SHILOH.

I.

PITCHING TENT.

HAVE turned a leaf in my life's book, dear Francesca. The last paragraph-broken short off in its joyous, triumphant flow, and blurred and blotted with tears-is covered from sight. Let it rest in peace.

Here begins a fresh page.

We were leaning over the gate, Bona, Mala, and I. Do you need to be introduced to these persons of the drama? Bona is my alter ego, my better self, my Mentor, my counsellor, my consoler,-or, to speak more to the purpose, the grace of God working within me. So Mala is my worst self, my evil genius, by turns my tempter, flatterer, tormentor, betrayer,-that part of me which Holy Writ declares to be deceitful above all things and desperately wicked. And the entity here represented by the pronoun "I" is the arbiter between the two, influenced by both, alternately swayed by each, yet to whose decision cither must submit with what grace she is able. In brief, "I" represents the Will-Power of the concern.

They who know me best, never behold either of these characters per se, but a mixture of the three, seen darkly through a veil of reserve which is common to all, and further colored by their own prejudices and prepossessions.

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B

Nevertheless, these personages do exist; leading a distinct and highly belligerent exister.ce in one fleshly tabernacle, and making themselves manifest through one set of human organs. Occasionally, one sinks into a state of passivity, and leaves the other queen regnant; but their normal condition is struggle, conflict, hard-to-hand fight, and no quarter. I lead an unquiet life between them, made endurable chiefly by the reflection that things might be worse. If Bona were to depart, and leave Mala triumphant, there would be dreary deterioration, and sliding down slippery places, for me here, and a fearful record to face hereafter; while that Mala will ever go forth, shaking the dust from her feet, and leave Bona and me to keep quiet house together, is not to be hoped for until "this mortal shall have put on immortality."

I make no apology for thus taking you into the heart of things. You and I believe that no chronicle of human life is complete, which deals not with the inner strife as well as with the outer circumstance.

Neither Bona nor Mala was rampant as I leaned on the gate, and looked out over this sunset-reddened Shiloh ; the sweet signification of whose name had so touched my jaded heart as I ran over the boarding agent's list. I had such sore need of a "Place of Rest!"

“Is it hill country or plain ?" I asked the man.

"Hill country, ma'am. You climb straight up, from Shiloh Bridge, for three miles and a half. When I went there, I had a mind to settle, for fear I'd never get any nearer heaven.”

"Is it quiet?"

"Quiet as a graveyard. You'd think 'twas Sunday all

the time.”

So it was settled. Aunt Belle was most graciously acquiescent, after a polite remonstrance or two;-doubtless, she was charmed that I should thus voluntarily remove myself from her orbit, for awhile. Flora pouted and gibed.

Uncle John growled good-naturedly from the mist of business cares and projects that always enveloped him ;—

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Nonsense, child! go to Saratoga with your aunt and cousin, and enjoy yourself."

"But, uncle, I am as tired of enjoying myself as ever was a convict of the treadmill. I want quiet and rest.”

Surprised, Uncle John came out of the mist, and, for the first time in six weeks, brought the eyes of his mind to bear on me.

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“I should think you did!" he muttered, after a brief inspection. "What on earth have you done with your roses? Why, Belle, the child is as pale and thin as a ghost! What is the matter with her?"

"Nothing, uncle," I hastened to say, "but too much of Madame La Mode, and too many calls and balls and receptions. Only let me go to Shiloh for the summer, and I will bring you back my roses, in the fall."

"Be off with you, then! and mind you keep your promise."

Nineteen twentieths of my journey were performed swiftly by rail, the remaining fraction slowly in the farmer's wagon. If I saw anything on the way, I forget what it was; my mind was still wandering, in a dazed and aim. less manner, among the ruins of the Past.

The first object that made any impression on my consciousness, was the cheery, kindly, sensible face of Mrs. Divine, framed in the dark doorway of the venerable old farm-house, to whose gate the lapse of an hour had brought me. She led me to a large, airy chamber, fragrant with cleanliness, and of a most comfortable aspect, and left me to myself. Which opportunity I improved by taking myself to task for my moodiness and apathy. "That dream is over," I said, giving myself a moral shake; "no amount of brooding will bring it back. Now you have to do with realities." And then Bona, Mala, and I, strolled out to the gate, and looked about us.

Evidently, Shiloh was neither town nor village, as it presented to view no public-house, nor store, nor contigu ity of roofs; but merely an ancient neighborhood of well. to-do farm-houses; each standing apart within its own principality of orchards, gardens, cornfields, meadows, barns, stacks, and whatever gives the broadest idea of rural plenty; and all with a certain freshness and peacefulness about them, as not being touched by the dust, nor the turmoil, of the highway. Right before me rose a huge rampart of a hill; steep, but smooth and grass-grown to the top; where its vivid green met the rosy horizon-line of the sky.

On its left crest, a farm-house, painted red, dazzled me with the splendor of its sun-gilded windows; and below it was a long slope covered with mosaic work of corn and potato fields and orchards; falling off suddenly to a deep dell or ravine, I concluded, for I saw the bossy tops of large trees just beyond the corn, and, apparently, on a level with it. On the right crest, a small white church lifted a square yard of belfry and a modest triangle of spire into the rose-ripples of the sky; and a bowed and decrepit school-house crept humbly close to the hill's foot, other shade being inscrutably withheld from it and its sun-burned occupants.

"A cosy and a peaceful spot," said Bona. "Brimful of the goodness of God, and nowise spoiled by man. There can be no excuse for sinning here."

MALA. And every excuse for rusting and rotting; not a soul worth speaking to; none of that inspiring contact with refined and cultured minds, which is the great advantage of city life.

I (sarcastically). Such as a morning spent with Madame La Mode, settling about the width of our flounces !

MALA (taking no notice of the interruption). To be sure, these woods and rocks are well enough in their way, and you had better content yourself with their society.

BONA (in dismay). I hope you have rought no pharisaical-that is to say, aristocratic-notions hither. Why, every leaf, laying its cheek softly to its neighbor leaf, every dew-drop, caring not whether it falls on rosebud or potato stalk, so it refreshes something, will be a sharp rebuke to you.

I. Be easy,

men spirit.

Bona; I never had less of the not-as-other

MALA (soothingly). But you are weary, and sore, and sorrowful, and have no heart for society. And society in Shiloh, surely, has no claim upon you. It did without you before you came, and need not miss you when you go. Lead as idle and isolated a life as you please, free from all bonds and burdens, and so gather strength for the future's needs.

BONA. An idle, isolated life never gave strength to any human soul. Bonds and burdens are ordained of God; and strength is found in bearing, not in shirking, them. It is a good and safe rule to sojourn in every place as if you meant to spend your life there, never omitting an opportunity of doing a kindness, or speaking a true word, or making a friend; seeds thus sown by the wayside often bring forth an abun dant harvest. You might so spend your summer among this people, that they and their descendants should be better and happier, through time and eternity, for your works and your example.

I (uneasily). Let me alone, both of you. I do not mean to make a fool of myself, Mala, by putting on airs in this out-of-the-way place. Neither, Bona, did I come here with any Quixotic idea of reforming or elevating a community which has gotten on thus far without me; and will, doubtless, till the end of time. I came here for rest, and I must have it. Such persons as I meet I intend to treat civilly— kindly, if you will have it so,-but I will not be drawn into any relations which must force me into action now, and may be inconvenient entanglements hereafter. I de