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LIBRARY 
 Y OF CALIFORNIA 
 DAVIS 
 
SEED-TIME AM) HARVEST; 
 
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 BY T. S. ARTUUK. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 J. B, LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
 
 1864. 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 WSriVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 DAVIS 
 
Entered according to act of Congress, tn the year 1851, by 
 
 T. 8. ARTIIU3. 
 
 In the Clerk'e Office of the District Court ot the Eastern District of 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE title of this book explains with sufficient clear- 
 ness the important doctrine it is designed to teach. 
 " Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap/' 
 is a truth that must be palpable to every one of sound 
 mind ; for an effect always bears in it the quality of 
 its cause. If men's actions are governed by selfish 
 and evil purposes, a re-action of evil will follow as 
 certainly as like produces like. From this law of ex- 
 istence there is no escape; and, this being so, every 
 wise man will take heed unto his ways. 
 
 The illustrations of our subject presented in this vo- 
 lume, the ninth of the "LIBRARY FOR THE HOUSEHOJ-D," 
 are not a tithe of what might be given. Enough is 
 written, however, to make the truth we wo ild teacti so 
 plain that even he who runneth may read. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ACTION AND REACTION 7 
 
 A LIFE LESSON 24 
 
 UNFADING FLOWERS 42 
 
 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A CONSUMPTIVE: 
 
 Scene First 65 
 
 Scene Second 64 
 
 Scene Third 73 
 
 The Sequel 78 
 
 THE OVERPAID CHECK 83 
 
 THE Two ACTS ; OR, " THEY HAVE THEIR REWARD" 104 
 
 THE LOTTERY TICKET 120 
 
 THE MOTHER AND SON 137 
 
 BETTER TO ACT THE GENTLEMAN 160 
 
 PRINCIPLE AND INTEREST 172 
 
 Is IT SAFE? Is IT HONEST? 180 
 
 HARMLESS GLASS OF WINE 210 
 
 1* 6 
 
SEED-TIME AND HARVEST. 
 
 ACTION AND EEACTION. 
 
 THERE is a law governing in the affairs of life, 
 with its award of good or evil, according to the 
 tenor of every one's obedience or disregard thereto. 
 Ignorance of this law exempts no one from unhappy 
 consequences ; and yet at least four-fifths of the 
 human race appear to be utterly unconscious of its 
 existence. The law is that of action and reaction, 
 which may thus be stated, in order to make it clearly 
 comprehensible. 
 
 Every act of man's life, whether good or evil, has 
 a reaction of consequence. Whatever we do, affects 
 others or ourselves in some way; for there cannot 
 be such a thing as an act without an effect propor- 
 tionate to the action. 
 
 This, upon a little reflection, will appear sell- 
 evident. 
 
 7 
 
8 ACTION AND REACTION. 
 
 The importance of a life in obedience to this law 
 must strike every one at a glance, for happiness or 
 misery here and hereafter depends upon it. In 
 great things, so to speak, all see and acknowledge 
 the existence of the law we have stated ; for exam- 
 ples of its unerring visitation are of daily occur- 
 rence. How sad and various are the consequences 
 that flow back upon men for evil actions ! But in 
 little things, as they are called, where no violations 
 of penal statutes or public opinion take place, and 
 where no reaction is apparent, we imagine that none 
 will ever come ; that what they have done is but as 
 in a void immense. This is a fatal error. There is 
 not an act of a man's life, little or great, good or 
 bad, that does not, sooner or later in life, react 
 upon him with its full quota of consequences. A 
 philosopher has said that the stamp of a man's foot 
 upon the earth will shake the universe. The re- 
 mark is more likely to be true than false. We can 
 believe it more easily than we can disbelieve it. 
 And a single word, a look, or smallest act of a man's 
 life, forgotten by him in the next moment, may 
 shake his soul to the very centre. 
 
 Alonzo Turnham had never heard of the exist- 
 ence of the law to which we have alluded. But 
 that was of little consequence. He would not have 
 credited the fact, if he had heard it stated. The 
 law which he laid down for -his government was, to 
 geek his own gratification in all possible ways that 
 
ACTION AND REACTION. 
 
 it could be done, without so far trespassing upon 
 the rights of others as to give them the power of 
 retaliation. At the age of twenty-one, he started 
 in life with a determination to succeed in the world. 
 He saw that wealth gave the means of self-gratifica- 
 tion to almost any extent, and he resolved upon its 
 attainment. He had been for two years engaged in 
 the study of law; but the law he perceived to 
 be too slow a means of attaining the object of his 
 wishes, and he therefore began to look around him 
 for some quicker mode of advancement. He pos- 
 sessed some literary ability, and had indulged an 
 early passion for literary pursuits by writing for the 
 columns of a weekly newspaper. This made him, 
 to some extent, acquainted with individuals connected 
 with the press. Conversing, one day, with the 
 owner of a periodical, the latter enumerated many 
 instances of persons who had become wealthy in the 
 publishing business. Turnham caught at this, and 
 pondered it in his mind. He had a few thousand 
 dollars, with which, after mature deliberation, he 
 determined to purchase a half-interest in a newly- 
 started weekly paper, the projector of which found 
 himself in difficulties and compelled to take a 
 partner. 
 
 Upon this new pursuit in life, Turnham entered 
 with great spirit. There was a newspaper in the 
 city, of the same class. It had been in existence 
 for some years, and was firmly established. Before 
 
10 ACTION AND REACTION. 
 
 coming into the business himself, Mr. Turnham had 
 been a regular subscriber for this paper, and written 
 for its columns. He had always liked it, and con- 
 sidered it a very excellent publication. But now it 
 wore an indifferent aspect in his eyes, and he never 
 took it up without a disparaging remark. 
 
 " Isn't it astonishing," said he, to his partner in 
 the business, one day, " that a paper like this should 
 have such a circulation ? It isn't comparable with 
 ours/' 
 
 To this the partner readily assented. 
 
 Turnham commenced reading the number of the 
 paper upon which he had just commented. 
 
 " Just listen to this," said he, suddenly ; and he 
 read a few paragraphs. Then he added , " What 
 do you think of that ?" 
 
 "I shouldn't like to see that in our paper/' the 
 partner answered. 
 
 " No ; it's enough to kill any concern. I'm 
 sure that no parent, who sees it and reflects upon it, 
 will allow another number of the paper to come 
 into his house. Very certain am I, that I would 
 order a discontinuance instanter." 
 
 " So would I," returned the agreeing partner. 
 
 After sitting silent, with his eyes upon the floor, 
 for some time, Turnham said, speaking slowly 
 
 " It would be a capital move for us, just now, to 
 take this matter up, and remark with some severity 
 upon it." 
 
ACTION AND REACTION. 11 
 
 " And get a storm about our ears for our pains." 
 
 " There is nothing that I would like better. It 
 would be the very thing for us. We circulate six 
 or seven thousand, and they twenty thousand. The 
 controversy would make us known to all their 
 readers, and known as the advocates of religion and 
 a high morality. We should have the public all 
 on our side. Without doubt, in three months, their 
 list will diminish at least five thousand, perhaps 
 more, and ours increase that number. It is a tide 
 in our affairs, depend upon it, that we should take 
 at the flood. If you do not positively object, I will 
 fire a Paixhan gun upon them next week, and then 
 prepare my batteries for a regular fight." 
 
 " Just as you like," returned the pliant partner. 
 " There is no doubt of its doing us good." 
 
 " None in the world. This false step of our 
 neighbour is a lucky thing for us." 
 
 In the hope of building up his own establishment 
 by ruining his neighbour's, Turn ham opened upon 
 the rival newspaper, with his Paixhan gun, as he 
 called it, and then waited anxiously for the return 
 fire. A week then passed by, and, at length, wet 
 from the press, and, to his imagination, smoking 
 with wrath, came the paper he was so anxious to 
 Bee. lie opened it with eager hands, and, starting 
 at the first editorial column, ran his eyes over the 
 whole inside page, in search of the rejoinder he ex- 
 pected. But, to his mortification and disappoint- 
 
1*2 ACTION AND REACTION. 
 
 ment, not the slightest allusion was found to the 
 violent attack he made. But, in his search, one 
 paragraph, more conspicuous than all the rest, at- 
 tracted his attention. It was this : 
 
 " ENLARGEMENT. The publishers of this paper 
 have determined to enlarge and greatly improve it. 
 They have ordered an entire new font of type, and 
 will add a column to each page, and increase the 
 length of the pages several inches, so as to give at 
 least a third more reading matter. Their large and 
 rapidly increasing subscription list enables them to 
 do this. In advance of every other paper in the 
 country, it is their intention to keep in advance, 
 spite of all competition. To this they stand 
 pledged to the public, and prepared to redeem their 
 pledge." 
 
 Turnham read this over twice, and then laid aside 
 the paper, in a very quiet and deliberate manner. 
 He had been completely outgeneraled ; and he felt 
 it. Instead of breaking down his neighbour and 
 building up himself, his movement was likely to re- 
 sult in the establishment of his neighbour on a 
 broader basis, and the complete overshadowing of 
 his own concern, that would be in danger of grow- 
 ing feeble for want of sunshine. He took it for 
 granted that the determination to enlarge and im- 
 prove was the mode taken to answer his attack ; 
 and he was right. It was the reaction upon his 
 selfish attempt to ruin a neighbour, in order to build 
 up himself. 
 
ACTION AND REACTION. 13 
 
 Ashamed, after having written so warmly against 
 the rival establishment, and after promising to refer 
 to the subject again, to drop the matter, Turnham 
 concocted a still more bitter article, in the hope of 
 provoking a reply. To this, he received the effectual 
 and silencing rejoinder of an enlargement and im- 
 provement. The appearance of his neighbour, so 
 superior to his own, completely disheartened Turn- 
 ham. It was plain, that unless a paper of equal 
 pretensions were published, it would be of no use to 
 struggle for an existence. The list they had, by no 
 means justified increased expenses. The profits 
 were yet only in prospect. But it became a ques- 
 tion between enlargement and abandonment, and 
 they chose the former. 
 
 Not six months had elapsed from the time Turn- 
 ham entered the business of newspaper-publishing, 
 before he was heartily sick of it, and determined to 
 sell out his interest for the sum paid for it, which 
 was three thousand dollars more than double what 
 he now considered it worth. He had a young friend, 
 just of age, who had been smitten with a love of the 
 muses, and who imagined himself to possess literary 
 abilties of no common order. This person received, 
 at his majority, some six or seven thousand dollars, 
 the income from which partly contributed to his 
 support while he prosecuted the study of law. 
 
 Upon this young man, whose name was Wheeler, 
 rurnham fixed as the scapegoat who was to bear the 
 
 IX.-2 
 
14 ACTION AND REACTION. 
 
 evil of his false step. For a month or two he ma- 
 naged, whenever he met him, to turn the conversa- 
 tion to the subject of newspapers and periodicals, 
 and the fortunes that were every day made by pub- 
 lishers. His own fortune he considered as made, 
 for the paper of which he was part owner was in- 
 creasing in patronage almost beyond precedent. He 
 affirmed that ten thousand dollars would not tempt 
 him to sell his interest. 
 
 In this way he kept the young man's thoughts in 
 one channel, and filled him with a desire to exchange 
 the slowly-rewarded profession he had adopted for 
 one that promised such golden harvests. At length, 
 he vaguely hinted that, if he were not in so good a 
 business, he would be tempted to join a friend in 
 opening an office as an exchange-broker. An allu- 
 sion to this was more distinctly made soon after- 
 wards so distinctly, that the friend could not help 
 remarking thereon. 
 
 Finally, by gradual approaches on the subject, 
 and by a system of false representations ingeniously 
 made, Turnham created an eager desire in the mind 
 of Wheeler to buy out his half-interest in the paper, 
 and actually to make a proposition to that effect. 
 This proposition was met by certain well-timed re- 
 marks going to show his reluctance at giving up so 
 certain a means of fortune. At last, he agreed to 
 take five thousand dollars for his part of the paper, 
 which was paid to him ia cash. 
 
ACTION AND REACTION. 15 
 
 "A lucky escape!" he said to himself, when the 
 bargain was complete ; and so full was he of self- 
 congratulation at this fortunate turn of affairs, that 
 he had not a thought or feeling of sympathy for the 
 friend he had deceived, and who lost every dollar 
 invested, and became involved in debt, by the break- 
 ing down of the newspaper in a little over a year. 
 
 Wheeler saw, after he had been in the establish- 
 ment about a mouth, that he had not been fairly 
 dealt by; and he also saw that, unless the subscrip- 
 tion-list of the paper could be greatly increased, ruin 
 was inevitable. He struggled hard to overcome the 
 difficulties of his position, but he struggled in vain. 
 The subscription increased but slowly, and the paper 
 was published at a loss from the day he bought it 
 until it stopped for want of means to carry it on. 
 
 But the young man, deeply as he felt the wrong 
 he had sustained at the hands of Turnham, never 
 uttered a word on the subject to that individual, 
 although his manner towards him became reserved, 
 and their intimate intercourse was not continued ; 
 he set him down in his heart as a dishonest man, 
 and determined to mark him as such. After retir- 
 ing from editorial life, Wheeler, who had been ad- 
 mitted to the bar, entered upon the practice of his 
 profession, determined to rest there all his hopes of 
 future success. 
 
 In the mean time, Turnham had opened an ex- 
 change-office, and commenced operating among a 
 
16 ACTION AND REACTION. 
 
 class of men quite as sharp-witted and far more 
 experienced than himself. His success, during the 
 first year or two, was by no means equal to his ex- 
 pectations ; but after that, he understood the opera- 
 tion of things better, and knew how to take advan- 
 tage of the almost hourly fluctuations created in the 
 money-market by the eager spirit of gain. 
 
 At tlie age of twenty -five, Turuham began paying 
 his addresses to a young lady who was known as an 
 heiress. Her parents were dead; but she lived with 
 an aunt, for whom she had a most tender regard, 
 and in whose judgment she reposed great confidence. 
 It happened that Wheeler made the acquaintance of 
 this aunt shortly after Turnham commenced visiting 
 the niece \ and it also happened that, from some 
 allusions made to the young man, the aunt was led 
 to ask Wheeler if he knew him. 
 
 " Yes, and to my sorrow/' was the unhesitating 
 answer. 
 
 " Why do you say that ?" asked the lady. 
 
 " I was his friend and confided in his honour, and 
 he deceived me/' replied Wheeler. 
 
 Nothing more particular was alleged against Turn- 
 ham, but this was enough. The lady took the pains 
 to ascertain that Wheeler was a man of truth arid 
 integrity, and therefore believed what he said. 
 
 When Turnham called next time upon the young 
 heiress, with the intention of making known his 
 sentiments, he was told by her aunt that she did not 
 
ACTION AND REACTION. 17 
 
 wisli to receive his visits; and so all his present 
 hopes of obtaining a fortune by marriage were scat- 
 tered to the winds. But he never dreamed that 
 this was merely a reaction upon his own conduct; 
 nothing could have been farther from his mind. 
 
 In entering into the exchange business, Turnham 
 had not contemplated a partnership with a friend, 
 as he stated to Wheeler; he had only said so in 
 order to make up a good story. He commenced 
 business alone, upon the five thousand dollars he had 
 received for his paper, and continued it, with more 
 or less success, for ten years; during which time he 
 had married a lady, older than himself by many 
 years, who was reputed to be worth fifty thousand 
 dollars. The fortune turned out to be only five 
 thousand dollars, and this the lady had taken good 
 care to have so secured that he could not touch it. 
 At the end of ten years, by a sudden change in the 
 stock-market, and the explosion of two or three 
 fancy-stock concerns, Turnham fell short thirty thou- 
 sand dollars more than all he had made. The 
 extent of this loss he concealed, and soon after he 
 began to look around him for a partner with capital. 
 It was not long before he found a young man whose 
 father was a wealthy merchant, and inclined to fur- 
 nish him with twenty thousand dollars, if he would 
 make a good connection with a well-established ex- 
 change-broker. 
 
 This was just the thing for Turnham ; and he so 
 2* 
 
18 ACTION AND REACTION. 
 
 represented his business, and gave such good refer- 
 ences as to standing and capacity, that he succeeded 
 in his wishes. A copartnership was agreed upon. 
 The terms of the connection being settled, they were 
 placed in the hands of a conve} 7 ancer, who was 
 directed to prepare therefrom articles of agreement. 
 Before these were signed, the father, who was a pru- 
 dent man, submitted them to his lawyer, who hap- 
 pened to be Mr. Wheeler, now in a good practice, 
 and standing high at the bar as a man of talents 
 and great probity. 
 
 " Mr. Turnham, did you say it was ?" remarked 
 the lawyer, with an expression of surprise, when the 
 business was stated to him, and before he had looked 
 at the papers. 
 
 " Yes, sir," returned the merchant, who was 
 struck by the peculiar tone and manner of Wheeler. 
 * Do you know any thing against him ?" 
 
 " I should hardly like to see a friend of mine 
 connected with him in business." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because, to speak freely, as I deem it my duty 
 to do in the present instance, I do not think him an 
 honest man." 
 
 " Not an honest man ? You astonish me, Mr. 
 Wheeler. What evidence have you of this?" 
 
 " I will plainly state to you the fact upon which 
 my conclusion is based, and leave you to make up 
 your own mind on the subject. I have no wish to 
 
ACTION AND REACTION. 19 
 
 injure Mr. Turnham, but I feel it to be my duty to 
 warn the innocent, when I see them run into dan- 
 ger." 
 
 Wheeler then gave the merchant a plain history 
 of his newspaper speculation, and concluded by say- 
 ing " I have stated the circumstance as it occur- 
 red ; you must make up your own mind in regard 
 to it." 
 
 On the day that the merchant waited upon his 
 lawyer with the articles of agreement between Turn- 
 ham and his son, the broker found himself exceed- 
 ingly hard pressed. A number of heavy drafts for 
 funds in his hands belonging to his correspondents 
 in New York, Boston, and New Orleans, were pre- 
 sented, and had to be cashed; also several notes 
 given for stocks that were not now worth ten cents 
 in the dollar. By the most strenuous efforts, he 
 succeeded in getting through, but he was fully con- 
 vinced that it would be impossible for him to stand 
 for another day without important aid. From no- 
 where could this come except through his new part- 
 ner, whose appearance, with the articles of agree- 
 ment having his signature attached, he had been 
 looking for hourly; but, up to four o'clock, he had 
 looked in vain. Fearing that he might not come 
 in before morning, and dreading the consequences 
 of even an hour's delay, he deemed it best to call 
 around at the store of the young man's father, and 
 thus give matters a chance of coming to a close. If 
 
20 ACTION AND REACTION. 
 
 a good opportunity for doing so occurred, be meant 
 to ask to have a few thousand dollars advancad on 
 the next day. In fact, the hope of getting hold of 
 the money was the only reason he had for venturing 
 to press matters to an earlier issue than they would 
 come if 'left to themselves. 
 
 Turn ham found the merchant in his counting- 
 room alone. His reception he thought formal and 
 even cold. 
 
 " Is your son in ?" he asked. 
 
 "No, sir/' was replied; and then there was 
 silence. 
 
 " Will he be in this afternoon ?" 
 
 " I think not." 
 
 Turnham felt oppressed. There was something 
 in the manner of the merchant that he could not 
 understand ; a marked change, that was unacoun table,. 
 After sitting for a short time, Turnham arose and 
 retired. The merchant bowed to him low and for- 
 mally as he did so. 
 
 "Something is wrong/' he muttered to himself, 
 as he walked hurriedly back to his office. 
 
 The evening mail brought notice of drafts at sight, 
 amounting to fifteen thousand dollars, all, or nearly 
 all of which would, probably, be presented next day. 
 This made ruin certain unless very important aid 
 could be secured. 
 
 The time until evening was spent in efforts to 
 obtain money. He talked largely to those upon 
 
ACTION AND REACTION. 21 
 
 whom he called, about the co-partnership he had 
 formed, and the great command of capital it would 
 soon give him. All this was credited; but the par- 
 ties had not the money to spare from their own 
 operations. 
 
 "When is this connection to be formed?" asked 
 one of the persons to whom he applied. 
 
 " Immediately/' was answered. "The articles of 
 agreement are drawn up, and nothing now remains 
 to sign but them. This would have been done to- 
 day, only Mr. H wanted to submit them to hie? 
 
 lawyer/' 
 
 " Who is his legal adviser ? Do you know ? 
 
 "I do not." 
 
 " Let me see I did know. Yes, now I remem- 
 ber. It is Wheeler. Pie's a sound lawyer." 
 
 " Wheeler ! are you sure ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. I recollect now very well. Wheeler 
 is the man." 
 
 Turnham went back to his office, thinking more 
 seriously about his conduct towards Wheeler than 
 he had ever thought before, and feeling anxious and 
 alarmed lest the lawyer should have retaliated upon 
 
 him by informing Mr. H of what he had done. 
 
 The effect, he saw, would be to ruin him. 
 
 Turnham slept but a few hours that night. la 
 the morning, he arose in a feverish state of mind, 
 but resolved upon one thing, and that was to see Mr. 
 H and his son before nine oclock, and know 
 
ACTION AND REACTION. 
 
 whether the articles of agreement were to be signed 
 or not. Accordingly, he called upon the merchant 
 
 early. Mr. H received him even more coldly than 
 
 before, and the son looked embarrassed and unhappy. 
 
 " Have you had the papers examined ?" the 
 broker asked, coming at once to the point. 
 
 " We have/' replied Mr. H . 
 
 "Are they properly drawn ?" asked Turnham. 
 
 "Yes; but since I saw you yesterday, circuni 
 stances have led me to change my views in regard 
 to my son. Of this I should have informed you 
 during the day. I trust it will be no matter of 
 serious disappointment. A connection, fully as ad- 
 vantageous as the one about being formed with my 
 son, you can, without doubt, easily make." 
 
 " The reason of your extraordinary conduct/' said 
 Turnham, who had become quite pale, "you will 
 certainly explain/' 
 
 "I can make no explanation, sir/' returned the 
 merchant, coldly. " My reasons for what I do are 
 sufficient for my own justification. My conduct 
 may appear extraordinary in your eyes; but I am 
 satisfied that, in reality, you have no right to com- 
 plain of it." 
 
 This was all the satisfaction Turnham received, 
 On that day, his acceptances were dishonoured; and 
 drafts to a large amount, drawn against deposits 
 and collections that ought to have been in his hands, 
 went back unpaid. 
 
ACTION AND REACTION. 23 
 
 Ready as the broker would have been to secure 
 something for himself in the disaster that befell him, 
 it came upon him so suddenly as to leave this out 
 of his power. Every thing was swept from hia 
 hands, and he was compelled to begin again with 
 less than a hundred dollars in his pocket. 
 
 For once he saw, as well as felt, the reaction of 
 his own conduct, and was forced to acknowledge 
 that, in extricating himself from an early difficulty 
 by improper means, he had laid the foundation for 
 ruin in after-life. Could he have seen deeper into the 
 relation existing between causes and effects, he would 
 have understood more fully the greater error he had 
 committed, and trembled in fear of even more reac- 
 tive consequences. Doubtless they came. 
 
 In illustration of the law stated at first, we have 
 chosen a very plain and familiar example. Hun- 
 dreds of others might be given, taken from every 
 grade, and involving all social relations. The con- 
 sequences of every one's conduct must be felt in 
 some form or other, earlier or later in life. This is 
 inevitable, for against all action must come reaction; 
 and they will bear a due relation in quality and 
 force to each other, a truth that we cannot lay too 
 deenlv to heart. 
 
A LIFE LESSON. 
 
 MR. PHTLTP ELLIOTSON, a man in moderate cir- 
 cumstances, lived in a neat little house, which he 
 rented, in a thriving country village. He was keep- 
 ing a store, which yielded him a very comfortable 
 living. As Mr. Elliotson's family increased, the 
 dwelling which he occupied became too small for 
 him, making a removal or an addition to the house 
 necessary. Being a good tenant, and a man well 
 thought of in the community, his landlord was very 
 ready to build him a couple of additional rooms for 
 an increase of rent equal to ten per cent, on the 
 outlay. 
 
 Mr. Gage, the carpenter, was employed to make 
 the required improvements, and he forthwith went 
 to work. It was not long before a suitable frame 
 was erected and weather-boarded in, and the plasterer 
 commenced upon the interior. On the morning that 
 the plasterer was to go to work, Mr. Elliotson, who 
 was an early riser, walked out into the yard to look 
 around and see how the new building was progress- 
 ing. The first thing that met his eye was a load of 
 
 24 
 
A LIFE LESSON. 25 
 
 lime that had been thrown down close to the gate, 
 where the plasterer had arranged his mortar-troughs. 
 It was in fine large lumps, fresh from the kiln. 
 
 " Just the thing/' said Mr. Elliotson, stooping 
 down and turning over several large pieces with his 
 hand. " This will save me from buying lime." 
 
 Mr. Elliotson then looked about him, and seeing 
 that no one was near, stooped down again, and 
 selecting two of the largest lumps, took them up 
 and carried them away, remarking, in a low tone of 
 voice to himself, as he did so " They will never be 
 missed." 
 
 The lime was placed in an out-building, and an 
 old piece of board thrown over it. In a day or two 
 nfterwards, it was slacked and used in whitewashing 
 the fences. 
 
 Now the taking of a couple of pieces of lirne by 
 Mr. Elliotson was a little matter, comparatively 
 ^peaking; but from small causes important results 
 often come; and they came in this instance. It 
 happened that Mr. Gage, the carpenter, saw him 
 take the pieces of lime an act that surprised him 
 very much. He could not have believed Mr. Elliot- 
 son guilty of such a petty act of meanness, not to 
 fsay dishonesty. Not willing to condemn a man in 
 his own mind, and especially a man held in such 
 high estimation by every one as was Mr. Elliotson, 
 M'ithout bsing very sure that the lime had been 
 kiken for his own private purposes, the carpenter, 
 
 I.X. 3 
 
26 A LIFE LESSON. 
 
 on coming to work that day, and after Mr. Elliotaon 
 had gone to his store, searched about to see if he 
 could find the lime. This search discovered it con- 
 cealed beneath an old board, where it had been 
 placed. 
 
 " I wouldn't have believed it, if I hadn't seen it 
 with my own eyes/' said Gage, quite confounded by 
 what had occurred. " Some people might call this 
 honest, but I don't," he continued. " Why, it's 
 downright stealing ! What right had he to take 
 this lime without the plasterer's consent ? If he 
 had asked for it, he could no doubt have had double 
 the quantity he has taken, in welcome ; but I don't 
 like this it doesn't look well. I almost wish I 
 hadn't seen it; I shall never feel just right toward* 
 him again." 
 
 The carpenter was a strictly honest man, and far 
 above an act of meanness. He regarded the right* 
 of every one, in little as well as in great things, and 
 could not tolerate in others any departure from rec- 
 titude. What he had seen troubled him. He tried 
 to push the thought of it out of his mind, but could 
 not succeed in doing so; it haunted him for days. 
 When he met Mr. Eiliotson, he felt like avoiding 
 him, and could hardly bear to look in his face whiks 
 he conversed with him. 
 
 Gage had a brother who owned a large farm in 
 the fertile valley of a river whose waters passed 
 through the village in which Eiliotson kept store. 
 
A LIFE LESSON. 27 
 
 The village was a depot for the receipt of nearly 
 the entire product of this valley ; it contained three 
 stores. Elliotson's was the largest, and he received, 
 as factor, at least two-thirds of the produce that 
 came down the river; the selling of this was his 
 chief business. For several years, he had sold for 
 Mr. Gage, the farmer, the products of his land, 
 consisting principally of wheat, rye, corn, and oats; 
 making him returns according to the ruling market 
 prices. 
 
 Shortly after the occurrence of the little circum- 
 stance just mentioned, the farmer was in the village, 
 and stayed, as usual, with his brother. While with 
 him, the brother asked this question: "How does 
 Elliotson manage your sales for you?" 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 " Are you always satisfied with the prices he 
 gets?" 
 
 " Why no, not always ; but, then, I suppose it 
 isn't his fault. The markets are not always as high 
 as we farmers could wish." 
 
 " No, I suppose not. But does he return you the 
 highest market rates?" 
 
 " Not for every consignment ; but quotations of 
 prices and actual sales do not always correspond. 
 Sometimes we send down a lot of grain, and get for 
 it more than we. expected, and sometimes less; it 
 is just as it happens. Why do you ask these ques- 
 tions? Isn't Mr. Elliotson the fair thing?" 
 
Ii8 A LIFE LESSOX. 
 
 " Not exactly, I am sorry to say." 
 
 " What !" The brother expressed stroDg surprise. 
 
 " The fact is, Henry," said the carpenter, " I 
 have lost my good opinion of the man, and I will 
 tell you the reason." 
 
 He then related the story about the lime. 
 
 " That was a little business," remarked the far- 
 mer, after he had heard the relation. " I could not 
 have believed that a man of his standing would be 
 guilty of such conduct." 
 
 " Nor I; it really confounded me. I have thought 
 about you ever since, and how easy it would be for 
 him, in rendering account-sales of your produce, to 
 put the prices down a cent or two a bushel less than 
 what he actually received. It would be a little mat- 
 ter in each particular, but quite an item in the years 
 business." 
 
 " Indeed it would ! But I can hardly believe that 
 Mr. Elliotson would do such a thing." 
 
 " Nor can I ; and yet there is the fact of the lime 
 staring us in the face. That shows what is in the 
 man, and what is in is pretty sure to come out, some 
 time or other; it only needs the opportunity. When 
 he took the lime, it was early in the morning, and 
 no one about, as he thought. He first turned it over, 
 and then raised himself up and looked all around 
 him carefully. After that, he stooped and lifted two 
 large pieces, and carried them away. It looks bad, 
 doesn't it?" 
 
A LIFE LESSON. 29 
 
 " It certainly does. I don't like the appearance 
 at all." 
 
 " I don't know how you feel about it/' said the 
 carpenter, " but if I were in your place, I would be 
 loath to trust as much in his hands as you do." 
 
 " I must think about it," remarked the farmer. 
 " I should be sorry to break with him, for our inter- 
 course has been pleasant. He has always made me 
 prompt returns. I believe I never had to write to 
 him for money in my life." 
 
 " So far, so good; but if the returns were actually 
 bhort, why" 
 
 " That's another consideration altogether." 
 
 " Indeed it is." 
 
 Now, although the suspicions of Gage, the car- 
 penter, were, to all appearance, well founded, yet 
 they wronged Mr. Elliotson. He had always made 
 the most accurate returns for the produce sold, and 
 retained not a farthing beyond the regular commis- 
 sions agreed upon. In all matters of regular busi- 
 ness, his ideas were clear and his practice blameless; 
 he considered honesty to be the best policy, and wa 
 always honest in his dealings. The matter of the 
 lime was an out-of-the-way operation a kind of 
 accidental affair, for which no rule of action, involv- 
 ing principle, had been laid down. The temptation 
 came suddenly in his way, and he fell; but the fall 
 was so light, that he scarcely felt the concussion : 
 
 he was but indistinctly conscious of having done a 
 3* 
 
30 A LIFE LESSON. 
 
 wrong act, it was such a trifling matter; but, trifling 
 as it appeared to be, it was destined to produce a 
 serious effect upon his business. The first effect 
 was the loss of Mr. Gage's consignment. The fact 
 stated to the farmer by his brother rested upon his 
 mind and troubled him. He continued to send his 
 grain to Mr. Elliotson for some months; but his 
 suspicions being aroused, he began to imagine that 
 the account-sales he received showed a low range of 
 prices. One of his neighbours, who sent his produce 
 to another store in the village, asked him one day 
 what his last load of wheat had brought. 
 
 "A dollar and ten," replied the farmer. 
 
 " I did rather better than that/' said the neigh- 
 bour. 
 
 "Ah ! How much did you get?" 
 
 "A dollar twelve." 
 
 " Did you, indeed ? Herbert does your business ?" 
 
 "Yes" 
 
 " Does he make prompt returns ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. He is very prompt and very correct/' 
 
 "A dollar twelve! Have you just heard of the 
 sale?" 
 
 " I received the account to-day." 
 
 " That's strange ! My wheat was in every way 
 as good as yours, and ought to have brought as good 
 i price." 
 
 Mr. Gage was now decided in his mind about 
 changing his agent; he felt satisfied that something 
 
A LIFE LESSON. 31 
 
 was wrong, and yet there was nothing wrong : the 
 grain of the neighbour had been received three days 
 before his came to market, and, in that time, the 
 price had fallen two cents. His next lot of produce 
 was sent to Mr. Herbert, who, from this time, be- 
 came his consignee. By this change, the business 
 of Mr. Elliotson suffered considerably. Gage was 
 his largest consignor, and usually made heavy pur- 
 chases from him during the year, thus giving him a 
 douMe profit. 
 
 From this period, the business of Elliotson gra- 
 dually declined. One after another of his old cus- 
 tomer^ in the neighbourhood of Gage fell off, with- 
 out assigning any reason, and went over to Herbert, 
 whose operations doubled within a year. The cause 
 lay in hints from farmer Gage, in reply to questions 
 as to why he had changed his consignee. He suid 
 nothing touching the integrity of Elliotson, but 
 hesitated not to allege that Herbert obtained better 
 prices for his produce ; this was, of course, enough 
 to induce others to follow his example. At the end of 
 a year, the business of Elliotson was so much reduced, 
 that he found it very difficult to keep his head above 
 water. He was no longer as prompt in making 
 returns of sales 'to the farmers as before, and tlii^ 
 caused others of them to leave him. 
 
 " What's the matter with Elliotson ?" now began 
 to be asked among his neighbours. " He seems to 
 be going down hill." 
 
32 A LIFE LESSON. 
 
 But no one could answer the question. He was 
 known as an active and energetic business man, and 
 it was believed that he would, in time, acquire a 
 fortune. That a different result was threatened, 
 created general surprise. When a man begins to 
 go down hill, there is but little hope for him ; he 
 rarely fails to reach the bottom. Thus it was with 
 Mr. Elliotson. In three years from the day he was 
 guilty of the trifling act of taking a few pieces of 
 lime that did not belong ,to him, he was sold out by 
 the sheriff. Of the cause of the blight that had 
 fallen upon his fortune, he had not the most remote 
 conception. It never entered his imagination that 
 a suspicion of his integrity existed anywhere, or 
 that he had ever given cause for such a suspicion. 
 In the calamity by which he was stricken, he retain- 
 ed one consciousness that of being an honest man. 
 
 Educated in a store, Mr. Elliotson had no ability 
 for obtaining a support for his family beyond what 
 such an education gave him. He was a good ac- 
 countant, and had a clear, strong mincl. To any 
 one keeping a store, who needed assistance, he would 
 have been invaluable. But no one in the village 
 was in want of assistance. 
 
 With a family of four children, the situation of 
 Mr. Elliotson was painful in the extreme. The 
 rigour of the law had left him but a poor remnant 
 of household furniture, and with this he was about 
 moving into a small cottage, at half the rent he was 
 
A LITE LESSON. S3 
 
 paying for the comfortable home in which he had 
 lived for ten years. 
 
 Just at this crisis, intelligence was received that 
 the Legislature of the State had approved an appli- 
 cation that had been made to charter a banking in- 
 stitution, to be located in the village. Books for a 
 subscription to the capital stock were immediately 
 opened, and the amount required by the charter ob- 
 tained in a few days. 
 
 As soon as it was known that the bank would go 
 into operation, the friends of Mr. Elliotson made a 
 movement to get him appointed cashier. He was 
 looked upon as the very man, and some of the 
 stockholders went so far as to say, that it was for- 
 tunate for the institution that he happened to be out 
 of business. Twelve directors were chosen in due 
 course, and then there came an election of officers 
 and clerks, to conduct the regular business. There 
 were many applicants for these situations. Promi- 
 nent, for the office of cashier, stood the name of 
 Mr. Elliotson. On the day that the directors met, 
 this unfortunate individual had but five dollars left, 
 and, beyond the hoped-for appointment, no apparent 
 resource in the world. It is no matter of wonder 
 that his mind was in a state of great anxiety and 
 .suspense. His friends had assured him that he 
 would certainly get the appointment ; but the ne- 
 cessities of his circumstances were too pressing to 
 allow these assurances to give him full confidence in 
 
34 A LIFE LESSON. 
 
 tho result of the election. If, by any mishap, he 
 should not be appointed, he knew not which way to 
 turn to keep his family from want. 
 
 Among the directors chosen to represent the in- 
 terests of the stockholders was Gage, the carpenter, 
 who was a man of some property, and had sub- 
 scribed quite liberally to the stock. When Mr. El- 
 liotson was proposed to the meeting as cashier. Gage 
 became restless. 
 
 " He is the very man/' said one. 
 
 " We can't possibly do better," said another. 
 
 " There isn't a name on the list of applicants 
 comparable to his/' remarked a third. 
 
 And every man spoke in his favour except Gage, 
 who remained silent. Just as they were about bal- 
 loting, the carpenter said that he was sorry to be 
 compelled to object to Mr. Elliotson, but duty con- 
 strained him to do so. And then he related the 
 ^ittle circumstance already known to the reader. 
 He ended by saying : 
 
 " This may seem a trifling matter, gentlemen. 
 But it is in trifles that we see most clearly a man's 
 real character. It shows that there is a lack of in- 
 tegrity in his heart. I feel pained in making this 
 revelation, but duty compels me to do so. I would 
 not be true to the trust that has been reposed in me, 
 were I to withhold from this board a fact that may 
 deeply affect the interests they are bound to pro- 
 tect." 
 
A LIFE LESSON. 35 
 
 Surprise kept all silent for some moments. 
 
 " Is it not possible that you may have been mis- 
 taken ?" was at length asked by a member of the 
 board. 
 
 " No, sir. I saw the thing done as clearly as I 
 ever saw any thing in my life. To make sure, how- 
 ever, I examined and found the lime in an out-houso 
 concealed under an old plank. In a day or two 
 afterwards it was slacked and applied to the fences*. 
 It is a little thing, I know, gentlemen ; and perhap? 
 I lay too much stress upon it. But I cannot havo 
 any rational confidence in a man who will steal even 
 a pin. I have made this communication from a 
 sense of duty ; the board can now .act as it thinks 
 best. But I cannot vote to place Mr. Elliotson in 
 a position where so much is at stake/' 
 
 After an hour's discussion, in which three or four 
 members of the board spoke strongly in favour of 
 Mr. Elliotson, and offered to go his security in 
 double the amount required for the cashier, it was 
 voted to let the choice of that officer lie over for ft 
 day, that there might be time for reflection. 
 
 Mr. Elliotson sat at his window, with his eyes 
 fixed on the building where the directors were in 
 session^ his heart beating with an uneasy motion. 
 He had been seated thus for nearly two hours, and 
 was beginning to grow restless with impatience, 
 when he saw the door open, and the gentlemen who 
 seemed to him to hold his fate in their hands slowly 
 
36 A LIFE LESSON. 
 
 emerge, and move, in little groups, lingeringly down 
 the street. Of these, two, who were among his 
 warmest friends, approached his house. Now his 
 heart became almost still, and he experienced a 
 choking sensation. A few minutes would decide 
 his fate. What was to be that fate ? He scarcely 
 dared hope for the best, and shrank from contem- 
 plating the worst. The two friends paused a short 
 distance from his house, and stood for some minutes 
 in earnest conversation. This was looked upon as a 
 bad omen ; the bearers of good news would not 
 thus pause and linger. The poor man's suspense 
 became terrible. At length the men separated, and 
 one of them came towards his house with a grave 
 and deliberate step. From the window, Mr. Elliot- 
 Hon could see his face. It wore a thoughtful, sober 
 expression. His heart ceased to beat for a few mo- 
 ments, and then fluttered on wildly. At length the 
 man's knock was heard at the door. Elliotson had 
 scarcely strength to open it, and when he did so, he 
 stood with his knees smiting against each other, 
 looking into his friend's face without the power of 
 utterance. To relieve this suspense, which he saw 
 to be very great, the friend said 
 
 " There has been no election of cashier yet." 
 
 Elliotson leaned against the door for support. 
 
 "None? Why not?" he was able to ask. 
 
 "I will tell you/' 
 
 " Walk into the parlour/' Elliotson had now pre- 
 
A LIFE LESSON. 37 
 
 Hence of mind to say, and he stepped baejfc while the 
 director entered. When alone, the latter said, 
 
 "I regret to say, that an unexpected objection 
 was made by a member of the board, which would 
 have defeated your election, had a ballot taken place. 
 I therefore moved to have the election for cashier 
 postponed until to-morrow; and I have come to 
 talk to you about this objection." 
 
 "What is it?" asked Elliotson in a husky 
 voice. 
 
 "It touches your character; is, in fact, a charge 
 against your integrity as a man." 
 
 Philip Elliotson drew himself up calmly, while 
 his eye became bright and steady, and his lips arched i 
 and firm. 
 
 " I am ready to meet all such charges," he said, 
 with much dignity of manner. " I know nofc a*- 
 single act of my life that I would fear to have can- 
 vassed. What is the allegation ?" 
 
 " Some five or six years ago, there was an addition 
 built to this house ?" said the director. 
 
 " There was." 
 
 " Do you remember the fact that a load of lime 
 was thrown down, late one afternoon, at your back 
 gate." 
 
 Mr. Elliotson thought for a moment, and then, 
 said 
 
 ( * Yes, I remember it very well." 
 
 " Do you likewise remember taking two or three 
 
 IX.-4 
 
38 A LIFE LESSON. 
 
 pieces of that lime for your own use, and concealing 
 them in an out-house ?" 
 
 " I do." The blood mounted to the cheek of Mr. 
 Elliotson. 
 
 " You were seen to do this : and it is now brought 
 forward against you, and urged as a reason why you 
 should not be given the appointment of cashier/' 
 
 Mr. Elliotson seemed stunned for a few moments. 
 He leaned his head down upon a table, and sat 
 almost motionless for nearly a minute, while his 
 friend looked on with grief. When he at length 
 raised his head, his face was pale but calm. 
 
 " I am, of course, charged with being a dishonest 
 man," he said, in a firm voice. 
 
 "That is the inference drawn from this act." 
 
 Mr. Elliotson arose, and going to his secretary, 
 took therefrom two account-books. One of these he 
 opened, and, turning to an account, laid it on the 
 table before the director, saying, as he did so, 
 
 " The plasterer who finished the addition made 
 by my landlord to this house was named Eldred. 
 He dealt at my store, and settled his accounts once 
 in three months. The addition was made in June, 
 18 . On the tenth of July, in the same year, 
 you see, there is a credit to his account of fifteen 
 cents. Now I will show you the day-book entry." 
 
 The day-book was opened, when the entry stood 
 thus: 
 
 "Jamee Eldred, Gr: By lime .used for white- 
 
A LIFE LESSON. 39 
 
 washing at thef time he was plastering my house 
 tifteen cents/' 
 
 " I took the lime/' said Elliotson, after he had 
 exhibited this entry, "thoughtlessly. It was not 
 my property, and I had no right to it. But I did 
 not reflect at the time. About a month afterwards, 
 a thought of what I had done flashed across my 
 mind, and startled me. I saw that I had been 
 guilty of taking another's property for my own use, 
 and immediately made this entry. In settlement, 
 I pointed out the matter to Eldred, and he said it 
 was of no consequence whatever, that I was welcome 
 to the lime, and double as much more. He did 
 not wish the deduction made from his account : but 
 I insisted on its being done. If you will see him, 
 he will show you this credit on the bill I then ren- 
 dered." 
 
 " May I have these books at the meeting of di- 
 rectors to-morrow ?" eagerly asked the friend, who 
 was trembling with delight. 
 
 "Certainly. It is but just that this charge 
 should be fully refuted." 
 
 " Then you may set your heart at rest about the 
 cashiership. You will certainly get the appoint- 
 ment. But for this matter, you would have received 
 every vote to-day, on the first balloting." 
 
 When the directors met on the next day, and the 
 books of Mr. Elliotson were laid open at the entry 
 just mentioned, Mr. Gage was confounded. 
 
40 A LIFE LESSON. 
 
 " I have not a word more to say/' he remarked. 
 " Mr. Elliotson has my vote. It grieves me to think 
 that I have wronged so upright a man." 
 
 The vote was at once taken, and Elliotson elected 
 unanimously to the office of cashier at a salary of 
 twelve hundred dollars a year. 
 
 About a year after this happy change in Mr. El- 
 liotson' s external circumstances, Herbert, the store- 
 keeper who had obtained nearly the whole of his 
 country custom, and accumulated quite a handsome 
 little property, died, and his widow attempted, by 
 means of a clerk, to carry on the business. But, 
 in the course of a few months, her friends advised 
 her to sell out and be content with the amount of 
 property left to her by her husband, which was 
 enough for her support. As soon as this fact be- 
 came known to Mr. G-age, the carpenter, whose mind 
 had never felt easy about Mr. Elliotson, he called 
 upon the latter, and said to him, after mentioning 
 the fact that Mrs. Herbert wished to sell out, 
 
 " There is a good chance for you, and you ought 
 to embrace it. You understand the business, and 
 can make by it more than double what you are now 
 receiving." 
 
 But Elliotson shook his head. 
 
 f< Depend upon it, you ought not to let this oppor- 
 tunity pass. I know that you can have all my brother's 
 consignments again, for he has told me that he was 
 sorry that he had ever taken them out of your hands. 
 
A LIFE LESSON. 41 
 
 And J have no doubt but that you can retain every 
 one of Herbert's regular customers." 
 
 " Perhaps I might. I believe with you that the 
 opportunity is a very good one. But it is not in 
 my power to embrace it." 
 
 Why ?" 
 
 " Capital is required, and I have nothing but my 
 salary." 
 
 " How much will be needed ?" 
 
 " At least four or five thousand dollars ; besides 
 A credit in purchasing out the stock and good-will 
 of the store." 
 
 "Both of these, I think, can be supplied." 
 
 Elliotson shook his head again. 
 
 " If I will get you the money and the credit you 
 need, will you take the store ?" asked Gage. 
 
 " Certainly I will," was replied. 
 
 "Then you may consider the thing as settled." 
 
 And it was settled. Mr. Elliotson took the store, 
 and went on with the business, quite as successfully 
 as it had been conducted by the former owner. He 
 is now in excellent circumstances. But there are 
 two things that he cannot understand, and which 
 puzzle him whenever he thinks about them. One 
 is, the cause of the sudden reverse in his fortunes 
 that visited him so strangely, and the other is the 
 unexpected offer of Mr. Gage to put him in business 
 again, with as much capital and as large a credit as 
 ho needed. He often sits and ponders upon these 
 
 4* 
 
UNFADING FLOWERS. 
 
 two circumstances, but they still remain shrouded 
 in mystery. Mr. Gage is satisfied with making resti- 
 tution in his own way, without exposing the part 
 he took in ruining the merchant. He never alluded 
 to the subject, except to his brother and to the 
 board of directors, and they felt it to be impe- 
 rative on them to keep the whole thing a profound 
 secret. 
 
 UNFADING FLOWERS. 
 
 THIRTY years ago, a small, barefooted boy paused 
 to admire the flowers in a well-cultivated garden. 
 The child was an orphan, and had already felt how 
 hard was an orphan's lot. The owner of the garden, 
 who was trimming a border, noticed the lad and 
 spoke kindly to him. 
 
 u Do you love flowers? 7 ' said he. 
 
 The boy replied, " Oh, yes. We used to have 
 such beautiful flowers in our garden/' 
 
 The man laid down his knife, and, gathering a few 
 flowers, took them to the fence, through the panels 
 of which the boy was looking, and handed them to 
 him, saying, as he did so, " Here's a little bunch 
 for you." 
 
 A flush wsnt over the child's face as he took the 
 
UNFADING FLOWERS. 43 
 
 flowers. He did not make any reply, but in hi? 
 large eyes, as he lifted them to the face of the man, 
 was an expression of thankfulness, to be read as 
 plainly as words in a book. 
 
 The act on the part of the man was one of spon- 
 taneous kindness, and scarcely thought of again, but 
 by the child it was never forgotten. 
 
 Years went by, and through toil, privation, and 
 suffering, both in body and mind, the boy grew up 
 to manhood. From ordeals like this come forth our 
 most effective men. If kept from vicious associates, 
 the lad of feeling and mental activity becomes am- 
 bitious, and rises in society above the common level. 
 So it proved in the case of this orphan boy ; he had 
 but few advantages of education, but such as were 
 afforded were all improved. It happened that his 
 lot was cast in a printing-office, and the young com- 
 positor soon became interested in his work. He 
 did not set the types as a mere mechanic, but went 
 beyond the duties of his calling, entering into the 
 ideas to which he was giving verbal expression, and 
 making them his own. At twenty-one, he was a 
 young man of more than ordinary intelligence and 
 force of character. At thirty-five, he was the con- 
 ductor of a widely-circulated and profitable news- 
 paper, and, as a man, respected and esteemed by 
 all who knew him. 
 
 During the earnest struggle that all men enter 
 into who are ambitious to rise in the world, tht> 
 
44 UNFADING FLOWERS. 
 
 thoughts do not often go back and rest meditatively 
 upon the earlier time of life. But after success has 
 crowned each well-directed effort, und the gaining 
 of a desired position no longer remains a subject of 
 doubt, the mind often brings up from the far-off 
 past most vivid recollections of incidents and im- 
 pressions that were painful or pleasurable at the 
 time, and which are now seen to have an influence, 
 more or less decided, upon the whole after-life. In 
 this state of reflection sat one day the man whom 
 we have introduced. After musing a long time, 
 deeply abstracted, he took his pen and wrote hastily, 
 and these were the sentences he traced upon the 
 paper that lay before him : 
 
 " How indelibly does a little act of kindness, per- 
 formed at the right moment, impress itself upon the 
 mind. We meet, as we pass through the world, so 
 much of rude selfishness, that we guard ourselves 
 against it, and scarcely feel its effects ; but sponta- 
 neous kindness comes so rarely, that we are sur- 
 prised when it appears, and delighted and refreshed 
 as by the perfume of flowers in the dreary winter. 
 When we were a small boy, an orphan, and with a 
 memory of a home for ever lost, too vivid in our 
 young heart, a man into whose beautiful garden we 
 stood looking, pulled a few flowers and handed them 
 through the fence, speaking a kind word as he did 
 BO. He did not know, and perhaps never will know, 
 how deeply we were touched by this act. From a 
 
UNFADING FLOWERS. 45 
 
 little boy we loved flowers, and ere that heaviest 
 affliction a child ever knows loss of parents fell 
 upon us, we almost lived among them. But death 
 separated between us and all those tender associa 
 tions and affections that, to the hearts of children, are 
 like dew to the tender grass; we entered the dwell- 
 ing of the stranger, and were treated henceforth as 
 if we had, or ought to have no feelings, no hopes, no 
 weaknesses. The harsh command came daily to our 
 ears ; and not even for work well done, or faithful 
 service, were we cheered by words of commendation. 
 " One day we were not more than eleven years 
 old something turned our thoughts back upon the 
 earlier and happier time when we had a true home, 
 and were loved and cared for. We were once more 
 in the garden and among the sweet blossoms, as of 
 old, and the mother on whose bosom we had slept, 
 sat under the grape-arbour, and we filled her lap 
 with flowers. There was a smile of love on her face, 
 and her lips were parting with some kind word of 
 affection, when, to scatter into nothing these dear 
 images of the lonely boy, came the sharp command 
 of a master, and in obedience we started forth to 
 perform some needed service. Our way was by the 
 garden of which we have spoken; and it was on this 
 occasion, and while the suddenly dissipated image 
 of our mother among the flowers was re-forming 
 itself in our young imagination, that the incident to 
 which we huve alluded occurred. We can never 
 
46 UNFADING FLOWERS. 
 
 forget tho grateful perfume of those flowers, nor the 
 strength and comfort which the kind words and 
 manner of the giver imparted to our fainting spirits. 
 We took them home, kept them fresh as long as 
 water would preserve their life and beauty; and 
 when they faded, and the leaves fell, pale and with- 
 ered, upon the ground, we grieved for their loss as 
 if a real friend had been taken away. 
 
 " It is a long, long time since that incident occur- 
 red ; but the flowers which there sprang up in our 
 bosom are fresh and beautiful still : they have 
 neither faded nor withered they cannot, they are 
 unfading flowers. We never looked upon the man 
 that gave them to us, that our heart did not warm 
 toward him. Twenty years ago, we lost sight of him; 
 but if still among the dwellers of the earth, and in 
 need of a friend, we should divide with him our last 
 morsel." 
 
 An old man, with hair whitened by the snows of 
 many winters, was sitting in a room that was poorly 
 supplied with furniture, his head bowed, and his 
 gaze cast dreamily on the floor. A pale young girl 
 came in while he sat thus musing. Lifting his eyes 
 to her face, he said, while he tried to look cheerful, 
 u Ellen, dear, you must not go out to-day." 
 
 " I feel a great deal better, grandpa," replied the 
 girl, forcing a smile. " I am able to go to work 
 again." 
 
UNFADING FLOWERS. 47 
 
 " No, child, you are not/' said the old man, firm- 
 ly; "and you must not think of such a thing." 
 
 "Don't be so positive, grandpa." And as she 
 uttered this little sentence in a half-playful voice, 
 she laid her hand among the thin gray locks on the 
 old man's head, and smoothed them caressingly. 
 " You know that I must not be idle." 
 
 " Wait, child, until your strength returns." 
 
 " Our wants will not wait, grandpa." As the 
 girl said this, her face became sober. The old 
 man's eyes again fell to the floor, and a heavy sigh 
 came from his bosom. 
 
 " I will be very careful, and not overwork my- 
 self again," resumed Ellen, after a pause 
 
 " You must not go to-day," said the old man, 
 arousing himself. "It is murder. Wait at least 
 until to-morrow. You will be stronger then." 
 
 " If I don't go back, I may lose my place. You 
 know that I have been at home for three days. 
 Work will not wait. The last time I was kept away 
 by sickness, a customer was disappointed, and there 
 was a good deal of trouble about it." 
 
 Another sigh came heavily from the old man's 
 heart. 
 
 " I will go," said the girl. " Perhaps they will 
 let me off for a day longer. If so, I will come back ; 
 for I must not lose the place/' 
 
 No further resistance was made by the old man, 
 In a little time, he was alone. She had gone to 
 
48 UNFADING FLOWERS. 
 
 work. Her employers would not let her go away 
 feeble as she was, without a forfeiture of her place. 
 
 About midday, finding that Ellen did not come 
 back, the old man, after taking some food, went out. 
 
 The pressure of seventy winters was upon him, 
 and his steps were slow and carefully taken. 
 
 " I must get something to do. I can work 
 still," he muttered to himself, as he moved along the 
 streets. " The dear child is killing herself, and all 
 for me." 
 
 But what could he do ? Who wanted the services 
 of an old man, like him, whose mind had lost its 
 clearness, whose step faltered, and whose hand was 
 no longer steady ? In vain he made application for 
 employment. Younger and more vigorous men filled 
 all the places, and he was pushed aside. Dis- 
 couraged and drooping in spirit, he went back to 
 his home, there to wait the fall of evening, which 
 was to bring the return of the only being left on earth 
 to love him. At nightfall, Ellen came in. Her face, 
 so pale in the morning, was now slightly flushed ; and 
 her eyes were brighter than when she went out. 
 The grandfather was not deceived by this ; he knew 
 it to be a sign of disease. He took her hand it 
 was hot and when he stooped to kiss her gentle 
 lips, he found them burning with fever. 
 
 " Ellen, my child, why did you go to work to-day ? 
 I knew it would make you sick," said the old man 
 in a voice of anguish. 
 
UNFADING FLOWERS. * 49 
 
 Ellen tried to smile, and not appear so very ill; 
 but nature was too much oppressed. 
 
 " I have brought home some work, and will not 
 go out to-morrow/' she remarked. " I think the walk 
 fatigued me more than any thing else. I shall be 
 better after a good night's sleep." 
 
 But the girl's hopes failed her. The morning 
 found her so weak that she could not rise from her 
 bed; and when the grandfather came into her room to 
 learn how she passed the night, he found her weep- 
 ing on her pillow. She had endeavoured to get up, 
 but her head, which was aching terribly, grew dizzy, 
 and she fell back, under a despairing consciousness 
 that her strength was gone. 
 
 The day passed, but Ellen did not grow better. 
 The fever still kept her body prostrate. Once or 
 twice, when her grandfather was out of the room, 
 she took up the work she had brought home, and 
 tried to do some of it while sitting up in bed. 
 But ere a minute had passed, she became faint, 
 while all grew dark around her. She was no better 
 when night came. If her mind could have rested 
 if she had been free from anxious and distressing 
 thoughts, nature would have had power to react; but, 
 as it was, the pressure was too great. She could not 
 forget that they had scarcely so much as a dollar 
 left, and that her old grandfather was too feeble to 
 work. Upon her rested all the burden of their 
 support, and she was helpless. 
 
 IX. 5 
 
60 UNFADING FLOWERS. 
 
 The next morning, Ellen was better. She could 
 sit up without feeling dizzy, although her head still 
 ached, and the fever had only slightly abated. But 
 the old man would not permit her to leave her bed, 
 though she begged him earnestly to let her do so. 
 
 The bundle of work that Ellen had brought home 
 was wrapped in a newspaper, and this her grandfather 
 took up to read, several times during the day. 
 
 " This is Mr. T 's newspaper," said he, as he 
 
 opened it and saw the title. " I knew T when 
 
 he was a poor orphan boy ; but of course he has for- 
 gotten me. He has prospered wonderfully." 
 
 And then his eyes went along the columns of the 
 paper, and he read aloud to Ellen such things ;ts 
 lie thought would interest her. Among others, was 
 a reminiscence by the editor the same that we have 
 just given. The old man's voice faltered as he 
 read. The little incident, so feelingly described, had 
 long since been hidden in his memory, under the 
 gathering dust of time. But now the dust was swept 
 away, and he saw his own beautiful garden. He 
 was in it, and among the flowers; and wistfully 
 looking through the fence, stood the orphan boy. 
 He remembered that he felt pity for him, and he re- 
 membered, as if it were but yesterday, though thirty 
 years had intervened, the light that went over the 
 child's face as he handed him a few flowers, that 
 were to fade and wither in a day. 
 
 Yes, the old man's voice faltered while he read; 
 
UNFADING FLOWERS. 51 
 
 and when he came to the last sentence, the paper 
 dropped upon the floor, and, clasping his hands 
 together, he lifted his dim eyes upward, while lib 
 lips moved in whispered words of thankfulness. 
 
 " What ails you, grandpa V asked Ellen in sur- 
 prise. But the old man did not seem to hear her voice. 
 
 " Dear grandpa/' repeated the girl, "why do you 
 look so strangely?" She had risen in bed, and was 
 bending toward him. 
 
 "Ellen, my child," said the old man, a light 
 breaking over his countenance as though a sunbeam 
 had suddenly come into the room, " it was your old 
 grandfather gave the flowers to that poor little boy. 
 Did you hear what he said ? he would divide his last 
 morsel." 
 
 The old man moved about the room with his un- 
 steady steps, talking in a wandering way so over- 
 joyed at the prospect of relief for his child, that he 
 was nearly beside himself. But there yet lingered 
 some embers of pride in his heart; and from these 
 the ashes were blown away, and they became bright 
 and glowing. The thought of asking a favour for 
 the return of that little act, which was to him at the 
 time a pleasure, came with a feeling of reluctance. 
 But when he looked at the pale young girl, with eyes 
 closed and her face half buried in the pillow, he mur- 
 mured to himself, "It is for you for you!" and, 
 taking up his staff, went tottering into the open air. 
 
 The editor was sitting in his office writing, when 
 
62 UNFADING FLOWERS. 
 
 he heard the door open, and, turning, he saw before 
 him an old man with bent form and snowy head. 
 Something in the visitor's countenance struck him 
 as familiar, but he did not recognise him as one he 
 had seen before. 
 
 " Is Mr. T in?" asked the old man. 
 
 " My name is T ," replied the editor. 
 
 " You ?" There was a slight expression of sur- 
 prise in the old man's voice. 
 
 " Yes, I am T , my friend/ 7 was kindly said. 
 
 " Can I do any thing for you? Take the chair/ 7 
 
 The offered seat was accepted; and as the old 
 man sank into it, his countenance and manner be- 
 trayed his emotion. 
 
 " I have come/' and his voice was unsteady, " to 
 do what I could not do for myself alone; but I can- 
 not see my poor, sick grandchild wear out and die 
 under the weight of burdens that that are too heavy 
 to be borne. For her sake, I have conquered my 
 pride." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " G-o on," said T , who was looking at the 
 
 old man earnestly, and endeavouring to fix his iden- 
 tity. 
 
 " You don't know me?" 
 
 " Your face is not entirely strange," said 1 . 
 
 fi It must have been a long time since we met." 
 
 " Long? Oh, yes ! it is a long, long time. You 
 were a boy, and I unbent by age." 
 
UNFADING FLOWERS. 53 
 
 " Markland !" exclaimed T- , with sudden 
 
 energy, springing to his feet as the truth flashed 
 upon him. " Say, is it not so?" 
 
 " My name is Markland." 
 
 "And do we meet thus again?" said T , with 
 
 emotion, as he grasped the old man's hand. "Ah, 
 sir! I have never forgotten you. When a sad- 
 hearted boy, you spoke to me kindly ; and the words 
 comforted me, when I had no other comfort. That 
 bunch of flowers you gave me you remember it, no 
 doubt is still fresh in my heart : not a leaf or 
 petal has faded ; they are as bright and green, and 
 full of perfume, as when I first hid them there; 
 and there they will bloom for ever, the unfading 
 flowers of gratitude. I am glad you have come, 
 though grieved that your declining years are made 
 heavier by misfortune. I have enough and to 
 spare." 
 
 " I have not come for charity," returned Mark- 
 land. " I have hands that would not be idle, 
 though it is but little they can accomplish." 
 
 " Be not troubled on that account, my friend," 
 was kindly answered. ts I will find something for 
 you to do; but first tell me about yourself." 
 
 Thus encouraged, the old man told his story. It 
 was the common story of the loss of property and 
 friends, and the approach of want with declining 
 years. T saw that pride and native independ- 
 ence was still strong in Markland' s bosom, feeble 
 6* 
 
54 UNFADING FLOWERS. 
 
 as he was, and really unable to enter upon any 
 serious employment ; and his first impression was to 
 save his feelings, at the same time that he extended 
 to him entire and permanent relief. This he found 
 no difficulty in doing, and the old man was soon after 
 placed in a situation where but little application was 
 necessary, while the income was all-sufficient for the 
 comfortable support of himself and grandchild. 
 
 The flowers offered with a purely humane feeling 
 proved to be fadeless flowers ; and their beauty and 
 perfume came back to the sense of the giver, when 
 all other flowers were dead and dying on his dark 
 and dreary way. 
 
THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A 
 CONSUMPTIVE. 
 
 SCENE FIRST. 
 
 " You have no right to abuse your health, Mar- 
 garet/' said Mrs. Ellis to her daughter, a tall, deli- 
 cately-formed girl, whose narrow chest, long and 
 small neck, slender limbs, and pure, transparent 
 skin, indicated a constitution highly susceptible to 
 pulmonary irritations. The mother spoke in a de- 
 cided voice, and with some sternness of manner. 
 
 " I suppose I may do with myself as I please/' 
 replied the daughter, in a tone of levity. 
 
 " Not so, Margaret/' 
 
 " If I lose my health, I have only to suffer for it 
 myself; no one else will have to bear the pain of 
 my indiscretion, as you call it. Isn't this so?" 
 
 " Do you really think this?" asked the mother. 
 
 " Certainly I do. Whatever pain I suffer is my 
 own not another's. Can another feel my headache, 
 or be affected with the fever that lays me upon a 
 bed of sickness?" 
 
 " Margaret/' replied the mother, less sternly than 
 
 56 
 
56 THREE SCENES IN THE 
 
 she had at first spoken, but with equal seriousness 
 of manner, " I can hardly believe you in earnest in 
 what you say. You are now a woman, capable of 
 reflection, and ought to be able to see, in a moment, 
 that you cannot be sick for an hour without affect- 
 ing others/' 
 
 " In what way ?" 
 
 " Can you not see for yourself?" 
 
 " I certainly cannot." 
 
 " If you were now sick, instead of being in good 
 health, do you not suppose that I would feel anxious 
 and troubled on your account ?" 
 
 " I suppose you would. Still, you needn't feel 
 so, unless from choice ; the actual pain I suffered 
 couldn't affect you." 
 
 " If I were sick, could you help feeling anxious? 
 Would this depend upon choice?" 
 
 " No, I presume not." 
 
 " And as little would my anxiety depend upon 
 choice, as you must see, on a moment's reflection; 
 but the way in which the ill-health of any one affects 
 others is far more serious than this. Society is 
 bound together by the law of reciprocal uses : every- 
 thing we do has some reference to others. In fact, 
 there is no act of our lives that does not, in some 
 way, impress itself upon those around us. To each 
 of us is given some talent, the exercise of which is 
 designed to promote the common welfare. 111- 
 healtii must, of course ; prevent the proper exercise 
 
LIFE OP A CONSUMPTIVE. 57 
 
 D this talent. You can see, from this, that we have 
 QO right to abuse our health, for, if we do so, we 
 cannot properly discharge the duties we owe to 
 others/' 
 
 The thoughtless girl met this by saying, with a 
 lightness of manner that chilled her mother's feel- 
 ings 
 
 " Oh, as to that, I don't profess to be governed 
 by motives of good to others. I have not attained 
 so perfect a state yet, and am afraid I never shall ; 
 it is about as much as I can do to think of myself/' 
 
 " The time may come, Margaret," replied the 
 mother to this, " when you will feel differently 
 when you may desire the good of others with an 
 intense desire, and not be able, from ill-health, to 
 secure it. To see those we love suffering privations 
 from our inability to do for them what they need, 
 and for which they can depend on none other, is a 
 bitter thing; and that you may be spared this, is 
 one of my reasons for urging you now to regard 
 your health/' 
 
 " I am not much afraid but that I shall be able to 
 do all that, justice can require me to do for others," 
 Margaret answered. " My health is good enough 
 now, except a little cold, that will soon pass off, and 
 I know of no reason why I should not remain in as 
 good health for many years. I am not aware that 
 I abuse myself very much/' 
 
 '* You are perhaps aware that ycu inherit a pre- 
 
58 THREE SCENES IN THE 
 
 disposition to consumption, and that, from this cir- 
 cumstance, a slight cold is always a serious matter, 
 and should be treated as such/' 
 
 " If I have got/ to die of consumption, there is 
 no help for it, I suppose/' returned the daughter. 
 " Taking care of slight colds is not going to save 
 me." 
 
 " That is a mistake, which I hope you will permit 
 me at once to correct. Most lung-diseases, when 
 once excited, prove incurable. No one is born with 
 consumption, but only with a predisposition to this 
 fatal disease, in a high > susceptibility to inflammation 
 of the throat and ch^st. There are but few cases in 
 which this predisposition is so great as to be affected 
 by the commo^atmospi^eric changes, if the indivi- 
 dual pays particular regard to health; but if a cold, 
 unfortunateljpf be taken, even if afterwards cured, 
 the predisposition to inflammation is increased. 
 Should the cold be neglected, the inflammation may 
 become chronic or^permaneu|b, and then life is in- 
 evitably shortened five, ten; or it may be more than 
 twenty years." 
 
 " I have colds often ; but they get well, without 
 the serious consequences of which you speak/' 
 
 " You never had a cold, Margaret/' said Mrs. 
 Ellis, with much earnestness, "that did not injure 
 you, in an increased liability to take cold which it 
 entailed. I have noticed this : you take cold now 
 easier than you did a year ago." 
 
LIFE OF A CONSUMPTIVE. 59 
 
 " I don't know that I do." 
 
 u I am sure of it ; my anxiety makes me observ- 
 ant. Colds are not only more easily taken by you, 
 but they are longer in getting well, and their effects 
 are seen in a general prostration of your whole sys- 
 tem, as well as in a greater oppression, accompanied 
 with more tenderness and pain in your chest." 
 
 "You think too much about this, mother," re- 
 plied Margaret. " You give yourself needless alarm, 
 by imagining things to exist which have no reality. 
 I am not at all conscious of the increased liability 
 to cold of which you speak." 
 
 u But I tell you, my child, it does exist. I am 
 older than you, and am a more careful observer. I 
 know, and you know that I have to be exceedingly 
 cautious how I expose myself. You remember how 
 near to death's door I was, a year ago, from inflam- 
 mation of the lungs, brought on by exposure and 
 cold. Such serious effects did not formerly result 
 from colds; but now, the susceptibility to inflam- 
 mation is so great, that my life is endangered by 
 any sudden exposure. At your age, I was in better 
 health than you are, for I had, naturally, a better 
 constitution. Then I had no one to counsel me, u;< 
 you have for my mother died young, of the fatal 
 disease which she entailed upon me, and which I 
 have entailed upon you and I exposed myself as 
 you are now exposing yourself. The consequence 
 was that I not only injured myself, but injured iwy 
 
60 THREE SCENES IN THE 
 
 children I am incurably diseased, and they have a 
 predisposition to disease greater than I had. Now. 
 judge for yourself whether I am not correct in say- 
 ing that you have no right to abuse your health. I 
 had no right to abuse my health, for such abuse 
 would injure my children, as, alas! it has done. You 
 expect to marry soon, and you have every reason to 
 believe that you will have children. If in your body 
 exist the seeds of an incurable disease, they will be 
 sown in the bodies of your children. If you have 
 a diseased body, you cannot give to them a healthy 
 one. Pause, then, and reflect whether you have any 
 right to curse your children with disease and prema- 
 ture death." 
 
 The daughter sat silent, and the mother conti- 
 nued : " I trust you will now see that you have a 
 duty to others that cannot be disregarded. Think 
 of yourself as the wife of the man to whom you 
 have aleady given your affections. Ten or twelve 
 years have passed since the day of your marriage, 
 and this lapse of time has served only to prove the 
 wisdom of your choice, and to unite you more closely 
 to your husband. Children have blessed your union, 
 and are springing up around you, and calling for 
 your earnest and constant care, and drawing upon 
 your tenderest affections. Will it add any thing to 
 f he happiness of this state, to see in your oldest 
 child an undue sensitiveness to all external impres 
 sions, united with a predisposition to inflammation 
 
LIFE OF A CONSUMPTIVE 61 
 
 of the throat and lungs, that shows itself whenever 
 the slightest cold is taken ? Or to be yourself, from 
 ill-health, unable to minister to the comforts of those 
 who are best beloved, and for whom you would then 
 be willing to make almost any sacrifice ? And what 
 is much worse than this may happen and is more 
 than likely to happen death may snatch you away, 
 and leave your innocent, helpless little children to 
 be given into the care of others, who will not love 
 them as you love them." 
 
 The daughter still continued silent, and Mrs. Ellis, 
 after a brief pause, added : 
 
 " It is now known that parents transmit to their 
 children tendencies to both mental and bodily dis- 
 eases, if they have these diseases in their minds and 
 bodies, A child born of an unhealthy parent cannot 
 have a perfectly healthy body ; nor can a child born 
 of a parent whose passions are not under proper 
 control, have a healthy mind. If a mother, from want* 
 of proper reflection, and a disregard for the good of 
 those who may be affected by her conduct, abuse and 
 destroy her health, she will transmit to the minds of 
 her children the same disregard of what is just and 
 right that she has, and the same tendencies to bodily 
 disease. Thus, she will curse her children with a 
 double curse. Think of this, Margaret, and for the 
 sake of the children that may one day gather around 
 you, carefully preserve your health now ; and, with 
 equal, nay, greater care, seek to. bring your mind 
 
 IX, 6 
 
62 THREE SCENES IN THE 
 
 under the control of right reason, that your children 
 may inherit orderly instead of disorderly mental 
 tendencies/' 
 
 The seriousness with which her mother spoke, 
 more than her words, impressed the mind of Mar- 
 garet, and made her, for a time, feel sober ; but the 
 efiect was not strong enough to induce her to refrain 
 from going to a ball that evening, although the air 
 was damp and chilly, and she was but partially re- 
 covered from a recent cold. It was in the hope of 
 dissuading her from going to this ball, that her 
 mother had spoken so plainly. 
 
 " If you will go, Margaret/' said Mrs. Ellis, when 
 her daughter left her room and came down dressed 
 for the gay assembly, of which she was to make one, 
 " I must insist on your protecting yourself as far aa 
 it can possibly be done. That shawl is too thin ; 
 you must wear your cloak." 
 
 " But I am going in a carriage, mother." 
 
 " In passing from the door to the carriage, both 
 in going and returning, the cold air will penetrate to 
 your very body, unless you have some better pro- 
 tection; and even in a close carriage, you need to 
 be more warmly clad than this. Go, dear, and get 
 your cloak." 
 
 " It will be so much in my way, mother. I am 
 sure this shawl will be warm enough. But, if you 
 think not, I will wear my boa." 
 
 " Oh, no ! Don't think of that. You are hoarse 
 
LIFE OF A CONSUMPTIVE. 
 
 now. A boa round your neck will only cause it tc 
 perspire, and the first breath of air that blows upon 
 it will check this perspiration and increase the in- 
 flammation of your throat. You had much better 
 go as you are." 
 
 " I shall be warm enough. This shawl is thicker 
 than you suppose. Feel it." 
 
 But Mrs. Ellis shook her head and looked grave. 
 
 a You'll spoil all my pleasure to-night, if you look 
 so serious, mother," said Margaret. 
 
 " And you will spoil all mine, if you do not pay 
 more regard to your health. Surely," and the 
 mother cast her eyes down as she spoke, " you are 
 not going to wear those stockings ! You might 
 almost as well go without any." 
 
 " They are thin, I know. But it is so much 
 trouble to change your stockings after you get 
 there; and, besides, in stepping from the door to 
 the carriage, there is not the least danger of taking 
 cold." 
 
 All remonstrance proved vain. When Mrs. Ellis 
 entered the parlour with Margaret, she said to the 
 young man who was awaiting her daughter, and who 
 was under an engagement of marriage with her : 
 
 " Mr. Cranston, I wish you would try and teach 
 this young lady a little prudence. She is going out, 
 to-night, too thinly clad, and must inevitably take 
 more cold. I want her to wear her cloak, but she 
 thinks her shawl thick enough." 
 
64 THREE SCENES IN THE 
 
 " Don't say a word, mother/' laughingly retorted 
 Margaret. " I am not quite so frail as you would 
 make me believe I am. This shawl is abundantly 
 warm. Come, Henry, I am ready. Good-night, 
 mother ! Don't sit up for me. I have a key, and 
 can get in at any time." 
 
 And so saying, the thoughtless young girl danced 
 lightly from the room, and, springing from the street- 
 door, was in the carriage in a moment. Mrs. Ellis sank 
 down into a chair with saddened feelings, as soon as 
 she was alone, and remained nearly motionless for 
 fully half an hour. Then she arose, and slowly 
 retired, still in deep abstraction of mind. 
 
 SCENE SECOND. 
 
 IT was far past the hour at which the weary head 
 usually finds its pillow. The clock had struck 
 twelve, one, and two, and the hands still moved 
 steadily over the dial, approaching nearer and nearer 
 to the third chime since the noon of night. But 
 Margaret had not yet returned, and her mother sat 
 alone, awaiting her arrival. More than twenty times 
 had she aroused herself to listen to the sound of ap- 
 proaching carriage wheels, only to sink down with 
 a feeling of disappointment, as they went rumbling 
 by and were heard no more by her. 
 
 At last, over-wearied, she laid her head upon the 
 
LIFE OF A CONSUMPTIVE. 65 
 
 table at which she was sitting in a few moments, 
 her senses were locked in sleep. From this state of 
 unconsciousness she was aroused by the hand of her 
 daughter upon her arm. 
 
 " Bless me, mother ! It can't be possible that 
 you have been sitting up for me all this time !" said 
 Margaret, who had left her lover at the door and 
 glided hastily in just as the clock was striking three. 
 She spoke in a husky, whispering voice, that thrilled 
 through the mother's frame, and instantly restored 
 her lost consciousness to its fullest state of activity. 
 Starting up, she looked eagerly into Margaret's face, 
 and saw that her cheeks were deeply flushed, and 
 that her eyes had lost their usual brightness. 
 
 " You have stayed late, but that can't be helped 
 now. How do you feel ?" 
 
 " Oh, very well/' was replied with an effort to 
 speak cheerfully and appear unconcerned : " only I 
 am a little hoarser than I was/' she added, conscious 
 that she was only speaking in a whisper, " but that 
 will be gone by morning. You know that the least 
 cold makes me hoarse. But it's nothing. I shall be 
 as well as ever to-morrow." 
 
 Margaret saw, as she spoke, that the eyes of her 
 mother were fixed penetratingly upon her. In spite 
 of herself, she was forced to drop her own to the 
 floor, while a flush of confusion passed over her face. 
 
 " You breathe with difficulty," said Mrs. Ellis. 
 ' ( Have you no pain in your breast ?" 
 
 6* 
 
66 THREE SCENES IN THE 
 
 " A slight pain in my side, and some pain here," 
 placing her finger on the throat-pit. 
 
 The mother took hold of her hand. 
 
 " Your hand is like ice !" said she. " How are 
 your feet? cold ?" 
 
 "A little." 
 
 " Go quickly up to your room and get into bed/' 
 said Mrs. Ellis, exhibiting the alarm and anxiety she 
 felt. " I will fill some bottles with hot water and 
 bring them up immediately to place at your feet. 
 If it were not so late, I would have the doctor sent 
 for." 
 
 "You give yourself too much uneasiness, mother," 
 returned Margaret. " There is no cause whatever 
 for it. It is late, and I am a good deal fatigued. 
 Having taken a little more cold, it can't be expected 
 that I should feel perfectly well. But a few hours' 
 sleep will restore me. By morning, I shall be as 
 bright as ever." 
 
 " I hope it may be so," was the mother's reply. 
 " Go, and get into bed at once ; and I will be with 
 you in a few moments." 
 
 In obedience to her mother's wishes, as well as 
 her own inclinations, Margaret went up quickly to 
 her chamber. Mrs. Ellis soon followed with the 
 bottles of hot water, which were placed at her 
 daughter's feet. It was time some remedial agent 
 were applied, for not only were Margaret's hands 
 and feet cold, but the chilliness had passed through 
 
LIFE OF A CONSUMPTIVE. 67 
 
 her entire frame, and she was now shaking Lke one 
 in an ague-fit. To overcome this, the mother used 
 all the means within her reach. It was nearly day- 
 dawn before Margaret found sufficient relief from 
 the chilliness, pain, and general uneasiness with 
 which she was affected, to sleep. Then she sank 
 into an uneasy slumber, that was broken by frequent 
 nervous starts, and attended by meanings and words 
 incoherently spoken. Mrs. Ellis did not leave her 
 chamber until morning, when she despatched a ser- 
 vant for their physician, with a pressing request for 
 his immediate attendance. 
 
 The doctor promptly obeyed the summons. He 
 found the patient suffering from a high degree of 
 inflammation of the larynx and trachea, attended by 
 too evident indications of its rapid descent towards 
 the lungs. Prescribing such treatment as he hoped 
 would check this downward tendency of the disease, 
 he left, promising to call in again in the afternoon. 
 On his second visit, he found the family somewhat; 
 relieved in consequence of a subsidence of the hoarse- 
 ness ; but this, he was sorry to find, on examination, 
 "was a less favourable symptom than had been sup- 
 posed. It indicated merely a change in the location 
 of the disease from the larynx to the bronchia, where 
 increased pain was felt. 
 
 On the following morning, all the symptoms of an 
 attack of acute pneumonia were apparent. The pa- 
 tient complained of great oppression and pain in the 
 
THREE SCENES IN THE 
 
 breast, that was increased by a full inspiration, also, 
 in the side, with a sense of weight under the ribs. 
 The hoarseness was nearly all gone, but in its place 
 was a deep cough, that seemed to lacerate the breast 
 at every concussion. She could not lie upon her left 
 side at all, and only for a short time upon her right 
 side, without considerable pain. Lying upon her 
 back relieved the pain she felt, but this posture 
 produced a feeling of suffocation 
 
 All the patient's symptoms gradually became 
 worse. Her pulse, which was at first full and hard, 
 became quick and sharp, her respiration more difficult 
 and the pains she experienced more severe. 
 
 " Do you think her lungs affected, doctor ?" the 
 parents anxiously inquired, not understanding that 
 every symptom she had, indicated a high state of 
 inflammation in that vital organ. 
 
 " There is some inflammation there," replied the 
 doctor, evasively. 
 
 " She is not so hoarse as she was," said the 
 mother, speaking as if she supposed that at least to 
 be a favourable symptom. 
 
 "No, the hoarseness is better," was the physi- 
 cian's brief reply. Then quickly changing the sub- 
 ject, he gave some particular directions for their 
 observance, and, taking up his hat, bade the anxious 
 parents good-morning. 
 
 In spite of all the physician's efforts, the disease 
 continued to advance rapidly. By the end of a week, 
 
LIFE OF A CONSUMPTIVE. 69 
 
 the bright colour of Margaret's cheeks changed to a 
 livid hue. Her neck, face, and chest were constantly 
 bathed in a cold and clammy perspiration; her 
 countenance was anxious and distressed ; her expec- 
 toration, though not abundant, was sometimes tinged 
 with blood j she was so weak as to be unable to sit- 
 up in bed, or to speak without pain or a feeling of 
 suffocation. Hope died in the hearts of the parents 
 and friends. 
 
 This low state continued for nearly two weeks, 
 without much apparent increase or decrease in the 
 most alarming symptoms, except that the patient's 
 respiration, towards the end of this time, became 
 easier, and she could speak with less pain. But 
 neither herself nor parents were much encouraged 
 to hope for a favourable termination of tfie disease. 
 
 " Mother/' said Margaret, in a low, feeble voice, 
 as her parent sat holding one of her thin, white 
 hands in hers, " I have thought a great deal, since I 
 have been sick, of what you said on the night of 
 that ball. Indeed, I have scarcely thought of any 
 thing else. I did not clearly comprehend you then : 
 but now it is as plain as if it were written out before 
 me. You said I had no right to disregard my 
 health, because its injury or entire loss would affect 
 others as well as myself. How plain this is to me 
 now ! Have not you and all my best and nearest 
 friends suffered most deeply on my account ? And 
 have I not brought disease upon myself, which, even 
 
70 THREE SCENES IN THE 
 
 if rny life is spared, may leave me with an enfeebled 
 constitution, and an inability to do for others the 
 first and most imperative duties I owe them. How 
 blind and thoughtless I have been I" 
 
 Tears filled the eyes of the sufferer, and emotion 
 checked her utterance. 
 
 " Do not think of this, now, my child/' returned 
 the mother. " It can only disturb your mind and 
 hinder your recovery. If, in the dispensation of a 
 wise and good Providence, your life should mercifully 
 be spared, I trust you will let the past time suffice 
 wherein you have wrought folly, and be wise in the 
 future." 
 
 Margaret was about making a reply, when some- 
 thing rose in her throat, which she threw up with a 
 slight effort. It was bright red blood ! In a mo- 
 ment after her mouth was again filled, the effusion 
 being rapid. She became deadly pale. 
 
 " My good resolutions are all in vain," she mur- 
 mured, the tears again coming to her eyes. " It is 
 too late !" 
 
 A hurried message was sent for the physician, 
 who happened, fortunately, to be at home. He came 
 immediately, and succeeded in checking the rapid 
 Sow of blood from the lungs, but not in stanching 
 it altogether. The bleeding continued for several 
 days, by which time Margaret was reduced so low, 
 that none but her mother, the nurse, and physician 
 were admitted to her chamber. But what had 
 
LIFE OP A CONSUMPTIVE. 71 
 
 seemed a fatal change in the disease, proved to be a 
 beneficial one. All inflammation subsided, and nature 
 had only to heal the lacerations upon which the 
 hemorrhage had depended, and aid the whole system 
 in a return to health. This return was very slow, 
 and, what was worse, proved to be only an imperfect 
 one. The glow of health, which had given to the 
 face of Margaret so much brightness and beauty, 
 never came back, except as a hectic flush when 
 something occurred to disturb the orderly perform- 
 ance in her body of all its functions. The least ex- 
 posure to cold made her sick, with a slight or more 
 serious oppression of the chest, pain, and cough; 
 and all irregularities of diet, or fatigue, were visited 
 with more or less evil consequences. Bitterly and 
 with unavailing regret did she lament the folly that 
 she had thus brought disease upon her, and which 
 threatened to render not only her life a burden, but 
 to hinder her from discharging her duties to others, 
 and finally to abridge her life by many years. 
 
 " Were you really in earnest, mother/' said Mar- 
 garet one day, after she was so far recovered as to 
 be able to sit up and walk across her room, " when 
 you spoke about parents transmitting to their chil- 
 dren a predisposition to the particular diseases from 
 which they suffered ?" 
 
 This question was asked after she had been sitting 
 in deep thought for some time. 
 
 " Deeply in earnest/' replied Mrs. Ellis. "It 
 
72 THREE SCENES IN THE 
 
 follows from this immutable law in nature, that like 
 produces like. As the quality of the cause is, such 
 must and will be the quality of the effect. But 
 look around you, and see for yourself. The mother 
 of Helen Malcolm is now dying of consumption ; and 
 you know that Helen is so susceptible to coughs and 
 colds, that she dares not venture out unless the 
 weather be perfectly clear. No one expects her to 
 live more than a few years. My mother died of 
 consumption } I have a marked predisposition to that 
 fatal disease; and I need not tell you that your 
 lungs are peculiarly sensitive. In fact, no observant 
 mind for a moment doubts this law." 
 
 " Then to be born of consumptive parents is to 
 have an inevitable entailment of disease and early 
 death." 
 
 " No, that does not follow. 
 
 " But, if I understand aright, scarcely an instance 
 occurs in which life is not materially shortened." 
 
 "That is, in almost all cases, the fault of each 
 individual who inherits a peculiar liability to pul- 
 monary affections. If I had, from the time I became 
 mistress of my own actions, carefully guarded my 
 health, and not increased my natural predisposition 
 to this disease, but rather overcome it, I would have 
 escaped, and you would have been born with lungs 
 less liable to inflammation than mine ; and then, if 
 you had, with equal care, preserved your health, 
 your children would be born still less predisposed 
 
LIFE OF A CONSUMPTIVE. 73 
 
 to consumption ; and in your grandchildren, or at 
 least in their children, were the same care for health 
 observed, the tendency to this fatal disease would 
 be lost. What a blessing this would be, I need not 
 say ! If such care had been exercised by our pa- 
 rents, they would have bestowed upon us a legacy 
 far more desirable and far more valuable than silver 
 and gold. From this you may see that no young 
 person has a right to neglect her health for in doing 
 so, she sacrifices the happiness of her children, in 
 entailing upon them the diseases that her own con- 
 duct has brought upon herself; and, it may be, so 
 enervates her own constitution, that she is unable 
 properly to discharge her duty to them. Early 
 death is, too often, the fatal consequence that ensues, 
 where a liability to consumption exists, and the 
 mother is torn from her little ones at the very time 
 when they are most bound up in her affections, and 
 most need her care." 
 
 A gush of tears was Margaret's answer to this. 
 vShe realized, in imagination, too vividly the dis- 
 tressing picture which her mother had drawn, and 
 felt too seriously her own irreparable folly. 
 
 SCENE THIRD. 
 
 TEN years have passed since the scene last intro 
 duced It is in the pleasant month of June, and 
 
 IX.- 1 
 
74 THREE SCENES IN THE 
 
 the day is nearly at its close. We will bring the 
 reader into a chamber, where, elevated on pillows, 
 reclines a mother, whose pale, thin face, large bright 
 eyes, and laboured, almost gasping respiration, tell 
 too plainly that her time upon earth is but brief. 
 From great weakness, cough, and a gradual decay, 
 she has been suffering for many years, and now, the 
 feeble organism by which her mind has done its 
 work in the natural world, is no longer able to act 
 against the influent life of the soul, and is about to 
 be laid aside, and the spirit ascend into the world of 
 spirits. There would be nothing in this act of 
 laying off the material body, to sadden the feelings, 
 had the full time come, and all life's duties been per- 
 formed. But, alas ! in the instance we are about to 
 contemplate, this is not so. Life's highest duties 
 have but just begun. 
 
 Five human beings are in that chamber, besides 
 the dying mother. The husband and father, and 
 four little ones, the oldest but nine years of age. 
 Upon these pledges of a pure and holy love, the 
 mother's eyes are fixed with an earnest, tearful 
 intensity. 
 
 n Oh ! I cannot leave you all !" she murmured 
 in her husband's ear; "I cannot give up my 
 children to stranger-hands ! Who can love them 
 and care for them like a mother ? Oh, no ! 
 God is merciful, and will not take me from my 
 children/' 
 
LIFE OP A CONSUMPTIVE. 75 
 
 But, even while she thus gave utterance to the 
 feelings that were overpowering her, her breath 
 grew feebler and her pulse lower. 
 
 " Bring me my babe/' she said, in a quick, earnest 
 voice, as if she felt the hand of the destroyer laid 
 coldly upon her heart, and was conscious that her 
 moments upon earth were few. 
 
 An infant but a few months old, lying in a calm 
 deep slumber, was brought into the room and laid 
 on a pillow beside her. It was a beautiful babe 
 pure and sweet as innocence itself. Long and 
 earnestly did the mother look into its passionless 
 face, a smile of love half forming itself around her 
 lips, while the tears fell slowly from her eyes, and 
 rested like dewdrops upon the infant's cheeks. The 
 falling tears awakened the babe ; its bright blue 
 eyes opened, smiles dimpled over its cherub face, and 
 its hands were lifted in gladness at beholding the 
 countenance that was bent lovingly over it. Wildly 
 did the mother clasp her infant to her bosom, while 
 sobs convulsed her whole frame, and her moans of 
 anguish filled the chamber. The nurse stepped for- 
 ward quickly to remove the babe from her arms, but 
 she refused to release it binding it still more firmly 
 to her breast. But, in a few moments her arms 
 relaxed ; the babe fell gently upon the pillow from 
 which she had lifted it, and the mother sank back 
 mute, unconscious, pulseless !" 
 
 " Margaret !" exclaimed her husband, springing 
 
76 THREE SCENES IN THE 
 
 quickly forward, and bending down over her; but she 
 neard him not. 
 
 " Mother ! mother !" called, in tearful alarm and 
 anguish, the oldest child, clambering upon the bed ; 
 but the mother's ear was deaf. Never again would 
 it thrill at the sweet sounds of children's voices. It 
 heard not the moans and cries of anguish that filled 
 the chamber whence the spirit had fled for ever, 
 leaving behind its clayey tenement, cold, rigid, and 
 senseless ! 
 
 Thus, in her very prime, was this young wife and 
 mother snatched away from those who loved her 
 with the deepest and purest love that warms the 
 human breast. Thus was she torn from the babe in 
 whom her very life seemed bound up ; and thus was 
 the fountain that nature had opened for the infant's 
 sustenance, closed for ever. With seeming justice 
 might one, who saw nothing beyond that chamber 
 of death, with all its unexpressed and inexpressible 
 anguish, charge with cruelty the great Disposer of 
 events ; but we, who have seen the causes to these 
 sad consequences, are by no means surprised at the 
 painful result. 
 
 " You have no right to abuse your health, Mar- 
 garet !" If, when this warning admonition was given 
 with so much earnestness by her mother, Margaret 
 Ellis could have looked into the future, how would 
 she nave shuddered at the scenes we have just con- 
 templated with pain ! But the future is wisely 
 
LIFE OF A CONSUMPTIVE. 77 
 
 hidden from us, and reason given to be our guide. 
 If we hearken to the voice of reason, all will be well ; 
 but if we disregard its admonitions, pain and suffer- 
 ing will inevitably follow. Sad, indeed, as we have 
 seen, were the consequences that followed her abuse 
 of health. But they stopped not here. In the bodies 
 of her children she has sown the seeds of the same 
 fatal disease that robbed her of life, and with a 
 higher degree of vitality than she received them from 
 her mother. 
 
 The whole picture is one that fills the mind with 
 sadness. Utterly disregarding all the warnings she 
 received, Margaret Ellis, in the pursuit of her own 
 pleasures, destroyed her health, and then assumed 
 the high and important relations of a wife and mother, 
 without the ability to discharge fully the obligations 
 thus taken upon herself. Just as she is surrounded 
 with children who need all her love and care just 
 at the time when she becomes her husband's very 
 second self, and absolutely necessary to his hap- 
 piness the consequences of her folly reach their 
 climax, and she dies ! 
 
 We draw the curtain over this scene. We wish 
 to contemplate it no longer. To do so could not 
 possibly furnish a stronger incentive to right conduct 
 than must be felt by all who need to be more careful 
 than they are in regard to health. 
 
 7* 
 
78 THREE SCENES IN THE 
 
 THE SEQUEL. 
 
 A LOVELY girl, just entering her eighteenth year ; 
 sits by an open window, reading. She is deeply 
 absorbed in her book, and notices not that the day 
 is declining, and the air rapidly falling in tempera- 
 ture. Even the long sunny ringlets, that the fresh- 
 ening breeze, ever and anon, blows across her book, 
 convey to her mind no warning. Still she reads on, 
 until aroused by an earnest and familiar voice. 
 
 " My dear Florence, you mustn't sit by that open 
 window ! It might be your death ! Don't you 
 perceive that the air is much colder than it was an 
 hour ago ?" 
 
 ct So it is/' answered the young girl, moving from 
 the window, and slightly shivering as she felt a chill 
 run over her body. " I was so interested in what 
 I was reading, that I did not notice the change/' 
 
 As she arose and walked across the floor, she ex- 
 hibited a tall and slender person, with a narrow 
 chest, long and thin neck, and fine white skin. She 
 was very beautiful, and her father's eyes rested upon 
 her with pride, not unmingled with anxiety, the 
 last of four children, two of whom had died very 
 young, and the third, after she had attained the age 
 of womanhood and was just on the eve of marriage. 
 
LIFE OF A CONSUMPTIVE. 79 
 
 Florence was as dear to her father as the apple of 
 his eye. Inheriting from her mother, who had died 
 many years before, a high degree of susceptibility to 
 disease of the lungs, a disease that had snatched her 
 sister away in the very spring-time of life, it was no 
 wonder that her father loved her tenderly, at the 
 same time that he felt most anxious in regard to her 
 health. 
 
 " You are not well, Florence," said her father, that 
 evening, after having sat for some time with his eyes 
 fixed upon her as she was reading. 
 
 Florence drew herself up, and pressed her hand 
 against her side. 
 
 " No, father/' she replied, " I do not feel very 
 well" 
 
 What is the matter ?" 
 
 "I don't know; except that I feel hot here/' lay- 
 ing her hand upon her breast, " and cannot take a 
 long breath without pain." 
 
 " You have taken cold. I was afraid of it, when 
 I saw you sitting by the window, with the air blow- 
 ing over you so freshly/' said Mr. Cranston, (that 
 was the father's name), manifesting a good deal of 
 concern. " You had better go to bed, and I will 
 step round and see the doctor." 
 
 " I will go to bed, father/' returned Florence, 
 "but there is no reason in the world why you should 
 see the doctor. I suppose I have taken some cold, 
 but shall be well enough by morning." 
 
80 THREE SCENES IN THE 
 
 Mr. Cranston said no more. But the moment Lis 
 daughter withdrew, after bidding him a tender good 
 night, he took up his hat, and, leaving the house, 
 moved down the street with hasty steps. He found 
 the doctor, at whose office he called, within. 
 
 " Is any thing the matter ?" asked the physician, 
 for he saw, by the expression of Mr. Cranston's face, 
 that he was alarmed about something. 
 
 " Oh, no, nothing serious, I hope/' was replied. 
 " When I came home this afternoon, I found Florence 
 sitting by the open window, with the air, which had 
 fallen several degrees in a few hours, blowing freshly 
 over her. As she moved away, on my speaking to 
 her, I noticed a slight shudder pass over her, as if 
 she had been struck with a sudden chill. To-night 
 she complains of burning in her breast, and cannot 
 take a long breath without pain. I suppose it is 
 nothing serious, but the slightest cold alarms me. 
 You know, doctor, I have good cause for feeling as 
 I do." 
 
 This last sentence was spoken in a saddened voice. 
 
 " Oh, no, I don't suppose it is any thing serious/' 
 the doctor replied, speaking cheerfully. " But in 
 one naturally predisposed to inflammation of the chest 
 and diseases of the lungs, as she is, slight colds, if 
 neglected, may prove troublesome. It is better, there- 
 fore, always to meet the enemy in his first inroads, 
 and subdue him. Suppose I call round and sec 
 Florence ?" 
 
LIFE OF A CONSUMPTIVE. 81 
 
 " I wish you would, doctor. I think ifc will be 
 much better/' 
 
 The doctor took up his hat and accompanied Mr 
 Cranston home. He found Florence rather worse 
 than he had expected to find her from her father's 
 description. Her symptoms indicated very con- 
 siderable inflammation in her chest, although he was 
 not able to determine its exact location. In the 
 hope of subduing this inflammation before it could dc 
 any serious injury, he applied a blister along the 
 sternum, and waited until next morning to see the 
 effect produced by this treatment. But it did not 
 prove as salutary as he had expected. The patient 
 still complained of a pain that extended to her right 
 shoulder, and which was greatly augmented if she 
 attempted to take a deep inspiration. 
 
 But it is not our intention to trace the progress of 
 this disease. It is sufficient for our purpose to say, 
 that without any very serious or long-continued ill- 
 ness on the part of Florence, the consequences of the 
 cold taken at the window was such an irritation of 
 her lungs highly susceptible to disease from birth 
 as to cause the development of what are known 
 to physicians as tubercles, or little nuclese, that be- 
 come in time the centres of so many abscesses, and 
 ultimately cause such a destruction of the lungs as 
 to produce death. When these are once formed, 
 there is little, if any, hope of a cure. 
 
 From this period, although Florence recovered in 
 
82 THREE SCENES. ETC. 
 
 a short time from the acute symptoms produced by 
 the cold, she never felt entirely well. In the course 
 of a few months, a slight cough, from tickling in the 
 chest, began to show itself, which at times was very 
 troublesome. Sometimes her cheeks would be flush- 
 ed, and her eyes deeply brilliant; and again, pale- 
 ness would overspread her countenance, and her 
 eyes become dull and almost expressionless. Her 
 appetite also varied at times being voracious, and 
 then failing almost entirely. 
 
 A year had scarcely passed, before weakening 
 night-sweats made their appearance. The cough 
 had increased, and was sometimes very severe, ac- 
 companied by only a scanty, mucous expectoration. 
 Soon after this time, however, the cough became less 
 severe, but the expectoration was fuller, and of a 
 quality to indicate too plainly that the tubercles 
 had become abscesses, and were now discharging 
 themselves. 
 
 From this period, all the worst symptoms in- 
 creased. In the hope of relief from change of cli- 
 mate, Mr. Cranston took his daughter to Cuba. 
 But this was of no avail. The disease was too 
 deeply seated for climate to have any effect. In six 
 months, he returned, hopeless and almost heart- 
 broken. This was the last tie that bound him to life. 
 The wife of his bosom and three children had already 
 been taken from him, and now the last remaining one 
 was about to be stricken down at his side. 
 
THE OVERPAID CHECK. 83 
 
 But grief and painful anxieties availed not. 
 Death had too surely marked his victim. Nor was 
 he the only sufferer in view of this great bereave- 
 ment. One worthy of his daughter's best affections 
 one for whom she was in every way fitted to make 
 a loving companion through life had won her 
 heart. But he had a rival more powerful than him- 
 self she was not destined to be his bride, but the 
 bride of Death. 
 
 THE OVERPAID CHECK. 
 
 " I'LL tell you something, if you'll promise noi 
 to say any thing about it," said a young man named 
 Wheeler, to a fellow-clerk named Watson. 
 
 " I'm no hand at keeping secrets," returned Wat- 
 son, " so you'd better not tell me." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I will ; but you mustn't say any thing 
 about it. You know, I had a check for my quarter's 
 salary to-day." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " It was for three hundred dollars. Now, look 
 here." And, as Wheeler spoke, he opened a drawer 
 of the desk at which he was writing, took out a 
 small parcel of bank-bills, and commenced countiDg 
 
84 THE OVERPAID CHECK. 
 
 them over. The whole amount was eight hundred 
 dollars. 
 
 " There is what I received for my check," said 
 he, in a tone and with a glance of exultation. 
 
 " Eight hundred dollars !" remarked Watson, 
 evincing surprise. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I thought your check called for only three hun- 
 dred dollars." 
 
 " So did I ; but it seems the teller thought dif- 
 ferently." 
 
 " Then he overpaid your check five hundred 
 dollars." 
 
 " He did, and no mistake," replied Wheeler, 
 " AVt I lucky? No errors corrected out of bank, 
 you know." 
 
 " But you don't intend keeping the money?" 
 
 " Yes, I do. Suppose the check had been for 
 eight hundred dollars, and the teller had paid me 
 but three hundred would he have rectified that 
 error? No, indeed! It's a poor rule that won't 
 work both ways." 
 
 " How could he have made such a mistake ?" 
 
 a Easily enough. The counter was lined with a 
 dozen of persons waiting with their checks, when I 
 handed up mine. You know how curiously Mr. 
 
 Y makes his figures ; it's no great wonder that 
 
 there should be mistakes sometimes. Now, what 
 figure do you call that ?" 
 
THE OVERPAID CHECK. 85 
 
 The clerk pointed to a piece of paper which lay 
 upon the desk. 
 
 " It is the figure three." 
 
 " Yet one might easily enough mistake it for an 
 eight, if in a hurry/' 
 
 Oh, yes." 
 
 " Just such another figure was on my check." 
 
 " Then the teller was not so much to blame !" 
 
 " Oh, no ! The mistake is by no means a sur- 
 prising one." 
 
 " But you do not mean to take advantage of the 
 error?" 
 
 " I certainly do. If it had been on the other side, 
 would he have corrected it ?" 
 
 " The loss will fall upon himself." 
 
 " I don't care where it falls } I'll get the advan- 
 tage. A man doesn't meet with such good luck 
 every day." 
 
 " Indeed, Wheeler, I .think you're wrong," said 
 his fellow-clerk, earnestly. " We should never seek 
 to secure a good to ourselves through another's loss. 
 The teller will lose five hundred dollars, unless you 
 go forward and correct his mistake, and that will be 
 a serious matter for him. You know he has a large 
 family." 
 
 " Let him take better care another time ; but I 
 don't believe the bank will make him lose it." 
 
 " Even if they should not, the principle upon 
 which you act is wrong." 
 
 X.-8 
 
86 THE OVERPAID CHECK. 
 
 " That for the principle," said Wheeler, snapping 
 his thumb and finger. "When a man gets five 
 hundred dollars in his grasp, it takes a large amount 
 of principle to get the money out again. My prin- 
 ciple is to hold on to all I can- get." 
 
 The conversation between the two young men 
 was interrupted at this point, and they separated to 
 attend to various duties that were required of them. 
 
 " I hope you've thought better of it, and intend 
 returning the five hundred dollars you drew out of 
 the bank in mistake," said Watson, when he had an 
 opportunity to speak again with Wheeler alone. 
 
 " You're very much mistaken," was the prompt 
 reply. " I intend no such thing. No errors cor- 
 rected out of bank ; this is the rule, and it's as good 
 on one side as on another. The banks made the 
 rule, and let them abide by it. Didn't this very 
 teller make a mistake of fifty dollars last winter, 
 against a check paid to Anderson & Miller, and re- 
 fuse to correct it ? I know a good many instances 
 of the same kind. Now I'll turn the tables on him, 
 and he'll understand how it feels." 
 
 "You're wrong; depend upon it, you're wrong," 
 answered Watson. " The teller refused to correct 
 the alleged mistakes, because he did not know them 
 to be such. But you know that you have received 
 five hundred dollars, not your due, and that the loss 
 will fall upon the individual who committed the 
 error." 
 
THE OVERPAID CHECK. 87 
 
 "You need not talk to me, Watson; I know what 
 I'm about. I just wanted five hundred dollars, and 
 the money has come in the nick of time/' 
 
 Wheeler was in earnest, as his conduct proved. 
 He kept the money, notwithstanding several persons, 
 who came to know of the fact, urged him to do what 
 was right ; but it proved of no benefit to him, for 
 he lost it all, and three hundred dollars besides, in 
 an adventure made in one of his employer's ships, 
 before the year was out. 
 
 About this time, the firm in whose service he was 
 discovered that a system of peculation had been 
 going on in their establishment, but were unable to 
 trace the wrong to any particular clerk among the 
 large number employed. Whole pieces of fine and 
 costly goods disappeared mysteriously, and, on vari- 
 ous occasions, the cash proved to be unaccountably 
 short. Under these circumstances, a council of tho 
 firm was called, and the matter taken up seriously. 
 
 "I'm afraid/' said one, during this interview, 
 " that the young man in whom we have reposed so 
 much confidence is not innocent in this matter." 
 
 "You don't mean Wheeler?" inquired a second 
 member of the house, exhibiting marked surprise. 
 
 " I do," was answered. 
 
 " Impossible !" 
 
 " So I would have said yesterday; but I heard 
 something this morning, that has altogether changed 
 my opinion of him." 
 
88 THE OVERPAID CHECK. 
 
 "What is it ?" 
 
 " You remember the adventure upon which he 
 lost so heavily ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Where do you think a large part of the money 
 with which he bought the goods sent out came 
 from T 9 
 
 " He saved it from his salary, I presume." 
 
 "I believed the same; but now T learn that on 
 one of the checks we gave him for a quarter's salary, 
 the teller overpaid him five hundred dollars." 
 
 "And he kept it?" 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " Then he is not honest." 
 
 " Of course, he is not. The act was just as dis- 
 honest as stealing." 
 
 " But are you certain of this ?" 
 
 "John Phillips told me so this morning." 
 
 Phillips was a clerk in the establishment, and the 
 real delinquent in the matter under investigation. 
 He had become apprized of the act of Wheeler, and 
 rightly judged that to give a hint of it to his em- 
 ployers would turn their attention from him and fix 
 his guilt upon another, if his peculations were made 
 the subject of investigation, as he had every reason 
 to believe was about being the case. 
 
 " Can we believe him ?" 
 
 " He says Andrew Watson knows it to be the 
 case." 
 
THE OVERPAID CHECK. 89 
 
 Watson, being questioned, fully confirmed the fact. 
 Other evidence was added, establishing the matter 
 beyond a doubt. 
 
 " It won't do to retain him in our employment/' 
 said one of the firm. 
 
 " No. But who would have dreamed of suspect- 
 ing him ? It is well we have not yet carried out 
 our intention of establishing a house in Cincinnati. 
 With him at the head of it, as was designed, we 
 might have sustained a heavy loss." 
 
 Not the slightest evidence appeared against 
 Wheeler. Still, there was the fact of his dishonesty 
 in the matter of the check before the eyes of his 
 employers, who were suffering loss from some one 
 about their establishment. Their determination, 
 after long debating the matter, and viewing it upon 
 every side, was to inform him that they no longer 
 had need of his services. Nothing could have more 
 astounded the young man than did this announce- 
 ment when it was made. His inquiry into the 
 cause of his dismissal was not answered truly : some- 
 thing about the necessity of reducing expenses was 
 alleged ; and that was about all the satisfaction he 
 received. 
 
 Being a most excellent salesman, and in every 
 way competent to take charge of business, Wheeler 
 received the offer of a situation at. a thousand dollars 
 a year, as soon as it was known that he had left his 
 old place. This offer he accepted, although the 
 
 8* 
 
90 THE OVERPAID CHECK. 
 
 salary was two hundred dollars less than the one he 
 had been receiving. 
 
 In the house from which he was dismissed, Whee- 
 ler had been employed for ten years ; he entered it 
 as a lad of fifteen, and had always acted so as to 
 secure the confidence and respect of every member 
 of the firm. His expectations in life, so far as busi- 
 ness matters were concerned, did not go beyond this 
 house. A branch in Cincinnati had been for some 
 time under contemplation, and it was understood 
 that he was to have an interest in it, and it was to 
 be under his charge. His disappointment and mor- 
 tification were, therefore, extreme. He knew that 
 the cause assigned for his discharge was not the real 
 one, for business had never been more active ; and 
 had he possessed a doubt on this subject, it would 
 have been removed by the fact, that a few weeks 
 after he left his old place, another clerk was engaged. 
 
 This reaction upon the young man's error, al- 
 though he was ignorant of the fact that it was such 
 a reaction, sobered his feelings very much. We say 
 ignorant of the fact, still a thought of what he had 
 done would occasionally cross his mind, and stir a 
 latent suspicion of some connection between the over- 
 paid check and his loss of favour in the eyes of his 
 old employers. The effect of this was to awaken a 
 feeling of regret for having kept the money, which 
 became, at length, so distinct an impression as to 
 trouble him. 
 
THE OVERPAID CHECK. 91 
 
 About a year after Wheeler had left his old place, 
 the merchant in whose employment he was, said to 
 him one day, on coming in from the bank, where he 
 had been to attend to some business " I'm sorry 
 to hear bad news about Gardiner, the first teller in 
 our bank." 
 
 " Ah ! What is it ?" inquired Wheeler. 
 " He has been detected in several false entries." 
 " It can't be possible ! I have always believed 
 him to be a very honest man." 
 
 " So have I. In fact, the circumstances are such 
 as to show the existence of strong temptations." 
 " How much has he taken from the bank ?" 
 " Only five hundred dollars have been discovered; 
 and that, he says, is the full amount abstracted from 
 the funds of the institution, and I am disposed to 
 believe him." 
 
 " What could have possessed him to do so? v 
 " Very peculiar circumstances. He has a large 
 family, and his expenses have been fully up to his 
 income. About two years ago, he says that he over- 
 paid to some one, five* hundred dollars, which the 
 institution required him to make good; it was de- 
 ducted from his salary, at the rate of one hundred 
 and twenty-five dollars a quarter. In the mean 
 time, debt became the unavoidable consequence, and 
 under its harassment, and goaded by the thought 
 that the bank was unjust in laying the entire burden 
 of the error upon him, when he was so little able to 
 
92 THE OVERPAID CHECK. 
 
 bear it, he yielded to the temptation, and made five 
 false entries in the book, each for one hundred 
 dollars. This is his account of the matter, and I 
 believe and pity him/' 
 
 " What course will the bank pursue ?" inquired 
 Wheeler, in so changed a voice that his employer 
 looked at him curiously. 
 
 " Gardiner has been removed from his place, and 
 his securities released. The directors, under the 
 circumstances, voted to let the loss fall upon the 
 bank ; but while they pitied the young man, they 
 could not retain him in so responsible a situation as 
 the one he had occupied." 
 
 " Oh, dear !" fell from the lips of Wheeler, in a 
 tone of distress, that was far more deeply-grounded 
 in his heart than the merchant dreamed. 
 
 " I don't envy the feelings of him who received 
 the temporary benefit from that poor clerk's error, 
 when he comes to hear of the sad consequence that 
 has followed," said Wheeler's employer, as he turned 
 from the young man. How the words stunned the 
 ears that heard them ! 
 
 For days and weeks, little else but the thought of 
 Gardiner's dismissal from the bank was in the mind 
 of Wheeler. Most sincerely did he repent of. what 
 he had done, and with repentance came the wish to 
 make restitution. While in this state of mind, Gar- 
 diner came into the store to see his employer and 
 lay before him an offer to go into business which he 
 
THE OVERPAID CHECK. 93 
 
 had received. In order to form the connection, he 
 must have a capital of five hundred dollars; but ho 
 had not a cent, was out of employment, and his 
 family dependent for their daily bread upon the 
 bounty of a relative. 
 
 " The offer is a very good one," said the merchant. 
 " But can you furnish the capital ?" 
 
 " No," was replied, " that is the difficulty." 
 
 " How do you think of obtaining it ?" 
 
 " I know of no resource, unless those who do not 
 think me really dishonest at heart, and who pity my 
 misfortune, help me. Can I depend upon you for 
 any aid ?" 
 
 " I'm afraid not," replied the merchant. " I 
 have need of every dollar it is possible for me to 
 command." 
 
 Gardiner went away, looking sad and hopeless. 
 Wheeler did not hear what he had said, but he was 
 painfully affected by the expression of his counte- 
 nance. 
 
 " Poor fellow !" said the merchant, after Gardiner 
 had retired. " I pity him, but I can't risk my mo- 
 ney on one who has proved himself dishonest, even 
 though it were under strong temptation. He has a 
 capital offer to go into business, if he had only five 
 hundred dollars to invest, but he will find it difficult 
 to raise that sum ; at least, from people who know 
 any thing of his short-comings while in the bank." 
 
 "Wheeler heard this, but said nothing. He wa? 
 
04 THE OVERPAID CHECK. 
 
 naturally fond of money, and ardently desired to 
 accumulate property. He made it a rule never to 
 spend over half of his salary, and, in consequence, 
 always had money laid up in bank, invested in good 
 stocks, or accumulating by means of such business 
 operations as he could enter into without interfering 
 with his regular duties as a clerk. His ultimate 
 intention was to commence business himself as sooti 
 as he had saved about five thousand dollars, unless 
 a good connection in some well-established house 
 offered before that time; towards this object he had 
 already accumulated nearly two thousand dollars. 
 Although he had lost, in an unsuccessful adventure, 
 the five hundred dollars obtained through the teller's 
 error, yet the thought of restitution came into his 
 mind; he felt that Gardiner's misfortune lay at his 
 door that he had injured him beyond all hope of 
 full reparation. But his strong love of money, and 
 ardent desire to accumulate a sufficient sum of mo- 
 ney to justify him in commencing business for him- 
 self, arose in opposition to the honest and generous 
 impulse. Then came a warm debate in his mind 
 between selfishness and just principles, which went 
 on for several days, during which time he was much 
 disturbed. To restore the five hundred dollars was 
 to put off for at least a year beyond the time when 
 he expected to get into business, the period he so 
 anxiously wished to arrive, and his heart sank at 
 the thought. Then came the question whether the 
 
THE OVERPAID CHECK. 95 
 
 money, if restored, should go to Gardiner or the 
 bank. This was soon settled, however, on the side 
 of the former, against whom the wrong had been 
 done, and who had been so great a sufferer in con- 
 sequence. 
 
 It was nearly two weeks before the mind of 
 Wheeler came to a full decision ; it was in favour 
 of justice. After deciding, he acted quickly. Five 
 hundred dollars worth of stock was sold, and the 
 money sent to Gardiner in a letter, to which, of 
 course, there was no signature. He then felt more 
 comfortable in mind, especially as Gardiner imme- 
 diately closed with the pending offer, and came intc 
 a business that, while it gave him a comfortable 
 living for the present, promised well for the future. 
 
 A few months after this, his old employers were 
 waited upon by the merchant whom he was serving 
 as a clerk. 
 
 " I wish," said the latter, " to ask you one or two 
 questions about Wheeler. I have thought, for some 
 time, of offering him an interest in my business; 
 but before doing so, it seemed but right that I should 
 see you and ask the reason why you did not retain 
 him in your employment. It could not have been 
 for want of ability or attention to business." 
 
 " No. Few young men have his capacity," was 
 replied. 
 
 " Then you had a reason for dispensing with his 
 cervices beyond this?" 
 
96 THE OVERPAID CHECK. 
 
 " We certainly had." 
 
 " May I be permitted to inquire what it was '/" 
 
 "Yes; and under the circumstances, we cannot 
 withhold a candid answer. You know that Gardi- 
 ner, the paying-teller in the Bank, lost his 
 
 place for abstracting five hundred dollars to make 
 good his own loss in consequence of having overpaid 
 that sum on a check." 
 
 " Yes; and I have pitied him very much. His 
 was rather a hard case. The scoundrel who took 
 advantage of his mistake, if known, should meet 
 with the execration of all honest men." 
 
 " We are sorry to say that Wheeler was the man 
 who drew the check." 
 
 "Wheeler?" 
 
 " Yes. On a check of three hundred dollars, 
 received for his quarter's salary, G-ardiner paid him 
 by mistake eight hundred, and he kept the money." 
 
 "And for this you discharged him from your 
 house." 
 
 " Yes, as soon as we were apprized of the fact, 
 which was nearly a year after it occurred." 
 
 (< Did you tell him the reason ?" 
 
 " No ; we didn't care to do that." 
 
 " He's not an honest man," said the merchant, 
 on learning this; "and, of course, not worthy of 
 confidence. So far from connecting myself with him 
 in business, I shall hardly deem it prudent to retain 
 him about me, even in his present capacity." 
 
THE OVERPAID CHECK. 9/ 
 
 And on this view he acted. From that iime. 
 Wheeler's situation was rendered so unpleasant, 
 that in the course of a few months he gave it up and 
 sought another place. 
 
 Again he had felt the reaction of his error, with- 
 out comprehending from whence the effect proceed- 
 ed. He did not know how much he had lost in 
 seeking to gain five hundred dollars dishonestly. 
 
 Tenderly attached had Wheeler been for two or 
 three years to a beautiful and affectionate young 
 lady, whose connections embraced many families of 
 wealth and influence. Her name was Adeline Bur- 
 ton. As her uncle, with whom she resided, was a 
 man of some property, and she was living in a style 
 of more elegance than Wheeler could support, he 
 had delayed urging a marriage until he could get 
 into business. But he saw one young man after 
 another, by far less capable and experienced than 
 himself, selected by men of capital as partners, or 
 introduced into firms to which they had formerly 
 held a clerk's relation, while he was passed by most 
 unaccountably. A feeling of discouragement came 
 over him; he saw no light in the future. Anxious 
 to lead to the altar the one he loved, he yet hesi- 
 tated ; for he could not think of removing her from 
 her pleasant home into one at all inferior, or want- 
 ing in the elegances with which she was familiar. 
 
 While hesitating whether to ask his betrothed, for 
 such was the relation Adeline bore to him, to name 
 
 IX.-9 
 
98 THE OVERPAID CHECK. 
 
 in early day for their marriage, he observed a sud- 
 den change in her manner towards him. While 
 pondering this strange circumstance, he was astound- 
 ed by the receipt of all his letters and little souve- 
 nirs, and a cold request to have hers returned. In- 
 dignant at such faithlessness, he sent back what she 
 desired, without a word of reply, either verbal or 
 written. But the circumstances seemed to stun him. 
 He had loved Adeline with a most earnest affection, 
 and in all his dreams of his future life, her image 
 had been beautifully blended. The blow was a 
 heavy one, and saddened his heart for life. Soon 
 after, he left the East and removed to a Western city. 
 Ten years had elapsed, and then Wheeler came 
 back for the first time since he had gone away. On 
 the little sum he had saved from his earnings, he 
 had commenced a small business in a far-off Western 
 town. Gradually this grew into importance, and 
 now it became necessary to visit the East, in order 
 to purchase a stock of goods. Hitherto he had 
 supplied himself either in Cincinnati or Pittsburg. 
 In the old place, he found every thing changed. 
 Scarcely a familiar countenance met him as he walk- 
 ed the streets, and in the business portions of the city 
 only here and there did he observe the " signs" of 
 other times. Gardiner, the once unfortunate bank- 
 teller, had become a prosperous merchant, and was 
 considered to be worth fifty or sixty thousand dol- 
 lars. This fact he learned with pleasure. 
 
THE OVERPAID CHECK. 99 
 
 Wheeler did not ask for Adeline. He could not 
 trust himself to speak of her to any one, for not yet 
 had her beautiful image faded from his memory 
 Once truly beloved, and never proved unworthy of 
 his heart's best affections, he had not been able to 
 forget her; yet, having been rejected without a rea- 
 son, he had never felt inclined to ask for one, nor 
 to seek a renewal of the old relations. For all ho 
 had learned to the contrary, she had become, years 
 before, the bride of another. 
 
 After remaining a few days in the city and making 
 some purchases, he prepared to leave for the West, 
 On the day previous to his intended departure, while 
 passing along the street, he came suddenly upon 
 Adeline Burton. The lady started, paused slightly, 
 and then went hurriedly on. Her face was thin, 
 and wore a look of suffering and resignation ; she 
 turned very pale when she saw him. 
 
 Wheeler was deeply agitated by this apparition. 
 He did not leave the city on the next day, as he had 
 intended } it was impossible for him to go now, until 
 he had obtained an interview with Adeline, who had 
 not, as he learned, given her vows to another. After 
 lying awake nearly all night, thinking over the 
 course best to pursue, he finally determined to see 
 her uncle, and plainly ask the reason why Adeline 
 had, years before, broken the engagement into which 
 she had entered. Upon this resolution he acted. 
 The uncle received him with chilling formality ; 
 
100 THE OVERPAID CHECK. 
 
 but, not repulsed by this, Wheeler came at once to 
 the object of his visit. 
 
 " Ten years ago, sir/' said he, calmly, " your 
 niece, to whom I was engaged in marriage, broke 
 her contract with me, and without assigning any 
 reason. I asked none, and to this day have re- 
 mained ignorant of her motives ; but I now feel a 
 wish to know them. Will you do me the justice to 
 give me the information I seek ?" 
 
 " Certainly/' replied the uncle ; " if you desire 
 to learn what influenced Adeline, I see no reason 
 why you should not be gratified." 
 
 " Speak, then ; I am prepared to hear." 
 
 " You remember Gardiner, the teller in the 
 
 Bank ?" said the uncle. 
 
 A deep crimson instantly covered the face of 
 Wheeler, and his eyes remained for some moments 
 cast upon the floor. When he looked up, his coun- 
 tenance was composed. 
 
 (t Yes," he replied, " I remember Gardiner very 
 well, for I have cause. I understand it all now. 
 Adeline was told that I unjustly withheld from the 
 bank five hundred dollars received in mistake?" 
 
 The uncle bowed gravely. 
 
 " And for this she rejected me ?" 
 
 " She did, and I must say with good cause." 
 
 " Perhaps so," said Wheeler. " Yet may not a 
 repent of a wrong act ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. But we will judge of the quality of 
 
THE OVERPAID CHECK. 101 
 
 this repentance by his efforts to repair the injury he 
 has wrought/' 
 
 " True. And now will you do me the justice to 
 see Gardiner, and ask him if he did not, more than 
 ten years ago, receive from an unknown hand the 
 sum of five hundred dollars ?" 
 
 " Then you restored the money ?" 
 
 " I did. But see him ; put the question to him, 
 
 Then go to the Bank, and ask the cashier if, 
 
 seven years ago, he did not receive a letter from the 
 West, covering a remittance of five hundred dollars 
 to be placed to the credit of Gardiner, in liquidation 
 of the deficit remaining in his account." 
 
 u That would be restitution twofold," said the 
 uncle of Adeline. 
 
 "And it has been made," returned Wheeler, 
 speaking with much warmth. " But do me the 
 justice to prove the truth of what I have said. To- 
 morrow, I will see you again." 
 
 Saying this, Wheeler arose and retired. On the 
 next day, when he called again upon the uncle of 
 Adeline, his reception was very different. His hand 
 was grasped warmly the instant he came in. 
 
 " I have seen both Gardiner and the cashier," 
 said the uncle, " and it is all as you say. Gardiner, 
 having done well in business, offered, some years 
 ago, to make good his short-comings at the bank, 
 but your remittance had anticipated him; and he 
 now sends you this check for five hundred dollars 
 
 9* 
 
102 THE OVERPAID CHECK. 
 
 as a return of the loan you made him ten years 
 ago." 
 
 " I cannot receive it," was the prompt reply of 
 Wheeler. 
 
 " But Gardiner will not feel happy if you refuse/' 
 
 " And I will not feel happy if I accept. But let 
 us waive that now; there is something else nearer 
 my heart. It was for this cause that Adeline turned 
 from me?" 
 
 "It was." 
 
 " Has she loved another since?" 
 
 (t No. She has received three or four advantage- 
 ous offers, but rejected them all." 
 
 " Do you object to my seeing her again?' 
 
 " No. You committed a grievous error; but you 
 have seen that it was wrong, and have repaired the 
 injury to the best of your ability. None can ask 
 .more than this. All are liable to do wrong, yet few 
 sincerely repent." 
 
 " Are you willing to inform Adeline, before I see 
 her, of all you have just learned ?" 
 
 " That has already been done." 
 
 "It has?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Will she see me?" 
 
 " I will ask her, if you desire it." 
 
 " This evening, I will call at your house," said 
 Wheeler. " Inform Adeline of my wish to see her, 
 &nd tell her, that since the unhappy hour she turned 
 
THE OVERPAID CHECK 103 
 
 from me ? I have not ceased to think and pray for 
 her." 
 
 That evening, Wheeler called, as he proposed to 
 do. After sending up his name, he sat awaiting the 
 appearance of either Adeline or her uncle for nearly 
 five minutes. Then he heard footsteps on the stairs. 
 A few moments of suspense, and the loved one of 
 many years entered, leaning upon the arrn of her 
 relative. Her countenance was pale, yet in her 
 eyes was the light of other times. Wheeler stepped 
 quickly forward to meet her, and she received his 
 extended hand, and returned its warm pressure. 
 While they yet stood, mutely gazing upon each 
 other, the uncle retired, and they were left alone. 
 What passed between them, we will not record. 
 Enough, that two weeks afterwards, Adeline was on 
 tLe way to a new home in the West. 
 
THE TWO ACTS; OR, "THEY HAVE 
 THEIR REWARD." 
 
 " No, indeed ! I shall do no such thing/' said Mrs. 
 Lionel to her husband, who had come home with 
 the intelligence that a cousin of his, a widow, had 
 died suddenly, and left a little girl, three years old, 
 whom he proposed that his wife should adopt and 
 raise as her own they having no children. But 
 she gave a decided negative on the spot. 
 
 " She is a sweet, interesting child," urged Mr. 
 Lionel. " You will soon get attached to her, and 
 be more than repaid, in the new affection awakened 
 in your heart, for all the care and trouble she may 
 occasion." 
 
 "It is of no use to talk to me, Mr. Lionel/' re- 
 turned the lady, in a positive tone of voice. " 1 
 know all about the care and trouble, and am not 
 willing to take it upon myself. As I have no chil- 
 dren of my own, I am not disposed to take the burden 
 of other people's. So it is useless for you to press 
 this subject; for I will never consent to what you 
 propose." 
 
 " If you feel in that way, I shall certainly not 
 
 104 
 
THE TWO ACTS. 105 
 
 urge the matter," said her husband. " Though, as 
 far as I am concerned, it would give me great pleasure 
 to adopt Aggy, who is a charming little creature. 
 I wish you could see her." 
 
 " I have no particular desire. All children are 
 alike to me. As to the beauty, that is a poor com- 
 pensation for the trouble. So I must beg to be ex- 
 cused." 
 
 Mr. Lionel said no more on the subject. He was 
 exceedingly fond of children, and never ceased to 
 regret that he had none of his own. 
 
 In two or three instances before, he had endea- 
 voured to prevail upon his wife to adopt a child; but 
 she had, each time, firmly declined. She had very 
 little affection for children herself, and was not 
 willing to take the care and trouble that she saw 
 would necessarily be involved in the adoption of a 
 child. The little girl who, by the death of his cousin, 
 had been left homeless and apparently friendless, 
 was a sweet young creature, whom to look upon 
 was to love. Mr. Lionel had never seen her 
 without a warming of his heart toward her, and a 
 secret wish that she were his own instead of another's. 
 The moment he heard of his cousin's death, he de- 
 termined to adopt Agnes, or Aggy, as she was called, 
 provided his wife were willing. But Mrs. Lionel 
 was not willing. She was too selfish to love any 
 thing out of herself. A thought of the child's good 
 of giving a home to the homeless of being a mother 
 
106 THE TWO ACTS; OR, 
 
 to the motherless never crossed her inind. She only 
 thought of the trouble the little orphan would give. 
 
 The insuperable difficulty in the way of adopting 
 Aggy as his own, did not destroy the interest which 
 Mr. Lionel felt in her. He considered it his duty 
 to see that she was provided with a good home, and 
 was willing to be at the cost of her maintenance, if 
 necessary. His first thought had been to adopt the 
 child, and until that was understood to be out of the 
 question, he had thought of nothing else in regard 
 to her. How she was to be disposed of, now that 
 his wife had definitely settled the matter against 
 him, became a new subject of reflection. After due 
 deliberation, he concluded to see a distant relative on 
 the subject, with whom, since his marriage, he had 
 held but little familiar intercourse, although he had 
 entertained for her a high respect. The reason of 
 this was the cold, proud, unsocial temper of his wife, 
 who rather looked down upon his relatives, because 
 their standing in society was not, as she considered 
 it, quite as high as hers had been and still was. 
 Necessarily, such a disposition in his wife would 
 prevent intimate social intercourse between Mr. 
 Lionel and his relatives, notwithstanding his re- 
 gard for them might continue as high as before his 
 marriage. 
 
 The relative to whom reference has just been 
 made was a lady whose husband, a very estimable 
 man, was in moderately good circumstances. They 
 
THEY HAVE THEIR REWARD. 107 
 
 had three children of their own, the youngest of 
 which was nearly ten years of age. From his ap- 
 preciation of Mrs. Wellford' s character, Mr. Lionel, 
 who, from thinking of Aggy as his adopted child, 
 began to love her almost as much as if she were 
 really his own, felt a strong desire that she should 
 take the orphan. He had not seen her for a couple 
 of years when he called upon her to talk about the 
 matter. A little to his surprise, Mrs. Wellford, 
 when she met him in the parlour, entered leading 
 Aggy by the hand. 
 
 " Dear little creature !" said he, taking the child 
 in his arms and kissing her, as soon as he had shaken 
 bands with Mrs. Wellford. " I am glad to see 
 you in such good hands. It is about this very child, 
 Mary/' he added, " that I have come to talk with 
 you. What is to be done with her?" 
 
 " I don't know/' returned Mrs. Wellford. " She 
 must have a home somewhere among us. The dear 
 child ! Anybody could love her. Have you thought 
 of taking her ?" 
 
 " If I were to consult my own feelings and wishes, 
 I should adopt her as my own child immediately. 
 But I am not at liberty to do this, and therefore 
 must not think about it. I am willing, however, to 
 be at the entire cost of her maintenance and educa- 
 tion, if you will undertake the care of her. What 
 I can do, I will do with all my heart." 
 
 "We have already talked seriously about add- 
 
108 THE TWO ACTS; OR, 
 
 ing Aggy to our little household/' replied Mrs. 
 Wellford. " And if no one else offers to do so, we 
 will keep her, and do for her the same as if she were 
 our own. It will bring more care and anxiety for 
 me, which, as my health is not good, will be felt; 
 but if not better provided for, it will be my duty 
 to take the place of her mother, and I will assume 
 the office cheerfully." 
 
 " But at my charge/' said Mr. Lionel. 
 
 " No/' replied Mrs. Wellford. " A mother ac- 
 cepts no pay for her duty. It is a labour of love, 
 and brings its own sweet reward. Though Provi- 
 dence has not given us wealth, yet we have enough, 
 and I think as much to spare as this dear child 
 will need. For your kind wishes and intentions for 
 Aggy, I will thank you in her stead. I thought, 
 perhaps, as you had no children, that you might 
 wish to adopt her; but as this cannot be, it will 
 doubtless fall to our lot." 
 
 Mr. Lionel went home feeling less satisfied with 
 his wife's spirit and temper so strongly contrasted 
 as it was with that of Mrs. Wellford than he had 
 felt for a long time. 
 
 " She will have her reward," he murmured to 
 himself, " and, as she said, justly, it will be sweet." 
 This was in allusion to Mrs. Wellford, who had called 
 the mother' s duty she was about assuming, a labour 
 of love. 
 
 Little Aggy scarcely felt the loss of her parent. 
 
THEY HAVE THEIR REWARD. 109 
 
 The love she had borne her mother was transferred 
 to her aunt, as Mrs. Wellford was called, so early 
 that no void was left in her heart. It took but a 
 little while for each member of the family to feel 
 that Aggy had a right to be among them, and for 
 Mr. and Mrs. Wellford to love her as their own 
 child. 
 
 Years rolled by, and brought many unlooked-for 
 changes both to Mrs. Lionel and Mrs. Wellford. 
 Both had been subjected to afflictions and reverses- 
 the severest, perhaps, that ordinarily fall to the- 
 lot of any for both were widows, and both friendless 
 and poor. As for Mrs. Weliford, she had not only 
 lost her husband, but all her children were taken,, 
 and she was left alone in the world with the orphan 
 Aggy. But she, grown into a lovely young woman , 
 nestled closer to her side and into her very bosom * T 
 though not with a helpless, but in a sustaining spirit ... 
 Death, though he had robbed Mrs. Wellford of much, 
 had still left her much. Bereaved as she had been, 
 she was neither lonely nor sad. How different was 
 the case of Mrs. Lionel ! After the death of her 
 husband, and the total loss of her property, she fell 
 back at once from her advance position in the social 
 rank, into neglect, obscurity, and want. For the 
 very means of subsistence, exertion became necessa- 
 ry. But what could she do for a living, who had, 
 in her whole life, done scarcely a useful thing who 
 had been little better than a drone in tho social hive? 
 
 IX. 10 
 
110 THE TWO ACTS; OR, 
 
 Nothing! Or, if there was small ability, there was 
 pride enough remaining to prevent its exercise. 
 
 After her husband's death, which followed shortly 
 after the reverses that stripped him of all worldly 
 possessions, Mrs. Lionel retired into the family of a 
 poor relative, who had been little thought of in 
 brighter days, and who, although she did not wish 
 to receive her, could not close her door in her face. 
 A sad spectacle she was. Shut up in the little 
 chamber that was assigned her, she never went out, 
 and only met the family she was burdening with her 
 presence at the table, and then with an aspect so 
 gloomy and reserved, as jto throw a chill over the 
 feelings of all. 
 
 For a short period, Mrs. Lionel paid a small sum 
 for her board, but no very long time passed before 
 all her money was exhausted, and she became abso- 
 lutely dependent upon a poor woman distantly re- 
 lated to her, whose only means of support was her 
 personal labour and that of her daughter. 
 
 After the death of her husband and children, 
 Mrs. Wellford, who was left quite as poor as Mrs. 
 Lionel, began to look around her for some means 
 of securing an income for herself and Agnes, whom 
 she loved, now that all the rest were gone, with a 
 tenderness that equalled the sum of her love for all. 
 But what to do, was a difficult thing to determine. 
 As a young girl, her education had been very plain; 
 she could not, therefore, resort to teaching in any 
 
THEY HAVE THEIR REWARD. Ill 
 
 branch, for she had riot the requisite ability. Sew- 
 ing always gave her a severe pain in the breast anl 
 side, so that whatever might be her skill in needle- 
 work, she was precluded from resorting to it as a 
 means of obtaining money. 
 
 " I think, " said she to Agnes, after looking at 
 the subject in every possible light, " that there is 
 but one thing left for me to do/' 
 
 " What is that, aunt ?" inquired Agnes. 
 
 a Taking a few boarders. I could attend to them." 
 
 " It will be very hard work/' suggested the niece r 
 " too hard for you. No, no, aunt, that will not do; 
 look what a slave's life Mrs. Minturn has. Don't 
 think of it." 
 
 "I must do something, you know, Aggy dear; 
 in a little while, all our money will be gone. I have 
 thought of every thing, but my mind comes back to 
 this at last. I don't like the thought of it, but it 
 is right for me to exert myself, and I must do so 
 without a murmur." 
 
 " Haven't you yet thought of any thing that I 
 can do?" asked Agnes, in a cheerful voice. " I am 
 sure that I can do something," she added, confident- 
 ly ; " and I am younger, and have better health than 
 YOU have." 
 
 u I cannot think, my dear child," said Mrs. Well- 
 ford, with much earnestness in her voice, " of your 
 being -exposed to the world's rough contact; you 
 are too young." 
 
112 THE TWO ACTS; OR, 
 
 " The contact you seem so to dread cannot hurt 
 me, aunt/' returned Agnes. " To the pure, all 
 things are pure. If I have in me a right spirit, the 
 world cannot hurt me." 
 
 " But I cannot bear the thought of seeing you, 
 in the very spring-time of life, when all along your 
 path should grow up flowers to fill the air with per- 
 fume, chained like a slave to the car of labour. No, 
 no, Aggy, it must not be; I can do all that is re- 
 quired. If I fail, then it will be time enough to 
 call upon you for aid." 
 
 Pride as well as affection reigned in the breast 
 of Mrs. Wellford. She could not bear the thought 
 of seeing Agnes engaged in any kind of labour for 
 money. She was fully capable of giving instruction 
 in many things, and of securing thereby a fair in- 
 come ; but her aunt would not hear to her seeking 
 for employment. 
 
 "Aunt is wrong," said Agnes to herself, when 
 alone, soon after the interview, in which Mrs. Well- 
 ford declared it as her belief that the only thing left 
 for her to do was to take a few boarders. " I ought 
 not to see her do this." She sat thoughtful for a 
 few moments, and then added aloud "And I will 
 not see her do it. I have received every thing from 
 her, and now is the time for me to make some re- 
 turn. But what shall I do? Where shall I seek 
 for employment ?" 
 
 Half an hour after she had asked herself these 
 
THEY HAVE THEIR REWARD. US 
 
 questions so earnestly, Agnes picked up a newspaper 
 and the first thing that met her eyes was an adver- 
 tisement for a person to give lessons in music and 
 one or two modern languages to three young ladies, 
 for which a liberal compensation would be paid. 
 Without saying a word to her aunt, Agnes put on 
 her things and went to the place mentioned in the 
 advertisement. The house before which she paused 
 was a very large one, in a fashionable part of the 
 city; every thing around it indicated a wealthy 
 owner. For a few moments, she felt timid, and 
 hesitated about presenting herself; but she soon 
 regained her self-possession, and made the applica- 
 tion for which she had come. 
 
 A middle-aged woman, of mild and ladylike de- 
 portment, met her on being shown into one of the 
 apartments of the house. 
 
 " I believe you advertised for a teacher/' said 
 Agnes, speaking in a low, trembling voice. She 
 found herself more agitated than she had expect- 
 ed. 
 
 "We did/' replied the lady, "and have already 
 received several applications, though none of those 
 who have answered the advertisement suit us in all 
 respects. And I am afraid that we shall hardly find 
 all that we desire in you." 
 
 There was nothing in the way this was said to 
 hurt the feelings of Agnes, but rather to make her 
 
 feel more free to speak. 
 
 10* 
 
114 THE TWO ACTS: OR, 
 
 " Why do you think I will not suit ?" she asked, 
 looking earnestly into the lady's face. 
 
 " Because you are too young. You cannot be 
 over seventeen years of age." 
 
 " I am nineteen/' returned Agnes. 
 
 " But even that is too young. We wish a person 
 of some experience, and of the first ability. I will 
 not question your ability, but you certainly cannot 
 have much experience in teaching. Have you ever 
 given lessons in music ?" 
 
 " Not yet ; but I wish to do so, and believe that 
 I could give satisfaction/' 
 
 " Then you have never been engaged in teaching 
 at all r 
 
 " No, never." 
 
 " I hardly think you would suit us." 
 
 The countenance of Agnes fell so suddenly that 
 the lady's sympathies were awakened, and she said, 
 ; * Are you very desirous of securing a situation as 
 teacher?" 
 
 " Desirous above all things," replied Agnes, with 
 much earnestness. 
 
 The lady continued to ask question after question, 
 until she understood fully what was in the young 
 girl's mind. She then appreciated her more highly, 
 although she did not believe her fully qualified to 
 give the instruction that was desired. Agnes, who 
 gained confidence the more she conversed with the 
 lady, at length urged that she might have a trial. 
 
THEY HAVE THEIR REWARD. 115 
 
 " But suppose, after we give you a trial, that yon 
 do not suit us ; we shall find it hard to send you 
 away." 
 
 The force of this objection was fully appreciated 
 by the lady when she uttered it, for already she felt 
 so drawn toward the young girl with whom she waa 
 holding the interview, that her feelings were fast 
 getting the control of her judgment. 
 
 " I am sure I will suit you/' replied Agnes, " for 
 I will give the most untiring attention to my duties/' 
 
 The lady looked at her beautiful young face, lit 
 up with the earnestness of a true purpose, and felt 
 as she had never before felt for a stranger. She 
 addressed her a few words in French, to which 
 Agnes replied in the same language. 
 
 " Your accent is certainly very correct. Now let 
 me hear you perform something on the piano," she 
 said. 
 
 Agnes went to the instrument, and, after select- 
 ing a piece of music, sat down and ran her fingers 
 gracefully over the keys. The lady stood by to 
 listen. Soon the young girl was in the midst of a 
 beautiful but familiar composition, which she exe- 
 cuted with unusual taste and brilliancy. Her touch 
 was exquisite, and at the same time full, and, where 
 required, bold and confident. 
 
 "Admirable!" she heard uttered in a low voice 
 just behind her, as she struck the last note in the 
 piece. It was not the voice of a woman. 
 
116 THE TWO ACTS; OR, 
 
 She started and turned quickly. More auditors 
 than she had supposed were present. A young man 
 and three beautiful young girls stood listening be- 
 hind their mother; they had been attracted from an 
 adjoining room by the music, so far superior to any 
 thing ordinarily heard. A deep crimson overspread 
 the sweet young face of Agnes, heightening up every 
 native charm. The young man instantly retired, 
 and the mother introduced her to her daughters, 
 who were in love with so lovely an instructress, and 
 threw their voices at once in her favour. These 
 voices but seconded the mother's prepossessions. 
 
 " Nothing has yet been said about compensation/ 7 
 remarked the lady to Agnes, after she had requested 
 the girls to leave them again alone. " We are will- 
 ing to pay liberally, if we can get the person we 
 want. At present, I feel strongly in favour of giv-. 
 ing you a trial. If, after thinking over the subject, 
 it is concluded to do so, your salary will be four 
 hundred dollars. Do you think that will meet your 
 wishes ?" 
 
 " Fully," replied Agnes, with an emotion that she 
 could scarcely conceal. The sum was larger than 
 she had expected. 
 
 " Of course, I would like to be at home every 
 night with my aunt/' said she. 
 
 " To that we should make no serious objection. 
 To-morrow morning I will be prepared to give you 
 an answer." 
 
THEY HAVE THEIR REWARD. 117 
 
 Agnes retired with a heart full of hope, yet trem- 
 bling lest something should prevent the engagement 
 she was so eager to make. She said nothing to her 
 aunt, who, bent on taking boarders, started out on 
 the ensuing morning to look for a house suited for 
 that purpose. As soon as she was gone, Agnes went 
 with a trembling heart to hear the decision that was 
 to be made in favour or against her application. It 
 was favourable. 
 
 On going home, she found that her aunt had not 
 yet returned, nor did she come back for two hours; 
 then she was so worn down with fatigue, that she 
 had to go to bed. A cup of tea revived her; but 
 her head ached so badly, that she did not get up 
 until late in the afternoon, when she was better. 
 
 " I have found a house, Aggy," said she, as soon 
 as she felt like alluding to the subject, " that will 
 just suit. The owner is to give me an answer about 
 it to-morrow/' 
 
 " If looking for a house has made you sick enough 
 to go to bed, aunt/' returned Agnes, " how can you 
 expect to bear the fatigue of keeping boarders in the 
 house after you have taken it ? You must not think 
 of it. In two good rooms, at a light rent, we can 
 live very comfortably, and at an expense much 
 lighter than we have at present to bear." 
 
 " Yes, Agnes, comfortably enough, if we had the 
 ability to meet that expense ; but we have not. You 
 know that there is no income/' 
 
118 THE TWO ACTS; OR, 
 
 " There has been none, but" 
 
 But what, dear?" Mrs. Wellford saw that 
 there was something more than usual in the mind 
 of Agnes. 
 
 " Forgive me, dear aunt," said the affectionate 
 girl, throwing her arms around the neck of her rela- 
 tive ; " but I cannot see you, at your time of life 
 and in ill-health, compelled to toil as you propose. 
 I have, therefore, applied for and secured a situation 
 iu a private family, as a teacher of music and lan- 
 guages to three young ladies, for which I am to 
 receive a salary of four hundred dollars a year." 
 
 While Mrs. Wellford was looking for a house, 
 and after she had found one, the fatigue and pain 
 she suffered led her more fully to realize than she 
 had done before, the great labour, with a doubtful 
 result, that she was about taking upon herself. She 
 was, therefore, just in the state of mind to receive 
 the unexpected communication made by Agnes. 
 
 " You are a good girl," she merely replied, kiss- 
 ing her as she spoke. 
 
 " And you do not object ?" eagerly asked the 
 niece. 
 
 " How can I ?" responded Mrs. Wellford, leaning 
 her head down upon the shoulder of Agnes. In a 
 few moments she said, as she looked up, with tears 
 glittering on her eyelashes " May Heaven reward 
 you !" And turning away, she left Agnes to her 
 own happy thoughts. 
 
THEY HAVE THEIR REWARD. 110 
 
 Six months from this time, as Mrs. Lionel sat 
 alone in her room, gloomy and sad, the woman with 
 whom she was living, and upon whom she still laid 
 herself a heavy burden, came in where she was, and 
 said " Did you know that your niece, Agnes Well- 
 ford, was married yesterday to a son of one of the 
 richest men in town V 9 
 
 " No ; it can't be I" quickly replied Mrs. Lionel. 
 " Mr. Wellford died not worth a dollar, and his 
 widow has been as poor as poverty ever since." 
 
 " No, not quite that," said the woman. "Agnes 
 has supported her comfortably by teaching music. 
 I heard the whole story this morning. Mrs. Well- 
 ford wanted to keep boarders, but Agnes wouldn't 
 hear to it, and, against ner aunt's wishes, went -out 
 and applied for a place as teacher to three young 
 ladies in a wealthy family, for which she was to 
 receive a salary of four hundred dollars a year. She 
 had not taught long before the brother of the young 
 ladies fell in love with her, to which no very strong 
 objection was made by his friends ; and now they 
 we married." 
 
 "And what of Mrs. Wellford?" was eagerly in- 
 quired. 
 
 " They go to housekeeping forthwith, and Mrs. 
 Wellford is to live with them." 
 
 Mrs. Lionel clasped her hands together, and sink- 
 ing back in her chair, murmured " Oh ; what an 
 error I committed !" 
 
120 THE LOTTERY TICKET. 
 
 " How?" inquired the woman. But Mrs. Lionel 
 did not answer the question. 
 
 She had her reward, and Mrs. Wellford had hers 
 
 THE LOTTERY TICKET. 
 
 Two young storekeepers, whose capital in trade 
 was rather small, and who daily saw excellent op- 
 portunities for making money pass unimproved for 
 want of the means to embrace them, sat conversing 
 about their future prospects. Their names were 
 Felix Granger and Ellis Day. 
 
 " If I could only raise five or six thousand dollars 
 somewhere," remarked the former, a I could double 
 the sum in two years." 
 
 " So could I, easily," returned Day. " But that 
 amount of money is not to be picked up readily. 
 One thing, I am making a good living and slowly 
 improving my condition, and I suppose I ought to 
 be content. In the end, if all goes on as it has 
 begun, I shall accumulate, I hope, enough to live 
 upon." 
 
 " It's too slow work for me. I feel like a man 
 trying to run with clogs upon his feet. The fact 
 is, I must have more capital from somewhere. I'll 
 
THE LOTTERY TICKET. 121 
 
 tell you what I've more than half made up my mind 
 to do/' 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Buy a ticket in the lottery, and try my luck 
 Prizes may be drawn every day, and why may not 
 I meet with good fortune ?" 
 
 Day shook his head. 
 
 " What's your objection V asked Granger. 
 
 " I don't believe that any good ever came of med- 
 dling with lotteries/' 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "In the first place, the chances are all against 
 drawing a prize. Not more than one in a hundred 
 is successful; and yet the ninety-nine who draw 
 blanks are just as full of hope for the prize as he who 
 draws it, and are just as much diverted from right 
 business thoughts during the time that elapses be- 
 tween the purchase of the ticket and the drawing 
 of the lottery. The loss of the drawer of the blank 
 is not alone the loss of his money. He loses in his 
 business, often seriously, from the diversion of 
 thought that must accompany the suspense he is 
 doomed for a time to feel. Instead of applying him- 
 self diligently to the doing of what his hands find to 
 do in his daily employments, he is thinking about 
 the use he will make of his money, if he should be 
 so fortunate as to draw a prize. And in the second 
 place, if he should succeed in getting a lucky num- 
 ber, he will be almost certain to lose all that he 
 
 tx. u 
 
122 THE LOTTERY TICKET. 
 
 has gained, and more besides, in trying for another 
 and a higher prize." 
 
 " Trust me for that," returned Granger. " Let 
 me once get my fingers upon five, ten, or twenty 
 thousand dollars, and you won't find me meddling 
 with lottery tickets." 
 
 "I wouldn't trust any man," said Day. 
 
 " Not even yourself?" 
 
 " No, not even myself." 
 
 " Wouldn't you buy a ticket if you knew you 
 would draw a prize ?" 
 
 "As that is supposing what cannot be, I will 
 answer neither in the affirmative nor negative. But 
 my own impression is, that money obtained by 
 means of lotteries never does any good." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " For this reason : Money is a standard of value, 
 and passes in society as a representative of some 
 kind of property; which is a thing in itself useful 
 to mankind as houses, lands, produce, manufac- 
 tures, etc. When we receive money in business, it 
 represents a benefit we have conferred upon another. 
 But when money comes through a lottery, it docs 
 not correspond to any benefit conferred, but is actually 
 the correspondent of injury done to others ; for hun- 
 dreds have lost, that one might gain. If a man in 
 business accumulate ten thousand dollars, that sum 
 has been received from perlaps more than a thou- 
 sand different sources, in return for wants sup- 
 
THE LOTTERY TICKEt. 123 
 
 plied; but, if a man draw ten thousand dollars in a 
 lottery, he has received from a large number of per- 
 sons their one, or two, or ten dollars, without making 
 them any return. Nothing has been produced; no 
 want supplied. Society has been in no way benefited, 
 but actually injured. The whole proceeding, from 
 beginning to end, has been disorderly and detri- 
 mental. And I cannot but believe that the money 
 so obtained will prove more a curse than a blessing : 
 and this, because I hold that all evils in society 
 react with pain against those who practise them/' 
 
 " Give me ten thousand dollars and I will run all 
 such risks/' said Granger. " Somebody will get the 
 prize, and I might as well have it as any one. Come ! 
 Join me in a ticket. I have been looking over a 
 first-rate scheme, which is to be drawn day after to- 
 morrow." 
 
 But Day shook his head, and said " No," firmly. 
 
 " Well, if you won't, I will try my luck alone. 
 The tickets are only five dollars." 
 
 That day, Granger bought a ticket. A dozen times 
 before the drawing of the lottery did he call in to 
 see his friend Day, and as often did he mention what 
 was uppermost in his mind the prize he hoped to 
 draw. 
 
 " If I get ten thousand, I will lend you two or three 
 thousand to give you a start," said he, on the day 
 before the drawing was to take place. This waa 
 spoken in apparent jest, but he really felt in earnest. 
 
124 THE LOTTERY TICKET. 
 
 I>ay could not help smiling. 
 
 " You may laugh/' returned the other, " but 
 when you see me with ten or fifteen thousand dol- 
 lars in hand, you will not think me quite the fool 
 you now do." 
 
 " If you should be so lucky, I prophesy that 
 your ten of twenty thousand dollars will do you no 
 good in the end; that in ten or twenty years you 
 will be no better, but worse off, in consequence of 
 your prize/* 
 
 "I'll risk if 
 
 " No doubt you are perfectly willing to do so." 
 
 " And so would you be." 
 
 " I shall keep out of temptation, at least, by not 
 buying a ticket/ 7 replied Day. " If I could get 
 more capital in my business, in a perfectly legitimate 
 way, I would be glad to do so, for then I could make 
 larger and more profitable operations. But as I see 
 no approved mode of obtaining this capital, I must 
 be content to plod on as I am now going. It will 
 all come out right in the end, I doubt not." 
 
 " 111 furnish you with more capital in a few 
 days," said Granger, laughingly. 
 
 "Very well. I'll give you good security and 
 pay you a fair interest," was the laughing reply. 
 
 " But won't you be afraid of money drawn in a 
 lottery ?" 
 
 " No, not to borrow it. But I would be afraid 
 to draw it." 
 
THB LOTTERY TICKET. 125 
 
 " Dividing a hair between north and north-west 
 sides a distinction without a difference." 
 
 " To me it is not. I can see a very great dif 
 ference." 
 
 On the next day, late in the afternoon, Felix 
 Granger came hurriedly into the store of Ellis Day. 
 His manner was flurried; he had a look of wild elation. 
 
 " Didn't I tell you so !" he exclaimed, in a thick 
 voice. " Didn't I say that I would draw a prize !" 
 
 " You did/' returned Day, calmly. 
 
 " And I said true. I've got the twenty-five thou- 
 sand dollar prize as certain as death." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 te True as preaching." 
 
 " Twenty-five thousand dollars !" 
 
 " Ay ! Twenty-five thousand dollars ! Think of 
 that, friend Day !" 
 
 And he caught the hand of his friend, and almost 
 crushed it in a vice-like grip. 
 
 " A' n't I a lucky dog ? I always said I was born 
 under a fortunate star; though, I confess, that I had 
 to wait long before the right aspect came. But all 
 in good time ! I've no somplaint to make. Twenty- 
 five thousand dollars ! Just think of that ! Won't 
 I do business now with a rush? Won't I show some 
 of the sleepy ones in the trade a specimen of tall 
 walking? Won't I?" 
 
 And for very want of breath, the excited young 
 
 man paused. 
 
 11* 
 
126 THE LOTTERY TICKET. 
 
 " What do you think of lotteries now ?" he asked, 
 after he had recovered himself a little. " A' n't you 
 tempted to try your luck ?" 
 
 "I think of them as I always did. I believe I 
 shall not try my luck. I might be so unfortunate 
 as to draw a prize." 
 
 " Are you crazy, Ellis Day ?" 
 
 " Perhaps I am. But, seriously, I would rather 
 go on as I am going than draw a prize of twenty 
 thousand dollars. For slow and sure will bring all 
 out right in the end; but with twenty thousand 
 dollars thrown suddenly into my lap, I might, and 
 no doubt would, be tempted to dash ahead at a 
 rate so rapid as to be thrown headlong from my 
 course, and be worse off than I was when I began 
 the world with hope, energy, industry, and five hun- 
 dred dollars in my pocket." 
 
 " And this you predict for me ?" 
 
 " No. I predict nothing for you. I hope you 
 will be wise and prudent in the use of the large sum 
 of money that has come into your hands." 
 
 " Never fear for me. I know what I am about. 
 Twenty-five thousand dollars is not a sum large 
 enough to turn my brain." 
 
 It is worthy of remark, that Granger said nothing 
 more about lending his friend a few thousand dol- 
 lars, as he had proposed in anticipation of a smaller 
 prize than the one he had drawn. Not that he had 
 forgotten his promise, voluntarily made, but ways 
 
THE LOTTERY TICKET. 127 
 
 in which he could use the whole amount of his now 
 greatly increased capital immediately presented 
 themselves, and, instead of feeling that he had any 
 thing to spare, he felt that his operations would still 
 be restricted within limits that it would be desirable 
 to pass. 
 
 When the twenty-five thousand dollars were paid 
 to Granger, which was not until some weeks after 
 the drawing of the lottery, he immediately laid out 
 one hundred dollars in tickets in another flattering 
 scheme, intending, if he drew any thing, to keep his 
 promise to Day, which he now regretted having 
 been weak enough to make. He drew about fifty dol- 
 lars re-invested that in the same way drew blanks, 
 and gave up lotteries. In this he was wiser than 
 some men. Of course, Day did not get the promised 
 assistance in his business. 
 
 Twenty-five thousand dollars in cash at once en- 
 larged the credit of Granger from seventy-five thou- 
 sand to a hundred thousand dollars. All his busi- 
 ness operations became greatly extended, and he 
 grew into a man of importance, both in his own eyes 
 and the eyes of others, quite rapidly. 
 
 Whenever we begin to think highly of ourselves 
 from any cause, but especially when this increased 
 self-estimation springs from the mere increased 
 amount of worldly goods that may happen to be 
 possessed, we are almost sure to fall into error. The 
 first error committed by Granger was a most griev- 
 
128 THE LOTTERY TICKET. 
 
 ous one. When he drew the great prize, he was 
 under engagement of marriage with the daughter of 
 a widow-lady named Biker, whose income was small, 
 and who was unknown in fashionable society. The 
 mother and daughter lived humbly, and all their 
 time was usefully employed. Emma Biker had 
 received a good education, and was in every way the 
 equal, in mental culture, of the young man who had 
 sought her hand. 
 
 Granger mentioned to Emma the fact that he had 
 purchased a ticket, and talked of what he was going 
 to do in case he drew a prize. When the prize came, 
 he hurried off to see her and tell of his good fortune, 
 the news of which she received with calmness, yet 
 evident pleasure. 
 
 For a month, the young man continued his visits 
 as of old, and felt and acted toward Emma as his 
 affianced bride. After that, the idea of obtaining 
 a rich wife entered his mind. It was just as easy 
 now, it occurred to him, to get a wife with twenty 
 or thirty thousand dollars, as one without a cent. 
 But, then, he was under an engagement of mar- 
 riage; this thought produced an unpleasant sen- 
 sation. 
 
 The idea of a rich wife was a seed in the young 
 man's mind, and toward it pride, selfishness, and 
 a love of money flowed as principles of life, first 
 vitalizing the seed, and then causing it to grow, 
 sending down its roots in his heart, and putting 
 
THE LOTTERY TICKET. 129 
 
 forth leaves and blossoms that ultimately produced 
 noxious fruit. 
 
 The possession of twenty-five thousand dollars, 
 the enlargement of his business, and the reputation 
 of being a young man of great enterprise, enabled 
 Granger to form new acquaintances, and procured 
 him invitations to fashionable parties in a circle 
 where he had never before moved. He mingled 
 with young ladies of higher pretensions, and attrac- 
 tions of a more imposing kind than such as were 
 possessed by Emma Biker. Contrasts unfavourable 
 to the latter were constantly taking place in his 
 mind ; the final result was a breach of the engage- 
 ment. This was the first and the worst error com- 
 mitted by the young man. 
 
 The effect produced upon the mind of Emma was 
 serious; but she concealed, as much as possible, from 
 the observation of every one, what she felt, and, in 
 the reflection that her lover had proved himself un- 
 worthy of the earnest and unselfish affection she had 
 borne him, sought to still the painful throbbing of 
 her heart, and banish from her mind the image that 
 had so long filled it with light and happiness. But 
 she had a hard task to perform, and suffered much 
 before it was fully accomplished. 
 
 A year from this time, Granger led to the altar 
 the daughter of a rich merchant, named Collins, who 
 had enough pride, extravagance, and love of show 
 to ruin any man willing to be influenced by her 
 
130 THE LOTTERY TICKET. 
 
 Her father gave her a brilliant wedding-party, and 
 a house furnished in the most costly manner. The 
 young couple started in life with some eclat. 
 
 No very long time elapsed after the marriage, be- 
 fore Granger discovered that his wife had few, if any, 
 domestic qualities; was self-willed, passionate, full 
 of pride, and alarmingly extravagant. Such a thing 
 as consulting his tastes, pleasures, or preferences, 
 never appeared to cross her mind. In spite of the 
 effort he made not to do so, he could not help con- 
 trasting these qualities of his wife with the very 
 opposite ones that were possessed in such gentle 
 and unobtrusive, yet sweet perfection, by Emma 
 Riker. 
 
 Not more wisely did the young man act in busi- 
 ness. He at once extended all his operations and 
 entered into new ones, employing every dollar of 
 his capital, and using his credit to very nearly its 
 utmost limit. Under this system, he found himself, 
 by the end of a year or two, with a weight upon his 
 shoulders that was difficult to be borne. Notwith- 
 standing this, he boasted of having made ten thou- 
 sand dollars during the first year, and twenty thou- 
 sand in the second year that followed his improved 
 fortunes ; and in opening the business of his third 
 year, he sought to extend still further all his opera- 
 tions. Through the influence of his father-in-law, 
 Granger got into the direction of a bank that was 
 managed by a clique of money-jobbers, through 
 
THE LOTTERY TICKET. 131 
 
 which he found no difficulty in passing his father-in- 
 law's notes to almost any amount; and Mr. Collins 
 used the paper of his son-in-law quite as freely. 
 Thus their interests and fortunes became inextrica- 
 bly blended. 
 
 With such facilities, and the credit of having 
 made a great deal of money and being one of th 
 most enterprising merchants in the city, Granger 
 was able to do a very heavy business; but, from the 
 start, he had over-traded, and was always driven by, 
 instead of driving and rightly guiding and managing, 
 his business. 
 
 In the mean time, Ellis Day was going on as of 
 old, quietly, carefully, and safely. His operations 
 were never very large, but they always yielded it 
 fair profit, and gradually extended every year. He 
 had never been able to get an advance of capital 
 from any one : but this, he felt inclined to think, wa.s 
 all for the best. More capital might have tempted 
 him into water that was beyond his depth. 
 
 Some time after Granger's marriage, Day, whu 
 had met Emma Biker a year or two previous, waus 
 again thrown into her company, and came into nearer 
 association with her than before. The oftener ho 
 met her, the more he liked her; and it was not long 
 before an intimacy sprang up between them, that 
 ended in marriage ; they went to housekeeping in a 
 neat, respectable, but not very costly style. Emma 
 made a prudent, loving wife, and grew daily more 
 
132 THE LOTTERY TICKET. 
 
 dear to her husband : their home was to each the 
 pleasantest place on earth. 
 
 Different, indeed, was the home of Felix Granger. 
 All day he was in the rush, hurry, excitement, and 
 anxiety of business; and he came home at night 
 fatigued, and with a weight upon his breast : but 
 there was no sweet smile there to fall upon him like 
 a sunbeam, no loving words to make him forget the 
 cares of the day. It not unfrequently happened 
 that his wife was out, and remained out the whole 
 evening ; or she was in an ill-humour about some- 
 thing, and hardly answered him civilly, if he spoke 
 to her; or she buried herself from tea-time until the 
 hour for going to bed in the pages of a new novel. 
 To her husband she was, at no time, a pleasant com- 
 panion. 
 
 The fact was, Mrs. Granger had no true affection 
 for her husband, and did not put herself out to 
 assume a virtue she did not possess. Nor were 
 indifference, coldness, and sullenness the only ills 
 which the husband had to bear; he was often made 
 to feel the worse irritation of direct ill-temper, that 
 fretted him at times beyond endurance, and led to 
 open bickerings, usually brief, but violent while 
 they lasted. Thus the days of their wedded life 
 passed on, and they were often bitter days to both 
 of them. 
 
 Five years from the period at which the marriage 
 of Ellis Day took place, he removed with his little 
 
THE LOTTERY TICKET., 133 
 
 family into a beautiful but not very costly dwelling, 
 which he had just purchased. His business had 
 increased steadily and safely, for he had applied hi? 
 mind diligently, from the first, to the attainment of 
 a thorough knowledge of every thing that related in 
 any way to the particular branch of trade in which 
 he was engaged. It was rarely that he made a mis- 
 take in purchasing, or bad debts in selling. As his 
 experience became more matured and his means 
 enlarged, he was able to increase his business opera- 
 tions safely, and to reap all the advantages of such 
 an increase. The capital which he had been so 
 desirous of obtaining years before, would have been 
 an injury to him rather than a benefit. This he 
 now clearly saw; for it would have led him into an 
 enlargement of his business, while his experience 
 was yet but small, and might have involved him in 
 difficulties from which extrication would have been 
 almost impossible. 
 
 On the very day when he took possession of his 
 new house, for which he had a clear deed, every 
 dollar of the purchase-money having been paid 
 without disturbing his business by a withdrawal of 
 capital, both Mr. Collins and his son-in-law stopped 
 payment, the former with obligations out for three 
 hundred thousand dollars, and the latter for one 
 hundred and fifty thousand. They had extended 
 their business operations and stretched their credit, 
 until the foundation upon which they stood became 
 
 ML 12 
 
134 THE LOTTERY TICKET. 
 
 too weak to support them. The father-in-law was 
 older, shrewder, and less scrupulous than Granger : 
 he took care to save something from the wreck; but 
 the latter came out penniless, and with a heavy debt 
 hanging over him. The beautiful house and rich 
 furniture that had been a part of his wife's marriage- 
 portion were seized and sold to the highest bidder, 
 and he turned upon the world with a family of three 
 children, having scarcely a dollar in his pocket. 
 
 Instead of sympathy from his wife, in the sad dis- 
 aster that had befallen him, he met with reproaches 
 for not having made over to her and her children 
 the house and furniture she had brought him, and 
 thus reserved a home for his family. To these cruel 
 reproaches, the disappointed, broken-spirited man 
 had nothing to reply; he felt crushed to the earth, 
 and without the strength" to lift himself up again. 
 He had fallen from so high a position, that he was 
 nearly disabled by the concussion. 
 
 Thrown out of business, turned out of his home, 
 and with nothing to live upon, he was forced, reluc- 
 tantly, to accept the constrained offer of his father- 
 in-law to go to his house with his family until he 
 could get something to do. Naturally independent 
 in his feelings, this was a painful trial, especially as 
 there was no real cordiality in the invitation, and 
 the addition of his family to that of Mr. Collins 
 was evidently felt as a burden. 
 
 Some weeks after this arrangement had been en- 
 
THE LOTTERY TICKET, 135 
 
 tered upon, and at a time when it was chafing him 
 sorely, Granger called in to see his old friend Day, 
 to solicit from him a vacant clerkship in his store. 
 After their meeting, Day expressed the sincere re- 
 gret he felt at the disastrous result of his business. 
 With much bitterness, the other replied 
 
 " Yes, disastrous enough ; but I do not wonder 
 at it, now that I am a sane man again. Ellis Day, 
 since the hour I drew that cursed prize in the lot- 
 tery, I have been beside myself. I have not acted, 
 in a single instance, with the wisdom and prudence 
 of a man whose mind was well-balanced. I believe 
 you now ; but I did not believe you when you told 
 me that money obtained in the way I obtained 
 twenty-five thousand dollars, never does any good. 
 You saw how it would be you, like a wise man, 
 could foresee the evil ; but I, like a fool, passed on, 
 and have been punished, and grievous and hard to 
 be borne is that punishment. It is felt by me in 
 the most intimate as well as in the most remote 
 relations of life. Ah, my friend, your patience, pru- 
 dence, and willingness to wait for the gently-flowing 
 tide that bears us on to fortune, have met the just 
 reward. Like you, had I been thus prudent and 
 thus willing to wait, I might now have been safely 
 advancing towards wealth, instead of being penni- 
 less, and with spirits broken, energy gone, and the 
 very light of life extinguished/' 
 
 Granger was deeply moved. 
 
136 THE LOTTERY TICKET. 
 
 The situation he asked was promptly given to 
 him ; but the salary was only eight hundred dollars 
 a year. This small sum was in no way adequate to 
 the wants of Mrs. Granger ; she could spend it her- 
 self twice over, in the year ; and because she could 
 not get as much as she wanted from her husband, 
 she complained and fretted almost constantly. 
 
 Granger remained with Day only a few months, 
 when his domestic irritations became so great that, 
 in a fit of passion and despair, he left the city; and, 
 though some years have passed, he has never since 
 been heard of by his family. 
 
 So much for a prize in the lottery ! We agree, 
 perfectly, with Ellis Day, that no good ever comes 
 from money obtained by this or any other species 
 of gambling, and for the reason already alleged, 
 that it does not correspond to any use in the com- 
 munity, but has actually been obtained from those 
 who have received no equivalents therefor. Other 
 reasons could also be given, but they must readily 
 suggest themselves t> the mind of almost every 
 reader. 
 
THE MOTHER AND SON 
 
 IN a richly-furnished chamber, a yonag wxnnan, 
 with a pale, serious face, reclined u^on a bed ; even 
 without the fulness and flush of health, beauty was 
 stamped upon every feature. Her forehead was 
 broad and white, her eyes dark and brilliant, her 
 lips most delicately formed ; yet over the whole a 
 proud spirit had written characters that all could 
 read, even though it was plain to be seen that she 
 had suffered, from some <?ause, deep humiliation. 
 
 It was night, and she was alone ; but her eyes 
 were frequently turned toward the door with a look 
 of interest, and she seemed all the time listening, 
 as if for the approach of some one who was expect- 
 ed. At last a woman, past the middle age, entered; 
 as she did so, the invalid rose up with a look of 
 inquiry. 
 
 " Has it been done?" she asked in a low voice. 
 
 " Every thing is ready. Will you not see him ?" 
 
 " No, no/' replied the young woman) raising both 
 her hands, as if to hide some disagreeable object 
 from her sight, and turning her head aside. 
 
 " He is sleeping so sweetly, and looks as innocent 
 
 12* 1ST 
 
138 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 as an angel/' said the woman ; ee you may never see 
 his face again/' 
 
 " Pray Heaven I never may ! No no no I 
 cannot I will not see him. Let all be done as I 
 have directed/' and the speaker sank back upon the 
 bed, and buried her face in the pillow. 
 
 The woman withdrew, and she was again left 
 alone. For an hour, the invalid lay almost as mo- 
 tionless as if life were extinct. The woman with 
 whom she had held the brief conference we have 
 just recorded, came back again after the lapse of ten 
 minutes, but her entrance was not apparently no- 
 ticed. Years of misery were crowded into that one 
 hour thus spent in self-communion; and years 
 elapsed before its deeply-cut record was effaced. 
 Effaced ? It was only covered over for a time by 
 other mementos, but never effaced. 
 
 It was a dark, cold night in December; since the 
 day closed in, snow had begun to frill, and was now 
 filling the air, and whirling about in the mourning 
 gusts that swept along the streets and eddied among 
 the houses, scattering its white favours broadly over 
 the earth, creeping quietly into nooks and corners, 
 now lightly falling upon the window-panes, and now 
 rushing fiercely against them with a heavy rustling 
 sound that fell off quickly into a low, retreating sigh. 
 It was a night to make those who gathered around 
 the warm fireside fef I thankful for the good gifts 
 they enjoyed. 
 
THE MOTHER AND SON. 139 
 
 In a narrow court, far away from any of the neigh- 
 bourhoods where wealth built up her splendid man- 
 sions, stood a low frame dwelling, in which lived a 
 poor widow, named Oliver. She had three young 
 children, and her only means of subsistence were in 
 her ability to work with her hands. 
 
 The widow Oliver had finished her day's work, 
 or rather all the work she happened to have in the 
 house ; and after putting her little ones to bed, sat 
 down by the light of a single tallow-candle to sew 
 for herself. This, in her estimation, was more like 
 recreation than work. Her work was -what she daily 
 performed as a means of obtaining money with which 
 to buy food and clothing for herself and her little 
 ones. All the time she could gain from this neces- 
 sary toil to make and mend her own and her chil- 
 dren's clothes, seemed to be like a holiday, and was 
 enjoyed quite as well and even better than some 
 persons enjoy their hours of idleness. 
 
 The widow Oliver, though poor and with small 
 means, had a woman's heart. She loved her chil- 
 dren, and worked for them with as much earnestness 
 and far more real pleasure than a merchant workg 
 for the wealth he seeks to accumulate. While her 
 affection prompted her to do all in her power to 
 supply their wants, it also prompted her to teach 
 them to be contented with what they had, and to 
 love one another. 
 
 She had finished her day's work, as we have said, 
 
140 THE MCTHER AND SON. 
 
 and had drawn her chair close to the small light 
 emitted by a poor candle, in order to sew for herself, 
 as she called it. This sewing for herself was making 
 some coarse aprons for her children, to cover and 
 protect their clothes. She had not noticed until 
 now that it was storming. The day had been cloudy, 
 but snow had not begun to descend until after night- 
 fall. A rustling against the windows first gave her 
 notice of the change without. A slight shiver passed 
 through her frame, more from the idea of coldness 
 than from any real change in her bodily sensation, 
 and she moved her little work-table closer to the 
 fire of wood that was burning cheerfully upon the 
 hearth. 
 
 Thus alone, the widow sat and plied her busy 
 needle, no sound falling upon her ears except the 
 murmur of the blazing fire, the clicking of her thim- 
 ble, and the occasional rushing of the storm against 
 the windows, or its deep hollow moaning as it swept 
 around her humble dwelling. She had been sewing 
 for nearly an hour, when she stopped suddenly and 
 listened ; she laid down her work, and, taking the 
 candle in her hand, went up-stairs into the room 
 over the one where she had been sitting, and where 
 her children lay asleep. Two were in a bed upon 
 the floor, and the third, who was little more than a 
 babe, lay in the middle of her own bed. She held 
 the light close to the face of this one, and saw that 
 he was not only sound asleep, but had not moved 
 
THE MOTHER AND SON. 141 
 
 since she laid him there. She then looked at the 
 other children for a moment or two ; after this, she 
 went down-stairs and resumed her work. She had 
 not taken many stitches before she paused again, 
 and this time with something like a start; the low 
 cry of a child had fallen upon her ear with a distinct- 
 ness not to be mistaken. Again she ascended to the 
 chamber, but all remained as she had left it but a 
 minute before; the children were fast asleep, and 
 evinced no sign of restlessness. Mrs. Oliver stood 
 and listened in the chamber for some time, but all 
 remained quiet. She then went below and sat down 
 beside her work-table to resume her sewing; but ere 
 she had taken her work in hand, the cry of a child 
 was again heard ; but from whence the sound came 
 she could not tell. It seemed near to her, and yet 
 not in the room, nor in the chamber above; nor 
 was the voice like that of one of her own children. 
 Breathlessly she listened, with lips apart and every 
 sense alive; in a few moments the cry was repeated, 
 louder and more prolonged. She arose to her feet, 
 listened again, and then sprang to the door, unfast- 
 ened and opened it. As she did so, the cold air, 
 thick with large flakes of snow, rushed in upon her, 
 and for a moment took away her breath and blinded 
 her eyes. As soon as she was able to see, she per- 
 ceived that a basket had been placed by some one 
 upon her door-step; at the same instant, the cry thai 
 had before fallen upon her ear rose from the basket, 
 
142 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 and explained the mystery. The truth flashed over 
 her rnind some heartless mother had abandoned 
 her new-born babe ! 
 
 u Bless me!" exclaimed the widow, -seizing the 
 basket eagerly and lifting it within the room, at the 
 same time that she closed the door and locked it. 
 Enveloped in many folds of a fine soft blanket, and 
 entirely protected from the cold and snow, she found 
 a male infant, apparently not more than a week old. 
 Several changes of clothes were in the basket, and 
 a paper containing a small sum of money; but there 
 was no message from the cruel mother to her to 
 whom she had consigned her babe; not even the 
 simple request that the helpless one should at least 
 receive kindness for its own sake. Fully and entirely 
 had it been abandoned, seemingly without a thought 
 for its welfare. 
 
 In the morning, it soon became known that an 
 infant had been left, on the previous night, at the 
 door of the widow Oliver, and the neighbours came 
 in, one after another, to see the babe and to talk over 
 the strange incident. 
 
 " What are you going to do with it ?" was thu 
 universal question; and 
 
 " Keep it/' was the unvarying reply. 
 
 " Indeed, then, and I would do no such thing," 
 said one ; " you have enough to do to take care of 
 what you have/' 
 
 "I wouldn't take 1 the bread out of my children's 
 
THE MOTHER AND SON, 143 
 
 mouths to put it into the mouth of a stranger's/' 
 said another. 
 
 " Send it to the almshouse," advised a third. 
 
 But Mrs. Oliver had but one reply for all these 
 suggestions. It was the reply of a true woman. 
 
 " God has sent this infant to my door. Shall I 
 refuse to take it and nurse it for Him? No, hence- 
 forth it shall be as one of my own children I will 
 know no difference. " 
 
 As she said, so she acted. From that hour, the 
 little Henry, as she called him, was to be as her 
 own child, and it was not long before her love for 
 him was as tender and deep as for her own children. 
 With the care of an infant on her hands, Mrs. Oli- 
 ver could not earn as much by sewing as formerly, 
 but the deficiency arising from this cause was made 
 up to her in another way. With the money she 
 received with the babe, she bought a cow, which 
 gave her enough milk for the children, besides seve- 
 ral quarts to sell every day. She had lived in the 
 country and understood all about the management 
 of cows, and had long desired to have one. Milking 
 and attending to the cow afforded her healthy exer- 
 cise after sitting for hours at her work, and was no 
 loss of time; for the money she received for the 
 milk she sold was very nearly double what she could 
 have earned with her needle in the time it took her 
 to milk, feed, and see after the animal she had 
 bought. Thus Heaven, that had sent her the babe, 
 
144 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 provided the means in her hands for its sustenance, 
 without increasing perceptibly her burdens. 
 
 From the hour when she received her little Henry, 
 no word or token had ever come from those who had 
 ieft him to perish, it might have been, in the cold 
 at her door. As to who his mother was, or to what 
 family he stood related, she remained in entire igno- 
 rance. 
 
 Year after year passed away, and the babe grew 
 from infancy to childhood and youth. He proved 
 to be a brighter boy than any of Mrs. Oliver's own 
 children, and had a prouder spirit ; but he had ge- 
 nerous qualities of mind, with independence, a love 
 of truth, and firmness and decision of character. His 
 most serious defect was a high temper ; but all his 
 good qualities were encouraged, and all that showed 
 itself as evil, gently, yet firmly restrained and kept 
 as quiescent as possible. 
 
 As soon as Henry was old enough to learn, Mrs. 
 Oliver taught him to read, as she had done her own 
 children, and then sent him to one of the common 
 schools. Here he made, in the course of a few years, 
 rapid advancement. At the age of fourteen, a gen- 
 tleman of eminence in the profession of law, named 
 Hallam, under whose notice the lad had several 
 times fallen, and who saw that he possessed more 
 than ordinary abilities, offered to pay for his instruc- 
 tion in the higher branches of education in one of 
 the literary institutions in the city, for three years, 
 
THE MOTHER AND SON. 145 
 
 if Mrs. Oliver thought she could bear the expense 
 of his maintenance, as well as furnish him with suit- 
 able clothing. Her oldest child, a boy, had been 
 apprenticed two years previously, and she had begun 
 to talk about putting Henry out to learn a trade 
 also. 
 
 " For the sake of such advantages," she replied, 
 ' I will do any thing in my power/' 
 
 As proposed, Henry was entered at one of the 
 oest institutions, and completed a course of studies, 
 .n three years, of greater extent than is usually 
 tccomplished in four years by students of good 
 ;upacity. So much was the individual who had 
 generously offered him these invaluable facilities 
 gratified with the result, that he took him into his 
 office, and from that time bore all his expenses until 
 he was of age and ready to be admitted at the bar. 
 
 During the four years that Henry remained in the 
 office of his generous and disinterested benefactor, 
 he devoted himself not only to the study of the pro- 
 fession for which he was destined, but to general 
 literature and science; furnishing his mind at every 
 point, and laying the foundation upon which he was 
 to build, in the future, a safe structure of eminence 
 and usefulness. As he approached the age of man- 
 hood, Mr. Hallam, who had become strongly attached 
 to his protegij took him into society and introduced 
 him to the acquaintance of men of standing, intel- 
 ligence, and superior attainments. At first, his 
 
 IX. 13 
 
146 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 modest worth was not seen; but soon, like stars 
 from an evening sky, first one ray of light and 
 then another shone forth, until the brilliancy of hia 
 acquirements and the profoundness of his intellect 
 were acknowledged and appreciated. 
 
 But no change in his external condition, or of the 
 point from which he looked upon the world, affected, 
 in the smallest degree, the love and gratitude he 
 bore to her whom he called by the holy name of 
 " mother/' Mr. Hallam, who was wealthy, supplied 
 him with a certain amount of money to meet his 
 expenses. It was necessary that he should dress 
 as those did into whose society his benefactor had 
 introduced him ; but in doing this he exercised the 
 closest economy, and made it a point to preserve his 
 clothes with the utmost care. Beyond this, he never 
 spent a dollar; all that remained was given to Mrs. 
 Oliver, with whom he continued to reside : this was 
 never less than six or seven dollars every week, 
 which, with what she still continued to earn, enabled 
 the widow to live much more comfortably than had 
 formerly been the case. 
 
 At length, Henry Oliver became of age, and was 
 admitted to the bar. 
 
 " What are your views and intentions now, Hen- 
 ry?" asked Mr. Hallam, as they walked together 
 from the court-room 
 
 " I expect to follow the profession for which J 
 have been educated/' replied the young man. 
 
THE MOTHER AND SON, 147 
 
 "In this city ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. I have no wish to remove from here." 
 
 " Practice comes slowly to a young man/' re- 
 marked Mr. Hallam. They were just then at the 
 door of his office, and entered before Henry made 
 any reply. 
 
 As they sat down, Mr. Hallam repeated " As 1 
 said, Henry, practice comes slowly to a young man, 
 more particularly in the law/' 
 
 " I am aware of that/' was replied, with some 
 seriousness of voice and expression of countenance 
 " But I must wait my time. I suppose I shall get 
 something to do; at least enough to meet my ex- 
 penses." 
 
 " Yes, if you hunt up magistrates' cases, do your 
 share of pettifogging, and take good care to make 
 the most out of a cause when you do get one." 
 
 " None of which I can or will do/' replied the 
 young man, promptly. 
 
 " Then I am not so sure that you will at once be 
 able to meet your expenses, unless they be very 
 light," said Mr. Hallam. 
 
 " I will see that they are not heavy," was the 
 quiet reply, " while I await patiently the sure reward 
 of ' time faith energy.' " 
 
 "And that reward will come, Henry, sooner or 
 iater." 
 
 " I know it. I will wait." 
 
 Mr. Hallam cast his eyes to the floor thought- 
 
148 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 fully, and sat for some minutes ; then looking up, 
 he said - u Henry, would you be willing to take a 
 share in my business ? Or do you prefer to start 
 alone and build up a reputation for yourself?" 
 
 " To be associated with you in business," the 
 young man said, with evident emotion, " would be 
 the greatest benefit I could now receive, and would 
 overstep all my present ambition. But I never 
 hoped for any thing like this." 
 
 " If you are disposed to share the labour of my 
 heavy practice/' returned Mr. Hallam, " I will at 
 once take you into the business. I must have an 
 associate, and you will suit me best. Turn it over 
 in your mind, and if you think such an arrangement 
 desirable and advantageous, it can be at once entered 
 into. I will, in the beginning, give you the pro- 
 ceeds of one-fifth of my practice, which will yield 
 you very near two thousand dollars per annum 
 this to continue for three years. After that, the 
 partnership can be dissolved or formed upon a new 
 basis, as may be agreeable to both." 
 
 It was some time before Henry could compose his 
 mind sufficiently to reply. The generous offer, so 
 unexpected, completely overpowered him. 
 
 " I accept the offer with gladness," he said; "and 
 more for the sake of another, than for the high ad- 
 vantages that it presents to me. Deserted by her 
 who gave me birth, and left, as I have been told, in 
 the street on a stormy night, she whom I now call 
 
THE MOTHER AND SON. 149 
 
 my mother took me in and loved me, and cared for 
 me as for her own children, sharing with me the food 
 she earned for them, and working harder that they 
 might feel no privations. What do I not owe to her? 
 I would repay the debt with my life, if I could. My 
 mother for such I acknowledge her in my heart to 
 be, as well as call her so with my lips still has to 
 work with her hands, old as she is, although every 
 dollar with which your generous bounty has supplied 
 me, beyond what was necessary to furnish me with 
 suitable clothing, has gone into her hands. Now, 
 thanks to your noble offer, I can place her above 
 labour and above want, and in a position such as 
 she deserves. For her sake, my dear sir, do I thank 
 you." 
 
 Henry grasped the hand of Mr. Hallam, as he 
 ceased speaking, while tears, that he could not re- 
 press, gushed from his eyes. 
 
 " Thrice worthy of all my best affections, which 
 you have long had, do I feel you now to be, my dear 
 boy," said Mr. Hallam, returning with ardour the 
 pressure of Henry's hand; "your noble wishes shall 
 at once be gratified." 
 
 Turning to his desk, Mr. Hallam, in the generous 
 enthusiasm of the moment, drew a check for a thou- 
 sand dollars, and handing it to the young man, said, 
 us he did so " Take that : it is the first fruits of 
 your new business; place your mother in just the 
 position your heart desires her to be in." 
 
 13* 
 
150 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 Henry wrung the hand of Mr. Hallam, and then 
 passed quickly from the office; he could not trust 
 himself to utter the deep gratitude he felt. 
 
 A neat, but not large house was immediately 
 rented, and furnished with a degree of taste, com- 
 fort and elegance far beyond what the limited means 
 of Mrs. Oliver had ever enabled her to enjoy. Into 
 this house Henry took his mother after all was 
 ready, and gave her the first happy intelligence of 
 the change that had taken place, by saying "This, 
 dear mother, is all your own. No more care and 
 labour, but rest, and peace, and comfort for your 
 declining years. It is some small return for all I 
 owe you ; but small as it is, I bring it to you with 
 n glad heart/' 
 
 Sacred to filial and maternal love were the tears 
 that mingled freely when all was explained and un- 
 derstood. It was some time, however, before Mrs. 
 Oliver could really believe that what she saw and 
 heard was not in a dream. 
 
 Associated wifh Mr. Hallam, Henry soon had an 
 opportunity of distinguishing himself in a case of 
 great importance, by an argument before the court 
 that at once gave him a reputation for acuteness 
 of mind, strong good sense and powerful eloquence. 
 NTot many years elapsed before he was considered 
 one of the ablest lawyers at the bar; his income, 
 from two thousand dollars a year, soon increased to 
 double that amount. He did not forget, in his pros- 
 
THE MOTHER AND SON. 151 
 
 perity, the children of Mrs. Oliver, with whom he- 
 had grown up; but feeling toward them as a brother 
 lie acted as he felt, and aided them materially it 
 their efforts to improve their condition. 
 
 Five years from the time when Henry Oliver 
 commenced the practice of law, in association with 
 Mr. Hallam, he was run by one of the political par- 
 ties for Congress, and elected by a large majority. 
 In the hall of representatives he distinguished him- 
 self in many important debates, and his name be- 
 came known throughout the country. For many 
 years he continued to be elected to Congress, and 
 to be held in high estimation as a man of great 
 intellectual power and unflinching integrity. No 
 man had a fairer reputation, no man was held in 
 greater esteem by his personal friends, or by the 
 people, who only knew his worth by the quality of 
 his acts. 
 
 Thus had he earned for himself a distinguished 
 name; all men were proud to take him by the hand, 
 and all circles felt honoured by his presence, even 
 though the facts of his early life and doubtful pa- 
 rentage were well known. 
 
 Mr. Hallam, with whom Henry was still asso- 
 ciated in business, was sitting in his office one day, 
 about ten years from the time when young Oliver 
 had stepped upon the world's broad stage as a man 
 when the widow of a very eminent professional man 
 who had died some years before came in and begged 
 
152 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 to have a few words of conversation with him, pro- 
 vided the interview would be considered strictly 
 confidential. Mr. Hallam had known the lady for 
 years. She was connected with some of the best 
 families in the State, and had, in her younger days, 
 been a brilliant woman of fashion. He assured her 
 that any thing she might wish to say to him would 
 be held perfectly sacred. She seemed a good deal 
 disturbed, and sat for some time evidently at a loss 
 how to begin the communication she wished to make. 
 At length, she said "You are, of course, inti- 
 mately acquainted with Mr. Oliver." 
 
 "I am," replied Mr. Hallam; "I raised him, I 
 might almost say, from a boy ; I know him tho- 
 roughly." 
 
 " He has made himself a brilliant reputation," 
 remarked the lady. 
 
 "He has fairly and honestly made it. But the 
 public know not half his worth." 
 
 " Do you know his family ?" asked the lady. 
 
 " No, nor does he know them himself. He was 
 abandoned by his mother when an infant." 
 
 " So I have heard. But has he no suspicion who 
 are his relations ?" 
 
 " None in the least." 
 
 " Let them occupy what social position they may, 
 he will do them no discredit," said the lady. 
 
 "Discredit!" ejaculated Mr. Hallam. "No, 
 ma'am ! But he would do them honour. I care 
 
THE MOTHER AND SON. 153 
 
 not who his relatives are, or how high they stand 
 Henry Oliver is worthy to take his place beside 
 them." 
 
 " They might claim him now, without a blush of 
 shame/' continued the lady, looking intently in the 
 face of Mr. Hallam. 
 
 " So far as Henry is concerned, they might/' he 
 returned, feeling considerably annoyed by the lady's 
 manner and words, and not really understanding 
 the drift of her strange questions. 
 
 " Mr. Hallam," resumed the visitor, after a pause, 
 her voice slightly trembling, "I will now communi- 
 cate a secret that has been locked in my bosom for 
 thirty years. Henry Oliver is my son !" 
 
 " Your son !" exclaimed Mr. Hallam, starting to 
 his feet. " Impossible ?" 
 
 " It is as I say, Mr. Hallam. For years my eyes 
 * have been upon him, and I have marked with a 
 mother's pride mingled, it is true, with other mo- 
 tions of a far less pleasing character his steady 
 advancement to positions of honour. The time has at 
 last come, it seems to me, when I may claim him 
 without disgrace. It is no dishonour to be the mo- 
 ther of such a son, even if he were not born in wed- 
 lock V 
 
 Mr. Hallam was confounded. He made no reply, 
 for no words that he dared utter could at all express 
 his feelings. While he stood silently looking into 
 the face of his visitor, she said 
 
]54 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 " Now that you know my secret, which, for the 
 present at least, must remain such, I wish you 
 to obtain for me an interview with my son." 
 
 Mr. Hallam bowed. 
 
 " Can I have it to-day ?" 
 
 " I presume so." 
 
 te May I ask you to bring Henry to my house this 
 afternoon ?" 
 
 " I will tell him that you desire to see him, at any 
 hour you may name," replied Mr. Hallam. 
 
 " Say five o'clock." 
 
 Mr. Hallam again bowed. 
 
 His visitor lingered for a while, making many re- 
 marks on the subject, all going to show that the pride 
 she felt in her son's reputation was the only incen- 
 tive she had in claiming him; and that this feel- 
 ing entirely obliterated all shame and all compunc- 
 tion at having abandoned him while an infant. 
 
 At five o'clock, Henry Oliver called at the house 
 of the lady who had desired an interview, in order, 
 as he supposed, to consult him on some professional 
 business. He found her sitting in one of her par- 
 lours. She received him in a formal and somewhat 
 embarrassed manner. After both had sat silent for 
 some short space of time, the lady said, without 
 any preliminary remark, and in a low, rather agi- 
 tated voice, 
 
 " Henry, I am your mother !" 
 
 The young man sprang to his feet as suddenly as 
 
THE MOTHER AND SON 
 
 if a pistol had been fired close to his ear; gave 
 the woman a look of profound astonishment, anrt 
 then replied in a firm tone 
 
 "No, madam ! you are not my mother." 
 
 " But I tell you I am !" returned the woman, 
 rising also to her feet. " You are my son, and my 
 only son I" 
 
 " I deny the relationship !" exclaimed the young 
 man indignantly. " I was abandoned in infancy, I 
 know, by some unfeeling monster; but God gavo 
 me a mother to love me, and she is ray mother still 
 my true and only mother/' 
 
 As if stricken down by a heavy blow, the woman 
 sank upon the sofa from which she had arisen, and 
 Henry Oliver turned away and rushed from the 
 house. 
 
 Nothing of all this was breathed by the young 
 man to any living soul. He locked it up in his 
 bosom, even from Mr. Hallam. But that gentle- 
 man saw enough of the effect of the interview upon 
 both him and the individual who had claimed to be 
 his mother when it was too late, to satisfy him of its 
 true nature. He could not but honour the young 
 man for his noble indignation, at the same time 
 that he grieved for the pang such an announce- 
 ment as had been made to him must have caused. 
 
 Shortly after this, Henry Oliver was united in 
 marriage to the daughter of a well known senator of 
 the United States, and thereby became connected 
 
156 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 with one of the oldest and most distinguished families 
 in the country. This union, however, did not take 
 place before Henry had fully communicated to both 
 the lady and her parents all the facts regarding his 
 early and subsequent history, with the single excep- 
 tion of the discovery he had made of his real parent. 
 That was a secret locked in his bosom } and one of 
 which he never permitted himself to think, when 
 he could force the subject from his mind. 
 
 Toward Mrs. Oliver, his " true and only mother/' 
 as he had expressed it ; he manifested to the last 
 the warmest affection. For her husband's sake, his 
 young wife paid Mrs. Oliver the kindest attentions 
 from the first. It was not long, however, before 
 she loved her for the affectionate gentleness, purity, 
 and excellence of her character; and when, in a good 
 old age, she passed away from them, she mingled her 
 tears with those of her husband that watered the 
 grave where she was laid at rest. 
 
 A few years after this event, as Mr. Hallam and 
 Henry Oliver sat one day conversing in their office, 
 a woman, having the appearance of a domestic, came 
 in and asked for the latter. On being told which 
 was the person she sought, she said 
 
 " Mrs. is very ill and not expected to live. 
 
 She wishes to see you before she dies." 
 
 " Tell her that I cannot" Henry was speak- 
 ing from a first impulse, forgetful where he wart, 
 and of every thing but the instinctive repugnance he 
 
THE MOTHER AND SON. 157 
 
 felt to an interview with the person named. But a 
 look and a gesture from Mr. Hallam caused him to 
 check his utterance of the words that were upon his 
 lips. 
 
 " A word with you, Henry/' said the latter, rising, 
 and both retired into an adjoining room, after the 
 messenger had been desired to wait for a few 
 minutes. 
 
 As soon as they were alone, Mr Hallam said 
 
 " Henry, I know your secret it is your mother 
 who" 
 
 " No sir, she is not my mother !" Oliver indig- 
 nantly replied. " My mother is in heaven !" As he 
 said this, he began to pace the floor in an agitated 
 manner. 
 
 " She is the author of your being, Henry, as you 
 are aware" 
 
 " So she says } but she abandoned me, and God 
 gave me a true mother. Her and her only have I 
 known, and I will acknowledge no other. Does this 
 woman deserve the sacred name of mother ? No 
 my heart will not acknowledge the relationship, and 
 my lips shall never give the lie to my heart. I can- 
 not see her, Mr. Hallam ! She is nothing to me." 
 
 " Humanity has some claims, Henry," returned 
 Mr. Hallam, in a serious voice. " Since the day 
 when Mrs. claimed you" 
 
 " Mr. Hallam, what do you know of all this ?" said 
 Oliver, much excited. 
 
 IX. 14 
 
158 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 "I knew all at the time/' was calmly replied. "But 
 as I was saying, since the day when Mrs. claim- 
 ed you as her son, I have observed her closely. 
 From that time she has been changed greatly 
 changed. The fire of her eyes has grown dim, her 
 voice has lost its fine expression, her step, so elastio 
 even in old age, has become slow and deliberate. 
 Your refusal to acknowledge yourself her son seems 
 to have broken her spirits and destroyed the vital 
 principle of her existence. Neither you nor I can 
 tell how much she has suffered, Henry ; or how 
 deeply she has repented. God forgives, and you 
 must do the same. In life's bitterest extremity, she 
 sends for you you, her son. Do not refuse to see 
 her ; but go, in the name of humanity." 
 
 "Let me think a moment," replied Oliver, with 
 a bewildered look and a husky voice. As he said 
 this, he sank into a chair, and covered his face with 
 his hands. For more than a minute, he sat almost 
 motionless, when a gush of tears evinced the con- 
 quest of his better feelings 
 
 " Tell her," he said, looking up, " that I will be 
 there." 
 
 Mr. Hallam withdrew and informed the mes- 
 senger that Mi. Oliver would attend to the request 
 she had brought. 
 
 Half an hour afterward, Henry Oliver entered the 
 
 chamber of Mrs. . His face was pale and the 
 
 whole expression of his countenance subdued. 
 
THE MOTHER AND SON. 159 
 
 The dying woman raised herself up as he drew 
 near to her bedside, looking him eagerly in the face. 
 But she did not speak until she had motioned all 
 her attendants from the room. Then, with a voice 
 low, tremulous, and tender even to sadness, she mur- 
 mured 
 
 " My son my son !" and fell forward. Oliver 
 received her in his arms, uttering, in as low and sad 
 a tone 
 
 " My mother !" 
 
 The whole frame of the dying woman quivered, 
 she attempted to throw back her head, evidently 
 that she might look into his face, but, in the effort, 
 every muscle of her body became relaxed in the 
 next moment, she lay dead in the Arzu? of her son. 
 
BETTER TO ACT THE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 SOME men are born gentlemen, but the number 
 is not large; others, in the process of moral eleva- 
 tion, become gentlemen through a denial and re- 
 moval of those selfish influences that lead to an 
 utter disregard of others; while a larger number 
 merely play the gentleman on such occasions as 
 seem most fitting to advance their interests or minis- 
 ter to their love of the world's good opinion, but are, 
 at all other times, as ungentlemanly in their inter- 
 course as it is possible for them to be. The very 
 fact of playing the gentleman under restraint gives 
 their boorish propensities an increased activity the 
 moment they are free again. 
 
 Mr. Partridge belonged to and fairly represented 
 the last-named class. He was no gentleman, and 
 yet, to have hinted at the truth would have been 
 to awaken his warmest indignation ; for, strange as 
 it may seem, he imagined himself to be every inch 
 a gentleman. Mr. Partridge was in business; 
 though not as successful as he might, naturally wish 
 to be. Money came in but slowly; while the due- 
 
 160 
 
BETTER TO ACT THE GENTLEMAN. 161 
 
 days of notes occurred with a most unpleasant fre- 
 quency. A note-paying day rarely found Mr. Par- 
 tridge in his best humour, for it did not often occur 
 that on such occasions his bank account showed the 
 required balance. Then he had to bustle around, bor- 
 row, force collections, or sacrifice good paper none 
 of which acts helped in any way to produce an equable 
 state of mind. The man who came into Mr. Par- 
 tridge's store on one of these note-paying days, had 
 to be an excellent customer, or one whose good opi- 
 nion he had the best of reasons for wishing to retain, 
 to meet with any attentions whatever, or to escape 
 downright insult. 
 
 Mr. Partridge, in commencing business, had, like 
 most young men, a fair proportion of up-hill work 
 to perform ; for the largest part of his capital lay in 
 his ability and industry. The greatest drawback 
 was in his own character. To a customer who was 
 expected to buy, Partridge was as affable and as 
 polite as a man could be ; and the same was the case 
 if the individual who called in at his store was one 
 from whom a present or remote advantage was ex- 
 pected. But, to all others, it came natural to bristle 
 like a porcupine ; and the touch of his quills was felt 
 and remembered much oftener than he imagined, or 
 than was at all for his interest to occur. Many a dol- 
 lar failed to reach his till on this account, that 
 would, otherwise, have reposed there; and many an 
 hour was spent in money-hunting on note-paying 
 
 14* 
 
162 BETTER TO ACT THE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 days, that might have been spent at his desk or 
 counter, had he been in heart what he affected to be 
 on certain occasions a gentleman. But he did not 
 know this; for inordinate self-love, like the poison 
 of a serpent, blinds at certain seasons. One day 
 it was a " short day" with the young storekeeper 
 a man came in, and, after looking around and making 
 casual examinations of goods, with the manner of a 
 person who had some other end than that of buying 
 in his mind, approached the desk at which he was 
 standing, and made some remark, in a familiar way, 
 about the weather. From the moment the man came 
 in, the eyes of Partridge were upon him ; and he soon 
 understood, clearly, that he had no intention of buy- 
 ing. The way in which he examined his goods an- 
 noyed him; and by the time the stranger reached 
 the part of the store where he stood, he was prepared 
 to meet him with a rebuff. 
 
 " What did you say, sir ?" was the quick, rudely- 
 uttered inquiry of Partridge. 
 
 The man looked at him a moment with evident 
 surprise, and then quietly turned away, but still 
 lingered in the store. 
 
 " Mr. Partridge is not in, I presume/' said he to 
 a clerk, who stood behind one of the counters, at 
 some distance from where the proprietor still lin- 
 gered moodily at his desk. 
 
 " Yes, sir, he's in," was the affable reply. " You 
 were speaking with him a moment ago." 
 
BETTER TO ACT THE GENTLEMAN 163 
 
 {t Oh !" The man turned and looked at Partridge. 
 In a little while afterward he went away. 
 
 " What did that fellow want ?" asked Partridge 
 ill-naturedly, as soon as the man had withdrawn. 
 
 " He wished to see you, I believe/' replied the 
 clerk. 
 
 " I was here. Why didn't he tell me his busi- 
 ness ? I wonder what he wanted ?" 
 
 The incident rather worried the mind of the young 
 storekeeper, for, with a knowledge of the fact that 
 the stranger asked for him, came the impression that, 
 in treating him rudely, he might have foregone some 
 advantage. 
 
 A few hours afterward, a man in the same busi- 
 ness with himself said, on meeting him " Have 
 you seen Bispham?" 
 
 " No !" The whole aspect of Partridge changed. 
 "Is he in town?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Are you certain?" 
 
 " I am. He was to see me, this morning." 
 
 " Strange ! He wrote me that he would be here 
 about this time." 
 
 "And hasn't he called on you yet?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I sold him a pretty good bill/' 
 
 "Ah?" 
 
 " He'll be along, I suppose," said Partridge, with 
 affected indifference, and then hurried away to com- 
 
164 BETTER TO ACT THE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 plete his "financiering" for the day, and get back to 
 his store as quickly as possible, to await a call from 
 Bispham ; but, when evening came, the expected 
 customer had not arrived. 
 
 On the next day, he heard of him in various quar- 
 ters ; and the invariable story was that he had been 
 buying, and cashing his bills. Partridge couldn't 
 understand it. During the past year, he had re- 
 ceived many orders from Bispham, who lived in 
 Pittsburgh, all of which he had promptly filled, and, 
 as far as he could judge from letters, to the custom- 
 er's satisfaction. Why he had passed his store, now 
 that he was in the city, and made bills at other esta- 
 blishments, was more than he could divine. 
 
 On the third day, Partridge saw the stranger 
 before referred to enter his store again, and linger 
 around as before. After a while, he came up to the 
 desk where the young man stood, as on the previous 
 occasion, and said to him " I believe I have a small 
 bill on your books, which might as well be settled. 
 Bispham is the name/' 
 
 " Mr. Bispham !" exclaimed Partridge, a sudden 
 light breaking over his countenance. " How do 
 vou do? I'm glad to see you. When did you ar- 
 riv^ in our city?" And as this was said, he reached 
 out his hand and shook that of the customer warmly. 
 
 " I've been here for several days," was the reply 
 of Bispham ; but there was no correspondent enthu- 
 siasm in his manner. 
 
BETTER TO ACT THE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " Indeed ! Why haven't you called before? 1 ' 
 
 " I was in on the first day of my arrival/ ' replied 
 the merchant; "but was So disgusted with the 
 rudeness of one of your clerks, or some other person 
 about your establishment, that I didn't care to come 
 again." 
 
 The countenance of Partridge fell. 
 
 "I'm sorry/' he murmured in a low voice, while 
 a guilty confusion was on his face. " But I am 
 sure, Mr. Bispham, that no rudeness was intend- 
 ed." 
 
 "Perhaps not," said the customer; "but I'm 
 rather sensitive on such matters. I always make it 
 a point to be civil to friends or strangers, and expect 
 as much for myself. If I don't find civility in any 
 one, I don't feel bound to have any intercourse with 
 him either as a business man or a friend." 
 
 A silence highly embarrassing to Partridge suc- 
 ceeded. 
 
 " If you will draw off my account, I will settle it," 
 said the merchant. " I must leave for New York 
 this afternoon." 
 
 Partridge turned to his ledger and made out the 
 bill. 
 
 " It's a small matter, Mr. Bispham. There's no 
 need of settling it just now," said Partridge. 
 
 " I like to pay off these small matters," replied 
 Bispham, as he drew out his pocket-book. " Put a 
 receipt on it, if you please." 
 
16t> BETTER TO ACT THE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 The bill was receipted, and the money paid. 
 
 " If you should want any thing more in my line, 
 I hope you will send on your orders/' said Par- 
 tridge. " I shall always be happy to furnish you 
 with goods in my line, at the lowest market-rates." 
 
 " Thank you," replied Bispham; " but I've mado 
 arrangements with Murdock to do all my business 
 here in future/' 
 
 Then bowing with distant politeness, the merchant 
 retired, leaving Partridge to his own reflections, 
 which were not of the most agreeable character. 
 
 A lesson like this, it might be supposed, would 
 do much for the improvement of our hero's man- 
 ners; but what is " bred in the bone is hard to come 
 out of the flesh." Unless a man, from impulse or 
 long-confirmed habit, act the gentleman on all occa- 
 sions, he will be very apt to forget himself at times, 
 when it would be much to his interest and reputa- 
 tion to play his part in the most agreeable man- 
 ner. 
 
 When Bispham went back to Pittsburgh, he de- 
 scribed to a man in the same business, who was deal- 
 ing pretty extensively with Partridge, the manner 
 of his reception. 
 
 " I guess I'll give Ae gentleman a trial also," 
 said the man. " I'm going to Philadelphia next 
 week." 
 
 He did so. On arriving in the city, he called at 
 the store of Partridge. Not being a man of very 
 
BETTER TO ACT THE GENTLEMAN. 167 
 
 remarkable presence, he did not receive any very 
 particular attention. This was all natural enough; 
 but it did not stop there. In approaching Partridge, 
 which he did with some casual question, he was 
 treated with such marked indifference, and even 
 rudeness, that he turned on his heel and left the 
 store. As in the previous case, Partridge remem- 
 bered him when he called to settle his bill; and, 
 when it was too late to retrieve his error, found that 
 he had, in his boorishness, insulted one of his best 
 customers. 
 
 After that, for some weeks, he assumed a better 
 exterior, and was particularly pleasant to every one 
 who came into his store; but, not turning up angels 
 in disguise, he became discouraged, and fell back 
 into his old habit, that, like a long-worn garment, 
 fitted him more easily. 
 
 A very natural thing, in the case of Partridge, 
 was his falling in love. The object of this attach- 
 ment was a young lady of good family, every mem- 
 ber of which was as remarkable for true gentlemanly 
 and ladylike conduct on all occasions, as Partridge 
 was remarkable for the opposite when there was 
 nothing to be gained by assuming a virtue to which 
 he had no real title. The name of this young lady 
 was Emily Weston. Besides her social standing, 
 accomplishments, beauty, and sweetness of disposi- 
 tion, Emily possessed another attraction to which 
 the young man was by no means indifferent and 
 
168 BETTER TO ACT THE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 that was money. We will not say that this was her 
 strongest attraction, so far as Partridge was con- 
 cerned ; but it had its due influence in determining 
 4iis favourable impression of the young lady. 
 
 In all his intercourse with Miss Weston and her 
 family, Partridge was, of course, the gentleman so 
 far as exterior conduct was concerned; though it 
 must, at the same time, be admitted that he occa- 
 sionally overacted his part. This arose from the 
 fact that his manners were assumed, instead of being 
 spontaneous; and also in consequence of a too recent 
 consultation of Count D'Orsay's rules of etiquette. 
 Still the impression he made was favourable, and 
 the young lady received his addresses in no unwil- 
 ling spirit. Every thing was going on most hap- 
 pily, and the lover beginning to con over in his mind 
 the form of application for the hand and heart of 
 the fair young lady. 
 
 About this time, business called Partridge away 
 as far as Boston. On his return, he remained a 
 couple of days in New York, for the transaction of 
 some business, and then left for home in the after- 
 noon train. It was in the winter-time. As the boat 
 touched the Jersey side, Partridge was one of the 
 first to spring ashore, and press forward with eager 
 haste, carpet-bag in hand, to secure a good seat. 
 Passing the conductor at the door of the car-house, 
 he made his way to the ladies' car, and though 
 refused admittance by the man stationed there, he 
 
BETTER TO ACT THE GENTLEMAN. 169 
 
 roughly pressed him aside, and forced his way in, 
 despite of opposition. He was the first to enter this 
 car, and had leisure to select just the place that 
 suited him. Depositing his carpet-bag on one end 
 of a seat, he ensconced himself in the other, with a 
 resolution to occupy his comfortable quarters in the 
 manner and form just assumed, in despite of all 
 ordinary efforts to remove him. 
 
 Quickly following, came a hurrying crowd of men, 
 women, and children, all eager to secure good places ; 
 and in a very brief time, nearly every seat had one 
 or more occupants. As in most cases, a number 
 of men who were not accompanied by ladies had 
 succeeded in forcing their way into this car, and 
 each one of these, like Partridge, occupied his single 
 seat, and with the too evident intention of occupying 
 it "alone in his glory," if possible. These person- 
 ages were all so very intent on what was going on 
 outside of the car, as to be oblivious of all proceed- 
 ings within. Such was the case with Partridge, 
 when, a few moments before the starting of the 
 train, a gentleman touched him on the shoulder. 
 Instantly he turned his head, with a look of affected 
 surprise, while a frown knit his brow. The gentle- 
 man smiled, and said, politely u I'm sorry to trou- 
 ble you, but I have a lady with me. Would you 
 be kind enough to sit with the gentleman in front, 
 and let us have the place you occupy?" 
 
 " T never change my seat/' was the rude reply, 
 
170 BETTER TO ACT THE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 and Partridge turned his head coldly, and resumed 
 his observation of what was passing without. 
 
 The gentleman in front, hearing the request, and 
 noting the manner of its reception, arose quickly and 
 tendered his place, falling hack as he did so, and 
 forcing, with no dainty manner, his body down into 
 the seat occupied by Partridge and his carpet-bag. 
 The frown on the young man's brow had deepened 
 to a scowl as he turned to resent, with a look, this 
 invasion of his assumed rights, when, to his utter 
 dismay, the gentleman who had desired him to give 
 place for a lady, handed Emily Weston into the seat 
 just left vacant. She did not turn to look at him, 
 and he knew not whether he had been recognised, 
 or thought to be a stranger. Her companion made 
 some remark, in which the words " ungentlemanly" 
 and " boorish" reached his ear. If she replied, he 
 did not hear what she said. 
 
 By this time, the seats were all filled, and a num- 
 ber of ladies were standing in the passage-way. Just 
 then the conductor entered, and said in a loud voice, 
 " Those gentlemen who are unaccompanied by ladies 
 will walk forward to the next car, where there is 
 plenty of room." 
 
 Several men arose and went forward, but Par- 
 tridge sat still, fearing to rise, lest, in doing so, he 
 should attract the attention of Emily. Three or four 
 ladies remained standing near. The conductor came 
 along, and bending over towards him ; said- -" Pass 
 
BETTER TO ACT THE GENTLEMAN. 171 
 
 into the next car, if you please. This one is for 
 ladies, and there are a number not yet seated." 
 
 At this address, Einily glanced around, and foi 
 the first time became aware that the individual who 
 had been guilty of the ungentlemanly rudeness just 
 mentioned, was her lover. Their eyes met for an 
 instant, but in neither of them was there any appear- 
 ance of recognition. Partridge arose, and, with an 
 abashed look, retired into the next car. 
 
 Several days were suffered to elapse after his re- 
 turn to Philadelphia, before he ventured to call upon 
 Miss Weston. During this time, a brother of the 
 young lady, who was usually in the store of Par- 
 tridge almost every day, did not once make his ap- 
 pearance. This was ominous of no good. When 
 the visit was at length made, the reception was, as 
 the young man had feared, cold and formal ; and 
 this not only by Emily herself, but by every mem- 
 ber of the family. His real character had been 
 seen ; he was recognised as not a true gentleman. 
 It was in vain that repeated efforts were made to 
 conciliate the lady and her family; the quality of 
 the young man's mind had been detected, and they 
 had turned from him with a repugnance that nothing 
 could remove. Such a man Emily could never love; 
 such a man could not make her happy; and she 
 cast away the regard she had felt for him, without a 
 painful emotion. 
 
 Tinder so smarting an experience, Partridge re- 
 
172 PRINCIPLE AND INTEREST. 
 
 solved that he would be more careful to ACT the 
 gentleman on all occasions, as the wisest and safest 
 course; but the utter disregard of others' feelings, 
 comfort, or welfare, that is at the basis of his cha- 
 racter, is for ever leading him into little acts that 
 betray the quality of his mind, and make him known 
 in all circles as a man who is, at least, NO gentle- 
 man. 
 
 PRINCIPLE AND INTEREST. 
 
 A YOUNG man, who had received a tolerably good 
 education, came to Philadelphia, a few years ago, to 
 seek his fortune. His name was Abiram Granger. 
 He brought a letter from the clergyman of the vil- 
 lage where he had resided all his life, to a merchant in 
 the city. His first care was to present this intro- 
 ductory letter, when Mr. Barker, the merchant, told 
 him that he was just then in want of assistance, and 
 would be pleased to engage him at a moderate salary. 
 
 On the next day, the young man went to Mr. Bar- 
 ker's store and entered upon his duties. The mer- 
 chant found him clear-headed, quick, and of good 
 address; and noticed, besides, that his sense of right 
 
PRINCIPLE AND INTEREST. 173 
 
 was much keener than in men generally. As, for 
 instance, in selling an article, although he took 
 pains to make the sale, he never in the least exag- 
 gerated its quality. But Mr. Barker said to him- 
 self 
 
 " He will learn better than that, ere long. He 
 will. find that the seller has enough to do to take 
 care of his particular interests, and must leave the 
 buyer to look after his own concerns. " 
 
 One day, Granger had a customer to whom he 
 was endeavouring to sell an article that he could not 
 praise very warmly. 
 
 " Can you recommend this ?" asked the buyer. 
 
 " Frankly, I cannot/' replied Granger. 
 
 " Then I will not take it/' said the customer, 
 and went out. 
 
 Barker overheard this, and, as soon as the man 
 left, came to the side of his clerk and said 
 
 " Why didn't he take it, Abiram ?" 
 
 "Because I could not recommend it as a first- 
 rate article." 
 
 " Did he ask you to do so ?" 
 
 "Yes/' 
 
 u I could have sold it/' said the merchant. 
 
 " And so could I, if I had told him a falsehood/' 
 
 " But I could have sold it without telling a direct 
 falsehood." 
 
 " How ?" and the clear, earnest eyes of Granger 
 were fixed upon the face of the merchant. 
 
 16* 
 
174 PRINCIPLE AND INTEREST. 
 
 " By saying, for instance, that the article I be- 
 lieved to be very fair, as it came from a good manu- 
 facturer's, and had cost within a fraction of what 
 was asked for it ; or, that it was difficult to recom- 
 mend any article in unequivocal terms, but that, for 
 all I knew to the contrary, this would give satisfac- 
 tion. There are a dozen ways in which to evade a 
 direct question such as was asked of you; and this 
 secret you must learn, or you will never rise in the 
 world/' 
 
 The last remark of Mr. Barker fixed itself upon 
 the mind of Granger. He had an ardent desire to 
 rise in the world. Far was it from his idea to 
 plod along through life in an obscure position. 
 He was ambitious to rise above the dead level of 
 the great mass, who are content with food and 
 raiment. He had believed it possible to attain the 
 summit of his wishes without in the least com- 
 promising the honest principles with which he had 
 entered the world. The first question of this came 
 with the strange remark of Mr. Barker strange, 
 at least, to his ears. Never rise in the world, if he did 
 not learn the art of duplicity ! Never rise in the 
 world, without laying aside the integrity of character 
 which he had been taught to believe would elevate 
 a man to the highest place for which he might aspire, 
 if he had the intelligence to procure the means? 
 His mind was startled and confused by this. 
 
 G range*- was a young man, and Barker at least 
 
PRINCIPLE AND INTEREST. 175 
 
 fifty-five. The latter had treated him from the first 
 with kindness and confidence, and he felt for him 
 something like affection as well as respect. His age 
 gave weight to his words an undue weight. Gran- 
 ger thought of them, and dreamed over them. He 
 observed the other young men in the store, and 
 found that they made it a point to sell a customer as 
 much as possible ; and, without absolutely lying to 
 the extent of detection, to exaggerate in regard to 
 the quality of goods just sufficiently to secure a sale. 
 
 " And must I do this ?" he asked of himself. 
 " Is duplicity and covert falsehood necessary in order 
 to enable a man to rise in the world ? Surely this 
 cannot be !" 
 
 Yet from the time Mr. Barker told him that he 
 could not rise in the world unless he looked so 
 closely at his own interests as not to see the interests 
 of others, Granger's manner towards customers 
 changed. He no longer thought of justice to them 
 as well as justice to his employer. A few months 
 later, and no one in the store could drive a sharper 
 bargain with a customer than he. 
 
 " My old friend Lyon was right/' remarked Bar- 
 ker to himself, as he looked on and noted the 
 shrewdness with which the young man conducted 
 his sales to a large country dealer. " Granger will 
 doubtless rise in the world. My word for it, he will 
 take care of himself, if ever he gets a fair change." 
 
 A couple of years in the store of Mr. Barker made 
 
176 PRINCIPLE AND INTEREST. 
 
 Granger a shrewd and accomplished business-man. 
 There was no better salesman in the city 
 
 "Granger," said a partner in an old established 
 house with which Mr. Barker dealt pretty largely, 
 " what are your future views in regard to business." 
 
 " I have never yet clearly defined them," was 
 replied. 
 
 "Are you inclined to enter into business?" was 
 next asked. 
 
 "If I can make such arrangements as promise 
 certain success. Not without." 
 
 " Barker's country custom is large and good." 
 
 " Yes, both large and good. We sell heavily to 
 some of the best men in the country." 
 
 " So I thought. To what extent could you con- 
 trol this custom ?" 
 
 " To almost any extent, if I had enough capital 
 to work with. To control custom, we must have 
 just such goods as customers want." 
 
 " Then you are not averse to forming a business 
 connection, if the required capital is furnished ?" 
 
 "Not at all. My wish is to get into business 
 for myself, as soon as I can see the right kind of an 
 opening." 
 
 " You know my son, who has been for some time 
 in our counting-room ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " My wish is to associate him in business with a 
 man who is well prepared to enter into it with spirit 
 
PRINCIPLE AND INTEREST. 177 
 
 and intelligence. I think you are such a man. I 
 will furnish any amount of capital that can be used 
 safely. Will you turn this over in your mind, and 
 be prepared to tell me, in the course of a week ; what 
 your views are upon the subject ?" 
 
 " I will," replied Granger, and the men sepa- 
 rated. 
 
 " Control his best custom," said Granger, musing- 
 ly, to himself, as he sat alone in his room that night, 
 pondering over the proposition that had been made 
 to him. " Will that be altogether right ? I believe 
 I could take away the very cream of his business ; 
 but would it be right to do so ? Right ! Where is 
 the wrong? These men are not sold to Barker; 
 they are under no obligation to buy from him. If 
 I go into business, I must sell to men who have 
 been somebody's customers. Anyhow, he has money 
 enough;, it is time that he gave place to those who 
 have their fortunes to make. I shall not get an- 
 other such offer soon, and I would be a fool not to 
 accept this." 
 
 When Granger saw the merchant who had made 
 the proposal, he was ready to treat with him. It 
 was finally agreed that he should remain with Mr. 
 Barker during the spring trade, in order to influence 
 his best customers as much as possible, and then 
 get ready to open by fall with an entirely new and 
 extensive assortment of goods. 
 
 When the customers of Mr. Barker received the 
 
1J8 PRINCIPLE AND INTEREST. 
 
 Circular of Granger & Grant, they very generally 
 felt inclined to encourage the new firm for the sake 
 of Granger, who was a favourite with nearly all of 
 them. He had personally informed them of his 
 intention to go into business, backed by a heavy 
 amount of capital, and promised to sell them on a 
 little better terms than Mr. Barker had ever given 
 them. It is not, therefore, at all surprising that a 
 very large proportion of Barker's old customers 
 made pretty heavy bills with the new firm, where 
 they bought, or at least were made to believe that 
 they bought, goods at much better rates than they 
 had been in the habit of obtaining at the old house. 
 The effect of this upon the business of Mr. Bar- 
 ker was clearly marked. Instead of selling some 
 two hundred thousand dollars worth of goods in a 
 year, his trade fell off nearly one-half, and was not 
 restored again. The mass of his old customers, who 
 had dealt with him for years, were drawn off by 
 Granger, and his house was not likely to make many 
 new ones; but he did not know how industrious the 
 young man had been in sapping his business, nor 
 suspect that unfair means had been used. Even 
 if he had known this, he would have had no just 
 cause of complaint; for having undermined the 
 young man's principles, he could not be surprised 
 if, in the pursuit of his own interest, he disregarded 
 that of every one else his employer's among the 
 rest. 
 
PRINCIPLE AND INTEREST. 170 
 
 " That Granger is going to be a rich man/' said 
 a neighbour to the old merchant. 
 
 " Yes/' was the reply. " He's got the right kind 
 of stuff in him, and is keen as a razor at a bargain. 
 In ten years from now, if he doesn't overreach him- 
 self, he will be far in advance of most men in this 
 street. Would you have believed it ? when he first 
 came to me, he had a conscience quite as tender as 
 a parson's. In selling to a customer, he would be 
 as careful to set forth all the defects as he would the 
 excellences of a piece of goods. He was for even- 
 handed justice all around." 
 
 " I should think you found him a great advantage 
 to your establishment," said the neighbour, appear- 
 ing quite amused at the fact of a salesman putting 
 the interest of a customer upon a par with that of 
 his employer. 
 
 " Not much at first, I must own ; but I saw that 
 he was active, quick, shrewd, and anxious to rise in 
 the world, and I knew that all he wanted was a hint 
 or two, which I gave. After that, there was no 
 more difficulty. He could sell as many goods as 
 any one in the store." 
 
 " He's cutting into your business pretty seriously 
 now, is he not ?" 
 
 " I'm afraid he is; but I suppose it's all right." 
 
 " You sharpened him ?" remarked the neighbour, 
 with a significant expression. 
 
 " Yes/' was rather dryly answered. " And 1 
 
180 PRINCIPLE AND INTEREST. 
 
 rather think I have made him too keen even for 
 myself/' he added mentally. 
 
 He was certainly right there. 
 
 The young man with whom Granger had become 
 associated in business was no match for him in 
 shrewdness, though active and industrious; and 
 Granger soon managed to make him as much a ci- 
 pher in the concern as possible. In this there was 
 a design. By means of the capital which Grant 
 could command, he knew that he could build up a 
 large business ; and he meant, the moment his own 
 share of profit in the concern was large enough, 
 added to his credit, to sustain him alone, to get rid 
 of his partner, and secure the entire. income of the 
 business to himself. 
 
 The impression made by the new house upon the 
 business of Mr. Barker, proved to be a more serious 
 matter than either Granger or the old merchant had 
 anticipated. At the close of the very first business 
 season after the new firm had been fairly launched 
 upon the sea of trade, Barker had nearly fifty thou- 
 sand dollars worth of fall goods on hand, his pur- 
 chases having exceeded his ordinary sales nearly 
 that amount; and upon these he lost much more 
 than all his profits upon what he did sell. In the 
 spring he again miscalculated in buying, and in the 
 ensuing fall committed the same error. From that 
 time, the tide fairly set against him; his assortment 
 of goods was not so large and tempting as it had 
 
PRINCIPLE AND INTEREST. 181 
 
 been, and Granger & Grant were all the rage among 
 the country dealers. 
 
 At the end of five years, Barker was worth just 
 half what he was when he made the successful 
 attack upon his clerk's principles, in order to secure 
 his own interest. By that time, Granger considered 
 himself quite strong enough to stand alone in busi- 
 ness, and began to reflect seriously upon the best 
 mode of getting rid of his partner, whom he now 
 considered of about as much use as the fifth wheel 
 to a coach. In this, however, he rather underrated 
 Mr. Grant, who had, in a connection of five years- 
 with a man as keen for his own interest as was- 
 Granger, cut, as the saying is, his eye-teeth. He 
 was rather wider awake than his partner suspected. 
 
 Fifty thousand dollars, according to the books of 
 the firm, had been made by each member in the 
 co-partnership. With a capital of fifty thousand 
 dollars, and the unlimited credit which he believed 
 he could command, Granger felt that he could do- 
 business enough to net at least twenty thousand 
 dollars a year, and with that he thought he would 
 be satisfied. As to the custom of the house, he was 
 sure that he could take that with him. The capital 
 which his partner had furnished, he considered a 
 small matter in comparison with his business talents 
 and facilities. 
 
 After thinking of the matter for some time, and 
 regarding it in all the aspects it might possibly 
 
182 PRINCIPLE AND INTEREST. 
 
 assume, Granger determined to give notice of his 
 wish to have the partnership terminate. When this 
 was done, he was rather surprised at the reply 
 " Yes, I am aware that such is your desire/' made 
 with the utmost coolness. 
 
 " In what way did you gain this information ?" 
 asked Granger, exhibiting some confusion. 
 
 " From Mr. Archer/' returned Grant, in his usual 
 <juiet way. " He mentioned it to me some weeks 
 ago." 
 
 "He did?'* ejaculated Granger, now colouring 
 deeply. 
 
 Archer was one of their best customers, to whom 
 Granger had communicated what was in his mind, 
 in order to secure him when he got under way for 
 himself. 
 
 " Yes ; and I have been expecting to hear from 
 you on the subject daily, ever since." 
 
 "Then of course your mind is made up," said 
 Granger. 
 
 " Oh, yes. I am ready for a dissolution of the co 
 partnership ; and, indeed, desire it, since you have 
 ceased to be content with the present arrangement/' 
 
 There was a coolness about Grant that Granger 
 by no means liked; and he felt too well assured 
 that both he and his father were aware of the hand 
 he was endeavouring to play against them. The 
 fact of Archer's having mentioned what he had said 
 to him ; had forewarned them. 
 
PRINCIPLE AND INTEREST. 183 
 
 The terms of settlement were by no means what 
 G ranger had anticipated. He had supposed thai 
 his partner would be ready to pay him an estimated 
 proportion of profits, and continue the business. 
 This would have given him the capital he wanted, 
 and he trusted to his own sagacity to enable him to 
 draw off the best custom to his new establishment ; 
 but Grant and his long-headed father understood all 
 this very well, and would listen to no proposition 
 of the kind. The only thing to which they would 
 agree was a regular settlement of the business, each 
 party to receive his proportion of profit as fast as it 
 was realized. As neither of the partners was will- 
 ing that the other should continue the business, it 
 was finally agreed that a trustee should be appointed 
 to settle it up, and each party, in the interim, be 
 free to make what new arrangements he chose. 
 
 A new arrangement was no difficult matter for 
 Grant, whose father could furnish as much capital 
 as he wanted. In a month from the time a disso- 
 lution between him and Granger was announced, the 
 circulars of " Grant & Co., successors to Granger & 
 Grant," were flying over the country and their 
 business spread before three-fourths of the best 
 custom of the old firm. 
 
 Foiled in his scheme, Granger fully expected an 
 advantageous offer to go into business within a week 
 after the announcement of his dissolution with 
 Grant; but in this he happened to be mistaken. 
 
J84 PRINCIPLE AND INTEREST. 
 
 The surprise created by the dissolution, and espe- 
 cially by the terms of it, which completely destroyed 
 a large and flourishing business, set every one to 
 asking questions ; and the father of Grant was very 
 ready to give the true version, with liberal embel- 
 lishments and comments of his own. This was 
 repeated with exaggerations in business circles, and 
 fixed upon Granger a reputation that made a con- 
 nection with him by no means desirable. 
 
 By the end of a year, he had received fifteen 
 thousand dollars from the old business. The settle- 
 ment progressed slowly, and the sequel proved that 
 many bad debts had been made. 
 
 With this small capital, Granger determined to 
 enter into business, feeling confident that he could 
 not only buy to any extent he might desire, but 
 have as many of his old customers as he wanted. In 
 both these conclusions, he happened to be in error. 
 As a buyer, he found that Abiram Granger was not 
 so potent a name as that of the old firm Granger 
 & Grant. During the first year in which he carried 
 on business in his own name, he received five thou- 
 sand dollars from the trustee of Granger & Grant, 
 and lost five thousand dollars by buying too many 
 goods. In the second year, a final settlement of the 
 old concern was made, and six thousand dollars 
 paid to him as the balance of profit. Instead of 
 having made fifty thousand dollars in five years, he 
 realized but twenty thousand. This would have 
 
PRINCIPLE AND INTEREST. 186 
 
 been very well, if his cupidity had not unsettled his 
 mind. 
 
 Three years sufficed to wind up Granger's opera- 
 tions on his own account. In his eagerness to do a 
 lar^business, and to throw Grant & Co., if possi- 
 ble, into the shade, he sold goods to almost every 
 country merchant who came along, and there were 
 enough of doubtful credit to buy from him as much 
 as he was willing to sell them. The consequence 
 was a total failure, and inability to pay over fifty 
 cents on the dollar, after having sunk his entire 
 capital. And what was a little singular, by the 
 failure of Granger, Barker, who had first tampered 
 with his strictly honest principles, lost ton thousand 
 dollars. 
 
 The young man never got on his feet again, and 
 is, to this day, a clerk on a moderate salary, while 
 the new firm of Grant & Co. are reputed to be worth 
 every cent of two hundred thousand dollars. 
 
 So much for the subserviency of principle to in- 
 terest. In the long run, strict honesty is, doubtless, 
 the best policy. The position taken by Barker, 
 that the seller must consult his own interest alone, 
 and let the buyer take care of himself, is not a just 
 one ; nor is the entire disregard of the buyer's in- 
 terests by any means necessary to success in busi- 
 ness. Men generally think so; but we are satisfied 
 that it is an error more fatal to success than any 
 one of the many common errors that prevail among 
 
 16* 
 
180 IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 
 
 business men. The direct result is often beneficial, 
 but ultimate results, the causes of which are too 
 rarely seen and recognised, could they be traced 
 back, step by step, would show that the smallest act 
 of overreaching is an injury instead of a benefit. 
 
 IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 
 
 MARTIN AVERT had been in business about five 
 years. His capital, in the beginning, was small, 
 and, in consequence, his operations were confined 
 within a narrower limit than suited his ambition. 
 He often sighed for the credit which some of hi^ 
 neighbours enjoyed; and frequently pondered on the 
 ways and means for obtaining like facilities in trade. 
 The profits on Mr. Avery's business were not large; 
 and he had, therefore, to live plainly and frugally. 
 His dwelling was obtained at a moderate rent; his 
 furniture was far from elegant; and he never gave 
 fashionable entertainments. Yet, for all this, his an- 
 nual profits, after every expense was paid, presented, 
 to one of his temperament, a discouragingly small 
 amount. Still, he was gaining on the world; and, if 
 \ie had known it, that was a good deal more than all 
 of his apparently flourishing neighbours were doing. 
 
IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 187 
 
 " Why do you plod along after this fashion ?" 
 said an acquaintance to him one day. " You ought 
 to launch out and do a bigger business." 
 
 " Haven't got the capital/' was the frank reply. 
 
 " Borrow it, then. There is plenty of capital in 
 the market." 
 
 " Yes, for those who have real estate to pledge." 
 
 " That isn't always necessary. You may enlarge 
 your facilities without any thing of the kind. The 
 fact is, Avery, you are toe timid. You keep too 
 near the shore. If you expect to make a fortune, 
 you must dash out, and attract attention. To be 
 frank with you, and to begin at the beginning, your 
 style of living is too plain." 
 
 " It is quite as good as I can afford." 
 
 " How much house-rent do you pay ?" 
 
 " Two hundred and fifty dollars." 
 
 " And what for your store ?" 
 
 " Seven hundred." 
 
 " A wide difference." 
 
 " But the store-rent comes as an expense upon my 
 business. I must have a good stand and a hand- 
 some store, if I expect to get custom." 
 
 "And if you expect to get liberal credits, you 
 must have a handsome dwelling, and live as a man 
 who is prospering in trade would be expected to 
 live. Add a couple of hundred dollars to your house- 
 rent, and call it an unavoidable business expense, 
 if you will. Buy elegant furniture on the same 
 
188 IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 
 
 principle ; and give a grand party once or twice a 
 year. Depend upon it, all this is just as necessary 
 to success as a store handsomely fitted up and in a 
 good situation." 
 
 " I never took that view of it," said Avery. 
 
 "Just the reason why you have progressed so slowly. 
 Every one is ready to push on the successful. Every 
 one is ready to sell liberally to those who give out the 
 signs of success, whether they are, at first, real or not. 
 I started on this plan, with less capital than you 
 began with ; and now I own the elegant house in 
 which I live, and consider myself worth every cent 
 of forty thousand dollars. There was a time when 
 I spent in my living twice as much as I made in the 
 year. But I understood clearly the game I was play- 
 ing j and all has come out right." 
 
 u There is some reason in what you say, I must 
 own," remarked Avery, upon whose mind a new 
 light was breaking. 
 
 " There is a great deal of reason in it, let me tell 
 you. All you have to do is to throw out the signs 
 of success, and then every one will believe you are 
 making a fortune. At New Year's, no matter how 
 your business may stand, put on a cheerful air, and 
 tell a few of your friends, confidentially of course, 
 that you have made, during the previous twelve- 
 month, a clear profit of fifteen thousand dollars. 
 They will believe it, and so will eight out of ten to 
 whom they relate the story of your success." 
 
IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 189 
 
 " I should call that lying/' said A very. 
 
 "Call it what you please/' returned the other, 
 shrugging his shoulders. t( It's the way the thing is 
 done. You know Tompkins ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "To my certain knowledge, he lost, year before 
 last, more than his whole profit for two years. Did 
 he look grave about it ? Not he ! He gave out 
 that he had cleared over thirty thousand dollars; 
 and what is more, people believed him. The con- 
 sequence was, that every one was ready to sell to a 
 merchant who had been so successful; and his 
 paper was A No. 1 in the market. An almost 
 unlimited credit enabled him to double his business 
 during the past year, and to fully redeem himself. 
 Now, suppose he had put on a long face about the 
 matter, and let the truth leak out. He would have 
 been ruined." 
 
 " Probably. But 1 can hardly think it right to 
 make so deliberate a falsification. 7 ' 
 
 " As to its being right or wrong/' replied the 
 friend, " that I leave for persons of tender consciences 
 to determine. If you begin to stickle on matters of 
 this kind, you had better quit business at once ; for 
 you know as well as I do, that, in almost every 
 transaction we make, there is a reservation or af- 
 firmation that is really meant to deceive those with 
 whom we are dealing. Let the whole truth of your 
 circumstances be known, or tell precisely the charac- 
 
190 IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 
 
 ter of your goods, and your business will diminish 
 instead of increasing." 
 
 "I'm afraid there is some truth in your remark/' 
 said Avery, half sighing as he spoke. "People 
 will be deceived." 
 
 " And we have to deceive them." 
 
 The young merchant pondered over what was 
 said on this occasion, long and seriously. And the 
 more he thought of it, the more did he feel inclined 
 to adopt at least some of the suggestions offered ; 
 particularly those in regard to his style of living. 
 It took him some time to make up his mind to do 
 this. He had been able, at the close of each year, 
 to determine a clear profit of one or two thousand 
 dollars, limited as he considered his business ; but, 
 while his neighbours were making their ten and 
 twenty thousand dollars, annually, this seemed like 
 mere plodding. He had tried to extend his credit, 
 but those with whom he dealt rather held back, 
 and he thought it prudent not to urge the matter. 
 Several times, he had thrown into the bank, where 
 he kept his account, good notes ; but only on two 
 or three occasions did he succeed in obtaining dis- 
 counts. He was not of sufficient importance in the 
 business community to receive favours of this kind. 
 And so he had moved along, quietly, slowly, but 
 safely. His business, though not large, was healthy, 
 and entirely within his control ; and, with prudence 
 and economy in personal matters, promised in the 
 
IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 191 
 
 end to become large and prosperous. But the time 
 seemed very far away, and he naturally grew im- 
 patient. 
 
 Soon after the interview just mentioned, Avery 
 }>egan to speak more frequently to others of his 
 business, and to talk of the handsome profits he was 
 making. This, once begun, was easily continued. 
 The most difficult thing was to commence a system 
 of exaggeration; all came easy enough after that. 
 Like a stream which is small in the beginning, but 
 increases as it flows on, the new system adopted by 
 Avery assumed, ere long, quite an imposing form. 
 As his prompter in the matter had said, so it turned 
 out; people really believed all that he said. And, 
 further, those who had goods to sell were more ur- 
 gent for him to increase his bills, and some offered 
 him a more liberal credit than they had before been 
 willing to extend. 
 
 Avery felt a little surprised, although he had 
 made an effort to produce just this effect. 
 
 " He was right, after all," he remarked to him- 
 self, while turning over the matter in his thoughts. 
 " How easily people are deceived ! I could hardly 
 have believed that a little bragging would have 
 produced such a change. If our wholesale dealers 
 are to be caught with such chaff, they shall have 
 enough of it." 
 
 After once entering upon this system of decep- 
 tion, Avery saw no evil in it. To increase his busi- 
 
192 IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 
 
 ness facilities was a thing of the utmost importance, 
 and if it was to be done so easily, and without, as ho 
 said to himself, hurting any one, of course there 
 was no harm in a little exaggeration. 
 
 " Still hiding yourself away/' said the individual 
 that had tempted Avery from the right path. " Why 
 don't you come forward, socially, as you are evidently 
 doing in a business point of view ? I heard Felt- 
 well and Glenn say of you, the other day, that you 
 were bound to make a fortune/' 
 
 " Ah ! I hope they may prove true prophets/' 
 
 " Of course they will, if you are wise enough to 
 improve the opportunities placed within your reach/' 
 
 " Why did they say this ?" 
 
 " I spoke of the handsome business you were 
 doing, and they not only agreed with me, but volun- 
 teered to predict the ultimate result/' 
 
 "They were always very careful not to sell n*e 
 beyond a certain limit/' 
 
 "That was before you gave out that you were 
 doing a handsome business. You needn't fear now. 
 They will sell you as freely as you like." 
 
 " The last time I was in their store, they had H 
 great many goods to show me, and were exceedingly 
 affable." 
 
 " Of course. They see the wind in your sails, 
 and imagine you to be going just twice as fast a# 
 you are. Now, you must keep up this illusion. A 
 man who is doing well, generally lives well. Youi 
 
IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 193 
 
 next step must be to exhibit a style of living in 
 correspondence with your supposed condition. You 
 must move into a handsome house, buy handsome 
 furniture, and let the people see the evidence of 
 your prosperity." 
 
 " It costs something to do that." 
 
 " I know it does ; but it is so much money well 
 laid out, and will come back to you in due time." 
 
 Thus instigated, Avery, after turning the matter 
 over and over in his mind, concluded that his friend 
 was right. And so a house at five hundred dollars 
 was taken, and a thousand dollars worth of new 
 furniture purchased. 
 
 " That Avery 's getting along," said one and an- 
 other, as this new sign of prosperity appeared. 
 
 " He's active, shrewd, and persevering," would 
 be replied. " He's sure to make his fortune." 
 
 Yet, how did the case actually stand ? Why, 
 thus : In consequence of having boasted of the fine 
 profits he was making, several houses with whom he 
 dealt were led to offer him tempting inducements 
 to enlarge his purchases, and he had done so. ID 
 fact, he had bought at least a third more goods than 
 during a like period in the preceding year. There 
 are two important operations in business buying 
 and selling. If a man buys freely, he must also sell 
 freely; and it is always easier to buy than to sell. 
 Hitherto, Mr. Avery had done a very safe business; 
 all his customers were good, and bought from him 
 
 IX. 17 
 
194 IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 
 
 at prices that paid him a fair profit. But now, 
 having increased his stock of goods by liberal pur- 
 chases on credit, it became necessary to exert him- 
 self a little more in the selling department; a man 
 may sell a great many goods, if he is not over care- 
 ful as to the ability of those to whom he sells. This 
 Avery also found out; his eagerness to sell, led him 
 into the error of giving credit where he had before 
 deemed it wise to withhold it, or only to sell in 
 small amounts. Bills accumulated in his pocket- 
 book, and, as heavier payments than usual began, 
 after a few months, to fall due, he found it neces- 
 sary to turn these bills into cash. So he threw 
 gome of them into the bank where he kept his ac- 
 count. A little to his surprise, for he didn't calcu- 
 late very confidently on getting the money for them, 
 they were discounted. There were among the direc- 
 tors of the bank, two or three men who happened 
 to have observed his prosperous indications, and 
 they said a word in his favour. 
 
 A doubt had crossed the mind of Avery as to the 
 wisdom of the course he had adopted. It vanished 
 now. A year before, this same bank had repeatedly 
 rejected all his offerings ; now it recognised him a* 
 one worth regarding. He laughed to himself, and 
 went on his way. 
 
 The result of the two years' operations following 
 immediately after this change in A very 's system of 
 doing business was not, as flattering to the young 
 
IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 195 
 
 man as he had hoped it would be. New furniture, 
 increased rent, a more expensive style of living, 
 and certain extravagances of his wife to which he 
 consented, such as a gold watch, diamond pin, rich 
 and costly clothing, and the like, abstracted from his 
 capital, during the time, a sum that did not fall very 
 short of five thousand dollars. All this was but a 
 part of the system of putting on an appearance of pros- 
 perity for the sake of inspiring business confidence. 
 
 It is no matter of surprise, that Avery found, in 
 the course of three or four years, that, instead of 
 driving his business, his business was driving him. 
 Having once left the safe and sure way, he met with 
 temptations at every step temptations to enlarge 
 and extend his operations. Enlargement and ex- 
 tension created new obligations, and to meet these, 
 when they came due, was not always the easiest 
 matter in the world. A system of money-raising, 
 through divers expedients, was adjoined to his 
 regular business, and required actually more of his 
 time and occupied more of his thoughts than his 
 ordinary mercantile transactions. 
 
 Still, he counted his profits by thousands, and 
 every year threw out some new sign of prosperity, 
 meant to conceal, the actual state of his affairs, 
 which was nearer being desperate than he ima- 
 gined, in extravagant living, he had consumed 
 more than all his real profits, and, by forcing sales, 
 he had made many bad debts. The enlargement of 
 
196 IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 
 
 his ideas had caused him to make bolder, and. 
 consequently, more imprudent operations; all of 
 which helped to make his position as a merchant far 
 from being a safe one. Indeed, at the very time 
 that he boasted of clearing twenty thousand dollars 
 a year, he was actually bankrupt. Yet people, 
 taking him at his word, believed him to be making 
 a fortune. While an honest, prudent man, whose 
 small business was making an actual profit every 
 year over and above all his expenses, could not get 
 an accommodation in bank for one hundred dollars, 
 he could draw out his thousands ! And why ? Be- 
 cause he deceived by false appearances. In fact, his 
 whole business and domestic life was a lie ! In 
 order to keep up a good credit, he resorted to this, 
 among other tricks. He kept three bank accounts; 
 and generally passed the same money through them 
 all. Having obtained a discount in one of these 
 banks, or made collections through it, he drew out 
 the money and deposited it in another bank with 
 which he did business. After letting it lie here 
 for one or two days, a part or the whole was de- 
 posited in another bank ; and it generally came back 
 to the first before it was finally used. In order still 
 further to make a good impression, he frequently 
 borrowed sums of money for a few days, and passed 
 them into bank, where they were permitted to lie 
 until the day came round for them to be returned, 
 when he handed checks to the parties from whom 
 
IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 197 
 
 the loans had been obtained. All this was done to 
 give the appearance of a large business. 
 
 In the midst of this experiment, and at a time 
 when it was on the eve of proving a failure, a widow, 
 named Barclay, who had received some property, 
 called upon him, and asked him to give her some 
 directions in regard to its safe and profitable invest- 
 ment. She had three children to raise and educate, 
 and the property which had just been obtained, 
 after a prolonged suit at law, was but ten thousand 
 dollars. 
 
 On the very day upon which this lady called to 
 see Avery, he had been making some pretty close 
 calculations in regard to his business, and the result 
 caused him to feel rather serious. The amount of 
 money to pay, in the coming three or four months, 
 was most appalling. How it was to be raised, he 
 could not imagine. Already he had strained his 
 credit, in the way of accommodations, as far as he 
 deemed it prudent to go; and no new resource 
 opened before his searching mind. Mrs. Barclay's 
 visit appeared, therefore, quite opportune. The 
 moment she announced the fact that she had ten 
 thousand dollars to invest, he made up his mind to 
 get the use of it in his business, if possible ; and 
 commenced, immediately, his approaches towards 
 that point. He first made kind inquiries into the 
 particulars of her circumstances, manifesting a lively 
 sympathy at every step of her relation. Thus he 
 i:* 
 
198 IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 
 
 became aware of the fact that these ten thousand 
 dollars made up the whole amount of her property, 
 and that in the income therefrom she was to find the 
 means of raising and educating her children. 
 
 " You ought to have more than four or five hun- 
 dred dollars for that purpose," said A very, evincing 
 much interest in the widow. 
 
 "Very true," she replied. "And will I not be 
 able to get a better interest than that ?" 
 
 " Not in the ordinary investments. Ground-rents 
 are safe, but from these you would not, probably, 
 receive, after deducting taxes, over four hundred 
 dollars, perhaps not so much." 
 
 Mrs. Barclay shook her head disapprovingly. 
 
 " Stocks pay five or six per cent., and sometimes 
 more ; but so much money has been lost on stocks, 
 that I, for one, feel afraid of them." 
 
 " So do I," returned Mrs. Barclay. " I know 
 several persons who have lost their all in this way. 
 [ wouldn't like to put my money out in stocks of 
 any kind. Don't real estate houses, I mean pay 
 well?" 
 
 " Not such as you can buy. Taxes, repairs, in- 
 surance, and a dozen other expenses, run away with 
 half the rent at least." 
 
 " Some one mentioned that Government securi- 
 ties were desirable as an investment." 
 
 " So they are, if you have enough money to invest. 
 But you, madam, ought to have at least a thousand 
 
IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 199 
 
 dollars income, and United States scrip will not pay 
 you over half that/' 
 
 " Yes, I ought to have a thousand dollars in- 
 come," said the widow, and she looked thoughtful 
 and serious. 
 
 a There is one way in which you might obtain a 
 better income from your little property," said Avery, 
 after seeming to reflect for some moments. 
 
 " What is that ?" was eagerly inquired. 
 
 " Money is worth more in business than in any 
 other way ; which is one reason why men, who have 
 capital at their command, engage in business. There 
 are many substantial merchants who are always 
 using extra capital ; some of these would, no doubt, 
 be willing to receive your money, and pay you ten 
 per cent, for its use ; they would make thirty out 
 of it, perhaps fifty. In this way you would realize 
 more than in any other mode, and your money would 
 be as safe." 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, quite as safe ; some of our business 
 men are as substantial as rocks. Many of them 
 clear from fifty to a hundred thousand dollars year- 
 ly." 
 
 Indeed !" 
 
 " Yes. My own profit last year was twenty thou- 
 sand dollars ; and I shall be disappointed if it does 
 not reach thirty thousand by the close of the present 
 year." 
 
200 IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 
 
 "Is it possible?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. Fortunes are made rapidly by those 
 who understand how to conduct business. Capital 
 often doubles itself in a year." 
 
 " Then you think the best thing I can do, is to 
 lend my money to some safe merchant?" 
 
 " In that way, madam, you will obtain a better 
 income ; which, to you, is a matter of the first im- 
 portance." 
 
 " It certainly is. Do you know of any one who 
 would take it, and pay me the interest you men- 
 tioned ?" 
 
 "Well, no, I can't say that I do. There are 
 plenty who would gladly enough take your money, 
 but it wouldn't be safe to trust them. If you invest 
 it in this way, it should be only with some one of 
 undoubted substantiality." 
 
 " Couldn't you find profitable use for that much 
 additional capital in your business?" asked Mrs. 
 Barclay. 
 
 Now this was coming to the point much quicker 
 than Avery had any idea that the lady would arrive 
 there, and he was hardly prepared with just the 
 appropriate answer. However, he thought hurried- 
 ly, and, after a short silence, replied " I scarcely 
 know what answer to make to that question, Mrs. 
 Barclay. I might make use of more capital with 
 advantage; but my bank facilities are large, and 
 money obtained from bank only costs six per cent." 
 
IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 201 
 
 " But, if money pays from thirty to fifty per cent, 
 in business, I should suppose it would be worth your 
 while to use it freely." 
 
 " True } and I should very much like to accom- 
 modate you, especially when taking your circum- 
 stances into consideration." 
 
 Mr. A very mused for some moments. 
 
 " Say you will take my money at ten per cent., 
 and all is settled at once," urged Mrs. Barclay; 
 who, crediting every word the unscrupulous mer- 
 chant had said, really believed that he was one of 
 the most substantial men in the city. 
 
 After a good deal of apparent hesitation, and the 
 utterance of many objections, all of which tended to 
 make the lady feel more anxious to have him take 
 her money, Avery at last consented to receive it as 
 a permanent loan, on an interest of ten per cent., 
 and with no other security for it than his simple 
 written acknowledgment of the debt. 
 
 All this was done by Mrs. Barclay without con- 
 sultation with a third party. She had heard a gen- 
 tleman, in the same business with Mr. Avery, speak 
 of the large amount of money he had made in a few 
 years, and predict that he would be one of the rich- 
 est men in the city before he died. As Mr. Avery 
 was a friend of her deceased husband, who had 
 always spoken well of him, she concluded that he 
 would be the one whom she could trust for sound 
 advice in the matter of investing her little estate 
 
202 IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 
 
 When he agreed to take her money, and pay her ten 
 per cent, for its use, she felt happy; she was now 
 sure of an income sufficient to enable her to support 
 and educate her children. Judge, then, of her sur- 
 prise, when, a few days after the arrangement was 
 effected, she heard a gentleman, who belonged to 
 the old slow-and-sure-school of merchants, reply to 
 some remark made about Avery, in a way that threw 
 over her mind a doubt as to his substantiality. He 
 was referred to as the purchaser, at a public sale on 
 the day previous, of an elegant residence. 
 
 This had been determined upon as soon as he 
 obtained possession of the widow's money. He did 
 not feel the need of a house of his own he was 
 comfortable enough in all things pertaining to do- 
 mestic affairs; but having so unexpectedly obtained 
 possession of ten thousand dollars, he deemed it a 
 wise move to put on, by the purchase of a handsome 
 house, still further appearances of wealth. The 
 amount of purchase-money to be paid down in cash 
 was but five thousand dollars, and it was an easy 
 matter, as he reasoned with himself, to get it all 
 back into his business again by means of a mortgage. 
 To live in a beautiful house of his own, would, he 
 believed, still further increase the public confidence, 
 and widen the range of his credit. 
 
 The remark made by the individual just referred 
 to was " He'd better keep his money in his busi- 
 ness. Young merchants would oftener succeed, if 
 
IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 208 
 
 they were governed by Poor Richard's sensible 
 idviee to little boats/' 
 
 " He has already succeeded/' said Mrs. Barclay. 
 
 " So people think." 
 
 " Don't you think so?" inquired the lady. 
 
 " People never succeeded, when I was a young 
 man, in the way he and dozens of others around him 
 do business. But perhaps they have found out a 
 secret which we didn't know. This is the age of 
 improvements." 
 
 No more was said; but the lady felt troubled. 
 She went, on the next day, to see the gentleman who 
 had spoken so confidently in regard to Mr. Avery's 
 substantiality, and frankly told him what she had 
 done. 
 
 "What security did he give you?" was his first 
 question. 
 
 " None at all. I didn't require any." 
 
 " That was wrong." 
 
 u He is perfectly safe." 
 
 " I don't know. It is a mental reservation 
 us merchants, that no man is really safe. 
 is but a precarious matter, after all. I believe Mr. 
 Av.^ry to be sound enough, and, in proof of thi.s, 
 wouid sell him as many goods as he might feel dis- 
 posed to purchase ; but I would do this with all the 
 risks of business taken into the calculation. With 
 you it is different. Your money is your all, and 
 should not be invested without the most ample 
 
20* IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 
 
 rity. You had better see Mr. Avery, and tell him 
 that a friend advised you to ask him for security." 
 
 " I don't like to do that ; it would seem like 
 throwing a doubt upon his integrity. Even if any 
 thing should happen to his business, I don't believe 
 he would let me suffer." 
 
 " Make no calculation of that kind. When a 
 merchant gets into difficulties, he usually struggles 
 on until he is so tied, hand and foot, that he can do 
 nothing. He may mean to secure many such debts 
 as yours, without being able to do so. No, no ? 
 madam. You must get ample security now, and he 
 is bound to give it. A few days ago, he purchased 
 a large and beautiful house. Insist upon having a 
 mortgage of that property." 
 
 " I offered him the money, and almost forced it 
 upon him," said Mrs. Barclay; " how, then, can I 
 go to him and ask what you suggest ? He would 
 be, and with cause, offended." 
 
 " No matter. You have committed an error, and 
 must, therefore, bear the unpleasant consequences. 
 There is too much at stake to let the matter rest 
 where it is." 
 
 " Do you speak knowingly when you say this?" 
 asked Mrs. Barclay, turning slightly pale. 
 
 *' Why, no," replied the friend. " But, as I said, 
 business is always precarious, especially as it is con- 
 ducted in these times; and Mr. Avery is one of 
 those men who go upon the high-pressure principle 
 
IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONESf ? 205 
 
 If he escape an explosion, he will make a splendid 
 fortune ; if not, he will make a splendid failure. 
 That's my opinion of him." 
 
 And yet this very man, in the prevailing spirit 
 of exaggeration, had said so much in Avery's favour 
 as an enterprising, successful, and substantial mer- 
 chant, that Mrs. Barclay's mind was carried, in 
 regard to him, entirely beyond the feeling of a 
 doubt. 
 
 To see Avery and demand security, was a thing 
 that the widow could not do. She had volunteered 
 her confidence, and now, to go forward and forcibly 
 withdraw it was so like an insult, that her mind 
 shrank from the thought. But she was deeply 
 troubled. For two or three years she had striven 
 to keep her little ones around her, and had succeeded 
 in doing so, but at the expense of health. The 
 decision of the court, made at last in her favour, 
 gave her sufficient property, if invested safely, and 
 the income therefrom prudently dispensed, to raise 
 her little family, and give them the blessing of a 
 good education. But now, all was uncertain again. 
 Her money had passed from her hands, and she 
 had no security for its return but the word and bond 
 of a man who might not be able to fulfil his obliga- 
 tion. 
 
 While the widow's mind was in this state of dis- 
 tressing doubt, there occurred a large failure in the 
 
 city. The merchant whose career came thus sud 
 ex. 18 
 
206 IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 
 
 denly to a close, was the very one who had tempted 
 Avery from the partially obscure, but safe path in 
 which he was treading. At every step in the new 
 way, this man had been near Avery, with suggestions 
 and propositions; and it was not long after the latter 
 began to move on at the new and more rapid pace, 
 before mutual money engagements were made, and 
 the two played into each other's hand in the way 
 of endorsements and such-like matters. When the 
 failure took place at last, Avery was so hopelessly 
 involved with his enterprising friend, that his stop- 
 page became also necessary. 
 
 When this last news reached the widow's ears, 
 she became half frantic with alarm. Her first step 
 was to go to Avery. 
 
 " Don't be alarmed, madam/' said he, the moment 
 he saw her; "you are safe enough. I am ruined 
 entirely, through the failure of another; but you 
 are safe. Borrowed money is always considered a* 
 a preferred debt." 
 
 Thus he pushed her off, and partially quieted her 
 agitation of mind. An examination into the mer- 
 chant's affairs exhibited a condition of things un- 
 dreamed of; his personal expenses had been over 
 five thousand dollars for several years far more 
 than all his real profits. Forced loans at exorbitant 
 interest, and a wide range of bad debts, added to 
 the heavy amount of discounted paper in which he 
 was involved by the recent failure, left the probable 
 
IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 207 
 
 per centage on bis real assets so low as to fill every 
 creditor with hopelessness and amazement. 
 
 "What are my chances?" asked Mrs. Barclay, 
 with trembling interest, of a gentleman, at whose 
 house she awaited a report from the first meeting 
 of creditors. 
 
 " Not worth a copper/' was the reply. " His 
 whole assets would hardly pay your claim. I never 
 saw such a tbtal wreck. No man who has gone on 
 as wildly as he has done no man who has lied so 
 about the real state of his business, can be honest." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Barclay ! What could she do but cover 
 her face with her hands and weep ? A deeper dark- 
 ness than she had yet known fell upon her spirits. 
 From the mountain of hope, she was dashed head- 
 long into the dark valley of despair. As for Avery, 
 he saw, when it was too late, that he had acted with 
 most unpardonable folly, thereby ruining himself, 
 and involving others in a like calamity. He had 
 started in business with the belief that it was possi- 
 ble to succeed, and yet be governed in every thing 
 by a strict regard to truth and honesty. Under that 
 system, he was getting on very well ; he was slowly 
 but surely laying the foundation for future prospe- 
 rity. But the false appearances put on by those 
 around him, who lived beyond their means in order 
 to create a factitious confidence, and thereby enlarge 
 their credits, tempted him from his safe course, and 
 he was soon upon the troubled sea of trade, almost 
 
208 18 IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 
 
 without rudder or compass. That he made ship- 
 wreck, is by no means a matter of surprise. 
 
 A few weeks after the unhappy Mrs. Barclay had 
 learned the hopelessness of her case, she was sitting 
 alone, brooding over her sad condition. The plea- 
 sant little house into which she had removed, and 
 where she had hoped to find a home with her chil- 
 dren for years, must now be given up, for she had 
 no means of paying the rent. What was she to do ? 
 Her little ones were all asleep and happy; but, in a 
 month from that time, would she have a home for 
 them ? The thought made her weep. 
 
 " A gentleman wishes to see you in the parlour," 
 said her domestic, coming to the door. 
 
 " Who is it ?" she inquired, looking up with wet 
 eyes. 
 
 " His name is Mr. Avery." 
 
 "Mr. Avery?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; that was the name he gave." 
 
 " Tell him I will see him in a few minutes." 
 
 Mrs. Barclay composed herself as best she could, 
 and in about five minutes went down to the parlour 
 Mr. Avery looked haggard. 
 
 " Madam," he said, as he arose and offered he* 
 his hand, " I am ruined, but you are safe." 
 
 " Me !" exclaimed the widow. " Oh, sir, do not 
 create false hopes." 
 
 " I believe what I say, ma'am. I have just left 
 a meeting of my creditors, at which I plead your 
 
IS IT SAFE? IS IT HONEST? 209 
 
 cause so earnestly, that I succeeded in getting a 
 decision in your favour. Your claim is to be paid in 
 full. I could not rest until I brought you this good 
 news." 
 
 Surprise, gratitude, and delight kept the widow 
 silent for some moments. When she sought to give 
 utterance to her feelings, sobs choked her. 
 
 " I conducted business on a false principle/' said 
 Mr. Avery, during the brief interview held with 
 Mrs. Barclay, " and failure has been the result. 
 Now, heavily burdened with a debt that I can never 
 pay, I go forth into the world with no means of sup- 
 porting my family but what lie in my own unaided 
 individual efforts. I have received a bitter lesson, 
 but it is learned, I fear, too late. Perhaps, the only 
 pleasant feeling I shall ever have, in referring to 
 this period in my life, will arise from the fact that 
 your little property was saved, not lost." 
 
 And it was saved. A generous feeling among the 
 wronged creditors, when they understood the case 
 of Mrs. Barclay, led them to forego a trifling advan- 
 tage each, that she might not lose her all. 
 
 Hundreds of men act upon the principle that 
 Avery adopted in business; and hundreds who do 
 adopt it, fail in the end, where one succeeds. To 
 act from such a principle is NEITHER SAFE NOR 
 
 HONEST. 
 
 18* 
 
HARMLESS GLASS OF WINE. 
 
 " ROSE, dear/' said Mrs. Carl ton to her daughter, 
 whom she met at the door of the dining-room with 
 a decanter of wine and glasses on a waiter, " who is 
 in the parlour?" 
 
 " Mr. Newton," replied the young girl. 
 
 " The young man from New York ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "You are going to take him wine?" 
 
 "Yes. It is only hospitable to offer him some 
 refreshment." 
 
 Mrs. Carlton stood with her eyes resting on the 
 floor for some moments, in a thoughtful attitude. 
 
 " I rather think, Rose," said she, as she lifted 
 her eyes to her daughter's face, " that it would be 
 as well not to hand him wine." 
 
 " Why, mother ?" inquired Rose, looking curious. 
 
 " We know nothing of the young man's previous 
 life and habits." 
 
 "Why do you say that, mother?" asked Rose, 
 who did not comprehend the meaning of what had 
 been uttered. 
 
HARMLESS GLASS OP WINE. 211 
 
 t( He may have been intemperate. " 
 " Mother, how can you imagine such a thing?" 
 " I know nothing of him whatever, my child/' 
 replied Mrs. Carlton, " and do not wish to wrong 
 him by an unkind suspicion. - My suggestion is no- 
 thing more than the dictate of a humane prudence. 
 We never can know whose perverted taste we may 
 inflame, when we set even wine before guests of 
 whose history we know nothing; it is therefore 
 wiser to restrain. But you have left Mr. Newton 
 alone, and must not linger here ; do not, however, 
 present him with wine. After he is gone, we will 
 talk on this subject again, when I think you will be 
 satisfied that my present advice is good." 
 
 Rose left the wine on the sideboard, and went 
 back to the parlour, wondering at what she had 
 heard. After the young man had gone away, she 
 joined her mother, when the latter said "You 
 seemed surprised at my remarks a little while ago; 
 and I was, perhaps, as much surprised when like 
 suggestions were made to me; but when, from 
 indisputable evidence, we become aware that our 
 actions may wrong others, we are bound, by every 
 consideration, to guard against such injurious results. 
 You know how painfully afflicted the family of Mr. 
 Delaney has been, in consequence of the intemperate 
 habits of Morton?" 
 
 "Yes. Poor Flora! The last time I was with 
 her, ne passed us in the street so much intoxicated 
 
HARMLESS GLASS OP WINE. 
 
 that he almost staggered. Her heart was *o full 
 that she could not speak, and when I left her, a 
 little while afterward, her eyes were ready to gush 
 over with tears." 
 
 " Unhappy young man ! So young, and yet so 
 abandoned." 
 
 *' Until I met him, as just said, I thought he had 
 reformed his bad habit of drinking," said Rose. 
 
 " It was in order to refer to this fact that I men- 
 tioned his name just now," returned her mother. 
 " He did attempt to do better, and for some months 
 kept fast hold of his good resolutions ; but, in an 
 evil hour, he fell, and his temptress was a young 
 girl of your own age, Rose. A few weeks ago, he 
 went to New York on business; while there, he 
 visited the house of a relative, where wine was pre- 
 sented to him by a beautiful cousin, and he had not 
 the resolution to refuse the sparkling draught. He 
 tasted, and you have seen the result." 
 
 " Oh, mother," exclaimed Rose, " I would not 
 have that cousin's feelings for the world." 
 
 a She acted as innocently as you would have done 
 just now, my daughter." 
 
 " Was she not aware of his weakness ?" 
 
 " No ; nor had she ever been told that, for one 
 whose taste is vitiated, it is dangerous, in the high- 
 est degree, to take even a glass of wine." 
 
 " I am so glad that I did not offer wine to Mr. 
 Newton," said Rose, drawing a long breath. 
 
HARMLESS GLASS OF WINE. 213 
 
 " Mr. Newton/' returned the mother, " may never 
 have used intoxicating drinks to excess; he may not 
 be in danger from a glass of wine : but I know no- 
 thing of his previous life, and, therefore, it is wisest 
 to take counsel of prudence. This is just what I 
 want you to see for yourself. To such an extent 
 has intemperance prevailed in this country, that the 
 whole community, to a certain extent, have pervert- 
 ed appetites, which are excited so inordinately by 
 any kind of stimulating drink as to destroy, in too 
 many instances, all self-control. Another case, even 
 more painful to contemplate than that of Morton 
 Delaney, occurred in this city, last week ; I heard 
 of it a day or two since. A beautiful young girl 
 was addressed by a gentleman who had recently 
 removed here from the South ; and her friends, see- 
 ing nothing about him to wairant disapprobation, 
 made no objection to his suit. An engagement soon 
 followed, and the wedding was celebrated a few days 
 ago. The father of the bride gave a brilliant enter- 
 tainment to a large and elegant company; the choicest 
 wines were used more freely than water, and the 
 young husband drank with the rest. Alas ! before 
 the evening closed, he was so much intoxicated that 
 he had to be separated from the company; and, what 
 is worse, he has not been sober for an hour since/' 
 
 t( Oh, what a sad, sad thing \" exclaimed Rose. 
 
 " It is sad, sad indeed ! What an awakening 
 from a dream of exquisite happiness was that of the 
 
14 HARMLESS GLASS OF WINE. 
 
 beautiful bride! It now appears that the young 
 man had fallen into habits of dissipation, and after- 
 wards reformed. On his wedding-night, he could 
 not refuse a glass of wine; a single draught sufficed 
 to rekindle the old fire, that was smouldering, not 
 extinguished. He fell, and, so far, has not risen 
 from his fall, and may never rise." 
 
 " You frighten me/' said Rose, while a shudder 
 went through her frame ; " I never dreamed of such 
 danger in a glass of wine. Pure wine I have always 
 looked upon as a good thing. I did not think that 
 it would lead any one into danger." 
 
 " Even the best of things, my child, may be turn- 
 ed to an evil purpose. The heat and light of the 
 sun are received by one plant and changed into a 
 poison, while another converts it into healthy and 
 nourishing food. Pure wine will not excite a healthy 
 appetite, although it may madden one that has be- 
 come morbid through intemperance. Here is the 
 distinction that ought to be made." 
 
 " Is it not dangerous, then, to serve wine in pro- 
 miscuous companies?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly. I did not think so, a little while 
 ago, because the subject was not presented to my 
 mind in the light that it now is. To this custom I 
 can well believe that hundreds, who had begun the 
 work of restricting their craving appetites, owe their 
 downfall. Where all are partaking, the temptation 
 to join in it is almost irresistible ; especially, as a re- 
 
HARMLESS GLASS OP WINE. 215 
 
 fusal might create a suspicion against the individual 
 that he was afraid to trust himself/' 
 
 " I will be very careful how I offer wine to any 
 one again/' said Rose. " I would not have the 
 guilt of tempting a man to ruin upon my conscience, 
 for all the world." 
 
 The visits of Mr. Newton to Rose, which at first 
 were only occasional, became more and more fre- 
 quent. A mutual attachment ensued, which ended 
 in marriage. No wine was provided at the wedding 
 party to many, a strange omission and Hose ob- 
 served that, at the parties given by friends, her 
 husband invariably let the wine pass him uritasted. 
 Curious to know the reason for such abstemiousness, 
 she one day, some months after marriage, said to 
 him " Do you never drink wine?" 
 
 The question caused Newton to look serious, and 
 he replied in a simple monosyllable. 
 
 " Don't you like it ?" inquired Rose. 
 
 " Yes ; too well, perhaps/' 
 
 The way in which this was said, half-startled the 
 young wife. Newton saw the effect of his words, 
 and, forcing a smile, said " When quite a young 
 man, I was thrown much into gay company, and 
 there acquired a bad habit of using all kinds of in- 
 toxicating drinks with a dangerous freedom. Before 
 I was conscious of my error, I was verging on rapidly 
 to the point of losing all self-control. Startled at 
 finding myself in such a position, I made a resolu 
 
16 HARMLESS GLASS OF WINE. 
 
 tion to abandon the use of every thing but wine. 
 This, however, did not reach the evil. The taste 
 of wine excited my appetite to such a degree that I 
 invariably resorted to brandy for its gratification , 
 I then abandoned the use of wine, as the only safe 
 course for me, and, with occasional exceptions, have 
 strictly adhered to my resolution. In a few in- 
 stances, young ladies, at whose houses I yisited, have 
 presented me with wine ; and, not wishing to push 
 back the proffered refreshment, I have tasted it. 
 The consequence was invariable. A burning desire 
 for stronger stimulants was awakened, that carried 
 me away as by an irresistible power. You, Rose, 
 never tempted me in this way; had you done so, we 
 might not have been as happy as we are to-day." 
 
 A shudder passed through the frame of the young 
 wife, as she remembered the glass of wine she had 
 been so near presenting to his lips. Never after- 
 ward could she think of it without an inward tre- 
 mour, and fears for the future mingled with her 
 thoughts of the past; but these have proved ground- 
 less fears, for Mr. Newton has no temptation at 
 home, and he has resolution enough to refuse a 
 glass of wine in any company, and on all occasions. 
 Herein lies his safety. 
 
 : ' THB END. 
 

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