120 
Old Time Gardens 
dragging way for half an hour, when the minister 
became conscious of an intense coldness which 
seemed to benumb him in every limb ; and he 
tried to walk to the fireplace. Suddenly all in the 
room became aware that he was very ill, and one 
called out, “ He’s got a stroke.” Luckily the town 
doctor was also a deacon, and was therefore present ; 
and he promptly said, “ He’s poisoned,” and hot 
water from the teakettle, whites of eggs, mustard, 
and other domestic antidotes were administered with 
promptitude and effect. It is useless to detail the 
days of agony to the wretched girl, during which the 
sick man wavered between life and death, nor her 
devoted care of him. Soon after his recovery he 
solemnly proposed marriage to her, and was refused. 
But he never wavered in his love for her; and every 
year he renewed his offer and told his wishes, to be 
met ever with a cold refusal, until ten vears had 
passed ; when into his brain there entered a percep- 
tion that her refusal had some extraordinary element 
in it. Then, with a warmth of determination worthy 
a younger man, he demanded an explanation, and 
received a confession of the poisonous love philter. 
I suppose time had softened the memory of his suf- 
fering, at any rate they were married — so the promise 
of the love charm came true, after all. 
Amos Bronson Alcott was another author of 
Concord, a sweet philosopher whom I shall ever 
remember with deepest gratitude as the only person 
who in my early youth ever imagined any literary 
capacity in me (and in that he was sadly mistaken, 
for he fancied I would be a poet). I have read 
