Evenings at Donaldson Manor

M >> Maria J. McIntosh >> Evenings at Donaldson Manor

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"It is now nearly nineteen years," began Mr. Grahame, when his daughter
and guest had resumed their seats near him, "since, crushed in spirit, I
turned from the grave in which I had laid my chief earthly blessing, to
wander 'any where, any where out of that world' which had a few weeks
before been bright and joyous to me, but which I was now ready to
pronounce a desolate waste. The desire to avoid society made me turn
westward, and nearly one hundred miles east of our present residence I
found myself in the midst of a people without churches, without schools,
rude in appearance and in manners. Absorbed in the destruction of my own
selfish happiness, I might have passed from among them without knowing
that disease was adding its pangs to those inflicted by want, ignorance,
and superstition, had not a mother in the agony of parting from her
first-born, looking hither and thither for help, turned her eyes
entreatingly upon the stranger. I had once studied medicine, though
regarding the profession, as our young men too often do, merely as a
means of personal aggrandizement, and having received just at the
completion of my studies an accession of fortune, which removed all
pecuniary necessity to exertion on my part, I had never practised it,
nor indeed obtained the diploma necessary to its practice. Now, however,
I endeavored to make myself master of the peculiar features of the
epidemic under which the child was suffering, and with the aid of a
small store of medicines which my good sister had insisted on my taking
with me, and a rigid enforcement of some of the simplest rules of diet
and regimen, I had the happiness of seeing the child in a few days out
of danger, and of receiving the mother's rapturous thanks. That moment,
gave me the first gleam of happiness I had known for months, and
disposed me to listen to the entreaties of the poor creatures who came
from far and near to entreat the aid of the Doctor, as they persisted in
calling me, notwithstanding my repeated assurances that I had no right
to the title. I spent weeks in that neighborhood, and there I was born
to a new life. Till that time I had lived to myself, and when that in
which I had centered my earthly joy was snatched from me by death, I had
felt that life had nothing left for me; but now I saw that while there
were sentient beings in the universe to serve, and a glorious and ever
blessed Father presiding over that universe and smiling on such service,
life could not be divested of joy. Under the influence of such views my
plans for the future were formed, nor have I ever seen reason to change
or to regret them. Every where the Christian religion teaches the same
precepts, but not every where is it equally easy to see the way in which
those precepts may be obeyed; every where it is true, as a distinguished
writer of your own land has said, 'Blessed is the man who has found his
work--let him seek no other blessedness;' but not every where is it
equally easy to see where our work lies. Here, in America, the
partition-walls which stand elsewhere as a remnant of the old feudalism,
have been broken down; every man is irresistibly pressed into contact
with his neighbors--he cannot shut his eyes to their wants--he cannot
stop his ears against their cries. In America, too, every man, as I have
already said, must be a worker--or, if he live an idler, it must be on
that which his father gained by the sweat of his brow, and he leaves his
children to enslaving toil, or more enslaving dependence. Here the man
of pleasure, the idler of either sex, is a foreign exotic which finds no
nourishment in our soil, no shelter from our institutions--which is out
of harmony with our social life, and must ever be marked by the innate
vulgarity of unsustained pretension. Therefore it is comparatively easy
for us to hold out the hand of love to our brethren, sinking and
suffering at our very side, and to teach them that there is no natural
inalienable connection between labor and coarseness, ignorance and
servility; that man, though compelled to win his bread by the sweat of
his brow, may still enjoy all those graceful amenities of which woman
was the type in Paradise and is the promoter here; that the light of
knowledge and the divine light of faith may still cheer him in his
pursuits and guide him to his rest. It seems to me that to bring out
these principles fairly to the world's perception, is the mission to
which America has been especially appointed--is that for which Americans
should live; and to this I have accordingly devoted myself. For this I
purchased my present property--for this I determined, while allowing
myself and my daughter all the comforts of life, to dispense with many
of those luxuries to which my fortune might have seemed to entitle us,
lest I should separate myself too far from those I would aid. Here I
have spent seventeen years of life, happy in my work, and happier in the
conviction that it has not been in vain."

As Mr. Grahame paused, Horace Danforth turned to Mary Grahame. Her eyes
were fixed upon him. They seemed to challenge his admiration for her
father, in whose hand her own was clasped, as though she would thus
intimate the perfect accordance of her feelings with his.

"And this, then," he said to her, "is your object?"

"It is."

"An object to which you were devoted by your father in your infancy?"

"And which I have since adopted on my own intelligent conviction," said
Mary, earnestly, losing all timidity in a glow of that generous
enthusiasm which sits so gracefully on a gentle woman.

There was silence in the little circle--silence with all; with one,
thought was rapidly passing down the long vista of the past, and
pointing the awakened mind to the fact that elsewhere than in America
was there ignorance to be enlightened and want to be relieved--that not
here only did Christianity teach that man should live not unto himself
alone, and that he should love his neighbor as himself.

The thoughts and feelings aroused on that evening colored the whole
future destiny of Horace Danforth. Ere another day had passed, he had
confided to his host so much of his history as proved him to be an
aimless and almost unconnected wanderer on the earth, with a prospect
of a fortune which, unequal to the demands of a man of fashion in
England, would give to a _worker_ in America great influence for good or
for evil--as the personal property of Sir Thomas Maitland could not, as
Horace Danforth was well aware, be valued at less than 50,000 dollars.
With that rapid decision which had ever marked his movements, the young
Englishman determined to purchase land in the neighborhood of Mr.
Grahame, there to rear his future hope, and to devote his life to the
like noble purposes. The land was purchased, the site for the house was
selected and marked out--but the house was never built--for ere that had
been accomplished Horace Danforth discovered that the companionship of a
cultivated woman was essential to his views of "Life in America," and
that Mary Grahame was exactly the embodiment of that youthful vision
which he had sought in vain elsewhere; for she united the delicacy and
refined grace, with the intelligent mind, the active affections and
energetic will, which were necessary at once to please his fancy and
satisfy his heart Mary Grahame could not consent to leave her father to
a lonely home, but yet she could not deny that it would be a sad home to
her if deprived of the society of him whose intelligent and varied
converse and manly tenderness had lately formed the chief charm of her
existence. There was only one way of reconciling these conflicting
claims. Horace Danforth must live with Mr. Grahame; and so he did,
having first obtained that gentleman's permission to enlarge his house,
and to furnish it with some of those inventions by which art has so
greatly lightened domestic occupation, and which had been made familiar
to him by his life abroad.

Six months had been spent in this abode--six months of an existence of
joy and love, untroubled as it could be to those who were yet dwellers
upon earth--six months in which the fastidious and world-wearied man
learned the secret of true peace in a life devoted to useful and
benevolent objects--when a most unexpected visitor arrived in the person
of Sir Edward Maitland--no, not Sir Edward. He came to announce that to
this title he had no right. That he had remained himself, and suffered
his cousin to remain so long in ignorance on this point, had been the
result of no want of effort to arrive at the truth, still less of any
lingering love of the honors forced upon him. He had never assumed the
title, nor suffered the secret of his supposed change of circumstances
to be known beyond himself and the lawyer to whom his cousin Horace had
revealed it. This lawyer, it may be remembered, had lately succeeded in
the care of the Maitland estate to an uncle, who had been compelled by
the infirmities of advancing age to retire from business. The old man
was absent from England when Horace Danforth left it, and it was not
till his return that full satisfaction on the subject had been obtained,
as it was judged unwise by Mr. Decker to awaken public attention by
investigations which his uncle's return would probably render
unnecessary. When he did return, and the subject was cautiously unfolded
to him, he spent many minutes in _pishing_ and _pshawing_ at the folly
and impetuosity of young Baronets, who, knowing nothing of the tenure on
which they hold their estates, cannot at least wait till they consult
wiser people before they throw them away. The entail of nearly two
centuries ago had, it seems, been set aside in little more than one, by
an improvident father and son, who had in fact greatly diminished the
very fine property so entailed, though most of it had been since
recovered by the care of their successors. The intelligence thus
conveyed to him who was now once more Sir Horace Danforth Maitland, was
of mingled sweet and bitter. He could not be insensible to the joy of
returning to the home of his childhood and the people among whom he had
grown to manhood, yet neither could he leave, without tender regrets,
that in which he had first learned to love, and to live a true, a
noble, and a happy life.

When Mary was first saluted as Lady Maitland by Edward, she turned a
glance of inquiry upon her husband, and then upon her father, for both
were present by previous arrangement; and as she read a confirmation of
the fact in their smiling faces, the color faded from hers, and after a
moment's vain effort to contend against her painful emotion, she burst
into tears.

"Your father has promised to spend his life with us, dearest," said Sir
Horace Maitland, as he threw his arm around her and drew her to his
side.

"But this dear home," sobbed Mary; "this people, for whom and with whom
we have lived so happily."

"All that made this home dear, my daughter, you will take with you to
another home."

"And there, too," interposed Sir Horace, "my Mary will find a people to
enlighten and to bless, over whom her influence will be unbounded, and
to whom she will prove an angel of consolation."

"And can you carry your American life to your English home?" she asked
of her husband, smiling through her tears.

"As much of it as is independent of outward circumstances, Mary--its
spirit, its aims; for they belong to a Christian life, and that I hope,
by God's blessing, to live henceforth, wherever I may be."

"And what will become of all our projected improvements here?" she
inquired of her father.

"I shall not leave this place myself, Mary, till I can find some one
like-minded, who will take our place and do our work. To such a man I
will sell the property on such terms as he can afford, or if he cannot
buy, he shall farm it for me."

This last was the arrangement made with one whom Mr. Grahame had known
in early life, and who had always been distinguished by true Christian
uprightness and benevolence The terms offered by Mr. Grahame to this
gentleman were such, that the conscientious and excellent agent became
in a few years the proprietor and under his fostering care, all those
plans for the intellectual and moral improvement of the neighborhood
which had been so happily commenced, were matured and perfected.

It was nearly a year after the departure of his children before Mr.
Grahame was able to join them at Maitland Park. With his arrival Mary
felt that her cup of joy was full. It had been with a trembling heart
that she assumed the brilliant position to which Providence had
conducted her; not that she feared the judgment of man: her fear had
been lest in the midst of abundance she should forget the hand that fed
her--lest amidst the fascinations of an intellectual and polished
society, she should forget the thick darkness which covered so many
immortal minds around her. But already she had cast aside this unworthy
fear, unworthy of Him in whom is the Christian's strength.

The early dream of the Proprietor of Maitland Park is fulfilled. The
softening and refining presence of woman diffuses a new charm over its
social life, and while his Mary is to his tenantry what he himself
predicted, an angel of consolation, she is to him a faithful co-worker
in all that may advance the reign of peace and righteousness, of
intelligence and joy, throughout the world.

CHAPTER VII.

A Sabbath in the country, with a Sabbath quiet in the air, and a
cheerful sunlight beaming like the smile of Heaven on the earth--how
beautiful it is! Donaldson Manor is only a short walk from the church
whose white spire gleams up amidst the dark grove of pines on our left;
at least, it is only a short walk in summer, when we can approach it
through the flowery lanes which separate Col. Donaldson's fields from
those of his next neighbor, Mr. Manly. Now, however, the walk is
impracticable, and all the sleighs were yesterday morning in
requisition, to transport the family and their visitors to their place
of worship. I was a little afraid that the merry music of the
sleigh-bells and the rapid drive through the clear air might make our
young people's blood dance too briskly--that they would be unable to
preserve that sobriety of manner becoming those who are about
professedly to engage in the worship of Him who inhabiteth Eternity. I
was gratified, however, to perceive that they all had good feeling or
good taste enough to preserve, throughout their drive and the services
which followed it, a quiet and reverent demeanor. It may seem strange to
some, that I should characterize this as a possible effect of "good
taste;" but in my opinion, he who does not pay the tribute at least of
outward respect to this holy day, is incapable not only of that high,
spiritual communion which brings man near to his Creator, but of that
tender sympathy which binds him to his fellow-creatures, or even of
that poetic taste which would place his soul in harmony with external
nature. Let it not be thought that I would have this day of blessing to
the world regarded with a cynical severity, or that the quietness and
the reverence of which I speak are at all akin to sadness. Were not
cheerfulness, in my opinion, a part of godliness, I should say of it as
some one has said of cleanliness, that it is next to godliness. Like my
favorite, Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning,

"I think we are too ready with complaint
In this fair world of God's;"

and like her, I would utter to all the exhortation,

"Let us leave the shame and sin
Of taking vainly, in a plaintive mood,
The holy name of Grief!--holy herein,
That, by the grief of One, came all our good."

But cheerfulness, so far from being incompatible with, seems to me
inseparable from that true worship which is the best source of the
Sabbath seriousness I am advocating.

The remarks of the preacher were quite in unison with these thoughts,
and pleased me so much that, were it admissible, I should be delighted
to dignify my pages with them. By a few vivid touches, in language
simple, yet beautiful, he sketched for us the first Sabbath amidst the
living springs and fadeless bloom and verdant shades of Paradise, when
sinless man communed with his Maker and his Father, not through the poor
symbols of a ceremonial worship, but face to face, as a man talketh with
his friend. But all I would say of the Sabbath has been said a thousand
times better than I could say it, by good George Herbert, whose words I
am sure I need not apologize for introducing here.

SUNDAY.

O day most calm, most bright!
The fruit of this, the next world's bud;
Th' indorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a Friend, and with His blood;
The couch of time; care's balm and bay:--
The week were dark, but for thy light;
Thy torch doth show the way.

The other days and thou
Make up one man; whose face _thou_ art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow;
The worky days are the back-part;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.

Man hath straight forward gone
To endless death. But thou dost pull
And turn us round, to look on One,
Whom, if we were not very dull,
We could not choose but look on still;
Since there is no place so alone,
The which He doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are
On which heaven's palace arched lies:
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities.
They are the fruitful bed and borders,
In God's rich garden; that is bare,
Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal, glorious King.
On Sunday, heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife!
More plentiful than hope.

This day my Saviour rose,
And did inclose this light for His:
That, as each beast his manger knows,
Man might not of his fodder miss.
Christ hath took in this piece of ground,
And made a garden there, for those
Who want herbs for their wound.

The Rest of our creation,
Our great Redeemer did remove,
With the same shake which, at his passion,
Did th' earth, and all things with it, move.
As Samson bore the doors away,
Christ's hand's, though nailed, wrought our salvation,
And did unhinge that day.

The brightness of that day
We sullied, by our foul offence;
Wherefore that robe we cast away,
Having a new at His expense,
Whose drops of blood paid the full price
That was required, to make us gay,
And fit for paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth:
And, where the week-days trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth.
Oh, let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from seven to seven;
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,
Fly hand in hand to Heaven!

It is the custom at Donaldson Manor to close the Sabbath evening with
sacred music. Annie, at her father's request, played while we all sang
his favorite evening hymn, which I here transcribe.

EVENING HYMN.

Father! by Thy love and power,
Comes again the evening hour;
Light hath vanish'd, labors cease,
Weary creatures rest, in peace.
Those, whose genial dews distil
On the lowliest weed that grows
Father! guard our couch from ill,
Lull thy creatures to repose.
We to Thee ourselves resign,
Let our latest thoughts be Thine.

Saviour! to thy Father bear
This our feeble evening prayer;
Thou hast seen how oft to-day
We, like sheep, have gone astray;
Worldly thoughts and thoughts of pride,
Wishes to Thy cross untrue,
Secret faults and undescried
Meet Thy spirit-piercing view.
Blessed Saviour! yet, through Thee,
Pray that these may pardon'd be.

Holy Spirit! Breath of Balm!
Breathe on us in evening's calm.
Yet awhile before we sleep,
We with Thee will vigils keep.
Lead us on our sins to muse,
Give us truest penitence,
Then the love of God infuse,
Kindling humblest confidence.
Melt our spirits, mould our will,
Soften, strengthen, comfort, still.

Blessed Trinity! be near
Through the hours of darkness drear.
When the help of man is far
Ye more clearly present are.
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!
Watch o'er our defenceless heads,
Let your angels' guardian host
Keep all evil from our beds,
Till the flood of morning rays
Wake as to a song of praise.[1]

CHAPTER VIII.

Mr. Arlington is a gem of the first water. He reveals every day some new
trait of interest or agreeableness. I saw immediately that he was a man
of fine taste; I have since learned to respect him as a man of enlarged
intellect and earnest feeling; and now I am just beginning to discover
that he is master of all those _agremens_ which constitute the charm of
general society, and that he might become the "glass of fashion," if he
had not a mind elevated too far above such a petty ambition. This last
observation has been called forth by mere trifles, yet trifles so
prettily shown, with such ease and grace, as to justify the conclusion.
He is apt at illustration and application, and has a fine memory, stored
brimfull of entertaining anecdotes, snatches of poetry, and those
thousand nothings which tell for so much in society, and which it is so
pleasant to find combined with much else that is valuable. A few
evenings since, he kept Annie and me in the library, with his agreeable
chat, till so late an hour, that Col. Donaldson, who is the least bit of
a martinet in his own family, gave some very intelligible hints to us
the next morning, at breakfast, on the value of early hours. With a
readiness and grace which I never saw surpassed, Mr. Arlington turned to
us with the exquisite apology of the poet for a like fault,

"I stay'd too late; forgive the crime;
Unheeded flew the hours.
Unnoted falls the foot of time,
Which only treads on flowers."

This evening again, as he placed a candle-screen before Annie, who,
having a headache, found the light oppressive, he said with a graceful
mixture of play and earnest, impossible to describe,

"Ah, lady! if that taper's blaze
Requires a screen to blunt its rays,
What screen, not form'd by art divine,
Shall shield us from those orbs of thine?

"But oh! let nothing intervene
Our hearts and those bright suns between;
'Tis bliss, like the bewilder'd fly
To flutter round, though sure to die."

As the others were engaged in very earnest conversation at the time, and
I was reading, he probably expected to be heard only by her to whom he
addressed himself; but a little romance, such as that of Annie and Mr.
Arlington, acted before me, interests me far more than any book, and I
brought a bright blush to Annie's cheek and a conscious smile to his
lip, by asking, "Where did you find those very apposite lines? I do not
remember to have seen them."

"Probably not, as they have never been published. They were addressed by
Anthony Bleecker, of New-York, to a belle of his day, and the lady for
whose sake, it is whispered, he lived and died a bachelor."

Our colloquy was here interrupted by Robert Dudley, who wanted to know
if we were to have no story this evening. Robert was a great lover of
stories. "Ask Mr. Arlington, Robert," said I, "I have given three
stories to his one already."

"Aunt Nancy," said Mr. Arlington, who had already begun to give me the
affectionate cognomen by which I was always addressed at Donaldson
Manor, "Aunt Nancy has stories without number, written and ready for
demand, but my portfolio furnishes only rude pencilings, or at best a
crayon sketch."

"Will you show them to us, Mr. Arlington?" asked the persevering Robert,
who stood beside him, portfolio in hand. "May I draw one out, as Aunt
Annie did the other evening; and will you tell us about it?"

Mr. Arlington, with good-humored playfulness, consented, and Robert drew
from the portfolio one of his drawings, representing a fisherman's
family.

"That man," said I, as I looked at the honest face of the rude,
weather-beaten fisherman, "looks as though he had passed through
adventurous scenes, and might have many a history to tell."

"He did not tell his histories to me," said Mr. Arlington. "I know
nothing more of them than that paper reveals. It seemed to me that the
woman and child were visiting, for the first time, the ocean, whose
booming sound was to the fisherman as the voice of home. He was probably
introducing them to its wonders--revealing to them the mysteries which
awaken the superstition of the vulgar and the poetry of the cultivated
imagination. He has given her, you may observe, a sea-shell, and she is
listening for the first time to its low, strange music."

"And is that all?" asked Robert, when Mr. Arlington ceased speaking.

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