Orange Grove

Front matter

ORANGE GROVE.

ORANGE GROVE:

— ▲ —

Chapter 1

"And 'mid fair hills where cultivation smiles, The Connecticut, white with sunlit sails, Flows down and up with his unwearying tides."

Flow on gently, noble river, as thou hast done from the beginning, ever faithful keeper of the secrets entrusted to thy bosom! What tales could'st thou not tell us of human joy and human sorrow; of want, wretchedness and we; of tragedies that would chill the heart's warm life-blood at its source; and thank God for the blessed gift, thou could'st tell us also of human love, pure, deep, fervent as that ushered in on the first Christmas morn.

Beside thy still waters have lived and died earth's nameless heroes, saints and sages, pure and humble spirits that have won victories grander than were ever achieved on battle-field; from thy verdant banks the unlettered savage and the civilized Puritan have raised their daily orisons to God; and here also have wrestled in deadly conflict the vengeful ire of the Anglo-Saxon and the vengeful ire of the hunted Indian, as the native child of the forest vainly strove to defend his ancient home from the grasp, of his remorseless, but victorious foe.

But it is not of scenes like these we ask thy records now,—no thrilling tale of heroic deeds, startling adventure or disappointed love. It is the simple record of the human soul in common life, affected by no extraordinary incidents save such as fall to the lot of all.

Now that the age of Puritan bigotry has passed, one may breathe freely while treading the field of romance. Reverently let us judge those stern virtues whence superstition sprung as the natural reaction of the spiritual despotism that sent from the church the children of her own faith, to seek in austerity an antidote to the universal corruption from which they had fled. Shocked by the heartlessness of the forms they had been taught to regard as worship, and still more by the hypocrisy that enthroned itself in church and state as the supreme Head to which all must swear allegiance, they looked upon life as one sublime but awful reality, presenting no middle ground, aiming at one sole, absolute purpose, to escape the terrors of hell by obtaining the blessedness of heaven. For this should prayer and praise be raised, the ritual observed, and good works performed.

Whatever pertained to the pleasures of this life, aside from that one ultimate object, was considered too trivial, if not too sinful, to engage the attention of immortal beings, with such a momentous future before them. What were our earthly sufferings, either physical or mental, magnified to the extent of our imagination, compared to the miseries which one lost soul must endure through ages and ages of eternity, beyond what the imagination can conceive? The rigor with which they sought to enforce this idea fostered the very evils they sought to eradicate.

By separating the æsthetic from the moral and religious, by cultivating one faculty at the expense of another, and setting up their own standard as the infallible test for all, they ranged bigotry and superstition on the one side,—unrestrained vulgarity and licentiousness on the other. In banishing from their houses all fictitious works in order to avoid contamination with, what was low and sensual in them, they could not banish imagination nor repress the magnetism of human nature, which would find expression through such sources as the public patronage permitted. If denied access to the pure and virtuous, it would cater to the prejudices of the thoughtless and profane.

One of the greatest instrumentalities of moral and religious instruction exists under the name of fiction. Its office consists in bringing us to a more intimate acquaintance with human nature, not so much to philosophize upon it as to present it as it is, leaving the reader to draw his own inferences. It reveals the secret springs of human action, upon which, more than upon public deeds and military prowess hangs the fate of nations. By appealing directly to the feelings, the heart is touched when the intellect would never be reached by logic. A truth is often unconsciously imbibed under the gorgeous coloring of the imagination, when it would find no response if presented from the simple stand-point of right and duty. Jesus recognized this principle when he imparted his great lessons in the form of parables, to which the common people listened gladly.

The human soul is merely a repetition of itself in different combinations, under different circumstances. The child of to-day must pass through the same mental, moral and physical discipline to learn the use of his muscles, subdue his passions and train his intellect,—is guided by the same instinct to distinguish right from wrong, as in the days when Cain slew his brother, and sought to conceal his guilt by attempting to deceive his Maker.

In one sense there is no such thing as fiction. Every invention of the imagination has its prototype. Every recorded thought and act has come within the range of some one's experience. There is but one original Architect.

Could we read the inner life of the humblest individual, and compute the results by supplying the many little ifs which are not all the mere play of the imagination, we should have the material for a more wonderful romance than was ever published. Not alone in the dazzling theater of the world, nor in those individual convulsions that rouse every passion and set in motion every latent power of the soul, but in solitude and seclusion can we trace from phases of our own experience, how a word lightly spoken may stir the depths of a nature usually placid as the gentle summer breeze, so deeply as to reveal those stormy passions that agitate and upheave the founda- tions of society. The world is full of romance and our lives are full of plots. We naturally shrink from exposing to the cold criticism of the public, those hidden influences and inward experiences that contribute most powerfully to the formation of character, the benefit of which may be imparted under the combined imagery of fact and fancy.

Chapter 2

"Oh! if the soul immortal be, Is not its love immortal too?"

Partially sheltered from observation, in a recess in one of the most elegant and luxuriously furnished apartments a New England city could boast, recently enriched by some of the highest productions of literature and art that a refined taste cultured by a few years residence in Europe could select, sat a gentleman and lady engaged in earnest conversation. A brilliant assemblage bad gathered there, wealth and beauty dazzled the eye with their gorgeous splendor, and uninterrupted festivity ruled the hour. These two guests heeded not the airy formsflitting by, the voluptuous swell of the music, or the fascinating mazes of the dance. Subjects of graver and deeper importance, and of surpassing interest to them engrossed their thoughts.

It was a time when theological strife ran at its greatest height, and every man, woman and child enlisted as combatants. So perverted and distorted had become every opinion upon the subject that the individual who stood outside the conflict, in closer communion with nature's teachings than with the scholastic essays of the divines, might have been welcomed, if not as a harbinger of salvation, at least as a panacea that would help to allay the fierce contention.

Society was composed then, as now, of every grade and shade of opinion,—from the outspoken tenets of Calvinism to the milder and more poetic sway of that unconscious religious fervor, which captivates and moulds by the consistency of its own life rather than by the profession of creeds. Men there were whose austerity, in morals shut out every ray of social warmth; women whose more secluded lives led to greater concentration of thought and purpose, but whose greater depth of feeling counteracted the stoicism of the philosopher, and led them to crucify their affections upon the alter of a life-long martyrdom.

There were others whose dogmas were laid on the shelf for particular occasions, from whom unconsciously flowed that spirit of charity and tolerance which saw in every man a friend and brother, ready lo recognize him as a co-worker in any noble cause that had for its aim the elevation of humanity. Sometimes maternal fondness overpowed every other emotion, and the joyous laugh and festive dance assumed quite another character when mothers saw their own children among the merry participants. But oftener, under the overshadowing wings of a Puritan ancestry all the tender amenities of life were hidden beneath the rigid crust of doctrine and belief whence, only occasionally, they flowerd out like some rare, exotic plant, the richer for its culture.

To such influences, doubtless, is mainly owing the strength of New England character. While other nations, corrupted by a profligate ancestry, or prostituted by their own inherent vicfes have been wrecked on the shoals of national decay, the spirit of Plymouth Rock, misguided, but conscientious, will outlive the errors of a few generations, and land us safely in the haven of universal toleration without regard to clime, color, sex or condition, recognizing only the brotherhood of the human race.

Alfred Claremont and Marianne Beaufort might have been called the representatives of the two antipodes of theology and religion. She was emphatically a child of nature. Her parents died when she was very young, leaving her to the care of a maiden sister of her father, who, if she did not enter so readily as some into the sports of children, or understand so well the thousand little wants of their minds, certainly possessed one eminent quality, that of caring for their physical education.

She allowed her free exercise in the open air, and never interfered with her own choice of enjoyment. There was not a hill or valley, wood or stream, for miles around that she had not explored. Possessing a healthy, happy temperament, and a contemplative mind, she grew and expanded into luxurious bloom under the joyous, cloudless sky of nature, through which she looked up to God as a tender, loving Father, who had made this earth so rich in beauty and so lavish in its gifts to man.

Her spiritual organization was such that it was safer to trust her to her own instincts than to attempt to control it, and she had never met with those conflicting influences that sometimes warp and harm a child's nature more than positive neglect would do. Having no young companions at home she was perhaps more reserved and thoughtful than she would otherwise have been, but this circumstance did not cast a shadow over her happiness, which she diffused wherever she moved by the magic influence of her presence, the radiance of her inner self.

During one of those lingering twilights that grace the early autumn she had retreated to a favorite grove, where, under the blue canopy of heaven, earth, air and the deep blue river blended in one sweet accord, to swell the rapturous emotion of her own soul and breathe their soothing influences over another, whose stern mental conflicts had of late dimmed for him the brightness of the material as well as the spiritual world. Unconscious of each other's presence, although but a few rods apart, until they accidently exchanged glances as both turned to leave, the momentary impression made upon him was not exactly that of a Puritan maiden, for she was not rigid enough in thought and feeling for that, but of one whose purity of thought and feeling shone through every feature so strikingly as to arrest his attention. Her image remained vivid in his mind, not from any expectation of seeing her again, but for its association with his own peaceful feelings that evening, which contrasted so happily with his previous hours of skepticism and despair. No romance had ever tortured him with its idle dreams, for life had been too stern a reality.

He was an Englishman by birth, the youngest son of a wealthy merchant, and had been attracted to our shores pattly from a love of novelty, but more from sympathy with our democratic institutions. His attention was first arrested by a consideration of the laws of primogeniture which seemed to him so absolutely absurd and unjust, that in seeking to trace their origin for some show of reason upon which they could rest, he was led to a general review of all governments, both human and divine, which could end only with a reconstruction of his former views and opinions. Educated into the most rigid tenets of the church of England, which he repudiated as his mind expanded, he was now passing through that dark period when the soul, relinquishing the dead letter which it has been taught to regard as the life-giving source of religious inspiration, is loosed from its moorings, and drifts about on the fathomless ocean of its own conjectures and reasonings ere it reaches in safety the other shore.

The spiritual element must be felt, it cannot be demonstrated. Vain is the most glowing rhetoric to him whose intuitions have not unlocked those sublime realities of the unseen world which the human intellect alone can never grasp or unfold. An influence more subtle than mere words can diffuse conveys the higher knowledge of the soul, which she selects according to the laws of affinity, making the meat for one poison for another, from the inability of the one to comprehend the language of the other.

In rejecting a rigid code of belief there is often a tendency to materialism and skepticism. Reason is a safe guide when it has a stand-point; otherwise it is like a ship without a rudder. When a doctrine has been enforced upon it as an essential article of religious faith which it could never reconcile with itself, it begins to question whether there is any such principle as religious faith, and what its value to the soul when it involves such absurdities. Its proper function is to search out and eradicate those errors of opinion that conflict with the spiritual perceptions, by which we recognize certain truths independent of the intellect, but harmonizing with it, being the highest development of the innate consciousness we call faith, which is the natural endowment of every living soul. It is manifest in the child when he runs to his mother for protection before he has learned to lisp her name; in man, in the confidence with which he looks forward to the fulfilment of every relation of the material universe towards him as a dependent on its bounty. In its highest manifestation forming the basis of the religious sentiments, it is no more to be confounded with belief than theology with religion. One pertains to the intellect and is as diversified as the human mind, the other is the divine illumination By which alone we ascend to a knowledge of things divine, and feel the glow of the ineffable love that gilds life's saddest hours with a foretaste of the blessedness of immortality. Belief is the mental result of the effort to reduce it to a system, and varies with the progressive stages of civilization. It can no more change its essential nature than the different modes of training a child can affect the nature of parental love.

"Man's extremity is God's opportunity."

When skepticism ran highest in the mind of Alfred Claremont, came one of those inward revelations, one of those floods of light with which the darkest moments of human wisdom are sometimes made luminous with a halo of celestial inspiration.

The loveliness of this autumn sunset sentMts ray of light and cheer to herald the dawn of morning twilight upon his dreary night of doubt and uncertainty. He drank in its beauty and felt its inspiration. An impression made at such times is as ineffaceable from the memory as it is grand and elevating in character. Years of sorrow and suffering may succeed, but the recollection of it will spring up like an oasis in the desert to revive and strengthen the fainting hopes of the weary traveller as he takes up the burden of life, it may be, forever alone.

And if over all we feel the sympathy of a kindred spirit, what matter if the lips be silent? Do we not feel the responsive echoes of the eternal harmony of nature, as soul speaks to soul in a language no tongue can express; and the law of affinity running through all human intelligences which makes the eye the heart's best interpreter and most eloquent logician? The consciousness of this fact ought to make the humblest and most barren life rejoice that it has this power to confer happiness which no outward circumstance can take away; sometimes proving more precious to the friendless one than gifts or gold, because freighted with the richer sympathy of the human heart.

Not many months afterwards both these individuals met at the house of a mutual friend, who, on his return from Europe had prepared an entertainment for the reception of his numerous acquaintances, which rivalled in splendor any previous event of the kind in that city. At a table which literally bloomed with the rarest and most beautiful flowers it was possible to obtain in mid-winter, a casual remark attracted Mr. Claremont's attention; which immediately revealed to him his unknown companion in the grove. The recognition was mutual, needing not the formality of an introduction, and thus commenced a friendship of equal benefit to both parties. It was a fortunate thing for him at this time to come in contact with la, person resting so calmly in the bosom of God's love as did Marianne Beaufort. She needed not to be told that God is,—she felt his presence in every breeze that fanned her brow, in the murmur of the forest, in the sparkling rivulet at her feet. It was the all pervading element of her nature, the focus in which concentrated every other emotion, whether in solitude, or surrounded by the votaries of the world.

If she could not always meet his arguments, her faith and trust were never for a moment shaken, and the confiding assurance with which she looked forward to the solution of all his problems forced him to acknowledge the supremacy of that instinct which trusts before it can understand, over all the deductions of logic.

This was just what he needed. The fervent, longing aspiration of his soul could not be met by argument. He had had enough of that. The religious sentiment was strong within him, and required only to be allowed to follow its own dictates in rising to the highest standard of which he was capable, instead of being forced into a given channel.

A student of human nature might have been interested in the physiognomy of the two. In connection with a well developed physical organization, though of rather irregular features, which, however, did not detract from the general air of refinement he inspired, he had a high, full forehead, eyes so varying in their expression as to reveal every emotion of his soul, a firm set mouth indicating decision of character, about which there played a tender smile, not the evanescent passion of the moment, but habitual,—the index of a highly sensitive nature.

She had a finely moulded, graceful form, symmetrical features, large, lustrous hazel eyes, full of meaning and earnestness; long, silken eyelashes, and eyebrows of the same shade, as delicately curved as if drawn by a pencil; soft brown hair that shaded a well developed brow; an exquisitely formed mouth which, when at rest, bore the faintest image of a smile as if giving utterance to her own happy thoughts.

Though beautiful she was not brilliant. Possessing a mind of uncommon cultivation, she made no display of it for the admiration of others. To be admired she must be drawn out, not by a mere casual observation, but by some real, earnest thought striking the chord of sympathy within, when it would vibrate to the slightest touch. Mr. Claremont was fortunate enough to touch this chord and it responded.

Fortunately or unfortunately, an acquaintance of this kind, a friendship founded on the most serious and disinterested principles it may be, very often gives rise to emotions of quite another nature from those which were at first of engrossing interest.

Many a reverend divine, shaking his head over the romantic follies of his young parishioners whence he draws his text for a Sunday sermon upon the bad tendencies of novel reading, finds himself the unconscious hero of some unwritten tale, trenching somewhat on the sanctity of his profession. When we can banish love from the world, it will be possible to write a story for the faithful delineation of human nature which shall leave out this interlacing of the emotions.

On a bright May morning the following spring, Marianne returned from her accustomed walk with a basket full of her favorite flower, that modest spring beauty, the trailing arbutus. Having arranged it for her table the loose. Careless manner she liked best to see it, she collected the finest, largest specimens which she had reserved, in a boquet. The morning passed away before it was completed, and one might perceive by the unusual care manifested in its arrangement that something more than fancy was nerving her fingers to the task.

First she gave it a cone-shaped appearance, but that looked too stiff, and they were all speedily separated and arranged in an umbel form, which struck her as being as far the other way, and it is uncertain how many more attempts she would have made had not the door bell rung just as she had completed it for the third time, ushering in the intended recipient of her gift. Her time and care were lost, for either would have been equally acceptable to him.

There was such a child-like simplicity in her manner as she glided across the room, such a sparkling animation in her countenance as she asked him to accept the boquet, that ere he was aware, he gave expression to the thought that rose instinctively and unpremeditatedly to his lips, saying, "No, unless I can have the hand that holds it."

Love's golden hours flew quickly by, and the next May day witnessed the consummation of their plighted vows. Ere three summers passed away, a fairer Rose than ever graced their favorite bower bloomed in their household, and the months glided peacefully on, as day by day added new charms to their treasure, and blessed them with the precious influences of childhood.

Chapter 3

"Child of Genius! in thine eyes, I can see thy soul arise; All the poetry of feeling, In their changeful depths revealing."

The first-born! who can define the world of sensations and emotions that spring into existence at that magic word. Like every other deep impulse of the soul, language is powerless to express it imagination in its loftiest range comes far short of reality. Others may come to share an equal love,—none to excite the same novelty of emotion. The numerous little arts and feats of wisdom common to all children then force themselves on the observation of the parents for the first time. And though those little hands may be motionless in death, and those little lips never more rejoice their ears with their sweet music, that inanimate form has bequeathed an immortal legacy from Heaven,—a new link in the golden chain of the affections.

Rosalind, perhaps, was not a child of remarkable talent in any given direction, but she was certainly an original child. She neither resembled other children, nor imitated herself. She was constantly unfolding some new trait of character, and presenting herself in a new aspect. She inherited her father's physical activity and perseverance, and com- bined his logical with her mother's contemplative powers. Every thing that came under her observation was subjected to the strictest scrutiny for its why and wherefore. Never weary in her restless activity, she was constantly puzzling that little brain with questions oftentimes beyond the comprehension of much older heads. She combined the dignity of the woman with the artlessness of the child. Appealed to through the reason and the affections, she was gentle and yielding as a snow-flake; approached with a command, or a request that did not suggest its own reason, she was firm and unbending as the oak.

For her father she always manifested a most uncommon affection, reluctantly submitting to any other control, and never was a person better fitted for such a trust than he. He had early perceived her peculiar traits, and the immense importance resting on her early culture for her future happiness and usefulness. She must have a sphere for her activity, or she would grow up a fretful, impatient, discontented woman. She must be guided by a gentle, yet firm and steady hand, to bring into harmony the opposing tendencies of her character, or they might neutralize the good she would otherwise accomplish. It was a delightful task to him to study out her original propensities, and observe the latent germs of future promise whose development might some day require his most careful attention. He often felt what he was instructed as well as amused by the unaffected simplicity she displayed in the perception and correction of her own faults. The mission of children is ever a holy one, though the cares and trials devolving on the parents, blind them frequently to the beautiful naivete with which their unperverted instincts dive at the essence of things, without going the circuitous route which prejudice and the force of habit constrain them to travel, to arrive at the same conclusions.

Great patience and discrimination are required to ascertain how far children shall be indulged in their natural inclinations, in order to develop a healthy, well-balanced character; and when they shall be restrained, that their will may not get the ascendency instead of being the servant of their moral nature.

Mr. Claremont quite thoroughly understood this principle, as well from experience as from observation. He could perceive the difference in the effectual security of obedience between a peremptory command and decision, not necessarily implying a command.

When Rosalind was four years old she was presented with a miniature steamboat which had attracted her attention. It was not a common toy, but made of wood, in external appearance the fac simile of a boat capable of being set in motion. The gentleman to whom it belonged was so pleased at her curiosity to examine it that he gave it to her, although constructed by his son when a little boy, to gratify his passion for mechanical art and invention. One day she insisted on seeing it sail. After several vain attempts to convince her that it was impossible, her mother provided her a place to try the experiment. Pilled with vexation at seeing it remain stationary in the water instead of gliding gracefully on its surface, in a fit of impatience she struck her mother who was standing by. Just then her father entered. Though neither of them said a word, her manner at once indicated that she knew she had forfeited his accustomed kiss. After dinner, instead of returning to her playthings as usual when her father left, she sat with her hands quietly resting in her lap for almost the first time in her life, or stood gazing thoughtfully out at the window. She was evidently in a dilemma, and was exerting all the powers of her mind to extricate herself from it. Love was the very centre of her existence, and especially she could not live without her father's kiss. As the hour drew near for his return she went up softly to her mother, and said in a low voice, "Mother, I want to kiss you."

After receiving the proffered kiss, observing that she still stood with her large, wondering blue eyes fixed upon her, she said, "What is it, Rosa, what do you want to say?"

Leaning her head a little on one side, still looking wistfully at her, she answered, "I wish you would say it, mother, I can't."

"Say what, Rosa, that you are sorry you struck me?"

"Yes, yes, mother, that's it," and, evidently with a feeling of great relief she ran to the window to watch for her father. When she saw him coming, instead of running to meet him she retreated to the sofa, which was her place of refuge in every emergency.

Seeing that she showed no disposition to cOme forward as he entered the room and that he did not notice her; her mother, who had attentively observed her actions all the afternoon, said to him, "I think Rosa is waiting for a kiss from her father."

As he approached she did not move or speak, but fixed upon him an arch, inquisitive expression as if sure of reading in his countenance a confirmation of her own consciousness of having solved a great problem.

When, he asked her what she had done with her boat, she drew herself up with the air of one whose sense of dignity has been offended, and said,

"Father you will please not to say anything more about it."

"Why," said he, "I want to explain it to you, so you will see what was the reason it would not sail as you expected. Now will you get it and let us examine it?"

"No, it is where I cannot get it," speaking with as much decision as if she had been the parent, and he the child, "and so we may as well drop the subject, it isn't pleasant."

"I think it is. I should take a great deal of pleasure in showing my little daughter how it differs from a real steamboat, and I think she will be far happier to receive it back to her favor as we have received her to ours."