Alderbrook

Front matter

ALDE 11 BROOK:

A COILECTION OF

FANNY FORESTER'S

Preface To The Revised Edition

To Messrs. Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. : —

Dear Sirs: — The copy of Alderbrook which you were so kind as to forward, reached us some weeks since ; and really it came to me, in the midst of my new associations, like a spectre from the world of the antediluvians. It seemed scarcely possible, as I turned over leaf after leaf, that I could ever have been conversant with such scenes — scenes in which not only the human face, btt everything, down to the little bird and flower, were so utterly unlike those, which are here daily becoming more and more familiar. It is astonishing how many years may be lived in one.

I send you a list of corrections for a new edition. The poem entitled " The Weaver," I re-wrote soon after leaving Boston ; — please admit the emendations.

Of the various articles which the book contains, I am the least satisfied with " Ida Ravelin ;" because it verges too closely on a class of writings just now somewhat mischievously fashionable in America. Beside, it is the only article written without "aim or object;" and, I think, the only one which has no foundation in reality. One of the last things whichi wrote before leaving America, was the " Angel's Pilgrimage ;" and, as it properly belongs to this collection, I should like to see it substituted for " Ida Ravelin."*

Accompanying this, you will receive several articles wiich should have been in the poetical list of the first edition. One of the pieces formerly appeared in the Knickerbocker Magazine ; two or three in other periodicals, and some have never been published at all.

While I have been telling you these things, and especially while copying the old poems, memory has been practising some very pleasing illusions ; so that I seemed to be revisiting my old haunts. But now I am at home again — talking across the ocean to a world which begins already to gather shadows about it ; and I must once more repeal the adieu to Alderbrook — a final farewell. E. C. J.

Maulmain, Dec, 1847.

• *We have taken the liberty to retain the story here referred to, as the objection brought against it by the author is more than balanced by the graceful beauty of style and admirable spirit in which it is written. The piece intended by Mrs. Judson as a tubstitute, is now printed as additional matter to volume second.

OF THE FIRST VOLUME

CLINGIN& TO Earth, 73

Aspiring to Heaven, 74

Underbill Cottage, 75

OtJR May, 116

The Weaver, 128

Where are the Dead? 185

To my Sister in Heaven, 234

Edith Ray, 248

Robert Flemming, or " What that Boy did come to at last," 253

To my Mother, 275

April, 277

A Wish, 278

To an Intant, 278

The Old Man— a Fact, 279

Grandfather, 281

The Dying Exile, 284

1#

ALDERBROOK.

GRACE LINDEN.

FOUR AGES IN THE LIFE OF AN AMERICAN WOMAN.

Chapter I. Eight

" This will be quite pleasant, after all, mother — quite pleasant. This nice little room is just the place for me. We will train a vine over the window, and my books shall be upon the table close by — "

" We shall need the table noAV, my daughter. Your father thinks we can take two boarders, though for my part 1 see no place lo put them," and the mother cast an anxious, troubled glance about the apartment.

" Two boarders ! It -will come hard upon you, mother."

" Oh no, dear, no ! Not so hard, Abby, as upon the poor children. I cannot bear the idea of their being shut up the livelong day — stifled for the want of pure air — work, work, working every moment, till their little limbs are ready to drop oflf with pain. It is horrible to me, Abby ! "

The poor woman, as she spoke, shuddered at the sad picture which needed not the coloring of a mother's imagination. For a moment the pale lips of the girl trembled, and a tear quivered in her eye ; but, with a strong effort she suppressed the emotion, and replied cheerfully. It was certainly, (so said the sympathizing Abby,) a hard thing for the poor children to be shut away from the sunshine ; but she was sure the labor would be light ; Mr. Russel promised that ; and if it was found in any way injurious to health, or even spirits, a change of some kind must of course be made. " It is only a trial, dear mother," she added, smiling.

"My life has been all trials," was the desponding reply, and the mother might have added, that she knew one awaited her harder to bear than all the 'others.

The life of Mis. Linden had, indeed, been one of severe trials ; of sufferings and sorrows untold, and scarce imagined by her delicately nurtured country-women ; for, thanks to the chivalrous spirit of America, her Avomen are her jewels. But in the midst of all her trials, Mrs. Linden had never till now despaired. Now want, absolute want, stared her in the face. She had, as she believed, immolated her children ; and a dark unhoping midnight had settled upon her prospects and theirs.

The changes of fortune, common in America, would scarcely be credited by a dweller in the old world. There, men must necessarily be, in a great degree, what they are born and what their fathers were ; but here, each individual takes his destiny in his own hands, and no human power, no law of conventionalism, often still more oppressive, interferes with what he wills. It rests v.dth himself and the great Governor whether he sit down with the honorable of the land, or droop in an almshouse, or crouch, and grovel, and coil himself in a kennel.

Mr. Linden had spent his youth in the city of Boston, where, on the death of his father, he became sole proprietor of an extensive mercantile establishment. When in the full tide of prosperity he married the daughter of an ex-governor of his native state. Soon, however, the fabric of his fortune began to crumble. It was like the melting of a snow toy in the spring, gradually and imperceptibly wasting away until all was gone. This change of fortune could be attributed neither to extravagance nor vice. It was simply miscalculation, mismanagement ; a lack of energy and perseverance, joined with a low estimate of the worth of money, save at the moment when it was needed. Men said, Mr. Linden had no

GRACE LINDEN. y

hisiness talent. He struggled a while, but quite ineffectually, and then he gave up all and removed to anoljier state. In the interior of New York, another effort was made, but it was only to live ; and so year after year, year after year rolled on, and found them struggling still.

The father of Mrs. Linden commenced life as a New England farmer. Without well considering the disastrous consequences to his pecuniary affairs, (for the people of democratic America are quite too wise to support the honors they deign to confer,) he accepted several offices of trust, and for one term presided as the governor of his native state. This was the death-blow to his laudable ambition; for, finding his purse drained, his land, and even the house in which he was bom, mortgaged, he declined a second nomination. His family consisted entirely of daughters ; and so, though his exertions enabled him to protect them from want, he was quite unable to afford assistance to those removed from his care.

Abby Linden, the eldest daughter of the immigrants, had a very indistinct recollection of large, airy rooms and elegant furniture ; a moment of terror when her father threw himself upon the sofa and groaned aloud, while her mother wept and conjured him to be comforted, was more strongly impressed upon her memory. After events were spread out on her chart of the past in too deep colors to be forgotten ; for, when sorrow came, the child was made the mother's friend and confidante, and from that moment she had never ceased to sympathize, cheer, and even advise. Abby had labored too. With her little straw bonnet tied closely under her chin, and her basket on Jier arm, she had for years gone every I morning to the lov/, uncomfortable district school-house, and won over the rebellious spirits there to obey her. And then, when night came, she would walk two weary miles ; not loii tering under the solemn old forest trees, where it would have [ been her delight to linger ; but hurrying onward to perform I another task with her needle, and again another over her i books, before she retired for the night. But things were i changed now, and the darling, idolized eldest daughter, the

10 GRACE LrNDEIN.

companion, the friend, the all that a mother's heart could desire to love and rest upon, was gradually but surely going do^vn to tlie dead. Her bright sparkling eye, her hollow burning cheek, her faltering footsteps, her frail figure, slightly bended, and her thin transparent hand, all told a tale tliat filled a mother's bosom with anguish. Till now, what with the eldest daughter's little salary and the proceeds of the mother's ever busy needle, despite the father's small bargains, by which he was sure to lose more than he had been able to gain for weeks before, the family had contrived to live in comparative comfort. But now that poor Abby was confined within doors, she could only advise and cheer. The other children were yet too young to be useful. Francis, a bright boy of twelve, and " the little girls," two fair, slender creatures of eight and six years, were all that the grave had left. Small debts accumulated, and finally credit was refused. What could be done ? Poor Abby revolved the subject in her mind night and day, and finally she ventured to propose a last resource. She told her mother that factory labor was respectable in America ; indeed none but respectable people could gain employment in these establishments — there was light work in them expressly for children — Frank and Grace were old enough to be employed, and Lizzy might be sent to school. For her part, the doctor had spoken very encouragingly of her case, and while the warm weather continued she might make herself very useful. She would teach Frank and Grace WTiting and arithmetic, and see tliat the childi-en's clothes were in order, and possibly she might be able to do a little extra sewing herself. All this had cost poor Abby long nights of weeping ; for she had looked on a side of the picture that she did not attempt to describe ; but now the proposition was made so cheerfully and confidently, that it received but slight opposition. Indeed, the father, from constant discouragement, had grown almost indifferent ; he was sure that fate had nothing worse in store for tliem ; and the mother had been too much accustomed to rely upon the daughter's judgment, to take a fair survey of the subject until it was too late. But when

GRACE LLNDKN.

she looked on the long narrow building, with its dingy walls, and doors which received their ebony blackness from the soiled fingers of the laborers, and thought of her tender children being immured there all through the pleasant summer days she had well nigh preferred beggary — beggary in the open air, the fresh green fields, beneath the broad laughing heavens — to this life-crushing imprisonment. As for Frank, he whispered mysteriously in his little sister's ear of running away ; hinted that his mother was a very cruel woman to shut them up so ; pouted over his fishing-rod ; examined the edge of the little axe so well accommodated to the strength of his arm that he had been able to use it for several years ; and then boasted of the mighty exploits he would perform when once free from his mother's control. But Grace had a heart all sunshine. She was a genuine honey-gatherer, and she made all about her sip of the same flowers with herself. There certainly was, she OAvned, a something very prison-like about the old factory, " but then tliink of the ten shillings a week, Frank I " she would add, triumphantly.

" Two dollars, you mean, Grace."

" Yes, you can earn two dollars, and so will I before long. Oh, it is so nice to be earning something for mother and poor sister Abby. Don't you think so, Frank ? "

But the first morning that Grace looked into the dark, dirty factor)'-, with its strange machinery, making noises that frightened and almost distracted her ; its greasy blackened walls and disagreeable smells, the sunshine of her heart was well-nigh overshadowed. She clung close to her father's hand, avoiding as much as was in her power a nearer approach to the machinery, and looking askance at every pillar, as if she doubted whether anything in that strange place could remain stationary. Grace trembled more and grew still paler as she looked upon the faces of the • laborers. So many strangers she had never seen together before, and their faces, all begrimmed with dye from off the wool, presented features anything but attractive. As she turned away and chmg closely to her father's arm, a boy darted before her, grinning and

CJKACE LLNDEN.

throwing himself into various attitudes, evidently on purpose to alarm her.

Oh, that long deep breath as she once more stepped fonli into the free air ! How it relieved her ! And then how licr little bosom swelled, as she thought of days, and weeks and mouths, perhaps years in that same place ! She looked up into her father's face as if for a word of encouragement, of hope, but it was darkened with gloom. Grace was frightened, and trembled more than ever. The noise of the machinery — the grating, crashing, thundering, were still in her cars. Again she saAV those besmeared faces staring at her, and saw the sickly, yellow light struggling through windows dim with blackness, and oil and filth, and flaunting \vith the long wreath-like cob-webs, hung with black wool dust, accumulated from that which constantly filled the air, she would soon be compelled to breathe, from early morning to the setting of the sun. That first sight of her neAV abode had cast a spell upon her young, gay spirit ; it had scared away its joyousness ; and little Grace Linden, finding the bird-like melody of her soul hushed in gloom, might become prematurely old, careworn before her time. Now, she hurried away from her father before any one had seen her ; and, crouched in an obscure corner of the unceiled chamber, with her apron thronm over her head, and her face resting on her knees, she sobbed and sobbed, until her little strength yielded to her first overpowering grief, and she found rest in sleep.

A few days found Grace Linden all ready for her labor ; a neat cap, fitted by Abby's careful fingers, confining the bright curls that had been accustomed to Avander freely about her shoulders, and a bro-\vn linen apron, reaching from chin to ankle, enveloping her graceful little figure. The child laughed at the oddity of her own appearance, heavy as her heart felt at the moment ; and Lizzy clapped her little hands and outlaughed hsr sister. Frank, too, joined, half in vexation, half to show that he was not vexed. Abby smiled encouragingly, and crushed with her thin hand a tear that was forcing its way among her long, dark eye-i^shes , and Mrs.

Linden turned to the window and concealed her face among the snowy folds of muslin. As "for the husband and father, he was none the less to be pitied that he had neither tears nor words. He lacked the self-sustaining power that to his wife and daughter had been the gift of adversity. With a full share of intellectuality, morbidly sensitive, yet fully conscious of his deficiency in all the attributes that make up the character, his whole life had been but a continued nightmare dream — a striving to do, while a dead numbness seemed to settle upon every limb and faculty. Now, unless something of importance roused him, he seemed in a continued reverie, utterly regardless of everything passing around him. And this was a moment when the whole past, the present, and the dark, dark future, all together, stared him in the face. He could not bear it j and for a whole week did he shut himself in his room refusing to admit even the gentle Abby to console him. At first, Grace thought her work ver}- easy ; and the ambition consequent upon learning something new, made her foiget to look at the walls that had so much inspired her horror. A long, low table was behind, covered with a cloth, which, by rollers at each end, was kept creeping slowly onward ^\^th its light layer of vrooUen rolls. These, Grace was to take up by handfuls and fasten, one by one, ta the ends of those extending douTi an inclined plane before her, covered in the same manner with a moveable cloth. These rolls, in their turn, were fastened to spindles behind the plane, and a man, with a low forehead, smaU peering eyes, and a bushy beard quite innocent of clipping, turned a crank, at the same lime walking backward, until the wool was drawn out into a thick thread, afterwards to be spun into a finer one. Grace had no opportunity'- to falter in her task ; for the man kept up his steady monotonous tramp, tramp, tramp — turn, turn, turn, until her little head grew giddy, and she found a moment's pause to mend a broken thread, an inconceivable relief. The boy, too, whose grimaces had so frightened her on the day of her first visit, was close beside her, supplying the carding ma chine \vith wool ; and he seemed inclined to take advantage 0/ 2 her timidity, thrusting his hideous face, marked as it was with black, before her at every opportunity.

Oh, how her heart leaped when the heavy strokes of the dinner-bell sounded from the belfry, and all the machinery stopped in an instant ! And how bewildered she seemed at the strange silence, till some half dozen persons about her burst into a loud fit of laughter ! Then Frank came and took her by the hand, and they hurried home together, so delighted with the moment's respite that Mrs. Linden was delighted too, and thought the poor children might be happy after all. But the afternoon — oh, how long it was ! Grace thought it would never end. Her little fingers, from constant rubbing their backs upon the rolls to fasten them together, began to bleed ; her head felt like bursting, for it seemed as though the machinery was constantly grating against her brain ; and her feet ached till she thought the bones had certainly perforated the flesh. That night, poor Abby kissed and carefully bound up the wounded fingers, and took the little feet soothingly between her hands, and talked of brighter days, and sung with her faint, soft voice, little hymns, until, ill able as she was to bear the weight, the child nestled in her bosom, and slept as only those who love and labor can.

Week after week passed by, and though Jittle Grace Linden's feet ached less, her heart ached more. Dick Grouse, tlie malicious machine-tender, became an object of absolute terror to her ; it seemed his delight to torment her by every means in his power ; and though the man turning the crank often defended her, it did not lessen her fears. She trembled when he looked at her during the day, and at night dreamed that he was an evil spirit dragging her away from her mother and Abby, to a place of horrible darkness. The trees budded and leaved; flowers bloomed and faded, leaving their places to brighter flowers still ; the brooks frolicked and jostled their tmy drops together ; and the birds answered back from ten thousand fresh green coverts with startling bursts of gladsomeness. All this passed, and Grace Linden, the darling little woodland fairy, that might have claimed the flowers as sisters, and the birds as chatty friends and playmates, scarce looked upon the laughing- sunlight. True, on a Saturday afternoon, she was free two hours before sunset ; free as the winds of heaven and almost as wild. She laughed, and sang, and shouted, and laughed again, to catch the ringing echo of her own voice, as its music was caught up and prolonged by the bold bluff just over the river. Then she would fling herself upon the turf, and nestle close to the ground to smell its freshness ; and at last, when the hour for returning homeward could be no longer delayed, she would load her little arms with all that was green, and beautiful, and fraught with life, because sister Abby, too, loved the things of summer. But Grace grew pale and thoughtful. A sensation of heaviness, as though neither mind nor body had strength to support its o^vn weight, crept over her. She was sad, as though some great sorrow had passed above her and left an immoveable shadow. August came, with its warm, sultry days, and brought no relief. It had now become a habit with Grace to droop her eyelids heavily upon her wan cheek, as though she would thus shut away the pain from her temples ; and whenever her hand was at liberty, to press it against her side. Poor Grace !

One morning, as little Grace Linden happenea to glance upward from her work, she observed a fine, spirited boy of some fourteen summers watching her languid motions with an air of interest. He went away on being observed ; but his tour through the -cleaner and pleasanter rooms above, was soon made, and he returned to the carding-room. He looked around and whistled a little, and approached the quarter where Grace stood, by studied evolutions. But once there, he could not well be accused of that most unboyish of all traits, bashfulness.

" I say, Sliggins," he called out, authoritatively, " why don't you stop that tramp and let this little girl have a minute's rest ? " The man at the crank gave a knowing wink with the left eye, and jogged on as before, while Grace cast a look of wonder, not unmixed with gratitude on the daring intruder.

That look was quite enough for the boy, for, without waiting a farther consultation, he marched direct to the carding-machine and threw the band from the wheel.

" There, Sliggins ! Look'ee, Mr. Machine-tender, you will be glad of a rest, I dare say, so snuggle down on the wool, and mind you sleep fast, my boy." Dick Grouse leered at Grace over his shoulder, and drawing near, whispered something that made her utter a suppressed scream of terror; then, dancing for a moment with malicious satisfaction, and rubbing his hands gleefully, he betook himself to a pile of wool.

" Rest ! Oh, yes, Master Hal, rest never comes amiss to factory folks ; but your father moughn't like it quite so well," said Sliggins, good-naturedly, at the same time seating himself on a roll of satinet and resting both elbows on his knees. ' Without paying any attention to this answer, Henry Russel busied himself with arranging a comfortable seat for Grace ; who, without knowing whether to be grateful or not for a display of power characteristic of the boy, even though for her benefit, mechanically availed herself of his officiousness.

" Is your name Grace ? " inquired the boy, " is that what Sliggins called you ? "

" Yes."

" Grace — Grace — Gracey ! that 's it I that 's a pretty nickname ! I like nick-names, don't you ? "

Grace was not quite sure, for she had always thought nick-names were something bad ; but she was certain that Gracey was not bad; and then she thought of Abby, and Frank, and Lizzy, and she said " Yes," again.

" Then you must call me Harry, or Hal, or Hank — though I think Harry a little the prettiest for a girl to speak, don't you ? "

Again Grace said " Yes."

" "Well, I shall be here all the vacation — six weeks; and I '11 come do\vn e ery day and stop the machine, and make Sliggins give you a rest. Would n't you like that, Gracey ? "

Grace felt like saying yes, again, and blessing this wonderous magician with all her heart ; but she remarked, instead, "Mr. Sliggins said your father wouldn't like it."

" Poh ! he likes everything that I do — for, you see, I don't come home but once a year, and then it would n't become him to be cross to me."

Grace thought it would n't become anybody to be cross to such a good-natured boy ; and, as this thought was comhig up from her heart, (the source of little girls' thoughts,) sh? could not avoid a glance towards the quarter where the two eyes of Dick Grouse were peering out from the wool — and then she shuddered and involuntarily drew near her new friend. Harry had followed the direction of her eyes, and remarked the shudder.

" I don't think that 's a very good boy, Gracey ? "

Grace made no answer, but she stole another glance at the wool-pile.

" Halloo there, fellow ! " shouted Harry, " turn your big starers the other way, if you can't shut them."

" Oh don't, don't ! " whispered Grace, seizing his ^vrist in alarm. " He 's a dreadful boy, HaiTy, and I don't know what he would do if you should make him angry ! "

Harry only laughed and shouted still louder, " Do you hear, Blackey ? "

Dick dropped his head, and Grace, evidently relieved, interposed : " He can't help getting black in this dirty place ; but if he would n't mark that black ring around his eyes, and make up such awful faces, and tell me such horrible stories, too."

" He 's a bad boy, Gracey, I know he is, and I '11 tell father all about it — he will make him walk straight. Father will employ nobody that is not good ; for he says that would make factories in this country almost as bad as they are in England. He shall hear all about this mean Dick Grouse ; and then, if the fellow don't look out, he will have to clear. To think of his being hateful to you, and you so nice and good ! "

"Oh, no! he don't do anything to me — anything much, 2*

I mean. Mr. Sliggins \\dll not let him strike me any more, and he says he shall not pinch me and pull my hair, but Dick does that so slily that nobody finds him out."

" Why don't you tell ? "

" It scared me dreadfully to see him and Blr. Sliggins quarrel, and it makes Dick tell me worse stories when nobody hears him. Oh ! I would rather have him pinch me — ten times rather, than hear those terrible things ! they make me dream so badly. I wish you tended tlie machine, Harry — I don't mean I \A-ish you were poor and had to do it, but it would be verj' nice to have some one here that was kind and good-natured all the time."

Harry thought it would be very nice, too, and almost wished that his father would let him leave school for the purpose, Grace, however, assured him that she would rather have the company of bad Dick Grouse, than that he should do such a thing. To this, Harrj- responded verj' generously ; and so a half hour passed in just the most agreeable and childish chat in the world. At tlie end of this time, Harr)' started up wdth a loud " hurrah ! " threw the belt upon the wheel of the machine ; buried Dick Grouse in the wool ; gave the roll of cloth a push, which made Sliggins turn a quite unintentional somerset; and then, with a hearty laugh, in Avhich Grace joined quite as heartily, and Sliggins uproariously, took an abrupt departure.

The next morning, true to his promise, Harrj^ Russel was at the factor}^ ; but he told Grace that his father was not quite pleased with his stopping the machine, and so he would do a better thing than that. She should teach him to splice the roUs, and he would help her all day. " But why do you work in the factory ? " he inquired, looking into her face very earnestly. "If it were not for that ugly cap and this queer apron you would be ver}^ pretty."

Grace thought *he cap that sister Abby made could n't be ugly, and she said so. Harry admitted that it looked well enough ; but he had had a glimpse of the curls peeping out at tlxe side, and they looked much better.

*' But why," he continued, pertinaciously, " why do you work in the factor}', Gracey ? To be sure I think it is about as good as moping in the corner, the way most girls do ; but don't you like running in the fields and hunting birds' nests, and would a'l you like to see me fish, Gracey ? "