Home and Politics

At the bend of a pleasant road winding under the shade of a large elm tree, there stood a small schoolhouse. It was a humble building, and the little belfry on its roof seemed hardly large enough to hold the cowbell that hung there. But it made a picturesque sight in the landscape. The elm drooped over it with unusual grace, its light foliage nearly brushing the belfry. The weathered, moss-covered shingles were a welcome relief to the eye of any traveler weary of staring at prim white houses. What's more, someone had turned the little place into a pastoral poem of vines and flowers. A white rosebush covered half of one side, carrying its blossoms up to the bell. Cypress vines were trained to meet over the door in a Gothic arch, crowned with a cross.

On the western side, the window was shaded with a profusion of morning glories, and a great rock that jutted out toward the road was thickly covered with Iceland moss, which in springtime became a carpet of yellow stars.

It was in that season that George Franklin, a young New York lawyer, first saw it during a visit to the countryside. He walked slowly past, gazing at the noble elm as it swayed its young leaves in a gentle breeze. Just then, a flock of children of various ages poured out. Jumping and laughing, they joined hands and formed a circle around the elm. A clear voice from inside the schoolhouse sang a lively tune, while measured strokes on some tin instrument kept the beat. The little band whirled around the tree, stepping to the music with the unrefined grace of childhood joy. After ten or fifteen minutes of this healthy exercise, they stopped, seemingly obeying a signal. Half of them raised their hands to form arches for the others to jump through. Then they spun their arms in swift circles and leaped high in the air.

After finishing their simple gymnastics, they scampered off to find their own fun until it was time to return to their books. Some bowed or curtsied to the traveler as they passed, while others, with arms around each other's necks, hopped along on one foot and then the other, too busy to do more than nod and smile. Many wore patched clothes, but their hands and faces were clean. Some had a dull, animal look, but even those seemed to bask in the beauty and freedom they found only at school. The whole scene left a deep impression on the young man. He wondered why it couldn't always be this way—in families, in schools, everywhere. Why did humanity have to be a blight on nature? Why were people so coarse and squalid, so rough and heavy, while nature ever radiated fresh beauty and teemed with life?

Then came the sobering thought that other influences of life—coarse parents, selfish employers, and the hard struggle for daily bread—would overshadow the good influences of that pleasant school, which for a few months brightened the lives of those little ones.

When he passed that way again a few hours later, all was still save for the occasional twittering of birds in the tree. It was sunset, and a bright farewell gleam shone across the mossy carpet on the rock, making the little garden flowers smile. Back in the city, the scene often came to mind as a lovely picture, and he wished he had an artist's skill to reproduce its rustic charm. When he returned to the country after midsummer, he remembered the little old schoolhouse, and one of his first outings was a walk in that direction. A profusion of crimson and white stars now peeked out from the fringed foliage of the cypress vines, and the small front yard was a bed of blossoms. He leaned over the gate and noticed how neatly every plant was trained, as if a loving hand tended them daily. He listened but heard no voices, and curiosity drove him to peek inside. Lifting the latch, he saw the room was empty.

The rough benches and whitewashed walls were spotless. Windows were open on both sides, and the air smelled sweetly of mignonette. On the teacher's desk sat a small Grecian vase with a few flowers arranged tastefully. Some books lay beside it, one with an ivory bookmark between its pages, as if recently used. It was Bettine's Letters to Günderode, and where it opened, he read these lines, underlined in pencil: "All that I see done to children is unjust. Magnanimity, confidence, free will are not given to nourish their souls. A slavish yoke is put upon them. The living impulse, full of buds, is not esteemed. No outlet will they give for Nature to reach the light. Rather must a net be woven, in which each mesh is a prejudice. Had not a child a world within, where could he take refuge from the deluge of folly that is poured over the budding meadow-carpet? Reverence have I before the destiny of each child, shut up in so sweet a bud.

One feels reverence at touching a young bud, which the spring is swelling."

The young man smiled with pleased surprise, for he hadn't expected such sentiments from a teacher in a remote country school. He picked up a volume of Mary Howitt's Birds and Flowers and saw the name Alice White written inside. On all the blank spaces were pressed delicate young fern leaves and small bits of richly tinted moss. He glanced at the low ceiling and rough benches. "This hardly seems a fitting temple for such a spirit," he thought, "but what does it matter? Such spirits find temples everywhere." He took a pencil from his pocket and marked in Bettine's Letters: "Thou hast feeling for the every-day life of nature. Dawn, noontide, and evening clouds are thy dear companions, with whom thou canst converse when no man is abroad with thee. Let me be thy scholar in simplicity." He wrote his initials on the page.

"Perhaps I'll never meet this teacher," he mused, "but it will be a little mystery in her quiet life to wonder what curious eye has been peeping into her books." Then he asked himself, "How do I know she is young?"

He leaned against the window, looking at the flower beds, and the vine leaves brushed his hair as the breeze played with them. They seemed to say a young heart had planted them. He remembered the clear, feminine voice humming the dance tune in the spring. He thought of the mosses and ferns in the book. "Oh, she must be young and beautiful," he thought. "She can't be otherwise with such tastes." He stood a while in a half dream, then a broad smile crossed his face as he made fun of himself. "What does it matter to me whether she's beautiful or young?" he said silently. "I must be hungry for adventure to be so curious about a country schoolmistress."

The smile was still on his face when he heard a light step and Alice White stood before him. She blushed to see a stranger in her little sanctuary, and he blushed at his awkward position. He apologized, explaining that the garden's beauty and the vines' arrangement had drawn him in, and seeing the room empty, he'd taken the liberty to enter. She readily forgave him and said she was glad if the humble spot refreshed travelers, for tending it had given her great pleasure. The young man was disappointed because she didn't match the picture his imagination had painted. But her voice had a flexible tone, and there was something pleasing in her quiet, timid manner. Not knowing what to say, he bowed and left.

Several days later, as his rural visit was ending, he felt the need for a long walk, and a pleasant vision of that winding road and the schoolhouse rose before him. He didn't even think of Alice. He was ambitious and had almost decided never to marry unless it advanced his fortunes. He admitted to himself that grace and beauty might easily bewitch him, but the poor country teacher was not beautiful in face or figure. So he had no thought of her.

To vary his route, he went through the woods and found her gathering mosses by a little brook. She recognized him, and he stopped to help, and they fell into conversation. The more he listened, the more surprised he was to find such a rare jewel in so plain a setting. Her thoughts were so fresh, so simply expressed! And now he noticed a deep expression in her eyes that gave her a more elevated beauty than mere form or color. He couldn't define it, but she charmed him. He lingered by her side, and when they parted at the schoolhouse gate, he half hoped she'd invite him in. "I expect to return in the autumn," he said. "May I hope to find you here?"

She didn't say whether he might hope that, but she smiled and answered, "I am always here. I've made it my home and tried to make it pleasant, since I have no other."

All the way home, his thoughts were full of her, and her simple, pleasant ways often came back to him amid the city's noise. He might easily have forgotten her if a beautiful heiress had crossed his path, for ambition ruled him. But no woman attracted him strongly before he found himself again on that winding road. Then came frequent walks and confidential talks that revealed more loveliness of mind and character than he'd imagined. Alice was one of those peculiar people whose history defies all theories. Her parents were illiterate and crude, but she was gentle and refined. They lacked imagination, while she saw everything in poetry's sunshine. "Who does the child take after? Where do her odd notions come from?" they'd ask, never finding an answer. They died when she was fourteen, and she, alone and unadvised, went to work in a factory to earn money for her education. Alternating between factory and school, she spent four years.

Thanks to her capable mother, she was quick with her needle and knew how to make the most of small means. She journeyed unnoticed through the bypaths of life, delighting in birds, flowers, and children, finding motivation in serving others and the prospect of an occasional pretty vase or agreeable book. First affectionate connection, then beauty and order, were her soul's great attractions. So she longed for a home and tried to realize that ideal in humble ways, like the schoolhouse. The family she boarded with often quarreled, and being of coarse natures, they couldn't appreciate Alice's unassuming ways. She sought refuge in the solitude of the little schoolhouse, where she spent most of her hours, finding peace in nature's embrace. Poor and plain, she never dreamed that domestic love, like the pattern in her mind, could ever be hers.

Her heart had barely trembled with excitement on that subject until the day she gathered mosses with George Franklin. When he looked into her eyes, she was troubled by his earnest gaze. Humble by nature, she didn't dare think he could love her. But when she recalled his promised visit in autumn, fair visions sometimes floated before her of how pleasant life could be in a tasteful little home with an intelligent companion. Always it was a little home. None of her ideas were grand. She was a pastoral poet, not an epic one.

George did come, and they shared many pleasant walks that beautiful October, crowning each other with garlands of bright autumn leaves. Their parting revealed their mutual affection, and soon after, George wrote to her: "I frankly admit I'm ambitious and had resolved never to marry a poor girl. But I love you so much, I have no choice. Now, in the beautiful light dawning on me, I see how selfish and unwise that resolution was. For isn't happiness what we all seek? And how happy it will make me to fulfill your dream of a tasteful home! I can't help receiving more from you than I give, for your nature is richer than mine. But I believe it's more blessed to give than to receive, and when two people think that of each other, what more could we need? I'm no flatterer, and I'll tell you frankly I was disappointed when I first saw you.

Unknowingly, I fell in love with your soul—first through the vines and flowers, then through the marked book and the mosses. I imagined you must be beautiful, and when I saw you weren't, I thought I'd forget you. But when I heard you talk, your soul drew me irresistibly, and I wondered how I ever thought you anything but beautiful. A beautiful soul is rarely housed in a beautiful body. But loveliness of soul has the advantage of not fading with time; it should only grow. Of one thing be sure, dear Alice: it's now impossible for me to love another as I love you."

When she read that letter, she felt as if she were in a delightful dream. Was it possible that the love of an intelligent, cultivated soul was offered to her—the poor, friendless one? How marvelous that when she least expected such a blessing, a stranger had come and laid it on her desk. She kissed the letter again and again, and the initials he'd left before meeting her. She knelt and thanked God through tears that her heart's great hunger for a happy home would now be satisfied. But when she read the letter more calmly, her honest nature made her hesitate. He said he was ambitious. Wouldn't he regret marrying a poor, plain girl with no social standing? Might he not find her soul less lovely than he thought? So she answered: "How your precious letter made me happy, I can't say. My heart is like a garden after a long cold storm when the morning sun shines.

Since the day we gathered mosses, you've seemed like the fairest dream of my life, and I couldn't help loving you, though I had no hope of being loved back. Even now, I fear you're under a delusion and may later regret your choice. Wait and observe my faults. I'll try not to hide them. Seek other women's company. You'll find many superior to me. Don't fear hurting me by changing your feelings. I love you with a love that would rejoice in your happiness, even if it led you away from me."

This letter only raised his opinion of her soul's beauty. He did as she asked and saw other women. He saw many more beautiful, graceful, accomplished, and intellectually superior, but none seemed as charmingly simple and true as Alice White. "Don't talk to me about changing feelings," he said. "I like your principles, your disposition, your thoughts, your ways—and I always shall." Reassured, Alice joyfully set aside her fears and became his wife.

A man is rich beyond compare if loved by an intelligent woman full of domestic affection, especially if she's learned humility and strength through hardship. But only beautiful souls learn such lessons in adversity. In weaker natures, hardship breeds envy and discontent. Alice had always been content with simple things, and now, though their income was modest, her taste and skill made their home a little bower of beauty. She seemed as happy as a bird in her cozy nest, so grateful that George, half in jest, said women loved their husbands as a means to get homes to preside over. There was some truth in that, but it hurt her sensitive heart, for it hinted at selfishness in her love. After that, she said less about the blessings of home, but she enjoyed it in her soul. George enjoyed it almost as much.

Again and again, he said he'd never dreamed domestic companionship could be so rich. His wife, though less educated, had a nature capable of high cultivation. She was an intelligent listener, and her intuition often grasped more than he'd said or thought. Poor as she was, she brought finer furniture to his home than mahogany chairs and marble tables.

A year passed smoothly, and a little daughter joined them, like a flower brought by angels. George had often laughed at other parents' foolishness, but he truly thought his child was the most beautiful ever. He saw in her countless gifts. He was sure she had an eye for color, form, and music. She had her mother's deep eyes and would surely inherit her quick perception, loving heart, and earnestness. His whole soul seemed bound up in her. Scarcely the mother was more devoted. Thus they were happy with their simple treasures when, in an evil hour, a disturbing influence crossed their threshold. It came as political excitement—that pestilence that races through our land, destroying homes, turning minds from calm pursuits, blinding consciences, embittering hearts, and blighting half our talent with its feverish breath.

At that time, the nation was fiercely debating the election of General Harrison. George threw himself into the fray with the firm belief that the country's welfare depended on Harrison's election. But man's higher and lower natures always mix, and his patriotic zeal gradually opened a view of personal advancement. His profession had given him a solid foundation, but he had the American impatience with slow growth. He'd always wanted distinction, and politics seemed the shortest road. A neighbor, prone to such excitements, often came by and invited him to clubs and meetings. Alice, hoping for quiet evenings, dreaded the doorbell, fearing that man's arrival. It wasn't that she wanted George to give up ambition or patriotic duty, but the excitement seemed unhealthy. He lived in a mental intoxication. He talked louder, clenched his fists, and was restless for newspapers, watching for mails as he once would watch over his child's life.

All calm pleasures grew dull. He was away from home more, staying out late. Alice first stayed up for him, but then she started retiring, always leaving the fire arranged, his slippers warm, and a light supper on the table. The first time he came home and saw those preparations instead of her face, he felt very sad. He remembered the schoolhouse and all the events of their love. Those angels from the past smiled and asked, "Are there any like us in your new path?" He felt self-reproach for neglected kindnesses and duties. That night he spoke with unusual tenderness and promised that after the election, he'd withdraw from politics. But the feeling soon passed. As the election neared, he became more absorbed. One morning, while reading the paper, little Alice fussed. He said impatiently, "Take that child away. Her noise disturbs me." Tears came to his wife's eyes as she answered, "She's not well; she's caught cold."

He replied, "I'm sorry," and hurried off to celebrate with his neighbor.

That night, the child was unusually restless.

She toddled to her father and begged him to rock her to sleep. He'd just taken her in his arms when the neighbor came for him to go to a political supper, saying the mail would decide the election. The child cried when George put her down, and he said sternly, "Naughty girl! Father doesn't love her when she cries." His wife, her voice trembling, said, "She's not well," and hurried out.

It was two in the morning when George returned, but his wife was still up. "Hurrah for the old coon!" he shouted. "Harrison is elected!"

She threw herself into his arms, sobbing, "Hush, George! Our little Alice is dead!" Dead—and his last words to his darling had been unkind. How he wished he could take them back! And his poor wife had endured that agony alone. A heavy weight pressed his heart. He sank into a chair, drew her to him, and wept aloud.

This great loss overshadowed his long-awaited political victory. As his grief settled, he reviewed his life and weighed events. He wondered if it had been wise to give up his profession's certainties for gambling-like chances. He questioned whether absorbing himself in political conflicts was the best way to serve his country. It's uncertain how he'd have chosen if he hadn't received an appointment under the new government. The sudden death of Harrison might have given him a lasting distaste for politics, as it did for many. But the office's salary was more than double his old earnings. Dazzled, he didn't realize the added expenses and the risk of losing it all. Once in office, he served his party zealously. Another election soon came, and he dove back into the fray. He was kind at home but rarely there. He sometimes smiled at the warm slippers and flowers on the table, but he didn't think of Alice's loneliness or her slow heartbreak.

He hosted dinners and suppers. Strangers came and went, eating, drinking, smoking, and talking loudly. Alice was polite but had nothing to say to them, and they nothing to her. Her songs and flowers were out of place amid their clamor. She was a pastoral poet living in a battle.

The house was filled with visitors watching a grand Whig procession pass—rich horses, gay banners, flower arches. George bowed and tipped his hat to her as he rode by, and she waved her handkerchief. "How beautiful! How magnificent!" a visitor exclaimed. "Clay will surely be elected. The whole city seems to be in it—sailors, printers, firemen, everything." "There are no women and children," Alice replied, and turned away with a sigh. The only protection she cared about was protection for homes.

Soon came the Democratic evening procession: horses, temples of Liberty, raccoons hung or eaten by alligators, the lone star of Texas glimmering overhead, fireworks and torches. It made a wild impression on Alice, whose nerves were already frayed. It reminded her of the Parisian mobs, and she imagined heads on poles before her window. Visitors checked their watches, saying this procession took even longer than the Whig's. "I think Polk will win after all," one said. George grew angry and argued. Even after everyone left, he remained moody and irritable. He had more reason than his wife knew. She thought the worst was losing the election and office. But rivals, used to gambling, had dared him to bet on the outcome, knowing his temperament; and George, eager to show confidence in Clay, accepted bets to a ruinous extent.

All his possessions—his watch, books, furniture—were at stake, and he lost them all. Alice sympathized with his despair, tried to forget her own grief, and said she could easily help him, being used to earning her living.

On their wedding day, George had given her a painting of the rustic schoolhouse, surrounded by vines and shaded by the elm. He asked that it be saved from the wreck, and everyone agreed, saying, "I pity his poor wife."

She left her cherished home before the final breakup, unable to watch her belongings be sold.

She lingered by the astral lamp and the little round table where they'd read together in their first happy year. She didn't weep; it would have been better if she could. She took the little vase from the schoolhouse desk and a curious Wedgewood pitcher George had given her on the day little Alice was born. She didn't show them to him, to spare him pain. He was gentle and remorseful, and she tried to be strong for him. But her health had suffered, and she was made for one purpose: to create and beautify a home. Through long, lonely years she'd yearned for it. She'd had it and thanked God. And now her purpose was gone.

Within days, she was diagnosed with melancholy insanity. She was placed in a hospital, where her husband tried to surround her with healing things. But she doesn't recognize him. When he visits, she looks at him with strange eyes and repeats mournfully, "I want my home. Why doesn't George come and take me home?"

Thus cast adrift on the dark ocean of life, George Franklin didn't know whether to risk politics again or start anew in his profession. He wisely chose the latter and now works diligently, living frugally, hoping that reason will return to the beautiful soul who loved him so truly.

His case may seem extreme, but he is only one of a thousand similar wrecks floating on the turbulent sea of American politics.