THE OLD BUREAU, 
 
 AND OTHER TALES. 
 
 BY D. C. COLESWOKTHY. 
 
 Professions are nothing behavior and actions everything. Acts of obedience, lova 
 and mercy are wanted; and nothing else will satisfy the understandings of men, or th 
 purposes of God. JDHN NEAL. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 ANTIQUE BOOK STORE, 
 
 No. 66, CORNHILL. 
 1871.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year I860, by 
 
 D. C. COLESWORTHY, 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 STEREOTYPED BY COW1ES & COMPANY, 
 17 WASHINGTON ST., BOSTON.
 
 il 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 THE OLD BUKEAU 5 
 
 JUDGING FROM APPEARANCES ...... 15 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD - . - - . - " 26 
 
 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY . - - - - - 39 
 
 TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS 61 
 
 RELIC OF A BELOVED PASTOR - - - - - 79 
 
 NOT ASHAMED TO WORK 88 
 
 THE TAILORESS 98 
 
 BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY 113 
 
 A TALE OF MOOSE ALLEY 122 
 
 WIDOW AND SON 134 
 
 THE OLD KEY - - - -143 
 
 *THE REFORMATION 150 
 
 THE PROMISE FULFILLED 161 
 
 THE GOLD RING 173 
 
 THE HUMPBACK 183 
 
 POPULAR AND UNPOPULAR - - - ' - - 193 
 
 THE IMPRUDENT STEP ....... 205 
 
 A MAN AGAIN 215 
 
 THE ORPHAN 225
 
 IV CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 WHICH SHALL I MARRY 239 
 
 STOKY OF ELLEN 253 
 
 GOOD FOR EVIL - -260 
 
 THE OLD BOOKS 276 
 
 THE WOODSAWER 283 
 
 THE CLAY COVE MECHANIC 296 
 
 THE LAWYER ......... 305 
 
 THE AGREEABLE DECEPTION 319 
 
 " I 
 
 JOB DOBSON - 328 
 
 THE REVENGE ' 339 
 
 AN ADVENTURE 353 
 
 THE TWO APPRENTICES 362 
 
 DON'T BE DISCOURAGED 373 
 
 THE YOUNG MERCHANT - - 382 
 
 A COMMON ERROR - 391 
 
 THE BARKEEPER .400
 
 THE OLD BUREAU. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Where'er a single human breast 
 
 Is crushed by pain or grief, 
 There I would ever be a guest, 
 
 And sweetly give relief. 
 
 As I was passing down Exchange Street several years 
 ago, I stopped in front of an auction-room, to exam 
 ine the various articles that were exposed to be sold 
 under the hammer. I had been there but a few mo 
 ments, when I heard a female voice inquiring, "Is 
 this old bureau to be sold to-day ? " On looking up I 
 perceived the question had been addressed to me by a 
 young lady with a sad but pleasant countenance. I 
 replied that all the articles spread on the sidewalk 
 would be disposed of to the highest bidder. 
 . " I should like this bureau, if it goes low enough," she 
 said, pointing to an old-fashioned article that was stand 
 ing among the other furniture, " but I never bought any 
 thing at auction in my life, and as I see no woman here, 
 I don't know as it would be proper for me to bid." 
 
 " It would be perfectly proper," I remarked ; " but if 
 you wish it, I will bid off the bureau." 
 
 " If you will, sir, I shall be greatly obliged to you." 
 
 " How high are you willing I should go ? "
 
 6 THE OLD BUREAU. 
 
 " I don't know exactly how much it is worth, but if 
 it sells for three or four dollars, you may buy it." 
 
 " Shall I speak to a handcartman to leave it at your 
 house ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; I will call at noon and settle for it, and 
 have it taken away. I am very much obliged to you for 
 your kindness." 
 
 So saying, the young lady went away, leaving me to 
 wonder who she was, and of what use the old piece of 
 furniture could be to her. I examined it, took out 
 the drawers, but saw nothing remarkable about it. At 
 eleven o'clock, when the auction commenced, I was 
 present, and, after waiting nearly an hour, the auction 
 eer remarked, " We will now sell the bureau, what will 
 you give, gentlemen ? " One man offered two dollars, 
 another three, and I bid a half-dollar more. Four 
 dollars were bid four and a half, and five dollars. 
 I was astonished that the old thing should bring so 
 high a price. What could I do? 'See it sold, and 
 disappoint the lady ? The thought struck me that it 
 might have belonged to some friend, and she wished to 
 purchase it on that account, and, rather than disappoint 
 her, I resolved to bid again. Six dollars were offered, 
 by another, to my utter astonishment ; but when our 
 hand is in, and we wish for an article, we seldom let 
 another outbid us ; and so I offered, until the old bu 
 reau was run up to ten dollars, and I purchased it 
 for half a dollar more. Certainly, I would not have 
 given four dollars for it to use myself. However, I 
 bought it, and had it sent to my room, telling the auc 
 tioneer, if a lady should call for it to inform her 
 where it might be found. I examined it again and 
 again, and began to regret my purchase, feeling almost
 
 THE OLD BUREAU. 7 
 
 certain that the young woman would not thank me for 
 what I had done ; but I never . mourn over a bad 
 bargain ; my philosophy will not permit me to do so. 
 
 A little after dusk, as I was sitting in my sanctum, 
 the young lady came in with an apology for intruding, 
 and remarked, " You bought the bureau, so the auction 
 eer informs me." 
 
 " Yes, I bought it, but at an extravagant price, I as 
 sure you." 
 
 " What did you give ? " 
 
 " Ten dollars and a half." 
 
 " You astonish me. What can I do ? I had no idea 
 that it would bring over three or four dollars, and am 
 not prepared to pay for it to-night." 
 
 " I suppose it was foolish in me to give so much for it, 
 but I presumed you wanted it very much." 
 
 " I did, sir, and would not value paying double the 
 amount for the bureau, if I were able, rather than not 
 to have it." 
 
 " So I apprehended. Perhaps it may have belonged 
 to some friend of yours ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; that bureau was once my mother's " and 
 I noticed a tear come in her eye which she endeavored to 
 . conceal " but she is dead now, and I wished to keep it 
 in remembrance of her." 
 
 Thinking the lady might be poor, I told her she 
 might take the bureau that night if she wished, arid 
 pay me for it when she found it convenient. 
 
 " I am greatly obliged to you for your kindness ; but 
 would rather that you should keep it until it is paid for." 
 
 I urged her to take it, but she refused, saying "I 
 will see what I can do, and call upon you in a day or 
 two," and bidding us good-evening, she left us.
 
 8 THE OLD BUREAU. 
 
 There is something very mysterious about this wo 
 man, thought I. It may be that she is poor, and in 
 very destitute circumstances. But she shows an excel 
 lent heart, and the warmest attachment to a deceased 
 mother. Her education must have been good, and she 
 has evidently seen better days. And I thought the 
 next time she should call upon me, I would ascertain 
 something more of her character and circumstances 
 perhaps her name which I felt deeply anxious to 
 learn. 
 
 In a day or two the young woman called upon me again, 
 and with tears in her eyes, remarked, " I don't know 
 what you will think of me, but all the money I have in 
 the world is five dollars ; this I have brought you tow 
 ards the bureau you were so kind as to purchase for 
 me." So saying, she placed the money before me in 
 silver. 
 
 " I shall not take the money at present," I remarked, 
 " I can do without it, you may take the bureau, if you 
 want it, and when you are able, at some future time, 
 you may pay me." 
 
 She expressed a great deal of gratitude, and said, " I 
 should rather you would take what I have." And noth 
 ing I could say would induce her to receive the money 
 again. 
 
 "You appear to have seen some affliction?" I re 
 marked, as I saw the tears in her eyes. 
 
 " Not much, sir ; I must confess that I have not al 
 ways been as poor as I am at present ; for I have seen 
 better days. When my parents were living, I never 
 knew what it was to want for any thing ; now I can 
 not say so." 
 
 " How long have your parents been dead ? "
 
 THE OLD BUREAU. ' 9 
 
 " About six years since, my father died ; and it was 
 four years ago last Saturday when my mother was 
 buried." 
 
 At the mention of her mother's name, the tears came 
 fast to her eyes a tender chord was touched ^ I saw 
 it, and made no more inquiries, and she took her leave. 
 
 It was nearly six weeks before I saw the young lady 
 again. She then called upon me with the remainder of 
 the money that I had paid for the bureau. 
 
 I protested against receiving it at that time, think 
 ing it might have been inconvenient for her to pay it ;- 
 but she insisted that I should have it, saying, " I am 
 under great obligations to you for your kindness. Had 
 it not been for you, I should have lost the bureau, the 
 only relic of my mother ; for it was then impossible for 
 me to raise the amount you so generously paid. I shall 
 never forget your kindness." 
 
 " Do you wish to take the bureau away ? " 
 
 " I have spoken to a cartman, who will call here in a 
 short time, and have it removed out of your way ; for I 
 suppose you will be glad to get rid of it." 
 
 "Not at all. I am pleased that I was instrumental 
 in doing you a little service, and if ever you need assist 
 ance, I shall always be as ready to render it." 
 
 " I thank you, sir, with all my heart." 
 
 At this moment, the man- came for the bureau, and, 
 bidding me good-evening, the young lady left my room.
 
 10 THE OLD BUREAU. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I ask a lowly cot, 
 
 With sweet content within, 
 Where Envy shall molest me not, 
 
 Nor Pride shall tempt to sin. , 
 
 " GOING, going will you give but two dollars for this 
 excellent bureau?" exclaimed Mr. Bailey, the auc 
 tioneer, a year or two since, as I was passing down Ex 
 change Street. " Here, Mr. C." he said, turning to me, 
 " buy this bureau ; it is cheap enough ; it is worth more 
 for kindling-wood than it is going for just look at it 
 going, going say quick, or you lose it." 
 
 Two dollars and fifty cents, I bid, as I saw that it 
 was the very same bureau that I had bought several 
 years before for ten and a half dollars, and the bureau 
 was knocked off to me. 
 
 This is singular enough, thought I, as I had the ar 
 ticle carried to my room. Where is the young woman 
 who formerly owned it ? Who was she ? 
 
 I made several inquiries, but could not ascertain 
 who she was or what had become of her. The bureau 
 had been carried to the auction-room by an individual 
 whom ^Mr. Bailey never saw before, and all my inqui 
 ries to ascertain what became of the young lady seemed 
 fruitless. 
 
 Several months passed by, and still I heard nothing 
 of the young lady, when one day, not knowing but I 
 might get some clue to the former owner, I took out 
 all the drawers separately, and examined them. I 
 saw no writing whatever. In the back of the under 
 drawer, I noticed that a small piece of pine had been
 
 THE OLD BUREAU. 11 
 
 l' 
 
 inserted. It looked as if it had been done to stop a 
 defect. Prying it with a knife, it came out, when to 
 niy astonishment I found several gold pieces, to the 
 value of about fifty dollars, besides a note for twenty- 
 five hundred dollars, with interest, value received, made 
 
 payable to Sarah when she should become of age ; 
 
 it was a. witnessed note, and had been running about 
 a dozen years, signed by a very wealthy man, whose 
 reputation for honesty was not exceedingly good. With 
 out mentioning to a single individual what I had dis 
 covered, I immediately renewed my efforts to ascer 
 tain who Sarah was, and where she could be found. 
 
 I learned that a girl of this name formerly lived with 
 
 a Capt. P , and did the work of the kitchen. Of 
 
 him I could obtain but little information. His wife 
 recollected the girl, and spoke of her in the highest 
 terms. She believed she had married a mechanic, and 
 retired from the city, but his name she could not re 
 member. By repeated inquiries, I ascertained that 
 Sarah, with her husband, lived on a small farm oh the 
 road that leads from Portland to Saco. Taking an 
 early opportunity, I started for the residence of the 
 young woman. .After several inquiries upon the road, 
 I was directed 'to the house. It was a pleasant situa 
 tion, a little in from the road, and every thing looked 
 neat about the dwelling. As I drove up to the cot 
 tage who should come to the door but the very woman 
 I had been so long anxious to find. She recognized me 
 at once. 
 
 " Why Mr. C , how glad I am to see you ! Where 
 
 in the world did you come from ? Walk in and take 
 a seat."
 
 12 THE OLD BUREAU. 
 
 Her husband was present an intelligent looking 
 man to whom she presented me. 
 
 " I have often thought of you," she remarked, " and 
 when in Portland have been tempted to call and see 
 you ; but although I have not called, be assured I have 
 not forgotten your kindness, and I never shall forget it." 
 
 " But you seem happier than when I last saw you." 
 
 " Be assured, sir, I am. My husband has hired this 
 little farm, where we have resided for the last two years, 
 and we make a comfortable living, and are as happy as 
 we could wish. In the course of a few years, if we 
 have our health and prosper, we are in hopes to pur 
 chase the farm." 
 
 " What does the owner value it at ? " 
 
 " He values it at about fifteen hundred dollars. We 
 have had to purchase a great many farming things, or 
 we should have made a payment towards it." 
 
 " But what has become of your bureau ? " 
 
 " I fear I shall never see it again," she replied, and 
 after' a pause said "I believe I have never told you 
 how I have been situated ? " 
 
 " You never did." 
 
 " When my mother died, it was thought she left 
 some property in the hands of an uncle of mine, that 
 would come to me when I became of age ; but he said 
 it was not the case. With him I resided a short time." 
 
 "Was your uncle's name ," said I, mention 
 ing the individual who had signed the note in my pos 
 session. 
 
 "Yes, sir that was his name. He was very un 
 kind to me made me work so hard, and was so cross, 
 that I was obliged to leave him, and earn my living by
 
 THE OLD BUKEAU. 13 
 
 doing the work of a kitchen girl. One day I learned 
 that he was about to dispose of what little property my 
 mother had left, to pay an old debt of hers. As soon 
 as I found it was correct, I immediately went to the 
 auction-room, and found it too true. You know about 
 the bureau, the only article of my mother's property I 
 could purchase and had it not been for your kind 
 ness, it would have gone with the rest. The money I 
 paid you was earned in the kitchen. As I found it in 
 convenient to carry the bureau with me, I asked my 
 aunt's permission to put it in her garret, which per 
 mission she granted. On calling for it when I was 
 married, I learned that my uncle had disposed of it 
 with some other things at auction. I would rather 
 have lost a hundred dollars ; not that the piece of furni 
 ture possessed any real value, but it belonged to my 
 beloved mother" (a tear came in the poor woman's 
 eye), " and on that account I did not wish to part with 
 it. But it was gone, and it was useless to speak to my 
 uncle about it ; he was entirely indifferent about me 
 and whatever concerned me." 
 
 " Suppose I shall tell you that I have now that bu 
 reau in my office." 
 
 " Is it possible ! You astonish me, Mr. C . 
 
 Have you, indeed, the old bureau ? " 
 
 "I have, and what is better, I have something for 
 you here" taking out my pocket-book, and placing 
 the gold and note on the table " these ard yours." 
 
 " Why, sir, you more and more astonish me." 
 
 " They are yours. After I became the owner of the 
 
 bureau, I found this gold and this note concealed in one 
 
 of the drawers. There are nearly fifty dollars, and the 
 
 note is good against your uncle, for nearly three thou- 
 
 2 - *-'
 
 14 THE OLD BUEEAU. 
 
 sand dollars every cent of which you can recover, as 
 he is abundantly able to pay." 
 
 The astonished young lady could not speak for some 
 moments ; but when she recovered from her surprise, 
 she only expressed her gratitude in tears ; nay, more, 
 she urged me to take half the amount ; but I utterly 
 refused, telling her that it pleased me more to have jus 
 tice done to her, and be instrumental in adding to the 
 happiness of those I considered so worthy as herself and 
 husband, than to be the possessor of millions. 
 
 When I left, I promised to call on her soon again, 
 and, in the mean time, to make arrangements for her 
 to receive her just dues from her unworthy uncle. 
 
 When I called upon Mr. , the uncle of Sarah, 
 
 and made known to him the object of my interview, 
 he was disposed to treat the matter with indifference ; 
 but when I told him of the consequences of his refu 
 sal to do justice to a poor relative, when his course and 
 conduct should be made known, he at once acceded to 
 my proposals and immediately made arrangements for 
 the payment of the note and interest begging me not 
 to expose him to the world which I have never done 
 believing as I sincerely do, that he has heartily re 
 pented of his course, and is now a better and a wiser 
 man! 
 
 Sarah's husband purchased the farm on which he 
 resided, stocked it well, and is now an independent 
 farmer. It is difficult to find two happier souls than 
 Sarah and her companion. May prosperity attend them 
 to the close of life. 
 
 I often call at the farmhouse of my friends, and spend 
 there many a happy hour. It was but a week or two 
 since that I saw them, and they were cheerful, and 
 seemed perfectly contented and happy.
 
 JUDGING FROM APPEARANCES. 
 
 It is not those who make a boast 
 
 Of generous deeds which they perform, 
 Who for the needy do the most, 
 
 And find them shelter in the storm. 
 In humble life meek virtues spring, 
 
 To glad the heart, to bless and cheer, 
 That never fly on eagle's wing, 
 
 Or on the printed page appear. 
 
 " THERE goes old Jacobs, the mean man ! " exclaimed 
 a young person to his companion, as he was standing in 
 the door of a shop. 
 
 " Who is old Jacobs ? " inquired his friend. 
 
 "Have you lived in town six months, and never 
 heard of the fellow before ? He is one of the meanest 
 fellows in the place. He saves every cent he gets, and 
 hoards it up, but for what purpose no one can tell, as 
 he has but two children and they are well enough off. 
 And his dress shows what the man is. He buys the 
 meanest cloth, and looks like a lumper." 
 
 " What's the fellow worth ? " 
 
 " That's more than I can tell. Some rate him at a 
 hundred and fifty thousand dollars, some less. But 
 there's no telling what the man is worth. But his 
 meanness makes him notorious, no one respects him. 
 Why, he was neve'r known to give a cent to any charit-
 
 16 JUDGING FROM APPEARANCES. 
 
 able institution, and the poor might starve, for aught 
 he would care." 
 
 Mr. Jacobs was a man of some seventy years of age. 
 He commenced life a poor boy, but had contrived to rake 
 together quite a fortune. By those who had been less 
 successful in business, he was accused of all sorts of 
 trickery and deception. It was said that but little of his 
 property was accumulated by strict honesty. At the 
 time of which we speak, his wife had been dead several 
 years, and both of his children were settled in life. 
 Mr. Jacobs attracted some attention being somewhat 
 singular in his own dress and appearance. There was 
 nothing like pride about him ; he purchased for his own 
 use that kind of clothing which he thought would wear 
 the longest, without regard to the prevailing fashions 
 of the day. Whenever a subscription was raised for a 
 benevolent object, Mr. Jacobs was the last person called 
 upon. It was currently reported that he never gave a 
 cent for any benevolent object whatever. 
 
 During one severe winter, a fire broke out in town, 
 and consumed the dwellings of many of the poorer 
 class. The charitable portion of the community raised 
 a subscription for their relief, and many dollars were 
 contributed by the wealthy, and by men in moderate 
 circumstances. At this time, a gentleman called upon 
 Mr. Jacobs, and requested a few dollars from him. 
 After hearing what the man had to say, he remarked, 
 
 " I cannot put my name down, you know I never do." 
 
 " Isn't it your duty to give something to aid the suf 
 fering, Mr. Jacobs ? " said the gentleman. 
 
 " Perhaps it may be ; but suppose I don't choose to 
 give any thing ? " 
 
 " Put down a couple of dollars, you will be none the 
 poorer for it."
 
 JUDGING FEOM APPEAEANCES. 17 
 
 " No, sir ; I will not put my name down for a single 
 cent." 
 
 The gentleman left him, remarking to himself, " Old 
 Jacobs is the meanest man I ever came across. He is 
 not worthy to live in civilized society." 
 
 And he didn't fail to express his opinion wherever he 
 went. Stepping into the store of a merchant, he re 
 ceived a dollar from him, and then he related his inter 
 view with Mr. Jacobs. 
 
 "He is a wretched mean man, I know," said the 
 merchant, " you can't tell me any thing about him. I 
 never knew him to give away a cent in my life ; and I 
 have known him full five and thirty years. The chil 
 dren may beg at his door the poor widow may en 
 treat, and the suffering may beseech him, but in vain. 
 They get nothing for their pains. I'm glad there are 
 some men with souls in our community. But for them 
 there would be a world of suffering." 
 
 " Did I show you the letter that I received this morn 
 ing the letter that contained the money? " 
 
 " No. What money ? " 
 
 " I received a letter through the post-office that con 
 tained one hundred dollars for the relief of the suffer 
 ers." 
 
 " Indeed ! from whom did it come ? " 
 
 " I cannot imagine ; the only signature was S . 
 
 He is a benevolent man, whoever he may be." 
 
 " What a contrast to old Jacobs ! " 
 
 " The writer of the letter has a whole soul, but as 
 for Jacobs', it would dance on the point of a needle." 
 
 " True, he is a mean wretch." 
 
 The gentleman, after going the rounds of his dis 
 trict to obtain funds for the sufferers, found that he had 
 2*
 
 18 JUDGING FEOM APPEARANCES. 
 
 collected several hundred dollars, which were equally 
 distributed among the unfortunate. 
 
 A poor widow was called upon, and several dollars 
 given to her. She expressed her gratitude in tears, say 
 ing 
 
 " I have not a stick of wood to burn, and scarcely 
 any thing to eat in the house, and but for your kind 
 ness, I should have suffered. I always find that the 
 Lord raises up friends and will not let me suffer. 
 About three years ago, I lived in one of old Jacobs' 
 houses, and you know how particular he is to have the 
 rent paid on the day it is due. My quarter's rent was 
 due ; the money was ready, but I had nothing to eat in 
 the house. I was out of meat and potatoes, and had 
 but a dozen sticks of wood. Mr. Jacobs called for his 
 rent. I told him my situation, and asked him to take 
 one-half, and loan me the balance for a few days. He 
 refused, saying he must have all that was due to him. 
 I gave him every cent I had ; but the unfeeling man 
 only gave me a receipt, and left me. I never felt worse 
 in my life ; I had scarcely any thing to eat in the house, 
 and nothing to buy bread with. But the Lord was 
 good to me then, as he has been ever since. Just before 
 nine o'clock, somebody knocked at the door. It was a 
 cartman. He said he was directed to leave the articles 
 in his cart at my house. I thought it was a mistake. 
 But he had particular directions, he said, and would 
 not carry them away. I asked him who sent him, but 
 he said he did not know nor care, since he had got the 
 job, and was paid for it. There was a half-barrel of 
 flour, a leg of bacon, a bushel of potatoes, some sugar 
 and tea ; and I assure you, sir, no person was ever more 
 grateful. Who the benevolent man was that remem-
 
 JUDGING PEOM APPEARANCES. 19 
 
 bored me, I never knew, and probably never shall. 
 The present you have given me reminds me of the past. 
 A thousand thanks for your kindness ; Heaven will re 
 ward you." 
 
 From every source the character of the old miser Ja 
 cobs received a severe handling. Rich men and poor, 
 the widow and the orphan, were of opinion alike in 
 this respect. He had but few friends, and seldom as 
 sociated with his neighbors. There were a few individ 
 uals who were as mean as Jacobs but they were not 
 as wealthy with whom he appeared to be on intimate 
 terms. From the earliest recollections of those who 
 had lived by his side a half-century, he was always con 
 sidered close and penurious. Whenever he was owing 
 an individual, however, it was always noticed that he 
 paid promptly ; but this was no virtue. He had the 
 means of settling every demand. His town tax and 
 his pew tax were paid on presentation of the bill, but 
 when there was a contribution in the society to which 
 he belonged, the deacons always noticed that he never 
 put into the box more than a half-dime,' and this 
 amount he never failed to give, whatever might be the 
 object of the contribution. 
 
 In the neighborhood where Mr. Jacobs resided, there 
 lived a young man by the name of Edward Mason. 
 His parents were poor ; but, when quite a lad, he de 
 voted much of his time to reading and study. The old 
 miser appeared to feel some interest in young Edward, 
 and repeatedly remarked that he would make a smart 
 man. Although the young man was in humble cir 
 cumstances, Mr. Jacobs never offered to give him a dol 
 lar, or otherwise assist him. 
 
 One morning as Mason was passing along the street,
 
 20 JUDGING FEOM APPEARANCES. 
 
 a gentleman with whom he was slightly acquainted, 
 stopped him and inquired if he would not like to enter 
 college. 
 
 " I should," said the boy, " but my parents are not 
 able to give me an education." 
 
 " I think, as you take to learning, that a classical ed 
 ucation will be of great advantage to you. For some 
 days I have thought on the subject, and now I'll tell 
 you what I propose to do. If you will continue dili 
 gent in your studies, I will procure the necessary funds 
 and have you enter college." 
 
 Edward thanked his friend, at the same time remark 
 ing: 
 
 " I did hope Mr. Jacobs would render me some little 
 assistance ; but now I have no Jiopes of him. He is al 
 most too mean to live, as every one knows." 
 
 Young Mason continued his studies, and when pre 
 pared, he entered college his friend furnishing the 
 necessary means. His vacations were spent at home 
 with his parents, and occasionally he called upon his 
 old friend' Jacobs, whom he found to be as sociable as 
 ever to him. But gradually he became weaned from 
 the miser, and took occasion to speak disrespectfully of 
 him. During one of the vacations, he called upon the 
 old gentleman, and contrived to pin a piece of paper to 
 his back, on which was written, " I am a miser ! " As 
 Mr. Jacobs passed along the streets he heard much 
 laughter, but did not suspect the cause till he called 
 into a merchant's counting-room, who, seeing the paper, 
 pointed it out to him. 
 
 " This is some of Mason's doings," said the old gen 
 tleman. " He should have more respect for me, and 
 feel that I am too far advanced in life to be trifled with."
 
 - JUDGING FROM APPEARANCES. . 21 
 
 Ever after this circumstance, Edward was shy of the 
 old gentleman, but he was free to condemn his nig 
 gardly course and miserly disposition. When he was 
 with his associates, and Mr. Jacobs happened to pass 
 along, he would fling out some improper remark, that 
 caused a laugh at the old man's expense. Finally, Ma 
 son graduated, studied law, and commenced practice in 
 his native town. He had brass enough to be a good 
 lawyer, and impudence sufficient to succeed. Edward 
 had not been in practice but a year or two, before he 
 was engaged in a case in which Mr. Jacobs was an in 
 terested party. Mason was opposed to him. In his 
 plea he was very severe upon the old gentleman. He 
 touched upon his mean and niggardly behavior, which 
 had become notorious for a long series of years, and ac 
 cused him of being any tiling but an upright man. 
 He had never been known to be generous in a single 
 instance ; just like a sponge, he was constantly drawing 
 in, but letting nothing out. 
 
 "Everybody," he continued, "in this vicinity, has 
 heard of his disposition ; even the children shun him. 
 If I should repeat one-half the follies and meannesses 
 that are laid to his door, most of which are true, I have 
 no doubt you, gentleman ,of the jury, would be aston 
 ished beyond measure. But I will not rake up the 
 past. In the present case you have heard the evidence 
 on both sides, and, if you have an iota of common 
 sense, you cannot hesitate in whose favor to decide." 
 
 Notwithstanding the plea of Esquire Mason, the jury 
 decided in favor of Mr. Jacobs. 
 
 Having the name of being a hard character, no one 
 seemed to put any confidence in him, and his enemies 
 often resorted to the entanglements of the law, depend-
 
 22 JUDGING FROM APPEARANCES. 
 
 ing mostly upon his unpopularity for their success ; but 
 they were often defeated. 
 
 The name of Jacobs became so notorious on account 
 of his reputation for meanness, that no one pretended 
 to call upon him for charitable purposes. He was 
 known as the rich miser, and likened unto Dives of old. 
 
 He had lived to the common age of man arid longer, 
 and the period drew nigh when he must give up the 
 ghost. The old gentleman was taken sick, but he was 
 calm and collected. His minister called upon him of 
 ten, and from the tenor of his conversation, appeared 
 to feel a deep interest in him. 
 
 " I have not long to live," said Mr. Jacobs to his pas 
 tor, " and I know not but I am willing to go. I have 
 spent many years, and I hope I have not spent them in 
 vain. I trust I have done some little good, and I hope 
 I may do some more." 
 
 The minister was struck with astonishment at his 
 language. " He must be wandering," said he to him 
 self. " Everybody knows that he has been oppressive 
 to the poor, and saved every mill that came into his 
 hands." 
 
 " This is a wearisome life," continued the sick man, 
 " and we are not rightly judged. Our motives few can 
 understand. They are deceived in us." 
 
 " True," replied the pastor, " man cannot look into 
 the heart of his neighbor." 
 
 " Thus far I have endeavored to live a useful life, 
 and I hope to be at rest in heaven ; not on account 
 of my own righteousness, but I trust in the mercy of 
 God." 
 
 Just as the pastor was about to reply, Mr. Jacobs 
 said.
 
 JUDGING FROM APPEARANCES. 23 
 
 " As I do not expect to continue long in the world, I 
 wish to entrust to your care several papers, which you 
 will find in a small trunk in my desk. The keys are 
 lying on the window." 
 
 The minister assured him he would do as requested, 
 and took the trunk from the desk. 
 
 In a day or two after, the old gentleman died and 
 was buried. It was singular to hear the remarks that 
 were made after his decease. " He was no benefit to 
 any one while he lived," one remarked, " and I am not 
 sorry he is dead." " He was an old reprobate," said 
 another, " and the Devil has got him at last." " His 
 whole life was worse than a blank," remarked a third, 
 " and no one regrets that the old fellow is dead." 
 
 Mr. Jacobs had been dead but a few days when the 
 minister of the parish called some of his friends together 
 to examine the contents of the trunk, for there, they 
 were led to suppose, his will was deposited, and other 
 important documents. 
 
 Judge of the surprise of the gentlemen when, on 
 opening the papers, they found that, for the last fifteen 
 years of his life, Mr. Jacobs had distributed annually 
 from fifteen hundred to two thousand dollars among 
 the poor of his native place ! There were the docu 
 ments and receipts to show this fact. He had gone 
 through the city unknown and in disguise, and distrib 
 uted his money where he found want and poverty. It 
 was he who sent the money in a letter to the gentleman 
 who solicited charity of him, with such apparent ill- 
 success, when so many became homeless on account of 
 a disastrous fire. It was he who sent the poor widow 
 the flour, tea, etc., after she had paid her rent. It
 
 24 JUDGING FROM APPEARANCES. 
 
 was he who had repeatedly sent to benevolent societies 
 hundreds of dollars through the post-office ; and it was 
 he, too, who furnished the means of educating Edward 
 Mason, the lawyer, who treated him so unhandsomely. 
 He spent many hundred dollars for his benefit. After 
 leaving a few thousand dollars apiece to his sons, in his 
 will, the remainder of his property, amounting to about 
 one hundred thousand dollars, was to be kept as a per 
 manent fund, the interest of which was to be distrib 
 uted yearly among the poor of his native city. 
 
 When these facts were announced, the current of 
 public opinion changed. He whom they looked upon as 
 a mean wretch, now appeared little less than an angel, 
 and no language was too exalted to speak of the public 
 benefactor. 
 
 On a further examination of his papers, they found 
 hundreds of little slips of various dates for more than 
 two score years back, for cash received of A, B, C, etc., 
 for various sums of from five to . a hundred dollars 
 each. Thus had this gentleman gone about, and in se 
 cret distributed his money, helping the sad and de 
 sponding while hundreds were denouncing him 
 pointing the finger of scorn and calling him every bad 
 name they could think of. He suffered the reproach and 
 contumely of his fellow-citizens without a murmuring 
 word, and from those, too, who had received countless 
 favors from his hand. 
 
 After his death, everybody was anxious to do jus 
 tice to the man, who, when living, all pretended to de 
 spise ; and no one exerted himself more than young Ma 
 son, the lawyer. A large monument was erected over 
 his sleeping body, on which was inscribed his name and
 
 JUDGING FROM APPEARANCES. 25 
 
 age, and the day of his death, with the following line 
 beneath : 
 
 " JUDGE NOT FROM APPEARANCES." 
 
 Since the death of Mr. Jacobs, the inhabitants of the 
 town in which he lived have been extremely careful 
 how they judge their fellow-creatures. If a man has 
 the appearance of being mean and miserly, and a word 
 is lisped to his discredit, a dozen voices will exclaim, 
 "Don't judge him till he is dead remember old Ja 
 cobs." The old are respected and revered. No young 
 man, for many a year, has been known to speak a disre 
 spectful word to the gray-headed and infirm. The sin 
 gular life of Mr. Jacobs has exerted a happy influence 
 throughout the place, and hundreds every year, who re 
 ceive comforts from the interest of the property he leffc^ 
 speak of him with tears of affection. His memory will 
 never die. 
 
 3
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 "Tis not true wisdom to subdue 
 
 A foe beneath our feet ; 
 To cause the heart where virtue grew 
 
 To practise base deceit ; 
 To plant within the happy breast 
 
 A thought to give it pain ; 
 Or enter circles pure and blest 
 
 An impious end to gain. 
 
 IN the thrifty town of N , resided a gentleman 
 
 by the name of Jones. He was a trader, and, through 
 a series of prosperous years, had accumulated a large 
 amount of property. When a young man, he was se 
 riously disposed, and became a professor of religion. 
 As his piety had never been questioned by his brethren 
 of the church, he always continued a communicant. 
 In the common acceptation of the term, he was a Chris 
 tian. Within a stone's throw of Mr. Jones' residence, 
 in a neat but humble dwelling, resided a gentleman by 
 the name of Watson. He, also, was a trader, and did 
 business in the same street with his neighbor. This man 
 made no pretensions to goodness ; was not a professor 
 of religion, but attended meeting at the same church 
 with Mr. Jones. His circumstances were humble, and 
 though he attended well to his business, he did not pros 
 per as his neighbor. Mr. Watson belonged to that class 
 of men who are called sinners the world's people in
 
 THE WAY OP THE WORLD. 27 
 
 distinction from those who have united themselves with 
 some Christian church 
 
 We have said Mr. Jones prospered in his business. 
 Those who were professors with him of the like 
 faith always purchased their articles at his store 
 and when their friends from the country were in want 
 of goods, Mr. Jones was invariably recommended as a 
 safe man to deal with, and one who kept articles of a 
 superior quality " For," said they, " he is a member of 
 our church." The minister also patronized him. 
 
 Thus Mr. Jones prospered and made money fast. 
 He usually charged a heavy price and made ' a large 
 profit on his articles. Very few were disposed to ask 
 a reduction from his prices. The trader was stern, and 
 to request him to take less than he asked was equal to 
 saying that he charged too high for his goods. It was 
 generally sufficient to know that he was a professor, to 
 place implicit confidence in all that he did. If it were 
 whispered, by any one, that Jones did not deal fairly, and 
 that he took advantage of his customers, the church si 
 lenced the suspicions by their creed, which took none 
 to its bosom, who were not perfectly honest and trust 
 worthy. 
 
 The professor was never absent from his pew on the 
 sabbath, and at evening lectures he was a constant at 
 tendant. Here he was very active. Seldom would he 
 attend a conference meeting where he was not called 
 upon to read a portion of Scripture, give an exhorta 
 tion, make a prayer, or select a hymn to be sung. Hav 
 ing unlimited confidence in his own abilities, Jones sel 
 dom excused himself. He would beseech sinners to 
 give their hearts to God, not to love the world, nor the 
 things of the world, but, by a consistent Christian life,
 
 28 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 pursue the path to heaven. His voice was clear and 
 distinct, and, with perfect command of himself, whatever 
 he said gave perfect satisfaction to the whole church. 
 
 Morning and night he assembled his family, read a 
 chapter from the Bible, and then offered prayer. He 
 was very punctual in attending to his religious duties, 
 and never on any occasion, neglected to perform them. 
 
 Jones was a selfish man, however, and seemed to dis 
 like those who were in the same business with himself, 
 and used his strongest endeavors to prevent purchasers 
 from trading with them. But no man did he seem to 
 dislike more than his good neighbor. If a member of 
 Ms church was known to buy of Watson he would men 
 tion the circumstance to two or three of the brethren, 
 that they might look into it "For," said Jones, "we 
 are like children of one family we should strive to 
 promote each other's temporal as well as spiritual wel 
 fare. I patronize the brethren, and it is but just that 
 I should be patronized by them. 
 
 No one disputed his argument, and the offender was 
 persuaded to do right the next time, and strive to pur 
 sue that course which would be likely to give the least 
 offence to a brother. 
 
 It was with difficulty that Watson, by strict attention 
 to his business and economy in his family, could suc 
 ceed. The church and society threw all their patron 
 age in the hands of their wealthy brother, while he had 
 to depend almost entirely on transient custom. But 
 he did not murmur, and always treated his neighbor 
 with respect. When a purchaser could not be suited 
 at his store, he would invariably send him to Mr. Jones. 
 
 Watson was modest and unassuming in his conduct. 
 His pew was in a humble place in the church, his fam-
 
 THE WAT OF THE WORLD. 29 
 
 ily were neat but not extravagant in their attire, he 
 was constant in his attendance on public worship, and 
 gave good attention to what was preached. He felt 
 himself to be a sinner, and the tear of sorrow for dis 
 obedience to the just commands of God, would often 
 trickle down his cheek. Daily he read the Scriptures 
 and daily offered his secret prayer, in thankfulness and 
 praise, to his Father above. 
 
 Whenever a poor man came to his door, or an or 
 phan solicited charity at his hand, his heart was ready 
 to give relief. He would visit the sick and distressed, 
 and do all in his power to alleviate their sorrows and 
 their sufferings. The weary and the faint never went 
 unblest from his presence. 
 
 Jones, on the contrary, was selfish and mean. He 
 had driven so many poor and destitute from his door, 
 that but few ventured to solicit charity of him. When a 
 subscription paper was handed round to send missiona 
 ries to the heathen, or to support a school at Owyhee, 
 he invariably put his name down for a few dollars. But 
 he never visited the sick or the widow, excepting they 
 were professors and members of his church, and then 
 he would pray with them, and inquire if they were pre 
 pared to die and comfort their poverty by informing 
 them they should receive assistance from the parish 
 and perhaps go away and not mention their case. His 
 family were dressed in the best the market could af 
 ford, and a spirit of pride was encouraged and fostered 
 in his children. They were brought up to look rather 
 with contempt than love on those who were beneath 
 them. When of sufficient age, he sent his two sons to 
 college. " It is my determination," he said, " that they 
 3*
 
 30 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 shall be preachers of the gospel." With feeble talents, 
 unbounded ambition, and unrestrained pride, they had 
 but poor recommendations to the devoted life of a truly 
 Christian minister. But it is a humiliating truth that 
 we have more ministers of this description at the pres 
 ent day, than any other class. Rich professors deem no 
 life so honorable as a preacher's, and being abundantly 
 able, their children pass through college and come forth 
 ministers, as destitute of the true requirements of a 
 godly minister as it is possible for men to be. It is 
 such who spend their lives in wrangling on doctrinal 
 points cause dissensions and make the ministry a 
 hissing and a reproach throughout the whole world. 
 
 During one year that business was dull, Mr. Watson 
 had neglected to pay his pew tax, when it was due. 
 Being called upon, he stated to the collector that he 
 was unable to cancel the debt at present, but before 
 many days he would pay it. A few weeks went by and 
 on meeting the collector, Watson informed him that his 
 tax money was now ready. To his utter astonishment, 
 the gentleman replied, " Your pew was sold yesterday 
 for the taxes." 
 
 " Indeed ! and who purchased it ? " 
 " Your neighbor, Mr. Jones." 
 
 " But has Mr. Jones paid his last year's taxes yet ? " 
 " Why no but he is good for them at any time." 
 Watson was grieved at this treatment, because he had 
 never refused to pay his taxes, but merely put it off a 
 few weeks, till it was more convenient. Instead of be 
 ing angry and saying as perhaps Jones would, in such a 
 case " He may have my pew, he is welcome to it, I 
 will hire a pew in some other church " he went to Mr. 
 Jones to purchase it again.
 
 THE WAY OP THE WOKLD. 31 
 
 " You may have the pew," said the professor, " by 
 paying me five dollars in advance of what I gave." 
 
 "But you are aware, Mr. Jones, I 'knew nothing of 
 the matter. I would never have permitted it to be sold 
 for that." 
 
 " I can't help that, Mr. Watson. The pew was sold 
 and I bought it. If you will give me five dollars more 
 than I paid for it, you may have it, if not I will rent it. 
 There are three or four who have spoken to me about it 
 already. You can do as you please." 
 
 " Well, rather than lose the pew, I will give you what 
 you ask, although I do not think it right for you to 
 take it." 
 
 " What ! accuse me of doing wrong ? I am aston 
 ished at you, Mr. Watson. I can get double for the 
 pew at any time." 
 
 Without multiplying words, the poor man paid him 
 what he asked and was once more the owner of a pew. 
 
 Time passed on, and the Christian and the sinner 
 continued their business. The former adding wealth to 
 wealth, while the latter continued poor. One was 
 proud and overbearing the other meek and conde 
 scending. One loved the praise of men the other 
 was ambitious for the praise of God. As usual, the 
 church and society patronized the wealthy Jones, while 
 they passed by the humble Watson. 
 
 One morning, quite early, the professor called at the 
 store of his neighbor, informing him that he had pur 
 chased a lot of excellent land for two dollars an acre. 
 
 " As you find it rather difficult to get along," said Jones, 
 " I will sell you half this land about a thousand acres 
 on which you can double your money." 
 
 " But I am unable to buy land at present. I find it
 
 32 THE WAY OP THE WORLD. 
 
 exceedingly difficult to collect money enough to pay my 
 just debts." 
 
 " No matter for that. I don't want the money at 
 present. I will take your note on six and nine months, 
 and, in the mean time, you can sell the land and double 
 your money." 
 
 Here was strong temptation to "Watson ; but when he 
 considered the dangers of speculation, and that the 
 Bible said, that those who would suddenly become rich, 
 should have many snares he replied, " I think, sir, I will 
 have nothing to do with the land." 
 
 " You are unwise, very. Now here is a chance for 
 you to make money and make it, too, in an honorable 
 way. If you neglect this opportunity, you may never 
 have another." 
 
 " But suppose we should not sell the land, where 
 could I raise the money ? " 
 
 " Don't let that trouble you ; I will see that all is 
 right." 
 
 After a great deal of persuasion, Mr. Watson was in 
 duced to take the land and give his notes. He trusted 
 altogether to his neighbor, who informed him that he 
 knew the land to be worth more than double what he 
 gave for it, and there was no doubt they would both 
 realize a handsome profit. 
 
 A few days after this transaction, Mr. "Watson was in 
 formed by a friend that the land he had bought of the 
 professor was almost valueless, that it was not actii- 
 ally worth one dollar an acre and that was all that 
 Mr. Jones had given for it. Watson could hardly be 
 lieve that he had been so deceived, and on inquiring of 
 his neighbor, he made it appear that all was right, and 
 it would so prove in the end. But still Watson was
 
 THE WAY OP THE WORLD. 33 
 
 fearful of the consequences, because he knew very well 
 that he was unable to meet the notes when they became 
 due, unless the land was sold. 
 
 Six months passed away, and the property was un 
 sold ; but Watson was told not to give himself any 
 trouble, that perhaps they might dispose of it before 
 long. He felt easy, thinking his neighbor would not 
 present the notes unless the land was sold. But he was 
 mistaken. At the end of the nine months, both notes 
 were presented for payment. 
 
 " It is impossible for me to raise the money," said 
 Watson. 
 
 " But you must dispose of some of your property," 
 said Jones, " for I want my pay, and must have it." 
 
 He was reminded of the transaction, but Jones did 
 not seem to recollect any thing further than this, that 
 he was to pay the notes when they became due. His 
 neighbor left him, and the next day he received no 
 tice of an attachment upon his house for two thousand 
 dollars and costs of attachment. In vain did Watson 
 see and converse with Jones. He could get no satisfac 
 tion. He owed him fairly, and he must have his pay. 
 
 " But you will have to sacrifice the house, for nobody 
 will give what it is worth in these hard times." 
 
 " I can't help that. You must get some friend who 
 has money to bid it in." 
 
 " I have no friend with that amount who can spare 
 it at present. I know not what course to pursue, if I 
 am turned out of the house." 
 
 " Oh, you will do well enough. You have money and 
 friends, too I will risk you anywhere." 
 
 When the church heard what Jones had done, they 
 censured Watson for entering the land speculation. " It
 
 34 THE WAY OP THE WORLD. 
 
 is on account of his own folly that he is about to lose 
 his house. If people will speculate with the expectation 
 of making money, they must suffer the consequences." 
 
 Nothing was said to the professor. He was rich in 
 regular standing with them a brother in the church 
 and could not do wrong. 
 
 The day of the sale had arrived, and the notes were 
 not taken care of. Once more Watson called on his 
 neighbor to beg of him not to sacrifice the property, or 
 to turn him out of doors. "For you know when I 
 bought the land, I was urged to take it against my will. 
 It was only the promise that I should not be troubled 
 that induced me to sign the notes." 
 
 "A likely story, Mr. Watson. You know I want my 
 pay. Whenever I sign notes, I expect to meet them, 
 and should do it, even though I had to sacrifice all my 
 property." 
 
 " But what can I do ? I have a large family on my 
 hands ; and it is only by prudence that I am able to get 
 along without getting in debt. The times, you know, 
 are exceedingly hard." 
 
 " The house must be sold, and there is an end of it. 
 'Tis no use to whine to death because necessity compels 
 us to give up our property. 'Tis better to meet it like 
 a Christian" and so saying, he walked away. 
 
 The hour for the sale arrived, and the people had 
 gathered. The first bid for the house was made by a 
 friend of Jones, whom he had probably employed to 
 buy it in. One hundred dollars after another was bid, 
 until the sum reached to two thousand and twenty dol 
 lars. And that was the bid of Jones' friend. Just as 
 the auctioneer was striking his hammer for the last 
 time, a young man was seen coming up the street.
 
 THE WAT OF THE WORLD. 35 
 
 Just in time, be bid fifty dollars more, and now the con 
 test was between him and Jones' friend ; finally, the 
 house was knocked off to the young man for three thou 
 sand dollars. 
 
 " Whose is it ? " inquired the auctioneer. 
 
 " Charles Mason's," said the young man, and a frown 
 was on the brow of Jones. 
 
 " What does this mean ? " said he to the young man. 
 
 Without deigning to reply, " Mr. Watson ! " said the 
 purchaser and the poor man stepped to him, weeping 
 "Mr. Watson, I have bought this house it was 
 taken from you by the spirit of avarice I now make 
 you a present of it the house is yours." 
 
 The poor man fell on the neck of the young man, and 
 embraced him, and wept like a child, while the specta 
 tors gathered round, unable to solve the mystery. 
 
 " Charles Mason," said Jones, as soon as Watson 
 arose, "you are no longer worthy of my confidence, 
 and from this time I forbid you an entrance to my 
 house." 
 
 " Wretch ! begone ! " exclaimed the young man, " you 
 will yet receive the just reward of your oppression." 
 
 Amid the hisses of a few, the professor hurried away, 
 muttering something which could not be heard, but his 
 anger was seen to be at its highest pitch. 
 
 " Come with me, my benefactor, my best friend," at 
 last said Watson through his tears, and the young man 
 followed him to the house. 
 
 The family were weeping. "Dry your tears and 
 bless God," said the husband and father, as he closed 
 the door, and bid the young man be seated. 
 
 " To this gentleman we owe every thing ; he has 
 bought the house but, sir, explain the mystery."
 
 36 THE WAY OF THE WOELD. 
 
 "You know, Mr. Watson," said Charles, "that I 
 have been in the store of Mr. Jones for many years. I 
 am knowing to much of his strange conduct, but I am 
 well acquainted with the course he has pursued tow 
 ards you the manner in which he wronged you. I 
 could not endure to see a poor man brought into diffi 
 culty, and then turned out of doors by the avarice of 
 one who pretends to be a Christian. Sir, it is your self- 
 denying, Christian conduct and his spirit of evil, that 
 has moved me to thwart his designs, and make you 
 still happy in your dwelling. It is yours. The deed I 
 have done since I have entered this room, has made me 
 the happiest of men." 
 
 There was not a dry eye present. The family gath 
 ered around their benefactor, and expressed their grati 
 tude upon their knees, invoking the blessing of Heaven 
 upon him nor would they permit him to depart with 
 out his assurance that he would call and see them on 
 the following day. 
 
 Charles Mason was ;he son of a rich man, who left 
 him at his decease several thousand dollars, which was 
 now at interest. He had spent several years in the 
 store of Mr. Jones, to whom he had loaned part of his 
 money. The next day, on calling upon him, he was 
 coolly received. 
 
 " I have no further use for your services," said he. 
 " Such conduct as yours merits my sovereign contempt." 
 
 " Your conduct, sir, and I do not hesitate to say it, 
 is as far removed from that enjoined by Him you pro 
 fess to serve-, as heaven is from hell. It must be de 
 spised by all honorable men." 
 
 " Enough of your sauciness ; let me have no more of 
 it, or you shall leave the shop instantly."
 
 THE WAY OP THE WORLD. 37 
 
 " Mr. Jones, but give me a draft for what is due me, 
 and I will trouble you no more." 
 
 As Jones handed it to him, he exclaimed, " Begone, 
 you wretch ! " and the noble youth walked away without 
 deigning to notice his remark. 
 
 Charles immediately settled for the house he had pur 
 chased took a deed of the land and put the bal 
 ance of his property into the stock of Mr. Watson, and 
 entered into copartnership with him. 
 
 Day by day their business increased. Since Charles 
 left Jones, many of the old customers had followed him 
 to the new store, and now gave him their trade. They 
 had as much as they could do. The conduct of Jones 
 was spoken of and despised by all, while the noble 
 course of the young man was commended as worthy of 
 all praise. 
 
 A twelvemonth did not elapse after the young man 
 went into business with Watson, before he led to the al 
 tar as gentle and lovely a creature as ever breathed. 
 It was Eliza Watson, the daughter of the kind and be 
 nevolent man. She was every thing that heart could de 
 sire. Brought up by an estimable mother and a kind, 
 benevolent, and Christian father, she inherited a sweet 
 disposition, and a heart with no perceptible blemish. 
 She was just such a being to make a good man happy. 
 Two more contented, more affectionate beings never 
 lived. For years they prospered ; their course approved 
 by man and their walk and conduct consistent with 
 the precepts of Christianity. 
 
 Mr. Jones' business gradually declined ; but having 
 amassed a large property, and being stern and unyield 
 ing in his disposition, and active in the church, he re 
 tained his standing until the close of his life. He died 
 4
 
 38 THE WAY OF THE WOELD. 
 
 suddenly, and was buried with great pomp. On his 
 splendid tombstone was inscribed: "Blessed are the 
 dead who die in the Lord." 
 
 Mr. Watson lived to threescore years and ten, and 
 then died, trusting for salvation in his Redeemer. His 
 last words were, " Into thy hands, Lord, I commit my 
 spirit," and he breathed his last. 
 
 His remains were followed to the grave by the poor 
 and the orphan whom he had blessed. An humble stone 
 marks the place of Ms sepulture, on which is engraved 
 " For me to die is gain." 
 
 Charles Mason and his wife may be often seen on a 
 summer day, bending over the grave of the good man. 
 A little tree has been planted there, by their own hands, 
 which grows and flourishes. They have cherished in 
 their memory, the love and kindness of their father, 
 which will never be erased till their bodies sleep beneath 
 the sods of the valley, and their spirits are united to his 
 in the paradise of God.
 
 rv 
 
 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 
 
 Oh, dark and fearful is the path 
 
 That leadeth man astray ; 
 No blushing flowers to love it hath 
 
 No greenness spreads the way. 
 
 He is a brother and a friend 
 
 Who, when our lot is low, 
 With pleasant words will aid extend, 
 
 And wipe the tears that flow. 
 
 "BE a good boy, Henry. You are now fourteen 
 years old, and I have made arrangements with Mr. Si- 
 monton to take you into his store. Be obedient to your 
 master ; in all things be just and reasonable. I have 
 confidence in him, or I would not consent for you to go 
 from home. He will be kind to you, and always treat 
 you well if you do your duty. Be perfectly honest, 
 Henry: never take the value of a copper from your 
 master, even if you stand in great need of money. If 
 you do your duty, and are faithful to Mr. Simonton, 
 you will secure his confidence, and the respect of all 
 who know you, and become a useful man. Mind what 
 I tell you ; be honest, be industrious, attend strictly 
 to your business, and never associate with the vicious 
 and unprincipled." 
 
 Thus spake Mr. Jones o his sor, who was about 
 
 39
 
 40 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 
 
 leaving the parental roof for a clerkship in a store. 
 Henry was a dutiful child, and had received excellent 
 precepts and good examples from his parents. 
 
 " I shall try, father," said the boy, " to please Mr. 
 Simonton, and I think he will never have occasion to 
 speak a cross word to me." 
 
 " You must do your best to give satisfaction to your 
 master," said his mother. " Remember that you will 
 have to put up with more inconveniences than you 
 would at home, and that you cannot always do as you 
 would desire. Endeavor to be obedient to Mr. Simon- 
 ton, so that he will never have occasion to reprove you, 
 and so conduct yourself that he will never hesitate to 
 trust you." 
 
 With cheerful spirits and a happy heart, the youth 
 left his parents and entered the store of the merchant. 
 Mr. Simonton did an extensive business for the place, 
 and employed another clerk, who was about two years 
 the senior of Henry. His name was Charles Bedford. 
 It was not long before Henry became the companion 
 and friend of Charles ; the latter could not help loving 
 the former, he was so gentle and amiable in his disposi 
 tion. There was a difference in the feelings of the 
 youths. Henry was strict in his adherence to what he 
 considered correct principles. He abhorred deception 
 and profanity, and strictly observed the sabbath by at 
 tending church, as he had been brought up by his par 
 ents. But Charles would often evade and equivocate, 
 and sometimes utter falsehoods. When he was dis 
 pleased, he did not hesitate to make use of profane 
 words, and as for the sabbath, he did not believe in its 
 observance, and would often pass the day in strolling 
 about the streets.
 
 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 41 
 
 The boys boarded together with their master. One 
 night as they retired to rest, Charles remarked, 
 
 " I don't see why you are so plaguy particular about 
 what you do." 
 
 " In what respect, Charles ? " 
 
 " In every thing. You wont stay at home on Sun 
 day, you know, and seem to think it wrong to enjoy 
 yourself on that, day. I think, as we are confined to 
 the store all the week, there's no harm in enjoying one's 
 self on Sunday." 
 
 " But I take more pleasure in attending church than 
 I should in loitering about. In a good sermon I feel 
 considerable interest. I also like good 'singing. I 
 would not stay away from church on any account." 
 
 " And then, Henry, you are so particular to speak 
 just so. I don't know as I ever heard you swear. There 
 is no harm in using a few trifling words." 
 
 " But what good do they do ? " 
 
 "Oh! one appears better to use them and then 
 they come in so easy that I cannot help using them." 
 
 " If I cannot appear well without swearing, I shall 
 be contented to appear badly. I know I shall never 
 learn to use profane words." 
 
 " You will get over such feelings, by and by. You'll 
 never be thought any thing of unless you do ; and 
 there's another thing, you will not smoke a cigar. 
 What harm is there in smoking, I should like to know ? " 
 
 " It does no good. I have heard it said that smoking 
 leads to drinking, and that there are few if any drunk 
 ards who do not use tobacco in some shape or another. 
 You wouldn't wish to be a drunkard, I hope ? " 
 
 "No and I never intend to. I don't exactly like 
 4*
 
 42 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 
 
 your temperance societies ; I wouldn't join one on any 
 account. I like freedom from all restraint." 
 
 " I am sorry to hear you talk so. The temperance 
 societies, I believe, are doing a great deal of good." 
 
 " You are foolish, Henry, to think so. But you will 
 change your mind before long ! " 
 
 Thus the two youths conversed till they dropped 
 asleep. It was evident that Charles had had a different 
 education from his companion. His parents were of 
 that class who look upon mere morality as a virtue, 
 even though the heart be depraved. If outwardly the 
 man appeared well, it was sufficient and thus they 
 taught their children. 
 
 For a few months Charles and Henry moved on pleas 
 antly together, but a keen observer could have noticed 
 the bad influence that young Bedford exercised over 
 his companion. Being with him constantly, and hear 
 ing his conversation and observing his conduct, Henry, 
 by degrees, learned the disgusting habit of using pro 
 fane words, and was less particular in his observance of 
 the sabbath. He less frequently called upon his par 
 ents, and often spent his evenings walking in the 
 streets, or in some improper shanty, where the rum 
 glass was freely circulated. His mother saw the alter 
 ation in her son, but knew not to what cause to impute 
 it. One evening, when he called upon her, she re 
 marked, 
 
 " Henry, where is it that you spend your evenings ? 
 You haven't been at home for more than a week." 
 
 " I generally go with Charles Bedford." 
 
 " Where do you go ? " 
 
 " Sometimes to one place, and sometimes to another."
 
 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 43 
 
 " I am afraid, my son, that Charles is not so good a 
 Boy as he ought to be, and that he will lead you astray." 
 
 " So you always say, mother, when I go with any 
 body I like." 
 
 " But, my child, I never speak unless it is for y6ur 
 good. It troubles me to have you away from home 
 every evening." 
 
 " You no need to have any fears of me. I shall not 
 go into bad company." 
 
 " I have known many a boy to be ruined by bad as 
 sociates, and I fear that boy is not so upright as he 
 ought to be." 
 
 Thus would Henry's mother talk with him. She 
 was apprehensive that he would be led away by Charles 
 and ruined. Her fears were not entirely groundless. 
 Young Bedford was loose and irregular in his habits, 
 and had so insinuated himself into the favor of Henry, 
 that the latter did not hesitate to follow his advice and 
 example. Charles was in the constant practice of 
 using profane words, smoking cigars, and spending his 
 evenings among those who did not hesitate occasionally 
 to take a glass of cordial. Henry had learned to swear 
 and smoke from his companion, and every night he 
 accompanied him to his favorite resorts. Once Charles 
 took a glass of wine, and invited his friend to partake 
 with him. 
 
 " I should rather not," said he. 
 
 " Come don't be afraid." 
 
 "No I don't wish for any." 
 
 " It will not hurt you. Come come, drink a glass 
 with me." 
 
 Stopping a moment to think, he replied, " I will not 
 drink any to-night."
 
 44 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 
 
 " You are foolish, Henry." 
 
 " Yes, he's a devilish fool," remarked the retailer ; 
 " and I'll be bound he's been to the temperance meet 
 ings and heard that cursed Neal Dow, or that brawling 
 John Walton, or that notorious Joe Lord speak. Drink 
 away, Charles, and I'll drink with you." 
 
 " I am no fool, sir," said Henry to the barkeeqer ; " but 
 what use is there for me to drink when I do not need 
 it, and have not the least desire for it ? " 
 
 " Then drink to please your friend, who has so kindly 
 offered it to you." 
 
 " Suppose I drink one glass it maybe the ruin of me." 
 
 " Who told you that story ? John Crockett, I'll be 
 bound to say. Let John look at home. He has enough 
 to do to mind his own affairs." 
 
 " Who is John Crockett ? I don't know him." 
 
 " You don't. He has been whispering in your ears 
 more than once, that I can swear. Come, take hold 
 and drink." 
 
 " Yes, don't be fearful, my little lad," said one who 
 was lying upon a bench ; " don't mind what the tem 
 perance folks tell ye. What do they care about you or 
 anybody else ? All they want is power to rule the 
 state. Then they'll be satisfied. Come, my fine fel 
 low," he continued, rising from his seat, and patting 
 Henry on the shoulder ; " take one glass, just to please 
 us all." 
 
 " Do, Henry, do," said Charles, putting the glass to 
 his lips ; " there, drink. That's a fine fellow I knew 
 you were no fool ; " he continued, as Henry took one 
 or two swallows. 
 
 " I knew that youth was too intelligent," said the re 
 tailer, " to listen to the harangues of Dow and Walton.
 
 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 45 
 
 Keep him from their influence, and he will grow up a 
 fine fellow." 
 
 After conversing for about an hour in a like strain, 
 cursing the temperance societies and all who addressed 
 their meetings, Henry remaining the most of the time 
 silent, he and his companions went to their lodgings 
 and retired. 
 
 " What's the matter with you ? " said Charles, ad 
 dressing his friend, as he jumped into bed. 
 
 "What would my mother say, if she knew how I 
 have conducted? I have tasted of ardent spirits to 
 night." And the poor boy could not help shedding 
 tears. 
 
 "Your mother will never know it and certainly, 
 she would not object to your enjoying yourself, if she 
 did." 
 
 " But what will it lead to ? Who knows but I may 
 become intemperate ? " 
 
 "You'll be a fool if you do. Can't you now and 
 then take a glass of wine or cordial, without being a 
 drunkard ?. I pity you, if you can't." 
 
 " The greatest drunkards commenced by one drop. 
 If my mother knew what I have done to-night, she 
 would not rest till I had left this place." 
 
 " Your mother is like the rest of the Orthodox, al 
 ways borrowing trouble, and always afraid somebody's 
 going to be ruined." 
 
 Without extending the conversation, Henry closed 
 his eyes in sleep not, however, without resolving in 
 his mind never to go into a grog-shop again. 
 
 'Early in the morning, as he was passing down the 
 street to his shop, he met the retailer, who sold to his 
 companion the spirit the night previous.
 
 46 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 
 
 " All, my little fellow," said he, " I was much pleased 
 with you last night, and should be happy to have you 
 call on me again. That Charles Bedford is a capital 
 fellow. Follow his advice, and you'll make something." 
 
 Henry made but a word in reply, and entered upon 
 his duties at the shop. All that day he said but a few 
 words, while Charles appeared to be as cheerful as a 
 lark. He felt he had taken a wrong step, and disobeyed 
 a kind mother, and he was unhappy. 
 
 But, by associating constantly with Charles, the idea 
 that it was wrong to drink a little spirit occasionally 
 gradually wore away, and he objected less to go into re 
 tailers' shops. With his companion, Henry denounced 
 the temperance people as fanatical, and was as earnest 
 in condemning their course as any of his associates. He 
 now preferred the company of the profane and drink 
 ing to the steady and industrious, and often absented 
 himself from church on the sabbath. So much for the 
 influence and bad example of a companion. His par 
 ents noticed the change in their son, and entreated 
 him to keep aloof from bad associates ; but they knew 
 not the extent of his departure from their precepts. 
 
 After they had got through with the business of the 
 day, and supper was ended, Charles and Henry went 
 into their chamber, when the former remarked, 
 
 "I have an idea of taking a ride this evening 
 should you like to go ? " 
 
 " I don't know but I should. But where can you ob 
 tain a horse ? " 
 
 " Say nothing, and I will tell you. On the floor of 
 the shop, under the money-drawer, I picked up a two- 
 dollar bill." 
 
 " It probably belongs to Mr. Simonton."
 
 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 47 
 
 " How do I know that ? I found the money, and it 
 is mine. If you will go with me, I will hire a horse 
 and chaise." 
 
 After a moment's hesitation, Henry decided to go. 
 That evening, they spent the two dollars. Henry, by 
 the request of his companion, handed the bill to Mr. 
 Plummer, the stable-keeper, to take out his pay for the 
 horse. 
 
 Early the next morning, Mr. Simonton took Henry 
 aside, and remarked 
 
 " I have often missed money from my drawer. It is 
 unpleasant for me to accuse you of dishonesty ; more 
 especially one as young as you are, whose integrity I 
 never wish to doubt. But I must say, I have strong 
 suspicions that you are not so honest as you ought 
 to be." 
 
 " Sir, I have taken no money from you," said Henry, 
 shedding tears. 
 
 " Look here," continued Mr. Simonton, taking a bill 
 from his pocket-book, " did you ever see that before ? " 
 
 Henry saw it was the very bill he had passed to Mr. 
 Plummer the night before. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said he ; " I think that is the bill I passed 
 to the stable-keeper last evening." 
 
 " It is the very one, and it belonged to me, and you 
 must have taken it from the money-drawer." 
 
 " It was handed to me by Charles, who said he found 
 it on the floor." 
 
 " A likely story. But if it were true, you knew that 
 it belonged to me. But the story I do not believe. 
 Charles has been with me a number of years, and I 
 have always found him trustworthy."
 
 48 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 
 
 " It certainly is as I tell you," said the boy, sobbing 
 aloud. 
 
 " You should have wept before. I cannot consent to 
 have a dishonest boy in my employment. I shall di 
 rectly send you to your father." 
 
 " I am not so guilty, sir, as you may suppose, and if 
 you'll try me once more, I'll be more careful what I do. 
 I am sorry I consented to go with Charles, and would 
 not do it again for the world." 
 
 " I am aware, Henry, if I turn you away, and for 
 dishonesty, too, it will nearly ruin you. Who will trust 
 you again ? Where can you get a place ? " 
 
 " It is this thought that makes me feel so ; and I 
 know my mother would not sleep if she knew this. If 
 you will try me again, I will study your interest, and 
 never be guilty of a dishonest or improper thing." 
 
 " Henry, you know my feelings towards you. I have 
 felt a deep interest in your welfare, and have always 
 been kind to you." 
 
 " I know it, and for this reason, I feel so much the 
 worse," said the boy, continuing to weep. 
 
 " If I should consent to have you remain in my store, 
 you must turn over a new leaf to-day. I understand 
 you have been in the habit of late of visiting the miser 
 able grog-shops in Street, and spending your even 
 ings among the people who meet there to drink and 
 carouse and also that you have sometimes partaken 
 of the intoxicating cup. Is this true, Henry ? " 
 
 "It is true, sir I am sorry to say that I was led 
 away, and over-persuaded to drink ; but I will not do so 
 again. I'm ashamed to think I have abused your 
 kindness, and have come to this. If you'll forgive me 
 this once, I will give you no future trouble."
 
 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 49 
 
 "You know, Henry, I feel for your situation, and 
 would not hesitate to retain you, if I were sure that 
 you would be faithful to me and keep away from bad 
 associates." 
 
 " Just try me, sir, this once." 
 
 " Well, Henry, as you are sorry for the course that 
 you have pursued, and seem resolved to become a good 
 boy, you may continue with me, and I shall say nothing 
 about this affair. Henry, I wish you would listen to 
 my advice, and never go near a grog-shop, or spend 
 your evenings with a gang of unprincipled youth. Use 
 no profane words yourself, and discountenance their 
 use in others. When you came with me, you were 
 free from this charge, and I feel sorry that you ever as 
 sociated with other than upright and virtuous youth. 
 Guard your heart and your lips watch against temp 
 tation, and you will grow up an honest man, to be re 
 spected by all." 
 
 Henry thanked his master for his kindness, and re 
 solved, as he attended to his duties, never to do any 
 thing that would displease him. 
 
 When Charles had an opportunity of speaking to 
 Henry, he remarked " How did you like the old man's 
 blowing up ? " 
 
 " I don't blame him. We have both done wrong." 
 
 " He said but little to me, and he'll forget all about 
 it in a few days. Don't be so chapfallen, Henry." 
 
 " Mr. Simonton has been kind to us, and it makes 
 me feel unpleasant to know that he has had occasion to 
 find fault. We must try to conduct better in future." 
 
 " Don't be frightened too soon. We've done nothing 
 out of the way." 
 5
 
 50 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 
 
 " We have not spent our evenings as we should, you 
 know." 
 
 " What harm is there in enjoying ourselves ? I 
 sha'n't stay in the house for anybody, after my work 
 is done." 
 
 " I shall visit the shops in Street no more." 
 
 " The bigger fool you are." 
 
 " There is one thing we should look at, Charles. 
 While we disobey Mr. Simonton, and visit improper 
 places, we are injuring ourselves. Suppose we continue 
 in tho course we have pursued the last two months 
 what will be the consequence ? If we accustom our 
 selves to smoking, drinking, and swearing, the habits 
 will grow upon us, and we may become unprincipled 
 men and common drunkards. We should look a little 
 ahead." 
 
 " Enjoy ourselves while we can, I say. This is what 
 I intend to do ; but you are at liberty to become a dea 
 con if you please." 
 
 Henry did not feel like prolonging the conversation, 
 but he was surprised and grieved at the language of 
 his friend. He felt that he had erred, and was now re 
 solved on a different course. In the evening, instead 
 of going with Charles, he visited his parents ; and when 
 he retired to rest, he felt happier than if he had been 
 with unprincipled associates. It was late before his 
 friend came home. He remarked to Henry, 
 
 " I have had a glorious time this evening. I never, 
 in my life, enjoyed myself better." 
 
 " I am afraid you have not been in good company to 
 night?" 
 
 "If you were not a ninny, you might enjoy your 
 self too. Henry, why don't you join the church ? "
 
 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 51 
 
 " To tell you the truth, Charles, I wish I was good 
 enough to." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! so I thought. Well, every one to his 
 taste, I say." 
 
 Young Bedford continued to grow more unsteady, 
 and stay out later at night. He was generally cross 
 and disagreeable, and began to find fault with his com 
 panion. So different were the tastes and dispositions 
 of the two boys, that they now associated together but 
 very little, except in the way of business. Thus a few 
 months passed away. The leisure time with Henry 
 was passed in reading valuable books, and in various 
 kinds of study, to improve his mind. Charles seldom 
 took a book or a paper into his hands. Mr. Simonton 
 was still kind to the boys, and seldom spoke a cross 
 word to them. "While in his shop, they attended to the 
 business, and every thing seemed to go on prosperously. 
 One day, as Henry was sitting at the dinner table alone 
 having been detained at the store later than usual 
 Sarah Simonton, his master's eldest daughter, a girl 
 about eleven years of age, came running into the room, 
 and spoke to Henry 
 
 " Pa has lost some money, and you have taken it." 
 
 " What is it ? " anxiously inquired the boy. 
 
 " You have been taking some money from his drawer 
 at the shop." 
 
 That moment the girl's mother came into the room, 
 and took her out, leaving Henry astonished beyond 
 measure. He knew that he was innocent of the charge 
 of theft, and without half eating his dinner he has 
 tened to the shop. Mr. Simonton being alone, Henry 
 stated to him what his daughter had said. 
 
 " It is true, Henry, that I have lost several dollars
 
 52 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 
 
 of late, and it is unaccountable to me where it has 
 gone. Last evening I called Charles to me, and made 
 inquiries, but I could learn but very little from him. 
 Have you seen Charles with money of late ? " 
 
 " No, sir, I have not." 
 " Have you had any money ? " 
 
 " The last I had was the three dollars you let me 
 have a week ago last Saturday." 
 
 " Have you the bills now ? " 
 
 " No, sir, I have but fifty cents in the world." 
 
 Upon his stating thus, Mr. Simonton took him into 
 his counting-room, with Charles, who had just entered 
 the store. Being seated, Mr. Simonton inquired of 
 Charles, 
 
 " Did you not tell me that Henry had some money ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir I thought I saw him put some bills in his 
 trunk the other night." 
 
 " It is a mistake, Charles," said Henry ; " I have had 
 no money since the three dollars Mr. Simonton gave me 
 a little while ago, and my mother bought me some 
 things with the money." 
 
 " What made you think you saw him have money, 
 Charles ? " 
 
 " I saw him put something into his trunk, and I had 
 no doubt it was money, but I may have been mistaken." 
 
 " Now tell the truth," said Mr. Simonton, turning to 
 Henry " have you not money in your trunk ? " 
 
 " Not but fifty cents, sir." 
 
 " Have you any objection to let me have your key 
 and look into your trunk ? " 
 
 " Do you not believe me ? I tell you the truth." 
 
 " Just loan me the key of your trunk."
 
 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 53 
 
 " I have nothing in my trunk but what is my own." 
 The boy could not help from shedding tears. 
 
 By his reluctance to let him have the key, his master 
 supposed he might be guilty, and insisted on having the 
 key. 
 
 " Well, sir, you may take it ; but you will find that I 
 have not- been dishonest or deceived you." 
 
 Mr. Simonton took the key, and went directly to the 
 house. He opened Henry's trunk, and, after looking 
 a moment or two, stowed away in one corner, he found 
 a one-dollar bill. With more grief than anger, he 
 locked the trunk, and took the bill with him to the 
 shop. 
 
 Calling Henry into his room, he said 
 
 " I am pained to the heart to find that you have de 
 ceived me." 
 
 " Deceived you I have not." 
 
 " Do not add lying to dishonesty, I beg of you. It 
 will be worse for you in the end. It is better to ac 
 knowledge the whole. ' ; 
 
 " I have nothing to acknowledge," and the boy wept 
 aloud. 
 
 " I found this bill in your trunk," holding it in his 
 hand. 
 
 " Then it was put there without my knowledge." 
 
 " Henry, I am sorry to hear you talk so. For the 
 last few months, I have put the utmost confidence in 
 you. You remember your promise to me, when I con 
 cluded to keep you, and say nothing about the former 
 affair ? but I must dismiss you now." 
 
 " Say not so it will ruin me." 
 
 " I have tried you, after I found you not to be trust 
 worthy, and this is my reward. I regret you have done 
 5*
 
 54 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 
 
 this, but I cannot keep you longer. You may take 
 your trunk from the house, and go home to your father." 
 
 With his handkerchief to his eyes Henry left the 
 store, and went directly to his mother. He told her the 
 whole affair, amid sobs and tears. 
 
 " Never mind, my son," said she ; " the really guilty 
 person will be detected at last. It is hard to be ac 
 cused of dishonesty, but it will be best not to say a 
 word about it. Mr. Simonton is wealthy and we are 
 poor, and, if he were disposed, he could injure us a 
 great deal ; but he is deceived. By and by, when he 
 knows who is the really dishonest person, he will not 
 hesitate to do justice by you. Dry your tears, and for 
 the present you can assist me about the house. Per 
 haps you can find a good opening in the course of a few 
 weeks." 
 
 Mr. Jones exceedingly regretted what had happened, 
 when he came home to his dinner, but he whispered 
 not a word of reproach against his son or his master. 
 Like a Christian philosopher, he remarked, 
 
 " Never mind, my boy, innocence will be vindicated 
 in the end, while crime alone will be punished. Dwell 
 not on the unhappy circumstance, but be happy at 
 home, till you can obtain another place. It will turn 
 out right in the end. Your motto always has been, 
 * Look on the bright side.' " 
 
 When Henry took his trunk away from Mr. Simon- 
 ton's, he went into the parlor to bid Mrs. Simonton and 
 her daughter good-by, but they took no notice of him. 
 A tear in his eye told how keenly he felt the slight. 
 
 " But I'll not mind it," he said, as he brushed the 
 tear from his cheek. 
 
 In a few days he met Charles.
 
 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 55 
 
 " What a fool you was," said he, " to leave that monej 
 in your trunk. You might have known the old man 
 would find you out." 
 
 " I didn't put the money there, and you know it." 
 
 " I know it ? Tell me that again if you dare ! " 
 
 Henry made no reply and passed on. 
 
 It was not long before young Jones obtained another 
 situation. He went into the store of a gentleman, who, 
 liking his appearance, asked him if he did not wish for 
 a place in his establishment. Henry was pleasantly sit 
 uated with Mr. Roberts, and gave perfect satisfaction to 
 his employer. He was attentive to his business, and 
 took care to improve the spare moments of his time. 
 
 Henry had been in his new situation about four 
 months, when he received a request from Mr. Simonton 
 for him to call and see him at his house, on the follow 
 ing evening. Without hesitation, Henry called on his 
 old master. When he was seated, Mr. Simonton and 
 he being alone in the room, the former remarked, 
 
 " You may think it strange that I have sent for you, 
 Henry, but I must tell you that I have done injustice to 
 you. Until very recently, I believed that you were dis- 
 "lonest and lied to me. My opinion is now changed. 
 Charles I believe to be the villain. I have missed 
 money at various times, and a few days ago I accused 
 him of being the thief; and I think I had sufficient 
 proof of his guilt ; but he used very insulting language 
 to me, and during the day, took away his trunk, and 
 went to the south, as I understand, in a steamboat that 
 evening. Since then I have found that he was very dis 
 honest. I have lost more than a little by him. Henry, 
 I am sorry I treated you so unkindly. I think you told 
 me the truth."
 
 56 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; what I said at the time, was what I be 
 lieved to be the truth. I never could tell how that 
 money came into my trunk." 
 
 " From what I have learned of Charles, I have no 
 doubt that he opened your trunk and put it in." 
 
 " I cannot believe that he would have done it." 
 
 " There is no doubt in my own mind. It has always 
 been a rule with me, when I have wronged another, in 
 tentionally or otherwise, to ask his forgiveness ; and it 
 is my duty to ask yours, for I have seriously injured 
 you." 
 
 " Say nothing about it, sir. "With all my heart I for 
 gave you a long time ago. I knew you had a wrong 
 impression, and hoped the time would come when the 
 real offender would be detected." 
 
 " Another thing I wish to say to you. I should be 
 pleased to have you come and reside with me again. 
 If you are, not engaged for any length of time with 
 Mr. Roberts, and will come with me, I will do well by 
 you." 
 
 Henry thanked Mr. Simonton, and as he was always 
 pleased with the general treatment he received while 
 he remained with him, he concluded to go with him 
 again. His present master regretted to have him leave, 
 but finally gave his consent, and Henry was once more 
 in the employ of his old master. 
 
 No man could be more kind to another than was Mr. 
 Simonton to Henry. He treated him as a son, and fa 
 vored him in a thousand ways. 
 
 Young Jones remained with his kind master till he 
 became of age, and soon after, he was taken into equal 
 copartnership with him. The firm of Simonton and 
 Jones did as much business in their line as any two
 
 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 57 
 
 firms in the place. For moral worth and sterling in 
 tegrity, no men in the community stood higher. They 
 dealt fairly and honorably with all, and were perfectly 
 free from those contracted views and mean contrivances 
 that make so many detested and abhorred. 
 
 In a few years, Henry had acquired some little prop 
 erty, and in a pleasant part of the town, he built him 
 a neat and commodious house. "When his dwelling 
 was completed, he married Sarah, the daughter of Mr. 
 Simonton, than whom a kinder and more agreeable 
 young woman could nowhere be found. She was well 
 calculated to make him happy and two more con 
 genial hearts probably never came together. 
 
 Mr. Jones had been in business something like six 
 years, when he took a journey to the south, partly for 
 business and partly for pleasure. Among other states 
 he visited, he went to Louisiana, and spent several 
 weeks. One day, in New Orleans, he saw several per 
 sons gathering, and inquiring the cause, he was told 
 that a thief had just been placed in the pillory. On his 
 head was a paper cap on which was printed, in large let 
 ters, the word volense. Henry thought the countenance 
 of the felon was familiar, and in a moment it struck him 
 that it was his old companion, Charles Bedford. He could 
 not be mistaken it was he. But the marks of degrada 
 tion were on his person. He had the appearance of a man 
 of forty-five, when in fact he was not more than thirty. 
 A tear or two struggled down the cheek of Henry as he 
 gazed upon the miserable man. On the breast of the 
 thief was a placard, upon which his crime and sentence 
 were written. He had been stealing, and was to stand 
 in the pillory one hour, and then receive twenty lashes. 
 Henry waited and saw the punishment inflicted upon tho
 
 58 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 
 
 person of the young man, nearly every blow of the 
 whip drawing blood with it. Though a painful sight, 
 he remained till he saw the poor fellow removed for the 
 dressing of his wounds. 
 
 That day Henry called upon him, but he found him a 
 miserably wicked and polluted being. Without at first 
 making himself known, he remarked 
 
 " My good friend, what has brought you to this con 
 dition ? if I may ask you the question." 
 
 "Intemperance and dishonesty. I have brought it 
 all on myself." 
 
 "There is a chance for your reformation why not 
 forsake the bowl ? " 
 
 " Sir, I am too far gone, now ; I am houseless and 
 friendless." 
 
 " None are beyond the reach of hope, while they can 
 move and breathe. You may yet be a man again." 
 
 Seeing him in much pain from his chastisement, 
 Henry left him, promising to call again in a day or two. 
 But feeling a sympathy for the poor fallen wreck of hu 
 manity, the next day he was at his side, with some tri 
 fles he had bought for his nourishment. The unhappy 
 man appeared exceedingly grateful, and thanked Henry 
 with tears in his eyes. 
 
 " Who am I indebted to for this kindness ? " inquired 
 he. 
 
 " I am a stranger in this place." 
 
 " Sir, I can never forget you. No other person but 
 yourself has shown me any pity. I have done wrong, 
 I know. Once I might have been something. I com 
 menced early a career of folly ; but I knew not the bit 
 ter consequences till now." 
 
 " You are not now too old to reform. Give me your
 
 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 59 
 
 word that you will from this time cease to drink ardent 
 spirits, and become a reformed man, and I will see what 
 I can do for you." 
 
 " Sir, your kindness astonishes me. Can I have one 
 friend in the world? Is there yet hope for me? 
 sir" and tears checked his utterance. 
 
 " You have a friend in me, if you will do your duty." 
 
 " I will try to with all my heart." 
 
 " There is one gentleman in New Orleans with whom 
 I am acquainted. Upon my recommendation, he has 
 agreed to take you as a porter in his store. If you are 
 faithful, steady, and honest, he will do well by you. If 
 otherwise, I am to sustain the loss." 
 
 " A thousand thanks, sir ! I will become a man again. 
 Such kindness I never expected to see. Sir, what may 
 I call your name ? " 
 
 "Jones my name is Jones." 
 
 " Jones, did you say ? " and the poor fellow looked 
 up, astonished beyond measure. " I once knew a per 
 son by that name a fine little fellow, too would that 
 I had been like him but I wronged him" and the 
 tears continued to flow. " I will tell you what I did : 
 I led him away from virtue. God forgive me ! I took 
 money from our employer ; for we lived with the same 
 man and to screen myself I placed a bill in his trunk 
 wretch that I was and our master dismissed him 
 as a thief. How can I be otherwise than miserable, 
 when I treated a kind, honest, and virtuous youth in 
 this manner? What has become of him, I do not 
 know, but I trust he is yet virtuous and happy, while I 
 am miserable and wretched. You are no relation to 
 this Jones, who lived in a distant state ? " 
 
 " I know him well." 
 
 " You astonish me."
 
 60 HONESTY AND DISHONESTY. 
 
 "Charles, without longer deceiving you, I am the 
 very person ! Don't you know me ? " 
 
 " True as I live, it is he " and it was some time be 
 fore he could speak while the tears gushed in torrents 
 from his eyes. " Henry, my benefactor and friend, for 
 give me ! oh, forgive me ! " 
 
 " My dear fellow, you have long been forgiven. I 
 never harbor an unkind feeling in my heart, against 
 a fellow-creature." 
 
 For an hour they conversed together, and each re 
 lated the history of his past life. Charles had suf 
 fered every thing but death. He had been degraded 
 and miserable in the extreme. Several times had he 
 been imprisoned for his dishonesty. But now by the 
 kindness of his friend he resolved to reform, and before 
 Henry left the place, he saw him pleasantly situated in 
 a store, where, if he should prove faithful, the prospect 
 of a good living and something more was before him. 
 
 Henry returned to his native place after an absence 
 of one or two months, and continued to prosper in his 
 business. He occasionally received letters from Charles, 
 who had faithfully kept his promise, and become an al 
 tered man. The last time he heard from him, he had 
 been promoted to chief clerk in the establishment, and 
 was about taking to himself a wife. 
 
 We have but little to add to our story. Though vir 
 tue for a time may be cast down, yet will she triumph 
 at last. All should remember this fact, and let nothing 
 keep them from the path of duty. 
 
 Kindness will work wonders in the human heart. 
 When a man errs, reproach him, and you drive him 
 further from virtue ; but be kind ; persuade and encour 
 age him, and you change his heart and save a soul from 
 ruin.
 
 TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. 
 
 However dark the cloud may be 
 
 That lingers o'er your head 
 Bear up beyond the cloud you'll see 
 
 Bright fields of sunshine spread. 
 
 DOROTHY HENDERSON was the daughter of a farmer 
 who lived in Scarborough. Her parents owned the farm 
 on which they lived ; but as it was partly on a ledge 
 and the land poor, it was only by the strictest economy 
 that they made a comfortable living. In the fall of the 
 year Mr. Henderson would carry produce to the Port 
 land market, the proceeds of which enabled him to ob 
 tain the dry and West India goods that were used in 
 the family. As Dorothy grew older, she was of much 
 assistance to her mother in milking the cows, churning 
 the butter, and the like. Although she was not hand 
 some, the farmer's daughter was of an amiable disposi 
 tion, industrious and attentive to the duties of the lit 
 tle farm. Not living in the neighborhood of fashion, 
 Dorothy was not injured, either in body or mind, by its 
 fascinating influence. She. grew up, as nature designed 
 her, and was therefore healthy and happy. When she 
 was about nineteen years of age, her father took to 
 board the schoolmaster of the district, a man prepos 
 sessing in his appearance and well calculated to win the 
 6
 
 62 TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. 
 
 heart of a young woman. He was extremely partial to 
 the daughter, and occasionally took her with him to Port 
 land, where he had friends. The parents of Dorothy 
 were delighted with the schoolmaster, and fondly cher 
 ished the hope that at some future day he would become 
 their son-in-law. The daughter, however, was less pleased 
 with him than her parents were, and treated him kindly, 
 as a friend and nothing more. She did not wish to con 
 sider him in any other light than that of an acquaint 
 ance. There was a young man in the neighborhood, 
 by the name of James Smith, with whom she had been 
 intimate from childhood. He was quite poor but per 
 fectly upright and honest. It was evident that James 
 was attached to Dorothy, but his modesty and his pov 
 erty prevented his avowing his passion ; and it was only 
 as a neighbor that he occasionally called at the house 
 of Mr. Henderson. But when James saw the move 
 ments of Mr. Hobson the schoolmaster, his feelings 
 were such that we cannot describe. He had cherished 
 the hope for many years, that Dorothy, at some future 
 period, might become his wife, although to no one had 
 lie made known the feelings of his bosom. Had he 
 be.en made acquainted with the heart of the young wo 
 man, he would have had no trembling fears when . he 
 saw the attentions paid to her by Mr. Hobson. 
 
 One afternoon, as Dorothy and her mother were at 
 work, one of the neighbors called in to spend a few 
 hours. She brought her knitting-work with her, as is 
 usual in the country, so as not to pass any idle moments. 
 After conversing on various topics, the name of the 
 schoolmaster was introduced. 
 
 "Mr. Hobson appears to be an excellent teacher," 
 remarked tlie neighbor.
 
 TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. 63 
 
 " He is, indeed," said the mother, " and a fine man in 
 every respect." 
 
 " I see he is very partial to Dorothy," giving her a 
 particular look. 
 
 " As to that I cannot say. She has been to Portland 
 with him once or twice ; but it may be on account of 
 his boarding with us." 
 
 " There must be something else in the wind, I know ; 
 is there not, Dorothy ? " addressing the young woman. 
 
 " What do you mean, Mrs. Stacy ? " 
 
 " Why, don't you think highly of the schoolmaster ? " 
 
 " As a friend I like him ; I could not do otherwise, 
 for he. has always been kind to me." 
 
 " That's it, and you intend to marry liim ? " 
 
 " Why, Mrs. Stacy, you know better than to talk so. 
 I wouldn't marry him, feeling as I now do, if he were 
 worth as much as Captain Clapp or Matthew Cobb." 
 
 "Dorothy, mind what you say," said her mother. 
 " Always speak the truth." 
 
 " That is the truth, mother. As true as I live, it is 
 the truth." 
 
 " Nonsense, girl," said Mrs. Stacy, " you would have 
 him in a moment. I have heard girls talk before." 
 
 "Mr. Hobson is a gentleman, every inch of him," 
 said the mother, " and I should think myself lucky to 
 have my daughter obtain so good a husband as he will 
 make. But I don't expect any such thing." 
 
 " If that should happen, it would not be strange at 
 all," remarked Mrs. Stacy. " Girls in love always'talk 
 like your daughter that we all know." 
 
 " In love, Mrs. Stacy ! it is strange you talk so. 
 You know better. I care no more about Mr. Hobson 
 than I do for your husband ; believe it or not."
 
 64 TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. 
 
 " We'll see what a few months will bring forth. I 
 know what young women are. You can't deceive me." 
 
 " Nor do I wish to. I have no secret to keep, and de 
 sire only to tell the plain truth." 
 
 At this moment the schoolmaster came in, and hap 
 pened to take a seat next .to Dorothy. Upon this, Mrs. 
 Stacy gave a knowing look to Mrs. Henderson, and 
 touched her with her elbow, as much as to say, " What 
 I said was true look for yourself." 
 
 " A fine day, Mr. Hobson," said Mrs. Stacy, as soon 
 as he was fairly seated. 
 
 " Beautiful," the schoolmaster remarked, stretching 
 his legs. 
 
 " What's the 'news to-day ? " 
 
 " I don't hear of any thing at all. I just saw Dick 
 Parsons, who came from Portland, and he says hay 
 brings a good price." 
 
 "I'm glad to hear that. When are you going to 
 .Portland again?" and she touched Mrs. Henderson 
 with her elbow. 
 
 " In a few days, ma'am." 
 
 " I suppose you will take Dorothy with you ? " 
 
 " Why, y-e-s I suppose so." 
 
 " She'll be pleased to go, no doubt." 
 
 " You had better take Mrs. Stacy next tune," Doro 
 thy remarked ; " I think it would be highly gratifying to 
 her." ' 
 
 " Well, she may go if she pleases." 
 
 " Dorothy would cry her eyes out, if I should." 
 
 "Perhaps I should; try it, ma'am. You go, and 
 we'll see what effect it has upon me." 
 
 " I'll see about it." 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by the appearance
 
 TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. 65 
 
 of Mr. Henderson, who had come home to tea, after his 
 day's labor. It was not long before they all partook of 
 the supper prepared by Dorothy soon after which Mrs. 
 Stacy took her departure. Mrs. Stacy was a distant rela 
 tive of James Smith, whom we have mentioned before. 
 
 James was a constant visitor at the house of Dorothy ; 
 but poor fellow! he noticed that since the school 
 master had boarded at the house, the parents of the 
 young woman were not as social and as agreeable as 
 formerly. The reason he suspected, but he hinted not 
 a word. Hobson himself seemed to take particular 
 pains to treat him with contempt, and often in the pres 
 ence of Dorothy and her parents, took occasion to speak 
 disrespectfully of the young man. He would ridicule 
 his dress, his manners, and his awkward appearance ; 
 but Dorothy usually resented it and would speak in the 
 highest terms of her friend. 
 
 " There is not a better-hearted young man in town 
 than he," she remarked to the schoolmaster one day. 
 
 " Perhaps he is a fine fellow, but what does he 
 know ? " inquired Mr. Hobson. 
 
 " More than he appears to know, that I can tell you. 
 He has read a great deal, and is very intelligent. 
 There is not a sum in Pike's Arithmetic that he cannot 
 do, and he is familiar with grammar." 
 
 " That may be, and yet he knows but little. He acts 
 like a simpleton." 
 
 " He has never been in much company, I know, and 
 is very diffident. But I should rather see a modest 
 man than an impudent fellow any time." 
 
 " Look at his appearance. His coat sets like a shirt 
 on a handspike." 
 
 " He is not able to dress well, I know ; but the coat 
 6*
 
 66 TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. 
 
 he wears, was made by a fashionable Portland tailor, Mr. 
 Charles Rogers, I believe, and if it does not suit him, the 
 tailor is in fault." 
 
 " Well, there is nothing prepossessing about the fellow 
 I know that." 
 
 " So I think," said the mother. 
 
 " Why, mother, how can you talk so ? A few months 
 since, you told me he was one of the best young men in 
 the whole town of Scarborough." 
 
 " But I have changed my mind since." 
 
 " James has not changed. He is as industrious as 
 ever, and I'm sure he's as kind hearted." 
 
 Her mother made no reply, and Dorothy was glad to 
 drop the conversation. She now had a less favorable 
 opinion than ever of the schoolmaster. A day or two 
 after, he invited her to go to Portland, but Dorothy de 
 clined. Her mother, learning this fact, said, 
 
 " What has got into you, child, that you act so 
 strange? Why don't you go with Mr. Hobson, and 
 thank him for his kind invitation ? " 
 
 " For this simple reason, mother, I do not like him." 
 
 "Don't like him! what do you like, hey? why, 
 there is not a girl in all Scarborough, from Prout's Neck 
 to Libby's Corner, who would refuse him ; nay, more, 
 there's not one, I'll be bound to say, who wouldn't es 
 teem it a great favor to be waited upon by the school 
 master." 
 
 '* I can't help that, mother ; I cannot go with him." 
 
 "What in the world have you against him? " 
 
 " Why, what he said about James, and the manner in 
 which he has treated him has made me dislike him, and 
 I was never very partial to him, as you know." 
 
 " I think you are unwise, and by and by you will
 
 TEN THOUSAND DOLLAES. 67 
 
 regret your conduct. Mr. Hobson is the son of a 
 wealthy man and at some future day will have property 
 left him." 
 
 " That may not be correct ; but -if it is true, I should 
 not like him any better." 
 
 " All you care about, then, is that fellow, Jim, with 
 not a cent in the world, and, who, from present appear 
 ances, will never be worth a second shirt to his back. 
 
 " That James is a fine young man, I cannot doubt. 
 "With all his poverty, I would give more for him than 
 for a dozen schoolmasters like Mr. Hobson." 
 
 "You are a foolish girl; you talk more like Coot 
 Moody than ever I heard a female before." 
 
 " I speak as I think, and I cannot help it. As for 
 going with Mr. Hobson to Portland, I shall not do it." 
 
 " If you will be so foolish, you must take the conse 
 quences." 
 
 " In the. end, mother, I believe you will acknowledge 
 I am right." 
 
 Finding that he could make no impression on the 
 heart of Dorothy, the schoolmaster treated her with in 
 difference and affected contempt. At the same time," a 
 keen observer could have noticed that he respected her 
 in his heart. After the three months had expired, for 
 which Mr. Hobson was engaged, he left the house of 
 Mr. Henderson and returned to Portland. 
 
 On account of Dorothy's treatment to the schoolmas 
 ter, her parents had fallen out with young Smith, and 
 gave him to understand that his company was not 
 agreeable at the house. But lovers will meet, and many 
 a happy interview did they have. At the house of a 
 distant relative of James, Capt. Moses Libby, they of-
 
 68 TEN THOUSAND DOLLAES. 
 
 ten resorted to pass a pleasant evening. They had now 
 made known their love for each other, and" resolved, if 
 their lives were spared, at no very distant day, to be 
 come man and wife. 
 
 Although the parents of Dorothy were in humble 
 circumstances, the parents of James were still poorer. 
 Having a large family of children, Mr. Smith found it 
 exceedingly difficult to obtain the necessaries of life. 
 But since his children had grown up, and could work 
 for themselves and earn something, he succeeded better. 
 
 It was nearly six months after the schoolmaster had 
 left Scarborough, that James ventured to call on Mr. 
 Henderson. Dorothy had assured him of a welcome 
 reception. She supposed that the old affair had been 
 forgotten by her parents, and that now they would treat 
 James with kindness and attention. But she was dis 
 appointed. No sooner was James comfortably seated by 
 the fire, than Mrs, Henderson remarked addressing 
 her daughter, 
 
 " There are some men who never seem to take a hint 
 when they are not wanted." 
 
 " And you might have added, mother, some females 
 too." 
 
 " I never wish to make any uneasiness, but I have often 
 said, I did not wish you to invite persons to the house, 
 that were not agreeable to your parents." 
 
 " You may as well say what you mean as hint it. 
 James and I can understand you." 
 
 " I will be plain with you. Since you and James 
 treated Mr. Hobson with so much indifference, I have 
 not felt like seeing him, and have never wished to have 
 him enter the house." v
 
 TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. 69 
 
 " I'm sure James had nothing to do with it. I don't 
 think he ever spoke .a dozen words to him. I thought 
 by this time you had forgotten the schoolmaster." 
 
 " I can never forget what a fool you have been." 
 
 Dorothy said no more, and in a few moments left the 
 room with James. The tears filled her eyes as she said, 
 
 " You mustn't mind what mother says ; you know 
 my feelings ; we shall yet be happy." 
 
 " No," said James ; " I am sorry she feels so, but it 
 would be of no use for me to say a word. It would 
 only make the matter worse. If I were you, I would 
 not mention the subject to her after I am gone." 
 
 " I shall not. I am glad you take it so philosophi 
 cally." 
 
 In a few moments, James started for his home, and 
 Dorothy went back to her mother. 
 
 "I'm astonished that you should think of asking 
 that fellow here," said Mrs. Henderson, "when you 
 know how your father and I look upon him. I can't 
 bear the sight of him." 
 
 "Mother, tell me what he has done that you feel so. 
 Is he a rogue and a villain ? Has he been guilty of 
 theft, or of any impropriety ? If you will point me to 
 a single act of his, that would be condemned by people 
 in general, I will have nothing to say to him." 
 
 "What and who is James Smith? He is thought 
 nothing of by anybody. There is not a female who 
 would keep company with him, if I may except Em 
 Moody." 
 
 " You mistake there, mother. A dozen girls would 
 be pleased to have him, he is so amiable, kind, and 
 industrious. Why, he has fifty dollars laid by, which 
 he has earned with his own hands."
 
 70 TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. 
 
 " Compare him with Mr. Hobson a gentleman you 
 might have had for your husband yes, you might 
 have had him and his father is wealthy. But no, 
 you treated him with contempt, while you received the 
 visits of that good-for-nothing Jim. I feel vexed when 
 I think of it, and have no patience with you." 
 
 " I believe Mr. Hobson was not a good man. I did 
 not like him, and I should never have been happy in his 
 company. Would you have me sacrifice my happiness 
 for money ? " 
 
 " You' didn't know what you liked. If you had kept 
 company with Mr. Hobson, you could not help liking 
 him, he was so amiable." 
 
 " I was with him more or less every day for three 
 months, but disliked him more and more. So what 
 you say could never have taken place. I never could 
 like him." 
 
 " What I want you to do now is, to have little to say 
 to James." 
 
 " I may as well tell you, mother, that I intend to 
 marry him before many months." 
 
 " What is that you say ?" 
 
 " 1 am engaged to James." 
 
 " If you talk so, remember you can have no home 
 with your parents." 
 
 "If I were in the wrong I would not blame you ; 
 but I think I am in the right." - 
 
 " I don't want to hear any thing more on this sub 
 ject. Never mention the name of Smith to me again." 
 
 So saying, Mrs. Henderson left the room while her 
 daughter remained indulging in no pleasing reflec 
 tions. She was attached to James ; he was upright and 
 generous, industrious and prudent ; and what more did
 
 TEN THOUSAND DOLLAES. 71 
 
 she want ? He was poor, but that was a trifle in her es 
 timation. They both were young, healthy, and strong ; 
 and if they ever should be united, she doubted not that 
 they could make a comfortable living. 
 
 A week or two after James had received the hints 
 from Mrs. Henderson, that he was not wanted in the 
 house, as Dorothy and her parents were sitting by the 
 fire, a neighbor dropped in, and inquired if they had 
 heard the news respecting a recent bank robbery. 
 
 " We have not," said Mr. Henderson. 
 
 " I understand," said the neighbor, " that, on Satur 
 day evening last, the Portland bank was broken open, 
 and -bills and specie to the amount- of more than a hun 
 dred thousand dollars were taken from the vault." 
 
 " Is that correct ? " 
 
 " I believe it is ; for I heard it from a gentleman just 
 from Portland.. He states the bank was entered by 
 means of false keys. The directors of the bank have 
 offered a reward of ten thousand dollars for the recov 
 ery of the money." 
 
 " Have they any suspicion who the thieves were ? " 
 
 " Not that I know of. I heard it hinted that possi 
 bly some of the money might have been brought to 
 this town and secreted in the woods, and several people, 
 in hope of rewards, will start to-morrow in search of 
 the money." 
 
 While Mr. Henderson and his neighbor were talking, 
 Dorothy slipped out and ran down to Mr. Smith's to 
 tell James what she had heard. She met him in the 
 road near the house, and related the story of the great 
 robbery. 
 
 " To-morrow, James," said she, " I' would get up early
 
 72 TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. 
 
 and hunt the woods, and if the money has been secreted 
 here, you may possibly find it." 
 
 " I will, Dorothy ; although there is no hope of such 
 good luck. For your sake I wish I might be so fortu 
 nate as to find the money and get the reward." 
 
 In a few minutes Dorothy was with her parents. 
 
 Young Smith, thinking so much of the money that 
 was stolen, could hardly sleep that night. He arose 
 very early and went into the woods, without making 
 known his object to any one. Hour after hour he 
 searched where he thought it at all probable the money 
 might have been secreted, but in vain. Being familiar 
 with the woods, he knew almost every thicket, and every 
 tree. After a search of many hours, he was about 
 giving up and returning home, when the thought struck 
 him that there was yet one place, where possibly the 
 money might be concealed. He hastened to the place, 
 lifted up the shrubbery, when to his amazement and joy, 
 he beheld the bags that contained upwards of a hundred 
 thousand dollars. What to do, James hardly knew. 
 If he left the place, others might come, and he lose his 
 reward. He waited a short time, when he heard voices 
 at a distance. He looked ; they were strangers. When 
 they came % up, they stated that they were from Portland, 
 (one of their number being one of the robbers), and had 
 come for the money. But luckily, James had first dis 
 covered it, and was entitled to the reward. Dozens 
 gathered about the spot, and the gentlemen removed the 
 money, and carried it to Portland. Just as young 
 Smith was going home filled with joy at his good luck, 
 he met Dorothy and told her of his success. Nothing 
 could exceed her joy as she bounded to her father's
 
 TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. 73 
 
 house. She resolved, however, not to mention the cir 
 cumstance to her parents, knowing they would very 
 soon hear of the good fortune of James. 
 
 A few moments after she had been in the house, her 
 father entered and exclaimed, " James Smith has found 
 that money, and will be entitled to ten thousand dol 
 lars!" 
 
 " What ! James found it ?" said the mother, " you as 
 tonish me ! Dorothy, what do you think of that ? " 
 
 "I '11 tell you what I think ; he will be a fool, if he 
 ever darkens our doors again." 
 
 " Why, we have always treated him well, you know." 
 
 "No, mother, no. It was only about three weeks 
 ago that you did the same as turn him from the house, 
 and you forbade me having any thing to do with him." 
 
 " You are wrong, Dorothy ; I didn't mean any thing. 
 James and I have always had a pretty good under 
 standing." 
 
 " mother ! how differently you talk now. Ten 
 thousand dollars in a young man's pocket makes him 
 a gentleman. If it had not been for you, James would 
 have shared the money with me." 
 
 " For me, child ; what do you mean ? " 
 
 " Why, you turned him away, and forbade my going 
 with him when he was poor ; now he is rich, do you sup 
 pose he has, forgotten your treatment ? I guess I must 
 try to hunt up the schoolmaster." 
 
 "Don't be so foolish, Dorothy. I don't care any 
 thing about Mr. Hobson." 
 
 " He's a fine man, and his father is rich, you know." 
 
 During the conversation between the mother and 
 daughter, Mr. Henderson scarcely spoke a word: he 
 knew that both he and his wife had not treated James 
 7
 
 74 TEN THOUSAND DOLLAKS. 
 
 as he deserved, and now they felt condemned. After a 
 moment's pause, he remarked, 
 
 "There is no mistake about it, wife, we have not 
 treated James as he deserved. We knew he was very 
 poor, and, without looking at his virtues, or dreaming 
 that he might become rich, have shunned and despised 
 him, and fairly driven him from our doors." 
 
 " That is a fact, father ; and not all my entreaties 
 would induce you to do differently. Now, what have 
 we lost ? Think of it. A better, kinder, and a more 
 good-hearted young man than James, cannot .be found. 
 I do not think I am the least to blame." 
 
 " I don't know but we have done wrong," remarked 
 the mother ; " and it is strange we should have treated 
 James so, when we had nothing against his character. 
 I wish we could see him, and acknowledge our fault." 
 
 " That would not answer, now," said the father, " it 
 would look as if the change in his condition had changed 
 our minds, as, indeed, it has." 
 
 " As you both regret the course you have taken with 
 James," said Dorothy, " perhaps it would be better for 
 me to see him, and explain all. If money has not 
 changed his affections, I shall yet be his ; and money 
 has not, I know. Had James a million of dollars, and 
 I were penniless, I know that he would stick by me to 
 the last." 
 
 The parents appeared to be satisfied with this, and 
 hoped the time might come when they could look upon 
 young Smith as their son-in-law. 
 
 The next day Dorothy had an interview with James, 
 when she related the conversation that had taken place 
 between herself and parents. " Now," said he, " there 
 will be no objection to our union."
 
 TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. 75 
 
 " None in the least, I trust." 
 
 " I have learned from the directors of the bank, that 
 I shall have my money in a few days. The whole re 
 ward they are unwilling to pay, because one of the rob 
 bers had confessed that he had taken the money, and 
 was on his way to its place of concealment ; but I shall 
 receive more than enough to purchase a fine situation 
 with all my farming utensils." 
 
 In the evening James called upon Dorothy at the 
 house. As soon as he entered, he was met by Mrs. 
 Henderson, who extended her hand, appearing very 
 glad to see him. 
 
 *" I am rejoiced at your good luck," said she ; " but I 
 feel ashamed of the treatment you have heretofore re 
 ceived at our house. You must forgive us." 
 
 " Say nothing about the past ; I never treasured an 
 unkind thought in my heart against you, and am as 
 ready to forget any slight I have received, as you are to 
 ask forgiveness. I always had the kindest feelings tow 
 ard you." 
 
 The husband, coming in, was as free to confess his 
 fault, and ask the pardon of James, who, with the fam 
 ily, was melted to tears. 
 
 " James," at last said the father, " we have been un 
 kind to you heretofore, but as you have shown a kind 
 and a Christian spirit, we cannot but admire your char 
 acter. Any thing we can do in future to promote your 
 happiness, we shall not fail of performing." 
 
 " Sir, there is one request I wish to make ; if you 
 grant it, I shall be happy ; it is your consent to my 
 union with Dorothy." 
 
 "Nothing could give us more pleasure. We shall
 
 76 . TEN THOUSAND DOLLAKS. 
 
 be proud of calling you pur son. Dorothy, what say 
 you to this ? " 
 
 " I'll give my hearty consent." 
 
 " And I'll agree to it, also," said the mother. 
 
 Never was there a pleasanter evening passed, and 
 .when James returned to his home, the thoughts of Ms 
 future happy prospects so engrossed his mind that he 
 found but little sleep. 
 
 In a few days young Smith received his money from 
 the directors of the Portland bank. The first thing he 
 did was to purchase him a farm in the neighborhood on 
 which stood a beautiful little house. 
 
 Not many weeks passed before he was united to Dor 
 othy. Old Parson Bradley was called upon to perform 
 the marriage ceremony, and the evening passed off 
 pleasantly and happily. The couple were accompanied 
 to their own house by several of the guests, where, after 
 giving them three hearty cheers, they left them, and 
 retired to their homes. 
 
 Some twenty years after James had met 'with Ms 
 good luck, he was in Portland on some business, and 
 was called to the poorhouse. While there, he saw a 
 miserable looking being, who appeared to be fast wast 
 ing away. Struck with his singular looks, James ap 
 proached him and entered into conversation with the 
 poor creature. 
 
 " You appear to be very unwell," James remarked. . 
 
 " I am feeble, and suffer a great deal." 
 
 " How long have you been in this house ? " 
 
 " Several years. I have seen better days, but intem 
 perance has brought me here, and here I shall probably 
 remain till I am carried out." 
 
 " Can the physicians do nothing for you ? "
 
 TEN THOUSAND DOLLAES. 7T 
 
 " No, nothing at all. A few months since as I was 
 employed in the yard, throwing bricks into the cart 
 that belongs to the house, our overseer spoke to- me to 
 do something else ; but not understanding him, I con 
 tinued my work. He ran up to me, and with all his 
 strength kicked me so severely that I fell, in great ag 
 ony. I never suffered in all my life so much as I did 
 from that kick. Now I cannot work and the physician 
 tells me it will be the death of me. I cannot inform 
 you in what way I suffer from the wound ; but no one 
 can tell how painful it is. If I were prepared to die, 
 death would be quite a welcome visitor." 
 
 " What may I call your name, sir ? it seems to me 
 that I have seen you before." 
 
 " My name is Hobson." 
 
 " Didn't you teach school some years ago ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I taught in Gorham once, and in North 
 Yarmouth, and also in Scarborough. Afterwards I fol 
 lowed the seas." 
 
 Mr. Smith at once recognized the sick man as Mr. 
 Hobson, but not thinking it worth while to let himself 
 be known, after making him a trifling present, he bid 
 him good-by. 
 
 To his wife and her aged parents, that evening, he 
 related this circumstance, when the old lady exclaimed, 
 " I thought Hobson would come to some miserable end, 
 for he had an evil eye ! It was lucky for Dorothy that 
 she had nothing to say to him." 
 
 A few months after, James learned that poor Hobson 
 was dead and buried. 
 
 For many years, Mr. Smith and his wife lived on 
 their farm, enjoying the blessings of an industrious and 
 7*
 
 78 TEN THOUSAND DOLLAES. 
 
 virtuous life ; and for aught we know, they are living to 
 this day. The next time we take a ride to Scarborough 
 we shall certainly inquire for them, and have the place 
 pointed out to us where the hundred thousand dollars 
 were deposited.
 
 RELIC OF A BELOVED PASTOR. 
 
 'Tis every day the heart is pained 
 
 By word, or look, or deed ; 
 The real bliss that we have gained 
 
 Proves but a broken reed. 
 
 FOR many years the Rev. Mr. Johnson had been set 
 tled over the church and society in R . Being a 
 
 man of talents, and devoted to his people, he was re 
 spected and beloved by his hearers. Around the sick 
 bed, in the social company, at the place of business 
 wherever Mr. Johnson was found he had a peculiar 
 talent for making himself agreeable. His conversa 
 tion was animated, and his heart warm. Everybody 
 spoke in the highest terms of praise of the excellent 
 pastor, generous citizen, and Christian teacher. 
 
 Among the warmest friends of Mr. Johnson, were 
 Deacon Peabody and his wife. Too much praise they 
 could not bestow upon his discourses. In their estima 
 tion, they were exactly suited to the wants of his large 
 congregation. Although the deacon and his family 
 were strongly prejudiced in favor of their minister, 
 this partiality was not a criterion of their piety. A 
 
 pastor, of a different persuasion, who resided in R , 
 
 they looked upon as any thing but religious. In their 
 view, the Rev. Mr. Emerson was a blind leader of the
 
 80 RELIC OF A BELOVED PASTOE. 
 
 blind, and more fit for a money-broker than a preacher. 
 In the presence of one of his friends, the good wife re 
 marked, 
 
 " I do not see how you can sit under such a man as 
 that Emerson is." 
 
 Why not ? We all like him." 
 
 " He preaches abominable errors." 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 " So I have understood." 
 
 " But did you ever hear him preach ? " 
 
 " No, and I never want to. I should feel guilty if I 
 were seen going to his church." 
 
 " Then I must say, ma'am, you are not a proper per 
 son to judge." 
 
 "I believe Mr. Emerson is a wicked man, and 1 
 should feel dreadfully to have him a near neighbor of 
 ours." 
 
 " I am sorry to say it, Mrs. Peabody, you lack that 
 most essential trait of Christian character charity." 
 
 Upon this the good lady manifested her displeasure 
 by leaving the room. But Mr. Simons, who was well 
 acquainted with the deacon's wife, thought but little of. 
 the circumstance, as he had often offended her before, 
 by similar- plain language. 
 
 Mr. Johnson continued to preach to the satisfaction 
 and perhaps edification of his people, when, to their 
 grief, he received a call from a church in a distant 
 place to become their pastor. 
 
 "What will be the minister's reply? What will he 
 do ? Will he consent to leave us ? " were prevalent in 
 quiries. 
 
 "Nothing will induce him to leave R ," some
 
 RELIC OF A BELOVED PASTOR. 81 
 
 said. " We don't know about it," said others. " We 
 are so united in him that it would be wrong for him to 
 leave us," said one and all. 
 
 In a few days, however, the conjectures of the good 
 people were silenced, by the pastor stating to his friends 
 that he believed it to be his imperative duty to leave, as 
 it was a call of divine Providence. He regretted it 
 much ;' but the peculiar circumstances of the case, and 
 his duty to his family, led him to the conclusion. 
 
 Deacon Peabody and his wife could not be reconciled 
 to the decision of their pastor. He had been their 
 friend and counsellor in prosperity and adversity, in 
 sickness and health, and never failed to make himself 
 agreeable. Mrs. Peabody, with tears in her eyes, called 
 upon Mr. Johnson, remarking, 
 
 " I'm dreadful sorry you are going to leave us. Is 
 your -mind fully made up ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; I think it is my duty to leave R ; 
 
 but I regret it exceedingly. I have found many fast 
 friends among my people, and they nave been very 
 kind to me ; but I think my health would be improved 
 if I should accept the call and settle in S ." 
 
 " Why don't you leave for two or three months, and 
 then return to us again, and not take your final leave" ? " 
 
 " I think it would be better for the church to release 
 me and obtain another pastor." 
 
 " But it is so hard to part, we are so attached to you, 
 and you have been with us so long. I can't help cry 
 ing, when I think of your leaving ! " And the tears be 
 gan to flow afresh. 
 
 " I regret exceedingly that necessity compels me to 
 leave a people to whom I am so strongly attached ; but
 
 82 RELIC OF A BELOVED PASTOR. 
 
 when duty appears plain to me, it would not be right 
 for me to disobey." 
 
 " We must submit to God's will, although it is hard ; " 
 and, continuing in the like strain for a few moments, 
 Mrs. Peabody left the parsonage, and returned to her 
 house. 
 
 The thought of losing her beloved pastor preyed 
 deeply on the mind of the old lady, and it was many 
 weeks before she could feel at all reconciled to it. 
 Every time she thought of losing the " blessed good 
 man," as' she called him, the warm tears would fall 
 from her cheeks ; but when the last sabbath came, and 
 he was preaching his farewell sermon, you might have 
 heard the old lady sob half across the meeting-house. 
 
 In a day or two after, the minister and his family 
 took their departure for the town of R . Hun 
 dreds of his parishioners called to bid the family good- 
 by and many a heart was sad. 
 
 The "Wednesday following, Deacon Peabody took up 
 his daily paper", and read, among the advertisements, 
 that all the furniture of the Rev. Mr. Johnson would 
 be disposed of at auction on the following Saturday. 
 Mr. Simons was to be the auctioneer. 
 
 As soon as the advertisement was read, " I declare, I 
 will go," said Mrs. Peabody, " and buy some article to 
 remember Mr. Johnson by some little relic of his." 
 
 " So I would, wife," said the deacon. " Buy a tea-set 
 or something else." 
 
 " I will, husband." ;; 
 
 Till Saturday came, the deacon's wife was continually 
 talking of the auction, and occasionally remarking, 
 
 " The best articles to remember a faithful pastor by,
 
 RELIC OF A BELOVED PASTOR. 83 
 
 will be something he used in his family. As we use it, 
 it will remind us of the good old man and his faithful 
 instructions." 
 
 Early on the morning of the auction, Mrs. Peabody 
 was at the house so recently occupied by her beloved 
 pastor. She passed from one room to another, exam 
 ining the articles, till at last her eyes fell upon a tea-set. 
 
 " This I will purchase," she said to herself, " and use 
 it only when I have company, so as to keep it whole for 
 many years." 
 
 The bell rang, and Mr. Simons, the auctioneer,- and 
 near neighbor of the deacon, commenced operations. 
 The articles in the kitchen were first sold, every thing 
 bringing a good price, for nearly all the church and 
 congregation were present, each determined upon pur 
 chasing something by which to remember Mr. Johnson. 
 
 Finally, the auctioneer came to the tea-set a com 
 mon affair, ' ;. ' ' 
 
 " Ah ! " said he, " this is a beautiful set, what you all 
 want, and yet it will go for nothing. Examine it for 
 jwurselves, ladies, and bid something generous for it. 
 Mrs. Peabody, this is just what you want," seeing her 
 pass through the crowd to get another peep at the set 
 " what will you give for it ? Don't be afraid to bid, 
 give us something." 
 
 " Three dollars." 
 
 " Thank you for a bid, Mrs. Peabody, although it is 
 not half what the articles are worth. Three dollars 
 three dollars three dollars who will give four ? " 
 
 " Four dollars." 
 
 " Four dollars, did I hear ? Yes, four dollars." 
 
 "Five dollars," said Mrs, Peabody. 
 
 " Five dollars ! " repeated the auctioneer, " not near
 
 84 RELIC OF A BELOVED PASTOR. 
 
 its value ! , Six dollars six and a half going 
 who will bid again ? Seven dollars seven and a half 
 eight dollars nine dollars nine, and it is a shame 
 to sacrifice this beautiful set ! Ten dollars ten and a 
 half eleven eleven and a half. Only eleven and a 
 half going going it is your last chance." 
 
 " Twelve dollars," said Mrs. Peabody. 
 
 " Twelve dollars . going going gone ! Mrs. Pea- 
 body, the set is yours cheap enough." 
 
 Without stopping to purchase more, the good wife, 
 pleased -with her bargain, went home to tell her. hus 
 band, requesting a little boy to bring the set immedi 
 ately to the house. 
 
 " Well, what did you buy ? " inquired her husband, 
 as she entered the house. 
 
 "A splendid article a beautiful tea-set, for only 
 twelve dollars ! Ah, here it is," she exclaimed, as the 
 boy handed it in at the door, " here it is, husband, 
 this is what I bought." 
 
 " Did you give twelve dollars for this tea-set ? " 
 
 " Yes, and the auctioneer said it was cheap enough." 
 
 " Confound it, wife 'tisn't worth three dollars ! 
 Why, I can go down town and purchase a better article 
 than this for three dollars." 
 
 " But, husband, it belonged to our minister and I 
 would give more than that for it on his account." 
 
 " Curse our minister, I had almost said." 
 
 " Mr. Peabody, don't get angry ; I thought you would 
 be pleased with the purchase, I'm sure." 
 
 "Well, 'tis bought; I'll say no more about it, and 
 pay the bill when it is presented although it is so pro 
 voking. It is not more than a year since I sold just such 
 a set as this to Parson Emerson for less than three dollars,
 
 RELIC OP A BELOVED PASTOR. 85 
 
 I'm positive. But there, we must make the best of 
 a bad bargain, and keep it as a relic of our excellent 
 pastor." 
 
 "I'm sure it is an excellent set; and Mr. Simons, 
 the auctioneer, and our near neighbor, would not have 
 deceived me so much as you think for." 
 
 " I have heard auctioneers talk before to-day, I as 
 sure you." 
 
 As the deacon's wife put up the articles, she found 
 that several of them were cracked, which she had not 
 before observed ; but she said nothing about it to her 
 husband. 
 
 A few weeks after the purchase, Mrs. Peabody had a 
 few select friends at her house, and at supper time she 
 placed before them her new tea-set, remarking, " This 
 once belonged to our pastor, and on that account I value 
 it highly. I use it only on particular occasions." 
 
 All the ladies admired it, because they loved and re 
 spected their pastor. 
 
 A month after, the deacon and his wife were invited 
 to sup at her neighbor's, Mr. Simons. In the evening, as 
 luck would have it, Rev. Mr. Emerson and his wife came 
 in. Had Mrs. Peabody known that Mr. Emerson was 
 to be present, she probably would have kept at home, for 
 of all ministers, she abominated him. Several stories 
 had been reported, prejudicial to his Christian charac 
 ter, and she believed them, and pretended to despise 
 him. However, the company conversed on several 
 subjects, when the purchasing of articles at auction, 
 and the deception sometimes practised, was mentioned. 
 This was a subject in which the deacon's wife felt no 
 particular interest, but she listened to hear the others 
 converse. 
 
 8
 
 86 RELIC OP A BELOVED PASTOR. 
 
 " Do you remember my purchasing a tea-set of you 
 a year or two ago ? " inquired Parson Emerson of Mr. 
 Peabody. 
 
 " Yes, sir, I do." 
 
 " I gave you three dollars for it, I believe. Well, be 
 ing tired of it, and, as part of it was cracked, I handed 
 it to Mr. Simons to sell for me. What do you suppose 
 it brought ? " 
 
 "How can I tell?" answered the deacon, looking 
 as though he was thinking of something not very agree 
 able. 
 
 " It brought the astonishing sum of twelve dollars ! " 
 
 Oh, what a moment for the deacon's wife ! 
 
 " Mr. Simons took it into the room where Rev. Mr. 
 Johnson's articles were sold at auction, and it actually 
 brought twelve dollars was it not so, Mr. Simons?" 
 appealing to the auctioneer. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " It must have been a fool who bought it," one re 
 marked. 
 
 " I think so, too," said Mr. Emerson. " It was not 
 worth over two dollars." 
 
 " Who bought it ? " inquired one. 
 
 " A lady bought it," said Mr. Simons, a little embar 
 rassed, and he tried to turn the current of the conversa 
 tion. 
 
 In a few moments the deacon and his wife were on 
 their way home. 
 
 " Did not I tell you, wife, that the plaguy tea-set you 
 bought was not worth two dollars ? And it turns out 
 to be the very set I sold for three dollars so long ago to 
 Mr. Emerson." *
 
 EELIC OF A BELOVED PASTOR. 87 
 
 When they reached the house, Mrs. Peabody hastened 
 to the closet to look once more at her tea-set. 
 
 " Yes," said the husband, " it is the very set I sold so 
 long ago; our pastor never owned it it was merely 
 put into the room by the plaguy auctioneer to deceive 
 people and bring a high price." 
 
 " That's a fact," said the good wife, as she threw a 
 saucer upon the floor, smashing it into a dozen pieces. 
 
 " I'll follow suit," said the deacon, and smash went 
 the whole set upon the floor, making a tremendous noise. 
 
 Mrs. Peabody never attended an auction again and 
 whenever articles that were 'bought as a bargain at ven- 
 due, were shown to her, she thought of her tea-set, and 
 looked upon them with a feeling of contempt. Nothing 
 will sooner vex the old lady, than to ask her if she has 
 any relic of Mr. Johnson, her beloved pastor.
 
 NOT ASHAMED TO WORK. 
 
 They wrong, who shrink from looks alone, 
 
 Or from appearance judge 
 Virtue may have the brightest throne 
 
 In her we make our drudge. 
 
 I 
 
 " Now, mother, I am eighteen years old, and as you 
 promised me, I should like to go to town and see if I 
 cannot earn enough to support me." 
 
 " I know, Hannah, I made you such a promise; but I 
 was in hopes you would give up the idea of going to 
 P before this tune." 
 
 " I am more anxious to go now than ever. I think I 
 may do well." 
 
 "And you may be glad to come back again. You 
 have no acquaintances in town, and I know you will 
 be homesick. Besides, there are a great many tempta 
 tions there of which you have no knowledge. I think 
 you had better conclude to remain at home, for the win 
 ter, at least." 
 
 " No, mother, I insist upon you fulfilling your promise. 
 Ask father to be in readiness on Monday to carry me to 
 P , and if I cannot get a situation I will return." 
 
 " "Well, Hannah, if you are set upon it, I suppose you 
 must go." 
 
 Mr. Warner lived in a country town, and being the 
 owner of a small farm, barely made a living. Having
 
 NOT ASHAMED TO WORK. 89 
 
 a large family, it was impossible for him to do more 
 than clothe them decently and comfortably. His old 
 est daughter had heard that females from the country 
 could obtain employment as domestics, and realize for 
 their services from fifty cents to a dollar a week. This 
 appeared like a large sum to Hannah, who had seldom 
 seen more than a few small pieces of silver together. As 
 she had received the consent of her mother to go to town, 
 she felt happy at the thought. 
 
 It was soon spread about the neighborhood that Efan- 
 
 nah was going to P to live : all her acquaintances 
 
 called upon her to bid her good-by, and among the rest, 
 Jonathan Johnson, the son of a farmer in the vicinity, 
 who had always chosen Hannah to escort to husking par 
 ties and Christmas dinners, and for whom he had not a 
 little partiality. It was on the Sunday evening previous to 
 her starting for town on the following morning that Jon 
 athan called to see her for the last time. As they sat 
 together before the fire, talking about the intended 
 journey, Hannah's success, and like topics, the lover 
 remarked, " Now, don't forget Jonathan when you are 
 away ,, but let me have a letter as soon as you get a 
 place. Now you will, wont you, Hannah, let me hear 
 from you rigjit away ? but I hate most awfully to have 
 you go you don't know howl feel about it" and 
 then he took from his pocket a large cotton handker 
 chief, which had not been opened before since it was 
 ironed by his mother. After unfolding it and shaking 
 it before the fire, he put it to his eyes, and wiped away 
 the big tears that were gathering " yovi see, how I feel, 
 Hannah, I do' so masterly hate to have you go " and 
 then he took hold of her hand and squeezed it.
 
 fc 
 90 NOT ASHAMED TO WORK. 
 
 " Don't cry, Jonathan," said the girl, "for I shall 
 write you just as soon as I get a good situation." 
 
 " You may think so now, but among so many fellows 
 down there, you may forget me, and how should I feel ; " 
 and Jonathan found use for his handkerchief again. 
 
 " Now don't feel so bad about it ; I wont forget you." 
 
 " Wont you, certain true ? Now, Hannah, jest tell 
 me, do you love me ? " 
 
 The poor girl blushed but it was an innocent one 
 and looking up, said, " You know, Jonathan, without 
 asking the question." 
 
 " But I kinder felt you wouldn't go way off if you 
 cared any thing about me." 
 
 " You must not think so. In P I can get from 
 
 fifty cents to a dollar a week, and can be able to lay by 
 a good part of it ; it is for this that I am anxious to go." 
 
 " I am proper sorry you are going to go so soon as 
 to-morrow, but I shall expect a letter right off, and 
 don't forget it." 
 
 As it was getting late, the lovers thought it best to 
 retire. Jonathan took his hat looked grieved to 
 death, and turned it over and over while he held, down 
 his head ; " Oh, how I hate for to go and leave you, but 
 I s'pose I must ; don't forget me," and he made use 
 of his handkerchief again, and bidding Hannah a good 
 night, and a pleasant day's ride on the morrow, he was 
 .on his way to his father's house. 
 
 Early on Monday morning, Hannah arose, got break 
 fast, and was ready to start for P .- Her mother, 
 
 after putting her bundle in the wagon, and seeing that 
 she had left nothing behind, said to. her "Be a good 
 girl, go into no bad society, and obey your master and
 
 NOT ASHAMED TO WORK. 91 
 
 mistress, wherever you may be. If you are homesick 
 you can come back immediately if not, write home 
 and let us know how you get along." 
 
 Hannah could not help weeping as she bade her mother 
 " good-by," and she and her father started on the jour 
 ney. 
 
 Arriving in town about the middle of the afternoon, 
 Mr. Warner put up his horse at the " Farmer's Tav 
 ern," and left his daughter in the house, while he went 
 in search of a situation. About dark, he returned, 
 and informed Hannah that he had secured her a place 
 for the present at fifty cents a week, and that she might 
 go with him and commence her duties. 
 
 It was in the family of Mr. Nelson that Hannah went 
 to work. She felt very unpleasant when her father left 
 her alone, and she almost wished she had never left 
 home. Every thing was new and strange to her ; but 
 after learning her duty, she labored to perform it to the 
 satisfaction of Mrs. Nelson and the family. At first 
 what she did was awkwardly performed, but in a short 
 time she learned to do her work as others did, and she 
 became excellent help. For a week or two, Hannah 
 thought a great deal of her home, her friends, and par 
 ticularly of Jonathan Johnson, but gradually becoming 
 acquainted with the family, and going out occasionally, 
 she was more reconciled to her situation. 
 
 She addressed a line to her parents and also to Jon 
 athan, expressing herself as being contented and happy, 
 to both of which letters she received an answer. They 
 were all well at home ; one of her neighbors was about 
 being married, another had a new gown, while her 
 father's hogs grew finely. Jonathan wrote, that he 
 was anxious to see her he had thought of her day
 
 92 NOT ASHAMED TO WORK. 
 
 and night, and dreamt of her besides. He concluded 
 by expressing his love for her, and hoped that she would 
 prove faithful to the last. 
 
 Mr. Nelson's family, beside himself and wife, con 
 sisted of two children, James and Olive who were 
 about the age of Hannah. The* daughter had been 
 brought up in a round of folly, and looked upon those 
 who worked for a living more especially upon domes 
 tics as beings far inferior to herself. 
 
 It was not often that she spoke to Hannah, except 
 when she informed her what to do, or scolded at her 
 for something that was not done exactly to her liking. 
 Olive had a great deal of company. Her father was 
 wealthy, and he indulged her in all her foolish caprices 
 and desires. He spared no expense to please her. 
 Books of all kinds she had in the house, but she seldom 
 perused them. An occasional tune on the piano, a call 
 or two, or the reception of company, served to pass 
 away the day. As for labor, she seldom performed any 
 excepting to work lace, or do some fine sewing. 
 
 Her brother was of a 'different disposition. He was 
 not proud, and thought it no disparagement to converse 
 occasionally with Hannah. As she was a modest girl 
 and behaved herself, he occasionally sat down in the 
 kitchen to have a chat with her. He inquired about 
 her parents, her friends at home, the. size of the town, 
 or any thing to make conversation, and he seemed 
 pleased with the disposition and the spirit of the girl. 
 Olive would reprove him for his familiarity with the 
 kitchen girl, and tell him she wished he had more re 
 spect for himself more honorable pride ; but James 
 would reply that so long as a girl was industrious, and 
 behaved herself, whether he found her in the parlor or
 
 NOT ASHAMED TO WORK. '93 
 
 kitchen, in the palace or the hovel, he would treat her 
 with respect. 
 
 To speak the truth, Hannah was a pretty girl was 
 kind in her disposition, and given to no foolish airs. 
 She strove to please, and in this way she could not but 
 win the esteem of the kind-hearted. Olive was plain 
 in her person, and had not only a violent temper, but 
 a thousand disagreeable airs. Her brother, when he 
 had been censured for his kindness to Hannah, often 
 told her, he wished her disposition was as good, her 
 temper as even, and her heart as humble. 
 
 After residing in the family of Mr. Nelson for about 
 a year, Hannah concluded to learn a trade, and at the 
 same time to work for her board. She had no difficulty 
 in obtaining a place, although the family were sorry 
 to lose her if we may except Olive, who, on account 
 of her good behavior, and the attentions she received 
 from her brother, was in no degree partial to her. For 
 some time before she left, Olive had not spoken a pleas 
 ant word to her, and expressed her joy when she left 
 the house. 
 
 After completing her trade, Hannah concluded to pay 
 a visit to her parents. She had seen her father occa 
 sionally, since she had resided in P , and as often 
 as once a month received a line from him. But now, 
 as two years had expired, she came to the conclusion 
 once more to see her native place, and converse with 
 those kind friends with whom, so long ago, she parted. 
 
 Starting early in the morning, she arrived at her fath 
 er's towards sundown. The family were rejoiced to 
 see her the poor mother wept tears of joy when she 
 embraced her child once more and saw by her looks 
 that she was happy, and heard from her lips that she
 
 94 NOT ASHAMED TO WORK: 
 
 had been well, and enjoyed herself. She had brought 
 her mother calico for a new gown, and several articles 
 for her younger sisters, with which they were much 
 pleased. All the neighbors began to crowd into the 
 house when they heard of Hannah's arrival, and asked 
 her a thousand questions, all of which she answered as 
 well as she was able. Among all the neighbors who 
 had come to welcome her home, she found that Jona 
 than Johnson was absent. Hannah was astonished 
 that he who professed so much regard for her two 
 years ago had not yet called, but it was too delicate a 
 question for her to inquire respecting him. 
 
 The day after her arrival, Hannah concluded to call 
 on Mrs. Johnson, and on inquiring for Jonathan, she 
 was informed that he was at work in the field. " But," 
 said the mother j " you have heard, I suppose, that he is 
 to be married next Sunday to Abigail May ? " 
 
 " No," said Hannah, greatly surprised, " is it indeed 
 so?" 
 
 " Yes, and they are to board with us." 
 
 " This," thought Hannah, " accounts for his not call 
 ing upon me." 
 
 She did not express any regret, or censure him to his 
 parents, although she felt that he was unworthy of her 
 love. 
 
 Jonathan saw Hannah enter his mother's house, and 
 ran to the window to look in, so as not to be observed. 
 The injured girl saw him, and without manifesting any 
 anger or displeasure, went to the window and called him 
 in. When he saw he was discovered, Jonathan turned 
 all manner of colors, and could hardly speak. 
 
 " Come in, Jonathan," said the mother, " come in and 
 see Miss Warner, your old friend."
 
 NOT ASHAMED TO WOEK. 95 
 
 He came, and when he saw her pleasant countenance, 
 her neat dress, and heard her animated conversation, 
 he would have given the world, had he been its posses 
 sor, to recall the step he had taken. 
 
 " What a fool I am ! what a beautiful girl ! how 
 handsome she has grown ! how tidy she looks ! " said 
 Jonathan to himself. 
 
 " Why didn't you call to see me ? " said Hannah, ad 
 dressing Jonathan. " Didn't you hear of my arrival ? " 
 
 "I was going to call, but I thought I wouldn't," 
 said he, and he appeared very uneasy. 
 
 " Call and see me to-night, Jonathan, I should be 
 happy to have you." 
 
 Well may be I will." 
 
 As he did not seem inclined to talk, Hannah re 
 sumed her conversation with his mother. As she left, 
 she overheard Mrs. Johnson say to her son, " What a 
 fine girl Hannah is ! How far superior to Abigail May ! 
 If she had been your choice, I should not have a word 
 to say." 
 
 She saw Jonathan peeping from the window as she 
 passed by. The moment she looked up, he turned his 
 head away. 
 
 Jonathan did not call on Hannah, but she was in 
 vited to the wedding on the following Sunday. She 
 went, and the look of Jonathan told plainer than 
 words could speak, that he was unhappy. Abigail May 
 was half a head taller than himself, stooped over, and 
 looked any thing but rieat in her apparel. But they 
 were married, and the 'evening passed off very well. 
 Hannah was not sorry that she had got rid of her lover 
 for since her return, he seemed to have grown stupid, 
 and had lost his former ambiton. Everybody spoke
 
 96 NOT ASHAMED TO WOEK. 
 
 well of Hannah, and there was not a young man in the 
 village who would not have been glad to take her as 
 his companion. 
 
 Hannah had been at home but two or three weeks, 
 when one day a chaise stopped at her door. She looked 
 and there stood before her no less a personage than 
 James Nelson, the son of the merchant, and the brother 
 of the' proud Olive. After the usual ceremonies of the 
 meeting of two friends, James was invited in, and in 
 troduced to the parents of Hannah. By his pleasant 
 manners, his freeness of conversation, and his manly 
 looks, he won the respect and the love of the family. 
 For a few days, he stopped at the farmhouse, and dur 
 ing that time, had made arrangements for the wedding. 
 All the neighbors were surprised at the good fortune of 
 Hannah ; but they said she was worthy of as fine a 
 man as ever lived. In three weeks after, at her fath 
 er's cot, Hannah "Warner was united to James Nelson. 
 It was a happy season to them both. Although when 
 they became acquainted, one was comparatively poor, 
 and in an humble but honorable situation, the other 
 was the son of a rich man, with bright prospects be 
 fore him. But he was won by the virtues of the heart, 
 and two happier souls never came together. Their dis 
 positions and tempers were alike. 
 
 When Nelson took his wife to his father's house, she 
 was received with great kindness. Olive at first was a 
 little offish, but she soon lost these feelings, and loved 
 Hannah as an only sister. She regretted her past con 
 duct, and by her acts of kiridness, her endeavors to 
 please, made up for all her past folly and unkindness. 
 
 Mr. Nelson had realized a handsome fortune by in 
 dustry and success in his business, and now gave his
 
 NOT ASHAMED TO WORK. 97 
 
 store and its contents to his son, and retired from ac 
 tive life. Prosperity attended his . steps as it always 
 does the virtuous and the diligent, and James appeared 
 to be perfectly happy. Once or twice a year, Nelson 
 and his wife visit her parents, and spend a few weeks 
 in their society. He usually carries with him presents 
 to the old folks and younger children, and is so cheerful, 
 pleasant, and sociable, that his visits are always looked 
 forward to with a great deal of pleasure. 
 
 A few years passed away, and Jonathan Johnson 
 parted from his wife. He had become intemperate, and 
 his wife was little better, and the last heard from them 
 was, that they were supported by the overseers of the 
 poor. 
 
 Mrs. Nelson belongs to one of the first families in 
 town. She is industrious and benevolent. She never 
 feels ashamed of having worked in the kitchen, or of 
 having learned a trade, and whenever she sees the pert 
 miss or the haughty girl, she does not hesitate to check 
 her pride, and recommend her to work. " Be indus 
 trious," she says, " and you will succeed ; but nurture 
 pride, and despise those who work for a support and 
 you will come to naught." She inculcates these vir 
 tues in her own family, and you can always tell her 
 children by their neat and simple attire, their modest 
 behavior, their industrious habits, and their respect 
 for all classes, whether rich or poor, high or low, black 
 or white. They have a smile for everybody, and every 
 body loves them. 
 9
 
 THE TAILORESS. 
 
 Cold as the grave must be the heart 
 
 That pity never moves, 
 Which in distresses bears no part, 
 
 But self, self only, loves. 
 
 " MOTHER, I think I will go to the shop to-day ; I am 
 much better than I was yesterday ; and you know what 
 Mr. Emerson will say if I am absent two days in succes 
 sion." 
 
 " I don't know what to think about it, Mary. I am 
 afraid you are not well enough to work, and, besides, 
 it is rather an unpleasant day to go out. You may 
 do as you think best, however." 
 
 " On the whole, mother, I think I will go. By wear 
 ing my thick shawl, I shall be warm, and if it should 
 storm a little to-night, there will be no danger of my 
 taking cold." 
 
 " Be sure and tell Mr. Emerson the reason of your 
 absence yesterday, and I don't think he will be offended. 
 If it had been possible for you to go out, you might 
 have taken cold and been laid up for a week. Don't 
 work too hard, and remember that you have a slender 
 constitution." 
 
 Mary Jones was the only daughter of a poor widow. 
 Her mother had seen prosperous days, but losing her 
 husband when her child was but two years old, she
 
 THE TAILORESS. 99 
 
 gradually became reduced in her circumstances. Mary 
 was a dutiful and affectionate girl, ever attentive to the 
 wants of her mother. She possessed a feeble frame, and 
 it was only by taking particular care of herself that she 
 was enabled to enjoy a comfortable degree of health. 
 At the age of seventeen, she obtained her mother's con 
 sent to work in a shop, and learn the trade of a tailor. 
 She was induced to take this step on account of the 
 extreme poverty of her parent. " You know, mother," 
 said she, " that you are not able to support me without 
 working very hard yourself, and as you are often un 
 well, after a day's labor, I am afraid that you will not 
 long be able to do any work. If I could learn a good 
 trade, and have constant employment, I might be able 
 to earn enough to support us both, without your being 
 obliged to go out to wash, or take in work. Then we 
 could enjoy ourselves and have all the necessaries and 
 comforts of life." 
 
 Mary did not think of her own feeble constitution, 
 when the idea of learning a trade first presented itself 
 to her mind ; and when she obtained her mother's con 
 sent, it was a happy day to her. She looked forward 
 to the time when she should be able to earn her own 
 living and support her aged mother, while neither 
 should suffer for the necessaries of life. Full of spirits 
 she visited the various tailor shops in town, and at 
 last engaged a situation at Mr. Emerson's on these con 
 ditions : to work twelve months in acquiring the trade, 
 in the mean time finding her own support ; at the ex 
 piration of which period she was to be employed on 
 wages. The appearance of the mechanic was not al 
 together prepossessing, in Mary's estimation. He was 
 particular to tell her what he should expect, and among
 
 100 THE TAILORESS. 
 
 other requirements, she must be at the shop precisely 
 at seven o'clock in the summer and precisely at eight 
 o'clock in the winter. If she lost a single day, it was 
 to be made up at the expiration of her apprenticeship. 
 On inquiring how long she must worl$ each day, Mr. Em 
 erson remarked, " Our girls work till sundown in the 
 summer season, and in winter till seven or eight o'clock, 
 except occasionally when we are in the drag, and then 
 they work a little longer." 
 
 The following Monday found Mary Jones in the tai 
 lor shop of Mr. Emerson, with some twenty or thirty 
 females, all of whom were strangers to her. As she 
 was put on plain sewing, she did not find the task dif 
 ficult, and by degrees, with the assistance of more ex 
 perienced shop girls, was enabled, in a short time, to do 
 her work to the satisfaction of her employer. Mary 
 heard a great deal of complaint made by the appren 
 tices and those who were hired, against Mr. Emerson, 
 which but confirmed her in the opinion she had enter 
 tained of him. They accused him of meanness, of 
 want of principle, of avarice, of caring for nothing but 
 making money. He would hurry his girls to throw off 
 as much work as possible, and when called upon for 
 their hard-earned money, it was said he would oblige 
 them to wait, or put them off with miserable orders. 
 But as Mary had seen none of this herself she never 
 repeated a word of what was intimated in the shop. 
 She continued to work constantly and closely for a 
 month or two, when she found her health began to 
 fail. Going out in all weathers, sunshine and storm, 
 cold and heat, was what she had not been accustomed 
 to do. Besides, she lived a long distance from the 
 shop. Her mother was obliged to engage a cheap rent,
 
 THE TAILORESS. 101 
 
 and this she could not find except on the outskirts of 
 the town. Walking so far in the rain, and then at 
 tending closely to her business, without scarcely mov 
 ing from her seat during the day, it is but natural to 
 presume, had a deleterious effect upon Mary's health. 
 She was obliged by sheer necessity to keep her house, 
 and her bed occasionally ; but feeling better the follow 
 ing morning, she would renew her task. 
 
 One day, after being absent, her employer said to her, 
 as she entered the shop, " How is it, miss, that you ab 
 sent yourself so often from the shop ? It appears to me, 
 whenever you know we are more hurried than usual, 
 you take that opportunity to stay away a little fear 
 ful, perhaps, that you may have to work a few moments 
 longer at night, and stir your lazy bones." 
 
 With tears in her eyes, Mary replied, " I was ex 
 tremely unwell, so that it was not possible for me to 
 come. I do not intend to leave my work for any rea 
 son except utter inability to perform my duty." 
 
 "A likely story for a stout, hearty girl; but you 
 must mind your p's and q's in future, or I shall be un 
 der the necessity of getting another hand to supply your 
 place." 
 
 Mary said nothing more, but resumed her work. 
 She saw there was sympathy in the countenances of 
 her fellow-apprentices, and when Mr. Emerson left the 
 room, they with one voice condemned him, and begged 
 her to think nothing about what he said. 
 
 "We have all been treated as unkindly as you," 
 they remarked, " and there is scarcely a day passes, 
 that we are not scolded, or harshly reproved, for be 
 ing a minute or two late, or for not doing the work bet- 
 9*
 
 102 THE TAILORESS. 
 
 ter than it is possible to be done, or for some other tri 
 fling cause, when he is in an unpleasant mood." 
 
 Mary continued to go to the shop, although on some 
 days she was hardly able to sit up. 
 
 She was determined to learn her trade, and earn a 
 support for herself and poor mother, and, without 
 dreaming of the injury she was doing to herself, ehc per 
 severed like a martyr. One day it was exceedingly un 
 pleasant. In the night a severe storm from the north 
 east had commenced, and when Mary awoke, the snow 
 was nearly two feet deep, -and so drifted that it was 
 with difficulty that one could pass along the streets. 
 But Mary, knowing the disposition of Mr. Emerson, re 
 solved that she would go to the shop. Her mother en 
 deavored to persuade her not to think of such a thing. 
 
 "If I don't go, mother, I shall certainly lose my 
 place ; and the hope of earning something for our sup 
 port will assuredly be cut off. You are aware of the 
 temper and disposition of Mr. Emerson, and if he as 
 certains that I was able to sit up, and did not go to the 
 shop, he will discharge me at once. I must go, mother." 
 
 She went. Toiling on through the snow, the poor girl 
 reached the shop, more dead than alive. No inquiry was 
 made how she got along or whether she had not better 
 rest a few moments, and warm herself. No ; but she was 
 immediately put to her task, and as some of the girls 
 were kept at home that day, Mary was obliged to stay 
 much longer at night, and go home alone through 
 deeper snow and heavier drifts. When she arrived at 
 her mother's she was nearly exhausted and by her ap 
 pearance one would have supposed her to be in a rapid 
 decline. Her mother had prepared for her supper the best
 
 THE TAILOEESS. 103 
 
 her little means could afford, of which she partook and 
 retired. The next day Mary was too sick and feeble to 
 leave her bed. She attempted to rise two or three 
 times, and as often sank on her pillow exhausted. 
 
 " mother ! " said she, " I am afraid I shall lose my 
 place now, I cannot go to the shop to-day." 
 
 " Never mind, Mary, don't worry yourself about it. 
 If you should be turned away, Providence will never 
 let us suffer." 
 
 " It is not so much for myself that I feel, mother. It 
 pains me to see you work so hard ; you will wear your 
 self out in a short time." 
 
 " Perhaps, after an hour's rest, you may feel better. 
 Try to obtain a little more sleep." 
 
 But through the day Mary was sick and feeble and 
 scarcely left her chamber. The following day, however, 
 she was a great deal better, and thought she was able 
 to work. It was at this time that the conversation took 
 place at the commencement of our story. She started 
 for the shop, but all the way she dreaded to meet Mr. 
 Emerson. " What shall I do," she thought to herself, 
 " if he turns me away ? What will become of my poor, 
 feeble mother ? She cannot now perform the work she 
 could in years past, for sickness and age have worn upon 
 her constitution, and almost broken her down. But 
 I will trust to Him, who knoweth my situation, and 
 who never will forsake me in trouble." And then she 
 breathed a silent prayer to Heaven as she passed along. 
 
 As she opened the shop door, the first person she saw 
 was Mr. Emerson. An angry frown was on his coun 
 tenance. " Mary," said he, "I came to the conclusion 
 yesterday to discharge you. You are more plague 
 than profit to me. While the other girls work, you are
 
 104 THE TAILORESS. 
 
 away, idling your time, probably, with some half-crazy 
 lover. I can stand it no longer." 
 
 Mary, half sobbing, replied, " Sir, I was not able to 
 work yesterday. My mother will tell you my anxi 
 ety to come ; but I sat up very little all day. That is 
 the truth." 
 
 " A likely story. You are the picture of health, a 
 stout, hearty girl ; able to perform the work of a man, 
 and yet complain ! God ! what a world tills is ! 
 No, no ; some country lover was in to see you, and yet 
 you try to palm off this story upon me. I can't stand 
 every thing." 
 
 " But, sir, try me once more. I am poor, or I would 
 not ask for work. I am willing to labor to the utmost 
 of my ability, in hope at some future period to do some 
 thing for the assistance of my mother. But try me once 
 more, and if I am absent, I will not solicit work again." 
 
 " Well, I'll try you ; but remember the first day you 
 are absent, let me never see you darken that door again. 
 Go to your work ; " and as the poor girl hurried along, 
 he muttered something to himself, which she could not 
 understand. 
 
 Mary had now more than half completed her trade, 
 and as warm weather was approaching, she felt encour 
 aged that she should soon accomplish her object, with 
 out any further sickness to put her back and displease 
 her master. On and on she toiled at her task, early and 
 late, until the twelve months were completed, and all 
 the time she had lost had been made up. Mrs. Jones 
 was obliged to live sparingly, and deny herself many 
 comforts to enable her daughter to appear decently 
 through the past year, while learning her trade, and 
 now it was accomplished, a smile of joy of triumph
 
 THE TAILORESS. 105 
 
 lighted up their hearts and made the little room they 
 occupied, a paradise to them. 
 
 " Mother, now we shall be happy," said Mary ; " 1 
 shall have wages, and the last quarter's rent, which I 
 have promised in six or eight weeks, I shall be able to 
 pay." 
 
 " Or it may be that I shall yet earn it." 
 
 " No, mother, you must not labor now, as you used 
 to do. I will work, and can earn sufficient, if God 
 gives me my health, to supply us abundantly with all 
 the necessaries of life." 
 
 Full of hope, Mary entered the shop, and informed 
 Mr. Emerson that her time was out, and, according to 
 his agreement, requested employment. 
 
 " But have you made up all your lost time ? " inquired 
 he. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Mary, " every hour that I was absent 
 I have fully made up." 
 
 " Well, I must look into it. As I am busy now, call 
 some t>ther time." 
 
 " Can I not go to work to-day ? " 
 
 " I can't attend to it now. Don't bother me I'm 
 busy." 
 
 The poor girl left the shop in tears. Her hopes were 
 almost blasted. She had not doubted but she should find 
 employment, since she had given a whole year's work, 
 and received not a farthing ; she did not expect to be 
 treated in this unkind manner. Her mother endeav 
 ored to console her by saying that perhaps in a day or 
 two Mr. Emerson would have something for her to do, 
 and that he was doubtless exceedingly perplexed when 
 she called upon him. 
 
 Mary saw Mr. Emerson in a few days, and all the re-
 
 106 THE TAILORESS. 
 
 ply he made to her urgent request was "I have not 
 yet attended to it ; call next week and I'll let you know." 
 
 It was three or four weeks after Mary left the shop 
 before she entered it again to work. She had thus 
 been put off from time to time. She was to receive for 
 her labors but twenty-five cents a day. But then she 
 thought that that amount, well spent, would make her 
 self and mother comfortable. She had pledged herself 
 to pay five dollars which was the last quarter's rent, and 
 this she could obtain in three or four weeks. Punctual 
 and constant to her task, the four weeks soon passed, 
 and the landlord called for his pay. 
 
 On asking Mr. Emerson for the amount, he answered 
 her, shortly, " I have no money now ! " and left the 
 shop. What to do the poor girl did not know ; the 
 money was promised, and she could not obtain it. Her 
 landlord was a rich and oppressive man ; he had threat 
 ened to turn them from the house a month before, 
 and it was only the solemn promise of Mary that he 
 should be paid in six or eight weeks, that induced him 
 to be lenient, and permit them to occupy the house. 
 Now, he was expecting the money ; it had been prom 
 ised that very morning ; for Mary had no doubt, as her 
 employer was wealthy, that he would pay her at any mo 
 ment. What could she do ? She waited a whole hour 
 for another interview with Mr. Emerson, and then made 
 known to him her case. But he was perfectly indiffer 
 ent, said he did not wish to be eternally dunned, and 
 never intended to pay her wages in money. Per 
 haps in the course of a few days he would give her an 
 order. Such treatment was more than a sensitive girl 
 could bear. She went home, bathed in tears. Her 
 mother could not pacify her, although she endeavored
 
 THE TAILORESS. 107 
 
 to do so. "But I have promised to pay our landlord. 
 He expected it to-day ; and he will certainly turn us out 
 of the house." 
 
 " I will see him again, Mary." 
 
 " It will be of no use. You know his disposition 
 that what he says, he will do at all hazards." 
 
 While they were conversing, and Mary was in tears, 
 Mr. Power, the landlord entered, and asked for his rent. 
 
 " Be seated a moment, sir," said Mrs. Jones, " and I 
 
 " I can't stop," interrupted Mr. Power ; " hand me 
 the money and I'll go." 
 
 " Mary could not obtain it to-day." 
 
 " What ! not ready yet ! Leave the house instantly ! 
 Start ! bag, baggage, and all ! You've imposed on kind 
 ness too long! Away with you! Don't shed those 
 crocodile tears, but pack up your duds and start ! I'll 
 not be treated in this manner any longer." 
 
 "0 sir!" cried Mary, " do have pity do pity my 
 poor, aged mother. I pray you, don't send her into the 
 street this bitter cold night. Wait but one day longer, 
 and we will pay you, or go." 
 
 " I wont wait, and there is an end on't. I have 
 been wronged and cheated, times without number, by 
 just such spongers as you are, and when it comes to 
 this, your pretended tears you think will save you. 
 Away ! out of the house ! " 
 
 " I beg you, dear sir, to hear me. I have the amount' 
 due me, and expected to receive the money this day 
 from Mr. Emerson ; but he declined to pay me and says 
 he will give me an order. If you would only accept 
 that, sir, I think I could satisfy you to-morrow." 
 
 " Pretty well, too, to tuck off an order upon one who 
 has worn out all his patience in waiting upon you.
 
 108 THE TAILORESS. 
 
 But if you will certainly hand me in a good order to 
 morrow, I will let you remain ; but remember, I will 
 never take an order again ; and the moment you refuse 
 to pay your rent punctually, that moment you shall leave 
 the house. This is the last time I will be fooled with by 
 you." So saying, he left the house. 
 
 But little rest did Mary and her mother obtain that 
 night. Perhaps Mr. Emerson would refuse to give the 
 order the next day ; and if so, what would become of 
 them? With broken slumbers, the morning dawned. 
 After partaking of her scanty meal, Mary went to the 
 shop. She commenced her weary task with feeble spirits. 
 Her peculiar look was noticed by her shop-mates, but 
 not knowing the weight that preyed like an incubus 
 upon her mind, they failed to administer proper conso 
 lation. As soon as Mr. Emerson came in, Mary left her 
 work, and trembling with fear, she made known her ob 
 ject. 
 
 " When I get leisure, I'll attend to it," he replied. 
 "Have I not told you repeatedly not to dun me to 
 death? You are more trouble to me than a little. 
 I tell you once for all that I will not be so tormented 
 by you ; when it is convenient, I will give you the or 
 der, and not before." 
 
 " Sir," said Mary, " I am peculiarly situated ; if it 
 were not so I would not ask you for the order." 
 
 " That's your eternal plea. There is always some 
 thing urgent about your business. You want to buy 
 some dainties, maybe, to entertain a country lover. If 
 you were half as interested in your work, and consulted 
 your employer's interest, you would be a great deal bet 
 ter off. When I am at leisure I'll attend to you, and I 
 hope in mercy this will satisfy you."
 
 THE TAILORESS. 109 
 
 The tears came in Mary's eyes as she stood before the 
 unfeeling man. 
 
 " I could tell you, sir, my object in requesting the or 
 der to-day, if it were necessary ; and then you would 
 not censure me. A great deal hangs upon this decision." 
 
 Calling his clerk, he said "Give this girl an order 
 on Mr. Gooch, the grocer, for five dollars. I shall 
 never have any peace until she is paid. To be so tor 
 mented witli the plaguy girls is enough to make one 
 tired of life ; but, thank Heaven, she is the only pest I 
 have in the shop." 
 
 Mary took the order, but she could not restrain her 
 tears as she renewed her task. The girls pitied her, 
 sympathized with her, but yet knew not her sorrow., 
 "When night came, she carried the order to Mr. Power, 
 who, as he took it from her hands, remarked, " This is 
 the only thing of the kind I shall ever take. If the 
 next quarter's rent is not paid on the day it is due, I 
 want you to understand distinctly, that you must shift 
 your quarters forthwith. There will be no mistake 
 about it." 
 
 Mary flew to her mother to tell her the glad news of 
 her success that she had received the order, and paid 
 the landlord. Happiness was in that cot that night, as 
 with gratitude they raised their thoughts to God. 
 
 Early the next morning, Mary and her mother were 
 greatly surprised on seeing Mr. Power enter their door. 
 By his looks they were prepared for something unusual, 
 when he exclaimed, "Am I thus insulted! Is my 
 kindness and lenity to you thus repaid? Wretches 
 you are, to give such an order as this to me ! Why, 
 Mr. Gooch charges me ten per cent higher than I am 
 charged at any other store in town. He says it is an 
 10
 
 110 THE TAILORESS. 
 
 express understanding between himself and Mr. Emer 
 son, as he makes the deduction in his favor on settle 
 ment. This you must have known when you palmed 
 the order off on me ! Out of the house instantly, and 
 take your miserable order. I'll never let my house 
 again unless I know who's going into it, and I can se 
 cure the rent. Out of the house instantly, or an officer 
 shall be called immediately." 
 
 In vain did Mary and her mother plead ; the hard 
 hearted wretch was invulnerable to the calls of pity. 
 He even seized their only bed, and threw it on the 
 floor, declaring that unless they exerted themselves, 
 every article should be thrown into the street. 
 
 " I shall retain enough of your furniture," said he, 
 " to cover my debt, and when, you settle you may have 
 it, and not before." 
 
 A neighbor kindly consented to take Mary and her 
 mother into her house, and permit them to occupy a little 
 bedroom. Thankful for such a favor, they expressed 
 their gratitude in a flood of tears, and soon removed 
 what little they possessed. But her hard work and 
 eonfineinent, her exposure to all weathers, and the suf 
 ferings of her mind, soon brought the dutiful and affec 
 tionate Mary to a sick-bed. That very day she was 
 taken with a slow fever, and was obliged to absent her 
 self from the shop, though with great reluctance, as 
 the little she could ^earn would so materially assist 
 them, and of which they now were in peculiar need. 
 Her mother was obliged to take the order returned by 
 Mr. Power, and purchase those articles necessary to the 
 sustenance of life, and she found that the grocer did, 
 indeed, charge her a great price for her goods. Once 
 she remonstrated a little, but received only an insult-
 
 THE TAILORESS. Ill 
 
 ing reply. It was a bargain between Mr. Gopch and 
 the tailor, that the latter should have a certain per cent 
 deduction by ordering goods at his store, and there was 
 no remedy for the poor woman. 
 
 For three or four weeks, Mary lingered on her bed, 
 when her disease took an unfavorable turn, and her sit 
 uation was pronounced dangerous by her physician. 
 
 "It is no unwelcome news to me," said the noble 
 girl ; " but on your account, dear mother, do I wish to 
 live. It pains me to think of dying and leaving you 
 to the charities of a cold world." 
 
 " Fear not for me, my dear child," said her mother, 
 who was almost inconsolable by the thought of losing 
 her affectionate child, " God will take care of me 
 and if we part, it cannot be for a long season. I feel 
 my days are nearly numbered." 
 
 "If I die, I know our Father above will provide for 
 you. He never forsakes those who put their trust in 
 him." 
 
 Many a time did the poor mother take 'herself from 
 the bedside of her child, that Mary might not see the 
 grief of her heart. It was like death yea, harder 
 than death, to part with one so kind, so dutiful, so af 
 fectionate ; an only prop, an only counsellor in her de 
 clining years. 
 
 As the days passed away, Mary grew weaker arid 
 weaker ; a few only called to see her, and among these 
 the females who worked in the shop, who by their little 
 presents and kindnesses manifested how much they 
 loved her. They seldom left her couch with dry eyes. 
 Her resignation, her trust in God ; her patience ; her 
 Christian character throughout, so wrought upon them 
 that they almost envied her situation. Mr. Emerson 
 never visited her, never inquired for her health, and
 
 112 THE TAILORESS. 
 
 was as indifferent to her circumstances, as if she were 
 a brute. Mary censured him not ; nor manifested any 
 other disposition than that of kindness towards him. 
 
 Mary Jones died she died in faith and in triumph. 
 Her last words were, " Lord Jesus, receive my spirit," 
 and the struggle was over. 
 
 A few followed her to the grave ; for. she was known 
 by a few only. But their sorrow was sincere. Even 
 now when her name is mentioned, it brings a tear to the 
 eye, and a sorrow to the heart. 
 
 The mother survived her daughter but a few months, 
 most of which time, she kept her bed. She now re 
 poses by the side of Mary, in the house appointed for 
 all the living. 
 
 The case of -Mary Jones is not a solitary one. Hun 
 dreds of feeble and tender girls are induced to go out 
 to work, in all weather, by the hope of a future sup 
 port. They are poor, but they are industrious and vir 
 tuous. There are many who take advantage of their 
 circumstances, and give them but trifling pay for their 
 services. When money is justly due them, and they 
 are in pressing need of the necessaries of life, justice 
 is denied them day after day and week after week. 
 They turn them off with miserable orders, or pursue 
 any other course whereby they can make money, with 
 out any regard to the oppression which they exercise. 
 We verily believe that, like the subject of the above 
 tale, scores of poor females thus suffer and thus die. 
 But few know them, and their wrongs are suffered to 
 die with them. If we can awaken an emotion of pity 
 in a single breast, or induce one heart of avarice to 
 melt in love and tenderness, or to sympathize with the 
 suffering poor, we shall not have written this story in 
 vain, and our reward will be incomparably great.
 
 BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY. 
 
 Trust not to beauty ; It will fade 
 
 Like rainbow tints away ; ' 
 While virtue, in perennial bloom 
 
 Lives through an endless day. 
 
 " WILL nobody love me, mother ? " said Ellen to her 
 only parent, as she came running into the house 
 "will nobody love me?" and she hid her face in her 
 mother's lap and wept. 
 
 " Yes, my child, your mother loves you ; but why these 
 tears ? " 
 
 " As I was at play on the bank, a lady passed by, who, 
 as I looked up, exclaimed ! ' What a horrible creature ! ' 
 mother ! nobody will love me but you." 
 
 Mrs. Mansion had but one daughter, and that was 
 Ellen. She was extremely plain. Her hair was coarse 
 and of a flaxen color, and always looked in a snarl. Her 
 eyes were very large, and of a homely gray, her mouth 
 wide, and her nose flat. Besides, her face was com 
 pletely covered with freckles, which altogether made her 
 one of the plainest children ever created. To a stranger, 
 she had a very unprepossessing appearance, which of 
 ten led people to make remarks similar to the above, 
 and which gave the sensitive girl a great deal of pain. 
 But Ellen Mansion possessed a sweet and amiable dis 
 position ; she was kind, benevolent, and generally cheer- 
 10*
 
 114 BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY. 
 
 fill, so that she won the affections of her neighbors 
 and companions. It was only when an unkind remark 
 was made in her presence, that sorrow seemed to enter 
 her heart, and then she would give full vent to her feel 
 ings in tears. 
 
 Within a short distance from the cottage of Mrs. 
 Mansion, lived a wealthy farmer by the name of John 
 son, whose only children, Edward and Jane, were 
 brought up in the indulgence of all their hearts could 
 desire. The daughter was pretty, some called her 
 beautiful, and she was the idol of her parents. But 
 she was a proud and envious child. As she grew older 
 she was fully sensible of her beautiful face, and was 
 aware that she attracted a great deal of attention and 
 many admirers. Once she was the playmate of the 
 widow's daughter, and together they would cull flow 
 ers, attend school, and make themselves .happy in vari 
 ous ways. But as years flew by, and she could distin 
 guish between riches and poverty, beauty and deformity 
 and saw that caresses were bestowed upon her, and de 
 nied to her friend, she began to treat Ellen with cold 
 ness, to call upon her less often, and finally, in her so 
 cial parties, to refuse to give her an invitation. The 
 poor girl felt it all, and said but little. Instead of en 
 grossing her miiid with the fashions and the follies of 
 the day, she spent her leisure hours in 'reading and 
 study in improving her mind. As she grew older," 
 she became more intelligent, but her homely features 
 remained. When Ellen and Jane were about eighteen 
 years of age, there seemed to be a perfect coldness ex 
 isting between them they would speak when they 
 met, and that was all. Occasionally, Ellen would en 
 deavor to throw out some pleasant topic of conversa-
 
 BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY. 115 
 
 tion, but Jane appeared so indifferent to the poor girl, 
 that she, without appearing to notice it, would part 
 with her as pleasantly as if she had always been kindly 
 treated. It was her disposition to return kindness for 
 ill-nature, while she endeavored always to speak well 
 of her neighbors. She was well aware, if she had pos 
 sessed beauty and wealth, she would have been treated 
 differently ; but she remembered that she was created 
 as God saw best, and a murmur never escaped her lips. 
 
 The village church had recently been deprived of 
 their pastor by death. The venerable rector was a good 
 old man, and Ellen appeared to be his especial favorite. 
 By his request, she attended upon him during his sick 
 ness, administered to his comforts ; and did all in her 
 power to alleviate his sufferings. As he was a single 
 man, his little property, by his will, was given to Mrs. 
 Mansion and her daughter. 
 
 The good pastor had been dead some months, when 
 a call was given to a young man, who had supplied the 
 pulpit for a few sabbaths, to settle over the church and 
 society. Mr. Clark accepted the invitation, and became 
 more and more attached to the people the longer he 
 continued among them. Mr. Johnson was the principal 
 supporter of the ministry, and Mr. Clark boarded at his 
 house. The young pastor was a well-educated man, 
 and possessed fine talents. He was what might be 
 termed handsome. It was the village talk, that Mr. 
 Clark would take Jane to be his future companion, and 
 as her father was wealthy and a man of influence in 
 the town, all the neighbors thought it would be a wise 
 choice. Jane had received a number of offers, none of 
 which she would accept, as they were mostly from farm 
 ers and mechanics, who did not- possess much of this
 
 116 BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY. 
 
 world's goods. What was whispered by her neighbors, 
 Jane partially construed into a reality, and really sup 
 posed Mr. Clark was in love with her. Of course, as 
 he boarded in her father's house, it could not be other 
 wise than he should treat her with politeness and occa 
 sionally accompany her on a visit to her friends. These 
 common attentions led Jane and her parents and her 
 neighbors to presume that their pastor intended to make 
 the beautiful girl his companion. A few of the judi 
 cious thought otherwise, and even expressed it among 
 themselves. " Jane is not suitable for a pastor's wife. 
 She cannot work she is too proud and too self-willed," 
 would be their remarks. In his pastoral visits, Mr. 
 Clark made no distinction between the wealthy and the 
 poor, and would as often be found in the humble cot as 
 in the painted dwelling. Mrs. Mansion seemed to be a 
 particular favorite of his, and it was noticed that the 
 parson never appeared to be more happy than when 
 conversing with her and with Ellen. The latter was 
 remarkably intelligent, and appeared more like his equal 
 in conversation, than any other member of his parish. 
 Then, too, Mr. Clark seemed to sympathize with the un 
 fortunate girl and her poor mother. 
 
 One day after Mr. Clark had been settled nearly 
 a year, in conversaing with Mr. Johnson, he asked 
 him what he thought of his entering the matrimonial 
 state. Supposing the good pastor had his daughter in 
 view, he replied very favorably to his query, recom 
 mending him to enter that state without delay. 
 
 " Before many months I think I shall take me a wife," 
 said the pastor. 
 
 Mr. Johnson mentioned the conversation to his wife, 
 and both concluded that Mr. Clark had their daughter ia
 
 BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY. 117 
 
 his mind. Nothing was too much for them to do to 
 please their minister, and make their house agreeable ; 
 but he, good man, had not the least suspicion of their 
 conjectures, but pursued the same course as he had 
 heretofore. Jane was too vain and too proud for him, 
 and, besides, she did not possess sufficient intelligence 
 to make her company agreeable. In fact, she had noth 
 ing but beauty and wealthy parents to recommend her, 
 and these were nothing in comparison to a well-in 
 formed mind, a gentle disposition, and a humble heart. 
 One evening Mr. Clark remarked, " I think I shall call 
 on Mrs. Mansion ; should you like to accompany me ? " 
 addressing Jane. 
 
 She hesitated a moment, and then said, " I should 
 be pleased to go," but her look and manner gave her 
 words the lie. 
 
 When they arrived at Mrs. Mansion's, Ellen and her 
 mother received them with smiles, although many a day 
 had passed since Jane had had an opportunity of con 
 versing with her friend. The evening passed pleasantly 
 away to all but the haughty girl. As they returned to 
 their homes, the pastor inquired of Jane, " How are 
 you pleased with Ellen Mansion ? " 
 
 " I like her very well, but you know her situation 
 has been such that she has never seen much company. 
 She is so distressingly homely, few care about visiting 
 her." 
 
 " Don't you think she has a fine mind ? " 
 
 " Why as to that, I don't think she is any thing re 
 markable. To be sure, she has studied a great deal, 
 and ought to know something." 
 
 From Jane's conversation, Mr. Clark saw that her 
 own condition in life and her personal beauty had so
 
 118 BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY. 
 
 carried her away, that she could not look on poverty 
 and deformity with any degree of complacency. But 
 as for himself he looked to the mind, and not to its 
 rough shell, and although Ellen was plain, he had re 
 solved long hefore to make Ijer his wife. 
 
 The next sabbath, when it was announced that Mr. 
 Clark was about taking to himself a wife, and the lady 
 of his choice was Ellen Mansion, . nearly the whole 
 parish was struck with astonishment. "When Mr. John 
 son announced it to his family, the proud Jane was 
 completely overcome, and if it had been fashionable in 
 those days, she would have fainted and fallen, and not 
 have recovered so as to see company for a whole week. 
 " Can it be possible ? " exclaimed her mother, " only 
 think how much we are doing for Mr. Clark and now 
 he has gone, to that old lady and taken her daughter. 
 Why, Ellen is nothing but a heap of deformity." 
 
 " ' Tis laughable, truly," said the father ; " where can 
 be his discernment ? He must be ashamed to walk with 
 her in the street. But every one to his taste." 
 
 " I don't care," at last said Jane, V let him have the 
 creature, if he likes her, and good luck to them. Mr. 
 Clark is no great things after all." 
 
 Mr. Clark found he was treated rather coldly by the 
 family, but could not divine the reason. Certainly, 
 thought he, Mr. Johnson can have no objection to 
 my marrying, since he expressed himself favorably 
 of it. 
 
 A day or two after, "when the subject was introduced, 
 Mr. Johnson ventured to express his surprise at the 
 choice he had made, and stated that many of his parish 
 were of the same opinion. 
 
 ." I tell you, Mr Johnson," said the pastor, " there is
 
 BEAUTY AND DEFOEMITY. 119 
 
 not that young woman's equal in town. She is plain 
 to look at, I know, but she possesses a superior mind, 
 and a most excellent disposition. She is perfectly hum 
 ble ; she is kind and obliging, and is more anxious to do 
 a favor than to benefit herself. It is her delight to visit 
 the sick and the distressed and use all the means in her 
 power to benefit them. Your former pastor loved her ; 
 there was not a member of his church he esteemed more 
 highly than he did Ellen. I believe she possesses every 
 requisite for a minister's wife, and I know she will 
 make me happy. If there is a person in our society 
 who can say aught of her I should like to see that indi 
 vidual, for I am certain he cannot know her." 
 
 Mr. Johnson made no reply > he was a little vexed, 
 because, in his own mind, he " had selected his only 
 daughter for the pastor's wife, who possessed both 
 wealth and beauty. To have a very plain and humble 
 girl take a place he had expected Jane to fill, was hum 
 bling indeed. If Mr. Johnson thus felt, the haughty 
 girl felt it so much the more keenly, -and no language 
 was too harsh for them to use in reference to Mr. Clark. 
 
 "Without much ceremony or parade, Mr. Clark and 
 Ellen were married. The neighbors remarked that she 
 never looked better, and that as she grew older, she was 
 less plain. Certain it was that the virtues of her heart 
 made up for the deficiencies of her person. Ellen made 
 a most excellent wife, and by her counsels and advice 
 contributed greatly to the happiness of her husband. 
 The church and society now approved of his choice, and 
 seemed to be as devotedly attached to the wife as they 
 were to the pastor. In her benevolent acts her kind 
 nesses and her charities, her looks were forgotten, and 
 her plainness was never mentioned or thought of by the
 
 120 BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY. 
 
 people In a few months, Mr. Johnson and his family 
 buried all their hard feelings towards the pastor, and 
 Jane herself became a constant visitor at Mr. Clark's. 
 She had altered materially within a few months, and in 
 stead of that haughty look, and that unbecoming behav 
 ior which formerly characterized her, she manifested a 
 humble temper, and lived a consistent life. She united 
 herself to the church of Mr. Clark, and with his wife 
 went about doing good. 
 
 Jane has often acknowledged her errors to Mrs. Clark, 
 and confessed her sin in slighting her on account of her 
 poverty and deformity. " But," she has often repeated, 
 " you have been the making of me. When I treated 
 you with contempt, the forgiving disposition which you 
 always manifested, ma'de me ashamed of myself; and 
 although I knew your mental superiority, I would, not 
 acknowledge it, and so I shunned and endeavored to 
 despise you." 
 
 A few years passed away, while peace and prosperity 
 attended the good pastor and his people. They loved 
 him and his wife, and used their endeavors to sustain 
 and encourage them. To be sure, his salary was small 
 and his pay was mostly received from the farms of his 
 parishioners, yet he had plenty to sustain himself and 
 asked for no more. But in the midst of their happiness, 
 the good and devoted wife of the pastor sickened and died. 
 It was a severe stroke to Mr. Clark, for he was devot 
 edly attached to his wife, and the society mourned her 
 loss as if a parent or a child had been taken from 
 their own families. Hundreds followed her to the 
 grave, and never before was there such a sad day to the 
 poor villagers. It could be read in every countenance ; 
 it could be noticed in every word. Mr. Johnson, at
 
 BEAUTY AND DEFOEMITY. 121 
 
 his own expense, erected a monument to her memory, 
 on wliich her name and her age were inscribed with the 
 following simple line : 
 
 " BLESSED AEE THE DEAD WHO DIE IN THE LOED." 
 
 A year had elapsed since the death of the beloved 
 Ellen, when Mr. Clark led to the altar another bride. 
 The reader will not be greatly surprised when he is in 
 formed that her name was Jane Johnson the once 
 proud and unsanctified girl ; the now humble and Chris 
 tian woman. She had been so long intimate with the 
 pastor's first wife, that she caught her very spirit, and 
 became so much like her that the good man has often 
 said, " It seems as if the soul of Ellen had passed into 
 another body." Every one approved the pastor's choice ; 
 for Jane was as much respected and beloved now, as 
 she was condemned before. For many years they lived 
 happily together, and spent their days in following the 
 example of their Master in going about and doing good. 
 Their influence is felt to this day among the people of 
 that devoted parish. 
 
 Let young women learn, that though beauty may en 
 tice the eye, it cannot win the heart ; but real goodness, 
 though clothed in a plain exterior, commands the love 
 and respect of all. 
 11
 
 A TALE OF MOOSE ALLEY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A little word in kindness spoken, 
 
 A motion or a tear, 
 Has often healed the heart that's broken, 
 
 And made a friend sincere. 
 A word, a look, has crushed to earth 
 
 Full many a budding flower, 
 Which, had a smile but owned its birth, 
 
 Would bless life's darkest hour. 
 Then deem it not an idle thing 
 
 A pleasant word to speak ; 
 The face you wear, the thoughts you bring, 
 
 A heart may heal or break. 
 
 " THERE is some one knocking at our back door, Sa 
 rah ; go and see who it is." 
 
 The little girl ran to see what was wanted, and in a 
 few minutes, returned to her mother, saying, " It was 
 only a dirty beggar boy, who asked for cold victuals." 
 
 " What did you tell him ? " 
 
 " I told him we hadn't any, and that he must come 
 again." 
 
 " But perhaps his parents are very poor, and he may 
 not have had any thing to eat to-day. You should have 
 given him something." 
 
 " He looked so ragged and so dirty, that I was -almost 
 afraid of him."
 
 A TALE OF MOOSE ALLEY. 123 
 
 " If he ever calls again, ask him to come in, and if 
 he is really deserving of charity, we will pick up some 
 thing for him." 
 
 The parents of Sarah Griffin were not wealthy ; they 
 made a comfortable living and yearly added a little to 
 their property. The father was a mechanic, and by 
 his industrious habits and correct moral principles, had 
 gained the respect and confidence of all who knew him. 
 Whenever he undertook a piece of work he was partic 
 ular to have it faithfully done, so as to give entire sat 
 isfaction to his employers. By this means, he was never 
 out of work, and was gradually becoming independent. 
 His wife was prudent and industrious. She did not 
 follow the foolish fashions of the day, but was neat in 
 her dress, having every thing that was comfortable 
 and necessary. Whatever was brought into the house 
 was taken care of; nothing being wasted or destroyed, 
 that would prove beneficial either to her family or her 
 neighbors Mrs. Griffin never had a desire to make a 
 show in the world, and to pass for more than she actually 
 deserved ; but her ambition was to please her husband, 
 to bring up her family to industrious and virtuous hab 
 its, and to exert a good influence about her. She lived 
 on the best of terms with her neighbors, and never had 
 the least unpleasant feeling towards them, while they es 
 teemed her a pattern of gentleness and kindness. 
 
 One day as Sarah was looking from the window, she 
 exclaimed, " mother ! here comes that ragged beggar 
 boy again ; do go to the door and see what he wants." 
 
 Mrs. Griffin went to the door, and presently the little 
 fellow made his appearance in the kitchen, where he 
 had been invited by the mother. Sarah stared him iii
 
 124 A TALE OP MOOSE ALLEY. 
 
 the face, and with reluctance handed him a chair, where 
 he seated himself, holding his torn hat in his hands. 
 The poor boy hardly ventured to look up, when he re 
 plied, " Joseph Lanford," to the question, " What is your 
 name?" 
 
 " Where do your parents live ? " inquired Mrs. Griffin. 
 
 " In Moose Alley." 
 
 " What does your father do ? " 
 
 " He don't do any thing, he can't get any thing to 
 do. He used to work on the wharves loading vessels 
 and piling boards, but now he can't get any thing to do." 
 
 " How long is it since you have been obliged to beg 
 your bread ? " 
 
 " All winter ; but I don't get much." 
 
 " Do you attend school ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am ; my clothes are not suitable. I did go 
 once to Master Winslow, but he was so cross- and 
 whipped me so hard, that mother kept me at home. 
 But I think if I had good clothes, I would go again 
 and perhaps I might learn." 
 
 After giving the poor boy a supply of food, and ad 
 vising him to learn no bad habits, Mrs. Griffin told 
 him that she should call on Ms mother in the course of 
 the week. 
 
 " I'm much obliged to you," said the poor boy with a 
 bow, appearing exceedingly grateful for the lady's kind 
 ness. 
 
 " I do pity that boy," said Sarah, " for he looks kind 
 and pleasant. I wish he had better clothes." 
 
 "There is a great deal of poverty about, and multi 
 tudes of children who suffer for the necessaries of life. 
 I have no doubt the parents of this boy are extremely 
 poor, and I shall call upon them."
 
 A TALE OF MOOSE ALLEY. 125 
 
 "Mother, may I go with you, when you. call on 
 them?" 
 
 " Yes, my child, if you wish to go." 
 
 " And perhaps I can do something for them. I can 
 sew and knit, and assist them, I know." 
 
 A few evenings after, Mrs. Griffin, accompanied with 
 her daughter, went to the house of Mr. Lanford. 
 
 Moose Alley was a narrow lane, especially at the head, 
 but it was found without much difficulty. 
 
 " But how do you know which house to call at ? " in 
 quired Sarah. 
 
 " I don't know, but we will inquire." 
 
 At that moment a gentleman passed by, of whom 
 Mrs. Griffin inquired " Can you tell me where a fam 
 ily by the name of Lanford lives ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am, I cannot." 
 
 " Who lives in this small black house ? " 
 
 " Mr. Leach, the sexton," and the man passed on. 
 
 " Inquire of Mr. Leach, mother, perhaps he can tell 
 you." 
 
 She knocked at the door, and a tall, dark-eyed man 
 came, of whom she made her inquiry, but she could 
 not get the information she desired. " There are several 
 families who live at the bottom of the alley," said the 
 tall man, " but I am not acquainted with their names." 
 
 Mrs. Griffin passed down the alley, arid meeting a 
 little black fellow, who told her his name was George 
 Gardner, she inquired for Mr. Lanford, and was di 
 rected to the house. 
 
 When she knocked at the door, the little boy, Jo 
 seph, came and invited her and Sarah to walk in. 
 
 " Here, mother, is the lady I told you about," said 
 the boy ; " she has now called to see us." 
 11*
 
 126 A TALE OF MOOSE ALLEY. 
 
 Mrs. Lanford expressed her gratitude for the visit, 
 and requested them to be seated. The house was very 
 old, and the room but poorly furnished, and every thing 
 betokened extreme poverty. 
 
 " For the last six or eight months," said the woman, 
 " my health has been feeble, and my husband finding 
 but little employment, I have been obliged to depend 
 upon others for assistance. Our neighbors are very 
 good, but most of them are poor, and my little boy has 
 been obliged to beg sometimes. We feel grateful for 
 what you have done for us, but cannot repay your kind 
 ness." 
 
 " I liked the appearance of your boy," said Mrs. 
 Griffin, " and promised him I would call and see you. 
 I shall be pleased at any time to render you what assist 
 ance I am able." 
 
 " I thank you kindly ; I am in hopes my husband will 
 obtain work. Being a laborer, he has scarcely done a 
 day's work the last two months, but we live in hopes 
 that times will be better." 
 
 Mrs. Griffin had brought a few little things which she 
 gave to the poor woman, who expressed her gratitude 
 in tears ; and little Sarah opened her bag and drew 
 forth a .few dainties for Joseph, who thanked her for her 
 kindness. Mrs. Griffin after spending an agreeable 
 hour with the poor woman, went home ; not, however, 
 until she was strongly invited to call and see them again. 
 
 " "What a pleasant woman Mrs. Lanford is, " I should 
 like to call at her house very often." 
 
 " If we could do her any good," said the mother, " it 
 would be worth while to call upon her." 
 
 " But you gave her something." 
 
 " Yes that was but a trifle, however But we will
 
 A TALE OF MOOSE ALLEY. 127 
 
 see if we have not some old clothes of your father's, 
 that will answer for her son." 
 
 " And let me carry them down ? " 
 
 " You may if I can find any thing suitable." 
 
 Mrs. Griffin mentioned the visit to her husband, who 
 united with her in endeavoring to assist them, for she 
 believed them to be not only poor and needy, but hon 
 est and industrious. In a few days a suit of clothes 
 was made for the boy, and Sarah was happy with the 
 thought of carrying them down. She tripped through 
 the alley and the first person she saw was the black boy, 
 George, who smiled at her as she passed along. Mrs. 
 Lanford was overjoyed with the present, and thanked 
 the little girl a dozen times for the kindness. 
 
 " Come, Joseph," said the mother, " and see what the 
 little girl has brought you a pair of trousers." 
 
 The little fellow looked at them with astonishment. 
 "Are they mine, mother? did the good lady send 
 them to me ? Now I shall be able to go to school," and 
 he thanked Sarah for bringing them down. " Tell your 
 good mother," continued the boy, " that I hope to be 
 of some use to her. If she wants anybody to go of 
 errands, or split her wood, or bring her shavings, tell 
 her I shall always be happy to do it." And pleased 
 with her visit, and the gratitude manifested by the fam 
 ily, the little girl ran home. 
 
 " I do love to visit Mrs. Lanford, she is so pleasant," 
 said Sarah to her mother ; " and little Joseph says he 
 will do any thing for you." 
 
 . A number of months passed away, and Mrs. Griffin 
 continued to send food, or clothing, to the poor family 
 in Moose Alley, when one day, she was informed by Mrs. 
 Lanford that her husband had made up his mind to re-
 
 128 . A TALE OF MOOSE ALLEY. 
 
 move to Boston, where he thought he should find em 
 ployment the year round, and be able to support his 
 little family. She expressed a great deal of regret to 
 leave one who had been so kind to her as Mrs. Griffin, 
 and said she never should forget her kindness. Sarah 
 and her mother were sorry to lose the poor family, for 
 they had become attached to them, and felt a pleasure in 
 visiting and assisting them. The first packet that sailed 
 for Boston took the poor family, together with the little 
 furniture they possessed. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 What beauty and what heavenly grace 
 Beam in a. virtuous woman's face ! 
 True index of a heart devout ; 
 As pure within as fair without. 
 Methinks the holy angels vie, 
 As on a mission from the sky, 
 To lift above her humble prayer, 
 And gain for it admission there. , 
 
 A PEW years passed, and Sarah left her school to com 
 mence doing something for herself. Although her 
 father was in good circumstances, it was her choice to 
 learn a trade ; " I may see the necessity of it, by and 
 by," said she. She chose to be a mantuamaker, and by 
 diligence and industry, soon acquired it. Sarah was an 
 excellent girl ; she was kind and accommodating, pos 
 sessed a sweet temper, and was calculated to win the 
 respect and love of all who became acquainted with her. 
 She was not beautiful ; her beauty was centred in the 
 mind the true seat of worth and excellence. But,
 
 A TALE OF MOOSE ALLEY. 129 
 
 notwithstanding, there were several who thought they 
 should obtain a prize, if they could but win the affections 
 of Miss Griffin. In some things she was peculiar. She 
 said but little to those young men who have no steady 
 employment and strive to live by their wits, or sponge 
 their bread from the hands of honest industry. She la 
 bored herself, and she was determined, if she was ever 
 married, to be united to an industrious and useful man 
 one who was not ashamed to work, providing the 
 employment was honorable. "While two or three young 
 gentlemen, whose parents were wealthy, were constant 
 visitors at her house, there was one whom they occa 
 sionally ridiculed on account of his peculiar notions. 
 He had been brought up with them, but chose to keep 
 aloof from their company, when he had a leisure hour, 
 and spend it in some useful employment. He was a 
 young mechanic, and not unfrequently visited the house 
 of Mr. Griffin. Of all her male acquaintances, Sarah 
 was more partial to the mechanic, Edson by name. 
 This was noticed by those who thought themselves su 
 perior to him, and they put forth their strongest efforts 
 to bring him into contempt. He never heeded their re 
 marks, but pursued his business, regardless alike of 
 their smiles or their frowns. When it was a settled 
 point, that Sarah was to become the happy wife of Ed- 
 son, the envy of the foppish and idle young men was 
 excited to its highest pitch. 
 
 " She has a singular taste," said one. 
 
 " She'll miss it," said another. 
 
 " And she is a fool," said a third. 
 
 But she knew her own business best ; she had con 
 sulted her own happiness ; and the young mechanic 
 became the husband of Sarah Griffin. It is needless to
 
 ISO A TALE OF MOOSE ALLEY. 
 
 say they prospered for as certain as the day succeeds 
 the night, so sure will prosperity follow in the train of 
 virtue and industry. They commenced life in a humble 
 way, purchased but little furniture, and hired a small 
 house the very house, which had been thoroughly re 
 paired, once occupied by the Lanford family. Here 
 they lived pleasantly and happily. Edson, being a good 
 mechanic, had as much work as he could attend to. In 
 a few years after his marriage, he had saved enough 
 from his earnings to purchase the house in which he re 
 sided. Although it was not so- pleasantly situated, still 
 it was convenient for him, and with peace of mind, true 
 contentment, and an affectionate wife, it was his para 
 dise. But this happiness was not long to last. That 
 insidious disease, consumption, which yearly sweeps off 
 so many of our citizens, seized the frame of Edson, and 
 his constitution bowed to its mandate. He was sensi 
 ble that he could not live that his present sickness 
 would be his last ; but he was resigned. He had placed 
 his hopes in a better world. It was hard to leave his 
 wife and only child, but he knew that He who taketh 
 care of the sparrows would not suffer them to come to 
 want His care would be over them still. And the 
 good man died died in faith and triumph. But 
 
 " When such friends part, 'tis the survivor dies." 
 
 It was so in this case. Sarah suffered in mind, but 
 she looked above the earth for comfort and consolation. 
 The thought that at some future time she should be re 
 united to her husband gave her peace, and in some meas 
 ure abated the waters of affliction that rolled over her. 
 
 Mrs. Edson continued to reside in the house bought 
 by her husband, and by taking care of the little property
 
 A TALE OF MOOSE ALLEY. 131 
 
 left at his decease ^ and working more or less at her trade 
 she was enabled to live comfortably and pleasantly. 
 
 Sarah had been a widow something like three years, 
 when on one summer day, as she was sitting by the 
 open window, she observed a stranger pass, looking 
 rather thoughtfully at her house. He went by, and see 
 ing her, turned and inquired, " Can you tell me what 
 became of the family that lived in yonder black house 
 some twenty odd years ago ? " 
 
 " No, sir, I cannot," said Sarah, " for I have lived 
 here but six or eight years. What was the name of 
 the family ? " 
 
 " Gardner ; there was one member, a boy then, who 
 appeared to be a fine fellow. His name was George." 
 
 " Oh, I do remember him. He died a great many 
 years ago, when quite a youth. I have heard him 
 spoken of by many of his old playmates as a very ex 
 emplary boy." 
 
 " Is he dead ? I have played with him for many an. 
 hour, and though he possessed a dark skin, a kinder 
 and better boy never lived." 
 
 " Did you formerly reside in this place ? " 
 
 " I did, but it is many years since." 
 
 As the stranger seemed anxious to make inquiries, 
 he was invited to step in, and gladly accepted the invi 
 tation. 
 
 " I perceive many changes," he continued, " since I 
 was here before. What has become of the old sexton 
 who lived in the black house at the head of the alley ? " 
 
 " He is also dead." 
 
 " And his sons ? " 
 
 " They dropped off one after another, and not one of 
 them, I believe, is left."
 
 132 A TALE OP MOOSE ALLEY. 
 
 " And where's the merry shoemaker*who kept below ? " 
 
 " He is gone also." 
 
 "There was the S family, the H 's, the 
 
 M 's, and I forget how many more who formerly 
 
 lived in this neighborhood. Are any of them living ? " 
 
 " Yes ; some of them are alive, but where they re 
 side, I cannot tell." 
 
 " But there is one family I feel particularly interested 
 in, of whom I have thought many and many a time 
 since I left Portland ; but you probably don't know 
 them. The name was Griffin." 
 
 Sarah was struck with astonishment. " You cannot 
 mean the Griffin who formerly resided on Street ? " 
 
 " The same ; where are they ? and what has become 
 of their daughter, Sarah ? Do you know her ? " 
 
 " I am their daughter." 
 
 " Gracious heavens ! can it be possible ? " and he ex 
 tended his hand, saying, " My name is Lanford ; I am 
 the poor beggar boy that you felt so much interest in 
 years ago," and tears of joy checked his utterance. 
 
 After a few moments of silence, the young man re 
 lated to Sarah the principal incidents in his life. When 
 his parents removed to Boston, they were as poor as 
 they could be, but his father got work and prospered. 
 When Joseph was old enough, he went to a trade, 
 completed his apprenticeship, and commenced trading 
 for himself. He was now doing a good business, and 
 felt anxious once more to see his native place, and 
 converse with those friends with whom, years -before, 
 he associated. For two or three hours did Sarah and 
 her friend converse upon the past, and when he left, 
 he promised faithfully to call and see her again. 
 
 Lanford remained but a few weeks in the city, and
 
 A TALE OF MOOSE ALLEY. 133 
 
 when he left for Boston, Sarah had become his wife. 
 They now live happily together. 
 
 Lanford is doing an excellent business, and has pros 
 pered beyond his most sanguine expectations. Once a 
 year they visit their friends in Portland, and we often 
 hear the remark, when referring to old times, and 
 bringing to mind the playmates of our youth "Lan 
 ford has turned out well. From a poor, destitute boy, 
 .by industry and integrity, he has amassed a large prop 
 erty, and is respected and beloved by all who know 
 him." 
 
 12
 
 WIDOW AND SON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Oh, let me die the death of those 
 
 Who calmly sink to rest, 
 Like placid summer evening's close, 
 
 That fades so gently in the west. 
 With not a pain, with not a care, 
 
 To ruffle life's decline, 
 But soft as dews of heaven are, 
 
 Oh, be the last repose of mine. 
 As gently as the voices fall, 
 
 Of seraphs on the ear, 
 Be the commissioned angel's call 
 
 As soft, as melting, and as clear. 
 
 "LISTEN to me, Henry, and do not indulge the 
 thought of leaving your place, True, you may do bet 
 ter, but there are ten chances to one that you will not 
 succeed as well that you will bitterly regret it in the 
 end." 
 
 " I am so confined, mother, that I don't like to stay 
 with Mr. Walker. I should rather go to sea. You 
 know I always had a desire to see the world ; and I told 
 you I did not think I should stay, when you put me to a 
 trade." 
 
 "You have been there some time, are acquainted 
 with the family, and your master is a good man and ap 
 pears to be attached to you. "
 
 WIDOW AND SON. 135 
 
 " But I cannot stay. I am determined to go to sea, 
 and you may as well give me your consent." 
 
 " That I can never do, Henry. You are my only child, 
 and to have you follow the sea would be as severe an 
 affliction as could happen to me." 
 
 Henry Norton lost his father at an early age ; and the 
 care of an only son fell upon one of the best of wo 
 men. His mother was kind and benevolent, and a pat 
 tern of industry. Having been left with but little, 
 property on the death of her husband, by taking in 
 work, she was enabled to live comfortably, enjoying all 
 the necessaries of life. Henry was a good boy, but 
 rather too headstrong, and when bent upon pursuing 
 any course, it was a difficult matter to turn his mind. 
 At an early age, Mrs. Norton placed her son, as an ap 
 prentice, to a worthy mechanic, and for the first year or 
 two Henry was contented and happy. But an associate 
 of his had obtained the consent of his parents to follow 
 the sea, which at once unsettled the mind of the ap 
 prentice and made him discontented with his place. He 
 had often endeavored to get his mother's consent to leave 
 Mr. Walker and go with his companion, but the good 
 woman would not hear a word about it. Finally, see 
 ing the determination of her son, she made known to 
 him her feelings. But Henry was resolute. 
 
 " If you do not give your consent," said he, " I will 
 run away." 
 
 " Remember," said his mother, " the consequences of 
 disobedience to parents. If you should so far forget me 
 and disregard my feelings, perhaps it may be a thorn in 
 your flesh the rest of your days. I have told you re 
 peatedly that I can never give my consent for you to 
 follow the sea. If you ever go, it will be contrary to
 
 WIDOW AND SON. 
 
 the express wish of your mother, and God will never 
 bless you." 
 
 "Well, I don't care, I will go to sea, if I can get 
 away, whether you give your consent or not," said the 
 stubborn boy, leaving the house. 
 
 A day or two after, Mrs. Norton heard from Mr. 
 Walker that her son had run away from his place, and 
 shipped on board a vessel and before he was apprised of 
 it, had sailed. The poor woman burst into tears, and 
 wrung her hands, exclaiming, " What shall I do ? ' Oh ! 
 how can I bear this affliction ? " And it was a long 
 time before she could be comforted. She thought how 
 poorly her son was clad of the privations and dan 
 gers of the sea of the company of profane men on 
 board the ship, with none to counsel or advise him 
 and she was sad indeed for many a day. She had no 
 heart to work, lost her usual vivacity, and her neigh 
 bors pronounced her in a decline. However, the poig 
 nancy of her grief wore away, although she never ceased 
 to think of her erring boy. 
 
 After a twelvemonth had passed, the vessel returned ; 
 but to open afresh her lacerated heart, Mrs. Norton was 
 informed that her son had left the brig in a foreign 
 port, and it was uncertain what vessel he had shipped 
 on board. Those who have a mother's feelings, and 
 those alone, can realize the sorrows of her heart. Per 
 haps her. son was dead, or, if alive, in the company of 
 the vile and unprincipled, or it may be that he was suf 
 fering from disease, with no kind hand to administer to 
 his wants. Such feelings burdened her soul, and gave 
 her anguish inexpressible. 
 
 Another year passed and not a word had been heard 
 respecting Henry. Mrs. Norton, true to a mother's
 
 WIDOW AND SON. 137 
 
 love, had made up various things for him, should he ever 
 return, and what little she earned, beside what was suf 
 ficient for her own support, was treasured for his ben 
 efit. But her son came not. Year after year passed 
 by, and no tidings of her boy came to her ears. She 
 finally gave up all hope of seeing him, presuming he 
 had come to his end in a' foreign port, among strangers. 
 But Mrs. Norton continued to work for a support, till 
 she was induced by a friend to give up housekeeping, 
 and reside with her, where she should do but little, and 
 enjoy herself in her declining days. 
 
 It was upwards of twenty years since Henry left his 
 mother, and no one supposed that he would ever be 
 heard from again. In fact, but few remembered the 
 boy ; and the circumstance of his leaving was treasured 
 only in the breast of the mother, and the few friends 
 with whom she was intimate. Mrs. Norton had grown 
 old. The afflictions of her early years the loss of 
 the best of husbands and an only son, the idol of her 
 heart, had so worn upon her spirits, that she seemed but 
 a wreck of humanity. Still she looked up to God in 
 thankfulness for the blessings she enjoyed, and was ever 
 striving against sin, and endeavoring to live the life of 
 a Christian. Threescore years had passed away, and 
 the good woman was taken sick. It was evident to her 
 physician, and to all who saw her, that her sands had 
 nearly run out, that death was fast approaching. She 
 was told that she would probably never recover. But 
 death had no terrors for her. She had always lived a 
 consistent, Christian life, and now said "I am going 
 to my Father and my God.'' 
 
 " Have you no desire to live ? " inquired her friend. 
 
 "Not the least. My Saviour is waiting to receive 
 12*
 
 WIDOW AND SON. 
 
 me. The thought that I shall see my Maker and enjoy 
 his presence forever, gives me joy that I find it utterly 
 impossible for 'me to express." 
 
 Seeing her friend weeping by her side, the dying wo 
 man said, " Do not weep because I go ; it will not be 
 long before you will meet me in heaven. Oh, how 
 blessed it is to die ! " 
 
 Full of praise, and without a seeming doubt of a 
 happy state beyond the grave, Mrs. Norton, after linger 
 ing a few weeks, fell asleep in Jesus. Her last words 
 were " Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly." 
 
 Everybody who knew this good lady loved her. The 
 old and the young surrounded her bed while she lin 
 gered, catching the heavenly strains that fell from her 
 lips. Her little property was left to the marine society 
 for the benefit of the poor sailors. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 What is your life ? A vapor's breath 
 
 The passing of a cloud at morn ; 
 You smile, you weep, lie down with death : 
 
 The traveller of a night is gone. 
 
 WHEN Henry Norton parted from his mother, he 
 came to the determination to leave Mr. Walker and fol 
 low the sea. The first opportunity that presented, he 
 shipped on board a vessel, and, without informing his 
 master, sailed for a foreign port. Every thing was new 
 to him on board the vessel, and it was some, time before 
 he was able to take hold and work like the rest of the 
 crew. He experienced that unpleasant sickness so
 
 WIDOW AND SON. 139 
 
 common to fresh hands ; but when fully recovered, he 
 was as hearty and active as any of the crew. Before 
 he had reached his destined port, however, he found 
 that sea-faring life was not what he had anticipated on 
 shore. Watching by night, in the storm and cold, and 
 continually exposed to the weather in all seasons, made 
 him regret more than once that he had left a pleasant 
 trade and a kind master. Above all, he regretted most 
 bitterly that he had disobeyed his kind parent, and. 
 pursued a course which he knew must fill her soul with 
 sorrow. 
 
 When the vessel reached her destined port, the young 
 sailor went ashore with the crew, and in a round of 
 pleasure forgot his serious emotions. He had learned 
 the follies and the vices of the sailors, and would drink 
 and swear as heedlessly as the most abandoned. The 
 vessel being bound home, Henry abandoned her, and 
 shipped on board another. He felt ashamed of his 
 course and conduct, and was determined not to return 
 at present. Henry was soon upon the ocean again, but 
 had not been out many days before the vessel experi 
 enced a severe gale. The captain thought it was not 
 possible for the ship to live, the wind was so tremendous, 
 and the waves 'beat over them with so much fury. One 
 poor fellow was washed from the deck into the sea, and 
 was never seen again. ' However, the storm abated, and 
 the craft survived, with the exception of the loss of one 
 or two of her sails. Our young seaman had never be 
 fore seen a storm at sea, and he was terribly frightened. 
 He wished a thousand times that he had obeyed his par 
 ent and continued Ms trade. When a fellow-sailor 
 one with whom Henry had been intimate was swept 
 instantly away, and launched into eternity, it affected
 
 140 WIDOW AND SON. 
 
 him to tears. But when the storm ceased, and the ves 
 sel moved on smoothly as before, he forgot his danger, 
 and was as lively and as careless as ever. 
 
 For ten years Henry was a rover upon the seas, seldom 
 remaining on land but a few days at a time, and con 
 triving in that short space to spend his hard-earned 
 money. During all this period he barely clothed him 
 self, without laying by a single copper for his own use 
 or to assist his poor mother. Having arrived in a ves 
 sel within a hundred miles of his native place, he re 
 solved to take the stage and see his mother. It was the 
 first time, since he left home, that he had come to this 
 conclusion. Arriving in town at the close of day, he bent 
 his steps towards the cot his mother occupied ten years 
 before. As he approached the house, he saw a glimmer 
 ing light from the window, and curiosity prompted him 
 to look in. There sat his poor mother, intent upon her 
 work ; he knew her as soon as he cast his eye towards 
 her, but his heart misgave him. His error rose up 
 before him, and the thought of his vicious life, and the 
 manner in which he squandered all his money, not pos 
 sessing a single dollar to bestow upon his kind mother, 
 made him resolve to go no further. The calm, sweet 
 look of his parent, as she bent over her work, would 
 not suffer him to intrude. With no money, with no 
 character, to come before her was more than he could 
 bear. Perhaps she would sink under the thought, and 
 it would destroy the little happiness she seemed now to 
 partake. The" sailor wept and turned away. Again he 
 returned, and looked once more upon his dear mother, 
 and sank down in grief. In a moment, he was gone, 
 and the next day he was on his journey to the vessel he 
 had left. From that hour, Henry was an altered man.
 
 WIDOW AND SON. 141 
 
 ETe had seen his mother, and while looking upon her 
 pleasant countenance, he resolved to be a better man 
 never to swear again, but to go away and take care 
 of his money, and return, a son worthy of such a wo 
 man. He determined to save all his earnings, that the 
 latter days of his parent might be cheered by his smiles, 
 his virtuous conduct, and his prosperity. It was ex 
 ceedingly difficult for Henry to overcome his bad hab 
 its, but hard as it was, he conquered them. He never 
 drank again, and an oath was never heard to pollute his 
 lips. He was frugal and industrious, and strove to do 
 his duty. From a common sailor he rose by degrees, 
 till he commanded as fine a vessel as ever whitened the 
 seas. Yet he toiled on, accumulating money, till in the 
 course of eight or ten years from the time he saw his 
 mother, he was the owner of a beautiful vessel.. We 
 will not follow Captain Norton through his voyages, nor 
 recount the many dangers he escaped, nor the ship 
 wrecks and trials he encountered. He was a superior 
 officer and a real gentleman. 
 
 Once more, with a light heart, he was bending his 
 course towards his native place, which, ten years before, 
 he had left under peculiarly distressing circumstances. 
 He arrived there in the morning, and putting on his 
 best clothes, started for the dwelling of his mother. 
 He was on the point of lifting the latch and walking 
 in, when the thought struck him that x < perhaps his 
 mother might have removed. He rapped at the door, and 
 a stranger came. On inquiry for Mrs. Norton, Henry 
 was told they knew of no such woman; they having 
 resided there for about three months only. The thought 
 struck him that he had better call at the house of his 
 old master ; and on going round he passed the grave-
 
 142 WIDOW AND SON. 
 
 yard. Curiosity prompted him to enter. On many a 
 stone he read a familiar name ; many had been sleep 
 ers there for years, whom he supposed were living, ac 
 tive beings. After wandering about the tombs for up 
 wards of an hour, he saw a funeral procession enter. 
 He walked to the new-made grave, waiting pensively for 
 the approach of the dead. But a few followed. The 
 coffin was laid beside the grave, and Henry stepped for 
 ward to read the inscription. It was " Mary Norton, 
 died May 4, 1840, aged 60 years." 
 
 " Oh ! my mother ! my mother ! " the captain ex 
 claimed, falling prostrate on the coffin. 
 
 The little group, being astonished beyond measure, 
 instantly raised him from the abode of the dead, and 
 discovered that life was extinct. The poor man had 
 died of a broken heart. 
 
 From the papers found in his pocket, and from his 
 general features, it was ascertained that he was the long- 
 lost son of the widow. In a few days his body was 
 placed beside the grave of his mother. But few dry 
 eyes were present.
 
 THE OLD KEY. 
 
 Thy modest virtue and thy grace 
 
 How dearly do I prize ! 
 The very soul of loveliness 
 
 Beams in thy sparkling eyes. 
 
 MARY JOHNSON was a plain, modest, unassuming girl 
 of fifteen years ; and poor, of course, as all modest fe 
 males are. Her parents lived in a small house, and by 
 industry and economy made a comfortable living. In 
 the neighborhood were many wealthy females, who were 
 proud and fashionable, and therefore took but little no 
 tice of the Johnsons. Occasionally, Mary would asso 
 ciate with the children of her neighbors, but seldom re 
 ceived an invitation to visit them at their houses. 
 There was one young lady, however, who seemed ex 
 tremely fond of Mary, and although her parents moved 
 in a higher circle, and never visited the Johnsons, yet 
 she was often found in the humble tenement with her 
 companion. Mary was often invited to her house, and 
 was kindly treated. Ellen Jameson loved her on ac 
 count of the good qualities of her heart. Mary was 
 kind, sweet-tempered, and perfectly amiable. But 
 among her neighbors there were those who treated 
 her with much indifference, if not contempt, and they 
 would take pains to let her see the bad feeling of their 
 hearts. Mary paid but little attention to what they
 
 144 THE OLD KEY. 
 
 said or did ; minded her own business, worked for her 
 mother, and improved her leisure hours, not in writing 
 silly letters to the beaux, and reading the trashy novels 
 of the day, but in perusing valuable works, or attend 
 ing to some useful branch of study. 
 
 "When Mary was about sixteen years of age, a gen 
 tleman by the name of Aubert, reputed to be wealthy, 
 paid a visit to his relations in the neighborhood. Dur 
 ing his visit, the young ladies of fashion had sev 
 eral parties, to each of which the stranger was in- 
 'vited. Aubert was about thirty-five years of age, and 
 possessed the elements of a real gentleman. He was 
 not haughty, and knew well what belonged to good 
 manners. A short time before he left the village, it 
 was Ellen Jameson's turn to invite company, and, of 
 course, she had her modest friend, Mary Johnson, 
 among the number. The poor girl had never before 
 been introduced to the stranger she being the only 
 female in the place, who had not found an opportunity 
 of conversing with the accomplished Aubert. During 
 the evening, but few noticed the humble Mary, who en 
 joyed herself as well as she could. Occasionally, she 
 would notice the haughty look and contemptuous smile 
 of some of her neighbors, who had elegant and fashion 
 able dresses, and sometimes a remark not very pleasant 
 would reach her ear. 
 
 " I should not have come here," said one, " if I had 
 known one of the Johnsons was invited." 
 
 " I like to keep better company," said another. 
 
 " It is provoking," said a third, in which remark all 
 appeared to concur, excepting Ellen, who did not happen 
 to hear the conversation. 
 
 Before the company broke up that evening, Aubert
 
 .THE OLD KEY. 145 
 
 stated that on the morrow he should depart from the 
 village, and perhaps should never see any of them again. 
 " I have passed a pleasant season among you," said he, 
 " and I shall always look back with pleasure to the time 
 I have spent here. Before I go, I wish to leave you all 
 something as a token of my regard a trifling present. 
 But in the first place, young ladies, I wish to ask you 
 all a simple question which I trust you will gratify me 
 in answering." 
 
 All the girls at once consented. 
 
 " The question I wish you to answer is "What do 
 you most desire in life ? That which you think will af 
 ford you the most happiness ? Now," he continued, " I 
 wish you each would answer this question on a slip of 
 paper, and leave it with our friends here to-morrow, and 
 before I depart, you will each receive in return, a tri 
 fling present." 
 
 The girls were pleased with the idea, for they all 
 respected the gentleman, and on the morrow each one 
 left her answer to the question. One wrote " Riches," 
 another " Beauty," another " Accomplishments," and 
 so on. But Mary Johnson being singular in her choice, 
 wrote, " Modesty and Virtue." 
 
 Aubert departed that day, and left presents for all 
 the females who wrote answers to his question. To 
 one he gave a watch, to another a chain, to a third a 
 ring, etc., but to the modest Mary he left nothing but 
 a common key. 
 
 When it was whispered about the neighborhood that 
 
 each one had received a present, the fashionable girls 
 
 had a hearty laugh over poor Mary's. " Yes," said 
 
 they, " she thought by her silly answer that she should 
 
 13
 
 146 THE OLD KEY. 
 
 
 
 receive the handsomest present, but she got nothing 
 but an old rusty key. It was all she deserved." 
 
 But Ellen Jameson told her friend that she was wel 
 come to her own present ; for she felt grieved that she 
 should be slighted more than the rest. v 
 
 "I am perfectly satisfied," said Mary; "I did not 
 expect much, and I assure you, the key is as good a 
 token of remembrance as I could have. I shall never 
 be tempted to part with this ;. 'tis of so little worth that 
 no one will dasire it." 
 
 " But you know how our neighbors feel about it. It 
 pleases them much." 
 
 " You also know, Ellen, that if I had been presented 
 with a gold watch, it would have excited their envy, and 
 they would have made more unpleasant remarks than 
 they possibly can do about the key." 
 
 " True, and I am glad you feel so pleasant about it ; 
 but I confess I was disappointed and sorry when I 
 heard what had been left for you." 
 
 Mary continued to pursue her course in an humble 
 way, and although her neighbors laughed a great deal 
 about her present being an old rusty key, she heeded 
 them not, but minded her own business. It was Mary's 
 ambition to earn her own living, to do all the good she 
 could, and exert a happy influence around her. She 
 was devotedly attached to Ker parents, and when they 
 were ill, all her endeavors were put forth to alleviate 
 their sufferings. 
 
 Year after year passed on, bringing various changes 
 in the neighborhood. A few of Mary's companions 
 were married, while the remainder were still living in 
 hope, but as yet no one had offered his hand to the 
 humble girl. Had wealth been showered upon her, had
 
 THE OLD KEY. 147 
 
 her parents moved in the fashionable circles, she would 
 have found a dozen suitors. But no ; she was a hard 
 working, poor, and industrious girl, whose highest am 
 bition was to do good and promote the welfare of her 
 parents, and make those around her happy. 
 
 It was now a dozen years since the visit of Aubert 
 to the village. A great many had forgotten the circum 
 stance of the question and the presents. But occasion 
 ally the fact that Mary Johnson was presented with a 
 rusty key, was kept alive by those who styled them 
 selves the "first classes," in the neighborhood. 
 
 A young man by the name of Derby had but re 
 cently removed into the village, and commenced trad 
 ing. He was poor, and while so was modest and hum 
 ble. He was thought but little of by the wealthy, from 
 the fact that he had no property j and was intimate at 
 the house of Mr. Johnson. It was said that he had en 
 gaged himself to Mary, and there was good foundation 
 for the report. While matters were in this train, his 
 business began to increase and Derby was very .success 
 ful in many of his trades. In two or three years, he 
 had collected quite a handsome property. "When it 
 was circulated in the village that Derby was " well to 
 do in the world," the rich girls courted his society, and 
 by degrees, so turned his affections from poor Mary, 
 that he finally left her for the company of her wealthy 
 neighbors. Mary was grieved to the heart at the con 
 duct of one in whom she had placed implicit confidence, 
 and to whom she had always been kind and agreeable. 
 "But the poor girl did not reproach him, or threaten to 
 revenge him, or her neighbors, but bore her affliction 
 with a true womanly spirit. If this is his disposition, 
 she thought,, it is lucky he has left me. If he does not
 
 148 THE OLD KEY. 
 
 love me, why should I wish longer to cultivate his ac 
 quaintance ? It is better for me to suffer a little now 
 than to endure a lifetime of sorrow. Glorious girl ! we 
 wish there were ten thousand like her in the world. 
 
 Within a year after Derby's cruel treatment to Mary, 
 lie was married to ' the daughter 'of one of the most 
 wealthy men in the place to the very girl who, so 
 many years before, had said the most she desired in life 
 was riches. We need not say. there was little real affec 
 tion existing between the newly married couple ; that the 
 reader will surmise. With them the greatest enjoyment 
 of life consisted in the accumulation of dollars and cents, 
 and the carrying out of the fashions of the day. It 
 was said by those who knew the parties best, that their 
 house presented any thing but scenes of love and 
 kindness. Happiness was a word neither of them could 
 Comprehend. 
 
 About this time, the death of Aubert, the gentleman 
 of reputed wealth, was announced in the neighborhood. 
 He had made his will, one clause of which ran some 
 thing like the following : " The large iron trunk which 
 has remained for years in my private room, I desire to 
 
 be forwarded to the village of , and to be presented 
 
 to the lady, if living, who has a key that will unlock it." 
 The trunk, with a copy of the will, had been forwarded 
 to a gentleman in the neighborhood, with the necessary 
 instructions. After a few inquiries, he learned that 
 Mary Johnson had, years before, been presented with 
 an old rusty key. He hastened to her, and made known 
 the death of Aubert, and the clause in his will respect 
 ing the key. Full of surprise, she ran to her drawer 
 and produced the key. The gentleman immediately 
 employed a carter- to bring the trunk. The key fitted 
 it exactly.
 
 - THE OLD KEY. 1.49 
 
 " Miss Johnson," said the gentleman, " I know not 
 the contents of the trunk. It is yonrs. For your sake 
 and your parents', I trust it contains something of 
 value." So saying, he left the house. 
 
 As soon as her father came home, Mary related what 
 had transpired, showing him the present, and desiring 
 him to look into it. 
 
 The old gentleman unlocked the trunk, when lo ! 
 gold coins and rare jewels presented themselves to the 
 astonished gaze of the family. Suffice it to say, that 
 after a thorough examination, the contents of the trunk 
 were valued at no less sum than ten thousand dollars 
 no small amount for a poor girl. There was a little 
 note at the bottom which read as follows : 
 
 " This is the reward of modesty and virtue." 
 
 If we had the power, we would portray the feel 
 ings of young Derby and his wife on hearing of 
 this good luck. But we cannot. The girls who once 
 turned from Mary Johnson with contempt, desired to 
 court her society ; but she treated them kindly, with 
 out referring to the past, or desiring such acquaintances. 
 
 Mary is as modest and unassuming as ever, and uses 
 her wealth to promote the happiness of others. There 
 is not a family on earth where more real comfort is en 
 joyed than in the newly shingled and white-painted cot 
 tage of the Johnsons. 
 
 "We shouldn't wonder if the next mails bring us the 
 news of the marriage of Mary Johnson to a worthy 
 and industrious mechanic, who, but a short time previ 
 ous to her good fortune, had secured her affections by 
 his rare virtues arid accomplishments. 
 
 Modesty and virtue what females will nbt prefer 
 them to riches, fashion, and impudence ? 
 13*
 
 THE REFORMATION. 
 
 In kindness breathe a word ; it may 
 
 Sink deeply in the breast 
 Of one who long has been astray 
 
 In paths of vice unblest. 
 Drop but a tear, and it'may fall 
 
 Upon a stony heart, 
 That long resisted wisdom's call, 
 
 And life and joy impart. 
 
 MARY JOHNSON was the pride of the village. Gay 
 and cheerful, she had culled the flowers of eighteen 
 summers, without scarcely realizing the flight of time,' 
 or the reality of existence. Surrounded by kind 
 friends, and blest with wealthy parents, she was con 
 tented and happy. Possessing a mild disposition, and 
 being courteous in her deportment, Mary received the 
 praise, and won the affection of all who knew her. Be 
 ing an only child she was the idol of her" parents, who 
 spared no pains in her education. 
 
 From early childhood, Mary had been intimate in the 
 family of a neighbor by the name of Elson. The oldest 
 son, Henry, had been her companion in early youth, and 
 they had grown up together, with scarcely a day passing 
 when they were not in each other's company. They had 
 now pledged their love, and the day was appointed when 
 they should become man and wife. The parents of 
 each were well pleased with the union, and had used
 
 THE BEFORMATION. 151 
 
 their influence to bring it about. The marriage-day 
 was one of interest to the whole village. Everybody 
 loved and respected the happy couple. They had grown 
 up in their midst, and not a word had ever been lisped 
 to their discredit. They were kind and obliging, socia 
 ble and pleasant, and possessed that disposition which 
 always secures the esteem of others. When the cere 
 mony was over, all the invited guests formed a proces 
 sion and escorted the young husband and his wife to 
 their future abode. Their parents had erected a neat 
 and commodious dwelling, which they presented to the 
 happy couple. It was neatly furnished, pleasantly situ 
 ated, and surrounded by beautiful trees. And here 
 Elson and his wife were happy. They had every thing 
 to make them so. In the morning, Henry would go to 
 his business, while Mary found pleasure in attending 
 to her household duties, or taking care of the various 
 plants, which adorned their gardens. 
 
 Thus month after month passed away, while prosper 
 ity attended their steps and happiness brightened their 
 glorious sky. Every day their kind neighbors would 
 call to see them, while they in turn visited their friends. 
 From so auspicious a beginning, one would predict the 
 lives of such would be no other than happy that 
 peace and contentment would continue to linger around 
 their door. It was thus for two or three years. As 
 long as Henry continued in humble life, felicity dawned 
 upon them, and each day brought new pleasures to 
 their delighted dwelling. But Elson had become popu 
 lar with the villagers ; they all loved him, and as a 
 mark of their respect, he was nominated as a candidate 
 to fill the highest office in town. Without the least op 
 position he was elected. This was a mark of honor
 
 152 THE REFORMATION. 
 
 wholly unlocked for, and it elated Henry not a little 
 He had never moved in any other but the humble walks' 
 of life ; and to be so distinguished to be looked up to 
 by the whole village, made him feel the importance of 
 his office, as it naturally would one who had been un 
 accustomed to receive such a distinction, and more es 
 pecially as it was never expected and had never been 
 sought. 
 
 At this period it was customary whenever an indi 
 vidual had received a mark of honor from his fellow r 
 citizens, to manifest it, by occasionally inviting those in 
 high standing, such as the selectmen of the town, to 
 his house, and giving them a treat. Elson commenced 
 this practice, and for the first time in his life partook 
 of the social glass. As his associates .increased, his 
 taste for spirits began to strengthen, till a little every 
 day seemed to him indispensable. Mary thought her 
 husband was less attached to his home than formerly, 
 and that his love for her was gradually diminishing. 
 The reason why she could not conjecture. She labored 
 to please him, and did all in her power, to make home 
 happy and her company attractive. One night she was 
 astonished and grieved beyond measure to discover that 
 .her husband was a little intoxicated, and on asking him 
 a question, she received an angry reply. It was the 
 first time that a cross word had escaped his lips. Mary 
 burst into tears. She remembered the past ; the happy 
 hours and pleasant days they had enjoyed. Henry, in 
 stead of feeling regret for the misery he had brought 
 upon his wife, spoke unkindly to her, which only in 
 creased her sorrow, and brought the tears to her eyes. 
 
 " Henry, how can you talk so ? " said she ; " what 
 have I done to merit such treatment ? You know my
 
 THE REFORMATION. 153 
 
 attachment to you, and yet you reproach me. I try to 
 do only that which will please you." 
 
 Her husband made no reply ; and on the next day he 
 was more pleasant, acknowledged his fault, and prom 
 ised to drink no more. But he had now acquired a 
 habit which it was no easy matter to conquer. Henry 
 determined in his own mind, come what would, to resist 
 the temptation ; but it was too powerful. He yielded, 
 and continued to use a little every day. It could not 
 but be noticed by his devoted wife, who entreated and 
 begged of him to resist the tempter, and forsake the 
 practice which was growing upon him, blasting his 
 prospects, and bringing her to the grave ; but she 
 pleaded in vain. The people lost their confidence in 
 Elson, and his office was given to another. He now 
 neglected his business, associated with the low and 
 spent much of his time at the tavern. As is the case 
 with those who give themselves up to strong drink, El- 
 son became unkind and abusive to his family. He 
 found fault with every thing done for his comfort by his 
 devoted wife, reproached her wrongfully, and from 
 the best of husbands, became one of the most abusive 
 and tyrannical of men, especially when under the in 
 fluence of spirit. To see the lovely wife was enough to 
 make the heart ache. From the cheerful, contented, 
 and perfectly happy woman, she was almost the victim 
 of despair. The conduct of Elson so preyed upon her 
 spirits, that the flush of health had forsaken her cheek, 
 she grew thin and cadaverous, and seemed to be fast 
 wasting for the tomb. Her parents endeavored to per 
 suade her to come to their house, and leave a man who 
 conducted so basely. But to them she would not 
 hearken. She loved him yet ; she clung to him in his
 
 154 THE REFORMATION. 
 
 degradation, and strove with all her strength to please 
 him and make him happy. 
 
 One day Mary called upon the keeper -of the tavern, 
 where Elson spent his money and watsed his time, and 
 requested him not to furnish the means of intoxica 
 tion to her husband. 
 
 " You know," said she to the keeper, " that it is in 
 juring his health and destroying my happiness ; as 'a 
 great favor, then, I will beg of you not furnish him with 
 the means of intoxication." 
 
 " It wont do for m'e, situated as I am, to refuse li 
 quor to any gentleman who may call. I don't calculate 
 to sell to those who have enough already but I can't 
 refuse gentlemen, ma'am, any way." 
 
 " But couldn't you persuade my husband not to drink ? 
 Can't you tell him the consequences ? " 
 
 " Oh, he knows the consequences better than I can 
 tell him ; it's no use to try to compel men not to drink 
 when they will have spirit. Why, if I should refuse to 
 sell him, he would go somewhere else, you may depend 
 upon it. He may as well obtain it here as in any other 
 place." 
 
 " But you know there are very few places where it 
 could be obtained, and I am confident if you refused it 
 to him, he would not drink one-half as much as he does 
 now. sir, if you knew my sufferings, I am confident 
 you would oblige me in this thing, and not sell any more 
 spirit to him." 
 
 " It is my business to sell, and I cannot refuse when 
 a gentleman calls for a glass of liquor. You had better 
 go home, and not try to prevent what you cannot help." 
 
 " Sir, if you will but refuse to furnish him with the 
 means of intoxication, I will assure you that you will
 
 THE REFORMATION. 155 
 
 not be the loser by it. I, myself, will agree to pay you 
 double what you would make by selling spirit to him." 
 
 " 'Tis no use talking, I shall sell it when purchas 
 ers are gentlemen." So saying he left the room, while 
 the good wprnan turned her steps homeward. Sorrow 
 pressed hard upon her, and the tears would steal down 
 her cheeks. " Oh, what shall I do to reclaim him ? " 
 was her constant mental inquiry. 
 
 That night Elson came home more intoxicated, and, 
 consequently, more abusive than ever. His language 
 was coarse and profane in the extreme. He even threat 
 ened to strike the wife of his bosom. 
 
 " I understand," said he, " that you have had the im 
 pudence to call at Mason's tavern, and try to persuade 
 him not to trade with me. A pretty trick, indeed, for a 
 woman. What do you mean by such conduct, I should 
 like to know ?-" 
 
 " You are aware, Henry, that of late I have led a mis 
 erable life, produced by the course you have pursued, 
 in partaking too freely of the intoxicating cup. Once I 
 never dreamed of such a thing." 
 
 " It is all a lie, and you know it," said he, hi a passion. 
 But Mary said no more, merely asking him to retire. 
 
 It is useless to converse with a drunken man. He 
 has no reason ; and so she perceived, and concluded to 
 postpone conversing with him. Perhaps on the mor 
 row she would have an opportunity. That night was 
 a sad one to Mrs. Elson. Sleep refused to come to her 
 swollen eyelids, and tears were her repast. 
 
 The mother of Mary had died about a year previous 
 to this period, and her father was so much displeased 
 with his daughter for living with Elson, while he contin 
 ued to abuse her, that he declared he would do nothing
 
 156 THE REFORMATION. 
 
 towards her support, even if she should come to want. 
 The parents of her husband had become reduced, so 
 that they by prudence only were enabled to live from 
 day to day. It was the love that Mary bore to Henry, 
 and the dark prospect that was before them, which 
 pressed so heavily upon her spirits that refused to 
 give rest to her limbs or slumber to her eyes. As El- 
 son had been a long time out of business and his funds 
 were exhausted, she knew not what would be the result 
 of his course. The thought, however, that they owned 
 a house, from which none could expel her, was some 
 source of consolation, and she resolved never to forsake 
 her husband as long as she lived, and she could obtain 
 her daily bread. Mary had moved in the first circles of 
 the village ; had always been invited to the parties of 
 her friends, and was received with pleasure. Everybody 
 loved her then for her circumstances were good, and her 
 husband steady. But now her friends seemed to forsake 
 her ; partly because she would not listen to their advice 
 and have Elson put in the workhouse, but mostly because 
 she was the wife of a drunkard, and, consequently, re 
 duced in her circumstances. 
 
 The next day Henry came home as much intoxicated 
 as ever. His wife, as usual, endeavored to persuade him 
 to live a new life, and give up his present evil habits. 
 
 " I will do every thing to make you happy, if you 
 will," said she. " I can take in work, if it be necessary ; 
 I can do any thing to support us. I don't care how 
 hard I work, if you will be as kind, as affectionate, and 
 as cheerful as formerly. I am certain, if you continue 
 to drink, we both shall be utterly ruined. Now, my 
 father will not assist us ; our friends are forsaking us ; 
 our health is declining, and our prospects are dark and 
 discouraging."
 
 THE REFORMATION. 157 
 
 " 'Tis no use to talk, Mary. What did you do yes 
 terday, but call on Squire Mason ? that was a kind act ; 
 wasn't it? What do you suppose he thinks of me? 
 No, never will I reform, so long as you act so much 
 like a plaguy fool. What if I do drink a little, there 
 is no harm in it ; we're none the worse off." 
 
 " Oh, yes, we are. We are very poor now, when we 
 might have been rich. Look at my dress and your 
 clothes ! Do they not bespeak poverty ? Once we were 
 as decently clad as any of our neighbors ; we had all 
 we could desire, and prospered abundantly. But since 
 you have given up business, and taken to drink, we are 
 miserably poor." 
 
 " I would work if I could get any thing to do, and 
 you know it. 'Tisn't my fault because we are poor." 
 
 "But none will employ an intemperate man. 'If 
 you will leave off drinking, I will insure you work, and 
 a good support. Above all, we shall be happy. We 
 shall enjoy ourselves as in days that are past." 
 
 " Well, I will leave off drinking." 
 
 " But you have said the same a great many tunes ; 
 and when you have gone into bad company, and visited 
 Mason's tavern, you have broken your good resolution 
 and drank as much as ever. If you are determined not 
 to drink, and will not visit such places, there is hope. 
 Why wont you keep away from Mason's ? You can get 
 all we want elsewhere, without calling upon him." 
 
 " I will drink no more, you may depend upon it." 
 
 " Then we shall be happy, supremely so ; the past will 
 only be remembered with joy to think you have broken 
 away from that curse which has well nigh ruined us." 
 
 " I will keep the house to-day, and shall be sure not to 
 drink."
 
 158 THE REFORMATION. 
 
 " Now," thought Mary, " there is some hope. If he 
 remains in the house, it will speak well for his resolu 
 tion." 
 
 And so she endeavored to interest him through the 
 day, and they both appeared happier than they had for 
 months before. 
 
 In the evening Elson remarked, " I believe I shall 
 take a little walk. I know you think I shall drink 
 but I will not I am determined to leave off." 
 
 " You better not go, I think." 
 
 " I shall go but a little way and then return." 
 
 Mary said no more'; but the moment he left the house, 
 she hurried on her cloak and bonnet with the intention 
 of following him unobserved. She hoped he would not 
 drink, but she was fearful of him. She thought if she 
 could prevent it now, there would be some hope. As 
 she followed just so far behind her husband as not to be 
 observed in the dusk of the evening, she saw him pass 
 the tavern of Mason. He had hardly got by, before he 
 was hailed. Elson stopped and conversed for some 
 time, and at last she saw him go in. The poor woman 
 hurried to the door, and on looking in, beheld a group 
 of inebriates, who had probably come to spend their 
 hard-earned money for that which would prove their 
 greatest curse. She observed Mason by the side of her 
 husband, patting him on the shoulder, saying, " Don't 
 mind the old woman don't give up your liberty 
 come take a glass to cheer you," and he pulled him 
 along towards the bar. " Here, take this, 'twill warm 
 you and do you good," handing him a glass of spirit 
 he had just drawn. 
 
 Elson took it in his hand, and was about raising it 
 to his lips, when his wife sprang in, and with a single
 
 THE REFOBMATION. 159 
 
 blow, dashed it to the floor. It was breathless silence 
 for a few moments, when Mary, giving Mason a piercing 
 look, exclaimed "Wretch that you are, thus to de 
 stroy my peace, and ruin my husband ! If the curse of 
 Heaven falls upon guilty man, surely, such a wretch as 
 you cannot escape." 
 
 Soon as she thus spoke, Mrs. Elson and her husband 
 departed, leaving the rumseller and his company, who 
 stood like so many marble statues, to their own sober 
 reflections. 
 
 Neither Elson nor his wife spoke a word that night. 
 They retired early. In the morning, Elson thus ad 
 dressed his wife "You have saved me, Mary. The 
 temptation last night was too strong for me to resist. 
 I shall never touch the glass again. And never will I 
 .pass the threshold of Mason's door, till he relinquishes 
 the sale of spirit. He has almost proved my ruin," and 
 the tears were in his eyes as he spoke. 
 
 The intemperate made good his resolution. From 
 that day, he became a sober man and was one of the 
 most active agents in the temperance cause. His for 
 mer kindness to his wife returned, and nothing did he 
 leave undone^ that could in any possible way contribute 
 to her welfare or happiness. Mary has often said that 
 she was more than repaid by his kindness for all she 
 had endured during the years in which her husband 
 partook of the intoxicating cup. 
 
 Mr. Johnson was so well pleased with the reforma 
 tion of his son-in-law, that he exerted himself in his be 
 half, and obtained for him a situation where he made a 
 comfortable living. From the day that Mary dashed the 
 fatal glass, a reformation .commenced in the village 
 which did not cease until nearly every man who had
 
 160 THE REFORMATION. 
 
 been intemperate, signed the pledge and became sober 
 and industrious. Even old Mason himself pulled down 
 his bar, declaring that he would no longer stand out 
 against duty and reason, and was as zealous in promot 
 ing peace and happiness, as he had been for years ac 
 tive in destroying the health and reputation of the vil-
 
 THE PROMISE FULFILLED. 
 
 How sweet and tender are the words 
 Which flow from hearts that feel ! 
 
 They vibrate on the tenderest chords, 
 
 And only bruise to heal. 
 Bring these, and like rich music's swell 
 
 Upon a placid lake, 
 They'll sink within the heart and dwell, 
 
 And grateful thoughts awake. 
 
 CHAELES EMERSON was the son of a mechanic. When 
 he left school, he entered the store of a merchant in 
 Fore Street, as his clerk. Bright, active, and intelligent, 
 he secured the favor of his master, and the good-will 
 of those who traded at the store. For six or seven 
 years, Charles was attentive to his business, and exerted 
 himself for his employer. When he arrived at one-and- 
 twenty years of age, he came under an obligation to 
 remain with his employer another twelvemonth for a 
 specified sum. The year passed, and young Emerson 
 concluded to commence business in his own name. 
 The merchant did not wish to part with one who had 
 been so faithful to him for a series of years, but as he 
 thought it might be " advantageous to the young man, 
 he encouraged him to go into business for himself. 
 
 In a few weeks, Charles was in his own store. His 
 goods had been well selected, and purchased low. By 
 the assistance of a few friends, he commenced business
 
 162 THE PEOMISE FULFILLED. 
 
 with a good capital, and the prospect for him appeared 
 to be excellent. His acquaintances were numerous, 
 both in the city and country. His noble character was 
 appreciated by all with whom he had dealings. 
 
 A few years passed away, during which time the 
 young merchant prospered beyond his most sanguine 
 expectations. His business had increased year by year, 
 and his stock was as large as any merchant's in the city. 
 No man's credit was better than his. Amid his pros 
 perity, however, Charles was not unmindful of oth 
 ers. He was always ready to assist honest young men 
 who were striving for a livelihood. And he had facili 
 ties for being useful to others. Being chosen a direc 
 tor in one of our banks, he was extremely careful how 
 he refused small notes from young men. These he 
 preferred to discounting paper for a large amount 
 from wealthy capitalists. One day something like half 
 a dozen notes were presented at his bank for discount. 
 The largest note was for four or five thousand dollars, 
 drawn by a very wealthy man, and the remainder were 
 for small sums, ranging from fifty to a hundred and 
 fifty dollars each. The directors, with the exception of 
 Emprson, were in favor of taking the large notes and 
 refusing the small ones. 
 
 " My friends," said he, " the gentleman who wants 
 the large amount can obtain it elsewhere, if we do not 
 discount his note, and, of course, it will be -but little 
 disappointment to him whereas these young men, 
 all of whom I know personally or by reputation, are in 
 need of this money to carry on their business. They 
 have no friends to call upon for money, and if we re 
 fuse it to them, it may be of serious inconvenience. I
 
 THE PROMISE FULFILLED. 163 
 
 am in favor of refusing the former, and discounting the 
 latter notes." 
 
 " You know, Mr. Emerson," said one of the board, 
 and we should like to give his name, but it will not be 
 
 prudent, " that Mr. is a wealthy man, and it will 
 
 be perfectly safe to trust him. These small fry are not 
 worth looking after. It is just as much trouble to look 
 after fifty dollars as five thousand." 
 
 " I grant, sir, that it will be more for our interest to 
 refuse to accommodate poor young men, and loan all 
 our capital to a few rich men ; but I am in favor of 
 accommodating those who are in need of money, and 
 in a small degree help them to acquire property." 
 
 The directors coincided in favor of Skinflint, telling 
 the cashier to give as a reason why the small notes were 
 not discounted, the lack of money, or that they dis 
 counted but little on that day. 
 
 Mr. Emerson made no further remark, but in a short 
 time, whispered in the ear of the cashier " You may 
 draw from my private account money sufficient to ac 
 commodate all these young men. I have been in a sit 
 uation, when fifty or a hundred dollars were of incalcu 
 lable service to me." 
 
 The cashier did as he was directed by the merchant, 
 and every note was promptly paid when due. 
 
 It was in this way that Mr. Emerson did a large 
 amount of good without having it known, and set a 
 most admirable example to others. 
 
 The merchant had been in business something like a 
 dozen years, and was supposed to be worth from forty 
 to fifty thousand dollars. He gave employment to a 
 number of hands, not one of whom who did not speak
 
 164 THE PROMISE FULFILLED. 
 
 of him in the best of terms. But in the midst of his 
 prosperity, the land fever began to rage in Maine. Ev 
 erybody was buying land, and making thousands of 
 dollars a day. Mr. Emerson stood aloof from the spec 
 ulating mania for a long time, although frequently so 
 licited to make a purchase. But at last he yielded, and 
 bought largely. It was too late. The fever began to 
 subside, and he was left with large tracts of land on 
 hand. He had paid out many thousand dollars, and 
 given his notes for as many more. The money he de 
 pended upon to meet his demands, could not be col 
 lected. Others had suffered and were not able to pay 
 their just debts. What could be done? Must the 
 merchant fail? There was no help for it; he made 
 known his situation to those he owed; made a plain 
 statement of his affairs, said he was willing to give up 
 all his property, and commence business again. Would 
 they accept his proposal? He wrote them that any 
 thing -in his possession would be theirs, if they would 
 relieve him from his liabilities, and give him a chance to 
 continue his business, assuring them that, as soon as he 
 should be able, he would fully make up the loss with in 
 terest. . Those who had long traded with the merchant 
 knew him too well to think he wished to deprive them 
 of their just dues. They felt for his peculiar situation, 
 and came forward manfully, with but a single excep 
 tion, and released him. 
 
 But one exception, we said, and who was he ? The 
 very same director in the bank, who refused to loan 
 money in small amounts to young men. He went to 
 Emerson after he heard of his misfortunes, and re 
 quested an immediate payment of what was due him. 
 
 " I cannot pay you now, Mr. " said Charles,
 
 THE PROMISE FULFILLED. 165 
 
 " but as soon as I can get through my affairs, and see a 
 possible way to move, you shall be paid in full this 
 you may rely upon." 
 
 " But you can pay me now." 
 
 " I cannot, sir. It would afford me a great deal of 
 pleasure to do it, but it is utterly out of my power, 
 without making a great sacrifice of my property." 
 
 " What did you give your note for, if you did not ex 
 pect to pay it ? I always pay my notes." 
 
 " But perhaps you never met with any losses. Had 
 my note been presented six months ago, it would have 
 been paid in an hour." 
 
 " I shall not be put off. If you do not settle that 
 note by to-morrow night, you will be put to trouble. I 
 shall not be treated in this way." 
 
 " Sir, I cannot pay you by that time, whatever course 
 you may think proper to take." 
 
 " The world is full of scoundrels," said the fellow, as 
 he went from the shop, " but I will see what effect a 
 writ will have upon him." 
 
 Skinflint there is no more appropriate name for 
 flesh and bones made up of such materials Skinflint 
 revolved in his own mind who would be the best law 
 yer to undertake his business. He finally hit upon a 
 being, who had no more mercy or kindness than him 
 self-*- a man destitute alike of principle and feeling 
 a hard-hearted, mean, blustering wretch, who had 
 gained admission to the bar by his brass, impudence, 
 and interested friends. Such was the being who had 
 been selected to torment one of the best and most hon 
 est men that ever lived. 
 
 In a short time, Mr. Emerson was waited upon by 
 the sheriff, who informed him that his instructions were
 
 166 THE PROMISE FULFILLED. 
 
 to attach whatever property he could find in his posses 
 sion. As the merchant had concealed nothing, but was 
 on the point of compromising with his creditors, the re 
 sult was that the property of Mr. Emerson was sacri 
 ficed, and Mr. Skinflint, the laweyr, and the sheriff, re 
 ceived their pay in full', while the honorable creditors 
 received but a very small part of theirs. It was ex 
 ceedingly trying to the merchant to submit to. the pro 
 ceedings, but he bore it calmly, looking forward to the 
 day when he expected to regain his property, pay his 
 debts, and be in comfortable circumstances. Mr. Emer 
 son did not lack courage and perseverance. These traits 
 were admirably developed in his character. "When he 
 was apparently on his back, and all was dark above 
 him, he did not despair. He Iqoked ahead, and put 
 forth exertions, and was determined, if his health 
 should be continued, to rise above every adverse cir 
 cumstance. 
 
 We should have mentioned before, that although the 
 young merchant was a single man, he had contemplated 
 entering the married state the very year his business af 
 fairs assumed their dubious character. He was en 
 gaged to Miss Mary, daughter of the very man who had 
 instituted legal proceedings' against him. The day that 
 Skinflint heard of the failure of Charles, he took his 
 daughter into the parlor, and there made her promise 
 to discard him. Mary was unwilling to listen to her 
 father's proposal, but finally gave him to understand 
 that he should be obeyed. What arguments he used 
 to ' his daughter, we never knew. Though his loss 
 pained him sorely, yet it was nothing to Charles in com 
 parison with the coldness of one he had tenderly loved 
 one who seemed to be perfectly amiable, and as much
 
 THE PBQMISE FULFILLED. 167 
 
 unlike her father as it was possible for one to be. Mary 
 was an only child ; her mother had been dead several 
 years, and on the death of her father, a very large prop 
 erty would fall into her hands. 
 
 When Charles found that both Mary and her father 
 preferred that his visits should be discontinued, he was 
 philosopher enough to act accordingly, and make the 
 best of it. Attention to business gradually wore away 
 the unpleasant feelings produced by the treatment of 
 one to whom he had been ardently attached, and Emer 
 son was the same high-minded and respected citizen. 
 All felt for his circumstances, and not a few exerted 
 themselves in his behalf. His 'old master did much for 
 him by loans and purchases, and his credit was soon es 
 tablished. He was prudent, and very attentive to his 
 business, and began gradually to acquire property. In 
 a few years he had settled off with his old creditors 
 by paying them the full amount of their dues. He was 
 enabled to do this sooner than he anticipated, from the 
 fact that many against whom he held demands proved 
 to be honest men, and were able to pay him. Now Em 
 erson seemed to prosper more than ever his business 
 greatly increased, and the amount of his trade brought 
 in large profits. 
 
 Mr. Skinflint would that we dared to give his real 
 name ! still made gold his god and continued to ac 
 quire property. Oh, the mean man ! He is before us 
 in our mind. Day by day he might be seen in Fore, 
 Exchange and Middle Streets ; and his very looks would 
 betray his grovelling mind. His daughter was married 
 to a man of great wealth, so it was said. Mr. Cooper 
 had in some way or another wound himself round the 
 affections of the old gentleman, who looked upon his
 
 168 THE PEOMISE FULFILLED. 
 
 future son-in-law as the paragon of perfection. Yes, 
 Mary was married to Mr. Cooper, and the wedding was 
 as splendid a one as the city had witnessed for many a 
 year. 
 
 Bad and unfeeling men are sometimes punished in 
 this life. We are sure Skinflint was. His precious son- 
 in-law proved to be a notorious villain. He worked his 
 card so successfully, that the old gentleman's property 
 was entirely gone before he had any idea of it, and he 
 holden for some thousands that he could not pay. 
 
 What became of the accomplished Cooper, no one 
 could tell. He had money, and a heart black enough 
 to know how to use it without the assistance of any 
 body. The old man was nearly distracted when he was 
 made 'acquainted with the course and conduct of 
 Cooper. But what could he do ? He trusted him, and 
 had no one to blame but himself. Now his money was 
 gone his all and his pleasant and beautiful house 
 must be sold to pay his just debts. How did Skinflint 
 feel now ? Did he not remember his treatment to the 
 young merchant, who failed a few years before, and a 
 thousand other hard-hearted acts ? We know he did ; 
 and he would gladly have repented, could tears and 
 regrets restore to him his lost wealth. 
 
 It was not more than a year after Skinflint had lost his 
 property that his house and furniture were advertised 
 for sale. His situation was a beautiful one, and on 
 that account, many rich men were anxious to pur 
 chase it. 
 
 The auctioneer commenced with the furniture which 
 took the whole of one day to sell ; after which he gave 
 notice that on the morrow at ten o'clock, the house 
 would be offered for sale.
 
 THE PKOMISE FULFILLED. 169 
 
 The next day arrived a crowd was assembled, and 
 the house was put up. Three thousand dollars four 
 thousand and finally five thousand three hundred 
 and fifty dollars were offered, and the house knocked 
 off. 
 
 " Who is the bidder ? " inquired the auctioneer. 
 
 " Emerson." 
 
 " Mr. Charles Emerson," said three or four voices, to 
 the astonishment of not a few. 
 
 When the house was sold, to the first man who en 
 tered the room where Skinflint and his daughter were 
 sitting, the old gentleman inquired who had bought the 
 house, and when fold, he turned quite pale, but uttered 
 not a word. 
 
 His past conduct undoubtedly rushed to his mind, 
 and his sensations at that moment, who for the world 
 would have felt ? 
 
 Mr. Emerson in a few days paid for the house, and 
 took the deed in his own name. Five or six weeks 
 elapsed, when one day as he was passing the street, 
 whom should he meet but Mr. Skinflint. The old man 
 stopped and said, apparently with much agitation, 
 
 " You have purchased the house I formerly owned ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, I have." 
 
 " When shall you want to take it ? " 
 
 " I am not particular about it. If you are so dis 
 posed, you can remain there for the present." 
 
 " I thank you, sir," said the old man, and it was evi 
 dent that he felt the kindness he received. 
 
 In a day or two, Charles called to look at the house. 
 As he entered the door, he remembered the happy sea 
 sons he had passed there, and a tear came to his eye. 
 He had sat with the old gentleman but a few moments 
 15
 
 170 THE PROMISE FULFILLED. 
 
 when Mary came into the room. She was so overcome 
 she could hardly speak. They had not met before for 
 several years. The bloom was still on the cheek of 
 Mary, but the impress of grief was on her brow. 
 
 Charles addressed her kindly, and she instantly burst 
 into tears, and the old man mingled his tears with hers. 
 
 " Mr. Emerson," said he, " I never thought I should 
 come to this." 
 
 " Never mind, sir ; misfortune is the lot of man. 
 Sir, I have been unfortunate." 
 
 " It grieves me when I reflect on my treatment to you 
 when you were in affliction it was God! for 
 give me God forgive me" and the tears fell fast 
 from the eyes of the old man " will you forgive my 
 unkindness will you forgive me ? " 
 
 " sir, trouble not yourself. I never had other than 
 feelings of forgiveness towards you." 
 
 " And me, too," said Mary, " Charles, will you forgive 
 my unkindness ? " 
 
 " With all my heart." 
 
 " Ah, Emerson, the girl is not to blame for the course 
 she pursued. I alone am guilty on my wretched 
 head is all the blame. I have been a wretch indeed, 
 and now I am punished punished as I deserve oh, 
 that I had never lived to see this day ! " 
 
 " Sir, do be calm ; you are not so wretched as you 
 might have been. This house I have bought, and you 
 and your daughter are welcome to it while you live ; 
 and most of the furniture I also bought, and it shall 
 not be removed." 
 
 "You astonish me beyond measure. What means 
 this kindness to one so undeserving, and by one whom
 
 THE PKOMISE FULFILLED. 171 
 
 I have wronged shamefully wronged ? " and the old 
 man wept like a child. 
 
 "Mr. Emerson, how can you be so kind," at last 
 said Mary, through her tears, " when we have treated 
 yqu so shamefully ? " 
 
 " Say not a word. You are not to blame ;' you shall 
 never suffer while I live." 
 
 " I cannot speak. I feel " 
 
 " Enough has been said. Be calm and collected. 
 Forget the past, and Heaven grant that the future may 
 be bright before us." 
 
 Charles left the house, assuring Mary and her father 
 that he would call again in a few days. As he passed 
 to his store, his former feelings began to revive. Mary 
 appeared the lovely and affectionate being she once was, 
 and doubly dear since he heard of her sufferings. Her 
 husband had deserted her, and was probably dead, as a 
 man answering his description had been killed in a 
 street fight at the south and should he offer to marry 
 her now ? Did she love him ? Could he doubt it ? 
 Thus reflecting day by day, he made up his mind what 
 to do. It was not long before he was sitting with Mary 
 in the house. 
 
 " I have come, Mary, to ask if you will fulfil your 
 promise ? " 
 
 " And what, pray ? " 
 
 " That you would be my wife." 
 
 "You astonish me." 
 
 " Will you make good your promise ? " 
 
 " Charles, would you now accept me as un 
 grateful as I have proved ? If you were serious, my 
 happiness would be complete."
 
 172 THE PROMISE FULFILLED. 
 
 "I mean what I say; Mary, will you fulfil your 
 promise ? " 
 
 " Dear Charles, Heaven knows I will, most sincerely," 
 and she fell in his arms, while the old gentleman ex 
 claimed, 
 
 " God be praised it is the happiest moment I ever 
 knew." 
 
 A few months passed away, and Charles was united 
 to Mary. They live in the old house, and two more 
 congenial souls it would be difficult to find. 
 
 Mr. Emerson is now one of our rich merchants, and 
 one of the best-hearted men in the city. To young men 
 of enterprise and correct habits, he is extremely partial. 
 He often assists them in their business, and encourages 
 them to persevere and surmount the obstacles that occa 
 sionally rise in their path. Everybody respects and loves 
 him. You never hear his name mentioned except in 
 connection with a good deed, or to lavish praise upon 
 his benevolent heart. Would that our city possessed 
 more characters like this. Then prosperity would be 
 seen in our streets pleasure and sunshine mantle the 
 brow and hundreds would be in the path to compe 
 tence, who now labor under a load which it is next to 
 impossible to remove.
 
 THE GOLD RING. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 How greatly wise, who never move 
 
 When stern misfortune lowers ; 
 Who see the same kind hand of love 
 
 In sunshine and in showers. 
 When shadows veil the burning sky, 
 
 Behind the clouds they know 
 Bright fields of golden grandeur lie, 
 
 And seas of splendor flow. 
 They only bend, but never break, 
 
 When angry storms arise 
 Prepared the hand of grief to take, 
 
 And wait for brighter skies. 
 
 EMILY ACTON was an excellent young lady of some 
 eighteen years of age. Her parents, though in, humble 
 circumstances, were industrious, and the daughter was 
 early taught to employ herself about that which was use 
 ful. She took pride in rising early, and getting break 
 fast ready by the time her mother arose ; after which she 
 would employ herself in the kitchen, or sew, or knit. 
 Unlike a great many of her sex, she was seldom seen at 
 the window, to watch the young men who passed, dressed 
 in the height of fashion. It was not because Emily 
 was poor, but she had a different taste, and thought 
 more of her character and the assistance she might 
 render to her mother. Her dress was always neat, but 
 never gaudy ; and it did not trouble her if she could 
 15*
 
 174 THE GOLD RING. 
 
 not follow the 'foolish fashions of the day. Emily was 
 also interesting in her conversation. You would not 
 hear her talk about the fashions and the beaux from one 
 month to another ; nor remark what this person and 
 that wore at church. She attended meeting to hear, 
 and not to see and be seen ; and what she heard was 
 treasured in her mind. Miss Acton was called a 
 little odd by some of her flirty young friends, who 
 were all for fashion and show ; but they loved her, nev 
 ertheless. Emily had an excellent disposition ; she was 
 kind and accommodating, and never indulged in angry 
 words or manifested unpleasant feelings. 
 
 Mr. Acton was a worthy shoemaker, but as his busi 
 ness was not very good, and he not an expert workman, 
 it was with difficulty that he paid his debts and lived 
 comfortably. To purchase the necessaries of life re 
 quires no little sum, especially when rents are high and 
 wood and flour are dear. To help him in the family, 
 Emily was in the habit of taking in work, and often 
 earned from twelve to fifteen shillings a week. This 
 she gave to her mother to spend in any way she might 
 think proper. 
 
 One morning as Emily was returning some work that 
 she had done, she picked up a small gold ring. On 
 examining it, as she returned home, she discovered the 
 initials " J. S." engraved on the inside. " Mother," said 
 she, " this may belong to some one who prizes it highly ; 
 otherwise, I think, the owner would not have had his 
 initials engraved upon it." 
 
 " If so you may find the owner, for it will certainly 
 be advertised." 
 
 " Do you think one would go to that expense for so 
 trifling a thing ? "
 
 THE GOLD EING. 175 
 
 " Not unless it is valued more as a gift than for the 
 gold it contains." 
 
 Emily carefully put away the ring in her box and 
 thought but little of it for a few days. On Tuesday 
 morning when the Gazette came, for Mr. Acton was a 
 subscriber to this paper, on looking in the advertising 
 columns, Emily exclaimed 
 
 " Why, mother, the ring I found last week is really 
 advertised." 
 
 " Are you sure of it ? " 
 
 " Yes ; it describes the ring perfectly." 
 
 "Run and get it, and then read me the advertise 
 ment." 
 
 Emily brought the ring and handed it to her mother, 
 and read as follows : 
 
 " LOST. A small gold ring with the initials ' J. S.' 
 upon it. The ring is prized as the gift of a friend, and 
 whoever has found the same shall be liberally rewarded 
 by leaving it at the store of Mr. , in Middle Street." 
 
 " It must be the same, Emily, and you had better 
 carry the ring to the store this morning." 
 
 " I will, mother ; but I shall charge nothing for find 
 ing it." 
 
 Putting on her things, Emily started for the shop in 
 Middle Street. On entering, she made known her er 
 rand, and the storekeeper remarked that the gentle 
 man who lost the ring had left two dotfars for him to 
 pay, should any one present it. But Emily refused to 
 take the money, and left the ring. The shopkeeper 
 insisted on her taking the two dollars. " The gentle 
 man is rich and able to pay it," he said. 
 
 Finding that she refused and was leaving the shop, 
 he called her back and requested her name and resi-
 
 176 THE GOLD RING. 
 
 t 
 
 dence, which she did not hesitate to give, and then left 
 the shop and returned to her home. 
 
 The following Monday, when Emily and her mother 
 were at their washtubs, some one knocked at the door. 
 The old lady went to see who was there and presently 
 returned, telling her daughter a young gentleman was 
 in the front room, who wished to see her. Wiping her 
 face and hands on her apron, she hastened into the 
 room, without unrolling her sleeves or unpinning her 
 gown. Yet she did not apologize for her appearance, 
 taking it for granted, that if a real gentleman wished 
 to see her, he would know that to work was no disgrace 
 and that on Monday morning she must of course be 
 found at the washtub. 
 
 As she entered the room the gentleman remarked 
 "If I mistake not, you are the young lady who re 
 cently found a gold ring and left it at the store of Mr. 
 _____ 
 
 Yes, sir." 
 
 " But as you refused to take the two dollars I left, 
 I didn't know but you might think it too small a sum, 
 and I have called to present you with five dollars." 
 
 "0 sir, I did not think I ought to be paid for do 
 ing my duty, and therefore I refused to take it ; and I 
 shall now certainly refuse your liberal offer." 
 
 " But I insist upon you taking it. Here, accept this 
 bill." 
 
 " I cannot consent to take it. It wouldn't be right 
 for me to be paid for discharging my duty; do you 
 think it would, sir ? " 
 
 " The ring I value at ten times that sum. It is a 
 ring worn by a very dear friend who died about two 
 years since, and on that account I prize it. But I
 
 THE GOLD KING. 177 
 
 merely ask you to take this bill as a present, not as pay 
 received for a very honest act and take it you must." 
 
 " Do not urge me to take it, sir." 
 
 " Take it take it and say not another word." 
 
 Eeluctantly Emily held out her hand and took the 
 five dollars, remarking that she would endeavor to 
 make good use of it. 
 
 " I have no doubt of that," said the stranger, seem 
 ing but little inclined to leave ; " you Ijave probably 
 learned how to make good use of money." 
 
 " Yes, sir, as my parents are poor, I am obliged to 
 earn my own living by sewing and knitting, and I ex 
 pend but very little for what I think is not really use 
 ful." 
 
 " You take in work, then." 
 
 " Yes, sir, all I can get to do." 
 
 " I have some shirting I should like to have made up. 
 Can I get you to do it ?" 
 
 " I should be happy to do it for you." 
 
 Bidding Emily good-morning, the stranger left, and 
 the industrious girl returned to her washtub. 
 
 "Mother," said she, "who do you suppose this 
 stranger is ? He appears to be an excellent man, and 
 insisted upon my taking five dollars for finding the 
 ring." 
 
 " I cannot tell ; he must be some rich man's son, or 
 he could not afford to give you so much." 
 
 "Besides, mother, he says he will give me some 
 work." 
 
 " If he should, and you do it well, it may open the 
 way for more employment. I should as lief you would 
 work for gentlemen as take it from slop shops." 
 
 Cheerful and happy, Emily continued at her work
 
 178 THE GOLD RING. 
 
 day by day. She never had a moment to spend to walk 
 the streets or gossip from house to house. Her thoughts 
 were how she could make herself more useful, and 
 better promote the welfare and happiness of her worthy 
 parents. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I seek a female in whose heart 
 Domestic virtues share a part ; 
 .Not fond of gaudy dress or show, 
 To please some foppish, senseless beau ; 
 Who rather at her work be seen, 
 Than pace the town with haughty mien, 
 Addressing every male she meets, 
 In bustling mart, or crowded streets. 
 
 CHARLES SIMONTON was the son of a rich man ; but 
 unlike the children of many wealthy parents, from his 
 earliest years, he was obliged to work. His judicious 
 father had been brought up at a mechanical trade, and 
 had made his fortune by diligence and industry, and he 
 was determined his son should not be ruined by idle 
 ness and improper associates. When he was old enough 
 to learn a trade, he put Charles to Messrs. Gould & "Web 
 ster to learn the mysteries of making hats. With these 
 gentlemen he worked hard, but at this he did not mur 
 mur. Sometimes his fellow-associates would joke him 
 on account of his steady habits, and even laugh at him 
 for not touching the ardent spirits which they daily 
 used. But he had seen the evil of intemperance, and 
 warned them to beware. They heeded him not.
 
 THE GOLD EING. 179 
 
 One day two of the apprentices, young Woodman 
 and Hanes, determined they would make Charles take 
 a glass of bitters with them, but he stoutly refused. 
 They held him and endeavored to pour the poison down 
 his throat, but could not succeed. 
 
 " You will be sorry for this," said Charles, " for I am 
 certain unless you forsake your practice, you will be 
 come intemperate and die drunkards." 
 
 "We'll risk that, young Morality," they replied. 
 " Who wont enjoy themselves when they can, must be 
 fools." 
 
 Charles made the best of the treatment he received, 
 and was so kind-hearted, it was seldom that he was 
 treated roughly. His most excellent mother had taught 
 him lessons of wisdom which he could not forget. When 
 tempted to stray from duty, her image and her coun 
 sels were before him, and he turned from the wrong 
 path and pursued a virtuous course. 
 
 When Charles had finished his trade, his masters of 
 fered to give him employment, but his father had busi 
 ness for him, which he thought would be more conge 
 nial to his feelings ; he took him into partnership with 
 himself. Their business was good, and prosperity 
 crowned their efforts. About this time, Charles met 
 with a severe loss in the death of his mother. She had 
 been sick for some months, and her death had been 
 daily expected. She gave her son some excellent ad 
 vice, and begged him never to deviate from a virtuous 
 course. 
 
 " My son, I am dying," said she, " and when I am 
 gone, remember my words to you, and always prac 
 tise according to the dictates of wisdom. Follow the 
 Bible and treasure in your heart its holy truths, which
 
 180 THE GOLD RING. 
 
 if obeyed will make you happy in life, cheerful in death, 
 and blessed forever. Here, Charles I give you a ring 
 I have worn ; keep it to remember my precepts." 
 
 Charles loved his mother affectionately. She had 
 been a devoted parent to him, and when she was dead, 
 his grief was poignant. He placed her gift upon his 
 finger, resolving to part with it only in death. 
 
 Mrs. Simonton had slept beneath the clods of the 
 valley for nearly two years, and Charles had safely kept 
 this relic of his mother ; but one day on going to his 
 supper, he discovered that he had lost his ring. He 
 looked for it in vain. Charles went directly to Isaac 
 Adams, proprietor of the Portland Gazette, and paid 
 him for an advertisement stating his loss, requesting the 
 finder to leave it at a shop in Middle Street. 
 
 In a few days, Charles called at the store, and ascer 
 tained that his ring had been found. " But," said the 
 shopkeeper, "the young woman who found it would 
 not take the two dollars reward you ordered me to 
 pay her." 
 
 " Wouldn't take it ? and why not ? " 
 
 "It is more than I can tell. She seemed to think it 
 was not one's duty to receive pay for what was found. 
 And, faith, Charles, she was a very pretty girl." 
 
 " But she shall be paid. Just inform me where she 
 lives, and I will see she is rewarded for her honesty." 
 
 The shopkeeper informed Charles of her residence, 
 and on Monday he called at her house. The result of 
 that visit the reader learned in our first chapter. 
 
 When young Simonton left the house of Mr. Acton, 
 he resolved on one thing to marry the interesting and 
 domestic daughter, as he found her to be, providing he 
 could obtain her consent. Her beauty and her mod-
 
 THE GOLD EING. 181 
 
 -jsty, her industry and her humility, struck him at 
 once, and he could not forget her. At night he thought 
 of the beautiful girl, and in the daytime she was be 
 fore him. " She is just such a woman as I need," said 
 he to himself, " and she suits me better than any of the 
 dozens I am acquainted with, who fill the circle of pride 
 and fashion." 
 
 In a short time Charles called at Mr. Acton's with 
 the shirting he wished to have made up. It was in 
 the evening. He was politely invited -in, and gladly 
 embraced the opportunity. While sitting with the 
 good lady, Emily busied herself with ironing the 
 clothes, now and then stopping to converse with 
 Charles. Every thing was neat about the house, and 
 spoke of industry and not of poverty. In taking leave 
 he was invited to call again by Emily and her mother, 
 the former stating that his work would be finished in 
 the course of a week. 
 
 "What a fine young gentleman Mr. Simonton is," 
 said Mr. Acton, after Charles had gone ; for on that 
 evening for the first time, they had learned his name. 
 
 " He is very pleasant and very kind," remarked Em 
 ily. " How different he is from many of our rich men. 
 I really begin to like that young man." 
 
 "I certainly do," said the mother. "You seldom 
 see a man of his wealth so pleasant and agreeable to 
 poor folks." 
 
 " If ever I should be so lucky as to get a husband, 
 mother, I know of no one who comes up t.o my ideas 
 of what a husband ought to be as this Mr. Simon- 
 ton." 
 
 " I fear, my child, you will not get such a gentleman 
 as he." 
 
 16
 
 182 THE GOLD KING. 
 
 "I do not expect it. I never dreamed of such a 
 thing. It was only some of my foolish .talk." 
 
 One week passed away, and Mr. Simonton called for 
 his work*. It was done and well done ; for which he 
 paid Emily liberally : she, however, refusing to take 
 more than it was worth, until being over persuaded. 
 
 When Charles took his leave that night, he remarked 
 to Emily, " On Sunday evening next, Dr. Deane deliv 
 ers a lecture before the Benevolent Society. I should 
 be happy to have your company there." 
 
 " I should be pleased to go," said Emily, and they 
 bade each other good-night. 
 
 Charles and Emily went to the lecture. A door was 
 now opened for his frequent visits at Mr. Acton's, and 
 every week he spent two or three evenings there. 
 
 A year passed away just one year from the day 
 that Emily picked up the gold ring in the street. There 
 was a wedding at the house of Mr. Acton, and Emily 
 was the happy bride. She never looked handsomer 
 and Simonton's joy was complete. Mr. Kellogg united 
 the happy pair, and then invoked the blessing of the 
 Almighty upon them. 
 
 As Mr. Simonton was a wealthy man, he purchased a 
 fine house in Back Street ; thither he took his excellent 
 companion, where they lived in peace, prosperity, and 
 happiness for more than half a century. It was but a 
 few years since that they were deposited in the narrow 
 tomb, followed by numerous friends and relations. 
 They died in Christian faith, the precepts of the Bible 
 cheering them in their sickness, and giving them an 
 antepast of those joys which are in reservation for the 
 righteous.
 
 THE HUMPBACK. 
 
 What are another's faults to me ? 
 
 I've not a vulture's bill, 
 To pick at every flaw I see, 
 
 And make it wider still : 
 It is enough for me to know, 
 
 I've follies of my own 
 And on my heart the care bestow, 
 
 And let my friends alone. 
 
 < 
 
 SAEAH EDGAB was a young girl very much deformed 
 in her person. When quite a child, she had a fall 
 which nearly cost her her life, and from that time 
 she became humpbacked, and grew but very little in 
 height. Sarah possessed a kind disposition, and was so 
 much beloved by her young associates that they never 
 thought of the defect in her body. She was active and 
 cheerful, and appeared as happy as if she were as per 
 fect in her form as her companions. But as Sarah grew 
 older, she felt her situation more sensibly, as many of 
 her early friends who seemed to be the most partial to 
 her, gradually forsook her society. There was one girl 
 whose name was Jane Coburn, with whom Sarah had 
 been intimate from early childhood, who, since she had 
 grown up, seemed more than all her other acquaint 
 ances to avoid her company. The poor girl was at a 
 loss to conjecture the reason ; for she was sure she had 
 neither said nor done any thing to make her act so
 
 184 THE HUMPBACK. 
 
 strangely . When they met, a few words would pass .be 
 tween them, but Jane never seemed disposed to pro 
 long the conversation. To be sure, Sarah was deformed 
 and poor, and lived in a small house, while Jane's par 
 ents were reputed to be wealthy, and owned the large 
 dwelling they occupied ; but this should have been no 
 reason why Sarah was treated so coldly. 
 
 The mother of Jane was very partial to the hump 
 backed girl ; she could appreciate her virtues, and pity 
 her misfortunes. Many a time did she present her 
 with a new gown or a new bonnet, and no person was 
 ever more grateful for a present. One afternoon, Sarah 
 called on Mrs. Coburn ; but she had hardly seated her 
 self before Jane remarked in the presence of her 
 mother, 
 
 " I wish folks knew when they were wanted, and 
 would stay until they are sent for." 
 
 "Why, Jane, -what do you mean?" inquired her 
 mother. 
 
 " Nothing particular ; but I hate intruders." 
 
 Mrs. Coburn immediately remarked "Jane ex 
 pects some company to-day, and every thing has gone 
 wrong with her, and she hardly knows what she says. 
 I am determined that this shall be the last time I con 
 sent to have her receive her friends unless she can show 
 a better feeling." 
 
 " If I do expect company, I don't want any to come 
 but those I invite. Who wants everybody and every 
 thing ? I don't, I'm sure." 
 
 Jane's mother thought it was not necessary to reply 
 to her daughter, and continued to converse with Sarah 
 who, although she understood Jane's remark, was as so 
 ciable and as pleasant as ever.
 
 THE HUMPBACK. 185 
 
 Although Sarah was urged to remain with her dur 
 ing the afternoon by Mrs. Coburn^ she would not con 
 sent, knowing that it would be disagreeable to her 
 daughter. 
 
 As Sarah's constitution was feeble, she was over per 
 suaded by her friends not to learn a trade, as she con 
 templated, but to do something else to support her 
 self; but what business to engage in she did not know. 
 Plain sewing she could do, but while so many were de 
 pending upon their needles, it was but poor encourage 
 ment to her. But a trifle only did she earn in this 
 way. 
 
 One day a thought struck her as she was passing one 
 of the principal streets in her town ; it was this : per 
 haps she could make a living by keeping a small fruit 
 and candy store, at the corner of some street. The 
 more she though^ of the subject, the more favorable it 
 appeared to her. Her mother thought it was a good 
 idea, and encouraged her to undertake it. Sarah was 
 not long in finding a suitable place ; but all the money 
 she could raise to commence business with was sev 
 enty-five cents. With this sum, she purchased a few 
 apples, and some other fruit, and also some candies, and 
 commenced trading. The first day she sold nearly all 
 her articles, and made twenty-five cents. Day after day 
 her business increased, so that she was enabled to keep 
 on hand a larger assortment and a greater quantity. 
 Every summer day, Sarah Edgar might be seen trudg 
 ing to her little stand, where she would remain all day, 
 selling to the passers-by. In winter she was permitted 
 to occupy a corner of a gentleman's shop, who, out of 
 kindness, charged her no rent. Now Sarah had but 
 little time to see her friends, excepting in the evening ; 
 16*
 
 186 THE HUMPBACK. 
 
 and when she called upon Mrs. Coburn, she was pleas 
 antly received by the good lady, who still felt a deep in 
 terest in the unfortunate girl. 
 
 But Jane had grown more and more haughty. One 
 evening she asked her in the way of ridicule 
 
 " How many sugar-plums have you sold during the 
 day?" 
 
 " About a dozen cents' worth," said Sarah. 
 
 " It must be pleasant business for a lady to follow." 
 
 "It is not so disagreeable as to be idle ; but while I 
 make my own living, and assist my mother, I feel quite 
 happy." 
 
 " You will make your fortune, yet, by retailing pep 
 permints and candy, no doubt." 
 
 " Perhaps I shall." 
 
 "If I were you, Sarah, I would be looking out a 
 house to buy, you are making money so fast. Perhaps 
 father would sell you this," and then a scornful smile 
 played upon her face. 
 
 " I do not wish for a house at present, and you know, 
 Jane, I may never earn a hundred dollars in my life." 
 
 " Great profit is made on sugar-plums, you know. It 
 is a very fine business." 
 
 " If I were not deformed, I assure you, I should do 
 something else for a living. I could learn a trade, or 
 work in a factory." 
 
 " You wouldn't stand half the chance to pick up a 
 beau." 
 
 " I never thought of one." 
 
 " Don't tell me. When the sailors pass, you look up 
 ' smiling enough, I know." 
 
 "Jane, you are too bad." 
 
 " Not when I am talking with a merchant."
 
 THE HUMPBACK. 1ST 
 
 Sarah did not care to prolong the conversation, and 
 so she was rejoiced when Mrs. Coburn came into the 
 room. The good woman made her usual inquiries re 
 specting business, and she was glad to learn that it had 
 been very much increased. 
 
 Occasionally, Jane would pass the stand of Sarah, 
 with a few of her companions, and cast a sneering look 
 at the humpbacked girl, and sometimes make a re 
 mark which was not pleasant for Sarah to hear. One 
 day she came up to the stand, throwing down a silver 
 dollar, saying 
 
 " Give me a pound of peppermints." 
 
 " I haven't a pound." 
 
 " Give me half a pound, then." 
 
 '" I haven't that quantity even ; it is seldom that I 
 have a call for more than two or three cents' worth at a 
 time." 
 
 " Oh ! you don't keep but a few cents' worth, then," 
 said Jane, winking at one of her companions. " Well, 
 give us a pound of almonds." 
 
 " I haven't a pound of any thing." 
 
 And off the girls went, laughing loud enough to be 
 heard across the street. Sarah was a little mortified, 
 but yet she pitied the folly of the proud and haughty 
 Jane and her companions. 
 
 A few years passed, and Sarah continued her busi 
 ness, and with great success. She was so kind and 
 pleasant, that all the children loved to trade with her. 
 When they had a penny to spend, they would run down 
 to Miss Edgar's stall, and were always satisfied with 
 their bargains. 
 
 About this time, the good mother of Jane was called 
 from her family by death. She was an excellent wo-
 
 188 THE HUMPBACK. 
 
 man, and all the neighbors mourned their loss ; none 
 felt her loss more severely than Sarah. Next to her 
 mother she loved Mrs. Coburn ; in all her trials she had 
 been her friend and counsellor. It was to be regretted 
 that her daughter possessed none of the excellent qual 
 ities of her mother. Not long after her decease, Jane 
 mingled in the gay circles, and did not appear to be 
 half so deeply afflicted as the poor humpbacked girl. 
 
 Charles Somers, the son of a merchant, had for some 
 time been partial to Jane. She was a pretty girl, as far 
 as outward beauty was concerned, and this attraction 
 affected young Somers. Occasionally, as hq passed by 
 the stall of Sarah, he would stop and purchase a few 
 articles such as peaches, apples, and pears. He 
 seemed to pity the unfortunate girl, and sometimes 
 stopped a few moments to converse with her. At one 
 time he passed with Jane, and stopped to buy some 
 thing, when Jane made some unkind remark. Charles 
 checked her by saying, " That unfortunate young wo 
 man deserves a great deal of credit. She not only sup 
 ports herself and mother, but actually gives something 
 to those poorer than she is. Besides this, she has a 
 well-cultivated mind, and were it not for her Immp- 
 . back, there is many a man who would rejoice to make 
 her his wife." 
 
 "I don't think much of her myself," remarked 
 Jane ; " I never saw any thing so attractive about her. 
 She always obtruded herself into our house when 
 mother was living, although we hinted to her repeat 
 edly that she was not wanted. We haven't seen her 
 much of late." 
 
 " I never heard her spoken slightly of before." 
 
 " The reason is people don't know her. She always
 
 THE HUMPBACK. 189 
 
 looks so modest and saintlike that I have no patience 
 with her. To hear her talk, you wouldn't think butter 
 could melt in her mouth. You may depend upon it, 
 she is a self-conceited, deceitful creature that I 
 know." 
 
 Being but little acquainted with Sarah, Charles took 
 to be correct what Jane had told him, and after that was 
 cautious how he spoke to her, and never again purchased 
 an article at her stand. Sarah noticed the appearance 
 of the young man, and supposed he had been influenced 
 by Jane ; but not hearing what had been said, she had 
 no opportunity to defend herself. She continued to 
 sell and to buy, while her business rapidly increased 
 year by year. Every Saturday night, she would place 
 in her mother's care, what she had made during the 
 week, which was carefully put aside in silver money. 
 
 For ten years, had Sarah been attentive to her little 
 business, and no one but herself and mother knew how 
 well she had succeeded, and how much money she had 
 in her mother's chest. During this period, Mr. Co- 
 burn had married a second wife, who was called an ex 
 travagant woman, and it was thought he had not pros 
 pered of late as in former years. Jane was still waited 
 upon by Mr. Somers, who, it was said, was worth prop 
 erty and intended to be married in a short time. Jane 
 and Sarah seldom met ; they had scarcely exchanged 
 words for two years. But Jane, according to all ap 
 pearances, had not changed for the better. She was 
 still proud and haughty, and looked with contempt 
 upon Sarah, and all those she considered beneath her. 
 
 In the course of time, Mr. Coburn failed in busi 
 ness, his creditors having attached his stock and house. 
 This put a, damper upon the haughty spirit of Jane,
 
 190 THE HUMPBACK. 
 
 who had never dreamed of such a thing. She thought 
 her father's affairs were on a perfectly safe footing. 
 And now she even flattered herself that his failure 
 would not be a bad one, and that in the end he would 
 make money out of it, as some others had done before 
 him. But when her father told her that his house must 
 be sold to pay his debts, she began in some measure to 
 realize her situation. 
 
 The beautiful house of Mr. Coburn was advertised 
 for sale " at a bargain," and those who wished to pur 
 chase were invited on the premises to see the house. 
 Among others who called was Sarah Edgar. As soon 
 as Jane saw her, with a curl of scorn upon her lip, she 
 said 
 
 " Well, I suppose you intend to buy our house ; you 
 have made enough selling candy." 
 , " Well, Jane, that is not an impossible thing." 
 
 " Per-haps you may, miss ; it would be a fine place 
 for an apple-woman." 
 
 " I think so too. I should like to be the owner o.f as 
 fine a house." 
 
 " Oh, lordy, and you should. I guess it would take 
 all the candy-women hi town to buy it, even if part of 
 them were sold for what they think they are worth." 
 
 " Perhaps it would, Miss Coburn ; but we shall see." 
 
 "Impudence! I detest those low-bred people," 
 muttered Jane, as she closed the door in the face of 
 Sarah. 
 
 As Mr. Coburn and his family were sitting in the 
 room a day or two after this conversation, the gentle 
 man who had been appointed to sell the house was in 
 troduced. 
 
 " Mr. Coburn, I come to inform you that I have ef 
 fected a sale of the house," said he.
 
 THE HUMPBACK. 191 
 
 "All! and how did you sell it; for cash or 
 credit?" 
 
 " For cash, as soon as the deed is made out. It was 
 sold for forty-five hundred dollars." 
 
 " Who was the purchaser ? " 
 
 " Miss Edgar." 
 
 " Who ? " said the astonished man. 
 
 " Miss Sarah Edgar, 'the young woman who keeps a 
 little stall in Street." 
 
 " Is it possible ? Where in the world did she raise 
 that amount ? " 
 
 "I cannot say; but she has bought it, and tells me 
 that the money is ready as soon as she can have a de.ed." 
 
 Who can describe the feelings of Jane when this fact 
 was announced ? We shall not attempt it. It will be 
 sufficient to say that she was fully repaid for all her un- 
 kindness to the once poor and unfortunate girl. 
 
 The next day Sarah took possession of the house, 
 but told Mr. Coburn that he need not be in a hurry to 
 remove. " On account of your wife's kindness to me 
 in years past, you may remain in the house at present, 
 and nothing shall be charged you for the rent." 
 
 Mr. Coburn thanked her with tears. 
 
 After the failure of the merchant, Charles Somers 
 was less attentive to Jane, and finally forsook her ; he 
 could not feel any confidence in a woman who had de 
 ceived him, as Jane had done repeatedly, more espe 
 cially in what she said respecting Sarah Edgar. 
 
 In a year after Sarah purchased the house, Mr. Co- 
 burn removed into a smaller dwelling, while Sarah and 
 her mother took the house. Not many months passed 
 before the humpbacked girl was married ; yes, Sarah 
 became a happy bride, the wife of one of the best and
 
 192 THE HUMPBACK. 
 
 most influential men in town. Charles Somers was her 
 husband. 
 
 Females should learn a lesson from this story. 
 Never look upon the deformed an-d the poor as beneath 
 you ; especially if your parents are wealthy. The time 
 may come when you will be reduced while they are ex 
 alted. Never ridicule poverty or deformity. It was 
 this disposition that ruined utterly ruined Jane Co- 
 burn. She is now a woman of some fifty years of age, 
 and is so poor that she is obliged to take in shirts 
 to make, at twelve cents apiece, or she would suffer for 
 the necessaries of life. There are scores just like her, 
 proud, superficial, and overbearing. Unless they re 
 form, and begin to live as they ought, and that speedily, 
 we can safely predict for them a life of poverty and 
 wretchedness.
 
 POPULAR AND UNPOPULAR. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 How beautiful, when life and mind 
 
 Conspire to make the wretched blest ! 
 With acts of mercy, unconfined, 
 
 Reaching to every sorrowing breast ! 
 The heart thus nurtured in the school, 
 
 By wisdom and by mercy taught, 
 Obeys the Saviour's golden rule, 
 
 In life and act in word and thought. 
 This lesson be it mine to learn, 
 
 With love to God and faith sincere ; 
 In every form, a friend discern, 
 
 That pines in want or sheds a tear. 
 
 " To tell you the truth, Somers, I am not partial to 
 this dull sort of life. Law is a dry study, more es 
 pecially to a person of an active temperament." 
 
 "Law is just the thing for me, Mason. I like it. 
 There is no labor, comparatively, no hurry about it; 
 you can take your own time to study." 
 
 "It is exceedingly difficult for a young lawyer to get 
 ahead. If he have talents and ambition, they are 
 crushed before the learning and experience of the 
 older members of the bar.- It is one of the poorest 
 professions in the world in which to succeed, or to 
 make money." 
 
 " You mistake altogether. I shall go ahead in a few 
 17
 
 194 POPULAR AND UNPOPULAR. 
 
 years and become wealthy. What do you prefer to the 
 study of law ? " 
 
 " A mechanical trade, Somers ; give me the mechanic 
 to the lawyer. His business is much more pleasant, 
 his time better employed, and he is not perplexed and 
 harassed almost to death to make a living." 
 
 " A foolish idea, Mason. Who would be a mechanic ? 
 They have to dig and dig, from one week to another 
 year in and out and then they make but a poor liv 
 ing. Besides, they are not half so much respected as 
 lawyers are. Who are the candidates for most of the 
 important offices ? Lawyers. Who receive the largest 
 salaries for public services ? Lawyers. Wherever you 
 hear of good speeches or able arguments, you will find 
 they are by members of this profession." 
 
 " I might inquire, Somers, who have been the most 
 beneficial to society, mechanics or lawyers ? And you 
 cannot deny that the former have been of the greatest 
 service to our country. Franklin and Sherman, you 
 know, were mechanics, and although they did not make 
 speeches, what they said was to the purpose ; and be 
 cause they were short and comprehensive, everybody 
 listened to them. Give me a trade to the law." 
 
 " And give me a profession to a trade. I like the law 
 and there's no mistake." 
 
 " As soon as I can get father's consent, and a good 
 opportunity presents, I will throw aside Coke and 
 Blackstone, for something more congenial to my taste." 
 
 James Somers was the son of a merchant. His 
 father had given him a college education, after which 
 he put him into an office to study the profession of the 
 law. Here he became acquainted with Henry Mason, 
 a young man of his own age, who had a good edu-
 
 POPULAR AND UNPOPULAR. 195 
 
 cation, and had been over persuaded by his father, 
 who possessed a handsome property, to study the pro 
 fession of the law. Henry despised the business, and 
 had often told his parent that a trade would be more 
 congenial to his feelings, and more profitable and useful 
 in the end. But his father would not listen to him. 
 Being a proud-spirited man, the idea of his son's working 
 at a trade was something he could not endure. It was 
 not respectable enough. All the .arguments Henry 
 could produce had not the least effect upon his father ; 
 so he continued at his studies. 
 
 At the expiration of two or three years, Somers was 
 admitted to practise at the bar, and removed to a coun 
 try town and commenced business. In the mean time, 
 Mason, who had never relinquished his determination 
 to learn a trade, received permission of a friend, a 
 printer, to enter his office and work. Having naturally 
 a quick turn of mind, it was not many months before 
 he became an expert workman. With not much ef 
 fort he could pick up a thousand types in an hour, and 
 work off a token at the press in about the same time. 
 When Henry thought he had become master of his 
 trade, he removed to a large town and established a 
 paper. Possessing a strong mind, and having the ad 
 vantage of a good education, he made an interesting 
 and popular sheet. By his industrious habits, he se 
 cured a great deal of work, and being a man that every 
 body respected, he commanded as much influence as 
 any person in town, and in a few years was put up as a 
 candidate to the State legislature. He protested 
 against it; said he could not leave his business and 
 questioned his ability to discharge his duty as 1 he 
 ought. But the people would not excuse him, and
 
 196 POPULAR AND UNPOPULAR. 
 
 Henry was elected. He did not seek the office ; he was 
 no politician, but as he was chosen by the vote of the 
 inhabitants, he went to his task. It was said that Ma 
 son was one of the ablest men who represented the 
 state. Calm and dispassionate, he never let an act 
 pass he never made or seconded a motion even 
 without forethought and deliberation. He consulted 
 no individual interest, he approved of no mere party 
 measure, and so he gained the respect of all. When he 
 spoke, it was to the purpose ; he never descended to 
 scurility or low slang ; but was perfectly honorable in 
 all his acts. Seldom did one of his speeches last over 
 ten or fifteen minutes. He was .short, comprehensive, 
 and to the point, and was a mortal enemy to inflated 
 words, long arguments, and extended debates. No 
 persuasion would induce Mason to be run as a candi 
 date for office again. He was offered many high and 
 important situations, but he turned a deaf ear to them 
 all. He could do more good in an humble sphere, ex 
 ert a better influence, and enjoy more of life. He might 
 have been a senator in Congress, but he rejected the 
 offer at once ; but such an office as a school committee 
 or an overseer of the poor, he willingly accepted. Here 
 was where he could be useful, and see the happy effects 
 of his labors. In his paper he strove to awaken the 
 sympathy of the public in behalf of the suffering and 
 nee'dy, and through his efforts, many a widow's heart 
 was made to sing for joy, and many an orphan child 
 was housed, clothed, and instructed. 
 
 Mason chose for his bosom companion, a lady who 
 had been brought up by sensible and judicious parents 
 a woman who had been taught to work from her ear 
 liest years. Sarah Averd had learned a trade, and by
 
 POPULAR AND UNPOPULAR. 197 
 
 her habits acquired the name of a worthy and capable 
 woman. Her time had not been spent in idle visits or 
 senseless gossiping ; she did not consult her glass oftener 
 than her heart. It was not Sarah's ambition to shine 
 in the ballroom, or at the public assembly ; but it 
 was her pride, to earn her own living, assist her par 
 ents, and live a useful and virtuous life. For many 
 months had Mason watched the conduct and studied 
 the character of Sarah ; but no one knew it but him 
 self. Many a proud and fashionable lady, dressed most 
 expensively, and putting on a thousand airs, crossed 
 his track, in hopes of winning the talented and popular 
 man ; while the neighbors wondered which of the 
 wealthy girls would be so lucky as to win him. No 
 one had the most distant idea of his choosing the poor, 
 retired, and modest Sarah Averd, who had learned a 
 trade, and now supported herself by her needle. 
 And she as little thought of what was about to take 
 place, as any of her neighbors. When Mason sent 
 some poor child to her to be clothed at his expense, she 
 never once dreamed that he was penetrating her char 
 acter and studying her habits, as it proved to be in the 
 sequel. Sarah loved Henry, but she never dared to 
 hope that he would prove more than an acquaintance. 
 But to the utter astonishment of the rich and fashiona 
 ble, and proud and self-sufficient young ladies of the 
 town, Mason became the husband of the poor tailoress, 
 Sarah Averd. Henry was an excellent husband, and 
 Sarah made him one of the best of wives.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Oh, let me know there is but one, 
 
 One friendly heart to sympathize, 
 And make my daily cares its own, 
 
 And bid my drooping spirits rise 
 To speak when others are unkind, 
 
 In melting tones of tenderness, 
 And round the stricken soul to bind 
 
 The cords of love, to heal and bless : 
 Oh, let me know but this, and I 
 
 Shall joyful pass the vale of tears, 
 See light beyond each frowning sky, 
 
 Dispelling doubts and gloomy fears. 
 
 JAMES SOMEBS, after he had . opened an office in the 
 village that he had chosen for his future residence, used 
 the most strenuous efforts to make himself popular. He 
 exerted himself to become acquainted with the promi 
 nent men of both political parties, and generally co 
 incided with their views. He pretended not to be a 
 strong advocate on either side ; waiting, before he took 
 a stand, to ascertain which was the stronger party, and 
 which the most likely to put him into office, for to be 
 elected to some lucrative office was the height of his 
 ambition. He attended meeting one sabbath with one 
 denomination, and the next with another. He had no 
 preference. This was his policy if he should be 
 come a candidate for office, his religious views should 
 be no objection to his receiving the votes of the people. 
 By pursuing this course, Somers* gained the respect of 
 but few, excepting those, who, like himself, were am
 
 POPULAR' AND UNPOPULAR. 199 
 
 bitious and selfish, and who hoped, by favoring him, in 
 turn to receive a like reward. 
 
 The time approached when it was necessary to deter 
 mine upon a candidate for the legislature. But among 
 three or four prominent men, it was difficult to make a 
 selection. Each had his friends, and it was the object 
 with the people at least with many of them to put 
 up the individual who would run the beet, and not the 
 best mam Finally, they pitched upon Some.rs, but oth 
 ers taking offence, voted for another candidate, and the 
 poor fellow was defeated. Contrary to the expecta 
 tions of many, the opposing gentleman received a ma 
 jority of the votes, which showed the unpopularity of the 
 young lawyer. Somers was extremely mortified ; his 
 ambition received a check, and he raved for many a 
 month against a few individuals, whom he supposed 
 were chiefly instrumental of his defeat. 
 
 For sometime Somers labored to get into office, but 
 the more he labored, the less popular he became. If 
 the people disliked him as a man, they detested him as 
 a lawyer. He would frequently sue and serve a writ, 
 when, by a milder course, he would have better suc 
 ceeded and made fewer enemies. He was poor, but he 
 should have studied his interest. Sometimes he would 
 go to the clerk of a militia company and request a job to 
 sue those who did not appear in the ranks on review or 
 muster-days, pledging himself not to charge for ser 
 vices unless he succeeded in getting the case. Such 
 proceedings, together with his generally niggardly con 
 duct, secured him the title of the " mean pettifogger." 
 At a town-meeting, the citizens, who had noticed his 
 treatment to others as well as themselves, and knew 
 his ambitious turn of mind, nominated him for the of-
 
 200 POPULAR AND UNPOPULAR. 
 
 fice of hogreeve, and he was chosen almost unani 
 mously. When the vote was announced the house rung 
 again with 'the shouts of the people. 
 
 When Somers was informed of his promotion to the 
 important office, he was so full of wrath that he actu 
 ally struck the informer a severe blow, which was in 
 stantly returned, and a regular fight ensued. The 
 lawyer was fairly beaten, and bawled lustily for quar 
 ters, which brought out the neighbors, and further 
 blows were prevented. Somers was prosecuted and 
 paid his fine for the attack. 
 
 Among the few friends of Somers in the town, was a 
 Mr. Blake, one of the richest men in the place. He 
 had a daughter, for whom the lawyer had manifested 
 some partiality. Jane was the very counterpart of her 
 lover. She had a violent temper, was vindictive and 
 resolute, and as proud as Lucifer. Jane had nothing 
 to recommend her but her father's property, he be 
 ing very rich, and she the sole heiress. As there was 
 nothing prepossessing about her, it was evident to all 
 but herself and her parents, that wealth was the magnet 
 that drew the lawyer to the house of Mr. Blake. 
 Jane had been indulged in all she desired, scarcely 
 was a wish ungratified. To balls, to parties of pleas 
 ure anywhere and everywhere, unmindful of ex 
 pense would the daughter be gallanted. She sel 
 dom did any work. It was not necessary, she thought, 
 as she would have no occasion to labor. Her father's 
 property was sufficient to make her comfortable, with 
 out her putting forth the least exertion to keep herself 
 from rusting out, and promoting her health. 
 
 Somers was married to Jane. We need not say the 
 wedding was a splendid affair ; we wish we could say as
 
 POPULAR AND UNPOPULAR. 201 
 
 much of the sequel ; but the truth will not permit us. 
 They began housekeeping on an extensive scale ; hired 
 a large 'dwelling, furnished it throughout, and em 
 ployed one or two domestics. If there were no coun 
 ter currents in life, they might have gone on smoothly, 
 but not pleasantly, for their dispositions forbade their 
 being happy. 
 
 The father of Jane met with two or three reverses 
 the same year of his daughter's marriage, which sunk 
 the larger por.tion of his property. About the same 
 time he was involved in a lawsuit, and losing his case, 
 it cost him a large amount, so that he had barely 
 enough left to make himself comfortable. Somers, 
 who had depended mostly on Mr. Blake to support him 
 in his extravagances, now found it impossible to pay his 
 debts. Being dunned every day, with no means of 
 paying, and having an expensive wife, he was obliged 
 to give up housekeeping and go to her father's. They 
 lived upon the old gentleman about a year, when one 
 day, being a little piqued, he told Somers he could not 
 support them much longer. " I am willing to let Jane 
 stay here," said he, "but as for keeping you both, I 
 cannot do it ; I am not able." 
 
 Exceedingly unpopular as the lawyer was, and having 
 no business to speak of, and about being turned out of 
 dbors, he hardly knew what course to take, especially 
 as he had no money. Jane appeared perfectly indiffer 
 ent to him ; for of late he had taken to drink, and it 
 had been said that he went home occasionally a little 
 intoxicated. Somers still continued to live with the 
 old gentleman, till a quarrel ensued, and then he for 
 bade his entering the house. 
 
 The lawyer left the house in a rage one morning, and
 
 202 POPULAR AND UNPOPULAR. 
 
 no one knew whither he went, and but few felt inter 
 ested enough in him to inquire. It was his determination 
 to go to some small village, and if he could find an open 
 ing, establish himself in business. He travelled from 
 one town to another, without determining where to 
 stop, till at last his small amount of funds was entirely 
 exhausted. In despair he resorted to the intoxicating 
 bowl, and was beastly drunk about the streets for a few 
 days, till at last he was taken up by the overseers of the 
 poor, and sent to the almshouse. He was ragged and 
 dirty ; an entire stranger to the people. When he be 
 came sober, he refused to give his name or his busi 
 ness. One of the overseers approached him, spoke 
 kindly to him, and seemed to feel for his peculiar situ 
 ation. He thought he could discern in the face of the 
 poor man something that indicated intelligence, and 
 he did not doubt that he had seen better days. 
 
 " Friend," said the gentleman after he had conversed 
 with him kindly for half an hour, " tell me where you 
 came from and who you are, and if I can render you 
 any assistance, it shall be done." 
 
 " I cannot tell you ; I am ashamed to tell," said the 
 man, weeping. 
 
 " Perhaps I can be the means of benefiting you ; cer 
 tainly it will not be for your disadvantage to inform me 
 of your true situation." 
 
 "_ Sir, I have seen better days. I have been prosper 
 ous ; but my ambition, my love of gain and pleasure, 
 have ruined me." 
 
 " I thought as much. Your language, your whole 
 appearance indicated that you were once happy and 
 prosperous. But pray tell me your name ! " 
 
 " You shall hear it, sir, for you appear to feel for
 
 POPULAB AND UNPOPULAR. 203 
 
 the unfortunate, the poor, and the destitute. My name 
 is Somers." 
 
 " What ! James Somers ? " and the truth flashed at 
 once upon the gentleman that an old friend was before 
 him. 
 
 " That is my name, sir," said the poor man, some 
 what agitated. 
 
 " Can this be my early friend, Somers ? " and he fell 
 upon his neck and embraced him, though the poor fel 
 low was covered with nothing but rags. 
 
 At such strange conduct, Somers wept aloud. 
 " Pray, sir, what can this mean? "he asked in aston 
 ishment. 
 
 " I am your old friend, Henry Mason." 
 
 " Good Heaven ! can it be ? God be praised that I 
 have fallen into such hands ! My kind friend but I 
 cannot express the feelings of my heart." 
 
 "0 James, I never thought to see you in such a 
 condition ; but come with me, you shall have a home 
 in my own house. Come with me." 
 
 "I dare not go. Look at my condition," and he 
 wept like a child. 
 
 "" Come with me you shall come," and Mason led 
 him from the house, helped him into his chaise at the 
 door, and drove to his dwelling, where he was treated 
 with the greatest kindness and attention. 
 
 Mrs. Mason interested herself in his behalf, and in a 
 few days the poor outcast became an altered being. He 
 was furnished with suitable clothing, encouraged to 
 hope for the best, while Mason exerted himself to the 
 utmost to get his friend into business. 
 
 The lawyer had learned an important lesson during 
 his past career and now resolved to pursue a different
 
 204 POPULAR AND UNPOPULAR. 
 
 course. Through the - instrumentality of Mason, who 
 furnished him an office, he commenced the practice of 
 law, and his business gradually increased. Somers be 
 ing perfectly attentive to his affairs, he prospered be 
 yond his most sanguine expectations. After a year 
 had gone by, he sent for his wife, who had materially 
 changed for the better since he parted from her. She 
 had seen the effects of her folly, by her parents being re 
 duced in their circumstances, and she resolved to work 
 and support herself by her own hands. But it came 
 hard upon her at first. 
 
 The lawyer and his wife removed to a small tene 
 ment, were prudent and frugal, and succeeded better 
 than they had anticipated. In the course of a few 
 years Somers was able to purchase a dwelling, and for a 
 long period was considered one of the ablest lawyers in 
 the county. He never forgot his old friend ; but years 
 after his kindness to him, expressed his heartfelt grati 
 tude in tears. 
 
 Mason became one of the wealthiest, as certainly he 
 was the most influential man in the place. Everybody 
 loved him. Wherever there was sickness, or distress, 
 or sorrow, he was ready to render assistance and do 
 good. His whole life was spent in acts of benevolence, 
 and thousands were made better and happier through 
 his instrumentality.
 
 THE IMPRUDENT STEP. 
 
 The flower when crushed will send perfume, 
 
 The riven tree may sprout again, 
 And spring will raise to life and bloom 
 
 Bleak autumn's melancholy train ; 
 But human hearts whene'er they feel 
 
 The frosts of unrequited love, 
 No earthly power the wound can heal, 
 , Till death the nialady remove. 
 
 HAERY HEYWOOD ! how I loved him when we were 
 boys together, sporting over the fields and hills, chasing 
 the bee and butterfly, or culling the new-blown flowers ! 
 Then he was happy. The future was pictured bright 
 before his young imagination. He saw no cloudy sky 
 no chilling storm no winter of gloom; but a 
 bright sun and a pure heaven were ever above him. 
 The green earth, sprinkled with ten thousand flowers, 
 smiled before him. A kind father and an indulgent 
 mother doated upon an only son. Nothing was denied 
 to him that would gratify his desires. In a round of 
 pleasure, the years flew by, and Henry was on the verge 
 of manhood. Genteel and accomplished, possessing a 
 good disposition and a fine mind, he won' the respect 
 and love of all who knew him, particularly the affec 
 tion of the kind and gentle Louisa. Miss Mentor was 
 the daughter of a neighbor in comfortable circum 
 stances, where Henry had been a constant visitor from 
 18
 
 206 THE IMPRUDENT STEP. 
 
 his childhood. Now that he had grown to manhood, 
 his feelings had changed somewhat in regard to Louisa. 
 His regard to her had ripened into an attachment ; 
 and throughout the village it was understood that young 
 Heywood and Louisa were destined for each other. 
 " It will be a fine match," was the common remark ; 
 " their dispositions are so nearly alike, they cannot fail 
 of being happy." The young lady was not handsome, 
 but she was good. Possessing a generous heart and an 
 agreeable disposition, she was calculated to make any 
 one happy who should cultivate her acquaintance. 
 
 About this time the father of Louisa sickened and 
 died. The faithful daughter watched beside the bed of 
 her parent day and night, administering to his wants 
 and smoothing his dying pillow. A short time before 
 the fatal termination of Mr. Mentor's illness, a day had 
 been appointed by Henry for an excursion of pleasure. 
 Presuming that her father would be better in a few 
 days, Louisa gave her consent to accompany her friend ; 
 but when the time arrived, she told Heywood that she 
 must be excused on account of the illness of her father. 
 " When I made the promise," said she, " I thought he 
 would be better by to-day, but he has been growing 
 worse, and now it would not be prudent for me to leave 
 him in his present critical situation." 
 
 The color rushed to Henry's cheeks, as he said, " I 
 have made all the arrangements and you must go ; you 
 will not be missed one day, and certainly your father 
 will be no worse." 
 
 " I cannot leave him. I could not enjoy myself when 
 father is so feeble, and then if he should be worse, I 
 should have it to reflect upon through life. Can't you 
 put off'going till some future day ? "
 
 THE IMPRUDENT STEP. 207 
 
 " No, I cannot put it off. Come, get ready and go ; 
 it is getting late." 
 
 " I must decline, unwilling as I am to do so ; for I 
 cannot leave my father." 
 
 " Then you will not go, I am to understand ? " said 
 Henry, manifesting a little displeasure. 
 
 "With all my heart I would go, if it were not my 
 duty to take care of my father. It will not do to leave 
 him, and sorry as I am to do it, I must decline ; " and 
 a tear was in her eye as she spoke. 
 
 " Very well, you will be sorry for it." 
 
 " Now don't censure me, Henry, because I do what I 
 believe to be my bounden duty." 
 
 " You could go as well as not if you were so disposed, 
 but I sha'n't ask you again," and so saying, the young 
 man left the house, leaving the dutiful girl in tears. 
 
 Henry went directly to Mr. Ho well's and invited his 
 daughter Jane to accompany him, who readily ac 
 cepted. 
 
 The Howells were noted for their pride and poverty, 
 and Jane was disliked among her acquaintances on ac 
 count of the foolish airs she was accustomed to put on, 
 and for her envious disposition. She had more than 
 once circulated a story, which, among those who were 
 not acquainted with both parties, would reflect upon the 
 character of Louisa Mentor. These two young ladies 
 spoke when they met, but were not on the best of 
 terms. Louisa had often condemned Jane's deceitful, 
 tattling disposition, and Henry had always coincided 
 with her. Perhaps it was for this reason that he now 
 had invited her to accompany him. He knew the feel 
 ing it would produce in the breast of the sensitive 
 girl, and he thus cruelly revenged her. "When it was
 
 208 THE IMPRUDENT STEP. 
 
 known throughout the village that Heywood had gone 
 in company with Miss Howell, it opened the door for a 
 great deal of gossip. A few who were envious of 
 those whose characters stood higher than their own, 
 were much delighted and hoped it would tend to break 
 up the match between the young man and Louisa, and 
 these encouraged Henry. " I approve of your choice," 
 said one. " She is much more accomplished than Miss 
 Mentor," said another. " It is the best step you have 
 taken for many a day," -continued a third. These in 
 dividuals were all of a meddlesome disposition, and the 
 more unhappiness and misery they could produce, the 
 better they enjoyed it. Henry was unwise enough to 
 consider them his friends and listen to what they said. 
 He ceased to call on Louisa, and was a constant visitor 
 at Miss Howell's. When he heard of the death of Mr. 
 Mentor, he was on the point of calling at the house, 
 for he really loved the dutiful girl, and felt sensibly 
 her situation, being deprived of a kind parent, but 
 self-will predominated over his better nature and he 
 yielded to his bad disposition. 
 
 The parents of Miss Howell did their utmost to 
 please Henry so that he might be induced to continue 
 his visits and finally take their daughter for his com 
 panion. When he was present, all was love ; there 
 was no unpleasant look or word ; every wish of his was 
 gratified. 
 
 In the mean time, Louisa looked on calmly and lisped 
 not a word against the man she loved. The loss of a 
 tender parent had filled her heart with grief, and the 
 thought that her attention to his sick chamber had 
 driven her friend away, gave her pain and sorrow inde 
 scribable. But she could not see that she had erred.
 
 THE IMPRUDENT STEP. 209 
 
 She had but done her duty, and so every one thought 
 who knew the circumstances of the case. 
 
 A month or two passed by, and Henry was as atten 
 tive as ever to Jane, and it was settled in the minds of 
 the neighbors that he was engaged to the haughty girl. 
 The thought preyed deeply in the breast of the dutiful 
 Louisa, but she suffered it not to interfere with her 
 duty. She bore it like a philosopher, and was deter 
 mined, whatever the result should be, to submit with 
 out a murmuring word. There were peace and happi 
 ness in her cot. The thought that a devoted father 
 and excellent husband had been removed by death, 
 would sometimes cause a feeling of sadness, but the 
 mother and daughter looked to Him who gave and took 
 away, and felt it was for the best. But when Louisa 
 thought of the past -when she was happy in the soci 
 ety of Henry, and of his present alienated feelings, it 
 made her sorrowful indeed. Save these hours of sad 
 ness,' none were happier than they none had a better 
 circle of friends none lived more peaceably with their 
 neighbors. There were two or three young men in the 
 village who would have esteemed it an honor to win the 
 love and approbation of Miss Mentor, but she would en 
 courage the visits of none, save those who called upon 
 her as neighbors and friends. 
 
 Henry would often pass the home of Louisa, with the 
 vain Miss Howell hanging on his arm, while their con 
 versation appeared to be deep and earnest. It was evi 
 dent that Henry wished to be seen by Louisa, and make 
 her feel regret for once refusing to accompany him on 
 an excursion of pleasure. But she witnessed the young 
 man's conduct without manifesting the least displeasure. 
 She never moved aside to be unnoticed or to make him 
 18*
 
 210 THE BIPEUDENT STEP. 
 
 feel that she was angry, or regretted the step he had 
 taken. She thought such a course would be for the 
 best in the end, whatever might be the consequences. 
 Miss Mentor continued her duties, slept as soundly as 
 ever, and gave no one occasion 'to say that the conduct 
 of Henry had worn upon her spirits or broken her 
 heart. 
 
 One evening Louisa attended, a social party where 
 Henry and Jane were present. They both took partic 
 ular care to let her see their affection for each other ; 
 just as the reader has often seen two simpletons con 
 duct When they thought they were made for each other. 
 When the party broke up, in going home Louisa hap 
 pened to be but a short distance behind the lovers. 
 They were talking very earnestly, and did not seem to 
 care if they were overheard. 
 
 "I wonder how Miss Louisa enjoyed herself to 
 night ? " inquired Jane. 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure," said Henry ; " she tried to 
 appear cheerful, but I saw that she was not very pleas 
 ant." 
 
 " Perhaps she regrets her past course." 
 
 " I have no doubt she does." 
 
 " She is a foolish girl, and I always knew it." 
 
 " It is certain she doesn't study her interest. She will 
 never get a husband ; she was cut out for an old maid. 
 No young man who thinks any thing of himself, ever 
 goes with her. She has been trying a long while to get 
 one of the Goodings or Charles Hamilton to gallant 
 her, but they know better." 
 
 This was all of the conversation Louisa heard ; it was 
 enough to convince her that she had lost nothing when 
 Heywood left her society for the society of another. It
 
 THE IMPRUDENT STEP. 211 
 
 was so untrue that it pained her to the heart. But it 
 did not trouble her long. She did not look alone to 
 earth for perfect happiness. 
 
 The day was appointed for the union of Henry and 
 Jane, and it was understood to be their intention to 
 have a splendid wedding. A week previous to the cel 
 ebration of the nuptials, a young man made his appear 
 ance in the neighborhood. He was dressed in the ex 
 treme of fashion, and appeared to. be in independent 
 circumstances by the manner he expended his money. 
 He had lately graduated from a lawyer's office, and had 
 come to the village to commence practice. He hired a 
 room, and put up his sign, which was very neatly 
 printed in gold letters. In looking round for a board 
 ing-house, he was introduced to Mr. Howell, who took 
 him into his family. It was said that the landlord's 
 head was more erect than ever; he was honored by 
 having a lawyer board at his house, and he mentioned 
 the circumstance so often, that the whole village was 
 made acquainted with the fact in less than a week. 
 
 Mr. Edwards, the lawyer, had not been in Mr. How- 
 ell's house more than two days, before he was quite in 
 timate with Jane, and when Henry called he was 
 treated with not a little coolness. 
 
 " Father," said Jane one day in private, " what must 
 I do ? I am engaged to Heywood, and have no affec 
 tion for him, and Mr. Edwards, whom no one could 
 help loving, has offered me his hand. What shall I 
 do?" 
 
 " By all means, tell Henry your feelings towards him, 
 and as he is a reasonable fellow, he will not censure 
 you. Of course, you need not mention the honor you 
 have received from our distinguished boarder, the 
 lawyer."
 
 212 THE IMPBUDENT STEP. 
 
 After thinking over the matter, and conversing with 
 Edwards, they concluded to drop a line to HJ3nry. It 
 was written by the lawyer and copied by Jane, and sent 
 forthwith. 
 
 Poor Heywood was thunderstruck. Though not ac 
 customed to use harsh words, he could not refrain, de 
 claring first that he would sue the girl for a breach of 
 promise. But when cooled down a little, he declared 
 she was not worthy of his attention, that he did not 
 care a fig for her, and would return to his old friend, 
 Louisa, not doubting that she would gladly accept of 
 him ; for notwithstanding his strange conduct he had 
 really loved her. 
 
 The young men of the neighborhood laughed heart 
 ily at the affair, and said it was just right, as he had 
 long before been so unkind to Miss Mentor, one of the* 
 best girls that lived in the village. No one sympa 
 thized with him, except his own relations, and even 
 they declared it was a just punishment. 
 
 Few thought much of the lawyer. He was genteel, 
 dressed well, talked loud, and knew a little more than 
 every thing. He was married to Jane in the course of 
 a few months after his arrival in the village. Having 
 no property, and business being dull, he was obliged to 
 sponge his living out of the old gentleman. Ho well 
 was tired to death with supporting him, and he finally 
 removed to another place with his wife. They did not 
 live very happily together, as the dispositions of each 
 were any thing but agreeable. The last heard from 
 him was that he just made enough by his profession to 
 keep his family from starving, and was disliked by ev 
 erybody on account of his niggardly behavior. 
 
 Full of hope, Heywood went to the house of Mrs.
 
 . THE IMPEUDENT STEP. 213 
 
 Mentor, and was cordially received by Louisa. She 
 was a young woman who never retaliated, and you could 
 not tell by her conduct that she had -ever been wronged 
 by another. After conversing on Various topics for 
 nearly an hour, Henry introduced the one that lay near 
 his heart. 
 
 " I have thought a great deal of late," said he, " of 
 the course I pursued towards you last summer. That 
 I did wrong, was altogether too hasty, I am free to 
 confess." 
 
 "I always thought you were too hasty in the step 
 you took, for my poor father was so unwell that I could 
 not have a heart to leave him." 
 
 " Although we have hardly seen each other for many 
 months past, for one I should be pleased to have that 
 friendship renewed." 
 
 " I have never been otherwise than friendly to you ; 
 if you thought otherwise you have been mistaken." 
 
 " But I should be pleased to be on the same terms of 
 intimacy." 
 
 " Henry, there is a serious objection to that ; I am 
 now engaged to another." 
 
 " Is it possible ? " 
 
 " It is so, and I expect shortly to be married to one 
 who I have reason to believe loves me who will never 
 forsake me ; who will never prove treacherous." 
 
 Henry's heart was too full for utterance. He left 
 the house after being kindly invited to call again by 
 Louisa and her mother, who, if they remembered the 
 past, did not have any feelings of unkindness towards 
 Heywood, nor did they wish to reproach him. 
 
 During the year there was a wedding at Mrs. Men 
 tor's. Louisa, the sweet-tempered, the amiable and
 
 214 THE IMPKUDENT STEP. 
 
 lovely girl, -was united to James Eldwell, the village 
 pastor, a young man of fine talents and consistent pi 
 ety, A better match was seldom formed. Poor Hey- 
 wood was invited to the wedding, but he could not go. 
 His imprudent step had sealed his fate and made him 
 miserable. 
 
 From the day that Louisa was married, Henry was 
 an altered man. He was seldom seen in company, and 
 always preferred to be alone. It was his practice to 
 walk in retired places, where the voices and the foot 
 steps of men were seldom heard. He had few associ 
 ates, and said but little. Apparently worn down by sor 
 row, he lived but a few years, and found that repose in 
 the grave, which had been denied him on earth.
 
 A MAN AGAIN. 
 
 No more will sorrow dim thine eye, 
 
 Or grief thy heart oppress, 
 And bright as once shall be our sky, 
 
 And every thing shall bless. 
 Forget the past thy tears refrain 
 
 Come to this sheltering breast ; 
 For know, I am a man again, 
 
 And still shall make thee blest. 
 
 IT was a beautiful evening in May. Couple after 
 couple were seen wending their way to the mansion of 
 Capt. Mould. His daughter Ellen was to be united to 
 the accomplished Edward Simonton. Miss Mould was 
 young, pretty, and prepossessing in her manners. She 
 had been blest with parents who had taken particular 
 pains with her education. Though not wealthy, Capt. 
 Mould was in good circumstances, and had ever been in 
 dulgent to his daughter. Young Simonton was the son 
 of a merchant, who had amassed considerable property 
 by strict attention to his business and frugality in his 
 habits. He brought up his son in his own counting-room, 
 where he did pretty much as he had an inclination ; his 
 father not often checking him in any irregular course. 
 Edward possessed a good disposition, but would doubt 
 less be easily led away by a companion, although he ' 
 was never known to be guilty of any particular vice. 
 His father was exceedingly liberal to his son ; permitting
 
 216 A MAN AGAIN. 
 
 him to take money whenever he was disposed, presum 
 ing that he was careful to expend nothing for useless 
 or vicious purposes. A short time previous to his mar 
 riage,' the merchant took his son into partnership, to 
 share with him equally the profits of the business. 
 
 With bright prospects before the young couple, it 
 seemed impossible for them to be otherwise than happy 
 that a single cloud should linger in their bright sky, 
 or that a single thorn should spring up in their pleasant 
 pathway. But there are many reverses in l;fe. The 
 poor and forsaken to-day, may be the rich and happy 
 to-morrow. Those who can nowhere find a friend to 
 whom they can unbosom their sorrows, may in a few 
 days be surrounded by sympathizers and friends. We 
 cannot tell what the future may unfold. They only 
 who are prepared for joy or grief, for poverty or riches, 
 really know how to live and enjoy the blessings of life. 
 A few years passed by, and Edward prospered in busi 
 ness with his father. They not only made an excellent 
 living, but they were daily adding to their property. 
 In the midst of their prosperity, Mr. Simonton thought 
 he noticed a careless, indifferent spirit in his son ; he was 
 absent frequently from the shop, and appeared -to neg 
 lect his business. One day, when they were alone in 
 the shop, Mr. Simonton spoke to his son respecting his 
 seeming .indifference to the concerns in the store, and 
 made the inquiry of him, why it was so. 
 
 " I was not aware," said Edward, " that I had been 
 careless or neglectful." 
 
 " You may depend upon it, it is so ; and others have 
 noticed it beside myself. Where are you generally 
 when absent from the store ? " 
 
 " I often associate with a few friends, and go to the
 
 A MAN AGAIN. 217 
 
 island on a sailing excursion, or take a chaise and 
 ride." 
 
 " I am afraid that some of those young men do not 
 sustain the characters they should. Are they not wild 
 and headstrong and bent upon vicious pursuits ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, father ; they are as respectable and as virtu 
 ous young men as can be found in the city. Do you 
 think I would associate with any but such ? " 
 
 " No, I am sure I should not ; but when young men 
 are wild and careless and pursue courses without 
 looking to the consequences, they are very apt to form 
 bad habits, and if not utterly ruined, become unfitted 
 for their business. And yet they do not perceive the 
 stain which is gradually imprinted upon their characters. 
 How true, Edward, is that familiar passage : 
 
 " ' Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, 
 As to be hated, needs but to be seen ; 
 Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, 
 We first endure, then pity, then embrace.' 
 
 It is only for your good that I speak thus plainly 
 to you." 
 
 " As I said before, father, I am not aware that I have 
 done wrong, that I have neglected my business ; but if 
 you think so, I will endeavor in future to conduct dif 
 ferently." 
 
 For a few months after this conversation, Edward was 
 very attentive to his business, but he began gradually 
 to slacken away, until his father found it necessary to 
 check him again ; but it had not the desired effect. 
 His wife, too, had noticed the difference in her hus 
 band. He was less attentive to her, and appeared to 
 take less interest in his domestic affairs. He would of- 
 19
 
 218 A MAN AGAIN. 
 
 ten keep late hours, not returning to his wife until 
 near midnight. She, with a woman's love and solici 
 tude, often inquired where he had been, but he merely 
 replied, " In the company of a few friends." But not 
 feeling satisfied with his answer, she was still unhappy 
 and expressed the wish that he would return home in 
 better season. 
 
 Thus young Simonton continued for nearly a year, 
 when his father learned that he was in the constant 
 practice of visiting the gaming-room, where he had met 
 with frequent and heavy losses, and that he still con 
 tinued the practice. Finding that what he now said to 
 his son was of no avail, and that he persisted in the 
 sin, he told him frankly that their copartnership must 
 be dissolved for the present. But Edward appeared 
 perfectly indifferent ; he had been so long accustomed 
 to the vice of gambling, that he preferred to be thrown 
 out of business rather than relinquish his growing pas 
 sion. 
 
 In settling up the accounts of the firm, Mr. Simon- 
 ton found that by his son's irregularities and the debts 
 he had contracted, they had met with a loss of several 
 thousand dollars. When his father related the circum 
 stance, Edward said not a word. He knew that he had 
 wronged his parent and himself, that 'he had neglected 
 his family, and brought disgrace upon his friends. As 
 a natural consequence of the course he had taken, he 
 resorted to the fatal bowl to drown his feelings, and it 
 was not unfrequently that he was seen intoxicated. To 
 save him from ruin, his father made him excellent of 
 fers. If he would forsake the gaming-table and touch 
 no spirit, the past should be forgotten with all his 
 losses, and he should still share one-half the profits of
 
 A MAN AGAIN. 219 
 
 the concern. His wife also pleaded eloquently with her 
 husband, and with tears entreated him to forsake his 
 injurious habits, that he might be again respected and 
 happy. 
 
 " Just think how much we once enjoyed," said she. 
 " We had every thing the heart could desire. Every 
 day's sun renewed our joys. Oh, how happy we were ! 
 Now, Edward, we can again enjoy life ; pleasant will be 
 our path, and bright and cheering our prospects, if you 
 will only refuse to associate with those wretches I can 
 call them by no milder name who have plotted your 
 ruin, taken your property, and brought sorrow into our 
 family. You cannot realize your altered appearance, 
 since you have become addicted to the vile habits of 
 drinking and gambling. How often have I of late 
 thought of those lines of the poet : 
 
 " *' A night of fretful passion may consume 
 All that thou hast of beauty's gentle bloom, 
 And one distempered hour of sordid fear 
 Print on thy brow the wrinkles of a year.' 
 
 Every time I reflect upon your appearance, and know 
 what you once was, I feel more than I can express. 
 Now do, Edward, hearken to me, and not associate with 
 the gambler. Depend upon it, we shall be happy if 
 you only pursue a right course." 
 
 " I know, Ellen, that I have done wrong, I am fully 
 sensible of it, and will try to keep away from those fel 
 lows who have professed to be my friends." 
 
 But habit is strong. When once accustomed to walk 
 in the downward path, it requires great effort to retrace 
 the steps and return to the true path. Habit
 
 220 A MAN AGAIN. 
 
 " Docs often reason overrule, 
 And only serves for reason to the fool." 
 
 If Edward did try to forsake his pernicious practices, 
 his efforts were of no avail ; he continued to associate 
 with the unprincipled and became quite intemperate in 
 his habits. His poor wife suffered in her feelings more 
 than can be described ; for she really loved her husband 
 and did all in her power to promote his happiness. 
 The father of Ellen endeavored to persuade her to 
 leave one who had become so lost to shame and self- 
 respect and so abusive to her ; but she would not hear 
 to them. " Perhaps he will do better," would be the 
 reply to her parent. 
 
 Having pursued so degraded a course for so long, and 
 having received a large amount of money from his 
 father, at different periods, which he had wasted, Ed 
 ward had become entirely penniless. His father would 
 allow him no more. 
 
 " What I give in future shall be to your wife," said 
 he. " Not another cent of my property shall you re 
 ceive until you have altered your course." 
 
 This had no better effect upon Edward. Among 
 those who had used their influence to lead him astray, 
 he found some who would not hesitate to treat him to 
 spirit, and he might be seen daily going home in a state 
 of intoxication. 
 
 As the best course to be pursued, his father had him 
 placed in the house of correction, he being complained 
 of as a common drunkard. After remaining in this 
 place for a few days, the young man began to realize his 
 situation. He had lost his character, injured his father 
 and almost broken the heart of his wife. No one re 
 spected him now; he was degraded. Those who in
 
 A MAN AGAIN. 221 
 
 years passed had professed so strong a friendship for 
 him, forsook him when his money was gone. Not one 
 of his associates had called to see him. But his wife, 
 she who had suffered and borne with him, was the only 
 friend he found in his loneliness. Not a day passed 
 that she did not call upon him, and bring some dainty 
 which she had made especially for him. While in the 
 house of correction, Edward promised his wife faithfully 
 that he would pursue a different course as soon as he 
 was permitted to have his liberty. 
 
 " If I will exert myself," said she, " to have you liber 
 ated will you promise to associate no more with gam 
 blers ? " 
 
 "I am determined to forsake them altogether. I 
 will have nothing more to say to them." 
 
 " Will you drink any more ? " 
 
 " No, never will I touch a single drop if I can possi 
 bly avoid it." 
 
 " There is one safe course and only one, to sign the 
 pledge, and be firm in your resolution. Will you do 
 this?" 
 
 " You know, Ellen, I have always said I would not 
 sign the pledge. You would not have me tell a lie ? " 
 
 " No, Edward, I would not have you tell an untruth ; 
 but if you have said you would not do a right act, 
 there is more sin in keeping the resolution than in 
 breaking it at once." 
 
 " But I cannot sign the pledge." 
 
 " Then I certainly cannot exert myself to have you 
 released. It is only on condition that you will sign the 
 pledge, that I will do any thing towards your liberation. 
 This is my only hope." 
 
 " Well, I don't care then. I wont sign the pledge," 
 19*
 
 222 A MAN AGAIN. 
 
 he said, with a little anger, and turned away from his 
 wife. 
 
 Ellen left her husband, exceedingly sorry that he 
 would not come to the good resolution. She knew that 
 unless he signed the pledge, he would not resist the 
 temptation, and it would be better for him and for her 
 that he should remain in his present situation. She 
 was determined to do nothing towards having him re 
 leased from the house of correction unless she had 
 real evidence of his reformation. It was out of pure 
 love to him that she pursued this course. 
 
 For two or three days Ellen did not see her husband, 
 when one morning the keeper of the house called upon 
 her and told her that her husband was quite anxious 
 for her to come and see him. 
 
 " Tell him I will come to-morrow," eaid ehe. 
 
 The next day she procured a Washingtonian pledge, 
 and called upon her husband. He appeared glad to see 
 her again. 
 
 " I have concluded to sign the pledge," said he, " and 
 not only to sign it but to keep it." 
 
 " It is the only safe course, Edward." 
 
 " So I now believe." 
 
 " I have brought the pledge with me, and will read 
 what you are to subscribe to, that you may not put 
 your name to that which you do not perfectly under 
 stand." 
 
 After reading the pledge, Edward took the pen and 
 signed it. 
 
 " There ! " he exclaimed, throwing down the pen, " I 
 am a man again ! I feel new life in all my limbs. I 
 bless God for what he has given me a disposition to do," 
 and the poor fellow wept like a child. " Ellen, for-
 
 A MAN AGAIN. 223 
 
 give me, for all the injury I have done you for all the 
 suffering and sorrow I have brought upon you. Never, 
 never again will you have occasion to grieve over my 
 departure from the path of virtue. Never will I refuse 
 to listen to your counsels, and to take heed to your ad 
 vice." 
 
 " With all my heart I forgive you. This hour of 
 joy more than repays me for all my sufferings." 
 
 Together they left the house and returned to their 
 home, which had been so long the habitation of sorrow. 
 
 Edward went immediately to his father, told him 
 what had taken place, and .begged forgiveness for his 
 undutiful course. 
 
 His father fell upon his neck and embraced him. 
 Tears came freely to his eyes, as he said, " My son that 
 was lost is found again." 
 
 His mother, poor woman, was so overcome that she 
 could not for a long time give utterance to her joy. 
 
 If happiness was ever felt on earth, it was in the 
 dwelling of Mr. Simonton, on this occasion of the ref 
 ormation of his erring son. 
 
 A few months elapsed and Edward continued firm in 
 his resolution, and became one of the most active mem 
 bers of the temperance society. In relating his expe 
 rience, he has often brought tears to the eyes of many. 
 " I would advise all to sign the pledge," he recently 
 said in a public assembly ; " it was the means of my ref 
 ormation. Had I adhered to the resolution formed 
 while associating with the intemperate, never to put my 
 name to the pledge, I had still been an irreclaimable 
 drunkard. The pledge alone has saved me. I can 
 never be too thankful to Heaven that I was blest with 
 those friends, who never forsook me in my lost condi-
 
 224 A MAN AGAIN. 
 
 tion, but labored with me till I was induced to become 
 a man again. For I am a man now, who but recently 
 was a brute a brute in actions, pursuing a brutish 
 course, and being brutal to all my real friends." 
 
 Edward and his father are now in business together, 
 and by appearances are doing .exceedingly well. The 
 former course of young Simonton will be but an incen 
 tive to his usefulness. With the industrious habits, 
 benevolent feeling and desire to do good and be useful 
 to others, that now characterize him, the prospect is 
 that he will be eminently useful in the world, and exert 
 a wide influence in behalf of temperance and virtue.
 
 THE ORPHAN. 
 
 There's not a heart, however drear, 
 The hand of friendship may not bless ; 
 
 No breast, if touched by Mercy's tear, 
 That will not move in thankfulness. 
 
 JAMES STANFORD was an orphan. His first recollec 
 tion was when running about in the almshouse at the 
 age of three or four years. He had been told his par 
 ents died when he was an infant, and that he was 
 placed in the hands of the overseers of the poor. 
 James received but few tokens of kindness ; most of 
 the inmates being cross and snappish to him. If any 
 thing went wrong with the miserable inmates, and he 
 was near, he was always sure to receive a kick or a 
 cuff. As he grew older, he was obliged to work about 
 the establishment, under the direction of the overseer, 
 Mr. Langdon, a complete tyrant. When the child was 
 too weak to lift, or too unwell to work, this man would 
 growl at him, and call him a lazy wretch, " a young 
 viper," a " good-for-nothing puppy," and the like, and 
 not unfrequently box his ears, or throw a cowhide about 
 his legs. The child feared this wretch as he would an 
 unchained tiger, and trembled like a leaf when he saw 
 him approach. One time the little fellow accidentally 
 broke a bowl, in which he was eating his supper, which 
 circumstance soon came to the ears of the overseer.
 
 226 THE ORPHAN. 
 
 James was ordered into his presence. He came pale as 
 death and weeping most bitterly. " You little good-for- 
 nothing wretch you, what did you break that bowl 
 for ? " said Langdon ; " it had better been your neck." 
 
 "I didn't go to, and I will never do so again. I 
 never will, sir." 
 
 " Not a word, you dog you. I'll teach you better 
 than to break up all the crockery in the house. Off 
 with your jacket instantly, or I'll skin you alive. Be 
 quick." 
 
 The poor child more dead than alive with fear, at 
 tempted to pull off his torn and dirty jacket, when the 
 overseer grasped his arm and tore it off. 
 
 " I'll never do so again." 
 
 " Hold your tongue ; I'll teach you to break another 
 bowl, that I will." 
 
 With these words, he laid the cowhide over the 
 child's back, while the little fellow begged earnestly and 
 affectingly for mercy. " You'll kill me I shall die 
 Oh, do have mercy." But the wretch continued, till 
 there was scarcely a place on his back that had not been 
 lacerated, while the blood ran down to his feet. When 
 Langdon had ceased whipping, the child was senseless. 
 He knew nothing until the next morning when he 
 awoke in intense pain and so stiff that he could hardly 
 crawl out of the bed when he was called. 
 
 When Langdon saw him, he exclaimed, "I have 
 a good mind to whip you again, you dog, this morning ! 
 I'm altogether too easy with you young scamps. But 
 I'll try you again." 
 
 About once a week the overseers of the poor visited 
 the workhouse to see if every thing went on regularly, 
 and to supply the food and clothing that were needed,
 
 THE OEPHAN. 227 
 
 Before these men, Mr. Langdon was as mild and ami 
 able as a saint. He would show them about the differ 
 ent apartments, that they might see the regularity and 
 order of the house. As one of these gentlemen noticed 
 the deathlike appearance of James, soon after he had 
 been unmercifully flogged, he remarked "You ap 
 pear to be sick, my little fellow." 
 
 " Sick ! " said Langdon, " I guess you wouldn't 
 think so, if you knew how much he eats. Jim is a 
 roguish boy, too, and very saucy sometimes." 
 
 " You feel happy, do you not, my lad ? " said the 
 gentleman. 
 
 " Why don't you speak up and say Yes, sir, to the 
 gentleman and not be sulky ? Tell him you are per 
 fectly happy," and then turning to the man, he said, 
 " That boy appears really to enjoy himself among us. 
 We have to humor him a good deal, arid you know it 
 is best to do so with small children. Poor child ! he 
 has no father or mother to look after him, and I 
 pity the boy," and the tears ran down the cheeks of 
 Langdon. 
 
 " 'That is right, my friend. While you thus feel and 
 act towards those whom heaven has afflicted, you will 
 not lose your reward." And then placing his hand on 
 the head of the lad, he said "Always be obedient to 
 your kind and indulgent master, and he will treat you 
 the same in future." 
 
 James trembled when he thought that he should re 
 ceive the same treatment, and could hardly stand, 
 which the gentleman observed, when Langdon re 
 marked 
 
 " The poor child is unwell ; he has been ill for two 
 or three days past. I shall give him some castor oil 
 to-night."
 
 228 THE ORPHAN. 
 
 After the overseers had left, Langdon had James 
 brought to him. 
 
 " "Why didn't you speak up, and tell the gentleman, 
 when he asked you if you was contented and happy ? 
 I'll teach you better manners," grasping him by the 
 arm and severely shaking him "a little more, and 
 you would have got me into difficulty, you dog you. 
 What did you mean by not talking up, hey ? " shaking 
 the trembling child again "Why don't you tell me? 
 I'll shake you to pieces, if I am to have this trouble 
 with you." 
 
 Giving him one or two cuffs, he sent James to bring 
 in some wood, telling him to be careful and not pre 
 tend to be sick, or he would be under the necessity of 
 using the cowhide again. 
 
 It was some weeks before James recovered from the 
 effects of the whipping given him for the crime of ac 
 cidentally breaking the bowl. In the mean time, he 
 had received several kicks and thumps from his mas 
 ter, and also from some of the inmates of the house, 
 who, from their bad characters, had won the good-will 
 of the tyrant. It was not half the time that the boy 
 had enough to eat, yet he dared not complain. One day 
 he requested a little milk in his molasses and water, 
 which coming to the ears of Langdon, he declared that, 
 for his impudence, the boy should go without sweet 
 ening for two months to come, and so the child drank 
 nothing but water. But just so much bread and gruel 
 was allowed him daily. If he asked for another mouth 
 ful, his next meal would invariably be taken from him. 
 James was not the only child treated in this way. 
 There were several, besides the aged and infirm, who 
 suffered for the necessaries of life, and yet they dare
 
 THE OBPHAN. 229 
 
 not complain, lest they should be more unkindly treated. 
 There was one poor afflicted man who was deficient 
 in sound common sense, and the treatjnent he re 
 ceived was barbarous. He was ordered out in the 
 cold and wet, and compelled to labor when he should 
 have been on his bed. One time as he was stooping 
 down, throwing some bricks into a cart, he was spoken 
 to by Langdon, but being a little hard of hearing, did 
 not notice it ; whereupon the wretch ran up behind him 
 and gave him a severe kick in the groin. The poor 
 man fell to the earth in extreme agony, and was 
 obliged to be carried to the house and placed on a bed. 
 From this kick he never recovered, but languished, at 
 times, in excruciating pains, for a year or two, and 
 finally died of his wound. 
 
 Time passed on, but 'it brought no blessings to the 
 orphan boy. His life had been the scene of pain and 
 sorrow from the dawn of existence. As he grew older 
 he saw the injustice of his master more and more, but 
 he could not speak out his mind. He was tempted 
 time and again to mention his case to the overseers, on 
 the day of their weekly visit, but he could find no op 
 portunity ; Langdon being always present and compel- 
 ing him to lie to their faces. 
 
 James was now twelve or thirteen years of age, and 
 while at work chopping wood one morning, a chip flew 
 up and broke a pane of glass. What to do, the fright 
 ened lad could not tell. He knew he should be se 
 verely punished for the accident; but he had hardly 
 begun to reflect on his situation before he was. called 
 before Langdon. " You're a pretty boy, aint you ? " 
 said the stern, old reprobate ; " you've broken a window, 
 you dog you ? " 
 20 
 
 9
 
 230 THE ORPHAN. 
 
 " Sir, it was accidental." 
 
 " Hold your villanous, lying tongue ; you 'know you 
 lie. Do you. think I'm fool enough to believe you ? It 
 is pretty well too,- to imagine that a lie will screen you 
 from a just punishment. Off with your jacket off 
 with it, or I'll tear you limb from limb." 
 
 "Osir, I " 
 
 "Hold your tongue. Open your mouth again, and 
 I'll tie you up naked by your thumbs, and whip you 
 till you have learnt better manners. Come, off with 
 your jacket. I sha'n't wait many moments for your mo 
 tions, that I'll have you know." 
 
 "Sir, I" 
 
 " Dare you speak again J I'll learn you who is your 
 master," and with these words, he flew at the boy, 
 tore off his jacket, and stripped him completely, contin 
 ually muttering, " You villain, you dog, you rogue, I'll 
 learn you something." He then tied his hands, and 
 drew them up to a spike in the wall, and made the rope 
 fast, while his toes just touched the floor, the poor boy 
 begging for mercy all the time. He now took his cow 
 hide, and commenced whipping. Nearly 'every blow 
 brought blood from his back. The child cried and 
 plead, till nature was nearly exhausted but he plead in 
 vain. It was more than an hour after that reason re 
 turned to him, and then he was lying upon -some straw. 
 But he could scarcely move a limb. It was several days 
 before he could walk, and for weeks he was unable to 
 work. 
 
 When the overseers of the poor should call at the 
 workhouse again, James determined to show them his 
 back and tell them of the treatment he had received ; 
 for he could not believe, if they knew his sufferings,
 
 THE OEPHAN. 231 
 
 they would justify the tyrannical man. It was not long 
 before Langdon and one of the overseers were standing 
 before him. 
 
 " James, my lad, how do you feel to-day ? " said 
 Langdon, pretending to feel compassionate towards 
 him. 
 
 " Feel, sir, how should I feel after being beaten 
 almost to death ? " 
 
 The wretch was thunderstruck. He turned all man 
 ner of colors hemmed and stammered "How 
 what do you mean to say ? " 
 
 "Mean to say? That you have almost killed me. 
 It is true, God knows." 
 
 " What does this mean, Mr. Langdon ? " inquired the 
 gentleman. 
 
 " It is ono of his villanous lies. Miss G ," said 
 he, calling one of his favorites to him, but who was as 
 
 vile a woman as could be found, " Miss G , that 
 
 boy accuses me of beating him. Have I done any thing 
 more than correct him mildly for his faults ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, Mr. Langdon, you never have ; and I can 
 tell this gentleman how kind you have always been to 
 him watched over him as a father, and done more, 
 too." 
 
 " So you see, sir," said Langdon, " that this is a 
 trick of the boy to injure me in the estimation of the 
 overseers." *.> 
 
 " But I can show my b " 
 
 " Hold your lying tongue ! " exclaimed the wretch, 
 " this gentleman shall not hear you lie any more. You 
 may go now and pick the rest of that oakum." 
 
 Young Stanford went with a heavy heart ; he dared 
 not do otherwise ; but how bitterly did he regret what
 
 232 THE ORPHAN. 
 
 he had said. He thought of the punishment he should 
 receive that night, his body being already lacerated 
 from his recent flogging, and he thought of an es 
 cape from the house. He had nothing but an old cap, 
 besides the clothes that were on him. But while think 
 ing of escaping, word was sent him to go to his master, 
 and be punished for his impudence. Immediately, James 
 started for the door and the gate. He ran as fast as 
 his sore back would permit him ; but he had not ran far 
 in the wood, when looking back, he saw three or four 
 men after him at full speed, and among the rest old 
 Langdon himself. They gained rapidly upon him. At 
 this moment, a wagon with a gentleman in it came up. 
 
 " sir, take me in take me in, I pray you," said 
 James. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter ? " 
 
 " Take me in and I will tell you all." 
 
 " But who are those men behind ? " 
 
 "For God's sake, save me take me in do, sir, 
 do!" 
 
 " Jump in, then." 
 
 And in he jumped, and off they rode when Langdon 
 was not two rods from the wagon. James related his 
 sorrows to the gentleman who took him in, whose name 
 he ascertained to be Ingman. He appeared to feel a 
 deep interest in the lad, ragged and dirty and miser 
 able as he was. 
 
 " I live about seventy miles from here on a farm," 
 said the gentleman, " and if you will go with me and be 
 contented to work with me, you shall be welcome." 
 
 James thanked him with tears in his eyes, for such 
 kindness he did not expect, having through life expe 
 rienced nothing but savage looks, hard words, and se 
 vere beatings.
 
 THE ORPHAN. 233 
 
 Late in the evening Mr. Ingman put up at a private 
 house, and the. next morning started on his journey, 
 taking James with him, whom he found to possess a 
 good mind, but without culture. They conversed 
 freely, and their journey soon terminated ; for about 
 sunset, Mr. Ingman arrived at his home. When he 
 informed his family what he knew of James, they ap 
 peared to 'feel a deep interest in him, more especially 
 when they saw the wounds on his back. Mrs. Ingman 
 dressed them as well as she could, gave him clean and 
 tidy clothes, which she had in the house, while the 
 tears of gratitude ran down the cheeks of the poor boy. 
 
 " I cannot tell you how grateful I am for what you 
 have done for me," said he, " and I will try to repay 
 you as soon as I am able to work." 
 
 With a good suit of clothes and a clean face, and re 
 ceiving kind treatment, James improved in every re 
 spect. Mr. Ingman sent him to the district school, 
 where his daughter, Sarah, attended, and purchased him 
 books to study. Young Stanford did all in his power 
 to please the good people who had been so kind to him, 
 and each felt strongly attached to the other. James 
 was industrious and labored diligently on the farm, and 
 also improved what leisure time he had in reading and 
 study. 
 
 A few years flew rapidly by, and James had grown 
 up to manhood. He had passed very happily the last 
 years of his life ; but he could never look back upon 
 his childhood without feelings of horror at what he had 
 passed through, nor upon old Langdon, but with deep 
 indignation, and he often thought he should like to see 
 "that man punished as he deserved. Since he had been 
 with Mr. Ingman, he had not heard from him. , 
 
 20*
 
 234 THE ORPHAN. 
 
 Mr. Ingman and his wife were so well pleased with 
 Stanford, that they readily consented to the request of 
 their daughter, that he should become their son-in- 
 law. When Sarah's father had completed a small 
 house which he was building about a mile above his 
 dwelling, he said to his daughter and James, " I make 
 you a present of this house and a hundred acres of 
 land.. Be prudent and industrious and you will-pros 
 per." The young couple thanked him sincerely for 
 his liberality and kindness and said they would en 
 deavor to profit by his advice and the example he had 
 always set before them. 
 
 That night Sarah Ingman was married to James 
 Stanford, and removed to their new house, as happy as 
 fond hearts and virtuous characters could make them. 
 
 Young Stanford went diligently to work on his farm, 
 dressing and improving his land, so that it yielded 
 abundantly. The produce he raised, he was obliged 
 to carry fifty or sixty miles to find a good market. 
 
 One evening, as he was returning to his village, at a 
 late hour, he was overtaken by a man on horseback 
 who appeared -very sociable. James thought he knew 
 the voice, but it being dark, could not recognize the 
 person. For several miles they conversed on various 
 topics, .till they approached a piece of thick woods. 
 
 " Young man," said the stranger, " I'm a robber, and 
 I would thank you for the money you received to-day," 
 at the same time drawing a large horse pistol from his 
 saddle and cocking it. 
 
 Stanford was a man of some nerve and not easily 
 frightened. 
 
 " Sir," said he, " I have but little money about me, 
 and it is hardly worth taking."
 
 THE ORPHAN. 235 
 
 " Out with what you have instantly," said the rob 
 ber, pointing the pistol towards Stanford, " or your life 
 is not worth a fig." 
 
 James immediately took out his purse and handed it 
 to the robber, who was about putting it in his pocket, 
 when Stanford grasped his pistol. In attempting 
 to wrest it from the hands of the stranger it Was dis 
 charged, the ball just grazing his cheek. In an in 
 stant the robber jumped from his horse, followed by 
 Stanford. The former attempted to draw a knife from 
 his pocket, and the latter clinched him. There was a 
 severe struggle. At one moment the robber had the 
 advantage, but it was now recovered by James, who 
 threw him down and held him firmly. 
 
 " Villain," said the farmer, "it is in my 'power to 
 take your life." 
 
 " Sir, spare me and let me go and I will reward you. 
 Five hundred dollars that are in my saddle-bags shall 
 be yours." 
 
 "Do you think I am a knave like yourself? Not 
 ten thousand dollars would be a temptation for me. 
 Vile wretch to make such an offer, when in an instant 
 you would sacrifice my life. No, I shall hold you here 
 until. some one passes, if it be till to-morrow noon." 
 
 " I will reform, and pay you well for letting me go. 
 I will give up my pistol, my knife and every weapon I 
 have about me, so you need not fear." 
 
 " I have no fear, this is not your first attempt to rob, 
 and the law shall take its course with you." 
 
 For an hour or more did the robber beg for liberty, 
 but in vain, when a gentleman with a wagon came up, 
 which proved to belong to Mr. Strong, a distant neigh 
 bor of Stanford. The farmer related his adventure,
 
 236 THE OKPHAN. 
 
 and asked for assistance. Mr. Strong readily granted 
 it. . They tied the robber's feet and hands, he making 
 but little resistance, put him into the wagon and carried 
 him to Stanford's house his own wagon and the rob 
 ber's horse had arrived there an hour before, having 
 started the moment the men had sprung at each other. 
 
 In carrying the robber to the house where there was 
 a lamp, and he could fee seen distinctly, James recog 
 nized the villain at once. It was the wretch, Langdon, 
 who treated him so unkindly, and beat him so unmerci 
 fully years before, when he was an? inmate of the alms- 
 house. 
 
 Langdon pretended to feel penitent, and even wept, 
 supposing he was not known. 
 
 "It was my first offence," said he, "and I was 
 driven to commit the act by sheer necessity." 
 
 " "We know more about your past life than you are 
 aware "of," remarked Stanford. "Were you not the 
 
 keeper of the almshouse in , a dozen or fifteen 
 
 years ago ? " 
 
 This question made the villain uneasy. He hesitated 
 to answer, but finally said, " I was." 
 
 " Do you remember a little boy by the name of 
 Stanford that was an inmate of the house about that 
 time?" 
 
 This was an uncomfortable question, but the robber 
 replied : " There were so many there that I cannot rec 
 ollect them all." 
 
 " But don't you distinctly remember James Stanford, 
 the orphan boy ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think I do." 
 
 " Do you remember the unmerciful beatings you gave 
 him?"
 
 THE ORPHAN. 237 
 
 Langdon made no reply. 
 
 " If you have forgotten them, I have not. I am that 
 orphan boy, and shall never forget your cruelty. But 
 justice has overtaken you at last." 
 
 This announcement had an astonishing effect upon 
 the robber. He knew that he was discovered that 
 his true character was known, and that strict justice 
 would be done to him. 
 
 'Two or three of the neighbors set up with Langdon 
 that night, and in the morning an officer was found to, 
 carry him to the county jail. He was tied hands and 
 feet, and put into a wagon with the officer ; but as they 
 were passing over a bridge, Langdon gave a sudden 
 spring from the wagon, and before he could be secured, 
 plunged into the water and immediately sunk. His 
 body was recovered a few days after and interred on the 
 bank of the river. 
 
 Thus closed the days of a wretched being, who 
 passed from one degree of crime to another until he 
 perished by his own hands. 
 
 The horse of the robber was a fine one, but his saddle 
 bags contained but very little money. Stanford heard 
 that for the last five years, Langdon had been an out 
 cast and a robber^ but had thus far escaped the vigi 
 lance of his pursuers. 
 
 Many years have passed away since the events we 
 have recorded, but James Stanford and his wife still 
 live in happiness and prosperity. He is esteemed as a 
 valuable citizen and an excellent neighbor. In any im 
 portant transactions, he is consulted by the villagers, 
 and his opinions are given with caution and forethought 
 and carry with them great weight. We trust that he
 
 238 THE ORPHAN. 
 
 will live to a good old age, and that his life will con 
 tinue to be useful and happy. When he is removed by 
 death, we know many a heart will be sad, and many a 
 tear will moisten his grave.
 
 WHICH SHALL I MARRY? 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I seek a female in whose heart 
 Domestic virtues share a part ; 
 Who loves her home, and there will shine, 
 A devotee to Wisdom's shrine. 
 
 " I CONFESS I am at a stand, Henry," remarked Wil 
 liam Emerson to his intimate friend ; "for the life of 
 me, I do not know which I like best of those two girls 
 Sarah Talbot or Jane Emery. They are both capital 
 girls in their way, and would both make excellent 
 .wives so I think. All the fault I can find with Sa 
 rah is, that she is rather too fashionable, and not quite 
 so domestic as I should like to see her." 
 
 "That I consider a serious objection to a female, 
 and to be frank, I must tell you so," remarked Henry 
 Willard. "What does a man in your circumstances 
 want of a girl who cannot work ? If you marry, you 
 should have a wife that can bake and wash and iron, 
 and do a thousand little things that a fashionable lady 
 will not put her hands to without fainting. What 
 kind of a girl is Jane ? " 
 
 " As fine a young lady as you will find in the city. 
 She is not so handsome as Sarah, I confess ; but then 
 she is not carried away by the fashions of the day.
 
 240 WHICH SHALL I MAEEY ? 
 
 Visit her when you please, and you will find her busy 
 about something." 
 
 " I know whom I should choose," remarked Henry ; 
 " and it would take me but a few moments to decide, if 
 I were you. Does Sarah ever do any thin^ ? " 
 
 " To tell you the truth, I have visited her house more 
 or less for two or three years, and never have I seen a 
 thimble on her finger or a needle in her hand. She is 
 either braiding her hair or adjusting her dress before 
 the glass, or poring over some silly novel. Sometimes 
 she will sing and dance, but never have I seen her at 
 work. Yet . Sarah is a beautiful girl ; I am strongly 
 attached to her, and I think she will make me a good 
 wife." 
 
 " We are apt to be carried away by a pretty face and 
 a fine form and a sweet voice, I know ; but what are 
 these, William, in comparison with some other qualities ? 
 You have told me that Jane is an industrious girl ? " 
 
 " She certainly is, Henry. I think I never went into 
 her house when she was not busy about something. 
 She always has work in her hands. Her mother, with 
 Jane's assistance, does all the work in the family, and 
 that is not a little, as you must know." 
 
 " With the description that you have given me of the 
 two girls, I think you cannot do better than select the 
 one who will be of the most advantage to a person in 
 your circumstances. You are not able at present, if 
 you should get married, to support a fashionable wife 
 in all her whims and follies. If she must follow the 
 fashions of the day, it will take more than you can pos 
 sibly earn to support her. What a person of your cir 
 cumstances needs, is a helpmeet and not a doll, a will 
 ing worker, and not a fine singer ; one who can make
 
 WHICH SHALL I MARRY? 241 
 
 * 
 
 bread, and not a dancer. If I.were better acquainted 
 with the young ladies, however, I should be better able 
 to judge which of the two would make the better wife 
 for me." 
 
 " Go with me to the Cape some evening, and I will 
 introduce you to them." 
 
 " Agreed. "When will you go ? " 
 
 " To-morrow evening I will call on Sarah, if you are 
 not engaged." 
 
 " I ^hall not be engaged, and will accompany you." 
 
 The next evening found the two friends at the house 
 of Mr. Talbot. Sarah was a fascinating girl ; she was 
 pretty and had a sweet voice, of which she seemed to 
 be particularly proud. She sang about a dozen different 
 songs during the evening, and displayed herself to no 
 little advantage, Her hair showed the work of hours, 
 and her fingers were adorned with costly rings. In 
 short, Sarah was such a girl as was well calculated to 
 captivate the heart of a young man who looked merely 
 to the outward appearance. 
 
 " Well, Henry, how are you pleased with Sarah ? " 
 inquired William of his friend, as they left the house. ' 
 
 " To tell you the truth, I was not remarkably well 
 pleased with her. I must acknowledge that she is 
 pretty to look at, has a sweet voice, and is well calcu 
 lated to please a young man who looks only to appear 
 ances. She must have spent hours in adjusting her 
 hair and her dress. Her hands looked as if they had 
 never known work. And then her conversation was 
 any thing but agreeable to me. What do I care about 
 the latest fashions, and the appearance of this young 
 woman or the other the characters in this novel and 
 in that, and the like ? It would cost more to support 
 21 

 
 242 WHICH SHALL I MARRY? 
 
 tft 
 
 a woman like her, William, than you will be likely to 
 earn for many years to come." 
 
 " 1 don't know but you are correct in your opinion, 
 but, notwithstanding, I am attached to her. But I 
 wish you to-morrow evening to go with me to Miss Em 
 ery's. Will you go ? " 
 
 " Yes. I think I have nothing particular to do to 
 morrow evening." 
 
 The friends parted. On the following evening, they 
 visited the house of Jane. The young lady, when they 
 entered, was seated by the table with her mother, dili 
 gently at work. Occasionally she would stop a few mo 
 ments, while they were conversing, but again ply her 
 needle. 
 
 The hours passed pleasantly away, and William and 
 his companion took their departure. 
 
 " Well, Henry, how did you like the appearance of 
 Jane ? " inquired his friend. 
 
 " Very much indeed. To be sure she is not what 
 people would call handsome, but she appears so agreea 
 ble and pleasant, that no one could help loving her. 
 She converses intelligently, and during the whole even 
 ing she never spoke of balls or novels, or said aught 
 of any one. She was neat in her dress but not gaudy. 
 Her hair was done up with taste, and 'had not the ap 
 pearance of two or three hours' labor in fixing it for 
 the occasion ; and her fingers betrayed but a solitary 
 plain ring. More than all, she is an industrious girl. 
 She continued with her mother to work, which plainly 
 shows her industrious habits. - From what little I have 
 seen of the two girls, I should by all means choose 
 Jane, if I wished for a companion and a wife." 
 
 " Do you really think she would make the better wife 
 of the two?"
 
 WHICH SHALL I MARRY? 243 
 
 " Most certainly I do." 
 
 "Well, I shall see before long. Should I prosper 
 in my business, I think I shall take me a wife before 
 many months." 
 
 " Be careful how you choose. Remember your future 
 happiness depends mainly on this important step." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Bow not to Fashion ; they who feel 
 
 The influence of her ban, 
 Are in a thraldom more debased 
 
 Than the chained African. 
 
 CAPE ELIZABETH is a beautiful place. It is a long 
 neck of land about a mile from Portland, Maine, and is 
 so situated that it breaks up the sea that would other 
 wise make Portland harbor unsafe for vessels, instead 
 of being one of the best harbors in the world. In Cape 
 Elizabeth and round about it, are many delightful spots 
 which never weary the heart or tire the eye, when gaz 
 ing upon them. You have a view of the ocean and 
 the islands,' and vessels are continually passing, so that a 
 ride over to this place is one of the most delicious that 
 can be enjoyed. Thousands resort thither in the warm 
 days of summer, and are refreshed by the cooling 
 breezes and the delightful scenery. 
 
 There are many excellent farms and noble-hearted 
 farmers in this place. Several years ago, we became 
 acquainted with some of the people, and now often 
 pass a happy day in their society.
 
 244 WHICH SHALL I MARRY? 
 
 Iii the town of Cape Elizabeth, lived a Mr. Talbot, a 
 farmer, who had become independent. He had several 
 sons and but one daughter. Unlike many of her com 
 panions, from her childhood Sarah was proud and indo 
 lent. She would sit and read from morning till night, 
 while her mother was obliged to wait upon her. When 
 she arrived at the age of fourteen or fifteen, she was 
 sent to the city to board, that she might learn to play 
 on the piano and to dance. These amusements highly 
 delighted her, and she became what is so common now- 
 a-days a fashionable lady. Sarah had a near neigh 
 bor, Jane Emery, who was as much unlike her as possi 
 ble. She was always at work. Her parents were in 
 humble circumstances, and she had always been taught 
 by an excellent mother to be industrious. The girls 
 were about the same age, and for a season attended the 
 same school. At one time they both boarded in Port 
 land, and received instruction from a high school for fe 
 males taught by the Rev. Mr. Adams. 
 
 " Jane, you will never be any thing but an old maid," 
 remarked Sarah to her one day, " unless you spruce up 
 a little. Who will ever think of having you for a com 
 panion, looking as you do ? who, except that great calf 
 of a fellow, with owl's eyes and a mouth like a hinge, 
 who called to see you the other day ? You should fix 
 up your hair, and sit upright, and not be everlastingly 
 at work." 
 
 " Let me be an old maid, then, Sarah. I am sure I 
 can never consent to look as you do. Why, you are 
 now so small round the waist that your system must, 
 suffer, I know. And then, look behind you when I 
 saw you pass the house to-day, I could not but laugh 
 outright at your ridiculous appearance."
 
 WHICH SHALL I MARRY? 245 
 
 " Why, Jane, it is all the fashion, now ; you are be 
 hind the age. Stooping over the washtub, has made you 
 almost as round as a hoop." 
 
 " You mistake ; I do not stoop, although I do a large 
 part of our washing. I should be ashamed to let 
 mother do it all." 
 
 " But she might employ some poor woman to do it, 
 or part of it, at least." 
 
 " So she could, if she were able. But you know it 
 is as much as we can do to get along and pay our ex 
 penses ; and I would rather work than not. I take a 
 great deal of pleasure in assisting about the house." 
 
 " Your taste is different from mine that's all I have 
 to say." 
 
 " I am sorry that we think differently, for all phy 
 sicians tell us that a little labor is conducive to health, 
 and I know I feel much happier when I am" about 
 something." 
 
 " Jane, I wish to ask you a question ; how are you 
 pleased with young Emerson ? " 
 
 " Why, I don't know much about him. He appears 
 to be a likely man." 
 
 "Ay, that he is and between you and I but 
 don't mention it, for the world I intend to have him 
 as my beau." 
 
 " To do that, Sarah, you must be a different girl, in 
 my way of thinking. He is an industrious, prudent 
 young man, I judge, and when he takes a wife, he will 
 select one who is not ashamed to work." 
 
 "You know nothing about him. He has money 
 enough, and will not want his wife to work herself to 
 death." 
 
 " True, but he will want his wife to know how to 
 21*
 
 243 WHICH SHALL I MARRY? 
 
 work and oversee the domestic concerns. With your 
 present tastes and feelings, you cannot do either." 
 
 " I'll risk myself, Jane. If I were obliged to be a 
 slave, if I became a wife, I should rather be an old 
 maid all my days." 
 
 " But, Sarah, why don't you learn to work in the 
 kitchen ? Perhaps you may never be obliged to do this 
 kind of work ; but it is necessary for you to know how 
 to do it." 
 
 " If you begin to work in the kitchen, you are not 
 thought any thing of, but few call to see you, and no 
 respectable young man thinks of waiting upon you." 
 
 " You have mistaken notions entirely. I don't like 
 to offend you, but I know your mother is a very domes 
 tic woman. I venture to say when she was young, she 
 knew all about culinary employments." 
 
 "Times have altered since then." 
 
 " Times may have altered, but I know that a woman 
 who is riot too indolent to work, and who spends a por 
 tion of her time usefully, feels happier than the fash 
 ionable lady, and finds more true friends. An in 
 dustrious young man is generally more partial to her. 
 If Mr. Emerson is such a man as I think him to be, he 
 would much prefer to know you spent the larger por 
 tion of your time at home, assisting your mother." 
 
 " Poh, I know better." 
 
 " We shall see." 
 
 By the above conversation the reader will learn the 
 characters of Sarah and Jane. One had been brought 
 up in fashionable indulgence, without scarcely lifting 
 her finger to help herself. Dress she considered the cri 
 terion of character. The other had been taught by a 
 judicious mother to improve her mind to work in the
 
 WHICH SHALL I MARRY? 247 
 
 kitchen, and employ herself about something that was 
 useful during her evenings. To dress decently and 
 modestly was all she desired. No new fashion turned 
 her head ; no fop captivated her heart ! 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Let others sing of lips aryi eyes, 
 
 As more than half divine; 
 The virtues of the heart I prize, 
 
 And these, I know, are thine. 
 
 ONE evening, a few months after the conversation re 
 lated in the last chapter took place, young Emerson 
 called upon his friend, William. "I am decided, 
 Henry," said he ; " my mind is now made up." 
 
 " What do you mean, William ? " inquired Henry. 
 
 " Why, don't you recollect the conversation we had 
 several months since respecting Miss Talbot and Miss 
 Emery ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I remember." 
 
 " Well, I have decided in favor of Jane, the indus 
 trious and domestic girl. I have watched the move 
 ments of both for a long time, and Jane, I am confi 
 dant, is the girl for me. She will be a companion and 
 a friend, if I am- so lucky as to obtain her." 
 
 " I cannot but commend you for your choice, Wil 
 liam. What little I saw of Miss Talbot, convinced me 
 she was not the girl for you. But pray tell me what in 
 duced you to decide in favor of Miss Emery." 
 
 " To tell you the truth, I saw nothing in Sarah, if I
 
 248 WHICH SHALL I MARRY ? 
 
 may except her pretty looks, her singing and her dano 
 ing, that I cared a fig for. As many times as I visited 
 her house, I never saw a needle in her hand. I verily 
 believe she cannot darn a stocking or make a batch of 
 bread. For me to have selected such a girl for a wife 
 would have been the height of folly. Besides, Sarah 
 has had several suitors, but they were either disgusted 
 with her manners, or she turned them off for new faces. 
 Our neighbor, Edward Simons, told me that he was 
 once favorably struck with Sarah's appearance, and for 
 several months visited her house, but when he learned 
 her disposition and character, he immediately forsook 
 her company. There is nothing pleases her so much as 
 balls and cotillons, where she can, go and display her 
 self in dancing. I have known her to spend half a day 
 in preparing for one of these exhibitions. Her hair, 
 of which she is exceedingly proud, employs many hours 
 of her time. Every braid must look just so. Nothing 
 short of two hours before the glass, will satisfy her in 
 adjusting her braids and her curls. And then, too, she 
 has a pleasant voice, of which she is. very particular to 
 give a stranger notice, especially when she has an op 
 portunity of thumping on the piano." 
 
 " I recollect, William, her displaying herself when I 
 called on her with you. If she had not exerted herself 
 for effect, I should have been pleased with her voice ; 
 but as it was, I was rather disgusted." 
 
 " And then, too, Sarah wants everybody to wait 
 upon her. She tells her mother to do this thing and 
 the other, as if she were sole mistress of the house. 
 If her brothers do not run at her call, or obtain what 
 she requests, she is very angry, and makes use of 
 words that would shame another girl. I feel thankful
 
 WHICH SHALL I MARRY? 249 
 
 that I found her out, and I believe it was by your sug 
 gestion that I was more particular." 
 
 "How is it, William, with Jane? Are you well 
 pleased with her ? " 
 
 " I never saw a girl I liked so well. She is always 
 busy and always pleasant. Visit the house when she 
 is about her work, and she never colors and never 
 makes apologies. Instead of conversing on frivolous 
 subjects, she always has something interesting to commu 
 nicate. She has read a great deal and of the right sort. 
 She knows nothing about Ingraham's or Bradbury's 
 last work ; but she will converse on any department of 
 science or history. Instead of devoting her time to 
 dress and the various follies of the times, she improves 
 her leisure hours in study, or in perusing valuable 
 works. And then she is always agreeable. You never 
 find her in the sulks never. She is cheerful and 
 happy, and instead of calling upon her mother to bring 
 her this article and the other, she goes after it herself 
 and assists her parent all in her power. I never heard 
 her speak an unkind or an unpleasant word to any 
 member of the family. She is the girl for me." 
 
 " As I said before, I highly approve of your choice. 
 If you get that girl, you will have a prize indeed. 
 Does she seem to favor your suit ? " 
 
 " Certainly she does, and there is a right understand 
 ing between" us. Since Sarah has noticed my partial 
 ity to Jane, she takes every opportunity to treat us 
 both with contempt. Poor girl, she is her own worst 
 enemy, and is not worth minding."
 
 250 WHICH SHALL I MARKY ? 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 One error, when persisted in, 
 
 Though trifling it may be, 
 Will lead to dangerous paths of sin, 
 
 At last to ruin thee. 
 
 IN the fall of 183-, there was a marriage in Cape 
 Elizabeth William Emerson was united to Jane Em 
 ery. There being no minister in the place, Rev. Mr. 
 Adams, of Portland, was sent for, who solemnly united 
 the happy couple. A number of friends were present, 
 and among the rest was Henry Willard. Every thing 
 went off well, and all the guests appeared to be happy. 
 The parents of Jane were humble people, but they as 
 sisted her all in their power, and she had almost every 
 thing that was necessary for her to commence house 
 keeping with. William had been doing business for 
 himself for some time, and had prospered. As soon as 
 the company broke up, Emerson and his wife rode to 
 Portland, and commenced housekeeping in the dwelling 
 that they occupy at the present time. It is said that 
 he has made money, and is in a fair way to become one 
 of our richest merchants. We hope it is correct, for a 
 better-hearted man we know not where to find. 
 
 Last summer, as my friend Becket and myself were 
 riding leisurely along, enjoying the beautiful scenery 
 on the Cape, we met Mr. Talbot in the road, and being 
 acquainted with him, had quite a chat. He finally in 
 sisted on our taking tea at his house. The pressing in-
 
 WHICH SHALL I MARRY? 251 
 
 vitation we could not resist, and we therefore hitched 
 our horses and went in. And there were Sarah and her 
 mother, whom we had not seen before for many a day. 
 The old lady was sociable and agreeable, but her 
 daughter seemed averse to talking. The rose had 
 faded from her cheek, and her hair, which was once so 
 beautiful, was sprinkled, we noticed, with gray. Two 
 or three wrinkles had been added to her forehead, and 
 she seemed the completest specimen of an old maid we 
 had ever seen. With every tiling to make her happy, 
 she seemed determined to be miserable, at least so we 
 thought. 
 
 After spending an agreeable hour with the old folks, 
 we arose to leave. At that moment Sarah left the 
 room. 
 
 " Don't you think Sarah has altered a great deal in 
 her looks ? " said the old gentleman, addressing me. 
 
 " Very much," I replied. 
 
 " Poor girl ! she has endured every thing with that 
 rascally husband of hers." 
 
 " Indeed ! Is she married ? " 
 
 " Why, she was married three years ago to one of 
 your Portland men whom we all considered an excel 
 lent character ; but he turned out a villain. John Al- 
 son is a drunkard, and abuses his wife ; so much so, 
 that we have now taken her home." 
 
 We expressed our surprise and regrTst, when the old 
 gentleman continued, 
 
 " I fear it will be the death of the girl." 
 
 We knew Alson, but for the first time we learned 
 that he was the husband of Sarah. He was indeed a 
 villain ; no one could depend upon him ; and how in the
 
 252 WHICH SHALL I MARRY? 
 
 world Miss Talbot could ever have fancied him was a 
 mystery to us. 
 
 We drove into Portland, conversing all the while 
 upon the ill-luck of Sarah and her rascally husband. 
 
 She had false notions. She did not begin life aright, 
 and this was her ruin. Had she been industrious and. 
 prudent, like her young companion, Jane Emery, it is 
 more than probable she would have succeeded as well 
 and been as happy. 
 
 There are many girls who are now as frivolous and 
 as idle as Sarah was. Let them take warning. Few 
 industrious and worthy young men can approve of 
 your conduct. If you wish to secure good husbands 
 and happy homes, be industrious, and discard the fool 
 ish fashions, of the day. Live not to please the eye 
 alone, but to improve and elevate the heart.
 
 STORY OF ELLEN. 
 
 If but a single thought I drop 
 
 Into a drowsy ear, 
 It may revive the spark of hope, 
 
 And the desponding cheer. 
 A word may save where volumes fail, 
 
 If spoken from the heart, 
 And with the dying soul prevail, 
 
 And life and joy impart. 
 Te all can speak a gentle word, 
 
 To bless the weak and low, 
 And o'er life's dark and thorny road 
 
 Sweet flowers and sunshine throw. 
 
 IT was the custom in my early days for children of 
 both sexes to attend the same district school. And I 
 remember distinctly the happy faces that congregated 
 every day to gather instruction from our worthy mas 
 ter. Among the females there was one, who,- for her 
 beauty and modest deportment, had secured the love, 
 and respect of the whole school. She had a dark, bril 
 liant eye, a beautiful forehead, and a pleasant counte 
 nance. Rich auburn hair fell in graceful curls about 
 her neck. It was not often that Ellen received a rep 
 rimand from her teacher, whose partiality was evident, 
 from the frequent smiles he bestowed upon her.' 
 While her companions were at their plays, or were care 
 lessly wasting their time in frivolous amusements, 
 Ellen was, attentive to her studies, and treasuring up
 
 254 STOEY OF ELLEN. 
 
 usefuf information. As her parents were in rather indi 
 gent circumstances, she was sometimes slighted by her 
 more wealthy schoolmates, but, notwithstanding, she was 
 cheerful and pleasant, and even grateful for the smile 
 of love or approbation. For years I attended this 
 school with Ellen, and during all the time, I do not rec 
 ollect of any impropriety in her conduct, but on the 
 contrary, she was a pattern which would have done 
 honor to any female to follow. Amiable, kind, and af 
 fectionate, she secured the friendship of many, so that 
 when she finally left the school, she had not an enemy 
 behind. About the same time I went to learn the mys 
 teries of a mechanical trade. Not hearing the name of 
 Ellen, I seldom thought of her excepting when, meet 
 ing with an old schoolfellow, we would name over the 
 companions of our early days. I finished my trade, 
 having spent seven of my best years in its acquisition, 
 and " set up " for myself, but never saw or heard of 
 Ellen. I made frequent inquiries of my friends, but 
 no one had heard from her since she was a playful girl. 
 It might be that she had died early, or that she had re 
 moved to a distant town, or that she had become the 
 amiable and accomplished wife of some devoted hus 
 band. At times, I would feel anxious to know what 
 had become of the beautiful being, whose opening 
 youth seemed to be the precursor of a glorious sequel. 
 Years passed away, and I was fast verging to the me 
 ridian of life, when one day an opportunity presented 
 itself to visit the poorhouse, belonging to my native 
 town. It contained a number of sick, aged, and 
 wretched beings, who had been placed there on account 
 of their friendlessness and poverty. Others had become 
 victims .of intemperance, and were thus shut out from
 
 STORY OF ELLEN. 255 
 
 temptation to prevent the further inroads of disease, 
 and to stay the steps which were fast tending to shame 
 and infamy. In visiting the several departments, I was 
 struck with the misery that seemed depicted on many a 
 countenance, which once doubtless was the index of a 
 happy heart. In an upper room, which I came near 
 passing without entering, on a low pallet, I observed 
 the wasted form of a female, who appeared to be in the 
 last stages of consumption. As I approached her, she 
 cast her hollow, glassy eyes upon me, and in a mo 
 ment I discovered the countenance of my early school 
 mate, the once happy and beautiful Ellen. Her former 
 beauty had not forsaken her, but disease, or sorrow, or 
 infamy, had traced, in lines too legible to be misunder 
 stood, its desolating imprint upon her hectic brow. As 
 I approached her, she recognized me instantly, and a 
 tear came in her eye. 
 
 " Ellen," said I, " can it be possible ? my early 
 schoolmate and friend in so wretched a condition ? am 
 I not deceived ? " 
 
 "Ah no no," said she, " you are not deceived 
 it is indeed Ellen, or the shadow of what she once was, 
 but I'll tell you all," and a flow of tears checked 
 her utterance. I was fearful lest the excitement of the 
 occasion 'should have a deleterious influence upon her 
 feeble mind. Indeed, her exhaustion was so great that 
 it was impossible for her to proceed, and I left, after 
 faithfully promising that I would soon call and see her 
 again. As I left, painful thoughts entered my bosom ; 
 to think of the end to which this once beautiful being 
 was approaching in the poorhouse away from her 
 friends with no kind hands to minister to her wants, 
 and with no hearts to truly sympathize in her condition.
 
 256 STORY OP ELLEN. 
 
 The keeper of the house informed me that this young 
 woman had been an inmate of the establishment but a 
 few weeks, that she was brought there in a state of 
 beastly intoxication, and that the language which came 
 from her lips was the most profane and impure that he 
 had ever heard, that she soon after took to her bed, 
 and would probably never be removed from it, till car 
 ried out to the grave. 
 
 In a few days, as I had promised, I called again to 
 see Ellen. She had grown weaker in the interim, and 
 was rapidly wasting for the tomb. When I approached 
 her bedside, 1 saw a smile of gratitude play upon her 
 countenance, as she expressed her joy in seeing me 
 again. 
 
 "I cannot live long,*' said she, "but once I little 
 thought of this ! " and she sobbed aloud ; but my anx 
 iety to know what brought her to her present miserable 
 condition, induced her to relate what follows : 
 
 " I was poor, but I was happy ; indulgent parents 
 caressed me. Had they lived, my course would have 
 been virtuous, my end glorious. But at an early age 
 I was doomed to be an orphan. Within a few months 
 of each other, both my parents died, and left me with 
 none to guide or counsel me, but a distant relative, 
 who treated me more like a slave than a friend. I had 
 no protector, and was obliged to remain in this situa 
 tion, and bear as well as I was able, the unpleasant dis 
 positions of the family. This relative had a daughter 
 a few months older than myself, who was full of pride 
 and vanity, and seemed to think herself far superior to 
 the rest of her sex. Her father was rich, and bestowed 
 upon her all her heart could desire. I was constantly 
 employed in some menial service, and it was exceed-
 
 STORY OF ELLEN. 257 
 
 ingly difficult for me always to obtain clothing necessaiy 
 for my comfort. When I was about eighteen years of 
 age, a young man of gentlemanly appearance came of 
 ten to the house to see my relation's daughter. They 
 were very intimate, but I never had spoken to him. 
 One evening, I happened to meet him at the door ; he 
 spoke kindly to me, and inquired for Jane, who im 
 mediately came, and they entered the parlor together. 
 I indistinctly heard him inquire respecting me, when 
 Jane remarked, ' She is our servant girl only,' and im 
 mediately turned the conversation to another subject. 
 Occasionally, I saw this young man, whose name was 
 
 L . He was attentive and polite, which was very 
 
 gratifying to one who seldom received any thing from 
 human beings, but an unkind look or an angry word. 
 
 From the time that L first spoke to me, I noticed a 
 
 change in Jane's conduct. No pleasant word escaped 
 her lips when I was in her presence. I bore it all 
 without complaint, although at times a tear would fall, 
 when reflecting on my lonely lot. Thus time passed 
 
 on, and L was as constant as ever in his attention 
 
 to Jane, who, day by day, grew more irascible in the 
 house, and treated me with more contempt than ever. 
 Pride lived and reigned in her heart. But I noticed 
 
 that L , now seldom spoke to me, and was inclined 
 
 to pass me by without uttering a word. This I could 
 not understand, especially as I had given him no occa 
 sion to slight me, and I conjectured it was on account 
 of what Jane might have said of me. I was determined 
 to know the truth. Accordingly, I sought every oppor 
 tunity to hear the conversation that passed between 
 
 them, to know the cause of L 's indifference. But 
 
 I could ascertain nothing definitely. One day when 
 22*
 
 .258 STORY OF ELLEN. 
 
 Jane had gone out, L unexpectedly came in. He 
 
 seated himself and began to converse freely with me. 
 It was not long before Jane returned and found us to 
 gether. I saw the fire in her countenance, while she 
 affected perfect good feeling, and as I left the room, I 
 
 heard her harshly rebuke L for his familiarity with 
 
 the kitchen girl. I was grieved to the soul. I knew that 
 my character was as irreproachable as hers, and that 
 the -only difference between us was, she had wealthy 
 parents and I was poor. The first opportunity I had 
 of obtaining a place, I was determined to improve. It 
 was not long before I succeeded. Not many days after 
 I had been pleasantly situated in a fine family, I was 
 
 one evening surprised at the appearance of L , who 
 
 seemed pleased at the happy change I had made. He 
 was free and sociable, and when he departed, remarked 
 that he would call upon me again. He did call, and I 
 encouraged his visits, when one evening he informed 
 me that he had become disgusted with the society of 
 Jane, and had entirely broken off his visits to her. He 
 made a certain proposal to me, to which I acceded, lit 
 tle thinking what would be the result. I became 
 
 strongly attached to L , and had no doubt but 'at 
 
 some future time I should become his wife. But after 
 his purposes were accomplished, he cruelly deserted me. 
 I was stung with remorse, and grief preyed deeply 
 upon my spirits. I had but few friends, and they 
 looked upon me with suspicion, and finally forsook me. 
 I left my place, -not knowing where to direct my steps, 
 and finally took up my abode with those who live on 
 the' profits of crime. I now gave myself up to every 
 evil propensity would drink and swear with my mis 
 erable associates, until I became as great a proficient
 
 STORY OP ELLEN. 259 
 
 in vice as the most abandoned. But I was far from be 
 ing happy. Misery was my constant companion, and I 
 would often resort to intoxicating drinks to drown my 
 sorrow. For a number of years I continued to live in 
 this miserable condition, an enemy to God and man, till 
 in one of my drunken revels I was brought, unconscious, 
 to this house. Soon after, I was taken sick, and I have 
 been growing weaker and weaker ever since. My eins 
 rose in terror before me, and when I thought of death, 
 an awful feeling came over me. What could I do ? I 
 looked to God that God I had cursed and despised, 
 and I prayed for forgiveness. Oh, the rich mercy of 
 Christ ! I am now, as I humbly trust, a redeemed sin 
 ner. I cannot express the gratitude I feel to him for 
 his great mercy to me, an unworthy worm of the dust. 
 It is marvellous to me that Heaven should spare me 
 through all my vileness, and then show unto me his 
 great, inexpressible mercies." 
 
 Thus did this poor, forsaken girl speak of her deliv 
 erance from the thraldom of sin, till weak nature was 
 nearly exhausted. And often during her sickness, did 
 I visit her bed, and find the same strong faith and hope 
 in her Redeemer. As she grew nearer to her end, she 
 was much engaged in prayer, never expressing a de 
 sire to recover, excepting that she might prove useful to 
 those deluded creatures, in whose society she had spent 
 many of her precious days. The last time I saw her, 
 she could scarcely speak, and I conversed but little 
 with her, but she seemed already ripe for the kingdom 
 of God. 
 
 She died without a- struggle, and was interred in the 
 cemetery connected with the poorhouse.
 
 GOOD FOR EVIL. 
 
 Envy, a cursed plant at best, 
 
 Is never favored friendship's guest ; 
 
 It lives and flourishes alone 
 
 Where virtuous love is never known. 
 
 " WELL, Harry, I have seen Mr. Favor, and he agrees 
 to take you on trial. He is a very strict man, and will 
 keep no boy who is not perfectly willing to obey him, 
 and is honest and trustworthy." 
 
 " 'Tis just such a place as I want, father. I know I 
 shall like to retail goods." 
 
 " You must always remember that Mr. Favor is your 
 master, and whatever he tells you to do, you must not 
 hesitate to perform. A stranger will not overlook a 
 great deal that your parents would. If you should be 
 neglectful, or contrary, or disobedient, he will not keep 
 you, and it will be far more difficult to obtain another 
 situation. Few persons will have confidence in. a boy 
 that often changes his place. They come to the con 
 clusion at once that he is either shiftless, or dishonest, 
 and think it unsafe to employ him." 
 
 "But I shall be careful to do what Mr. Favor re 
 quests me, and will never disobey him." 
 
 " I trust you will obey him," said his mother, " for it 
 would nearly kill me to have it said that my son was a 
 bad boy, and was turned away from his place. If you
 
 ' GOOD FOR EYIL. 261 
 
 are* obedient, attend well to your business, and feel in 
 terested in your master's welfare, it will be for your hap 
 piness and interest. If you live, it will be a pleasant 
 thought to reflect upon, besides gaining for you many 
 friends. I have heard it said that men take more no 
 tice of 'clerks and apprentices, than they are aware of. 
 If they are steady, and attend punctually to their du 
 ties, they observe it ; and so, too, if they are lazy, shift 
 less, and idle. I do. hope and pray, Harry, that you 
 will be a good boy. Be sure and not stay out during 
 your leisure evenings, but read useful books, and en 
 deavor to improve your mind." 
 
 " You need have no fears about me, mother ; I shall 
 try to do my best." 
 
 Henry Safford was fourteen years of age. His 
 father, an humble mechanic, had obtained for him a 
 place at the store of Mr. Favor, an English goods mer 
 chant, where he was to commence his duties on the 
 following Monday. Harry had been taught most ex 
 cellent precepts from his parents, who ever set before 
 him a good example. He was not given to any bad 
 habits, and the prospect was that he would grow up 
 a good and useful man. 
 
 On the following week, Henry left the roof of his par 
 ents, and entered the store of his master. He found 
 there -another boy, about two years his senior, by the 
 name of Francis Bradley. This youth took particular 
 pains to initiate Henry into the business. He told him 
 the prices of the goods, and taught him how to meas 
 ure them off. 
 
 " The old man is an odd crony," said Francis, "and 
 to get .along with him, you must keep a sharp lookout. 
 Whenever he is in the store, always be busy putting up
 
 262 GOOD FOR EVIL. 
 
 goods or cleaning up the shop, and be as spry as possi 
 ble when you wait upon customers. If they don't 
 want one thing, show them another, and be sure and 
 tell them we sell cheaper than at any other store. 
 This will please the old man, and he will like you." 
 
 " But mustn't I do the same when Mr. Favor is ab 
 sent from the shop ? " inquired Henry. 
 
 "Why, as to that, you needn't be so particular 
 about it. If we can make him think we do the best 
 we can, it will answer as well." 
 * " That doesn't seem to be hardly right." 
 
 " You're green yet, Harry. By and by, you will un 
 derstand matters, and find that my advice is good. 
 Now, mark my word." 
 
 "Perhaps I may. But I shall v always try to do my 
 best for Mr. Favor, and then he will not censure me." 
 
 " This selling dry goods is curious business, Harry ; 
 one must understand it pretty well or he cannot make 
 a living. You will understand it all in time." 
 
 Henry busied himself through the day in his new em 
 ployment, and being quick to learn, and feeling an inter 
 est in his business, he succeeded admirably. At night, 
 when he and Francis retired, he felt a little unhappy. 
 It was the first time that he had ever slept from beneath 
 his father's roof, and no kind mother came into his 
 chamber to see if he were warm, and lay comfortably. 
 But he soon lost himself in sleep. In the morning he 
 rose early to open the shop, and attend to his business. 
 After a few weeks had passed away, Henry was quite 
 contented and seemed to enjoy himself. He liked his ' 
 master, who seemed to be always agreeable. Francis 
 and he lived very pleasantly together, although he no 
 ticed that his companion was not particular always to
 
 GOOD FOR EVIL. 263 
 
 speak the truth, and accustomed himself to use pro 
 fane language, and sometimes associated with young 
 persons who did not sustain good characters. One day 
 he said to him " Francis, I don't see how you can en- 
 . joy the society I saw you in last evening, as I was pass 
 ing Mr. 's confectionery." 
 
 " Harry ! they are clever fellows. Sometimes they 
 treat me to a pie, or to cake, and we pass our time 
 in real enjoyment." 
 
 " Do they usually spend much money there ? " 
 
 " Not a great deal. But they always seem to have 
 money enough. Their parents are rich." 
 
 " Do you ever treat them, Frank ? " 
 
 "Yes, occasionally. It would be mean and nig 
 gardly if I did not. I should like to have you go with 
 me some night. I am sure you would enjoy it. Mr. 
 
 , who keeps the shop, is as fine a fellow as ever 
 
 lived. Will you go ? " 
 
 " I should rather not." 
 
 " Why, what makes you hesitate ? " 
 
 " One reason is, I have no money to spend, and be 
 sides, I don't think my father would like to have me go 
 there." 
 
 " What, Henry, do you care for your father when you 
 want to enjoy yourself a little ? Everybody will laugh 
 at you. Come, go with me to-night." 
 
 " No, I cannot." 
 
 " You're a fool, and will never be any thing ; that I 
 can assure you." 
 
 Henry knew the wages of his companion were small 
 and that his parents were poor, and he wondered where 
 he could obtain his money to spend at the confection 
 er's. He dare not question his honesty, and yet he
 
 264 GOOD FOR EVIL. 
 
 4 could not account for his having money to spend so 
 freely. After his meals, he would often bring candy 
 and cakes into the shop, and give part of them to 
 Henry. One day he asked Francis where he could 
 get the money to purchase so much. 
 
 " Oh, I pick it up in various ways," said he, u I 
 sometimes make little trades with companions, and my 
 father gives me part of what he receives from the old 
 man." 
 
 " But I think I would not spend it so foolishly, if I 
 were you." 
 
 " Money is good for nothing but to spend. I may as 
 well enjoy it as others." 
 
 " You will need it perhaps at some future time." 
 
 " Oh, no ; I can always get a good living." 
 
 Henry mistrusted that Francis came by his money 
 dishonestly, and to ascertain, he frequently counted the 
 money in the drawer when he went out and often found 
 from ten to fifty cents gone. Sometimes he came to the 
 conclusion to mention it to his master, but was afraid 
 hs might incur the displeasure of his companion, and 
 so kept it to himself. 
 
 Months passed on, and Francis continued to visit the 
 confectionery shop with those young men who had but 
 little to do, and there spent the larger portion of his 
 evenings. Coming home one night, Henry found a 
 twenty-live cent piece on the floor of his chamber, 
 and taking it up he discovered it was the very one he 
 had taken that day of a customer. He knew it by the 
 letters K. S. which some one had stamped upon it. 
 Now he was certain in his own 'mind, that his compan 
 ion was dishonest, and he resolved to charge him with 
 it as soon as he returned.
 
 GOOD FOR EVIL. 265 
 
 " I've had a fine time to-night," said. Francis as he- 
 entered the chamber. "If you had been with us, 
 Harry, you would have enjoyed yourself, I know." 
 
 " What have you been doing ? " 
 
 " We've been down to , where we had as fine an 
 
 oyster soup as ever I tasted. We had every thing else 
 to correspond. It was glorious, I tell you." 
 
 " But who paid for it all ? " 
 
 " Oh, we each put in so much." 
 
 " I tell you what, Frank, I don't believe you all 
 came by your money honestly." 
 
 " What is that you say, Harry ? Do you accuse me 
 of stealing, I should like to know ? " 
 
 " I do not actually accuse you of stealing, but I do 
 seriously question your coming honestly by all the 
 money you spend." 
 
 " That is the same as accusing me of stealing and 
 I will make you prove it. 'Tis the first time I have 
 ever been charged with dishonesty." 
 
 " Perhaps it would be an easy matter for me to prove 
 it, should it be necessary." 
 
 " What do you mean, hey ? " 
 
 "To be plain with you, Frank, I am knowing to the 
 fact that you take money from the drawer." 
 
 " You're a liar," and the language he used was pro 
 fane in the extiome. 
 
 " I will convince you in the morning that what I say 
 is the truth, but not to-night." 
 
 " And I should really like to have you." 
 
 Nothing more was said Until morning, when on ris 
 ing, Francis said "Now I should like to know what 
 you meant last night, when you accused me of steal 
 ing?" 
 
 23
 
 266 GOOD FOR EVIL. 
 
 Henry took the piece of money lie had found on the 
 floor, and showing it to his companion, said " This 
 is what I took of a woman yesterday, for some calico 
 I know it by the letters R. S. which you see are 
 stamped upon it, and when I came home last night, 
 I found it on the floor. No one had been in the cham 
 ber but yourself." 
 
 Francis colored a great deal when this evidence was 
 produced against him, but said, in a subdued tone "I 
 know nothing about it ; the probability is that you stole 
 it from the drawer yourself, and now, for fear of being 
 detected, wish to accuse me." 
 
 " You know better, Frank. I never took a copper 
 from Mr. Favor in my life. But I have often missed 
 change fr6m the drawer." 
 
 "Without saying more Francis hurried! down. As 
 Henry reflected on what had been said, he felt grieved, 
 but hoped this detection would effectually check his 
 friend in his career. As soon as Mr. Favor came to the 
 store that morning, he said to Henry, "I wish you 
 would go with me." He followed him to his father's 
 house. Such proceedings were unaccountable to the 
 honest boy ; he could not conceive the intention of his 
 master. 
 
 When they were seated, his, father and mother be 
 ing present, Mr. Favor said, " I have come to dis 
 charge your boy. I am sorry to inform you that I 
 have detected him in theft, which I never suspected 
 till this morning." 
 
 The poor boy burst into tears, exclaiming, " It is not 
 so ! It is not so ! " 
 
 " my son, my son ! " said his mother, " how could
 
 GOOD FOB EVIL. 267 
 
 you do so ? I never thought it would come to this ; 
 it will be the ruin of us, all." 
 
 " Mother, I am not guilty," said the boy, weeping 
 still more, "I am not guilty." 
 
 "He must be hardened, indeed," said his master, 
 " to lie so deliberately abou t t it. There is no manner 
 of doubt of his guilt, and that, from time to time, he 
 has taken money from my drawer." 
 
 " Sir, I never took a cent from the drawer in my 
 life ; you are deceived." 
 
 " Hush, boy ! don't add sin to sin." 
 
 " "What I say is frue," he added, while the tears were 
 flowing fast. 
 
 His parents were somewhat encouraged to believe 
 that Mr. Favor was mistaken, for they never knew 
 their son to be guilty of uttering a falsehood, but the 
 gentleman immediately said, " Yesterday I had a quar 
 ter of a dollar in my drawer, on which the letters R. 
 S. were imprinted, which has been seen in the posses 
 sion of your son." 
 
 " That money I found " 
 
 " Hold, hold," said Mr. Favor, " don't add falsehood 
 to falsehood. Now I propose to have the boy searched ; 
 if the money is found on his person, can there be any 
 doubt of his guilt ? " 
 
 " Let me tell " 
 
 " Not a word," said Mr. Favor, " till we get through." 
 
 " This will be the death of me," said his mother, as 
 Henry emptied his pockets. 
 
 " Here is the money," exclaimed his master, as he 
 held up the twenty-five cent piece, " and here are the 
 very letters, R. S. I never expected to find so much 
 deception and wickedness in that boy. But there is no
 
 268 GOOD FOB EVIL. 
 
 doubt of his guilt. I thought he would make a smart, 
 active man, and felt interested* in him ; but now I can 
 not longer keep him. I will not have a thief in my 
 store." 
 
 " My son, oh, how could you do so ? " inquired his 
 mother. " There is no affliction so great as to have a 
 dishonest son in the family." 
 
 " If you will hear a word, mother, I will explain it. 
 I have not stolen a cent from Mr. Favor. It was Fran 
 cis who took that money." 
 
 "Oh, the depravity of his heart!" exclaimed his 
 master. "He now is endeavoring to accuse another 
 boy, who has been in my employ some two or three 
 years, and against whose character I never heard a lisp. 
 I am indebted to him for the information which led to 
 the detection of your son. Had he been given to dis 
 honesty, I' might have been ruined. I never wish to 
 see the face of that rogue again," pointing to Henry. 
 "I know. he will come to a bad end," and bidding the 
 family " good-morning," he left the house. 
 
 "What shall we do?" said his father. "It will be 
 whispered all over town that Henry is a thief ; that his 
 employer has turned him away, and it will be impossi 
 ble to obtain for him another place." 
 
 " It will worry me to death," said his mother. " How 
 could you do so, Henry, when we have cautioned you 
 so much, and ever implanted in your mind virtuous 
 principles ? How could you be guilty of stealing ? " 
 
 Henry told his parents the whole truth respecting the 
 affair; what he had seen in Francis, the conversa 
 tions he had had with him, and finally, how he became 
 the possessor of the piece of money. They believed 
 him, and pressed him to their bosoms. How could
 
 GOOD FOE EVIL. 269 
 
 they do otherwise ? They knew him to be an injured 
 boy, and they embraced him as a wronged but virtu 
 ous and honest child. Mr. Safford went directly to Mr. 
 Favor, and explained the whole matter, but not a word 
 of it would he believe. 
 
 " Your son is a deceptive, artful boy, that you may 
 rely upon," said he ; " I am perfectly satisfied of his 
 guilt, and that he- is endeavoring to screen himself by 
 attempting to injure the character of Francis." 
 
 " But time will determine who is innocent and who is 
 guilty," said the father. 
 
 " Certainly ; if we live a few years, I should not be 
 surprised to learn that your son had found his way to 
 the State Prison." 
 
 It was rumored about the town that Henry had been 
 turned away from his place for stealing; and while 
 the few believed his story, the many thought him 
 guilty. Of course, it injured him exceedingly,' and was 
 a source of much pain and sorrow to the honest and 
 virtuous lad. He consoled himself with the reflection 
 that he was innocent, and at some future day his inno 
 cence would be established. 
 
 Among those who believed that Henry had been in 
 jured, was a Mr. Jones, who frequently observed his 
 attention to business while with Mr. Favor. He also 
 kept an English goods store. Meeting Harry one 
 day 
 
 " My good fellow," said he, " how would you like to 
 enter my store ? " 
 
 " Very much indeed, if you dare to take me, consid 
 ering' what has been said." 
 
 " If you please, you may come to-morrow morning." 
 23*
 
 270 GOOD FOR EVIL. 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said the lad, running home to com 
 municate the pleasing intelligence. 
 
 The next day found Harry in the store of Mr. Jones. 
 His new master being a pleasant man, and feeling inter 
 ested in the boy, endeavored to make his situation 
 agreeable. Henry did his best to give satisfaction, and 
 labored not in vain. Occasionally, Mr. Favor would 
 come into the store, and, without speaking, .would give 
 him a suspicious look. It was evident that he believed 
 him guilty of the charge he laid to him. And Francis 
 passed him by without speaking a word. But he knew 
 the innocence of Henry. 
 
 A few years passed by, and Mr. Jones still retained 
 the young man in his employ, and for no consideration 
 would he part with him. Pleasant in his disposition, 
 industrious in his habits, and capable in his business, 
 his employer loved him as a son. One evening, he was 
 invited to a social party, where he found among the 
 guests Ellen Favor, the daughter of his former master, 
 who went in company with Francis Bradley. Henry was 
 not only genteel in his appearance, but was really hand 
 some, while his former friend was directly the reverse. 
 Ellen noticed that the ladies were partial to Henry, and 
 her envious disposition was aroused. The young man 
 happened to be near her person, while she was convers 
 ing in a rather loud tone with one of her female acquaint 
 ances. " Only think," Henry heard her say, " why, only 
 think, it is the very individual who stole from my father 
 a few years ago. If his character was known, I guess 
 but very few would wish to associate with him; for 
 my part, I wont speak to him, or even notice the fel 
 low;" 
 
 It is true Henry's feelings were injured, but he said
 
 GOOD FOR EVIL. .. 271 
 
 nothing, and endeavored to pass the evening as pleas 
 antly as possible. He noticed that he was slighted 
 by one or two, while others appeared not to mind what 
 was said about him. He felt innocent of the charge 
 laid to him, and knew there was one present who, if 
 he had his just deserts, would be detected as the thief. 
 
 Francis continued to be flush with money. His com 
 panions were of that class who think nothing of spend 
 ing, providing they partake of a momentary enjoyment. 
 He would often ride out for pleasure, without reflecting 
 on the expense incurred, and purchase whatever he had 
 an inclination to buy. Such a course cannot last for a 
 great length of time ; the older a person grows, his ac 
 quaintances and his expenses naturally increase. It 
 was so with Francis. Still his employer placed implicit 
 confidence in him ; it could not we.ll be otherwise, for 
 he expected at some future day to claim him as a son- 
 in-law. 
 
 Henry became of age, and the story of his supposed 
 dishonesty had nearly died away excepting with a few 
 who were envious of his success, his personal appear 
 ance, or his irreproachable character. They . kept it 
 alive, and always exerted an influence prejudicial to 
 him. None were more active in their slanders than 
 the children of Mr. Favor, who had looked up to- Fran 
 cis as a pattern of honor and integrity. But Henry 
 had given them no occasion to censure him ; he had al 
 ways treated them with respect. It was his disposition 
 never to speak against another, or he might have ru 
 ined young Bradley. Though the falsehood spread rap 
 idly, he thought the truth would finally come out and 
 triumph over every thing false. He did not mistake.
 
 272 GOOD FOR EVIL. 
 
 He became an active partner with Mr. Jones, and pros 
 pered abundantly, as virtue and integrity always will. 
 
 One day, a little boy came into his shop and left 
 word that Mr. Bradley wished to see Mr. Safford imme 
 diately, and requested that he might call at the house 
 of Mr. Favor, where he was boarding. It was a singu 
 lar request, but Henry resolved to go. 
 
 As he entered the house, he understood by the young 
 woman who came to the door, that Francis was very 
 sick that it was apprehended he would not recover 
 that something seemed to trouble him exceedingly 
 and that he said he could find no peace until he had 
 seen Henry. As he entered the sick-chamber, lie ob 
 served Mr. Favor and his wife and their daughter Ellen 
 in the room. They received him more cordially than 
 he anticipated. 
 
 " Henry," said the sick man, stretching out his hand 
 to Safford, " Henry, I have wronged you " and he 
 wept. " In the presence of these witnesses I acknowl 
 edge my sin. I cannot die without it. Mr. Favor, I 
 have wrongfully accused this young man. It was not 
 he who took that money from you seven years ago, but 
 it was myself. I am the guilty person. He was always 
 honest I was the thief," and he sank down, ex 
 hausted. 
 
 The family were thunderstruck. "They had always 
 looked upon young Safford as a thief and a villain, and 
 had circulated the story of his dishonesty far and wide. 
 Now to have it contradicted and the guilty individ 
 ual to be the person they had cherished and nursed 
 on whom not the slightest suspicion of evil rested 
 was what they coulcl hardly comprehend. They were
 
 GOOD FOR EVIL. 273 
 
 dumb with confusion. They saw before them an exam 
 ple of suffering virtue a meek and kind heart, which 
 they had contributed to lacerate and goad even to bleed 
 ing and the author of the crime on his death-bed. 
 
 Francis raised himself again, and weeping, asked, 
 " Will you forgive me, Henry ? Oh, will you forgive 
 me, that I may die in peace ? " 
 
 " With all my heart do I forgive you," and the tears 
 filled the eyes of the noble-hearted young man. 
 
 "And will you forgive me the injury I have done 
 you ? " spoke Mr. Favor. 
 
 " Most assuredly." 
 
 " And me, too ? " said his wife. 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " And me, also ? " said Ellen. " For oh, how basely 
 have I acted ! Will you forgive me ? " and she extended 
 her hand. 
 
 Henry grasped it, and melted to tears as he said, 
 " Most heartily do I forgive you, Ellen. From my soul 
 I forgive you all." And the family stood around him 
 weeping like children. 
 
 When Henry left they followed him to the door, en 
 treating him to call the next day without fail, which he 
 assured them he should be happy to do. 
 
 It was soon noised about the town that the sin that 
 was laid to the charge of young SafFord years before, 
 was committed by another. Those who had circulated 
 the report to his injury, and shunned his society, now 
 came forward and acknowledged their sin. None stood 
 higher in the estimation of the people than Henry. 
 His virtues were everywhere spoken of. 
 
 When he called to see Bradley the next day, he found 
 him very feeble. He extended his hand to Henry, ex-
 
 274 GOOD FOR EVIL. 
 
 pressed his regret for the course he had pursued, but 
 was too feeble to say much. The family were all kind 
 ness to Safford, and expressed their gratitude to him 
 again and again. 
 
 Every day he called to see Francis, and once or 
 twice watched by him during the night. The poor fel 
 low died. His excesses brought him to an early 
 grave. But he regretted his past course, and if a 
 death-bed repentance can atone for a life of sin and 
 folly, his Creator forgave him. He died at peace with 
 the world, though none cherish his memory. For they 
 cannot look back upon his life with pleasure or profit, 
 and the stain he inflicted on the character of his early 
 associate will never be forgotten. 
 
 Henry followed his friend to the narrow house, and 
 manifested, by his attention to him in his sickness, and 
 in the last sad services paid to mortality, a disposition 
 which accords strictly with the gospel of peace ; but 
 which is altogether too rare in this selfish, unforgiving 
 world. 
 
 Not a day passed that Mr. Favor did not call upon 
 Henry. He told him repeatedly if there was any 
 thing he 'could do for his interest or happiness, it 
 should be done with pleasure. " I should be happy," 
 said he, " to have you connected with me in business ; " 
 but Henry could only thank him for his kindness. 
 
 Safford became a constant visitor at the house of his 
 friends, who seemed never to be tired of his company. 
 Ellen was particularly attentive, and always strove to 
 please him. No.ne enjoyed his society better than she ; 
 but her parents dared not flatter themselves that he 
 would deign to connect himself with the family, yet 
 nothing would have been more congenial to their feel-
 
 GOOD FOR EVIL. 275 
 
 ings. But Henry was really attached to Ellen. She 
 had materially altered for the better since the death of 
 Bradley. She had thrown aside her foolish airs ; was 
 pleasant and cheerful in her conversation, and bid fair 
 to make a useful woman. 
 
 Ellen did not forget the manner in which she had 
 treated Henry in years past, and the influence she had 
 exerted against him. She felt ashamed and grieved at 
 her conduct, and times without number expressed her 
 regret in tears. Now she labored as hard to counter 
 act her past influence, and thought no praise too ex 
 travagant to bestow upon him. 
 
 Many months did not elapse before Safford was mar 
 ried, and Ellen Favor was his happy bride. Truer and 
 fonder hearts were never united. The past served as a 
 magnet to draw them closer together. The father and 
 mother of Ellen were never happier than on the day of 
 the wedding for they both loved Henry as they would 
 an only son. 
 
 Safford continued to prosper in his business ; but un 
 like many, he did good as opportunities presented. 
 The poor and distressed were relieved by him. He was 
 devoted to the cause of benevolence, and lived not so 
 much to accumulate property and enjoy the blessings 
 of life himself, as to add to the sum of human happi 
 ness. He was an example of kindness, benevolence, 
 and virtue, and no one was ever heard to lisp a word to 
 his injury. The praise of men and the blessing of 
 Heaven continued to rest upon him, and his example 
 will never cease to exert a benign influence, till time 
 shall be no more.
 
 THE OLD BOOKS. 
 
 To know we've dried a single tear, 
 
 And made one moment bright, 
 Or struck a feeble spark to cheer 
 
 The darkest hour of night 
 Will give to us more joy at last 
 
 Than Caesar's triumphs gave; 
 The memory of such deeds will live 
 
 In worlds beyond the grave. 
 
 " Do you buy old, second-hand books ? " inquired a 
 boy of Mr. Letford, the bookseller. 
 
 " Not very often," was the reply. " Sometimes we 
 tako schoolbooks that have been used a little in part 
 pay for others." 
 
 " Can't you buy these books of me ? " said the boy, 
 placing six or eight volumes on the counter. 
 
 Mr. Letford took one up to examine, saying 
 " These are very old books, and I could never sell 
 them. They are not worth two cents apiece to me." 
 
 " They are good books. Some of them are old ser 
 mons. Perhaps you could sell them. What will you 
 give me for them ? " 
 
 " I don't want them." 
 
 " I must have a little money, will you give me six 
 pence apiece for them ? " 
 
 " No ; I will not give you but three cents apiece. At 
 that price you may leave them, or take them somewhere 
 else."
 
 THE OLD BOOKS. 277 
 
 " Where would I be likely to sell them ? " anxiously 
 inquired the boy. 
 
 " The best place would be to put them in the auction- 
 room. Carry them down to Mr. Bailey, the auctioneer, 
 and ask him to sell them. You can get more than I 
 would allow you." 
 
 "I will sea Mr. Bailey, then," said the boy, tying 
 up his books and putting them under his arm, "for 
 I fool unwilling to sell them for what you offer me, al 
 though I want the money." 
 
 Mr. Letford attended to his business and thought no 
 more of the lad, till about two or three weeks after, 
 when the same boy came into his store with the very 
 books he carried away. 
 
 " Sir, I have not yet sold my books," said the boy. 
 "I carried them down to Mr. Bailey, and requested 
 him to soil them at auction ; but he said they would 
 bring little or nothing. I left them, telling him I would 
 call again in a short time and get my pay, if he could 
 dispose of them. To-day I called and was handed my 
 books. Mr. Bailey said he offered them for sale, but 
 no one would bid over two cents apiece, and he Couldn't 
 bt them go. Now I've come to sell them to you. 
 Can't you give me over three cents apiece ? " 
 
 " No ; they are not worth more than that to me." 
 
 " Well, take them, then." 
 
 The bookseller counted out twenty-four cents, and 
 handed them to the boy, while he placed the old vol- 
 umos under the counter. 
 
 The boy appeared pleased with his money, thanked 
 the gentleman and was leaving the store when Mr. 
 Lotford asked him, " My lad, what is your name ? " 
 
 " Charles Merrill." 
 24
 
 278 THE OLD BOOKS. 
 
 " Where do you belong ? " -. , : 
 
 " In North Yarmouth." 
 
 The. boy. immediately left the shop, while Mr. Letford 
 waited upon his customers. 
 
 Six months and more had expired, since the book 
 seller had purchased the books of the boy, when one 
 day, as he was cleaning up his shop, his eye chanced 
 to meet the old volumes. Taking one up, ho found it 
 to contain sermons printed about a century before. 
 As he was looking over the pages carelessly, he found 
 concealed between two of the leaves a ten dollar bill. 
 On examining it, he discovered that it was a genuine 
 bill, although about twenty-five years old. Curiosity 
 led him to examine the book more closely, when to his 
 astonishment, he found in all fifty ten dollar bills of 
 the same bank, making in all five hundred dollars. 
 The other volumes were searched as carefully, but 
 they contained nothing. 
 
 " Where can I find the boy of whom I purchased 
 these books ? " was the first question Mr. Letford put to 
 himself, after his surprise was over. He recollected the 
 boy's name was Merrill^ and that he informed him he 
 resided in North Yarmouth. That very day, he ad 
 dressed a line to the boy, stating he had something of 
 importance to communicate to him, and requesting him 
 to come immediately to Portland. He waited a week 
 or two, but received no answer. The first opportunity 
 he took a chaise and rode out to make inquiries re 
 specting the youth. After spending several hours, he 
 learned that a boy by that name lived with a Mr. 
 Mitchell about six or eight months before. On Mr. 
 Mitchell the bookseller immediately called. From him 
 he learned that a poor boy by that name came to
 
 THE OLD BOOKS. 279 
 
 him one day and solicited employment, stating that he 
 was poor and destitute. Out of pity, Mr. Mitckcll em 
 ployed him several months, when the boy left, stating 
 that he intended to go to Readfiald, or Bangor, and study. 
 Mr. Mitchell spoke well of the boy, said that he was 
 industrious and pleasant, and spent much of his leisure 
 time in reading. He could not remember where he 
 was born, but believed that Charles was an orphan. 
 
 Without ascertaining any thing more particular as to 
 the whereabouts of the boy, Mr. Letford returned to the 
 city. The next day he addressed a couple of letters to 
 him ; one was sent to Readfield, the other to Bangor. 
 To these letters he never received any answers. The 
 bookseller deposited the money in the bank, and made 
 use of it, as occasion required, determining, if possible, 
 to find out where the boy resided, and always to have 
 at his command the amount he had found. If Charles 
 were an orphan, perhaps that money had been left him 
 by his parents, but he being young when they died, 
 knew not that they possessed this amount ; or it might 
 be that he had purchased the books of another, or that 
 they had been given to him. At any rate, Mr. Letford 
 hoped the time would come when the mystery would 
 be solved and the money be given to its rightful owner. 
 
 Year after year passed away; and although Mr. 
 Letford had made numberless inquiries, he could 
 not ascertain any thing definite respecting the youth 
 of whom he purchased the old books. About ten 
 or a dozen years had gone by, and the bookseller 
 had almost given up the idea of ever seeing the indi 
 vidual, when one summer he visited Boston, for the 
 purpose of purchasing a stock of books. As he was 
 conversing with a wholesale dealer one morning, a gen-
 
 280 THE OLD BOOKS. 
 
 tleman came into the store, with whom the dealer ap 
 peared -to be intimately acquainted. He introduced 
 
 him to Mr. Letford as the Rev. Mr. Merrill, of A . 
 
 After a short conversation, the minister inquired if he 
 were not the Mr. Letford who formerly traded in Port 
 land. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I still trade there." 
 
 " Do you remember a little boy selling you some old 
 books about a dozen years ago ? " 
 
 " Perfectly well." 
 
 "1 am that boy." 
 
 " Indeed ! you astonish me. I have made more inqui 
 ries than a few, and have never been able to learn what 
 became of him." 
 
 " Soon after I sold you the books, I went to the east 
 ward, with the intention, if possible, to attend school. 
 The money that I obtained for those books was all I 
 had to defray my expenses. Taking my bundle in my 
 hand, I started. In a few days Providence provided 
 me a friend, who took me to his house, gave me school 
 ing, and prepared me for college. I graduated at Dart 
 mouth, and for the last year I have been pastor of a 
 church in this state." 
 
 " I am really glad, sir, I have met you at last ! Do 
 you remember what books you sold me so long since ? " 
 
 "I do not only that some of them were volumes 
 of sermons. They were books that belonged to my 
 father. When he died, they came into my possession. ' 
 Was there any thing remarkable about the works ? " 
 
 " About six months after I purchased them, I took 
 one volume up to examine, and folded between tho 
 leaves, I found fifty ten dollar bills." 
 
 " You astonish me."
 
 THE OLD BOOKS. 281 
 
 " These bills must have been placed there by youi 
 father." 
 
 " It was said that he had money by him when he 
 died, but we never could find any." 
 
 " That money, Mr. Merrill, has been kept at interest 
 most of the time since I found it, and now I am in 
 debted to you to the amount of something like eight 
 hundred dollars, which I will forward to you as soon as 
 I go to Portland." 
 
 " Sir, I cannot consent to take that amount. That 
 the money rightfully belonged to me, I have no ques 
 tion, but I shall insist on your keeping at least one-half 
 the amount." 
 
 " On no consideration will I take it. I presume you 
 are in debt for your education." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I owe several hundred dollars." 
 
 " You will now be able to square up, and have some 
 thing left." 
 
 Mr. Merrill thanked his friend in tears, and pressed 
 him, but in vain, to keep a portion of the money for 
 his own use. 
 
 In a few days Mr. Letford returned to Portland, and 
 the first thing he did was to return to Mr. Merrill the 
 money which he had kept so long in his possession. 
 The amount exceeded eight hundred dollars, every cent 
 of which he gave to the rightful owner feeling a sat 
 isfaction and pleasure in so doing, which a mean, dis 
 honest man could never appreciate. 
 
 In a few months after, the pastor left his congregation 
 for a few weeks to visit some of his eastern friends, and 
 for several days, he stopped at the house of Mr. Let- 
 ford ; an acquaintance had been formed which could 
 not be easily broken. 
 24*
 
 282 THE OLD BOOKS. 
 
 Had we not read the following in the newspapers 
 some years since, perhaps this story would never have 
 been given to the world : 
 
 *-* Married, in Portland, by Rev. Mr. Dwight, Rev. 
 Charles Merrill of A , Mass., to Miss Eliza, daugh 
 ter of Mr. James Letford."
 
 THE WOOD-SAWER. 
 
 Oh, harbor not a base-horn thought 
 
 Win grace to make you strong, 
 That every virtuous act performed 
 
 Bring holy fruit along. 
 
 " I KNOW my business is not looked upon by the ma 
 jority as so respectable as a trade, a clerkship, or a pro 
 fession ; but you know I was not put to a trade, and have 
 always been obliged to work at any thing I could find to 
 do, to help support my mother." 
 
 " But you might find something else to do besides 
 sawing \vood." 
 
 " What can I do at present that would be as profita 
 ble ? I have always told you that I did not intend to fol 
 low this business through life. Just as soon as I earn 
 money sufficient, I shall engage in something else. 
 Once you didn't feel arid talk as you do now." 
 . " As I grow older, and associate more with young wo 
 men, I perceive, by their actions and language, that they 
 do not respect young men who dress meanly, and are en 
 gaged in low employments." 
 
 " Why should you mind what they do or say ? My 
 business, if it is low, is an honorable one, and I earn 
 every dollar I receive. I owe nothipg. But the same 
 cannot be said of many of those young men who dress 
 extravagantly, display gold rings and chains, and spend
 
 284 THE WOOD-SAWER. 
 
 so much time and money in riding and other amuse 
 ments." 
 
 " I don't know how that is, but they appear to get 
 along well, and always have money to spend." 
 
 " Appearances are very deceitful. You cannot tell 
 how rmjch grief it has caused mo to see the change that 
 has been wrought in you the last few months. You do 
 not meet me with your accustomed smiles, and often 
 seem indifferent when I call upon you. Is it solely on 
 account of what other girls and very foolish girls, too 
 say, that you thus appear ? " 
 
 " I confess I do not like your business, and since I 
 have grown older and heard so much said, my mind has 
 changed materially." 
 
 William Nelson was the son of a poor woman. From 
 early life he was accustomed to work and earn whatever 
 he could to support his parent. He would run of er 
 rands for the neighbors, bring water, wheel stones, or 
 do any thing that would bring him a penny. Every 
 Wednesday and Saturday afternoon, before he went to 
 play, he would take his basket and run down on Long 
 Wharf, or Portland Pier, where men were stubbing 
 boards, and load it with chips for his mother. William 
 was always industrious, both at home and at school. 
 Master Patten often said he was one of his best scholars. 
 
 When young Nelson was fourteen years old, he left 
 his school and exerted himself to get employment, so as 
 to be of some assistance to his widowed parent, and often 
 found employment by the day, working hard for fifty 
 cents. When he became a little older and a little stouter, 
 he bought him a horse and saw, and undertook the bus 
 iness of sawing wood. He went round among his neigh 
 bors and solicited their work, most of whom employed
 
 THE WOOD-SAWER. 285 
 
 him. There were two or three, however, who depended 
 upon Sam Freeman, a singular character, who made it 
 his business to saw wood about town, never receiving 
 any pay for his services. 
 
 The next-door neighbor of Mrs. Nelson was a Mr. 
 Richards, by whom William had been often employed. 
 He not only sawed his wood, but brought home his flour, 
 provisions, etc., and the whole family appeared to be at 
 tached to the widow's son, none more so than his young 
 daughter, Sarah. For years she had been accustomed 
 to give him a slice of pie, a bit of cake, or an apple, 
 whenever he went into the house, and she really ap 
 peared to be attached to the poor boy. It was certain 
 William loved her, for many an evening has he em 
 ployed himself in painting pictures or making boxes for 
 little Sarah. 
 
 As William and Sarah grew older, their attachment 
 for each other increased ; he not thinking of his poverty, 
 his patched jacket, or his low employment, and &he not 
 dreaming that show and parade make the man, that dress 
 and fashion influence the heart, or that honest industry 
 and poverty are a disgrace. But as Sarah mingled 
 more in society, and understood the manners and cus 
 toms of the fashionable world, she began to look with 
 more indifference upon the wood-sawer ; but still she 
 treated him kindly, and really seemed to be strongly at 
 tached to him. William was a likely boy, and given to 
 no bad habits, he had treasured in his mind a fund of 
 knowledge, gleaned from useful works which he had 
 perused during his leisure time. 
 
 Nelson had become of age and was still attached to 
 his early friend, but any one could observe that although 
 Sarah loved him, she wished to give out the impression
 
 286 THE WOOD-SAWEB. 
 
 that such was not the case. Many of her female com 
 panions would sneer at her, throwing out some un 
 pleasant remark about the wood-sawer, while they 
 were gallanted about by the gay and the fashionable. 
 Whatever was said, Sarah never lisped a word against 
 her humble friend. She knew that he was good, and 
 she often contrasted the language that fell from his lips 
 with the conversation of other young men of her ac 
 quaintance, and she was struck with the difference. 
 He was sensible, and his language good and solid. 
 They spoke the common topics of the day, and criticised 
 the dress and manners of others. On one occasion, 
 when Sarah was in conversation with a neighbor of his, 
 Jane Waters, the latter remarked, 
 
 " I do not conceive how you can speak to that wood- 
 sawer. He appears to be a low-bred fellow." 
 
 " What do you mean, Jane ? " 
 
 " Mean ? Why, Nelson associates with the low and 
 vulgar. His business, you know, brings him in contact 
 with a certain class that are not thought much of by 
 people in general. I am surprised that- a girl of your 
 taste should have any thing to say to him." 
 
 "Jane, you surprise me. I know of no better- 
 hearted young man of my acquaintance than William. 
 I have known him, as you are aware, from childhood, 
 and I never saw a mean action in him, or heard him 
 utter an angry word. I know he is not as fashionable 
 as many other young men, but his business will not 
 permit him to be." 
 
 " Would you marry a wood-sawer ? " said Jane, laugh 
 ing heartily "now tell me, Sarah, would you marry 
 a wood-sawer? I know you would have too much
 
 THE WOOD-SAWER. 287 
 
 sense, and more respect for your friends than to think 
 of it." 
 
 " I don't know what I should be tempted to do, if I 
 had the offer." 
 
 " You know you would not disgrace your family and 
 friends so much." 
 
 " There is no disgrace in marrying an honest man, in 
 my way of thinking. Let me ask you a question : would 
 you marry a simple-headed fop ? " 
 
 " Do you mean that as an insult to me, Sarah ? " 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 " I would marry a gentleman one who had sense 
 enough to keep himself decent, and pride enough to 
 keep himself clean and tidy." 
 
 " Well, if you ever marry, it is my wish that you may 
 get a good husband ; but from what I know of you, I 
 fear you will be terribly deceived. I would rather 
 have a man with a good mind and correct habits, with 
 but one shirt to his back, than a person with fine exte 
 rior and plenty of money, possessing a base heart." 
 
 " You talk like a simpleton, I'm sorry to say, and 
 we'll drop the subject now," said Jane coloring, as if in 
 passion. 
 
 " I wish to say to you, Jane, that I did not introduce 
 the subject, and shall not got angry, whatever you 
 may say against William. Although you have been 
 waited upon by one whose conduct and manners I am 
 displeased with, you cannot accuse me of treating him 
 but with the utmost kindness. You have not thus been 
 kind to young Nelson ; he has seen it, and so have I ; 
 but neither of us has complained." 
 
 " Well, I cannot treat him with respect. He is alto 
 gether too low for me to associate with."
 
 288 THE WOOD-SAWEB. 
 
 " You may feel so, but I do not. Time, perhaps, 
 may yet teach us some severe lessons. As I have often 
 said to you, I prefer a kind and good heart, that I 
 have known and tried, though dressed in rags, to a 
 fashionable and foppish person I know but little about." 
 
 "Every one to her liking," said the scornful Miss 
 Waters, tossing her proud head, and turning up her 
 nose. 
 
 A day or two elapsed after this conversation, when 
 another female friend called upon Sarah, and spoke 
 in like terms of William. The same day, meeting one 
 or two others, they expressed themselves in a sim 
 ilar manner. Who could wonder, then, that Miss Rich 
 ards was depressed in spirits, and that she used the lan 
 guage at the commencement of our story, the next 
 time she saw William ? Poor fellow, he was sad indeed, 
 and hardly knew what course to pursue. For a long 
 time he had received ill-treatment from the friends 
 of Sarah, and unpleasant epithets had been heaped 
 upon him, as he passed along ; but he murmured not, 
 still pursuing the even tenor of his ways. 
 
 The next time Nelson called upon Sarah, she ap 
 peared more depressed than he had ever seen her. 
 On inquiry why she was thus cast down, she replied, 
 " Ever since you were last here, I have been thinking of 
 what I said to you, and have condemned myself times 
 without number. I had been spoken to by a number 
 of my young companions, and what they said induced 
 me to talk in the manner I did. I shall not heed them 
 again, whatever they may say." 
 
 " I have been no less grieved than yourself. I knew 
 something had been said, but by whom, I knew not." 
 
 " Be assured, William, that I will not again wound
 
 THE WOOD-SAWER. 289 
 
 your feelings. We have been intimate from childhood, 
 and never before, I believe, has a word passed between 
 us that caused the least painful emotion, and this shall 
 be the last." 
 
 Jane Waters and her lover were invited to a social 
 party at the house of Sarah. John Elkins scarcely 
 noticed William, and took occasion to show off his wit 
 at the expense of Nelson, and the merriment of Jane, 
 and one or two kindred spirits. Occasionally, you 
 would hear " wood-sawer " spoken loud enough for 
 the company to hear ; but William had good sense 
 enough to heed it not. He treated them all with that 
 respect which is due from one person to another. Just 
 before the company dispersed, Elkins, Jane's beau, re 
 marked to Nelson, loud enough to be heard by all, 
 
 " We have a load of wood at our store to saw, and 
 we should like to have you come up to-morrow and saw 
 it." 
 
 " Very well, sir, I will come with pleasure," remarked 
 William ; " I am always glad of a job." 
 
 " I suppose you wont charge more than old Jameson, 
 or Boze, the negro ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, sir ; I always charge moderate. I find it is 
 more advantageous. I'm much obliged to you for the 
 job." 
 
 In a few minutes the company had retired, when 
 Sarah remarked to William, " I was astonished at the 
 impudence of Elkins, but more so to see how calmly you 
 bore it." 
 
 " Never mind ; John has a lesson yet to learn in life, 
 and the day may come when he will bitterly regret his 
 course. He is not worth minding." 
 
 On the morning of the next day, William went early 
 25
 
 290, THE WOOD-SAWER. 
 
 to the store of Mr. Fosdic, the gentleman with whom 
 Elkins was clerk, sawed the wood, and received his 
 pay. He observed, however, as he occasionally saw 
 John and the other clerk, that no little sport was made 
 of him, all of which he bore with a magnanimous spirit. 
 
 In process of time, Sarah Richards became the wife 
 of William Nelson, and Jane Waters the wife of John 
 Elkins. Sarah's was a simple wedding, with a few 
 friends to witness the ceremony ; and she commenced 
 housekeeping in a small dwelling with but little furni 
 ture, which her husband had bought, having laid by 
 enough in a few years from his laborious business. But 
 Jane made a great display on her wedding-day, and 
 hired a large tenement, and had it filled with the best 
 of furniture. 
 
 What changes a few years produce ! As the wheels of 
 time roll on, the poor of to-day become the rich of to-mor 
 row, and the most wealthy end their days in poverty and 
 rags. None can fathom the future ; none can lift the 
 veil and penetrate the secret recesses. Elkins, the hus 
 band of Jane, was set up in business by his father. He 
 occupied one of the best dry-goods stands in Middle 
 Street, and for a while had a large run of business. 
 But he became inattentive to his affairs, and spent a 
 large portion of his time away from his store. It was 
 said he gambled, and one or two of his friends had seen 
 him disguised by liquor. Pursuing such a course, he 
 could not long sustain himself, and was obliged to fail. 
 In settling his affairs, it was found that he did not pos 
 sess half enough to cancel his debts. Out of employ 
 ment for several months, he might be seen hanging 
 round the grogeries, till at last he removed into the 
 country, his father purchasing for him a small farm.
 
 THE WOOD-SAWER. 291 
 
 Nelson prospered. By diligence and prudence, after 
 a few years, he gave up sawing wood and entered into 
 business more congenial to his taste. By strict atten 
 tion to his concerns, he gradually accumulated prop 
 erty, and was considered one of the first merchants in 
 Portland. In his prosperity he did not forget that he 
 was once poor. The saw and horse that he used so 
 many years, were placed in a chamber of his house, 
 that if ever he should -grow proud and treat others 
 with unkindness, he might take a look at them and re 
 member what he once was. No money would have 
 tempted him to part with them. 
 
 Mr. Nelson had been in mercantile business for more 
 than a dozen years, and during that time had not 
 heard a word respecting Elkins. One morning, on tak 
 ing up the Advertiser he read a paragraph, stating that 
 one John Elkins had committed some crime in North 
 Yarmouth, and was brought to the city, and committed 
 to jail to await his trial. " That must be my old ac 
 quaintance," said Nelson ; "I will call to see him." 
 
 In a few days, Mr. Nelson went up to the jail, and 
 entered the cell of Elkins. But he was so altered that 
 he hardly knew him. The marks of intemperance 
 were prominent on his face and in his tattered dress. 
 Without making himself known, Nelson said, 
 
 " Sir, I have called to see some of the prisoners, and 
 I have brought you a few things which, perhaps, may 
 be acceptable." 
 
 " I thank you for your kindness," said the prisoner. 
 Nelson made but little conversation, and was about to 
 leave, when the prisoner remarked, 
 
 "Do not leave yet, sir. I have been here several
 
 292 THE WOOD-SAWEB. 
 
 days, and you are the first person I have seen, except- 
 ing the jailor and one or two prisoners." 
 
 " You appear to have suffered a great deal in your 
 lifetime, if I may judge from your appearance." 
 
 " Ah, sir, I have, I have ! and a great deal of it is 
 owing to intemperance and gambling. In early life my 
 prospects were bright, but I ruined myself by bad asso 
 ciates." 
 
 " Have you no friends living ? " 
 
 " Very few, sir ; my parents have been dead several 
 years." 
 
 " You have a family, I presume." 
 
 " I had once, but where they now are I cannot tell. 
 My wife left me on account of my habits, and it is more 
 than two years since I have seen her. I understood 
 that sho was living with a friend of hers in Biddeford. 
 sir ! I never thought I should come to this ; " and 
 the poor man put his hands to his face and wept. 
 After a moment he continued, " If there was any hope 
 for me, I know I should be a different man ; but no, I 
 am too old in sin too degraded. I have no friends." 
 
 " It is never too late, my friend, to reform," said Nel 
 son. " When you again have your liberty, if you are 
 really determined to be a different man, you can yet be 
 happy." 
 
 " Sir, who would employ a person of such habits as 
 mine have been ? " 
 
 " I would employ you if I were convinced of your 
 reformation." 
 
 " Are you in earnest, sir ? " 
 
 " Most assuredly." 
 
 " I thank you with all my heart ; " and a beam of hope 
 lit up the countenance of the man, as if he had never
 
 THE WOOD-SAWER. 293 
 
 before heard the words of kindness. " This seems like a 
 dream. Degraded, ragged, friendless as I be, you have 
 promised me employment, should I live to enjoy my lib 
 erty again." 
 
 " Upon this condition, you know, that you will be 
 steady, and do your best to respect yourself." 
 
 " I will with all my soul ; and I feel more than I 
 can express the kindness you have shown me." 
 
 " Have you any acquaintances in the city ? " inquired 
 Mr. Nelson. 
 
 " Not any now. I used to be acquainted with a great 
 many, but what has become of them I do not know. It 
 is more than fifteen years since I was in the city. 
 There is one man I always thought I should like to 
 know what became of him." 
 
 " And who was he ? " 
 
 " His name was William Nelson, and he used to saw 
 wood some twenty years ago." 
 
 " Why do you feel a more particular interest in 
 him ? " 
 
 " I'll tell you why, although I feel ashamed of myself, 
 and have repented of what I did times without number. 
 He was a fine young man, of an excellent disposition, 
 but poor, and was obliged to saw wood. I ridiculed 
 him in company and before others. He bore it all 
 without a harsh word or a single retort. Would to 
 Heaven I had possessed a spark of his excellent dispo 
 sition. I'd give worlds to see him, and ask his for-, 
 giveness on my knees. Had I treated him well I 
 should not have suffered half what I have gone through. 
 It has always troubled me." 
 
 " I know that man." 
 25*
 
 294 THE WOOD-SAWER. 
 
 "You do? Pray, tell me something about him. 
 Has he prospered ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. He gave up sawing wood some years ago, 
 and is now engaged in mercantile business." 
 
 " If I thought he would speak to me, and think it no 
 disgrace to him, I would send him word to come and 
 ses me. Nothing would give me so much pleasure as 
 to ask his forgiveness." 
 
 " He would grant it, I know." 
 
 " Do you think so, sir ? " 
 
 " I know so. And if he knew you had reformed, you 
 would nowhere find so true a friend." 
 
 " I am more and more anxious to see him. Shall I 
 trouble you to ask him to call and see a degraded be- 
 ing?" ' 
 
 " Mr. Elkins, you shall see your old friend, Mr. Nel 
 son. He is here now ; it is he who has been conversing 
 with you. I am the wood-sawer ! " 
 
 " Good heavens ! " and the degraded being fell upon 
 his knees and wept aloud. 
 
 In a few moments he recovered himself, and in broken 
 words, and with streaming tears asked forgiveness of 
 Nelson, which was readily granted. 
 
 After remaining with Elkins two or three hours, Mr. 
 Nelson left the cell, rejoicing that his friend had come 
 to his senses at last, and devising a plan for his release 
 and future welfare. 
 
 The crime that Elkins had committed was a trifling 
 theft, while under the influence of ardent spirits. On 
 the day of his trial no one appeared against him, and 
 he was discharged. , Nelson immediately took him to 
 his house, gave him a new suit of clothes, and employed 
 him in his store. Poor Elkins' heart was filled with
 
 THE WOOD-SAWER. 295 
 
 gratitude to his benefactor, and he exerted himself to 
 the utmost to please him. 
 
 Elkins had been in the store of Mr. Nelson some 
 twelve or fourteen months, and conducted himself with 
 the utmost propriety, when, by the arrangement of his 
 friend, his wile was reconciled to him, and came to the 
 city to reside with her husband. 
 
 Now they are happy. The past is forgotten, or re 
 membered only to bless Heaven for the great change 
 that has been wrought. Few that see Elkins day by 
 day know the sorrow that he endured, or feel the joy 
 that continually thrills his happy bosom.
 
 THE CLAY COVE MECHANIC. 
 
 The sunshine of kindness, 
 
 More precious than gold, 
 Has thousands directed 
 
 To virtue's sweet fold. 
 
 "Do you think I would have any thing to say to young 
 Clinton ? He must know I do not wish to see him, and 
 yet he persists in calling at the house." 
 
 " But Charles is a fine young man. He has an ex 
 cellent disposition. You have noticed his kind feelings 
 and generous character. And there are no bad traits 
 about him. Why, I am surprised to hear you talk so." 
 
 " Charles is well enough in his way ; but you know 
 his father and mother ; they still live in that wretched 
 old shell in Clay Cove, and haven't decent furniture. 
 I should be ashamed to call there." 
 
 " I know his parents are very poor, and that his father 
 has been a drinking man. But he has joined the tem 
 perance society, and I understand he provides better 
 for his family, and is striving to obtain a good living." 
 
 " That may be true, but I can never forget old Clin 
 ton, even though he ha reformed. He has always be 
 longed to the lower classes." 
 
 " But I'm sure Charles behaves like a gentleman. If 
 his parents are poor and wretched, he should not be 
 treated unkindly, provided he behaves well and sus 
 tains a good character."
 
 THE CLAY COVE MECHANIC. 297 
 
 " True ; but ho has got nothing, is only a mechanic, 
 and will always have to work for a living." 
 
 " Only a mechanic, you say. But what was your 
 father and my father ? " 
 
 " But they worked only a little themselves, and em 
 ployed others. Now they are independent. No matter 
 what our fathers were. Time has changed. I shall 
 have nothing further to say to Clinton. If he calls at 
 the house, I shall contrive to be busy up-stairs. You 
 may see him and talk with him as much as you like, 
 but I wont." 
 
 " You talk foolishly, especially as Charles is as likely 
 a young man as we have in our neighborhood." 
 
 " Every one to her liking," said the girl, as she left the 
 room. 
 
 Clara and Mary Edwards were cousins, and about 
 tha same age. The former had been brought up with 
 false notions. Her standard of respectability was a fine 
 exterior, graceful manners, and a heavy purse. She 
 had often declared in the presence of her cousin, that 
 she would never associate with a mechanic, more espe 
 cially if he sprang from a poor family. But Mary had 
 different views. She respected all men, whether dressed 
 in broadcloth or homespun, and was as particular in her 
 attentions to the day laborer of good character as to the 
 individual who prided himself on his birth, wealth, and 
 education. 
 
 Charles Clinton was the son of a poor sailmaker. 
 His father had been in low circumstances for many 
 years, brought on by his intemperate habits, and he 
 could barely earn sufficient to keep his family together. 
 His mother was a prudent and industrious woman, and 
 it was mainly owing to her exertions that they had
 
 298 THE CLAY COVE MECHANIC. 
 
 kept together for so long a time. At an early ago 
 Charles left school, and went to learn the trade of a 
 printer. He was industrious and obliging, and gained 
 the respect not only of his master but his fellow-appren 
 tices. Instead of spending his evenings or his few 
 leisure hours in the day among the vicious and profane 
 or in walking the streets in idleness, he would obtain 
 some useful work and peruse it. He would frequently 
 carry home the newspapers of the day, when he had 
 nothing else to read, and thus endeavor to improve his 
 mind. In this way he became intelligent, how could 
 it be otherwise? and won the good-will of all who 
 knew* him. At times he would take a sheet of paper, 
 and sit in the little room of his mother, endeavoring to 
 place his thoughts upon paper. Charles was never 
 idle ; he was either at work with his hands or with his 
 mind. 
 
 When Clinton became of age, he was employed by his 
 master and received good wages for his services. At 
 this time Charles was acquainted with but few females ; 
 among these, however, was Clara Edwards, at whose 
 house he occasionally visited, he being more particu 
 larly acquainted with the father. He was cordially re 
 ceived by the family, but Clara endeavored to manifest 
 her dislike to him in various ways. He held to no views 
 which she did not qppose, and was not inclined to con 
 verse with him on any subject. Once he invited her 
 to accompany him to a pleasant place of retreat, but she 
 refused, by saying she was engaged ; but remained at 
 home all day. 
 
 One evening he found most of the family had gone 
 out, and she was alone. He endeavored to interest her 
 by introducing various topics of conversation, but she
 
 THE CLAY COVE MECHANIC. 299 
 
 manifested no interest in his remarks, and he remained 
 but a short time. This was before her cousin had arrived 
 from the country. When she came, he found one who 
 was willing to converse, who behaved like a lady to all 
 who visited the house. 
 
 Mary Edwards had been at her cousin's about a week 
 when the conversation at the commencement of our 
 story took place. A day or two after, Charles called 
 at the house, but the moment Clara saw him enter the 
 door she left the room. Mary accepted a polite invita 
 tion to accompany him to a concert, and in a few mo 
 ments she was ready. They passed an agreeable even 
 ing. She had no sooner returned to the house than 
 her cousin exclaimed, 
 
 " What a fool to be seen with Charles Clinton ! I 
 should be ashamed of myself. No one who thinks any 
 thing of herself will go with him. I don't believe our 
 kitchen girl would have gone with him." 
 
 " To speak as I think, Clara, Charles is a gentleman, 
 and I esteem it an honor that he should invite me." 
 
 " Oh, luddy, I shall faint ! " exclaimed Clara. 
 
 " You are a strange girl. Since I have been in Port 
 land this last time, I have seen no young man with 
 whose appearance I am so favorably impressed as with 
 Clinton's." 
 
 " Then, really, you are in love with the mechanic 
 the son of a Clay Cove sailmaker." 
 
 " In love with his appearance, I am." 
 
 " And you may marry him in welcome. Oh, dear, 
 what strange things will take place ! " said Clara, with 
 a contemptuous smile. 
 
 " Marry him ! I am not worthy of so fine a gentle 
 man. He is my superior in every respect. If I should
 
 300 THE CLAY COVE MECHANIC. 
 
 be so fortunate as to obtain such a man for a hus 
 band, I should esteem myself the most fortunate of 
 girls." 
 
 " Distressing ! No decent girl would have the fellow. 
 You would marry him, hey ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I would, if I could get him." 
 
 "Well, really, I can't help laughing. A genuine 
 love-scrape. I shall give up. It will be a beautiful 
 place, I must confess, to live in that hovel, setting 
 in the mud ; and to have so beautiful a father-in-law ! 
 Well, I declare, it will be fine." 
 
 . "You anticipate too much for me, cousin. I do 
 not expect to have Charles. He looks higher than a 
 country girl. But if he should marry, he will not prob 
 ably take his wife to live at such a place as you de 
 scribe ; although I don't know where Clay Cove is." 
 
 At this moment Clara's parents entered the room. 
 
 " Have you heard the news, father ?" inquired the 
 proud girl. 
 
 " No, child, I have heard nothing. What interests you 
 so much ? " 
 
 " You'll laugh well when I tell you. It is no less than 
 this : Mary has got a beau." 
 
 " Indeed ! and who may he be ? " 
 
 " Who should you guess ? " 
 
 "I'm sure I cannot tell," said the father. 
 
 " It is not so," replied Mary. "I have been to the 
 concert to-night with young Clinton, and Clara is mak 
 ing all manner of sport about it." 
 
 " Well, Clinton is a fine fellow, and you could not 
 get a better sweetheart." 
 
 "What! Charles Clinton?" inquired the mother. 
 
 "Yes."
 
 THE CLAY COVE MECHANIC. 301 
 
 " Why, he is only a mechanic. We have known his 
 father for years, and he is a miserable shoat. They live 
 very meanly. No respectable people ever call upon 
 them." 
 
 " You know, wife, a great change has been wrought 
 in the character of the old gentleman, since he joined 
 the temperance society. Now he is industrious, and 
 does the best he can to obtain a living. His wife, I 
 have always heard, is a prudent, active, and industrious 
 woman and keeps her house as tidy as she possibly can." 
 
 " But they are not genteel, and never will be." 
 
 "That should be no disparagement to the son. 
 Charles, has ever behaved like a gentleman, and there 
 is no young man of my acquaintance that I would 
 sooner Clara would marry." 
 
 " Father, you are joking," said the daughter. " It 
 is the most absurd idea I ever heard you advance." 
 
 " My child, there is worth in that young man. He 
 has talents that will yet shine in the world. Mark 
 what I tell you, for I know him well." 
 
 " I would rather be an old maid all my days," said 
 Clara, "than have such a fellow the son of a miser 
 able drunkard." 
 
 " Clara, you must not talk so. ^ Mr. Clinton has re 
 formed, and I understand is doing well." 
 
 " But no one will forget what he once was," said the 
 mother ; " and for my part I think Clara is right in her 
 views. I should feel dreadfully to know she was waited 
 upon by such a young man as Charles. And I know 
 Mary's father would feel highly indignant if he knew 
 who his daughter had been with this evening." 
 
 " No, no ? aunt," said Mary ; " my father has always 
 taught me to respect and love all who are kind and vir- 
 26
 
 302 THE CLAY COVE MECHANIC. 
 
 tuous, without regard to their situation in life. But 
 he has always cautioned me to beware of those who 
 show a fair exterior, but are corrupt within." 
 
 " Mary is determined to have her way," said Clara, 
 " and she will probably dream of Charles to-night." 
 
 But little more was said, and the family retired. 
 
 The next day Clara would often inquire about " the 
 Clay Cove mechanic,"and throw out insinuations upon 
 her cousin for consenting to go with him ; but Mary 
 heeded her not, simply remarking, " The sequel will 
 tell who is right and who is wrong in her views." 
 
 Mary Edwards continued her visit several weeks 
 with her cousin, and during that time Charles called 
 often to see her, but as usual was treated with neglect 
 and contempt by Clara. He pretended not to notice 
 her coolness and indifference, and never lisped a word 
 to her discredit to her cousin. Before Mary left, it was 
 well understood between her and Charles that she was 
 to be his future wife. The day for her departure ar 
 rived, and bidding her friend good-by, she took the stage, 
 and was on her way home to Lewiston. 
 
 Her cousin had not been gone many weeks before a 
 young man by the name of Henry Watson commenced his 
 visits to the house of Clara. He had made her acquaint 
 ance in a ballroom, and was just such a character as 
 suited the foolish girl. His father was a man of wealth, 
 who resided in a large house, and who had brought his 
 son up to live a life of idleness. Instead of putting 
 him in a counting-room or a mechanic's shop, he suffered 
 him to walk about, doing little, until he was eighteen 
 1 or twenty years of age ; and then he was too old to learn 
 a trade. He was furnished with pocket-money, and
 
 THE CLAY COTE MECHANIC. 303 
 
 dressed extravagantly, associating mostly with those who 
 had no regular business. 
 
 In the course of a few years, both Clara and Mary were 
 married, one to the industrious mechanic, the other to 
 the fashionable fop. As the tastes of the two girls were 
 so different, they seldom saw each other. Clinton took 
 a small house, and commenced life as he thought he was 
 able to go through. But Watson hired a large house, 
 and had it elegantly furnished. 
 
 Ten or fifteen years have passed away since the 
 cousins were married. As you pass up one of our 
 most pleasant streets, you will notice a beautiful white 
 house, with healthy trees before it. Every thing is 
 neat and commodious about the dwelling. It is the 
 residence of Charles Cinton. He owes not a dollar 
 for it. Besides his independent circumstances, he is 
 honored and respected by all who know him, and has 
 frequently been promoted to offices of trust. By his 
 industry and energy, the mechanic has risen to his pres 
 ent respectable standing in society. 
 
 Pass down to Clay Cove. Do you see the small black 
 house, once the residence of Charles Clinton, when his 
 father was nothing but a sailmaker and an inebriate ? 
 That now is the residence of Henry Watson and his 
 wife. They are poor and. destitute, and live mostly 
 upon charity. It was not long after he was married, 
 that his father failed in business and lost his property, 
 and Henry, being brought up to no particular business, 
 took hold of what first presented, but did not succeed, 
 and was obliged to remove from one house to another, 
 not being able to pay his rent, until he accepted the 
 little house in Clay Cove, rent free, from his friend, 
 Charles Clinton.
 
 304 THE CLAY COVE MECHANIC. 
 
 Poor Clara has been doubly paid for her folly, and re 
 pented in dust and ashes the stand she took against the 
 poor mechanic. Her husband has but little education 
 and no energy, and is, in every sense, a poor tool. Mary 
 Clinton has too good a heart to reproach her cousin, 
 and has been uncommonly kind and generous to her. 
 
 All is not gold that glitters. Let the reader learn this 
 lesson from the above story. Judge not a man by his 
 business or profession, but -look to his heart and dispo 
 sition. Reproach no man on account of the sins and 
 poverty of his parents. The rarest gems are often found 
 on a dunghill. Let this be the lesson you learn, and 
 our story will not have been written, in vain.
 
 THE LAWYER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 His aim is high ; no low desire 
 
 Prompts him to choose the right; 
 His acts pass through detraction's fire 
 
 Unscathed without a blight. 
 He cannot suffer, for within 
 There is no curse from practised sin. 
 
 " HURRAH ! there's old Johnny A very singing one of 
 his songs ! " exclaimed John Edson to his companion, one 
 Fourth of July ; " let's go and hear him." 
 
 " Agreed," said William Stacy, and they both ran up 
 the hill, where, beside old Ma'am Shepherd's tent, the 
 old man was singing one of his favorite songs. 
 
 When Avery had finished, he handed round his hat 
 for the change which he usually received for a song, 
 and one and another dropped in a copper or two for 
 the old fellow ; when unobserved, John Edson hit the 
 hat a knock, and sent it to the ground. While Avery 
 was picking up the change, the little boy contrived to 
 get two or three coppers, which he put into his pocket 
 and ran off. 
 
 When he saw his companion, he>told him what he had 
 done, laughing heartily at the joke, as he called it. 
 
 "You did wrong," said William Stacy, " to take the 
 26*
 
 306 THE LAWYER. 
 
 poor man's money ; and if I were you I would go di 
 rectly back and give it to him." 
 
 " That I will not do," said John ; " and I wish I had 
 got more of it. I also contrived to take two or three 
 of Ma'am Shepherd's eggs, when she, was looking another 
 way." 
 
 " You do wrong, John, to steal and you will be sorry 
 for it." 
 
 " No, I sha'n't. There is no harm in taking two or 
 three cents from anybody." 
 
 " It is as much stealing, as if you took two or three 
 dollars." 
 
 " But I don't consider it so ; and when I can get 
 something so easy, I always intend to," and so saying, 
 he ran off before his companion could reply. 
 
 John Edsoii and "William Stacy were neighbors and 
 playmates. The former was the son of a merchant ; the 
 mother of the latter was a widow. The father of John 
 expended a great deal of money on his boy, determin 
 ing to give him a good education. He fitted him for 
 college, and in his seventeenth year he entered. He 
 barely passed an examination, for John was a dull 
 scholar, and hated his books. On leaving home, his 
 father gave him money to spend, telling him, if that was 
 not sufficient, to write him, and he would furnish him 
 with more. 
 
 About the same time, William Stacy was placed with 
 a mechanic to learn the mysteries of a trade. His poor 
 mother was obliged to labor with her hands to support 
 her little family ; but she felt encouraged that her son 
 would do well, and in the course of time, if she lived, 
 be able to render her some assistance. William was al 
 ways good to his mother, and, when he earned a few
 
 THE LAWYER. 307 
 
 coppers, invariably gave them to her to purchase some 
 thing for the family. He regretted leaving his parent 
 when he went to his trade, but he felt that he should 
 have the privilege of seeing her often, and in the end of 
 being able to assist her, and so he kept up good spirits. 
 His master was a kind man, and finding his apprentice 
 honest and faithful, did much to encourage him. The 
 boy was fond of reading, and his master assisted him in 
 obtaining those works which pleased him the most. He 
 was delighted with Rollin's History, Plutarch's Lives, 
 Josephus, and like works, from which he could gather 
 information. Instead of spending his leisure time in 
 idleness, or in vicious pursuits, he was storing his 
 mind with knowledge, and preparing himself for a use 
 ful life. 
 
 At the expiration of each college term, young Edson 
 would visit his parents, and spend a portion of his time 
 with his old playmate, William. But as he grew older, 
 he became less intimate with the apprentice, doubtless 
 feeling that William was engaged in a less laudable pur 
 suit, and withal he was not so particular as to his dress 
 and the following out of the fashions. The young me 
 chanic noticed the indifference of John, but always 
 treated him with kindness and respect. He learned 
 from various sources that the collegian did not stand 
 high in his class. Instead* of giving his attention to his 
 studies, he looked more for his present gratification in 
 pleasure and folly. He was not a very moral youth, 
 and therefore gained the friendship of but few. When 
 he graduated, he took no part in the exercises at com 
 mencement, but returned to his father what is called 
 an educated man. It was some time before John con 
 cluded what profession to follow. He thought first of
 
 308 THE LAWYE3. 
 
 being a preacher, then a doctor, or teacher, but finally, 
 decided upon the law. He had brass and impudence 
 enough for any pursuit, and these- are two essential 
 qualifications to make one eminent at the bar ; so John 
 thought, and so thought his father. There was no dif 
 ficulty in obtaining a place in an office ; and the young 
 man soon commenced the perusal of Coke and Black- 
 stone. In the same office with John were several other 
 students, who, observing the carelessness of their com 
 panion, endeavored to play tricks upon him, and were 
 at times successful. He was so indifferent Jo what he 
 read that, had he been questioned at night what subject 
 he had perused, he would not have been able to say. 
 John always kept a mark in his law book, for otherwise 
 he could not tell how far he had progressed in the mys 
 teries of the profession. Observing this, the other stu 
 dents often placed his mark some twenty or thirty pages 
 back, so that Edson perused the same pages several times 
 without being conscious of it. He would sometimes re 
 mark, " I think I have before read something similar 
 to this," and proceed in his studies. John had good 
 abilities, but he was lazy and heedless, and exerted 
 himself but little to improve his mind. He better un 
 derstood the fashions, and moved in what arc termed 
 the higher circles. After remaining in the office three 
 years, the time specified by our wise lawmakers, 
 young Edson was permitted to practise in his profession. 
 About this time John's father died, leaving him sev 
 eral thousand dollars as his portion of his estate. Upon 
 the strength of five or six thousand dollars, Edson 
 married a fashionable girl, and commenced living in an 
 expensive style. At the same time, he hired a room, 
 aiid placed over his door, in large letters, JOHN ED-
 
 THE LAWYER. 309 
 
 SON, Counsellor at Law. He also made known the fact 
 in all the newspapers published in the vicinity. The 
 young lawyer lived as if he thought his capital would 
 never be exhausted, and so he paid but little attention 
 to his business. He was occasionally consulted by somo 
 straggling sailor, or forlorn negro, and he gave them 
 advice as readily as if he had been master of his profes 
 sion ; but no sooner had his clients departed, than Ed- 
 son was seen whipping into the office of his next-door 
 neighbors in the profession, to inquire if he was right. 
 If so, it was well and good ; if not, he would endeavor 
 to correct his mistake at the next interview. 
 
 By the course that Edson pursued, in a few years 
 his six thousand dollars were expended. When the 
 fact came home to him, he was much depressed in 
 spirits, but contented himself by saying, " Well, I've 
 done the best I could, and been as prudent as possible." 
 Now, from sheer necessity, he was obliged to live in a 
 small tenement, and to stick close to his profession, or 
 he could not get along. It was humiliating to both 
 himself and his wife, but it could not be avoided. To 
 increase his law business was a difficult matter; but 
 nevertheless, it'must be done. He had thoughts of leav 
 ing the place, but was fearful it would not better his 
 prospects. Edson went round among his friends and 
 solicited their business. " I should like to do your col 
 lecting, or any business in my line that you can give 
 me. I will do my best for you, and be prompt in paying 
 over," he would remark, and sometimes he secured a 
 job. 
 
 Before military inspection and review days and gen 
 eral musters, he invariably called upon the clerks of the
 
 310 THE LAWYER. 
 
 several ward and independent companies, to solicit their 
 business and collect the fines. " I will do my best," 
 Said he, " and if I do not succeed in collecting I will not 
 charge you for my services." 
 
 Some took pity on him and threw their business into 
 his hands ; but he thereby made enemies. Men who 
 were exempt by law from performing military duties, 
 were alike sued with those who wished to evade the law, 
 and although Edson could not get his cases, he put the 
 gentlemen to no little trouble and expense to defend 
 themselves. j 
 
 There is no greater plague to the community than a 
 miserable pettifogger, and such a character Edson 
 proved himself to bo. He had wasted a handsome prop 
 erty, and was now starving for business. So he eagerly 
 grasped at low and miserable cases, and secured the 
 name of a mean and low-lived attorney. 
 
 As long as his mother survived Edson had the means 
 of a comfortable living, but at her death, when her lit 
 tle property was divided among a number of children, 
 he was poor indeed. The vicious habits he had con 
 tracted in early life grew upon him, and he was occa 
 sionally seen overcome by ardent spirits. Thus, in the 
 meridian of life, he had lost his best friends, and associ 
 ated mostly with the low and abandoned. As his only 
 hope of a livelihood, and to be saved from unpleasant as 
 sociations, he concluded to remove to another place, and 
 exert himself to get more practice. Accordingly, with 
 out making it known excepting to a very few, for he 
 was indebted to a large amount, he left his native place 
 for another town. Having arrived, as soon as possible 
 he obtained a small tenement for his wife and children,
 
 THE LAWYER. 311 
 
 agreeing with his landlord to be punctual in the pay 
 ment of his rent as soon as it became due. 
 
 Entirely unacquainted in the place, he sought busi 
 ness in his profession, but was unsuccessful. His fam 
 ily were destitute and suffering, and, as a last resort, he 
 came to the conclusion to act as porter in the store of a 
 merchant, for a small salary. As this was not sufficient 
 to support him and pay his rent, he knew not what step 
 to take, for he had resided in the place three months, 
 and daily expected a visit from his landlord. 
 
 One evening he heard a light rap at the door. On 
 opening it, he discovered the gentleman of whom he 
 hired the house, who asked for his rent. 
 
 " I am sorry to disappoint you to-night," said Edson, 
 " but if you will call day after to-morrow, I will be ready. 
 I have been disappointed in my expectations, but then 
 you shall have it without fail." 
 
 The gentleman left, remarking simply that it would 
 be just as convenient for him to wait. 
 
 The poor man did not know where the money would 
 come from that he had promised so soon ; but Edson 
 had no correct principles, and at once he came to the 
 conclusion to take the amount from the store of his em 
 ployer, if he could possibly get an opportunity. "Watch 
 ing his chance, he slyly purloined the amount from the 
 merchant, and paid his landlord as he had promised. 
 
 On the following Saturday night the money was 
 missed, but how to account for it was a mystery to the 
 merchant and his clerks. The account of sales was ex 
 amined again and again, and the money counted over 
 and over, still twenty dollars were gone. No one sus 
 pected the " honest porter," as he was called, and he 
 would probably have never been detected if he had
 
 312 THE LAWYER. 
 
 stopped here. But when one wrong step is taken, it 
 opens the way for another. Edson not only took money 
 from his employer, but articles from the store to a con 
 siderable amount at different times, till at last he was 
 suspected and known to be the thief. He was accused 
 of it, and, although he denied the truth, was arrested 
 by an officer and lodged in jail. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 We all can give the poor, the weak, 
 
 And be an angel guest ; 
 How small a tiling to smile, to speak, 
 
 And make the wretched blest ! 
 These favors let us all bestow, 
 
 And scatter joys abroad, 
 And make the vales of sorrow glow 
 
 With the sweet smiles of God. 
 
 WILLIAM STACY continued a faithful and industrious 
 apprentice. He gathered up knowledge year by year, de 
 voting all his leisure time to the improvement of his mind. 
 When he became of age I doubt whether a college-ed 
 ucated young man had a more thorough knowledge of 
 the mathematics, of Greek and Latin than himself. He 
 pursued those studies which are usually taught in col 
 lege, and by diligence and industry had become master 
 of what he attempted. Soon after his freedom he left 
 his native town to reside in another city, thinking that 
 better prospects would be held out to him at his trade. 
 But in this respect he was disappointed. He could get
 
 THE LAWYER, 313 
 
 no work. A thought struck him. Perhaps I can study 
 a profession ; and, entering the first lawyer's office he 
 came across, Stacy made known his intention. The 
 gentleman was prepossessed in his favor, and agreed to 
 take him, provided he would do his writing, collecting, 
 etc. When he understood the young man's situation, 
 he gave him permission to board at his house, if, at some 
 future day, when he became able, he would cancel the 
 debt. William expressed his gratitude, and immediately 
 commenced his studies. A young jnan of so amiable a 
 disposition, and possessing so many admirable qualities 
 of mind, could not but secure the good-will of the law 
 yer. He became a favorite in the family of Mr. Lager, 
 for that was the name of the attorney,' a man who had 
 an extensive practice, who was a perfect gentleman in 
 all his dealings and behavior. Feeling an interest in 
 the young student, he used his exertions to interest and 
 inform him. He saw that his young friend was a man 
 of no ordinary talents, and he treated him as a compan 
 ion. When he had studied the usual time, he was ad 
 mitted to the bar, soon after which Mr. Lager took him 
 into full copartnership. 
 
 Perhaps I should have stated before that Mr. Lager 
 had a daughter to whom Stacy Was quite partial. He 
 had been in business but a little more than a year 
 when he was united in marriage to Elizabeth Lager. It 
 will be enough to say that she was an excellent woman 
 and made her husband one of the best of wives. 
 
 The business of Lager and Stacy was extensive ; they 
 had more practice than any three lawyers in the place. 
 For years they prospered and accumulated money. 
 Stacy had made enough by his profession to build him 
 a handsome house, where he now resided. But amid 
 27
 
 314 THE LAWYER. 
 
 his prosperity he did not forget his mother. Every year 
 she visited him, and received enough at the hands of her 
 son to support her comfortably. No man stood higher 
 at the bar than William Stacy. He had eloquence and 
 power, and proved eminently successful in all his cases. 
 
 We have now come to that period in our story when 
 poor John Edson was carried to prison for theft. In 
 his gloomy cell he reflected on his past life, his vicious 
 and profligate course, his once bright prospects, and his 
 present blasted hopes, and there alone and in solitude 
 he wept like a child. " Oh, that I had been wise, that 
 I had been indutsrious, that I had been conscientious, 
 rhat I had consulted duty and not pleasure ; but there is 
 now no help far me." Poor man ! he now felt his case 
 to be severe, and he knew not what to do. He had no 
 friends who could assist him. 
 
 A few days before his trial came on, a young man who 
 was clerk in 'the store where Edson was employed, called 
 to see him. Although he knew that he must be guilty, 
 he felt for Edson's condition, and when he saw his tears 
 and his anguish, his heart was moved. 
 
 "Have you any counsel employed?" inquired the 
 young man. 
 
 "No, I have none." 
 
 " But you had better employ one." 
 
 " I cannot pay him, and what man would exert him 
 self in my behalf? " 
 
 " But you must have counsel. Suppose I call on 
 Lager and Stacy, and tell them you wish to secure their 
 services ? " 
 
 " If you think it would be of any avail, and they would 
 consent to defend me, if ever I am able, I will pay them." 
 
 " Then I will call upon them. They are the best law-
 
 THE LAWYER. 315 
 
 yers in the city. If there is any hope for you, the junior 
 partner can succeed." 
 
 Edson was a little encouraged. As the young man 
 departed, he expressed his gratitude to him in tears. 
 Since nis confinement, this was the first time he felt that 
 any one was interested in his welfare, aside from his 
 wife and children. 
 
 The next morning the jailer announced to Edson that 
 his counsel had arrived, who soon seated himself beside 
 the miserable man. 
 
 " Sir," said he, " I am sorry to see you in this place, 
 and if I can be of any service to you, I will use my ex 
 ertions in your behalf." 
 
 " I thank you, sir," said Edson. 
 
 " But I wish to know if you are really guilty of what 
 las been charged to you, and if so, whether you have 
 ever made it known to another." 
 
 " I am guilty ; but poverty alone prompted me to com 
 mit the deed. A wife and two children are dependent 
 upon me, and I am poor indeed." 
 
 " Have you ever been guilty of like offences ? " 
 
 " Never, since I was a child. Then upon several oc 
 casions I took what belonged to others ; but it was from 
 mere roguery or thoughtlessness, for my parents were 
 wealthy." 
 
 " What is your name ? " 
 
 " Edson." 
 
 "What! John Edson?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Indeed ! it is my old playmate, as true as I live." 
 
 Tears fell from the eyes of both as they at once rec 
 ognized each other, and the mind flew back to other 
 days when they were happy in their sports, when one
 
 316 THE LAWYER. 
 
 was the son of a ricli merchant, the other the son of a 
 poor widow. It was some time before they could speak, 
 but through his tears, Edson related all the circum 
 stances of his checkered life, since he last saw his early 
 companion. " Oh, that I had been wise," he continued, 
 " and pursued an upright course ; I should not now 
 have been in this wretched state." 
 
 His friend assured him that he would use his strong 
 est exertions to clear him, provided in future he would 
 pursue a different course, and live an honest and up 
 right life. 
 
 " "With all my heart, I will. Your example, if nothing 
 else, will induce me to do so." 
 
 After a long conversation, Stacy left his friend, and 
 bent his steps to the wife and children of the prisoner. 
 He found them poor and miserable indeed. In years 
 past he had been acquainted with Mrs. Edson, and knew 
 her to be a proud and haughty girl, one who sneered at 
 him because he was a poor mechanic. But he treas 
 ured no ill feeling in his heart, and when he visited 
 her, he found her almost the victim of despair. Her 
 spirits had been broken and her health impaired, and 
 with brimful eyes she expressed her gratitude to Mr. 
 Stacy for his kindness, and begged him to do all in his 
 power to release her husband. 
 
 The kind lawyer sent her various things for her pres 
 ent necessities, and requested his wife to call upon her 
 and render what assistance she could. Mrs. Stacy, ever 
 prompt to do a generous deed and alleviate suffering, 
 hastened to the poor woman^ and, by her kindness, in 
 a great measure removed the burden from the heart of 
 the suffering wife. 
 
 Before Edson' s case came on, his old friend called
 
 I 
 THE LAWYER. 317 
 
 often to see him. On the morning of his trial, Stacy 
 was in the courthouse, prepared to do his best to liber 
 ate the criminal at the bar. The indictment was read 
 by the clerk, and when the question was asked, " Guilty 
 or not guilty," the prisoner, in a tremulous voice, replied 
 " Not guilty." The evidence was brought forward, and 
 the witnesses examined. It could be seen by the ques 
 tions put to the witnesses by Stacy,' and the manner in 
 which he conducted his case, that he was deeply interested 
 in his subject. When the examination of witnesses was 
 closed, the lawyer commenced his argument. It was not . 
 long, but it was full of power and eloquence. He por 
 trayed the situation of the prisoner, poor and friendless, 
 in such vivid colors that tears were seen to trickle down 
 the cheeks of the jury. After the argument from the 
 opposing counsel, the jury retired, and in a few mo 
 ments returned with the verdict in favor of the prisoner. 
 There was not a man present who did not rejoice to 
 hear it, not excepting those who had accused the pris 
 oner of theft. 
 
 Stacy wept for joy, and hastened to carry the good 
 news to his family. From this period commenced a 
 new era in the life of Edson. By the advice of his 
 friend, he was persuaded to renew his profession, which 
 he did with zeal and energy. He now began to study 
 in right earnest in the office of Stacy, and in a few 
 months was able to practise. Although he never made 
 an eminent lawyer, by his virtuous course and industri 
 ous habits, he was able ,to earn a comfortable support. 
 
 Now, the two early friends are on the strictest terms of 
 intimacy. Notwithstanding Stacy is rich and independ 
 ent, he remembers his poverty and is humble and gen 
 erous. Edson looks back on his past life with regret 
 27*
 
 318 THE LAWYER. 
 
 and sorrow, but strives to make amends for a profligate 
 course, and by his good habits and attention to busi 
 ness, has secured many kind and excellent friends. 
 May they both live long, and exert an influence that 
 will continue to be favorable to truth and virtue.
 
 THE AGREEABLE DECEPTION. 
 
 Good thoughts and generous deeds alone 
 
 Survive when we are dead ; 
 These will around our memories 
 
 A glorious halo shed. 
 If we have raised a sinking form, 
 
 Removed a single tear, 
 A spot of sunshine long will rest 
 
 On paths we wandered here. 
 
 " I FEEL no better, mother, since I took the last medi 
 cine." 
 
 " I cannot account for it, Sarah. The advertise 
 ment in the paper says the pills are a certain cure for 
 diseases like yours, and that hundreds have been bene 
 fited by them." 
 
 " Since I took the pills, I don't think I am so well." 
 
 " Perhaps you did not take sufficient. I will send 
 for another box." 
 
 Widow Mason lived in a small village. She had but 
 one daughter, a young woman about twenty years of 
 age. Mrs. Mason was very careful of the health of her 
 child, and whenever she complained of the least illness 
 she would run to the pill-box, this being in her view the 
 sovereign remedy for all the ills of the flesh. The 
 mother was altogether too credulous. What she read 
 in the papers she believed. She never doubted the 
 truth of the recommendations attached to the adver-
 
 320 THE AGREEABLE DECEPTION. 
 
 tiscments of medicines, and did not doubt that the 
 makers and venders of the pills were actuated by the 
 purest motives of benevolence that they had the real 
 good of suffering humanity at heart. 
 
 As Sarah had been complaining for a day or two, her 
 mother had given her a dose of pills, and was surprised 
 that she was no better. As she was about sending to 
 town for another box, she took up a paper and saw a 
 flaming notice of a new medicine, called the " Universal 
 Vegetable Pill." " How fortunate, Sarah," said she, 
 after she had perused the advertisement, " here's just 
 what is wanted in your case. I must get Charles to 
 go to-morrow and purchase some." 
 
 " So you must, mother," said the daughter, after she 
 had cast her eye over the paper. " It is what I have 
 needed for some time. Just see the recommendations ; 
 multitudes have been cured." 
 
 When Charles came in, and Mrs. Mason made known 
 her wish, the young man replied, " I think you miss it 
 to buy so much medicine. The pills that Sarah took 
 yesterday were of no service to her, and she may con 
 tinue to take them, and still be as feeble. I think it 
 rather injurious to take so much stuff. I would not 
 purchase more." 
 
 Charles Sumers was tlie son of a neighbor, a man of 
 sterling integrity, who had seen something of the world 
 and knew the deceptions and frauds which were too 
 often practised on the credulous and unsuspicious. For 
 some few years he had been a constant visitor at the 
 house of the widow; and it was believed that he was en- 
 gagod to Sarah. As he was aware of the amount of 
 money the mother expended for medicine at various 
 timos, he often reminded her of the folly of thus throw-
 
 THE AGREEABLE DECEPTION. 321 
 
 ing it away ; telling her that those men she considered 
 as philanthropists, were generally avaricious and un 
 principled, and did not care how much misery and pov 
 erty they produced, providing it put money into their 
 own pockets. But the widow could not believe it pos 
 sible. Notwithstanding his aversion to pills, Charles 
 consented the next day to purchase a "box of the last ad 
 vertised. 
 
 By her mother's request Sarah took a dose, and the 
 next day she appeared better. " What did I tell you, 
 Charles ? " said the mother ; " those pills have been of 
 great service to Sarah. I shall never be without them." 
 
 For fear her daughter might yet grow worse, Mrs. 
 Mason continued to dose her day by day, so as to pu 
 rify her blood and strengthen her. But in a week or 
 two Sarah was as feeble as ever, and a larger quantity 
 of pills was given. Occasionally, the girl would appear 
 much stronger and better ; but her old complaint re 
 turned again, Charles insisted that she took too much 
 medicine, and would never be well until she quit it. 
 But her mother would not hear to him, and repeatedly 
 said, her daughter would have been in her grave had 
 it not been for the pills. 
 
 "Well, Charles, what do you think of Sarah this 
 morning ? " said the mother ; " doesn't she look brighter 
 and happier than she has done for some time past ? " 
 
 " She appears pretty well, if it would only last. She 
 will never be better, I am afraid, until you relinquish 
 the use of those plaguy pills." 
 
 " These have kept her alive, I am certain. The rea 
 son why Sarah is so much better this morning is, she 
 has been taking some new pills, the very best ever in 
 vented, the Indian Vegetable Pill. I saw them adver-
 
 322 THE AGREEABLE DECEPTION. 
 
 tised last week, and sent and purchased a couple of 
 boxes, and they have produced a wonderful effect." 
 
 " What ! have you been trying more of those rascally 
 pills ? It is a wonder that Sarah is not in her grave. 
 I verily believe if you do not stop dosing her you will 
 kill her outright. For the last two years you have ex 
 pended more than a hundred dollars for medicine, most 
 of which has been taken by her. If that is not enough 
 to destroy the constitution, I don't know what is." 
 
 " How singular you talk, Charles. It is for her good 
 that I sacrifice this money." 
 
 " Yes, but you are mistaken. You have tried no less 
 than a dozen kinds of pills, balsams, jellys, etc., and the 
 last is always the best. So you may keep trying, and 
 you will find that Sarah will never be any better. Of 
 this I am certain." 
 
 His words were true. The daughter grew weaker 
 and weaker day by day, and it was evident that the med 
 icine given her by her mother had contributed to injure 
 her health, but she could not believe it. Sumers felt 
 that something must be done, or Sarah could not long 
 survive. As for convincing her mother that she was 
 wrong, it was an impossibility. He knew that the stuff 
 given to the daughter had a deleterious effect, and ut 
 terly prevented her restoration to health. There was 
 scarcely a day passed when, to please her mother, she 
 did not swallow one pill or more, and she had thus 
 practised for two or three years, so that now she was un 
 fit for the duties of life. After reflecting what course 
 to pursue, he hit upon a project. 
 
 One morning he called upon Mrs. Mason with a news 
 paper in his hand, and inquired of her if she had heard 
 the news.
 
 THE AGREEABLE DECEPTION. 323 
 
 " I have heard nothing. What is it ? " 
 
 " Here is a paper which I have just received, which 
 contains an important discovery no less than a recipe, 
 found after many years, for making what are called 
 ' Life Pills,' left by a celebrated man, who died in 1535, 
 at the advanced age of one hundred and fifty-two years." 
 
 " I want to know ! Are they to be sold in town ? I 
 will certainly try them." 
 
 " They are advertised for sale by , and on the 
 
 morrow, when I go to town, I will call, if you would 
 like to have me." 
 
 " I should, by all means." 
 
 "Perhaps pills so celebrated may produce a better 
 effect than such as you have purchased in months past, 
 and Sarah may yet recover her health." 
 
 " True. I am really rejoiced that you called this 
 morning to let me know of the discovery. I should like 
 to have you leave the paper, that I may read the adver 
 tisement at my leisure." 
 
 The next day Sumers went to town, and called at the 
 shop where the pills were kept for sale. The following 
 morning he carried a box to the widow, who appeared 
 exceedingly rejoiced. Sarah took a dose that day, and 
 when Charles next called, her mother remarked, "I 
 think these pills are admirable. See how much better 
 Sarah looks, and she says she feels better too. I think 
 she is smarter, and if she gets well, you will certainly 
 put confidence in one kind of pills." 
 
 A month passed away, and the daughter rapidly recov 
 ered. Her buoyant spirits revived, the color came to 
 her cheeks, and she was enabled to go out. No praise 
 was too great for Mrs. Mason to bestow on the wonder 
 ful medicine. She told of it to her neighbors, and no
 
 324 THE AGREEABLE DECEPTION. 
 
 one could dispute that they had a wonderful effect upon 
 her child. After using about half a dozen boxes, in 
 three or four months, the girl recovered, and it was 
 thought unnecessary to take more. 
 
 It was whispered round the village that Sumers kept 
 a quantity of the new pills at his store, and whenever 
 there was sickness in the place', he was sure to sell a 
 number of boxes. He kept an exact account of the 
 boxes he sold, and to whom he sold them. The average 
 amount of sales was a hundred dollars a year, which 
 was no inconsiderable amount for a small town ; but 
 frequently individuals from neighboring villages would 
 call upon him for the new article. And from many per 
 sons to whom he sold, he received testimonials of their 
 value and efficacy. They had removed a hundred dis 
 orders, and were taken for all manner of diseases. 
 
 After a few years the sale of the pills was very meagre ; 
 scarcely an individual was sick in the village, and it 
 was accounted for by the use of the efficacious medicine. 
 About this time, Sumers, having amassed some prop 
 erty, came to the conclusion to be united in marriage to 
 the beautiful and accomplished daughter of the widow, 
 Sarah Mason. Arrangements were made for the wed 
 ding, and a large numbef of the villagers were invited 
 as guests. 
 
 The evening came, and the happy hearts were united. 
 After partaking of the festivities of the occasion, where 
 every thing was joyous and pleasant, the company were 
 invited into a chamber, where a large table in the 
 centre was overspread with a white cloth. The people 
 gathered in a circle around the room, wondering at the 
 singular request, and anxious to know what was on 
 the table. Charles stepped up and removed the cloth,
 
 THE AGEEEABLE DECEPTION. 
 
 when lo ! the table was loaded with silver money, sepa 
 rated into more than fifty piles, large and small. To 
 each lot was attached a piece of paper. 
 
 " Gentlemen and ladies," said Charles, " you may 
 wonder at this singular proceeding, and be astonished 
 at the quantity of change before you. But it is not 
 mine. Here are rising five hundred dollars, and it be 
 longs to you. Some of you are the owners of a larger 
 portion than the others, but it shall be divided justly." 
 
 The company looked around and questioned among 
 themselves what this singular conduct could mean, 
 when Charles continued, 
 
 " You are a little astonished at what I have said, but 
 I will explain it. You all know that for the last five 
 or six years I have kept for sale an article called the 
 Life Pill, which you considered an invaluable medicine. 
 Those pills were nothing but stained peas, which I put 
 in boxes myself. Having so long deceived you, I now 
 refund you each the money which has "been paid me for 
 the worthless article." 
 
 He then commenced, and distributed to each individ 
 ual his portion, which, like Franklin's whistle money, had 
 been parted with so foolishly. 
 
 " Some of you may censure me," continued Charles, 
 " for the deception I have practised, but it has been for 
 your good. The people in the village were never more 
 healthy than at the present time, which has convinced 
 me that the pills you have bought in years past contrib 
 uted to disease. I have analyzed the various pills 
 which have been the most popular over the country, and 
 find their ingredients very similar, and all concocted and 
 vended for the sole purpose of making money. The 
 pills of each make are so nearly alike, that it is in the 
 > 28
 
 326 THE AGREEABLE DECEPTION. 
 
 name where all the difference lies ; and neither of them 
 I am perfectly convinced, ever did or ever will do the 
 least particle of good. I have the testimony of you all 
 that the peas I have sold you for years past have been ef 
 ficacious in removing countless diseases, and in restoring 
 your health ; and I believe you were correct. Imagina 
 tion did the work. Had I dealt out the pills with which 
 our community -is flooded, I should have taken your 
 money and kept it, and, instead of promoting your health, 
 I should have increased your disorders and sent many 
 of you to premature graves." 
 
 As Sumers concluded, the whole company expressed 
 their admiration of his course, and thanked him a 
 hundred times. They saw how easy it was to be de 
 ceived, and resolved never again to touch a single ar 
 ticle conspicuously advertised in the newspapers, but if 
 they were sick to employ a regular physician, and abide 
 the consequences. 
 
 When the company retired, Charles's wife and mother 
 laughed heartily over the circumstances, for they had 
 been deceived with the rest, and both declared they were 
 cured of pills and quack medicines forever. 
 
 Charles made an excellent husband, and Sarah was 
 one of the best of wives. Peace acd prosperity attended 
 their steps and they were both respected and beloved by 
 the whole village. Nothing seemed too much for the 
 people to do for their welfare and happiness, and they 
 all acknowledged for years after, that Charles had been 
 a great benefactor to them. He had saved their money, 
 preserved their health, and made their path of life more 
 pleasant and happy. 
 
 Those who spend their money for the various pills 
 and nostrums of the day, will find in the end that they
 
 THE AGEEEABLE DECEPTION. 327 
 
 not only lose their money but their health. Let no one 
 be foolish enough to purchase those highly recommended 
 nostrums that are so conspicuously and prominently 
 placed before you in our newspapers. They never did, 
 they never will, prove beneficial. Their ingredients have 
 a deleterious tendency. Better diet yourselves, if un 
 well, and exercise yourselves every day in the open air. 
 This will be better than all the quack medicine in the 
 world, and so you will confess after you have given them 
 both a fair trial.
 
 JOB DOBSON. 
 
 Behold him with his treasure there, 
 His only comfort and his care ; 
 Daily he counts each portion o'er, 
 Though he but adds a sixpence more. 
 Poor man ! 'tis all his bliss below 
 To add, and watch his treasure grow. 
 
 WHEN Job Dobson was born, whence he came, or 
 who were his parents we never knew. It is sufficient 
 for our purpose that such a being as Job existed, did 
 
 business in the town of B , made money, and got 
 
 to himself an unenviable name. The first we recollect 
 of him was many years since, when, passing old Horton, 
 the apple-man, everybody knows Horton, we heard 
 an individual vociferating loudjy and vehemently against 
 the deaf old gentleman for not giving him his right 
 change ; he had wronged him, cheated him, and de 
 served a sound thrashing. Stopping a moment to as 
 certain the occasion of such hard words, we learned that 
 the fellow had purchased a cent's worth of apples, gave 
 Horton fourpence halfpenny, and received five cents 
 as his change. The man insisted on another apple for 
 the quarter of a cent, but, on being refused, he com 
 menced the hue and cry. When the trouble was made 
 known to the two or three spectators, the fellow sneaked 
 off like a whipped cur. We then marked a man so
 
 JOB DOBSON. 329 
 
 mean, and curiosity lead us to inquire his name. It was 
 Job Dobson. 
 
 Occasionally, in our intercourse with the world, we 
 have come in contact with Job, and wherever we found 
 him, he was disputing bills, insisting on the half-cent, 
 or quarreling about the price of an article ; and he would 
 invariably look with a peculiar countenance, as much 
 as to say, "You see I am right." But we always 
 avoided dealing with Job, for we well knew to have 
 transactions with such a character was a certain loss. 
 
 Dobson ,made money ; and who cannot, if he will 
 Ktand for mills, dispute about fractions, and neglect the 
 payment of debts until he is threatened to be sued? 
 In a few years, Job had picked up change enough, in 
 one way and another, to open a little shop, which he was 
 careful to fill with those articles that would quickly turn 
 his money, and yield a handsome profit. It was said 
 that when he bought articles, he would insist upon good, 
 heavyweight and overflowing measure ; but when he sold, 
 he was extremely careful that his customers should not 
 accuse him of cheating himself. He had on hand two 
 sets of weights and measures one for buying, the 
 otjier for selling. One day he bought some cofiee of a 
 sailor, which had been, smuggled ashore, agreeing to 
 give him a specified price per pound. After the coffee 
 had been carried to his shop and weighed, Dobson said to 
 the sailor, " I can give you but so much for this coffee, 
 now ; that's all it's worth ; " naming a less sum. 
 
 " But the agreement was that I should have four or 
 five cents more on a pound," said the sailor. 
 
 " I can't help that," said Dobson. " You had no duties 
 to pay, and you may take what I offer you, or I shall 
 28*
 
 330 JOB DOBSON. 
 
 complain of you for smuggling, and you will lose the 
 whole." 
 
 " Very well," said the tar ; " give me what you say, 
 and I'll be off." 
 
 Dobson was mightily pleased with his trade. He said 
 to himself, as he examined the coffee, " I shall treble 
 my money on this. "Tisn't every one that knows how to 
 work it. I'm the chap for trade." 
 
 Dobson might have spared himself those golden dreams 
 in this instance ; for as soon as the sailor had received his 
 money he rendered a complaint against Job, for purchas 
 ing coffee which he knew to be smuggled ; and for thus 
 informing the proper authorities, he received a larger 
 amount than if Dobson had paid him what he agreed. 
 The poor cheat was thunderstruck when he learned what 
 the sailor had done, and spit out his vengeance in a flood 
 of profanity ; but he was compelled to pay For his villany, 
 which gave him no peace for many a summer day. A 
 curse was on his tongue for every sailor he met for at 
 least a twelvemonth afterwards ; and when one entered 
 his store he could hardly refrain from throwing out his 
 spite. 
 
 This would have been a good lesson to Job, had he 
 been at all disposed to improve upon it. But no, his 
 love of gain, his parsimonious disposition, led him on 
 to other deeds of folly and crime. On whatever Dob- 
 sou purchased, he was pretty sure to make a large profit. 
 A hundred-weight of tea, sugar, or coffee, would turn 
 out at least a hundred and fifteen pounds. He was de 
 termined to make money ; how, he did not care, so long 
 as he was not detected. He would as soon take the 
 bread from the widow's or the orphan's mouth as to ac 
 cumulate property in any other way.
 
 JOB DOBSON. 331 
 
 Job had now become quite independent by his course 
 of cheating and lying, so that he was better able to 
 carry on his knavery. In his shop he kept a little of 
 every thing, hats, clothing of all kinds, shoes, crockery, 
 West India and English goods, etc., etc. He bought 
 articles in every line, whenever he thought he could 
 turn them to a profitable account. Old iron, copper, 
 rags, and whatever the boys or older thieves could 
 plunder, he would purchase at a reduced price, and 
 keep them concealed until the inquiry for them was 
 silenced, and then offer them for sale. In this way he 
 encouraged youngsters to steal whatever they could lay 
 their hands on, such as lead from the tops of houses, 
 copper spouts, old sails, and in fine any thing and every 
 thing that fell in their way. On such thing, she would 
 more than treble his money. 
 
 One day, in the presence of another, he bought a piece 
 of rope of a boy, telling him it weighed a dozen pounds, 
 and giving him twelve cents for it. Just as the lad 
 went out, a gentleman called on Dobson for just such a 
 rope as he saw in his scales. 
 
 " What do you ask for it ? " inquired the buyer. 
 
 " Three cents a pound." 
 
 " How much does it weigh ? " 
 
 Dobson turned the scales, worked on them a second 
 or two, and said, " It weighs eighteen pounds.'' 
 
 The gentleman took the rope, paid for it, and went 
 away. The man present remarked, " I thought you 
 just bought that rope for twelve pounds." 
 
 " Well I must have made some mistake, then." 
 
 This was the secret of Job's success ; swindling when 
 ever and from whom he could. 
 
 Sometimes Dobson would collect a variety of things
 
 332 JOB DOBSON. 
 
 and carry them to Boston to dispose of to more advan 
 tage, and if he could purchase any thing there very 
 cheap, would return laden for this market. It was 
 said he once sent a quantity of old junk away, and to 
 make it weigh heavy, occasionally threw into the bag a 
 shovelful of mud. If he did not do it, it was through 
 fear of being detected and punished ; for of law he was 
 exceedingly fearful, since he had the difficulty with the 
 sailor. When in Boston, Job would contrive to pay his 
 passage, or rather make the visit cost him nothing, by 
 purloining trifling things wherever he purchased. 
 Having large pockets to his coat, he could slip in a 
 half-pound of silk, a few papers of needles, or three or 
 four fine handkerchiefs, when he was unnoticed. It 
 was said he usually pursued this course, which made 
 him purchase goods in Boston oftener than he other 
 wise would, and remain there for a longer time. 
 
 Dobson grew wealthy rapidly, but with all his riches 
 he was an extremely ignorant man. He could scarcely 
 read ; his penmanship was on a par with his read 
 ing, and his knowledge of figures extremely limited. 
 Sell him a few articles, and he would be longer in com 
 ing to their value than a schoolboy eight years old, but 
 he never made a mistake, excepting in his own favor. 
 He would add up and subtract and divide a dozen 
 times, if he were not perfectly satisfied that he should 
 not be the loser. 
 
 When Dobson purchased his house, he began to look 
 about for a wife. His habits were so coarse, and his 
 manners so unrefined, that few females would have any 
 thing to say to him, and those who did were partial to 
 his money. His looks were any thing but agreeable. 
 Meanness meanness meanness was stamped on
 
 JOB DOBSON. 333 
 
 every part of him, from the crown of his head to the sole 
 of his foot ; and it was conspicuous in all he said, in all 
 he did. And females to their credit be it said can 
 overlook nearly every fault in a man but this one, which 
 is so despicable that few will give it the least countenance. 
 Well, after inviting one and another without success, 
 to accompany him on a party of pleasure, or to attend 
 some concert, when it would not cost him more than a 
 shilling, he finally succeeded in obtaining the consent 
 of Miss Dolly Daton to accompany him to the Bowery. 
 They were as happy as their dispositions would allow 
 them to be ; but when Dobson learned that the dinner 
 would cost them a shilling apiece, he was in a world of 
 trouble. He sat down and thought. After rising from 
 his brown study, he told Dolly that his business was 
 urgent in town, and he should not be able to stop to 
 dinner. The horse was harnessed, and, after beating 
 down old Davis from twenty-five cents to a shilling, 
 Dobson and his girl started for home. Dolly was re 
 joiced when she arrived at her door, and declared to 
 herself that it was the last time she would ever be seen 
 in company with a mean man, and ever after would not 
 speak to Job when she met him. It was more than six 
 months ere Dobson ceased to be troubled at the expense 
 occasioned by his visit to the Cape. 
 
 Finally Job got a wife, and was married at the min 
 ister's. She was from the country, and a stranger in 
 the place, or she would never have consented to be 
 chained to such a man as Dobson. He would allow but 
 just so much in his house at a time, and be grumbling 
 eternally about the waste of, flour and meal. To save 
 expense, he would permit but a certain quantity of wood 
 to be consumed daily, entertained no company, eat but
 
 334 JOB DOBSON. 
 
 little butter, dispensed with milk, and sweetened his 
 tea in the pot. Occasionally, he had milk, when he 
 could buy it by the gallon, and pay for it from the store, 
 with some article on which he made two hundred per 
 cent. It is unnecessary to say that Job and his wife 
 lived miserably unhappy. She had a kind heart, and 
 was inclined to be generous, but she was cramped in 
 all she attempted to do, and never expended a cent 
 without letting her husband know what she bought. 
 Girls sometimes think they are made for this life if they 
 secure wealthy husbands ; but, when too late, they find 
 their mistake. So found the wife of Dobson, but she 
 made the best of it, and never told her deprivations and 
 sorrows to others. 
 
 Job would seldom permit his wife to go shopping 
 alone, for fear she would pay too high for her articles. 
 Once she purchased some calico for twelve and a half cents 
 per yard to make her a dress. After an examination, 
 Job declared that it was worth but twelve cents at the 
 most, and insisted that his wife should return it. In 
 vain did she plead, but her husband was inexorable, and 
 the poor woman was obliged to carry the calico back. 
 The shopkeeper refused to take it ; but, according to 
 instructions, she left it on the counter. Dobson, in a 
 great rage, went down to the merchant and demanded 
 his money. But he insisted in vain, denounced the 
 shopkeeper as a cheat, declaring he would never pur 
 chase of him again, and came off, muttering and swear 
 ing as he went along with the calico. His poor wife 
 never heard the last of the bargain, and never again 
 ventured to buy without special instructions from Job. 
 
 Dobson took a newspaper one year, and paid for it 
 in his way ; but when the carrier boy, who had been
 
 JOB DOBSON. 335 
 
 faithful to leave his paper every week, in storm and 
 sunshine, heat and cold, handed him an address on 
 New Year's day, Job looked daggers at him. " What 
 does this mean, boy ? " 
 
 " The New Year's Address, sir," said the lad. 
 
 " You give it to me, I suppose." 
 
 " No, sir ; we expect a little change for it." 
 
 " Then I don't want the stuff," said Job, as he threw 
 it in the little fellow's face.' " I pay for the paper, and 
 that is enough without your sponging in this way." 
 
 " Very well," said the boy, as he walked off, whistling 
 to himself. But he ever after marked Job as a mean 
 and contemptible wretch. 
 
 Once Dobson let two chambers of his house to a poor 
 widow, and as regularly as the quarter-day arrived, he 
 was at the door for his pay. Once it was not ready, 
 and he threatened to turn her out of doors, and it was 
 only by a great deal of persuasion, and the promise that 
 he should receive a trifle for his indulgence, that she 
 was permitted to remain. 
 
 Whenever a hand was employed about Job's house, 
 in repairing or painting it, he was always present to 
 oversee the work, and notice if the mechanic was idle 
 for a moment. He would purchase materials and pay 
 out of the shop, as was his invariable custom. Dobson 
 never, to our knowledge, bought a single article or em 
 ployed a single man, unless he settled for the whole 
 in goods, without expending a dollar in cash. Sel 
 dom did he employ a mechanic who left him without 
 having a dispute. He would never hold to his agree 
 ment, but endeavor to pay as little as he could for the 
 work done. For all that he could possibly do for him 
 self, he was careful not to pay another. He sawed his
 
 336 JOB DOBSON. 
 
 own wood, wheeled home his own flour, and did his own 
 menial work, unless he could contrive to pay out of his 
 shop in such articles as yielded him a great profit ; then, 
 and not otherwise, would he employ poor laborers. 
 
 When Dobson wished to make a good trade, and 
 could not succeed with the merchant, or trader, he 
 would endeavor to connive with his clerks. Many a 
 time has he gone into stores when he knew the owners 
 were at their meals, endeavoring to trade with the boys, 
 in the mean time, filling his pockets with nuts or apples, 
 or eating his fill from the raisin-cask, the cheese-case, 
 or the sugar-box. So in the market he would go round 
 from cart to cart, not wishing to buy, but try the apples, 
 the berries, the butter, the cheese, or whatever the farm 
 ers had, and often in this way has Job made out a good 
 dinner, without it costing him a farthing. 
 
 Dobson liked to make a good appearance, and to be 
 thought much of by the people ; he accordingly hired 
 part of a pew in one of our churches, and went regu 
 larly to meeting, excepting on those days when it was 
 given out that a contribution would be taken up ; then 
 he was always absent. 
 
 The collector of the parish had much difficulty in ob 
 taining the amount of Job's tax, and often said, " He 
 was more trouble to him than all the rest of the parish." 
 For such debts must be paid in money ; but Dobson 
 declared, time and again, that he would quit the church 
 unless he could pay for preaching out of his shop. There 
 was never a bill presented to him that he did not either 
 dispute, or neglect to pay, till the trouble of sending it 
 was worth nearly as much as the bill amounted to. 
 
 By pursuing such a course, Dobson grew rich rapidly 
 and was worth a considerable amount of property. His
 
 JOB DOBSON. 887 
 
 wife, who had been a faithful slave to him, became sick, 
 and without proper treatment for Job would not em 
 ploy a physician or nurse, if he could possibly avoid it 
 she lingered a few weeks, and then died. It left no 
 impression on Dobson's mind, save the expense he should 
 incur. After his wife had been buried, and her friends 
 had borne the expense, he refused to pay them. He 
 even declared that the bill for rough boards 'that con 
 tained her mortal part, should not be paid by him, 
 as he did not order them. Every one said the poor 
 woman was better off, that she was kindly released- from 
 a world of sorrow by One who took pity upon her. 
 
 The character of Dobson had become so well known, 
 that his name was associated with all that was low, 
 mean, and grovelling in human nature. His meanness, 
 his avarice, his ignorance, his cheating, all went to make 
 up a character that everybody detested. As he passed 
 the street, the very boys turned aside with fear, and 
 looked on him as an inhabitant of a darker world. Men 
 would exclaim, when an act of meanness was commit 
 ted-, " You are as bad as old Dobson," while the fe 
 males turned away from his presence, and laughed at 
 the " old fool." Since the death of his 'wife, Dobson 
 has endeavored to find another companion ; he is too well 
 known. With all his money, he is now shunned, and 
 looked upon by females as a creature too grovelling to 
 claim affinity to humanity. Long since he gave up 
 trade, and lives on the income of his property and the 
 interest of his money. His looks, his acts, now 'pro- 
 , claim him the victim of despair. In the midst of 
 wealth, he is pining away in sorrow and want. With 
 all the comforts, with all the blessings of life within 
 reach, he refuses to secure them, and is drinking the 
 29
 
 338 JOB DOBSON. 
 
 bitted dregs of poverty. Still adding to his thousands, 
 he is fearful that he shall come to want, that his im 
 mense riches will be wrested from him by some means 
 or another, and that want will be his inevitable doom. 
 
 Such is the folly, such the madness of men. They 
 will chase a phantom through life, but never grasp it, 
 and are constantly miserable. To be mean and to be 
 happy, is impossible. The kind and benevolent enjoy 
 life, make friends, and pass their days in peace, amid 
 sunshine and flowers. 
 
 Everybody, by pursuing a course like the hero of our 
 story, can become rich, but he must forego the blessing 
 of life, and be the victim of sorrow and despair. To 
 court wealth is to court misery, to secure the ill-will 
 and the hatred of mankind, and to pass through life 
 a detested thing, whose presence will contaminate, 
 whose friendship will destroy. Be contented with vir 
 tuous poverty ; pursue the even tenor of your ways, as 
 your means will allow, and as opportunities present, 
 and you will secure the love and esteem of man, the 
 approbation of God, and finally die lamented by a world 
 which you have made better and happier by your gen 
 erous deeds,' your consistent life, and your blessed ex 
 ample.
 
 THE REVENGE. 
 
 How few who speak a bitter word 
 
 Can tell the pang it gives ! 
 What angry feelings it hath stirred ! 
 
 What malice it revives ! 
 Like a barbed arrow, sure and deep, 
 
 It sinketh in the breast, 
 And though for years it seems to sleep, 
 * 'Tis an unquiet guest. 
 
 " No, I cannot learn a trade," said Clara to her mother, 
 sobbing ; " I cannot do it. What will people say, when 
 they hear that one of the Howels has gone into a tailor's 
 shop, or a mantuamaker's to work ? Oh, I can't do it ; 
 I can't learn a trade." 
 
 " You do not realize, my child," said her . mother. 
 " that I am unable to support you and the other chil 
 dren, now your father is dead, and that something must 
 be done, or we shall soon be in want of the necessaries 
 of life. Would you not rather learn a trade than to 
 have it said that we were supported by charity ? " 
 
 " You can get along, mother, without thinking about 
 my working in a shop. We have never wanted for any 
 thing." 
 
 " The little your father left me is almost gone ; by 
 the utmost care and prudence it will not last over a 
 twelvemonth longer, and then we shall be sadly off with-
 
 340 THE EEVENGE. 
 
 out any income. You must learn a trade, Clara ; and 
 you may as well consent to it first as last." 
 
 "No no I cannot," said the proud girl, sobbing 
 still louder, " I cannot do it. "What would the girls say 
 to see me go to a milliner's shop ? They would all 
 laugh at me. mother, I don't see how you can ex 
 pect me to do it. I would willingly take in nice sew 
 ing, do a little lace work, or teach painting, or keep a 
 school, if I was competent, but I cannot, I cannot learn 
 a trade." 
 
 " My child, you talk very foolish indeed. "Who would 
 laugh at you for working ? Not one of your acquaint 
 ances. They would commend you for it. Now, it is 
 frequently thrown in my teeth, that I support two or 
 three girls in idleness, who are able to earn their own 
 living that I wish to bring them up as ladies, to the 
 ruin of them and myself. There is a great deal of 
 truth, I confess in what they say, and I feel ashamed 
 of it. If I were rich, and able to furnish you with 
 suitable clothing, I would not make this request of you, 
 but as it is, you must do something soon, and you 
 better make up your mind to do it cheerfully." 
 
 " Well, I can't learn a trade," said the daughter, still 
 crying, " I will do any thing else." 
 
 " You must do it, or be compelled to live on the 
 charities of others." 
 
 " If three or four of my acquaintances would go to 
 work in a shop with me, I should not hesitate to go." 
 
 " But the parents of most of your acquaintances are 
 rich, and there is not so much necessity of their learn 
 ing a trade. Your schoolmate, Jane Carlton, has just 
 gone into a shop, and I understand it was by her partic 
 ular request."
 
 THE EEVENGE. 341 
 
 "Jane Carlton is nobody; she never was thought 
 much of, and she has always been used to such kind of 
 work. I hope you do not put her on an equal with me." 
 
 " Certainly, Clara, she is your equal. I am no better 
 off than her mother. She is poor and so am I ; and if 
 it was not too humiliating for Jane to learn a trade, 
 certainly it will not be for you." 
 
 " How you talk, mother. When father was alive, we 
 were well off, and had every thing we needed; but 
 Jane's mother has always been poor,* and she has always 
 associated with a low set of girls." 
 
 " Who do you call low, Clara ? " 
 
 " Why, the Hodge children, and the Nortons, and 
 some others." 
 
 " They are poor, I know, but certainly they are far 
 from being despised, and all of them are honorable and 
 industrious girls. With all their poverty, so long as 
 they are virtuous and behave themselves, they will com 
 mand respect. Now, my child, you must give up your 
 false notions, and conclude to do something to gain a 
 support." 
 
 "I can't learn a trade, and 'there is an end of it," 
 said Clara, and she left the room a little angry with 
 her judicious mother. 
 
 Mrs. Howel had been a widow some eight or ten years. 
 Her husband was a mechanic, and made a good living 
 by his trade. He even laid up a few hundred dollars, 
 which had supported his wife and three children, with 
 what little sewing Mrs. Howel did, for the few past years. 
 Clara was the oldest child, and, as the family grew up, 
 and needed more clothing, her mother had been talking 
 with her of the importance of learning a trade, for it 
 was now impossible for her with her own hands to earn 
 29*
 
 342 THE REVENGE. 
 
 enough to support them all. Clara knew the situation 
 of the family, and yet was too proud to work in a shop 
 and endeavor in this way to assist her poor mother. She 
 had hoped to continue in her. present easy circumstances 
 until something should occur which would place her 
 in a situation where she would not be obliged 'to go out 
 and work ; she might have some property left her by her 
 relations, who were wealthy, or she might get married. 
 But any thing was preferable to learning a trade. 
 
 Month aftor month passed away, and still Clara would 
 not give her consent to work in a shop, when one day her 
 mother said to her, " My child, I have come to the con 
 clusion to have you loarn a trade. My friends have won 
 dered at my keeping you at home doing nothing, while 
 I have to work so hard to support you and the other chil 
 dren ; they say I must never expect any assistance from 
 them while I permit you to live in such idle habits. I 
 am ashamed when they speak to me about it, for I am 
 sensible of the correctness of what they say, and that you 
 ought to earn your own living. You must make up your 
 mind before another week to go to a trade." 
 
 Now came a flood of tears to Clara's eyes, as she said, 
 " I cannot do it. It would be a disgrace to the name 
 of Howel if I should attempt it." 
 
 " You must do it, Clara, and there is an end of it." 
 
 " No ; I will starve first, mother ! I will not go into 
 a shop to work ; any light sewing I will do with pleas 
 ure ; but as to learning a trade, I will never consent to 
 do it." 
 
 In vain did her mother advise and entreat her ; but 
 she persisted in her determination not to obey her and 
 work. The consequence of her course was laid before 
 her. Perhaps sh.3 would be left alone in the world for
 
 THE REVENGE. 343 
 
 her younger sisters to look up to, and in that case, if she 
 had no means of support, the poorhouse must bring her 
 up at last. But Clara did not care ; her friends would 
 not let her come to want ; she should be provided for. 
 What little sewing her mother could obtain for Clara, 
 which the proud girl thought respectable, and without 
 daring to lisp it to any one, she would do ; but it was a 
 trifle indeed that she earned. 
 
 Mrs. Howel had become quite poor ; but her daughter 
 to appear respectable and carry out her foolish caprices 
 and whims, would often stint her food to clothe her 
 back, and make what she considered a decent appearance 
 ia society. As Clara was quite pretty and appeared 
 well, she was waited upon by two or three young men, 
 but they were not altogether to her fancy. They 
 were children of mechanics, who had been brought up to 
 some laborious pursuits, and their hands were too rough, 
 or their countenances too sunburnt, or their prospects 
 were too slim. There was one young man in particular 
 who was strongly attached to Clara. His name was 
 Henry Watson, a steady and industrious youth. He of 
 fered himself to her. 
 
 " What ! " said the proud girl, " do you think I would 
 have a miserable tool of a mechanic ? Do you mean to 
 insult me ? " and her temper was kindled to its highest 
 pitch as she told him to leave the house. Henry was 
 ill prepared for such treatment from one he had always 
 esteemed, and whom he tenderly loved. 
 
 " Clara," said he, as he left the house, " you will 
 regret the manner in which you have treated me. Re 
 member what I say, you will regret it," but she would 
 not hear another word, and the young mechanic went 
 away, resolved .to be diligent in business, and secure a
 
 344 THE REVENGE. 
 
 partner more worthy of himself ; which we are happy to 
 say he soon found, and never had occasion to regret his 
 choice. He removed from the town to a larger place, 
 where his business increased, and he became independent 
 in his circumstances. 
 
 Clara had set her cap for a gentleman, a law student, 
 a minister, or a merchant, she was not very particulai 
 which, so long as he dressed well, talked fashionably 
 about the splendid parties, the beautiful girls, and the 
 respectability of his business. But Clara was doomed 
 to be disappointed. Her mother had become so reduced 
 in her circumstances, that she had by degrees sold off 
 her furniture, so that but very little remained in the 
 house. Her other children, not having the same notion 
 which was so unfortunate in Clara, had just gone to 
 trades, one to a milliner, the other to a mantuamaker. 
 It would be many months before they would earn any 
 thing for themselves, and it was as much as the mother 
 could do to support the family. At this period she told 
 Clara that she was fearful of being obliged to call on the 
 parish for help, and that unless she would consent to do 
 something, her friends would never help her. But the 
 haughty Clara still persisted in having her own way, 
 and even censured her mother for permitting her younger 
 sisters to learn trades. 
 
 In a day or two after this conversation Mrs. Howel 
 was taken sick, and, as her neighbors called in, they were 
 surprised at her destitute circumstances. They did not 
 permit her to suffer for any thing she needed for her 
 comfort, and Clara was as attentive as possible to her 
 mother. She appeared to grow worse day by day. A 
 relation of her husband kindly consented ,to take her 
 two daughters, who were at trades, saying they should
 
 THE REVENGE. 345 
 
 be welcome to their board till their trades were com 
 pleted. This was a great relief to the poor woman, who 
 seemed to get no better, although she received the best 
 of attendance. After lingering a few months, Mrs. 
 Howel died. Her last advice to Clara was to learn some 
 trade, that she might earn her own living. 
 
 " You cannot expect to find such a friend as your 
 mother," said she ; " and in the world you will have 
 much to encounter. If you still indulge in your foolish 
 pride, it will eventually prove your ruin; but if you 
 look upon yourself as you are, a poor, dependent girl, 
 and endeavor to do what is right, you will gain friends, 
 and succeed in what you undertake. Above all, be hum 
 bled at the feet of your Saviour, and learn meekness 
 of him, and do what he commands you, and at last you 
 will meet me in heaven." 
 
 Clara was deeply affected at the death of her mother, 
 as were also her sisters. They followed her to the nar 
 row house appointed for all living, and came away with 
 sad hearts. Clara went to the chamber recently occu 
 pied by her mother, and sat down in her loneliness and 
 wept. Now she thought of the advice of her excellent 
 parent, and how little she had regarded it, what sorrow 
 she had brought upon her, and the anxiety she caused 
 her during her sickness. " Oh, that I had been more obe 
 dient, and appreciated her worth ! " she exclaimed in an 
 agony of feeling ; and she retired to rest to lose her sor 
 row in the arms of sleep. 
 
 Clara occupied the house in which her mother died 
 some few months, occasionally doing some fine sewing. 
 When her sisters had completed their trades, they all 
 kept house, and lived comfortably. Time passed on, 
 and the young women with trades h&d worked hard and
 
 346 THE REVENGE. 
 
 laid by a little money. Their habits were noticed by 
 two brothers who were in business for themselves, and 
 had accumulated a little property by industry and econ 
 omy, and they offered themselves to the young women, 
 who accepted, and the girls became the happy wives of 
 virtuous and kind-hearted men. 
 
 Clara now went to reside with one of her sisters, and 
 was obliged to do most of her work in the kitchen, for 
 the wife continued to do something at her trade, when 
 ever a friend brought in a garment. She thus materi 
 ally assisted her husband ; and while they both exerted 
 themselves it could not be otherwise than they should 
 prosper. 
 
 Though her sister did all she could for her, Clara 
 seemed to be unhappy. She probably felt she had done 
 wrong in not going to a trade when her mother so ur 
 gently requested her. Indeed, she expressed her regret 
 to her sister. If she had been less proud and more obe 
 dient, she might have been as pleasantly situated her 
 self. She felt that she had thought too much of her 
 name and what people would say, especially those young 
 women who now did not care a fig for her, or, if she 
 were in the utmost need, would not raise a finger, or 
 go a rod, to render her assistance. She might have been 
 the happy partner of a young man who had once solic 
 ited her hand, but who, on being rejected, doubtless 
 blessed his stars, and found a devoted wife and an agree 
 able companion in the person of Jane Carlton, the young 
 woman once so lightly esteemed by Clara, but a pattern 
 of industry and moral worth, though in humble circum 
 stances. To see her sisters and some of her companions 
 she once passed with scorn, become so pleasantly and 
 happily situated in life, was calculated to leave no pleas-
 
 THE EEVENGE. 347 
 
 ant reflection on the mind of Clara. She say and she 
 realized what she had lost by her proud spirit, and it 
 was not to be wondered at that she was unhappy, that 
 she was sour and morose in her disposition, and that 
 all the little children ran from her trembling with fear. 
 Clara had now arrived at the age of thirty-five ; but by 
 the disposition which she had nurtured, and the unpleas 
 ant feelings in which she had indulged, she appeared a 
 great deal older. It was the thought of her former con 
 duct and the course she had pursued in her early years, 
 when she was too proud to learn a trade, when requested 
 by one of the best of parents, that preyed so deeply on her 
 spirits. She had rejected, too, the attentions of two or 
 three young men who were then starting in life with a 
 small income, but who were now in good circumstances, 
 making a handsome living, and were blessed with kind 
 and happy companions. To realize that all the blessings 
 of life had once been within her reach and that she had 
 rejected them, was no agreeable subject to reflect upon. 
 And she was growing old, and the prospect was that she 
 would become what she had always despised, and what 
 *she .once was certain she should never become an old 
 maid. As she thought over the matter day by day, and 
 saw how rapidly her face was wrinkling, her hair turn- 
 ing^rav, her teeth decaying, and the color departing 
 IrqAliiT. cheeks, she came to the conclusion, if ever her 
 hancffijbuld be solicited in marriage again, to accept of 
 the very first offer. Any husband would be better than 
 none, and then the disgrace of dying an old maid would 
 be destroyed. Clara had so often put on her best dress, 
 and trimmed up as spruce as possible for the last few 
 years, if haply she might entrap a beau, that she had 
 wellnigh despaired of accomplishing her object. But,
 
 348 THE REVENGE. 
 
 " Never despair while there is life," was her motto, and she 
 persevered in her endeavors to obtain the desideratum. 
 Failing in all her efforts, aijd the years going rapidly by, 
 she at last turned another corner in her life she reached 
 the age of forty years. During the past fifteen or twenty 
 years, she had resided with her sisters, doing the house 
 work, and assisting them in various ways, while they 
 supported her. Clara, or, as we ought to call her now, 
 Miss Howel, had become so soured in her disposition 
 and temper, that she would scold the children for some 
 trifling thing, if not give them a slap, and even speak 
 unkindly to her sisters and friends. She had become so 
 disagreeable that very few indeed had any love or sym 
 pathy for her ; and when she went to visit a friend, she 
 generally left in a miff, or gave some one present a se 
 vere reprimand for some supposed misbehavior. She 
 was a stanch old maid, and had become the butt of rid 
 icule in the neighborhood, so that a thousand jokes were 
 perpetrated upon her by those who knew her disposi 
 tion and conduct. 
 
 As the years flew by, and the prospect became more 
 slim for her to change her situation and secure a com 
 panion, the more strenuous were her efforts to appear 
 agreeable to strangers. Whenever she heard of a wid 
 ower that she could visit, or a gentleman who had passed 
 the meridian of life unmarried, she would coi 
 introduced, or to cross his track with her best i^Jear- 
 ance, so as to attract attention ; but all in vain ; no one 
 seemed to notice poor Miss Howel, or to care a copper 
 farthing for her. 
 
 Time cannot be stayed in its flight, otherwise Clara 
 would never have passed her twenty-fifth birthday ; but 
 the tide rolled on, and she was now in her forty-fifth year,
 
 THE REVENGE. 349 
 
 and not married ; but still she hoped ; trimmed. her dress ; 
 consulted her glass, and endeavored to walk as spry as 
 ever. But Miss Howel was an old maid, and every 
 body knew it. 
 
 One day in her favorite walks she met a gentleman 
 who appeared to be about her own age, who inquired 
 where a neighbor of hers resided. She informed him, 
 while he kindly thanked her, smiled, and went on. 
 " Who knows," thought Clara, " but he is in search of 
 a wife, and merely asked that question as a kind of in 
 troduction to me ? He is a splendid gentleman ! What 
 an eye ! What a manly brow ! But I will ascertain 
 of Mrs. Foster to-night." In her pleasant reverie, Miss 
 Howel passed on, dreaming of pleasure yet to come. 
 
 That night found Clara anxiously inquiring of her 
 neighbor respecting the stranger. Mrs. Foster, who 
 knew her peculiarities, joked her so seriously about get 
 ting a husband, that Miss Howel was quite offended, and 
 rose to .go out in a pet at the moment the stranger en 
 tered the door. He was introduced to Clara as Mr. 
 Jameson, a distant relative of hers. Clara was now full 
 of smiles ; she sat down and conversed as rapidly as she 
 was accustomed to, for upwards of an hour, and then de 
 parted, after strongly inviting Mr. Jameson to call and 
 see her. The stranger was said to be a single man and 
 quite wealthy. He had travelled much, and been con 
 versant with all classes and conditions of men. He had 
 studied human nature, and could read Clara through 
 and through. 
 
 In a day or two he called on Clara, and was free and 
 
 sociable. She returned his 'visit; and the story soon 
 
 spread around the neighborhood that Miss Howel was 
 
 engaged. The story pleased her not a little ; for the 
 
 30
 
 350 THE REVENGE. 
 
 anxiety she manifested to have it so, almost made her 
 believe that she had at last found a beau. The glass 
 was consulted every hour, the curling tongs were sel 
 dom cold, and pink saucers were in great demand. 
 No stone was left unturned, no time was thought to be 
 lost, when spent in adorning her person and heightening 
 her charms. What is more foolish and contemptible than 
 for women of a certain age to pursue such a course ? 
 And yet such cases are not rare. Age seems to give 
 new vigor to their desire for display. 
 
 Mr. Jameson appeared to have serious intentions in 
 visiting and receiving the visits of Clara ; and when he 
 saw the neighborhood really on tiptoe about it, he did 
 not deny that it was actually so, and that even the wed 
 ding-day was appointed. Although Clara had no such 
 intimations from him to that effect, she readily believed 
 what her neighbors said, and actually undertook to make 
 preparations for the ceremony. Mr. Jameson was a little 
 astonished one day, when Miss Howel remarked, " Had 
 we better make any display at the wedding ? " But he 
 replied, " Oh, no ; we may as well have but a small num 
 ber present." 
 
 " As you think best, my dear," said Clara ; " but I 
 should like to disappoint some of our neighbors, who 
 are so inquisitive, and not let them know a lisp about 
 the time. It will be in season for them to know after 
 the ceremony is performed." 
 
 The day for the marriage of Miss Howel was ap 
 pointed. A number of guests had been invited, and the 
 minister had arrived, and every thing was in readiness 
 for the performance of the ceremony but the presence 
 of the bridegroom. Mr. Jameson had left town that 
 afternoon on very urgent business, and was expected to
 
 THE EEVENGE. 351 
 
 arrive at dusk ; but he still lingered. An hour passed 
 and they were fearful lest some accident had befallen 
 him, when presently a young man in great haste ap 
 peared at the door, inquiring for Miss Howell. He pre 
 sented her a letter, and hurried away. She opened it 
 trembling, and began to read its contents, when she 
 gave a shriek, fell, and was hurried to her chamber. 
 In the midst of the confusion, the clergyman took the 
 letter, and, after the excitement had in some measure 
 subsided, read its contents to the company, as follows : 
 
 " Miss HOWELL, Do you recollect some twenty-five or 
 thirty years ago, your hand was solicited in marriage by 
 a young mechanic, and that you ordered him from the 
 house ? Do you remember his language to you, that at 
 some future day you would bitterly regret that step ? 
 You do remember it, and now I have my revenge. I 
 ask no more. HENRY WATSON." 
 
 The assembly were dumb with astonishment. They 
 dispersed, each to his abode, conversing on the strange 
 affair. Some pitied Clara, others condemned, while 
 they all pronounced the revenge a just but a cruel one. 
 
 Miss Howell kept her room for a few days ; but after 
 that she was seldom seen in company. She lived to the 
 age of about sixty, and died an old maid. 
 
 Those who despise work, and turn with disgust from 
 industry, must not expect to prosper. Though they 
 may flourish for a season, the time must come when 
 they will regret their course, and mourn bitterly over 
 their follies. Many a girl has lived in misery and died 
 in poverty, destitute of sympathizing friends, who might 
 have been happy, had numerous friends, and died on.
 
 352 THE REVENGE. 
 
 the bosom of love and friendship, had she not turned 
 from her young men of worth and industry, because 
 they were poor, and clothed in a coarse exterior. To be 
 sure of success in life, be industrious, let your smiles 
 and your approbation fall as often on 'the poor as the 
 rich, the humble as the distinguished, and you will gain 
 friends, 43e respected, and pass your days in peace and 
 happiness.
 
 AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Ye who are tempted to depart 
 
 From Virtue's heavenly way, 
 To whom is held the maddening cup 
 
 To lead your hearts astray, 
 Resolve, as long as reason holds 
 
 Her empire in your soul, 
 You will not touch or look upon 
 
 The false and damning bowl. 
 
 I WAS riding through the pleasant town of Gorham, 
 in company with a friend, several years since, on a de 
 lightful day in autumn. When we had passed the vil 
 lage, and were perhaps a mile beyond, a young woman 
 came rushing into the road from a small dwelling, ex 
 claiming to us " Stop, sirs, stop." Without uttering 
 another word, she ran back. We instantly stopped our 
 horse, jumped from the chaise, and entered the house. 
 The first scene presented to us was a man with a knife 
 in his hand, swearing vengeance upon a half-frantic wo 
 man, who was endeavoring to prevent him from stab 
 bing her, as he was attempting to do. Two or three 
 young children were screaming, while the little furni 
 ture was scattered all about the room. Soon as the 
 man saw us, he exclaimed with an oath, " Enter this 
 door, and you are dead men ! Be off, or I will run you 
 80*
 
 354 AN 'AD VENTURE. * 
 
 
 
 through ! " Fearing every moment the madman, as he 
 appeared to be, would stab the poor woman to the heart, 
 wo made a rush towards him, and before he had an op 
 portunity to carry his threat into execution, we had him 
 secure. The instrument we snatched from his hand, 
 and with the assistance of the young lady, secured him 
 with a rope. Never did a man use more threatening 
 language than he, while we were laboring to prevent 
 him from doing an injury to the woman and ourselves. 
 It was some time after we had secured the wretch, be 
 fore the lady recovered herself sufficiently to relate the 
 cause of the affair. 
 
 Mr. Sentese was hqr husband, to whom she had been 
 married eighteen or twenty years. For the first few 
 years of her wedded life he had trea'ted her with the u'> 
 most kindness, and they had prospered on their little 
 farm. About a dozen years before he commenced the 
 use of ardent spirit, and from that time he was an al 
 tered man. The habit of intemperance had been grow 
 ing upon him, so that it was no uncommon thing to re 
 ceive abuse from him. He had now been constantly 
 drunk for about a week, and without any provocation, at 
 tempted to take the life of his wife. Had not Ellen, her 
 daughter, seen and hailed us as we were passing, she 
 continued, " I have no doubt my life would have been 
 sacrificed." 
 
 After hearing the tale of wrong from the lips of the 
 wife and mother, we could not but feel a deep interest 
 in her welfare, and sympathize with the more than fa 
 therless children. What course to pursue, we were not 
 long in deciding. My friend, whom I shall call Mr. 
 
 T , went to the village for an officer to arrest the 
 
 monster, while I remained in the farmhouse.
 
 AN ADVENTUEE. 355 
 
 But very little furniture was found in the rooms, 
 yet every thing looked neat and ^tidy about the house, 
 which spoke well for Mrs. Sentese. She had managed 
 to keep her children from rags, and also to give them 
 better instruction than could have been expected. Her 
 eldest daughter, Ellen, was quite a pretty miss of some 
 sixteen years, and her behavior on this occasion bespoke 
 an excellent mind. In our communication with her, we 
 found her quite intelligent, but she felt deeply the wound 
 that had been inflicted on the family by the intemperance 
 of her father, as the occasional tears testified. 
 
 In the course of an hour Mr. T returned with an 
 
 officer, and the depraved and wretched husband and par 
 ent was carried away. We stopped for a short time 
 only, and as we departed from the house, we received 
 the thanks of the mother and all the children. " We 
 will never forget your kindness," said Ellen ; " and if 
 you ever come this way, we shall be happy to have you 
 call and see us." 
 
 " Depend upon it, we shall," we replied, and started 
 on our journey, while the mother and children watched 
 us from the door till we had driven out of sight. 
 
 It was about two years after the circumstance just re 
 lated, that Mr. T and myself were returning from 
 
 Standish, when he remarked, " Let us call at the house 
 we stopped at some time since, where they had the 
 trouble with the intemperate husband. As I have never 
 seen or heard from them since, I feel a curiosity to know 
 what has become of them." 
 
 " Agreed," said I ; and in a short tune our horse was 
 hitched at the door. 
 
 We knocked, and presently Ellen appeared. She rec-
 
 356 AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 ognized us at once, and, after a hearty shake of the hand, 
 we were politely invited to walk in. The old lady was 
 as glad as her daughter to see us. They had often won 
 dered why we did not call upon them ; " and we have 
 glorious news to tell you," remarked the mother. 
 '' Since that dreadful affair, Mr. Sentese has become a-re- 
 .formed man. For two years past, I believe, not a drop 
 of spirit has entered his lips. When he came to him 
 self, and knew what he had done, he could hardly be 
 lieve it, and from that time he resolved never to touch 
 another glass of rum, and he has sacredly kept his res 
 olution. He has been one of the best of husbands and 
 fathers ever since. He works hard every day, and now 
 we have all the necessaries of life. Perhaps you have 
 noticed the difference in the appearance of our rooms. 
 "We do not look so poverty-stricken as we did two years 
 ago. gentlemen, we cannot feel too thankful for 
 your timely assistance ! Had you not come in as you 
 did, how differently might the affair have terminated ! " 
 
 Just at this time, Mr. Sentese entered the room. "When 
 we were introduced to him, with tears in his eyes, he re 
 gretted the course he formerly pursued, and thanked 
 God that he had become another man. Together we 
 remained more than an hour, and were about taking 
 our departure, fearing we should not return home till 
 late, when he strongly urged us to remain for the night. 
 We refused at first, but when Ellen and her mother 
 seemed so anxious for us to stop with them, we finally 
 concluded to let Mr. Sentese put up our horse. We 
 never passed a more agreeable time, and in no strange 
 house were we ever so much at home. 
 
 As we retired for the night, Mr. T said to me,
 
 AN ADVENTUEE. 357 
 
 " What a beautiful girl Ellen has become ! So free and 
 easy in her manners ; so artless, and yet so dignified ! " 
 To which I could not but assent. 
 
 In the morning, Ellen arose early and prepared break 
 fast, of which we heartily partook, at the same time en 
 gaging in pleasant conversation. It was two or three 
 hours after breakfast before we were ready to start, and 
 then my friend and Ellen did not seem to get half through 
 with what they had to say. 
 
 Riding slowly along, I found Mr. T often in a 
 
 brown study. He confessed that he had been peculiarly 
 struck with the appearance of the young lady. 
 
 " But this wont do," said I, " for you are engaged to 
 Miss ." 
 
 " I know it, but how can I help it ? She appears so" 
 amiable, besides being so beautiful. I must confess I 
 love her." 
 
 " You will soon forget her." 
 
 " Perhaps not. She has made a deep impression on 
 iny mind, there is no dispute about it." 
 
 Thus conversing, we jogged along, enjoying the varied 
 scenery in the wood, till we arrived at Portland. 
 
 Not many months passed before my friend T was 
 
 married to Miss , and in a short time after, he left 
 
 his native city to do business in another place.
 
 358 AN ADVENTUBE. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 At home abroad thy constant love, 
 
 With influence divine, 
 Like to a flame from heaven above 
 
 Will all around me shine : 
 And should a cloud of sorrow rise, 
 
 To shade life's blissful day, 
 Thy love will brighten all the skies, 
 , And drive the storm away. 
 
 PROUT'S NECK! who has not visited this delightful 
 place ? A dozen miles from Portland, through one of 
 the pleasantest woods in the world, this neck is a re 
 treat for all the lovers of the grand and the beautiful in 
 nature. The huge rocks and sandy beaches, with the 
 sea stretching far away in the distance, present a scene 
 that no admirer of God's works can gaze upon and not 
 feel emotions of pleasure. We love to visit Prout's 
 Neck ask the Libbys and old Prout himself if we 
 don't for there we spend many a pleasant and profita 
 ble hour. Beckett and myself, when wearied with edi 
 torial and city life, often take our guns or our lines, 
 and direct our course to the Neck, feeling all the better 
 for the jaunt. 
 
 One beautiful day last summer, as we were riding 
 leisurely along, towards the residence of old Prout, our 
 guns in the chaise, loaded and capped, ready for execu 
 tion should we see any thing worth firing at, we discov 
 ered a large bird on an out-building. Seizing my gun, 
 I jumped from the chaise and hastened towards the crea 
 ture. When within gunshot, I discharged my piece, and 
 down fell the bird. A woman who lived in the first 
 house came out and inquired what I had shot. As I
 
 AN ADVENTUKE. 359 
 
 showed her the bird, she looked up smiling, and said, 
 " Have I not seen you before ? " 
 
 " I cannot say. Your countenance looks familiar to 
 me." 
 
 " Isn't your name Mr. ? " 
 
 " That is my name." 
 
 " Why, sir, how glad I am to see you. Don't you 
 know me ? " 
 
 " I'm sure I do not." 
 
 " My name was Ellen Sentese before I was married." 
 
 At once I recognized her. Five years had altered her 
 a little, but she had the same sweet voice and pleasant 
 look. Requesting friend Beckett to wait a few moments, 
 I stepped into the house, when Ellen informed me that 
 she had been married about three years. " I lived hi 
 Gorham," said she, " with my parents, until I removed 
 with my husband to Bath, three years ago, where he was 
 in business. He thought that he should prefer a farm, 
 and that it would be better for his health than to remain 
 longer in trade, accordingly, about four months since, 
 he quit his place, and but recently removed here." 
 
 " Are you pleased with your new situation ? " I in 
 quired. 
 
 " Very much. I can have a view of the salt water from 
 our back window, and that is always pleasant to me ; and 
 you see we are pretty well supplied with delightful trees. 
 This is a beautiful situation." 
 
 " So I think. But how are yoar parents ? " 
 
 " Quite well. Mother's health has not been remarka 
 bly good for the last year or two ; but she keeps about ; 
 and father is as healthy as ever, and in good spirits, too. 
 Ever since he left off drinking, he has been another man. 
 He is as kind a father as one could wish to have. Yes-
 
 360 AN ADYENTURfi. 
 
 terday father and mother were here and spent the day. 
 It was the first time they have been here since we re 
 moved from Bath. They are delighted with the place." 
 
 " But your husband I don't know ; where is he ? " 
 
 " He has gone over to Mr. Libby's, and will return 
 very soon. I think you have seen him." 
 
 " I have no doubt you have a good husband." 
 
 " There never was a better one. He was a widower 
 when I married him. That little girl sitting in the 
 rocking-chair is a child by his first wife, and a beautiful 
 thing she is. I don't see but I love her as well as I do 
 my own child. Mary, go and see the gentleman. Go, 
 don't be bashful, dear." 
 
 The little thing came slowly along. I took up the 
 child, which was indeed a fine one. 
 
 " What is your name ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Mary T ," said she. 
 
 " Mary T * , did I understand her ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Ellen. 
 
 " Is your husband any relation to my old friend, Mr. 
 T ? '* 
 
 " It is the same." 
 
 At that moment Mr. T made his appearance, 
 
 anc. never was I more pleased to see an individual. I 
 bad not seen him before for several years, and knew not 
 till then that his former wife was not living. He 
 briefly related to me the incidents of his life since we 
 parted five years before. He lived with his first wife 
 but about two years, when consumption, that disease so 
 prevalent in this climate, carried her off. She was 
 
 every thing a woman could be, and Mr. T loved her 
 
 tenderly and affectionately. To repair his loss, he knew 
 not where to look, excepting to Miss Sentese as much
 
 AN ADVENTURE. 361 
 
 like his wife as two beings could be. For this purpose, 
 he paid a visit to Gorham, was kindly received, his re 
 quest granted, and he again became a happy man. 
 Tired of mercantile life, he purchased a farm, where he 
 hoped to enjoy himself with his family. After spend 
 ing half an hour in pleasant conversation with these 
 friends, I left them, assuring them that I should often 
 call at their house it being directly on the road to 
 Prout's Neck, my favorite resort. 
 
 No wonder Beckett exclaimed, as I jumped into the 
 chaise, " I thought you had concluded to spend the day 
 in the house ! Who in the world did you find there 
 that you were acquainted with ? " 
 
 The whole story was immediately told him, as we pro 
 ceeded to the Neck. "We enjoyed ourselves in gunning 
 and fishing, and returned at night, with better spirits, to 
 engage in the turmoils of business. 
 
 It is seldom I go to Prout's Neck when I do not call 
 
 at the house of Mr. T . I always find Ellen the 
 
 same cheerful and agreeable woman. 
 31
 
 Temptations thicken as we yield, 
 
 And seem less fatal too ; 
 And every step in uice we take, 
 
 'Tis easier to pursue. 
 Once past the bounds of virtuous life, 
 
 Our feet will swiftly glide, 
 Till we are borne with rapid force 
 
 Down, down destruction's tide. 
 
 " I SHALL have as many favors as you, Bill, and get 
 along as comfortably, if I do occasionally provoke the 
 old man." 
 
 " No, Dick, I think not. Mr. Porter is a man who 
 says but little, yet he knows when we are faithful to him 
 and perform our duty as we ought, and will remember 
 it when we ask him a favor." 
 
 " That's what you always say ; but I know better. 
 Do you suppose he knew that I took a half-day when he 
 was absent ? "or that he thinks more highly of you for 
 sticking to your work ? " 
 
 " Whether he knows or not, I know I did my duty, 
 and if he ever finds it out, I shall not be censured. I 
 shall always endeavor to perform my duty." 
 
 " And a big fool you are, Bill, for that. I intend to 
 enjoy myself as often as I can ; but I'don't think there 
 is any wrong in taking an hour's time, working as hard
 
 THE TWO APPEENTICES. 363 
 
 as we do ; and as often as I get an opportunity, I shall 
 go away." 
 
 " I shall not, but will endeavor to discharge my duty, 
 and then no fault can be found." 
 
 " I tell you what you are after, Bill ; it is to curry fa 
 vor with the old man in hopes to be benefited by it ; but 
 I tell you you are deceiving yourself, and so you will 
 find out in the end. You will succeed no better than 
 I shall." 
 
 " You wrong me, Dick. I wish to do only what is 
 right what I promised to do when Mr. Porter took me 
 to learn the cabinet-maker's trade. You know I do no 
 more than my duty." 
 
 " Your same old story, Bill. But I don't want to 
 hear such stuff. I will have a scrape, now and then, 
 and the old man shall be no wiser for it." 
 
 Richard Jackson and William Leighton were the ap 
 prentices of Mr. Porter. They Were nearly of the same 
 age, and had been in the employ of Mr. Porter for about 
 two years, learning the trade of a cabinet-maker. 
 Richard was a headstrong, unprincipled boy, who was 
 determined to be under no restraint. Whenever he 
 "was checked in any wrong, course, or his errors were 
 pointed out to him by his master, instead of being 
 sorry for the past, and striving to do better for the fu 
 ture, he would make some unkind reply, or grumble a 
 long while to himself. If he should be reproved for 
 using a profane word, he would say, just loud enough 
 for his companion to hear, " I will swear as much as I 
 please," or, "It is none of your business what I do," 
 and the like. Having lost his father at an early age, he 
 had been brought up by a too indulgent mother, who 
 had but little if any government over her boy$ and so
 
 364 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 
 
 he was suffered to go on unrestrained in evil paths, 
 contracting bad habits, until his mother had obtained 
 for him a situation with Mr. Porter. 
 
 William was a kind-hearted, obedient lad. It was 
 not often that he was reproved by his master ; but 
 sometimes, when influenced by his companion, he 
 would forget his duty and do a wrong act. But when 
 he was checked in his course, he would manifest his 
 sorrow by his looks, and sometimes the tear would fall 
 from his eye, while he told Richard that he would not 
 be guilty of such a thing again. It was his general 
 endeavor to give satisfaction to his master, and to do 
 nothing behind his back which he would not approve if 
 he were presnt. Although he was frequently sneered 
 at by his fellow-apprentice, and called a simpleton anl a 
 fool, he heeded it not, but made the interest of his mas 
 ter his study. William had been brought up in a good 
 family. His parents spared no pains to train him to 
 virtue, leaving on his mind the impression that truth and 
 integrity will finally triumph over vice and error. And 
 this was the doctrine he endeavored to teach his com 
 panion, who derided and laughed at him for his folly. 
 
 One day when Mr. Porter was absent from town, a 
 gentleman called at the shop, stating that he had a lit 
 tle job which he wished to have done immediately, as 
 he must leave the place that night. < 
 
 " We can't do it ourselves," said Richard ; " and Mr. 
 Porter is away." 
 
 " Oh, yes, we can, Mr." said William ; " I know we can 
 doit." " 
 
 " We cannot, sir," said the other ; " they'll do it for 
 you in the shop below ; " and then he turned to Wil 
 liam, saying in a whisper, " What a fool you are ! Let
 
 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 365 
 
 the man go. I aint going to work myself to death foi 
 nothing." 
 
 The gentleman had started for the door, when "Wil 
 liam ran to him and said, " If you will leave your job, 
 it shall be done, I assure you." 
 
 " I must have it to-night," said the man. 
 
 " Walk in and tell me just what you want ; I will as 
 sure you of its being done, and to your satisfaction." 
 
 'The gentleman gave the direction to the apprentice, 
 and left the shop. He had no sooner gone than Richard 
 let loose his temper on his companion. " I shall not 
 help you," said he, " for you had no business to engage 
 the job. I never saw so big a simpleton in all my life. 
 To-day we might have had some fine sport, and no one 
 would have been the wiser for it, and now you have 
 taken in a plaguy job." 
 
 " But Mr. Porter would have taken in the work had 
 he been at home," said William, " and I feel bound to 
 look out for his interest, and I always shall. Whether 
 you help me or not, as I have promised, the work shall 
 be done to-night." 
 
 So William took hold of the job ; he kept close to his 
 bench, spending but a few minutes to his 'dinner, and just 
 before dark he had the work completed. When the gen 
 tleman called, he appeared well pleased with the work 
 manship, praised the lad for fulfilling his promise, and 
 paid him two dollars for the job. 
 
 " I like industry and punctuality in a boy," said the 
 stranger, " and, as these traits appear to be in you I 
 know you will succeed." 
 
 As a mark of his esteem, he handed him twenty-five 
 cents for his own use, and departed. He had no sooner 
 31
 
 366 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 
 
 gone, than Richard said, " Let us keep the two dollars 
 for spending money. The old man will never know any 
 thing about it." 
 
 " By no means," replied "William ; " I did the job my 
 self in the time belonging to Mr. Porter, and the money 
 is his and he shall have it." 
 
 " But he wont thank you for it. If you are not a fool 
 you will keep it." 
 
 " It would be the same as stealing if I should take it ; 
 and that sin I will never be guilty of." 
 
 " No, it would not. Sometimes the old man has sent 
 me to buy articles for him, and I have kept part of the 
 change, a few cents, perhaps, to buy apples or nuts with, 
 and I will do the same again. As long as I buy things 
 to eat with his money, it is not wrong." 
 
 " Most certainly it is, Richard, unless you can get his 
 consent. ' It is something I would never do." 
 
 As Mr. Porter would not return till the next day, 
 William folded the two dollars in* a piece of paper and 
 put it in one corner of his pocket, so that he might be 
 sure and not lose it. He and Richard retired together 
 but as William had worked hard, he soon fell asleep. 
 His companion, as soon as he discovered this, slid easily 
 from the bed and took the money from the pocket of 
 the faithful boy and hid it in the crevice of the chimney, 
 and then as softly went to his bed again. 
 
 The next day, as soon as they were dressed, William 
 felt in his pocket for the two dollars, and discovered 
 that the money was gone. With tears in his eyes, he 
 accused Richard of taking it,. " for," said he, " the last 
 thing I did before going to bed was to look at the money, 
 and no one has been here but you."'
 
 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 367 
 
 " You are a liar," said Richard, with an oath ; " I 
 have not seen your money ; you have probably misplaced 
 it, and now you accuse me- of stealing ! " 
 
 William felt in each of his pockets, turned them inside 
 out, felt again, and then turned over his' clothes in his 
 trunk, looked about the floor, and everywhere he could 
 think of, but without success. " Now tell me, Dick, 
 have you not got that money ? " 
 
 '^ Have I not told you once or twice ? Yet you accuse 
 me of stealing. It is more than likely you have spent 
 it yourself, and the old man ought to know it." 
 
 " I shall tell him myself, when he comes home.'" 
 
 " But he wont believe you. He'll give you a jawing, 
 and more than likely turn you away. I would rather 
 keep it a secret." 
 
 William went to work with a sad heart. He had 
 earned two dollars for his master, by working hard, and 
 it was lost. The thought would sometimes enter his 
 mind that he had better conceal it from his master ; 
 but then he would say to himself that it was his duty to 
 let him know about it. 
 
 When Mr. Porter came home, the faithful lad related 
 the whole affair, but he was not censured. . " Perhaps 
 you may yet find the money," said his master ; " but if 
 you should not, don't let it trouble you." 
 
 William did not tell Mr. Porter that he suspected that 
 his companion had stolen it, although he had no doubt 
 in his own mind that such was the case. 
 
 A year or more had passed away since the two dollars 
 were taken, when one night Richard said to his compan 
 ion, " Bill, what do you suppose I am going to do to-mor 
 row?" 
 
 " I'm sure I cannot tell ; but I hope nothing wrong."
 
 368 THE TWO APP3ENHCES. 
 
 " I'm going to leave the old man. I am tired of work 
 ing in the shop. I can get better wages in Boston or 
 Now York, and I am determined to go to one place or 
 the other." 
 
 " A foolish idea, Dick ; you had better remain where 
 you are. Here you have friends, and if you are sick or 
 destitute you know where to go ; but if you leave, you 
 will be among strangers ; and if you are successful and 
 get business, you may not turn out well. You certainly 
 cannot get a better place, or find a better master." 
 
 " I shall go to-morrow, Bill, and you are a fool for 
 staying here. I can get double the wages in Boston, 
 and can be my own man." 
 
 " But you will be a runaway boy, and will always 
 be ashamed to come home and see your friends, even 
 if you should succeed and prosper." 
 
 " I'm tired of this place, and shall never care about 
 returning. But don't tell the old man where I am gone, 
 for he might take a notion to send after me." 
 
 William advised him, with all the arguments in his 
 power, not to think of leaving his place, but it. was of 
 no avail. The next day came, and Richard had left his 
 place. Mr. Porter simply remarked, " I am sorry for 
 the boy ; he will not find such good friends away ; and 
 he may get into bad company, and be ruined." 
 
 That week, on reckoning up what he had received and 
 paid away, Mr. Porter missed six or eight dollars, and 
 how to account for it he did not know, unless Richard 
 had been dishonest and taken it away. But, as he had 
 no proof, and did not know but he might have lost it 
 himself, he said nothing about it. The place of Rich 
 ard was immediately supplied by another youth, and
 
 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 369 
 
 the change was not regretted by William or any member 
 of the family. 
 
 As the years passed away, "William continued faithful 
 to his employer, passing his leisure hours in reading or 
 writing, and thus improving his mind. Young Leighton 
 became one-and-twenty, the age when all apprentices 
 are free from their masters, and are at liberty to go 
 where they please, and to work for whom they feel dis 
 posed. As Mr. Porter had become attached to William 
 he made a proposition to enter into full copartnership, 
 and carry on business together. This he was pleased 
 to do ; but his passion for study had so increased, that 
 after a few month's work, he relinquished his business, 
 and gave his whole attention to study. A friend of 
 Leighton, an able lawyer, persuaded him to study in his 
 office, which he consented to do. He possessed a fine, 
 discriminating mind, and improved rapidly in his studies. 
 In a year or two, he was admitted to the bar, and was 
 pronounced by good judges a man of talents, well versed 
 in his profession. As a pleader or a counsellor, few 
 were his superiors, and his business rapidly increased. 
 
 Leighton had practised at the bar some five or six 
 years, when he was put up as a candidate for represent 
 ative to Congress. He met with a little opposition, but was 
 elected by a large majority. In the House of Represent 
 atives, he did honor to himself and to the district whose 
 united voice had sent him there. Few spoke better or" 
 more to the purpose ; yet he was modest and unassum 
 ing. He knew when to speak, and how to address the 
 assembly, and thus won laurels to which hundreds as 
 pired, yet died without winning. 
 
 During a congressional session, a gentleman stopped 
 at the boarding-house of Mr. Leighton, .and informed
 
 370 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 
 
 him that a man who was in prison was very anxious to 
 sec him, and urgently requested that he might call 
 The first leisure hour ho had, the stranger accompanied 
 him to the cell, where, haggard aud dirty, was chained 
 a human being. 
 
 " Sir," said the prisoner, " I learn that you reside in 
 
 S . That is my native place. I am now under 
 
 sentence of death for highway robbery. It is right that 
 I should suffer ; but I am among strangers ; no one 
 knows me, no one cares for me. Soon I shall receive 
 the just deserts of a life of crime. But I had a mother 
 
 once in S , and also a friend. My object in sending 
 
 for you is this : if my mother is living, and has heard 
 of my life of .crime, I wanl; her *to know that I died a 
 penitent; that her counsels and admonitions are re 
 membered in my last hours. But I pray she may never 
 know the end to which I come. Pray, sir, keep this a 
 secret. My mother's name is Jackson. Do you know 
 of such a woman ? " 
 
 " What, widow Mary Jackson ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; do you know her ? " 
 
 " And are you her son Richard ? " 
 
 " I am indeed, sir." 
 
 " My dear man," said Leighton, grasping the pris 
 oner 'by the hand and weeping ; " can it be possible ? 
 Is this Richard Jackson ? " and the tears fell fast. 
 
 " Sir, you astonish me," said the prisoner. " Have 
 you seen me before ? Have I robbed you ? sir, tell 
 me ! " 
 
 " I was your early friend, your fellow-apprentice, 
 William Leighton." 
 
 " God ! am I dreaming ? Can it be ? " and the 
 poor man clasped him, weeping like a child.
 
 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 871 
 
 After a few moments, Jackson exclaimed, "Have I 
 come to this ? have I come to this ? " and he wept still 
 more. " Oh, that I had taken your excellent advice, 
 when you besought me to look out for my master's in 
 terest when I was a boy. Would to Heaven I had never 
 left my excellent place ! "* continued he, still weeping ; 
 and it was a long time before he could restrain his tears. 
 At last, Jackson briefly stated his career of vice. When 
 he left his master, he went to Boston, where he worked 
 for a few weeks, spending his money with idle and vi 
 cious companions as fast as he earned it. Thence he 
 started for New York. Here ho commenced work again, 
 with the determination to keep aloof from bad company, 
 but he had a vicious propensity ; he contracted bad hab 
 its ; became intemperate, and was dishonest. He had 
 been in jail two or three times for petty theft, and after 
 wards served two or three years in the state prison. He 
 had now become hardened in sin and lived by fraud and 
 plunder. From one degree of crime to another he 
 passed, stealing whenever he found an opportunity, till 
 at last, he took to the highways, and was finally appre 
 hended, had his trial, and was condemned to suffer for 
 his crime on the gallows. He confessed that he stole 
 the two dollars from Leighton's pocket when he was 
 asleep, and also took from eight to ten dollars from Mr. 
 Porter before he ran away. " Such has been my 
 course," said he ; " but I can censure none but myself. 
 You gave me good advice ; you set an excellent example 
 before me ; but I heeded it not, and now I receive the 
 just deserts of my folly. My poor mother ! how she will 
 grieve when she hears of the death of her erring son ! 
 but may God sustain her." 
 
 Mr. Leighton did little else but weep as his early friend
 
 372 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 
 
 related his coi\rse of vice, his deeds of darkness ; he could 
 now only point him to his God, and bid him seek that 
 forgiveness from above of which he now stood in so 
 much need. 
 
 Till the day of his execution, Mr. Leighton was a con 
 stant visitor to the cell of the prisoner. He never con 
 versed with him, when he did not regret his vicious 
 practices, his spurning good advice, and leaving his kind 
 employer. During the last hour of his life, by Jack 
 son's particular request, Mr. Leighton was with him. 
 He addressed a few words to the spectators, besought 
 them to live a virtuous life, and while young not to 
 take a farthing that belonged to another, and never, on 
 any consideration, to leave a good place and a good mas 
 ter. " This," said he, " and I wish all the young men 
 in the land could hear me, this has been my ruin. 
 Had I listened to good advice, had I obeyed my master, 
 I should never have come to this ignominious end." 
 
 He bid adieu to his friend, thanked him for his kind 
 nesses, invoked the blessing of Heaven upon him and 
 his aged mother, spent a few moments in prayer, rose, 
 and was launched into eternity. 
 
 Young men, for no trifling cause, should leave their 
 employers. The hope of doing better and becoming 
 their own masters is a trifling excuse. Where one 
 succeeds better in the end, hundreds are lost. Bad hab 
 its are indulged, injurious connections are formed, and 
 a thousand evils contracted which eventually prove their 
 ruin. Seek your master's interest, obey his just com 
 mands, and you will never regret this course to the latest 
 period of life.
 
 DON'T BE DISCOURAGED. 
 
 In sorrow yield not to despair, 
 
 Or be in grief depressed, 
 Nor let the plants of anguish bear 
 
 Their fruit within your breast. 
 Look up in doubt, look up in fear 
 
 Joy gathers in the sky ; 
 And when Misfortune's storms are near, 
 
 You'll see a blessing nigh. 
 
 EDWARD HARRIS had been in business for himself sev 
 eral years. For the first twelvemonth and more, he 
 succeeded better than he had anticipated, and was able 
 to pay his creditors, and obtain a larger amount of goods. 
 When Edward started in business for himself, he had 
 no other capital than an honest heart and a virtuous life, 
 yet he found no difficulty in obtaining what stock he 
 needed. What young Harris made the first year, he 
 lost by bad debts the second, and when his notes became 
 due, it was with difficulty that he met them promptly. 
 He was often obliged to hire money of the brokers, 
 paying a large premium, so as to preserve his credit and 
 meet his demands. In this way Edward went behind 
 hand, and every month his affairs were in a worse con 
 dition, till at last he was obliged to have his notes pro 
 tested. It was a severe stroke to the young man, and it 
 lay heavy upon his mind. Sometimes it was with dif- 
 32
 
 o74 DON'T BE DISCOURAGED. 
 
 ftculty that lie closed his eyes at night. Having a young 
 family dependent upon him, he felt his situation more 
 keenly ; but he had the satisfaction of knowing that he 
 had done the best in his power to succeed in business. 
 When his creditors found their notes against him had 
 been protested, some of them wrote him unfeeling let 
 ters, saying he might have known his situation before 
 purchasing goods, and that he should have managed his 
 affairs so as to secure them. He wrote in reply, that he 
 should still exert himself in their behalf, and if they 
 would wait patiently and not put him to unnecessary 
 trouble and expense, he would endeavor to pay them 
 every cent. A few of his creditors believed him to be an 
 honest but an unfortunate young man, and they agreed 
 not to trouble him, but wait until he was able to deal 
 justly by them. Other creditors were not so kind ; they 
 censured him severely, and demanded immediate pay 
 ment, and to secure themselves they sent their demands 
 to lawyers, instructing them to attach whatever property 
 they could get at. Edward was exceedingly annoyed 
 by the sheriffs, constables, and lawyers, who picked up 
 every dollar's worth of property they could lay their 
 hands upon, charging him with costs, after selling it for 
 half its value. 
 
 When Edward failed, he was owing a broker several 
 hundred dollars, for which he was paying at the rate 
 of from thirty to forty per cent. None of his creditors 
 were more alarmed than this man. Every few days he 
 called upon young Harris, to inquire if he could do 
 any thing for him ; he would take twenty dollars, five 
 dollars, or any thing that he could spare, and endorse 
 it on his duebill. " You know I have always accommo 
 dated you," said he, " and let you have money when you
 
 DON'T BE DISCOUHAGED. 375 
 
 wanted it ; and money, you know, is not like goods on 
 which you make a profit ; and you must not' let mo lose. 
 Haven't you some security that you can give me ? " 
 
 Edward ascured the broker that he should not lose by 
 him in the end, if he would be patient ; but as for secu 
 rity, he had none to give. But the moneyed man was not 
 satisfied ; week after week he called upon him, till at last 
 the young merchant was obliged to tell him, that unless 
 he would be patient he could never pay him a cent. 
 As soon as he was able to do any thing for him, ho 
 would not be backward, he assured him, but pay him a 
 little at a time. The broker murmured, spoke of it as 
 being a hard case, when he had been so very accommo 
 dating, but still was not disposed to let the poor fellow 
 alone, but must needs torment him by reminding him of 
 his debt every time he had an opportunity. H3 seemed 
 fearful lest Edward should forget the obligation he 
 was under to him, for his unparalleled kindness and gen 
 erosity in loaning him money from time to time, at the 
 rate of thirty or forty per cent. 
 
 What course now to pursue, it was difficult for Ed 
 ward to determine. If he had a friend to assist him, he 
 might do well ; but his credit was gone, and he could 
 not purchase goods. While settling up his affairs, as a 
 relief to his mind, he would take a walk out of the city 
 into the woods, and listen to the singing of the bird?, 
 or watch the little stream that murmured along. For 
 a while he would forget his situation in viewing the 
 beauties of nature. 
 
 Although Edward was in such low circumstances, he 
 did not suffer himself wholly to despair. At times he 
 would look to the future, and fancy he saw it pregnant 
 with blessings. To yield to discouraging circumstances
 
 376 DON'T BE DISCOURAGED. 
 
 he had ever been taught was not the policy of true wis 
 dom. If he were alone in the world, he often said, he 
 could bear his misfortunes with more fortitude ; but a 
 wife and one or two children were dependent upon him 
 and must necessarily suffer with him. 
 
 One day, as Edward was taking his accustomed walk 
 in the woods, he strayed further than usual. B.-mg 
 weary, he sat upon an old stump beside a beautiful 
 stream. It was a delightful spot ; birds were twittering 
 around him ; winds were sighing through the trees, and 
 the pleasant stream was running at his feet. For a long 
 time he sat listening to the birds, or watching the little 
 squirrels that ran about the trees, when his attention 
 was called to an aged oak. Its size and venerable ap 
 pearance attracted his attention. He walked towards 
 it, and at that moment saw a squirrel run into its nest 
 at the foot of the tree. Taking his cane, he ran it into 
 the hole and pried up some of the dirt. The stick struck 
 against what he thought to be a small flat stone, which 
 he endeavored to pry up. He thus amused himself in 
 digging, when, to his astonishment, what he concluded 
 to be a rock, proved to be a small iron box, very much 
 corroded by age. In a short time, he dug it up. By 
 its weight he thought it must contain something valua 
 ble. With a large rock, he easily broke it open, and lo ! 
 out rolled a multitude of gold and silver coins of various 
 sizes ; besides, there was a piece of silver plate on which 
 
 was rudely carved these words ; " 2d house in 
 
 Street, east side west corner of cellar: 1743." Ee- 
 covering from his surprise, Edward collected the contents 
 of the box in his handkerchief, and walked towards home. 
 He said nothing about the treasure he had found, which 
 on 'being counted amounted to about three hundred dol-
 
 DON'T BE DISCOURAGED. 377 
 
 lars. It was very acceptable to him at this time. Hav 
 ing but recently failed, he had not money sufficient to 
 carry him through the winter ; now he concluded he 
 had enough to supply him with the necessaries of life 
 until he should find some employment whereby he could 
 gain a livelihood. Besides, what was he to understand 
 by the inscription on the silver plato ? The street he 
 well knew, though it had taken another name within a 
 half-century ; but how could he distinguish the " second 
 house" from the numerous dwellings in the street? 
 From the oldest citizens he inquired as to the age of the 
 several houses in the street, and was pointed to one on 
 the east side that was as old as any house in the place. 
 That must be the one alluded to, thought Edward, and 
 in the cellar of that house he did not doubt treasures 
 were hidden. The owner of the building was a gentle 
 man in moderate circumstances, who had no desire to 
 sell it, he learned, unless he received all it was worth 
 and a little more. But Edward was not in a condition to 
 purchase. He had but little money, was insolvent, and 
 out of business. To mention what he knew to another 
 would be to lose the treasure, if indeed it was there. 
 Upon this course. he resolved, as soon as it should be ex 
 pedient, and he could arrange his matters, to enter into 
 business again, be prudent and industrious, and at some 
 future time purchase the house. 
 
 With energy, who ever was a drone in the world ? 
 With a determination to do something, who ever has 
 groped his way along in dust and shadows ? Energy is 
 every thing to a man in this life. It is a much better 
 capital than dollars, and in the end is more profitable. 
 With all his discouragements, with a debt of a thousand 
 dollars and more on his hands, with harsh treatment 
 
 e-o*
 
 378 DON'T BE DISCOURAGED. 
 
 from creditors, lawyers, sheriffs, and constables, Edward 
 did not yield to discouragement, did not lie trembling 
 on his back. He went forth to battle with Discourage 
 ment and Prejudice, and nobly did he conquer. With 
 a capital of less than a hundred dollars, he commenced 
 business again, but not in his old stand ; for his former 
 landlord had lost thirty or forty dollars by him before, 
 and he swore ho should never have another store of him. 
 He commenced business and what was the result ? 
 In a year or two, he settled off with his creditors the 
 brokers and all sheriffs' fees and constables' fees into 
 the bargain. He had again established his credit, and 
 was rapidly collecting property. In a few years more, 
 he was in hopes to be able to purchase the house in 
 
 Street, on which his eye had been placed since his 
 
 good fortune. In the fall of another year, he had pur 
 chased a large stock of goods for the winter trade, which 
 had the appearance of being brisk and profitable. Ed 
 ward had returned to town but a few days, when one 
 night he was aroused from his slumbers by the cry of fire. 
 When he arrived at the scene of destruction, it proved 
 to be his own store in flames. Mr. Harris was as cool 
 and collected as one could be under these circumstances ; 
 for but a portion of his stock was insured. Not a hun 
 dred dollars' worth was saved from his store, and the 
 building was wholly consumed. It was a severe blow 
 to Edward, more especially when he ascertained that his 
 policy of insurance had expired but a day or two pre 
 viously, and that he was not worth a dollar in the world. 
 This was the second time he had been reduced and lost 
 all ; but his noble spirit did not leave him. He still 
 looked to the future, and commenced business again, just 
 as soon as he could obtain a store. To be sure he had
 
 DON'T BE DISCOURAGED. 379 
 
 but little to trade upon, and was largely in debt. Unlike 
 many in such circumstances, be did not ask tbe sympa 
 thy of others, or whine about his irreparable loss. He 
 felt he had something left yet, and when he started again 
 he was as cheerful as ever. His creditors, to whom he 
 made known his loss and his inability to meet his notes 
 as he expected, generously wrote him that he might suit 
 his own convenience, about paying them. In doing 
 business again, Edward was prudent as could he be, mak 
 ing the most of the money he received. For the first 
 few months after his loss by fire, he did as well as one 
 could reasonably expect, and was regaining rapidly the 
 amount of property destroyed. One afternoon as he 
 was trading with a customer, he was waited upon by a 
 sheriff, who informed him that he had instructions to 
 attach his stock, at the same time showing him the writ. 
 Edward was thunderstruck, and could hardly believe 
 the officer, when he was informed that his property had 
 been attached by the instruction of one of his cred 
 itors, one, too, who had promised to wait for his debt 
 in consideration of his serious loss by fire. To see his 
 property consumed to ashes, was nothing in comparison 
 with this unfeeling act. He could not pay the debt at 
 present, so he informed the officer ; but the latter gentle 
 man was only performing his duty, he said, and must, 
 therefore, take charge of his stock. When a man is 
 reduced, friends are scarce ; and when Mr. Harris asked 
 one or two of his neighbors for a little assistance, to 
 keep his goods from being sacrificed, they all had too 
 much on their hands already to grant him a favor. See 
 ing he could not prevent the goods from being sacrificed 
 he let the officer do his duty, who put a keeper into the 
 store. In a few days the goods were advertised for sale,
 
 380 DON'T BE DISCOURAGED. 
 
 the handbjll stating they were taken on execution. Un 
 der the hammer of the auctioneer the articles were sold, 
 one by one, to the highest bidder, bringing at most one- 
 third less than they were worth. The consquence was, 
 the mean and wicked creditor received his pay in full for 
 his debt, while Edward was again thrown out of employ 
 ment, and his honorable creditors had not received a 
 farthing. 
 
 What could Mr. Harris do now ? Three times had 
 he started in business, and lost all he had accumulated. 
 Should he try again ? " Yes/' said his stout heart, as 
 he looked upon his wife and children ; " I will try again 
 and keep trying, till I die. Never will I sit down in 
 discouragement so long as I can move a limb, and stir 
 about." Following up his good resolution, for the fourth 
 time, our young merchant commenced business, and in 
 a smaller way than he had ever begun before. He could 
 not muster together ten dollars when he started, but 
 still his capital did not consist in silver and gold. He 
 commenced with this trifle, and, by prudence, he con 
 tinued to maintain his family and hold his own for the 
 first year. He had made a living, and that was all. 
 At this rate, Edward thought he should never collect 
 
 money together sufficient to purchase the house in 
 
 Street, providing it could be bought ; but " Perseverance 
 conquers all things," being his motto, he went forward, 
 still trying to do better, and not at all dampened in his 
 zeal at his trifling success. Two more years passed 
 away, and Edward had made a little headway. He had 
 settled most of his debts, and was worth clear of the 
 world at least fifty dollars, and his credit was tolera 
 bly good. About this time he noticed that the house 
 on which he had had his eye for several years past, was
 
 DON'T BE DISCOURAGED. 381 
 
 advertised for sale or to let. Losing not a moment, he 
 sought the advertiser and bargained with him for the use 
 of the house one year, with the understanding that he 
 should have an opportunity of purchasing it after that 
 time if he should be able and was pleased with the house. 
 "Within one week Edward had removed into the old house 
 
 the house to which his eye had been turned for so long 
 a period. No one but himself had seen the plate that 
 he found in the woods, which he now examined again 
 and read as before, " 2nd house in Street, east side 
 
 west corner of cellar: 1743." 
 
 In a few days Edward commenced his search, but he 
 found nothing that appeared to indicate the treasure 
 he supposed to be buried there. He had dug over all 
 the western side of tlie cellar, and gave it up as a use 
 less task, when the thought struck him that in the wall 
 something might be hidden, and the more he looked the 
 more he was convinced that he was right in his conjec 
 tures. He succeeded in removing a large stone, behind 
 which was a cavity, and there he soon discovered the 
 treasure. Something like two thousand dollars in gold 
 and silver were brought to light, having been buried 
 three-quarters of a century at least. Edward made in 
 quiries for a long time to ascertain to whom this money 
 properly belonged, for he did not feel like making use 
 of it himself until he had left no effort untried to find 
 the owner. Not being successful, he appropriated the 
 money and purchased the old house. As his business 
 had increased, and no further drawbacks had been ex 
 perienced, he was in comfortable circumstances, and in 
 a fair way to become wealthy. 
 
 Who that has failed, or been burnt out, and lost all, 
 will fold his hands and cease his efforts ?
 
 THE YOUNG MERCHANT. 
 
 Striving ever, you will gain 
 
 Wisdom, virtue, and renown, 
 And an excellence attain, 
 
 Better than a kingly crown. 
 It will keep you by the side 
 
 Of the noble and the wise, 
 And your life will be a guide, 
 
 Leading thousands to the skies. 
 
 " WHAT do you think about accommodating this young 
 man ? " said Mr. Pelby, a bank director, to his associ 
 ates, on discount day. " He appears to be sound, and the 
 amount is but trifling." 
 
 " I don't know," replied Mr. Barrow, a small, gray- 
 eyed man, who looked as if he were born to skin flints 
 and make money by the operation, " I don't know about 
 it. We have lost so much in years past, that I think we 
 better not discount it. The interest on a hundred dol 
 lars is but trifling. What do you say, Mr. Ormard ? " 
 
 " 'Tisn't worth talking about so small a sum. I 
 wouldn't be bothered with it." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Pelby, " it may be of great assistance 
 to the young man at this time, if he could have the 
 money." 
 
 " Let him go to the broker's, then," said Mr. Jameson, 
 a fat man, who had made his money by grinding the poor 
 and shaving notes ; " let him go to the broker's, if ho
 
 THE YOUNG MERCHANT. 383 
 
 the money so much. You know we have sufficient 
 funds there and we shall realize four times as much." 
 
 " For my part," said Barrow, " I don't think it worth 
 while to bo troubled with small notes ; they are of but 
 very little consequence, even if they should be promptly 
 paid." 
 
 " True," replied Pelby ; " but Mr. Somers spoke to me 
 about the note, and wished I might say a word in his 
 favor ; but, on the whole, I think we may as well not 
 accept it. Here, Mr. Jake," addressing the cashier, 
 and handing him the note, " tell Mr. Somers we are 
 short of money to-day and cannot discount." 
 
 Mr. Somers was a young man of sterling integrity. 
 He had recently commenced business for himself, with 
 but little capital, and therefore felt the need of some as 
 sistance. He had no father or rich relatives to draw 
 upon, or exert themselves in his behalf; and when an 
 opportunity presented for the safe investment of a little 
 money, he made strong efforts to obtain it through the 
 banks, but was seldom accommodated. It is exceedingly 
 difficult for a person with no capital to succeed well in 
 business, especially with no wealthy friends to render 
 him assistance. So Somers knew by experience ; but he 
 was industrious and persevering, and determined to do 
 something. He saw a chance to make money by invest 
 ing about a hundred dollars, and it was on this occasion 
 that he had spoken to Mr. Pelby, and dropped his note 
 in the bank. He was fearful of the result, and when 
 the cashier informed him that his note was not accepted 
 he turned away with feelings rather indignant towards 
 the directors, but determined that he would obtain the 
 money. He called at the broker's, paid three or four 
 per cent a month, took the amount, and made the pur-
 
 384 THE YOUNG MERCHANT. 
 
 chase. In a few weeks the broker was paid, but the in 
 terest accumulated so fast, that his profits were not so 
 great as he had anticipated. Still Somers was not dis 
 couraged. He found it exceedingly difficult at times to 
 raise the money that was absolutely necessary for the 
 payment of his notes, but, by prudence and economy, 
 and occasionally calling on the broker, he worried 
 through the first year of his mercantile life. In taking 
 an account of his stock, he found that he had actually 
 made a little besides his living and the few losses he had 
 sustained by bad debts. He commenced again with 
 renewed zeal, determined still to persevere, with the 
 hope that before another twelvemonth he should be free 
 from all embarrassment. 
 
 Once more Somers concluded that he would make an 
 attempt to get a note discounted. He called upon Mr. 
 Pelby, told him his situation, and asked him to use his 
 influence in his behalf at the bank on the next day. 
 
 " I will do all I can, Mr. Somers," said the director. 
 " Will the note be paid promptly ? " 
 
 " Certainly, sir." 
 
 " Have you a good name on the note ? " 
 
 " I think I have." 
 
 " Perhaps we can accommodate you." 
 
 Somers also called upon Mr. Barrow, who promised to 
 use his influence, and thought there was no doubt but 
 he could obtain the money. 
 
 The directors had assembled in the bank, and, among 
 others, Somers' note was produced. 
 
 " We had better accept this small note from a worthy 
 young man," said Pelby to his associates. 
 
 " Plague on those little notes," said Jameson ; " we are 
 eternally bothered by them. Why don't our young men
 
 THE YOUNG MERCHANT. 385 
 
 who want a few dollars call upon the brokers ? It is 
 their business to accommodate them, not ours." 
 
 " So I say," replied Ormand ; " we did not open the 
 bank to accommodate every man to a few dollars who 
 may want the amount. We should have nothing else 
 to do." 
 
 " Oh, let the young man be accommodated this once," 
 said Pelby ; "he is good for the amount, and is working 
 hard to get along." 
 
 " Perhaps it may be as well," said Barrow, " but I 
 shall have nothing to say about it." 
 
 " 'Tis of no use. Here, cashier ; tell the man that 
 it was not possible for us to do any thing for him to 
 day," said Jameson, handing Mr. Jake the note. 
 
 Mr. Somcrs was disappointed on learning that he could 
 not be accommodated ; more especially as he had con 
 versed with two of the directors of the bank, who seemed 
 to be favorably disposed towards him ; but he said noth 
 ing and went his way, resolving to be diligent in busi 
 ness and surmount all the difficulties in his path, 
 hoping before many months to be relieved from the ne 
 cessity of asking accommodation at the banks. Somors 
 prospered beyond his expectations. Attentive to his 
 business, and economical in his habits, he won the con 
 fidence of others, and received a large share of patron 
 age. 
 
 During his second year of business, on taking account 
 of his stock, he ascertained that his profits were larger 
 than on the previous year, and he had found less difficulty 
 in meeting his payments. 
 
 From this time, Somcrs began to prosper ; his business 
 increased, and every thing went on smoothly with him ; 
 he had no occasion to solicit favors at the bank, and it was 
 33
 
 386 THE YOUNG MERCHANT. 
 
 easy for him to meet his payments. "With his little cap 
 ital he made safe investments, took advantage of the 
 market, and had quick returns. A great many schemes 
 were presented for his countenance, whore large profits 
 were anticipated, but he rejected them all, and preferred 
 to trade in his own certain business than to trust to that 
 which was visionary. Here he was right. While many 
 of his friends failed in business, Seniors prospered, and 
 in a few years was considered a safe and substantial 
 merchant. 
 
 A pleasant day in summer, as Somers was busy in his 
 store, in stepped Pelby, the old bank director. " I am 
 glad to hear of your prosperity," said he. "I always 
 knew you would succeed in business." 
 
 " I have mado out thus far better than I had reason to 
 expect. When I started, you know, it was with diffi 
 culty that I made my payments ; but, persevering and 
 exerting myself, I have prospered." 
 
 " If you should ever be in want of money to carry on 
 your business, we should be glad to accommodate you 2*. 
 our bank. We will discount your paper for any amount 
 you may need." 
 
 Mr. Somers thanked the director for his offer ; a.nd 
 remarked, " When I needed accommodation, you would 
 not oblige me, you remember, although I earnestly so 
 licited it. Now, as I do not stand in need of assistance, 
 you offer it to me." 
 
 " It was not my fault ; the other directors did not 
 know you, and they seldom discount for strangers. We 
 should be very happy now to do any thing for you." 
 
 " There is young Mr. P , who has just started in 
 
 business, who, I know, is in need of a little help. Sup 
 pose you make him the offer."
 
 THE YOUNG MERCHANT. 887 
 
 " Oh, we don't know any thing about him. Ho may 
 be one of the most worthy of men, but he is unknown to 
 the directors ; " and wishing Mr. Somcrs good-morning, 
 Pelby walked down the street. 
 
 Not a month went by, when passing along one day, 
 Mr. Somers met Mr. Barrow, another bank director, who 
 took him by the hand and smilingly inquired for his 
 health. 
 
 " Well, sir, how do you get along these times ? " said 
 Mr. Barrow. 
 
 " Pretty well, sir." 
 
 " Do you need more capital in your business ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ; my credit is good, but I prefer to make cash 
 purchases." 
 
 "If you should be in want of money any time, we 
 would be ready to discount your note at the bank. "We 
 like to oblige when we know it is safe." 
 
 " I don't know as I am in want of accommodation at 
 present." 
 
 " Perhaps you will find it to your advantage to in 
 vest more capital in your business. We will discount 
 for you any reasonable amount, and should be happy to 
 do so." 
 
 Somers thanked him for the offer, but as he passed 
 along could not but reflect on the change that a few 
 years had produced. When poor he had never received 
 a smile or a kind look from Barrow, now he was pleas 
 ant and sociable. Once he would not exert himself to 
 render him assistance ; now he would do all in his 
 power to help him. Somers had become rich, and, as 
 is the custom of mankind, friends began to flock around 
 him, but he treated them all with respect and kindness. 
 
 One morning, Ormand came into his store and pur-
 
 388 THE YOUNG MERCHANT. 
 
 chased a few articles, and freely entered into conversa 
 tion with Somers. In years past, this gentleman was 
 stiff and . taciturn, but now he was talkative, and ap 
 peared to feel a deep interest in the welfare of Somers. 
 
 " I am glad to hear of your prosperity," said he ; 
 " I always knew you would do well from the time you 
 started in business, and have often spoken in your favor. 
 I suppose you have capital enough at present ? " 
 
 " Yes, as much as I can safely invest." 
 
 " If you should be in need of more at any time, you 
 can readily be assisted by calling at our bank. "We are 
 always ready to accommodate." 
 
 " If I should want to be accommodated I will call, but 
 at present I have as much capital in my business as I 
 need." 
 
 After bidding Somers good-morning, the director left. 
 
 The young merchant continued to prosper, and hip 
 store was the most frequent resort of the bank directors, 
 who, when they ascertained his standing, and knew 
 him to be accumulating property did what they could 
 to help him along. They purchased of him themselves, 
 and often directed customers to his store. 
 
 Somers is now one of our most active and wealthy 
 citizens. He does an extensive business, and employs 
 a number of hands. His losses have been small. From 
 an humble beginning, he has risen to his present stand 
 ing, and is an example of persevering industry to all 
 young men. He was always punctual in his payments, 
 industrious in his habits, and strictly attentive to his 
 business. Let his example be imitated by all youth, 
 and like him they will prosper. From a poor boy, he 
 has become a wealthy man, and now exerts a good influ 
 ence on all around him. He is kind-hearted and liberal,
 
 THE YOUNG MERCHANT. 389 
 
 and yearly distributes of his property to assist those who 
 are poor and needy. 
 
 How difficult it is for a young man just starting in 
 business to obtain assistance ! If he attempts to obtain 
 help from the bank, not once in a dozen times is he suc 
 cessful. The directors, being men of property, in many 
 cases do not sympathize with him, and will not exert 
 themselves to render him necessary help. So he strug 
 gles on for the first few years of his life, and if he hap 
 pens to fail, as there seems nothing to prevent him, the 
 directors rejoice at their good luck in not having lost by 
 him, when, if they had accommodated him, he would 
 have succeeded and overcome all his troubles. If, in 
 spite of the obstacles thrown in his path, he succeeds 
 and accumulates property, they quickly make his ac 
 quaintance, and are ready to do all in their power for 
 him. Such is the way of the world. 
 33*
 
 The shade and the valley, 
 
 Why should they be thine, 
 Where birds never linger, 
 
 And suns never shine? 
 Up ! forth to the hillside, 
 
 Where buttercups bloom, 
 And dandelions scatter 
 
 Their gold and perfume, 
 And blossoms are floating 
 
 Like butterflies' wings, 
 And the sweetest of songsters 
 
 Right merrily sings. 
 
 Do you see yon poor, decrepit old lady, as she slowly 
 wends her way, the very picture of poverty and misery ? 
 Her home is the almshouse, of which she has been an in 
 mate for more than twenty years. She has but few ac 
 quaintances and fewer friends. She answers to the 
 name of" Old Suke." Her time is spent in knitting or 
 mending, and occasionally she has permission of absence 
 from the house for part of a day, when she walks in the 
 most secluded parts of the town, visits the graveyard, 
 and then returns to her home and her task. From the 
 appearance of Old Suke, one would suppose that she had 
 been born in poverty and obscurity ; that kind friends 
 and acquaintances she never knew ; that her life had 
 been an unbroken series of disappointments and sorrows. 
 But it was not so. Susan Elder was the only child of
 
 A COMMON ERROR. 391 
 
 a respectable merchant ; her father, fifty years ago, was 
 considered one of the wealthiest men of the town ; he 
 was respected and beloved, a man of honor, and exerted 
 a wide influence. Her mother was kind and indulgent, 
 was benevolent to the poor, and took pleasure in visit 
 ing the sick and the needy. Their only daughter was 
 a bright and active girl, gay, buoyant, and cheerful. 
 Her infant years were passed in a round of pleasure ; 
 indulgent parents bestowed upon her all that the heart 
 could desire, and no wish of hers was ever ungratified. 
 But as Susan grew older, and youthful bloom and gayety 
 were fast verging into maiden comeliness and decision, she 
 became the reverse of what she was in early life ; instead 
 of that open, pleasant demeanor, which won so many ad 
 mirers, she betrayed a proud and haughty spirit. Her 
 father was rich, and this lifted her up so that she looked 
 upon those who had been her companions in child 
 hood, but who were in lower circumstance, as far be 
 neath her. The young men who had attended school 
 with her, played with her, and had been intimate at her 
 father's house, were not her chosen companions now. 
 There was one, Henry Simpson, who had loved Susan 
 from her infancy. TKey had been associates through 
 life ; together they tripped the fields, plucked the flowers, 
 and chased the golden butterfly. The parents of Henry 
 were poor, but worthy and industrious people. Their 
 son had been early put to a trade, and was a good- 
 hearted, kind, and affectionate lad ; his conduct secured 
 the approbation of all who knew him. 
 
 When Susan first assumed her foolish airs, tossed her 
 head in pride, and denounced the hard-fisted mechanic 
 and brown-faced farmer, Henry would laugh at her folly 
 and occasionally mimic her actions, thinking that by this
 
 392 A COMMON ERROR. 
 
 course she would be induced to change her disposition, 
 and again become the pleasant friend, the kind compan 
 ion, and the cheerful associate. But vain was his hope. 
 By degrees, her conduct became insufferable, even to 
 him, who loved her purely and affectionately. Oppor 
 tunities were now sought by Susan to say something to 
 irritate his feelings and pain his heart. " Before I would 
 marry a mechanic or a farmer," she would repeat, " I 
 would spend my days in a convent. If ever I marry, 
 it shall be a man of wealth, noble and high-spirited." 
 Though Henry loved her ardently, he did not hesitate 
 to tell her what he thought would be the consequence 
 of indulging in foolish pride, and her unkind treatment 
 to him and her friends to her parents even, who re 
 spected and highly esteemed their young friend, and 
 nothing would have pleased them more than for him to 
 become their son-in-law. This was Henry's sole ambi 
 tion, although he had never divulged it ; it was this that 
 encouraged him in his trade, and made him happy dur 
 ing all his working hours the hope of some future day 
 taking Susan to be his own. From childhood Susan 
 was his companion by day and his dream by night ; and 
 when he saw the sad change higher, he was miserably 
 unhappy. The more he conversed with her, and set 
 before her the consequences of the course she was pur 
 suing, she seemed the more indifferent to him, and more 
 inclined to avoid his presence. It was a foolish idea of 
 the silly girl, when she neglected and despised such worth 
 as was ever exhibited in the devoted young man, and 
 imaged out to herself a lover dressed in gold and lace, 
 with thousands at his command. But the idea, even at 
 that early period, was becoming fashionable, that to la 
 bor was not respectable, unless one had a fortune, and
 
 A COMMON ERROR. 393 
 
 did not depend upon his hands for a support. Such an 
 opinion has been the ruin of many a female, and is now 
 working sad havoc among the would-be ladies of our 
 country. Every day they speak contemptuously of labor, 
 and by their example and influence endeavor to bring re 
 proach upon those who work for a support. It is seen 
 in every fashionable party, in almost every merchant's 
 house, and even by the fireside of some independent me 
 chanics. Hundreds, like the foolish Susan, are pursuing 
 the same course, and like her will ere long reap the bit 
 ter fruits of their folly. 
 
 Young Simpson was still a visitor at the house of Mr. 
 Elder, who, with his wife, always welcomed him. They 
 loved him as a son, and they could never think of the 
 treatment of their daughter to him without sorrow and 
 regret ; but they still hoped that she would change in 
 her character and disposition as time passed away. But 
 their hopes were never realized. When Susan was about 
 twenty years of age, a young officer appeared in the 
 neighborhood, dressed in the extreme of fashion, and 
 made quite a parade. The moment Susan saw him, she 
 determined in her own mind that he should become her 
 husband, if it were possible. She would take particular 
 pains to see and be seen by him ; and entertaining two 
 or three evening parties, the fine young gentleman was 
 a favored guest. Such efforts on the part of Susan were 
 not unavailing ; they had their desired effect. It was 
 not long before the officer became a constant visitor at 
 the house of Mr. Elder, and the foolish girl was daily 
 seen hanging on his arm, perambulating the public 
 streets. Such airs as they assumed, dressed in the ex 
 treme of fashion, made many of the staid inhabitants of 
 the town look on them with wonder and astonishment ;
 
 394 A COMMON ERROR. 
 
 and the old ladies, as usual, prophesied that no good 
 would come of the affair. The young officer had plenty 
 of money, was reputed to be the son of a very wealthy 
 gentleman, who w.ould probably at his decease leave him 
 his whole estate. But to the more sober and intelligent 
 of the people, he appeared to be exceedingly illiterate 
 and coarse in his manners ; but Susan was so deeply 
 smitten with his dress, and what she considered his gen 
 tility, that she thought of but little else. 
 
 Without recording the preliminaries of the affair, it 
 is sufficient to state that the day was appointed for the 
 marriage of Susan to the captain. Although Susan's 
 parents had been bitterly opposed to the match, they 
 finally gave their consent, and every thing seemed to 
 move on prosperously and harmoniously. The day that 
 was to complete the happiness of Susan arrived, the hour 
 had come, and the assembly was together, and they were 
 married. Henry was present on the occasion ; but, as 
 he was a man in every sense of the word, and had gen 
 erous feelings, and possessed a noble heart, he did 
 not faint away, nor, on the occasion, exclaim, " My 
 early love is lost ; there now is no happiness for me ! " 
 No ; but, like a true philosopher, who looks on the sor 
 rows and the disappointments of life with a correct eye, 
 he thought it was all for the best, and would not,' if he 
 could, change the scene before him. Unlike hundreds 
 in a, similar case, he did not treat with contempt the com 
 panion of Susan. Although the captain was not a favor 
 ite with him, having no partiality to the airs he put on, 
 or to the trappings of dress, he treated him with due 
 respect. So much, however, could not be said of the 
 captain. 
 
 The day of the wedding passed off pleasantly, and the
 
 A COMMON ERROR. 395 
 
 next, when there was a rumor circulated through the 
 place that Captain Henley was not in truth the officer 
 he represented himself to be ; for the report was, that a 
 poor pauper had arrived in town, who had boldly declared 
 that the reputed captain was his own son. Curiosity 
 was on tiptoe, to ascertain the truth of what the old gen 
 tleman said ; and not a few who had seen and despised 
 the conduct of Susan, and who had been shunned on ac 
 count of their industrious habits, we have no doubt, 
 wished it might prove as the old man stated. But the 
 report was not fully believed, till the pauper was seen 
 wending his way to the dwelling of Mr. Elder. On his 
 rapping at the door, who should appear but Susan her 
 self, who, vexed that such a creature should not enter 
 by the back way, instantly ordered him there, and shut 
 the door in his face. 
 
 " Charles," said she to her husband, " what a dirty, 
 miserable vagabond I have just driven from the door ! 
 What do you suppose the ugly wretch wants ? I do 
 wish you would send him from the backdoor." 
 
 " Certainly," said the captain ; but who can tell his 
 surprise and chagrin when .he beheld before him his 
 poor old father, who sprang to embrace a long-lost son. 
 What could he do ? where fly ? what say ? His decep 
 tion, his fraud, all that he had done, rushed at once into 
 his mind, and he wished for annihilation. He pushed 
 the old man from him, exclaiming, " Begone ; I know 
 you not." 
 
 " You are my son Dick. You villain, you rascal, to 
 treat your father in this manner ! You know you stole 
 a large amount when you ran away ! " exclaimed the old 
 man. 
 
 The noise brought Susan and her parents to the door,
 
 396 A COMMON ERROR. 
 
 and such a scene as ensued, we have not language to 
 describe. The coarse old father was belaboring his son 
 Dick, while the captain was motionless, not knowing 
 where to turn, or what to do, and the proud Susan 
 screaming and fainting, while her father and mother 
 were dumb with astonishment. The neighbors gath 
 ered round, and such a scene of confusion, of mortifica 
 tion, was seldom witnessed. Some one throwing the 
 old man a few coppers, he waddled off, while Susan was 
 carried to her room in a state of insensibility. In the 
 confusion of the moment, the captain was not thought 
 of, and, on inquiry, it was ascertained that he was last 
 seen walking rapidly down the street. He had a large 
 amount of money in his possession, which he had bor 
 rowed that very day from Mr. Elder'. Besides this, Mr. 
 Elder had become responsible for him in various places, 
 which he was obliged to pay. It was ascertianed that 
 the captain had ever been an unprincipled and thiev 
 ish character ; that he had even stolen the dress which 
 so captivated the foolish Susan, and won her heart. His 
 parents were miserable beings, intemperate and filthy, 
 and had long been supported in the poorhouse, and their 
 son was brought up in ignorance and sin, and never 
 had a quarter's schooling in his life. It was never known 
 to a certainty whither he went, or what finally became 
 of him, but it was currently reported that Dick had been 
 detected and was punished for some highly criminal of 
 fence, and finally came to a miserable end in the state's 
 prison. 
 
 It was many months before the foolish Susan could 
 be induced to see company ; the affair had so mortified 
 her pride and broken down her spirits that she seemed 
 another being. It was the town's talk; and no one
 
 A COMMON ERROR. 397 . 
 
 pitied the haughty girl. It was a just punishment for 
 her folly. She had despised the laboring man and the 
 mechanic, to become the wife of the son of a wretched 
 pauper, who was a thief and a scoundrel, who had 
 wronged her father, and ruined herself. 
 
 Henry Simpson, as was his custom, continued to call 
 on his friends,- the parents of Susan. It was some time 
 after the affair before the haughty girl would see the 
 mechanic, who once loved her and had hoped to make 
 her his bride. The circumstance of her folly was never 
 mentioned by Henry in her presence, and he treated her 
 with the utmost kindness. Every opportunity Susan 
 could get, she would express the warmest attachment 
 to her early friend. She made him presents ; did little 
 favors unsolicited, and really seemed to be strongly at 
 tached to the youth. But it was too late now to hope for 
 any thing but friendship. Henry had secured the affec 
 tions of the daughter of a neighbor, and expected soon 
 to be united to her. Still Susan hoped it would be oth 
 erwise, that Henry would yet recall his early love, and 
 become her partner. She never relinquished this hope 
 entirely until the day that Henry was married. Then 
 she yielded almost to despair. She felt that she could 
 censure none but herself; that she alone was the author 
 of her misfortunes. It was her own folly that destroyed 
 her. Once she was surrounded by every thing desirable 
 in life, the cup of happiness was within her reach ; but 
 alas ! alas, for human pride and folly, she cast it away, 
 and wrought her own destruction. 
 
 While her parents lived, Susan was in comfortable 
 
 eiicumstances, and she lacked for no care or attention ; 
 
 ' bnt when they died, the little property that was left was 
 
 BOOP lost by mismanagement, and finally, without any 
 
 34
 
 A COMMON ERROR. 
 
 means of support, poor Susan was compelled to go to the 
 almshouse, where she has been for many a long year. 
 Few remember the time of her prosperity, but everybody 
 has heard the tale of her woes and the fall of her pride. 
 Old Susan has nearly reached the age of fourscore years, 
 and, according to the course of nature, cannot long sur 
 vive. When she goes hence, who will mourn her de 
 parture ? Who will shed a tear over her grave ? 
 
 From the story of Susan many a female can learn an 
 instructive and useful lesson. In our cities and large 
 towns there are hundreds walking in the same course, 
 and who, unless they learn from the fate of others, and 
 abjure pride and folly in all their ramifications, will 
 conic to an end as miserable. If your parents are 
 wealthy, this is no excuse for you to hold high yov.r 
 heads, and cast contempt upon those who labor for a 
 support. You have yet to learn that riches may take 
 to themselves wings and fly away, while industry, worth, 
 and integrity, will rise and go far beyond your standard 
 of refinement and respectability. It is often the case 
 with those who make the most show and parade, that 
 when their debts are paid, they have not a sixpence left 
 to help themselves with. If you would not learn by 
 dear-bought experience, we pray you to discard your no 
 tions of true worth and merit, and understand that the 
 seat of true virtue lies in the heart and not in exterior 
 grace, high-sounding titles, or fashionable dresses. De 
 spise not, neither look with contempt upon, an honest 
 and worthy man, no matter what may be his employ 
 ment, or who may be his parents. If he is virtuous, 
 industrious, and intelligent, he will make a good com 
 panion, a kind friend, or an affectionate husband. He 
 is really worth double the man who has nothing to bring
 
 A COMMON E?vHOH. 899 
 
 you but what you see before you, and thirty thousand 
 dollars when his father dies. All know that wealth is 
 desirable in such a world as this ; but our peace and 
 happiness should never be sacrificed at its shrine. A 
 pleasant exterior and winning manners are not to be 
 discarded ; but when these alone make a man, or at 
 bast take the place of the real man, we should avoid 
 thorn, and unite rather our destiny with honest rags. 
 There is great danger, when a man is brought up to 
 live upon others, without ever earning a copper himself, 
 that he will turn out a vagabond or a pauper. But if 
 property, has been left him, and he has squandered it 
 away, there is no hope that he will retrieve it again by 
 his industry. But, on the other hand, if a young man has 
 been early taught to earn his own living, and to depend 
 upon himself, the presumption is that he will accumulate 
 property, and become independent. Let females, then, 
 govern themselves accordingly, when their hands are 
 solicited in marriage. Where intelligence and moral 
 worth appear to be equal in the rich and the poor man, 
 by all means choose the latter. If you have a few thou 
 sands to bring to your husband, be sure the latter will 
 retain it and add to it, while the former may squander 
 it away. If you are poor, and have nothing but mod 
 esty and culinary habits to present your lover which 
 indeed are more valuable than gold be sure to take 
 the poor man, and you will never see the day that you 
 regret your choice. 
 
 In thus doing you will find it for your interest and 
 happiness ; make idleness and titles unfashionable, while 
 you elevate all that is worth elevating all that is en 
 nobling in human nature.
 
 THE BARKEEPER. 
 
 Intemperance ! the imp that first 
 
 From the arch demon came ; 
 That every glorious thing has scathed 
 
 With his sharp tongue of flame. 
 
 " WHEN will father come home ? " inquired Sarah 
 Johnson of her mother, just as the old wooden clock 
 had told the hour of ten. 
 
 " I cannot tell, my child," replied her mother. " I 
 expect him every moment." 
 
 " But where has he gone that he should stay so late, 
 when he told me he would return in less than an hour 
 with my medicine ? " 
 
 "I am afraid, Sarah, that he stopped into old San- 
 born's, and has been persuaded to drink ; but I hope 
 not." 
 
 " I cannot think that father would drink to-night, 
 when he knows that I am suffering for the medicine." 
 
 " I trust it is not so ; but when a man is accustomed 
 to drink, he forgets his obligations to his family and 
 does, not realize the sorrow he brings upon them." 
 
 Mrs. Johnson was a hard-working woman ; her hus 
 band for some years had been in the habit of using epir- 
 ituous liquors, and for a few months past she noticed 
 that the habit grew stronger and stronger, so that not 
 unfrequently he came home intoxicated. In the vil-
 
 THE BARKEEPER. 401 
 
 lagc where they resided, there was but one individual 
 who would so degrade himself as to retail rum, and that 
 was " Old Sanborn," as he was called, a man about sixty 
 years of age, who. had amassed a handsome property 
 from the income of his bar. Although the wives of the 
 intemperate and the friends of the moderate drinkers 
 had often laid before him the evils of his course, and 
 endeavored to persuade him to relinquish his traffic, 
 he seemed perfectly calloused to reason and humanity. 
 
 " It is in the line of my business to retail spirit," he 
 would remark, " and so I shall continue to do as long 
 as I have purchasers." 
 
 " But you are destroying the health of our friends, 
 and ruining their families," the neighbors remarked, 
 " and we cannot suffer this state of things without a word 
 to you without entreating you to pull down your bar, 
 and retail spirit no longer." 
 
 " That I will never do. It is no one's business what 
 I sell. In this way I get a living and am able to sup 
 port my family." 
 
 All that was said to old Sanborn had no effect upon 
 him ; he had grown gray in the business, and seemed 
 determined to persist in his unholy traffic, regardless of 
 the entreaties and remonstrances of his neighbors. 
 
 Sarah Johnson, a girl of about twelve years, had long 
 been confined to the house by sickness, and on the night 
 in question was more ill than usual. A physician had 
 prescribed some medicine, and after supper her father 
 had gone to obtain it. But hour after hour went by, 
 and he came not, although the girl was suffering for the 
 articles. The clock struck eleven, when the little girl 
 said, as she raised herself in bed, " I am afraid father 
 34*
 
 402 THE BARKEEPER. 
 
 lias-met with seme accident. I wish we had some one 
 to send and see what has become of him." 
 
 " I think he will be here soon," said the anxious 
 mother. " I am fearful he has stopped at Sanborn's, 
 and that he is passing his time with those miserable 
 men who meet there night after night to drink and tell 
 foolish stories." 
 
 Mrs. Johnson had hardly spoken, before the door 
 opened, and in camo her husband. His looks told plainly 
 that the intoxicating cup had been no stranger to him. 
 
 " father ! where have you been all this time ? " said 
 Sarah ; " I have waited and waited for you, and thought 
 some accident must have happened to you to keep you 
 so long. Where have you been ? " 
 
 " I stopped a moment or two in Sanborn's shop, that's 
 all," said he, as ho staggered to a chair. 
 
 Sarah burst into tears when she saw the condition of 
 her father, while her poor mother could hardly refrain 
 from weeping ; nor could she learn from her husband 
 any thing about the modicine he had gone to purchase. 
 After considerable effort, he was safe in bed. 
 
 The next morning, Mrs. Johnson ascertained that 
 the money she had 'given her husband to buy medicine 
 for the sick daughter had been expended for rum at 
 Sanborn's. It was all the money she had in the world, 
 and this she earned by spinning. "Where to obtain the 
 moans to purchase the articles for the child she did not 
 know. A little change would be due hor from a neigh 
 bor in a few days, but she was fearful that' before then 
 her daughter would experience severe illness in wait* 
 ing for the medicine. When Mr. Johnson was expos 
 tulated with by his wife for his conduct, he did not 
 manifest any sorrow, neither did he exert himself to
 
 THE BARKEEPER. 403 
 
 assist his sick cliild. Rum had calloused his affections, 
 and home and wife and child had no attractions for him. 
 He merely went to his house for his meals and lodging, 
 and cared not for the sorrows and the sufferings he had 
 brought upon them. Once it was not so ; he was the 
 best of husbands and fathers ; he loved his home, and 
 exerted himself to promote the happiness and welfare 
 of his family. But within a few months how changed ! 
 The spirit of love and kindness had given place to in 
 difference and neglect. 
 
 The next day, Sarah appeared to be more unwell. " I 
 am sorry," said she, " father did not buy the medicine 
 for me ; " and, seeing her mother shedding tears, she 
 said, " I can get along without it. I hope I shall be 
 better soon, and then I can assist you." 
 
 " I trust you will, my child. If you were only well, 
 I might sometimes go out to work, and could earn 
 enough to support us well, even if your father persisted 
 in his present course." 
 
 "And I could do a great deal myself. I know I could 
 earn something." 
 
 In a day or two, Mrs. Johnson was able to purchase 
 the medicine for her child, but it seemed to produce but 
 little effect. Sarah was still feeble, could eat but a 
 trifle, and her strength was exhausted. Some days 
 she would not rise from her bed, while at other times 
 she appeared quite smart. She had been complaining 
 for some months, and doubtless grew weaker day by 
 day. 
 
 Mr. Johnson persisted in his intemperate course ; he 
 earned but little, and this he expended foolishly, without 
 assisting in the least his suffering family.
 
 404 THE BARKEEPER. 
 
 One morning Mrs. Johnson saw old Sanborn passing 
 the house. She went to the door and invited him in. 
 
 " Sir," said she, after he was seated, " I have a?ked 
 you in to beg of you one favor, that is, not to let my hus 
 band have any spirit from your shop." 
 
 "Why, madam," said the old fellow, " as to that, I can't 
 refuse gentlemen who call at my bar. I keep shop to 
 accommodate the people of the village, and am bound, 
 to let them have what they call for, providing they pay 
 me for it. Your next-door neighbor may call me in and 
 request me not to let her husband have any more coffee 
 or tea, because she don't like it." 
 
 " You know the effects of rum, Mr. Sanborn, as well 
 as I ; but you know not, and I pray you never may, 
 the sorrow it has brought upon me. Look at that 
 child," pointing to her sick daughter in bed, " her suf 
 ferings have been more than I can describe, caused by 
 the intemperance of her father. She has been deprived 
 of medicine, and sometimes of the necessaries of life, 
 when the money has gone into your pocket, which should 
 have been expended for our family. Can you censure 
 me for feeling as I do, and entreating you not to fur 
 nish my husband with the means of intoxication ? " 
 
 " sir ! " said Sarah, looking the old man in the face, 
 " could you realize how much my poor mother suffers, 
 I know you would not have a heart to sell rum to my 
 father. I am sick, and can say but little, but I do wish 
 you would not let my father have any more rum." 
 
 " I think you are all foolish, talking as you do, as if I 
 was to blame because Mr. Johnson drinks. 'Tisn't my 
 fault, and no blame should be attached to me." 
 
 " Yes, sir, you are to blame," said the mother. " Sup 
 pose you did not keep rum for sale ; there is no other
 
 THE BAEKEEPEB. 405 
 
 store in the village where it can be purchased, and con 
 sequently, we should have no drunkards in town." 
 
 " If I should give up my bar, it would not be long 
 be-fore somebody else would open a store and sell spirit, 
 and I should lose the best part of my custom." 
 
 "I do not think any one else in the place would sell 
 it ; but if you will refuse to let my husband have spirit, 
 you will not bo the loser in the end, I assure you." 
 
 " No, I can't do it, and what is more, I sha'n't," said 
 old Sanborn, and, seizing his hat 'in a pet, he loft the 
 house, muttering to himself till he had reached the 
 street. 
 
 " What I can do I know not," said Mrs. Johnson to 
 Sarah ; " there is no hope that Sanborn will give up 
 the sale of spirit, and as long as he keeps it I am afraid 
 your father will drink." 
 
 " Mother, we must bear it as well as we can, and per 
 haps something may yet take place, and we again be 
 happy." 
 
 A few days after this conversation, Mrs. Johnson, on 
 looking from the window, observed a team going by 
 with a hogshead upon it. It struck her at once that it 
 was new rum for old Sanborn. Nor did she mistake ; 
 it went directly to his shop and was rolled in. " It is 
 abominable," thought she. " There is enough spirit 
 there to ruin the whole village, and something must be 
 done or we shall all come to want." 
 
 "With such feelings, she called upon her nearest neigh 
 bor and told her what she had seen. 
 
 " It appears that Sanborn is determined to ruin us 
 all," said she, " and it is high time that the traffic in 
 ardent spirits in our village should come to an end. A 
 great deal has been done in other places, as I under-
 
 406 THE BARKEEPER. 
 
 stand, and hundreds of inebriates have been reclaimed. 
 What can we do ? " 
 
 " I feel that something should be done immediately," 
 said her neighbor, " for I have a family of sons growing 
 up, and they are just as likely to be enticed into the 
 grog-shop as the children of my neighbors. I will do 
 any thing I can to prevent the sale of spirits." 
 
 Mrs. Johnson callqd on several neighbors, and found 
 they all entertained but one opinion, and this was, that 
 Sanborn's shop was a nuisance to the village, and that 
 he ought to be prohibited from selling rum. She went 
 home encouraged, and a thought struck her at once. 
 " Mr. Sanborn must give up the sale of spirit. . If he 
 will not do it willingly, I will see what I can do. He 
 has almost ruined my family." 
 
 It was a cold day in November. About four- o'clock 
 in the afternoon, Mrs. Johnson put on her cloak and 
 bonnet and walked down to old Sanborn's. As she 
 went in, she saw her husband just put down, a glass, 
 the contents of which he had drank, and several other 
 men were in the act of drinking. Calling Sanborn 
 aside, she said, " I wish to speak to my husband. "Will 
 you call your friends into the next room, and let me 
 speak a word to him ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes," said he, and turning to his friends, he 
 requested them to step into the adjoining room'. They 
 all obeyed him. 
 
 " Husband," said Mrs. Johnson, " I wish you would 
 go home immediately." 
 
 Feeling ashamed, he passed out the door. No sooner 
 was the room clear, than Mrs. Johnson turned every 
 rum-faucet in the shop. Gin, brandy, and new rum
 
 THE BAEKEEPER. 407 
 
 mingled with the dirt on the floor, while she followed 
 her husband home. 
 
 In fiftesn or twenty minutes, Old Sanborn entered the 
 shop, and to 'his surprise found the floor covered with 
 spirit and every cask empty. 
 
 . With an oath, he contemplated what had been done, 
 breathing out vengeance on the poor woman he had 
 driven to perpetrate such an act. His friends did not 
 open their mouths, but passed into the street. " I'm 
 glad of it ! " they each and all exclaimed. Although they 
 had patronized the old retailer, in their hearts they felt 
 that he was wrong., and now their indignation was kin 
 dled against him. " I never felt so rejoiced at any thing 
 in my life," one of them remarked to the rest. "Nor 
 I," said another. " Nor I," said a third. " We should 
 have a day set apart to rejoice over what Mrs. John 
 son has done," said they all. As they separated to go 
 to their several homes, they each concluded never to 
 patronize a rumseller again. 
 
 When Mrs. Johnson reached her home, she told her 
 husband what she had done, but he, instead of reprov 
 ing her, said, " It is good enough for the old rascal. I 
 hope the lesson will be a useful one, and that he will 
 never attempt to keep another bar and continue to get 
 away money from the poor." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you talk so," said his wife ; " and 
 why will you not resolve to drink no more from this 
 time ? It would be a happy season for me, for our poor 
 child, and for yourself." 
 
 " I will drink no more." 
 
 " father, how happy we shall . be ! " said the child. 
 " We shall enjoy what we used to when you brought
 
 408 THE BARKEEPEE. 
 
 things home for us, and always looked so pleasant, and 
 spoke kindly to me." 
 
 The wife and the daughter wept for joy, while the 
 husband himself could not restrain his tears. 
 
 From that day Mr. Johnson was an altered man. 
 He really felt that his past conduct had been a source of 
 great grief to his family, and he strove with all his 
 might to live as become those who see the error of their 
 ways and repent as in dust and ashes. In a day or two 
 he obtained work, and all his earnings were carried into" 
 his family. His daughter, after several weeks, was re 
 stored to health. Peace and contentment reigned in 
 their dwelling. The gloom that for months had settled 
 over their heads gave place to sunshine and warmth. 
 They are now contented and happy, and have found that 
 enjoyment which for a long time was denied them. 
 
 Old Sanborn was exceedingly wroth at the loss of his 
 liquor, swore vengeance on the head of her he had made 
 worse than a widow, and declared he would again fill his 
 shop with spirit, and supply the whole neighborhood. Im 
 mediately he sent for a cask of new rum, and a quantity 
 of other spirits. After a few days it came, and in rolling 
 the hogshead into his shop, the plank broke and it fell ; 
 the head was stove in, and all its contents soaked into the 
 earth. The old fellow was so angry, that he threw his 
 brandy and gin glasses on the ground, exclaiming, " The 
 curse of God is on me. I will never sell another glass 
 of spirits." Old Sanborn kept good his word ; he be 
 came perfectly temperate, forsook all his bad habits, 
 and the last we heard of him, he had been appointed to 
 deliver a lecture on temperance on the anniversary of 
 the society in his village.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 Form L9-Series 4939
 
 PS1359. S480 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A 001 379 041 5