Lewie by Cousin Cicely

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"There was a young physician in that place, who had recently come from
the East, and settled there. He was a man of agreeable person and
manners, of much general information, and of very winning address; at
least, so he seemed to me. He was entirely different from all whom I had
met in that new country, and was the only person, besides my old friend
the clergyman and his wife, with whom it was really pleasant to
converse; and I felt perfectly at ease in his society, having been
assured that he was engaged to a certain Miss G----, the daughter of a
merchant in the village. Though much surprised at this, she having
appeared to me but a mere flippant gossip, and he a man of refined and
cultivated intellect, still I had no reason to doubt it, and was
completely taken by surprise when, after an acquaintance of a few weeks,
he one day made an offer of his hand and heart to _me_. I told him what
I had heard of his engagement to another, but he assured me it was the
idlest village gossip. 'There was nowhere else to go,' he said, 'till I
came there, and so he had occasionally visited at Mr. G----'s, but
without the slightest intention of paying any serious attention to
either of his daughters, who were girls not at all to his taste.'"

"The idea of this gentleman appearing in the character of a lover of
_mine_ was so new to me that I was obliged to take time to accustom
myself to it, and to ascertain the nature of my own feelings, which I
soon found were such as to satisfy me that I should commit no perjury in
giving him my hand. I will not tell you how I loved him! I cannot write
about it now! But for a short time I was very, very happy, and even my
bitter disappointments were forgotten. But suddenly he ceased to visit
me. Day after day passed and he did not come; and yet I knew that he was
in the village. At length I could no longer conceal my distress from my
old friend; who, being very indignant at this treatment, called my
truant lover to account."

"My cheeks glow with indignation as I write it! A story had been
circulated, which was afterwards traced to the G---- 's, that I had left
a _husband_ in an Eastern State; and this man, without coming to me for
a word of explanation, believed the story and deserted me. I had no
friend of long enough standing there to contradict the report; I wrote
to you, Mr. Wharton, but the letter could never have reached you, for no
answer came; and this only confirmed the suspicions of those who had
heard this slanderous story. All but my kind hosts looked upon me with
suspicion; the object of the slander was accomplished; my former lover
resumed his visits at the house of Mr. G----, and his attentions to his
daughter. He was not worthy of a love like mine! Stranger as he had been
to me, could I have believed a tale like that of him, without making an
effort to investigate its truth, or giving him full opportunity to clear
himself from the imputation? That place could no longer be a home for
me. I left it, dear friends, and turned my face once more towards those
who had been for so many years tried and true to me. But strength
failed! I have been here I know not how many weeks, enduring torment of
mind and body. My hope of reaching you is dying out. I _have_ no hope
but in God; my friend and refuge in time of trouble! I have--'"

Here the writing ceased; and the next moment she had seen her faithless
lover hand his bride from the carriage, and reason fled from her poor
brain forever.

The day after this letter was received found Mr. Wharton on his way to
the West, to ascertain for himself the condition of Miss Edwards, and to
endeavor to devise some means for her comfort and restoration, if
possible. Has my reader ever visited a _county house_, and especially
the apartment devoted exclusively to Lunatics? If not, I will endeavor
to describe a few of the sights which met the eyes of Mr. Wharton, on
his sad visit to the county house, which then stood a few miles
from----. He proceeded thither in company with the physician who had
written to him, and sent him the package from Miss Edwards, and it was
with a heavy heart that he first saw the desolate brick building in
which she had been placed, and thought, "Is this the only asylum for one
so lovely and so gifted, and must she wear out her days in hopeless
madness here?" Making their way through the crowd of miserable,
hobbling, bandaged, blind and helpless creatures who were standing about
the yard and halls, Mr. Wharton and Dr. Masten, guided by the
superintendent of the county house, paused before the door of the "crazy
room." Sounds of many voices were already heard, in various tones,
singing and shouting, and preaching, and when the door was opened the
din was such that it was impossible for the gentlemen to hear each other
speak.

What a place, thought Mr. Wharton, for those who should be kept quiet
and tranquil, and who should have nothing about them but pleasant,
cheerful sights. What possible hope is there of the restoration of any
here!

About the large and not over clean room, were a number of _cages_, much
like those you now see placed around a menagerie tent, though not so
large or so comfortable as these cages of wild beasts. In each of these
cages was confined a human being, and these poor creatures stricken by
the hand of God, were in various stages of insanity, some wildly raving,
others more quiet, and others still in a state of helpless idiocy. One
poor creature had preached till her voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper,
and so she continued to preach, the keeper told them, day and night,
till utterly exhausted, when she would fall into a state of
insensibility, which could hardly be called _sleep_, but from which she
would arouse to preach again, day and night, till again exhausted.

A boy about sixteen years of age sat in one of the cages, with scarcely
a rag to cover him, idly pulling through his fingers a bit of cord. This
had been his employment for months, the keeper said. He was perfectly
quiet, except the cord was taken from him; but then he would be quite
frantic. The ends of his fingers were quite worn with drawing this cord
between them, and it was necessary to supply him constantly with a new
bit of cord. When asked why the boy remained nearly naked, the keeper
said, they had never been able to devise any means to keep clothing
upon him, or to find anything strong enough to resist the strength of
his hands; but if allowed to remain in a state almost of nudity, and to
have his bit of cord, he was perfectly quiet and contented.

These, and many more sad and horrible things, were seen and heard during
their visit; but Mr. Wharton's first object was to find her for whose
sake he had undertaken this long journey. He knew her immediately,
though her face was worn with trouble and sickness, and there was an
intense and unnatural brightness about her eye. Her beautiful hair was
unbound, and falling about her shoulders, as she sat in the farthest
corner of her cage, perfectly quiet, and entirely unoccupied.

"Rhoda!" said Mr. Wharton, gently. She started, and put back her thick
hair from her ear, at the sound of his familiar voice.

"Rhoda!" said he, "don't you remember me?"

She looked at him intently, and the expression of her eye began to
change.

"The children want to see you so much, Rhoda! Emily and Effie, and
Agnes and little Grace." He mentioned each name slowly and distinctly,
and then spoke of his wife and the other children, and mentioned scenes
and incidents connected with his home. Her eye still looked with an
earnest gaze into his; her brow contracted, as if she was trying to
recall some long forgotten thing; until at length, with the helplessness
of an infant, she stretched her arms towards Mr. Wharton, and exclaimed,
piteously:

"Oh, take me away!--take me to my home!"

"You shall go with me, Rhoda; I will not leave you here," said Mr.
Wharton; and beckoning to Dr. Masten, he left the room. As he reached
the door, he heard a cry of agony, and turning, he saw Miss Edwards at
the front of her cage, with both arms extended towards him through the
bars, and the most agonized, imploring expression upon her face.
Stepping back to her, he said:

"Rhoda, I _will not_ leave you. Be quiet, and I will come back very
soon to take you with me. Did I ever deceive you, Rhoda?"

"Oh!" said she, putting her hand to her head, "they have all deceived
me. Richard deceived me! _He_ deceived me!--oh, so cruelly! Who can I
trust? They all desert me. I am _all, all_ alone!" And she sat down; and
dropping her head upon her knees, she wept very bitterly.

When Mr. Wharton had again called the doctor from the room, he said to
him:

"Doctor, this does not seem to me such a hopeless case. How any sane
person could retain his senses in that awful scene, I cannot imagine; I
am sure I should soon go crazy myself. But could I once remove Miss
Edwards from these terrible associations, and place her in one of our
Eastern asylums, where she might have cheerful companionships, and
pleasant occupation for her mind and fingers, I doubt not she might be
completely restored."

The doctor thought it possible, but was not so sanguine on the subject
as Mr. Wharton, who, he said, had only seen the young lady in one of
her calmer moods. Still he by all means advised the trial. "We have no
hope of _cure_" said he, "in placing these lunatics in the County House;
the only object is to keep them from injuring themselves or others. They
are all of them from the families of the poor, who cannot afford to send
them to an Eastern asylum. This young lady was a stranger, and without
means, and so violent, at times, that restraint was absolutely
necessary; so that the only thing we could do with her was to place her
here till I could write to you."

"You did the very best that could be done under the circumstances, my
dear sir," answered Mr. Wharton; "but I sincerely hope the day is not
far distant when your State will possess a more comfortable home than
this for those afflicted as these poor creatures are. But I feel as if I
could not lose a moment in removing my young friend from this place; and
if you, doctor, will be so kind as to take the journey with me, and aid
me in the care of her, you shall be well rewarded for your loss of
time."

It was with no great difficulty that this undertaking was accomplished;
and in less than a fortnight from the time when Mr. Wharton found Miss
Edwards, caged like a wild beast in the County House at----, she was
placed at an asylum where every comfort surrounded her. It was not long
before she seemed quite at home amid these new scenes, and began to
interest herself in books and work; and though her mind never fully
regained its tone, she yet seemed tranquil and happy. But the scenes of
trial through which she had passed had done their work upon her
constitution, and she sank rapidly, until, in a little less than a year
from the time of her entering the asylum, Mr. Wharton was summoned to
her death-bed. He arrived but a short time before she breathed her last,
and had the satisfaction to find that she knew him, to hear from her own
lips the assurance that her faith in her Redeemer was firm and unshaken,
and to bear her last kind messages to all the dear ones at Brook Farm.
And then the poor sad heart was still--the mind was bright and clear
again--for the shattered strings were tuned anew in heaven.

In a quiet nook at Brook Farm, where the willow bends, and the brook
murmurs, is a spot marked out for a burying-place, and the first stone
planted there bears on it the name of "Rhoda Edwards."

IX.

Emily's Trials.

"And dost thou ask what secret woe
I bear, corroding joy and youth?
And wilt thou vainly seek to know
A pang, even thou must fail to soothe?"--BYRON.

In the meantime the education of Master Lewie was going on as best it
might, and in a manner most agreeable to that young gentleman's
inclinations. When he chose to do so, he studied, and then no child
could make more rapid advancement than he, but as he was brought up
without any habits of regular application, study soon became distasteful
to him, and at the first puzzling sentence he threw aside his books in
disgust, and started off for play. The only thing he really loved, was
music, and in his devotion to this delightful accomplishment he was
indefatigable, and his proficiency at that tender age was remarkable.

But being now nine or ten years old, his mother, urged to this course
by some pretty strong hints from Mr. Wharton, began to determine upon
some systematic plan of education for him. And, acting upon Mr.
Wharton's advice, she was so happy as to secure the services of Mr.
Malcolm, the young clergyman at the village, as a tutor for Lewie, upon
the condition on his part, that unlimited authority, in no case to be
interfered with, should be given to him in his government of the
hitherto untrained and petted child.

And so it was settled, that Mr. Malcolm should ride over from the
village every morning at a certain hour, and attend to the education of
little Lewie Elwyn. It was soon observed, that as the young clergyman
rode from the Hemlocks back to the village, it seemed a difficult matter
for him to pass Mr. Wharton's lane, but he often, and then oftener, and
at length every day, turned his horse's head up the lane, and stopped to
make a call. And the children (than whom there are no quicker observers
in matters of this kind) soon made up their minds that the object of
Mr. Malcolm's frequent and prolonged visits was sweet cousin Emily. And
they thought too, judging by the bright blush that came up in cousin
Emily's usually pale cheek when he was announced, and by the look of
interest with which she listened to his conversations with her uncle, or
replied to him when he addressed a remark to herself, that cousin Emily
was by no means indifferent to the young minister.

Having drawn their own conclusions from these premises, and watching
with much interest, as children always do the progress of a love affair,
they were surprised and disappointed when they found that as Mr.
Malcolm's attentions increased and became more pointed, cousin Emily
gradually withdrew from his society, and often declined altogether to
come into the sitting room when he was there. Yet they were certain she
liked him, for they often found her watching from her window his
retreating figure; and sometimes before she knew that she was observed,
she would be seen to wipe away the tears which were stealing unbidden
down her cheek.

At length, one day, the minister came, and as he walked up the steps of
the front piazza, those who caught sight of his face, saw that it was
pale and agitated, and that he looked as if important matters for him
were at stake. And he asked for Emily. There was no bright blush in her
cheek now as she descended the stairs; it was pale and cold as marble.
The interview was a long one, and when at length Mr. Malcolm mounted his
horse and rode slowly away, his face was as white as when he came, but
the look of suspense and expectation had passed away, and in its place
was that of settled and fixed despair. Emily went to her room, and to
her bed, which she did not leave for some days; when she again appeared
in the family she was calm and sweet as ever, but a shade more pensive.

And the young minister came no more. That was all.

He was sometimes seen in the distant road riding rapidly by, to or from
the Hemlocks, but though the horse from long custom, invariably turned
his head towards Mr. Wharton's lane, he was not permitted to follow his
inclinations, but was speedily hurried by.

And Emily grew paler and thinner day by day, and there was sometimes a
contraction about the brow which told of intense suffering; and
sometimes, early in the evening she would leave the parlor, and not
appear again for the remainder of the evening. On one of these occasions
Agnes followed her, as she had observed the deadly paleness of her
countenance, and feared she would faint before she reached her room. As
Emily ascended the stairs, Agnes thought she heard groans, as of one in
extreme pain. Emily closed her door and Agnes stood upon the outside;
and now the groans were plainly to be distinguished.

"Cousin Emily," Agnes called, "dear cousin Emily, may I come in?"

There was no answer, but those same deep groans and now and then a
plaintive moaning. Agnes opened the door gently, and saw Emily upon her
knees, and yet writhing as if in intense agony. She seemed to be trying
to pray, and Agnes caught the words, "Oh, for strength, for strength to
endure this agony, and not to murmur."

Putting her arm around her, Agnes said: "What is it, cousin Emily? Can
you not tell _me_?"

Emily started at finding that she was not alone, and then said:

"Help me to rise, Agnes, and hand me those drops. I am glad that it is
you: better you than any of the others. Fasten the door, Agnes."

Emily reclined upon the sofa, weak and exhausted, the cold beads of
perspiration standing on her brow. Agnes sat in silence beside her,
holding her thin white hands in hers. At length Emily said:

"Agnes, I try to be patient; I make an endeavor even to be cheerful; but
I am indeed a great sufferer, and the anguish I endure seems, at times,
more than mortal frame can bear. It is only by escaping to the solitude
of my own room, to endure the agony in secret, that I am enabled to
keep it to myself. I am obliged to practice evasion to escape aunty's
anxious interrogatories; for, in her present state of health, I would
not for the world cause her the anxiety and trouble which the knowledge
of my sufferings would bring upon her."

Then, with frequent pauses for rest, Emily told the weeping Agnes _all_.

"And now," said she, "dear Agnes, you are very young for scenes like
this; but I know that you possess uncommon nerve and courage. Can you,
do you think, sit by my side, and hold my hand through a painful
operation? I _can_ endure it alone, dear, and I intended to; but as
accident has revealed my sufferings to you, I feel that it would be a
comfort to me to have my hand in that of one I love at that time."

"I _think_ I can, cousin Emily. I believe I could do _anything_ for you,
dear cousin Emily."

"I do not want aunty and uncle to know of this till it is all over,
Agnes. They go to the Springs to-morrow, to remain some days, as you
know: and I have arranged with Dr. Rodney to come while they are gone,
and bring a surgeon from the city, and it will all be over before they
return."

"And is there no _danger_, cousin Emily?"

"Danger of what, dear?--of death? Oh yes; the chances are many against
me; and even if the operation is safely performed, it may not arrest the
disease. But to one who suffers the torture which it is the will of
Heaven that I should bear, speedy death would only be a happy release.
And yet, Agnes, do not misunderstand me; I would not for the world do
anything to shorten my life of suffering. Oh no! 'All the years of my
appointed time will I wait till my change come.' The course I am going
to pursue is advised by the physicians, and it may be the means of
restoration to health, at least for some years. Agnes, pray for me."

When Mrs. Wharton kissed Emily for good-bye, and told her to be a good
girl, and take care of her health, she little imagined the suffering
through which her gentle niece was to pass before they met again. No
one dreamed of it but Agnes.

The next day, in answer to a message from Emily, the physicians came.
They found her courageous and cheerful; for she was sustained by an arm
all-powerful. Strength was given to her for the day and the occasion; a
wonderful fortitude sustained her; and the precious promise was verified
to her--"When thou goest through the waters, I will be with thee."

And Agnes, who sat with one hand over her eyes, and the other clasping
that of Emily, knew only by a sudden and long-continued pressure of the
hand that the knife was doing its work. There was not a groan--only one
long-drawn sigh--and it was over; and the result was better than their
most sanguine hopes.

Mrs. Wharton returned, after an absence necessarily prolonged to some
weeks. She found Emily sitting on the sofa, looking much as she had done
when they parted; and it was not till long afterward that she discovered
what had been the cause of Emily's illness, and learned how much she
had endured. She understood many things now which had been mysteries to
her before, realizing, in some degree, the torment of mind and body
through which this gentle one had passed, and the reason of the bidding
down of the tenderest feelings of her heart.

Poor Emily! None but He who seeth in secret had known the agony which
wrung thy loving heart to its very depths, causing even the keen torture
of physical suffering to be at times forgotten. But He can, and He
_does_, give strength for the occasion, whatever it may be, and however
sore the trial; and leaning on His arm, His people pass securely through
fires of tribulation, which, in the prospect, would seem utterly
unendurable, and come out purified, even as gold from the furnace.

X.

The Tutor and the Pupil.

"Untutor'd lad, thou art too malapert."--HENRY VI.

Mr. Wharton had endeavored to give Mr. Malcolm a correct understanding
of the nature of the case he was about to undertake, in becoming the
instructor of the spoiled and wayward Lewie. He told him of his natural
good qualities, never suffered to develop themselves, and of the many
evil ones, fostered and encouraged by the unwise indulgence of his fond
and foolish mother. And yet, when the young clergyman had fairly entered
upon his duties as tutor at the Hemlocks, he found, that "the half had
not been told him."

Lewie chafed and fretted under the slightest restraint, and had not the
remotest idea of doing anything that was not in all respects agreeable
to his own inclinations. The idea of compulsion was so new to him, that
he was overwhelmed with amazement one day, when his tutor (after trying
various means to induce him to learn a particular lesson) finally told
him that that lesson must be learned, and recited, before he could leave
the library. Master Lewie, fully determined in his own mind to ascertain
whose will was the strongest, and whose resolution would soonest give
out, now openly rebelled, and informed his master that "he would _not_
learn that lesson."

With his handsome face flushed with passion, he struggled from his
tutor, rushed to the door, and endeavored to open it; but Mr. Malcolm
was before-hand with him, and quietly turning the key in the lock, and
putting it in his pocket, he walked back to the table. The frantic boy
now endeavored to open the windows and spring out, but being foiled in
this attempt likewise, as they were securely fastened, he threw himself
upon the floor as he had been in the habit of doing when crossed, ever
since his baby-hood, and screamed with all the strength of baffled rage.

His anxious mother was at the door in an instant, demanding admittance.
Mr. Malcolm unfastened the door, stepped out to her in the hall, and
gave her a faithful account of her son's conduct during the morning.
"And now, Mrs. Elwyn," said he, "the promise was, that I was not to be
interfered with in my government of your son. As long as he hears your
voice at the door, and knows that he has your sympathy on his side, he
will continue obstinate and rebellious."

"But, Mr. Malcolm, excuse me, but you do not know how to manage him, you
should soothe and coax him; he will not be driven. Oh, I cannot bear to
hear him scream so," she exclaimed, as a louder roar from Lewie reached
her ears; "Oh, Mr. Malcolm, I must go to him."

"Not unless you desire, madam, that I should resign at once, and
forever, the charge of your son," said Mr. Malcolm, laying his hand upon
the lock to prevent her carrying her purpose into execution. "I have
spent this whole morning," he continued, "in expostulation and
persuasion, and in endeavoring, as I always do, to make the lessons
plain and interesting to my pupil; but Lewie is in one of his perverse
humors, and nothing but decision as unyielding as his own obstinacy,
will conquer him. If you will return to your own room and allow me the
sole management of him, I will remain here to-day till I have subdued
him, if the thing is possible."

"You will not use _severity_, Mr. Malcolm," said the weeping mother.

"Never in the way of corporeal punishment, madam. When I cannot govern a
pupil without having recourse to such means, I will abandon him. But I
must stipulate that untill Lewie submits, and learns that lesson, which
he could easily learn in a few minutes, if he chose, he goes without
food, and remains in the library with me. I am deeply interested in your
son, Mrs. Elwyn; he is a boy of fine talents, and of too many good
qualities of heart, to be allowed to go to destruction. I would save
him if I can, but he must be left to me. I have the hope of yet seeing
him a noble and useful character, but I must do it in my own way."

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