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. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. DEC 2 o 1976 I AN Jo m REMINGTON RAND INC. 20 213 (533) DC SOUTHERN REGIONW. LIBRARY FACILITY 001 372 738 3 PS 1039 A78sh