in the fashionable circle in which she moved, and a
general favorite.
But there came a change. The
father was seized with sudden illness, and in a few
short hours was no more. The grief-stricken Henriette
had watched with an agonized heart the progress of
the disease, had attended to his wants, and supplied
his necessities with her own hands. A skillful
physician had done all that medical aid could do,
but nothing could avail. The grim messenger lingered
not, and the beautiful Henriette was left sole mistress
of the splendid mansion.
But Frederic Clinton had made preparation
for that event, and his lamp was trimmed and burning
when the Master came.
Henriette, too, had given her heart
to God, while the freshness of youth was yet upon
it, and now he supported her in her hour of trial.
Her father was borne to the grave, with all the splendor
of wealth, a long train of sympathizing friends following
in the procession, and showing every attention to
the bereaved orphan, who was the only mourner.
Henriette returned with an aching
heart, to the home of her childhood, and seated herself
in her father’s library, overwhelmed with grief.
It was a cheerless autumn day, and
nature seemed sympathizing in her sorrow. The
fitful gusts of wind came sighing down the mountains,
and sweeping over the usually placid waters of the
Juniata, tossed its waves into tumultuous motion,
and drove it more rapidly on in its serpentine course.
The beautiful magnolia that stood before the window,
was filled with its second crop of yellow flowers,
that were faded and ready to pass away, and the surging
blasts swept them unceremoniously from the branches,
as it came sighing down the mountains, and sweeping
along the valley. The sun had long since hid
himself behind the summit of the eternal hills, that
she had loved to watch with her father, from that
window, while learning lessons from his lips, of the
grandeur and sublimity of God, who spake that stupendous
chain of mountains into existence. And her thought
was turned to that God, who has promised to be “the
father of the fatherless.” To him she knelt to
him she prayed. Soothed and comforted, she arose
and entered the parlor. Sympathizing domestics
awaited her pleasure, and obeyed her commands.
Proper measures were taken for an
investigation of Mr. Clinton’s affairs, and
the estate was pronounced insolvent, and all was offered
for sale. At first Henriette could scarcely believe
the assertion, but when she became convinced of its
truth, she nerved her mind to meet the trial, relying
upon that God “who tempers the wind to the shorn
lamb.”
She immediately dismissed her domestics,
who had been faithful so long to the family, watching
over their young mistress, during her childhood and
early youth, and now they felt grieved to leave her.
She gave each one a present from her own treasures,
procured good places for them, retaining only the
dear old nurse in her service, for a few days, till
the auction had taken place.
Henriette had never been accustomed
to labor, and old Mary was surprised upon seeing her
enter the dining room, with her glossy brown hair
parted neatly over her high marble forehead, clad in
a simple gingham, which she had prepared for a morning
dress, with a brown linen apron, to assist her in
making the necessary arrangements for her removal
and the coming sale.
The rooms were put in the best possible
order, and the luxurious furniture arranged with great
care, that everything might show to the best advantage.
She selected a few choice volumes from the library,
and placed them in a large trunk, which was to contain
her own wardrobe, and which she had decided upon keeping,
if circumstances would permit.
This had been her favorite room; one
window looked out upon the mountains, that lifted
their heads in majestic grandeur, and seemed supporting
the very clouds upon their lofty summits, while their
jagged sides looked as though they would drop upon
the valley below. But they had stood for ages
the same, braving the fury of the wintry storm as
its surging blasts swept over them, or parched by the
burning rays of the noonday sun, as he poured his
fierce scorching beams upon them. She had looked
upon them too in the twilight hour, when the coming
darkness would present strange, mysterious shadows,
and the craggy rocks would assume the forms of men,
and fancy would conjure up a lawless band of midnight
plunderers emerging from their dark caves, upon the
mountain side.
But now she was looking out of that
window perhaps for the last time, and the unbidden
tear would spring to her eye. The books were nicely
dusted, the comfortable stuffed rocking chair stood
in its usual place where her father used to love to
sit so well, and a splendid ottoman stood before it,
which was usually her seat. Her elegant little
chair covered with crimson velvet, stood by the window,
where she ever loved to linger to look out upon the
mountains, always finding some new trace of beauty,
as she gazed upon their cloud capped summits.
But now she must linger no longer; the rich covering
was placed exactly square upon the elegant little
table, and every particle of dust was banished from
the room, and there were duties elsewhere that demanded
her attention. As she turned to leave the room,
she raised her eyes to the portraits of her parents
that hung suspended on the wall opposite her, in heavy
gilt frames. The likenesses were very natural,
and now seemed smiling upon her with life-like affection.
At this time the man entered with whom she had procured
board, and who had kindly offered to assist in removing
any articles she might wish to convey to his house.
The dear resemblances of her idolized parents were
removed from the spot they had occupied so many years,
to be carried to a stranger’s home. Henriette
felt less regret at parting from the place now those
loved faces were removed. There were many little
treasures associated with dear memories she would
gladly have taken, but a strict sense of honor forbade
her. She turned away, locking the door, but leaving
the key in it, to be turned next by a stranger’s
hand. She drew up her music stool, and seating
herself upon it touched the keys of her piano with
a skillful hand, and sang with a trembling voice,
“Farewell, farewell, is a lonely
sound.”
She closed the instrument as she finished
the pieced saying,
“It is the last time.”
There was one hour before the auction,
and already were curious eyes peering round the premises.
Every thing being arranged to their minds, Henriette
dismissed the dear old nurse with many tears and a
generous reward. She would live near by and would
see her every day, and this was a source of great
comfort to both.
Henriette now ran down the beautiful
terraced walk, through her father’s garden,
till she reached a beautiful arbor on the brink of
the river, where she had spent so many happy hours.
Here was her guitar, her father’s flute, and
the book they had last read together. She seated
herself upon the richly cushioned seat, and looked
upon the winding waters that seemed mocking her sad
heart as they danced sparkling on beneath the mellow
rays of the autumnal sun, its bosom ruffled by the
autumnal breeze. At the foot of the terrace her
fairy skiff lay moored, which used to dance upon the
wave by moonlight, while she and her father made the
air resound with the melody of their music; but there
was little time to linger here.
She put the little arbor in order,
and repaired next to her conservatory, filled with
rich and rare exotics, took a hasty glance, moving
the choice plants into the position that best suited
her good taste, and wiping the dust from its polished
shelves. Her father’s chair occupied its
place by his favorite window that looked out upon
the Juniata that was indistinctly seen, peeping its
little spots of blue through the thick leaves of the
plants that almost hid it from view. She took
a last look, passing on to the aviary, where a choice
collection of birds filled the ear with their melody.
Old nurse had attended to this department, and she
caressed her pets, and smoothed their feathers, and
breathing a sad adieu, turned to take a last look
at her favorite Sullensifadda, as she had named her
noble steed. She patted his neck, told him coaxingly
he would never again climb the mountain pass with
her upon his back; took a last look of her father’s
splendid saddle horse of dapple grey, and his jet black
span of carriage horses, and passed round through
the richly cultivated grounds, and gardens where every
thing that wealth could procure lay spread out before
the eye. She took a hasty look, a hasty leave
of all and felt that sense of desolation known to
almost every human heart, when called upon to part
from dear familiar objects. She looked at her
elegant gold watch, and finding her time had expired,
returned to the house. Already there had many
arrived who wished to attend the auction. Henriette
entered a small apartment, seated herself upon a low
stool, and wept as she heard the unfeeling remarks
and low jests, as the vulgar crowd pulled about the
furniture, turning it from side to side, declaring
they had no idea Esq. Clinton’s mansion
was so meanly furnished. But we will not dwell
upon this painful scene.
Mr. Charles Norcross purchased the
house with all its appurtenances. The furniture
was distributed about here and there among the wealthy
citizens, who wished to add some article of luxury
to their establishment. And all was gone.
Sold for less than half its value, and poor Henriette
had the mortification of hearing that the debts were
not cancelled. So she disposed of her gold watch
and pencil, her father’s watch, a box of rich
jewelry, and every available article in her possession
to contribute her mite to keep dishonor from resting
upon her father’s name. She then went forth
penniless upon the world. But there was a light
in her eye and firmness in her step that told of a
“will to do, a soul to dare.” She
had been educated in the customs of the village, and
had been an aristocrat. Now she had another lesson
to learn, a sad lesson speaking of the depravity of
the human heart, and now she must learn all the cold
heartlessness of that world that had heretofore shone
so brightly upon her pathway. She did not once
think in her grief that her change in fortune would
make any change in friendship’s tone, but alas!
the society in which she had moved was very, very
exclusive, and to labor with the hands was to bar the
door of that society forever against one.
Henriette at first did not realize
this, and when she met her former gay companions,
was surprised when they passed her with an averted
eye, or a slight nod of recognition. Frequently
was she called upon to meet that sudden death chill
that falls so often upon the human heart, when the
fond affections of many years gush warmly up to the
eye and lip, as we meet some long cherished friend
who passes us by with a cold, scornful glance.
O this is poverty’s bitterest curse, and this
too must be met. Those who might have removed
many a sharp thorn from the pathway of the lonely
Henriette, but added sharpness to their point, and
made her feel and deeply feel,
“Man’s inhumanity to man,
Makes countless thousands mourn.”
The poor girl felt there was no time
to sit still, for she was a destitute orphan, and
she must try to help herself, and so she repaired
to Mrs. Cobb, the most fashionable dress maker in the
village, to see if she could learn her trade.
Matters were satisfactorily arranged,
and she commenced immediately. A willing hand
and active mind made the task easier than she had
anticipated. It was soon a matter of conversation
through all the village, when it became known that
the haughty Henriette Clinton was going to be a dress
maker, and many were the remarks that were made upon
her everlasting gingham dress, for her nice sense of
propriety prevented her from wearing the rich articles
of apparel contained in her wardrobe; and at present
she could procure no other. She formed the resolution
sometimes of disposing of some of her costly garments
to relieve her present necessity, but they had been
selected by her dear father, and were all that remained
to her as a link of her past intercourse with him,
and so she clung to them as dear remembrances of the
past, the happy past.
She sat through the long weary hours
with her eyes bent upon her work, and made rapid proficiency
in the art she was acquiring.
Mr. Norcross, who purchased the Clinton
estate, was a man of a low sordid mind not at all
calculated to appreciate the elegance of his domicile.
He was a merchant, and had rapidly come into possession
of great wealth, and wishing to climb a little higher
upon the ladder of aristocracy, he thought a purchase
of the lawyer’s splendid establishment would
forward his progress. Therefore, selling his own
place at a very high price, and purchasing that at
an equally low one, did not much diminish his hoarded
gold. But after all they were not the Clintons.
It was only Mr. Norcross the store-keeper, and they
had many steps to climb before they could reach that
position in society they were so desirous of attaining.
They bowed to one, scraped to another, parties were
made, and many means devised, all of which were accompanied
with disappointment, as the least desired would come,
and those for whom the party was made would just as
surely stay away.
Mrs. Norcross was a large coarse woman,
with red hair, light blue eyes, and freckled face,
but with a good humored expression of countenance.
Her two daughters, Araminta and Clarinda, were not
very refined in their manners, owing to a deficiency
in their education, but were good hearted, cheerful
girls. Araminta was much pleased with Henriette’s
horse, but did not appreciate the name, and declared
he should be called Selim, for she knew she had read
of some great man who had a horse by that name, and
who ever heard of one named Sullensifadda, ugly name.
She mounted him one day, gaily caparisoned, but he
being equally unaccostomed to his new name and rider,
soon convinced her he had a light pair of heels.
Henriette sat busily at work by the
window, when the clatter of the well known hoofs sounded
upon her ear, and she raised her eyes just in time
to see her well remembered steed flying toward the
mountain pass with the speed of lightning, while the
frightened Araminta was clinging to his mane to prevent
falling to the ground, her long riding dress and veil
were streaming behind her their full length in the
wind, which was blowing pretty briskly, and her small
riding-cap was drawn a little farther upon one side
than the rules of gentility seemed to require.
Henriette pitied the poor girl, but she could not
help smiling at her ludicrous appearance. She
turned pale when she saw the horse turn suddenly down
a narrow path that led to the river, plunge into its
dashing waves, and swimming round a circuitous route,
spring back upon the shore, and setting his face towards
home, bore back the mortified girl all wet and dripping
through the streets at too rapid a rate for any one
to interfere with his arrangements, arriving at home
apparently well satisfied with his performance.
Months passed away, such months as
Henriette had never known before. She could have
borne her toil, her simple fare, and the ten thousand
deprivations she was subjected to, had this been all;
but the averted looks of her friends were more than
all these. She used to sit a little while in
the twilight hour upon her parents’ graves, and
recall their loved forms and tender words, and people
her imagination with by-gone scenes, and then, as
she contrasted the present, her cherished text would
come to illuminate her mind and calm her troubled spirit,
“all things work together for good to them that
fear God,” and she was comforted and strengthened
to go on her weary way, for this took in life with
all its little incidents, its every day trials, and
she returned to the active duties of life, realizing
that “this is not our home.”
Ere the spring returned she had accomplished
her wish, and entered into many families as dress
maker where she used to be admitted as an equal, if
not superior. She maintained her dignity of deportment,
for now she well knew poverty did not deteriorate
from worth, a lesson perhaps she too might have been
slow to learn under some circumstances, but which
now had been taught her by stern necessity, and her
rigid lessons are never soon forgotten.
She had taken the rich trimming from
some of her plainest dresses, and wore them when she
could not possibly avoid it. She did her work
with great neatness and dispatch, and was supplied
with all she could possibly do, so that she remunerated
the kind hearted woman who had boarded her through
her apprenticeship, and been very attentive to her
in many ways, for she truly pitied the poor orphan.
In the spring Mr. Clinton’s
vacant office was again occupied by a young lawyer,
who came into the village, from New York, named Henry
Lorton, and half the young ladies’ heads were
turned, by the beauty and elegance of the young northerner.
Parties were formed, walks projected up the mountains,
moonlight sails upon the silvery bosom of the Juniata,
and every means devised to draw the young lawyer into
company, and love with the southern beauties; but they
declared his heart was as cold as the region he came
from.
All these things Henriette heard,
as she sat plying her needle, or stood fitting a dress
to the forms of some of her gay companions; but now
her interests were separate from theirs, and she toiled
on, through the weary day. There were some who
appreciated her motives, and spoke kindly to the poor
orphan, and the sweet consciousness of well doing
sweetened her cup of toil.
Henry Lorton was educated upon liberal
New England principles, and his mother was a dress-maker
before her marriage with his father, and besides,
he had ever been taught to respect the industrious
part of the community, and his high minded principles
revolted from the overbearing aristocracy of the place,
and therefore, he appeared reserved to those with
whom he associated.
Henriette felt grieved as she visited
her father’s grave; there was no monument erected
at his head, while at her mother’s stood an elegant
polished marble one, of great value, having a female
bearing an infant in her arms, chiselled upon it,
and this one thought occupied her mind; she would
rise early and eat the bread of carefulness, might
she but erect a monument to her father’s grave;
and often she burned the midnight lamp, and rose before
the stars had faded from the sky, to accomplish her
holy purpose.
A young lady, who was married about
that time, saw and wished to purchase an elegantly
trimmed satin dress, and Henriette assented, thinking
the value of it would be more sacred to her eyes, in
her father’s monument, than elsewhere.
The young lady paid her the full value of this and
several other articles of clothing, and she soon had
the pleasure of seeing the splendid monument reared
over her father’s grave.
Ellen Horton had ever met Henriette
with a cordial greeting, and she did not feel the
same shrinking when she was requested to spend a few
days at the residence of the wealthy Edward Horton
that she did in going to many other places, and she
went with a cheerful heart to prepare the splendid
bridal dress for Ellen.
Next day, Charles Hunter, the future
bridegroom, arrived from Providence, the future home
of the fair Ellen, and the young ladies and gentlemen
of the place were invited to spend the evening.
Mr. Horton was formerly from Philadelphia,
and an intimate friend of Charles Hunter’s father,
who was a sea captain, and being shipwrecked during
one of his voyages, was conveyed in a pitiful condition
to the house of Mr. Horton, and thus commenced an
ardent friendship, to be ended only by death.
The nuptials of Charles and Ellen
were looked forward to with great interest, by both
families. Especially, was Mrs. Hunter, much pleased,
as she was an invalid, and had no daughter.
But evening came bright,
beautiful evening, and with it came bright, beautiful
eyes bright, beautiful faces, and all was
gaiety and joyousness, In the brilliantly illuminated
parlors of Mr. Horton. Henriette, yielding to
the wishes of Ellen and her mother, and the express
commands of Mr. Horton, consented to join the party.
She entered the room with the dignity of a queen;
but the scornful toss of many a young head, and the
averted gaze of many a familiar eye, brought the deep
blush of wounded feelings to her cheek, ere she reached
her seat. As she raised her eyes she met those
of Henry Lorton fixed upon her, with an expression
that her woman’s intuitive sense easily read.
They had frequently met before, but
had never formed any acquaintance.
Each one was winning a name.
Henry Lorton had made rapid advancement in his profession,
and stood high in the estimation of his fellow men,
for honesty and integrity of principle.
Many a match-making mother would gladly
have entrapped him for her daughter, and many a daughter,
perchance, might have accepted his hand, had it been
offered, but it was not. No one could elicit
anything beyond politeness from him.
He turned to a dark-eyed beauty, who
sat beside him, asking her if she was acquainted with
Miss Clinton.
She blushed, stammered,
“Why, no; I am not now that
is, I used to be when she went into society, that
is before her father’s death before
she was a dress-maker.”
Henry turned away, disgusted with
this indefinite intelligence. For a moment a
slight smile of scorn rested upon his lip, and a darker
expression shaded his countenance; but it lingered
not. The usual happy smile returned again, and
holy charity came back to his heart.
The evening passed sadly to Henriette.
She was with her dear schoolmates the friends
of her early days, and her heart yearned for the dear
familiar tones that then fell upon her ear, and in
spite of her every effort, the tear trickled down
her cheek. She turned to the window, and looked
out upon the blue waters and the grey sides of the
lofty mountain, that seemed looking down upon her in
sympathy, like the Mighty Power that created it.
She was roused from her reverie by
the voice of Ellen, who presented Mr. Lorton, he having
earnestly solicited an introduction. They conversed
pleasantly upon the beauties of the surrounding scenery,
and before the party broke up he requested permission
to visit her at her boarding house, the next evening.
There were some sly glances, but it
was the independent Henry Lorton, and little was said.
The next evening he visited Henriette,
offered her his heart and hand, and was accepted.
They appointed an early day for the wedding. Henry
adding,
“We will give the people an agreeable surprise.”
She finished Ellen’s work.
The happy pair were united, and started for Providence.
Henriette declined taking any more work, as she affirmed
she must take a few stitches in her own wardrobe.
Great was the consternation when the
banns of marriage between Henry Lorton and Henriette
Clinton were published, the Sabbath preceding their
wedding. Many a deep flush darted over the youthful
cheek, and many a head was tossed scornfully, and
a sea of eyes were turned towards the humble seat
Henriette usually occupied.
Arrayed in a simple robe of India
muslin, Henry led the blushing Henriette to the altar
of Hymen. They were acquainted with each other’s
characters, in the abstract.
After a pleasant tour north, they
returned again to the village, and Henriette was surprised
when they arrived there, to find the carriage stop
at the home of her childhood.
Mr. Norcross, failing from his former
premises, to reach the station he wished in society,
was about returning to Philadelphia, and Henry Lorton,
who in reality was a very wealthy man, had purchased
it, unbeknown to any one.
The dear familiar faces of her parents
were again hung in the old familiar places, upon the
library walls, beaming upon her with looks of fond
affection, and shedding the sweet smile of earlier
days upon her. The books were neatly arranged
on the polished shelves, and as she again resumed
her accustomed seat by the window, and looked out
upon the summit of the lofty mountains, they seemed
like old familiar friends, welcoming her return, and
assumed the strange, mysterious shapes, that so attracted
her childish gaze; and the trees that stood nodding
in the pure winds of heaven, seemed beckoning her to
their cooling shades, and she felt that the sunlight
of her early home was again shedding its glad beams
around her, and enjoyed that subdued happiness, that
only can be learned by an acquaintance with sorrow.
Often as she thus sat in the pensive
twilight hour, listening to the murmur of the evening
breeze, the voices of her dear parents would seem
stealing upon her ear in well remembered tones, whispering
of happiness and heaven; and she felt a sweet and
holy calm steal over her spirits, and felt that “angels
indeed ministered” unto her.
Henry invited her to ride with him,
and her beautiful Sullensifadda stood pawing at the
door, richly caparisoned, while the groom held her
father’s dapple grey by the bridle for Henry.
As they galloped slowly up the mountain pass, the
monuments of her dear parents glittering in the sun
admonished her that connubial bliss cannot shield from
death, for her mother had fallen a victim when she
was a young and happy bride, and her young heart had
just felt the dawnings of a mother’s love.
She raised her thoughts to God in fervent supplication,
that He still would be the Father of the fatherless.
It was painful to Henriette to witness
the cringing servility of many who formerly treated
her with contempt; but she had learned many useful
lessons in poverty, that affluence never would have
taught her, and she ever endeavored to throw the sweet
garb of charity over the frailties of her fellow men,
and especially did the destitute orphan ever find
sympathy and assistance from her generous aid.
Fleeting years have borne away many of the actors
in this little drama, and the grass grows green upon
their graves. Other eyes have learned to look
upon the mountains, and trace ideal imagery upon their
shadowy sides. Little feet imprint the terraced
walk to the winding banks of the blue Juniata, and
watch the bubbles that float upon the stream.
No change had passed upon the silver bosom of the
waters.
Henriette is happy in the dear old
home. Her old nurse is the nurse of her children.
A manly form is by her side; tender words are spoken
in a deep-toned voice; but it is the husband of her
youth instead of the father of her childhood.
Happy in the affections of her husband and children,
and in the faithful performance of those sweet duties
that devolve upon her as a wife and mother, Henriette
spends her useful life in the exercise of those virtues
she only learned from reverses in fortune. Henry
too is happy. Disgusted with flattering attentions
paid to wealth, he had won him a name and a bride,
while his circumstances were unknown. He had
watched unobserved the patient endurance and unwavering
industry of Henriette Clinton, and resolved they should
not go unrewarded.
The smile of heaven rests upon the
happy household, and it is invoked by the voice of
ardent prayer, and the family kneel together around
the family altar, and the rich, deep-toned voice of
Henry offers up the morning and evening sacrifice,
rendering praise and thanksgiving to the giver of
every good and perfect gift.