UCSB LIBRARY X- ^-n S 6? TOWN AND COUNTRY; OE, WITHOUT AND \YITHIN US BY JOHN S. ADAMS BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY J. BUFFUM, 23 COBNHILL. 1855. Entered according to Act of Congress, la the year 1S54, lijr J. BUFFUM, In the Clerk'* Office of Ihe District Court for the District of Massachusetts. HOMART * BOBBINS. b(lu4 Ijp. u4 8tmM;r. rMM BOSTON. rnm a man easily affected by such occur rences, and they deeply wounded his sensitive feelings. What should he do ? He looked around upon those who once professedly loved him ; but no hand was extended, no heart sympathized with him in the hour of trouble. He left his country, and with it a wife and one child, a daughter, lovely, if not in personal appearance, in highly virtuous and intellectual qualities, which, after all, will be admitted to be of more value than that which time withers and sickness destroys. With a sad heart Mr. Lang left these and the spot of earth around which many fond recollections clustered. After twenty months of tedious wanderings, he returned, but he was a changed man ; his ambitious spirit had been crushed, all his hopes had departed, and he gave himself up to the fanciful freaks of a disordered mind. Defeated in his honest endeavors to obtain a livelihood, he was now seeking out dis honest ways and means to retrieve his fallen fortune. He sought for those of a kindred spirit, nor was he long in find ing such ; in a short time he became acquainted, and soon after connected, with a gang of adventurous men. about six in number, who by various fraudulent means were each amass ing much wealth. " And he deserted me in this my time of need ! Can it be true that he has gone'. 1 For him I would willingly have endured any privation. Did he not know that my love was strong ? Could he not believe me when I said, that, as I joyed with him in his prosperity, I would mourn with him in its reverse ? that I could ever be near to comfort and console, one with him at all times, under all circum stances ? " SAVED BY KINDNESS. 13 " Comfort yourself, dear mother ! " said a calm voice. "Remember that these trials are for our good, and that the sorrows of earth are but to prepare us for the joys of heaven. Cheer up, mother ! let these thoughts rejoice thy heart ! Despair not, but take courage ! " With such words did the daughter administer consolation to the afflicted, when hearing that her "husband had forsaken her and sailed for a foreign port. It was indeed a heavy blow, and she felt it severely. She could have endured the thought of having all her earthly possessions taken from her, but to be deserted, to be left at such a time dependent upon the charities of the world for a subsistence, such a thought she was not prepared to withstand. The few words of Julia having been said, a deep silence for some moments pervaded the room. She sat and gazed up into the face of her mother, whose tears bore witness to the deep anguish of her soul. The silence was interrupted by the rising of the latter, who for a few moments paced t!i room, and then sank helplessly into a chair. The attenti \ o child sprang to her relief, a few neighbors were called in. she was laid upon her be*d. That night a severe attack oi fever came upon her ; for many days her life was despaired of; but at length a ray of hope cheered the solitude of the chamber of the sick, and at the close of six weeks her health was in a great degree restored. ''Time heals all wounds," is a common saying, true in some cases, but not in all. Some wounds there are that sink deep in the heart, their pain even time cannot remedy, but stretch far into eternity, and find their solace there. Others there are which by time are partially healed ; such was that of Mrs. Lang. During her sickness, many of the little inci dents that before had troubled her passed from her mind. She now yielded submissively to her sad allotment, believ ing, as during her sickness she had often been told, that 9 14 TOWN AND COUNTRY. afflictions come but for our own good, however paradoxical such a statement might seem to be. The kindness of a neighbor enabled her, with her daugh ter, to remove their place of residence. This neighbor a lady of moderate pecuniary circumstances furnished them with needle-work, the compensation for which enabled them to obtain supplies necessary for a comfortable living. CHAPTER II. For some time Mr. Henry Lang sat with his head resting upon his hands, and with them upon the table. Deep silence prevailed, broken only, at lengthy intervals, by the loud laugh following the merry jest of some passer-by, or the dismal creaking of the swing-sign of an adjacent tavern. How long Mr. Lang might have remained in that position is not for us to determine. But it would have been much longer, had not a loud rap at the outer door awakened him from his drowsy condition. He started at the sound, and, taking in his hand a dim- burning candle, proceeded to answer the call. Opening the door, a man closely enveloped in a large cloak and seal-skin cap, the last of which hung slouchingly about his head and face, inquired, in a gruff, ill-mannered voice, whether a person unfavorably known to the police as " Bold Bill" had been there. Harry trembled, knowing his interrogator to be one of the city watch ; yet he endeavored to conceal his fears and embarrassment by a forced smile, and remarked : " That is indeed a strange name, and one of which I have never before heard. Tell me what he has been about." " Why do you think he has been about anything, or why think you I am acquainted with his actions ? " inquired the stranger, in a stern voice, as though the supreme majesty of the law represented by him was not to be spoken lightly of. SAVED BY KINDNESS. 15 His scrutinizing features relaxed not in the least, but he looked our hero steadfastly in the face. " By the appearance of your dress I judge you to be a watchman, and as such I suppose you to be in search of that odd-named person on account of his being suspected of having broken the law." " You are right," answered the officer. " I am a watch man ! The authority invested in me is great. I trust I duly appreciate it. I guard your dAvelling when you are slumbering, unconscious of what takes place around you." "You are very kind," remarked Harry, suddenly inter rupting him, and speaking rather ironically than otherwise. The watchman continued : " Life is to me nothing unless I can employ it in doing good. Do you understand me ? " " Perfectly." "Will you walk in?" inquired Mr. Lang, as a sudden gust of wind nearly extinguished his light. "No, I thank you; that would be of no service to my fellow-men ; and, as I am in search of the man who com mitted the robbery, ten minutes ago, upon Mr. Solomon Cash, the broker, I must " ' ' Robbery ! ' ' exclaimed Harry, appearing perfectly aston ished at the thought. " 0, the degeneracy of the nineteenth century, the sinfulness of the age ! " " Amen ! " responded the officer ; and, pulling his large, loose cloak more closely about him, he made a motion to con tinue on in the service of his fellow-men. " But wait, nry good man," said Harry. " Am I to sup pose, from what you said, that ' Bold Bill ' is the perpetrator of this base crime?" "Precisely so," was the laconic reply; and the man moved on in execution of his benevolent designs. " He should be brought to justice," said Harry, as he turned to enter. No sooner, however, had he closed the door, 16 TOWN AND COUNTRY. than he burst forth in a loud laugh. This was soon changed to seriousness, for he became confident that his friend Bill was in danger. To shield him, if guilty, from detection, and protect him, if innocent, was now his great object. But where should he find him ? That was a problem he qould not solve. The boy was sleeping soundly ; he must awaken him, he must go out in search of his friend. With this intention, he dressed himself in a stout, heavy ovi-reoat, and, locking the door hurriedly, walked up the ;. On he went, as though his life depended upon whether he reached a certain square at a certain timo. He looked at nothing save some far-distant object, from which, as it approached, he withdrew his eyes, and fixed them on an object yet distant. Turning a corner, a collision took place between him and another man, who appeared to be in as much haste as himself. He was about to proceed, when he who had met him so abruptly struck him very familiarly upon the shoulder, saying, as he did so, " Harry, how are you 1 good luck tin lots of it watch haste." The person thus addressed was not long in discovering who it was that spoke to him, and from his words and actions that he had reason to be in some haste. It was he for whom he was in search ; and, being aware that the nature of the case demanded despatch, he cordially grasped his hand, and, without another word between them, they in a short time reached the dwelling of Mr. Lang. " What are the facts now? " inquired Harry, after having narrated the incident that had occurred since he left, namely, the watchman's visit. " Then you think there is no danger in my staying here ? " inquired Bill. 1 Not in the least," replied Harry; " for I positively as serted that you was not here, and strongly intimated that I knew no person of your name. Danger ! there is none ; so proceed, friend Bill, but a little wine." SAVED BY KINDNESS. 17 Wine is an indispensable with all rogues ; it nerves to law lessness, and induces them, when under its influence, to commit acts which in their sober moments they would scorn to perform. The wine-glass emptied, Bill proceeded in his narrative. " When I left here, I started intending in a direct course to go home. Musingly I walked along, cursing my fate, and several other things, too numerous to mention, and spec ulating upon the probable success of our scheme, till I ar rived in front of the old broker's. He was just putting up his iron-clamped shutters. I was on the opposite side, at some distance, yet not so far but that I plainly saw him enter and pack snugly away in his little black trunk divers articles of apparently great worth. I carelessly jingled the last change in my pocket, of value about a dollar or so ; and the thought of soon being minus cash nerved me to the determination of robbing the broker. Thus resolved. I hid myself behind a pile of boxes that seemed placed there on purpose, till I heard the bolt" spring, and saw the broker, with the trunk beneath his arm, walk aAvay. As he entered that dark passage, 'Fogg-lane,' I pulled my cap down over my face, and dogged him, keeping the middle of the passage ; and, seeing a favorable opportunity, I sprang upon him from behind, and snatched the box ; then left him to his fate. " I ran off as fast as my legs, urged on by the cry of ' stop thief,' would carry me. Notwithstanding the speed at which I ran, I found the crowd bearing down upon me ; and, my hope almost failing, I had resolved to give in and suffer the consequences, when, seeing a dark lane, I ran into it, then dodged behind a pump. The crowd ran on ; I found I had escaped. Now, Harry, a friendly shake in honor of my good luck." ' As you say," answered Harry, "'and it is my humble opinion you are not entirely free from change." 2* 18 TOWN AM) COUNTRY. " Hi-ally. I larry, I don't know what the box contains ; how ever, ; t is confounded heavy. It is full of gold or iron." "My tav fora scrubber, if small change is n't pretty much the contents ; the fourpences and dimes lie pretty near -.her, friend Bill." "But," continued Hairy, "'tis to secrete yourself, box and all, till the law dogs are silenced. If they come here, I will throw them a bone ; but lurk!" The two remained silent ; for the sound of approaching tepe momentarily grew more distinct. It sounded nearer, and now was in front of the door. " To the closet," whispered Harry; and in a moment Mr. : was the only occupant of the room. He was right in his supposition ; for the door opened, and the same man, in the same cloak, with the same consequential air, accompanied by others, entered abruptly, and interrogated Harry rather closely. "Positively, I know nothing about him," said Mr. Lang. This declaration seemed to have a wonderful effect upon each of the officers. They gazed steadfastly at him, then at each other, and their features indicated their belief in what he said. " Benevolent as I am," said the officer, " I must require a strict search ; not that we suspect him to be on your prem ises, noble sir, but my duty demands it." The officer, having thus far declared what he thought to be his duty, proceeded to its performance by pushing open the doors through which egress could be had to the street, and all others. As chance would have it, the right door was by them unobserved. But where was the fugitive 1 " 1 ''' been hurried into a closet. It was not after the manner of most closets. It was about three feet square, at one side of which was a door communicating with the cel lar, through which any person might pass, and from thence into the street. He could not stand long and listen to the SAVED BY KINDNESS. 19 loud converse of those without. He felt himself in danger if he remained, and determined upon leaving the closet. So, having passed into the cellar, he entered the street. The night was dark ; the hour late, and no persons stir ring. Softly he crept beneath the window, and, perceiving none in the room but Harry, softly tapped the glass. Mr. Lang raised his arm, by which signal Bill understood that he was aware of his having left the closet. Then through back lanes, seldom pedestrianated, and narrow passages, he wended his way, with his stolen treasure closely held beneath the loose folds of his jacket. He passed on, till, reaching a dark street, he beheld a>dim light in a low oyster-cellar ; he en tered. A black fellow was the proprietor, cook, &c. Bill asked for lodgings. " Well, massa, dem I 'ave ; but I always take pay in ad vance from gemmen." Bill asked the price. " Wall, 'tis fourpance on a chest, and threepance on de floor." Mr. Bang availed himself of the best accommodations, and accepted the chest. He stretched himself upon it, having settled the bill, but slept little. His mind was continually roaming. Now he imagined himself in the closet, with scarcely room to breathe, and an officer's hand on the latch ; now groping along untraversed paths, till, falling into some hole, he awoke from his re very. 'T was near the dawn of day when, from his house, accom panied by the boy, Mr. Lang passed out in search of Bill. A light rain was falling, and in perspective he saw a dull, drizzly sort of a day, a bad air for a low-spirited individ ual. The " blues" are contagious on such a day. Yet he strove to keep his spirits up, and to make the best of a bad job. As he passed by the office of the broker, he perceived a 20 TOWN AND COUNTRY. crowd, and many anxious inquiries were heard respecting the robbery. It appeared the broker had received but 1 ittle inj ury , and was as busy as any one in endeavoring to find out the ro^ue. Ilarry put on as bold a face as possible, and inquired of the broker the circumstances, which he very minutely narrated. " Have you any suspicions of any one ? " inquired Mr. " Of no one," was the brief response. " It would be very sad if the rascal could not be found," continued Mr. Lang. " The gallows is too good for one who would make such a cowardly attack, and treat with such baseness one who never harmed his fellow." " I am of your opinion," answered the broker; and the two, having thus fully expressed their opinion, parted. Mr. Lang was not much troubled in finding his compan ion. He entered the cellar just as the latter had arisen from his chesty couch, and a cordial grasp of the hand bore witness that friends had met. Both were aware that the place in which they were was not of very good repute, and made all possible haste to re move. But, to effect this successfully, it was necessary that Mr. Lang should have a change of dress. 1I< was making this change when half a dozen men unex pectedly entered. " You are my prisoner," said one, catch ing bold of Mr. Lang by the coat-collar. "Tropes, secure the other." They were now both in custody, and the officers, after a little search, discovered the broken box, and arrested the Mai-k man. " For what am I arrested? " inquired Mr. Lang. " That you will soon know," was the reply. " But I demand an answer now. I will not move a step till I get it." SAVED BY KINDNESS. 21 " What ! what 's that? " said a stout, rough-looking man, striking the prisoner, and treating him more like a dog than what he was. "I demand an answer \o my inquiry. For what am I arrested? " " He 's a dangerous man," remarked another of the offi cers ; " it 's best to put him in irons ; " whereupon he drew from a capacious pocket a pair of rusty manacles. Mr. Lang, and his two fellows in trouble, found it best to coolly submit, and did so. Five minutes passed, and the cold walls of a prison enclosed them. CHAPTER III. Daylight breaks, and the dwellers upon a thousand hills rejoice in the first rays of the morning sun. ' ' Didst thou ever hear that promise, ' God will provide ' ? inquired a pale, yet beautiful girl, as she bent over the form of a feverish woman, in a small, yet neatly-furnished room. " Yes," was the reply; " and he who allows not a spar row to fall unnoticed, shall he not much more care for us ? Yes, Julia, God will provide. My soul, trust thou in God ! " It was Mrs. Lang. The good lady who had befriended her was suddenly taken ill, and as suddenly died. Mrs. Lang, with her daughter, left the house, and, hiring a small room at an ex orbitant rent, endeavored, by the use of her needle, to live. She labored hard ; the morning's first light found her at her task, and midnight's silent hour often found her there. The daughter too was there ; together they labored, and together shared the joys and sorrows of a worse than widowed and orphaned state. Naturally of a feeble constitution, Mrs. Lang could not long bear up under that labor, and fell. Then that daughter was as a ministering angel, attending and watching over her, and anticipating her every want. Long 22 TOWN AND COUNTRY. was she obliged to labor to provide the necessaries of life ; often working hard, and receiving but ten to fifteen cents a, day for that which, if paid for as it should be, would have brought her a dollar. It was after receiving her small pit tance and having returned to her home, that the words at the commencement of this chapter fell from her lips. Her mother, with deep solicitude, inquired her success. " He says he can get those duck trousers made for three cents, and that, if I will not make them for that, he can give me no more work. You know, mother, that I work eighteen hours of the twenty- four, and can but just make two pair, that would be but six cents a day." " My child," said the mother, rising with unusual strength, " refuse such a slavish offer. Let him not, in order to enrich himself, by degrees take your life. Death's arrows have now near reached you. Do not thus wear out your life. Let us die ! " She would have said more ; but, exhausted by the effort, she sank back upon her pillow. Then came the inquiry, " Didst thou ever hear that promise, c God will provide ' ? " The question had been put, and the answer given, when a slight rap at the door was heard. Julia opened it ; a small package was hastily thrust into her hand, and the bearer of it hasted away. It was a white packet, bound with white ribbon, and with these words, "Julia Lang," legibly writ ten upon it. She opened it ; a note fell upon the floor ; she picked it up, and read as follows : " Enclosed you will find four five-dollar bills. You are in want ; use them, and, when gone, the same unknown hand \\ill ^rantyou more. " Let me break now a secret to you which I believe it is my duty to divulge. You will recollect that your father mysteriously abandoned you. He is now in this city, in SAVED BY KINDNESS. 23 street jail, awaiting his trial. I am confident that he is in nocent, and will be honorably acquitted ; and I am as confident that it needs but your presence and your kind entreaty to bring him back once again to his family and friends. I have spoken to him, but my Avords have had no efiect except when I spoke of his family. Then I could see how hard he strove to conceal a tear, and that I had found a tender chord, that needed but your touch to cause it to work out a reformatory resolution. ' I write because Mr. Lang was a friend of mine in his days of prosperity. I know he has no heart for dishonesty ; but, thinking himself deserted by those who should cling to him, he madly resolved to give himself up, and follow where fate should lead. Yours, truly, " CHARLES B -. " N. B. Others have also spoken with him; but their appeals have been in vain. If you will be at the corner of L avenue and W street, at three o'clock to-day, a carriage will be in readiness to convey you to his pres ence. C. B." Anxiously did Mrs. Lang watch the features of her child as she stood perusing .the letter ; and as she sat down with it unfolded, apparently in deep thought, her inquisitiveriess in creased. She inquired she was told all. " Go," said she to her daughter, " and may the blessings of Heaven attend you ! " Julia stood wondering. She had doubted before ; she feared it might be the scheme of some base intriguer ; but now her doubts vanished, and hope cheered her on. Long seemed the intervening hours, and many were the predictions made concerning the success of her mission ; yet she determined to go, in the spirit of Martin Luther, 24 TOWN AND COUNTRY. though every stone in the prison should arise to perse cute her. The appointed hour came, and, letter in hand, she left her room, and repaired to the spot. There she found a car riage ; and the driver, who, it appeared, was acquainted with her, inquired whether she desired to go to street jail. Replying in the affirmative, she entered, and the carriage drove off. When she had reached the street, and came in full view of the prison, her timidity almost overcame her ; but, recollecting the object she had in view, she resisted a desire that involuntarily arose to return. "Is the warden in?" inquired the driver of the gate keeper. " He is ; another feast for the lion, eh 1 " and the keeper, who had more self-assurance than manners, having laughed at his own nonsense, pulled a bell-cord, and the warden appeared. " The gentleman who came this morning to see Mr. Lang wished me to bring this young lady here, and introduce her to you as Mr. Lang's daughter." Having said this, the hack- man let down the steps, and aided her out. The gate-keeper retired into a sort of sentry-box, and amused himself by peeping over the window-curtain, laughing very immode rately when anything serious was said, and sustaining a very grave appearance when anything having a shade of comical ity occurred. The warden very politely conducted Julia into his office, and soon after into the jail. It was a long building inside of a building, with two rows of cells one above the other, each numbered, and upon each door a card, upon which was written, in characters only known to the officers of the prison, the prisoner's name, crime, term of imprisonment, and gen eral conduct whilst confined. Ao Mr. Lang was waiting trial, he was not in one of these SAVED BY KINDNESS. 25 cells, but in one of large dimensions, and containing more conveniences. As they entered, he was seated at a small table, with pen, ink and paper, engaged in writing. He did not at first rec ognize his child, but in a moment sprang to her, and clasp ing her in his arms, said, "My child." Such a change in him needs some explanation. After being committed to prison, his first thought was upon the change of his condition from what it formerly was ; and his first resolution was to reform. He thought of the deep plots he and his companion had laid to amass a fortune ; but, supposing that the latter would be convicted, and con demned to serve a long time in confinement, he concluded that that scheme was exploded. "Yet," thought he, "if there be none on earth I can call my friends, if my family forsake me (yet just would it be in them should they reject my company), of what avail would my reformation be, except to a few dogging creditors, who would jeer and scoff at me at every corner, and attempt to drive me back to my present situation ? It might be some satisfaction to them to see me return ; but what feelings would it arouse within me. with what hatred would I view mankind ! No ; if none will utter a kind word to me, let me con tinue on ; let the prison be my home, and the gallows my end, rather than attempt to reform while those who were once my friends stand around to drive me back by scofiing remarks ! " Such were the sincere thoughts of Mr. Lang. He would return, but none stood by to welcome him. A few had visited him, most of whom had severely reflected upon his misdeeds. They opened a dark prospect for him in the future. " Now," said they, " you must here remain; re ceive retribution for your evil deeds, and a sad warning to others not to follow in your steps, lest they arrive at the 3 V, TOWN AND COUNTRY. same goal." Was there encouragement in this 1 Surely not ; he deemed them not the words of friendship, and he was right in his judgment. "Why did you visit this dark prison?" inquired Mr. Lang. " Because you are here, father ! " was the artless reply. " And could you forgive your father ? How could you seek him, when he forsook you?" Mr. Lang could not make this last observation without becoming affected even to tears. Julia seemed to take courage ; new energies seemed to be imparted to her. She felt an unseen influence at her side, and a holy calmness resting upon her soul. " Prison-walls cannot bar you from my heart, though in the worst place on earth. Though friends laugh me to scorn when I seek your presence, you are my .father still, and un grateful would I be did I not own you as such ! " In thinking of the present, I do not forget the past; I remember the days of old, the years in which we were made glad ; and you, father, when free from these walls, will you not return again to your family, and make home what it once was ? To-day I will see Mr. Legrange ; he wants a clerk, and, by a little persuasion, I am certain I can get you the situation. Will you not reform? " She could say no more ; yet her actions spoke louder than words could possibly do, and her imploring attitude went home to the heart of her parent. He, for the first time since the commencement of his wayward course, felt that the hand of sympathy was extended to greet him, should he make a motion to return. And why should he not grasp it ? He did. There, in that prison-cell, upon his knees, he promised to repent and return. " Pleasant residence, Miss ! " said the gate-keeper, as our heroine left the yard, and then laughed as though he had SAVED BY KINDNESS. 27 committed a pun that would immortalize him from that time forth. She noticed not his ill-mannered remark, but, reentering the carriage, thought of nothing but the joy her mother would feel upon learning her success, till the carriage stopped and the driver let down the steps. Having related her adventure, she left her home with the intention of seeing Mr. Legrange. Mr, Legrange was a merchant on Cadiz wharf; he was wealthy, and as benevolent as wealthy. Notices were often seen in the papers of large donations from him to worthy insti tutions, sometimes one and sometimes three thousand dollars. His fellow-men looked upon him as a blessing to the age. There was no aristocracy in him ; he did not live like a prince in the costliest house in the city, but a small, neat tenement was pointed out as his abode. Not only was he called the "Poor Man's Friend," but his associate and companion. He did not despise the poor man, and wisely thought that to do him good he must live and be upon an equality with him. Mr; Legrange had just opened an evening paper, when a light rap at his counting-house door induced him to lay it aside. Opening it, a young woman inquired if Mr. Legrange was in. " That is my name," was the reply. " Good-morning, Miss Lang." Julia was rejoiced that she was recognized. She had not spoken to Mr. Legrange since her father's failure in busi ness ; previous to that sad occurrence she had known him personally, yet she scarcely thought he would know her now. " This is a lovely day," said Mr. Legrange, handing her a chair. " Your mother is well, I hope." "As well as might be expected: she will recover fast, now." 28 TOWN AND COUNTRY. " Indeed ! What ? Some glad news ? " "Yes, sir; father is in the city, and has reformed." " Thank God for that ! " said Mr. Legrange. " It is one of the blessings of this life to hope for better days." " He has reformed," continued Miss Lang, " yet he may be led back unless he gets steady employment ; and I heard that " " that I want a clerk," said Mr. Legrange, antici pating her in htr remarks ; " and," continued he, "your father is just the man I want. I knew him in his better days, before a fatal misstep felled him to the ground. Miss Lang, let your father call next Tuesday ; to-morrow I start on a journey, and shall not return till then." With many sincere thanks, Julia left the room ; her heart overflowed with gratitude to the Giver of all things. - She saw his hand and felt his presence. It was well that Mr. Legrange was about to leave the city, as Mr. Lang's examination was to be had the next day, and Mrs. Lang and her daughter confidently expected he would be acquitted. The morrow came ; the examination began and termi nated as they had expected. William Bang was remanded back to prison to await his trial for robbery. Mr. Lang was acquitted, and. joining a company of friends whom Julia had collected, left for the residence of his family. What a meeting was .that ! Angels could but weep for joy at such a scene, and drop their golden harps to wipe away their tears of gladness. Long had been their separa tion. What scenes had the interval disclosed ! And how changed were all things ! She was in health when he left, but now in sickness ; yet it was not strange. That day was the happiest he had spent for many months, and he rejoiced that an angel of light, his daughter, had sought him out. She had been, indeed, a ministering spirit SAVED BY KINDNESS. 29 of good to him, and in the happy scene then around her she found her reward, 0, how abundant ! With a light and joyous step did Henry Lang repair to the store of Mr. Legrange. The sun's rays were just peer ing over the house-tops, and he thought that he, like that sun, was just rising from degradation to assume new life, and put forth new energy. We need not lengthen out our tale by narrating what there ensued. He that day commenced his clerkship, and to this day holds it. He often received liberal donations from his employer in token of his regard for him, and by way of encouraging him in his attempts to regain his lost fortune. It was on a December evening that a family circle had gathered around their fireside. The wild wind whistled furi ously around, and many a poor wight lamented the hard fate that led him abroad to battle the storm. " Two years ago this night," said the "man, " where was I? In an obscure house, planning out a way to injure a fellow-man ! Yea, would you believe it ? the very man who has since been my benefactor, my employer ! " The door-bell rang, and the conversation was abruptly ter minated. In a few minutes none other than Mr. Legrange entered ; he received a hearty welcome, and Was soon engaged in con versation. " Mr. Lang," said he, as he was about to depart, "your daughter remembers receiving an anonymous letter signed ' Charles B .' I do not say it to please my own van ity, but I ordered my clerk to write it, and sent it by my son. I thought of you when you little thought you had a friend on earth who cared for you, and rejoice that I have been the humble instrument in effecting your reformation." 3* * :; ". 80 TOWN AND COUNTRY. ""Here," he continued, handing him a paper, "this is the deed of a house on street, valued at eight thou sand dollars ; accept it as a present from me to you and your family, and remember this, that a kind word is of more value than gold or precious stones. It was that which saved you, and by that you may save others. Good-even ing; I will see you at the store to-morrow." Having said this, he left, waiting not to receive the thanks that grateful hearts desired to render him. And now, reader, our story is ended. If you have fol lowed us thus far, neglect not to receive what we have faintly endeavored to inculcate ; and ever remember, while treading life's thorny vale, that " a kind word is of more value than gold or jirecious stones." THE LOVE OF ELINORE. Sip stood beside the sea-shore "weeping, While above her stars were keeping Vigils o'er the silent deep ; While all others, wearied, slumbered, She the passing moments numbered, She a faithful watch did keep. Him she loved had long departed, And she wandered, broken-hearted, Breathing songs he loved to hear. Friends did gather round to win her, But the thoughts that glowed within her Were to her most fond and dear. In her hand she held bright flowers, Culled from Nature's fairest bowers ; On her brow, from moor and heath, Bright green leaves and flowers did cluster, Borrowing resplendent lustre From the eyes that shone beneath. Rose the whisper, " She is crazy," When she plucked the blooming daisy, Braiding it within her hair ; But they knew not what of gladness Mingled with her notes of sadness, As she laid it gently there. For her loved one, ere he started, While she still was happy-hearted, Clipped a daisy from its stem, 32 TOWN AND COUNTRY. Placed it in her hair, and told her, Till again he should behold her, That should be her diadem. At the sea-side she was roaming, When the waves were madly foaming, And when all was calm and mild, Singing songs, she thought he listened, And each dancing wave that glistened Loved she as a little child. For she thought, in every motion Of the ceaseless, moving ocean, She could see a friendly hand Stretched towards the shore imploring, Where she stood, like one adoring, Beckoning to a better land. When the sun was brightly shining, When the daylight was declining, On the shore she 'd watch and wait, Like an angel, heaven-descending, 'Mid the ranks of mortals wending, Searching for a missing mate. Years passed on, and when the morning Of a summer's day gave warning Of the sweets it held in store, By the dancing waves surrounded, Like a fairy one she bounded To her lover's arms once more. Villagers thus tell the story, And they say a light of glory Hovereth above the spot Where for days and years she waited, With a love all unabated, And a faith that faltered not. There 'e a stone that is uplifted, Where the wild sea-flowers have drifted ; Fonder words no stone e'er bore ; 'TIS SWEET TO BE REMEMBERED. 33 And the waves come up to greet them, Seeming often to repeat them, While afar their echoes roar " DEATHLESS LOVE OF ELINORE." 'T is sweet to be remembered In the turmoil of this life, While toiling up its pathway, While mingling in its strife, While wandering o'er earth's borders, Or sailing o'er its sea, 'T is sweet to be remembered Wherever we may be. What though our path be rugged, Though clouded be our sky, And none we love and cherish, No friendly one is nigh, To cheer us in our sorrow, Or share with us our lot, 'T is sweet to be remembered, To know we 're not forgot. When those we love are absent From our hearth-stone and our side, With joy we learn that pleasure And peace with them abide ; And that, although we 're absent, We 're thought of day by day ; 'T is sweet to be remembered By those who are away. 84 TOWN AND COUNTRY. When all our toils arc ended, The conflict all is done, And peace, in sweetest accents, Proclaims the victory won ; When hushed is all the tumult, When calmed is all the strife, And we, in patience, meekly Await the end of life : Then they who, when not present, In spirit yet were near, And, as we toiled and struggled, Did whisper in our ear, " 'Tis sweet to be remembered, And thou art not forgot," If fortune smile upon us, Shall share our happy lot. I CALL THEE MINE. YES, ever such I '11 call thee, will ever call thee mine, And with the love I bear thee a wreath of poesy twine ; And when the stars are shining in their bright home of blue, Gazing on them, thou mayest know that I like them are true. Forget thee ! no, 0, never ! thy heart and mine are one. How can the man who sees its light forget the noonday sun? Or he who feels ita genial warmth forget the orb above ; Or, feeling sweet affection's power, ita source another's love? Go, ask the child that slecpeth upon its mother's breast Whether it loves the pillow on which its head doth rest ; Go, ask the weary mariner, when the dangerous voyage is o'er, Whether he loves the parent's smile that meets him at the door : But ask not if I love thee when I would call thee mine, For words are weak to tell thee all, and I the task resign ; But send thy spirit out for love, and when it finds its goal, 'T will be encircled and embraced within my deepest soul. THE OLD TREE AND ITS LESSON. THERE is a story about that old tree ; a biography of that old gnarled trunk and those broad-spread branches. Listen. Many, very many years ago. there were forests then where now are cities, and the Indian song was borne on that breeze which now bears the sound of the Sabbath bell, and where the fire of the work-shop sends up its dense, black smoke, the white cloud from the Indian's wigwam arose, yes, 't was many years ago, when, by the door of a rough, rude, but serviceable dwelling, a little boy sat on an old man's knee. He was a bright youth, with soft blue eyes, from which his soul looked out and smiled, and hair so beau tiful that it seemed to be a dancing sunbeam rather than what it really was. The old man had been telling him of the past ; had been telling him that when he was a child he loved* the forest, and the rock, and the mountain stream. Then he handed the lad a small, very small seed, and, leading him a short distance, bade him make a small hole in the ground and place the seed within it. He did so. And the old man bent over and kissed his fair brow as he smoothed the earth above the seed's resting-place, and told him that he must water it and watch it, and it would spring up and become a fair thing in his sight. 'T was hard for the child to believe this; yet he did believe, for he knew that his friend was true. Night came ; and, as he lay on his little couch, the child 36 TOWN AND COUNTRY. dreamed of that seed, and he had a vision of the future which passed with the shades of the night. Morning dawned, and he hastened to water and to watch the spot where the seed was planted. It had not come up ; yet he believed the good old man, and knew that it would. All day long he was bending over it, or talking with his aged companion about the buried seed. A few days passed, then a little sprout burst from the ground ; and the child clapped his hands, and shouted and danced. Daily it grew fairer .in the sight of the child, and rose higher and higher. And the old man led him once more to the spot, and told him that even so would the body of his little sister rise from the grave in which a short time before it had been placed, and, rising higher and higher, it would never cease to ascend. The old man wept ; but the child, with his tiny white hand, brushed away his tears, and, with child-like simplicity, said that if his sister arose she would go to God, for God was above. Then the mourner's heart was strengthened, and the lesson he would have taught the child came from the child to him, and made his soul glad. A few weeks passed, and the old man died. The child wept ; but, remembering the good friend's les son, he wiped away his tears, and wept no more ; for the seed had already become a beautiful plant, and every day it went upward, and he knew that, like that, his sister and his good friend would go higher and higher towards God. Days, weeks, months, years passed away. The plant had grown till it was taller than he who had planted it. THE OLD TREE AND ITS LESSOR. 37 Years fled. The child was no more there, but a young man sat beneath the shade of a tree, and held a maiden's hand in his own. , Her head reclined on his breast, and her eyes upturned met the glances of his towards her, and they blended in one. ' : I remember,' 1 said he, " that when I was young a good old man, who is now- in heaven, led me to this spot, and bade me put a little seed in the earth. I did so. I watched the ground that held it, and soon it sprang up, touched by no hand, drawn forth, as it would seern, from its dark prison by the attractive power of the bright heaven that shone above it. See, now, what it has become ! It shades and shelters us. God planted in my heart a little seed. None but he could plant it, for from him only emanates true love. It sprang up, drawn forth by the sunlight of thy soul, till now thou art shadowed and sheltered by it." There was silence, save the rustle of the leaves as the branches bowed assent to the young man's words. Time drove his chariot on; his sickle-wheels smote to >arth many brave and strong, yet the tree stood. The winds )lew fiercely among its branches ; the lightning danced and luivered above and around it ; the thunder muttered forth ts threatenings ; the torrent washed about its roots ; yet it tood, grew strong and stately, and many a heart loved it >r its beauty and its shade. The roll of the drum sounded, and beneath a tree gathered .owds of stalwart men. There was the mechanic, with oturned sleeves and dusty apron ; the farmer, fanning mself with a dingy straw hat ; the professional man and ader, arguing the unrighteousness of " taxation without ^presentation." Another roll of the drum, and every head was uncovered i a young man ascended a platform erected beneath the tree. 4 88 TOWN AND COUNTRY. In a soft, low voice, he began. As he proceeded, his voice grew louder, and his eloquence entranced his auditors. "Years ago," said he, "there were an old man and a young child. And the child loved the man, and the man loved the child, and taught him a lesson. He took him by the hand, and, leading him aside, gave him a seed and told him to plant it. He did so. It sprang up. It became mighty. Independent it stood, sheltering all who came untc it. That old man went home; but here stands the child, and here the tree, great and mighty now, but the child has not forgotten the day when it was small and weak. So shall the cause we have this day espoused go on ; and though, to-day, we may be few and feeble, we shall increase and grow strong, till we become an independent nation, that shall shelter all who come unto it." The speaker ceased, and immediately the air resounded with loud shouts and huzzas. The struggle for independence came. Victory ensued, Peace rested once more upon all the land, but not as before, It rested upon a free people. Then, beneath that-same tree, gathered a mighty host; and, as oft as came the second month of summer, in the early part of it the people there assembled, and thanked God for the lesson of the old tree. An old man lay dying. Around his bedside were his children and his children's children. "Remove the curtain," said he. "Open the window. Raise me, and let me see the sun once more." They did so. " See you yonder tree? Look upon it, and listen. I was a child once, and I knew and loved an old man ; and he knew me and loved me, and he led me aside, placed in my hand a tiny seed, and bade me bury it in the earth, and I did so. Night came, with its shade and its dew ; day, with its sun- THE OLD TREE AND ITS LESSON. 39 shine and its showers. - And the setd sprang up, but the old man died. Yet, ere he Trent, he had taught me the les son of that seed, which was, that those who go down to the earth like that, will arise, like that, towards heaven. You are Igoking upon that tree which my friend planted. Learn from it the lesson it hath taught me." The old man's task was performed, his life finished, and the morrow's light lit the pathway of many to his grave. They stood beneath the shadow of that tree; and deeply sank* the truth in every heart as the village pastor began the burial service and read, "I am the resurrection and the life." VOICES FROM THE SPIRIT-LAND IN the silence of the midnight, When the cares of day are o'er, In my soul I hear the voices Of the loved ones gone before ; And they, words of comfort whispering, Say they '11 watch on every hand, And my soul is cheered in hearing Voices from the spirit-land. + In my wanderings, oft there cometh Suddfe stillness to my soul ; When around, above, within it Rapturous joys unnumbered roll. Though around me all is tumult, Noise and strife on every hand, Yet within my soul I list to Voices from the spirit-land. Loved ones who have gone before mo Whisper words of peace and joy ; Those who long since have departed Tell me their divine employ Is to watch and guard my footsteps, O ! it is an angel band ! And I love, I love to list to Voices from the spirit-land. THE BEACON-LIGHT. DIMLY burns the beacon-light Qn the mountain top to-night ; Faint as Avhisper ever fell, Falls the watcher's cry, " All's well ; " For the clouds have met on high, And the blast sweeps angry by ; Not a star is seen this night, God, preserve the beacon-light ! Lo ! a man whom age doth bow Wanders up the pathway now ; Wistfully his eye he tur To the light that dimly bi And, as it less glow doth shed. Quicker, quicker is his tread ; And he prays that through the night God may keep the beacon-light. Far below him, rocks and waves Mark the place of others' graves ; Other travellers, who, like him, Saw the beacon-light burn dim. But they trusted in their strength To attain the goal at length ; This old traveller prays, to-night, " God, preserve the beacon-light! " Fainter, fainter is its ray, ShaH its last gleam pass away ? Shall it be extinguished quite ? Shall it ffurn, though not as bright ? Fervently goes up his prayer ; Patiently he waiteth there, Trusting Him who doeth right To preserve the beacon-light. 4* 42 TOWN AND COUNTRY. Look you DOW ! the light hath burst Brighter than it was at first ; Now with ten-fold radiance glows, And the traveller homeward goes. As the clouds grow darker o'er him, Brighter grows the light before him ; God, who doeth all things right, Hath preserved the beacon-light. Thus upon the path we tread God a guiding light hath shed ; Though at times our hearts are weary, Though the path we tread is dreary, ' Though the beacon's lingering ray Seems as if 't would pass away, Be our prayer, through all the night, " God, preserve the beacon-light !" ThrealRng clouds may gather o'er us, Countless dangers rise before us : If in God we seek for strength, He will succor us at length : He his holy light will send, To conduct us to the end. Trust thy God, through day and night, He '11 preserve thy beacon-light. BEAR UP. BEAR op, bear up, though Poverty may press thee , There 's not a flower that 's crushed that does not shed, While bowing low, its fragrance fortH to bless thee, At times, more sweet than when it raised its head ; When sunlight gathered round it, When dews of even crowned it, By nature nursed, and watched, and from iw bounty fed A WELCOME TO SPRING. 43 Bear up, bear up ! O, never yield nor falter ! God reigneth ever, merciful and just ; If thou despairest, go thou to his altar, Rest on his arm, and in hi* promise trust. There Hope, bright Hope, will meet thee ; There Joy, bright Joy, shall greet thee ; And thou shalt rise to thrones on high from out the dust. A WELCOME SONG TO SPRING, SHOUT a welcoming to Spring ! Hail its early buds and flowers ! It is hastening on to bring Unto us its joyous hours. Birds on bough and brake are singing, All the new-clad woods are ringing ; In the brook, see Nature flinging Beauties of a thousand dyes, As if jealous of the beauties Mantling the skies. Hail to Beauty ! Hail to Mirth ! All Creation's song is gladness ; Not a creature dwells on earth God would have bowed down in sadness ! Everything this truth is preaching, God in all his works is teaching, As if man by them beseeching To be glad, for he doth bless ; And to trust him, for he 's mighty In his tenderness. THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. CHAPTER I. IT was at the close of a beautiful autumnal day that Ed ward Dayton was to leave the place of his nativity. For many years he had looked forward, in joyous anticipation, to the time when he should repair to the city, and enter upon the business of life. And now that that long looked-for and wished-for day had arrived, when he was to bid an adieu to the companions of his youth, and to all the scenes of his childhood, it was well for him to cast a retrospective glance ; and so he did. Not far distant, rearing its clear white steeple far above the trees, stood the village church, up the broad, uncar- peted aisle of which he had scores of times passed ; and, as the thought that he might never again enter those sacred walls came to his mind, a tear glistened in his eye that he could not rudely wipe away. Next was the cot of the pastor. He had grown old in the service of his Master, and the frosts of nearly three-score winters rested their glory upon his head. All loved and re spected him, for with them he had wept, and with them he had rejoiced. Many had fallen around him ; withered age and blooming youth he had followed to the grave ; yet he stood forth yet, and, with clear and musical voice, preached the truths of God. An old gray building, upon whose walls the idler's knife had carved many a rude inscription, was the village school. THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 45 There, amid those carvings, were seen the rough-hewn ini tials, of many a man now " well-to-do in the world." Some, high above the rest, seemed as captains, and almost over shadowed the diminutive ones of the little school-boy, placed scarce thirty inches from the ground. Edward was a pet among the villagers. He had taken the lead in all the frolickings, and ma*y a bright-eyed lass would miss his presence, and loud, clear laugh, at the com ing " huskings." " Young and old reluctantly bade him "good-by," and, as the stage wound its circuitous way from the village, from many a heart ascended a prayer that He who ruleth over all would prosper and protect him. " Good luck to him. God bless him ! " said dame Brandon, as she entered the house. " He was always a kind, well- meant lad," she continued, "and dame Brandon knows no evil can befall him ; and Emily, my dear, you must keep your eye on some of the best fruit of the orchard, for he will be delighted with it, and much the more so if he knows your bright eyes watched its growth and your hands gath ered it:" These words were addressed to a girl of seventeen, who stood at an open window, in quite a pensive mood. She seemed not to hear the remark, but gazed in the direction the stage had passed. The parents of Edward had died when he was quite young, and he. their only child, had been left to the care and protection of dame Brandon ; and well had she cared for him, and been .as a mother to the motherless. " Now, Emi', don't fret! Edward won't forget you. I've known him long ; he has got a heart as true as steel." 'T was not this that made her sad. She had no fears that he would forget his Emi', but another thought pressed heav ily on her mind, and she said, 46 TOWN AND COUNTRY. " But, aunty, city life is one of danger. Temptations are there we little think of, and stronger hearts than Edward's have quailed beneath their power/' " Well done ! " quoth Mrs. B., looking over her glasses; a sermon, indeed, quite good for little you. But girls are timid creatures ; they start and are frightened at the least unusual sound." She assumed a more serious manner, and, raising her finger, pointing upwards, said, "But know you not there is a Power greater than that of which you speak? " Emily seemed to be cheered by this thought. She hummed over a favorite air, and repaired to the performance of her evening duties. Emily Brandon was a lovely creature, and of this Ed ward Dayton was well aware. He had spent his early days with her. His most happy hours had been passed in her company. Together they had frolicked over the green fields, and wandered by their clear streams. Hours passed as minutes when in each other's company ; and, when sepa rated, each minute seemed an hour. Now, for the first time, they were separated ; and ever and anon, as she passed about at her work, she cast a fitful glance from the window, as if it were possible he might return. How she wished she could have gone with him, to gently chide when sinners should entice, and lead him from error's path, should gay temptation lure him therein ! She was young in years, yet old in discretion ; and had a heart that yearned for the good of all. " Well, aunt," said she, " I hope good luck will betide him, but sad thoughts will come when I think of what he will have to bear up under." " 0, hush ! " said the old lady ; " simple girls have simple stories." THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 47 CHAPTER II. It was a late hour in the evening that tke coach entered the metropolis. Railroads were not then in vogue, and large baggage-waggons, lumbering teams and clumsy coaches, were drawn by two or more horses, over deep-rutted roads, and almost endless turnpikes. The bells had rang their nine o'clock peal ; most of the stores were closed ; the busy trader and industrious mechanic had gone to their respective homes, and left their property to faithful watchers, whose muffled forms moved slowly through the streets of the great city. Not all had left their work ; for, by the green and crim son light that streamed from his window, and served to par tially dissipate the darkness, it was seen that he of pestle and mortar labored on, or, wearied with his labor, had fallen asleep, but to be awakened by the call of some customer, requesting an antidote for one of the many " ills which flesh is heir to." Other open places there were, whose appearance indicated that they were bar-rooms, for at their windows stood decan ters filled with various- colored liquids. Near each of these stood a wine-glass in an inverted position, with a lemon upon it ; yet, were not any of these unmistakable signs to be seen, you would know the character of the place by a rumseller's reeling sign, that made its exit, and, passing a few steps, fell into the gutter. In addition to these other signs, were seen scattered about the windows of these places, in characters so large that he who ran might read, "Bar-room," "Egg-pop," " N. E. Rum," etc. Those were the days of bar-room simplicities. " Saloons " were not then known. The refined names which men of the present day have attached to rum, gin and brandy, were 48 TOWN ASD COUXTRY. not then in use. There were no " Wormwood-floaters " to embitter man's life, and Jeirett had not had his * : fancy." The coach rolled on. and in a short time Edward was safely ensconced in a neatly-furnished room in a hotel known as "The Boll's Horn." It was indeed a great disadvantage to him that he came to a city in which he was a total stran ger. He had no acquaintance to greet him with a friendly welcome : and the next day. as he was jostled by the crowd, and pushed aside by the harried pedestrian, he realised what it was to be a stranger in a strange land, and an indescrib able sensation came upon him. known only to those who hare been placed in similar circumstances. He looked around, strange forms met his view. No one greeted him. no hand of friendship was held forth to welcome him. All the world seemed rushing on for some thing, he knew not what : and, disheartened at the apparent selfishness that pervaded society, he returned to his room, and wished for the quietness of his own &weet village, the companionship of his own dear Emi". The landlord of the tavern at which our hero bad housed himself was a stout burly man, and quite communicative. From him Edward learned much of importance. Mr. Blinge was his name. He was an inveterate smoker, and his pet was a little black pipe, dingy and old. and by not a few deemed a nuisance to " The Bull's Horn." This he held between his teeth, and, seating himself behind his bar, puffed away on the high-pressure principle. Edward had not been many minutes in hts room before Mr. Blinge entered with his pet in his month, hoped he did n't intrude, apologized, and wished him to walk below, saying that by so doing he might become acquainted with some " rare souls.-' By " below " was meant a large, square room, on the ground floor, of dimensions ample enough to hold a caucus THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 49 in. By some it was called a "bar-room," by others the " sitting-room," and others the. " gentlemen's parlor." Entering, Edward encountered the gaze of about twenty individuals. Old gentlemen with specs looked beneath them, and young gentlemen with papers looked above them. A young man in white jacket and green apron was endeav oring to satisfy the craving appetites of two teamsters, who were loudly praising the landlord's brandy, and cursing the bad state of the roads in a manner worthy of "our army in Flanders." One young man, in particular, attracted the attention of our hero. He was genteelly dressed, and possessed an air of dignity and self-command, that would obtain for him at once the good will of any. Edward was half inclined to believe his circumstances to be somewhat similar to his own. He was reading an evening paper, but, on seeing our hero enter, and judging from his manner that he was a stranger, laid it aside, and, politely addressing himself to him, inquired after his health. The introduction over, they engaged in conversation. The young man 'seemed pleased in making his acquaintance, and expressed a hope that a friendship so suddenly formed might prove lasting and beneficial to each. " I also am from the country," said he, after Edward had informed him of his history, '-'and, like you, am in search of employment. Looking over the evening paper, I noticed an advertisement of a concern for sale, which I thought, as I read, would be a capital chance to make a fortune, if I could find some one to invest in it with me. I will read it to you. ' 'FoR SALE. The stock and stand of a Confectioner, with a good business, well established. One or two young men will find this a rare opportunity to invest their money advan tageously. For other particulars inquire at No. 7 Cresto-st.' 5 50 TOWN AND COUNTRY. " Now, I tell you what," said the young man, before Ed ward had an opportunity to utter a word, "it is a fine chance. Why, Lagrange makes enough on his wines and fancy cordials to clothe and feed a regiment. Just pass there, some evening, and you will see a perfect rush. Soda- water, ice creams, and French wines, are all the rage, and La- grange is the only man in this city that can suit the bon ton ! " " You half induce me to go there," said Edward. " How far is it from this place ? " " Not far, but it is too late ; to-morrow morning we will go there. Here, take my card Othro Treves is my name ; you must have known my father ; a member of Congress for ten years, when he died ; rather abused his health at tended parties at the capital drank wine to excess took a severe cold fell ill one day, worse the next, sick the next, and died soon after. Wine is bad when excessively indulged in; so is every good thing." Edward smiled at this running account of his new-formed acquaintance, and, bidding him "good-night," betook himself to* his chamber, intending to accompany Othro to the confec tioner's hi the morning. CHAPTER III. The next morning the sun shone bright and clear in a cloudless sky, and all were made joyous by its gladsome rays. Edward was awakened at an early hour by the departure, or preparations to depart, of the two teamsters, who, having patronized rather freely the young man in white jacket and green apron, were in a delightful mood to fcnjoy a joke, and were making themselves quite merry as they harnessed up their sturdy horses. It was near nine when Othro and Edward found them selves on the way to the confectioner's. Edward was glad THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 51 on account of finding one whom he thought he could trust as a friend, and congratulated himself on his good luck. Near the head of Cresto-street might have been seen, not many years since, over the door of a large and fashionable store, a sign-board bearing this inscription : " M. Lagrange, Confectioner and Dealer in Wines and Cordials." We say it was " large and fashionable; " and those of our readers who recollect the place of which we speak will testify to the truth of our assertion. Its large Avindows, filled with jars of confectionary and preserves, and with richly-ornamented bottles of wine, with the richest pies and cake strewed around, presented a showy and inviting appearance, and a temptation to indulge, too powerful to resist, by children of a larger growth than lisping infants and primary-school boys. Those who daily passed this store looked at the windows most wistfully ; and this was not all, for, at their weekly reckonings, they found that several silver "bits" had disappeared very mysteriously during the previous seven days. To this place our hero and his newly-formed acquaintance were now hastening. As they drew near, quite a bevy of ladies made their exit therefrom, engaged in loud conversation. "Lor! " said one, "it is strange Lagrange advertised to sell out." "Why, if I was his wife," said another, "I'd whip him into my traces, I would; an' he should n't sell out unless I was willin', no, he shouldn't! Only think, Miss Fitz- gabble, how handy those wines would be when one has a social soul step in ! " " 0, yes," replied Miss Fitzgabble, "and those jars of lozenges ! How enchantingly easy to elevate the lid upon a Sabbath morn, slip in one's hand, and subtract a few ! How I should smell of sassafras, if / was Mrs. Lagrange ! " The ladies passed on, and were soon out of hearing. Ed- 52 TOWN AND COUNTKY. ward and his companion entered the store, where about a dozen ladies and gentlemen were seated, discussing the fashions, forging scandal, and sipping wine. Mr. Lagrange was actively engaged when the two entered ; but, seeing them, and supposing them to have called on the business for which they actually had called, he called to one of the attendants to fill his place, and entered into conversa tion with Messrs. Dayton and Treves, which in due time was terminated, they agreeing to call again the next day. First impressions are generally the most lasting. Those Edward and Othro received during their visit and subse quent conversation were favorable to. the purchase. On their return ^hey consulted together for a long time, and finally concluded to go that day, instead of waiting till the next, and make Mr. Lagrange an offer of which they had no doubt he would accept. Mr. Lagrange's chief object in selling out was that he might disengage himself from business. He had been a long time in it ; he was getting somewhat advanced in life, and had accumulated sufficient to insure him against want, and he deemed it best to step out, and give room to the young an example worthy of general imitation. That the business was profitable there -could be no doubt. As Othro had said, the profit on the wines was indeed immense. On pleasant evenings the store was crowded ; and, as it was filled with the young, gay, and fashionable of wealthy rank, not much difficulty was experienced in obtaining these large profits. The return of the young men was not altogether unex pected by Mr. Lagrange. He was ready to receive them. He set before them his best wines. They drank freely, praised the wine, and extolled the store, for they thought it admirably calculated to make a fortune in. THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 53 Mr. Lagrange imparted to them all the information they desired. They made him an offer, which he accepted, after some thought ; and arrangements were entered into by which Messrs. Dayton and Treves were to take possession on the morning of the following Monday. CHAPTER IV. No one commences business without the prospect of suc cess. Assure a man he will not succeed, and he will be cau tious of the steps he takes, if, indeed, he takes any. If he does not expect to gain a princely fortune, he expects to earn a comfortable subsistence, and, at the same time, accumulate enough to shelter him in a rainy day, and be enabled to walk life's busy stage in comfort and respecta bility, and, as occasion may demand, relieve the wants of his less fortunate brethren. For this all hope, yet the experience of thousands shows that few, very few, ever realize it. On the contrary, disap pointment, in its thousand malignant forms, starts up on every hand ; yet they struggle on, and in imagination see more prosperous days in the future. Thus they hope against hope., till the green sod covers their bodies, and they leave their places to others, whilst the tale is told in these few words : " They lived and died." The next Monday the citizens were notified, by the removal of his old sign, that Mr. Lagrange had retired from business. During the day, many of Mr. Lagrange's customers came in, that they might become acquainted with the successors of their old friend. To these Messrs. Dayton and Treves were introduced, and from them received promise of support. A colored man, who had been for a long time in the employ of Mr. Lagrange, was retained in the employ of the store. Ralph Orton was his name. He having been for a 54 TOWN AND COUNTRY. long time in the store, and during that time having had free access to the wines, had formed an appetite for them, in con sequence of which he was often intoxicated. His inebriation was periodical, and not of that kind whose subjects are held in continual thraldom ; yet, to use his own words, " when he was drunk, he was drunk, and no mis take." He obeyed the old injunction of "what is worth doing is worth doing well," and as long as he got drunk he got well drunk. He had ofttimes been reasoned with in his day* of sober ness, and had often promised to reform ; but so many around him drank that he could not resist the temptation to drink also, and therefore broke his promise. This , habit had so fastened itself upon him, that, like one in the coil of the ser pent, the more he strove to escape the closer it held him. If thCTe is any one habit to which if a man becomes attached he will find more difficulty to escape from than another, it is that of intemperance ; yet all habits are so one with our nature that the care taken to guard against the adoption of evil ones cannot be too great. Behold that man ! He was tempted, he yielded. He has surrendered a noble estate, and squandered a large fortune. Once he had riches and friends ; his eye sparkled with the fire of ambition ; hope and joy beamed in each feature of his manly countenance, and all bespoke for him a long life and happy death. Look at him now ! without a penny in his pocket, a wretched outcast, almost dead with starvation. Habit worked the change an evil habit. Perchance some one in pity may bestow a small sum upon him. Utterly regardless of the fact that his wife and chil dren are at home shivering over a few expiring embers that give no warmth, without a crumb to appease their hunger, and although he himself a moment before believed that if aid did not come speedily he must perish, he hastens to the THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 55 nearest groggery, and, laying down his money, calls for that which has brought upon him and his such woe. If there is any scene upon earth over which demons joy, it must be when that rumseller takes that money. This propensity of Ralph's was a serious objection to him as a servant; yet, in every other respect, he was all that could be desired. He was honest, faithful and obliging, and, knowing as they did that he was well acquainted with the trade of the city, and could go directly to the houses of Mr. Lagrange's customers, Messrs. Dayton and Treves were induced to have him remain. At the end of a month, Edward found himself in pros perous circumstances, and wrote to his old village friends of the fact. They, as a matter in course, were overjoyed in the reception of such intelligence, 'and no one more so than Emily Lawton. Edward had entered into a business in which tempta tions of a peculiar nature gathered about him. Like nearly every one in those days, he had no scruples against the use of wine. He thought no danger was associated with its use ; and, as an objection against that would clash with the interests of his own pecuniary affairs, he would be the last to raise it. In dealing forth to others, how strong came the temptation to deal it to himself ! Othro drank, and pronounced a certain kind of wine a great luxury. Edward could not (or, at least, so he thought) do otherwise ; and so he drank, and pronounced the same judgment upon it. "What say you for an evening at the theatre?" said Othro, one evening, as they were passing from their place of business, having left it in care of their servants. "At the Gladiate the play is ' Hamlet,' and Mr. Figaro, from the old Drury, appears." Edward had been educated in strict puritanic style, and had been taught to consider the theatre as a den of iniquity. 56 TOWN AND COUNTRY. It is not our purpose to defend or oppose this opinion. It was his, and he freely expressed it. In fact, his partner knew it to be such before making the request. " I suppose," said Mr. Treves, "you oppose the theatre on account of the intoxicating drinks sold there. Now, I am for a social drop occasionally. Edward, a glass of pure 'Cogniac,' a nice cigar, and a seat in front of a grate of blazing coal, and I '11 be joyful." "You may be joyful, then," replied Mr. Dayton; "but your joy might be changed to grief, and your buoyancy of spirit be turned to sadness of heart." " Indeed, Edward ! Quite a lecture, I declare ! Been studying theology, eh?" " Not so; you are mistaken, Othro," said he. " There," he continued, pointing to a reeling sot that passed them, " ask that man where he first went for joy, and he'may tell you of the theatre, or of social glasses of brandy, cigars, and such like." They had now arrived in front of the " Gladiate," a mas sive stone structure, most brilliantly illuminated. Long rows of carriages stood in front, and crowds of the gay and fashionable were flocking in. All was activity. Hackmen snapped their whips. Boys, ragged and dirty, were waiting for the time when " checks " would circulate, and, in fact, were in much need of checks, but those of a different nature from those they so eagerly looked for. Anon, the crowd gathered closer ; and the prospect of a fight put the boys in hysterics of delight, and their rags into great commotion. To their sorrow, it was but the shadow of a " row" ; and they kicked and cuffed each other, in order to express their grief. A large poster announced in flaming characters that that night was the last but two of Mr. Figaro's appearance, and THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 57 that other engagements would prevent him from prolonging his staj, however much the public might desire him to do so ; whilst, if the truth had been told, the public would have known that a printer was that moment " working off" other posters, announcing a reengagement of Mr. Figaro for two weeks. " Will you enter ? " inquired Othro. Edward desired to be excused, and they parted ; one entering the theatre, the other repairing to his home. CHAPTER V. The " tavern " at which our hero boarded was of the coun try, or, rather, the colony order of architecture, for piece had been added to piece, until what was once a small shed was now quite an extensive edifice. As was the case with all taverns in those days, so also with this, the bar-room was its most prominent feature. Mr. Blinge, the landlord, not only smoked, but was an inveterate lover of raw whiskey, which often caused him to perform strange antics. The fact that he loved whiskey was not strange, for in those days all drank. The aged drank his morning, noon and evening potations, because he had always done .so; the young, because his father did; and the lisp ing one reached forth its hands, and in childish accents called for the " thugar" and the mother, unwilling to deny it that which she believed could not harm it, gave. Those were the days when seed was being sown, and now the harvesting is in progress. Vain were it for us to attempt its description ; you will see it in ruined families, where are gathered blasted hopes, withered expectations, and pangs, deep pangs of untold sorrow. The child indulged has become a man, yet scarce worthy of the name ; for a habit has been formed that has sunken him 68 TOWN AND COUNTRY. below the brute, and he lives not a help, but aburden, not a blessing, but a curse, to his fellow-men. Although Edward was opposed to the use of intoxicating drinks, his business led him to associate with those who held opposite opinions. Among the boarders was one, a bold, drinking, independ ent sort of a man, who went against all innovations upon old customs with a fury worthy of a subject of hydrophobia. His name was "Pump." Barrel, or bottle, would have been more in accordance with his character ; but, as the old Pump had not foresight enough to- sec into the future, he did not know that he was inappropriately naming his son. Every Pump must have its handle, on the same principle that "every dog must have his day." The handle to the Pump in question was a long one; 'twas " Onendago." " Onendago Pump " was written with red ink on the blank leaf of a " Universal Songster " he carried in his pocket. Dago, as he was called, lived on appearances ; that is, he acted Ihe gentleman outwardly, but the beggar inwardly. He robbed his stomach to clothe his back : howbeit, his good outside appearance often got for him a good dinner. By the aid of the tailor and the barber, he wore nice cloth and curled hair; and. being blessed with a smooth, oily voice, was enabled, by being invited to dinner here and to supper there, to live quite easy. Edward had just seated himself, when a loud rap on the door was heard, and in a moment Mr. Onendago Pump, with two bottles, entered. With a low bow, he inquired as to our hero's health, and proposed spending an evening in his company. " Ever hear me relate an incident of the last war ? " said he, as he seated himself, and placed his two bottles upon the side-table. " Never," replied Edward. THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 59 " Well, Butler waa our captain, and a regular man he ; right up and down good fellow, better man never held sword or gave an order. Well, we were quartered at I don't remember where history tells. We led a lazy life ; no red coats to fire at. One of the men came home, one night, three sheets in the wind, and the fourth bound round his head ; awful patriotic was he, and made a noise, and swore he 'd shoot every man for the good of his country. Well, Captain Butler heard of it, and the next day all hands were called. We formed a ring ; Simon Twigg, he who was drunk the day before, stood within it, and then and there Captain Butler, who belonged to the Humane Society, and never ordered a man to be flogged, lectured him half an hour. Well, that lecture did Mr. Dago Pump immense good, and ever since I haven't drank anything stronger than brandy. " Never a man died of brandy ! " said Mr. Pump, with much emphasis. " Brandy 's the word ! " and, without say ing more, he produced a cork-screw, and with it opened a bottle. A couple of glasses soon made their appearance. " Now, you will take a glass with me," said Dago; " it is the pure Cogniac, quality one, letter A." " Drink, now," said he, pushing a glass towards him. " Wine is used by the temperance society. They '11 use brandy soon. Ah, they can't do without their wine, and we can't do without our brandy ! They want to bind us in a free country, what my father bled and almost died for, bind us to drink cold water ! " said Mr. Pump, sneeringly. " Let 'em try it ! I go for freedom of the press, universal, everlasting, unbounded freedom ! " When this patriotic bubble had exploded and the mist cleared away, he sang a bacchanalian song, which he wished every free man in the world would commit to memory. " What is the difference," said he, "between this and wine? 60 TOWN AND COUNTRY. Neither -will hurt a man ; it is your rum-drinking, gin-guz zling topers that are harmed ; anything -will harm them. Who ever heard of a genteel wine or brandy drinker becoming a pest to society 1 Who ever heard of such an one rolling in the mire 1 No ; such men are able to take care of them selves. Away with the pledge ! " " Perhaps you are right," replied Edward ; " yet we should be careful. Although all around me drink, I have until this moment abstained from the use of brandy ; but now, at your request, I partake of it. Remember, if I, by this act. am led into habits of intemperance, if I meet a drunkard's grave, the blame will rest upon you." " Ha, ha, ha ! Well done ! So be it ! I ' 11 shoulder the blame, if a respectable man like you falls by brandy." Edward drank the contents of a glass, and, placing it upon the table, said " We must be careful ! " "True!" said Mr. Pump, as he again filled the glass ; " we cannot be too much so. We must avoid rum and gin as we would a viper ! How I abhor the very name of rum ! 0, Mr. Dayton, think of the misery it has brought upon man ! I had a sister once, a beautiful, kind-hearted creature. She was married to an industrious man ; all was fair, prospects bright. By degrees he got into bad company ; he forgot his home, loved rum more than that, became dissipated, died, and filled a drunkard's grave ! She, poor creature, went into a fever, became delirious, raved day after day, and, heaping curses upon him who sold her husband rum, died. Since then, I have looked upon rum as a curse ; but brandy, it is a gentle stimulant, a healthy beverage, a fine drink, and it can do no harm." Onendago swallowed the contents of his glass, and Edward, who, having taken the first, found it very easy to take the second, did the same. Yet his conscience smote him ; he felt that he was doing wrong. THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 61 Like the innocent, unthinking bird, who, charmed bj the serpent's glistening eyes, falls an easy prey to its crushing embrace, was he at that moment. He the bird, unconscious of the danger behind the charm. This is no fictitious tale. Would to Heaven it contained less of truth ! The world has seen many men like "Mr. Pump," and many have through their instrumentality fallen ; many not to rise till ages shall have obliterated all memory of the past, with all its unnatural loves ! Whilst others, having struggled on for years, have at length seen a feeble ray of light penetrating the dark clouds that overshadowed their path, which light continued to increase, till, in all its beauty, the star of temperance shone forth, by which they strove ever after to be guided. It was near midnight when Mr. Pump left. The two had become quite sociable, and Mr. Pump saw the effect of his brandy in the unusual gayety of Edward. The latter was not lost to reflection ; and now that he was alone, thoughts of home, his business, and many other mat ters, came confusedly into his mind. Letters he had received of warning and advice. He took them in his hands, looked over their contents, and with feel ings of sadness, and somewhat of remorse, thought of his ways. A bundle of old letters ! A circle of loved friends ! How alike ! There is that's pleasant, yet sad, in these. How viv idly they present to our view the past ! The writers, some, perhaps, are dead ; others are far away. Yet, dead or alive, near or far distant, we seem to be with them as we read their thoughts traced out on the sheet before us. As Edward read here and there ar letter, it did seem as though his friends stood beside him, and spoke words of advice which conscience whispered should be heeded. Love was the theme of not a few, yet all warned him to flee from 6 62 TOWN AND COUNTRY. evil. He returned the parcel, and, as be did so, he pledged himself that if he drank any it should be with moderation : and that, as soon as he felt its ruinous effects, to abstain altogether. The next morning Othro was late at the store ; yet, when he arrived, he was full of praise of the play. " Figaro acted Hamlet to a charm," said he ; " and Fanny Lightfoot danced like a fairy. But two nights more ! Now, Edward, if you do not wish to offend me, and that exceed ingly, say you will go with me to-morrow night." CHAPTER VI. Three years had elapsed since the events of the last chapter. Edward had often visited his native village, and, as the results of these visits, Emily Lawton became Mrs. Dayton ; and she, with Mrs. Brandon, was removed to an elegantly furnished house in the city. Yet, with all its ele gance, Mrs. Brandon, who had been accustomed to rural simplicity, did not feel happy except when in her own room, which Edward had ordered to be furnished in a style answering her own wishes. Messrs. Dayton and Treves had been highly successful in their business operations ; and, enjoying as they did the patronage of the elite of the city, they, with but little stretch of their imaginative powers, could see a fortune at no great distance. Becoming acquainted with a large number of persons of wealth, they were present at very many of the winter enter tainments ; and, being invited to drink, they had not courage to refuse, and did not wish to act so ungentcel and uncivil. Others drank ; and some loved their rum, and would have it. Edward had taken many steps since the events of our last chapter; yet, thought he, "I drink moderately." THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 63 There was to be a great party. A musical prodigy, in the shape of a child of ten years, had arrived, and the leaders of fashion had agreed upon having a grand entertainment on the occasion. Great was the activity and bustle displayed, and in no place more than at the store of Dayton and Treves. As ill- luck would have it, Kalph had been absent a week on one of his drunken sprees, and his employers were obliged to procure another to fill his place. The event was to take place at the house of a distinguished city officer ; and, as Messrs. Dayton and Treves were to pro vide refreshment, their time was fully occupied. The papers were filled with predictions concerning it ; and the editors, happy fellows, were in ecstasies of joy on account of having been invited to attend. Nor were Messrs. Day ton arid Treves forgotten ; but lengthy eulogies upon their abilities to perform the duty assigned them occupied promi nent places, and " steamboat disasters," "horrid murders," and "dreadful accidents," were obliged to make room for these. In the course of human events the evening came. Hacks were in demand, and the rattling of wheels and the falling of carriage-steps were heard till near midnight. The chief object of attraction was a small boy, who had attained considerable proficiency in musical knowledge, not of any particular instrument, but anything and everything ; consequently a large assortment of instruments had been col lected, upon which he played. As music had called them together, it was the employment of the evening, and the hour of midnight had passed when they were summoned to the tables. Those gentlemen who desired had an apartment to them selves, where wine and cigars circulated freely. Some, in a short time, became excited ; whilst others, upon whom the 64 TOWN AND COUNTRY. same cause had a different effect, became stupid. One poor fellow, whose bloated countenance told a sad tale, lay almost senseless; another sat dreamingly over his half-filled gl;i>s. whilst another excited the risibilities of not a few by his ineffectual attempts to light his cigar. Our hero, like his companions, was a little overcome by too frequent potations from the bottle. It was a sad sight to a reflective mind. The majority were young men, whose eyes had been blinded to the danger they were in, by adhering to a foolish and injurious custom. As hour passed hour, they became more excited, until a high state of enthusiasm existed. * ***** All the ladies had retired, except one, and she strove hard to conceal her rising sorrow by forced smiles ; yet she could not restrain her feelings, her heart seemed bursting with grief. In vain did officious servants seek to know the cause. To the inquiries of the lady of the house she made no reply. She dare not reveal the secret which pierced her very soul ; but, burying her face in her hands, seemed resolved upon not being comforted. Finally, yielding to the persuasive influ ence of Mrs. Venet, she expressed her fears that Edward had tarried too long at the bowl. Mrs. Venet tried to comfort her by saying that, if what she so much feared was true, yet it was nothing uncommon ; and mentioned several men, and not a few ladies, who had been carried away in a senseless condition. These words did not comfort her ; on the contrary, they increased her fears, and led her to believe that there was more danger at such parties than there was generally thought to be; and the fact that Edward had often attended such parties increased her sorrow, for she knew not but that he had been among that number of whom Mrs. Venet spolce. Imagination brought to her view troubles and trials as her THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 65 future lot ; and last, not least, the thought of Edward's tem perament, and of how easily he might be led astray, rested heavily upon her heart. Mrs. Venet at length left her, and repaired to the gentleman's apartment, in order to learn the cause of his delay. She knocked at the door. " Who in the devil 's there, with that thundering racket?" inquired a loud voice. " It is Mrs. Venet," replied the lady. " 0, it is, is it ? Well, madam, Dayton the confectioner^ and a dozen jovial souls, are having a rare time here. Put that down in your memorandum-book, and leave us to our meditations." " Yes, and these to profit and loss," said another, and the breaking of glasses was heard. . " If Mr. Dayton is within, tell him his lady is waiting for him," said Mrs. Venet. " Ed, your wife 's waiting," said one of the party. " Then, friends, I I I must go," said the inebriated man, who, though badly intoxicated, had not wholly forgotten her. His companions endeavored to have him remain, but in vain. He unbolted the door, and, leaving, closed it upon them. Mrs. Venet, who was standing without, laid hold of his coat, and, knowing the excited state of Mrs. Dayton, and fearing that the appearance of her husband would be too much for her to bear, endeavored to induce him not to enter the room, or, at least, to wait until he had recovered from the effects of his drinking. He appeared rational for a while, but, suddenly breaking away, shouted. " Emily, where are you?" The sound of his voice resounded through the building, 6* 66 TOWN AND COUNTRY. and his drunken companions, hearing it, made the building echo with their boisterous laughter. He ran through the entries gazing wildly around, and loudly calling for his tfffe. The servants, hearing the tumult, hastened to the spot ; but neither they nor Mrs. Venet could induce him to be come quiet. The latter, finding she could have no influence upon him, repaired to the room in which she left Mrs. Dayton, and found her senseless upon the floor, and to all appearances dead. She had heard his wild cries, and what she had so much feared she then knew to be true. Mrs. Venet rang for the servants, and ordered some restora tives. These were soon obtained, and by their free use she had nearly recovered, when her husband rushed into the room. Upon seeing his wife, the raging lion became as docile as a lamb. A sudden change came over him ; he seemed to realize the truth, and it sent an arrow to his soul. Again the injured wife fainted, and again the restoratives were faithfully applied; but it was evident that if Mr. Dayton remained in her presence it would be difficult to restore her, and the man who before would not be approachec^ was led quietly away. In a short time Mrs. Dayton became sensible, and her first words were to inquire after Edward. Being told, she was induced to lie down, and, if possible, enjoy a little sleep ; but sleep she could not. Her mfnd became almost delirious, and fears were entertained by her attend ants that she would lose her reason. The effects of Edward's carousal were entirely dissipated by the sudden realization of the truth. To Mrs. Dayton this was an hour of the deepest sorrow. She looked back upon the past, and saw happiness ; in the future nothing but misery seemed to await her. Yet a change THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 67 came over her ; she thanked God for his past mercies, and wisely trusted him for their continuance. She implored pardon for past ingratitude, and prayed that she might be more grateful in future, and that, having tasted of the cup of sorrow, she might not drink the bitter draught. CHAPTER VII. The next morning Edward repented of his crime, and in his inmost soul felt it to be such, a crime of deepest dye. Emily wept as she bent over him-. " Cease thy tears," said he, " and forgive; it is but that word, spoken by thee, that can send peace to my soul. Yet what peace dim I expect ? I have wronged thee ! " and the wretched man wep* like a child. New thoughts continually sprang into existence, the days of his youth, the bliss of home, and his present situa tion. He felt disgraced ; how should he redeem his char acter? " 0, that the grave would hide me," continued Edward, " and that in death I might forget this crime ! But no ! I cannot forget it ; it will cling to me through life, and the future " He would have said more, but the strong emotions of his soul choked his utterance. He arose and paced the room in agony of feeling which pen cannot, describe. Suddenly halting, he gazed steadfastly upon the face of his wife. It was deadly pale, and a tear dimmed the usual lustre of her eye. " Comfort thyself," said he; "no further evil shall come upon thee. It shall never be said you are a drunkard's wife, no, no, no, never ! " " Let us, then, forget the past," said Mrs. Dayton. "What! forget those days when I had not tasted? 0, 68 TOWN AND COUNTRY. misery indeed, if I cannot retain their remembrance ! " said Edward. " Not so, Edward; we would remember those, but forget the evil that has befallen us, all will be well." " Do you can you forgive ? " " God will forgive ; and shall not I ] " "Then let this be a pledge of the future ;" and, taking her hand in his, he said, " I resolve to walk in the path of right, and never more to wander, God being my witness and my strength." " } T is well thou hast pledged thyself," said she ; " but know thou the tempter is on every side. Should the wine- cup touch thy lips, dash it aside, and proclaim yourself a pledged man." " I will ! " was the response, and, taking a pen, he boldly placed his name to the following pledge : " PLEDGE. We pledge ourselves to abstain from the use of all intoxicating drinks, except the moderate use of wine, beer and cider." Such was the pledge to which he affixed his name, and such the pledge by which men of those days endeavored to stay the tide of intemperance. Did not every man who signed that pledge himself to become a moderate drinker ; and is not every moderate drinker pledged to become a drunkard ? What a pledge ! Yet we should not blame the men of former years for pursuing a course which they con scientiously thought to be right. That was the first step. It was well as far as it led ; but it paused at the threshold of the ark of safety, and there its disciples fell. They had not seen, as have men of late years, the ruinous tendency of such a course ; and knew not, as we now do, that total absti nence is the only sure course. The pledge Edward had signed was no preventive in his THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 69 case. IJe had tasted ; in fact, he had become a lover of strong drink : and the temptation of having it constantly beside him, and daily dealing it out to others, was too strong for him to resist. When he drank, he did think, as Emily had bade him, that he was a pledged man ; but that pledge permitted him to drink wine. The remedy such a pledge applied was of no avail. It failed to reach the fountain-head, and strove to stop the stream by placing slight resistances in its way. A long time must elapse before a man can know the heart of his fellow-man, if, indeed, it can ever be known ; and it was not until Edward had become addicted to habits of intem perance that he discovered the professed friendship of Mr. Treves to. be insincere. Words of warning seldom came from his lips. What cared he if Edward did fall ? Such being the case, the business would come into his own hands ; and such " a consummation devoutly to be wished " it was' very evident that if Edward did not soon reform was not far distant. Now Emily Dayton began to experience anxious days and sleepless nights, and Mrs. Brandon begged of Edward to reform. Often he would do so. He would sign that pledge ; but it was like an attempt to stay a torrent with a straw. That pledge ! 't was nothing ! yea, worse than nothing ! yfc "% -TV -rr -TV TV Six months of sorrowing passed, and what a change we behold ! Experience has shown to Edward that the use of brandy is dangerous, and good dame Brandon has been led to believe that there are temptations in the city which she little thought of. Edward, driven from his business, revels in bar-rooms, and riots at midnight ; whilst the patient, uncomplaining, endur ing Emily, forced by creditors from her former home, finds shelter from the storm in a small tenement ; where, by the 70 TOWN AND COUNTRY. aid of her needle, she is enabled to support herself and aged aunt, whilst a prattling infant plays at her side, and, laugh ing in its childish sports, thinks not of the sorrows it was born to encounter, and knows not the sad feelings of its mother's wounded heart. CHAP TE R VIII . In a low, damp, dark cellar, behold a man washing the glasses of a groggery. His ragged dress and uncombed hair, his shabby and dirty appearance, do not prevent us from seeing indications of his once having been in better circum stances, and that nature never designed that he should be where he now is. Having rinsed a few cracked tumblers, he sat down beside a red-hot cylinder stove, and, bending over till his head rested upon his hands, he, in a half-audible voice, talked to himself. " Here 't is, eighteen forty some years since I saw that Dayton cove ; eh, gone by the board ? The daily papers say he was up for a common drunkard; but, being first time, was lectured and sent home. Plaguy poor home his, I reckon ! Wonder if the lecture did him as much good as Old Batter's did me. Ah ! he liked that brandy, and said I should bear the blame if he was ruined ; but he an't that yet. Here I am, ten times worse off than he is, and / an't ruined. No ! Mr. Dago Pump is a man yet. Well, well ! what shall I say ? business awful dull, and it 's damp and dark here ; I feel cold 'side of this red-faced stove." Mr. Onendago Pump poked the fire, and continued to do so till a ragged little boy, without shoes, stockings or cap, came down the slippery steps, and asked for " two cents' worth of rum, and one cent's worth of crackers." The proprietor of this subterraneous establishment threw aside an old wire that served as a poker, and demanded pay- THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 71 ment in advance. The child handed him the three cents, received his rum and crackers, and left. Mr. Pump, who for a long time had lived on appearances, could do so no longer ; for, persisting in his opinion that brandy could not hurt him, he drank so much that bad soon supplanted good appearances, and his company was soon discarded. Mr. Blinge would not have him about his premises, although the one drank as much as the other, and a great similarity existed between them. He was turned out of the tavern, and, having purchased four shillings' worth of brandy, commenced business in the cellar we have alluded to, replenishing his stock by daily applying to a neighboring pump ; and, for every gill of brandy he drew from the tap, poured a gill of water in at the bung, and thus kept up a stock in trade. In a short time, a collection of drinking loafers met daily at his place, and Dago Pump could see no difference between his respectability as proprietor of a bar-room, and his who, being owner of thousands, fitted up " oyster saloons," which places had suddenly sprung up in all large cities. Edward had fallen ; he had become what was termed a " common drunkard." His wife wept tears of anguish; she entreated ; she begged him to reform. She prayed to Heaven for its aid ; yet week passed week, month followed month, on Time's unending course, and she was a drunkard's wife still. All friends had forsaken her. Friends ! shall we call them such ? No ; they did not deserve the name. Their friend ship only had an existence when fortune smiled ; when a frown, mantled its countenance, or a cloud intervened, they fled. Yet God was raising up friends for her, and from a class of society from whom she little expected aid. Gorth once more a free man. He had obtained the best of counsel, by whose advice he selected, from twenty-five jurors, twelve, whose verdict was to seal his fate. The trial commenced. A deep silence prevailed, broken only by the voice of the government officer, who briefly stated an outline of the facts, to wit : " That murder and rob bery had been committed ; that a young man was seen hastily leaving the spot upon which the crime was committed ; tljat the appearance of the defendant was precisely that of the BETTER THAN GOLD. . 219 person thus seen ; said he should not enter into an examina tion of the previous character of the prisoner, giving as a reason that a man may live long as a person of unquestion able character, and after all yield to some strong temptation and fall from the standard of excellence he had hitherto at tained ; he should present all the facts that had come to his knowledge, tending to substantiate the charge, and would leave it to the prisoner and his counsel to undermine the evi dence he presented, and to prove the accused innocent, if possible ; all that he should do would be to attempt to prove him guilty ; if he failed to do so a verdict must be rendered accordingly." Having said this, he called upon his witnesses. Those who first discovered the outrage were called and testi fied to what they saw. John Smith was next called, and gave in as evidence what has before been stated ; at the close of a strict cross-examination he returned to his seat. His son Levi was next called, and stated that his father was out the night he himself stated he was ; he went out about half- past six or seven ; did not say where he was going, or how long he should be out ; he came home about eleven. Prisoner's counsel here inquired whether it was usual, upon his father's going out, to state where he was going or when he should return. He answered in the afiirmative. This was all the knowledge Levi Smith had of the affair, and with this the evidence for the government closed. The counsel for the defendant stated, in the opening, that all he should attempt to prove would be the bad character of the principal witness, John Smith, and the unexceptionable character of the prisoner. He would prove that the reputa tion of Smith for truth and veracity was bad, and that there fore no reliance could be placed upon his statements. He should present the facts as they were, and leave it to them to say whether his client was innocent or guilty. A person by the name of Renza was first called, who 220 TOWN AND COUNTRY. stated that for about two years he had resided in the house with the prisoner; that he esteemed him as a friend ; that the prisoner had treated him as a brother, had never seen any thing amiss in his conduct, at night he came directly home from his place of business, was generally in at nine, seldom out later than ten, remembered the night in question, thought he was in about ten, but was not certain on that point, had been acquainted with John Smith for a number of years, had not said much to him during that time, had often seen him walking about the streets, had known him to be quarrelsome and avaricious, easily provoked, and rather lacking in good principle. After a few cross-questions the witness took his seat. Seven others were called, whose testimony was similar to the above, placing the evidence of the principal government witness in rather a disagreeable light. The evidence being in on both sides, the prisoner's counsel stood forth to vindi cate the innocence of Castello. For three hours he faith fully advocated the cause, dwelt long upon the reputation of Smith, and asked whether a man should be convicted upon such rotten evidence. He brought to light the character of Smith, and that of Castello ; placed them in contrast, and bade them judge for themselves. He wished to inquire why Smith, when he heard the terrible scream, when he saw a per son running from the place Whence the sound proceeded, why, when he heard and beheld a|i this, he did not make an alarm; why did Smith keep it a secret, and not till nine days had elapsed make this known 1 " Perhaps he would reply," ar gued the counsel, ' ' that he did not wish to suspect any per son, fearing the person suspected might be the wrong one : if so, why did he not inform of the person he saw running } If he was not the doer of the deed, perhaps he might relate something that would lead to the detection of him who was. Beside, if he had doubts whether it was right to inform then, BETTER THAN GOLD. 221 w.hy does he do so now with so much eagerness ? It would be natural for one, after hearing such fearful noises, after seeing what he testifies to having seen, to have related it to some one ; but no Smith keeps all this important informa tion treasured up, and not till two weeks had nearly passed does he disclose it. But, gentlemen, I have my doubts as to the truth of John's evidence. It is my firm belief that he never saw a person running from that house ; he might have heard the noise - 1 will not dispute that. I believe his story has been cut and dried for the occasion, and surely nine days and nights have afforded him ample time to do so. The brains of an ox could concoct such ideas in nine days. Now comes the inquiry, why should he invent such a story 1 Of what benefit can it be to him to appear in a crowded court room? Gentlemen, I confess myself unable to give you his reasons ; to him and to his God they are only known. The veil which, in my opinion, now shrouds -this affair, will some day be withdrawn, and we shall know the truth, even as it is." The defence here closed. The office* for the prosecution now arose, and with equal faithfulness and ability argued his side of the question. He thought the reasons why Snith had not before informed were full and explicit; and, as to the testimony of the eight as to the past good character of the prisoner, he saw no reason why a man should be always good because for two or more years he had been so. A great temptation was presented; he was young perhaps at the moment regardless of the result, the penalty of the crime ; he did not resist, but yielded ; and as to the argument of the learned counsel, that Mr. S. did not see what he testifies to have seen, it is useless to refute such an unfounded allega tion. Can you suppose Smith to be benefited by this pros- ^cution further than to see justice have its dues ? Settle it then in your minds that Mr. Smith did actually see all he 10* 222 TOWN AND COUNTRY. says he did. We come next to the description given by Smith of the man seen. He said he was short in stature, and wearing a fur cap. Look at the prisoner, is he not short ? and the testimony of two of the previous witnesses distinctly affirm that for the past six weeks he has worn a fur cap. What more evidence do you want to prove his guilt ? The prosecuting officer here closed. We have given but a faint outline of his remarks ; they were forcible and to the point. It was near the dusk of the second day's trial that the judge arose to charge the jury. He commented ratlier severely upon the attempt to impeach the character of Smith. His address was not lengthy, and in about thirty minutes the jury retired, while a crowded audience anxiously Availed their return. It was not till the rays of the morning sun began to be seen that it Avas rumored that they had arrived at a decision and Avould soon enter. All Avas silent as the tomb. The prisoner, although aAvare that his life was at slake, sat in great composure, .frequently holding com-erse with his friends Avho gathered around. How anxiously all eves Avere turned towards the door by Avhich they were to enter. Avish- ing, yet dreading, to hear the final set-ret ! The interest of all watched their movements and seemed to read arquittul upon each juror's face. The prisoner arose, the foreman and he looking each other in the face. The clerk put the ques tion, "Guilty, or not guilty?" The ticking of the clock was distinctly heard. " Guilty ! " responded the foreman. A verdict so unexpected by all could not be received in silence, and, as Avith one voice, the multitude shouted "False! false! FALSE ! " With great difficulty were they silenced and restrained from rescuing the prisoner, who, though greatly disappointed, heard the verdict without much agit;i- . tion. Innocent, he was convinced that justice would finally BETTER THAN GOLD. 223 triumph, though injustice for a moment might seem to have the ascendency. One week had passed. Sentence had been pronounced upon the young Italian, and, notwithstanding the strenuous efforts his friends made for his pardon, he was committed to prison to await the arrival of that day when innocence should suffer in the place of guilt, and he should by the rough hands of the law be unjustly dragged to the gallows, and meet his death at so wretched a place ; yet far better was it for him, and of this was he aware, to be led to that place free from the blood of all men, than to proceed there a guilty criminal, his hands dyed in the warm blood of a fellow-creature, pointed out as a murderer, and looked upon but with an eye of condemnation. He was certain that in the breasts of hundreds a spark, yea, a burning flame, of pity shone for him, that he met not his death uncared for, that many a tear would flow in pity for him, and that he would wend his way to the scaffold com forted by the consciousness of his innocence, and consoled by many dear friends. The day had arrived for the execution, and crowds of people flocked to the spot to gratify their love of sight-seeing to allay their curiosity even though that sight were nothing less than the death of a fellow-being. Crowds had assem bled. A murder had been, committed, and now another was to follow. To be sure it was to be executed " according to law," but that law was inspired with the spirit of revenge. Its motto was "blood for blood." It forgot the precepts of Christ, "forgive your enemies;" and that that which is a wrong when committed by one in secret, is no less a wrong when committed by many, or by their sanction, in public. The condemned stood upon the death-plank, yet he hoped justice would be done. "Hope!" what a cheering word ! 'twill nerve man for every trial. Yes, Castello hoped, and relied 224 TOWN AND COUNTRY. upon that kind arm that had hitherto supported him, and had enabled him to bear up under an accumulated mass of afflic tion. He had a full consciousness of innocence, and to the oft-repeated inquiry as to his state of mind he replied, "I am innocent, and that truth is to me better than gold." It lacks but five minutes of the appointed time now but three but two. But yonder the crowd seem excited. What is the cause of the sudden movement? But a few moments since and all were silently gazing at the centre of attraction, the scaffold. Lo, a messenger, breathless with haste, shout ing " INNOCENT! INNOCENT! INNOCENT!" and a passage is made for him to approach, whilst thousands inquire the news. He answers not, save by that shrill shout, " INNO CENT ! " and pressing forward touches the gallows just as Castello is about to be launched forth. The stranger ascends the steps and begs that the execution may be deferred, at least until he can relate some recent disclosures. His wish is granted, and he speaks nearly as follows : " The testimony of the principal witness was doubted. Last night I remained at the house of Smith. Owing to the great excitement I did not retire to rest, and sat in a room adjoin ing that in which Smith lodged. About midnight I heard a voice in that room. I went to the door, and, fearing he was sick and desired aid, I entered. He was asleep, and did not awake upon my entering, but continued talking. I thought it strange, and thinking I might be amused, and having nothing else to do, I sat and listened. He spoke in some what this manner, and you may judge of my surprise while I listened : " ' I 'm rich ; too bad Pedro should die ; but I 'm rich ; no matter, I 'm rich. Kings kill their millions for a little money. I only kill one man ; in six months 't will be for gotten ; then I '11 go to the bank of earth back of the red mill and get the gold ; I placed it there safe, and safe it is. BETTER -THAN GOLD. 225 Ha, ha! I made that story in nine days so I did, and might have made it in less ; let him die. But supposing I should be detected ; then it may be that I shall find that Pedro is right when he says there is something better than gold. But I am in no danger. The secret is in my own heart, locked up, and no one has the key but myself; so cheer thee, my soul, I 'm safe ! and yet I don't feel right. I shall feel, when Pedro dies, that I kill him ; but why should I care ? I, who have killed one, may kill another !' " After waiting some time, and hearing no more, I hastened to the spot he had alluded to, for the purpose of satisfying myself whether what he had ramblingly spoken of was truth or fancy. After searching the hill for over an hour, I found a stone, or rather stumbled against it ; I threw it aside, so that others might not stumble over it as I had, when to my astonishment I found it to be a large flat one, beneath which I found a collection of bags and boxes, which upon opening I found filled with gold and silver coin, and in each box a small paper, one of which I hold in my hand ; all are alike, and written upon each are these words : "'This gold and silver is the property of Pedan, who enjoyed it but little himself; he leaves it to posterity, and hopes that they may find more pleasure and more satisfaction in its use than he ever did.' " Not content with this, I pushed my researches still fur ther, and, having taken out all the bags and boxes, I found this knife, all bloody as you see it, and this hatchet in nearly the same condition. Now I ask if it is not the course of justice to delay the execution of this young man until more examinations can be made?" The executioner obeyed the mandate of the sheriff, and stayed his avenging hand. " Better than gold ! " shouted the prisoner, and sank help less upon the platform. 226 TOWN AND COUNTRY. That day John Smith was arrested, and, being bluntly charged with the murder, confessed all. Castello was imme diately released, and went forth a free man. In four weeks Smith was no more of earth ; he had paid the penalty of his crimes, and died not only a murderer but a perjured man. The next Sabbath the pastor of the church discoursed upon the subject, and an indescribable thrill pervaded the hearts of some of the people as they repeated the "words, " Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us." GONE AWAY. HERE, where now are mighty cities, Once the Indians' wigwam stood ; their council-fires illumined, Far and near, the tangled wood. Here, on many a grass-grown border, Then they met, a happy throng ; Rock and hill and valley sounded With the music of their song. Now they are not, they have vanished, And a voice doth seem to say, Unto him who waits and listens, " Gone away, gone away." Yonder in those valleys gathered Many a sage in days gone by ; Thence the wigwam's smoke ascended, Slowly, peacefully, on high. Indian mothers thus their children Taught around the birchen fire, " Look ye up to the great Spirit ! To his hunting-grounds aspire." Now those fires are all extinguished ; Fire and wigwam, where are they ? Hear ye not those voices whispering, " Gone away, gone away ! " Here the Indian girl her tresses Braided with a maiden's pride ; Here the lover woped and won her, On Tri-mountain's grassy side. Here they roamed from rock to river, Mountain peak and hidden cave ; 228 TOWN AND COUNTRY. Here the light canoe they paddled * O'er the undulating wave. All have vanished ; lovers, maidens, Meet not on these hills to-day, But unnumbered voices whisper, " Gone away, gone away ! " " Gone away ! " Yes, where the waters Of the Mississippi roll, And Niagara's ceaseless thunders With their might subdue the sul, Now the noble Indian standeth Gazing at the eagle's flight, Conscious that the great good Spirit Will accomplish all things right. Though like forest-leaves they 're passing, They who once held boundless sway, And of them 't will soon be written, " Gone away, gone away ! " As they stand upon the mountain, And behold the white man press Onward, onward, never ceasing, Mighty in his earnestness ; As they view his temples rising, And his white sails dot the seas, And his myriad thousands gathering, Hewing down the forest trees ; Thus they muse : " Let them press onward, Not far distant is the day When of them a voice shall whisper, ' Gone away", gone away ! ' ' LINES TO MY WIFE. THOU art ever standing near me, In wakeful hours and dreams ; Like an angel-one, attendant On life and all its themes ; TO MY WIFE. 229 And though I wander from thee, In lands afar away, I dream of thee at night, and wake To think of thee by day. In the morning, when the twilight, Like a spirit kind and true, Comes with its gentle influence, It whispereth of you. For I know that thou art present, With love that seems to be A band to bind me willingly To heaven and to thee. At noon-day, when the tumult and The din of life is heard, "When in life's battle each heart is With various passions stirred, I turn me from the blazonry, The fickleness of life, And think of thee in earnest thought, My dearest one my wife ! When the daylight hath departed, And shadows of the night Bring forth the stars, as beacons fair For angels in their flight, I think of thee as ever mine, Of thee as ever best, And turn my heart unto thine own, To seek its wonted rest. Thus ever thou art round my path, And doubly dear thou art When, with my lips pressed to thine own, I feel thy beating heart. And through the many joys and griefs, The lights and shades of life, It will be joy to call thee by The holy name of " wife ! " 20 230 TOWN AND COUNTRY. I love thee for thy gentleness, I love thee for thy truth ; I love thee for thy joyousness, Thy buoyancy of youth I love thee for thy soul that soars Above earth's sordid pelf; And last, not least, above these all, I love thee for thyself. Now come to me, my dearest, Place thy hand in mine own ; Look in mine eyes, and see how deep My love for thee hath grown ; And I will press thee to my heart, Will call thee " my dear wife," And own that thou art all my joy And happiness of life. CHEER UP. CHEER up, cheer up, my own fair one ! Let gladness take the place of sorrow ; Clouds shall not longer hide the sun, There is, there is a brighter morrow ! 'T is coming fast. I see its dawn. See ! look you, how it gilds the mountain ! We soon shall mark its happy morn, Sending its light o'er stream and fountain. My bird sings with a clearer note ; He seems to know our hopes are brighter, And almost tires his little throat To let us know his heart beats lighter. I wonder if he knows how dark The clouds were when they gathered o'er us ! TRUST THOU IN GOD. 231 No matter, gayly as a lark He sings that bright paths are before us. So cheer thee up, my brightest, best ! For clear 's the sky, and fair 's the weather. Since hand in hand we 've past the test, Hence heart in heart we '11 love together. TRUST THOU IN GOD TRUST thou in God ! he '11 guide thee When arms of flesh shall fail ; With every good provide thee, And make his grace prevail. Where danger most is found, There he his power discloseth ; And 'neath his arm, Free from all harm, The trusting soul reposeth. Trust thou in God, though sorrow Thine earthly hopes destroy ; To him belongs the morrow, And he will send thee joy. When sorrows gather near, Then he '11 delight to bless thee ! When all is joy, Without alloy, Thine earthly friends caress thee. Trust thou in God ! he reigneth The Lord of lords on high ; His justice he maintaineth In his unclouded sky. To triumph Wrong may seem, 232 TOWN AND COUNTRY. The day, yet justice winncth, And from the earth Shall songs of niirth Rise, when its sway beginneth. "When friends grow faint and weary, When thorns are on thy way, When life to thee is dreary, When clouded is thy day, Then put thy trust in God, Hope on, and hoping ever ; Give him thy heart, Nor seek to part The love which none can sever THE MINISTRATION OF SORROW, THERE 's sorrow in thy heart to-day, There 's sadness on thy brow ; For she, the loved, hath passed away, And thou art mourning now. The eye that once did sparkle bright, The hand that pressed thine own. No more shall gladden on thy sight, Thy cherished one hath flown. And thou didst love her -well, 't is true ; Now thou canst love her more, Since she hath left this world, and you, On angel wings' to soar Above the world, its ceaseless strilr, Its turmoil and its care, To enter on eternal life, And reign in glory there. O, let this thought now cheer thy soul, And bid thy tears depart ; ' THE MINISTRATION OF SORROW. 233 A few more days their course shall roll, Thou 'It meet, no more to part. No more upon thine ear shall fall, The saddening word " farewell " No more a parting hour, but all In perfect union dwell. This world is not the home of man ; Death palsies with its gloom, Marks out his life-course but a span, And points him to the tomb ; But, thanks to Heaven, 't is but the gate By which we enter bliss ; Since such ajife our spirits wait, 0, cheer thy soul in this, And let the sorrow that doth press Thy spirit down to-day So minister that it may bless Thee on thy pilgrim way ; And as thy friends shall, one by one, Leave earth above to dwell, Say thou to God, " Thy will be done, Thou doest all things well. ' ' 20* GIVING PUBLICITY TO BUSINESS. FROM the earliest ages of society some means have been resorted to whereby to give publicity to business which would otherwise remain in comparative privacy. The earliest of modes adopted was the crying of names in the streets ; and before the invention of printing men were employed to trav erse the most frequented thoroughfares, to stand in the mar ket-places and other spots of resort, and, with loud voices, proclaim their message to the people. This mode is not alto gether out of use at the present time ; yet it is not generally considered a desirable one, inasmuch as it does not accom plish its purpose so readily or completely as any one of the numerous other methods resorted to. Since the invention of printing, handbills, posters, and newspapers, have been the principal channels of communica tion between the inside of the dealer's shop and the eye of the purchaser, and from that to the inside of his purse. So advantageous have these modes' been found, that it is a rare thing to find a single individual who does not, either on a large or small scale, rein the press into the path he travels, and make its labor conducive to the profits of his own. England and France have taken the lead in this mode of giving publicity to business ; but the United States, with its unwillingness to be beat in any way, on any terms, has made such rapid strides of late in this enterprise, that the English lion will be left in the rear, and the French eagle far in the background. GIVING PUBLICITY TO BUSINESS. 235 In London many curious devices have been used or proposed. Of these was that of a man who wished to prepare a sort of bomb-shell, to be filled with cards or bills, which, on reaching a certain elevation above the city, would explode, and thus scatter these carrier doves of information in all conceivable directions. In that city, butchers, bakers, and fishmongers, receive quite an income from persons who wish their cards attached to the various cormnodities in which they deal. Thus, a person receiving a fish, a loaf, or a piece of meat, finds the advertisement of a dealer in silks and satins attached to the tail of the fish : that of an auction sale of domestic flannels wrapped around the loaf; and perhaps flattering notices of a compound for the extermination of rats around the meat. In the evening, transparencies are carried about the streets, suspended across the public ways, or hung upon the walls. In this country, no person has taken the lead of a famous doctor in the way of advertising. Nearly every paper in the Union was one-fourth filled with ably-written articles in praise of his compound. In fact, he published papers of his own, the articles in which were characterized by the "one idea principle," and that one idea was contained in a bottle of Dr. 's save all and cure all, "none true but the genuine," "warranted not to burst the bottles or become sour." In addition to these, he issued an almanac millions of them bearing glad tidings to the sick and credulous, and sad tidings to the " regulars " in the medical fraternity. These alma nacs were distributed everyAvhere. They came down on the American people like rain-drops. The result was, as we all know, the doctor flourished in a fortune equal to his fame, and disposed of his interest in the business, a few years since, for one hundred thousand dollars. The amount of capital invested in advertising is very great, some firms expending thousands of dollars monthly in this 236 TOWN ;.A T D COUNTRY. mode of making known their business. It has been truly said that a card in a newspaper, that costs but a few dollars, is of far more value than costly signs over one's door. The former thousands behold, and are directed to your place of business ; the latter very few notice who do not know the fact it makes known before they see it. Attracted by the good fortune of those who have advertised, nearly every one has adopted the means that led to it, and the advertising system has become universal. We have been seated in a car, waiting impatiently for the sound of the "last bell," when a person in a brown linen coat entered with an armful of books, and gave to each pas senger a copy, without a hint about pay. Thanking him for the gift, and astonished at his generosity, we proceeded to open it, when "Wonderful cures," "Consumption," " Scrof ula," "Indigestion," and "Fits," greeted our eyes on every page. Illustrated, too ! Here was represented a man appar ently dying, and near by a figure that would appear to be a woman were it not for two monstrous wings on its back, throwing obstacles in the way of death in the shape of a two- quart bottle of sarsaparilla syrup. Presumptive man in a brown linen coat, to suppose that we, just on the eve of a pleasure excursion, are troubled with such complaints, and stand in need of such a remedy ! You buy a newspaper, go home, seat yourself, and, in the anticipation of a glorious intellectual feast, open its damp pages, when, lo and behold ! a huge show-bill falls from its embrace, and you are informed of the consoling truth that you can have all your teeth drawn for a trifle, and a new set inserted at a low price, by a distinguished dentist from London. The bill is indignantly thrown aside, and you commence reading ah article under the caption of " An interesting incident," which, when half finished, you find to refer to a young lady whose complexion was made beautiful by the free use of GIVING PUBLICITY TO BUSINESS. 237 " Chaulks Poudres," a box of which can be obtained at 96 Azure-street, for 25 cts. After reading another column, headed ' An act of mercy," you find at its close a most pathetic appeal to your tender sensibilities in an affectionate request for you to call on Dr. Digg and have your corns extracted Avithout pain. Despairing of finding the "intellect ual treat," you lay the paper aside, and resolve upon taking a walk. Before you are monstrous show-bills, emblazoned with large letters and innumerable exclamation-points. Above you, flaunting flags with flaming notices. Beneath you, marble slabs inscribed with the names of traders and their goods. Around you, boys with their arms full of printed notices, and men encased with boards on which are mammoth posters. Sick of seeing these, you close your eyes; but you don't escape so easily : a dinner-bell is rung in your ears, and a voice, if not like mighty thunder, at least like an embryo earthquake, pro claims an auction sale, a child lost, or news for the afflicted. And thus it is, the world is one great Babel. All is busi ness, business, and we ask for " some vast wilderness " in which to lie down ancLget cool, and keep quiet. In Paris, the people long since adopted a plan which has not yet come in vogue among us. A long story is written ; in the course of this story, a dozen or more establishments receive the author's laudations, which are so ingeniously interwoven, that the reader is scarcely aware of the design. For instance, Marnetta is going to an evening party. In the morning she goes out, and is met by a sprig of gentility, a young man of fashion, who cannot allow her to omit entering the-unrivalled store of Messrs. Veuns, where the most beau tiful silks, etc., are to be seen and purchased. Leaving this, she next encounters a young lady acquaintance of pru dent and economical habits, by whom "our heroine" is led into a store where beauty and elegance are combined with 238 TOWN AND COUNTRY. durability and a low price. She wishes perfumery ; so she hastens to Viot & Sons ; for none make so good as they, and the fragrance of their store has been wafted on the winds of all nations. Thus is the story led on from one step to another, -with its interest not in the least abated, to the end. This embraces "puffery," as it is called. And, while on this subject, we may as well bring up the following specimen of this species of advertising. It was written by Peter Seguin, on the occa sion of the first appearance in Dublin of the celebrated Mrs. Siddons. It caused much merriment at the time among some, while in others, who could not relish a joke, it excited anger. ' ' The house was crowded with hundreds more than it could hold, with thousands of admiring spectators that went away without a sight. This extraordinary phenomenon of tragic excellence ! this star of Melpomene ! this comet of the stage ! this sun of the firmament of the Muses ! this moon of blank verse ! this queen arch-princess of tears ! this Donnellan of the poisoned bowl ! this empress of the pistol and dagger ! this child of Shakspeare ! this world of weeping clouds ! this Juno of commanding aspects ! this Terpsicoire of the curtains and scenes ! this Proserpine of fire and earthquake ! this Katter- felto of wonders ! exceeded expectation, went beyond belief, and soared above all the natural powers of description ! She was nature itself ! she was the most exquisite work of art ! She was the very daisy, primrose, tuberose, sweet-brier, furze-blossom, gillifiower, wallflower, cauliflower, aurica and rosemary ! In short, she was the bouquet of Parnassus ! Where expectation was raised so high, it was thought she would be injured by her appearance ; but it was the audience who were injured ; several fainted before the curtain drew up ! but when she came to the scene of parting with her wed ding-ring, ah ! what a sight was there ! The fiddlers in the GIVING PUBLICITY TO BUSINESS. 239 orchestra, ' albeit unused to the melting mood ! ' blubbered like hungry children crying for their bread and butter ; and when the bell rang for music between the acts, the tears ran from the bassoon player's eyes in such plentiful showers, that they choked the finger-stops, and, making a spout of the in strument, poured in such torrents on the first fiddler's book, that, not seeing the overture was in two sharps, the leader of the band actually played in one flat. But the sobs and sighs of the groaning audience, and the noise of corks drawn from the smelling-bottles, prevented the mistakes between the flats and sharps being discovered. One hundred and nine ladies fainted ! forty-six went into fits ! and ninety-five had strong hysterics ! The world will hardly credit the truth, when they are told that fourteen children, five women, one hundred tailors, and six common-council men, were actu ally drowned in the inundation of tears that flowed from the galleries, the slips and the boxes, to increase the briny pond in the pit ; the water was three feet deep, and the people that were obliged to stand upon the benches were in that position up to their ancles in tears." ' There is nothing in the present style of criticism that can exceed the above. The author actually reached the climax, and all attempts to overtop him would be useless. Of advertisements there have been many worthy of preser vation : some on account of the ingenuity displayed in their composition ; some in their wit ; some for their domesticative- ness, matrimonial offers, for example, and others for the conceitedness exposed in them, the ignorance of the writers, or the whimsicality of the matter advertised. In 1804 there was advertised in an English paper, as for sale, "The walk of a deceased blind beggar (in a charitable neighbor hood}, with his dog and staff." 240 TOWN AND COUNTRY. In the St. James Chronicle of 1772 was the following : ' ' Wanted, fifteen hundred or two thousand pounds, by a person not worth a groat ; Avho, having neither houses, lands, annuities, or public funds, can offer no other security than that of a simple bond, bearing simple interest, and engaging the repayment of the sum borrowed in five, six, or seven years, as may be agreed on by the parties," &c. We do not know whether the advertiser obtained his pounds or not, but such an advertisement, now-a-days, would draw forth a laugh much sooner than the money ; or. if "pounds" came, they would, most probably, fall upon the recipient's shoulders, instead of into his pocket. The Chinese are not behind the age in this business. The following is an instance in proof: " ACHEU TEA CHINCOEU, sculptor, respectfully acquaints masters of ships trading from Canton to India that they may be furnished with figure-heads, any size, according to order, at one-fourth of the price charged in Europe. He also rec ommends, for private venture, the following idols, brass, gold and silver : The hawk of Vishnoo, which has reliefs of his incarnation in a fish, boar, lion and bull, as worshipped by the pious followers of Zoroaster ; two silver marmosets, with gold ear-rings; an aprimanes for Persian worship; a ram, an alligator, a crab, a laughing hyena, with a variety of household idols, on a small scale, calculated for family worship. Eighteen months credit will be given, or a discount of fifteen per cent, for prompt payment, on the sum affixed to each article. Direct, Canton-street, Canton, under the marble Rhinoceros and gilt Hydra." We subjoin another, in which self-exaltation is pretty well carried out. " At the shop Tae-shing (prosperous in the extreme) GIVING PUBLICITY TO BUSINESS. 241 t very good ink ; fine ! fine ! Ancient shop, great-grandfather, grandfather, father and self, make this ink ; fine and hard, very hard ; picked with care, selected with attention. I sell very good ink ; prime cost is very great. This ink is heavy; so is gold. The eye of the dragon glitters and dazzles ; so does this ink. No one makes like it. Others who make . ink make it for the sake of accumulating base coin, cheat, while I make it only for a name. Plenty of A-kwan-tsaes (gentlemen) know my ink my family never cheated they have always borne a good name. I make ink for the ' Son of Heaven,' and all the mandarins in the empire. As the roar of the tiger extends to every place, so does the fame of the ' dragon's jewel ' (the ink). Come, all A-kwan-tsaes, come to my shop and see the sign Tae-shing at the side of the door. It is Seou-shwuy-street (Small Water-street), outside the south gate." 21 THE MISSION OF KINDNESS. Go to the sick man's chamber ; low and soft Falls on the listening ear a sweet-toned voice ; A hand as gentle as the summer breeze, Ever inclined to offices of good, Smooths o'er the sick man's pillow, and then turns To trifli the midnight lamp, moisten the lips, And, passing over, soothe the fevered brow. Thus charity finds place in woman's heart ; And woman kind, and beautiful, and good, Doth thus administer to every want, Nor wearies in her task, but labors on, And finds her joy in that which she imparts. Go to the prisoner's cell ; to-morrow's light Shall be the last on earth he e'er shall see. He mutters hate 'gainst all, and threatens ill To every semblance of the human form. Deep in his soul remorse, despair and hate, Dwell unillumined by one ray of light, And sway his spirit as the waves are swayed By wind and storm. He may have cause to hold His fellow-men as foes ; for, at the first Of his departure from an upright course, They scorned and shunned and cursed him. They sinned thus, and he, in spite for them, Kept on his sullen way from wrong to wrong. Which is the greatest sinner ? He shall say Who of the hearts of men alone is judge. Now, in his cell condemned, he waits the hour, The last sad hour of mortal life to him. THE MISSION OF KINDNESS. 243 His oaths and blasphemies he sudden stays ! He thinks he hears upon his prison door A gentle tap. 0, to his hardened heart That gentle sound a sweet remembrance brings Of better days two-score of years gone by, Days when his mother, rapping softly thus, Called him to morning prayer. Again 't is heard. Is it a dream ? Asleep ! He cannot sleep With chains around and shameful death before him ! Is it the false allurement of some foe Who would with such enticement draw him forth To meet destruction ere the appointed time ? Softened and calmed, each angry passion lulled, By a soft voice, " Come in," he trembling calls. Slow on its hinges turns the ponderous door, And " Friend," the word that falls from stranger lips. As dew on flowers, as rain on parched ground, So came the word unto the prisoner's ear. He speaks not moves not. 0, his heart is full, Too full for utterance ; and, as floods of tears Flow from his eyes so all unused to weep, He bows down low, e'en at the stranger's feet. He had not known what 't was to have a friend. The word came to him like a voice from heaven, A voice of love to one who 'd heard but hate. " Friend ! " Mysterious word to him who 'd known no friend. 0, What a power that simple word hath o'er him ! As now he holds the stranger's hand in his, And bows his head upon it, he doth seem Gentle and kind, and docile as a child. Repentance comes with kindness, goodness rears Its cross on Calvary's height, inspiring hope Which triumphs over evil and its guilt. 0, how much changed ! and all by simple words Spoken in love and kindness from the heart. , love and kindness ! matchless power have ye To mould the human heart ; where'er ye dwell There is no sorrow, but a living joy. TOWN AND COUNTRY. There is no man whom God hath placed on earth That hath not some humanity within, And is not moved with kindness joined with love. The wildest savage, from whose firelit eye Flashes the lightning passions of his soul, Who stands, and feeling that he hath been wronged, That he hath trusted and been basely used, And that to him revenge were doubly sweet, Dares all the world to combat and to death, Even he hath dwelling in his inmost heart A chord that quick will vibrate to kind words. Go unto such with kindness, not with wrath ; Let your eye look love, and 't will disarm him Of all the evil passions with which he Hath mailed his soul in terrible array. Think not to tame the wild by brutal force. As well attempt to stay devouring flames By heaping fagots on the blazing pile. Go, do man good, and the deep-hidden spark Of true divinity concealed within Will brighten up, and thou shalt see its glow, And feel its cheering warmth. 0, we lose much By calling passion's aid to vanquish wrong. We should stand within love's holy temple, And with persuasive kindness call men in, Rather than, leaving it, use other means, Unblest of God, and therefore weak and vain, To force them on before us into bliss. There is a luxury in doing good Which none but by experience e'er can know. He 's blest who doeth good. Sleep comes to him On wings of sweetest peace ; and angels meet In joyous convoys ever round his couch ; They watch and guard, protect and pray for him. All mothers tend the knee, and children too Clasp their fair hands and raise their undimmed < \i s, As if to pierce the shadowy veil that lianas Between themselves and God then pray that he Will bless with Heaven's best gifts the friend of man. A PLEA" FOR THE FALLEN. 245 A PLEA FOR THE FALLEN. PITY her, pity her ! Once she was fair N , Once breathed she sweetly the innocent's prayer ; Parents stood by in pride o'er their daughter ; Sin had not tempted, Vice had not caught her ; Hoping and trusting, believing all true, Nothing but happiness rose to her view. She, as were spoken words lovers might tell, Listened, confided, consented, and fell ! Now she 's forsaken ; nursing in sorrow, Hate for the night, despair for the morrow ! She 'd have the world think she 's happy and gay, - A butterfly, roving wherever it may ; Sipping delight from each rose-bud and flower, Tlie charmed and the charmer of every hour. She will not betray to the world all her grief ; She knows it is false, and will give.no relief. She knows that its friendship is heartless and cold ; That it loves but for gain, and pities for gold ; That when in their woe the fallen do cry, It turns, it forsakes, and it leaves them to die ! But after the hour of the world's bright show, When hence from her presence flatterers go ; When none are near to praise or caress her, No one stands by with fondness to bless her ; Alone with her thoughts, in moments like this, She thinks of her days of innocent bliss, And she weeps ! yes, she weeps penitent tears O'er the shaine of a life and the sorrow of years : She turns for a friend ; yet, alas ! none is there ; She sinks, once again, in the deepest despair ! Blame her not ! blame not, ye fathers who hold Daughters you value more dearly than gold ! But pity, 0, pity her ! take by the hand One who, though fallen, yet nobly may stand. 246 TOWN AND COUNTRY. Turn not away from her plea and her cries ; Pity and help, and the fallen may rise ! Crush not to earth the reed that is broken, Bind up her wounds let soft words be spoken ; Though she be low, though worldlings reject her, Let not Humanity ever neglect her. JOY BEYOND. BEYOND the dark, deep grave, whose lowly portal Must yet be passed by every living mortal, There gleams a light ; 'T is not of earth. It wavers not ; it gloweth With a clear radiance which no changing knoweth, Constant and bright. We love to gaze at it ; we love to cherish The cheering thought, that, when this earth shall perish, And naught remain Of all these temples, things we now inherit, Each unimprisoned, no more fettered spirit Shall life retain. And ever, through eternity unending, It shall unto that changeless light be tending, Till perfect day Shall be its great reward ; and all of mystery That hath made up its earthly life, its history, Be passed away ! 0, joyous hour ! 0, day most good and glorious ! When from the earth the ransomed rise victorious, Its conflict o'er ; When joy henceforth each grateful soul engages, Joy unalloyed through never-ending ages, Joy evermore ? THE SUMMER DAYS ARE COMING. 247 THE SUMMER DAYS ARE COMING, THE summer days are coming, The glorious summer hours, When Nature decks her gorgeous robe With sunbeams and with flowers ; And gathers all her choristers In plumage bright and gay, Till every vale is echoing with Their joyous roundelay. No more shall frosty winter * Hold in its cold embrace The water ; but the river Shall join again the race ; And down the mountain's valley, And o'er its rocky side, The glistening streams shall rush and leap In all their bounding pride. There 's pleasure in the winter, When o'er the frozen snow With faithful friend and noble steed Right merrily we go ! But give to me the summer, The pleasant summer days, When blooming flowers and sparkling streams Enliven all our ways. THE MAN WHO KNOWS EVERYTHING. SANSECRAT is one of that class of persons who think they know everything. If anything occurs, and you seek to inform bjm, he will interrupt you by saying that he knows it all, that he was on the spot Avhen the occurrence happened, or that he had met a man who was an eye-witness. , Such a person, though he be the possessor of much assur ance, is sadly deficient in manners ; and no doubt the super- abundancy of the former is caused by the great lack of the latter. Such men as he will thrive; there is no mistake about it. This has been called an age of invention and of humbug. Nothing is so popular, or so much sought after, as that which cannot be explained, and around which a mysterious shroud is closely woven. My friend Arcanus came sweating and puffing into my room. I had just finished my dinner, and was seated lei surely looking over a few pages of manuscript, when he entered. " News ! " said he ; and before I could hand him a chair he had told me all about the last battle, and his tongue flew about with so much rapidity, that a conflagration might have been produced by such excessive friction, had not a rap at the door put a clog under the wheels of his talkative loco motive, and stayed its progress, which luckily gave me an opportunity to take his hat and request him to be seated. The door was opened, and who but Sansccrat stood be fore me. THE MAN WHO KNOWS EVERYTHING. 249 "Have you heard the news? " was the first interrogatory of my friend Arcanus, in reply to which Sansecrat said that he knew it all half an hour previous, Avas at the railroad station when the express arrived, and was the first man to open the Southern papers. In vain Arcanus told him that the information came by a private letter. He averred, point blank, that it was no such thing ; that he had the papers in his pocket ; and was about to exhibit them as proof of what he had said, when he suddenly recollected that he had sold them to an editor for one-and- sixpence. Notwithstanding the proverb of "Man, know thyself," Sansecrat seems to know everything but himself. Thousands of times has it been said that man can see innumerable faults and foibles in his neighbors, but none in himself. Very true ; and man can see his own character, just as he can see his own face in a mirror. His own associates mirror forth his own character ; and the faults, be they great or small, that he sees in them, are but the true reflection of his own errors. Yet, blind to this, and fondly imagining that he is the very "pink of excellence," he flatters his own vain feeling with the cherished idea that, while others have faults, he has none, and so slumbers on in the sweet repose of ignorance. Sansecrat imagines that he knows everything; that to teach him would be like " carrying coals to Newcastle," or sending ship-loads of ice to Greenland, or furnaces to the coast of Africa ; yet he is as ignorant as the greatest dunce, who, parrot-like, repeats that he has heard, without having the least understanding of what he says. Strange as it may seem, it is nevertheless true that Sansecrat will prosper in the world ; for, though destitute of those qualifications which render their possessor worthy of success, he has an abundance of brazen- facedness, with 250 TOWN AND COUNTRY. which he will work himself into the good opinion of not a few, who look more closely upon exterior appearance than they do upon inward worth, and judge their fellow- men more by the good quality of their cloth than by the good quality of their hearts, and set more value on a shining hat and an unpatched boot than they do on a brilliant intel lect and a noble soul. PRIDE AND POVERTY. I CANNOT brook the proud. I cannot love The selfish man ; he seems to have no heart ; And why he lives and moves upon this earth Which God has made so fair, I cannot tell. He has no soul but that within his purse, And all his hopes are centred on its fate ; That lost, and all is lost. I knew a man Who had abundant riches. He was proud, Too oft the effect of riches when abused, His step was haughty, and his eye glanced at The honest poor as base intruders on The earth he trod and fondly called his own ; Unwelcome guests at Nature's banqueting. Years passed away, that youth became a man ; His beetled brow, his sullen countenance, His eye that looked a fiery command, Betrayed that his ambition was to rule. He smiled not, save in scorn on humble men, Whom he would have bow down and worship him. Thus with his strength his pride did grow, until He did become aristocrat indeed. The humble beggar, whose loose rags scarce gave Protection to him from the cold north wind, He scarce would look upon, and vainly said, As in his hand he held the ready coin, " No mortal need be poor, 't is his own fault If such he be ; if he court poverty, Let all its miseries be his to bear." 252 TOWN AND COUNTRY. 'T is many years since he the proud spake thus, And men and things have greatly changed since then. No more in wealth he rolls, men's fortunes change. I met a lonely hearse, slowly it passed Toward the church-yard. 'T was unattended Save by one old man, and he the sexton. With spade beneath his arm he trudged along, Whistling a homely tune, and stopping not. He seemed to be in haste, for now and then He 'd urge to quicker pace his walking beast, With the rough handle of his rusty spade. Him I approached, and eagerly inquired Whose body thus was borne so rudely to Its final resting-place, the deep, dark grave. " His name M-as Albro," was the prompt reply. " Too proud to beg, we found him starved to death, In a lone garret, which the rats and mice Seemed greatly loth to have him occupy. An' I, poor Billy Matterson, whom once He deemed too poor and low to look upon, Am come to bury him." The sexton smiled, Then raised his rusty spade, cheered up his nag, Whistled as he was wont, and jogged along. Oft I have seen the poor man raise his hand To wipe the eye when good men meet the grave, But Billy Matterson, he turned and smiled. The truth flashed in an instant on my mind, Though sad, yet deep, unchanging truth to me. 'T was he, thus borne, who, in his younger days, Blest with abundance, used it not aright. He, who blamed the poor because they were such ; Behold his end ! too proud to bey, he died. A sad example, teaching all to shun The rock on which he shipwrecked, warning take, That they too fall not as he rashly fell. WORDS THAT TOUCH THE INNER HEART. 253 WORDS THAT TOUCH THE INNER HEART. WORDS, words ! give me these, "Words befitting what I feel, That I may on every breeze "Waft to those whose riven steel Fetters souls and shackles hands Born to be as free as air, Yet crushed and .cramped by Slavery's Words that have an influence there. Words, words ! give me to write Such as touch the inner heart ; Not mere flitting forms of light, That please the ear and then depart ; But burning words, that reach the soul, That bring the shreds of error out, That with resistless power do roll, And put the hosts of Wrong to rout. Let others tune their lyres, and sing Illusive dreams of fancied joy ; But, my own harp, its every string Shall find in Truth enough employ. It shall not breathe of Freedom here, While millions clank the galling chain ; Or e'en one slave doth bow in fear, Within our country's broad domain. Go where the slave-gang trembling stands, Herded with every stable stock, Woman with fetters on her hands, And infants on the auction-block ! See, as she bends, how flow her tears ! Hark ! hear her broken, trembling sighs ; Then hear the oaths, the threats, the jeers, Of men who lash her as she cries ! 22 254 TOWN AND COUNTRY. 0, men ! who have the power to weave In poesy's web deep, searching thought, Be truth thy aim ; henceforward leave The lyre too much with fancy fraught ! Come up, and let the words you write Be those which every chain would break, And every sentence you indite Be pledged to Truth for Freedom's sake. OUR HOME. OCR home shall be A cot on the mountain side, Where the bright waters glide, Sparkling and free ; Terrace and window o'er Woodbine shall graceful soar ; Roses shall round the door Blossom for thee. There shall be joy With no care to molest, Quiet, serene and blest ; And our employ Work each other's pleasure ; Boundless be the treasure ; Without weight or measure, Free from alloy. Our home shall be Where the first ray of light Over the mountain height, Stream, rock and tree, Joy to our cot shall bring, While brake and bower shall ring With notes the birds shall sing, Loved one, for thee. SPECULATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCE. SPECULATION is business in a high fever. Its termina tion is generally very decided, whether favorable or other wise, and the effect of that termination upon the individual most intimately connected with it in most cases unhealthy. It was a truth long before the wise man wrote it, that making haste to be rich is an evil ; and it always will be a truth that the natural, unforced course of human events is the only sure, the only rational one. The desire to be rich, to be pointed out as wealthy, is a very foolish one, unless it be coupled with a desire to do good. This is somewhat paradoxical ; for the gratification of the last most certainly repels that of the first, inasmuch as he who distributes his gains cannot accumulate to any great extent. Wealth is looked at from the wrong stand-point. It is too often considered the end, instead of the means to an end ; and there never was a greater delusion in the human mind than that of supposing that riches confer happiness. In ninety -nine cases out of every hundred the opposite is the result. Care often bears heavily on the rich man's brow, and the insatiate spirit asks again and again for more, and will not be silenced. And this feeling will predominate in the human mind until man becomes better acquainted with his own true nature, and inclines to minister to higher and more ennobling aspirations. In one of the most populous cities of the Union there 256 TOWN AND COUNTRY. resided, a few years since, a person in moderate circum stances, by the name of Robert Short. Bob, as he was usually called, was a shoemaker. With a steady run of cus tom, together with prudence and economy combined, he was enabled to support his family in an easy and by no means unenviable style. He did not covet the favors and caresses of the world. He looked upon all, the rich, the poor, the prince, the beggar, alike, as his brethren. He believed that all stood upon one platform, all were bound to the same haven, and that all should be equally interested in each other's welfare. With this belief, and with rules of a similar character, guided by which he pursued his course of life, it was not to be wondered at that he could boast of many friends, and not strange that many should seek his acquaintance. There is a desire planted in the hearts of honest men to asso ciate with those who, ambitious enough to sustain a good character, are not so puffed up \vith pride, or so elevated in their own estimation, as to despise the company of what are termed " the common people." It was pleasant, of a winter's evening, to enter the humble domicile of Mr. Short, and while the howling storm raged fiercely without, and the elements seemed at war, to see the contentment and peace that pre vailed within. Bob, seated at his bench, might be seen busily employed, and, as the storm increased, would seem to apply himself more diligently to his task. Six or perhaps eight of his neighbors might also be seen gathered around, seated upon that article most convenient, whether a stool or a pile of leather, it mattered not, relating some tale of the Revolu tion, or listening to some romantic story from the lips of the respected Mr. Short. ; T was upon such an evening, and at such a place, that our story commences. Squire Smith, Ned Green, and a jovial sort of a fellow by the name of Sandy, were seated around the red-hot cylinder. Squire Smith was what some would term a "man of consequence/' at least, SPECULATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCE. 257 he thought so. Be it known that this squire was by no means a daily visitor at the work-shop of our hero. He came in occasionally, and endeavored. to impress upon his mind that which he had settled in his own, namely, that he, Robert Short, might be a great man. "I tell you what," said he, with an air of importance, "I tell you what, it is against all reason, it is contrary to com mon sense and everything else, that you remain any longer riveted down to this old benc~h. It will be your ruin; 'pend upon it, it will be your ruin." "How so?" eagerly inquired Mr. Short. "Why," replied the squire, "it's no use forme to go into particulars. But why do you not associate with more respectable and fashionable company? " " Is not the present company respectable? " resumed Mr. Short; "and as for the fashion, I follow my own." Squire Smith did not reply to this inquiry, but stood shak ing his head, and appeared at a loss for words with which to answer. " Perhaps your ideas of respectability," continued the squire, " are not in accordance with mine." "Ay, ay; true, true," interrupted Sandy, with a shrug of the shoulder. Mr. Smith continued his remarks, appearing not to notice the interruption. "Perhaps," said he, "one may be as honest as the days are long ; but, sir, he is far from being respectable, in my humble opinion, if he is not genteel, and certainly if he is not fashionably dressed he is not. He does not think enough of himself ; that 's it, my dear Mr. Short, he does not think enough of himself." "But he is honest," replied Mr. Short. " Supposing he does not dress so fashionably as you would wish, would you condemn him for the cut of his coat, or the quality of his cloth ? Perhaps his means are not very extensive, and will 22* 258 TOWN AND COUNTRY. not admit of a very expensive outlay, merely for show. It is much better, my dear sir, to be clothed in rags and out of debt, than to be attired in the most costly apparel, and that not paid for. Sir, to hold up your head and say you owe no man, is to be free, free in the truest sense of the word/' " Ah, I must be on the move," interrupted the squire, at the same time looking at his "gold lever." And off he started. Squire Smith had said enough for that night ; to have said more would have injured his plan. Mr. Green and Sandy shook hands with their friend Robert, and, it being late, they bade him "good-by," and parted. Our hero was now left alone. Snuffing the candle, that had well-nigh burnt to the socket, he placed more fuel upon the fire, and, resting his hands upon his knees and his head upon his hands, he began to think over the sayings of his friend the squire. Robert Short saw nothing of the squire for many days after the event just described transpired. One day, as he began his work, the door was suddenly thrown open, and the long absent but not forgotten squire rushed in, shouting "Speculation! speculation!" Mr. Short threw aside his last, and listened with feelings of astonishment to the elo quent words that fell from the lips of his unexpected visitor. "Gull, the broker," continued the squire, "has just offered me a great bargain. I have come to make a proposition, \Vhich is, that you and I accept his offer, and make our fortunes." " Fortunes ! " exclaimed the son of Crispin; "speculate in what'?" " In eastern land," was the reply. Bob Short's countenance assumed a desponding appear ance ; he had heard of many losses caused by venturing in these speculations, and had some doubts as to his success, SPECULATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCE. 259 should he accept. Then, again, he had heard of those who had been fortunate, and he inquired the conditions of sale. "Why," replied Mr. Smith, Esq., "old Varnum Gull has three thousand acres of good land, upon which are, as he assures ine, some beautiful watering places. It is worth five dollars an acre ; he offers it to me for one, and a grand chance it is; the terms are cash." " Are you certain as to the quality of the land ? " inquired Mr. Short. " Perfectly certain," was the reply. " I would not advise you wrong for the world ; but I now think it best to form a sort of co-partnership, and purchase the land. There is no doubt but that we can dispose of it at a great advantage. Will you not agree to mj proposals, and accept'?" "I will," answered Mr. Short. "But how can I obtain fifteen hundred dollars? I have but a snug thousand." "0, don't trouble yourself about that," replied the de- ' lighted squire. " I will loan you the balance at once. You can return it at some convenient time. What say you ? will you accompany me to the broker's, and inform him of the agreement? " Mr. Short, after a moment's delay, arose, and, laying aside his leather apron, took the squire by the arm, and both sal lied forth in search of the office of Varnum Gull. After wending their way through short streets and long lanes, nar row avenues and wide alleys, they came to a small gate, upon which was fastened a small tin sign with the following in scription: " V. Gull, broker, up the yard, round the corner, up two pair of stairs." The squire and Mr. Short followed the directions laid down, and, having gone up the yard and turned round the corner, they found themselves at the foot of the stairs. They stood for a moment silent, and were about to ascend, when a voice from above attracted their attention. 260 TOWN AND COUNTRY. " 'Olio, Squire, 'ere's the box; walk right up 'ere: only look out. there 's an 'ole in the stairs." Our hero looked above, and perceived a man with green spectacles drawing his head in. " We will go up," said the squire, "and look out for the hole : but, as the stairway is rather dark, we shall not see much ; therefore we shall be obliged to feel our way." They ascended, and escaped without injury. A little short man met them at the door, holding in his hand a paper bearing some resemblance to a map. " Really, Mr. Smith, I feared you would lose that 'ere bargain I expatiated on. I 'ave received many good offers, but 'ave reserved it for you. Your friend, ha? " he con tinued, at the same time striking* Mr. Short in no gentle manner upon the shoulder. " Not friend Hay, but friend Sho?'t," replied the squire. " Hall the same, only an error in the spelling," resumed the broker. " Good-morning, Mr. Short; s'pose you 'ave become 'quainted with the rare chance I ' ve offered, ant ye ? and wish to accept it, don't ye ? and can pay for it, can't ye ? Such an opportunity is seldom met with, by which to make one's fortune." " Well." replied Mr. Short, improving the time Mr. Gull stopped to breathe, " well, I had some idea of so doing." " Hidea ! " quickly responded the broker ; " why will you 'esitate? read that ! " and he handed a paper to Mr. Short, which paper he kept for reference, and pointed out to him an article which read as follows : "It is astonishing what enormous profits are at present realized by traders in Eastern Land. One of our neighbors purchased a thousand acres, at one dollar and twenty-five cents per acre, of Gull, our enterprising broker, and sold it yesterday for the round sum of three thousand dollars, re- SPECULATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCE. 261 ceiving thereby the enormous profit of nineteen hundred and seventy-five dollars. He was a poor man, but by this lucky movement has become rich." As soon as our hero had read this cheering intelligence, he became elated with the prospect, and soon came to a final agreement with the squire to accept the offer. Papers were drawn up, signed by each, and a check given to the broker, for which was returned a deed for the land. They then left the office, Mr. Gull politely bidding them good- by, with a caution to look out for the " 'ole." They did look out for the hole, but it might have been that the cunning broker referred to a hole of more consequence than that in the stairs. The squire on that day invited Mr. Short to his house to dine. This, however, he did not accept, but returned to his shop. One week had passed away, during which time the squire was often at the shop of Bob Short, but no cus tomer had yet applied for the land. It was near dusk on the eighth day succeeding the purchase, as they were talking over the best way by which to dispose of it,- when a short man entered, wrapped up in a large cloak, and a large bushy fur cap upon his head. " I understand," said he, " you have a few acres of land you wish to dispose of." " Exactly so," answered the squire. " And how much do you charge per acre 1 " inquired the stranger. ' ' That depends upon the number you wish. Do you wish to purchase all.? " '' That depends upon the price charged," was the reply. "If you wish all," continued Mr. Smith, " we will sell for four dollars an acre. That is dog cheap, and a great sacrifice." "Well," resumed the stranger, " I will take it on con- 262 TOWN AND COUNTRY. ditions ; namely, I will pay you your price, and if the land answers my purpose I will keep it, if not, you will return me the amount of money I pay." " That is rather a hard bargain. I know it to be good land," answered the squire. " Then," continued the stranger, " if you know it to be good, certainly there can be no danger in disposing of it on the conditions I ha*e named." After a few moments' conversation with Mr. Short, they agreed to sell to. the stranger. Papers were immediately drawn up and signed by Messrs. Smith and Short, agreeing to return the money provided the land did not give satisfac tion. The sum of twelve thousand dollars was paid in cash to the signers, and the papers given into the hands of the purchaser, who then left. Robert Short on that night did really feel rich. This was six thousand dollars apiece ; after Mr. Short had paid the fifteen hundred borrowed, he had forty-five hundred left. Both were equally certain that the land would give entire satisfaction, and acted according to this belief. With a light heart he went home, and com municated the joyful intelligence to his wife, who had from the first been opposed to the trade. He did not, however, inform her of the terms on which he had sold. In a few days he had disposed of his shop* and tools to one of his former workmen. Many were surprised when the sign of " Robert Short " was taken from its long resting-place over the door. Mr. Short now began to think the house in which he - had for many years resided was not quite good enough, and therefore engaged a larger and more expensive one. He ordered new furniture, purchased a carriage and horses, and had his new house fitted out under the direction of his friend, the squire. He rented a large store ; bought large quantities of shoes and leather, partly on credit. His busi ness at first prospered, but in a short time became quite SPECULATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCE. 263 dull ; his former customers left, and all business seemed at a stand-still. In the mean time, the broker had left town, having sold out his office to a young man. Matters stood thus, when, early in the morning on a pleasant day in June, as the squire and Mr. Short were seated in the counting- room of the latter, a man dressed in a light summer dress entered. "Good-morning," said the visitor. "Business is quite lively, I suppose 7 " "0, it's moderate, nothing extra," replied Mr. Short ; " won't you be seated 1 " The stranger seated himself. " Mr. Robert Short is your name, is it not ? " he inquired. " It is, sir." " Did I not make a bargain with you about some eastern land, a few months since ?" "Yes, some person did ;" and Mr. Short immediately recog nized him as the purchaser. The new comer then took from his pocket the paper of agreement, and presented it for the inspection of the two gentlemen. " Are you not satisfied with your bargain? " inquired Mr. Smith. " Not exactly," replied the stranger, laughing. "Why, what fault is there in it ? " " Well," replied the stranger, " I suppose a report of my examination will be acceptable." " Certainly, sir," replied Mr. Short. ' ' Then I can give it in a few words. It is a good wafer- ing place, being WHOLLY COVERED WITH WATER ; and is of no value unless it could be drained, and that, I think, is impossible." The squire was astonished ; Mr. Short knew not what to 264 TOWN AND COUNTRY. " What is the name of the water bought for land ? " in quired Squire Smith. " The location of it is in a large pond of water, twelve miles in length, and about six in width, and is known in those parts by the name of the.' Big Pond.' But," continued the stranger, "I must be gone; please return me my money, according to agreement." After some talk, the stranger agreed to call the next day. The next day came, and with it came the stranger. Mr. Short had tried in vain to obtain the requisite sum, and was obliged to request him to call the next day. He came the next day, and the next, and the next, but received no money ; and he was at length obliged to attach the property of the squire, as also that of Mr. Short. His other creditors also came in with their bills. All the stock of Mr. Short was sold at auction, and he was a poor man. He obtained a small house, that would not compare with the one he had lived in in former years. He had no money of his own, and was still deeply in debt. He was obliged to work at such jobs as came along, but at length obtained steady employ ment. The squire, who was the prime cause of all his trouble, sailed for a foreign port, leaving all his bills unpaid. In a short time Mr. Short obtained a sufficient sum to buy back his old shop, in which to this day he has steadily worked, with a vivid remembrance of the consequence of speculation. RETROSPECTION. HE had drank deep and long from out The bacchanalian's bowl ; Had folt its poisonous arrows pierce The recess of his soul ; And now his footsteps turned to where His childhood's days were cast, And sat him 'neath an old oak tree To muse upon the past. Beneath its shade he oft had sat In days when he was young ; Ere sorrow, like that old oak tree, Its own deep shadows flung ; Beneath that tree his school-mates met, There joined in festive mirth, And not a place seemed half so dear To him, upon the earth. The sun had passed the horizon, Yet left a golden light Along a cloudless sky to mark A pathway for the night ; The moon was rising silently To reign a queen on high, To marshal all the starry host, In heaven's blue canopy. In sight the schoolhouse stood, to which In youth he had been led By one who now rests quietly Upon earth's silent bed. And near it stood the church whose aisles His youthful feet had trod ; 266 TOWN AND COUNTRY. Where his young mind first treasured in The promises of God. There troops of happy children ran With gayety along ; 'Twas agony for him to hear Their laughter and their song. For thoughts of youthful days came up And crowded on his brain. Till, crushed with woo unutterable, It sank beneath its pain. Pain ! not such as sickness brings, For that can be allayed, But pain from which a mortal shrinks Heart-stricken and dismayed : The body crushed beneath its woe May some deliverance find, But who on earth hath power to heal The agony of mind ? O Memory ! it long had slept ; But now it woke to power, And brought before him all the past, From childhood's earliest hour. He saw himself in school-toy prime ; Then youth, its pleasures, cares, Came up before him, and he saw How cunningly the snares Were si-t to cateli him as he ran In thoughtless haste along, To charm him with deceitful smiles, And with its siren song : He saw a seeming friendly hand Hold out the glittering wine, Without a thought that deep within A serpent's form did twine. Then manhood came ; then he did love, And with a worthy pride He led a cherished being to The altar as his bride ; RETROSPECTION. 267 And mid the gay festivity Passed round the flowing wine, And friends drank, in the sparkling cup, " A health to thee and thine." A health ! 0, as the past came up, The wanderer's heart was stirred And as a madman he poured forth Deep curses on that word. For well he knew that " health " had been The poison of his life ; Had made the portion of his soul With countless sorrows rife. Six years passed by a change had come, And what a change was that ! No more the comrades of his youth With him as comrades sat. Duties neglected, friends despised, Himself with naught to do, A mother dead with anguish, and A wife heart-broken too. Another year and she whom he Had promised to protect Died in the midst of poverty, A victim of neglect. But ere she died she bade him kneel Beside herself in prayer, And prayed to God that he would look In pity on them there : And bless her husband, whom she loved, And all the past forgive, And cause him, ere she died, begin A better life to live. She ceased to speak, the husband row;, And, penitent, did say, While tears of deep contrition flowed, " I '11 dash the bowl away ! " A smile passed o'er the wife's pale face, She grasped his trembling hand, 268 TOWN AND COUNTRY: Gave it one pressure, then her soul Passed to a better land. He bent to kiss her pale cold lips, But they returned it not ; And then he felt the loneliness And sorrow of his lot. It seemed as though his life had fled ; That all he called his own, When her pure spirit took its flight, Had with that spirit flown. She had been all in all to him, And deep his heart was riven With anguish, as he thought what woe He her kind heart had given. But all was passed ; she lay in death, The last word had been said, The soul had left its prison-house, And up to heaven had fled ; But 't was a joy for him to know She smiled on him in 1 '. c. And hope did whisper in his heart, " She '11 guard thee from above." He sat beneath that old oak tree, And children gathered round, And wondered why he wept, and asked What sorrow he had found. ^ Then told he them this sad, sad tale, Which I have told to you ; They asked no more why he did weep, For they his sorrow knew. And soon their tears began to fall, And men came gathering round, Till quite a goodly company Beneath that tree was found. The wanderer told his story o'er, Unvarnished, true and plain ; And on that night three-score of men Did pledge them to abstain. NATUKE'S FAIR DAUGHTER, BEAUTIFUL WATER. 269 NATURE'S fair daughter, Beautiful water ! 0, hail it with joy, with echoes of mirth, Wherever it sparkles or ripples on earth. Down from the mountain, Up from the fountain, Ever it cometh, bright, sparkling and clear, From the Creator, our pathway to cheer. Nobly appearing, O'er cliffs careering, Pouring impetuously on to the sea, Chanting, unceasing, the song of the free. See how it flashes As onward it dashes Over the pebbly bed of the brook, Singing in every sequestered nook. Now gently falling, As if 'twere calling Spirits of beauty from forest and dell To welcome it on to grotto and cell. Beauteous and bright Gleams it in light, Then silently flows beneath the deep glade, Emblem of life in its sunshine and shade. Beautiful water ! Nature's fair daughter ! Where'er it sparkles or ripples on earth, Hail it with joy and with echoes of mirth. 23* 270 TOWN AND COUNTRY. THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP. BRIGHTEST shine the stars above When the night is darkest round us ; Those the friends we dearest love Who were near when sorrow bound us. When no clouds o'ercast our sky, When no evil doth attend us, Then will many gather nigh, Ever ready to befriend us. But when darkness shades our path, When misfortune hath its hour, When we lie beneath its wrath , Some will leave us to its power. Often have we seen at night, When the clouds have gathered o'er us, One lone star send forth its light, Marking out the path before us. Like that star some friendly eye Will beam on us in our sorrow ; And, though clouded be our sky, We know there '11 be a better morrow. We know that all will not depart, That some will gather round to cheer us : Know we, in our inmost heart, Tried and faithful friends are near us. Brother, those who do not go May be deeme'd friends forever ; Love them, trust them, have them know Nothing can your friendship sever. WEEP NOT. 271 WEEP NOT. WEEP not, mother, For another Tie that bound thyself to earth Now is sundered, And is numbered With those of a heavenly birth. She hath left thee. God bereft thee Of thy dearest earthly friend ; Yet thou 'It meet her, Thou wilt greet her Where reunions have no end Her life's true sun Its course did run From morn unto meridian day ; And now at eve It takes its leave, Calmly passing hence away. Watch the spirit 'T will inherit Bliss which mortal cannot tell ; From another World, my mother, Angels whisper, " All is well." 'Way with sadness ! There is gladness In a gathered spirit throng ; She, ascended, Trials ended, Joins their ranks and chants their song. 272 TOWN AND COUNTRY. Weep not, mother, For another Tie doth bind thyself above ; Doubts are vanished, Sorrows banished, She is happy whom you love. RICH AND POOR. "GoOD-BY, Ray, good-by," said George Greenville; and the stage wound its way slowly up a steep ascent, and was soon lost to view. " Well, well, he has gone. Glad of it, heartily glad of it ! When will all these paupers be gone?" said the father of George, as he entered the richly-furnished parlor, and seated himself beside an open window. "Why so glad?" inquired George, who listened with feelings of regret to the remark. " Why ? " resumed the owner of a thousand acres ; " ask me no questions ; I am glad, that 's enough. You well know my mind on the subject." " Father, act not thus. Is this a suitable way to requite his kindness? " "Kindness!" interrupted the old man; "say not 'twas kindness that prompted him to do me a favor ; rather say 't was his duty, and of you should I not expect better things ? Did I allow you to visit Lemont but to become attainted with such a poverty-stricken, pauper-bred youth as Ray Bland?" Saying this, he arose and left the room. George seated himself in the chair vacated by his father. He looked across the verdant fields, and mused upon his pas sionate remarks. "Well," thought he, "I was right; shall I allow the god of Mammon to bind me down ? Of what use are riches, unless, whilst we enjoy, we can with them relieve 274 TOWN AND COUNTRY. the wants and administer to the necessities of our fellow- men? Shall we hoard them up, or shall we not rather give with a free hand and a willing heart to those who have felt misfortune's scourging rod, who are crushed, oppressed and trampled upon, by not a few of their more wealthy neigh bors? " In such a train of thought he indulged himself till the hour of dinner arrived. George Greenville had formed an acquaintance with Ray Bland whilst on a visit to a neighboring town. He was a young man, possessing those fine qualities of mind that con stitute the true gentleman. His countenance beamed with intelligence, and his sparkling eye betrayed vivacity of mind, the possession of which was a sure passport to the best of society. When the time came that George was to return home to the companionship of his friends, they found that ties of friendship bound them which could not be easily sev ered, and Ray accepted the invitation of George Greenville to accompany him, and spend a short time at the house of his father. The week had passed away in a pleasant man ner. The hour of parting had come and gone. The fare well had been taken, the "good-by" had been repeated, when the conversation above mentioned passed between him and his father. The family and connections of George were rich ; those of Ray were poor. The former lived at ease in the midst of pleasures, and surrounded by all the comforts and conve niences of life ; the latter encountered the rough waves of adversity, and was obliged to labor with assiduity, to sustain an equal footing with his neighbors. Thus were the two friends situated ; and old Theodore Greenville scorned the idea of having his son associate with a pauper, as he termed all those who were not the possessors of a certain amount of money. without which, in his opinion, none were worthy to associate with the rich. RICH AND POOR. '11 ~) i; Ray is a person not so much to be hated and sneered at as you would suppose," said George, breaking the silence, and addressing his father at the dinner-table. " George, I have set my heart against him," was the reply. "Then," continued the first speaker, "I suppose you are not open to conviction. If I can prove him worthy of your esteem and confidence, will you believe'?" ' ' That cannot be done, perhaps. You may think him to be a worthy young man ; but I discard the old saying that poverty is no disgrace ! I say that it is ; and one that can, if its victim choose, be washed away. Ray Bland is a pau per, that 's my only charge against him ; and all the thun dering eloquence of a Cicero will not alter my opinion, or move me an iota from the stand I have taken. which is, now and ever, to reject the company of paupers. It is my request that you do the same." Amelia, the sister of George, now joined in the conversa tion, inquiring of her father whether it was against his Avill for her to associate with the poor. " Precisely so," was the brief reply; and the conversation ended. The father left the house for a short walk, as was his custom, whilst George and Amelia retired to the parlor, and conversed, for a long time, upon the rash and unjust decision of their parent. The mutual attachment that existed between George and Ray was not looked upon with indiffer ence' by the sister of the former ; and she determined upon using all the means in her power to bring the latter into the good will of her father ; she resolved, like a noble girl, to cherish a social and friendly feeling toward the friend of her brother. He who knows the warmth of a sister's affection can imagine with what constancy she adhered to this deter mination. The command of her father not to associate with the poor only served to strengthen her resolution, for she 276 TOWN AND COUNTRY. knew with what obstacles her brother would have to contend. She had a kind heart, that would not allow a fellow-being to want, so long as she had, or could obtain, the means to relieve him. " Do you think father was in earnest in what he said ? " inquired Amelia. " I have no reason to doubt his sincerity," replied George; ' ' but what led you to ask such a question 'I ' ' "Because, you know, he often speaks ironically; and, as he left the dinner- room with mother, he smiled, and said something about the poor, and a trick he was about to play." " True, Amelia," replied George, " he is to play a trick; but it concerns not us. You know poor old Smith is one of father's tenants. Smith has been sick, and has not been able to procure funds with which to pay his rent, and father intends to engage a person to take out all the doors and win dows of the house. He hopes Smith will thus be forced to leave. I have been thinking whether we cannot devise some plan to prevent the poor man from being turned thus abruptly fromfhe house." "I am sure we can," replied Amelia; "yet I had much rather have a trick played upon us than upon poor Smith. Can you not propose some way by which we can prevent father from carrying out his intentions? " "I will give you the money," replied George, "if you will convey it to Mr. Smith, so that he will be enabled to pay his rent. Recollect it must be carried in the night, and fit is night, as father expects to commence his operations to morrow or next day. You know that I cannot go, as my time will be fully occupied in attending upon some important business at home." It was not necessary to make this offer more than once. The heart of Amelia bounded with joy, as she anticipated being the bearer of the money to Smith ; RICH AND POOR. 277 and, shortly after dark, being provided with it, she proceeded to his house. It was a dark night. The moon was obscured by thick clouds, and no twinkling star shone to guide her on her er rand of mercy. As she drew near the lonely dwelling of Paul Smith, she perceived no light. She feared that he might be absent. Stealthily along she crept, and, listening at the door, heard the voice of prayer, imploring aid and support daring the trials of life, that relief might soon be sent. 'Amelia silently opened the door, and placed the money on a table, accompanied with a note to Smith, request ing him not to disclose the manner in which he received it, and, as silently withdrawing, wended her way home. As she entered the parlor, she found her father and brother en gaged in earnest conversation, so earnest that she was not at first noticed. " Confound my tenants ! " said Mr. Greenville. {( There 's old Paul Smith ; if to-morrow's sun does not witness him bringing my just dues, he shall leave, yes, George, he shall leave ! I am no more to be trifled with and perplexed by his trivial excuses. All my tenants who do not pay shall toe the same mark. I '11 make them walk up, fodder or no fodder ! Ha, ha, ha ! old Smith shall know that I have some principle left, if I have passed my sixtieth year that he shall ! Slipnoose, the lawyer, shall have one job." " You are always visiting your friends. George. It seems as though all are your friends. Yet I don't blame you, for friends are very happy appendages to one's character. I pity the man who lives a friendless life. That's the reason I I have been such a friend to Smith, but no longer !" As he said this the wealthy landlord left the room. Amelia related to her brother an account of her adventure, and both were thankful that they been instrumental in 24 278 TOWN AND COUNTRY. relieving the wants of their poor neighbors. The next morn ing, seated at the table, Mr. Greenville began again to ex press his opinion respecting poor people in general, and Paul Smith in particular, when a loud rap at the door somewhat startled him. In a few moments a servant entered, and gave information that a person was at the door who wished to see Mr. Greenville. Arriving there, the landlord encountered his tenant, Smith, who immediately told him that by some kind providence he was enabled to pay him his due, and hoped that in future he should be prompt in his payments. The landlord took the money, and, looking it over, handed him a receipt for the same, and returned to the breakfast- table. Nothing was said about Smith until Mr. Greenville, as he left the room, remarked "that he did not know but that Smith meant well enough." Nearly a month had elapsed and nothing had been heard of Ray Bland, when, on a certain morning, Mr. Greenville came in and handed George a letter. Upon opening it, George found it to be written by his friend Ray, informing him of his safe arrival home, thanking him for the kind attention he received during his visit, and expressing great pleasure in soon having another opportunity to visit him. George communicated this intelligence to Amelia, and they determined upon using their united efforts in endeavoring to bring over the kind feelings of their father to their young, but poor, friend. " It 's no use for you to talk," said old Mr. Greenville, after a long conversation with the two ; "the die is cast. I have resolved, and all the arguments you can brizg forward nill not cause me to break my resolution." "Well," remarked George, "perhaps the day will come when you will deeply regret forming such a resolution. Per haps ths gunshine of prosperity will not always illumine our path." RICH AND POOR. 279 "Be that as it may," interrupted Mr. Greenville, "we not allow our imagination to wander forth into the mys tical regions of the future, or picture to ourselves scenes of wretchedness, if such await us. Flatter me not with the good intentions of Kay Bland." Months passed away, and the children of the proud Mr. Greenville forbore to mention in the presence of their father aught concerning their friend Ray Bland, or to excite the anger of the old gentleman by combating his prejudices against the poor. Months passed away, and again Ray Bland found himself beneath the roof of his former friend. He was received by George and Amelia with the cordiality that had ever marked his intercourse with them ; but the father was, if possible, more morose and sullen than usual. Ray had several times made the attempt to know the cause of this coldness, but as often as he alluded to it George would invariably turn the subject ; and he forbore to ques tion further, content with the happiness which he enjoyed in the society of those he held so dear. It was the evening of a fine day in the early spring, that the three friends sat together. It was the last evening of his visit, and Ray expected not to return for a long time. Alone in his study, the father vented his indignation against pau pers, which respect for his daughter's feelings only prevented in the presence of their visitor. He opened the casement. Clouds were gathering in the sky, and now and then a faint flash of lightning illumined the increasing darkness ; and the far-off voice of the storm was audible from the distance, each moment increasing in strength and violence. Soon the storm was upon them. The old gentleman retired to his apartment. Each mo ment the storm increased in violence, and in vain did he strive to close his eyes in sleep. 280 TOWN AND COUNTRY. At length a flash more vivid, accompanied by a peal of thunder more terrific than any that had preceded it, startled the inmates of the mansion. The wind howled terribly, and the old trees groaned and creaked about the dwelling with a fearful and terrific sound. Within all was still and quiet. No word was spoken, for it was a fearful night, and in fear and dread they suspended their conversation. Amelia first broke the silence. " Something must be burning," exclaimed she. In an instant the cry of fire was heard. All started up and rushed to the door ; and there, indeed, they were witnesses of a sight which might well ap pall. The whole upper part of the house was in flames. In stantly the cause flashed upon them. The house had been struck and set on fire by lightning. "My father! 0, my father!" shrieked Amelia, and fell fainting to the floor. Quick as the word came the thought of Ray Bland that the aged Mr. Greenville might be in danger ; and ere George Greenville had borne his sister to a place of safety, through flame and smoke had Ray Bland reached the chamber which he knew the old gentleman occupied. It was locked. One blow of his foot, with all the force he could muster, and locks and bolts gave way. The room was nearly enveloped in flames, the curtains of the window and bed had been consumed, and now the flames had seized the wood-work and burned with great fury. Upon the floor, prostrate as if dead, lay the proud man, who scorned and detested the poor, and who had boasted of being beyond the reach of adversity. To lift him in his arms and bear him to the street was the work of an instant. He had only been stunned, and the drenching rain through which he was carried soon revived him. Ray bore him to the house of poor Smith, the nearest to his own ; and there, with feelings of anguish which cannot be described, sur rounded by his children and neighbors, the old man learned RICH AND POOR. 281 a lesson which his whole previous life had not taught, of the dependence which every member of society has upon the whole. While his riches were taking wings to fly away even before his own eyes, he felt how foolish and wicked was his past conduct ; and ever after the poor found no warmer friend or more liberal hand than that of old George Greenville. In the course of a few months a new and spacious building was erected upon the site of the one destroyed ; and the neigh bors say that the pretty cottage which is being built just over the way is to be the future residence of Ray Bland and the fair Amelia, whose aristocratic father now knows no dis tinction, save in merit, between the rich and poor. 24* THE HOMEWARD BOUND. SLOWLY he paced the vessel's whitened deck, While thoughts of hours, and days, and scenes long past, Brought forth from fountains well-nigh dry a tear : For in imagination he could see Himself a tiny boy, in childish sport Upon a river's bank, quite near his home, Chasing the butterfly, whose gaudy dress Lured him away, till, wearied with the chase, Upon some mossy stone he sat him down ; Or, in some rippling brook, beneath the shade Of some tall oak, he bathed his parched brow ; Then np he sprang, retraced his wandering steps, Yet heedless ran, and could not leave his play. And since that day what scenes had he passed through , What trials met, what sights his eyes beheld ! Beneath the burning skies of torrid zones, On frozen banks of Nova Zembla's coast, Or the more fertile climes of Italy ; There, where the luscious grape in fulness hangs, And fields of roses yield a rich perfume ; 'Mid orange-groves whence sweetest odors rise, 'Neath branches burdened with their fragrant fruit, Forth he had wandered. Mark the semblance now ! For much there is between his childish course Upon the river's bank and his later Wanderings. Then, he chased the butterfly. Now, His inclination led to a pursuit Mure bold, adventurous, and far more grand. Ambition filled his soul. Sometimes he ran THE POOR OF EARTH. 283 In vain ; and so it was in boyhood's days ; And thus 't is plainly seen that childhood hours Are but an index of our future life, And life an index of that yet to come. As on the vessel swept, a tear would 'scape Forth from its hidden cell, and trickle down The sailor's deeply-furrowed cheek, to bathe Those recollections with the dew of Thought ! Some deem it weak to weep. Away the thought ! It is not weakness when Affection's fount O'erflows its borders, and to man displays The feelings that its powers cannot conceal. It is not weakness when our feeble words Find utterance only in our flowing tears. Call not such language " weakness " ! "Worlds may laugh, Yet know no joy like that which often flows In silent tears. As nearer drew the seaman to his home, As in the distance first he saw the spot "Where childhood's hours in happiness were spent, His slow pace quickened to a faster walk, And, had he had the power, he 'd walked the waves, And bravely dashed the intrusive spray aside, To reach the much-loved spot more rapidly Than wind and tide urged on his noble bark. THE POOR OF EARTH I 'VE often wondered, as I 've sat Within mine own loved home, And thought of those, my fellow-men, Who houseless, homeless, roam ; 284 TOWN AND COUNTRY. That one upon this earth is found Whose heart good promptings smother ; And will not share his wealth with him Who is his poorer brother ! I 've often wondered, as I 've walked Amid life's busy throng, And seen my fellows who have been By Fortune helped along, That they who bask in its bright rays No tear of pity shed On him who doth no " fortune " seek, But asks a crust of bread ! I 've seen the gilded temple raised, The aspirant of fame Ascend the altar's sacrqd steps, To preach a Saviour's name, And wondered, as I stood and gazed At those rich-cushioned pews, Where he who bears the poor man's fate Might hear Salvation's news. I 've walked within the church-yard's walls, With holy dread and fear, And on its marble tablets read " None but the rich lie here." I 've wandered till I came upon A heap of moss-grown stones, And some one whispered in mine ear, " Here rest the poor man's bones." My spirit wandered on, until It left the scenes of earth ; Until I stood with those who 'd passed Through death, the second birth. And I inquired, with holy awe, " Who are they within this fold, Who seem to be Heaven's favorites, And wear those crowns of gold ? " IF I DON'T, OTHERS WILL. 285 Then a being came unto me, One of angelic birth, And in most heavenly accents said, " Those were the poor of earth." Then from my dream I woke, but Will ne'er forget its worth ; For ever since that vision I have loved " the poor of earth." And when I see them toiling on To earn their daily bread, And dire oppression crush them down, Till every joy hath fled, I mind me of that better world, And of that heavenly fold, Where every crown of thorns gives place Unto a' crown of gold. IF I DON'T, OTHERS WILL. " IF I don't make it, others will ; So I '11 keep up my death-drugged still. Come, Zir>, my boy, pile on the wood, And make it blaze as blaze it should ; For I do heartily love to see The flames dance round it merrily ! " Hogsheads, you want? well, order them made ; The maker will take his pay in trade. If, at the first, he will not consent, Treat him with wine till his wits are spent ; Then, when his reason is gone, you know Whate'er we want from his hands will flow ! " Ah, what do you say ? ' that won't be fair ' ? You 're conscientious, I do declare ! / thought so once, when I was a boy, But since I have been in this employ 286 TOWN AND COUNTRY. I 've practised it, and many a trick, By the advice of my friend, Old Nick. / thought 't was wrong till he hushed my fears With derisive looks, and taunts, and jeers, And solemnly said to rue, ' My Bill, If you don't do it, some others will ! ' " If I don't sell it, some others will ; So bottles, and pitchers, and muga I '11 fill. When trembling child, who is sent, shall come, Shivering with cold, and ask for rum (Yet fearing to raise its wet eyes up) , I '11 measure it out in its broken cup ! " Ah ! what do you say ? ' the child wants bread ' ? Well, 't is n't my duty to see it fed ; If the parents will send to me to buy, Do you think. I 'd let the chance go by To get me gain ? O, I 'm no such fool ; That is not taught in the world's wide school ! " When the old man comes with nervous gait, Loving, yet cursing his hapless fate, Though children and wife and friends may meet, And me with tears and with sighs entreat Not to sell him that which will be his death, I '11 hear what the man with money^aith ; If he asks for rum and shows the gold, I '11 deal it forth, and it shall be sold ! " Ah ! do you say, ' I should heed the cries Of weeping friends that around mo rise ' ? May be you think so ; I tell you what, I 've a rule which proves that I should not ; For, know you, though the poison kill, If I don't sell it, some others will ! " A strange fatality came on all men, Who met upon a mountain's rocky side ; They had been sane and happy until then, But then on earth they wished not to abide. IF I DON'T, OTHEKS WILL. 287 The sun shone brightly, but it had no charm ; The soft winds blew, but them did not elate ; They seemed to think all joined to do them harm, And urge them onward to a dreadful fate. I did say " all men," yet there were a few "Who kept their reason well, yet, weak, what could they do? The men rushed onward to the jagged rocks, Then plunged like madmen in their madness o'er ; From peak to peak they scared the feathered flocks, And far below lay weltering in their gore. The sane men wondered, trembled, and they strove To stay the furies ; but they could not do it. Whate'er they did, however fenced the drove, The men would spring the bounds or else break through it, And o'er the frightful precipice they leaped, Till rock and tree seemed in their red blood steeped. One of the sane men was a great distiller And one sold .liquors in a famous city ; And, by the way, one was an honest miller, Who looked on both their trades in wrath and pity. This good " Honestus " spoke to them, and said, " You 'd better jump ; if you don't, others will." Each took his meaning, yet each shook his head. "That is no reason we ourselves should kill," Said they, while very stupid-brained they seemed, As though they of the miller's meaning never dreamed. NOT MADE FOR AN EDITOR. BEING A TRUE ACCOUNT OF AN INCIDENT IN THE HISTORY OF THE STUBBS FAMILY. MR. and MRS. STUBBS were seated at the side of a red-hot cylinder stove. On one side, upon the floor, a small black- and-white dog lay very composedly baking himself; on the other, an old brown cat was, in as undisturbed a manner, doing the same. The warmth that existed between them was proof positive that they had not grown cold towards each other, though the distance between them might lead one to suppose they had. In one corner of the room was the bust of a man, whose only existence was in the imagination of a miserable ship- carver, who, in his endeavors to breathe life into his block, came near breathing life out of himself, by sitting up late at night at his task. In the other hung a crook-necked squash, festooned with wreaths of spider-webs. Above the mantel piece was suspended a painting representing a feat performed by a certain dog, of destroying one hundred rats in eight minutes. The frame in which this gem of art was placed was once gilt, but, at the time to which we refer, was covered with the dust of ages. Mr. Stubbs poked the fire. Mrs. Stubbs poked the dog, when suddenly the door flew open, and their son entered with black ened eyes, bloody hands, bruised face and dirty clothes, the most belligerent-looking creature this side of the ' ' Rio Grande." NOT MADE FOR AN EDITOR. 289 " My voice a'nt still for war, it 's loud for war," he said, as, with a braggadocia sort of air, he threw his cap at the dog, who clenched it between his teeth, shook it nearly to tatters, and then passed it over to the cat. "What's the matter now. Jake?" said Mrs. Stubbs. . " Always in trouble. fights and broils seem to be your element I don't know, Jake, what will become of you, if you go on at this rate. What say you, father? " Mr. Stubbs threw down the poker, and casting a glance first at his hopeful son, and then at his hoping wife, replied that Jake was an ignorant, pugnacious, good-for-nothing scamp, and never would come to anything, unless to a rope's end. " 0, how can you talk so ? " said his wife. " You know it 's nat'ral." " Nat'ral ! " shouted the father ; '-then it's ten times worse the harder then to rid him of his quarrelsome habits. But I' 've an idea," said he, his face brightening up at the thought, as though he had clenched and made it fast and sure. The mother started as by an electric shock. The boy, who had retired into one corner in a sullen mood, freshened up, and looked at his father. The ship-carver's fancy sketch brightened up also ; but not of its own free will, for the force with which Mr. Stubbs brought his hand in contact with the table caused the dirty veil to fall from the bust-cr's face. " What is it ? " inquired Mrs. Stubbs, with much animation. " Why, my dear woman, as we can do nothing with him, U'C : ll make him an editor." The old lady inquired what that was ; and, being informed, expressed doubts as to his ability. " Why," said she, " he cannot write distinctly." "What of that? let him write with the scissors and paste-pot. Let him learn ; many know a great deal more after having learned." 25 290 TOWN AND < orvruv. " But ho must have some originality in his paper/' said Mrs. Stubbs, who, it seemed, did not fall in with the general opinion that '' any one can edit a paper." "Never fear that," said Mr. Stubbs; "he '11 conduct anything he takes hold of, rather than have that conduct him. I'll tell you what, old woman, Jake shall be an edi tor, whether he can write a line of editorial or not. Jake, come here." Jake, who had nearly forgotten his fight, was elated at the proposition of his father, and, being asked whether, 'in his opinion, he could conduct a paper with ability, original ity and success, replied, in the slang phrase of the day. that he " could n't do anything else," at the same time clench ing his fist, as though to convince his sire that he could do something else, notwithstanding. " As I have never asked you any question relative to pub lic affairs, and as the people of this generation are getting to be wise, I deem it right that I should ask you a few ques tions before endeavoring to obtain a situation. Now, Jake. who is the President of the United States'? " " General George Washington," replied the intelligent lad, or rather young man ; for, though he indulged in many boyish tricks, he was about twenty years of age, a short, dull-looking member of the " great unwashed." The father intimated that he was mistaken ; the son persisted in saying that he was not. " Never mind the catechizer," said Jake ; " I '11 conduct a newspaper, I will, for Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs never see the day I could n't conduct anything." "That's bright," said Mrs. Stubbs; "he possesses more talent than I was aware of; he '11 make an editor." "An' he sliaU,'' said the father, resolutely. The clock struck nine, which was the signal for Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs to retire, and they did so. No sooner had they NOT MADE FOR AX EDITOR. 291' left than their dutiful son mounted the table, and. takin^ ' i O down the fancy bust, pulled the dog by the tail to awake him, and set him barking at it. The cat must have her part in the tragedy, so Jake thought ; and, pulling her by the tail, she was soon on the field of action. "Now, sist-a-boy, Tozer; give her an editorial," said he ; and, as dog and cat had been through the same perform ance before, they acted their parts in manner suiting. The dog barked, the cat snapped and snarled, and Jake Stubbs stood by rubbing his hands in a perfect ecstasy of delight. It is needless for us to relate the many curious adventures Mr. Stubbs met with Avhilst searching for a situation for Jake. His endeavors to find a situation such as he wanted were, for a long time, ineffectual. At length he blundered into a small printing-office, where three men and a boy were test ing the merits of half a dozen doughnuts, and a bottle of root beer. Mr. Stubbs was very sorry to disturb them. When he men tioned his errand, one of the men a tall fellow, with check shirt and green apron said that he had, for a long time, contemplated starting a paper, but, as he was not capable of editing one, he had not carried out his intention. The prin cipal reason why he had not published was, he was poor ; business had not prospered in his hands, and an outlay of two thousand dollars would be needed to commence and con tinue the paper. "Very well," replied Mr. Stubbs, "that is a large sum; but, if there is no doubt of its being returned, I might think of loaning it to you, for the sake of getting my talented son into business." "Not the least doubt, not the least," replied Mr. Pica; and he so inflamed the imagination of Mr. Stubbs, that, strange 292 TOWN AND COUNTRY. as it may seem to the cautious reader, he wrote a check for the amount, merely taking the unendorsed note of Mr. Pica as security ; then, hastening home, he told Mrs. Stubbs to brush up the boy, for he was an editor. ***** Behold, now, Mr. Jake Stubbs in a little room up three pair of stairs, preparing "copy" for the first number of "The Peg Top, or the Buzz of the Nation." He hasn't got black eyes now ; all the blackness of his person, if not of his character, has settled in his fingers, and they are black with ink. Not all settled, for a few daubs of the "blood of the world," as the dark fluid Las been called, were to be seen on his forehead, having passed there from his fingers, when leaning upon them in a pensive mood, vainly endeavoring to bring up thoughts from the mighty depths of his intellect, so mighty, in fact, that his thoughts were kept there, and refused to come up. Mr. Jake Stubbs had been cutting and pasting all day, when, thinking it a little too severe to inflict further duty upon the assistant editor, he took his pen in liand, resolved upon writing a masterly article as a leader. A sheet of blank paper had kin on the table before him for nearly an hour. He would sit and think. Some idea would pop into his head, then with a dash would the pen go into the ink, but before he could get his pen out the idea had flown, and the world was the loser. Then he threw himself back into his chair, thought, thought, thought. At length Jake obtained the mastery, as patience and perse verance always will, and the pen became his willing slave, though his mind, being the slave-driver, did not hurry it on very fast. He was able to pen a few words, and wrote " The war with Mexico " Well, he had got so far ; that was very original, and if he never wrote anything else, would stamp him a man of NOT MADE FOR AX EDITOR. 293 talent. Into the ink, on the paper, and his pen wrote the little word are. "The war with Mexico are." Ten min utes more of steady thought, and three more words brought him to a full stop. " The war with Mexico are a indisputa ble fact." That last but one was a long word, and a close observer could have seen his head expand with the effort. '' Copy, sir, copy !" shouted the printer's boy, as he stood with his arms daubed Avith ink. and a straw hat upon his head that had seen service, and looked old enough to retire tuid live on a pension. 'Copy what?" inquired the editor, who began to feel indignant, imagining that the publisher had seen his labor to write an article, and had sent him word to copy from some paper. "Here," said he, "take this to Mr. Pica, and tell him 't is original, and gives an account of the war with Mexico, with news up to this date." The boy took it, trudged up stairs with two lines of MS., and the editor arose and walked his office, as though his labors were o'er, and he might rest and see some mighty spirit engrave his name upon the scroll of fame. He had crossed the floor half a dozen times, when in came the same youth, shouting " Copy, sir, copy ! " " Copy what ? " shouted Jake, laying hold of the boy's' shirt-sleeve. " Tell rue what you want copied ! tell me, sir, or I will shake your interiors out of you " The boy was small, but spunky. His education had been received at the corners of the streets. He had never taken lessons of a professor, but he had practised upon a number of urchins smaller than himself, and had become a thoroughly proficient and expert pugilist. It was not for Bill Bite to be roughly handled by any one, not even by an editor. So he pushed him from him, and said. 25* TOWN AND COUNTRY. ". I want copy ; that's a civil question. I want a civil answer." Jake's organ of combativcncss became enlarged. He sprang at the boy, grasped him by the waist, and would have thrown him down stairs, had not a movement the boy made prevented him. Bill's arms were loose, and. nearing the table, he took the inkstand and dashed the contents into the face of his assailant. " Murder ! " shouted the editor. "Copy!" shouted the boy; and such a rumpus was created, that up came Mr. Pica, saying that the building was so shaken that an article in type on the subject of " Health and Diet" suddenly transformed itself into " pi." The two belligerents were parted ; the editor and Master Bill Bite stood at extremes. At this crisis who should enter but Mr. Stubbs, senior, who, seeing his son's face blackened with ink, inquired the cause rather indignantly: at which Mr. Pica, not recognizing in the indignant inquirer the father of the "talented editor," turned suddenly about and struck him a blow in the face, that displaced his spectacles, knocked off his white hat into a pond of ink, and made the old fellow see stars amid the cobwebs and dust of the ceiling. The son, seeing himself again at liberty, flew at the boy, and gave him "copy" of a very impressive kind. N Down from the shelves came dusty papers and empty bot tles, whilst up from the printing-office came the inmates, to learn the cause of the disturbance. A couple of police-officers passing at the time, hearing the noise, entered, and one of them taking Mr. Stubbs, senior, and the other Mr. Stubbs, junior, bore them off to the lock-up. NOT MADE FOR AN EDITOR. 295 This affair put a sudden stop to "The Buzz of the Nation." The first number never made its appearance. Mr. Pica, having obtained the amount of the check, went into the country for his health, and has not been heard from since. Elder Stubbs and Stubbs the younger paid a fine of five dollars each ; and Avhen they reached home and related to Mrs. Stubbs the facts in the case, she took off her specta cles, and, after a few moments' sober thought, came to the sage conclusion that her son Jake was not made for an editor. HERE'S TO THE HEART THAT'S EVER BRIGHT. HERE 's to a heart that 's ever bright, Whatever may betide it, Though fortune may not smile aright, And evil is beside it ; That lets the world go smiling on, But, when it leans to sadness, Will cheer the heart of every one With its bright smile of gladness ! A fig for those who always sigh And fear an ill to-morrow ; Who, when they have no troubles nigh, Will countless evils borrow ; Who poison every cup of joy, By throwing in a bramble ; And every hour of time employ In a vexatious scramble. What though the heart be sometimes sad ! 'T is better not to show it ; 'Twill only chill a heart that 's glad, If it should chance to know it. So, cheer thec uj> if evil 's nigh, Droop not beneath thy sadness ; If sorrow finds tlioa wilt not sigh, 'T will leave thy heart to gladness. THE RECOMPENSE OF GOODNESS. 297 MORNING BEAUTY. . BRIGHTLY now on every hill The sun's first rays are beaming, " And dew-drops on each blade of grass Are in their beauty gleaming. O'er every hill and every vale The huntsman's horn is sounding, And gayly o'er each brook and fence His noble steed is bounding. There 's beauty in the glorious sun AVhen high mid heaven 'tis shining, There 's beauty in the forest oak When vines are round it twining ; There 's beauty in each flower that blooms, Each star whose light is glancing From heaven to earth, as on apace 'T is noiselessly advancing. Beauties are all around thy path, And gloriously they 're shining ; Nature hath placed them everywhere, To guard men from repining. Yet 'mong them all there 's naught more fair, This beauteous earth adorning, Than the bright beauty gathering round The early hours of morning. THE RECOMPENSE OF GOODNESS. WHEK our hours shall all be numbered, And the time shall come to die, When the tear that long hath slumbered Sparkles in the watcher's eye, 298 TOWN AND COUNTivY. Shall we not look back with pleasure To the hour when sonic lone heart, Of our soul's abundant treasure, From our bounty took a part ? When the hand of death is resting On the friend we most do love, And the spirit fast is hasting To its holy home above, Then the memory of each favor We have given will to us be Like a full and holy savor, Bearing blessings rich and free. O, then, brother, let thy labor Be to do good while you live, And to every friend and neighbor Some kind word and sweet smile give. Do it, all thy soul revealing, And within your soul you '11 know IIow one look of kindly feeling Cause the tides of love to flow. BRIDAL SONGS. TO THE WIFE. LET a smile illume thy face, In thy joyous hours ; Look of sympathy be thine, When the darkness lowers. lie thou lovest inovest where Many trials meet him ; Waiting be when lie returns, Lovingly t> greet him. BRIDAL SONGS. 299 Though without the world be cold, Be it thy endeavor That within thy home is known Happiness forever. TO THE HUSBAND. WHATSOEVER trials rise, Tempting thee to falter, Ne'er forget the solemn vowa Taken at the altar. In thy hours of direst grief, As in those of gladness, Minister to her you love, Dissipate her sadness. Be to cheer, to bless, to love, Always your endeavor ; Write upon your heart of hearts Faithfulness forever. THE JUG AFLOAT. " WHAT I tell thec, captain, is sober truth. If thee wishes to prosper, thee must not allow thy sailors grog, lest, when at sea, they become tipsy, and thy ship, running upon hidden rocks, shall be lost ; or else, when at the mast-head, giddiness come upon them, and, falling, thy crew shall num ber one less." Thus spake a good old Quaker, a native of the city of Penn. Captain Marlin had been for many days and nights considering whether it were best to carry a complement of wine for himself and friends, and grog for his crew. He had that morning met Simon Prim, and asked his opinion, which he gave as above ; yet Captain Marlin seemed unde termined. He felt it to be an important question, and he desired to come to a right conclusion. They had been passing up Broadway ; had reached the Trinity, crossing over towards Wall-street. Sirnon. with his usual gravity, raised his hand, and, pointing to the to\s'ering steeple of the splendid edifice, said * " If thou, neighbor, desired to ascend yonder spire, think- est thou thou wouldst first drink of thy wine, or thy grog ? " " Certainly not," replied Captain Mariin. " Then," continued the Quaker, " do not take it to sea with thee ; for thou or thy men mayest be called to a spot as high as yonder pinnacle, when thee little thinkest of it." The two walked down Wall-street without a word from either, till, reaching a shipping-office. Captain Marlin re- THE JUG AFLOAT. 301 marked that he had business within. The Quaker very politely bowed, and bade him take heed to good counsel, and good-day. The owner of the vessel was seated in an arm-chair, read ing the shipping news in the Journal. " Did you know," said he, as his captain entered, " that Parvalance & Co. have lost their ship, ( The Dey of Algiers,' and none were saved but the cabin-boy, and he half dead when found ? " "Indeed not; when where how happened it 7" in quired Captain Marlin, in some haste. , . " On a voyage from Canton, with a rich cargo of silks, satins, teas, oor, lame 01 ; She v Vhy, thf uk lantern, tuxd look iu tli^ e husband 1- 1 : D one sm: LITTLE NELLY. 315 as was given to her daughter, who diligently walked the streets, selling apples, she managed to live in a style which she denominated " comfortable." Thus, for upwards of one year, she toiled and lived, and was thankful for all her many blessings. But sickness came ; not severe, but of that kind that bears its victim along slowly to rest. She was unable to do much. She did not wish to do much ; but she sat day by day, yea, night by night often, and diligently pursued the avocation that brought her daily bread. "Weeks passed, and yet she was ill. One morning, she called her daughter to her side, and, taking her hand in her own, said : " Little Nelly, 't is Independence day, to-day. You heard the guns fire, and the bells ring, and the shouts of the happy children, this morning, before you arose. I watched you as you lay listening to all these, and I asked myself, Will my little Nelly be happy ? and I thought I heard my mother's voice : she died long, long ago, but I thought I heard her voice right at my side, saying, 'We shall all be happy soon ;' and I wept, for I could not help it. " But I 've called you now, Nelly, to tell you that I 'm much better this morning, and that, if you can get twenty- five cents to-day, we will have a happy time to-night." Little Nelly looked happy for a moment, but soon a shadow came over her face ; for she could not comprehend the meaning of her mother when she said she was " better," for she looked more feeble than she had ever seen her since the news of how her father was shot in the face at Monterey was told her. But she tried to be cheerful. She tried to smile, but, 0, it was very hard ; and she got her mother's breakfast, and, having cleared the things away, took her little basket, and her mother's purse, and went out 316 TOWN AND COUNTRY. It was, indeed, a happy day without. There was joy depicted on every countenance, and the general happiness infused some of its spirit into the heart of our little trader. She seemed almost lost in the great crowd ; and there were so many dealers about, and so many that presented greater attractions in the display of their stock, that few bought of little Nelly. It was late in the afternoon, and she had sold but a little, when she encountered a young lady gayly dressed, in whose hand was prominently displayed a bead purse, through the interstices of which the gold and silver glistened. Nelly held out her humble purse, in which no beads were wrought, through which no coin glistened, she held it up, and ventured to ask, in pleasant tones, a few pennies of the lady. But not a penny for little Nelly. Not even a look recognized her appeal, but costly, flowing robes rushed by, and nearly prostrated her ; they did force her from the side walk into the gutter. Go on, ye proud and selfish one ! Go, bend the knee to Fashion's altar, and ask a blessing of its presiding spirit ! Bestow no pitying glance on honest poverty ; no helping hand to the weak and falling ! There is a law which God hath written on all his works, proclaiming justice, and giving unto all as they shall ask of him. Pass on, and heed not that little praying hand; but remember you cannot do so without asking of that law its just requital. Nelly walked on. She mingled again with the great mass, and twilight came. It was then that she sat down, as I have before stated, to count her money. She had but thir teen cents. All day she had sought to dispose of her stock, that she might carry to her mother the sum named, with which to have a happy time at home. And now the p<>n window at which they stood. In a week, our foreign friend had made the circuit of all the fashionable society of Greendale. He had drank tea with the " Commissioners," and walked out with their amia ble daughters. He had visited the pastor, and had evinced great interest in the prosperity of the church. He had even exhorted in the conference-meeting, and had become so pop ular that some few, taking 'it for granted that so devout a man must be a clergyman, had serious thoughts of asking the old parson to leave, and the stranger to accept the pul pit, four hundred and eighty-two dollars a year, and a dona tion-party's offerings. He had attended the sewing-circle, and made himself perfectly at home with everybody and everything. The young men's society for ameliorating the condition of the Esquimauxs and Hottentots had been favored with his presence ; and, likewise, with a speech of five minutes long, which speech had. in an astonishingly short time, been printed on pink satin and handsomely framed. The lower class of people, for whom the stranger talked so much, and shed so many tears, and gave vent to so many pitiful exclamations, but with whom, however, he did not deign to associate, were filled with a prodigious amount of wonder at the lion and his adventures. They gathered at Squire Brim's tavern, and at the store on the corner, and wondered and talked over the matter. The questions with them were, Who is he ? where did he come, and where is he going to ? They would not believe all they had heard conjectured about him, and some few were so far independ ent as to hint of the possibility of imposition. There were two who determined to find out, at. all haz ards, the name, history, come from and go to, of the myste rious guest; and, to accomplish their purpose, they found it THE VILLAGE MYSTEKY. 325 necessary for them to go to Baltimore early the subsequent morning. The morning came. After taking a measurement of the height, breadth and bulk of the foreigner, as also a mental daguerreotype of his personal appearance, they departed. Having been very politely invited, it is no strange mat ter of fact that, just as the sun has turned the meridian, on the fifth of March, a young man is seen walking slowly upon the shady side of Butternut-street, Greendale. To him all eyes are directed. Boys stop their plays, and turn their inquisitive eyes towards the pedestrian. The loungers at Brim's tavern flock to the door, and gaze earnestly at him ; while Bridget the house-maid, and Dennis the hostler, hold a short confab on the back stairs, each equally wondering whose " bairn " he can be. As he continues on his way, he meets a couple of sociable old ladies, with whom he formed an acquaintance at the sew ing-circle. They shake hands most cordially. " Abby and Nelly are waiting for you ; they 're expecting you," says one of the ladies, as she breathes a blessing and bids him good-by, with a hope that he will have a pleasant time at the deacon's. Let us now take a few steps in advance, and enter the hospitable mansion to which our mysterious personage, who has given his name as Sir Charles Nepod, is passing. Up these beautiful white steps walk with dainty tread. At this highly-polished door ring with gentle hand. A stout serving-man answers our call, and a tittering serving-girl scampers away and conceals herself behind the staircase, as we enter. What, think you, can be going on ? A wedding, forsooth, perhaps a dinner-party. A brace of charming girls, the deacon's only daughters, are seated in the front parlor. We are introduced, and soon 28 326 TOWN AND COUNTRY. learn that they are waiting the arrival of the talented, the benevolent Sir Charles ; and, as a matter of form and cour tesy, rather than of sincerity and hospitalitjr, we are invited to remain and meet him in the dining-room. We decline ; bid them good-by, and leave. As we pass out, we are hailed in a loud whisper by the man who first met us, who glibly runs on with his talk as he leads the way, walking sideways all the time to the door. "An' sirs, sirs, dus yers know what the young Mis- thresses is afther ) Well, sirs, they ; s goin' fur to hev' a greath dinner with the furriner. Yes, sirs, with the furriner as come frum a furrin. land, and wasn't born in this at all a' tall." As we reach the door, he steps up, whispers in our ears, "An' I tells yer what, sirs, Kate, that's the gal yer sees, sirs, me and she 's goin' to see all frurn the little winder beyant. This is conveniently private to you, sirs, an' I hopes ye '11 say nothing to no one about it, sirs ; 't is a private sacret, sirs." What should induce this man to give us this information, we cannnot conceive. However, we have no reason to doubt what he tells us, and therefore understand that a dinner party is to come off, with a wedding in perspective. As we pass into thaijetreet, we meet Xepod. As he ascends th*teps. the two girls, forgetting all rules of etiquette, spring to the door, completely bewildering hon est Mike, who is at hand, and welcome the man of the age. " Mother and aunty have just gone out," says Nelly ; " they thought we young folks would enjoy our dinner much better by ourselves alone." " How considerate ! " replies the guest. " I met the good old ladies on the street. How kind in them to be so thought ful ! How pleasantly will pass the hours of to-day ! This day will be the happiest of my life." THE VILLAGE MYSTERY. 327 The three pass to the dining-room. Though early in March, the weather is quite warm. In the haste of the moment, and somewhat confused by his warm welcome, our hero has taken his hat and cloak and laid them on a lounge near an open window. Seated at the table, the company discourse on a variety of subjects, and the two sisters vie with each other in doing the agreeable. Down town all was excitement, and a great crowd was gathered at the tavern. The investigating committee had returned from the city, and with the committee three meu of mysterious look. To the uninitiated the mystery that had puzzled them for so long a time grew yet more myste rious. Nothing could be learned from the two who had returned, respecting Sir Charles, or the additional strangers. Only dark and mysterious hints were thrown out, render ing the whole affair more completely befogged than before. Mr. Brim, the keeper of the tavern, silently conducted the new comers out by a back passage, and soon they were- seen in the same path which Sir Charles had followed. One of the men quietly opened the front door of the dea con's home, and, entering, knocked upon the door of the dining-room. A voice said, " Come in ;" and he proceeded to do so. In an instant, as if struck by an electric shock, the dis tinguished guest sprang from the table, and leaped through the open window, leaving his hat and cloak behind. But the leap did not injure him, for he fell into the arms of a man who stood ready to embrace him ; and, mystery on mys tery, they placed hand-cuffi on his wrists ! Judge, if you can, of the astonishment and mortification of the deacon's girls, when they were told that he who had" been their guest was a bold highwayman, who had escaped from the penitentiary. 328 TOWN AND COUNTRY. There was great ado in Greendale that afternoon and evening. Those who had been unable to gain his attention said they knew all the time he was a rogue. The young men's society voted to sell the frame and destroy the printed speech ; and the next Sabbath the good pastor preached about a roaring lion that went about seeking whom he might devour. THE WAYSIDE DEATH. Not many years since, an old man, who had for a long time sat by the wayside depending upon the charity of those who passed by for his daily bread, died a few moments after receiving an ill-mannered reply to his request for alms. Subjjjguent inquiries proved that he had been a soldier in the American Revolution. WHEN Freedom's call rang o'er the land, To bring its bold defenders nigh, Young Alfred took a foremost stand, Resolved to gain the day or die. And well he fought, and won the trust ; When the day's conflicts had been braved, The foe's proud ensigns lay in dust, While Freedom's banner victor waved. But now he is a poor old man, And they who with him, side by side, Fought bravely in that little van, Have left him, one by one, have died. And now to no one can he tell, Though touched with patriot fire his tongue, The story of those days which well Deserve to be by freemen sung, And cherished long as life shall last ; To childhood told, that it may know Who braved the storm when came the blast, And vanquished Freedom's direst foe. He sits there on the curb-stone now, That brave old man of years gone by ; His head 'neath age and care would bow, But yet he raise th it on high, 28* 330 TOWN AND COUNTRY. And, stretching out his feeble hands, He asks a penny from man's purse, Food for himself from off that land He fought to save. Yet, but a curse Falls from their lips to greet his ear ; And he, despairing, turns and sighs, And bows his head, there falls one tear, It is the last he dies. ****** Now men do rudely lift his hat, To gaze upon his furrowed face, And say, "It is the man who sat Here for so long a foul disgrace." Crowds gather round the spot to see, And then pass idly on, and say, To those who ask who it can be, " 'T is but a vagrant of the way." Thus he who fought and bled to gain The blessings which are round us strewn, For one he asked, besought in vain, Received man's curse, and died unknown. O, my own country ! shall it be That they who through thy struggle passed, And bore thy banner manfully, Shall thus neglected die at last ? 0, shall it be no help shall come From thy o'erflowing wealth to bless? Wilt thou be blind, wilt thou be dumb, To pleas like theirs in wretchedness ? Answer ! and let your answer be A helping hand lowered down to raise From want and woe those who for thee Won all thy honor, all thy praise, And made thee what thou art to-day, A refuge and a hope for man ; Speak ! ere the last one wings away ; Act ! act while yet to-day you can. BEAUTY AND INNOCENCE. 331 BEAUTY AND INNOCENCE. [FOR AN ENGRAVING OF COTTAGE GIRL AND LAMB.] O, MAIDEN, standing in the open field, On pasture sparkling with the morning dew ! What joy thou findest Nature now to yield To hearts developed right, hearts that are true ! Above is beauty, as along the sky The dawn of light sends forth its herald ray To arch the heavens, and myriad leagues on high Proclaim the coming of the god of day. Beneath is beauty ; see the glistening gems Around thy feet in rich profusion strewn ; Such as ne'er glows in kingly diadems, Such as man's handiwork hath never shown. Around is beauty ; on each vale and hill, In open field and in the shady wood, A voice is whispering, soft, and low, and still, " All, all is beautiful, for God is good." Thou, too, art beautiful, 0, maiden fair, While Innocence within thine arms doth rest ; And thou wilt e'er be thus, no grief thou 'It share, If such a blessing dwell within thy breast As that whose emblem now lies gently there. 332 TOWN AND COUNTRY. NIGHT. I VE watched the Bun go down, and evening draw Its twilight mantle o'er the passive earth, And hang its robe of blue, all gemmed with stars, High over all for mortal eyes to gaze at. And now I come to tread this sodded earth, To walk alone in Nature's vaulted hall ; Yet, not alone ; I hear the rustling leaf, The cricket's note, the night-bird's early lay ; I feel the cool breeze as it fans my brow, And scent the fragrance of tUe untainted air. I love the night. There 's something in its shade That sends a soothing influence o'er the soul, And fits it for reflection, sober thought. It comes bearing a balm to weary ones, . A something undefinable, yet felt By souls that feel the want of something real. And now 't is night, and well it is that I Am here. I stand, my hand on this old tree, Pressing its mossy side, with no one near I can call fellow in the human strife, The great, unfinished drama of this life. Alone, alone, with Nature and its God, I '11 sit me down, and for a moment muse On busy scenes, and, like some warrior chief, t Behold, yet mingle not in earth's great acts. To-night how various are the states of men ! Some, bowed by sickness, press their sleepless couch, Wishing while day doth last that night would come, And now that niglit is with them wish for day. Remorse holds some in its unyielding grasp ; Despair, more cruel yet, haunts some men's souls ; Both, ministers of justice conscience sends To do its fearful bidding in those breasts Which have rebelled and disavowed its rule. NIGHT. 333 Perchance, a maiden happy as a queen To-night doth fix her destiny. A happy throng Gather around, and envy her her bliss. They little know what magic power lies low In the filled wine-cup as they pass it round ; They little think it plants a venomed dart In the glad soul of her whose lips do press Its dancing sparkles. Sorrow's nucleus ! Round that cup shall twine memories so dark That night were noonday to them, to their gloom. Dash it aside ! See you not how laughs Within the chalice brim an evil eye ? Each sparkling ray that from its depth comes up Is the foul tempter's hand outstretched to grasp The thoughtless that may venture in his reach . How to-night the throng press on to bend The knee to Baal, and to place a crown On Magog's princely head ! Dollars and dimes, A purse well-filled, a soul that pants for more ; An eye that sees a farthing in the dust, And in its glitter plenitude of joy, Yet sees no beauty in the stars above, No cause for gladness in the light of day, A hand that grasps the wealth of earth, and yields For sake of it the richer stores of heaven ; A soul that loves the perishing of earth, And hates that wealth which rust can ne'er corrupt. How many such ! How many bar their souls 'Gainst every good, yet ope it wide to wrong ! This night they 're all in arms. They watch and wait ; Now that the sun hath fled, and evening's shade Doth follow in its path, they put in play The plans which they in daylight have devised, Entrapping thoughtless feet, and leading down The flower-strewn path a daughter or a son, On whose fair, white brow, the warm, warm moisture Of a parent's kiss seems yet to linger. Stay ! daughter, son, 0, heed a friend's advice, 334 TOWN AND COUNTRY. Rush not in thoughtless gayety along ! Beware of pit-falls. T.ist.-n and you '11 hear From some deep pit a warning voice to thec ; For thousands low have fallen, who once had Hopes, prospects, fair us thine ; they listened, fell ! And from the depths of their deep misery call On thee to think. 0, follow not, but reach A helping hand to raise them from their woe ! Clouds hide the moon ; how now doth wrong prevail ! Wrong holdeth carnival, and death is near. O, what a sight were it for man to see, Should there on this dark, shrouded hour Burst in an instant forth a noonday light ! How many who are deemed righteous men, And bear a fair exterior by day, Would now be seen in fellowship with sin ! Laughing, and sending forth their jibes' and jeers, And doing deeds which Infamy might own. But not alone to wrong and base intrigue Do minister these shades of night ; for Love Holds high her beacon Charity to guide To deeds that angels might be proud to own. Beneath the shadows that these clouds do cast, Hath many a willing hand bestowed a gift Its modest worth in secret would confer. No human eye beheld the welcome purse Dropped at the poor man's humble cottage door ; But angels saw the act, and they have made A lasting record of it on the scroll That bears the register of human life. Many a patient sufferer watches now The passing hours, and counts them as they flee. Many a watcher with a sleepless eye Keeps record of the sick man's every breath. Many a mother bends above her child In deep solicitude, in deathless love. Night wears away, and up the eastern sky The dawn approaches. So shall life depart, NOT DEAD, BUT CHANGED. 335 This life of ours on earth, and a new birth Approach to greet us with immortal joys, So gently on our inner life shall come The light of heaven. Time moveth on , and I must join again The busy toil of life ; and I must go. And yet I would not. I would rather stay And talk with these green woods, for woods can talk. Didst ever hear their voice ? In spring they speak Of early love and youth, and ardent hope ; In summer, of the noon of wedded life, All buds and blossoms and sweet-smelling flowers ; In autumn, of domestic bliss with all its fund Of ripe enjoyments, and then winter hears The leafless trees sing mysterious hymns, And point their long lean arms to homes above. Yes, the old woods talk, and I might hold A sweet communion here with them to-night. Farewell to Night ; farewell these thoughts of mine, For day hath come. NOT DEAD, BUT CHANGED. I SAT and mused o'er all the years gone by ; Of friends departed, and of others going ; And dwelt upon their memories with a sigh, Till floods of tears, their hidden springs o'erflowing, Betrayed my grief. Soon, a bright light above me, Voices saying, " We 're near thee yet to love thee," Dispelled my tears. I raised my drooping head, And asked, " Who, who, the dead? " When the angelic host around me ranged Whispered within my ear, " Not dead, but changed.' 1 '' THE DISINHERITED. MY next door neighbor's name was Jotham Jenks. This was all I knew about him, until the circumstance I am about to tell you occurred. One evening I had seated myself by my fire, and had taken up an evening paper with which to occupy my time, until an acquaintance of mine, who I momentarily expected, should arrive. It was December, cold, blustering, and by no means an agreeable time to be out of doors, or away from a good fire. Such being the state of affairs, as far as weather was concerned, I began to think I should not see my friend that night, when a smart rap upon the outer door, half a dozen times repeated, prevented me from further specula tion. Why did n't he ring ? there was a bell. It must have been a stranger, else he would have used it. Presently a servant came with the information that a stranger was at the door with a carriage, and wished my immediate presence. " Request him to walk in," said I. "He cannot wait a moment," answered the servant; " he wishes you to put on your hat and coat, and go with him." " Where ? " " He did not say." This was a strange interruption, strange that a man, a stranger, in fact, should call for me to go out with him on THE DISINHERITED. 337 * such a night : but I mustered courage, and went out to meet him. I don't know what induced me so readily to grant his request ; but*out I went, hatted, coated and booted. As I approached, I heard the falling of steps, and the voice of the coachman requesting me to hurry. Reaching the carriage, I looked in and beheld Jotham Jenks. In I jumped, and before I was seated the carriage was moving. The whip snapped, the wheels whirled round, and we passed through the lighted streets with almost incredible speed. I ventured to make an inquiry, and the reply was,. ' : You are doing a good deed. My name is Jotham Jenks. Ask no questions now." Thus was a veto put upon the movements of my tongue for the time being. I, however, recognized the voice of Mr. Jenks ; and though I knew but little respecting him, I judged from his appearance that he was a quiet, unoffending man ; and such I afterwards found him. For thirty minutes the horses raced along, causing the water, ice and snow, to take to themselves wings and fly upon pedestrians, windows, and sundry other animate and inanimate objects of creation. For myself, I began to ex perience some misgiving, for thus exposing myself to what, I did not know. At length the carriage turned down a dark, narrow street, leading to one of the wharves, upon which Ave finally found ourselves. The driver jumped from his seat, opened the carriage-door, threw down the steps, and we got out. Matters had reached a crisis. Was I to be thrown into the water ? The assurance of my companion that I was doing a good deed seemed to disfavor this supposition, as what possible good could that do myself or any one else 1 Yet, for what was I taken from a warm room, on such a cold, dismal, dark night, and hurried to the wharf? 29 338 TOWN AND COUNTRY. " Now," said I to the stranger, " I must know the mean ing of all this.- the why and the wherefore.'' He took my hand in his. It was quite drtrk. I could not see, yet I could tell by his voice that he wept, as he said, " In a berth in the cabin of that vessel lies a young man, , far from his home, among strangers, sick, perhaps dying. No relative, other than those of the great brotherhood of mankind, is near to minister to his wants, or to speak com fort to his troubled heart. He had been here about two days, when I was informed of his situation by a friend who came in the same vessel. I have brought you here that you might listen to his statements, and assist me in assisting him. There is much of romance in his narrative, and, as you arc preparing a volume of life-sketches, as found in town and country, I have thought that what falls from his lips might fill a few pages with interest and profit to your readers." I thanked him for his thoughtfulness. My suspicions and fears were all allayed ; I asked no more questions, but fol lowed my friend as he passed to the vessel, and descended the narrow stairway to the cabin. A small lamp hung from the ceiling, and shed a sort of gloomy light around. I had been in chambers of sickness, but never in a room where more neatness was discernible, or more sufficiency for its tenant, than in the cabin in which I then was. A sailor boy seated by a berth indicated to me the spot where the sick man lay. We were informed that he had just fallen into a sleep, and we were careful not to awake him. But, notwithstanding all our care, our movements awoke him. He gazed around as one often does after a deep sleep; but a consciousness of his situation, and a recognition of my companion, soon dispelled his vacant looks, and his features THE DISINHERITED. 339 were illumed with as expressive a smile as it has ever been my fortune to behold. I was introduced to the invalid, and soon we were as famil iar as old acquaintances. His name was Egbert Lawrence, and his age I should judge from appearances to be about twenty-five. "It is possible that my dear, good friend, Mr. Jenks, has given you some account of my circumstances, " he remarked, addressing me. I replied that he had not, any further than to state that he was friendless. He started, as I said this, and ex claimed, "Friendless ! His own modesty, that sure mark of true merit, induced him to say that ; but, dear sir, I have a friend in him, greater than in any other on earth now. I had a friend, but, alas ! she 's gone." I corrected his impression ; remarked that I only intended to convey the fact that he was in a strange country, among a strange people, and that Mr. Jenks had told me he was worthy of assistance, and that a sketch of his life would interest me. " Then you would like to hear of my past, would you ? " "Most certainly/' I replied; "and should consider it a favor should you consent to give it to me." To this he at once consented. " I was born in the west of England," he began, "and can Avell remember what a charming little village it was in which I passed my earliest days. My mother was a woman of the finest sensibilities, too fine, in fact, for the rough winds of this world. Her heart beat too strongly in sym pathy with the poor and oppressed, the weary-footed and troubled ones, to live among and not have the weight of their sorrows and cares be;ir also upon her, and gradually wear out the earth tenement of her spirit. 340 TOWN AND COUNTRY. "As far as a fine, sensitive feeling was hers, so far it was mine. I inherited it. But I would not flatter myself so much as to say that I. in like manner, partook of her heav enly, loving nature, or that I in any of her noble traits was worthy of being her son. "Many times have I been the bearer of her secret chari ties. Many times have I heard the poor bless the unknown hand that placed bounties at their door. Many times have I seen my mother weep while I told her of what I heard the recipients of her benevolence tell their neighbors, and the many conjectures in their minds as to who the donor could be. And, 0, there was joy sparkling in her eyes when I told her of what I had seen and heard ! The grateful poor, concluding, after all their surmising, that, as they could not tell for a certainty who it was who gave them food and clotffing, they would kneel down and thank God ; for, said they, in their honest, simple manner, He knows. The benevolent hand cannot hide itself from his presence, or escape his reward. "My father was quite a different person. How it Mas they met and loved, I could not for a long time determine. But one evening my mother told me all about it, and said he was not the man of her choice, but of her parents' choice ; and that she had never loyed him with that deep and earnest love that alone can bind two hearts in one embrace. But she said she had endeavored to do her duty towards him. Good woman ! I knew that. : T was her very nature to do that. 'T was a law of her being, and she could not evade it. "My father was a rough, coarse-minded man. He held an office under the government, and, from being accustomed to the exercise of some little authority without doors, became habituated to a morose, ill-natured manner of words and behavior within our home. I rememln-r h<>\v I changed my tone of voice, and my mode of action, when at night he came THE DISINHERITED. home. With my mother I talked and laughed, and played merrily in her presence, and rather liked to have her look on my sports ; but when my father came I never smiled. I sat up on my chair in one corner as stiff and upright as the elm-tree in front of our house. I never played in his pres ence. I seldom heard a kind word from him. My mother used to call me ' Berty, my dear,' when she wished me ; but my father always shouted, sternly, l Egbert, come here, sir! ' and I would tremblingly respond, : Shv " Few persons seemed to love him; those who did, did so with an eye to business. It was policy in them to flatter the man who could favor them pecuniarily,. and they hesitated not to do so. One time, when my father's vote and influence were worth five thousand pounds to his party, and he exhib ited symptoms of withholding them, he had rich presents sent him, and every night some half a dozen or more would call in and sit and talk with him, and tell him how admirably all the schemes he had started for the good of the town had suc ceeded, and in all manner of ways would flatter the old gen tleman, so that he would be quite pleasant all the next day. At this time handsome carriages came to take him to ride, and gentlemen proposed an afternoon's shooting or fishing, or sport of some kind, and my father always accepted and was always delighted. The simple man, he couldn't see through the gauze bags they were drawing over his head ! He did not notice the nets with which they were entangling his feet. When election came, he gave his vote, and did not keep back his influence. " My father was not benevolent to any great degree. He gave, it is true. He gave to missionary societies, to educa tion and tract societies, and his name was always found printed in their monthly reports; but he never gave, as my mother did, to the poor around us, unseen, unknown. Not even he knew of my mother's charitable acts ; but all the 29* 342 TOWN AND COC.VH'.Y. town knew of his, and he was looked upon by the great mass of public? mind to be the most benevolent. But it was not so. Far from it. One shilling from my mother, given with the heart, with sympathy, given for the sake of doing good, not for the sake of popularity, was a greater gift than a hundred pounds from my father's hand, given as he always gave it. " I attended school but little. My mother wished me to have a good education, but my father said if I could ' figure ' well it was enough. I was taken from school and put in a store, a place which I abhorred. I was put there to sell tape, and pins, and thread, and yarn ; and I was kept behind the counter from early morn until late at night. " I had one brother, but his mind was nothing like mine. He partook of my father's nature. We seldom agreed upon any matter, and I always chose to be alone rather than with him. I do not think I was wrong in this, for our minds were of different easts. Neither of us made our minds or our dispositions. There was, -therefore, no blame upon any one, if, on account of the difference in our mental organization*, our affinities led us apart. It was a perfectly natural result of a natural cause. "I will not weary you with more detail of my life to night ; but to-morrow, if you have any interest in what I have begun to tell you, I will tell you more." I had noticed that he began to be exhausted with his effort, and was about to 'propose that a future time be allotted to what more he chose to relate. I assured him of an increased interest in him. and sug gested removing him to a good boarding-house, lie at first declined, but upon further urging he accepted, and. having seen that alt hi* wants were for that night attended tu. we left, with the understanding that a carriage should convey THE DISINHERITED. 343 him to more commodious quarters on the morrow, if the weather permitted. I had no fears of my companion as we rode up the wharf and drove through th contented. This was what troubled him. Had 1 manifested a great sorrow and writhing beneath what he deemed troubles, he would have greatly rejoiced, and so would all his friends. " I had accumulated a small property, and was prosper- . ing, notwithstanding the efforts of many to embarrass me. A few began to see that I was not so bad as I had been rep resented to be, and they began to sympathize with me. This aroused my father's anger afresh. " We had been married by a magistrate of another town, .and the clouds above. our outside or temporary affairs seemed breaking away, when an event occurred that frustrated all our plans. " One evening I heard the cry of ' fire,' and, on attempting to go out, I found the entry of the house filled with a dense smoke. The smoke poured into the room in which Evelina and her father were seated. I rushed to the window, dashed it out, and, having seen my wife and her father safely depos ited without, secured what of the property I could. In a 352 TOWN AND COUNTRY. few moments the cottage was enveloped in flames, and it was not long before no vestige of our happy home remained, except the smoking embers and a heap of ashes. We AVCIX now, indeed, poor in gold and lands ; but it seemed to each of us that what had been taken from our purse had been put in our hearts, for we loved each other more than ever before, " if such a love were possible ; and, though we received but. little sympathy from without, we had a fund of sympathy within, that made us forget our seeming sorrows, and rejoice in bliss unspeakable. " It was reported that I had fired the cottage. I well knew with whom this charge originated, and I had good reasons for believing that the match that fired our house came from the same source. "Our condition was such that we concluded to leave the place where so much had been endured, and those who had strewn our path with what they intended for thorns and brambles. ' We left. We journeyed to Liverpool, and engaged a passage in a New York packet for the United States. It was a beautiful morning Avhen AVC set sail, and everything seemed reviving in the possessing of life. Our ship's flags looked like smiling guardians as they fluttered above us. ami all on board the ' White Wing ' were happy. There were about three hundred passengers. There were old and young ; some travelling on business, some for a place they might call their home, some for pleasure, and a few for the im provement of their health. There were entire families, and, in some cases, those of three generations. How varied were the hopes that filled their souls ! how different the objects that led them forth over the deep and trackless sea. exposing themselves to countless perils ! " Evelina and myself mused thus as we sat on the deck - at twilight of the first day out, and watched the movements, THE DISINHERITED. 353 and listened to the various expressions that fell from the lips of the crowded passengers. " She always had a bright gleam of religious, philosophical thought, with which to illumine every hour of our existence, and radiate, with heavenly joy, our every conversation. ' There are not more dangers here than on land,' said she; ' to be true to our inner consciousness, we must say that wherever we are we are exposed to peril, and wherever we are we are protected from evil. I have known a man to cross the ocean a hundred times, and fall at last at his own door, and by it become maimed for life. There is no such a thing as an accident. Every result has a 'legitimate cause. Everything acts in obedience to undeviating laws of God. "VVe complain when we fall, but the same law that causes us ' to fall guides planets in their course, and regulates every motion of every object. It is only when we disobey these laws that evil comes, and every transgression receives its own penalty. It is impossible that it should be otherwise.' " We soon became acquainted with a number of the pas sengers, and passed very many pleasant and profitable hours together. Evelina was the light of every circle, and the days flew by on rapid wings. The ship had made a rapid passage, and we were fast nearing our destined haven. "One Sabbath evening a storm commenced. The wind blew a hurricane. Everything on deck was lashed, and the sea rolled and pitched our vessel about as though it had been but a feather on its surface. We had all day expected the storm, and were prepared for it. As night advanced the storm increased. The rain fell in torrents, and the darkness was most intense. After a while, the lightning came, and the thunder reverberated with terrific peals over us. There were shrieks and wailings aboard our vessel, and many a brave heart quailed beneath the terror upon us. '' I cared not for myself. My chief concern was for my 30* 354 TOWN AND COUNTKY. dear wife and her father. We kept our state-room for a long time, but at length deemed it prudent to leave it. As we did so, we heard an awful crash, and many a shriek and hurried prayer. I myself began to fear, as the mast and flying rigging went by us; but Evelina, even in such an hour, had words to cheer us all. She seemed, indeed, more of heaven than earth ; and I cared not for my fate, provided we both met the same. " The captain ordered the boats to be got in readiness, and it was quickly done. Soon another crash, and another mast fell, bearing to the raging abyss of waters another company of helpless men, women and children. " I clasped my wife in my arms, and, amid the wreck and frantic crowd of passengers, sprang to a boat. I placed Evelina in it, and was just about to assist her father to the same boat, when a large wave dashed over the ship and bore me alone over the wide waters. I remembered no more until I opened my eyes, and the sun was shining brightly all around me, and a young man was bathing my head, and brushing back my wet hair, while some were standing by expressing great joy. "I soon became conscious of my situation, and I asked for Evelina. What a sadness filled my soul when I was told she was not there, that they had not heard of any such per son ! Human language is weak with which to express the sorrow I then felt. Through all my varied life I had had nothing that so crushed niy spirit, and filled it with a sense of loneliness which it is impossible to describe. I ascertained that I was on board of a vessel bound to Boston : that I was found holding on a raft, almost insensible when found, and quite so a few moments afterwards. For a long time no one expected that I would recover my consciousness, but the constant efforts of the passengers and crew were finally crowned with success, and I opened my eyes. THE DISINHERITED. 355 " I gave all the information I could respecting the fate of the vessel, but thoughts of my wife, and surmisings as to her fate and that of her father, often choked my utterance, and my words gave way for my tears. " The next morning I was delirious, with a fever. My anxiety for my wife, and the exposure I had suffered, brought my body and mind into a very critical state. For several days I talked wildly. At the close of the fifth, I became sane in mind. I was yet quite ill. That night the ship entered Boston harbor. It anohored in the stream, and the next morning it hauled up to a wharf. CHAPTER IV. " I was a perfect stranger. I'he captain was attentive to my wants, and made me as comfortable as he could. You will remember how neat and quiet all appeared when, with my friend^Jenks, you called on me. All of the passengers took an interest 'in my welfare, and made up a purse for me ; but they could not remain long .with me. They had been long absent from home, and were desirous of seeing their families and friends, or else they had business in this or some other place. One of them introduced my friend Jenks to 'me ; and, 0, sir, he has been, indeed, a good friend to one having so few claims on his attention. lie told me one night of you, and, agreeable to his promise, he brought you to the cabin of the vessel. The rest you know." Egbert had regained his strength to a great degree, and gave me the close of his narrative while we were having a pleasant drive through the country. A month had passed since we first met, and though many of the passengers had been heard from, the names of Evelina ami her father had . not been reported. 356 TOWN AND COUNTRY. When we reached our home, from our afternoon's drive, I took up an evening paper, and the first paragraph I read was the following : " MORE FROM THE WHITE WING. The Orion, which arrived at this port this morning, brought fifteen passengers, rescued from the boats of the ' White Wing.' ' Among the names mentioned in the above notice were these : " Mrs. Evelina Lawrence and her father, of England ; " and, at the conclusion, was the following item : . " The case of Mrs. Lawrence and her father is one of those that loudly call for a bestowal of public sympathy and aid in her behalf. She has lost a beloved husband, one who, judging from the heavy sorrow that oppresses her, and the sighs and tears that break her recital of the events of their last hours together, was bound with the closest bonds of soul affinity to her own spirit. They must have been one, and are, indeed, one now, though to mortal eyes separated. We commend her to the kind charities of those who would follow the golden rule of doing unto others as they, in like circum stances, would have others do unto them." Egbert noticed my interest in that which I was reading ; indeed, it would have been .strange if he had not; for I could not suppress my joy, and it found expression in an occasional exclamation. At length, I handed him the paper. " My God ! my wife ! " he exclaimed, 'and he actually danced with joy and thankfulness. He would have rushed into the street, and by sudden exposure have caused a relapse of disease, had not I taken him by the hand, and forcibly, for a few moments, restrained him. So excessive was his happiness that, for a short time, he was delirious witli joy. He laughed and wept by turns : at one moment ex- Tlia DISINHERITED. 857 tending his arms, and folding them as if clasping a beloved form ; the next, trembling as if in some fearful danger. But this did not long continue. He soon became calm and rational, and we called a carriage for the purpose of going to the vessel on board of which he expected to greet his wife and her father. My neighbor Jenks accompanied us, and, as we rode hastily along, my. mind reverted to the night when first I met Egbert. That eventful evening came more vividly to mind as we found ourselves on the same wharf, and the carriage door was opened, and we alighted on nearly the same spot /that we did at that time. Egbert leaped from the carriage, arid at one bound was on the vessel's-deck. He flew to the cabin, and in a moment I heard the loud exclamations an either side, " My Evelina ! " ' ' My Egbert ! ' ' Mr. Jenks and myself followed below. An old gentleman met us. and, though a stranger, he grasped a hand of ours in each of his, and wept with joy as he bade us welcome. The cabin was witness of a scene which a painter well might covet for a study. Inclose embrace Egbert and .Evelina nr'ngled joys that seldom are known on earth. The old man hold our hands, his face raised, eyes turned upward, while tears of happiness, such as he had never before known, coursed down his features. The officers of the ship came 'hurrying in, and the crew darkened the gangway with their presence. What a joyous time was that ! The evening was passed in re-counting the adventures of each : and even I had something to add to the general recital. It appeared that the boat in which Egbert had placed his charge was safely cleared of the wreck, and, after being floated about two days, was met by an English ship bound to London. They, together with about twenty others who were in the boat, were soon comfortably cared for. At the expiration of a few weeks, they reached London, and were there placed on board 358 TOWN AND COUNTRY. a vessel bound to Boston, at which place they in due season arrived. The grief of Mrs. L. during all this time I -will not attempt to describe. The mind of my reader can better depict it than I can with pen. Hope buoyed her up. And, though she had seen him swept from her side into the waters where waves towered up to the skies and sank again many fathoms below, yet she did hope she might see him again on earth. In the silent hour of night, as she lay and mused of those things, she thought she could hear a sweet voice whispering in her ear, " Berty lives, and you will meet him once again." And, as if in response to the voice, she said in her 'own mind, "I know he lives; but it may be in that bright world where, unencumbered with these mortal frames, we roam amid ever-enduring scenes." The voice again said, "On earth, on earth." But now they had met. It was no mere vision now, and the truth flashed upon her mind that that voice she had heard and thought a dream was not all a dream. And then she mused on as she was wont to do, and, after relating to us the incident, she said, " May it not be that much of our life that we have thought passed in dreamland, and therefore among unreal things, has been spent with actual existences '.' For what i$ an ' unreal thing ' ? It would not be a ' thing ' had it no existence ; and what is the ' it ' that we . speak of I Can we not then conclude that there is nothing but what is and must have an existence, though not so tangible to our senses as to enable us to handle it or see it 1 What we call ' imagination ' may be, after all, more real than the hard stones beneath our feet less indestructible than they.'' Thus she spake, and her theory seemed very plausible to me, though my friend Jenks, who was an exceedingly pre cise, matter-of-fact man, could not see any foundation for the theory. THE DISINHERITED. o5 ( J It was a late hour when Mr. Jenks and myself passed to 6ui\ homes. The next day Evelina and her father were coseyly quartered at the house in which Egbert had boarded. In the- course of a a few weeks they arranged to go to the west, and locate in a flourishing town on the banks of the Ohio, not many miles above Cincinnati. Mr. Jenks and myself accompanied them to the cars ; and, amid our best wishes for their success, and their countless expressions of gratitude to us, the train started, and in a few moments the Disinherited was going to an inheritance which (}od had provided, and which lay in rich profusion awaiting their possession. Our hearts went with them. We could truly say they were worthy God's blessing ; yet we had not need ask him to bestow it upon them ; for their very existence was a proof that he gave it to them.' THE SEASONS ALL ARE BEAUTIFUL THE seasons all are beautiful, There is not one that 's sad, Not one that does not give to thee A thought to make thee glad. I have heard a mournful cadence - Fall on my listening ear, 'T was some one whispering, mournfully, " The Autumn days are here." But Autumn is not sorrowful, 0, full of joy is it ; I love at twilight hour to watch The shadows as they flit, The shadows of the falling leaves, Upon their forest bed, And hear the rustling music tones Beneath the maiden's tread. The falling leaf! Say, what has it To sadden human thought ? For are not all its hours of life With dancing beauty fraught? And, having danced and sang its joy, It seeketh now its rest, Is there a better place for it Than on its parent's breast? Ye think it dies. So they of old Thought of the soul of man. But, ah, ye know not all its course Since first its life began, And ye know not what future waits, Or what essential part THE SEASONS ALL ARE BEAUTIFUL. 361 That fallen leaf has yet to fill, In God's great work of art. . Count years and years, then multiply The whole till ages crowd Upon your mind, and even then Ye shall not see its shroud. But ye may see, if look you can Upon that fallen leaf, A higher life for it than now The life you deem BO brief. And so shall we to higher life And purer joys ascend ; And, passing on, and on, and on, Be further from our end. This is the truth that Autumn brings, Is aught of sorrow here'? If not, then deem it beautiful, Keep back the intrusive tear. Spring surely you '11 call beautiful, With its early buds and flowers, Its bubbling brooks, its gushing streams, And gentle twilight hours. And Summer, that is beautiful, With fragrance on each breeze, And myriad warblers that give Free concerts 'mong the trees. I 've told you of the Autumn days, Ye cannot call them sad, With such a lesson as they teach, To make the spirit glad. And Winter comes ; how clear and cold, In dazzling brilliance drest ! Say, is not Winter beautiful, With jewels on his crest ? Thus are all seasons beautiful ; They all have joy for thee, And gladness for each living soul Comes from them full and free. 31 SPRING. IT is early spring-time. The winter has passed with reluc tant step, and even now the traces of its footsteps are discern ible on every side. At noon of these bright days the sun looks down smilingly upon the soil it seeks to bless with its cheerful, cheering rays. The tiny grass-blades peep out, and stretch forth thek- graceful forms, as if to thank the unknown source from which their enjoyments spring. "Un known," I said. Is it "fancy" that makes my soul withdraw that word, and suggest that it may be that even that blade of grass recognizes the hand that ministers to all its wants? I think not. I think that what we term "fancy" and " imagination " are the most real and enduring portions of existence. They are of that immortal part that will live after crumbling column and the adamantine foundations of earth have passed away, and lost their present identity in countless forms of a higher existence. Are not all the forces of nature unseen, yet are they not real 1 Most assuredly, they are. But I am talking of spring. I hinted at winter's tardy withdrawal. Look you how that little pile of snow hides itself in yonder shady nook, right there where the sun's rays never come ; right there, as if ashamed, like a man out of place, pity that it lingers. Here and there, at the side of the brook, a little ice is waiting to be dissolved, that it may bound away, bright and sparkling, over the glis tening pebbles. The fanner opens his barn doors that the warm, fresh SPRING. 363 breeze may ramble amid its rafters. The cattle snuff the refreshing winds, that bear tidings of green fields. The house wife opens door and windows, and begins to live more with out than within. Let us to the woods. How the old leaves rustle beneath our tread ! Winter hides his cold, wet hand underneath these leaves, and occasionally we feel his chilling touch as we pass along. But from above the pleasant sunshine comes trick ling down between the branches, and the warm south wind blows cheeringly among the trees. " Didst thou not hear yon swallow sing, Chirp, chirp ? In every note he seemed to say, 'T is spring, 't is spring." Yes, 't is spring ; bright, glorious season, when nature awakes to new life .and forest-concerts begin. Up with the window, throw open the closed shutter, let the fresh air in, and let the housed captive breathe the invig orating elixir of life ; better by far than all your pills and cordials, and more strengthening than all the poor-man's plasters that have been or ever will be spread. The hale and hearty youth, whose clear and boisterous laugh did the old man good, as he heard it ring forth on the clear air of a winter's night, has become satiated with the pleasures of sleigh-rides and merry frolics, and welcomes the spring-time of year as a man greeteth the return of an old friend from a long journey. How his bright eye flashes with the joyous soul within him, as he treads the earth, and beholds the trees put forth their buds, and hears the warblings of the birds once again, where a few weeks since winter brooded in silence ! In town and country the coming of spring changes the general appearance of affairs. Not only nature, but men change. There is no longer the cold and frigid countenance. Men do not walk with quick and measured tread, but pass 364 TOWN AND COUNTRY. carelessly, easily along, as though it was a luxury and not a task to walk. Children are seen in little companies, pluck ing the flowers and forcing the buds from their stems, as though to punish them for their tardiness. -The very beasts of burden and of the field partake of the general joy ; as Thomson says, " Nor undelighted by the boundless spring Are the broad monsters of the foaming deep ; From the deep ooze and gelid cavern roused, They flounce and tumble in unwieldy joy." In the town storekeepers obtain fresh supplies of goods ; the mechanic contracts new jobs ; the merchant repairs his vessel, and sends it forth, deeply freighted with the produc tions of our own clime, to far distant lands ; and the people generally brush up, and have the appearance of being a num ber of years younger than they were a month since. In the country, the farmer is full of work. The ploughs are brought forth from their winter quarters, the earth is opened, that the warm sun and refreshing rains may prepare it for use ; old fences are repaired, and new ones made ; the housewife brushes up inside and out, and with the aid of the whitewash every old fence and shed is made clean and pleas ing to the eye. Welcome spring, a hearty welcome to thee ! Touch the cheek of the maiden, and make it as bright as the rose ; with thy fresh air give health to the sick and joy to the downcast. Thou bringest with thee sweet-smelling flowers, and the birds of the woods carol forth thy welcome. A TEXT FOR A LIFETIME. ONE word for humanity. One word for those who dwell in want around us. 0, ye who know not what it is to hun ger, and have naught to meet your desire ; ye who never are cold, with naught to warm your chilled blood, forget not those who endure all .these things. They are your brethren. They are of the same family as yourself, and have a claim upon your love, your sympathy, your kindness. Live not for yourselves. The world needs to learn this lesson. Mankind have to learn that only as they bless others are they themselves blest. It was the fine thought of the good Indian, Wah-pan-nah, that man should not pile up his dollars, they may fall down and crush him, but spread them out. '" There be dark spot on you brother's path, go lay dol lar there and make it bright," said he. And since that suggestion came we have thought it over and over, and have found it a text for a lifetime of goodness. Go place the bright dollar in the poor man's hand, and the good you do will be reflected in rays of gratitudeTrom a smiling face, and fall on you like the warm sunshine, to cheer and refresh and strengthen your own soul. There are in this world too many dollars "piled up," and on the surface we see but the brightness of one. Were these all spread out, what a wide field of radiant beauty would greet our vision ! Instead of being a useless encumbrance, a care, a constant source of perplexity to one man, this wealth 31* 366 TOWN AND COUNTRY. would make every man comfortable and happy. It would perform its legitimate work, were it not chained by avarice, that canker-worm that destroys the fairest portions of our social system. And there is a joy in doing good, and in dispensing the bounties with which we are blest, that hath no equal in the household of man. To know that we have fed the hungry, clothed the naked, wiped away one tear, bathed in the sun light of hope one desponding spirit, gives to us a happiness that hoarded wealth, though broad as earth and high as heaven, cannot impart. This is the true wealth. This the wealth that rust cannot corrupt. There is no other real wealth in the universe. Gold and silver, houses and lands, are not wealth to the longing, aspiring soul of man. The joy of the spirit, which is the reward of a good deed, comes a gift from God, a treas ure worthy of being garnered into the storehouse of an immortal being. There was one spot on earth where joy reigned. It was not in marble palace ; but in a low cot, beneath a roof of thatch. There was an indwelling sense of duty done ; a feeling somewhat akin to that which we might suppose angels to feel, when a poor, earth-wearied traveller is relieved by them. That was a subject fit for a Raphael's pencil, as she, of form ftd feature more angelic than human, sat beside that cottage door, and her mild blue eye gazed steadfastly up to heaven, and the light of the moon disclosed to mortal view her calm and beautiful features. Two hours previous, over a sick and languishing child a mother bowed with maternal fondness. She pressed her lips to his chilled forehead, and wiped the cold sweat from his aching brow. A TEXT FOR A LIFETIME. 367 "Be patient, my child," said she; "God will provide." And why did she bid him " be patient " ? None could have been more so ; for through the long hours of that long sum mer day he had lain there, suffered and endured all ; yet not one sigh had arisen from his breast, not one complaint had passed his parched lips. " I know it," said he. And the mother kissed him again, and again said, " God will provide." Mother and son ! the one sick, the other crushed down with poverty and sorrow. Yet in this her hour of adversity her trust in the God of her fathers wavered not ; she firmly relied on Him for support, whom she had never found for getful of her. The widow and the fatherless were in that low tenement, and above was the God who had promised to 'protect them. Again she whispered in the lad's ear, "God will provide." The light of that day's sun had not rested upon food in that dwelling. Heavily the hours passed by. Each seemed ' longer than that which had preceded it. A rap at the door was heard. She arose and hastened to it. No person was in sight ; but in the moon's bright rays stood a basket, on which lay a card, stating that it and its contents were for her and her child, and that on the morrow a nurse and every comfort they might want would be provided. She bowed herself beside it, and thanked God for the gift. Then with a joyful heart she carried it within, and her child's eye sparkled as he heard the glad news, that He who watcheth the sparrows had not forgotten them. Let us return now to that thatched cottage. She, whose mild eye gazeth up to heaven, whilst passing the door of the famishing mother and child an hour previous, had heard the words with which that mother had encouraged her dying son. With speed the maiden hastened to her home, and from 368 TOWN AND COUNTRY. her own limited store carried forth that basket, and heaven- like bestowed the gift unseen and unknown, save by Him who seeth and who rewardeth. The deed of mercy accom plished, she hastened to her home ; and now, as she looks upward, how her eye beams with joy, and her heart breaks forth in songs of gratitude to Him who made her the instru ment of so much good ! Gold, with all its power, cannot bring joy unless dealt forth with a willing heart like hers. The king in his palace, whose sceptre's sway extends over vast dominions, hath no pleasures capable of rivalling that which, by an act of charity, was brought to the soul of that young cottage girl. Reader, whatever your condition, you can possess a joy like hers. If you have not what men call wealth, with which to help the weak and desponding, you have a smile of sympathy, a look of kindness, a word of love. Give those, and you shall know what a blessed thing is Charity. NOW CLOSE THE BOOK. Now close the book. Each page hath done its part, Each thought hath left its impress on the heart. 0, may it be that naught hath here been traced That after years may wish to have effaced ! O, may it be Humanity hath won Some slight bestowment by the task now done ! If struggling Right hath found one cheering word, If Hope hath in desponding heart been stirred , If Sorrow hath from one lone soul been driven By one kind word of Sympathy here given, Then in my soul a living joy shall dwell, Brighter than art can paint or language tell. Yes, close the book : the story and the song Have each been said, and sung. I see the throng Of gentle ministrants who 've led my pen Withdraw their aid. I hear the word, Amen. And now to you, who have been with me through The " Town and Country," I must bid adieu. PUBLISHED BY J. BUFFUM, No. 23 CORNHILL, BOSTON. LUCRETIA, THE QUAKERESS ; OR, PRINCIPLE TRiUMmAXT. By MRS. JOSEPH H. HANAFORD. 18mo, cloth, gilt. This work is one of much interest. The writer aims not at any high- flown romance, but pictures forth familiar scenes, giving her sketches a living truthfulness that at once commends them to the heart of the reader. LIFE AND TIMES OF COLUMBUS. An instructive and enter taining work. ISmo, cloth, .gilt, and cloth, full gilt. LEXICON OF LADIES' NAMES, WITH THEIR FIX*AL EM BLEMS. Containing One Hundred and Thirty-eight Names, with their Significations. Also, One Hundred and Thirty-two Flowers, with their Symbolic Language. A Gift Book for all Seasons. By SARAH C. CARTER. ISmo, cloth, full gilt. THE LADY'S PRESENT ; OR, BEAUTIES OF FEMALB CHARACTER. By A. J. CUMMINGS, M. D. 18mo, cloth, full gilt. Several editions of this work have been issued. Its influence can- not but be salutary upon the mind of the reader. POETRY OF THE HEART. By WM. B. TAPPAH. 32mo, cloth, gilt. THE GOLDEN PRESENT. A GIFT FOR ALL SEASONS. 32mo, cloth, gilt. THE CHOICE GIFT ; OB, GOLDEN SANDS FROM THB RIVER OF LITERATURE. 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