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                                   The May Flower

                                        and

                               Miscellaneous Writings

                              By Harriet Beecher Stowe

     AUTHOR OF "UNCLE TOM'S CABIN," "SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS," ETC.


BOSTON:
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY,
13 WINTER STREET
1855.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District
of Massachusetts.

STEREOTYPED AT THE
BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY.




[Illustration: Truly Yours, H B Stowe]




INTRODUCTION.


Mr. G. B. Emerson, in his late report to the legislature of
Massachusetts on the trees and shrubs of that state, thus describes
The May Flower.

"Often from beneath the edge of a snow bank are seen rising the
fragrant, pearly-white or rose- flowers of this earliest
harbinger of spring.

"It abounds in the edges of the woods about Plymouth, as elsewhere, and
must have been the first flower to salute the storm-beaten crew of the
Mayflower on the conclusion of their first terrible winter. Their
descendants have thence piously derived the name, although its bloom is
often passed before the coming in of May."

No flower could be more appropriately selected as an emblem token by the
descendants of the Puritans. Though so fragrant and graceful, it is
invariably the product of the hardest and most rocky soils, and seems to
draw its ethereal beauty of color and wealth of perfume rather from the
air than from the slight hold which its rootlets take of the earth. It
may often be found in fullest beauty matting a granite lodge, with
scarcely any perceptible soil for its support.

What better emblem of that faith, and hope, and piety, by which our
fathers were supported in dreary and barren enterprises, and which drew
their life and fragrance from heaven more than earth?

The May Flower was, therefore, many years since selected by the author
as the title of a series of New England sketches. That work had
comparatively a limited circulation, and is now entirely out of print.
Its articles are republished in the present volume, with other
miscellaneous writings, which have from time to time appeared in
different periodicals. They have been written in all moods, from the
gayest to the gravest--they are connected, in many cases, with the
memory of friends and scenes most dear.

There are those now scattered through the world who will remember the
social literary parties of Cincinnati, for whose genial meetings many of
these articles were prepared. With most affectionate remembrances, the
author dedicates the book to the yet surviving members of The Semicolon.

Andover, _April, 1855_.




CONTENTS.


UNCLE LOT

LOVE _versus_ LAW

THE TEA ROSE

TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER

LITTLE EDWARD

AUNT MARY

FRANKNESS

THE SABBATH.--SKETCHES FROM A NOTE BOOK OF AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN

LET EVERY MAN MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS

COUSIN WILLIAM

THE MINISTRATION OF OUR DEPARTED FRIENDS.--A NEW YEAR'S REVERY

MRS. A. AND MRS. B.; OR, WHAT SHE THINKS ABOUT IT

CHRISTMAS; OR, THE GOOD FAIRY

EARTHLY CARE A HEAVENLY DISCIPLINE

CONVERSATION ON CONVERSATION

HOW DO WE KNOW?

WHICH IS THE LIBERAL MAN?

THE ELDER'S FEAST.--A TRADITION OF LAODICEA

LITTLE FRED, THE CANAL BOY

THE CANAL BOAT

FEELING

THE SEAMSTRESS

OLD FATHER MORRIS.--A SKETCH FROM NATURE

THE TWO ALTARS, OR TWO PICTURES IN ONE

A SCHOLAR'S ADVENTURES IN THE COUNTRY

"WOMAN, BEHOLD THY SON!"

THE CORAL RING

ART AND NATURE

CHILDREN

HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS WITH MAMMON

A SCENE IN JERUSALEM

THE OLD MEETING HOUSE.--SKETCH FROM THE NOTE BOOK OF AN OLD GENTLEMAN

THE NEW-YEAR'S GIFT

THE OLD OAK OF ANDOVER.--A REVERY

OUR WOOD LOT IN WINTER

POEMS:--

THE CHARMER

PILGRIM'S SONG IN THE DESERT

MARY AT THE CROSS

CHRISTIAN PEACE

ABIDE IN ME AND I IN YOU.--THE SOUL'S ANSWER

WHEN I AWAKE I AM STILL WITH THEE

CHRIST'S VOICE IN THE SOUL




THE MAY FLOWER.




UNCLE LOT.


And so I am to write a story--but of what, and where? Shall it be
radiant with the sky of Italy? or eloquent with the beau ideal of
Greece? Shall it breathe odor and languor from the orient, or chivalry
from the occident? or gayety from France? or vigor from England? No, no;
these are all too old--too romance-like--too obviously picturesque for
me. No; let me turn to my own land--my own New England; the land of
bright fires and strong hearts; the land of _deeds_, and not of words;
the land of fruits, and not of flowers; the land often spoken against,
yet always respected; "the latchet of whose shoes the nations of the
earth are not worthy to unloose."

Now, from this very heroic apostrophe, you may suppose that I have
something very heroic to tell. By no means. It is merely a little
introductory breeze of patriotism, such as occasionally brushes over
every mind, bearing on its wings the remembrance of all we ever loved or
cherished in the land of our early years; and if it should seem to be
rodomontade to any people in other parts of the earth, let them only
imagine it to be said about "Old Kentuck," old England, or any other
corner of the world in which they happened to be born, and they will
find it quite rational.

But, as touching our story, it is time to begin. Did you ever see the
little village of Newbury, in New England? I dare say you never did; for
it was just one of those out of the way places where nobody ever came
unless they came on purpose: a green little hollow, wedged like a bird's
nest between half a dozen high hills, that kept off the wind and kept
out foreigners; so that the little place was as straitly _sui generis_
as if there were not another in the world. The inhabitants were all of
that respectable old standfast family who make it a point to be born,
bred, married, die, and be buried all in the selfsame spot. There were
just so many houses, and just so many people lived in them; and nobody
ever seemed to be sick, or to die either, at least while I was there.
The natives grew old till they could not grow any older, and then they
stood still, and _lasted_ from generation to generation. There was, too,
an unchangeability about all the externals of Newbury. Here was a red
house, and there was a brown house, and across the way was a yellow
house; and there was a straggling rail fence or a tribe of mullein
stalks between. The minister lived here, and 'Squire Moses lived there,
and Deacon Hart lived under the hill, and Messrs. Nadab and Abihu Peters
lived by the cross road, and the old "widder" Smith lived by the meeting
house, and Ebenezer Camp kept a shoemaker's shop on one side, and
Patience Mosely kept a milliner's shop in front; and there was old
Comfort Scran, who kept store for the whole town, and sold axe heads,
brass thimbles, licorice ball, fancy handkerchiefs, and every thing else
you can think of. Here, too, was the general post office, where you
might see letters marvellously folded, directed wrong side upward,
stamped with a thimble, and superscribed to some of the Dollys, or
Pollys, or Peters, or Moseses aforenamed or not named.

For the rest, as to manners, morals, arts, and sciences, the people in
Newbury always went to their parties at three o'clock in the afternoon,
and came home before dark; always stopped all work the minute the sun
was down on Saturday night; always went to meeting on Sunday; had a
school house with all the ordinary inconveniences; were in neighborly
charity with each other; read their Bibles, feared their God, and were
content with such things as they had--the best philosophy, after all.
Such was the place into which Master James Benton made an irruption in
the year eighteen hundred and no matter what. Now, this James is to be
our hero, and he is just the hero for a sensation--at least, so you
would have thought, if you had been in Newbury the week after his
arrival. Master James was one of those whole-hearted, energetic Yankees,
who rise in the world as naturally as cork does in water. He possessed a
great share of that characteristic national trait so happily denominated
"cuteness," which signifies an ability to do every thing without trying,
and to know every thing without learning, and to make more use of one's
_ignorance_ than other people do of their knowledge. This quality in
James was mingled with an elasticity of animal spirits, a buoyant
cheerfulness of mind, which, though found in the New England character,
perhaps, as often as any where else, is not ordinarily regarded as one
of its distinguishing traits.

As to the personal appearance of our hero, we have not much to say of
it--not half so much as the girls in Newbury found it necessary to
remark, the first Sabbath that he shone out in the meeting house. There
was a saucy frankness of countenance, a knowing roguery of eye, a
joviality and prankishness of demeanor, that was wonderfully
captivating, especially to the ladies.

It is true that Master James had an uncommonly comfortable opinion of
himself, a full faith that there was nothing in creation that he could
not learn and could not do; and this faith was maintained with an
abounding and triumphant joyfulness, that fairly carried your sympathies
along with him, and made you feel quite as much delighted with his
qualifications and prospects as he felt himself. There are two kinds of
self-sufficiency; one is amusing, and the other is provoking. His was
the amusing kind. It seemed, in truth, to be only the buoyancy and
overflow of a vivacious mind, delighted with every thing delightful, in
himself or others. He was always ready to magnify his own praise, but
quite as ready to exalt his neighbor, if the channel of discourse ran
that way: his own perfections being more completely within his
knowledge, he rejoiced in them more constantly; but, if those of any one
else came within the same range, he was quite as much astonished and
edified as if they had been his own.

Master James, at the time of his transit to the town of Newbury, was
only eighteen years of age; so that it was difficult to say which
predominated in him most, the boy or the man. The belief that he could,
and the determination that he would, be something in the world had
caused him to abandon his home, and, with all his worldly effects tied
in a blue cotton pocket handkerchief, to proceed to seek his fortune in
Newbury. And never did stranger in Yankee village rise to promotion with
more unparalleled rapidity, or boast a greater plurality of employment.
He figured as schoolmaster all the week, and as chorister on Sundays,
and taught singing and reading in the evenings, besides studying Latin
and Greek with the minister, nobody knew when; thus fitting for college,
while he seemed to be doing every thing else in the world besides.

James understood every art and craft of popularity, and made himself
mightily at home in all the chimney corners of the region round about;
knew the geography of every body's cider barrel and apple bin, helping
himself and every one else therefrom with all bountifulness; rejoicing
in the good things of this life, devouring the old ladies' doughnuts and
pumpkin pies with most flattering appetite, and appearing equally to
relish every body and thing that came in his way.

The degree and versatility of his acquirements were truly wonderful. He
knew all about arithmetic and history, and all about catching squirrels
and planting corn; made poetry and hoe handles with equal celerity;
wound yarn and took out grease spots for old ladies, and made nosegays
and knickknacks for young ones; caught trout Saturday afternoons, and
discussed doctrines on Sundays, with equal adroitness and effect. In
short, Mr. James moved on through the place

           "Victorious,
    Happy and glorious,"

welcomed and privileged by every body in every place; and when he had
told his last ghost story, and fairly flourished himself out of doors at
the close of a long winter's evening, you might see the hard face of the
good man of the house still phosphorescent with his departing radiance,
and hear him exclaim, in a paroxysm of admiration, that "Jemeses talk
re'ely did beat all; that he was sartainly most a miraculous cre'tur!"

It was wonderfully contrary to the buoyant activity of Master James's
mind to keep a school. He had, moreover, so much of the boy and the
rogue in his composition, that he could not be strict with the
iniquities of the curly pates under his charge; and when he saw how
determinately every little heart was boiling over with mischief and
motion, he felt in his soul more disposed to join in and help them to a
frolic than to lay justice to the line, as was meet. This would have
made a sad case, had it not been that the activity of the master's mind
communicated itself to his charge, just as the reaction of one brisk
little spring will fill a manufactory with motion; so that there was
more of an impulse towards study in the golden, good-natured day of
James Benton than in the time of all that went before or came after him.

But when "school was out," James's spirits foamed over as naturally as a
tumbler of soda water, and he could jump over benches and burst out of
doors with as much rapture as the veriest little elf in his company.
Then you might have seen him stepping homeward with a most felicitous
expression of countenance, occasionally reaching his hand through the
fence for a bunch of currants, or over it after a flower, or bursting
into some back yard to help an old lady empty her wash tub, or stopping
to pay his _devoirs_ to Aunt This or Mistress That, for James well knew
the importance of the "powers that be," and always kept the sunny side
of the old ladies.

We shall not answer for James's general flirtations, which were sundry
and manifold; for he had just the kindly heart that fell in love with
every thing in feminine shape that came in his way, and if he had not
been blessed with an equal facility in falling out again, we do not know
what ever would have become of him. But at length he came into an
abiding captivity, and it is quite time that he should; for, having
devoted thus much space to the illustration of our hero, it is fit we
should do something in behalf of our heroine; and, therefore, we must
beg the reader's attention while we draw a diagram or two that will
assist him in gaining a right idea of her.

Do you see yonder brown house, with its broad roof sloping almost to the
ground on one side, and a great, unsupported, sun bonnet of a piazza
shooting out over the front door? You must often have noticed it; you
have seen its tall well sweep, relieved against the clear evening sky,
or observed the feather beds and bolsters lounging out of its chamber
windows on a still summer morning; you recollect its gate, that swung
with a chain and a great stone; its pantry window, latticed with little
brown slabs, and looking out upon a forest of bean poles. You remember
the zephyrs that used to play among its pea brush, and shake the long
tassels of its corn patch, and how vainly any zephyr might essay to
perform similar flirtations with the considerate cabbages that were
solemnly vegetating near by. Then there was the whole neighborhood of
purple-leaved beets and feathery parsnips; there were the billows of
gooseberry bushes rolled up by the fence, interspersed with rows of
quince trees; and far off in one corner was one little patch,
penuriously devoted to ornament, which flamed with marigolds, poppies,
snappers, and four-o'clocks. Then there was a little box by itself with
one rose geranium in it, which seemed to look around the garden as much
like a stranger as a French dancing master in a Yankee meeting house.

That is the dwelling of Uncle Lot Griswold. Uncle Lot, as he was
commonly called, had a character that a painter would sketch for its
lights and contrasts rather than its symmetry. He was a chestnut burr,
abounding with briers without and with substantial goodness within. He
had the strong-grained practical sense, the calculating worldly wisdom
of his class of people in New England; he had, too, a kindly heart; but
all the strata of his character were crossed by a vein of surly
petulance, that, half way between joke and earnest,  every thing
that he said and did.

If you asked a favor of Uncle Lot, he generally kept you arguing half an
hour, to prove that you really needed it, and to tell you that he could
not all the while be troubled with helping one body or another, all
which time you might observe him regularly making his preparations to
grant your request, and see, by an odd glimmer of his eye, that he was
preparing to let you hear the "conclusion of the whole matter," which
was, "Well, well--I guess--I'll go, on the _hull_--I 'spose I must, at
least;" so off he would go and work while the day lasted, and then wind
up with a farewell exhortation "not to be a callin' on your neighbors
when you could get along without." If any of Uncle Lot's neighbors were
in any trouble, he was always at hand to tell them that "they shouldn't
a' done so;" that "it was strange they couldn't had more sense;" and
then to close his exhortations by laboring more diligently than any to
bring them out of their difficulties, groaning in spirit, meanwhile,
that folks would make people so much trouble.

"Uncle Lot, father wants to know if you will lend him your hoe to-day,"
says a little boy, making his way across a cornfield.

"Why don't your father use his own hoe?"

"Ours is broke."

"Broke! How came it broke?"

"I broke it yesterday, trying to hit a squirrel."

"What business had you to be hittin' squirrels with a hoe? say!"

"But father wants to borrow yours."

"Why don't you have that mended? It's a great pester to have every body
usin' a body's things."

"Well, I can borrow one some where else, I suppose," says the suppliant.
After the boy has stumbled across the ploughed ground, and is fairly
over the fence, Uncle Lot calls,--

"Halloo, there, you little rascal! what are you goin' off without the
hoe for?"

"I didn't know as you meant to lend it."

"I didn't say I wouldn't, did I? Here, come and take it.--stay, I'll
bring it; and do tell your father not to be a lettin' you hunt squirrels
with his hoes next time."

Uncle Lot's household consisted of Aunt Sally, his wife, and an only son
and daughter; the former, at the time our story begins, was at a
neighboring literary institution. Aunt Sally was precisely as clever, as
easy to be entreated, and kindly in externals, as her helpmate was the
reverse. She was one of those respectable, pleasant old ladies whom you
might often have met on the way to church on a Sunday, equipped with a
great fan and a psalm book, and carrying some dried orange peel or a
stalk of fennel, to give to the children if they were sleepy in meeting.
She was as cheerful and domestic as the tea kettle that sung by her
kitchen fire, and slipped along among Uncle Lot's angles and
peculiarities as if there never was any thing the matter in the world;
and the same mantle of sunshine seemed to have fallen on Miss Grace, her
only daughter.

Pretty in her person and pleasant in her ways, endowed with native
self-possession and address, lively and chatty, having a mind and a will
of her own, yet good-humored withal, Miss Grace was a universal
favorite. It would have puzzled a city lady to understand how Grace, who
never was out of Newbury in her life, knew the way to speak, and act,
and behave, on all occasions, exactly as if she had been taught how. She
was just one of those wild flowers which you may sometimes see waving
its little head in the woods, and looking so civilized and garden-like,
that you wonder if it really did come up and grow there by nature. She
was an adept in all household concerns, and there was something
amazingly pretty in her energetic way of bustling about, and "putting
things to rights." Like most Yankee damsels, she had a longing after the
tree of knowledge, and, having exhausted the literary fountains of a
district school, she fell to reading whatsoever came in her way. True,
she had but little to read; but what she perused she had her own
thoughts upon, so that a person of information, in talking with her,
would feel a constant wondering pleasure to find that she had so much
more to say of this, that, and the other thing than he expected.

Uncle Lot, like every one else, felt the magical brightness of his
daughter, and was delighted with her praises, as might be discerned by
his often finding occasion to remark that "he didn't see why the boys
need to be all the time a' comin' to see Grace, for she was nothing so
extror'nary, after all." About all matters and things at home she
generally had her own way, while Uncle Lot would scold and give up with
a regular good grace that was quite creditable.

"Father," says Grace, "I want to have a party next week."

"You sha'n't go to havin' your parties, Grace. I always have to eat bits
and ends a fortnight after you have one, and I won't have it so." And so
Uncle Lot walked out, and Aunt Sally and Miss Grace proceeded to make
the cake and pies for the party.

When Uncle Lot came home, he saw a long array of pies and rows of cakes
on the kitchen table.

"Grace--Grace--Grace, I say! What is all this here flummery for?"

"Why, it is _to eat_, father," said Grace, with a good-natured look of
consciousness.

Uncle Lot tried his best to look sour; but his visage began to wax
comical as he looked at his merry daughter; so he said nothing, but
quietly sat down to his dinner.

"Father," said Grace, after dinner, "we shall want two more candlesticks
next week."

"Why, can't you have your party with what you've got?"

"No, father, we want two more."

"I can't afford it, Grace--there's no sort of use on't--and you sha'n't
have any."

"O, father, now do," said Grace.

"I won't, neither," said Uncle Lot, as he sallied out of the house, and
took the road to Comfort Scran's store.

In half an hour he returned again; and fumbling in his pocket, and
drawing forth a candlestick, levelled it at Grace.

"There's your candlestick."

"But, father, I said I wanted _two_."

"Why, can't you make one do?"

"No, I can't; I must have two."

"Well, then, there's t'other; and here's a fol-de-rol for you to tie
round your neck." So saying, he bolted for the door, and took himself
off with all speed. It was much after this fashion that matters commonly
went on in the brown house.

But having tarried long on the way, we must proceed with the main story.

James thought Miss Grace was a glorious girl; and as to what Miss Grace
thought of Master James, perhaps it would not have been developed had
she not been called to stand on the defensive for him with Uncle Lot.
For, from the time that the whole village of Newbury began to be wholly
given unto the praise of Master James, Uncle Lot set his face as a flint
against him--from the laudable fear of following the multitude. He
therefore made conscience of stoutly gainsaying every thing that was
said in his behalf, which, as James was in high favor with Aunt Sally,
he had frequent opportunities to do.

So when Miss Grace perceived that Uncle Lot did not like our hero as
much as he ought to do, she, of course, was bound to like him well
enough to make up for it. Certain it is that they were remarkably happy
in finding opportunities of being acquainted; that James waited on her,
as a matter of course, from singing school; that he volunteered making a
new box for her geranium on an improved plan; and above all, that he was
remarkably particular in his attentions to Aunt Sally--a stroke of
policy which showed that James had a natural genius for this sort of
matters. Even when emerging from the meeting house in full glory, with
flute and psalm book under his arm, he would stop to ask her how she
did; and if it was cold weather, he would carry her foot stove all the
way home from meeting, discoursing upon the sermon, and other serious
matters, as Aunt Sally observed, "in the pleasantest, prettiest way that
ever ye see." This flute was one of the crying sins of James in the eyes
of Uncle Lot. James was particularly fond of it, because he had learned
to play on it by intuition; and on the decease of the old pitchpipe,
which was slain by a fall from the gallery, he took the liberty to
introduce the flute in its place. For this, and other sins, and for the
good reasons above named, Uncle Lot's countenance was not towards James,
neither could he be moved to him-ward by any manner of means.

To all Aunt Sally's good words and kind speeches, he had only to say
that "he didn't like him; that he hated to see him a' manifesting and
glorifying there in the front gallery Sundays, and a' acting every where
as if he was master of all: he didn't like it, and he wouldn't." But our
hero was no whit cast down or discomfited by the malcontent aspect of
Uncle Lot. On the contrary, when report was made to him of divers of his
hard speeches, he only shrugged his shoulders, with a very satisfied
air, and remarked that "he knew a thing or two for all that."

"Why, James," said his companion and chief counsellor, "do you think
Grace likes you?"

"I don't know," said our hero, with a comfortable appearance of
certainty.

"But you can't get her, James, if Uncle Lot is cross about it."

"Fudge! I can make Uncle Lot like me if I have a mind to try."

"Well then, Jim, you'll have to give up that flute of yours, I tell you
now."

"Fa, sol, la--I can make him like me and my flute too."

"Why, how will you do it?"

"O, I'll work it," said our hero.

"Well, Jim, I tell you now, you don't know Uncle Lot if you say so; for
he is just the _settest_ critter in his way that ever you saw."

"I _do_ know Uncle Lot, though, better than most folks; he is no more
cross than I am; and as to his being _set_, you have nothing to do but
make him think he is in his own way when he is in yours--that is all."

"Well," said the other, "but you see I don't believe it."

"And I'll bet you a gray squirrel that I'll go there this very evening,
and get him to like me and my flute both," said James.

Accordingly the late sunshine of that afternoon shone full on the yellow
buttons of James as he proceeded to the place of conflict. It was a
bright, beautiful evening. A thunder storm had just cleared away, and
the silver clouds lay rolled up in masses around the setting sun; the
rain drops were sparkling and winking to each other over the ends of the
leaves, and all the bluebirds and robins, breaking forth into song, made
the little green valley as merry as a musical box.

James's soul was always overflowing with that kind of poetry which
consists in feeling unspeakably happy; and it is not to be wondered at,
considering where he was going, that he should feel in a double ecstasy
on the present occasion. He stepped gayly along, occasionally springing
over a fence to the right to see whether the rain had swollen the trout
brook, or to the left to notice the ripening of Mr. Somebody's
watermelons--for James always had an eye on all his neighbors' matters
as well as his own.

In this way he proceeded till he arrived at the picket fence that marked
the commencement of Uncle Lot's ground. Here he stopped to consider.
Just then four or five sheep walked up, and began also to consider a
loose picket, which was hanging just ready to drop off; and James began
to look at the sheep. "Well, mister," said he, as he observed the leader
judiciously drawing himself through the gap, "in with you--just what I
wanted;" and having waited a moment to ascertain that all the company
were likely to follow, he ran with all haste towards the house, and
swinging open the gate, pressed all breathless to the door.

"Uncle Lot, there are four or five sheep in your garden!" Uncle Lot
dropped his whetstone and scythe.

"I'll drive them out," said our hero; and with that, he ran down the
garden alley, and made a furious descent on the enemy; bestirring
himself, as Bunyan says, "lustily and with good courage," till every
sheep had skipped out much quicker than it skipped in; and then,
springing over the fence, he seized a great stone, and nailed on the
picket so effectually that no sheep could possibly encourage the hope of
getting in again. This was all the work of a minute, and he was back
again; but so exceedingly out of breath that it was necessary for him to
stop a moment and rest himself. Uncle Lot looked ungraciously satisfied.

"What under the canopy set you to scampering so?" said he; "I could a'
driv out them critturs myself."

"If you are at all particular about driving them out _yourself_, I can
let them in again," said James.

Uncle Lot looked at him with an odd sort of twinkle in the corner of his
eye.

"'Spose I must ask you to walk in," said he.

"Much obliged," said James; "but I am in a great hurry." So saying, he
started in very business-like fashion towards the gate.

"You'd better jest stop a minute."

"Can't stay a minute."

"I don't see what possesses you to be all the while in sich a hurry; a
body would think you had all creation on your shoulders."

"Just my situation, Uncle Lot," said James, swinging open the gate.

"Well, at any rate, have a drink of cider, can't ye?" said Uncle Lot,
who was now quite engaged to have his own way in the case.

James found it convenient to accept this invitation, and Uncle Lot was
twice as good-natured as if he had staid in the first of the matter.

Once fairly forced into the premises, James thought fit to forget his
long walk and excess of business, especially as about that moment Aunt
Sally and Miss Grace returned from an afternoon call. You may be sure
that the last thing these respectable ladies looked for was to find
Uncle Lot and Master James _tete-a-tete_, over a pitcher of cider; and
when, as they entered, our hero looked up with something of a
mischievous air, Miss Grace, in particular, was so puzzled that it took
her at least a quarter of an hour to untie her bonnet strings. But James
staid, and acted the agreeable to perfection. First, he must needs go
down into the garden to look at Uncle Lot's wonderful cabbages, and then
he promenaded all around the corn patch, stopping every few moments and
looking up with an appearance of great gratification, as if he had never
seen such corn in his life; and then he examined Uncle Lot's favorite
apple tree with an expression of wonderful interest.

"I never!" he broke forth, having stationed himself against the fence
opposite to it; "what kind of an apple tree is that?"

"It's a bellflower, or somethin' another," said Uncle Lot.

"Why, where _did_ you get it? I never saw such apples!" said our hero,
with his eyes still fixed on the tree.

Uncle Lot pulled up a stalk or two of weeds, and threw them over the
fence, just to show that he did not care any thing about the matter; and
then he came up and stood by James.

"Nothin' so remarkable, as I know on," said he.

Just then, Grace came to say that supper was ready. Once seated at
table, it was astonishing to see the perfect and smiling assurance with
which our hero continued his addresses to Uncle Lot. It sometimes goes a
great way towards making people like us to take it for granted that they
do already; and upon this principle James proceeded. He talked, laughed,
told stories, and joked with the most fearless assurance, occasionally
seconding his words by looking Uncle Lot in the face, with a countenance
so full of good will as would have melted any snowdrift of prejudices in
the world.

James also had one natural accomplishment, more courtier-like than all
the diplomacy in Europe, and that was the gift of feeling a _real_
interest for any body in five minutes; so that, if he began to please in
jest, he generally ended in earnest. With great simplicity of mind, he
had a natural tact for seeing into others, and watched their motions
with the same delight with which a child gazes at the wheels and springs
of a watch, to "see what it will do."

The rough exterior and latent kindness of Uncle Lot were quite a
spirit-stirring study; and when tea was over, as he and Grace happened
to be standing together in the front door, he broke forth,--

"I do really like your father, Grace!"

"Do you?" said Grace.

"Yes, I do. He has something _in him_, and I like him all the better for
having to fish it out."

"Well, I hope you will make him like you," said Grace, unconsciously;
and then she stopped, and looked a little ashamed.

James was too well bred to see this, or look as if Grace meant any more
than she said--a kind of breeding not always attendant on more
fashionable polish--so he only answered,--

"I think I shall, Grace, though I doubt whether I can get him to own
it."

"He is the kindest man that ever was," said Grace; "and he always acts
as if he was ashamed of it."

James turned a little away, and looked at the bright evening sky, which
was glowing like a calm, golden sea; and over it was the silver new
moon, with one little star to hold the candle for her. He shook some
bright drops off from a rosebush near by, and watched to see them shine
as they fell, while Grace stood very quietly waiting for him to speak
again.

"Grace," said he, at last, "I am going to college this fall."

"So you told me yesterday," said Grace.

James stooped down over Grace's geranium, and began to busy himself with
pulling off all the dead leaves, remarking in the mean while,--

"And if I do get _him_ to like me, Grace, will you like me too?"

"I like you now very well," said Grace.

"Come, Grace, you know what I mean," said James, looking steadfastly at
the top of the apple tree.

"Well, I wish, then, you would understand what _I_ mean, without my
saying any more about it," said Grace.

"O, to be sure I will!" said our hero, looking up with a very
intelligent air; and so, as Aunt Sally would say, the matter was
settled, with "no words about it."

Now shall we narrate how our hero, as he saw Uncle Lot approaching the
door, had the impudence to take out his flute, and put the parts
together, arranging and adjusting the stops with great composure?

"Uncle Lot," said he, looking up, "this is the best flute that ever I
saw."

"I hate them tooting critturs," said Uncle Lot, snappishly.

"I declare! I wonder how you can," said James, "for I do think they
exceed----"

So saying, he put the flute to his mouth, and ran up and down a long
flourish.

"There! what do you think of that?" said he, looking in Uncle Lot's face
with much delight.

Uncle Lot turned and marched into the house, but soon faced to the
right-about, and came out again, for James was fingering "Yankee
Doodle"--that appropriate national air for the descendants of the
Puritans.

Uncle Lot's patriotism began to bestir itself; and now, if it had been
any thing, as he said, but "that 'are flute"--as it was, he looked more
than once at James's fingers.

"How under the sun _could_ you learn to do that?" said he.

"O, it's easy enough," said James, proceeding with another tune; and,
having played it through, he stopped a moment to examine the joints of
his flute, and in the mean time addressed Uncle Lot: "You can't think
how grand this is for pitching tunes--I always pitch the tunes on Sunday
with it."

"Yes; but I don't think it's a right and fit instrument for the Lord's
house," said Uncle Lot.

"Why not? It is only a kind of a long pitchpipe, you see," said James;
"and, seeing the old one is broken, and this will answer, I don't see
why it is not better than nothing."

"Why, yes, it may be better than nothing," said Uncle Lot; "but, as I
always tell Grace and my wife, it ain't the right kind of instrument,
after all; it ain't solemn."

"Solemn!" said James; "that is according as you work it: see here, now."

So saying, he struck up Old Hundred, and proceeded through it with great
perseverance.

"There, now!" said he.

"Well, well, I don't know but it is," said Uncle Lot; "but, as I said at
first, I don't like the look of it in meetin'."

"But yet you really think it is better than nothing," said James, "for
you see I couldn't pitch my tunes without it."

"Maybe 'tis," said Uncle Lot; "but that isn't sayin' much."

This, however, was enough for Master James, who soon after departed,
with his flute in his pocket, and Grace's last words in his heart;
soliloquizing as he shut the gate, "There, now, I hope Aunt Sally won't
go to praising me; for, just so sure as she does, I shall have it all to
do over again."

James was right in his apprehension. Uncle Lot could be privately
converted, but not brought to open confession; and when, the next
morning, Aunt Sally remarked, in the kindness of her heart,--

"Well, I always knew you would come to like James," Uncle Lot only
responded, "Who said I did like him?"

"But I'm sure you _seemed_ to like him last night."

"Why, I couldn't turn him out o' doors, could I? I don't think nothin'
of him but what I always did."

But it was to be remarked that Uncle Lot contented himself at this time
with the mere general avowal, without running it into particulars, as
was formerly his wont. It was evident that the ice had begun to melt,
but it might have been a long time in dissolving, had not collateral
incidents assisted.

It so happened that, about this time, George Griswold, the only son
before referred to, returned to his native village, after having
completed his theological studies at a neighboring institution. It is
interesting to mark the gradual development of mind and heart, from the
time that the white-headed, bashful boy quits the country village for
college, to the period when he returns, a formed and matured man, to
notice how gradually the rust of early prejudices begins to cleave from
him--how his opinions, like his handwriting, pass from the cramped and
limited forms of a country school into that confirmed and characteristic
style which is to mark the man for life. In George this change was
remarkably striking. He was endowed by nature with uncommon acuteness of
feeling and fondness for reflection--qualities as likely as any to
render a child backward and uninteresting in early life.

When he left Newbury for college, he was a taciturn and apparently
phlegmatic boy, only evincing sensibility by blushing and looking
particularly stupefied whenever any body spoke to him. Vacation after
vacation passed, and he returned more and more an altered being; and he
who once shrunk from the eye of the deacon, and was ready to sink if he
met the minister, now moved about among the dignitaries of the place
with all the composure of a superior being.

It was only to be regretted that, while the mind improved, the physical
energies declined, and that every visit to his home found him paler,
thinner, and less prepared in body for the sacred profession to which he
had devoted himself. But now he was returned, a minister--a real
minister, with a right to stand in the pulpit and preach; and what a joy
and glory to Aunt Sally--and to Uncle Lot, if he were not ashamed to own
it!

The first Sunday after he came, it was known far and near that George
Griswold was to preach; and never was a more ready and expectant
audience.

As the time for reading the first psalm approached, you might see the
white-headed men turning their faces attentively towards the pulpit; the
anxious and expectant old women, with their little black bonnets, bent
forward to see him rise. There were the children looking, because every
body else looked; there was Uncle Lot in the front pew, his face
considerately adjusted; there was Aunt Sally, seeming as pleased as a
mother could seem; and Miss Grace, lifting her sweet face to her
brother, like a flower to the sun; there was our friend James in the
front gallery, his joyous countenance a little touched with sobriety and
expectation; in short, a more embarrassingly attentive audience never
greeted the first effort of a young minister. Under these circumstances
there was something touching in the fervent self-forgetfulness which
characterized the first exercises of the morning--something which moved
every one in the house.

The devout poetry of his prayer, rich with the Orientalism of Scripture,
and eloquent with the expression of strong yet chastened emotion,
breathed over his audience like music, hushing every one to silence, and
beguiling every one to feeling. In the sermon, there was the strong
intellectual nerve, the constant occurrence of argument and statement,
which distinguishes a New England discourse; but it was touched with
life by the intense, yet half-subdued, feeling with which he seemed to
utter it. Like the rays of the sun, it enlightened and melted at the
same moment.

The strong peculiarities of New England doctrine, involving, as they do,
all the hidden machinery of mind, all the mystery of its divine
relations and future progression, and all the tremendous uncertainties
of its eternal good or ill, seemed to have dwelt in his mind, to have
burned in his thoughts, to have wrestled with his powers, and they gave
to his manner the fervency almost of another world; while the exceeding
paleness of his countenance, and a tremulousness of voice that seemed to
spring from bodily weakness, touched the strong workings of his mind
with a pathetic interest, as if the being so early absorbed in another
world could not be long for this.

When the services were over, the congregation dispersed with the air of
people who had _felt_ rather than _heard_; and all the criticism that
followed was similar to that of old Deacon Hart--an upright, shrewd
man--who, as he lingered a moment at the church door, turned and gazed
with unwonted feeling at the young preacher.

"He's a blessed cre'tur!" said he, the tears actually making their way
to his eyes; "I hain't been so near heaven this many a day. He's a
blessed cre'tur of the Lord; that's my mind about him!"

As for our friend James, he was at first sobered, then deeply moved, and
at last wholly absorbed by the discourse; and it was only when meeting
was over that he began to think where he really was.

With all his versatile activity, James had a greater depth of mental
capacity than he was himself aware of, and he began to feel a sort of
electric affinity for the mind that had touched him in a way so new; and
when he saw the mild minister standing at the foot of the pulpit stairs,
he made directly towards him.

"I do want to hear more from you," said he, with a face full of
earnestness; "may I walk home with you?"

"It is a long and warm walk," said George, smiling.

"O, I don't care for that, if it does not trouble _you_," said James;
and leave being gained, you might have seen them slowly passing along
under the trees, James pouring forth all the floods of inquiry which the
sudden impulse of his mind had brought out, and supplying his guide with
more questions and problems for solution than he could have gone through
with in a month.

"I cannot answer all your questions now," said he, as they stopped at
Uncle Lot's gate.

"Well, then, when will you?" said James, eagerly. "Let me come home with
you to-night?"

The minister smiled assent, and James departed so full of new thoughts,
that he passed Grace without even seeing her. From that time a
friendship commenced between the two, which was a beautiful illustration
of the affinities of opposites. It was like a friendship between morning
and evening--all freshness and sunshine on one side, and all gentleness
and peace on the other.

The young minister, worn by long-continued ill health, by the fervency
of his own feelings, and the gravity of his own reasonings, found
pleasure in the healthful buoyancy of a youthful, unexhausted mind,
while James felt himself sobered and made better by the moonlight
tranquillity of his friend. It is one mark of a superior mind to
understand and be influenced by the superiority of others; and this was
the case with James. The ascendency which his new friend acquired over
him was unlimited, and did more in a month towards consolidating and
developing his character than all the four years' course of a college.
Our religious habits are likely always to retain the impression of the
first seal which stamped them, and in this case it was a peculiarly
happy one. The calmness, the settled purpose, the mild devotion of his
friend, formed a just alloy to the energetic and reckless buoyancy of
James's character, and awakened in him a set of feelings without which
the most vigorous mind must be incomplete.

The effect of the ministrations of the young pastor, in awakening
attention to the subjects of his calling in the village, was marked, and
of a kind which brought pleasure to his own heart. But, like all other
excitement, it tends to exhaustion, and it was not long before he
sensibly felt the decline of the powers of life. To the best regulated
mind there is something bitter in the relinquishment of projects for
which we have been long and laboriously preparing, and there is
something far more bitter in crossing the long-cherished expectations of
friends. All this George felt. He could not bear to look on his mother,
hanging on his words and following his steps with eyes of almost
childish delight--on his singular father, whose whole earthly ambition
was bound up in his success, and think how soon the "candle of their old
age" must be put out. When he returned from a successful effort, it was
painful to see the old man, so evidently delighted, and so anxious to
conceal his triumph, as he would seat himself in his chair, and begin
with, "George, that 'are doctrine is rather of a puzzler; but you seem
to think you've got the run on't. I should re'ly like to know what
business you have to think you know better than other folks about it;"
and, though he would cavil most courageously at all George's
explanations, yet you might perceive, through all, that he was inly
uplifted to hear how his boy could talk.

If George was engaged in argument with any one else, he would sit by,
with his head bowed down, looking out from under his shaggy eyebrows
with a shamefaced satisfaction very unusual with him. Expressions of
affection from the naturally gentle are not half so touching as those
which are forced out from the hard-favored and severe; and George was
affected, even to pain, by the evident pride and regard of his father.

"He never said so much to any body before," thought he, "and what will
he do if I die?"

In such thoughts as these Grace found her brother engaged one still
autumn morning, as he stood leaning against the garden fence.

"What are you solemnizing here for, this bright day, brother George?"
said she, as she bounded down the alley.

The young man turned and looked on her happy face with a sort of
twilight smile.

"How _happy_ you are, Grace!" said he.

"To be sure I am; and you ought to be too, because you are better."

"I am happy, Grace--that is, I hope I shall be."

"You are sick, I know you are," said Grace; "you look worn out. O, I
wish your heart could _spring_ once, as mine does."

"I am not well, dear Grace, and I fear I never shall be," said he,
turning away, and fixing his eyes on the fading trees opposite.

"O George! dear George, don't, don't say _that_; you'll break all our
hearts," said Grace, with tears in her own eyes.

"Yes, but it is _true_, sister: I do not feel it on my own account so
much as----However," he added, "it will all be the same in heaven."

It was but a week after this that a violent cold hastened the progress
of debility into a confirmed malady. He sunk very fast. Aunt Sally, with
the self-deceit of a fond and cheerful heart, thought every day that "he
_would_ be better," and Uncle Lot resisted conviction with all the
obstinate pertinacity of his character, while the sick man felt that he
had not the heart to undeceive them.

James was now at the house every day, exhausting all his energy and
invention in the case of his friend; and any one who had seen him in his
hours of recklessness and glee, could scarcely recognize him as the
being whose step was so careful, whose eye so watchful, whose voice and
touch were so gentle, as he moved around the sick bed. But the same
quickness which makes a mind buoyant in gladness, often makes it
gentlest and most sympathetic in sorrow.

It was now nearly morning in the sick room. George had been restless and
feverish all night; but towards day he fell into a slight slumber, and
James sat by his side, almost holding his breath lest he should waken
him. It was yet dusk, but the sky was brightening with a solemn glow,
and the stars were beginning to disappear; all, save the bright and
morning one, which, standing alone in the east, looked tenderly through
the casement, like the eye of our heavenly Father, watching over us when
all earthly friendships are fading.

George awoke with a placid expression of countenance, and fixing his
eyes on the brightening sky, murmured faintly,--

    "The sweet, immortal morning sheds
    Its blushes round the spheres."

A moment after, a shade passed over his face; he pressed his fingers
over his eyes, and the tears dropped silently on his pillow.

"George! _dear_ George!" said James, bending over him.

"It's my friends--it's my father--my mother," said he, faintly.

"Jesus Christ will watch over them," said James, soothingly.

"O, yes, I know he will; for _he_ loved his own which were in the world;
he loved them unto the end. But I am dying--and before I have done any
good."

"O, do not say so," said James; "think, think what you have done, if
only for _me_. God bless you for it! God _will_ bless you for it; it
will follow you to heaven; it will bring me there. Yes, I will do as you
have taught me. I will give my life, my soul, my whole strength to it;
and then you will not have lived in vain."

George smiled, and looked upward; "his face was as that of an angel;"
and James, in his warmth, continued,--

"It is not I alone who can say this; we all bless you; every one in this
place blesses you; you will be had in everlasting remembrance by some
hearts here, I know."

"Bless God!" said George.

"We do," said James. "I bless him that I ever knew you; we all bless
him, and we love you, and shall forever."

The glow that had kindled over the pale face of the invalid again faded
as he said,--

"But, James, I must, I ought to tell my father and mother; I ought to,
and how can I?"

At that moment the door opened, and Uncle Lot made his appearance. He
seemed struck with the paleness of George's face; and coming to the side
of the bed, he felt his pulse, and laid his hand anxiously on his
forehead, and clearing his voice several times, inquired "if he didn't
feel a little better."

"No, father," said George; then taking his hand, he looked anxiously in
his face, and seemed to hesitate a moment. "Father," he began, "you know
that we ought to submit to God."

There was something in his expression at this moment which flashed the
truth into the old man's mind. He dropped his son's hand with an
exclamation of agony, and turning quickly, left the room.

"Father! father!" said Grace, trying to rouse him, as he stood with his
arms folded by the kitchen window.

"Get away, child!" said he, roughly.

"Father, mother says breakfast is ready."

"I don't want any breakfast," said he, turning short about. "Sally, what
are you fixing in that 'ere porringer?"

"O, it's only a little tea for George; 'twill comfort him up, and make
him feel better, poor fellow."

"You won't make him feel better--he's gone," said Uncle Lot, hoarsely.

"O, dear heart, no!" said Aunt Sally.

"Be still a' contradicting me; I won't be contradicted all the time by
nobody. The short of the case is, that George is goin' to _die_ just as
we've got him ready to be a minister and all; and I wish to pity I was
in my grave myself, and so----" said Uncle Lot, as he plunged out of the
door, and shut it after him.

It is well for man that there is one Being who sees the suffering heart
_as it is_, and not as it manifests itself through the repellances of
outward infirmity, and who, perhaps, feels more for the stern and
wayward than for those whose gentler feelings win for them human
sympathy. With all his singularities, there was in the heart of Uncle
Lot a depth of religious sincerity; but there are few characters where
religion does any thing more than struggle with natural defect, and
modify what would else be far worse.

In this hour of trial, all the native obstinacy and pertinacity of the
old man's character rose, and while he felt the necessity of submission,
it seemed impossible to submit; and thus, reproaching himself,
struggling in vain to repress the murmurs of nature, repulsing from him
all external sympathy, his mind was "tempest-tossed, and not comforted."

It was on the still afternoon of the following Sabbath that he was sent
for, in haste, to the chamber of his son. He entered, and saw that the
hour was come. The family were all there. Grace and James, side by side,
bent over the dying one, and his mother sat afar off, with her face hid
in her apron, "that she might not see the death of the child." The aged
minister was there, and the Bible lay open before him. The father walked
to the side of the bed. He stood still, and gazed on the face now
brightening with "life and immortality." The son lifted up his eyes; he
saw his father, smiled, and put out his hand. "I am glad _you_ are
come," said he. "O George, to the pity, don't! _don't_ smile on me so! I
know what is coming; I have tried, and tried, and I _can't_, I _can't_
have it so;" and his frame shook, and he sobbed audibly. The room was
still as death; there was none that seemed able to comfort him. At last
the son repeated, in a sweet, but interrupted voice, those words of
man's best Friend: "Let not your heart be troubled; in my Father's house
are many mansions."

"Yes; but I _can't help_ being troubled; I suppose the Lord's will must
be done, but it'll _kill_ me."

"O father, don't, don't break my heart," said the son, much agitated. "I
shall see you again in heaven, and you shall see me again; and then
'your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you.'"

"I never shall get to heaven if I feel as I do now," said the old man.
"I _cannot_ have it so."

The mild face of the sufferer was overcast. "I wish he saw all that _I_
do," said he, in a low voice. Then looking towards the minister, he
articulated, "Pray for us."

They knelt in prayer. It was soothing, as _real_ prayer always must be;
and when they rose, every one seemed more calm. But the sufferer was
exhausted; his countenance changed; he looked on his friends; there was
a faint whisper, "Peace I leave with you"--and he was in heaven.

We need not dwell on what followed. The seed sown by the righteous often
blossoms over their grave; and so was it with this good man. The words
of peace which he spoke unto his friends while he was yet with them came
into remembrance after he was gone; and though he was laid in the grave
with many tears, yet it was with softened and submissive hearts.

"The Lord bless him," said Uncle Lot, as he and James were standing,
last of all, over the grave. "I believe my heart is gone to heaven with
him; and I think the Lord really _did_ know what was best, after all."

Our friend James seemed now to become the support of the family; and the
bereaved old man unconsciously began to transfer to him the affections
that had been left vacant.

"James," said he to him one day, "I suppose you know that you are about
the same to me as a son."

"I hope so," said James, kindly.

"Well, well, you'll go to college next week, and none o' y'r keepin'
school to get along. I've got enough to bring you safe out--that is, if
you'll be _car'ful_ and _stiddy_."

James knew the heart too well to refuse a favor in which the poor old
man's mind was comforting itself. He had the self-command to abstain
from any extraordinary expressions of gratitude, but took it kindly, as
a matter of course.

"Dear Grace," said he to her, the last evening before he left home, "I
am changed; we both are altered since we first knew each other; and now
I am going to be gone a long time, but I am sure----"

He stopped to arrange his thoughts.

"Yes, you may be sure of all those things that you wish to say, and
cannot," said Grace.

"Thank you," said James; then, looking thoughtfully, he added, "God help
me. I believe I have mind enough to be what I mean to; but whatever I am
or have shall be given to God and my fellow-men; and then, Grace, your
brother in heaven will rejoice over me."

"I believe he does _now_," said Grace. "God bless you, James; I don't
know what would have become of us if you had not been here."

"Yes, you will live to be like him, and to do even more good," she
added, her face brightening as she spoke, till James thought she really
must be right.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was five years after this that James was spoken of as an eloquent and
successful minister in the state of C., and was settled in one of its
most thriving villages. Late one autumn evening, a tall, bony,
hard-favored man was observed making his way into the outskirts of the
place.

"Halloa, there!" he called to a man over the other side of a fence;
"what town is this 'ere?"

"It's Farmington, sir."

"Well, I want to know if you know any thing of a boy of mine that lives
here?"

"A boy of yours? Who?"

"Why, I've got a boy here, that's livin' _on the town_, and I thought
I'd jest look him up."

"I don't know any boy that is living on the town. What's his name?"

"Why," said the old man, pushing his hat off from his forehead, "I
believe they call him James Benton."

"James Benton! Why, that is our minister's name!"

"O, wal, I believe he _is_ the minister, come to think on't. He's a boy
o' mine, though. Where does he live?"

"In that white house that you see set back from the road there, with all
those trees round it."

At this instant a tall, manly-looking person approached from behind.
Have we not seen that face before? It is a touch graver than of old, and
its lines have a more thoughtful significance; but all the vivacity of
James Benton sparkles in that quick smile as his eye falls on the old
man.

"I _thought_ you could not keep away from us long," said he, with the
prompt cheerfulness of his boyhood, and laying hold of both of Uncle
Lot's hard hands.

They approached the gate; a bright face glances past the window, and in
a moment Grace is at the door.

"Father! _dear_ father!"

"You'd _better_ make believe be so glad," said Uncle Lot, his eyes
glistening as he spoke.

"Come, come, father, I have authority in these days," said Grace,
drawing him towards the house; "so no disrespectful speeches; away with
your hat and coat, and sit down in this great chair."

"So, ho! Miss Grace," said Uncle Lot, "you are at your old tricks,
ordering round as usual. Well, if I must, I must;" so down he sat.

"Father," said Grace, as he was leaving them, after a few days' stay,
"it's Thanksgiving day next month, and you and mother must come and stay
with us."

Accordingly, the following month found Aunt Sally and Uncle Lot by the
minister's fireside, delighted witnesses of the Thanksgiving presents
which a willing people were pouring in; and the next day they had once
more the pleasure of seeing a son of theirs in the sacred desk, and
hearing a sermon that every body said was "the best that he ever
preached;" and it is to be remarked, that this was the standing
commentary on all James's discourses, so that it was evident he was
going on unto perfection.

"There's a great deal that's worth having in this 'ere life after all,"
said Uncle Lot, as he sat by the coals of the bright evening fire of
that day; "that is, if we'd only take it when the Lord lays it in our
way."

"Yes," said James; "and let us only take it as we should, and this life
will be cheerfulness, and the next fulness of joy."




LOVE _versus_ LAW.


How many kinds of beauty there are! How many even in the human form!
There are the bloom and motion of childhood, the freshness and ripe
perfection of youth, the dignity of manhood, the softness of woman--all
different, yet each in its kind perfect.

But there is none so peculiar, none that bears more the image of the
heavenly, than the beauty of _Christian old age_. It is like the
loveliness of those calm autumn days, when the heats of summer are past,
when the harvest is gathered into the garner, and the sun shines over
the placid fields and fading woods, which stand waiting for their last
change. It is a beauty more strictly moral, more belonging to the soul,
than that of any other period of life. Poetic fiction always paints the
old man as a Christian; nor is there any period where the virtues of
Christianity seem to find a more harmonious development. The aged man,
who has outlived the hurry of passion--who has withstood the urgency of
temptation--who has concentrated the religious impulses of youth into
habits of obedience and love--who, having served his generation by the
will of God, now leans in helplessness on Him whom once he served, is,
perhaps, one of the most faultless representations of the beauty of
holiness that this world affords.

Thoughts something like these arose in my mind as I slowly turned my
footsteps from the graveyard of my native village, where I had been
wandering after years of absence. It was a lovely spot--a soft <DW72> of
ground close by a little stream, that ran sparkling through the cedars
and junipers beyond it, while on the other side arose a green hill, with
the white village laid like a necklace of pearls upon its bosom.

There is no feature of the landscape more picturesque and peculiar than
that of the graveyard--that "city of the silent," as it is beautifully
expressed by the Orientals--standing amid the bloom and rejoicing of
nature, its white stones glittering in the sun, a memorial of decay, a
link between the living and the dead.

As I moved slowly from mound to mound, and read the inscriptions, which
purported that many a money-saving man, and many a busy, anxious
housewife, and many a prattling, half-blossomed child, had done with
care or mirth, I was struck with a plain slab, bearing the inscription,
"_To the memory of Deacon Enos Dudley, who died in his hundredth year_."
My eye was caught by this inscription, for in other years I had well
known the person it recorded. At this instant, his mild and venerable
form arose before me as erst it used to rise from the deacon's seat, a
straight, close slip just below the pulpit. I recollect his quiet and
lowly coming into meeting, precisely ten minutes before the time, every
Sunday,--his tall form a little stooping,--his best suit of
butternut- Sunday clothes, with long flaps and wide cuffs, on one
of which two pins were always to be seen stuck in with the most reverent
precision. When seated, the top of the pew came just to his chin, so
that his silvery, placid head rose above it like the moon above the
horizon. His head was one that might have been sketched for a St.
John--bald at the top, and around the temples adorned with a soft flow
of bright fine hair,--

    "That down his shoulders reverently spread,
    As hoary frost with spangles doth attire
    The naked branches of an oak half dead."

He was then of great age, and every line of his patient face seemed to
say, "And now, Lord, what wait I for?" Yet still, year after year, was
he to be seen in the same place, with the same dutiful punctuality.

The services he offered to his God were all given with the exactness of
an ancient Israelite. No words could have persuaded him of the propriety
of meditating when the choir was singing, or of sitting down, even
through infirmity, before the close of the longest prayer that ever was
offered. A mighty contrast was he to his fellow-officer, Deacon Abrams,
a tight, little, tripping, well-to-do man, who used to sit beside him
with his hair brushed straight up like a little blaze, his coat buttoned
up trig and close, his psalm book in hand, and his quick gray eyes
turned first on one side of the broad aisle, and then on the other, and
then up into the gallery, like a man who came to church on business, and
felt responsible for every thing that was going on in the house.

A great hinderance was the business talent of this good little man to
the enjoyments of us youngsters, who, perched along in a row on a low
seat in front of the pulpit, attempted occasionally to diversify the
long hour of sermon by sundry small exercises of our own, such as making
our handkerchiefs into rabbits, or exhibiting, in a sly way, the apples
and gingerbread we had brought for a Sunday dinner, or pulling the ears
of some discreet meeting-going dog, who now and then would soberly
pitapat through the broad aisle. But woe be to us during our contraband
sports, if we saw Deacon Abrams's sleek head dodging up from behind the
top of the deacon's seat. Instantly all the apples, gingerbread, and
handkerchiefs vanished, and we all sat with our hands folded, looking as
demure as if we understood every word of the sermon, and more too.

There was a great contrast between these two deacons in their services
and prayers, when, as was often the case, the absence of the pastor
devolved on them the burden of conducting the duties of the sanctuary.
That God was great and good, and that we all were sinners, were truths
that seemed to have melted into the heart of Deacon Enos, so that his
very soul and spirit were bowed down with them. With Deacon Abrams it
was an _undisputed fact_, which he had settled long ago, and concerning
which he felt that there could be no reasonable doubt, and his bustling
way of dealing with the matter seemed to say that he knew _that_ and a
great many things besides.

Deacon Enos was known far and near as a very proverb for peacefulness of
demeanor and unbounded charitableness in covering and excusing the
faults of others. As long as there was any doubt in a case of alleged
evil doing, Deacon Enos _guessed_ "the man did not mean any harm, after
all;" and when transgression became too barefaced for this excuse, he
always guessed "it wa'n't best to say much about it; nobody could tell
what _they_ might be left to."

Some incidents in his life will show more clearly these traits. A
certain shrewd landholder, by the name of Jones, who was not well
reported of in the matter of honesty, sold to Deacon Enos a valuable lot
of land, and received the money for it; but, under various pretences,
deferred giving the deed. Soon after, he died; and, to the deacon's
amazement, the deed was nowhere to be found, while this very lot of land
was left by will to one of his daughters.

The deacon said "it was very extraor'nary: he always knew that Seth
Jones was considerably sharp about money, but he did not think he would
do such a right up-and-down wicked thing." So the old man repaired to
'Squire Abel to state the case, and see if there was any redress. "I
kinder hate to tell of it," said he; "but, 'Squire Abel, you know Mr.
Jones was--was--_what he was_, even if he _is_ dead and gone!" This was
the nearest approach the old gentleman could make to specifying a heavy
charge against the dead. On being told that the case admitted of no
redress, Deacon Enos comforted himself with half soliloquizing, "Well,
at any rate, the land has gone to those two girls, poor lone critters--I
hope it will do _them_ some good. There is Silence--we won't say much
about her; but Sukey is a nice, pretty girl." And so the old man
departed, leaving it as his opinion that, since the matter could not be
mended, it was just as well not to say any thing about it.

Now, the two girls here mentioned (to wit, Silence and Sukey) were the
eldest and the youngest of a numerous, family, the offspring of three
wives of Seth Jones, of whom these two were the sole survivors. The
elder, Silence, was a tall, strong, black-eyed, hard-featured woman,
verging upon forty, with a good, loud, resolute voice, and what the
Irishman would call "a dacent notion of using it." Why she was called
_Silence_ was a standing problem to the neighborhood; for she had more
faculty and inclination for making a noise than any person in the whole
township. Miss Silence was one of those persons who have no disposition
to yield any of their own rights. She marched up to all controverted
matters, faced down all opposition, held her way lustily and with good
courage, making men, women, and children turn out for her, as they would
for a mail stage. So evident was her innate determination to be free and
independent, that, though she was the daughter of a rich man, and well
portioned, only one swain was ever heard of who ventured to solicit her
hand in marriage; and he was sent off with the assurance that, if he
ever showed his face about the house again, she would set the dogs on
him.

But Susan Jones was as different from her sister as the little graceful
convolvulus from the great rough stick that supports it. At the time of
which we speak she was just eighteen; a modest, slender, blushing girl,
as timid and shrinking as her sister was bold and hardy. Indeed, the
education of poor Susan had cost Miss Silence much painstaking and
trouble, and, after all, she said "the girl would make a fool of
herself; she never could teach her to be up and down with people, as she
was."

When the report came to Miss Silence's ears that Deacon Enos considered
himself as aggrieved by her father's will, she held forth upon the
subject with great strength of courage and of lungs. "Deacon Enos might
be in better business than in trying to cheat orphans out of their
rights--she hoped he would go to law about it, and see what good he
would get by it--a pretty church member and deacon, to be sure! getting
up such a story about her poor father, dead and gone!"

"But, Silence," said Susan, "Deacon Enos is a good man: I do not think
he means to injure any one; there must be some mistake about it."

"Susan, you are a little fool, as I have always told you," replied
Silence; "you would be cheated out of your eye teeth if you had not me
to take care of you."

But subsequent events brought the affairs of these two damsels in closer
connection with those of Deacon Enos, as we shall proceed to show.

It happened that the next door neighbor of Deacon Enos was a certain old
farmer, whose crabbedness of demeanor had procured for him the name of
_Uncle Jaw_. This agreeable surname accorded very well with the general
characteristics both of the person and manner of its possessor. He was
tall and hard-favored, with an expression of countenance much resembling
a north-east rain storm--a drizzling, settled sulkiness, that seemed to
defy all prospect of clearing off, and to take comfort in its own
disagreeableness. His voice seemed to have taken lessons of his face, in
such admirable keeping was its sawing, deliberate growl with the
pleasing physiognomy before indicated. By nature he was endowed with one
of those active, acute, hair-splitting minds, which can raise forty
questions for dispute on any point of the compass; and had he been an
educated man, he might have proved as clever a metaphysician as ever
threw dust in the eyes of succeeding generations. But being deprived of
these advantages, he nevertheless exerted himself to quite as useful a
purpose in puzzling and mystifying whomsoever came in his way. But his
activity particularly exercised itself in the line of the law, as it was
his meat, and drink, and daily meditation, either to find something to
go to law about, or to go law about something he had found. There was
always some question about an old rail fence that used to run "a
_leetle_ more to the left hand," or that was built up "a _leetle_ more
to the right hand," and so cut off a strip of his "_medder land_," or
else there was some outrage of Peter Somebody's turkeys getting into his
mowing, or Squire Moses's geese were to be shut up in the town pound, or
something equally important kept him busy from year's end to year's end.
Now, as a matter of private amusement, this might have answered very
well; but then Uncle Jaw was not satisfied to fight his own battles, but
must needs go from house to house, narrating the whole length and
breadth of the case, with all the _says he's_ and _says I's_, and the _I
tell'd him's_ and _he tell'd me's_, which do either accompany or flow
therefrom. Moreover, he had such a marvellous facility of finding out
matters to quarrel about, and of letting every one else know where they,
too, could muster a quarrel, that he generally succeeded in keeping the
whole neighborhood by the ears.

And as good Deacon Enos assumed the office of peace-maker for the
village, Uncle Jaw's efficiency rendered it no sinecure. The deacon
always followed the steps of Uncle Jaw, smoothing, hushing up, and
putting matters aright with an assiduity that was truly wonderful.

Uncle Jaw himself had a great respect for the good man, and, in common
with all the neighborhood, sought unto him for counsel, though, like
other seekers of advice, he appropriated only so much as seemed good in
his own eyes.

Still he took a kind of pleasure in dropping in of an evening to Deacon
Enos's fire, to recount the various matters which he had taken or was to
take in hand; at one time to narrate "how he had been over the milldam,
telling old Granny Clark that she could get the law of Seth Scran about
that pasture lot," or else "how he had told Ziah Bacon's widow that she
had a right to shut up Bill Scranton's pig every time she caught him in
front of her house."

But the grand "matter of matters," and the one that took up the most of
Uncle Jaw's spare time, lay in a dispute between him and 'Squire Jones,
the father of Susan and Silence; for it so happened that his lands and
those of Uncle Jaw were contiguous. Now, the matter of dispute was on
this wise: On 'Squire Jones's land there was a mill, which mill Uncle
Jaw averred was "always a-flooding his medder land." As Uncle Jaw's
"medder land" was by nature half bog and bulrushes, and therefore liable
to be found in a wet condition, there was always a happy obscurity as to
where the water came from, and whether there was at any time more there
than belonged to his share. So, when all other subject matters of
dispute failed, Uncle Jaw recreated himself with getting up a lawsuit
about his "medder land;" and one of these cases was in pendency when, by
the death of the squire, the estate was left to Susan and Silence, his
daughters. When, therefore, the report reached him that Deacon Enos had
been cheated out of his dues, Uncle Jaw prepared forthwith to go and
compare notes. Therefore, one evening, as Deacon Enos was sitting
quietly by the fire, musing and reading with his big Bible open before
him, he heard the premonitory symptoms of a visitation from Uncle Jaw on
his door scraper; and soon the man made his appearance. After seating
himself directly in front of the fire, with his elbows on his knees, and
his hands spread out over the coals, he looked up in Deacon Enos's mild
face with his little inquisitive gray eyes, and remarked, by way of
opening the subject, "Well, deacon, old 'Squire Jones is gone at last. I
wonder how much good all his land will do him now?"

"Yes," replied Deacon Enos, "it just shows how all these things are not
worth striving after. We brought nothing into the world, and it is
certain we can carry nothing out."

"Why, yes," replied Uncle Jaw, "that's all very right, deacon; but it
was strange how that old 'Squire Jones did hang on to things. Now, that
mill of his, that was always soaking off water into these medders of
mine--I took and tell'd 'Squire Jones just how it was, pretty nigh
twenty times, and yet he would keep it just so; and now he's dead and
gone, there is that old gal Silence is full as bad, and makes more
noise; and she and Suke have got the land; but, you see, I mean to work
it yet."

Here Uncle Jaw paused to see whether he had produced any sympathetic
excitement in Deacon Enos; but the old man sat without the least
emotion, quietly contemplating the top of the long kitchen shovel. Uncle
Jaw fidgeted in his chair, and changed his mode of attack for one more
direct. "I heard 'em tell, Deacon Enos, that the squire served you
something of an unhandy sort of trick about that 'ere lot of land."

Still Deacon Enos made no reply; but Uncle Jaw's perseverance was not so
to be put off, and he recommenced. "'Squire Abel, you see, he tell'd me
how the matter was, and he said he did not see as it could be mended;
but I took and tell'd him, ''Squire Abel,' says I, 'I'd bet pretty nigh
'most any thing, if Deacon Enos would tell the matter to me, that I
could find a hole for him to creep out at; for,' says I, 'I've seen
daylight through more twistical cases than that afore now.'"

Still Deacon Enos remained mute; and Uncle Jaw, after waiting a while,
recommenced with, "But, railly, deacon, I should like to hear the
particulars."

"I have made up my mind not to say any thing more about that business,"
said Deacon Enos, in a tone which, though mild, was so exceedingly
definite, that Uncle Jaw felt that the case was hopeless in that
quarter; he therefore betook himself to the statement of his own
grievances.

"Why, you see, deacon," he began, at the same time taking the tongs, and
picking up all the little brands, and disposing them in the middle of
the fire,--"you see, two days arter the funeral, (for I didn't railly
like to go any sooner,) I stepped up to hash over the matter with old
Silence; for as to Sukey, she ha'n't no more to do with such things than
our white kitten. Now, you see, 'Squire Jones, just afore he died, he
took away an old rail fence of his'n that lay between his land and mine,
and began to build a new stone wall; and when I come to measure, I found
he had took and put a'most the whole width of the stone wall on to my
land, when there ought not to have been more than half of it come there.
Now, you see, I could not say a word to 'Squire Jones, because, jest
before I found it out, he took and died; and so I thought I'd speak to
old Silence, and see if she meant to do any thing about it, 'cause I
knew pretty well she wouldn't; and I tell you, if she didn't put it on
to me! We had a regular pitched battle--the old gal, I thought she would
'a screamed herself to death! I don't know but she would, but just then
poor Sukey came in, and looked so frightened and scarey--Sukey is a
pretty gal, and looks so trembling and delicate, that it's kinder a
shame to plague her, and so I took and come away for that time."

Here Uncle Jaw perceived a brightening in the face of the good deacon,
and felt exceedingly comforted that at last he was about to interest him
in his story.

But all this while the deacon had been in a profound meditation
concerning the ways and means of putting a stop to a quarrel that had
been his torment from time immemorial, and just at this moment a plan
had struck his mind which our story will proceed to unfold.

The mode of settling differences which had occurred to the good man was
one which has been considered a specific in reconciling contending
sovereigns and states from early antiquity, and the deacon hoped it
might have a pacifying influence even in so unpromising a case as that
of Miss Silence and Uncle Jaw.

In former days, Deacon Enos had kept the district school for several
successive winters, and among his scholars was the gentle Susan Jones,
then a plump, rosy little girl, with blue eyes, curly hair, and the
sweetest disposition in the world. There was also little Joseph Adams,
the only son of Uncle Jaw, a fine, healthy, robust boy, who used to
spell the longest words, make the best snowballs and poplar whistles,
and read the loudest and fastest in the Columbian Orator of any boy at
school.

Little Joe inherited all his father's sharpness, with a double share of
good humor; so that, though he was forever effervescing in the way of
one funny trick or another, he was a universal favorite, not only with
the deacon, but with the whole school.

Master Joseph always took little Susan Jones under his especial
protection, drew her to school on his sled, helped her out with all the
long sums in her arithmetic, saw to it that nobody pillaged her dinner
basket, or knocked down her bonnet, and resolutely whipped or snowballed
any other boy who attempted the same gallantries. Years passed on, and
Uncle Jaw had sent his son to college. He sent him because, as he said,
he had "_a right_ to send him; just as good a right as 'Squire Abel or
Deacon Abrams to send their boys, and so he _would_ send him." It was
the remembrance of his old favorite Joseph, and his little pet Susan,
that came across the mind of Deacon Enos, and which seemed to open a
gleam of light in regard to the future. So, when Uncle Jaw had finished
his prelection, the deacon, after some meditation, came out with,
"Railly, they say that your son is going to have the valedictory in
college."

Though somewhat startled at the abrupt transition, Uncle Jaw found the
suggestion too flattering to his pride to be dropped; so, with a
countenance grimly expressive of his satisfaction, he replied, "Why,
yes--yes--I don't see no reason why a poor man's son ha'n't as much
right as any one to be at the top, if he can get there."

"Just so," replied Deacon Enos.

"He was always the boy for larning, and for nothing else," continued
Uncle Jaw; "put him to farming, couldn't make nothing of him. If I set
him to hoeing corn or hilling potatoes, I'd always find him stopping to
chase hop-toads, or off after chip-squirrels. But set him down to a
book, and there he was! That boy larnt reading the quickest of any boy
that ever I saw: it wasn't a month after he began his _a b, abs_,
before he could read in the 'Fox and the Brambles,' and in a month more
he could clatter off his chapter in the Testament as fast as any of
them; and you see, in college, it's jest so--he has ris right up to be
first."

"And he is coming home week after next," said the deacon, meditatively.

The next morning, as Deacon Enos was eating his breakfast, he quietly
remarked to his wife, "Sally, I believe it was week after next you were
meaning to have your quilting?"

"Why, I never told you so: what alive makes you think that, Deacon
Dudley?"

"I thought that was your calculation," said the good man, quietly.

"Why, no; to be sure, I _can_ have it, and may be it's the best of any
time, if we can get Black Dinah to come and help about the cakes and
pies. I guess we will, finally."

"I think it's likely you had better," replied the deacon, "and we will
have all the young folks here."

And now let us pass over all the intermediate pounding, and grinding,
and chopping, which for the next week foretold approaching festivity in
the kitchen of the deacon. Let us forbear to provoke the appetite of a
hungry reader by setting in order before him the minced pies, the
cranberry tarts, the pumpkin pies, the doughnuts, the cookies, and other
sweet cakes of every description, that sprang into being at the magic
touch of Black Dinah, the village priestess on all these solemnities.
Suffice it to say that the day had arrived, and the auspicious quilt was
spread.

The invitation had not failed to include the Misses Silence and Susan
Jones--nay, the good deacon had pressed gallantry into the matter so far
as to be the bearer of the message himself; for which he was duly
rewarded by a broadside from Miss Silence, giving him what she termed a
piece of her mind in the matter of the rights of widows and orphans; to
all which the good old man listened with great benignity from the
beginning to the end, and replied with,--

"Well, well, Miss Silence, I expect you will think better of this before
long; there had best not be any hard words about it." So saying, he took
up his hat and walked off, while Miss Silence, who felt extremely
relieved by having blown off steam, declared that "it was of no more use
to hector old Deacon Enos than to fire a gun at a bag of cotton wool.
For all that, though, she shouldn't go to the quilting; nor, more,
should Susan."

"But, sister, why not?" said the little maiden; "I think I _shall_ go."
And Susan said this in a tone so mildly positive that Silence was
amazed.

"What upon 'arth ails you, Susan?" said she, opening her eyes with
astonishment; "haven't you any more spirit than to go to Deacon Enos's
when he is doing all he can to ruin us?"

"I like Deacon Enos," replied Susan; "he was always kind to me when I
was a little girl, and I am not going to believe that he is a bad man
now."

When a young lady states that she is not going to believe a thing, good
judges of human nature generally give up the case; but Miss Silence, to
whom the language of opposition and argument was entirely new, could
scarcely give her ears credit for veracity in the case; she therefore
repeated over exactly what she said before, only in a much louder tone
of voice, and with much more vehement forms of asseveration--a mode of
reasoning which, if not strictly logical, has at least the sanction of
very respectable authorities among the enlightened and learned.

"Silence," replied Susan, when the storm had spent itself, "if it did
not look like being angry with Deacon Enos, I would stay away to oblige
you; but it would seem to every one to be taking sides in a quarrel, and
I never did, and never will, have any part or lot in such things."

"Then you'll just be trod and trampled on all your days, Susan," replied
Silence; "but, however, if _you_ choose to make a fool of yourself, _I_
don't;" and so saying, she flounced out of the room in great wrath. It
so happened, however, that Miss Silence was one of those who have so
little economy in disposing of a fit of anger, that it was all used up
before the time of execution arrived. It followed of consequence, that,
having unburdened her mind freely both to Deacon Enos and to Susan, she
began to feel very much more comfortable and good-natured; and
consequent upon that came divers reflections upon the many gossiping
opportunities and comforts of a quilting; and then the intrusive little
reflection, "What if she should go, after all; what harm would be done?"
and then the inquiry, "Whether it was not her _duty_ to go and look
after Susan, poor child, who had no mother to watch over her?" In short,
before the time of preparation arrived, Miss Silence had fully worked
herself up to the magnanimous determination of going to the quilting.
Accordingly, the next day, while Susan was standing before her mirror,
braiding up her pretty hair, she was startled by the apparition of Miss
Silence coming into the room as stiff as a changeable silk and a high
horn comb could make her; and "grimly determined was her look."

"Well, Susan," said she, "if you _will_ go to the quilting this
afternoon, I think it is _my duty_ to go and see to you."

What would people do if this convenient shelter of _duty_ did not afford
them a retreat in cases when they are disposed to change their minds?
Susan suppressed the arch smile that, in spite of herself, laughed out
at the corners of her eyes, and told her sister that she was much
obliged to her for her care. So off they went together.

Silence in the mean time held forth largely on the importance of
standing up for one's rights, and not letting one's self be trampled on.

The afternoon passed on, the elderly ladies quilted and talked scandal,
and the younger ones discussed the merits of the various beaux who were
expected to give vivacity to the evening entertainment. Among these the
newly-arrived Joseph Adams, just from college, with all his literary
honors thick about him, became a prominent subject of conversation.

It was duly canvassed whether the young gentleman might be called
handsome, and the affirmative was carried by a large majority, although
there were some variations and exceptions; one of the party declaring
his whiskers to be in too high a state of cultivation, another
maintaining that they were in the exact line of beauty, while a third
vigorously disputed the point whether he wore whiskers at all. It was
allowed by all, however, that he had been a great beau in the town where
he had passed his college days. It was also inquired into whether he
were matrimonially engaged; and the negative being understood, they
diverted themselves with predicting to one another the capture of such a
prize; each prophecy being received with such disclaimers as "Come now!"
"Do be still!" "Hush your nonsense!" and the like.

At length the long-wished-for hour arrived, and one by one the lords of
the creation began to make their appearance; and one of the last was
this much admired youth.

"That is Joe Adams!" "That is he!" was the busy whisper, as a tall,
well-looking young man came into the room, with the easy air of one who
had seen several things before, and was not to be abashed by the
combined blaze of all the village beauties.

In truth, our friend Joseph had made the most of his residence in N.,
paying his court no less to the Graces than the Muses. His fine person,
his frank, manly air, his ready conversation, and his faculty of
universal adaptation had made his society much coveted among the _beau
monde_ of N.; and though the place was small, he had become familiar
with much good society.

We hardly know whether we may venture to tell our fair readers the whole
truth in regard to our hero. We will merely hint, in the gentlest manner
in the world, that Mr. Joseph Adams, being undeniably first in the
classics and first in the drawing room, having been gravely commended in
his class by his venerable president, and gayly flattered in the drawing
room by the elegant Miss This and Miss That, was rather inclining to the
opinion that he was an uncommonly fine fellow, and even had the
assurance to think that, under present circumstances, he could please
without making any great effort--a thing which, however true it were in
point of fact, is obviously improper to be thought of by a young man. Be
that as it may, he moved about from one to another, shaking hands with
all the old ladies, and listening with the greatest affability to the
various comments on his growth and personal appearance, his points of
resemblance to his father, mother, grandfather, and grandmother, which
are always detected by the superior acumen of elderly females.

Among the younger ones, he at once, and with full frankness, recognized
old schoolmates, and partners in various whortleberry, chestnut, and
strawberry excursions, and thus called out an abundant flow of
conversation. Nevertheless, his eye wandered occasionally around the
room, as if in search of something not there. What could it be? It
kindled, however, with an expression of sudden brightness as he
perceived the tall and spare figure of Miss Silence; whether owing to
the personal fascinations of that lady, or to other causes, we leave the
reader to determine.

Miss Silence had predetermined never to speak a word again to Uncle Jaw
or any of his race; but she was taken by surprise at the frank, extended
hand and friendly "how d'ye do?" It was not in woman to resist so
cordial an address from a handsome young man, and Miss Silence gave her
hand, and replied with a graciousness that amazed herself. At this
moment, also, certain soft blue eyes peeped forth from a corner, just
"to see if he looked as he used to." Yes, there he was! the same dark,
mirthful eyes that used to peer on her from behind the corners of the
spelling book at the district school; and Susan Jones gave a deep sigh
to those times, and then wondered why she happened to think of such
nonsense.

"How is your sister, little Miss Susan?" said Joseph.

"Why, she is here--have you not seen her?" said Silence; "there she is,
in that corner."

Joseph looked, but could scarcely recognize her. There stood a tall,
slender, blooming girl, that might have been selected as a specimen of
that union of perfect health with delicate fairness so characteristic of
the young New England beauty.

She was engaged in telling some merry story to a knot of young girls,
and the rich color that, like a bright spirit, constantly went and came
in her cheeks; the dimples, quick and varying as those of a little
brook; the clear, mild eye; the clustering curls, and, above all, the
happy, rejoicing smile, and the transparent frankness and simplicity of
expression which beamed like sunshine about her, all formed a
combination of charms that took our hero quite by surprise; and when
Silence, who had a remarkable degree of directness in all her dealings,
called out, "Here, Susan, is Joe Adams, inquiring after you!" our
practised young gentleman felt himself color to the roots of his hair,
and for a moment he could scarce recollect that first rudiment of
manners, "to make his bow like a good boy." Susan  also; but,
perceiving the confusion of our hero, her countenance assumed an
expression of mischievous drollery, which, helped on by the titter of
her companions, added not a little to his confusion.

"Dense take it!" thought he, "what's the matter with me?" and, calling
up his courage, he dashed into the formidable circle of fair ones, and
began chattering with one and another, calling by name with or without
introduction, remembering things that never happened, with a freedom
that was perfectly fascinating.

"Really, how handsome he has grown!" thought Susan; and she 
deeply when once or twice the dark eyes of our hero made the same
observation with regard to herself, in that quick, intelligible dialect
which eyes alone can speak. And when the little party dispersed, as they
did very punctually at nine o'clock, our hero requested of Miss Silence
the honor of attending her home--an evidence of discriminating taste
which materially raised him in the estimation of that lady. It was true,
to be sure, that Susan walked on the other side of him, her little white
hand just within his arm; and there was something in that light touch
that puzzled him unaccountably, as might be inferred from the frequency
with which Miss Silence was obliged to bring up the ends of conversation
with, "What did you say?" "What were you going to say?" and other
persevering forms of inquiry, with which a regular-trained
matter-of-fact talker will hunt down a poor fellow-mortal who is in
danger of sinking into a comfortable revery.

When they parted at the gate, however, Silence gave our hero a hearty
invitation to "come and see them any time," which he mentally regarded
as more to the point than any thing else that had been said.

As Joseph soberly retraced his way homeward, his thoughts, by some
unaccountable association, began to revert to such topics as the
loneliness of man by himself, the need of kindred spirits, the solaces
of sympathy, and other like matters.

That night Joseph dreamed of trotting along with his dinner basket to
the old brown school house, and vainly endeavoring to overtake Susan
Jones, whom he saw with her little pasteboard sun bonnet a few yards in
front of him; then he was _teetering_ with her on a long board, her
bright little face glancing up and down, while every curl around it
seemed to be living with delight; and then he was snowballing Tom
Williams for knocking down Susan's doll's house, or he sat by her on a
bench, helping her out with a long sum in arithmetic; but, with the
mischievous fatality of dreams, the more he ciphered and expounded, the
longer and more hopeless grew the sum; and he awoke in the morning
pshawing at his ill luck, after having done a sum over half a dozen
times, while Susan seemed to be looking on with the same air of arch
drollery that he saw on her face the evening before.

"Joseph," said Uncle Jaw, the next morning at breakfast, "I s'pose
'Squire Jones's daughters were not at the quilting."

"Yes, sir, they were," said our hero; "they were both there."

"Why, you don't say so!"

"They certainly were," persisted the son.

"Well, I thought the old gal had too much spunk for that: you see there
is a quarrel between the deacon and them gals."

"Indeed!" said Joseph. "I thought the deacon never quarrelled with any
body."

"But, you see, old Silence there, she will quarrel with _him_: railly,
that cretur is a tough one;" and Uncle Jaw leaned back in his chair, and
contemplated the quarrelsome propensities of Miss Silence with the
satisfaction of a kindred spirit. "But I'll fix her yet," he continued;
"I see how to work it."

"Indeed, father, I did not know that you had any thing to do with their
affairs."

"Hain't I? I should like to know if I hain't!" replied Uncle Jaw,
triumphantly. "Now, see here, Joseph: you see, I mean you shall be a
lawyer: I'm pretty considerable of a lawyer myself--that is, for one not
college larnt; and I'll tell you how it is"--and thereupon Uncle Jaw
launched forth into the case of the _medder_ land and the mill, and
concluded with, "Now, Joseph, this 'ere is a kinder whetstone for you to
hone up your wits on."

In pursuance, therefore, of this plan of sharpening his wits in the
manner aforesaid, our hero, after breakfast, went like a dutiful son,
directly towards 'Squire Jones's, doubtless for the purpose of taking
ocular survey of the meadow land, mill, and stone wall; but, by some
unaccountable mistake, lost his way, and found himself standing before
the door of 'Squire Jones's house.

The old squire had been among the aristocracy of the village, and his
house had been the ultimate standard of comparison in all matters of
style and garniture. Their big front room, instead of being strewn with
lumps of sand, duly streaked over twice a week, was resplendent with a
carpet of red, yellow, and black stripes, while a towering pair of
long-legged brass andirons, scoured to a silvery white, gave an air of
magnificence to the chimney, which was materially increased by the tall
brass-headed shovel and tongs, which, like a decorous, starched married
couple, stood bolt upright in their places on either side. The sanctity
of the place was still further maintained by keeping the window shutters
always closed, admitting only so much light as could come in by a round
hole at the top of the shutter; and it was only on occasions of
extraordinary magnificence that the room was thrown open to profane
eyes.

Our hero was surprised, therefore, to find both the doors and windows of
this apartment open, and symptoms evident of its being in daily
occupation. The furniture still retained its massive, clumsy stiffness,
but there were various tokens that lighter fingers had been at work
there since the notable days of good Dame Jones. There was a vase of
flowers on the table, two or three books of poetry, and a little fairy
work-basket, from which peeped forth the edges of some worked ruffling;
there was a small writing desk, and last, not least, in a lady's
collection, an album, with leaves of every color of the rainbow,
containing inscriptions, in sundry strong masculine hands, "To Susan,"
indicating that other people had had their eyes open as well as Mr.
Joseph Adams. "So," said he to himself, "this quiet little beauty has
had admirers, after all;" and consequent upon this came another
question, (which was none of his concern, to be sure,) whether the
little lady were or were not engaged; and from these speculations he was
aroused by a light footstep, and anon the neat form of Susan made its
appearance.

"Good morning, Miss Jones," said he, bowing.

Now, there is something very comical in the feeling, when little boys
and girls, who have always known each other as plain Susan or Joseph,
first meet as "Mr." or "Miss" So-and-so. Each one feels half disposed,
half afraid, to return to the old familiar form, and awkwardly fettered
by the recollection that they are no longer children. Both parties had
felt this the evening before, when they met in company; but now that
they were alone together, the feeling became still stronger; and when
Susan had requested Mr. Adams to take a chair, and Mr. Adams had
inquired after Miss Susan's health, there ensued a pause, which, the
longer it continued, seemed the more difficult to break, and during
which Susan's pretty face slowly assumed an expression of the ludicrous,
till she was as near laughing as propriety would admit; and Mr. Adams,
having looked out at the window, and up at the mantel-piece, and down at
the carpet, at last looked at Susan; their eyes met; the effect was
electrical; they both smiled, and then laughed outright, after which the
whole difficulty of conversation vanished.

"Susan," said Joseph, "do you remember the old school house?"

"I thought that was what you were thinking of," said Susan; "but,
really, you have grown and altered so that I could hardly believe my
eyes last night."

"Nor I mine," said Joseph, with a glance that gave a very complimentary
turn to the expression.

Our readers may imagine that after this the conversation proceeded to
grow increasingly confidential and interesting; that from the account of
early life, each proceeded to let the other know something of
intervening history, in the course of which each discovered a number of
new and admirable traits in the other, such things being matters of very
common occurrence. In the course of the conversation Joseph discovered
that it was necessary that Susan should have two or three books then in
his possession; and as promptitude is a great matter in such cases, he
promised to bring them "to-morrow."

For some time our young friends pursued their acquaintance without a
distinct consciousness of any thing except that it was a very pleasant
thing to be together. During the long, still afternoons, they rambled
among the fading woods, now illuminated with the radiance of the dying
year, and sentimentalized and quoted poetry; and almost every evening
Joseph found some errand to bring him to the house; a book for Miss
Susan, or a bundle of roots and herbs for Miss Silence, or some
remarkably fine yarn for her to knit--attentions which retained our hero
in the good graces of the latter lady, and gained him the credit of
being "a young man that knew how to behave himself." As Susan was a
leading member in the village choir, our hero was directly attacked with
a violent passion for sacred music, which brought him punctually to the
singing school, where the young people came together to sing anthems and
fuguing tunes, and to eat apples and chestnuts.

It cannot be supposed that all these things passed unnoticed by those
wakeful eyes that are ever upon the motions of such "bright, particular
stars;" and as is usual in such cases, many things were known to a
certainty which were not yet known to the parties themselves. The young
belles and beaux whispered and tittered, and passed the original jokes
and witticisms common in such cases, while the old ladies soberly took
the matter in hand when they went out with their knitting to make
afternoon visits, considering how much money Uncle Jaw had, how much his
son would have, and what all together would come to, and whether Joseph
would be a "smart man," and Susan a good housekeeper, with all the "ifs,
ands, and buts" of married life.

But the most fearful wonders and prognostics crowded around the point
"what Uncle Jaw would have to say to the matter." His lawsuit with the
sisters being well understood, as there was every reason it should be,
it was surmised what two such vigorous belligerents as himself and Miss
Silence would say to the prospect of a matrimonial conjunction. It was
also reported that Deacon Enos Dudley had a claim to the land which
constituted the finest part of Susan's portion, the loss of which would
render the consent of Uncle Jaw still more doubtful. But all this while
Miss Silence knew nothing of the matter, for her habit of considering
and treating Susan as a child seemed to gain strength with time. Susan
was always to be seen to, and watched, and instructed, and taught; and
Miss Silence could not conceive that one who could not even make
pickles, without her to oversee, could think of such a matter as setting
up housekeeping on her own account. To be sure, she began to observe an
extraordinary change in her sister; remarked that "lately Susan seemed
to be getting sort o' crazy-headed;" that she seemed not to have any
"faculty" for any thing; that she had made gingerbread twice, and forgot
the ginger one time, and put in mustard the other; that she shook the
saltcellar out in the tablecloth, and let the cat into the pantry half a
dozen times; and that when scolded for these sins of omission or
commission, she had a fit of crying, and did a little worse than before.
Silence was of opinion that Susan was getting to be "weakly and naarvy,"
and actually concocted an unmerciful pitcher of wormwood and boneset,
which she said was to keep off the "shaking weakness" that was coming
over her. In vain poor Susan protested that she was well enough; Miss
Silence _knew better_; and one evening she entertained Mr. Joseph Adams
with a long statement of the case in all its bearings, and ended with
demanding his opinion, as a candid listener, whether the wormwood and
boneset sentence should not be executed.

Poor Susan had that very afternoon parted from a knot of young friends
who had teased her most unmercifully on the score of attentions
received, till she began to think the very leaves and stones were so
many eyes to pry into her secret feelings; and then to have the whole
case set in order before the very person, too, whom she most dreaded.
"Certainly he would think she was acting like a fool; perhaps he did not
mean any thing more than friendship, _after all_; and she would not for
the world have him suppose that she cared a copper more for him than for
any other _friend_, or that she was _in love_, of all things." So she
sat very busy with her knitting work, scarcely knowing what she was
about, till Silence called out,--

"Why, Susan, what a piece of work you are making of that stocking heel!
What in the world are you doing to it?"

Susan dropped her knitting, and making some pettish answer, escaped out
of the room.

"Now, did you ever?" said Silence, laying down the seam she had been
cross-stitching; "what _is_ the matter with her, Mr. Adams?"

"Miss Susan is certainly indisposed," replied our hero gravely. "I must
get her to take your advice, Miss Silence."

Our hero followed Susan to the front door, where she stood looking out
at the moon, and begged to know what distressed her.

Of course it was "nothing," the young lady's usual complaint when in low
spirits; and to show that she was perfectly easy, she began an unsparing
attack on a white rosebush near by.

"Susan!" said Joseph, laying his hand on hers, and in a tone that made
her start. She shook back her curls, and looked up to him with such an
innocent, confiding face!

Ah, my good reader, you may go on with this part of the story for
yourself. We are principled against unveiling the "sacred mysteries,"
the "thoughts that breathe and words that burn," in such little
moonlight interviews as these. You may fancy all that followed; and we
can only assure all who are doubtful, that, under judicious management,
cases of this kind may be disposed of without wormwood or boneset. Our
hero and heroine were called to sublunary realities by the voice of Miss
Silence, who came into the passage to see what upon earth they were
doing. That lady was satisfied by the representations of so friendly and
learned a young man as Joseph that nothing immediately alarming was to
be apprehended in the case of Susan; and she retired. From that evening
Susan stepped about with a heart many pounds lighter than before.

"I'll tell you what, Joseph," said Uncle Jaw, "I'll tell you what, now:
I hear 'em tell that you've took and courted that 'ere Susan Jones. Now,
I jest want to know if it's true."

There was an explicitness about this mode of inquiry that took our hero
quite by surprise, so that he could only reply,--

"Why, sir, supposing I had, would there be any objection to it in your
mind?"

"Don't talk to me," said Uncle Jaw. "I jest want to know if it's true."

Our hero put his hands in his pockets, walked to the window, and
whistled.

"'Cause if you have," said Uncle Jaw, "you may jest un-court as fast as
you can; for 'Squire Jones's daughter won't get a single cent of my
money, I can tell you that."

"Why, father, Susan Jones is not to blame for any thing that her father
did; and I'm sure she is a pretty girl enough."

"I don't care if she is pretty. What's that to me? I've got you through
college, Joseph; and a hard time I've had of it, a-delvin' and slavin';
and here you come, and the very first thing you do you must take and
court that 'ere 'Squire Jones's daughter, who was always putting himself
up above me. Besides, I mean to have the law on that estate yet; and
Deacon Dudley, he will have the law, too; and it will cut off the best
piece of land the girl has; and when you get married, I mean you shall
_have_ something. It's jest a trick of them gals at me; but I guess I'll
come up with 'em yet. I'm just a-goin' down to have a 'regular hash'
with old Silence, to let her know she can't come round me that way."

"Silence," said Susan, drawing her head into the window, and looking
apprehensive, "there is Mr. Adams coming here."

"What, Joe Adams? Well, and what if he is?"

"No, no, sister, but it is his father--it is Uncle Jaw."

"Well, s'pose 'tis, child--what scares you? S'pose I'm afraid of him? If
he wants more than I gave him last time, I'll put it on." So saying,
Miss Silence took her knitting work and marched down into the sitting
room, and sat herself bolt upright in an attitude of defiance, while
poor Susan, feeling her heart beat unaccountably fast, glided out of the
room.

"Well, good morning, Miss Silence," said Uncle Jaw, after having scraped
his feet on the scraper, and scrubbed them on the mat nearly ten
minutes, in silent deliberation.

"Morning, sir," said Silence, abbreviating the "good."

Uncle Jaw helped himself to a chair directly in front of the enemy,
dropped his hat on the floor, and surveyed Miss Silence with a dogged
air of satisfaction, like one who is sitting down to a regular,
comfortable quarrel, and means to make the most of it.

Miss Silence tossed her head disdainfully, but scorned to commence
hostilities.

"So, Miss Silence," said Uncle Jaw, deliberately, "you don't think
you'll do any thing about that 'ere matter."

"What matter?" said Silence, with an intonation resembling that of a
roasted chestnut when it bursts from the fire.

"I really thought, Miss Silence, in that 'ere talk I had with you about
'Squire Jones's cheatin' about that 'ere----"

"Mr. Adams," said Silence, "I tell you, to begin with, I'm not a going
to be sauced in this 'ere way by you. You hain't got common decency, nor
common sense, nor common any thing else, to talk so to me about my
father; I won't bear it, I tell you."

"Why, Miss Jones," said Uncle Jaw, "how you talk! Well, to be sure,
'Squire Jones is dead and gone, and it's as well not to call it
cheatin', as I was tellin' Deacon Enos when he was talking about that
'ere lot--that 'ere lot, you know, that he sold the deacon, and never
let him have the deed on't."

"That's a lie," said Silence, starting on her feet; "that's an up and
down black lie! I tell you that, now, before you say another word."

"Miss Silence, railly, you seem to be getting touchy," said Uncle Jaw;
"well, to be sure, if the deacon can let that pass, other folks can; and
maybe the deacon will, because 'Squire Jones was a church member, and
the deacon is 'mazin' tender about bringin' out any thing against
professors; but railly, now, Miss Silence, I didn't think you and Susan
were going to work it so cunning in this here way."

"I don't know what you mean, and, what's more, I don't care," said
Silence, resuming her work, and calling back the bolt-upright dignity
with which she began.

There was a pause of some moments, during which the features of Silence
worked with suppressed rage, which was contemplated by Uncle Jaw with
undisguised satisfaction.

"You see, I s'pose, I shouldn't a minded your Susan's setting out to
court up my Joe, if it hadn't a been for them things."

"Courting your son! Mr. Adams, I should like to know what you mean by
that. I'm sure nobody wants your son, though he's a civil, likely fellow
enough; yet with such an old dragon for a father, I'll warrant he won't
get any body to court him, nor be courted by him neither."

"Railly, Miss Silence, you ain't hardly civil, now."

"Civil! I should like to know who _could_ be civil. You know, now, as
well as I do, that you are saying all this out of clear, sheer ugliness;
and that's what you keep a doing all round the neighborhood."

"Miss Silence," said Uncle Jaw, "I don't want no hard words with you.
It's pretty much known round the neighborhood that your Susan thinks
she'll get my Joe, and I s'pose you was thinking that perhaps it would
be the best way of settling up matters; but you see, now, I took and
tell'd my son I railly didn't see as I could afford it; I took and
tell'd him that young folks must have something considerable to start
with; and that, if Susan lost that 'ere piece of ground, as is likely
she will, it would be cutting off quite too much of a piece; so, you
see, I don't want you to take no encouragement about that."

"Well, I think this is pretty well!" exclaimed Silence, provoked beyond
measure or endurance; "you old torment! think I don't know what you're
at! I and Susan courting your son? I wonder if you ain't ashamed of
yourself, now! I should like to know what I or she have done, now, to
get that notion into your head?"

"I didn't s'pose you 'spected to get him yourself," said Uncle Jaw, "for
I guess by this time you've pretty much gin up trying, hain't ye? But
Susan does, I'm pretty sure."

"Here, Susan! Susan! you--come down!" called Miss Silence, in great
wrath, throwing open the chamber door. "Mr. Adams wants to speak with
you." Susan, fluttering and agitated, slowly descended into the room,
where she stopped, and looked hesitatingly, first at Uncle Jaw and then
at her sister, who, without ceremony, proposed the subject matter of the
interview as follows:--

"Now, Susan, here's this man pretends to say that you've been a courting
and snaring to get his son; and I just want you to tell him that you
hain't never had no thought of him, and that you won't have, neither."

This considerate way of announcing the subject had the effect of
bringing the burning color into Susan's face, as she stood like a
convicted culprit, with her eyes bent on the floor.

Uncle Jaw, savage as he was, was always moved by female loveliness, as
wild beasts are said to be mysteriously swayed by music, and looked on
the beautiful, downcast face with more softening than Miss Silence, who,
provoked that Susan did not immediately respond to the question, seized
her by the arm, and eagerly reiterated,--

"Susan! why don't you speak, child?"

Gathering desperate courage, Susan shook off the hand of Silence, and
straightened herself up with as much dignity as some little flower lifts
up its head when it has been bent down by rain drops.

"Silence," she said, "I never would have come down if I had thought it
was to hear such things as this. Mr. Adams, all I have to say to you is,
that your son has sought me, and not I your son. If you wish to know any
more, he can tell you better than I."

"Well, I vow! she is a pretty gal," said Uncle Jaw, as Susan shut the
door.

This exclamation was involuntary; then recollecting himself, he picked
up his hat, and saying, "Well, I guess I may as well get along hum," he
began to depart; but turning round before he shut the door, he said,
"Miss Silence, if you should conclude to do any thing about that 'ere
fence, just send word over and let me know."

Silence, without deigning any reply, marched up into Susan's little
chamber, where our heroine was treating resolution to a good fit of
crying.

"Susan, I did not think you had been such a fool," said the lady. "I do
want to know, now, if you've railly been thinking of getting married,
and to that Joe Adams of all folks!"

Poor Susan! such an interlude in all her pretty, romantic little dreams
about kindred feelings and a hundred other delightful ideas, that
flutter like singing birds through the fairy land of first love. Such an
interlude! to be called on by gruff human voices to give up all the
cherished secrets that she had trembled to whisper even to herself. She
felt as if love itself had been defiled by the coarse, rough hands that
had been meddling with it; so to her sister's soothing address Susan
made no answer, only to cry and sob still more bitterly than before.

Miss Silence, if she had a great stout heart, had no less a kind one,
and seeing Susan take the matter so bitterly to heart, she began
gradually to subside.

"Susan, you poor little fool, you," said she, at the same time giving
her a hearty slap, as expressive of earnest sympathy, "I really do feel
for you; that good-for-nothing fellow has been a cheatin' you, I do
believe."

"O, don't talk any more about it, for mercy's sake," said Susan; "I am
sick of the whole of it."

"That's you, Susan! Glad to hear you say so! I'll stand up for you,
Susan; if I catch Joe Adams coming here again with his palavering face,
I'll let him know!"

"No, no! Don't, for mercy's sake, say any thing to Mr. Adams--don't!"

"Well, child, don't claw hold of a body so! Well, at any rate, I'll just
let Joe Adams know that we hain't nothing more to say to him."

"But I don't wish to say that--that is--I don't know--indeed, sister
Silence, don't say any thing about it."

"Why not? You ain't such a _natural_, now, as to want to marry him,
after all, hey?"

"I don't know what I want, nor what I don't want; only, Silence, do now,
if you love me, do promise not to say any thing at all to Mr.
Adams--don't."

"Well, then, I won't," said Silence; "but, Susan, if you railly was in
love all this while, why hain't you been and told me? Don't you know
that I'm as much as a mother to you, and you ought to have told me in
the beginning?"

"I don't know, Silence! I couldn't--I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, Susan, you ain't a bit like me," said Silence--a remark evincing
great discrimination, certainly, and with which the conversation
terminated.

That very evening our friend Joseph walked down towards the dwelling of
the sisters, not without some anxiety for the result, for he knew by his
father's satisfied appearance that war had been declared. He walked into
the family room, and found nobody there but Miss Silence, who was
sitting, grim as an Egyptian sphinx, stitching very vigorously on a meal
bag, in which interesting employment she thought proper to be so much
engaged as not to remark the entrance of our hero. To Joseph's
accustomed "Good evening, Miss Silence," she replied merely by looking
up with a cold nod, and went on with her sewing. It appeared that she
had determined on a literal version of her promise not to say any thing
to Mr. Adams.

Our hero, as we have before stated, was familiar with the crooks and
turns of the female mind, and mentally resolved to put a bold face on
the matter, and give Miss Silence no encouragement in her attempt to
make him feel himself unwelcome. It was rather a frosty autumnal
evening, and the fire on the hearth was decaying. Mr. Joseph bustled
about most energetically, throwing down the tongs, and shovel, and
bellows, while he pulled the fire to pieces, raked out ashes and brands,
and then, in a twinkling, was at the woodpile, from whence he selected a
massive backlog and forestick, with accompaniments, which were soon
roaring and crackling in the chimney.

"There, now, that does look something like comfort," said our hero; and
drawing forward the big rocking chair, he seated himself in it, and
rubbed his hands with an air of great complacency. Miss Silence looked
not up, but stitched so much the faster, so that one might distinctly
hear the crack of the needle and the whistle of the thread all over the
apartment.

"Have you a headache to-night, Miss Silence?"

"No!" was the gruff answer.

"Are you in a hurry about those bags?" said he, glancing at a pile of
unmade ones which lay by her side.

No reply. "Hang it all!" said our hero to himself, "I'll make her
speak."

Miss Silence's needle book and brown thread lay on a chair beside her.
Our friend helped himself to a needle and thread, and taking one of the
bags, planted himself bolt upright opposite to Miss Silence, and pinning
his work to his knee, commenced stitching at a rate fully equal to her
own.

Miss Silence looked up and fidgeted, but went on with her work faster
than before; but the faster she worked, the faster and steadier worked
our hero, all in "marvellous silence." There began to be an odd
twitching about the muscles of Miss Silence's face; our hero took no
notice, having pursed his features into an expression of unexampled
gravity, which only grew more intense as he perceived, by certain uneasy
movements, that the adversary was beginning to waver.

As they were sitting, stitching away, their needles whizzing at each
other like a couple of locomotives engaged in conversation, Susan opened
the door.

The poor child had been crying for the greater part of her spare time
during the day, and was in no very merry humor; but the moment that her
astonished eyes comprehended the scene, she burst into a fit of almost
inextinguishable merriment, while Silence laid down her needle, and
looked half amused and half angry. Our hero, however, continued his
business with inflexible perseverance, unpinning his work and moving the
seam along, and going on with increased velocity.

Poor Miss Silence was at length vanquished, and joined in the loud laugh
which seemed to convulse her sister. Whereupon our hero unpinned his
work, and folding it up, looked up at her with all the assurance of
impudence triumphant, and remarked to Susan,--

"Your sister had such a pile of these pillow cases to make, that she was
quite discouraged, and engaged me to do half a dozen of them: when I
first came in she was so busy she could not even speak to me."

"Well, if you ain't the beater for impudence!" said Miss Silence.

"The beater for _industry_--so I thought," rejoined our hero.

Susan, who had been in a highly tragical state of mind all day, and who
was meditating on nothing less sublime than an eternal separation from
her lover, which she had imagined, with all the affecting attendants and
consequents, was entirely revolutionized by the unexpected turn thus
given to her ideas, while our hero pursued the opportunity he had made
for himself, and exerted his powers of entertainment to the utmost, till
Miss Silence, declaring that if she had been washing all day she should
not have been more tired than she was with laughing, took up her candle,
and good-naturedly left our young people to settle matters between
themselves. There was a grave pause of some length when she had
departed, which was broken by our hero, who, seating himself by Susan,
inquired very seriously if his father had made proposals of marriage to
Miss Silence that morning.

"No, you provoking creature!" said Susan, at the same time laughing at
the absurdity of the idea.

"Well, now, don't draw on your long face again, Susan," said Joseph;
"you have been trying to lengthen it down all the evening, if I would
have let you. Seriously, now, I know that something painful passed
between my father and you this morning, but I shall not inquire what it
was. I only tell you, frankly, that he has expressed his disapprobation
of our engagement, forbidden me to go on with it, and----"

"And, consequently, I release you from all engagements and obligations
to me, even before you ask it," said Susan.

"You are extremely accommodating," replied Joseph; "but I cannot promise
to be as obliging in giving up certain promises made to me, unless,
indeed, the feelings that dictated them should have changed."

"O, no--no, indeed," said Susan, earnestly; "you know it is not that;
but if your father objects to me----"

"If my father objects to you, he is welcome not to marry you," said
Joseph.

"Now, Joseph, do be serious," said Susan.

"Well, then, seriously, Susan, I know my obligations to my father, and
in all that relates to his comfort I will ever be dutiful and
submissive, for I have no college boy pride on the subject of
submission; but in a matter so individually my own as the choice of a
wife, in a matter that will most likely affect my happiness years and
years after he has ceased to be, I hold that I have a right to consult
my own inclinations, and, by your leave, my dear little lady, I shall
take that liberty."

"But, then, if your father is made angry, you know what sort of a man he
is; and how could I stand in the way of all your prospects?"

"Why, my dear Susan, do you think I count myself dependent upon my
father, like the heir of an English estate, who has nothing to do but
sit still and wait for money to come to him? No! I have energy and
education to start with, and if I cannot take care of myself, and you
too, then cast me off and welcome;" and, as Joseph spoke, his fine face
glowed with a conscious power, which unfettered youth never feels so
fully as in America. He paused a moment, and resumed: "Nevertheless,
Susan, I respect my father; whatever others may say of him, I shall
never forget that I owe to his hard earnings the education that enables
me to do or be any thing, and I shall not wantonly or rudely cross him.
I do not despair of gaining his consent; my father has a great
partiality for pretty girls, and if his love of contradiction is not
kept awake by open argument, I will trust to time and you to bring him
round; but, whatever comes, rest assured, my dearest one, I have chosen
for life, and cannot change."

The conversation, after this, took a turn which may readily be imagined
by all who have been in the same situation, and will, therefore, need no
further illustration.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well, deacon, railly I don't know what to think now: there's my Joe,
he's took and been a courting that 'ere Susan," said Uncle Jaw.

This was the introduction to one of Uncle Jaw's periodical visits to
Deacon Enos, who was sitting with his usual air of mild abstraction,
looking into the coals of a bright November fire, while his busy
helpmate was industriously rattling her knitting needles by his side.

A close observer might have suspected that this was _no news_ to the
good deacon, who had given a great deal of good advice, in private, to
Master Joseph of late; but he only relaxed his features into a quiet
smile, and ejaculated, "I want to know!"

"Yes; and railly, deacon, that 'ere gal is a rail pretty un. I was a
tellin' my folks that our new minister's wife was a fool to her."

"And so your son is going to marry her?" said the good lady; "I knew
that long ago."

"Well--no--not so fast; ye see there's two to that bargain yet. You see,
Joe, he never said a word to me, but took and courted the gal out of his
own head; and when I come to know, says I, 'Joe,' says I, 'that 'ere gal
won't do for me;' and I took and tell'd him, then, about that 'ere old
fence, and all about that old mill, and them _medder_s of mine; and I
tell'd him, too, about that 'ere lot of Susan's; and I should like to
know, now, deacon, how that lot business is a going to turn out."

"Judge Smith and 'Squire Moseley say that my claim to it will stand,"
said the deacon.

"They do?" said Uncle Jaw, with much satisfaction; "s'pose, then, you'll
sue, won't you?"

"I don't know," replied the deacon, meditatively.

Uncle Jaw was thoroughly amazed; that any one should have doubts about
entering suit for a fine piece of land, when sure of obtaining it, was a
problem quite beyond his powers of solving.

"You say your son has courted the girl," said the deacon, after a long
pause; "that strip of land is the best part of Susan's share; I paid
down five hundred dollars on the nail for it; I've got papers here that
Judge Smith and 'Squire Moseley say will stand good in any court of
law."

Uncle Jaw pricked up his ears and was all attention, eying with eager
looks the packet; but, to his disappointment, the deacon deliberately
laid it into his desk, shut and locked it, and resumed his seat.

"Now, railly," said Uncle Jaw, "I should like to know the particulars."

"Well, well," said the deacon, "the lawyers will be at my house
to-morrow evening, and if you have any concern about it, you may as well
come along."

Uncle Jaw wondered all the way home at what he could have done to get
himself into the confidence of the old deacon, who, he rejoiced to
think, was a going to "take" and go to law like other folks.

The next day there was an appearance of some bustle and preparation
about the deacon's house; the best room was opened and aired; an ovenful
of cake was baked; and our friend Joseph, with a face full of business,
was seen passing to and fro, in and out of the house, from various
closetings with the deacon. The deacon's lady bustled about the house
with an air of wonderful mystery, and even gave her directions about
eggs and raisins in a whisper, lest they should possibly let out some
eventful secret.

The afternoon of that day Joseph appeared at the house of the sisters,
stating that there was to be company at the deacon's that evening, and
he was sent to invite them.

"Why, what's got into the deacon's folks lately," said Silence, "to have
company so often? Joe Adams, this 'ere is some 'cut up' of yours. Come,
what are you up to now?"

"Come, come, dress yourselves and get ready," said Joseph; and, stepping
up to Susan, as she was following Silence out of the room, he whispered
something into her ear, at which she stopped short and 
violently.

"Why, Joseph, what do you mean?"

"It is so," said he.

"No, no, Joseph; no, I can't, indeed I can't."

"But you _can_, Susan."

"O Joseph, don't."

"O Susan, _do_."

"Why, how strange, Joseph!"

"Come, come, my dear, you keep me waiting. If you have any objections on
the score of propriety, we will talk about them _to-morrow_;" and our
hero looked so saucy and so resolute that there was no disputing
further; so, after a little more lingering and blushing on Susan's part,
and a few kisses and persuasions on the part of the suitor, Miss Susan
seemed to be brought to a state of resignation.

At a table in the middle of Uncle Enos's north front room were seated
the two lawyers, whose legal opinion was that evening to be fully made
up. The younger of these, 'Squire Moseley, was a rosy, portly, laughing
little bachelor, who boasted that he had offered himself, in rotation,
to every pretty girl within twenty miles round, and, among others, to
Susan Jones, notwithstanding which he still remained a bachelor, with a
fair prospect of being an old one; but none of these things disturbed
the boundless flow of good nature and complacency with which he seemed
at all times full to overflowing. On the present occasion he appeared to
be particularly in his element, as if he had some law business in hand
remarkably suited to his turn of mind; for, on finishing the inspection
of the papers, he started up, slapped his graver brother on the back,
made two or three flourishes round the room, and then seizing the old
deacon's hand, shook it violently, exclaiming,--

"All's right, deacon, all's right! Go it! go it! hurrah!"

When Uncle Jaw entered, the deacon, without preface, handed him a chair
and the papers, saying,--

"These papers are what you wanted to see. I just wish you would read
them over."

Uncle Jaw read them deliberately over. "Didn't I tell ye so, deacon? The
case is as clear as a bell: now ye will go to law, won't you?"

"Look here, Mr. Adams; now you have seen these papers, and heard what's
to be said, I'll make you an offer. Let your son marry Susan Jones, and
I'll burn these papers and say no more about it, and there won't be a
girl in the parish with a finer portion."

Uncle Jaw opened his eyes with amazement, and looked at the old man, his
mouth gradually expanding wider and wider, as if he hoped, in time, to
swallow the idea.

"Well, now, I swan!" at length he ejaculated.

"I mean just as I say," said the deacon.

"Why, that's the same as giving the gal five hundred dollars out of your
own pocket, and she ain't no relation neither."

"I know it," said the deacon; "but I have said I will do it."

"What upon 'arth for?" said Uncle Jaw.

"To make peace," said the deacon, "and to let you know that when I say
it is better to give up one's rights than to quarrel, I mean so. I am an
old man; my children are dead"--his voice faltered--"my treasures are
laid up in heaven; if I can make the children happy, why, I will. When I
thought I had lost the land, I made up my mind to lose it, and so I can
now."

Uncle Jaw looked fixedly on the old deacon, and said,--

"Well, deacon, I believe you. I vow, if you hain't got something ahead
in t'other world, I'd like to know who has--that's all; so, if Joe has
no objections, and I rather guess he won't have----"

"The short of the matter is," said the squire, "we'll have a wedding; so
come on;" and with that he threw open the parlor door, where stood Susan
and Joseph in a recess by the window, while Silence and the Rev. Mr.
Bissel were drawn up by the fire, and the deacon's lady was sweeping up
the hearth, as she had been doing ever since the party arrived.

Instantly Joseph took the hand of Susan, and led her to the middle of
the room; the merry squire seized the hand of Miss Silence, and placed
her as bridesmaid, and before any one knew what they were about, the
ceremony was in actual progress, and the minister, having been
previously instructed, made the two one with extraordinary celerity.

"What! what! what!" said Uncle Jaw. "Joseph! Deacon!"

"Fair bargain, sir," said the squire. "Hand over your papers, deacon."

The deacon handed them, and the squire, having read them aloud,
proceeded, with much ceremony, to throw them into the fire; after which,
in a mock solemn oration, he gave a statement of the whole affair, and
concluded with a grave exhortation to the new couple on the duties of
wedlock, which unbent the risibles even of the minister himself.

Uncle Jaw looked at his pretty daughter-in-law, who stood half smiling,
half blushing, receiving the congratulations of the party, and then at
Miss Silence, who appeared full as much taken by surprise as himself.

"Well, well, Miss Silence, these 'ere young folks have come round us
slick enough," said he. "I don't see but we must shake hands upon it."
And the warlike powers shook hands accordingly, which was a signal for
general merriment.

As the company were dispersing, Miss Silence laid hold of the good
deacon, and by main strength dragged him aside. "Deacon," said she, "I
take back all that 'ere I said about you, every word on't."

"Don't say any more about it, Miss Silence," said the good man; "it's
gone by, and let it go."

"Joseph!" said his father, the next morning, as he was sitting at
breakfast with Joseph and Susan, "I calculate I shall feel kinder proud
of this 'ere gal! and I'll tell you what, I'll jest give you that nice
little delicate Stanton place that I took on Stanton's mortgage: it's a
nice little place, with green blinds, and flowers, and all them things,
just right for Susan."

And accordingly, many happy years flew over the heads of the young
couple in the Stanton place, long after the hoary hairs of their kind
benefactor, the deacon, were laid with reverence in the dust. Uncle Jaw
was so far wrought upon by the magnanimity of the good old man as to be
very materially changed for the better. Instead of quarrelling in real
earnest all around the neighborhood, he confined himself merely to
battling the opposite side of every question with his son, which, as the
latter was somewhat of a logician, afforded a pretty good field for the
exercise of his powers; and he was heard to declare at the funeral of
the old deacon, that, "after all, a man got as much, and may be more, to
go along as the deacon did, than to be all the time fisting and jawing;
though I tell you what it is," said he, afterwards, "'tain't every one
that has the deacon's _faculty_, any how."




THE TEA ROSE.


There it stood, in its little green vase, on a light ebony stand, in the
window of the drawing room. The rich satin curtains, with their costly
fringes, swept down on either side of it, and around it glittered every
rare and fanciful trifle which wealth can offer to luxury; and yet that
simple rose was the fairest of them all. So pure it looked, its white
leaves just touched with that delicious creamy tint peculiar to its
kind; its cup so full, so perfect; its head bending as if it were
sinking and melting away in its own richness--O, when did ever man make
any thing to equal the living, perfect flower?

But the sunlight that streamed through the window revealed something
fairer than the rose. Reclined on an ottoman, in a deep recess, and
intently engaged with a book, rested what seemed the counterpart of that
so lovely flower. That cheek so pale, that fair forehead so spiritual,
that countenance so full of high thought, those long, downcast lashes,
and the expression of the beautiful mouth, sorrowful, yet subdued and
sweet--it seemed like the picture of a dream.

"Florence! Florence!" echoed a merry and musical voice, in a sweet,
impatient tone. Turn your head, reader, and you will see a light and
sparkling maiden, the very model of some little wilful elf, born of
mischief and motion, with a dancing eye, a foot that scarcely seems to
touch the carpet, and a smile so multiplied by dimples that it seems
like a thousand smiles at once. "Come, Florence, I say," said the little
sprite, "put down that wise, good, and excellent volume, and descend
from your cloud, and talk with a poor little mortal."

The fair apparition, thus adjured, obeyed; and, looking up, revealed
just such eyes as you expected to see beneath such lids--eyes deep,
pathetic, and rich as a strain of sad music.

"I say, cousin," said the "bright ladye," "I have been thinking what you
are to do with your pet rose when you go to New York, as, to our
consternation, you are determined to do; you know it would be a sad pity
to leave it with such a scatterbrain as I am. I do love flowers, that is
a fact; that is, I like a regular bouquet, cut off and tied up, to carry
to a party; but as to all this tending and fussing, which is needful to
keep them growing, I have no gifts in that line."

"Make yourself easy as to that, Kate," said Florence, with a smile; "I
have no intention of calling upon your talents; I have an asylum in view
for my favorite."

"O, then you know just what I was going to say. Mrs. Marshall, I
presume, has been speaking to you; she was here yesterday, and I was
quite pathetic upon the subject, telling her the loss your favorite
would sustain, and so forth; and she said how delighted she would be to
have it in her greenhouse, it is in such a fine state now, so full of
buds. I told her I knew you would like to give it to her, you are so
fond of Mrs. Marshall, you know."

"Now, Kate, I am sorry, but I have otherwise engaged it."

"Whom can it be to? you have so few intimates here."

"O, it is only one of my odd fancies."

"But do tell me, Florence."

"Well, cousin, you know the little pale girl to whom we give sewing."

"What! little Mary Stephens? How absurd! Florence, this is just another
of your motherly, oldmaidish ways--dressing dolls for poor children,
making bonnets and knitting socks for all the little dirty babies in the
region round about. I do believe you have made more calls in those two
vile, ill-smelling alleys back of our house, than ever you have in
Chestnut Street, though you know every body is half dying to see you;
and now, to crown all, you must give this choice little bijou to a
seamstress girl, when one of your most intimate friends, in your own
class, would value it so highly. What in the world can people in their
circumstances want of flowers?"

"Just the same as I do," replied Florence, calmly. "Have you not noticed
that the little girl never comes here without looking wistfully at the
opening buds? And don't you remember, the other morning, she asked me so
prettily if I would let her mother come and see it, she was so fond of
flowers?"

"But, Florence, only think of this rare flower standing on a table with
ham, eggs, cheese, and flour, and stifled in that close little room
where Mrs. Stephens and her daughter manage to wash, iron, cook, and
nobody knows what besides."

"Well, Kate, and if I were obliged to live in one coarse room, and wash,
and iron, and cook, as you say,--if I had to spend every moment of my
time in toil, with no prospect from my window but a brick wall and dirty
lane,--such a flower as this would be untold enjoyment to me."

"Pshaw! Florence--all sentiment: poor people have no time to be
sentimental. Besides, I don't believe it will grow with them; it is a
greenhouse flower, and used to delicate living."

"O, as to that, a flower never inquires whether its owner is rich or
poor; and Mrs. Stephens, whatever else she has not, has sunshine of as
good quality as this that streams through our window. The beautiful
things that God makes are his gift to all alike. You will see that my
fair rose will be as well and cheerful in Mrs. Stephens's room as in
ours."

"Well, after all, how odd! When one gives to poor people, one wants to
give them something _useful_--a bushel of potatoes, a ham, and such
things."

"Why, certainly, potatoes and ham must be supplied; but, having
ministered to the first and most craving wants, why not add any other
little pleasures or gratifications we may have it in our power to
bestow? I know there are many of the poor who have fine feeling and a
keen sense of the beautiful, which rusts out and dies because they are
too hard pressed to procure it any gratification. Poor Mrs. Stephens,
for example: I know she would enjoy birds, and flowers, and music, as
much as I do. I have seen her eye light up as she looked on these things
in our drawing room, and yet not one beautiful thing can she command.
From necessity, her room, her clothing, all she has, must be coarse and
plain. You should have seen the almost rapture she and Mary felt when I
offered them my rose."

"Dear me! all this may be true, but I never thought of it before. I
never thought that these hard-working people had any ideas of _taste_!"

"Then why do you see the geranium or rose so carefully nursed in the old
cracked teapot in the poorest room, or the morning glory planted in a
box and twined about the window? Do not these show that the human heart
yearns for the beautiful in all ranks of life? You remember, Kate, how
our washerwoman sat up a whole night, after a hard day's work, to make
her first baby a pretty dress to be baptized in."

"Yes, and I remember how I laughed at you for making such a tasteful
little cap for it."

"Well, Katy, I think the look of perfect delight with which the poor
mother regarded her baby in its new dress and cap was something quite
worth creating: I do believe she could not have felt more grateful if I
had sent her a barrel of flour."

"Well, I never thought before of giving any thing to the poor but what
they really needed, and I have always been willing to do that when I
could without going far out of my way."

"Well, cousin, if our heavenly Father gave to us after this mode, we
should have only coarse, shapeless piles of provisions lying about the
world, instead of all this beautiful variety of trees, and fruits, and
flowers."

"Well, well, cousin, I suppose you are right--but have mercy on my poor
head; it is too small to hold so many new ideas all at once--so go on
your own way." And the little lady began practising a waltzing step
before the glass with great satisfaction.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a very small room, lighted by only one window. There was no
carpet on the floor; there was a clean, but coarsely-covered bed in one
corner; a cupboard, with a few dishes and plates, in the other; a chest
of drawers; and before the window stood a small cherry stand, quite new,
and, indeed, it was the only article in the room that seemed so.

A pale, sickly-looking woman of about forty was leaning back in her
rocking chair, her eyes closed and her lips compressed as if in pain.
She rocked backward and forward a few minutes, pressed her hand hard
upon her eyes, and then languidly resumed her fine stitching, on which
she had been busy since morning. The door opened, and a slender little
girl of about twelve years of age entered, her large blue eyes dilated
and radiant with delight as she bore in the vase with the rose tree in
it.

"O, see, mother, see! Here is one in full bloom, and two more half out,
and ever so many more pretty buds peeping out of the green leaves."

The poor woman's face brightened as she looked, first on the rose and
then on her sickly child, on whose face she had not seen so bright a
color for months.

"God bless her!" she exclaimed, unconsciously.

"Miss Florence--yes, I knew you would feel so, mother. Does it not make
your head feel better to see such a beautiful flower? Now, you will not
look so longingly at the flowers in the market, for we have a rose that
is handsomer than any of them. Why, it seems to me it is worth as much
to us as our whole little garden used to be. Only see how many buds
there are! Just count them, and only smell the flower! Now, where shall
we set it up?" And Mary skipped about, placing her flower first in one
position and then in another, and walking off to see the effect, till
her mother gently reminded her that the rose tree could not preserve its
beauty without sunlight.

"O, yes, truly," said Mary; "well, then, it must stand here on our new
stand. How glad I am that we have such a handsome new stand for it! it
will look so much better." And Mrs. Stephens laid down her work, and
folded a piece of newspaper, on which the treasure was duly deposited.

"There," said Mary, watching the arrangement eagerly, "that will do--no,
for it does not show both the opening buds; a little farther around--a
little more; there, that is right;" and then Mary walked around to view
the rose in various positions, after which she urged her mother to go
with her to the outside, and see how it looked there. "How kind it was
in Miss Florence to think of giving this to us!" said Mary; "though she
had done so much for us, and given us so many things, yet this seems the
best of all, because it seems as if she thought of us, and knew just how
we felt; and so few do that, you know, mother."

What a bright afternoon that little gift made in that little room! How
much faster Mary's fingers flew the livelong day as she sat sewing by
her mother! and Mrs. Stephens, in the happiness of her child, almost
forgot that she had a headache, and thought, as she sipped her evening
cup of tea, that she felt stronger than she had done for some time.

That rose! its sweet influence died not with the first day. Through all
the long, cold winter, the watching, tending, cherishing that flower
awakened a thousand pleasant trains of thought, that beguiled the
sameness and weariness of their life. Every day the fair, growing thing
put forth some fresh beauty--a leaf, a bud, a new shoot, and constantly
awakened fresh enjoyment in its possessors. As it stood in the window,
the passer by would sometimes stop and gaze, attracted by its beauty,
and then proud and happy was Mary; nor did even the serious and
care-worn widow notice with indifference this tribute to the beauty of
their favorite.

But little did Florence think, when she bestowed the gift, that there
twined about it an invisible thread that reached far and brightly into
the web of her destiny.

One cold afternoon in early spring, a tall and graceful gentleman called
at the lowly room to pay for the making of some linen by the inmates. He
was a stranger and wayfarer, recommended through the charity of some of
Mrs. Stephens's patrons. As he turned to go, his eye rested admiringly
on the rose tree; and he stopped to gaze at it.

"How beautiful!" said he.

"Yes," said little Mary; "and it was given to us by a lady as sweet and
beautiful as that is."

"Ah," said the stranger, turning upon her a pair of bright dark eyes,
pleased and rather struck by the communication; "and how came she to
give it to you, my little girl?"

"O, because we are poor, and mother is sick, and we never can have any
thing pretty. We used to have a garden once; and we loved flowers so
much, and Miss Florence found it out, and so she gave us this."

"Florence!" echoed the stranger.

"Yes, Miss Florence L'Estrange--a beautiful lady. They say she was from
foreign parts; but she speaks English just like other ladies, only
sweeter."

"Is she here now? is she in this city?" said the gentleman, eagerly.

"No; she left some months ago," said the widow, noticing the shade of
disappointment on his face. "But," said she, "you can find out all about
her at her aunt's, Mrs. Carlysle's, No. 10 ---- Street."

A short time after Florence received a letter in a handwriting that made
her tremble. During the many early years of her life spent in France she
had well learned to know that writing--had loved as a woman like her
loves only once; but there had been obstacles of parents and friends,
long separation, long suspense, till, after anxious years, she had
believed the ocean had closed over that hand and heart; and it was this
that had touched with such pensive sorrow the lines in her lovely face.

But this letter told that he was living--that he had traced her, even as
a hidden streamlet may be traced, by the freshness, the verdure of
heart, which her deeds of kindness had left wherever she had passed.
Thus much said, our readers need no help in finishing my story for
themselves.




TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.


I have a detail of very homely grievances to present; but such as they
are, many a heart will feel them to be heavy--_the trials of a
housekeeper_.

"Poh!" says one of the lords of creation, taking his cigar out of his
mouth, and twirling it between his two first fingers, "what a fuss these
women do make of this simple matter of _managing a family_! I can't see
for my life as there is any thing so extraordinary to be done in this
matter of housekeeping: only three meals a day to be got and cleared
off--and it really seems to take up the whole of their mind from morning
till night. _I_ could keep house without so much of a flurry, I know."

Now, prithee, good brother, listen to my story, and see how much you
know about it. I came to this enlightened West about a year since, and
was duly established in a comfortable country residence within a mile
and a half of the city, and there commenced the enjoyment of domestic
felicity. I had been married about three months, and had been previously
_in love_ in the most approved romantic way, with all the proprieties of
moonlight walks, serenades, sentimental billets doux, and everlasting
attachment.

After having been allowed, as I said, about three months to get over
this sort of thing, and to prepare for realities, I was located for life
as aforesaid. My family consisted of myself and husband, a female friend
as a visitor, and two brothers of my good man, who were engaged with him
in business.

I pass over the two or three first days, spent in that process of
hammering boxes, breaking crockery, knocking things down and picking
them up again, which is commonly called getting to housekeeping. As
usual, carpets were sewed and stretched, laid down, and taken up to be
sewed over; things were formed, and _re_formed, _trans_formed, and
_con_formed, till at last a settled order began to appear. But now came
up the great point of all. During our confusion we had cooked and eaten
our meals in a very miscellaneous and pastoral manner, eating now from
the top of a barrel and now from a fireboard laid on two chairs, and
drinking, some from teacups, and some from saucers, and some from
tumblers, and some from a pitcher big enough to be drowned in, and
sleeping, some on sofas, and some on straggling beds and mattresses
thrown down here and there wherever there was room. All these pleasant
barbarities were now at an end. The house was in order, the dishes put
up in their places; three regular meals were to be administered in one
day, all in an orderly, civilized form; beds were to be made, rooms
swept and dusted, dishes washed, knives scoured, and all the et cetera
to be attended to. Now for getting "_help_," as Mrs. Trollope says; and
where and how were we to get it? We knew very few persons in the city;
and how were we to accomplish the matter? At length the "house of
employment" was mentioned; and my husband was despatched thither
regularly every day for a week, while I, in the mean time, was very
nearly _despatched_ by the abundance of work at home. At length, one
evening, as I was sitting completely exhausted, thinking of resorting to
the last feminine expedient for supporting life, viz., a good fit of
crying, my husband made his appearance, with a most triumphant air, at
the door. "There, Margaret, I have got you a couple at last--cook and
chambermaid." So saying, he flourished open the door, and gave to my
view the picture of a little, dry, snuffy-looking old woman, and a
great, staring Dutch girl, in a green bonnet with red ribbons, with
mouth wide open, and hands and feet that would have made a Greek
sculptor open _his_ mouth too. I addressed forthwith a few words of
encouragement to each of this cultivated-looking couple, and proceeded
to ask their names; and forthwith the old woman began to snuffle and to
wipe her face with what was left of an old silk pocket handkerchief
preparatory to speaking, while the young lady opened her mouth wider,
and looked around with a frightened air, as if meditating an escape.
After some preliminaries, however, I found out that my old woman was
Mrs. Tibbins, and my Hebe's name was _Kotterin;_ also, that she knew
much more Dutch than English, and not any too much of either. The old
lady was the cook. I ventured a few inquiries. "Had she ever cooked?"

"Yes, ma'am, sartain; she had lived at two or three places in the city."

"I suspect, my dear," said my husband confidently, "that she is an
experienced cook, and so your troubles are over;" and he went to reading
his newspaper. I said no more, but determined to wait till morning. The
breakfast, to be sure, did not do much honor to the talents of my
official; but it was the first time, and the place was new to her. After
breakfast was cleared away I proceeded to give directions for dinner; it
was merely a plain joint of meat, I said, to be roasted in the tin oven.
The _experienced cook_ looked at me with a stare of entire vacuity. "The
tin oven," I repeated, "stands there," pointing to it.

She walked up to it, and touched it with such an appearance of suspicion
as if it had been an electrical battery, and then looked round at me
with a look of such helpless ignorance that my soul was moved. "I never
see one of them things before," said she.

"Never saw a tin oven!" I exclaimed. "I thought you said you had cooked
in two or three families."

"They does not have such things as them, though," rejoined my old lady.
Nothing was to be done, of course, but to instruct her into the
philosophy of the case; and having spitted the joint, and given
numberless directions, I walked off to my room to superintend the
operations of Kotterin, to whom I had committed the making of my bed and
the sweeping of my room, it never having come into my head that there
_could be_ a wrong way of making a bed; and to this day it is a marvel
to me how any one could arrange pillows and quilts to make such a
nondescript appearance as mine now presented. One glance showed me that
Kotterin also was "_just caught_," and that I had as much to do in her
department as in that of my old lady.

Just then the door bell rang. "O, there is the door bell," I exclaimed.
"Run, Kotterin, and show them into the parlor."

Kotterin started to run, as directed, and then stopped, and stood
looking round on all the doors and on me with a wofully puzzled air.
"The street door," said I, pointing towards the entry. Kotterin
blundered into the entry, and stood gazing with a look of stupid wonder
at the bell ringing without hands, while I went to the door and let in
the company before she could be fairly made to understand the connection
between the ringing and the phenomenon of admission.

As dinner time approached, I sent word into my kitchen to have it set
on; but, recollecting the state of the heads of department there, I soon
followed my own orders. I found the tin oven standing out in the middle
of the kitchen, and my cook seated _a la Turc_ in front of it,
contemplating the roast meat with full as puzzled an air as in the
morning. I once more explained the mystery of taking it off, and
assisted her to get it on to the platter, though somewhat cooled by
having been so long set out for inspection. I was standing holding the
spit in my hands, when Kotterin, who had heard the door bell ring, and
was determined this time to be in season, ran into the hall, and soon
returning, opened the kitchen door, and politely ushered in three or
four fashionable looking ladies, exclaiming, "Here she is." As these
were strangers from the city, who had come to make their first call,
this introduction was far from proving an eligible one--the look of
thunderstruck astonishment with which I greeted their first appearance,
as I stood brandishing the spit, and the terrified snuffling and staring
of poor Mrs. Tibbins, who again had recourse to her old pocket
handkerchief, almost entirely vanquished their gravity, and it was
evident that they were on the point of a broad laugh; so, recovering my
self-possession, I apologized, and led the way to the parlor.

Let these few incidents be a specimen of the four mortal weeks that I
spent with these "_helps_," during which time I did almost as much work,
with twice as much anxiety, as when there was nobody there; and yet
every thing went wrong besides. The young gentlemen complained of the
patches of starch grimed to their collars, and the streaks of black coal
ironed into their dickies, while one week every pocket handkerchief in
the house was starched so stiff that you might as well have carried an
earthen plate in your pocket; the tumblers looked muddy; the plates were
never washed clean or wiped dry unless I attended to each one; and as to
eating and drinking, we experienced a variety that we had not before
considered possible.

At length the old woman vanished from the stage, and was succeeded by a
knowing, active, capable damsel, with a temper like a steel-trap, who
remained with me just one week, and then went off in a fit of spite. To
her succeeded a rosy, good-natured, merry lass, who broke the crockery,
burned the dinner, tore the clothes in ironing, and knocked down every
thing that stood in her way about the house, without at all discomposing
herself about the matter. One night she took the stopper from a barrel
of molasses, and came singing off up stairs, while the molasses ran
soberly out into the cellar bottom all night, till by morning it was in
a state of universal emancipation. Having done this, and also despatched
an entire set of tea things by letting the waiter fall, she one day made
her disappearance.

Then, for a wonder, there fell to my lot a tidy, efficient-trained
English girl; pretty, and genteel, and neat, and knowing how to do every
thing, and with the sweetest temper in the world. "Now," said I to
myself, "I shall _rest_ from my labors." Every thing about the house
began to go right, and looked as clean and genteel as Mary's own pretty
self. But, alas! this period of repose was interrupted by the vision of
a clever, trim-looking young man, who for some weeks could be heard
scraping his boots at the kitchen door every Sunday night; and at last
Miss Mary, with some smiling and blushing, gave me to understand that
she must leave in two weeks.

"Why, Mary," said I, feeling a little mischievous, "don't you like the
place?"

"O, yes, ma'am."

"Then why do you look for another?"

"I am not going to another place."

"What, Mary, are you going to learn a trade?"

"No, ma'am."

"Why, then, what do you mean to do?"

"I expect to keep house _myself_, ma'am," said she, laughing and
blushing.

"O ho!" said I, "that is it;" and so, in two weeks, I lost the best
little girl in the world: peace to her memory.

After this came an interregnum, which put me in mind of the chapter in
Chronicles that I used to read with great delight when a child, where
Basha, and Elah, and Tibni, and Zimri, and Omri, one after the other,
came on to the throne of Israel, all in the compass of half a dozen
verses. We had one old woman, who staid a week, and went away with the
misery in her tooth; one _young_ woman, who ran away and got married;
one cook, who came at night and went off before light in the morning;
one very clever girl, who staid a month, and then went away because her
mother was sick; another, who staid six weeks, and was taken with the
fever herself; and during all this time, who can speak the damage and
destruction wrought in the domestic paraphernalia by passing through
these multiplied hands?

What shall we do? Shall we give up houses, have no furniture to take
care of, keep merely a bag of meal, a porridge pot, and a pudding stick,
and sit in our tent door in real patriarchal independence? What shall we
do?




LITTLE EDWARD.


Were any of you born in New England, in the good old catechizing,
church-going, school-going, orderly times? If so, you may have seen my
Uncle Abel; the most perpendicular, rectangular, upright, downright good
man that ever labored six days and rested on the seventh.

You remember his hard, weather-beaten countenance, where every line
seemed drawn with "a pen of iron and the point of a diamond;" his
considerate gray eyes, that moved over objects as if it were not best to
be in a hurry about seeing; the circumspect opening and shutting of the
mouth; his down-sitting and up-rising, all performed with conviction
aforethought--in short, the whole ordering of his life and conversation,
which was, according to the tenor of the military order, "to the right
about face--forward, march!"

Now, if you supposed, from all this triangularism of exterior, that this
good man had nothing kindly within, you were much mistaken. You often
find the greenest grass under a snowdrift; and though my uncle's mind
was not exactly of the flower garden kind, still there was an abundance
of wholesome and kindly vegetation there.

It is true, he seldom laughed, and never joked himself; but no man had a
more serious and weighty conviction of what a good joke was in another;
and when some exceeding witticism was dispensed in his presence, you
might see Uncle Abel's face slowly relax into an expression of solemn
satisfaction, and he would look at the author with a sort of quiet
wonder, as if it was past his comprehension how such a thing could ever
come into a man's head.

Uncle Abel, too, had some relish for the fine arts; in proof of which, I
might adduce the pleasure with which he gazed at the plates in his
family Bible, the likeness whereof is neither in heaven, nor on earth,
nor under the earth. And he was also such an eminent musician, that he
could go through the singing book at one sitting without the least
fatigue, beating time like a windmill all the way.

He had, too, a liberal hand, though his liberality was all by the rule
of three. He did by his neighbor exactly as he would be done by; he
loved some things in this world very sincerely: he loved his God much,
but he honored and feared him more; he was exact with others, he was
more exact with himself, and he expected his God to be more exact still.

Every thing in Uncle Abel's house was in the same time, place, manner,
and form, from year's end to year's end. There was old Master Bose, a
dog after my uncle's own heart, who always walked as if he was studying
the multiplication table. There was the old clock, forever ticking in
the kitchen corner, with a picture on its face of the sun, forever
setting behind a perpendicular row of poplar trees. There was the
never-failing supply of red peppers and onions hanging over the chimney.
There, too, were the yearly hollyhocks and morning-glories blooming
about the windows. There was the "best room," with its sanded floor, the
cupboard in one corner with its glass doors, the ever green asparagus
bushes in the chimney, and there was the stand with the Bible and
almanac on it in another corner. There, too, was Aunt Betsey, who never
looked any older, because she always looked as old as she could; who
always dried her catnip and wormwood the last of September, and began to
clean house the first of May. In short, this was the land of
continuance. Old Time never took it into his head to practise either
addition, or subtraction, or multiplication on its sum total.

This Aunt Betsey aforenamed was the neatest and most efficient piece of
human machinery that ever operated in forty places at once. She was
always every where, predominating over and seeing to every thing; and
though my uncle had been twice married, Aunt Betsey's rule and authority
had never been broken. She reigned over his wives when living, and
reigned after them when dead, and so seemed likely to reign on to the
end of the chapter. But my uncle's latest wife left Aunt Betsey a much
less tractable subject than ever before had fallen to her lot. Little
Edward was the child of my uncle's old age, and a brighter, merrier
little blossom never grew on the verge of an avalanche. He had been
committed to the nursing of his grandmamma till he had arrived at the
age of _in_discretion, and then my old uncle's heart so yearned for him
that he was sent for home.

His introduction into the family excited a terrible sensation. Never was
there such a condemner of dignities, such a violator of high places and
sanctities, as this very Master Edward. It was all in vain to try to
teach him decorum. He was the most outrageously merry elf that ever
shook a head of curls; and it was all the same to him whether it was
"_Sabba' day_" or any other day. He laughed and frolicked with every
body and every thing that came in his way, not even excepting his solemn
old father; and when you saw him, with his fair arms around the old
man's neck, and his bright blue eyes and blooming cheek peering out
beside the bleak face of Uncle Abel, you might fancy you saw spring
caressing winter. Uncle Abel's metaphysics were sorely puzzled by this
sparkling, dancing compound of spirit and matter; nor could he devise
any method of bringing it into any reasonable shape, for he did mischief
with an energy and perseverance that was truly astonishing. Once he
scoured the floor with Aunt Betsey's very Scotch snuff; once he washed
up the hearth with Uncle Abel's most immaculate clothes brush; and once
he was found trying to make Bose wear his father's spectacles. In short,
there was no use, except the right one, to which he did not put every
thing that came in his way.

But Uncle Abel was most of all puzzled to know what to do with him on
the Sabbath, for on that day Master Edward seemed to exert himself to be
particularly diligent and entertaining.

"Edward! Edward must not play Sunday!" his father would call out; and
then Edward would hold up his curly head, and look as grave as the
catechism; but in three minutes you would see "pussy" scampering through
the "best room," with Edward at her heels, to the entire discomposure of
all devotion in Aunt Betsey and all others in authority.

At length my uncle came to the conclusion that "it wasn't in natur' to
teach him any better," and that "he could no more keep Sunday than the
brook down in the lot." My poor uncle! he did not know what was the
matter with his heart, but certain it was, he lost all faculty of
scolding when little Edward was in the case, and he would rub his
spectacles a quarter of an hour longer than common when Aunt Betsey was
detailing his witticisms and clever doings.

In process of time our hero had compassed his third year, and arrived at
the dignity of going to school. He went illustriously through the
spelling book, and then attacked the catechism; went from "man's chief
end" to the "requirin's and forbiddin's" in a fortnight, and at last
came home inordinately merry, to tell his father that he had got to
"Amen." After this, he made a regular business of saying over the whole
every Sunday evening, standing with his hands folded in front and his
checked apron folded down, occasionally glancing round to see if pussy
gave proper attention. And, being of a practically benevolent turn of
mind, he made several commendable efforts to teach Bose the catechism,
in which he succeeded as well as might be expected. In short, without
further detail, Master Edward bade fair to become a literary wonder.

But alas for poor little Edward! his merry dance was soon over. A day
came when he sickened. Aunt Betsey tried her whole herbarium, but in
vain: he grew rapidly worse and worse. His father sickened in heart, but
said nothing; he only staid by his bedside day and night, trying all
means to save, with affecting pertinacity.

"Can't you think of any thing more, doctor?" said he to the physician,
when all had been tried in vain.

"Nothing," answered the physician.

A momentary convulsion passed over my uncle's face. "The will of the
Lord be done," said he, almost with a groan of anguish.

Just at that moment a ray of the setting sun pierced the checked
curtains, and gleamed like an angel's smile across the face of the
little sufferer. He woke from troubled sleep.

"O, dear! I am so sick!" he gasped, feebly. His father raised him in his
arms; he breathed easier, and looked up with a grateful smile. Just then
his old playmate, the cat, crossed the room. "There goes pussy," said
he; "O, dear! I shall never play any more."

At that moment a deadly change passed over his face. He looked up in his
father's face with an imploring expression, and put out his hand as if
for help. There was one moment of agony, and then the sweet features all
settled into a smile of peace, and "mortality was swallowed up of life."

My uncle laid him down, and looked one moment at his beautiful face. It
was too much for his principles, too much for his consistency, and "he
lifted up his voice and wept."

The next morning was the Sabbath--the funeral day--and it rose with
"breath all incense and with cheek all bloom." Uncle Abel was as calm
and collected as ever; but in his face there was a sorrow-stricken
appearance touching to behold. I remember him at family prayers, as he
bent over the great Bible and began the psalm, "Lord, thou hast been our
dwelling-place in all generations." Apparently he was touched by the
melancholy splendor of the poetry, for after reading a few verses he
stopped. There was a dead silence, interrupted only by the tick of the
clock. He cleared his voice repeatedly, and tried to go on, but in vain.
He closed the book, and kneeled down to prayer. The energy of sorrow
broke through his usual formal reverence, and his language flowed forth
with a deep and sorrowful pathos which I shall never forget. The God so
much reverenced, so much feared, seemed to draw near to him as a friend
and comforter, his refuge and strength, "a very present help in time of
trouble."

My uncle rose, and I saw him walk to the room of the departed one. He
uncovered the face. It was set with the seal of death; but O, how
surpassingly lovely! The brilliancy of life was gone, but that pure,
transparent face was touched with a mysterious, triumphant brightness,
which seemed like the dawning of heaven.

My uncle looked long and earnestly. He felt the beauty of what he gazed
on; his heart was softened, but he had no words for his feelings. He
left the room unconsciously, and stood in the front door. The morning
was bright, the bells were ringing for church, the birds were singing
merrily, and the pet squirrel of little Edward was frolicking about the
door. My uncle watched him as he ran first up one tree, and then down
and up another, and then over the fence, whisking his brush and
chattering just as if nothing was the matter.

With a deep sigh Uncle Abel broke forth, "How happy that _cretur'_ is!
Well, the Lord's will be done."

That day the dust was committed to dust, amid the lamentations of all
who had known little Edward. Years have passed since then, and all that
is mortal of my uncle has long since been gathered to his fathers; but
his just and upright spirit has entered the glorious liberty of the sons
of God. Yes, the good man may have had opinions which the philosophical
scorn, weaknesses at which the thoughtless smile; but death shall change
him into all that is enlightened, wise, and refined; for he shall awake
in "His" likeness, and "be satisfied."




AUNT MARY.


Since sketching character is the mode, I too take up my pencil, not to
make you laugh, though peradventure it may be--to get you to sleep.

I am now a tolerably old gentleman--an old bachelor, moreover--and, what
is more to the point, an unpretending and sober-minded one. Lest,
however, any of the ladies should take exceptions against me in the very
outset, I will merely remark, _en passant_, that a man can sometimes
become an old bachelor because he has _too much_ heart as well as too
little.

Years ago--before any of my readers were born--I was a little
good-for-nought of a boy, of precisely that unlucky kind who are always
in every body's way, and always in mischief. I had, to watch over my
uprearing, a father and mother, and a whole army of older brothers and
sisters. My relatives bore a very great resemblance to other human
beings, neither good angels nor the opposite class, but, as
mathematicians say, "in the mean proportion."

As I have before insinuated, I was a sort of family scape-grace among
them, and one on whose head all the domestic trespasses were regularly
visited, either by real, actual desert or by imputation.

For this order of things, there was, I confess, a very solid and serious
foundation, in the constitution of my mind. Whether I was born under
some cross-eyed planet, or whether I was fairy-smitten in my cradle,
certain it is that I was, from the dawn of existence, a sort of "Murad
the Unlucky;" an out-of-time, out-of-place, out-of-form sort of a boy,
with whom nothing prospered.

Who always left open doors in cold weather? It was Henry. Who was sure
to upset his coffee cup at breakfast, or to knock over his tumbler at
dinner, or to prostrate saltcellar, pepper box, and mustard pot, if he
only happened to move his arm? Why, Henry. Who was plate breaker general
for the family? It was Henry. Who tangled mamma's silks and cottons, and
tore up the last newspaper for papa, or threw down old Ph[oe]be's
clothes horse, with all her clean ironing thereupon? Why, Henry.

Now all this was no "malice prepense" in me, for I solemnly believe that
I was the best-natured boy in the world; but something was the matter
with the attraction of cohesion, or the attraction of gravitation--with
the general dispensation of matter around me--that, let me do what I
would, things would fall down, and break, or be torn and damaged, if I
only came near them; and my unluckiness in any matter seemed in exact
proportion to my carefulness.

If any body in the room with me had a headache, or any kind of nervous
irritability, which made it particularly necessary for others to be
quiet, and if I was in an especial desire unto the same, I was sure,
while stepping around on tiptoe, to fall headlong over a chair, which
would give an introductory push to the shovel, which would fall upon the
tongs, which would animate the poker, and all together would set in
action two or three sticks of wood, and down they would come together,
with just that hearty, sociable sort of racket, which showed that they
were disposed to make as much of the opportunity as possible.

In the same manner, every thing that came into my hand, or was at all
connected with me, was sure to lose by it. If I rejoiced in a clean
apron in the morning, I was sure to make a full-length prostration
thereupon on my way to school, and come home nothing better, but rather
worse. If I was sent on an errand, I was sure either to lose my money in
going, or my purchases in returning; and on these occasions my mother
would often comfort me with the reflection, that it was well that my
ears were fastened to my head, or I should lose them too. Of course, I
was a fair mark for the exhortatory powers, not only of my parents, but
of all my aunts, uncles, and cousins, to the third and fourth
generation, who ceased not to reprove, rebuke, and exhort with all
long-suffering and doctrine.

All this would have been very well if nature had not gifted me with a
very unnecessary and uncomfortable capacity of _feeling_, which, like a
refined ear for music, is undesirable, because, in this world, one meets
with discord ninety-nine times where it meets with harmony once. Much,
therefore, as I furnished occasion to be scolded at, I never became
_used_ to scolding, so that I was just as much galled by it the
_forty_-first time as the first. There was no such thing as philosophy
in me: I had just that unreasonable heart which is not conformed unto
the nature of things, neither indeed _can_ be. I was timid, and
shrinking, and proud; I was nothing to any one around me but an awkward,
unlucky boy; nothing to my parents but one of half a dozen children,
whose faces were to be washed and stockings mended on Saturday
afternoon. If I was very sick, I had medicine and the doctor; if I was a
little sick, I was exhorted unto patience; and if I was sick at heart, I
was left to prescribe for myself.

Now, all this was very well: what should a child need but meat, and
drink, and room to play, and a school to teach him reading and writing,
and somebody to take care of him when sick? Certainly, nothing.

But the feelings of grown-up children exist in the mind of little ones
oftener than is supposed; and I had, even at this early day, the same
keen sense of all that touched the heart wrong; the same longing for
something which should touch it aright; the same discontent, with
latent, matter-of-course affection, and the same craving for sympathy,
which has been the unprofitable fashion of this world in all ages. And
no human being possessing such constitutionals has a better chance of
being made unhappy by them than the backward, uninteresting, wrong-doing
child. We can all sympathize, to some extent, with _men_ and _women_;
but how few can go back to the sympathies of childhood; can understand
the desolate insignificance of not being one of the _grown-up_ people;
of being sent to bed, to be _out of the way_ in the evening, and to
school, to be out of the way in the morning; of manifold similar
grievances and distresses, which the child has no elocution to set
forth, and the grown person no imagination to conceive.

When I was seven years old, I was told one morning, with considerable
domestic acclamation, that Aunt Mary was coming to make us a visit; and
so, when the carriage that brought her stopped at our door, I pulled off
my dirty apron, and ran in among the crowd of brothers and sisters to
see what was coming. I shall not describe her first appearance, for, as
I think of her, I begin to grow somewhat sentimental, in spite of my
spectacles, and might, perhaps, talk a little nonsense.

Perhaps every man, whether married or unmarried, who has lived to the
age of fifty or thereabouts, has seen some woman who, in his mind, is
_the_ woman, in distinction from all others. She may not have been a
relative; she may not have been a wife; she may simply have shone on him
from afar; she may be remembered in the distance of years as a star that
is set, as music that is hushed, as beauty and loveliness faded forever;
but _remembered_ she is with interest, with fervor, with enthusiasm;
with all that heart can feel, and more than words can tell.

To me there has been but one such, and that is she whom I describe. "Was
she beautiful?" you ask. I also will ask you one question: "If an angel
from heaven should dwell in human form, and animate any human face,
would not that face be lovely? It might not be _beautiful_, but would it
not be lovely?" She was not beautiful except after this fashion.

How well I remember her, as she used sometimes to sit thinking, with her
head resting on her hand, her face mild and placid, with a quiet October
sunshine in her blue eyes, and an ever-present smile over her whole
countenance. I remember the sudden sweetness of look when any one spoke
to her; the prompt attention, the quick comprehension of things before
you uttered them, the obliging readiness to leave for you whatever she
was doing.

To those who mistake occasional pensiveness for melancholy, it might
seem strange to say that my Aunt Mary was always happy. Yet she was so.
Her spirits never rose to buoyancy, and never sunk to despondency. I
know that it is an article in the sentimental confession of faith that
such a character cannot be interesting. For this impression there is
some ground. The placidity of a medium commonplace mind is
uninteresting, but the placidity of a strong and well-governed one
borders on the sublime. Mutability of emotion characterizes inferior
orders of being; but He who combines all interest, all excitement, all
perfection, is "the same yesterday, to-day, and forever." And if there
be any thing sublime in the idea of an almighty mind, in perfect peace
itself, and, therefore, at leisure to bestow all its energies on the
wants of others, there is at least a reflection of the same sublimity in
the character of that human being who has so quieted and governed the
world within, that nothing is left to absorb sympathy or distract
attention from those around.

Such a woman was my Aunt Mary. Her placidity was not so much the result
of temperament as of choice. She had every susceptibility of suffering
incident to the noblest and most delicate construction of mind; but they
had been so directed, that, instead of concentrating thought on self,
they had prepared her to understand and feel for others.

She was, beyond all things else, a sympathetic person, and her
character, like the green in a landscape, was less remarkable for what
it was in itself than for its perfect and beautiful harmony with all the
coloring and shading around it.

Other women have had talents, others have been good; but no woman that
ever I knew possessed goodness and talent in union with such an
intuitive perception of feelings, and such a faculty of instantaneous
adaptation to them. The most troublesome thing in this world is to be
condemned to the society of a person who can never understand any thing
you say unless you say the whole of it, making your commas and periods
as you go along; and the most desirable thing in the world is to live
with a person who saves you all the trouble of talking, by knowing just
what you mean before you begin to speak.

Something of this kind of talent I began to feel, to my great relief,
when Aunt Mary came into the family. I remember the very first evening,
as she sat by the hearth, surrounded by all the family, her eye glanced
on me with an expression that let me know she _saw_ me; and when the
clock struck eight, and my mother proclaimed that it was my bedtime, my
countenance fell as I moved sorrowfully from the back of her rocking
chair, and thought how many beautiful stories Aunt Mary would tell after
I was gone to bed. She turned towards me with such a look of real
understanding, such an evident insight into the case, that I went into
banishment with a lighter heart than ever I did before. How very
contrary is the obstinate estimate of the heart to the rational estimate
of worldly wisdom! Are there not some who can remember when one word,
one look, or even the withholding of a word, has drawn their heart more
to a person than all the substantial favors in the world? By ordinary
acceptation, substantial kindness respects the necessaries of animal
existence; while those wants which are peculiar to mind, and will exist
with it forever, by equally correct classification, are designated as
sentimental ones, the supply of which, though it will excite more
gratitude in fact, ought not to in theory. Before Aunt Mary had lived
with us a month, I loved her beyond any body in the world; and a
utilitarian would have been amused in ciphering out the amount of favors
which produced this result. It was a look--a word--a smile: it was that
she seemed pleased with my new kite; that she rejoiced with me when I
learned to spin a top; that she alone seemed to estimate my proficiency
in playing ball and marbles; that she never looked at all vexed when I
upset her workbox upon the floor; that she received all my awkward
gallantry and _mal-adroit_ helpfulness as if it had been in the best
taste in the world; that when she was sick, she insisted on letting me
wait on her, though I made my customary havoc among the pitchers and
tumblers of her room, and displayed, through my zeal to please, a more
than ordinary share of insufficiency for the station. She also was the
only person that ever I _conversed_ with, and I used to wonder how any
body who could talk all about matters and things with grown-up persons
could talk so sensibly about marbles, and hoops, and skates, and all
sorts of little-boy matters; and I will say, by the by, that the same
sort of speculation has often occurred to the minds of older people in
connection with her. She knew the value of varied information in making
a woman, not a pedant, but a sympathetic, companionable being; and such
she was to almost every class of mind.

She had, too, the faculty of drawing others up to her level in
conversation, so that I would often find myself going on in most
profound style while talking with her, and would wonder, when I was
through, whether I was really a little boy still.

When she had enlightened us many months, the time came for her to take
leave, and she besought my mother to give me to her for company. All the
family wondered what she could find to like in Henry; but if she did
like me, it was no matter, and so was the case disposed of.

From that time I _lived_ with her--and there are some persons who can
make the word _live_ signify much more than it commonly does--and she
wrought on my character all those miracles which benevolent genius can
work. She quieted my heart, directed my feelings, unfolded my mind, and
educated me, not harshly or by force, but as the blessed sunshine
educates the flower, into full and perfect life; and when all that was
mortal of her died to this world, her words and deeds of unutterable
love shed a twilight around her memory that will fade only in the
brightness of heaven.




FRANKNESS.


There is one kind of frankness, which is the result of perfect
unsuspiciousness, and which requires a measure of ignorance of the world
and of life: this kind appeals to our generosity and tenderness. There
is another, which is the frankness of a strong but pure mind, acquainted
with life, clear in its discrimination and upright in its intention, yet
above disguise or concealment: this kind excites respect. The first
seems to proceed simply from impulse, the second from impulse and
reflection united; the first proceeds, in a measure, from ignorance, the
second from knowledge; the first is born from an undoubting confidence
in others, the second from a virtuous and well-grounded reliance on
one's self.

Now, if you suppose that this is the beginning of a sermon or of a
fourth of July oration, you are very much mistaken, though, I must
confess, it hath rather an uncertain sound. I merely prefaced it to a
little sketch of character, which you may look at if you please, though
I am not sure you will like it.

It was said of Alice H. that she had the mind of a man, the heart of a
woman, and the face of an angel--a combination that all my readers will
think peculiarly happy.

There never was a woman who was so unlike the mass of society in her
modes of thinking and acting, yet so generally popular. But the most
remarkable thing about her was her proud superiority to all disguise, in
thought, word, and deed. She pleased you; for she spoke out a hundred
things that you would conceal, and spoke them with a dignified assurance
that made you wonder that you had ever hesitated to say them yourself.
Nor did this unreserve appear like the weakness of one who could not
conceal, or like a determination to make war on the forms of society. It
was rather a calm, well-guided integrity, regulated by a just sense of
propriety; knowing when to be silent, but speaking the truth when it
spoke at all.

Her extraordinary frankness often beguiled superficial observers into
supposing themselves fully acquainted with her long before they were so,
as the beautiful transparency of some lakes is said to deceive the eye
as to their depth; yet the longer you knew her, the more variety and
compass of character appeared through the same transparent medium. But
you may just visit Miss Alice for half an hour to-night, and judge for
yourselves. You may walk into this little parlor. There sits Miss Alice
on that sofa, sewing a pair of lace sleeves into a satin dress, in which
peculiarly angelic employment she may persevere till we have finished
another sketch.

Do you see that pretty little lady, with sparkling eyes, elastic form,
and beautiful hand and foot, sitting opposite to her? She is a belle:
the character is written in her face--it sparkles from her eye--it
dimples in her smile, and pervades the whole woman.

But there--Alice has risen, and is gone to the mirror, and is arranging
the finest auburn hair in the world in the most tasteful manner. The
little lady watches every motion as comically as a kitten watches a
pin-ball.

"It is all in vain to deny it, Alice--you are really anxious to _look
pretty_ this evening," said she.

"I certainly am," said Alice, quietly.

"Ay, and you hope you shall please Mr. A. and Mr. B.," said the little
accusing angel.

"Certainly I do," said Alice, as she twisted her fingers in a beautiful
curl.

"Well, I would not tell of it, Alice, if I did."

"Then you should not ask me," said Alice.

"I _declare_! Alice!"

"And what do you declare?"

"I never saw such a girl as you are!"

"Very likely," said Alice, stooping to pick up a pin.

"Well, for _my_ part," said the little lady, "I never would take any
pains to make any body like me--_particularly_ a gentleman."

"I would," said Alice, "if they would not like me without."

"Why, Alice! I should not think you were so fond of admiration."

"I like to be admired very much," said Alice, returning to the sofa,
"and I suppose every body else does."

"_I_ don't care about admiration," said the little lady. "I would be as
well satisfied that people shouldn't like me as that they should."

"Then, cousin, I think it's a pity we all like you so well," said Alice,
with a good-humored smile. If Miss Alice had penetration, she never made
a severe use of it.

"But really, cousin," said the little lady, "I should not think such a
girl as you would think any thing about dress, or admiration, and all
that."

"I don't know what sort of a girl you think I am," said Alice, "but, for
my own part, _I_ only pretend to be a common human being, and am not
ashamed of common human feelings. If God has made us so that we love
admiration, why should we not honestly say so. _I_ love it--_you_ love
it--every body loves it; and why should not every body say it?"

"Why, yes," said the little lady, "I suppose every body has a--has a--a
general love for admiration. I am willing to acknowledge that _I_ have;
but----"

"But you have no love for it in particular," said Alice, "I suppose you
mean to say; that is just the way the matter is commonly disposed of.
Every body is willing to acknowledge a general wish for the good opinion
of others, but half the world are ashamed to own it when it comes to a
particular case. Now I have made up my mind, that if it is correct in
general, it is correct in particular; and I mean to own it both ways."

"But, somehow, it seems mean," said the little lady.

"It is mean to live for it, to be selfishly engrossed in it, but not
mean to enjoy it when it comes, or even to seek it, if we neglect no
higher interest in doing so. All that God made us to feel is dignified
and pure, unless we pervert it."

"But, Alice, I never heard any person speak out so frankly as you do."

"Almost all that is innocent and natural may be spoken out; and as for
that which is not innocent and natural, it ought not even to be
thought."

"But _can_ every thing be spoken that may be thought?" said the lady.

"No; we have an instinct which teaches us to be silent sometimes: but,
if we speak at all, let it be in simplicity and sincerity."

"Now, for instance, Alice," said the lady, "it is very innocent and
natural, as you say, to think this, that, and the other nice thing of
yourself, especially when every body is telling you of it; now would you
speak the truth if any one asked you on this point?"

"If it were a person who had a right to ask, and if it were a proper
time and place, I would," said Alice.

"Well, then," said the bright lady, "I ask you, Alice, in this very
proper time and place, do you think that you are handsome?"

"Now, I suppose you expect me to make a courtesy to every chair in the
room before I answer," said Alice; "but, dispensing with that ceremony,
I will tell you fairly, I think I am."

"Do you think that you are good?"

"Not entirely," said Alice.

"Well, but don't you think you are better than most people?"

"As far as I can tell, I think I am better than some people; but really,
cousin, I don't trust my own judgment in this matter," said Alice.

"Well, Alice, one more question. Do you think James Martyrs likes you or
me best?"

"I do not know," said Alice.

"I did not ask you what you knew, but what you thought," said the lady;
"you must have some thought about it."

"Well, then, I think he likes me best," said Alice.

Just then the door opened, and in walked the identical James Martyrs.
Alice blushed, looked a little comical, and went on with her sewing,
while the little lady began,--

"Really, Mr. James, I wish you had come a minute sooner, to hear Alice's
confessions."

"What has she confessed?" said James.

"Why, that she is handsomer and better than most folks."

"That's nothing to be ashamed of," said James.

"O, that's not all; she wants to look pretty, and loves to be admired,
and all----"

"It sounds very much like her," said James, looking at Alice.

"O, but, besides that," said the lady, "she has been preaching a
discourse in justification of vanity and self-love----"

"And next time you shall take notes when I preach," said Alice, "for I
don't think your memory is remarkably happy."

"You see, James," said the lady, "that Alice makes it a point to say
exactly the truth when she speaks at all, and I've been puzzling her
with questions. I really wish you would ask her some, and see what she
will say. But, mercy! there is Uncle C. come to take me to ride. I must
run." And off flew the little humming bird, leaving James and Alice
_tete-a-tete_.

"There really is one question----" said James, clearing his voice.

Alice looked up.

"There is one question, Alice, which I wish you _would_ answer."

Alice did not inquire what the question was, but began to look very
solemn; and just then the door was shut--and so I never knew what the
question was--only I observed that James Martyrs seemed in some seventh
heaven for a week afterwards, and--and--you can finish for yourself,
lady.




THE SABBATH.

SKETCHES FROM A NOTE BOOK OF AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.


The Puritan Sabbath--is there such a thing existing now, or has it gone
with the things that were, to be looked at as a curiosity in the museum
of the past? Can any one, in memory, take himself back to the unbroken
stillness of that day, and recall the sense of religious awe which
seemed to brood in the very atmosphere, checking the merry laugh of
childhood, and chaining in unwonted stillness the tongue of volatile
youth, and imparting even to the sunshine of heaven, and the unconscious
notes of animals, a tone of its own gravity and repose? If you cannot
remember these things, go back with me to the verge of early boyhood,
and live with me one of the Sabbaths that I have spent beneath the roof
of my uncle, Phineas Fletcher.

Imagine the long sunny hours of a Saturday afternoon insensibly slipping
away, as we youngsters are exploring the length and breadth of a trout
stream, or chasing gray squirrels, or building mud milldams in the
brook. The sun sinks lower and lower, but we still think it does not
want half an hour to sundown. At last, he so evidently is really _going
down_, that there is no room for scepticism or latitude of opinion on
the subject; and with many a lingering regret, we began to put away our
fish-hooks, and hang our hoops over our arm, preparatory to trudging
homeward.

"O Henry, don't you wish that Saturday afternoons lasted longer?" said
little John to me.

"I do," says Cousin Bill, who was never the boy to mince matters in
giving his sentiments; "and I wouldn't care if Sunday didn't come but
once a year."

"O Bill, that's wicked, I'm afraid," says little conscientious Susan,
who, with her doll in hand, was coming home from a Saturday afternoon
visit.

"Can't help it," says Bill, catching Susan's bag, and tossing it in the
air; "I never did like to sit still, and that's why I hate Sundays."

"Hate Sundays! O Bill! Why, Aunt Kezzy says heaven is an _eternal_
Sabbath--only think of that!"

"Well, I know I must be pretty different from what I am now before I
could sit still forever," said Bill, in a lower and somewhat
disconcerted tone, as if admitting the force of the consideration.

The rest of us began to look very grave, and to think that we must get
to liking Sunday some time or other, or it would be a very bad thing for
us. As we drew near the dwelling, the compact and business-like form of
Aunt Kezzy was seen emerging from the house to hasten our approach.

"How often have I told you, young ones, not to stay out after sundown on
Saturday night? Don't you know it's the same as Sunday, you wicked
children, you? Come right into the house, every one of you, and never
let me hear of such a thing again."

This was Aunt Kezzy's regular exordium every Saturday night; for we
children, being blinded, as she supposed, by natural depravity, always
made strange mistakes in reckoning time on Saturday afternoons. After
being duly suppered and scrubbed, we were enjoined to go to bed, and
remember that to-morrow was Sunday, and that we must not laugh and play
in the morning. With many a sorrowful look did Susan deposit her doll in
the chest, and give one lingering glance at the patchwork she was
piecing for dolly's bed, while William, John, and myself emptied our
pockets of all superfluous fish-hooks, bits of twine, popguns, slices of
potato, marbles, and all the various items of boy property, which, to
keep us from temptation, were taken into Aunt Kezzy's safe keeping over
Sunday.

My Uncle Phineas was a man of great exactness, and Sunday was the centre
of his whole worldly and religious system. Every thing with regard to
his worldly business was so arranged that by Saturday noon it seemed to
come to a close of itself. All his accounts were looked over, his
work-men paid, all borrowed things returned, and lent things sent after,
and every tool and article belonging to the farm was returned to its own
place at exactly such an hour every Saturday afternoon, and an hour
before sundown every item of preparation, even to the blacking of his
Sunday shoes and the brushing of his Sunday coat, was entirely
concluded; and at the going down of the sun, the stillness of the
Sabbath seemed to settle down over the whole dwelling.

And now it is Sunday morning; and though all without is fragrance, and
motion, and beauty, the dewdrops are twinkling, butterflies fluttering,
and merry birds carolling and racketing as if they never could sing loud
or fast enough, yet within there is such a stillness that the tick of
the tall mahogany clock is audible through the whole house, and the buzz
of the blue flies, as they whiz along up and down the window panes, is a
distinct item of hearing. Look into the best front room, and you may see
the upright form of my Uncle Phineas, in his immaculate Sunday clothes,
with his Bible spread open on the little stand before him, and even a
deeper than usual gravity settling down over his toil-worn features.
Alongside, in well-brushed Sunday clothes, with clean faces and smooth
hair, sat the whole of us younger people, each drawn up in a chair, with
hat and handkerchief, ready for the first stroke of the bell, while Aunt
Kezzy, all trimmed, and primmed, and made ready for meeting, sat reading
her psalm book, only looking up occasionally to give an additional jerk
to some shirt collar, or the fifteenth pull to Susan's frock, or to
repress any straggling looks that might be wandering about, "beholding
vanity."

A stranger, in glancing at Uncle Phineas as he sat intent on his Sunday
reading, might have seen that the Sabbath was _in his heart_--there was
no mistake about it. It was plain that he had put by all worldly
thoughts when he shut up his account book, and that his mind was as free
from every earthly association as his Sunday coat was from dust. The
slave of worldliness, who is driven, by perplexing business or
adventurous speculation, through the hours of a half-kept Sabbath to the
fatigues of another week, might envy the unbroken quiet, the sunny
tranquillity, which hallowed the weekly rest of my uncle.

The Sabbath of the Puritan Christian was the golden day, and all its
associations, and all its thoughts, words, and deeds, were so entirely
distinct from the ordinary material of life, that it was to him a sort
of weekly translation--a quitting of this world to sojourn a day in a
better; and year after year, as each Sabbath set its seal on the
completed labors of a week, the pilgrim felt that one more stage of his
earthly journey was completed, and that he was one week nearer to his
eternal rest. And as years, with their changes, came on, and the strong
man grew old, and missed, one after another, familiar forms that had
risen around his earlier years, the face of the Sabbath became like that
of an old and tried friend, carrying him back to the scenes of his
youth, and connecting him with scenes long gone by, restoring to him the
dew and freshness of brighter and more buoyant days.

Viewed simply as an institution for a Christian and mature mind, nothing
could be more perfect than the Puritan Sabbath: if it had any failing,
it was in the want of adaptation to children, and to those not
interested in its peculiar duties. If you had been in the dwelling of my
uncle of a Sabbath morning, you must have found the unbroken stillness
delightful; the calm and quiet must have soothed and disposed you for
contemplation, and the evident appearance of single-hearted devotion to
the duties of the day in the elder part of the family must have been a
striking addition to the picture. But, then, if your eye had watched
attentively the motions of us juveniles, you might have seen that what
was so very invigorating to the disciplined Christian was a weariness to
young flesh and bones. Then there was not, as now, the intellectual
relaxation afforded by the Sunday school, with its various forms of
religious exercise, its thousand modes of interesting and useful
information. Our whole stock in this line was the Bible and Primer, and
these were our main dependence for whiling away the tedious hours
between our early breakfast and the signal for meeting. How often was
our invention stretched to find wherewithal to keep up our stock of
excitement in a line with the duties of the day! For the first half
hour, perhaps, a story in the Bible answered our purpose very well; but,
having despatched the history of Joseph, or the story of the ten
plagues, we then took to the Primer: and then there was, first, the
looking over the system of theological and ethical teaching, commencing,
"In Adam's fall we sinned all," and extending through three or four
pages of pictorial and poetic embellishment. Next was the death of John
Rogers, who was burned at Smithfield; and for a while we could entertain
ourselves with counting all his "nine children and one at the breast,"
as in the picture they stand in a regular row, like a pair of stairs.
These being done, came miscellaneous exercises of our own invention,
such as counting all the psalms in the psalm book, backward and forward,
to and from the Doxology, or numbering the books in the Bible, or some
other such device as we deemed within the pale of religious employments.
When all these failed, and it still wanted an hour of meeting time, we
looked up at the ceiling, and down at the floor, and all around into
every corner, to see what we could do next; and happy was he who could
spy a pin gleaming in some distant crack, and forthwith muster an
occasion for getting down to pick it up. Then there was the infallible
recollection that we wanted a drink of water, as an excuse to get out to
the well; or else we heard some strange noise among the chickens, and
insisted that it was essential that we should see what was the matter;
or else pussy would jump on to the table, when all of us would spring to
drive her down; while there was a most assiduous watching of the clock
to see when the first bell would ring. Happy was it for us, in the
interim, if we did not begin to look at each other and make up faces, or
slyly slip off and on our shoes, or some other incipient attempts at
roguery, which would gradually so undermine our gravity that there would
be some sudden explosion of merriment, whereat Uncle Phineas would look
up and say, "_Tut, tut_," and Aunt Kezzy would make a speech about
wicked children breaking the Sabbath day. I remember once how my cousin
Bill got into deep disgrace one Sunday by a roguish trick. He was just
about to close his Bible with all sobriety, when snap came a grasshopper
through an open window, and alighted in the middle of the page. Bill
instantly kidnapped the intruder, for so important an auxiliary in the
way of employment was not to be despised. Presently we children looked
towards Bill, and there he sat, very demurely reading his Bible, with
the grasshopper hanging by one leg from the corner of his mouth, kicking
and sprawling, without in the least disturbing Master William's gravity.
We all burst into an uproarious laugh. But it came to be rather a
serious affair for Bill, as his good father was in the practice of
enforcing truth and duty by certain modes of moral suasion much
recommended by Solomon, though fallen into disrepute at the present day.

This morning picture may give a good specimen of the whole livelong
Sunday, which presented only an alternation of similar scenes until
sunset, when a universal unchaining of tongues and a general scamper
proclaimed that the "sun was down."

But, it may be asked, what was the result of all this strictness? Did it
not disgust you with the Sabbath and with religion? No, it did not. It
did not, because it was the result of _no unkindly feeling_, but of
_consistent principle_; and consistency of principle is what even
children learn to appreciate and revere. The law of obedience and of
reverence for the Sabbath was constraining so equally on the young and
the old, that its claims came to be regarded like those immutable laws
of nature, which no one thinks of being out of patience with, though
they sometimes bear hard on personal convenience. The effect of the
system was to ingrain into our character a veneration for the Sabbath
which no friction of after life would ever efface. I have lived to
wander in many climates and foreign lands, where the Sabbath is an
unknown name, or where it is only recognized by noisy mirth; but never
has the day returned without bringing with it a breathing of religious
awe, and even a yearning for the unbroken stillness, the placid repose,
and the simple devotion of the Puritan Sabbath.


ANOTHER SCENE.

"How late we are this morning!" said Mrs. Roberts to her husband,
glancing hurriedly at the clock, as they were sitting down to breakfast
on a Sabbath morning. "Really, it is a shame to us to be so late
Sundays. I wonder John and Henry are not up yet; Hannah, did you speak
to them?"

"Yes, ma'am, but I could not make them mind; they said it was Sunday,
and that we always have breakfast later Sundays."

"Well, it is a shame to us, I must say," said Mrs. Roberts, sitting down
to the table. "I never lie late myself unless something in particular
happens. Last night I was out very late, and Sabbath before last I had a
bad headache."

"Well, well, my dear," said Mr. Roberts, "it is not worth while to worry
yourself about it; Sunday is a day of rest; every body indulges a little
of a Sunday morning, it is so very natural, you know; one's work done
up, one feels like taking a little rest."

"Well, I must say it was not the way my mother brought me up," said Mrs.
Roberts; "and I really can't feel it to be right."

This last part of the discourse had been listened to by two
sleepy-looking boys, who had, meanwhile, taken their seats at table with
that listless air which is the result of late sleeping.

"O, by the by, my dear, what did you give for those hams Saturday?" said
Mr. Roberts.

"Eleven cents a pound, I believe," replied Mrs. Roberts; "but Stephens
and Philips have some much nicer, canvas and all, for ten cents. I think
we had better get our things at Stephens and Philips's in future, my
dear."

"Why? are they much cheaper?"

"O, a great deal; but I forget it is Sunday. We ought to be thinking of
other things. Boys, have you looked over your Sunday school lesson?"

"No, ma'am."

"Now, how strange! and here it wants only half an hour of the time, and
you are not dressed either. Now, see the bad effects of not being up in
time."

The boys looked sullen, and said "they were up as soon as any one else
in the house."

"Well, your father and I had some excuse, because we were out late last
night; you ought to have been up full three hours ago, and to have been
all ready, with your lessons learned. Now, what do you suppose you shall
do?"

"O mother, do let us stay at home this one morning; we don't know the
lesson, and it won't do any good for us to go."

"No, indeed, I shall not. You must go and get along as well as you can.
It is all your own fault. Now, go up stairs and hurry. We shall not find
time for prayers this morning."

The boys took themselves up stairs to "hurry," as directed, and soon one
of them called from the top of the stairs, "Mother! mother! the buttons
are off this vest; so I can't wear it!" and "Mother! here is a long rip
in my best coat!" said another.

"Why did you not tell me of it before?" said Mrs. Roberts, coming up
stairs.

"I forgot it," said the boy.

"Well, well, stand still; I must catch it together somehow, if it is
Sunday. There! there is the bell! Stand still a minute!" and Mrs.
Roberts plied needle, and thread, and scissors; "there, that will do for
to-day. Dear me, how confused every thing is to-day!"

"It is always just so Sundays," said John, flinging up his book and
catching it again as he ran down stairs.

"It is always just so Sundays." These words struck rather unpleasantly
on Mrs. Roberts's conscience, for something told her that, whatever the
reason might be, it _was_ just so. On Sunday every thing was later and
more irregular than any other day in the week.

"Hannah, you must boil that piece of beef for dinner to-day."

"I thought you told me you did not have cooking done on Sunday."

"No, I do not, generally. I am very sorry Mr. Roberts would get that
piece of meat yesterday. We did not need it; but here it is on our
hands; the weather is too hot to keep it. It won't do to let it spoil;
so I must have it boiled, for aught I see."

Hannah had lived four Sabbaths with Mrs. Roberts, and on two of them she
had been required to cook from similar reasoning. "_For once_" is apt,
in such cases, to become a phrase of very extensive signification.

"It really worries me to have things go on so as they do on Sundays,"
said Mrs. Roberts to her husband. "I never do feel as if we kept Sunday
as we ought."

"My dear, you have been saying so ever since we were married, and I do
not see what you are going to do about it. For my part I do not see why
we do not do as well as people in general. We do not visit, nor receive
company, nor read improper books. We go to church, and send the children
to Sunday school, and so the greater part of the day is spent in a
religious way. Then out of church we have the children's Sunday school
books, and one or two religious newspapers. I think that is quite
enough."

"But, somehow, when I was a child, my mother----" said Mrs. Roberts,
hesitating.

"O my dear, your mother must not be considered an exact pattern for
these days. People were too strict in your mother's time; they carried
the thing too far, altogether; every body allows it now."

Mrs. Roberts was silenced, but not satisfied. A strict religious
education had left just conscience enough on this subject to make her
uneasy.

These worthy people had a sort of general idea that Sunday ought to be
kept, and they intended to keep it; but they had never taken the trouble
to investigate or inquire as to the most proper way, nor was it so much
an object of interest that their weekly arrangements were planned with
any reference to it. Mr. Roberts would often engage in business at the
close of the week, which he knew would so fatigue him that he would be
weary and listless on Sunday; and Mrs. Roberts would allow her family
cares to accumulate in the same way, so that she was either wearied with
efforts to accomplish it before the Sabbath, or perplexed and worried by
finding every thing at loose ends on that day. They had the idea that
Sunday was to be kept when it was perfectly convenient, and did not
demand any sacrifice of time or money. But if stopping to keep the
Sabbath in a journey would risk passage money or a seat in the stage,
or, in housekeeping, if it would involve any considerable inconvenience
or expense, it was deemed a providential intimation that it was "a work
of necessity and mercy" to attend to secular matters. To their minds the
fourth command read thus: "Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy when
it comes convenient, and costs neither time nor money."

As to the effects of this on the children, there was neither enough of
strictness to make them respect the Sabbath, nor of religions interest
to make them love it; of course, the little restraint there was proved
just enough to lead them to dislike and despise it. Children soon
perceive the course of their parents' feelings, and it was evident
enough to the children of this family that their father and mother
generally found themselves hurried into the Sabbath with hearts and
minds full of this world, and their conversation and thoughts were so
constantly turning to worldly things, and so awkwardly drawn back by a
sense of religious obligation, that the Sabbath appeared more obviously
a clog and a fetter than it did under the strictest _regime_ of Puritan
days.


SKETCH SECOND.

The little quiet village of Camden stands under the brow of a rugged
hill in one of the most picturesque parts of New England; and its
regular, honest, and industrious villagers were not a little surprised
and pleased that Mr. James, a rich man, and pleasant-spoken withal, had
concluded to take up his residence among them. He brought with him a
pretty, genteel wife, and a group of rosy, romping, but amiable
children; and there was so much of good nature and kindness about the
manners of every member of the family, that the whole neighborhood were
prepossessed in their favor. Mr. James was a man of somewhat visionary
and theoretical turn of mind, and very much in the habit of following
out his own ideas of right and wrong, without troubling himself
particularly as to the appearance his course might make in the eyes of
others. He was a supporter of the ordinances of religion, and always
ready to give both time and money to promote any benevolent object; and
though he had never made any public profession of religion, nor
connected himself with any particular set of Christians, still he seemed
to possess great reverence for God, and to worship him in spirit and in
truth, and he professed to make the Bible the guide of his life. Mr.
James had been brought up under a system of injudicious religious
restraint. He had determined, in educating his children, to adopt an
exactly opposite course, and to make religion and all its institutions
sources of enjoyment. His aim, doubtless, was an appropriate one; but
his method of carrying it out, to say the least, was one which was not a
safe model for general imitation. In regard to the Sabbath, for example,
he considered that, although the plan of going to church twice a day,
and keeping all the family quiet within doors the rest of the time, was
good, other methods would be much better. Accordingly, after the morning
service, which he and his whole family regularly attended, he would
spend the rest of the day with his children. In bad weather he would
instruct them in natural history, show them pictures, and read them
various accounts of the works of God, combining all with such religious
instruction and influence as a devotional mind might furnish. When the
weather permitted, he would range with them through the fields,
collecting minerals and plants, or sail with them on the lake, meanwhile
directing the thoughts of his young listeners upward to God, by the many
beautiful traces of his presence and agency, which superior knowledge
and observation enabled him to discover and point out. These Sunday
strolls were seasons of most delightful enjoyment to the children.
Though it was with some difficulty that their father could restrain them
from loud and noisy demonstrations of delight, and he saw with some
regret that the mere animal excitement of the stroll seemed to draw the
attention too much from religious considerations, and, in particular, to
make the exercises of the morning seem like a preparatory penance to the
enjoyments of the afternoon, nevertheless, when Mr. James looked back to
his own boyhood, and remembered the frigid restraint, the entire want of
any kind of mental or bodily excitement, which had made the Sabbath so
much a weariness to him, he could not but congratulate himself when he
perceived his children looking forward to Sunday as a day of delight,
and found himself on that day continually surrounded by a circle of
smiling and cheerful faces. His talent of imparting religious
instruction in a simple and interesting form was remarkably happy, and
it is probable that there was among his children an uncommon degree of
real thought and feeling on religious subjects as the result.

The good people of Camden, however, knew not what to think of a course
that appeared to them an entire violation of all the requirements of the
Sabbath. The first impulse of human nature is to condemn at once all who
vary from what has been commonly regarded as the right way; and,
accordingly, Mr. James was unsparingly denounced, by many good people,
as a Sabbath breaker, an infidel, and an opposer to religion.

Such was the character heard of him by Mr. Richards, a young clergyman,
who, shortly after Mr. James fixed his residence in Camden, accepted the
pastoral charge of the village. It happened that Mr. Richards had known
Mr. James in college, and, remembering him as a remarkably serious,
amiable, and conscientious man, he resolved to ascertain from himself
the views which had led him to the course of conduct so offensive to the
good people of the neighborhood.

"This is all very well, my good friend," said he, after he had listened
to Mr. James's eloquent account of his own system of religious
instruction, and its effects upon his family; "I do not doubt that this
system does very well for yourself and family; but there are other
things to be taken into consideration besides personal and family
improvement. Do you not know, Mr. James, that the most worthless and
careless part of my congregation quote your example as a respectable
precedent for allowing their families to violate the order of the
Sabbath? You and your children sail about on the lake, with minds and
hearts, I doubt not, elevated and tranquillized by its quiet repose; but
Ben Dakes, and his idle, profane army of children, consider themselves
as doing very much the same thing when they lie lolling about, sunning
themselves on its shore, or skipping stones over its surface the whole
of a Sunday afternoon."

"Let every one answer to his own conscience," replied Mr. James. "If I
keep the Sabbath conscientiously, I am approved of God; if another
transgresses his conscience, 'to his own master he standeth or falleth.'
I am not responsible for all the abuses that idle or evil-disposed
persons may fall into, in consequence of my doing what is right."

"Let me quote an answer from the same chapter," said Mr. Richards. "'Let
no man put a stumbling block, or an occasion to fall, in his brother's
way; let not your good be evil spoken of. It is good neither to eat
flesh nor drink wine, _nor any thing whereby thy brother stumbleth, or
is offended, or made weak_.' Now, my good friend, you happen to be
endowed with a certain tone of mind which enables you to carry through
your mode of keeping the Sabbath with little comparative evil, and much
good, so far as your family is concerned; but how many persons in this
neighborhood, do you suppose, would succeed equally well if they were to
attempt it? If it were the common custom for families to absent
themselves from public worship in the afternoon, and to stroll about the
fields, or ride, or sail, how many parents, do you suppose, would have
the dexterity and talent to check all that was inconsistent with the
duties of the day? Is it not your ready command of language, your
uncommon tact in simplifying and illustrating, your knowledge of natural
history and of biblical literature, that enable you to accomplish the
results that you do? And is there one parent in a hundred that could do
the same? Now, just imagine our neighbor, 'Squire Hart, with his ten
boys and girls, turned out into the fields on a Sunday afternoon to
profit withal: you know he can never finish a sentence without stopping
to begin it again half a dozen times. What progress would he make in
instructing them? And so of a dozen others I could name along this very
street here. Now, you men of cultivated minds must give your countenance
to courses which would be best for society at large, or, as the
sentiment was expressed by St. Paul, 'We that are strong ought to bear
the infirmities of the weak, _and not to please ourselves_, for even
Christ _pleased not himself_.' Think, my dear sir, if our Savior had
gone only on the principle of avoiding what might be injurious to his
own improvement, how unsafe his example might have proved to less
elevated minds. Doubtless he might have made a Sabbath day fishing
excursion an occasion of much elevated and impressive instruction; but,
although he declared himself 'Lord of the Sabbath day,' and at liberty
to suspend its obligation at his own discretion, yet he never violated
the received method of observing it, except in cases where superstitious
tradition trenched directly on those interests which the Sabbath was
given to promote. He asserted the right to relieve pressing bodily
wants, and to administer to the necessities of others on the Sabbath,
but beyond that he allowed himself in no deviation from established
custom."

Mr. James looked thoughtful. "I have not reflected on the subject in
this view," he replied. "But, my dear sir, considering how little of the
public services of the Sabbath is on a level with the capacity of
younger children, it seems to me almost a pity to take them to church
the whole of the day."

"I have thought of that myself," replied Mr. Richards, "and have
sometimes thought that, could persons be found to conduct such a thing,
it would be desirable to institute a separate service for children, in
which the exercises should be particularly adapted to them."

"I should like to be minister to a congregation of children," said Mr.
James, warmly.

"Well," replied Mr. Richards, "give our good people time to get
acquainted with you, and do away the prejudices which your extraordinary
mode of proceeding has induced, and I think I could easily assemble such
a company for you every Sabbath."

After this, much to the surprise of the village, Mr. James and his
family were regular attendants at both the services of the Sabbath. Mr.
Richards explained to the good people of his congregation the motives
which had led their neighbor to the adoption of what, to them, seemed so
unchristian a course; and, upon reflection, they came to the perception
of the truth, that a man may depart very widely from the received
standard of right for other reasons than being an infidel or an opposer
of religion. A ready return of cordial feeling was the result; and as
Mr. James found himself treated with respect and confidence, he began to
feel, notwithstanding his fastidiousness, that there were strong points
of congeniality between all real and warm-hearted Christians, however
different might be their intellectual culture, and in all simplicity
united himself with the little church of Camden. A year from the time of
his first residence there, every Sabbath afternoon saw him surrounded by
a congregation of young children, for whose benefit he had, at his own
expense, provided a room, fitted up with maps, scriptural pictures, and
every convenience for the illustration of biblical knowledge; and the
parents or guardians who from time to time attended their children
during these exercises, often confessed themselves as much interested
and benefited as any of their youthful companions.


SKETCH THIRD.

It was near the close of a pleasant Saturday afternoon that I drew up my
weary horse in front of a neat little dwelling in the village of N.
This, as near as I could gather from description, was the house of my
cousin, William Fletcher, the identical rogue of a Bill Fletcher of whom
we have aforetime spoken. Bill had always been a thriving, push-ahead
sort of a character, and during the course of my rambling life I had
improved every occasional opportunity of keeping up our early
acquaintance. The last time that I returned to my native country, after
some years of absence, I heard of him as married and settled in the
village of N., where he was conducting a very prosperous course of
business, and shortly after received a pressing invitation to visit him
at his own home. Now, as I had gathered from experience the fact that it
is of very little use to rap one's knuckles off on the front door of a
country house without any knocker, I therefore made the best of my way
along a little path, bordered with marigolds and balsams, that led to
the back part of the dwelling. The sound of a number of childish voices
made me stop, and, looking through the bushes, I saw the very image of
my cousin Bill Fletcher, as he used to be twenty years ago; the same
bold forehead, the same dark eyes, the same smart, saucy mouth, and the
same "who-cares-for-that" toss to his head. "There, now," exclaimed the
boy, setting down a pair of shoes that he had been blacking, and
arranging them at the head of a long row of all sizes and sorts, from
those which might have fitted a two year old foot upward, "there, I've
blacked every single one of them, and made them shine too, and done it
all in twenty minutes; if any body thinks they can do it quicker than
that, I'd just like to have them try; that's all."

"I know they couldn't, though," said a fair-haired little girl, who
stood admiring the sight, evidently impressed with the utmost reverence
for her brother's ability; "and, Bill, I've been putting up all the
playthings in the big chest, and I want you to come and turn the
lock--the key hurts my fingers."

"Poh! I can turn it easier than that," said the boy, snapping his
fingers; "have you got them all in?"

"Yes, all; only I left out the soft bales, and the string of red beads,
and the great rag baby for Fanny to play with--you know mother says
babies must have their playthings Sunday."

"O, to be sure," said the brother, very considerately; "babies can't
read, you know, as we can, nor hear Bible stories, nor look at
pictures." At this moment I stepped forward, for the spell of former
times was so powerfully on me, that I was on the very point of springing
forward with a "Halloo, there, Bill!" as I used to meet the father in
old times; but the look of surprise that greeted my appearance brought
me to myself.

"Is your father at home?" said I.

"Father and mother are both gone out; but I guess, sir, they will be
home in a few moments: won't you walk in?"

I accepted the invitation, and the little girl showed me into a small
and very prettily furnished parlor. There was a piano with music books
on one side of the room, some fine pictures hung about the walls, and a
little, neat centre table was plentifully strewn with books. Besides
this, the two recesses on each side of the fireplace contained each a
bookcase with a glass locked door.

The little girl offered me a chair, and then lingered a moment, as if
she felt some disposition to entertain me if she could only think of
something to say; and at last, looking up in my face, she said, in a
confidential tone, "Mother says she left Willie and me to keep house
this afternoon while she was gone, and we are putting up all the things
for Sunday, so as to get every thing done before she comes home. Willie
has gone to put away the playthings, and I'm going to put up the books."
So saying, she opened the doors of one of the bookcases, and began
busily carrying the books from the centre table to deposit them on the
shelves, in which employment she was soon assisted by Willie, who took
the matter in hand in a very masterly manner, showing his sister what
were and what were not "Sunday books" with the air of a person entirely
at home in the business. Robinson Crusoe and the many-volumed Peter
Parley were put by without hesitation; there was, however, a short
demurring over a North American Review, because Willie said he was sure
his father read something one Sunday out of one of them, while Susan
averred that he did not commonly read in it, and only read in it then
because the piece was something about the Bible; but as nothing could be
settled definitively on the point, the review was "laid on the table,"
like knotty questions in Congress. Then followed a long discussion over
an extract book, which, as usual, contained all sorts, both sacred,
serious, comic, and profane; and at last Willie, with much gravity,
decided to lock it up, on the principle that it was best to be on the
_safe side_, in support of which he appealed to me. I was saved from
deciding the question by the entrance of the father and mother. My old
friend knew me at once, and presented his pretty wife to me with the
same look of exultation with which he used to hold up a string of trout
or an uncommonly fine perch of his own catching for my admiration, and
then looking round on his fine family of children, two more of which he
had brought home with him, seemed to say to me, "There! what do you
think of that, now?"

And, in truth, a very pretty sight it was--enough to make any one's old
bachelor coat sit very uneasily on him. Indeed, there is nothing that
gives one such a startling idea of the tricks that old Father Time has
been playing on us, as to meet some boyish or girlish companions with
half a dozen or so of thriving children about them. My old friend, I
found, was in essence just what the boy had been. There was the same
upright bearing, the same confident, cheerful tone to his voice, and the
same fire in his eye; only that the hand of manhood had slightly touched
some of the lines of his face, giving them a staidness of expression
becoming the man and the father.

"Very well, my children," said Mrs. Fletcher, as, after tea, William and
Susan finished recounting to her the various matters that they had set
in order that afternoon; "I believe now we can say that our week's work
is finished, and that we have nothing to do but rest and enjoy
ourselves."

"O, and papa will show us the pictures in those great books that he
brought home for us last Monday, will he not?" said little Robert.

"And, mother, you will tell us some more about Solomon's temple and his
palaces, won't you?" said Susan.

"And I should like to know if father has found out the answer to that
hard question I gave him last Sunday?" said Willie.

"All will come in good time," said Mrs. Fletcher. "But tell me, my dear
children, are you sure that you are quite ready for the Sabbath? You say
you have put away the books and the playthings; have you put away, too,
all wrong and unkind feelings? Do you feel kindly and pleasantly towards
every body?"

"Yes, mother," said Willie, who appeared to have taken a great part of
this speech to himself; "I went over to Tom Walter's this very morning
to ask him about that chicken of mine, and he said that he did not mean
to hit it, and did not know he had till I told him of it; and so we made
all up again, and I am glad I went."

"I am inclined to think, Willie," said his father, "that if every body
would make it a rule to settle up all their differences _before Sunday_,
there would be very few long quarrels and lawsuits. In about half the
cases, a quarrel is founded on some misunderstanding that would be got
over in five minutes if one would go directly to the person for
explanation."

"I suppose I need not ask you," said Mrs. Fletcher, "whether you have
fully learned your Sunday school lessons."

"O, to be sure," said William. "You know, mother, that Susan and I were
busy about them through Monday and Tuesday, and then this afternoon we
looked them over again, and wrote down some questions."

"And I heard Robert say his all through, and showed him all the places
on the Bible Atlas," said Susan.

"Well, then," said my friend, "if every thing is done, let us begin
Sunday with some music."

Thanks to the recent improvements in the musical instruction of the
young, every family can now form a domestic concert, with words and
tunes adapted to the capacity and the voices of children; and while
these little ones, full of animation, pressed round their mother as she
sat at the piano, and accompanied her music with the words of some
beautiful hymns, I thought that, though I might have heard finer music,
I had never listened to any that answered the purpose of music so well.

It was a custom at my friend's to retire at an early hour on Saturday
evening, in order that there might be abundant time for rest, and no
excuse for late rising on the Sabbath; and, accordingly, when the
children had done singing, after a short season of family devotion, we
all betook ourselves to our chambers, and I, for one, fell asleep with
the impression of having finished the week most agreeably, and with
anticipations of very great pleasure on the morrow.

Early in the morning I was roused from my sleep by the sound of little
voices singing with great animation in the room next to mine, and,
listening, I caught the following words:--

    "Awake! awake! your bed forsake,
      To God your praises pay;
    The morning sun is clear and bright;
    With joy we hail his cheerful light.
          In songs of love
          Praise God above--
        It is the Sabbath day!"

The last words were repeated and prolonged most vehemently by a voice
that I knew for Master William's.

"Now, Willie, I like the other one best," said the soft voice of little
Susan; and immediately she began,--

    "How sweet is the day,
    When, leaving our play,
      The Saviour we seek!
    The fair morning glows
    When Jesus arose--
      The best in the week."

Master William helped along with great spirit in the singing of this
tune, though I heard him observing, at the end of the first verse, that
he liked the other one better, because "it seemed to step off so kind o'
lively;" and his accommodating sister followed him as he began singing
it again with redoubled animation.

It was a beautiful summer morning, and the voices of the children within
accorded well with the notes of birds and bleating flocks without--a
cheerful, yet Sabbath-like and quieting sound.

"Blessed be children's music!" said I to myself; "how much better this
is than the solitary tick, tick, of old Uncle Fletcher's tall mahogany
clock!"

The family bell summoned us to the breakfast room just as the children
had finished their hymn. The little breakfast parlor had been swept and
garnished expressly for the day, and a vase of beautiful flowers, which
the children had the day before collected from their gardens, adorned
the centre table. The door of one of the bookcases by the fireplace was
thrown open, presenting to view a collection of prettily bound books,
over the top of which appeared in gilt letters the inscription, "Sabbath
Library." The windows were thrown open to let in the invigorating breath
of the early morning, and the birds that flitted among the rosebushes
without seemed scarcely lighter and more buoyant than did the children
as they entered the room. It was legibly written on every face in the
house, that the happiest day in the week had arrived, and each one
seemed to enter into its duties with a whole soul. It was still early
when the breakfast and the season of family devotion were over, and the
children eagerly gathered round the table to get a sight of the pictures
in the new books which their father had purchased in New York the week
before, and which had been reserved as a Sunday's treat. They were a
beautiful edition of Calmet's Dictionary, in several large volumes, with
very superior engravings.

"It seems to me that this work must be very expensive," I remarked to my
friend, as we were turning the leaves.

"Indeed it is so," he replied; "but here is one place where I am less
withheld by considerations of expense than in any other. In all that
concerns making a show in the world, I am perfectly ready to economize.
I can do very well without expensive clothing or fashionable furniture,
and am willing that we should be looked on as very plain sort of people
in all such matters; but in all that relates to the cultivation of the
mind, and the improvement of the hearts of my children, I am willing to
go to the extent of my ability. Whatever will give my children a better
knowledge of, or deeper interest in, the Bible, or enable them to spend
a Sabbath profitably and without weariness, stands first on my list
among things to be purchased. I have spent in this way one third as much
as the furnishing of my house costs me." On looking over the shelves of
the Sabbath library, I perceived that my friend had been at no small
pains in the selection. It comprised all the popular standard works for
the illustration of the Bible, together with the best of the modern
religious publications adapted to the capacity of young children. Two
large drawers below were filled with maps and scriptural engravings,
some of them of a very superior character.

"We have been collecting these things gradually ever since we have been
at housekeeping," said my friend; "the children take an interest in this
library, as something more particularly belonging to them, and some of
the books are donations from their little earnings."

"Yes," said Willie, "I bought Helen's Pilgrimage with my egg money, and
Susan bought the Life of David, and little Robert is going to buy one,
too, next new year."

"But," said I, "would not the Sunday school library answer all the
purpose of this?"

"The Sabbath school library is an admirable thing," said my friend; "but
this does more fully and perfectly what that was intended to do. It
makes a sort of central attraction at home on the Sabbath, and makes the
acquisition of religious knowledge and the proper observance of the
Sabbath a sort of family enterprise. You know," he added, smiling, "that
people always feel interested for an object in which they have invested
money."

The sound of the first Sabbath school bell put an end to this
conversation. The children promptly made themselves ready, and as their
father was the superintendent of the school, and their mother one of the
teachers, it was quite a family party.

One part of every Sabbath at my friend's was spent by one or both
parents with the children, in a sort of review of the week. The
attention of the little ones was directed to their own characters, the
various defects or improvements of the past week were pointed out, and
they were stimulated to be on their guard in the time to come, and the
whole was closed by earnest prayer for such heavenly aid as the
temptations and faults of each particular one might need. After church
in the evening, while the children were thus withdrawn to their mother's
apartment, I could not forbear reminding my friend of old times, and of
the rather anti-sabbatical turn of his mind in our boyish days.

"Now, William," said I, "do you know that you were the last boy of whom
such an enterprise in Sabbath keeping as this was to have been expected?
I suppose you remember Sunday at 'the old place'?"

"Nay, now, I think I was the very one," said he, smiling, "for I had
sense enough to see, as I grew up, that the day must be kept
_thoroughly_ or not at all, and I had enough blood and motion in my
composition to see that something must be done to enliven and make it
interesting; so I set myself about it. It was one of the first of our
housekeeping resolutions, that the Sabbath should be made a pleasant
day, and yet be as inviolably kept as in the strictest times of our good
father; and we have brought things to run in that channel so long, that
it seems to be the natural order."

"I have always supposed," said I, "that it required a peculiar talent,
and more than common information in a parent, to accomplish this to any
extent."

"It requires nothing," replied my friend, "but common sense, and a
strong _determination to do it_. Parents who make a definite object of
the religious instruction of their children, if they have common sense,
can very soon see what is necessary in order to interest them; and, if
they find themselves wanting in the requisite information, they can, in
these days, very readily acquire it. The sources of religious knowledge
are so numerous, and so popular in their form, that all can avail
themselves of them. The only difficulty, after all, is, that the keeping
of the Sabbath and the imparting of religious instruction are not made
enough of a _home_ object. Parents pass off the responsibility on to the
Sunday school teacher, and suppose, of course, if they send their
children to Sunday school, they do the best they can for them. Now, I am
satisfied, from my experience as a Sabbath school teacher, that the best
religious instruction imparted abroad still stands in need of the
cooeperation of a systematic plan of religious discipline and instruction
at home; for, after all, God gives a power to the efforts of a _parent_
that can never be transferred to other hands."

"But do you suppose," said I, "that the _common_ class of minds, with
ordinary advantages, can do what you have done?"

"I think in most cases they could, _if they begin_ right. But when both
parents and children have formed _habits_, it is more difficult to
change than to begin right at first. However, I think _all_ might
accomplish a great deal if they would give time, money, and effort
towards it. It is because the object is regarded of so little value,
compared with other things of a worldly nature, that so little is done."

My friend was here interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Fletcher with the
children. Mrs. Fletcher sat down to the piano, and the Sabbath was
closed with the happy songs of the little ones; nor could I notice a
single anxious eye turning to the window to see if the sun was not
almost down. The tender and softened expression of each countenance bore
witness to the subduing power of those instructions which had hallowed
the last hour, and their sweet, bird-like voices harmonized well with
the beautiful words,--

    "How sweet the light of Sabbath eve!
    How soft the sunbeam lingering there!
    Those holy hours this, low earth leave,
    And rise on wings of faith and prayer."




LET EVERY MAN MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.


"And so you will not sign this paper?" said Alfred Melton to his cousin,
a fine-looking young man, who was lounging by the centre table.

"Not I, indeed. What in life have I to do with these decidedly vulgar
temperance pledges? Pshaw! they have a relish of whiskey in their very
essence!"

"Come, come, Cousin Melton," said a brilliant, dark-eyed girl, who had
been lolling on the sofa during the conference, "I beg of you to give
over attempting to evangelize Edward. You see, as Falstaff has it, 'he
is little better than one of the wicked.' You must not waste such
valuable temperance documents on him."

"But, seriously, Melton, my good fellow," resumed Edward, "this signing,
and sealing, and pledging is altogether an unnecessary affair for me. My
past and present habits, my situation in life,--in short, every thing
that can be mentioned with regard to me,--goes against the supposition
of my ever becoming the slave of a vice so debasing; and this pledging
myself to avoid it is something altogether needless--nay, by
implication, it is degrading. As to what you say of my influence, I am
inclined to the opinion, that if every man will look to himself, every
man will be looked to. This modern notion of tacking the whole
responsibility of society on to every individual is one I am not at all
inclined to adopt; for, first, I know it is a troublesome doctrine; and,
secondly, I doubt if it be a true one. For both which reasons, I shall
decline extending to it my patronage."

"Well, positively," exclaimed the lady, "you gentlemen have the gift of
continuance in an uncommon degree. You have discussed this matter
backward and forward till I am ready to perish. I will take the matter
in hand myself, and sign a temperance pledge for Edward, and see that he
gets into none of those naughty courses upon which you have been so
pathetic."

"I dare say," said Melton, glancing on her brilliant face with evident
admiration, "that you will be the best temperance pledge he could have.
But every man, cousin, may not be so fortunate."

"But, Melton," said Edward, "seeing my steady habits are so well
provided for, you must carry your logic and eloquence to some poor
fellow less favored." And thus the conference ended.

"What a good disinterested fellow Melton is!" said Edward, after he had
left.

"Yes, good, as the day is long," said Augusta, "but rather prosy, after
all. This tiresome temperance business! One never hears the end of it
nowadays. Temperance papers--temperance tracts--temperance
hotels--temperance this, that, and the other thing, even down to
temperance pocket handkerchiefs for little boys! Really, the world is
getting intemperately temperate."

"Ah, well! with the security you have offered, Augusta, I shall dread no
temptation."

Though there was nothing peculiar in these words, yet there was a
certain earnestness of tone that called the color into the face of
Augusta, and set her to sewing with uncommon assiduity. And thereupon
Edward proceeded with some remark about "guardian angels," together with
many other things of the kind, which, though they contain no more that
is new than a temperance lecture, always seem to have a peculiar
freshness to people in certain circumstances. In fact, before the hour
was at an end, Edward and Augusta had forgotten where they began, and
had wandered far into that land of anticipations and bright dreams which
surrounds the young and loving before they eat of the tree of
experience, and gain the fatal knowledge of good and evil.

But here, stopping our sketching pencil, let us throw in a little
background and perspective that will enable our readers to perceive more
readily the entire picture.

Edward Howard was a young man whose brilliant talents and captivating
manners had placed him first in the society in which he moved. Though
without property or weight of family connections, he had become a leader
in the circles where these appendages are most considered, and there
were none of their immunities and privileges that were not freely at his
disposal.

Augusta Elmore was conspicuous in all that lies within the sphere of
feminine attainment. She was an orphan, and accustomed from a very early
age to the free enjoyment and control of an independent property. This
circumstance, doubtless, added to the magic of her personal graces in
procuring for her that flattering deference which beauty and wealth
secure.

Her mental powers were naturally superior, although, from want of
motive, they had received no development, except such as would secure
success in society. Native good sense, with great strength of feeling
and independence of mind, had saved her from becoming heartless and
frivolous. She was better fitted to lead and to influence than to be
influenced or led. And hence, though not swayed by any habitual sense of
moral responsibility, the tone of her character seemed altogether more
elevated than the average of fashionable society.

General expectation had united the destiny of two persons who seemed
every way fitted for each other, and for once general expectation did
not err. A few months after the interview mentioned were witnessed the
festivities and congratulations of their brilliant and happy marriage.

Never did two young persons commence life under happier auspices. "What
an exact match!" "What a beautiful couple!" said all the gossips. "They
seem made for each other," said every one; and so thought the happy
lovers themselves.

Love, which with persons of strong character is always an earnest and
sobering principle, had made them thoughtful and considerate; and as
they looked forward to future life, and talked of the days before them,
their plans and ideas were as rational as any plans can be, when formed
entirely with reference to this life, without any regard to another.

For a while their absorbing attachment to each other tended to withdraw
them from the temptations and allurements of company; and many a long
winter evening passed delightfully in the elegant quietude of home, as
they read, and sang, and talked of the past, and dreamed of the future
in each other's society. But, contradictory as it may appear to the
theory of the sentimentalist, it is nevertheless a fact, that two
persons cannot always find sufficient excitement in talking to each
other merely; and this is especially true of those to whom high
excitement has been a necessary of life. After a while, the young
couple, though loving each other none the less, began to respond to the
many calls which invited them again into society, and the pride they
felt in each other added zest to the pleasures of their return.

As the gaze of admiration followed the graceful motions of the beautiful
wife, and the whispered tribute went round the circle whenever she
entered, Edward felt a pride beyond all that flattery, addressed to
himself, had ever excited; and Augusta, when told of the convivial
talents and powers of entertainment which distinguished her husband,
could not resist the temptation of urging him into society even oftener
than his own wishes would have led him.

Alas! neither of them knew the perils of constant excitement, nor
supposed that, in thus alienating themselves from the pure and simple
pleasures of home, they were risking their whole capital of happiness.
It is in indulging the first desire for extra stimulus that the first
and deepest danger to domestic peace lies. Let that stimulus be either
bodily or mental, its effects are alike to be dreaded.

The man or the woman to whom habitual excitement of any kind has become
essential has taken the first step towards ruin. In the case of a woman,
it leads to discontent, fretfulness, and dissatisfaction with the quiet
duties of domestic life; in the case of a man, it leads almost
invariably to animal stimulus, ruinous alike to the powers of body and
mind.

Augusta, fondly trusting to the virtue of her husband, saw no danger in
the constant round of engagements which were gradually drawing his
attention from the graver cares of business, from the pursuit of
self-improvement, and from the love of herself. Already there was in her
horizon the cloud "as big as a man's hand"--the precursor of future
darkness and tempest; but, too confident and buoyant, she saw it not.

It was not until the cares and duties of a mother began to confine her
at home, that she first felt, with a startling sensation of fear, that
there was an alteration in her husband, though even then the change was
so shadowy and indefinite that it could not be defined by words.

It was known by that quick, prophetic sense which reveals to the heart
of woman the first variation in the pulse of affection, though it be so
slight that no other touch can detect it.

Edward was still fond, affectionate, admiring; and when he tendered her
all the little attentions demanded by her situation, or caressed and
praised his beautiful son, she felt satisfied and happy. But when she
saw that, even without her, the convivial circle had its attractions,
and that he could leave her to join it, she sighed, she scarce knew why.
"Surely," she said, "I am not so selfish as to wish to rob him of
pleasure because I cannot enjoy it with him. But yet, once he told me
there was no pleasure where I was not. Alas! is it true, what I have so
often heard, that such feelings cannot always last?"

Poor Augusta! she knew not how deep reason she had to fear. She saw not
the temptations that surrounded her husband in the circles where to all
the stimulus of wit and intellect was often added the zest of _wine_,
used far too freely for safety.

Already had Edward become familiar with a degree of physical excitement
which touches the very verge of intoxication; yet, strong in
self-confidence, and deluded by the customs of society, he dreamed not
of danger. The traveller who has passed above the rapids of Niagara may
have noticed the spot where the first white sparkling ripple announces
the downward tendency of the waters. All here is brilliancy and beauty;
and as the waters ripple and dance in the sunbeam, they seem only as if
inspired by a spirit of new life, and not as hastening to a dreadful
fall. So the first approach to intemperance, that ruins both body and
soul, seems only like the buoyancy and exulting freshness of a new life,
and the unconscious voyager feels his bark undulating with a thrill of
delight, ignorant of the inexorable hurry, the tremendous sweep, with
which the laughing waters urge him on beyond the reach of hope or
recovery.

It was at this period in the life of Edward that one judicious and manly
friend, who would have had the courage to point out to him the danger
that every one else perceived, might have saved him. But among the
circle of his acquaintances there was none such. "_Let every man mind
his own business_" was their universal maxim. True, heads were gravely
shaken, and Mr. A. regretted to Mr. B. that so promising a young man
seemed about to ruin himself. But one was "_no relation_," of Edward's,
and the other "felt a delicacy in speaking on such a subject," and
therefore, according to a very ancient precedent, they "passed by on the
other side." Yet it was at Mr. A.'s sideboard, always sparkling with the
choicest wine, that he had felt the first excitement of extra stimulus;
it was at Mr. B.'s house that the convivial club began to hold their
meetings, which, after a time, found a more appropriate place in a
public hotel. It is thus that the sober, the regular, and the discreet,
whose constitution saves them from liabilities to excess, will accompany
the ardent and excitable to the very verge of danger, and then wonder at
their want of self-control.

It was a cold winter evening, and the wind whistled drearily around the
closed shutters of the parlor in which Augusta was sitting. Every thing
around her bore the marks of elegance and comfort.

Splendid books and engravings lay about in every direction. Vases of
rare and costly flowers exhaled perfume, and magnificent mirrors
multiplied every object. All spoke of luxury and repose, save the
anxious and sad countenance of its mistress.

It was late, and she had watched anxiously for her husband for many long
hours. She drew out her gold and diamond repeater, and looked at it. It
was long past midnight. She sighed as she remembered the pleasant
evenings they had passed together, as her eye fell on the books they had
read together, and on her piano and harp, now silent, and thought of all
he had said and looked in those days when each was all to the other.

She was aroused from this melancholy revery by a loud knocking at the
street door. She hastened to open it, but started back at the sight it
disclosed--her husband borne by four men.

"Dead! is he dead?" she screamed, in agony.

"No, ma'am," said one of the men, "but he might as well be dead as in
such a fix as this."

The whole truth, in all its degradation, flashed on the mind of Augusta.
Without a question or comment, she motioned to the sofa in the parlor,
and her husband was laid there. She locked the street door, and when the
last retreating footstep had died away, she turned to the sofa, and
stood gazing in fixed and almost stupefied silence on the face of her
senseless husband.

At once she realized the whole of her fearful lot. She saw before her
the blight of her own affections, the ruin of her helpless children, the
disgrace and misery of her husband. She looked around her in helpless
despair, for she well knew the power of the vice whose deadly seal was
set upon her husband. As one who is struggling and sinking in the waters
casts a last dizzy glance at the green sunny banks and distant trees
which seem sliding from his view, so did all the scenes of her happy
days pass in a moment before her, and she groaned aloud in bitterness of
spirit. "Great God! help me, help me," she prayed. "Save him--O, save my
husband."

Augusta was a woman of no common energy of spirit, and when the first
wild burst of anguish was over, she resolved not to be wanting to her
husband and children in a crisis so dreadful.

"When he awakes," she mentally exclaimed, "I will warn and implore; I
will pour out my whole soul to save him. My poor husband, you have been
misled--betrayed. But you are too good, too generous, too noble to be
sacrificed without a struggle."

It was late the next morning before the stupor in which Edward was
plunged began to pass off. He slowly opened his eyes, started up wildly,
gazed hurriedly around the room, till his eye met the fixed and
sorrowful gaze of his wife. The past instantly flashed upon him, and a
deep flush passed over his countenance. There was a dead, a solemn
silence, until Augusta, yielding to her agony, threw herself into his
arms, and wept.

"Then you do not hate me, Augusta?" said he, sorrowfully.

"Hate you--never! But, O Edward, Edward, what has beguiled you?"

"My wife--you once promised to be my guardian in virtue--such you are,
and will be. O Augusta! you have looked on what you shall never see
again--never--never--so help me God!" said he, looking up with solemn
earnestness.

And Augusta, as she gazed on the noble face, the ardent expression of
sincerity and remorse, could not doubt that her husband was saved. But
Edward's plan of reformation had one grand defect. It was merely
modification and retrenchment, and not _entire abandonment_. He could
not feel it necessary to cut himself off entirely from the scenes and
associations where temptation had met him. He considered not that, when
the temperate flow of the blood and the even balance of the nerves have
once been destroyed, there is, ever after, a double and fourfold
liability, which often makes a man the sport of the first untoward
chance.

He still contrived to stimulate sufficiently to prevent the return of a
calm and healthy state of the mind and body, and to make constant
self-control and watchfulness necessary.

It is a great mistake to call nothing intemperance but that degree of
physical excitement which completely overthrows the mental powers. There
is a state of nervous excitability, resulting from what is often called
moderate stimulation, which often long precedes this, and is, in regard
to it, like the premonitory warnings of the fatal cholera--an
unsuspected draught on the vital powers, from which, at any moment, they
may sink into irremediable collapse.

It is in this state, often, that the spirit of gambling or of wild
speculation is induced by the morbid cravings of an over-stimulated
system. Unsatisfied with the healthy and regular routine of business,
and the laws of gradual and solid prosperity, the excited and unsteady
imagination leads its subjects to daring risks, with the alternative of
unbounded gain on the one side, or of utter ruin on the other. And when,
as is too often the case, that ruin comes, unrestrained and desperate
intemperance is the wretched resort to allay the ravings of
disappointment and despair.

Such was the case with Edward. He had lost his interest in his regular
business, and he embarked the bulk of his property in a brilliant scheme
then in vogue; and when he found a crisis coming, threatening ruin and
beggary, he had recourse to the fatal stimulus, which, alas! he had
never wholly abandoned.

At this time he spent some months in a distant city, separated from his
wife and family, while the insidious power of temptation daily
increased, as he kept up, by artificial stimulus, the flagging vigor of
his mind and nervous system.

It came at last--the blow which shattered alike his brilliant dreams and
his real prosperity. The large fortune brought by his wife vanished in a
moment, so that scarcely a pittance remained in his hands. From the
distant city where he had been to superintend his schemes, he thus wrote
to his too confiding wife:--

"Augusta, all is over! expect no more from your husband--believe no more
of his promises--for he is lost to you and you to him. Augusta, our
property is gone; _your_ property, which I have blindly risked, is all
swallowed up. But is that the worst? No, no, Augusta; _I_ am lost--lost,
body and soul, and as irretrievably as the perishing riches I have
squandered. Once I had energy--health--nerve--resolution; but all are
gone: yes, yes, I have yielded--I do yield daily to what is at once my
tormentor and my temporary refuge from intolerable misery. You remember
the sad hour you first knew your husband was a drunkard. Your look on
that morning of misery--shall I ever forget it? Yet, blind and confiding
as you were, how soon did your ill-judged confidence in me return! Vain
hopes! I was even then past recovery--even then sealed over to blackness
of darkness forever.

"Alas! my wife, my peerless wife, why am I your husband? why the father
of such children as you have given me? Is there nothing in your
unequalled loveliness--nothing in the innocence of our helpless babes,
that is powerful enough to recall me? No, there is not.

"Augusta, you know not the dreadful gnawing, the intolerable agony of
this master passion. I walk the floor--I think of my own dear home, my
high hopes, my proud expectations, my children, my wife, my own immortal
soul. I feel that I am sacrificing all--feel it till I am withered with
agony; but the hour comes--the burning hour, and _all is in vain_. I
shall return to you no more, Augusta. All the little wreck I have saved
I send: you have friends, relatives--above all, you have an energy of
mind, a capacity of resolute action, beyond that of ordinary women, and
you shall never be bound--the living to the dead. True, you will suffer,
thus to burst the bonds that unite us; but be resolute, for you will
suffer more to watch from day to day the slow workings of death and ruin
in your husband. Would you stay with me, to see every vestige of what
you once loved passing away--to endure the caprice, the moroseness, the
delirious anger of one no longer master of himself? Would you make your
children victims and fellow-sufferers with you? No! dark and dreadful is
my path! I will walk it alone: no one shall go with me.

"In some peaceful retirement you may concentrate your strong feelings
upon your children, and bring them up to fill a place in your heart
which a worthless husband has abandoned. If I leave you now, you will
remember me as I have been--you will love me and weep for me when dead;
but if you stay with me, your love will be worn out; I shall become the
object of disgust and loathing. Therefore farewell, my wife--my first,
best love, farewell! with you I part with hope,--

          'And with hope, farewell fear,
    Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost:
    Evil, be thou my good.'

This is a wild strain, but fit for me: do not seek for me, do not write:
nothing can save me."

Thus abruptly began and ended the letter that conveyed to Augusta the
death doom of her hopes. There are moments of agony when the most
worldly heart is pressed upward to God, even as a weight will force
upward the reluctant water. Augusta had been a generous, a high-minded,
an affectionate woman, but she had lived entirely for this world. Her
chief good had been her husband and her children. These had been her
pride, her reliance, her dependence. Strong in her own resources, she
had never felt the need of looking to a higher power for assistance and
happiness. But when this letter fell from her trembling hand, her heart
died within her at its wild and reckless bitterness.

In her desperation she looked up to God. "What have I to live for now?"
was the first feeling of her heart.

But she repressed this inquiry of selfish agony, and besought almighty
assistance to nerve her weakness; and here first began that practical
acquaintance with the truths and hopes of religion which changed her
whole character.

The possibility of blind, confiding idolatry of any earthly object was
swept away by the fall of her husband, and with the full energy of a
decided and desolate spirit, she threw herself on the protection of an
almighty Helper. She followed her husband to the city whither he had
gone, found him, and vainly attempted to save.

There were the usual alternations of short-lived reformations, exciting
hopes only to be destroyed. There was the gradual sinking of the body,
the decay of moral feeling and principle--the slow but sure approach of
disgusting animalism, which marks the progress of the drunkard.

It was some years after that a small and partly ruinous tenement in the
outskirts of A. received a new family. The group consisted of four
children, whose wan and wistful countenances, and still, unchildlike
deportment, testified an early acquaintance with want and sorrow. There
was the mother, faded and care-worn, whose dark and melancholy eyes,
pale cheeks, and compressed lips told of years of anxiety and endurance.
There was the father, with haggard face, unsteady step, and that
callous, reckless air, that betrayed long familiarity with degradation
and crime. Who, that had seen Edward Howard in the morning and freshness
of his days, could have recognized him in this miserable husband and
father? or who, in this worn and woe-stricken woman, would have known
the beautiful, brilliant, and accomplished Augusta? Yet such changes are
not fancy, as many a bitter and broken heart can testify.

Augusta had followed her guilty husband through many a change and many a
weary wandering. All hope of reformation had gradually faded away. Her
own eyes had seen, her ears had heard, all those disgusting details, too
revolting to be portrayed; for in drunkenness there is no royal road--no
salvo for greatness of mind, refinement of taste, or tenderness of
feeling. All alike are merged in the corruption of a moral death.

The traveller, who met Edward reeling by the roadside, was sometimes
startled to hear the fragments of classical lore, or wild bursts of
half-remembered poetry, mixing strangely with the imbecile merriment of
intoxication. But when he stopped to gaze, there was no further mark on
his face or in his eye by which he could be distinguished from the
loathsome and lowest drunkard.

Augusta had come with her husband to a city where they were wholly
unknown, that she might at least escape the degradation of their lot in
the presence of those who had known them in better days. The long and
dreadful struggle that annihilated the hopes of this life had raised her
feelings to rest upon the next, and the habit of communion with God,
induced by sorrows which nothing else could console, had given a tender
dignity to her character such as nothing else could bestow.

It is true, she deeply loved her children; but it was with a holy,
chastened love, such as inspired the sentiment once breathed by Him "who
was made perfect through sufferings."

"For their sakes I sanctify myself, that they also may be sanctified."

Poverty, deep poverty, had followed their steps, but yet she had not
fainted. Talents which in her happier days had been nourished merely as
luxuries, were now stretched to the utmost to furnish a support; while
from the resources of her own reading she drew that which laid the
foundation for early mental culture in her children.

Augusta had been here but a few weeks before her footsteps were traced
by her only brother, who had lately discovered her situation, and urged
her to forsake her unworthy husband and find refuge with him.

"Augusta, my sister, I have found you!" he exclaimed, as he suddenly
entered one day, while she was busied with the work of her family.

"Henry, my dear brother!" There was a momentary illumination of
countenance accompanying these words, which soon faded into a mournful
quietness, as she cast her eyes around on the scanty accommodations and
mean apartment.

"I see how it is, Augusta; step by step, you are sinking--dragged down
by a vain sense of duty to one no longer worthy. I cannot bear it any
longer; I have come to take you away."

Augusta turned from him, and looked abstractedly out of the window. Her
features settled in thought. Their expression gradually deepened from
their usual tone of mild, resigned sorrow to one of keen anguish.

"Henry," said she, turning towards him, "never was mortal woman so
blessed in another as I once was in him. How can I forget it? Who knew
him in those days that did not admire and love him? They tempted and
insnared him; and even I urged him into the path of danger. He fell, and
there was none to help. I urged reformation, and he again and again
promised, resolved, and began. But again they tempted him--even his very
best friends; yes, and that, too, when they knew his danger. They led
him on as far as it was safe for _them_ to go, and when the sweep of his
more excitable temperament took him past the point of safety and
decency, they stood by, and coolly wondered and lamented. How often was
he led on by such heartless friends to humiliating falls, and then
driven to desperation by the cold look, averted faces, and cruel sneers
of those whose medium temperament and cooler blood saved them from the
snares which they saw were enslaving him. What if _I_ had forsaken him
_then_? What account should I have rendered to God? Every time a friend
has been alienated by his comrades, it has seemed to seal him with
another seal. I am his wife--and mine will be _the last_. Henry, when I
leave him, I _know_ his eternal ruin is sealed. I cannot do it now; a
little longer--a little longer; the hour, I see, must come. I know my
duty to my children forbids me to keep them here; take them--they are my
last earthly comforts, Henry--but you must take them away. It may be--O
God--perhaps it _must be_, that I shall soon follow; but not till I have
tried _once more_. What is this present life to one who has suffered as
I have? Nothing. But eternity! O Henry! eternity--how can I abandon him
to _everlasting_ despair! Under the breaking of my heart I have borne
up. I have borne up under _all_ that can try a woman; but _this_
thought----" She stopped, and seemed struggling with herself; but at
last, borne down by a tide of agony, she leaned her head on her hands;
the tears streamed through her fingers, and her whole frame shook with
convulsive sobs.

Her brother wept with her; nor dared he again to touch the point so
solemnly guarded. The next day Augusta parted from her children, hoping
something from feelings that, possibly, might be stirred by their
absence in the bosom of their father.

It was about a week after this that Augusta one evening presented
herself at the door of a rich Mr. L., whose princely mansion was one of
the ornaments of the city of A. It was not till she reached the
sumptuous drawing room that she recognized in Mr. L. one whom she and
her husband had frequently met in the gay circles of their early life.
Altered as she was, Mr. L. did not recognize her, but compassionately
handed her a chair, and requested her to wait the return of his lady,
who was out; and then turning, he resumed his conversation with another
gentleman.

"Now, Dallas," said he, "you are altogether excessive and intemperate in
this matter. Society is not to be reformed by every man directing his
efforts towards his neighbor, but by every man taking care of himself.
It is you and I, my dear sir, who must begin with ourselves, and every
other man must do the same; and then society will be effectually
reformed. Now this modern way, by which every man considers it his duty
to attend to the spiritual matters of his next-door neighbor, is taking
the business at the wrong end altogether. It makes a vast deal of
appearance, but it does very little good."

"But suppose your neighbor feels no disposition to attend to his own
improvement--what then?"

"Why, then it is his own concern, and not mine. What my Maker requires
is, that I do _my_ duty, and not fret about my neighbor's."

"But, my friend, that is the very question. What is the duty your Maker
requires? Does it not include some regard to your neighbor, some care
and thought for his interest and improvement?"

"Well, well, I do that by setting a good example. I do not mean by
example what you do--that is, that I am to stop drinking wine because it
may lead him to drink brandy, any more than that I must stop eating
because he may eat too much and become a dyspeptic--but that I am to use
my wine, and every thing else, temperately and decently, and thus set
him a good example."

The conversation was here interrupted by the return of Mrs. L. It
recalled, in all its freshness, to the mind of Augusta the days when
both she and her husband had thus spoken and thought.

Ah, how did these sentiments appear to her now--lonely, helpless,
forlorn--the wife of a ruined husband, the mother of more than orphan
children! How different from what they seemed, when, secure in ease, in
wealth, in gratified affections, she thoughtlessly echoed the common
phraseology, "Why must people concern themselves so much in their
neighbors' affairs? Let every man mind his own business."

Augusta received in silence from Mrs. L. the fine sewing for which she
came, and left the room.

"Ellen," said Mr. L. to his wife; "that poor woman must be in trouble of
some kind or other. You must go some time, and see if any thing can be
done for her."

"How singular!" said Mrs. L.; "she reminds me all the time of Augusta
Howard. You remember her, my dear?"

"Yes, poor thing! and her husband too. That was a shocking affair of
Edward Howard's. I hear that he became an intemperate, worthless fellow.
Who could have thought it!"

"But you recollect, my dear," said Mrs. L., "I predicted it six months
before it was talked of. You remember, at the wine party which you gave
after Mary's wedding, he was so excited that he was hardly decent. I
mentioned then that he was getting into dangerous ways. But he was such
an excitable creature, that two or three glasses would put him quite
beside himself. And there is George Eldon, who takes off his ten or
twelve glasses, and no one suspects it."

"Well, it was a great pity," replied Mr. L.; "Howard was worth a dozen
George Eldons."

"Do you suppose," said Dallas, who had listened thus far in silence,
"that if he had moved in a circle where it was the universal custom to
_banish all stimulating drinks_, he would thus have fallen?"

"I cannot say," said Mr. L.; "perhaps not."

Mr. Dallas was a gentleman of fortune and leisure, and of an ardent and
enthusiastic temperament. Whatever engaged him absorbed his whole soul;
and of late years, his mind had become deeply engaged in schemes of
philanthropy for the improvement of his fellow-men. He had, in his
benevolent ministrations, often passed the dwelling of Edward, and was
deeply interested in the pale and patient wife and mother. He made
acquaintance with her through the aid of her children, and, in one way
and another, learned particulars of their history that awakened the
deepest interest and concern. None but a mind as sanguine as his would
have dreamed of attempting to remedy such hopeless misery by the
reformation of him who was its cause. But such a plan had actually
occurred to him. The remarks of Mr. and Mrs. L. recalled the idea, and
he soon found that his intended _protege_ was the very Edward Howard
whose early history was thus disclosed. He learned all the minutiae from
these his early associates without disclosing his aim, and left them
still more resolved upon his benevolent plan.

He watched his opportunity when Edward was free from the influence of
stimulus, and it was just after the loss of his children had called
forth some remains of his better nature. Gradually and kindly he tried
to touch the springs of his mind, and awaken some of its buried
sensibilities.

"It is in vain, Mr. Dallas, to talk thus to me," said Edward, when, one
day, with the strong eloquence of excited feeling, he painted the
motives for attempting reformation; "you might as well attempt to
reclaim the lost in hell. Do you think," he continued, in a wild,
determined manner--"do you think I do not know all you can tell me? I
have it all by heart, sir; no one can preach such discourses as I can on
this subject: I know all--believe all--as the devils believe and
tremble."

"Ay, but," said Dallas, "to you _there is hope_; you _are not_ to ruin
yourself forever."

"And who the devil are you, to speak to me in this way?" said Edward,
looking up from his sullen despair with a gleam of curiosity, if not of
hope.

"God's messenger to you, Edward Howard," said Dallas, fixing his keen
eye upon him solemnly; "to you, Edward Howard, who have thrown away
talents, hope, and health--who have blasted the heart of your wife, and
beggared your suffering children. To you I am the messenger of your
God--by me he offers health, and hope, and self-respect, and the regard
of your fellow-men. You may heal the broken heart of your wife, and give
back a father to your helpless children. Think of it, Howard: what if it
were possible? Only suppose it. What would it be again to feel yourself
a man, beloved and respected as you once were, with a happy home, a
cheerful wife, and smiling little ones? Think how you could repay your
poor wife for all her tears! What hinders you from gaining all this?"

"Just what hindered the rich man in hell--'_between us there is a great
gulf fixed_;' it lies between me and all that is good; my wife, my
children, my hope of heaven, are all on the other side."

"Ay, but this gulf can be passed: Howard, what _would you give_ to be a
temperate man?"

"What would I give?" said Howard. He thought for a moment, and burst
into tears.

"Ah, I see how it is," said Dallas; "you need a friend, and God has sent
you one."

"What _can_ you do for me, Mr. Dallas?" said Edward, in a tone of wonder
at the confidence of his assurances.

"I will tell you what I can do: I can take you to my house, and give you
a room, and watch over you until the strongest temptations are past--I
can give you business again. I can do _all_ for you that needs to be
done, if you will give yourself to my care."

"O God of mercy!" exclaimed the unhappy man, "is there hope for me? I
cannot believe it possible; but take me where you choose--I will follow
and obey."

A few hours witnessed the transfer of the lost husband to one of the
retired apartments in the elegant mansion of Dallas, where he found his
anxious and grateful wife still stationed as his watchful guardian.

Medical treatment, healthful exercise, useful employment, simple food,
and pure water were connected with a personal supervision by Dallas,
which, while gently and politely sustained, at first amounted to actual
imprisonment.

For a time the reaction from the sudden suspension of habitual stimulus
was dreadful, and even with tears did the unhappy man entreat to be
permitted to abandon the undertaking. But the resolute steadiness of
Dallas and the tender entreaties of his wife prevailed. It is true that
he might be said to be saved "so as by fire;" for a fever, and a long
and fierce delirium, wasted him almost to the borders of the grave.

But, at length, the struggle between life and death was over, and though
it left him stretched on the bed of sickness, emaciated and weak, yet he
was restored to his right mind, and was conscious of returning health.
Let any one who has laid a friend in the grave, and known what it is to
have the heart fail with longing for them day by day, imagine the dreamy
and unreal joy of Augusta when she began again to see in Edward the
husband so long lost to her. It was as if the grave had given back the
dead.

"Augusta!" said he, faintly, as, after a long and quiet sleep, he awoke
free from delirium. She bent over him. "Augusta, I am redeemed--I am
saved--I feel in myself that I am made whole."

The high heart of Augusta melted at these words. She trembled and wept.
Her husband wept also, and after a pause he continued,--

"It is more than being restored to this life--I feel that it is the
beginning of eternal life. It is the Savior who sought me out, and I
know that he is able to keep me from falling."

But we will draw a veil over a scene which words have little power to
paint.

"Pray, Dallas," said Mr. L., one day, "who is that fine-looking young
man whom I met in your office this morning? I thought his face seemed
familiar."

"It is a Mr. Howard--a young lawyer whom I have lately taken into
business with me."

"Strange! Impossible!" said Mr. L. "Surely this cannot be the Howard
that I once knew."

"I believe he is," said Mr. Dallas.

"Why, I thought he was gone--dead and done over, long ago, with
intemperance."

"He was so; few have ever sunk lower; but he now promises even to outdo
all that was hoped of him."

"Strange! Why, Dallas, what did bring about this change?"

"I feel a delicacy in mentioning how it came about to you, Mr. L., as
there undoubtedly was a great deal of 'interference with other men's
matters' in the business. In short, the young man fell in the way of one
of those meddlesome fellows, who go prowling about, distributing tracts,
forming temperance societies, and all that sort of stuff."

"Come, come, Dallas," said Mr. L., smiling, "I must hear the story, for
all that."

"First call with me at this house," said Dallas, stopping before the
door of a neat little mansion. They were soon in the parlor. The first
sight that met their eyes was Edward Howard, who, with a cheek glowing
with exercise, was tossing aloft a blooming boy, while Augusta was
watching his motions, her face radiant with smiles.

"Mr. and Mrs. Howard, this is Mr. L., an old acquaintance, I believe."

There was a moment of mutual embarrassment and surprise, soon dispelled,
however, by the frank cordiality of Edward. Mr. L. sat down, but could
scarce withdraw his eyes from the countenance of Augusta, in whose
eloquent face he recognized a beauty of a higher cast than even in her
earlier days.

He glanced about the apartment. It was simply but tastefully furnished,
and wore an air of retired, domestic comfort. There were books,
engravings, and musical instruments. Above all, there were four happy,
healthy-looking children, pursuing studies or sports at the farther end
of the room.

After a short call they regained the street.

"Dallas, you are a happy man," said Mr. L.; "that family will be a mine
of jewels to you."

He was right. Every soul saved from pollution and ruin is a jewel to him
that reclaims it, whose lustre only eternity can disclose; and therefore
it is written, "They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the
firmament, and they that turn many to righteousness, as the stars
forever and ever."




COUSIN WILLIAM.


In a stately red house, in one of the villages of New England, lived the
heroine of our story. She had every advantage of rank and wealth, for
her father was a deacon of the church, and owned sheep, and oxen, and
exceeding much substance. There was an appearance of respectability and
opulence about all the demesnes. The house stood almost concealed amid a
forest of apple trees, in spring blushing with blossoms, and in autumn
golden with fruit. And near by might be seen the garden, surrounded by a
red picket fence, enclosing all sorts of magnificence. There, in autumn,
might be seen abundant squash vines, which seemed puzzled for room where
to bestow themselves; and bright golden squashes, and full-orbed yellow
pumpkins, looking as satisfied as the evening sun when he has just had
his face washed in a shower, and is sinking soberly to bed. There were
superannuated seed cucumbers, enjoying the pleasures of a contemplative
old age; and Indian corn, nicely done up in green silk, with a specimen
tassel hanging at the end of each ear. The beams of the summer sun
darted through rows of crimson currants, abounding on bushes by the
fence, while a sulky black currant bush sat scowling in one corner, a
sort of garden curiosity.

But time would fail us were we to enumerate all the wealth of Deacon
Israel Taylor. He himself belonged to that necessary class of beings,
who, though remarkable for nothing at all, are very useful in filling up
the links of society. Far otherwise was his sister-in-law, Mrs. Abigail
Evetts, who, on the demise of the deacon's wife, had assumed the reins
of government in the household.

This lady was of the same opinion that has animated many illustrious
philosophers, namely, that the affairs of this world need a great deal
of seeing to in order to have them go on prosperously; and although she
did not, like them, engage in the supervision of the universe, she made
amends by unremitting diligence in the department under her care. In her
mind there was an evident necessity that every one should be up and
doing: Monday, because it was washing day; Tuesday, because it was
ironing day; Wednesday, because it was baking day; Thursday, because
to-morrow was Friday; and so on to the end of the week. Then she had the
care of reminding all in the house of every thing each was to do from
week's end to week's end; and she was so faithful in this respect, that
scarcely an original act of volition took place in the family. The poor
deacon was reminded when he went out and when he came in, when he sat
down and when he rose up, so that an act of omission could only have
been committed through sheer malice prepense.

But the supervision of a whole family of children afforded to a lady of
her active turn of mind more abundant matter of exertion. To see that
their faces were washed, their clothes mended, and their catechism
learned; to see that they did not pick the flowers, nor throw stones at
the chickens, nor sophisticate the great house dog, was an accumulation
of care that devolved almost entirely on Mrs. Abigail, so that, by her
own account, she lived and throve by a perpetual miracle.

The eldest of her charge, at the time this story begins, was a girl just
arrived at young ladyhood, and her name was Mary. Now we know that
people very seldom have stories written about them who have not
sylph-like forms, and glorious eyes, or, at least, "a certain
inexpressible charm diffused over their whole person." But stories have
of late so much abounded that they actually seem to have used up all the
eyes, hair, teeth, lips, and forms necessary for a heroine, so that no
one can now pretend to find an original collection wherewith to set one
forth. These things considered, I regard it as fortunate that my heroine
was not a beauty. She looked neither like a sylph, nor an oread, nor a
fairy; she had neither _l'air distingue_ nor _l'air magnifique_, but
bore a great resemblance to a real mortal girl, such as you might pass a
dozen of without any particular comment--one of those appearances,
which, though common as water, may, like that, be  any way by the
associations you connect with it. Accordingly, a faultless taste in
dress, a perfect ease and gayety of manner, a constant flow of kindly
feeling, seemed in her case to produce all the effect of beauty. Her
manners had just dignity enough to repel impertinence without destroying
the careless freedom and sprightliness in which she commonly indulged.
No person had a merrier run of stories, songs, and village traditions,
and all those odds and ends of character which form the materials for
animated conversation. She had read, too, every thing she could find:
Rollin's History, and Scott's Family Bible, that stood in the glass
bookcase in the best room, and an odd volume of Shakspeare, and now and
then one of Scott's novels, borrowed from a somewhat literary family in
the neighborhood. She also kept an album to write her thoughts in, and
was in a constant habit of cutting out all the pretty poetry from the
corners of the newspapers, besides drying forget-me-nots and rosebuds,
in memory of different particular friends, with a number of other little
sentimental practices to which young ladies of sixteen and thereabout
are addicted. She was also endowed with great constructiveness;
so that, in these days of ladies' fairs, there was nothing from
bellows-needlebooks down to web-footed pincushions to which she could
not turn her hand. Her sewing certainly _was_ extraordinary, (we think
too little is made of this in the accomplishments of heroines;) her
stitching was like rows of pearls, and her cross-stitching was
fairy-like; and for sewing over and over, as the village schoolma'am
hath it, she had not her equal. And what shall we say of her pies and
puddings? They would have converted the most reprobate old bachelor in
the world. And then her sweeping and dusting! "Many daughters have done
virtuously, but thou excellest them all!"

And now, what do you suppose is coming next? Why, a young gentleman, of
course; for about this time comes to settle in the village, and take
charge of the academy, a certain William Barton. Now, if you wish to
know more particularly who he was, we only wish we could refer you to
Mrs. Abigail, who was most accomplished in genealogies and old wifes'
fables, and she would have told you that "her gran'ther, Ike Evetts,
married a wife who was second cousin to Peter Scranton, who was great
uncle to Polly Mosely, whose daughter Mary married William Barton's
father, just about the time old 'Squire Peter's house was burned down."
And then would follow an account of the domestic history of all branches
of the family since they came over from England. Be that as it may, it
is certain that Mrs. Abigail denominated him cousin, and that he came to
the deacon's to board; and he had not been there more than a week, and
made sundry observations on Miss Mary, before he determined to call her
cousin too, which he accomplished in the most natural way in the world.

Mary was at first somewhat afraid of him, because she had heard that he
had studied through all that was to be studied in Greek, and Latin, and
German too; and she saw a library of books in his room, that made her
sigh every time she looked at them, to think how much there was to be
learned of which she was ignorant. But all this wore away, and presently
they were the best friends in the world. He gave her books to read, and
he gave her lessons in French, nothing puzzled by that troublesome verb
which must be first conjugated, whether in French, Latin, or English.
Then he gave her a deal of good advice about the cultivation of her mind
and the formation of her character, all of which was very improving, and
tended greatly to consolidate their friendship. But, unfortunately for
Mary, William made quite as favorable an impression on the female
community generally as he did on her, having distinguished himself on
certain public occasions, such as delivering lectures on botany, and
also, at the earnest request of the fourth of July committee, pronounced
an oration which covered him with glory. He had been known, also, to
write poetry, and had a retired and romantic air greatly bewitching to
those who read Bulwer's novels. In short, it was morally certain,
according to all rules of evidence, that if he had chosen to pay any
lady of the village a dozen visits a week, she would have considered it
as her duty to entertain him.

William did visit; for, like many studious people, he found a need for
the excitement of society; but, whether it was party or singing school,
he walked home with Mary, of course, in as steady and domestic a manner
as any man who has been married a twelvemonth. His air in conversing
with her was inevitably more confidential than with any other one, and
this was cause for envy in many a gentle breast, and an interesting
diversity of reports with regard to her manner of treating the young
gentleman went forth into the village.

"I wonder Mary Taylor will laugh and joke so much with William Barton in
company," said one. "Her manners are altogether too free," said another.
"It is evident she has designs upon him," remarked a third. "And she
cannot even conceal it," pursued a fourth.

Some sayings of this kind at length reached the ears of Mrs. Abigail,
who had the best heart in the world, and was so indignant that it might
have done your heart good to see her. Still she thought it showed that
"the girl needed _advising_;" and "she should _talk_ to Mary about the
matter."

But she first concluded to advise with William on the subject; and,
therefore, after dinner the same day, while he was looking over a
treatise on trigonometry or conic sections, she commenced upon him:--

"Our Mary is growing up a fine girl."

William was intent on solving a problem, and only understanding that
something had been said, mechanically answered, "Yes."

"A little wild or so," said Mrs. Abigail.

"I know it," said William, fixing his eyes earnestly on E, F, B, C.

"Perhaps you think her a little too talkative and free with you
sometimes; you know girls do not always think what they do."

"Certainly," said William, going on with his problem.

"I think you had better speak to her about it," said Mrs. Abigail.

"I think so too," said William, musing over his completed work, till at
length he arose, put it in his pocket, and went to school.

O, this unlucky concentrativeness! How many shocking things a man may
indorse by the simple habit of saying "Yes" and "No," when he is not
hearing what is said to him.

The next morning, when William was gone to the academy, and Mary was
washing the breakfast things, Aunt Abigail introduced the subject with
great tact and delicacy by remarking.--

"Mary, I guess you had better be rather less free with William than you
have been."

"Free!" said Mary, starting, and nearly dropping the cup from her hand;
"why, aunt, what _do_ you mean?"

"Why, Mary, you must not always be around so free in talking with him,
at home, and in company, and every where. It won't do." The color
started into Mary's cheek, and mounted even to her forehead, as she
answered with a dignified air,--

"I have not been too free; I know what is right and proper; I have not
been doing any thing that was improper."

Now, when one is going to give advice, it is very troublesome to have
its necessity thus called in question; and Mrs. Abigail, who was fond of
her own opinion, felt called upon to defend it.

"Why, yes, you have, Mary; every body in the village notices it."

"I don't care what every body in the village says. I shall always do
what I think proper," retorted the young lady; "I know Cousin William
does not think so."

"Well, _I_ think he does, from some things I have heard him say."

"O aunt! what have you heard him say?" said Mary, nearly upsetting a
chair in the eagerness with which she turned to her aunt.

"Mercy on us! you need not knock the house down, Mary. I don't remember
exactly about it, only that his way of speaking made me think so."

"O aunt! do tell me what it was, and all about it," said Mary, following
her aunt, who went around dusting the furniture.

Mrs. Abigail, like most obstinate people, who feel that they have gone
too far, and yet are ashamed to go back, took refuge in an obstinate
generalization, and only asserted that she had heard him say things, as
if he did not quite like her ways.

This is the most consoling of all methods in which to leave a matter of
this kind for a person of active imagination. Of course, in five
minutes, Mary had settled in her mind a list of remarks that would have
been suited to any of her village companions, as coming from her cousin.
All the improbability of the thing vanished in the absorbing
consideration of its possibility; and, after a moment's reflection, she
pressed her lips together in a very firm way, and remarked that "Mr.
Barton would have no occasion to say such things again."

It was very evident, from her heightened color and dignified air, that
her state of mind was very heroical. As for poor Aunt Abigail, she felt
sorry she had vexed her, and addressed herself most earnestly to her
consolation, remarking, "Mary, I don't suppose William meant any thing.
He knows you don't mean any thing wrong."

"Don't _mean_ any thing wrong!" said Mary, indignantly.

"Why, child, he thinks you don't know much about folks and things, and
if you have been a little----"

"But I have not been. It was he that talked with me first. It was he
that did every thing first. He called me cousin--and he _is_ my cousin."

"No, child, you are mistaken; for you remember his grandfather was----"

"I don't care who his grandfather was; he has no right to think of me as
he does."

"Now, Mary, don't go to quarrelling with him; he can't help his
thoughts, you know."

"I don't care what he thinks," said Mary, flinging out of the room with
tears in her eyes.

Now, when a young lady is in such a state of affliction, the first thing
to be done is to sit down and cry for two hours or more, which Mary
accomplished in the most thorough manner; in the mean while making many
reflections on the instability of human friendships, and resolving never
to trust any one again as long as she lived, and thinking that this was
a cold and hollow-hearted world, together with many other things she had
read in books, but never realized so forcibly as at present. But what
was to be done? Of course she did not wish to speak a word to William
again, and wished he did not board there; and finally she put on her
bonnet, and determined to go over to her other aunt's in the
neighborhood, and spend the day, so that she might not see him at
dinner.

But it so happened that Mr. William, on coming home at noon, found
himself unaccountably lonesome during school recess for dinner, and
hearing where Mary was, determined to call after school at night at her
aunt's, and attend her home.

Accordingly, in the afternoon, as Mary was sitting in the parlor with
two or three cousins, Mr. William entered.

Mary was so anxious to look just as if nothing was the matter, that she
turned away her head, and began to look out of the window just as the
young gentleman came up to speak to her. So, after he had twice inquired
after her health, she drew up very coolly, and said,--

"Did you speak to me, sir?"

William looked a little surprised at first, but seating himself by her,
"To be sure," said he; "and I came to know why you ran away without
leaving any message for me?"

"It did not occur to me," said Mary, in the dry tone which, in a lady,
means, "I will excuse you from any further conversation, if you please."
William felt as if there was something different from common in all
this, but thought that perhaps he was mistaken, and so continued:--

"What a pity, now, that you should be so careless of me, when I was so
thoughtful of you! I have come all this distance, to see how you do."

"I am sorry to have given you the trouble," said Mary.

"Cousin, are you unwell to-day?" said William.

"No, sir," said Mary, going on with her sewing.

There was something so marked and decisive in all this, that William
could scarcely believe his ears. He turned away, and commenced a
conversation with a young lady; and Mary, to show that she could talk if
she chose, commenced relating a story to her cousins, and presently they
were all in a loud laugh.

"Mary has been full of her knickknacks to-day," said her old uncle,
joining them.

William looked at her: she never seemed brighter or in better spirits,
and he began to think that even Cousin Mary might puzzle a man
sometimes.

He turned away, and began a conversation with old Mr. Zachary Coan on
the raising of buckwheat--a subject which evidently required profound
thought, for he never looked more grave, not to say melancholy.

Mary glanced that way, and was struck with the sad and almost severe
expression with which he was listening to the details of Mr. Zachary,
and was convinced that he was no more thinking of buckwheat than she
was.

"I never thought of hurting his feelings so much," said she, relenting;
"after all, he has been very kind to me. But he might have told me about
it, and not somebody else." And hereupon she cast another glance towards
him.

William was not talking, but sat with his eyes fixed on the
snuffer-tray, with an intense gravity of gaze that quite troubled her,
and she could not help again blaming herself.

"To be sure! Aunt was right; he could not help his thoughts. I will try
to forget it," thought she.

Now, you must not think Mary was sitting still and gazing during this
soliloquy. No, she was talking and laughing, apparently the most
unconcerned spectator in the room. So passed the evening till the little
company broke up.

"I am ready to attend you home," said William, in a tone of cold and
almost haughty deference.

"I am obliged to you," said the young lady, in a similar tone, "but I
shall stay all night;" then, suddenly changing her tone, she said, "No,
I cannot keep it up any longer. I will go home with you, Cousin
William."

"Keep up what?" said William, with surprise.

Mary was gone for her bonnet. She came out, took his arm, and walked on
a little way.

"You have advised me always to be frank, cousin," said Mary, "and I must
and will be; so I shall tell you all, though I dare say it is not
according to rule."

"All what?" said William.

"Cousin," said she, not at all regarding what he said, "I was very much
vexed this afternoon."

"So I perceived, Mary."

"Well, it is vexatious," she continued, "though, after all, we cannot
expect people to think us perfect; but I did not think it quite fair in
you not to tell _me_."

"Tell you what, Mary?"

Here they came to a place where the road turned through a small patch of
woods. It was green and shady, and enlivened by a lively chatterbox of a
brook. There was a mossy trunk of a tree that had fallen beside it, and
made a pretty seat. The moonlight lay in little patches upon it, as it
streamed down through the branches of the trees. It was a fairy-looking
place, and Mary stopped and sat down, as if to collect her thoughts.
After picking up a stick, and playing a moment in the water, she
began:--

"After all, cousin, it was very natural in you to say so, if you thought
so; though I should not have supposed you would think so."

"Well, I should be glad if I could know what it is," said William, in a
tone of patient resignation.

"O, I forgot that I had not told you," said she, pushing back her hat,
and speaking like one determined to go through with the thing. "Why,
cousin, I have been told that you spoke of my manners towards yourself
as being freer--more--obtrusive than they should be. And now," said she,
her eyes flashing, "you see it was not a very easy thing to tell you,
but I began with being frank, and I will be so, for the sake of
satisfying _myself_."

To this William simply replied, "Who told you this, Mary?"

"My aunt."

"Did she say I said it to her?"

"Yes; and I do not so much object to your saying it as to your
_thinking_ it, for you know I did not force myself on your notice; it
was you who sought my acquaintance and won my confidence; and that you,
above all others, should think of me in this way!"

"I never did think so, Mary," said William, quietly.

"Nor ever _said_ so?"

"Never. I should think you might have _known_ it, Mary."

"But----" said Mary.

"But," said William, firmly, "Aunt Abigail is certainly mistaken."

"Well, I am glad of it," said Mary, looking relieved, and gazing in the
brook. Then looking up with warmth, "and, cousin, you never must think
so. I am ardent, and I express myself freely; but I never meant, I am
sure I never _should_ mean, any thing more than a sister might say."

"And are you sure you never could, if all my happiness depended on it,
Mary?"

She turned and looked up in his face, and saw a look that brought
conviction. She rose to go on, and her hand was taken and drawn into the
arm of her cousin, and that was the end of the first and the last
difficulty that ever arose between them.




THE MINISTRATION OF OUR DEPARTED FRIENDS.

A NEW YEAR'S REVERY.


    "It is a beautiful belief,
        That ever round our head
    Are hovering on viewless wings
        The spirits of the dead."

While every year is taking one and another from the ranks of life and
usefulness, or the charmed circle of friendship and love, it is soothing
to remember that the spiritual world is gaining in riches through the
poverty of this.

In early life, with our friends all around us,--hearing their voices,
cheered by their smiles,--death and the spiritual world are to us
remote, misty, and half-fabulous; but as we advance in our journey, and
voice after voice is hushed, and form after form vanishes from our side,
and our shadow falls almost solitary on the hillside of life, the soul,
by a necessity of its being, tends to the unseen and spiritual, and
pursues in another life those it seeks in vain in this.

For with every friend that dies, dies also some especial form of social
enjoyment, whose being depended on the peculiar character of that
friend; till, late in the afternoon of life, the pilgrim seems to
himself to have passed over to the unseen world in successive portions
half his own spirit; and poor indeed is he who has not familiarized
himself with that unknown, whither, despite himself, his soul is
earnestly tending.

One of the deepest and most imperative cravings of the human heart, as
it follows its beloved ones beyond the veil, is for some assurance that
they still love and care for us. Could we firmly believe this,
bereavement would lose half its bitterness. As a German writer
beautifully expresses it, "Our friend is not wholly gone from us; we see
across the river of death, in the blue distance, the smoke of his
cottage;" hence the heart, always creating what it desires, has ever
made the guardianship and ministration of departed spirits a favorite
theme of poetic fiction.

But is it, then, fiction? Does revelation, which gives so many hopes
which nature had not, give none here? Is there no sober certainty to
correspond to the inborn and passionate craving of the soul? Do departed
spirits in verity retain any knowledge of what transpires in this world,
and take any part in its scenes? All that revelation says of a spiritual
state is more intimation than assertion; it has no distinct treatise,
and teaches nothing apparently of set purpose; but gives vague, glorious
images, while now and then some accidental ray of intelligence looks
out,--

    "----like eyes of cherubs shining
      From out the veil that hid the ark."

But out of all the different hints and assertions of the Bible we think
a better inferential argument might be constructed to prove the
ministration of departed spirits than for many a doctrine which has
passed in its day for the height of orthodoxy.

First, then, the Bible distinctly says that there is a class of
invisible spirits who minister to the children of men: "Are they not all
ministering spirits, sent forth to minister to those who shall be heirs
of salvation?" It is said of little children, that "their angels do
always behold the face of our Father which is in heaven." This last
passage, from the words of our Savior, taken in connection with the
well-known tradition of his time, fully recognizes the idea of
individual guardian spirits; for God's government over mind is, it
seems, throughout, one of intermediate agencies, and these not chosen at
random, but with the nicest reference to their adaptation to the purpose
intended. Not even the All-seeing, All-knowing One was deemed perfectly
adapted to become a human Savior without a human experience. Knowledge
intuitive, gained from above, of human wants and woes was not enough--to
it must be added the home-born certainty of consciousness and memory;
the Head of all mediation must become human. Is it likely, then, that,
in selecting subordinate agencies, this so necessary a requisite of a
human life and experience is overlooked? While around the throne of God
stand spirits, now sainted and glorified, yet thrillingly conscious of a
past experience of sin and sorrow, and trembling in sympathy with
temptations and struggles like their own, is it likely that he would
pass by these souls, thus burning for the work, and commit it to those
bright abstract beings whose knowledge and experience are comparatively
so distant and so cold?

It is strongly in confirmation of this idea, that in the transfiguration
scene--which seems to have been intended purposely to give the disciples
a glimpse of the glorified state of their Master--we find him attended
by two spirits of earth, Moses and Elias, "which appeared with him in
glory, and spake of his death which he should accomplish at Jerusalem."
It appears that these so long departed ones were still mingling in deep
sympathy with the tide of human affairs--not only aware of the present,
but also informed as to the future. In coincidence with this idea are
all those passages which speak of the redeemed of earth as being closely
and indissolubly identified with Christ, members of his body, of his
flesh and his bones. It is not to be supposed that those united to Jesus
above all others by so vivid a sympathy and community of interests are
left out as instruments in that great work of human regeneration which
so engrosses him; and when we hear Christians spoken of as kings and
priests unto God, as those who shall judge angels, we see it more than
intimated that they are to be the partners and actors in that great work
of spiritual regeneration of which Jesus is the head.

What then? May we look among the band of ministering spirits for our own
departed ones? Whom would God be more likely to send us? Have we in
heaven a friend who knew us to the heart's core? a friend to whom we
have unfolded our soul in its most secret recesses? to whom we have
confessed our weaknesses and deplored our griefs? If we are to have a
ministering spirit, who better adapted? Have we not memories which
correspond to such a belief? When our soul has been cast down, has never
an invisible voice whispered, "There is lifting up"? Have not gales and
breezes of sweet and healing thought been wafted over us, as if an angel
had shaken from his wings the odors of paradise? Many a one, we are
confident, can remember such things--and whence come they? Why do the
children of the pious mother, whose grave has grown green and smooth
with years, seem often to walk through perils and dangers fearful and
imminent as the crossing Mohammed's fiery gulf on the edge of a drawn
sword, yet walk unhurt? Ah! could we see that attendant form, that face
where the angel conceals not the mother, our question would be answered.

It may be possible that a friend is sometimes taken because the Divine
One sees that his ministry can act more powerfully from the unseen world
than amid the infirmities of mortal intercourse. Here the soul,
distracted and hemmed in by human events and by bodily infirmities,
often scarce knows itself, and makes no impression on others
correspondent to its desires. The mother would fain electrify the heart
of her child; she yearns and burns in vain to make her soul effective on
its soul, and to inspire it with a spiritual and holy life; but all her
own weaknesses, faults, and mortal cares cramp and confine her, till
death breaks all fetters; and then, first truly alive, risen, purified,
and at rest, she may do calmly, sweetly, and certainly, what, amid the
tempests and tossings of life, she labored for painfully and fitfully.
So, also, to generous souls, who burn for the good of man, who deplore
the shortness of life, and the little that is permitted to any
individual agency on earth, does this belief open a heavenly field.
Think not, father or brother, long laboring for man, till thy sun stands
on the western mountains,--think not that thy day in this world is over.
Perhaps, like Jesus, thou hast lived a human life, and gained a human
experience, to become, under and like him, a savior of thousands; thou
hast been through the preparation, but thy real work of good, thy full
power of doing, is yet to begin.

But again: there are some spirits (and those of earth's choicest) to
whom, so far as enjoyment to themselves or others is concerned, this
life seems to have been a total failure. A hard hand from the first, and
all the way through life, seems to have been laid upon them; they seem
to live only to be chastened and crushed, and we lay them in the grave
at last in mournful silence. To such, what a vision is opened by this
belief! This hard discipline has been the school and task-work by which
their soul has been fitted for their invisible labors in a future life;
and when they pass the gates of the grave, their course of benevolent
acting first begins, and they find themselves delighted possessors of
what through many years they have sighed for--the power of doing good.
The year just past, like all other years, has taken from a thousand
circles the sainted, the just, and the beloved; there are spots in a
thousand graveyards which have become this year dearer than all the
living world; but in the loneliness of sorrow how cheering to think that
our lost ones are not wholly gone from us! They still may move about in
our homes, shedding around an atmosphere of purity and peace, promptings
of good, and reproofs of evil. We are compassed about by a cloud of
witnesses, whose hearts throb in sympathy with every effort and
struggle, and who thrill with joy at every success. How should this
thought check and rebuke every worldly feeling and unworthy purpose, and
enshrine us, in the midst of a forgetful and unspiritual world, with an
atmosphere of heavenly peace! They have overcome--have risen--are
crowned, glorified; but still they remain to us, our assistants, our
comforters, and in every hour of darkness their voice speaks to us: "So
we grieved, so we struggled, so we fainted, so we doubted; but we have
overcome, we have obtained, we have seen, we have found--and in our
victory behold the certainty of thy own."




MRS. A. AND MRS. B.;

OR, WHAT SHE THINKS ABOUT IT.


Mrs. A. and Mrs. B. were next-door neighbors and intimate friends--that
is to say, they took tea with each other very often, and, in
confidential strains, discoursed of stockings and pocket handkerchiefs,
of puddings and carpets, of cookery and domestic economy, through all
its branches.

"I think, on the whole," said Mrs. A., with an air of profound
reflection, "that gingerbread is the cheapest and healthiest cake one
can make. I make a good deal of it, and let my children have as much as
they want of it."

"I used to do so," said Mrs. B., "but I haven't had any made these two
months."

"Ah! Why not?" said Mrs. A.

"Why, it is some trouble; and then, though it is cheap, it is cheaper
not to have any; and, on the whole, the children are quite as well
contented without it, and so we are fallen into the way of not having
any."

"But one must keep some kind of cake in the house," said Mrs. A.

"So I have always heard, and thought, and practised," said Mrs. B.; "but
really of late I have questioned the need of it."

The conversation gradually digressed from this point into various
intricate speculations on domestic economy, and at last each lady went
home to put her children to bed.

A fortnight after, the two ladies were again in conclave at Mrs. B.'s
tea table, which was graced by some unusually nice gingerbread.

"I thought you had given up making gingerbread," said Mrs. A.; "you told
me so a fortnight ago at my house."

"So I had," said Mrs. A.; "but since that conversation I have been
making it again."

"Why so?"

"O, I thought that since you thought it economical enough, certainly I
might; and that if you thought it necessary to keep some sort of cake in
the closet, perhaps it was best I should."

Mrs. A. laughed.

"Well, now," said she, "I have _not_ made any gingerbread, or cake of
any kind, since that same conversation."

"Indeed?"

"No. I said to myself, If Mrs. B. thinks it will do to go without cake
in the house, I suppose I might, as she says it _is_ some additional
expense and trouble; and so I gave it up."

Both ladies laughed, and you laugh, too, my dear lady reader; but have
you never done the same thing? Have you never altered your dress, or
your arrangements, or your housekeeping because somebody else was of a
different way of thinking or managing--and may not that very somebody at
the same time have been moved to make some change through a similar
observation on you?

A large party is to be given by the young lads of N. to the young
lassies of the same place; they are to drive out together to a picnic in
the woods, and to come home by moonlight; the weather is damp and
uncertain, the ground chill, and young people, as in all ages before the
flood and since, not famous for the grace of prudence; for all which
reasons, almost every mamma hesitates about her daughters' going--thinks
it a very great pity the thing has been started.

"I really don't like this thing," says Mrs. G.; "it's not a kind of
thing that I approve of, and if Mrs. X. was not going to let her
daughters go, I should set myself against it. How Mrs. X., who is so
very nice in her notions, can sanction such a thing, I cannot see. I am
really surprised at Mrs. X."

All this time, poor unconscious Mrs. X. is in a similar tribulation.

"This is a very disagreeable affair to me," she says. "I really have
almost a mind to say that my girls shall not go; but Mrs. G.'s daughters
are going, and Mrs. C.'s, and Mrs. W.'s, and of course it would be idle
for me to oppose it. I should not like to cast any reflections on a
course sanctioned by ladies of such prudence and discretion."

In the same manner Mrs. A., B., and C., and the good matrons through the
alphabet generally, with doleful lamentations, each one consents to the
thing that she allows not, and the affair proceeds swimmingly to the
great satisfaction of the juveniles.

Now and then, it is true, some individual sort of body, who might be
designated by the angular and decided letters K or L, says to her son or
daughter, "No. I don't approve of the thing," and is deaf to the
oft-urged, "Mrs. A., B., and C. do so."

"I have nothing to do with Mrs. A., B., and C.'s arrangements," says
this impracticable Mrs. K. or L. "I only know what is best for my
children, and they shall not go."

Again: Mrs. G. is going to give a party; and, now, shall she give wine,
or not? Mrs. G. has heard an abundance of temperance speeches and
appeals, heard the duties of ladies in the matter of sanctioning
temperance movements aptly set forth, but "none of these things move her
half so much as another consideration." She has heard that Mrs. D.
introduced wine into her last _soiree_. Mrs. D's husband has been a
leading orator of the temperance society, and Mrs. D. is no less a
leading member in the circles of fashion. Now, Mrs. G.'s soul is in
great perplexity. If she only could be sure that the report about Mrs.
D. is authentic, why, then, of course the thing is settled; regret it as
much as she may, she cannot get through her party without the wine; and
so at last come the party and the wine. Mrs. D., who was incorrectly
stated to have had the article at her last _soiree_, has it at her next
one, and quotes discreet Mrs. G. as her precedent. Mrs. P. is greatly
scandalized at this, because Mrs. G. is a member of the church, and Mr.
D. a leading temperance orator; but since _they will do it_, it is not
for her to be nice, and so she follows the fashion.

Mrs. N. comes home from church on Sunday, rolling up her eyes with
various appearances of horror and surprise.

"Well! I am going to give up trying to restrain my girls from dressing
extravagantly; it's of no use trying!--no use in the world."

"Why, mother, what's the matter?" exclaimed the girls aforesaid,
delighted to hear such encouraging declarations.

"Why, didn't you see Mrs. K.'s daughters sitting in the pew before us
with _feathers_ in their bonnets? If Mrs. K. is coming out in this way,
_I_ shall give up. I shan't try any longer. I am going to get just what
I want, and dress as much as I've a mind to. Girls, you may get those
visites that you were looking at at Mr. B.'s store last week!"

The next Sunday, Mrs. K.'s girls in turn begin:--

"There, mamma, you are always lecturing us about economy, and all that,
and wanting us to wear our old mantillas another winter, and there are
Mrs. N.'s girls shining out in new visites."

Mamma looks sensible and judicious, and tells the girls they ought not
to see what people are wearing in church on Sundays; but it becomes
evident, before the week is through, that she has not forgotten the
observation. She is anxiously pricing visites, and looking thoughtful as
one on the eve of an important determination; and the next Sunday the
girls appear in full splendor, with new visites, to the increasing
horror of Mrs. N.

So goes the shuttlecock back and forward, kept up on both sides by most
judicious hands.

In like manner, at a modern party, a circle of matrons sit in edifying
conclave, and lament the degeneracy of the age.

"These parties that begin at nine o'clock and end at two or three in the
morning are shameful things," says fat Mrs. Q., complacently fanning
herself. (N. B. Mrs. Q. is plotting to have one the very next week, and
has come just to see the fashions.)

"O, dreadful, dreadful!" exclaim, in one chorus, meek Mrs. M., and tall
Mrs. F., and stiff Mrs. J.

"They are very unhealthy," says Mrs. F.

"They disturb all family order," says Mrs. J.

"They make one so sleepy the next day," says Mrs. M.

"They are very laborious to get up, and entirely useless," says Mrs. Q.;
at the same time counting across the room the people that she shall
invite next week.

Mrs. M. and Mrs. F. diverge into a most edifying strain of moral
reflections on the improvement of time, the necessity of sobriety and
moderation, the evils of conformity to the world, till one is tempted to
feel that the tract society ought to have their remarks for general
circulation, were one not damped by the certain knowledge that before
the winter is out each of these ladies will give exactly such another
party.

And, now, are all these respectable ladies hypocritical or insincere? By
no means--they believe every word they say; but a sort of necessity is
laid upon them--a spell; and before the breath of the multitude their
individual resolution melts away as the frosty tracery melts from the
window panes of a crowded room.

A great many do this habitually, resignedly, as a matter of course. Ask
them what they think to be right and proper, and they will tell you
sensibly, coherently, and quite to the point in one direction; ask them
what they are going to do. Ah! that is quite another matter.

They are going to do what is generally done--what Mrs. A., B., and C.
do. They have long since made over their conscience to the keeping of
the public,--that is to say, of good society,--and are thus rid of a
troublesome burden of responsibility.

Again, there are others who mean in general to have an opinion and will
of their own; but, imperceptibly, as one and another take a course
opposed to their own sense of right and propriety, their resolution
quietly melts, and melts, till every individual outline of it is gone,
and they do as others do.

Yet is this influence of one human being over another--in some sense,
God-appointed--a necessary result of the human constitution. There is
scarcely a human being that is not varied and swerved by it, as the
trembling needle is swerved by the approaching magnet. Oppose conflict
with it, as one may at a distance, yet when it breathes on us through
the breath, and shines on us through the eye of an associate, it
possesses an invisible magnetic power. He who is not at all conscious of
such impressibility can scarce be amiable or human. Nevertheless, one of
the most important habits for the acquisition of a generous and noble
character, is to learn to act _individually_, unswerved by the feelings
and opinions of others. It may help us to do this, to reflect that the
very person whose opinion we fear may be in equal dread of ours, and
that the person to whom we are looking for a precedent may, at that very
time, be looking to us.

In short, Mrs. A., if you think that you could spend your money more
like a Christian than in laying it out on a fashionable party, go
forward and do it, and twenty others, whose supposed opinion you fear,
will be glad of your example for a precedent. And, Mrs. B., if you do
think it would be better for your children to observe early hours, and
form simple habits, than to dress and dance, and give and go to juvenile
balls, carry out your opinion in practice, and many an anxious mother,
who is of the same opinion, will quote your example as her shield and
defence.

And for you, young ladies, let us pray you to reflect--_individuality of
character_, maintained with womanly sweetness, is an irresistible grace
and adornment. Have some principles of taste for yourself, and do not
adopt every fashion of dress that is in vogue, whether it suits you or
not--whether it is becoming or not--but, without a startling variation
from general form, let your dress show something of your own taste and
opinions. Have some principles of right and wrong for yourself, and do
not do every thing that every one else does, _because_ every one else
does it.

Nothing is more tedious than a circle of young ladies who have got by
rote a certain set of phrases and opinions--all admiring in the same
terms the same things, and detesting in like terms certain others--with
anxious solicitude each dressing, thinking, and acting, one as much like
another as is possible. A genuine original opinion, even though it were
so heretical as to assert that Jenny Lind is a little lower than the
angels, or that Shakspeare is rather dull reading, would be better than
such a universal Dead Sea of acquiescence.

These remarks have borne reference to the female sex principally,
because they are the dependent, the acquiescent sex--from nature, and
habit, and position, most exposed to be swayed by opinion--and yet, too,
in a certain very wide department they are the lawgivers and
custom-makers of society. If, amid the multiplied schools, whose
advertisements now throng our papers, purporting to teach girls every
thing, both ancient and modern, high and low, from playing on the harp
and working pincushions, up to civil engineering, surveying, and
navigation, there were any which could teach them to be women--to have
thoughts, opinions, and modes of action of their own--such a school
would be worth having. If one half of the good purposes which are in the
hearts of the ladies of our nation were only acted out without fear of
any body's opinion, we should certainly be a step nearer the millennium.




CHRISTMAS; OR, THE GOOD FAIRY.


"O, dear! Christmas is coming in a fortnight, and I have got to think up
presents for every body!" said young Ellen Stuart, as she leaned
languidly back in her chair. "Dear me, it's so tedious! Every body has
got every thing that can be thought of."

"O, no," said her confidential adviser, Miss Lester, in a soothing tone.
"You have means of buying every thing you can fancy; and when every shop
and store is glittering with all manner of splendors, you cannot surely
be at a loss."

"Well, now, just listen. To begin with, there's mamma. What can I get
for her? I have thought of ever so many things. She has three card
cases, four gold thimbles, two or three gold chains, two writing desks
of different patterns; and then as to rings, brooches, boxes, and all
other things, I should think she might be sick of the sight of them. I
am sure I am," said she, languidly gazing on her white and jewelled
fingers.

This view of the case seemed rather puzzling to the adviser, and there
was silence for a few moments, when Ellen, yawning, resumed:--

"And then there's Cousins Jane and Mary; I suppose they will be coming
down on me with a whole load of presents; and Mrs. B. will send me
something--she did last year; and then there's Cousins William and
Tom--I must get them something; and I would like to do it well enough,
if I only knew what to get."

"Well," said Eleanor's aunt, who had been sitting quietly rattling her
knitting needles during this speech, "it's a pity that you had not such
a subject to practise on as I was when I was a girl. Presents did not
fly about in those days as they do now. I remember, when I was ten years
old, my father gave me a most marvellously ugly sugar dog for a
Christmas gift, and I was perfectly delighted with it, the very idea of
a present was so new to us."

"Dear aunt, how delighted I should be if I had any such fresh,
unsophisticated body to get presents for! But to get and get for people
that have more than they know what to do with now; to add pictures,
books, and gilding when the centre tables are loaded with them now, and
rings and jewels when they are a perfect drug! I wish myself that I were
not sick, and sated, and tired with having every thing in the world
given me."

"Well, Eleanor," said her aunt, "if you really do want unsophisticated
subjects to practise on, I can put you in the way of it. I can show you
more than one family to whom you might seem to be a very good fairy, and
where such gifts as you could give with all ease would seem like a magic
dream."

"Why, that would really be worth while, aunt."

"Look over in that back alley," said her aunt. "You see those
buildings?"

"That miserable row of shanties? Yes."

"Well, I have several acquaintances there who have never been tired of
Christmas gifts, or gifts of any other kind. I assure you, you could
make quite a sensation over there."

"Well, who is there? Let us know."

"Do you remember Owen, that used to make your shoes?"

"Yes, I remember something about him."

"Well, he has fallen into a consumption, and cannot work any more; and
he, and his wife, and three little children live in one of the rooms."

"How do they get along?"

"His wife takes in sewing sometimes, and sometimes goes out washing.
Poor Owen! I was over there yesterday; he looks thin and wasted, and his
wife was saying that he was parched with constant fever, and had very
little appetite. She had, with great self-denial, and by restricting
herself almost of necessary food, got him two or three oranges; and the
poor fellow seemed so eager after them!"

"Poor fellow!" said Eleanor, involuntarily.

"Now," said her aunt, "suppose Owen's wife should get up on Christmas
morning and find at the door a couple of dozen of oranges, and some of
those nice white grapes, such as you had at your party last week; don't
you think it would make a sensation?"

"Why, yes, I think very likely it might; but who else, aunt? You spoke
of a great many."

"Well, on the lower floor there is a neat little room, that is always
kept perfectly trim and tidy; it belongs to a young couple who have
nothing beyond the husband's day wages to live on. They are,
nevertheless, as cheerful and chipper as a couple of wrens; and she is
up and down half a dozen times a day, to help poor Mrs. Owen. She has a
baby of her own, about five months old, and of course does all the
cooking, washing, and ironing for herself and husband; and yet, when
Mrs. Owen goes out to wash, she takes her baby, and keeps it whole days
for her."

"I'm sure she deserves that the good fairies should smile on her," said
Eleanor; "one baby exhausts my stock of virtues very rapidly."

"But you ought to see her baby," said Aunt E.; "so plump, so rosy, and
good-natured, and always clean as a lily. This baby is a sort of
household shrine; nothing is too sacred or too good for it; and I
believe the little thrifty woman feels only one temptation to be
extravagant, and that is to get some ornaments to adorn this little
divinity."

"Why, did she ever tell you so?"

"No; but one day, when I was coming down stairs, the door of their room
was partly open, and I saw a pedler there with open box. John, the
husband, was standing with a little purple cap on his hand, which he was
regarding with mystified, admiring air, as if he didn't quite comprehend
it, and trim little Mary gazing at it with longing eyes.

"'I think we might get it,' said John.

"'O, no,' said she, regretfully; 'yet I wish we could, it's _so
pretty_!'"

"Say no more, aunt. I see the good fairy must pop a cap into the window
on Christmas morning. Indeed, it shall be done. How they will wonder
where it came from, and talk about it for months to come!"

"Well, then," continued her aunt, "in the next street to ours there is a
miserable building, that looks as if it were just going to topple over;
and away up in the third story, in a little room just under the eaves,
live two poor, lonely old women. They are both nearly on to ninety. I
was in there day before yesterday. One of them is constantly confined to
her bed with rheumatism; the other, weak and feeble, with failing sight
and trembling hands, totters about, her only helper; and they are
entirely dependent on charity."

"Can't they do any thing? Can't they knit?" said Eleanor.

"You are young and strong, Eleanor, and have quick eyes and nimble
fingers; how long would it take you to knit a pair of stockings?"

"I?" said Eleanor. "What an idea! I never tried, but I think I could get
a pair done in a week, perhaps."

"And if somebody gave you twenty-five cents for them, and out of this
you had to get food, and pay room rent, and buy coal for your fire, and
oil for your lamp----"

"Stop, aunt, for pity's sake!"

"Well, I will stop; but they can't: they must pay so much every month
for that miserable shell they live in, or be turned into the street. The
meal and flour that some kind person sends goes off for them just as it
does for others, and they must get more or starve; and coal is now
scarce and high priced."

"O aunt, I'm quite convinced, I'm sure; don't run me down and annihilate
me with all these terrible realities. What shall I do to play good fairy
to these poor old women?"

"If you will give me full power, Eleanor, I will put up a basket to be
sent to them that will give them something to remember all winter."

"O, certainly I will. Let me see if I can't think of something myself."

"Well, Eleanor, suppose, then, some fifty or sixty years hence, _if_ you
were old, and your father, and mother, and aunts, and uncles, now so
thick around you, lay cold and silent in so many graves--you have
somehow got away off to a strange city, where you were never known--you
live in a miserable garret, where snow blows at night through the
cracks, and the fire is very apt to go out in the old cracked stove--you
sit crouching over the dying embers the evening before Christmas--nobody
to speak to you, nobody to care for you, except another poor old soul
who lies moaning in the bed. Now, what would you like to have sent you?"

"O aunt, what a dismal picture!"

"And yet, Ella, all poor, forsaken old women are made of young girls,
who expected it in their youth as little as you do, perhaps."

"Say no more, aunt. I'll buy--let me see--a comfortable warm shawl for
each of these poor women; and I'll send them--let me see--O, some
tea--nothing goes down with old women like tea; and I'll make John wheel
some coal over to them; and, aunt, it would not be a very bad thought to
send them a new stove. I remember, the other day, when mamma was pricing
stoves, I saw some such nice ones for two or three dollars."

"For a new hand, Ella, you work up the idea very well," said her aunt.

"But how much ought I to give, for any one case, to these women, say?"

"How much did you give last year for any single Christmas present?"

"Why, six or seven dollars for some; those elegant souvenirs were seven
dollars; that ring I gave Mrs. B. was twenty."

"And do you suppose Mrs. B. was any happier for it?"

"No, really, I don't think she cared much about it; but I had to give
her something, because she had sent me something the year before, and I
did not want to send a paltry present to one in her circumstances."

"Then, Ella, give the same to any poor, distressed, suffering creature
who really needs it, and see in how many forms of good such a sum will
appear. That one hard, cold, glittering ring, that now cheers nobody,
and means nothing, that you give because you must, and she takes because
she must, might, if broken up into smaller sums, send real warm and
heartfelt gladness through many a cold and cheerless dwelling, through
many an aching heart."

"You are getting to be an orator, aunt; but don't you approve of
Christmas presents, among friends and equals?"

"Yes, indeed," said her aunt, fondly stroking her head. "I have had some
Christmas presents that did me a world of good--a little book mark, for
instance, that a certain niece of mine worked for me, with wonderful
secrecy, three years ago, when she was not a young lady with a purse
full of money--that book mark was a true Christmas present; and my young
couple across the way are plotting a profound surprise to each other on
Christmas morning. John has contrived, by an hour of extra work every
night, to lay by enough to get Mary a new calico dress; and she, poor
soul, has bargained away the only thing in the jewelry line she ever
possessed, to be laid out on a new hat for him.

"I know, too, a washerwoman who has a poor, lame boy--a patient, gentle
little fellow--who has lain quietly for weeks and months in his little
crib, and his mother is going to give him a splendid Christmas present."

"What is it, pray?"

"A whole orange! Don't laugh. She will pay ten whole cents for it; for
it shall be none of your common oranges, but a picked one of the very
best going! She has put by the money, a cent at a time, for a whole
month; and nobody knows which will be happiest in it, Willie or his
mother. These are such Christmas presents as I like to think of--gifts
coming from love, and tending to produce love; these are the appropriate
gifts of the day."

"But don't you think that it's right for those who _have_ money to give
expensive presents, supposing always, as you say, they are given from
real affection?"

"Sometimes, undoubtedly. The Savior did not condemn her who broke an
alabaster box of ointment--_very precious_--simply as a proof of love,
even although the suggestion was made, 'This might have been sold for
three hundred pence, and given to the poor.' I have thought he would
regard with sympathy the fond efforts which human love sometimes makes
to express itself by gifts, the rarest and most costly. How I rejoiced
with all my heart, when Charles Elton gave his poor mother that splendid
Chinese shawl and gold watch! because I knew they came from the very
fulness of his heart to a mother that he could not do too much for--a
mother that has done and suffered every thing for him. In some such
cases, when resources are ample, a costly gift seems to have a graceful
appropriateness; but I cannot approve of it if it exhausts all the means
of doing for the poor; it is better, then, to give a simple offering,
and to do something for those who really need it."

Eleanor looked thoughtful; her aunt laid down her knitting, and said, in
a tone of gentle seriousness, "Whose birth does Christmas commemorate,
Ella?"

"Our Savior's, certainly, aunt."

"Yes," said her aunt. "And when and how was he born? In a stable! laid
in a manger; thus born, that in all ages he might be known as the
brother and friend of the poor. And surely, it seems but appropriate to
commemorate his birthday by an especial remembrance of the lowly, the
poor, the outcast, and distressed; and if Christ should come back to our
city on a Christmas day, where should we think it most appropriate to
his character to find him? Would he be carrying splendid gifts to
splendid dwellings, or would he be gliding about in the cheerless haunts
of the desolate, the poor, the forsaken, and the sorrowful?"

And here the conversation ended.

       *       *       *       *       *

"What sort of Christmas presents is Ella buying?" said Cousin Tom, as
the waiter handed in a portentous-looking package, which had been just
rung in at the door.

"Let's open it," said saucy Will. "Upon my word, two great gray blanket
shawls! These must be for you and me, Tom! And what's this? A great bolt
of cotton flannel and gray yarn stockings!"

The door bell rang again, and the waiter brought in another bulky
parcel, and deposited it on the marble-topped centre table.

"What's here?" said Will, cutting the cord. "Whew! a perfect nest of
packages! oolong tea! oranges! grapes! white sugar! Bless me, Ella must
be going to housekeeping!"

"Or going crazy!" said Tom; "and on my word," said he, looking out of
the window, "there's a drayman ringing at our door, with a stove, with a
teakettle set in the top of it!"

"Ella's cook stove, of course," said Will; and just at this moment the
young lady entered, with her purse hanging gracefully over her hand.

"Now, boys, you are too bad!" she exclaimed, as each of the mischievous
youngsters were gravely marching up and down, attired in a gray shawl.

"Didn't you get them for us? We thought you did," said both.

"Ella, I want some of that cotton flannel, to make me a pair of
pantaloons," said Tom.

"I say, Ella," said Will, "when are you going to housekeeping? Your
cooking stove is standing down in the street; 'pon my word, John is
loading some coal on the dray with it."

"Ella, isn't that going to be sent to my office?" said Tom; "do you know
I do so languish for a new stove with a teakettle in the top, to heat a
fellow's shaving water!"

Just then, another ring at the door, and the grinning waiter handed in a
small brown paper parcel for Miss Ella. Tom made a dive at it, and
staving off the brown paper, developed a jaunty little purple velvet
cap, with silver tassels.

"My smoking cap, as I live!" said he; "only I shall have to wear it on
my thumb, instead of my head--too small entirely," said he, shaking his
head gravely.

"Come, you saucy boys," said Aunt E., entering briskly, "what are you
teasing Ella for?"

"Why, do see this lot of things, aunt! What in the world is Ella going
to do with them?"

"O, I know!"

"You know! Then I can guess, aunt, it is some of your charitable works.
You are going to make a juvenile Lady Bountiful of El, eh?"

Ella, who had  to the roots of her hair at the _expose_ of her
very unfashionable Christmas preparations, now took heart, and bestowed
a very gentle and salutary little cuff on the saucy head that still wore
the purple cap, and then hastened to gather up her various purchases.

"Laugh away," said she, gayly; "and a good many others will laugh, too,
over these things. I got them to make people laugh--people that are not
in the habit of laughing!"

"Well, well, I see into it," said Will; "and I tell you I think right
well of the idea, too. There are worlds of money wasted, at this time of
the year, in getting things that nobody wants, and nobody cares for
after they are got; and I am glad, for my part, that you are going to
get up a variety in this line; in fact, I should like to give you one of
these stray leaves to help on," said he, dropping a ten dollar note into
her paper. "I like to encourage girls to think of something besides
breastpins and sugar candy."

But our story spins on too long. If any body wants to see the results of
Ella's first attempts at _good fairyism_, they can call at the doors of
two or three old buildings on Christmas morning, and they shall hear all
about it.




EARTHLY CARE A HEAVENLY DISCIPLINE.


    "Why should these cares my heart divide,
      If Thou, indeed, hast set me free?
    Why am I thus, if Thou hast died--
      If Thou hast died to ransom me?"

Nothing is more frequently felt and spoken of, as a hinderance to the
inward life of devotion, than the "cares of life;" and even upon the
showing of our Lord himself, the cares of the world are the _thorns_
that choke the word, and it becometh unfruitful.

And yet, if this is a necessary and inevitable result of worldly care,
why does the providence of God so order things that it forms so large
and unavoidable a part of every human experience? Why is the physical
system of man arranged with such daily, oft-recurring wants? Why does
his nature, in its full development, tend to that state of society in
which wants multiply, and the business of supply becomes more
complicated, and requiring constantly more thought and attention, and
bringing the outward and seen into a state of constant friction and
pressure on the inner and spiritual?

Has God arranged an outward system to be a constant diversion from the
inward--a weight on its wheels--a burden on its wings--and then
commanded a strict and rigid inwardness and spirituality? Why placed us
where the things that are seen and temporal must unavoidably have so
much of our thoughts, and time, and care, yet said to us, "Set your
affections on things above, and not on things on the earth. Love not the
world, neither the things of the world"? And why does one of our
brightest examples of Christian experience, as it should be, say, "While
we look not on the things which are seen, but on the things which are
not seen; for the things which are seen are temporal, but the things
that are not seen are eternal"?

The Bible tells us that our whole existence here is a disciplinary one;
that this whole physical system, by which our spirit is enclosed with
all the joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, and wants which form a part
of it, are designed as an education to fit the soul for its immortality;
and as worldly care forms the greater part of the staple of every human
life, there must be some mode of viewing and meeting it, which converts
it from an enemy of spirituality into a means of grace and spiritual
advancement.

Why, then, do we so often hear the lamentation, "It seems to me as if I
could advance to the higher stages of Christian life, if it were not for
the pressure of my business and the multitude of my worldly cares"? Is
it not God, O Christian, who, in ordering thy lot, has laid these cares
upon thee, and who still holds them about thee, and permits no escape
from them? And as his great, undivided object is thy spiritual
improvement, is there not some misapprehension or wrong use of these
cares, if they do not tend to advance it? Is it not even as if a scholar
should say, I could advance in science were it not for all the time and
care which lessons, and books, and lectures require?

How, then, shall earthly care become heavenly discipline? How shall the
disposition of the weight be altered so as to press the spirit upward
towards God, instead of downward and away? How shall the pillar of cloud
which rises between us and him become one of fire, to reflect upon us
constantly the light of his countenance, and to guide us over the sands
of life's desert?

It appears to us that the great radical difficulty is an intellectual
one, and lies in a wrong belief. There is not a genuine and real belief
of the presence and agency of God in the minor events and details of
life, which is necessary to change them from secular cares into
spiritual blessings.

It is true there is much loose talk about an overruling Providence; and
yet, if fairly stated, the belief of a great many Christians might be
thus expressed: God has organized and set in operation certain general
laws of matter and mind, which work out the particular results of life,
and over these laws he exercises a general supervision and care, so that
all the great affairs of the world are carried on after the counsel of
his own will; and in a certain general sense, all things are working
together for good to those that love God. But when some simple-minded,
childlike Christian really proceeds to refer all the smaller events of
life to God's immediate care and agency, there is a smile of
incredulity, and it is thought that the good brother displays more
Christian feeling than sound philosophy.

But as life for every individual is made up of fractions and minute
atoms--as those things which go to affect habits and character are small
and hourly recurring, it comes to pass that a belief in Providence so
very wide and general, is altogether inefficient for consecrating and
rendering sacred the great body of what comes in contact with the mind
in the experience of life. Only once in years does the Christian with
this kind of belief hear the voice of the Lord God speaking to him. When
the hand of death is laid on his child, or the bolt strikes down the
brother by his side, _then_, indeed, he feels that God is drawing near;
he listens humbly for the inward voice that shall explain the meaning
and need of this discipline. When by some unforeseen occurrence the
whole of his earthly property is swept away,--he becomes a poor
man,--this event, in his eyes, assumes sufficient magnitude to have come
from God, and to have a design and meaning; but when smaller comforts
are removed, smaller losses are encountered, and the petty, every-day
vexations and annoyances of life press about him, he recognizes no God,
and hears no voice, and sees no design. Hence John Newton says, "Many
Christians, who bear the loss of a child, or the destruction of all
their property, with the most heroic Christian fortitude, are entirely
vanquished and overcome by the breaking of a dish, or the blunders of a
servant, and show so unchristian a spirit, that we cannot but wonder at
them."

So when the breath of slander, or the pressure of human injustice, comes
so heavily on a man as really to threaten loss of character, and
destruction of his temporal interests, he seems forced to recognize the
hand and voice of God, through the veil of human agencies, and in
time-honored words to say,--

    "When men of spite against me join,
    They are the _sword_; the hand is thine."

But the smaller injustice and fault-finding which meet every one more or
less in the daily intercourse of life, the overheard remark, the implied
censure, too petty, perhaps, to be even spoken of, these daily recurring
sources of disquietude and unhappiness are not referred to God's
providence, nor considered as a part of his probation and discipline.
Those thousand vexations which come upon us through the
unreasonableness, the carelessness, the various constitutional failings,
or ill-adaptedness of others to our peculiarities of character, form a
very large item of the disquietudes of life; and yet how very few look
beyond the human agent, and feel these are trials coming from God! Yet
it is true, in many cases, that these so called minor vexations form the
greater part, and in many cases the only discipline of _life_; and to
those that do not view them as ordered individually by God, and coming
upon them by specified design, "their affliction 'really' cometh of the
dust, and their trouble springs out of the ground;" it is sanctified and
relieved by no divine presence and aid, but borne alone and in a mere
human spirit, and by mere human reliances, it acts on the mind as a
constant diversion and hinderance, instead of a moral discipline.

Hence, too, come a coldness, and generality, and wandering of mind in
prayer: the things that are on the heart, that are distracting the mind,
that have filled the soul so full that there is no room for any thing
else, are all considered too small and undignified to come within the
pale of a prayer, and so, with a wandering mind and a distracted heart,
the Christian offers up his prayer for things which he thinks he _ought_
to want, and makes no mention of those which he _does_. He prays that
God would pour out his spirit on the heathen, and convert the world, and
build up his kingdom every where, when perhaps a whole set of little
anxieties, and wants, and vexations are so distracting his thoughts,
that he hardly knows what he has been saying: a faithless servant is
wasting his property; a careless or blundering workman has spoiled a lot
of goods; a child is vexatious or unruly; a friend has made promises and
failed to keep them; an acquaintance has made unjust or satirical
remarks; some new furniture has been damaged or ruined by carelessness
in the household; but all this trouble forms no subject matter for
prayer, though there it is, all the while lying like lead on the heart,
and keeping it down, so that it has no power to expand and take in any
thing else. But were God known and regarded as the soul's familiar
friend, were every trouble of the heart as it rises, breathed into his
bosom; were it felt that there is not one of the smallest of life's
troubles that has not been permitted by him, and permitted for specific
good purpose to the soul, how much more would these be in prayer! how
constant, how daily might it become! how it might settle and clear the
atmosphere of the soul! how it might so dispose and lay away many
anxieties which now take up their place there, that there might be
_room_ for the higher themes and considerations of religion!

Many sensitive and fastidious natures are worn away by the constant
friction of what are called _little troubles_. Without any great
affliction, they feel that all the flower and sweetness of their life
have faded; their eye grows dim, their cheek care-worn, and their spirit
loses hope and elasticity, and becomes bowed with premature age; and in
the midst of tangible and physical comfort, they are restless and
unhappy. The constant under-current of little cares and vexations, which
is slowly wearing on the finer springs of life, is seen by no one;
scarce ever do they speak of these things to their nearest friends. Yet
were there a friend of a spirit so discerning as to feel and sympathize
in all these things, how much of this repressed electric restlessness
would pass off through such a sympathizing mind.

Yet among human friends this is all but impossible, for minds are so
diverse that what is a trial and a care to one is a matter of sport and
amusement to another; and all the inner world breathed into a human ear
only excites a surprised or contemptuous pity. Whom, then, shall the
soul turn to? Who will feel _that_ to be affliction which each spirit
feels to be so? If the soul shut itself within itself, it becomes
morbid; the fine chords of the mind and nerves by constant wear become
jarring and discordant; hence fretfulness, discontent, and habitual
irritability steal over the sincere Christian.

But to the Christian that really believes in the agency of God in the
smallest events of life, that confides in his love, and makes his
sympathy his refuge, the thousand minute cares and perplexities of life
become each one a fine affiliating bond between the soul and its God.
God is known, not by abstract definition, and by high-raised conceptions
of the soul's aspiring hours, but known as a man knoweth his friend; he
is known by the hourly wants he supplies; known by every care with which
he momentarily sympathizes, every apprehension which he relieves, every
temptation which he enables us to surmount. We learn to know God as the
infant child learns to know its mother and its father, by all the
helplessness and all the dependence which are incident to this
commencement of our moral existence; and as we go on thus year by year,
and find in every changing situation, in every reverse, in every
trouble, from the lightest sorrow to those which wring our soul from its
depths, that he is equally present, and that his gracious aid is equally
adequate, our faith seems gradually almost to change to sight; and God's
existence, his love and care, seem to us more real than any other source
of reliance, and multiplied cares and trials are only new avenues of
acquaintance between us and heaven.

Suppose, in some bright vision unfolding to our view, in tranquil
evening or solemn midnight, the glorified form of some departed friend
should appear to us with the announcement, "This year is to be to you
one of especial probation and discipline, with reference to perfecting
you for a heavenly state. Weigh well and consider every incident of your
daily life, for not one shall fall out by accident, but each one is to
be a finished and indispensable link in a bright chain that is to draw
you upward to the skies!"

With what new eyes should we now look on our daily lot! and if we found
in it not a single change,--the same old cares, the same perplexities,
the same uninteresting drudgeries still,--with what new meaning would
every incident be invested! and with what other and sublimer spirit
could we meet them? Yet, if announced by one rising from the dead with
the visible glory of a spiritual world, this truth could be asserted no
more clearly and distinctly than Jesus Christ has stated it already. Not
a sparrow falleth to the ground without our Father. Not one of them is
forgotten by him; and we are of more value than many sparrows; yea, even
the hairs of our head are all numbered. Not till belief in these
declarations, in their most literal sense, becomes the calm and settled
habit of the soul, is life ever redeemed from drudgery and dreary
emptiness, and made full of interest, meaning, and divine significance.
Not till then do its grovelling wants, its wearing cares, its stinging
vexations, become to us ministering spirits, each one, by a silent but
certain agency, fitting us for a higher and perfect sphere.




CONVERSATION ON CONVERSATION.


     "For every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account
     thereof in the day of judgment."

"A very solemn sermon," said Miss B., shaking her head impressively, as
she sat down to table on Sunday noon; then giving a deep sigh, she
added, "I am afraid that if an account is to be rendered for all our
idle words, some people will have a great deal to answer for."

"Why, Cousin Anna," replied a sprightly young lady opposite, "what do
you mean by _idle words_?"

"All words that have not a strictly useful tendency, Helen," replied
Miss B.

"I don't know what is to become of me, then," answered Helen, "for I
never can think of any thing useful to say. I sit and try sometimes, but
it always stops my talking. I don't think any thing in the world is so
doleful as a set of persons sitting round, all trying to say something
useful, like a parcel of old clocks ticking at each other. I think one
might as well take the vow of entire silence, like the monks of La
Trappe."

"It is probable," said Miss B., "that a greater part of our ordinary
conversation had better be dispensed with. 'In the multitude of words
there wanteth not sin.' For my own part, my conscience often reproaches
me with the sins of my tongue."

"I'm sure you don't sin much that way, I must say," said Helen; "but,
cousin, I really think it is a freezing business sitting still and
reflecting all the time when friends are together; and after all I can't
bring myself to feel as if it were wrong to talk and chatter away a good
part of the time, just for the sake of talking. For instance, if a
friend comes in of a morning to make a call, I talk about the weather,
my roses, my Canary birds, or any thing that comes uppermost."

"And about lace, and bonnet patterns, and the last fashions," added Miss
B., sarcastically.

"Well, supposing we do; where's the harm?"

"Where's the good?" said Miss B.

"The good! why, it passes time agreeably, and makes us feel kindly
towards each other."

"I think, Helen," said Miss B., "if you had a higher view of Christian
responsibility, you would not be satisfied with merely passing time
agreeably, or exciting agreeable feelings in others. Does not the very
text we are speaking of show that we have an account to give in the day
of judgment for all this trifling, useless conversation?"

"I don't know what that text does mean," replied Helen, looking
seriously; "but if it means as you say, I think it is a very hard,
strait rule."

"Well," replied Miss B., "is not duty always hard and strait? 'Strait is
the gate, and narrow is the way,' you know."

Helen sighed.

"What do you think of this, Uncle C.?" she said, after some pause. The
uncle of the two young ladies had been listening thus far in silence.

"I think," he replied, "that before people begin to discuss, they should
be quite sure as to what they are talking about; and I am not exactly
clear in this case. You say, Anna," said he, turning to Miss B., "that
all conversation is idle which has not a directly useful tendency. Now,
what do you mean by that? Are we never to say any thing that has not for
its direct and specific object to benefit others or ourselves?"

"Yes," replied Miss B., "I suppose not."

"Well, then, when I say, 'Good morning, sir; 'tis a pleasant day,' I
have no such object. Are these, then, idle words?"

"Why, no, not exactly," replied Miss B.; "in some cases it is necessary
to say something, so as not to appear rude."

"Very well," replied her uncle. "You admit, then, that some things,
which are not instructive in themselves considered, are to be said to
keep up the intercourse of society."

"Certainly; some things," said Miss B.

"Well, now, in the case mentioned by Helen, when two or three people
with whom you are in different degrees of intimacy call upon you, I
think she is perfectly right, as she said, in talking of roses, and
Canary birds, and even of bonnet patterns, and lace, or any thing of the
kind, for the sake of making conversation. It amounts to the same thing
as 'good morning,' and 'good evening,' and the other courtesies of
society. This sort of small talk has nothing instructive in it, and yet
it may be _useful_ in its place. It makes people comfortable and easy,
promotes kind and social feelings; and making people comfortable by any
innocent means is certainly not a thing to be despised."

"But is there not great danger of becoming light and trifling if one
allows this?" said Miss B., doubtfully.

"To be sure; there is always danger of running every innocent thing to
excess. One might eat to excess, or drink to excess; yet eating and
drinking are both useful in their way. Now, our lively young friend
Helen, here, might perhaps be in some temptation of this sort; but as
for you, Anna, I think you in more danger of another extreme."

"And what is that?"

"Of overstraining your mind by endeavoring to keep up a constant, fixed
state of seriousness and solemnity, and not allowing yourself the
relaxation necessary to preserve its healthy tone. In order to be
healthy, every mind must have variety and amusement; and if you would
sit down at least one hour a day, and join your friends in some amusing
conversation, and indulge in a good laugh, I think, my dear, that you
would not only be a happier person, but a better Christian."

"My dear uncle," said Miss B., "this is the very thing that I have been
most on my guard against; I can never tell stories, or laugh and joke,
without feeling condemned for it afterwards."

"But, my dear, you must do the thing in the testimony of a good
conscience before you can do it to any purpose. You must make up your
mind that cheerful and entertaining conversation--conversation whose
first object is to amuse--is _useful conversation_ in its place, and
then your conscience will not be injured by joining in it."

"But what good does it do, uncle?"

"Do you not often complain of coldness and deadness in your religious
feelings? of lifelessness and want of interest?"

"Yes, uncle."

"Well, this coldness and lifelessness is the result of forcing your mind
to one set of thoughts and feelings. You become worn out--your feelings
exhausted--deadness and depression ensues. Now, turn your mind off from
these subjects--divert it by a cheerful and animated conversation, and
you will find, after a while, that it will return to them with new life
and energy."

"But are not foolish talking and jesting expressly forbidden?"

"That text, if you will look at the connections, does not forbid jesting
in the abstract; but jesting on immodest subjects--which are often
designated in the New Testament by the phraseology there employed. I
should give the sense of it--neither filthiness, nor foolish talking,
nor indelicate jests. The kind of sprightly and amusing conversation to
which I referred, I should not denominate foolish, by any means, at
proper times and places."

"Yet people often speak of gayety as inconsistent in Christians--even
worldly people," said Miss B.

"Yes, because, in the first place, they often have wrong ideas as to
what Christianity requires in this respect, and suppose Christians to be
violating their own principles in indulging in it. In the second place,
there are some, especially among young people, who never talk in any
other way--with whom this kind of conversation is not an amusement, but
a habit--giving the impression that they never think seriously at all.
But I think, that if persons are really possessed by the tender,
affectionate, benevolent spirit of Christianity--if they regulate their
temper and their tongue by it, and in all their actions show an evident
effort to conform to its precepts, they will not do harm by occasionally
indulging in sprightly and amusing conversation--they will not make the
impression that they are not sincerely Christians."

"Besides," said Helen, "are not people sometimes repelled from religion
by a want of cheerfulness in its professors?"

"Certainly," replied her uncle, "and the difference is just this: if a
person is habitually trifling and thoughtless, it is thought that they
have _no_ religion; if they are ascetic and gloomy, it is attributed
_to_ their religion; and you know what Miss E. Smith says--that 'to be
good and disagreeable is high treason against virtue.' The more
sincerely and earnestly religious a person is, the more important it is
that they should be agreeable."

"But, uncle," said Helen, "what does that text mean that we began with?
What are idle words?"

"My dear, if you will turn to the place where the passage is (Matt.
xii.) and read the whole page, you will see the meaning of it. Christ
was not reproving any body for trifling conversation at the time; but
for a very serious slander. The Pharisees, in their bitterness, accused
him of being in league with evil spirits. It seems, by what follows,
that this was a charge which involved an unpardonable sin. They were
not, indeed, conscious of its full guilt--they said it merely from the
impulse of excited and envious feeling--but he warns them that in the
day of judgment, God will hold them accountable for the full
consequences of all such language, however little they may have thought
of it at the time of uttering it. The sense of the passage I take to be,
'God will hold you responsible in the day of judgment for the
consequences of all you have said in your most idle and thoughtless
moments.'"

"For example," said Helen, "if one makes unguarded and unfounded
assertions about the Bible, which excite doubt and prejudice."

"There are many instances," said her uncle, "that are quite in point.
Suppose in conversation, either under the influence of envy or ill will,
or merely from love of talking, you make remarks and statements about
another person which may be true or may not,--you do not stop to
inquire,--your unguarded words set reports in motion, and unhappiness,
and hard feeling, and loss of character are the result. You spoke idly,
it is true, but nevertheless you are held responsible by God for all the
consequences of your words. So professors of religion often make
unguarded remarks about each other, which lead observers to doubt the
truth of all religion; and they are responsible for every such doubt
they excite. Parents and guardians often allow themselves to speak of
the faults and weaknesses of their ministers in the presence of children
and younger people--they do it thoughtlessly--but in so doing they
destroy an influence which might otherwise have saved the souls of their
children; they are responsible for it. People of cultivated minds and
fastidious taste often allow themselves to come home from church, and
criticize a sermon, and unfold all its weak points in the presence of
others on whom it may have made a very serious impression. While the
critic is holding up the bad arrangement, and setting in a ludicrous
point of view the lame figures, perhaps the servant behind his chair,
who was almost persuaded to be a Christian by that very discourse, gives
up his purposes, in losing his respect for the sermon; this was
thoughtless--but the evil is done, and the man who did it is responsible
for it."

"I think," said Helen, "that a great deal of evil is done to children in
this way, by our not thinking of what we are saying."

"It seems to me," said Miss B., "that this view of the subject will
reduce us to silence almost as much as the other. How is one ever to
estimate the consequences of their words, people are affected in so many
different ways by the same thing?"

"I suppose," said her uncle, "we are only responsible for such results
as by carefulness and reflection we might have foreseen. It is not for
_ill-judged_ words, but for idle words, that we are to be judged--words
uttered without any consideration at all, and producing bad results. If
a person really anxious to do right misjudges as to the probable effect
of what he is about to say on others, it is quite another thing."

"But, uncle, will not such carefulness destroy all freedom in
conversation?" said Helen.

"If you are talking with a beloved friend, Helen, do you not use an
_instinctive_ care to avoid all that might pain that friend?"

"Certainly."

"And do you find this effort a restraint on your enjoyment?"

"Certainly not."

"And you, from your own feelings, avoid what is indelicate and impure in
conversation, and yet feel it no restraint?"

"Certainly."

"Well, I suppose the object of Christian effort should be so to realize
the character of our Savior, and conform our tastes and sympathies to
his, that we shall _instinctively_ avoid all in our conversation that
would be displeasing to him. A person habitually indulging jealous,
angry, or revengeful feeling--a person habitually worldly in his
spirit--a person allowing himself in sceptical and unsettled habits of
thought, _cannot_ talk without doing harm. This is our Savior's account
of the matter in the verses immediately before the passage we were
speaking of--'How _can_ ye, being evil, speak good things? for out of
the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh. A good man out of the
good treasure of his heart bringeth forth good things, and an evil man
out of the evil treasure of his heart bringeth forth evil things.' The
highest flow of animal spirits would never hurry a pure-minded person to
say any thing indelicate or gross; and in the same manner, if a person
is habitually Christian in all his habits of thought and feeling, he
will be able without irksome watchfulness to avoid what may be injurious
even in the most unrestrained conversation."




HOW DO WE KNOW?


It was a splendid room. Rich curtains swept down to the floor in
graceful folds, half excluding the light, and shedding it in soft hues
over the fine old paintings on the walls, and over the broad mirrors
that reflect all that taste can accomplish by the hand of wealth. Books,
the rarest and most costly, were around, in every form of gorgeous
binding and gilding, and among them, glittering in ornament, lay a
magnificent Bible--a Bible too beautiful in its appointments, too showy,
too ornamental, ever to have been meant to be read--a Bible which every
visitor should take up and exclaim, "What a beautiful edition! what
superb bindings!" and then lay it down again.

And the master of the house was lounging on a sofa, looking over a late
review--for he was a man of leisure, taste, and reading--but, then, as
to reading the Bible!--_that_ forms, we suppose, no part of the
pretensions of a man of letters. The Bible--certainly he considered it a
very _respectable_ book--a fine specimen of ancient literature--an
admirable book of moral precepts; but, then, as to its divine origin, he
had not exactly made up his mind: some parts appeared strange and
inconsistent to his reason--others were revolting to his taste: true, he
had never studied it very attentively, yet such was his _general
impression_ about it; but, on the whole, he thought it well enough to
keep an elegant copy of it on his drawing room table.

So much for one picture. Now for another.

Come with us into this little dark alley, and up a flight of ruinous
stairs. It is a bitter night, and the wind and snow might drive through
the crevices of the poor room, were it not that careful hands have
stopped them with paper or cloth. But for all this carefulness, the room
is bitter cold--cold even with those few decaying brands on the hearth,
which that sorrowful woman is trying to kindle with her breath. Do you
see that pale, little, thin girl, with large, bright eyes, who is
crouching so near her mother?--hark!--how she coughs! Now listen.

"Mary, my dear child," says the mother, "do keep that shawl close about
you; you are cold, I know," and the woman shivers as she speaks.

"No, mother, not _very_," replies the child, again relapsing into that
hollow, ominous cough. "I wish you wouldn't make me always wear your
shawl when it is cold, mother."

"Dear child, you need it most. How you cough to-night!" replies the
mother; "it really don't seem right for me to send you up that long,
cold street; now your shoes have grown so poor, too; I must go myself
after this."

"O mother, you must stay with the baby--what if he should have one of
those dreadful fits while you are gone! No, I can go very well; I have
got used to the cold now."

"But, mother, I'm cold," says a little voice from the scanty bed in the
corner; "mayn't I get up and come to the fire?"

"Dear child, it would not warm you; it is very cold here, and I can't
make any more fire to-night."

"Why can't you, mother? There are four whole sticks of wood in the box;
do put one on, and let's get warm once."

"No, my dear little Henry," says the mother, soothingly, "that is all
the wood mother has, and I haven't any money to get more."

And now wakens the sick baby in the cradle, and mother and daughter are
both for some time busy in attempting to supply its little wants, and
lulling it again to sleep.

And now look you well at that mother. Six months ago she had a husband,
whose earnings procured for her both the necessaries and comforts of
life; her children were clothed, fed, and schooled, without thoughts of
hers. But husband-less, friendless, and alone in the heart of a great,
busy city, with feeble health, and only the precarious resource of her
needle, she has gone down from comfort to extreme poverty. Look at her
now, as she is to-night. She knows full well that the pale, bright-eyed
girl, whose hollow cough constantly rings in her ears, is far from well.
She knows that cold, and hunger, and exposure of every kind, are daily
and surely wearing away her life. And yet what can she do? Poor soul!
how many times has she calculated all her little resources, to see if
she could pay a doctor and get medicine for Mary--yet all in vain. She
knows that timely medicine, ease, fresh air, and warmth might save her;
but she knows that all these things are out of the question for her. She
feels, too, as a mother would feel, when she sees her once rosy, happy
little boy becoming pale, and anxious, and fretful; and even when he
teases her most, she only stops her work a moment, and strokes his
little thin cheeks, and thinks what a laughing, happy little fellow he
once was, till she has not a heart to reprove him. And all this day she
has toiled with a sick and fretful baby in her lap, and her little
shivering, hungry boy at her side, whom Mary's patient artifices cannot
always keep quiet; she has toiled over the last piece of work which she
can procure from the shop, for the man has told her that after this he
can furnish no more; and the little money that is to come from this is
already portioned out in her own mind, and after that she has no human
prospect of support.

But yet that woman's face is patient, quiet, firm. Nay, you may even see
in her suffering eye something like peace. And whence comes it? I will
tell you.

There is a Bible in that room, as well as in the rich man's apartment.
Not splendidly bound, to be sure, but faithfully read--a plain, homely,
much-worn book.

Hearken now while she says to her children, "Listen to me, dear
children, and I will read you something out of this book. 'Let not your
heart be troubled; in my Father's house are many mansions.' So you see,
my children, we shall not always live in this little, cold, dark room.
Jesus Christ has promised to take us to a better home."

"Shall we be warm there all day?" says the little boy, earnestly; "and
shall we have enough to eat?"

"Yes, dear child," says the mother; "listen to what the Bible says:
'They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; for the Lamb which
is in the midst of the throne shall feed them; and God shall wipe away
all tears from their eyes.'"

"I am glad of that," said little Mary, "for, mother, I never can bear to
see you cry."

"But, mother," says little Henry, "won't God send us something to eat
to-morrow?"

"See," says the mother, "what the Bible says: 'Seek ye not what ye shall
eat, nor what ye shall drink, neither be of anxious mind. For your
Father knoweth that ye have need of these things.'"

"But, mother," says little Mary, "if God is our Father, and loves us,
what does he let us be so poor for?"

"Nay," says the mother, "our dear Lord Jesus Christ was as poor as we
are, and God certainly loved him."

"Was he, mother?"

"Yes, children; you remember how he said, 'The Son of man hath not where
to lay his head.' And it tells us more than once that Jesus was hungry
when there was none to give him food."

"O mother, what should we do without the Bible?" says Mary.

Now, if the rich man, who had not yet made up his mind what to think of
the Bible, should visit this poor woman, and ask her on what she
grounded her belief of its truth, what could she answer? Could she give
the arguments from miracles and prophecy? Could she account for all the
changes which might have taken place in it through translators and
copyists, and prove that we have a genuine and uncorrupted version? Not
she! But how, then, does she know that it is true? How, say you? How
does she know that she has warm life blood in her heart? How does she
know that there is such a thing as air and sunshine? She does not
_believe_ these things--she _knows_ them; and in like manner, with a
deep heart consciousness, she is certain that the words of her Bible are
truth and life. Is it by reasoning that the frightened child, bewildered
in the dark, knows its mother's voice? No! Nor is it only by reasoning
that the forlorn and distressed human heart knows the voice of its
Savior, and is still.




WHICH IS THE LIBERAL MAN?


It was a beaming and beautiful summer morning, and the little town of V.
was alive with all the hurry and motion of a college commencement. Rows
of carriages lined the rural streets, and groups of well-dressed
auditors were thronging to the hall of exhibition. All was gayety and
animation.

And among them all what heart beat higher with hope and gratified
ambition than that of James Stanton? Young, buoyant, prepossessing in
person and manners, he was this day, in the presence of all the world,
to carry off the highest palm of scholarship in his institution, and to
receive, on the threshold of the great world, the utmost that youthful
ambition can ask before it enters the arena of actual life. Did not his
pulse flutter, and his heart beat thick, when he heard himself announced
in the crowded house as the valedictorian of the day? when he saw aged
men, and fair, youthful faces, ruddy childhood, and sober, calculating
manhood alike bending in hushed and eager curiosity, to listen to his
words? Nay, did not his heart rise in his throat as he caught the gleam
of his father's eye, while, bending forward on his staff, with white,
reverend locks falling about his face, he listened to the voice of his
pride--his first born? And did he not see the glistening tears in his
mother's eye, as with rapt ear she hung upon his every word? Ah, the
young man's first triumph! When, full of confidence and hope, he enters
the field of life, all his white glistening as yet unsoiled by the dust
of the combat, the unproved world turning towards him with flatteries
and promises in both hands, what other triumph does life give so fresh,
so full, so replete with hope and joy? So felt James Stanton this day,
when he heard his father congratulated on having a son of such promise;
when old men, revered for talents and worth, shook hands with him, and
bade him warmly God speed in the course of life; when bright eyes cast
glances of favor, and from among the fairest were overheard whispers of
admiration.

"Your son is designed for the bar, I trust," said the venerable Judge L.
to the father of James, at the commencement dinner. "I have seldom seen
a turn of mind better fitted for success in the legal profession. And
then his voice! his manner! let him go to the bar, sir, and I prophesy
that he will yet outdo us all."

And this was said in James's hearing, and by one whose commendation was
not often so warmly called forth. It was not in any young heart not to
beat quicker at such prospects. Honor, station, wealth, political
ambition, all seemed to offer themselves to his grasp; but long ere
this, in the solitude of retirement, in the stillness of prayer and
self-examination, the young graduate had vowed himself to a different
destiny; and if we may listen to a conversation, a few evenings after
commencement, with a classmate, we shall learn more of the secret
workings of his mind.

"And so, Stanton," said George Lennox to him, as they sat by their
evening fireside, "you have not yet decided whether to accept Judge L.'s
offer or not."

"I have decided that matter long ago," said James.

"So, then, you choose the ministry."

"Yes."

"Well, for my part," replied George Lennox, "I choose the law. There
must be Christians, you know, in every vocation; the law seems to suit
my turn of mind. I trust it will be my effort to live as becomes a
Christian, whatever be my calling."

"I trust so," replied James.

"But really, Stanton," added the other, after some thought, "it seems a
pity to cast away such prospects as open before you. You know your
tuition is offered gratis; and then the patronage of Judge L., and such
influences as he can command to secure your success--pray, do not these
things seem to you like a providential indication that the law is to be
your profession? Besides, here in these New England States, the ministry
is overflowed already--ministers enough, and too many, if one may judge
by the number of applicants for every unoccupied place."

"Nay," replied James, "my place is not here. I know, if all accounts are
true, that my profession is not overflowed in our Western States, and
there I mean to go."

"And is it possible that you can contemplate such an entire sacrifice of
your talents, your manners, your literary and scientific tastes, your
capabilities for refined society, as to bury yourself in a log cabin in
one of our new states? You will never be appreciated there; your
privations and sacrifices will be entirely disregarded, and you placed
on a level with the coarsest and most uneducated sectaries. I really do
not think you are called to this."

"Who, then, is called?" replied James.

"Why, men with much less of all these good things--men with real coarse,
substantial, backwoods furniture in their minds, who will not
appreciate, and of course not feel, the want of all the refinements and
comforts which you must sacrifice."

"And are there enough such men ready to meet the emergencies in our
western world, so that no others need be called upon?" replied James.
"Men of the class you speak of may do better than I; but, if after all
their efforts I still am needed, and can work well, ought I not to go?
Must those only be drafted for religious enterprises to whom they
involve no sacrifice?"

"Well, for my part," replied the other, "I trust I am willing to do any
thing that is my duty; yet I never could feel it to be my duty to bury
myself in a new state, among stumps and log cabins. My mind would rust
itself out; and, missing the stimulus of such society as I have been
accustomed to, I should run down completely, and be useless in body and
in mind."

"If you feel so, it would be so," replied James. "If the work there to
be done would not be stimulus and excitement enough to compensate for
the absence of all other stimulus,--if the business of the ministry, the
_saving of human souls_, is not the one all-absorbing purpose, and
desire, and impulse of the whole being,--then woe to the man who goes to
preach the gospel where there is nothing but human souls to be gained by
it."

"Well, Stanton," replied the other, after a pause of some seriousness,
"I cannot say that I have attained to this yet. I don't know but I might
be brought to it; but at present I must confess it is not so. We ought
not to rush into a state and employment which we have not the moral
fortitude to sustain well. In short, for myself, I may make a
respectable, and, I trust, not useless man in the law, when I could do
nothing in the circumstances which you choose. However, I respect your
feelings, and heartily wish that I could share them myself."

A few days after this conversation the young friends parted for their
several destinations--the one to a law school, the other to a
theological seminary.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was many years after this that a middle-aged man, of somewhat
threadbare appearance and restricted travelling conveniences, was seen
carefully tying his horse at the outer enclosure of an elegant mansion
in the town of ----, in one of our Western States; which being done, he
eyed the house rather inquisitively, as people sometimes do when they
are doubtful as to the question of entering or not entering. The house
belonged to George Lennox, Esq., a lawyer reputed to be doing a more
extensive business than any other in the state, and the threadbare
gentleman who plies the knocker at the front door is the Reverend Mr.
Stanton, a name widely spread in the ecclesiastical circles of the land.
The door opens, and the old college acquaintances meet with a cordial
grasp of the hand, and Mr. Stanton soon finds himself pressed to the
most comfortable accommodations in the warm parlor of his friend; and
even the slight uneasiness which the wisest are not always exempt from,
when conscious of a little shabbiness in exterior, was entirely
dissipated by the evident cordiality of his reception. Since the
conversation we have alluded to, the two friends pursued their separate
courses with but few opportunities of personal intercourse. In the true
zeal of the missionary, James Stanton had thrown himself into the field,
where it seemed hardest and darkest, and where labor seemed most needed.
In neighborhoods without churches, without school houses, without
settled roads, among a population of disorganized and heterogeneous
material, he had exhorted from house to house, labored individually with
one after another, till he had, in place after place, brought together
the elements of a Christian church. Far from all ordinances, means of
grace, or Christian brotherhood, or cooeperation, he had seemed to
himself to be merely the lonely, solitary "_voice_ of one crying in the
wilderness," as unassisted, and, to human view, as powerless. With
poverty, and cold, and physical fatigue he had daily been familiar; and
where no vehicle could penetrate the miry depths of the forest, where it
was impracticable even to guide a horse, he had walked miles and miles,
through mud and rain, to preach. With a wife in delicate health, and a
young and growing family, he had more than once seen the year when fifty
dollars was the whole amount of money that had passed through his hands;
and the whole of the rest of his support had come in disconnected
contributions from one and another of his people. He had lived without
books, without newspapers, except as he had found them by chance
snatches here and there,[1] and felt, as one so circumstanced only can
feel, the difficulty of maintaining intellectual vigor and energy in
default of all those stimulants to which cultivated minds in more
favorable circumstances are so much indebted. At the time that he is now
introduced to the reader, he had been recently made pastor in one of the
most important settlements in the state, and among those who, so far as
worldly circumstances were concerned, were able to afford him a
competent support. But among communities like those at the west, settled
for expressly money-making purposes, and by those who have for years
been taught the lesson to save, and have scarcely begun to feel the duty
to give, a minister, however laborious, however eloquent and successful,
may often feel the most serious embarrassments of poverty. Too often is
his salary regarded as a charity which may be given or retrenched to
suit every emergency of the times, and his family expenditures watched
with a jealous and censorious eye.

[Footnote 1: Those particulars the writer heard stated personally as a
part of the experience of one of the most devoted ministers of Ohio.]

On the other hand, George Lennox, the lawyer, had by his talents and
efficiency placed himself at the head of his profession, and was
realizing an income which brought all the comforts and elegances of life
within his reach. He was a member of the Christian church in the place
where he lived, irreproachable in life and conduct. From natural
generosity of disposition, seconded by principle, he was a liberal
contributor to all religious and benevolent enterprises, and was often
quoted and referred to as an example in good works. Surrounded by an
affectionate and growing family, with ample means for providing in the
best manner both for their physical and mental development, he justly
regarded himself as a happy man, and was well satisfied with the world
he lived in.

Now, there is nothing more trying to the Christianity or the philosophy
which teaches the vanity of riches than a few hours' domestication in a
family where wealth is employed, not for purposes of ostentation, but
for the perfecting of home comfort and the gratification of refined
intellectual tastes; and as Mr. Stanton leaned back, slippered and
gowned, in one of the easiest of chairs, and began to look over
periodicals and valuable new books from which he had long been excluded,
he might be forgiven for giving a half sigh to the reflection that he
could never be a rich man. "Have you read this review?" said his
companion, handing him one of the leading periodicals of the day across
the table.

"I seldom see reviews," said Mr. Stanton, taking it.

"You lose a great deal," replied the other, "if you have not seen those
by this author--altogether the ablest series of literary efforts in our
time. You clerical gentlemen ought not to sacrifice your literary tastes
entirely to your professional cares. A moderate attention to current
literature liberalizes the mind, and gives influence that you could not
otherwise acquire."

"Literary taste is an expensive thing to a minister," said Mr. Stanton,
smiling: "for the mind, as well as the body, we must forego all
luxuries, and confine ourselves simply to necessaries."

"I would always indulge myself with books and periodicals, even if I had
to scrimp elsewhere," said Mr. Lennox; and he spoke of scrimping with
all the serious good faith with which people of two or three thousand a
year usually speak of these matters.

Mr. Stanton smiled, and waived the subject, wondering mentally where his
friend would find an elsewhere to scrimp, if he had the management of
_his_ concerns. The conversation gradually flowed back to college days
and scenes, and the friends amused themselves with tracing the history
of their various classmates.

"And so Alsop is in the Senate," said Mr. Stanton. "Strange! We did not
at all expect it of him. But do you know any thing of George Bush?"

"O, yes," replied the other; "he went into mercantile life, and the last
I heard he had turned a speculation worth thirty thousand--a shrewd
fellow. I always knew he would make his way in the world."

"But what has become of Langdon?"

"O, he is doing well; he is professor of languages in ---- College, and
I hear he has lately issued a Latin Grammar that promises to have quite
a run."

"And Smithson?"

"Smithson has an office at Washington, and was there living in great
style the last time I saw him."

It may be questioned whether the minister sank to sleep that night, amid
the many comfortable provisions of his friend's guest chamber, without
rebuking in his heart a certain rising of regret that he had turned his
back on all the honors, and distinctions, and comforts which lay around
the path of others, who had not, in the opening of the race, half the
advantages of himself. "See," said the insidious voice--"what have you
gained? See your early friends surrounded by riches and comfort, while
you are pinched and harassed by poverty. Have they not, many of them, as
good a hope of heaven as you have, and all this besides? Could you not
have lived easier, and been a good man after all?" The reflection was
only silenced by remembering that the only Being who ever had the
perfect power of choosing his worldly condition, chose, of his own
accord, a poverty deeper than that of any of his servants. Had Christ
consented to be rich, what check could there have been to the desire of
it among his followers? But he chose to stoop so low that none could be
lower; and that in extremest want none could ever say, "I am poorer than
was my Savior and God."

The friends at parting the next morning shook hands warmly, and promised
a frequent renewal of their resumed intercourse. Nor was the bill for
twenty dollars, which the minister found in his hand, at all an
unacceptable addition to the pleasures of his visit; and though the
November wind whistled keenly through a dull, comfortless sky, he turned
his horse's head homeward with a lightened heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Mother's sick, and _I'm_ a-keeping house!" said a little flaxen-headed
girl, in all the importance of seven years, as her father entered the
dwelling.

"Your mother sick! what's the matter?" inquired Mr. Stanton.

"She caught cold washing, yesterday, while you were gone;" and when the
minister stood by the bedside of his sick wife, saw her flushed face,
and felt her feverish pulse, he felt seriously alarmed. She had scarcely
recovered from a dangerous fever when he left home, and with reason he
dreaded a relapse.

"My dear, why have you done so?" was the first expostulation; "why did
you not send for old Agnes to do your washing, as I told you."

"I felt so well, I thought I was quite able," was the reply; "and you
know it will take all the money we have now in hand to get the
children's shoes before cold weather comes, and nobody knows when we
shall have any more."

"Well, Mary, comfort your heart as to that. I have had a present to-day
of twenty dollars--that will last us some time. God always provides when
need is greatest." And so, after administering a little to the comfort
of his wife, the minister addressed himself to the business of cooking
something for dinner for himself and his little hungry flock.

"There is no bread in the house," he exclaimed, after a survey of the
ways and means at his disposal.

"I must try and sit up long enough to make some," said his wife faintly.

"You must try to be quiet," replied the husband. "We can do very well on
potatoes. But yet," he added, "I think if I bring the things to your
bedside, and you show me how to mix them, I could make some bread."

A burst of laughter from the young fry chorused his proposal;
nevertheless, as Mr. Stanton was a man of decided genius, by help of
much showing, and of strong arms and good will, the feat was at length
accomplished in no unworkmanlike manner; and while the bread was put
down to the fire to rise, and the potatoes were baking in the oven, Mr.
Stanton having enjoined silence on his noisy troop, sat down, pencil in
hand, by his wife's bed, to prepare a sermon.

We would that those ministers who feel that they cannot compose without
a study, and that the airiest and pleasantest room in the house, where
the floor is guarded by the thick carpet, the light carefully relieved
by curtains, where papers are filed and arranged neatly in conveniences
purposely adjusted, with books of reference standing invitingly around,
could once figure to themselves the process of composing a sermon in
circumstances such as we have painted. Mr. Stanton had written his text,
and jotted down something of an introduction, when a circumstance
occurred which is almost inevitable in situations where a person has any
thing else to attend to--_the baby woke_. The little interloper was to
be tied into a chair, while the flaxen-headed young housekeeper was now
installed into the office of waiter in ordinary to her majesty, and by
shaking a newspaper before her face, plying a rattle, or other arts
known only to the initiate, to prevent her from indulging in any
unpleasant demonstrations, while Mr. Stanton proceeded with his train of
thought.

"Papa, papa! the teakettle! only look!" cried all the younger ones, just
as he was again beginning to abstract his mind.

Mr. Stanton rose, and adapting part of his sermon paper to the handle of
the teakettle, poured the boiling water on some herb drink for his wife,
and then recommenced.

"I sha'n't have much of a sermon!" he soliloquized, as his youngest but
one, with the ingenuity common to children of her standing, had
contrived to tip herself over in her chair, and cut her under lip, which
for the time being threw the whole settlement into commotion; and this
conviction was strengthened by finding that it was now time to give the
children their dinner.

"I fear Mrs. Stanton is imprudent in exerting herself," said the medical
man to the husband, as he examined her symptoms.

"I know she is," replied her husband, "but I cannot keep her from it."

"It is absolutely indispensable that she should rest and keep her mind
easy," said the doctor.

"Rest and keep easy"--how easily the words are said! yet how they fall
on the ear of a mother, who knows that her whole flock have not yet a
garment prepared for winter, that hiring assistance is out of the
question, and that the work must all be done by herself--who sees that
while she is sick her husband is perplexed, and kept from his
appropriate duties, and her children, despite his well-meant efforts,
suffering for the want of those attentions that only a mother can give.
Will not any mother, so tried, rise from her sick bed before she feels
able, to be again prostrated by over-exertion, until the vigor of the
constitution year by year declines, and she sinks into an early grave?
Yet this is the true history of many a wife and mother, who, in
consenting to share the privations of a western minister, has as truly
sacrificed her life as did ever martyr on heathen shores. The graves of
Harriet Newell and Mrs. Judson are hallowed as the shrines of saints,
and their memory made as a watchword among Christians; yet the western
valley is full of green and nameless graves, where patient,
long-enduring wives and mothers have lain down, worn out by the
privations of as severe a missionary field, and "no man knoweth the
place of their sepulchre."

The crisp air of a November evening was enlivened by the fire that
blazed merrily in the bar room of the tavern in L., while a more than
usual number crowded about the hearth, owing to the session of the
county court in that place.

"Mr. Lennox is a pretty smart lawyer," began an old gentleman, who sat
in one of the corners, in the half interrogative tone which indicated a
wish to start conversation.

"Yes, sir, no mistake about that," was the reply; "does the largest
business in the state--very smart man, sir, and honest--a church member
too, and one of the tallest kinds of Christians they say--gives more
money for building meeting houses, and all sorts of religious concerns,
than any man around."

"Well, he can afford it," said a man with a thin, care-taking visage,
and a nervous, anxious twitch of the hand, as if it were his constant
effort to hold on to something--"he can afford it, for he makes money
hand over hand. It is not every body can afford to do as he does."

A sly look of intelligence pervaded the company; for the speaker, one of
the most substantial householders in the settlement, was always taken
with distressing symptoms of poverty and destitution when any allusion
to public or religious charity was made.

"Mr. C. is thinking about parish matters," said a wicked wag of the
company; "you see, sir, our minister urged pretty hard last Sunday to
have his salary paid up. He has had sickness in his family, and nothing
on hand for winter expenses."

"I don't think Mr. Stanton is judicious in making such public
statements," said the former speaker, nervously; "he ought to consult
his friends privately, and not bring temporalities into the pulpit."

"That is to say, starve decently, and make no fuss," replied the other.

"Nonsense! Who talks of starving, when provision is as plenty as
blackberries? I tell you I understand this matter, and know how little a
man can get along with. I've tried it myself. When I first set out in
life, my wife and I had not a pair of andirons or a shovel and tongs for
two or three years, and we never thought of complaining. The times are
hard. We are all losing, and must get along as we can; and Mr. Stanton
must bear some rubs as well as the rest of us."

"It appears to me, Mr. C," said the waggish gentleman aforesaid, "that
if you'd put Mr. Stanton into your good brick house, and give him your
furniture and income, he would be well satisfied to rub along as you
do."

"Mr. Stanton isn't so careful in his expenses as he might be," said Mr.
C., petulantly, disregarding the idea started by his neighbor; "he buys
things _I_ should not think of buying. Now, I was in his house the other
day, and he had just given three dollars for a single book."

"Perhaps it was a book he needed in his studies," suggested the old
gentleman who began the conversation.

"What's the use of book larnin' to a minister, if he's got the real
spirit in him?" chimed in a rough-looking man in the farthest corner;
"only wish you could have heard Elder North give it off--_there_ was a
real genuine preacher for you, couldn't even read his text in the Bible;
yet, sir, he would get up and reel it off as smooth and fast as the best
of them, that come out of the colleges. My notion is, it's the _spirit_
that's the thing, after all."

Several of the auditors seemed inclined to express their approbation of
this doctrine, though some remarked that Mr. Stanton was a smarter
preacher than Elder North, for all his book larnin'.

Some of the more intelligent of the circle here exchanged smiles, but
declined entering the lists in favor of "larnin'."

"O, for my part," resumed Mr. C., "I am for having a minister study, and
have books and all that, if he can afford it; but in hard times like
these, books are neither meat, drink, nor fire; and I know I can't
afford them. Now, I'm as willing to contribute my part to the minister's
salary, and every other charity, as any body, when I can get money to do
it; but in these times I _can't_ get it."

The elderly gentleman here interrupted the conversation by saying,
abruptly, "I am a townsman of Mr. Stanton's, and it is _my_ opinion that
_he_ has impoverished himself by giving in religious charity."

"Giving in charity!" exclaimed several voices; "where did he ever get
any thing to give?"

"Yet I think I speak within bounds," said the old gentleman, "when I say
that he has given more than the amount of two thousand dollars yearly to
the support of the gospel in this state; and I think I can show it to be
so."

The eyes of the auditors were now enlarged to their utmost limits, while
the old gentleman, after the fashion of shrewd old gentlemen generally,
screwed up his mouth in a very dry twist, and looked in the fire without
saying a word.

"Come now, pray tell us how this is," said several of the company.

"Well, sir," said the old man, addressing himself to Mr. C., "you are a
man of business, and will perhaps understand the case as I view it. You
were speaking this evening of lawyer Lennox. He and your minister were
both from my native place, and both there and in college your minister
was always reckoned the smartest of the two, and went ahead in every
thing they undertook. Now, you see Mr. Lennox, out of his talents and
education, makes say three thousand a year. Mr. Stanton had more talent,
and more education, and might have made even more; but by devoting
himself to the work of the ministry in your state, he gains, we will
say, about four hundred dollars. Does he not, therefore, in fact, give
all the difference between four hundred and three thousand to the cause
of religion in this state? If, during the business season of the year,
you, Mr. C., should devote your whole time to some benevolent
enterprise, would you not feel that you had virtually given to that
enterprise all the money you would otherwise have made? Instead,
therefore, of calling it a charity for you to subscribe to your
minister's support, you ought to consider it a very expensive charity
for him to devote his existence in preaching to you. To bring the gospel
to your state, he has given up a reasonable prospect of an income of two
or three thousand, and contents himself with the least sum which will
keep soul and body together, without the possibility of laying up a cent
for his family in case of his sickness and death. This, sir, is what _I_
call giving in charity."




THE ELDER'S FEAST.

A TRADITION OF LAODICEA.


At a certain time in the earlier ages there lived in the city of
Laodicea a Christian elder of some repute, named Onesiphorus. The world
had smiled on him, and though a Christian, he was rich and full of
honors. All men, even the heathen, spoke well of him, for he was a man
courteous of speech and mild of manner.

His wife, a fair Ionian lady but half reclaimed from idolatry, though
baptized and accredited as a member of the Christian church, still
lingered lovingly on the confines of old heathenism, and if she did not
believe, still cherished with pleasure the poetic legends of Apollo and
Venus, of Jove and Diana.

A large and fair family of sons and daughters had risen around these
parents; but their education had been much after the rudiments of this
world, and not after Christ. Though, according to the customs of the
church, they were brought to the font of baptism, and sealed in the name
of the Father, and the Son, and Holy Ghost, and although daily, instead
of libations to the Penates, or flower offerings to Diana and Juno, the
name of Jesus was invoked, yet the _spirit_ of Jesus was wanting. The
chosen associates of all these children, as they grew older, were among
the heathen; and daily they urged their parents, by their entreaties, to
conform, in one thing after another, to heathen usage. "Why should we be
singular, mother?" said the dark-eyed Myrrah, as she bound her hair and
arranged her dress after the fashion of the girls in the temple of
Venus. "Why may we not wear the golden ornaments and images which have
been consecrated to heathen goddesses?" said the sprightly Thalia;
"surely none others are to be bought, and are we to do altogether
without?" "And why may we not be at feasts where libations are made to
Apollo or Jupiter?" said the sons; "so long as we do not consent to it
or believe in it, will our faith be shaken thereby?" "How are we ever to
reclaim the heathen, if we do not mingle among them?" said another son;
"did not our Master eat with publicans and sinners?"

It was, however, to be remarked, that no conversions of the heathen to
Christianity ever took place through the means of these complying sons
and daughters, or any of the number who followed their example. Instead
of withdrawing any from the confines of heathenism, they themselves were
drawn so nearly over, that in certain situations and circumstances they
would undoubtedly have been ranked among them by any but a most
scrutinizing observer. If any in the city of Laodicea were ever led to
unite themselves with Jesus, it was by means of a few who observed the
full simplicity of the ancient faith, and who, though honest, tender,
and courteous in all their dealings with the heathen, still went not a
step with them in conformity to any of their customs.

In time, though the family we speak of never broke off from the
Christian church, yet if you had been in it, you might have heard much
warm and earnest conversation about things that took place at the baths,
or in feasts to various divinities; but if any one spoke of Jesus, there
was immediately a cold silence, a decorous, chilling, respectful pause,
after which the conversation, with a bound, flew back into the old
channel again.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was now night; and the house of Onesiphorus the Elder was blazing
with torches, alive with music, and all the hurry and stir of a
sumptuous banquet. All the wealth and fashion of Laodicea were there,
Christian and heathen; and all that the classic voluptuousness of
Oriental Greece could give to shed enchantment over the scene was there.
In ancient times the festivals of Christians in Laodicea had been
regulated in the spirit of the command of Jesus, as recorded by Luke,
whose classical Greek had made his the established version in Asia
Minor. "And thou, when thou makest a feast, call not thy friends and thy
kinsmen, nor thy rich neighbors, lest they also bid thee, and a
recompense be made thee. But when thou makest a feast, call the poor,
and the maimed, and the lame, and the blind, and thou shalt be blessed;
for they cannot recompense thee, but thou shalt be recompensed at the
resurrection of the just."

That very day, before the entertainment, had this passage been quoted in
the ears of the family by Cleon, the youngest son, who, different from
all his family, had cherished in his bosom the simplicity of the old
belief.

"How ridiculous! how absurd!" had been the reply of the more thoughtless
members of the family, when Cleon cited the above passage as in point to
the evening's entertainment. The dark-eyed mother looked reproof on the
levity of the younger children, and decorously applauded the passage,
which she said had no application to the matter in hand.

"But, mother, even if the passage be not literally taken, it must mean
_something_. What did the Lord Jesus intend by it? If we Christians may
make entertainments with all the parade and expense of our heathen
neighbors, and thus spend the money that might be devoted to charity,
what does this passage mean?"

"Your father gives in charity as handsomely as any Christian in
Laodicea," said his mother warmly.

"Nay, mother, that may be; but I bethink me now of two or three times
when means have been wanting for the relieving of the poor, and the
ransoming of captives, and the support of apostles, when we have said
that we could give no more."

"My son," said his mother, "you do not understand the ways of the
world."

"Nay, how should he?" said Thalia, "shut up day and night with that old
papyrus of St. Luke and Paul's Epistles. One may have too much of a good
thing."

"But does not the holy Paul say, 'Be not conformed to this world'?"

"Certainly," said the elder; "that means that we should be baptized, and
not worship in the heathen temples."

"My dear son," said his mother, "you intend well, doubtless; but you
have not sufficient knowledge of life to estimate our relations to
society. Entertainments of this sort are absolutely necessary to sustain
our position in the world. If we accept, we must return them."

But not to dwell on this conversation, let us suppose ourselves in the
rooms now glittering with lights, and gay with every costly luxury of
wealth and taste. Here were statues to Diana and Apollo, and to the
household Juno--not meant for worship--of course not--but simply to
conform to the general usages of good society; and so far had this
complaisance been carried, that the shrine of a peerless Venus was
adorned with garlands and votive offerings, and an exquisitely wrought
silver censer diffused its perfume on the marble altar in front. This
complaisance on the part of some of the younger members of the family
drew from the elder a gentle remonstrance, as having an unseemly
appearance for those bearing the Christian name; but they readily
answered, "Has not Paul said, 'We know that an idol is nothing'? Where
is the harm of an elegant statue, considered merely as a consummate work
of art? As for the flowers, are they not simply the most appropriate
ornament? And where is the harm of burning exquisite perfume? And is it
worse to burn it in one place than another?"

"Upon my sword," said one of the heathen guests, as he wandered through
the gay scene, "how liberal and accommodating these Christians are
becoming! Except in a few small matters in the temple, they seem to be
with us entirely."

"Ah," said another, "it was not so years back. Nothing was heard among
them, then, but prayers, and alms, and visits to the poor and sick; and
when they met together in their feasts, there was so much of their talk
of Christ, and such singing of hymns and prayer, that one of us found
himself quite out of place."

"Yes," said an old man present, "in those days I quite bethought me of
being some day a Christian; but look you, they are grown so near like us
now, it is scarce worth one's while to change. A little matter of
ceremony in the temple, and offering incense to Jesus, instead of
Jupiter, when all else is the same, can make small odds in a man."

But now, the ancient legend goes on to say, that in the midst of that
gay and brilliant evening, a stranger of remarkable appearance and
manners was noticed among the throng. None knew him, or whence he came.
He mingled not in the mirth, and seemed to recognize no one present,
though he regarded all that was passing with a peculiar air of still and
earnest attention; and wherever he moved, his calm, penetrating gaze
seemed to diffuse a singular uneasiness about him. Now his eye was fixed
with a quiet scrutiny on the idolatrous statues, with their votive
adornments--now it followed earnestly the young forms that were
wreathing in the graceful waves of the dance; and then he turned towards
the tables, loaded with every luxury and sparkling with wines, where the
devotion to Bacchus became more than poetic fiction; and as he gazed, a
high, indignant sorrow seemed to overshadow the calmness of his majestic
face. When, in thoughtless merriment, some of the gay company sought to
address him, they found themselves shrinking involuntarily from the
soft, piercing eye, and trembling at the low, sweet tones in which he
replied. What he spoke was brief; but there was a gravity and tender
wisdom in it that strangely contrasted with the frivolous scene, and
awakened unwonted ideas of heavenly purity even in thoughtless and
dissipated minds.

The only one of the company who seemed to seek his society was the
youngest, the fair little child Isa. She seemed as strangely attracted
towards him as others were repelled; and when, unsolicited, in the frank
confidence of childhood she pressed to his side, and placed her little
hand in his, the look of radiant compassion and tenderness which beamed
down from those eyes was indeed glorious to behold. Yet here and there,
as he glided among the crowd, he spoke in the ear of some Christian
words which, though soft and low, seemed to have a mysterious and
startling power; for one after another, pensive, abashed, and
confounded, they drew aside from the gay scene, and seemed lost in
thought. That stranger--who was he? Who? The inquiry passed from mouth
to mouth, and one and another, who had listened to his low, earnest
tones, looked on each other with a troubled air. Ere long he had glided
hither and thither in the crowd; he had spoken in the ear of every
Christian--and suddenly again he was gone, and they saw him no more.
Each had felt the heart thrill within--each spirit had vibrated as if
the finger of its Creator had touched it, and shrunk conscious as if an
omniscient eye were upon it. Each heart was stirred from its depths.
Vain sophistries, worldly maxims, making the false look true, all
appeared to rise and clear away like a mist; and at once each one seemed
to see, as God sees, the true state of the inner world, the true motive
and reason of action, and in the instinctive pause that passed through
the company, the banquet was broken up and deserted.

"And what if their God were present?" said one of the heathen members of
the company, next day. "Why did they all look so blank? A most favorable
omen, we should call it, to have one's patron divinity at a feast."

"Besides," said another, "these Christians hold that their God is always
every where present; so, at most, they have but had their eyes opened to
see Him who is always there!"

       *       *       *       *       *

What is practically the meaning of the precept, "Be not conformed to the
world?" In its every-day results, it presents many problems difficult of
solution. There are so many shades and blendings of situation and
circumstances, so many things, innocent and graceful in themselves,
which, like flowers and incense on a heathen altar, become unchristian
only through position and circumstances, that the most honest and
well-intentioned are often perplexed.

That we must conform in some things, is conceded; yet the whole tenor of
the New Testament shows that this conformity must have its limits--that
Christians are to be _transformed_, so as to exhibit to the world a
higher and more complete style of life, and thus "_prove_ what is the
good, and acceptable, and perfect will of God."

But in many particulars as to style of living and modes of social
intercourse, there can be no definite rules laid down, and no Christian
can venture to judge another by his standard.

One Christian condemns dress adornment, and the whole application of
taste to the usages of life, as a sinful waste of time and money.
Another, perceiving in every work of God a love and appreciation of the
beautiful, believes that there is a sphere in which he is pleased to see
the same trait in his children, if the indulgence do not become
excessive, and thus interfere with higher duties.

One condemns all time and expense laid out in social visiting as so much
waste. Another remembers that Jesus, when just entering on the most vast
and absorbing work, turned aside to attend a wedding feast, and wrought
his first miracle to enhance its social enjoyment. Again, there are
others who, because _some_ indulgence of taste and some exercise for the
social powers are admissible, go all lengths in extravagance, and in
company, dress, and the externals of life.

In the same manner, with regard to style of life and social
entertainment--most of the items which go to constitute what is called
style of living, or the style of particular parties, may be in
themselves innocent, and yet they may be so interwoven and combined with
evils, that the whole effect shall be felt to be decidedly unchristian,
both by Christians and the world. How, then, shall the well-disposed
person know where to stop, and how to strike the just medium?

We know of but one safe rule: read the life of Jesus with
attention--_study_ it--inquire earnestly with yourself, "What sort of a
person, in thought, in feeling, in action, was my Savior?"--live in
constant sympathy and communion with him--and there will be within a
kind of instinctive rule by which to try all things. A young man, who
was to be exposed to the temptations of one of the most dissipated
European capitals, carried with him his father's picture, and hung it in
his apartment. Before going out to any of the numerous resorts of the
city, he was accustomed to contemplate this picture, and say to himself,
"Would my father wish to see me in the place to which I am going?" and
thus was he saved from many a temptation. In like manner the Christian,
who has always by his side the beautiful ideal of his Savior, finds it a
holy charm, by which he is gently restrained from all that is unsuitable
to his profession. He has but to inquire of any scene or employment,
"Should I be well pleased to meet my Savior there? Would the trains of
thought I should there fall into, the state of mind that would there be
induced, be such as would harmonize with an interview with him?" Thus
protected and defended, social enjoyment might be like that of Mary and
John, and the disciples, when, under the mild, approving eye of the Son
of God, they shared the festivities of Cana.




LITTLE FRED, THE CANAL BOY.


PART I.

In the outskirts of the little town of Toledo, in Ohio, might be seen a
small, one-story cottage, whose external architecture no way
distinguished it from dozens of other residences of the poor, by which
it was surrounded. But over this dwelling, a presiding air of sanctity
and neatness, of quiet and repose, marked it out as different from every
other.

The little patch before the door, instead of being a loafing ground for
swine, and a receptacle of litter and filth, was trimly set with
flowers, weeded, watered, and fenced with dainty care. The scarlet
bignonia clambered over the mouldering logs of the sides, shrouding
their roughness in its gorgeous mantle of green and crimson, and the
good old-fashioned morning glory, laced across the window, unfolded,
every day, tints whose beauty, though cheap and common, the finest
French milliner might in vain seek to rival.

When, in travelling the western country, you meet such a dwelling, do
you not instinctively know what you shall see inside of it? Do you not
seem to see the trimly-sanded floor, the well-kept furniture, the snowy
muslin curtain? Are you not sure that on a neat stand you shall see, as
on an altar, the dear old family Bible, brought, like the ancient ark of
the covenant, into the far wilderness, and ever overshadowed, as a
bright cloud, with remembered prayers and counsels of father and mother,
in a far off New England home?

And in this cottage there was such a Bible, brought from the wild hills
of New Hampshire, and its middle page recorded the marriage of James
Sandford to Mary Irving; and alas! after it another record, traced in a
trembling hand--the death of James Sandford, at Toledo. And this fair,
thin woman, in the black dress, with soft brown hair parted over a pale
forehead, with calm, patient blue eyes, and fading cheek, is the once
energetic, buoyant, light-hearted New Hampshire girl, who has brought
with her the strongest religious faith, the active practical knowledge,
the skilful, well-trained hand and clear head, with which cold New
England portions her daughters. She had left all, and come to the
western wilds with no other capital than her husband's manly heart and
active brain--he young, strong, full of hope, prompt, energetic, and
skilled to acquire--she careful, prudent, steady, no less skilled to
save; and between the two no better firm for acquisition and prospective
success could be desired. Every body prophesied that James Sandford
would succeed, and Mary heard these praises with a quiet exultation. But
alas! that whole capital of hers--that one strong, young heart, that
ready, helpful hand--two weeks of the country's fever sufficed to lay
them cold and low forever.

And Mary yet lived, with her babe in her arms, and one bright little boy
by her side; and this boy is our little brown-eyed Fred--the hero of our
story. But few years had rolled over his curly head, when he first
looked, weeping and wondering, on the face of death. Ah, one look on
that awful face adds years at once to the age of the heart; and little
Fred felt manly thoughts aroused in him by the cold stillness of his
father, and the deep, calm anguish of his mother.

"O mamma, don't cry so, don't," said the little fellow. "I am alive, and
I can take care of you. Dear mamma, I pray for you every day." And Mary
was comforted even in her tears and thought, as she looked into those
clear, loving brown eyes, that her little intercessor would not plead in
vain; for saith Jesus, "Their angels do always behold the face of my
Father which is in heaven."

In a few days she learned to look her sorrows calmly in the face, like a
brave, true woman, as she was. She was a widow, and out of the sudden
wreck of her husband's plans but a pittance remained to her, and she
cast about, with busy hand and head, for some means to eke it out. She
took in sewing--she took in washing and ironing; and happy did the young
exquisite deem himself, whose shirts came with such faultless plaits,
such snowy freshness, from the slender hands of Mary. With that
matchless gift which old Yankee housewives call faculty, Mary kept
together all the ends of her ravelled skein of life, and began to make
them wind smoothly. Her baby was the neatest of all babies, as it was
assuredly the prettiest, and her little Fred the handiest and most
universal genius of all boys. It was Fred that could wring out all the
stockings, and hang out all the small clothes, that tended the baby by
night and by day, that made her a wagon out of an old soap box, in which
he drew her in triumph; and at their meals he stood reverently in his
father's place, and with folded hands repeated, "Bless the Lord, O my
soul, and forget not all his mercies;" and his mother's heart responded
amen to the simple prayer. Then he learned, with manifold puffing and
much haggling, to saw wood quite decently, and to swing an axe almost as
big as himself in wood splitting; and he ran of errands, and did
business with an air of bustling importance that was edifying to see; he
knew the prices of lard, butter, and dried apples, as well as any man
about, and, as the store-keeper approvingly told him, was a smart chap
at a bargain. Fred grew three inches higher the moment he heard it.

In the evenings after the baby was asleep, Fred sat by his mother with
slate and book, deep in the mysteries of reading, writing, and
ciphering; and then the mother and son talked over their little plans,
and hallowed their nightly rest by prayer; and when, before retiring,
his mother knelt with him by his little bed and prayed, the child often
sobbed with a strange emotion, for which he could give no reason.
Something there is in the voice of real prayer that thrills a child's
heart, even before he understands it; the holy tones are a kind of
heavenly music, and far off in distant years, the callous and worldly
man, often thrills to his heart's core, when some turn of life recalls
to him his mother's prayer.

So passed the first years of the life of Fred. Meanwhile his little
sister had come to toddle about the cottage floor, full of insatiable
and immeasurable schemes of mischief. It was she that upset the clothes
basket, and pulled over the molasses pitcher on to her own astonished
head, and with incredible labor upset every pail of water that by
momentary thoughtlessness was put within reach. It was she that was
found stuffing poor, solemn old pussy head first into the water jar,
that wiped up the floor with her mother's freshly-ironed clothes, and
jabbered meanwhile, in most unexampled Babylonish dialect, her own
vindications and explanations of these misdemeanors. Every day her
mother declared that she must begin to get that child into some kind of
order; but still the merry little curly pate contemned law and order,
and laughed at all ideas of retributive justice, and Fred and his mother
laughed and deplored, in the same invariable succession, the various
direful results of her activity and enterprise.

But still, as Mary toiled on, heavy cares weighed down her heart. Her
boy grew larger and larger, and her own health grew feebler in
proportion as it needed to be stronger. Sometimes a whole week at a time
found her scarce able to crawl from her bed, shaking with ague, or
burning with fever; and when there is little or nothing with which to
replace them, how fast food seems to be consumed, and clothing to be
worn out! And so at length it came to pass that, notwithstanding the
labors of the most tireless of needles, and the cutting, clipping, and
contriving of the most ingenious of hands, the poor mother was forced to
own to herself that her darlings looked really shabby, and kind
neighbors one by one hinted and said that she must do something with her
boy--that he was old enough to earn his own living; and the same idea
occurred to the spirited little fellow himself.

He had often been along by the side of the canal, and admired the
horses; for between a horse and Fred there was a perfect magnetic
sympathy, and no lot in life looked to him so bright and desirable as to
be able to sit on a horse and drive all day long; and when Captain W.,
pleased with the boy's bright face and prompt motions, sought to enlist
him as one of his drivers, he found a delighted listener. "If he could
only persuade mother, there was nothing like it." For many nights after
the matter was proposed, Mary only cried; and all Fred's eloquence, and
his brave promises of never doing any thing wrong, and being the best of
all supposable boys, were insufficient to console her.

Every time she looked at the neat, pure little bed, beside her own, that
bed hallowed by so many prayers, and saw her boy, with his glowing
cheeks and long and dark lashes, sleeping so innocently and trustfully,
her heart died within her, as she thought of a dirty berth on the canal
boat, and rough boatmen, swearing, chewing tobacco, and drinking; and
should she take her darling from her bosom and throw him out among
these? Ah, happy mother! look at your little son of ten years, and ask
yourself, if you were obliged to do this, should you not tremble! Give
God thanks, therefore, you can hold your child to your heart till he is
old enough to breast the dark wave of life. The poor must throw them in,
to sink or swim, as happens. Not for ease--not for freedom from
care--not for commodious house and fine furniture, and all that
competence gives, should you thank God so much as for this, that you are
able to shelter, guide, restrain, and educate the helpless years of your
children.

Mary yielded at last to that master who can subdue all wills--necessity.
Sorrowfully, yet with hope in God, she made up the little package for
her boy, and communicated to him with renewed minuteness her parting
counsels and instructions. Fred was bright and full of hope. He was sure
of the great point about which his mother's anxiety clustered--he should
be a good boy, he knew he should; he never should swear; he never should
touch a drop of spirits, no matter who asked him--that he was sure of.
Then he liked horses so much: he should ride all day and never get
tired, and he would come back and bring her some money; and so the boy
and his mother parted.

Physical want or hardship is not the great thing which a mother need
dread for her child in our country. There is scarce any situation in
America where a child would not receive, as a matter of course, good
food and shelter; nor is he often overworked. In these respects a
general spirit of good nature is perceptible among employers, so that
our Fred meets none of the harrowing adventures of an Oliver Twist in
his new situation.

To be sure he soon found it was not as good fun to ride a horse hour
after hour, and day after day, as it was to prance and caper about for
the first few minutes. At first his back ached, and his little hands
grew stiff, and he wished his turn were out, hours before the time; but
time mended all this. He grew healthy and strong, and though
occasionally kicked and tumbled about rather unceremoniously by the
rough men among whom he had been cast, yet, as they said, "he was a chap
that always came down on his feet, throw him which way you would;" and
for this reason he was rather a favorite among them. The fat, black
cook, who piqued himself particularly on making corn cake and singing
Methodist hymns in a style of unsurpassed excellence, took Fred into
particular favor, and being equally at home in kitchen and camp meeting
lore, not only put by for him various dainty scraps and fragments, but
also undertook to further his moral education by occasional luminous
exhortations and expositions of Scripture, which somewhat puzzled poor
Fred, and greatly amused the deck hands.

Often, after driving all day, Fred sat on deck beside his fat friend,
while the boat glided on through miles and miles of solemn, unbroken old
woods, and heard him sing about "de New Jerusalem," about "good old
Moses, and Paul, and Silas," with a kind of dreamy, wild pleasure. To be
sure it was not like his mother's singing; but then it had a sort of
good sound, although he never could very precisely make out the meaning.

As to being a good boy, Fred, to do him justice, certainly tried to very
considerable purpose. He did not swear as yet, although he heard so much
of it daily that it seemed the most natural thing in the world; and
although one and another of the hands often offered him tempting
portions of their potations, as they said, "to make a man of him," yet
Fred faithfully kept his little temperance pledge to his mother. Many a
weary hour, as he rode, and rode, and rode through hundreds of miles of
unvarying forest, he strengthened his good resolutions by thoughts of
home and its scenes.

There sat his mother; there stood his own little bed; there his baby
sister, toddling about in her night gown; and he repeated the prayers
and sung the hymns his mother taught him, and thus the good seed still
grew within him. In fact, with no very distinguished adventures, Fred
achieved the journey to Cincinnati and back, and proud of his laurels,
and with his wages in his pocket, found himself again at the familiar
door.

Poor Fred! a sad surprise awaited him. The elfin shadow that was once
ever flitting about the dwelling was gone; the little pattering
footsteps, the tireless, busy fingers, all gone! and his mother, paler,
sicker, sadder than before, clasped him to her bosom, and called him her
only comfort. Fred had brought a pocket full of sugar plums, and the
brightest of yellow oranges to his little pet; alas! how mournfully he
regarded them now!

How little do we realize, when we hear that such and such a poor woman
has lost her baby, how much is implied to her in the loss! She is poor;
she must work hard; the child was a great addition to her cares; and
even pitying neighbors say, "It was better for her, poor thing! and for
the child too." But perhaps this very child was the only flower of a
life else wholly barren and desolate. There is often, even in the
humblest and most uncultured nature, an undefined longing and pining for
the beautiful. It expresses itself sometimes in the love of birds and of
flowers, and one sees the rosebush or the canary bird in a dwelling from
which is banished every trace of luxury. But the little child, with its
sweet, spiritual eyes, its thousand bird-like tones, its prattling,
endearing ways, its guileless, loving heart, is a full and perfect
answer to the most ardent craving of the soul. It is a whole little Eden
of itself; and the poor woman whose whole life else is one dreary waste
of toil, clasps her babe to her bosom, and feels proud, and rich, and
happy. Truly said the Son of God, "Of such are the kingdom of heaven."

Poor Mary! how glad she was to see her boy again--most of all, that they
could talk together of their lost one! How they discoursed for hours
about her! How they cried together over the little faded bonnet, that
once could scarce be kept for a moment on the busy, curly head! How they
treasured, as relics, the small finger marks on the doors, and
consecrated with sacred care even the traces of her merry mischief about
the cottage, and never tired of telling over to each other, with smiles
and tears, the record of the past gleesome pranks!

But the fact was, that Mary herself was fast wearing away. She had borne
up bravely against life; but she had but a gentle nature, and gradually
she sank from day to day. Fred was her patient, unwearied nurse, and
neighbors--never wanting in such kindnesses as they can
understand--supplied her few wants. The child never wanted for food, and
the mantle shelf was filled with infallible specifics, each one of which
was able, according to the showing, to insure perfect recovery in every
case whatever; and yet, strange to tell, she still declined. At last,
one still autumn morning, Fred awoke, and started at the icy coldness of
the hand clasped in his own. He looked in his mother's face; it was
sweet and calm as that of a sleeping infant, but he knew in his heart
that she was dead.


PART II.

Months afterwards, a cold December day found Fred turned loose in the
streets of Cincinnati. Since his mother's death he had driven on the
canal boat; but now the boat was to lie by for winter, and the hands of
course turned loose to find employment till spring. Fred was told that
he must look up a place; every body was busy about their own affairs,
and he must shift for himself; and so with half his wages in his pocket,
and promises for the rest, he started to seek his fortune.

It was a cold, cheerless, gray-eyed day, with an air that pinched
fingers and toes, and seemed to penetrate one's clothes like snow
water--such a day as it needs the brightest fire and the happiest heart
to get along at all with; and, unluckily, Fred had neither. Christmas
was approaching, and all the shops had put on their holiday dresses; the
confectioners' windows were glittering with sparkling pyramids of candy,
with frosted cake, and unfading fruits and flowers of the very best of
sugar. There, too, was Santa Claus, large as life, with queer, wrinkled
visage, and back bowed with the weight of all desirable knickknacks,
going down chimney, in sight of all the children of Cincinnati, who
gathered around the shop with constantly-renewed acclamations. On all
sides might be seen the little people, thronging, gazing, chattering,
while anxious papas and mammas in the shops were gravely discussing tin
trumpets, dolls, spades, wheelbarrows, and toy wagons.

Fred never had heard of the man who said, "How sad a thing it is to look
into happiness through another man's eyes!" but he felt something very
like it as he moved through the gay and bustling streets, where every
body seemed to be finding what they wanted but himself.

He had determined to keep up a stout heart; but in spite of himself, all
this bustling show and merriment made him feel sadder and sadder, and
lonelier and lonelier. He knocked and rang at door after door, but
nobody wanted a boy: nobody ever does want a boy when a boy is wanting a
place. He got tired of ringing door bells, and tried some of the shops.
No, they didn't want him. One said if he was bigger he might do; another
wanted to know if he could keep accounts; one thought that the man
around the corner wanted a boy, and when Fred got there he had just
engaged one. Weary, disappointed, and discouraged, he sat down by the
iron railing that fenced a showy house, and thought what he should do.
It was almost five in the afternoon: cold, dismal, leaden-gray was the
sky--the darkness already coming on. Fred sat listlessly watching the
great snow feathers, as they slowly sailed down from the sky. Now he
heard gay laughs, as groups of merry children passed; and then he
started, as he saw some woman in a black bonnet, and thought she looked
like his mother. But all passed, and nobody looked at him, nobody wanted
him, nobody noticed him.

Just then a patter of little feet was heard behind him on the
flagstones, and a soft, baby voice said, "How do 'oo do?" Fred turned in
amazement; and there stood a plump, rosy little creature of about two
years, with dimpled cheek, ruby lips, and long, fair hair curling about
her sweet face. She was dressed in a blue pelisse, trimmed with swan's
down, and her complexion was so exquisitely fair, her eyes so clear and
sweet, that Fred felt almost as if it were an angel. The little thing
toddled up to him, and holding up before him a new wax doll, all
splendid in silk and lace, seemed quite disposed to make his
acquaintance. Fred thought of his lost sister, and his eyes filled up
with tears. The little one put up one dimpled hand to wipe them away,
while with the other holding up before him the wax doll, she said,
coaxingly, "No no ky."

Just then the house door opened, and a lady, richly dressed, darted out,
exclaiming, "Why, Mary, you little rogue, how came you out here?" Then
stopping short, and looking narrowly on Fred, she said, somewhat
sharply, "Whose boy are you? and how came you here?"

"I'm nobody's boy," said Fred, getting up, with a bitter choking in his
throat; "my mother's dead; I only sat down here to rest me for a while."

"Well, run away from here," said the lady; but the little girl pressed
before her mother, and jabbering very earnestly in unimaginable English,
seemed determined to give Fred her wax doll, in which, she evidently
thought, resided every possible consolation.

The lady felt in her pocket and found a quarter, which she threw towards
Fred. "There, my boy, that will get you lodging and supper, and
to-morrow you can find some place to work, I dare say;" and she hurried
in with the little girl, and shut the door.

It was not money that Fred wanted just then, and he picked up the
quarter with a heavy heart. The sky looked darker, and the street
drearier, and the cold wind froze the tear on his cheeks as he walked
listlessly down the street in the dismal twilight.

"I can go back to the canal boat, and find the cook," he thought to
himself. "He told me I might sleep with him to-night if I couldn't find
a place;" and he quickened his steps with this determination. Just as he
was passing a brightly-lighted coffee house, familiar voices hailed him,
and Fred stopped; he would be glad even to see a dog he had ever met
before, and of course he was glad when two boys, old canal boat
acquaintances, hailed him, and invited him into the coffee house. The
blazing fire was a brave light on that dismal night, and the faces of
the two boys were full of glee, and they began rallying Fred on his
doleful appearance, and insisting on it that he should take something
warm with them.

Fred hesitated a moment; but he was tired and desperate, and the
steaming, well-sweetened beverage was too tempting. "Who cares for me?"
thought he, "and why should I care?" and down went the first spirituous
liquor the boy had ever tasted; and in a few moments, he felt a
wonderful change. He was no longer a timid, cold, disheartened,
heart-sick boy, but felt somehow so brave, so full of hope and courage,
that he began to swagger, to laugh very loud, and to boast in such high
terms of the money in his pocket, and of his future intentions and
prospects, that the two boys winked significantly at each other. They
proposed, after sitting a while, to walk out and see the shop windows.
All three of the boys had taken enough to put them to extra merriment;
but Fred, who was entirely unused to the stimulant, was quite beside
himself. If they sung, he shouted; if they laughed, he screamed; and he
thought within himself he never had heard and thought so many witty
things as on that very evening. At last they fell in with quite a press
of boys, who were crowding round a confectionery window, and, as usual
in such cases, there began an elbowing and scuffling contest for places,
in which Fred was quite conspicuous. At last a big boy presumed on his
superior size to edge in front of our hero, and cut off his prospect;
and Fred, without more ado, sent him smashing through the shop window.
There was a general scrabble, every one ran for himself, and Fred, never
having been used to the business, was not very skilful in escaping, and
of course was caught, and committed to an officer, who, with small
ceremony, carried him off and locked him up in the watch house, from
which he was the next morning taken before the mayor, and after
examination sent to jail.

This sobered Fred. He came to himself as out of a dream, and he was
overwhelmed with an agony of shame and self-reproach. He had broken his
promise to his dead mother--he had been drinking! and his heart failed
him when he thought of the horrors that his mother had always associated
with that word. And then he was in jail--that place that his mother had
always represented as an almost impossible horror, the climax of shame
and disgrace. The next night the poor boy stretched himself on his hard,
lonely bed, and laid under his head his little bundle, containing his
few clothes and his mother's Bible, and then sobbed himself to sleep.

Cold and gray dawned the following morning on little Fred, as he slowly
and heavily awoke, and with a bitter chill of despair recalled the
events of the last two nights, and looked up at the iron-grated window,
and round on the cheerless walls; and, as if in bitter contrast, arose
before him an image of his lost home--the neat, quiet room, the white
curtains and snowy floor, his mother's bed, with his own little cot
beside it, and his mother's mild blue eyes, as they looked upon him only
six months ago. Mechanically he untied the check handkerchief which
contained his few clothes, and worldly possessions, and relics of home.

There was the small, clean-printed Bible his mother had given him with
so many tears on their first parting; there was a lock of her soft brown
hair; there, too, were a pair of little worn shoes and stockings, a
baby's rattle, and a curl of golden hair, which he had laid up in memory
of his lost little pet. Fred laid his head down over all these, his
forlorn treasures, and sobbed as if his heart would break.

After a while the jailer came in, and really seemed affected by the
distress of the child, and said what he could to console him; and in the
course of the day, as the boy "seemed to be so lonesome like," he
introduced another boy into the room as company for him. This was a
cruel mercy; for while the child was alone with himself and the memories
of the past, he was, if sad, at least safe, and in a few hours after
this new introduction he was neither. His new companion was a tall boy
of fourteen, with small, cunning, gray eyes, to which a slight cast gave
an additional expression of shrewdness and drollery. He was a young
gentleman of great natural talent,--in a certain line,--with very
precocious attainments in all that kind of information which a boy gains
by running at large for several years in a city's streets without any
thing particular to do, or any body in particular to obey--any
conscience, any principle, any fear either of God or man. We should not
say that he had never seen the inside of a church, for he had been, for
various purposes, into every one of the city, and to every camp meeting
for miles around; and so much had he profited by these exercises, that
he could mimic to perfection every minister who had any perceptible
peculiarity, could caricature every species of psalm-singing, and give
ludicrous imitations of every form of worship. Then he was _au fait_ in
all coffee house lore, and knew the names and qualities of every kind of
beverage therein compounded; and as to smoking and chewing, the first
elements of which he mastered when he was about six years old, he was
now a _connoisseur_ in the higher branches. He had been in jail dozens
of times--rather liked the fun; had served one term on the
chain-gang--not so bad either--shouldn't mind another--learned a good
many prime things there.

At first Fred seemed inclined to shrink from his new associate. An
instinctive feeling, like the warning of an invisible angel, seemed to
whisper, "Beware!" But he was alone, with a heart full of bitter
thoughts, and the sight of a fellow-face was some comfort. Then his
companion was so dashing, so funny, so free and easy, and seemed to make
such a comfortable matter of being in jail, that Fred's heart, naturally
buoyant, began to come up again in his breast. Dick Jones soon drew out
of him his simple history as to how he came there, and finding that he
was a raw hand, seemed to feel bound to patronize and take him under his
wing. He laughed quite heartily at Fred's story, and soon succeeded in
getting him to laugh at it too.

How strange!--the very scenes that in the morning he looked at only with
bitter anguish and remorse, this noon he was laughing at as good
jokes--so much for the influence of good society! An instinctive
feeling, soon after Dick Jones came in, led Fred to push his little
bundle into the farthest corner, under the bed, far out of sight or
inquiry; and the same reason led him to suppress all mention of his
mother, and all the sacred part of his former life. He did this more
studiously, because, having once accidentally remarked how his mother
used to forbid him certain things, the well-educated Dick broke out,--

"Well, for my part, I could whip my mother when I wa'n't higher than
_that_!" with a significant gesture.

"Whip your mother!" exclaimed Fred, with a face full of horror.

"To be sure, greenie! Why not? Precious fun it was in those times. I
used to slip in and steal the old woman's whiskey and sugar when she was
just too far over to walk a crack--she'd throw the tongs at me, and I'd
throw the shovel at her, and so it went square and square."

Goethe says somewhere, "Miserable is that man whose _mother_ has not
made all other mothers venerable." Our new acquaintance bade fair to
come under this category.

Fred's education, under this talented instructor, made progress. He sat
hours and hours laughing at his stories--sometimes obscene, sometimes
profane, but always so full of life, drollery, and mimicry that a more
steady head than Fred's was needed to withstand the contagion. Dick had
been to the theatre--knew it all like a book, and would take Fred there
as soon as they got out; then he had a first-rate pack of cards, and he
could teach Fred to play; and the gay tempters were soon spread out on
their bed, and Fred and his instructor sat hour after hour absorbed in
what to him was a new world of interest. He soon learned, could play for
small stakes, and felt in himself the first glimmering of that fire
which, when fully kindled, many waters cannot quench, nor floods drown!

Dick was, as we said, precocious. He had the cool eye and steady hand of
an experienced gamester, and in a few days he won, of course, all Fred's
little earnings. But then he was quite liberal and free with his money.
He added to their prison fare such various improvements as his abundance
of money enabled him to buy. He had brought with him the foundation of
good cheer in a capacious bottle which emerged the first night from his
pocket, for he said he never went to jail without his provision; then
hot water, and sugar, and lemons, and peppermint drops were all
forthcoming for money, and Fred learned once and again, and again, the
fatal secret of hushing conscience, and memory, and bitter despair in
delirious happiness, and as Dick said, was "getting to be a right jolly
'un that would make something yet."

And was it all gone, all washed away by this sudden wave of evil?--every
trace of prayer, and hope, and sacred memory in this poor child's heart?
No, not all; for many a night, when his tempter slept by his side, the
child lived over the past; again he kneeled in prayer, and felt his
mother's guardian hand on his head, and he wept tears of bitter remorse,
and wondered at the dread change that had come over him. Then he
dreamed, and he saw his mother and sister walking in white, fair as
angels, and would go to them; but between him and them was a great gulf
fixed, which widened and widened, and grew darker and darker, till he
could see them no more, and he awoke in utter misery and despair.

Again and again he resolved, in the darkness of the night, that
to-morrow he would not drink, and he would not speak a wicked word, and
he would not play cards, nor laugh at Dick's bad stories. Ah, how many
such midnight resolves have evil angels sneered at and good ones sighed
over! for with daylight back comes the old temptation, and with it the
old mind; and with daylight came back the inexorable prison walls which
held Fred and his successful tempter together.

At last he gave himself up. No, he could not be good with Dick--there
was no use in trying!--and he made no more midnight resolves, and drank
more freely of the dreadful remedy for unquiet thoughts.

And now is Fred growing in truth a wicked boy. In a little while more
and he shall be such a one as you will on no account take under your
roof, lest he corrupt your own children; and yet, father, mother, look
at your son of twelve years, your bright, darling boy, and think of him
shut up for a month with such a companion, in such a cell, and ask
yourselves if he would be any better.

And was there no eye, heavenly or earthly, to look after this lost one?
Was there no eye which could see through all the traces of sin, the yet
lingering drops of that baptism and early prayer and watchfulness which
consecrated it? Yes; He whose mercy extends to the third and fourth
generations of those who love him, sent a friend to our poor boy in his
last distress.

It is one of the most refined and characteristic modifications of
Christianity, that those who are themselves sheltered, guarded, fenced
by good education, knowledge, and competence, appoint and sustain a
pastor and guardian in our large cities to be the shepherd of the
wandering and lost, and of them who, in the Scripture phrase, "have none
to help." Justly is he called the "City Missionary," for what is more
truly missionary ground? In the hospital, among the old, the sick, the
friendless, the forlorn--in the prison, among the hardened, the
blaspheming--among the discouraged and despairing, still holding with
unsteady hand on to some forlorn fragment of virtue and self-respect,
goes this missionary to stir the dying embers of good, to warn, entreat,
implore, to adjure by sacred recollections of father, mother, and home,
the fallen wanderers to return. He finds friends, and places, and
employment for some, and by timely aid and encouragement saves many a
one from destruction.

In this friendly shape appeared a man of prayer to visit the cell in
which Fred was confined. Dick listened to his instructions with cool
complacency, rolling his tobacco from side to side in his mouth, and
meditating on him as a subject for some future histrionic exercise of
his talent.

But his voice was as welcome to poor Fred as daylight in a dungeon. All
the smothered remorse and despair of his heart burst forth in bitter
confessions, as, with many tears, he poured forth his story to the
friendly man. It needs not to prolong our story, for now the day has
dawned and the hour of release is come.

It is not needful to carry our readers through all the steps by which
Fred was transferred, first to the fireside of the friendly missionary,
and afterwards to the guardian care of a good old couple who resided on
a thriving farm not far from Cincinnati. Set free from evil influences,
the first carefully planted and watered seeds of good began to grow
again, and he became as a son to the kind family who had adopted him.




THE CANAL BOAT.


Of all the ways of travelling which obtain among our locomotive nation,
this said vehicle, the canal boat, is the most absolutely prosaic and
inglorious. There is something picturesque, nay, almost sublime, in the
lordly march of your well-built, high-bred steamboat. Go, take your
stand on some overhanging bluff, where the blue Ohio winds its thread of
silver, or the sturdy Mississippi tears its path through unbroken
forests, and it will do your heart good to see the gallant boat walking
the waters with unbroken and powerful tread; and, like some fabled
monster of the wave, breathing fire, and making the shores resound with
its deep respirations. Then there is something mysterious, even awful,
in the power of steam. See it curling up against a blue sky, some rosy
morning--graceful, floating, intangible, and to all appearance the
softest and gentlest of all spiritual things; and then think that it is
this fairy spirit that keeps all the world alive and hot with motion;
think how excellent a servant it is, doing all sorts of gigantic works,
like the genii of old; and yet, if you let slip the talisman only for a
moment, what terrible advantage it will take of you! and you will
confess that steam has some claims both to the beautiful and the
terrible. For our own part, when we are down among the machinery of a
steamboat in full play, we conduct ourself very reverently, for we
consider it as a very serious neighborhood; and every time the steam
whizzes with such red-hot determination from the escape valve, we start
as if some of the spirits were after us. But in a canal boat there is no
power, no mystery, no danger; one cannot blow up, one cannot be drowned,
unless by some special effort: one sees clearly all there is in the
case--a horse, a rope, and a muddy strip of water--and that is all.

Did you ever try it, reader? If not, take an imaginary trip with us,
just for experiment. "There's the boat!" exclaims a passenger in the
omnibus, as we are rolling down from the Pittsburg Mansion House to the
canal. "Where?" exclaim a dozen of voices, and forthwith a dozen heads
go out of the window. "Why, down there, under that bridge; don't you see
those lights?" "What! that little thing?" exclaims an inexperienced
traveller; "dear me! we can't half of us get into it!" "We! indeed,"
says some old hand in the business; "I think you'll find it will hold us
and a dozen more loads like us." "Impossible!" say some. "You'll see,"
say the initiated; and, as soon as you get out, you _do_ see, and hear
too, what seems like a general breaking loose from the Tower of Babel,
amid a perfect hail storm of trunks, boxes, valises, carpet bags, and
every describable and indescribable form of what a westerner calls
"plunder."

"That's my trunk!" barks out a big, round man. "That's my bandbox!"
screams a heart-stricken old lady, in terror for her immaculate Sunday
caps. "Where's my little red box? I had two carpet bags and a--My trunk
had a scarle--Halloo! where are you going with that portmanteau?
Husband! husband! do see after the large basket and the little hair
trunk--O, and the baby's little chair!" "Go below--go below, for mercy's
sake, my dear; I'll see to the baggage." At last, the feminine part of
creation, perceiving that, in this particular instance, they gain
nothing by public speaking, are content to be led quietly under hatches;
and amusing is the look of dismay which each new comer gives to the
confined quarters that present themselves. Those who were so ignorant of
the power of compression as to suppose the boat scarce large enough to
contain them and theirs, find, with dismay, a respectable colony of old
ladies, babies, mothers, big baskets, and carpet bags already
established. "Mercy on us!" says one, after surveying the little room,
about ten feet long and six high, "where are we all to sleep to-night?"
"O me! what a sight of children!" says a young lady, in a despairing
tone. "Poh!" says an initiated traveller; "children! scarce any here;
let's see: one; the woman in the corner, two; that child with the bread
and butter, three; and then there's that other woman with two. Really,
it's quite moderate for a canal boat. However, we can't tell till they
have all come."

"All! for mercy's sake, you don't say there are any more coming!"
exclaim two or three in a breath; "they _can't_ come; _there is not
room_!"

Notwithstanding the impressive utterance of this sentence, the contrary
is immediately demonstrated by the appearance of a very corpulent,
elderly lady, with three well-grown daughters, who come down looking
about them most complacently, entirely regardless of the unchristian
looks of the company. What a mercy it is that fat people are always good
natured!

After this follows an indiscriminate raining down of all shapes, sizes,
sexes, and ages--men, women, children, babies, and nurses. The state of
feeling becomes perfectly desperate. Darkness gathers on all faces. "We
shall be smothered! we shall be crowded to death! we _can't stay_ here!"
are heard faintly from one and another; and yet, though the boat grows
no wider, the walls no higher, they do live, and do stay there, in spite
of repeated protestations to the contrary. Truly, as Sam Slick says,
"there's a _sight of wear_ in human natur'."

But, meanwhile, the children grow sleepy, and divers interesting little
duets and trios arise from one part or another of the cabin.

"Hush, Johnny! be a good boy," says a pale, nursing mamma, to a great,
bristling, white-headed phenomenon, who is kicking very much at large in
her lap.

"I won't be a good boy, neither," responds Johnny, with interesting
explicitness; "I want to go to bed, and so-o-o-o!" and Johnny makes up a
mouth as big as a teacup, and roars with good courage, and his mamma
asks him "if he ever saw pa do so," and tells him that "he is mamma's
dear, good little boy, and must not make a noise," with various
observations of the kind, which are so strikingly efficacious in such
cases. Meanwhile, the domestic concert in other quarters proceeds with
vigor. "Mamma, I'm tired!" bawls a child. "Where's the baby's night
gown?" calls a nurse. "Do take Peter up in your lap, and keep him
still." "Pray get out some biscuits to stop their mouths." Meanwhile,
sundry babies strike in "con spirito," as the music books have it, and
execute various flourishes; the disconsolate mothers sigh, and look as
if all was over with them; and the young ladies appear extremely
disgusted, and wonder "what business women have to be travelling round
with babies."

To these troubles succeeds the turning-out scene, when the whole caravan
is ejected into the gentlemen's cabin, that the beds may be made. The
red curtains are put down, and in solemn silence all, the last
mysterious preparations begin. At length it is announced that all is
ready. Forthwith the whole company rush back, and find the walls
embellished by a series of little shelves, about a foot wide, each
furnished with a mattress and bedding, and hooked to the ceiling by a
very suspiciously slender cord. Direful are the ruminations and
exclamations of inexperienced travellers, particularly young ones, as
they eye these very equivocal accommodations. "What, sleep up there! _I_
won't sleep on one of those top shelves, _I_ know. The cords will
certainly break." The chambermaid here takes up the conversation, and
solemnly assures them that such an accident is not to be thought of at
all; that it is a natural impossibility--a thing that could not happen
without an actual miracle; and since it becomes increasingly evident
that thirty ladies cannot all sleep on the lowest shelf, there is some
effort made to exercise faith in this doctrine; nevertheless, all look
on their neighbors with fear and trembling; and when the stout lady
talks of taking a shelf, she is most urgently pressed to change places
with her alarmed neighbor below. Points of location being after a while
adjusted, comes the last struggle. Every body wants to take off a
bonnet, or look for a shawl, to find a cloak, or get a carpet bag, and
all set about it with such zeal that nothing can be done. "Ma'am, you're
on my foot!" says one. "Will you please to move, ma'am?" says somebody,
who is gasping and struggling behind you. "Move!" you echo. "Indeed, I
should be very glad to, but I don't see much prospect of it."
"Chambermaid!" calls a lady, who is struggling among a heap of carpet
bags and children at one end of the cabin. "Ma'am!" echoes the poor
chambermaid, who is wedged fast, in a similar situation, at the other.
"Where's my cloak, chambermaid?" "I'd find it, ma'am, if I could move."
"Chambermaid, my basket!" "Chambermaid, my parasol!" "Chambermaid, my
carpet bag!" "Mamma, they push me so!" "Hush, child; crawl under there,
and lie still till I can undress you." At last, however, the various
distresses are over, the babies sink to sleep, and even that
much-enduring being, the chambermaid, seeks out some corner for repose.
Tired and drowsy, you are just sinking into a doze, when bang! goes the
boat against the sides of a lock; ropes scrape, men run and shout, and
up fly the heads of all the top shelfites, who are generally the more
juvenile and airy part of the company.

"What's that! what's that!" flies from mouth to mouth; and forthwith
they proceed to awaken their respective relations. "Mother! Aunt Hannah!
do wake up; what is this awful noise?" "O, only a lock!" "Pray be
still," groan out the sleepy members from below.

"A lock!" exclaim the vivacious creatures, ever on the alert for
information; "and what _is_ a lock, pray?"

"Don't you know what a lock is, you silly creatures? Do lie down and go
to sleep."

"But say, there ain't any _danger_ in a lock, is there?" respond the
querists. "Danger!" exclaims a deaf old lady, poking up her head;
"what's the matter? There hain't nothin' burst, has there?" "No, no,
no!" exclaim the provoked and despairing opposition party, who find that
there is no such thing as going to sleep till they have made the old
lady below and the young ladies above understand exactly the philosophy
of a lock. After a while the conversation again subsides; again all is
still; you hear only the trampling of horses and the rippling of the
rope in the water, and sleep again is stealing over you. You doze, you
dream, and all of a sudden you are started by a cry, "Chambermaid! wake
up the lady that wants to be set ashore." Up jumps chambermaid, and up
jump the lady and two children, and forthwith form a committee of
inquiry as to ways and means. "Where's my bonnet?" says the lady, half
awake, and fumbling among the various articles of that name. "I thought
I hung it up behind the door." "Can't you find it?" says poor
chambermaid, yawning and rubbing her eyes. "O, yes, here it is," says
the lady; and then the cloak, the shawl, the gloves, the shoes, receive
each a separate discussion. At last all seems ready, and they begin to
move off, when, lo! Peter's cap is missing. "Now, where can it be?"
soliloquizes the lady. "I put it right here by the table leg; maybe it
got into some of the berths." At this suggestion, the chambermaid takes
the candle, and goes round deliberately to every berth, poking the light
directly in the face of every sleeper. "Here it is," she exclaims,
pulling at something black under one pillow. "No, indeed, those are my
shoes," says the vexed sleeper. "Maybe it's here," she resumes, darting
upon something dark in another berth. "No, that's my bag," responds the
occupant. The chambermaid then proceeds to turn over all the children on
the floor, to see if it is not under them. In the course of which
process they are most agreeably waked up and enlivened; and when every
body is broad awake, and most uncharitably wishing the cap, and Peter
too, at the bottom of the canal, the good lady exclaims, "Well, if this
isn't lucky; here I had it safe in my basket all the time!" And she
departs amid the--what shall I say?--execrations?--of the whole company,
ladies though they be.

Well, after this follows a hushing up and wiping up among the juvenile
population, and a series of remarks commences from the various shelves,
of a very edifying and instructive tendency. One says that the woman did
not seem to know where any thing was; another says that she has waked
them all up; a third adds that she has waked up all the children, too;
and the elderly ladies make moral reflections on the importance of
putting your things where you can find them--being always ready; which
observations, being delivered in an exceedingly doleful and drowsy tone,
form a sort of sub-bass to the lively chattering of the upper shelfites,
who declare that they feel quite wide awake,--that they don't think they
shall go to sleep again to-night,--and discourse over every thing in
creation, until you heartily wish you were enough related to them to
give them a scolding.

At last, however, voice after voice drops off; you fall into a most
refreshing slumber; it seems to you that you sleep about a quarter of an
hour, when the chambermaid pulls you by the sleeve. "Will you please to
get up, ma'am? We want to make the beds." You start and stare. Sure
enough, the night is gone. So much for sleeping on board canal boats.

Let us not enumerate the manifold perplexities of the morning toilet in
a place where every lady realizes most forcibly the condition of the old
woman who lived under a broom: "All she wanted was elbow room." Let us
not tell how one glass is made to answer for thirty fair faces, one ewer
and vase for thirty lavations; and--tell it not in Gath!--one towel for
a company! Let us not intimate how ladies' shoes have, in a night,
clandestinely slid into the gentlemen's cabin, and gentlemen's boots
elbowed, or, rather, _toed_ their way among ladies' gear, nor recite the
exclamations after runaway property that are heard. "I can't find
nothin' of Johnny's shoe!" "Here's a shoe in the water pitcher--is this
it?" "My side combs are gone!" exclaims a nymph with dishevelled curls.
"Massy! do look at my bonnet!" exclaims an old lady, elevating an
article crushed into as many angles as there are pieces in a minced pie.
"I never did sleep _so much together_ in my life," echoes a poor little
French lady, whom despair has driven into talking English.

But our shortening paper warns us not to prolong our catalogue of
distresses beyond reasonable bounds, and therefore we will close with
advising all our friends, who intend to try this way of travelling for
_pleasure_, to take a good stock both of patience and clean towels with
them, for we think that they will find abundant need for both.




FEELING.


There is one way of studying human nature, which surveys mankind only as
a set of instruments for the accomplishment of personal plans. There is
another, which regards them simply as a gallery of pictures, to be
admired or laughed at as the caricature or the _beau ideal_
predominates. A third way regards them as human beings, having hearts
that can suffer and enjoy, that can be improved or be ruined; as those
who are linked to us by mysterious reciprocal influences, by the common
dangers of a present existence, and the uncertainties of a future one;
as presenting, wherever we meet them, claims on our sympathy and
assistance.

Those who adopt the last method are interested in human beings, not so
much by _present_ attractions as by their capabilities as intelligent,
immortal beings; by a high belief of what every mind may attain in an
immortal existence; by anxieties for its temptations and dangers, and
often by the perception of errors and faults which threaten its ruin.
The first two modes are adopted by the great mass of society; the last
is the office of those few scattered stars in the sky of life, who look
down on its dark selfishness to remind us that there is a world of light
and love.

To this class did _He_ belong, whose rising and setting on earth were
for "the healing of the nations;" and to this class has belonged many a
pure and devoted spirit, like him shining to cheer, like him fading away
into the heavens. To this class many a one _wishes_ to belong, who has
an eye to distinguish the divinity of virtue, without the resolution to
attain it; who, while they sweep along with the selfish current of
society, still regret that society is not different--that they
themselves are not different. If this train of thought has no very
particular application to what follows, it was nevertheless suggested by
it, and of its relevancy others must judge.

Look into this school room. It is a warm, sleepy afternoon in July;
there is scarcely air enough to stir the leaves of the tall buttonwood
tree before the door, or to lift the loose leaves of the copy book in
the window; the sun has been diligently shining into those curtainless
west windows ever since three o'clock, upon those blotted and mangled
desks, and those decrepit and tottering benches, and that great arm
chair, the high place of authority.

You can faintly hear, about the door, the "craw, craw," of some
neighboring chickens, which have stepped around to consider the dinner
baskets, and pick up the crumbs of the noon's repast. For a marvel, the
busy school is still, because, in truth, it is too warm to stir. You
will find nothing to disturb your meditation on character, for you
cannot hear the beat of those little hearts, nor the bustle of all those
busy thoughts.

Now look around. Who of these is the most interesting? Is it that tall,
slender, hazel-eyed boy, with a glance like a falcon, whose elbows rest
on his book as he gazes out on the great buttonwood tree, and is
calculating how he shall fix his squirrel trap when school is out? Or is
it that curly-headed little rogue, who is shaking with repressed
laughter at seeing a chicken roll over in a dinner basket? Or is it that
arch boy with black eyelashes, and deep, mischievous dimple in his
cheeks, who is slyly fixing a fish hook to the skirts of the master's
coat, yet looking as abstracted as Archimedes whenever the good man
turns his head that way? No; these are intelligent, bright, beautiful,
but it is not these.

Perhaps, then, it is that sleepy little girl, with golden curls, and a
mouth like a half-blown rosebud. See, the small brass thimble has fallen
to the floor, her patchwork drops from her lap, her blue eyes close like
two sleepy violets, her little head is nodding, and she sinks on her
sister's shoulder: surely it is she. No, it is not.

But look in that corner. Do you see that boy with such a gloomy
countenance--so vacant, yet so ill natured? He is doing nothing, and he
very seldom does any thing. He is surly and gloomy in his looks and
actions. He never showed any more aptitude for saying or doing a pretty
thing than his straight white hair does for curling. He is regularly
blamed and punished every day, and the more he is blamed and punished,
the worse he grows. None of the boys and girls in school will play with
him; or, if they do, they will be sorry for it. And every day the master
assures him that "he does not know what to do with him," and that he
"makes him more trouble than any boy in school," with similar judicious
information, that has a striking tendency to promote improvement. That
is the boy to whom I apply the title of "the most interesting one."

He is interesting because he is _not_ pleasing; because he has bad
habits; because he does wrong; because, under present influences, he is
always likely to do wrong. He is interesting because he has become what
he is now by means of the very temperament which often makes the noblest
virtue. It is feeling, acuteness of feeling, which has given that
countenance its expression, that character its moroseness.

He has no father, and that long-suffering friend, his mother, is gone
too. Yet he has relations, and kind ones too; and, in the compassionate
language of worldly charity, it may be said of him, "He would have
nothing of which to complain, if he would only behave himself."

His little sister is always bright, always pleasant and cheerful; and
his friends say, "Why should not he be so too? He is in exactly the same
circumstances." No, he is not. In one circumstance they differ. He has a
mind to feel and remember every thing that can pain; she can feel and
remember but little. If you blame him, he is exasperated, gloomy, and
cannot forget it. If you blame her, she can say she has done wrong in a
moment, and all is forgotten. Her mind can no more be wounded than the
little brook where she loves to play. The bright waters close again, and
smile and prattle as merry as before.

Which is the most desirable temperament? It would be hard to say. The
power of feeling is necessary for all that is noble in man, and yet it
involves the greatest risks. They who catch at happiness on the bright
surface of things, secure a portion, such as it is, with more certainty;
those who dive for it in the waters of deeper feeling, if they succeed,
will bring up pearls and diamonds, but if they sink they are lost
forever!

But now comes Saturday, and school is just out. Can any one of my
readers remember the rapturous prospect of a long, bright Saturday
afternoon? "Where are you going?" "Will you come and see me?" "We are
going a fishing!" "Let us go a strawberrying!" may be heard rising from
the happy group. But no one comes near the ill-humored James, and the
little party going to visit his sister "wish James was out of the way."
He sees every motion, hears every whisper, knows, suspects, feels it
all, and turns to go home more sullen and ill tempered than common. The
world looks dark--nobody loves him--and he is told that it is "all his
own fault," and that makes the matter still worse.

When the little party arrive, he is suspicious and irritable, and, of
course, soon excommunicated. Then, as he stands in disconsolate anger,
looking over the garden fence at the gay group making dandelion chains,
and playing baby house under the trees, he wonders why he is not like
other children. He wishes he were different, and yet he does not know
what to do. He looks around, and every thing is blooming and bright. His
little bed of flowers is even brighter and sweeter than ever before, and
a new rose is just opening on his rosebush.

There goes pussy, too, racing and scampering, with little Ellen after
her, in among the alleys and flowers; and the birds are singing in the
trees; and the soft winds brush the blossoms of the sweet pea against
his cheek; and yet, though all nature looks on him so kindly, he is
wretched.

Let us now change the scene. Why is that crowded assembly so
attentive--so silent? Who is speaking? It is our old friend, the little
disconsolate schoolboy. But his eyes are flashing with intellect, his
face fervent with emotion, his voice breathes like music, and every mind
is enchained.

Again, it is a splendid sunset, and yonder enthusiast meets it face to
face, as a friend. He is silent--rapt--happy. He feels the poetry which
God has written; he is touched by it, as God meant that the feeling
spirit should be touched.

Again, he is watching by the bed of sickness, and it is blessed to have
such a watcher! anticipating every want; relieving, not in a cold,
uninterested way, but with the quick perceptions, the tenderness, the
gentleness of an angel.

Follow him into the circle of friendship, and why is he so loved and
trusted? Why can you so easily tell to him what you can say to no one
else besides? Why is it that all around him feel that he can understand,
appreciate, be touched by all that touches them?

And when heaven uncloses its doors of light, when all its knowledge, its
purity, its bliss, rises on the eye and passes into the soul, who then
will be looked on as the one who might be envied--he who _can_, or he
who _cannot feel_?




THE SEAMSTRESS.

    "Few, save the poor, feel for the poor;
      The rich know not how hard
    It is to be of needful food
      And needful rest debarred.

    Their paths are paths of plenteousness;
      They sleep on silk and down;
    They never think how wearily
      The weary head lies down.

    They never by the window sit,
      And see the gay pass by,
    Yet take their weary work again,
      And with a mournful eye."

    L. E. L.


However fine and elevated, in a sentimental point of view, may have been
the poetry of this gifted writer, we think we have never seen any thing
from this source that _ought_ to give a better opinion of her than the
little ballad from which the above verses are taken.

They show that the accomplished authoress possessed, not merely a
knowledge of the dreamy ideal wants of human beings, but the more
pressing and homely ones, which the fastidious and poetical are often
the last to appreciate. The sufferings of poverty are not confined to
those of the common, squalid, every day inured to hardships, and ready,
with open hand, to receive charity, let it come to them as it will.
There is another class on whom it presses with still heavier power--the
generous, the decent, the self-respecting, who have struggled with their
lot in silence, "bearing all things, hoping all things," and willing to
endure all things, rather than breathe a word of complaint, or to
acknowledge, even to themselves, that their own efforts will not be
sufficient for their own necessities.

Pause with me a while at the door of yonder room, whose small window
overlooks a little court below. It is inhabited by a widow and her
daughter, dependent entirely on the labors of the needle, and those
other slight and precarious resources, which are all that remain to
woman when left to struggle her way through the world alone. It contains
all their small earthly store, and there is scarce an article of its
little stock of furniture that has not been thought of, and toiled for,
and its price calculated over and over again, before every thing could
be made right for its purchase. Every article is arranged with the
utmost neatness and care; nor is the most costly furniture of a
fashionable parlor more sedulously guarded from a scratch or a rub, than
is that brightly-varnished bureau, and that neat cherry tea table and
bedstead. The floor, too, boasted once a carpet; but old Time has been
busy with it, picking a hole here, and making a thin place there; and
though the old fellow has been followed up by the most indefatigable
zeal in darning, the marks of his mischievous fingers are too plain to
be mistaken. It is true, a kindly neighbor has given a bit of faded
baize, which has been neatly clipped and bound, and spread down over an
entirely unmanageable hole in front of the fireplace; and other places
have been repaired with pieces of different colors; and yet, after all,
it is evident that the poor carpet is not long for this world.

But the best face is put upon every thing. The little cupboard in the
corner, that contains a few china cups, and one or two antiquated silver
spoons, relics of better days, is arranged with jealous neatness, and
the white muslin window curtain, albeit the muslin be old, has been
carefully whitened and starched, and smoothly ironed, and put up with
exact precision; and on the bureau, covered by a snowy cloth, are
arranged a few books and other memorials of former times, and a faded
miniature, which, though it have little about it to interest a stranger,
is more precious to the poor widow than every thing besides.

Mrs. Ames is seated in her rocking chair, supported by a pillow, and
busy cutting out work, while her daughter, a slender, sickly-looking
girl, is sitting by the window, intent on some fine stitching.

Mrs. Ames, in former days, was the wife of a respectable merchant, and
the mother of an affectionate family. But evil fortune had followed her
with a steadiness that seemed like the stern decree of some adverse fate
rather than the ordinary dealings of a merciful Providence. First came a
heavy run of losses in business; then long and expensive sickness in the
family, and the death of children. Then there was the selling of the
large house and elegant furniture, to retire to a humbler style of
living; and finally, the sale of all the property, with the view of
quitting the shores of a native land, and commencing life again in a new
one. But scarcely had the exiled family found themselves in the port of
a foreign land, when the father was suddenly smitten down by the hand of
death, and his lonely grave made in a land of strangers. The widow,
broken-hearted and discouraged, had still a wearisome journey before her
ere she could reach any whom she could consider as her friends. With her
two daughters, entirely unattended, and with her finances impoverished
by detention and sickness, she performed the tedious journey.

Arrived at the place of her destination, she found herself not only
without immediate resources, but considerably in debt to one who had
advanced money for her travelling expenses. With silent endurance she
met the necessities of her situation. Her daughters, delicately reared,
and hitherto carefully educated, were placed out to service, and Mrs.
Ames sought for employment as a nurse. The younger child fell sick, and
the hard earnings of the mother were all exhausted in the care of her;
and though she recovered in part, she was declared by her physician to
be the victim of a disease which would never leave her till it
terminated her life.

As soon, however, as her daughter was so far restored as not to need her
immediate care, Mrs. Ames resumed her laborious employment. Scarcely had
she been able, in this way, to discharge the debts for her journey and
to furnish the small room we have described, when the hand of disease
was laid heavily on herself. Too resolute and persevering to give way to
the first attacks of pain and weakness, she still continued her
fatiguing employment till her system was entirely prostrated. Thus all
possibility of pursuing her business was cut off, and nothing remained
but what could be accomplished by her own and her daughter's dexterity
at the needle. It is at this time we ask you to look in upon the mother
and daughter.

Mrs. Ames is sitting up, the first time for a week, and even to-day she
is scarcely fit to do so; but she remembers that the month is coming
round, and her rent will soon be due; and in her feebleness she will
stretch every nerve to meet her engagements with punctilious exactness.

Wearied at length with cutting out, and measuring, and drawing threads,
she leans back in her chair, and her eye rests on the pale face of her
daughter, who has been sitting for two hours intent on her stitching.

"Ellen, my child, your head aches; don't work so steadily."

"O, no, it don't ache _much_," said she, too conscious of looking very
much tired. Poor girl! had she remained in the situation in which she
was born, she would now have been skipping about, and enjoying life as
other young girls of fifteen do; but now there is no choice of
employments for her--no youthful companions--no visiting--no pleasant
walks in the fresh air. Evening and morning, it is all the same;
headache or sideache, it is all one. She must hold on the same unvarying
task--a wearisome thing for a girl of fifteen.

But see! the door opens, and Mrs. Ames's face brightens as her other
daughter enters. Mary has become a domestic in a neighboring family,
where her faithfulness and kindness of heart have caused her to be
regarded more as a daughter and a sister than as a servant. "Here,
mother, is your rent money," she exclaimed; "so do put up your work and
rest a while. I can get enough to pay it next time before the month
comes around again."

"Dear child, I do wish you would ever think to get any thing for
yourself," said Mrs. Ames. "I cannot consent to use up all your
earnings, as I have done lately, and all Ellen's too; you must have a
new dress this spring, and that bonnet of yours is not decent any
longer."

"O, no, mother! I have made over my blue calico, and you would be
surprised to see how well it looks; and my best frock, when it is washed
and darned, will answer some time longer. And then Mrs. Grant has given
me a ribbon, and when my bonnet is whitened and trimmed it will look
very well. And so," she added, "I brought you some wine this afternoon;
you know the doctor says you need wine."

"Dear child, I want to see you take some comfort of your money
yourself."

"Well, I do take comfort of it, mother. It is more comfort to be able to
help you than to wear all the finest dresses in the world."

       *       *       *       *       *

Two months from this dialogue found our little family still more
straitened and perplexed. Mrs. Ames had been confined all the time with
sickness, and the greater part of Ellen's time and strength was occupied
with attending to her.

Very little sewing could the poor girl now do, in the broken intervals
that remained to her; and the wages of Mary were not only used as fast
as earned, but she anticipated two months in advance.

Mrs. Ames had been better for a day or two, and had been sitting up,
exerting all her strength to finish a set of shirts which had been sent
in to make. "The money for them will just pay our rent," sighed she;
"and if we can do a little more this week----"

"Dear mother, you are so tired," said Ellen; "do lie down, and not worry
any more till I come back."

Ellen went out, and passed on till she came to the door of an elegant
house, whose damask and muslin window curtains indicated a fashionable
residence.

Mrs. Elmore was sitting in her splendidly-furnished parlor, and around
her lay various fancy articles which two young girls were busily
unrolling. "What a lovely pink scarf!" said one, throwing it over her
shoulders and skipping before a mirror; while the other exclaimed, "Do
look at these pocket handkerchiefs, mother! what elegant lace!"

"Well, girls," said Mrs. Elmore, "these handkerchiefs are a shameful
piece of extravagance. I wonder you will insist on having such things."

"La, mamma, every body has such now; Laura Seymour has half a dozen that
cost more than these, and her father is no richer than ours."

"Well," said Mrs. Elmore, "rich or not rich, it seems to make very
little odds; we do not seem to have half as much money to spare as we
did when we lived in the little house in Spring Street. What with new
furnishing the house, and getting every thing you boys and girls say you
must have, we are poorer, if any thing, than we were then."

"Ma'am, here is Mrs. Ames's girl come with some sewing," said the
servant.

"Show her in," said Mrs. Elmore.

Ellen entered timidly, and handed her bundle of work to Mrs. Elmore, who
forthwith proceeded to a minute scrutiny of the articles; for she prided
herself on being very particular as to her sewing. But, though the work
had been executed by feeble hands and aching eyes, even Mrs. Elmore
could detect no fault in it.

"Well, it is very prettily done," said she. "What does your mother
charge?"

Ellen handed a neatly-folded bill which she had drawn for her mother. "I
must say, I think your mother's prices are very high," said Mrs. Elmore,
examining her nearly empty purse; "every thing is getting so dear that
one hardly knows how to live." Ellen looked at the fancy articles, and
glanced around the room with an air of innocent astonishment. "Ah," said
Mrs. Elmore, "I dare say it seems to you as if persons in our situation
had no need of economy; but, for my part, I feel the need of it more and
more every day." As she spoke she handed Ellen the three dollars, which,
though it was not a quarter the price of one of the handkerchiefs, was
all that she and her sick mother could claim in the world.

"There," said she; "tell your mother I like her work very much, but I do
not think I can afford to employ her, if I can find any one to work
cheaper."

Now, Mrs. Elmore was not a hard-hearted woman, and if Ellen had come as
a beggar to solicit help for her sick mother, Mrs. Elmore would have
fitted out a basket of provisions, and sent a bottle of wine, and a
bundle of old clothes, and all the _et cetera_ of such occasions; but
the sight of _a bill_ always aroused all the instinctive sharpness of
her business-like education. She never had the dawning of an idea that
it was her duty to pay any body any more than she could possibly help;
nay, she had an indistinct notion that it was her _duty_ as an economist
to make every body take as little as possible. When she and her
daughters lived in Spring Street, to which she had alluded, they used to
spend the greater part of their time at home, and the family sewing was
commonly done among themselves. But since they had moved into a large
house, and set up a carriage, and addressed themselves to being genteel,
the girls found that they had altogether too much to do to attend to
their own sewing, much less to perform any for their father and
brothers. And their mother found her hands abundantly full in
overlooking her large house, in taking care of expensive furniture, and
in superintending her increased train of servants. The sewing,
therefore, was put out; and Mrs. Elmore _felt it a duty_ to get it done
the cheapest way she could. Nevertheless, Mrs. Elmore was too notable a
lady, and her sons and daughters were altogether too fastidious as to
the make and quality of their clothing, to admit the idea of its being
done in any but the most complete and perfect manner.

Mrs. Elmore never accused herself of want of charity for the poor; but
she had never considered that the best class of the poor are those who
never ask charity. She did not consider that, by paying liberally those
who were honestly and independently struggling for themselves, she was
really doing a greater charity than by giving indiscriminately to a
dozen applicants.

"Don't you think, mother, she says we charge too high for this work!"
said Ellen, when she returned. "I am sure she did not know how much work
we put in those shirts. She says she cannot give us any more work; she
must look out for somebody that will do it cheaper. I do not see how it
is that people who live in such houses, and have so many beautiful
things, can feel that they cannot afford to pay for what costs us so
much."

"Well, child, they are more apt to feel so than people who live
plainer."

"Well, I am sure," said Ellen, "we cannot afford to spend so much time
as we have over these shirts for less money."

"Never mind, my dear," said the mother, soothingly; "here is a bundle of
work that another lady has sent in, and if we get it done, we shall have
enough for our rent, and something over to buy bread with."

It is needless to carry our readers over all the process of cutting, and
fitting, and gathering, and stitching, necessary in making up six fine
shirts. Suffice it to say that on Saturday evening all but one were
finished, and Ellen proceeded to carry them home, promising to bring the
remaining one on Tuesday morning. The lady examined the work, and gave
Ellen the money; but on Tuesday, when the child came with the remaining
work, she found her in great ill humor. Upon reexamining the shirts, she
had discovered that in some important respects they differed from
directions she meant to have given, and supposed she had given; and,
accordingly, she vented her displeasure on Ellen.

"Why didn't you make these shirts as I told you?" said she, sharply.

"We did," said Ellen, mildly; "mother measured by the pattern every
part, and cut them herself."

"Your mother must be a fool, then, to make such a piece of work. I wish
you would just take them back and alter them over;" and the lady
proceeded with the directions, of which neither Ellen nor her mother
till then had had any intimation. Unused to such language, the
frightened Ellen took up her work and slowly walked homeward.

"O, dear, how my head does ache!" thought she to herself; "and poor
mother! she said this morning she was afraid another of her sick turns
was coming on, and we have all this work to pull out and do over."

"See here, mother," said she, with a disconsolate air, as she entered
the room; "Mrs. Rudd says, take out all the bosoms, and rip off all the
collars, and fix them quite another way. She says they are not like the
pattern she sent; but she must have forgotten, for here it is. Look,
mother; it is exactly as we made them."

"Well, my child, carry back the pattern, and show her that it is so."

"Indeed, mother, she spoke so cross to me, and looked at me so, that I
do not feel as if I could go back."

"I will go for you, then," said the kind Maria Stephens, who had been
sitting with Mrs. Ames while Ellen was out. "I will take the pattern and
shirts, and tell her the exact truth about it. I am not afraid of her."
Maria Stephens was a tailoress, who rented a room on the same floor with
Mrs. Ames, a cheerful, resolute, go-forward little body, and ready
always to give a helping hand to a neighbor in trouble. So she took the
pattern and shirts, and set out on her mission.

But poor Mrs. Ames, though she professed to take a right view of the
matter, and was very earnest in showing Ellen why she ought not to
distress herself about it, still felt a shivering sense of the hardness
and unkindness of the world coming over her. The bitter tears would
spring to her eyes, in spite of every effort to suppress them, as she
sat mournfully gazing on the little faded miniature before mentioned.
"When _he_ was alive, I never knew what poverty or trouble was," was the
thought that often passed through her mind. And how many a poor forlorn
one has thought the same!

Poor Mrs. Ames was confined to her bed for most of that week. The doctor
gave absolute directions that she should do nothing, and keep entirely
quiet--a direction very sensible indeed in the chamber of ease and
competence, but hard to be observed in poverty and want.

What pains the kind and dutiful Ellen took that week to make her mother
feel easy! How often she replied to her anxious questions, "that she was
quite well," or "that her head did not ache _much_!" and by various
other evasive expedients the child tried to persuade herself that she
was speaking the truth. And during the times her mother slept, in the
day or evening, she accomplished one or two pieces of plain work, with
the price of which she expected to surprise her mother.

It was towards evening when Ellen took her finished work to the elegant
dwelling of Mrs. Page. "I shall get a dollar for this," said she;
"enough to pay for mother's wine and medicine."

"This work is done very neatly," said Mrs. Page, "and here is some more
I should like to have finished in the same way."

Ellen looked up wistfully, hoping Mrs. Page was going to pay her for the
last work. But Mrs. Page was only searching a drawer for a pattern,
which she put into Ellen's hands, and after explaining how she wanted
her work done, dismissed her without saying a word about the expected
dollar.

Poor Ellen tried two or three times, as she was going out, to turn round
and ask for it; but before she could decide what to say, she found
herself in the street.

Mrs. Page was an amiable, kind-hearted woman, but one who was so used to
large sums of money that she did not realize how great an affair a
single dollar might seem to other persons. For this reason, when Ellen
had worked incessantly at the new work put into her hands, that she
might get the money for all together, she again disappointed her in the
payment.

"I'll send the money round to-morrow," said she, when Ellen at last
found courage to ask for it. But to-morrow came, and Ellen was
forgotten; and it was not till after one or two applications more that
the small sum was paid.

But these sketches are already long enough, and let us hasten to close
them. Mrs. Ames found liberal friends, who could appreciate and honor
her integrity of principle and loveliness of character, and by their
assistance she was raised to see more prosperous days; and she, and the
delicate Ellen, and warm-hearted Mary were enabled to have a home and
fireside of their own, and to enjoy something like the return of their
former prosperity.

We have given these sketches, drawn from real life, because we think
there is in general too little consideration on the part of those who
give employment to those in situations like the widow here described.
The giving of employment is a very important branch of charity, inasmuch
as it assists that class of the poor who are the most deserving. It
should be looked on in this light, and the arrangements of a family be
so made that a suitable compensation can be given, and prompt and
cheerful payment be made, without the dread of transgressing the rules
of economy.

It is better to teach our daughters to do without expensive ornaments or
fashionable elegances; better even to deny ourselves the pleasure of
large donations or direct subscriptions to public charities, rather than
to curtail the small stipend of her whose "candle goeth not out by
night," and who labors with her needle for herself and the helpless dear
ones dependent on her exertions.




OLD FATHER MORRIS.

A SKETCH FROM NATURE.


Of all the marvels that astonished my childhood, there is none I
remember to this day with so much interest as the old man whose name
forms my caption. When I knew him, he was an aged clergyman, settled
over an obscure village in New England. He had enjoyed the advantages of
a liberal education, had a strong, original power of thought, an
omnipotent imagination, and much general information; but so early and
so deeply had the habits and associations of the plough, the farm, and
country life wrought themselves into his mind, that his after
acquirements could only mingle with them, forming an unexampled amalgam
like unto nothing but itself.

He was an ingrain New Englander, and whatever might have been the source
of his information, it came out in Yankee form, with the strong
provinciality of Yankee dialect.

It is in vain to attempt to give a full picture of such a genuine
_unique_; but some slight and imperfect dashes may help the imagination
to a faint idea of what none can fully conceive but those who have seen
and heard old Father Morris.

Suppose yourself one of half a dozen children, and you hear the cry,
"Father Morris is coming!" You run to the window or door, and you see a
tall, bulky old man, with a pair of saddle bags on one arm, hitching his
old horse with a fumbling carefulness, and then deliberately stumping
towards the house. You notice his tranquil, florid, full-moon face,
enlightened by a pair of great round blue eyes, that roll with dreamy
inattentiveness on all the objects around; and as he takes off his hat,
you see the white curling wig that sets off his round head. He comes
towards you, and as you stand staring, with all the children around, he
deliberately puts his great hand on your head, and, with deep, rumbling
voice, inquires,--

"How d'ye do, my darter? is your daddy at home?" "My darter" usually
makes off as fast as possible, in an unconquerable giggle. Father Morris
goes into the house, and we watch him at every turn, as, with the most
liberal simplicity, he makes himself at home, takes off his wig, wipes
down his great face with a checked pocket handkerchief, helps himself
hither and thither to whatever he wants, and asks for such things as he
cannot lay his hands on, with all the comfortable easiness of childhood.

I remember to this day how we used to peep through the crack of the
door, or hold it half ajar and peer in, to watch his motions; and how
mightily diverted we were with his deep, slow manner of speaking, his
heavy, cumbrous walk, but, above all, with the wonderful faculty of
"_hemming_" which he possessed.

His deep, thundering, protracted "A-hem-em" was like nothing else that
ever I heard; and when once, as he was in the midst of one of these
performances, the parlor door suddenly happened to swing open, I heard
one of my roguish brothers calling, in a suppressed tone, "Charles!
Charles! Father Morris has _hemmed_ the door open!"--and then followed
the signs of a long and desperate titter, in which I sincerely
sympathized.

But the morrow is Sunday. The old man rises in the pulpit. He is not now
in his own humble little parish, preaching simply to the hoers of corn
and planters of potatoes, but there sits Governor D., and there is Judge
R., and Counsellor P., and Judge G. In short, he is before a refined and
literary audience. But Father Morris rises; he thinks nothing of this;
he cares nothing; he knows nothing, as he himself would say, but "Jesus
Christ, and him crucified." He takes a passage of Scripture to explain;
perhaps it is the walk to Emmaus, and the conversation of Jesus with his
disciples. Immediately the whole start out before you, living and
picturesque: the road to Emmaus is a New England turnpike; you can see
its mile stones, its mullein stalks, its toll gates. Next the disciples
rise, and you have before you all their anguish, and hesitation, and
dismay talked out to you in the language of your own fireside. You
smile; you are amused; yet you are touched, and the illusion grows every
moment. You see the approaching stranger, and the mysterious
conversation grows more and more interesting. Emmaus rises in the
distance, in the likeness of a New England village, with a white meeting
house and spire. You follow the travellers; you enter the house with
them; nor do you wake from your trance until, with streaming eyes, the
preacher tells you that "they saw it was the Lord Jesus--and _what a
pity_ it was they could not have known it before!"

It was after a sermon on this very chapter of Scripture history that
Governor Griswold, in passing out of the house, laid hold on the sleeve
of his first acquaintance: "Pray tell me," said he, "who is this
minister?"

"Why, it is old Father Morris."

"Well, he is an oddity--and a genius too, I declare!" he continued. "I
have been wondering all the morning how I could have read the Bible to
so little purpose as not to see all these particulars he has presented."

I once heard him narrate in this picturesque way the story of Lazarus.
The great bustling city of Jerusalem first rises to view, and you are
told, with great simplicity, how the Lord Jesus "used to get tired of
the noise;" and how he was "tired of preaching, again and again, to
people who would not mind a word he said;" and how, "when it came
evening, he used to go out and see his friends in Bethany." Then he told
about the house of Martha and Mary: "a little white house among the
trees," he said; "you could just see it from Jerusalem." And there the
Lord Jesus and his disciples used to go and sit in the evenings, with
Martha, and Mary, and Lazarus.

Then the narrator went on to tell how Lazarus died, describing, with
tears and a choking voice, the distress they were in, and how they sent
a message to the Lord Jesus, and he did not come, and how they wondered
and wondered; and thus on he went, winding up the interest by the
graphic _minutiae_ of an eye witness, till he woke you from the dream by
his triumphant joy at the resurrection scene.

On another occasion, as he was sitting at a tea table, unusually
supplied with cakes and sweetmeats, he found an opportunity to make a
practical allusion to the same family story. He said that Mary was quiet
and humble, sitting at her Savior's feet to hear his words; but Martha
thought more of what was to be got for tea. Martha could not find time
to listen to Christ. No; she was "'cumbered with much serving'--around
the house, frying fritters and making gingerbread."

Among his own simple people, his style of Scripture painting was
listened to with breathless interest. But it was particularly in those
rustic circles, called "conference meetings," that his whole warm soul
unfolded, and the Bible in his hands became a gallery of New England
paintings.

He particularly loved the evangelists, following the footsteps of Jesus
Christ, dwelling upon his words, repeating over and over again the
stories of what he did, with all the fond veneration of an old and
favored servant.

Sometimes, too, he would give the narration an exceedingly practical
turn, as one example will illustrate.

He had noticed a falling off in his little circle that met for social
prayer, and took occasion, the first time he collected a tolerable
audience, to tell concerning "the conference meeting that the disciples
attended" after the resurrection.

"But Thomas was not with them." "Thomas not with them!" said the old
man, in a sorrowful voice. "Why, what could keep Thomas away? Perhaps,"
said he, glancing at some of his backward auditors, "Thomas had got
cold-hearted, and was afraid they would ask him to make the first
prayer; or perhaps," said he, looking at some of the farmers, "Thomas
was afraid the roads were bad; or perhaps," he added, after a pause,
"Thomas had got proud, and thought he could not come in his old
clothes." Thus he went on, significantly summing up the common excuses
of his people; and then, with great simplicity and emotion, he added,
"But only think what Thomas lost! for in the middle of the meeting, the
Lord Jesus came and stood among them! How sorry Thomas must have been!"
This representation served to fill the vacant seats for some time to
come.

At another time Father Morris gave the details of the anointing of David
to be king. He told them how Samuel went to Bethlehem, to Jesse's house,
and went in with a "How d'ye do, Jesse?" and how, when Jesse asked him
to take a chair, he said he could not stay a minute; that the Lord had
sent him to anoint one of his sons for a king; and how, when Jesse
called in the tallest and handsomest, Samuel said "he would not do;" and
how all the rest passed the same test; and at last, how Samuel says,
"Why, have not you any more sons, Jesse?" and Jesse says, "Why, yes,
there is little David down in the lot;" and how, as soon as ever Samuel
saw David, "he slashed the oil right on to him;" and how Jesse said "he
never was so beat in all his life."

Father Morris sometimes used his illustrative talent to very good
purpose in the way of rebuke. He had on his farm a fine orchard of
peaches, from which some of the ten and twelve-year-old gentlemen helped
themselves more liberally than even the old man's kindness thought
expedient.

Accordingly, he took occasion to introduce into his sermon one Sunday,
in his little parish, an account of a journey he took; and how he was
"very warm and very dry;" and how he saw a fine orchard of peaches that
made his mouth water to look at them. "So," says he, "I came up to the
fence and looked all around, for I would not have touched one of them
_without leave_ for all the world. At last I spied a man, and says I,
'Mister, won't you give me some of your peaches?' So the man came and
gave me nigh about a hat full. And while I stood there eating, I said,
'Mister, how do you manage to keep your peaches?' 'Keep them!' said he,
and he stared at me; 'what do you mean?' 'Yes, sir,' said I; 'don't the
boys steal them?' 'Boys steal them!' said he. 'No, indeed!' 'Why, sir,'
said I, 'I have a whole lot full of peaches, and I cannot get half of
them'"--here the old man's voice grew tremulous--"'because the boys in
my parish steal them so.' 'Why, sir,' said he, 'don't their parents
teach them not to steal?' And I grew all over in a cold sweat, and I
told him 'I was afeard they didn't.' 'Why, how you talk!' says the man;
'do tell me where you live?' Then," said Father Morris, the tears
running over, "I was obliged to tell him I lived in the town of G."
After this Father Morris kept his peaches.

Our old friend was not less original in the logical than in the
illustrative portions of his discourses. His logic was of that familiar,
colloquial kind which shakes hands with common sense like an old friend.
Sometimes, too, his great mind and great heart would be poured out on
the vast themes of religion, in language which, though homely, produced
all the effects of the sublime. He once preached a discourse on the
text, "the High and Holy One that inhabiteth eternity;" and from the
beginning to the end it was a train of lofty and solemn thought. With
his usual simple earnestness, and his great, rolling voice, he told
about "the Great God--the Great Jehovah--and how the people in this
world were flustering and worrying, and afraid they should not get time
to do this, and that, and t'other. But," he added, with full-hearted
satisfaction, "the Lord is never in a hurry; he has it all to do, but he
has time enough, for he inhabiteth eternity." And the grand idea of
infinite leisure and almighty resources was carried through the sermon
with equal strength and simplicity.

Although the old man never seemed to be sensible of any thing tending to
the ludicrous in his own mode of expressing himself, yet he had
considerable relish for humor, and some shrewdness of repartee. One
time, as he was walking through a neighboring parish, famous for its
profanity, he was stopped by a whole flock of the youthful reprobates of
the place:--

"Father Morris, Father Morris! the devil's dead!"

"Is he?" said the old man, benignly laying his hand on the head of the
nearest urchin; "you poor fatherless children!"

But the sayings and doings of this good old man, as reported in the
legends of the neighborhood, are more than can be gathered or reported.
He lived far beyond the common age of man, and continued, when age had
impaired his powers, to tell over and over again the same Bible stories
that he had told so often before.

I recollect hearing of the joy that almost broke the old man's heart,
when, after many years' diligent watching and nurture of the good seed
in his parish, it began to spring into vegetation, sudden and beautiful
as that which answers the patient watching of the husbandman. Many a
hard, worldly-hearted man--many a sleepy, inattentive hearer--many a
listless, idle young person, began to give ear to words that had long
fallen unheeded. A neighboring minister, who had been sent for to see
and rejoice in these results, describes the scene, when, on entering the
little church, he found an anxious, crowded auditory assembled around
their venerable teacher, waiting for direction and instruction. The old
man was sitting in his pulpit, almost choking with fulness of emotion as
he gazed around. "Father," said the youthful minister, "I suppose you
are ready to say with old Simeon, 'Now, Lord, lettest thou thy servant
depart in peace, for my eyes have seen thy salvation.'" "_Sartin,
sartin_," said the old man, while the tears streamed down his cheeks,
and his whole frame shook with emotion.

It was not many years after that this simple and loving servant of
Christ was gathered in peace unto Him whom he loved. His name is fast
passing from remembrance, and in a few years, his memory, like his
humble grave, will be entirely grown over and forgotten among men,
though it will be had in everlasting remembrance by Him who "forgetteth
not his servants," and in whose sight the death of his saints is
precious.




THE TWO ALTARS,

OR TWO PICTURES IN ONE.


I. THE ALTAR OF LIBERTY, OR 1776.

The wellsweep of the old house on the hill was relieved, dark and clear,
against the reddening sky, as the early winter sun was going down in the
west. It was a brisk, clear, metallic evening; the long drifts of snow
blushed crimson red on their tops, and lay in shades of purple and lilac
in the hollows; and the old wintry wind brushed shrewdly along the
plain, tingling people's noses, blowing open their cloaks, puffing in
the back of their necks, and showing other unmistakable indications that
he was getting up steam for a real roistering night.

"Hurrah! How it blows!" said little Dick Ward, from the top of the mossy
wood pile.

Now Dick had been sent to said wood pile, in company with his little
sister Grace, to pick up chips, which, every body knows, was in the
olden time considered a wholesome and gracious employment, and the
peculiar duty of the rising generation. But said Dick, being a boy, had
mounted the wood pile, and erected there a flagstaff, on which he was
busily tying a little red pocket handkerchief, occasionally exhorting
Grace "to be sure and pick up fast."

"O, yes, I will," said Grace; "but you see the chips have got ice on
'em, and make my hands so cold!"

"O, don't stop to suck your thumbs! Who cares for ice? Pick away, I say,
while I set up the flag of liberty."

So Grace picked away as fast as she could, nothing doubting but that her
cold thumbs were in some mysterious sense an offering on the shrine of
liberty; while soon the red handkerchief, duly secured, fluttered and
snapped in the brisk evening wind.

"Now you must hurrah, Gracie, and throw up your bonnet," said Dick, as
he descended from the pile.

"But won't it lodge down in some place in the wood pile?" suggested
Grace, thoughtfully.

"O, never fear; give it to me, and just holler now, Gracie, 'Hurrah for
liberty;' and we'll throw up your bonnet and my cap; and we'll play, you
know, that we are a whole army, and I'm General Washington."

So Grace gave up her little red hood, and Dick swung his cap, and up
they both went into the air; and the children shouted, and the flag
snapped and fluttered, and altogether they had a merry time of it. But
then the wind--good for nothing, roguish fellow!--made an ungenerous
plunge at poor Grace's little hood, and snipped it up in a twinkling,
and whisked it off, off, off,--fluttering and bobbing up and down, quite
across a wide, waste, snowy field, and finally lodged it on the top of a
tall, strutting rail, that was leaning, very independently, quite
another way from all the other rails of the fence.

"Now see, do see!" said Grace; "there goes my bonnet! What will Aunt
Hitty say?" and Grace began to cry.

"Don't you cry, Gracie; you offered it up to liberty, you know: it's
glorious to give up every thing for liberty."

"O, but Aunt Hitty won't think so."

"Well, don't cry, Gracie, you foolish girl! Do you think I can't get it?
Now, only play that that great rail is a fort, and your bonnet is a
prisoner in it, and see how quick I'll take the fort and get it!" and
Dick shouldered a stick and started off.

       *       *       *       *       *

"What upon _airth_ keeps those children so long? I should think they
were _making_ chips!" said Aunt Mehetabel; "the fire's just a going out
under the tea kettle."

By this time Grace had lugged her heavy basket to the door, and was
stamping the snow off her little feet, which were so numb that she
needed to stamp, to be quite sure they were yet there. Aunt Mehetabel's
shrewd face was the first that greeted her as the door opened.

"Gracie--what upon _airth_!--wipe your nose, child; your hands are
frozen. Where alive is Dick?--and what's kept you out all this
time?--and where's your bonnet?"

Poor Grace, stunned by this cataract of questions, neither wiped her
nose nor gave any answer, but sidled up into the warm corner, where
grandmamma was knitting, and began quietly rubbing and blowing her
fingers, while the tears silently rolled down her cheeks, as the fire
made the former ache intolerably.

"Poor little dear!" said grandmamma, taking her hands in hers; "Hitty
shan't scold you. Grandma knows you've been a good girl--the wind blew
poor Gracie's bonnet away;" and grandmamma wiped both eyes and nose, and
gave her, moreover, a stalk of dried fennel out of her pocket; whereat
Grace took heart once more.

"Mother always makes fools of Roxy's children," said Mehetabel, puffing
zealously under the tea kettle. "There's a little maple sugar in that
saucer up there, mother, if you will keep giving it to her," she said,
still vigorously puffing. "And now, Gracie," she said, when, after a
while, the fire seemed in tolerable order, "will you answer my question?
Where is Dick?"

"Gone over in the lot, to get my bonnet."

"How came your bonnet off?" said Aunt Mehetabel. "I tied it on firm
enough."

"Dick wanted me to take it off for him, to throw up for liberty," said
Grace.

"Throw up for fiddlestick! Just one of Dick's cut-ups; and you was silly
enough to mind him!"

"Why, he put up a flagstaff on the wood pile, and a flag to liberty, you
know, that papa's fighting for," said Grace, more confidently, as she
saw her quiet, blue-eyed mother, who had silently walked into the room
during the conversation.

Grace's mother smiled and said, encouragingly, "And what then?"

"Why, he wanted me to throw up my bonnet and he his cap, and shout for
liberty; and then the wind took it and carried it off, and he said I
ought not to be sorry if I did lose it--it was an offering to liberty."

"And so I did," said Dick, who was standing as straight as a poplar
behind the group; "and I heard it in one of father's letters to mother,
that we ought to offer up every thing on the altar of liberty--and so I
made an altar of the wood pile."

"Good boy!" said his mother; "always remember every thing your father
writes. He has offered up every thing on the altar of liberty, true
enough; and I hope you, son, will live to do the same."

"Only, if I have the hoods and caps to make," said Aunt Hitty, "I hope
he won't offer them up every week--that's all!"

"O! well, Aunt Hitty, I've got the hood; let me alone for that. It blew
clear over into the Daddy Ward pasture lot, and there stuck on the top
of the great rail; and I played that the rail was a fort, and besieged
it, and took it."

"O, yes! you're always up to taking forts, and any thing else that
nobody wants done. I'll warrant, now, you left Gracie to pick up every
blessed one of them chips."

"Picking up chips is girl's work," said Dick; "and taking forts and
defending the country is men's work."

"And pray, Mister Pomp, how long have you been a man?" said Aunt Hitty.

"If I ain't a man, I soon shall be; my head is 'most up to my mother's
shoulder, and I can fire off a gun, too. I tried, the other day, when I
was up to the store. Mother, I wish you'd let me clean and load the old
gun, so that, if the British should come----"

"Well, if you are so big and grand, just lift me out that table, sir,"
said Aunt Hitty; "for it's past supper time."

Dick sprang, and had the table out in a trice, with an abundant clatter,
and put up the leaves with quite an air. His mother, with the silent and
gliding motion characteristic of her, quietly took out the table cloth
and spread it, and began to set the cups and saucers in order, and to
put on the plates and knives, while Aunt Hitty bustled about the tea.

"I'll be glad when the war's over, for one reason," said she. "I'm
pretty much tired of drinking sage tea, for one, I know."

"Well, Aunt Hitty, how you scolded that pedler last week, that brought
along that real tea!"

"To be sure I did. S'pose I'd be taking any of his old tea, bought of
the British?--fling every teacup in his face first."

"Well, mother," said Dick, "I never exactly understood what it was about
the tea, and why the Boston folks threw it all overboard."

"Because there was an unlawful tax laid upon it, that the government had
no right to lay. It wasn't much in itself; but it was a part of a whole
system of oppressive meanness, designed to take away our rights, and
make us slaves of a foreign power."

"Slaves!" said Dick, straightening himself proudly. "Father a slave!"

"But they would not be slaves! They saw clearly where it would all end,
and they would not begin to submit to it in ever so little," said the
mother.

"I wouldn't, if I was they," said Dick.

"Besides," said his mother, drawing him towards her, "it wasn't for
themselves alone they did it. This is a great country, and it will be
greater and greater; and it's very important that it should have free
and equal laws, because it will by and by be so great. This country, if
it is a free one, will be a light of the world--a city set on a hill,
that cannot be hid; and all the oppressed and distressed from other
countries shall come here to enjoy equal rights and freedom. This, dear
boy, is why your father and uncles have gone to fight, and why they do
stay and fight, though God knows what they suffer, and----" and the
large blue eyes of the mother were full of tears; yet a strong, bright
beam of pride and exultation shone through those tears.

"Well, well, Roxy, you can always talk, every body knows," said Aunt
Hitty, who had been not the least attentive listener of this little
patriotic harangue; "but, you see, the tea is getting cold, and yonder I
see the sleigh is at the door, and John's come; so let's set up our
chairs for supper."

The chairs were soon set up, when John, the eldest son, a lad of about
fifteen, entered with a letter. There was one general exclamation, and
stretching out of hands towards it. John threw it into his mother's lap;
the tea table was forgotten, and the tea kettle sang unnoticed by the
fire, as all hands crowded about mother's chair to hear the news. It was
from Captain Ward, then in the American army, at Valley Forge. Mrs. Ward
ran it over hastily, and then read it aloud. A few words we may extract.

"There is still," it said, "much suffering. I have given away every pair
of stockings you sent me, reserving to myself only one; for I will not
be one whit better off than the poorest soldier that fights for his
country. Poor fellows! it makes my heart ache sometimes to go round
among them, and see them with their worn clothes and torn shoes, and
often bleeding feet, yet cheerful and hopeful, and every one willing to
do his very best. Often the spirit of discouragement comes over them,
particularly at night, when, weary, cold, and hungry, they turn into
their comfortless huts, on the snowy ground. Then sometimes there is a
thought of home, and warm fires, and some speak of giving up; but next
morning out come Washington's general orders--little short note, but
it's wonderful the good it does! and then they all resolve to hold on,
come what may. There are commissioners going all through the country to
pick up supplies. If they come to you, I need not tell you what to do. I
know all that will be in your hearts."

"There, children, see what your father suffers," said the mother, "and
what it costs these poor soldiers to gain our liberty."

"Ephraim Scranton told me that the commissioners had come as far as the
Three Mile Tavern, and that he rather 'spected they'd be along here
to-night," said John, as he was helping round the baked beans to the
silent company at the tea table.

"To-night?--do tell, now!" said Aunt Hitty. "Then it's time we were
awake and stirring. Let's see what can be got."

"I'll send my new overcoat, for one," said John. "That old one isn't cut
up yet, is it, Aunt Hitty?"

"No," said Aunt Hitty; "I was laying out to cut it over next Wednesday,
when Desire Smith could be here to do the tailoring.

"There's the south room," said Aunt Hitty, musing; "that bed has the two
old Aunt Ward blankets on it, and the great blue quilt, and two
comforters. Then mother's and my room, two pair--four comforters--two
quilts--the best chamber has got----"

"O Aunt Hitty, send all that's in the best chamber! If any company
comes, we can make it up off from our beds," said John. "I can send a
blanket or two off from my bed, I know;--can't but just turn over in it,
so many clothes on, now."

"Aunt Hitty, take a blanket off from our bed," said Grace and Dick at
once.

"Well, well, we'll see," said Aunt Hitty, bustling up.

Up rose grandmamma, with, great earnestness, now, and going into the
next room, and opening a large cedar wood chest, returned, bearing in
her arms two large snow white blankets, which she deposited flat on the
table, just as Aunt Hitty was whisking off the table cloth.

"Mortal! mother, what are you going to do?" said Aunt Hitty.

"There," she said; "I spun those, every thread of 'em, when my name was
Mary Evans. Those were my wedding blankets, made of real nice wool, and
worked with roses in all the corners. I've got _them_ to give!" and
grandmamma stroked and smoothed the blankets, and patted them down, with
great pride and tenderness. It was evident she was giving something that
lay very near her heart; but she never faltered.

"La! mother, there's no need of that," said Aunt Hitty. "Use them on
your own bed, and send the blankets off from that; they are just as good
for the soldiers."

"No, I shan't!" said the old lady, waxing warm; "'tisn't a bit too good
for 'em. I'll send the very best I've got, before they shall suffer.
Send 'em the _best_!" and the old lady gestured oratorically.

They were interrupted by a rap at the door, and two men entered, and
announced themselves as commissioned by Congress to search out supplies
for the army. Now the plot thickens. Aunt Hitty flew in every
direction,--through entry passage, meal room, milk room, down cellar, up
chamber,--her cap border on end with patriotic zeal; and followed by
John, Dick, and Grace, who eagerly bore to the kitchen the supplies that
she turned out, while Mrs. Ward busied herself in quietly sorting and
arranging, in the best possible travelling order, the various
contributions that were precipitately launched on the kitchen floor.

Aunt Hitty soon appeared in the kitchen with an armful of stockings,
which, kneeling on the floor, she began counting and laying out.

"There," she said, laying down a large bundle on some blankets, "that
leaves just two pair apiece all round."

"La!" said John, "what's the use of saving two pair for me? I can do
with one pair, as well as father."

"Sure enough," said his mother; "besides, I can knit you another pair in
a day."

"And I can do with one pair," said Dick.

"Yours will be too small, young master, I guess," said one of the
commissioners.

"No," said Dick; "I've got a pretty good foot of my own, and Aunt Hitty
will always knit my stockings an inch too long, 'cause she says I grow
so. See here--these will do;" and the boy shook his, triumphantly.

"And mine, too," said Grace, nothing doubting, having been busy all the
time in pulling off her little stockings.

"Here," she said to the man who was packing the things into a
wide-mouthed sack; "here's mine," and her large blue eyes looked
earnestly through her tears.

Aunt Hitty flew at her. "Good land! the child's crazy. Don't think the
men could wear your stockings--take 'em away!"

Grace looked around with an air of utter desolation, and began to cry.
"I wanted to give them something," said she. "I'd rather go barefoot on
the snow all day than not send 'em any thing."

"Give me the stockings, my child," said the old soldier, tenderly.
"There, I'll take 'em, and show 'em to the soldiers, and tell them what
the little girl said that sent them. And it will do them as much good as
if they could wear them. They've got little girls at home, too." Grace
fell on her mother's bosom completely happy, and Aunt Hitty only
muttered,--

"Every body does spile that child; and no wonder, neither!"

Soon the old sleigh drove off from the brown house, tightly packed and
heavily loaded. And Grace and Dick were creeping up to their little
beds.

"There's been something put on the altar of Liberty to-night, hasn't
there, Dick?"

"Yes, indeed," said Dick; and, looking up to his mother, he said, "But,
mother, what did you give?"

"I?" said the mother, musingly.

"Yes, you, mother; what have you given to the country?"

"All that I have, dears," said she, laying her hands gently on their
heads--"my husband and my children!"


II. THE ALTAR OF ----, OR 1850.

The setting sun of chill December lighted up the solitary front window
of a small tenement on ---- Street, in Boston, which we now have
occasion to visit. As we push gently aside the open door, we gain sight
of a small room, clean as busy hands can make it, where a neat, cheerful
young mulatto woman is busy at an ironing table. A basket full of
glossy-bosomed shirts, and faultless collars and wristbands, is beside
her, into which she is placing the last few items with evident pride and
satisfaction. A bright black-eyed boy, just come in from school, with
his satchel of books over his shoulder, stands, cap in hand, relating to
his mother how he has been at the head of his class, and showing his
school tickets, which his mother, with untiring admiration, deposits in
the little real china tea pot--which, as being their most reliable
article of gentility, is made the deposit of all the money and most
especial valuables of the family.

"Now, Henry," says the mother, "look out and see if father is coming
along the street;" and she begins filling the little black tea kettle,
which is soon set singing on the stove.

From the inner room now daughter Mary, a well-grown girl of thirteen,
brings the baby, just roused from a nap, and very impatient to renew his
acquaintance with his mamma.

"Bless his bright eyes!--mother will take him," ejaculates the busy
little woman, whose hands are by this time in a very floury condition,
in the incipient stages of wetting up biscuit,--"in a minute;" and she
quickly frees herself from the flour and paste, and, deputing Mary to
roll out her biscuit, proceeds to the consolation and succor of young
master.

"Now, Henry," says the mother, "you'll have time, before supper, to take
that basket of clothes up to Mr. Sheldin's; put in that nice bill, that
you made out last night. I shall give you a cent for every bill you
write out for me. What a comfort it is, now, for one's children to be
gettin' learnin' so!"

Henry shouldered the basket, and passed out the door, just as a
neatly-dressed <DW52> man walked up, with his pail and whitewash
brushes.

"O, you've come, father, have you? Mary, are the biscuits in? You may as
well set the table, now. Well, George, what's the news?"

"Nothing, only a pretty smart day's work. I've brought home five
dollars, and shall have as much as I can do, these two weeks;" and the
man, having washed his hands, proceeded to count out his change on the
ironing table.

"Well, it takes you to bring in the money," said the delighted wife;
"nobody but you could turn off that much in a day."

"Well, they do say--those that's had me once--that they never want any
other hand to take hold in their rooms. I s'pose its a kinder practice
I've got, and kinder natural!"

"Tell ye what," said the little woman, taking down the family strong
box,--to wit, the china tea pot, aforenamed,--and pouring the contents
on the table, "we're getting mighty rich, now! We can afford to get
Henry his new Sunday cap, and Mary her mousseline-de-laine dress--take
care, baby, you rogue!" she hastily interposed, as young master made a
dive at a dollar bill, for his share in the proceeds.

"He wants something, too, I suppose," said the father; "let him get his
hand in while he's young."

The baby gazed, with round, astonished eyes, while mother, with some
difficulty, rescued the bill from his grasp; but, before any one could
at all anticipate his purpose, he dashed in among the small change with
such zeal as to send it flying all over the table.

"Hurrah! Bob's a smasher!" said the father, delighted; "he'll make it
fly, he thinks;" and, taking the baby on his knee, he laughed merrily,
as Mary and her mother pursued the rolling coin all over the room.

"He knows now, as well as can be, that he's been doing mischief," said
the delighted mother, as the baby kicked and crowed uproariously: "he's
such a forward child, now, to be only six months old! O, you've no idea,
father, how mischievous he grows;" and therewith the little woman began
to roll and tumble the little mischief maker about, uttering divers
frightful threats, which appeared to contribute, in no small degree, to
the general hilarity.

"Come, come, Mary," said the mother, at last, with a sudden burst of
recollection; "you mustn't be always on your knees fooling with this
child! Look in the oven at them biscuits."

"They're done exactly, mother--just the brown!" and, with the word, the
mother dumped baby on to his father's knee, where he sat contentedly
munching a very ancient crust of bread, occasionally improving the
flavor thereof by rubbing it on his father's coat sleeve.

"What have you got in that blue dish, there?" said George, when the
whole little circle were seated around the table.

"Well, now, what _do_ you suppose?" said the little woman, delighted: "a
quart of nice oysters--just for a treat, you know. I wouldn't tell you
till this minute," said she, raising the cover.

"Well," said George, "we both work hard for our money, and we don't owe
any body a cent; and why shouldn't we have our treats, now and then, as
well as rich folks?"

And gayly passed the supper hour; the tea kettle sung, the baby crowed,
and all chatted and laughed abundantly.

"I'll tell you," said George, wiping his mouth; "wife, these times are
quite another thing from what it used to be down in Georgia. I remember
then old mas'r used to hire me out by the year; and one time, I
remember, I came and paid him in two hundred dollars--every cent I'd
taken. He just looked it over, counted it, and put it in his pocket
book, and said, 'You are a good boy, George'--and he gave me _half a
dollar_!"

"I want to know, now!" said his wife.

"Yes, he did, and that was every cent I ever got of it; and, I tell you,
I was mighty bad off for clothes, them times."

"Well, well, the Lord be praised, they're over, and you are in a free
country now!" said the wife, as she rose thoughtfully from the table,
and brought her husband the great Bible. The little circle were ranged
around the stove for evening prayers.

"Henry, my boy, you must read--you are a better reader than your
father--thank God, that let you learn early!"

The boy, with a cheerful readiness, read, "The Lord is my Shepherd," and
the mother gently stilled the noisy baby, to listen to the holy words.
Then all kneeled, while the father, with simple earnestness, poured out
his soul to God.

They had but just risen--the words of Christian hope and trust scarce
died on their lips--when, lo! the door was burst open, and two men
entered; and one of them, advancing, laid his hand on the father's
shoulder. "This is the fellow," said he.

"You are arrested in the name of the United States!" said the other.

"Gentlemen, what is this?" said the poor man, trembling.

"Are you not the property of _Mr. B._, of Georgia?" said the officer.

"Gentlemen, I've been a free, hard-working man these ten years."

"Yes; but you are arrested, on suit of Mr. B., as his slave."

Shall we describe the leave taking--the sorrowing wife, the dismayed
children, the tears, the anguish, that simple, honest, kindly home, in a
moment so desolated? Ah, ye who defend this because it is law, think,
for one hour, what if this that happens to your poor brother should
happen to you!

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a crowded court room, and the man stood there to be tried--for
life?--no; but for the life of life--for liberty!

Lawyers hurried to and fro, buzzing, consulting, bringing
authorities,--all anxious, zealous, engaged,--for what? To save a
fellow-man from bondage? No; anxious and zealous lest he might escape;
full of zeal to deliver him over to slavery. The poor man's anxious eyes
follow vainly the busy course of affairs, from which he dimly learns
that he is to be sacrificed--on the altar of the Union; and that his
heart-break and anguish, and the tears of his wife, and the desolation
of his children are, in the eyes of these well-informed men, only the
bleat of a sacrifice, bound to the horns of the glorious American altar!

       *       *       *       *       *

Again it is a bright day, and business walks brisk in this market.
Senator and statesman, the learned and patriotic, are out, this day, to
give their countenance to an edifying, and impressive, and truly
American spectacle--the sale of a man! All the preliminaries of the
scene are there; dusky-browed mothers, looking with sad eyes while
speculators are turning round their children, looking at their teeth,
and feeling of their arms; a poor, old, trembling woman, helpless, half
blind, whose last child is to be sold, holds on to her bright boy with
trembling hands. Husbands and wives, sisters and friends, all soon to be
scattered like the chaff of the threshing floor, look sadly on each
other with poor nature's last tears; and among them walk briskly, glib,
oily politicians, and thriving men of law, letters, and religion,
exceedingly sprightly, and in good spirits--for why?--it isn't _they_
that are going to be sold; it's only somebody else. And so they are very
comfortable, and look on the whole thing as quite a matter-of-course
affair, and, as it is to be conducted to-day, a decidedly valuable and
judicious exhibition.

And now, after so many hearts and souls have been knocked and thumped
this way and that way by the auctioneer's hammer, comes the
_instructive_ part of the whole; and the husband and father, whom we saw
in his simple home, reading and praying with his children, and rejoicing
in the joy of his poor ignorant heart that he lived in a free country,
is now set up to be admonished of his mistake.

Now there is great excitement, and pressing to see, and exultation and
approbation; for it is important and interesting to see a man put down
that has tried to be a _free man_.

"That's he, is it? Couldn't come it, could he?" says one.

"No; and he will never come it, that's more," says another,
triumphantly.

"I don't generally take much interest in scenes of this nature," says a
grave representative; "but I came here to-day for the sake of the
_principle_!"

"Gentlemen," says the auctioneer, "we've got a specimen here that some
of your northern abolitionists would give any price for; but they shan't
have him! no! we've looked out for that. The man that buys him must give
bonds never to sell him to go north again!"

"Go it!" shout the crowd; "good! good! hurrah!" "An impressive idea!"
says a senator; "a noble maintaining of principle!" and the man is bid
off, and the hammer falls with a last crash on his heart, his hopes, his
manhood, and he lies a bleeding wreck on the altar of Liberty!

Such was the altar in 1776; such is the altar in 1850!




A SCHOLAR'S ADVENTURES IN THE COUNTRY.


"If we could only live in the country," said my wife, "how much easier
it would be to live!"

"And how much cheaper!" said I.

"To have a little place of our own, and raise our own things!" said my
wife. "Dear me! I am heart sick when I think of the old place at home,
and father's great garden. What peaches and melons we used to have! what
green peas and corn! Now one has to buy every cent's worth of these
things--and how they taste! Such wilted, miserable corn! Such peas!
Then, if we lived in the country, we should have our own cow, and milk
and cream in abundance; our own hens and chickens. We could have custard
and ice cream every day."

"To say nothing of the trees and flowers, and all that," said I.

The result of this little domestic duet was, that my wife and I began to
ride about the city of ---- to look up some pretty, interesting cottage,
where our visions of rural bliss might be realized. Country residences,
near the city, we found to bear rather a high price; so that it was no
easy matter to find a situation suitable to the length of our purse;
till, at last, a judicious friend suggested a happy expedient.

"Borrow a few hundred," he said, "and give your note; you can save
enough, very soon, to make the difference. When you raise every thing
you eat, you know it will make your salary go a wonderful deal further."

"Certainly it will," said I. "And what can be more beautiful than to buy
places by the simple process of giving one's note?--'tis so neat, and
handy, and convenient!"

"Why," pursued my friend, "there is Mr. B., my next door neighbor--'tis
enough to make one sick of life in the city to spend a week out on his
farm. Such princely living as one gets! And he assures me that it costs
him very little--scarce any thing, perceptible, in fact."

"Indeed!" said I; "few people can say that."

"Why," said my friend, "he has a couple of peach trees for every month,
from June till frost, that furnish as many peaches as he, and his wife,
and ten children can dispose of. And then he has grapes, apricots, etc..;
and last year his wife sold fifty dollars' worth from her strawberry
patch, and had an abundance for the table besides. Out of the milk of
only one cow they had butter enough to sell three or four pounds a week,
besides abundance of milk and cream; and madam has the butter for her
pocket money. This is the way country people manage."

"Glorious!" thought I. And my wife and I could scarce sleep, all night,
for the brilliancy of our anticipations!

To be sure our delight was somewhat damped the next day by the coldness
with which my good old uncle, Jeremiah Standfast, who happened along at
precisely this crisis, listened to our visions.

"You'll find it _pleasant_, children, in the summer time," said the
hard-fisted old man, twirling his blue-checked pocket handkerchief; "but
I'm sorry you've gone in debt for the land."

"O, but we shall soon save that--it's so much cheaper living in the
country!" said both of us together.

"Well, as to that, I don't think it is to city-bred folks."

Here I broke in with a flood of accounts of Mr. B.'s peach trees, and
Mrs. B.'s strawberries, butter, apricots, etc.., etc..; to which the old
gentleman listened with such a long, leathery, unmoved quietude of
visage as quite provoked me, and gave me the worst possible opinion of
his judgment. I was disappointed too; for, as he was reckoned one of the
best practical farmers in the county, I had counted on an enthusiastic
sympathy with all my agricultural designs.

"I tell you what, children," he said, "a body can live in the country,
as you say, amazin' cheap; but then a body must _know how_"--and my
uncle spread his pocket handkerchief thoughtfully out upon his knees,
and shook his head gravely.

I thought him a terribly slow, stupid old body, and wondered how I had
always entertained so high an opinion of his sense.

"He is evidently getting old," said I to my wife; "his judgment is not
what it used to be."

At all events, our place was bought, and we moved out, well pleased, the
first morning in April, not at all remembering the ill savor of that day
for matters of wisdom. Our place was a pretty cottage, about two miles
from the city, with grounds that had been tastefully laid out. There was
no lack of winding paths, arbors, flower borders, and rosebushes, with
which my wife was especially pleased. There was a little green lot,
strolling off down to a brook, with a thick grove of trees at the end,
where our cow was to be pastured.

The first week or two went on happily enough in getting our little new
pet of a house into trimness and good order; for, as it had been long
for sale, of course there was any amount of little repairs that had been
left to amuse the leisure hours of the purchaser. Here a door step had
given away, and needed replacing; there a shutter hung loose, and wanted
a hinge; abundance of glass needed setting; and as to painting and
papering, there was no end to that. Then my wife wanted a door cut here,
to make our bed room more convenient, and a china closet knocked up
there, where no china closet before had been. We even ventured on
throwing out a bay window from our sitting room, because we had luckily
lighted on a workman who was so cheap that it was an actual saving of
money to employ him. And to be sure our darling little cottage did lift
up its head wonderfully for all this garnishing and furbishing. I got up
early every morning, and nailed up the rosebushes, and my wife got up
and watered geraniums, and both flattered ourselves and each other on
our early hours and thrifty habits. But soon, like Adam and Eve in
Paradise, we found our little domain to ask more hands than ours to get
it into shape. So says I to my wife, "I will bring out a gardener when I
come next time, and he shall lay the garden out, and get it into order;
and after that, I can easily keep it by the work of my leisure hours."

Our gardener was a very sublime sort of man,--an Englishman, and, of
course, used to laying out noblemen's places,--and we became as
grasshoppers in our own eyes when he talked of lord this and that's
estate, and began to question us about our carriage drive and
conservatory; and we could with difficulty bring the gentleman down to
any understanding of the humble limits of our expectations: merely to
dress out the walks, and lay out a kitchen garden, and plant potatoes,
turnips, beets, and carrots, was quite a descent for him. In fact, so
strong were his aesthetic preferences, that he persuaded my wife to let
him dig all the turf off from a green square opposite the bay window,
and to lay it out into divers little triangles, resembling small pieces
of pie, together with circles, mounds, and various other geometrical
ornaments, the planning and planting of which soon engrossed my wife's
whole soul. The planting of the potatoes, beets, carrots, etc.., was
intrusted to a raw Irishman; for, as to me, to confess the truth, I
began to fear that digging did not agree with me. It is true that I was
exceedingly vigorous at first, and actually planted with my own hands
two or three long rows of potatoes; after which I got a turn of
rheumatism in my shoulder, which lasted me a week. Stooping down to
plant beets and radishes gave me a vertigo, so that I was obliged to
content myself with a general superintendence of the garden; that is to
say, I charged my Englishman to see that my Irishman did his duty
properly, and then got on to my horse and rode to the city. But about
one part of the matter, I must say, I was not remiss; and that is, in
the purchase of seed and garden utensils. Not a day passed that I did
not come home with my pockets stuffed with, choice seeds, roots, etc..;
and the variety of my garden utensils was unequalled. There was not a
pruning hook, of any pattern, not a hoe, rake, or spade, great or small,
that I did not have specimens of; and flower seeds and bulbs were also
forthcoming in liberal proportions. In fact, I had opened an account at
a thriving seed store; for, when a man is driving business on a large
scale, it is not always convenient to hand out the change for every
little matter, and buying things on account is as neat and agreeable a
mode of acquisition as paying bills with one's notes.

"You know we must have a cow," said my wife, the morning of our second
week. Our friend the gardener, who had now worked with us at the rate of
two dollars a day for two weeks, was at hand in a moment in our
emergency. We wanted to buy a cow, and he had one to sell--a wonderful
cow, of a real English breed. He would not sell her for any money,
except to oblige particular friends; but as we had patronized him, we
should have her for forty dollars. How much we were obliged to him! The
forty dollars were speedily forthcoming, and so also was the cow.

"What makes her shake her head in that way?" said my wife,
apprehensively, as she observed the interesting beast making sundry
demonstrations with her horns. "I hope she's gentle."

The gardener fluently demonstrated that the animal was a pattern of all
the softer graces, and that this head-shaking was merely a little
nervous affection consequent on the embarrassment of a new position. We
had faith to believe almost any thing at this time, and therefore came
from the barn yard to the house as much satisfied with our purchase as
Job with his three thousand camels and five hundred yoke of oxen. Her
quondam master milked her for us the first evening, out of a delicate
regard to her feelings as a stranger, and we fancied that we discerned
forty dollars' worth of excellence in the very quality of the milk.

But alas! the next morning our Irish girl came in with a most rueful
face. "And is it milking that baste you'd have me be after?" she said;
"sure, and she won't let me come near her?"

"Nonsense, Biddy!" said I; "you frightened her, perhaps; the cow is
perfectly gentle;" and with the pail on my arm, I sallied forth. The
moment madam saw me entering the cow yard, she greeted me with a very
expressive flourish of her horns.

"This won't do," said I, and I stopped. The lady evidently was serious
in her intentions of resisting any personal approaches. I cut a cudgel,
and putting on a bold face, marched towards her, while Biddy followed
with her milking stool. Apparently, the beast saw the necessity of
temporizing, for she assumed a demure expression, and Biddy sat down to
milk. I stood sentry, and if the lady shook her head, I shook my stick;
and thus the milking operation proceeded with tolerable serenity and
success.

"There!" said I, with dignity, when the frothing pail was full to the
brim. "That will do, Biddy," and I dropped my stick. Dump! came madam's
heel on the side of the pail, and it flew like a rocket into the air,
while the milky flood showered plentifully over me, and a new broadcloth
riding-coat that I had assumed for the first time that morning. "Whew!"
said I, as soon as I could get my breath from this extraordinary shower
bath; "what's all this?" My wife came running towards the cow yard, as I
stood with the milk streaming from my hair, filling my eyes, and
dropping from the tip of my nose; and she and Biddy performed a
recitative lamentation over me in alternate strophes, like the chorus in
a Greek tragedy. Such was our first morning's experience; but as we had
announced our bargain with some considerable flourish of trumpets among
our neighbors and friends, we concluded to hush the matter up as much as
possible.

"These very superior cows are apt to be cross," said I; "we must bear
with it as we do with the eccentricities of genius; besides, when she
gets accustomed to us, it will be better."

Madam was therefore installed into her pretty pasture lot, and my wife
contemplated with pleasure the picturesque effect of her appearance,
reclining on the green <DW72> of the pasture lot, or standing ankle deep
in the gurgling brook, or reclining under the deep shadows of the trees.
She was, in fact, a handsome cow, which may account, in part, for some
of her sins; and this consideration inspired me with some degree of
indulgence towards her foibles.

But when I found that Biddy could never succeed in getting near her in
the pasture, and that any kind of success in the milking operations
required my vigorous personal exertions morning and evening, the matter
wore a more serious aspect, and I began to feel quite pensive and
apprehensive. It is very well to talk of the pleasures of the milkmaid
going out in the balmy freshness of the purple dawn; but imagine a poor
fellow pulled out of bed on a drizzly, rainy morning, and equipping
himself for a scamper through a wet pasture lot, rope in hand, at the
heels of such a termagant as mine! In fact, madam established a regular
series of exercises, which had all to be gone through before she would
suffer herself to be captured; as, first, she would station herself
plump in the middle of a marsh, which lay at the lower part of the lot,
and look very innocent and absent-minded, as if reflecting on some
sentimental subject. "Suke! Suke! Suke!" I ejaculate, cautiously
tottering along the edge of the marsh, and holding out an ear of corn.
The lady looks gracious, and comes forward, almost within reach of my
hand. I make a plunge to throw the rope over her horns, and away she
goes, kicking up mud and water into my face in her flight, while I,
losing my balance, tumble forward into the marsh. I pick myself up, and,
full of wrath, behold her placidly chewing her cud on the other side,
with the meekest air imaginable, as who should say, "I hope you are not
hurt, sir." I dash through swamp and bog furiously, resolving to carry
all by a _coup de main_. Then follows a miscellaneous season of dodging,
scampering, and bopeeping, among the trees of the grove, interspersed
with sundry occasional races across the bog aforesaid. I always wondered
how I caught her every day; and when I had tied her head to one post and
her heels to another, I wiped the sweat from my brow, and thought I was
paying dear for the eccentricities of genius. A genius she certainly
was, for besides her surprising agility, she had other talents equally
extraordinary. There was no fence that she could not take down; nowhere
that she could not go. She took the pickets off the garden fence at her
pleasure, using her horns as handily as I could use a claw hammer.
Whatever she had a mind to, whether it were a bite in the cabbage
garden, or a run in the corn patch, or a foraging expedition into the
flower borders, she made herself equally welcome and at home. Such a
scampering and driving, such cries of "Suke here" and "Suke there," as
constantly greeted our ears, kept our little establishment in a constant
commotion. At last, when she one morning made a plunge at the skirts of
my new broadcloth frock coat, and carried off one flap on her horns, my
patience gave out, and I determined to sell her.

As, however, I had made a good story of my misfortunes among my friends
and neighbors, and amused them with sundry whimsical accounts of my
various adventures in the cow-catching line, I found, when I came to
speak of selling, that there was a general coolness on the subject, and
nobody seemed disposed to be the recipient of my responsibilities. In
short, I was glad, at last, to get fifteen dollars for her, and
comforted myself with thinking that I had at least gained twenty-five
dollars worth of experience in the transaction, to say nothing of the
fine exercise.

I comforted my soul, however, the day after, by purchasing and bringing
home to my wife a fine swarm of bees.

"Your bee, now," says I, "is a really classical insect, and breathes of
Virgil and the Augustan age--and then she is a domestic, tranquil,
placid creature. How beautiful the murmuring of a hive near our
honeysuckle of a calm, summer evening! Then they are tranquilly and
peacefully amassing for us their stores of sweetness, while they lull us
with their murmurs. What a beautiful image of disinterested
benevolence!"

My wife declared that I was quite a poet, and the beehive was duly
installed near the flower plots, that the delicate creatures might have
the full benefit of the honeysuckle and mignonette. My spirits began to
rise. I bought three different treatises on the rearing of bees, and
also one or two new patterns of hives, and proposed to rear my bees on
the most approved model. I charged all the establishment to let me know
when there was any indication of an emigrating spirit, that I might be
ready to receive the new swarm into my patent mansion.

Accordingly, one afternoon, when I was deep in an article that I was
preparing for the North American Review, intelligence was brought me
that a swarm had risen. I was on the alert at once, and discovered, on
going out, that the provoking creatures had chosen the top of a tree
about thirty feet high to settle on. Now my books had carefully
instructed me just how to approach the swarm and cover them with a new
hive; but I had never contemplated the possibility of the swarm being,
like Haman's gallows, forty cubits high. I looked despairingly upon the
smooth-bark tree, which rose, like a column, full twenty feet, without
branch or twig. "What is to be done?" said I, appealing to two or three
neighbors. At last, at the recommendation of one of them, a ladder was
raised against the tree, and, equipped with a shirt outside of my
clothes, a green veil over my head, and a pair of leather gloves on my
hands, I went up with a saw at my girdle to saw off the branch on which
they had settled, and lower it by a rope to a neighbor, similarly
equipped, who stood below with the hive.

As a result of this manoeuvre the fastidious little insects were at
length fairly installed at housekeeping in my new patent hive, and,
rejoicing in my success, I again sat down to my article.

That evening my wife and I took tea in our honeysuckle arbor, with our
little ones and a friend or two, to whom I showed my treasures, and
expatiated at large on the comforts and conveniences of the new patent
hive.

But alas for the hopes of man! The little ungrateful wretches--what must
they do but take advantage of my over-sleeping myself, the next morning,
to clear out for new quarters without so much as leaving me a P. P. C.!
Such was the fact; at eight o'clock I found the new patent hive as good
as ever; but the bees I have never seen from that day to this!

"The rascally little conservatives!" said I; "I believe they have never
had a new idea from the days of Virgil down, and are entirely unprepared
to appreciate improvements."

Meanwhile the seeds began to germinate in our garden, when we found, to
our chagrin, that, between John Bull and Paddy, there had occurred
sundry confusions in the several departments. Radishes had been planted
broadcast, carrots and beets arranged in hills, and here and there a
whole paper of seed appeared to have been planted bodily. My good old
uncle, who, somewhat to my confusion, made me a call at this time, was
greatly distressed and scandalized by the appearance of our garden. But,
by a deal of fussing, transplanting, and replanting, it was got into
some shape and order. My uncle was rather troublesome, as careful old
people are apt to be--annoying us by perpetual inquiries of what we gave
for this, and that, and running up provoking calculations on the final
cost of matters; and we began to wish that his visits might be as short
as would be convenient.

But when, on taking leave, he promised to send us a fine young cow of
his own raising, our hearts rather smote us for our impatience.

"'Tain't any of your new breeds, nephew," said the old man, "yet I can
say that she's a gentle, likely young crittur, and better worth forty
dollars than many a one that's cried up for Ayrshire or Durham; and you
shall be quite welcome to her."

We thanked him, as in duty bound, and thought that if he was full of
old-fashioned notions, he was no less full of kindness and good will.

And now, with a new cow, with our garden beginning to thrive under the
gentle showers of May, with our flower borders blooming, my wife and I
began to think ourselves in Paradise. But alas! the same sun and rain
that warmed our fruit and flowers brought up from the earth, like sulky
gnomes, a vast array of purple-leaved weeds, that almost in a night
seemed to cover the whole surface of the garden beds. Our gardeners both
being gone, the weeding was expected to be done by me--one of the
anticipated relaxations of my leisure hours.

"Well," said I, in reply to a gentle intimation from my wife, "when my
article is finished, I'll take a day and weed all up clean."

Thus days slipped by, till at length the article was despatched, and I
proceeded to my garden. Amazement! Who could have possibly foreseen that
any thing earthly could grow so fast in a few days! There were no
bounds, no alleys, no beds, no distinction of beet and carrot, nothing
but a flourishing congregation of weeds nodding and bobbing in the
morning breeze, as if to say, "We hope you are well, sir--we've got the
ground, you see!" I began to explore, and to hoe, and to weed. Ah! did
any body ever try to clean a neglected carrot or beet bed, or bend his
back in a hot sun over rows of weedy onions! He is the man to feel for
my despair! How I weeded, and sweat, and sighed! till, when high noon
came on, as the result of all my toils, only three beds were cleaned!
And how disconsolate looked the good seed, thus unexpectedly delivered
from its sheltering tares, and laid open to a broiling July sun! Every
juvenile beet and carrot lay flat down, wilted and drooping, as if, like
me, they had been weeding, instead of being weeded.

"This weeding is quite a serious matter," said I to my wife; "the fact
is, I must have help about it!"

"Just what I was myself thinking," said my wife. "My flower borders are
all in confusion, and my petunia mounds so completely overgrown, that
nobody would dream what they were meant for!"

In short, it was agreed between us that we could not afford the expense
of a full-grown man to keep our place; yet we must reenforce ourselves
by the addition of a boy, and a brisk youngster from the vicinity was
pitched upon as the happy addition. This youth was a fellow of decidedly
quick parts, and in one forenoon made such a clearing in our garden that
I was delighted. Bed after bed appeared to view, all cleared and dressed
out with such celerity that I was quite ashamed of my own slowness,
until, on examination, I discovered that he had, with great
impartiality, pulled up both weeds and vegetables.

This hopeful beginning was followed up by a succession of proceedings
which should be recorded for the instruction of all who seek for help
from the race of boys. Such a loser of all tools, great and small; such
an invariable leaver-open of all gates, and letter-down of bars; such a
personification of all manner of anarchy and ill luck, had never before
been seen on the estate. His time, while I was gone to the city, was
agreeably diversified with roosting on the fence, swinging on the gates,
making poplar whistles for the children, hunting eggs, and eating
whatever fruit happened to be in season, in which latter accomplishment
he was certainly quite distinguished. After about three weeks of this
kind of joint gardening, we concluded to dismiss Master Tom from the
firm, and employ a man.

"Things must be taken care of," said I, "and I cannot do it. 'Tis out of
the question." And so the man was secured.

But I am making a long story, and may chance to outrun the sympathies of
my readers. Time would fail me to tell of the distresses manifold that
fell upon me--of cows dried up by poor milkers; of hens that wouldn't
set at all, and hens that, despite all law and reason, would set on one
egg; of hens that, having hatched families, straightway led them into
all manner of high grass and weeds, by which means numerous young chicks
caught premature colds and perished; and how, when I, with manifold
toil, had driven one of these inconsiderate gadders into a coop, to
teach her domestic habits, the rats came down upon her and slew every
chick in one night; how my pigs were always practising gymnastic
exercises over the fence of the sty, and marauding in the garden. I
wonder that Fourier never conceived the idea of having his garden land
ploughed by pigs; for certainly they manifest quite a decided elective
attraction for turning up the earth.

When autumn came, I went soberly to market, in the neighboring city, and
bought my potatoes and turnips like any other man; for, between all the
various systems of gardening pursued, I was obliged to confess that my
first horticultural effort was a decided failure. But though all my
rural visions had proved illusive, there were some very substantial
realities. My bill at the seed store, for seeds, roots, and tools, for
example, had run up to an amount that was perfectly unaccountable; then
there were various smaller items, such as horse shoeing, carriage
mending--for he who lives in the country and does business in the city
must keep his vehicle and appurtenances. I had always prided myself on
being an exact man, and settling every account, great and small, with
the going out of the old year; but this season I found myself sorely put
to it. In fact, had not I received a timely lift from my good old uncle,
I should have made a complete break down. The old gentleman's
troublesome habit of ciphering and calculating, it seems, had led him
beforehand to foresee that I was not exactly in the money-making line,
nor likely to possess much surplus revenue to meet the note which I had
given for my place; and, therefore, he quietly paid it himself, as I
discovered, when, after much anxiety and some sleepless nights, I went
to the holder to ask for an extension of credit.

"He was right, after all," said I to my wife; "'to live cheap in the
country, a body must know how.'"




"WOMAN, BEHOLD THY SON!"


The golden rays of a summer afternoon were streaming through the windows
of a quiet apartment, where every thing was the picture of orderly
repose. Gently and noiselessly they glide, gilding the glossy old
chairs, polished by years of care; fluttering with flickering gleam on
the bookcases, by the fire, and the antique China vases on the mantel,
and even coqueting with sparkles of fanciful gayety over the face of the
perpendicular, sombre old clock, which, though at times apparently
coaxed almost to the verge of a smile, still continued its inevitable
tick, as for a century before.

On the hearth rug lay outstretched a great, lazy-looking, Maltese cat,
evidently enjoying the golden beam that fell upon his sober sides, and
sleepily opening and shutting his great green eyes, as if lost in
luxurious contemplation.

But the most characteristic figure in the whole picture was that of an
aged woman, who sat quietly rocking to and fro in a great chair by the
side of a large round table covered with books. There was a quiet beauty
in that placid face--that silvery hair brushed neatly under the snowy
border of the cap. Every line in that furrowed face told some tale of
sorrow long assuaged, and passions hushed to rest, as on the calm ocean
shore the golden-furrowed sand shows traces of storms and fluctuations
long past.

On the round, green-covered table beside her lay the quiet companion of
her age, the large Bible, whose pages, like the gates of the celestial
city, were not shut at all by day, a few old standard books, and the
pleasant, rippling knitting, whose dreamy, irresponsible monotony is the
best music of age.

A fair, girlish form was seated by the table; the dress bonnet had
fallen back on her shoulders, the soft cheeks were suffused and earnest,
the long lashes and the veiled eyes were eloquent of subdued feeling, as
she read aloud from the letter in her hand. It was from "our Harry," a
name to both of them comprising all that was dear and valued on earth,
for he was "the only son of his mother, and she a widow;" yet had he not
been always an only one; flower after flower on the tree of her life had
bloomed and died, and gradually, as waters cut off from many channels,
the streams of love had centred deeper in this last and only one.

And, in truth, Harry Sargeant was all that a mother might desire or be
proud of. Generous, high-minded, witty, and talented, and with a strong
and noble physical development, he seemed born to command the love of
women. The only trouble with him was, in common parlance, that he was
too clever a fellow; he was too social, too impressible, too versatile,
too attractive, and too much in demand for his own good. He always drew
company about him, as honey draws flies, and was indispensable every
where and to every body; and it needs a steady head and firm nerves for
such a one to escape ruin.

Harry's course in college, though brilliant in scholarship, had been
critical and perilous. He was a decided favorite with the faculty and
students; yet it required a great deal of hard winking and adroit
management on the part of his instructors to bring him through without
infringement of college laws and proprieties: not that he ever meant the
least harm in his life, but that some extra generous impulse, some
quixotic generosity, was always tumbling him, neck and heels, into
somebody's scrapes, and making him part and parcel in every piece of
mischief that was going on.

With all this premised, there is no need to say that Harry was a special
favorite with ladies; in truth, it was a confessed fact among his
acquaintances, that, whereas dozens of creditable, respectable,
well-to-do young men might besiege female hearts with every proper
formality, waiting at the gates and watching at the posts of the doors
in vain, yet before him all gates and passages seemed to fly open of
their own accord. Nevertheless, there was in his native village one
quiet maiden who held alone in her hand the key that could unlock his
heart in return, and carried silently in her own the spell that could
fetter that brilliant, restless spirit; and she it was, of the
thoughtful brow and downcast eyes, whom we saw in our picture, bending
over the letter with his mother.

That mother Harry loved to idolatry. She was to his mind an
impersonation of all that was lovely in womanhood, hallowed and sainted
by age, by wisdom, by sorrow; and his love for her was a beautiful union
of protective tenderness, with veneration; and to his Ellen it seemed
the best and most sacred evidence of the nobleness of his nature, and of
the worth of the heart which he had pledged to her.

Nevertheless, there was a danger overhanging the heads of the three--a
little cloud, no bigger than a man's hand, rising in the horizon of
their hopes, yet destined to burst upon them, dark and dreadful, in a
future day.

In those scenes of college hilarity where Harry had been so
indispensable, the bright, poetic wine cup had freely circulated, and
often amid the flush of conversation, and the genial excitement of the
hour, he had drank freer and deeper than was best.

He said, it is true, that he cared nothing for it, that it was nothing
to him, that it never affected him, and all those things that young men
always say when the cup of Circe is beginning its work with them.
Friends were annoyed, became anxious, remonstrated; but he laughed at
their fears, and insisted on knowing himself best. At last, with a
sudden start and shiver of his moral nature, he was awakened to a
dreadful perception of his danger, and resolved on decided and
determinate resistance. During this period he came to Cincinnati to
establish himself in business, and as at this time the temperance
reformation was in full tide of success there, he found every thing to
strengthen his resolution; temperance meetings and speeches were all the
mode; young men of the first standing were its patrons and supporters;
wine was quite in the vocative, and seemed really in danger of being
voted out of society. In such a turn of affairs, to sign a temperance
pledge and keep it became an easy thing; temptation was scarce presented
or felt; he was offered the glass in no social circle, met its
attraction nowhere, and flattered himself that he had escaped so great a
danger easily and completely.

His usual fortune of social popularity followed him, and his visiting
circle became full as large and importunate as a young man with any
thing else to do need desire. He was diligent in his application to
business, began to be mentioned with approbation by the magnates as a
rising young man, and had prospects daily nearing of competence and
home, and all that man desires--visions, alas! never to be realized.

For after a while the tide that had risen so high began imperceptibly to
decline. Men that had made eloquent speeches on temperance had now other
things to look to. Fastidious persons thought that matters had, perhaps,
been carried too far, and ladies declared that it was old and
threadbare, and getting to be cant and stuff; and the ever-ready wine
cup was gliding back into many a circle, as if, on sober second
thoughts, the community was convinced that it was a friend unjustly
belied.

There is no point in the history of reform, either in communities or
individuals, so dangerous as that where danger seems entirely past. As
long as a man thinks his health failing, he watches, he diets, and will
undergo the most heroic self-denial; but let him once set himself down
as cured, and how readily does he fall back to one soft indulgent habit
after another, all tending to ruin every thing that he has before done!

So in communities. Let intemperance rage, and young men go to ruin by
dozens, and the very evil inspires the remedy; but when the trumpet has
been sounded, and the battle set in array, and the victory only said and
sung in speeches, and newspaper paragraphs, and temperance odes, and
processions, then comes the return wave; people cry, Enough; the
community, vastly satisfied, lies down to sleep in its laurels; and then
comes the hour of danger.

But let not the man who has once been swept down the stream of
intemperate excitement, almost to the verge of ruin, dream of any point
of security for him. He is like one who has awakened in the rapids of
Niagara, and with straining oar and wild prayers to Heaven, forced his
boat upward into smoother water, where the draught of the current seems
to cease, and the banks smile, and all looks beautiful, and weary from
rowing, lays by his oar to rest and dream; he knows not that under that
smooth water still glides a current, that while he dreams, is
imperceptibly but surely hurrying him back whence there is no return.

Harry was just in this perilous point; he viewed danger as long past,
his self-confidence was fully restored, and in his security he began to
neglect those lighter outworks of caution which he must still guard who
does not mean, at last, to surrender the citadel.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Now, girls and boys," said Mrs. G. to her sons and daughters, who were
sitting round a centre table covered with notes of invitation, and all
the preliminary _et cetera_ of a party, "what shall we have on Friday
night?--tea, coffee, lemonade, wine? of course not."

"And why not wine, mamma?" said the young ladies; "the people are
beginning to have it; they had wine at Mrs. A.'s and Mrs. B.'s."

"Well, your papa thinks it won't do,--the boys are members of the
temperance society,--and _I_ don't think, girls, it will _do_ myself."

There are many good sort of people, by the by, who always view moral
questions in this style of phraseology--not what is right, but what will
"_do_."

The girls made an appropriate reply to this view of the subject, by
showing that Mrs. A. and Mrs. B. had done the thing, and nobody seemed
to make any talk.

The boys, who thus far in the conversation had been thoughtfully rapping
their boots with their canes, now interposed, and said that they would
rather not have wine if it wouldn't look shabby.

"But it _will_ look shabby," said Miss Fanny. "Lemons, you know, are
scarce to be got for any price, and as for lemonade made of sirup, it's
positively vulgar and detestable; it tastes just like cream of tartar
and spirits of turpentine."

"For my part," said Emma, "I never did see the harm of wine, even when
people were making the most fuss about it; to be sure rum and brandy and
all that are bad, but wine----"

"And so convenient to get," said Fanny; "and no decent young man ever
gets drunk at parties, so it can't do any harm; besides, one must have
something, and, as I said, it will look shabby not to have it."

Now, there is no imputation that young men are so much afraid of,
especially from the lips of ladies, as that of shabbiness; and as it
happened in this case as most others that the young ladies were the most
efficient talkers, the question was finally carried on their side.

Mrs. G. was a mild and a motherly woman, just the one fitted to inspire
young men with confidence and that _home_ feeling which all men desire
to find somewhere. Her house was a free and easy ground, social for most
of the young people of her acquaintance, and Harry was a favorite and
domesticated visitor.

During the height of the temperance reform, fathers and brothers had
given it their open and decided support, and Mrs. G.--always easily
enlisted for any good movement--sympathized warmly in their endeavors.
The great fault was, that too often incident to the gentleness of
woman--a want of self-reliant principle. Her virtue was too much the
result of mere sympathy, too little of her own conviction. Hence, when
those she loved grew cold towards a good cause, they found no sustaining
power in her, and those who were relying on her judgment and opinions
insensibly controlled them. Notwithstanding, she was a woman that always
acquired a great influence over young men, and Harry had loved and
revered her with something of the same sentiment that he cherished
towards his own mother.

It was the most brilliant party of the season. Every thing was got up in
faultless taste, and Mrs. G. was in the very spirit of it. The girls
were looking beautifully; the rooms were splendid; there was enough and
not too much of light and warmth, and all were doing their best to
please and be cheerful. Harry was more brilliant than usual, and in fact
outdid himself. Wit and mind were the spirit of the hour.

"Just taste this tokay," said one of the sisters to him; "it has just
been sent us from Europe, and is said to be a genuine article."

"You know I'm not in that line," said Harry, laughing and coloring.

"Why not?" said another young lady, taking a glass.

"O, the temperance pledge, you know! I am one of the pillars of the
order, a very apostle; it will never do for me."

"Pshaw! those temperance pledges are like the proverb, 'something
musty,'" said a gay girl.

"Well, but you said you had a headache the beginning of the evening, and
you really look pale; you certainly need it as a medicine," said Fanny.
"I'll leave it to mamma;" and she turned to Mrs. G., who stood gayly
entertaining a group of young people.

"Nothing more likely," replied she, gayly; "I think, Harry, you have
looked pale lately; a glass of wine might do you good."

Had Mrs. G. known all of Harry's past history and temptations, and had
she not been in just the inconsiderate state that very good ladies
sometimes get into at a party, she would sooner have sacrificed her
right hand than to have thrown this observation into the scales; but she
did, and they turned the balance for him.

"You shall be my doctor," he said, as, laughing and coloring, he drank
the glass--and where was the harm? One glass of wine kills nobody; and
yet if a man falls, and knows that in that glass he sacrifices principle
and conscience, every drop may be poison to the soul and body.

Harry felt at that very time that a great internal barrier had given
way; nor was that glass the only one that evening; another, and another,
and another followed; his spirits rose with the wild and feverish gayety
incident to his excitable temperament, and what had been begun in the
society of ladies was completed late at night in the gentlemen's saloon.

Nobody ever knew, or thought, or recognized that that one party had
forever undone this young man; and yet so it was. From that night his
struggle of moral resistance was fatally impaired; not that he yielded
at once and without desperate efforts and struggles, but gradually each
struggle grew weaker, each reform shorter, each resolution more
inefficient; yet at the close of the evening all those friends, mother,
brother, and sister, flattered themselves that every thing had gone on
so well that the next week Mrs. H. thought that it would do to give wine
at the party because Mrs. G. had done it last week, and no harm had come
of it.

In about a year after, the G.'s began to notice and lament the habits of
their young friend, and all unconsciously to wonder how such a fine
young man should be so led astray.

Harry was of a decided and desperate nature; his affections and his
moral sense waged a fierce war with the terrible tyrant--the madness
that had possessed him; and when at last all hope died out, he
determined to avoid the anguish and shame of a drunkard's life by a
suicide's death. Then came to the trembling, heart-stricken mother and
beloved one a wild, incoherent letter of farewell, and he disappeared
from among the living.

In the same quiet parlor, where the sunshine still streams through
flickering leaves, it now rested on the polished sides and glittering
plate of a coffin; there at last lay the weary at rest, the soft,
shining gray hair was still gleaming as before, but deeper furrows on
the wan cheek, and a weary, heavy languor over the pale, peaceful face,
told that those gray hairs had been brought down in sorrow to the grave.
Sadder still was the story on the cloudless cheek and lips of the young
creature bending in quiet despair over her. Poor Ellen! her life's
thread, woven with these two beloved ones, was broken.

And may all this happen?--nay, does it not happen?--just such things
happen to young men among us every day. And do they not lead in a
thousand ways to sorrows just like these? And is there not a
responsibility on all who ought to be the guardians of the safety and
purity of the other sex, to avoid setting before them the temptation to
which so often and so fatally manhood has yielded? What is a paltry
consideration of fashion, compared to the safety of sons, brothers, and
husbands? The greatest fault of womanhood is slavery to custom; and yet
who but woman makes custom? Are not all the usages and fashions of
polite society more her work than that of man? And let every mother and
sister think of the mothers and sisters of those who come within the
range of their influence, and say to themselves, when in thoughtlessness
they discuss questions affecting their interests, "Behold thy
brother!"--"Behold thy son!"




THE CORAL RING.


"There is no time of life in which young girls are so thoroughly selfish
as from fifteen to twenty," said Edward Ashton, deliberately, as he laid
down a book he had been reading, and leaned over the centre table.

"You insulting fellow!" replied a tall, brilliant-looking creature, who
was lounging on an ottoman hard by, over one of Dickens's last works.

"Truth, coz, for all that," said the gentleman, with the air of one who
means to provoke a discussion.

"Now, Edward, this is just one of your wholesale declarations, for
nothing only to get me into a dispute with you, you know," replied the
lady. "On your conscience, now, (if you have one,) is it not so?"

"My conscience feels quite easy, cousin, in subscribing to that
sentiment as my confession of faith," replied the gentleman, with
provoking _sang froid_.

"Pshaw! it's one of your fusty old bachelor notions. See what comes,
now, of your living to your time of life without a wife--disrespect for
the sex, and all that. Really, cousin, your symptoms are getting
alarming."

"Nay, now, Cousin Florence," said Edward, "you are a girl of moderately
good sense, with all your nonsense. Now don't you (I know you _do_)
think just so too?"

"Think just so too!--do you hear the creature?" replied Florence. "No,
sir; you can speak for yourself in this matter, but I beg leave to enter
my protest when you speak for me too."

"Well, now, where is there, coz, among all our circle, a young girl that
has any sort of purpose or object in life, to speak of, except to make
herself as interesting and agreeable as possible? to be admired, and to
pass her time in as amusing a way as she can? Where will you find one
between fifteen and twenty that has any serious regard for the
improvement and best welfare of those with whom she is connected at all,
or that modifies her conduct, in the least, with reference to it? Now,
cousin, in very serious earnest, you have about as much real character,
as much earnestness and depth of feeling, and as much good sense, when
one can get at it, as any young lady of them all; and yet, on your
conscience, can you say that you live with any sort of reference to any
body's good, or to any thing but your own amusement and gratification?"

"What a shocking adjuration!" replied the lady; "prefaced, too, by a
three-story compliment. Well, being so adjured, I must think to the best
of my ability. And now, seriously and soberly, I don't see as I am
selfish. I do all that I have any occasion to do for any body. You know
that we have servants to do every thing that is necessary about the
house, so that there is no occasion for my making any display of
housewifery excellence. And I wait on mamma if she has a headache, and
hand papa his slippers and newspaper, and find Uncle John's spectacles
for him twenty times a day, (no small matter, that,) and then----"

"But, after all, what is the object and purpose of your life?"

"Why, I haven't any. I don't see how I can have any--that is, as I am
made. Now, you know, I've none of the fussing, baby-tending,
herb-tea-making recommendations of Aunt Sally, and divers others of the
class commonly called _useful_. Indeed, to tell the truth, I think
useful persons are commonly rather fussy and stupid. They are just like
the boneset, and hoarhound, and catnip--very necessary to be raised in a
garden, but not in the least ornamental."

"And you charming young ladies, who philosophize in kid slippers and
French dresses, are the tulips and roses--very charming, and delightful,
and sweet, but fit for nothing on earth but parlor ornaments."

"Well, parlor ornaments are good in their way," said the young lady,
coloring, and looking a little vexed.

"So you give up the point, then," said the gentleman, "that you girls
are good for--just to amuse yourselves, amuse others, look pretty, and
be agreeable."

"Well, and if we behave well to our parents, and are amiable in the
family--I don't know--and yet," said Florence, sighing, "I have often
had a sort of vague idea of something higher that we might become; yet,
really, what more than this is expected of us? what else can we do?"

"I used to read in old-fashioned novels about ladies visiting the sick
and the poor," replied Edward. "You remember Coelebs in Search of a
Wife?"

"Yes, truly; that is to say, I remember the story part of it, and the
love scenes; but as for all those everlasting conversations of Dr.
Barlow, Mr. Stanley, and nobody knows who else, I skipped those, of
course. But really, this visiting and tending the poor, and all that,
seems very well in a story, where the lady goes into a picturesque
cottage, half overgrown with honeysuckle, and finds an emaciated, but
still beautiful woman propped up by pillows. But come to the downright
matter of fact of poking about in all these vile, dirty alleys, and
entering little dark rooms, amid troops of grinning children, and
smelling codfish and onions, and nobody knows what--dear me, my
benevolence always evaporates before I get through. I'd rather pay any
body five dollars a day to do it for me than do it myself. The fact is,
that I have neither fancy nor nerves for this kind of thing."

"Well, granting, then, that you can do nothing for your fellow-creatures
unless you are to do it in the most genteel, comfortable, and
picturesque manner possible, is there not a great field for a woman like
you, Florence, in your influence over your associates? With your talents
for conversation, your tact, and self-possession, and ladylike gift of
saying any thing you choose, are you not responsible, in some wise, for
the influence you exert over those by whom you are surrounded?"

"I never thought of that," replied Florence.

"Now, you remember the remarks that Mr. Fortesque made the other evening
on the religious services at church?"

"Yes, I do; and I thought then he was too bad."

"And I do not suppose there was one of you ladies in the room that did
not think so too; but yet the matter was all passed over with smiles,
and with not a single insinuation that he had said any thing unpleasing
or disagreeable."

"Well, what could we do? One does not want to be rude, you know."

"Do! Could you not, Florence, you who have always taken the lead in
society, and who have been noted for always being able to say and do
what you please--could you not have shown him that those remarks were
unpleasing to you, as decidedly as you certainly would have done if they
had related to the character of your father or brother? To my mind, a
woman of true moral feeling should consider herself as much insulted
when her religion is treated with contempt as if the contempt were shown
to herself. Do you not _know_ the power which is given to you women to
awe and restrain us in your presence, and to guard the sacredness of
things which you treat as holy? Believe me, Florence, that Fortesque,
infidel as he is, would reverence a woman with whom he dared not trifle
on sacred subjects."

Florence rose from her seat with a heightened color, her dark eyes
brightening through tears.

"I am sure what you say is just, cousin, and yet I have never thought of
it before. I will--I am determined to begin, after this, to live with
some better purpose than I have done."

"And let me tell you, Florence, in starting a new course, as in learning
to walk, taking the first step is every thing. Now, I have a first step
to propose to you."

"Well, cousin----"

"Well, you know, I suppose, that among your train of adorers you number
Colonel Elliot?"

Florence smiled.

"And perhaps you do not know, what is certainly true, that, among the
most discerning and cool part of his friends, Elliot is considered as a
lost man."

"Good Heavens! Edward, what do you mean?"

"Simply this: that with all his brilliant talents, his amiable and
generous feelings, and his success in society, Elliot has not
self-control enough to prevent his becoming confirmed in intemperate
habits."

"I never dreamed of this," replied Florence. "I knew that he was
spirited and free, fond of society, and excitable; but never suspected
any thing beyond."

"Elliot has tact enough never to appear in ladies' society when he is
not in a fit state for it," replied Edward; "but yet it is so."

"But is he really so bad?"

"He stands just on the verge, Florence; just where a word fitly spoken
might turn him. He is a noble creature, full of all sorts of fine
impulses and feelings; the only son of a mother who dotes on him, the
idolized brother of sisters who love him as you love your brother,
Florence; and he stands where a word, a look--so they be of the right
kind--might save him."

"And why, then, do you not speak to him?" said Florence.

"Because I am not the best person, Florence. There is another who can do
it better; one whom he admires, who stands in a position which would
forbid his feeling angry; a person, cousin, whom I have heard in gayer
moments say that she knew how to say any thing she pleased without
offending any body."

"O Edward!" said Florence, coloring; "do not bring up my foolish
speeches against me, and do not speak as if I ought to interfere in this
matter, for indeed I cannot do it. I never could in the world, I am
certain I could not."

"And so," said Edward, "you, whom I have heard say so many things which
no one else could say, or dared to say--you, who have gone on with your
laughing assurance in your own powers of pleasing, shrink from trying
that power when a noble and generous heart might be saved by it. You
have been willing to venture a great deal for the sake of amusing
yourself and winning admiration; but you dare not say a word for any
high or noble purpose. Do you not see how you confirm what I said of the
selfishness of you women?"

"But you must remember, Edward, this is a matter of great delicacy."

"That word _delicacy_ is a charming cover-all in all these cases,
Florence. Now, here is a fine, noble-spirited young man, away from his
mother and sisters, away from any family friend who might care for him,
tempted, betrayed, almost to ruin, and a few words from you, said as a
woman knows how to say them, might be his salvation. But you will coldly
look on and see him go to destruction, because you have too much
_delicacy_ to make the effort--like the man that would not help his
neighbor out of the water because he had never had the honor of an
_introduction_."

"But, Edward, consider how peculiarly fastidious Elliot is--how jealous
of any attempt to restrain and guide him."

"And just for that reason it is that _men_ of his acquaintance cannot do
any thing with him. But what are you women made with so much tact and
power of charming for, if it is not to do these very things that we
cannot do? It is a delicate matter--true; and has not Heaven given to
you a fine touch and a fine eye for just such delicate matters? Have you
not seen, a thousand times, that what might be resented as an
impertinent interference on the part of a man, comes to us as a
flattering expression of interest from the lips of a woman?"

"Well, but, cousin, what would you have me do? How would you have me do
it?" said Florence, earnestly.

"You know that Fashion, which makes so many wrong turns, and so many
absurd ones, has at last made one good one, and it is now a fashionable
thing to sign the temperance pledge. Elliot himself would be glad to do
it, but he foolishly committed himself against it in the outset, and now
feels bound to stand to his opinion. He has, too, been rather rudely
assailed by some of the apostles of the new state of things, who did not
understand the peculiar points of his character; in short, I am afraid
that he will feel bound to go to destruction for the sake of supporting
his own opinion. Now, if I should undertake with him, he might shoot me;
but I hardly think there is any thing of the sort to be apprehended in
your case. Just try your enchantments; you have bewitched wise men into
doing foolish things before now; try, now, if you can't bewitch a
foolish man into doing a wise thing."

Florence smiled archly, but instantly grew more thoughtful.

"Well, cousin," she said, "I will try. Though you are liberal in your
ascriptions of power, yet I can put the matter to the test of
experiment."

       *       *       *       *       *

Florence Elmore was, at the time we speak of, in her twentieth year.
Born of one of the wealthiest families in ----, highly educated and
accomplished, idolized by her parents and brothers, she had entered the
world as one born to command. With much native nobleness and magnanimity
of character, with warm and impulsive feelings, and a capability of
every thing high or great, she had hitherto lived solely for her own
amusement, and looked on the whole brilliant circle by which she was
surrounded, with all its various actors, as something got up for her
special diversion. The idea of influencing any one, for better or worse,
by any thing she ever said or did, had never occurred to her. The crowd
of admirers of the other sex, who, as a matter of course, were always
about her, she regarded as so many sources of diversion; but the idea of
feeling any sympathy with them as human beings, or of making use of her
power over them for their improvement, was one that had never entered
her head.

Edward Ashton was an old bachelor cousin of Florence's, who, having
earned the title of oddity, in general society, availed himself of it to
exercise a turn for telling the truth to the various young ladies of his
acquaintance, especially to his fair cousin Florence. We remark, by the
by, that these privileged truth tellers are quite a necessary of life to
young ladies in the full tide of society, and we really think it would
be worth while for every dozen of them to unite to keep a person of this
kind on a salary, for the benefit of the whole. However, that is nothing
to our present purpose; we must return to our fair heroine, whom we
left, at the close of the last conversation, standing in deep revery, by
the window.

"It's more than half true," she said to herself--"more than half. Here
am I, twenty years old, and never have thought of any thing, never done
any thing, except to amuse and gratify myself; no purpose, no object;
nothing high, nothing dignified, nothing worth living for! Only a parlor
ornament--heigh ho! Well, I really do believe I could do something with
this Elliot; and yet how dare I try?"

Now, my good readers, if you are anticipating a love story, we must
hasten to put in our disclaimer; you are quite mistaken in the case. Our
fair, brilliant heroine was, at this time of speaking, as heart-whole as
the diamond on her bosom, which reflected the light in too many
sparkling rays ever to absorb it. She had, to be sure, half in earnest,
half in jest, maintained a bantering, platonic sort of friendship with
George Elliot. She had danced, ridden, sung, and sketched with him; but
so had she with twenty other young men; and as to coming to any thing
tender with such a quick, brilliant, restless creature, Elliot would as
soon have undertaken to sentimentalize over a glass of soda water. No;
there was decidedly no love in the case.

"What a curious ring that is!" said Elliot to her, a day or two after,
as they were reading together.

"It is a knight's ring," said she, playfully, as she drew it off and
pointed to a coral cross set in the gold, "a ring of the red-cross
knights. Come, now, I've a great mind to bind you to my service with
it."

"Do, lady fair," said Elliot, stretching out his hand for the ring.

"Know, then," said she, "if you take this pledge, that you must obey
whatever commands I lay upon you in its name."

"I swear!" said Elliot, in the mock heroic, and placed the ring on his
finger.

An evening or two after, Elliot attended Florence to a party at Mrs.
B.'s. Every thing was gay and brilliant, and there was no lack either of
wit or wine. Elliot was standing in a little alcove, spread with
refreshments, with a glass of wine in his hand. "I forbid it; the cup is
poisoned!" said a voice in his ear. He turned quickly, and Florence was
at his side. Every one was busy, with laughing and talking, around, and
nobody saw the sudden start and flush that these words produced, as
Elliot looked earnestly in the lady's face. She smiled, and pointed
playfully to the ring; but after all, there was in her face an
expression of agitation and interest which she could not repress, and
Elliot felt, however playful the manner, that she was _in earnest_; and
as she glided away in the crowd, he stood with his arms folded, and his
eyes fixed on the spot where she disappeared.

"Is it possible that I am suspected--that there are things said of me as
if I were in danger?" were the first thoughts that flashed through his
mind. How strange that a man may appear doomed, given up, and lost, to
the eye of every looker on, before he begins to suspect himself! This
was the first time that any defined apprehension of loss of character
had occurred to Elliot, and he was startled as if from a dream.

"What the deuse is the matter with you, Elliot? You look as solemn as a
hearse!" said a young man near by.

"Has Miss Elmore cut you?" said another.

"Come, man, have a glass," said a third.

"Let him alone--he's bewitched," said a fourth. "I saw the spell laid on
him. None of us can say but our turn may come next."

An hour later, that evening, Florence was talking with her usual spirit
to a group who were collected around her, when, suddenly looking up, she
saw Elliot, standing in an abstracted manner, at one of the windows that
looked out into the balcony.

"He is offended, I dare say," she thought; "but what do I care? For once
in my life I have tried to do a right thing--a good thing. I have risked
giving offence for less than this, many a time." Still, Florence could
not but feel tremulous, when, a few moments after, Elliot approached her
and offered his arm for a promenade. They walked up and down the room,
she talking volubly, and he answering yes and no, till at length, as if
by accident, he drew her into the balcony which overhung the garden. The
moon was shining brightly, and every thing without, in its placid
quietness, contrasted strangely with the busy, hurrying scene within.

"Miss Elmore," said Elliot, abruptly, "may I ask you, sincerely, had you
any design in a remark you made to me in the early part of the evening?"

Florence paused, and though habitually the most practised and
self-possessed of women, the color actually receded from her cheek, as
she answered,--

"Yes, Mr. Elliot; I must confess that I had."

"And is it possible, then, that you have heard any thing?"

"I have heard, Mr. Elliot, that which makes me tremble for you, and for
those whose life, I know, is bound up in you; and, tell me, were it well
or friendly in me to know that such things were said, that such danger
existed, and not to warn you of it?"

Elliot stood for a few moments in silence.

"Have I offended? Have I taken too great a liberty?" said Florence,
gently.

Hitherto Elliot had only seen in Florence the self-possessed, assured,
light-hearted woman of fashion; but there was a reality and depth of
feeling in the few words she had spoken to him, in this interview, that
opened to him entirely a new view in her character.

"No, Miss Elmore," replied he, earnestly, after some pause; "I may be
_pained_, offended I cannot be. To tell the truth, I have been
thoughtless, excited, dazzled; my spirits, naturally buoyant, have
carried me, often, too far; and lately I have painfully suspected my own
powers of resistance. I have really felt that I needed help, but have
been too proud to confess, even to myself, that I needed it. You, Miss
Elmore, have done what, perhaps, no one else could have done. I am
overwhelmed with gratitude, and I shall bless you for it to the latest
day of my life. I am ready to pledge myself to any thing you may ask on
this subject."

"Then," said Florence, "do not shrink from doing what is safe, and
necessary, and right for you to do, because you have once said you would
not do it. You understand me."

"Precisely," replied Elliot: "and you shall be obeyed."

It was not more than a week before the news was circulated that even
George Elliot had signed the pledge of temperance. There was much
wondering at this sudden turn among those who had known his utter
repugnance to any measure of the kind, and the extent to which he had
yielded to temptation; but few knew how fine and delicate had been the
touch to which his pride had yielded.




ART AND NATURE.


"Now, girls," said Mrs. Ellis Grey to her daughters, "here is a letter
from George Somers, and he is to be down here next week; so I give you
fair warning."

"Warning?" said Fanny Grey, looking up from her embroidery; "what do you
mean by that, mamma?"

"Now that's just you, Fanny," said the elder sister, laughing. "You dear
little simplicity, you can never understand any thing unless it is
stated as definitely as the multiplication table."

"But we need no warning in the case of Cousin George, I'm sure," said
Fanny.

"Cousin George, to be sure! Do you hear the little innocent?" said
Isabella, the second sister. "I suppose, Fanny, you never heard that he
had been visiting all the courts of Europe, seeing all the fine women,
stone, picture, and real, that are to be found. Such an _amateur_ and
_connoisseur_!"

"Besides having received a fortune of a million or so," said Emma. "I
dare say now, Fanny, you thought he was coming home to make dandelion
chains, and play with button balls, as he used to do when he was a
little boy."

"Fanny will never take the world as it is," said Mrs. Grey. "I do
believe she will be a child as long as she lives." Mrs. Grey said this
as if she were sighing over some radical defect in the mind of her
daughter, and the delicate cheek of Fanny showed a tint somewhat deeper
as she spoke, and she went on with her embroidery in silence.

Mrs. Grey had been left, by the death of her husband, sole guardian of
the three girls whose names have appeared on the page. She was an
active, busy, ambitious woman, one of the sort for whom nothing is ever
finished enough, or perfect enough, without a few touches, and dashes,
and emendations; and, as such people always make a mighty affair of
education, Mrs. Grey had made it a life's enterprise to order, adjust,
and settle the character of her daughters; and when we use the word
_character_, as Mrs. Grey understood it, we mean it to include both
face, figure, dress, accomplishments, as well as those more unessential
items, mind and heart.

Mrs. Grey had determined that her daughters should be something
altogether out of the common way; and accordingly she had conducted the
training of the two eldest with such zeal and effect, that every trace
of an original character was thoroughly educated out of them. All their
opinions, feelings, words, and actions, instead of gushing naturally
from their hearts, were, according to the most approved authority,
diligently compared and revised. Emma, the eldest, was an imposing,
showy girl, of some considerable talent, and she had been assiduously
trained to make a sensation as a woman of ability and intellect. Her
mind had been filled with information on all sorts of subjects, much
faster than she had power to digest or employ it; and the standard which
her ambitious mother had set for her being rather above the range of her
abilities, there was a constant sensation of effort in her keeping up to
it. In hearing her talk you were constantly reminded, "I am a woman of
intellect--I am entirely above the ordinary level of woman;" and on all
subjects she was so anxiously and laboriously, well and
circumstantially, informed, that it was enough to make one's head ache
to hear her talk.

Isabella, the second daughter, was, _par excellence_, a beauty--a tall,
sparkling, Cleopatra-looking girl, whose rich color, dazzling eyes, and
superb figure might have bid defiance to art to furnish an extra charm;
nevertheless, each grace had been as indefatigably drilled and
manoeuvred as the members of an artillery company. Eyes, lips,
eyelashes, all had their lesson; and every motion of her sculptured
limbs, every intonation of her silvery voice, had been studied,
considered, and corrected, till even her fastidious mother could discern
nothing that was wanting. Then were added all the graces of _belles
lettres_--all the approved rules of being delighted with music,
painting, and poetry--and last of all came the tour of the continent;
travelling being generally considered a sort of pumice stone, for
rubbing down the varnish, and giving the very last touch to character.

During the time that all this was going on, Miss Fanny, whom we now
declare our heroine, had been growing up in the quietude of her mother's
country seat, and growing, as girls are apt to, much faster than her
mother imagined. She was a fair, slender girl, with a purity and
simplicity of appearance, which, if it be not in itself beauty, had all
the best effect of beauty, in interesting and engaging the heart.

She looked not so much beautiful as lovable. Her character was in
precise correspondence with her appearance; its first and chief element
was feeling; and to this add fancy, fervor, taste, enthusiasm almost up
to the point of genius, and just common sense enough to keep them all in
order, and you will have a very good idea of the mind of Fanny Grey.

Delightfully passed the days with Fanny during the absence of her
mother, while, without thought of rule or compass, she sang her own
songs, painted flowers, and sketched landscapes from nature, visited
sociably all over the village, where she was a great favorite, ran about
through the fields, over fences, or in the woods with her little cottage
bonnet, and, above all, built her own little castles in the air without
any body to help pull them down, which we think about the happiest
circumstance in her situation.

But affairs wore a very different aspect when Mrs. Grey with her
daughters returned from Europe, as full of foreign tastes and notions as
people of an artificial character generally do return.

Poor Fanny was deluged with a torrent of new ideas; she heard of styles
of appearance and styles of beauty, styles of manner and styles of
conversation, this, that, and the other air, a general effect and a
particular effect, and of four hundred and fifty ways of producing an
impression--in short, it seemed to her that people ought to be of
wonderful consequence to have so many things to think and to say about
the how and why of every word and action.

Mrs. Grey, who had no manner of doubt of her own ability to make over a
character, undertook the point with Fanny as systematically as one would
undertake to make over an old dress. Poor Fanny, who had an
unconquerable aversion to trying on dresses or settling points in
millinery, went through with most exemplary meekness an entire
transformation as to all externals; but when Mrs. Grey set herself at
work upon her mind, and tastes, and opinions, the matter became somewhat
more serious; for the buoyant feeling and fanciful elements of her
character were as incapable of being arranged according to rule as the
sparkling water drops are of being strung into necklaces and earrings,
or the gay clouds of being made into artificial flowers. Some warm
natural desire or taste of her own was forever interfering with her
mother's _regime_; some obstinate little "Fannyism" would always put up
its head in defiance of received custom; and, as her mother and sisters
pathetically remarked, do what you would with her, she would always come
out herself after all.

After trying laboriously to conform to the pattern which was daily set
before her, she came at last to the conclusion that some natural
inferiority must forever prevent her aspiring to accomplish any thing in
that way.

"If I can't be what my mother wishes, I'll at least be myself," said she
one day to her sisters, "for if I try to alter I shall neither be myself
nor any body else;" and on the whole her mother and sisters came to the
same conclusion. And in truth they found it a very convenient thing to
have one in the family who was not studying effect or aspiring to be any
thing in particular.

It was very agreeable to Mrs. Grey to have a daughter to sit with her
when she had the sick headache, while the other girls were entertaining
company in the drawing room below. It was very convenient to her sisters
to have some one whose dress took so little time that she had always a
head and a pair of hands at their disposal, in case of any toilet
emergency. Then she was always loving and affectionate, entirely willing
to be outtalked and outshone on every occasion; and that was another
advantage.

As to Isabella and Emma, the sensation that they made in society was
enough to have gratified a dozen ordinary belles. All that they said,
and did, and wore, was instant and unquestionable precedent; and young
gentlemen, all starch and perfume, twirled their laced pocket
handkerchiefs, and declared on their honor that they knew not which was
the most overcoming, the genius and wit of Miss Emma, or the bright eyes
of Miss Isabella; though it was an agreed point that between them both,
not a heart in the gay world remained in its owner's possession--a thing
which might have a serious sound to one who did not know the character
of these articles, often the most trifling item in the inventory of
worldly possessions. And all this while, all that was said of our
heroine was something in this way: "I believe there is another
sister--is there not?"

"Yes, there is a quiet little blue-eyed lady, who never has a word to
say for herself--quite amiable I'm told."

Now, it was not a fact that Miss Fanny never had a word to say for
herself. If people had seen her on a visit at any one of the houses
along the little green street of her native village, they might have
learned that her tongue could go fast enough.

But in lighted drawing rooms, and among buzzing voices, and surrounded
by people who were always saying things because such things were proper
to be said, Fanny was always dizzy, and puzzled, and unready; and for
fear that she would say something that she should not, she concluded to
say nothing at all; nevertheless, she made good use of her eyes, and
found a very quiet amusement in looking on to see how other people
conducted matters.

       *       *       *       *       *

Well, Mr. George Somers is actually arrived at Mrs. Grey's country seat,
and there he sits with Miss Isabella in the deep recess of that window,
where the white roses are peeping in so modestly.

"To be sure," thought Fanny to herself, as she quietly surveyed him
looming up through the shade of a pair of magnificent whiskers, and
heard him passing the shuttlecock of compliment back and forth with the
most assured and practised air in the world,--"to be sure, I was a child
in imagining that I should see Cousin George Somers. I'm sure this
magnificent young gentleman, full of all utterance and knowledge, is not
the cousin that I used to feel so easy with; no, indeed;" and Fanny gave
a half sigh, and then went out into the garden to water her geraniums.

For some days Mr. Somers seemed to feel put upon his reputation to
sustain the character of gallant, _savant, connoisseur_, etc.., which
every one who makes the tour of the continent is expected to bring home
as a matter of course; for there is seldom a young gentleman who knows
he has qualifications in this line, who can resist the temptation of
showing what he can do. Accordingly he discussed tragedies, and reviews,
and ancient and modern customs with Miss Emma; and with Miss Isabella
retouched her drawings and exhibited his own; sported the most choice
and _recherche_ style of compliment at every turn, and, in short,
flattered himself, perhaps justly, that he was playing the irresistible
in a manner quite equal to that of his fair cousins.

Now, all this while Miss Fanny was mistaken in one point, for Mr. George
Somers, though an exceedingly fine gentleman, had, after all, quite a
substratum of reality about him, of real heart, real feeling, and real
opinion of his own; and the consequence was, that when tired of the
effort of _conversing_ he really longed to find somebody to _talk_ to;
and in this mood he one evening strolled into the library, leaving the
gay party in the drawing room to themselves. Miss Fanny was there, quite
intent upon a book of selections from the old English poets.

"Really, Miss Fanny," said Mr. Somers, "you are very sparing of the
favor of your company to us this evening."

"O, I presume my company is not much missed," said Fanny, with a smile.

"You must have a poor opinion of our taste, then," said Mr. Somers.

"Come, come, Mr. Somers," replied Fanny, "you forget the person you are
talking to; it is not at all necessary for you to compliment me; nobody
ever does--so you may feel relieved of that trouble."

"Nobody ever does, Miss Fanny; pray, how is that?"

"Because I'm not the sort of person to say such things to."

"And pray, what sort of person ought one to be, in order to have such
things said?" replied Mr. Somers.

"Why, like Sister Isabella, or like Emma. You understand I am a sort of
little nobody; if any one wastes fine words on me, I never know what to
make of them."

"And pray, what must one say to you?" said Mr. Somers, quite amused.

"Why, what they really think and really feel; and I am always puzzled by
any thing else."

Accordingly, about a half an hour afterwards, you might have seen the
much admired Mr. Somers once more transformed into the Cousin George,
and he and Fanny engaged in a very interesting _tete-a-tete_ about old
times and things.

Now, you may skip across a fortnight from this evening, and then look in
at the same old library, just as the setting sun is looking in at its
western window, and you will see Fanny sitting back a little in the
shadow, with one straggling ray of light illuminating her pure childish
face, and she is looking up at Mr. George Somers, as if in some sudden
perplexity; and, dear me, if we are not mistaken, our young gentleman is
blushing.

"Why, Cousin George," says the lady, "what _do_ you mean?"

"I thought I spoke plainly enough, Fanny," replied Cousin George, in a
tone that _might_ have made the matter plain enough, to be sure.

Fanny laughed outright, and the gentleman looked terribly serious.

"Indeed, now, don't be angry," said she, as he turned away with a vexed
and mortified air; "indeed, now, I can't help laughing, it seems to me
so odd; what _will_ they all think of you?"

"It's of no consequence to me what they think," said Mr. Somers. "I
think, Fanny, if you had the heart I gave you credit for, you might have
seen my feelings before now."

"Now, do sit down, my _dear_ cousin," said Fanny, earnestly, drawing him
into a chair, "and tell me, how could I, poor little Miss Fanny Nobody,
how _could_ I have thought any such thing with such sisters as I have? I
did think that you _liked_ me, that you knew more of my real feelings
than mamma and sisters; but that you should--that you ever should--why,
I am astonished that you did not fall in love with Isabella."

"That would have met your feelings, then?" said George, eagerly, and
looking as if he would have looked through her, eyes, soul, and all.

"No, no, indeed," she said, turning away her head; "but," added she,
quickly, "you'll lose all your credit for good taste. Now, tell me,
seriously, what do you like me for?"

"Well, then, Fanny, I can give you the best reason. I like you for being
a real, sincere, natural girl--for being simple in your tastes, and
simple in your appearance, and simple in your manners, and for having
heart enough left, as I hope, to love plain George Somers, with all his
faults, and not Mr. Somers's reputation, or Mr. Somers's establishment."

"Well, this is all very reasonable to me, of course," said Fanny, "but
it will be so much Greek to poor mamma."

"I dare say your mother could never understand how seeing the very acme
of cultivation in all countries should have really made my eyes ache,
and long for something as simple as green grass or pure water, to rest
them on. I came down here to find it among my cousins, and I found in
your sisters only just such women as I have seen and admired all over
Europe, till I was tired of admiring. Your mother has achieved what she
aimed at, perfectly; I know of no circle that could produce higher
specimens; but it is all art, triumphant art, after all, and I have so
strong a current of natural feeling running through my heart that I
could never be happy except with a fresh, simple, impulsive character."

"Like me, you are going to say," said Fanny, laughing. "Well, _I'll_
admit that you are right. It would be a pity that you should not have
one vote, at least."




CHILDREN.

"A little child shall lead them."


One cold market morning I looked into a milliner's shop, and there I saw
a hale, hearty, well-browned young fellow from the country, with his
long cart whip, and lion-shag coat, holding up some little matter, and
turning it about on his great fist. And what do you suppose it was? _A
baby's bonnet!_ A little, soft, blue satin hood, with a swan's down
border, white as the new-fallen snow, with a frill of rich blonde around
the edge.

By his side stood a very pretty woman, holding, with no small pride, the
baby--for evidently it was _the_ baby. Any one could read that fact in
every glance, as they looked at each other, and then at the large,
unconscious eyes, and fat, dimpled cheeks of the little one.

It was evident that neither of them had ever seen a baby like that
before.

"But really, Mary," said the young man, "isn't three dollars very high?"

Mary very prudently said nothing, but taking the little bonnet, tied it
on the little head, and held up the baby. The man looked, and without
another word down went the three dollars--all the avails of last week's
butter; and as they walked out of the shop, it is hard to say which
looked the most delighted with the bargain.

"Ah," thought I, "a little child shall lead them."

Another day, as I was passing a carriage factory along one of our
principal back streets, I saw a young mechanic at work on a wheel. The
rough body of a carriage stood beside him, and there, wrapped up snugly,
all hooded and cloaked, sat a little dark-eyed girl, about a year old,
playing with a great, shaggy dog. As I stopped, the man looked up from
his work, and turned admiringly towards his little companion, as much as
to say, "See what I have got here!"

"Yes," thought I; "and if the little lady ever gets a glance from
admiring swains as sincere as that, she will be lucky."

Ah, these children, little witches, pretty even in all their faults and
absurdities. See, for example, yonder little fellow in a naughty fit. He
has shaken his long curls over his deep-blue eyes; the fair brow is bent
in a frown, the rose leaf lip is pursed up in infinite defiance, and the
white shoulder thrust angrily forward. Can any but a child look so
pretty, even in its naughtiness?

Then comes the instant change; flashing smiles and tears, as the good
comes back all in a rush, and you are overwhelmed with protestations,
promises, and kisses! They are irresistible, too, these little ones.
They pull away the scholar's pen, tumble about his paper, make somersets
over his books; and what can he do? They tear up newspapers, litter the
carpets, break, pull, and upset, and then jabber unheard-of English in
self-defence; and what can you do for yourself?

"If I had a child," says the precise man, "you should see."

He _does_ have a child, and his child tears up his papers, tumbles over
his things, and pulls his nose, like all other children; and what has
the precise man to say for himself? Nothing; he is like every body else;
"a little child shall lead him."

The hardened heart of the worldly man is unlocked by the guileless tones
and simple caresses of his son; but he repays it in time, by imparting
to his boy all the crooked tricks and callous maxims which have undone
himself.

Go to the jail, to the penitentiary, and find there the wretch most
sullen, brutal, and hardened. Then look at your infant son. Such as he
is to you, such to some mother was this man. That hard hand was soft and
delicate; that rough voice was tender and lisping; fond eyes followed
him as he played, and he was rocked and cradled as something holy. There
was a time when his heart, soft and unworn, might have opened to
questionings of God and Jesus, and been sealed with the seal of Heaven.
But harsh hands seized it; fierce goblin lineaments were impressed upon
it; and all is over with him forever!

So of the tender, weeping child is made the callous, heartless man; of
the all-believing child, the sneering sceptic; of the beautiful and
modest, the shameless and abandoned; and this is what _the world_ does
for the little one.

There was a time when the _divine One_ stood on earth, and little
children sought to draw near to him. But harsh human beings stood
between him and them, forbidding their approach. Ah, has it not always
been so? Do not even we, with our hard and unsubdued feelings, our
worldly and unspiritual habits and maxims, stand like a dark screen
between our little child and its Savior, and keep even from the choice
bud of our hearts the sweet radiance which might unfold it for Paradise?
"Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not," is still
the voice of the Son of God; but the cold world still closes around and
forbids. When, of old, disciples would question their Lord of the higher
mysteries of his kingdom, he took a little child and set him in the
midst, as a sign of him who should be greatest in heaven. That gentle
teacher remains still to us. By every hearth and fireside Jesus still
_sets the little child in the midst of us_.

Wouldst thou know, O parent, what is that _faith_ which unlocks heaven?
Go not to wrangling polemics, or creeds and forms of theology, but draw
to thy bosom thy little one, and read in that clear, trusting eye the
lesson of eternal life. Be only to thy God as thy child is to thee, and
all is done. Blessed shalt thou be, indeed, "_when a little child shall
lead thee_."




HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS WITH MAMMON.


It was four o'clock in the afternoon of a dull winter day that Mr. H.
sat in his counting room. The sun had nearly gone down, and, in fact, it
was already twilight beneath the shadows of the tall, dusky stores, and
the close, crooked streets of that quarter of Boston. Hardly light
enough struggled through the dusky panes of the counting house for him
to read the entries in a much-thumbed memorandum book, which he held in
his hand.

A small, thin boy, with a pale face and anxious expression, significant
of delicacy of constitution, and a too early acquaintance with want and
sorrow, was standing by him, earnestly watching his motions.

"Ah, yes, my boy," said Mr. H., as he at last shut up the memorandum
book. "Yes, I've got the place now; I'm apt to be forgetful about these
things; come, now, let's go. How is it? Haven't you brought the basket?"

"No, sir," said the boy, timidly. "The grocer said he'd let mother have
a quarter for it, and she thought she'd sell it."

"That's bad," said Mr. H., as he went on, tying his throat with a long
comforter of some yards in extent; and as he continued this operation he
abstractedly repeated, "That's bad, that's bad," till the poor little
boy looked quite dismayed, and began to think that somehow his mother
had been dreadfully out of the way.

"She didn't want to send for help so long as she had any thing she could
sell," said the little boy in a deprecating tone.

"O, yes, quite right," said Mr. H., taking from a pigeon hole in the
desk a large pocket book, and beginning to turn it over; and, as before,
abstractedly repeating, "Quite right, quite right?" till the little boy
became reassured, and began to think, although he didn't know why, that
his mother had done something quite meritorious.

"Well," said Mr. H., after he had taken several bills from the pocket
book and transferred them to a wallet which he put into his pocket, "now
we're ready, my boy." But first he stopped to lock up his desk, and then
he said, abstractedly to himself, "I wonder if I hadn't better take a
few tracts."

Now, it is to be confessed that this Mr. H., whom we have introduced to
our reader, was, in his way, quite an oddity. He had a number of
singular little _penchants_ and peculiarities quite his own, such as a
passion for poking about among dark alleys, at all sorts of seasonable
and unseasonable hours; fishing out troops of dirty, neglected children,
and fussing about generally in the community till he could get them into
schools or otherwise provided for. He always had in his pocket book a
note of some dozen poor widows who wanted tea, sugar, candles, or other
things such as poor widows always will be wanting. And then he had a
most extraordinary talent for finding out all the sick strangers that
lay in out-of-the-way upper rooms in hotels, who, every body knows, have
no business to get sick in such places, unless they have money enough to
pay their expenses, which they never do.

Besides this, all Mr. H.'s kinsmen and cousins, to the third, fourth,
and fortieth remove, were always writing him letters, which, among other
pleasing items, generally contained the intelligence that a few hundred
dollars were just then exceedingly necessary to save them from utter
ruin, and they knew of nobody else to whom to look for it.

And then Mr. H. was up to his throat in subscriptions to every
charitable society that ever was made or imagined; had a hand in
building all the churches within a hundred miles; occasionally gave four
or five thousand dollars to a college; offered to be one of six to raise
ten thousand dollars for some benevolent purpose, and when four of the
six backed out, quietly paid the balance himself, and said no more about
it. Another of his innocent fancies was to keep always about him any
quantity of tracts and good books, little and big, for children and
grown-up people, which he generally diffused in a kind of gentle shower
about him wherever he moved.

So great was his monomania for benevolence that it could not at all
confine itself to the streets of Boston, the circle of his relatives, or
even the United States of America. Mr. H. was fully posted up in the
affairs of India, Burmah, China, and all those odd, out-of-the-way
places, which no sensible man ever thinks of with any interest, unless
he can make some money there; and money, it is to be confessed, Mr. H.
didn't make there, though he spent an abundance. For getting up printing
presses in Ceylon for Chinese type, for boxes of clothing and what not
to be sent to the Sandwich Islands, for school books for the Greeks, and
all other nonsense of that sort, Mr. H. was without a parallel. No
wonder his rich brother merchants sometimes thought him something of a
bore, since, his heart being full of all these matters, he was rather
apt to talk about them, and sometimes to endeavor to draw them into
fellowship, to an extent that was not to be thought of.

So it came to pass often, that though Mr. H. was a thriving business
man, with some ten thousand a year, he often wore a pretty threadbare
coat, the seams whereof would be trimmed with lines of white; and he
would sometimes need several pretty plain hints on the subject of a new
hat before he would think he could afford one. Now, it is to be
confessed the world is not always grateful to those who thus devote
themselves to its interests; and Mr. H. had as much occasion to know
this as any other man. People got so used to his giving, that his bounty
became as common and as necessary as that of a higher Benefactor, "who
maketh his sun to rise upon the evil and the good, and sendeth rain upon
the just and the unjust;" and so it came to pass that people took them,
as they do the sunshine and the rain, quite as matters of course, not
thinking much about them when they came, but particularly apt to scold
when they did not come.

But Mr. H. never cared for that. He did not give for gratitude; he did
not give for thanks, nor to have his name published in the papers as one
of six who had given fifty thousand to do so and so; but he gave because
it was _in_ him to give, and we all know that it is an old rule in
medicine, as well as morals, that what is _in_ a man must be brought
out. Then, again, he had heard it reported that there had been One of
distinguished authority who had expressed the opinion that it was "_more
blessed to give than to receive_," and he very much believed
it--believed it because the One who said it must have known, since for
man's sake _he_ once gave away ALL.

And so, when some thriftless, distant relation, whose debts he had paid
a dozen times over, gave him an overhauling on the subject of
liberality, and seemed inclined to take him by the throat for further
charity, he calmed himself down by a chapter or two from the New
Testament and half a dozen hymns, and then sent him a good, brotherly
letter of admonition and counsel, with a bank note to enforce it; and
when some querulous old woman, who had had a tenement of him rent free
for three or four years, sent him word that if he didn't send and mend
the water pipes she would move right out, he sent and mended them.
People said that he was foolish, and that it didn't do any good to do
for ungrateful people; but Mr. H. knew that it did _him_ good. He loved
to do it, and he thought also on some words that ran to this effect: "Do
good and lend, _hoping for nothing again_." He literally hoped for
nothing again in the way of reward, either in this world or in heaven,
beyond the present pleasure of the deed; for he had abundant occasion to
see how favors are forgotten in this world; and as for another, he had
in his own soul a standard of benevolence so high, so pure, so ethereal,
that but One of mortal birth ever reached it. He felt that, do what he
might, he fell ever so far below the life of that _spotless One_--that
his crown in heaven must come to him at last, not as a reward, but as a
free, eternal gift.

But all this while our friend and his little companion have been
pattering along the wet streets, in the rain and sleet of a bitter cold
evening, till they stopped before a grocery. Here a large cross-handled
basket was first bought, and then filled with sundry packages of tea,
sugar, candles, soap, starch, and various other matters; a barrel of
flour was ordered to be sent after him on a dray. Mr. H. next stopped at
a dry goods store and bought a pair of blankets, with which he loaded
down the boy, who was happy enough to be so loaded; and then, turning
gradually from the more frequented streets, the two were soon lost to
view in one of the dimmest alleys of the city.

The cheerful fire was blazing in his parlor, as, returned from his long,
wet walk, he was sitting by it with his feet comfortably incased in
slippers. The astral was burning brightly on the centre table, and a
group of children were around it, studying their lessons.

"Papa," said a little boy, "what does this verse mean? It's in my Sunday
school lesson. 'Make to yourselves _friends of the mammon of
unrighteousness, that when ye fail, they may receive you into
everlasting habitations_.'"

"You ought to have asked your teacher, my son."

"But he said he didn't know exactly what it meant. He wanted me to look
this week and see if I could find out."

Mr. H.'s standing resource in all exegetical difficulties was Dr.
Scott's Family Bible. Therefore he now got up, and putting on his
spectacles, walked to the glass bookcase, and took down a volume of that
worthy commentator, and opening it, read aloud the whole exposition of
the passage, together with the practical reflections upon it; and by the
time he had done, he found his young auditor fast asleep in his chair.

"Mother," said he, "this child plays too hard. He can't keep his eyes
open evenings. It's time he was in bed."

"I wasn't asleep, pa," said Master Henry, starting up with that air of
injured innocence with which gentlemen of his age generally treat an
imputation of this kind.

"Then can you tell me now what the passage means that I have been
reading to you?"

"There's so much of it," said Henry, hopelessly, "I wish you'd just tell
me in short order, father."

"O, read it for yourself," said Mr. H., as he pushed the book towards
the boy, for it was to be confessed that he perceived at this moment
that he had not himself received any particularly luminous impression,
though of course he thought it was owing to his own want of
comprehension.

Mr. H. leaned back in his rocking chair, and on his own private account
began to speculate a little as to what he really should think the verse
might mean, supposing he were at all competent to decide upon it. "'Make
to yourselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness,'" says he:
"that's money, very clearly. How am I to make friends with it or of it?
Receive me into everlasting habitations: that's a singular kind of
expression. I wonder what it means. Dr. Scott makes some very good
remarks about it--but somehow I'm not exactly clear." It must be
remarked that this was not an uncommon result of Mr. H.'s critical
investigations in this quarter.

Well, thoughts will wander; and as he lay with his head on the back of
his rocking chair, and his eyes fixed on the flickering blaze of the
coal, visions of his wet tramp in the city, and of the lonely garret he
had been visiting, and of the poor woman with the pale, discouraged
face, to whom he had carried warmth and comfort, all blended themselves
together. He felt, too, a little indefinite creeping chill, and some
uneasy sensations in his head like a commencing cold, for he was not a
strong man, and it is probable his long, wet walk was likely to cause
him some inconvenience in this way. At last he was fast asleep, nodding
in his chair.

He dreamed that he was very sick in bed, that the doctor came and went,
and that he grew sicker and sicker. He was going to die. He saw his wife
sitting weeping by his pillow--his children standing by with pale and
frightened faces; all things in his room began to swim, and waver, and
fade, and voices that called his name, and sobs and lamentations that
rose around him, seemed far off and distant in his ear. "O eternity,
eternity! I am going--I am going," he thought; and in that hour, strange
to tell, not one of all his good deeds seemed good enough to lean
on--all bore some taint or tinge, to his purified eye, of mortal
selfishness, and seemed unholy before the ALL PURE. "I am going," he
thought; "there is no time to stay, no time to alter, to balance
accounts; and I know not what I am, but I know, O Jesus, what THOU art.
I have trusted in thee, and shall never be confounded;" and with that
last breath of prayer earth was past.

A soft and solemn breathing, as of music, awakened him. As an infant
child not yet fully awake hears the holy warblings of his mother's hymn,
and smiles half conscious, so the heaven-born became aware of sweet
voices and loving faces around him ere yet he fully woke to the new
immortal LIFE.

"Ah, he has come at last. How long we have waited for him! Here he is
among us. Now forever welcome! welcome!" said the voices.

Who shall speak the joy of that latest birth, the birth from death to
life! the sweet, calm, inbreathing consciousness of purity and rest, the
certainty that all sin, all weakness and error, are at last gone
forever; the deep, immortal rapture of repose--felt to be but
begun--never to end!

So the eyes of the heaven-born opened on the new heaven and the new
earth, and wondered at the crowd of loving faces that thronged about
him. Fair, godlike forms of beauty, such as earth never knew, pressed
round him with blessings, thanks, and welcome.

The man spoke not, but he wondered in his heart who they were, and
whence it came that they knew him; and as soon as the inquiry formed
itself in his soul, it was read at once by his heavenly friends. "I,"
said one bright spirit, "was a poor boy whom you found in the streets:
you sought me out, you sent me to school, you watched over me, and led
me to the house of God; and now here I am." "And we," said other voices,
"are other neglected children whom you redeemed; we also thank you."
"And I," said another, "was a lost, helpless girl: sold to sin and
shame, nobody thought I could be saved; every body passed me by till you
came. You built a home, a refuge for such poor wretches as I, and there
I and many like me heard of Jesus; and here we are." "And I," said
another, "was once a clerk in your store. I came to the city innocent,
but I was betrayed by the tempter. I forgot my mother, and my mother's
God. I went to the gaming table and the theatre, and at last I robbed
your drawer. You might have justly cast me off; but you bore with me,
you watched over me, you saved me. I am here through you this day." "And
I," said another, "was a poor slave girl--doomed to be sold on the
auction block to a life of infamy, and the ruin of soul and body. Had
you not been willing to give so largely for my ransom, no one had
thought to buy me. You stimulated others to give, and I was redeemed. I
lived a Christian mother to bring my children up for Christ--they are
all here with me to bless you this day, and their children on earth, and
their children's children are growing up to bless you." "And I," said
another, "was an unbeliever. In the pride of my intellect, I thought I
could demonstrate the absurdity of Christianity. I thought I could
answer the argument from miracles and prophecy; but your patient,
self-denying life was an argument I never could answer. When I saw you
spending all your time and all your money in efforts for your
fellow-men, undiscouraged by ingratitude, and careless of praise, then I
thought, 'There is something divine in that man's life,' and that
thought brought me here."

The man looked around on the gathering congregation, and he saw that
there was no one whom he had drawn heavenward that had not also drawn
thither myriads of others. In his lifetime he had been scattering seeds
of good around from hour to hour, almost unconsciously; and now he saw
every seed springing up into a widening forest of immortal beauty and
glory. It seemed to him that there was to be no end of the numbers that
flocked to claim him as their long-expected soul friend. His heart was
full, and his face became as that of an angel as he looked up to One who
seemed nearer than all, and said, "This is thy love for me, unworthy, O
Jesus. Of thee, and to thee, and through thee are all things. Amen."

Amen! as with chorus of many waters and mighty thunderings the sound
swept onward, and died far off in chiming echoes among the distant
stars, and the man awoke.




A SCENE IN JERUSALEM.


It is now nearly noon, the busiest and most bustling hour of the day;
yet the streets of the Holy City seem deserted and silent as the grave.
The artisan has left his bench, the merchant his merchandise; the
throngs of returned wanderers which this great national festival has
brought up from every land of the earth, and which have been for the
last week carrying life and motion through every street, seem suddenly
to have disappeared. Here and there solitary footfalls, like the last
pattering rain drops after a shower, awaken the echoes of the streets;
and here and there some lonely woman looks from the housetop with
anxious and agitated face, as if she would discern something in the far
distance.

Alone, or almost alone, the few remaining priests move like
white-winged, solitary birds over the gorgeous pavements of the temple,
and as they mechanically conduct the ministrations of the day, cast
significant glances on each other, and pause here and there to converse
in anxious whispers.

Ah there is one voice which they have often heard beneath those
arches--a voice which ever bore in it a mysterious and thrilling
charm--which they know will be hushed to-day. Chief priest, scribe, and
doctor have all gone out in the death procession after him; and these
few remaining ones, far from the excitement of the crowd, and busied in
calm and sacred duties, find voices of anxious questioning rising from
the depths of their own souls, "What if this indeed were the Christ?"

But pass we on out of the city, and what a surging tide of life and
motion meets the eye, as if all nations under heaven had dashed their
waves of population on this Judean shore! A noisy, wrathful, tempestuous
mob, billow on billow, waver and rally round some central object, which
it conceals from view. Parthians, Medes, Elamites, dwellers in
Mesopotamia and Egypt, strangers of Rome, Cretes and Arabians, Jew and
Proselyte, convoked from the ends of the earth, throng in agitated
concourse one on another; one theme in every face, on every tongue, one
name in every variety of accent and dialect passing from lip to lip:
"Jesus of Nazareth!"

Look on that man--the centre and cause of all this outburst! He stands
there alone. The cross is ready. It lies beneath his feet. The rough
hand of a brutal soldier has seized his robe to tear it from him.
Another with stalwart arm is boring the holes, gazing upward the while
with a face of stupid unconcern. There on the ground lie the hammer and
the nails: the hour, the moment of doom is come! Look on this man, as
upward, with deep, sorrowing eyes, he gazes towards heaven. Hears he the
roar of the mob? Feels he the rough hand on his garment? Nay, he sees
not, feels not: from all the rage and tumult of the hour he is rapt
away. A sorrow deeper, more absorbing, more unearthly seems to possess
him, as upward with long gaze he looks to that heaven never before
closed to his prayer, to that God never before to him invisible. That
mournful, heaven-searching glance, in its lonely anguish, says but one
thing: "Lo, I come to do thy will, O God."

Through a life of sorrow the realized love of his Father has shone like
a precious and beautiful talisman in his bosom; but now, when desolation
and anguish have come upon him as a whirlwind, this last star has gone
out in the darkness, and Jesus, deserted by man and God, stands there
_alone_.

Alone? No; for undaunted by the cruel mob, fearless in the strength of
mortal anguish, helpless, yet undismayed, stands the one blessed among
women, the royal daughter of a noble line, the priestess to whose care
was intrusted this spotless sacrifice. She and her son, last of a race
of kings, stand there despised, rejected, and disavowed by their nation,
to accomplish dread words of prophecy, which have swept down for far
ages to this hour.

Strange it is, in this dark scene, to see the likeness between mother
and son, deepening in every line of those faces, as they stand thus
thrown out by the dark background of rage and hate, which like a storm
cloud lowers around. The same rapt, absorbed, calm intensity of anguish
in both mother and son, save only that while he gazes upward towards
God, she, with like fervor, gazes on him. What to her is the deriding
mob, the coarse taunt, the brutal abuse? Of it all she hears, she feels
nothing. She sinks not, faints not, weeps not; her whole being
concentrates in the will to suffer by and with him to the last. Other
hearts there are that beat for him; others that press into the doomed
circle, and own him amid the scorn of thousands. There may you see the
clasped hands and upraised eyes of a Magdalen, the pale and steady
resolve of John, the weeping company of women who bewailed and lamented
him; but none dare press so near, or seem so identical with him in his
sufferings, as this mother.

And as we gaze on these two in human form, surrounded by other human
forms, how strange the contrast! How is it possible that human features
and human lineaments essentially alike, can be wrought into such
heaven-wide contrast? MAN is he who stands there, lofty and spotless, in
bleeding patience! _Men_ also are those brutal soldiers, alike stupidly
ready, at the word of command, to drive the nail through quivering flesh
or insensate wood. _Men_ are those scowling priests and infuriate
Pharisees. _Men_, also, the shifting figures of the careless rabble, who
shout and curse without knowing why. No visible glory shines round that
head; yet how, spite of every defilement cast upon him by the vulgar
rabble, seems that form to be glorified! What light is that in those
eyes! What mournful beauty in that face! What solemn, mysterious
sacredness investing the whole form, constraining from us the
exclamation, "Surely this is the Son of God." _Man's_ voice is breathing
vulgar taunt and jeer: "He saved others; himself he cannot save." "He
trusted in God; let him deliver him if he will have him." And _man's_,
also, clear, sweet, unearthly, pierces that stormy mob, saying, "Father,
forgive them; they know not what they do."

But we draw the veil in reverence. It is not ours to picture what the
sun refused to shine upon, and earth shook to behold.

Little thought those weeping women, that stricken disciple, that
heart-broken mother, how on some future day that cross--emblem to them
of deepest infamy--should blaze in the eye of all nations, symbol of
triumph and hope, glittering on gorgeous fanes, embroidered on regal
banners, associated with all that is revered and powerful on earth. The
Roman ensign that waved on that mournful day, symbol of highest earthly
power, is a thing mouldered and forgotten; and over all the high places
of old Rome, herself stands that mystical cross, no longer speaking of
earthly anguish and despair, but of heavenly glory, honor, and
immortality.

Theologians have endlessly disputed and philosophized on this great fact
of _atonement_. The Bible tells only that this tragic event was the
essential point without which our salvation could never have been
secured. But where lay the necessity they do not say. What was that
dread strait that either the divine One must thus suffer, or man be
lost, who knoweth?

To this question answer a thousand voices, with each a different
solution, urged with equal confidence--each solution to its framer as
certain and sacred as the dread fact it explains--yet every one,
perhaps, unsatisfactory to the deep-questioning soul. The Bible, as it
always does, gives on this point not definitions or distinct outlines,
but images--images which lose all their glory and beauty if seized by
the harsh hands of metaphysical analysis, but inexpressibly affecting to
the unlettered human heart, which softens in gazing on their mournful
and mysterious beauty. Christ is called our sacrifice, our passover, our
atoning high priest; and he himself, while holding in his hands the
emblem cup, says, "It is my blood, shed for _many_, for the _remission
of sins_." Let us reason on it as we will, this story of the cross,
presented without explanation in the simple metaphor of the Bible, has
produced an effect on human nature wholly unaccountable. In every age
and clime, with every variety of habit, thought, and feeling, from the
cannibals of New Zealand and Madagascar to the most enlightened and
scientific minds in Christendom, one feeling, essentially homogeneous in
its character and results, has arisen in view of this cross. There is
something in it that strikes one of the great nerves of simple,
unsophisticated humanity, and meets its wants as nothing else will. Ages
ago, Paul declared to philosophizing Greek and scornful Roman that he
was not ashamed of this gospel, and alleged for his reason this very
adaptedness to humanity. _A priori_, many would have said that Paul
should have told of Christ living, Christ preaching, Christ working
miracles, not omitting also the pathetic history of how he sealed all
with his blood; but Paul declared that he determined to know nothing
else but Christ _crucified_. He said it was a stumbling block to the
Jew, an absurdity to the Greek; yet he was none the less positive in his
course. True, there was many then, as now, who looked on with the most
philosophic and cultivated indifference. The courtly Festus, as he
settled his purple tunic, declared he could make nothing of the matter,
only a dispute about one Jesus, who was dead, and whom Paul affirmed to
be alive; and perchance some Athenian, as he reclined on his ivory couch
at dinner, after the sermon on Mars Hill, may have disposed of the
matter very summarily, and passed on to criticisms on Samian wine and
marble vases. Yet in spite of their disbelief, this story of Christ has
outlived them, their age and nation, and is to this hour as fresh in
human hearts as if it were just published. This "one Jesus which was
dead, and whom Paul affirmed to be alive," is nominally, at least, the
object of religious homage in all the more cultivated portions of the
globe; and to hearts scattered through all regions of the earth this
same Jesus is now a sacred and living name, dearer than all household
sounds, all ties of blood, all sweetest and nearest affections of
humanity. "I am ready not only to be bound, but also to die for the name
of the Lord Jesus," are words that have found an echo in the bosoms of
thousands in every age since then; that would, if need were, find no
less echo in thousands now. Considering Christ as a man, and his death
as a mere pathetic story,--considering him as one of the great martyrs
for truth, who sealed it with his blood,--this result is wholly
unaccountable. Other martyrs have died, bravely and tenderly, in their
last hours "bearing witness of the godlike" that is in man; but who so
remembers them? Who so loves them? To whom is any one of them a living
presence, a life, an all? Yet so thousands look on Jesus at this hour.

Nay, it is because this story strikes home to every human bosom as an
individual concern. A thrilling voice speaks from this scene of anguish
to every human bosom: This is _thy_ Savior. _Thy_ sin hath done this. It
is the appropriative words, _thine_ and _mine_, which make this history
different from any other history. This was for _me_, is the thought
which has pierced the apathy of the Greenlander, and kindled the stolid
clay of the Hottentot; and no human bosom has ever been found so low, so
lost, so guilty, so despairing, that this truth, once received, has not
had power to redeem, regenerate, and disenthrall. Christ so presented
becomes to every human being a friend nearer than the mother who bore
him; and the more degraded, the more hopeless and polluted, is the
nature, the stronger comes on the living reaction, if this belief is
really and vividly enkindled with it. But take away this appropriative,
individual element, and this legend of Jesus's death has no more power
than any other. He is to us no more than Washington or Socrates, or
Howard. And where is there not a touchstone to try every theory of
atonement? Whatever makes a man feel that he is only a spectator, an
uninterested judge in this matter, is surely astray from the idea of the
Bible. Whatever makes him feel that his sins have done this deed, that
he is bound, soul and body, to this Deliverer, though it may be in many
points philosophically erroneous, cannot go far astray.

If we could tell the number of the stars, and call them forth by name,
then, perhaps, might we solve all the mystic symbols by which the Bible
has shadowed forth the far-lying necessities and reachings-forth of this
event "among principalities and powers," and in "ages to come." But he
who knows nothing of all this, who shall so present the atonement as to
bind and affiance human souls indissolubly to their Redeemer, does all
that could be done by the highest and most perfect knowledge.

The great object is accomplished, when the soul, rapt, inspired, feels
the deep resolve,--

                "Remember Thee!
    Yea, from the table of my memory
    I'll wipe away all trivial, fond records,
    All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past
    That youth and observation copied there,
    And thy commandment all alone shall live
    Within the book and volume of my brain,
    Unmixed with baser matter."




THE OLD MEETING HOUSE.

SKETCH FROM THE NOTE BOOK OF AN OLD GENTLEMAN.


Never shall I forget the dignity and sense of importance which swelled
my mind when I was first pronounced old enough to go to meeting. That
eventful Sunday I was up long before day, and even took my Sabbath suit
to the window to ascertain by the first light that it actually was
there, just as it looked the night before. With what complacency did I
view myself completely dressed! How did I count over the rows of yellow
gilt buttons on my coat! how my good mother, grandmother, and aunts
fussed, and twitched, and pulled, to make every thing set up and set
down, just in the proper place! how my clean, starched white collar was
turned over and smoothed again and again, and my golden curls twisted
and arranged to make the most of me! and, last of all, how I was
cautioned not to be thinking of my clothes! In truth, I was in those
days a very handsome youngster, and it really is no more than justice to
let the fact be known, as there is nothing in my present appearance from
which it could ever be inferred. Every body in the house successively
asked me if I should be a good boy, and sit still, and not talk, nor
laugh; and my mother informed me, _in terrorem_, that there was a
tithing man, who carried off naughty children, and shut them up in a
dark place behind the pulpit; and that this tithing man, Mr. Zephaniah
Scranton, sat just where he could see me. This fact impressed my mind
with more solemnity than all the exhortations which had preceded it--a
proof of the efficacy of facts above reason. Under shadow and power of
this weighty truth, I demurely took hold of my mother's forefinger to
walk to meeting.

The traveller in New England, as he stands on some eminence, and looks
down on its rich landscape of golden grain and waving cornfield, sees no
feature more beautiful than its simple churches, whose white taper
fingers point upward, amid the greenness and bloom of the distant
prospects, as if to remind one of the overshadowing providence whence
all this luxuriant beauty flows; and year by year, as new ones are added
to the number, or succeed in the place of old ones, there is discernible
an evident improvement in their taste and architecture. Those modest
Doric little buildings, with their white pillars, green blinds, and neat
enclosures, are very different affairs from those great, uncouth
mountains of windows and doors that stood in the same place years
before. To my childish eye, however, our old meeting house was an
awe-inspiring thing. To me it seemed fashioned very nearly on the model
of Noah's ark and Solomon's temple, as set forth in the pictures in my
Scripture Catechism--pictures which I did not doubt were authentic
copies; and what more respectable and venerable architectural precedent
could any one desire? Its double rows of windows, of which I knew the
number by heart, its doors with great wooden quirls over them, its
belfry projecting out at the east end, its steeple and bell, all
inspired as much sense of the sublime in me as Strasbourg Cathedral
itself; and the inside was not a whit less imposing.

How magnificent, to my eye, seemed the turnip-like canopy that hung over
the minister's head, hooked by a long iron rod to the wall above! and
how apprehensively did I consider the question, what would become of him
if it should fall! How did I wonder at the panels on either side of the
pulpit, in each of which was carved and painted a flaming red tulip,
bolt upright, with its leaves projecting out at right angles! and then
at the grape vine, bass relieved on the front, with its exactly
triangular bunches of grapes, alternating at exact intervals with
exactly triangular leaves. To me it was an indisputable representation
of how grape vines ought to look, if they would only be straight and
regular, instead of curling and scrambling, and twisting themselves into
all sorts of slovenly shapes. The area of the house was divided into
large square pews, boxed up with stout boards, and surmounted with a
kind of baluster work, which I supposed to be provided for the special
accommodation of us youngsters, being the "loopholes of retreat" through
which we gazed on the "remarkabilia" of the scene. It was especially
interesting to me to notice the coming in to meeting of the
congregation. The doors were so contrived that on entering you stepped
_down_ instead of _up_--a construction that has more than once led to
unlucky results in the case of strangers. I remember once when an
unlucky Frenchman, entirely unsuspicious of the danger that awaited him,
made entrance by pitching devoutly upon his nose in the middle of the
broad aisle; that it took three bunches of my grandmother's fennel to
bring my risibles into any thing like composure. Such exhibitions,
fortunately for me, were very rare; but still I found great amusement in
watching the distinctive and marked outlines of the various people that
filled up the seats around me. A Yankee village presents a picture of
the curiosities of every generation: there, from year to year, they live
on, preserved by hard labor and regular habits, exhibiting every
peculiarity of manner and appearance, as distinctly marked as when they
first came from the mint of nature. And as every body goes punctually to
meeting, the meeting house becomes a sort of museum of antiquities--a
general muster ground for past and present.

I remember still with what wondering admiration I used to look around on
the people that surrounded our pew. On one side there was an old Captain
McLean, and Major McDill, a couple whom the mischievous wits of the
village designated as Captain McLean and Captain McFat; and, in truth,
they were a perfect antithesis, a living exemplification of flesh and
spirit. Captain McLean was a mournful, lengthy, considerate-looking old
gentleman, with a long face, digressing into a long, thin, horny nose,
which, when he applied his pocket handkerchief, gave forth a melancholy,
minor-keyed sound, such as a ghost might make, using a pocket
handkerchief in the long gallery of some old castle.

Close at his side was the doughty, puffing Captain McDill, whose
full-orbed, jolly visage was illuminated by a most valiant red nose,
shaped something like an overgrown doughnut, and looking as if it had
been thrown _at_ his face, and happened to hit in the middle. Then there
was old Israel Peters, with a wooden leg, which tramped into meeting,
with undeviating regularity, ten minutes before meeting time; and there
was Jedediah Stebbins, a thin, wistful, moonshiny-looking old gentleman,
whose mouth appeared as if it had been gathered up with a needle and
thread, and whose eyes seemed as if they had been bound with red tape;
and there was old Benaiah Stephens, who used regularly to get up and
stand when the minister was about half through his sermon, exhibiting
his tall figure, long, single-breasted coat, with buttons nearly as
large as a tea plate; his large, black, horn spectacles stretched down
on the extreme end of a very long nose, and vigorously chewing,
meanwhile, on the bunch of caraway which he always carried in one hand.
Then there was Aunt Sally Stimpson, and old Widow Smith, and a whole
bevy of little, dried old ladies, with small, straight, black bonnets,
tight sleeves to the elbow, long silk gloves, and great fans, big enough
for a windmill; and of a hot day it was a great amusement to me to watch
the bobbing of the little black bonnets, which showed that sleep had got
the better of their owners' attention, and the sputter and rustling of
the fans, when a more profound nod than common would suddenly waken
them, and set them to fanning and listening with redoubled devotion.
There was Deacon Dundas, a great wagon load of an old gentleman, whose
ample pockets looked as if they might have held half the congregation,
who used to establish himself just on one side of me, and seemed to feel
such entire confidence in the soundness and capacity of his pastor that
he could sleep very comfortably from one end of the sermon to the other.
Occasionally, to be sure, one of your officious blue flies, who, as
every body knows, are amazingly particular about such matters, would
buzz into his mouth, or flirt into his ears a passing admonition as to
the impropriety of sleeping in meeting, when the good old gentleman
would start, open his eyes very wide, and look about with a resolute
air, as much as to say, "I wasn't asleep, I can tell you;" and then
setting himself in an edifying posture of attention, you might perceive
his head gradually settling back, his mouth slowly opening wider and
wider, till the good man would go off again soundly asleep, as if
nothing had happened.

It was a good orthodox custom of old times to take every part of the
domestic establishment to meeting, even down to the faithful dog, who,
as he had supervised the labors of the week, also came with due
particularity to supervise the worship of Sunday. I think I can see now
the fitting out on a Sunday morning--the one wagon, or two, as the case
might be, tackled up with an "old gray" or an "old bay," with a buffalo
skin over the seat by way of cushion, and all the family, in their
Sunday best, packed in for meeting; while Master Bose, Watch, or Towser
stood prepared to be an outguard and went meekly trotting up hill and
down dale in the rear. Arrived at meeting, the canine part of the
establishment generally conducted themselves with great decorum, lying
down and going to sleep as decently as any body present, except when
some of the business-loving bluebottles aforesaid would make a sortie
upon them, when you might hear the snap of their jaws as they vainly
sought to lay hold of the offender. Now and then, between some of the
sixthlies, seventhlies, and eighthlies, you might hear some old
patriarch giving himself a rousing shake, and pitpatting soberly up the
aisles, as if to see that every thing was going on properly, after which
he would lie down and compose himself to sleep again; and certainly this
was as improving a way of spending Sunday as a good Christian dog could
desire.

But the glory of our meeting house was its singers' seat--that empyrean
of those who rejoiced in the divine, mysterious art of fa-sol-la-ing,
who, by a distinguishing grace and privilege, could "raise and fall" the
cabalistical eight notes, and move serene through the enchanted region
of flats, sharps, thirds, fifths, and octaves.

There they sat in the gallery that lined three sides of the house,
treble, counter, tenor, and bass, each with its appropriate leaders and
supporters; there were generally seated the bloom of our young people;
sparkling, modest, and blushing girls on one side, with their ribbons
and finery, making the place where they sat as blooming and lively as a
flower garden, and fiery, forward, confident young men on the other. In
spite of its being a meeting house, we could not swear that glances were
never given and returned, and that there was not often as much of an
approach to flirtation as the distance and the sobriety of the place
would admit. Certain it was, that there was no place where our village
coquettes attracted half so many eyes or led astray half so many hearts.

But I have been talking of singers all this time, and neglected to
mention the Magnus Apollo of the whole concern, the redoubtable
chorister, who occupied the seat of honor in the midst of the middle
gallery, and exactly opposite to the minister. Certain it is that the
good man, if he were alive, would never believe it; for no person ever
more magnified his office, or had a more thorough belief in his own
greatness and supremacy, than Zedekiah Morse. Methinks I can see him now
as he appeared to my eyes on that first Sunday, when he shot up from
behind the gallery, as if he had been sent up by a spring. He was a
little man, whose fiery-red hair, brushed straight up on the top of his
head, had an appearance as vigorous and lively as real flame; and this,
added to the ardor and determination of all his motions, had obtained
for him the surname of the "Burning Bush." He seemed possessed with the
very soul of song; and from the moment he began to sing, looked alive
all over, till it seemed to me that his whole body would follow his hair
upwards, fairly rapt away by the power of harmony. With what an air did
he sound the important _fa-sol-la_ in the ears of the waiting gallery,
who stood with open mouths ready to seize their pitch, preparatory to
their general _set to_! How did his ascending and descending arm
astonish the zephyrs when once he laid himself out to the important work
of beating time! How did his little head whisk from side to side, as now
he beat and roared towards the ladies on his right, and now towards the
gentlemen on his left! It used to seem to my astonished vision as if his
form grew taller, his arm longer, his hair redder, and his little green
eyes brighter, with every stave; and particularly when he perceived any
falling off of time or discrepancy in pitch; with what redoubled vigor
would he thump the gallery and roar at the delinquent quarter, till
every mother's son and daughter of them skipped and scrambled into the
right place again!

O, it was a fine thing to see the vigor and discipline with which he
managed the business; so that if, on a hot, drowsy Sunday, any part of
the choir hung back or sung sleepily on the first part of a verse, they
were obliged to bestir themselves in good earnest, and sing three times
as fast, in order to get through with the others. 'Kiah Morse was no
advocate for your dozy, drawling singing, that one may do at leisure,
between sleeping and waking, I assure you; indeed, he got entirely out
of the graces of Deacon Dundas and one or two other portly, leisurely
old gentlemen below, who had been used to throw back their heads, shut
up their eyes, and take the comfort of the psalm, by prolonging
indefinitely all the notes. The first Sunday after 'Kiah took the music
in hand, the old deacon really rubbed his eyes and looked about him; for
the psalm was sung off before he was ready to get his mouth opened, and
he really looked upon it as a most irreverent piece of business.

But the glory of 'Kiah's art consisted in the execution of those good
old billowy compositions called fuguing tunes, where the four parts that
compose the choir take up the song, and go racing around one after
another, each singing a different set of words, till, at length, by some
inexplicable magic, they all come together again, and sail smoothly out
into a rolling sea of song. I remember the wonder with which I used to
look from side to side when treble, tenor, counter, and bass were thus
roaring and foaming,--and it verily seemed to me as if the psalm was
going to pieces among the breakers,--and the delighted astonishment with
which I found that each particular verse did emerge whole and uninjured
from the storm.

But alas for the wonders of that old meeting house, how they are passed
away! Even the venerable building itself has been pulled down, and its
fragments scattered; yet still I retain enough of my childish feelings
to wonder whether any little boy was gratified by the possession of
those painted tulips and grape vines, which my childish eye used to
covet, and about the obtaining of which, in case the house should ever
be pulled down, I devised so many schemes during the long sermons and
services of summer days. I have visited the spot where it stood, but the
modern, fair-looking building that stands in its room bears no trace of
it; and of the various familiar faces that used to be seen inside, not
one remains. Verily, I must be growing old; and as old people are apt to
spin long stories, I check myself, and lay down my pen.




THE NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.


The sparkling ice and snow covered hill and valley--tree and bush were
glittering with diamonds--the broad, coarse rails of the fence shone
like bars of solid silver, while little fringes of icicles glittered
between each bar.

In the yard of yonder dwelling the scarlet berries of the mountain ash
shine through a transparent casing of crystal, and the sable spruces and
white pines, powdered and glittering with the frost, have assumed an icy
brilliancy. The eaves of the house, the door knocker, the pickets of the
fence, the honeysuckles and seringas, once the boast of summer, are all
alike polished, varnished, and resplendent with their winter trappings,
now gleaming in the last rays of the early sunset.

Within that large, old-fashioned dwelling might you see an ample parlor,
all whose adjustments and arrangements speak of security, warmth, and
home enjoyment; of money spent not for show, but for comfort. Thick
crimson curtains descend in heavy folds over the embrasures of the
windows, and the ample hearth and wide fireplace speak of the customs of
the good old times, ere that gloomy, unpoetic, unsocial gnome--the
air-tight--had monopolized the place of the blazing fireside.

No dark air-tight, however, filled our ancient chimney; but there was a
genuine old-fashioned fire of the most approved architecture, with a
gallant backlog and forestick, supporting and keeping in order a
crackling pile of dry wood, that was whirring and blazing warm welcome
for all whom it might concern, occasionally bursting forth into most
portentous and earnest snaps, which rung through the room with a
genuine, hospitable emphasis, as if the fire was enjoying himself, and
having a good time, and wanted all hands to draw up and make themselves
at home with him.

So looked that parlor to me, when, tired with a long day's ride, I found
my way into it, just at evening, and was greeted with a hearty welcome
from my old friend, Colonel Winthrop.

In addition to all that I have already described, let the reader add, if
he pleases, the vision of a wide and ample tea table, covered with a
snowy cloth, on which the servants are depositing the evening meal.

I had not seen Winthrop for years; but we were old college friends, and
I had gladly accepted an invitation to renew our ancient intimacy by
passing the New Year's season in his family. I found him still the same
hale, kindly, cheery fellow as in days of old, though time had taken the
same liberty with his handsome head that Jack Frost had with the cedars
and spruces out of doors, in giving to it a graceful and becoming
sprinkle of silver.

"Here you are, my dear fellow," said he, shaking me by both hands--"just
in season for the ham and chickens--coffee all smoking. My dear," he
added to a motherly-looking woman who now entered, "here's John! I beg
pardon, Mr. Stuart." As he spoke, two bold, handsome boys broke into the
room, accompanied by a huge Newfoundland dog--all as full of hilarity
and abundant animation as an afternoon of glorious skating could have
generated.

"Ha, Tom and Ned!--you rogues--you don't want any supper to-night, I
suppose," said the father, gayly; "come up here and be introduced to my
old friend. Here they come!" said he, as one by one the opening doors
admitted the various children to the summons of the evening meal.
"Here," presenting a tall young girl, "is our eldest, beginning to think
herself a young lady, on the strength of being fifteen years old, and
wearing her hair tucked up. And here is Eliza," said he, giving a pull
to a blooming, roguish girl of ten, with large, saucy black eyes. "And
here is Willie!" a bashful, blushing little fellow in a checked apron.
"And now, where's the little queen?--where's her majesty?--where's
Ally?"

A golden head of curls was, at this instant, thrust timidly in at the
door, and I caught a passing glimpse of a pair of great blue eyes; but
the head, curls, eyes, and all, instantly vanished, though a little fat
dimpled hand was seen holding on to the door, and swinging it back and
forward. "Ally, dear, come in!" said the mother, in a tone of
encouragement. "Come in, Ally! come in," was repeated in various tones,
by each child; but brother Tom pushed open the door, and taking the
little recusant in his arms, brought her fairly in, and deposited her on
her father's knee. She took firm hold of his coat, and then turned and
gazed shyly upon me--her large splendid blue eyes gleaming through her
golden curls. It was evident that this was the pet lamb of the fold, and
she was just at that age when babyhood is verging into childhood--an age
often indefinitely prolonged in a large family, where the universal
admiration that waits on every look, and motion, and word of _the baby_,
and the multiplied monopolies and privileges of the baby estate, seem,
by universal consent, to extend as long and as far as possible. And why
not thus delay the little bark of the child among the flowery shores of
its first Eden?--defer them as we may, the hard, the real, the cold
commonplace of life comes on all too soon!

"This is our New Year's gift," said Winthrop, fondly caressing the curly
head. "Ally, tell the gentleman how old you are."

"I s'all be four next New 'Ear's," said the little one, while all the
circle looked applause.

"Ally, tell the gentleman what you are," said brother Ned.

Ally looked coquettishly at me, as if she did not know whether she
should favor me to that extent, and the young princess was further
solicited.

"Tell him what Ally is," said the oldest sister, with a patronizing air.

"Papa's New 'Ear's pesent," said my little lady, at last.

"And mamma's, too!" said the mother gently, amid the applauses of the
admiring circle.

Winthrop looked apologetically at me, and said, "We all spoil
her--that's a fact--every one of us down to Rover, there, who lets her
tie tippets round his neck, and put bonnets on his head, and hug and
kiss him, to a degree that would disconcert any other dog in the world."

If ever beauty and poetic grace was an apology for spoiling, it was in
this case. Every turn of the bright head, every change of the dimpled
face and round and chubby limbs, was a picture; and within the little
form was shrined a heart full of love, and running over with compassion
and good will for every breathing thing; with feelings so sensitive,
that it was papa's delight to make her laugh and cry with stories, and
to watch in the blue, earnest mirror of her eye every change and turn of
his narration, as he took her through long fairy tales, and
old-fashioned giant and ghost legends, purely for his own amusement, and
much reprimanded all the way by mamma, for filling the child's head with
nonsense.

It was now, however, time to turn from the beauty to the substantial
realities of the supper table. I observed that Ally's high chair was
stationed close by her father's side; and ever and anon, while gayly
talking, he would slip into her rosy little mouth some choice bit from
his plate, these notices and attentions seeming so instinctive and
habitual, that they did not for a moment interrupt the thread of the
conversation. Once or twice I caught a glimpse of Rover's great rough
nose, turned anxiously up to the little chair; whereat the small white
hand forthwith slid something into his mouth, though by what dexterity
it ever came out from the great black jaws undevoured was a mystery.
When the supply of meat on the small lady's plate was exhausted, I
observed the little hand slyly slipping into her father's provision
grounds, and with infinite address abstracting small morsels, whereat
there was much mysterious winking between the father and the other
children, and considerable tittering among the younger ones, though all
in marvellous silence, as it was deemed best policy not to appear to
notice Ally's tricks, lest they should become too obstreperous.

In the course of the next day I found myself, to all intents and
purposes, as much part and parcel of the family as if I had been born
and bred among them. I found that I had come in a critical time, when
secrets were plenty as blackberries. It being New Year's week, all the
little hoarded resources of the children, both of money and of
ingenuity, were in brisk requisition, getting up New Year's presents for
each other, and for father and mother. The boys had their little tin
savings banks, where all the stray pennies of the year had been
carefully hoarded--all that had been got by blacking papa's boots, or by
piling wood, or weeding in the garden--mingled with some fortunate
additions which had come as windfalls from some liberal guest or friend.
All now were poured out daily, on tables, on chairs, on stools, and
counted over with wonderful earnestness.

My friend, though in easy circumstances, was somewhat old-fashioned in
his notions. He never allowed his children spending money, except such
as they fairly earned by some exertions of their own. "Let them do
something," he would say, "to make it fairly theirs, and their
generosity will then have some significance--it is very easy for
children to be generous on their parents' money." Great were the
comparing of resources and estimates of property at this time. Tom and
Ned, who were big enough to saw wood, and hoe in the garden, had
accumulated the vast sum of three dollars each, and walked about with
their hands in their pockets, and talked largely of purchases, like
gentlemen of substance. They thought of getting mamma a new muff, and
papa a writing desk, besides trinkets innumerable for sisters, and a big
doll for Ally; but after they had made one expedition to a neighboring
town to inquire prices, I observed that their expectations were greatly
moderated. As to little Willie, him of the checked apron, his whole
earthly substance amounted to thirty-seven cents; yet there was not a
member of the whole family circle, including the servants, that he could
find it in his heart to leave out of his remembrance. I ingratiated
myself with him immediately; and twenty times a day did I count over his
money to him, and did sums innumerable to show how much would be left if
he got this, that, or the other article, which he was longing to buy for
father or mother. I proved to him most invaluable, by helping him to
think of certain small sixpenny and fourpenny articles that would be
pretty to give to sisters, making out with marbles for Tom and Ned, and
a very valiant-looking sugar horse for Ally. Miss Emma had the usual
resource of young ladies, flosses, worsted, and knitting, and crochet
needles, and busy fingers, and she was giving private lessons daily to
Eliza, to enable her to get up some napkin rings, and book marks for the
all-important occasion. A gentle air of bustle and mystery pervaded the
whole circle. I was intrusted with so many secrets that I could scarcely
make an observation, or take a turn about the room, without being
implored to "remember"--"not to tell"--not to let papa know this, or
mamma that. I was not to let papa know how the boys were going to buy
him a new inkstand, with a pen rack upon it, which was entirely to
outshine all previous inkstands; nor tell mamma about the crochet bag
that Emma was knitting for her. On all sides were mysterious
whisperings, and showing of things wrapped in brown paper, glimpses of
which, through some inadvertence, were always appearing to the public
eye. There were close counsels held behind doors and in corners, and
suddenly broken off when some particular member of the family appeared.
There were flutters of vanishing book marks, which were always whisked
away when a door opened; and incessant ejaculations of admiration and
astonishment from one privileged looker or another on things which might
not be mentioned to or beheld by others.

Papa and mamma behaved with the utmost circumspection and discretion,
and though surrounded on all sides by such pitfalls and labyrinths of
mystery, moved about with an air of the most unconscious simplicity
possible.

But little Ally, from her privileged character, became a very
spoil-sport in the proceedings. Her small fingers were always pulling
open parcels prematurely, or lifting pocket handkerchiefs ingeniously
thrown down over mysterious articles, and thus disconcerting the very
profoundest surprises that ever were planned; and were it not that she
was still within the bounds of the kingly state of babyhood, and
therefore could be held to do no wrong, she would certainly have fallen
into general disgrace; but then it was "Ally," and that was apology for
all things, and the exploit was related in half whispers as so funny, so
cunning, that Miss Curlypate was in nowise disconcerted at the head
shakes and "naughty Allys" that visited her offences.

"What dis?" said she, one morning, as she was rummaging over some
packages indiscreetly left on the sofa.

"O Emma! see Ally!" exclaimed Eliza, darting forward; but too late, for
the flaxen curls and blue eyes of a wax doll had already appeared.

"Now she'll know all about it," said Eliza, despairingly.

Ally looked in astonishment, as dolly's visage promptly disappeared from
her view, and then turned to pursue her business in another quarter of
the room, where, spying something glittering under the sofa, she
forthwith pulled out and held up to public view a crochet bag sparkling
with innumerable steel fringes.

"O, what be dis!" she exclaimed again.

Miss Emma sprang to the rescue, while all the other children, with a
burst of exclamations, turned their eyes on mamma. Mamma very prudently
did not turn her head, and appeared to be lost in reflection, though she
must have been quite deaf not to have heard the loud whispers--"It's
mamma's bag! only think! Don't you think, Tom, Ally pulled out mamma's
bag, and held it right up before her! Don't you think she'll find out?"

Master Tom valued himself greatly on the original and profound ways he
had of adapting his presents to the tastes of the receiver without
exciting suspicion: for example, he would come up into his mother's
room, all booted and coated for a ride to town, jingling his purse
gleefully, and begin,--

"Mother, mother, which do you like best, pink or blue?"

"That might depend on circumstances, my son."

"Well, but, mother, for a neck ribbon, for example; suppose somebody was
going to buy you a neck ribbon."

"Why, blue would be the most suitable for me, I think."

"Well, but mother, which should you think was the best, a neck ribbon or
a book?"

"What book? It would depend something on that."

"Why, as good a book as a fellow could get for thirty-seven cents," says
Tom.

"Well, on the whole, I think I should prefer the ribbon."

"There, Ned," says Tom, coming down the stairs, "I've found out just
what mother wants, without telling her a word about it."

But the crowning mystery of all the great family arcana, the thing that
was going to astonish papa and mamma past all recovery, was certain
projected book marks, that little Ally was going to be made to work for
them. This bold scheme was projected by Miss Emma, and she had armed
herself with a whole paper of sugar plums, to be used as adjuvants to
moral influence, in case the discouragements of the undertaking should
prove too much for Ally's patience.

As to Ally, she felt all the dignity of the enterprise--her whole little
soul was absorbed in it. Seated on Emma's knee, with the needle between
her little fat fingers, and holding the board very tight, as if she was
afraid it would run away from her, she very gravely and carefully stuck
the needle in every place but the right--pricked her pretty fingers--ate
sugar plums--stopping now to pat Rover, and now to stroke pussy--letting
fall her thimble, and bustling down to pick it up--occasionally taking
an episodical race round the room with Rover, during which time Sister
Emma added a stitch or two to the work.

I would not wish to have been required, on oath, to give in my
undisguised opinion as to the number of stitches the little one really
put into her present, but she had a most genuine and firm conviction
that she worked every stitch of it herself; and when, on returning from
a scamper with pussy, she found one or two letters finished, she never
doubted that the whole was of her own execution, and, of course, thought
that working book marks was one of the most delightful occupations in
the world. It was all that her little heart could do to keep from papa
and mamma the wonderful secret. Every evening she would bustle about her
father with an air of such great mystery, and seek to pique his
curiosity by most skilful hints, such as,--

"I know somefing! but I s'ant tell you."

"Not tell me! O Ally! Why not?"

"O, it's about--a New 'Ear's pes----"

"Ally, Ally," resounds from several voices, "don't you tell."

"No, I s'ant--but you are going to have a New 'Ear's pesant, and so is
mamma, and you can't dess what it is."

"Can't I?"

"No, and I s'ant tell you."

"Now, Ally," said papa, pretending to look aggrieved.

"Well, it's going to be--somefin worked."

"Ally, be careful," said Emma.

"Yes, I'll be very tareful; it's somefin--_weall_ pretty--somefin to put
in a book. You'll find out about it by and by."

"I think I'm in a fair way to," said the father.

The conversation now digressed to other subjects, and the nurse came in
to take Ally to bed; who, as she kissed her father, in the fulness of
her heart, added a fresh burst of information. "Papa," said she, in an
earnest whisper, "that _fin_ is about so long"--measuring on her fat
little arm.

"A _fin_, Ally? Why, you are not going to give me a fish, are you?"

"I mean that _thing_," said Ally, speaking the word with great effort,
and getting quite red in the face.

"O, that _thing_; I beg pardon, my lady; that puts another face on the
communication," said the father, stroking her head fondly, as he bade
her good night.

"The child can talk plainer than she does," said the father, "but we are
all so delighted with her little Hottentot dialect, that I don't know
but she will keep it up till she is twenty."

       *       *       *       *       *

It now wanted only three days of the New Year, when a sudden and deadly
shadow fell on the dwelling, late so busy and joyous--a shadow from the
grave; and it fell on the flower of the garden--the star--the singing
bird--the loved and loving Ally.

She was stricken down at once, in the flush of her innocent enjoyment,
by a fever, which from the first was ushered in with symptoms the most
fearful.

All the bustle of preparation ceased--the presents were forgotten or lay
about unfinished, as if no one now had a heart to put their hand to any
thing; while up in her little crib lay the beloved one, tossing and
burning with restless fever, and without power to recognize any of the
loved faces that bent over her.

The doctor came twice a day, with a heavy step, and a face in which
anxious care was too plainly written; and while he was there each member
of the circle hung with anxious, imploring faces about him, as if to
entreat him to save their darling; but still the deadly disease held on
its relentless course, in spite of all that could be done.

"I thought myself prepared to meet God's will in any form it might
come," said Winthrop to me; "but this one thing I had forgotten. It
never entered into my head that my little Ally could die."

The evening before New Year's, the deadly disease seemed to be
progressing more rapidly than ever; and when the doctor came for his
evening call, he found all the family gathered in mournful stillness
around the little crib.

"I suppose," said the father, with an effort to speak calmly, "that this
may be her last night with us."

The doctor made no answer, and the whole circle of brothers and sisters
broke out into bitter weeping.

"It is just possible that she may live till to-morrow," said the doctor.

"To-morrow--her birthday!" said the mother. "O Ally, Ally!"

Wearily passed the watches of that night. Each brother and sister had
kissed the pale little cheek, to bid farewell, and gone to their rooms,
to sob themselves to sleep; and the father and mother and doctor alone
watched around the bed. O, what a watch is that which despairing love
keeps, waiting for death! Poor Rover, the companion of Ally's gayer
hours, resolutely refused to be excluded from the sick chamber.
Stretched under the little crib, he watched with unsleeping eyes every
motion of the attendants, and as often as they rose to administer
medicine, or change the pillow, or bathe the head, he would rise also,
and look anxiously over the side of the crib, as if he understood all
that was passing.

About an hour past midnight, the child began to change; her moans became
fainter and fainter, her restless movements ceased, and a deep and heavy
sleep settled upon her.

The parents looked wistfully on the doctor. "It is the last change," he
said; "she will probably pass away before the daybreak."

Heavier and deeper grew that sleep, and to the eye of the anxious
watchers the little face grew paler and paler; yet by degrees the
breathing became regular and easy, and a gentle moisture began to
diffuse itself over the whole surface. A new hope began to dawn on the
minds of the parents, as they pointed out these symptoms to the doctor.

"All things are possible with God," said he, in answer to the inquiring
looks he met, "and it may be that she will yet live."

An hour more passed, and the rosy glow of the New Year's morning began
to blush over the snowy whiteness of the landscape. Far off from the
window could be seen the kindling glow of a glorious sunrise, looking
all the brighter for the dark pines that half veiled it from view; and
now a straight and glittering beam shot from the east into the still
chamber. It fell on the golden hair and pale brow of the child, lighting
it up as if an angel had smiled on it; and slowly the large blue eyes
unclosed, and gazed dreamily around.

"Ally, Ally," said the father, bending over her, trembling with
excitement.

"You are going to have a New 'Ear's pesent," whispered the little one,
faintly smiling.

"I believe from my heart that you are, sir!" said the doctor, who stood
with his fingers on her pulse; "she has passed through the crisis of the
disease, and we may hope."

A few hours turned this hope to glad certainty; for with the elastic
rapidity of infant life, the signs of returning vigor began to multiply,
and ere evening the little one was lying in her father's arms, answering
with languid smiles to the overflowing proofs of tenderness which every
member of the family was showering upon her.

"See, my children," said the father gently, "_this dear one_ is _our_
New Year's present. What can we render to God in return?"




THE OLD OAK OF ANDOVER.

A REVERY.


Silently, with dreamy languor, the fleecy snow is falling. Through the
windows, flowery with blossoming geranium and heliotrope, through the
downward sweep of crimson and muslin curtain, one watches it as the wind
whirls and sways it in swift eddies.

Right opposite our house, on our Mount Clear, is an old oak, the apostle
of the primeval forest. Once, when this place was all wildwood, the man
who was seeking a spot for the location of the buildings of Phillips
Academy climbed this oak, using it as a sort of green watchtower, from
whence he might gain a view of the surrounding country. Age and time,
since then, have dealt hardly with the stanch old fellow. His limbs have
been here and there shattered; his back begins to look mossy and
dilapidated; but after all, there is a piquant, decided air about him,
that speaks the old age of a tree of distinction, a kingly oak. To-day I
see him standing, dimly revealed through the mist of falling snows;
to-morrow's sun will show the outline of his gnarled limbs--all rose
color with their soft snow burden; and again a few months, and spring
will breathe on him, and he will draw a long breath, and break out once
more, for the three hundredth time, perhaps, into a vernal crown of
leaves. I sometimes think that leaves are the thoughts of trees, and
that if we only knew it, we should find their life's experience recorded
in them. Our oak! what a crop of meditations and remembrances must he
have thrown forth, leafing out century after century. Awhile he spake
and thought only of red deer and Indians; of the trillium that opened
its white triangle in his shade; of the scented arbutus, fair as the
pink ocean shell, weaving her fragrant mats in the moss at his feet; of
feathery ferns, casting their silent shadows on the checkerberry leaves,
and all those sweet, wild, nameless, half-mossy things, that live in the
gloom of forests, and are only desecrated when brought to scientific
light, laid out and stretched on a botanic bier. Sweet old forest
days!--when blue jay, and yellow hammer, and bobalink made his leaves
merry, and summer was a long opera of such music as Mozart dimly
dreamed. But then came human kind bustling beneath; wondering, fussing,
exploring, measuring, treading down flowers, cutting down trees, scaring
bobalinks--and Andover, as men say, began to be settled.

Staunch men were they--these Puritan fathers of Andover. The old oak
must have felt them something akin to himself. Such strong, wrestling
limbs had they, so gnarled and knotted were they, yet so outbursting
with a green and vernal crown, yearly springing, of noble and generous
thoughts, rustling with leaves which shall be for the healing of
nations.

These men were content with the hard, dry crust for themselves, that
they might sow seeds of abundant food for us, their children; men out of
whose hardness in enduring we gain leisure to be soft and graceful,
through whose poverty we have become rich. Like Moses, they had for
their portion only the pain and weariness of the wilderness, leaving to
us the fruition of the promised land. Let us cherish for their sake the
old oak, beautiful in its age as the broken statue of some antique
wrestler, brown with time, yet glorious in its suggestion of past
achievement.

I think all this the more that I have recently come across the following
passage in one of our religious papers. The writer expresses a kind of
sentiment which one meets very often upon this subject, and leads one to
wonder what glamour could have fallen on the minds of any of the
descendants of the Puritans, that they should cast nettles on those
honored graves where they should be proud to cast their laurels.

"It is hard," he says, "for a lover of the beautiful--not a mere lover,
but a believer in its divinity also--to forgive the Puritans, or to
think charitably of them. It is hard for him to keep Forefathers' Day,
or to subscribe to the Plymouth Monument; hard to look fairly at what
they did, with the memory of what they destroyed rising up to choke
thankfulness; for they were as one-sided and narrow-minded a set of men
as ever lived, and saw one of Truth's faces only--the hard, stern,
practical face, without loveliness, without beauty, and only half dear
to God. The Puritan flew in the face of facts, not because he saw them
and disliked them, but because he did not see them. He saw foolishness,
lying, stealing, worldliness--the very mammon of unrighteousness rioting
in the world and bearing sway--and he ran full tilt against the monster,
hating it with a very mortal and mundane hatred, and anxious to see it
bite the dust that his own horn might be exalted. It was in truth only
another horn of the old dilemma, tossing and goring grace and beauty,
and all the loveliness of life, as if they were the enemies instead of
the sure friends of God and man."

Now, to those who say this we must ask the question with which Socrates
of old pursued the sophist: What _is_ beauty? If beauty be only
physical, if it appeal only to the senses, if it be only an enchantment
of graceful forms, sweet sounds, then indeed there might be something of
truth in this sweeping declaration that the Puritan spirit is the enemy
of beauty.

The very root and foundation of all artistic inquiry lies here. _What is
beauty?_ And to this question God forbid that we _Christians_ should
give a narrower answer than Plato gave in the old times before Christ
arose, for he directs the aspirant who would discover the beautiful to
"consider of greater value the beauty existing _in the soul_, than that
existing in the body." More gracefully he teaches the same doctrine when
he tells us that "there are two kinds of Venus, (beauty;) the one, the
elder, who had no mother, and was the daughter of Uranus, (heaven,) whom
we name the celestial; the other, younger, daughter of Jupiter and
Dione, whom we call the vulgar."

Now, if disinterestedness, faith, patience, piety, have a beauty
celestial and divine, then were our fathers worshippers of the
beautiful. If high-mindedness and spotless honor are beautiful things,
they had those. What work of art can compare with a lofty and heroic
life? Is it not better to _be_ a Moses than to be a Michael Angelo
making statues of Moses? Is not the _life_ of Paul a sublimer work of
art than Raphael's cartoons? Are not the patience, the faith, the
undying love of Mary by the cross, more beautiful than all the Madonna
paintings in the world. If, then, we would speak truly of our fathers,
we should say that, having their minds fixed on that celestial beauty of
which Plato speaks, they held in slight esteem that more common and
earthly.

Should we continue the parable in Plato's manner, we might say that the
earthly and visible Venus, the outward grace of art and nature, was
ordained of God as a priestess, through whom men were to gain access to
the divine, invisible One; but that men, in their blindness, ever
worship the priestess instead of the divinity.

Therefore it is that great reformers so often must break the shrines and
temples of the physical and earthly beauty, when they seek to draw men
upward to that which is high and divine.

Christ says of John the Baptist, "What went ye out for to see? A man
clothed in soft raiment? Behold they which are clothed in soft raiment
are in kings' palaces." So was it when our fathers came here. There were
enough wearing soft raiment and dwelling in kings' palaces. Life in
papal Rome and prelatic England was weighed down with blossoming luxury.
There were abundance of people to think of pictures, and statues, and
gems, and cameos, vases and marbles, and all manner of deliciousness.
The world was all drunk with the enchantments of the lower Venus, and it
was needful that these men should come, Baptist-like in the wilderness,
in raiment of camel's hair. We need such men now. Art, they tell us, is
waking in America; a love of the beautiful is beginning to unfold its
wings; but what kind of art, and what kind of beauty? Are we to fill our
houses with pictures and gems, and to see that even our drinking cup and
vase is wrought in graceful pattern, and to lose our reverence for
self-denial, honor, and faith?

Is our Venus to be the frail, insnaring Aphrodite, or the starry, divine
Urania?




OUR WOOD LOT IN WINTER.


Our wood lot! Yes, we have arrived at the dignity of owning a wood lot,
and for us simple folk there is something invigorating in the thought.
To OWN even a small spot of our dear old mother earth hath in it a
relish of something stimulating to human nature. To own a meadow, with
all its thousand-fold fringes of grasses, its broidery of monthly
flowers, and its outriders of birds, and bees, and gold-winged
insects--this is something that establishes one's heart. To own a clover
patch or a buckwheat field is like possessing a self-moving manufactory
for perfumes and sweetness; but a wood lot, rustling with dignified old
trees--it makes a man rise in his own esteem; he might take off his hat
to himself at the moment of acquisition.

We do not marvel that the land-acquiring passion becomes a mania among
our farmers, and particularly we do not wonder at a passion for wood
land. That wide, deep chasm of conscious self-poverty and emptiness
which lies at the bottom of every human heart, making men crave property
as something to add to one's own bareness, and to ballast one's own
specific levity, is sooner filled by land than any thing else.

Your hoary New England farmer walks over his acres with a grim
satisfaction. He sets his foot down with a hard stamp; _here_ is
reality. No moonshine bank stock! no swindling railroads! _Here_ is
_his_ bank, and there is no defaulter here. All is true, solid, and
satisfactory; he seems anchored to this life by it. So Pope, with fine
tact, makes the old miser, making his will on his death bed, after
parting with every thing, die, clinging to the possession of his _land_.
He disposes with many a groan of this and that house, and this and that
stock and security; but at last the _manor_ is proposed to him.

          "The manor! hold!" he cried,
    "Not that; _I cannot part with that!_"--and died!

In such terms we discoursed yesterday, Herr Professor and myself, while
jogging along in an old-fashioned chaise to inspect a few acres of wood
lot, the acquisition of which had let us, with great freshness, into
these reflections.

Does any fair lady shiver at the idea of a drive to the woods on the
first of February? Let me assure her that in the coldest season Nature
never wants her ornaments full worth looking at.

See here, for instance--let us stop the old chaise, and get out a minute
to look at this brook--one of our last summer's pets. What is he doing
this winter? Let us at least say, "How do you do?" to him. Ah, here he
is! and he and Jack Frost together have been turning the little gap in
the old stone wall, through which he leaped down to the road, into a
little grotto of Antiparos. Some old rough rails and boards that dropped
over it are sheathed in plates of transparent silver. The trunks of the
black alders are mailed with crystal; and the witch-hazel, and yellow
osiers fringing its sedgy borders, are likewise shining through their
glossy covering. Around every stem that rises from the water is a
glittering ring of ice. The tags of the alder and the red berries of
last summer's wild roses glitter now like a lady's pendant. As for the
brook, he is wide awake and joyful; and where the roof of sheet ice
breaks away, you can see his yellow-brown waters rattling and gurgling
among the stones as briskly as they did last July. Down he springs! over
the glossy-coated stone wall, throwing new sparkles into the fairy
grotto around him; and widening daily from melting snows, and such other
godsends, he goes chattering off under yonder mossy stone bridge, and we
lose sight of him. It might be fancy, but it seemed that our watery
friend tipped us a cheery wink as he passed, saying, "Fine weather, sir
and madam; nice times these; and in April you'll find us all right; the
flowers are making up their finery for the next season; there's to be a
splendid display in a month or two."

Then the cloud lights of a wintry sky have a clear purity and brilliancy
that no other months can rival. The rose tints, and the shading of rose
tint into gold, the flossy, filmy accumulation of illuminated vapor that
drifts across the sky in a January afternoon, are beauties far exceeding
those of summer.

Neither are trees, as seen in winter, destitute of their own peculiar
beauty. If it be a gorgeous study in summer time to watch the play of
their abundant leafage, we still may thank winter for laying bare before
us the grand and beautiful anatomy of the tree, with all its interlacing
network of boughs, knotted on each twig with the buds of next year's
promise. The fleecy and rosy clouds look all the more beautiful through
the dark lace veil of yonder magnificent elms; and the down-drooping
drapery of yonder willow hath its own grace of outline as it sweeps the
bare snows. And these comical old apple trees, why, in summer they look
like so many plump, green cushions, one as much like another as
possible; but under the revealing light of winter every characteristic
twist and jerk stands disclosed.

One might moralize on this--how affliction, which strips us of all
ornaments and accessories, and brings us down to the permanent and solid
wood of our nature, develops such wide differences in people who before
seemed not much distinct.

But here! our pony's feet are now clinking on the icy path under the
shadow of the white pines of "our wood lot." The path runs in a deep
hollow, and on either hand rise <DW72>s dark and sheltered with the
fragrant white pine. White pines are favorites with us for many good
reasons. We love their balsamic breath, the long, slender needles of
their leaves, and, above all, the constant sibylline whisperings that
never cease among their branches. In summer the ground beneath them is
paved with a soft and cleanly matting of their last year's leaves; and
then their talking seems to be of coolness ever dwelling far up in their
fringy, waving hollows. And now, in winter time, we find the same smooth
floor; for the heavy curtains above shut out the snow, and the same
voices above whisper of shelter and quiet. "You are welcome," they say;
"the north wind is gone to sleep; we are rocking him in our cradles. Sit
down and be quiet from the cold." At the feet of these slumberous old
pines we find many of our last summer's friends looking as good as new.
The small, round-leafed partridgeberry weaves its viny mat, and lays out
its scarlet fruit; and here are blackberry vines with leaves still
green, though with a bluish tint, not unlike what invades mortal noses
in such weather. Here, too, are the bright, varnished leaves of the
Indian pine, and the vines of feathery green of which our Christmas
garlands are made; and here, undaunted, though frozen to the very heart
this cold day, is many another leafy thing which we met last summer
rejoicing each in its own peculiar flower. What names they have received
from scientific god-fathers at the botanic fount we know not; we have
always known them by fairy nicknames of our own--the pet names of
endearment which lie between Nature's children and us in her domestic
circle.

There is something peculiarly sweet to us about a certain mystical
dreaminess and obscurity in these wild wood tribes, which we never wish
to have brought out into the daylight of absolute knowledge. Every one
of them was a self-discovered treasure of our childhood, as much our own
as if God had made it on purpose and presented it; and it was ever a
part of the joy to think we had found something that no one else knew,
and so musing on them, we gave them names in our heart.

We search about amid the sere, yellow skeletons of last summer's ferns,
if haply winter have forgotten one green leaf for our home vase--in vain
we rake, freezing our fingers through our fur gloves--there is not one.
An icicle has pierced every heart; and there are no fern leaves except
those miniature ones which each plant is holding in its heart, to be
sent up in next summer's hour of joy. But here are mosses--tufts of all
sorts; the white, crisp and crumbling, fair as winter frostwork; and
here the feathery green of which French milliners make moss rose buds;
and here the cup-moss--these we gather with some care, frozen as they
are to the wintry earth.

Now, stumbling up this ridge, we come to a little patch of hemlocks,
spreading out their green wings, and making, in the ravine, a deep
shelter, where many a fresh springing thing is standing, and where we
gain much for our home vases. These pines are motherly creatures. One
can think how it must rejoice the heart of a partridge or a rabbit to
come from the dry, whistling sweep of a deciduous forest under the
home-like shadow of their branches. "As for the stork, the fir trees are
her house," says the Hebrew poet; and our fir trees, this winter, give
shelter to much small game. Often, on the light-fallen snow, I meet
their little footprints. They have a naive, helpless, innocent
appearance, these little tracks, that softens my heart like a child's
footprint. Not one of them is forgotten of our Father; and therefore I
remember them kindly.

And now, with cold toes and fingers, and arms full of leafy treasures,
we plod our way back to the chaise. A pleasant song is in my ears from
this old wood lot--it speaks of green and cheerful patience in life's
hard weather. Not a scowling, sullen endurance, not a despairing,
hand-dropping resignation, but a heart cheerfulness that holds on to
every leaf, and twig, and flower, and bravely smiles and keeps green
when frozen to the very heart, knowing that the winter is but for a
season, and that the sunshine and bird singings shall return, and the
last year's dry flower stalk give place to the risen, glorified flower.




POEMS.

THE CHARMER.


     "_Socrates._--'However, you and Simmias appear to me as if you
     wished to sift this subject more thoroughly, and to be afraid, like
     children, lest, on the soul's departure from the body, winds should
     blow it away.'

            *       *       *       *       *

     "Upon this Cebes said, 'Endeavor to teach us better, Socrates. * *
     * Perhaps there is a childish spirit in our breast, that has such a
     dread. Let us endeavor to persuade him not to be afraid of death,
     as of hobgoblins.'

     "'But you must _charm_ him every day,' said Socrates, 'until you
     have quieted his fears.'

     "'But whence, O Socrates,' he said, 'can we procure a skilful
     charmer for such a case, now you are about to leave us.'

     "'Greece is wide, Cebes,' he replied: 'and in it surely there are
     skilful men, and there are also many barbarous nations, all of
     which you should search, seeking such a charmer, sparing neither
     money nor toil, as there is nothing on which you can more
     reasonably spend your money.'"--(_Last conversation of Socrates
     with his disciples, as narrated by Plato in the Phaedo._)

            *       *       *       *       *

    "We need that Charmer, for our hearts are sore
      With longings for the things that may not be;
    Faint for the friends that shall return no more;
      Dark with distrust, or wrung with agony.

    "What is this life? and what to us is death?
      Whence came we? whither go? and where are those
    Who, in a moment stricken from our side,
      Passed to that land of shadow and repose?

    "And are they all dust? and dust must we become?
      Or are they living in some unknown clime?
    Shall we regain them in that far-off home,
      And live anew beyond the waves of time?

    "O man divine! on thee our souls have hung;
      Thou wert our teacher in these questions high;
    But, ah, this day divides thee from our side,
      And veils in dust thy kindly-guiding eye.

    "Where is that Charmer whom thou bidst us seek?
      On what far shores may his sweet voice be heard?
    When shall these questions of our yearning souls
      Be answered by the bright Eternal Word?"

    So spake the youth of Athens, weeping round,
      When Socrates lay calmly down to die;
    So spake the sage, prophetic of the hour
      When earth's fair morning star should rise on high.

    They found Him not, those youths of soul divine,
      Long seeking, wandering, watching on life's shore--
    Reasoning, aspiring, yearning for the light,
      Death came and found them--doubting as before.

    But years passed on; and lo! the Charmer came--
      Pure, simple, sweet, as comes the silver dew;
    And the world knew him not--he walked alone,
      Encircled only by his trusting few.

    Like the Athenian sage rejected, scorned,
      Betrayed, condemned, his day of doom drew nigh;
    He drew his faithful few more closely round,
      And told them that _his_ hour was come to die.

    "Let not your heart be troubled," then he said;
      "My Father's house hath mansions large and fair;
    I go before you to prepare your place;
      I will return to take you with me there."

    And since that hour the awful foe is charmed,
      And life and death are glorified and fair.
    Whither he went we know--the way we know--
      And with firm step press on to meet him there.




PILGRIM'S SONG IN THE DESERT.


    'Tis morning now--upon the eastern hills
      Once more the sun lights up this cheerless scene;
    But O, no morning in my Father's house
      Is dawning now, for there no night hath been.

    Ten thousand thousand now, on Zion's hills,
      All robed in white, with palmy crowns, do stray,
    While I, an exile, far from fatherland,
      Still wandering, faint along the desert way.

    O home! dear home! my own, my native home!
      O Father, friends, when shall I look on you?
    When shall these weary wanderings be o'er,
      And I be gathered back to stray no more?

    O thou, the brightness of whose gracious face
      These weary, longing eyes have never seen,--
    By whose dear thought, for whose beloved sake,
      My course, through toil and tears, I daily take,--

    I think of thee when the myrrh-dropping morn
      Steps forth upon the purple eastern steep;
    I think of thee in the fair eventide,
      When the bright-sandalled stars their watches keep.

    And trembling hope, and fainting, sorrowing love,
      On thy dear word for comfort doth rely;
    And clear-eyed Faith, with strong forereaching gaze,
      Beholds thee here, unseen, but ever nigh.

    Walking in white with thee, she dimly sees,
      All beautiful, these lovely ones withdrawn,
    With whom my heart went upward, as they rose,
      Like morning stars, to light a coming dawn.

    All sinless now, and crowned, and glorified,
      Where'er thou movest move they still with thee,
    As erst, in sweet communion by thy side,
      Walked John and Mary in old Galilee.

    But hush, my heart! 'Tis but a day or two
      Divides thee from that bright, immortal shore.
    Rise up! rise up! and gird thee for the race!
      Fast fly the hours, and all will soon be o'er.

    Thou hast the new name written in thy soul;
      Thou hast the mystic stone he gives his own.
    Thy soul, made one with him, shall feel no more
      That she is walking on her path alone.




MARY AT THE CROSS.


     "Now there stood by the cross of Jesus his mother."


    O wondrous mother! Since the dawn of time
    Was ever joy, was ever grief like thine?
    O, highly favored in thy joy's deep flow,
    And favored e'en in this, thy bitterest woe!

    Poor was that home in simple Nazareth,
      Where thou, fair growing, like some silent flower,
    Last of a kingly line,--unknown and lowly,
      O desert lily,--passed thy childhood's hour.

    The world knew not the tender, serious maiden,
      Who, through deep loving years so silent grew,
    Filled with high thoughts and holy aspirations,
      Which, save thy Father, God's, no eye might view.

    And then it came, that message from the Highest,
      Such as to woman ne'er before descended;
    Th' almighty shadowing wings thy soul o'erspread,
      And with thy life the Life of worlds was blended.

    What visions, then, of future glory filled thee,
      Mother of King and kingdom yet unknown--
    Mother, fulfiller of all prophecy,
      Which through dim ages wondering seers had shown!

    Well did thy dark eye kindle, thy deep soul
      Rise into billows, and thy heart rejoice;
    Then woke the poet's fire, the prophet's song
      Tuned with strange, burning words thy timid voice.

    Then in dark contrast came the lowly manger,
     The outcast shed, the tramp of brutal feet;
    Again, behold earth's learned, and her lowly,
      Sages and shepherds, prostrate at thy feet.

    Then to the temple bearing, hark! again
      What strange, conflicting tones of prophecy
    Breathe o'er the Child, foreshadowing words of joy,
      High triumph, and yet bitter agony.

    O, highly favored thou, in many an hour
      Spent in lone musing with thy wondrous Son,
    When thou didst gaze into that glorious eye,
      And hold that mighty hand within thy own.

    Blessed through those thirty years, when in thy dwelling
      He lived a God disguised, with unknown power,
    And thou, his sole adorer,--his best love,--
      Trusting, revering, waitedst for his hour.

    Blessed in that hour, when called by opening heaven
      With cloud, and voice, and the baptizing flame,
    Up from the Jordan walked th' acknowledged stranger,
      And awe-struck crowds grew silent as he came.

    Blessed, when full of grace, with glory crowned,
      He from both hands almighty favors poured,
    And, though he had not where to lay his head,
      Brought to his feet alike the slave and lord.

    Crowds followed; thousands shouted, "Lo, our King!"
      Fast beat thy heart; now, now the hour draws nigh:
    Behold the crown--the throne! the nations bend.
      Ah, no! fond mother, no! behold him die.

    Now by that cross thou tak'st thy final station,
      And shar'st the last dark trial of thy Son;
    Not with weak tears or woman's lamentation,
      But with high, silent anguish, like his own.

    Hail, highly favored, even in this deep passion,
      Hail, in this bitter anguish--thou art blest--
    Blest in the holy power with him to suffer
      Those deep death pangs that lead to higher rest.

    All now is darkness; and in that deep stillness
      The God-man wrestles with that mighty woe;
    Hark to that cry, the rock of ages rending--
      "'Tis finished!" Mother, all is glory now!

    By sufferings mighty as his mighty soul
      Hath the Jehovah risen--forever blest;
    And through all ages must his heart-beloved
      Through the same baptism enter the same rest.




CHRISTIAN PEACE.


     "Thou shalt hide them in the secret of thy presence from the pride
     of man; thou shalt keep them secretly as in a pavilion from the
     strife of tongues."


    When winds are raging o'er the upper ocean,
      And billows wild contend with angry roar,
    'Tis said, far down beneath the wild commotion,
      That peaceful _stillness_ reigneth evermore.

    Far, far beneath, the noise of tempest dieth,
      And silver waves chime ever peacefully,
    And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he flieth,
      Disturbs the Sabbath of that deeper sea.

    So to the heart that knows thy love, O Purest,
      There is a temple, sacred evermore,
    And all the babble of life's angry voices
      Die in hushed stillness at its peaceful door.

    Far, far away, the roar of passion dieth,
      And loving thoughts rise calm and peacefully,
    And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he flieth,
      Disturbs the soul that dwells, O Lord, in thee.

    O, rest of rests! O, peace serene, eternal!
      THOU ever livest; and thou changest never;
    And in the _secret of thy presence_ dwelleth
      Fulness of joy--forever and forever.




ABIDE IN ME AND I IN YOU.

THE SOUL'S ANSWER.


    That mystic word of thine, O sovereign Lord,
      Is all too pure, too high, too deep for me;
    Weary of striving, and with longing faint,
      I breathe it back again in _prayer_ to thee.

    Abide in me, I pray, and I in thee;
      From this good hour, O, leave me nevermore;
    Then shall the discord cease, the wound be healed,
      The lifelong bleeding of the soul be o'er.

    Abide in me--o'ershadow by thy love
      Each half-formed purpose and dark thought of sin;
    Quench, e'er it rise, each selfish, low desire,
      And keep my soul as thine, calm and divine.

    As some rare perfume in a vase of clay
      Pervades it with a fragrance not its own,
    So, when thou dwellest in a mortal soul,
      All heaven's own sweetness seems around it thrown.

    The soul alone, like a neglected harp,
      Grows out of tune, and needs a hand divine;
    Dwell thou within it, tune, and touch the chords,
      Till every note and string shall answer thine.

    _Abide in me_; there have been moments pure
      When I have seen thy face and felt thy power;
    Then evil lost its grasp, and passion, hushed,
      Owned the divine enchantment of the hour.

    These were but seasons beautiful and rare;
      "Abide in me,"--and they shall _ever be_;
    Fulfil at once thy precept and my prayer--
      _Come_ and _abide_ in me, and I in thee.




WHEN I AWAKE I AM STILL WITH THEE.


    Still, still with thee, when purple morning breaketh,
      When the bird waketh and the shadows flee;
    Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight,
      Dawns the sweet consciousness, _I am with thee_!

    Alone with thee, amid the mystic shadows,
      The solemn hush of nature newly born;
    Alone with thee in breathless adoration,
      In the calm dew and freshness of the morn.

    As in the dawning o'er the waveless ocean
      The image of the morning star doth rest,
    So in this stillness thou beholdest only
      Thine image in the waters of my breast.

    Still, still with thee! as to each new-born morning
      A fresh and solemn splendor still is given,
    So doth this blessed consciousness, awaking,
      Breathe, each day, nearness unto thee and heaven.

    When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber,
      Its closing eye looks up to thee in prayer,
    Sweet the repose beneath thy wings o'ershading,
      But sweeter still to wake and find thee there.

    So shall it be at last, in that bright morning
      When the soul waketh and life's shadows flee;
    O, in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning,
      Shall rise the glorious thought, _I am with thee_!




CHRIST'S VOICE IN THE SOUL.


     "Come ye yourselves into a desert place and rest a while; for there
     were many coming and going, so that they had no time so much as to
     eat."


    'Mid the mad whirl of life, its dim confusion,
      Its jarring discords and poor vanity,
    Breathing like music over troubled waters,
      What gentle voice, O Christian, speaks to thee?

    It is a stranger--not of earth or earthly;
      By the serene, deep fulness of that eye,--
    By the calm, pitying smile, the gesture lowly,--
      It is thy Savior as he passeth by.

    "Come, come," he saith, "into a desert place,
      Thou who art weary of life's lower sphere;
    Leave its low strifes, forget its babbling noise;
      Come thou with me--all shall be bright and clear.

    "Art thou bewildered by contesting voices,
      Sick to thy soul of party noise and strife?
    Come, leave it all, and seek that solitude
      Where thou shalt learn of me a purer life.

    "When far behind the world's great tumult dieth,
      Thou shalt look back and wonder at its roar;
    But its far voice shall seem to thee a dream,
      Its power to vex thy holier life be o'er.

    "There shalt thou learn the secret of a power,
      Mine to bestow, which heals the ills of living;
    To overcome by love, to live by prayer,
      To conquer man's worst evils by forgiving."


THE END.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The May Flower, and Miscellaneous
Writings, by Harriet Beecher Stowe

*** 