THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 (To

 
 IT BBS S . r 6S I RJ
 
 BY T. S. ARTHUR. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 L. P. CROWN & CO., 61 CORNHILL. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, 48 N. FOURTH ST. 
 1856.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 STEREOTYPED BY 1. JOHNSON i CO. 
 PHILADELPHIA.
 
 rs 
 
 ARE you under a cloud, reader? Or, does the 
 sunshine lie broad on your summer way? If the 
 shadows are thick around you, fear not, faint not, 
 falter not the sun is bright as ever in the heavens 
 above, and the cloudy curtains will, ere long, be 
 drawn aside ; but, if all is brightness and beauty, 
 walk not onward too confidently, for shadows as 
 well as sunbeams are on every path of life, and 
 yours will be no exception. Yet, bear this in mind ; 
 we make, in nearly all cases, our own shadow and 
 our own sunlight. If we were wise and good, no 
 clouds would obscure our firmament; it is from our 
 ignorance and selfishness that the murky exhala 
 tions arise which darken the sky above us. Let us, 
 then, seek for heavenly Wisdom, and she will take 
 us by the hand and lead us on to Goodness. The 
 
 1 1.17369 *
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 way in which we go, having Wisdom for a guide, 
 will be darkened by few shadows, and these will 
 grow fewer and feebler with every advancing foot 
 step.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAQ 
 
 THE COLPORTEUR 9 
 
 WORSE ENEMIES THAN LIONS AND TIGERS 18 
 
 A LESSON FROM THE BEES 27 
 
 THE BROKEN HEART 34 
 
 THE LONE OLD MAN 89 
 
 A NEW EXPERIENCE IN LIFE 103 
 
 THE LITTLE MAID OF ALL WORK 118 
 
 LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE 131 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO JOE BARKER 142 
 
 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS 162 
 
 THE COQUETTE 185 
 
 MR. WlNKLEMAN AT HOME 198 
 
 THE MAN AND THE DEMON 201
 
 SHADOWS AND SUNBEAMS. 
 
 THE COLPORTEUR. 
 
 " WHICH way, stranger?" said a rough-looking 
 farmer, to a man who was carrying a well-filled va 
 lise. The latter was in the act of raising the latch 
 of a gate, which opened from the public road into a 
 narrow lane leading to a small country-house of no 
 very inviting aspect. 
 
 The person thus addressed turned and fixed a 
 pair of mild, yet steady and penetrating eyes, upon 
 the speaker. 
 
 "Which way, stranger?" was repeated, though 
 in modified and more respectful tones. 
 
 "Who lives there?" said the stranger, pointing 
 to the house just in view from the road. 
 
 "Dick Jones," was answered. 
 
 "What kind of a man is he?" next inquired the 
 stranger. 
 
 "Rather a hard case. You'd better not go 
 there." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Aint you the man that sells Bibles and talks 
 religion?" 
 
 "Suppose I am?" 
 
 9
 
 10 THE COLPORTEUR. 
 
 'Take a friend's advice then, and keep away 
 from Dick Jones. He'll insult you may be, do 
 worse." 
 
 "I reckon not," replied the colporteur, for such 
 he was. 
 
 "He will, as sure as fate. I've heard him say, 
 over and over again, that if one of you Bible-sellers 
 dared to come inside of his gate, he'd set his dogs 
 on you. And he's just the man to keep his word. 
 So, take a friend's advice, and let him alone. No 
 good will come of it." 
 
 "Has he a wife and children?" inquired the col 
 porteur. 
 
 "A wife and two little boys." 
 
 "What kind of a woman is his wife?" 
 
 "Oh, she'll do well enough. But neighbours 
 don't go there much on account of her husband, 
 who is a very imp of Satan, if the truth must be 
 spoken." 
 
 "Like the blessed Master," was replied to this, 
 "I come not to call the righteous, but sinners to re 
 pentance. Of all things in the world, the Bible is 
 most needed at Dick Jones's; and I am bound to 
 place one there." 
 
 "Oh, very well. Follow your own bent," said 
 the farmer, slightly annoyed at the other's perti 
 nacity. "You'll remember that I warned you, 
 when his dogs are at your heels or his horsewhip 
 over your shoulders. So, good morning to you." 
 
 "Good morning," returned the stranger, cheer 
 fully, as he threw open the ill-hung gate, and en 
 tered the forbidden grounds of Dick Jones. 
 
 Now, our brave friend, the colporteur, was not a
 
 THE COLPORTEUR. 11 
 
 strong, robust man, able to meet and resist physical 
 violence. In the use of carnal weapons he had no 
 skill. But he had a confident spirit, a strong heart, 
 and, above all, an unwavering confidence in the pro 
 tecting power of Him in whose service he was de 
 voting his life. 
 
 Even on the grounds of Dick Jones the birds 
 sang sweetly, the cool breezes sported amid the 
 leafy branches, and the breaths of a thousand 
 flowers mingled their fragrance on the air; and, 
 even as the colporteur trod these grounds, he felt 
 and enjoyed the tranquil beauty and peace of na 
 ture. There was no shrinking in his heart. He 
 was not in terror of the lions that crouched on his 
 path. Soon he stood at the open door of a house, 
 around which was no air of comfort, nor a single 
 vestige .of taste. 
 
 "Who's there? What's wanted?" was the repul 
 sive salutation of a woman, who hurriedly drew an 
 old handkerchief across her brown neck and half- 
 exposed bosom, on seeing a stranger. 
 
 "May God's peace be on this house!" said the 
 colporteur, in a low, reverent voice, as he stood, 
 one foot on the ground, and the other across the 
 threshold. 
 
 A change passed instantly over the woman's face. 
 Its whole expression softened. But she did not in 
 vite the stranger to enter. 
 
 "Go go," she said, in a hurried voice. "Go 
 away quickly ! My husband will be here directly, 
 and he " 
 
 She paused, leaving the sentence unfinished, as 
 if reluctant to speak what was in her mind.
 
 THE COLPORTEUR. 
 
 "Why should I go away quickly?" asked the 
 stranger, as he stepped into the room, taking off 
 his hat respectfully, and seating himself in a chair. 
 " I wish to see and speak with your husband. Mr. 
 Jones, I believe, is his name?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, his name is Jones. But he don't want 
 to see you." 
 
 "Don't want to see me! How do you know? 
 Who am I?" 
 
 "I don't know your name, sir," answered the 
 woman, timidly ; " but I know who you are. You 
 go around selling good books and talking religion to 
 the people." 
 
 "True enough, Mrs. Jones," said the colporteur, 
 seriously, yet with a pleasant smile on his face as 
 he spoke. "And I have come to have a little talk 
 with your husband, and see if I can't get him 
 to buy some of my good books. Have you a 
 Bible?" 
 
 "No, sir. My husband says he hates the Bible. 
 When we were first married, I had an old Testa 
 ment, but he never could bear to see me reading it. 
 Somehow, it got lost; I always thought he carried 
 it away, or threw it into the fire. He won't talk 
 to you, sir. He won't have your books. He's a 
 very bad tempered man, sometimes, and I'm afraid 
 he'll do you harm. sir, I wish you would go 
 away." 
 
 But, instead of showing any alarm or anxiety at 
 Mrs. Jones's account of her husband, the stranger 
 commenced opening his valise, from which he soon 
 produced a plainly bound copy of the Bible. 
 
 "How long since you were married?" asked the
 
 THE COLPORTEUR. 13 
 
 colporteur, as he opened the Bible and commenced 
 turning over the leaves. 
 
 "Twelve years come next May, sir," was an 
 swered. 
 
 "How long is it since you lost the Testament?" 
 
 "Most eleven years." 
 
 "Do you go to church?" 
 
 "To church I" The woman looked surprised at 
 the question. "Dear sakes, no! I haven't been 
 inside of a church since I was married." 
 
 "Wouldn't you like to go?" 
 
 "What 'ud be the use? I wouldn't say 'church' 
 to Dick for the world." 
 
 "Then you haven't read the Bible yourself, nor 
 heard anybody else read it, since you lost the Tes 
 tament?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " You shall have that blessed privilege once again 
 in your life," said the stranger, raising the book 
 toward his eyes, and making preparation to read. 
 
 "Indeed, sir, I'm afraid. I'm looking for my 
 husband every minute," interposed the woman. 
 "He's always said he'd kick the first Bible-seller 
 out of his house that dared to cross his door. And 
 he'll do it. He's very wicked and passionate, some 
 times. Do, sir, please go away. If I had any 
 money, I'd take the Bible and hide it from him; 
 1 ut I haven't. Please don't stay any longer. Don't 
 Login to read. If he comes in and finds you read 
 ing, he'll be mad enough to kill you." 
 
 But, for all this, the colporteur sat unmoved. As 
 the woman ceased speaking, he commenced reading 
 to her the beautiful chapter from our Lord's sermon
 
 14 THE COLPORTEUR. 
 
 on the mount, beginning with " Take heed that ye 
 do not your alms before men to be seen of them ; 
 otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which 
 is in heaven." As he proceeded in a low, distinct, 
 reverential voice, the woman's agitation gradually 
 subsided, and she leaned forward listening more and 
 more intently, until all thoughts and feelings were 
 absorbed in the holy words that were filling her 
 ears. When the colporteur finished the chapter, he 
 raised his eyes to the face of the woman, and saw 
 that it was wet with tears. At that instant, a form 
 darkened the door. It was the form of Dick Jones. 
 
 "Ha!" he exclaimed in a harsh voice. "What's 
 this? Who are you?" 
 
 Comprehending now the scene before him, Jones 
 began swearing awfully, at the same time ordering 
 the stranger to leave his house, threatening to kick 
 him from the door if he didn't move instantly. The 
 tearful wife stepped between her husband and the 
 object of his wrath; but he swept her aside roughly 
 and with curses. 
 
 "Go, before I fling you into the road!" And 
 the strong man, every iron muscle tense with anger, 
 stood towering above the stranger's slender form, 
 like an eagle above its helpless prey. 
 
 How calm and fearless the stranger sat, his mild, 
 deep, almost spiritual eyes, fixed on those of his 
 mad assailant. 
 
 " Bless the Lord, my soul, and forget not all 
 his benefits." 
 
 Low yet thrilling was the voice in which these 
 words found almost spontaneous utterance. He 
 had taken no forethought as to what he should say.
 
 THE COLPORTEUR. 15 
 
 Hither he had come at the prompting of duty, and 
 now, when a raging lion was in his path, he shrunk 
 not back in terror, but resting in a Divine power, 
 moved steadily onward. 
 
 "Clear out from here, I say!" The voice of 
 Dick Jones was angry still; yet something of its 
 evil purpose was gone. 
 
 " The Lord is my light and my salvation : whom 
 shall I fear? The Lord is my strength and my 
 life: of whom shall I be afraid?" 
 
 Neither loud nor in self-confidence was this 
 spoken; else would it not have fallen on the ears 
 of that evil-minded man with so strange a power. 
 
 "Why have you come here to trouble me? Go 
 now go, before I do you harm," said Dick Jones, 
 greatly subdued in manner, and sinking into his 
 chair as he spoke. 
 
 The colporteur, moved less by thought than im 
 pulse, opened the Bible which had been closed on 
 the entrance of Jones, and commenced reading. 
 All was still, now, save the low, eloquent voice of 
 the stranger, as he read from the Holy Book. The 
 wife of Jones, who had stood half paralyzed with 
 terror in a distant part of the room, whither an im 
 patient arm had flung her, seeing the wonderful 
 change that was passing, stole quietly to her hus 
 band's side, and, bending her head, even as his was 
 bent, listened, with an almost charmed attention to 
 the Word of Life, as read by the man of God, who 
 had penetrated the dense moral wilderness in which 
 they had so long dwelt. 
 
 "Let us pray." 
 
 How strangely these words sounded ! They seem-
 
 16 THE COLPORTEUK. 
 
 ed spoken as from the heavens above them, and by a 
 voice that they could not disregard. 
 
 Brief, yet earnest, and in fitting language, was 
 the prayer then tearfully made, and responded to 
 with tears. When the "Amen" was said, and the 
 pious colporteur arose from his knees, what a 
 change had taken place! The raging lion had 
 become a lamb. The strong, wicked contemner 
 of the good, was gentle and teachable as a little 
 child. 
 
 Once more the colporteur read from the Holy 
 Book, while the man and his wife listened with bent 
 heads, and earnest, thoughtful faces. 
 
 "Shall I leave you this Bible?" said he, rising 
 at length, and making a motion to retire. 
 
 "If you will sell it to us," said Dick Jones. 
 
 "It is yours on any terms you please. The price 
 is low. I have other good books ; but this is the 
 best of all, for it is God's own Book, in which he 
 speaks to his erring, unhappy children, saying to 
 them, 'Come unto me all ye that labour and are 
 heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' Head this 
 first, my friends ; read it in the morning, as soon 
 as you rise, and in the evening before you retire. 
 Read it together, and, if you feel an impulse to 
 pray, kneel down, and silently, if you cannot speak, 
 aloud, say over the words of that beautiful prayei 
 the Saviour taught his disciples, the prayer your 
 mothers taught you when you were innocent chil 
 dren 'Our Father, who art in heaven.' In a few 
 weeks I will pass this way again. Shall I call to 
 see you?" 
 
 " Oh yes. Do call," said Jones, his voice trem-
 
 THE COLPORTEUR. 17 
 
 bling ; though it was plain he struggled hard with 
 the flood of new emotions that was sweeping over 
 him. 
 
 "May God's peace rest upon this house !" The 
 stranger stood with lifted hands and head bent 
 reverently for a moment. Then, turning away, he 
 passed from the door, and, in a few moments, was 
 out of sight. 
 
 A month later the colporteur came again that 
 way. How different was his reception at the house 
 of Dick Jones ! The moment the eyes of the latter 
 rested upon him, it seemed as if a sunbeam fell sud 
 denly on his rugged features. 
 
 "All is well, I see." The colporteur spoke 
 cheerfully, and with a radiant smile. "A Bible in 
 the house is a blessing to its inmates." 
 
 "It has been a blessing to us," said the happy 
 wife, her eyes full of tears. " Oh sir, we can never 
 be done reading the Good Book. It seems, some 
 times, as if the words were just written for us. And 
 the children ask me, many times a day, if I won't 
 read to them about Joseph and his brethren, the 
 three Hebrew children, or Daniel in the den of 
 lions. Often, when they have been so ill-natured 
 and quarrelsome that I could do nothing with them, 
 have I stopped my work, and sat down among them 
 with the Bible, and began to read one of its beauti 
 ful stories. Oh, it acted like a charm ! All anger 
 would die instantly ; and when I closed the book, 
 and they went to their play again, I would not hea 
 an ugly word among them, may be, for hours. And 
 Richard, too" she glanced toward her husband^ 
 who smiled, and she went on. "And Richard, too 
 
 2*
 
 18 WORSE ENEMIES 
 
 I haven't heard him swear an oath since you 
 were here; and he isn't angry with things that 
 can't be helped near as often as he used to be. Oh 
 yes, indeed, sir ; it is true. A Bible in the house 
 is a blessing to its inmates." 
 
 "If that were the only fruit of my labour," said 
 the colporteur, as he walked slowly and thought 
 fully away from the house of Dick Jones an hour 
 later, " it would be worth all the toil and sacrifice I 
 have given to the work. But this is not the only 
 good ground into which the seed I am scattering 
 broadcast, as it were, has fallen. God's rain, and 
 dew, and sunshine, are upon it, and it must spring 
 up, and grow, and ripen to the harvest. Let me 
 not grow faint or weary." 
 
 And with a stronger heart and a more earnest 
 purpose he went on his way. 
 
 WORSE ENEMIES THAN LIONS AND 
 TIGERS. 
 
 "Bad thoughts are worse enemies than lions and tigers." 
 
 WOKSE enemies ? Yes, worse, a thousand fold ! 
 You may keep away from the path of a lion you 
 Jnay avoid the spring of a tiger ; but, if you cherish 
 Jbad thoughts, a brood of stinging serpents is warmed 
 to life in your bosom. 
 
 You hate that Erskine? Well, who is most
 
 THAN LIONS AND TIGERS. 19 
 
 injured by your hate ? You'll make him feel it ! 
 He can never know a tithe of the evil consequences 
 you will experience from that bad passion, my friend. 
 Have you ever heard the old Spanish proverb, 
 " Curses, like chickens, come home to roost ?" If 
 so, it were well for you to ponder its meaning. 
 
 Perkins is an unhappy man. Why ? Is he in 
 extreme poverty ? No ; his basket and store have 
 been largely increased, year by year. Is he in 
 affliction ? NQ ; the finger of death h-\p not yet 
 rested on any of his household treasure*. Why, 
 then, is he unhappy ? Because enemies to his peace 
 are kept alive in his bosom enemies that -destroy 
 more than lions and tigers. Bad thoughts, you 
 mean. Yes ; evil thoughts against his neighbours. 
 Poor man ! he is in the strange delusion that all 
 generous thoughts and kind deeds toward others 
 will be so much abstracted from his own enjoyment. 
 He does not comprehend the meaning involved in 
 the act of lighting a neighbour's candle. Light and 
 warmth are not diminished, but more widely diffused. 
 Perkins would laugh, sneeringly, at the man who 
 spent half an hour in planting a tree, from which he 
 had no hope of gathering fruit. Yet, while the 
 other felt a glow of pleasure in the act, he would be 
 unhappy because a neighbour's tree bore better fruit 
 than his own. 
 
 Such a man was Perkins. He rarely smiled, 
 except at some practical joke played off to the 
 annoyance of somebody he did not fancy. Any 
 thing like this, he enjoyed amazingly. At home, 
 he was usually a silent, moody sort of man, greatly 
 annoyed by trifles, and more disposed to interfere
 
 20 WORSE ENEMIES 
 
 with his children's sports, than to encourage play 
 fulness and hilarity. Their noise and restlessness 
 disturbed him. He loved his wife ahout as well as 
 a man like him is capable of loving any thing out of 
 himself; but he never studied how to give her plea 
 sure, and was easily fretted, if, through her neglect 
 or forgetfulness, his comfort were interfered with in 
 the slightest degree. 
 
 Mr. Perkins had a neighbour named Ehrman, 
 who was, from some cause, particularly offensive to 
 him ; and yet Ehrman was an unobtrusive man, and 
 more inclined to think well than ill of others. Per 
 haps this was the very reason why Perkins did not 
 like him for good and evil are in natural antago 
 nism. It so happened that the pleasant grounds of 
 Perkins and Ehrman lay side by side. This gave 
 the former occasion for much captious and ill- 
 natured observation of his neighbour, whose doings 
 were the subject of thought and comment far beyond 
 any thing that he imagined. 
 
 One day, in passing homeward, Perkins called at 
 a neighbour's, and said to him, " I believe I'll take 
 that yellow rose you told me you wished to sell. 
 I've been thinking since I saw you yesterday, that 
 it will just match the one I have in the oval grass- 
 plat by the front door, and produce a very fine 
 effect. Don't you think so ? Two dollars is the 
 price you asked." 
 
 " It's too late, now, Mr. Perkins," returned the 
 neighbour. " I sold it to Mr. Ehrman, this morn 
 ing." 
 
 * "You did!" The countenance of Perkins changed 
 instantly.
 
 THAN LIONS AND TIGERS. 21 
 
 " Yes ; I understood you to decline taking it." 
 
 " You didn't understand any such thing !" Mr. 
 Perkins was already partially blind with passion. 
 
 "Beg your pardon," said the neighbour, with 
 very natural indignation. "I did so understand 
 you. And when Mr. Ehrman called this morning, 
 and said he would like to have it for the rosery he 
 was making in front of his house, I sold it to him 
 without a thought of your desiring to possess it." 
 
 " He's making a rosery, is he ? Humph ! that's 
 because I talked of it." 
 
 " I don't know any thing about that, Mr. Perkins. 
 Though it's my opinion that Mr. Ehrman never 
 heard of your intention." 
 
 " Well, I know that he has heard of it. He 
 couldn't have helped knowing my purpose, because 
 I spoke of it to half a dozen people. And he knew 
 I wanted this very rose. But he'll be sorry for 
 crossing my path. Now mark my word for it !" 
 
 In this temper, Mr. Perkins turned his steps 
 homeward, his mind so full of bad thoughts, that 
 there was not room for a single good one to find 
 entrance. 
 
 " Edward," said Mrs. Perkins, as she met him 
 at the door. There was a smile of welcome on her 
 face, and gladness in her tones, for she had some 
 thing very pleasant to tell her husband. But the 
 moment her eyes rested on his face, her countenance 
 fell, and she re_mained silent. 
 
 Not a word of greeting passed the lips of Mr. 
 Perkins, nor did a single harsh line of his rigid fea 
 tures relax. Jostling his wife almost rudely, as he 
 passed by her, he went through the house into the
 
 22 WORSE ENEMIES 
 
 garden beyond, with the manner of one who had 
 some desperate purpose to accomplish. Taking up 
 a spade, he returned through the house to the orna 
 mental grass-plat in front, where stood a large yel 
 low rose-bush, the buds of which were full and 
 almost ready to break into blossom. 
 
 What is he going to do ? Not destroy, in an 
 outbreak of selfish passion, this beautiful flower, 
 because a neighbour, whom he does not like, has 
 become possessed of one equal in beauty ? No ; 
 not so bad as" that. He knows that transplanting 
 the other rose, at this particular season, will check 
 its growth. If he can't be the owner thereof, he is 
 resolved that his rose shall be far more luxuriant, 
 and so means to give it an extra share of culture. 
 His purpose now, is simply to loosen the earth about 
 the roots, so that sun, air, and dew may penetrate 
 more freely. This he designs doing daily, and, by 
 all human means, to incite it to a more vigorous 
 growth. 
 
 "What are you going to do, papa? What are 
 you going to do ?" asks a sunny-haired child, com 
 ing close after her father, who has failed to give her 
 the usual kiss on returning home. She is following 
 him as much for the desired kiss, as from a feeling 
 of curiosity in his movements. A dear, good child 
 she is, and loves her father with all the tenderness 
 of a young and guileless heart. 
 
 " Papa! papa !" her hand is tugging at his gar 
 ment " what are you going to do ?" 
 
 " Go back into the house !" 
 
 How pale and frightened the dear child looks ! 
 No wonder. Was it her father's voice so full of
 
 THAN LIONS AND TIGERS. 23 
 
 cruel anger ? Was that dark, frowning brow, were 
 those evil eyes, the brow and eyes of the parent to 
 ward whom her pure heart was gushing over with 
 love ? Alas ! bad thoughts are worse than lions and 
 tigers. How ruthlessly they destroy the gentle, loving, 
 innocent things born of good affections in the heart. 
 Filial tenderness where is it now ? The lions and 
 tigers have destroyed, or driven it far away from 
 the bosom of Mr. Perkins. 
 
 Frightened, disappointed, unhappy child ! Slowly 
 she goes back into the house, tears falling like rain 
 over her cheeks and on her bosom, and her little 
 heart almost bursting with sobs. 
 
 And now, under the excitement of his bad feel 
 ings, Mr. Perkins commences digging about his 
 valued bush. There ! His unsteady hands have 
 made an unskilful stroke, and the largest and most 
 beautifully headed stem has been parted from the 
 root, and lies a ruin, with all its wealth of bursting 
 buds, at his feet ! A moment Mr. Perkins stands, 
 as if paralyzed ; then, with a bitter imprecation, he 
 flings the spade madly from his hands. A yell of 
 pain follows instantly. What now? Unhappy 
 man ! The enemies he has taken to his bosom have 
 wrought, through him, a further injury. Poor old 
 Neptune ! It is scarcely a week since, faithful ani 
 mal ! you plunged into the river and bore safely to 
 land the dear child whom her father has just driven 
 away with frowns and angry words ; and now your 
 master, who caressed you then with grateful tender 
 ness, has broken your leg with a blow ! 
 
 " Edward, Edward I That was a cruel act !" 
 said his wife, in a rebuking voice. The unexpected
 
 24 WORSE ENEMIES 
 
 repulse and harsh temper of her husband had soured 
 her feelings, and now she was moved by a hard and 
 accusing spirit. " Thus have you rewarded the 
 noble saviour of our child !" 
 
 " Peace, woman !" was his angry retort ; and as 
 he spoke, he passed hurriedly into the house. A 
 moment after he returned with a loaded gun in his 
 hand. There was a loud rifle crack. All is still ! 
 With that sharp report the poor dog's yells of 
 anguish died on the air, for a leaden messenger of 
 death had entered his generous heart. Not in anger 
 was the deadly weapon aimed ; but in sorrow and 
 stern mercy. Ah, what an anguish of regret was 
 at the heart of Mr. Perkins ! How bitter was the 
 sorrow that overwhelmed him like a flood ! The 
 enemies he had admitted into his bosom have already 
 done a sad work of destruction. 
 
 What gloomy shadows rested on the household of 
 Mr. Perkins at the going down of that evening's 
 sun! Usually, as the curtains of darkness were 
 drawn slowly over the jewelled sky, heart-rays, 
 blending with the clear lamplight, made all within 
 his dwelling brighter even than when daylight was 
 abroad. But there were no heart-rays to go forth 
 on that evening; and the lamp burned low and 
 feeble, unable to disperse the enshrouding darkness 
 that fell on every spirit like a pall. 
 
 For more than half the night, Mr. Perkins lay 
 awake, striving in vain to steep his senses in for 
 getfulness striving in vain to banish thoughts that 
 deeply disturbed him with their unwelcome presence. 
 Much as he suffered from self-condemnation much 
 as he blamed himself for the unkind spirit he had
 
 THAN LIONS AND TIGERS. 25 
 
 displayed toward his family he did not in the least 
 soften toward Mr. Ehrman, whom he regarded as 
 the real cause of all the unhappy events of the pre 
 vious day. It was perfectly plain to him that this 
 "miserable fellow," as he mentally called Ehrman, 
 had heard of his desire to possess the yellow rose, 
 and meanly anticipated him in its possession. 
 
 " I'll never forgive him for that act, as long as I 
 live," he mentally exclaimed more than twenty 
 times, as he moved, restlessly, on his pillow through 
 the night. "He's the cause of all that has hap 
 pened, and I'll make him repent of it, ere he's three 
 months older." 
 
 Perkins had suffered the sun to go down upon his 
 wrath, and when it arose in the clear blue heavens, 
 the fires burned as fiercely as ever. Still were the 
 enemies cherished, that had already destroyed so 
 much those bad thoughts which, quickly exciting 
 kindred purposes, produce evil actions. 
 
 How silent and gloomy we might almost say, 
 sullen passed the morning meal, usually a season, 
 of pleasant intercourse. Sleep, alas ! had not calmed 
 the elements which bad thoughts had lashed into 
 unwonted disturbance. The child was still grieving 
 for the death of the noble animal she had loved 
 since light first dawned on her opening mind ; the 
 mother grieved also for this, while pain from other 
 causes oppressed and saddened her feelings. The 
 father was angry with himself for his half-insane con 
 duct, but more angry with his neighbour Ehrman a3 
 the cause. And all this unhappiness arose in con 
 sequence of letting a few bad thoughts come into 
 the mind ! In truth, the moralist was right when 
 3
 
 26 WORSE ENEMIES 
 
 he said, " Bad thoughts are worse enemies than lions 
 and tigers." 
 
 Forth from his shadowed dwelling went Mr. Per 
 kins. No loving kiss or tender words were left 
 behind him, as a blessing through the day for the 
 loved and the loving. 
 
 Who is that entering through the gate ? Not Mr. 
 Ehrman, surely ! Yes ; it is the neighbour against 
 whom Mr. Perkins has permitted himself to cherish 
 so many bad thoughts and angry feelings. There 
 is a manly unconsciousness of wrong in his face, and 
 a pleasant smile, that tells of kind and neighbourly 
 feelings, about his lips. It is in the heart of Mr. 
 Perkins to insult him with words of bitter denuncia 
 tion. But a certain self-respect and regard for 
 appearances restrain him. The most that he accords 
 is a cold and repulsive civility, which the other seems 
 not to notice. 
 
 "I did not know," Mr. Ehrman says, "until I 
 went over to Mr. Grant's last evening, that you had 
 expressed a desire to have the yellow rose he offers 
 for sale. When Mr. Grant told me of this, I at 
 once declined taking it, and have called in this 
 morning to say so. It will match the one you have 
 in the other end of that oval grass-plat, beautifully ; 
 and make a finer effect than any thing I could pro 
 duce with it. Don't think it will be any disappoint 
 ment to me, Mr. Perkins ; my heart is no way set 
 upon it. Indeed, at the very time I was buying it 
 from Grant, I half regretted that you were not the 
 purchaser instead of myself; for I saw, at a glance, 
 that it was just a match for yours, and was the only 
 thing your beautiful oval wanted to balance the
 
 A LESSON FROM THE BEES. 27 
 
 arrangement of flowers, and make the effect perfect. 
 So, consider the rose as your own. As I come 
 home this evening, I will stop to admire it in its 
 right position. Good morning !" 
 
 And ere Mr. Perkins can frame an answer, or 
 give it utterance, the kind, generous, unselfish 
 neighbour, against whom he has so causelessly 
 indulged evil thoughts and envious feelings, is 
 beyond the reach of his voice. 
 
 Reader, we have nothing further to relate. "We 
 close abruptly, and leave our story and its lesson 
 with you. " Bad thoughts are worse enemies than 
 lions and tigers." We pray you beware of them. 
 
 A LESSON FROM THE BEES. 
 
 A MURMUR of impatience came from the lips of 
 young Wentworth, as, laying aside his palette and 
 brushes, he took up his hat, and, with a worried 
 manner, left the studio, where, with two or three 
 young men, he was taking lessons and seeking to 
 acquire skill in the art of painting. He was at 
 work on the head of one of Raphael's Madonnas, 
 and was, with the warm euthusiasm of a young 
 artist, in love with the beautiful, seeking to trans 
 fer to his canvas the heavenly tenderness of her 
 eyes, when a coarse jest, from the lips of a fellow- 
 student, jarred harshly on his ears. It was this 
 that had so disturbed him. Out into the open air
 
 28 A LESSON FROM THE BEES. 
 
 the young man passed, but the bustle and confusion 
 of the street did not in the least calm his excited 
 state of feeling. 
 
 "A coarse, vulgar fellow!" he said, angrily, giv 
 ing voice to his indignation against the student. " If 
 he is to remain in the studio, I must leave it. I 
 can't breathe the same atmosphere with one like 
 him." 
 
 And he walked on, aimless, but with rapid steps. 
 Soon he was opposite the window of a printseller. 
 A gem of art caught his eye. 
 
 "Exquisite!" he exclaimed, as he paused and 
 stood before the picture. "Exquisite ! What group 
 ing! What an atmosphere ! What perspective !" 
 
 "Ha! ha!" laughed a rough fellow at his side, 
 whose attention had been arrested by a comic print. 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" And clasping his hands against 
 his sides, he made the air ring with a coarse but 
 merry peal. He understood his artist fully, and 
 enjoyed this creation of his pencil. 
 
 "Brute!" came almost audibly from the lips of 
 Wentworth, as all the beautiful images just conjured 
 up faded from his mind. And off he started from 
 the print-window in a fever of indignation against 
 the vulgar fellow who had no more manners than to 
 guffaw in the street at sight of low life in a picture. 
 On he moved for the distance of one or two blocks, 
 when he paused before another window full of en 
 gravings and paintings. A gem of a landscape, 
 cabinet size, had just been placed in the window, 
 and our young friend was soon enjoying its fine 
 points. 
 
 "Who can be the artist?" he had just said to
 
 A LESSON FROM THE BEES. 29 
 
 himself, and was bending closer to examine the deli 
 cate treatment of a bit of water, over which a tree 
 projected, when a puff of tobacco smoke stole past 
 his cheek, and found its way to his nostrils. Now, 
 Wentworth was fond of a good cigar, and the fra 
 grance that came to his sense on this particular 
 occasion was delicate enough of its kind. In itself, 
 it would have been agreeable rather than offensive ; 
 but the vulgarity of street-smoking he detested, and 
 the fact of this vulgarity came now to throw his 
 mind again from its even balance. 
 
 "Whew!" he ejaculated, backing away from the 
 window, and leaving his place to one less sensitive, 
 or capable of a deeper abstraction of thought when 
 any thing of true interest was presented. 
 
 "I will ride out into the country," said he. 
 " There, with nature around me, I can find enjoy 
 ment." So he entered an omnibus, the route of 
 which extended beyond the city bounds. Alas! 
 here he also found something to disturb him. 
 There was a woman with a lapdog in her arms, 
 and another with a poor, sick child, that cried in 
 cessantly. A man, partially intoxicated, entered, 
 after he had ridden a block or two, and crowded 
 down by his side. Beyond this, the sensitive Went 
 worth could endure nothing. So he pulled the 
 checkstring, paid his fare, and resumed his place 
 on the pavement, muttering to himself as he did so 
 
 "I'd a thousand times rather walk than ride in 
 such company." 
 
 Two miles from the city resided a gentleman of 
 taste and education, who had manifested no little 
 interest in our excitable young friend. To visit 
 3* '
 
 30 A LESSON FROM THE BEES. 
 
 him was the purpose of Wentworth when he entered 
 the stage, which would have taken him within half 
 a mile of his pleasant dwelling. He purposed to 
 walk the whole distance rather than ride with such 
 disagreeable companions. The day was rather warm. 
 Our young artist found it pleasant enough while the 
 pavement lay in tfye shadow of contiguous houses. 
 But, fairly beyond these, the direct rays of the sun 
 fell upon his head, and the clouds of dust from pass 
 ing vehicles almost suffocated him. Just a little in 
 advance of him, for a greater part of the distance, 
 kept the omnibus, from which the women with the 
 lapdog and crying child got out only a square 
 beyond the point where he left the coach. The 
 drunken man also soon left the vehicle. Tired and 
 overheated, Wentworth now hurried forward, mak 
 ing signs to the driver: but, as the driver did not 
 look around, his signs were all made in vain ; and 
 he was the more fretted at this from the fact that 
 a passenger, who was riding in the omnibus, had 
 his face turned toward him all the time, and was, 
 so our pedestrian imagined, enjoying his disap 
 pointment. 
 
 Hot, dusty, and weary was our young artist, 
 when, after walking the whole distance, he arrived 
 at the pleasant residence of the gentleman we have 
 mentioned. 
 
 "Ah, my young friend ! How are you to-day ? 
 A visit, I need not tell you, is always agreeable. 
 But you look heated and tired. You have walked 
 too fast." 
 
 "Too far, rather," said Wentworth. "I have 
 come all the way on foot."
 
 A LESSON FROM THE BEES. 31 
 
 "How so? Did you prefer walking?" 
 
 "Yes ; to riding in the stage with a crying child, 
 a lapdog, and a drunken man." 
 
 "The drunken man was bad company, certainly. 
 But the crying child and the lapdog were trifling 
 matters." 
 
 "Not to me," answered Wentworth. "I despise 
 a woman who nurses a lap-dog. The very sight 
 frets me beyond endurance." 
 
 " Still, my young friend, if women will nurse 
 lapdogs, you can't help it; and so, your wisest 
 course would be to let the fact pass unobserved: 
 or, at least uncared for. To punish yourself, as 
 you have done to-day, because other people don't 
 conform in all things just to your ideas of propriety 
 is, pardon me, hardly the act of a wise man." 
 
 "I can't help it. I am too finely strung, I sup 
 pose too alive to the harmonies of nature, and too 
 quick to feel the jar of discord. Do you know to 
 what you are indebted for this visit to-day?" 
 
 And Wentworth related, with a colouring of his 
 own, the incidents just sketched for the reader; 
 taking, as he did so, something of merit to himself 
 for his course of action. 
 
 " Upon what were you at work ?" asked his friend, 
 when the young man finished speaking. 
 
 "On the beautiful Madonna, about which I told 
 you at my last visit." 
 
 "Is it nearly completed?" 
 
 " A few more touches, and I would have achieved 
 a triumph above any thing yet accomplished by my 
 pencil. It was in the eyes that I failed to succeed. 
 They are full of a divine tenderness, that only a
 
 A LESSON FROM THE BEES. 
 
 magic touch can give. Raphael was inspired when 
 he caught that look from heaven. I had risen, by 
 intense abstraction of mind, into a perception of the 
 true ideal I sought to gain, and the power to fix it 
 all on canvas was flowing down into my hand, when 
 the jar of discord produced by that vulgar fellow 
 scattered every thing into confusion and darkness." 
 
 "And so the Madonna remains unfinished?" 
 
 "Yes, and I am driven from work. Here is an 
 other day added to my list of almost useless days." 
 
 The friend mused for a little while, and then said, 
 somewhat sententiously 
 
 "You must take a lesson from the bees, Henry." 
 
 " I will hear a lesson from your lips , but, as for 
 the bees" 
 
 And he shrugged his shoulders with an air that 
 said "I can learn but little from them." 
 
 "Let us walk into the garden," said the friend, 
 rising. 
 
 And they went out among the leafy shrubs and 
 blossoming plants, where butterflies folded their 
 lazy wings, and the busy bees made all the air musi 
 cal with their tiny hum. 
 
 "Now for the lesson," said the young artist, 
 smiling. "A lesson from the bees. Here is a 
 sprightly little fellow, just diving into the red cup 
 of a honeysuckle. What lesson does he teach?" 
 
 " One that all of us may lay to heart. There is 
 honey in the cup, and it is his business to gather 
 honey. Just beside the crimson blossom, and even 
 touching it, hangs an ugly worm, spinning out the 
 thread of his winding-sheet; but the bee did not 
 pass the flower, because of its offensive presence,
 
 A LESSON FROM THE BEES. 33 
 
 nor will he hasten from it until he has extracted 
 the honey-dew. Now his work is accomplished; 
 and now he has passed to that clover blossom, which 
 his weight hends over against the leaves of a deadly 
 night-shade. But the poisoned weed is no annoy 
 ance to him. So intently pursues he his search for 
 honey, that he is unconscious of its presence. Now 
 he buries himself in blushing rose-leaves, 'heeding 
 not and caring not,' though a hundred sharp thorns 
 bristle on the stem that supports the lovely flower. 
 And now, full laden with the sweet treasure he 
 sought, he is off on swift wing for the hive. Shall 
 we observe the motions of another bee ? Or, is the 
 lesson clear?" 
 
 The countenance of Wentworth looked thought 
 ful, even serious. A little while he stood musing, 
 as though his perceptions were not lucid. Then 
 turning to his wise and gently reproving friend, he 
 grasped his hand, saying, with a manner greatly 
 subdued : 
 
 " The lesson is clear. I will go back and finish 
 my Madonna, though a dozen vulgar fellows haunt 
 the studio. I will have no eyes nor ears for them. 
 My own high purpose to excel, shall make me blind 
 and deaf to any thing that would hinder my onward 
 progress. Thanks for your lesson of the bees. I 
 will never forget it. Like them, I will gather the 
 honey of life from every rich flower in my way. 
 Let the weeds grow nigh if they will. I shall not 
 regard their presence."
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN OLD PHYSICIAN. 
 
 ABOUT the time that Mr. S , then holding a 
 
 distinguished position in the fiscal world, completed 
 his splendid mansion at Calverton, near Baltimore, 
 which now forms the centre to the two wings of the 
 County Almshouse, I was summoned to attend a 
 case of illness in the immediate neighbourhood. 
 The family, which was highly respectable and 
 wealthy, I knew well by reputation, but had never 
 before been called in to attend any of its members. 
 
 Mr. , its head, was a retired merchant, who, 
 
 during the war of 1812, had amassed a considerable 
 fortune, and then retired from business. He now 
 held the position of president of an insurance com 
 pany, the duties of which office made it necessary 
 for him to come to town every day. 
 
 Mr. had four children, two sons and two 
 
 daughters. One son was in business in this city, 
 and the other was partner in a house in Cuba. The 
 daughters were both married ; but one of them had 
 formed an unhappy union, and now resided at home, 
 having parted with her husband. It was to see her 
 that I was called in. 
 
 In order to give the reader a clear apprehension 
 of all that I am about to relate, it will be necessary 
 34
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 35 
 
 for me to detail with some minuteness a portion of 
 the previous history of the family ; or, at least, so 
 much of it as includes the daughter's marriage 
 sacrifice, I should rather say. 
 
 Mr. was a proud, strong-minded, self-willed 
 
 man, with manners that could attract when he wish 
 ed to attract, strongly, or repel when he wished to 
 repel, with equal force. He married one of those 
 gentle, confiding, sensitive creatures, who will cling 
 to a man if his love answers to her own deep pas 
 sion as face answers to face in water, with an earn 
 est devotion ; and who, if her husband prove cold, 
 arbitrary, selfish and self-willed, will cling to him 
 still, even though every green leaf withers for want 
 of sustenance, and the branches that bear them be 
 come sapless. 
 
 Many years had not elapsed before Mrs. 0- 
 
 discovered that her life was to be one of continued 
 endurance. Her wishes were rarely consulted in 
 any thing ; and if they were, her husband was sure 
 to see things in a light different from the one in 
 which she viewed it. He never yielded any thing to 
 her views or preferences ; in fact, he never dreamed 
 that he was called upon to do this. At his store 
 and counting-room, every thing moved on as his will 
 directed, and his ends were attained without ques 
 tion or hinderance. Home was but another quarter 
 of his dominion, and there he exercised his power as 
 fully as in his business, without it ever seeming to 
 occur to him that another mind should here share 
 in the determinations of his own.* v ; y 
 
 Had Mrs. been a woman of more decided 
 
 character had her will been stronger it might
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 have been much better for both herself and family ; 
 for there would have been a reaction upon her hus 
 band's imperious temper, that possibly might have 
 led him to reflect, and produced a change. But, as 
 no mirror was held up before him, he could not see 
 himself as he really was, and remained unconscious 
 of his moral deformities. In his family, his will 
 was law. His wife always submitted, no matter 
 how much was sacrificed in the effort; and as his 
 children grew up, they too soon learned their lesson 
 of submission. No matter what was to be done, his 
 inclinations, feelings, or preferences governed the 
 mode and the time. If his wife expressed a wish 
 for any thing, his assent or objection was decisive, 
 and its ground always lay in his own views or feel 
 ings. The process of setting himself aside, and 
 acting from a desire to gratify or make another 
 happy, was one of which he had no conception. 
 
 Life, thus passed, could have but few charms for 
 a woman whose feelings were as delicately strung 
 
 as those of Mrs. ; nor could life, under such 
 
 a pressure, be a long continued one. It is not, 
 therefore, a matter of wonder that she died early. 
 This event was probably hastened by the circum 
 stances attending the marriage of her youngest 
 daughter, Laura, whose whole character bore a 
 strong resemblance to that of her mother. Flo 
 rence, the oldest of her two daughters, was like her 
 father, and had, from a child up, domineered over 
 her sweet-tempered, too-yielding sister. As it is 
 to the unhappy marriage of Laura that I wish par 
 ticularly to refer, I will introduce at once the cir 
 cumstances attending it.
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 87 
 
 Mr. vras an Englishman. He came to 
 
 America when a young man, without property or 
 friends, and by his own activity and energy elevated 
 himself to wealth and social eminence. In his own 
 country, he had been taught a servile deference to 
 rank. When he came to this, and sought for em 
 ployment, he went with his hat under his arm, and 
 cringed meanly to the man of whom he asked a 
 situation. It was not long before he saw that, in 
 the United States, wealth was a thing to be obtain 
 ed by every one who had shrewdness, industry, and 
 energy ; and he also saw that the aristocracy of the 
 country was one of wealth that money made the 
 lord. ' 
 
 Consequently, as from a combination of fortunate 
 circumstances he began to amass wealth, he began 
 to be impressed with an idea of his own importance, 
 and to grow insolent and overbearing to all around 
 him, except the rich. Time went on, and he became 
 an aristocrat a money aristocrat and society ac 
 corded to him the distinction. A poor man, in his 
 eyes, was flesh and blood, and that was about all ; 
 he was a human being, but of an inferior grade. 
 So much for the man. 
 
 When Laura, his youngest daughter, was eighteen, 
 her hand was sought in marriage by the profligate 
 son of a wealthy mercantile friend named Ruffin. 
 The pure-minded girl shrunk, instinctively, from 
 the young man's addresses. She knew nothing of 
 his character, but his face and manners had in them 
 something that repulsed her. When he offered her 
 his hand, she promptly, and without consultation
 
 38 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 with any one, rejected the offer. In this she acted 
 with more than her usual decision. 
 
 Surprised, mortified, and indignant at this un 
 looked-for result, Charles Ruffin, in a spirit of re 
 venge, vowed that she should marry him that he 
 would never give up his suit until he had gained it. 
 
 On the evening of the day succeeding that upon 
 which he had received a rejection of his suit, young 
 Ruffin called upon a friend about his own age, with 
 whom he was on terms of the closest intimacy. To 
 him he related, with strong marks of indignant feel 
 ing, the particulars of what had transpired ; and 
 concluded by saying that he would marry her in 
 spite of all opposition. 
 
 "No woman shall ever have the pleasure of re 
 jecting my suit twice," replied the friend, with a 
 slight curl of the lip. 
 
 "No woman shall ever reject my suit," said Ruf 
 fin, passionately. 
 
 "But you have already been rejected " 
 
 "That is to be seen." 
 
 " I judge from your own statement." 
 
 " I'll have another to make before long, and then 
 you will see whether I have been rejected or not." 
 
 The young man laughed aloud as he shook his 
 head and said: 
 
 " It won't do, Charley. You have had the mit 
 ten and no mistake. I did not believe the girl had 
 so much spirit in her." 
 
 Ruffin felt too deeply chagrined to relish this 
 bantering spirit of his friend. He spoke bitterly in 
 reply: 
 
 "I am not going to give up this matter," said he
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 39 
 
 "-not that I care two pins for the huzzy, but I 
 never will forgive the insulting spirit in which my 
 honourable proposal was met. She shall yet re 
 pent it." 
 
 " Surely you would not marry a woman in order 
 to be revenged on her?" said the friend. 
 
 " You will see. Before six months pass, she will 
 be uiy wife." 
 
 "And then ?" 
 
 "Yes, and then ! Ah !" and the wretch 
 
 ground his teeth with a kind of savage delight 
 "And then Laura will repent " 
 
 "You could not be guilty of conduct so cruel 
 and base," said the friend, showing his honest in 
 dignation both in word, tone, and expression of 
 countenance. 
 
 " Did I hear you aright ?" asked Ruffin, speak 
 ing in a louder and more excited voice, and look 
 ing with surprise and anger into his companion's 
 face. 
 
 " I do not know," was the calm reply. "I tried 
 to utter my words distinctly." 
 
 " Did you say base?" 
 
 "I used that word." 
 
 "In application to my conduct?" A scowl was 
 on the brow of Ruffin. His friend looked steadily 
 at him, and replied : 
 
 " To your proposed conduct, which I pronounce 
 unworthy of you or any man of honour." 
 
 The only answer made to this by Ruffin, was to 
 ctrike his friend in the face. Nothing short of a 
 hostile meeting could result from this quarrel. Such 
 a meeting did take place, and the generous, high-
 
 40 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 minded P was shot dead on the spot. The 
 
 sensation produced in the community by this event 
 was strong. A hundred vague rumours as to the 
 cause circulated in all directions, but only a very 
 few were aware of the real circumstances. Ruffin 
 was the challenged party, and this created some 
 feeling in his favour. I am not sure that Laura 
 
 had even a remote idea of the nature of the 
 
 dispute from which such fatal consequences had 
 arisen. 
 
 No change whatever took place in the social posi 
 tion of Charles Ruffin. He was received as freely 
 in all circles as before. Young ladies greeted him 
 with smiles and pleasant words, and even permitted 
 his hand, wet with the blood of his friend, to touch 
 their own. I went, occasionally, into company at 
 this period, and particularly noticed the manner in 
 which Ruffin was received after his meeting with 
 his friend, as compared with what it was before. 
 The difference, I thought, marked. There was 
 much more attention shown to him. He was treat 
 ed with that kind of deference usually manifested 
 toward those who have done their fellows some 
 eminent service. 
 
 All this grieved and disgusted me. I could not 
 and did not treat him as I had previously done. 
 My manner was cold and formal. He may or may 
 not have observed this. I thought he did; but 
 that was of no consequence. 
 
 How little does society do, by common consent, 
 to purify its moral atmosphere ! A man's real cha 
 racter is rarely set off against his wealth or family ; 
 and so long as this is the case, virtue has no com-
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 41 
 
 mon protector. If a man's character gave him en 
 trance into, or excluded him from good society, 
 there might be safety for the young, the pure, and 
 the innocent, within its folds. This is not the case; 
 and therefore I care not how tender may have been 
 a parent's solicitude for his child, or how anxious 
 he may have been for her good, the chances for her 
 making shipwreck of happiness are fearful in num 
 ber. 
 
 The remedy for this lies in the adoption of a new 
 code of social laws, founded in a just regard for the 
 well-being of the whole ; a code that shall make 
 virtue, and only virtue, the passport to good society. 
 
 In what Charles Ruffin had said, he was in ear 
 nest. The fatal consequences of a quarrel with his 
 friend for having censured his proposed course of 
 action, did not divert him from his purpose. He 
 was an evil-minded young man, in whom pride and 
 self-love, long indulged, had almost foreclosed every 
 virtuous sentiment, and destroyed every virtuous 
 emotion. 
 
 He did not meet Laura for some weeks 
 
 after her rejection of his suit. During that time 
 the duel had taken place. Laura had no suspicion 
 of the real cause ; but the fact increased the repug 
 nance already felt toward Ruffin, and made her re 
 gard him with a feeling allied to horror. When he 
 approached her one evening in company, at the 
 house of a friend, her spirit shrunk from him with 
 loathing and fear. His quick eye perceived this, 
 and it only made him resolve more deeply that he 
 would gain her hand in marriage at any cost. Con 
 cealing every thing under a calm exterior, he sat
 
 42 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 + -*>. -'"'- 
 
 down by her side. She was polite, but cold. She 
 answered all his remarks but briefly, and strove in 
 every way to make the conversation so burdensome 
 to him that he would abandon it, and seek some 
 more agreeable companion. 
 
 But he did not seem to notice her reserve, and 
 adroitly managed the conversation, so that little 
 above an assenting monosyllable was required of 
 her, and that only an occasional one. 
 
 "He can certainly make himself agreeable 
 enough," she remarked to herself, when, after 
 sitting by her side for half an hour, he said, as he 
 arose and left her 
 
 "But I forget that I must not monopolize all 
 your time in this pleasant company." 
 
 " Pity that under such an attractive exterior is 
 concealed so bad a heart as he must have, who 
 could, under any provocation, shoot his friend." 
 
 Laura sighed, and shuddered inwardly, as this 
 thought passed through her mind. 
 
 For some months the young man continued his 
 efforts to make a more favourable impression upon 
 Laura's mind ; but he saw little to encourage him. 
 The maiden had an inward repugnance, that nothing 
 could conquer. Her manner was always reserved 
 in his presence ; he never could draw her out into 
 a conversation. She would answer the remarks he 
 made with politeness, but never sought to prolong 
 the interest on any subject he introduced. 
 
 At length Ruffin's patience gave way, and he re 
 solved on a more decided movement ; and that was 
 to gain over the father to his side. He knew some 
 thing of his strong will and arbitrary disposition;
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 43 
 
 and felt sure, that if he became decidedly in favour 
 of the marriage, Laura would be forced to submit. 
 In order to accomplish this, it was necessary to make 
 some sacrifices. The father of Ruffin was a mer 
 chant, and an old and intimate friend of Mr. . 
 
 He had long wished his son to settle himself steadily 
 down to business, but had not been able to prevail 
 upon him to do so. An offer of a large share in 
 his house had several times been made, but Charles 
 could not be induced to accept of it. He had stu 
 died law, and been admitted to the bar ; this en 
 abled him to assume the appearance of a profes 
 sional man, while the purse of his father rendered 
 it unnecessary for him to seek for or even care for 
 business. 
 
 One day he entered the old gentleman's count 
 ing-room, and, after lingering about for a while, 
 drew him off into a conversation, and dexterously 
 managed to introduce business themes, and then 
 evinced more than usual interest in the subject. 
 The ice of reserve that had for some time existed 
 between the father and son was thawed. Mr. Ruf 
 fin led on the conversation to just the point Charles 
 wished it to attain, and then expressed regret that 
 he had not, at the start, chosen mercantile instead 
 of legal pursuits. 
 
 "It is not too late yet, Charles," the old man 
 said, promptly. 
 
 " I am afraid of it," replied the son. 
 
 " Why so ?" 
 
 " To pursue any calling with success, requires an 
 education in it. The merchant must go through a 
 preparatory course, as well as the lawyer; and
 
 44 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 neither can become eminent if not, originally, well 
 grounded in the rudimental science and practical 
 principles of the profession. I know nothing about 
 the general laws that govern trade, and nothing 
 of the means required to be put in operation in 
 order that these laws may work out a profitable re 
 sult." 
 
 "No matter, Charles," said the father, warmly; 
 "I understand them, and will see that they are 
 properly applied, until time and attention give you 
 a practical knowledge of business." 
 
 " Do you think I could ever gain it ?" 
 
 " I know you could !" was emphatically replied. 
 
 " I feel more than half inclined to accept of the 
 offer you have so often made me." 
 
 "To take a share in my business?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Nothing would give me more pleasure. I have 
 built up a house that is now honourably known 
 throughout the mercantile world, and I feel a natu 
 ral pride in having its high reputation sustained. 
 You bear my name, and can alone sustain it after 
 my death." 
 
 "And I will sustain it !" said the young man, af 
 fecting a generous enthusiasm. 
 
 "You take a weight from my mind, Charles," re 
 turned the father, with undisguised emotion. " I 
 had began to fear that my long cherished hopes 
 would never be realized." 
 
 In a week from this time it was announced, in 
 the newspapers, that Mr. Euffin had connected his 
 son with him in business, and that the firm here 
 after would be Charles Ruffin & Son.
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 45 
 
 No one congratulated the father on this event 
 more warmly than did his old friend Mr. . 
 
 " I have been a little afraid of Charles," he said, 
 " but he is safe now ; the mercantile sphere will d} 
 him good. It will sober his feelings and concen 
 trate his thoughts upon an end. I trust that he 
 will make a prudent and enterprising merchant, 
 and give strength to your house." 
 
 " Time will show. He has ability enough, and 
 will pursue whatever he undertakes with ardour." 
 
 "And you can guide him to a safe result." 
 
 Charles Ruffin settled himself down to business, 
 and appeared to enter into all its details with inte 
 rest and intelligence, greatly to the delight of his 
 father. As much as it was possible for him to do, 
 
 he threw himself in the way of Mr. , in business 
 
 matters. It may here be remarked, that the father 
 of Laura had not been informed of her rejection of 
 the young man's suit. The maiden confided the 
 secret to her mother alone, and the mother locked 
 it up in her heart. She knew her husband's cha 
 racter too well, and had suffered too much from his 
 disregard to her tenderest and best feelings, to 
 trust her daughter's happiness in his hands. 
 
 About two months after he had entered into busi 
 ness with his father, young Ruffin renewed his at 
 tentions to Laura, and in such a way as to attract 
 
 the notice of Mr. , who was very well pleased 
 
 to observe it. He also hinted to his father that he 
 had more than a slight preference for the maiden, 
 and dexterously managed to get him to allude to the 
 
 subject in the presence of Mr. . From that 
 
 time the fate of the sweet girl was sealed. Her
 
 46 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 father was delighted at the prospect of such a union, 
 and assured Mr. Ruffin that it was only necessary 
 for Charles to offer Laura his hand. 
 
 Never, from the day of her marriage until this 
 
 time, had Mrs. opposed her husband. Meek 
 
 submission and patient endurance had been her por 
 tion. But the mother was stronger than the woman. 
 The love she bore her child roused her into resist 
 ance. 
 
 " I am pleased to find that young Charles Ruffin 
 
 is attached to our Laura," said to his wife> 
 
 one evening, after they were alone. 
 
 Mrs. turned pale and trembled. She felt 
 
 that a day of deep sorrow had come. If her hus 
 band were pleased at the discovery, he would, she 
 knew, demand a marriage, should the young man 
 again offer himself, against all that she or her poor 
 child could urge. The shrinking repugnance felt 
 by Laura would be as dust in the balance against 
 his will. But she could not tamely submit here. 
 She had a mother's duty to perform. 
 
 " I do not think Laura would ever be happy as 
 his wife !" she ventured to say. 
 
 "Why not, pray?" he asked, in surprise. 
 
 " Their characters are altogether different." 
 
 " So are yours and mine." 
 
 Mrs. did not reply to this : thoughts that 
 
 she dared not let come into distinct form flitted 
 through her mind. 
 
 " I really do not understand what you mean," 
 the husband resumed. "A better match than 
 Charles Ruffin cannot be found for her. His 
 family is unexceptionable. He will inherit a large
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 47 
 
 property from his father, independent of what he 
 will accumulate in his own right as a partner in the 
 house of Ruffin & Son." 
 
 " It will take more than all that to make Laura 
 happy." 
 
 " What more, pray ?" 
 
 " A man whom she can respect and love." 
 
 "What is to hinder her from both respecting 
 and loving Charles Ruffin?" 
 
 " She can never love a man who has stained his 
 hands with the blood of his friend. But, apart 
 from this, she has ever shrunk with an inward, un 
 conquerable dislike from this young man." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 "It is true. Months ago he offered her his 
 hand, which she declined without consulting any 
 one." 
 
 " Laura did ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And you knew it ?" 
 
 "After his suit had been declined." 
 
 "Why, pray, was I not informed of this?" Mr. 
 spoke in an imperious tone. 
 
 " It would have done no good. Laura is of age, 
 and must decide for herself in a matter of this kind. 
 She has all to gain or lose." 
 
 " But why was it concealed from me ? I cannot 
 understand the reason." 
 
 Mrs. felt embarrassed. To speak out 
 
 boldly and avow her belief that he would have acted 
 arbitrarily on the occasion, she could not do. After 
 a few moments' silence, she replied 
 
 " I was afraid you might not approve of what she
 
 48 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 had done, and the poor child's mind was already 
 strongly agitated." 
 
 " Humph ! Approve ? No, I should not have 
 approved. If a drayman had offered himself, the 
 same kind of reasoning' would have done to excuse 
 her acceptance of him, and marriage without my 
 knowledge. I am surprised beyond measure at 
 your conduct. I ought to have known this at the 
 time." 
 
 " It would have done no good." 
 
 "Don't say that again!" Mr. returned, 
 
 in a passionate tone of voice. 
 
 The eyes of Mrs. sunk to the floor. She 
 
 laid her hands meekly together, and sat silent. But 
 her heart was strong in its determination to oppose 
 to the last every attempt made to coerce Laura 
 
 into a marriage with Ruffin. Mr. talked a 
 
 great deal, and made many threats and assertions : 
 but to none of them did his wife reply. 
 
 "Can't you speak!" he at length exclaimed, 
 losing all control over himself. Never before had 
 he spoken thus to her never before had he exhi 
 bited toward her such a temper. But, never before 
 had she' set herself in such direct opposition to 
 him. 
 
 The eyes of Mrs. were lifted timidly to 
 
 her husband's face for a moment, while a tremor 
 ran through her frame. Then she let them fall 
 again to the floor, and sat, still silent. 
 
 " The girl shall marry him," said 
 
 "Not with my consent," replied his wife, in a 
 husky, but decided voice
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 49 
 
 " Woman, are you mad ?" exclaimed her husband, 
 again thrown off his guard. 
 
 " I don't know what I may have been for the 
 last twenty years of my life, but I am sane now," 
 was calmly returned. " I love my child too well 
 to consent to her sacrifice. I am a mother !" 
 
 Accustomed to an entire submission of his wife's 
 will to his own, this unexpected opposition and 
 firmness on her part, while it was unaccountable, 
 chafed his temper almost beyond endurance; and 
 yet astonishment produced a state of calmness. 
 He said no more at that time, but he resolved that 
 Laura should marry Charles Ruffin. He had pro 
 mised the father as much, and he meant to keep 
 his promise, in spite of all objections and opposi 
 tion. 
 
 As soon as the young man learned the favourable 
 
 light in which Mr. viewed the matter, his 
 
 mind was at rest on the subject. He no longer ap 
 proached Laura with doubt and caution, but boldly 
 preferred his suit again, and was again as promptly 
 rejected. This was communicated to old Mr. Ruf 
 fin on the next morning, and he called on Laura's 
 father immediately, and informed him of what had 
 occurred. 
 
 " It is a mere whim of the girl's," Mr. re 
 plied. "I will see her, and satisfy her that she 
 has done a very foolish thing. Charles must re 
 new his attentions. I have set my heart upon this 
 marriage, and cannot think of its being prevented." 
 
 In an hour afterward he entered his dwelling, 
 and found Laura sitting in one of the parlours alone. 
 She looked up at her father, with a timid, frighten- 
 
 5
 
 50 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 ed air, for she had reason to believe that his return 
 home at an unusual hour had something to do with 
 her second rejection of Ruffin's suit. 
 
 Controlling his feelings as far as it was possible 
 
 for him to do so, Mr. took a seat beside his 
 
 daughter, and in a milder and more persuasive tone 
 than he was accustomed to speak in, said : 
 
 " Laura, my dear, what are your reasons for de 
 clining so advantageous an offer as the one made 
 you by Charles Ruffin ?" 
 
 The maiden answered only by a gush of tears. 
 Mr. waited until the strength of his daugh 
 ter's emotion had subsided. He then resumed 
 
 " I have set my heart upon seeing a union take 
 place between you and the son of my old friend, 
 and it would grieve me deeply were I to be disap 
 pointed. You certainly cannot have any very 
 strong objections to Charles ? Why, then, do you 
 decline the offer of his hand ?" 
 
 " Father," replied Laura, looking steadily into 
 his face, and speaking with surprising calmness, " I 
 do not think of death with fear, but my spirit 
 shrinks and shudders at the idea of becoming united 
 
 to Charles Ruffin. Is not the blood of poor P 
 
 upon his hands?" 
 
 "And is that your only objection?" 
 
 "No, sir. I can never love him, and I prefer 
 death to marrying a man I do not love." 
 
 " So much for a girl's silly romance !" the father 
 sneeringly replied, beginning to lose his self-com 
 mand. " I wonder who put all this nonsense into 
 your head?" 
 
 Laura remained silent.
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 51 
 
 " If you will only try and lay aside your foolish 
 prejudice against one in every way worthy of your 
 highest regard," said Mr. , changing his man 
 ner again, and speaking in a low, insinuating voice 
 " and consent to a union we all so much desire, 
 there is nothing I will not do for you. Whatever 
 money can procure, you can command. I know 
 you will he happy. What can prevent it ?" 
 
 "I am happy here, father," she replied, with a 
 quivering lip. " Why do you wish to push me out 
 like a young hird, hut half-fledged, from its nest ? 
 My wings are yet too weak to bear me up. Father ! 
 if you love me, let me stay where I am, and remain 
 what I am !" 
 
 "You cannot always remain at home, Laura. 
 You will become a wife, and form the centre of a 
 new home." 
 
 " There is time enough for that, if it take place 
 at all, these five years. I am but a child at best, 
 and still wish to shrink beneath the shelter of my 
 mother's wing." 
 
 was unmoved by this tender appeal. 
 
 " Consider " he began. 
 
 "I can consider nothing," said Laura, interrupt 
 ing him, with something of indignation in her voice, 
 " that unites my name with that of Charles RuflBn. 
 A marriage between us is impossible !" 
 
 This broke down all reserve and restraint. 
 
 " Girl ! You shall marry him !" passionately ex 
 claimed the father. 
 
 Mrs. entered at the moment, and heard iu 
 
 grief and surprise the last words uttered by her 
 husband.
 
 52 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 " Oh, do not rashly say that !" she cried out in 
 a voice of anguish. " You must not, you cannot, 
 you dare not sacrifice your child." 
 
 " I have said the word, and, so help me heaven ! 
 that word shall be fulfilled to the letter. Laura 
 shall become the wife of Charles Ruffin." 
 
 " If you command me, father, I have only one 
 thing to do," said the trembling child, her face pale 
 as ashes. 
 
 " And pray what is that ?" he asked. 
 
 " To obey," was briefly replied. 
 
 "You shall obey!" angrily returned Mr. ; 
 
 and, rising from his chair, he left the room and the 
 house. 
 
 The moment the door closed after him, Laura 
 threw herself, weeping, upon her mother's bosom. 
 
 Mrs. had no word of comfort to offer, no 
 
 word of advice to give. All she could do was to 
 weep with her child. 
 
 In a few days, the suit of Ruffin was again re 
 newed. As a last hope, Laura appealed to his 
 generosity as a man not to urge her into a marriage 
 that would ma,ke her whole life miserable. But the 
 appeal was vain. 
 
 As long as the time of the sacrifice could be put 
 off, it was put off. But it was made at last. It is 
 hard to tell which suffered most, the mother or her 
 child, during the few short months that elapsed be 
 fore the consummation took place from which both 
 shrunk with something like horror. The appear 
 ance and manner of the bride occasioned a good 
 deal of remark. It was known that she had twice 
 refused the hand of Ruffin, and it was also pretty
 
 THE BROKEN HEAET. 53 
 
 generally believed that the marriage only took 
 place in obedience to the father's wishes. No tears 
 were shed by Laura ; but her mother wept as if her 
 heart were breaking and it was breaking. Laura 
 was exceedingly pale, when she came in by the side 
 of the man to whom she was about making false 
 vows. Her lips were strongly compressed her 
 eyes looked inward she seemed like one about to 
 commit an act from which every impulse of nature 
 
 shrunk. Mr. observed all this with a stern 
 
 expression on his face, yet with an unbending de 
 termination to let the sacrifice be made. Charles 
 Ruffin was fully conscious of the part he was play 
 ing, and of the impression made. For a moment 
 he felt abashed, but the recollection of something 
 reassured him, and he did not hesitate. 
 
 When Laura, at last, made the almost inaudible 
 response that sealed her fate, her mother sank 
 insensible to the floor. That overtasked heart 
 could bear up no longer. Its cup was full. 
 
 It was a sad marriage-festival. Mrs. did 
 
 not recover during the evening, and Laura could 
 not be forced from the chamber where her mother 
 lay in a slumber that looked like death. When too 
 late, Charles Ruffin saw that he had pursued his 
 mean spirit of revenge too far ; that a reaction 
 was about taking place, which would punish him 
 severely. 
 
 The large and brilliant company, that had assem 
 bled to grace a marriage-festival, returned early, 
 with grave looks and oppressed feelings, and Mr. 
 
 and his new son-in-law were left alone in the 
 
 richly decorated but now deserted drawing-rooms. 
 
 6*
 
 54 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 What their feelings were, it is hard to tell. Few 
 words passed between them. 
 
 The young husband did not see his bride again 
 that night. She could not be forced from the bed 
 side of her mother, in whom few signs of returning 
 animation were apparent for many hours. 
 
 Morning dawned before the life-current again 
 flowed freely through the mother's veins. When 
 reason returned, she begged to be left alone with 
 Laura, and the boon was granted. For a long time 
 the mother and child lay in each other's arms, and 
 wept together. Then the former essayed to dis 
 charge what she believed to be her last duty to the 
 wronged spirit that was just entering upon a life of 
 trial and suffering. 
 
 " How shall I counsel you, my dear child ?" she 
 said, endeavouring to speak with calmness " how 
 shall I prepare you for the new, peculiar, and deeply 
 trying relations on which you are about to enter ? 
 If I could have prevented your marriage with a man 
 you say you do not love, I would have done so ; but 
 now you are a wedded wife, you have taken holy 
 vows upon yourself a wife's duties you must endea 
 vour to perform to a wife's vows you must be faith 
 ful, even until death. I trust that your husband is 
 sincerely attached to you, and that you will not find 
 it so hard as you have feared, to return something 
 of the regard he professes for you. It may be in 
 your power to influence him for good, to modify and 
 elevate his whole character ; to make him, what you 
 have not deemed him, worthy of your love. Oh ! 
 how sincerely do I pray that this may be the case ; 
 that the cup, now so bitter to the taste, may become
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 55 
 
 sweetened as life advances. Such things have often 
 occurred why not in your case ? Lay your hand 
 upon your heart, my child, and keep down all feel 
 ings of repugnance ; let your whole demeanour 
 toward the man you have promised to love become 
 changed ; meet him to-day with a gentle bearing, 
 and let his voice, if it come to your ear in words of 
 endearment, find its way into some chamber of your 
 heart : it will be better, far better ; I know I know 
 it will ! He cannot but have some true love for 
 you. Why else has he sought your hand ? Love 
 Degetteth love. May it be so in this case !" 
 
 The words of the mother sunk into the heart of 
 her child. A dim light glimmered through the 
 darkness in which her spirit had been enveloped. 
 She saw that she had a duty to perform, and she 
 nerved herself to perform it. She had taken upon 
 herself a wife's vows, and she must not now shrink 
 from the tasks they imposed upon her. 
 
 After what we have recorded, and much more to 
 the same purpose had been urged by the mother, 
 she sunk away into a quiet sleep. For the first 
 time since she followed her parent's insensible form 
 from the bridal-hall, Laura left the chamber where 
 she had retired. She had not seen her husband 
 since the hour when the minister, in a solemn voice, 
 pronounced them man and wife ; and the thought 
 of meeting him made her tremble. But she nerved 
 herself under a newly awakened sense of duty. As 
 she stepped into one of the parlours the same in 
 which the nuptial ceremony had taken place she 
 saw him sitting by a window, with his head leaning 
 on his hand, in an attitude of thought, and, what
 
 56 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 seemed to her, dejection. She was touched by this, 
 and a single emotion of tenderness swelled in her 
 heart. He arose to his feet as she entered, and 
 advanced a few steps to meet her. She held out 
 her hand and he grasped it with warmth, and made 
 earnest inquiries after her mother. These she 
 answered, and then came a silence that hoth found 
 it hard to break. They were in a false position, 
 and were too clearly conscious of the fact. Casual 
 and indifferent remarks would be out of place ; and 
 neither dared speak the thoughts nearest the 
 heart. 
 
 Ah ! are not these perversions of the marriage 
 state sad to think of ? All evil is the perversion 
 of some good : the higher the good, therefore, the 
 more direful in consequence is the perversion. Mar 
 riage is the highest and holiest social state into 
 which man is capable of entering ; if entered into 
 from right motives, it induces a state of felicity 
 beyond what any other relation can give ; if from 
 wrong motives, it will become a condition of wretch 
 edness beyond conception. We may pity the weak 
 ness that led Laura to consent to this unna 
 tural union in obedience to the will of her father, 
 but cannot in any way commend the act. She had 
 no more right to obey in this thing than he had to 
 command; in obeying she was deeply culpable. 
 Too many consequences hung upon her free decision 
 of a matter of such intrinsic importance. After a 
 child has obtained the age of rationality and free 
 dom, and becomes responsible, to society and to God 
 for every act, the father who attempts control in a 
 matter like this commits sin ; and the child who
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 57 
 
 submits to and becomes a passive subject of such 
 control, also commits sin. 
 
 The true relation of parents to children, is one in 
 which all do not exercise sufficient discrimination. 
 It is not generally seen, that the parent is responsi 
 ble to society and to Heaven for his child's conduct, 
 only until that child is of age and becomes capable 
 of making rational discriminations on matters per 
 taining to life. After that period, no parent is 
 guiltless who attempts arbitrary control. He has 
 still a duty to perform, but should emulate the bird 
 that teaches its fledgelings the use of their wings in 
 performing it. He should no longer think for them 
 and decide for them, but should guide their reason 
 to sound judgments, and be very careful in doing 
 this not to force the child's mind, but merely to 
 help it to a decision of its own. It is this state of 
 freedom and reason that makes the man. The folly 
 of parents choosing conjugal partners for their 
 children needs not the painful history I am relating 
 to illustrate it. This is a folly, thank Heaven ! that 
 is reforming itself under the influence of increasing 
 moral light and freedom. Its opposite, or a care 
 lessness as to whom the choice might rest upon, has 
 prevailed already to too great an extent. 
 
 The embarrassed position of the young couple 
 
 was relieved by the entrance of Mr. . He 
 
 had, naturally, a good share of tact and self-posses 
 sion, and this enabled him to introduce subjects of 
 conversation that were calculated to lead their minds 
 away from the present, and to make them feel more 
 at ease. Laura, acting from a newly awakened 
 sense of duty, strove to appear cheerful ; and her
 
 58 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 husband, glad to be relieved from a situation by no 
 means agreeable, endeavoured to seem as cheerful 
 as she. But it was force-work on both sides, and 
 apparent to both. 
 
 Thus began the married life of Charles Ruffin and 
 hi? beautiful bride. The promise was not fair, and 
 the result did not belie the promise. Many weeks 
 did not pass before the heart of her husband was 
 laid bare to Laura ; the sight filled her with horror 
 and despair. The native malignancy of the man 
 could not long be concealed the end for which he 
 had sought her hand no duplicity could conceal, no 
 acting disguise. It must come forth and it did 
 come forth. 
 
 The meek patience of the pure-minded woman he 
 had wronged, the unwearying efforts she made to 
 act from duty, if not from love, irritated him, for it 
 was a rebuke that he could not well bear. The 
 forced warmth of manner, which he had assumed at 
 first, gave place in a little while to indifference. To 
 this succeeded coldness ; then followed words harshly 
 spoken ; and to these were soon added the taunts 
 of a bitter spirit. 
 
 It is difficult to conceive how any man could act 
 so mean, so malignant a part. In fact, no man, 
 unless possessed of an infernal spirit, could so debase 
 his noble nature. 
 
 For a short period after the marriage of her 
 daughter, deceived by the appearance of affection 
 that was assumed by both Laura and her husband, 
 
 Mrs. , who had recovered in a few days from 
 
 the shock her feelings had sustained on the night of 
 the wedding, became cheerful, and, in some measure/
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 59 
 
 resigned to an event that had taken place in opposi 
 tion to all her feelings and wishes. But she did not 
 long remain deceived. She had, herself, suffered 
 too much not to perceive the first indications of 
 positive suffering in her child. From the day she 
 became fully satisfied that Laura's husband had no 
 true affection for her, and that her life would be a 
 burden even more intolerable to bear than had been 
 her own, she began to droop in spirits, and steadily 
 declined from that hour until life closed up with her 
 its troubled history. This mournful event took 
 place about two years after Laura's marriage. 
 Long before its occurrence, Charles Ruffin's con 
 duct toward his wife had become brutal. Having 
 attained his end, the natural baseness of his charac 
 ter soon led him to throw off all disguise. The first 
 indications were seen in his indifference to business. 
 But few weeks elapsed before his long period of 
 absence from the counting-room, and his want of 
 interest in the operations of the house while there, 
 attracted the notice of his father. As this defection 
 increased day after day, old Mr. Ruffin felt it to be 
 his duty to remonstrate. He did so as gently as 
 was in his power. This produced, what the young 
 man desired, a rupture, and he withdrew from the 
 new firm immediately. 
 
 A wife's relation, no matter how uncongenial it 
 may be, involves a certain degree of affection for 
 and interest in a husband. In a little while Laura 
 began to lean toward Charles Ruffin, and her heart 
 began to take hold of and cling to him as the vine 
 clings to the statelier tree that supports it. In his 
 absence, she experienced a want of something, and
 
 60 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 involuntarily looked for the hour of his return with 
 pleasure. And yet she found little satisfaction in 
 his presence, always experiencing a strong internal 
 repulsion. His first direct expression of unkind- 
 ness the first laying off of his mask took place at 
 the time the rupture with his father occurred. He 
 came home, soured and disturbed in mind, and, in a 
 captious spirit and fretful tone, told Laura what had 
 happened, adding, with emphasis 
 
 " And I am glad of it !" 
 
 " Charles ! Don't say so ! don't speak in that 
 way !" exclaimed Laura, without reflection. 
 
 Opposition of any kind, no matter how trivial, 
 Ruffin never could bear ; it fevered his whole sys 
 tem in an instant. 
 
 " Why not, madam, pray ?" he replied, drawing 
 himself up in an imperious manner, and looking 
 sternly at poor Laura, into whose eyes the tears 
 instantly gushed. There was no reply. 
 
 " Why not, ha ?" repeated the husband. " Am I 
 not a free man, to do as I please ? Do you think I 
 am going to confine myself to a dirty store ? If any 
 one does, he is mistaken." 
 
 To this Laura had not a word to answer. His 
 manner had completely paralyzed her. He could 
 not have hurt her more, had he struck her to the 
 earth. 
 
 From that time hope, which had begun to spring 
 up in the heart of Laura, died. She saw, beneath 
 the thin exterior of her husband's assumed charac 
 ter, enough of the real qualities of his mind, to rob 
 her of all the desires of life. 
 
 It would not be well to consume the reader's
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. * 61 
 
 time by tracing, step by step, the life-progress of 
 this unhappy couple. Enough, that each passing 
 month and year only widened the breach that 
 Charles had made. For his wife he had no love, 
 and did not attempt even to assume a virtue he did 
 not possess. He was cold toward her, and neglected 
 her shamefully ; and led, besides, a most abandoned 
 and dissolute life, thus wounding her spirit more 
 vitally. 
 
 The birth of a child gave her something to love 
 a boon for which she was deeply thankful. She 
 could not have survived her mother's death, which 
 took place a few months afterward, had not this 
 object of aifection been given. 
 
 A year after her child was born, her husband's 
 conduct became so outrageous, that her father took 
 her home, and forbade the young man from ever 
 crossing his threshold. In stern, unrelenting pur 
 pose, Mr. was fully a match for Charles 
 
 Ruffin, and had, what he did not possess, a weight 
 of years and character to sustain him. 
 
 Many months did not elapse before, in a spirit 
 of revenge, an effort was made by Ruffin to see his 
 wife, and induce her to leave her father's protection, 
 and live with him again. 
 
 Laura was sitting, one day, alone in her room, 
 with her babe in her arms, when she heard a man's 
 step behind her. She turned quickly, in affright, 
 to see who had entered. It was her husband ! 
 
 "How are you, Laura?" he said, in a mild, in 
 sinuating voice, advancing toward his wife, and ex 
 tending his hand. 
 
 Surprise and agitation prevented Mrs. Ruffin from 
 6
 
 62 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 either rising or speaking. Her husband tooV her 
 hand, and pressed it within his own; hut there was 
 no returning pressure. The power of action was 
 gone. 
 
 " Laura, why don't you to speak to me I Am I 
 not your husband?" This was said in a tone of 
 affected sadness. 
 
 "0 Charles! why have you come here to 
 trouble me?" said Mrs. Ruffin, as soon as she could 
 utter a word. "You do not love me you never 
 have loved me. I am in quiet here, if not in peace 
 leave me then as I am." 
 
 "Laura, you wrong me," urged the young man; 
 " I do love you ; I have always loved you. An un 
 happy temper may often have led me into error ; 
 but still I feel for you a sincere affection. Sepa 
 rated from you, I am miserable. Will you not" 
 
 At this moment, the sound of horse's feet came 
 thundering up the broad avenue that led to the 
 house. Ruffin glanced from the window, and then 
 glided from the room without uttering a word. 
 Laura was thrilled by a sudden fear ; she could not 
 rise nor scream, but sat as if nailed to her chair, 
 awaiting some fearful issue. From this paralyzed 
 state, the quick, sharp crack of a pistol, just under 
 the window where she sat, aroused her, and she 
 sprang forward with a cry of agony. 
 
 About half an hour previous to this time, a friend 
 entered the office of the insurance company of which 
 Mr. was president, and hurriedly communi 
 cated to him his suspicion that his son-in-law had 
 gone out to visit his daughter ; with what intent he 
 had no means of knowing. In five minutes after,
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 63 
 
 Mr. was mounted upon a swift horse, and 
 
 galloping out of the city in the direction of hia 
 country-seat. He had a loaded pistol in his pocket, 
 and his firm resolution was to shoot Ruffin, if he 
 found him anyAvhere upon his premises. As he 
 rode, with a furious gait, up to his house, and was 
 about checking his horse to dismount, his eye caught 
 the form of a man, hurrying down stairs, and seek 
 ing egress through a back door. He doubted not 
 that it was his son-in-law, and, firm in his purpose, 
 he drew his pistol and fired. Happily for the young 
 
 man, the motion of the horse, upon which Mr. 
 
 rode, interfered with his aim. The ball glanced 
 close to his ear, and passed on harmlessly. Spring 
 ing from the reeking animal upon which he had 
 ridden with such hot haste, the excited father dashed 
 through the hall, and sought to overtake the fugi 
 tive. But Rufiin had no wish to meet Mr. 
 
 under such circumstances, and managed to elude 
 him entirely. 
 
 Finding his pursuit vain, Mr. returned, 
 
 and hurried up to his daughter's room. He found 
 her upon the floor, insensible; and her child, that 
 she had been able to protect in her fall, lying asleep, 
 and drawn tightly to her bosom. The sight touched 
 him deeply, and brought back upon his mind re 
 buking thoughts. It was his own handiwork he 
 saw before him. He had forced his child into an 
 uncongenial union, and now had no power to restore 
 peace to the heart he had so cruelly wronged. 
 
 Domestics were instantly called in ; or, rather, 
 had already crowded into the apartment, alarmed 
 by the hurried arrival of their master and the noise
 
 64 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 of his pistol. They had seen no one enter nor leave 
 the house, and could not conjecture the cause of 
 what had passed so hurriedly. The first impression 
 
 produced upon their minds was, that Mr. 
 
 had shot his daughter. This variously affected 
 them. . Some fled to remote parts of the house in 
 terror, while one or two came forward and assisted 
 the father to lift his child from the floor and place 
 her upon a bed. The gardener, who was rushing 
 into the house, having been alarmed by the report 
 of the pistol, was met in the hall by the cook, whose 
 starting eyes and quivering lips told a tale of horror. 
 
 "What's the matter? What's the matter?" the 
 man inquired eagerly. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! oh, dear !" sobbed the cook the 
 effort to speak bringing a flood of tears " Massa 
 shot poor Miss Laura, and killed her dead." 
 
 The gardener stayed to hear no more, but turned 
 away and fled from the house, spreading alarm in 
 every direction. He paused not until he had reached 
 the city, where he gave information to a magistrate) 
 
 who issued a warrant for the arrest of Mr. , 
 
 and placed it in the hands of an ofiicer. 
 
 The fainting fit of Mrs. Ruflm was of but short 
 duration. She opened her eyes after the lapse of 
 fifteen or twenty minutes. The presence of he. 
 father bewildered her mind. She remembered, wit." 
 painful distinctness, the visit of her husband, the 
 hurried sound of a horse's feet, and the discharg : 
 of a pistol. From that moment all was blank. Bui 
 there was a vail of horror over her mind. The loo! 
 of anxious inquiry she cast upon her father con 
 strained him to say
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 65 
 
 " No one has been harmed. I only came home 
 to protect you from outrage." 
 
 "Was it you who rode up the avenue so hur 
 riedly?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Did he ?" she could not finish the sentence, 
 but what she wished to say was understood. Mr. 
 was silent. 
 
 "He did not attempt to harm you, father? Oh, 
 no ! He could not do that I am sure he could 
 not. He is passionate, and has many faults, but 
 that he could not do." 
 
 With some reluctance, Mr. admitted that 
 
 he had attempted to shoot Ruffin. Laura shuddered 
 and closed her eyes. Almost as suddenly as if a 
 hand had been laid upon her heart did its pulsations 
 cease ; but in a little while they were renewed, and 
 the current of life went on again in its circle. 
 
 As soon as Mr. could leave the chamber 
 
 of Laura, he did so. He descended to the hall, and 
 was approaching the front door of the house, when 
 three men, with severe and resolute faces, entered. 
 One of them stepped forward, saying, as he did so, 
 "I arrest you in the name of," &c., and placed his 
 
 hand upon the shoulder of . In an instant, 
 
 the officer lay upon the floor, and, in an instant 
 
 after, the arms of Mr. were pinioned by the 
 
 two assistants, and he hurried out of the house and 
 thrust into a carriage, which was driven off at full 
 speed for the city. 
 
 For some time, astonishment kept Mr. 
 
 dumb. His mind sought in vain for an explanation 
 
 of this outrage upon his person. What could it 
 
 6*
 
 66 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 mean ? The whole thing was inexplicable. As 
 soon as he could control himself to speak, he turned 
 to the officers who had arrested him, and said 
 
 " May I ask what all this means ? Why am I 
 dragged from my house like a felon or murderer? 1 ' 
 
 " You are accused of murder." 
 
 " Me ?" in a voice of astonishment. 
 
 " Yes ; of the murder of your daughter ?" 
 
 "By whom?" 
 
 "By a man who says he is your gardener." 
 
 " Indeed ! Perhaps you had better turn back 
 and see whether my daughter be alive or dead." 
 This was spoken with bitter irony. The officer 
 merely replied 
 
 " My duty is to take your person before a magis 
 trate; not to investigate the charges against you." 
 
 sunk back in the carriage, silent, but 
 
 deeply indignant at the outrage he had received. 
 On arriving at the magistrate's office, he found his 
 gardener there, looking pale and frightened. The 
 poor fellow believed, solemnly, that what the cook 
 had told him was true. When called upon to give 
 his testimony, he had only the fact of hearing the 
 pistol discharged and the cook's affirmation to sus 
 tain the allegation he had made, and upon which 
 the warrant for arrest had been issued. 
 
 "We must summon the cook," said the magis 
 trate, beginning to fill up a summons. 
 
 " I would advise you, to make sure of getting at 
 
 the truth, to summon my daughter," said Mr. , 
 
 bitterly. " She could testify to the fact of being 
 shot, or shot at, more clearly than any one else." 
 
 The magistrate looked at the prisoner with sur-
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 6T 
 
 prise, for a moment, and then proceeded to fill up 
 the summons and despatch it. The distance was 
 full three miles, and an hour and a half elapsed be 
 fore the cook was brought in, looking half frightened 
 to death. Ocular demonstration had fully con 
 vinced her that "Miss Laura" was not murdered, 
 and she had it from her own lips that she had not 
 even been shot at. Her evidence settled the matter, 
 
 and Mr. was released from custody, with 
 
 many apologies and expressions of regret that such 
 a mistake had occurred. 
 
 While the investigation at the magistrate's was 
 going on, Rumour, with her hundred tongues, spread 
 the news through the city that a horrible murder 
 had taken place. I heard it with a thrill of horror, 
 for it came in such a shape that I could not help 
 believing it. No cause for the dreadful deed was 
 alleged, for none could be imagined. I shall never 
 forget my feelings on the next day, when, in passing 
 
 along the street, I met walking, with his 
 
 usual firm step and erect head, quietly along the 
 pave. No contradiction of the rumours of the pre 
 ceding evening had reached my ears, and I, there 
 fore, still believed him to be the murderer of his child. 
 The sensation I experienced, I cannot describe. 
 
 When the real cause of all this mortifying ex 
 posure and false accusation became known, the feel 
 ing against Charles Ruffin was very strong and he 
 felt strongly, too. Toward the father of Laura, he 
 indulged a murderous hate, and vowed to be deeply 
 revenged. How he sought this revenge will be seen. 
 
 Time rolled on, and the excitement and gossip 
 occasioned by the events we have mentioned, died
 
 68 THE BEOKBN HEAKT. 
 
 entirely away, and the circumstances attending them 
 were forgotten, except by a few, in whose memories 
 such incidents are always kept alive. The child of 
 Laura had grown to a sweet little girl, five years of 
 age, and was the strong cord that bound her mother 
 to life. In the few years that had elapsed since the 
 
 death of his wife, Mr. had grown old rapidly. 
 
 His tall, erect form had acquired a slight stoop ; 
 his hair had lost its jetty blackness ; he walked with 
 a slower and more careful gait. In the vigour of 
 early manhood, and even in its staid and firm ma 
 turity, he had never loved any thing so well as him 
 self had loved, sincerely, nothing out of himself. 
 But his infant grandchild had won upon his tenderest 
 feelings ; had entwined herself with every fibre of 
 his heart, He never tired of her sweet prattle 
 when at home, she was ever by his side, or in his 
 arms, and, while away, she was ever in his thoughts. 
 
 The husband of Laura, since his first attempt to 
 see her, had made no overt act that looked to the 
 same end. For a greater part of the time he had 
 been away from Baltimore, residing in one of the 
 West India islands. 
 
 Thus matters stood, when Mr. was startled, 
 
 and his daughter terrified, by the institution of a 
 suit on behalf of Charles Ruffin, for the possession 
 of his infant daughter. The effect upon the mind 
 of Mrs. Ruffin was so serious, that medical advice 
 was deemed necessary, and I was called in to see 
 her, as intimated in the beginning of this history. 
 It was my first visit to the family. 
 
 I was preparing to go out, one afternoon, when 
 Mr. himself entered my office. We were not
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 69 
 
 personally acquainted, though each of us knew the 
 other very well by reputation. He looked agitated, 
 yet evidently was striving to appear calm. 
 
 "Are you very much engaged, this afternoon, 
 doctor ?" he said, as he took my hand. 
 
 " I have several calls to make," I replied. " But 
 if there is any pressing need of my attendance ia 
 another quarter, I shall feel myself bound to go." 
 
 "I wish you to see my daughter," Mr. 
 
 said. " She is in a very unhappy state of mind. 
 I don't know that medicine can do her any good. 
 Still I would like you to see her." 
 
 " What is the nature of the affection under which 
 she is suffering?" I asked. 
 
 Mr. looked thoughtful for some moments, 
 
 and then said 
 
 " A disease of the mind, doctor, beyond the reach 
 of your skill, I fear." 
 
 He then related, briefly, some of the facts con 
 nected with her unhappy marriage, and concluded 
 by saying that the effect upon her mind, of the suit 
 which her husband had instituted for the recovery 
 of his child, was of a most distressing and alarming 
 character, causing him to tremble for her reason. 
 
 " I do not think there is any cause for her being 
 so much alarmed," I remarked. "Her husband 
 cannot get possession of the child by any legal 
 process." 
 
 "I wish I only felt sure of that, doctor," was 
 replied, mournfully. " But I do not. By the law 
 which governs in these cases, the father has a right 
 to claim his offspring. For years, I have dreaded 
 just what has at last happened. I knew too well
 
 70 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 the vindictive spirit of Charles Ruffin, to hope, 
 except for a brief time, that he would fail to stab 
 us in this tender place. My fears I never breathed 
 to my unhappy child and she had no thought of 
 danger like this. The announcement of the fact 
 that a suit had been commenced, fell upon her as 
 unexpectedly as a bolt from a summer sky, and has 
 completely prostrated her. Since the whole truth 
 burst upon her, and her mind fully apprehended the 
 danger that threatened, she has confined herself, 
 with our dear little Ella, in her room, and will 
 admit no one but myself and the nurse. If I urge 
 the necessity of taking the child out, that it may 
 breathe the fresh air in the garden or upon the 
 lawn, she answers me only with tears. If I attempt 
 to take the child from the room against her wish, 
 she seizes hold of it frantically, and utters such 
 cries of anguish that I am forced to desist. It is 
 now ten days since either she or the dear little one 
 has left her chamber, and the health of both are 
 beginning to suffer. The child is pining to get out, 
 but her mother will not let her go." 
 
 Then uttering a bitter imprecation upon the 
 author of all this misery, he turned quickly and 
 said : 
 
 " But come, doctor, my carriage is at the door. 
 You must see her yourself; perhaps you may be 
 able to do something." 
 
 I was not very sanguine of this. I had no ac 
 quaintance with Mrs. Ruffin, and did not believe 
 that in her state of mind, if truly described, she 
 would give any confidence to a stranger. I sug 
 gested this, but Mr. thought differently, and
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 71 
 
 I did not care to anticipate difficulties ; besides, he 
 had mentioned that the child seemed feverish and 
 needed some attention. 
 
 On arriving at the house and going to the door 
 of Mrs. Ruffin's room, we found it locked. 
 
 "It is always" so," said Mr. , as he tapped 
 
 lightly against it. 
 
 "Who's there?" I heard asked, in a low voice. 
 
 " Open the door, Laura. It is I," her father 
 replied. 
 
 The door was half opened, and held tightly until 
 
 Mr. crowded in, and then it was shut with a 
 
 sudden jar, leaving me upon the outside. I remained 
 where I was for the space of about five minutes. I 
 could hear the sound of voices within, sometimes 
 loud and excited, and sometimes low and plead 
 ing. I could also hear occasional sobs. At the 
 
 expiration of this time, Mr. came out, as 
 
 before crowding through a small aperture of the 
 door. 
 
 " She has at last consented to see you, doctor," 
 he said. " I gained my end only by assuming that 
 Ellen was very ill, and must have medical at 
 tendance." 
 
 " Do you wish me to see her now ?" I inquired. 
 
 " Yes, she is ready to receive you." 
 
 He then tapped at the door again, after he had 
 answered her query of who was there. Mrs. Ruffin 
 partly opened it as before, and we crowded through. 
 The instant we were within she closed the door 
 with an energetic action, double locked and bolted 
 it, and then sprang back to where a little girl was
 
 72 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 standing in tears, and caught her wildly up in her 
 arms. 
 
 " They want to take her away," she said, lifting 
 her deep blue eyes to mine " hut they can't do it. 
 Nobody shall take my child from me." 
 
 "Nobody can take her from you," I said, falling 
 in at once in a familiar way with her mood. " She 
 is yours, and nobody can touch her. Poor child," 
 I added, putting my hand upon her head, " she does 
 not look well. She wants fresh air and exercise." 
 
 "I think she is very well, doctor," the mother 
 returned quickly. "I keep the windows open a 
 good deal, and she can play through the room. It 
 is large." 
 
 " But this room is not like the green lawn out of 
 doors ; nor are the drooping flowers with which 
 these vases are filled, like the fresh blossoms in your 
 beautiful garden. She must have fresh air, madam, 
 and exercise out of doors." 
 
 " But the danger, doctor ! Think of the danger !" 
 She spoke in a deep whisper, and with a look of 
 love. 
 
 "There is no danger, madam. None in the 
 world." 
 
 " Oh, but there is ! They are watching all around 
 the house for her, and would snatch her up in a mo 
 ment. Isn't it dreadful !" 
 
 The poor creature shuddered from head to foot. 
 
 " It would be dreadful if this were the case, but 
 I can assure you it is not, madam. Now, that a 
 suit has been commenced, all parties will wait for 
 its termination. If there had been any wish on the 
 part of any one to obtain forcible possession of your
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 73 
 
 child, no suit would have been instituted. There 
 have been hundreds of opportunities for carrying 
 her off." 
 
 But the mother's mind was not accessible to reason. 
 Her fears overshadowed every thing. Nothing that 
 I could urge made any impression upon her. 
 
 "You are not afraid to ride out with your 
 father?" I said, after a pause. "The carriage 
 could be shut up closely, and no one would suspect 
 who was in it." 
 
 "I wouldn't leave this room with Ella for the 
 vorld," she replied, in a solemn voice. "You can 
 not tempt me, doctor." 
 
 "Your father is able to protect you and Ella." 
 
 "And will protect you with my life," said Mr. 
 . 
 
 But Mrs. Ruffin shook her head slowly, and drew 
 her child closer to her side. 
 
 I was puzzled; and Mr. looked anxious 
 
 and disturbed. After some moments of hurried 
 reflection, I drew him aside, and said aloud enough 
 for Mrs. Ruffin to hear me, 
 
 " Don't you think it would be advisable to leave 
 this place and go away into the country, say forty 
 or fifty miles, where no one would dream of seek 
 ing for the child?" 
 
 A side glance at Mrs. Ruffin satisfied me that she 
 not only heard every word, but was deeply interested 
 in what I said. 
 
 "Let me think," replied the father, understand 
 ing me in a moment. And he stood thoughtful for 
 some time. 
 
 " Where could we go ?" he at length asked. 
 7
 
 74 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 " Oh ! as to that, there are hundreds of secluded 
 little spots, at any one of which concealment would 
 be perfect." 
 
 "How would you like that, Laura?" Mr. 
 
 said, turning and speaking to his daughter. 
 
 " Oh, above all things. Let us go far away from 
 here. Not fifty, nor a hundred, but a thousand 
 miles." 
 
 " Very well. Then we will go. Any thing for 
 safety. Can you be ready in a week ?" 
 
 " In a week ! Yes, in an hour. Oh ! father, let 
 us go instantly. Dear little Ella may be taken from 
 us to-night." 
 
 " I do not think there is any danger of that," I 
 urged : " besides, it takes some time to prepare for 
 so long a journey." 
 
 " But think of the urgency of the case, doctor ; 
 that calls for extraordinary haste. I am ready 
 or, can be ready in an hour. Let us go to-day." 
 
 "It will be impossible, my dear," replied Mr. 
 
 . "We cannot start before to-morrow, at 
 
 the earliest." 
 
 With difficulty we got her reconciled to wait until 
 the next day, and then left her alone to consult 
 upon what was best to be done. The poor child 
 begged and cried to go with her grandfather, but 
 the mother kept fast hold of her. The sight grieved 
 me much. 
 
 I talked the matter over with Mr. for an 
 
 hour. It was finally determined that a pleasant 
 house should be taken, if one could be found, some 
 where within five or ten miles of the city, and pre 
 pared for the reception of the unhappy mother and
 
 Jfe- 
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 75 
 
 her child. Then a journey of at least a week should 
 be made in the family carriage, at the end of which 
 period, the house selected should be reached, and 
 thus the impression be made upon Mrs. R.'s mind, 
 that she was at least two hundred miles away from 
 Baltimore. In deciding upon this course, numerous 
 difficulties presented themselves, but were finally 
 set aside. The most prominent was, the necessary 
 absence from his daughter and grand-daughter, that 
 
 would be required on the part of Mr. , who 
 
 had to be in the city every day. If he were to 
 return home every night, the suspicion would at 
 once arise that they could not be two hundred miles 
 from the threatened danger. It was at last de 
 termined that he should go to them twice a week, 
 and leave his daughter to infer that he came nearly 
 the whole distance by steamboat. 
 
 This was just the extent of my medical ser 
 vices in the case on my first visit. The plan pro 
 posed was carried out, and I saw no more of 
 
 either Mr. or his daughter for nearly three 
 
 months. 
 
 In the mean time, the suit instituted by Ruffin pro 
 gressed as fast as the nature of the case allowed. 
 The most untiring efforts were made by mutual 
 friends to divert him from his malignant purpose, 
 but his resolution to carry the thing through, re 
 mained firm. His father opposed him as strongly 
 as any one ; but persuasion and remonstrance were 
 alike unavailing. His only answer was : 
 
 " It is my child, and the law will give her to me. 
 I did not separate myself from my wife ; she left 
 me, and took away my child. She may remain
 
 76 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 where she is. I do not care to see her ; but my 
 child I will have. The law is clear on this head, 
 and I am very willing to await its decision." 
 
 At length the day of trial drew near ; and much 
 excitement prevailed on the subject. But, as the 
 matter was never alluded to in any of the news 
 papers means being taken to prevent this the 
 knowledge of it was confined to a particular circle. 
 My practice was in this circle. Wherever I went, 
 the theme of conversation was the approaching suit. 
 In not one instance did I hear an expression of 
 sympathy for Ruffin. Every voice was lifted against 
 him, and the statute that would tear from a mother's 
 arms her child, denounced in the severest terms as 
 unjust and in opposition to the very first laws of 
 Nature. But this did not stay the regular pro 
 gression of events. At length the day arrived, the 
 
 case was called, and Mr. required to produce 
 
 the child in court. 
 
 From the time of Mrs. Ruffin's removal from the 
 family homestead, up to this period, she had lived 
 in imagined seclusion. But a knowledge of her 
 unhappy state of mind, the ruse that had been 
 practised upon her, and where she was, was known 
 to all her friends, and even widely beyond this circle 
 of true sympathy. The order to bring the child 
 
 into court, an order upon which Mr. had not 
 
 at all calculated, created :in his mind the most anxious 
 solicitude. It could not be done without endanger 
 ing the very life of his daughter. 
 
 It was at this crisis, that I was again summoned 
 to attend Mrs. Ruffin. Why I was selected, I never 
 could exactly understand. The regular physician
 
 T1IE BROKEN HEART. 77 
 
 of the family was a man of distinguished pro 
 fessional ability, and a competent adviser. As 
 
 before, Mr. called upon me at my office. 
 
 He looked haggard and careworn, and appeared 
 at least five years older than when I last saw him. 
 He stated to me the alarming aspect of affairs, and 
 asked for my advice as a physician, a father, and 
 a man. 
 
 " As for me," he said, " I have lost that clear 
 perception of things which I usually possess. I 
 feel bewildered half of my time. I cannot see what 
 it is right for me to do. Sometimes I get so excited, 
 that I am strongly tempted to bring the whole thing 
 to a close by blowing put the brains of that infamous 
 rascal, whose fiend-like persecutions have made my 
 poor child more than half a maniac, and threaten to 
 destroy her life. And after all is said, I believe 
 this is the only horn of the dilemma left. It will 
 kill Laura to take away her daughter; or, worse, 
 entirely unsettle her reason. Is there any doubt 
 as to my right course ? I must choose between the 
 death of my child, or the death of her persecutor? 
 And I will choose !" 
 
 As Mr. uttered the last sentence, his face 
 
 grew black with passion, and he turned from me 
 with the air of a man who had fully resolved upon 
 a desperate deed. I laid my hand upon his arm, 
 and said in a firm voice : 
 
 "Think again, Mr. . Perhaps a better 
 
 way may be found." 
 
 "I have thought of every thing," he replied 
 " and I see but one course ; a dreadful one, I ad 
 mit ; but desperate cases require desperate remedies. 
 
 7*
 
 78 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 Laura's child shall not be dragged from her arms ! 
 I swear it, solemnly, this hour ! With my life I will 
 prevent this cruel outrage." 
 
 "You will not attempt the murderous deed you 
 have threatened," I said, looking earnestly into the 
 face of Mr. . 
 
 " But I'll tell you what I will do. I'll guard the 
 asylum of my injured child, and guard it with my 
 life. I shall return home to-night well armed, and, 
 remaining at home, await the issue. If the myrmi- 
 doms of the law come to drag our sweet babe away 
 from us, they will do their work only by passing 
 over my dead body. I have formed this instant 
 resolution; and I mean to abide by it." 
 
 "Let me suggest a better "way," I said, in reply 
 to this. 
 
 " There is no better way; but let me hear what 
 you have to propose." 
 
 " I will go home with you to-night, and see your 
 daughter. To-morrow we will return, and I will 
 go into court and testify as a physician, that to 
 remove the child will be to destroy either the 
 mother's reason or her life. I will also describe 
 to the court the distressing consequences already 
 attendant upon this unnatural prosecution, and urge 
 every humane consideration in favour of letting the 
 suit go on without further disturbing the unhappy 
 mother." 
 
 " That is, you would merely leg for justice ?" 
 
 " Call it what yoji please. In a case like this, 
 the best means are the wisest, and should be adopted 
 by a wise man, without letting his feelings come 
 into the question. You propose to defend your
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 79 
 
 daughter from this outrage by an appeal to deadly 
 weapons ? Very well ; suppose you shoot half-a- 
 dozen men, you will be at length overpowered and 
 dragged away, if not killed upon the spot. Do you 
 think this would 'make Mrs. Ruffin's position any 
 better? You know that it would not. No no, 
 sir ; I have proposed the only safe course, and one 
 that will, I am sure, bring about the result we so 
 much desire." 
 
 "Well, if you think it will do any good, I am 
 willing to see the trial made ; but I have no faith 
 in the result. It will have to come at last to what 
 I have said." 
 
 "I do not think so.. For such an alternative I 
 cannot believe there is any necessity." 
 
 " There is law in this country, doctor, but little 
 justice. However, I have agreed to let you manage 
 the thing in your own way or at least try to manage 
 it. I will wait as patiently as I can for the issue 
 of that trial. You go home with me this afternoon ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Can you start at once ?" 
 
 " I will be ready to go with you in a very few 
 minutes," I replied, and left him for a short time, 
 in order to make a few hurried preparations to 
 attend him. 
 
 A rapid drive of an hour and a half brought us 
 to the secluded spot where Mrs. Ruffin imagined 
 she was concealed from the knowledge of every one. 
 As the carriage came up to the door, we found her 
 seated in a garden-chair, on a beautiful lawn in front 
 of the house her little girl playing near her. She 
 remembered me the moment I alighted from the
 
 80 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 carriage, and came forward with my name upon her 
 lips. No smile lit up her pale face as she greeted 
 me ; no light sparkled in her eye. I spoke cheer 
 fully to her, but she did not answer in a cheerful 
 voice. When I took her little girl by the hand, a 
 look of alarm gathered upon her face, and she took 
 fast hold of the child's hand. I smiled and said : 
 
 " You are not afraid of me ?" 
 
 She did not make any answer ; but I could see 
 from her half-averted face, and whole manner, that 
 she regarded me with suspicion. 
 
 "Come, dear," she said to her child, "the dew 
 is beginning to fall; we must go into the house" 
 and she led her daughter away. The child was re 
 luctant, but passive. As she followed her mother, 
 she looked back frequently, and called out 
 
 "Grandpa, come !" 
 
 " Poor child !" said Mr. , in a voice of 
 
 tender regret. " Accursed villain !" he added, with 
 a sudden change of manner and tone. " You shall 
 yet suffer for this" and he clenched his hand, and 
 ground his teeth in a paroxysm of anger. 
 
 " Much depends, my dear sir," I said to him, "on 
 your controlling yourself. Do not let your daughter 
 see that you are excited, for she will attribute all to 
 fear." 
 
 " Am I a stock or a stone, doctor ? Is it possible 
 for me to look on and be calm ? Do you suppose I 
 can mark, day by day, the pale face of my child 
 growing paler, the light in her eye fading, the tone 
 of her voice growing sadder and sadder, and not 
 feel ? Look at her, doctor ! Do you see no change 
 since your eyes last rested upon her ? Is she the
 
 THE BROKEN HEAKT. 81 
 
 same ? I believe her heart is already broken. Ah, 
 sir ! This is all hard to bear !" 
 
 I felt that it must be. I had already noticed the 
 change to which he referred a change that indi 
 cated the rapid progress of a malady for which I 
 had no remedy. 
 
 We followed Mrs. Ruffin into the house. As we 
 entered from the lawn, she went up stairs with her 
 child, who called out earnestly : 
 
 " Grandpa, come up ! do come, grandpa." 
 
 " Go, my dear sir, at once. Do not make any 
 ceremony with me," said I. Mr. took me 
 at my word, and followed his daughter and her child 
 up to her chamber. 
 
 I felt troubled at the appearance of things. Poor 
 Mrs. Ruffin had changed more than I had dreamed. 
 
 Mr. had truly described her appearance ; she 
 
 looked like one whose heart was breaking. Her 
 face was almost colourless, and painful to look upon 
 it was so very sad. 
 
 I remained alone for nearly the space of half an 
 hour. Then both Mrs. Ruffin and her father joined 
 me. Little Ella was asleep. Few and brief were 
 the sentences that were uttered by any of us, until 
 tea was announced. At the table a light, rambling 
 
 conversation sprung up between Mr. and 
 
 myself, and relieved the sense of oppression under 
 which we all laboured. As soon as we arose from 
 the table, Mrs. Ruffin retired to join her child. 
 
 "Don't you see a great change, doctor?" said 
 Mr. , as soon as we were alone. 
 
 "Your daughter certainly has changed since I
 
 82 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 last saw her," I replied. " But, living as she has 
 lived, is a change to be wondered at ?" 
 
 "No, doctor, it is not," he replied, bitterly. 
 " But the necessity for living thus is what drives me 
 almost mad. I feel myself growing more and more 
 desperate every day. No consequences, it seems 
 to me, can be more dreadful than those already 
 existing. There must come a change, and that 
 speedily." 
 
 As best I could, did I soothe this state of excite 
 ment ; but I had little or nothing to say in regard 
 to the daughter's physical or mental condition that 
 was at all favourable. I did not see her again that 
 night. On the next morning we met early at the 
 breakfast-table. The child was still asleep. I tried 
 to draw Mrs. Ruffin out into a conversation on some 
 general topic ; but this I could not do. Her mind 
 dwelt upon only one subject, and could not be in 
 terested in any other. After breakfast, Mr. 
 
 and myself started for the city. 
 
 " Do you believe Laura would survive the removal 
 of her child from her?" he asked me, as we seated 
 ourselves in his carriage. 
 
 "I certainly do not," I could but reply. 
 
 "Do you believe she could bear its production in 
 court, even if she accompanied it?" he added. 
 
 " To attempt to bring it into court would certainly 
 destroy either her reason or her life," I said. 
 
 " If she were your child, would you permit a thing 
 to be done that would produce one or both of these 
 direful consequences?" 
 
 " Not if I could prevent it." 
 
 "No nor would any father."
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 83 
 
 " I trust nay, I am sure, the order of yesterday 
 be withdrawn, so soon as I make a statement 
 of Mrs. Ruffin's condition. 
 
 "It may be I am not sanguine. But even if it 
 is, the matter is by no means settled. In less than 
 a week, the decision of the court may be adverse." 
 
 "Do not anticipate the worst, Mr. ." 
 
 " Ruffin has the law on his side." 
 
 "And his wife humanity." 
 
 " A feeble hope that. What has humanity to do 
 in a case of law." 
 
 " The judges are men." 
 
 "But without human feeling." 
 
 "I believe differently. Two upon the bench I 
 know to be men of the better sort men who will 
 lean to the side of humanity, and let their decision 
 be governed by it as far as is possible." 
 
 shook his head. "I have no faith in 
 
 men," he gloomily answered. "I have lived too 
 long in the world." 
 
 " I have lived some years in the world, also," I 
 said, " and I have some faith in men. Man's better 
 feelings are not all perverted." 
 
 still shook his head, and seemed disposed 
 
 to be silent and indulge his own reflections. See 
 ing this, I leaned back in the carriage, and was 
 silent also. 
 
 At ten o'clock I entered the court-room. It was 
 already well filled. The case had been called on 
 the previous day, and this fact, with the order that 
 immediately followed, to produce the child in court, 
 had sped quickly through the circle of the unhappy 
 mother's friends and their acquaintances. Ladies of
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 the first families, who had never before seen the inside 
 of a court-room, now filled every bench that could 
 be had, or stood in the open spaces, anxiously wait 
 ing for the proceedings to begin. The first person 
 upon whom my eyes rested, as I entered the room, 
 was Charles Ruffin. He sat by the side of his coun 
 sel, unabashed, although every eye was upon him, 
 and almost every heart execrating him. He looked 
 
 steadily at Mr. , who came in with me, his 
 
 eyes not once sinking beneath the withering scowl 
 that settled upon the father's brow. 
 
 In the course of ten or fifteen minutes, the pro 
 ceedings commenced. The first thing was a repeti 
 tion of the order of the court to produce the child. 
 
 All eyes turned toward Mr. ; there was a 
 
 breathless pause. The counsel for the defence here 
 stated that he wished to produce the testimony of 
 the physician, who had attended Mrs. Ruffin, as to 
 her state of health, and the certain effect that would 
 be produced if the order of the court were carried 
 out. I was then called upon to give the proposed 
 testimony. 
 
 In performing this duty, I strove to present as 
 vivid a picture as possible of the unhappy state of 
 the mother's mind. I described all I had seen in 
 the strongest colours, and concluded by saying, that 
 as a physician, I believed, solemnly, that if the 
 order of the court were executed, it would instantly 
 destroy the mother's life. 
 
 I do not think there was more than two with un- 
 moistened eyes in the room, when I left the stand 
 those two were Ruffin and his counsel ; the first was 
 unmoved, because malignant passions sustained him
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 85 
 
 the latter because he heard all that was related 
 as an opposing counsel; his thoughts kept all emo 
 tions quiescent. Even the judges were disturbed, 
 and had great difficulty to rally themselves. 
 
 The counsel for the defence was about rising to 
 enforce the evidence I had given, when he was re 
 quested by the judges to defer what he was going 
 to say for a few minutes. A brief consultation was 
 held upon the bench, and then one of the associate 
 judges declared the order of the preceding day re 
 scinded. A murmur of satisfaction ran through the 
 
 crowded room ; Mr. was overpowered . with 
 
 emotion. He felt what he had not felt before, that 
 there was a leaning of the court toward the side of 
 humanity. 
 
 A few minutes after the court had set aside the 
 order of the previous day, I turned my eyes to that 
 part of the room where I had seen Charles Ruffin 
 seated by the side of his counsel. The lawyer was 
 there, but Ruffin I could nowhere see. A suspicion 
 flashed across my mind. 
 
 "Did you see Ruffin go out?" I whispered to 
 Mr. 
 
 Either my words, or manner, caused him to turn 
 pale. 
 
 "No," he replied, glancing hurriedly around. 
 "Has he gone out?" 
 
 "I do not see him anywhere in the room. He 
 must have left it." 
 
 " Where can he have gone ? Why has he left so 
 abruptly at this particular moment?" 
 
 "I cannot, certainly, tell," I said. 
 
 " I must go home immediately, and you must go 
 8
 
 86 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 with me, doctor ;" and Mr. turned and moved 
 
 away as he spoke. 
 
 " My patients will need attention. I have already 
 been away from them too long," I replied. 
 
 " You must go with me, doctor. A case of life 
 and death rules over all others. Come !" 
 
 I felt that I dared not refuse to go. Vague sus 
 picions crossed my mind. I followed Mr. 
 
 out and hurried by his side to the stables where he 
 kept his horses at livery. 
 
 " Put Barney and Tom into my light wagon as 
 
 quickly as possible," said Mr. , "and see 
 
 well to the harness !" 
 
 The vehicle was soon ready. Mr. took the 
 
 reins, and spoke to the horses, large, strong animals, 
 and fleet of foot. They dashed ahead at a noble 
 speed. I do not think we were three quarters of an 
 hour in going a distance of ten miles. Not a word 
 was spoken during the whole ride ; and neither of 
 us knew what was in the mind of the other except 
 by conjecture. The house in which Mrs. Ruffin had 
 sought to hide herself from the search of her cruel 
 persecutor, was situated a short distance from the 
 main road, and could be seen from a point in the 
 approach, nearly two miles away. From this point 
 the road descended in a straight line, into a long 
 valley, and then rose by a gradual ascent upon a 
 high ridge opposite. As we commenced descending 
 into this valley, we noticed a man riding at a swift 
 pace up the hill, directly in front of us. My heart 
 gave a sudden bound as my eyes rested upon him. 
 Were my suspicions indeed too true ? The horse 
 man was only visible for two or three minutes, and
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 87 
 
 then disappeared just at the point where a road led 
 off to the house in which Mrs. Ruffin lived. 
 
 An exclamation of alarm escaped the lips of Mr. 
 
 . His whip was applied to the horses with a 
 
 smarting energy that caused them nearly to double 
 their rapid pace. Down the hill we dashed at a 
 furious rate, and up the one opposite with scarcely 
 a perceptible diminution of speed. In a little while 
 we were in sight of the house. There was a horse 
 
 standing at the gate. Mr. applied the whip 
 
 still more vigorously and in a few minutes we were 
 there ; as we sprung from the wagon, our ears were 
 pierced by one of the most heart-rending, despair 
 ing cries that it has ever been my lot to hear. It 
 chilled the blood in my veins, and caused a cold 
 shudder to run over my whole body. Before we 
 could reach the door, a man (it was Ruffin himself) 
 emerged from the house, bearing little Ella in his 
 arms. Our presence, so unexpected, confused him. 
 for a moment ; before he could recover himself, the 
 sharp crack of a pistol rang upon the air, and he 
 fell backward upon the ground. Ere the child he held 
 in his arms struck the earth, she was snatched away 
 by the grandfather, who rushed into the house, and 
 up to his daughter's chamber, in order to restore 
 her treasure to her arms. He was too late ! The 
 mother's heart was broken ! He found her upon 
 the floor, to all appearances dead. She never spoke 
 again. Life rallied feebly after a few hours, but 
 gradually declined from that time, until the vital 
 spark went out entirely. She recovered her per 
 ceptions far enough to recognise her child, over 
 whom 'she wept as if her eyes were a fountain of
 
 88 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 tears. She died, clasping the sweet young creature 
 in her arms. 
 
 When I saw Ruffin fall, I hurried to him, and 
 found the blood flowing freely from his side. A 
 servant, whom the report of the pistol brought to 
 the door, assisted me to take him into the house. 
 He was insensible. 
 
 On removing his clothes and examining the wound, 
 I found that the injury was not at all serious. The 
 ball had struck one of his ribs, on the right side, 
 fracturing it, and then glanced upward, tearing 
 away the thin covering of flesh, and lodging against 
 the clavicle. It was easily extracted. While 
 engaged in doing this, I was summoned to attend 
 Mrs. Ruffin. I obeyed this summons immediately, 
 and found her in the state I have described. Per 
 ceiving that her condition was beyond the reach of 
 medicine, I retired as quickly as possible to attend 
 to the wounded man below. By the time I had 
 completed all the - required dressings he recovered 
 his senses. As soon as he fully comprehended where 
 he was, and the circumstances under which he was 
 placed, he rose up from the sofa upon which he was 
 lying, staggered toward the door, and, regardless 
 of all I could say, mounted his horse and rode off. 
 
 When these facts became known, on the follow 
 ing day, to the court, all proceedings in the case 
 were stopped. But it was too late at least too 
 late for the heart-broken mother. She could no 
 more be affected by human agencies. She had suf 
 fered her last pang. Her fear, and sorrow, and 
 pain were at an end for ever. 
 
 Charles Ruffin left Baltimore immediately aftei
 
 THE LONE OLD MAN. 89 
 
 her death. I have never seen him since. He may 
 yet be living. If so, wherever he is, he most bear 
 about him a moral cancer that is eating daily and 
 hourly into his heart. I would not have his con 
 sciousness for millions of worlds. 
 
 THE LONE OLD MAN. 
 
 PASSING a few days in the village of P , my 
 
 attention was attracted by the air of neglect appa 
 rent in and around a tastefully built cottage, that 
 seemed once to have been the pride and pleasure of 
 its owner. Choice roses and fragrant honey 
 suckles clambered up the white columns of the 
 porch, prodigal of sweetness ; but the vigorous 
 shoots of the one, and the long, twining branches 
 of the other, swayed in the air, or drooped toward 
 the ground, vainly seeking for support. Evidently, 
 not for months had the pruning-knife or training 
 hand keen busy there. Near by the entrance-gate, 
 stoo*. two cone-like cedars, tall and cleanly cut 
 but dead ; their brown, needle-shaped leaves shiver 
 ing down under the touch of every passing breeze, 
 and covering the verdureless ground beneath. Grasa 
 was springing up in all the pleasant walks, and the 
 untrimmed box borders were ragged and neglected. 
 Vine trellises had broken pannels here and there ; 
 all over the garden were seen weeds and tangled 
 8*
 
 90 THE LONE OLD MAN. 
 
 undergrowth. Only a single shutter in front of the 
 cottage was unfastened, and ih&t stood always open, 
 early or late. Twice I had gone by without seeing 
 any evidence of life about the neglected dwelling ; 
 but in passing the third time, I observed a white- 
 haired old man walking, with his hands behind him 
 and his eyes upon the ground, backward and for 
 ward, slowly, in one of the grass-grown walks. 
 There was something in his appearance that was 
 inexpressibly sad. I looked at him for a few 
 moments, and then kept on ; but so fixed was his 
 image in my mind, in that brief period, that the 
 vivid impression still remains. 
 
 P , numbering one thousand inhabitants, all 
 
 told, had three taverns, or places of " Entertainment 
 for Man and Beast," and twelve shops for the retail 
 of liquor. These last were all kept by Irishmen and 
 Germans. At one of the taverns the best in the 
 place, and that isn't saying much in its favour I 
 was staying. The bar was well furnished with bad 
 liquors, and the bar-room never free from idlers and 
 tavern-loungers, mostly belonging to the village, as 
 could readily be inferred from the tenor of their 
 conversation. I did not fail to remark, that scarcely 
 one of these persons spoke half a dozen words with 
 out an oath or profane expression ; and I also noted 
 the fact, that they were never so animated in con 
 versation as when referring to something obscene, 
 vile, or cruel. At temperance and virtue they scouted ; 
 and even went so far as to allege scandals against 
 a clergyman in the village, whom I knew to be one 
 of the purest of men. Worst of all was the presence 
 of two or three lads in the bar-room, who listened
 
 THE LONE OLD MAN. 91 
 
 to the corrupt conversation eagerly, and drank in 
 all that was said with too evident pleasure. 
 
 " Who lives in the brown cottage at the upper 
 end of the street, on this side ?" I asked of the land 
 lord. 
 
 " Judge Williams," he answered, coldly, as he 
 turned away. 
 
 '"Who is Judge Williams?" I inquired, as soon 
 as I got the landlord's ear again. 
 
 " He's one of our judges," was curtly replied, and 
 again he turned from me. 
 
 This only piqued my curiosity. 
 
 " Do you know Judge Williams ?" I asked of a 
 rough-looking man whom I had observed lounging 
 about the tavern ever since my arrival there, and 
 who had just turned from the bar, where he had 
 been drinking. 
 
 " I ought to know him curse his picture !" 
 answered the man, frowning. 
 
 He looked at me for a few moments, evidently to 
 see whether I meant to insult him by the question, 
 and then turned, muttering something that I could 
 not make out, and left the bar-room. 
 
 "No good blood in him for Judge Williams," said 
 a man who had overheard my question. 
 
 "Why not ?" was my natural inquiry. 
 
 " The judge gave him a year in the State prison, 
 for biting off his brother's ear in a drunken quarrel." 
 
 " Ah ! that explains it. But what of Judge Wil 
 liams? There's something wrong about him, is 
 there not?" 
 
 The man shrugged his shoulders. As he was 
 about replying, some one called him. He left me.
 
 92 
 
 THE LONE OLD MAN. 
 
 Just then a boy came in and scattered half a 
 dozen small printed handbills through the bar. 
 
 "What are these?" gruffly asked the landlord. 
 
 *' There's to be a Maine Law meeting at the 
 Lyceum Hall to-night," replied the boy, looking 
 sideways at the landlord as he spoke. " Won't you 
 come? Judge Williams is going to speak." 
 
 There was impertinence as well humour in the 
 boy's manner. The landlord, hot with uncontrolla 
 ble anger, on the instant uttered a wicked impreca 
 tion, and then hurled an empty glass at his head. 
 The missile passed him within an inch, and striking 
 the wall, was shattered into a hundred fragments. 
 As the now frightened lad scampered away, some 
 of the bar-room inmates laughed, some looked grave, 
 and one or two rebuked the passionate man for an 
 act which might have resulted in murder. 
 
 " Give me them bills," said the landlord, coming 
 hastily from behind his bar. Gathering up as 
 many of the printed slips of paper as he could get 
 his hands upon, he tore them into shreds, with vio 
 lent gestures and oaths, and then threw them into 
 the street. Two or three remained in possession of 
 those who, like myself, declined yielding them up 
 to the incensed individual who considered himself 
 particularly insulted by their intrusion on his pre 
 mises. 
 
 Next came, as a very natural result, a discussion, 
 among the bar-room loungers, of the Maine Law 
 question. The landlord was too much excited to 
 think clearly or talk coherently ; so he only used 
 profane expletives. Some ridiculed the whole move 
 ment as preposterous : some cursed the leaders, and
 
 THE LONE OLD MAI*. 
 
 some made themselves merry at the expense of the 
 cold-water men. Nearly all present had indulged 
 their particular humour on the subject, and conversa 
 tion was beginning to flag, when a young man whom 
 I had noticed as sadly fallen, yet retaining traces 
 of better condition and higher intelligence than any 
 around him, arose by a table at which he had been 
 half crouching, and extending one hand in an ener 
 getic manner, said 
 
 " You may all talk as you please, but I see no 
 hope but in the Maine Law." 
 
 " There, now, Dick Thomas ! do you just hush 
 up. Nobody asked for your opinion, and nobody 
 wants it." 
 
 The man turned quickly to the landlord, who had 
 thus roughly interrupted him, and after fixing his 
 eyes sharply upon him for some moments, retorted 
 
 " You may rob us of reason and virtue ; but of 
 free speech never ! You've all had your say, and 
 now I'm going to have mine. If you don't wish to 
 listen, you can retire." 
 
 " You've got to retire, young man !" exclaimed 
 the landlord, his face again hot with anger ; and as 
 he said this, he came hastily from behind the bar, 
 and advancing toward the object of his wrath, 
 assumed a menacing attitude. " Go, this instant, 
 or I will pitch you head foremost into the street." 
 
 " I wish you would put a hand on me," said the 
 other, in a hissing voice. There was murder in his 
 eye, and an iron resolution in his tone. For 
 several moments the two men glared savagely at 
 each other; then the landlord retired behind the 
 bar.
 
 94 THE LONE OLD MAN. 
 
 " Be content with your place there, and your 
 work there, old fellow !" said the young man, with 
 a bitter sneer, "but don't attempt what is beyond 
 your ability." Then turning to the company, he 
 repeated the words spoken a little while before, 
 and in the earnest, impressive manner at first 
 apparent. 
 
 "You may all talk as you please," he said, "but 
 I see no hope but in the Maine Law. And there 
 is no other hope for such as me. Ten times have 
 I taken the pledge, and God knows it was taken in 
 all sincerity! But with vitiated appetite, and 
 temptation ever in my path, how was I to stand ? 
 Keep liquor out of my sight, and I can do well 
 enough ; but with a tavern or groggery at every 
 corner, the case is hopeless. I voted for the Maine 
 Law at the last election, and if I live to visit the 
 polls again, my ballot shall be cast on the side of 
 virtue, order, and sobriety. What a cursed infatua 
 tion what a blinding folly this drinking is ! Are 
 you, or you, or you, any the better for it !" turning 
 quickly from one to another, as he uttered these 
 words. " I will not pause for your answer, ' No' 
 your faces give a feeble negative; but your whole 
 appearance responds, trumpet-tongued, 'No no 
 no.' Ah, my friends ! I know how it is with myself, 
 and I know how it is with you. While this man 
 trap is ever in the way, our feet must stumble. 
 What hope for us is here ? None none. There 
 sits the great lazy spider, his web nicely spread 
 abroad, and we, the poor victims, cannot go by 
 without getting hopelessly entangled. All over the 
 land are these spiders and their webs, and there is
 
 THE LONE OLD MAN. 
 
 no bosom to sweep them aside. Give us the Maine 
 Law, and we have a broom that will do the work 
 effectually. I go for this law, gentlemen ! And I 
 am going to the meeting to-night. Judge Williams 
 is to speak. Poor man ! He will speak in vain, for 
 all the good speaking will do him ; but if he doesn't 
 stir all hearts to their lowest depths, call Dick 
 Thomas a fool !" 
 
 "You'll give 'em a speech, too, won't you?" said 
 the landlord, in impotent contempt. 
 
 " If you're there, I will," retorted Thomas. " I 
 couldn't have a better subject than the spider and 
 the fly." 
 
 A shout of applause from the rude inmates of the 
 ,bar-room answered this cutting speech; and under 
 the governing impulse of the moment, it was voted 
 to attend the Maine Law meeting in a body. 
 
 " You'd better drink all round to bolster up good 
 resolution," said the landlord, forcing a laugh. He 
 had sense enough to see the folly of quarrelling with 
 his customers, and so repressed his irritation. 
 
 "Not a bad idea," quickly answered one of the 
 company ; and in a moment the fickle crew were at 
 the counter, and the landlord as busy as he could 
 be in mixing his tempting poisons for their lips. 
 I turned off, sad at the sight, and left the bar 
 room. 
 
 At an early hour in the evening, I was at Lyceum 
 Hall. The room was nearly filled on my arrival ; 
 but I managed to get a place near the speaker's 
 stand. 
 
 " Judge Williams is to speak," I heard whispered 
 behind me. This seemed the leading attraction of
 
 96 THE LONE OLD MAN. 
 
 the evening. "Who Judge Williams was, or what 
 the particular interest attaching to him, I had not 
 yet learned. That a blight was on him in his old 
 age, was plain ; but where and what the blight was, 
 I could infer but vaguely. 
 
 The meeting was organized in due form, and 
 resolutions offered approving the Maine Law, and 
 calling upon the legislature of the state to enact 
 one similar in its provisions. Then came a pause 
 of expectation. The old man I had thought to see 
 on the stand was not there. I looked around the 
 room, but failed to recognise him. Others seemed 
 in like expectation with myself. There was now a 
 movement near the door. I turned with the rest of 
 the audience, and saw the pale, thin, intelligent 
 face of the old man I had noticed at the brown 
 cottage. 
 
 "There is Judge Williams," I heard passing from 
 lip to lip. He moved slowly along the aisle until 
 he reached the platform, which he ascended, and 
 took a chair near the president of the meeting. 
 
 " The secretary will read the resolutions again," 
 said the chairman. 
 
 The resolutions were accordingly read. A brief 
 silence followed, and then Judge Williams arose in 
 a slow, dignified manner. A little while he stood ; 
 his fine eyes, that seemed to light up his whole face, 
 wandering over the audience. All was as still as if 
 there had not been a living soul in the room. 
 
 "My friends," his voice was low, and trembled 
 slightly, "I meet you this evening in public 
 assemblage, for the first time in many months. I 
 may never meet you again. A lonely old man,
 
 THE LONE OLD MAN. 07 
 
 with all hope in life gone, I am a lingerer here only 
 for a little while. Soon, the places that have seen 
 me will see me no more. I shall pass the bourn 
 from which no traveller returns and pass it, I feel, 
 right early. I have been among you for many 
 years ; and in all my public life I have, in the fear 
 of God, sought to judge rightly between my fellow 
 men. To err is human therefore I have not been 
 free from error ; but the merit of a good intention I 
 must, in justice, claim. 
 
 " My friends, look at me as I stand before you 
 to-night," and he advanced a few paces on the plat 
 form. " This head is whiter than it was a year 
 ago this hand not so steady this poor body less 
 firm and erect. I am a shattered wreck on the sea 
 of life ; the last frail vessel of a goodly fleet that 
 went down in the pitiless tempest. How vainly did 
 I search for a harbour, when I saw the storm 
 gathering ; but there was none in which we might 
 ride in safety. 
 
 " Fellow citizens !" his form was now more erect, 
 and his tones firmer and deeper " turn your thoughts 
 back for twenty years, such of you as can recall 
 events for so long a period. Did I not then say to 
 you that licensed drinking-houses would be a curse 
 to our beautiful village? Did I not then urge, 
 warn, implore you on the subject, and with all the 
 little eloquence I possessed ? Did I not then declare 
 it as my belief that, as a body of citizens, united in 
 corporate form to secure our mutual well-being, it 
 was our duty to guard the weak and the youthful 
 from the fascination of drink, by prohibiting the 
 sale of intoxicating liquors in our village ? We had 
 9
 
 98 THE LONE OLD MAN. 
 
 as much the right to do this, as the right to restrict 
 or prohibit the sale of poison. It was a measure of 
 self-protection as legitimate as any other. Who 
 was to be wronged by it ? The man who, too idle 
 to work, sought to live by corrupting his neighbours, 
 and sowing broadcast the seeds of vice, crime, depra 
 vity, and eternal death ? No ; not even he was to 
 suffer wrong ! Better far, even for him, that he 
 should be compelled to do service in society in order 
 to get his bread. In every view, therefore, the 
 restriction I then urged was the right one. But 
 you, my fellow-citizens, called my reasoning falla 
 cious, and me visionary or tyrannical. 
 
 " Well, in the twenty years which have passed 
 since I first advocated an entire restriction of the 
 Bale here, I have seen more than twenty of our most 
 promising young men some of their gray-haired 
 fathers are here to-night thrust down into drunk 
 ard's graves. Why, my friends," he spoke now 
 with a sudden, indignant energy, " one of those 
 young men, with his intellect undimmed, would have 
 been worth a thousand of the miserable wretches 
 who destroyed them, and for whose maintenance 
 you so generously provided the trade of dram-sell 
 ing. How my heart swells and throbs, and almost 
 suffocates me with indignation at the thought. But, 
 ah ! how impotently !" 
 
 Mournful, very low and mournful were these last 
 words. 
 
 " Well, my friends," he resumed, after a pause ; 
 " to protect and support the idle, vicious dram-seller, 
 you sacrificed the rising hope of your village. Unto 
 this bloody Moloch you brought your sons. For
 
 
 
 THE LONE OLD MAN. 99 
 
 twenty years I have sat on the Bench ; and I will 
 say now, before God and man, that in nine cases out 
 of ten, every crime and outrage which has taken 
 place during that period, in this county, was trace 
 able, directly or indirectly, to the use of intoxicating 
 drinks. 
 
 " And the history of crime all over our land gives 
 but a parallel testimony. And yet the rumseller is 
 protected in his accursed traffic is regularly licensed 
 to destroy the bodies and souls of your neighbours 
 and children ; and if we, all whose hopes in life are 
 blasted by this evil, lift our voices against it, and 
 ask for its suppression by the firm hand of the law, 
 we are branded with coai'se epithets, and called 
 visionary, and fanatical disturbers of settled order. 
 
 " Show me any good that has been done in P 
 
 by dram-drinking. Show me a man made more 
 virtuous and thrifty a better husband, father, and 
 citizen. Bring him here to-night, and let us look 
 upon him. Where is he ? Alas ! he is not to be 
 found. You cannot show the good, but the evil. 
 God help us ! It is everywhere ! 
 
 " My friends, you all know that I and mine have 
 been cursed with this curse ; but how deeply, few 
 have imagined. Let me lift the curtain for you to 
 night lift it for a moment, and then let it fall for 
 ever. Three sons grew up to manhood. True- 
 hearted, clear-minded they were, and full of promise 
 for the future. One studied law, one medicine, and 
 the other chose the life of a farmer. I used no 
 intoxicating drinks in my house, and yet these 
 three goodly sons sleep in drunkards' graves. 
 Beyond my own house I could not protect them.
 
 100 THE LONE OLD MAN. 
 
 Temptation was on every hand; temptation sanc 
 tioned by law, and made respectable through the 
 blind favour of men whose position gave influence to 
 their precept and example. Like other young men, 
 they had their weaknesses ; like other young men, 
 they thought lightly of warning ; like other young 
 men, they moved pleasantly along in the smooth 
 current of the world, all unheeding the danger by 
 which they were surrounded, until resistance to the 
 downward course was hopeless. 
 
 " Three years ago, the eldest was thrust from one 
 of your taverns, at a late hour of the night, and 
 falling on the pavement, received a wound on the 
 head that produced insanity. He is since dead. 
 The second, after six months' abstinence, was enticed 
 into the same den of evil, by some wicked men who 
 knew his weakness. He fell, never to rise again. 
 Unhappy young man ! How hard he struggled with 
 his appetite ! Oh ! how bitterly I have seen him 
 weep how earnestly I have heard him pray, in the 
 lonely night-watch, for strength ; yet he died whili' 
 the mad fever of intoxication was in his brain. 
 
 " The third, my youngest son his mother's idol 
 he, too, went the same way. Of all my sons, he 
 alone married. The purest, fondest, sweetest of 
 women was the dear child he brought away fron 
 her warm nest at home, to grace and brighten om 
 household. We had no daughter of our own; and 
 so, all the love in our hearts a daughter would have 
 called forth, was lavished upon this beautiful dove. 
 I need not describe her to you, for you have see.: 
 her, and many of you loved her. But she is at 
 rest."
 
 THE LONE OLD MAN. 101 
 
 * ** 
 
 The old man's voice choked. For a little while 
 he stood silent, unable, from irrepressible emotion, 
 to proceed. At last he said, in a husky whisper 
 
 " She is at rest now. Let me, as calmly as I am 
 able, tell you how she passed away. It was not 
 peacefully and sweetly as an infant sinks to sleep 
 in its mother's arms. Ah, no ! no ! Her death 
 was violent !" 
 
 What a thrill passed through the assembly ! 
 White faces bent forward eagerly, and breaths were 
 held in appalled expectation. 
 
 " She was murdered by her husband !" 
 
 The old man sunk into a chair, while a groan rose 
 from the assembly. 
 
 "No good end is to be gained by concealment," 
 resumed Judge Williams, as he arose and in a firmer 
 voice went on " if the revelation spur you to action, 
 all I desire is accomplished. My son came home 
 one night, less than a year ago, intoxicated, after a 
 longer period of sobriety than usual. He had neVer 
 treated his wife with personal unkindness. If she 
 remonstrated with him, he showed no irritation ; 
 and often, through her influence, would make tempo 
 rary efforts at reformation. He had passed to her 
 room only a short time, when I heard a momentary 
 shuffling of feet, and a smothered exclamation. 
 There was something in the sound that caused me 
 to start up and listen. But nothing more was heard 
 for at least five minutes, when I was aroused by the 
 falling of a heavy body in their chamber. I repaired 
 thither on the instant. Sight of horror ! My son 
 lay dying, in his own blood, on the floor ; the fatal 
 razor with which the death deed was done, clutched 
 9*
 
 102 THE LONE OLD MAN. 
 
 in his hand. You all remember this dreadful 
 tragedy. But there was something more dreadful 
 still, of which you have never been told. Ere turn 
 ing his hand upon himself, my son smothered with 
 pillows the " 
 
 The old man staggered back, and sat down 
 again. 
 
 " God help me !" he resumed, after a moment or 
 two. " I cannot say more. We buried them side 
 by side ; but we were broken-hearted. A few weeks 
 more, and my poor wife followed them, leaving me a 
 lonely old man, all the green branches of the tree 
 withered, and the root nearly sapless and dead. 
 
 "What need is there for me to say more ?" he 
 added, after a pause. " I have shown you the bit 
 ter fruits of the traffic. Look at them. Reason of 
 them among yourselves, and make your own deci 
 sion. If you continue to sow the seed you are now 
 sowing, you must expect no better harvest. On me 
 the evil has done its worst. But for the sake of 
 your children and neighbours, let me implore you 
 to turn aside from your beautiful village this tor 
 rent of vice that is yearly sweeping its scores to 
 destruction." 
 
 There were few dry eyes in the assembly when 
 Judge Williams sat down ; and it hardly need be 
 told here, that the resolutions were passed by accla 
 mation. At my next visit to P , the brown cot 
 tage had found another owner, and the lonely old 
 man was sleeping in the village graveyard.
 
 A tfEW EXPERIENCE IN LIFE. 
 
 Two brothers met after an absence of many 
 years. One of them had remained at home, or, 
 rather, in the neighbourhood of their early home. 
 The other sought, in a distant country, the wealth 
 he saw no opportunity to acquire in the pleasant 
 village where his eyes first opened upon the light. 
 But the beauty of mountain, valley, lake, and breezy 
 woodland had indelibly impressed his spirit, and 
 now, disappointed with the world though the 
 world had given him riches he had returned, 
 under the vain delusion that here he would find 
 that tranquillity and contentment which, thus far 
 in life, he had failed to secure. We say delusion 
 for, like other men, he carried in his bosom the ele 
 ments of his dissatisfaction, which no mere change 
 of place could remove. It was innocent childhood 
 that made him happy in that old home to which he 
 now returned ; but childhood had passed forever. 
 He came back, not with the perceptions and capa 
 bilities of a child, but with the unsatisfied yearnings 
 of a man. Ah ! how changed was all ; changed, 
 and yet the same. There was the landscape, in all 
 its varied attraction of wood and river and moun 
 tain, but to him its beauty had depart|fl v He wan 
 dered away to the old haunts, but their spell was 
 gone. He could have wept in the bitterness of his 
 
 disappointment. 
 
 103
 
 104 A NEW EXPERIENCE IN LIFE 
 
 " You look troubled, Edward," remarked his bro 
 ther, on the day succeeding his return. 
 
 " Do I^William ?" he said, with a forced smile. 
 " It should not be so, for I have no trouble to weigh 
 down my spirits." 
 
 Yet, even while he spoke, the feeble light faded 
 from his countenance. 
 
 How strongly contrasted were the two brothers ! 
 The one having but little of this world's goods ; the 
 other possessing large wealth. The one bearing on 
 his brow an ever-cheerful expression ; the other a 
 look of self-weariness and discontent. 
 
 In a few days, Edward announced his intention 
 to purchase a handsome estate offered for sale in 
 the village, and remove his family thither. He had 
 been in many places, but none pleased him like this. 
 "Here, if anywhere in the world, he believed he 
 would find that repose of mind he had sought for so 
 long, yet vainly. 
 
 Accordingly, the estate was purchased, and, in due 
 
 time, Edward J brought his family, consisting 
 
 of his wife and three children two sons and a 
 daughter to reside in the pleasant village of Glen- 
 wood. 
 
 Not a very long time passed before William J 
 
 saw that his brother was far from being a happy 
 man. The cause, to a close observer like himself, 
 was clearly apparent. Edward was a very selfish 
 man and such men are always unhappy. While 
 in the pursuit of a desired object, the mind, from 
 anticipation and its own activity, may be pleasantly 
 excited. But when the object is gained, and men 
 tal activity declines, there succeeds a state of op-
 
 A NEW EXPERIENCE IN LIFE. 105 
 
 prcssive disquietude. Selfishness, like the horse 
 leech's daughter, for ever cries, " Give, give," and 
 for ever remains unsatisfied. 
 
 In the possession of wealth, Edward J fully 
 
 believed happiness was to be found. In seeking to 
 gain wealth, he had thought little of the interests 
 of others. Not that he recklessly trampled on his 
 neighbours' rights, or wrested from the weak what 
 was lawfully their own. His mercantile pride 
 honour he would have called it prevented such 
 lapses from integrity. But, as he moved onward, 
 with something like giant strides, conscious of his 
 own strength, he had no sympathy for the less for 
 tunate, and never once paused to lift a fallen one, 
 or to aid a feeble toiler on the way of life. No 
 generous principles belonged to the code of ethics 
 by which he was governed. Benevolence he ac 
 counted a weakness, and care for others' interests 
 the folly of a class, less to be commended than cen 
 sured. "Let every man mind his own business, 
 and every man take care of himself," he would 
 sometimes say. " Help yourself is the world's best 
 motto. This constant preaching up of benevolence 
 and humanity only makes idlers and dependants." 
 
 Edward J fully acted out his principles. 
 
 And so, for future enjoyment, he had only laid up 
 wealth. In all his business life, there was not a 
 single green spot watered by the tears of benevo 
 lence, or warmed by the sunshine of gratitude, back 
 to which thought could go, and find delight in the 
 remembrance. All was a dull, dead blank of money- 
 getting, the recollection of which gave more pain 
 than pleasure.
 
 106 A NEW EXPERIENCE IN LIFE. 
 
 No wonder that, after the excitement of removal, 
 and the interested state of mind attendant upon the 
 fitting up of a new home, the mind of Edward 
 
 J receded again to its state of disquietude, or 
 
 that the old shadows deepened once more on his 
 brow. 
 
 How broadly contrasted was the stately mansion 
 he occupied with the humble cottage in which his 
 brother resided, and to which, in self-weariness, he 
 often repaired. Yet, so selfishly did he love his 
 own, that never an impulse of generosity toward 
 this brother stirred, even for a moment, the dead 
 surface of humanity's waters lying stagnant in his 
 bosom. If he thought of his humble circumstances 
 at all, it was with something of shame that one so 
 nearly related should eccupy so low a position. 
 
 One morning, Edward called upon William J , 
 
 and with unusual animation said 
 
 " I have just made a valuable discovery." 
 
 " Ah ! What is it ?" inquired his brother. 
 
 " You know the beautiful side-slope of land just 
 beyond my meadow?" 
 
 "Where Morgan lives?" said William. 
 
 " Yes. There are some ten acres, finely situated, 
 exceedingly fertile, and in a high state of cultiva 
 tion." 
 
 "Well?" William looked, inquiringly, at his 
 brother. 
 
 " That piece of ground belongs, unquestionably, 
 to my estate." 
 
 " What !" The brother was startled at this an 
 nouncement for he saw a purpose in Edward's
 
 A NEW EXPERIENCE IN LIFE. 107 
 
 mind to claim it as his own, if he could prove that 
 the right referred to did actually exist. 
 
 " That piece of ground is mine." 
 
 "Why do you say sa?" 
 
 " It originally belonged to the property I have 
 purchased." 
 
 " I know it did. But Morgan bought it from the 
 former owner, more than fifteen years ago." 
 
 " But never met his payments, and never got a 
 full title." 
 
 " How do you know that ?" 
 
 - " I have the information from good authority 
 the best, I presume, in the county." 
 "From whom ?" 
 
 " Aldridge. And he says he can recover it for 
 me." 
 
 " Did you purchase it, Edward ?" asked William, 
 looking steadfastly into the countenance of his bro 
 ther. 
 
 " I purchased Glenwood, and all the rights and 
 appurtenances thereto belonging, and this I find 
 to be, legally, a portion of the estate and a valu 
 able one. It is mine and it has been one of my 
 maxims in life always to claim my own." 
 
 An indignant rebuke was on the tongue of Wil 
 liam J , but he repressed its utterance, for 
 
 estrangement, and consequent loss of influence, 
 would have been the sure consequence. 
 
 "Before taking any steps in this matter," he 
 said, "look very minutely into the history of the 
 transaction between Morgan and the previous owner 
 of Glenwood, the late Mr. Erskin. Morgan was 
 his gardener, and had laid Mr. Erskin under a debt
 
 108 A NEW EXPERIENCE IN LIFE. 
 
 of gratitude, by saving the life of an only son 
 the imminent risk of his own. As some return, he 
 offered him the cottage in which he lived, and the 
 ten acres of ground by which it was surrounded, at 
 a very moderate valuation, Morgan to pay him 
 small sum, agreed upon, every year. The plac 
 was actually worth three or four times what Mor 
 gan was to give for it. Mr. Erskin at first thought 
 of transferring it to him as a free-will offering, but 
 he believed the benefit would be really greater, if 
 Morgan, by industry, economy, and self-denial, 
 earned and saved sufficient to pay what was askec" 
 for the property. At the end of a year the gar 
 dener brought the money due as the first instal 
 ment. Mr. Erskin felt a reluctance to take it, and, 
 after questioning him as to the product of the farm, 
 finally told him to expend the money in an improve 
 ment designated by himself. Sickness, and bad 
 crops, during the next year, prevented the payment 
 of the second instalment. The third and fourth 
 years were more prosperous. The only sums paid 
 to Mr. Erskin were received by him during these 
 years." 
 
 "So I am informed," said Edward. "And I 
 learn, further, that no transfer of the' property was 
 ever made in due legal form. Mr. Erskin died in 
 testate." 
 
 " He did ; and his son came by heirship into pos 
 session of all his property." 
 
 " And he, dying a few years later, disposed of 
 the estate by will." 
 
 "Not naming Morgan's farm," said William, 
 "which he fully believed had been, during hia
 
 A NEW EXPERIENCE IN LIFE. 109 
 
 father's lifetime, properly transferred to the present 
 possessor." 
 
 "A very serious mistake, as Morgan "will find," 
 said Edward. 
 
 " You will not question his title to the property, 
 Edward ?" 
 
 "I assuredly will." 
 
 " He has a large family. It is his all." 
 
 "No matter. He has never paid for it, and it is 
 not, therefore, his property. Glenwood is just so 
 much the less valuable by the abstraction of this 
 portion, and I am, in consequence, the sufferer. 
 Had he paid for the land, as he had engaged to do, 
 the money would, most probably, have been ex 
 pended in improvements. So, you see, my rights 
 are clear." 
 
 "Ah, brother! you cannot find it in your heart 
 to ruin this worthy man. He has a large family, 
 dependent on the product of his farm, which barely 
 suffices to give them a comfortable living." 
 
 " I have no desire to ruin him, William. But he 
 has no right to my property. If Morgan wishes to 
 remain where he is, I will not, for the present, dis 
 turb him. But he must pay me an annual rent." 
 
 As mildly as possible, yet very earnestly, did 
 
 William J urge a different course of action 
 
 upon his brother ; but with no good effect. Legal 
 measures were early taken, and due notice served 
 upon Morgan, who, on submitting his papers to a 
 lawyer, was appalled to learn that they contained in 
 formalities and defects, clearly invalidating his title. 
 In a state of much alarm and excitement, he called 
 
 upon William J , and implored him to use his 
 
 10
 
 110 A NEW EXPERIENCE IN LIFE. 
 
 influence with his brother to stop the unrighteous 
 proceeding. William could not give him much en 
 couragement, though his heart ached for the un 
 happy man. It so happened that Morgan passed 
 from William J 's place of business, as the bro 
 ther entered. The two men had never met; and 
 the rich owner of Glenwood did not know, by sight, 
 the individual whose farm he coveted. 
 
 "Who is that man?" he inquired, in a voice of 
 surprise. 
 
 " Why do you ask ?" 
 
 "What ails him? His face was pale as ashes, 
 and his eyes wild like those of one in terror, or de 
 ranged." 
 
 "He is in great distress." 
 
 " From what cause ? Has he committed a crime? 
 Are the minions of justice at his heels ?" 
 
 "No. He is a man of blameless life not as 
 careful as he should have been in the management 
 of his affairs. Upon a sudden, he finds himself on 
 the brink of ruin. He put too much faith in the 
 world. He thought too well of his fellow-men." 
 
 " A common fault," was the sententious answer. 
 " But what of this man ? Something in his face has 
 interested me. Can I aid him in his troubles ?" 
 
 " Yes, brother, you can aid him, and at no loss 
 to yourself. No loss, did I say? Rather let me 
 say, to your infinite gain." 
 
 " What do you mean ? Infinite gain ! You 
 make use of a very strong word, William." 
 
 " I do ; yet, with a full appreciation of its mean~ 
 ing. Every thing gained to true happiness is an in 
 finite gain. Believe me. there are few sources of
 
 A NEW EXPERIENCE IN LIFE. Ill 
 
 human pleasure so lasting as the memory of a good 
 deed. What we seek, with only a selfish regard to 
 our own enjoyment, loses its charm with possession. 
 This is the life-experience of every one. But the 
 benefits we confer upon others, bless in a perpetual 
 remembrance of the delight we have created." 
 
 Only a dim perception of what this meant 
 dawned upon the mind of Edward. Yet, a few 
 rays of light streamed in upon his moral darkness. 
 
 " The blessing of a good deed, brother Edward !" 
 said William, speaking with something of enthusiasm 
 in his manner " did you ever think what a depth 
 of meaning was in the words ? Generous, noble, 
 unselfish actions are like perennial springs, sending 
 forth sweet and fertilizing waters. How much they 
 lose who, having the power to do good, lack the 
 generous impulse." 
 
 "All very well, and very true, no doubt," said 
 the rich brother, with a slight air of impatience. 
 "But you haven't told me of the individual in 
 whose case you desire to interest me." 
 
 "His name is Morgan," was answered. 
 
 " Morgan !" An instant change was visible in 
 Edward J . His face flushed; his brow con 
 tracted, and his eyes grew stern. 
 
 "Remember, my brother," said William, in a 
 calm, yet earnest and affectionate voice, " that God 
 has bestowed upon you, of this world's goods, more 
 than sufficient to supply all your real wants ; while 
 to this poor man he has given what barely suffices, 
 with care and labour, to supply food, raiment, and 
 an humble home for his wife and little ones. You 
 have 'flocks and herds' do not take his 'little
 
 112 A NEW EXPERIENCE IN LIFE. 
 
 ewe-lamb.' Remember David and the prophet Na 
 than." 
 
 " Good morning !" said Edward, turning off, sud 
 denly, and leaving his brother. 
 
 What a conflict in the rich man's mind did this 
 incident and conversation arouse ! The white, ter 
 rified face of poor Morgan, haunted him like a 
 spectre ; and not less troublesome were the warning 
 words and suggestions of his kinsman. On the 
 afternoon of that day he was to have met his legal 
 adviser, and given further instructions for the pro 
 secution of the case against Morgan. But Aldridge 
 waited for his appearance in vain. Evening found 
 him restless, unhappy, and in a very undecided 
 state of mind. He was sitting, moodily, with his 
 hand shading the light from his face, when a little 
 daughter, who was at the centre-table, reading in 
 the Bible, said 
 
 "Oh, papa. Just listen to this " And she 
 read aloud 
 
 "'And the Lord sent Nathan unto David. And 
 he came unto him, and said unto him, There were 
 two men in one city; the one rich, and the other 
 poor. The rich man had exceeding many flocks 
 and herds ; but the poor man had nothing, save 
 one little ewe-lamb, which he had bought and 
 nourished up; and it grew up together with him 
 and with his children ; it did eat of his own meat, 
 and drank of his own cup, and lay in his bosom, 
 and was unto him as a daughter. And there came 
 a traveller unto the rich man, and he spared to 
 take of his own flock and of his own herd, to dress 
 for the wayfaring man that was come unto him;
 
 A NEW EXPERIENCE IX LIFE. 113 
 
 but he took the poor man's lamb, and dressed it for 
 the man that was come to him. And David's anger 
 was greatly kindled against the man ; and he said 
 to Nathan, As the Lord liveth, the man that hath 
 done this thing shall surely die. And he shall re 
 store the lamb four-fold, because he did this thing, 
 and because he had no pity. And Nathan said to 
 David, Thou art the man.' 
 
 "And did king David do that?" said the child, 
 lifting her eyes from the page " I thought him a 
 good man ; but this was so wicked !" 
 
 The father's countenance was turned more into 
 shadow, and he answered nothing. The child wait 
 ed his reply for some moments ; but none coming, 
 she bent her eyes again to the holy volume, and 
 continued reading, but not aloud. 
 
 In a little while Mr. J arose, and after 
 
 walking the floor for the space of five or ten mi 
 nutes, left the sitting-room. It is doubtful whether 
 he or Morgan were most unhappy at that particular 
 period of time. 
 
 It was a clear, moonlight night. Too much dis 
 turbed to bear the quietude within, the rich man 
 walked forth to find a more burdening stillness 
 without. The silence and beauty of nature agitated 
 instead of calming him. All around was in harmony 
 with the great Creator, while the discord of assault 
 ed selfishness made tumult in his breast. How a 
 generous impulse toward Morgan, cherished and 
 made active, would have clothed his spirit with 
 peace as a mantle! What a different work had 
 cruel and exacting selfishness wrought ! 
 
 As he walked on, with no purpose in his mind, 
 10*
 
 114 A NEW EXPERIENCE IN LIFE. 
 
 a man passed him hurriedly. A glimpse at his 
 face, as the moonlight fell broadly upon it, showed 
 the pale, anxious, depressed countenance of poor 
 Morgan. The sight caused a low shudder to go 
 creeping to his heart. Nay, more, it awakened a 
 feeling of pity in his bosom. Pity is but the hand 
 maid of sympathy. The rich man's thought went 
 homeward with the victim of his cupidity went 
 home with him, though he strove hard to turn it in 
 another direction while fancy made pictures of the 
 grief, fear, and anxious dread of the future that 
 filled the hearts of all in that humble dwelling. 
 Suddenly he stood still, and bent his head in deep 
 thought. Then he started onward again, but evi 
 dently with a purpose in his mind, for he took 
 long strides, and bent forward like a man eager 
 to reach the point toward which his steps were 
 directed. He was soon at the house of Aldridge, 
 the lawyer. 
 
 " I want a piece of writing made out immediate 
 ly," said he, as the lawyer invited him to enter his 
 office. 
 
 " To-night?" inquired Aldridge. 
 
 "Yes to-night. Can you do it?" 
 
 " Oh, certainly, if it be not too long." 
 -"I wish a quit-claim drawn up in favour of Mor 
 gan." 
 
 " A quit-claim !" 
 
 Aldridge might well be surprised. 
 
 " Yes. "Write it out in due form ; and let it de 
 scribe accurately the cottage and ten acres now in 
 his possession. How long will it take you?" 
 
 " Not long. Half an hour, perhaps. But, Mr.
 
 A NEW EXPERIENCE IN LIFE. 115 
 
 J , what does all this mean ? Has Morgan in 
 demnified you ?" 
 
 "No matter as to that, Mr. Aldridge," was the 
 rather cold reply. " The quit-claim I wish drawn. 
 I will wait for it." 
 
 In a short time the paper was ready, attested 
 and witnessed. Thrusting it into his pocket, Mr. 
 
 J hurried from the presence of the lawyer. 
 
 His purpose was to go home. But now sympathy 
 for those he had made wretched was awakened, he 
 could not bear its pressure upon his own feelings. 
 The dwelling of Morgan was at no great distance. 
 Thither his steps were directed. A light shone 
 through one of the windows. As he drew near, 
 he saw, moving slowly against the wall and ceiling 
 of the room, to and fro, the shadow of a man. 
 Nearer still, and he could see all the inmates of the 
 room. By a table sat a woman in an attitude of 
 deep dejection; she had been weeping. A boy 
 stood beside her with his arm lying on her neck, 
 while a little girl sat on a low stool, her face buried 
 in her mother's lap. The whole picture conveyed 
 to the mind of Mr. J an idea of extreme wretch 
 edness, and touched him deeply. A few moments 
 only did he contemplate the scene. 
 
 How suddenly the tableaux changed when Mr. 
 J entered, and briefly making known his er 
 rand, presented to Morgan the quit-claim deed! 
 What joy lit up every face; what gratitude found 
 ardent words; what blessings were invoked for him 
 and his ! 
 
 In a tumult of pleasure such as he had never be 
 fore experienced, Mr. J hurried from the pre-
 
 116 A NEW EXPERIENCE IN LIFE. 
 
 sence of the overjoyed family, and took his way 
 homeward. How light were his steps ! With what 
 a new sensation did he drink in the pure evening 
 air, that seemed nectar to his expanding lungs. 
 How beautiful the moon looked, smiling down upon 
 him; and in the eye of every bright star was a 
 sparkling approval of his manly deed. Never in 
 his whole life had he done an act from which he de 
 rived so exquisite a sense of pleasure. He had 
 tasted angel's food. 
 
 Calm was the sleep of Mr. J . Ah ! how 
 
 often he had tossed on his pillow until after the 
 midnight watches. Morning found him with a new 
 sense of enjoyment in life. He could hardly under 
 stand its meaning. Dimly he perceived the truth 
 at first, but more and more clearly as his brother's 
 words came back to his remembrance " There are 
 few sources of pleasure so lasting as the memory of 
 a good deed." This had sounded strange, almost 
 repulsive to his ears. Now it was perceived as a 
 beautiful truth. And so was this "How much 
 they lose who, having the power to do good, lack 
 the generous impulse." 
 
 "How much have I lost!" he said to himself, 
 with an involuntary sigh. " Here is a new expe 
 rience in life. I am wiser than I was yesterday ; 
 and wiser, I trust, to some good purpose." 
 
 And did this prove to be the case? Profited 
 this rich man by the discovery that sources of hap 
 piness were within his reach undreamed of before ? 
 He did; and yet how often came the dark clouds 
 of selfishness over his mind, obscuring his nobler 
 perceptions! But a good seed was planted, and
 
 A NEW EXPERIENCE IN LIFE. 117 
 
 there was one in the village of Glenwood, who 
 loved him and mankind too well to let the soil in 
 which it was cast remain uncultured. From that 
 little seed a plant sprung up, growing in time to a 
 goodly tree, and spreading its branches forth in the 
 air of heaven. Beneath its shadow many, weary 
 on the rugged journey of life, found rest and shel 
 ter. 
 
 Edward J , from a narrow-minded, unhappy 
 
 self-seeker, became a man of generous impulses, dis 
 pensing blessings with a liberal hand, that ever 
 came back to him with a double portion of delight. 
 
 The charm of Glenwood was restored. It looked 
 to him even more beautiful than in childhood. At 
 this he sometimes wondered for, at his first return, 
 after long years of absence, the old beauty had de 
 parted. But the reader finds here no mystery; 
 nor was it any to him, when he contrasted his state 
 of mind with that existing, when, tired of himself 
 and the world, he came back to his native village, 
 seeking for rest, yet finding none, until he sought 
 it in self-abnegation and good deeds to his fellow- 
 men.
 
 SUPPER was not ready when Abraham Munday 
 lifted the latch of his humble dwelling, at the close 
 of a long, weary summer day. He was not greatly 
 disappointed, for it often so happened. The table 
 was on the floor, partly set, and the kettle over the 
 fire. 
 
 "There it is again!" exclaimed Mrs. Munday, 
 fretfully. " Home from work, and no supper ready. 
 The baby has been so cross ! hardly out of my 
 arms the whole afternoon. I'm glad you've come, 
 though. Here, take him while I fly around and 
 get things on the table." 
 
 Mr. Munday held out his arms for the little one, 
 who sprung into them with a baby shout. 
 
 Mrs. Munday did fly around in good earnest. A 
 few pieces of light wood thrown on the fire soon 
 made the kettle sing, and steam, and bubble. In a 
 wonderfully short space of time all was ready, and 
 the little family, consisting of husband, wife, and 
 three children, were gathered around the table. 
 To mother's arms baby was transferred, and she 
 had the no very easy task of pouring out her hus 
 band's tea, preparing cups of milk and water for 
 the two older of the little ones, and restraining the 
 baby, who was grappling first the sugar-bowl, then 
 the milk-pitcher, and next the tea-pot. 
 118
 
 THE LITTLE MAID OF ALL WORK. 119 
 
 "There!" suddenly exclaimed Mrs. Mundaj. 
 And two quick slaps on baby's hand were heard. 
 Baby, of course, answered promptly with a wild 
 scream. But what had baby done ? Look into the 
 tea-tray, the whole surface is covered with milk. 
 His busy, fluttering hands have overturned the 
 pitcher. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Munday lost her temper completely. 
 
 "It's no use to attempt eating -with this child," 
 said she, pushing her chair back from the table. 
 "I never have any good of my meals." 
 
 Mr. Munday's appetite failed him at once. He 
 continued to eat, however, but more hurriedly. 
 Soon he pushed back his chair, also, and rising up, 
 said cheerfully 
 
 "There, I'm done, Lotty. Give me the baby, 
 while you eat your supper." 
 
 And he took the sobbing child from the arms of 
 its mother. Tossing it up, and speaking to it in a 
 lively, affectionate tone of voice, he soon restored 
 pleasure to the heart, and smiles to the countenance 
 of the little one. 
 
 Mrs. Munday felt rebuked for her impatience. 
 She often suffered from these silent rebukes. And 
 yet, the trials of temper she daily endured were 
 very great. No relish for food was left. The 
 wants of the two children were attended to, and 
 then, while Mr. Munday still held the baby, she 
 busied herself in clearing off the table, washing up 
 the tea things, and putting the room in order. 
 
 An hour later. Baby was asleep, and the other 
 children with him in the land of dreams. Mrs. 
 Munday was busy sewing on a little frock, and Mr.
 
 120 THE LITTLE MAID OF ALL WOKK. 
 
 Munday sat with his face turned from the light, 
 lost in a brown study. 
 
 "Lotty," said the latter, waking up from his 
 revery, and speaking with considerable emphasis 
 "it's no use for you to keep going on in this way 
 any longer. You are wearing yourself out. And 
 what's more, there's no comfort at home for any 
 body. You must get a woman to help about the 
 house." 
 
 "We can't afford it, Abraham," was Mrs. Mun- 
 day's calm, but decided answer. 
 
 "We must afford it, Lotty. You are killing your 
 self/' 
 
 "A woman will cost a dollar and a quarter a 
 week, and her board at least as much more. We 
 can't spare that sum and you only getting ten 
 dollars a week." 
 
 The argument was unanswerable. Mr. Munday 
 sighed and was silent. Again his face was turned 
 from the light; and again the hand of his wife 
 plied quickly the glittering needle. 
 
 "I'll tell you what we might do," said Mrs. Mun 
 day, after the lapse of nearly ten minutes. 
 
 "Well?" her husband turned toward her and as 
 sumed a listening attitude. 
 
 "We might take a small girl to help in the 
 family. It would only cost us her victuals and 
 clothes." 
 
 Mr. Munday mused for some time before answer 
 ing. He didn't just like the proposition. 
 
 "Any thing," he at length said, "to lighten 
 your labour. But can you get one ?" 
 
 " I think so. Do you remember poor Mrs. Bar-
 
 THE LITTLE MAID OF ALL WORK. 121 
 
 row, who died last month? She left a little girl 
 about eleven years old, with no one to see after her 
 but an old aunt, who I've heard isn't very kind to 
 the child. No doubt, she would be glad to get her 
 into a good place. It would be very easy for her 
 
 v v 
 
 here. She could hold the baby, or rock it in the 
 cradle while I was at work about the house and 
 do a great many little things for me, that would 
 lighten my task wonderfully. It's the very thing, 
 husband" added Mrs. Munday with animation, 
 "and if you agree, I will run over and see Mrs. 
 Gooch, her aunt, in the morning before you go to 
 work." 
 
 "How old did you say she was?" inquired Mr. 
 Munday. 
 
 "She was eleven in the spring, I believe." 
 
 "Our Aggy is between nine and ten." Some 
 thing like a sigh followed the words, for the thought 
 of having his little Aggy turned out, motherless, 
 among strangers, to do drudgery and task-work, 
 forced itself upon his mind. 
 
 "True. But a year or so makes a great differ 
 ence. Besides, Anna Barrow is an uncommonly 
 smart girl for her age." 
 
 Mr. Munday sighed again. 
 
 "Well," he said, after being silent for a few mo 
 ments, "you can do as you think best. But it 
 does seem hard to make a servant of a mere child 
 like that." 
 
 "You call the position in which she will be by 
 too harsh a name," said Mrs. Munday. "I can 
 make her very useful without overtasking her. 
 And then, you know, as she has got to earn her
 
 122 THE LITTLE MAID OF ALL WORK. 
 
 own living, she cannot acquire habits of industry 
 too soon." 
 
 Mrs. Munday was now quite in earnest about the 
 matter, so much so that her husband made no fur 
 ther objection. On the next morning, she called 
 round to see Mrs. Gooch, the aunt of Anna Barrow. 
 The offer to take the little girl was accepted at 
 once. 
 
 When Mr. Munday came home at dinner time, 
 he found the meal all ready and awaiting his ap 
 pearance. Mrs. Munday looked cheerful and ani 
 mated. In the corner of the room sat a slender 
 little girl, not very much larger than Aggy, with 
 the sleeping baby in her arms. She lifted her eyes 
 timidly to the face of Mr. Munday, who gave her a 
 kind look. 
 
 "Poor, motherless child !" Such was his thought. 
 
 " I can't tell you how much assistance she is to 
 me," whispered Mrs. Munday to her husband, lean 
 ing over to him, as they sat at the table. "And 
 the baby seems so fond of her." 
 
 Mr. Munday said nothing, but before his mind 
 was distinctly pictured his own little girl, a servant 
 in the home of a stranger. On his return from 
 work in the evening, every thing wore a like im 
 proved appearance. Supper was ready, and Mrs. 
 Munday had nothing of the worried look so appa 
 rent on the occasion of her first introduction to the 
 reader. Every thing wore an improved appearance, 
 did we say ? No, not every thing. There was a 
 change in the little orphan girl ; and Mr. Munday 
 saw, at a glance, that the change, so pleasant to 
 contemplate, had been made at her expense. The
 
 THE LITTLE MAID OF ALL WOKK. 123 
 
 tidy look, noticed at dinner time, was gone. Her 
 clothes were soiled and tumbled ; her hair had lost 
 its even, glossy appearance, and her manner show 
 ed extreme weariness of body and mind. She was 
 holding the baby. None saw the tears that crept 
 over her cheeks, as the family gathered around the 
 tea-table, and, forgetful of her, enjoyed their even 
 ing meal. 
 
 Supper over, Mrs. Munday took the baby and 
 undressed it, while Anna sat down to eat her por 
 tion of food. Four times, ere this was accomplished, 
 did Mrs. Munday send her up to her chamber for 
 something wanted either for herself or the child. 
 
 "You must learn to eat quick, Anna," said Mrs. 
 Munday, ere the little girl, in consequence of these 
 interruptions, was half through her supper. Anna 
 looked frightened and confused, pushed back her 
 chair, and stood gazing inquiringly at the face of 
 her mistress. 
 
 "Are you done?" the latter coldly asked. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," was timidly answered. 
 
 "Very well. Now I want you to clear off the 
 table. Gather up all the things and take them out 
 into the kitchen. Then shake the tablecloth, set 
 the table back, and sweep up the room." 
 
 Mr. Munday looked at his wife, but said no 
 thing. 
 
 "Shall I help Anna, mother?" inquired Aggy. 
 
 "No," was rather sharply answered. "Have 
 you studied your lesson?" 
 
 "No, ma'am." 
 
 "Go about that, then; it will be as much as you 
 can do before bedtime."
 
 124 THE LITTLE MAID OF ALL WOBK. 
 
 Mrs. Munday undressed her baby with consider 
 able more deliberation of manner than usual, ob 
 serving all the while the proceedings of Anna, and 
 every now and then giving her a word of instruction. 
 She felt very comfortable, as she finally leaned 
 back in her chair with her little one asleep in her 
 arms. By this time Anna was in the kitchen, 
 where, according to instructions, she was washing 
 up the tea-things. While thus engaged, to the best 
 of her small ability, a cup slipped from her hand 
 and was broken on the floor. The sound startled 
 Mrs. Munday from her agreeable state of mind and 
 body. 
 
 "What's that?" she cried. 
 
 "A cup, ma'am," was the trembling answer. 
 
 "You're a careless little girl," said Mrs. Mun 
 day, rather severely. The baby was now taken up 
 stairs and laid in bed. After this, Mrs. Munday 
 went to the kitchen to see how her little maid of all 
 work was getting on with the supper dishes. Not 
 altogether to her satisfaction, it must be owned. 
 
 "You will have to do these all over again," she 
 said not kindly and encouragingly, but with some 
 thing captious and authoritative in her manner. 
 " Throw out that water from the dish-pan and get 
 some more." 
 
 Anna obeyed, and Mrs. Munday seated herself 
 by the kitchen table, to observe her movements, 
 and correct them when wrong. 
 
 "Not that way Here, let me show you" 
 " Stop ! I said it must be done in this way" " Here 
 that is right" "Don't set the dishes down so
 
 THE LITTLE MAID OF ALL WORK. 125 
 
 hard; you'll break them they're not made of 
 iron." 
 
 These, and words of like tenor, were addressed 
 to the child, who, anxious to do right, yet so con 
 fused as often to misapprehend what was said to 
 her, managed at length to complete her task. 
 
 "Now sweep up the kitchen, and put things to 
 rights. When you're done, come in to me," said 
 Mrs. Munday, who now retired to the little sitting- 
 room, where her husband was glancing over the 
 daily paper, and Aggy engaged in studying her 
 lesson. On entering, she remarked, 
 
 "It's more trouble to teach a girl like this than 
 to do it yourself." 
 
 Mr. Munday said nothing; but he had his own 
 thoughts. 
 
 "Mother, I'm sleepy; I want to go to bed," 
 said Fanny, younger by two or three years than 
 
 "I don't want to go yet; and besides, I haven't 
 got my lesson," said the older sister. 
 
 "Wait until Anna is done in the kitchen, and 
 she will go up and stay with you. Anna!" Mrs. 
 Munday called to her, "make haste! I want you to 
 put Fanny to bed." 
 
 In a few minutes Anna appeared, and as direct 
 ed, went up stairs with Fanny. 
 
 " She looks tired. Hadn't you better tell her to 
 go to bed also," suggested Mr. Munday. 
 
 "To bed!" ejaculated Mrs. Munday in a voice of 
 surprise " I've got something for her to do besides 
 
 going to bed." 
 
 11*
 
 126 THE LITTLE MAID OF ALL WORK. 
 
 Mr. Munday resumed the reading of his paper 
 and said no more. Fanny was soon asleep. 
 
 "Can't Anna go up with me, now? I'm afraid 
 to go alone," said Aggy, as the little girl came 
 down from the chamber. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so. But you must go to sleep 
 quickly. I've got something for Anna to do." 
 
 Mr. Munday sighed, and moved himself uneasily 
 in his chair. In half an hour Anna came down, 
 Aggy was just asleep. As she made her appear 
 ance, the baby awoke and cried out. 
 
 "Run up and hush the baby to sleep before he 
 gets wide awake," said Mrs. Munday. 
 
 The weary child went as directed. In a little 
 while the low murmur of her voice was heard, as 
 she attempted to quiet the babe by singing a nursery 
 ditty. How often had her mother's voice soothed 
 her to sleep by the selfsame words and melody ! 
 The babe stopped crying; and soon all was quiet in 
 the chamber. Nearly half an hour passed, during 
 which Mrs. Munday was occupied in sewing. 
 
 "I do believe that girl has fallen asleep," said 
 she at length, letting her work drop in her lap, and 
 assuming a listening attitude. . 
 
 "Anna !" she called. But there was no answer. 
 
 "Anna!" The only returning sound was the 
 echo of her own voice. 
 
 Mrs. Munday started up, and ascended to her 
 chamber. Mr. Munday was by her side, as she 
 entered the room. Sure enough ; Anna had fallen 
 asleep, leaning over the bed where the infant lay. 
 
 "Poor, motherless child!" said Mr. Munday, in a 
 voice of tender compassion that reached the heart
 
 THE LITTLE MAID OF ALL WORK. 127 
 
 of his wife, and awakened there some womanly 
 emotions. 
 
 "Poor thing! I suppose she is tired out," said 
 the latter. "She'd better go to bed." So she 
 awakened her, and told her to go up into the gar 
 ret, where a bed had been made for her on the 
 floor. Thither the child proceeded, and there wept 
 herself again to sleep. In her dream that night, 
 she was with her mother, in her own pleasant home, 
 and she was still dreaming of her mother and her 
 home, when she was awakened by the sharp voice 
 of Mrs. Munday, and told to get up quickly and 
 come down, as it was broad daylight. 
 
 "You must kindle the fire and get the kettle on 
 in a jiffy." Such was the order she received on 
 passing the door of Mrs. Munday's room. 
 
 We will not describe, particularly, the trials of 
 this day for our poor little maid of all work. They 
 were very severe, for Mrs. Munday was a hard mis 
 tress. She had taken Anna as a help ; though not 
 with the purpose of overworking or oppressing her. 
 But now that she had some one to lighten her bur 
 dens and "take steps for her," the temptation to 
 consult her own ease was very great. Less wearied 
 than in days past, because relieved of scores of lit 
 tle matters about the house, the aggregate of which 
 had worn her down, she was lifted somewhat above 
 an appreciating sympathy for the child, who, in 
 thus relieving her, was herself heavily overtasked. 
 Instead of merely holding the baby for Mrs. Mun 
 day, when it was awake and would not lie in its cra 
 dle, and doing for her the "little odd turns," at first 
 contemplated, so as to enable her the better to get
 
 128 THE LITTLE MAID OF ALL WOKK. 
 
 through the work of the family, the former at once 
 began to play the lady, and to require of Anna not 
 only the performance of a great deal of household 
 labour, but to wait on her in many instances where 
 the service was almost superfluous. 
 
 When Mr. Munday came home at supper time, 
 he found his wife with a book in her hand. The 
 table was set, the fire burning cheerfully, and the 
 hearth swept up. The baby was asleep in its cra 
 dle, and, as Mrs. Munday read, she now and then 
 touched gently with her foot the rocker. This he 
 observed through the window, without himself being 
 seen. He then glanced into the kitchen. The 
 kettle had been taken from the fire the tea-pot 
 was on the hearth, flanked on one side by a plate 
 of toast, and on the other by a dish containing some 
 meat left from dinner which had been warmed over. 
 These would have quickened his keen appetite, 
 but for another vision. On her knees, in the mid 
 dle of the room, was Anna, slowly, and evidently 
 in a state of exhaustion, scrubbing the floor. Her 
 face, which happened to be turned toward him, 
 looked worn and pale, and he saw at a glance her 
 red eyes, and the tears upon her cheeks. While 
 he yet gazed upon her, she paused in her work, 
 straightened her little form with a wearied effort, 
 and clasping both hands across her forehead, lifted 
 her wet eyes upward. There was no motion of her 
 wan lips, but Mr. Munday knew that her heart, in 
 its young sorrow, was raised to heaven. At thia 
 moment, the kitchen door was opened, and Mr 
 Munday saw his wife enter. 
 
 "Eye-service !" said she, severely, as she saw
 
 THE LITTLE MAID OF ALL WORK. 129 
 
 the position of Anna. "I don't like this. Not 
 half over the floor yet ! Why, what have you been 
 doing?" 
 
 The startled child bent quickly to her weary 
 task, and scrubbed with a new energy imparted by 
 fear. Mr. Munday turned, heart sick, from the 
 window, and entered their little sitting-room as his 
 wife came in from the kitchen. She met him with 
 a pleasant smile, but he was grave and silent. 
 
 "Don't you feel well?" she inquired, with a look 
 of concern. 
 
 "Not very well," he answered, evasively. 
 
 "Have you felt bad all day?" 
 
 "Yes. But I am heart sick now." 
 
 "Heart sick ! What has happened, Abraham?" 
 
 Mrs. Munday looked slightly alarmed. 
 
 "One whom I thought full of human-kindness 
 has been oppressive, and even cruel." 
 
 "Abraham ! What do you mean ?" 
 
 "Perhaps my eyes deceived me!" he answered 
 "perhaps it was a dream. But I saw a sight just 
 now to make the tears flow." 
 
 And as Mr. Munday spoke, he took his wife by 
 the arm and led her out through the back door. 
 
 "Look!" said he "there is a poor, motherless 
 child, scarcely a year older than our Aggy!" 
 
 Anna had dropped her brush again, and her 
 pale face and tearful eyes were once more uplifted. 
 Was it only a delusion of fancy, or did Mrs. Mun 
 day really see the form of Mrs. Barrow, stooping 
 over her suffering child, as if striving to clasp her 
 in her shadowy arms? 
 
 For a few moments, the whole mind of Mrs. Mun-
 
 130 THE LITTLE MAID OF ALL WORK. 
 
 day was in a whirl of excitement. Then stepping 
 back from the side of her husband, she glided 
 through the open door, and was in the kitchen ere 
 Anna had time to change her position. Frightened 
 at being found idle again, the poor child caught 
 eagerly at the brush which lay on the floor. In 
 doing so she missed her grasp, and weak and trem 
 bling from exhaustion, fell forward, where she lay 
 motionless. When Mrs. Munday endeavoured to 
 raise her up, she found her insensible. 
 
 "Poor poor child!" said Mr. Munday, tenderly, 
 his voice quivering with emotion, as he lifted her in 
 his arms. He bore her up to the children's cham 
 ber, and laid her on the bed. 
 
 "Not here," said Mrs. Munday. "Up in her 
 own room." 
 
 " She is one of God's children, and as precious 
 in his sight as ours" almost sobbed the husband, 
 yet with a rebuking sternness in his voice. "She 
 shall lie here!" 
 
 Mrs. Munday was not naturally a cruel woman ; 
 but she loved her own selfishly; and the degree in 
 which this is done, is the measure of disregard 
 toward others. She forgot, in her desire for ser 
 vice, that her little servant was but a poor, mother 
 less child, thrust out from the parent nest, with all 
 the tender longings of a child for love, and all its 
 weaknesses and want of experience. She failed to 
 remember, that in the sight of God all children are 
 equally precious. 
 
 But the scales fell from her eyes. She was re 
 buked, humbled, and repentant. 
 
 "Anna must go back to her aunt," said Mr.
 
 LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE. 131 
 
 Munday, after the child had recovered from her 
 brief fainting fit, and calmness was once more re 
 stored to the excited household. 
 
 "She must remain," was the subdued, but firm 
 answer. "I have dealt cruelly with her. Let me 
 have opportunity to repair the wrong she has suffer 
 ed. I will try to think of her as my own child. If 
 I fail in that, the consciousness of her mother's pre 
 sence will save me from my first error." 
 
 And Anna did remain continuing to be Mrs. 
 Munday's little maid of all work. But her tasks, 
 though varied, were light. She was never again 
 overburdened, but treated with a judicious kindness 
 that won her affections, and made her ever willing 
 to render service to the utmost of her ability. 
 
 LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE. 
 
 How rarely is an absent one mentioned with com 
 mendation, that a fault of character is not imme 
 diately set forth to qualify the good impressions ! 
 
 " Mr. A is a man of fine talents, you say ;" 
 
 and forthwith is responded, " yes, a man of fine 
 talents, but he has no control over his passions." 
 
 "Mr. B is a man of excellent principles." 
 
 " But," is answered, " I don't like some of his prac 
 tices." " Mr. C is a kind father and husband." 
 
 " But if all I have heard be true, he is not over-nice 
 in regard to his word." And, ten chances to one,
 
 132 LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE. 
 
 if the commendation is not forgotten, while the dis 
 paraging declarations find a prominent place in the 
 memories of all who heard them, and colour their 
 estimation of A , B , and C . 
 
 It is remarked by Swedenborg, that whenever the 
 angels come to any one, they explore him in search 
 of good. They see not his evil, but his good quali 
 ties ; and, attaching themselves to these, excite them 
 into useful activities. Were they to see only the 
 man's evils, they would recede from him, for they 
 could not conjoin themselves to these ; and thus 
 man would be left unaided, to be borne down by the 
 powers of evil. 
 
 If, then, we would help our fellow-man to rise 
 above what is false and evil in his character, let us 
 turn our eyes, as far as possible, away from his 
 faults, and fix them steadily upon his good qualities. 
 We shall then aid him in the upward movement, 
 and give external power to the good he really pos 
 sesses. And now, by way of illustration. 
 
 A young man, named Westfield, was the subject 
 of conversation between three or four persons. One 
 of them, a Mr. Hartman, had met Westfield only 
 recently. The first impression formed of his cha 
 racter was quite favourable, and he expressed him 
 self accordingly. To his surprise and pain, one of 
 the company remarked : 
 
 "Yes, Westfield is clever enough in his way, 
 but ." And he shrugged his shoulders, and looked 
 a world of mystery. 
 
 " No force of character," said another. 
 
 "I have never liked the way he treated Mr. 
 Green," said a third. " It shows, to my mind, a
 
 LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE. 133 
 
 defect of principle. The young man is well enough 
 in his way, I suppose, and I wouldn't say a word 
 against him for the world, but " 
 
 And he shrugged his shoulders. Ah, how much 
 wrong has been done to character and worldly 
 prospects by a single shrug ! 
 
 From no lip present came even the smallest word 
 in favour of the young man. No one spoke of the 
 disadvantages against which he had struggled suc 
 cessfully, nor portrayed a single virtue of the many 
 he possessed. No one looked at the brighter quali 
 ties of his mind. And why ? Poor, weak human 
 nature ! Quick to mark evils and defects, but slow 
 to acknowledge what is good in thy neighbour. 
 Prone to flatter self, yet offering only extorted 
 praise at the shrine of another's merit. How low 
 art thou fallen ! 
 
 A few evenings after the little conversation we 
 have mentioned, Mr. Hartman was thrown in com 
 pany with Westfield. The latter, remembering his 
 first interview with this gentleman, whose position 
 in society was one of standing and influence, met 
 him again with a lively glow of satisfaction, which 
 showed itself in countenance and manner. But the 
 few disparaging words spoken against the young 
 man had poisoned the mind of Mr. Hartman ; and, 
 instead of meeting him with the frank cordiality 
 expected, he received him with a cold repulse. 
 
 Disappointed and mortified, Westfield turned 
 from the man toward whom warm feelings and hope 
 ful thoughts had been going forth for many days, 
 and, in a little while, quietly retired from a com- 
 12
 
 LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE. 
 
 pany, in mingling with which he had promised him 
 self both pleasure and profit. 
 
 " That hope blasted !" exclaimed the young man, 
 striking his hands together, while a shadow of 
 intense pain darkened his countenance. He was 
 now alone, having returned to his chamber for self- 
 communion. 
 
 There existed, at this time, an important crisis in 
 the young man's affairs. He was a clerk, on a very 
 moderate salary. His own wants were few, and 
 these his salary would have amply supplied ; but a 
 widowed mother and a young sister looked to him 
 as their only support. To sustain all, was beyond 
 his ability ; and, much to his anxiety and deep dis 
 couragement, he found himself falling into debt. 
 His offence toward Mr. Green, which had been 
 alluded to as involving something wrong on his part, 
 was nothing more nor less than leaving his service 
 for that of another man, who made a small advance 
 in his salary a thing which the former positively 
 refused to do. He had been with Mr. Green from 
 his boyhood up, and somehow or other, Mr. Green 
 imagined that he possessed certain claims to his con 
 tinued service; and when the fact of Westfield's 
 having left him was alluded to, gave to others the 
 impression that he was badly used in the matter. 
 He did not mean to injure the young man ; but he 
 had been valuable ; the loss fretted him and pro 
 duced unkind feelings and these found relief in 
 words. Selfishness prevented him from seeing, as 
 he ought to have seen, the bright side of Westfield's 
 character, and so he injured him by throwing a 
 shadow on his good name.
 
 LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE. 135 
 
 " That hope blasted !" repeated the unhappy 
 young man. 
 
 And what was this fondly cherished hope, the 
 extinguishment of which had moved him so deeply ? 
 A few words will explain. Mr. Hartman was a 
 man of considerable wealth, and had just closed a 
 large contract with the State for the erection of 
 certain public works, to be commenced immediately. 
 On that very day Westfield had learned the fact 
 that he was quietly in search of a competent, confi 
 dential, disbursing clerk, whose salary would be 
 double what he was receiving ; and it was his pur 
 pose to see him immediately, offer himself, and 
 endeavour, if possible, to secure the situation. He 
 had called at his office twice during the day, but 
 failed to see him. The manner in which Mr. Hart 
 man met his advances in the evening, satisfied him 
 that to ask for the situation so much desired would 
 be altogether vain. 
 
 "Westfield was a young man of integrity compe 
 tent in business matters, and industrious. He had 
 his faults and his weaknesses, as we all have ; but 
 these were greatly overbalanced by his virtues. 
 Yet was he not above temptation. Who is ? Who 
 has not some easily besetting sin ? Who can say 
 that he may not fall ? 
 
 To Mr. Hartman, as a private clerk, Westfield 
 would have been invaluable. He was just the kind 
 of a man he was in search of. Moreover, he was 
 thinking of him for this very position of private 
 clerk, when the poison of ill-natured detraction 
 entered his mind, and he turned his thoughts away 
 from him.
 
 136 LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE. 
 
 The more he brooded over his disappointment, 
 and pondered the unhappy condition of his affairs, 
 the more deeply did the mind of Westfield become 
 disturbed. 
 
 "I cannot bear these thoughts," he said, starting 
 up from a chair in which he had been sitting in 
 gloomy despondency, and, in the effort to escape his 
 troubled feelings, he went forth upon the street. It 
 was late in the evening. There was no purpose in 
 the young man's mind as he walked square after 
 square with hasty steps ; and he was about return 
 ing, when he was met by a man with whom he had 
 a slight acquaintance, and who seemed particularly 
 well pleased to see him. 
 
 " The very man I was thinking about," said Mr. 
 Lee that was his name. " Quite a coincidence. 
 Which way are you going ?" 
 
 "Home," replied Westfield, somewhat indiffer 
 ently. 
 
 " In any particular hurry ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Come with me then !" 
 
 " Where are you going ?" 
 
 " To the Union House. There's to be a raffle 
 there at ten o'clock, for six gold watches chance 
 in each watch only one dollar. I've got five chances. 
 They are splendid watches. Come along and try 
 your luck." 
 
 " I don't care if I do," said Westfield. 
 
 He was ready to catch at almost any thing that 
 would divert his mind. Under other circumstances 
 this would have been no temptation. So he went 
 to the Union Hotel, ventured a dollar, and, most
 
 LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE., 137 
 
 unexpectedly, became the owner of a gold watch. 
 New thoughts and new feelings were stirring in his 
 mind as he took his way homeward that night, 
 excited as well by some things seen and heard at 
 the Union House, as by the good fortune which had 
 attended his first venture of a small sum of money 
 in the hope of gaining largely on the deposit. 
 
 The effect of his cold treatment of Westfield, 
 did not escape the observation of Mr. Hartman. 
 He saw that the young man was both hurt and 
 troubled that he kept aloof from the rest of the 
 company, and soon retired. 
 
 " Do you know young Westfield ?" he inquired of 
 a gentleman with whom, some time afterward, he 
 happened to be in conversation. 
 
 " Very well," was the answer. 
 
 " Has he good business capacity ?" 
 
 "Few young men excel him." 
 
 " Do you know any thing of his character ?" 
 
 "It stands fair." 
 
 " I have heard that he did not treat his former 
 employer, Mr. Green, very well." 
 
 " He left him for a higher salary ; and, as he has 
 a mother and sister to support, he was bound, in 
 my opinion, to seek the largest possible return for 
 his labour." 
 
 " Had Green no particular claim on him ?" 
 
 "No more than you or I have." 
 
 " I heard the fact of his leaving the employment 
 of Mr. Green commented on in a way that left on 
 my mind an unfavourable impression of the young 
 man." % 
 
 " Some people are always more ready to sup- 
 12'
 
 4. 
 138 LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE 
 
 pose evil than good of another," was replied to 
 this. 
 
 " I am in search of a competent young man as a 
 private clerk, and had thought of Westfield; but 
 these disparaging remarks caused me to decide 
 against him." 
 
 " In my opinion," said the gentleman with whom 
 Mr. Hartman was conversing, "you will search a 
 good while before finding any one so well suited 
 to your purpose, in every respect, as young West- 
 field." 
 
 " You speak earnestly in regard to him." 
 "I do, and because I know him well." 
 A very different impression of the young man 
 was now entertained by Mr. Hartman. It was past 
 eleven o'clock on that night as he rode homeward, 
 passing on his way the Union House, and just at 
 the moment when Westfield, in company with seve 
 ral young men, came forth after the closing of the 
 raffle. They were talking loud and boisterously. 
 Mr. Hartman leaned from the carriage window, 
 attracted by the voices, and his eyes rested for a 
 moment on Westfield. The form was familiar, but 
 he failed to get a sight of his face. The carriage 
 swept by, and the form passed from his vision ; but 
 he still thought of it, and tried to make out his 
 identity. 
 
 Not many hours of tranquil sleep had Westfield 
 that night. As he lay awake through the silent 
 watches, temptation poured in upon him like a 
 flood, and pressing against the feeble barriers of 
 weakened good principles, seemed ready to bear 
 them away in hopeless ruin. In a single hour he
 
 LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE. 139 
 
 had become the possessor of a gold watch, which 
 could readily be converted into money, and which, 
 at a low valuation, would bring the sum of fifty dol 
 lars, equal to a month's salary. How easily had 
 this been acquired ! True, to raffle was to gamble. 
 And yet he easily silenced this objection ; for at 
 religious fairs he had often seen goods disposed of 
 by raffle, and had himself more than once taken a 
 chance. Another raffle for valuable articles had 
 been announced for the next night at the Union, 
 and Westfield, urged by the hope of new successes, 
 resolved to be present, and again try his luck. 
 
 The following morning found the young man in a 
 more sober, thoughtful mood. He did not show his 
 watch to his mother, nor mention to her the fact of 
 having won it. Indeed, when she asked him where 
 he had been so late on the night before, he evaded 
 the question. 
 
 On his way to the store in which he was employed, 
 Westfield called in at a jeweller's, and asked the 
 value of his watch. 
 
 "It is worth about seventy-five dollars," answered 
 the jeweller, looking very earnestly at Westfield, 
 and with a certain meaning in his countenance that 
 the young man did not like. 
 
 " It is perfectly new, as you can see. I would 
 like to sell it." 
 
 " What do you ask for it ?" 
 
 " I will take sixty dollars." 
 
 " I'll buy it for fifty," said the jeweller. 
 
 "Very well, it is yours." 
 
 Westfield felt like a guilty man. He was cer 
 tain that the jeweller suspected him of having
 
 140 LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE. 
 
 obtained it through some improper means. The 
 money was paid over at once, and thrusting the 
 sum into his pocket, he went hurriedly out. As he 
 was leaving the store, he encountered Mr. Hart- 
 man, who was entering. He dropped his eyes to 
 the ground, while a crimson flush overspread his 
 face. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Westfield," said Mr. Hartman, detain 
 ing him, " I am glad to meet you. Will you call at 
 my office this morning?" 
 
 "If you wish me to do so," replied the young 
 man, struggling to overcome the confusion of mind 
 into which the sudden encounter, under the circum 
 stance, had thrown him. 
 
 "I do. Call at eleven o'clock I wish to see 
 you particularly." 
 
 " Do you know that young man ?" inquired the 
 jeweller, as Mr. Hartman, to whom he was well 
 known, presented himself at his counter. 
 
 "What young man?" inquired Mr. Hartman. 
 
 " The young man with whom I saw you speaking 
 at the door." 
 
 " Yes. His name is Westfield ; and a very excel 
 lent young man he is. Do you know any thing 
 about him ?" 
 
 "I know that he has just sold me a watch for 
 fifty dollars, which I sold for seventy -five yesterday 
 to a man who told me he was going to raffle it." 
 
 The jeweller didn't say this. It came in his 
 thoughts to say it. But he checked the utterance, 
 and merely replied : 
 
 "Nothing at all. He is a stranger to me." 
 
 Had that first impulse to produce an unfavourable
 
 LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE. 141 
 
 impression in regard to a stranger, been obeyed, the 
 life prospects of Westfield would have been utterly 
 blasted. The evening that followed, instead of 
 finding him at home, rejoicing with his mother and 
 sister over the hopeful future, would have seen him 
 again in the dangerous company of unscrupulous 
 men, and entering in through the gate that leads to 
 destruction. Now he saw clearly his error, the 
 danger he had escaped, and wondered at his blind 
 infatuation, while he shuddered at the fearful con 
 sequences that might have followed, had not a bet 
 ter way opened to his erring footsteps at the very 
 moment when, in strange bewilderment, he was 
 unable to see the right path. 
 
 Mr. Hartman never had cause to regret his choice 
 of a clerk. He often thought of the injustice which 
 the young man had suffered at the hands of those 
 who should have seen his good qualities, instead of 
 seeking for and delighting in the portrayal of bad 
 ones. And he thought, too, of the actual injury 
 this false judgment had come near inflicting upon a 
 most worthy, capable, and honest person. He did 
 not know all. The reader can penetrate more 
 deeply below the surface, and see how a few care 
 lessly-uttered disparaging words, proved hidden 
 rocks, on which the hopes of a fellow-being, for this 
 life and the next, came near being wrecked.
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO JOE BARKER. 
 
 "DON'T go out, Joe," said Mrs. Barker, as she 
 saw her husband take his hat and move off quietly 
 toward the door. 
 
 " I'm not going to stay long." 
 
 And a& Barker said this, he glided from the room. 
 Mrs. Barker followed quickly, with the purpose of 
 arresting his progress and bringing him back into 
 the house. 
 
 Now, Joe Barker was a very weak-minded man ; 
 one of those innocent, harmless creatures, who are 
 their own worst enemies, and, as a matter of course, 
 enemies to the peace of all with whom they have in 
 timate relations. He was very good-natured, even 
 when in liquor ; and, what is more remarkable still, 
 good-natured under the sharp words of his not over- 
 patient wife, who never failed in her duty toward 
 him, so far as reproof and angry invective were con 
 cerned. There was no lack of occasion for these, 
 in the almost daily defections of Barker, whose 
 temperance resolutions, when in sight of a dram 
 shop, were strong as threads of wax in a furnace 
 heat. 
 
 Mrs. Barker, as just said, followed quickly, in 
 
 order to intercept her husband's movements. She 
 
 knew very well for what purpose he was going 
 
 out after supper. There was only one attraction 
 
 142
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO JOE BARKER. 143 
 
 stronger than home for him, and that was the tavern. 
 When Mrs. Barker passed forth and stretched out 
 her hands to grasp the form of her weak husband, 
 she clutched but the empty, air. Anticipating this 
 very movement, Joe had sprung away with nimble 
 feet the instant the door was closed behind him ; 
 and was far beyond the reach of his wife's inter 
 cepting hands when she made her appearance. 
 
 "Isn't it too much?" exclaimed Mrs. Barker, as 
 she went back into the house, after satisfying her 
 self that Joe was fairly beyond her reach. " He's 
 got his whole week's wages in his pockets, and ten 
 to one if he doesn't get rid of nearly half of it 
 before he comes home. I wish every tavern in the 
 State was burned down, and every tavern-keeper in 
 the penitentiary and it would be so before long, 
 if I had my way ! It's no better than robbery to 
 take the money of a half-innocent like him. If I 
 had only been in time to stop him and get his money 
 out of his pocket !" 
 
 Mrs. Barker was both vexed and grieved; so 
 much so, that she sat down and wept. 
 
 In the mean time her husband made his way to 
 the nearest tavern, which was not very far off. 
 Poor Joe Barker ! The words of his wife, when she 
 called him a " half-innocent," nearly expressed the 
 truth. His intellectual range was very low. He 
 could read early drilling in the district school had 
 accomplished for him that much but his ability to 
 read was rarely put to any good use. Newspapers 
 he saw now and then at the tavern, but he never 
 found much in them beyond a vulgar anecdote that 
 interested him. Of the history of current events,
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO JOE BARKER. 
 
 he did not understand sufficient to encourage thought 
 in that direction. In fact, general knowledge as to 
 what was passing in the great world around him, 
 was as much hidden from his dull eyes as if it were 
 in a sealed book. He worked at his trade, that of 
 a cooper, very much as a horse goes round in a mill. 
 He had learned how to make a barrel, somewhat in 
 differently ; and daily, when not too much overcome 
 with drink, he sat on the wooden-horse in the old 
 cooper shop, deliberately working his drawing-knife 
 or arranged the staves in form, and bound them 
 with hoops. He had no need of intellectual skill to 
 keep on with his tasks. He knew how to make a 
 barrel, and that was about the extent of his know 
 ledge in mechanical science. His earnings ranged 
 from two-and-a-half to five dollars a week, but never 
 went beyond the last-mentioned sum. Too large a 
 proportion of this found its way into the landlords' 
 tills, much to the injury of Joe Barker and his 
 miserable family. Strong liquor on so weak a brain 
 made it only the weaker; and the poor innocent, 
 when sober, was little removed from a good-natured 
 fool when drunk. 
 
 It was all in vain that Betsy Barker, his faithful, 
 though long-suffering, and often justly indignant 
 wife, went many times to the tavern-keepers who 
 sold him drink, and implored them, with tears, in the 
 name of God and humanity, not to sell her husband 
 intoxicating drinks. Coarse insult or wicked abuse 
 was all she received and she would go back, weep 
 ing and despairing, to her cheerless home and half- 
 starving children. 
 
 Thus it was with Joe Barker and his family on
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO JOE BARKER. 145 
 
 the night in which we have introduced them to the 
 reader. What was a little unusual for Joe, he had 
 worked steadily all day, and without once going to 
 the tavern to get a drink. In fact, Betsy had talked 
 to him so earnestly in the morning, and pictured to 
 his mind so vividly the evil consequences of his way 
 of life, that he had made one of his feeble resolu 
 tions to become a sober man. This resolution he 
 had been able to keep through the day, sustained 
 therein by the useful labour in which he was en 
 gaged. But, when evening came in, and his thought 
 went to the tavern and the good fellows there assem 
 bled, with whom he was wont to meet, he was unable 
 to withstand the impulse that led him thitherward. 
 And so, seizing a favoured moment, he left the house, 
 ere his watchful partner could prevent it. 
 
 Diving down a narrow cross street, not far from 
 the poor hovel in which he dwelt, Joe Barker was 
 soon in front of "The Diamond," an old drinking 
 haunt of the worst description. He was right against 
 the closed door ere he noticed the absence of the 
 red lamp, on which the word " Refectory" had so 
 often tempted him with thoughts of good cheer 
 within ; and he pushed several times against the 
 door, ere fully satisfied that it was fastened within. 
 
 "What's the matter here?" muttered Joe, in 
 some bewilderment at so singular a state of affairs. 
 Stepping back a pace or two, he looked up at the 
 house. "Lamp out door locked shutters closed 
 what's the matter? old Gilbert's not dead, I 
 hope." 
 
 Two or three feeble raps were made on the door, 
 but only a hollow sound came from within. 
 13
 
 146 WHAT HAPPENED TO JOE BARKER. 
 
 "I don't understand it all," said Joe Barker, 
 now observing, for the first time, that this particular 
 neighbourhood, usually crowded, so to speak, with 
 noisy tipplers every evening, had a deserted look. 
 Here and there a man might be seen moving briskly 
 along, as if on some particular errand, or on his way 
 home. But there were no groups at the corners, 
 no loud talkers: none of the usual evidences of 
 drinking and rowdyism. 
 
 " It can't be Sunday evening," thought Joe ; and 
 he stood still, trying to think, with his hand on his 
 forehead. 
 
 No ; it was not Sunday evening, he was certain 
 of this; for he remembered that "The Diamond" 
 had always been ready to receive customers whether 
 it were Saturday or Sunday evening. 
 
 " He's dead, or moved away." This was the only 
 conclusion to which Joe could arrive. So he passed 
 on, saying to himself 
 
 "I'll go round to Sprigg's; for I must have a 
 drink to-night." 
 
 And so the poor, meagrely-clad creature went 
 shuffling along the half-deserted pavement, where, 
 aforetime, he had been wont to meet at every turn, 
 wretches sold to the vice of intoxication, and even 
 more degraded than himself. But few of these 
 were now to be seen, and they were evidently as 
 much bewildered at the changed aspect which every 
 thing wore as he was. 
 
 Sprigg kept a drinking and gambling den, in the 
 next square from Gilbert's. Thither Joe Barker 
 groped his way, for the street was unusually dark 
 the large lamp in front of " The Diamond," now
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO JOE BARKER. 147 
 
 extinguished, had, of itself, lit up the whole block. 
 Stranger still ! Sprigg's den was closed. A dim 
 light, shining through one of the upper windows, 
 encouraged Barker to hammer on the shut door for 
 admittance. Two or three times he knocked before 
 there was any evidence of life within. Then a win 
 dow in the second story was opened, and a man's 
 head thrust out. 
 
 "Who's there?" was growled in a gruff, almost 
 angry voice. 
 
 " Hey ! Sprigg, is that you ?" cried Barker. 
 "What, in wonder, is the matter?" 
 
 " Who are you, and what do you want ?" returned 
 Sprigg sharply. 
 
 "I'm Joe Barker; come down and let me in. I 
 want the stiffest glass of rum-toddy you can make ; 
 for I havn't tasted a drop since yesterday." 
 
 " If I do come down, it'll be a sorry time for you, 
 old chap!" was the passionate answer of Sprigg. 
 "Off with you, and this instant !" 
 
 "Why, what's in the wind now, neighbour?" 
 said Barker, more puzzled than before. " Have 
 you all shut up shop turned pious, and joined the 
 church ?" 
 
 The tavern-keeper sputtered out an oath, as he 
 drew in his head, and closed the sash with a heavy 
 jar. 
 
 Joe Barker was mystified worse than ever. What 
 could it all mean ? 
 
 "Somebody must be dead." He looked for a 
 strip of crape; but the old iron latch-guard was 
 guiltless of the drapery of mourning. A wooden 
 block stood by the door, and upon this Barker sat
 
 143 WHAT HAPPENED TO JOE BARKER. 
 
 down to think, if his mental processes could thus be 
 dignified. 
 
 "The 'Diamond' and Sprigg's, both shut up! 
 Can't make it out. Is the world coming to an end? 
 May be somebody's murdered; and they're been 
 closed by the police ? Shouldn't wonder ! They 
 say Sprigg is a bad fellow ; and that Gilbert was 
 once tried for his life. That's it, as sure as a gun ! 
 I'll go right off to Paul Dixon's. They'll know all 
 about it, there." 
 
 Paul Dixon was another grog-seller, whose bar 
 room was close by, around the corner. Thither Joe 
 directed his steps, impelled as much by an awakened 
 curiosity as by an all-consuming thirst. Wonder 
 of wonders ! All was dark and silent in the neigh 
 bourhood of Paul Dixon's. Even the great lamp, 
 with its stained glass sides, and variegated letters, 
 had been taken down, and the bare lamp-post, as it 
 stood sharp against the sky, added to the deserted 
 aspect of things, so new, and strange, and unac 
 countable. 
 
 "Something's wrong," murmured Joe Barker, 
 in a subdued voice. " Something's to pay." He 
 looked at the lamp-post, at the closed windows and 
 door of Paul Dixon's tavern, and sighed. He really 
 felt melancholy. 
 
 " I wish I had a good drink," he said, arousing 
 himself. " I never was so dry in my life. I wonder 
 if all the taverns are closed. Gilbert, Sprigg, and 
 Dixon shut up! Can't make it out, no how." 
 
 Thus talking with himself, Joe commenced re 
 tracing his steps, but very slowly, his eyes cast 
 down to the pavement. So lost was he in a be-
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO JOE BARKER. 149 
 
 wildering maze of doubt and suggestion, that, ere 
 aware of an obstruction in his path, he came sud 
 denly, and with quite a shock, against a very sober, 
 old-fashioned pump, that signified its consciousness 
 of the assault, by rattling somewhat noisily the chain 
 of its iron ladle. 
 
 "Hi! hi! what's the matter now?" ejaculated 
 Barker, moving back a pace or two, and trying to 
 relink the broken chain of his thoughts. " Only 
 the old pump ! Aha ! I've had many a cool drink 
 here, in my time, both as boy and man; and it 
 never cost me a cent, nor made me more of a fool 
 than some people say I am by nature. Good even 
 ing, Mr. Pump! Let us shake hands, or shake 
 handle, just as you please, for old acquaintance' sake. 
 I've been trying to get a drink for this half hour. 
 But not a drop is to be had for love or money. The 
 rum-sellers have all shut up shop, it seems. I hope 
 you re not on a strike, too. Let's see !" 
 
 Joe Barker lifted the handle, putting the iron 
 ladle under the spout as he did so, and brought it 
 down with a strong jerk. Out gushed the crystal 
 water, looking clear and beautiful even in the feeble 
 starlight. It filled the ladle, overrun its sides, and 
 went splashing down upon the pavement. Thero 
 was something pleasant in the sound, even to the 
 dull ears of Barker ; and there was a feeble awaken 
 ing in his mind of dear old memories about boyhood, 
 and the early times when he was a better man than 
 now. 
 
 To his mouth he placed the brimming ladle, and 
 drank a pure draught of nectar. Just as he had 
 removed the vessel from his lips, and taken a deep 
 
 13*
 
 150 WHAT HAPPENED TO JOE BARKER. 
 
 inspiration, a hand was laid on his shoulder familiarly, 
 and a friendly voice said 
 
 " Cheaper drinking that, neighbour Barker, than 
 ever was found at the 'The Diamond,' across yonder, 
 and a thousand times better into the bargain. I'm 
 glad to see. you returning to your old friend again, 
 and hope you may never have occasion to desert 
 him. Friend Pump is worth a score of your Spriggs, 
 Dixons, and Gilberts. What a blessed thing that 
 you are for ever rid of their friendly offices !" 
 
 "For ever rid of them?" said Barker. "What 
 does it all mean, neighbour ? What have they done ? 
 Has any one been murdered?" 
 
 ''Murdered! No, not exactly that; but, didn't 
 you know that the old villain Alcohol died last night." 
 
 "Died? What! I don't understand." And 
 poor Joe Barker looked more bewildered than ever. 
 "Died how?" 
 
 "Why, Joe Barker! Is it possible you don't 
 know that the Maine Law went into operation in 
 our State to-day?" 
 
 "The Maine Law!" Joe took off his old hat, 
 and laid one of his broad hands upon his forehead. 
 "The Maine Law! I heard 'em talking about it 
 on last election. They said it was a dreadful out 
 rage upon our liberties, over at 'The Diamond,' and 
 so I voted against it. What does it do, neighbour ? 
 Will it shut up all the taverns?" 
 
 "That's just what it has done already. You 
 can't buy a drink of liquor in the whole town." 
 
 "You don't tell me! Good, say I to that! 
 Well, I couldn't make it out, no how. I thought 
 something strange had happened. All shut up?
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO JOE BARKER. 151 
 
 Ho, ho ! Sprigg said it would be the ruination of 
 the town if the law passed. I rather guess he 
 thought there was nobody in town left to be ruined 
 except rum-sellers. And you're sure every tavern 
 has been closed?" 
 
 "I know it," was the decided answer. 
 
 " Then I'll run home and tell Betsy. But won't 
 she be glad!" 
 
 And away the excited creature ran, as fast as his 
 feet would carry him. 
 
 Poor Betsy Barker ! When she found that Joe 
 had gone off, with all his week's wages in his pocket, 
 she felt like giving up. They were out of meal and 
 meat, and the children's shoes no longer kept their 
 feet from the ground. For herself, she had not a 
 garment but what was patched and repatched until 
 scarcely a whole breadth of the original fabric re 
 mained. She had laid it all out in her mind, how 
 she was going to spend the four dollars which her 
 husband told her, in the morning, he would be paid 
 for his week's work. It was a very small sum when 
 set off against their many, many needs ; but she had 
 apportioned it, in her thought, in such a way as to 
 make it go the farthest in supplying things abso 
 lutely necessary. But, alas ! alas ! Joe had gone 
 off with the whole sum in his pocket, and she knew 
 the chances were ten to one that he would not have 
 the half of it left perhaps not a dollar when he 
 came home. 
 
 The poor wife was disheartened, and who can 
 wonder? She cleared off the supper things, and 
 then sat down to mend an old jacket belonging to 
 her oldest boy. As she turned it over and over,
 
 152 WHAT HAPPENED TO JOE BARKER. 
 
 and noticed how torn and worn it was more fit for 
 the rag-bag than any thing else she let it fall into 
 her lap, and, bending over upon the table by which 
 she was sitting, buried her face in her arms. She 
 did not weep now. Her feelings of despondency 
 had in them too much of hopelessness for tears. 
 
 As she sat thus, the door opened, and her quick 
 ears recognised the footsteps of her husband. Her 
 heart fluttered instantly with a new hope, while half 
 the oppressive weight on her bosom was removed. 
 His return, so early and so unexpectedly, was an 
 augury of good. That he had been drinking, she 
 doubted not; but there was ground for believing 
 that he had not wasted the money she so much 
 needed. She did not raise her head until Joe came 
 up to where she was sitting, and, in a tone of exulta 
 tion, which he could not repress, exclaimed 
 
 " Hurrah, Betsy ! Good news ! There's all my 
 money not a cent gone." And he threw a hand 
 ful of silver coin on the table. " Good news ! What 
 do you think? Old King Alcohol's dead. I've 
 just heard the news." 
 
 "Are you crazy, Joe?" said Mrs. Barker, look 
 ing in wonder and bewilderment at her excited 
 husband. 
 
 "Not a bit of it, darling!" answered Joe, as he 
 threw his arms around his wife's neck, and kissed 
 her. "Nor drunk, either," he added, as she pushed 
 him away. "Why, Betsy! Don't you know that 
 we've got a Maine Law? I've been to Gilbert's, 
 and to Sprigg's, and to Dixon's, but they're all shut 
 up. Tompkins told me that a drop of liquor couldn't 
 be bought in the whole town. Ain't that good news
 
 GOING TO THE DOGS. 153 
 
 for you, old girl ! Hurrah, boys ! I'm as glad as 
 if I'd found a new dollar. I never could pass their 
 doors without going in for a drink, whether I wanted 
 to or not. Somehow or other, I couldn't help it." 
 
 "Joe! Joe! Is all true what you say?" eagerly 
 exclaimed Mrs. Barker, now pressing forward upon 
 her husband, and drawing, almost involuntarily, her 
 arms around him. "Is it all true, Joe?" 
 
 "Every word of it, Betsy, as I'm a living man." 
 
 "Thank God! Thank God!" was the overjoyed 
 wife's sobbing response, as her face fell upon the 
 bosom of her kind-hearted, but weak and erring 
 husband. 
 
 A month from that time, and what a change was 
 visible in their humble dwelling ! And not in theirs 
 alone, but in thousands of other dwellings through 
 out the State from which prompt legislation had 
 driven the vile traffic in rum, with all its attendant 
 crime and wretchedness. 
 
 GOING TO THE DOGS. 
 
 "I RECEIVED your bill to-day, Mr. Leonard," 
 said a customer, as he entered the shop of a master 
 mechanic. 
 
 " We are sending out our accounts at this season," 
 returned the mechanic, bowing. 
 
 "I want to pay you."
 
 154 GOING TO THE DOGS. 
 
 " Very well, Mr. Baker, we're always glad to get 
 money." 
 
 "But you must throw off something. Let me 
 see," and the customer drew out the bill " twenty- 
 seven dollars and forty-six cents. Twenty-five will 
 do. There, receipt the bill and I'll pay you." 
 
 But Leonard shook his head. 
 
 " I can't deduct a cent from that bill, Mr. Baker. 
 Every article is charged at our regular price." 
 
 " Oh yes, you can. Just make it twenty-five dol 
 lars, even money. Here it is," and Baker counted 
 out the cash. 
 
 " I'm sorry, Mr. Baker, but I cannot afford to 
 deduct any thing. If you'd only owed me twenty- 
 five dollars, your bill would have been just that 
 amount. I would not have added a cent beyond 
 what was due, nor can I take any thing less than 
 my own." 
 
 " Then you won't deduct the odd money ?" 
 
 "I cannot, indeed." 
 
 "Very well." The manner of the customer 
 changed. He was evidently offended. " The bill 
 is too high by just the sum I asked to have stricken 
 off. But no matter, I can pay it." 
 
 " Then you mean to insinuate," said the mechanic, 
 who was an independent sort of a man, " that I 
 am cheating you out of two dollars and forty-six 
 cents ?" 
 
 "I didn't say so." 
 
 " But it is plain that you think so, or you wouldn't 
 have asked an abatement. If you considered my 
 charges just, you wouldn't dispute them." 
 
 "Oh, never mind, never mind! we'll not waste
 
 GOING TO THE DOGS. 155 
 
 words about it. Here's your money, said Mr. 
 Baker ; and he added another five-dollar bill to the 
 sum he had laid down. The mechanic receipted 
 the account and gave the change, both of which his 
 customer thrust into his pocket with a petulant air, 
 and then turned and left the store without another 
 word. 
 
 "It's the last bill he ever has against me," mut 
 tered Baker to himself, as he walked away. " If 
 that's his manner of treating customers, he'll soon 
 go to the dogs. He was downright insulting, and 
 no gentleman will stand that from another, much 
 less from a vulgar mechanic. Mean to insinuate ! 
 Humph ! Yes, I did mean to insinuate !" and Mr. 
 Baker involuntarily quickened his pace. " He'll 
 soon go to the dogs. I've paid him a great deal of 
 money, but it is the last dollar of mine he ever 
 handles." 
 
 Baker was as good as his word. He withdrew 
 his custom from the offending mechanic, and gave 
 it to another. 
 
 " I've got one of your old customers, Leonard," 
 said a friend in the same business to the mechanic, 
 some six or eight months afterward. 
 
 "Ah! who is it?" 
 
 "Baker." 
 
 Leonard shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " How came you to lose him ?" 
 
 " I'll tell you how you can keep him." 
 
 "Well, how?" 
 
 " If your bill amounts to thirty dollars, make it 
 thirty-three and a few odd cents, by increasing 
 some of its items. He will want the surplus
 
 156 GOING TO THE DOGS. 
 
 knocked off, which you can afford to do ; then 
 he will pay it, and think you just the man for 
 him." 
 
 " You lost him, then, because you wouldn't abate 
 any thing from a true bill." 
 
 "I did." 
 
 " Thank you. But suppose my bill should be 
 twenty-six, or seven, or eight: what then? I 
 couldn't knock off the odd dollars for the purpose 
 of making it even." 
 
 " No. In that case you must add until you get 
 about thirty." 
 
 " And fall back to that ?" 
 
 " Yes. It will be knocking off the odd dollars, 
 which he will think clear gain." 
 
 " That would hardly be honest." 
 
 " Hardly. But you must do it, or lose his cus 
 tom some day or other." 
 
 " I shall have to accommodate him, I suppose. 
 If he will be cheated, it can't be helped." 
 
 On the very first bill that Baker paid to his new 
 tradesman he obtained an abatement of one dollar 
 and ninety cents odd money, but actually paid three 
 dollars more than was justly due. Still he was very 
 well satisfied, imagining that he had made a saving 
 of one dollar and ninety cents. The not over-scru 
 pulous tradesman laughed in his sleeve and kept 
 his customer. 
 
 Having withdrawn his support from Leonard, it 
 was the candid opinion of Mr. Baker that he was 
 " going to the dogs," as he expressed it, about as 
 fast as a man could go. He often passed the shop, 
 but rarely saw a customer.
 
 GOING TO THE DOGS. 157 
 
 " No wonder," he would say to himself. " A 
 man like him can't expect and doesn't deserve cus 
 tom." 
 
 - In the eyes of Baker, the very grass seemed to 
 grow upon the pavement before the door of the 
 declining tradesman. Dust settled thickly in his 
 window, and the old sign turned grayer and grayer 
 in the bleaching air. 
 
 "Going to the dogs, and no wonder," Baker 
 would say to himself, as he went by. He appeared 
 to take a strange interest in watching the gradual 
 decay of the mechanic's fortunes. One day a mer 
 cantile friend said to him 
 
 " Do you know any thing about this Leonard?" 
 
 "Why?" asked Baker. 
 
 " Because, he wants to make a pretty large bill 
 with me." 
 
 "On time?" 
 
 "Yes, on the usual credit of six months," 
 
 "Don't sell him. Why, the man is going to the 
 dogs at railroad speed." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 " Yes, I'm looking every day to see him close up. 
 He might have done well, for he understood his 
 business. But he's so unaccommodating, and I 
 may say insulting to his customers, that he drives 
 the best ones away. I used to make large bills 
 with him, but haven't dealt at his shop now for some 
 time." 
 
 " Ah ! I was not aware of that. I am glad 1 
 spoke to you, for I shouldn't like to lose six or seven 
 hundred dollars." 
 
 " Six or seven hundred ! Is it possible that he 
 14
 
 158 GOING TO THE DOGS. 
 
 wants to buy so recklessly ! Take my advice, and 
 don't think of trusting him." 
 
 " I certainly shall not." 
 
 When Leonard ordered the goods, the merchant 
 declined selling except for cash. 
 
 "As you please," returned the mechanic indiffer 
 ently, and went elsewhere and made his purchases. 
 
 It happened that Mr. Leonard had a very pretty 
 and interesting daughter, on whose education the 
 mechanic had bestowed great pains ; and it also 
 happened that Baker had a son who, in most things, 
 was a " chip of the old block." Particularly was 
 he like his father in his great love of money, and 
 scarcely had he reached his majority, ere he began 
 to look about him with a careful eye, to a good 
 matrimonial arrangement, by which plenty of money 
 would be secured. 
 
 Adelaide Leonard, on account of her beauty and 
 accomplishments, was much caressed, and mingled 
 free in society. Young Baker had met her fre 
 quently, and could not help being struck with her 
 beauty, intelligence, and grace. 
 
 " There is a charm for you," said a friend to him 
 one evening. 
 
 " In Miss Leonard ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "She's a charming girl," replied the young 
 man. " I wonder if her father is worth any thing?" 
 
 " People say so." 
 
 "Indeed." 
 
 " Yes. They say the old fellow has laid up some 
 thing quite handsome ; and as Adelaide is his only 
 child, she will of course get it all."
 
 GOING TO THE DOGS. 159 
 
 "I was not aware of that." 
 
 " It is all so, I believe." 
 
 After this, young Baker was exceedingly atten 
 tive to Miss Leonard, and made perceptible inroada 
 upon her heart. He even went so far as to visit 
 pretty regularly at her house, and was meditating 
 an avowal of his attachment, when his father said to 
 him one day 
 
 " What young lady was that I saw you with in 
 the street yesterday afternoon?" 
 
 "Her name is Leonard." 
 
 " The daughter of old Leonard in street ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 Mr. Baker looked grave, and shook his head. 
 
 "Do you know any thing about her?" asked the 
 son. 
 
 " Nothing about her ; but I know that her 
 father is going to the dogs as fast as ever a man 
 went." 
 
 " Indeed ! I thought he was well off." 
 
 " Oh no, I've been looking to see his shop shut 
 up, or to hear of his being sold out by the sheriff, 
 every day, for these two years past." 
 
 "Miss Leonard is a very lovely girl." 
 
 " She's the daughter of a poor, vulgar mechanic. 
 If you see any thing so very lovely in that, Henry, 
 you have a strange taste." 
 
 " There is no gainsaying Adelaide's personal 
 attractions," replied the son, " but if her father is 
 poor, that settles the matter as far as she and I are 
 concerned. I am glad you introduced the subject, 
 for I might have committed myself, and when too 
 late discovered my error."
 
 160 GOING TO THE DOGS. 
 
 "And a sad error it would have been, Henry. 
 In any future matter of this kind, I hope you will 
 be perfectly frank with me. I have a much more 
 accurate knowledge of the condition and standing 
 of people than you can possibly have." 
 
 The son promised to do as his father wished. 
 From that time the visits to Miss Leonard were 
 abated, and his attentions to her, when they met in 
 society, became coldly formal. The sweet young 
 girl, whose feelings had really been interested, felt 
 the change, and was for a time unhappy ; but in a 
 few months she recovered herself, and was again as 
 bright and cheerful as usual. 
 
 Time went steadily on, sweeping down one and 
 setting up another, and still old Leonard didn't go 
 to the dogs, much to the surprise of Baker, who 
 could not imagine how the mechanic kept his head 
 above water after having driven away his best cus 
 tomers, as he must long since have done, if all were 
 treated as he had been. But he was satisfied of one 
 thing, at least, and that was that the mechanic must 
 be miserably poor, as he, in fact, deserved to be, 
 according to his idea of the matter. 
 
 One day, about a year after his timely caution to 
 his son in regard to Miss Leonard, Baker happened 
 to pass along a street where he had not been for 
 some months. Just opposite a large, new, and 
 beautiful house, to which the painters were giving 
 their last touches, he met a friend. As they passed, 
 Baker said 
 
 " That's an elegant house. It has been built 
 since I was in this neighbourhood."
 
 GOING TO THE DOGS. 161 
 
 "Yes, it is a very fine house, and I suppose 
 didn't cost less than fifteen thousand dollars." 
 
 " No, I should think not. Who built it ? Do 
 you know?" 
 
 " Yes. It was built by Leonard." 
 
 "By whom ?" Baker looked surprised. 
 
 " By old Leonard. You know him." 
 
 "Impossible! He's not able to build a house 
 like that." 
 
 "Oh yes, he is, and a half a dozen more, if 
 necessary." 
 
 " Leonard !" 
 
 " Certainly. Why, he's worth at least seventy 
 thousand dollars." 
 
 "You must be in error." 
 
 " No. His daughter is to be married next month 
 to an excellent young man, and this house has been 
 built and is to be handsomely furnished as a mar 
 riage present." 
 
 " Incredible ! I thought he was going or had 
 gone to the dogs long ago." 
 
 " Leonard !" The friend could not help laugh 
 ing aloud. " He go to the dogs. Oh, no. There 
 isn't a man in his trade that does so good a busi 
 ness, as little show as he makes. Good work, good 
 prices, and punctuality are the cardinal virtues of 
 his establishment, and make all substantial. How 
 in the world could you take up such a notion?" 
 
 " I don't know, but such has been my impression 
 for a long time," replied Baker, who felt exceed 
 ingly cut down on account of the mistake he had 
 made, and particularly so in view of the elegant 
 house and seventy thousand dollars, which might all 
 14*
 
 162 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 
 
 have belonged to his son, in time, if he had not 
 fallen into such an egregious error about old 
 Leonard. 
 
 So the world moves on. People are prone to 
 think that what they smile on lives, and what they 
 frown on is blighted and must die. 
 
 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 
 
 "Let him that itandeth, take heed," Ac. 
 
 "THERE'S been another 'burst up' in Pearl 
 street," said Mr. B., entering the store of Mr. A., 
 in Maiden Lane. 
 
 "Indeed! and who is it?" asked Mr. A., with 
 his usual expression of concern, when he heard that 
 a merchant of New York had made a failure of it. 
 
 " Eldridge, to be sure ! Who would have dream 
 ed that he was not sound at the core?" 
 
 "Not I, certainly. Nor do I believe a word of 
 his real insolvency, if he has gone by the board. 
 No no ! Old Eldridge is too shrewd a man to let 
 his affairs become tangled." 
 
 "Then what do you think, Mr. A ?" 
 
 " Think ? Why, I think there's something rotten 
 in Denmark." 
 
 "You judge severely." 
 
 "I always suspect unfair play when such men as 
 Mr. Eldridge fail."
 
 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 163 
 
 "And lie is the last man I would suspect," said 
 Mr. B . 
 
 "I've seen too much of the world, and am too 
 
 old now to be humbugged," Mr. A replied, 
 
 with a selfish grin. 
 
 "A meeting of creditors has been called for this 
 morning, at eleven o'clock." 
 
 "There has! Well, as he's into me to the tune 
 of some five or six thousand dollars, I shall most 
 certainly be there." 
 
 "But before you come," said Mr. B , "try to 
 
 divest your mind of the idea of fraud, so that you 
 can, with the rest of us, enter into a just and hu 
 mane examination of his affairs." 
 
 " Pish ! Humane ! Yes, there it comes ! That 
 is the way! Whenever a man wants to tip over 
 and pocket a few thousands that belong to his cre 
 ditors, he gets some one to raise the cry of huma 
 nity. But it won't do for me, Mr. B- ; I don't 
 
 bite at such bait." 
 
 Indignant at the unfeeling insolence of the mer 
 chant, Mr. B turned away from him without 
 
 replying, and left his store. 
 
 On the same morning, a scene was passing in one 
 of the splendid dwellings in Mott street, that well 
 might touch the heart. An elderly man was seated 
 in the parlour, near the fire, lost in deep and pain 
 ful thought; but neither of his three beautiful 
 daughters, nor their mother, knew of what was in 
 his mind. 
 
 Adeline, the eldest, was seated at the piano, en 
 deavouring to perfect herself in a new and difficult 
 piece of music; and Constance and Margaretta
 
 164 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 
 
 were engaged in a conversation about a splendid 
 fete to be given in Park Place, the invitations to 
 which had that morning been handed in. 
 
 "Every thing, they say, is to be on a grand 
 scale," remarked Constance. 
 
 "Too grand, I'm afraid," Margaretta replied, 
 "for pleasure. But, I suppose, we will have to 
 
 g-" 
 
 "Of course, we will," said Constance. "It 
 
 would never do to miss the most splendid 'come 
 off,' as they call it, of the season." 
 
 "I wonder where these magnificent affairs will 
 stop. None but millionaires can afford them. 
 High ho ! I suppose, pa, we can't yet rank our 
 selves with that class," said the happy hearted girl, 
 laughing as she turned toward her father. 
 
 "What did you say, Margaretta?" asked the lat 
 ter, thus suddenly roused from his revery, while a 
 shadow flitted over his countenance. 
 
 " I was saying, pa, that we could not yet rank 
 ourselves with the millionaires," she replied, not ob 
 serving the expression of his face. 
 
 The deep and almost convulsive sigh that follow 
 ed this remark, and the evident pain it gave, 
 arrested the attention of each one present, and 
 they turned toward him with glances of anxious 
 inquiry. A pause of a few moments followed, 
 when the husband and father nerved himself to the 
 task that had to be performed, and said, while his 
 voice trembled 
 
 "My dear children; and you, Anna, who have 
 been with me in humble life as well as in affluence; 
 I have sad news to tell, and it almost breaks my
 
 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 165 
 
 heart to utter it. I am that thing of scorn and 
 persecution, a broken merchant!" 
 
 Pale cheeks and tearful eyes followed this sudden, 
 undreamed of announcement. And well they might, 
 for such an event usually carries with it a degree 
 of hopelessness that none can imagine but they who 
 have experienced it. 
 
 "Were it not for you, my wife, and you, dear 
 children, I should care but little," was at length 
 said, and as this remark caused every eye again to 
 seek the merchant's face, each was doubly pained 
 to see tear after tear rolling over his cheeks, now 
 browned and time-worn. 
 
 "Do not think of us, dear father !" said Adeline, 
 instantly springing to his side, and drawing her 
 arm round his neck. " Be your lot what it may, 
 we will share it cheerfully." 
 
 "You know not what it is, my children, to be 
 cast down, suddenly, from a place in society such as 
 we have occupied. To be passed in the street by 
 your former intimate friends, without notice. I 
 know you cannot bear it !" 
 
 " Indeed, father, these things are nothing to us, 
 in comparison with you and your happiness," said 
 Margaretta and Constance, drying their tears and 
 gathering around him, one with a hand in his, and 
 the other leaning fondly on his shoulder. "For 
 your sake, we will bear any thing." 
 
 " May heaven bless you, my dear children !" said 
 the old man, fervently. " And I know it will bless 
 you, for your pure affection. Only try to be pa 
 tient and cheerful, and we may again hold up our 
 heads."
 
 166 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 
 
 " Trust us, dear father !" Adeline joined in say 
 ing. " If our cheerful endurance of any reverse 
 that may come upon us, will strengthen your heart, 
 then you need not despond." 
 
 The father bent his head, in silence, for a few 
 moments, and then said, more calmly 
 
 " Recent failures in the "West have swept from 
 me, suddenly, so large an amount of capital, that 
 I can go on no longer in business ; and I very much 
 fear, from the standing of other country merchants 
 who are indebted to my house largely, that I shall 
 not only come out without a dollar, but be insolvent 
 to a large amount. Thus, you see, that our fall 
 will be low indeed." 
 
 "We would rather live in honourable and honest 
 obscurity, and even poverty," said Constance, em 
 phatically " than move in princely splendour, were 
 our father to act as some merchants, who have 
 failed, and. still retained all their former style of 
 living, are said to have acted." 
 
 " Spoken like my own child !" the father an 
 swered, tenderly kissing her. " I fear your noble 
 principles will soon receive a severe test." 
 
 "None of us will fail you, pa," the others added, 
 smiling affectionately, though sadly. "We would 
 be unworthy so good a father, did we shrink a mo 
 ment from duty." 
 
 " This morning will fix our fate," said the mer 
 chant, rising. " My creditors meet at eleven o'clock, 
 and there are those among them who know not the 
 word 'mercy.' We will, without doubt, soon be 
 stripped of every thing." 
 
 " Despair is never quite despair, pa," Adeline
 
 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 167 
 
 said, holding his hand, and looking him encourag 
 ingly in the face. 
 
 "God bless you, my children!" was all the mer 
 chant could utter, as he lifted from the table a 
 bundle of papers and hurried away. 
 
 Half an hour after, he entered a room over a 
 broker's office in Wall street, where he found wait 
 ing for him twelve or fifteen men. Some of them 
 received him kindly as he came in, but the majority 
 regarded him with clouded brows, and some one or 
 two with scowls of selfish malignancy. 
 
 "You know the object of this meeting, gen 
 tlemen," said he, after seating himself. "Here is 
 a statement of my affairs." 
 
 "I never should have expected this from you, 
 Mr. Eldridge," remarked one of the creditors, look 
 ing at him reproachfully. 
 
 " But, Mr. L , I am not wilfully in this situa 
 tion." 
 
 "No, of course not," Mr. L , tossing his head 
 
 significantly, replied, 
 
 "Oh, no everybody who fails is the pink of 
 
 honesty," broke in Mr. A , with an angry glance 
 
 at Eldridge. 
 
 "Mr. A , I cannot permit such remarks," the 
 
 debtor responded firmly. 
 
 " I wonder how you'll help it, sir," Mr. A 
 
 said fiercely, springing to his feet, while his face 
 grew dark with anger. "I never believe in your 
 honest failures," he continued. "What right have 
 you or any one else to risk my property? What" 
 
 But he was cut short by a motion from an indi 
 vidual present, calling another to the chair. Aa
 
 168 
 
 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 
 
 soon as the meeting was thus organized, Mr. A 
 
 attempted to go on, but was compelled by the chair 
 man to take his seat, which he did, muttering bitter 
 invectives against the unfortunate debtor. 
 
 "And now," said the chairman of the meeting, 
 "we should be pleased to have your statement, Mr. 
 Eldridge." 
 
 The creditor then proceeded to submit a full his 
 tory of his affairs. He was indebted, according to 
 this, on all accounts, in the sum of one hundred and 
 fifty thousand dollars. As an offset, his books showed 
 as due him on merchandise, bills receivable, and 
 claims in suit, two hundred thousand dollars, and he 
 had, besides, property which had cost him forty 
 thousand dollars. But of this fifty thousand dollars 
 was known to be a dead loss, and nearly an equal 
 sum, owing to the continued depression of business, 
 was set down as "doubtful and desperate." The 
 real estate would not now, if thrown into market, 
 bring twenty thousand dollars. In closing this state 
 ment, he proposed to give up every thing into the 
 hands of a trustee, provided each creditor would 
 sign a release, and thus give him a chance to get on 
 his feet again. On taking his seat, the first man 
 who took the floor was Mr. A . 
 
 "I see plain enough," said he, addressing the 
 chairman of the meeting, " that here is to be another 
 one of the many late attempts at wiping off all old 
 scores. But I, for one, am determined that I will 
 release no man. It's high time this system of re 
 leasing men was broken up. It's a premium on 
 insolvency; or roguery, I should have said. If men 
 knew that they would have to toe the mark up to
 
 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 169 
 
 the last cent, there wouldn't be so many, who know 
 nothing about doing business, rushing into its intri 
 cacies, dividing and sub-dividing it until it's good 
 for nothing, and then taking in honest merchants. 
 You'll never hear of me failing, sir. No no. I 
 belong to the solvent class!" 
 
 Here Mr. A , whose idea of his belonging to 
 
 the solvent class, when once expressed, so excited 
 his selfish vanity, that he lost the thread of what he 
 was going to say, had to sit down. Before he had 
 time to recover his thoughts, another merchant pre 
 sent addressed the meeting. 
 
 "No one," said he, "could have been taken more 
 by surprise than myself at learning that our friend 
 Mr. Eldridge had been compelled to suspend. But 
 my confidence in his integrity and honourable prin 
 ciple has been unbounded, and is unshaken now. 
 A statement of his affairs shows conclusively the 
 cause of his present embarrassment. There are 
 four firms in the West, by which we all have suffered, 
 that I find have broken in upon Mr. Eldridge's busi 
 ness to a very heavy amount. Most of us did not 
 hesitate to sell them freely, and no one can blame 
 him for doing the same. Besides this, he has been 
 seriously 'Involved in the numerous failures that have 
 taken place in our own city. That he is unfor 
 tunate, is the hardest term we can apply to him ; 
 and, as such, he claims our sympathy and kind con 
 sideration. No one of us knows how soon he, from 
 unforeseen causes, may be reduced to a like ex 
 tremity. I most certainly go for releasing him." 
 
 "Let me beg the gentleman," said Mr. A , 
 
 rising hastily, and displaying much heat, "not to 
 15
 
 170 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 
 
 include me among his prospective insolvents. I 
 belong to the other class. I never expect to fail, 
 and rob honest people of their rights. I do business 
 on higher and better principles. No man has any 
 right to fail ! No man need fail who has common 
 prudence and common honesty. He shall never 
 have my name. He shall rot in a prison first. I'm 
 determined to make an example of these kind of 
 humbug merchants. Let them all be swept away, 
 and then we shall have good times again curse on 
 them !" 
 
 " But you can gain nothing, Mr. A , by such 
 
 a course," the debtor said calmly. "I give you up 
 all. Nor will I consider your release of me from 
 legal obligations a moral exoneration. Only take 
 off the manacles give me a chance, and I may yet 
 be able to pay even to the last cent." 
 
 " Pish!" was the creditor's sneering ejaculation. 
 " Catch me such a fool as to trust to a broken mer 
 chant's honour. I've seen too many of the tribe." 
 
 "Shame ! shame!" cried two or three voices. 
 
 Mr. A 's face grew black with anger. 
 
 "You needn't try to operate on me, gentlemen," 
 he said, in a loud, positive tone. "I am made of 
 stuff not to be bent. I solemnly swear, that I will 
 never release him, nor any of the rest of you either 
 if you attempt to play the same game." 
 
 "Let us take the sense of the meeting," said one. 
 
 " The sense of the meeting," said another. 
 
 " Shall the sense of the meeting be taken ?" asked 
 the chairman. 
 
 "Ay" "ay" "ay," ran round the room, and 
 the chairman said
 
 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 171 
 
 " All who are in favour of accepting an assign 
 ment of Mr. Eldridge's property, real and per 
 sonal and then granting him a full release, will 
 say Ay. 
 
 Many voices responded in the affirmative, and 
 then the chairman put the negative. 
 
 "NO !" said Mr. A , in a loud, positive voice 
 
 and "No" "no" "no," came from three others, 
 but in tones far less emphatic. 
 
 "Now let us see how far the ayes and nays repre 
 sent the amount claimed from Mr. Eldridge." 
 
 On examination, it was found that those who were 
 in favour of accepting the assignment, and releasing 
 the debtor, were creditors to the amount of one hun 
 dred and thirty thousand dollars, and the twenty 
 thousand were due to those who refused to release 
 him six thousand of this to Mr. A . 
 
 " To you, who have thus so kindly considered and 
 felt for my painful situation," said Mr. Eldridge, 
 " I must be permitted to express my deep gratitude 
 and of you who do not seem to regard me as 
 honest, I must certainly beg a reconsideration of 
 your present views. Unless you all agree, nothing, 
 I fear, can be done. Even if a portion of you were 
 to release me, how could I possibly bear up, without 
 any money to sustain me, against the balance of the 
 claims ? I could not pay them." 
 
 " Suppose we adjourn the meeting until eleven 
 o'clock to-morrow morning. Perhaps by that time 
 those that object to the measure may think better 
 of it," suggested one. 
 
 " Don't flatter yourself," said Mr. A , sneer-
 
 172 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 
 
 "I move that we adjourn until to-morrow morn 
 ing at eleven o'clock," said Mr. B . 
 
 The motion was seconded, and carried, and the 
 meeting accordingly adjourned. 
 
 Mr. A walked down Wall street with a Mr. 
 
 T , also one of the objectors to the release. 
 
 "I don't know, Mr. A ," said the latter, 
 
 " but I'm half inclined to think that I shall vote to 
 morrow for the release of Eldridge." 
 
 " You'll be a fool if you do, let me tell you that !" 
 responded A . 
 
 "I can't see any good that is to grow out of 
 refusing." 
 
 " Can't you, indeed ! Well, perhaps I can en 
 lighten you a little." 
 
 "I wish you would for light on the subject 
 would certainly be very acceptable." 
 
 " It's the only way you will ever get the whole 
 of your money." 
 
 " How can that be, when the debtor is insolvent?" 
 
 "If we positively refuse a compromise," said 
 
 A , "the rest of the creditors will buy us off. 
 
 The estate, I am convinced, will pay seventy-five 
 cents on the dollar. We would be entitled to that 
 much any how ; and for the sake of getting us to 
 release old Eldridge, some of the very humane ones 
 will propose to allow us our full claims, and the rest 
 will come into it. That's the way I always do, and 
 I get my full amount four times out of five." 
 
 " There is not much danger of you, I see," 
 remarked T . 
 
 " No, that there is not. I claim my own, and 
 will have it. I'm one of the solvent ones, and can-
 
 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 173 
 
 not sympathize with men who want to get off with 
 out paying their debts. There are two or three 
 men among Eldridge's creditors who are a little 
 ticklish ; and they owe me. I want to let them see 
 just what they have to expect." 
 
 " And what good will that do, Mr. A ?" 
 
 " A great deal. They'll take care to be off of 
 my books before they knock under." 
 
 T parted with A under a high idea of 
 
 his shrewdness, resolving to imitate so fair a speci 
 men "Of a prudent and safe merchant. 
 
 " Well he may say that he belongs to the solvent 
 class," he remarked to himself, as he walked 
 musingly along. "It requires more shrewdness 
 than I dreamed of to get on safely in these 
 times." 
 
 At eleven o'clock on the next morning, the 
 second meeting of creditors was held. The friends 
 of the debtor had, in the mean time, been at work 
 upon those who had refused on the day previous to 
 sign off. All had agreed to the arrangement but 
 
 A , and his friend and prote'ge', T . Them, 
 
 neither argument nor persuasion could move. In 
 vain did Eldridge represent to them his condition, 
 stripped, prospectively, of every thing, and with 
 a family raised amid plenty looking up to him for 
 support. 
 
 "Surely, Mr. A ," he said, "misfortune is 
 
 not crime." 
 
 " Every bankrupt speculator is criminal !" A 
 
 responded, angrily. 
 
 " I deny the implied allegation. It is false, and 
 basely so," Eldridge replied, his honest blood 
 15*
 
 174 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 
 
 aroused to indignation. " I never speculated to the 
 amount of a single dollar !" 
 
 " Shame ! shame ! shame ! None but a base 
 wretch could thus insult the unfortunate !" were 
 the responses which broke from many lips. 
 
 "Mr. Chairman," said one of the creditors, 
 
 rising, " the claims of Mr. A and Mr. T 
 
 amount to but eight thousand dollars. I propose 
 that they be paid off in full, and that the rest of us 
 take the assignment, and give Mr. Eldridge an 
 honourable release. It will reduce our dividend but 
 an unimportant trifle. You cannot choke them off 
 in any other way. I know them, and I think we 
 all know them." 
 
 " I am as anxious as any one to see Mr. Eldridge 
 here, whom we all know to be honest and honour 
 able, released ; but I have no idea of rewarding 
 unfeeling cupidity in the way you propose," said 
 another. 
 
 " But there is no way of avoiding it, unless we 
 punish the innocent with the guilty." 
 
 " That is the difficulty," replied the other, musing. 
 " Well," he continued, " I suppose there is no help 
 for it. I shall have to waive my objections." 
 
 The matter was now put to vote, and they decided 
 to accept the assignment, and pay off in full the 
 two obstinate creditors. 
 
 No one can imagine, but he who has passed 
 through a like scene of trial, how much of suffering 
 was condensed into the few days that elapsed from 
 the time Mr. Eldridge became conscious of his 
 inability to continue his business, until every thing 
 was settled, and he thrown, at the age of fifty,
 
 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 175 
 
 penniless upon the world. Not that he shrunk 
 back in painful dread at the prospect before him 
 and his family, but from the sickening conscious 
 ness that he could not, and might never be able to 
 pay others their just dues from the instinctive 
 repugnance he had to meet face to face those whom 
 he owed, and say to them, " I cannot pay my obli 
 gations !" Every one, he thought, must blame him. 
 Even those who befriended and stood by him, must, 
 he felt, because they were sufferers, entertain some 
 thing of a distrust toward him. All this was agony 
 to a mind like his ; but he nerved himself for the 
 time, and happily passed through it. 
 
 After every thing was fairly arranged, and the 
 creditors, with consideration and humanity, had 
 voluntarily agreed to let him retain the furniture in 
 his house, he came home, and calling his family 
 around him, said 
 
 "Now, my dear children, the storm is about 
 reaching you. But I trust your fortitude will keep 
 you up. Your mother and myself think, that as 
 circumstances are so greatly changed, we should 
 change our style of living. Indeed, it is absolutely 
 necessary, for we could not support it two months." 
 
 "We have settled all that, pa," Adeline said, 
 smiling. " You are to get a smaller and cheaper 
 house, and to sell off a good deal of the costly fur 
 niture. Constance and I intend teaching music 
 and drawing; and Margaret is going to assist 
 mother about the house, so that we will only have 
 to keep a cook. How do you like that arrange 
 ment?" 
 
 "Better than any I could have proposed. You
 
 176 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 
 
 do not know, my children, what a load you have 
 taken from my heart. We shall yet, I feel, lift our 
 heads. I am still as capable of doing business as 
 ever, and must soon get into something. In the 
 mean time, we can realize at least a thousand dol 
 lars on our useless and surplus furniture; and this, 
 with your efforts at teaching music and drawing, 
 will keep us comfortably for a year. Ere that 
 expires, I shall be in some business, I hope." 
 
 " There is no reason why we should be unhappy," 
 said Adeline when her father ceased speaking. " I 
 am sure that I feel more cheerful in prospect of 
 doing what we propose, than I ever did in prospect 
 of any thing in my life." 
 
 "There is no doubt, Adeline," said her father, 
 " that the only path of contentment is that of duty, 
 cheerfully entered into. I am glad, indeed, that 
 you have all so readily and willingly entered that 
 path. But you must not expect all to be pleasar.t. 
 You will find your intimacies of years broken into. 
 Old friends will be friends no longer. Even upon 
 the street, you will find yourself passed by unno 
 ticed by those who have been your companions 
 since childhood." 
 
 "And we have talked all that over too, pa," said 
 the affectionate girl, looking him in the face with a 
 smile that had in it much of sadness. "It is hard, 
 of course, but we must bear it. Already I have 
 had my first trial. Yesterday, while out for a little 
 
 while, I met Florence A , and she passed me 
 
 just as if I were a perfect stranger. I know she 
 saw me, for she looked right into my face, and I 
 paused, naturally, smiling, to speak to her. We
 
 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 177 
 
 have been intimate, you know, for years. I felt it, 
 for the time, keenly, and thought it a most cruel 
 slight. But I can think calmly about it now. Such 
 heartless friends are not worth retaining." 
 
 "And most certainly, Adeline, if Florence inhe 
 rits her father's peculiar spirit, you need not crave 
 her friendship. He positively refused to release 
 me, even, after giving up every thing charged me 
 with dishonesty, and talked about seeing me rotting 
 in a jail ; and I never could have got released, if 
 the creditors had not generously, for my sake, 
 agreed to pay him and another, as heartless, their 
 entire claims." 
 
 " Oh, pa ! Is it possible that any man could be 
 so unfeeling?" 
 
 "Yes, my child, there are many such. Nothing 
 less than the pound of flesh will suit them." 
 
 "I am glad, then, that Florence cut me; for I 
 am sure that I never could have been on friendly 
 terms again with her." 
 
 As the girls had proposed, numerous articles of 
 furniture were sold, and the family then removed 
 into a smaller house, at a rent of four hundred dol 
 lars per annum. A sign soon made its appearance 
 at the side of the front door, with the announce 
 ment "Music AND DRAWING TAUGHT BY THB 
 MISSES ELDRIDGE." Several of the daily papers 
 contained their advertisement. 
 
 " Why, see here, girls," said a Mrs. Coolidge, 
 who had a growing family, and a pretty numerous 
 one too, on the morning that their advertisement 
 appeared, " the Misses Eldridge advertise to teach 
 music and drawing. They have been unfortunate,
 
 178 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 
 
 and we must encourage them. Besides, we all know 
 how exquisitely Adeline and Constance can sing 
 and play, and they are such amiable young ladies 
 into the bargain. How much I admire them for 
 thus at once endeavouring to aid their father!" 
 
 " Four of us are taking lessons now, and we'll all 
 go there, won't we, ma?" said one of the misses. 
 
 " Certainly, I would rather you would go there 
 than anywhere else. We must call and see them 
 this very afternoon." 
 
 Sure enough, Mrs. Coolidge and her two eldest 
 girls, who had already gone into company, and had 
 been on friendly terms with the young ladies they 
 proposed to visit, prepared to go out that afternoon, 
 and call upon Adeline and her sisters. Just as 
 
 they were ready, Florence A and her mother 
 
 dropped in. After a little conversation on various 
 unimportant topics, Mrs. A said 
 
 " So, old Eldridge has gone all to pieces. They 
 say he has made a wonderful bad business of it, and 
 many strongly suspect him of unfair dealing." 
 
 "And I see," broke in Florence, "that the girls 
 have set up a music and drawing school. Who 
 could have thought they would ever come to that ? 
 I should not think they could hold up their heads 
 after the conduct of their father. But there are 
 strange people in the world. I saw Adeline once 
 in the street since, and she looked me in the face 
 as unconcerned as ever. I was so disgusted at her 
 want of true feeling, that I passed her unnoticed. 
 I can't understand some people." 
 
 " I should think, Mrs. A ," said Mrs. Coolidge, 
 
 " that the fact of the girls being compelled to open
 
 r. 
 
 * 
 
 ONE OF THE SOIA^ENT CLASS. 179 
 
 a school ought to exonerate the father from any 
 suspicion of unfair dealing. Mr. Coolidge told me 
 that he was one of the creditors, and that Mr. El- 
 dridge honourably gave up every thing." 
 
 "And my husband told me," responded Mrs. 
 
 A , " that matters and things looked bad 
 
 enough, and that if he could have had his way with 
 him, he would have sent him to prison, as he de 
 served." 
 
 Mrs. Coolidge did not reply, for she had been 
 told of Mr. A 's unfeeling, and even brutal con 
 duct, and gradually changed the subject. After 
 the visitors had retired, she went out as she had de 
 signed, with her two eldest daughters, and called on 
 Mrs. Eldridge and the girls. The two families had 
 been on intimate terms. After a brief and friendly 
 conversation, and a renewal of kind feelings, Mrs. 
 Coolidge proposed to send four of her girls to re 
 ceive lessons in music, and also in drawing. The 
 terms were named and agreed upon, when she 
 said 
 
 " I think, Adeline, I can get you a good many 
 scholars. If you have no objection, I will go among 
 some of your former friends, many of whom, I doubt 
 not, have nearly forgotten you already, and stir up 
 an interest in your favour." 
 
 "You are very kind, Mrs. Coolidge," Adeline re 
 plied, with feeling. " I am willing, for one, to rest 
 our cause in your hands. The fact of our setting 
 up a school is, of course, evidence enough that we 
 have need to do so. All AVC now want are scholars. 
 Give us plenty of these, and we will ask no more." 
 
 " I'll see what I can do for you, and I intend in-
 
 180 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 
 
 teresting several who possess influence. We'll get 
 up a good school among us, depend upon it." 
 
 Mrs. Coolidge was as good as her word. She 
 did interest herself, and very soon Adeline and 
 Constance had as many scholars as they could at 
 tend to, which brought them in a very handsome 
 income fully enough to bear all the expenses of 
 the family. 
 
 Mr. Eldridge, who was an active and correct 
 business man, opened a commission store, and 
 through the recommendations of some of his old 
 friends, soon got consignments to a large amount, 
 and profitable in their character. Gradually he 
 began to feel that he was again rising, though very 
 slowly. Had the entire burden of the family been 
 upon him, he would have had an income little, if 
 any, beyond his necessary expenses ; but his daugh 
 ters' school continued prosperous, and at the end of 
 the first year was established on a profitable basis. 
 Instead of having to spend his earnings, he had, at 
 the end of the period just named, fifteen hundred 
 dollars in cash, and he knew very well how to turn 
 it judiciously. The end of the second year found 
 him with four thousand dollars, with a business 
 yielding a net income of two thousand. Adeline, 
 in the mean time, had married a young merchant 
 of some capital, who was known as a careful busi 
 ness man. The school, now conducted by Constance 
 and Margaretta, had acquired a reputation in New 
 York that made it necessary to remove to a larger 
 house, which had been fitted up on a liberal scale. 
 Various branches were taught, under the charge of 
 competent teachers, and the whole establishment
 
 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 181 
 
 was too promising and profitable to leave room for 
 the idea of abandoning it,, even if their father 
 should again get up in the world, as things seemed 
 to promise. 
 
 Five years more passed away, and in that time 
 Mr. Eldridge had been able to pay off every dollar 
 of the old claims against him, and still found him 
 self certainly worth ten thousand dollars, with a 
 fair prospect before him of going up pretty rapidly. 
 It so happened that his store was now alongside of 
 
 Mr. A 'a. The latter individual had never 
 
 taken any notice of him since his failure, and he 
 had certainly no objection. 
 
 An event occurred at this time in New York the 
 remembrance and the effects of which will remain 
 for many years to come. I mean the great fire. It 
 so happened that but a few days before, an arrival 
 
 from the East Indies had filled A 's store with 
 
 silks and other valuable goods to the amount of 
 two hundred thousand dollars. These were utterly 
 consumed in the terrible conflagration. But it so 
 happened that the fire, in that direction, was arrested 
 there, and Mr. Eldridge's store remained untouched. 
 
 A 's insurance was worthless, and, although of 
 
 the "solvent class," he was ruined. 
 
 No one seemed to feel for him, who had never 
 had any regard for the misfortunes of others. 
 Gradually the meagre remnant, or shadow of pro 
 perty that remained was exhausted; and, with his 
 wife and daughter, he sank from the observation of 
 those who had once known him as completely as if 
 dead and buried. 
 
 It was, perhaps, in January, some two years aftcr- 
 16
 
 182 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 
 
 ward, that a thinly clad young woman presented 
 
 herself at the academy for young ladies, in 
 
 street, kept by Constance and Margaretta. 
 
 " Are you in want of a teacher, ma'am ?" she said 
 to Constance, who went down into the parlour ott 
 her being announced. 
 
 There was something strangely familiar in the 
 face and tones of the speaker. But still, she did 
 not know her. 
 
 " No, Miss, we are not just now. What branch 
 are you capable of teaching ?" 
 
 "I can teach music, ma'am, and I understand 
 French, and can speak it fluently." 
 
 "Let me hear you play," said Constance. And 
 the stranger sat down to the piano, and performed 
 with exquisite taste several pieces. 
 
 "Do you sing?" she asked. 
 
 " I have not practised much recently, but I used 
 to be thought a good singer." 
 
 " May I ask you to sing something ? Perhaps 
 we may make a vacancy for you, if you can sing 
 well," said Constance, her interest in the stranger 
 increasing momently, and the familiarity of her 
 face and tones surprising her more and more every 
 moment. 
 
 The young woman again sat down to the instru 
 ment, and sang with much taste and evident emotion 
 an old, familiar air, that sent the thoughts and feel 
 ings of Constance back to other times and other 
 scenes. 
 
 "And now," she said, with something of eager 
 interest, " may I ask your name ?" 
 
 "Florence A ," replied the young woman,
 
 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 183 
 
 dropping her eyes to the floor, -while the colour 
 mounted to her cheeks. 
 
 " Is it possible ! Oh, how you have changed, 
 Florence !" Constance said, tenderly, taking her 
 hand. 
 
 " Suffering and poverty will change any one," 
 she replied, bitterly. Then, after a moment's silence, 
 she continued : " My father and mother are both 
 sick, and in circumstances of great destitution. I 
 have tried my best with my needle ; but it won't 
 do. I can't get bread for us all. As a last resort 
 I have come to you, hoping that I might touch your 
 heart with our distresses. I know I can be useful 
 in your school, if you only have a place for me. 
 This is all I ask. Have I any thing to hope, 
 Constance ?" 
 
 And the poor creature stood before her, with the 
 tears streaming down her thin, pale cheeks, eager, 
 yet seeming to hope almost against hope. 
 
 "Yes, every thing!" was the quick response of 
 Constance. 
 
 "May heaven reward you!" she ejaculated, sink 
 ing upon a chair. 
 
 " I know your facility and correctness in the 
 French, and you are just the one I want to give the 
 correct pronunciation to my class in that language. 
 I will engage you at once at a salary of five hundred 
 dollars, and be glad to get you." 
 
 Florence was overcome at this unlooked-for result, 
 so different fiom what she had dared to hope. Mr. 
 Eldridge, coming in at the moment, and learning 
 who she was, instantly ordered every thing necessary 
 to be sent to her father and mother.
 
 184 ONE OF THE SOLVENT CLASS. 
 
 Florence was at once installed into her new voca 
 tion, not, however, until Constance and Margaretta 
 had made a change in her outward appearance ; and 
 she filled it in every way to their satisfaction. 
 Sorrows and reverses had done much for her, in 
 developing the good and true, that had wellnigh 
 been lost. 
 
 A few months after this event, Mr. A , who 
 
 had prided himself upon being of the " solvent class" 
 some few years before, was glad to accept an 
 annual salary of three hundred dollars from Mr. 
 Eldridge, for merely staying in his store, and doing 
 a little writing now and then. Even this was very 
 acceptable, and with the salary of Florence helped 
 to support his family comfortably. 
 
 And now, we will only say Let no man boast 
 of his being of the "solvent class," and vainly sup 
 pose that fire nor flood can reach him. Riches 
 often take to themselves wings and fly away. The 
 wealthy man of to-day is often the pauper of to 
 morrow. This is the history of every year, and of 
 all ages. Therefore, let none be unmerciful to the 
 unfortunate, for who can say that his turn may not 
 come next?
 
 THE COQUETTE. 
 
 ADA GLENN had been a sad trifler in her time. 
 Her chief pleasure seemed to lie in extorting admi 
 ration from the other sex, and then sporting with 
 the feeling she had awakened. In at least half a 
 dozen instances young men had been encouraged to 
 pay her attention for months at a time, and when, 
 confident of having won her regard, they came for 
 ward with serious offers of marriage, she threw them 
 from her with an indifference that was both morti 
 fying and painful. 
 
 But, like most of those who play this game with 
 the feelings of others, Ada was made to taste a cup 
 as bitter as any mixed by her hands for the lips of 
 her victims. 
 
 A young physician named Bedford, whose pros 
 pects in life were much better than are usually pre 
 sented to the eyes of graduates in his profession, 
 met Ada one evening, and was exceedingly pleased 
 with her and no less pleased was Ada with the 
 young physician. A wish to make a good impies- 
 sion, added to her usual habit of putting on her best 
 grace when in company with young men, made Ada 
 more than usually interesting, and when Dr. Bed 
 ford separated from the bewitching young girl, he 
 was completely enamoured. He took an early 
 opportunity to call upon her, and was received 
 J 16* 185
 
 186 THE COQUETTE. 
 
 in a manner that encouraged him to repeat his 
 visits. 
 
 Never were visits more agreeable to any one than 
 were those of Dr. Bedford to Ada Glenn. But the 
 old spirit had not died out, and really flattered as 
 she was by the young man's attentions, Ada was 
 tempted to give him a specimen of her power and 
 independence. 
 
 No very long time elapsed ere Dr. Bedford laid 
 his heart at Ada's feet. With a thrill of pleasure 
 could she have accepted the proffered gift of love ; 
 but to yield at once seemed like becoming too easy 
 a prize, and she therefore affected profound asto 
 nishment at the doctor's proposal ; treated it rather 
 lightly, and deeply wounded his naturally sensitive 
 and independent feelings by too marked an exhibi 
 tion of disdain. 
 
 Doctor Bedford retired with his mind in a fever 
 of excitement. His .admiration of, and love for 
 Ada, had been of the warmest character. Judging 
 from her manner, he had felt warranted in believ 
 ing that the regard he felt for her was fully recipro 
 cated ; and when he approached her with a confes 
 sion of what was in his heart, he was prepared for 
 any reception but the one he received. To be 
 repulsed then, coldly, proudly, and almost con 
 temptuously, was to receive a blow of the severest 
 kind, and one, the pain of which he was not likely 
 soon to forget. 
 
 From the dwelling of Ada, Dr. Bedford retired 
 to his office with his mind greatly excited. There 
 he found a young friend with whom he was intimate, 
 and to whom, as he could not hide his feelings, he
 
 , THE COQUETTE. 187 
 
 communicated in confidence the result of his in 
 terview with Ada. To his surprise, the friend 
 said 
 
 " I can hardly pity you, doctor. I saw you were 
 pleased with that gay flirt, who is fascinating enough ; 
 hut I did not dream that you were serious in your 
 attentions to one known everywhere as a most 
 heartless coquette." 
 
 Dr. Bedford looked surprised. "Are you in 
 earnest ?" said he. 
 
 " In earnest ? Certainly ! Didn't you know 
 that this was her character ?" 
 
 "I had not the most remote suspicion." 
 
 " Strange that it shouldn't have come to your 
 ears ! I can point you to three that she has jilted 
 within my own knowledge." 
 
 " If that is her character," said the doctor, rally 
 ing himself with a strong effort of self-control, and 
 speaking in a composed and resolute voice, " I will 
 at once obliterate her image from my mind. It ia 
 unworthy to rest there. I did not love Ada, but a 
 fair ideal of womanly virtue that I vainly believed 
 she embodied." 
 
 " You are right. She is not worthy of you, my 
 friend, beautiful, intelligent, and interesting as 
 she is." 
 
 " No. She is utterly unworthy. Fortunate am 
 I that she did not accept my offer." 
 
 It required, on the part of Ada, a strong effort 
 to assume toward Dr. Bedford a false exterior, and 
 when he withdrew from her presence, composed and 
 dignified in his manner, she more than half regret 
 ted her folly. But she forced back this feeling with
 
 188 THE COQUETTE. 
 
 a gay smile and a toss of the head, saying, half 
 aloud 
 
 " He'll be here again before a week goes by." 
 
 But Ada was slightly in error. The week passed 
 without bringing her lover. And so went by two, 
 three, and four weeks. But, vain of her power over 
 the other sex, Ada still endeavoured to maintain a 
 confident spirit, though there were times that the 
 sudden thought that Dr. Bedford would never again 
 seek to win her favour, made the blood gather with 
 a chill around her heart. 
 
 About this time a friend gave a little fancy-dress 
 party, and Ada learned, much to her real delight, 
 that the individual, who of all others had most 
 struck her fancy, was to be present. This was to 
 afford the first opportunity for meeting, since her 
 half haughty repulse, the man who had offered her, 
 in all sincerity, a true and loving heart. 
 
 An overweening vanity made Ada confident of 
 her power with the sterner sex ; and she believed 
 that only a slight yielding effort on her part was 
 necessary to bring the doctor again to her side. 
 
 Choosing her costume for the evening, Ada 
 arrayed herself with great care, and in a style that 
 she believed would attract attention. The fashion 
 of her dress was that of a hundred years ago, and 
 the material a rich old brocade, in which her grand 
 mother had danced the minuet many a time in her 
 younger days. 
 
 Calm in her conscious power, Ada joined the gay 
 company at her friend's, and her quick eyes soon 
 made known the fact that Dr. Bedford was already 
 present. Her heart beat quicker, and the colour
 
 THE COQUETTE. 189 
 
 on her cheeks grew deeper ; but no one could read 
 in her well-schooled face a trace of what was pass 
 ing in her mind. No long time passed- before the 
 young doctor was thrown near her, so near that a 
 sign of recognition became necessary. He spoke 
 to her, but in a manner that sent a nervous chill to 
 her heart. Not that he was studiedly polite or cold ; 
 not that he manifested resentment ; but in his eye, 
 voice, face, and manner, was a language she could 
 read, and it told her that to him she was no longer 
 an object of interest. 
 
 For this she was, of all things, least prepared. 
 She had never felt toward any one as she felt 
 toward this young man ; and now, when the first 
 well-grounded fear of losing him stole through her 
 bosom, she became inwardly agitated, and in spite 
 of every effort to control herself, manifested too 
 plainly the fact that she was ill at ease. 
 
 Fancy parties were novelties at the time, and all 
 except Ada, who usually led off on festive occasions, 
 entered into the spirit of the hour. Even Dr. Bed 
 ford appeared to enjoy himself as much as any. 
 But the beautiful coquette, whose peculiar style of 
 costume attracted all eyes, had, for once, lost the 
 gay exterior for which she was ever distinguished, 
 and there were but few present by whom this was 
 not remarked. 
 
 Once or twice Ada was thrown directly into the 
 company of Dr. Bedford, when he treated her with 
 an ease and politeness that, more than any thing 
 else, tended to extinguish the hope that had arisen 
 into a flame in her heart. Had he manifested any 
 emotion ; had he looked grave, troubled, indignant,
 
 190 THE COQUETTE. 
 
 proud, haughty, or any thing else but calmly indif 
 ferent and self-possessed, Ada would have felt sure 
 of her power over him. But a perception of the 
 real truth was as distinct to her as if the most 
 emphatic words, sealing her fate, had been uttered 
 in her ears. 
 
 Earlier than the rest Ada retired, unable longer 
 to control herself as she could wish, and unwilling 
 to expose, to eyes already too observant, the change 
 that had come over her feelings. 
 
 From that hour, Ada Glenn ceased to be the gay, 
 buoyant, attractive girl who had extorted admira 
 tion from so many, and trifled, in her vain pride 
 and thoughtlessness, with all. She rarely went into 
 company, and then her sober mien left her usually 
 in the background. The lively belle, in a few 
 months, ceased to attract attention ; and young men 
 who had been captives at her feet, wondered why 
 she had exercised such power over them. 
 
 As for Bedford, he erred in believing that, with 
 a single dash of the will, he had effaced for ever the 
 image of Ada from his mind. Wounded pride and 
 honest indignation had raised him, in a moment, 
 superior to the weakness of his nature. But a long 
 period did not elapse before line after line began to 
 reappear, and before he was really aware of what 
 was going on within, he found himself gazing upon 
 the image of the maiden distinct as ever upon his 
 heart. 
 
 This discovery, when first made, was far from 
 being pleasant to the young man ; and he turned 
 from the fair image with impatient scorn. But turn 
 which way he would, it was still before him. Occa-
 
 THE COQUETTE. 191 
 
 sionally, he heard of Ada as greatly changed, and 
 sometimes he was thrown into company with her, 
 when the change was apparent to his own eyes. 
 These meetings, whenever they took place, left him 
 in a musing, sober state. There was something 
 about Ada that still interested him ; and when, as 
 it occasionally happened, he looked suddenly toward 
 her, and met her eyes fixed intently upon him with 
 a sad, earnest, tender look, he had feelings that he 
 was hardly able to understand. 
 
 Thus affairs progressed until, unexpectedly, the 
 young couple found themselves brought together in 
 a pic-nic. Dr. Bedford was less displeased at this 
 circumstance than he would have been a few months 
 earlier ; but he was careful not to throw himself 
 purposely in Ada's way, for his self-possession and 
 cool indifference, so far as she was concerned, no 
 longer existed. The thought of her, even, had 
 now power to disturb the pulsations of his heart. 
 
 The pleasant day had drawn nearly to a close. Two 
 or three times Bedford had been brought into such 
 close contact with Ada, that he could not, without 
 appearing rude, have avoided speaking a few words 
 to her. On these occasions he said little ; but it 
 was impossible to help observing, in the manner of 
 her replies, in the tones, and in the expression of 
 her countenance, something that told him, as 
 plainly as language could have uttered it, that she 
 deeply repented of her former conduct toward 
 him. 
 
 "It is too late," said the young man to himself, 
 with some bitterness of feeling, as he reflected upon 
 what it was impossible not to perceive. And even
 
 192 THE COQUETTE. 
 
 as he said this, there arose extenuating arguments 
 in his mind that he in vain strove to expel. 
 
 Disturbed by such thoughts and feelings, Dr. 
 Bedford wandered away from the gay party, and 
 remained alone for nearly an hour. As he returned, 
 he came suddenly upon Ada, seated in a pensive 
 attitude, just above a little dashing waterfall, down 
 into which she was looking. She was so entirely 
 lost in the scene, or, more probably, in thoughts 
 which it was impossible to drive out of her mind, 
 that she did not observe the young man's approach. 
 Bedford paused suddenly, and his first impulse was 
 to retreat. But, not being able to get his consent 
 to do this, he after a little hesitation advanced, and 
 when within a few paces roused her from her reverie 
 by a few lightly uttered words. Ada turned with a 
 start, while a deep crimson mantled her face. It 
 was some time before she could command herself 
 sufficiently to reply with any thing like composure, 
 and even then her voice slightly trembled. 
 
 Few words passed between them as, side by side, 
 they slowly returned to where they had left their 
 companions, for both were afraid to trust themselves 
 to speak. But that meeting had decided the fate 
 of both. Before a week elapsed, Dr. Bedford, 
 breaking through pride and every other restraining 
 sentiment, visited Ada, and, before leaving her, 
 renewed his offer of marriage, which was accepted 
 amid a gush of joyful tears. Deeply had Ada suf 
 fered through her folly, and from her suffering she 
 had come forth a purer, truer, and better woman. 
 
 There are a few like Ada. But rarely does the 
 vain coquette escape with so brief a period of suf-
 
 MR. WINKLEMAN AT HOME. 193 
 
 fering. Usually, with her, it is a life-long season 
 of sorrow and repentance. After rejecting, with 
 heartless levity, her worthy suitors, she yields her 
 hand at last to the most unworthy ; and, unblessed 
 by true affection, goes wearily on her way through 
 the world, glad when the hour comes in which she 
 may lay down her burdens, and find rest and peace 
 in the quiet grave. 
 
 MR. WINKLEMAN AT HOME. 
 
 MR. WINKLEMAN, after eating his breakfast in 
 silence, arose without a remark to any one, and left 
 the room in which his family were assembled at the 
 morning meal. Taking up his hat, he passed from 
 the house. As he came into the open air and made 
 two or three deep inspirations, in the unconscious 
 effort to relieve his bosom from a sense of oppres 
 sion, he became very distinctly aware that a heavy 
 weight rested upon his feelings. 
 
 "What's the matter with me? Why should I 
 feel troubled ?" 
 
 Thus Mr. Winkleman inquired of himself. And 
 as he walked along, in the direction of the store, 
 with his eyes cast down, he searched about in 
 thought for the cause of his unpleasant state of 
 feelings. 
 
 " There's nothing in my business to trouble me." 
 So he talked with himself. " Every thing is going 
 17
 
 194 MR. WINKLEMAN AT HOME. 
 
 on prosperously. No heavy payments for a month 
 to come. What does it mean ?" 
 
 Search in this direction not revealing the cause 
 of uneasiness, Mr. Winkleman's thoughts went back 
 to the home he had left so unceremoniously with 
 such an apparent indifference toward his wife and 
 children. This was evidently coming nearer the 
 source of trouble, for the weight on his feelings 
 grew more oppressive. And now he was conscious 
 of having been in a very uncomfortable, unsocial 
 state, during all breakfast time. Why was this ? 
 Ah ! It was all clear now a sigh attested the 
 discovery. 
 
 Mr. Winkleman, though a well-meaning man, and 
 kind in the main to his family, was sensitive to little 
 incongruities and annoyances, and not over patient 
 when they occurred. He was apt to speak sharply 
 on the spur of the moment always to the disturb 
 ance of his own peace after the excitement of the 
 occasion was over. 
 
 On this particular morning, his daughter Fanny, 
 a bright, playful, rather thoughtless girl, in her 
 thirteenth year, committed some act of rudeness, 
 for which he reproved her in so harsh a manner, 
 that the child burst into tears. 
 
 The instant Mr. Winkleman spoke, he felt that 
 he had done wrong. Experience, as well as reason, 
 had long ago made clear to his mind the folly of 
 harsh or fretful reproof. The clear conviction, in 
 a parent's mind, that he has wronged his child, is 
 always attended with pain. This conviction was 
 felt by Mr. Winkleman, and pain followed. Fanny 
 glided, weeping, from the room, and the erring
 
 MR. WINKLEMAN AT HOME. 195 
 
 father silently almost moodily went on to com 
 plete his toilet. While thus engaged, some article 
 of dress was found not to be in suitable order. 
 Already disturbed in mind, this newly exciting 
 cause prompted the utterance of an impatient ejacu 
 lation, with an added word of censure toward his 
 wife for neglect. 
 
 Mrs. Winkleman felt his unkind manner and 
 expression what true wife does not feel rebuke or 
 censure keenly ? and though prompt to repair the 
 neglect, showed that she was hurt. 
 
 Here lay the whole secret. Mr. Winkleman had 
 permitted himself to feel and to speak unkindly, 
 first to his child, and then to his wife. Such a state 
 of feeling, in a man like Mr. Winkleman, could not 
 exist without of itself producing an unhappy frame 
 of mind ; but when to this was added the remem 
 brance of harsh and hasty speech toward his wife 
 and one of his children, with a perception of their 
 mental pain, cause enough for all his uncomfortable 
 sensations were apparent. 
 
 " I wish I had more control of myself," said Mr. 
 Winkleman, with a sigh. 
 
 He felt worse, now that all was clear to his mind, 
 for self-condemnation was added. 
 
 "I must control myself better." Good purposes 
 were forming, and these always have a tranquillizing 
 effect. " Harsh words and an unkind manner do 
 little, if any good. If things go wrong, these act 
 feebly as correctives. I must, and will control my 
 self better." 
 
 By the time Mr. Winkleman arrived at his store 
 he was able to dismiss these thoughts, and to enter 
 
 "'
 
 196 MR. WINKLEMAN AT HOME. 
 
 with his usual earnestness upon the business of the 
 day. 
 
 On turning his steps homeward, at dinner time, 
 thought preceded, and something of the oppression 
 from which he had suffered in the morning now 
 rested on his feelings. He remembered how it was 
 when he left, and imagination could realize no 
 change in the aspect of things. He saw the glist 
 ening eyes and grieving face of his child, and the 
 sober, almost sad countenance of his wife. To meet 
 these, and yet assume a cheerful manner, was for 
 him no light achievement. But it must, if possible, 
 be done. How relieved he was, when Fanny, his 
 light-hearted little girl, met him with a sunny face, 
 and claimed her usual kiss. Mrs. Winkleman smiled 
 too, as pleasantly as if there had been no morning 
 cloud. Yet, even from this he suffered rebuke. 
 There was a generous denial of self, and a loving 
 forgiveness on their part, that humbled and sobered 
 him. Ah ! if he could only forget the past, so that 
 he might enter into the joy of the present. But 
 that was impossible. Whatever is written on the 
 memory in pain, leaves too vivid a record. 
 
 Yet, there was one thing he could do, and that 
 was to speak and act affectionately and kindly. 
 How potent was the charm that lay in his words 
 and manner ! What a new sphere of life seemed 
 to pervade the little home circle. The morning 
 cloud had passed, and the risen sun exhaled the 
 early dew. 
 
 But ere the dinner hour was over, a touch dis 
 cordant jarred the pleasant harmony. Fanny hap-
 
 MR. WINKLEMAN AT HOME. 197 
 
 pened to overturn a glass of water, at which Mr. 
 Winkleman said impatiently, and with a frown 
 
 " What a careless girl you are !" 
 
 The blood mounted to Fanny's cheeks and brow, 
 and tears came into her eyes. 
 
 Scarcely were the words uttered by Mr. Winkle- 
 man, ere he was sobered by regret. 
 
 " Try and be more careful, Fanny," said he, in a 
 kinder voice. 
 
 " I didn't mean to do it, father." 
 
 Fanny's lip quivered. She tried to regain her 
 self-possession ; but the very kindness in her father's 
 voice helped, now, to break down her feelings, and 
 she sobbed aloud. Mr. Winkleman didn't like this. 
 His sudden irritation had clouded his perceptions, 
 and he did not, therefore, see into the mind of his 
 child, and comprehend her state. He attributed 
 rather to anger, or perverseness, than of wounded 
 feelings that would express their pain, the tears of 
 his child. 
 
 "I don't see any use in your crying about it," 
 said Mr. Winkleman, a little sternly. 
 
 Fanny's sobs increased. Finding it impossible 
 to control herself, she left the table, and retired 
 from the room. 
 
 Mrs. Winkleman'a eyes followed, with a sad look, 
 her child ; and over her whole countenance gathered 
 a sober hue, as she vanished through the door. Mr. 
 Winkleman saw the change his impatient temper 
 had wrought, and his feelings took even a darker 
 shade ; for self-reproaches, stinging sharply, were 
 added to mortification. 
 
 Alas ! How all was marred again marred through 
 17*
 
 198 MR. WINK1EMAN AT HOME. 
 
 Mr. Winkleraan's unfortunate lack of self-control. 
 His heart was heavier when he left his dwelling and 
 took his way to his store, than in the morning. He 
 did not now have to search ahout in his mind for 
 the causes that produced the weight upon his feel 
 ings. Alas ! they were too apparent. 
 
 " I must do better than this. It is unmanly 
 nay worse, unjust even worse than that cruel," 
 he said to himself, as he sat down in his private 
 office, and mused alone. Half of the afternoon was 
 spent in self-reproaches, repentance, and the forma 
 tion of good resolutions. He reviewed the past 
 through many years, and saw how, times almost 
 without number, he had, through impatience and 
 want of a thoughtful regard for his wife and children, 
 destroyed their happiness and his own. 
 
 " I once heard a lady say, not knowing that the 
 words would reach my ears, that Mr. Winkleman 
 was a good husband and father. I was flattered 
 exceedingly, and prided myself on the truth of her 
 remark. But was the remark really true ? Alas ! 
 I fear not. The captious, impatient, sharp-speak 
 ing husband and father, merits not such a com 
 mendation." 
 
 Humbled in his own eyes, and grieving for the 
 pain he had occasioned in his family, Mr. Winkle 
 man returned home at the close of the day with a 
 heavy heart. He wished to bring sunshine into his 
 dwelling ; but, unable to rally himself and put on a 
 cheerful countenance, he felt that his presence would 
 be far mere likely to darken than brighten the 
 spirits of his wife and children. 
 
 As Mr. Winkleman placed his hand upon the door
 
 MR. WINKLEMAN AT HOME. 199 
 
 to open it, he experienced no sense of pleasure. 
 Fanny's tearful eyes were before him, and her sobs 
 yet rung in his ears. With almost noiseless step he 
 entered, and was going quietly up stairs, when he 
 met his daughter coming down. 
 
 "Well, Fanny!" He forced a smile, and com 
 pelled his voice to assume a gentle, loving tone. 
 
 Instantly, Fanny's arms were around his neck, 
 and her warm lips on his cheek. He could not but 
 return the kiss, nor help laying his hand upon her 
 head, and toying affectionately with her sunny curls. 
 When he entered the room where his wife was sit 
 ting, Fanny walked by his side, with both her hands 
 claspihg his arm. 
 
 If a cloud rested on the spirit of his wife when 
 he entered, he saw not its shadow in her face. 
 Light from his own countenance was reflected back 
 from hers in sunny brightness. 
 
 "I must keep this sky undimmed," said Mr. 
 Winkleman to himself. "It has been dark to-day; 
 but mine was the hand that shrouded it in gloom." 
 
 Yet, ere half an hour passed, his impatient spirit 
 was nigh overshadowing their firmament. Neither 
 his wife nor children were perfect and his weak 
 ness was looking for entire harmony, order, and 
 good taste in all their words and deeds. But suffer 
 ing had brought true perceptions of his own error, 
 and these made him wiser. He controlled himself, 
 and when it was right to use words of correction to 
 his children, they were spoken with mildness. He 
 could but wonder at their hidden power. 
 
 What a pleasant evening was that which closed 
 on so dark a day.
 
 200 MR. WINKLEMAN AT HOME. 
 
 Morning found Mr. Winkleman in danger of 
 relapsing into his old state. But the memory of 
 former pain was potent to help his quick returning 
 good resolutions. Fanny jarred his feelings with 
 some annoying act of carelessness or disorder, and 
 the sharp reproof was on his tongue. But he re 
 strained its utterance. When entire self-control 
 was his, he gently pointed out to her wherein she 
 was wrong. With a prompt apology and a promise 
 to do better, Fanny corrected her error. 
 
 At the breakfast table, Mr. Winkleman did not 
 suffer himself to be thrown off of his guard. He had 
 not enjoyed a meal so well for weeks, and could not 
 help remarking how light and cheerful he felt, as, 
 on rising from the table, and saying good morning, 
 almost gayly, he left the house, and went out into 
 the street with a light air murmuring on his lips. 
 
 "Good humour." What a power it possesses! 
 and what a power there is in gentle words ! Mr. 
 Winkleman proved this, not only on the present, 
 but on many after occasions ; and so may we all 
 prove it. 
 
 Reader, do you often, like Mr. Winkleman, go 
 out from your home with a weight on your feel 
 ings ? Look again into the mirror we hold up, and 
 see if you cannot discover the cause. The fault, as 
 was the case with Mr. Winkleman, may be all in 
 yourself.
 
 THE MAN AND THE DEMON. 
 
 PART FIRST. THE MAN. 
 
 THE air is soft, and laden with fragrance from 
 the newly-mown fields ; amid the leafy branches 
 of old trees are nestling the weary birds ; the val 
 leys lie in deepening shadows, though golden sun 
 light lingers yet upon the hilltops. It is the 
 closing hour of a lovely (Jay in June. 
 
 Hark ! a manly voice has broken the pervading 
 stillness. 
 
 " Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
 Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home." 
 
 How the fine tones swell upward ! How in every 
 modulation is perceived some varied expression of 
 the sentiment conveyed in the words ! The man is 
 singing from heart-fulness. Home is to him the 
 dearest spot on earth the loveliest place in all the 
 wide, wide world, humble though it be ! Listen ! 
 
 " An exile from home, pleasures dazzle in vain, 
 Oh, give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again." 
 
 There he comes, just emerging from that little 
 grove of cedars, where the road winds by the plea 
 sant brookside. How erect his form ! How elastic 
 his step ! What a light is thrown back from his 
 bare and ample forehead ! 
 
 201
 
 202 THE MAN AND TOE DEMON. 
 
 Yonder, where the valley seems to close, but, in 
 reality, only bends around a mountain spur, to open 
 in new and varied beauty, stands a neat cottage, 
 its doors and windows vine-wreathed and flower- 
 gemmed. Above this home of love and peace are 
 spread the leafy branches of a century-old elm. In 
 summer, this guardian tree receives into its ample 
 bosom the fierce sun-rays, and tempers them with 
 coolness. In winter, though shorn of its verdure, 
 it breaks the fury of the strong north-west, so that 
 it falls not too rudely upon the nestling cottage 
 beneath. 
 
 In this sweet and sheltered spot are the house 
 hold treasures of Henry Erskine. He has gathered 
 them here, because his love seeks for them all ex 
 ternal blessings his hand can give. Years agone, 
 this cottage was the home of his gentle wife. Here 
 he had wooed her, and here won her trusting heart. 
 Time wore on death and misfortune scattered the 
 old household, and the pleasant homestead passed 
 into the hands of strangers. On the day it was 
 sold, Erskine coming suddenly upon his young 
 wife, found her in tears. He pressed to know the 
 cause. Half was revealed and half but guessed. 
 Love prompted the resolution that was instantly 
 formed. Three years afterward, Erskine, through 
 untiring labour and self-denial, had saved enough 
 to purchase back the cottage, into which, with a 
 new and higher sense of enjoyment, he gathered 
 his fruitful vine, and the olive-branches already 
 bending above and around him. 
 
 The best husband, the kindest father, the truest 
 man in all that pleasant valley, was Henry Erskine.
 
 THE MAN AND THE DEMON. 203 
 
 He had been absent a few days on business, and 
 now returning to his home-treasures, it was from 
 the fulness of his heart that he sung 
 
 " Home, home sweet, sweet home ! 
 Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." 
 
 And, as he sung on, and strode forward, quick, 
 eagerly listening ears caught the music of his well- 
 known voice, and ere he had reached, by many 
 hundred yards, the little white gate that opened 
 from the road to his dwelling, tiny arms were 
 tightly clasping his neck, and soft lips pressing his 
 cheek and forehead. 
 
 Oh ! what gushing gladness was in his heart ! 
 How large it seemed in his bosom ! How full of 
 good desires and bounteous wishes for the loved 
 ones who made his home a paradise ! 
 
 "Dear Anna!" How many times he said this, 
 as with both hands laid upon the fair temples of 
 his happy wife, he smoothed back her raven hair, 
 and gazed into the loving depths of her dark 
 bright eyes ! 
 
 The sunniest day in the whole calendar of their 
 lives was this. As Erskine sat amid his children, 
 with their gentle-hearted mother at his side, he felt 
 that the cup of his happiness was full to over 
 flowing. 
 
 And yet ah ! why are we forced to write it ! 
 ere the evening of that glad reunion closed, a faint 
 shadow had fallen on the heart of Mrs. Erskine. 
 She had been aware of an unusual degree of elation 
 on the part of her husband in rejoining them after 
 his brief absence, but thought of it only as an ex-
 
 204 THE MAN AND THE DEMON. 
 
 cess of gladness at getting home again. Two or 
 three neighbours called in later in the evening, 
 when, in agreement with a very bad custom then 
 prevailing, something to drink was brought forth, 
 and before the neighbours retired, the undue eleva 
 tion of spirits noticed by the wife of Mr. Erskine, 
 had increased to a degree that left her in no doubt 
 as to its source. 
 
 " How sober you look, Anna dear !" said Mr. 
 Erskine, with his usual tenderness of manner, on 
 the next morning. " Are you well ?" 
 
 "Oh yes. But what a strange and terrible 
 dream I had ! I can't shake off the effects. And 
 yet I know it was only a dream." 
 
 "A dream! Is that all?" said Erskine, with a 
 smile. "But what was it, dear? It must have 
 been something terrible, indeed, to leave a shadow 
 upon your spirits." 
 
 " A very strange dream, Henry. I thought we 
 were sitting at the table just as we were sitting last 
 evening, with our pleasant neighbours around us. 
 You had just taken a glass from your lips, after 
 drinking my health, as you did then. You placed 
 it near me, so that I could see into it to the bot 
 tom, where still remained a small portion of liquor. 
 Something fixed my gaze, and presently I saw, in 
 miniature, a perfect image of your face. Surprised, 
 I looked up ; but you and all the company were 
 gone ! I was alone, in a strange, desolate, meagrely 
 furnished room. The table was still beside me, and 
 on it yet remained the glass, toward which my eyes 
 turned with a fascination I could not resist. Into 
 the liquor at the bottom I gazed, and there, more
 
 THE MAN AND THE DEMON. 205 
 
 distinct than at first, P saw your face ; but now the 
 eyes had a sharp, eager look, that seemed to go 
 through me with a sense of pain. The tender 
 arching of your lips was gone, and they were drawn 
 against the teeth with a cruel expression. I feel 
 the shudder still which then ran through my heart. 
 Henry ! a look such as I then saw on your face 
 would kill me !" 
 
 And the wife of Henry Erskine, overcome with 
 feeling, laid her head upon his shoulder and 
 sobbed. 
 
 "Dear Anna! Forget the wretched dream!" 
 said Erskine, as he drew his arm tightly around 
 her. " I wonder that a mere phantom of the night 
 can have such power to move you." 
 
 "But that was not all," resumed Mrs. Erskine, 
 as soon as she had grown calm enough to speak. 
 " The face now began to rise up from the top of 
 the glass, rounding as it rose, until a head and 
 well-defined neck stood above the vessel; and all 
 the while a malignant change was progressing on 
 the countenance. More horrible still ! The glass 
 suddenly enlarged enormously its dimensions, and 
 in it I now saw, in fearful coils, the body of a ser 
 pent, bearing up higher and higher the face and 
 head of a man. Another instant, and horrid, slimy 
 folds were around my neck and body ! In their 
 tightening, suffocating clasp, I awoke. Henry! 
 was it not terrible ? What could have excited such 
 a phantasy?" 
 
 " A horrible nightmare," said Erskine ; " a night 
 mare only. And yet, how strange it is that such an 
 18
 
 206 THE MAN AND THE DEMON. 
 
 image found entrance into your innocent, guarded 
 mind!" 
 
 It was all in vain that Mrs. Erskine strove, 
 throughout that day, to drive the shadow from her 
 heart. The dream was of too peculiar and startling 
 a nature to admit of this. Moreover, its singular 
 connection with the neighbourly conviviality of the 
 previous evening, when she was forced to observe 
 the unusual elation of her husband's mind, gave 
 food for questionings and thoughts, which in no 
 way served to obliterate the dream, or to tran 
 quillize her feelings. When her husband returned 
 home at the close of day, he saw in her counte 
 nance, for the first time, something that annoyed 
 and repelled him. Why was this ? What was the 
 meaning of the expression ? Did she doubt him in 
 any thing ? Ah ! How could she forget her dream 
 that malignant face and slimy serpent the fatal 
 cup and the death hidden in its fascinating con 
 tents? 
 
 It was later in the evening. The flitting sha 
 dows had been chased away by the sunny faces 
 that gathered around the tea-table. Amid their 
 children, all sense of oppression, of doubt, had va 
 nished. The kneeling little ones had said, in low, 
 reverent tones, " Our Father," and were sleeping 
 in sweet unconsciousness. The evening had waned, 
 and now, in accordance with habit, Mr. Erskine 
 brought forth a decanter, and was about filling a 
 glass therefrom, when his wife, laying her hand on 
 his arm, said, with a sad earnestness of manner, 
 which she strove to conceal with a smile 
 
 " Henry dear, forgive me for saying so, but the
 
 ** . i ** 
 
 " >* 
 
 -* 'V *' 
 
 THE MAN AND THE DEMON. 207 
 
 sight of that decanter and glass makes me shudder. 
 I have thought all day about my dream the ser 
 pent in the glass." 
 
 "Bearing your husband's face," said Erskine, 
 quickly, and with rather more of feeling than he 
 meant to express; " and you fear that he will prove 
 the serpent in the end, to suffocate you in his horrid 
 folds." 
 
 Henry Erskine ! what could have tempted you to 
 this utterance ? Ah ! the truth must be told. It 
 was the serpent in the glass ! False friends, as he 
 came homeward that evening, had drawn him aside 
 to drink with them. Alas ! a malignant demon 
 was in the cup, and its poison entered his bosom. 
 He did not drink even to partial physical intoxica 
 tion ; but far enough to disturb the calm, rational 
 balance of his mind, and thus to change the order 
 of mental influx. He was no longer the equipoised 
 man, and, therefore, no longer in orderly associa 
 tion with pure angelic spirits. Just in the degree 
 that he was separated from these, came he into as 
 sociation with spirits of an opposite character 
 demons in their eager desire to extinguish all that 
 is pure and good in human nature. And thus it 
 ever is, in a greater or less degree, with all who 
 disturb the rational balance of their minds, either 
 partially or mentally, by the use of what intoxi 
 cates. This is the reason why the way of the ine 
 briate, even from the beginning, is marked by such 
 strange infatuation. He seems to be in the power 
 of evil spirits who govern him at will, and he is, ia 
 reality, thus in their power.
 
 4 
 
 208 THE MAN AND THE DEMON. 
 
 An instant pallor overspread the face of Mrs. 
 Erskine, at her husband's cruel retQrt. What an 
 age of wretchedness was comprised in a single mo 
 ment of time ! Erskine saw the effect of his words, 
 and repented their utterance. He even, for a mo 
 ment, partially yielded to an impulse to put up the 
 liquor untasted; but the demon tempter was too 
 close to his side, and too prompt to whisper that 
 such an act would be an unmanly (!) concession to 
 his wife's foolish weakness. And so, his mind 
 already partially unbalanced, as has been seen, he 
 completed the dethronement of manly reason, by 
 pouring out and drinking a larger draught of spirits 
 than he was accustomed to take. 
 
 Alas ! how quickly has the man become eclipsed 
 partially now, and to shine forth again in the 
 unclouded heavens. Yet, to be eclipsed again, and 
 again, until final darkness covers all. 
 
 Reader, we have shown you the man. When 
 your eyes first rested upon him, at a single point 
 of the orbit in which he moved, was not the form 
 beautiful to look upon, and the ministry of his 
 affections full of good to others ? We have another 
 picture not that of a man, but of a demon. Will 
 you look upon it ? Ah ! if you turn your eyes 
 away, we will not question the act. It is a picture 
 upon which some need to look, and, therefore, it is 
 sketched, though with a hurried and reluctant hand. 
 Here it is.
 
 THE MAN AND THE DEMON. 209 
 
 PART SECOND. THE DEMON. 
 
 " SOME brandy," said a pale-featured man, 
 coming up hurriedly to the bar of a small country 
 tavern, and reaching out his hand eagerly. 
 
 " Nothing more at this bar without the money : 
 that's decided!" was the tavern-keeper's firmly 
 spoken answer. 
 
 " Just a single glass, for Heaven's sake ! I'll 
 settle all off to-morrow," urged the wretched man, 
 as he leaned on the counter, and bent far over to 
 ward the shelves on which the bottles of liquor 
 were ranged. 
 
 " Not a drop. And, see here, Erskine, I don't 
 want you about here any more ; so just keep away 
 for good and all. If you'll do that, I'll wipe off old 
 scores ; if not, confound me ! if I don't clap you in 
 jail for debt. I won't have such a drunken, good- 
 for-nothing fellow hanging about my premises. 
 It's disgraceful !" 
 
 " That's hard talk, Grimes hard talk !" said 
 the poor wretch ; " and you with so much of my 
 money in your till. But come ! don't be so close 
 with me. There do you see my hand" and he 
 held out his arm, that shook with a strong nervous 
 trernour " I must have something to steady me, or 
 I'm gone !" 
 
 " Not a dram more. I've said it, and I'll stick 
 to it," coldly and cruelly answered the landlord. 
 " And what's more, you've got to leave this bar 
 instanter." 
 
 And as Grimes said this, he passed from behind 
 18*
 
 210 THE MAN AND THE DEMON. 
 
 the counter, with the evident intention of forcing 
 his customer out of the house. A quick change 
 was now visible, not only in the face of Erskine, 
 but in his whole person. His hand, that lay trem 
 bling against the bar railing, at once became steady, 
 and griped the railing firmly; his stooping body, 
 in appearance so weak and unstrung, rose up erect, 
 while a fierce, defiant scowl darkened his counte 
 nance. By this time the landlord had left the bar, 
 and was within a few feet of him. 
 
 " I want you to leave here at once," said Grimes, 
 sharply, waving his hand, and nodding his head 
 toward the door as he spoke. 
 
 " I'm not just ready to go," was the cool reply 
 of Erskine, as his now glittering eyes fixed them 
 selves on the face of Grimes. 
 
 " Go you must ! I've said it, and that ends it. 
 And, see here, you loafing vagabond ! if you ever 
 set your foot inside of my house again, I'll cowskin 
 you. Go !" 
 
 And he was about to lay his hand on Erskine, 
 when the latter stepped backward a pace or two, 
 saying, as he did so 
 
 " Don't touch me, Bill Grimes ! I've got the 
 devil in me now, and had as lief kill you as look at 
 you. So don't tempt me." 
 
 " Bah !" ejaculated the landlord, contemptuously, 
 advancing again upon the inebriate, and making an 
 attempt, as he did so, to grasp him by the collar, 
 for the purpose of choking him into submission. 
 His hand had scarcely touched the person of Erskine, 
 ere the latter, with a demoniac cry, sprang upon 
 kim with so sudden a shock as to bear him to the
 
 THE MAN AND THE DEMON. 211 
 
 floor. As the landlord fell beneath his assailant, 
 the grip of the latter was on his throat. To free 
 himself from this he deemed an easy thing ; but for 
 once he was in error. He was not now dealing, 
 as he supposed, with a nerveless and exhausted 
 drunkard, whom a child might overcome. The 
 poor, despised wretch was suddenly transformed, 
 through an influx of malignant passions into "the 
 disordered elements of his mind, to a fierce wild 
 beast. There was an iron grip in his hand, as it- 
 tightened on the throat of his prostrate victim ; 
 while the terrible expression of his eyes and face 
 too clearly indicated his purpose to commit murder. 
 And fatal would have been the result, had not the 
 timely entrance of a third person prevented the 
 catastrophe. 
 
 " I told you the devil was in me," said Erskine, 
 as he shook himself free from the hands of the man 
 who had dragged him from the fallen body of the 
 landlord, and stood glaring a fiendlike defiance 
 upon the now thoroughly frightened Grimes. " I 
 meant to have killed you ; and I feel like doing it 
 yet. It would be nothing more than a just retri 
 bution. You beggar and destroy, body and soul, a 
 poor wretch, while he has money to pay you for the 
 hellish work ; but, when every sixpence he had in 
 the world lies safely in your till, you would thrust 
 him out with biting insult, even though he stands 
 shivering in nervous exhaustion before you, and 
 almost begs for a mouthful of stimulant to save 
 him from horrible madness. Bill Grimes ! you 
 may be thankful for your escape now, but the work 
 shall be done more surely, if ever my hand reaches
 
 212 THE MAN AND THE DEMON. 
 
 your accursed throat again. Give me some 
 brandy !" 
 
 These last words were uttered in a loud, fierce, 
 commanding voice. Grimes waited not for their 
 repetition, but hurried into his bar, and taking a 
 decanter of brandy, placed it upon the counter. 
 This was seized by Erskine, and a large glass filled 
 more than half full of the drugged and fiery liquor, 
 that poisoned while it fevered the system. At a 
 single draught this disappeared, and his hand was 
 on the decanter again, when both the landlord and 
 the person who had just entered interposed to pre 
 vent his drinking any further. Madly he resisted 
 this interference ; but there were two against him 
 now, and, though he struggled desperately, he was 
 soon hurled into the road, and the door barred 
 against him. 
 
 Homeward the degraded man soon after turned 
 his steps. Homeward ! Had he a home ? Reader, 
 ten years have passed since you heard his mellow 
 tones swelling upward on the evening air, in heart- 
 gushing thankfulness for the possession of a home. 
 He was a man then a noble-minded, unselfish, 
 love-inspired man, into whose arms, and upon whose 
 bosom, were folded household treasures, more prized 
 than all worldly wealth or honours. You saw the 
 vine and flower-wreathed cottage nestling beneath 
 the old elms, where a joyful reunion took place 
 after a brief absence. You entered, gazed upon the 
 happy group within, and called that home an 
 earthly paradise. 
 
 Go home with Henry Erskine again. Only ten 
 brief years have passed. Is he still in the cottage
 
 THE MAN AND THE DEMON. 213 
 
 under the elms? No, no, reader. You will not 
 find him there. Long, long ago, his wife and chil 
 dren passed weeping from its door. But yonder, in 
 that old, dingy hovel, the windows shattered, the 
 little enclosure broken down, and every sign of 
 vegetation, except rank weeds, gone there you 
 will find the wretched family of Henry Erskine. 
 Ah ! no less changed are they. You will look in 
 vain on their countenances for signs of gentle, 
 loving affections. In the fall of him to whom they 
 clung, they have also fallen not into the debasing 
 slough of sensuality, where he lies prostrate and 
 almost powerless ; but evil affections have gradually 
 prevailed, until the garden of their minds is over 
 run with thorns and briers. 
 
 You enter the wretched habitation. Surely 
 there must be some mistake ! In twice ten years a 
 transformation such as this could hardly have been 
 wrought. That sharp-featured, hollow-eyed woman, 
 who sits idle, and brooding there, as if all hope in 
 life had faded, cannot be the once glad-hearted 
 Mrs. Erskine of " Elm Cottage" ? These hungry, 
 miserably clad, prematurely old-looking children 
 are they the same we saw in that pleasant home, so 
 gay and glad with their happy father? It is in 
 credible. This cannot be the home of a man. 
 Alas, no ! It is the abode of a demon ! And, see ! 
 he enters now the dwelling accursed by his pre 
 sence. Not as a man comes he, with blessings for 
 the beloved inmates, but as a demon, scattering 
 curses. The mother starts up, the children shrink 
 awa y all feel the shadow that rests upon their 
 spirits grow darker.
 
 214 THE MAN AND THE DEMON. 
 
 From some cause the wretched being is in an un 
 wonted state of excitement. There is something 
 fearful to look upon in his face a demoniac expres 
 sion that appals. He is angry with himself angry 
 with every thing. In his heart is a fierce desire to 
 commit violence. 
 
 " Ha ! what are you doing here ?" he cries, on 
 discovering that his oldest boy is in the room. 
 " Why have you come home ?" 
 
 The frightened lad stammers out something about 
 having offended his master, and being turned away 
 from his place. Really innocent of any deliberate 
 fault is the boy. He is not the wronger, but the 
 wronged. He has tried to please a hard, exacting 
 master, but failed in the earnest effort. All this 
 the mother comprehends. But the insane father 
 takes every thing for granted against his son. 
 Seizing him cruelly by the hair, he strikes him 
 with his clenched fist, and assails him with curses. 
 Maddened at the sight, the mother seizes a heavy 
 stick, and, with a single blow, paralyzes the arm of 
 her husband. 
 
 She might have spared that blow. Even 'as it 
 was descending, the hand that clutched the hair of 
 the boy was loosening its grasp, and a paralyzing 
 terror seizing the heart of the wretched drunkard. 
 What has fixed his eyes ? Why do they start thus, 
 almost from their sockets ? Is a lion in the door ? 
 some appalling destruction at hand ? Now he has 
 sprung to his feet an ashy pallor on his disfigured 
 countenance and both hands are raised to keep 
 off some object that he sees approaching. You see 
 nothing. No your eyes are not opened ; and pray
 
 THE MAN AND THE DEMON. 215 
 
 to Heaven they never may be as his are at this 
 fearful moment. But, as real to him as the open 
 door itself, entering through that door, and ap 
 proaching him nearer and nearer, is the horrible 
 form of a serpent, bearing upward the head of a 
 man. In the face, all malignant passions are in 
 vivid play. Nearer and nearer it comes nearer 
 and nearer ! Backward the frightened wretch 
 shrinks, almost howling in terror, until he crouches 
 in a far corner of the room, both hands raised to 
 keep off the monster that still approaches. Now, 
 the serpent is on him ! Now, its cold, slimy body 
 is enwreathing neck and limbs ! Oh ! that yell of 
 horror ! Will it ever be done ringing in your ears? 
 It was as the cry of a lost demon ! 
 
 Come ! come away! It is too horrible. We can 
 not endure the sight. There shut the door hide 
 from all eyes but those of the wretched inmates, 
 the appalling terrors of that room. 
 
 You breathe more freely yes but enough has 
 been said and heard to make you sad for days to 
 make you thoughtful, at times, for life. 
 
 Oh, what a work ! The transformation of a man 
 into a demon ! And what on this beautiful earth 
 has power to effect so fearful a transformation? 
 Is the fatal secret known ? Do fathers, husbands, 
 councilmen, legislators, statesmen, know in what 
 the terrible power lies ? Ah, strange, yet true, and 
 sad to tell, the monster whose breath poisons, whose 
 touch blights every leaf of virtue, stalks daily 
 abroad, his name emblazoned on his forehead ! 
 And, stranger far than this councilmen and legis 
 lators, in nearly every state, take bribes from this
 
 '1 
 " * " %%' 
 
 216 THE MAN AND THE DEMON. 
 
 monster, for the privilege of working these fearful 
 transformations. They sell, for money, (can it be 
 believed?) yes, they sell for money, the right to 
 curse the hearths and homes of their fellow-men 
 to scatter destruction to souls and bodies, over the 
 length and breadth of the land ! 
 
 You have seen one man transformed to a 
 demon ! It is the history of thousands and tens 
 of thousands. All around you are in progress, 
 like transformations. When, when will the work 
 cease ? When will the monster of destruction be 
 bound ? 
 
 Man, husband, father, citizen, sleep no longer ! 
 Up ! arouse yourself ! There is a terrible enemy 
 abroad. Come up bravely, resolutely to the battle, 
 and lay not off your armour until the victory is 
 won. Fear not falter not. All the powers of 
 heaven are on your side, and if you fight on 
 bravely, you will conquer at last. God speed the 
 day of victory ! 
 
 THE END.
 
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