Part 2 — THE STORY OF THE PICTURE.

John Bloomfield, a merchant of London, was the father of two children, to wit: Arthur Bloomfield and Polly Bloomfield, now Polly Brigs, wife of Allen Brigs. He came to this country about two years anterior to the commencement of the Revolution, and settled on a handsome country-seat, near the place where now stands our village. Mrs. Bloomfield died during the passage across the Atlantic; so John Bloomfield was a widower.

At the time of his migration Arthur was twenty and Polly sixteen years of age. The latter was shortly afterward married to Mr. Brigs; and the widowed father dying, Arthur determined to sail for the West Indies, for the purpose of trading on the capital inherited from his father, which amounted to some five hundred pounds sterling.

Within one year after he left America, he heard that the long expected conflict between the two nations had begun, and being fired with a love of liberty, he returned home to join the army of Washington, to aid in repelling the invaders from the American soil. He brought with him a young and lovely wife, who, shortly subsequent to his return, gave joy to his heart by the birth of a son.

The sister of young Mrs. Bloomfield, a still more lovely girl, accompanied her brother-in-law hither; and so beautiful was she, that many gallant knights paid homage at her shrine. Alice was modest—pleasing—fascinating—and none saw her but to love.

Arthur fitted up the late domain of his deceased father; and leaving his family, soon after the birth of his son, under the supervision of his wife’s sister, prepared himself for a season of warfare.

Mr. Brigs was settled where he now resides, but his was then the only tenement in existence there: so Mr. Brigs may be considered as the founder of the village. With the property obtained by marriage he purchased the soil on which he built, together with such implements of husbandry as present wants required. The distance of two miles intervened between the two families—consequently, they enjoyed the intercourse of neighbors, though it was not very frequent that they interchanged visits. They were, however, neighbors, and Mrs. Brigs ministered, as much as in her lay, to the wants of Mrs. Bloomfield during her confinement.

The struggle of death was drawing to a close. Arthur Bloomfield had returned to his family, and was happy—happy because his life had been shielded amid the strifes of war—happy because health was again the property of Mrs. Bloomfield—happy because he was a father!

One calm evening in spring, when a thousand blushing flowers

“Distilled sweet fragrance through the air,”

and when all nature reflected the smiles of God’s benevolence, Arthur Bloomfield was seated with his family in the shady alcove, recounting the dangers to which he had been exposed, and from which Providence had rescued him.

“Come,” said he, “let us bow ourselves before God, where we are, and return him thanks that we are all again together.” And they fell upon their knees on the green grass, while the father breathed forth his gratitude to his Maker, in a slow, touching, solemn prayer. Tears stood in the eyes of Alice, but she wiped them away with her soft hand, and the mother presented her infant boy before the throne of Heaven, for a blessing before she arose.

A sudden report of fire-arms threw a shock on the frames of the two females, and caused a deadly paleness to overspread the countenance of Arthur.

“Mercy!” shrieked Mrs. Bloomfield, clinging to her husband. “What can it be?”

“Be composed, dear,” returned the man; “this arm shall defend you!” And taking the child in his arms, he led the way quickly to the house, where, securing themselves within doors, they awaited the final issue. Mr. Bloomfield armed himself with a sword, and planted his stand at the open window, where he could overlook the foreground, and detect approaching danger.

The moon shone brightly, lighting up the landscape with her mellow beams, and shedding rays of grandeur on the world. There he stood, the only earthly protector of his wife and son and sister-in-law, hardly daring to hope success, in the event of an attack from a nightly assassin; while the fear-stricken females breathed heavily and tremulously near his back.

That night of blood and death passed away, and the first beams of the morning sun penetrated the dismal room where lay the bleeding bodies of three mortal beings—a husband—a wife—and youthful maiden!—The infant son was not there: the murderers had borne him away, and no traces of them could ever be found!

When the spring flowers again sent forth their fragrance, and the twittering birds began to build their nests, and when the ice and snow of winter had melted, and bud and blossom made the forest green; and the winds blew softly and pleasantly; and when every thing told that the cold season was gone, and sweet spring had come, busy preparations were going on throughout all the village for a wedding. Every little house, and tree, and fence had been newly whitewashed. The church steeple looked whiter than when first built, and every face beamed with a brighter smile, and every cheek glowed with purer health than ever. And whose wedding was it? Rumor abroad said it was one Mr. Dobbs, a schoolmaster, who was about to espouse the pretty Miss Brigs. But all the villagers knew that the parties to be joined in wedlock were Mr. Timothy Bloomfield (formerly Dobbs) and his sweet cousin, Miss Nanny Brigs, daughter of Allen Brigs, Esq. Miss Betty Lachevers, on hearing the degree of relationship between the “itinerant pedagogue” and Miss Nanny, had become perfectly reconciled to everybody, and to Miss Nanny in particular, and the day previous to the wedding it was generally understood that Miss Betty Lachevers was to be “chief cook and bottle-washer.”

The morning of the 15th of May, seventeen hundred and—no matter what—was clear and beautiful. The church-bell began to ring, and the villagers began to pour forth by two-and-two, dressed in their best, and each bearing a bouquet of richest flowers. They all proceeded to the house of God, where before earth and heaven, the pious minister united two pious hearts, between which there existed an attachment “sweeter than life and stronger than death.”

“Zooks!” said old Brigs, on this happy occasion, “I always thought well of the boy, but I’ll eat my hat if ever I thought he was my nephew, and was to be my son. Well! well! well!” And Mr. Brigs looked as pleasing as he knew how. Mrs. Brigs looked pleasing too. Solomon looked saucy at his sister, and she blushed and looked saucy at Solomon. Timothy felt as happy as ever man felt: and all was joy and life and gayety.

A few weeks more, and a petition was presented to the Legislature of one of the New England States, signed by one hundred and fifty inhabitants of the village, praying for an act incorporating the “Classical Seminary of S.” and within a few more weeks the “Classical Seminary of S.” was filled with pupils; and Mr. Brigs lived to see his prophecy fulfilled; and died to be mourned by all who had ever known him.