Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain,
Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting Summer’s lingering blooms delay’d,
Dear, lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, where every sport could please. —Goldsmith.

Near one of the affluents of the river, off whose mouth occurred the transactions recorded in the preceding chapters, stands the village, or rather hamlet, of Sweetwater. It is one of those quiet, solitary spots, nestled by lake and wood, which makes visitors from cities so passionately in love with the country. Situated about half way between the Delaware and the Atlantic, and surrounded for miles on miles by an almost unbroken forest, it is effectually shut out from the roar and tumult of the great world. The very atmosphere breathes of peace and happiness. The stars seem to shine there more gently than anywhere else. A dreamy languor pervades the place, as if amid the drowsy hum of bees and the low gurgle of cool waters, life would pass like one long, delicious, summer afternoon.

The few dwellings which Sweetwater boasts—and more would destroy the magical quiet of the place—are ranged around one end of the pond, which forms the chief beauty of the location. An open space, something like a village green, lies between them and the water, only here, instead of being covered with sward, it is of the whitest and purest sand; and no one, who has not visited it, can imagine the fine effect of this snowy bit of landscape, relieved on one side by the translucent lake, and on the other by the dark pine woods.

At the northern end of the hamlet stands an old mill, whose waste-gate is raised for most of the year, so that, look over the little bridge when you will, the water will be seen gliding darkly underneath, as it shoots roaring and flashing to meet the stream below. Full many a time, when we were a boy, have we leaned over the wooden rail which formed the parapet, and watched by the hour the white foam go whirling off down the creek, leaving a thousand glistening eddies under the gravelly banks. Beautiful Sweetwater! shall we ever again in this world experience the sweet calm which used to descend, dove-like, upon our spirit, as we sat musing by thee, listening to the pine-woods sigh in the evening breeze, while the moon walked up the heavens, or the stars twinkled in thy mirrored depths?

After passing the hamlet and bridge, the road winds in front of a picturesque white mansion, situated in the rear of a garden built out into the pond. From the back of the edifice a flight of steps leads down into the water, where, when we knew the place, a light pinnace always lay, like a Venitian gondola. Embowered in green trees, and surrounded on three sides by the lake, that white mansion seems, with but little stretch of the imagination, like a swan nestling among green rushes.

A few hundred rods further on, the road gains the head of the lake. Looking back from this point, the scene is one of rare loveliness. Before you stretches the pond, still, glassy, quiet, dream-like. Half way down its eastern side the mansion rises amid its shrubbery, as if on a fairy island about to float off into the lake. On the other side the tall pines cast their sombre shadows into the water. In the distance whole fields of white water-lilies cover the surface of the pond. Still further off, and at the very extremity of the vista in that direction, two or three blasted trees raise their tall, bleached skeletons, like grim sentinels guarding the pathless swamp in their rear, where, if tradition errs not, more than one wayfarer has lost his path and perished.

Close by the head of the pond, in the centre of a grove of oaks thinned out from the original forest, is a white church edifice. Here, every Sunday, assemble the few inhabitants of Sweetwater, as well as those of a neighboring village, where, in the days of which we write, a foundry existed, at which cannon balls were cast for the patriot army. Beside the church is a grave-yard, surrounded by a rude fence, and shaded by oak trees. The birds build their nests undisturbed here, and the grass and wild flowers bloom and fade in peace.

A few paces in the rear of the church runs a deep but narrow stream. This creek, flowing from a cedar-swamp near at hand, pours its rich, chocolate-colored waters between tortuous wooded banks; now slumbering in the deep shadows of some gigantic tree, whose half-bared roots stretch forth, talon-like, as if to grasp the ebbing tide; and now whirling around an abrupt corner, its polished surface glistening like burnished gold as it shoots into the sunshine. Here the long branch of some bush sways to and fro in the tide, and there the old trees arch greenly overhead. A delicious coolness hangs ever about that stream. On the hottest of summer days one may sit on the old gnarled root, at the end of the path leading down to the water, and listening to the purling of the quiet current, almost fancy himself far off among the gardens and fountains of Damascus.

In the summer parlor of the mansion at Sweetwater, about a fortnight after the events narrated in the preceding chapters, sat Kate and her aunt. The windows were up, admitting the cool breeze from the water, and presenting an uninterrupted view of the pond in the direction of the little church, whose white walls, gleaming out from behind the trees, afforded a pleasant repose for the eye in the distance. Mrs. Warren sat, so far as dress could make her, in all the dignity and state of a dowager. Not a ruffle could be seen in her stomacher. Every hair in her powdered toupee was in its exact place, as firm and stiff as the clipped box trees in the garden. Her robe was spread majestically around her; and her hands lay crossed in her lap, on top of an open book, as if she had just ceased reading. Truth compels us to add that the good lady was drowsy, a condition not a little assisted by the hum of insects without, and by the almost inaudible plash of the water, as the faint breeze gently dashed it against the garden wall. Yet, even in this crisis, Mrs. Warren was not unmindful of what might be expected from her. Bravely did she struggle against the weakness of the flesh, waking up continually and looking fiercely around, as if to show that she was not sleepy in the least. But soon the lulling sounds would prove too much for her; her eyes would close languidly; her mouth would gradually open; and perhaps a sacrilegious snore would be heard, to Kate’s infinite amusement. Then, all at once, her head would pitch forward, when, waking up with a start, she would renew her defiant glance, but only to subside again into a doze immediately.

All this while Kate sat sewing, by a little table, on which stood a bouquet of fresh flowers, the choicest the season could afford. She wore a pretty morning dress of white cambric, which, fitting close to the bust, as was the mode, yet opening in front, revealed a stomacher of illusion, and then swept off in full and ample folds below the waist, parting on each side before the elaborately worked petticoat. In the changes of fashion, an approximation has been made to the same style in our own day. Kate also wore a short sleeve, reaching to the elbow, with a fall of deep lace around it. One little foot peeped out from beneath her skirt, just revealing the silk stocking and the daintily-made high-heeled shoe. Her rich masses of hair fell curling over her shoulders in a style still to be seen in some of Sir Joshua Reynolds’ pictures: for, with natural taste, she generally eschewed powder. Her brilliant complexion contrasting with this simple white dress, made her look like a fresh white rose-bud—one of those which has a blush in the heart, while all the rest is of snowy whiteness. The very room seemed to be more fragrant for her being there.

It is needless to say that she never looked lovelier. But this was not entirely owing to her attire, but was partly the consequence of her employment, which always throws such an atmosphere of home around a highbred woman. He is a hopeless bachelor, indeed, who can watch a graceful girl, engaged on some pretty piece of needle-work, without thinking how beautiful she would look as his wife, plying that small gold thimble with those delicate fingers, by the same fireside with him, on a cold, wintry night, chatting gayly as she nimbly worked, and continually looking up at him with the sweet, dear smile of confidence and love. Ah! miserable man, whoever you are, whose life is spent in hotels; who know nothing of the quiet overflowing bliss of domestic happiness; and whose only knowledge of women is obtained from belles at balls, or flirts at watering places;—we wish you could have seen Kate then. In our time, alas! the needle is almost obsolete, so that you have small chance of being conquered. Young ladies would scream now-a-days, if caught sewing, whose grandmothers won scores of hearts by this bewitching feminine art. The world is thought to be improving in every respect, but we are old-fashioned enough to think that the grandmothers understood our sex the best, and that they slew thousands with their pretty household graces, while their fair descendants, with all their Italian music, slay but tens.

Those good old times have gone forever. It is the cant of the present day to abuse them as stiff and formal. But when again shall we behold such highbred courtesy among men, such a sense of personal dignity, or such chivalrous deference to the fair? Our gentlemen—where are they? And the change is almost as much the fault of women as it is of her companion sex. In that day, ladies were known by their domestic virtues, quite as much as by their erect carriage, their swan-like movements, their robes of rich brocade, or their stomachers of lace. But now, while we have silly girls, or heartless coquettes, or artful establishment-hunters, or rampant woman’s rights agitators, we have few ladies like our grandmothers, highbred both in parlor and in kitchen. Men have lost reverence for women, because woman ceases to be true to herself. Lovers no longer count themselves in heaven if they are allowed to kiss the tips of their charmer’s fingers, or sue on bended knees, like Sir Charles Grandison, for the sweet affirmative; but thinking themselves very condescending to have the dear creatures at all, solicit them in a nonchalant manner, as much as to say, “It’s a bore anyhow, and I’d quite as lief you’d decline.” Young America has more sentiment for a fast trotter than for a fine woman. We have seen enthusiasm in bargaining for a “two-forty,” but never heard of it in asking a lady for her heart. “Oh!” cried Mrs. Warren, waking up with a little scream at the noise made by her book slipping to the floor, “I haven’t been asleep—have I?” And she got up and rubbed her eyes.

“About half an hour, this last time,” said Kate, laughing.

“This last time!” indignantly exclaimed her aunt. “I wasn’t asleep at all, but merely forgot myself for a moment, and only this once.”

Kate pulled out her watch.

“It’s just an hour and a half since we came in, and you’ve been nodding for more than an hour of that time. But hark! Didn’t the knocker sound?” And, as she spoke, a charming blush suffused her cheek and even neck.

“Yes; it’s some visitor. Who can it be? Dear me, it must be Major Gordon, for he hasn’t been here yet, though we’ve been expecting him every day; and there’s no one else to call. It’s considerate of him, I must say,” continued Mrs. Warren, sitting down, smoothing her dress, and otherwise putting herself into company trim, “to have deferred his visit till we had time to get up something of a wardrobe. What would our cousin, Lord Danville, have said, if he had known in what dishabille we’ve had to dine. Such shocking creatures as we’ve been till within a day never did exist, I suppose.”

“I don’t think Major Gordon judges people by their dress merely,” said Kate, softly, with another blush.

“Tut, child, what do you know about it? You’ve scarcely exchanged a dozen words with him. He’s a gentleman, however, and can make allowances; what a pity he’s a rebel.”

“Hush, aunt,” said Kate, raising her finger, her heart beating so that her boddice visibly throbbed, for the firm tread, which she fancied she recognized, was heard approaching the parlor.

Almost at the same instant the door flew open, and a servant announced Major Gordon.