LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 MRS. MARY WOLFSOHN 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 HENRY WOLFSOHN 
 

 
THE 
 
 A 
 
 CHRISTMAS AND NEW-YEAR'S 
 
 NEW YOKE: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY LEAVITT & ALLEN. 
 
 NO. 879 BBOADWAY. 
 
PRESENTATION PLATE 
 ROSE OF BEAUTY 
 THE INFANT - 
 LOVE'S PERFIDY 
 THE ONLY SON 
 ELLEN FILMORE 
 
 - Parvis - 
 
 Sir Thos. Lawrence 
 
 - Chapman 
 J. Horsley 
 
 - W. Maddox - 
 
 PAGl 
 
 BEFORE TITLE 
 
 - FRONTISPIECE 
 
 27 
 
 CO 
 
 116 
 
 205 
 
 1470 
 
PEEFACE. 
 
 IN presenting to the public a new volume of Friend- 
 ship's Offering, there is no occasion for a lengthened 
 and elaborate preface. Amidst the numerous band 
 of eager and active competitors now starting forth 
 on the same ground, Friendship's Offering prefers 
 its claim to a liberal share of the public patronage, 
 with a confidence equally remote, it is hoped, from 
 overweening presumption or affected humility, and 
 without any wish either to disparage the pretensions 
 of its rivals or to overrate its own. 
 
 The editor considers it sufficient to state in 
 brief and simple terms, that every exertion has been 
 made, not merely to maintain the advantageous 
 ground in public estimation acquired by former 
 volumes of this work, but to keep pace with, and as 
 far as possible to promote, the more perfect develop- 
 ment of a sound and liberal taste, in all that relates 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 to excellence in literary composition or pictorial em- 
 bellishments. A reference to the table of contents 
 will exhibit at one glance th* array of talent he now 
 offers. How far he has succeeded in producing a 
 harmonious whole, by the combination and grouping 
 of so great a variety of " lights and shades " he can- 
 not presume to determine ; but as respects one fea- 
 ture, he is willing to hope, that little room has been 
 left for any wide diversity of opinion namely, in 
 regard to the uniform tone of pure morality, by 
 which he lias endeavored to characterize this volume 
 
KT 1 13 Sf I 1 
 
 CECELIA, . . ,.-. 
 
 FAREWELL. . . 
 
 CONFESSIONS OF .\ GAMBLER. 
 
 THE INFANT ' 
 
 HELEN. . . . . , 
 
 GENTLE WORDS LOVING SMILES. , 
 
 THE IMPORTANCE OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 SONG. . ... 
 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 A REFLECTION AT SEA. . 
 
 DOMESTIC SLAVERY IN THE EAST. 
 
 LOVE'S PERFIDY. 
 
 SONG OF THE WAYFARING. 
 
 MARRIED PARTNERS. 
 
 THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. . 
 
 THE ONLY SISTER TO HER ONLY > 
 BROTHER. S 
 
 How TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. 
 
 HAVE PATIENCE. 
 
 THE DYING WIFE 
 
 THE GREAT HEREAFTER. 
 
 WINTER. . 
 
 THE CAMPO SANTO. 
 
 THE IMITATOR. 
 
 OUR LITTLE SON. 
 
 NIGHTS IN THE OLD ALMSHOUSE. , 
 
 To * * * *. 
 
 SILENT LOVE 
 
 Jlgnes Strickland. 
 
 Miss S. A. Hunt. 
 Mrs. Mary JLrthur. 
 T. 8. JLrthur. . 
 
 Miss Pardoe. 
 
 Mrs. M. E. Hewitt. 
 
 C. W. Everest. . 
 
 Dr. Donne. . 
 
 Mrs. S. Jl. Wentz. . 
 
 Mrs. Sarah Josepha Hale. 
 
 The Editor. 
 William C. Richards. 
 
 C. L. Wheeler. . 
 Charles G. Leland. 
 From the German. 
 T. S. Jl. . . 
 
 John H. Hewitt. . 
 Harriet Mansfield 
 
 Page 
 9 
 
 10 
 11 
 
 -27 
 28 
 29 
 80 
 46 
 47 
 61 
 62 
 66 
 67 
 68 
 69 
 
 89 
 
 91 
 108 
 109 
 111 
 112 
 113 
 115 
 116 
 118 
 127 
 
V1U 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 Pa-e 
 
 EVENING. . . . . . 
 
 . 
 
 163 
 
 THE HAPPY HOME. 
 
 Mrs. Emetine S. Smith. 
 
 164 
 
 TRUE AND BEAUTIFUL THOUGHTS. 
 
 ...... 
 
 166. 
 
 BREAD IN THE WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 Kate Sutherland. 
 
 170 
 
 A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT. 
 
 ...... 
 
 179 
 
 I AM NOT ALL, ALONE. . . 
 
 Mrs. Mary Jlrthur. 
 
 180 
 
 ROCK ISLAND. ^ 
 
 A. H. Maxfield. . 
 
 181 
 
 SALLY LYONS' FIRST AND LAST ) 
 VISIT TO THE ALE-HOUSE. ) 
 
 T. S. Arthur. 
 
 184 
 
 HERODIAS. ..... 
 
 
 196 
 
 THE WATCHER. 
 
 Mrs. Emetine S. Smith 
 
 202 
 
 A REMINISCENCE. . 
 
 Henry G. Lee. 
 
 205 
 
 THE W T ATER SPIRIT. 
 
 Miss Elizabeth G Barber. 
 
 217 
 
 MONODY GEN'L. S. W. KEARNEY 
 
 Mrs. R. S. JVichols. 
 
 219 
 
 LOUISE OF LORRAINE. 
 
 Jlgnes Strickland. 
 
 220 
 
 To THE SONS OF TEMPERANCE. 
 
 fanny Forrester. 
 
 240 
 
 THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 Thomas Carew. . 
 
 241 
 
 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 Harry Sunder land 
 
 242 
 
 THE DESERTED HOUSE. . 
 
 R. H. Stoddard. 
 
 256 
 
 THE BODY AGAINST THE SOUL. 
 
 J Ji. Stone. 
 
 269 
 
. 
 
 Of TKt 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 1 1 1 1 A . 
 
 BY * R S . EMELINE S. SMITH. 
 
 1 SAW her deck'd to join the festal throng 
 
 A wreathe of snow-white flowers was on her brow, 
 
 And her dark, waving locks fell round a form, 
 
 Whose delicate and graceful outlines seemed 
 
 Moulded by Nature in her happiest mood. 
 
 Her face was beautiful it wore the calm, 
 
 Thoughtful, and spiritual loveliness 
 
 Caught from the mind within. No need of words 
 
 To tell her passing thoughts the delicate hues 
 
 Upon her varying cheek the radiant eye, 
 
 Now soft and tearful, now all light and joy, 
 
 And the sweet, flexible, love-inspiring mouth, 
 
 Were each most truly eloquent to speak 
 
 The spirit's pure emotions. 
 
 Now she stood 
 
 Holding the bridal wreath, that soon would rest 
 Upon her brow. A tide of solemn thought 
 Swept o'er her face. Her dark and dream-like eye 
 Look'd like a Sybil's, when she seeks to read 
 The secrets of futurity. She mused 
 Upon that coming hour, when she should stand 
 Beside the sacred shrine, and speak the vows 
 So fraught with good or ill. She was not one 
 To pass with thoughtless step into a new 
 And solemn path of life. And now she paused, 
 To ask her heart once more, if it could well 
 
10 CECELIA. 
 
 And worthily discharge the sacred dues 
 Of wedded life. By the soft, tender light 
 That stole into her face, the while she mused, 
 I knew that Love and Hope had made reply, 
 Such as her soul approved. 
 
 Thou art no cold 
 
 And wild Ideal, beautiful Cecelia ! 
 I've seen the home where thou dost live and love 
 T know the hearts made happy by thy smile : 
 And if the prayers of one who knows thy worth 
 Could shape thy future lot, that lot would be 
 Cloudless and lovely as a summer day 
 That dawns and dies in beauty ! But in vain 
 My loving heart would seek to shield, by prayer, 
 Thy future from the inevitable ills of life ; 
 And this, to me, were a most bitter thought, 
 Did I not also know, that souls like thine 
 Find, in their sinless depths a holy strength, 
 Which bears them safely o'er the waves of care. 
 Like all the good and pure, thy spirit shines 
 An Eden world, whose beauty and whose bloom 
 No time or change can mar. 
 
 And so, dear girl, 
 
 Let not a doubt disturb the blissful dream 
 That Love hath wakened in thy gentle heart. 
 Thou mayest in holy faith and trust go forth 
 To thy new sphere for thou hast in thyself 
 The power to make that sphere as fair and bright 
 As earthly lot can be. 
 
CONFESSIONS OF A GAMBLER. 
 
 OF all the passions which take possession of the human 
 heart, and lead away the understanding, perhaps there is 
 none so powerful and all absorbing as that of gambling. 
 There is none which brings in its train such hopeless ruin of 
 both soul and body ; and yet it has a strange and wonderful 
 fascination ; and the man who once yields himself to its in- 
 fluence, is as one under the charm of a serpent's eye. He is 
 entranced in a vision, and dreams of boundless hoards of 
 wealth, gold and silver, and everything which riches can 
 procure, gleam upon his diseased imagination, until, step 
 by step, he goes on in his infatuation, and sinks, lost and 
 destroyed, into the jaws of irremediable ruin. Would that 
 the greatness of the evil could be felt and understood with- 
 out any actual experience of the misery which, in almost 
 every instance, results from indulging in this horrible sin ! 
 
 Although we have a natural aversion to confess our own 
 crimes, or even follies, I have become so thoroughly impressed 
 with the sense of the inability of a second person to convey 
 impressively the various scenes in which a gambler partici- 
 pates, and the slow and almost imperceptible degrees by 
 which he is lead on in his course, that, however repugnant it 
 may be to my feelings of pride, I have determined to make 
 these confessions. And why not ? Who can understand it 
 better, and who can trace out its sinuous windings ; its 
 
12 CONFESSIONS OF A GAMBLER. 
 
 incalculable train of consequences, so vividly, as one who is at 
 last brought to a sense of his true situation, whose very soul 
 is gnawed at the view of his ruined fortunes, his lost repu- 
 tation and health, the memory of a dear domestic circle, 
 lost and destroyed by his own folly, an aged father stript 
 of the honest gains of a well spent and industrious life, and 
 thrown with weak and trembling frame, his gray hairs and 
 tottering steps, upon the tender mercies of a pitiless world. 
 My soul burns and maddens at the thought, and memory 
 starts back aghast at its own involuntary images. I will 
 begin with this single observation, that a man cannot 
 gamble and be honest. He must be a villain. And to 
 impress this truth upon the minds of the young, I will now 
 enter into a detail of my own experience, and show them 
 what an awful vortex they are rushing unguardedly into, 
 when they make the first step. " C'est le premier pas qui 
 conte." The danger lies in the first step. " Touch not, 
 handle not;" for it winds itself about you like the coils of a 
 snake, limb by limb, till at last you are unable to throw it 
 off, and soon or late will be crushed and powerless. Were 
 gambling but a solitary crime, there would be enough to con- 
 demn it ; but it is the father of many crimes. But to my 
 story. 
 
 The first years of my life I shall touch upon but slightly. 
 Suffice it to say, that my parents were wealthy and moved in 
 the highest circle of society. They were kind and indulgent, 
 and being an only child every care and attention was paid to 
 my education. I was the pet of the family, and from my 
 earliest days was taught to look upon myself as the hope of 
 th/* house. The only thing neglected was my moral culture. 
 
CONFESSIONS OF A GAMBLER. 13 
 
 and I am lead by observation to fear that this is almost a 
 universal fault among the wealthy. I was taught every 
 accomplishment that goes to make up the fine gentleman, and 
 my deluded parents were nervously anxious lest I should 
 degrade myself by associating below my rank. 
 
 I was therefore, after passing through my collegiate days, 
 thrown into the society of young men, who had been taught 
 these aristocratic views. There was a degree of elegance 
 about them which, to the superficial observer, was fascinating 
 in the extreme. Nothing could be more faultless than their 
 manners in society, their conversation while in the social 
 circle was of a delightful and pleasing cast, in a word, there 
 was such an air about everything they did and said, that one 
 was almost compelled to be pleased. All the laws of 
 etiquette were rigidly observed while in the society of 
 females ; and their general intercourse with the world was so 
 polite and pleasing, there was such an air of kindness and 
 good will, that the very perfection of virtue and innocence 
 seemed embodied and personified. I was delighted at the 
 idea of forming such acquaintances and every-day associates, 
 and thus, like a victim with a garland of roses upon my head, 
 was led behind the scenes, and gradually became initiated 
 into what were until this time hidden and unknown. As I 
 was just making my debut, and having great expectations, 
 nothing could exceed the apparent respect and attention with 
 
 which 1 was received in the city of B , where I was sent 
 
 by my father to enter upon the study of medicine, under the 
 care of the celebrated Dr. R . Since there was no abso- 
 lute necessity of following any profession for a livelihood, this 
 step was taken more for the purpose of keeping up appear- 
 
14 CONFESSIONS OF A GAMBLER. 
 
 ances than any other, since even bj the most wealthy in this 
 country, one must make a show of having some business. 
 
 And Dr. R being a man who was much esteemed, and 
 
 whose society was sought by the most fashionable and the 
 
 elite of B , I was placed in his family and under his 
 
 immediate auspices. 
 
 To be brief, I was soon introduced into the best society, 
 and found myself in what was, to one so fresh and inex- 
 perienced as I, a paradise of delights. Having a natural 
 inclination to the elegant, I was an apt pupil, and soon 
 acquired confidence and the air distingue so necessary to 
 give one success in the great world. The flattery and com- 
 pliments heaped upon me from all quarters, were sufficient to 
 have turned a much stronger brain than I could boast the 
 possession of. 
 
 The reader will readily perceive that, with prudence and cir- 
 cumspection, I was in a fair way to lead a life of respectability, 
 and gain that position in the world so eagerly sought for by 
 the great majority. But how I fell, and forfeited my rank and 
 station, how I was seduced from the paths of rectitude by 
 yielding to the passion for play, remains yet to be told. 
 
 Among the first acquaintances which I formed on my 
 
 arrival in B , was a young man of fashion, whom I shall 
 
 call Finley. With him I became intimate in a very short 
 time. He seemed to be the very essence of gentility, and 
 had that off-hand dashing air of freedom and frankness, 
 which is so attractive to one just entering upon the pleasures 
 of life. How little can we judge from appearances ! I now 
 date my ruin from the day that .[ was thrown into the society 
 of this young man 
 
CONFESSIONS OF A GAMBLER. 15 
 
 Until then I had been a student, and sought all my 
 pleasures in books , I had an instinctive aversion to vice in 
 all the forms -in which it had come before me. But here it- 
 came in such seducing attractions that it stole upon me in- 
 sensibly. The outworks of the citadel were gained, and a 
 lodgement effected, ere the garrison became aware of the 
 enemy's approach. 
 
 Let the following scenes tell the story of my folly and 
 weakness. 
 
 As I was strolling down the most fashionable street of 
 B one evening, enjoying the fresh air, and amusing my- 
 self with the crowds of people, some with busy looks, and 
 others idle, like myself, I was accosted by Mr. Finley, who 
 was accompanied by a fine looking young man seemingly of 
 his own age. In the most agreeable tone, and with much 
 apparent satisfaction at meeting me, he addressed me 
 thus : 
 
 " Ah ! Harley, my dear fellow, how do you do ? Allow me 
 to introduce to your acquaintance, my friend, Mr. Thomson. 
 Thomson, Mr. Harley. How fortunate that I have met you 
 just at this time." 
 
 " It gives me much pleasure to become acquainted with any 
 friend of Mr. Finley," I observed, with a bow to Mr. Thom- 
 son. " I presume that you are a stranger in the city ?" 
 
 " Why, yes,' 5 said Mr. T., " I may call myself a stran- 
 ger ; or rather, the city is very strange to me, although it is 
 my birth-place ; so many changes have taken place during ra^ 
 absence in Europe." 
 
 " By the way, Harley, I have invited a few friends to pass 
 the evening at my rooms," said Finley, "and it will give 
 
CONFESSIONS OF A GAMBLER. 
 
 
 
 me a pleasure to introduce you. Only a little social party, 
 and if you do not play do you play whist ?" 
 
 " That/' said I, " is a game which I always avoid." 
 
 u Say no more. If you have any conscientious scruples, 
 of course, you need not join us in that. Here is Thomson 
 will not touch a card. He will entertain you with some of 
 his incidents of travel. Let us stroll a little farther, and 
 luxuriate" in the rays of these charmingly bright eyes. One 
 might almost imagine himself in Paradise, there are so many 
 fairy forms flitting before him." 
 
 And thus we pursued our walk, mingling our observations 
 on the ladies with various lively and piquant chat, in which 
 Finley was the master spirit. Indeed I never had heard such 
 brilliant conversation, and was highly delighted. At last we 
 arrived at Finley's rooms, and then for the first time he threw 
 off the strict propriety of his manners, and seemed desirous 
 of making us entirely at ease, by giving, in the most skilful 
 manner, a gradual latitude to the subjects of conversation. 
 At first the general news of the day was discussed, and the 
 segars we smoked served to create a slight thirst, which was 
 removed by a glass or two of wine. I was wholly unused to 
 the scene in which I found myself, and quietly yielded to the 
 example set, in order that I might not appear altogether new 
 and inexperienced. This was a very natural and not unusual 
 result of the situation. I became exhilarated to such a degree 
 that I became quite talkative, and entered freely into the 
 lively spirit of my companions. 
 
 Three other young gentlemen were now added to the party, 
 and after the ceremony of my introduction to them, which, in 
 the convivial state we were in, was soor accomplished, and 
 
CONFESSIONS OF A GAMBLER. 17 
 
 without much reserve, (I pass over much tliat was said, in 
 order to confine myself to the chief object of my Confessions,) 
 very soon the cards were produced ; and although I was not 
 a little excited by the wine I had drank, I could still perceive 
 that there was an air of restraint, a sort of doubtful look, 
 and a little by-play, passing between Finley and his friend 
 Thomson. 
 
 "Come," said Finley, "I suppose that it will not be 
 agreeable to Mr. Harley to join us ; therefore we will leave 
 him to the mercy of Thomson, while we play a few rubbers. 
 Take a segar, Harley, and a glass of wine." 
 
 " Never fear," replied Mr. Thomson, with a confident air. 
 " With Mr. Harley's conversational powers, we shall not be 
 at a loss ; besides we can amuse ourselves with the vicissi- 
 tudes of your play, in an occasional glance at the games. 
 You understand the game, Mr. Harley, I presume." 
 
 " Tolerably well," said I. " My friends have accounted 
 me a pretty expert player, in past times ; though of late I 
 have not played ; and indeed have avoided it altogether since 
 I came to the conclusion that gambling was sinful, and that 
 it was dangerous to walk even upon the edge of the precipice." 
 
 " Perhaps you are right," returned Mr. Thomson, in a 
 conciliating tone ; " although I do not play, I have no very 
 strong scruples with regard to it. It is quite an innocent 
 pastime, not indulged in to excess. But among friends 
 and gentlemen*) who of course do not wish to win money, I do 
 not object to playing, even for a small stake, just enough to 
 add a pleasant excitement." 
 
 I responded to this sentiment, though rather hesitatingly, 
 for I could not at once overcome my scruples. Mr. Thorn- 
 
18 CONCESSIONS OF A GAMBLER. 
 
 son kept up a rapid flow of words, sometimes relating 
 anecdotes, of his adventures in Paris, sometimes speaking 
 encouragingly to the players, and then skilfully coming back 
 to the subject of my aversion to cards, and gradually sapping 
 the foundation of my resolution not to play. During our 
 converse, several games had been played with various suc- 
 cess, and as I looked on, I became interested more and more, 
 and when two of the players rose as if fatigued, I suddenly 
 proposed to play a few games ; for I thought that they played 
 badly, and pride suggested the thought that I could do better. 
 Mr. Thomson seemed unwilling to sit down ; but after many 
 Well assumed objections and much feigned hesitation, finally 
 consented. The question now was, " Shall we bet ? Only 
 a small stake, it makes so much more interest. Do you 
 bet ?" said Mr. Thomson, turning to me. " Oh, I see you 
 don't ;" for I hesitated, and made no answer. 
 
 " Well," remarked Finley, " if Mr. Harley does not 
 bet " 
 
 " Oh yes" I interrupted, " it is of but little consequence. 
 I have no objection to a small stake." 
 
 " I bet with you then," said Mr. Thomson. " How much 
 shall it be ? A dollar no higher. Positively I will not go 
 higher. Finley have you any of that old brandy? This 
 wine does not altogether agree with me. One does acquire 
 such a habit of drinking, in Paris ! The water is so bad too, 
 in the city, that it is absolutely necessary to mix something 
 with it to take away the unwholesome effects. Mr. Harley, 
 allow me to give you a glass of wine ; or will you prefer a 
 little of this good brandy which I see Finley has produced. 
 Yes, I thought that your taste was above these insipid wines, 
 
CONFESSIONS OP A GAMBLER. 19 
 
 That's right. I see that you are a fine fellow. Don't you 
 find the water very bad ; producing a sort of a ?" 
 
 " Why ye-es, I have imagined that there was something 
 unpleasant about the wa ." 
 
 " Say no more, 55 said Finley. " Brandy for me : good 
 old cogniac against all the wines in Christendom. As to the 
 Turks and Musselmen generally, they pretend to abstain, 
 but the sly dogs, I believe that they indulge a little in 
 private ! Come ? how goes the game ? Six tricks ! Why 
 Harley, you are lucky, or you play better than we. Three 
 by cards and two by honors. Well done, Harley ! If I 
 were a blackleg I would certainly secure you for a partner." 
 
 Oh how blind I was ! How plain appears the cumiing of 
 these young gentlemen , now, when it is too late too late ! 
 It may seem strange and unnatural that I should have so 
 suddenly fallen into the snare laid for me, and have allowed 
 myself not only to drink to excess, but actually to gamble, 
 both of which I had hitherto held in abhorrence ; but the ex- 
 perience of many a young man will prove that it does often 
 happen. 
 
 I played with wonderful success throughout the evening, 
 and when we ceased, found myself the winner o' more than a 
 hundred dollars. This sum was a mere drop, fc r I needed it 
 not ; but still the fact that I had won it from persons whom 
 I thought more experienced than myself, in spite of the little 
 good sense I then had, operated powerfully on my vanity and 
 conceit. The spark was produced, and by the skilful fanning 
 of these cunning fellows, flamed up into a strong passion. It 
 is now wonderful to me, that I was so lulled to rest that I did 
 not suspect them cf any design. Finley, at one moment, wa* 
 
20 CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 GAMBLER. 
 
 in a well feigned rage at the loss of his money, and seemed to 
 forget his gentlemanly deportment. Thomson was noisy and 
 talkative, and seemed to feel the drain upon his purse very 
 severely ; complained of the unlucky " run of the cards." 
 It would happen so at times. He believed in changing 
 partners or having "a new pack of cards. 55 With a half 
 smiling, half mortified look, he reproached me gently for 
 making so heavy a draw upon his bank, but hoped I would 
 give him an opportunity of retrieving his fortune. Elated as 
 I was by my success, and excited too by the wine and brandy, 
 I promised to give him an early opportunity of doing so. 
 
 The cards were now thrown aside and all was a scene of 
 hilarity and noise. Finley preserved his dignity, and seemed 
 desirous of showing that he had a strong head. Songs were 
 sung of a very equivocal character, and stories related, still 
 more so. I went home in a state bordering on intoxication. 
 
 Strange to tell, my scruples, which were so strong until 
 now, were scattered to the four winds ; I dreamed of my suc- 
 cess, and a wave of wealth setmcd to flow in upon me. Now 
 was the time, when any strong and good principles would 
 have operated to show me in what a dangerous position I 
 stood ; but alas ! I had none. I now see that I was only 
 governed by a desire to keep up appearances. How many 
 are prevented from being actually vicious by the restraints, 
 alone, of society, and are amiable and virtuous only so long 
 as they are not tempted ! 
 
 The relation of my first temptation, and the scene accom- 
 panying it, will give a sufficiently strong idea of many sub- 
 sequent scenes, all tending to the same point, my complete 
 seduction into the paths of vice and ruin, I had a bounteous 
 
CONFESSIONS OF A GAMBLER. 21 
 
 supply of money from my indulgent parent, whose only 
 thought was that I should make a fine appearance, and 
 display to advantage the accomplishments and learning I had 
 already acquired, and make a figure in the fashionable world. 
 Little did he think of the result of these views upon his own 
 fortunes ; and could I have foreseen how my moral sense 
 would become deadened and lost, and myself be sunk into 
 the lowest acts of villainy, I should have shrunk with abhor- 
 rence from the first step, the little beginning which led me to 
 my present miserable situation. 
 
 I shall pass hurriedly over the principal events which fol- 
 lowed the scene of the fatal evening. 
 
 After several similar scenes in which my success was 
 beyond all precedent, the tide of fortune seemed to turn. 
 Notwithstanding the heavy losses of Finley and Thomson, 
 they maintained the most polite bearing possible towards me, 
 and sought my society on all occasions. By degrees I lost 
 all that I had formerly won from them, and by such skilful 
 means that I was almost unconscious of the fact. As I lost 
 I became more and more reckless, and madly doubled and 
 trebled my bets, till at last I was more than a thousand dol- 
 lars in debt, and was obliged to draw upon my father so often, 
 that, with all his liberality, he began to be astonished. At 
 last I was suddenly recalled home. I returned, and met my 
 father, and heard his mild reproaches with dissembled sorrow 
 and penitence. For a time I appeared to be reclaimed, but 
 the demon was still working at my heart. I soon found the 
 means of indulging my passion for play in private, in a small 
 way, with my associates, while I was apparently very correct 
 in my - 1 sportment. 
 
22 CONFESSIONS OF A GAMBLER. 
 
 Meanwhile my father had met with some heavy losses in 
 the stocks, and thought it necessary to enter into mercantile 
 affairs in order to recover himself. I assisted him, and was 
 at last made a partner with him. The hurry and press of 
 business for a while obliterated my love of play, and I entered 
 upon the duties of my station with so much alacrity and 
 interest that all traces of my former character seemed lost. 
 
 How deceitful are appearances ! It was like fire concealed 
 beneath ashes ; and the passion for gambling was destined to 
 burst out afresh, and with new strength. In the course of 
 
 affairs, I was obliged to visit the city of R to purchase 
 
 goods. Here I met Finley again, and led away by his seduc- 
 tive manners, in an unguarded moment I accepted an invita- 
 tion to a convivial party. I went, and amidst the excitement 
 of drink, forgot my half-formed resolutions, and once more 
 seated myself at the card-table. After various fortunes, 
 during which it would be almost impossible to describe the 
 exultation of success and the agony of loss, which I ex- 
 perienced, I rose from the table stript of the whole amount in 
 my possession, and nearly tlie same amount in debt. It was 
 a debt of honor and must be paid. 
 
 What should I do? I knew not. When I sought my 
 couch that night, or rather in the morning, it was with 
 swollen eyes and an aching head. Various schemes for 
 retrieving my losses passed through my mind, and I at last 
 fell into an imperfect sleep. Horrible visions came over my 
 sleeping fancy, and when I awoke it was with a sobered head 
 and clear view of my situation, more agonizing than my 
 dreams. 
 
 After revolving a thousand plans in my mind, the evil 
 
CONFESSIONS OF A GAMBLER. 28 
 
 spirit, which is always at hand with most cunning suggestions, 
 prompted me to purchase my goods on credit. My father's 
 name and reputation as a business man being so well known, 
 I accomplished this with an ease that surprised me, and reno- 
 vated my fallen spirits wonderfully. I purchased double the 
 amount originally intended, and after shipping part of them 
 for home, sent the remainder privately to a neighboring city 
 where they were sold at auction. The proceeds of the sale I 
 placed in my pocket, and after writing my father to inform 
 him that I was detained by sickness, returned to pay my 
 debt of honor, and with the hope of recovering what I had 
 lost. Vain hope ! Empty delusion ! I was in the hands of 
 most consummate villains. I played fair ; for I knew not 
 the tricks of blacklegs. Private marks, slipping cards, 
 and arranging face cards so as to throw the honors all into one 
 hand, were things entirely unknown, to me. I never dreamed 
 of them, and weakly thought that all were as honest as 
 myself. 
 
 It is hardly necessary to say, that with such odds against 
 me I was sure to be the loser. I lost every dollar in my 
 possession ; but not until I had detected one of my adver- 
 saries in an attempt to pass a card. I accused him of it, and 
 the result was that he threw down his hand in assumed anger, 
 and thus mixed the cards to conceal the cheat. He then 
 acted the innocent, and appealed to the party as a gentleman. 
 [ still accused him, for I had plainly seen the attempt. He 
 then began to bluster and assume the bully. I became in- 
 censed and called him a scoundrel. A blow waa given, and 
 then we were separated. I returned to my lodgings half mad 
 with my losses, and in a state of mind bordering on phrenzy. 
 
24 CONFESSIONS OF A GAMBLER. 
 
 Finley led me home, and seemed anxious to calm my 
 feelings. After he had succeeded in this to some degree, ho 
 threw me into a state of nervous apprehension, by telling me 
 that the language I had used to Morton, (for that was the 
 name of my opponent) and the blow I had given, must inevita- 
 bly lead to a duel. A duel ! I exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes a duel, 3 ' said Finley. " Do you think that a 
 gentleman can put up with such language, and not seek 
 satisfaction ?" 
 
 " But I will not fight." 
 
 " Then you must be disgraced." 
 
 " Is there no alternative ? I have been robbed cheated, 
 and yet must risk my life. No no, Finley that cannot be." 
 
 " Then flight, instant flight is your only remedy ; Morton 
 is not to be trifled with. This is not the first aifair in which 
 he has been engaged." 
 
 " But I will not fly. I have as high a sense of honor as 
 any man living ; but I looked not for this. I have no fear, 
 still I thought not of this. Do you think he will send a 
 challenge?" 
 
 " He will most certainly do so, or I do not know Henry 
 Morton." 
 
 Such a turn of affairs, such a crowd of events, one upon 
 the other, had the effect at first to almost stupify me. I 
 could hardly realize my situation. A thousand fancies of 
 evil flashed on my mind. A gambler, a receiver of goods 
 on false pretences, an ungrateful son, and now a duellist ! 
 All, all this came up before me, and overwhelmed me with 
 shame and remorse. I was interrupted in my revery, and 
 roused from my numbing stupefaction by the entrance of a 
 
CONFESSIONS OF A GAMBLER. 25 
 
 person whom I recognized as having been a looker on while 
 we were playing. He came from Morton, who demanded an 
 immediate apology, or a meeting as soon as possible. An 
 apology I would not give, and in the desperation of the 
 moment, gave the conduct of the whole business to Finley as 
 my friend, and retired not to sleep, but to pass the night in 
 a state of mind never to be understood or conceived of by one 
 who has not been in the same situation. I attempted to 
 write to my father, but I could not compose my mind, and at 
 last laid down my pen in despair, and throwing myself upon 
 my couch gave up to a hysterical flood of tears, from which I 
 insensibly sunk into an uneasy insensibility which could 
 hardly be called sleep. I was roused from this by Finley, 
 and started up with a horrid and vague sense of evil, but for 
 a time could not fix my mind sufficiently to recall the circum- 
 stances of the past evening. 
 
 " Come Harley, 55 said he, " I have arranged everything 
 for a speedy termination of this affair." 
 
 " Affair ? what " 
 
 " Come, come, arouse. The coach is in waiting to take us 
 upon the ground, and here is my case of pistols." 
 
 " Pistols ! Ah, now I remember. Well I am ready. 
 Finley, Finley ! you know not what feeling I have. How 
 will my father bear this news ? But there is a strange 
 fatality, which leads me on in spite of myself. 55 
 
 I took up one of the pistols, and the touch of the cold steel 
 sent a shuddering thrill through my frame. I then seized a 
 glass and swallowed a large draught of brandy, unmixed 
 with water, I scarcely tasted it, so great was desperation in 
 which I was plunged. I now gave myself mechanically into 
 
26 CONFESSIONS OF A GA.MBLEil. 
 
 the hands of Finley. All was like a dream. I have only an 
 indistinct recollection of the cold and misty morning air, 
 the whirling of the coach, the dimly seen figures of Morton, 
 his second and a surgeon, when we arrived on the ground. 
 We took our positions, and the instruments of death were 
 placed in our hands. All was hurried. " Are you ready ? 
 fire ! one two three" and the discharge of our pistols was 
 almost simultaneous. Morton sprang into the air and fell 
 upon the damp earth ! ! 
 
 Then came the thought that I was a murderer ! I was 
 hurried into the coach by Finley, and fled, as though pursued 
 by demons. What transpired for several weeks I know not. 
 The excitement of the scenes through which I had passed was 
 such, that a fever of the brain was induced, and when I 
 awoke from the delirium it produced, I found myself in the 
 cabin of a vessel and tossing upon the ocean. My passage to 
 Liverpool had been scoured by Finley, and I had been tended 
 by the kind-hearted sailors. I will not dwell upon this part 
 of my story. 
 
 Suffice it to say, I recovered, and on reaching our destina- 
 tion, I was soon lost to the world in the depths of a populous 
 city. I could now recount the various plans I adopted in 
 order to support life, and what low and menial labors I was 
 driven to ; but I forbear. 
 
 I have wandered over the world an outcast from society, 
 and have sought to drown memory by a thousand ways, but 
 never never^ can I obliterate from my mind the conviction, 
 that, in the eye of God, I am a murderer. I feel convinced 
 that the misfortunes and miseries of my life arc mainly 
 attributable to my passion for play. Every one thinks that 
 
THE INFANT. 27 
 
 he has strength of mind enough to preserve himself from 
 excess. So I thought ; but how much was I mistaken. I 
 not only ruined myself but was the cause of the ruin of a kind 
 father, whose property was seized, when the deception which 
 I had used was discovered, and he, obliged to labor in his old 
 age to support life. 
 
 Let the young man take warning from my fatal course and 
 avoid the first step, and let him remember, too, " That a 
 man cannot gamble , and be honest." 
 
 C. K. G. 
 
 BY AGNES STRICKLAND. 
 
 I SAW an infant health and joy and light 
 
 Bloomed on its cheek, and sparkled in its eye ; 
 
 And its fond mother stood delighted by, 
 
 To see its morn of being dawn so bright. 
 
 Again I saw it, vi hen the withering blight 
 
 Of pale disease had fallen, moaning lie 
 
 On that sad mother's breast stern death was nigh, 
 
 And Life's young wings were fluttering for their flight 
 
 Last, I beheld it stretched upon the bier, 
 
 Like a fair flower untimely snatched away, 
 
 Calm and unconscious of its mother's tear, 
 
 Which on its placid cheek unheeded lay; 
 
 Bat on its lip the urearthly smile expressed, 
 
 "Oh ! happy child ' untr'^i, and early blest ! JI 
 
28 HELEN. 
 
 THY bright morning sun 
 
 Is rising in its beauty ; and the rays 
 
 Thrown from its depths, as irom an urn of fire, 
 
 Are richly clustering round thee ; how thy path 
 
 Doth glitter in the gay and golden sheen 
 
 O'er mount and blooming vale before thee shed ! 
 
 And how the glories of maturer years, 
 
 Seem to await thy light and bounding tread ! 
 
 A coronal more rare than gems or gold, 
 
 Of living excellence they've made for thee, 
 
 Wreathed in the blaze of mind's enduring heaveO| 
 
 With stars of never fading lustre blent, 
 
 And wearing as a circlet the stern bands 
 
 Of virtue firm, inflexible and pure ; 
 
 And thou may'st win and wear it in its pride 
 
 Summer hues 
 
 Are glowing in their lustre and their love 
 On thy glad countenance, so rich in smiles ; 
 Thou art the flower that the healthful spring 
 Hath strengthened into beauty as it passed, 
 And the fair dyes that paint thy lovely cheeks 
 Are less in value to thee, than the stores 
 Thy mind hath gathered and may gather yet, 
 Ere the more brilliant light of womanhood, 
 May flash the'r splendors on thy snowy brow 
 
GENTLE WORDS. LOVING SMILES. 29 
 
 And there are mental treasures which the world 
 
 Knoweth not of j nor may the giddy throngs, 
 
 That sport like butterflies among the flowers, 
 
 Sipping the sweets of pleasure, and that sweep 
 
 OR with the flood of fashion, ever find 
 
 The hidden mine whence these rare treasures spring ; 
 
 Would'st know where thou mayest find it and enjoy 
 
 Riches txhaustless as the mind itself ? 
 
 Take up thy blessed Bible, and turn o'er, 
 
 Page after page, its consecrated leaves, 
 
 And ponder well the purposes of Him 
 
 Who made ihe mind noblest of all his works, 
 
 To contemplate his character, and live 
 
 With Him forever in a higher state ; 
 
 And as the sheets thy fingers may unfold, 
 
 May the eternal God unfold to thee 
 
 The treasures of his own immortal truth. 
 
 J. N. M, 
 
 THE sun may warm the grass to light, 
 
 The dew the drooping flower, 
 And eyes grow bright and watch the 
 
 Of Autumn's opening hour 
 But words that breathe of tenderness 
 
 And sin iles we know are true, 
 Are wanner than the summer time, 
 
 And brighter than the dew. 
 3* 
 
80 THE IMPORTANCE OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 SMI if 
 
 BY MRS. S. A. WENTZ. 
 
 " Childhood ! happiest stage of life, 
 Free from care, and free from strife." 
 
 WHEN a little girl, I can remember having two kind 
 hands placed upon my head, and hearing the above lines 
 repeated to me in a sad, regretful tone, by a gentleman who 
 was at that time unhappy. I half started in surprise, for I 
 had looked forward to maturity, as the period when my 
 various trials were to be ended when I could do as I pleased 
 without reproof when unalloyed happiness would be my 
 portion. I thought grown people did not think half enough 
 of trying to make children happy. Such were my thoughts 
 at that time. But after a good romp, when I went into the 
 house and peeped into the parlor, where mother had com- 
 pany, the idea of being obliged to sit up straight in a chair, 
 and do nothing but talk the whole afternoon, made woman- 
 hood seem a very unfortunate state. 
 
 When we leave childhood in the distance, and become 
 absorbed in the busy game of life, w T ith its pleasures and cares, 
 we are apt to look back upon our earliest and strongest im- 
 pressions, with a light laugh at their nonsensical simplicity. 
 It assists us in the study of character, to cast a glance behind 
 upon circumstances that occurred when we were incapable of 
 
THE IMPORTANCE OF CHILDHOOD. 81 
 
 forming a judgment upon them. We can frequently trace 
 out hidden motives in others, of which, at the time, we did 
 not dream. We saw effects, and seldom thought of causes. 
 In remembering how we were generally treated by those, 
 under whose care we fell at different periods, some knowledge 
 of the world is opened to us. In treasuring up memories of 
 our own impressions, we gain a knowledge of our natural dis- 
 positions, unrestrained and uninfluenced by present circum- 
 stances, passions or prejudices. 
 
 The only use such knowledge can be, is to induce us 1o 
 make stronger efforts to curb and put away the faults that 
 caused us unhappiness, and in our intercourse with children 
 never to excite the evil feelings which were caressly tampered 
 with in our own case. 
 
 Childhood is generally regarded as of too little importance, 
 We seek to know the characters of those with whom we asso - 
 ciate ; then why should not the turn of a child's mind bo 
 heeded by those who have the important duty of directing it 
 as they will ? It is the time when man's noblest feelings! 
 should be quietly but continually called forth, when we should 
 learn to grow mighty in moral strength. The circumstances 
 which then occur, exert a powerful, although it may be, an 
 imperceptible influence. Through life, the dreams of early 
 days linger unconsciously around us- -well would it be, if 
 they always clung to us, with a softening power ; if to turn 
 back, were only to remember the mild, yet steadfast eyes, thai 
 lit us forward in our heedless path. 
 
 I can vividly recall the first morning I went to a regular 
 school. Whips and frowning faces, were never thought of- 
 all was to be f^rfectly delightful. I was about five years old, 
 
82 THE IMPORTANCE OF CHI. DHOOD. 
 
 when these erroneous ideas were indulged. It was a clear, 
 
 sunshiny day ; and from six o'clock until nine, brother C 
 
 and I were in a frenzy of joyful anticipation. The hour at 
 
 last arrived. C put his cap on, and my little pink 
 
 bonnet was carefully tied under my chin. We left the house 
 and walked nearly a block, very demurely, each of us, holding 
 a hand of our mother. But our ecstasy could not long be re- 
 pressed. We drew our hands away, and bounding forward, 
 ran a race to the school house. We peeped into the windows 
 at a scene which was intensely interesting to us, until mother 
 came, reproved us for our rudeness, and knocked at the door. 
 
 Mr. B opened it, and bowed to mother. We went in, 
 
 and C and I cast down our eyes, utterly abashed as the 
 
 great man smiled upon us, patted C 5 s head, and took me 
 
 upon his knee. I was immediately transferred to the female 
 
 department and fell to the care of Miss B . She w T as in 
 
 no way peculiar, as a teacher. I believe she was kind 
 hearted, but she had no sympathies with children. She 
 never attempted to interest them ; to touch in their hearts a 
 chord that would vibrate willingly to love. This was not 
 from want of goodness in herself, but from incapacity to per 
 ceive, and adapt her thoughts and feelings to, the states of 
 children. If she felt an interest in us, as probably she did, 
 she checked the expression of it. She never treated us as if 
 she were preparing us to become reasonable and reasoning 
 beings. If she caught a child in the act of telling a false- 
 hood, the child was, of course, severely punished ; and she 
 lectured us all on the evils of lying. But she never acted 
 towards us as if she felt implicit faith in our uprightness ; as 
 if she thought us incapable of telling a falsehood. 
 
THE IMPORTANCE OF CHILDHOOD. 33 
 
 We cannot know how fa.r such confidence in our integrity, 
 goes towards really elevating us. Many, many, perhaps, 
 bitterly remember, how distrust has been ground into the 
 very heart, awakening intense anger, and chilling every feel- 
 ing of goodness and hope. Miss B gave me one such 
 
 bitter lesson, which I never forgot, and I turn to it now with 
 feelings of regret. When I was about seven or eight years 
 old, I began to study Olney's Geography. I was thought too 
 young to use a map, and all the first part of the book being 
 skipped over, except a few pages, I was plunged into hard 
 names, which conveyed to my mind no meaning whatever, as 
 my lesson was never explained. Almost every day I had a 
 crying spell. I finally wrought my courage up to the highest 
 pitch, after I had missed every word one morning, and asked 
 
 Miss B if I could not give up the unconquerable study. 
 
 I was answered in a decided negative ; and to punish me for 
 the presumption of making such a request, my lesson was ex- 
 tended beyond its usual length. If it was not perfectly 
 learned, on the next day I was to submit to a severe punish- 
 ment. I felt that I was treated unjustly, and it instantly 
 awoke in me a spirit of anger and determined opposition. 
 We were obliged to recite separately, and our lessons were 
 studied at home. I can recall the far-back, stubborn, un- 
 happy feeling with which I returned from school. A sort of 
 vague plan was formed in my mind. I resolved to study late 
 in the evening, and early in the morning, as long as could 
 possibly be expected of any scholar, and yet I had a secret 
 hope, that in spite of all my labor, I should miss my lesson, 
 
 and convince Miss B that it was useless to force me. 1 
 
 had a malicious desire, vhich sprung from her treatment of 
 
34 THE IMPORTANCE OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 me, to disappoint her. At times, the thought of the forth- 
 coming chastisement produced a strong effect, and stirred 
 some quivering fears ; but combativeness triumphed. The 
 moment tea was over, I took my geography in one hand, my 
 doll in the other, and went by myself, to study. I took the 
 precaution to sit by a window, that I might not lack for 
 amusement. I read my lesson over, fast then slow ; sung it 
 to every tune I could think of ; read it backwards ; then 
 picked out the words beginning with capital letters, at random, 
 and repeated them mechanically, while I gazed out of the win- 
 dow, and took note of every little thing that occurred. 
 When it became dark, I went out of my solitude, and, by the 
 light of a lamp, pored over my book. Until nine o'clock, the 
 time I had appointed to give up, I kept my eyes open. How 
 slowly and wearily the minutes passed. And what a feeling 
 of relief it was, when I was once more in freedom. 
 
 In the morning I studied an hour or two, then marched to 
 school, in the pleasing consciousness that I was as dumb as 
 
 ever. I exulted in the thought of telling Miss B how 
 
 long I had studied. 
 
 " Ah !" thought I, with a glow of triumph, " now my 
 good madame will consent to my giving up geography to- 
 day will see the end of hard lessons." I felt some misgive- 
 
 ness as Miss B 's eye fell upon me, when I entered, but 
 
 the moment she looked away, I tossed my book into my desk. 
 While I was down on the floor, picking up some beads, she 
 approached, unseen by me, and struck her ominous ruler 
 upon the desk with a loud noise. 
 
 . " Do you know that lesson, Miss !" she inquired, sternly. 
 I started from my recumbent position, and my heart beat like 
 
THE IMPORTANCE OF CHILDHOOD. 35 
 
 the ticking of a clock as I opened the lid of my desk and 
 drew forth my book. Before I commenced reciting, I told 
 her very impressively how long I had studied. After list- 
 ening to the first few words of my lesson and finding I had 
 nothing more to say on the subject, she threw the book 
 aside. 
 
 " You have not studied this lesson, as long as you say you 
 have !" she said, eyeing me steadily. 
 
 " Oh ! Miss B ," I began. 
 
 " Hush ! not a word," she answered, rising. 
 
 " I hav'nt told a story, Miss B ,'' I implored eagerly. 
 
 " You can ask my mother." 
 
 " Did'nt I tell you to be quiet ! You have not looked at 
 this lesson more than ten minutes. Don't speak ! I know 
 you have not," and she turned away. 
 
 I burst into tears; angry feelings rushed like a torrent 
 over me. It was her injustice that aroused in my childish 
 heart something like a desire for revenge. She walked 
 slowly out of the door and through the yard to the boy's 
 
 department, in order to call Mr. B . Oh ! to have been 
 
 in freedom then to have spurned her threats, and to have 
 rushed from that hateful school room, with a laugh of 
 derision how sweet it would have been to my excited feel- 
 ings. But I knew if I did so, my passionate whims would 
 not be indulged at home, and the thought of being walked 
 back to school the next day, had a restraining effect. Mr. 
 
 B came back with his sister, and they both looked down 
 
 at me a moment, in solemn silence. Finally Miss B 
 
 said, 
 
 " Brother, this little girl must be taken into the boy'a 
 
50 THE IMPORTANCE OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 school, and stay there all day, as a punishment fcr t\vo 
 things, first she told me a falsehood, then missed her whole 
 lesson." 
 
 I burst into a fresh flood of tears as these cruel words were 
 spoken. 
 
 a Yes," she continued, " every boy in school will know 
 how bad she is!" 
 
 Mr. B led me into the male department, and that 
 
 ridicule might add a sting to what I already suffered, he 
 placed me, with an ill-suppressed smile, between two of the 
 largest boys, and bade them see that I studied all the 
 time. 
 
 Ridicule is an ungenerous engine of punishment towards a 
 a child ; it withers up every warm, frank feeling, arid takes 
 away all confidence in the motives by which a teacher may be 
 actuated. It awakens feelings which can never be indulged, 
 even by a child, without injury to the deep, kind affections 
 within. A gall and bitterness is imparted, which after 
 actions cannot easily cause to be forgotten. 
 
 When I caught the expression of Mr. B 's face, I sud- 
 denly resolved not to look at my lesson to be perfectly ob- 
 stinate. For some time, I was so ; but then came the tender, 
 relenting state of mind, peculiar to childhood, after every 
 wrong action and design. I reflected that I was sent to 
 school, by my parents, only for my own good. I though! 
 how much was done for me, which I could never repay, ex- 
 cept by being obedient and grateful. I remembered how 
 kindly my mother smiled upon me when I had done well in 
 any thing, and how much oftner her face was saddened by 
 iny yielding to my temper, heedless of all consequences , 
 
THE IMPORTANCE OF CHILDHOOD. 37 
 
 These thoughts came, and through my blinding tears I beni 
 over my book and attempted to study. 
 
 Mr. B came along, and began to hear me recite, 
 
 before I had committed one-fourth to memory. He rebuked 
 me sternly, and then placed a high stool in the centre of the 
 room, upon which he seated me, for my old feelings had come 
 back again, and I would not mount it myself. Again I 
 resolved not to gratify him by studying. I forced back the 
 thoughts of my late repentance. I tried to forget the gush 
 of regretful feeling that poured upon me, when I thought how 
 my father and mother would be grieved if they could look 
 into my heart. I endeavored to banish every thing from my 
 mind but the idea that I was treated cruelly and unjustly. 
 The morning passed away and part of the afternoon. Mr. 
 
 B then took pity on me, and sent me back to my own 
 
 school room, no wiser in regard to my lesson then when I left 
 it. That wretched day closed, and I hurried home, feeling 
 utterly miserable. My sky of happiness was overcast ; I was 
 saddened and exhausted by what I had gone through, and the 
 thought of going back to school, on the next day, I dreaded 
 more than can be conceived. I could have knelt and prayed 
 with all the warnr but simple fervor of a child's unhappiness 
 for a release. I could have given away all my playthings I 
 could have consented to have been confined in the house all 
 day. Any thing would have been preferable, to being again 
 a prisoner, in the school room, under the sharp eyes of Miss 
 
 * B . I felt as if no one loved me there ! 
 
 Affection towards children is never wasted. In after years 
 it steals upon them, when the cares of life have worn upon 
 the spirit ; when g;rief has softened it. From the very 
 
38 THE IMPORTANCE OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 depths of our being, there well up innocent, blessed memories 
 of earlier times, that chasten our hearts, that reprove us for 
 unkind words spoken heedlessly to some gentle being. With 
 spirits made better and kinder from such remembrances, we 
 go forth into the field of duty, and more earnestly try to 
 overcome all that is unholy within us. Oh ! if we could but 
 realize the power that lies in childhood ! Its unseen influ- 
 ences awake in our souls the angel voices that were well- 
 nigh mute. 
 
 Who, that in childhood has had the tearful eye of a mother 
 bent for a moment reproachfully upon him, then silently 
 averted, can forget it, when in manhood he enters into the 
 chamber of his own soul and stirs up its by-gone memories ! 
 His bosom seems again to quicken its remorseful throb ; the 
 repentant tear springs to his eye as hastily as if the long 
 past scene were present to him. With a keenness of regret- 
 ful feeling that amounts almost to agony, he bows himself, 
 and the haughty, careless man of the world, weeps alone 
 over his early days over the innocence, the kindness, the 
 love that have fled from him. He thinks of hopes which his 
 wasted years have blighted, of affection, which his selfish- 
 ness has ill repaid. He resolves and re-resolves to be a 
 better man, his proud heart pours itself forth in silence and 
 in "prayer the hallowed prayer which a mother had taught 
 his infant lips to murmur. Such feelings, transitory though 
 they be, exert a holy influence. They prevent man from 
 becoming entirely debased, but they are not to be trifled with ' 
 'and sinned against, as an idle freak of fancy, in a lighter 
 mood, or they bring a weight of guilt, greater than if they 
 had never been awakened. They are wild, sad, yet rich 
 
THE IMPORTANCE OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 harmonies, which never descend into the thoughts, except the 
 soul has been softened by sorrow, by sympathy, or perhaps 
 only by o sudden tone of affection. It sometimes requires 
 but little to touch a chord in the heart, the thrill of which 
 may last forever. 
 
 Who can recall a kind act, done for him when a child, 
 without a feeling of tenderness ; without a desire to be kind 
 himself to others ? How many guilty beings have been 
 arrested in an evil course, by having an apparently slight 
 circumstance recall their purer years ! When this is con- 
 sidered, the importance of always feeling kindly and tenderly 
 towards children, seems to be increased. In the sternest re- 
 proofs, they should never see passion nor petulence : then, 
 remembered tenderness will exert all the restraining power it 
 should. 
 
 Once a little incident occurred, which I can never think of, 
 now, without a sudden thrill of deep and tender feeling. It 
 was but a slight thing, and yet the earnest recollection of it 
 can start a tear in the gayest mood. One afternoon, on 
 returning from school, I found my mother upon a sick bed ; 
 but her illness was more of the mind than body. She was 
 very, very sad. I began to play alone, in one corner of the 
 room, with my doll, and was totally absorbed in my domestic 
 arrangements, when she called me in a low voice. 
 
 " Kiss me, my child," she said, as I stood by the bed, and 
 her eyes. filled with tears. At that moment, I became a 
 k woman in feeling. I comprehended, for the first time, her 
 sadness and depression a sadness that sought affection as a 
 relief. I could not define my thoughts, but I felt as if my 
 heart would break with its sudden weight of emotion. I had 
 
THE IMPORTANCE OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 my doll on my arm ; after a pause she took it, and examined 
 my efforts to dress it. 
 
 " You may go to the bureau, dear," she said, " and bring 
 me that blue satin "you wanted. I'll help you to make a 
 dress for your doll." 
 
 My heart gave a bound of childish gratitude and delight. 
 Her tone seemed to say, 
 
 " The power of conferring happiness is not taken from 
 me." 
 
 The impressions of children are transitory and changeful. 
 My sadness departed as suddenly as it came. As I sat by 
 my mother's bedside, and watched her efforts to gratify me, by 
 taking an interest in my little affairs, I was filled with hap- 
 piness to overflowing. Was it wasting time thus to amuse a 
 child, when no duties interfered ? Oh ! no. A kind remem- 
 brance was to be stored up, which could never be recalled, 
 when childhood's visions had passed away, without a deeper 
 power to soften and benefit. 
 
 These things are generally too little thought of by parents ; 
 tenderness and playfulness, at the proper season, are no bar- 
 riers to a firm and judicious government. No dignity is lost 
 by sympathising in the gay, simple feelings of a child to the 
 worn bosom it brings back its once delightful freshness ; it 
 awakens the innocent joyfulness, which care had made to 
 slumber. That heart must be cold, indeed, which cannot be 
 made sunny for a moment by the glad ringing laugh of a 
 happy child. I cannot believe that a person who possesses 
 a right warm heart, ever dislikes children. It is out of the 
 nature of things. 
 
 I was once under the temporary care of a teacher, who 
 
THE IMPORTANCE OF CHILDHOOD. 41 
 
 must have had a positive antipathy to children. Not a 
 scholar was young enough to escape a whipping for the 
 slightest misdemeanor. Mrs. N once sent for her hus- 
 band to come into the school room, and chastise her little 
 sister for a trifling fault. While she had charge of the 
 school, I begged mother to let me take my brother Willie, 
 who was about three years old, to spend an afternoon. He 
 was delighted, and his bright little face was in a perfect .sun- 
 shine. When I entered the school room, I felt extremely 
 proud of my precious charge. After taking off his cap, and 
 brushing up his hair, I lifted him on the seat next me, with a 
 great appearance of display. I had finished fidgetting, and 
 had just taken up my spelling book to study quietly, when 
 
 Mrs. N came towards me. I did not suppose it could be 
 
 in her heart to do any thing but to smile upon him, or to kiss 
 his happy face. 
 
 " Here, little boy," she said, taking his hand, and jerking 
 him off the bench, " you must sit with the little children. 
 No, no," she continued as he looked up at me, with a fright- 
 ened countenance, and then burst into tears, " you can't sit 
 by your sister ; come along !" 
 
 She led him away, but how different was his low cry, stifled 
 by fear, from the pleasant laugh with which he entered. He 
 was naturally a brave little fellow, and his hearty, independ- 
 ent laugh, as well as his proud self-will, when angry, had 
 always seemed to scorn every thing like submission. His 
 young face was now wet with tears, and I watched with pain 
 its sad, quelled expression, as he followed, with his eyes, all 
 
 Mrs. N 's me tions. Occasionally he looked over to me 
 
 imploringly, but 1 could only try to smile upon him. It was 
 
 4* 
 
THH IMPORTANCE J)F CHILDHOOD. 
 
 not long, however, before he became accustomed to his situa- 
 tion. I soon heard his voice in a whisper, then, in a moment, 
 he forgot himself, and his shouting laugh broke forth as free 
 as ever. The sound startled us all. He sprung from his 
 seat with a loud "hurra," and chased after a marble, as it 
 rolled on before him. 
 
 " Willie, Willie !" I whispered, half starting from my seat, 
 and glancing deprecatingly at Mrs. N - . He looked at 
 me with a gay laugh, but when he saw me point at the teacher, 
 he hurried back to his seat, with a sobered countenance. 
 While he was endeavoring to get up on the bench -Mrs. N - 
 approached him, and struck him twice with her ruler, then 
 lifted him up on the seat, in a harsh manner. He burst into 
 tears, and put out his little hand to come to me. But Mrs. 
 N - would not permit such an indulgence. The scholars 
 looked first at him, then at me, with pity and sympathy on 
 their faces. There could not have been a child present, who 
 did not feel an awakened hatred towards Mrs. N - , which 
 must have destroyed all the influence she might have exerted 
 for good. 
 
 I felt the hot, indignant color mount to my forehead, and I 
 could almost hear the beating of my heart, as I turned away 
 and leaned over my book, upon which the tears fell fast. And 
 yet Mrs. N - was universally regarded as a very excellent 
 woman ; she was a pattern of neatness, and, out of school, 
 her manners were quiet and dignified. She was not passion- 
 ate, but, spite of the commendations I have heard pronounced 
 upon her by other people, I cannot change the conviction 
 forced upon me when a child, which was, that she was very 
 cold-hearted. Her severity seemed systematic, like every 
 
THE IMPORTANCE OF CHLLDHOOD. 43 
 
 thing else that concerned her. I cannot think of a person, as 
 much respected as she was, who ever appeared to me to 
 posse&s less feeling, and more cold, quiet selfishness. 
 
 Johnson has made the remark, that we cannot judge im- 
 partially of any thing in which we may ourselves have been 
 concerned. I do not entirely agree with this. But it may 
 be, that the aversion Mrs. N excited in me towards her- 
 self, caused me to exaggerate her faults in my imagination, 
 and to blind me to the good qualities she might have poss- 
 essed. I have spoken of her conduct as a teacher, and the 
 impression it made upon my childish mind. The lasting re- 
 membrance I have of it, and the strong evil feeling it excited 
 at the time, convince me of what every day's experience 
 verifies, that the manner in which children are treated, pro- 
 duces an abiding effect upon them, for good or for evil. 
 Many are the philanthropic institutions springing up around 
 us, to elevate the debased, and to give society a more healthy, 
 moral tone. Vigorous efforts are being made, by some, to 
 raise our light literature to a standard of high moral worth. 
 Woman has stept out from her seclusion, and, taking the pol- 
 luted drunkard by the hand, she bids him hope ; and, by 
 kindness, she warms his heart to humanity. The destitute 
 beggar child is led to a home. All this is right and useful. 
 But we can never see society in the beautiful and perfect form 
 it was designed to be by the Creator, unless we begin at the 
 root of the matter, which is, to place our hopes on the influ- 
 ences of childhood. 
 
 Let children live in a healthy mental atmosphere; let 
 them only see kindness, love and uprightness, and they will 
 go forth into the world, blessing and making better. 
 
44 THE IMPORTANCE OF CHILDHC D. 
 
 Should wealth, or the rich gifts of intellect cause a mother 
 to commit her children to the care of hirelings 1 Surely not. 
 She should ever be near, to overshadow their tender spirits 
 with her love, her pure thoughts, her untiring devotion. 
 Simple it may seem, and perhaps many, on whom God has 
 bestowed the noblest powers, may curve the lip in scorn, at 
 the idea of wasting brilliant talents in the nursery. Is it a 
 trifling thing to lay a foundation for every thing that is noble 
 in humanity ? Is it a trifling thing for a mother so to direct 
 the hearts of her children, that, after her eamest cares are 
 done, their influence may be elevating, yet innocent and 
 grateful as the breath of spring's earliest and sweetest 
 flowers ? Is it a trifling thing to point a human soul forever 
 onward and upward ? No earthly task is so heaven-born in 
 its greatness. 
 
 The influences of childhood cannot be what they should, 
 unless a regenerating work is going on in the hearts of those 
 whose oflice it is to instruct and guide. Children must see, 
 in their parents and teachers, earnest efforts to do right, 
 spite of every obstacle. Otherwise, precepts are of little 
 avail. They must see no shrinking feelings yielded to, when 
 the stern voice of duty speaks. Little matters have more 
 effect upon children than is generally supposed. Few, very 
 few are the parents who always act a consistent part towards 
 their little ones, in slight matters as well as greater ones. A 
 command is often more rigidly enforced, when it concerns the 
 convenience of parents, than when disobedience would be of 
 comparatively little consequence to them. Every time a 
 child is permitted to do what he knows to be wrong, a serious 
 injury is inflicted. Tenderness should not excuse nor palliate 
 
THE IMPORTANCE OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 the evil. Many a deadly blow has been aimed at the well- 
 being of a child, by the false tenderness of a kind but mis- 
 judging parent. A wavering father or mother very soon 
 becomes the submissive instrument of a child's wishes. 
 Boating love is too often repaid with disrespect and contempt. 
 It seems most cruel, yet why is it so? Let such parents 
 recall the childhood of their ungrateful offspring. In their 
 own conduct they read their sentence of misery. With 
 bitterness they may say, 
 
 " Oh ! that I had not yielded to my child, when reason 
 urged me to be firm and withstand. Oh ! that I had looked 
 up to God to strengthen my heart against the blind fondness 
 that destroyed my child." 
 
 There is little fear of loving a child too much or manifest- 
 ing too much affection, if it be of the right kind. If it be the 
 true, spiritual love, that seeks for ever the souPs best good, 
 through pain and care and worn-out feeling, that holy love 
 will struggle on. Heed not the trials that are in the way ; 
 the clouds will often break and the glorious sunlight will 
 stream in from heaven itself upon your own hearts and those 
 of your children. 
 
SONG. 
 
 I i V ft. 
 
 BY MRS. MARY ARTHUR, 
 
 4k 
 
 BEND not those dear eyes on me, 
 
 With a look of chiding 
 Now that in their depths, so lone;, 
 
 Love has found abiding. 
 What would seem a rose to thee* 
 
 'Reft of all its fragrance ? 
 What would summers beauty be 
 
 Lacking sunshine's presence ? 
 Thus, unto thy glance, so long, 
 
 Love has added beauty, 
 That its absence seems a wrong, 
 
 And its gift a duty. 
 
 II I give thy bosom pain. 
 
 If I need reproving, 
 Speak to me in earnestness 
 
 Truthful words but loving. 
 Only keep within thine eyes, 
 
 Kindness, never failing, 
 And its gentle power shall be 
 
 More than all availing. 
 Not the winter, not the storm, 
 
 Spreads fair blossoms o'er thee ; 
 Only sunshine, glad and wa'm, 
 
 Wakes them into glory. 
 WASHINGTON, D. C 
 
TEMPTAMON. 
 
 S 
 
 BY T. S. ARTHUR. 
 
 THE maxim of " all things to all men," was not to be 
 found in Mr. Fielding's rules of conduct. The moral pen- 
 dulum of his mind swung to the other extreme. " I will do 
 what is right for myself ; and what is right for me cannot be 
 wrong to others." 
 
 This was his doctrine ; and, properly understood, .it is the 
 true doctrine. But most persons interpret religious and 
 moral precepts in a way to favor their own inclinations. In 
 fact, all of us do this to a certain extent. 
 
 On the subject of drinking spirituous liquors, the mind of 
 Mr. Fielding was clear. He was satisfied that the introduc- 
 tion of alcohol into the human stomach was injurious. But, 
 in regard to wine, he differed from the great body of temper 
 ance advocates. Wine, he said, was, like bread, a good 
 thing; and it was not only lawful, but right to use it. He 
 assumed that wine was not evil, from the fact that it was 
 ordered to be used in the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper, 
 that- most holy of all acts of worship. For so holy a purpose, 
 he argued, the Divine Being would not have selected any 
 earthly thing that was not good in itself 
 
 " Why were the elements of bread and wine chosen foi so 
 
18 TEMPTATION. 
 
 sacred a ceremony ?" he asked, while in debate on this sub- 
 ject with a warm opponent of his peculiar belief. 
 
 " I do n't know that I can answer your question," was 
 replied. 
 
 " I will tell you," said Mr. Fielding, speaking with some 
 enthusiasm. a All things in nature correspond to and repre- 
 sent spiritual things, because therein lies their origin. There 
 is nothing in the material world which is not the product of a 
 spiritual cause. Bread and wine, therefore, are the fixed 
 ultimates of something spiritual ; and the fact that they have 
 been selected for use in one of the sacred mysteries of the 
 church shows that they correspond to something pure and 
 excellent. In the Holy Supper we find an image of regen- 
 eration, which is effected by the life of truth and the appro- 
 priation of goodness from Heaven. The natural reception of 
 bread and wine, in the ordinance, corresponds, therefore, to 
 the spiritual reception of goodness and truth ; and I argue, 
 from this use of these elements, that bread corresponds to 
 good and wine to truth. In other words, that the Divine 
 goodness, in descending through the heavens and flowing down 
 to the lowest natural and fixed plain, subsides in bread, as 
 that substance which, in the highest degree, nourishes the 
 natural, as goodness nourishes the spiritual body ; and that 
 the Divine truth in like manner finds its lowest intimation in 
 "vine." 
 
 " Then why ?" asked the other, " does wine produce 
 intoxication ?" 
 
 " Pure wine will not do so, unless taken in immoderate 
 quantities." 
 
 " Is there any pure wine to be obtained ?" 
 
TE1IPTATION. 49 
 
 ci But little, I must acknowledge." 
 
 " Yet a vitiated appetite even pure wine will inflame and 
 lead inevitably to excess." 
 
 " And so, to an inflamed eye, will the light of heaven come 
 with a destructive, rather than a salutary influence. But, 
 surely, for this reason, you would not exclude the light from 
 all. Truth, to which wine corresponds, when received into 
 the mind of an evil man, is changed -into what is false, and 
 injures rather than benefits. Yet not for this would you shut 
 out the rays of truth and leave the world in mental darkness." 
 
 " Admit, for the sake of argument, what you say ; and yet 
 the general use of wine, even if it be pure, is to be condemned 
 on the same principle that you would condemn the admission 
 of strong light into the room of a man who was suffering from 
 a diseased eye." 
 
 " Why so 1" 
 
 " Because a tendency to excessive drinking has become 
 hereditary in the community. Until this be overcome, even 
 your pure wine cannot be taken without danger." 
 
 " I rather doubt that. Wine perfectly pure will not, I 
 am inclined to believe, inflame the appetite." 
 
 " I thought, just now, that you made a different 
 admission." 
 
 " If so, it was without proper reflection. Nine tenths of 
 the stuff called wine is a decoction of drugs, and poisons the 
 stomach. This is the reason why wine drinking is just as 
 bad as brandy drinking, and sometimes worse ; for brandy 
 might almost be called harmless when compared with a great 
 deal of the stuff that is sold under the name of wine." 
 
 " I should be afraid to put a glass of the purest wine that 
 
 5 
 
50 TEMPTATION. 
 
 ever was made to the lips of a man who had once been in 
 the habit of intoxication. 
 
 " I w r ould not hesitate," said Mr. Fielding. 
 
 " You would not ?" 
 
 " No. Every man, to be a true man, must be in rational 
 freedom ; and no one is in such freedom who cannot drink a 
 glass of pure wine without being led astray." 
 
 " Yet many must inevitably be led astray under such a 
 system of license." 
 
 " As I said before, I doubt this. But even if it is so, I 
 am not responsible. Wine is a good gift and I am not the 
 one to withhold it as an evil thing. With those who abuse 
 it must lie the responsibility. As well might you ask to 
 have the light of heaven shut out." 
 
 " And so I would in particular cases of disease, such as 
 you have mentioned." 
 
 a I cannot know who are or who are not afflicted with either 
 an hereditary or acquired love of intoxicating drinks, and, 
 therefore, I can attempt no discriminations. I know wine to 
 be a good thing, and, therefore, I will continue to use it and 
 also set it before my friends. If any abuse the natural 
 blessing, with them must rest the consequences. I will act 
 right as far as I am concerned. If others act wrong, they 
 are alone to blame." 
 
 Finding, after repeated attempts to do so, that he could 
 make no impression on the mind of Mr. Fielding, the indi- 
 vidual with whom he was conversing changed die subject. 
 
 In his views Mr. Fielding was perfectly sincere. He was 
 a man of great self-control, integrity of purpose, and inde- 
 pendent feeling. He was proud, too, in his individuality 
 
TEMPTATION. 51 
 
 and this led him to act with less reference to his conduct as 
 affecting those around him than might otherwise have been 
 the case. His cellar was stocked with the best of wine, as 
 pure as it was in his power to obtain. This was used 
 habitually in his family and invariably set before his 
 friends. 
 
 Mr. Fielding had an only daughter, who was a favorite 
 with all who knew her. Her face had a gentle beauty, that, 
 once seen, impressed itself upon the mind and lived there as 
 an image of purity and loveliness. Her name was Rose. It 
 so happened, about the time Rose attained her nineteenth 
 year, that she met a young man named Forrester, the son of 
 an old friend of her father's who lived in the West. In 
 early life Mr. Forrester and Mr. Fielding had been almost 
 inseparable, and, in the mind of the latter, the memory of his 
 old friend had always been a green spot. They separated at 
 twenty -five and had never met since. 
 
 " I saw a young man at Mrs. Webster's," said Rose to 
 her father, after her meeting with Forrester, " who says that 
 his father and you were once intimate friends." 
 
 " Did you 1 What is his name ?" 
 
 " Mr. Forrester." 
 
 " Forrester !" exclaimed Mr. Fielding, taken by surprise. 
 " Forrester ! Can it be possible ! Yes, my earliest and 
 most intimate friend was named Forrester. And so his son 
 is in the city ! What is he doing here ?" 
 
 But Rose could not answer this last question. 
 
 Mr. Fielding had a great many enquiries to make as to the 
 young man's age, appearance, character and manners, to all 
 of whi^b his daughter was competent to give little more than 
 
TEMPTATION. 
 
 half satisfactory replies. At the earliest convenient moment, 
 he ascertained where Forrester was to be found, and called 
 upon him. He found him a young man of education, intelli- 
 gence, agreeable manners, and, as far as a first interview 
 would enable him t^ judge, of good principles. His father 
 had been dead for some years, and he conveyed to Mr. 
 Fielding his first knowledge of that fact. 
 
 In accordance with a pressing invitation, Forrester returned 
 the call of his father's old friend. It so happened, that Mr. 
 Fielding was not at home, but his daughter received his visit, 
 which, to her, as she had met him previously and he was 
 gentlemanly and agreeable, proved a pleasant one. Even 
 before knowing who he was, on first meeting him, her mind 
 had taken a prepossession in his favor and on his part the 
 feeling was reciprocal. 
 
 After chatting freely and pleasantly for half an hour, For- 
 rester made a move as if he were about to retire, when Rose 
 said, rising, 
 
 " Wait a few moments," and left the room. 
 
 She soon returned with a small waiter in her hand, upon 
 which was wine and glasses. She did not observe the sudden 
 change that went over the young man's face as she entered. 
 Even if she had done so. she would not have coir preh ended 
 its meaning. 
 
 " Will you have a glass of wine ?" said she, with a smiling 
 invitation, as she approached Forrester. 
 
 For a moment the young maji paused, and, to Rose, 
 appeared as if he were about to decline the proffered refresh- 
 ment, but the indecision was only for an instant. 
 
 " If I were an anchorite, I could not refuse it from youi 
 
TEMPTATION. 
 
 hands/ 5 said he, as he took the decanter and filled both the 
 glasses that were on the waiter. 
 
 " And, now, to your good health and that of your excellent 
 father," he added, as he lifted a glass and raised it to his 
 lips. 
 
 " Excellent !" he remarked, on sipping a portion of tho 
 generous liquor. " I have never tasted a better wine." 
 
 " My father is choice in his selection of wine," was tho 
 young girl's simple reply. 
 
 Forrester remained chatting with increased freedom for 
 another half hour, in which time he filled his glass twice. 
 He then went away, promising to call again, and expressing 
 the hope that he would be more fortunate in finding Mr. 
 Fielding at home. 
 
 The more intimate association with the young man, which 
 this visit afforded, had the effect of giving to the mind of 
 Rose a very favorable impression. To say that she was 
 merely pleased with him would not convey an idea of her 
 true feelings ; something about him touched her more 
 deeply, and Forrester was no less pleased with the lovely 
 young girl. 
 
 From that time the heart of Rose beat with a new im- 
 pulse, and a thought of the young man was sufficient to 
 awaken a ripple on the surface of her feelings. She felt to- 
 wards him as she had never felt towards any man before. 
 
 A week elapsed and Forrester did not repeat his visits. 
 Rose had expected him within that time ; for, not having 
 found her father at home, she inferred that he would take an 
 early opportunity to call again. 
 
 " I have rather unpleasant news," said Mr, Fielding to 
 
 a* 
 
TEMPTATION. 
 
 his daughter about this time. He looked serious -as he 
 spoke. 
 
 " What is it ?" enquired Rose, her own face reflecting 
 that of her father. 
 
 " I met young Forrester in the street to-day, so much in- 
 toxicated that he did not know me." 
 
 The face of Rose grew instantly pale ; she made an effort 
 to speak, but her lips quivered so that she suppressed the 
 words that were upon them. 
 
 " Oh dear !" added Mr. Fielding, " it is sad to see a man, 
 just in the freshness of his early spring-time, thus abandon- 
 ing himself to a vice that ruins both soul and body. To 
 think that the son of my old friend should be the victim of so 
 degrading an appetite !" 
 
 Peace, which had nestled since childhood in the heart of 
 the fair young girl, spread its wings and departed. A little 
 while afterwards she was alone in her own chamber weeping. 
 If the simple announcement of the fact that Forrester was 
 seen intoxicated affected her so deeply, how much more pain- 
 ful was the conviction, soon after forced upon her. that she 
 had caused his fall. 
 
 Rose was on a visit to the lady at whose house she had met 
 the young man a few days subsequently, when the latter 
 said, 
 
 " You remember Mr. Forrester, who was here on the 
 evening I had company ? I have sad news to tell you about 
 him. It appears from what my husband has been able to 
 learn, that his father was for a great many years before his 
 death in habits of intemperance. And that the son derived 
 from his father a natural fondness for stimulating drinks- 
 
TEMPTATION , 55 
 
 which showel itself at a very early age. Before he attained 
 his twentieth year he was, to use plain but true language, a 
 drunkard. The death of old Mr. Forrester, which took 
 place under sad and revolting circumstances, occasioned as it 
 was by drinking, startled his son and made on him so strong 
 an impression, that he solemnly vowed to himself never again 
 to taste even wine. He was led to this entire abstinence 
 from all exhilarating beverage at so early an age, from a 
 conviction forced upon him by the reasoning of friends, who 
 satisfied his mind that the habit of drinking to excess, which 
 his father had indulged, was transmitted to him in an undue 
 fondness for the same indulgence, and that he could not 
 taste even wine without having his appetite so inflamed as to 
 be in great danger. For years he kept faith with himself in 
 this matter. Let him be where he would and with whom he 
 would, he steadily declined tasting any stimulating drink. 
 Alas ! that he should have been tempted from the right way 
 by one of our own sex. It is said, that he visited a short 
 time since a young lady in this city, who offered him a glass 
 of wine. In a moment of weakness, he took the cup from her 
 hand, drank and fell ! I would not be that young lady for 
 the world ! What a fearful responsibility has she brought 
 upon herself!" 
 
 It was impossible for Rose, on hearing this, to conceal her 
 emotions ; and to the lady's surprise, for she did not know 
 her to be the person to whom she made allusion, she lost the 
 entire control of her feelings and hiding her face with her 
 hands yielded to a passionate gush of tears. What was 
 said could not be softened, and the lady made no attempt 
 to do so. She understood, without explanation, that it 
 
TEMPTATION. 
 
 was Rose who had tempted Forrester and caused him 
 to fall. 
 
 The young girl, as soon as she could gain sufficient control 
 over her feelings, started for home. Few sadder beings 
 could have been found in the whole city. But yesterday, she 
 was a light-hearted, happy young creature, on whose spirit 
 but few clouds had ever rested and they not dense enough to 
 shut out entirely the warm sunshine. Now, she was unutter- 
 ably wretched. As she hurried along the street, on her way 
 to her father's house, she suddenly encountered Forrester. 
 Alas ! how was he changed ! His eyes were red, his face 
 distorted from its former calm, gentlemanly, intelligent ex- 
 pression, and in his whole appearance and manner there was 
 an air of personal abandonment. He did not see her. How 
 like a daguerreotype impression was the form of the young 
 man, as he thus passed before her, instantly fixed upon her 
 memory ! At home, in the solitude of her chamber, she 
 looked at the painful image, while a voice, with rebuking 
 tones, uttered in her ears, " This is your work !" 
 
 " And mine must be the work of restoration," said she, 
 with a sudden energy of manner, while a flush of enthusiasm 
 went over her face. 
 
 The idea, intimated by these words of the maiden, came 
 like a dictate to her mind ; and she felt, almost instantly, in- 
 spired with a solemn purpose. 
 
 " Yes, yes," she murmured, while her tears ceased to 
 flow, " mine must be the work of restoration." 
 
 While the enthusiasm of this first state remained, Rose felt 
 that the work she contemplated would be of easy perform- 
 ance. But as she thought longer and longer, and came. 
 
TEMPTATION. 57 
 
 more realizingly, into the perception of what she purposed 
 doing, her native delicacy of feeling shrunk, like the leaf of a 
 sensitive plant, from the exposure any attempt to approach 
 the young man must subject her. The imputation of motives 
 bj others, and the certainty of being misunderstood and mis- 
 represented, came next to throw a chill over her generous 
 spirit and to occasion a long and severe contest in her mind. 
 But her resolution, spontaneous and impulsive as it was, 
 became permanent, and in a heroic and self-sacrificing spirit 
 for one so young, in the secrecy of her own heart she pondered 
 the course of action best for her to adopt so as to ensure the 
 most certain result. Her first idea was, to write to For 
 rester in the plainest and frankest manner, but the fear 
 that this might fail in effecting what she desired caused her 
 to turn from it, and with a sense of shrinking contemplate a 
 personal approach to the young man. The more closely she 
 looked at the subject, the more painful became her sense of 
 reluctance. But, inspired by a feeling of duty, she bravely 
 kept by her resolve to do whatever was in her power for the 
 young man's restoration. 
 
 The thought of confiding to her father what she contem- 
 plated doing presented itself to the mind of Rose, but, 
 satisfied that he would not only object to any such course of 
 action, but positively forbid her attempting to see *. r commu- 
 nicate with Forrester, she determined to keep her own 
 secret. 
 
 As for the unhappy young man, on receiving . from the 
 hand of Rose the first glass of wine he had tasted for a long 
 time, he felt his old appetite returning. And, on leaving her 
 presence, so intense was the desire ho felt for a stronger 
 
58 TEMPTATION. 
 
 stimuiant, that, with a kind of mad abandonment of his rational 
 self-control, he went direct to a tavern and drank brandy and 
 water until he was so much intoxicated as scare ;ly to be able 
 to reach his boarding house. Daylight found him, on the 
 next morning, in a state of mental anguish intolerable to be 
 borne. He had fallen again, and fallen through temptation 
 thrown in his way by a young, innocent and beautiful girl, 
 who had already inspired him with a sentiment of affection, 
 and, in falling, had debased himself in her eyes. To drown 
 his wretchedness, in a spirit of self-abandonment, he put the 
 cup again to his lips and drank until reason left again her 
 throne in his mind. And this was continued day after day, 
 until nature was nearly exhausted. 
 
 A little over a week had gone by since the melancholy 
 change in his hab.Hs and there was a lucid interval in which 
 reason once more strove for the mastery. On the night 
 before he had come home late, so much intoxicated that the 
 servants had to take him to his room ; and, in the morning, 
 he had felt too sick, both in body and mind, to leave his bed. 
 He did not come down until about the middle of the after- 
 noon, when he was perfectly sober, but wretched as a man 
 could well be. Inclination prompted him to go out and 
 drown the burning desire he felt in the maddening bowl, 
 while reason and conscience held him back. The struggle 
 had become severe, and appetite was about conquering, when 
 he heard his name mentioned, in a woman's voice, at the 
 street-door where the waiter had gone to answer the bell. 
 Before he had decided whether to retire or not, a young lady 
 entered the room. 
 
 " Miss Fielding!" he exclaimed in utter surprise, as the 
 
TEMPTATION. 59 
 
 visitor drew aside her veil and showed a face on which was a 
 deep impression of sadness. 
 
 " I have done you a great wrong," said Rose, in a trem 
 bling, hesitating voice, entering at once upon her mission; 
 " and I come now, in the hope that I may be able, in some 
 measure, to repair it. 35 
 
 She could say no more. Her feelings, wrought up to a 
 high pitch of excitement, here gave way. Sinking upon a 
 chair, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed 
 violently. 
 
 The unhappy young man found himself in a strangely em- 
 barrassed position. For a little while, he was so confused 
 that he was unable to comprehend the meaning of what was 
 passing ; but it soon became clear, and that even before the 
 trembling maiden recovered her self-possession. Something 
 of admiration for her conduct mingled with other emotions in 
 his mind. 
 
 As the bewildering whirl, into which his feelings had been 
 thrown, subsided, good resolutions formed themselves. Sud- 
 denly approaching the young girl, he took her hand and said 
 in a low but earnest voice, 
 
 " Return to your home, Miss Fielding. Virtuous self- 
 devotion like yours must not shall not be exercised in vain. 
 From this hour I stand where I stood before we met. An 
 angel shall not tempt me again from my integrity." 
 
 " Enough !" said the young girl, rising, while she let her 
 veil again fall over her face. " May Hej^en give you strength 
 to hold fast by this good resolution ! Pardon what I have 
 done, and think of it only as an act prompted by an over- 
 powering sense of duty." 
 
60 TEMPTATION. 
 
 Saying this, she glided from the young man's presence 
 and hurried back to her home, her heart fluttering like the 
 heart of a frightened bird. 
 
 When Mr. Fielding became aware that Forrester had fallen 
 in consequence of having tasted wine, presented by the hand 
 of his daughter, he felt some misgivings in regard to his 
 peculiar views and practice. His wine was very pure, and 
 might be very good ; but it had proved, to the morbid 
 appetite of the son of his old friend, a maddening poison. 
 Still more startled was he, when he learned what Rose had 
 done ; for he understood human nature well enough to know 
 that such an act would produce a mutual interest. And he 
 was not mistaken in this anticipation. In a very little while 
 these two young persons were thrown together again. There 
 was a slight embarrassment on both sides ; but this soon 
 passed off. They had thought of one another too much for 
 either to feel indifference. 
 
 After this, Forrester ventured to repeat his visit to the 
 house of Mr. Fielding. The father of Rose was at home, and 
 received him with rather cold formality. But, as he had been, 
 to a certain extent, a party to the fall of the young man, he 
 could not treat him with repulsion. Of one thing, however, 
 he was very careful, and that was, not to order wine to be 
 served, although this was in the face of a previous declaration 
 that he would not refrain from doing so to his guests, even 
 though one addicted to intemperance were present. He saw 
 the consequences nearer, in a different light, and as likely to 
 effect himself. 
 
 As Mr. Fielding had feared would be the case, so it proved. 
 A mutual attachment sprung up between Forrester and his 
 
A REFLECTION AT SEA. 61 
 
 daughter, and when the young man asked for her hand, 
 though he wished to refuse, yet he could not do so. 
 
 At the wedding, no entertainment was given ; only a few 
 friends were present, and strange to say, even to them wine 
 was not served. Mr. Fielding would have set forth poison as 
 quickly as wine. And why ? Had he changed his views in 
 regard to its utility 1 Not so much that, as he feared the 
 production of evil results likely to effect himself and family. 
 His principles were based rather upon a regard for himself 
 than dependent on abstract appreciations of right and 
 justice and this was one fact that he had yet to learn. As 
 it was, he was made to feel, almost in his own person, the 
 evil of serving wine to any and every one, without regard to 
 acquired or hereditary predispositions to over-indulgenc 3 ; 
 and in the future, his practice was as different from what it 
 had been as could well be conceived. 
 
 SEE how beneath the moonbeam's smile 
 Yon little billow heaves its breast, 
 
 And foams and sparkles for awhile, 
 And murmuring then subsides to rest. 
 
 Thus man* the sport of bliss and care, 
 
 Rises on time's eventful sea, 
 And having swelled a moment there, 
 
 Thus melts into eternity, 
 
62 DOMESTIC SLAVERY IN THE EAST. 
 
 BY MISS PARDOE. 
 
 WERE 1 a man, and condemned to an existence of 
 servitude, I would unhesitatingly choose that of slavery in a 
 Turkish family : for if ever the " bitter draught' 5 can in- 
 deed be rendered palatable it is there. The slave of the 
 Osmanli is the child of his adoption ; he purchases with his 
 gold a being to cherish, to protect and to support ; and in 
 almost every case he secures to himself what his gold could 
 not command a devoted and loving heart, ready to sacrifice 
 its every hope and impulse in his service. Once forget that 
 the smiling menial who hands your coffee, or pours the rose- 
 water on your hand from an urn of silver, has been pur- 
 chased at a price, and you must look with admiration on the 
 relative positions of the servant and his lord the one so 
 eager and so earnest in his service the other so gentle and 
 so unexacting in his commands. 
 
 No assertion of mine can, however, so satisfactorily prove 
 the fact which I have here advanced as the circumstance that 
 almost all the youth of both sexes in Circassia insist upon 
 being conveyed by their parents into Constantinople, where 
 the roajd to honor and advancement is open to every one ; 
 the slaves receive no wages ; the price of their services has 
 already been paid to their relatives ; but twice in the year at 
 
DOMESTIC SLAVERY IN THE EAST. 63 
 
 Btated periods, the master and mistress of the family, and 
 indeed every one of their superiors under the same roof, arc 
 bound to make them a present, termed the Bakshish, the 
 value of which varies according to the will of the donor ; and 
 they are as well fed and nearly as well clothed as their 
 owners. 
 
 As they stand in the apartment with their hands folded 
 upon their breasts, they occasionally mix in the conversation 
 unrebuked while, from their number (every individual main- 
 taining as many as his income will admit,) they are never 
 subjected to hard labors ; indeed, I have been sometimes 
 tempted to think, that all the work of a Turkish house must 
 be done by the fairies ; for although I have been the inmate 
 of several harems at all hours, I never saw a symptom of any 
 ihing like domestic toil. 
 
 There is a remarkable feature in the position of the Turkish 
 slaves that I must not omit to mention. Should it occur that 
 one of them, from whatever cause it may arise, feels himself 
 uncomfortable in the house of the owner, the dissatisfied party 
 requests his master to dispose of him ; and having repeated 
 his appeal three several times, the law enforces compliance 
 with its spirit ; nor is this all the slave can not only insist 
 on changing owners, but even on selecting his purchaser, 
 although he may by such means entail considerable loss on 
 his master. But, as asservation is no proof, I will adduce an 
 example. 
 
 The wife of Achmet Pasha had a female slave, who, being 
 
 partial to a young man of the neighborhood, was desirous to 
 
 become his property. Such being the case she informed her 
 
 1 mistress that she wished to be taken to the market and di*- 
 
64 DOMESTIC SLAVERY IN THE EAST. 
 
 posed of, which was accordingly carried into effect ; but as 
 she was young and pretty, and her lover in confined circum- 
 stances, he was soon outbidden by a wealthier man ; and on 
 her return to the harem of Achmet Pasha, her mistress told 
 her that an Asiatic merchant had offered twenty thousand 
 piasters for her, and that she would be removed to his house 
 in a few days. " I will not belong to him,' 5 was the reply : 
 " there was a young man in the market who bade twelve 
 thousand for me and I have decided to follow him. My 
 price to you was but ten thousand piasters and thus you will 
 gain two thousand by selling me to him." Her declaration 
 was decisive ; she became the property of her lover, and her 
 resolution cost her mistress eighty pounds sterling. 
 
 The most perfect cleanliness is the leading characteristic 
 of the Eastern houses not a grain of dust, not a footmark 
 defaces the Indian matting that covers the large halls, 
 whence the several apartments branch off in every direction ; 
 the glass from which you drink is carefully guarded to avoid 
 the possibility of contamination ; and the instant that you 
 have eaten, a slave stands before you with water and a nap 
 kin to clean your hands. To the constant use of the bath I 
 have already alluded ; and no soil is ever seen on the dress 
 of a Turkish gentlewoman. 
 
 I am quite conscious that more than one lady -reader will 
 lay down my volume without regret, when she discovers how 
 matter-of-fact are many of its contents. The very term 
 " oriental" implies to European ears the concentration of 
 romance, and I was leng in the East ere I could divest my- 
 self of the same feeling. I could have continued the illusion, 
 for oriental habits lend themselves greatly to the deceit, when 
 
DOMESTIC SLAVERY IN THE EAST. 36 
 
 the looker-on is satisfied with glancing over the surface of 
 things ; but with a conscientious chronicler this does not suf- 
 fice ; and consequently, I rather sought to be instructed than 
 to be amused, and preferred the veracious to the entertaining. 
 
 This bowing down of the imagination before the reason is, 
 however, the less either a merit on the one hand, or a sacri- 
 fice on the other, for enough of the wild and the wonderful, as 
 well as the bright and the beautiful, still remains to make the 
 East a scene of enchantment. A sky, whose blue brilliancy 
 floods with light alike the shores of Asia and of Europe 
 whose sunshine falls warm and golden on dome and minarets 
 and palaces a sea, whose waves glitter in silver, forming the 
 bright bond by which two quarters of the globe are linked 
 together an empire peopled by the gathering of many 
 nations : the stately Turk the serious Armenian the wily 
 Jew the keen-eyed Greek the graceful Circassian the 
 desert-loving Tartar the roving Arab the mountain-born 
 son of Caucasus the voluptuous Persian the Indian der- 
 vish, and the thoughtful Frank each clad in the garb and 
 speaking the language of his people, suffice to weave a web 
 of tints too various and too brilliant to be wrought into the 
 dull and common-place pattern of every-day existence. 
 
 I would not remove one fold of the graceful drapery which 
 veils the time-hallowed statue of Eastern power and beauty 
 but I cannot refrain from plucking away the trash and tinsel 
 that ignorance and bad taste have hung about it and which 
 belong as little to the master-piece they desecrate as the 
 votive offerings of bigotry and superstition form a part of one 
 of Raphael's divine Madonnas because they are appended to 
 
 her shrine. 
 
 6* 
 
LOVE 7 S PERFIDY. 
 
 BY MRS. M. E. HEWITT. 
 
 AY ! thou art there beside her, 
 
 Her fingers clasped in thine j 
 Thou 'rt gazing in her love-lit eyes 
 
 As once thou didst in mine. 
 Ah me ! that ever glances, 
 
 So wavering as thine, 
 Should kindle in a maiden's heart 
 
 The fire of love divine. 
 
 I know that thou art murmuring 
 
 To her enraptured ear 
 Those thrilling words of tenderness 
 
 I never more shall hear. 
 Ah me ! that words so faithless, 
 
 That vows so false as thine, 
 Should kindle in another heart 
 
 A love so true as mine. 
 
 And she will soon awaken 
 
 To know her love betrayed 
 Like me, alas ! forsaken, 
 
 Her truth like mine repaid 
 Ah me ! that ever falsehood 
 
 So treacherous as thine 
 Should fall to blight another heart 
 
 As it hath blighted mine. 
 

SONG OF THE WAYFARING. 67 
 
 BY C. W. EVEREST. 
 
 HERE let us rest : my weary friend, 
 
 Beside this rippling stream ; 
 For long has been our tiresome march 
 
 Beneath the sultry beam 
 Let's sit beneath this spreading shade, 
 
 Which woos our steps to stay, 
 And we will drink the cooling wave 
 
 To loved ones far away ! 
 
 Fill high the cup ! though we full oft 
 
 Have quaffed the ruddy wine, 
 This purling stream will sweeter seem 
 
 Than juices of the vine 
 Then let us not for goblets sigh, 
 
 Their gleams too oft betray ; 
 But we will drink the crystal wave 
 
 To loved ones far away ! 
 
 T is sweet to muse on distant friends, 
 
 To memory fondly deai, 
 And feel we are not all forgot, 
 
 While resting lonely here ; 
 0, sweet the thought that they may think 
 
 Full oft of those who stray, 
 And now, perchance, do kindly drink 
 
 To loved ones far awaj ! 
 
MARRIED PARTNERS. 
 
 But look, my ftiend, to confer *un, 
 
 *T is hastening down the west, 
 And we must speed our weary course 
 
 Till night-fall bids us rest", 
 But draw once more from out the stream, 
 
 And yet a moment stay, 
 And we will drink a parting cup 
 
 To loved ones far away ! 
 
 BY DR. DOUNE. 
 
 11 And they twain shall be one flesh." 
 
 IF we are two, we are two so 
 As stiff twin compasses are two, 
 
 Thou the fixt foot, which makes no show 
 To stir, but doth if t'other do : 
 
 And though it in the centre sit, 
 Yet, if the other far doth roam, 
 
 It leans and hearkens after it, 
 
 And grows erect as that comes home. 
 
 So shalt thou be to me, who must 
 Like th' other foot, eccentric run : 
 
 Thy firmness makes my circle just, 
 And makes me end where I begun. 
 
THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 69 
 
 
 
 BY MRS. S. A. WENTZ. 
 
 Two fair young girls sat alone at the window of a small 
 but well-furnished parlor. It was a quiet afternoon in autumn. 
 The elder of the girls was beautiful exceedingly ; she sat in 
 silence, a grave expression on her fine features. A cast of 
 thought had stolen into the sunny eyes of the younger ; ever 
 and anon she gazed with a tender, anxious look upon her sis- 
 ter, as if she had much to say, yet waited for a more com- 
 municative mood in her companion. At length she raised her 
 head resolutely and said, " I thought the other evening I 
 heard George Wetmore ask you to go to the Opera with 
 him to-night are you going ? " 
 
 " No !" replied the other, blushing deeply; " I promised, 
 very thoughtlessly, at first to go ; but I recalled it." 
 
 " And why did you recall it, Agnes ? " 
 
 " Why ? Why should I go ? If I prefer to stay at home, 
 I have a right to do so, have I not ? I do n't think it best to 
 accept every invitation I get. That is your plan, though, I 
 believe, Bessie dear, is n't it ? " and she pulled Bessie's soft 
 ringlet with a mischievous laugh. 
 
 Bessie colored, but the next moment she erected her saucy 
 little head, exclaiming, " Well, what if I do ? I want to go . 
 
70 THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 
 
 and I only go out with one person, and that person is to be 
 my liege lord some of these days !" 
 
 " Are you engaged to him, Bessie?" demanded Agnes. 
 
 " Yes ! no. I do n't know ! He asked me a very important 
 question last night," and Bessie cast down her modest eyes 
 without proceeding. 
 
 " And how did you answer him V 9 
 
 " I said Tio, of course ; you know I never had an offer be- 
 fore, and I did n't like the idea of saying yes immediately to 
 the first one that snapt me up \" Bessie raised her roguish 
 eyes to her sister's face and then sent forth a merry peal of 
 laughter, in which her sister joined her. 
 
 " But, Bessie," said Agnes, " if you said TIO, how are you 
 so certain that Ralph is to be your liege lord V 9 
 
 " How am I certain ? Would n't he go through fire and 
 water for me ? Would n't he ask me again ? Would n't he 
 pine away and die, if I should not have him ? And last, but 
 not least, did n't he know I would say yes at a proper time V 9 
 
 Well, Bessie, I suppose you have considered the matter in 
 every point of view ; you are very young yet, only seven- 
 teen. You do not realize how hard it will be for you to be a 
 poor man's wife and yet we have both had some experience 
 of poverty. The simple style we live in now, is beyond our 
 means, our portion will be a mere trifle ; if both of us 
 marry poor, mother's life will not be a very pleasant one ; 
 she of course will live with us, for we would not consent to a 
 separation !" 
 
 "Ah! no, no indeed," answered Bessie; c mother is too 
 noble to consider her ow T n happiness when ours is to be secur- 
 ed, yet to dwell with ns in comparative poverty would be a 
 
THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 71 
 
 happier lot than to see us ' perked up in a glittering grief, 
 wearing a golden sorrow. 3 I asked her yesterday if she was 
 willing I should marry Ralph Anson ; she looked pained a 
 moment and tears came into her eyes, hut she said, c I 
 have no doubt, Bessie, that, at present, you love him hefore 
 everything on earth and I fear before your hopes of Heaven 
 too, though you wish not to be an idolater. The passionate 
 love of youth is a frail thing, it flourishes in the sunshine, but 
 it often withers when it encounters the rough and homely ex- 
 periences of life. Have you something higher than such a 
 love to sustain you 1 Have you energy, patience, unfailing 
 kindness ? will duty, aside from love, lead you to be content 
 by your husband's side, while you care only to promote his 
 happiness, to share his poverty, heedless of ambition in the 
 world's opinion ? Do you know the importance of the step 
 you wish to take 1 Remember it is for life ! Are you ready 
 to live more humbly than you do now? Are you ready to 
 leave your blooming girlhood, perhaps to meet with pecuniary 
 difficulties, sickness and sorrow ? Are you ready to have 
 fashionable acquaintances cut you in the street and to find 
 you are cared for much less by your circle of friends than 
 you supposed ? ' 
 
 " ' Ah ! mother,' I interrupted, ' you draw such a gloomy 
 picture, you say not a word of Ralph's cheerful, noble spirit, 
 on which I may repose every care ; you forget the happy 
 evenings we will spend together reading the works we love 
 so much ; you forget that it will be my highest happiness to 
 smooth from his brow the cloud of care ; you forget, that if 
 sickness comes to him, how grateful I shall be that it is my 
 privilege to watch over him, to cheer his spirit, and, if need 
 
72 THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 
 
 be, to work for his support. True love has made me meek- 
 hearted, mother. I care not for any praise from the world. 
 I care only to hear Ralph say his Bessie is all the world to 
 him. I seek only to be worthy of him ; then am I not 
 ready to spend my life with him, dear mother ? ' 
 
 " c Yes, darling, 5 she answered, c you have the " magic 
 power" within you ; your loving heart will make the wilder- 
 ness to blossom as the rose. I had faith in you, my -child, 
 yet 1 feared you were too thoughtless. Ralph is in every way 
 worthy of you. For both your sakes I wish he was not so 
 poor ; yet poverty is not the worst of evils ; you both possess 
 good health, and riches of the mind and heart. But, Bessie, 
 you must not marry under two or three years ; Ralph can- 
 not support a wife comfortably yet !' 
 
 " ' Oh ! no, mother, not in a year at least.' 5 
 
 " I supposed mother would feel some opposition to your 
 marriage with Anson!" said Agnes thoughtfully, after her 
 sister had finished her narration. 
 
 " And so she would, 55 replied Bessie, " if she did not know- 
 that the whole happiness of her child depended upon him. 55 
 
 " I think imagination has a great deal to do with this hot 
 love ! Do n 5 t you suppose you could love some one else as 
 well as you do Anson, Bessie ? 55 
 
 " Never ! Imagination may give a brighter coloring to love, 
 but it is not love itself. You would like to think that 
 imagination has greater sway over your own feelings than 
 love, but, Agnes, you deceive yourself. Do not be so proud, 
 I beseech of you, or you will wreck your own happiness ! 55 
 
 " Am I proud ? 55 asked Agnes, the warm color rushing to 
 her cheek ; " I may be a little proud, but not enough so to 
 
THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 73 
 
 injure my own happiness very materially. You are governed 
 by impulse, my sister, and I control myself by my judgment." 
 " A fatal judgment, that would lead you to think you can be 
 happy without strong affection. " You are prouder than I, 
 sister, and perhaps you have a right to be, for you are so 
 beautiful and so splendidly endowed with intellect, but you 
 have the warmest of hearts, and 
 
 4 No dream of fame can fill 
 The bosom which must vainly pine 
 For sweet affection's thrill. 1 
 
 Do you know, Agnes, a year or two ago, when I used to 
 see you surrounded by the noble and gifted, c the kings of the 
 earth,' I often retired to my sleepless couch and wept that I, 
 too, could not claim the homage and admiration of genius, so 
 fascinating and grateful to the heart. But ah ! how insignifi- 
 cant it now seems, when compared with the sweeter incense 
 of a pure, abiding love. Why will not you, like me, consent 
 to take an humble path in life, with one who idolizes you, and 
 whom you love in return ?" 
 
 " Whom I love in return," repeated Agnes, her cheek 
 growing gradually pale. " No ! Bessie, stop ; I do not love 
 him, and do not make me fancy so. I will not have him ; 
 he shall not win me !" she spoke passionately, sadly, yet 
 with determination. She continued more calmly, " George 
 and I are not suited to each other ; tiicre is a certain antag- 
 onism in our natures. You know my faults, Bessie ; so I 
 will speak plainly. I value the opinion of the world ; he is 
 utterly indifferent to it. If an action is approved by his own 
 conscience, the opposition of the whole universe is of no 
 
74 THE WEALTHY MAKRIAG.fi. 
 
 avail that is right, it is true, but often where it is not 
 necessary for him to oppose others, he does it. He is so firm, 
 so decided, so strong-spirited ; he would not make allowance 
 for my weaknesses. I must have no failings ; I must be per- 
 fect, or see his proud lip curve in disdain. You know, with 
 him that poverty would be my portion. How could / per- 
 form menial offices without bitterness ? and how could I pre- 
 vent always that bitterness from escaping me ? Then how 
 could I bear his contempt ? He does not care for wealth ; 
 he never would trouble himself in the least to acquire it ; so 
 my whole life would be spent in poverty, hateful poverty ! 
 that tears from our grasp not only temporal comforts, but in- 
 tellectual enjoyments. It not only cuts us off from beholding 
 the glories of this beautiful earth, but with an iron hand it 
 thrusts us back among the low, the common-place ; it robs us 
 of our precious birthright, a place among the gifted. No ! 
 Bessie, never try to persuade me to be the wife of George 
 Wetmore !" 
 
 " You speak extravagantly, Agnes ; you look only on one 
 side," said the meek-hearted Bessie, gazing with a flushed 
 cheek and tears in her anxious eyes upon her sister. 
 " George's tastes are all like yours ; he never would associate 
 among the low, more than yourself ; he loves you as he does 
 his own soul ; he would make many sacrifices for you ; but 
 he is too noble to flatter you. If you cast him off, Agnes, 
 you will bitterly repent it, for you love him, and you are not 
 heartless enough to forget. Oh ! crush that evil pride before 
 it poisons your whole existence." 
 
 " But I do not love George Wetmore with devotion," said 
 Agnes almost sharply " I can love another as well as him- 
 
THE WEALTHY MARRIAG^. 75 
 
 self I know my own heart, and I have never lost the control 
 of it." 
 
 Bessie sighed and was silent. Agnes kissed her soft 
 cheek and whispered, " I appreciate your anxiety for me, 
 sister, but my happiness cannot be promoted in the way you 
 suppose. So brighten up, love, for my lot will be a bright 
 and happy one, spite of all your fears my heart is not one 
 of the soft kind, that would break for love. But look out of 
 the window ; there is Ralph !" 
 
 " Ah ! yes, mon ange /" cried Bessie joyfully, the sun- 
 light coming back into her blue eyes. 
 
 ^ Mon ange /" repeated Agnes smiling, though she 
 curved her lip with pretended disdain, " you had better 
 open the front door for him and spring into his arms he 
 looks up here so smiling and confident, I dare say he expects 
 you to do so !" 
 
 " Not I, indeed !" answered Bessie, assuming a prudish, 
 demure deportment " You know he is a rejected lover and 
 I must act accordingly. Bless me ! he has rung the bell 
 twice, and that slow, poking Bridget hasn't come up the 
 kitchen stairs yet." 
 
 " Well, I will make my escape now," said Agnes, " and 
 leave you and Ralph to make yourselves ridiculous alone." 
 She went, and in a moment Ralph came in, his fine face 
 glowing with mischief, love and happiness. " My Bessie, 
 how are you !" he exclaimed, glancing -apon the charming 
 girl with a heart-warm smile of delight. 
 
 " I am very well, I thank you, Mr. Anson !" she replied 
 bowing folitely, without rising however, and extending her 
 little hand. Ralph looked into her demure face, shook 
 
76 THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 
 
 hands very gravely, then both bur&t into a hearty fit of 
 laughter ; before an hour had gone, Bessie had found out that 
 it was the proper time to say yes. 
 
 Agnes had sought her chamber ; she sat down by the win- 
 dow ; her cheek glowed and her proud, dark eyes flashed. "I 
 love him indeed !" she said, and she smiled scornfully as if she 
 despised herself for supposing such a thing. But memory 
 turned over the leaves of her young existence. Her magic 
 hand stole from the past its brightest gem, its sweet oasis. 
 Ah ! still a glory beamed around it, which pride itself could 
 not hide ; and the young girl bent her head and wept over her 
 infatuation as she thought it. How strangely bold we are in 
 our hopes of happiness, while the sunny sky of youth is over 
 us, before it has been coldly darkened by some heavy grief ! 
 How insensate is the ambitious pride that sets its dainty foot 
 upon the richest, purest flowers that bloom in the garden of 
 life ! The experienced and noble-hearted ones tell us we are 
 wrong ; that the path of life may be a path of thorns to us 
 how incredulously we listen ! And then the silver shout of 
 confidence rings forth from the youthful spirit. Ah ! no it 
 cannot be ; we are too strong for despair. Thus thought 
 Agnes ; she had not met with those trials that teach us to 
 value true happiness before the apparent. She stood upon, 
 the threshold of existence and clasped her girlish treasures 
 of bright imaginings to her bosom as she looked back they 
 threw a glow upon her future ; they told her the world was 
 yet all brightness and yet how passing fair was that beauti- 
 ful oasis still to her eye ; in it she had realized her happy 
 dreams : should she blot it out from her future and trust to 
 visions as happy, yet more proud ] Would she indeed ever 
 
THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 77 
 
 be so happy again, if Wetmore were lost to her? She 
 trembled, she doubted ; but her evil pride came to her sup- 
 port. The tea-bell rang, and she descended with a smooth 
 brow, and with cheerful words took part in the conversation 
 at the evening meal. A few weeks later she wrote thus in 
 her journal : 
 
 " 
 
 June 12^A. Would to heaven I could unwind my 
 tangled feelings and know how to act and feel ! Am I de- 
 ceiving myself? Am I doing wrong to persist in repelling 
 George '? Do I really love him as Bessie says I do ? But 
 no ! Why do I let a thought of having him cross my mind ? 
 Ah ! I am indeed almost proud enough to break my heart ! 
 But I cannot have him ; I cannot bear all the privations that 
 would fall to the lot of his wife. Nonsense ! I do not care 
 very much for him. His own soul pours briefly over mine its 
 burning light and I forget ; his joy becomes mine, it is but 
 the momentary reflection of his spirit. I will not see him 
 often. Would that I was more like Bessie ! I can become 
 like her, if I will ; but the spirits of darkness are around me, 
 and I will not will it. How truly do I realize that I am 
 possessed of two natures sometimes I am cruel, selfish and 
 , worldly, and again I yearn after that goodness which cometh 
 from above. When I am with George, he always leads me 
 into the regions of pure thought ; then it seems as if it would 
 be so noble to lay my best gifts at the feet of my fellow 
 creatures ; to live only that I might make others happy, or 
 pluck the sharp arrow of pain from some bleeding heart. He 
 seems so solicitous that I should become pure and good. 
 Ah ! when the white wing of my guardian angel is over me, 
 
78 THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 
 
 I could sink at his feet and promise that mj life, my pride, 
 my soul, my all should be given up to him. I tremble at the 
 strong intensity of passion that floods my heart. I have in- 
 deed deceived myself. Last night at church, I noticed that 
 expression on his countenance which Bessie had spoken of as 
 so splendid and spiritual. I turned my head away, and be- 
 fore I was aware tears were running down my face : and why 
 did I weep ? It was for him, for myself; because I, wretch- 
 ed one, was to darken his noble spirit, and because I could 
 not surrender my ambition to a better affection. Bessie calls 
 me so firm, so unyielding, so decided, and yet if she could 
 look into my heart, she would see that I am in a constant 
 agony of indecision. She pleads so nobly, so artlessly for 
 George. I listen coldly, while a tempest rages in my heart. 
 I yield in spirit to her eloquence a thousand times; I see 
 with her clear, meek eyes ; I resolve to meet George-, and 
 cast aside this chain of coldness beneath which I fret ; but 
 then the demon of pride starts up it cannot be ! Never 
 before could I acknowledge that it was pride alone that gov- 
 erned me. And yet I have no dream of marrying without 
 love. It was but yesterday that I received an offer, which 
 would have gratified my pride to the utmost. I have no 
 doubt that Lincoln loves me sincerely, but his love seems 
 cold and measured when I think of the warm heart of George. 
 He laid his splendid fortune at my feet ; wealth greater than 
 my ambitious dreams had sought, but it did not raise one 
 tempting thought. I turned coldly away, for I trembled to 
 take a step that would break the golden links that bound my 
 heart to George. And yet I sighed, for if I but loved Lincoln 
 I could be so proud of him ; I could glory in his powerful 
 
THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 79 
 
 mind ; I could be so supremely happy. This world would be 
 too enchanting a paradise if I could tear this passionate 
 idolatry from one object and give it to another. I have 
 heard many persons say that first love is fleeting as the 
 morning cloud. It enwraps the early sky with hues golden 
 and dazzling ; but they fade away, and many another sun of 
 affection rises and chases into forgetfulness the first. So it 
 may be with me. I think I do not decehe myself when 1 
 imagine that I can crush out this love from my nature. But 
 shall I do it ? I knew not how strong it was until I sought 
 to cast it from me. I cannot decide yet.' 5 
 
 Poor Agnes ! she little knew the sorrow she was laying up 
 for herself by those hard struggles to uproot a noble affec- 
 tion ; she might conquer her own will, perhaps, but not the 
 love enshrined within her heart of hearts, 
 
 " Quiet, yet flowing deep, as the Rhine among rivers." 
 
 Often the sigh of envy escaped her as she witnessed the 
 pure, frank happiness of Bessie and her lover. And yet she 
 could not believe that she was casting away a jewel that she 
 might never find again ; others might love Aer, but would the 
 vision rise again in her own breast 1 She firmly believed it 
 would. Mr. Lincoln slowly gained an influence over her ; he 
 ministered to her pride ; he was ten years her senior, and 
 having had some experience in "la belle passion," he did not 
 at all doubt his power of winning in the end the beautiful and 
 gifted creature who had dared to refuse him. The calm, 
 though respectful rejection of the haughty girl, only made 
 him admire her the more ; he then felt that she was above 
 all sor lid motives. He had won many hearts in his day, and 
 
80 THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 
 
 had resolved that it was now time to get a wife in earnest. 
 The genius and beauty of Agnes had fully captivated hia 
 imagination, and his heart was as much enlisted as a selfish 
 man's is generally. He could look with pride upon her 
 queenly grace as she presided at his elegant table, and smile 
 with secret complacency as she hung upon his arm in the 
 morning promenade, the 'bright, particular star,' to whom 
 every eye turned. His literary friends would envy him the 
 possession of one so noKly endowed with talent. Such were 
 the paltry motives that actuated a man whose lofty intellect 
 might have made him a benefactor to his race. So far dis- 
 tant may intellect be from true nobleness of soul. But the 
 bride he sought did not judge him thus, for the manly music 
 of his voice gave utterance only to sentiments delicate and 
 pure ; his clear, steady eye only seemed to rest upon her 
 with the kindness of watchful love. And yet, did it awaken 
 her own heart in return or blot out the memory of one who 
 was the high-priest at the altar of her soul ? We will look 
 once more into the record of her secret thoughts. 
 
 " January 20th. If I ever marry it shall be for love a 
 love that can cast aside everything for its object. Sometimes 
 I think I love George and again I do not. I am sure it is 
 not a deep affection, or I would not feel that I made any 
 sacrifices. Sometimes I feel something approaching to indig- 
 nation that he will still persevere in endeavoring to win my 
 love, when I struggle so hard against it ; and the next 
 moment a flood of intense affection rushes powerfully over 
 me ! when his strong spirit yields to deep tenderness and 
 there is a feeling and patho* in his voice for me alone, I see 
 
THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 81 
 
 that there is a trial in store for me. My feelings of tender- 
 ness are enlisted, but my judgment never. I experience too 
 often a certain opposition of feeling. I think he might be too 
 severe and stern upon me ; and yet I know if I possessed 
 the pure purpose that always governs Bessie, I should rejoice 
 in the healthful serenity that will not flatter the object best 
 loved on earth. Again he seems too indulgent to my way- 
 wardness. Alas ! what a strange, deceitful thing the heart 
 is it is so difficult to learn our motives. The other evening 
 I met George at a party ; he was asked to sing, and chose the 
 touching lay we first learned together ; he glanced towards me 
 before he began. It seemed to me that I never saw the 
 innermost soul embodied in music before I thrilled strangely 
 as I heard his last, exquisite tones ; it seemed as if his whole 
 heart's history was poured forth on each word he was a 
 changed being to me then, he was an angel-poet. I was as 
 unconscious of the presence of any one as if I had been 
 totally alone. I seemed to swim in the emotion that rushed 
 through my heart. How I could have wept if other eyes had 
 not been upon me. That heart-music has rung in my ears ever 
 since, and I have trembled lest in a moment of impulsive feel- 
 ing I should yield. When I came home, I felt as if could sit 
 and brood over it all night for a short time, as I sank upon 
 a chair and clasped my hands, I felt as if there was a will 
 and a power stronger than my own drawing me to him. I 
 felt that I could sacrifice all. Until yesterday I feared and 
 trembled, but last night he revealed himself in a sterner 
 character he loves me, but he would net indulge me I 
 must shrink from no duties. He spoke of woman, of his 
 e ? she must be a rational being, not a toy to be petted in 
 
82 THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 
 
 her waywardness and worshipped for her pretty follies. I 
 felt horribly provoked ill-natured. I did not reply, but 
 thought if I was married to him, I should be quarrelling half 
 the time ! And why ? He of course wanted me to be his 
 wife, and he gave utterance to a suspicion that I might have 
 follies. To sift the matter to the bottom, I must be thought 
 perfection I must be on Pisgah's top in his eye. He would 
 have been very sorry to have known the effect his lecture 
 on woman's domestic duties produced. 4 Would n't have him 
 for the world,' thought I, as I parted from him. * If his 
 dinner was not well-cooked at any time, I should have the 
 benefit of a lecture, and that I w r ill in good time spare my- 
 self.' I know not what fate has in store for me. Lincoln 
 has not taken my refusal very much to heart, for he seeks me 
 as much as ever. Perhaps he thinks I will yet marry him. 
 But I do not feel now as if I should ever love him as I ought." 
 
 " December ~Lst. Winter has commenced, and there is 
 also a winter in my soul ten weary months have rolled into 
 eternity since I last wrote on these pages. I have dis- 
 couraged George ; he left for the South three months ago. I 
 learned how terribly I had deceived myself in thinking I 
 could ever be happy with another, after he had gone, without 
 one word of farewell. Ah ! pride, pride, how lofty the 
 aspect thou wearest, and yet thy serpent fangs bite into the 
 very heart. If I could but see him ! This silence of Hope 
 is desolate. And yet why should I see him ? Lincoln con- 
 siders me almost engaged to him. I know not what will 
 become of me. I know not where to turn ! If George would 
 but come to m^ once more, how meekly, how joyfully would 1 
 
THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 88 
 
 sink at bis feet, and implore his forgiveness for my cold 
 trifling with his best feelings. But it is too late ; he thinks I 
 have been won with Lincoln's gold ; his respect is lost, and I 
 cannot stoop to win it again. My angel sister ! your sad 
 prophecy has come true. I have indeed wrecked my own 
 happiness. But, wailing heart, be silent-! Now pride come 
 forth, and sit like a queen upon the ruins of a soul that might 
 have been great and good and nobfe ! Your triumph is 
 accomplished, where is the rosy crown that was to rest 
 lightly upon this aching brow ? Where are the other joys my 
 youth was to snatch from the future? Gold i gold ! it has 
 swayed me, it has ruined me, but it is now more hateful 
 than poverty. Oh ! when will this bitterness depart ? I 
 have had a brief dream of joy in my life ; I know the mean- 
 ing of the word happiness in its loveliest sense, but it is 
 over ! " 
 
 " April 4th. I am not yet engaged to Lincoln ; I have 
 again refused him, but I feel, I know that I shall be his wife. 
 This unwavering devotion soothes the anguish of my soul. I 
 have grown strangely weak lately. I must have a faithful 
 heart upon which to rest my burning brow. I am so cold, I 
 have lost all the passion of my nature ; but I will, perhaps, 
 recover from this then ; with all meekness I will devote 
 myself to the happiness of Lincoln. I told him I had Icved 
 another. I could not deceive him. My future may yet be 
 calm and tranquil. George's name must be forbidden these 
 pages ; yet, still too deeply beloved one ! let me thank theo 
 for the sweetest cup of joy my lips have ever tasted ! 
 Farewell ! Dreams of thee have already haunted my soul 
 
84 THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 
 
 too long ; life offers me now a stern battle. I am not worthy 
 of thee, my lost one ! Thou wouldst have guided me through 
 flowery paths to Heaven ; now Duty shall be my guide, my 
 incessant, my exacting leader !" 
 
 " September 9th. I am very soon to become the wife of 
 Lincoln ; the prospect is not an unhappy one ; I think I 
 shall love him deeply ; it is my constant prayer. I think he 
 is fully worthy of my affection, and duty and gratitude will 
 come to my aid. I could not bear to give my consent so 
 soon, when I am still aware that I am not as devoted to him, 
 as I desire to be I told him this, and he said he had no 
 fears. Would that I could instantly forget my passionate 
 heart's history. Yes ! time changes the warmest love of the 
 heart to coldness. Time is omnipotent over the wild, way- 
 ward, bursting heart. Feelings beautiful and burning 
 enough to be immortal. Oh God ! how they slowly die be- 
 neath the steady pressure of Time's iron fingers. What is 
 feeling and love ? I once thought they were eternal as the 
 soul that droops helplessly and tremblingly in their power. 
 T thought if love entered my being, it would remain for years 
 and years, that no time could make me cease to thrill at a look 
 or tone that once awoke the music of my spirit. At times 
 I thought thus, when I threw aside flippancy. Now I have 
 00 confidence in myself. I have no feeling it has departed, 
 or it mercifully slumbers for a season until it can be awaken- 
 ed towards the one to whom my faith is plighted. I think 
 sometimes I am sinning to give my hand to Lincoln, but I 
 have lost my haughty, self-relying spirit. I should sink and 
 die if his affection did not form a support ; and yet, I would 
 
THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 85 
 
 a thousand times rather he would be a brother than a hus- 
 band to me. He has made himself necessary to my happi- 
 ness ; it is a disappointment when he omits one of his fre- 
 quent visits ; he, more than any one else diverts my attention 
 from dwelling on the past. He has insensibly called forth 
 my dormant interest in the classic lore I once so delighted 
 in ; he seems to understand my wants and administers to 
 them with singular delicacy. We are soon to visit Europe ; 
 then I can indeed lose myself in olden dreams and be happy. 
 Life will once more acquire its beautiful interests ; hours of 
 quiet contemplation, hours of love and joy, hours of fresh- 
 ness and gaiety, hours of earnest and busy duty, hours of 
 ardent and strength-giving prayer. Oh ! for such times of 
 happiness when I can look to my Creator and bless Him for 
 the smile upon my path." 
 
 "October Uth. We are on the boundless sea, and my heart 
 is bursting with its love for the dear ones I have left. The 
 bridal scenes are all over, the last farewells spoken, and I am 
 far from home and friends. I feel so strangely, so entirely 
 alone I could weep my eyes out. I had no idea that my 
 friends were so near and dear to me. Sweet mother and 
 Bessie ! But I will not write now ; I shall soon be happy 
 again. Lincoln is more kind and devoted than ever. He 
 shall not see me grieve for ' home, sweet home.' ' 
 
 " December 3d. We are still in the gay city of Paris. I 
 can truly say that I am far happier than I at one time ever 
 expected to be. I am fully content, when I consider how 
 little I deserve it, and how utterly wretched I have been. 
 
86 THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 
 
 Now my life lies before me like a tranquil landscape, not lit 
 up with resplendent hues, but sobered by the grave twilight 
 of experience. I know that a better land lies in the distance. 
 I have every cause for gratitude a kind husband, dear 
 friends, and the gratification of every temporal wish. I 
 know that grief has had a holy mission to my soul ; it has 
 made me more like Bessie. Her angel heart did not need 
 such bitter teachings to learn the ways of wisdom.' 5 
 
 * 
 " October Qth. To-night is the second anniversary of my 
 
 marriage. I sit alone, and the evening stars of Italy burn 
 above my head. The bay of Naples sparkles in the moon- 
 light. I have gazed for hours out of the window upon the 
 scene of loveliness presented ; and as memory wandered back 
 to the home of my childhood, I could not choose but weep ! 
 I would give up all this only to be clasped to the heart of my 
 sister ; she is a happy bride now, ah ! how infinitely happy. 
 Comparative poverty with Ralph is sweeter to her than gold 
 or flashing gems. The poetry of love and goodness warms 
 her heart ; it has glorified her world ; it is her shield against 
 petty ills. Meek-hearted Bessie ! Would that thou couldst 
 have ordered my life in a path as sweet as thine. But what 
 am I saying ? Even now my lot is better than I deserve, 
 what have I to do with affection ? why should I dare ask for 
 it ? Alas ! I die for it ! I have been terribly awakened 
 from the tranquil dream that soothed past anguish, and robed 
 life again with its lost interests. A cloud is over my earthly 
 life. How was I so strangely deceived? Lincoln surely 
 loved me once, but now he seems almost to hate me. I 
 rarely see him, and when I JD he treats me almost like a 
 
THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 87 
 
 slave. If I do some little thing in the hope of giving him 
 pleasure, he thrusts me rudely aside before I can speak. 
 How fiercely the proud fire of my soul is stirred sometimes ; 
 it seems as if I shall go frantic. Once or twice my passionate 
 anger and anguish has broken forth before him ; he simply 
 smiles and whistles, and I seek my room to weep, to pray, to 
 upbraid myself for forgetting the deportment of a Christian. 
 I need this discipline, fearful as it is ; it has broken my 
 spirit it has opened my heart to the suffering and tempted. 
 It has made me yearn intensely to become fitted for a better 
 world. That is my sole thought, the only hope left me of all 
 the bright ones I once cherished. I have laid my only child 
 in the grave. It has almost rent my heart-strings asunder ; 
 and yet I thank God, daily, that my darling is spared the 
 sorrows of earth. Oh ! if my husband would not scorn my 
 affections ; if he would but love me, how wild would be the 
 idolatry this broken heart would lavish upon him ; how happy 
 I might be. But I cannot love him ; I did once, but daily I 
 have to struggle against the indignant hatred that will rise 
 up when he treats me unkindly. Then, if he once speak to 
 me as of old, I forget all. I trust he will be what I once 
 thought him. The deep wells of affection overflow, and for a 
 brief space I am happy so humbly happy ! Ah ! how I am 
 altered. I hardly know myself. I married him, not loving 
 him as I ought and inwardly feeling that his love was not so 
 noble as one I cast away. I knew that his principles were 
 not very strict, but I have found him an infidel. Oh ! George, 
 bitter is the retribution that I have met with. Ah ! pen, 
 write no more that forbidden name. Alas ! forbidden 
 thoughts that aro sinful now, are ever, ever rushing through 
 
88 THE WEALTHY MARRIAGE. 
 
 my heart like the wing of a destroying angel, telling me what 
 I have lost. I pray against it, I resolve, and re-resolve ; I 
 despair, then take courage again and meet my fate. Others 
 look upon me and think I am supremely happy. They see 
 the outward, not the inward life. Have I sinned so deeply 
 that I am punished thus ? Many who are worse, meet with 
 a happier fate. I will still have faith. I will still trust in the 
 shadow of the Almighty. I will be meek-hearted and devote 
 myself to more fortunate brethren and sisters. My husband 
 may yet learn to feel that Christianity is not a fabrication 
 of men. I will be satisfied with my mission, I will not sink 
 into apathy, feeling that I am useless, a miserable unit in the 
 world. I will awake, and shake off these idle dreams of 
 earthly joy. I have at least money at my command, and 
 time that no one claims. I will visit the abodes of want, and 
 each day will do some little good. Then the regrets that 
 consume me will vanish, and affliction, even though brought 
 upon me by my own hand, shall be my saving angel. He 
 who doeth all things well, can also sweeten the waters of 
 eternal life, that I shall drink with the bitter drug that 1 
 cast into my cup." 
 
THE ONLY SISTER TO HER ONLY BROTHER. 
 
 BIT3ET Si Sill 81&1 
 
 \ ' 
 
 BY MRS. SARAH JOSEPHA HALE. 
 
 BROTHER ! while the breath of even 
 Cools the burning brow of heaven, 
 And the stealthy shadows, creeping 
 Softly as an infant's sleeping, 
 Seem but like the brooding fancies 
 Which the poet's soul entrances, 
 When the outward world is turning 
 Dark beneath his spirit's burning, 
 Then I stand amid the shrouding 
 Memories on my vision crowding ; 
 Then I see our sainted mother ! 
 Thou art with me, too, my brother ! 
 
 Brother ! would that I were near thee, 
 Whispering warmei words lo cheer thee r 
 Happy as in cheerful childhood, 
 When we wandered through the wild wood, 
 Finding only pleasant places, 
 Filling all with fairy faces, 
 Sending on our songs before us, 
 Till the rocks returned the chorus, 
 Till the brook, our bourne of travel 
 With its wealth of glistening gravel, 
 Reachevi ol mines we asked none other; 
 O, how rich we were my brother ! 
 
90 THE ONLY SISTER TO HER OxNLY BROTHER. 
 
 Brother ! dost thou not remember, 
 
 Through one cloudy, cold December, 
 
 How we counted Christmas coming, 
 
 All its promised pleasures summing ? 
 
 Softly lest our mother's sleeping 
 
 Should be broken 1 Often creeping 
 
 : Neath the curtain's close enfolding, 
 
 And her sad, sweet face beholding 
 
 While she slumbered ? Never dreaming, 
 
 When the blessed morn was beaming, 
 
 Heaven's bright dawn would wake our mother : 
 
 We be left alone, my brother ! 
 
 Brother ! as the past comes o'er me, 
 Holy visions float before me ; 
 We are children still, and keeping 
 Watch beside our mother sleeping ; 
 And her life of love and duty 
 Folds us with its heavenly beauty j 
 And her faith, like light shed downward, 
 Draws our faltering footsteps onward ! 
 Orphans though the world oppress the, 
 And its wearing woes distress me, 
 Never, while we love each other 
 And aie worthy of our mother, 
 Car we be unblessed, my brothei I 
 
HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 I KNEW a young man who sowed wild oats for several 
 yvars and reaped more than one unfruitful harvest. At best 
 he found this a very unprofitable business, and again and 
 again made resolutions to do better. At last he became in- 
 volved in sundry small debts and the holders of them, dis- 
 covering that there was something like risk in the business, 
 grew very urgent, and my friend, whom I will call Albert 
 Armour, found himself much annoyed by demands which, 
 though willing, he was not able to meet with promptness. 
 To make things worse, the only employer in the trade at 
 which he wrought gave up business and Albert was thrown 
 entirely out of work. The entire prostration of business in 
 the country reduced the demand for workmen in his line in 
 neighboring cities, and he therefore had no inducement to go 
 to other places to seek for employment. Besides himself 
 there was in the city another young man who followed the 
 same trade, and as there always existed a small demand for 
 articles which they alone could manufacture, they conceived 
 the idea of setting up in a small way themselves. I had not 
 seen Albert for some months, when one day he called upon 
 me. He had changed much for the worse in appearance, 
 and there was about him a look of concern almost approach- 
 ing to distress. 
 
92 HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. 
 
 " Albert, how do you do? 5 ' said I, extending my hand; 
 for I was really pleased to see him. 
 
 " Tolerable, what's left of me," he replied, sadly and 
 . with a look of shame. 
 
 " What are you doing now? " I asked. 
 
 " Nothing at all," said he. 
 
 " How comes that, Albert?" 
 
 " Old Turnpenny has broken up, and you know there is no 
 ^ther establishment in the city. 
 
 " But there are several in New York. Why don't you go 
 on there 1 " 
 
 " I have written, and learn that one-third of the old hands 
 ha,ve been discharged ; so, of course, there is no chance for 
 new onej." 
 
 I did not reply, for I was at a loss for a suggestion, and 
 he continued, heightening in color : 
 
 " I wo ildn't care so much, if I had been prudent with my 
 earnings. But I have not ; and now I am troubled with 
 some half dozen small debts that it is impossible for me to 
 pay. I n, ver dreamed of old Turnpenny's giving up." 
 
 " Have you thought of nothing?" I asked. 
 
 " Yes," h>3 replied, " I have thought of one thing. There 
 is a good deal of work here that could be obtained, if I only 
 had the facilities for doing it. Johnson and I have talked 
 the matter over seriously, and we think we might do well, if 
 we could only get under way. Indeed, he has been round 
 among the dealers ; there are five or six in the city, you know, 
 and they all gave him encouragement and promised us work.'" 
 
 " Well, how much would it cost to fit you up in a small 
 way?" 
 
HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. 93 
 
 " One hundred dollars in money would be enough. We 
 know a carpenter and a bricklayer who would arrange our 
 shop and put up our furnaces, and wait until we got fairly 
 going for their pay." 
 
 " I don't know, Albert, that I can help you any, although 
 I should like to do so very much," said I ; "but I will give 
 the matter all the thought I can. Call again and see me to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " The young man thanked me for my interest and promis- 
 ed to return. After he was gone, I put on my hat and went 
 to see a Mr. Parker, from whom the principal part of the 
 work which Albert expected to do must come. This Mr. 
 Parker was known as a very pious man, and I therefore ex- 
 pected much from him. 
 
 " Good afternoon, Mr. Parker," said I, as I entered his 
 store. 
 
 " Ah ! good day," he responded, smiling. 
 
 " You often want jobs done in your line, do you not ? " 
 said I, coming at once to the point. 
 
 " Well yes ; I do sometimes." 
 
 " Because," I continued, " young Armour has nothing to 
 do now that Turnpenny has given up, and he has some 
 thought of opening in a small way. He will have to receive 
 some assistance, however, for he has nothing to begin with, 
 and I suppose there is no one to help him but me, although I 
 have as much as I can do to help myself. I have therefore 
 called on you to know how far he may calculate on receiving 
 work from your establishment." 
 
 " Oh, as to that, we are all the while wanting something or 
 other done ; and as there will be no other place to go to, he 
 
HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. 
 
 will of course get the whole of our work. But, if I were 
 you, I would think twice, and three times, too, before I risk- 
 ed a dollar on him." 
 
 " He has been rather wild, I know, Mr. Parker. But he 
 feels keenly the consequences of his imprudence, and I have 
 strong hopes of him. This is a crisis. If no effort is made 
 to help him to keep up when he is so desirous of sustaining 
 himself, he will fall, I sadly fear, into hopeless ruin. You 
 know he can get no work here, because there is no employer 
 in the city ; and business has fallen to half its usual amount 
 in the other principal cities." 
 
 " That's his look-out, you know," Mr. Parker replied, 
 tossing his head. " Why didn't he take care of his money 
 when he could earn it? He would have had more than 
 enough to begin with now. Let him feel the shoe pinch, it 
 will do him good." 
 
 " He does feel it severely, Mr. Parker," I urged. " But 
 the crisis has come with him. Surely it would not be right 
 to leave him, hopeless, in his extremity." 
 
 " I've no confidence in such kind of people as he is. He 
 may be very much distressed now, but set him on his feet 
 again, and he'll be as bad as ever, I have not the least 
 doubt." 
 
 " You'll give him work ?" said I, unwilling to bandy words 
 with one whose uncharitable selfishness shut up his heart to 
 the claims of humanity. 
 
 " Oh, of course, when I want anything done." 
 
 " Very well," said I, bowing and turning away. 
 
 I saw Armour during the day, and told him that I would 
 be his security for certain tools and materials that were re- 
 
HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. 95 
 
 quired, and besides that lend him fifty dollars. He was very 
 grateful. Taking my hand, and pressing it warmly, he 
 said : 
 
 " You shall never repent having helped me just in this 
 crisis. I have been very improvident and very wicked ; but 
 I am earnest in my purpose to change." 
 
 " Be true to your present good intention, and all will be 
 well," 1 said, encouragingly. " You have now a fair chance 
 before you. There is plenty of work in the city, and your 
 shop will be the only one where it can be done. But, 
 you mustn't expect any thing more than jobbing for the first 
 year. The heaviest work will be sent to New York or Phil- 
 adelphia, of course. But, as you get yourselves established, 
 and the trade gain confidence in you, more important work 
 will begin to come into your hands, and in time enable you 
 to build up, if you will, a little fortune. An opening like the 
 present does not often occur ; if you fully embrace the op- 
 portunity before you, you are made." 
 
 Armour seemed deeply grateful for what I had done, and 
 avowed it to be his determination to devote himself to his 
 business with the most untiring industry. 
 
 I cannot say that I had the fullest confidence in the result 
 And yet I had great hopes that all would turn out well. I 
 knew the young man's weakness, and felt the danger he was 
 in What I most feared was, that every thing might not go 
 on smoothly, and that he would get discouraged, lose his 
 energies and fall back into old habits of idleness and dissipa- 
 tion. 
 
 Every thing depended upon the young men's getting cash 
 for their work. They had neither capital nor credit. ID 
 
96 HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. 
 
 order to procure a few small but indispensable articles in 
 their shop, I loaned Armour, as I had promised, fifty dollars 
 in cash. The business in which they were engaged was that 
 of stereotype founders. They had two or three small jobs 
 of repairing plates to begin with, and went to work in good 
 spirits. 
 
 On the third day, as Armour informed me, Parker came 
 into the shop, and after looking around with an air of doubt 
 and suspicion, said in a rude way 
 
 " So you've got to doing something again 1 " 
 
 " Yes," he replied, "I'm trying to do something." 
 
 " It's a pity you hadn't always tried. It would have been 
 better for you, and other people too." 
 
 " I don't know, Mr. Parker," said Armour, endeavoring 
 to speak in a way as little offensive as possible, " that I ever 
 injured you." 
 
 "I do, then ; and seriously at that." 
 
 " How so ? " asked Armour in surprise. 
 
 " I can soon tell you. I had an important work in the 
 hands of Mr. Turnpenny stopped by your going off in one of 
 your wild frolics, and lost all the advantages of the fall trade 
 sales." 
 
 a I am very sorry," said Armour. " I acted wrong, I 
 know." 
 
 " Precious little good does your being sorry now do me. / 
 think men ought to be punished for such things. What 
 right has either you or any one else to injure me in that 
 way?" 
 
 " No right at all. I have no excuse to make. But what 
 is past I cannot help now." 
 
HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. . 97 
 
 " Yes ! That's about all the satisfaction a body gets. 
 But do you think, if I give you a job to do now, I can de- 
 pend upon you?" 
 
 " I think you can, Mr. Parker. I will try and do it well, 
 and in time. How large a job is it ?" 
 
 " I want my pearl Bible plates thoroughly repaired. I in- 
 tended to send them to New York, but the trouble, cost of 
 transportation and insurance make me wish to have the work 
 done here, if it can be done. But I'm half afraid to trust 
 you with them. 5 ' 
 
 " You must do as you like about that," replied Armour, 
 coldly. He felt hurt at these uncalled for remarks. 
 
 "Can you go at them at once ? " 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " And push them right through? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " How long will it take you, do you think? " 
 
 "It will be impossible to tell, until we examine the 
 plates." 
 
 The plates were sent in, examined, and the amount of 
 work to be done on them ascertained as nearly as possible. 
 It would take at least three weeks to do all that was requir- 
 ed, and the whole job, when finished, would be worth about 
 ei to w.ty dollars. In order to get through with these plates in 
 time, other work had to be laid aside and a number of little 
 jobs put off or declined altogether. 
 
 A week after the shop was opened, two or three of those 
 to whom Armour was indebted in small sums, geeing that he 
 was at work again and actually " in business for himself," 
 commenced a system of dunning, to which threats were soon 
 
HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. 
 
 added. This the young man bore as patiently as possible, 
 although it disheartened him very much. Almost every day 
 Parker came in to see how his plates were progressing ; and 
 he always peered about in a suspicious manner, that fretted 
 Armour exceedingly. One day he came in and found Ar- 
 mour, who was the " finisher," engaged on another job. 
 
 " Just as I expected !" said Parker. " I've been looking 
 for this every day." 
 
 " Looking for what ? " asked Armour. 
 
 " Looking to see my work laid aside for that of somebody 
 else." 
 
 " It's a mere trifling job, and is very much needed. The 
 person who wanted it done was so anxious about it and so 
 urgent that we could not put him off." 
 
 " I don't care how anxious and urgent he was. You had 
 no right to lay my work aside for any body's. If this is all 
 the dependence that is to be placed in you, I will take care, 
 another time, how I put any thing into your hands." And 
 Parker went away quite angry. 
 
 Some weeks after this, Armour called on me, looking in 
 trouble. 
 
 " How are you getting along 1 " I asked. 
 
 " I could get along well enough if they would let me alone 
 until I got fairly on my feet." 
 
 " Who is troubling you ? " 
 
 " Close, the tailor. He commenced dunning me every 
 Cwo or three days from the first week we opened, and now he 
 has waranted me for what I owe him." 
 
 " How much is it 1 " 
 
 " Forty-three dollars." 
 
HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. 99 
 
 " Can't you pay him a part 1 Perhaps if you were to do 
 so, he would wait for the balance a little longer." 
 
 " I haven't a dollar to give him. We laid aside every 
 thing for Parker's work, which has been finished for two 
 weeks, and so far he hasn't paid us a cent; and we are 
 out of metal, and not able to go on with work now in the 
 shop." 
 
 " Have you handed in the bill ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I took it in the day after the plates were sent 
 home." 
 
 " What did he say ? " 
 
 " He took it, and after running his eye over it, tossed it 
 upon his desk, saying in an indifferent tone 'Very well; 
 leave it.'" 
 
 " Have you seen him since?" 
 
 " Yes, I called in three or four days, and he said he 
 thought we were in a great hurry about the bill. I replied 
 that we had laid every thing aside for his work, and that 
 unless he paid us for it we could not go on, as we were both 
 very poor. ' For that you have nobody to blame but your- 
 selves. Why didn't you save your money while you had a 
 chance to do so 1 ' he replied to this. I told him that the 
 past could not be helped now ; all we wanted was a little 
 chance for the future. He did not offer to pay the bill, 
 although I lingered in his store for ten or fifteen minutes. In 
 a week I called again, but he was in New York. As soon 
 as he returned, I saw him, but he said that he had no time 
 to attend to it. If we only had his bill, which is nearly a 
 hundred dollars, we could buy metal, I could pay Close ten 
 or fifteen dollars and get him to wait, and we would feel en 
 
100 HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. 
 
 couraged to press on more actively than ever ; but, as it is, 
 we are both disheartened." 
 
 " Try and not feel so," said I. " It is very bad to give 
 way to discouraging thoughts." 
 
 " But how can I help it ? " he returned, with some 1 bitter- 
 ness. " Parker calls himself a Christian and goes to church 
 on Sunday with a long pious face I've seen him and yet, 
 in a mean, selfish and malignant spirit, withholds from me 
 the few dollars I have earned with hard labor, and which are 
 all that stand between me and ruin. If I break down in this 
 my most sincere and earnest effort to do well, the sin will lie 
 at his door. A Christian indeed ! " 
 
 " Don't feel, don't think, don't talk in this way, Armour !" 
 I said, earnestly. But he replied 
 
 " How can I help it ? It is no light thing, depend upon it, 
 thus to break down a man in his earnest struggle against the 
 power of bad habits and the disabilities they have entailed 
 upon him. If I fail in this effort, I shall not, in all pro- 
 bability, have the heart to try again, and even if I had, no 
 one would again put any confidence in me." 
 
 " These are only your trials," I urged. " Stand up, 
 bravely, under them, and you will come out right. To give 
 up can only make things worse." 
 
 " But what am I to do with Close? He will get a judg- 
 ment against me and seize upon our shop and sell it. I can- 
 not prevent this." 
 
 After thinking upon the matter for a short time, I felt it to 
 be my duty to go still farther than I had done in my efforts 
 to put the young man fairly on his feet. I therefore offered 
 to go his security for the debt to Close, and thus get a stav 
 
HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. 101 
 
 
 
 of execution for six months. I also loaned him ten dollars 
 more, to enable them to buy metal and go on with the work 
 that was in the shop. 
 
 But Armour felt too much discouraged to work with spirit. 
 Three days after I had gone his security for the debt to Close, 
 I was surprised to see him coming out of a tavern. I met 
 him face to face as he did so. He colored up and looked 
 confused. I did not allude to* the fact of his again going to 
 the tavern, but I felt my confidence in his ultimate success 
 greatly impaired. 
 
 " Has Parker settled his bill yet? " I asked. 
 
 " No, and what is more, I do n't believe he intends doing 
 it," he replied, in an angry voice. 
 
 " Why do you think so ?" 
 
 " A young man in his store told me that he heard him ad- 
 vise a man who has a judgment against me for eighty dollars 
 (it is no debt of my own, but one for which I was fool 
 enough to go security) to push me, and then ask for an order 
 on him." 
 
 " Is it possible ? " I exclaimed in surprise. 
 
 " That the story was true I soon had proof all-sufficient to 
 convince me, in the visit of a constable to the shop. He was 
 there yesterday. And this morning the holder of the claim 
 called to ask if I would give him an order on Parker." 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 " I was so angry that I could n't contain myself, and told 
 him -that I would see him in a hotter place than this, first." 
 
 " You were wrong in that," said I. 
 
 " Perhaps I was. But I was so fretted that I could not 
 contain myself. Johnson, my partner, is terribly put out 
 
102 HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. 
 
 about the whole matter and blames me for what I cannot 
 now help. The fact is, I feel desperate." 
 
 u But think, my young friend," I urged, " that you are 
 under obligation to me not to give up, but to struggle on to 
 the end." 
 
 " That the breaking up of our business must necessarily 
 involve you in loss is what troubles me. As for myself, I 
 feel quite indifferent as to what becomes of me. Every thing 
 is adverse, and I shall 30 to the wall in spite of all I can 
 do." 
 
 I found it all in vain to talk to the young man ; he had 
 been taking a glass of brandy and that had inflamed and un- 
 settled his mind. 
 
 Unwilling as I was to interfere in the business transactions 
 of others, I still felt it to be my duty to call upon Parker, 
 and urge him to act differently toward the young men. I 
 found that the man he had advised to ask Armour for an 
 order on him, owed him money, and that it was to secure the 
 debt due to himself that he had proposed the measure. He 
 was very formal and distant with me and quickly closed the 
 interview by saying that the bill would have to be settled in 
 that way ; it was the only chance he would probably ever 
 have to get his money, and he was determined to improve it. 
 Armour, he alleged, was a wicked young man and did not 
 deserve encouragement ; he had already done him more in- 
 jury than he would ever atone for. 
 
 The case I now felt to be almost hopeless. I was not able 
 to risk any thing further ; and if I had been, the spirit in 
 which the efforts of the young man to do right had been met 
 was so bad, and had already produced such an unhappy 
 
HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN* 103 
 
 effect upon his mind, that I should have doubted the utility 
 of doing so. 
 
 Without remorse or delay, the coercive system proposed 
 was carried through. An execution was issued and the shop 
 of the young men seized and sold. It was bought by Parker, 
 who employed Johnson to carry on the business for him. 
 Armour was offered work as a journeyman, with good wages, 
 but he indignantly refused to accept of it, and in a moment 
 of anger and despondency and while under the effects of 
 liquor, enlisted in the United States dragoon service for five 
 years. I lost, in the effort to help him to do right, about two 
 hundred dollars ; and Parker, in breaking him down, recover- 
 ed a debt of seventy or eighty dollars, and got possession of 
 a small stereotype office, which has, in the course of seven or 
 eight years, grown into a large and profitable establishment. 
 
 I used often to meet Parker on his way to church, accom- 
 panied by his wife and daughter ; he had a rigidly righteous 
 look, but I always thought, when I met him, of poor 
 Armour in the far distant west, who, instead of being an 
 oppressed, degraded soldier, might, but for his shameless con- 
 duct toward him, have been a happy, useful citizen. Some- 
 times I would ask myself the question, whether, for the ruin 
 of that man, he would not be held answerable ? 
 
 Five years and more passed and I had ceased to think as 
 often as at first of the unfortunate young man I had sought to 
 save from himself, when, going one day in Parker's store to 
 buy a book, I noticed a poor, degraded looking creature enter 
 and pass along through the crowd of customers who stood 
 at the counter. He appeared to be very much in liquor. 
 
 " Is Mr. Parker in ? " I heard him ask of a clerk. The 
 
104 HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. 
 
 clerk pointed to the owner of the store, who stood in a small 
 group of his church brethren, with whom he was conversing 
 on matters of religion. Most of these were really good and 
 true men and as unlike him as day is unlike night. 
 
 ." Mr. Parker ! " said the man, going up to him. " How 
 do you do, sir ? I reckon you do n't know me ? " 
 
 " No, I certainly do not ; and what is more, do not wish to 
 know you." 
 
 " Mr. Parker," resumed the man, " you 've got a foundry, 
 and I 'm a first-rate finisher, and want work. Will you give 
 me a job?" 
 
 " I never employ drinking men in my establishment." 
 
 This appeared to fret the applicant and partially to sober 
 him, for he replied sharply, 
 
 " Not even of your own making, I suppose 1 " 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Parker, annoyed at this 
 remark. 
 
 " I mean, sir, just what I said," was retorted. 
 
 " You don't pretend to say that I made you a drunkard ? " 
 
 ac That 's just what I do pretend to say. But for you, I 
 would have been this day a sober, steady, honest, industrious 
 man, and would have been the owner of the very foundry you 
 possess." 
 
 It was Armour ! I stepped forward, unobserved by him, a 
 deeply interested witnes? of what was passing. 
 
 " The man is crazy ! said Parker, much irritated. " I 
 never saw him before." 
 
 " Never saw Albert Armour before ! I should like to hear 
 you deny that in the day of judgment." 
 
 " Armour !" ejaculated the bookseller in sui prise, while 
 
HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. 105 
 
 a flush passed over his face, " I never did you harm. You 
 were your own enemy." 
 
 a Never did me harm !" said the poor, ruined creature, 
 elevating his voice, and speaking, with a brief but subduing 
 eloquence, so loud that all in the store could hear him dis- 
 tinctly. u Didn't you, five years ago, when I, resolving to 
 mend my ways, started by the aid of a kind friend the 
 foundry you now own, give me work ? Didn't you, knowing 
 that I had not a dollar to help myself with, after I had put 
 off every body's work to do yours, refuse to pay the bill, and 
 insult me when I asked for it ? Did n't you then advise a 
 man to whom I had become indebted by going security for a 
 friend, to sue me and ask for an order on you ? Did'nt that 
 man take your advice ? Wasn't I, for refusing to do this, 
 which was equivalent to ruin, sold out remorselessly ? And 
 didn't you buy the office for a song ? Answer me, sir ; and 
 say, in the presence of all these men, if these things be not 
 true ? " 
 
 For a few moments Parker seemed terribly cut down, but 
 he rallied himself with a strong effort, and attempted to deny 
 what Armour had alleged against him. 
 
 " You may deny before these men," returned Armour, 
 " but thank God ! there 's a day coming when denial will do 
 no good." 
 
 " Henry, go round and bring a police officer," said 
 Parker, turning to one of his clerks. 
 
 " I '11 wait until he returns," retorted Armour, coolly. 
 " I should like, above all things, to face you at the police 
 
 office. I '11 send for Mr. as evidence of the truth of 
 
 what I Ve said, and exhibit myself as a specimen of your 
 
106 HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. 
 
 handiwork, Mr. Parker ! " The man's manner changed 
 Some thought, some memory seemed to have touched his 
 feelings. " It was a cruel thing in you to put your hand 
 upon me, as you did, and crush me to the earth, when, with 
 strength little above that possessed by an infant, I was trying 
 to walk in the right way. You did not speak to me an en- 
 couraging word, but insulted me with suspicion and sneering 
 references to the past. This I could have borne, although it 
 made a place in my breast for a tempting devil ; but when 
 you withheld from me almost the first money I earned, and 
 without which I could not move on a step, you ruined my 
 worldly prospects and made me reckless. For five years, as 
 a common soldier, I have been passing a wretched and 
 degraded life, while you have been growing richer, and it 
 may be happier in your own way, by means of the business 
 of which I was defrauded. Yes," he added, with returning 
 bitterness, " let us go to the police office and have this his- 
 tory fully told. 5 ' 
 
 " Leave my store instantly ! " exclaimed Parker, excited 
 beyond control. 
 
 The man did not move. 
 
 " Leave it, I say, or I will throw you headlong into the 
 street ! " 
 
 Parker sprang toward the man, and had seized him by the 
 collar, when I, no longer able to keep silence, stepped forward 
 and said, 
 
 " You have done him harm enough already, Mr. Parker, 
 Don't be tempted to do him any more. All he has said I 
 know to be true, and that the crime of ruining a man for this 
 world, if not also f >r the next, rests upon your head." 
 
HOW TO RUIN A YOUNG MAN. 107 
 
 Parker released his hold and staggered back, utterly con- 
 founded. Armour was equally surprised. The latter 
 grasped my hand, and, with the tears starting to his eyes, 
 said, 
 
 " Mr. ! you were always my friend, although through 
 
 this man you lost over two hundred dollars by helping me in 
 a single instance. I have thought of you often, and, wicked 
 sinner as I am, have sometimes prayed that what you lost by 
 me might be made up again in some way." 
 
 " Come ! " said I, interrupting him, and drawing him out 
 of the store, that was full of astonished spectators of this 
 strange scene. 
 
 My earnest efforts to put Armour on his feet again proved, 
 alas ! useless. He had become too much degraded by drink 
 and vicious company, and had not moral power enough left to 
 sustain him in any attempt at reform. Whenever he got 
 drunk, he would be sure to give Parker a call and charge him 
 with being the author of his ruin. Several times he was 
 thrust out of his store and several times handed over to the 
 police. These visitations were continued, more or less fre- 
 quently, for about six months, w T hen abused nature could bear 
 no longer the rude assaults to which she had been for years 
 subjected. The degraded, unhappy wretch was found one 
 cold morning in December dead, under a stall in the market- 
 house ! 
 
 My own verdict in the case I found no difficulty in making 
 up. Parker was, in my mind, guilty of his premature and 
 miserable end. A few encouraging words, with simple 
 justice toward him, when he was struggling to do right, 
 would have saved him. 
 
108 HAVE PATIENCE. 
 
 With a few variations from the facts as they occurred, this 
 is an " ower true tale," and the lesson it teaches will do 
 much good, if laid to heart. A man who has once fallen into 
 habits of idleness and dissipation needs, in his efforts to 
 reform, the utmost kindness and consideration. All men 
 should not only be just toward him, but should meet him 
 with encouraging words and acts ; and no man, who would 
 not incur a fearful responsibility, should, in even the smallest 
 matter, do any thing to extinguish the new-born hope of a 
 better life that has been kindled in his bosom. Too often it 
 happens that men like Parker, calling themselves religious, 
 have the least charity for one who has once fallen into evil 
 ways, and by their conduct drive him back again into dissipa- 
 tion, instead of holding him fast by the hand to keep him 
 from falling. I have met many, very many such in my life. 
 Would that their number were less ! 
 
 SAY! VATIl VCB 
 
 BY \VM. C. RICHARDS. 
 
 HAVE patience ! the clouds will depart 
 
 That o'ershadow thee now ; 
 The sorrow will pass from thy heart 
 
 And the care from thy brow : 
 
 Have patience ! the sunshine will glow 
 For the shadow more bright, 
 
 As the morning is fairer, you know 
 For the darkness of night. 
 
THE DYING WIFi' . 1Q9 
 
 SHI 3 Y X V ft Will. 
 
 ANXIOUS friends had bent sorrowfully over $ie dying wife 
 and mother for many hours of the lonely night, and now, the 
 stars were fading from the clear blue sky. The first faint 
 beams of the morning wandered dimly into the chamber of 
 affliction, and the melancholy light paled the flickering night 
 lamp, which threw its sickly rays over the faces of both the 
 living and the dying, adding a deeper hue to sorrow and a 
 more solemn expression to death. 
 
 A solemn stillness reigned in the chamber, broken only by 
 the hollow and oppressed breathing of her who was struggling 
 in her last, closing, agony. A gentle hand pushed open the 
 half-closed door, and a child, scarce three years old, glided 
 softly in and unrestrained pressed close up to the bedside. 
 A tear was on her young cheek. Sleep had fled from her 
 pillow and as if by instinct she had left her bed and sought 
 the bosom of her who had nourished her and carried her 
 there in the hours of infantine helplessness. The mother's 
 eye brightened as she met the look of her dear child but it 
 was the gleam of affection, saddened to a cast of agony. 
 
 " Mother," said the little one in her clear, sweet tone, a 
 smile dimpling her cheek and throwing a ray of sunshine over 
 her face. Then climbing to a chair and from a chair to the 
 bed, she nestled down upon the breast of her dying mother, 
 her little arms thrown fondly around her neck, and her warm 
 
110 THE DYING WIFE. 
 
 young cheek resting against one damp with the clammy sweat 
 of dissolution. Busy hands sought to remove the child from 
 its resting place, but the maternal arm bound it fast with a 
 convulsive effort. 
 
 The door again turned upon its silent hinges and one 
 entered with a heavy tread. Though the dim light of the 
 morning had scarce given way before the clear sunbeams, yet 
 intoxication was written in burning letters upon his brow. 
 Rudely he approached the bed side and for a moment, with half 
 idiotic stare, surveyed the touching memorials it contained. 
 
 " Your mother is dying, Amelia," said he in a drunken, 
 faltering tone, seating himself upon the bed. " Your 
 mother is dying, Amelia, and you must not lie there ; come 
 away ! " 
 
 The mother's arm clung to her child with a firm grasp, and 
 her eye looked up into the face of her husband with an im- 
 ploring gaze, though the death film was gathering over it. 
 
 " I tell you to come away," said he in a louder tone. 
 
 The females who were watching the friend they loved in 
 her last extremity, tried to draw the inhuman monster 
 from his cruel purpose, but to their gentle interference he 
 answered, 
 
 " She must not stay there ! Amelia's dying, and I want her 
 to die in peace. Poor thing ! it will soon be over with her ! " 
 
 Then taking hold of the resisting child, he tore it rudely 
 from the restraining arm of its dying mother, who uttered a 
 faint groan as its infant cries rang in her ears, fell back and 
 died. 
 
 This is no fancy sketch. 
 
 j. r, R. 
 
THE GREAT HEREAFTER. Ill 
 
 BY OTWAY CURRY. 
 
 ' Tis sweet to think when struggling 
 The goal of life to win, 
 That just beyond the shores of time 
 The better years begin. 
 
 When through the nameless ages 
 T cast my longing eyes, 
 Before me like a boundless sea, 
 The Great Hereafter lies. 
 
 Along its brimming bosom, 
 Perpetual summer smiles, 
 And gathers, like a golden robe, 
 Around the emerald isles. 
 
 There, in the blue long distance, 
 By lulling breezes fanned, 
 I seem to see the flowering groves 
 Of old Beulah's land. 
 
 And far beyond the islands 
 That gem the waves serene, 
 The image of the cloudless shore 
 Of holy heaven is seen. 
 
112 WINTER. 
 
 Unto the Great Hereafter 
 Aforetime dim and dark 
 I freely now and gladly give 
 Of life the wandering bark. 
 
 And in the far-off haven, 
 When shadowy seas are passed, 
 By angel hands its quivering sails 
 Shall all be furled at last. 
 
 WIVX31. 
 
 BY C. L. WHEELEk. 
 
 COME in and close the linted door, 
 
 And slrit the cold without ; 
 And gather in our wonted ring 
 
 The warm fireside about, 
 
 J Tis pleasure through these winter rights. 
 
 While winds are piercing cold, 
 To gather round our own fireside, 
 
 Where merry tales are told ; 
 
 Where tales are told, and poems read, 
 
 Improving heart and mind, 
 Till feelings warm, from care's anno), 
 
 All yearn for human kind. 
 
 May many winters, friend of mine 
 
 Be still in store for thee, 
 And harvests rich still swell the store 
 
 Of Christmas jollity. 
 
THE CAMPO SANTO. 113 
 
 ff 3S 1 CAX7Q tAVIt. 
 
 BY CHARLES G. LELAND. 
 
 THERE is near Naples a very beautiful burying-ground, 
 known as the New Campo Santo. The place cannot, as far 
 as natural beauty is concerned, be compared with Mount 
 Auburn, Greenwood or Laurel Hill, although it commands 
 many beautiful views of the city and its environs. Its chief 
 attraction is the number and beauty of the sepulchral monu- 
 ments which it contains. 
 
 We were shown over the ground by a bare-footed capuchin, 
 who seemed the very type of good-humored jollity. Had 
 Rabelais written in the year 1847, I should say that Friar 
 John was but a transcript of this person. Grave-diggers are 
 proverbially merry, and something of this seemed to have 
 been communicated to our worthy friend in brown, whose 
 office it was to tend the corpses laid out in a long room 
 adjoining the cemetery. In this place the bodies are laid on 
 beds, with a rope attached to the arm, which, when pulled, 
 rings a bell. Should the person revive, the bell would thus 
 give notice to one who is always in waiting. When we 
 entered, there was only one body, which was that of a beau- 
 tiful little girl, who had died with a smile on her lips. How 
 
114 THE CAMPO SANTO. 
 
 I wished that the bell would ring. How pleasant it would 
 have been to have seen that death-smile changed for one of 
 life and light. 
 
 At the end of the room lay the corpse of a girl of eighteen. 
 The body was extremely emaciated, and the long black hair 
 which hung loosely over the face and breast, gave it a 
 strange, witch-like aspect. Yet in all we saw, there was 
 nothing to harrow up the feelings, nothing to produce that 
 fear of death and the grave which is so usual an attendant 
 upon such scenes. There were here none of those " strange 
 devices by which man has rendered death horrible and the 
 grave loathsome." 
 
 Pleasant and cool upon the soul rest the memories of those 
 gone before, when to the eye of sense there speaks nothing to 
 remind us of the decay of those forms which we once almost 
 identified with the souls which dwelt within them ; but 
 pleasanter far is it when we see the grave covered with em- 
 blems which speak only of hope and a blessed immortality. 
 Many such I noticed among the bright flowery walks which 
 here led us among the homes of the departed. One Latin 
 inscription spoke of the dead as a root planted in Earth to 
 
 blossom in Heaven, while another simply stated that 
 
 was born on a certain day and rejoined the angels a few 
 months afterwards. 
 
 It was with pleasant feelings that we left this burying- 
 ground. A thousand gentle thoughts, a thousand .tender 
 associations were awakened by the beautiful death-memorials 
 which lay around. Von Schwartz, who had not spoken 
 during the excursion, was evidently in a revery. Turning to 
 me at last, he remarked, " When I visit such a place, T can 
 
THE IMITATOR. 115 
 
 almost regret that I have no friend buried here, that I may 
 the more fully develop that deep spiritual melancholy which 
 such scenes excite." 
 
 " Such a reflection as that," I replied, " though Ger- 
 man to the last degree, is derived from the worse and 
 not the better part of your philosophy, for depend upon 
 it, that no occurrence which can truly excite regret 
 should ever be recurred to for the sake of exciting mere 
 poetic feeling." 
 
 " You are right," he replied. " Vergiss die treuen 
 Todten nicht. Let us go." 
 
 SI1 I M I S A S a. 
 
 FROM THE G . R M A N . 
 
 AN arrow from a bow just shot, 
 
 Flew upwards to heaven's canopy, 
 And cried, with pompous self-conceit, 
 
 To the King Eagle, scornfully : 
 " Look here ! I am as high as thou, 
 
 And, toward the sun, even higher sail ! " 
 The eagle smiled, and said, " Oh fool, 
 
 What do thy borrowed plumes avail ? 
 By others' strength thou dost ascend, 
 But by thyself dost downward tend." 
 
116 OUR LITTLE SON. 
 
 8Wa XISXS3 30V, 
 
 WITHII. our quiet nest at home 
 
 We have a little son ; 
 Five smiling years have passed away 
 
 Since his young life begun. 
 Five smiling years ! Brief, happy time ! 
 
 So fleet have moved the hours 
 So light our steps we've only seemed 
 
 To tread among the flowers. 
 
 When day declines, and evening shades 
 
 Come stealing soft and slow ; 
 And star-rays in the dusky sky 
 
 But dimly come and go ; 
 From care and thought and business free, 
 
 I homeward turn my feet 
 Oh ! how the absence is repaid 
 
 When that dear boy I meet. 
 
 I do not know that other eyes 
 
 Would linger o'er his face ; 
 Or find on brow, or cheek, or lip 
 
 A single winning grace ; 
 And yet, it would be strange, I owu, 
 
 If other eyes 'could see 
 No beauty in iiis countenance, 
 
 So beautiful to me. 
 

OUR LITTLE SON. 117 
 
 To us his face is loveliness 
 
 There sweet expressions blend ; 
 There thoughts look upwards ; and on these 
 
 Affection's smiles attend. 
 A picture in our hearts he lives, 
 
 Bound by love's golden frame ; 
 And love has given the precious boy 
 
 A fitly chosen name. 
 
 Oh ! could we keep our darling one, 
 
 As innocent as now ; 
 As free from lines of care and pain 
 
 His smoothly polished brow, 
 As free from evil every throb 
 
 His joyous pulses fling ; 
 And free each thought that upwaid soars 
 
 On mind's expanding wing ! 
 
 Thou, who lovest every one 
 
 Whose face their angels see 
 The children thou hast given to us, 
 
 Hold, hold them near to Thee ! 
 If ever, in their future years 
 
 Their feet aside should stray, 
 Oh, lead them gently back again, 
 
 And keep them in Thy way. 
 
 r. s. A. 
 
118 NIGHTS IN THE OLD ALMSHOUSE. 
 
 [THE following narrative is supposed to be related by one 
 whose mother died of a broken heart when he was but eleven 
 years of age. After she was laid in the grave, there was no 
 one to care for him but his drunken father, who had become 
 so debased as scarcely to retain any truly human feelings. 
 He sold the bed upon which his wife had slept, gave up the 
 room she had occupied, and with his little son, it being sum- 
 mer-time, went out into the woods to sleep at night. We 
 give only a fragment from a long and painfully-interesting 
 history.] 
 
 At first, I could not sleep for fear, all alone as we were in 
 the woods. And often, after I had fallen into a dose, would 
 I be awakened by the noise of the wind rustling through the 
 trees. My father always slept soundly. After a while, as I 
 became more accustomed to it, I could sleep as well in the 
 woods as any where else. 
 
 I remember one beautiful summer-night we went out into 
 the woods about eleven o'clock, my father so much in Hquoi 
 that I had to lead him. Our usual place of sleeping was just 
 within the enclosure of Col. Howard's garden, on the side 
 next to the city, (Baltimore,) and close to the small stream 
 that flowed from the stone spring-house a little west of the 
 garden. With much difficulty I got him over the fence, and 
 
NIGHTS IN THE OLD ALMSHOUSE. 119 
 
 we laid ourselves down on our grassy bed. My father was 
 soon asleep, and snoring loudly. After a while I got into a 
 doze from which I awakened, or appeared to awake, in, I 
 suppose, something like half an hour. It looked unusually 
 light, and I raised my head to see what caused it. Within a 
 few feet of me, was a female figure. She was very beautiful, 
 and a soft light shone out from her in all directions. I knew 
 her to be my mother, in a moment. Her face was sad and 
 pale, but there was something heavenly in its expression. 
 She fixed her mild eyes upon me long and sorrowfully, and 
 there was a look of warning in her countenance. I did not at 
 that moment feel afraid, but sprang to my feet, and called, 
 ' Mother ! ' Instantly she faded from my sight, and all was 
 darkness. Clouds had covered the sky, and a low wind mur- 
 mured among the trees, rustled through the long grass, and 
 stole about me cold and chillingly. Greatly frightened, I 
 crept close to my father, who still slept soundly, shut my 
 eyes, and lay trembling with a strange fear, until I again fell 
 asleep. I do not know how long it was before I awakened, 
 but I was aroused by a stunning roar, and found that the rain 
 was pouring down in torrents. I had only got my eyes fairly 
 open, when the whole heaven seemed to be in a single blaze 
 of light, and then came a peal of thunder which made the 
 very earth tremble under my feet. My father was also now 
 wide awake, and we sought the temporary shelter of a large 
 tree, guided by the almost incessant flashes of lightning. 
 Soon, however, the leaves no longer retained the large drops 
 that fell upon them, and we were drenched to the skin. The 
 storm continued for more than an hour, with frightful vio- 
 lence. I never felt so awful in my life. The tremendous 
 
120 ' NIGHTS IN THE OLD ALMSHOUSE. 
 
 jarring and rattling of the thunder the almost incessant 
 blazing out of the lightning : and the roaring of the wind 
 among the trees, were such as I had never heard nor seen. 
 To those who were closely sheltered in their houses, that was 
 an awful night ; but to us who were all alone in the woods, it 
 was terrible indeed. It was daylight ere the storm abated. 
 When I could distinguish my father's face, I saw that it was 
 very pale, and that he trembled in every limb. Slowly we 
 left our home in the woods it was the only place where we 
 could lay our heads and drenched with rain, sought our 
 way to the city, to pick up something to eat and drink. 
 Dry clothes we had none, for our wardrobe we carried on 
 our backs. While my father waited around the corner of a 
 street, I went into the kitchen of the Golden Horse Tavern, 
 and got a p upply of cold bread and meat. A fresh loaf of 
 bread I begged at a baker's ; this we sold for liquor, and 
 then went back to the woods to devour our breakfast. After 
 this we parted, my father to lounge in a grog-shop, and I to 
 pick up a few coppers, if possible. We met at dinner-time. 
 I had eleven pence. This we made go as far as possible. 
 Six cents worth of liquor satisfied my father's thirst ; while 
 three cents worth of cakes and three cents worth of crackers, 
 checked the gnawing of our appetites. We then went back 
 to the woods. 
 
 While sitting on the grass, under a tree, my father told 
 me that he had got a room in the old Poor House, which was 
 vacant, the inmates having been removed to their palace-home 
 at Calverton. Here, he said, we could sleep at night and 
 not care for the storms. And it would be a shelter on Sun- 
 days, when some of our favorite haunts were closed. 
 
NIGHTS IN THE OLD ALMSHOUSE. 121 
 
 I, of course, had nothing to say in opposition, and so out 
 wo went to the Poor House to inspect the premises, and 
 choose among its many deserted chambers one that we might 
 call our home. I had never before been within this spacious, 
 but time-worn building. As we went up the broad avenue, 
 entered the gate, and stood beneath the trees that threw their 
 broad shadows upon us, I felt indeed the silent desolation of 
 the place. But a few months before, hundreds of human 
 beings were here ; now, we alone thought and felt where thou- 
 sands had lived and moved and passed away forever. We 
 did not linger long to view the premises ; for, whatever either 
 of us thought or felt, we wasted no words on our impression, 
 but pushed our way up the broad staircase and entered the 
 desolate halls, which echoed and re-echoed long, and it did 
 seem to me, mournfully, to our tread. From chamber to 
 chamber we passed on, first through one extended wing of the 
 building, and then through the other, with what might truly 
 be called ' idle curiosity.' Then from attic to cellar we 
 wandered, until we knew every room, and every cell in the 
 vast building. It was indeed a lonely place. Standing 
 separate as it did, the avenue of entrance reaching west, and 
 remote from any dwellings, it seemed to me, as if we were 
 almost the last of our race ; as if some terrible pestilence had 
 swept away the busy millions, and that we alone were left. 
 
 After due examination, we chose a comfortable room in the 
 centre or main building, which had been appropriated for the 
 use of the Keeper and his family, and taking the floor for 
 our bed, arid our hands for our pillows, we laid ourselves 
 down to sleep away the afternoon. It was nearly sundown 
 when we aroused ourselves. The trees threw into our room 
 
122 NIGHTS IN THE OLD ALMSHOUSE. 
 
 a deep shadow, and made it look almost like night. I felt a 
 fear creeping over me, and thought that I would rather be in 
 the woods and risk the storms, than sleep in so desolate a 
 place. The strange vision of my mother, also occurred to 
 mj mind, and I looked timidly around, almost expecting to see 
 her pale, sad face, turned upon me. We descended from 
 our room and made our way quickly towards the city, my 
 father eager to quench his burning thirst, and I to get some 
 food, for I felt very hungry. At the corner of Howard and 
 Franklin streets we parted he to lounge in a certain grog- 
 shop, while I endeavored to raise a little change. It was 
 late, and I was exceedingly put to it for some successful ex- 
 periment. At length a happy thought struck me, and I 
 went into a drug-store in Market street, and called for six 
 cents worth of the cream of tartar. It was soon weighed out 
 and handed to me. Just at that moment a person came in, 
 and soon after two or three more. The young man in the 
 store was of course soon busily engaged in serving them. I 
 stood still at the counter, with my little package in my hand, 
 waiting with seeming great patience. After all were gone, I 
 still remained, standing there, and at last the clerk asked 
 me if I wanted any thing else. 
 
 a No, sir," said I, " I am only waiting for my change." 
 
 " Your change, oh ! what did you give me ? " 
 
 " A half dollar, sir." 
 
 He looked at me for some moments, and then said, 
 
 u Are you right sure 1 " 
 
 "Oh yes, sir," said I with all apparent ingenuoasness. * I gave 
 you a half dollar just as that girl came*in for the castor oil and 
 you put it in the drawer, and forgot to give me the change," 
 
NIGHTS IN THE OLD ALMSHOUSE. 123 
 
 a Well, I am sure I did forget all about it," said he, as he 
 gave me forty-four cents change. 
 
 I walked quietly out of the shop, but as soon as I was 
 round the corner I threw the cream of tartar into the gutter, 
 and ran off as fast as I could to join my father. 
 
 He was delighted with the large supply I had raised, and 
 when I informed him of the trick to which I had resorted, he 
 patted me on the head, and said I was a sad dog and then 
 laid himself back to enjoy a hearty laugh at the joke. 
 
 " Money is too scarce now, Charley," said he, " to afford to 
 buy any thing to eat with it. You can easily get enough 
 cold victuals. So do you go out and get something for us to 
 eat, and we will go home and take our supper in our new 
 lodgings. We will take a bottle of gin along and some beer, 
 and fare sumptuously." 
 
 " But what shall we do for a light, father ? " said I. 
 
 " Sure enough, that is a question." 
 
 " Suppose we buy a candle we can get one for two cents." 
 
 " But we must have a candle every night, and candles will 
 cost two cents a piece. That will never do. And we will 
 have to get matches. Besides, 7 don't believe the Trustees 
 would allow a candle to be taken into the building. Any 
 how, there is no great use for a candle. We know the way 
 in well enough. We never had a candle in the woods, and 
 now because we have got better lodging we are not content 
 without additional luxuries. It would be a useless expense, 
 Charley, and we will not incur it." 
 
 Much against my will, I had to consent to this mode of 
 reasoning. It was not long before I filled my handkerchief 
 with bread and meat, at the kitchens of sundry benevolent 
 
124 NIGHTS IN THE OLD ALMSHOUSE. 
 
 individuals, and called for my father, who was already much 
 intoxicated. After pulling him by the arm and coaxing him 
 a good deal I got him under way, and towards ten o'clock we 
 turned into Madison from Howard street. Here commenced 
 the lonely part of our journey. The huge pile of buildings 
 into which we were to creep like thieves, arose gloomily on 
 the right, and looked the very picture of desolation. My 
 father was too much in liquor to be a sensible companion, and 
 I, boy as I was, had to meet the imagined horrors of such a 
 lonely, deserted place, almost companionless. Slowly we 
 wound round the enclosure, until we gained the north-west 
 front of the building, and then kept on up the broad avenue, 
 until we were once more beneath the trees that threw a 
 shadow dark as midnight upon the porch and entrance of the 
 house. As the gate swung to behind us, with a loud noise and 
 the jingling of a chain that was attached, a wild, unearthly 
 scream, which seemed to come from a window over our heads, 
 thrilled upon my ears. I almost sunk to the earth. 
 
 " What is that, father ? " said I, in a hoarse, tremulous 
 whisper. 
 
 But he was too far gone with the liquor he had taken to 
 notice it as any thing unusual. I stood still, and so did he, 
 for his motions were governed by my own. I knew not what 
 to do or what to think. The wild, awful scream was still 
 ringing in my ears, and the strange sight I had seen but the 
 night before, was still before me in imagination. After a few 
 minutes of indecision, I pulled my father towards the steps 
 that lead into the building, which were indistinctly visible in 
 the darkness. As he attempted to set his foot upon the first 
 of these, he stumbled and fell upon them with a loud noise 
 
NIGHTS IN THE OLD ALMSHOUSE. 125 
 
 Instantly that piercing scream was repeated, then there was 
 a rustling among the branches of the trees over our heads, 
 and a large, dark-looking bird, swept away with a slight noise 
 as its wings beat the still air. 
 
 I recovered my senses ir a moment, greatly relieved, 
 though I trembled violently fiom head to foot. I knew that 
 I had been frightened by a a screech owl." I now endeavored 
 to get my father on his feet, and after some difficulty, we 
 were safely lodged in our own room. We were at home. 
 One long draught at the bottle sufficed him, and he laid him- 
 self down, and was soon snoring loudly. For my own part, 
 I had little appetite for the bread and meat I had brought 
 with me, and following my father's example, I took a long 
 draught, and laid myself down upon our hard bed. Happily 
 for me, I was soon sound asleep, and did not wake until the 
 sun was shining in at the window. 
 
 The burning thirst of my father was quenched at the pump 
 in the yard, and he then took a dram from the liquor in our 
 bottle. We now made a breakfast from the cold meat and 
 bread which I had begged the night before, and after sitting 
 about until towards nine o'clock, went into town to act over, 
 with various modifications, the scenes of many previous days. 
 Thus we passed our time, for some months. 
 
 I was often greatly frightened in the old Poor House, by 
 strange noises and stranger fancies, but never more so than 
 on one dark night when, failing to find my father in any 
 direction, I bent my steps for home (!) a little after ten 
 o'clock, supposing that he had gone out there. Every step 
 which I took, after leaving Howard street, increased my fear, 
 and when " entered the dark avenue which led up to the 
 
126 NIGHTS IN THE OLD ALMSHOUSE. 
 
 dreary looking mass of buildings, the cold chills crept over 
 my whole body. When I got as far as the gate, I remem- 
 bered every frightful tale I had ever heard, and was so sick 
 with fear, that I had almost to hold myself up. I stood with 
 my hand ' on the gate for a long time, irresolute whether to 
 enter, go back, or remain where I was. At last I mustered 
 up courage to call my father, who I thought might be up 
 stairs. I gave one loud cry of " Father ! '" and paused, with 
 a wild beating at my heart. My voice sounded strange and 
 awful to my ears, as it rang cut in that lonely and deserted 
 spot. There was no answer, but I thought I heard a motion 
 in the trees over my head. 
 
 After waiting for some minutes until I could feel re-assured, 
 I again called in a louder voice, " FATHER ! " The bird of 
 night replied to me in a shrill, unearthly scream, which so 
 startled me that I almost sunk to the ground. But I was re- 
 assured in a moment, and the consciousness that there was 
 any thing living near me restored a portion of my fast fleet- 
 ing courage. I now waited for full half an hour, at the gate, 
 and as my father did not come, I began to think that perhaps 
 he had come home early, sick, and was now in our room suf- 
 fering, or perchance dying. The moment this thought 
 glanced across my mind, I summoned up all the resolution I 
 had and opening the gate, glided in and up the stairs with a 
 quick step, yet fearing every moment that my eyes would 
 meet some terrible apparition. When I got into our room, 
 and had felt all round it in the dark, and was fully conscious 
 that my father was not there, I sat down upon the floor, per- 
 fectly overcome with fear. To be there alone, at the dead 
 hour of the night, a mere boy, in that deserted place, was a 
 
TO * *. 127 
 
 reflection that paralyzed me. What I suffered then and 
 there, I can never describe. From a state of stupid fear I 
 was aroused by the thought of my father. Where was he ? 
 how was he ? He must be sick or dead. Filled with this 
 idea, I crept softly down the stairs as though fearful of dis- 
 turbing the spirits of the place, and reaching the yard, 
 opened the gate and ran with feet winged by fear until I got 
 into the main road. Just there I met my father, who came 
 staggering along too drunk to know little more than that I 
 was his son. What a load was removed from my heart ! 
 
 ;On her aslring the author to make choice of a gemmed -ring for cer ? 
 BY JOHN H. HEWITT. 
 
 WERE I born to repose in the depths of the sea, 
 I then might make choice of a min'ral for thee, 
 But no, Madame Nature hath ordered that I 
 Should not bask in the ocean nor soar in the sky. 
 
 But list to my lay. Once the queen of the waters 
 Held a meeting of all of old Ocean's fair daughters : 
 Her throne was of coral and studded around 
 With the loveliest gems that her nymphs ever found. 
 
 4 List, maids of the ocean ! ? the smiling Queen cried, 
 * The shores of the deep must be searched far and wide ; 
 
128 TO * * * *. 
 
 For she who will show me the loveliest gem, 
 Shall win her reward from my own diadem.' 
 
 'Twas said and while strains of soft music soared rovnd. 
 The zone of each Nereid was quickly unbound, 
 And each garment stream'd out on the tide light and iree, 
 As she searched every grotto and cave of the sea. 
 
 Some brought the bright emerald translucent and green. 
 And some showered sapphires before the fair Queen, 
 While others brought rubie? and garnets to view 
 But, no } though all lovely, still would they not do. 
 
 At length came the diamond as pure and as bright 
 As the spirit that bore it, but scarcely as light, 
 
 * Ah ! no,' said the Queen * 'tis too rich, and I'm told 
 Though it shed brilliant beams yet the radiance is cold. 1 
 
 The next fairy nymph brought a gem dark as night, 
 'Twas a jet undelighting, though costly and bright. 
 1 Cast it down the abyss !' cried they all in a breath, 
 k 'Tis a sorrowful gem and the emblem of death.' 
 
 Soon far, far a spirit was seen through the deep 
 Adown the blue waters with fleetness to sweep } 
 Her form was transparent her silvery curls 
 Were decked uLh a tiar of the loveliest of pearls. 
 
 * Here, here !' cried the spirit, ' in coral-girt bowers, 
 This pearl hae I plucked from a bed of sea-flowers; 
 'Tis the tear-drop of virtue, and blest be the girl 
 Whose heart is as taintless and pure as a pearl.' 
 
 The fair sovereign smiled, and the costliest gem 
 She could find midst the crowd of her bright diadem, 
 She gave as a meed to the nymph. Then, dear girl, 
 l*t thy ring be bedecked with simplicity's pearl. 
 
SILENT LOVE. 129 
 
 J'rom the German of Caroline Pi.ch.ler. 
 BY HARRIET MANSFIELD, 
 
 THE wife of the President Von Almstein entered the 
 chamber of her daughters to announce to them that they were 
 invited to a grand ball at the foreign ambassador's, and laid 
 on their table the latest number of the Journal of Fashion, 
 from which to select their costumes. With a radiant coun- 
 tenance, Caroline, the youngest sister, sprang up from her 
 work, eagerly, took the book and turned over the leaves, 
 while with joyous volubility she admired some of the draw- 
 ings, found fault with others, and finally selected the one 
 which best pleased her fancy. Her elder sister sat quietly 
 beside her. 
 
 " You say nothing, Henrietta," said the President's wife, 
 somewhat displeased, " are you not glad?" 
 
 " You know, dear mother, that I do not love such enter- 
 tainments ; and if you would allow me " 
 
 " To stay at home is it not so ? But this will not do. 
 You must go with us. I can easily understand that with 
 your face you do not like to appear by the side of Caroline ; 
 but for this very reason you must go with us, and be dressed 
 as handsomely as she is. I will not let the world say I make 
 
130 < SILENT LOVE. 
 
 a difference between my children, and leave you in the- back- 
 ground because you are ugly." 
 
 She left the room. She thought by these means to show 
 the world that she did not prefer the beautiful Caroline to her 
 sister ; but the world was not deceived. From her earliest 
 childhood, Henrietta had been the repulsed, neglected, child 
 and her mother felt herself quite relieved when about ten 
 years before, her sister, the widow of a general, had begged 
 to have the little girl, who, as she had no children of her own, 
 might afford her companionship amid the solitude of a coun- 
 try life. There Henrietta was brought up with carefulness 
 and affection. Her aunt, an excellent woman, cultivated her 
 active mind and her feeling heart upon the highest principles. 
 She sought to make amends for the absence of outward 
 charms, by the superiority of inward attractions. Henrietta 
 knew well that she was not handsome ; but in the country, as 
 the niece of a lady so universally respected, as a girl who 
 even without this advantage, might be loved and esteemed for 
 her own sake, it never occurred to her that the want of beauty 
 was so great a fault, so powerful a preventive to success or 
 happiness in the world. The aunt died, and the president 
 brought his daughter home. 
 
 Here she now experienced, with a,feeling of deep bitterness, 
 the high value placed upon a gift of nature which depends so 
 little on ourselves, and has no influence upon our true merit. 
 When she appeared with her beautiful sister, no one took 
 notice of her, no one spoke to her ; and wounded and repuls- 
 ed by this treatment, she forgot or disdained those attractions 
 that might have drawn towards her the attentions of a better 
 class of nr-n. But she saw that even they fallowed the lovely 
 
SILENT LOVE. 131 
 
 enchantment. She remained quiet, forgotten, alone, in the 
 midst of brilliant circles, and the ungentle treatment of her 
 mother increased the deep sorrow which often made her shed 
 burning tears over the loss of her excellent aunt, and the 
 lovely period of her earlier youth. 
 
 Caroline, although adored by her parents, and overwhelm- 
 ed with flattery by the world, had still preserved her good 
 feeling. She loved her sister tenderly ; but even she was not 
 quite happy. The wishes of her father, a sort of family ar- 
 rangement, destined her to be the bride of a relative, whom 
 she had known only as a child, and of whom for ten years she 
 had known nothing further than that he was a major, a very 
 handsome man and a brave soldier. Caroline was not refined 
 nor cultivated enough to think of sympathy of mind or 
 character, but she trembled at the thought of giving her hand 
 to a man who might not be in any way agreeable to her. 
 The girls wept together and tried to console each other, and 
 mutual sorrow served only to unite them more closely. 
 
 The President Von Almstein was the last male scion of the 
 younger branch of his family, which by a singular accident 
 possessed all the wealth and property of the elder branch. 
 His grandfather had two sons by two wives, whom, as well as 
 their mothers, he loved with a very different degree of tender- 
 ness. Domestic troubles and his own inclinations led the 
 eldest son, after the death of his mother, to become a 
 soldier, in which character he obtained that love and esteem 
 fvhich had been denied him in his father's house. He rose 
 by his own merit to the rank of general, but when yet in the 
 bloom of manhood, hardship, fatigue, and dangerous wounds 
 had so enfeebled his health, that he looked forward either to 
 
132 SILENT LOVE. 
 
 a speedy death or a miserable old age. He gave up all 
 thoughts of happiness arising from the possession of a wife 
 and family and, while in this mood, a self-styled friend who 
 was in reality an emissary of his step-mother, persuaded him 
 to relinquish his property to his younger brother, and thus 
 enable him to maintain the honor of the family. The general 
 then retired to a small estate he still retained, where he led a 
 calm and secluded life. But amid the quiet and repose of 
 rural life, his health was gradually restored ; existence again 
 became dear to him ; he found a maiden whose beauty and 
 gentle goodness touched his heart, and who was willing to 
 share his fate and his small fortune. His eldest son followed 
 his father's footsteps; his grandson, the major, who was des- 
 tined for Caroline, had already obtained considerable renown, 
 and the president was extremely anxious to bring about this 
 alliance, which was to unite the two branches of the family, 
 and thus restore to the elder branch the possession of that 
 property of which it had been deprived for half a century. 
 
 Caroline sought in vain to turn aside her father from the 
 execution of a plan which seemed to endanger her future hap- 
 piness ; but he was inflexible, and seemed to be influenced by 
 some weighty reason which involved his own tranquillity and 
 contentment. 
 
 Thus several months passed away. Towards the end of 
 the next autumn the president received news that the major 
 had obtained leave of absence in order to visit the city and 
 become acquainted with his future bride. Report preceded 
 him and announced to Caroline and the other ladies of the 
 capital, that the major was the handsomest, noblest and 
 bravest of officers, and many anecdotes were related to prove 
 
SILENT LOVE. 133 
 
 his valor and goodness. It was he who had once, when 
 almost alone, stormed a hostile fortress, and at the risk of his 
 own life protected from injury and borne from the field one 
 of the enemy's generals, whom he had wounded and taken 
 prisoner ; it was he to whom a village that had been fired 
 owed its preservation and the inhabitants their lives and 
 the safety of their property. He was thus a topic of con- 
 versation several days before his arrival, and although it 
 was known his hand was promised, this did not prevent 
 many fair damsels from laying plans for the capture of his 
 heart. 
 
 It was natural that Caroline and her sister should antici- 
 pate his coming with eager anxiety, and their confidential 
 conversation turned almost entirely upon him. One evening 
 a numerous circle assembled at their house, when the doors 
 were suddenly thrown open, and a young man entered dress- 
 ed in uniform, with an order upon his breast. He had a fine 
 manly appearance and there was something so noble in his 
 countenance and bearing, that it involuntarily detained the 
 eye which had casually fallen upon him. With modest self- 
 possession he approached the president and handed him a 
 letter, which the latter had no sooner opened and glanced at, 
 than he greeted the young man with sincere pleasure, pre- 
 senting him to his wife and the whole circle as his nephew. 
 Major Von Almstein. 
 
 Caroline blushed up to her temples. This, then, was the 
 man to whom she was to be indissolubly united ! His appear- 
 ance, at least, was not unpleasing, and she often stole a 
 glance at this object of universal attention, while her mother 
 looked round in triumph, as if to say: "this phoenix, of 
 
134 SILENT LOVE. 
 
 whom report has said so much, and whose looks promise more, 
 is ours, is the property of the admired Caroline ! " 
 
 Henrietta's eyes had also been directed towards him, and 
 a trembling feeling pervaded her whole frame. Here was her 
 realization of a perfect man. How often had an ideal being, 
 with just such features appeared to her silent dreams ! She 
 turned pale, for this man was her sister's betrothed lover ; 
 and while others joyfully gathered round him, she quietly 
 withdrew, with a deep wound in her heart. When in her 
 solitary chamber, she gave a sad glance at her mirror, and 
 tears stood in her eyes. She determined to avoid this danger- 
 ous being as much as possible, that the arrow might not 
 pierce her heart too deeply. 
 
 The major was soon at home in the house of his relatives, 
 and every thing seemed to go on exactly as they wished. 
 Caroline's appearance had at first attracted him, and her 
 natural amiability held him fast. He soon found that she 
 was deficient in mental culture, but he trusted, as she was so 
 young, he might remedy this neglect when she became his 
 wife. He perceived in her too great a fondness for dress and 
 dissipation, but he flattered himself that when she had learned 
 to know and love him truly, love and domestic happiness 
 would make her ample amends for the loss of these glittering 
 pleasures. Thus, this connexion, at which his whole nature 
 had at first revolted, gradually lost its terrors, and he re- 
 conciled himself to the idea of considering Caroline as the 
 future companion of his life. He had no passionate feeling 
 for her, she was not indispensable to his happiness ; but he 
 felt towards her an affectionate regard, and hoped with this 
 feeling his married life might be happy. 
 
SILENT LOVE. 135 
 
 The conduct of his future sister-in-law seemed to him very 
 strange. That she had more sense and cultivation, and more 
 character than her sister, was evident from the few conversa- 
 tions he had forced her to enter into, and what Caroline told 
 him of her excellent heart, confirmed the opinion he had him- 
 se^ formed of her, so that he esteemed her highly without 
 knowing her well. But it was almost impossible for him to 
 approach her more nearly, for she sedulously avoided him, 
 and did every thing in her power to escape being with him, 
 and especially alone with him. 
 
 Her parents noticed this behaviour and expostulated with 
 he>* about it. She tried to defend herself by various excuses, 
 but as she did not change her conduct, they were at length 
 convinced that she entertained a secret hatred towards the 
 m?.jor, or at all events disliked the connexion, because the 
 larger portion of their property was destined to Caroline, 
 while only a moderate sum was secured to her. 
 
 Such a supposition wounded Henrietta deeply, but she did 
 not attempt to disprove it. She would rather have suffered 
 any thing, death itself, than betray her unhappy feeling for a 
 maii who was intended for her sister, and was so well con- 
 tented with his prospects. The major at last began to 
 believe she cherished a secret prejudice against him, and 
 many misunderstandings, inevitable under such circum- 
 stances, many hints of the imprudent mother confirmed him 
 in this opinion. 
 
 The major's leave of absence had now expired; it was 
 
 ho^ed the approaching campaign would be the last, and the 
 
 wedding was t^ take place as soon as peace was proclaimed. 
 
 ie took leave of his betrothed without deep grief, though 
 
136 SILENT LOVE. 
 
 with some emotion, received the blessing of her parents, and 
 Henrietta's silent trembling farewell, and departed. 
 
 For a few days, Caroline felt sensibly the loss of her plea- 
 sant companion, but diverted herself afterwards by attending 
 to her outfit and making preparations for her future establish- 
 ment. Henrietta was quiet as ever, but the house, the world, 
 seemed empty and dead to her. She listened tremblingly to 
 the news of the war : consulting newspapers and maps was 
 her favorite occupation : she changed color when letters came 
 from the major, and was evidently anxious when they were 
 long delayed. Her parents who had never understood her, 
 w r ere at a loss to account for this ; they called her strange, 
 ridiculous : at length became used to her peculiarities, and 
 let them pass unnoticed. This was all she wanted. 
 
 Towards spring, Caroline was attacked by a severe ill- 
 ness, which increased with great violence. Henrietta would 
 not leave her bedside notwithstanding the danger of infection 
 with which the physician threatened her. On the fifth day, 
 the joyous, blooming Caroline was a corpse. Henrietta's 
 grief was deep and abiding, yet it was in her affection that 
 the bereaved father first found comfort. Her mother was in 
 despair ; the death of her darling daughter had broken her 
 heart, and she began to droop. These unhappy tidings were 
 communicated to the major ; his letter bore the marks of the 
 deepest sympathy and true sorrow, but no sign of that dis- 
 traction which the death of the woman he loves must produce 
 in the heart of a young man. 
 
 When the first stupifying effects of grief were over, the 
 president spoke of his plan of uniting the two branches of 
 the family as still unchanged. 
 
SILENT LOVE. 137 
 
 " We have still a daughter," he at length said. " Henri- 
 etta shall take Caroline's place ; the estate will thus be un- 
 divided and return again to the elder branch." 
 
 Henrietta was present. A fever seemed to run through 
 her limbs. Rapture and anguish hope and sorrow, alter- 
 nated in her soul. 
 
 c<t Alas ! ?? said her mother. " What an exchange ! Leah 
 for Rachel ! 
 
 These words cut Henrietta to the heart. Leah for Rachel ! 
 She tottered as if falling and supported herself by a chair. 
 It was not the unkind allusion of her mother, but the convic- 
 tion that with her appearance she could never become the wife 
 of so handsome and attractive a man, without drawing upon 
 herself the contempt and censure of the whole world, and see 
 him pining away at her side from chagrin and repentance it 
 was this that now seemed painfully clear to her mind. She 
 resolved to resist to the last extremity, rather than receive 
 this terrible sacrifice, which only a regard to family interest 
 could compel him to make. 
 
 All her refusals were of no avail. A letter was written to 
 the major, who avoided giving an answer to the proposition ; 
 saying it was impossible for him, so soon after the loss of his 
 firt love to think of any second alliance, and- begging for 
 delay and time for reflection. This was enough for Henrietta. 
 She knew now all she needed to know, to render her earnest 
 re::lution still more irrevocable. 
 
 In a few weeks her mother died from grief for the loss of 
 her daughter, and Henrietta "persuaded her father to retire 
 wli/Ii her to one of his estates, for he had remained in the 
 citv only to please his wife. There she devoted herself with 
 
138 SILENT LOVE. 
 
 enthusiastic affection to the comfort and happiness of the 
 only loved being now remaining to her, and the president, 
 who, in his fashionable marriage, had never known this feel- 
 ing, lived anew in her confiding love, and seemed nowise dis- 
 satisfied that the major postponed his decision still longer, 
 and left him the daughter who had now become so dear to 
 him. But Henrietta's cruel destiny was not yet weary of 
 aiming at her heart. Late in the autumn, while engaged in 
 the chase, which he passionately loved, the president was 
 thrown from his horse and was brought home to the castle, 
 dying. He had lost his speech, and Henrietta felt despair 
 when she saw the signs, the intensely-anxious looks, with 
 which he pointed to his secretary, and which, after a hundred 
 attempts she could not understand nor explain. He died in 
 her arms a few hours afterwards, leaving her in possession of 
 all his immense property. 
 
 Thus bereaved and alone in the wide world, she was for a 
 time dead to every pleasure to every glad and happy feel- 
 ing ; at length time exercised its soothing influence upon her, 
 and she was able to think of something else than her grief 
 and the loss of her loved ones. The first thing was to break 
 off her proposed alliance with the major, and restore him to 
 perfect freedom. It seemed to have been the dearest wish 
 of her father to restore the property to the elder branch. 
 This should be done in part, though not as he had intended it. 
 
 She wrote to the major : she did not conceal from him the 
 little inclination she knew he felt for her; she described the 
 high requisites she thought necessary for a happy marriage, 
 and for that reason begged him to release himself and her 
 from all future compulsion, and to relinquish a plan which 
 
SILENT LOVE. 139 
 
 could make neither of them happy. At the same time she 
 begged him to allow her as she was an orphan, and alone in 
 the world, to form another tie with him in place of the one 
 now broken ; to consider her as a sister, and her property as 
 a common inheritance to which he had the same claim as 
 herself. Finally, she urged upon him the acceptance of 
 half her property with so much warmth and earnestness, 
 that one must have been as much charmed with the begin- 
 ning of the letter as the major was, who could see in these 
 expressions any thing but the most urgent desire to break 
 off the connexion, cost what it might. 
 
 In this^ disagreeable mood, he sat down to answer her at 
 once. He restored to her her liberty ; renounced all claims 
 to her hand ; sent back all her father's letters referring to 
 the matter ; but rejected decidedly, and with much bitter- 
 ness, her offer to divide the property. 
 
 He was very angry. He knew he was no fool, and thought 
 that his conduct had awakened sufficient confidence in every 
 one, even in Henrietta, to make them feel he was incapable 
 of marrying a woman who did not give him her hand of her 
 own free will. Then why all these circumstances ? Why 
 so great a sacrifice ? Was he so unbearable or so mean- 
 spirited that she must give up half her wealth to buy him 
 off? 
 
 His letter pained Henrietta, whose intentions had been so 
 good : but she was charmed by the noble pride that spoke in 
 every line, and she felt with sorrow how excellent the man 
 was whom she renounced, from whom an insuperable diffi- 
 culty, as she called it, separated her for ever. " Leah for 
 Ra shell." It sounded in her ears whenever she yielded to 
 
140 SILE.NT LOVE. 
 
 deceitful hopes to flattering possibilities and her resolu- 
 tion again stood firm as before. 
 
 When the first heat of the major's anger was over, he read 
 Henrietta's letter a second time. And first he was struck 
 by the beautiful writing, which he had not noticed before ; 
 the firm, fine hand. Then he came to the sentiments : these 
 were at least not common almost noble. He imagined him- 
 self in her situation ; he found there was something delicate 
 and beautiful in her course of action ; something sincere in 
 her tone towards him, and he began to have a high esteem 
 for the girl who refused so pointedly to become his wife. 
 
 A whole year had now passed away since her father's 
 death. The major had meantime been promoted to the rank 
 of captain, and it was only by chance or secret means that 
 Henrietta heard of him. At this time, a change she had 
 made in the arrangements of the castle, made it necessary to 
 remove the furniture from her father's sleeping apartment, 
 which, from a feeling of reverence, she had hitherto left 
 undisturbed. 
 
 The secretary she had removed to her own chamber, and 
 there arranged* it for her own use. 
 
 While thus occupied, she remembered with sorrow the last 
 moments of her father, and her vain attempts to understand 
 his signs. She had then searched the secretary and found 
 nothing. Now, in consequence of the moving, a hidden 
 drawer had become visible in the back part of the cabinet, 
 whose existence she had not suspected. She opened it with 
 a secret shudder, and found some very old writings endorsed 
 in an envelope in her father's hand-writing. She read. 
 How great was her astonishment her horror as she learned 
 
SILENT LOVE. 141 
 
 from these papers that her family were unjustly possessed of 
 their property ; that there was in existence a second will of 
 her great grandfather, cancelling the unjust arrangement he 
 had before made, and re-instating the eldest son in his rights. 
 Her father had found this will among some private papers of 
 his grandfather : and apparently neither the wife nor younger 
 son had been aware of its existence, or they would have 
 destroyed it. Brought up amid wealth, and accustomed to 
 luxury, the president had not the strength to renounce all, 
 by making the matter public ; but as his conscience did not 
 let him rest, he sought the middle way, of attaining both his 
 objects by means of this family alliance. 
 
 Henrietta now understood her father's last anxious gestures, 
 and a thousand thoughts and feelings rushed upon her. For 
 a time she sat as if stupified the ominous letter in her hand. 
 But to a mind like her's there was no doubt as to what was to 
 be done. She sprang up : her resolution was fixed. With- 
 out consulting any one, without even disclosing the matter to 
 her guardian, she made her preparations for a journey to the 
 capital, where the Countess of Dehnitz, Almstein's sister, 
 was spending the winter. She went directly to her, and 
 begged her to call her husband, as she had an important 
 family secret to reveal to him. The count came. Henrietta 
 drew forth the papers, handed them to him, and begged him 
 to write to his brother-in-law, and request him to take 
 measures for resuming the property, which she was ready to 
 resign at once. 
 
 The count and countess gazed upon Henrietta with mute 
 astonishment. They did not know which to admire most, the 
 greatness of the sacrifice or the calmness and apparent 
 
142 SILENT LOVE. 
 
 pleasure with which it was made. At last the countess threw 
 her arms round Henrietta's neck : 
 
 " But have you not considered, noble girl, that you will 
 now be quite poor, when you give up every thing to my 
 brother ? Have you no conditions to make 1 Name them 
 Ask what you will ! I know my Adolph ; he will joyfully 
 share with you what you might have retained altogether." 
 
 Henrietta's heart swelled, Noble pride, joy that she 
 could thus give happiness to one she loved, and tender emo- 
 tions swayed it alternately. She sank in the arms of the 
 countess, and said with tears : 
 
 u I shall be quite happy when your brother takes and 
 keeps that which is his in the sight of God, and every just 
 judge. What I inherit from my aunt is sufficient for my 
 wants ; I need nothing more." 
 
 Again they urged her ; she persisted in her refusal, and 
 insisted that their brother should wait no longer for these 
 good tidings. 
 
 The count wrote at once, but the countess would not let 
 Henrietta go away ; she considered her as a guardian spirit, 
 a higher being, who had come as a blessing to her house. 
 Henrietta found a part of her reward in the love of hei 
 relatives ; and the likeness to Almstein attracted her strongly 
 to his sister. Sophie, so the countess was called, had her 
 brother's features and complexion, and a voice whose tone re- 
 called the remembrance of his. Henrietta felt herself drawn 
 to her as if by a charm ; she loved to be with her and spent 
 here many happy days. 
 
 In the meantime the captain had received his * brother-in- 
 law's letter. Henrietta's noble conduct astonished him. It 
 
SILENT LOVE 143 
 
 was not her restoring an estate to which she had not a full 
 right that touched him he felt that she must have acted 
 thus ; that he would have acted so himself but the manner 
 in which she did it ; this disinterested noble conduct this 
 entire forgetfulness of her own interests this beautiful con- 
 fidence in her friends, touched and charmed him. He recalled 
 his former broken ties, and it seemed to him as if his life 
 would have been happier by the side of Henrietta than of 
 Caroline. He sought out her first letter, in which she had 
 entreated him to break off their engagements, and he found 
 in it much which a year before had struck him very dif- 
 ferently. He wished to know Henrietta better ; his heart 
 was free and then the thought arose in his mind, that their 
 engagement might perhaps be renewed, and thus the noble, 
 delicate-minded girl, remain in possession of her property. 
 
 He wrote to her. The letter bore the impress of the ten- 
 clerest esteem and the kindest sympathy. He would hear of 
 no unconditional renunciation of the property : he offered her 
 a portion or the whole, if she would decide to fulfil her 
 father's old wish, and receive it with his hand. 
 
 Henrietta trembled as she read the letter ; her feeling foj 
 Adolph awoke in all its strength. She stood she doubted 
 A happy future presented itself to her soul. But then her 
 tye fell upon a mirror. " Leah for Rachel,' 5 sounded in her 
 ;ars. She compared her face with Almstein's splendid form ; 
 she thought of the opinion of the world ; she reflected, it was 
 impossible that inclination, it was only magnanimity, had in- 
 duced him to make this offer and she controlled her deeply 
 moved heart to give him a decided refusal. That she might 
 not seem obstinate or wound his kindness, she consented to 
 
144 SILENT LOVE. 
 
 retain the single estate of Rohrbach, which was of inestim- 
 able value to her, as it was in a very romantic situation and 
 very near Festenberg, where Almstein's sister, to whom she 
 was bound by so many secret ties, passed the greater part of 
 the year where she could hear news of him where she 
 thought herself nearer to him. 
 
 Tender and considerate as was Henrietta's refusal, Aim- 
 stein, who really esteemed her, was offended by it. He 
 thought he perceived in it the same prejudice and dislike, of 
 which he had before heard in her parent's house. Conscious 
 of his own worth, and his irreproachable conduct towards 
 her, he could explain it only as arising from a natural anti- 
 pathy, and this wounded his feelings. From this time he 
 thought of the strange girl with very conflicting emotions. 
 But he looked upon it as a sacred duty so to provide for her 
 future comfort that she should never have occasion to repent 
 of what she had done. In a letter to his sister he formally 
 resigned all claims to Rohrbach, and all that belonged to it, 
 enclosing at the same time a carte blanche upon his banker, 
 with the earnest request that Henrietta would make unlimited 
 use of it. He delayed making any division of the remaining 
 property until his return, which he would endeavor to hasten, 
 in order to speak with her upon the subject. 
 
 Henrietta felt the coldness of the captain's letter, and ex- 
 plained it as quite consistent with her own views. She 
 received the gift of Rohrbach with grateful thanks tore in 
 pieces, before Sophie's eyes, all the carte blanche except the 
 signature, which she placed in her bosom, she said, as a 
 remembrance of his generosity. Sophie gave her an earnest 
 and inquiring look. Thoughts rose in her mind which had 
 
SILENT LOVE. 
 
 before transiently crossed it. Now they became clearer and 
 more definite, but she was silent for she feared to offend 
 Henrietta's deeply hidden feeling by any untimely words. 
 
 When she was alone she congratulated herself on having 
 declined Almstein's offer the great sacrifice which his mag- 
 nanimity had urged him to make. 
 
 " He does not love me. How could he ! He does not 
 know me/' she exclaimed with sorrow. " I have nothing 
 that men consider attractive, and if I am any thing, it is 
 only to those who have learned to knov^ me well. That 
 Almstein will never do ! " 
 
 She remained a fortnight longer with Sophie, and then 
 returned to her lonely castle to resign it with all other 
 possessions to her cousin's agent. To her great astonishment 
 she heard from him that he had received directions to take it 
 only in a conditional manner, subject to any requisitions she 
 might think fit to make. 
 
 A sweet feeling of gratitude and emotion pervaded her 
 heart ; she said, decidedly, she wished no stipulations made ; 
 caused a paper to be drawn up by her guardian, who was 
 much displeased at her too hasty magnanimity ; surrendered 
 every thing, and in a few days set off for Rohrbach, accompa- 
 nied by her companion, the widow of an officer. 
 
 It was a pleasant surprise to her, on alighting from hei 
 carriage, to find Count Dehnitz and his wife already here, 
 who welcomed her, as a neighbor, most kindly to her new 
 residence ; but a still more agreeable one awaited her. The 
 whole castle, as far as the short time permitted, had been 
 fitted up by Almstein's directions^ with every thing necessary 
 to convenience, elegance, and the most refined enjoyment of 
 
146 SILENT LOVE. 
 
 life. A well filled library a room hung with choice en- 
 gravings, excellent musical instruments, a green-house, full 
 of the rarest and loveliest flowers and plants in short, ail 
 that a cultivated mind could need in solitude, was provided 
 with as much taste as generosity. The countess led 
 Henrietta all around, and she followed with a beating heart 
 and visible emotion. 
 
 " Tell your brother," she said at last, " how joyous you 
 have seen me ; how his gift and his attentions have made me 
 happy, and beg fcim to accept the unspoken thanks of a 
 moved heart, as the reward of his kindness. " 
 
 On the third day, the Count and Sophie returned to the 
 capital, intending soon to revisit Festenburg, and pass many 
 happy days with Henrietta. She interested herself in her 
 house and furniture, and in sweet remembrances of the 
 friendly giver. To think of him was the dearest employ- 
 ment of her solitary hours; but her heart and her active 
 mind found more important occupation in plans for bettering 
 the condition of her tenantry. Thus the remainder of the 
 winter passed away, and with the spring, her loved neigh- 
 bors returned to Festenburg. She now had society, and so- 
 ciety of the most refined and elevated character. She was 
 daily at Festenburg, or the family with her, and Almstein's 
 letters from the army were exciting eras in the quiet life of 
 these excellent people, who were so much interested in him. 
 
 His last letter contained his feelings on the eve of a great 
 battle which was expected to take place on the following day. 
 It was very serious, and almost sad ; it seemed as if dark 
 presentiments swept before him. A second letter was looked 
 for with anxious expectation at Festenburg, and with stil) 
 
SILENT LOVE. 117 
 
 greater at Rohrbach ; but it did not arrive The news of 
 the battle which had been won, came through the public pa- 
 pers ; among those who had most distinguished themselves, 
 and among the severely wounded, was his name. Deep 
 grief and fearful apprehension took possession of Sophie 
 and suffering she could not express, kept Henrietta for two 
 long days in terrible anxiety. On the third day a letter 
 arrived from Almstein's body servant. The captain, by his 
 coolness, and the good conduct of his regiment, had regained 
 the battle, when it was almost lost ; at the head of his cui- 
 rassiers, he had thrown himself upon the advancing enemy 5 
 broken through their closed ranks, and spread havoc and 
 confusion around. His courage excited that of his troops, 
 the flying stood, the scattered assembled themselves together. 
 In the close combat, he received a sabre thrust in his head, 
 but still regardless of his own danger, he pressed forward, 
 when a second thrust threw him backwards off his horse, and 
 the whole front rank of his squadron, not knowing what they 
 did, and no longer to be restrained, dashed over him. After 
 the battle, he was drawn out from the slain as dead ; and 
 although at the time the letter was writ?n, about eight days 
 after the affair took place, he still lived, there was little or 
 no hope of his recovery. 
 
 Warm tears flowed in Festenburg and Rohrbach, for his 
 misfortune and their own threatened loss. Henrietta now 
 felt, for the first time, how i nspeakably dear to her Adolph 
 had become. Violent grief affected her health ; she became 
 very sick, and Sophie's heart was divided between the ap- 
 prehension she felt for her brother and her beloved friend ; 
 but she would not have been a woman, if all this had not 
 
148 SILENT LOVE. 
 
 taught her that her former suppositions wore correct, and 
 Henrietta loved her brother. Henrietta's decided rejection 
 of her brother was, however, perfectly inexplicable ; but as 
 she observed so strict a silence about her feelings, and en- 
 deavored to conceal the true cause of her illness from Sophie, 
 delicacy prevented her from trying to tear aside the veil in 
 which Henrietta so studiously shrouded her heart. 
 
 Two weeks passed away in unspeakable sorrow and anxi- 
 ety. At last came a second letter. The servant announced 
 to the Countess, they had now hope of the Captain's life, 
 but that they scarcely expected his entire restoration to 
 health, as his wounds were deep and dangerous ; and under 
 these circumstances, his master seemed scarcely to wish for 
 a longer life, and was depressed and melancholy. 
 
 This letter filled his friends with mingled feelings; the 
 predominant one with Henrietta was her own increased love 
 for him. His image had often appeared before her in more 
 peaceful days, in all the glory of beauty, dazzling, enraptur- 
 ing. Now it was never out of her sight but she always 
 saw him, pale, sick, melancholy, and for that very reason so 
 attractive, so irresistible. She now repented that she had 
 not accepted his offer, for then she might have attained what 
 seemed to her the highest object of her life : the power of 
 dedicating herself entirely to him, of brightening his sad lot, 
 and removing many a burthen from his weary spirit. His 
 personal beauty was no longer any hindrance its charm was 
 in a great measure destroyed she would now have been on 
 equality with him, and his happiness have been her work. 
 
 She carefully concealed these feelings under a quiet, 
 friendly sympathy ; but Sophie had read her heart, and, 
 
SILENT LOVE. 149 
 
 without allowing it to be known, she was secretly building 
 up a plan, founded upon Henrietta's love, and her brother's 
 opinions, which was to secure the happiness of the whole 
 well-known family. 
 
 Two months more had elapsed, when a letter was received 
 from Almstein himself. He was able .to be up again, and 
 could amuse himself for a little while with reading and wri- 
 ting. His wounds were healed ; but their effects would, he 
 wrote, embitter his whole life. The future lay dark and sad 
 before him ; and were it not for the fear of inflicting an into- 
 lerable burthen upon his sister and her family, it would be a 
 comfort and pleasure to him to come to her the next autumn, 
 and pass his remaining days among his beloved relatives. 
 
 The letter bore so evidently the impression of the deepest 
 melancholy, that Sophie and her husband were quite moved 
 by it, and Henrietta could scarcely conceal her tears. The 
 Countess wrote to him at once ; she entreated him, with the 
 sincerest affection, to come to them as soon as possible, assu- 
 ring him that it would be the most earnest endeavor of herself 
 and her husband to make life pleasant to him ; that she rejoiced 
 in his coming as a great pleasure and trusted that many bright 
 smiling hopes were in store for him in the future. 
 
 He was actually coming again Henrietta was to see him, 
 to be constantly near him ! Various feelings alternated in her 
 agitated soul longing and joy, fear and anxiety. Autumn 
 at length drew nigh, and a letter came from Almstein, an- 
 nouncing his arrival the next day. His mind seemed to have 
 aroused from the melancholy which bodily suffering had in- 
 duced ; he was less gloomy, and better satisfied with his health. 
 
 Almstein knew that Henrietta lived in the neighborhood 
 
150 EILLNT LOVE. 
 
 of his sister, that he was constantly with his relations, al- 
 though Sophie had designedly said little about her in her let- 
 ters. It was rather a bitter appendix to the pleasures he 
 promised himself, to be forced to be constantly with a person 
 of whose decided aversion to himself he thought he had so 
 many convincing proofs. He hoped, however, that by con- 
 stant intercourse of such a quiet character, this unpleasant 
 feeling between him arid his former betrothed would wear 
 away. 
 
 It was a lovely autumn day when he entered on his jour- 
 ney. The distance was considerable, and as he could ac- 
 complish it only by short stages, it was on the eighth day, a 
 bright, clear Sunday morning, that he arrived in the vicinity 
 of his future residence. As he saw, from a distance, the red 
 roof of Festenburg, a glad feeling arose in his breast. The 
 strong excitements and wild life of war had not made his 
 heart cold ; he had still a keen sense of the pleasures of do- 
 mestic happiness ; and though his misfortune did not allow 
 him to enjoy them in their purest and most direct form, he 
 gratified his feelings by thinking of the happiness of his sis- 
 ter and his brother-in-law, for whom he felt so strong an in- 
 terest. He now discerned, on a distant hill, the pointed 
 tower of Rohrbach, and soon after saw the white castle on 
 the declivity, gleaming through the trees. There lived the 
 strange girl who had been willing to resign half her property 
 in order to free herself from his addresses. He was ab- 
 sorbed in imagining how she would receive him, how conduct 
 herself towards him, and with secret satisfaction, he formed 
 plans for repaying her generous sacrifice, and compelling her 
 to share the wealth she had so willingly relinquished. 
 
SILENT LOVE. 
 
 In the mean time, he had reached the avenue of fir-trees 
 that led to Festenburg. His carriage had already been seen 
 from the castle. Sophie, her husband, her children, all 
 hastened to meet him, welcoming him with loud exclamations 
 of joy. With a swelling breast, he descended from the car- 
 riage, threw himself into th.e arms of his loved friends, and 
 with tearful eyes pressed them to his beating heart. The 
 feeling of home, the happiness of finding himself beloved, 
 penetrated his inmost soul, exciting the purest human joy. 
 His friends thought him changed, but by no means so unre- 
 cognisable as he had described himself. Two great scars on 
 his cheeks and forehead, indeed disfigured his beauty, and 
 his blooming complexion was gone ; but there was still the 
 large spiritual eye, the noble features, the commanding 
 height, the proud bearing, though a contusion on the foot 
 rendered his walking difficult. Sophie's plan was formed in 
 a moment. No one in the castle was to say a word of the 
 captain's arrival, to the inhabitants of Rohrbach who might 
 come over to attend the church service. She expected Hen- 
 rietta as usual, with some other guests from the neighbor- 
 hood, who dined with her on Sunday. She arranged it all 
 with her husband, and gave a hint to the captain as to the 
 part he was* to play. She wished him to read Henrietta's 
 soul, to give him some idea that at least he was not hated. 
 As Henrietta's carriage entered the court, she reminded 
 them of their agreement. 
 
 Henrietta entered. Sophie, and a part of the company, 
 went to meet her, and surrounded her, so that she could not 
 see the captain, of whose presence she had not the slightest 
 Suddenly he approached her from one side, and spoke 
 
152 SILENT LOVE. 
 
 to her. " Adolph ! " she exclaimed, frightened and trem- 
 bling, while she laid her hand on her heart. His voice had 
 been echoed there. She turned quickly round ; he stood be- 
 fore her. Trembling, speechless, she extended him her 
 hand ; at first she could not bring out a word, but in the 
 glistening eyes, in the tears that moistened them, there was 
 expressed the purest joy, the surprise of the truest love. 
 She held his hand in a long, close grasp. " At last we see 
 each other again !" she exclaimed, looking at him with an 
 undisguised interest. The captain was struck he had ex- 
 pected so different a reception ! At first, words failed him 
 too : then he asked her if she would have recognised him, if 
 he had not first spoken, if she had met him elsewhere than 
 at his sister's. 
 
 " Oh, in a moment ! " exclaimed Henrietta ; " among a 
 thousand, any where ! " 
 
 " And yet I am very much changed," continued the cap- 
 tain. 
 
 " Because you have suffered so much," Henrietta inter- 
 itipted, with an agitated voice. " We had given you up for 
 more than three weeks ! Oh, that was a sad time ! " 
 
 She stopped for she feared her tears were ready to fall. 
 Sophie too approached, who had seen enough, and put an 
 end to this agitating conversation. The conversation be- 
 came general, and Henrietta gradually recovered her usual 
 self-possession. 
 
 It was not so with the captain. Her greeting, her man- 
 ner, during the whole day, was so inconsistent with the dis- 
 like he supposed her to feel towards him. He occupied him- 
 eelf in trying to explain it, and the girl who had so proudlv 
 
,0f SILENT LOVE. 158 
 
 rejected him, whose outward appearance was not such as 
 would attract most men, began to awaken a lively interest 
 in him. Henrietta was quite cheerful, and took part in the 
 conversation ; but the captain was quiet, and apparently ab- 
 sorbed in his own thoughts. When her carriage was an- 
 nounced, he begged permission to visit her, and it was 
 granted with heartfelt pleasure. 
 
 He came the next morning, and was received like a dear 
 friend. She led him round her little mansion, showed him 
 all its advantages and conveniences, and told him how happy 
 she felt in being able openly to express her feelings to the 
 one whose attention and kindness had procured her all these 
 enjoyments. Almstein was confused and strangely affected 
 by these strange circumstances. When she returned to the 
 library, and was about to begin a conversation upon indiffer- 
 ent subjects, he interrupted her. " No, my cousin, matters 
 cannot remain thus between us. I have long waited for an 
 opportunity to speak with you about our mutual concerns ; 
 and if the unfortunate accident that destroyed my plans of 
 life, had not intervened, I should long ere this have obtained 
 leave of absence to put an end to this affair." 
 
 He then told her that since his ill health and melancholy 
 had cut off all his hopes of domestic happiness, he had re- 
 solved to divide his property into two equal portions, secu- 
 ring the one to his nephew by will, and resigning the other 
 to her entire disposal. Henrietta's eyes filled with tears as 
 he spoke. It was not emotion at his offer ; it was sorrow for 
 lis condition, for his gloomy views of life. 
 
 " You shall not do so," she said, with animation, as she 
 took his hand " you must not so hastily, so resolutely, re- 
 
154 SILENT LOVf , 
 
 nounee the best joys of life. You must marrj : you will 
 find some one " 
 
 " Oh ! of that I have not the least doubt. I can find 
 enough of girls who, through me 5 would gladly become wives 
 then soon widows, and owners of my estate. But if I 
 should ever have the folly to marry, my wife must devote 
 herself entirely to me and to my way of life. She must re- 
 nounce the world and its pleasures to sit at home with a 
 sick, perhaps morose, man ; and in this solitude be my com- 
 panion, my entertaining sympathizing friend. Where shall 
 I find one capable of doing this and renouncing so much ? 
 Those whom I could get would not make me happy, and 
 those who could make me happy would know how to choose 
 a better alliance." 
 
 Henrietta was silent. Her feelings were too much ex- 
 cited ; the hopes of the past stood before her she sighed, 
 but did not answer. 
 
 Again Almstein urged her to accede to his wishes, but she 
 as earnestly declined. In order to avoid injuring his gene 
 rous feelings, she graciously accepted her mother's jewels, 
 which he had brought with him, and she promised in such a 
 sincere, serious manner, to apply to him whenever she 
 needed any thing, that he could not doubt the firmness of 
 her resolution. He went away half pleased, half displeased 
 with her, but determined at all events to become better ac- 
 quainted with this noble girl. 
 
 He soon had opportunity for doing this. Henrietta came 
 Ojiiite as often, or perhaps even oftener, than before to Fes- 
 tenburg, or they were with her at Rohrbach. The captain 
 saw her daily, and was dailj more convinced of the beauty 
 
SILENT LOVA. 155 
 
 of her character. Her information afforded inexhaustible 
 materials for conversation ; her talents, for she played and 
 sang with more than ordinary skill, entertained him agreea- 
 bly ; but more than all these advantages, which were the 
 fruits of high cultivation, her tender consideration for him 
 attracted him towards her. When walking, she was content 
 to follow slowly on his arm, the more rapid paces of her 
 companions. If the others ascended a hill or went where it 
 was difficult for the captain to follow, she stayed so kindly, 
 so cheerfully with him, that she seemed scarcely to be 
 making any sacrifice. If pain from his wounds attacked 
 him or a dark cloud seemed to overshadow his spirit, Sophie 
 sent immediately to Rohrbach. Henrietta came, gave him 
 her society, read to him when he was able to listen, narrated 
 tales, histories, jests, to divert him ; and when nothing else 
 would do, she went to the piano, and like David, charmed 
 away the evil spirit from her friend, by its sweet sounds. 
 
 Slowly and imperceptibly their souls seemed to be uniting 
 more closely together. Almstein was so accustomed to 
 Henrietta's society, that he seemed restless and disturbed, 
 as if something was wanting, if she missed a day in coming 
 to Festenburg. Then he would order the carriage and drive 
 over to her. He now scarcely remarked that she was not 
 beautiful, her intellectual eye, her elegant figure, so often 
 charmed him. Sophie saw the tender feeling growing in the 
 heart of her brother, and she rejoiced at it ; his condition 
 rendered it doubly desirable that he should be united to an 
 affectionate, sensible woman, who would gladden his heart, 
 and open it to the enjoyment of life. But with proper deli- 
 cacy she avoided every thing like intermeddling in the 
 
156 SILENT LOVE. 
 
 affair; she suffered their hearts to unfold to one another, 
 watched over them, and took care that they were undis- 
 turbed, and trusted to time and love for the issue. 
 
 Henrietta observed with heartfelt pleasure how much 
 Adolph seemed drawn towards her ; she felt what she was to 
 him, and thought how much more she might become. The 
 thought of sharing his fate, and by sharing rendering it less 
 hard, dedicating her whole existence to him, living for him 
 alone, considering all his pleasures and his cheerfulness, as 
 her work, filled her with happiness. But the more she 
 loved, the greater was her anxiety. " He indeed prefers me 
 to all his friends," she often said to herself; " he shows me 
 openly an attention and affection that almost borders upon 
 love, but only borders. He does not yet love me ; and he 
 is now bowed down by suffering, solitary and restricted to 
 the society of a few persons. How will it be when he re- 
 turns to the city ; when his wealth, his personal attractions, 
 his fine appearance draw upon him the looks and designs of 
 both mothers and daughters, when efforts are made on all 
 sides to attract and please him ? How will it be then ? He 
 must stand his trial, his affection for me must resist those 
 attacks before I can believe it is love, before I can hope to 
 be to him all I wish to be, and our mutual happiness be se- 
 cured." 
 
 Thus thought Henrietta. Almstein, convinced that he 
 should never marry, thought only of the present moment ; 
 and thus without having tried his feelings was unconscious 
 of their strength. In the meantime the autumn passed 
 away, and the approach of winter summoned Dehnitz and his 
 TV lie back to the city. His affairs also required the presence 
 
SILENT LOVE. 167 
 
 of the captain. They tried to persuade Henrietta to accom- 
 pany the family. Almstein urged her to do it, with warmth, 
 with sincerity, at last almost with tenderness. But she 
 steadfastly refused. Her heart bled at the thought of living 
 quite alone, without him who had now become so necessary 
 to her happiness. But she conquered this feeling ; she 
 thought of the test of his love, and excused herself on the 
 ground of her love of solitude and her many occupations. 
 Almstein, wounded and vex 3d, at last ceased his solicita- 
 tions, and Henrietta remarked, not unwillingly, that from 
 this moment he was colder and more reserved towards her. 
 
 She felt pained that she had refused him this request. 
 He was now convinced that she did not care as much for him 
 as he did for her, since she so easily renounced his society, 
 and found compensation for his friendship in solitude. He 
 remembered her former rejections ; and although he no 
 longer believed in any dislike on her side, he considered her 
 as incapable of true, deep feeling. 
 
 The day was fixed for the departure of the family. Hen- 
 rietta wept half of the night, and the next morning came to 
 Festenburg to breakfast for the last time with her relations, 
 looking so distressed that every one whose judgment was not 
 warped, like Almstein's, could guess the true cause of the 
 change. He was out of humor, and so vexed at the ap- 
 proaching separation, that he interpreted every thing the 
 wrong way. According to him, all this sorrow was for his 
 sister, and the breaking up of the pleasant social circle. 
 The carriages were packed, and the servants announced that 
 every thing was ready. They rose from the table. On the 
 steps Almstein extended his hand to Henrietta. He did not 
 
158 SILENT LOVE. 
 
 gpeak, but she saw that he was deeply moved. Her tears 
 started, she could no longer retain them. " Oh, Adolph ! " 
 she said, with a voice almost choked with rising sobs : 
 " when shall we see each other again ? " He stepped back 
 and looked earnestly at her. 
 
 " Do you wish then to see me soon again ? " he asked, in 
 a half bitter, half tender tone. 
 
 Henrietta raised her clasped hands. " Oh, Father in 
 Heaven ! " she exclaimed, and her tears streamed forth. 
 
 The tone penetrated his heart it was the tone cf the sin- 
 cerest love, the truest sorrow. Touched, enraptured, he 
 threw his arm around her and drew her toward him. *' I 
 shall come soon again, very soon, dear cousin ! perhaps 
 sooner than you will expect me." 
 
 " Oh, Adolph,' 5 she said, weeping, as her head rested 
 against his shoulder, "my days will be very, very solitary," 
 He kissed her forehead she blushed and trembled. "My. 
 dear, my beloved Henrietta ! I cannot live without you i " 
 At this moment the count, who had already waited for some 
 time in the carriage, called out to his brother-in-law. The 
 captain tore himself from Henrietta, got in rapidly, and the 
 carriage rattled through the castle gate and over the bridge. 
 
 Henrietta stood for a time as if stupified lost in sorrow, 
 joy, and unspeakable love. Then she slowly iscended the 
 steps, sat down where she had before been with Adolph, and 
 wept herself tired. At last she rose up, visited all the places 
 where she had talked, read, sang with him ; where she had 
 first seen him bade farewell to all these joys, threw herself 
 into her carriage, and returned h )me through a thick Decem- 
 ber mist. 
 
SILENT LOVE. 159 
 
 One thought alone brightened her sad solitude ; the hope^ 
 &hat was now almost certainty, that Adolph felt for her more 
 th<Ki friendship, that it was really love. But the sweeter this 
 confidence was to her, the more anxiously she thought of the 
 attractions of the city. Only his letters, in which he spoke 
 with such warmth of the happiness he had enjoyed, and his 
 longing desire to see her again, calmed her anxiety, and 
 rendered her solitude endurable. 
 
 All that she had foreseen really happened. The captain 
 had scarcely appeared in the circle into which he was drawn 
 by his profession, and his former acquaintance, than designs 
 wcie made upon him on all sides, and the loveliest women and 
 girls made advances towards him. He amused himself with 
 some of them ; here and there he found dazzling beauty, 
 shining talents, kind dispositions but he found no where the 
 even, equable cheerfulness, mild goodness, and deep feeling 
 in such beautiful combination, as in Henrietta. Every time 
 he returned home his conviction was strengthened that no 
 woman on the earth suited him so well or could make him so 
 happy as she ; but as this conviction grew stronger, Almstein 
 became more depressed. Sophie remarked it ; she expostu- 
 lated with him affectionately and at last he confessed his 
 feelings for Henrietta ; he said that if she could now resolve 
 to accept his hand, he would look forward to a brighter, 
 happier future than he had ever anticipated even in the full 
 bloom of health. Sophie was rejoiced ; her satisfaction was 
 evidenced by her reddening cheek, her glistening eye. To 
 the captain this pleasure seemed somewhat premature ; but 
 Sophie assured him that she was certain of Henrietta's con- 
 Bent, she bade him be of good courage, and urged him to 
 
160 SILENT LOVE. 
 
 write to her. He at first consented, but then determined to 
 go himself and receive his sentence. The project had too 
 much interest for him to allow of any delay, and his departure 
 was fixed for the following day. 
 
 Four weeks had now passed away since Henrietta had been 
 quite alone, living on the remembrance of past happiness and 
 her uncertain hopes for the future. On a gloomy evening, 
 when not a star was shining, and dark clouds hung over the 
 leafless forests in the narrow valley through which wound the 
 road leading to Festenburg, she sat at the window looking out 
 sadly and thoughtfully on the winter night. She suddenly 
 saw lights moving at a distance ; they seemed to be coming 
 up the road that led through the valley. At first she thought 
 it was the peasants who with lights were seeking their way 
 home. At length she heard a distant rattling it was a 
 carriage a sweet presentiment took possession of her heart 
 the lights came nearer, followed the road that turned off on 
 the hill towards the castle ; now they had reached the 
 entrance, she recognised the arms of her house Almstein's 
 equipage it was he. She hastened out, trembling with 
 pleasure and surprise ; he met her in the hall with outspread 
 arms. His overflowing feeling had made him speechless, and 
 he pressed her to his heart. It was only when quietly seated 
 together in the drawing-room, and the first tumult of their 
 joy was over, that they had found words to express how each 
 had wanted the other ; how they had longed for one another ; 
 how impossible Adolph had found it to live longer without 
 her. Gradually, however, he became more silent ; he seemed 
 abstracted, lost in one absorbing thought. Henrietta ob- 
 served it, and affectionate!^ asked him the reason. 
 
SILENT LOVE. 161 
 
 *' I have an important question to ask you/ 3 he at length 
 began, " an<? I must entreat you to answer me candidly and 
 with the strictest truth." 
 
 She promised, and he continued. " Why have you twice 
 so decidedly refused my hand? What was the cause of 
 your former dislike towards me ?" 
 
 " Dislike ?" repeated Henrietta, blushing, and she cast 
 down her eyes, but said no more. 
 
 The captain pressed the question upon her ; at last she 
 confessed, that the marked difference between her appearance 
 and his, his first hopes of her beautiful sister, her dread of 
 the world's derision, and his future repentance had impelled 
 her to it. 
 
 Almstein listened to her silently and seriously. " You 
 think then," he said after a pause, " that perfect equality 
 of circumstances is indispensable to a happy marriage ? 
 That neither should make the least sacrifice to the other, 
 neither excel the other in the most unimportant points ? Do 
 you really think this, my cousin 1 " 
 
 Almstein' s manner was very serious. At first she was 
 silent she saw the drift of his question. " Only a true 
 love," she answered after some reflection, " a love that 
 dreads no sacrifice because it feels none ; because all that it 
 does for the beloved object is sweet and easy only such a 
 love can equalize greater differences. But this I could not 
 then expect from you." 
 
 " And could you be capable of such a love ?" His voice 
 was low, and almost trembling, and he looked earnestly and 
 inquiringly in her eye. 
 
 She became wore excited she felt how much he was 
 
162 SILENl LOVE. 
 
 moved she looked at him, and this look might have revealed 
 to him her full loving heart but it did not satisfy his excited 
 feelings, and again her eyes fell to the ground. 
 
 " Can you resolve," he earnestly continued, till at last he 
 was quite carried away by his feelings ; " can you resolve to 
 make this great sacrifice, to renounce all the pleasures of 
 youth and society, to bind yourself to the person, perhaps ere 
 long to the sick bed, of a hypochondriac, joyless man to be 
 every thing to him ; to make his whole happiness to rendei 
 his life one of heavenly enjoyment ; his " 
 
 " I am resolved to do all for you,' 5 cried Henrietta, and 
 her tears burst forth as she threw herself into his arms. 
 
 The captain pressed her to his heart. Her confession 
 made him unspeakably happy ; but he scarcely dared to 
 trust the sweet enchantment. 
 
 " But have you tried your feelings, my Henrietta. 
 We have known each other only a little while ; sympathy, 
 esteem have deceived many a warm heart because it was so 
 warm. Is it love that you feel for me ? " 
 
 She rose and looked at him with glistening eyes. This 
 noble sentiment seemed to have given a calm elevation to her 
 whole being. " Listen to me, Adolph and then decide," 
 she said. " I have loved you since the first time I saw you. 
 I fled from you, because my heart suffered too deeply in ycur 
 presence. I refused your hand because I knew that you could 
 not love me. I wished to share my wealth with you, to do 
 all that was in my power to make you happy and I rejected 
 your second offer, because I saw it was only generosity that 
 induced you to make it. But when you were wounded, when 
 I knew that you needed the sympathy, the tender care of a 
 
EVENING. 163 
 
 true, loving being, every drawback vanished, and I firmly 
 resolved to share your fate to live for you to do for you 
 all that was in my power. Now judge, Adolph. whether I 
 make a sacrifice when I accept your hand ! " 
 
 Dumb with emotion and rapture, Adolph could only press 
 her to his heart. He was now convinced that he was making 
 another as happy as himself. In a few weeks his good sister, 
 who now with a sort of triumph imparted her long cherished 
 convictions to the lovers, and praised her own penetration, 
 had the pleasure of celebrating the marriage of tiie happy 
 pair in Festenburg. 
 
 AN eve, intensely beautiful an eve 
 Calm as the slumber of a lovely girl 
 Dreaming of hope. The rich autumnal woods, 
 With their innumerable shades and coloring^ 
 Or, like a silent instrument, at rest ; 
 A silent instrument whereon the wind 
 Hath long forgot to play. 
 
184 THE HAPPY HOME. 
 
 STfflS H? j5\ !P IP IF HfllWfR 
 tiA eJI* tia SA iST iS Jk Jlift \U M.^ Jg a 
 
 BY MRS. EMELINE S. SMITH. 
 
 To make a happy fireside clime 
 
 To weans and wife, 
 Is the true moral and sublime 
 
 Of human life. BURNS. 
 
 I SAW a scene, where Joy's bright hues were blended 
 With the serener tints of Peace and Love ; 
 
 It seemed a group of fairy forms, descended 
 
 From the bright realms where poet-dreamers rove. 
 
 But though, all beautiful as some ideal, 
 Wrought by the artist in his happiest hour, 
 
 'Twas but a page of life, the true and real, 
 The life made lovely by Affection's power. 
 
 The evening sun-light through the casement streaming, 
 Made the sweet picture more divinely fair, 
 
 Yet were the rosy rays less glad and beaming 
 
 Than the fond eyes that smiled and sparkled there. 
 
 Three radiant faces ! radiant with a pleasure 
 Known, in its fulness, to the good alone 
 
 Three happy hearts to one delightful measure 
 Thrilling in perfect harmony of ton* ( 
 
THE HAPPY HOME. 166 
 
 As summer stars, in their serenest splendor, 
 
 Shine down on Earth's fair flowerets from above, 
 
 So shone the mother's eyes so fond, so tender 
 On her young child the first fair flower of Love. 
 
 And, proudly as the morning sun advances, 
 
 To look on earth, when she is glad and bright, 
 The happy father turns, with radiant glances, 
 
 To the two forms who make his world of Light. 
 
 Well may he proudly gaze ; the blessings near him 
 
 Were won by years of patient toil and care ; 
 In tho dim, clouded past, there came to cheer him, 
 
 A vision of this hour serene and fair. 
 
 With fortune lowly, but with soul aspiring 
 
 Left lone and friendless in his boyhood's day 
 He yet, with step unfaltering, heart untiring, 
 
 Launched boldly forth upon life's devious way. 
 
 Patient and frugal when stern want assailed him ; 
 
 Fearless and tireless in the darkest hour, 
 He still toiled on and hopes that never failed him 
 
 Were crowned, at last, by honor, wealth and power. 
 
 And now, 'mid all the world's alluring pleasures, 
 
 No higher, holier recompense can come, 
 Than these communings with his household treas: res, 
 
 These joys serene that bless his happy he me. 
 
lt)6 TRUE AND BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT^ 
 
 A% WH 
 
 JLfifJJ 
 
 IK reading the works of Mrs. Ellis works which should 
 be found upon the table of every woman we meet with many 
 true and beautiful thoughts that, like precious stones, may 
 be removed from their setting, and still shine with equal 
 brilliancy. Here are a few worthy to glitter on any page. 
 
 "Not the foolish bird fluttering in the snares of the 
 fowler ; nor the flower that has burst into blushing beauty 
 on the morning of storms ; nor the child that has stolen to 
 the brink of the precipice to play, can be more melancholy 
 objects of consideration, than an amiable and lovely woman, 
 who is drawing from the fountains of vanity and love, her 
 only sources of happiness and hope. And yet who speaks 
 of her danger ? Those who stand aloof in unassailed secu- 
 rity, and have never known the insatiable thirst of pampered 
 vanity, nor fallen into the snare of earthly love 1 Should the 
 deluded creature awake in a sense of her own awful situa- 
 tion, who rushes to the rescue ? She looks back upon her 
 sister woman, and the strong arm of malevolence and envy is 
 put forth to urge her to destruction, to accelerate her fall. 
 She leans upon her brother man, and he, more treacherous 
 but not less cruel, while he covers her with the garment of 
 praise and pours upon her head the oil of joy, at the same 
 time places on her brow the poisonod chaplet, crying, 
 " Peace, peace, where there is no peace." Like the priests 
 
TRUE AND BEAUTIFUL THOUGHTS. 167 
 
 of old, who with merriment and dance and song, led forth 
 the unconscious victim wreathed with flowers, to bleed upon 
 the altar of sacrifice." 
 
 " Oh ! it is a wearisome, heartless, and life-spending ser- 
 vice, to live by the power of pleasing ! The miner has his 
 stated portion doled out to him, and digs in undisturbed se- 
 curity ; and the galley-slave knows, while he toils at the oar, 
 that the utmost stretch of his sinews, is all that his tyrant 
 master can require ; but the miserable child of genius, who 
 feels that he must starve and shiver in the shade, or tax his 
 talents, and sharpen his wit, and torture his sensibility, to 
 purchase the genial smiles of patronage : may not his life be 
 compared to the lingering death of the dolphin, whose dying 
 agonies produce those beautiful varieties of color which as- 
 tonish the delighted beholder ? " 
 
 " Excitement is not the natural food of the human mind. 
 It may, for a while, give life to imagination, and quicken sen- 
 sibility ; but like other stimulants, it is destructive both to 
 the health of the body, and to the soundness of the mind ; 
 and like other stimulants, it leaves behind an aching void." 
 
 " There are those who shut themselves up in retirement, 
 thinking that danger exists only in the pleasures of the 
 world, and safety in their exclusion. But let them look well 
 to the choice they have made, and ask, whether the evils of 
 solitude may not be as offensive in the sight of their Creator 
 as those of society. For themselves, they have an un- 
 doubted right, both to know, and to choose, what is best ; 
 but there are hearts that can bear witness to the sins of soli- 
 tude ; to the sins, and the sufferings too. 
 
 " Hearts, that have been weighed down with the leader) 
 
168 TRUE AND BEAUTIFUL THOUGHTS. 
 
 stupor of melancholy, until every affection was swallowed up 
 in self, every feeling lost in the ocean of misery, from 
 whence no gentle dew is exhaled, as an offering of gratitude 
 to Heaven." 
 
 " Ah ! that we could always compel ourselves to institute 
 a strict, impartial, and thorough investigation, into the 
 causes of our unhappiness. That we would make an en- 
 quiry which admits of no tampering, why we are not, as the 
 merciful Author of our being designed we should be, num- 
 bering our blessings and counting the favors which his gra- 
 cious hand bestows upon us ? Would not such an enquiry 
 produce the conviction, that we are not giving up the whole 
 heart to him, who has an undoubted right to rule over it 1 
 That we are making no better than a conditional covenant, 
 that, if he will grant us some particular request, we will 
 then serve him > or, turning to idols of perishable clay, 
 which in a single moment may be broken into fragments at 
 our feet." 
 
 " Let not those who make great sacrifices to duty, be led 
 on by the hope of immediate reward. When a limb is se- 
 vered from the human body, the first terrible stroke is not 
 all that has to be borne ; there are after seasons of pain and 
 suffering, that must, inevitably, be endured : and when an 
 idol of clay is broken in the dust, it requires time for hum- 
 bling reflection, before its votaries can be convinced of the 
 reality." 
 
 " Those who would devote themselves to the service of 
 their fellow-creatures, must be prepared for many an un- 
 grateful return for many a heart-rending repulse ; to 
 which, nothing but the consciousness of being about their 
 
TRUE AND BEAUTIFUL THOUGHTS. 169 
 
 Master's business, can reconcile the sensitive mind. Those 
 who would save a sufferer from death, must often present an 
 unwelcome draught to lips that loathe its bitterness ; and 
 those who would save a soul from sin, must bear with that 
 rebellious soul in all its struggles to return ; for it is not by 
 one tremendous effort that the bonds of earthly passion can 
 be broken. The work in which they are engaged, is a work of 
 patience,- not of triumph ; and there must be long seasons of 
 painful endurance, of watchfulness and prayer, which nothing 
 but a deep and devoted love to the heavenly Father, whose ser- 
 vice they are engaged in, can possibly enable them to sustain." 
 " Oh ! that women would be faithful to themselves ! It 
 makes the heart bleed to think that these high-souled beings, 
 who stand forth in the hour of severe and dreadful trial, 
 armed with a magnanimity that knows no fear ; with enthu- 
 siasm that has no sordid alloy ; with patience that would 
 support a martyr ; with generosity that a patriot might be 
 proud to borrow ; and feeling that might shine as a wreath 
 of beauty, over the temples of a dying saint ; it makes the 
 heart bleed to think, that the noble virtue of woman's cha- 
 racter should be veiled and obscured by the taint of weak 
 vanity, and lost in the base love of flirtation ; making her- 
 self the mockery of the multitude, instead of acting the sim- 
 ple and dignified part of the friend, the wife, or the mother ; 
 degrading her own nature, by flaunting in the public eye the 
 semblance of affection, while its sweet soul is wanting ; 
 polluting the altar of love by offering up the ashes of a 
 wasted heart. Oh ! woman, woman ! thousands have been 
 beguiled by this thy folly, but thou hast ever been the 
 deepest sufferer J-' 3 
 
. 
 
 170 BREAD IN THE WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 S13&9 II 
 
 BY KATE SUTHERLAND. 
 
 "Winter days and nights may bury beneath their pall of snow the sown corn ; but, 
 when the spring arrives, it will be found equally true, that ' there grows much bread 
 in the winter night.'" Miss BRKMER. 
 
 YES, it is true, spiritually as well as naturally, that there 
 grows much bread in the winter night. How better can I 
 illustrate this than by giving a passage or two from the pri- 
 vate history of a dear friend whose bright summer declined 
 into sober autumn ; whose autumn gave place to winter, 
 with its brief days, its long, long nights, its cold, concealing 
 snows, and whose dreary winter was at length succeeded by 
 the warm and cheering spring-time. There grew much 
 bread in her winter night. 
 
 Sunlight was upon the head and flowers along the path 
 of my young friend, Ella Linden. Her heart was too full 
 of its own joys to feel sympathy for others. There were so 
 many blossoms around her feet, that she could not realize 
 the fact that others were moving wearily along rough and 
 barren ways, uncheered by a glimpse of sunshine, and unre- 
 freshed by the grateful odor of a single flower. 
 
 " Come, Ella, 3 ' said I to her one day, " I want you to go 
 with me to see a poor woman in trouble. I am sure you will 
 feel sympathy for her, and that this sympathy will inspire 
 
BREAD IN THE WINTER NIGHT. 171 
 
 you with a wish to do for her some good office : and she 
 needs all the kindness that generous hearts may feel 
 prompted to bestow." 
 
 " Excuse me, Kate," she returned a Attle coldly. " I 
 have no taste for any thing of this kind. I never like to 
 meet people who are in trouble. If she is in want, I will 
 give you something for her." 
 
 " She stands in ns pressing need of charity. But she 
 wants kindness and sympathy from those who can feel for 
 her. Try and conquer this reluctance you have and go with 
 me. It will do both you and her good." 
 
 But Ella shook her head and replied : 
 
 " No, no, Kate. If you can do her any good, go and see 
 her ; but, as I said before, I have no taste for any thing of 
 this kind." 
 
 u No taste for wiping a tear from the eye of a weeping 
 sister?" 
 
 " If you please to say so." 
 
 " You may live to feel differently, Ella." 
 
 " Then I will act differently," was her lightly-spoken 
 reply. 
 
 Often did I thus seek to win her thoughts away from the 
 mere pleasures of life, and awaken in her mind sympathy for 
 others. But my words, like seed cast upon a sterile soil, 
 showed no signs of germination. For years her life was a 
 gay round of pleasure. The clouds gathered over her sky, 
 and storms broke upon her head. After the fierce war of 
 elements had subsided, and the atmosphere became calm 
 again, the* sun shone out, but not with his wonted fervor, 
 and his stay above the horizon was brief. It was winter 
 
172 BREAD IN THE WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 Briefer still became the days, and feebler the sunshine, until 
 over my young friend's heart was thrown a snowy pall, chill 
 mg it to the centre. 
 
 There were many of her old companions and friends, who 
 like her, had no taste for any thing but flowers and sun 
 shine ; and they turned coldly from her at the very time 
 when she most needed their warmest sympathies. 
 
 As in the summer light of joy, so in the wintry gloom of 
 affliction and adversity, Ella only thought of herself. I* 
 was in vain that I tried to lift her mind above its own 
 wretchedness, and interest it in the doing of something for 
 others. 
 
 " I have trouble enough of my own ; grief enough of my 
 own ! " she w r ould answer me. 
 
 " But try and forget these," I would sometimes urge her. 
 " Stretch forth your hand and lift some burthen from an op- 
 pressed heart, and your own will feel lighter. 53 
 
 I spoke without effect. With her head bowed upon her 
 bosom, Ella passed through her dreary winter. Spring at 
 length came. The hand of sorrow and adversity that lay 
 so heavily upon her heart, was lifted up ; its pulsations be- 
 came freer, and the life-blood flowed in warmer currents 
 through her veins. Then it was apparent that, although the 
 sown grain had been long buried beneath a pall of snow, yet 
 much bread had grown in the winter night many good af- 
 fections had taken root in her heart, and were now shooting 
 up their green blades in the warm sunshine. 
 
 But, to descend into plain prose. The death of Ella's 
 mother, and the loss of property by her father, changed all 
 from brightness into gloom. Following this, came the deser- 
 
BREAD IN THE WINTER NIGHT. 173 
 
 feiou of friend and lover. The pure waters of affection, so 
 freely poured out, instead of flowing in a bright and fertiliz- 
 ing current, were frozen as they fell. The winter was long 
 and dreary, and full of suffering. But there came, at length, 
 a change. 
 
 Mr. Linden was a man of great force of mind and business 
 acumen. From the wreck of his fortune he had been able to 
 save a small remnant. This formed the basis of new opera- 
 tions in trade, that were successful as far as they went. 
 Gradually there was an increase of business, and the promise 
 of a still greater increase in the future. But still, the in- 
 come was small, and the style in which his family lived ex- 
 ceedingly humble. Ella was the oldest of three children, 
 and the cares of the household, since her mother's death, de- 
 volved upon her. For a long time she had no affection for 
 the duties that were forced upon her, but entered into and 
 performed them under the pressure of necessity. 
 
 For two years they lived humbly and in strict retirement. 
 A period so long gave ample time for Ella's mind to acquire 
 a healthier tone of thinking and feeling. First, she had 
 been touched with a sense of her father's lonely condition 
 since her mother's death, and this led her to regard him 
 with a tenderer affection, and to- seek by every means in her 
 power to make their home cheerful and pleasant. She 
 thought of what his wants might be and endeavored to sup- 
 ply them. If he looked gloomy, she strove by act or word 
 *;o dispel the gloom. To her younger sisters she endeav- 
 Ted more and more fully every day, after her mind had 
 wakened to a true perception of her duties, to supply the 
 place of their mother. As she turned lovingly toward them, 
 
174 BREAD I> THE WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 they turned, like flowers to the sun, toward her, and re- 
 flected back, smilingly, her warm affection. 
 
 At the end of two years the coldness and gloom of winter 
 passed fully away, and not even a snow-wreath lay upon the 
 ground. Mr. Linden's business efforts had been crowned 
 with unexpected success, and he was able to remove his little 
 family into a larger and more comfortable dwelling. A few 
 weeks after this change had taken place, I called to see Ella, 
 with whom I had been in constant intercourse during her 
 dark days of affliction and trial, which had continued, until 
 the work which they had been designed to effect, was fully 
 completed. I found her cheerful ; I might almost say, 
 happy. But she was not idle, nor was she thinking of and 
 caring for herself. Her love for her father and sisters ex- 
 tinguished all selfish feelings, and ever prompted her to some 
 new effort for their comfort or happiness ; and her own 
 reward was sweet. 
 
 " You remember Florence Dale ?" I said to her after we 
 had been conversing some time. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! She was one of my most intimate friends. I 
 always liked Florence. But with the rest, when adversity 
 came, she grew cold toward me and seemed to forget that I 
 even lived." 
 
 " Poor Florence ! " I said. " Her days of sunshine have 
 departed. Her father died some time ago, and to-day I hear 
 that he died insolvent. Already his widow and children 
 have been compelled to remove from their luxurious home 
 and sink down into obscurity, and I fear privation, if not 
 want." 
 
 u Poor Florence ! " ejaculated Ella, tears filling her eyes. 
 
BREAD IN THE WINTER NIGHT. 175 
 
 " I will see her, for I know that I can speak words of com- 
 fort and hope. Now I can go to her. Have you seen 
 her?" 
 
 " No, not yet," I replied. 
 
 " Shall we not go together ? " 
 
 " Yes, if you like." 
 
 " Let us go now, Kate," said the sympathizing girl, 
 earnestly, while her face was lit up with a glow of unselfish 
 affection. a Few will follow her in her sad exile from old 
 associations and friends ; and there will be few, if any, to lift 
 up her bowed head or speak a word of comfort. I have 
 passed through it all, Kate, and I know what it is." 
 
 Half an hour afterward we stood at the door of a small 
 dwelling. There were few appearances of comfort about it, 
 and nothing of elegance. We were admitted by a small 
 colored girl, the only domestic as we afterward learned. 
 Ella asked for Florence, and sent up both her own name and 
 mine. In about ten minutes Florence appeared, and received 
 us with distant formality. There was something cold and 
 repulsive in her manner, as if she regarded us not as friends, 
 but as those who felt a real pleasure in witnessing her down- 
 fall, and had come to ascertain how really low it was. Ella 
 did not seem to perceive this, but grasped the young girl's 
 hand warmly, and said 
 
 " It's a pleasure for me to meet with you, Florence, and 
 to hold your hand in mine once more ; though I cannot but 
 wish that it came under different circumstances. It is less 
 than an hour since I heard of the affliction you have been 
 called to endure, and I have come to ask the privilege of 
 renewing the friendly relations that once existed between 
 
176 BREAD IN THE WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 us ; for I have been in the deep waters through which you are 
 now passing. I have suffered all that you are now suffering, 
 and can, therefore, enter into your heart and feel with you." 
 
 Florence looked into the face of Ella as she thus spoke, 
 her countenance still cold, and her manner repellant. 
 
 " Let us be friends, as of old, Florence. Old friends are 
 the best friends." 
 
 I saw the young girl's lips begin to quiver. Ella still held 
 her hand and looked earnestly into her face. A moment 
 passed, and then Florence sunk, sobbing, upon the breast of 
 Ella. 
 
 " Bread in the winter night," I could not help murmur- 
 ing, as I thought of Miss Bremer's beautiful allusion to the 
 growth of good affections in the winter of adversity and 
 affliction. 
 
 Long and earnest was the conversation that passed between 
 Ella and Florence, after the latter grew calm. I had tried to 
 speak many words of assurance and comfort to Ella in her 
 winter night, but now I felt how cold they were, and won- 
 dered not that they had glanced back from her heart like 
 sunbeams from an icy rock. She spoke from a deeply 
 realizing sense of what her friend was suffering ; / merely 
 uttered cold truths from my understanding. I never saw 
 the face of Ella so beautiful as while she strove, with a loving 
 spirit, to fill the mind of her young friend with hope in the 
 future, through the means of duties earnestly done in the 
 present. 
 
 " Come and see me again, won't you ?" Florence said, as 
 she stood, with tears in her eyes, almost clinging to the hand 
 of Ella. We were about departing. 
 
BREAD IN THE WINTER NIGHT. 177 
 
 u Yes, frequently ; and you must not fail to return my 
 visit. It will do us both good to meet often." 
 
 And they did meet often. Ella always saying something 
 to give strength to the mind of her young friend or to sus- 
 tain it with hope. The circumstances of Mrs. Dale were 
 much straitened and she had no income. In her own grief 
 at the death of her father and in her own sufferings, Florence 
 had forgotten that to her mother's sorrow was added a heavy 
 burden of care ; nor did she think of it until prompted by 
 Ella, who suggested whether it were not in her power to 
 lighten this burden. 
 
 " What can I do, Ella, to lighten it ? " she asked. 
 
 " Your mother has no income ? " 
 
 " None at all." 
 
 " And but a small remnant of money from your father's 
 estate ? " 
 
 " Only a few hundred dollars." 
 
 " Which will soon be exhausted. Now, is it not in your 
 power to lift from her heart a mountain weight by using a 
 talent that you possess, and thereby earning something 
 toward the support of the family ? I know of no one more 
 capable of giving music lessons than you are." 
 
 The face of Florence crimsoned over instantly. 
 
 " You cannot be in earnest ! " she said, in a tone of sur- 
 prise almost displeasure. 
 
 " Why not ? " Ella asked, mildly. " Is there any thing 
 \vrong in w T hat I suggest 1 " 
 
 " Me, become a music teacher ! " 
 
 " Deeply thankful should you be, my dear friend," Ella 
 eaid, with much seriousness, " that you have the ability to 
 
178 BREAD IN THE WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 render your mother most important aid in the support of a 
 large family. To be useful, Florence, is in reality the 
 highest honor to which any one can attain. Think of your 
 mother's position. Think of your younger brothers and 
 sisters, who need to be sustained and educated, and I am sure 
 love will prompt you to seek eagerly for some means by 
 which you can aid your mother, and help to support and 
 educate them. You need not seek far. The means are in 
 your hands." 
 
 For a time Florence could not bear to think of what Ella 
 proposed. But gradually her mind gained strength and her 
 perceptions became clearer. She not only saw, but felt that 
 her friend was right. To seek employment as a music 
 teacher, and to enter upon the duties she had voluntarily 
 taken upon herself was a great trial to Florence. But the 
 high end she had in view sustained her. Instead of feeling 
 humbled in her new vocation after she had entered upon it, 
 her mind was elevated and sustained by a calm, ever abiding 
 consciousness that she was doing what was right. The noble, 
 unselfish spirit of Florence, gave new life to her mother's 
 heart, and shot a ray of light across her sky, where all had 
 been darkness. 
 
 All this I noticed with pleasure. I saw how, in reverses 
 and afflictions, the mind is opened more interiorly, and filled 
 with better affections, and truer sympathies, and I understood 
 more clearly than I had ever done before, the meaning of 
 the sentiment " There grows much bread in the winter 
 night." 
 
 Time did its appropriate work for both Ella and Florence. 
 A few years have passed since their winter days and nights. 
 
A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT. 179 
 
 All that need be said of them is, that both are happier and 
 more useful than they were before, or could possibly have 
 been without affliction. There grew much bread in their 
 winter night. 
 
 CONCEIVE an arch wanting only the keystone, and still 
 supported by the centring without which it would fall into a 
 planless heap. It is now held up merely by the supports 
 beneath it. Add the keystone, and it will stand a thousand 
 years, although every prop should be shattered or fall in 
 dust. Now, it is idle to say that this change in the principle 
 of the structure was accomplished by the mere addition of one 
 more stone. The difference is not only that of increase, but 
 also that of almost magical transmutation. No stone before 
 helped to hold up its neighbor, and each having its own prop, 
 any one might have been removed without shaking the sup- 
 port of the others. Now, each is essential to the whole, 
 which is sustained not from without but by an inward law. 
 So it is with religion. It not only adds a new feeling and 
 sanction to those previously existing in the mind, but unites 
 them by a different kind of force, and one for the reception 
 of which all the invisible frame was prepared and planned, 
 though it may stand for years unfinished, upheld by outward 
 and temporary appliances, and manifesting its want of the 
 true bond and centre which it has not yet received. 
 
180 I AM NOT ALL ALONE. 
 
 2 AM Wit All Alfill. 
 
 BY MRS. MARY ARTHUR. 
 
 I AM not all alone 
 
 Though in the halls where mirth and music meet 
 No love-lit eye hails my returning feet ; 
 
 Nor, when the wine-cup gleams 'midst mirth and song, 
 Doth gentle voice from out the festal throng 
 Welcome the weary one. 
 
 I am not all alone 
 
 Though, when in the glad homes of men I stray, 
 All brows are veiled and faces turned away ; 
 Although, for me, no child hath fond caress, 
 And woman's voice is cold and passionless, 
 And mute affection's tone. 
 
 For Thou art with me still ; 
 Thy wisdom is a shield to guard my way, 
 Thy love a fire by night, a cloud by day . 
 Where can I wander ? in what desert place, 
 That with Thy mercy and Thy loving grace, 
 Thou dost not fill ? 
 
 Be near Thy fainting Son ! 
 Redeemer ! Father ! cheer me with Thy voice, 
 Make Thou my spirit in Thy love rejoice ; 
 Nearest, still nearest in temptation's hour, 
 Teach me to feel that, 'neath Thy guiding power, 
 
 I cannot be alone 
 WASEHSOTON, >. C 
 
ROCK ISLAND. 181 
 
 
 BY A. H. MAX FIELD. 
 
 No place on the Mississippi presents so much picturesque 
 scenery and natural beauty as Rock Island. This and the 
 immediate vicinity, has been, for above a century, the para- 
 dise and pleasure-ground of the aborigines. Black Hawk, 
 in his memoirs, describes it in the glowing language of a 
 poet : 
 
 " A good spirit had care of this island, who lived in a 
 cave immediately under the place where the fort now stands, 
 and has often been seen by our people. He was white, with 
 wings like a swan, but ten times larger. We were particu- 
 lar not to make ,much noise in that part of the island for 
 fear oT disturbing him. But the noise of the fort has driven 
 him away, and no doubt a bad spirit has taken his place ! " 
 
 The United States' garrison on the lower point, was 
 erected soon after the close of the late war with England ; 
 and the post has since been the scene of many treaties and 
 other official acts by officers and agents of the general gov- 
 ernment. 
 
 I was at this place on the eveitepg of the 2d Sept. 1838, 
 when an immense multitude of the natives had assembled to 
 receive payment for their lands. The evening was such as 
 none but poets can fully appreciate. It was clear, calm, se 
 
182 ROCK ISLAND. 
 
 rene, and solemn ; illuminated by the full moon ! The na- 
 tives seemed to rejoice in their sphere of being, though their 
 existence had been harassed much by civilized oppression. 
 They formed themselves into a large ring, in the middle of 
 which were several females seated on the ground. The 
 males, forming a circle, danced round-and-round to a most 
 melodious air, accompanied by motions and gestures peculiar 
 to themselves. The squaws, in the centre, kept time by 
 beating on a kind of drum and joining in the chorus with 
 their treble voices. Others, not far remote, were seen bu- 
 sily weaving rush carpets by moonlight. 
 
 The serene beauty of the night, the solemnity of the 
 music, and the contemplation of the beings around me, con- 
 spired to make the scene strikingly impressive. The lan- 
 guage of their song, which for the most part seemed extem- 
 pore, was not reduced to exact numbers like English lyric 
 verse, and yet was much more regular in its movement than 
 Ossian. The substance of the words seemed to evince a de- 
 sign strongly to impress a few great truths, rather than any 
 connected theory of ethics or philosophy. This will account 
 for the seeming tautology in the translation, which may at 
 first seem barren of diversity. By aid of a French inter- 
 preter, I took notes on the spot, and have, in the following 
 lines, attempted to give the substance of the words, in a 
 measure and manner as nearly as possible, corresponding to 
 the simplicity of the original air. 
 
ROCK ISLAND. 183 
 
 INDIAN PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 WE all are happy, free and blest ; 
 We're happy in our sphere to rest : 
 No future being need we fear, 
 For all are happy in their sphere. 
 
 Unnumbered grades of being move 
 Around, within, below, above ; 
 Nature, their author and their friend, 
 
 Does equal bliss to each extend ! 
 
 / 
 
 Almighty nature, " fixed as fate," 
 Has made all beings for their state, 
 They all are blessed, content and free, 
 Both happy they, and happy we ! 
 
 The same vast wisdom is displayed 
 In forms whose world's a grassy blade 
 Then sure in reason's eye they are 
 Like objects of -wise nature's care ! 
 
 We are but bubbles on the sea 
 Of matter, and must shortly be 
 Dissolved, and to that sea again 
 Return, like all the insect train ! 
 
 Our particles may live again, 
 Re-organized in nature's chain ; 
 But future being none need fear, 
 For each is happy in its sphere ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 They all are blessed, content and free j 
 Both happy they, and happy we ! 
 
184 SALLY LYON'S VISIT TO THE ALE-HOUSE. 
 
 FIRST AND LAST VISIT TO THE ALE-HOUSE * 
 
 BY T . S. ARTHUR. 
 
 WHEN Sally Lester gave her hand in marriage to Ralph 
 Lyon, she was a delicate, timid girl of eighteen, who had 
 passed the spring-time of life happily beneath her father's 
 roof. To her, care, anxiety and trouble were yet strangers. 
 The first few years of her married life passed happily for 
 Ralph was one of the kindest of husbands, and suffered his 
 wife to lean upon him so steadily, that the native strength 
 of her own character remained undeveloped. 
 
 Ralph Lyon was an industrious mechanic, who always had 
 steady work and good wages. Still, he did not seem to get 
 ahead as some others did, notwithstanding Sally was a fru- 
 gal wife, and did all her own work, instead of putting him to 
 the expense of help in the family. Of course, this being the 
 case, it was evident that there was a leak somewhere, but 
 where it was neither Ralph nor his wife could tell. 
 
 " Thomas Jones has bought the piece of ground next 
 to his cottage," said Ralph one day to Sally, "and says 
 that next year he hopes to be able to put up a small frame- 
 
 * This story is founded upon a brief narrative which met the author's eye in an En 
 iish newspajpe-: 
 
SALLY LYOVS VISIT TO THE ALE-HOUSE. 185 
 
 house, big enough for them to live in. He paid sixty dollars 
 for the lot, arid it is at least a quarter of an acre. He is 
 going to put it all in garden this spring, and says he will 
 raise enough to give him potatoes, and other vegetables for a 
 year to come. It puzzles me to know how he saves money. 
 He doesn't get any better wages than I do, and his family is 
 quite as large." 
 
 " I am sure," returned Sally, who felt that there was 
 something like a reflection upon her in what her husband 
 said, " that Nancy Jones doesn't spend her husband's earn- 
 ings more frugally than I do mine. Every week she has a 
 woman to help her wash, and I do it all myself." 
 
 " I am sure it is n't your fault at least I don't think it 
 is," replied Ralph ; " but something is wrong somewhere. 
 I don't spend any thing at all, except for a glass or two 
 every day, and a little tobacco ; and this, of course, couldn't 
 make the difference." 
 
 Sally said nothing. A few glasses a-day and tobacco, she 
 knew, must cost something, though, like her husband, she 
 did not believe it would make the difference of buying a 
 quarter of an acre of ground, and building a snug cottage in 
 the course of a few years. 
 
 Let us see how this is. Perhaps we can find out the leak 
 that wasted the substance of Ralph Lyon. He never drank 
 less than three glasses a-day and sometimes four ; and his 
 tobacco cost, for smoking and chewing, just twelve and a 
 half cents a week. Now, how much would all this amount to 7 
 Why, to just sixty-five dollars a year, provided but three 
 glasses a-day were taken, and nothing was spent in treating 
 a friend But the limit was not always observed, and the 
 
188 
 
 fact that she loved Ralph tenderly, notwithstanding his 
 errors. When he came home in liquor, she did not chide 
 him, nor did she say any thing to him about it when he was 
 sober; for then he appeared so ashamed and cut down, 
 that she could not find it in her heart to utter a single 
 word. 
 
 One day she was alarmed by a message from Ralph that 
 he had been arrested, while at his work, for. debt, by his 
 landlord, who was going to throw him in jail. They now 
 owed him over twenty dollars. The idea of her husband 
 being thrown into a jail was terrible to poor Mrs. Lyon. 
 She asked a kind neighbor to take care of her children for 
 her, and then putting on her bocnet, she almost flew to the 
 magistrate's office. There was Ralph, with an officer by his 
 side ready to remove him to prison. 
 
 " You shan't take my husband to jail," she said, wildly, 
 when she saw the real aspect of things, clinging fast hold of 
 Ralph. " Nobody shall take him to jail." 
 
 " I am sorry, my good woman," said the magistrate, " to 
 do so, but it can't be helped. The debt must be paid, or 
 your husband will have to go to jail. I have no discretion 
 in the matter. Can you find means to pay the debt ? If 
 not, perhaps you had better go and see your landlord ; you 
 may prevail on him to wait a little longer for his money, and 
 not send your husband to jail." 
 
 " Yes, Sally, do go and see him," said Ralph ; " I am 
 sure he will relent when he sees you." 
 
 Mrs. Lyon let go the arm of her husband, and, darting 
 from the office, ran at full speed to the house of their land- 
 lord. 
 
SALLY LYON'S VISIT TC THE ALE-HOUSE. 189 
 
 " Oh, sir ! " she exclaimed, " you cannot, you will not 
 send my husband to jail." 
 
 " I both can and will," was the gruff reply. " A man 
 who drinks up his earnings as he does, and then, when quar- 
 ter-day comes, can't pay his rent, deserves to go to jail." 
 
 " But, sir, consider " 
 
 " Don't talk to me, woman ! If you have the money for 
 the rent, I will take it, and let your husband go free ; if not, 
 the quicker you leave here the better." 
 
 It was vain, she saw to strive with the hard-hearted man, 
 whose face was like iron. Hurriedly leaving his house, she 
 hastened back to the office, but her husband was not there. 
 In her absence he had been removed to prison. When Mrs. 
 Lyon fully understood this, she made no remark, but turned 
 from the magistrate and walked home with a firm step. 
 The weakness of the woman was giving way to the quicken- 
 ing energies of the wife, whose husband was in prison, and 
 could not be released except by her efforts. On entering 
 her house, she went to her drawers, and took therefrom a 
 silk dress, but little worn, a mother's present when she was 
 married ; a good shawl, that she had bought from her own 
 earnings when a happy maiden ; a few articles of jewelry, 
 that had not been worn for years, most of them presents 
 from Ralph before they had stood at the bridal altar, and 
 sundry other things, that could best be dispensed with. 
 These she took to a pawnbroker's, and obtained an advance 
 of fifteen dollars. She had two dollars in the house, which 
 made seventeen ; the balance of the required sum she bor- 
 rowed from two or three of her neighbors, and then hurried 
 off to obtain her husband's release. 
 
188 SALLY LYON'S VISIT TO THE ALE-HOUSE. 
 
 fact that she loved Ralph tenderly, notwithstanding his 
 errors. When he came home in liquor, she did not chide 
 him, nor did she say any thing to him ahout it when he was 
 sober; for then he appeared so ashamed and cut down, 
 that she could not find it in her heart to utter a single 
 word. 
 
 One day she was alarmed by a message from Ralph that 
 he had been arrested, while at his work, for. debt, by his 
 landlord, who was going to throw him in jail. They now 
 owed him over twenty dollars. The idea of her husband 
 being thrown into a jail was terrible to poor Mrs. Lyon. 
 She asked a kind neighbor to take care of her children for 
 her, and then putting on her bonnet, she almost flew to the 
 magistrate's office. There was Ralph, with an officer by his 
 side ready to remove him to prison. 
 
 " You shan't take my husband to jail," she said, wildly, 
 when she saw the real aspect of things, clinging fast hold of 
 Ralph. " Nobody shall take him to jail." 
 
 " I am sorry, my good woman," said the magistrate, " to 
 do so, but it can't be helped. The debt must be paid, or 
 your husband will have to go to jail. I have no, discretion 
 in the matter. Can you find means to pay the debt 1 If 
 not, perhaps you had better go and see your landlord ; you 
 may prevail on him to wait a little longer for his money, and 
 not send your husband to jail." 
 
 " Yes, Sally, do go and see him," said Ralph ; " I am 
 sure he will relent when he sees you." 
 
 Mrs. Lyon let go the arm of her husband, and, darting 
 from the office, ran at full speed to the house of their land- 
 lord. 
 
SALLY LYON'S VISIT TC THE ALE-HOUSE. 189 
 
 " Oh 5 sir ! " she exclaimed, " you cannot, you will not 
 send my husband to jail." 
 
 " I both can and will," was the gruff reply. " A man 
 who drinks up his earnings as he does, and then, when quar- 
 ter-day comes, can't pay his rent, deserves to go to jail." 
 
 " But, sir, consider " 
 
 " Don't talk to me, woman ! If you have the money for 
 the rent, I will take it, and let your husband go free ; if not, 
 the quicker you leave here the better." 
 
 It was vain, she saw to strive with the hard-hearted man, 
 whose face was like iron. Hurriedly leaving his house, she 
 hastened back to the office, but her husband was not there. 
 In her absence he had been removed to prison. When Mrs. 
 Lyon fully understood this, she made no remark, but turned 
 from the magistrate and walked home with a firm step. 
 The weakness of the woman was giving way to the quicken- 
 ing energies of the wife, whose husband was in prison, and 
 could not be released except by her efforts. On entering 
 her house, she went to her drawers, and took therefrom a 
 silk dress, but little worn, a mother's present when she was 
 married ; a good shawl, that she had bought from her own 
 earnings when a happy maiden ; a few articles of jewelry, 
 that had not been worn for years, most of them presents 
 from Ralph before they had stood at the bridal altar, and 
 sundry other things, that could best be dispensed with. 
 These she took to a pawnbroker's, and obtained an advance 
 of fifteen dollars. She had two dollars in the house, which 
 made seventeen ; the balance of the required sum she bor- 
 rowed from two or three of her neighbors, and then hurried 
 off to obtain her husband's release. 
 
190 
 
 For a time, the rigid proceedings of the landlord proved 
 a useful lesson to Ralph Lyon. He worked more steadily, 
 and was rather more careful of his earnings. But this did 
 not last a great while. Appetite, long indulged, was strong ; 
 and he soon returned to his old habits. 
 
 The shock the imprisonment of her husband produced, 
 awoke Mrs. Lyon to the necessity of doing something to in- 
 crease their income. All that he brought home each week 
 was scarcely sufficient to buy food ; and it was clear that 
 there would be nothing with which to pay rent when next 
 quarter-day came round, unless it should be the product of 
 her own exertions. Plain sewing was obtained by Mrs. 
 Lyon, and an additional labor of three or four hours in the 
 twenty -four added to her already over-tasked body. Instead 
 of feeling rebuked at this, the besotted husband only per- 
 ceived in it a license for him to use his own earnings more 
 freely, thus making his poor wife's condition really worse 
 than it was before. 
 
 Things, instead of getting better, grew worse, year after 
 year. The rent Mrs. Lyon managed always to pay ; for 
 the fear of seeing her husband carried off to jail was ever 
 before her eyes, stimulating her to constant exertion ; but 
 down, down, down they went steadily and surely, and the 
 light of hope faded daily, and grew dimmer and dimmer be- 
 fore the eyes of the much enduring wife and mother. Amid 
 all, her patience was wonderful. She never spoke angrily to 
 Ralph, but strove, rather, always to appear cheerful before 
 him. If he was disposed to talk, she would talk with him, 
 and humor his mood of mind ; if he was gloomy and silent, 
 she would intrude nothing upon him calculated to fret h's 
 
SALLY LYON S VISIT TO THE ALE-HOUSE. 191 
 
 temper ; if he complained, she tried to sooth him. But it 
 availed nothing. The man was in a charmed circle, and 
 every impulse tended to throw him into the centre where 
 ruin awaited him. 
 
 At last even the few dollars she had received every week 
 from her husband's earnings, ceased to come into her hands. 
 The wretched man worked little over half his time, and 
 drank up all that he made. Even the amount of food that 
 the entire product of Mrs. Lyon's labor would procure, 
 was barely sufficient to satisfy the hunger of her family. 
 The clothes of her children soon began to hang in tatters 
 about them ; her own garments were faded, worn and 
 patched ; and every thing about the house that had not been 
 sold to pay rent, was in a dilapidated condition. Still, there 
 had been no unkind word, not even a remonstrance from the 
 much-enduring wife. 
 
 Matters at last reached a climax. Poor Mrs. Lyon had 
 not been able to get any thing to do for a week, and all sup- 
 plies of food, except a little meal, were exhausted. An anx 
 ious day had closed, and at night-fall the mother made some 
 hasty -pudding for the children, which was eaten with a little 
 milk. This consumed her entire store. She had four chil- 
 dren, the two oldest she put to bed, but kept the two young- 
 est, one five years old, and the other three, up with her. 
 She moved about with a firmer step than usual, and her lips 
 were tightly closed, as if she had made up her mind to do 
 something from which, under ordinary circumstances, she 
 would have shrunk. 
 
 After the older children had been put to bed, she made 
 the two younger ones draw near to the hearth, upon which a 
 
192 
 
 few brands were burning, and warm themselves as well as 
 the feeble heat emitted by the almost exhausted fire would 
 permit. Then she wrapped each around with a piece of an 
 old shawl, and after putting on her bonnet, took them by the 
 hands and left the house. It was a chilly night in winter. 
 The wind swept coldly along the streets, piercing through 
 the thin garments of the desperate mother, who was leading 
 forth her tender little ones on some strange, unnatural 
 errand. But she shrunk not in the blast, but walked rapidly 
 along, almost dragging the children after her. At length 
 she stopped before the window of an ale-house, a-nd standing 
 on tip-toe, looked over the red curtain that shaded half the 
 window, and concealed the inmates from the view of passers 
 by. Within she saw her husband sitting comfortably by a 
 table, a glass by his side, and a pipe in his mouth. Half a 
 dozen pot-companions were sitting around, and all seemed 
 enjoying themselves well. 
 
 Mrs. Lyon remained without only a few moments ; then 
 taking hold of the door she walked firmly in, and without 
 appearing to notice her husband, went up to the bar and 
 called for three glasses of brandy. After doing this, she 
 seated herself at a table near by her husband. Great, of 
 course, was the surprise of Lyon at this apparition. He 
 jumped from his chair and stood before his wife, just as she 
 had taken her seat at the table, saying, in an under tone, as 
 he did so 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, Sally ! what brings you here ? " 
 " It is very lonesome at home, Ralph," she replied, in a 
 calm but sad voice. " Our wood is all gone, and it is cold 
 there. I am your wife, and there is no company for me like 
 
SALLY LYON's VISIT TO THE ALE-HOUSE. 193 
 
 yours. I will go anywhere to be with you. I am willing to 
 come even here. 35 
 
 " But, Sally, to think of your coming to such a place as 
 this." 
 
 "If it is pleasant to you, it shall be so to me. Any 
 where that my husband goes, surely I can go. God hath 
 joined us together as one, and nothing should divide us." 
 
 By this time the three glasses of brandy that Mrs. Lyon 
 had called for were placed before her on the table. 
 
 " Bring another glass," said Mrs. Lyon calmly, " my 
 husband will drink with us." 
 
 " Sally, are you mad?" ejaculated Ralph. 
 
 u Mad, to go with my husband? Why should you say 
 that, Ralph ? Drink, children," she added, turning to her 
 two little ones, and placing a glass of unadulterated brandy 
 before them. " It will do you good." As Sally said this, 
 she lifted her own glass to her lips. 
 
 " Surely, you are not going to drink that ?" said Ralph. 
 
 " Why not ? You drink to forget sorrow ; and if brandy 
 have that effect, I am sure no living creature needs it more 
 than I do. Besides, I have eaten nothing to-day, and need 
 something to strengthen me." 
 
 Saying this, she sipped the burning liquid, and smacking 
 her lips, looked up into her husband's face and smiled. 
 
 "It warms to the v very heart, Ralph!" she said. "I 
 feel better already." Then turning to the children, whose 
 glasses remained untouched before them, she said to the 
 astonished little ones, 
 
 " Drink, my children ! It is very good." 
 
 " Woman ! are you mad ? My children shall not touch 
 
194 SALLY LYON ? S VISIT TO THE ALE HOUSE. 
 
 it;" and he lifted the glasses from the table and Landed 
 them to one of the company that had crowded around to wit- 
 ness this strange scene. 
 
 " Why not ? " said his wife, in the calm tone wit A which 
 she had at first spoken. " If it is good for you., h is good 
 for your wife and children. It will put these dear ones to 
 sleep, and they will forget that they are cold and hungry. 
 To you it is fire and food and bed and clothing all these we 
 need, and you will surely not withhold them from us." 
 
 " By this time Ralph was less under the influence of liquor 
 than he had been for weeks, although he had drank as freely 
 as ever through the day. Taking hold of his wife's arm, he 
 said, in a kind voice, for he began to think that her mmd 
 was really wandering 
 
 " Come, Sally, let us go home." 
 
 " Why should we go, Ralph 1 " she replied, keeping her 
 seat. " There is no fire at home, but it is warm and com- 
 fortable here. There is no food there, but here is plenty, to 
 eat and to drink. I don't wonder that you liked this plaee 
 better than home, and I am sure I would rather stay here." 
 
 The drunken husband was confounded. He .knew not 
 what to do or to say. TliL words of his wife smote him to 
 the heart ; for she uttered a stunning rebuke that could not 
 be gainsaid. He felt a choking sensation, and his trembling 
 knees bore heavily against each other. 
 
 " Sally," he said, after a pause, in an altered and very 
 earnest tone, " I know it is more comfortable here than it is 
 at home, but I am going home, and I intend staying there. 
 Won't you go with me, and try to make it as comfortable as 
 it used to be? The change is all my fault, I know ; but it 
 
195 
 
 shall be my fault no longer. Here, once iOid forever, I 
 solemnly pledge myself before God never again to drink the 
 poison that has made me more t.ian half a brute, and beg- 
 gared my poor family. Come, Sally ! Let us hurry away 
 from here ; the very air oppresses me. Come, in Heaven's 
 name ! come ! " 
 
 Quickly, as if an electric shock had startled her, did Mrs. 
 Lyon spring from her seat, as her husband uttered the last 
 word, and lay hold of his arm with an eager grasp. 
 
 " The Lord in Heaven be praised!" she said, solemnly, 
 " for it is his work. Yes, come ! Let us go quickly. 
 There will again be light, and fire and food in our dwelling. 
 Our last days may yet be our best days." 
 
 Lifting each a child from the floor, the husband and wife 
 left that den of misery with as hasty steps as Christian's 
 when he fled from the City of Destruction. 
 
 The hopeful declaration of Mrs. Lyon proved indeed true. 
 There was soon light, and fire, and food again in that cheer- 
 less dwelling ; and the last days of Ralph and his family 
 have proved to be their best days. He has never since 
 tasted the tempting cup, jand finds that it is a very easy 
 matter to save one or two dollars a week, and yet live very 
 comfortably. 
 
 The scene in the ale-house is never alluded to by either 
 the husband or wife. They take no pleasure in looking 
 back preferring, rather, to look forward with hope. When 
 it is thought of by either, it is something as a man who has 
 endured a painful operation to save his life, thinks of the 
 intense sufferings he then endured. 
 
196 HERUDIAS. 
 
 
 DAYLIGHT had almost faded from the fast darkening 
 clouds, which lay, heaving their fantastic bosoms, along the 
 western verge of the horizon. The hills of Bashan no longer 
 stretched their clear line of blue across the sky, but mingled 
 their dim summits with the nebulous vapors floating in the 
 humid atmosphere. The noise of business and mirth was 
 fast dying from the streets of Sepphoris, and the shepherds 
 had driven their flocks for shelter to the neighboring valleys. 
 Many a fireside was lightened by the smile of gladness ; and 
 many a little innocent was clasped to the bosom of its father, 
 returned from the toil of the day, while the mother's eyes 
 glistened with tears of affections as she resigned the dear 
 pledge of connubial joy to the paternal embraces. 
 
 But there was one heart that thrilled not to the sweet 
 associations of domestic bliss one eye that melted not while 
 gazing upon the pledges of mutual love. 
 
 In a splendid chamber, hung with all the costly magnifi- 
 cence of the East, sat a female of the most striking beauty. 
 She wore a tunic, or inner garment, made of the finest linen, 
 fringed with golden flowers and needlework of various colors ; 
 this was confined to the waist by a girdle, embroidered with 
 gold and silver, and precious stones of every hue, and 
 clasped by a diamond which a monarch would have been 
 proud to have worn ; over these was loosely thrown a gor- 
 geous mantle of purple velvet, which, falling in luxuriant 
 folds trailed on a carpet of the same splendid manufacture. 
 

 
 HERODIAS. 197 
 
 Azure sandals of curious workmanship bound her feet, and 
 her head was encircled with a diadem or fillet of gold. She 
 had been seated with her heni leaning on her hand since the 
 eleventh hour, absorbed in deep, and seemingly unpleasant 
 reflection, for there was a stern expression on her beautiful 
 brow, and a tear could indistinctly be seen gathering in her 
 dark and piercing eye. This was Herodias, the wife of 
 Herod Antipas. 
 
 News had been received an hour before that Herod 
 Agrippa, her brother, was appointed governor of Judea, 
 Samaria, and Idumea with the title of King, by Caligula, 
 the Roman Emperor ; and this wicked, but extraordinary 
 woman, was resolving to compass sea and land, but that her 
 husband should also have the title of King, instead of 
 Tetrach, in his province of Galilee. Her pride and jealousy 
 were aroused to their wildest pitch, by the thought that the 
 brother whom she had saved from imprisonment and almost 
 starvation, should thus be exalted above her. 
 
 While seated as we have described her, Herod entered her 
 apartment and placing himself by her side, took her hand, 
 glittering with jewels, and said, 
 
 " How now, Herodias ? melancholy ? You are not wont 
 to be in this mood ! " 
 
 " I am not," said she " but to think that beggarly 
 spendthrift Agrippa, to whom we extended the hand of cha- 
 rity such a brief space since, should now be clad in splendor 
 far surpassing ours, is more than I can bear without anger." 
 
 " Be not disturbed," returned the wily Herod, (called by 
 our blessed Lord "that fox,") "fortune has favored him and 
 we will only hav; to wait another turn of the wheel, when we 
 
198 HERODIAS. 
 
 may perchance attain a higher elevation than we now hold, or 
 he be dashed in pieces by a fall from his proud pre-eminence. 3 ' 
 
 " Fortune ! " said Herodias, with a curl of the lip, " I be- 
 lieve in i o fortune but our own exertions ; and I cannot see 
 why you might not obtain the title, and the privileges too, 
 of a King, as well as that insinuating brother of mine." 
 
 " Caligula is not so ready to emit sparks from his own 
 glory," replied Herod ; " he would have been very far from 
 bestowing such peculiar honors on Agrippa, had he not been 
 a friend of his youth, and incurred censure and imprisonment 
 from Tiberius on his account, from which Caligula released 
 him on the death of the Emperor. What mad scheme of 
 ambition has taken possession of your thoughts ? Let us 
 wait for some change, some offered step to a higher destiny, 
 before we trifle with our present elevation." 
 
 " To wait for a more favorable change is folly. Go to 
 Rome Caligula has just entered upon the duties of Empe- 
 ror He is yet at peace with himself and. those around him 
 He is attached to Agrippa, and the husband of his sister 
 has every thing to hope. Gain but the title of King, and 
 Agrippa shall not wear his honors without a rival." 
 
 The better genius of Herod Antipas forsook him, and he 
 followed the promptings of his ambitious and envious wife. 
 The next day found him on his way to Csesarea, to embark 
 for Rome. 
 
 Herod Agrippa was not long in receiving information, of 
 the movement of his relation in Galilee. He had antici- 
 pated the jealousy of his sister, but believed Antipas was too 
 much on his guard to be entrapped to his own ruin. When 
 it was told him that the Tetrarch of Galilee was on his way 
 
HERODIAS. 199 
 
 to Rome to solicit the title of King, a dark cloud fell upon 
 his brow for a moment it was quickly succeeded by a smile 
 of contempt and triumph. He called a trusty messenger 
 and after communicating with him for some time in a hur- 
 ried manner, retired to his own chamber. Half an hour 
 afterwards a person left Jerusalem, bound, speedily, for the 
 capital of the Caesars. 
 
 Some weeks after our story commenced, a messenger from 
 Agrippa w r as admitted to the ear of Caligula ; and it was 
 observed by those about him that, after dismissing him, his 
 countenance wore an expression of a sterner aspect. 
 
 On the next day, Herod arrived in Rome, and after going 
 through the usual ceremonies required by the custom of the 
 times, obtained a private audience with the Emperor. After 
 a very cold greeting, Caligula haughtily demanded why he 
 had left the cares of government to repair to Rome without 
 giving him an intimation 1 of the cause of his visit. 
 
 Herod perceived at once that the Emperor had imbibed a 
 prejudice against him. But he proceeded, in the most cau- 
 tious manner, to lay before him the cause of his journey. 
 Caligula heard him patiently to the end, and then answered 
 sneeringly : 
 
 " We in our supreme wisdom thought fit to make Judea a 
 Kingdom, and in our supreme wisdom thought fit to let Gal- 
 ilee remain a Tetrarchy have you any thing to urge 
 against our imperial will ? " 
 
 " Nothing," said the confused Herod. 
 
 " I have heard strange things regarding your loyalty, my 
 would-be King," said the emperor, a dark frown lowering 
 upon his brow. 
 
200 HERODIAS. 
 
 fcfc Did you never intrigue with Sejanus ? Have you not 
 secret intelligence with the Parthians ? Are there not large 
 stores of arms in your armories to be ready in case of a 
 revolt ? Answer me ! " thundered forth the furious Caligula. 
 
 For a moment the pride of Herod rose above his discre- 
 tion, but, his cunning coming to his aid, he repelled the too 
 true charges as well as his confusion would permit him, but 
 so illy, that the Emperor was convinced that his disaffection 
 was too true. 
 
 We will now return with the reader to Sepphoris, the 
 Capital of Galilee ; where, in the same magnificent apart- 
 ment that we before described, we will find Herodias seated 
 in the same motionless posture of intense anxiety. 
 
 Many weeks had elapsed since her husband's departure 
 for Rome, on his errand of ambition, and as yet no messen- 
 ger had arrived to tell of his success. A thousand uneasy 
 thoughts chased each other through her mind, and gloomy 
 forebodings fell like mildew upon her heart. She half re- 
 pented of her cruelty to the good John the Baptist, who had 
 lifted his voice against Herod for marrying his brother's 
 wife now her mind wandered to the repudiated wife of her 
 husband, and now returned to the hour when she had called 
 Philip her own with all the joy of her young heart's affec- 
 tions ; and she bowed her head like a guilty thing who 
 desires to flee the stings of an awakened conscience. But 
 these thoughts all vanished before that of being called Qaeen 
 of Galilee. 
 
 The sound of a warlike trumpet caught her ear, echoed 
 from the distant mountains, and her heart leaped within her 
 she listened and the Vast swelled again melodiously o 
 
HERODIAS. 201 
 
 the still air of evening, and, on lifting her eyes she beheld 
 the Imperial Eagle waving on the Royal Standard. 
 
 A body of Roman Soldiers escorted Herod into the city ; 
 but Herodias could not determine whether they were for a 
 guard, or to do honor to her husband. 
 
 " Shall I hail you as King of Galilee, " said Herodias in 
 an anxious and hurried tone as he entered her chamber. 
 
 " That will inform you of my title," said he, dashing a 
 packet on the table before her ; " your folly has been my 
 ruin!' 5 
 
 Hastily breaking the seal which was impressed with the 
 King's signet, she found, to her horror, that it set forth, that 
 as Herod Antipas had been found guilty of secretly plotting 
 against the government of his Imperial master, he was sen- 
 tenced to depart into exile, never to return to his native 
 country. It stipulated that, as Herodias was the sister of 
 Agrippa, she might remain, and would be reinstated into all 
 her former privileges and honors. 
 
 She dashed the letter from her, and giving way to her 
 woman weakness, said, while the tears fell down upon her 
 neck and bosom. 
 
 " Herod's banishment shall be lightened by the kindness 
 of Herodias. If Gaul is your place of exile, Gaul shall be 
 my home. I would have shared in your highest honors, and 
 I will partake of your lowest degradation." 
 
 Herod Antipas, accompanied by Herodias, departed to 
 waste his inglorious life in the same distant province in 
 which his brother Archelaus had been banished some years 
 previous by the Emperor Augustus, arid the Tetrarchy of 
 of Gal' lee was united to the Kingdom of Judea. 
 
202 THE WATCHER. 
 
 S 
 
 BY MRS. EMELINE S. SMITH 
 
 SHE sits alone within the home where gladness 
 Once made the light of every passing day ; 
 
 Now o'er that home the heavy cloud of sadness 
 Falls darker as each moment glides away. 
 
 X 
 
 She sits alone her infant calmly sleepeth, 
 And dreams sweet dreams within its cradle-bed, 
 
 And smiles, unconscious that its mother weepeth 
 The bitterest tears that mortal eyes can shed. 
 
 The drops that fall when our beloved ones perish 
 Are but the summer-showers of the heart, 
 
 For calm, pure thoughts, and Hopes we fondly cherish 
 May still bloom on when these light storms depart. 
 
 But when we weep for one beloved, who strayeth 
 Far from the path of good, to sin and wo, 
 
 Our grief is like the winter storm that layeth 
 All blooming flowers, all buds of promise low. 
 
 Such tears as these such wintry drops of sorrow, 
 Have dimed the Watcher's eyes for many a night ; 
 
 And still she weeps but weeping strives to borrow 
 Some hope to cheer her till the morning light. 
 
THE WATCHER. 203 
 
 *' This cannot last ; his heart, once proudly leaping 
 
 To every lofty thought and noble aim, 
 Will break the fatal spells that now are keeping 
 
 The light of honor from his once-fair name. 
 
 " This cannot last ! our child's sweet smiles will lure him 
 Back to his home j and there affection's power 
 
 Shall weave new wiles and witcheries to secure him, 
 A willing captive, to a blissful bower. 
 
 ' Ah ! yes, I feel the shadows now before us 
 Will vanish soon, like mist from morning sun ; 
 
 And the sweet Heaven of Love that bendeth o'er us 
 Be fair as when our wedded life begun." 
 
 Such thoughts the Watcher to her spirit foldeth, 
 To light the gloomy hours that slowly pass, 
 
 While still afar her erring husband holdeth 
 His midnight revels o'er the tempting glass. 
 
 Alas, she knows not, in her guileless dreaming, 
 Half the wild witchery of the maddening bowl j 
 
 Nor thinks how soon its flame may quench the beaming 1 
 Of virtue's purer radiance in the soul. 
 
 The night wears on, and happy hearts are sleeping ; 
 
 But sorrow's children wake and suffer still, 
 While the pure stars their patient watch are keeping 
 
 Alike o'er joy and grief, o'er good and ill. 
 
 The night wears on the lamps of Heaven are paling 
 Before the radiance of the coming morn 
 
 The weary Watcher's heart and hope are failing, 
 As darker fears with:! her soul are born. 
 
204 THE WATCHER. 
 
 Well may she fear ! for as the day advances, 
 And gilds her casement with a feeble ray, 
 
 A sight of horror meets her tearful glances, 
 A sight that drives all lingering hope away. 
 
 He comes at last but, oh ! so much degraded 
 By the wild orgies of the vanished night, 
 
 That every lofty lineament hath faded, 
 
 And reason's ray withholds its heavenly light 
 
 The fatal wine cup, rousing him to madness, 
 Hath lured him on to do a deed of shame, 
 
 And now, farewell to every hope of gladness, 
 For lasting darkness settles on his name. 
 
 No love, no tears, no prayers can now defend him 
 From the sad evils that must surely come ; 
 
 Remorse and deep regret shall now attend him, 
 And the dark prison-cell will be his home. 
 
 Then weep, fond wife, thy lease of joy is ended 
 Weep for thyself, thy child, but most for him 
 
 Whose every thought in life will now be blended 
 With memories that shall make the day-star dim. 
 
 Yes, weep, but also pray thou'rt not forsaken, 
 Though darkness rests upon thy home and heart } 
 
 There is a Friend on High who yet shall waken 
 The light that bids all earthly gloom depart. 
 
[P D [I 
 
A REMINISCENCE. 205 
 
 A 13 XI V lit IV CB. 
 
 BY H.ENRY G. LEE. 
 
 PEOPLE are generally disposed to consider the poor, and 
 especially poor young females, as necessarily vulgar minded. 
 Although too often this is true, yet there are many, very 
 many exceptions. I can now recall, more than one, yes, 
 more than a score, whom I once knew, who were as pure in 
 heart, and who had something as spiritual and elevating 
 about their thoughts, as even the heroine of a modern 
 romance and these very girls were used to work even 
 LABOR, with their hands, from the rising of the sun until the 
 going down thereof, and often until midnight, for those who 
 looked upon them and despised them as menials. 
 
 Let me present to you, kind reader, Ellen Filmore. She 
 is not beautiful, as the world would call beautiful ; and yet, 
 that fair face as I now recall it those modest, downcast, 
 yet earnest eyes that symmetrical frame, are to me very 
 beautiful indeed for I see in every glance, in every emotion, 
 the moving impulse of a pure heart. 
 
 I first knew Ellen Filmore when she was only a domestic, 
 toiling from morning until night in the meanest drudgery for 
 one who had taken her at the request of a dying mother, to 
 whom she had promised that Ellen should be as her own 
 child. Poorly clad, ?nd working like a slave, this patient 
 
206 A REMINISCENCE. 
 
 girl never complained, and was faithful in all her ways. Her 
 father and mother had moved in c good society/ but the 
 former died insolvent, and the latter soon followed him. 
 Ellen was then but ten years old. She remembered all her 
 former blessings the tenderness of her mother, and the 
 fondness of her father; and sometimes the contrast would 
 sadden her even to tears. Then she would steal a^fay to her 
 poor chamber in the garret, and kneeling beside her bed, 
 earnestly ask of him who is a Father to the fatherless, to give 
 her patience and resignation in her cheerless pilgrimage. 
 
 Mrs. L , to whom she was bound by the Orphan's 
 
 Court, was a cruel woman, and very passionate. She kept 
 boarders, and had no other servant but Ellen, after the 
 delicate girl passed her fourteenth year. Many a time have 
 I seen her go past our window', toiling beneath a market 
 basket that would have wearied a strong man. But she was 
 never known to complain. No one could say that a shade of 
 anger was ever seen to cross her brow, or that an evil word 
 
 was ever heard to fall from her lips. Mrs. L 5 s boarding 
 
 house was next door but one to Mr. Williams', where I was 
 apprenticed, and as the lady was an inveterate borrower of 
 tubs on washing days, and all manner of kitchen utensils, 
 besides drawings of tea, " makings" of coffee, and plates of 
 butter, I often met Ellen who performed these errands. I, 
 of course, sympathizing with those on a level in society with 
 myself, could not but notice and admire the apparent 
 amiability of her disposition. Sweet Mary Williams was 
 very kind to Ellen Filmore, and often gave her an encou- 
 raging word, and always a pleasant smile. She would fre- 
 quently speak of her, and regret the hardship of her lot. 
 
A REMINISCENCE. 207 
 
 Being of a quiet, thoughtful turn, a friendship soon sprung 
 up between Ella and myself; and whenever we met, we 
 always had a passing word. I not unfrequently went into 
 
 Mrs. L 's and sat with Ellen in the evening after her 
 
 work was done ; and while she was sewing for herself, w r ould 
 read from such books as fell in my way. I never could be 
 trifling or lightly familiar with her ; for her whole appear- 
 ance and manner forbade any thing like levity ; and, indeed, 
 she, being then about my own age, and well grown, appeared 
 so womanly alongside of me, that I looked up to her as one 
 somewhat above me. 
 
 Mrs. L , who w r as a vulgar minded woman, frequently 
 
 came into the dining room where Ellen sat in the evening, 
 w r hile I was there, and knowing me very well, would often 
 pass some coarse jest upon Ellen about my "sparking" her. 
 The color would mount to the young girl's cheek whenever 
 such a sally w T as made, and she would seem greatly mortified. 
 For my own part, these jests always made me angry Mary 
 Williams, was the one whose image was ever in my heart, 
 sleeping or waking, and I could not endure to think of any 
 other. For Ellen's lonely condition I felt great sympathy ; 
 and also bought her company often to relieve myself from 
 wearying thoughts. The poor girl constantly looked for- 
 ward to the day on which she would complete her eighteenth 
 year, when her term of service would expire. It was then 
 her intention to learn a trade, and endeavor to make her 
 living in a less laborious and more respectable way. I 
 always encouraged her in this resolution, and used to advise 
 her to learn to be a tailoress. 
 
 Her time did at last expire, and through the influence of 
 
208 A REMINISCEKCE. 
 
 Mary Williams she was taken into our house to learn a 
 trade. She was to remain twelve months, and board away. 
 
 Mrs. L was greatly incensed at her for leaving, for she 
 
 could not get along without Ellen, to whom she had made 
 the liberal offer of three dollars a month ! So bitter were 
 her feelings against the poor girl that she would not allow 
 her to board in her house while she learned her trade, to pay 
 for which she offered to work every night until bed time, and 
 every morning until nine o'clock. She even went so far as 
 to speak lightly of the poor girl, and intimate that she was 
 not to be trusted in all things. This slander came to the 
 ears of the upright and simple minded Ellen, and caused her 
 great distress. Honest in every thought and action, she had 
 an instinctive horror of any thing like a reverse of this cha- 
 racter, and such an imputation upon herself crushed her spi- 
 rits and saddened her heart. No one, however, believed the 
 selfish and vile slander, and the very act of persecution 
 gained her friends. But a wounded spirit who can bear? 
 Hard labor and unkind treatment she had borne, as it was 
 her lot in the world ; but a slander upon her character from 
 one whom she knew had done it falsely, and from one too, 
 from whom of all others it should not have ' emanated, 
 weighed upon her spirits, and was the first blow that started 
 the foundation of a delicate constitution. 
 
 An arrangement of the kind she had contemplated with 
 
 Mrs. L was made with a widow woman having a small 
 
 family, who lived several squares off; and poorly and thinly 
 clad she commenced her trade with Mrs. Williams in Octo- 
 ber. She v )uld come at nine o'clock and work until dark, 
 and then go to her comfortless home it was comfortless in 
 
A REMINISCENCE. 209 
 
 every sense of the word and there toi! 3 sometimes over the 
 washing tub, drying the clothes by the fire, and sometimes 
 over the ironing table until eleven and twelve o'clock at 
 night. When the washing and ironing were over, she would 
 ply her needle to as late an hour, to pay for her boarding, 
 which was so poor as hardly to afford sufficient nourishment. 
 The change from active life to a sedentary one at her age, 
 soon affected her health, and before she had been at her 
 trade six months she was much troubled with a pain in her 
 side, and grew thinner and paler every day. Mary Wil- 
 liams soon noticed the change and .urged Ellen to take a 
 little recreation ; but she was too eager to finish her trade, that 
 she might earn something with which to replenish her scanty 
 wardrobe, and render herself independent. As she began, 
 so did she continue and finish her trade, working all day for 
 Mrs. Williams, and until eleven and twelve o'clock at night 
 to pay for her board. But she took a cold, going to and 
 from her work during the severe winter weather, and when 
 October returned, she was very thin and pale, and had a 
 troublesome cough. Unmindful of these painful indications 
 of failing health, she immediately took boarding at a dollar 
 and a half a week, and commenced working for herself. She 
 had seen more of the heartlessness of the world in the last 
 year than she had ever before experienced. This with her 
 failing health, and the yearning tendencies of a young heart, 
 made her thoughtful, and even melancholy. But to sustain 
 her, she had the strengthening influences of religion, and 
 when desponding thoughts would crowd upon her mind, she 
 would lay her cause before Him who is a Father to the father- 
 less, and fird comfort i~ depending upon God* 
 
210 A REMINISCENCE. 
 
 It often fell to my lot to carry her work, and to go for it 
 when finished, as I was generally sent on errands of the kind. 
 We had become better acquainted than ever since her com- 
 ing into the house to learn her trade, and always, when we 
 met, entered into familiar conversation too familiar I after- 
 wards found for the peace of one mind. She would tell me 
 unreservully of all her little plans and arrangements for the 
 future ; of all her little hopes and fears how lonely and de- 
 solate she sometimes felt, without a friend or a relation in 
 the world, and cast upon its restless surface to take care of 
 herself. Her heart was full of the yearning tenderness of a 
 young girl its aifections were feeling about for an object, 
 and I soon became alarmed at finding that she seemed to re- 
 gard me with an interest that I did not wish her to feel for 
 sweet Mary Williams was my heart's idol. Knowing how 
 lonely was her lot she had not a single female acquaintance 
 of her own age I could not change my manner towards her, 
 and yet, I feared for the result. 
 
 Since she had been working for herself, she was confined 
 in the house much more than ever, and took little exercise 
 within doors ; consequently, her health grew worse, and the 
 pain in her side increased to such a degree, as frequently to 
 cause her great distress and almost unfit her for work. 
 
 In the pleasant weather of the next summer, I would often 
 walk out with her on a Sunday afternoon, and we generally 
 bent our way to a burying ground in the suburbs of the city, 
 where lay buried the dear ones of her heart. Instinctively 
 she would direct her steps there, for no where else did there 
 seern any kind of attraction for her. How many a time have 
 I sat with her beside thr two little mounds of earth that 
 
A REMINISCENCE. 211 
 
 marked the spot where slept her parents, while we conversed 
 of many things connected with the hard lot of those who 
 were necessarily subordinate to such as thought little of the 
 rights and feelings of others. Very many times had we 
 wandered out to this burying ground during the summer 
 after she was free from her trade. It was that summer 
 which I can never, never forget the one in which died sweet 
 Mary Williams. She was not buried here I could not 
 have visited the spot had it been the place of her repose. 
 She had been dead about a month, when one Sunday after- 
 noon we had taken our accustomed walk, and were seated 
 near the spot so dear to Ellen's heart. I was very much 
 cast down in spirits, a fact which could not escape Ellen's 
 quick eye but she knew well the cause knew it painfully ; 
 for I had, since Mary's death, told her of my secret love for 
 the dear girl ; what she had before discovered, for she was 
 present when Mary Williams died, and had witnessed my 
 strange conduct. Since opening to her my heart, she had 
 been very low m spirits, but still met me as usual with a 
 welcome smile, whenever I called to see her. Her health 
 which had been giving away, had, since the death of Mary, 
 become more rapidly on the decline, and now, as we sat side 
 by side alone in the burial ground, with the last rays of the 
 setting sun glimmering through the distant trees, her cheek 
 was lit with a hectic glow that I knew was too fatally bright 
 for health. 
 
 " Let us go home, Ellen," said I; "it is growing late, 
 and I fear that the damp evening air will chill you before we 
 get back." 
 
 " Home, did you say? How strangely that word affects 
 
212 A REMINISCENCE. 
 
 me ! I feel that I have no home, except it be here and in 
 .this peaceful home how I do long to be laid at rest ! " 
 
 " Don't talk so, Ellen. You did not use to talk so once. 
 Though your lot was hard, you never murmured." 
 
 " No I did not in former times murmur at my lot, though 
 it often seemed a hard one. But I am strangely altered of 
 late." 
 
 Poor girl, the capacities of her young heart had become 
 enlarged, and there was nothing to fill them the tender 
 buds of affection had put forth, and a blighting frost had 
 passed over the opening blossoms. 
 
 " But Ellen, it is vain, you know, thus to give way to 
 your feelings. If we bear patiently a hard lot, it becomes 
 easier. 55 
 
 " I know all the kind suggestions your kind heart would 
 make to strengthen my feelings, but a change, and to me an 
 alarming change, has passed over me. I am no longer what 
 I was. Once I could command my own heart, now it leads 
 me away, and I cannot help myself. The time was when I 
 could look steadily away into the future and see that which 
 was desirable, and to which I hoped to attain. , This hope 
 supported me when I had not a single friend to speak kindly 
 to me. But now there is nothing in the future that I desire 
 to have, and the present is a dreary present. I have seen 
 little here but labor, uncheered by smiles or encouragement, 
 and realized nothing but disappointments, and now I desire 
 only to be called home." 
 
 Perhaps the fashionable lady and the heartless beau will 
 not sympathize with Ellen Filmore, a poor seamstress and 
 once a kitchen ir>^d. Let them pass on, their sympathy 19 
 
A REMINISCENCE. 213 
 
 not asked. But there are those who can understand her 
 feelings a poor, single-hearted girl, who had no one to whom 
 she could turn for that encouragement she so much needed, 
 now that she was more than ever alone in the world, and 
 alone with declining health, added to disappointed affections ; 
 for I cannot disguise it from myself now, any more than I 
 could then, that she had suffered her young heart to dwell 
 upon me too often and too tenderly. And why should she 
 not ? I was the only one she had ever found who could and 
 did constantly sympathize with her. There is a time when 
 the young heart suddenly awakes to consciousness, and awakes 
 with bewildering joy, or to sadness and deep despondency. 
 Ellen had thus awakened, and to misery. 
 
 I replied not to her last sorrowful remark, but offered her 
 my hand to assist her in rising ; and then we both turned 
 towards home, just as the sun had cast his last smile over 
 the earth. We said little by the way. But we thought, 
 perhaps, as we had never thought before. 
 
 I did not fail to call and see Ellen as often as ever ; and 
 she was ever as glad when I came. Steadily from morning 
 until late at night she plied her needle, even though she had 
 received many sad tokens of failing health. But in the latter 
 part of this summer she was attacked with fainting fits when- 
 ever she over-exerted herself, and had of necessity to relax ID 
 her industry. By this time she had been enabled to earn 
 herself a tolerable good supply of comfortable and respectable 
 tlothing, and as she had a very neat figure, and what I 
 would call a handsome face, she made quite an attractive 
 appearance. But she had yet been able to lay by nothing 
 and was not unfrequently so ill as to cause her to keep her 
 
214 A REMINISCENCE. 
 
 bed for a day or two. Consequently, she earned but little 
 more than would pay for her board, and sometimes not that. 
 The woman with whom she boarded, finding her health 
 declining, and fearing that she would become burdensome, 
 began to treat her so unkindly as to cause her to change her 
 boarding house. This she bore patiently for awhile, but 
 being confined to her bed for a week with the pain in her 
 side, this woman became so insolent and cruel, as to deter- 
 mine her to change so soon as she was able to go out. The 
 next week she got herself another boarding house, with a 
 kind widow lady whom I had long known, and who I knew 
 would be as a mother to Ellen. She was four dollars behind 
 in her board when she went away, to secure which the un- 
 feeling woman detained a fine merino shawl which had cost 
 twenty dollars. 
 
 She soon however obtained her shawl, for Mrs. with 
 
 whom she now lived, learning that it was in possession of her 
 former landlady, went immediately and redeemed it. This 
 change had a salutary effect upon Ellen's spirits, and of 
 course, temporarily upon her health. Mrs. R was in- 
 deed as a mother to her, and Ellen repaid her with more than 
 a daughter's love and gratitude. But when once that fell 
 destroyer, consumption, has been feeling around the vitals, 
 there is little hope. 
 
 During the ensuing winter, her health declined very fast, 
 and she was able to work but little over half of her time. 
 But, work she felt that she must so long as she could hold up 
 her head, for on no one but herself did she feel that she had 
 any right to depend for support. 
 
 To visit her every Sunday, as well as through the week 
 
A REMINISCENCE 215 
 
 whenever I could, had become a habit, and a habit that began 
 to accord more and more with my feelings. So glad was she 
 ever to see me, that my heart at last began to warm beneath 
 her sweet smile, and to return her more than fraternal 
 regard. A young girPs heart has quick instincts, and her's 
 soon discovered that mine was more interested than it had 
 once been. The light came back to her eye, and the glad- 
 ness to her pale face, and her voice had something of its 
 wonted tone. But it was not to last long. The worm in the 
 bud had nearly done its fatal work, and the fair promise of 
 life was soon to fail forever. 
 
 It now became my turn to suffer again as I had but a brief 
 season before suffered. Ellen had become more to me than a 
 sister, and I could not but see that her way to the tomb was 
 a steep one, and the descent quick. I did not forget sweet 
 Mary Williams. How could 1 1 How can I even now 1 
 But Mary Williams was sleeping the long sleep of death. 
 
 The rapid progress of disease, greatly accelerated by her 
 constantly sitting over her work for she would sew as long 
 as she could hold up her head soon prostrated her system, 
 and she was laid upon that bed from which she was never to 
 rise again ; early in the spring, even before the earliest blos- 
 soms had been warmed into life by the genial sunshine. 
 Spring soon passed into summer, while Ellen failed rapidly, 
 and when the chill winds of October moaned through the 
 leafless boughs, her hour came to die. Her last days had 
 been rendered comfortable and she was able to look death in 
 in the face without shrinking. 
 
 It was on a Sunday evening that she died. I had been 
 sitting by her bedside all through the day, holding her hand, 
 
216 A REMINISCENCE. 
 
 cold and clammy with perspiration, though she was too weak, 
 and too insensible to surrounding objects, to notice that I 
 was near her. I cannot describe my feelings through all 
 that day and night. I had but once before looked on death 
 the death of a dear one too and that but for a few short 
 moments now I looked upon the slow and regular progress 
 of dissolution, until my feelings were strung to a painful in- 
 tensity. The hour at length arrived, when the last struggle 
 was to take place. I was still seated by her side and still 
 holding her hand when the dreadful change passed over her. 
 I looked upon the ghastly contortions of her face, the writh- 
 ing and fearful play of the muscles about her neck, and 
 heard the low strange moans of mortal agony. Spell-bound 
 I gazed upon her face, and tightly held her cold hand, while 
 the gasping breath went and came, and the faint pulses lin- 
 gered in her veins. There were a few convulsive struggles 
 for breath a faint quivering of the muscles the pulse stopt 
 went on stopt again moved once, twice, and all was 
 still. Oh, the desolation of that moment when we feel that 
 one we loved has gone forever ! 
 
 And thus died Ellen Filmore. Her lot was hard to be 
 borne, and her journey through life a cheerless one but 
 there are hundreds around us as worthy and as neglected as 
 she. 
 
THE WATER SPIRIT. 217 
 
 BY MISS ELISABETH G. BARBER. 
 
 SPIRIT ! sweet spirit, of mountain and meadow, 
 Blessing; of summer and joy of the May. 
 
 Singing in sunlight and sighing in shadow, 
 
 Soft is thy lay, 
 Floating with zephyr and sunshine away. 
 
 Where the green willows are mournfully bending, 
 
 Soft are thy melodies, tender and low 
 When thy bright waves, with the sunshine are blending, 
 Gaily they flow, 
 
 Singing and dancing, with smiles as they go. 
 
 Kissed by the moonlight and starlight so holy, 
 Then thou dost waken thy tenderest strain 
 
 Soft as Love's whisper, as gentle and lowly 
 
 Floats its refrain, 
 Swe3t as the dropping of summer night's rain. 
 
 Water ! bright water ! I joyously greet thee, 
 Thou in the gladness of earth hast a part, 
 
 Whether in sunlight or shadow I meet thee, 
 
 Welcome thou art, 
 Bringing a blessing and joy to mv heart 
 
218 THE WATER SPIRIT. 
 
 In the dark city, melhinks thou dost borrow 
 Beauty, like stars, that are clearest by night, 
 
 Bringing to children of toil and of sorrow 
 
 Dreams of delight, 
 Hours, when the fountains of childhood were bright. 
 
 Whether thou flowest by cottage or palace, 
 
 Welcome alike to the peasant and king, 
 Quaffed from the " old oaken bucket" or chalice, 
 . Or from the spring, 
 
 Still thine own boon of delight thou dost bring. 
 
 Water, bright water ! with beauty and gladness, 
 Smile in the sunshine, and bid us be gay, 
 
 Not like the Circean cup, with its madness 
 
 Stealing away, 
 Binding the soul, with its tyrannous sway. 
 
 No ! thou art holy, the type of that river 
 Kiver of Life in our Father's own land 
 
 Where we shall quaff its bright waters forever 
 
 Led by His hand, 
 When in His holiest presence we stand. 
 
 Spirit sing on, with thy melodies flowing, 
 Sunlight and starlight, thy waters shall lave 
 
 Loveliest gift of our Father's bestowing, 
 
 Earth ever gave, 
 Crowned with His smile, there is " Light on the Wave." 
 
 H* N. 
 
219 
 
 BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS. 
 
 THEY have thrown tip the earth they have rent the green sod ; 
 And have heaped on his bosom the valley's cold clod ; 
 They have left the strong man in the bond of the grave, 
 Whom no chains could enfetter, no foeman enslave ; 
 And the sword of the hero lies dim in the sheath, 
 Where it fell from his hand in the shadow of Death. 
 
 They have wailed him in music the muffled drum beat 
 As he passed to his home through the crowd heaving street t 
 And the trappings of war, with the saddle of wo, 
 Lightly hung o'er the form of the sleeper below : 
 Of the good and the brave of the noble and just 
 There remain but a name, and an image in dust ! 
 
 He has gone from the earth in his strength and his prime. 
 To the beautiful Land on the borders of Time ; 
 To the land of the peaceful the clime of the Blest ; 
 Where the soul of the Hero from battle shall rest ; 
 For he fought his last fight as he gave his last breath, 
 And the victor is known as the Conqueror, Death ! 
 
 Let his name, then, the watchword of Liberty be, 
 While the blue, red and white shall wave over the free, 
 K;ing the laurels which fell from his brow in their bloom 
 On the cloud-piercing shaft that shall point out the tomb 
 Where the chieftain, who died in the fulness of trust, 
 Lowly lies h his grave, in a mantle of dust ! 
 
220 LOUISE OF LORRAINE. 
 
 BY AGNES STRICKLAND. 
 
 AN unwonted smoke was seen ascending from the tall, 
 turret-shaped chimneys of the old castle of Vaudemont, the 
 feudal residence of Nicolas Due de Mercoeur and Count de 
 Vaudemont ; while the savory steams that mingled with the 
 clear mountain air, gave evidence of preparations for some 
 extraordinary festivity. The occasion of this bustle in the 
 kitchen was a supper to be given in honor of the marriage of 
 the Lady Louise, the eldest daughter of the illustrious house 
 of Lorraine Vaudemont, with the Count de Brienne ; a 
 ceremony which her father had decreed should take place 
 that evening, although the consent of the reluctant bride had 
 been obstinately withheld. This, however, was a preliminary 
 that, in the sixteenth century, was not considered indis- 
 pensable. 
 
 The Due de Mercoeur was one of those luckless collaterals 
 of a semi -royal house, who are doomed to support, with very 
 inadequate means, a station in society in accordance rather 
 with their ancestral dignity, than their actual fortunes. 
 
 He was uncle to the reigning Duke of Lorraine, and, 
 having inherited little more than the barren lands, and title 
 of Count de Vaudemont, he had imprudently taken, for his 
 wife, the dowerless orphan of the heroic Count Egmont 
 
LOUISE OF LORRAINE. 221 
 
 She, however, died, leaving him the father of two fair daugh- 
 ters, Louise and Marguerite. His second choice was directed 
 by motives of interest ; for he married the heiress of an illus- 
 trious family, from whom he derived some wealth, and the 
 title of Due de Mercoeur ; but his new alliance was produc- 
 tive of an offspring so numerous, that, after a time, he found 
 himself almost as much embarrassed with pecuniary cares, as 
 when he first succeeded to his stinted patrimonial domain. 
 He looked with peculiar anxiety to the children of his first 
 wife, having no means of providing for them ; but his careful 
 Duchess, who regarded with a jealous eye her husband's 
 affection for these portionless maidens, took the trouble of 
 negociating a marriage for Louise with the wealthy Count 
 Brienne, a kinsman of her own. 
 
 Louise was just eighteen ; the Count was fifty -five, and 
 very unprepossessing in his person and manners ; but, had 
 he been the handsomest peer in France, it would have been 
 the same to Louise, whose heart was given to another. She 
 was, in truth, secretly betrothed to the young Count Charles 
 of Salm ; but his friends were, not less than her own, averse 
 to the marriage. 
 
 Louise, however, was determined to endure every persecu- 
 tion, rather than resign the object of her first affections. In 
 this resolution she was supported by her sister Marguerite, 
 who though one year younger than herself, was of a far more 
 energetic and decided character. .L, *'se was all gentleness 
 and feminine softness ; though under the ordinary stature of 
 women, her form exhibited the grace and symmetry of a 
 fairy. Marguerite was tall and majestic, as well as grace- 
 ful, and had the step and air of an empress. She too had air 
 
222 LOUISE OF LORRAINE. 
 
 unprosperous love affair upon her hands, for she was beloved 
 by Joyeuse, whose haughty father had banished him to the 
 Court of Poland, to prevent any farther intercourse between 
 him and a daughter of the house of Lorraine Vaudemont. 
 
 Yet Marguerite neither wept nor despaired, she relied im- 
 plicitly on the constancy of Joyeuse, and was only seventet i. 
 It was when she observed the pale cheek and tearful eye of 
 poor Louise, that she first knew what it was to be unhappy ; 
 for Louise reposed all her griefs in her sister's bosom, and 
 appeared to depend on her master-mind for support, and 
 even for deliverance from her difficulties. 
 
 On the memorable evening of which 1 speak Louise entered 
 her sister's apartment with a distracted air, and flinging her- 
 self upon a couch, exclaimed, " It is all over, and nothing is 
 left for me, but to submit to the wretched destiny that waits 
 me, and to become the wife of Count Brienne." 
 
 " You shall do no such thing," replied Marguerite. 
 
 " Marguerite, resistance is of no avail the sacrifice is 
 inevitable." 
 
 " Say not so, my sister ; you have only as a last resource, 
 to declare yourself under contract of marriage with another, 
 and appeal to the church for protection." 
 
 " Ah ! Marguerite, Marguerite, you know not what has 
 occurred since I saw you last." 
 
 " Yes, I do ; I am perfectly aware that a considerable 
 slaughter has taken pV e in the poultry -yard, and that the 
 fatted calf has been killed for a supper, in honor of a bridal 
 which never will be celebrated, if you exhibit a proper degree 
 of spirit, and produce your contract w T ith Charles of Salm. ?) 
 
 " Charles of Salm !" exclaimed Louise, violently agitated ; 
 
LOUISE 0^ LORRAINE. 223 
 
 " ah , Marguerite, name him not, he is a worthless recreant, 
 whom I now despise a thousand times more than I hate the 
 Count de Brienne. I am now no longer under contract of 
 marriage to him, my sister ; for I have torn the paper, and 
 released him from his boyish love-plight, as he inconstantly 
 styled our solemn betrothment." 
 
 " When was this, Louise, and how did it occur ?" 
 
 ;c Oh, ask me not, my sister it is enough that he, on 
 whom I relied for support in the crisis of my fate, has proved 
 faithless, and now there is nothing left for me but to wed 
 the Count de Brienne, and die." 
 
 " Hush, hush, my sweet Louise ! you shall not thus aban- 
 don yourself to despair ; nor is it a matter of necessity, that 
 because the man you love has proved unworthy of you, you 
 should mar your peace for life, by wedding another who is 
 abhorrent to you. No, no, be ruled by me, and inflict on 
 the Count de Brienne a little of the pain which the recreant 
 Salm has caused you 7 " 
 
 While the sisters were thus discoursing, Louise received a 
 summons to attend her father, whom she found with the 
 Duchess, her step-mother, engaged in earnest conversation 
 with the Count de Brienne and family priest. 
 
 " I did not send for you," said the Duke, turning an an- 
 gry glance upon Marguerite, who had followed the pale and 
 sinking Louise. 
 
 " I came to support my sister, my lord," replied Mar- 
 guerite. 
 
 ;c And to encourage her in her perversity, I suppose," 
 said the Duke, " but, now, damsels, I will be trifled with no 
 longer, the tapers are now lighted en the altar of the chapel, 
 
22-1 LOUISE OF LORRAINE. 
 
 in readiness for the spousal rite, and within one nour, you, 
 Louise of Lorraine, will be the wife of the Count de 
 Brienne." 
 
 " I will never enter the chapel for such a purpose," said 
 Louise, seating herself resolutely on the lowest step of the 
 dais." 
 
 " Nay," returned her father, taking her by the arm, and 
 forcibly lifting her fairy form from the lowly seat she had 
 taken, " you'll go, even if I am at the trouble of carrying 
 you thither in my arms, like a perverse baby as you are." 
 
 " But no power on earth can compel me to pronounce the 
 fatal vow," observed Louise. 
 
 " So said the royal Marguerite of France," responded the 
 Duke, " when it was deemed expedient to wed her to Henry 
 of Navaure ; yet it availed her nothing that she remained 
 obstinately silent,- for our late lord, King Charles, (whose 
 soul may our lady assoiled) in the face of all Paris compelled 
 her to signify an assent by placing his hand upon the back 
 of her neck, and forcing her stubborn head to bow; and 
 cannot I do the same by thee ? " 
 
 " Courage ! " whispered Marguerite to her trembling 
 sister, " I predict a rescue ! " 
 
 "What said you to Louise, you audacious one?" de- 
 manded the Duke, sternly. 
 
 " I was advising her to compose herself, my lord : for I 
 hear horsemen approaching the castle." 
 
 " Horsemen ! who should come to Vaudemont at this 
 hour?" 
 
 " Persons of importance I should judge, from that bold 
 bugle blast," responded Marguerite. 
 
LOUISE OF LORRAINE. 225 
 
 The horn, indeed, was sounded so long and lustily, as to 
 startle the lord ;f the castle from his immediate purpose. 
 
 " Open, in the name of the King of France ! " was the 
 reply to the warder's challenge 
 
 When this demand was communicated to the Due de 
 Mercoeur, he proceeded forthwith to the gates to hold a 
 parley with the party by whom this unexpected requisition 
 was made ; and, opening a window about six inches square, 
 he inquired in a loud tone, " Who be ye, and what would 
 you of the lord of Vaudemont? " 
 
 " Open, in. the name of the King of France!" was the 
 response. 
 
 " The King of France is dead," replied the Duke. 
 
 " The King of France never dies ! " thundered a chorus 
 of stern voices from without. 
 
 " Charles the Ninth sleeps," said the Due de Mercoeur, 
 correcting his first somewhat unconstitutional assertion. 
 
 " Henry the Third is awake. Open, therefore, in his 
 name ! " rejoined another voice, which startled the cautious 
 vassal of the vacant throne of France ; but these not being 
 times in which it was safe to commit mistakes in the admis- 
 sion of guests, he replied : 
 
 " Henry the Third is in his far northern kingdom of Po- 
 land. We know not whether he hath so much as heard the 
 news of our late lord's decease ; and even if the tidings 
 reached him by a swift messenger, there hath been no time 
 for him to gain the French frontier." 
 
 " Henry the Third is at thy gates," returned the other ; 
 " they travel quick who ride to win a throne. Fling back 
 thy portal, and let i A be thy boast among thy peers, that 
 
226 LOUISE OF LORRAIXE. 
 
 thou wert the first to render homage to thy sovereign in his 
 own dominions." 
 
 At these words the portcullis was hastily raised, the jea- 
 lously barred gates were thrown open, and the lord of the 
 castle, with bare head and bended knee, greeted the fore- 
 most of the advancing company ; who, flinging back his 
 dark travelling cloak, and raising his plumed hat from his 
 brow, revealed the strikingly handsome features of Henry of 
 Anjou, King of Poland, and the successor to the throne of 
 France. 
 
 " By St. Dennis ! my lord Duke, but this is a cold wel- 
 come on the frontier of my own kingdom," exclaimed he. 
 
 " I crave your pardon, my gracious lord ; but these are 
 troublesome times for the vassal peers of France. The Hu- 
 guenots are in motion, and we being engaged in important 
 family matters when your knights were pleased to summon 
 us, our wits were not so clear as they might have been." 
 
 " So it should appear, lord duke," rejoined the sovereign. 
 
 " I hope, Sire," pursued the mortified lord of Vaudemont, 
 " you do me the justice to believe " 
 
 " That you are not disposed to waste your hospitality on 
 unknown vagrants," replied the king, laughing. " The 
 days of chivalry are well nigh over. A plague on these Hu- 
 guenots and their preachers ! We may thank them for that 
 change ; so no more apologies, but let us taste your Vaude- 
 mont pigeons, if you have naught else in your larder to set 
 before us, for we are as hungry as Saracens ! " 
 
 " My gracious lord," replied the duke, " we are but a 
 
 younger branch of the house of Lorraine, it is true, and 
 
 our cheer is humble, as you suppose, but, thanks 
 
I-OUISE OF LORRAINE. 227 
 
 be to the saints ! our larder will furnish forth something 
 beyond pigeons for your royal refection." 
 
 " 0, I crave you pardon ! " replied the king, " I spoke 
 merely to put you at your ease, should you have already 
 supped, as it is past eight o'clock." 
 
 " Our evening meal, was for family reasons, ordered two 
 hours later than usual," returned the Duke with great so- 
 lemnity, " and if I mistake not, is ready to be placed on 
 the board." 
 
 " Then, I pray you, order it to be served forthwith," 
 rejoined the king. 
 
 The dishes which had been prepared for the bridal supper 
 were immediately put in requisition to furnish forth the royal 
 cheer. King Henry and his company were agreeably sur- 
 prised at the appearance of a banquet which so far exceeded 
 all reasonable expectations, and paid many compliments to 
 the Duke and Duchess on their excellent housekeeping. 
 
 " By the soul of St. Louis ! ye nobles of the provinces 
 live well ; " cried the monarch, after he had done ample jus- 
 tice to the fish, flesh, fowl, and pastry, " I protest I have 
 not even seen such a feast as this, since I took my farewell 
 of my good city of Paris. You must be a rich man, my 
 lord duke, and you cook such suppers every night at Vau- 
 demont." 
 
 " Sire," replied the Duke, u this is not our usual fare ; 
 for, truth to tell, this supper was provided in honor of the 
 espousals of my eldest daughter, whose marriage your royal 
 visit has for the present postponed." 
 
 " I owe the fair bride many apologies, by my fay," re- 
 t)lied the king ; " and all the amends I can ofier to her, is to 
 
228 LOUISE OF LORRAINE. 
 
 bestow her with mine own hand on the bridegroom, to- 
 morrow morning, before we depart from Vaudemont." 
 
 " Your grace will render us an unspeakable honor," said 
 the duke. 
 
 " I have also to crave the pardon of the bridegroom for 
 the disappointment of which I have unintentionally been the 
 cause," observed the king. " I pray you make him known 
 tc me, my lord duke. By my halidom ! " continued the 
 monarch, laughing, when the duke, with much formality, 
 presented the Count de Brienne, you are a bold man, Count, 
 to adventure on plighting faith with a lady whose father is 
 evidently your junior. May we not see the fair bride ? " 
 
 But the poor bride had availed herself of the confusion 
 caused by the royal visit, to retreat with Marguerite to the 
 sanctuary of her own apartment, having little desire to ex- 
 hibit her tear-swollen eyes and pale cheeks to strangers. 
 
 The sist-ers were presently joined by their fille de chambre, 
 Sophie, who came dancing into the apartment with crimsoned 
 cheeks and sparkling eyes, exclaiming, 
 
 " Oh, Holy Virgin ! what an arrival is here ! " 
 
 " An arrival ! " cried Marguerite, " is it my joyeuse ?" 
 
 " Your young ladyship is a passing shrewd guesser," 
 cried Sophie : " but who think ye, cometh with him?" 
 
 "Charles of Salm?" whispered Louise in a faltering 
 voice. 
 
 " Nay ; to what purpose should the recreant count come 
 here, since your ladyship would never see nor speak to him 
 again ? But it is a true-hearted ay, and a royal bachelor 
 of whom I speak." 
 
 " The king?" cried Marguerite, at a venture- 
 
LOUISE O* LORRAINE. 229 
 
 " Ah, the king the king, young ladies ! " returned So- 
 phie, " and I would advise you both to steal a look at him 
 as he passeth to his chamber ; ye may never see so goodly a 
 sight again, for he is accounted the handsomest prince in the 
 world. The heretic Queen of England weareth the willow 
 for his sake, they say : and he was compelled to fly from 
 Poland by night, because the Polish ladies said they could 
 not part with so beautiful a sovereign." 
 
 " My good Sophie, what nonsense you are talking ! " in- 
 terrupted Louise, impatiently. 
 
 " As you please, my lady Louise ; however, if I were in 
 your place, I would seek this amiable sovereign before he 
 leaves the castle, and implore his royal interference to pre- 
 serve you from this odious marriage. 55 
 
 " Excellent ! " cried Marguerite ; " come dry your eyes, 
 Louise, and to-morrow you shall make your appeal to the 
 king in person." 
 
 " Hark ! " cried Sophie, " the folding doors are thrown 
 open ; he is now going to his chamber ;" 
 
 Away ran the fair sisters to reconnoitre the monarch as 
 he ascended the stairs. 
 
 ic Ah, how handsome he is ! 5) cried Louise, peeping over 
 the balustrade. 
 
 There was a singular echo on the staircase of Vaudemont, 
 which caused the flattering exclamation to reach the royal 
 ear : and, looking up, King Henry perceived and saluted, 
 with a profound reverence, the pretty simple trio, who were 
 regarding him with such unequivocal tokens of admiration. 
 
 Louise felt as if she could have sunk into the earth, as she 
 hastily retreated from her station, covered with blushes. 
 
230 LOUISE OF JLOKRAINE. 
 
 " Alas !" cried she, " I shall never dare present myself 
 before King Henry, now ! " 
 
 " Nonsense ! he will be the more disposed to give you a 
 favorable hearing," replied Marguerite. 
 
 They were now interrupted by a visit from the Duchess de 
 Mercoeur, who came to apprise Louise of the honor designed 
 her by the king, in condescending to bestow her in marriage 
 on the Count de Brienne, with his own hand, and exhorted 
 her to conduct herself in a becoming manner on this im- 
 portant occasion. 
 
 A look and a sign from Marguerite induced Louise to re- 
 ceive this communication with patience. The duchess com- 
 mended her for returning to reason, presented her with a 
 handsome addition to her bridal jewels, and withdrew. 
 
 Marguerite, who, on the following morning, had arisen with 
 the lark, and procured an interview with her beloved Joyeuse, 
 before her sister was awake, now hastened to dispel Louise's 
 slumbers, and assisted her bower maiden to set off her natural 
 charms to the best advantage; not by dressing her in the 
 costly bridal garb that had been prepared for her intended 
 nuptials, but in a simple white robe, that flowed in soft easy 
 folds round her graceful form ; and combing her beautiful 
 fair hair in natural ringlets ; that were simply confined by a 
 fillet of pearls, to which her veil was attached. She then put 
 into her hand a basket of fresh flowers which had been 
 gathered and arranged that morning, and bade her seek the 
 king at the shrine of our Lady of Vaudemont, in the woods, 
 whither, Joyeuse had informed her Henry would proceed to 
 pay his vows, alone, at six o'clock that morning. 
 
 Louise, with a beating heart, sought the littie sanctuary, 
 
LOUISE OF LORRAINE. 231 
 
 but not daring to enter it, she seated herself at the bottom of 
 the steps leading to the chapel ; and when the king came 
 forth, she rose, put back her veil, and bending her knee, 
 offered him her flowers with downcast eyes. 
 
 The king, greatly charmed with the touching simplicity of 
 nor appearance, selected a half-blown Provence rose and a 
 sprig of victory laurel from her basket, and placed them in 
 his bosom with one hand, while with the other he offered to 
 raise her from her kneeling attitude. 
 
 " No," she replied ; " I am a suppliant to your majesty, 
 and cannot rise till you have granted my petition." 
 
 " Declare it, then, fair maid," replied the king, who im- 
 mediately recognised the voice that had, on the preceding 
 night, uttered the exclamation so peculiarly gratifying to his 
 personal vanity. 
 
 " All I ask," said Louise, raising her soft blue eyes to her 
 sovereign's face, " is your gracious protection from a cruel 
 doom, in which; they tell me, you are about to act the part 
 of the executioner." 
 
 " Indeed !" replied the king ; " my enemies give me 
 credit for being- a great barbarian, then ; but }^ou are talking 
 in riddles, my fair damsel ; so be pleased to tell me who you 
 are, and what you desire of me ? " 
 
 " Sire," returned she, " I am a poor motherless 
 maiden, and my father hath been wrought upon by my 
 cruel step-dame, to promise me in marriage to the most 
 unloveable old peer in France ; and the sacrifice would 
 Lave been made last night, in spite of all my tears and 
 remonstrances, had not you arrived, like my guardian 
 angel, to prevent it." 
 
232 LOUISE OF LORRAINE. 
 
 " Ka, ha !" cried the king, laughing ; " are you the young 
 lady whose bridal cheer I so unceremoniously devoured ? " 
 
 " Yes, sire ; but you have done worse than that, if they 
 say truth, who tell me that you have promised to bestow me 
 upon the Count de Brienne, this morning. 55 
 
 " They told you the truth," said the king gravely. 
 
 " Oh heavens ! but you will not commit so barbarous an 
 act ! ah ! if you could but know how much I detest him." 
 
 " Poor man ! he is greatly to be pitied." 
 
 " Pitied !" cried Louise, in surprise. 
 
 " Yes, sweet Louise, pitied for being so much the object 
 of your dislike." 
 
 " Ah ! sire, you are pleased to make sport of my 
 calamity." 
 
 " By no means ; but perhaps it is in my power to render 
 Brienne more agreeable to you ; suppose, now, I were to 
 make him a duke 1 " 
 
 " If your majesty were to make him a king, he would still 
 be the object of my aversion." 
 
 " Poor Brienne ! he is very unfortunate ; but perhaps, 
 lovely Louise, you have fixed your affections on another," 
 said the king, taking the pretty suppliant by both her hands 
 and looking earnestly in her face. 
 
 "No; I hate all men!" 
 
 "Oh, you hard-hearted little tyrant ! but I shall not in- 
 terfere to procure you the satisfaction of leading a single life, 
 believe me," said the king, " especially since you are so un- 
 kindly disposed towards me." 
 1 " Towards you, sire ! " 
 
 " Ay : you told me just now that you hated all men ! " 
 
LOUISE OF LOR&AINE. 233 
 
 " Except my king," rejoined Louise. 
 
 " You are very kind, to make an exception in my 
 favor." 
 
 " One must love the king," observed Louise ; " it would 
 be treason not to do so." 
 
 " I fear there are many traitors in France, 5 ' was the 
 rejoinder. 
 
 " I am not among them, sire, I protest to you," said 
 Louise, earnestly raising her eyes to his face. 
 
 The king thought her very charming, and resolved to 
 carry on the dialogue with the lovely petitioner. 
 
 " Come, give me some proofs of your loyalty; " said he. 
 
 " In the first place, sire, I always pray for you." 
 
 " Good ; but how long have you done that ? " 
 
 " Ever since the death of your royal brother, King 
 Charles." 
 
 " Humph ! a whole fortnight," said the king. u But, 
 Louise," he inquired, after a pause, " what are your objec- 
 tions to the Count de Brienne? " 
 
 " Sire, they are innumerable. He is old, ugly, formal, 
 and very disagreeable ; and if your majesty will not, in cha- 
 rity, find some- way of delivering me from his pertinacity, I 
 shall be compelled to vow myself a nun, which I would 
 rather not do." 
 
 " Well," said the king, " there are three ways in which 
 I can work your deliverance. In the first place, I can rake 
 up an old ofience of his against my brother Francis, which, 
 I think, with a little straining of evidence will enable me to 
 bring him to the block." 
 
 " Sire, I do not wish you to take his wretched life." 
 
234: LOUISE OF LORRAINE. 
 
 " Shall I interrupt the ceremony, then, by arresting your 
 cruel father, and sending him to the Bastile ? 55 
 
 " Not for a thousand worlds ! 55 
 
 " Then, only one alternative is left : I must find a more 
 agreeable husband for you. 55 
 
 Louise began to weep afresh. " Have I not told you, 
 sire, that I hate men ! 55 
 
 " Humph ! I thought you made one exception ! 55 observed 
 the king, looking into her eyes. 
 
 " Yes, one only. 55 
 
 " Positively, you flatter me too highly.' 5 
 
 " But, sire, 55 supplicated Louise, " you will deliver me 
 from the Count de Brienne ? 55 
 
 " Have I not obligingly offered to cut off the tiresome old 
 fellow's head for you ? 55 
 
 " All I ask, my liege, is that you would but condescend to 
 forbid the marriage. 5 ' 
 
 " Well, I promise will that content you ? Have you 
 any other request to prefer ? " 
 
 " Sire, you are very gracious, and embolden me to implore 
 of you to favor the marriage between Joyeuse and my sister 
 Marguerite. 55 
 
 " Are the parties agreed ? 55 
 
 " Sire, they love each other to distraction. 55 
 
 " More fools they ! What are the obstacles to their 
 union ? 55 
 
 " The cruel opposition of his father, sire. 5 
 
 " I will engage to procure his consent. 55 
 
 " How very amiable your majesty is ! 55 
 
 " You are a charming girl, 55 said the king, smiling ; 
 
LOUISE OF LORRAINE. 235 
 
 " but have you no love affair of your own, Louise, in which 
 I could stand your friend ? " continued he, regarding her 
 with a penetrating look. 
 
 u Alas, no ! " replied Louise. 
 
 " You have no wish to be married, then ? " 
 
 " None. 35 
 
 " Farewell then, for the present. Remember, you may 
 rely on me." 
 
 Louise pressed the hand of her sovereign to her lips, 
 courtesied, and withdrew. 
 
 The Due de Mercoeur, fearing resistance on the part of 
 the reluctant bride, came himself to conduct her into the 
 royal presence. 
 
 Her serene demeanor surprised him, as he had expected 
 to find her in agonies of despair. However, he made no 
 remark on the alteration in her deportment ; but concluding 
 that the new and costly additions to her bridal jewels, which 
 he had deemed it expedient for his duchess to present to her, 
 on account of the share the sovereign was about to take in 
 the ceremonial, had the effect of reconciling Louise to her 
 marriage with the Count de Brienne, he took her by the 
 hand, and, followed by Marguerite, proceeded to the chapel. 
 
 u May it please your, majesty," said the Due de Mer- 
 coeur, leading the blushing girl to his sovereign's feet, " this 
 damsel is my eldest daughter, whom I have now the honor 
 of presenting to you. Louise, perform your homage to your 
 royal master." 
 
 Louise would have knelt and kissed the king's hand, but 
 the monarch, gracefully preventing her, saluted her on the 
 cheek. 
 
236 LOUISE OF LORE NE. 
 
 " You are very fortunate, my lord duke," observed he, 
 u in being the father of so charming a daughter." 
 
 " Sire, you make us only too proud," said the duke, " this 
 is the maiden, my liege, whom you were graciously pleased 
 to promise to bestow in marriage on the Count de Brienne." 
 
 " Indeed ! " exclaimed the king, who had continued to 
 gaze on the trembling Louise, with manifest admiration. 
 " Did I really make so rash a promise ? " 
 
 " Upon the honor of a peer of France, you did, my 
 liege," said the duke. 
 
 " Nay, then it was before I had seen the maiden, or I 
 never could have promised to give her to another ;" returned 
 the enamoured monarch. 
 
 " To another," cried her father, advancing a step forward. 
 " What mean you, sire ?" 
 
 " My meaning is so honest, I care not to disguise it," 
 replied the king. " Louise of Lorraine Vaudemont, speak 
 out truly. Are you contracted in marriage to the Count de 
 Brienne?" 
 
 " My gracious sovereign, I am not under contract of mar- 
 riage, to him or any one," replied Louise. 
 
 " Do you wish to become his wife ? " 
 
 " No no no ! " returned she with great earnestness. 
 
 " How is this, my lord duke ? " demanded the king, turn- 
 ing with a stern countenance to the Due de Mercosur. 
 
 " My liege, this is sheer perversity on the part of the 
 damsel," muttered the duke. " Had it not been for your 
 arrival last night, sire, she had now been his wedded wife." 
 
 " I know not how maidens are wedded in the provinces," 
 observed the king, " but in my good city of Paris, and 
 
LOUISE CF LORRAINE. 237 
 
 every where else, where the law of God is obeyed, a mar- 
 riage cannot be contracted without the consent of both par- 
 ties, and your daughter, it seems, has not given hers to wed 
 the Count de Brienne." 
 
 " Nor ever will ! " said Louise. 
 
 " Then I forbid the marriage," said the king. 
 
 " My liege, is this a meet return for the hospitable enter- 
 tainment you have received at Vaudemont, to deprive me of 
 so honorable a son-in-law as the Count de Brienne ?" said 
 the Due de Mercoeur. 
 
 " My lord duke, I trust to provide you with one whose 
 alliance even you shall admit to be not less honor able. " 
 
 " But my liege " interrupted the duke with some 
 
 heat. 
 
 " Nay," replied Henry, " wait till you hear his name, 
 and then speak your pleasure ; but first I crave conference 
 with the young lady herself, for we would not press the suit, 
 unless assured from her own lips that the new candidate for 
 her love will be agreeable to her." Then, taking Louise by 
 the hand, he led her aside from the company, and when they 
 were at a convenient distance to speak without being over- 
 heard, he said, " Louise of Lorraine, are you willing to be- 
 come the bride of him who holds your hand in his ? " 
 
 "Oh, my dread lord ! " cried she, trembling with emo- 
 tion, " how is that to be ? " 
 
 " I did not ask you that, Louise ; I only require of you a 
 plain answer to my question. Are you willing to become 
 my wife ? " 
 
 " Your wedded wife, iry lord ? " 
 
 " Ay, my queen." 
 
238 LOUISE OF LORRAINE. 
 
 " Oh, my royal lord, how can the simple Louise of Lor- 
 raine support that awful name and dignity ? " 
 
 " Enough, enough," said the king. " Now my lord 
 duke," pursued he, leading Louise to her father, " what say 
 you to your sovereign for a son-in-law 1 " 
 
 " Your majesty is pleased to jest with me." 
 
 " Nay, I am perfectly serious, and I who might demand, 
 request your consent to my marriage with your daughter." 
 
 " The blood of Charlemagne is in the maiden's veins, my 
 liege, and if she be your wife, she must also be your 
 queen." 
 
 " She shall, my lord, and this day three weeks she shall be 
 crowned, and anointed with me in the Cathedral of Rheims," 
 replied the king. 
 
 " Then she is yours, my lioge," said the duke. 
 
 " Priests, draw up a solemn contract of betrothment," said 
 the king ; then turning to the Count de Brienne, who stood 
 gnawing his embroidered glove with a malcontent counte- 
 nance, the monarch gaily added, " But for you my good 
 count, I scarcely know what I am to do to console you for 
 your present disappointment." 
 
 " I will settle that matter by giving him my second 
 daughter," said the duke. 
 
 " Not so fast, my lord duke," cried the king, " I have 
 another alliance in view for the sister of our gracious queen. 
 The Lady Marguerite of Lorraine must not be wedded to 
 any man unmeet to be the brother-in-law of his sovereign. 
 She is, moreover, contracted in marriage to my noble kins- 
 man Joyeuse." 
 
 " Your grace appears to be in possession of many particu- 
 
LOUISE OF LORRAINE. 239 
 
 lars relating to my family, of which I was in ignorance," 
 observed the Due de Mercoeur. 
 
 " Ay," replied the king, " and of some passages in the 
 past life of him who was to have been your son-in-law, which 
 haply, he would not thank me for disclosing. Nay, nay, 
 my lord of Brienne, never change your color thus, we are 
 willing to forget all past misdemeanors, provided you can 
 forgive us the loss of so fair a bride." 
 
 " My liege you have shown me my folly in aspiring to call 
 her my countess, to whom I now offer right humbly the 
 homage due from a subject to his queen," replied the Count 
 de Brienne ; and, with as good a grace as he could command, 
 he, in turn, affixed his sign manual in witness to his sover- 
 eign's contract with the fair Louise of Lorraine. 
 
 In three weeks from that day the contract was fulfilled by 
 the marriage of Louise to her sovereign. The alliance caused 
 some surprise at first ; but a new king and a handsome king 
 is generally & privileged person in France ; and the beauty 
 and feminine graces of the young queen made her an object 
 of universal interest and unbounded popularity with the good 
 people of Paris, a popularity which her virtue rendered 
 permanent. 
 
240 TO THE SONS OF TEMPERANCE. 
 
 Z SMI 
 
 BY FANNY FORRESTER* 
 
 ON, brothers, on ! though the night be gone, 
 
 And the morning glory breaking ; 
 Though your toils be blest, ye may not r?.st, 
 
 For danger's ever waking. 
 Ye have spread your sail, ye have braved the gale 
 
 And a calm o'er the sea is creeping ; 
 iut I know by the sky that danger's nigh 
 
 There's yet no time for sleeping ! 
 
 Still dingy walls nurse midnight brawls; 
 
 Up from the vale is wreathing 
 A fatal cloud, the soul to shroud, 
 
 While man its poison's breathing, 
 Still vice is seen in glittering sheen, 
 
 In the ruby bubble laughing , 
 But Death his shrine has reared in wme: 
 
 And the young blood he is quaffing. 
 
 When the beaker's brim with rust is dim 
 
 Because no lip will press it ; 
 When the worm is dead, which ever fed 
 
 On the heart that dared caress it ; 
 When the gay false light of the eyes so bright 
 
 Be too true for thought to smother ; 
 When the art be losi, and the demon tossed, 
 
 And man tempt not his brother 
 
THE FEIMROSE. 241 
 
 Then, peaceful and blest, from toil ye may rest ; 
 
 Else, rest is but in heaven 
 For shame still lies in sad wet eyes, 
 
 Still hearts with wo are riven. 
 Then, brothers, on ! though the night be gone, 
 
 And the morning glory breaking ; 
 Though your toils be blest, ye may not rest. 
 
 For danger danger's waking ! 
 
 a 
 
 ASK me why I send you here, 
 
 This firstling of the infant year ; 
 
 Ask me why I send to you 
 
 This Primrose all be-pearled with dew ; 
 
 I straight will whisper in your ears, 
 
 The sweets of love are washed with tears : 
 
 Ask me why this flower doth show 
 
 So yellow, green, and sickly too j 
 
 Ask me why the stalk is weak, 
 
 And bending, yet it doth not break ; 
 
 I must tell you, these discover 
 
 What doubts and fears are in a lover. 
 
 THOMAS CAS 
 
242 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 BY HARRY SUNDERLAND. 
 
 MOST boys are inclined to be spendthrifts. Sixpences 
 and shillings burn holes in their pockets or slip through 
 their fingers like so much quicksilver. It was not so with 
 Ned Billings ; though this could hardly be placed to the 
 account of his over-carefulness of money ; for money was a 
 thing that rarely grew hot in his pockets or made his finger- 
 ends uneasy. Intemperance had brought his father to an 
 early grave ; and his sad-hearted mother was laid in her last 
 resting place ere he was five years old. From that time he 
 knew not the comforts of a home. An aunt gave him shelter 
 under her roof, and a seat at her table ; but both were 
 grudgingly bestowed. As for clothing, he had little beyond 
 what decency required. But Ned was a boy of a cheerful, 
 buoyant temper. He went singing and 'aughing on his way 
 through life, as happy, apparently, as if he were in the en- 
 joyment of every external comfort. The common school of 
 the village in which he lived, afforded him the rudiments of 
 an education ; and, wild and apparently reckless as he was 
 out of school, he was rarely behind in his class. By the time 
 he was twelve years old, Ned's mind was very well furnished 
 for one of his age ; though, to judge from his exterior, he 
 
FIRST EARNINGS. 243 
 
 would hardly have been thought competent to spell a word in 
 three syllables. 
 
 The older the lad grew, the less comfortable did he find his 
 home, and the more clearly did he perceive that his support 
 was felt as a burden by his aunt, who hardly ever gave him a 
 pleasant word. This was the state of affairs when, one day, 
 as Ned was strolling idly along, a boy several years older, 
 named Andrew Chester, the son of a storekeeper, who had 
 been sent to carry a pretty heavy bundle to a customer who 
 lived at some distance, called to him and said, 
 
 " I'll give you a shilling if you'll take this home." 
 
 "Agreed!" was Ned's instant reply. " Where is it to 
 go?" 
 
 " Over to Hargrove's." 
 
 Ned took hold of the bundle, and lifted it. The weight 
 was considerable for one of his strength, and the distance to 
 go was over a mile ; But, this caused no hesitation. A 
 shilling was an amount of money so far beyond any thing he 
 had ever possessed, that the temptation was not to be resisted. 
 
 " I'll stay here and play ball until you come back," said 
 Andrew, as he helped to place the bundle on Ned's shoulders. 
 " I've got the shilling all ready for you." And he displayed 
 the money before the eyes of the poor boy. 
 
 Ned started off at a quick pace ; but he had gone only a 
 few hundred yards when he found himself staggering under a 
 weight that was too much for his strength. Aware that if 
 he laid it down in order to rest, he would not be able to re- 
 place it on his shoulder again, he braced himself under his 
 burden, and m^ved along as rapidly as he could walk. But, 
 ere a third of the distance was accomplished, his strength 
 
244 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 failed, and bundle and boy both fell upon the ground. After 
 resting for ten minutes, Ned made an effort to raise his 
 burden ; but the attempt was fruitless. A ma. 1 ? passing at 
 the time gave him the required assistance, and once more he 
 started on his errand. The next resting place for his bundle 
 was on a fence ; a hundred yards further on a tall stump 
 seryed the same purpose. And thus, pausing to rest himself 
 and recover his strength, every twenty or thirty yards, he 
 succeeded in accomplishing the whole distance. 
 
 When Ned came back, Andrew Chester, who had enjoyed 
 his ball-playing for nearly an hour, paid over the shilling ac- 
 cording to agreement. The sight of this money a large 
 sum in the lad's eyes affected him with a new pleasure. 
 Here were his first earning? and, as he looked at the coin, 
 different thoughts from any he had heretofore known, began 
 to pass through his mind. He felt that he had in him the 
 power to be independent. He had hands to work, feet to 
 walk, and a willing mind. 
 
 Ned's first earnings were not spent m gratifying his appe- 
 tite. He had worked too hard for his shilling to part with it 
 lightly. Again and again he looked at the money, and, each 
 time he surveyed it, it appeared more attractive in his eyes. 
 At last it was carefully deposited in his pocket, to be more 
 carefully hidden away in the little garret where he slept, on 
 his return home. 
 
 For half the night Ned lay awake, his mind too busy with 
 the new thoughts which had entered it to sink into the 
 oblivion of sleep. The world was opening before him, young 
 as he was. He saw paths in which his feet could walk ; and 
 he felt eager !x> move in them. On the next morning, after 
 
FIRST EARNINGS. 245 
 
 taking a glance at his shilling, he started forth, and going to 
 the store of Mr. Chester, saw Andrew, and asked him if he 
 would have any more bundles for him to carry. The father 
 of Andrew Chester, though in very good circumstances, had 
 no idea of raising his son in idleness. He knew the value of 
 industrious habits, and, in order to form them in Andrew, 
 who was disposed to be indolent, he took him from school 
 when he was fifteen, and placed him in his store. The lad 
 was very well pleased with the change at first, for he did not 
 much like his books. But he soon grew weary of attending 
 in the store and carrying home goods to customers, and 
 whenever an opportunity offered, endeavored to escape from 
 the duties required of him. As his father let him have money 
 pretty freely, he did not value it much ; and had parted will- 
 ingly enough with a shilling in order to escape carrying a 
 heavy bundle for a long distance, while, at the same time, he 
 secured the pleasure of an hour's sport. 
 
 The application of Ned was favorably received by Andrew ; 
 and it was agreed between them, that the former should 
 receive three cents for every package he took home for the 
 latter, who, it must be understood, did not much like to be 
 seen carrying bundles of goods about the village. Ned, it 
 was also agreed, should be in waiting somewhere in the 
 neighborhood, and meet Andrew as soon as he came forth 
 with goods in his hands. While he conveyed them to the 
 customers, Andrew would be free to enjoy himself as he liked. 
 For three weeks this arrangement was continued. By this 
 time, Ned had over a dollar in his little treasury. Not a 
 single copper had he spent in any self-indulgence. But, a 
 change came over his golden dream Mr. Chester dis- 
 
246 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 covered what was going on, and, after severely reprimanding 
 Andrew, positively forbade him making any further delega- 
 tion of his work. Poor Ned was grievously disappointed 
 when this intelligence reached his ears. Already he had 
 begun to make calculations for the future. But the beauti- 
 ful castles he had built were but airy structures, and faded 
 away into nothingness. 
 
 The new ideas and purposes awakened in the mind of Ned 
 could not sleep again. They were ever present before his 
 mind. One day, a few weeks after the sudden closing of his 
 arrangement with Andrew Chester, he said to the relative 
 who had .given him with grudging a home, a Aunt, if you'll 
 give me some clothes, I'll go to New York and take care of 
 myself." 
 
 " To York ! " exclaimed the aunt, taken by surprise. 
 " What'll you do there ? " 
 
 " Work," was the confident reply. u I'm old enough and 
 strong enough." 
 
 " You don't know what you're talking about, Ned," petu- 
 lantly returned the aunt, who hardly ever gave the boy a 
 kind word. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I do," said Ned. a Only give me some decent 
 clothes, and I'll .never trouble you again as long as I live." 
 
 Ned continued to urge this point, day after day, until the 
 aunt, becoming convinced that he was really in earnest, 
 granted the request, A coarse suit of clothes was made up 
 for him, and a pair of shoes and a new hat bought. With 
 these, his dollar hid away in his pockets, as much money be* 
 sides as would pay stage hire to New^York, and his aunt's 
 blessing, such as it was, Ned turned his back upon his home 
 
FIRST EARNINGS. 247 
 
 and his face to the world, feeling strong and confident. A 
 few hours' ride brought him to the great city. Never had 
 he felt so much alone as he did while wandering along the 
 crowded streets, which he did until the sober hues of even- 
 ing reminded him that he had no where to lay his head. By 
 this time ke was hungry and fatigued. Not a copper had 
 he spent since his arrival, notwithstanding the tempting 
 array of fruit and confectionery that met his eyes at almost 
 every turn. Now the calls of nature were not to be disre- 
 garded, and buying some buns, he seated himself on the 
 steps of a large house in the upper part of the city and 
 commenced eating his evening meal. While thus engaged, 
 a man stopped before him, and after looking at him for some 
 moments, said, as if satisfied with his observation, 
 
 " Eating your supper, I see." 
 
 Ned looked an affirmative, but made no reply. 
 
 " After supper, where do you expect to sleep ? " said the 
 man, leaning as he spoke upon the iron railing. 
 
 " I don't know," replied Ned. 
 
 " Don't know ! You're from the country ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " What brought you to town ? " 
 
 " I've come to get work and take care of myself." 
 
 " You have ! When did you come ? " 
 
 " To-day." 
 
 "Where from?" 
 a p ^5? 
 
 ;i Have you no friends in the city ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Are j :ur fath jr and mother alive I 9 * 
 
248 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 " No, sir. I've lived with my aunt ever since I was a 
 little boy." 
 
 " And did she let you come into the city to take care of 
 yourself?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Her affection for you must be strong," said the man, 
 half to himself. " Have you any money 1 " he added. 
 The boy hesitated a moment or two, and then replied, 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " How much ? " 
 
 " Seven shillings and six pence." 
 
 " Where did you get this money ? " 
 
 " I earned it." 
 
 " Since you came to the city ? " 
 
 " No, sir, I earned it in P . But, I couldn't get any 
 
 thing more to do there, and so I thought I'd come to New- 
 York where there was plenty of work." 
 
 Something about Ned interested the man, and as he lived 
 in the house, he said to him, after a hurried reflection as to 
 the propriety of doing so, 
 
 " Come in. I'd like to have some more talk with you." 
 
 Ned followed the man, who took him into his kitchen, and 
 told a servant to give him some supper ; and also to let him 
 remain there until he sent for him. 
 
 A further interview with the lad interested the man still 
 more. He was a lawyer named Folwell, who had risen from 
 a poor boy, through the force of his own character, to emi- 
 nence and fortune. 
 
 " The boy needs a friend, and if he be worthy, he shall 
 find one in me," said Mr. Folwell to himself after his second 
 
Of FIRST EARNINGS. 249 
 
 conference with Ned. Under this feeling, he gave him a 
 shelter under his roof for the night, and, on the next day 
 took him to his office in order more accurately to determine 
 what was in him. To his surprise, he found that Ned could 
 write a very fair hand, and could make ordinary calcula- 
 tions quite as wel. as most boys of his age. Moreover, he 
 was quick, earnest and intelligent ; and eager to enter upon 
 any employment that was assigned him. 
 
 " He's got the right kind of stuff in him," said Mr. 
 Folwell, after testing Ned's character and abilities in various 
 ways. " Just such a lad as I'd like to educate in my own 
 profession." 
 
 Of course Ned had no objection to any thing his new- 
 found friend had to propose. It was, therefore, settled, that 
 he should enter his service and give himself up implicitly to 
 his direction. 
 
 A year after Ned came to the city, Mr. Chester called 
 upon Mr. Folwell, and arranged with him that his son 
 Andrew should read law in his office. Up to this time, Ned 
 had found but few chances of adding to his first earnings 
 which had never been touched beyond the sixpence it cost 
 him for his supper on the evening of his first arrival in New- 
 York. Occasionally Mr. Folwell had given him a shilling to 
 spend for himself; but the little coin had, in no instance, 
 passed through his fingers, but was safely deposited to 
 swell the treasure he was hoarding. Andrew's arrival in the 
 city made a new era for Ned. Pocket-money had he in 
 profusion, and, as before, he availed himself of Ned's 
 readiness to perform almost any service, in order to gratify 
 his natural indolence. Dollars found their way now to the 
 
250 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 boy's accumulating fund more rapidly than shillings did 
 before. 
 
 " How much money have you, Ned ?" asked Andrew, one 
 day, after he had been a year in the city. 
 
 u Six dollars/' replied Ned. 
 
 " Lend it to me until week after next, and I'll pay you 
 back seven?" 
 
 Ned hesitated 
 
 " Don't be afraid. I'll pay it. You know I get money 
 from home every month." 
 
 " I'm not afraid," replied Ned. " I'll bring you the mo- 
 ney when I come from dinner." 
 
 This was done. The six dollars were lent, and seven paid 
 back, as agreed upon, at the time specified. Here was the 
 beginning of new operations. Andrew now spent his money 
 more freely, because he knew that when it was gone, he could 
 borrow from Ned until another supply came ; and the young 
 usurer was even more eager to lend than he was to borrow. 
 This had been going on for several months, when Mr. Fol- 
 well became aware of what was in progress. After a serious 
 conversation with Andrew upon the folly and danger of the 
 course of life he was adopting, he called Ned into his pri- 
 vate office, and after referring to the subject, said to him : 
 
 " Are you not aware that what you are doing is wrong ?" 
 
 " No, sir," replied Ned, looking Mr. Folwell, without a 
 quivering eyelid, in the face. 
 
 u It is, Edward, very wrong ; for you are taking advan- 
 tage of Andrew's weakness and prodigal habits, to get his 
 money from him. I understand, that for five dollars lent to 
 him for a week or two, he pays you six dr liars. Is this so V 9 
 
iflRST EARNINGS. 251 
 
 " Yes, sir. He offered me that." 
 
 " But it was wrong for you to take it. You should have 
 been willing to oblige him without the exaction of this exor- 
 bitant interest. Where did you get so much money to 
 lend?" 
 
 " I had seven shillings and sixpence when I came here, and 
 you have given me a good many shillings since." 
 
 " Hav'n't you spent anything?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " But 1 hav'n't given you enough to make the sum of mo- 
 ney I learn you have in possession." 
 
 " No, sir. But, since Andrew has been in New York, he 
 has paid me a good deal for doing things for him." 
 
 u How much has he paid you for lending him money?" 
 
 " Six dollars," replied Ned, after thinking for a few mo 
 ments. 
 
 " Six dollars !" Mr. Folwell shook his head and looked 
 grave. " I don't like this at all. It's the worst thing I've 
 seen about you, Edward." 
 
 " If I've done wrong, I'm sorry," said Ned, his face be- 
 coming serious. " I didn't know there was any harm in it." 
 
 " There is -always harm in seeking our own good through 
 injury to another," replied Mr. Folwell. " This you have 
 done in taking the money of Andrew for a little service that 
 you ought to have cheerfully rendered him. It put you to 
 no inconvenience whatever in doing the favor he asked of you ; 
 but you would not grant it unless paid a most exorbitant 
 price. Sheer selfishness and not a spirit of good-will influ- 
 enced you. Thus your heart was hardened towards your fel- 
 low's, instead of being filled with kindness. This is a wrong 
 
252 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 beginning, my boy, and will lead you to grow up into 
 a man of oppression. Why are you hoarding up your 
 money?" 
 
 " I'm going to keep it until I become a man." 
 
 What for V 9 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 Mr. Folwell shook his head. 
 
 " I don't like this, Edward, at all. It isn't good to love 
 money for itself. Money is the medium of usefulness in so- 
 ciety, and should be accumulated and used as the means of 
 accomplishing some desired purpose. To gather and hoard 
 it as an object of possession is wrong. No one can do it and 
 not become a selfish, bad man. I want you to think of this. 
 To-morrow I will talk to you again." 
 
 Ned's mind was thrown all into confusion by this unex- 
 pected reproof from M^ Folwell. At first, he could not un- 
 derstand the meaning of the strange language that had been 
 used ; but, as he thought of it more and more, a dim percep- 
 tion of the truth began to dawn. On the next day Mr. Fol- 
 well again referred to the subject, and succeeded in making a 
 stronger impression on the mind of the lad. From that time 
 he observed him more closely, and sought, in every possible 
 way, to give him higher and truer views in regard to the use 
 of money. He induced him to spend a portion of what he had 
 accumulated in articles that he could use in the better fur- 
 nishing of his mind. For instance, he offered to pay for mu- 
 sical instruction if Edward would buy himself a flute. It 
 cost the boy a struggle to do this ; but, after it was done, and 
 he commenced taking lessons, he by no means regretted the 
 act. Thus, by ever keeping his mind on the boy's particu- 
 
FIRST EARN;,N&S. 253 
 
 lar. bias of character, Mr. Folwell was able to bend it into a 
 
 ' 
 
 better form ere it had hardened into permanency. 
 
 As for Andrew Chester, his indolence and tendency to self- 
 indulgence were so great that little promise of future use- 
 fulness was apparent. When he was old enough to be ad- 
 mitted to the Bar, he had nothing like the legal knowledge 
 possessed by Edward Billings. In his first case, he paid the 
 latter for searching out the legal authorities required for its 
 successful presentation to the Court; and gained his cause 
 alone through the aid received from a stripling, three years' 
 younger than himself. The money received for prosecuting 
 this case, constituted Andrew Chester's first earnings. 
 
 " Do you see that, Ned," said he, exhibiting a fifty dollar 
 bank bill in triumph. 
 
 Edward Billings opened his eyes. 
 
 " There's my first fee ! A good beginning, is not it ? 
 I'm off for Saratoga to-morrow, and don't mean to come back 
 while a dollar of it remains." 
 
 " I would'nt do that," said Edward. 
 
 " Why would'nt you ?" quickly asked Andrew. 
 
 " Of all money, I would'nt waste my first earnings. Keep 
 them as a nest-egg." 
 
 " You're a miser, Ned. A real money-lover." 
 
 " I'm not a money-waster. Dollars don't come so easily 
 that I can afford to throw them away. But, if you will spend 
 your first fee, do it in some useful way. Buy your mother or 
 sister a present ; or spend it in law books. Any thing but 
 waste it in self-indulgence." 
 
 " Don't preach to me, Ned," replied Andrew, laughing. 
 " My mother and sisters doir t want any of my presents ; and 
 
54 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 father has promised me a five hundred dollar library. Pm 
 off for Saratoga ; that's settled. " I mean to have a good 
 time on my first fee." 
 
 And Andrew kept his word. When he came back, every 
 dollar of his first earnings were spent, and he applied to 
 Edward Billings for a loan. When the latter was admitted 
 to the Bar, Andrew had obtained a very fair practice for the 
 time he had been in the profession ; but it cost him three 
 times what he earned to live. His father, of course, made up 
 the deficiency. 
 
 Very different from this was Edward's manner of com- 
 mencing the world. He understood too well the value of mo- 
 ney to waste it in mere idle pleasure and personal gratifica- 
 tion. The first fee he received was twenty dollars. Instead 
 of spending it, as Andrew had done, he laid it carefully away 
 to help serve as the means of his support ; for, from the time 
 of his admission to the bar, he had felt under obligation to 
 meet entirely his own expenses. A natural feeling of inde- 
 pendence would not permit him any longer to lean upon his 
 kind patron. His careful habits had, during his minority, 
 enabled him to save up about sixty dollars, which now came 
 in as a temporary means of self-sustenance. Mr. Folwell, 
 who had availed himself of his services for so many years, 
 still retained theiu so a certain extent, and the regular amount 
 paid to Edward for this service, helped him considerably. 
 
 A few years showed the result of the different modes of en- 
 tering the world pursued by the two young men. He who 
 spent, foolishly, his first earnings, continued to waste what 
 came in subsequently ; and he, who was careful of his first- 
 earnings, continued to be careful of his after receipts. 
 
FIRST EARNINGS. 255 
 
 About the time Andrew reached his twenty-seventh 
 year, his father died ; and, on the division of his property, 
 twelve thousand dollars came to him as his share of the 
 
 estate. This was in two houses in P and a farm in the 
 
 neighborhood. Scarcely a week elapsed after this division 
 took place, before Andrew applied to Edward Billings for a 
 loan of one thousand dollars on a mortgage of the farm. The 
 latter had the money in bank and took the mortgage. This 
 money he had saved from his professional earnings. Andrew 
 might have laid up money also ; but as he spent his first 
 earnings, so he continued to spend. Ten years afterwards, 
 and Edward Billings was worth twenty thousand dollars, 
 while Andrew Chester was not worth a penny. Each had 
 gone on as he began, and here was the result. Disheartened 
 by this result, Chester, who had acquired dissolute habits, 
 fell into intemperance, and gradually sunk lower and lower, 
 until he became a social cast-off a wretched cumberer of the 
 ground. And thus he died in the prime of manhood. 
 
 Edward Billings still lives, and is one of the most intelli- 
 gent and successful members of the bar in the state of Ne^r 
 York. He has acquired large wealth ; and, he has gained it 
 fairly. The error into which his love of accumulation first 
 led him, was properly corrected at the time, when a new and 
 healthier form was given to his growing character. 
 
 Few men succeed who do not begin right. Early errors 
 are too frequently reproduced in all the after life. This 
 wasting of first earnings is one of these errors. Let all who 
 are entering the world beware how they fall into it. 
 
256 THE I ESERTED HOUSE. 
 
 B2S3EX3B 3EQV83 
 
 BY R. H. STODDARD. ' 
 
 THE Old House lies in ruin and wreck, 
 And the villagers stand in fear aloof; 
 The rafters bend, and the roof is black, 
 But bright green mosses spot the roof; 
 The window panes are shattered out, 
 And the broken glass is lying about, 
 And the elms and poplars cast a shade 
 All day long on the colonnade. 
 
 The lawn in front with its sloping bank; 
 
 A garden sweet in its happier hours, 
 Is covered with weeds, and grasses rank 
 
 Usurp the place of its faded flowers : 
 Adders bask in the summer sun, 
 And rusty toads and beetles run 
 Over the paths, the gravelly floor 
 Where children played in the days of yore. 
 
 A light wind bloweth the front door swings 
 And creeks on its hinges the sun lies there* 
 
 There's a web stretched over it full of wings, 
 And the spider watches within his lair. 
 
 I see the staircase slant, and wide 
 
 Floating along from room to room ; 
 
 The floor is covered with damp and mould, 
 
 And he dust floats up like a mist of gold 
 
THE DESERTED HOUSE. 257 
 
 I hear a noise in the echoing hall, 
 
 A solemn sound like a stifled sigh ; 
 And shadows move on the dusky wall 
 
 Like the sweep of garments passing by; 
 
 *#*#*## 
 
 And faces glimmer amid the gloom, 
 The Dead comes back, a shining train, 
 And people the lonely House again. 
 
 I seen a beautiful Lady bright, 
 
 Stand at her mirror with conscious pride, 
 
 Decked with ornaments, gems of light, 
 And robed in white like a lovely Bride ; 
 
 And her young sisters, blithe and fair, 
 
 Are twining flowers in her wavy hair. 
 
 And, lo ! another unseen before 
 
 The Bridegroom peeping in at the door! 
 
 Yule! the walls are covered with holly, 
 
 And a mistletoe bough is hung on high. 
 The wassail passes the men are jolly, 
 
 Kissing the blushing maids a-sly; 
 The old folks sit by the crackling blaze, 
 Living over their early days, 
 The children chatter and laugh in glee, 
 And the. baby crows on its grand-sire's knee. 
 
 And now 'tis Summer, and children sing. 
 
 And hide in corners and shady nooks, 
 And sit on the floor in a little ring, 
 
 And one in the middle reads fairy books. 
 Twilight comes and they cease their play, 
 And crowd at their n other's side to pray, 
 And kneel, and after their prayers are said, 
 Kiss he. and huddle away to bed. 
 
258 THE DESERTED HOUSE. 
 
 But gloomier pictures come with years 
 
 The sick man lies on a bed of pain, 
 And the pale wife sits by his side in tears, 
 
 Watching his broken sleep in vain - 
 In vain ! for his days on earth are done ; 
 And the falling sands of his life are run : 
 A kiss a smile and the soul is fled, 
 And the living is left alone with the dead. 
 
 A funeral now in the darkened hall, 
 
 The mourners gather around the bier, 
 And look their last, and the children small 
 Peep in the coffin and shrink with fearj 
 The body is borne with tears and wo 
 Down the shaded avenue slow, 
 Down to the gates where the mutes await, 
 And the plumed hearse and its sable state. 
 
 The House is quiet and sleeps in gloom. 
 
 The mirth and revel of yore have fled, 
 The widow sits in the silent room, 
 
 And dreams of the dear departed Dead, 
 Fast by the magic of Memory bound . 
 And the books and the gifts around, 
 Deepen the spell, and more than all 
 His portrait, hung on the sombre wall. 
 
 The shadows thicken a gloomy train, 
 Sorrow and sickness death the pal 1 
 
 Sorrow and sickness death again 
 The shade of his wing is over all 
 
 Right and left his arrows fly : 
 
 One by one the family die ; 
 
 And the Old House falleth in decay, 
 
 And wastes with the silent years awnv 
 
THE BODY AGAINST THE SOUL. 259 
 
 BY J. A. STONE. 
 
 k< THE spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak, 55 is the lan- 
 guage of the holy word. And in all our little indulgences 
 of life, too true it is, that we seem to lose the abstract sense 
 of what we are. We seem to forget how brief and how 
 fleeting is time ; and to hoard up the little pleasures of our 
 short day on earth, as though they were truly the end and 
 aim of our creation. Slowly and imperceptibly does pleasure, 
 thus pampered and indulged, win the affections ; and when 
 at last, startled by its advances, we would shake off its hold, 
 we find it clinging with a tenacity, that evinces its iron- 
 grasp upon our animal nature. The spirit and the con- 
 science yet incline us heavenward ; but the flesh has its 
 appetites, and we have perhaps too long granted them indul- 
 gence too long warred against that Spirit which shall not 
 wrestle with us always. The flesh is emphatically too weak 
 to break off the strong bonds of habit. 
 
 Pleasure, however, as we use the term, needs defining. In 
 kind, and as distinguished by its object, it is either true or 
 false. We will venture to assume the ground, that wher- 
 ever and in whatsoever it is sought for its own sake alone, it 
 is false pleasure. Its true nature pure, joyous, delightful 
 
260 THE BODY AGAINST THE SOUL. 
 
 springs out of the faithful performance of the duties of 
 life. It is found with the Christian, and the doer of good 
 deeds, in a sense differing from the delights of the debauchee 
 and pleasure-hunter, " as the real diamond differs from the 
 paste." In our use of the term, we allude to what we deem 
 its false representative. 
 
 Among all the avenues through which pleasure is sought, 
 perhaps none opens so wide a path as Intemperance. This 
 leads in fact into every other. It prepares the mind for 
 them, by dulling its perceptions of truth and reason, and, in 
 an imperceptible manner, drawing a slow-gathering mist over 
 those divine powers and soul-longings which God has im- 
 planted, and gradually obscuring from the sight the goal to 
 to which Heaven is pointing. 
 
 It is perhaps a settled maxim, that man is never satisfied 
 with what earth can yield him ; and the possession of one 
 world but increaseth his want for another, mightier than the 
 one he hath. In this truth, how beautifully revealed is that 
 mysterious, immortal thirst, which can never be quenched 
 but by an immortal dra.ught ; and which, mistaking that 
 fountain-spring, that " well of life, 55 whence alone flows 
 the full and copious supply, drains every cup that time 
 can fill finds each a poison to his blood, that makes him 
 thirst the more. Thus, Napoleon-like, man climbs the gid- 
 diest height, grasps an imperial crown, holds the rein of 
 empires in his hand and yet, is not satisfied. " And what 
 shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world and lose his 
 own soul ? " 
 
 Kings and conquerors in every age have drunk the wine 
 of debauch. As ambition has found ita check in the sober* 
 
viE BODY AGAINST THE SOUL. 261 
 
 ness of reason and unp^.soned thought, men have fancied 
 weariness, and sought refreshment in the pleasures of wine. 
 It was a restlessness of conscience, and the remedy was 
 found in a fresh supply of the stimulus which fires the 
 " spirit of the damned" a new invigoration of the prompt- 
 ings of " the evil one." It was pleasure's game on a grand 
 scale. But whether this subtle conspirator with the devil 
 act upon men of exalted, or upon men of degraded rank, it 
 ever exerts a demoralizing influence ; it is ever destructive 
 to religious feeling. Its influence is felt, not only by the 
 individual upon whom it more specially acts, but also by 
 those who are drawn by his example. It is slowly corrupt- 
 ing ; insidiously leading astray from rectitude and virtue ; 
 arraying vice in its most dazzling colors ; and luring on step 
 by step to the dark mazes of that dismal night, in which the 
 soul finally loses the sense of its own high destiny. 
 
 As the love of money is the root of all evil, so is-the love of 
 alcohol the root of every vice. Not that crime is never com- 
 mitted without its agency, any more than other forms of evil 
 never arise unless the love of money be the exciting cause ; 
 but rather that every species of vice and crime is found to 
 spring from this source, as every species of evil is known to 
 come from the love of money. But, while the one confers 
 many advantages, the other is attended with none. While 
 the love of money is often followed by blessings, the love of 
 alcohol is ever a withering curse. Where money circulates 
 freely in a community, it is a sign of prosperity, life, and bu- 
 siness ; but where alcohol circulates freely, it is a sign of ad- 
 versity, death, and stagnation of the general Dulse. While 
 one procures the blessings of a temporal home, the other pur- 
 
262 THE BODY AGAINST THE SOUL. 
 
 cnases the curses of Heaven, and an eternal inheritance for a 
 ruined soul. And can the good and the wise longer behold 
 inhere it works, and how it works upon the mind and condi- 
 tion of man, and what have evej been its effects, and yet re- 
 main its advocates, or even its lukewarm opponents ? Can 
 they behold it everywhere on every side the right hand tool 
 >.f vice, without which its activity would be largely diminish- 
 ed ; a tool that carves its lines of moral death upon the soul 
 as legibly as the chisel traces its epitaph upon the tombstone ; 
 an elixir that fires every vein and sinew of the human frame 
 into open rebellion against the warnings of the spirit ? can 
 they see all this, and yet fail to raise hand and voice against 
 the deadly peril ? 
 
 What strenuous efforts are deemed necessary to guard the 
 health of the body against the infection of disease. Even a 
 morbid sensibility sometimes seizes the minds of individuals 
 and of communities. The sick are often left without attend- 
 ance from fear of contagion. A vessel whose unhappy in- 
 mates are infected with " ship-fever" or other pestilence, is 
 thrust from our harbors, until the danger to the community 
 subsides. And certainly, a due regard to public health is 
 imperative in those vested with authority in the premises. If 
 the virulent matter of merely bodily corruption and disease, 
 could be bottled up and distributed among numerous depots, 
 throughout every city, town and village in the country ; and 
 there uncorked to send forth :'ts poisonous effluvia to infect the 
 pure air of heaven ; or in some pleasing mixture, be sold as a 
 " cordial for the ills of life ;" the good and the wise nay, 
 the overwhelming mass of mankind would rise in arms, and 
 cry out tha* some fiend incarnate had been sending forth the 
 
THE BODY AGAINST THE SOUL. 263 
 
 legions of hell to war upon the habitations of men, and to ex- 
 terminate tli^m from the earth. 
 
 But what is the practical lesson here taught ? That men 
 live for their body's sake, more than for their soul's : for al- 
 cohol is this " virulent matter," with one addition to its pow- 
 er. If it be an atoning one, let good men judge. It is not 
 only as deadly to the body, but it moreover destroys the soul. 
 
 Is it not singular, that men are so sensitive to every pin's 
 scratch in the flesh, and yet can remain so insensible to the 
 dagger-wounds upon their spiritual nature ? If professing 
 Christians, they must admit that this life is but a little span, 
 and that the body is but that corruptible part, which cannot 
 inherit the kingdom of heaven. It is but a seed sown in the 
 ground, that shall spring up in the eternal world, a tree bear- 
 ing good fruit or ill, according as the genial winds and gentle 
 dews of heaven, or the scorching blasts and poisoning vapors 
 of hell, may have triumphed in the garden where it was sown. 
 Though still its successor, yet not in the same unchanged 
 body shall it rise again. St. Paul .says : "But some man 
 will say, How are the dead raised up 1 And with what body 
 do they come '] Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not 
 quickened except it die : and that which thou sowest, thou 
 sowest not that body that shall be, but bare grain, it may 
 chance of wheat or of somo other grain ; but God giveth it a 
 body as it hath pleased Him, and to every seed his own 
 body. 55 Of how trifling importance then, in the abstract, is 
 that flesh which we pamper so indulgently, and which the 
 Scripture teaches should be crucified in its desires and appe- 
 tites and longings and self-consuming passions ; and, as a 
 thing of mortality that passes away, be brought into subor- 
 
264 THE BODY AGAINST THE SOUL. 
 
 dination to the high, immortal interests of the soul ! Let it 
 never be forgotten, that all apparent sacrifice required in this 
 is real gain. The entire man is so made, as best to perfect 
 his physical as well as mental organization in the pure at- 
 mosphere of virtue. There is, in their harmony of action, a 
 genial intercourse and sympathy between the material and 
 spiritual nature. But, if the spirit be neglected, the flesh is 
 like a hard-working machine, from whose journals and bear- 
 ings the oil is withheld, so that it is soon consumed with its 
 own friction. Thus, to the argument of the soul's, then, is 
 added that of more invigorated bodily health we might add, 
 of growing wealth and happiness : and surely, all these ought 
 to be sufficient to overcome the strongest natural proneness 
 to Intemperance and its attending vices. 
 

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