TOWN & COUNTRY. 

OR LIFE AT HOME AND ABROAD, WITHIN & WITHOUT US. 

BY JOHN S. ADAMS. 

BOSTON:

1855. 

CONTENTS. 

SAVED BY KINDNESSTHE LOVE OF ELINORE'TIS SWEET TO BE REMEMBEREDI CALL THEE MINETHE OLD TREE AND ITS LESSONVOICES FROM THE SPIRIT LANDTHE BEACON LIGHTBEAR UPA WELCOME SONG TO SPRINGTHE HOPE OF THE FALLENTHOUGHTS THAT COME FROM LONG AGODETERMINED TO BE RICHTHE HEAVEN-SENT, HEAVEN-RETURNEDFLOWERS, BRIGHT FLOWERSFORGET ME NOTWHAT IS TRUTHTHE HOMESTEAD VISITTHE MARINER'S SONGLOVE'S LAST WORDSLIGHT IN DARKNESSMT. VERNON, AND THE TOMB OF WASHINGTONFREEDOM'S GATHERINGSONG OF THE BIRDI CHANGE BUT IN DYINGHE IS THY BROTHERTHE WINE-DEALER'S CLERKANGELINAFAREWELL, MY NATIVE LANDUNLEARNED TO LOVEWHAT WAS IT?LETTERS AND LETTER-WRITINGA VISION OF REALITYJEWELS OF THE HEARTLIGHT FROM A BETTER LANDPOOR AND WEARYTHE BANDBOX MOVEMENTNEW ENGLAND HOMESLOVE THAT WANES NOT. ONWARD COURAGEOUSLYA FOREST PIC-NIC SONGTHE WARRIOR'S BRIDETHE ADVENT OF HOPECHILD AND SIREA BROTHER'S WELCOMETHE IMMENSITY OF CREATIONA VISION OF HEAVENTHERE'S HOPE FOR THEE YETSOLILOQUY OVER THE GRAVE OF A WIFETHE FUGITIVESTHE UNIVERSAL JUBILEETHE BATTLE OF THE RED MENSUNLIGHT ON THE SOULA SONG FROM THE ABSENTTO THE LOVED ONE AT HOMETWILIGHT FOREST HYMNTHE SUMMER SHOWERAUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN AUTOMATONTO THE UNKNOWN DONOR OF A BOUQUETTO A SISTER IN HEAVENI DREAMED OF THEE LAST NIGHT, LOVETHEY TELL OF HAPPY BOWERSMAN CANNOT LIVE AND LOVE NOTBETTER THAN GOLDGONE AWAYLINES TO MY MIFECHEER UPTRUST THOU IN GODTHE MINISTRATION OF SORROWGIVING PUBLICITY TO BUSINESSTHE MISSION OF KINDNESSA PLEA FOR THE FALLENJOY BEYONDTHE SUMMER DAYS ARE COMINGTHE MAN WHO KNOWS EVERYTHINGPRIDE AND POVERTYWORDS THAT TOUCH THE INNER HEARTOUR HOMESPECULATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCERETROSPECTIONNATURE'S FAIR DAUGHTER, BEAUTIFUL WATERTHE TEST OF FRIENDSHIPWEEP NOTRICH AND POORTHE HOMEWARD BOUNDTHE POOR OF EARTHIF I DON'T OTHERS WILLNOT MADE FOR AN EDITORHERE'S TO THE HEART THAT'S EVER BRIGHTMORNING BEAUTYTHE RECOMPENSE OF GOODNESSBRIDAL SONGSTHE JUG AFLOATGIVE, AND STAY THEIR MISERYTHE SPIRIT OF MANPAUSE AND THINKLITTLE NELLYWE SHALL ALL BE HAPPY SOONREUNIONTHE VILLAGE MYSTERYTHE WAYSIDE DEATHBEAUTY AND INNOCENCENIGHTNOT DEAD, BUT CHANGEDTHE DISINHERITEDTHE SEASONS ALL ARE BEAUTIFULSPRINGA TEXT FOR A LIFETIMENOW CLOSE THE BOOK

TOWN AND COUNTRY. 

SAVED BY KINDNESS. 

A kind word is of more value than gold or precious stones. 

CHAPTER I. 

"THEN you are here!" said a stern, gruff voice, addressing a pale, sickly-looking youth, whose frame trembled and whose lip quivered ashe approached one who sat at the side of a low pine table;--it washis master, a man of about forty, of athletic form, and of powersufficient to crush the feeble youth. 

"Well, " he continued, "if you are sure that you gave it to him, goto bed; but mind you, whisper-breathe not the secret to a livingsoul, on peril of your life! You may evade my grasp, but like bloodI will track you through life, and add a bitter to your every cup ofsweet. "

The lad had no sooner left the room than a man entered, whosecarelessly arranged apparel and excited appearance indicated thatsomething of vast importance-at least, as far as he wasconcerned-burthened his mind. 

"Harry, " he said, throwing himself upon a chair, "I fear we arebetrayed-discovered--completely used up. "

"Discovered!" shouted the person addressed. "How? where? why?"

"It is so, friend Harry. The boy you sent made a sad error. "

"Then murder the boy!" and, clutching a dagger, he motioned to leavethe room, and would have done so to plunge it in the bosom of thelad, had not his informant interfered, and thus prevented him fromexecuting so rash and cruel an act. 

"What!-I will-will do it!" he shouted, endeavoring to releasehimself from the hands of the other. 

"Never!" was the bold, unwavering response. "Move a step, and deathshall be thy doom. Seest thou that?" and the speaker drew from hisbosom a richly-mounted pistol. 

"Doubtless thou art right, " said Harry, in a more calm manner; "theexcitement of the moment urged me to desperation, and, if any butyou had arisen in my path, the glistening steel should have met hisheart. But, Bill, how, --I am confused, my eyes swim, --tell me, how arewe discovered? Must the last act in the great drama of ourfortune-making be crushed in the bud?-and who dare do it?"

"If you will restrain your indignation, I will tell you. "

"A hard task, yet I will try. "

"That answer will not do; you must say something more positive. "

"Then I say, I will. "

"Enough, --the boy Sim handed the note to the kitchen-girl. "

"But, Bill, think you she suspected its contents?"

"That I cannot say, but she is inquisitive, and has been known tounseal letters committed to her care, by some ingenious way she hasinvented. She looked uncommonly wise when she handed it to me andsaid, 'Mr. Bang, that's of no small importance to you. '"

"The deuce she did! I fear she deserves the halter, " said Harry. 

"What, with the h off?"

"No, there is too much Caudleism in her to make her worthy of that;but this is no time for our jokes. Your suspicions are too true; buthow shall we act? what plans shall we adopt?"

"None, Harry, but this;--we must act as though we were the mosthonest men on earth, and act not as though we suspected any ofsuspecting us. "

"O, yes, I understand you, Bill; we must not suspect anything wrongin her. "

"That's it, " answered Bill, and, plunging his hand into his pocket, he drew from thence a small scrap of greasy, pocket-worn paper, andread a few words in a low whisper to his friend Harry. A nod fromthe latter signified his approval. He returned the mysteriousmemorandum to his pocket, and planting upon his head a poor, verypoor apology for a hat, swung his body round a few times on hisheel, and leaving the house; pushed open a small wicket-gate, andentered the street. He hurriedly trudged along, heaping silentcurses upon the head of Harry's boy, the kitchen-girl, and sundryother feminine and masculine members of the human family not yetintroduced to the reader. 

Bold Bill gone, Harry sat for some considerable length of timeruminating upon the strange turn affairs had taken, and indulging invague speculations upon whether the next would be as unfavorable;and at this point of our story we will divulge somewhat of hishistory. 

Henry Lang had been in years past a man well-to-do in the world; hewas once a merchant respected for his strict integrity andpunctuality in business affairs; but by a false step, a making hasteto be rich, he was ruined. The great land speculation of '37 andthereabout was the chief, and in fact the only cause of hismisfortune. On one day he could boast of his thousands, and no paperheld better credit than that signed or endorsed by him. The next, the bubble broke, his fortune was scattered, his riches took tothemselves wings and flew away, his creditors, like vultures, flocked around and speedily devoured what little remained of hisonce large possessions. He was a man easily affected by suchoccurrences, and they deeply wounded his sensitive feelings. Whatshould he do? He looked around upon those who once professedly lovedhim; but no hand was extended, no heart sympathized with him in thehour of trouble. He left his country, and with it a wife and onechild, a daughter, lovely, if not in personal appearance, in highlyvirtuous and intellectual qualities, which, after all, will beadmitted to be of more value than that which time withers andsickness destroys. 

With a sad heart Mr. Lang left these and the spot of earth aroundwhich many fond recollections clustered. After twenty months oftedious wanderings, he returned, but he was a changed man; hisambitious spirit had been crushed, all his hopes: had departed, andhe gave himself up to the fanciful freaks of a disordered mind. Defeated in his honest endeavors to obtain a livelihood, he was nowseeking out dishonest ways and means to retrieve his fallen fortune. He sought for those of a kindred spirit, nor was he long in findingsuch; in a short time he became acquainted, and soon afterconnected, with a gang of adventurous men, about six in number, whoby various fraudulent means were each amassing much wealth. 

"And he deserted me in this my time of need! Can it be true that hehas gone? For him I would willingly have endured any privation. Didhe not know that my love was strong? Could he not believe me when Isaid, that, as I joyed with him in his prosperity, I would mournwith him in its reverse?-that I could ever be near to comfort andconsole, --one with him at all times, under all circumstances?"

"Comfort yourself, dear mother!" said a calm voice, "Remember thatthese trials are for our good, and that the sorrows of earth are butto prepare us for the joys of heaven. Cheer up, mother! let thosethoughts rejoice thy heart! Despair not, but take courage!"

With such words did the daughter administer consolation to theafflicted, when hearing that her husband had forsaken her and sailedfor a foreign port. It was indeed a heavy blow, and she felt itseverely. She could have endured the thought of having all herearthly possessions taken from her, --but to be deserted, to be leftat such a time dependent upon the charities of the world for asubsistence, such a thought she was not prepared to withstand. 

The few words of Julia having been said, a deep silence for somemoments pervaded the room. She sat and gazed up into the face of hermother, whose tears bore witness to the deep anguish of her soul. The silence was interrupted by the rising of the latter, who for afew moments paced the room, and then sank helplessly into a chair. The attentive child sprang to her relief, a few neighbors werecalled in, she was laid upon her bed. That night a severe attack offever came upon her; for many days her life was despaired of; but atlength a ray of hope cheered the solitude of the chamber of thesick, and at the close of six weeks her health was in a great degreerestored. 

"Time heals all wounds, " is a common saying, true in some cases, butnot in all. Some wounds there are that sink deep in the heart, --theirpain even time cannot remedy, but stretch far into eternity, andfind their solace there. Others there are which by time arepartially healed;--such was that of Mrs. Lang. During her sickness, many of the little incidents that before had troubled her passedfrom her mind. She now yielded submissively to her sad allotment, believing, as during her sickness she had often been told, thatafflictions come but for our own good, however paradoxical such astatement might seem to be. 

The kindness of a neighbor enabled her, with her daughter, to removetheir place of residence. This neighbor-a lady of moderate pecuniarycircumstances-furnished them with needle-work, the compensation forwhich enabled them to obtain supplies necessary for a comfortableliving. 

CHAPTER II. 

For some time Mr. Henry Lang sat with his head resting upon hishands, and with them upon the table. Deep silence prevailed, brokenonly, at lengthy intervals, by the loud laugh following the merryjest of some passer-by, or the dismal creaking of the swing-sign ofan adjacent tavern. 

How long Mr. Lang might have remained in that position is not for usto determine. But it would have been much longer, had not a loud rapat the outer door awakened him from his drowsy condition. 

He started at the sound, and, taking in his hand a dim-burningcandle, proceeded to answer the call. Opening the door, a manclosely enveloped in a large cloak and seal-skin cap, the last ofwhich hung slouchingly about his head and face, inquired, in agruff, ill-mannered voice, whether a person unfavorably known to thepolice as "Bold Bill" had been there. Harry trembled, knowing hisinterrogator to be one of the city watch; yet he endeavored toconceal his fears and embarrassment by a forced smile, and remarked:

"That is indeed a strange name, and one of which I have never beforeheard. Tell me what he has been about. "

"Why do you think he has been about anything, or why think you I amacquainted with his actions?" inquired the stranger, in a sternvoice, as though the supreme majesty of the law represented by himwas not to be spoken lightly of. His scrutinizing features relaxednot in the least, but he looked our hero steadfastly in the face. 

"By the appearance of your dress I judge you to be a watchman, andas such I suppose you to be in search of that odd-named person onaccount of his being suspected of having broken the law. "

"You are right, " answered the officer. "I am a watchman! Theauthority invested in me is great. I trust I duly appreciate it. Iguard your dwelling when you are slumbering, unconscious of whattakes place around you. "

"You are very kind, " remarked Harry, suddenly interrupting him, andspeaking rather ironically than otherwise. 

The watchman continued: "Life is to me nothing unless I can employit in doing good. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly. "

"Will you walk in?" inquired Mr. Lang, as a sudden gust of windnearly extinguished his light. 

"No, I thank you; that would be of no service to my fellow-men; and, as I am in search of the man who committed the robbery, ten minutesago, upon Mr. Solomon Cash, the broker, I must-"

"Robbery!" exclaimed Harry, appearing perfectly astonished at thethought. "O, the degeneracy of the nineteenth century, --thesinfulness of the age!"

"Amen!" responded the officer; and, pulling his large, loose cloakmore closely about him, he made a motion to continue on in theservice of his fellow-men. 

"But wait, my good man, " said Harry. "Am I to suppose, from what yousaid, that 'Bold Bill' is the perpetrator of this base crime?"

"Precisely so, " was the laconic reply; and the man moved on inexecution of his benevolent designs. 

"He should be brought to justice, " said Harry, as he turned toenter. No sooner, however, had he closed the door, than he burstforth in a loud laugh. This was soon changed to seriousness, for hebecame confident that his friend Bill was in danger. To shield him, if guilty, from detection, and protect him, if innocent, was now hisgreat object. But where should he find him? That was a problem hecould not solve. The boy was sleeping soundly; he must awaken him, he must go out in search of his friend. 

With this intention, he dressed himself in a stout, heavy overcoat, and, locking the door hurriedly, walked up the street. On he went, as though his life depended upon whether he reached a certain squareat a certain time. He looked at nothing save some far-distantobject, from which, as it approached, he withdrew his eyes, andfixed them on an object yet distant. Turning a corner, a collisiontook place between him and another man, who appeared to be in asmuch haste as himself. He was about to proceed, when he who had methim so abruptly struck him very familiarly upon the shoulder, saying, as he did so, "Harry, how are you?-good luck-tin-lots ofit-watch-haste. "

The person thus addressed was not long in discovering who it wasthat spoke to him, and from his words and actions that he had reasonto be in some haste. It was he for whom he was in search; and, beingaware that the nature of the case demanded despatch, he cordiallygrasped his hand, and, without another word between them, they in ashort time reached the dwelling of Mr. Lang. 

"What are the facts now?" inquired Harry, after having narrated theincident that had occurred since he left, namely, the watchman'svisit. 

"Then you think there is no danger in my staying here?" inquiredBill. 

"Not in the least, " replied Harry; "for I positively asserted thatyou was not here, and strongly intimated that I knew no person ofyour name. Danger! there is none; so proceed, friend Bill, --but alittle wine. "

Wine is an indispensable with all rogues; it nerves to lawlessness, and induces them, when under its influence, to commit acts which intheir sober moments they would scorn to perform. 

The wine-glass emptied, Bill proceeded in his narrative. 

"When I left here, I started intending in a direct course to gohome. Musingly I walked along, cursing my fate, and several otherthings, too numerous to mention, and speculating upon the probablesuccess of our scheme, till I arrived in front of the old broker's. He was just putting up his iron-clamped shutters. I was on theopposite side, at some distance, yet not so far but that I plainlysaw him enter and pack snugly away in his little black trunk diversarticles of apparently great worth. I carelessly jingled the lastchange in my pocket, of value about a dollar or so; and the thoughtof soon being minus cash nerved me to the determination of robbingthe broker. Thus resolved, I hid myself behind a pile of boxes thatseemed placed there on purpose, till I heard the bolt spring, andsaw the broker, with the trunk beneath his arm, walk away. As heentered that dark passage, 'Fogg-lane, ' I pulled my cap down over myface, and dogged him, keeping the middle of the passage; and, seeinga favorable opportunity, I sprang upon him from behind, and snatchedthe box; then left him to his fate. 

"I ran off as fast as my legs, urged on by the cry of 'stop thief, 'would carry me. Notwithstanding the speed at which I ran, I foundthe crowd bearing down upon me; and, my hope almost failing, I hadresolved to give in and suffer the consequences, when, seeing a darklane, I ran into it, then dodged behind a pump. The crowd ran on; Ifound I had escaped. Now, Harry, a friendly shake in honor of mygood luck. "

"As you say, " answered Harry, "and it is my humble opinion you arenot entirely free from change. "

"Really, Harry, I don't know what the box contains; however, 't isconfounded heavy. It is full of gold or iron. "

"My face for a scrubber, if small change is n't pretty much thecontents; the fourpences and dimes lie pretty near together, friendBill. " "But, " continued Harry, "'t is best to secrete yourself, boxand all, till the law dogs are silenced. If they come here, I willthrow them a bone; but hark!-"

The two remained silent; for the sound of approaching footstepsmomentarily grew more distinct. It sounded nearer, and now was infront of the door. 

"To the closet, " whispered Harry; and in a moment Mr. Lang was theonly occupant of the room. He was right in his supposition; for thedoor opened; and the same man, in the same cloak, with the sameconsequential air, accompanied by others, entered abruptly, andinterrogated Harry rather closely. "Positively, I know nothing abouthim, " said Mr. Lang. This declaration seemed to have a wonderfuleffect upon each of the officers. They gazed steadfastly at him, then at each other, and their features indicated their belief inwhat he said. 

"Benevolent as I am, " said the officer, "I must require a strictsearch;--not that we suspect him to be on your premises, noble sir, but my duty demands it. "

The officer, having thus far declared what he thought to be hisduty, proceeded to its performance by pushing open the doors throughwhich egress could be had to the street, and all others. As chancewould have it, the right door was by them unobserved. But where wasthe fugitive? He had been hurried into a closet. It was not afterthe manner of most closets. It was about three feet square, at oneside of which was a door communicating with the cellar, throughwhich any person might pass, and from thence into the street. Hecould not stand long and listen to the loud converse of thosewithout. He felt himself in danger if he remained, and determinedupon leaving the closet. So, having passed into the cellar, heentered the street. 

The night was dark; the hour late, and no persons stirring. Softlyhe crept beneath the window, and, perceiving none in the room butHarry, softly tapped the glass. Mr. Lang raised his arm, by whichsignal Bill understood that he was aware of his having left thecloset. Then through back lanes, seldom pedestrianated, and narrowpassages, he wended his way, with his stolen treasure closely heldbeneath the loose folds of his jacket. He passed on, till, reachinga dark street, he beheld a dim light in a low oyster-cellar; heentered. A black fellow was the proprietor, cook, &c. Bill asked forlodgings. 

"Well, massa, dem I 'ave; but I always take pay in advance fromgemmen. "

Bill asked the price. 

"Wall, 'tis fourpance on a chest, and threepance on de floor. "

Mr. Bang availed himself of the best accommodations, and acceptedthe chest. He stretched himself upon it, having settled the bill, but slept little. His mind was continually roaming. Now he imaginedhimself in the closet, with scarcely room to breathe, and anofficer's hand on the latch; now groping along untraversed paths, till, falling into some hole, he awoke from his revery. 

'T was near the dawn of day when, from his house, accompanied by theboy, Mr. Lang passed out in search of Bill. A light rain wasfalling, and in perspective he saw a dull, drizzly sort of a day, --abad air for a low-spirited individual. The "blues" are contagious onsuch a day. Yet he strove to keep his spirits up, and to make thebest of a bad job. 

As he passed by the office of the broker, he perceived a crowd, andmany anxious inquiries were heard respecting the robbery. Itappeared the broker had received but little injury, and was as busyas any one in endeavoring to find out the rogue. Harry put on asbold a face as possible, and inquired of the broker thecircumstances, which he very minutely narrated. 

"Have you any suspicions of any one?" inquired Mr. Lang. 

"Of no one, " was the brief response. 

"It would be very sad if the rascal could not be found, " continuedMr. Lang. "The gallows is too good for one who would make such acowardly attack, and treat with such baseness one who never harmedhis fellow. "

"I am of your opinion, " answered the broker; and the two, havingthus fully expressed their opinion, parted. 

Mr. Lang was not much troubled in finding his companion. He enteredthe cellar just as the latter had arisen from his chesty couch, anda cordial grasp of the hand bore witness that friends had met. 

Both were aware that the place in which they were was not of verygood repute, and made all possible haste to remove. But, to effectthis successfully, it was necessary that Mr. Lang should have achange of dress. 

He was making this change when half a dozen men unexpectedlyentered. "You are my prisoner, " said one, catching hold of Mr. Langby the coat-collar. "Tropes, secure the other. "

They were now both in custody, and the officers, after a littlesearch, discovered the broken box, and arrested the black man. 

"For what am I arrested?" inquired Mr. Lang. 

"That you will soon know, " was the reply. 

"But I demand an answer now. I will not move a step till I get it. "

"What! what's that?" said a stout, rough-looking man, striking theprisoner, and treating him more like a dog than what he was. 

"I demand an answer to my inquiry. For what am I arrested?"

"He's a dangerous man, " remarked another of the officers; "it's bestto put him in irons;" whereupon he drew from a capacious pocket apair of rusty manacles. Mr. Lang, and his two fellows in trouble, found it best to coolly submit, and did so. Five minutes passed, andthe cold walls of a prison enclosed them. 

CHAPTER III. 

Daylight breaks, and the dwellers upon a thousand hills rejoice inthe first rays of the morning sun. 

"Didst thou ever hear that promise, 'God will provide'? inquired apale, yet beautiful girl, as she bent over the form of a feverishwoman, in a small, yet neatly-furnished room. 

"Yes, " was the reply; "and he who allows not a sparrow to fallunnoticed, shall he not much more care for us? Yes, Julia, God willprovide. My soul, trust thou in God!"

It was Mrs. Lang. The good lady who had befriended her was suddenlytaken ill, and as suddenly died. Mrs. Lang, with her daughter, leftthe house, and, hiring a small room at an exorbitant rent, endeavored, by the use of her needle, to live. She labored hard; themorning's first light found her at her task, and midnight's silenthour often found her there. The daughter too was there; togetherthey labored, and together shared the joys and sorrows of a worsethan widowed and orphaned state. Naturally of a feeble constitution, Mrs. Lang could not long bear up under that labor, and fell. Thenthat daughter was as a ministering angel, attending and watchingover her, and anticipating her every want. Long was she obliged tolabor to provide the necessaries of life; often working hard, andreceiving but ten to fifteen cents a day for that which, if paid foras it should be, would have brought her a dollar. It was afterreceiving her small pittance and having returned to her home, thatthe words at the commencement of this chapter fell from her lips. Her mother, with deep solicitude, inquired her success. 

"He says he can get those duck trousers made for three cents, andthat, if I will not make them for that, he can give me no more work. You know, mother, that I work eighteen hours of the twenty-four, andcan but just make two pair, --that would be but six cents a day. "

"My child, " said the mother, rising with unusual strength, "refusesuch a slavish offer. Let him not, in order to enrich himself, bydegrees take your life. Death's arrows have now near reached you. Donot thus wear out your life. Let us die!"

She would have said more; but, exhausted by the effort, she sankback upon her pillow. Then came the inquiry, "Didst thou ever hearthat promise, 'God will provide'?"

The question had been put, and the answer given, when a slight rapat the door was heard. Julia opened it; a small package was hastilythrust into her hand, and the bearer of it hasted away. It was awhite packet, bound with white ribbon, and with these words, "JuliaLang, " legibly written upon it. She opened it; a note fell upon thefloor; she picked it up, and read as follows:

Enclosed you will find four five-dollar bills. You are in want; usethem, and, when gone, the same unknown hand will grant you more. 

"Let me break now a secret to you which I believe it is my duty todivulge. You will recollect that your father mysteriously abandonedyou. He is now in this city, in--street jail, awaiting his trial. I am confident that he is innocent, and will be honorably acquitted;and I am as confident that it needs but your presence and your kindentreaty to bring him back once again to his family and friends. Ihave spoken to him, but my words have had no effect except when Ispoke of his family. Then I could see how hard he strove to conceala tear, and that I had found a tender chord, that needed but yourtouch to cause it to work out a reformatory resolution. 

"I write because Mr. Lang was a friend of mine in his days ofprosperity. I know he has no heart for dishonesty; but, thinkinghimself deserted by those who should cling to him, he madly resolvedto give himself up, and follow where fate should lead. Yours, truly, "CHARLES B--. 

N. B. Others have also spoken with him; but their appeals have beenin vain. If you will be at the corner of L--avenue and W--street, at three o'clock to-day, a carriage will be in readiness to conveyyou to his presence. C. B. 

Anxiously did Mrs. Lang watch the features of her child as she stoodperusing the letter; and as she sat down with it unfolded, apparently in deep thought, her inquisitiveness increased. Sheinquired-she was told all. "Go, " said she to her daughter, "and maythe blessings of Heaven attend you!"

Julia stood wondering. She had doubted before; she feared it mightbe the scheme of some base intriguer; but now her doubts vanished, and hope cheered her on. 

Long seemed the intervening hours, and many were the predictionsmade concerning the success of her mission; yet she determined togo, in the spirit of Martin Luther, though every stone in the prisonshould arise to persecute her. 

The appointed hour came, and, letter in hand, she left her room, andrepaired to the spot. There she found a carriage; and the driver, who, it appeared, was acquainted with her, inquired whether shedesired to go to--street jail. Replying in the affirmative, sheentered, and the carriage drove off. When she had reached thestreet, and came in full view of the prison, her timidity almostovercame her; but, recollecting the object she had in view, sheresisted a desire that involuntarily arose to return. 

"Is the warden in?" inquired the driver of the gate-keeper. 

"He is;--another feast for the lion, eh?" and the keeper, who hadmore self-assurance than manners, having laughed at his ownnonsense, pulled a bell-cord, and the warden appeared. 

"The gentleman who came this morning to see Mr. Lang wished me tobring this young lady here, and introduce her to you as Mr. Lang'sdaughter. " Having said this, the hack-man let down the steps, andaided her out. The gate-keeper retired into a sort of sentry-box, and amused himself by peeping over the window-curtain, laughing veryimmoderately when anything serious was said, and sustaining a verygrave appearance when anything having a shade of comicalityoccurred. 

The warden very politely conducted Julia into his office, and soonafter into the jail. It was a long building inside of a building, with two rows of cells one above the other, each numbered, and uponeach door a card, upon which was written, in characters only knownto the officers of the prison, the prisoner's name, crime, term ofimprisonment, and general conduct whilst confined. 

As Mr. Lang was waiting trial, he was not in one of these cells, butin one of large dimensions, and containing more conveniences. 

As they entered, he was seated at a small table, with pen, ink andpaper, engaged in writing. He did not at first recognize his child, but in a moment sprang to her, and clasping her in his arms, said, "My child. "

Such a change in him needs some explanation. 

After being committed to prison, his first thought was upon thechange of his condition from what it formerly was; and his firstresolution was to reform. He thought of the deep plots he and hiscompanion had laid to amass a fortune; but, supposing that thelatter would be convicted, and condemned to serve a long time inconfinement, he concluded that that scheme was exploded. 

"Yet, " thought he, "if there be none on earth I can call myfriends, --if my family forsake me (yet just would it be in themshould they reject my company), --of what avail would my reformationbe, except to a few dogging creditors, who would jeer and scoff atme at every corner, and attempt to drive me back to my presentsituation? It might be some satisfaction to them to see me return;but what feelings would it arouse within me, --with what hatred wouldI view mankind! No; if none will utter a kind word to me, let mecontinue on; let the prison be my home, and the gallows my end, rather than attempt to reform while those who were once my friendsstand around to drive me lack by scoffing remarks!"

Such were the sincere thoughts of Mr. Lang. He would return, butnone stood by to welcome him. A few had visited him, most of whomhad severely reflected upon his misdeeds. They opened a darkprospect for him in the future. "Now, " said they, "you must hereremain; receive retribution for your evil deeds, and a sad warningto others not to follow in your steps, lest they arrive at the samegoal. " Was there encouragement in this? Surely not; he deemed themnot the words of friendship, and he was right in his judgment. 

"Why did you visit this dark prison?" inquired Mr. Lang. 

"Because you are here, father!" was the artless reply. 

"And could you forgive your father? How could you seek him, when heforsook you?" Mr. Lang could not make this last observation withoutbecoming affected even to tears. 

Julia seemed to take courage; new energies seemed to be imparted toher. She felt an unseen influence at her side, and a holy calmnessresting upon her soul. 

"Prison-walls cannot bar you from my heart, though in the worstplace on earth. Though friends laugh me to scorn when I seek yourpresence, you are my father still, and ungrateful would I be did Inot own you as such!

"In thinking of the present, I do not forget the past; I rememberthe days of old, the years in which we were made glad;--and you, father, when free from these walls, will you not return again toyour family, and make home what it once was? To-day I will see Mr. Legrange; he wants a clerk, and, by a little persuasion, I amcertain I can get you the situation. Will you not reform?"

She could say no more; yet her actions spoke louder than words couldpossibly do, and her imploring attitude went home to the heart ofher parent. He, for the first time since the commencement of hiswayward course, felt that the hand of sympathy was extended to greethim, should he make a motion to return. And why should he not graspit? He did. There, in that prison-cell, upon his knees, he promisedto repent and return. 

"Pleasant residence, Miss!" said the gate-keeper, as our heroineleft the yard, and then laughed as though he had committed a punthat would immortalize him from that time forth. 

She noticed not his ill-mannered remark, but, reentering thecarriage, thought of nothing but the joy her mother would feel uponlearning her success, till the carriage stopped and the driver letdown the steps. Having related her adventure, she left her home withthe intention of seeing Mr. Legrange. 

Mr. Legrange was a merchant on Cadiz wharf; he was wealthy, and asbenevolent as wealthy. Notices were often seen in the papers oflarge donations from him to worthy institutions, sometimes one andsometimes three thousand dollars. His fellow-men looked upon him asa blessing to the age. There was no aristocracy in him; he did notlive like a prince in the costliest house in the city, but a small, neat tenement was pointed out as his abode. Not only was he calledthe "Poor Man's Friend, " but his associate and companion. He did notdespise the poor man, and wisely thought that to do him good he mustlive and be upon an equality with him. 

Mr. Legrange had just opened an evening paper, when a light rap athis counting-house door induced him to lay it aside. Opening it, ayoung woman inquired if Mr. Legrange was in. 

"That is my name, " was the reply. "Good-morning, Miss Lang. "

Julia was rejoiced that she was recognized. She had not spoken toMr. Legrange since her father's failure in business; previous tothat sad occurrence she had known him personally, yet she scarcelythought he would know her now. 

"This is a lovely day, " said Mr. Legrange, handing her a chair. "Your mother is well, I hope. "

"As well as might be expected: she will recover fast, now. "

"Indeed! What? Some glad news?"

"Yes, sir; father is in the city, and has reformed. "

"Thank God for that!" said Mr. Legrange. "It is one of the blessingsof this life to hope for better days. "

"He has reformed, " continued Miss Lang, "yet he may be led backunless he gets steady employment; and I heard that--"

"--that I want a clerk, " said Mr. Legrange, anticipating her in herremarks; "and, " continued he, "your father is just the man I want. Iknew him in his better days, before a fatal misstep felled him tothe ground. Miss Lang, let your father call next Tuesday; to-morrowI start on a journey, and shall not return till then. "

With many sincere thanks, Julia left the room; her heart overflowedwith gratitude to the Giver of all things. She saw his hand and felthis presence. 

It was well that Mr. Legrange was about to leave the city, as Mr. Lang's examination was to be had the next day, and Mrs. Lang and herdaughter confidently expected he would be acquitted. 

The morrow came; the examination began and terminated as they hadexpected. William Bang was remanded back to prison to await histrial for robbery. Mr. Lang was acquitted, and, joining a company offriends whom Julia had collected, left for the residence of hisfamily. 

What a meeting was that! Angels could but weep for joy at such ascene, and drop their golden harps to wipe away their tears ofgladness. Long had been their separation. What scenes had theinterval disclosed! And how changed were all things! She was inhealth when he left, but now in sickness; yet it was not strange. 

That day was the happiest he had spent for many months, and herejoiced that an angel of light, his daughter, had sought him out. She had been, indeed, a ministering spirit of good to him, and inthe happy scene then around her she found her reward, --O, howabundant!

With a light and joyous step did Henry Lang repair to the store ofMr. Legrange. The sun's rays were just peering over the house-tops, and he thought that he, like that sun, was just rising fromdegradation to assume new life, and put forth new energy. 

We need not lengthen out our the by narrating what there ensued. Hethat day commenced his clerkship, and to this day holds it. He oftenreceived liberal donations from his employer in token of his regardfor him, and by way of encouraging him in his attempts to regain hislost fortune. 

It was on a December evening that a family circle had gatheredaround their fireside. The wild wind whistled furiously around, andmany a poor wight lamented the hard fate that led him abroad tobattle the storm. "Two years ago this night, " said the man, "wherewas I? In an obscure house, planning out a way to injure afellow-man! Yea, would you believe it? the very man who has sincebeen my benefactor, --my employer!"

The door-bell rang, and the conversation was abruptly terminated. 

In a few minutes none other than Mr. Legrange entered; he received ahearty welcome, and was soon engaged in conversation. 

"Mr. Lang, " said he, as he was about to depart, "your daughterremembers receiving an anonymous letter signed 'Charles B--. ' I donot say it to please my own vanity, but I ordered my clerk to writeit, and sent it by my son. I thought of you when you little thoughtyou had a friend on earth who cared for you, and rejoice that I havebeen the humble instrument in effecting your reformation. "

"Here, " he continued, handing him a paper, "this is the deed of ahouse on--street, valued at eight thousand dollars; accept it as apresent from me to you and your family, and remember this, that akind word is of more value than gold or precious stones. It was thatwhich saved you, and by that you may save others. Good-evening; Iwill see you at the store tomorrow. "

Having said this, he left, waiting not to receive the thanks thatgrateful hearts desired to render him. 

And now, reader, our story is ended. If you have followed us thusfar, neglect not to receive what we have faintly endeavored toinculcate; and ever remember, while treading life's thorny vale, that "a kind word is of more value than gold or precious stones. "

THE LOVE OF ELINORE. 

 SHE stood beside the sea-shore weeping, While above her stars were keeping Vigils o'er the silent deep; While all others, wearied, slumbered, She the passing moments numbered, She a faithful watch did keep. Him she loved had long departed, And she wandered, broken-hearted, Breathing songs he loved to hear. Friends did gather round to win her, But the thoughts that glowed within her Were to her most fond and dear. In her hand she held bright flowers, Culled from Nature's fairest bowers; On her brow, from moor and heath, Bright green leaves and flowers did cluster, Borrowing resplendent lustre From the eyes that shone beneath. Rose the whisper, "She is crazy, " When she plucked the blooming daisy, Braiding it within her hair; But they knew not, what of gladness Mingled with her notes of sadness, As she laid it gently there. For her loved one, ere he started, While she still was happy-hearted, Clipped a daisy from its stem, Placed it in her hair, and told her, Till again he should behold her, That should be her diadem. At the sea-side she was roaming, When the waves were madly foaming, And when all was calm and mild, Singing songs, --she thought he listened, -- And each dancing wave that glistened Loved she as a little child. For she thought, in every motion Of the ceaseless, moving ocean, She could see a friendly hand Stretched towards the shore imploring, Where she stood, like one adoring, Beckoning to a better land. When the sun was brightly shining, When the daylight was declining, On the shore she'd watch and wait, Like an angel, heaven-descending, 'Mid the ranks of mortals wending, Searching for a missing mate. Years passed on, and when the morning Of a summer's day gave warning Of the sweets it held in store, By the dancing waves surrounded, Like a fairy one she bounded To her lover's arms once more. Villagers thus tell the story, And they say a light of glory Hovereth above the spot Where for days and years she waited, With a love all unabated, And a faith that faltered not. There's a stone that is uplifted, Where the wild sea-flowers have drifted; Fonder words no stone o'er bore; And the waves come up to greet them, Seeming often to repeat them, While afar their echoes roar- "DEATHLESS LOVE OF ELINORE. "

'TIS SWEET TO BE REMEMBERED. 

 'T IS sweet to be remembered In the turmoil of this life, While toiling up its pathway, While mingling in its strife, While wandering o'er earth's borders, Or sailing o'er its sea, -- 'T is sweet to be remembered Wherever we may be. What though our path be rugged, Though clouded be our sky, And none we love and cherish, No friendly one is nigh, To cheer us in our sorrow, Or share with us our lot, -- 'T is sweet to be remembered, To know we're not forgot. When those we love are absent From our hearth-stone and our side, With joy we learn that pleasure And peace with them abide; And that, although we're absent, We're thought of day by day;-- 'T is sweet to be remembered By those who are away. When all our toils are ended, The conflict all is done, And peace, in sweetest accents, Proclaims the victory won; When hushed is all the tumult, When calmed is all the strife, And we, in patience, meekly Await the end of life: Then they who, when not present, In spirit yet were near, And, as we toiled and struggled, Did whisper in our ear, "'Tis sweet to be remembered, And thou art not forgot, " If fortune smile upon us, Shall share our happy lot. 

I CALL THEE MINE. 

 YES, ever such I'll call thee, will ever call thee mine, And with the love I bear thee a wreath of poesy twine; And when the stars are shining in their bright home of blue, Gazing on them, thou mayest know that I like them are true. Forget thee! no, O, never! thy heart and mine are one. How can the man who sees its light forget the noonday sun? Or he who feels its genial warmth forget the orb above; Or, feeling sweet affection's power, its source-another's love? Go, ask the child that sleepeth upon its mother's breast Whether it loves the pillow on which its head doth rest; Go, ask the weary mariner, when the dangerous voyage is o'er, Whether he loves the parent's smile that meets him at the door: But ask not if I love thee when I would call thee mine, For words are weak to tell thee all, and I the task resign; But send thy spirit out for love, and when it finds its goal, 'T will be encircled and embraced within my deepest soul. 

THE OLD TREE AND ITS LESSON. 

THERE is a story about that old tree; a biography of that oldgnarled trunk and those broad-spread branches. 

Listen. 

Many, very many years ago, --there were forests then where now arecities, and the Indian song was borne on that breeze which now bearsthe sound of the Sabbath bell, and where the fire of the work-shopsends up its dense, black smoke, the white cloud from the Indian'swigwam arose, --yes, 't was many years ago, when, by the door of arough, rude, but serviceable dwelling, a little boy sat on an oldman's knee. He was a bright youth, with soft blue eyes, from whichhis soul looked out and smiled, and hair so beautiful that it seemedto be a dancing sunbeam rather than what it really was. 

The old man had been telling him of the past; had been telling himthat when he was a child he loved the forest, and the rock, and themountain stream. 

Then he handed the lad a small, very small seed, and, leading him ashort distance, bade him make a small hole in the ground and placethe seed within it. He did so. And the old man bent over and kissedhis fair brow as he smoothed the earth above the seed'sresting-place, and told him that he must water it and watch it, andit would spring up and become a fair thing in his sight. 

'Twas hard for the child to believe this; yet he did believe, for heknew that his friend was true. 

Night came; and, as he lay on his little couch, the child dreamed ofthat seed, and he had a vision of the future which passed with theshades of the night. 

Morning dawned, and he hastened to water and to watch the spot wherethe seed was planted. 

It had not come up; yet he believed the good old man, and knew thatit would. 

All day long he was bending over it, or talking with his agedcompanion about the buried seed. 

A few days passed, then a little sprout; burst from the ground; andthe child clapped his hands, and shouted and danced. 

Daily it grew fairer in the sight of the child, and rose higher andhigher. And the old man led him once more to the spot, and told himthat even so would the body of his little sister rise from the gravein which a short time before it hid been placed, and, rising higherand higher, it would never cease to ascend. 

The old man wept; but the child, with his tiny white hand, brushedaway his tears, and, with child-like simplicity, said that if hissister arose she would go to God, for God was above. 

Then the mourner's heart was strengthened, and the lesson he wouldhave taught the child came from the child to him, and made his soulglad. 

A few weeks passed, and the old man died. 

The child wept; but, remembering the good friend's lesson, he wipedaway his tears, and wept no more; for the seed had already become abeautiful plant, and every day it went upward, and he knew that, like that, his sister and his good friend would go higher and highertowards God. 

Days, weeks, months, years passed away. The plant had grown till itwas taller than he who had planted it. 

Years fled. The child was no more there, but a young man sat beneaththe shade of a tree, and held a maiden's hand in his own. Her headreclined on his breast, and her eyes upturned met the glances of histowards her, and they blended in one. 

"I remember, " said he, "that when I was young a good old man who isnow in heaven, led me to this spot, and bade me put a little seed inthe earth. I did so. I watched the ground that held it, and soon itsprang up, touched by no hand, drawn forth, as it would seem, fromits dark prison by the attractive power of the bright heaven thatshone above it. See, now, what it has become! It shades and sheltersus. God planted in my heart a little seed. None but he could plantit, for from him only emanates true love. It sprang up, drawn forthby the sunlight of thy soul, till now thou art shadowed andsheltered by it. "

There was silence, save the rustle of the leaves as the branchesbowed assent to the young man's words. 

Time drove his chariot on; his sickle-wheels smote to earth manybrave and strong, yet the tree stood. The winds blew fiercely amongits branches; the lightning danced and quivered above and around it;the thunder muttered forth its threatenings; the torrent washedabout its roots; yet it stood, grew strong and stately, and many aheart loved it for its beauty and its shade. 

The roll of the drum sounded, and beneath a tree gathered crowds ofstalwart men. There was the mechanic, with upturned sleeves anddusty apron; the farmer, fanning himself with a dingy straw hat; theprofessional man and trader, arguing the unrighteousness of"taxation without representation. "

Another roll of the drum, and every head was uncovered as a youngman ascended a platform erected beneath the tree. In a soft, lowvoice, he began. As he proceeded, his voice grew louder, and hiseloquence entranced his auditors. 

"Years ago, " said he, "there were an old man and a young child. Andthe child loved the man, and the man loved the child, and taught hima lesson. He took him by the hand, and, leading him aside, gave hima seed and told him to plant it. He did so. It sprang up. It becamemighty. Independent it stood, sheltering all who came unto it. Thatold man went home; but here stands the child, and here the tree, great and mighty now, but the child has not forgotten the day whenit was small and weak. So shall the cause we have this day espousedgo on; and though, to-day, we may be few and feeble, we shallincrease and grow strong, till we become an independent nation, thatshall shelter all who come unto it. "

The speaker ceased, and immediately the air resounded with loudshouts and huzzas. 

The struggle for independence came. Victory ensued. Peace restedonce more upon all the land, But not as before. It rested upon afree people. Then, beneath that same tree, gathered a mighty host;and, as oft as came the second month of summer, in the early part ofit the people there assembled, and thanked God for the lesson of theold tree. 

An old man lay dying. Around his bedside were his children and hischildren's children. 

"Remove the curtain, " said he. "Open the window. Raise me, and letre see the sun once more. "

They did so. 

"See you yonder tree? Look upon it, and listen. I was a child once, and I knew and loved an old man; and he knew me and loved me, and heled me aside, placed in my hand a tiny seed, and bade me bury it inthe earth, and I did so. Night came, with its shade and its dew;day, with its sunshine and its showers. And the seed sprangup, --but the old man died. Yet, ere he went, he had taught me thelesson of that seed, which was, that those who go down to the earthlike that, will arise, like that, towards heaven. You are lookingupon that tree which my friend planted. Learn from it the lesson ithath taught me. "

The old man's task was performed, his life finished, and themorrow's light lit the pathway of many to his grave. They stoodbeneath the shadow of that tree; and deeply sank the truth in everyheart as the village pastor began the burial service and read, "I amthe resurrection and the life. "

VOICES FROM THE SPIRIT-LAND. 

 IN the silence of the midnight, When the cares of day are o'er, In my soul I hear the voices Of the loved ones gone before; And they, words of comfort whispering, Say they'll watch on every hand, And my soul is cheered in hearing Voices from the spirit-land. In my wanderings, oft there cometh Sudden stillness to my soul; When around, above, within it Rapturous joys unnumbered roll. Though around me all is tumult, Noise and strife on every hand, Yet within my soul I list to Voices from the spirit-land. Loved ones who have gone before me Whisper words of peace and joy; Those who long since have departed Tell me their divine employ Is to watch and guard my footsteps, -- O! it is an angel band! And I love, I love to list to Voices from the spirit-land. 

THE BEACON-LIGHT. 

 DIMLY burns the beacon-light On the mountain top to-night; Faint as whisper ever fell, Falls the watcher's cry, --"All's well;" For the clouds have met on high, And the blast sweeps angry by; Not a star is seen this night, -- God, preserve the beacon-light! Lo! a man whom age doth bow Wanders up the pathway now; Wistfully his eye he turns To the light that dimly burns; And, as it less glow doth shed, Quicker, quicker is his tread; And he prays that through the night God may keep the beacon-light. Far below him, rocks and waves Mark the place of others' graves; Other travellers, who, like him, Saw the beacon-light burn dim. But they trusted in their strength To attain the goal at length;-- This old traveller prays, to-night, "God, preserve the beacon-light!" Fainter, fainter is its ray, -- Shall its last gleam pass away? Shall it be extinguished quite? Shall it burn, though not as bright? Fervently goes up his prayer; Patiently he waiteth there, Trusting Him who doeth right To preserve the beacon-light. Look you now! the light hath burst Brighter than it was at first; Now with ten-fold radiance glows, And the traveller homeward goes. As the clouds grow darker o'er him, Brighter grows the light before him; God, who doeth all things right, Hath preserved the beacon-light. Thus upon the path we tread God a guiding light hath shed; Though at times our hearts are weary, Though the path we tread is dreary, Though the beacon's lingering ray Seems as if 't would pass away, -- Be our prayer, through all the night, "God, preserve the beacon-light!" Threatening clouds may gather o'er us, Countless dangers rise before us: If in God we seek for strength, He will succor us at length: He his holy light will send, To conduct us to the end. Trust thy God, through day and night, He'll preserve thy beacon-light. 

BEAR UP. 

 BEAR up, bear up, though Poverty may press thee, There's not a flower that's crushed that does not shed, While bowing low, its fragrance forth to bless thee, At times, more sweet than when it raised its head;

 When sunlight gathered round it, When dews of even crowned it, By nature nursed, and watched, and from its bounty fed Bear up, bear up! O, never yield nor falter! God reigneth ever, merciful and just; If thou despairest, go thou to his altar, Rest on his arm, and in his promise trust. 

 There Hope, bright Hope, will meet thee;

 There Joy, bright Joy, shall greet thee; And thou shalt rise to thrones on high from out the dust. 

A WELCOME SONG TO SPRING. 

 SHOUT a welcoming to Spring! Hail its early buds and flowers! It is hastening on to bring Unto us its joyous hours. Birds on bough and brake are singing, All the new-clad woods are ringing; In the brook, see Nature flinging Beauties of a thousand dyes, As if jealous of the beauties Mantling the skies. Hail to Beauty! Hail to Mirth! All Creation's song is gladness; Not a creature dwells on earth God would have bowed down in sadness! Everything this truth is preaching, God in all his works is teaching, As if man by them beseeching To be glad, for he doth bless;

 And to trust him, for he's mighty In his tenderness. 

THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 

CHAPTER I. 

IT was at the close of a beautiful autumnal day that Edward Daytonwas to leave the place of his nativity. For many years he had lookedforward, in joyous anticipation, to the time when he should repairto the city, and enter upon the business of life. And now that thatlong looked-for and wished-for day had arrived, when he was to bidan adieu to the companions of his youth, and to all the scenes ofhis childhood, it was well for him to cast a retrospective glance;and so he did. 

Not far distant, rearing its clear white steeple far above thetrees, stood the village church, up the broad, uncarpeted aisle ofwhich he had scores of times passed; and, as the thought that hemight never again enter those sacred walls came to his mind, a tearglistened in his eye that he could not rudely wipe away. 

Next was the cot of the pastor. He had grown old in the service ofhis Master, and the frosts of nearly three-score winters restedtheir glory upon his head. All loved and respected him, for withthem he had wept, and with them he had rejoiced. Many had fallenaround him; withered age and blooming youth he had followed to thegrave; yet he stood forth yet, and, with clear and musical voice, preached the truths of God. 

An old gray building, upon whose walls the idler's knife had carvedmany a rude inscription, was the village school. There, amid thosecarvings, were seen the rough-hewn initials of many a man now"well-to-do in the world. " Some, high above the rest, seemed ascaptains, and almost over-shadowed the diminutive ones of the littleschool-boy, placed scarce thirty inches from the ground. 

Edward was a pet among the villagers. He had taken the lead in allthe frolickings, and many a bright-eyed lass would miss hispresence, and loud, clear laugh, at the coming "huskings. "

Young and old reluctantly bade him "good-by, " and, as the stagewound its circuitous way from the village, from many a heartascended a prayer that He who ruleth over all would prosper andprotect him. 

"Good luck to him, God bless him!" said dame Brandon, as she enteredthe house. "He was always a kind, well-meant lad, " she continued, "and dame Brandon knows no evil can befall him; and Emily, my dear, you must keep your eye on some of the best fruit of the orchard, forhe will be delighted with it, and much the more so if he knows yourbright eyes watched its growth and your hands gathered it. "

These words were addressed to a girl of seventeen, who stood at anopen window, in quite a pensive mood. She seemed not to hear theremark, but gazed in the direction the stage had passed. 

The parents of Edward had died when he was quite young, and he, their only child, had been left to the care and protection of dameBrandon; and well had she cared for him, and been as a mother to themotherless. 

"Now, Emi', don't fret! Edward won't forget you. I've known himlong; he has got a heart as true as steel. "

'T was not this that made her sad. She had no fears that he wouldforget his Emi', but another thought pressed heavily on her mind, and she said, "But, aunty, city life is one of danger. Temptations are there welittle think of, and stronger hearts than Edward's have quailedbeneath their power. "

"Well done!" quoth Mrs. B. , looking over her glasses; "a sermon, indeed, quite good for little you. But girls are timid creatures;they start and are frightened at the least unusual sound. " Sheassumed a more serious manner, and, raising her finger, pointingupwards, said, "But know you not there is a Power greater than thatof which you speak?"

Emily seemed to be cheered by this thought. She hummed over afavorite air, and repaired to the performance of her evening duties. 

Emily Brandon was a lovely creature, and of this Edward Dayton waswell aware. He had spent his early days with her. His most happyhours had been passed in her company. Together they had frolickedover the green fields, and wandered by their clear streams. Hourspassed as minutes when in each other's company; and, when separated, each minute seemed an hour. 

Now, for the first time, they were separated; and ever and anon, asshe passed about at her work, she cast a fitful glance from thewindow, as if it were possible he might return. 

How she wished she could have gone with him, to gently chide whensinners should entice, and lead him from error's path, should gaytemptation lure him therein! She was young in years, yet old indiscretion; and had a heart that yearned for the good of all. 

"Well, aunt, " said she, "I hope good luck will betide him, but sadthoughts will come when I think of what he will have to bear upunder. "

"O, hush!" said the old lady; "simple girls have simple stories. "

CHAPTER II. 

It was a late hour in the evening that the coach entered themetropolis. Railroads were not then in vogue, and largebaggage-waggons, lumbering teams and clumsy coaches, were drawn bytwo or more horses, over deep-rutted roads, and almost endlessturnpikes. 

The bells had-rang their nine o'clock peal; most of the stores wereclosed; the busy trader and industrious mechanic had gone to theirrespective homes, and left their property to faithful watchers, whose muffled forms moved slowly through the streets of the greatcity. 

Not all had left their work; for, by the green and crimson lightthat streamed from his window, and served to partially dissipate thedarkness, it was seen that he of pestle and mortar labored on, or, wearied with his labor, had fallen asleep, but to be awakened by thecall of some customer, requesting an antidote for one of the many"ills which flesh is heir to. "

Other open places there were, whose appearance indicated that theywere bar-rooms, for at their windows stood decanters filled withvarious-colored liquids. Near each of these stood a wine-glass in aninverted position, with a lemon upon it; yet, were not any of theseunmistakable signs to be seen, you would know the character of theplace by a rumseller's reeling sign, that made its exit, and, passing a few steps, fell into the gutter. 

In addition to these other signs, were seen scattered about thewindows of these places, in characters so large that he who ranmight read, "Bar-room, " "Egg-pop, " "N. E. Rum, " etc. 

Those were the days of bar-room simplicities. "Saloons" were notthen known. The refined names which men of the present day haveattached to rum, gin and brandy, were not then in use. There were no"Wormwood-floaters" to embitter man's life, and Jewett had not hadhis "fancy. "

The coach rolled on, and in a short time Edward was safely ensconcedin a neatly-furnished room in a hotel known as "The Bull's Horn. " Itwas indeed a great disadvantage to him that he came to a city inwhich he was a total stranger. He had no acquaintance to greet himwith a friendly welcome; and the next day, as he was jostled by thecrowd, and pushed aside by the hurried pedestrian, he realized whatit was to be a stranger in a strange land, and an indescribablesensation came upon him, known only to those who have been placed insimilar circumstances. 

He looked around, --strange forms met his view. No one greeted him, nohand of friendship was held forth to welcome him. All the worldseemed rushing on for something, he knew not what; and, disheartenedat the apparent selfishness that pervaded society, he returned tohis room, and wished for the quietness of his own sweet village, thecompanionship of his own dear Emi'. 

The landlord of the tavern at which our hero had housed himself wasa stout, burly man, and quite communicative. From him Edward learnedmuch of importance. Mr. Blinge was his name. He was an inveteratesmoker, and his pet was a little black pipe, dingy and old, and bynot a few deemed a nuisance to "The Bull's Horn. " This he heldbetween his teeth, and, seating himself behind his bar, puffed awayon the high-pressure principle. 

Edward had not been many minutes in his room before Mr. Blingeentered with his pet in his mouth, hoped he did n't intrude, apologized, and wished him to walk below, saying that by so doing hemight become acquainted with some "rare souls. "

By "below" was meant a large, square room, on the ground floor, ofdimensions ample enough to hold a caucus in. By some it was called a"bar-room, " by others the "sitting-room, " and others the"gentlemen's parlor. "

Entering, Edward encountered the gaze of about twenty individuals. Old gentlemen with specs looked beneath them, and young gentlemenwith papers looked above them. A young man in white jacket and greenapron was endeavoring to satisfy the craving appetites of twoteamsters, who were loudly praising the landlord's brandy, andcursing the bad state of the roads in a manner worthy of "our armyin Flanders. "

One young man, in particular, attracted the attention of our hero. He was genteelly dressed, and possessed an air of dignity andself-command, that would obtain for him at once the good will ofany. Edward was half inclined to believe his circumstances to besomewhat similar to his own. He was reading an evening paper, but, on seeing our hero enter, and judging from his manner that he was astranger, laid it aside, and, politely addressing himself to him, inquired after his health. 

The introduction over, they engaged in conversation. The young manseemed pleased in making his acquaintance, and expressed a hope thata friendship so suddenly formed might prove lasting and beneficialto each. 

"I also am from the country, " said he, after Edward had informed himof his history, "and, like you, am in search of employment. Lookingover the evening paper, I noticed an advertisement of a concern forsale, which I thought, as I read, would be a capital chance to makea fortune, if I could find some one to invest in it with me. I willread it to you. 

For SALE. -The stock and stand of a Confectioner, with a goodbusiness, well established. One or two young men will find this arare opportunity to invest their money advantageously. For otherparticulars inquire at No. 7 Cresto-st. 

"Now, I tell you what, " said the young man, before Edward had anopportunity to utter a word, "it is a fine chance. Why, Lagrangemakes enough on his wines and fancy cordials to clothe and feed aregiment. Just pass there, some evening, and you will see a perfectrush. Soda-water, ice creams, and French wines, are all the rage, and Lagrange is the only man in this city that can suit the bonton!"

"You half induce me to go there, " said Edward. "How far is it fromthis place?"

"Not far, but it is too late; to-morrow morning we will go there. Here, take my card-Othro Treves is my name; you must have known myfather; a member of Congress for ten years, when he died;--ratherabused his health-attended parties at the capital-drank wine toexcess, --took a severe cold-fell ill one day, worse the next, sickthe next, and died soon after. Wine is bad when excessively indulgedin; so is every good thing. "

Edward smiled at this running account of his new-formedacquaintance, and, bidding him "good-night, " betook himself to hischamber, intending to accompany Othro to the confectioner's in themorning. 

CHAPTER III. 

The next morning the sun shone bright and clear in a cloudless sky, and all were made joyous by its gladsome rays. 

Edward was awakened at an early hour by the departure orpreparations to depart, of the two teamsters, who, having patronizedrather freely the young man in white jacket and green apron, were ina delightful mood to enjoy a joke, and were making themselves quitemerry as they harnessed up their sturdy horses. 

It was near nine when Othro and Edward found themselves on the wayto the confectioner's. Edward was glad on account of finding onewhom he thought he could trust as a friend, and congratulatedhimself on his good luck. 

Near the head of Cresto-street might have been seen, not many yearssince, over the door of a large and fashionable store, a sign-boardbearing this inscription: "M. Lagrange, Confectioner and Dealer inWines and Cordials. " We say it was "large and fashionable;" andthose of our readers who recollect the place of which we speak willtestify to the truth of our assertion. 

Its large windows, filled with jars of confectionary and preserves, and with richly-ornamented bottles of wine, with the richest piesand cake strewed around, presented a showy and inviting appearance, and a temptation to indulge, too powerful to resist, by children ofa larger growth than lisping infants and primary-school boys. Thosewho daily passed this store looked at the windows most wistfully;and this was not all, for, at their weekly reckonings, they foundthat several silver "bits" had disappeared very mysteriously duringthe previous seven days. 

To this place our hero and his newly-formed acquaintance were nowhastening. As they drew near, quite a bevy of ladies made their exittherefrom, engaged in loud conversation. 

"Lor!" said one, "it is strange Lagrange advertised to sell out. "

"Why, if I was his wife, " said another, "I'd whip him into mytraces, I would; an' he shouldn't sell out unless I was willin', --no, he shouldn't! Only think, Miss Fitzgabble, how handy those wineswould be when one has a social soul step in!"

"O yes, " replied Miss Fitzgabble, "and those jars of lozenges! Howenchantingly easy to elevate the lid upon a Sabbath morn, slip inone's hand, and subtract a few! How I should smell of sassafras, ifI was Mrs. Lagrange!"

The ladies passed on, and were soon out of hearing. Edward and hiscompanion entered the store, where about a dozen ladies andgentlemen were seated, discussing the fashions, forging scandal, andsipping wine. 

Mr. Lagrange was actively engaged when the two entered; but, seeingthem, and supposing them to have called on the business for whichthey actually had called, he called to one of the attendants to fillhis place, and entered into conversation with Messrs. Dayton andTreves, which in due time was terminated, they agreeing to callagain the next day. 

First impressions are generally the most lasting. Those Edward andOthro received during their visit and subsequent conversation werefavorable to the purchase. 

On their return they consulted together for a long time, and finallyconcluded to go that day, instead of waiting till the next, and makeMr. Lagrange an offer of which they had no doubt he would accept. 

Mr. Lagrange's chief object in selling out was that he mightdisengage himself from business. He had been a long time in it; hewas getting somewhat advanced in life, and had accumulatedsufficient to insure him against want, and he deemed it best to stepout, and give room to the young-an example worthy of generalimitation. 

That the business was profitable there could be no doubt. As Othrohad said, the profit on the wines was indeed immense. 

On pleasant evenings the store was crowded; and, as it was filledwith the young, gay, and fashionable of wealthy rank, not muchdifficulty was experienced in obtaining these large profits. 

The return of the young men was not altogether unexpected by Mr. Lagrange. He was ready to receive them. He set before them his bestwines. They drank freely, praised the wine, and extolled the store, for they thought it admirably calculated to make a fortune in. 

Mr. Lagrange imparted to them all the information they desired. Theymade him an offer, which he accepted, after some thought; andarrangements were entered into by which Messrs. Dayton and Treveswere to take possession on the morning of the following Monday. 

CHAPTER IV. 

No one commences business without the prospect of success. Assure aman he will not succeed, and he will be cautious of the steps hetakes, if, indeed, he takes any. 

If he does not expect to gain a princely fortune; he expects to earna comfortable subsistence, and, at the same time, accumulate enoughto shelter him in a rainy day, and be enabled to walk life's busystage in comfort and respectability, and, as occasion may demand, relieve the wants of his less fortunate brethren. 

For this all hope, yet the experience of thousands shows that few, very few, ever realize it. On the contrary, disappointment, in itsthousand malignant forms, starts up on every hand; yet they struggleon, and in imagination see more prosperous days in the future. Thusthey hope against hope, till the green sod covers their bodies, andthey leave their places to others, whilst the tale is told in thesefew words: "They lived and died. "

The next Monday the citizens were notified, by the removal of hisold sign, that Mr. Lagrange had retired from business. During theday, many of Mr. Lagrange's customers came in, that they mightbecome acquainted with the successors of their old friend. To theseMessrs. Dayton and Treves were introduced, and from them receivedpromise of support. 

A colored man, who had been for a long time in the employ of Mr. Lagrange, was retained in the employ of the store. Ralph Orton washis name. He having been for a long time in the store, and duringthat time having had free access to the wines, had formed anappetite for them, in consequence of which he was often intoxicated. 

His inebriation was periodical, and not of that kind whose subjectsare held in continual thraldom; yet, to use his own words, "when hewas drunk, he was drunk, and no mistake. " He obeyed the oldinjunction of "what is worth doing is worth doing well, " and as longas he got drunk he got well drunk. 

He had ofttimes been reasoned with in his days of soberness, and hadoften promised to reform; but so many around him drank that he couldnot resist the temptation to drink also, and therefore broke hispromise. This habit had so fastened itself upon him, that, like onein the coil of the serpent, the more he strove to escape the closerit held him. 

If there is any one habit to which if a man becomes attached he willfind more difficulty to escape from than another, it is that ofintemperance; yet all habits are so one with our nature that thecare taken to guard against the adoption of evil ones cannot be toogreat. 

Behold that man! He was tempted, --he yielded. He has surrendered anoble estate, and squandered a large fortune. Once he had riches andfriends; his eye sparkled with the fire of ambition; hope and joybeamed in each feature of his manly countenance, and all bespoke forhim a long life and happy death. Look at him now! without a penny inhis pocket, a wretched outcast, almost dead with starvation. Habitworked the change-an evil habit. 

Perchance some one in pity may bestow a small sum upon him. Utterlyregardless of the fact that his wife and children are at homeshivering over a few expiring embers that give no warmth, without acrumb to appease their hunger, and although he himself a momentbefore believed that if aid did not come speedily he must perish, hehastens to the nearest groggery, and, laying down his money, callsfor that which has brought upon him and his such woe. 

If there is any scene upon earth over which demons joy, it must bewhen that rumseller takes that money. 

This propensity of Ralph's was a serious objection to him as aservant; yet, in every other respect, he was all that could bedesired. He was honest, faithful and obliging, and, knowing as theydid that he was well acquainted with the trade of the city, andcould go directly to the houses of Mr. Lagrange's customers, Messrs. Dayton and Treves were induced to have him remain. 

At the end of a month, Edward found himself in prosperouscircumstances, and wrote to his old village friends of the fact. They, as a matter in course, were overjoyed in the reception of suchintelligence, and no one more so than Emily Lawton. 

Edward had entered into a business in which temptations of apeculiar nature gathered about him. Like nearly every one in thosedays, he had no scruples against the use of wine. He thought nodanger was associated with its use; and, as an objection againstthat would clash with the interests of his own pecuniary affairs, hewould be the last to raise it. In dealing forth to others, howstrong came the temptation to deal it to himself! Othro drank, andpronounced a certain kind of wine a great luxury. Edward could not(or, at least, so he thought) do otherwise; and so he drank, andpronounced the same judgment upon it. 

"What say you for an evening at the theatre?" said Othro, oneevening, as they were passing from their place of business, havingleft it in care of their servants. "At the Gladiate the play is'Hamlet, ' and Mr. Figaro, from the old Drury, appears. "

Edward had been educated in strict puritanic style, and had beentaught to consider the theatre as a den of iniquity. It is not ourpurpose to defend or oppose this opinion. It was his, and he freelyexpressed it. In fact, his partner knew it to be such before makingthe request. 

"I suppose, " said Mr. Treves, "you oppose the theatre on account ofthe intoxicating drinks sold there. Now, I am for a social dropoccasionally. Edward, a glass of pure 'Cogniac, ' a nice cigar, and aseat in front of a grate of blazing coal, and I'll be joyful. "

"You may be joyful, then, " replied Mr. Dayton; "but your joy mightbe changed to grief, and your buoyancy of spirit be turned tosadness of heart. "

"Indeed, Edward! Quite a lecture, I declare! Been studying theology, eh?"

"Not so; you are mistaken, Othro, " said he. "There, " he continued, pointing to a reeling sot that passed them, "ask that man where hefirst went for joy, and he may tell you of the theatre, or of socialglasses of brandy, cigars, and such like. "

They had now arrived in front of the "Gladiate, " a massive stonestructure, most brilliantly illuminated. Long rows of carriagesstood in front, and crowds of the gay and fashionable were flockingin. 

All was activity. Hackmen snapped their whips. Boys, ragged anddirty, were waiting for the time when "checks" would circulate, and, in fact, were in much need of checks, but those of a differentnature from those they so eagerly looked for. 

Anon, the crowd gathered closer; and the prospect of a fight put theboys in hysterics of delight, and their rags into great commotion. To their sorrow, it was but the shadow of a "row"; and they kickedand cuffed each other, in order to express their grief. 

A large poster announced in flaming characters that that night wasthe last but two of Mr. Figaro's appearance, and that otherengagements would prevent him from prolonging his stay, however muchthe public might desire him to do so; whilst, if the, truth had beentold, the public would have known that a printer was that moment"working off" other posters, announcing a re‰ngagement of Mr. Figarofor two weeks. 

"Will you enter?" inquired Othro. Edward desired to be excused, andthey parted; one entering the theatre, the other repairing to hishome. 

CHAPTER V. 

The "tavern" at which our hero boarded was of the country, or, rather, the colony order of architecture, --for piece had been addedto piece, until what was once a small shed was now quite anextensive edifice. 

As was the case with all taverns in those days, so also withthis, --the bar-room was its most prominent feature. Mr. Blinge, thelandlord, not only smoked, but was an inveterate lover of rawwhiskey, which often caused him to perform strange antics. The factthat he loved whiskey was not strange, for in those days all drank. The aged drank his morning, noon and evening potations, because hehad always done so; the young, because his father did; and thelisping one reached forth its hands, and in childish accents calledfor the "thugar, " and the mother, unwilling to deny it that whichshe believed could not harm it, gave. 

Those were the days when seed was being sown, and now the harvestingis in progress. Vain were it for us to attempt its description; youwill see it in ruined families, where are gathered blasted hopes, withered expectations, and pangs, deep pangs of untold sorrow. 

The child indulged has become a man, yet scarce worthy of the name;for a habit has been formed that has sunken him below the brute, andhe lives not a help, but a burden, not a blessing, but a curse, tohis fellow-men. 

Although Edward was opposed to the use of intoxicating drinks, hisbusiness led him to associate with those who held opposite opinions. 

Among the boarders was one, a bold, drinking, independent sort of aman, who went against all innovations upon old customs with a furyworthy of a subject of hydrophobia. 

His name was "Pump. " Barrel, or bottle, would have been more inaccordance with his character; but, as the old Pump had notforesight enough to see into the future, he did not know that he wasinappropriately naming his son. 

Every Pump must have its handle, on the same principle that "everydog must have his day. " The handle to the Pump in question was along one; 't was "Onendago. "

"Onendago Pump" was written with red ink on the blank leaf of a"Universal Songster" he carried in his pocket. 

Dago, as he was called, lived on appearances; that is, he acted thegentleman outwardly, but the beggar inwardly. He robbed his stomachto clothe his back: howbeit, his good outside appearance often gotfor him a good dinner. 

By the aid of the tailor and the barber, he wore nice cloth andcurled hair; and, being blessed with a smooth, oily voice, wasenabled, by being invited to dinner here and to supper there, tolive quite easy. 

Edward had just seated himself, when a loud rap on the door washeard, and in a moment Mr. Onendago Pump, with two bottles, entered. With a low bow, he inquired as to our hero's health, and proposedspending an evening in his company. 

"Ever hear me relate an incident of the last war?" said he, as heseated himself, and placed his two bottles upon the side-table. 

"Never, " replied Edward. 

"Well, Butler was our captain, and a regular man he; right up anddown good fellow, --better man never held sword or gave an order. Well, we were quartered at-I don't remember where-history tells. Weled a lazy life; no red coats to fire at. One of the men came home, one night, three sheets in the wind, and the fourth bound round hishead; awful patriotic was he, and made a noise, and swore he'd shootevery man for the good of his country. Well, Captain Butler heard ofit, and the next day all hands were called. We formed a ring; SimonTwigg, he who was drunk the day before, stood within it, and thenand there Captain Butler, who belonged to the Humane Society, andnever ordered a man to be flogged, lectured him half an hour. Well, that lecture did Mr. Dago Pump immense good, and ever since I haven't drank anything stronger than brandy. 

"Never a man died of brandy!" said Mr. Pump, with much emphasis. "Brandy's the word!" and, without saying more, he produced acork-screw, and with it opened a bottle. 

A couple of glasses soon made their appearance. "Now, you will takea glass with me, " said Dago; "it is the pure Cogniac, quality one, letter A. "

"Drink, now, " said he, pushing a glass towards him. "Wine is used bythe temperance society. They'll use brandy soon. Ah, they can't dowithout their wine, and we can't do without our brandy! They want tobind us in a free country, what my father bled and almost died for, --bind us to drink cold water!" said Mr. Pump, sneeringly. "Let 'emtry it! I go for freedom of the press, --universal, everlasting, unbounded freedom!"

When this patriotic bubble had exploded and the mist cleared away, he sang a bacchanalian song, which he wished every free man in theworld would commit to memory. "What is the difference, " said he, "between this and wine? Neither will hurt a man; it is yourrum-drinking, gin-guzzling topers that are harmed;--anything willharm them. Who ever heard of a genteel wine or brandy drinkerbecoming a pest to society? Who ever heard of such an one rolling inthe mire? No; such men are able to take care of themselves. Awaywith the pledge!"

"Perhaps you are right, " replied Edward; "yet we should be careful. Although all around me drink, I have until this moment abstainedfrom the use of brandy; but now, at your request, I partake of it. Remember, if I, by this act, am led into habits of intemperance, ifI meet a drunkard's grave, the blame will rest upon you. "

"Ha, ha, ha! Well done! So be it! I'll shoulder the blame, if arespectable man like you falls by brandy. "

Edward drank the contents of a glass, and, placing it upon thetable, said "We must be careful!"

"True!" said Mr. Pump, as he again filled the glass; "we cannot betoo much so. We must avoid rum and gin as we would a viper! How Iabhor the very name of rum! O, Mr. Dayton, think of the misery ithas brought upon man! I had a sister once, a beautiful, kind-heartedcreature. She was married to an industrious man; all was fair, prospects bright. By degrees he got into bad company; he forgot hishome, loved rum more than that, became dissipated, died, and filleda drunkard's grave! She, poor creature, went into a fever, becamedelirious, raved day after day, and, heaping curses upon him whosold her husband rum, died. Since then, I have looked upon rum as acurse; but brandy, --it is a gentle stimulant, a healthy beverage, afine drink, and it can do no harm. "

Onendago swallowed the contents of his glass, and Edward, who, having taken the first, found it very easy to take the second, didthe same. Yet his conscience smote him; he felt that he was doingwrong. 

Like the innocent, unthinking bird, who, charmed by the serpent'sglistening eyes, falls an easy prey to its crushing embrace, was heat that moment. He the bird, unconscious of the danger behind thecharm. 

This is no fictitious tale. Would to Heaven it contained less oftruth! The world has seen many men like "Mr. Pump, " and many havethrough their instrumentality fallen; many not to rise till agesshall have obliterated all memory of the past, with all itsunnatural loves! Whilst others, having struggled on for years, haveat length seen a feeble ray of light penetrating the dark cloudsthat overshadowed their path, which light continued to increase, till, in all its beauty, the star of temperance shone forth, bywhich they strove ever after to be guided. 

It was near midnight when Mr. Pump left. The two had become quitesociable, and Mr. Pump saw the effect of his brandy in the unusualgayety of Edward. 

The latter was not lost to reflection; and now that he was alone, thoughts of home, his business, and many other matters, cameconfusedly into his mind. 

Letters he had received of warning and advice. He took them in hishands, looked over their contents, and with feelings of sadness, andsomewhat of remorse, thought of his ways. 

A bundle of old letters! A circle of loved friends! How alike! Thereis that's pleasant, yet sad, in these. How vividly they present toour view the past! The writers, some, perhaps, are dead; others arefar away. Yet, dead or alive, near or far distant, we seem to bewith them as we read their thoughts traced out on the sheet beforeus. 

As Edward read here and there a letter, it did seem as though hisfriends stood beside him, and spoke words of advice which consciencewhispered should be heeded. Love was the theme of not a few, yet allwarned him to flee from evil. He returned the parcel, and, as he didso, he pledged himself that if he drank any it should be withmoderation: and that, as soon as he felt its ruinous effects, toabstain altogether. 

The next morning Othro was late at the store; yet, when he arrived, he was full of praise of the play. 

"Figaro acted Hamlet to a charm, " said he; "and Fanny Lightfootdanced like a fairy. But two nights more! Now, Edward, if you do notwish to offend me, and that exceedingly, say you will go with meto-morrow night. "

CHAPTER VI. 

Three years had elapsed since the events of the last chapter. Edwardhad often visited his native village, and, as the results of thesevisits, Emily Lawton became Mrs. Dayton; and she, with Mrs. Brandon, was removed to an elegantly furnished house in the city. Yet, withall its elegance, Mrs. Brandon, who had been accustomed to ruralsimplicity, did not feel happy except when in her own room, whichEdward had ordered to be furnished in a style answering her ownwishes. 

Messrs. Dayton and Treves had been highly successful in theirbusiness operations; and, enjoying as they did the patronage of the‚lite of the city, they, with but little stretch of theirimaginative powers, could see a fortune at no great distance. 

Becoming acquainted with a large number of persons of wealth, theywere present at very many of the winter entertainments; and, beinginvited to drink, they had not courage to refuse, and did not wishto act so ungenteel and uncivil. Others drank; and some loved theirrum, and would have it. Edward had taken many steps since the eventsof our last chapter; yet, thought he, "I drink moderately. "

There was to be a great party. A musical prodigy, in the shape of achild of ten years, had arrived, and the leaders of fashion hadagreed upon having a grand entertainment on the occasion. 

Great was the activity and bustle displayed, and in no place morethan at the store of Dayton and Treves. As ill-luck would have it, Ralph had been absent a week on one of his drunken sprees, and hisemployers were obliged to procure another to fill his place. 

The event was to take place at the house of a distinguished cityofficer; and, as Messrs. Dayton and Treves were to providerefreshment, their time was fully occupied. 

The papers were filled with predictions concerning it; and theeditors, happy fellows, were in ecstasies of joy on account ofhaving been invited to attend. Nor were Messrs. Dayton and Trevesforgotten; but lengthy eulogies upon their abilities to perform theduty assigned them occupied prominent places, and "steamboatdisasters, " "horrid murders, " and "dreadful accidents, " were obligedto make room for these. 

In the course of human events the evening came. Hacks were indemand, and the rattling of wheels and the falling of carriage-stepswere heard till near midnight. 

The chief object of attraction was a small boy, who had attainedconsiderable proficiency in musical knowledge, not of any particularinstrument, but anything and everything; consequently a largeassortment of instruments had been collected, upon which he played. As music had called them together, it was the employment of theevening, and the hour of midnight had passed when they were summonedto the tables. 

Those gentlemen who desired had an apartment to themselves, wherewine and cigars circulated freely. Some, in a short time, becameexcited; whilst others, upon whom the same cause had a differenteffect, became stupid. One poor fellow, whose bloated countenancetold a sad tale, lay almost senseless; another sat dreamingly overhis half-filled glass, whilst another excited the risibilities ofnot a few by his ineffectual attempts to light his cigar. 

Our hero, like his companions, was a little overcome by too frequentpotations from the bottle. It was a sad sight to a reflective mind. The majority were young men, whose eyes had been blinded to thedanger they were in, by adhering to a foolish and injurious custom. 

As hour passed hour, they became more excited, until a high state ofenthusiasm existed. 

All the ladies had retired, except one, and she strove hard toconceal her rising sorrow by forced smiles; yet she could notrestrain her feelings, --her heart seemed bursting with grief. In vaindid officious servants seek to know the cause. To the inquiries ofthe lady of the house she made no reply. She dare not reveal thesecret which pierced her very soul; but, burying her face in herhands, seemed resolved upon not being comforted. Finally, yieldingto the persuasive influence of Mrs. Venet, she expressed her fearsthat Edward had tarried too long at the bowl. 

Mrs. Venet tried to comfort her by saying that, if what she so muchfeared was true, yet it was nothing uncommon; and mentioned severalmen, and not a few ladies, who had been carried away in a senselesscondition. 

These words did not comfort her; on the contrary, they increased herfears, and led her to believe that there was more danger at suchparties than there was generally thought to be; and the fact thatEdward had often attended such parties increased her sorrow, for sheknew not but that he had been among that number of whom Mrs. Venetspoke. 

Imagination brought to her view troubles and trials as her futurelot; and last, not least, the thought of Edward's temperament, andof how easily he might be led astray, rested heavily upon her heart. Mrs. Venet at length left her, and repaired to the gentleman'sapartment, in order to learn the cause of his delay. 

"Who in the devil's there, with that thundering racket?" inquired aloud voice. 

"It is Mrs. Venet, " replied the lady. 

"O, it is, is it? Well, madam, Dayton the confectioner, and a dozenjovial souls, are having a rare time here. Put that down in yourmemorandum-book, and leave us to our meditations. "

"Yes, and these to profit and loss, " said another, and the breakingof glasses was heard. 

"If Mr. Dayton is within, tell him his lady is waiting for him, "said Mrs. Venet. 

"Ed, your wife's waiting, "' said one of the party. 

"Then, friends, I-I-I must go, " said the inebriated man, who, thoughbadly intoxicated, had not wholly forgotten her. 

His companions endeavored to have him remain, but in vain. Heunbolted the door, and, leaving, closed it upon them. 

Mrs. Venet, who was standing without, laid hold of his coat, and, knowing the excited state of Mrs. Dayton, and fearing that theappearance of her husband would be too much for her to bear, endeavored to induce him not to enter the room, or, at least, towait until he had recovered from the effects of his drinking. 

He appeared rational for a while, but, suddenly breaking away, shouted, "Emily, where are you?"

The sound of his voice resounded through the building, and hisdrunken companions, hearing it, made the building echo with theirboisterous laughter. 

He ran through the entries gazing wildly around, and loudly callingfor his wife. 

The servants, hearing the tumult, hastened to the spot; but neitherthey nor Mrs. Venet could induce him to become quiet. 

The latter, finding she could have no influence upon him, repairedto the room in which she left Mrs. Dayton, and found her senselessupon the floor, and to all appearances dead. She had heard his wildcries, and what she had so much feared she then knew to be true. 

Mrs. Venet rang for the servants, and ordered some restoratives. These were soon obtained, and by their free use she had nearlyrecovered, when her husband rushed into the room. 

Upon seeing his wife, the raging lion became as docile as a lamb. Asudden change came over him; he seemed to realize the truth, and itsent an arrow to his soul. 

Again the injured wife fainted, and again the restoratives werefaithfully applied; but it was evident that if Mr. Dayton remainedin her presence it would be difficult to restore her, and the manwho before would not be approached was led quietly away. In a shorttime Mrs. Dayton became sensible, and her first words were toinquire after Edward. Being told, she was induced to lie down, and, if possible, enjoy a little sleep; but sleep she could not. Her mindbecame almost delirious, and fears were entertained by herattendants that she would lose her reason. 

The effects of Edward's carousal were entirely dissipated by thesudden realization of the truth. 

To Mrs. Dayton this was an hour of the deepest sorrow. She lookedback upon the past, and saw happiness; in the future nothing butmisery seemed to await her. Yet a change came over her; she thankedGod for his past mercies, and wisely trusted him for theircontinuance. She implored pardon for past ingratitude, and prayedthat she might be more grateful in future, and that, having tastedof the cup of sorrow, she might not drink the bitter draught. 

CHAPTER VII. 

The next morning Edward repented of his crime, and in his inmostsoul felt it to be such, --a crime of deepest dye. 

Emily wept as she bent over him. 

"Cease thy tears, " said he, "and forgive; it is but that word, spoken by thee, that can send peace to my soul. Yet what peace can Iexpect? I have wronged thee!"-and the wretched man wept like achild. 

New thoughts continually sprang into existence, --the days of hisyouth, the bliss of home, and his present situation. He feltdisgraced;--how should he redeem his character?

"O, that the grave would hide me, " continued Edward, "and that indeath I might forget this crime! But no! I cannot forget it; it willcling to me through life, and the future--"

He would have said more, but the strong emotions of his soul chokedhis utterance. 

He arose and paced the room in agony of feeling which pen cannotdescribe. Suddenly halting, he gazed steadfastly upon the face ofhis wife. It was deadly pale, and a tear dimmed the usual lustre ofher eye. 

"Comfort thyself, " said he; "no further evil shall come upon thee. It shall never be said you are a drunkard's wife, --no, no, no, never!"

"Let us, then, forget the past, " said Mrs. Dayton. 

"What! forget those days when I had not tasted? O, misery indeed, ifI cannot retain their remembrance!" said Edward. 

"Not so, Edward; we would remember those, but forget the evil thathas befallen us, --all will be well. "

"Do you-can you forgive?"

"God will forgive; and shall not I?"

"Then let this be a pledge of the future;" and, taking her hand inhis, he said; "I resolve to walk in the path of right, and nevermore to wander, God being my witness and my strength. "

"'T is well thou hast pledged thyself, " said she; "but know thou thetempter is on every side. Should the wine-cup touch thy lips, dashit aside, and proclaim yourself a pledged man. "

"I will!" was the response, and, taking a pen, he boldly placed hisname to the following pledge:

"PLEDGE. -We pledge ourselves to abstain from the use of allintoxicating drinks, except the moderate use of wine, beer andcider. "

Such was the pledge to which he affixed his name, and such thepledge by which men of those days endeavored to stay the tide ofintemperance. Did not every man who signed that pledge himself tobecome a moderate drinker; and is not every moderate drinker pledgedto become a drunkard? What a pledge! Yet we should not blame the menof former years for pursuing a course which they conscientiouslythought to be right. That was the first step. It was well as far asit led; but it paused at the threshold of the ark of safety, andthere its disciples fell. They had not seen, as have men of lateyears, the ruinous tendency of such a course; and knew not, as wenow do, that total abstinence is the only sure course. 

The pledge Edward had signed was no preventive in his case. He hadtasted; in fact, he had become a lover of strong drink; and thetemptation of having it constantly beside him, and daily dealing itout to others, was too strong for him to resist. When he drank, hedid think, as Emily had bade him, that he was a pledged man; butthat pledge permitted him to drink wine. The remedy such a pledgeapplied was of no avail. It failed to reach the fountain-head, andstrove to stop the stream by placing slight resistances in its way. 

A long time must elapse before a man can know the heart of hisfellow-man, if, indeed, it can ever be known; and it was not untilEdward had become addicted to habits of intemperance that hediscovered the professed friendship of Mr. Treves to be insincere. Words of warning seldom came from his lips. What cared he if Edwarddid fall? Such being the case, the business would come into his ownhands; and such "a consummation devoutly to be wished" it was veryevident that if Edward did not soon reform was not far distant. 

Now Emily Dayton began to experience anxious days and sleeplessnights, and Mrs. Brandon begged of Edward to reform. Often he woulddo so. He would sign that pledge; but it was like an attempt to staya torrent with a straw. That pledge! 'twas nothing! yea, worse thannothing!

Six months of sorrowing passed, and what a change we behold!Experience has shown to Edward that the use of brandy is dangerous, and good dame Brandon has been led to believe that there aretemptations in the city which she little thought of. 

Edward, driven from his business, revels in bar-rooms, and riots atmidnight; whilst the patient, uncomplaining, enduring Emily, forcedby creditors from her former home, finds shelter from the storm in asmall tenement; where, by the aid of her needle, she is enabled tosupport herself and aged aunt, whilst a prattling infant plays ather side, and, laughing in its childish sports, thinks not of thesorrows it was born to encounter, and knows not the sad feelings ofits mother's wounded heart. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

In a low, damp, dark cellar, behold a man washing the glasses of agroggery. His ragged dress and uncombed hair, his shabby and dirtyappearance, do not prevent us from seeing indications of his oncehaving been in better circumstances, and that nature never designedthat he should be where he now is. 

Having rinsed a few cracked tumblers, he sat down beside a red-hotcylinder stove, and, bending over till his head rested upon hishands, he, in a half-audible voice, talked to himself. 

"Here 't is, eighteen forty-some years since I saw that Dayton cove;eh, gone by the board? The daily papers say he was up for a commondrunkard; but, being first time, was lectured and sent home. Plaguypoor home his, I reckon! Wonder if the lecture did him as much goodas Old Batter's did me. Ah! he liked that brandy, and said I shouldbear the blame if he was ruined; but he an't that yet. Here I am, ten times worse off than he is, and I an't ruined. No! Mr. Dago Pumpis a man yet. Well, well! what shall I say?-business awful dull, andit's damp and dark here; I feel cold 'side of this red-faced stove. "

Mr. Onendago Pump poked the fire, and continued to do so till aragged little boy, without shoes, stockings or cap, came down theslippery steps, and asked for "two cents' worth of rum, and onecent's worth of crackers. "

The proprietor of this subterraneous establishment threw aside anold wire that served as a poker, and demanded payment in advance. The child handed him the three cents, received his rum and crackers, and left. 

Mr. Pump, who for a long time had lived on appearances, could do sono longer; for, persisting in his opinion that brandy could not hurthim, he drank so much that bad soon supplanted good appearances, andhis company was soon discarded. 

Mr. Blinge would not have him about his premises, although the onedrank as much as the other, and a great similarity existed betweenthem. 

He was turned out of the tavern, and, having purchased fourshillings' worth of brandy, commenced business in the cellar we havealluded to, replenishing his stock by daily applying to aneighboring pump; and, for every gill of brandy he drew from thetap, poured a gill of water in at the bung, and thus kept up a stockin trade. 

In a short time, a collection of drinking loafers met daily at hisplace, and Dago Pump could see no difference between hisrespectability as proprietor of a bar-room, and his who, being ownerof thousands, fitted up "oyster saloons, " which places had suddenlysprung up in all large cities. 

Edward had fallen; he had become what was termed a "commondrunkard. " His wife wept tears of anguish; she entreated; she beggedhim to reform. She prayed to Heaven for its aid; yet week passedweek, month followed month, on Time's unending course, and she was adrunkard's wife still. All friends had forsaken her. Friends! shallwe call them such? No; they did not deserve the name. Theirfriendship only had an existence when fortune smiled; when a frownmantled its countenance, or a cloud intervened, they fled. Yet Godwas raising up friends for her, and from a class of society fromwhom she little expected aid. God was working, in his mysteriousway, a deliverance. He had heard the prayers that for many longyears had gone up to his throne from thousands of wretched families;and, moved to pity, he was to show them that he was a God of mercy. 

Othro Treves-where is he? Not in that elegant store; it long sincepassed into other hands. Has he made his fortune, and retired? Suchwe might suppose to be the case, did we not know that he trusted tomoderate drinking. Man might as well trust a leaky vessel to bearhim across the ocean, as to trust that. 

The clock struck twelve. 

"'T is midnight, " said a female voice, "and he has not come. Godsend repentance to his heart! Hope has almost failed me; yet I willhope on. "

"Another glass of brandy for me, " said a man, addressing Mr. DagoPump. 

"And rum for me, " said another. 

"Gin with a hot poker in it for me, " said the third; and Mr. Pumppoured out the poisons. 

Half a dozen men stood in front of some rough boards that served asa "bar. "

One of these-a tall, well-formed man-gazed fixedly upon the glasses, seemingly in deep thought. 

"Stop!" he suddenly exclaimed. Mr. Pump nearly dropped the bottle. It was as an electric shock to him: an ashy paleness came over hisface. "Stop!" he again exclaimed. All eyes were fixed upon him. Sometried to laugh, but could not. Dago set down the bottle, and theglasses, half filled, stood upon the bench before him. 

"I have been thinking, " said he who had caused this strange effect, "is it right for us to drink that? It does us no good; it bringsupon us much evil; that's what I've been a-thinking while 'twasbeing poured out. "

"So have I, " exclaimed another. 

"And I, " said a third. "I would have been worth fifty thousanddollars, this day, had I never touched stuff like that. I tell youwhat, coveys, let's come out. "

"Hurra!" shouted yet another; "I've spent a good fortune inrum-shops. That's what I say; let's come out. "

"Yes, " said the first speaker, "let us come out. We have been inlong enough;--in the gutter, in the grog-shop, in misery, indisgrace, in poverty, in jail, and in ruin. I say, let us come out, out of all these. "

"Amen!" responded all. 

"Let us come out, " he continued; "but what can temperance folks do?I have signed the pledge, and signed, and signed, but I cannot keepit. I had no friends; temperance folks never came to me. I haveoften thought that, if a friend would reach forth his hand, and helpme from the gutter when I have lain there, I would do anything forsuch a friend. But when I am drunk they laugh at and jeer me. Boysstone and cuff me, and men stand by and laugh at their hellishsport. Yes, those calling themselves 'friends of temperance' wouldlaugh at me, and say, 'Miserable fool, nothing can save him! Whensuch are dead, we can train up a generation of temperate people. ' Iam kicked and cuffed about like a dog, and not a hand is extended torelieve me. When I first tasted, I told him who gave it me the blameshould rest on him if I fell. Where he is now, I know not; but, wherever he is, I know his is a miserable existence. Years havepassed since then, and here I am, a miserable drunkard. Mywife-where is she? and my good old aunt-where is she? At home inthat comfortless room, weeping over my fall, and praying for myreform. Brothers, let us arise; let us determine to be men-freemen!"

"It is done, " said one and all; and the keeper of the cellar dashedbottle after bottle against the wall. 

"Yes, let us renounce these habits; they are hard to renounce;temptation is hard to resist. "

"The present pledge is not safe for us, " said the keeper of thecellar, as he took a demijohn of liquor up the steps, and emptied itin the gutter. 

"Then let us have one of our own, " said the first speaker. "Let itbe called 'The Hope of the Fallen;' for we are indeed fallen, andthis, our last refuge from more fearful evils, is our only hope. Mayit not disappoint us! May we cling to it as the drowning man graspsthe rope thrown out for his rescue! And not for us alone shall thishope exist. Let us go to every unfortunate in our land, and speakkindly to him. Al, my friends, we know the value of a kind word. Letus lift him from the gutter, place him upon his feet, and say, 'Stand up! I myself also am a man. '"

Having said this, he sent out for pen, ink and paper, and a pledgewas carefully drawn up, of which the following is a copy:

"We, whose names are hereunto affixed, knowing by sad experiencethat the use of wine, beer, cider, rum, brandy, gin, and all kindsof intoxicating drinks, is hurtful to man, beast and reptile, dohereby pledge ourselves most solemnly to abstain now, henceforth, and forever, from the use of them in whatever shape they may bepresented; to neither eat, drink, touch, taste, nor handle them; andin every place, and on every occasion, to use our influence ininducing others to do the same. "

The speaker was the first to place his name to this document; andthe keeper of the cellar started when he read the name of "EdwardDayton. "

"Is it possible!" said he, and, grasping his hand, he shook it mostheartily. 

Edward was as much astonished as he. Such a change had taken placethat they could not at first recognize each other. 

"Yes, " said Edward, "you tempted me to drink. I forgive. I now temptyou to sign this pledge. "

No words were required to induce all present to sign. 

They all spake of their past lives, related the sorrows they hadfelt, the misery they had endured; and such was the interestmanifested by each in listening to these plain, unvarnished tales, that they resolved upon meeting in that same place the next night. 

The next day, the report spread like wild-fire about the city thatdrunkards themselves were reforming. Many doubted, and would notbelieve such to be the case. 

"They are past reforming, " said public opinion; "let them die; letus take care of the young. "

CHAPTER IX. 

They met in the same place the next night, but the next they didnot. Their numbers had so increased that the cellar would notcontain them; and they engaged a large hall, and gave public noticethat a meeting would be held at which reformed drunkards wouldspeak. Those who before doubted did so no more; yet from many thesneering, cold-hearted remark was heard, "They will not hold on. "

At the hour appointed, hundreds thronged to the place, and hundredsdeparted, being unable to gain admittance. That night, nearly fivehundred signed the new pledge, and new additions were made daily. 

It had a power which no previous pledge had possessed; a power, withGod's, aid, to bring man from the lowest depths of woe, place him onhis feet, and tell him, "Sin no more. "

The new society increased in numbers. In other cities the samefeeling arose, and societies of the same kind were formed. Thepapers were filled with accounts of their meetings, and the causespread, to the astonishment and grateful admiration of all. 

Days of prosperity gladdened the heart of Edward. Joy took the placeof sorrow in his family. He, like his thousands of brethren, hadbeen snatched as a brand from the burning, and stood forth a livingmonument to the truth that there was a hope for the fallen. 

Twelve years have passed since that ever-memorable night. Millionshave become better men, and yet the pledge remains to exert itsinfluence, and who can doubt that God directs its course?

'T is sending joy to the mourning, and many a wounded heart itheals. Is there a power that can exceed this? Is there anotherpledge that has effected as much good?

Let us, then, push on the car. Let our influence be such as willadvance, and not retard, its progress. Let us do this, and ere longwe may rejoice together, and earth hold a grand jubilee, and all menshall testify that the Pledge is the "hope of the fallen. "

THOUGHTS THAT COME FROM LONG AGO. 

 THERE are moments in our life When are hushed its sounds of strife; When, from busy toil set free, Mind goes back the past to see: Memory, with its mighty powers, Brings to view our childhood hours; Once again we romp and play, As we did in youth's bright day; And, with never-ceasing flow, Come the hours of Long Ago. Oft, when passions round us throng, And our steps incline to wrong, Memory brings a friend to view, In each line and feature true; Though he long hath left us here, Then his presence seemeth near, And with sweet, persuasive voice, Leads us from an evil choice;-- Thus, when we astray would go, Come restraints from Long Ago. Oft, when troubled and perplexed, Worn in heart and sorely vexed; Almost sinking 'neath our load, Famishing on life's high road, -- Darkness, doubt, and dark despair Leading us we know not where, -- How hath sweet remembrance caught From the past some happy thought! And, refreshed, we on would go, Cheered with hopes from Long Ago. What a store-house, filled with gems Of more worth than diadems, Each hath 'neath his own control, From which to refresh his soul! Let us, then, each action weigh, Some good deed perform each day, That in future we may find Happy thoughts to bring to mind; For, with ever ceaseless flow, Thoughts will come from Long Ago. 

DETERMINED TO BE RICH. 

 RISE up early, sit up late, Be thou unto Avarice sold; Watch thou well at Mammon's gate, Just to gain a little gold. Crush thy brother neath thy feet, Till each manly thought is flown; Hear not, though he loud entreat, Be thou deaf to every moan. Wield the lash, and hush the cry, Let thy conscience now be seared; Pile thy glittering gems on high, Till thy golden god is reared. Then before its sparkling shrine Bend the neck and bow the knee; Victor thou, all wealth is thine, Yet, what doth it profit thee?

THE HEAVEN SENT, HEAVEN RETURNED. 

 PURE as an infant's heart that sin ne'er touched, That guilt had ne'er polluted; and she seemed Most like an angel that had missed its way On some kind mission Heaven had bade it go. Her eye beamed bright with beauty; and innocence, Its dulcet notes breathed forth in every word, Was seen in every motion that she made. Her form was faultless, and her golden hair In long luxuriant tresses floated o'er Her shoulders, that as alabaster shone. Her very look seemed to impart a sense Of matchless purity to all it met. I saw her in the crowd, yet none were there That seemed so pure as she; and every eye That met her eye's mild glance shrank back abashed, It spake such innocence. One day she slept, -- How calm and motionless! I watched her sleep Till evening; then, until the sun arose; And then, would have awakened her, --but friends Whispered in my ear she would not wake Within that body more, for it was dead, And she, now clothed in immortality, Would know no more of change, nor know a care. And when I felt that truth, methought I saw A bright angelic throng, in robes of white, Bear forth her spirit to the throne of God; And I heard music, such as comes to us Oft in our dreams, as from some unseen life, And holy voices chanting heavenly songs, And harps and voices blending in one hymn, Eternal hymn of highest praise to God For all the good the Heaven-sent one had done Since first it left the heavenly fold of souls, To live on earth, and show to lower man How pure and holy, joyous and serene, They may and shall assuredly become When all the laws that God through Nature speaks Are kept unbroken! * * * * * * She had now returned, And heaven resounded with angelic songs. Before me lay the cold, unmoving form; Above me lived the joyous, happy one! And who should sorrow? Sure, not I; not she; Not any one! For death, --there was no death, -- But that which men called death was life more real Than heart had o'er conceived or words expressed!

FLOWERS, BRIGHT FLOWERS!

 FLOWERS from the wild-wood, Flowers, bright flowers! Springing in desert spot, Where man dwelleth not, -- Flowers, bright flowers, Cheering the traveller's lot. Given to one and all, Flowers, bright flowers! When man neglecteth thee, When he rejecteth thee, Flowers, bright flowers, God's hand protecteth thee! Remnants of paradise, Flowers, bright flowers! Tinged with a heavenly hue, Reflecting its azure blue, Flowers, bright flowers, Brightest earth ever knew! Cheering the desolate, Flowers, bright flowers! Coming with fragrance fraught, From Heaven's own breezes caught, Flowers, bright flowers, Teachers of holy thought! Borne to the curtained room, Flowers, bright flowers! Where the sick longs for light, Then, for the shades of night, Flowers, bright flowers, Gladdening the wearied sight! High on the mountain-top, Flowers, bright flowers! Low in sequestered vale, On cliff, mid rock, in dale, Flowers, bright flowers, Ye do prevail!

FORGET ME NOT. 

 FORGET me not when other lips Shall whisper love to thee; Forget me not when others twine Their chaplets for thy brow; Forget me not, for I am thine, Forever onward true as now, As long as time shall be. There may be words thou mayest doubt, But when I tell thee "I am thine, " Believe the heart's assurance true, In sorrow and in mirth Forever it doth turn to you, Confiding, trusting in thy worth. Thou wilt, I know, be mine. 

WHAT IS TRUTH?

LONG, long ago, one whose life had been one of goodness-whose everyact had been that of charity and good will-was persecuted, hated andmaligned! He came with new hopes. He held up a light, whose rayspenetrated far into the future, and disclosed a full and gloriousimmortality to the long doubting, troubled soul of man. 

He professed to commune with angels! He had healed the sick; he hadgiven sight to the blind; caused the lame to walk; openedprison-doors, and had preached the Gospel to the poor. Those hechose for his companions were from humble rank. Their minds had notbecome enslaved to any creed; not wedded to any of the fashionableand popular forms of the day, nor immovably fixed to any of thedogmas of the schools. He chose such because their minds were freeand natural; "and they forsook all and followed him. "

Among the rulers, the wealthy and the powerful, but few believed inhim, or in the works he performed. To them he was an impostor. Inspeaking of his labors some cant phrase fell from their wise lips, synonymous with the "it is all a humbug" of our day. His healing ofthe sick was denied; or, if admitted, was said to be some luckycircumstance of fate. His opening of the eyes of the blind was tothem a mere illusion; the supposed cure, only an operation of theimagination. 

All his good deeds were underrated; and those who, having seen withtheir own eyes, and heard with their own ears, were honest enough tobelieve and openly declare their belief; were looked upon by theinfluential and those in high places as most egregiously deceivedand imposed upon. 

But, notwithstanding the opposition, men did believe; and in one daythree thousand acknowledged their belief in the sincerity of theteacher, and in the doctrines which he taught. 

Impressed deeply with the reality and divinity of hismission, --looking to God as his father, and to all mankind as hisbrethren, --Jesus continued his way. To the scoffs and jeers of therabble, he replied in meekness and love; and amid the proud andlofty he walked humbly, ever conscious of the presence of an angelicpower, which would silence the loudest, and render powerless themight of human strength. 

He spoke as one having authority. He condemned the formalism oftheir worship; declared a faith that went deeper than exterior ritesand ceremonies; and spoke with an independence and fearlessness suchdeep and soul-searching truths, that the people took up stones tostone him, and the priests and the rulers held council togetheragainst him. 

At length the excited populace, beholding their cherished faithundermined, and the new teacher day by day inculcating doctrinesopposed to those of Moses and the prophets, determined to take hislife, and thus terminate his labors and put a stop to his heresies. 

They watched his every movement. They stood by and caught the wordsas they fell from his lips, hoping thus to get something by which toform an accusation against him. In this they failed. Though what hesaid was contrary to their time-worn dogmas, yet nothing came fromhis lips but sentiments of the purest love, the injunctions ofreason and justice, and the language of humanity. Failing in thisplan to ensnare him, justice was set abide, and force called in totheir aid. 

See him now before a great tribunal, and Pilate, troubled in soul, compelled to say, "I find no fault in this man. "

Urged to action by the mad crowd around him, balancing his decisionbetween justice, the prisoner's release, and injustice, the call tocrucify him, he knows not what to do. In an agony of thought, whichpen cannot describe or human words portray, he delays hisirrevocable doom. 

In the mean time, the persecutors grow impatient; and louder thanever, from the chief priests and the supporters of royalty, goes upthe infamous shout, "Crucify him, crucify him!" At this moment, theundecided, fearful Pilate casts a searching glance about him. As hebeholds the passionate people, eager for the blood of one man, andhe innocent, and sees, standing in their midst, the meek and lowlyJesus, calm as an evening zephyr over Judea's plains, from whose eyeflows the gentle love of an infinite divinity, --his face beaming insympathy with every attribute of goodness, faith and humanity, --allthis, too, before his mad, unjust accusers, from whose eyes flash inmingled rays the venom of scorn and hate, --his mind grows strong witha sense of right. His feelings will not longer be restrained, and, unconscious of his position, forgetting for the moment the dignityof his office, he exclaims, with the most emphatic earnestness, "WHAT IS TRUTH?"

Eighteen hundred years have intervened between that day and this;and now the same inquiry is heard, and often with the sameearnestness as then. Men ask, and often ask in vain, "what istruth?" and yet the great problem to millions remains unsolved. 

Generations pass on, and leave to others the great question for themto ask, and they, in turn, to leave unanswered. The child, ere itcan speak in words, looks from its wistful eye, "What is truth?"Youth comes, and all the emotions of the soul are awakened. Itarises from the playfulness of childhood, forgets its little games, and, finding itself an actor in the drama of life, looks over thelong programme of parts from which it is to choose its own, andanxiously inquires "What is truth?" Manhood feels the importance ofthe question; and Age, though conscious of its near approach to theworld of revealed truth, repeats it. 

The present is an era of thought. Men begin to assume a spirit ofindependence, and to look less upon human authority, and more uponthat light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world. Andit is well that it is so. It is well that we begin to look uponliberty in another light than a mere absence of iron bonds upon ourhands and feet; that we begin to discern that "He is a freeman whomthe truth makes free, And all are slaves beside. " We are pressing onto know the truth. We have grown weary of darkness, and are seekingthe light. We should remember, in our researches, that, to find outtruth, we must not be pledged to any form, any opinion, or anycreed, however old or dearly cherished such limitations may havebeen with ourselves or others. We must come to the task like littlechildren, ready to learn. We must leave our beliefs behind us. Wemust not bring them, and attempt to adapt our discoveries in therealms of eternal truth to them; but we must build up the structurewith the material we find in the universe of God; and then, whenreared, if we find that in doing so we have a stone from our oldtemple nicely adjusted in the new, very well;--let it remain, andthank God for it. 

Men have trusted too much in the views of past ages, and taken fortruth many an error, because some one back in by-gone agesintroduced it as such, and it has been believed in and held mostsacred. 

Let our course be our own course, and not that of others. Let usseek for truth as truth. Let us be honest and press on, trusting inGod the rewarder of all, who will bless all our efforts to ascertainhis truths, and our duty to him, to our fellow-men, and toourselves. 

THE HOMESTEAD VISIT. 

He had wandered far and long, and when, on his return to the scenesof his early life, he came in full view of the old house, in whichand around which those scenes were clustered, he throw down hisoaken staff, raised his hands, and clapped them like a child. Then atear would roll down his face; then a smile illumine it; then hewould dance with joy. As he approached the building, he observedthat the door was open; and the large, hospitable-looking room wasso inviting, and there being no one present, he entered, andindulged in thoughts like these:

 I STAND where I have stood before: The same roof is above me, But they who were are here no more, For me to love, or love me. I listen, and I seem to hear A favorite voice to greet me; But yet I know that none are near, Save stranger forms, to meet me. I'll sit me down, --for I have not Sat here since first I started To run life's race, --and on this spot Will muse of the departed. Then I was young, and on my brow The rays of hope were shining; But Time hath there his imprint now, That tells of life's declining. How great the change!-though I can see Full many a thing I cherished- Yet, since beneath yon old oak tree I stood, how much hath perished. Here is the same old oaken floor, And there the same rough ceiling Each telling of the scenes of yore, Each former joys revealing. But, friends of youth-they all have fled; Some yet on earth do love us; While others, passed beyond the dead, Live guardian ones above us. Yet, o'er us all one powerful hand Is raised to guard forever, And all, ere long, one happy band Be joined, no more to sever. I've trimmed my sail on every sea Where crested waves are swelling; Yet oft my heart turned back to thee, My childhood's humble dwelling. I've not forgot my youthful days, The home that was my mother's, When listening to the words of praise That were bestowed on others. See, yonder, through the window-pane, The rock on which I rested; And on that green how oft I've lain- What memories there are vested! The place where once a sister's hand I held-none loved I fonder; But she's now with an angel band, Whilst I a pilgrim wander. There was a pretty, blue-eyed girl, A good old farmer's daughter; We used the little stones to hurl, And watch them skip the water. We'd range among the forest trees, To gather woodland flowers; And then each other's fancy please In building floral bowers. Within this room, how many a time I've listened to a story, And heard grandfather sing his rhyme 'Bout Continental glory! And oft I'd shoulder his old staff, And march as proud as any, Till the old gentleman would laugh, And bless me with a penny. Hark! 't is a footstep that I hear; A stranger is approaching; I must away-were I found here I should be thought encroaching. One last, last look-my old, old home! One memory more of childhood! I'll not forget, where'er I roam, This homestead and the wild-wood. 

THE MARINER'S SONG. 

 O THE sea, the sea! I love the sea! For nothing on earth seems half as free As its crested waves; they mount on high, And seem to sport with the star-gemmed sky. Talk as you will of the land and shore; Give me the sea, and I ask no more. I love to float on the ocean deep, To be by its motion rocked to sleep; Or to sit for hours and watch the spray, Marking the course of our outward way, While upward far in a cloudless sky With a shriek the wild bird passeth by. And when above are the threatening clouds, And the wild wind whistles 'mid the shrouds, Our masts bend low till they kiss the wave, As beckoning one from its ocean cave, Then hurra for the sea! I love its foam, And over it like a bird would roam. There is that's dear in a mountain home, With dog and gun 'mid the woods to roam; And city life hath a thousand joys, That quiver amid its ceaseless noise; Yet nothing on land can give to me Such joy as that of the pathless sea. When morning comes, and the sun's first rays All around our gallant topmast plays, My heart bounds forth with rapturous glee, O, then, 't is then that I love the sea! Talk as you will of the land and shore; Give me the sea, and I ask no more!

LOVE'S LAST WORDS. 

 THEY knew that she was going To holier, better spheres, Yet they could not stay the flowing Of their tears; And they bent above in sorrow, Like mourners o'er a tomb, For they knew that on the morrow There'd be gloom. There was one among the number Who had watched the dying's breath, With an eye that would not slumber Until death. There, as he bent above her, He whispered in her ear How fondly he did love her, Her most dear. "One word, 't will comfort send me, When early spring appears, And o'er thy grave I bend me In my tears. A single word now spoken Shall be kept in Memory's shrine, Where the dearest treasured token Shall be thine. " She pressed his hand-she knew him- With the fervor of a child; And, looking fondly to him, Sweetly smiled. And, smiling thus, she started For her glorious home above, And her last breath, as it parted, Whispered "Love. "

LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 

 SOMETIMES my heart complaineth And moans in bitter sighs; And dreams no hope remaineth, No more its sun will rise. But yet I know God liveth, And will do all things well; And that to me he giveth More good than tongue can tell. And though above me linger At times dark Sorrow's shroud, I see Faith's upraised finger Point far beyond the cloud. 

MT. VERNON, AND THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON. 

THE heat of noon had passed, and the trees began to cast theirevening shadows, when, in company with a friend, I seated myself ina carriage, and drove off in the direction of Mount Vernon. Wecrossed the long bridge, and found ourselves in the old State ofVirginia. 

It was a delightful afternoon; one just suited to the purpose towhich we had devoted it. The trees were clad in fresh, greenfoliage, and the farms and gardens were blooming into early life. Tomyself, no season appears so beautiful as that of spring. Allseasons to me are bright and glorious, but there is a charm aboutspring that captivates the soul. Then Nature weaves her drapery, andbends over the placid lake to jewel herself, as the maiden bendsbefore her mirror to deck her pure white brow with diamonds andrubies. All is life, all animation, all clothed with hope; alltending upward, onward to the bright future. "The trees are full ofcrimson buds, the woods are full of birds, And the waters flow tomusic, like a tune with pleasant words. "

In about one hour we reached the city of Alexandria. Between thisplace and Washington a steamboat plies, going and returning fourtimes a day. The road from Washington to Alexandria is about decent;but the road from thence to Mount Vernon is in the worst possiblecondition, --so bad, in fact, that we dismounted and walked aconsiderable distance, it being far less tiresome to walk than toride. The road winds in a very circuitous route through a denseforest, the lofty trees of which, rising upon either hand, casttheir deep shadows upon us. The place, that would otherwise havebeen gloomy, was enlivened by the variable songs of themocking-birds, and the notes of their more beautiful-plumed thoughless melodious companions. 

Occasionally we passed the hut of a negro, and met a loaded teamfrom some Virginian farm, drawn by three or four ill-looking, yetstrong and serviceable horses. These teams were managed bynegroes, --never less than two, and in some cases by three or four, or, as in one instance, by an entire family, man, wife and children, seated on their loads, whistling and singing, where also sat a largeblack-and-white mastiff. Long after we passed and they had recededfrom our view, we could distinctly hear their melodious voicessinging their simple yet expressive songs, occasionally interruptedby a "gee, yawh, shau, " as they urged on their dilatory steeds. 

The homes of the negroes were in some cases built of stone; mostly, however, of boards, put loosely together, and in some instances oflarge logs, the crevices being filled with mud, which, the sun andwind having hardened, were white-washed, presenting a very strongthough not very beautiful appearance, the architecture of which wasneither Grecian nor Roman, but evidently from "original designs" bya not very fastidious or accomplished artist. 

Groups of women and children were about these houses; some seated onthe grass, in the shade of the tall trees; others standing in thedoors, all unemployed and apparently having nothing to do but totalk, and this they appeared to engage in with a hearty good will. 

We continued our way over stones, up steep, deep-rutted hills, covered partly with branches and brambles, and down as steepdeclivities, through ponds and brooks, now and then cheered by thepleasing prospect of a long road, evidently designed to illustratethe "ups and downs of life. "

After a tiresome journey, partly walked, partly ridden, which wassomewhat relieved of its tediousness by the romantic and beautifulscenery through which we passed, we came in view of Mount Vernon. 

An old, infirm, yet good, sociable negro met us at the gate, andtold us that there was another road to the Mount, but that it wasnot as good as the one we came over, and also that there was aprivate road, which was not as good as either of the others! Wesmiled, threw out a hint about a‰rial navigation. He smiled also, and, thinking we doubted his word, said, "Indeed, it is not as good;I would n't tell you a lie about it. " Mercy on pilgrims to MountVernon! If you ever go there, reader, do provide yourself with aconscience that can't be shaken out of you. 

Having been kindly furnished with a letter from Mr. Seaton, theeditor of the Intelligencer, and Mayor of Washington city, to theproprietor of the estate, we inquired whether he was at home, andwith pleasure learned that he was. 

We passed into what we deemed an almost sacred enclosure, so linkedis it with the history of our country, and the glorious days thatgave birth to a nation's freedom. It seemed as though we had enteredan aviary, so many and so various the birds that floated in the airaround us, and filled it with the rich melody of their songs. 

At a short distance stood a beautiful deer, as if transfixed to thespot, his large, black, lustrous eyes turned towards us, his earserect, till, suddenly starting, he darted away, and leaped down thesteep hill-side to the water's brink. 

The house I need not describe, as most persons are acquainted withits appearance, from seeing the numerous engraved representations ofit. It shows many evidences of age and decay. Time is having his ownway with, it, as the hand that would defend it from his ravages, andimprove its looks, is kept back, that it may remain as nearly aspossible in the same condition as when occupied by our firstpresident. We entered and passed through several rooms, endeavoringto allay our curiosity by asking more questions than our attendantcould conveniently answer and retain his senses. 

We saw the massive key of that old French prison-house, the Bastile, presented to General Washington by that friend of freedom andhumanity, General Lafayette, soon after the destruction of thatmonument of terror. We noticed that depredations had been committedby visitors upon the costly marble fire-frame, which was a gift toWashington. 

Mr. Washington being called to the farm, we availed ourselves of theservices of the old negro before mentioned, who led us around theestate. On our way to the tomb, we passed through what we judged tobe a kitchen. The floor was brick, and a fireplace occupied nearlyall of one side of the room; one of those old-fashioned contrivanceswhich were in vogue in those days when people went more for comfortthan appearance. Half a score of negroes were in the room, who gazedat us as we entered, covered with dust and dirt, the real free soilof Virginia. They seemed to think our intentions more of a warlikethan a peaceable nature. We soon inclined them to the latter belief, however, by gently patting a curly-headed urchin upon the head, anddistributing a few pennies among the crowd. 

Five minutes' walk, and we were at the tomb. 

"There is the old General, " said the aged negro, as he touchedlightly the sarcophagus with his cane; "that, yonder, is his wife, "pointing to a similar one at the left. 

Silently I stood and gazed at the marble coffin that held the mortalremains of him whom, when he lived, all people loved, and the memoryof whom, now that he has passed from our material vision, all peoplerevere. A few branches of cypress lay upon it, and at its base a fewwithered flowers. 

The sarcophagus that holds the dust of Washington is placed upon alow pedestal, formed of brick. A brick wall is at the sides, and aniron slat fence or gateway in front. Over this gateway a white stoneis set in the brick-work, and bears this inscription:

WITHIN THIS ENCLOSURE ARE

THE REMAINS

OF

GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON. 

Short, indeed, but how full of food for thought!

"General George Washington!" He needs no long and fulsome epitaphcarved in marble to tell his worth. Did his memory depend upon thatalone, the marble would crumble into dust, mingle with his, and hisname pass away with the stone that man vainly thought would preserveit. No; his monument is a world made free, and his memory as lastingas immortal mind. Wherever the light of freedom shall penetrate, itwill bear on its every glistening ray his cherished name; andwhenever and wherever men shall struggle with oppression, it shallinspire them with vigor, and cheer them on to victory. 

Marble will perish, and monuments of adamant will crumble to dust;but the memory of Washington will live as long as there is a heartto love, or a mind to cherish a recollection of goodness. 

"He was a good old man, " said the negro, "and he has gone to hisrest. "

"We are all going, " he continued, after a pause. I thought a tearstole down his wrinkled face; but he turned his back to me, and leftme to my own reflections. 

Deep silence was about us. We heard not even the notes of a bird. Not a zephyr moved the air, not a rustling leaf was there. In front, far below, lay the Potomac. Not a breath of wind moved the surfaceof its waters, but calmly, peacefully, undisturbed, the river movedon, as though conscious of the spot it was passing. On its glassysurface were reflected the branches that bent over and kissed it asit flowed, and the last rays of a declining sun tinted with theirgolden light the hills on the opposite shore. 

I stood at the tomb of Washington: on my right stood a distinguishedIndian chief; on my left, "Uncle Josh, " the old African, ofthree-score years and ten. We represented three races of the humanfamily, and we each were there with the same feelings of love, honor, and respect to departed worth. 

Night was hastening on. I clambered up the embankment, and plucked afew green leaves from a branch that hung over the tomb; gazed oncemore, and yet again, within the enclosure; then turned away, andhastened to overtake my companions, who were far in advance. 

If our country is ever called to pass through another struggle, mayGod, in his wisdom, raise up for it another Washington!

The sun had passed the horizon, and the cool evening air, laden withthe fragrance of shrubbery and flowers, gathered about us. A livelysquirrel sprang across our path; a belated bird flew by; and, amidthe pleasant, quiet scenes of rural life, we wended our wayhomeward. 

FREEDOM'S GATHERING. 

 I SEEMED to live beyond the present time;

 Methought it was when all the world was free, And myriad numbers, from each distant clime, Came up to hold their annual jubilee. From distant China, Afric's sunburnt shore, From Greenland's icebergs, Russia's broad domain, They came as men whom fetters bound no more, And trod New England's valley, hill, and plain. They met to hold a jubilee, for all Were free from error's chain, and from the oppressor's thrall. Word had gone forth that slavery's power was done;

 The cry like wild-fire through the nations ran; Russia's tame serf, and Afric's sable son, Threw off their chains-each felt himself a man. Thrones that had stood for ages were no more;

 Man ceased to suffer; tyrants ceased to reign; And all throughout the world, from shore to shore, Were loosed from slavery's fetter and its chain; And those who once were slaves came up as free, Unto New England's soil, to keep their jubilee. New England! 't was a fitting place, for it

 Had sent its rays upon them, as a star Beams from the glorious heaven on slaves who sit

 In chains, to lure them where free seraphs are; The light it had shed on them made them start

 From their deep lethargy, then look and see That they of Freedom's boon might have a part, Their nation glorious as New England be. And then like men they struggled till they won, And Freedom's high-born light shone as a noonday sun. Men gathered there who were men; nobly they

 Had long and faithful fought 'gainst error's night, And now they saw the sunlight of that day

 They long had hoped to see, when truth and right Should triumph o'er the world, and all should hold

 This truth self-evident, that fellow-men, In God's own image made, should not be sold

 Nor stalled as cattle in a market-pen. Praises they sang, and thanks they gave to God, That he had loosed the chain, and broke the oppressor's rod. They gazed o'er all the past; their vision's eye

 Beheld how men in former years had groaned, When Hope's own flame burned dim, and no light nigh

 Shone to disperse the darkness; when enthroned Sat boasting Ignorance, and 'neath its sway

 Grim Superstition held its lurid lamp, That only darkened the obstructed way

 In which man groped and wandered, till the damp, Cold, cheerless gateway of an opening tomb Met his extended hand, and sealed his final doom. Perchance one mind, illumined from above, Did strive to burst the heavy bonds it wore, Pierce through the clouds of error, and, in love

 With its new mission, upward seek to soar. Upon it shone truth's faintest, feeblest ray;

 It would be free; but tyrants saw and crushed Man's first attempt to cast his chains away, The first aspirings of his nature hushed. Thus back from men was Freedom's genius driven, And Slavery's chains in ten-fold strength were riven. In gazing o'er the past, 't was this they saw-

 How Evil long had triumphed; but to-day Man bowed to nothing but God's righteous law, And Truth maintained its undisputed sway. Right conquered might; and of this they were proud, As they beheld all nations drawing near, -- Men from all lands, a vast, unnumbered crowd, While in their eyes full many a sparkling tear Trembled a while, then from its cell did start, Witness to the deep joys of an o'erflowing heart. There came up those who'd crouched beneath the lash, Had bowed beneath the chains they scarce could bear, Till Freedom's lightning on their minds did flash, And roused them as a lion in his lair Is roused when foes invade it, then, with strength

 Near superhuman, one bold effort made To break their cruel bondage, till at length

 Beneath their feet they saw their fetters laid. 'T was then they lifted their freed hands on high, And peans loud and long resounded through the sky. Up, up they came, and still the bannered host

 Far in the distance met my wondering eye; On hill and dale, on all New England's coast, White banners waved beneath a cloudless sky. The aged sire leaned on his oaken staff, Manhood stood up in all its strength and pride, And youth came dancing with a joyous laugh, With woman, lovely woman, at their side; Bright eyes, glad hearts, and joyous souls, were there, Free as the light that shone, unfettered as the air. The mind, that spark of Deity within

 That hath its nurture from a higher world, No longer bound by tyranny and sin, Beheld its highest, noblest powers unfurled. No more did Error bind it to its creed, Or Superstition strive to blind its sight; It followed only where God's truth did lead, And trusted him to guide its course aright. The inner as the outer man was free, And both united held this glorious jubilee. --'T was all a vision, and it passed away, As dreams depart; yet it did leave behind Its deep impressions, thoughts that fain would stay

 And hold communion with the tireless mind. I wished that it were real; alas! I heard

 The clank of Slavery's fetters rend the air; And feelings of my heart were deeply stirred, When I beheld my brethren, who dare Proclaim all "equal, " yet in chains of steel Bind men, who, like themselves, can pain and pleasure feel. God in his wisdom meant all should be free, All equal: each a brother unto man. Presumptuous mortal! who His great decree

 Durst strive to change to suit thy selfish plan! Know thou that his fixed purpose will be done, Though thou arrayest all thy puny strength In war against it! All who feel the sun

 Shall own his goodness, and be free at length. God cares for mortals, though he reigns on high; Freedom is His own cause, and it shall never die! My country! if my heart one wish doth hold, For thee and for thy good, it is that thou No more permit thy children to be sold!

 Forbid that they as slaves to man shall bow! For them our fathers nobly fought and bled;

 For them they poured their life-blood forth as rain; Shall it in foreign lands of us be said, We bind our brothers with a galling chain? While the Old World is struggling to be free, America! shall this foul charge be laid to thee? We all may err; may oft be led astray;

 Let him who'd free the slave be careful he Is not a slave himself to some fond way

 He would adopt to set his brother free! All seek one end; for all one good would gain;

 Then, on as brothers, hand in hand proceed! Paths that seem intricate will all be plain, If we but follow where God's truth would lead. 

 Trust Him for strength in darkness and in light; His word will cheer us on, --His presence give us might. 

SONG OF THE BIRD. 

 ON the topmost branch of the highest tree I sit and sing, I am free! I am free! When the lightnings flash, when the thunders roar, I plume my wings and away I soar! But soon on the branch of a lofty tree Gayly I sing, I am free! I am free! A huntsman he came by my nest one day, And thought that with gun my song he would stay; But I left my nest when he thought me there, And I roamed about in my native air. Then, when he was gone, on the highest tree Gayly I sung, I am free! I am free! It is I, 't is I, that at dawn of day Go to meet the sun at its earliest ray. I love its heat; so I cheer it along With chirping notes and melodious song; And all the day on the highest tree Gayly I sing, I am free! I am free! When the dusky shades of the night appear, In my nest on high I have naught to fear; Sweetly I slumber till dawning of day, Then to the East, for the sun, I'm away, Till, borne on its rays to the highest tree, Gayly I sing, I am free! I am free! O, I love my nest, and my nest loves me! It rocks like a bark on the dancing sea; Gently it bows when I wish to retire; When in, it rises higher and higher. O, I love my nest, and I love the tree, Home and the haunt of the bird that is free!

I CHANGE BUT IN DYING. 

 I CHANGE but in dying, --I am faithful till death! I will guard thee with care from pollution's foul breath; I promise that ne'er in neglect thou shalt pine; I change but in dying, --say, wilt thou be mine? I come not with riches; good fortune ne'er blest me; Yet one of less worth hath often carest me; The light of true love o'er thy pathway shall shine; I change but in dying, --say, wilt thou be mine? I change but in dying, --no holier vow From lips mortal e'er came than I breathe to thee now; It comes from a heart with love for thee sighing; Believe me, 't is true, --I change but in dying!

HE IS THY BROTHER. 

 GO, break the chains that bind the slave; Go, set the captive free; For Slavery's banners ne'er should wave, And slaves should never be. Yet not in anger. Hasty words Should not to thee belong, They will not loose a single link, But bind them yet more strong. O, while ye think to him in chains A brother's rights are due, Remember him who binds those chains! He is thy brother, too!

THE WINE-DEALER'S CLERK. 

CHAPTER I. 

"WILL you sign the pledge?" asked one young man of another. 

"No!" was the ready response; and, after a moment's pause, "You arewrong, and I am right. You wish to deprive me of a social glass, free companionship with those I love, life's best enjoyments, and tolive bound down to the contracted limits of a temperance-pledge. -Mesign! No! Go ask leave of the soaring eagle to clip his wings; ofthe oriole to tarnish his bright plumage; of the bounding deer tofetter his free limbs, --but do not ask me to sign a pledge!"

The young men parted. Each went his way; one to his counting-room, the other to his home. 

The proprietors of the store with which the former was connected hadbeen for a number of years busily engaged in the importation, adulteration and sale of wines and brandies. From the cellar to theattic of their large warehouse, pipes, puncheons, and barrels of theslow poison were deposited, with innumerable bottles of wine, reputed to be old as a century, if not older. A box or two ofFlemish pipes relieved the sameness of the scene, --barrels onbarrels. 

From the counting-room of the establishment a large number of youngmen had gone forth to become either wholesale or retail dealers inthe death-drugged merchandise. The ill-success which attended these, and the lamentable end to which they arrived, would have beensingular and mysterious, had it followed in the wake of any otherbusiness. But, as it was, effect followed cause, and such is the lawof nature. 

One, a young man of promise in days gone-by, recently became theinmate of an alms-house in a distant city; another, urged to madnessby frequent potations, died as the fool dieth; and a third, who hadbeen the centre light of a social circle, as he felt the chill ofdeath come upon him, called all his friends near, and said to them, "Deal not, deal not in the arrows of death, lest those arrows piercethine own heart at last!"

All these facts were known to the public; yet they countenanced thetraffic in which Messrs. Laneville & Co. Were engaged. They weremerchants, they were wealthy; for these reasons, it would seem, themany-headed public looked up to them with a feeling bordering onreverence, somewhat awed by their presence, as though wealth hadmade them worthy, while many a less rich but ten-fold more honestman walked in the shadow of the mighty Magog, unseen, --uncared for, if seen. Messrs. Laneville & Co. Knew that the law was against theirbusiness; they knew, also, that public opinion, if not actually infavor of it, willingly countenanced it. 

Perchance the cry of some unfortunate widow might at times reachtheir ears; but it was speedily hushed by the charmed music of thefalling dollar, as it was exchanged for their foul poison. Forgetting they were men, they acted as demons, and continued todeal forth their liquid death, and to supply the thousand streams ofthe city with the cause of the crime it was obliged to punish, andthe pauperism it was obliged to support. 

The "Vincennes" had just arrived at the wharf as James entered thestore. It had been the custom of the owners, on the annual arrivalof this vessel, to have a party on board. On this occasion, theymade the usual arrangements for the festivity. Cards of invitationwere speedily written, and distributed among members of the citygovernment, editors, clergymen, and other influential persons. Jameswas free to invite such of his friends as he chose, and in doing sothe question arose whether he should ask George Alverton to bepresent. It was known to him that George was a teetotaller, and hadthat morning invited him to sign the pledge. He knew that at theentertainment wine would circulate. He knew that some would indulgerather freely, and that the maintenance of a perfect equilibrium bysuch would be very difficult. Suppose he, himself, --that is, James, --should be among these last mentioned, and that, too, beforehis friend George; would it not demolish his favorite argument, which he had a thousand times advanced, that he knew right fromwrong, --when to drink and when to stop drinking? yet, thought he, Imay not indulge too freely. Yes; I will maintain my position, andshow by practice what I teach by preaching. Besides, it would bevery impolite, as well as uncourteous, in me, not to invite onewhose character I value so highly as his, --one whose friendship I somuch esteem. I will invite him. He shall be present, and shall seethat I can keep sober without being pledged to do so. 

CHAPTER II. 

George Alverton was the son of a nobleman. Start not, republicanreader, for we mean not a stiff-starched branch of English nobility, but one of America's noblemen, --and hers are nature's! He was ahard-working mechanic; one of God's noblest works, --an honest man!Americans know not, as yet, the titled honors of the Old World; andnone, save a few, whose birth-place nature must have mistook, wouldintroduce into a republican country the passwords of a monarchicalone. 

"An invite for you, " said the laughing Josephine, as George enteredat dusk. "And ten to one it's from that black-eyed Kate, who isbewitching all the young men within a twenty-mile circuit with herloving glances-eh? A match, ten to one!"

"Always gay, " said George, as he turned half aside to avoid themischievous look of his sister; "but, by the way, Jos, to beserious, an invite did you say? How do you know that?"

"O, by the way 'tis folded; we girls have a way of knowing alove-letter from bills of exchange, and an invitation from bills oflading. Just look at it; see how pretty 'tis enveloped, howhandsomely directed, --George Alverton, Esq. , Present. It's no use, George; you needn't look so serious. You are a captured one, andwhen a bird's in a net he may as well lie still as flutter!"

Josephine handed the note to her brother, slyly winking as she didso, as much as to say, "The marriage-bells are ringing, love. "

George, observing the superscription, was convinced that it was fromJames Clifton, and remarked, "Don't be too hasty; it is from James; the direction must be wrong;it was doubtless intended for you. Look out, Jos; you may be thecaptured one, after all!"

Josephine was not to be thus thrown from her ground; so, turning toher brother with a laugh, she said, "For me! Well, if so 't is so; but I judge from what I see. Notwithstanding your insinuation that James writes to no one butmyself, I'll venture a bright gold dollar that this is for yourself, even though it be from James. Open the budget, and prove the truthof what I say. "

George untied the white ribbon that bound it, and, opening theenvelope, found an invitation to a gentleman's party to be held thatevening on board the "Vincennes. " Josephine laughed merrily overwhat she deemed her brother's defeat, and George as heartily overwhat he deemed his victory. He was advised to go; not, however, without an accompanying hint of its being a dry affair, as ladieswere to be excluded. Josephine was puzzled to know the reason oftheir exclusiveness, and what festivity was to be engaged in ofwhich they could not partake. 

"I scarcely know what to do, " said George, "as wines will becirculated, and I shall be asked, a dozen times or more, to drink ofthem. "

"Go, by all means, " said his sister; "stand your own ground, befirm, be resolute, refuse if asked to partake; but do so in a mannerthat, while it shows a determination to resist temptation, will notoffend, but rather induce him you respect to think whether it willnot he best for him also to refuse. "

"I will. I am aware of the situation in which James is placed. Hehas a generous, a noble heart, that needs but to know the right todo it. I will go; and if by example, persuasion or otherwise, I canprevail upon him to sign the pledge, I will do so, and thank God forit. I will speak to him kindly, and in reason. Others will drink, ifhe does not; others will fall, if he escapes; and such examples arethe most convincing arguments that can be used to prove that anunpledged man, in these days of temptation, is unsafe, and unmindfulof his best and dearest interests. "

CHAPTER III. 

Notwithstanding the short interval between the reception of thecards and the hour of festivity, the time appointed saw a goodlynumber assembled in the well-furnished, richly-decorated cabins ofthe ship. 

It was evident that some individuals had been busy as bees, for allwas clean and in the best of order. Wreaths of evergreen andnational flags decorated the vessel, and bouquets of bright andfragrant flowers, conspicuously arranged, loaded the air with theirsweet perfumes. There were card-tables and cards, scores ofwell-filled decanters, and glasses almost without number. At one endof the cabin stood a table filled with fruits of the most costlykind. There were oranges fresh from the land that gave them growth, and other products of sunny Italy and the islands beyond the seas. The captain was as lively as a lark, and as talkative as wit andwine could make him. He spoke of his quick voyage, praised his shiptill praise seemed too poor to do its duty, boasted of its goodqualities, said there was not a better craft afloat, and finishedhis eulogy by wishing success to all on board, and washing it downwith a glass of Madeira, which, he said, was the stuff, for he madeit himself from grapes on the island. 

Messrs. Laneville & Co. Were in high glee. They drank and playedcards with men worth millions; spoke of the inclemency of theseason, and expressed great surprise that so much poverty andwretchedness existed, with one breath, and with the next extolledthe wines and administered justice to the eatables. Editors werethere who had that morning written long "leaders" about theoppression of the poor by the rich, and longer ones about theinconsistencies of their contemporaries, who ate and drank, anddreamt not of inconsistency in themselves, though they guided thepress with temperance reins, and harnessed themselves with those whotarried long at the wine. 

James drank quite often, and George as often admonished him of hisdanger. But the admonitions of a young man had but little if anyinfluence, counteracted as they were by the example of the rich andthe great about him. There was Alderman Zemp, who was a temperanceman in the world, but a wine-drinker in a ship's cabin. He hadvoted for stringent laws against the sale of liquors, and had hadhis name emblazoned on the pages of every professedly temperancepaper as a philanthropist and a righteous man; and on the pages ofevery anti-temperance publication, as a foe to freedom, and an enemyto the rights of humanity. But he drank; yes, he had asked James totake a glass of the water of Italy, as he called it. Clergymen, socalled, disgraced themselves, and gave the scoffers food formerriment. Judges who that day might have sentenced some unfortunateto imprisonment for drinking, drank with a gusto equalled only bylawyers who would talk an hour in court to prove a man discreditableevidence because he was known to visit bar-rooms! It was theinfluence of these, and such like, that made James drink, and causedthe labor of George to prove all unavailing. It is the example ofthe rich that impedes the progress of temperance, --they who loll ondamask sofas, sip their iced champagnes and brandies, and never get"drunk, " though they are sometimes "indisposed. "

The clock struck twelve, then one, and the morning hours advanced, light-foot messengers of the coming day. The gay and the jocundlaugh was hushed, and the notes that told of festive mirth weresilenced. Nature, either fatigued by exertion or stupefied by wine, had sank to repose; and those who had lingered too long and indulgedtoo freely were lying on the cabin-floor helpless. George retiredat a seasonable hour. James remained, and fell, as others, beforethe enchanting wine-cup's power!

CHAPTER IV. 

The next morning George called at the store of Laneville & Co. Noone was in save a small lad, who, to his inquiry, replied that allwere sick. The youth was a short, porpoise-shaped lad, who appearedquite independent for his age and station, and told George that hehad better call the next day, as the folks would n't be down. In aninstant George suspected the cause of their absence. Though he knewJames would be mortified to be seen, yet he determined upon visitinghim, thinking it a favorable opportunity to submit to him theexpediency of taking that step which he had urged upon him on themorning previous. 

Conscious of being engaged in an act of duty, he ascended the stepsthat led to the door of the house. He rang; a servant-girl answeredhis call. 

"Holloa!" shouted a voice at the head of the stairs. "Who'sthere?-what cow's got into my pasture now? Another glass, friends, --once more! Now drink, 'Death to the temperance cause, andill-luck to fanatics!' Holloa! down below, --come aloft!"

"Hush! be quiet, " said a female voice, in a whisper. "James, dorespect yourself. "

"Hush! who says hush? My soul's in arms; come on, John Duff! bringliquor here, and cursed be he who says, I've had enough!"

The closing of a door put an end to this extemporaneous address. George stood like a statue; he knew not which course totake, --whether to go up to his friend's room, or go down to thestreet. He soon determined, and sent word that he wished to speak toJames. In a moment the latter was again to be heard declaimingdisconnected sentences on all manner of subjects, until, learningthe wish of George, he shouted, "Yes, tell him to come up and revel in the groves of Madeira, ordance with peasant-girls at the grape-gatherings in Sicily! Yes, George, up here, and see how a man can live a temperance lifewithout signing the pledge, and be as independent as he pleases!"

As George entered, James grasped his hand, --swung him round ratherfamiliarly, and pushed him towards a chair. 

The furniture and all that was in the room was in the greatestconfusion, not excepting James Clifton himself. There was aboot-jack and a vase of flowers side by side on the mantel; a pairof boots on the centre-table, with two or three annuals on them, asthough to keep them from being blown away; a nice hat stood on thehearth filled with coal-ashes, while an inkstand upside down on apile of linen bosoms had left an impression not easily effaced; thepaintings that were in the room were turned face towards thewall, --some freak of James', as though ashamed to have them see theperformances. 

"Now, George, " said Mr. Clifton, "you can be convinced of the truthof my doctrine. I did n't sign the pledge, and I'm as sober, soberas a brandy-smasher! You recollect what a great poet says, --Drinktill the moon goes down. I can improve that; I say, --Drink tillyourselves go down. What an age this is, when temperance fanaticsdance through the world to smash decanters, and make one pledgehimself to be a fool! Independence is my motto! I go forindependence now, independence forever, and as much longer aspossible. Who says I am not right? Deluded mortals, who wink at sin, and kick at brandies! Magnificent monstrosities, making manlinessmoonshine; metaphysical Moors murdering Munchausen-"

"But hold, James, " said George, interrupting him in his remarks;"keep within bounds, --let us reason. " It was not with much hope ofsuccess that George asked his friend to "reason, " for his conditionwas one not in the least degree favorable to such a performance. 

"Reason?" exclaimed James. "I'm not a reasonable, --reasoning, Imean, --I'm not a reasoning being! Go ask the pigs to reason!"

Notwithstanding all this, George seemed inclined to argument, for heimmediately said, "Don't you see the ill effects of last night's indulgence in theconfusion around you, and feel them in your own mind and body?"

"Now you talk like a man. Let us send the 'James-town' to Irelandwith bread and butter. 'T is a vote! passed unanimously by bothhouses of Congress. We'll fire a full broadside of gingerbread atthe old Green Isle, and teach the people to eat for a living. "

This rambling from the inquiry George had made induced him torelinquish all hope of influencing him at that time. He saw how hehad fallen; and he needed no prophet's ken to behold his futurecourse, unless he turned from the path he was now soenthusiastically following. 

Seeing that no good could be effected by his remaining, George aroseto depart, when James caught his arm, and told him not to be in suchhaste. 

"I want you to take a glass of wine;" and, ringing the bell, aservant was at the door before Mr. Alverton had an opportunity tosay or do anything. 

"You know I don't drink wines, " said George; "why do you ask me?"

"Don't drink?"

"You look surprised, but you know I do not. "

"Everybody drinks. "

"Not all, if I am one of that extensive number. "

"Well, my employer sells liquors, my minister drinks his wine, andmy friends all drink, except you; and you are a sort of nondescript, a sort of back-action member of human society, a perfect ginger-cakewithout any ginger in it. Say, got a pledge in your pocket? I have;here it is:" and he pulled forth a slip of paper, on which he hadwritten some half-legible lines. 

"See how you like it;--it is what is called the Independent Pledge. I'll read it. 

"'We the undersigned, believing the use of wines and other liquorsbeneficial to ourselves in general, and the dealers in particular, pledge ourselves to act as we please in all matters of politics andphrenology. '"

The servant, who yet stood at the door waiting orders, burst forthinto a loud laugh, as the reading of this was finished, whileGeorge, though inwardly sorrowing over the situation of his friend, could not refrain from smiling at his ridiculous appearance anddoings. There was a good humor running through the method of hismadness, that made him far from being disagreeable. 

Mr. Alverton passed to the door, and, motioning the servant aside, entreated her not to bring him wine. 

"Well, sir, that be's just as he says, " said she, in a loud voice, and in a manner that convinced Mr. Alverton that she cared not as towhat might follow. 

"Good!" shouted James. "Why, she's my confidential; she's as true tome as a book. Sal, bring up two decanters of that best. "

The girl laughed, and bounded out of the room to do as he requested. 

The wine came; a long talk ensued, as unmeaning and useless as thatwe have above related, and George left with a heavy heart, promisingto call on the morrow. 

As he entered the street, and the cool, fresh air of an autumnmorning greeted him, he felt somewhat revived, and, quickening hisstep, he soon reached his home. He dare not mention his adventure toJosephine, though he wanted to. She was the betrothed of James. Inone month they were to be married! Dark and frowning were the cloudsthat gathered in their blackness over the mind of George, as hemused on what had been and what was to be. Should he tell her all?It was his duty. Should he shrink from the performance of his duty?No. 

CHAPTER V. 

"Never!" exclaimed the young lady, as she wiped her eyes, and asmile of joy and hope burst through her tears. "George, I know hewill not go too far, --O, no! As an eagle may touch the earth, yet, soaring again, float in its own element in the light of the sun, somay he, though he has this once fallen, soar upward, and higher thanever, planning not another descent so low. "

"I hope it may be so, " said George. 

"And why not hope? You know each has an opinion of his own, but thatopinion may be changed. Though he now opposes the pledge, and thecause of which it is the representative, yet he may thinkdifferently, and may, through your influence, become one of its mostzealous advocates. Don't mention to him that I know of his act, "exclaimed Josephine, springing to catch the arm of her brother, ashe opened the door to leave. 

She was answered in the negative, and in the examination of a fewarticles that were being prepared for her bridal-day she graduallyforgot all unpleasant misgivings, and nothing but happiness couldshe see before her. 

It was not until the next day that George had an opportunity ofseeing his friend. He then met him at the store, and James laughedover the doings of the day previous as a "good joke, " as he calledthem. On that occasion, as on several subsequent ones, he urged himto sign and become a total-abstinent; but, with such influences asthose which surrounded him, it was not strange that these effortsproved ineffectual. 

Weeks passed, and the hour of marriage drew nigh. The festivity wasto be one of unusual splendor and gayety. For a long time hadpreparations been in progress. 

It was painful for George to refer to a matter which he would nothave spoken of had it not so much concerned the welfare of a sisterwhom he loved as his own self. When he mentioned the circumstancesattending the party on board the "Vincennes, " she, in the fulness ofher love, excused James, and brought up a host of arguments to provethe impossibility of a reoccurrence of any similar event. 

Love is stronger than death; and, mastering all things, overlooks ordecreases the evil and enlarges the goodness of its object. It wasso in this case. Josephine's attachment to James led her tosacrifice all other feelings and opinions to her deep affection forhim, and made her willing to stand by him or fall with him, as thevine to the tree, bright and fresh, though the once sturdy oak liesfallen and blighted. 

The evening came, and with it many a bright and joyous heart to thehome of George Alverton. A more beautiful bride never pronounced thebridal-vow than she who there, encircled with bright eyes andsmiling faces, gave all to James Clifton. And when it was over, whenthey joined the bright galaxy that were about them and mingled withothers in the festive mirth of the hour, a life of joy and socialcomfort was predicted for the hearts which that night were madeone! Music was there with its charms, Terpsichore with her gracefulmotions, and everything from commencement to close was conducted inso happy and agreeable a manner, that not a few young folks, as theyrode home, agreed to go through the same performance at theirearliest convenience. 

After the usual "calls" had been attended and a few weeks hadelapsed, James and his young wife located themselves in adwelling-house, which was furnished in an elegant though not in anextravagant manner. He was to continue with Messrs. Laneville & Co. They reposed the utmost confidence in him, and considered him thebest judge of liquors in the city. On the day of his marriage theyincreased his salary one third, so that his income was by no meansto be complained of. It was such as to enable him to live well, andto lay aside quite a large amount quarterly. His prospects weregood, and no young man ever had better hopes of success. 

We cannot close this chapter without referring again to the factthat he dealt in that which made widows of wives, orphans ofchildren, and sent down the stream of life a rivulet of death. Thisfact was like a cloud hanging over his path; and, though it was butas a speck far up in sky, who could tell what it might become?

CHAPTER VI. 

For a year the young couple were most happy. The moments flew tooquickly by; so laden were they with joy, they would have them endureforever. "Little Jim" was a smart one, if he was n't as old as hisfather, and the handsomest piece of furniture in the house! Nobodydoubted that; at least, it would n't have been well for them to haveexpressed their doubts in a very audible manner, if they held any. 

Tasting, trying and judging of liquors, led to a loving, sipping anddrinking of them. We may hate temperance; but it is certain wecannot hate a good without loving a bad thing. In offering for salean article of food or beverage, the influence of our using itourselves, or not using it, goes a great ways towards our disposingof it, or our not disposing of it. James knew this, and actedaccordingly. He always had the best of liquors in his house, as itwas often the case that, after selling a man a large amount, heinvited him home to dine. They, in turn, invited him out in theevening, and it was often a late hour when he returned. At home thepresence of his wife prevented him from indulging too freely; butaway from home, and surrounded by gay companions, he went as fulllengths as any. 

Such indulgences could not continue long without showing theireffects. George saw these, and remonstrated with him; but Josephinecould not or did not observe them. If he did not arrive home at thecustomary hour, she ever had an excuse for his delay. 

The arrival of another cargo of wines, etc. , for Messrs. Laneville &Co. , was duly acknowledged by another carousal in the cabins of thevessel, which ended in results far more destructive to thereputation of James, and to the happiness of himself and friends, than the former. 

At a late hour Josephine sat waiting and watching, when the ring ofthe door-bell, the movement of the servant, the mingling of severalsuppressed voices, and the shuffle of footsteps on the entry-floor, aroused her from that listless inaction which fatigue had broughtupon her. She sprang to the door of her room, and, opening it, wasabout to descend, when her brother met her and requested her not todo so. 

"Why?" she inquired. 

He gave no definite answer to her inquiry, but requested her toretire for the night, saying that James would probably be home inthe morning, bright and early as the dawn. 

"And not before?" she inquired, in a tone of voice that startled herattentive brother. Then, as a stray thought of the former ship'sparty and its unfortunate results came into her mind, she exclaimed, "I must see him now! Let me know the worst. Nothing can keep me fromhim. James, my James!" and, bursting from her brother's embrace, sheran down stairs, and, notwithstanding the remonstrance of herfriends, opened the door where half a dozen men and her husband hadgathered. 

James lay upon a sofa, nearly unconscious of what was transpiringaround him. Josephine caught the hand that hung loosely at his side, threw herself on the floor beside him, smoothed back his dishevelledhair, and kissed his flushed cheek. 

"James, James!" exclaimed she. He opened his eyes, gazed for amoment listlessly upon her, then closed them again. "O, James! don'tyou know me? James! say, --wake thee, dearest!"

She pressed his hand in her own, and, as the tears fell freely fromher eyes, so unused to weep, she continued her calls upon him wholay insensate before her. She whispered in his ear the breathings ofher heart, or in louder tones gave vent to the grief that woundedit. 

Vainly did friends beseech her to retire; vainly did they tell hershe could not hasten his restoration to reason. She declared herdetermination to remain with him till morning. 

Day dawned. There, at the side of her husband, sat the faithfulwife, as neglective of her own wants as she was attentive to his. James began to realize his condition, but not fully. He had vagueideas of being in his own house, but his mind was at timeswandering, and his words betrayed its condition. 

"Here I am, " said he, "in a paradise, with an angel at my side, andbeauty and rich fragrance all around me. See you how that diamondsparkles at the bottom of this brook flowing at my feet! Watch thatdove as it comes down from the sky! See, it nestles in my angel'sbosom. See how it folds its wings! See how she smooths down itsruffled plumage, and, hark ye, listen to its plaintive cooing! Myangel, my sweet one, come near me, let me whisper in thine ear. Go, bring me that bunch of luscious grapes which is suspended on thatsapphire cloud, and make me wine of them that gods might envy! Ah, see, she goes, --she wings her flight, --she grasps the rich fruit, --shecomes! She presses the grapes, and here is wine, --from where? Fromparadise! Droop not, droop not, droop not, spirit of light! Do notweep! What are you weeping for? Here, let me wipe those tears away. Ah, they are pearls, they are not tears! I thought they weretears. -Going so soon?-Gone?"

He sank into a quiet sleep. Josephine had wept as she caught hiswords partly uttered in a whisper so low as to be scarcelydistinguishable. Now, as he slept, she watched his breathings, andhoped that when he awoke he would be of a sane mind, and that arealization of what had occurred might influence his future careerfor the better. 

CHAPTER VII. 

"News!" exclaimed Capt. Thorndyke, as he shook the hand of hisfriend Basyl. "Have you not heard it? Why, it's common talk. YoungClifton imbibes rather too freely. You know him, --Laneville & Co. 'sclerk, --best judge of liquors in the states; strange that he willimbibe. "

"Strange indeed, very strange, if he is really a judge and knowswhat they're made of, " said Basyl; "and stranger yet that he willsell. For my part, I consider a man that will sell liquor, in thesedays of light and knowledge, as bad as a highwayman, and no betterthan a pirate. "

"Rather plain spoken. "

"I know it, but, look ye, there's Follet, a fine man, a first-rateman, once worth half a million, but now not worth a guinea-pig. Theman that sold him good wine in his better days sells him poorwhiskey now; and the confounded dealer in fancy poisons has takenthe houses of Mr. Follet, brick by brick, and piled them up in hisown yard, so to speak. Why, no longer ago than yesternight, he tooka fine black coat of Dick Pherson, and gave him in return a coarse, brown one and a glass of sin-gin, I mean. Fudge! talk aboutconsistency! That rumseller is nominated for an alderman, and he'llbe elected. He's rich; and all your say-so temperance men will votefor him, and when elected he'll go hand-in-hand with some lone star, who deems it advisable that men should be licensed to corrupt themorals of the community, in order to make it wise and virtuous!"

The captain acknowledged that his friend had a right view of thematter, and, as he bade him good-day, promised to take care of hisvote at the coming election. 

We doubt whether any man ever felt more deeply sensible of the wrongcommitted than did James, as he, the next morning, awaking from hislong sleep, beheld his wife standing at his side, now weeping overhim, now joyous and smiling at his returned consciousness, andclosely attentive to his every want. He felt himself unworthy ofsuch kindness, and for the first time in his life saw the evil ofthe doctrine he had all his lifetime advocated, namely, that a mancan drink enough and not too much; in other words, that he can guidehis evil passions as he will, and command them to stop in theircourse, nor trespass on forbidden ground. 

But James even yet was opposed to the pledge, and, though Georgepresented it with strong arguments, he refused to sign it, andlaughed at the idea of his ever getting the worse for liquor again. 

The employer of James Clifton had his name on the same ticket withthat of the rumseller before mentioned, as a candidate for mayor. Election-day came. The two political parties had their tickets inthe hands of scores of distributors. There was a third party, withits ticket, the caption of which-"Temperance Men and TemperanceMeasures"-was bandied about with gibes and sneers by the prominentmen of both other parties. 

Among the vote-distributors was a young man of exceedinglyprepossessing appearance, and who, by means of the winning manner hepossessed, disposed of a large number of tickets, even to men of theopposing party. "Vote for Laneville! vote for Laneville!" was hisconstant cry, save when he, in well-chosen words, proclaimed theability and worthiness of his candidate. Some said he was urged onby selfish motives; that, as he was a clerk of Laneville's, theelection of that candidate would be much to his pecuniary benefit. But James Clifton cared for none of these insinuations. 

"Well, deacon, my dear, dear deacon, who do you vote for?" inquireda stanch teetotaller, as an old gentleman approached. The personaddressed, after a little hesitation, during which a few nervoustwinges of the mouth betrayed his nervousness of conscience, and thedebate going on in his heart between consistency and principles onthe one side, and party names and measures on the other, replied, "Well, well, "-then a pause, --"well, I don't know; go for the bestman, I s'pose. "

"Here's the ticket, sir! the best man, sir, is Laneville! vote forLaneville!" shouted James, as he thrust his ticket into the hands ofthe old gentleman, and, laying hold of his arm, led him into theroom, and saw him deposit the vote of a temperance advocate for arumseller! James laughed well over his victory, while thedistributors of the temperance tickets felt somewhat ill at ease inseeing him whom they thought their truest friend desert them in thehour of need, and give his vote and influence for the other party. 

The day ended; the votes were counted, and Laneville was proclaimedelected by a majority of one!

The night was one of carousal. The betting on both sides had beenconsiderable, and the payment of these debts caused the small changeto circulate pretty freely among the dispensers of eatables anddrinkables. 

This night James yielded more easily than ever before to thecravings of an appetite that began to master him. 

Poor fellow! Deluded man! A fond, a devoted, a trusting wife waitingat home, watching the hands of the clock as they neared the mark oftwelve, and listening for thy footfall! Thou, trusting in thine ownstrength, but to learn thy weakness, lying senseless among thydrinking mates in the hall of dissolute festivity!

Tom Moore may sing in praise of "wine and its sparkling tide;" butthe sighing of wronged women and their tears shall toll the requiemof its praise. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Notwithstanding the entreaties of George, added to those ofJosephine, James continued in the way he had begun to walk, andwhich was leading him to ruin. The arguments of the one, and thetears of the other, were equally unavailing. 

So far had he proceeded in a downward course that his employersremonstrated; and the same arguments they had used upon their formerclerks were urged upon his consideration. Fearing the loss ofsituation, he repented, but it was only to fall again before thepower of that appetite with which he had tampered as with a torpidviper, which now felt the warmth of his embrace, and became aliving, craving creature within his bosom. 

His old companions perceived the change he was undergoing, and, likebutterflies that hovered about his path in sunshine, left him asclouds overshadowed his way. But he had friends who would not leavehim. He had a wife who clung to him with all the affection ofwoman's love, and a brother whose hand was ever extended to aid him. 

James saw the evil that threatened to overwhelm him; yet, strangelyinfatuated, he would not come to a fixed determination to reform sofar as to sign the pledge. 

The sun never shone with a brighter effulgence than it did on themorning of the 24th of July, 1849. The streets of Boston were filledwith busy crowds, and banners and flags streamed from balconies andwindows. Delegates of men from the suburbs poured into the city, andthe sound of music filled the air. Men, women, and children, therich and the poor, the merchant and the mechanic, the American andthe foreigner, joined in the movement; and a stranger could not longremain ignorant of the fact that some great event was to transpirethat day in the capital of the Old Bay State. Crowds gathered at thecorners, and lined the principal thoroughfares. 

"He has blist his own country, an' now he will bliss ours, " said awell-dressed Irishman. 

"An' that he will, " was the response; "an' God bliss Father Mathew!"

"Amen, " said half a dozen voices. 

"He's coming!" exclaimed another. The sound of distant music washeard, and far up the street was seen approaching a dense mass ofpeople. White banners mingled with the stars and stripes. Nearerthey approached, and more distinct became, to the Irishman and hisfriends, the peals of music and the hurras of the multitude. 

THEOBALD MATHEW, the friend of Ireland, was making his entry intoBoston! Never man was more gladly welcome. Never was man moreenthusiastically received. It seemed as though all men strove to dohim homage, for they looked upon one who was the instrument, underGod, of saving five millions of human beings from the greatest cursesin brought into the world; lifting them, and bidding them stand upas their Maker intended they should. 

The "apostle" was seated in an open barouche, with his headuncovered, bowing to the crowds of stout men and fair women thatfilled the windows on either side, often shaking hands with thosewho pressed near him to do so. 

A young man stood upon the side-walk watching its approach; and whenthe carriage in which he was seated came near where he stood, hetook off his hat, pressed through the assemblage, and, urging hisway towards it, grasped the hand that was extended to him. Thecarriage stopped. Father Mathew arose, and, as his hand lay upon thehead of the young man, he repeated the words of a pledge, which thelatter, in a distinct tone, repeated after him. At its close, thewords "I do!" were heard far and near, and James Clifton had takenthe pledge!

This was done from no sudden impulse. During the previous week hehad indulged rather freely, and when its effects were over he beganfor the first time to give serious thought upon the question whetherit was not required of him to become a pledged man. He was becomingconvinced that he was unsafe. He knew how often he had fallen, howliable he was to fall again, and that it might be never to rise. Hefound his companions did not look upon him with as much respect asformerly; and he determined to break down the pride of opinion, rather than have it break him down. 

As he thought of his situation at Messrs. Laneville & Co. 's, he fora moment drew back, yet it was but for a moment. He resolved toleave it, and beg rather than continue to disgrace himself and bringruin upon his relatives and friends. He was cheered by the thoughtthat he had those around him who would furnish him with employmentsuited to his mind, and in the steady pursuit of which he might livewell. This resolution was made a few days previous to the twenty-fourth, but he communicated it to no one. 

James hurried from the crowd that gathered around him, and hastenedto his home. The glad news preceded him, and his wife, meeting himat the door, caressed, blessed and welcomed him. George grasped hishand, and James, with tears in his eyes, asked pardon for the past, and promised much for the future. 

"Once, " said he, "I refused to sign. I trusted to my own self, andthought because I was young and strong I could resist temptation. Isaid I would not make myself a slave to a pledge, and clung to mypromise till I found myself a slave to an appetite. I ask yourpardon, George, for the manner in which I treated your request. "

"I grant it. "

"Then I am happy, we are happy, and the future shall redeem thepast. "

The door opened, and a bright-eyed boy, bounding into the room, sprang upon his father, and, with a smile, said, "Father, I'm aCadet of Temperance! We formed a little society this morning, 'causeFather Mathew has come to Boston. We've got six names, and we are tohave more. "

James kissed his child, and encouraged him to go on in the cause hehad so early espoused. 

Messrs. Laneville & Co. Engaged a new clerk, --a young man ofseventeen, hopeful, promising. He had heard of the fate of hispredecessors, of the narrow escape of him whose place he was beingtrained to fill; but, like them and him, he thought himself strongerthan the tempter at his side. That firm is in the home-desolatingbusiness to-day, though James has used much endeavor to induce themto relinquish it. The young man is there to-day, open to temptationswhich have conquered many strong men, have destroyed many mighty. The pledge is with us to-day, open for those who have fallen, forthose who yet stand, --an instrument of God, in human hands, to rescuethe one and to preserve the other. 

ANGELINA. 

 BLUE-EYED child, with flaxen ringlets, 'Neath my window played, one day; And its tiny song of gladness, Sounded like an angel's lay. Roses bright in beauty blossomed Round the path the cherub trod Yet it seemed that child was fairest, Freshest from the hand of God. Watched I her till hour of sunset Told me of the coming night, And the sun o'er rock and mountain Shed its flood of golden light. Yet she gambolled, though the dew-drops Fell upon her thick and fast; Fearing ill, I went and told her, -- Dearest child, the day hath past: "Haste thee to thy home, --there waiting Is thy parent, thee to bless. " Then she hasted from the play-ground, To her mother's fond caress. Stars shone forth in all their splendor, And the moon with silver light Rose in beauty, and presided Queen o'er all the hosts of night. Days had passed; I had not seen her, Had not heard her merry laugh, Nor those joyous tones that told me Of the joy her spirit quaffed. Vain I asked whence Angelina Had departed, --none could tell; Feared I then that sorrow gathered O'er the child I loved so well. Funeral train passed by my window, -- Banished were all thoughts of mirth; And I asked of one who lingered, "Who hath passed to heaven from earth?" In his eye a tear-drop glistened, As he, turning, to me said, "Heaven now holds another angel, -- Little Angelina's dead!" I could scarce believe the tidings, Till I stood above her grave, And beheld those flaxen ringlets, That so late did buoyant wave, Lie beside a face whose features Still in death did sweetly smile And methought angelic beauty Lingered on her cheeks the while. At the pensive hour of twilight, Oft do angel-footsteps tread Near her grave, and flowers in beauty Blossom o'er the early dead; And a simple marble tablet Thence doth unassuming rise, And these simple words are on it, -- "Here our Angelina lies. " Oft at night, when others slumber, One bends o'er that holy spot; And the tear-drops fall unnumbered O'er her sad yet happy lot. Friends, though oft they mourn her absence, Do in meek submission bow; For a voice from heaven is whispering, "Angelina's happy now. "

FAREWELL, MY NATIVE LAND. 

Written for KAH-GE-GA-GAI-BOWH, a representative from the NorthwestTribes of American Indians to the Peace Convention in Frankfort-on-the-Maine, Germany; and recited by him on board the British steamshipNiagara, at the hour of sailing from Boston, July 10th, 1850. 

 THE day is brightening which we long have sought; I see its early light and hail its dawn; The gentle voice of Peace my ear hath caught, And from my forest-home I greet the morn. Here, now, I meet you with a brother's hand- Bid you farewell-then speed me on my way To join the white men in a foreign land, And from the dawn bring on the bright noon-day. Noon-day of Peace! O, glorious jubilee, When all mankind are one, from sea to sea. Farewell, my native land, rock, hill, and plain! River and lake, and forest-home, adieu! Months shall depart ere I shall tread again Amid your scenes, and be once more with you. I leave thee now; but wheresoe'er I go, Whatever scenes of grandeur meet my eyes, My heart can but one native country know, And that the fairest land beneath the skies. America! farewell, thou art that gem, Brightest and fairest in earth's diadem. Land where my fathers chased the fleeting deer; Land whence the smoke of council-fires arose; Land whose own warriors never knew a fear; Land where the mighty Mississippi flows; Land whose broad surface spreads from sea to sea; Land where Niagara thunders forth God's praise;-- May Peace and Plenty henceforth dwell with thee, And o'er thee War no more its banner raise! Adieu, my native land, --hill, stream, and dell! The hour hath come to part us, --fare thee well. 

UNLEARNED TO LOVE. 

 HE hath unlearned to love; for once he loved A being whom his soul almost adored, And she proved faithless; turned in scorn upon His heart's affections; to another gave The love she once did pledge as all his own. And now he doth not love. Within his heart Hate dwells in sullen silence. His soul broods Over its wrongs, over deluded hopes. Fancy no more builds airy castles. Amid the crowd he passes on alone. The branches wave no more to please his eye, And the wind singeth no sweet songs to him. The murmuring brook but murmurs discontent, And all his life is death since Love hath fled. O, who shall count his sorrows? who shall make An estimate of his deep, burning woes, And place them all in order, rank on rank? Language is weak to tell the heart's deep, wrongs. We think, and muse, and in our endless thought We strive to grasp, with all the mind's vast strength, The undefinable extent of spirit grief, And fail to accomplish the herculean task. 

WHAT WAS IT?

 IT was a low, black, miserable place; Its roof was rotting; and above it hung A cloud of murky vapor, sending down Intolerable stench on all around. The place was silent, save the creaking noise, The steady motion of a dozen pumps, That labored all the day, nor ceased at night. Methought in it I heard a hundred groans; Dropping of widows' tears, and cries of orphans; Shrieks of some victim to the fiendish lust Of men for gold; woe echoing woe, And sighs, deep, long-drawn sighs of dark despair. Around the place a dozen hovels stood, Black with the smoke and steam that bathed them all; Their windows had no glass, but rags and boards, Torn hats and such-like, filled the paneless sash. Beings, once men and women, in and out Passed and repassed from darkness forth to light; And children, ragged, dirty, and despised, Clung to them. Children! heaven's early flowers, In their spring-time of life, blighted and lost! Children! those jewels of a parent's crown, Crushed to the ground and crumbled to the dust. Children! Heaven's representatives to man, Made menial slaves to watch at Evil's gate, And errand-boys to run at Sin's command. I asked why thus it was; and one old man Pushed up the visor of his cap, and said: "That low, black building is the cause of all. " And would you know what 't was that wrought such ill, And what the name of that low building was? Go to thy neighbor, read to him these lines, And if he does not tell thee right, at first, Then come to me and you shall know its name. 

LETTERS AND LETTER-WRITING. 

THERE is nothing from which more real enjoyment can be derived thanthe art of letter-writing. All praise to the inventive genius thatgave to man a written language, and with it the implements withwhich to talk across the world! Did you ever think, reader, what aworld this would be without pen, ink, and paper? Then, the absenceof friends were painful, and, as we grasped the friendly hand, badeour acquaintances "good-by, " and saw the last, far-distant wave ofthe parting signal, we might turn aside to weep, as we thought weshould never hear from them till we met face to face-perhaps never. But, as it is, when friends leave, we expect a message from theirhearts soon, to solace our own. How we watch, and how we hope! Whata welcome rap is the postman's! With what eagerness we loosen theseal; with what pleasure we read, from date to signature, everyword!

It may not be uninteresting, nor wholly uninstructive, to examinethe various modes of letter-writing, and to spend a brief half-hourwith those who have by their letters made grave or gay impressionson the public mind. 

Some write letters with great ease; others, with great difficulty. Miss Seward was an inveterate letter-writer. There have beenpublished six large volumes of letters written by her; besidesthese, she left twelve quarto volumes of letters to a publisher ofLondon, and these, it is said, are but a twelfth part of hercorrespondence. It seems as though she must have written nothing butletters, so many and various were they; but her fame as an authoresswill convince any one that her industry overcame what might seem animpossibility, and that her genius in this particular resembled thatof the steam-writing machine, Dumas, of the present time. 

Lord Peterborough had such a faculty for this kind of composition, that, when ambassador to Turin, according to Pope, who says he was awitness of the performance, he employed nine amanuenses, who wereseated in a room, around whom Lord Peterborough walked and dictatedto each what he should write. These nine wrote to as many differentpersons, upon, perhaps, nine times as many subjects; yet theambassador retained in his mind the connection of each letter socompletely as to close each in a highly-finished and appropriatemanner. 

These facts show the ease and rapidity of some writers. Incontradistinction to these are the letters of many eminent Latinwriters, who actually bestowed several months of close attentionupon a single letter. Mr. Owen says: "Such is the defect ofeducation among the modern Roman ladies, that they are not troubledto keep up any correspondence; because they cannot write. A princessof great beauty, at Naples, caused an English lady to be informedthat she was learning to write; and hoped, in the course of time, toacquire the art of correspondence. "

There are many persons with whom it is the most difficult task oftheir existence to write a letter. They follow the old Latinwriters, and make a labor of what with others is a recreation. Theybegin with the stereotyped words, "I take my pen in hand, " as thougha letter could be written without doing so. Then follows, "to informyou that I am well, and hope this will find you the same. " There isa period-a full stop; and there are instances of persons going nofurther, but closing with, "This from your friend, JOHN SHORT. "

This "difficulty" arises not from an inability, but from anexcessive nicety-a desire to write a prize essay, instead of a good, sociable, familiar letter. To make a letter interesting, the writermust transfer his thoughts from his mind to his paper, as truly asthe rays of the sun place the likeness of an object in front of thelens through which it acts upon the silvered plate. Seneca says, "Iwould have my letters be like my discourses when we sit or walktogether, unstudied and easy. "

Willis' letters are of a kind always "free and easy. " His "Lettersfrom Under a Bridge" are admirable specimens of letters as theyshould be; and his "Pencillings by the Way" owe much of theirpopularity to their easy, familiar, talkative style. The letters ofCicero and Pliny, of ancient, and Swift, Pope, Arbuthnot, Madame deS‚vign‚, and Lady Mary Wortley Montague, of modern times, aregenerally received as some of the best specimens extant ofepistolary composition. The letters of Charles Lamb are a series ofbrilliances, though of kaleidoscope variety; they have wit withoutbuffoonery, and seriousness without melancholy. He closes one ofthem by subscribing himself his friend's "afflicted, headachey, sorethroaty, humble servant, CHARLES LAMB. "

Some men, and women too, of eminence, have written curiosities inthe form of correspondence. The letter of the mother of Foote is agood example of this kind of correspondence. Mrs. Foote becameembarrassed, and, being unable to meet a demand, was placed inprison; whereupon she wrote to Mr. Foote as follows:

"DEAR SAM: I am in prison for debt; come, and assist your lovingmother, E. FOOTE. 

It appears that "Sam" was equally entangled in the meshes of thelaw, for he answered as follows:

"DEAR MOTHER:-So am I; which prevents his duty being paid to hisloving mother by her affectionate son, "SAM FOOTE. 

"P. S. -I have sent my attorney to assist you; in the mean time, letus hope for better days. "

These laconic epistles are well matched by that of a French lady, who wrote to her husband this missive of intelligence, affection, &c. , &c. :

"I write to you because I have nothing to do; I end my letterbecause I have nothing to say. "

But these are left far in the rear by the correspondence of twoQuakers, the one living in Edinburgh, the other in London. Theformer, wishing to know whether there was anything new in London, wrote in the corner of a letter-sheet a small interrogation note, and sent it to his friend. In due time he received an answer. Heopened the sheet and found, simply, O, signifying that there wasnone. 

In the London Times of January 3d, 1820, is the following, purporting to be a copy of a letter sent to a medical gentleman:

"CER: Yole oblige me uf yole kum un ce me. I hev a Bad kowld, amHill in my Bow Hills, and hev lost my Happy Tight. "

William Cowper, the poet, being on very familiar terms with the Rev. Mr. Newton, amused himself and his friend with a letter, of whichthe following is a copy:

"MY VERY DEAR FRIEND: I am going to send, what, when you have read, you may scratch your head, and say, I suppose, there's nobody knows, whether what I have got be verse or not; by the tune and the time, it ought to be rhyme; but if it be, did you ever see, of late or ofyore, such a ditty before?

"I have writ Charity, not for popularity, but as well as I could, inhopes to do good; and if the reviewers should say, 'To be sure thegentleman's muse wears methodist shoes, you may know by her pace, and talk about grace, that she and her bard have little regard forthe taste and fashions, and ruling passions, and hoydening play, ofthe modern day; and though she assume a borrowed plume, and now andthen wear a tittering air, 't is only her plan to catch, if she can, the giddy and gay, as they go that way, by a production on a newconstruction; she has baited her trap, in hopes to snap all that maycome, with a sugar-plum. ' His opinion in this will not be amiss; 'tis what I intend my principal end; and if I succeed, and folksshould read, till a few are brought to a serious thought, I shallthink I am paid for all I have said, and all I have done, though Ihave run, many a time, after rhyme, as far as from hence, to the endof my sense, and, by hook or crook, write another book, if I liveand am here, another year. 

"I heard before of a room, with a floor laid upon springs, and suchlike things, with so much art, in every part, that when you went in, you was forced to begin a minuet pace, with an air and a grace, swimming about, now in and now out, with a deal of state, in afigure of eight, without pipe or string, or any such thing; and nowI have writ, in a rhyming fit, what will make you dance, and, as youadvance, will keep you still, though against your will, dancingaway, alert and gay, till you come to an end of what I have penned;which that you may do ere madam and you are quite worn out withjigging about, I take my leave; and here you receive a bow profound, down to the ground, from your humble me, "W. C. "

At one of those famous coteries, so fashionable in the time ofGeorge Selwyn, Selwyn declared that a lady never closed a letterwithout a postscript. One of his fair auditors defended her sex bysaying that her next letter should prove he was wrong. Soon after, Selwyn received a letter from the lady, in which, after the name, was "P. S. Who is right now, you or I?"

"We have met the enemy, and they are ours" is an example for navalletters. Commodore Walton's letter, by which he gave information ofhis capture of a number of Spanish vessels of war, was as follows:

"We have taken or destroyed all the enemy's ships or vessels on thecoast, as per margin. "

General Taylor's letters are of the same class, --brief and to thepoint. 

As a specimen of ultra-familiarity, see the Duke of Buckingham'sletter to King James the First, which he commences as follows:

"DEAR DAD AND GOSSIP, "

and concludes thus:--

"Your Majesty's most humble slave and dog, "STINIE. "

Some letters have been distinguished for a play upon words. Thefollowing is supposed to have been written by one Zebel Rock, astone-cutter, to a young lady for whom he cherished a love somewhatmore than Platonic:

"DIVINE FLINT: Were you not harder than Porphyry or Agate, theChisel of my love, drove by the Mallet of my fidelity, would havemade some impression on thee. I, that have shaped as I pleased themost untoward of substances, hoped by the Compass of reason, thePlummet of discretion, the Saw of constancy, the soft File ofkindness, and the Polish of good words, to have modelled you intoone of the prettiest Statues in the world; but, alas! I find you area Flint, that strikes fire, and sets my soul in a blaze, though yourheart is as cold as marble. Pity my case, pray, madam, for I knownot what I say or do. If I go to make a Dragon, I strike out aCupid; instead of an Apothecary's Mortar, I make a Church Font forBaptism; and, dear Pillar of my hopes, Pedestal of my comfort, andCornice of my joy, take compassion upon me, for upon your pity Ibuild all my hope, and will, if fortunate, erect Statues, Obelisksand Pyramids, to your generosity. "

As a specimen of alliteration the following may be considered a fairoff-hand epistle of love:

"ADORED AND ANGELIC AMELIA: Accept An Ardent And Artless Amorist'sAffections; Alleviate An Anguished Admirer's Alarms, And Answer AnAmorous Applicant's Avowed Ardor. Ah, Amelia! All Appears An AwfulAspect; Ambition, Avarice, And Arrogance, Alas, Are AttractiveAllurements, And Abuse An Ardent Attachment. Appease An Aching AndAffectionate Adorer's Alarms, And Anon Acknowledge AffiancedAlbert's Alliance As Agreeable And Acceptable. Anxiously Awaiting AnAffectionate And Affirmative Answer, Accept An Ardent Admirer'sAching Adieu. ALBERT. "

The custom of espionage among some nations, which led the governmentofficials' to open all letters supposed to contain matters atvariance with the plans and purposes of their masters, induced theinventive to contrive various means of correspondence. 

One of the most singular of these was that adopted by Histaus, theMilesian, as related by Herodotus. Histaus was "kept by Darius atSusa, under an honorable pretence, and, despairing of his returnhome, unless he could find out some way that he might be sent tosea, he purposed to send to Aristagoras, who was his substitute atMiletum, to persuade his revolt from Darius; but, knowing that allpassages were stopped and studiously watched, he took this course:he got a trusty servant of his, the hair of whose head he caused tobe shaved off, and then, upon his bald head, he wrote his mind toAristagoras; kept him privately about him, till his hair wassomewhat grown, and then bid him haste to Aristagoras, and bid himcause him to be shaved again, and then upon his head he should findwhat his lord had written to him. "

A volume might be written of the Curiosities of Letter-writing, andit would be by no means an uninteresting production. Years ago, whenNew England missionaries first taught the wild men of the South SeaIslands, it so happened that one of the teachers wished tocommunicate with a friend, and having no pen, ink and paper at hand, he picked up a chip and wrote with a pencil his message. A nativeconveyed it, and, receiving some article in return, he thought thechip endowed with some miraculous power, and could he have obtainedit would doubtless have treasured it as a god, and worshipped it. And so would seem to us this invaluable art of letter-writing, werewe in like ignorance. We forget to justly appreciate a blessingwhile we have it in constant use; but let us be for a short timedeprived of it, and then we lament its loss and realize its worth. Deprive mankind of pen, ink and paper, obliterate from the humanmind all knowledge of letter-writing, --then estimate, if you can, thee loss that would accrue. 

The good resulting from a general intercommunication of thoughtamong the people has brought about a great reduction in the rates ofpostage. We look forward to the time when the tens of millions nowexpended in war, and invested in the ammunition of death, shall bedirected into other channels, and postage shall be free. What betterdefence for our nation than education? It is better than forts andvessels of war; better than murderous guns, powder and ball. Hail tothe day when there shall be no direct tax on the means of education!

A VISION OF REALITY. 

 I HAD a dream: Methought one came And bade me with him go; I followed, till, above the world, I wondering gazed below. One moment, horror filled my breast; Then, shrinking from the sight, I turned aside, and sought for rest, Half dying with affright. My guide with zeal still urged me on; "See, see!" said he, "what sin hath done; How mad ambition fills each breast, And mortals spurn their needed rest, And all their lives and fortunes spend To gain some darling, wished-for end; And scarce they see the long-sought prize, When each to grasp it fails and dies. " Once more I looked: in a lonely room, On a pallet of straw, were lying A mother and child; no friends were near, Yet that mother and child were dying. A sigh arose; she looked above, And she breathed forth, "I forgive;" She kissed her child, threw back her head, And the mother ceased to live. The child's blue eyes were raised to watch Its mother's smile of love; She was not there, --her child she saw From her spirit-home above. An hour passed by: that child had gone From earth and all its harms; Yet, as in sleep, it nestling lay In its dead mother's arms. I asked my guide, "What doth this mean?" He spake not a word, but changed the scene. I stood where the busy throng Was hurrying by; all seemed intent, As on some weighty mission sent; And, as I asked what all this meant, A drunkard pass‚d by. He spake, --I listened; thus spake he: "Rum, thou hast been a curse to me; My wife is dead, --my darling child, Who, when 't was born, so sweetly smiled, And seemed to ask, in speechless prayer, A father's love, a father's care, -- He, he, too, now is gone! How can I any longer live? What joy to me can earth now give? I've drank full deep from sorrow's cup, -- When shall I drink its last dregs up? When will the last, last pang be felt? When the last blow on me be dealt? Would I had ne'er been born!" As thus he spake, a gilded coach In splendor pass‚d by; And from within a man looked forth, -- The drunkard caught his eye. Then, with a wild and frenzied look, He, trembling, to it ran; He stayed the rich man's carriage there, And said, "Thou art the man! "Yes, thou the man! You bade me come, You took my gold, you gave me rum; You bade me in the gutter lie, My wife and child you caused to die; You took their bread, --'t was justly theirs; You, cunning, laid round me your snares, Till I fell in them; then you crushed, And robbed me, as my cries you hushed; You've bound me close in misery's thrall; Now, take a drunkard's curse and fall!" A moment passed, and all was o'er, -- He who'd sold rum would sell no more And Justice seemed on earth to dwell, When by his victim's hand he fell. Yet, when the trial came, she fled, And Law would have the avenger dead. The gilded coach may rattle by, Men too may drink, and drunkards die, And widows' tears may daily fall, And orphans' voices daily call, -- Yet these are all in vain; The dealer sells, and glass by glass He tempts the man to ruin pass, And piles on high his slain. His fellows fall by scores, --what then? He, being rich (though rich by fraud), Is honored by his fellow-men, Who bend the knee and call him "lord. "

 Again I turned;

 Enough I'd learned Of all the misery sin hath brought; I strove to leave the fearful spot, And wished the scene might be forgot, 'T was so with terror fraught. 

 I wished to go, No more to know. I turned me, but no guide stood there; Alone, I shrieked in wild dismay, When, lo! the vision passed away, -- I found me seated in my chair. The morning sun was shining bright, Fair children gambolled in my sight; A rose-bush in my window stood, And shed its fragrance all around; My eye saw naught but fair and good, My ear heard naught but joyous sound. I asked me, can it be on earth Such scenes of horror have their birth, As those that in my vision past, And on my mind their shadows cast? Can it be true, that men do pour Foul poison forth for sake of gold? And men lie weltering in their gore, Led on by that their brethren sold? Doth man so bend the supple knee To Mammon's shrine, he never hears The voice of conscience, nor doth see His ruin in the wealth he rears? Such questions it were vain to ask, For Reason whispers, "It is so;" While some in fortune's sunshine bask, Others lie crushed beneath their woe. And men do sell, and men do pour, And for their gold return men death; Though wives and children them implore, With tearful eyes and trembling breath, And hearts with direst anguish riven, No more to sell, --'t is all in vain; They, urged to death, by avarice driven, But laugh and turn to sell again. 

JEWELS OF THE HEART. 

 THERE are jewels brighter far Than the sparkling diamonds are; Jewels never wrought by art, -- Nature forms them in the heart! Would ye know the names they hold Ah! they never can be told In the language mortals speak! Human words are far too weak Yet, if you would really know What these jewels are, then go To some low, secluded cot, Where the poor man bears his lot! Or, to where the sick and dying 'Neath the ills of life are sighing. And if there some one ye see Striving long and patiently To alleviate the pain, Bring the light of hope again! One whose feet do lightly tread, One whose hands do raise the head, One who watches there alone, Every motion, every tone; Unaware an eye doth see All these acts of charity. Know that in that lonely cot, Where the wealth of earth is not, These bright jewels will be found, Shedding love and light around! Say, shall gems and rubies rare With these heart-shrined gems compare? Constancy, that will not perish, But the thing it loveth cherish, Clinging to it fondly ever, Fainting, faltering, wavering, never! Trust, that will not harbor doubt; Putting fear and shame to rout, Making known how, free from harm, Love may rest upon its arm. Hope, that makes the future bright, Though there come a darksome night; And, though dark despair seems nigh, Bears the soul up manfully! These are gems that brighter shine Than they of Golconda's mine. Born amid love's fond caresses, Cradled in the heart's recesses, They will live when earth is old, Marble crumble, perish gold! Live when ages shall have past, While eternity shall last; Be these gems the wealth you share, Friends of mind, where'er you are!

LIGHT FROM A BETTER LAND. 

 HERE at thy grave I stand, But not in tears; Light from a better land Banishes fears. Thou art beside me now, Whispering peace; Telling how happy thou Found thy release! Thou art not buried here; Why should I mourn? All that I cherished dear Heavenward hath gone! Oft from that world above Come ye to this; Breathing in strains of love Unto me bliss!

POOR AND WEARY!

 IN a low and cheerless cot Sat one mourning his sad lot; All day long he'd sought for labor; All day long his nearest neighbor Lived in affluence and squandered Wealth, while he an outcast wandered, And the night with shadowy wing Heard him this low moaning sing: "Sad and weary, poor and weary, Life to me is ever dreary!" Morning came; there was no sound Heard within. Men gathered round, Peering through the window-pane; They saw a form as if 't were lain Out for burial. Stiff and gaunt Lay the man who died in want. And methought I heard that day Angel voices whispering say, "No more sad, poor and weary, Life to me no more is dreary!"

THE BANDBOX MOVEMENT. 

"THERE! Mr. McKenzie, I declare! You are the most oncommon, oncivilman I ever sot eyes on!"

"Peace, my lady! I'll explain. "

"Then do so. "

"You must know, then, that I have a perfect hatred of bandboxes, --sogreat, in fact, that if I see one on the walk, I involuntarily raisemy foot and kick it. "

"So it appears, " chimed in Mrs: McKenzie, with a significant hunchof the right shoulder. 

"Therefore, --"

"Well, go on! what you waitin' for?"

"Therefore, when I saw Arabella's bandbox in the entry, as I camedown, sitting, as it did, directly at the foot of the stairs, Ijumped on it, thinking I would come over it that time--"

"An' crushed a new spring bonnet, that cost-let me see!"

"No matter!" said Mr. McKenzie; "that will be in the bill. "

Mr. McKenzie, having said thus much, placed his hat on his head andrushed from the house, fearful of another onslaught of "oncommononcivilities. "

A little shop at the North End, --seven men seated round said shop, --asmall dog growling at a large cat, a large cat making a noiseresembling that produced by root-beer confined in a stone bottle bya cork bound down with a piece of twine. Reader, imagine you see andhear all this!

[Enter Mr. McKenzie. ] "Gentlemen, something must be done to demolishthe idea held by the 'rest of mankind' that they, the women, cannotexist without owning as personal property an indefinite number ofbandboxes. I therefore propose that we at once organize for thepurpose; that a committee be appointed to draft resolutions, andreport a name for the confederacy. "

Voted unanimously; whereupon, a committee being appointed, after ashort session, reported the following "whereas, etc. "

"Whereas, WE, in our perambulations up and down the earth, arefrequently, oftentimes, and most always, beset with annoyances ofvarious kinds; and, as the greatest, most perplexing, mosttroublesome and iniquitous of these, generally assumes the shape ofa bandbox, in a bag or out of one; and, whereas, our wives, ourdaughters, our sisters, and our female acquaintances generally andparticularly, manifest a determination to put said boxes in our way, at all times, and under all circumstances, therefore

"Resolved, That-we-wont-stand-it-any-longer!!!

"Resolved, That we form ourselves into a society for the purpose ofannihilating this grievous evil, and all bandboxes, of every sizeand nature. 

"Resolved, That this society be known by the name of 'The BandboxExtermination Association. '"

The chairman of the committee made a few remarks, in which he statedthat, in the performance of the duties which would devolve upon themembers, they would, doubtless, meet with some opposition. "But, never mind, " said he; "it is a glorious cause, and if we get thetongs at one time, and the hearth-brush another time, let 'em come!"He defined the duties of members to be, --first and foremost, to paysix and a quarter cents to defray expenses; to demolish a bandboxwherever and whenever there should be one; (for instance, if a fatwoman was racing for the cars, with a bandbox in her arms, that boxshould be forcibly taken and burned on the spot, or whittled intosuch minute particles that it could no more be seen; if, in anomnibus warranted to seat twelve, fifteen men are congregated, andan individual attempts to enter with a bandbox, the box shall havenotice to quit. )

"The manner of demolition, " he said, further, "might be variouslydefined. If the owner was a nervous lady, to kick the box wouldwound her feelings, and it were best to apparently unintentionallyseat yourself on it; then beg a thousand pardons, and, as you, inyour efforts to make it better, only make it worse, give it up indespair, and console the owner by a reference to spilt milk and theuselessness of crying. As to the contents of the boxes, they mustlook out for themselves. If they get injured, hint that they shouldkeep out of bad company. "

The chairman sat down, and, the question being put, it was more thanunanimously voted (inasmuch as one man voted with both handsThat was McKenzie. ) to adopt the resolutions, the name, and all theremarks that had been made in connection with them. Members paidtheir assessments, and with a hearty good will. 

Thus we see how "oaks from acorns grow. " Mrs. McKenzie's fretfulnesson account of her husband's patriotism led to the formation of asociety that will make rapid strides towards the front rank of thearmy now at work for the amelioration of the condition of mankind. 

NEW ENGLAND HOMES. 

 I've been through all the nations, have travelled o'er the earth, O'er mountain-top and valley, far from my land of birth; But whereso'er I wandered, wherever I did roam, I saw no spot so pleasant as my own New England home. I've seen Italia's daughters, beneath Italian skies Seen beauty in their happy smiles, and love within their eyes; But give to me the fairer ones that grace New England's shore, In preference to the dwellers in the valley of Lanore. I've watched the sun's departure behind the "Eternal Hills, " When with floods of golden light the vaulted heaven it fills; But Italy can never boast, with its poetic power, More varied beauties than those of New England's sunset hour. I love my own New England; I love its rocks and hills; I love its trees, its mossy banks, its fountains and its rills; I love its homes, its cottages, its people round the hearth; I love, O, how I love to hear New England shouts of mirth! Tell me of the sunny South, its orange-groves and streams, That they surpass in splendor man's most enraptured dreams; But never can they be as fair, though blown by spicy gales, As those sweet homes, those cottages, within New England vales. O, when life's cares are ending, and time upon my brow Shall leave a deeper impress than gathers on it now; When age shall claim its sacrifice, and I no more shall roam, Then let me pass my latter days in my New England home!

LOVE THAT WANES NOT. 

 O, WHEN should Love's true beacons glow the brightest, If not when darkness shrouds the path we tread? When should its tokens, though they be the slightest, Be given, if not when clouds are overhead? When light is 'round us, and when joys are glowing, Some hand may press our own, and vow to cherish A love for us which ne'er shall cease its flowing, -- And yet that love, when darkness comes, may perish. But there is love which will outlive all sorrow, And in the darkest hour be nigh to bless, -- Which need not human art or language borrow, Its deep affection fondly to express. The mother o'er the child she loveth bending Need not in words tell others of her love; For, on the wings of earnest prayer ascending, It rises, and is registered above. O, such is love-all other is fictitious; All other's vanquished by disease and pain; But this, which lives when fate is unpropitious, Shall rise to heaven, and there an entrance gain. 

ONWARD COURAGEOUSLY. 

 BEND thee to action-nerve thee to duty! Whate'er it may be, never despair! God reigns on high, --pray to him truly, He will an answer give to thy prayer. Shrinketh thyself from crosses before thee? Art thou so made as to tremble and fear? Confide in thy God; he will watch o'er thee; Humbly and trustingly, brother, draw near! Clouds may be gathering, light may depart, Earth that thou treadest seem crumbling away; New foes, new dangers, around thee may start, And spectres of evil tempt thee astray. Onward courageously! nerved for the task, Do all thy duty, and strength shall be thine; Whate'er you want in humility ask, Aid shall be given from a source that's divine. Do all thy duty faithful and truly; Trust in thy Maker, --he's willing to save Thee from all evil, and keep thee securely, And make thee triumphant o'er death and the grave. 

A FOREST PIC-NIC SONG. 

 WITHIN these woods, beneath these trees, We meet to-day a happy band; All joy is ours, --we feel the breeze Blow gently o'er our native land. How brightly blooms each forest flower! What cheerful notes the wild bird sings! How nature charms our festive hour, What beauty round our pathway springs! The aged bear no weight of years; The good old man, the matron too, Forget their ills, forget their fears, And range the dim old forests through With youth and maiden on whose cheek The ruddy bloom of health doth glow, And in whose eyes the heart doth speak Oft more than they would have us know. How pleasant thus it is to dwell Within the shadow of this wood, Where rock and tree and flower do tell To all that nature's God is good! Here nature's temple open stands, -- There's none so nobly grand as here, -- The sky its roof; its floor, all lands, While rocks and trees are worshippers. There's not a leaf that rustles now, A bird that chants its simple lays, A breeze that passing fans our brow, That speaks not of its Maker's praise. O, then, let us who gather here Praise Him who gave us this glad day, And when the twilight shades appear Pass with his blessing hence away!

THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE. 

CHAPTER I. 

ROME was enjoying the blessings of peace; and so little employmentattended the soldier's every-day life, that the words "as idle as asoldier" became a proverb indicative of the most listlessinactivity. 

The people gave themselves up to joy and gladness. The sound ofmusic was heard from all parts of the city, and perfumed breezeswent up as an incense from the halls of beauty and mirth. 

It was, indeed, a blessed time for the city of the seven hills; andits people rejoiced as they had not for many a long, long year-ay, for a century. 

"Peace, sweet peace, a thousand blessings attend thy glad reign. Seeyou how quietly the peasant's flocks graze on our eternal hills? Thetinkling bell is a sweeter sound than the trumpet's blast; and thecurling smoke, arising from the hearth-stones of contentedvillagers, is a truer index of a nation's power than the sulphurouscloud from the field of battle. What say you, Alett, --is it not?"

Thus spake a youth of noble mien, as he stood with one armencircling the waist of a lady, of whose beauty it were useless toattempt a description. There are some phases of beauty which pencannot describe, nor pencil portray, --a beauty which seems to hoveraround the form, words, and motions of those whose specialrecipients it is; a sort of ethereal loveliness, concentrating thetints of the rainbow, the sun's golden rays, and so acting upon themind's eye of the observer as almost to convince him that a visitantfrom a sphere of perfection is in his presence. 

Such was that of Alett. She was the only daughter of a distinguishedgeneral, whose name was the terror of all the foes, and theconfidence of all the friends, of Italy-his eldest daughter; andwith love approaching idolatry he cherished her. She was hisconfidant. In the privacy of her faithful heart he treasured all hisplans and purposes. Of late, the peaceful security in which thenation dwelt gave him the opportunity of remaining at home, where, in the companionship of a wife he fondly loved, children he almostidolized, and friends whose friendship was not fictitious, he foundthat joy and comfort which the camp could never impart. 

Alett was ever in the presence of her father, or the young man whoseapostrophe to peace we have just given. 

Rubineau was not the descendant of a noble family, in the worldlyacceptation of the term. It was noble, indeed, but not in deeds ofwar or martial prowess. Its nobleness consisted in the steadyperseverance in well-doing, and a strict attachment to whatconscience dictated as right opinions. The general loved him for theinheritance he possessed in such traits of character, and the lovewhich existed between his daughter and the son of a plebeian wascountenanced under such considerations, with one proviso; which was, that, being presented with a commission, he should accept it, andhold himself in readiness to leave home and friends when duty shouldcall him to the field of battle. 

We have introduced the two standing on a beautiful eminence, in therear of the general's sumptuous mansion. 

The sun was about going down, and its long, golden rays streamedover hill and dale, palace and cot, clothing all in a voluptuousflow of rich light. 

They had stood for several moments in silence, gazing at the quietand beautiful scene before them, when the musical voice of Rubineaubroke forth in exclamations of delight at the blessings of peace. 

Alett was not long in answering. It was a theme on which shedelighted to dwell. Turning the gaze of her large, full eyes uptowards those of Rubineau, she said, "Even so it is. Holy Peace! It. Is strange that men will love thetrumpet's blast, and the smoke and the heat of the conflict, betterthan its gentle scenes. Peace, peace! blessings on thee, as thougivest blessings!"

Rubineau listened to the words of his Alett with a soul ofadmiration. He gazed upon her with feelings he had never beforefelt, and which it was bliss for him to experience. 

She, the daughter of an officer, brought up amid all the glare andglitter, show and blazonry, of military life, --she, who had seen butone side of the great panorama of martial life, --to speak thus inpraise of peace, and disparagingly of the profession of herfriends-it somewhat surprised the first speaker. 

"It is true, " he replied; "but how uncertain is the continuance ofthe blessings we now enjoy! To-morrow may sound the alarm whichshall call me from your side to the strife and tumult of war. Instead of your gentle words, I may hear the shouts of theinfuriated soldiery, the cry of the wounded, and the sighs of thedying. "

"Speak not so, " exclaimed Alett; "it must not be. "

"Do you not love your country?" inquired the youth. 

"I do, but I love Rubineau more. There are warriors enough ready forthe battle. It need not be that you go. But why this alarm? We weretalking of peace, and, behold, now we have the battle-field beforeus-war and all its panoply!"

"Pardon me, my dearest Alett, for borrowing trouble; but at times, when I am with you, and thinking of our present joy, the thoughtwill arise that it may be taken from us. " No more words were neededto bring to the mind of Alett all that filled that of Rubineau. Theyembraced each the other more affectionately than ever, and silentlyrepaired to the house of the general. 

CHAPTER II. 

"To remain will be dishonor; to go may be death! When a Roman falls, the foe has one more arrow aimed at his heart; an arrow barbed withrevenge, and sent with unerring precision. Hark! that shout is musicto every soldier's ear. Hear you that tramp of horsemen? thatrumbling of chariot-wheels?"

Twelve months had passed since the time of the last chapter, and, after repeated threatening, war had actually begun. Instead of idlehours, the soldiers had busy moments, and every preparation was madeto meet the opposing array in a determined manner, and with asteadiness of purpose that should insure success. 

The general watched for some time the fluctuating appearance ofpublic affairs, and it was not until war was not only certain, butactually in progress, that he called upon Rubineau to go forth. 

A week hence Rubineau and Alett were to be united in marriage; andinvitations had been extended far and near, in anticipation of theevent. It had been postponed from week to week, with the hope thatthe various rumors that were circulated respecting impending dangerto the country might prove untrue, or at least to have a foundationon some weak pretence, which reasonable argument might overthrow. 

Day by day these rumors increased, and the gathering together of thesoldiery betokened the certainty of an event which would fall as aburning meteor in the midst of the betrothed and their friends. 

The call for Rubineau to depart was urgent, and its answer admittedof no delay. 

"To remain, " said the general, "will be dishonor; to go may bedeath: which will you choose?"

It was a hard question for the young man to answer. But it must bemet. The general loved him, and with equal unwillingness thequestion was presented and received. 

"I go. If Rubineau falls--"

"If he returns, " exclaimed the general, interrupting him, "honor, and wealth, and a bride who loves and is loved, shall be his-allhis. "

It was a night of unusual loveliness. The warm and sultry atmosphereof the day had given place to cool and gentle breezes. The starswere all out, shining as beacons at the gates of a paradise above;and the moon began and ended her course without the attendance ofone cloud to veil her beauties from the observation of the dwellerson earth. 

Rubineau and Alett were seated beneath a bower, cultivated by thefair hand of the latter. 

The next morning Rubineau was to depart. All the happy scenes of thecoming week were to be delayed, and the thought that they might bedelayed long-ay, forever-came like a shadow of evil to brood inmelancholy above the place and the hour. 

We need not describe the meeting, the parting. 

"Whatever befalls me, I shall not forget you, Alett. Let us hope forthe best. Yet a strange presentiment I have that I shall notreturn. "

"O that I could go with you!" said Alett. "Think you father wouldobject?"

"That were impossible. Nothing but love, true and enduring, couldmake such a proposal. It would be incurring a two-fold danger. "

"Death would be glorious with you, --life insupportable without you!"

In such conversation the night passed, and when the early light ofmorning came slowly up the eastern sky, the sound of a trumpetcalled him away. 

The waving of a white flag was the last signal, and the general, allunused to tears as he was, mingled his with those of his family asthe parting kiss was given, and Rubineau started on a warfare theresult of which was known only to Him who governs the destinies ofnations and of individuals. 

And now, in the heat of the conflict, the war raged furiously. Rubineau threw himself in the front rank, and none was more bravethan he. It seemed to his fellow-officers that he was urged on bysome unseen agency, and guarded from injury by some spirit of good. 

To himself but one thought was in his mind; and, regardless ofdanger, he pressed forward for a glorious victory, and honor tohimself and friends. 

Those whose leader he was were inspirited by his courageous action, and followed like true men where he led the way. 

They had achieved several victories, and were making an onset uponnumbers four-fold as large as their own, when their leader receiveda severe wound, and, falling from his noble horse, would have beentrampled to death by his followers, had not those who had seen himfall formed a circle around as a protection for him. 

This serious disaster did not dampen the ardor of the soldiers;they pressed on, carried the point, and saw the foe make a rapidretreat. 

The shouts of victory that reached the ears of Rubineau came with ablessing. He raised himself, and shouted, "On, brave men!" But theeffort was too much for him to sustain for any length of time, andhe fell back completely exhausted. 

He was removed to a tent, and had every attention bestowed upon him. As night approached, and the cool air of evening fanned his brow, hebegan to revive, but not in any great degree. 

The surgeon looked sad. There was evidently reason to fear theworst; and, accustomed as he was to such scenes, he was now butpoorly prepared to meet it. 

"Rubineau is expiring, " whispered a lad, as he proceeded quietlyamong the ranks of soldiers surrounding the tent of the wounded. 

And it was so. His friends had gathered around his couch, and, conscious of the approach of his dissolution, he bade them allfarewell, and kissed them. 

"Tell her I love, I die an honorable death; tell her that herRubineau fell where the arms of the warriors clashed the closest, and that victory hovered above him as his arm grew powerless; and, O, tell her that it was all for her sake, --love for her nerved hisarm, and love for her is borne upward on his last, his dying prayer. Tell her to love as I--"

"He is gone, sir, " said the surgeon. 

"Gone!" exclaimed a dozen voices. 

"A brave man has fallen, " remarked another, as he raised his arm, and wiped the flowing tears from his cheek. 

CHAPTER III. 

At the mansion of the old general every arrival of news from the warsent a thrill of joy through the hearts of its inmates. Hitherto, every despatch told of victory and honor; but now a sad chapter wasto be added to the history of the conflict. 

Alett trembled as she beheld the slow approach of the messenger, who, at all previous times, had come with a quick step. In her soulshe felt the keen edge of the arrow that was just entering it, andlonged to know all, dreadful though it might be. 

Need we describe the scene of fearful disclosure? If the reader hasfollowed the mind of Alett, as from the first it has presumed, conjectured, and fancied, --followed all its hopes of future bliss, and seen it revel in the sunshine of honor and earthly fame, --he canform some idea, very faint though it must be, of the effect whichfollowed the recital of all the facts in regard to the fallen. 

In her wild frenzy of grief, she gave utterance to the deep feelingsof her soul with words that told how deep was her sorrow, and howunavailing every endeavor which friends exerted to allay its pangs. 

She would not believe him dead. She would imagine him at her side, and would talk to him of peace, "sweet peace, " and laugh in clearand joyous tones as she pictured its blessings, and herself enjoyingwith him its comforts. 

Thus, with enthroned reason, she would give vent to grief; and, withher reason dethroned, be glad and rejoice. 

And so passed her lifetime. 

Often, all day long, attired in bridal raiment, the same in whichshe had hoped to be united indissolubly to Rubineau, she remainedseated in a large oaken chair, while at her side stood the helmetand spear he had carried forth on the morning when they parted. Atsuch times, she was as calm as an infant's slumberings, saying thatshe was waiting for the sound of the marriage-bells; asked why theydid not ring, and sat for hours in all the beauty of loveliness-theWarrior's Bride. 

THE ADVENT OF HOPE. 

 ONCE on a time, from scenes of light An angel winged his airy flight; Down to this earth in haste he came, And wrote, in lines of living flame, These words on everything he met, -- "Cheer up, be not discouraged yet!" Then back to heaven with speed he flew, Attuned his golden harp anew; Whilst the angelic throng came round To catch the soul-inspiring sound; And heaven was filled with new delight, For HOPE had been to earth that night. 

CHILD AND SIRE. 

 "KNOW you what intemperance is?" I asked a little child, Who seemed too young to sorrow know, So beautiful and mild. It raised its tiny, blue-veined hand, And to a church-yard near It pointed, whilst from glistening eye Came forth the silent tear. 

 "Yes, for yonder, in that grave, Is my father lying; And these words he spake to me While he yet was dying: "'Mary, when the sod lies o'er me And an orphan child thou art, -- When companions ask thy story, Say intemperance aimed the dart. When the gay the wine-cup circle, Praise the nectar that doth shine, When they'd taste, then tell thy story, And to earth they'll dash the wine. ' "And there my dear-loved mother lies, -- What bitter tears I've shed Over her grave!-I cannot think That she is really dead. And when the spring in beauty blooms, At morning's earliest hour I hasten there, and o'er her grave I plant the little flower. "And patiently I watch to see It rise from out the earth, To see it from its little grave Spring to a fairer birth. For mother said that thus would she, And father, too, and I, Arise from out our graves to meet In mansions in the sky. "O, what intemperance is, there's none On earth can better tell. Intemperance me an orphan made, In this wide world to dwell; Intemperance broke my mother's heart, It took my father's life, And makes the days of man below With countless sorrows rife. " "Know you what intemperance is?" I asked a trembling sire, Whose lamp of life burned dim, and seemed As though 'twould soon expire. He raised his bow‚d head, and then Methought a tear did start, As though the question I had put Had reached his very heart. He raised his head, but 't was to bow It down again and sigh; Methought that old man's hour had come In which he was to die. Not so; he raised it up again, And boldly said, "I can! Intemperance is the foulest curse That ever fell on man. "I had a son, as fair, as bright As ever mortal blest; And day passed day, and year passed year, Whilst I that son carest. For all my hopes were bound in him; I thought, from day to day, That when old age should visit me That son would be my stay. "I knew temptations gathered near, And bade him warning take, -- Consent not, if enticed to sin, E'en for his father's sake. But in a fearful hour he drank From out the poisonous bowl, And then a pang of sorrow lodged Within my inmost soul. "A year had passed, and he whom I Had strove in vain to save Fell, crushed beneath intemperance, Into a drunkard's grave. O, brother, I can tell to thee What vile intemperance is, When one in whom I fondly hoped Met such an end as his! "This was not all; a daughter I Was blest with, and she passed Before me like an angel-form Upon my pathway cast. She loved one with a tender love, She left her father's side, And stood forth, in her robes of white, A young mechanic's bride. "She lived and loved, and loved and lived, For many a happy year; No sorrow clouded o'er her path, But joy was ever near. Ay, those were pleasant hours we spent, Were joyful ones we passed; Alas! too free from care were they On earth to always last. "Then he was tempted, tasted, drank, And then to earth he fell; And ever after misery Within that home did dwell. And soon he died, as drunkards die, With scarce an earthly friend, Yet one bent o'er him tenderly Till life itself did end, "And when life's chord was broken, when His spirit went forth free, In all her anguish then she came To bless and comfort me. Yet she, too, died, ere scarce twelve months Had passed o'er her head, And in yon much-loved church-yard now She resteth with the dead. That little child you spoke to is The child she left behind; I love her for her mother's sake, And she is good and kind. And every morning, early, to Yon flowery grave she'll go; And I thank my God she's with me To bless me here below. "I had a brother, but he died The drunkard's fearful death; He bade me raise a warning voice Till Time should stay my breath. And thousands whom in youth I loved Have fallen 'neath the blast Of ruin which intemperance Hath o'er the wide world cast. " He spoke no more, --the gushing tears His furrowed cheeks did leap; The little child came quick to know What made the old man weep. He, trembling, grasped my hand and said (The little child grasped his), "May you ne'er know, as I have known, What sad intemperance is!" And since that hour, whene'er I look Around me o'er the earth, And see the wine-cup passing free 'Mid scenes of festive mirth, I think how oft it kindleth up Within its raging fire, And fain would tell to all the truths I heard from "Child and Sire. "

A BROTHER'S WELCOME. 

 WELCOME, brother, welcome home! Here's a father's hand to press thee; Here's a mother's heart to bless thee; Here's a brother's will to twine Joys fraternal close with thine; Here's a sister's earnest love, Equalled but by that above; Here are friends who once did meet thee, Gathered once again to greet thee. Welcome, brother, welcome home! Thou hast wandered far away; Many a night and many a day We have thought where thou might'st be, On the land or on the sea; Whether health was on thy cheek, Or that word we dare not speak Hung its shadowy wing above thee, Far away from those who love thee. Welcome, brother, welcome home! Here, where youthful days were spent Ere life had its labor lent, Where the hours went dancing by, 'Neath a clear, unclouded sky. And our thanks for blessings rendered Unto God were daily tendered, Here as ever pleasures reign, Welcome to these scenes again!

THE IMMENSITY OF CREATION. 

IT is well for man to consider the heavens, the work of God's hands;the moon and the stars, which he has created. To look forth upon theuniverse, of which we form a part, fills us with high and ennoblingthoughts, and inspires us with an earnest desire to press onward inthe endless path, at every step of which new wonders and new joysspring up to greet our vision, and to gladden our souls. 

Whichever way we look, above or below us, to the right or the left, we find a boundless expanse teeming with life and its enjoyments. This earth, large as it may appear to us, is less than a grain ofsand in size, when compared with the vastness around it. 

Take your soul away from earth, and send it on a mission of researchamong other worlds. Let it soar far away to where the dog-star, Sirius, holds its course; and then, though nineteen billion twohundred million miles from earth, a distance so great, that light, travelling, as it does, at the rate of six million six hundred andtwenty thousand miles a minute, would require three years to passit, --even then, when the journeying spirit had reached such a point, it might pass on and on, --new worlds meeting its gaze at everyadvance, and new wonders being seen as far beyond the point it hadattained as the inconceivable length of the path it had alreadytravelled multiplied a myriad of times. 

We can scarcely comprehend the vast distance of Sirius; yet, greatas this distance is, it is the nearest star to our system, and starshave been seen whose distance from the earth is estimated to be athousand times as great!

Can human mind mark that range? A thousand times nineteen billiontwo hundred million! And were we to stand on the last of thesediscovered stars, we might look yet far beyond, and see "infinity, boundless infinity, stretching on, unfathomed, forever. "

To have an idea of the vastness of creation, we must possess themind of the Creator. What are we? We live and move and have ourbeing on a grain of creation, that is being whirled throughboundless space with inconceivable rapidity. And we affect to beproud of our estate! We build houses and we destroy them; we wagewar, kill, brutify, enslave, ruin each other; or, we restore, beautify, and bless. We are vain, sometimes. We think the world wasmade for us; the stars shine for us, and all the hosts that gem thedrapery of night created for our special benefit. Astonishingpresumption!-born of ignorance and cradled in credulity!

The mind grows dizzy as it attempts to conceive of constellationbeyond constellation, on and on, through endless space. 

Commencing with this earth, the mind given up to serious reflectionmuses upon its broad extent of territory, its continents and itsoceans, and it appears very large indeed. Forgetting, for a moment, its knowledge of other planets, it believes that this world is thewhole universe of God; that the sun, moon and stars, are but lightsin the firmament of heaven to give light upon the earth. But truthsteps in and change the mind's view. It shows that, large andimportant as this earth may appear, the sun, which is spoken of asinferior, is three hundred and fifty-four thousand nine hundred andthirty six times larger; and the stars, that seem like diamondpoints above us, are, many of them, larger than the sun, one beingone billion eight hundred million miles in diameter. Yet, such abulk, when compared to the universe, is less than a monad. 

A "monad" is an indivisible atom. It is as incomprehensible as themysteries of creation, or the duration of eternity. 

Tripoli, or rotten-stone, an article used in every family, and tonsof which are daily employed in manufactories, is composed entirelyof animalcul‘. In each cubic inch there are forty-one billion, thatis, forty-one million-million of these living, breathing creatures, each of whom has organs of sight, hearing and digestion. Think, ifyou can, of the internal organization of beings a million of whomcould rest on the point of a cambric needle!

But there are more minute forms of creation than even those. Deposita grain, the four hundred and eightieth part of an ounce of musk, inany place, and, for twenty years, it will throw off exhalations offragrance, without causing any perceptible decrease of weight. Thefragrance that for so many years goes forth from that minute portionof matter is composed of particles of musk. How small must each ofthose particles be, that follow each other in ceaseless successionfor twenty years, without lessening, to any perceptible degree, theweight of the deposit! And yet we have not reached the monad. Acelebrated author

Niewentyt. Made a computation which led to the conclusion that sixbillion as many atoms of light flow from a candle in one second asthere are grains of sand in the whole earth, supposing each cubicinch to contain one million!

Here we must stop. Further advances are impossible, yet our end isnot attained; we have not yet reached the monad, for the animalcul‘and the less sentient particles of matter, light, are not, for theyare divisible. 

The insect can be divided, because it has limbs with which to move;and an intelligence higher than man can doubtless see emanationsfrom those particles of light. But a monad is indivisible! Think ofeach cubic inch of this great earth containing a million grains ofsand, and those countless grains multiplied by one billion, or amillion-million, and that the product only shows the number ofparticles of light that flow from a candle in one second oftime!-and not a monad yet! Minds higher than ours can separate eachof these particles, and yet perhaps they find not the indivisible, but assign over to other minds the endless task. 

With such thoughts let us return to our first point, and remark thatthe star tens of billions of miles distant, one billion eighthundred million miles in diameter, is but a monad when compared withthe creations of the vast universe of God!

Here the mind sinks within itself, and gladly relinquishes theherculean task of endeavoring to comprehend, for a single moment, afractional part of the stupendous whole. 

Deep below us, high above us, far as the eye of the mind can seearound us, are the works of our Creator, marshalled in countlesshosts. All animated by his presence, all breathed upon by his life, inspired by his divinity, fostered by his love, supported by hispower. 

And in all things there is beauty-sunbeams and rainbows; fragrantflowers whose color no art can equal. In every leaf, every branch, every fibre, every stone, there is a perfect symmetry, perfectadaptation to the conditions that surround it. And thus it is, fromthe minutest insect undiscernible by human eye, to the planet whosesize no figures can represent. Each and all the works of God ordergoverns, symmetry moulds, and beauty adorns. 

There are all grades of beings, from the monad to the highestintelligences, and man occupies his position in the endless chain. Could you hear and see, as seraphs listen and behold, you would hearone continuous song of glad praise go up from all creation; youwould see all things radiant with smiles, reflecting the joys ofheaven. And why? Because they follow nature's leading, and, in doingso, live and move in harmony. 

Who can scale the heights above us, or fathom the depths below us?Who can comprehend the magnitude of countless worlds that roll inspace-the distance that separates the nearest orb from our earth, the worlds of being in a drop of water, the mighty array of angelforms that fill immensity?

Well may we exclaim, "Great and marvellous are thy works, O Lord ofHosts, and that my soul knoweth right well!"

A VISION OF HEAVEN. 

 NIGHT had shed its darkness round me; Wearied with the cares of day, Rested I. Sleep's soft folds bound me, And my spirit fled away. As on eagle pinions soaring, On I sped from star to star, Till heaven's high and glistening portals Met my vision from afar. Myriad miles I hasted over; Myriad stars I pass‚d by: On and on my tireless spirit Urged its ceaseless flight on high. Planets burned with glorious radiance, Lighting up my trackless way; On I sped, till music coming From the realms of endless day Fell upon my ear, --as music Chanted by celestial choirs Only can, --and then my spirit Longed to grasp their golden lyres Stood I hear that portal wondering Whether I could enter there: I, of earth and sin the subject, Child of sorrow and of care! There I stood like one uncalled for, Willing thus to hope and wait, Till a voice said, "Why not enter? Why thus linger at the gate? "Know me not? Say whence thou comest Here to join our angel band. Know me not? Here, take thy welcome- Take thine angel-sister's hand. " Then I gazed, and, gazing, wondered; For 't was she who long since died, -- She who in her youth departed, Falling early at my side. "Up, " said she, "mid glorious temples! Up, where all thy loved ones rest! They with joy will sing thy welcome To the mansions of the blest. Mansions where no sin can enter, Home where all do rest in peace; Where the tried and faithful spirit From its trials finds release; "Golden courts, where watchful cherubs Tune their harps to holy praise; Temples in which countless myriads Anthems of thanksgiving raise. " I those shining portals entered, Guided by that white-robed one, When a glorious light shone round me, Brighter than the noonday sun! Friends I met whom death had severed From companionship below; All were there-and in each feature Immortality did glow. I would touch their golden lyres, When upon my ear there broke Louder music--at that moment I from my glad vision woke. All was silent; scarce a zephyr Moved the balmy air of night; And the moon, in meekness shining, Shed around its hallowed light. 

THERE'S HOPE FOR THEE YET. 

 WHAT though from life's bounties thou mayest have fallen? What though thy sun in dark clouds may have set? There is a bright star that illumes the horizon, Telling thee truly, "There's hope for thee yet. " This earth may look dull, old friends may forsake thee; Sorrows that never before thou hast met May roll o'er thy head; yet that bright star before thee Shines to remind thee "there's hope for thee yet. " 'T is but folly to mourn, though fortune disdain thee, Though never so darkly thy sun may have set; 'T is wisdom to gaze at the bright star before thee, And shout, as you gaze, "There's hope for me yet. "

SOLILOQUY OVER THE GRAVE OF A WIFE. 

 IT cannot be that thou art dead; that now I watch beside thy grave, and with my tears Nourish the flowers that blossom over thee; I cannot think that thou art dead and gone; That naught remains to me of what thou wert, Save that which lieth here, --dust unto dust. When the bright sun arises, and its rays Pass noiseless through my chamber, then methinks That thou art with me still; that I can see Thy flowing hair; and thy bright glancing eye Beams on me with a look none other can. And when at noon life's busy tumult makes My senses reel, and I almost despair, Thou comest to me and I'm cheered again; Thine own bright smile illuminates my way, And one by one the gathered clouds depart, Till not a shadow lies upon my path. Night, with its long and sombre shadows, treads Upon the steps that morn and noon have trod; And, as our children gather round my knee, And lisp those evening prayers thy lips have taught, I cannot but believe that thou art near. But when they speak of "mother, " when they say "'T is a long time since she hath left our side, " And when they ask, in their soft infant tones, When they again shall meet thee, --then I feel A sudden sadness o'er my spirit come: And when sleep holds them in its silken bands I wander here, to this fair spot they call Thy grave (as though this feeble earth could hold Thee in its cold embrace), and weep and sigh; Yet, trusting, look above to yon bright sphere, And feel thou art not dead, but living there. It is not thou that fills this spot of earth, It is not thou o'er whom these branches wave, These blooming roses only mark the spot Where but remaineth that thou couldst not wear Amid immortal scenes. Thou livest yet! Thy feet do tread the golden courts of heaven; Thy hands have touched the harps that angels use; Thy eyes have seen the glory of our Lord; Thy ears have listened to that song of praise Which angels utter, and which God accepts. 

THE FUGITIVES. 

 THEY had escaped the galling chain and fetters, Had gained the freedom which they long had sought, And lived like men-in righteous deeds abettors, Loving the truth which God to them had taught Some at the plough had labored late and early; And some ascended Learning's glorious mount; And some in Art had brought forth treasures pearly, Which future history might with joy recount As gems wrought out by hands which God made free, But man had sworn should chained and fettered be. They lived in peace, in quietness, and aided In deeds of charity-in acts of love; Nor cared though evil men their works upbraided, While conscience whispered of rewards above. And they had wives to love, children who waited At eve to hear the father's homeward tread, And clasped the hand, --or else, with joy elated, Sounding his coming, to their mother sped. Thus days and years passed by, and hope was bright, Nor dreamed they of a dark and gloomy night. Men came empowered, with handcuffs and with warrants, And, entering homes, tore from their warm embrace Husbands and fathers, and in copious torrents Poured forth invective on our northern race, And done all "lawfully;" because 't was voted By certain men, who, when they had the might, Fostered plans on which their passions doted, Despite of reason and God's law of right; And, bartering liberties, the truth dissembled, While Freedom's votaries yielded as they trembled. Shall we look on and bear the insult given? O, worse than "insult" is it to be chained, To have the fetters on thy free limbs riven, When once the prize of Freedom has been gained. No! by the granite pointing high above us, By Concord, Lexington, and, Faneuil Hall, By all these sacred spots, by those who love us, We pledge to-day our hate of Slavery's thrall; And give to man, whoever he may be, The power we have to make and keep him free. 

THE UNIVERSAL JUBILEE. 

 WHAT shouts shall rise when earth shall hold Its universal jubilee! When man no more is bought and sold, And one and all henceforth are free!

 Then songs they'll sing, That loud shall ring From rock to rock, from shore to shore. "Hurra!" they'll shout, "we're free, we're free, From land to land, from sea to sea, And chains and fetters bind no more!" Let every freeman strive to bring The universal jubilee; All hail the day when earth shall ring With shouts of joy, and men are free!

 Then each glad voice Shall loud rejoice, And chains shall fall from every hand, Whilst myriad tongues shall loudly tell The grateful joy of hearts that swell, Where Freedom reigns o'er sea and land. 

TAPVILLE was situated on the borders of one of the most beautifulrivers that grace and refresh the soil of New England. It was once aquiet place, once as perfect in its character as any of itssisterhood. A moral atmosphere pervaded it, and the glorious anddivine principle of doing unto others as they would have others dounto them governed its inhabitants; and, therefore, it was notstrange that its farmers and storekeepers kept good the proverbialhonesty and hospitality of their progenitors. Tradition said (butwritten history was silent) that a few of those who landed atPlymouth Rock separated from the main body, and took up their abodefurther in the interior; and that, from these "few, " a flourishingcompany arose, and the place they inhabited was "Springvale. " Buttime and circumstances having much to do with the concerns ofearth's inhabitants, changed the character as well as the name ofthis ancient town, and "Springvale" became "Tapville. "

One evening, in the year one thousand eight hundred and I don'tremember what, after a somewhat fatiguing ride on horseback all day, my heart was cheered on coming in view of the town. I had nevervisited Tapville, but, from accounts I had heard, judged it to be asort of Pandemonium-a juvenile Bedlam. As I entered, troops ofchildren greeted me with shouts, and my horse with stones. Despiteof my treatment, I could not but compare their appearance, to saynothing of their conduct, with those I had last seen in anothertown, thirty miles distant. These were attired in rags, those ingood clothing; these with unwashed faces, uncombed hair, and bearingevery mark of neglect, --those bright and smiling, happy themselves, and making all around them so. 

I did not much fancy my reception, I assure you. My horse seemedwondering at the cause of it, for he suddenly halted, then turnedslowly about, and began to canter away with a speed that I thoughtquite impossible for a beast after a long day's work. I reined himin, turned about, and entered the town by a small and not muchfrequented pathway. 

There was a large building at my left, with a huge sign over itsprincipal door, from which I learned that "Good Entertainment forMan and Beast" might be had within. Appearances, however, indicatedthat a beast must be a very bad beast who would accept its"entertainment. "

A fat man, wearing a green jacket on his back, an old torn andtattered straw hat on his head, and both hands in his pockets, stoodlazily at the door; before which half a score of dirty children wereplaying with marbles, and a short distance from which a couple ofchildren were fighting, upon whose pugilistic exercises a woman, with a child in her arms and a pipe in her mouth, was gazing withintense interest. 

The general appearance of the town was far from pleasing. At nearlyevery window, hats, or shingles, or bundles of rags, took the placeof glass, and the doors, instead of being hung on hinges, were "setup, " liable to be set down by the first gust of wind. 

Near one miserable shantee, poor, very poor apology for adwelling-house, one man was endeavoring to get another into thehouse; at least, so I thought; but both were so much intoxicatedthat I could not tell, for my life, which the latter was. At onemoment, the man with the blue coat with the tails cut off seemed tobe helping the man without a coat; the next moment, I thought thecoatless man was trying to help the other. The fact was, both neededhelp, which neither could give; so they remained "in a fix. "

Now and then, a bare-footed little child would run across my path, and hurry out of sight, as if fearful of being seen where so muchthat was neither of heaven nor of earth was discernible. 

In striking contrast with the want and desolation around, stood abeautiful mansion. Around it was a garden of choice flowers, and thevine, with its rich clusters of luscious grapes, shaded the path tothe entrance of the house. 

I continued on. Far up a shaded avenue I perceived a small, yet neatcottage, so different in general appearance from those around it, that I turned my way thither, in hopes of resting in quiet, and, ifpossible, of learning something relative to the town. I alighted, knocked, and soon an old lady requested me to enter, saying thatTommy would see that my horse was cared for. It was a small roomthat I entered; everything was as neat and clean as a New Year'sgift, and there was so much of New England about it, that I felt athome. Near an open window, in an easy-chair, sat a young lady ofdecidedly prepossessing appearance but evidently wasting beneaththat scourge of eastern towns and cities-consumption. There was ahue upon her cheek that was in beautiful contrast with the purewhite of her high forehead, and the dark, penetrating eye thatflashed with the deep thoughts of her soul. 

The old lady was one of those good-natured, motherly women, whom youwill find at the firesides of New England homes, generous to afault; and whom you cannot but love, for the interest she takes inyou, and the solicitude she manifests for your welfare. 

A repast was soon at hand, and when it was over the lady said, "You are from Boston, then?"

"Yes, " I replied; "and, having heard considerable respecting thisplace, have come hither to satisfy myself whether or not any goodwould be likely to result from a temperance lecture here. "

"Temperance lecture!" she exclaimed, as she grasped my hand. "Do, sir, for Heaven's sake, do something, do anything you possibly can, to stay the ravages of the rum fiend in this place!"

She would have said more, but she could not. The fountains of herheart seemed breaking, and a flood of tears flowed from her eyes. The daughter buried her face in her hands, and the sighs that arosefrom both mother and child told me that something had been said thatdeeply affected them. 

Tommy at this moment came in, happy and joyous; but, as soon as hesaw his mother and sister weeping, his whole appearance changed. Heapproached his mother, and, looking up in her face, said, "Don'tcry, mother. Jenny will be better soon, and Tommy will work and makeyou and her happy. Don't cry, mother!"

The child's simple entreaty brought more copiously the tears to themourner's eyes, and some time elapsed before they became in theleast degree comforted. 

"You will excuse me, sir, " said she, "I know you will, for my grief;but, O, if temperance had been here ten years ago, we should havebeen so happy!"

"Yes, " said the boy; "then father would not have died a drunkard!"

The surmises I had entertained as to the cause of this sorrow werenow confirmed; and, at my request, she told me her story, with ahope that it might prove a warning to others. 

"You must know, sir, that when we came here to live we were justmarried. Alfred, my husband, was a good mechanic, industrious, frugal and kind-hearted. He had by his labor and economyaccumulated a small amount, enough to purchase an estate consistingof a house, shop and farm. He had many and good customers, and ourprospects were very fair. We attended church regularly, for wethought that, after enjoying the bounties of a beneficent Ruler allof six days, it was our duty, as well as privilege, to devote theseventh to His praise. 

"Years passed by, when one morning Jenny, who was then about sevenyears old, came running in, and told me that a new store had beenopened; that the man had nothing but two or three little kegs, and afew bottles and tumblers. I went out, and found it as she hadstated. There was the man; there was his store; there were his kegs, bottles and tumblers. 

"The next day some changes were made; a few signs were seen, and thequiet villagers gazed in wonder, if not admiration, at theinscriptions, 'Rum, ' 'Gin, ' 'Brandies, ' 'Wines and Cigars. ' Old menshook their heads, and looked wise. Old women peered from beneaththeir specs, and gave vent to many predictions. Children asked whatthe words meant. 

"That night I talked with my husband about it. He thought that therewas no danger; that social enjoyment would harm no one; and seemedastonished, to use his own words, 'that such a sensible woman as Iwas should express any anxiety about the matter. ' That night, to me, was a long and sad one. I feared the result of the too muchdependence on self which he seemed to cherish. 

"The rumseller soon gathered a number of townsmen about him. Hisestablishment became a place of frequent resort by many, and soon wehad quarrelling neighbors, and disturbances at night. Boys becamedishonest, and thus the fruits of the iniquitous traffic becamevisible. 

"I noticed that Alfred was not as punctual in his return asformerly; and my fears that he visited this pest-house of the townwere soon confirmed. I hinted to him my suspicions. He was frank, and freely admitted that he visited the bar-room; said he had becomeacquainted with a few choice spirits, true friends, who had sworneternal friendship. 'Danger, ' said he, 'there is none! If I thoughtI endangered your happiness, I would not visit it again. ' Irecollect the moment. He looked me steadily in the face, and, as hedid so, a tear escaped my eye. He, smiling, wiped it away, promisedthat when he saw evil he would avoid it, and left me alone to myreflections. 

"But I will be brief. I need not tell you how, step by step, hedescended that ladder whose end rested in the grave. I need not tellyou how I warned him of dander; how I entreated him to avoid it;how I watched him in sickness, and bathed his fevered brow; how myheart was gladdened when I saw his health returning, and heard hissolemn promise to reform. 

"Nor need I tell you how he was again led astray, and his handencircled that cup which he had once dashed aside. O, sir, he was agood man; and, in his sober moments, he would weep like a child, ashe thought of his situation! He would come to me and pour out hissoul in gratitude for my kindness; and would beg my forgiveness, inthe tenderest manner, till his heart became too full for utterance, and his repentance found vent in his tears. 

"What could I do but forgive him, as I did a hundred times!

"Disheartened, I became sick. I was not expected to survive; andJenny, poor, child, watched by my side, and contracted an illness, from which, I fear, she will not be freed till the God she lovescalls her home to himself. 

"When I recovered, Alfred remained for some time sober and happy. But he fell! Yes, sir; but God knows he tried to stand, and wouldhave done so had not the owner of that groggery, by foul stratagem, hurled him to the ground. I went, my daughter went, friends went, toask the destroyer of our happiness to desist; but he turned us awaywith an oath and a laugh, saying, 'he would sell to all who wanted. '

"Frequent exposure brought disease; disease brought death, and myhusband died. 

"All our property was sold to meet the demands of mercilesscreditors, the principal one of whom was this very rumseller whoturned me from his doors. A friend furnished us with the cottage inwhich we have since lived. Many kind-hearted friends have gatheredaround us, and we have been happy, save when the recollections ofthe past rise before us. Others, beside myself, have had cause tomourn and our town, once inhabited by happy, quiet and contentedfamilies, has become noted as a seat of iniquity. 

"He who has caused this change is now the wealthiest man in town. You might have seen his stately palace as you rode up, environedwith fruits and flowers. He lives there; but, within the shade ofthat mansion, are the wretched hovels of those upon whose ruin hesits enthroned. He has roses and fruits at his door, but they havebeen watered by widows' tears; and the winds that reach his homeamid rich vines and laden trees may bear to his ears the orphan'scry, from whose mouth he has taken the daily bread. "

When the old lady had finished her narrative, she could restrain hertears no longer, and they burst forth as freely as at first. 

I inquired whether there were any beside herself who would becomeinterested in a temperance movement. She replied that there weremany, but they wished some one to start it. 

I had left a gentleman at the town I last came from, who was aneloquent advocate; and my first act, after listening to the widow'snarrative, was to write a note, and send it in all possible haste tohim. 

The next day he came; and, if you could have seen the joy of thatfamily as I told them that we had announced a meeting, you wouldhave some faint idea of the happiness which the temperance reformhas produced. 

From what I had learned, I expected that we should meet with someopposition from the wealthy individual before alluded to, or fromhis agents, who were so blinded to their own interests that theycould not be easily induced to move for their own good. 

The evening came, and the room we had engaged was well filled. Myfriend arose, when a stone, hurled at him from without, missed itsaim, and struck a lamp at his side, dashing it into a hundredfragments. Little disconcerted at this, he began his address; and, in a short time, gained the attention of the audience in so perfecta manner, that they heeded not the attempts of a noisy crowd withoutto disturb them. 

He continued on. Men leaned forward to catch his words, and somearose and stood as motionless as statues, with eyes fixed intentlyon the speaker. Women wept; some in sorrow for the past, others injoy for the future. A deep feeling pervaded all. The disturbancewithout ceased, and one by one the disturbers came to the door; oneby one they entered, and began to feel the truths which the speakersuttered. 

The only interruption was made by an aged man, who bowed his silveryhead, and, in trembling accents, moaned out, "My son, my son!" Thesewords, uttered at the expiration of every few minutes, increased thesolemnity of the occasion, and added power to the lecturer'sremarks, for all knew the story of his son, and all knew that he wascarried home dead from the groggery. 

When, at the end of the lecture, it was asked who would sign thepledge, the whole assembly started to respond to the call, and eachone that night became pledged to total abstinence. 

The next day a great excitement existed relative to the groggeriesin town; a meeting was called, and a committee appointed to act in amanner they thought best calculated to promote the interests of thepeople at large. 

This committee determined to present the facts to the keepers of theplaces in question, and request them to renounce the traffic. 

The facts were presented. They saw that their customers had all leftthem, and why should they continue? It would be a losing business. 

The effect of the moral suasion had been powerful; it labored withthe very soul of the traffic, with those who put the pence in thedealers' coffers. It was more powerful than all laws that could havebeen enacted. Forbidding them to sell while customers crowded theirdoors would have had no effect, unless to create riot; inducingtheir customers to leave them soon induced them to leave thebusiness, for where there are none to buy there will be none tosell. 

In view of all this, the rumsellers of Tapville gave up; and, strange to say, joined with the people that night in theirrejoicing, and made a bonfire of their stock in trade. 

By the light of that fire my friend and I left the town; and whenfar away we could see its glare, and hear the shouts of adisenthralled people. 

After a few months' travel in the south and west, I revisitedTapville, or rather the place where it once stood; but no Tapvillewas there. The town had regained its former sobriety and quiet, andbecame "Springvale. "

I called at the widow's cottage; Tommy ran out to meet me, and Ireceived a welcome I shall never forget. But Jenny was no more; withher last breath she had blessed the temperance cause, and then herpure spirit winged its way to that home where sorrows never come, and where the troubles of earth are forgotten amid the joys ofheaven. 

THE BATTLE OF THE RED MEN. 

 'T WAS cold, bleak winter, on a rock-bound coast, When bands of exiles trod its frozen shore. Who then stood forth to greet the coming host And shelter freely give when storms did pour?

 Old Samoset-peace to his memory still!-

 He bade them welcome, welcome, with good will. Then was the red man's nation broad and strong- O'er field and forest he held firm control; Then power was his to stay the coming throng, And back the wave of usurpation roll. 

 He might have crushed them on old Plymouth's rock, And freedom to this day have felt the shock. Not so he willed it; he would have them sit In peace and amity around his door; The pipe of peace in friendship would have lit, And, as its white cloud up towards heaven did soar, Learned that like it the spirits pure and white

 Ascend, to live in never-ceasing light. But what return did they profusely give Who were dependent on the red man's corn? Not even to them the privilege to live, But war and fire, torture, hate and scorn!

 Hunted like wild beasts through the forests' track;

 For food and welcome such they gave him back. Then roused to madness was the Indian's soul, Then grasped with firmness every one his bow; No mortal power his purpose could control, Till he had seen the traitors lying low. 

 Revenge! revenge! was sounded far and wide, O'er every field and every river's tide. The little child that scarce could lisp a word Was taught to hate the white man; maidens fair Were roused to fearful vengeance, as they heard Their brothers' wrongs, and madly tore their hair;

 Old men urged on the young, and young men fled

 Swift to increase the armies of the dead. And thus the war began, --the fearful war That swept o'er happy homesteads like a flood; The white and red man knew no other law Than that which wrote its every act in blood. 

 Daylight beheld the ball and arrow's flight, And blazing homes made terrible the night. The rifle's sharp report, the arrow's whiz, The shout, the yell, the fearful shriek of death; Despair in him who saw the last of his, And heard "good-by" from children's dying breath;

 The last sad look of prisoners borne away, And groan of torture, marked the night and day. With arms more skilful-not with hearts more true, Or souls more brave to battle for the right- The white the unjust warfare did pursue, Till, inch by inch, the red man took his flight

 From homes he loved, from altars he revered, And left, forever, scenes to him endeared. O, what an hour for those brave people that! Old men, whose homes were loved as homes can be; Young men and maidens who had often sat In love and peace beneath the forest tree;

 Parents who'd planted flowers; and with warm tears

 Watered the graves of dearest-gone for years! From every tree a voice did seem to start, And every shrub that could a shadow cast Seemed to lament the fate that bade them part, So closely twined was each one with the past. 

 O, was it strange they fought with furious zeal?

 Say, men who think, and have warm hearts to feel. And thus they went, --a concourse of wronged men, -- Not with a speedy flight; each inch they gave, Each blade of grass that passed beyond their ken, Was sold for blood, and for a patriot's grave;

 And white men paid the price-and now they hold

 This broad, broad land for cost more dear than gold. And yet 't is not enough; the cry for more Hath vexed the Indian, till the Atlantic's wave Now blends with it the thunder of its roar, And soon shall sound the requiem o'er the grave

 Of the last Indian, --last of that brave band

 Who once held sway o'er all this fertile land. Methinks to-day I see him stand alone, Drawing his blanket close around his form; He hath braved all, hath heard the dying moan Rise from the fields of strife; and now the storm

 That hath swept all before it, age on age, On him, the last, seeks to pour forth its rage. Raising his hand appealing to the sun, He swears, by all he hath or now could crave, That when his life is closed, his life-race run, A white man ne'er shall stand above his grave. 

 Shall he, the last of a once noble race, Consign himself to such a dire disgrace? Never! let rock to rock the word resound; Never! bear witness all ye gods to-day; Never! ye streams and rivers, as ye bound, Write "Never" on your waves, and bear away;

 Tell to the world that, hunted, wronged, abused, With such reproach he ne'er shall be accused, The red man's brethren, tell him where are they; The red man's homes and altars, what their fate? Shall he who stands the last, the last to-day, Forget with his last breath to whisper hate?

 Hate, deep and fathomless, and boundless too, Such as to fiendish cruelty is due. He cannot bear the white man's presence now, Or bear to hear his name or see his works; He thinks that wrong is stamped upon his brow, That in his good deeds selfish purpose lurks. 

 Has he a cause for this?-review the past, And see those acts which prompt hate to the last. Sons of the Pilgrims, who to-day do boast Of Freedom's favors, ye whose wealth doth lie From the Atlantic to the Pacific coast! Let not the race you have supplanted die;

 Perish like forest-leaves from off their lands, Without a just requital at your hands. O, give them homes which they can call their own, Let Knowledge light its torch and lead the way; And meek Religion, from the eternal throne, Be there to usher in a better day;

 Then shall the past be blotted from life's scroll, And all the good ye may do crown the whole. 

SUNLIGHT ON THE SOUL. 

 O, THAT some spirit form would come, From the fair realms of heaven above, And take my outstretched hand in hers, To bathe me in angelic love! O that these longing, peering eyes, Might pierce the shadowy curtain's fold, And see in radiant robes arrayed, The friends whose memory I do hold Close, close within my soul's deep cell! O, that were well! O, that were well! I've often thought, at midnight's hour, That round my couch I could discern A shadowy being, from whose eye I could not, ah! I would not turn. It seemed so sisterly to me, So radiant with looks of love, That ever since I've strove to be More like the angel hosts above. The hopes, the joys were like a spell, And it was well! Yes, it was well! And every hour of day and night I feel an influence o'er me steal, So soothing, pure, so holy, bright, I would each human heart could feel A fraction of the mighty tide Of living joy it sends along. Then why should I complain, and ask Why none of heaven's angelic throng Come to this earth with me to dwell, For all is well, --all, all is well!

A SONG FROM THE ABSENT. 

TO THE LOVED ONE AT HOME. 

 AWAY from home, how slow the hours Pass wearily along! I feel alone, though many forms Around my pathway throng. There's none that look on me in love, Wherever I do roam; I'm longing for thy gentle smile, My dearest one, at home. I walk around; strange things I see, Much that is fair to view; Man's art and Nature's handiwork, And all to me is new. But, ah! I feel my joy were more, If, while 'mid these I roam, It could be shared with thee I love, My dearest one, at home. Blow, blow ye winds, and bear me on My long and arduous way! Move on, slow hours, more swiftly move, And bring to life the day When, journey done, and absence o'er, No more I distant roam; When I again shall be with thee, My dearest one, at home. 

TWILIGHT FOREST HYMN. 

THE HOUR OF PARTING. 

 FRIENDS who here have met to-day, Let us sing our parting lay, Ere we hence do pass away, Ere the sun doth set. As we've trod this grassy earth, Friendships new have had their birth, And this day of festive mirth We shall ne'er forget. Rock, and hill, and shading tree, Streamlet dancing to the sea, Gladly though we'd stay with thee, We must leave you all; On the tree and on the flower Comes the evening's twilight hour, And upon each forest bower Evening's shadows fall. Part we now, but through our life, Hush of peace or jar of strife, Memory will still be rife With glad thoughts of thee; Wheresoe'er our feet may stray, Memory will retain this day; Fare thee well-we haste away, Farewell rock and tree!

THE SUMMER SHOWER. 

 UP from the lake a mist ascends, And forms a sea of cloud above, That hangs o'er earth as if in love With its green vales; then quick it send Its blessings down in cooling rain, On hill and valley, rock and plain. Nature, delighted with the shower, Sends up the fragrance of each flower; Birds carol forth their cheeriest lays, The green leaves rustle forth their praise. Soon, one by one, the clouds depart, And a bright rainbow spans the sky, That seems but the reflective part Of all below, fixed there on high. 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN AUTOMATON. 

EARLY one bright summer morning, as I was perambulating beneaththose noble trees that stand the body-guard of one of the mostbeautiful places of which city life can boast, --Boston Common, --Iencountered a man who attracted my special attention by his apparentcarelessness of action, and humble bearing. He looked dejectedlikewise, and I seated myself on the stone seat beside him. 

He took me by the sleeve of my coat, and whispered in my ear, "I'man Automaton, sir. " A few more words passed between us, after which, at my request, he gave me a sketch of his life, which I propose togive you in language as nearly his own as possible. 

"I was born. I came into this world without any consent of my own, sir, and as soon as I breathed the atmosphere of this mundane stateI was bandaged and pinned, and felt very much as a mummy might besupposed to feel. I was then tossed from Matilda to Jerusha, andfrom Jerusha to Jane, and from Jane to others and others. I tried tolaugh, but found I could n't; so I tried to cry, and succeeded mostadmirably in my effort. 

"'He's sick, ' said my aunt; and my aunt called a doctor, who, wiseman, called for a slip of paper and an errand-boy. 

"The next I knew, my head was being held by my aunt, and the doctorwas pouring down my throat, which he distended with the handle of aspoon, a bitter potion; pouring it down without any consent of myown, sir. 

"Whether I got better or worse I don't know; but I slept for a time, and had a strange dream, of a strange existence, upon which I seemedto have suddenly entered. 

"The subsequent year was one in which I figured not largely, butconsiderably. I made a noise in the world, and was flattered so muchby my mother's acquaintances that my nose has been what is vulgarlycalled 'a pug, ' ever since. I did n't have my own way at all, exceptwhen I screamed. In that I was not an Automaton. I was myself inthat particular; and the more restraint they put upon me, the morefreedom I had. I cried independently of all my aunts and cousins. They could n't dictate me in that. 

"Years passed on, and I grew older, as a matter of course. I grewwithout any consent of my own, sir, and found myself in jacket andtrousers ditto. I was sent to school, and was told to study Greekand Latin, and Algebra, and Pneumatics, and Hydrostatics, and adozen or twenty other things, the very names of which I haveforgotten, but which I well remember bothered me considerably inthose days. I had much rather have studied the laws of my own being;much rather have examined and become acquainted with thearchitecture of my own bodily frame; much rather have studiedsomething more intimately connected with the realities of my ownexistence; but they made me study what was repulsive to my own mind, and speak big words which I did n't understand, and which my teachercould n't explain without the aid of a dictionary. 

"My parents labored under the strange delusion that I was awonderful child. I don't know why, unless it was because I did n'tknow anything of life, and I could repeat a little Latin, stumblethrough a sentence of Greek, and, after having solved a problemseventy-six thousand times to show my wonderful precociousness, could do it again when called upon. Perhaps I'm extravagant. It wasn't more than half that number of times. At any rate, sir, I wasthought a prodigy--a most astonishing intellectual--I don't knowwhat, --call it mushroom, --because what I had done so many times Icould do again. 

"I recollect there was a little youngster of my acquaintance, --acharming, flaxen-haired, blue-eyed boy, --who told me, one day, thathe did n't care for the dead languages, he had rather know the liveones. I thought so too, and we talked a long time, down behind oldTurner's barn, about what should be and what should n't. But I hadto go home. I had to be pulled about, this arm with this wire, andthat foot with that wire. I had to do this and that, to study thisand study that, because-why, because I was an Automaton, sir. I wasborn such. 'T was in my bones to be an Automaton. 

"My school-days passed, and the minister told my father that if hewas him he'd send me to college. He-my father-did n't sleep any, that night. He and my mother kept awake till daylightprognosticating my career, and fixing upon a day when I should go toCambridge. 

"That day came. I remember it was a cloudy day. There was a dullshadow over everything. Yes, even over my heart. I didn't want to goto college. I knew I hadn't been allowed to learn anything I wantedto learn out of it; and I knew I should n't do any better shut upwithin its old dingy, musty, brick walls. I knew I should n't learnanything there. I had rather be out in the world. I had rather bestudying in Nature's great college. I had rather graduate with adiploma from God, written on my heart, than to waste years of lifeaway from the great school of human life; to be told by another howI should go, what I should believe, and how I should act, in thegreat drama of life. But I had to go, sir, --go to college; for I wasan Automaton. 

"As I before said, the day was cloudy. Mother dressed me up. For aweek preparations had been making for my exit, and finally I went. Iwas put in a stage where three men were smoking. I objected, andintimated that it would be much better if those who smoked rode onthe outside; but my father said, 'hush, ' and told me that smokingwas common at college, and I must get used to it. When the stagestopped to change horses, the men got out, and swore, and drankbrandy; and I asked whether such things were common at college, andwhether I had got to get used to them too. But I could n't get anyanswer. 

"The wind blew cold, but my coat was made so small that I could n'tbutton it together. I would have had it loose and easy, and warm andcomfortable; but 't was n't fashionable to have it so. Fatherfollowed fashion, and I suffered from the cold. I had a nice, softcap, that I used to wear to church at home; but father thought that, as I was going to the city, I must have a hat; so he had bought meone, and the hard, stiff, ungainly thing was stuck on my head. I hadas lieves have had a piece of stove-pipe there. It made my head acheawfully. 

"If I had n't been what I was, I should have worn a nice, easy pairof shoes; but I was an Automaton. I was n't anybody; so I was madeto wear a pair of thin boots, that clung to my feet a great dealcloser than my skin did, --a great deal, sir. 

"Well, we reached Cambridge. It's a pretty place, you know; and Irather liked it until I arrived at the college buildings. Then I didn't like the looks of anything, except the green trees, and thegrass, and the shady walks. And I wondered where I could learn themost useful knowledge, within or without the college. 

"I was ushered in, and my college life began. To narrate to you allthat made up that life, would be irksome to me and tedious to you. Iwas taught much that I didn't believe then, and don't believe now, and don't think I ever shall. I was made to subscribe to certainforms, and with my lips to adopt certain views, which my heart allthe time rebelled against, and reason told me were false. But I saidI believed, and I did believe after the fashion of the times; for Ibelieve it's fashionable to believe what you don't know anythingabout, and the more of this belief you have the better you are. So Ibelieved what my teachers told me, because-why, because I was anAutomaton. 

"When I returned home, I found myself, quite unexpectedly, a lion. All the neighbors flocked in to see the young man who'd been tocollege, and in the evening a dozen young ladies--marriageable youngladies--called on me. I tried to have a pleasant time; and shouldhave had, if I had n't been pulled and pushed, and made apuppet-show of; made to go through all my college exercises, toplease the pride of my immediate relatives, and minister to thewonder-loving souls of their friends. But, though I did n't want todo all this, though I had much preferred to have sat down and had aquiet talk with one or two, --talked over all that had taken placeduring my absence, our lives and loves, --yet I was obliged to, sir. Iwas an Automaton. 

"One day, --it was but a week after I had returned, --my father took meinto his room, and said he had something to say to me. I knew verywell, before he said so, that something out of the usual course wasto take place; for, all the morning, he had been as serious andreserved as a deacon at a funeral, and I had caught him holding slytalks with my mother in out-of-the-way places. -I knew something wasto happen. 

"I sat down, and he did. And then he went on to say that I hadprobably had some thoughts of marriage. I merely responded, 'Some. '

"He then remarked that every young man should calculate to get awife and settle down; and that 'old folks' had had experience, andknew a vast deal more about such things than young folks did; andthat the latter, when they followed the advice of the former, alwayswere well-to-do in the world, always were respected. 

"I began to see what he was driving at. I looked very serious athim, and he a great deal more so at me. 

"He talked to me half an hour; it was the longest half-hour I hadknown since I first measured time. He expatiated on the wisdom ofold people; told me I was inexperienced. I, who had been to college!I, who had lived a city life! I was inexperienced! But I let him goon-I could n't help it-you know what I was. 

"He then drew his chair closer mine, lowered the tone of his voice, and said, "'I've picked out a wife for you. It's Squire Parsons' daughter, Susan Jane Maria. She'll be an excellent wife to you, and mother toyour children. '

"If I had been anything else than what I was, I should have sprangup and declared my own ability to choose a wife for me and 'a motherfor my children;' but I did n't do any such thing. I nodded a calmassent to all he said; for you know, sir; I was an Automaton. 

"I was to go with my father, that night, and see Susan, --she that wasto be my Susan, --O, no, not so; I was to be her Jacob. So, when teawas over, and I had been 'fixed up, '-I was fixed, I tell you, --fatherled the way over Higginses' rough pasture. I should have gone round, in the road, where it was decent walking, if I had been anybody; butI was n't any one; I was a--well, you know what. I got one of myboots full of water, and father fell down and bruised his nose; butI took off my boot and poured the water out, and he put a piece ofcourt-plaster on his nose, --a great black piece, --and we did n't lookas bad as we might, so he said; and so I said, 'of course. '

"Susan was at home, seated in the middle of a great room, as if onexhibition; and perhaps she was, --I thought so. I had seen Susanbefore, and always disliked her. There was nothing in her personalappearance, or her mind, that pleased me. I never met her withoutmarking her future life as that of an old maid. But she was to be mywife; father said so, mother shouted amen; and I was to love her, and so I said I did, 'of course. '

"It seemed to me that she knew all about what I came for; for sheput out her little slim hand, that never made a loaf of bread norheld a needle, but had only fingered the leaves of Greek and LatinLexicons, and volumes of Zoology and Ornithology, and thrummedpiano-keys, --all very well in their place (don't think I depreciatethem), but very bad when their place is so large that there's noroom for anything else, --very bad, sir. 

"As she took my hand she attempted to kiss me; but, being rathershy, I dodged when I saw her lips a-coming, and they went plump onto father's nose, and exploded on his piece of court-plaster. 

"It was all fixed that night, and I was to be married one week fromthe ensuing Sunday. 

"We went home. I received a smile from those who were so considerateas to hunt me up a wife. 

"If you'd seen the Greentown Gazette a fortnight after, and hadlooked at the list of marriages, you might have read, 'Married: Inthis town, by Rev. Ebenezer Pilgrade, Mr. Jacob Jenkins, Jr. (recently from college), to Susan Jane Maria Parsons, estimabledaughter of Nehemiah Q. Parsons; all of this place. '

"We lived at home. My wife soon found out what I was, found out thatI was an Automaton, and she pulled the wires and put me in motion, in any way she wished. I opened an office, put out a sign, and for atime practised law and physic, and when the minister was sick tookhis place and preached. I preached just what they wanted me to. Ifelt more like an Automaton than ever, stuck up in a high box, talking just what had been talked a thousand times from the sameplace. It would n't do, I was told, to have any ideas of my own;and, if had them, I must n't speak them. So my parish and me gotalong pretty well. 

"Of course I had joined the church. I was told that I must, and so Idid; but I won't tell you what my thoughts were in regard to what Iwas told to believe, for that's delicate ground. I don't know whatyour religion is, sir, and I might offend you, and I would n't do sofor the world. You see I am an Automaton yet. I'll do just as youwant me to. I hate to be so; but, somehow or other, I can't beotherwise. It's my nature. 

"You think I'm prosy. I won't say much more, for I see you take outyour watch as though you wished I'd stop, that you might go; so I'llclose with 'finally, ' as I do in preaching. 

"Well, then, finally, father died, mother died, Susan run off, andI've become almost discouraged. I have three children to take careof, but they are good children. They do just precisely as I tellthem, and won't do anything without asking me whether it's right;and I ask somebody else. They have n't got any minds of their own, any more than I have. They'll do just as I tell them. I've nobody inparticular now to tell me what I shall do; so I take everybody'sadvice, and try to do as everybody wants me to do. I've come toBoston on a visit, and shall go back to-night, if you think best. 

"Now I've given you my autobiography. You can do just what you wantto with it, --print it, if you like. People, perhaps, will laugh at mewhen they read it; but perhaps there are other Automatons besidesme. "

He came to a full stop here; and, as it was getting late, I arose, wished him well, bade him good-by, and left. I had proceeded but afew steps, when I felt a touch on my shoulder, and, turning, foundit was the Automaton, who had come to ask me whether I thought hehad better go home that night. 

TO THE UNKNOWN DONOR OF A BOUQUET. 

 RICHEST flowers of every hue, Lightly fringed with evening dew; Sparkling as from Eden's bowers, Brightly tinted-beauteous flowers! Thee I've found, and thee I'll own, Though from one to me unknown; Knowing this, that one who'll send Such a treasure is my friend. Who hath sent thee?-Flora knows, For with care she reared the rose. Lo! here's a name!-it is the key That will unlock the mystery; This will tell from whom and why Thou didst to my presence hie. Wait-the hand's disguised!-it will Remain to me a mystery still. But I'm a "Yankee, " and can "guess" Who wove this flowery, fairy tress. Yea, more than this, I almost know Who tied this pretty silken bow, Whose hand arranged them, and whose taste Each in such graceful order placed. Yet, if unknown thou 'dst rather be, Let me wish this wish for thee: May'st thou live in joy forever, Naught from thee true pleasure sever; From thy heart arise no sigh; May no tear bedew thine eye. Joys be many, cares be few, Smooth the path thou shalt pursue; And heaven's richest blessings shine Ever on both thee and thine. Round thy path may fairest flowers, As in amaranthine bowers, Bloom and blossom bright and fair, Load with sweets the ambient air! Be thy path with roses strewn, All thy hours to care unknown; Sorrow cloud thy pathway never, Happiness be thine forever. 

TO A SISTER IN HEAVEN. 

 SISTER, in thy spirit home, Knowest thou my path below? Knowest thou the steps I roam, And the devious road I go? Many years have past since I Bade thee here a sad farewell; Many past since thou didst die, Since I heard thy funeral knell. Thou didst go when thou wast young; Scarcely hadst thou oped thine eyes To the world, and it had flung Its bright sunshine from the skies, Ere thy Maker called for thee, Thou obeyed his high behest; Then I mourned, yet knew thou 'dst be Throned on high among the blest. Gently thou didst fold thy wing, Gently thou didst sink in sleep; Birds their evening songs did sing, And the evening shades did creep Through the casement, one by one, Telling of departing day; Then, thou and the glorious sun Didst together pass away. Yet that sun hath rose since then, And hath brought a joy to me; Emblem 't is time will be when Once again I shall see thee, -- See thee in immortal bloom, Numbered with the ransomed throng, Where no sorrow sheds its gloom O'er the heart, or chills the song. Spirit sister, throned on high, Now methinks I hear thee speak From thy home within the sky, In its accents low and meek. Thou art saying, "Banish sadness; God is love, --O, trust him over! Heaven is filled with joy and gladness- It shall be thy home forever. " This thou sayest, and thy voice, Like to none of earth I've heard, Bids my fainting soul rejoice; Follow God's reveal‚d word, Follow that, 't is faithful true; 'Mid the trackless maze of this, It will guide the pilgrim through To a world of endless bliss. Sister, in thy spirit home, Thou dost know my path below, Thou dost know the steps I roam, And the road I fain would go. If my steps would err from right, If I'd listen to the wrong, If I'd close my eyes to light, Mingle with earth's careless throng: Then wilt thou with power be nigh; Power which angel spirits wield, That temptation may pass by, Be thou near my soul to shield! As I close this simple lay, As I over it do bow, Sister, thou art round my way, Thou art standing near me now. 

I DREAMED OF THEE, LAST NIGHT, LOVE!

 I DREAMED of thee last night, love, And I thought that one came down From scenes of azure light, love, The most beautiful to crown. He wandered forth where diamonds And jewels rich and rare Shone brightly 'mid the glittering throng, Yet crown‚d no one there. He pass‚d by all others, Till he came to where thou stood; And chose thee as the beautiful, Because thou wast so good. And said, as there he crowned thee, That Goodness did excel The jewels all around thee In which beauty seemed to dwell. For Goodness is that beauty Which will forever last; Then, crowning thee most beautiful, From earth to heaven he passed. 

THEY TELL OF HAPPY BOWERS. 

 THEY tell of happy bowers, Where rainbow-tinted flowers Bloom bright with sweetest fragrance, and never, never die;

 Where friends are joined forever, Where parting hours come never, And that that happier land is far beyond the sky;--

 That when this life is ended

 The spirit there ascended Shall meet in happy unison the spirits gone before;

 And all that here hath vexed us, With seeming ill perplexed us, We shall see was for the best, and God of all adore. 

 Then, brother, hope and cheer thee, For glorious hours are near thee, If thou but livest holy, and hope, and trust, and wait;

 Soon, trials all departed, Thou, heavenward, homeward started, Shalt find a glorious entrance at heaven's golden gate. 

MAN CANNOT LIVE AND LOVE NOT. 

 MAN cannot live and love not; Around, beneath, above, There is that's bright and beautiful, And worthy of his love; There is in every object That works out nature's plan, Howe'er so low and humble, That's worth the love of man. Each blade of grass that springeth From earth to beauty fair; Each tiny bird that wingeth Its course through trackless air; Each worm that crawls beneath thee, Each creature, great and small, Is worthy of thy loving; For God hath made them all. Should earthly friends forsake thee, And earth to thee look drear; Should morning's dark forebodings But fill thy soul with fear, Look up! and cheer thy spirit- Up to thy God above; He'll be thy friend forever- Forever!-"God is Love!"

BETTER THAN GOLD. 

 "Find we Lorenzo wiser for his wealth? What if thy rental I inform, and draw An inventory new to set thee right? Where is thy treasure? Gold says, 'Not in me!' And not in me, the diamond. Gold is poor, Indies insolvent-. Seek it in thyself, Seek in thy naked self, and find it there. "

GOLD is, in itself, harmless-brilliant, beautiful to look upon; but, when man entertains an ungovernable, all-absorbing love of it, goldis his curse and a mill-stone around his neck, drawing him down toearth. How much sorrow that love has caused! O, there is love thatis angelic! But high and holy as love is when bestowed upon a worthyobject, in like proportion is it base and ignoble when fixed uponthat which is unworthy. 

It may well be questioned whether, taking a broad view of thematter, gold has not produced more evil than good. Point out, if youcan, one crime, be it the most heinous and inhuman of which you canpossibly conceive, that has not been perpetrated for the sake ofgold, or has not its equal in the history of the battle for wealth. We can conceive of no worse a thing than a human soul idolizing amass of shining metal, and counting out, with lean and tremuloushands, the coined dollars. Late and early the devotee bows at theshrine. No motive can induce him to remove his fixed gaze from thegod he worships. No act too base for him to execute if gold holdsout its glittering purse. No tears of widows, no orphan's cry, nobrother's famishing look, no parent's imploring gaze, no wife'sloving appeal, doth he heed; but on, and on, day by day, night bynight, he rakes together the scattered fragments, rears his altar, and lays his soul upon it, a burnt sacrifice to his God. 

It was the first day of the trial, and the excitement was intense. The court-house was filled at an early hour to its utmost capacity, whilst the lanes leading to it were completely blocked up withcrowds of inquisitive inquirers. The professor left his study, thetrader his accounts, and the mechanic dismissed for a while the toilof his avocation. 

The judges had arrived; the counsel of both parties were at theirrespective desks; all were eager to get a full sight-if not this, apassing glance-at the prisoner's face. They were looking for hisarrival, and if a close carriage drew near, they believed he waswithin, until the carriage passing by withered all their hopes, andblasted their fond expectations. Such was the state of feeling whena rumor began to pass round that he, the prisoner, had beenprivately conveyed into court. Some believed, and some disbelieved;some went away, whilst others remained, not giving up all hope ofhaving their desire gratified. -But why all this?

Pedro Castello, a young man, an Italian by birth, had been indicted, and was soon to be tried, charged with two heinous crimes-murder androbbery. The murdered was an aged person, one of a very quiet andsedate character, whose every movement seemed to be by stealth, andwho seemed to care for none but himself, but who took particularinterest in what he did care for. This individual had, for quite anumber of years, been a resident in the town where the incidents wenow propose to relate transpired. 

Lorenzo Pedan had the reputation of being wealthy. Whether he was soor not, no one could positively determine; at least, many thoughtso, and here a farmer, there a mechanic, offered to bet all thathe was worth that "Renzo, " as he was called, could show his fiftythousand. It was well known that he was once in prosperous business;that then, as the saying is, he moved on "swimmingly. " But, two orthree years previous to the time we now speak of, he suddenly gaveup business, closed his store, hired a small and retired house, andlived in as secluded a state as living in the world and not in aforest would admit of. He was his own master, his own servant, cookand all else. Visitors seldom if ever darkened his door; and, whennecessity obliged him to leave his house, it was with the utmostprecaution he made fast his door before starting. Proceeding a shortdistance, he became possessed with the idea that all was not right, and would return to his dwelling closely to scrutinize every part. This and many other characteristics of Pedan induced a belief in theminds of his townsmen that he had by degrees become possessed of anavaricious disposition, and that his miserly views of the "wholeduty of man" had induced him to secrete huge boxes of silver, andbags, of gold in crevices of his cellar, vacancies in his chimney, and musty and dusty corners of his garret. 

Various were the tricks played upon Lorenzo by the boys of the town. At times they would place logs of wood against his door, and arrangethem in such a position that when the door was opened they wouldinevitably fall in; yet he did not care for this, --we mean he foundno fault with this trick, for he usually claimed the fuel fordamages occasioned by its coming in too close proximity with hisaged self. 

Sometimes these "villanous boys, " as widow Todd, a notoriousdisseminator of town scandal, called them, would fasten his door;then, having hid behind some bushes, laugh heartily as they beheldMr. Pedan exhibit himself at the window, at which place he got out. We will not attempt to relate one half or one quarter of thesetricks; we will say nothing of sundry cats, kittens, etc. , that werecrowded into boxes and marked "Pedro-this side up with infinitecare;" nor about certain black, white, and yellow dogs, that weretied to all his door-handles, and made night hideous in the exerciseof their vocal powers. We will not weary our readers with suchdetails. Suffice it to say that they were all perpetrated, and thathe, the aforesaid Lorenzo Pedan, received the indignities heapedupon him with a degree of patience and fortitude rivalled only bythat of the martyrs of the dark ages. He was, in fact, a martyr tohis love of gold; and a recompense for all his outward troubles wasthe satisfaction of knowing that he might be rich some time, if hewas prudent. 

Lorenzo was undoubtedly rich, yet he derived no enjoyment from hisabundance; on the contrary, it caused him much trouble, care, andwatchfulness; and not possessing any benevolent feelings, promptinghim to spend his gold and silver for his own good or the good of hisfellow-men, the poorest man, with all his poverty, --he who only byhis daily toil earned his daily bread, --was far more wealthy than he. 

He passed on in this way for some time, when, on a certain morning, he not having made his appearance for some days previous, his doorwas burst open, and the expectations of not a few realized uponfinding him murdered. All the furniture and even the wainscotings ofthe house were thrown about in dread disorder; scarcely an articleseemed to be in its right place. The robber or robbers wereundoubtedly on the alert for money, and they left no spot untouchedwhere possibly they might find it. They pulled up parts of thefloor, tore away the ceiling, and left marks of their visit fromcellar to garret. 

Immediate efforts were made and measures taken to ferret out theperpetrator of this daring crime. These were, for a considerablelength of time, fruitless, and, the excitement that at first arosebeing somewhat quelled, some thought the search that had beeninstituted was given, or about to be given, up, when a man by thename of Smith came forward, and stated that, about nine daysprevious to the discovery, as he was passing the house of thedeceased, he heard a faint cry, as of one in distress, and, turninground, noticed a young man running in great haste. He, at the time, thought little of this incident, as he supposed the boys wereengaged in some of their tricks. It had entirely passed hisrecollection, until, hearing of the murder, he instantly recollectedthe circumstance, and now he did not entertain a doubt that theyoung man whom he saw was the murderer. 

It appeared strange to some that this man had not made all thisknown before; and that now, at so late a period, he should comeforward and with such apparent eagerness make the disclosures. Beingasked why he had not come forward before, he promptly replied thathe did not wish to suspect any person, for fear he might bemistaken. 

Efforts were now made, and excitement had again risen, to find out ayoung man answering the description given by Smith, whom he allegedto be one short in stature, and wearing a fur cap. Pedro Castello, by birth an Italian, by trade a jeweller, who had resided in thetown a few years, was of this description. He was not very tall, neither very short; but the fur cap he wore made up all deficienciesin stature. Smith swore to his identity, and, at his instigation, hewas arrested, and with great coolness and self-possession passedthrough a short examination, which resulted in his being placed incustody to await his trial at the next session of a higher court. The only evidence against him was that of Smith and his son; that ofthe former was in substance what has already been stated, and thatof the latter only served to support and partially confirm theevidence of the former. A host of townsmen appeared to attest to thegood character of the accused; and, with such evidence for andagainst, he was committed. 

Never was man led to prison who behaved with a greater degree ofcomposure. Conscious of his innocence, he acted not the part of aguilty man, but, relying upon justice for an impartial trial, hewalked with a firm step, and unflinchingly entered a felon's cell. 

In two months his trial was to commence, and that short period soonelapsed. The morning of the trial came; all was excitement, as wehave before said. A trial for murder! Such an event forms an era inthe history of a town, from which many date. That one so longesteemed as an excellent neighbor, and of whose untarnishedcharacter there could be no doubt, should be suddenly arrested, charged with the committal of a crime at the thought of which humannature revolts, was a fact the belief of which was hardly credible. He himself remained not unmoved by the vast concourse of spectators;he thought he could read in the pitying glance of each an acquittal. An acquittal at the bar of public opinion always has and always willbe esteemed of more value than one handed in by a jury of twelve;yet by that jury of twelve men he was to be tried, --he must look tothem for his release, if he was to obtain it. Their decision wouldcondemn him to an ignoble death, or bid him go forth once more afree man. He had obtained the best of counsel, by whose advice heselected, from twenty-five jurors, twelve, whose verdict was to sealhis fate. 

The trial commenced. A deep silence prevailed, broken only by thevoice of the government officer, who briefly stated an outline ofthe facts, to wit: "That murder and robbery had been committed; thata young man was seen hastily leaving the spot upon which the crimewas committed; that the appearance of the defendant was preciselythat of the person thus seen; said he should not enter into anexamination of the previous character of the prisoner, giving as areason that a man may live long as a person of unquestionablecharacter, and after all yield to some strong temptation and fallfrom the standard of excellence he had hitherto attained; he shouldpresent all the facts that had come to his knowledge, tending tosubstantiate the charge, and would leave it to the prisoner and hiscounsel to undermine the evidence he presented, and to prove theaccused innocent, if possible; all that he should do would be toattempt to prove him guilty; if he failed to do so a verdict must berendered accordingly. " Having said this, he called upon hiswitnesses. Those who first discovered the outrage were called andtestified to what they saw. John Smith was next called, and gave inas evidence what has before been stated; at the close of a strictcross-examination he returned to his seat. His son Levi was nextcalled, and stated that his father was out the night he himselfstated he was; he went out about half-past six or seven; did not saywhere he was going, or how long he should be out; he came home abouteleven. 

Prisoner's counsel here inquired whether it was usual, upon hisfather's going out, to state where he was going or when he shouldreturn. He answered in the affirmative. This was all the knowledgeLevi Smith had of the affair, and with this the evidence for thegovernment closed. 

The counsel for the defendant stated, in the opening, that all heshould attempt to prove would be the bad character of the principalwitness, John Smith, and the unexceptionable character of theprisoner. He would prove that the reputation of Smith for truth andveracity was bad, and that therefore no reliance could be placedupon his statements. He should present the facts as they were, andleave it to them to say whether his client was innocent or guilty. 

A person by the name of Renza was first called, who stated that forabout two years he had resided in the house with the prisoner; thathe esteemed him as a friend; that the prisoner had treated him as abrother, --had never seen anything amiss in his conduct, --at night hecame directly home from his place of business, was generally in atnine, seldom out later than ten, --remembered the night inquestion, --thought he was in about ten, but was not certain on thatpoint, --had been acquainted with John Smith for a number ofyears, --had not said much to him during that time, --had often seen himwalking about the streets, --had known him to be quarrelsome andavaricious, easily provoked, and rather lacking in good principle. After a few cross-questions the witness took his seat. 

Seven others were called, whose testimony was similar to the above, placing the evidence of the principal government witness in rather adisagreeable light. The evidence being in on both sides, theprisoner's counsel stood forth to vindicate the innocence ofCastello. For three hours he faithfully advocated the cause, dweltlong upon the reputation of Smith, and asked whether a man should beconvicted upon such rotten evidence. He brought to light thecharacter of Smith, and that of Castello; placed them in contrast, and bade them judge for themselves. He wished to inquire why Smith, when he heard the terrible scream, when he saw a person running fromthe place whence the sound proceeded, why, when he heard and beheldall this, he did not make an alarm; why did Smith keep it a secret, and not till nine days had elapsed make this known? "Perhaps hewould reply, " argued the counsel, "that he did not wish to suspectany person, fearing the person suspected might be the wrong one; ifso, why did he not inform of the person he saw running? If he wasnot the doer of the deed, perhaps he might relate something thatwould lead to the detection of him who was. Beside, if he had doubtswhether it was right to inform then, why does he do so now with somuch eagerness? It would be natural for one, after hearing suchfearful noises, --after seeing what he testifies to having seen, --tohave related it to some one; but no-Smith keeps all this importantinformation treasured up, and not till two weeks had nearly passeddoes he disclose it. But, gentlemen, I have my doubts as to thetruth of John's evidence. It is my firm belief that he never saw aperson running from that house; he might have heard the noise-I willnot dispute that. I believe his story has been cut and dried for theoccasion, and surely nine days and nights have afforded him ampletime to do so. The brains of an ox could concoct such ideas in ninedays. Now comes the inquiry, why should he invent such a story? Ofwhat benefit can it be to him to appear in a crowded courtroom?Gentlemen, I confess myself unable to give you his reasons; to himand to his God they are only known. The veil which, in my opinion, now shrouds this affair, will some day be withdrawn, and we shallknow the truth, even as it is. "

The defence here closed. The officer for the prosecution now arose, and with equal faithfulness and ability argued his side of thequestion. He thought the reasons why Smith had not before informedwere full and explicit; and, as to the testimony of the eight as tothe past good character of the prisoner, he saw no reason why a manshould be always good because for two or more years he had been so. A great temptation was presented; he was young--perhaps at themoment regardless of the result, the penalty of the crime; he didnot resist, but yielded; and as to the argument of the learnedcounsel, that Mr. S. Did not see what he testifies to have seen, itis useless to refute such an unfounded allegation. Can you supposeSmith to be benefited by this prosecution further than to seejustice have its dues? Settle it then in your minds that Mr. Smithdid actually see all he says he did. We come next to the descriptiongiven by Smith of the man seen. He said he was short in stature, andwearing a fur cap. Look at the prisoner, --is he not short?-and thetestimony of two of the previous witnesses distinctly affirm thatfor the past six weeks he has worn a fur cap. What more evidence doyou want to prove his guilt?

The prosecuting officer here closed. We have given but a faintoutline of his remarks; they were forcible and to the point. 

It was near the dusk of the second day's trial that the judge aroseto charge the jury. He commented rather severely upon the attempt toimpeach the character of Smith. His address was not lengthy; and inabout thirty minutes the jury retired, while a crowded audienceanxiously waited their return. It was not till the rays of themorning sun began to be seen that it was rumored that they hadarrived at a decision and would soon enter. All was silent as thetomb. The prisoner, although aware that his life was at stake, satin great composure, frequently holding converse with his friends whogathered around. How anxiously all eyes were turned towards the doorby which they were to enter, wishing, yet dreading, to hear thefinal secret! The interest of all watched their movements and seemedto read acquittal upon each juror's face. The prisoner arose, theforeman and he looking each other in the face. The clerk put thequestion, "Guilty, or not guilty?" The ticking of the clock wasdistinctly heard. "Guilty!" responded the foreman. A verdict sounexpected by all could not be received in silence, and, as with onevoice, the multitude shouted "False! false! FALSE!" With greatdifficulty were they silenced and restrained from rescuing theprisoner, who, though greatly disappointed, heard the verdictwithout much agitation. Innocent, he was convinced that justicewould finally triumph, though injustice for a moment might seem tohave the ascendency. 

One week had passed. Sentence had been pronounced upon the youngItalian, and, notwithstanding the strenuous efforts his friends madefor his pardon, he was committed to prison to await the arrival ofthat day when innocence should suffer in the place of guilt, and heshould by the rough hands of the law be unjustly dragged to thegallows, and meet his death at so wretched a place; yet far betterwas it for him, and of this was he aware, to be led to that placefree, from the blood of all men, than to proceed there a guiltycriminal, his hands dyed in the warm blood of a fellow-creature, pointed out as a murderer, and looked upon but with an eye ofcondemnation. He was certain that in the breasts of hundreds aspark, yea, a burning flame, of pity shone for him, --that he met nothis death uncared for, --that many a tear would flow in pity for him, and that he would wend his way to the scaffold comforted by theconsciousness of his innocence, and consoled by many dear friends. 

The day had arrived for the execution, and crowds of people flockedto the spot to gratify their love of sight-seeing-to allay theircuriosity-even though that sight were nothing less than the death ofa fellow-being. Crowds had assembled. A murder had been committed, and now another was to follow. To be sure it was to be executed"according to law, " but that law was inspired with the spirit ofrevenge. Its motto was "blood for blood. " It forgot the precepts ofChrist, "forgive your enemies;" and that that which is a wrong whencommitted by one in secret, is no less a wrong when committed bymany, or by their sanction, in public. The condemned stood upon thedeath-plank, yet he hoped justice would be done. "Hope!" what acheering word! 't will nerve man for every trial. Yes, Castellohoped, and relied upon that kind arm that had hitherto supportedhim, and had enabled him to bear up under an accumulated mass ofaffliction. He had a full consciousness of innocence, and to theoft-repeated inquiry as to his state of mind he replied, "I aminnocent, and that truth is to me better than gold. "

It lacks but five minutes of the appointed time-now but three-buttwo. But yonder the crowd seem excited. What is the cause of thesudden movement? But a few moments since and all were silentlygazing at the centre of attraction, the scaffold. Lo, a messenger, breathless with haste, shouting "INNOCENT! INNOCENT! INNOCENT!" anda passage is made for him to approach, whilst thousands inquire thenews. He answers not, save by that shrill shout, "INNOCENT!" andpressing forward touches the gallows just as Castello is about to belaunched forth. The stranger ascends the steps and begs that theexecution may be deferred, at least until he can relate some recentdisclosures. His wish is granted, and he speaks nearly as follows:

"The testimony of the principal witness was doubted. Last night Iremained at the house of Smith. Owing to the great excitement I didnot retire to rest, and sat in a room adjoining that in which Smithlodged. About midnight I heard a voice in that room. I went to thedoor, and, fearing he was sick and desired aid, I entered. He wasasleep, and did not awake upon my entering, but continued talking. Ithought it strange, and thinking I might be amused, and havingnothing else to do, I sat and listened. He spoke in somewhat thismanner, and you may judge of my surprise while I listened:

"'I'm rich; too bad Pedro should die; but I'm rich; no matter, I'mrich. Kings kill their millions for a little money. I only kill oneman; in six months 't will be forgotten; then I'll go to the bank ofearth back of the red mill and get the gold; I placed it there safe, and safe it is. Ha, ha! I made that story in nine days-so I did, andmight have made it in less; let him die. But supposing I should bedetected; then it may be that I shall find that Pedro is right whenhe says there is something better than gold. But I am in no danger. The secret is in my own heart, locked up, and no one has the key butmyself; so cheer thee, my soul, I'm safe!-and yet I don't feelright. I shall feel, when Pedro dies; that I kill him; but whyshould I care? I who have killed one, may kill another!'

"After waiting some time, and hearing no more, I hastened to thespot he had alluded to, for the purpose of satisfying myself whetherwhat he had ramblingly spoken of was truth or fancy. After searchingthe hill for over an hour, I found a stone, or rather stumbledagainst it; I threw it aside, so that others might not stumble overit as I had, when to my astonishment I found it to be a large flatone, beneath which I found a collection of bags and boxes, whichupon opening I found filled with gold and silver coin, and in eachbox a small paper, --one of which I hold in my hand; all are alike, and written upon each are these words:

"'This gold and silver is the property of Pedan, who enjoyed it butlittle himself; he leaves it to posterity, and hopes that they mayfind more pleasure and more satisfaction in its use than he everdid. '

"Not content with this, I pushed my researches still further, and, having taken out all the bags and boxes, I found this knife, allbloody as you see it, and this hatchet in nearly the same condition. Now I ask if it is not the course of justice to delay the executionof this young man until more examinations can be made?"

The executioner obeyed the mandate of the sheriff, and stayed hisavenging hand. 

"Better than gold!" shouted the prisoner, and sank helpless upon theplatform. 

That day John Smith was arrested, and, being bluntly charged withthe murder, confessed all. Castello was immediately released, andwent forth a free man. 

In four weeks Smith was no more of earth; he had paid the penalty ofhis crimes, and died not only a murderer but a perjured man. 

The next Sabbath the pastor of the church discoursed upon thesubject, and an indescribable thrill pervaded the hearts of some ofthe people as they repeated the words, "Forgive us our trespasses aswe forgive those who trespass against us. "

GONE AWAY. 

 HERE, where now are mighty cities, Once the Indians' wigwam stood; Once their council-fires illumined, Far and near, the tangled wood. Here, on many a grass-grown border, Then they met, a happy throng; Rock and hill and valley sounded With the music of their song. Now they are not, --they have vanished, And a voice doth seem to say, Unto him who waits and listens, "Gone away, --gone away. " Yonder in those valleys gathered Many a sage in days gone by; Thence the wigwam's smoke ascended, Slowly, peacefully, on high. Indian mothers thus their children Taught around the birchen fire, -- "Look ye up to the great Spirit! To his hunting-grounds aspire. " Now those fires are all extinguished; Fire and wigwam, where are they? Hear ye not those voices whispering, "Gone away, --gone away!" Here the Indian girl her tresses Braided with a maiden's pride; Here the lover wooed and won her, On Tri-mountain's grassy side. Here they roamed from rock to river, Mountain peak and hidden cave; Here the light canoe they paddled O'er the undulating wave. All have vanished-lovers, maidens, Meet not on these hills to-day, But unnumbered voices whisper, "Gone away, --gone away!" "Gone away!" Yes, where the waters Of the Mississippi roll, And Niagara's ceaseless thunders With their might subdue the soul, Now the noble Indian standeth Gazing at the eagle's flight, Conscious that the great good Spirit Will accomplish all things right. Though like forest-leaves they're passing, They who once held boundless sway, And of them 't will soon be written, "Gone away, --gone away!" As they stand upon the mountain, And behold the white man press Onward, onward, never ceasing, Mighty in his earnestness; As they view his temples rising, And his white sails dot the seas, And his myriad thousands gathering, Hewing down the forest trees; Thus they muse: "Let them press onward, Not far distant is the day When of them a voice shall whisper, 'Gone away, --gone away!'"

LINES TO MY WIFE. 

 THOU art ever standing near me, In wakeful hours and dreams; Like an angel-one, attendant On life and, all its themes; And though I wander from thee, In lands afar away, I dream of thee at night, and wake To think of thee by day. In the morning, when the twilight, Like a spirit kind and true, Comes with its gentle influence, It whispereth of you. For I know that thou art present, With love that seems to be A band to bind me willingly To heaven and to thee. At noon-day, when the tumult and The din of life is heard, When in life's battle each heart is With various passions stirred, I turn me from the blazonry, The fickleness of life, And think of thee in earnest thought, My dearest one-my wife! When the daylight hath departed, And shadows of the night Bring forth the stars, as beacons fair For angels in their flight, I think of thee as ever mine, Of thee as ever best, And turn my heart unto thine own, To seek its wonted rest. Thus ever thou art round my path, And doubly dear thou art When, with my lips pressed to thine own, I feel thy beating heart. And through the many joys and griefs, The lights and shades of life, It will be joy to call thee by The holy name of "wife!" I love thee for thy gentleness, I love thee for thy truth; I love thee for thy joyousness, Thy buoyancy of youth I love thee for thy soul that soars Above earth's sordid pelf; And last, not least, above these all, I love thee for thyself. Now come to me, my dearest, Place thy hand in mine own; Look in mine eyes, and see how deep My love for thee hath grown; And I will press thee to my heart, Will call thee "my dear wife, " And own that thou art all my joy And happiness of life. 

CHEER UP. 

 CHEER up, cheer up, my own fair one! Let gladness take the place of sorrow; Clouds shall not longer hide the sun, -- There is, there is a brighter morrow! 'T is coming fast. I see its dawn. See! look you, how it gilds the mountain! We soon shall mark its happy morn, Sending its light o'er stream and fountain. My bird sings with a clearer note; He seems to know our hopes are brighter, And almost tires his little throat To let us know his heart beats lighter. I wonder if he knows how dark The clouds were when they gathered o'er us! No matter, --gayly as a lark He sings that bright paths are before us. So cheer thee up, my brightest, best! For clear's the sky, and fair's the weather. Since hand in hand we've past the test, Hence heart in heart we'll love together. 

TRUST THOU IN GOD. 

 TRUST thou in God! he'll guide thee When arms of flesh shall fail; With every good provide thee, And make his grace prevail. Where danger most is found, There he his power discloseth; And 'neath his arm, Free from all harm, The trusting soul reposeth. Trust thou in God, though sorrow Thine earthly hopes destroy; To him belongs the morrow, And he will send thee joy. When sorrows gather near, Then he'll delight to bless thee! When all is joy, Without alloy, Thine earthly friends caress thee. Trust thou in God! he reigneth The Lord of lords on high; His justice he maintaineth In his unclouded sky. To triumph Wrong may seem, The day, yet justice winneth, And from the earth Shall songs of mirth Rise, when its sway beginneth. When friends grow faint and weary, When thorns are on thy way, When life to thee is dreary, When clouded is thy day, Then put thy trust in God, Hope on, and hoping ever; Give him thy heart, Nor seek to part The love which none can sever!

THE MINISTRATION OF SORROW. 

 THERE'S sorrow in thy heart to-day, There's sadness on thy brow; For she, the loved, hath passed away, And thou art mourning now. The eye that once did sparkle bright, The hand that pressed thine own, No more shall gladden on thy sight, -- Thy cherished one hath flown. And thou didst love her well, 't is true; Now thou canst love her more, Since she hath left this world, and you, On angel wings to soar Above the world, its ceaseless strife, Its turmoil and its care, To enter on eternal life, And reign in glory there. O, let this thought now cheer thy soul, And bid thy tears depart; A few more days their course shall roll, Thou 'lt meet, no more to part. No more upon thine ear shall fall, The saddening word "farewell" No more a parting hour, but all In perfect union dwell. This world is not the home of man; Death palsies with its gloom, Marks out his life-course but a span, And points him to the tomb; But, thanks to Heaven, 't is but the gate By which we enter bliss; Since such a life our spirits wait, O, cheer thy soul in this, -- And let the sorrow that doth press Thy spirit down to-day So minister that it may bless Thee on thy pilgrim way; And as thy friends shall, one by one, Leave earth above to dwell, Say thou to God, "Thy will be done, Thou doest all things well. "

GIVING PUBLICITY TO BUSINESS. 

FROM the earliest ages of society some means have been resorted towhereby to give publicity to business which would otherwise remainin comparative privacy. The earliest of modes adopted was the cryingof names in the streets; and before the invention of printing menwere employed to traverse the most frequented thoroughfares, tostand in the market-places and other spots of resort, and, with loudvoices, proclaim their message to the people. This mode is notaltogether out of use at the present time; yet it is not generallyconsidered a desirable one, inasmuch as it does not accomplish itspurpose so readily or completely as any one of the numerous othermethods resorted to. 

Since the invention of printing, handbills, posters, and newspapers, have been the principal channels of communication between the insideof the dealer's shop and the eye of the purchaser, and from that tothe inside of his purse. So advantageous have these modes beenfound, that it is a rare thing to find a single individual who doesnot, either on a large or small scale, rein the press into the pathhe travels, and make its labor conducive to the profits of his own. 

England and France have taken the lead in this mode of givingpublicity to business; but the United States, with its unwillingnessto be beat in any way, on any terms, has made such rapid strides oflate in this enterprise, that the English lion will be left in therear, and the French eagle far in the background. 

In London many curious devices have been used or proposed. Of thesewas that of a man who wished to prepare a sort of bomb-shell, to befilled with cards or bills, which, on reaching a certain elevationabove the city, would explode, and thus scatter these carrier dovesof information in all conceivable directions. In that city, butchers, bakers, and fishmongers, receive quite an income frompersons who wish their cards attached to the various commodities inwhich they deal. Thus, a person receiving a fish, a loaf, or a pieceof meat, finds the advertisement of a dealer in silks and satinsattached to the tail of the fish; that of an auction sale ofdomestic flannels wrapped around the loaf; and perhaps flatteringnotices of a compound for the extermination of rats around the meat. 

In the evening, transparencies are carried about the streets, suspended across the public ways or hung upon the walls. 

In this country, no person has taken the lead of a famous doctor inthe way of advertising. Nearly every paper in the Union wasone-fourth filled with ably-written articles in praise of hiscompound. In fact, he published papers of his own, the articles inwhich were characterized by the "one idea principle, " and that oneidea was contained in a bottle of Dr. --'s save all and cure all, "none true but the genuine, " "warranted not to burst the bottles orbecome sour. " In addition to these, he issued an almanac-millions ofthem-bearing glad tidings to the sick and credulous, and sad tidingsto the "regulars" in the medical fraternity. These almanacs weredistributed everywhere. They came down on the American people likerain-drops. The result was, as we all know, the doctor flourished ina fortune equal to his fame, and disposed of his interest in thebusiness, a few years since, for one hundred thousand dollars. 

The amount of capital invested in advertising is very great, somefirms expending thousands of dollars monthly in this mode of makingknown their business. It has been truly said that a card in anewspaper, that costs but a few dollars, is of far more value thancostly signs over one's door. The former thousands behold, and aredirected to your place of business; the latter very few notice whodo not know the fact it makes known before they see it. 

Attracted by the good fortune of those who have advertised, nearlyevery one has adopted the means that led to it; and the advertisingsystem has become universal. 

We have been seated in a car, waiting impatiently for the sound ofthe "last bell, " when a person in a brown linen coat entered with anarmful of books, and gave to each passenger a copy, without a hintabout pay. Thanking him for the gift, and astonished at hisgenerosity, we proceeded to open it, when "Wonderful cures, ""Consumption, " "Scrofula, " "Indigestion, " and "Fits, " greeted oureyes on every page. Illustrated, too! Here was represented a manapparently dying, and near by a figure that would appear to be awoman were it not for two monstrous wings on its back, throwingobstacles in the way of death in the shape of a two-quart bottle ofsarsaparilla syrup. Presumptive man in a brown linen coat, tosuppose that we, just on the eve of a pleasure excursion, aretroubled with such complaints, and stand in need of such a remedy!

You buy a newspaper, go home, seat yourself, and, in theanticipation of at glorious intellectual feast, open its damp pages, when, lo and behold! a huge show-bill falls from its embrace, andyou are informed of the consoling truth that you can have all yourteeth drawn for a trifle, and a now set inserted at a low price, bya distinguished dentist from London. The bill is indignantly thrownaside, and you commence reading an article under the caption of "Aninteresting incident, " which, when half finished, you find to referto a young lady whose complexion was made beautiful by the free useof "Chaulks Poudres, " a box of which can be obtained at 96Azure-street, for 25 cts. After reading another column, headed "Anact of mercy, " you find at its close a most pathetic appeal to yourtender sensibilities in an affectionate request for you to call onDr. Digg and have your corns extracted without pain. Despairing offinding the "intellectual treat, " you lay the paper aside, andresolve upon taking a walk. 

Before you are monstrous show-bills, emblazoned with large lettersand innumerable exclamation-points. Above you, flaunting flags withflaming notices. Beneath you, marble slabs inscribed with the namesof traders and their goods. Around you, boys with their arms full ofprinted notices, and men encased with boards on which are mammothposters. Sick of seeing these, you close your eyes; but you don'tescape so easily;--a dinner-bell is rung in your ears, and a voice, if not like mighty thunder, at least like an embryo earthquake, proclaims an auction sale, a child lost, or news for the afflicted. 

And thus it is, the world is one great Babel. All is business, business, and we ask for "some vast wilderness" in which to lie downand get cool, and keep quiet. 

In Paris, the people long since adopted a plan which has not yetcome in vogue among us. A long story is written; in the course ofthis story, a dozen or more establishments receive the author'slaudations, which are so ingeniously interwoven that the reader isscarcely aware of the design. For instance, Marnetta is going to anevening party. In the morning she goes out, and is met by a sprig ofgentility, a young man of fashion, who cannot allow her to omitentering the unrivalled store of Messrs. Veuns, where the mostbeautiful silks, etc. , are to be seen and purchased. Leaving this, she next encounters a young lady acquaintance of prudent andeconomical habits, by whom, "our heroine" is led into a store wherebeauty and elegance are combined with durability and a low price. She wishes perfumery; so she hastens to Viot & Sons; for none makeso good as they, and the fragrance of their store has been wafted onthe winds of all nations. 

Thus is the story led on from one step to another, with its interestnot in the least abated, to the end. This embraces "puffery, " as itis called. And, while on this subject, we may as well bring up thefollowing specimen of this species of advertising. It was written byPeter Seguin, on the occasion of the first appearance in Dublin ofthe celebrated Mrs. Siddons. It caused much merriment at the timeamong some, while in others, who could not relish a joke, it excitedanger. 

"The house was crowded with hundreds more than it could hold, withthousands of admiring spectators that went away without a sight. This extraordinary phenomenon of tragic excellence! this star ofMelpomene! this comet of the stage! this sun of the firmament of theMuses! this moon of blank verse! this queen arch-princess of tears!this Donnellan of the poisoned bowl! this empress of the pistol anddagger! this child of Shakspeare! this world of weeping clouds! thisJuno of commanding aspects! this Terpsichore of the curtains andscenes! this Proserpine of fire and earthquake! this Katterfelto ofwonders! exceeded expectation, went beyond belief, and soared aboveall the natural powers of description! She was nature itself! shewas the most exquisite work of art! She was the very daisy, primrose, tuberose, sweet-brier, furze-blossom, gilliflower, wallflower, cauliflower, aurica and rosemary! In short, she was thebouquet of Parnassus! Where expectation was raised so high, it wasthought she would be injured by her appearance; but it was theaudience who were injured; several fainted before the curtain drewup! but when she came to the scene of parting with her wedding-ring, all! what a sight was there! The fiddlers in the orchestra, 'albeitunused to the melting mood!' blubbered like hungry children cryingfor their bread and butter; and when the bell rang for music betweenthe acts, the tears ran from the bassoon player's eyes in suchplentiful showers, that they choked the finger-stops, and, making aspout of the instrument, poured in such torrents on the firstfiddler's book, that, not seeing the overture was in two sharps, theleader of the band actually played in one flat. But the sobs andsighs of the groaning audience, and the noise of corks drawn fromthe smelling-bottles, prevented the mistakes between the flats andsharps being discovered. One hundred and nine ladies fainted!forty-six went into fits! and ninety-five had strong hysterics! Theworld will hardly credit the truth, when they are told that fourteenchildren, five women, one hundred tailors, and six common-councilmen, were actually drowned in the inundation of tears that flowedfrom the galleries, the slips and the boxes, to increase the brinypond in the pit; the water was three feet deep, and the people thatwere obliged to stand upon the benches were in that position up totheir ancles in tears. "

There is nothing in the present style of criticism that can exceedthe above. The author actually reached the climax, and all attemptsto overtop him would be useless. 

Of advertisements there have been many worthy of preservation: someon account of the ingenuity displayed in their composition; some intheir wit; some for their domesticativeness, --matrimonial offers, for example, --and others for the conceitedness exposed in them, theignorance of the writers, or the whimsicality of the matteradvertised. In 1804 there was advertised in an English paper, as forsale, "The walk of a deceased blind beggar (in a charitableneighborhood), with his dog and staff. "

In the St. James Chronicle of 1772 was the following:

"Wanted, fifteen hundred or two thousand pounds, by a person notworth a groat; who, having neither houses, lands, annuities, orpublic funds, can offer no other security than that of a simplebond, bearing simple interest, and engaging, the repayment of thesum borrowed in five, six, or seven years, as may be, agreed on bythe parties, " &c. 

We do not know whether the advertiser obtained his pounds or not, but such an advertisement, now-a-days, would draw forth a laugh muchsooner than the money; or, if "pounds" came, they would, mostprobably, fall upon the recipient's shoulders, instead of into hispocket. 

The Chinese are not behind the age in this business. The followingis an instance in proof:

"ACHEU TEA CHINCOEU, Sculptor, respectfully acquaints masters ofships trading from Canton to India that they may be furnished withfigure-heads, any size, according to order, at one-fourth of theprice charged in Europe. He also recommends, for private venture, the following idols, brass, gold and silver: The hawk of Vishnoo, which has reliefs of his incarnation in a fish, boar, lion, andbull, as worshipped by the pious followers of Zoroaster; two silvermarmosets, with gold ear-rings; an aprimanes for Persian worship; aram, an alligator, a crab, a laughing hyena, with a variety ofhousehold idols, on a small scale, calculated for family worship. Eighteen months credit will be given, or a discount of fifteen percent. For prompt payment, on the sum affixed to each article. Direct, Canton-street, Canton, under the marble Rhinoceros and giltHydra. "

We subjoin another, in which self-exaltation is pretty well carriedout. 

"At the shop Tae-shing (prosperous in the extreme)--very good ink;fine! fine! Ancient shop, great-grandfather, grandfather, father andself, make this ink; fine and hard, very hard; picked with care, selected with attention. I sell very good ink; prime cost is verygreat. This ink is heavy; so is gold. The eye of the dragon glittersand dazzles; so does this ink. No one makes like it. Others who makeink make it for the sake of accumulating base coin, cheat, while Imake it only for a name, Plenty of A-kwan-tsaes (gentlemen) know myink-my family never cheated-they have always borne a good name. Imake ink for the 'Son of Heaven, ' and all the mandarins in theempire. As the roar of the tiger extends to every place, so does, the fame' of the 'dragon's jewel' (the ink). Come, all A-kwan-tsaes, come to my shop and see the sign Tae-shing at the side of thedoor. It is Seou-shwuy-street (Small Water-street), outside thesouth gate. "

THE MISSION OF KINDNESS. 

 Go to the sick man's chamber; low and soft Falls on the listening ear a sweet-toned voice; A hand as gentle as the summer breeze, Ever inclined to offices of good, Smooths o'er the sick man's pillow, and then turns To trim the midnight lamp, moisten the lips, And, passing over, soothe the fevered brow. Thus charity finds place in woman's heart; And woman kind, and beautiful, and good, Doth thus administer to every want, Nor wearies in her task, but labors on, And finds her joy in that which she imparts. Go to the prisoner's cell; to-morrow's light Shall be the last on earth he e'er shall see. He mutters hate 'gainst all, and threatens ill To every semblance of the human form. Deep in his soul remorse, despair and hate, Dwell unillumined by one ray of light, And sway his spirit as the waves are swayed By wind and storm. He may have cause to hold His fellow-men as foes; for, at the first Of his departure from an upright course, They scorned and shunned and cursed him. They sinn‚d thus, and he, in spite for them, Kept on his sullen way from wrong to wrong. Which is the greatest sinner? He shall say Who of the hearts of men alone is judge. Now, in his cell condemned, he waits the hour, The last sad hour of mortal life to him. His oaths and blasphemies he sudden stays! He thinks he hears upon his prison door A gentle tap. O, to his hardened heart That gentle sound a sweet remembrance brings Of better days-two-score of years gone by, Days when his mother, rapping softly thus, Called him to morning prayer. Again 't is heard. Is it a dream? Asleep! He cannot sleep With chains around and shameful death before him! Is it the false allurement of some foe Who would with such enticement draw him forth To meet destruction ere the appointed time? Softened and calmed, each angry passion lulled, By a soft voice, "Come in, " he trembling calls. Slow on its hinges turns the ponderous door, And "Friend, " the word that falls from stranger lips. As dew on flowers, as rain on parch‚d ground, So came the word unto the prisoner's ear. He speaks not-moves not. O, his heart is full, Too full for utterance; and, as floods of tears Flow from his eyes so all unused to weep, He bows down low, e'en at the stranger's feet. He had not known what 't was to have a friend. The word came to him like a voice from heaven, A voice of love to one who'd heard but hate. "Friend!" Mysterious word to him who'd known no friend. O, what a power that simple word hath o'er him! As now he holds the stranger's hand in his, And bows his head upon it, he doth seem Gentle and kind, and docile as a child. Repentance comes with kindness, goodness rears Its cross on Calvary's height, inspiring hope Which triumphs over evil and its guilt. O, how much changed! and all by simple words Spoken in love and kindness from the heart. O, love and kindness! matchless power have ye To mould the human heart; where'er ye dwell There is no sorrow, but a living joy. There is no man whom God hath placed on earth That hath not some humanity within, And is not moved with kindness joined with love. The wildest savage, from whose firelit eye Flashes the lightning passions of his soul, Who stands, and feeling that he hath been wronged, That he hath trusted and been basely used, And that to him revenge were doubly sweet, Dares all the world to combat and to death, -- Even he hath dwelling in his inmost heart A chord that quick will vibrate to kind words. Go unto such with kindness, not with wrath; Let your eye look love, and 't will disarm him Of all the evil passions with which he Hath mailed his soul in terrible array. Think not to tame the wild by brutal force. As well attempt to stay devouring flames By heaping fagots on the blazing pile. Go, do man good, and the deep-hidden spark Of true divinity concealed within Will brighten up, and thou shalt see its glow, And feel its cheering warmth. O, we lose much By calling passion's aid to vanquish wrong. We should stand within love's holy temple, And with persuasive kindness call men in, Rather than, leaving it, use other means, Unblest of God, and therefore weak and vain, To force them on before us into bliss. There is a luxury in doing good Which none but by experience e'er can know. He's blest who doeth good. Sleep comes to him On wings of sweetest peace; and angels meet In joyous convoys ever round his couch; They watch and guard, protect and pray for him. All mothers bend the knee, and children too Clasp their fair hands and raise their undimmed eyes, As if to pierce the shadowy veil that hangs Between themselves and God-then pray that he Will bless with Heaven's best gifts the friend of man. 

A PLEA FOR THE FALLEN. 

 PITY her, pity her! Once she was fair, Once breathed she sweetly the innocent's prayer; Parents stood by in pride o'er their daughter; Sin had not tempted, Vice had not caught her; Hoping and trusting, believing all true, Nothing but happiness rose to her view. She, as were spoken words lovers might tell, Listened, confided, consented, and fell! Now she's forsaken; nursing in sorrow, Hate for the night, despair for the morrow! She'd have the world think she's happy and gay, -- A butterfly, roving wherever it may; Sipping delight from each rose-bud and flower, The charmed and the charmer of every hour. She will not betray to the world all her grief; She knows it is false, and will give no relief. She knows that its friendship is heartless and cold; That it loves but for gain, and pities for gold; That when in their woe the fallen do cry, It turns, it forsakes, and it leaves them to die! But after the hour of the world's bright show, When hence from her presence flatterers go; When none are near to praise or caress her, No one stands by with fondness to bless her; Alone with her thoughts, in moments like this, She thinks of her days of innocent bliss, And she weeps!-yes, she weeps penitent tears O'er the shame of a life and the sorrow of years: She turns for a friend; yet, alas! none is there; She sinks, once again, in the deepest despair! Blame her not! O blame not, ye fathers who hold Daughters you value more dearly than gold! But pity, O, pity her! take by the hand One who, though fallen, yet nobly may stand. Turn not away from her plea and her cries; Pity and help, and the fallen may rise! Crush not to earth the reed that is broken, Bind up her wounds-let soft words be spoken; Though she be low, though worldlings reject her, Let not Humanity ever neglect her. 

JOY BEYOND. 

 BEYOND the dark, deep grave, whose lowly portal Must yet be passed by every living mortal, There gleams a light; 'T is not of earth. It wavers not; it gloweth With a clear radiance which no changing knoweth, Constant and bright. We love to gaze at it; we love to cherish The cheering thought, that, when this earth shall perish, And naught remain Of all these temples, --things we now inherit, Each unimprisoned, no more fettered spirit

 Shall life retain. And ever, through eternity unending, It shall unto that changeless light be tending, Till perfect day Shall be its great reward; and all of mystery That hath made up its earthly life, its history, Be passed away! O, joyous hour! O, day most good and glorious! When from the earth the ransomed rise victorious, Its conflict o'er; When joy henceforth each grateful soul engages, Joy unalloyed through never-ending ages, Joy evermore!

THE SUMMER DAYS ARE COMING. 

 THE summer days are coming, The glorious summer hours, When Nature decks her gorgeous robe With sunbeams and with flowers; And gathers all her choristers In plumage bright and gay, Till every vale is echoing with Their joyous roundelay. No more shall frosty winter Hold in its cold embrace The water; but the river Shall join again the race; And down the mountain's valley, And o'er its rocky side, The glistening streams shall rush and leap In all their bounding pride. There's pleasure in the winter, When o'er the frozen snow With faithful friend and noble steed Right merrily we go! But give to me the summer, The pleasant summer days, When blooming flowers and sparkling streams Enliven all our ways. 

THE MAN WHO KNOWS EVERYTHING. 

SANSECRAT is one of that class of persons who think they knoweverything. If anything occurs, and you seek to inform him, he willinterrupt you by saying that he knows it all, --that he was on thespot when the occurrence happened, or that he had met a man who wasan eye-witness. 

Such a person, though he be the possessor of much assurance, issadly deficient in manners; and no doubt the super-abundancy of theformer is caused by the great lack of the latter. 

Such men as he will thrive; there is no mistake about it. This hasbeen called an age of invention and of humbug. Nothing is sopopular, or so much sought after, as that which cannot be explained, and around which a mysterious shroud is closely woven. 

My friend Arcanus came sweating and puffing into my room. I had justfinished my dinner, and was seated leisurely looking over a fewpages of manuscript, when he entered. 

"News!" said he; and before I could hand him a chair he had told meall about the last battle, and his tongue flew about with so muchrapidity, that a conflagration might have been produced by suchexcessive friction, had not a rap at the door put a clog under thewheels of his talkative locomotive, and stayed its progress, whichluckily gave me an opportunity to take his hat and request him to beseated. 

The door was opened, and who but Sansecrat stood before me. 

"Have you heard the news?" was the first interrogatory of my friendArcanus, in reply to which Sansecrat said that he knew it all halfan hour previous, --was at the railroad station when the expressarrived, and was the first man to open the Southern papers. 

In vain Arcanus told him that the information came by a privateletter. He averred, point blank, that it was no such thing; that hehad the papers in his pocket; and was about to exhibit them as proofof what he had said, when he suddenly recollected that he had soldthem to an editor for one-and-sixpence. 

Notwithstanding the proverb of "Man, know thyself, " Sansecrat seemsto know everything but himself. Thousands of times has it been saidthat man can see innumerable faults and foibles in his neighbors, but none in himself. Very true; and man can see his own character, just as he can see his own face in a mirror. His own associatesmirror forth his own character; and the faults, be they great orsmall, that he sees in them, are but the true reflection of his ownerrors. Yet, blind to this, and fondly imagining that he is the very"pink of excellence, " he flatters his own vain feeling with thecherished idea that, while others have faults, he has none, and soslumbers on in the sweet repose of ignorance. 

Sansecrat imagines that he knows everything; that to teach him wouldbe like "carrying coals to Newcastle, " or sending ship-loads of iceto Greenland, or furnaces to the coast of Africa; yet he is asignorant as the greatest dunce, who, parrot-like, repeats that hehas heard, without having the least understanding of what he says. 

Strange as it may seem, it is nevertheless true that Sansecrat willprosper in the world; for, though destitute of those qualificationswhich render their possessor worthy of success, he has an abundanceof brazen-facedness, with which he will work himself into the goodopinion of not a few, who look more closely upon exterior appearancethan they do upon inward worth, and judge their fellowmen more bythe good quality of their cloth than by the good quality of theirhearts, and set more value on a shining hat and an unpatched bootthan they do on a brilliant intellect and a noble soul. 

PRIDE AND POVERTY. 

 I CANNOT brook the proud. I cannot love The selfish man; he seems to have no heart; And why he lives and moves upon this earth Which God has made so fair, I cannot tell. He has no soul but that within his purse, And all his hopes are centred on its fate; That lost, and all is lost. I knew a man Who had abundant riches. He was proud, -- Too oft the effect of riches when abused, -- His step was haughty, and his eye glanced at The honest poor as base intruders on The earth he trod and fondly called his own; Unwelcome guests at Nature's banqueting. Years passed away, --that youth became a man; His beetled brow, his sullen countenance, His eye that looked a fiery command, Betrayed that his ambition was to rule. He smiled not, save in scorn on humble men, Whom he would have bow down and worship him. Thus with his strength his pride did grow, until He did become aristocrat indeed. The humble beggar, whose loose rags scarce gave Protection to him from the cold north wind, He scarce would look upon, and vainly said, As in his hand he held the ready coin, "No mortal need be poor, --'t is his own fault If such he be;--if he court poverty, Let all its miseries be his to bear. " 'T is many years since he the proud spake thus, And men and things have greatly changed since then. No more in wealth he rolls, --men's fortunes change. I met a lonely hearse, slowly it passed Toward the church-yard. 'T was unattended Save by one old man, and he the sexton. With spade beneath his arm he trudged along, Whistling a homely tune, and stopping not. He seemed to be in haste, for now and then He'd urge to quicker pace his walking beast, With the rough handle of his rusty spade. Him I approached, and eagerly inquired Whose body thus was borne so rudely to Its final resting-place, the deep, dark grave. "His name was Albro, " was the prompt reply. "Too proud to beg, we found him starved to death, In a lone garret, which the rats and mice Seemed greatly loth to have him occupy. An' I, poor Billy Matterson, whom once He deemed too poor and low to look upon, Am come to bury him. " The sexton smiled, -- Then raised his rusty spade, cheered up his nag, Whistled as he was wont, and jogged along. Oft I have seen the poor man raise his hand To wipe the eye when good men meet the grave, -- But Billy Matterson, he turned and smiled. The truth flashed in an instant on my mind, Though sad, yet deep, unchanging truth to me. 'T was he, thus borne, who, in his younger days, Blest with abundance, used it not aright. He, who blamed the poor because they were such; Behold his end!-too proud to beg, he died. A sad example, teaching all to shun The rock on which he shipwrecked, --warning take, That they too fall not as he rashly fell. 

WORDS THAT TOUCH THE INNER HEART. 

 WORDS, words! O give me these, Words befitting what I feel, That I may on every breeze Waft to those whose riven steel Fetters souls and shackles hands Born to be as free as air, Yet crushed and cramped by Slavery's bands, -- Words that have an influence there. Words, words! give me to write Such as touch the inner heart; Not mere flitting forms of light, That please the ear and then depart; But burning words, that reach the soul, That bring the shreds of error out, That with resistless power do roll, And put the hosts of Wrong to rout. Let others tune their lyres, and sing Illusive dreams of fancied joy; But, my own harp, --its every string Shall find in Truth enough employ. It shall not breathe of Freedom here, While millions clank the galling chain; Or e'en one slave doth bow in fear, Within our country's broad domain. Go where the slave-gang trembling stands, Herded with every stable stock, -- Woman with fetters on her hands, And infants on the auction-block! See, as she bends, how flow her tears! Hark! hear her broken, trembling sighs; Then hear the oaths, the threats, the jeers, Of men who lash her as she cries! O, men! who have the power to weave In poesy's web deep, searching thought, Be truth thy aim; henceforward leave The lyre too much with fancy fraught! Come up, and let the words you write Be those which every chain would break, And every sentence you indite Be pledged to Truth for Freedom's sake. 

OUR HOME. 

 OUR home shall be A cot on the mountain side, Where the bright waters glide, Sparkling and free; Terrace and window o'er Woodbine shall graceful soar; Roses shall round the door Blossom for thee. There shall be joy With no care to molest, -- Quiet, serene and blest; And our employ Work each other's pleasure; Boundless be the treasure; Without weight or measure, Free from alloy. Our home shall be Where the first ray of light Over the mountain height, Stream, rock and tree, Joy to our cot shall bring, While brake and bower shall ring With notes the birds shall sing, Loved one, for thee. 

SPECULATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCE. 

SPECULATION is business in a high fever. Its termination isgenerally very decided, whether favorable or otherwise, and theeffect of that termination upon the individual most intimatelyconnected with it in most cases unhealthy. 

It was a truth long before the wise man wrote it, that making hasteto be rich is an evil; and it always will be a truth that thenatural, unforced course of human events is the only sure, the onlyrational one. 

The desire to be rich, to be pointed out as wealthy, is a veryfoolish one, unless it be coupled with a desire to do good. This issomewhat paradoxical; for the gratification of the last mostcertainly repels that of the first, inasmuch as he who distributeshis gains cannot accumulate to any great extent. 

Wealth is looked at from the wrong stand-point. It is too oftenconsidered the end, instead of the means to an end; and there neverwas a greater delusion in the human mind than that of supposing thatriches confer happiness. In ninety-nine cases out of every hundredthe opposite is the result. Care often bears heavily on the richman's brow, and the insatiate spirit asks again and again for more, and will not be silenced. And this feeling will predominate in thehuman mind until man becomes better acquainted with his own truenature, and inclines to minister to higher and more ennoblingaspirations. 

In one of the most populous cities of the Union there resided, a fewyears since, a person in moderate circumstances, by the name ofRobert Short. Bob, as he Was usually called, was a shoemaker. With asteady run of custom, together with prudence and economy combined, he was enabled to support his family in an easy and by no meansunenviable style. He did not covet the favors and caresses of theworld. He looked upon all, --the rich, the poor, the prince, thebeggar, --alike, as his brethren. He believed that all stood upon oneplatform, all were bound to the same haven, and that all should beequally interested in each other's welfare. With this belief, andwith rules of a similar character, guided by which he pursued hiscourse of life, it was not to be wondered at that he could boast ofmany friends, and not strange that many should seek hisacquaintance. There is a desire planted in the hearts of honest mento associate with those who, ambitious enough to sustain a goodcharacter, are not so puffed up with pride, or so elevated in theirown estimation, as to despise the company of what are termed "thecommon people. " It was pleasant, of a winter's evening, to enter thehumble domicile of Mr. Short, and while the howling storm ragedfiercely without, and the elements seemed at war, to see thecontentment and peace that prevailed within. Bob, seated at hisbench, might be seen busily employed, and, as the storm increased, would seem to apply himself more diligently to his task. Six orperhaps eight of his neighbors might also be seen gathered around, seated upon that article most convenient, --whether a stool or a pileof leather, it mattered not, --relating some tale of the Revolution, or listening to some romantic story from the lips of the respectedMr. Short. 'T was upon such an evening, and at such a place, thatour story commences. Squire Smith, Ned Green, and a jovial sort of afellow by the name of Sandy, were seated around the red-hotcylinder. Squire Smith was what some would term a "man ofconsequence, "-at least, he thought so. Be it known that this squirewas by no means a daily visitor at the work-shop of our hero. Hecame in occasionally, and endeavored to impress upon his mind thatwhich he had settled in his own, namely, that he, Robert Short, might be a great man. 

"I tell you what, " said he, with an air of importance, "I tell youwhat, it is against all reason, it is contrary to common sense andeverything else, that you remain any longer riveted down to this oldbench. It will be your ruin; 'pend upon it, it will be your ruin. "

"How so?" eagerly inquired Mr. Short. 

"Why, " replied the squire, "it's no use for me to go intoparticulars. But why do you not associate with more respectable andfashionable company?"

"Is not the present company respectable?" resumed Mr. Short; "and asfor the fashion, I follow my own. "

Squire Smith did not reply to this inquiry, but stood shaking hishead, and appeared at a loss for words with which to answer. 

"Perhaps your ideas of respectability, " continued the squire, "arenot in accordance with mine. "

"Ay, ay; true, true, " interrupted Sandy, with a shrug of theshoulder. 

Mr. Smith continued his remarks, appearing not to notice theinterruption. "Perhaps, " said he, "one may be as honest as the daysare long; but, sir, he is far from being respectable, in my humbleopinion, if he is not genteel, --and certainly if he is notfashionably dressed he is not. He does not think enough of himself;that's it, my dear Mr. Short, he does not think enough of himself. "

"But he is honest, " replied Mr. Short. "Supposing he does not dressso fashionably as you would wish, would you condemn him for the cutof his coat, or the quality of his cloth? Perhaps his means are notvery extensive, and will not admit of a very expensive outlay, merely for show. It is much better, my dear sir, to be clothed inrags and out of debt, than to be attired in the most costly apparel, and that not paid for. Sir, to hold up your head and say you owe noman, is to be free, free in the truest sense of the word. "

"Ah, I must be on the move, " interrupted the squire, at the sametime looking at his "gold lever. " And off he started. 

Squire Smith had said enough for that night; to have said more wouldhave injured his plan. Mr. Green and Sandy shook hands with theirfriend Robert, and, it being late, they bade him "good-by, " andparted. Our hero was now left alone. Snuffing the candle, that hadwell-nigh burnt to the socket, he placed more fuel upon the fire, and, resting his hands upon his knees and his head upon his hands, he began to think over the sayings of his friend the squire. 

Robert Short saw nothing of the squire for many days after the eventjust described transpired. One day, as he began his work, the doorwas suddenly thrown open, and the long absent but not forgottensquire rushed in, shouting "Speculation! speculation!" Mr. Shortthrew aside his last, and listened with feelings of astonishment tothe eloquent words that fell from the lips of his unexpectedvisitor. "Gull, the broker, " continued the squire, "has just offeredme a great bargain. I have come to make a proposition which is, thatyou and I accept his offer, and make our fortunes. "

"Fortunes!" exclaimed the son of Crispin; "speculate in what?"

"In eastern land, " was the reply. 

Bob Short's countenance assumed a desponding appearance; he hadheard of many losses caused by venturing in these speculations, andhad some doubts as to his success, should he accept. Then, again, hehad heard of those who had been fortunate, and he inquired theconditions of sale. 

"Why, " replied Mr. Smith, Esq. , "old Varnum Gull has three thousandacres of good land, upon which are, as he assures me, some beautifulwatering places. It is worth five dollars an acre; he offers it tome for one, and a grand chance it is; the terms are cash. "

"Are you certain as to the quality of the land?" inquired Mr. Short. 

"Perfectly certain, " was the reply. "I would not advise you wrongfor the world; but I now think it best to form a sort ofco-partnership, and purchase the land. There is no doubt but that wecan dispose of it at a great advantage. Will you not agree to myproposals, and accept?"

"I will, " answered Mr. Short. "But how can I obtain fifteen hundreddollars? I have but a snug thousand. "

"O, don't trouble yourself about that, " replied the delightedsquire. "I will loan you the balance at once. You can return it atsome convenient time. What say you will you accompany me to thebroker's, and inform him of the agreement?"

Mr. Short, after a moment's delay, arose, and, laying aside hisleather apron, took the squire by the arm, and both sallied forth insearch of the office of Varnum Gull. After wending their way throughshort streets and long lanes, narrow avenues and wide alleys, theycame to a small gate, upon which was fastened a small tin sign withthe following inscription: "V. Gull, broker, up the yard, round thecorner, up two pair of stairs. " The squire and Mr. Short followedthe directions laid down, and, having gone up the yard and turnedround the corner, they found themselves at the foot of the stairs. They stood for a moment silent, and were about to ascend, when avoice from above attracted their attention. 

"'Ollo, Squire, 'ere's the box; walk right up 'ere; only look out, there's an 'ole in the stairs. "

Our hero looked above, and perceived a man with green spectaclesdrawing his head in. 

"We will go up, " said the squire, "and look out for the hole; but, as the stairway is rather dark, we shall not see much; therefore weshall be obliged to feel our way. "

They ascended, and escaped without injury. A little short man metthem at the door, holding in his hand a paper bearing someresemblance to a map. 

"Really, Mr. Smith, I feared you would lose that 'ere bargain Iexpatiated on. I 'ave received many good offers, but 'ave reservedit for you. Your friend, ha?" he continued, at the same timestriking Mr. Short in no gentle manner upon the shoulder. 

"Not friend Hay, but friend Short, " replied the squire. 

"Hall the same, only an error in the spelling, " resumed the broker. "Good-morning, Mr. Short; s'pose you 'ave become 'quainted with therare chance I've offered, an't ye? and wish to accept it, don't ye?and can pay for it, can't ye? Such an opportunity is seldom metwith, by which to make one's fortune. "

"Well, " replied Mr. Short, improving the time Mr. Gull stopped tobreathe, "well, I had some idea of so doing. " "Hidea!" quicklyresponded the broker; "why will you 'esitate? read that!" and hehanded a paper to Mr. Short which paper he kept for reference, andpointed out to him an article which read as follows:

"It is astonishing what enormous profits are at present realized bytraders in Eastern Land. One of our neighbors purchased a thousandacres, at one dollar and twenty-five cents per acre, of Gull, ourenterprising broker, and sold it yesterday for the round sum ofthree thousand dollars, receiving thereby the enormous profit ofnineteen hundred and seventy-five dollars. He was a poor man, but bythis lucky movement has become rich. "

As soon as our hero had read this cheering intelligence, he becameelated with the prospect, and soon came to a final agreement withthe squire to accept the offer. Papers were drawn up, signed byeach, and a check given to the broker, for which was returned a deedfor the land. They then left the office, Mr. Gull politely biddingthem good-by, with a caution to look out for the "'ole. " They didlook out for the hole, but it might have been that the cunningbroker referred to a hole of more consequence than that in thestairs. The squire on that day invited Mr. Short to his house todine. This, however, he did not accept, but returned to his shop. One week had passed away, during which time the squire was often atthe shop of Bob Short, but no customer had yet applied for the land. It was near dusk on the eighth day succeeding the purchase, as theywere talking over the best way by which to dispose of it, when ashort man entered, wrapped up in a large cloak, and a large bushyfur cap upon his head. 

"I understand, " said he, "you have a few acres of land you wish todispose of. "

"Exactly so, " answered the squire. 

"And how much do you charge per acre?" inquired the stranger. 

"That depends upon the number you wish. Do you wish to purchaseall?"

"That depends upon the price charged, " was the reply. 

"If you wish all, " continued Mr. Smith, "we will sell for fourdollars an acre. That is dog cheap, and a great sacrifice. "

"Well, " resumed the stranger, "I will take it on conditions;namely, I will pay you your price, and if the land answers mypurpose I will keep it, --if not, you will return me the amount ofmoney I pay. "

"That is rather a hard bargain. I know it to be good land, " answeredthe squire. 

"Then, " continued the stranger, "if you know it to be good, certainly there can be no danger in disposing of it on theconditions I have named. "

After a few moments' conversation with Mr. Short, they agreed tosell to the stranger. Papers were immediately drawn up and signed byMessrs. Smith and Short, agreeing to return the money provided theland did not give satisfaction. The sum of twelve thousand dollarswas paid in cash to the signers, and the papers given into the handsof the purchaser, who then left. Robert Short on that night didreally feel rich. This was six thousand dollars apiece; after Mr. Short had paid the fifteen hundred borrowed, he had forty-fivehundred left. Both were equally certain that the land would giveentire satisfaction, and acted according to this belief. With alight heart he went home, and communicated the joyful intelligenceto his wife, who had from the first been opposed to the trade. Hedid not, however, inform her of the terms on which he had sold. In afew days he had disposed of his shop and tools to one of his formerworkmen. Many were surprised when the sign of "Robert Short" wastaken from its long resting-place over the door. Mr. Short now beganto think the house in which he had for many years resided was notquite good enough, and therefore engaged a larger and more expensiveone. He ordered new furniture, purchased a carriage and horses, andhad his new house fitted out under the direction of his friend, thesquire. He rented a large store; bought large quantities of shoesand leather, partly on credit. His business at first prospered, butin a short time became quite dull; his former customers left, andall business seemed at a stand-still. In the mean time, the brokerhad left town, having sold out his office to a young man. Mattersstood thus, when, early in the morning on a pleasant day in June, asthe squire and Mr. Short were seated in the counting-room of thelatter, a man dressed in a light summer dress entered. 

"Good-morning, " said the visitor. "Business is quite lively, Isuppose?"

"O, it's moderate, nothing extra, " replied Mr. Short; "won't you beseated?"

The stranger seated himself. 

"Mr. Robert Short is your name, is it not?" he inquired. 

"It is, sir. "

"Did I not make a bargain with you about some eastern land, a fewmonths since?"

"Yes, some person did;" and Mr. Short immediately recognized him asthe purchaser. The new comer then took from his pocket the paper ofagreement, and presented it for the inspection of the two gentlemen. 

"Are you not satisfied with your bargain?" inquired Mr. Smith. 

"Not exactly, " replied the stranger, laughing. 

"Why, what fault is there in it?"

"Well, " replied the stranger, "I suppose a report of my examinationwill be acceptable. "

"Certainly, sir, " replied Mr. Short. 

"Then I can give it in a few words. It is a good watering place, being WHOLLY COVERED WITH WATER; and is of no value unless it couldbe drained, and that, I think, is impossible. "

The squire was astonished; Mr. Short knew not what to

"What is the name of the water bought for land?" inquired SquireSmith. 

"The location of it is in a large pond of water, twelve miles inlength, and about six in width, and is known in those parts by thename of the 'Big Pond. ' But, " continued the stranger, "I must begone; please return me my money, according to agreement. "

After some talk, the stranger agreed to call the next day. The nextday came, and with it came the stranger. Mr. Short had tried in vainto obtain the requisite sum, and was obliged to request him to callthe next day. He came the next day, and the next, and the next, butreceived no money; and he was at length obliged to attach theproperty of the squire, as also that of Mr. Short. His othercreditors also came in with their bills. All the stock of Mr. Shortwas sold at auction, and he was a poor man. He obtained a smallhouse, that would not compare with the one he had lived in in formeryears. He had no money of his own, and was still deeply in debt. Hewas obliged to work at such jobs as came along, but at lengthobtained steady employment. The squire, who was the prime cause ofall his trouble, sailed for a foreign port, leaving all his billsunpaid, In a short time Mr. Short obtained a sufficient sum to buyback his old shop, in which to this day he has steadily worked, witha vivid remembrance of the consequence of speculation. 

RETROSPECTION. 

 HE had drank deep and long from out The bacchanalian's bowl; Had felt its poisonous arrows pierce The recess of his soul; And now his footsteps turned to where His childhood's days were cast, And sat him 'neath an old oak tree To muse upon the past. Beneath its shade he oft had sat In days when he was young; Ere sorrow, like that old oak tree, Its own deep shadows flung; Beneath that tree his school-mates met, There joined in festive mirth, And not a place seemed half so dear To him, upon the earth. The sun had passed the horizon, Yet left a golden light Along a cloudless sky to mark A pathway for the night; The moon was rising silently To reign a queen on high, To marshal all the starry host, In heaven's blue canopy. In sight the schoolhouse stood, to which In youth he had been led By one who now rests quietly Upon earth's silent bed. And near it stood the church whose aisles His youthful feet had trod; Where his young mind first treasured in The promises of God. There troops of happy children ran With gayety along; 'T was agony for him to hear Their laughter and their song. For thoughts of youthful days came up And crowded on his brain, Till, crushed with woe unutterable, It sank beneath its pain. Pain! not such as sickness brings, For that can be allayed, But pain from which a mortal shrinks Heart-stricken and dismayed: The body crushed beneath its woe May some deliverance find, But who on earth hath power to heal The agony of mind? O Memory! it long had slept; But now it woke to power, And brought before him all the past, From childhood's earliest hour. He saw himself in school-boy prime; Then youth, its pleasures, cares, Came up before him, and he saw How cunningly the snares Were set to catch him as he ran In thoughtless haste along, To charm him with deceitful smiles, And with its siren song: He saw a seeming friendly hand Hold out the glittering wine, Without a thought that deep within A serpent's form did twine. Then manhood came; then he did love, And with a worthy pride He led a cherished being to The altar as his bride; And mid the gay festivity Passed round the flowing wine, And friends drank, in the sparkling cup, A health to thee and thine. A health! O, as the past came up, The wanderer's heart was stirred And as a madman he poured forth Deep curses on that word. For well he knew that "health" had been The poison of his life; Had made the portion of his soul With countless sorrows rife. Six years passed by-a change had come, And what a change was that! No more the comrades of his youth With him as comrades sat. Duties neglected, friends despised, Himself with naught to do, A mother dead with anguish, and A wife heart-broken too. Another year-and she whom he Had promised to protect Died in the midst of poverty, A victim of neglect. But ere she died she bade him kneel Beside herself in prayer, And prayed to God that he would look In pity on them there: And bless her husband, whom she loved, And all the past forgive, And cause him, ere she died, begin A better life to live. She ceased to speak, --the husband rose, And, penitent, did say, While tears of deep contrition flowed, "I'll dash the bowl away!" A smile passed o'er the wife's pale face, She grasped his trembling hand, Gave it one pressure, then her soul Passed to a better land. He, bent to kiss her pale cold lips, But they returned it not; And then he felt the loneliness And sorrow of his lot. It seemed as though his life had fled; That all he called his own, When her pure spirit took its flight, Had with that spirit flown. She had been all in all to him, And deep his heart was riven With anguish, as he thought what woe He her kind heart had given. But all was passed; she lay in death, The last word had been said, The soul had left its prison-house, And up to heaven had fled; But 't was a joy for him to know She smiled on him in love, And hope did whisper in his heart, "She'll guard thee from above. " He sat beneath that old oak tree, And children gathered round, And wondered why he wept, and asked What sorrow he had found. Then told he them this sad, sad tale, Which I have told to you; They asked no more why he did weep, For they his sorrow knew. And soon their tears began to fall, And men came gathering round, Till quite a goodly company Beneath that tree was found. The wanderer told his story o'er, Unvarnished, true and plain; And on that night three-score of men Did pledge them to abstain. 

NATURE'S FAIR DAUGHTER, BEAUTIFUL WATER. 

 NATURE'S fair daughter, Beautiful water! O, hail it with joy, with echoes of mirth, Wherever it sparkles or ripples on earth. Down from the mountain, Up from the fountain, Ever it cometh, bright, sparkling and clear, From the Creator, our pathway to cheer. Nobly appearing, O'er cliffs careering, Pouring impetuously on to the sea, Chanting, unceasing, the song of the free. See how it flashes As onward it dashes Over the pebbly bed of the brook, Singing in every sequestered nook. Now gently falling, As if 't were calling Spirits of beauty from forest and dell To welcome it on to grotto and cell. Beauteous and bright Gleams it in light, Then silently flows beneath the deep glade, Emblem of life in its sunshine and shade. Beautiful water! Nature's fair daughter! Where'er it sparkles or ripples on earth, Hail it with joy and with echoes of mirth. 

THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP. 

 BRIGHTEST shine the stars above When the night is darkest round us; Those the friends we dearest love Who were near when sorrow bound us. When no clouds o'ercast our sky, When no evil doth attend us, Then will many gather nigh, Ever ready to befriend us. But when darkness shades our path, When misfortune hath its hour, When we lie beneath its wrath, Some will leave us to its power. Often have we seen at night, When the clouds have gathered o'er us, One lone star send forth its light, Marking out the path before us. Like that star some friendly eye Will beam on us in our sorrow; And, though clouded be our sky, We know there'll be a better morrow. We know that all will not depart, That some will, gather round to cheer us: Know we, in our inmost heart, Tried and faithful friends are near us. Brother, those who do not go May be deem‚d friends forever; Love them, trust them, have them know Nothing can your friendship sever. 

WEEP NOT. 

 WEEP not, mother, For another Tie that bound thyself to earth Now is sundered, And is numbered With those of a heavenly birth. She hath left thee. God bereft thee Of thy dearest earthly friend; Yet thou'lt meet her, Thou wilt greet her Where reunions have no end Her life's true sun Its course did run From morn unto meridian day; And now at eve It takes its leave, Calmly passing hence away. Watch the spirit- 'T will inherit Bliss which mortal cannot tell; From another World, my mother, Angels whisper, "All is well. " 'Way with sadness! There is gladness In a gathered spirit throng; She, ascended, Trials ended, Joins their ranks and chants their song. Weep not, mother, For another Tie doth bind thyself above; Doubts are vanished, Sorrows banished, She is happy whom you love. 

RICH AND POOR. 

"GOOD-BY, Ray, good-by, " said George Greenville; and the stage woundits way slowly up a steep ascent, and was soon lost to view. 

"Well, well, he has gone. Glad of it, heartily glad of it! When willall these paupers be gone?" said the father of George, as he enteredthe richly-furnished parlor, and seated himself beside an openwindow. 

"Why so glad?" inquired George, who listened with feelings of regretto the remark. 

"Why?" resumed the owner of a thousand acres; "ask me no questions;I am glad, --that's enough. You well know my mind on the subject. "

"Father, act not thus. Is this a suitable way to requite hiskindness?"

"Kindness!" interrupted the old man; "say not 't was kindness thatprompted him to do me a favor; rather say 't was his duty, --and ofyou should I not expect better things? Did I allow you to visitLemont but to become acquainted with such a poverty-stricken, pauper-bred youth as Ray Bland?"

Saying this, he arose and left the room. 

George seated himself in the chair vacated by his father. He lookedacross the verdant fields, and mused upon his passionate remarks. "Well, " thought he, "I was right; shall I allow the god of Mammon tobind me down? Of what use are riches, unless, whilst we enjoy, wecan with them relieve the wants and administer to the necessities ofour fellow-men? Shall we hoard them up, or shall we not rather givewith a free hand and a willing heart to those who have feltmisfortune's scourging rod, --who are crushed, oppressed and trampledupon, by not a few of their more wealthy neighbors?" In such a trainof thought he indulged himself till the hour of dinner arrived. 

George Greenville had formed an acquaintance with Ray Bland whilston a visit to a neighboring town. He was a young man, possessingthose fine qualities of mind that constitute the true gentleman. Hiscountenance beamed with intelligence, and his sparkling eye betrayedvivacity of mind, the possession of which was a sure passport to thebest of society. When the time came that George was to return hometo the companionship of his friends, they found that ties offriendship bound them which could not be easily severed, and Rayaccepted the invitation of George Greenville to accompany him, andspend a short time at the house of his father. The week had passedaway in a pleasant manner. The hour of parting had come and gone;The farewell had been taken, the "good-by" had been repeated, whenthe conversation above mentioned passed between him and his father. 

The family and connections of George were rich; those of Ray werepoor. The former lived at ease in the midst of pleasures, andsurrounded by all the comforts and conveniences of life; the latterencountered the rough waves of adversity, and was obliged to laborwith assiduity, to sustain an equal footing with his neighbors. Thuswere the two friends situated; and old Theodore Greenville scornedthe idea of having his son associate with a pauper, as he termed allthose who were not the possessors of a certain amount ofmoney, --without which, in his opinion, none were worthy to associatewith the rich. 

"Ray is a person not so much to be hated and sneered at as you wouldsuppose, " said George, breaking the silence, and addressing hisfather at the dinner-table. 

"George, I have set my heart against him, " was the reply. 

"Then, " continued the first speaker, "I suppose you are not open toconviction. If I can prove him worthy of your esteem and confidence, will you believe?"

"That cannot be done, perhaps. You may think him to be a worthyyoung man; but I discard the old saying that poverty is no disgrace!I say that it is; and one that can, if its victim choose, be washedaway. Ray Bland is a pauper, that's my only charge against him; andall the thundering eloquence of a Cicero will not alter my opinion, or move me an iota from the stand I have taken, --which is, now andever, to reject the company of paupers. It is my request that you dothe same. "

Amelia, the sister of George, now joined in the conversation, inquiring of her father whether it was against his will for her toassociate with the poor. 

"Precisely so, " was the brief reply; and the conversation ended. Thefather left the house for a short walk, as was his custom, whilstGeorge and Amelia retired to the parlor, and conversed, for a longtime, upon the rash and unjust decision of their parent. The mutualattachment that existed between George and Ray was not looked uponwith indifference by the sister of the former; and she determinedupon using all the means in her power to bring the latter into thegood will of her father; she resolved, like a noble girl, to cherisha social and friendly feeling toward the friend of her brother. Hewho knows the warmth of a sister's affection can imagine with whatconstancy she adhered to this determination. The command of herfather not to associate with the poor only served to strengthen herresolution, for she knew with what obstacles her brother would haveto contend. She had a kind heart, that would not allow afellow-being to want, so long as she had, or could obtain, the meansto relieve him. 

"Do you think father was in earnest in what he said?" inquiredAmelia. 

"I have no reason to doubt his sincerity, " replied George; "but whatled you to ask such a question?"

"Because, you know, he often speaks ironically; and, as he left thedinner-room with mother, he smiled, and said something about thepoor, and a trick he was about to play. "

"True, Amelia, " replied George, "he is to play a trick; but itconcerns not us. You know poor old Smith is one of father's tenants. Smith has been sick, and has not been able to procure funds withwhich to pay his rent, and father intends to engage a person to takeout all the doors and windows of the house. He hopes Smith will thusbe forced to leave. I have been thinking whether we cannot devisesome plan to prevent the poor man from being turned thus abruptlyfrom the house. "

"I am sure we can, " replied Amelia; "yet I had much rather have atrick played upon us than upon poor Smith. Can you not propose someway by which we can prevent father from carrying out hisintentions?"

"I will give you the money, " replied George, "if you will convey itto Mr. Smith, so that he will be enabled to pay his rent. Recollectit must be carried in the night, and this night, as father expectsto commence his operations to-morrow or next day. You know that Icannot go, as my time will be fully occupied in attending upon someimportant business at home. " It was not necessary to make this offermore than once. The heart of Amelia bounded with joy, as sheanticipated being the bearer of the money to Smith; and, shortlyafter dark, being provided with it, she proceeded to his house. 

It was a dark night. The moon was obscured by thick clouds, and notwinkling star shone to guide her on her errand of mercy. As shedrew near the lonely dwelling of Paul Smith, she perceived no light. She feared that he might be absent. Stealthily along she crept, and, listening at the door, heard the voice of prayer, imploring aid andsupport during the trials of life, that relief might soon be sent. Amelia silently opened the door, and placed the money on a table, accompanied with a note to Smith, requesting him not to disclose themanner in which he received it, and, as silently withdrawing, wendedher way home. As she entered the parlor, she found her father andbrother engaged in earnest conversation, --so earnest that she was notat first noticed. 

"Confound my tenants!" said Mr. Greenville. "There's old Paul Smith;if to-morrow's sun does not witness him bringing my just dues, heshall leave, --yes, George, he shall leave! I am no more to be trifledwith and perplexed by his trivial excuses. All my tenants who do notpay shall toe the same mark. I'll make them walk up, fodder or nofodder! Ha, ha, ha! old Smith shall know that I have some principleleft, if I have passed my sixtieth year-that he shall! Slipnoose, the lawyer, shall have one job. "

"You are always visiting your friends, George. It seems as thoughall are your friends. Yet I don't blame you, for friends are veryhappy appendages to one's character. I pity the man who lives afriendless life. That's the reason I have been such a friend toSmith, --but no longer!" As he said this the wealthy landlord left theroom. 

Amelia related to her brother an account of her adventure, and bothwere thankful that they been instrumental in relieving the wants oftheir poor neighbors. The next morning, seated at the table, Mr. Greenville began again to express his opinion respecting poor peoplein general, and Paul Smith in particular, when a loud rap at thedoor somewhat startled him. In a few moments a servant entered, andgave information that a person was at the door who wished to see Mr. Greenville. Arriving there, the landlord encountered his tenant, Smith, who immediately told him that by some kind providence he wasenabled to pay him his due, and hoped that in future he should beprompt in his payments. 

The landlord took the money, and, looking it over, handed him areceipt for the same, and returned to the breakfast-table. Nothingwas said about Smith until Mr. Greenville, as he left the room, remarked "that he did not know but that Smith meant well enough. "

Nearly a month had elapsed and nothing had been heard of Ray Bland, when, on a certain morning, Mr. Greenville came in and handed Georgea letter. Upon opening it, George found it to be written by hisfriend Ray, informing him of his safe arrival home, thanking him forthe kind attention he received during his visit, and expressinggreat pleasure in soon having another opportunity to visit him. George communicated this intelligence to Amelia, and they determinedupon using their united efforts in endeavoring to bring over thekind feelings of their father to their young, but poor, friend. 

"It's no use for you to talk, " said old Mr. Greenville, after a longconversation with the two; "the die is cast. I have resolved, andall the arguments you can bring forward will not cause me to breakmy resolution. "

"Well, " remarked George, "perhaps the day will come when you willdeeply regret forming such a resolution. Perhaps the sunshine ofprosperity will not always illumine our path. "

"Be that as it may, " interrupted Mr. Greenville, "we will not allowour imagination to wander forth into the mystical regions of thefuture, or picture to ourselves scenes of wretchedness, if suchawait us. Flatter me not with the good intentions of Ray Bland. "

Months passed away, and the children of the proud Mr. Greenvilleforbore to mention in the presence of their father aught concerningtheir friend Ray Bland, or to excite the anger of the old gentlemanby combating his prejudices against the poor. 

Months passed away, and again Ray Bland found himself beneath theroof of his former friend. He was received by George and Amelia withthe cordiality that had ever marked his intercourse with them; butthe father was, if possible, more morose and sullen than usual. 

Ray had several times made the attempt to know the cause of thiscoldness, but as often as he alluded to it George would invariablyturn the subject; and he forbore to question further, content withthe happiness which he enjoyed in the society of those he held sodear. 

It was the evening of a fine day in the early spring, that the threefriends sat together. It was the last evening of his visit, and Rayexpected not to return for a long time. Alone in his study, thefather vented his indignation against paupers, which respect for hisdaughter's feelings only prevented in the presence of their visitor. He opened the casement. Clouds were gathering in the sky, and nowand then a faint flash of lightning illumined the increasingdarkness; and the far-off voice of the storm was audible from thedistance, each moment increasing in strength and violence. Soon thestorm was upon them. 

The old gentleman retired to his apartment. Each moment the stormincreased in violence, and in vain did he strive to close his eyesin sleep. 

At length a flash more vivid, accompanied by a peal of thunder moreterrific than any that had preceded it, startled the inmates of themansion. The wind howled terribly, and the old trees groaned andcreaked about the dwelling with a fearful and terrific sound. 

Within all was still and quiet. No word was spoken, for it was afearful night, and in fear and dread they suspended theirconversation. 

Amelia first broke the silence. "Something must be burning, "exclaimed she. In an instant the cry of fire was heard. All startedup and rushed to the door; and there, indeed, they were witnesses ofa sight which might well appall. The whole upper part of the housewas in flames. Instantly the cause flashed upon them. The house hadbeen struck and set on fire by lightning. "My father! O, my father!"shrieked Amelia, and fell fainting to the floor. Quick as the wordcame the thought of Ray Bland that the aged Mr. Greenville might bein danger; and ere George Greenville had borne his sister to a placeof safety, through flame and smoke had Ray Bland reached the chamberwhich he knew the old gentleman occupied. It was locked. One blow ofhis foot, with all the force he could muster, and locks and boltsgave way. The room was nearly enveloped in flames, the curtains ofthe window and bed had been consumed, and now the flames had seizedthe wood-work and burned with great fury. Upon the floor, prostrateas if dead, lay the proud man, who scorned and detested the poor, and who had boasted of being beyond the reach of adversity. To lifthim in his arms and bear him to the street was the work of aninstant. He had only been stunned, and the drenching rain throughwhich he was carried soon revived him. Ray bore him to the house ofpoor Smith, the nearest to his own; and there, with feelings ofanguish which cannot be described, surrounded by his children andneighbors, the old man learned a lesson which his whole previouslife had not taught, of the dependence which every member of societyhas upon the whole. While his riches were taking wings to fly awayeven before his own eyes, he felt how foolish and wicked was hispast conduct; and ever after the poor found no warmer friend or moreliberal hand than that of old George Greenville. 

In the course of a few months a new and spacious building waserected upon the site of the one destroyed; and the neighbors saythat the pretty cottage which is being built just over the way is tobe the future residence of Ray Bland and the fair Amelia, whosearistocratic father now knows no distinction, save in merit, betweenthe rich and poor. 

THE HOMEWARD BOUND. 

 SLOWLY he paced the vessel's whitened deck, While thoughts of hours, and days, and scenes long past, Brought forth from fountains well-nigh dry a tear: For in imagination he could see Himself a tiny boy, in childish sport Upon a river's bank, quite near his home, Chasing the butterfly, whose gaudy dress Lured him away, till, wearied with the chase, Upon some mossy stone he sat him down; Or, in some rippling brook, beneath the shade Of some tall oak, he bathed his parched brow; Then up he sprang, retraced his wandering steps, Yet heedless ran, and could not leave his play. And since that day what scenes had he passed through, What trials met, what sights his eyes beheld! Beneath the burning skies of torrid zones, On frozen banks of Nova Zembla's coast, Or the more fertile climes of Italy; There, where the luscious grape in fulness hangs, And fields of roses yield a rich perfume; 'Mid orange-groves whence sweetest odors rise, 'Neath branches burdened with their fragrant fruit, Forth he had wandered. Mark the semblance now! For much there is between his childish course Upon the river's bank and his later Wanderings. Then, he chased the butterfly. Now, His inclination led to a pursuit More bold, adventurous, and far more grand. Ambition filled his soul. Sometimes he ran In vain; and so it was in boyhood's days; And thus 't is plainly seen that childhood hours Are but an index of our future life, And life an index of that yet to come. As on the vessel swept, a tear would 'scape Forth from its hidden cell, and trickle down The sailor's deeply-furrowed cheek, to bathe Those recollections with the dew of Thought! Some deem it weak to weep. Away the thought! It is not weakness when Affection's fount O'erflows its borders, and to man displays The feelings that its powers cannot conceal. It is not weakness when our feeble words Find utterance only in our flowing tears. Call not such language "weakness"! Worlds may laugh, Yet know no joy like that which often flows In silent tears. As nearer drew the seaman to his home, As in the distance first he saw the spot Where childhood's hours in happiness were spent, His slow pace quickened to a faster walk, And, had he had the power, he'd walked the waves, And bravely dashed the intrusive spray aside, To reach the much-loved spot more rapidly Than wind and tide urged on his noble bark. 

THE POOR OF EARTH. 

 I'VE often wondered, as I've sat Within mine own loved home, And thought of those, my fellow-men, Who houseless, homeless, roam; That one upon this earth is found Whose heart good promptings smother; And will not share his wealth with him Who is his poorer brother! I've often wondered, as I've walked Amid life's busy throng, And seen my fellows who have been By Fortune helped along, That they who bask in its bright rays No tear of pity shed On him who doth no "fortune" seek, But asks a crust of bread! I've seen the gilded temple raised, The aspirant of fame Ascend the altar's sacred steps, To preach a Saviour's name, And wondered, as I stood and gazed At those rich-cushioned pews, Where he who bears the poor man's fate Might hear Salvation's news. I've walked within the church-yard's walls, With holy dread and fear, And on its marble tablets read "None but the rich lie here. " I've wandered till I came upon A heap of moss-grown stones, And some one whispered in mine ear, "Here rest the poor man's bones. " My spirit wandered on, until It left the scenes of earth; Until I stood with those who'd passed Through death, the second birth. And I inquired, with holy awe, "Who are they within this fold, Who seem to be Heaven's favorite, And wear those crowns of gold?" Then a being came unto me, One of angelic birth, And in most heavenly accents said, "Those were the poor of earth. " Then from my dream I woke, but Will ne'er forget its worth; For ever since that vision I have loved "the poor of earth. " And when I see them toiling on To earn their daily bread, And dire oppression crush them down, Till every joy hath fled, -- I mind me of that better world, And of that heavenly fold, Where every crown of thorns gives place Unto a crown of gold. 

IF I DON'T, OTHERS WILL. 

 "IF I don't make it, others will; So I'll keep up my death-drugged still. Come, Zip, my boy, pile on the wood, And make it blaze as blaze it should; For I do heartily love to see The flames dance round it merrily! "Hogsheads, you want?-well, order them made; The maker will take his pay in trade. If, at the first, he will not consent, Treat him with wine till his wits are spent; Then, when his reason is gone, you know Whate'er we want from his hands will flow! "Ah, what do you say?-'that won't be fair'? You're conscientious, I do declare! I thought so once, when I was a boy, But since I have been in this employ I've practised it, and many a trick, By the advice of my friend, Old Nick. I thought 't was wrong till he hushed my fears With derisive looks, and taunts, and jeers, And solemnly said to me, 'My Bill, If you don't do it, some others will!' "If I don't sell it, some others will; So bottles, and pitchers, and mugs I'll fill. When trembling child, who is sent, shall come, Shivering with cold, and ask for rum (Yet fearing to raise its wet eyes up), I'll measure it out in its broken cup! "Ah! what do you say?-'the child wants bread'? Well, 't is n't my duty to see it fed; If the parents will send to me to buy, Do you think I'd let the chance go by To get me gain? O, I'm no such fool; That is not taught in the world's wide school! "When the old man comes with nervous gait, Loving, yet cursing his hapless fate, Though children and wife and friends may meet, And me with tears and with sighs entreat Not to sell him that which will be his death, I'll hear what the man with money saith; If he asks for rum and shows the gold, I'll deal it forth, and it shall be sold! "Ah! do you say, 'I should heed the cries Of weeping friends that around me rise'? May be you think so; I tell you what, -- I've a rule which proves that I should not; For, know you, though the poison kill, If I don't sell it, some others will!" A strange fatality came on all men, Who met upon a mountain's rocky side; They had been sane and happy until then, But then on earth they wished not to abide. The sun shone brightly, but it had no charm; The soft winds blew, but them did not elate; They seemed to think all joined to do them harm, And urge them onward to a dreadful fate. I did say "all men, " yet there were a few Who kept their reason well, --yet, weak, what could they do? The men rushed onward to the jagged rocks, Then plunged like madmen in their madness o'er; From peak to peak they scared the feathered flocks, And far below lay weltering in their gore. The sane men wondered, trembled, and they strove To stay the furies; but they could not do it. Whate'er they did, however fenced the drove, The men would spring the bounds or else break through it, And o'er the frightful precipice they leaped, Till rock and tree seemed in their red blood steeped. One of the sane men was a great distiller And one sold liquors in a famous city; And, by the way, one was an honest miller, Who looked on both their trades in wrath and pity. This good "Honestus" spoke to them, and said, "You'd better jump; if you don't, others will. " Each took his meaning, yet each shook his head. "That is no reason we ourselves should kill, " Said they, while very stupid-brained they seemed, As though they of the miller's meaning never dreamed. 

NOT MADE FOR AN EDITOR. 

BEING A TRUE ACCOUNT OF AN INCIDENT IN THE HISTORY OF THE STUBBS FAMILY. 

MR. And MRS. STUBBS were seated at the side of a red-hot cylinderstove. On one side, upon the floor, a small black-and-white dog layvery composedly baking himself; on the other, an old brown cat was, in as undisturbed a manner, doing the same. The warmth that existedbetween them was proof positive that they had not grown cold towardseach other, though the distance between them might lead one tosuppose they had. 

In one corner of the room was the bust of a man, whose onlyexistence was in the imagination of a miserable ship-carver, who, inhis endeavors to breathe life into his block, came near breathinglife out of himself, by sitting up late at night at his task. In theother hung a crook-necked squash, festooned with wreaths ofspider-webs. Above the mantel-piece was suspended a paintingrepresenting a feat performed by a certain dog, of destroying onehundred rats in eight minutes. The frame in which this gem of artwas placed was once gilt, but, at the time to which we refer, wascovered with the dust of ages. 

Mr. Stubbs poked the fire. Mrs. Stubbs poked the dog, when suddenlythe door flew open, and their son entered with blackened eyes, bloody hands; bruised face and dirty clothes, the mostbelligerent-looking creature this side of the "Rio Grande. "

"My voice a'nt still for war, it's loud for war, " he said, as, witha braggadocia sort of air, he threw his cap at the dog, who clenchedit between his teeth, shook it nearly to tatters, and then passed itover to the cat. 

"What's the matter now, Jake?" said Mrs. Stubbs. "Always introuble, --fights and broils seem to be your element. I don't know, Jake, what will become of you, if you go on at this rate. What sayyou, father?"

Mr. Stubbs threw down the poker, and casting a glance first at hishopeful son, and then at his hoping wife, replied that Jake was anignorant, pugnacious, good-for-nothing scamp, and never would cometo anything, unless to a rope's end. 

"O, how can you talk so?" said his wife. "You know it's nat'ral. "

"Nat'ral!" shouted the father; "then it's ten times worse-the harderthen to rid him of his quarrelsome habits. But I've an idea, " saidhe, his face brightening up at the thought, as though he hadclenched and made it fast and sure. 

The mother started as by an electric shock. The boy, who had retiredinto one corner in a sullen mood, freshened up, and looked at hisfather. The ship-carver's fancy sketch brightened up also; but notof its own free will, for the force with which Mr. Stubbs broughthis hand in contact with the table caused the dirty veil to fallfrom the bust-er's face. 

"What is it?" inquired Mrs. Stubbs, with much animation. 

"Why, my dear woman, as we can do nothing with him, we'll make himan editor. "

The old lady inquired what that was; and, being informed, expresseddoubts as to his ability. 

"Why, " said she, "he cannot write distinctly. "

"What of that?'-let him write with the scissors and paste-pot. Lethim learn; many know q great deal more after having learned. "

"But he must have some originality in his paper, " said Mrs. Stubbs, who, it seemed, did not fall in with the general opinion that "anyone can edit a paper. "

"Never fear that, " said Mr. Stubbs; "he'll conduct anything he takeshold of, rather than have that conduct him. I'll tell you what, oldwoman, Jake shall be an editor, whether he can write a line ofeditorial or not. Jake, come here. "

Jake, who had nearly forgotten his fight, was elated at theproposition of his father, and, being asked whether, in his opinion, he could conduct a paper with ability, originality and success, replied, in the slang phrase of the day, that he "could n't doanything else, " at the same time clenching his fist, as though toconvince his sire that he could do something else, notwithstanding. 

"As I have never asked you any question relative to public affairs, and as the people of this generation are getting to be wise, I deemit right that I should ask you a few questions before endeavoring toobtain a situation. Now, Jake, who is the President of the UnitedStates?"

"General George Washington, " replied the intelligent lad, or ratheryoung man; for, though he indulged in many boyish tricks, he wasabout twenty years of age, a short, dull-looking member of the"great unwashed. " The father intimated that he was mistaken; the sonpersisted in saying that he was not. 

"Never mind the catechizer, " said Jake; "I'll conduct a newspaper, Iwill, for Mr. And Mrs. Stubbs never see the day I could n't conductanything. "

"That's bright, " said Mrs. Stubbs; "he possesses more talent than Iwas aware of; he'll make an editor. "

"An' he shall, " said the father, resolutely. 

The clock struck nine, which was the signal for Mr. And Mrs. Stubbsto retire, and they did so. No sooner had they left than theirdutiful son mounted the table, and, taking down the fancy bust, pulled the dog by the tail to awake him, and set him barking at it. The cat must have her part in the tragedy, so Jake thought; and, pulling her by the tail, she was soon on the field of action. 

"Now, sist-a-boy, Tozer; give her an editorial, " said he; and, asdog and cat had been through the same performance before, they actedtheir parts in manner suiting. The dog barked, the cat snapped andsnarled, and Jake Stubbs stood by rubbing his hands in a perfectecstasy of delight. 

It is needless for us to relate the many curious adventures Mr. Stubbs met with whilst searching for a situation for Jake. 

His endeavors to find a situation such as he wanted were, for a longtime, ineffectual. At length he blundered into a smallprinting-office, where three men and a boy were testing the meritsof half a dozen doughnuts, and a bottle of root beer. 

Mr. Stubbs was very sorry to disturb them. When he mentioned hiserrand, one of the men-a tall fellow, with check shirt and greenapron-said that he had, for a long time, contemplated starting apaper, but, as he was not capable of editing one, he had not carriedout his intention. The principal reason why he had not publishedwas, he was poor; business had not prospered in his hands, and anoutlay of two thousand dollars would be needed to commence andcontinue the paper. 

"Very well, " replied Mr. Stubbs, "that is a large sum; but, if thereis no doubt of its being returned, I might think of loaning it toyou, for the sake of getting my talented son into business. "

"Not the least doubt, not the least, " replied Mr. Pica; and he soinflamed the imagination of Mr. Stubbs, that, strange as it may seemto the cautious reader, he wrote a check for the amount, merelytaking the unendorsed note of Mr. Pica as security; then, hasteninghome, he told Mrs. Stubbs to brush up the boy, for he was an editor. 

Behold, now, Mr. Jake Stubbs in a little room up three pair ofstairs, preparing "copy" for the first number of "The Peg Top, orthe Buzz of the Nation. " He hasn't got black eyes now; all theblackness of his person, if not of his character, has settled in hisfingers, and they are black with ink. Not all settled, for a fewdaubs of the "blood of the world, " as the dark fluid has beencalled, were to be seen on his forehead, having passed there fromhis fingers, when leaning upon them in a pensive mood, vainlyendeavoring to bring up thoughts from the mighty depths of hisintellect, --so mighty, in fact, that his thoughts were kept there, and refused to come up. 

Mr. Jake Stubbs had been cutting and pasting all day, when, thinkingit a little too severe to inflict further duty upon the assistanteditor, he took his pen in hand, resolved upon writing a masterlyarticle as a leader. 

A sheet of blank paper had lain on the table before him for nearlyan hour. He would sit and think. Some idea would pop into his head, then with a dash would the pen go into the ink, but before he couldget his pen out the idea had flown, and the world was the loser. Then he threw himself back into his chair, --thought, thought, thought. At length Jake obtained the mastery, as patience andperseverance always will, and the pen became his willing slave, though his mind, being the slave-driver, did not hurry it on veryfast. He was able to pen a few words, and wrote "The war withMexico-"

Well, he had got so far; that was very original, and if he neverwrote anything else, would stamp him a man of talent. Into the ink, on the paper, and his pen wrote the little word are. "The war withMexico are. " Ten minutes more of steady thought, and three morewords brought him to a full stop. "The war with Mexico are aindisputable fact. " That last but one was a long word, and a closeobserver could have seen his head expand with the effort. 

"Copy, sir, copy!" shouted the printer's boy, as he stood with hisarms daubed with ink, and a straw hat upon his head that had seenservice, and looked old enough to retire and live on a pension. 

"Copy what?" inquired the editor, who began to feel indignant, imagining that the publisher had seen his labor to write an article, and had sent him word to copy from some paper. 

"Here, " said he, "take this to Mr. Pica, and tell him 't isoriginal, and gives an account of the war with Mexico, with news upto this date. "

The boy took it, trudged up stairs with two lines of MS. , and theeditor arose and walked his office, as though his labors were o'er, and he might rest and see some mighty spirit engrave his name uponthe scroll of fame. 

He had crossed the floor half a dozen times, when in came the sameyouth, shouting "Copy, sir, copy!"

"Copy what?" shouted Jake, laying hold of the boy's shirt-sleeve. "Tell me what you want copied! tell me, sir, or I will shake yourinteriors out of you-"

The boy was small, but spunky. His education had been received atthe corners of the streets. He had never taken lessons of aprofessor, but he had practised upon a number of urchins smallerthan himself, and had become a thoroughly proficient and expertpugilist. 

It was not for Bill Bite to be roughly handled by any one, not evenby an editor. So he pushed him from him, and said, "I want copy; that's a civil question, --I want a civil answer. "

Jake's organ of combativeness became enlarged. He sprang at the boy, grasped him by the waist, and would have thrown him down stairs, hadnot a movement the boy made prevented him. 

Bill's arms were loose, and, nearing the table, he took the inkstandand dashed the contents into the face of his assailant. 

"Murder!" shouted the editor. 

"Copy!" shouted the boy; and such a rumpus was created, that up cameMr. Pica, saying that the building was so shaken that an article intype on the subject of "Health and Diet" suddenly transformed itselfinto "pi. "

The two belligerents were parted; the editor and Master Bill Bitestood at extremes. At this crisis who should enter but Mr. Stubbs, senior, who, seeing his son's face blackened with ink, inquired thecause rather indignantly; at which Mr. Pica, not recognizing in theindignant inquirer the father of the "talented editor, " turnedsuddenly about and struck him a blow in the face, that displaced hisspectacles, knocked off his white hat into a pond of ink, and madethe old fellow see stars amid the cobwebs and dust of the ceiling. 

The son, seeing himself again at liberty, flew at the boy, and gavehim "copy" of a very impressive kind. 

Down from the shelves came dusty papers and empty bottles, whilst upfrom the printing-office came the inmates, to learn the cause ofthe disturbance. 

A couple of police-officers passing at the time, hearing the noise, entered, and one of them taking Mr. Stubbs, senior, and the otherMr. Stubbs, junior, bore them off to the lock-up. 

This affair put a sudden stop to "The Buzz of the Nation. " The firstnumber never made its appearance. 

Mr. Pica, having obtained the amount of the check, went into thecountry for his health, and has not been heard from since. 

Elder Stubbs and Stubbs the younger paid a fine of five dollarseach; and when they reached home and related to Mrs. Stubbs thefacts in the case, she took off her spectacles, and, after a fewmoments' sober thought, came to the sage conclusion that her sonJake was not made for an editor. 

HERE'S TO THE HEART THAT'S EVER BRIGHT. 

 HERE'S to a heart that's ever bright, Whatever may betide it, Though fortune may not smile aright, And evil is beside it; That lets the world go smiling on, But, when it leans to sadness, Will cheer the heart of every one With its bright smile of gladness! A fig for those who always sigh And fear an ill to-morrow; Who, when they have no troubles nigh, Will countless evils borrow; Who poison every cup of joy, By throwing in a bramble; And every hour of time employ In a vexatious scramble. What though the heart be sometimes sad! 'T is better not to show it; 'T will only chill a heart that's glad, If it should chance to know it. So, cheer thee up if evil's nigh, Droop not beneath thy sadness; If sorrow finds thou wilt not sigh, 'T will leave thy heart to gladness. 

MORNING BEAUTY. 

 BRIGHTLY now on every hill The sun's first rays are beaming, And dew-drops on each blade of grass Are in their beauty gleaming. O'er every hill and every vale The huntsman's horn is sounding, And gayly o'er each brook and fence His noble steed is bounding. There's beauty in the glorious sun When high mid heaven 't is shining, There's beauty in the forest oak When vines are round it twining; There's beauty in each flower that blooms, Each star whose light is glancing From heaven to earth, as on apace 'T is noiselessly advancing. Beauties are all around thy path, And gloriously they're shining; Nature hath placed them everywhere, To guard men from repining. Yet 'mong them all there's naught more fair, This beauteous earth adorning, Than the bright beauty gathering round The early hours of morning. 

THE RECOMPENSE OF GOODNESS. 

 WHEN our hours shall all be numbered, And the time shall come to die, When the tear that long hath slumbered Sparkles in the watcher's eye, Shall we not look back with pleasure To the hour when some lone heart, Of our soul's abundant treasure, From our bounty took a part? When the hand of death is resting On the friend we most do love, And the spirit fast is hasting To its holy home above, Then the memory of each favor We have given will to us be Like a full and holy savor, Bearing blessings rich and free. O, then, brother, let thy labor Be to do good while you live, And to every friend and neighbor Some kind word and sweet smile give. Do it, all thy soul revealing, And within your soul you'll know How one look of kindly feeling Cause the tides of love to flow. 

BRIDAL SONGS. 

TO THE WIFE. 

 LET a smile illume thy face, In thy joyous hours; Look of sympathy be thine, When the darkness lowers. He thou lovest movest where Many trials meet him; Waiting be when he returns, Lovingly to greet him. Though without the world be cold, Be it thy endeavor That within thy home is known Happiness forever. TO THE HUSBAND. WHATSOEVER trials rise, Tempting thee to falter, Ne'er forget the solemn vows Taken at the altar. In thy hours of direst grief, As in those of gladness, Minister to her you love, Dissipate her sadness. Be to cheer, to bless, to love, Always your endeavor; Write upon your heart of hearts Faithfulness forever. 

THE JUG AFLOAT. 

"WHAT I tell thee, captain, is sober truth. If thee wishes toprosper, thee must not allow thy sailors grog, lest, when at sea, they become tipsy, and thy ship, running upon hidden rocks, shall belost; or else, when at the mast-head, giddiness come upon them, and, falling, thy crew shall number one less. "

Thus spake a good old Quaker, a native of the city of Penn. CaptainMarlin had been for many days and nights considering whether it werebest to carry a complement of wine for himself and friends, and grogfor his crew. He had that morning met Simon Prim, and asked hisopinion, which he gave as above; yet Captain Marlin seemedundetermined. He felt it to be an important question, and he desiredto come to a right conclusion. 

They had been passing up Broadway; had reached the Trinity, crossingover towards Wall-street. Simon, with his usual gravity, raised hishand, and, pointing to the towering steeple of the splendid edifice, said:

"If thou, neighbor, desired to ascend yonder spire, thinkest thouthou wouldst first drink of thy wine, or thy grog?"

"Certainly not, " replied Captain Marlin. 

"Then, " continued the Quaker, "do not take it to sea with thee; forthou or thy men mayest be called to a spot as high as yonderpinnacle, when thee little thinkest of it. "

The two walked down Wall-street without a word from either, till, reaching a shipping-office, Captain Marlin remarked that he hadbusiness within. The Quaker very politely bowed, and bade him takeheed to good counsel, and good-day. 

The owner of the vessel was seated in an arm-chair, reading theshipping news in the Journal. 

"Did you know, " said he, as his captain entered, "that Parvalance &Co. Have lost their ship, 'The Dey of Algiers, ' and none were savedbut the cabin-boy, and he half dead when found?"

"Indeed not; when-where-how happened it?" inquired Captain Marlin, in some haste. 

"On a voyage from Canton, With a rich cargo of silks, satins, teas, &c. The boy says that the men had drank rather too much, and werestupidly drunk, --but fudge! Captain Marlin, you know enough to knowthat no man would drink too much at sea. He would be sure to keep ata good distance from a state of intoxication, being aware that muchwas intrusted to his care which he could not well manage whilst insuch a state. "

"Perhaps so, " said Captain Marlin, doubtingly. "Mr. Granton, thistouches a question I have been for days considering. It is, whetherI shall allow my men grog. "

"Of course, of course!" answered the ship-owner; "nothing so goodfor them round the Cape. You know the winds there, rather toughgales and heavy seas. Cold water there, Mr. Marlin! Why, rather givethem hot coffee with ice crumbled in it, or, carry out a cask ofice-cream to refresh them! Man alive, do you think they could liveon such vapor? You talk like one who never went to sea, unless tosee a cattle-show. "

Captain Marlin could not refrain from laughing at such reasoning, yet was more than half inclined to favor it. He was fond of hiswine, and being, as such folks generally are, of a good disposition, he wished to see all men enjoy themselves, especially when at sea. He wished evil to no man, and had he thought that liquor mightinjure any of his crew, he would not that morning, in that office, have come to the conclusion to have it on board the "Tangus. "

CHAPTER II. 

On a bright, clear morning, a deeply-freighted ship started from aNew York slip; a fair wind bore it swiftly down the bay, and a fewminutes' sail found it far from sight of the metropolis of theUnion. Friends had taken the last glimpse of friends, the lastinterchange of kindly feelings had passed, and deep waters nowseparated them. It was the "Tangus, " Robert Marlin captain, with apicked crew, and bound for the coast of Sumatra. Simon Prim shookhis head, as he with others turned and walked home. "'T is a pitymen will not see evil and flee from it, " said he, and he pulled hisstraight coat-collar up, and thrust his hands more deeply than everinto his pockets. He was a little startled by a light tap upon theshoulder, and quite a happy voice exclaiming, "Why, Mr. Prim, howare you?"

"Verily, neighbor; thou didst move me; but I was thinking so deeplyof Captain Marlin and his success, that no wonder thy light touchshould do so. "

"But what of him, Prim?"

"His ship, the Tangus, has just left, bound on a long voyage, andwith a quantity of deadly poison on board, with which to refresh thecrew. I tell thee, neighbor, I have fears for the result. The jugmay possibly stand still when on land, but when it's afloat it'srather unsteady. "

"Very true, but you seem to express unusual anxiety in regard toCaptain Marlin and his good ship; thousands have been just asimprudent. "

"But not in these days of light and knowledge, friend. There havebeen enough sad examples to warn men not to trifle on such subjects. Twenty years ago I drank. We had our whiskey at our funerals and ourweddings. I have seen chief mourners staggering over the grave, andthe bridegroom half drunk at the altar; but times are changed now, and thank God for the good that has been effected by thisreformation!"

"You speak true, Simon; and I wonder Captain Marlin could, if heconsidered the evils brought about by intoxicating drink, carry itto sea with him. "

"I told him all as I tell it to thee, friend Jones. He asked myopinion, and I gave it him, yet it seems he thought little of it. Good-day, neighbor; I have business with a friend at the 'Croton, 'good-day;" and, saying this, Mr. Prim walked up a bye street. 

Jones walked on, and thought considerable of the Quaker's lastwords. His mind that day continually ran upon the subject. Indeed, he seemed unable to think of anything else but of a jug afloat, andat night spoke of it to his wife. 

The wife of Captain Marlin had that day called upon Mrs. Jones, and, although her husband had scarcely got out of sight, looked withpleasure to the day of his return, and already anticipated thejoyous occasion. There is as much pleasure in anticipation as inrealization, it is often said, and there is much truth in thesaying. We enjoy the thought of the near approach of some wished forday, but when it arrives we seem to have enjoyed it all before itcame. 

Mrs. Jones was far from thinking it wrong in Captain Marlin that hecarried liquor with him on his voyage, and gave it as her opinionthat the vessel was as safe as it could possibly be without it. 

"Remember what I say, that is a doomed ship, " said Mr. Jones, aftersome conversation on the subject. 

"You are no prophet, my dear, " said his wife, "neither am I aprophetess; but I will predict a pleasant voyage and safe return tothe Tangus. " With such opposite sentiments expressed, they retired. 

CHAPTER III. 

Insensible to all that is beautiful in nature, and grand andmajestic in the works of creation, must the heart of that man be whocan see no beauty, grandeur, or majesty, in the mighty abyss ofwaters, rolling on in their strength-now towering like some vastmountain, and piling wave upon wave, till, like pyramids dancing onpyramids, their tops seem to reach the sky; then sinking as deep asit had before risen, and again mounting up to heaven. There's beautyin such a scene, and no less when, calm and unruffled, the settingsun sinks beneath the horizon, and for miles and miles leaves itslong, glistening track upon the unmoved waters. 

'T was so when the crew of the "Tangus" were assembled upon the deckof that noble ship. The day previous had been one of hard labor; thevessel had bravely withstood the storm, and seemed now to be restingafter the contest. Not a ripple was to be seen. Far as the eye couldreach, was seen the same beautiful stillness. So with the crew; theywere resting, though not in drowsy slumberings. 

"I say what, Bill, " remarked one, "'An honest man's the noblest workof God, ' somebody says, and that's our captain, every inch, fromstem to stern, as honest as Quaker Prim, of Gotham. "

"Ay, ay, Jack, " said another; "and did you hear how that same Primtried to induce Captain Marlin to deprive us of our right?"

"Grog, you mean?"

"Ay, ay. "

"No; but how was it?"

"Arrah, the dirty spalpeen he was, if he was afther a trying for todo that-the divil-"

"Will Mr. McFusee wait? By the way, Jack, he, Prim, got him by thebutton, and began to pour into his ears a long tirade against aman's enjoying himself, and, by the aid of thee, thy, and thou, halfconvinced the old fellow that he must give up all, and live onice-water and ship-bread. "

"Did?"

"Ay, ay, you know Captain Marlin. He always looks at both sides, then balances both, as it were, on the point of a needle, anddecides, as Squire Saltfish used to say, 'cording to law andevidence. "

"By the powers, he's a man, ivery inch, from the crown of his hat tothe soles of his shoes, he is. "

"Mr. McFusee, will you keep still?" said Mr. Boyden, the narrator. Mr. McFusee signified that he would. 

"Well, he balanced this question, and the evidence against flew upas 't were a feather; but down went the evidence for, and heconcluded to deal every man his grog in due season. "

"That's the captain, all over, " remarked Jack. 

As we before said, their labors the day previous were great, and, asa dead calm had set in, and the vessel did not even float lazilyalong, but remained almost motionless, --not like a thing of life, butlike a thing lifeless, --the captain ordered the crew each a can ofliquor, and now they sat, each with his measure of grog, relatingstories of the past, and surmises of the future. 

"I tell you what, " said Jack Paragon, "these temperance folks arethe most foolish set of reformers myself in particular, and theUnited States, Texas, and the Gulf of Mexico, in general, ever saw. "

"Even so, " remarked Mr. Boyden, "but they do some good. 'Give thedevil his due, ' is an old saw, but none the less true for that. There's Peter Porper, once a regular soaker, always said his'plaints were roomatic, --rum-attic, I reckon, however, for he used tolive up twelve pairs of stairs, --he and the man in the moon werenext-door neighbors; they used to smoke together, and the jollytimes they passed were never recorded, for there were no newspapersin those dark ages, and the people were as ignorant as crows. Well, one of these temperance folks got hold of him, and the next I saw ofhim he was the pet of the nation; loved by the men, caressed by thewomen-silver pitchers given him by the former, and broadcloth cloaksby the latter. "

"No selfish motives in keeping temperate!" said Jack Rowlin, ironically. 

"Can't say; but liquor never did me harm. When I find it does, Iwill leave off. "

"That's the doctrine of Father Neptune-drink and enjoy life. "

"Every man to his post!" shouted the captain, as he approached fromthe quarterdeck. Quick to obey, they were where they were commandedin an instant, each with his tin can half filled with liquor. Captain Marlin, seeing this, ordered them to drink their grog orthrow it overboard; they chose the former mode of disposing of it, and threw their empty cans at the cook. 

In the distance a small black speck was decried. 

CHAPTER IV. 

The sun had set in clouds. The heavens were hung in darkness. Everand anon a peal of thunder echoed above, a flash of vivid lightningillumed the waters, and far as eye could see the waters tossed hightheir whitened crests. The winds blew stormy, and now heavy drops ofrain fell upon the deck of the "Tangus. " "Every man to his duty!"shouted the captain; but the captain's voice was not obeyed. 

Objects at two feet distance could not be seen. Louder that voicewas heard. "Every man to his duty, --save the ship!"

"Captain, what is my duty?" inquired the cook. 

"I appoint you under officer. Search for the men, and, if they arenot all washed over, tell them I order them to work. If they do notknow it, tell them the ship's in danger, and they must work. "

The storm was fast increasing, till, at length, instead ofblackness, one sheet of livid flame clothed the heavens above. Nowall could be seen, and the captain busied himself. But two of thecrew were to be seen, and they lay as senseless as logs. They heedednot the rage of the storm. The terrific peals of thunder awoke themnot-they were dead drunk!

By the time the storm commenced, the liquor they had drank began tohave its effect. Four of the crew, who were usually wide awake-thatis, uncommonly lively-when intoxicated, had unfortunately felloverboard, and were lost. 

The captain had now food for reflection, but the time and place werenot for such musings. 

He endeavored to arouse them, but in vain; so, with the aid of theonly sober man aboard besides himself, he conveyed them to a placeof safety. In the mean time the ship strained in every joint, and hemomentarily expected to find himself standing on its wreck. 

The waves washed the deck, and everything movable, cook-house andall, went by the board. The only hope of safety was in cutting awaythe masts, and to this task they diligently applied themselves. Allnight the captain and cook worked hard, and when morning came theyfound the storm abating. Soon the sun shone in its brightness; butwhat a scene did its light reveal! The once stately ship dismasted;four men, including the mate of the vessel, lost, and two lyinginsensible in the cabin. 

It was not strange that the question came home to the mind ofCaptain Marlin, with force, "Is it right to carry liquor for aship's crew?" He need ask the opinion of no one; he could find ananswer in the scene around him. 

CHAPTER V. 

"Then thy ship has put in for repairs?" said Simon Prim, as heentered Granton & Co. 's office, on Wall-street. 

"What?" exclaimed Mr. Granton, who had heard nothing of the matter. Simon, pulling a paper from his pocket, read:

"LOSS OF LIFE AT SEA. --By a passenger in the 'Sultan, ' from--, weare informed that the ship 'Tangus, ' from this port, bound toSumatra, and owned by Messrs. Granton & Co. , of this city, put in atthat place in a dismasted condition. 

"The 'Tangus' had been three weeks out, when, in a gale, four menwere washed overboard. The remainder of her crew being insensible, and the whole duty falling upon the captain and cook, they withgreat difficulty managed the ship. It is rumored that all wereintoxicated. This is the seventh case of loss at sea, caused byintemperance, within four months. When will men become wise, andawake to their own interests on this topic?"

The ship-owner rapidly paced his office. "Can it be?" said he tohimself. "Can it be?"

"Give thyself no trouble, friend, " said Prim; "what is done is done, and can't be undone. Thy ship is not lost, and things are not so badas they might be. Look to the future, and mourn not over the past;and remember that it is very dangerous to have a jug afloat. "

These few words somewhat quieted him, yet not wholly, At this momentthe wife of Captain Marlin entered. Having heard of the news, shecame to learn all that was known respecting it. 

"Madam, " said he, after relating all he knew, "my mind is changed onthe question we some time since discussed. Yes, madam, my mind ischanged, and from this hour I will do all I can to exterminate thepractice of carrying grog to sea for the crew. And I tell theewhat, " he continued, turning to friend Prim, who stood near by, "Itell thee what, thee was right in thy predictions; and, though ithas been a dear lesson to me, I have learned from it that it is poorpolicy that puts a jug afloat. "

GIVE, AND STAY THEIR MISERY. 

 WOULD ye who live in palace halls, With servants round to wait, Know aught of him who, craving, falls Before thine outer gate? Come with me when the piercing blast Is whistling wild and free, When muffled forms are hurrying past, And then his portion see. Come with me through the narrow lanes To dwellings dark and damp, Where poor men strive to ease their pains; Where, by a feeble lamp, The wearied, widowed mother long Doth busy needle ply, Whilst at her feet her children throng, And for a morsel cry. Come with me thou in such an hour, To such a place, and see That He who gave thee wealth gave power To stay such misery! Come with me, --nor with empty hand Ope thou the poor man's door; Come with the produce of thy land, And thou shalt gather more. 

THE SPIRIT OF MAN. 

 YE cannot bind the spirit down; It is a thing as free As the albatross-bird that wings Its wild course o'er the sea. Go, bind the lightning, guide the sun, Chain comets, if you can; But seek not with thy puny strength To bind the soul of man. Though all the powers of earth combine, And all their strength enroll, To bind man's body as they will, They cannot bind his soul. No power on earth can hold it down, Or bid it hither stay, As up to heaven with rapid course It tireless wings its way. Time is too limited for it, And earth is not its clime; It cannot live where sound the words, "There is an end to time. " It seeks an endless, boundless sphere, In which to freely roam; Eternity its course of life, Infinity its home. There, there will it forever live; And there, a spirit free, 'T will range, though earth may pass away, And Time no longer be. 

PAUSE AND THINK. 

 O! HOW many souls are sorrowing In this sunlit world, to-day, Because Wrong, heaven's livery borrowing, Leadeth trusting souls astray; Because men, all thoughtless rushing, Dance along on Error's brink, And, the voice of conscience hushing, Will not for a moment think! 'T is the lack of thought that bringeth Man to where he needs relief; 'T is the lack of thought that wringeth All his inner self with grief. Would he give a moment's thinking Ere his every step is made, He would not from light be shrinking, Groping on in Error's shade! Think, immortal! thou art treading On a path laid thick with snares, Where mischievous minds are spreading Nets to catch thee unawares. Pause and think! the next step taken May be that which leads to death; Rouse thee! let thy spirit waken; List to, heed the word it saith! Think, ere thou consent to squander Aught of time in useless mirth; Think, ere thou consent to wander, Disregarding heaven-winged truth. When the wine in beauty shineth, When the tempter bids thee drink, Ere to touch thy hand inclineth, Be thou cautious-pause and think! Think, whatever act thou doest; Think, whatever word is spoke; Else the heart of friend the truest May be by thee, thoughtless, broke. How much grief had been prevented, If man ne'er had sought to shrink From the right:-to naught consented, Until he had paused to think!

LITTLE NELLY. 

MATILDA was a fashionable girl, --a young lady, perhaps, would be themore respectable name by which to call her. She had been reared inaffluence. She had never known a want. She had had wants, but shedid not know it. She had wanted many things that make a lady's lifeindeed a life. But Matilda never dreamt of such things. 

It was n't fashionable to love the outcast, and therefore shebestowed no pitying look on them. It was n't fashionable to give afew pennies even to a poor, lame orphan girl in the street. So shepretended not to have noticed the plea of little Nelly, who hadaccosted her during her morning rambles. 

"Little Nelly. " I remember how she looked when at twilight she satdown on a curb-stone to count the money. She looked sorrowful. Shewas, indeed, worthy of pity; but little she got. The crowd wenthurrying, hustling on: few thoughts came down to little Nelly, onthe curb-stone. It had been a gala day. Red flags had flaunted onhigh poles, and there had been a great noise of drums and fifes, andeverybody had seemed happy. Why, then, should sorrow come, with itsdark lantern, and look in the face of this little girl?

I will tell you. 

There was a poor woman whose husband had been killed in Mexico. Shelived in one small room in a secluded part of the city, and by meansof her needle, and such assistance as was given to her daughter, whodiligently walked the streets, selling apples, she managed to livein a style which she denominated "comfortable. " Thus, for upwards ofone year, she toiled and lived, and was thankful for all her manyblessings. 

But sickness came; not severe, but of that kind that bears itsvictim along slowly to rest. She was unable to do much. She did notwish to do much; but she sat day by day, yea, night by night often, and diligently pursued the avocation that brought her daily bread. 

Weeks passed, and yet she was ill. One morning, she called herdaughter to her side, and, taking her hand in her own, said:

"Little Nelly, 't is Independence day, to-day. You heard the gunsfire, and the bells ring, and the shouts of the happy children, thismorning, before you arose. I watched you as you lay listening to allthese, and I asked myself, Will my little Nelly be happy? and Ithought I heard my mother's voice;--she died long, long ago, but Ithought I heard her voice right at my side, saying, 'We shall all behappy soon;' and I wept, for I could not help it. 

"But I've called you now, Nelly, to tell you that I'm much betterthis morning, and that, if you can get twenty-five cents to-day, wewill have a happy time to-night. "

Little Nelly looked happy for a moment, but soon a shadow came overher face; for she could not comprehend the meaning of her motherwhen she said she was "better, " for she looked more feeble than shehad ever seen her since the news of how her father was shot in theface at Monterey was told her. 

But she tried to be cheerful. She tried to smile, but, O, it wasvery hard; and she got her mother's breakfast, and, having clearedthe things away, took her little basket, and her mother's purse, andwent out. 

It was, indeed, a happy day without. There was joy depicted on everycountenance, and the general happiness infused some of its spiritinto the heart of our little trader. She seemed almost lost in thegreat crowd; and there were so many dealers about, and so many thatpresented greater attractions in the display of their stock, thatfew bought of little Nelly. 

It was late in the afternoon, and she had sold but a little, whenshe encountered a young lady gayly dressed, in whose hand wasprominently displayed a bead purse, through the interstices of whichthe gold and silver glistened. 

Nelly held out her humble purse, in which no beads were wrought, through which no coin glistened, --she held it up, and ventured toask, in pleasant tones, a few pennies of the lady. But not a pennyfor little Nelly. Not even a look recognized her appeal, but costly, flowing robes rushed by, and nearly prostrated her; they did forceher from the sidewalk into the gutter. 

Go on, ye proud and selfish one! Go, bend the knee to Fashion'saltar, and ask a blessing of its presiding spirit! Bestow no pityingglance on honest poverty; no helping hand to the weak and falling!There is a law which God hath written on all his works, proclaimingjustice, and giving unto all as they shall ask of him. Pass on, andheed not that little praying hand; but remember you cannot do sowithout asking of that law its just requital. 

Nelly walked on. She mingled again with the great mass, and twilightcame. It was then that she sat down, as I have before stated, tocount her money. She had but thirteen cents. All day she had soughtto dispose of her stock, that she might carry to her mother the sumnamed, with which to have a happy time at home. And now the day hadgone; the night was drawing its great shadowy cloak about the earth, and Nelly had but about one half of the required sum. What shouldshe do?

It was at this moment I met her. I stooped down, and she told me allher story;--told me all her sorrow, --a great sorrow for a littlebreast like hers. I made up the trifling amount, and, taking her bythe hand, we went together towards her home. 

Reaching the house, we entered, and were met on the stairs by an oldlady, who whispered in my ear, "Walk softly. " I suspected in amoment the reason why she asked me thus to walk. She then led theway. She tried to keep back the little girl, but she could not. Shehurried up the stairs, and through a long, dark entry, to a door, which she quickly opened. 

Nelly sprang to the bed on which lay her mother. I heard a sigh-asob. It was from the child. The mother spoke in a tone so joyousthat I was at first surprised to hear it from one who, it wassupposed, was near her end. But I soon found it was no matter ofsurprise. 

How clear and fair was that face! How pleading and eloquent thoseeyes, as they turned, in all their full-orbed brightness, upon me, as I approached the bedside of the mother of Nelly! There wereneeded no words to convey to my mind the thoughts that dwelt withinthat soul, whose strength seemed to increase as that of the bodydiminished. 

With one of her pale hands she took mine; with the other, that ofher daughter. 

"Blessings on you both!" she said. "Nelly, my dear Nelly, myfaithful, loving Nelly, I am much better than I was; I shall soon bewell, and what a happy time we will have to-night! I hear that voiceagain to-night, Nelly. Don't you hear it? It says, 'We shall all behappy soon. ' I see a bright star above your head, my child; and nowI see my mother. She is all bright and radiant, and there is abeauty around her that I cannot describe. Nelly, I am better. Why, Ifeel quite well. "

She sprang forward, and, with her hands yet clasping Nelly's and myown, she stretched her arms upward. There was a bright glow ofindescribable joy upon her features. She spoke calmly, sweetlyspoke. "We shall all be happy soon-happy soon-happy-" then fell backon the pillow, and moved no more-spoke not again. 

She was indeed happy. But, Nelly-she was sad. For a long time shekept her hand in that of her mother. She at length removed it, andfell upon the floor, beneath the weight of her new sorrow. Yet itwas but for a moment. Suddenly she sprang up, as if imbued withangelic hope and peace. We were surprised to see the change, and tobehold her face beam with so much joy, and hear her voice lose itssadness. We looked forth with that inner sight which, on suchoccasions, seems quickened to our sense, and could see that mother, and that mother's mother, bending over that child, and raising herup to strength and hope, and a living peace and joy. 

Nelly's little purse lay on the floor, where she had dropped it whenshe came in. The old nurse picked it up, and laid it on a standbeside the bed. A tear stole out from beneath the eyelids of thechild as she beheld it, and thought how all day she had worked andwalked to get the little sum with which her mother and she were tobe made happy on that Independence night. I called her to me. We satdown and talked over the past, the present and the future, and I wasastonished to hear the language which her pure and gentle, patientsoul poured forth. 

"Well, sir, " she said, "we are happy to-night, though you think, perhaps, there is greater cause for sorrow. But mother has gone fromall these toiling scenes. She will work no more all the long day, and the night, to earn a shilling, with which to buy our dailybread. She has gone where they have food that we know not of; andshe's happy to-night, and, sir, we shall all be happy soon. We shallall go up there to live amid realities. These are but shadows hereof those great, real things that exist there; and I sometimes think, when sitting amid these shadows, that it will be a happy time whenwe leave them, and walk amid more substantial things. "

Thus she talked for some time. 

Having rendered such assistance as I could, I left. The next daythere was a funeral, and little Nelly was what they called "thechief mourner;" yet it seemed a very inappropriate name for onewhose sorrow was so cheerful. There were but few of us who followed;and, when we reached the grave, and the face of the earthly form wasexposed to the sunlight for the last time, little Nelly sung thefollowing lines, which I had hastily penned for the occasion:

WE SHALL ALL BE HAPPY SOON. 

 Dry our tears and wipe our eyes! Angel friends beyond the skies Open wide heaven's shining portal, Welcome us to joys immortal. Fear not, weep not, ours the boon; We shall all be happy soon! Hark! a voice is whispering near us; 'T is an angel-voice to cheer us; It entreats us not to weep, Fresh and green our souls to keep; And it sings, in cheerful tune, We shall all be happy soon. Thus through life, though grief and care May be given us to bear, Though all dense and dark the cloud That our weary forms enshroud, Night will pass, and come the noon, We shall all be happy soon. 

When the last line of each verse was sung, it was no fancy thoughtin us, in Nelly more than all others, that suggested the union ofother voices with our own; neither was it an illusion that pictureda great thing with harps, repeating the words, "We shall all behappy soon. "

The sexton even, he who was so used to grave-yard scenes, was doublyinterested; and, when the last look was taken, and Nelly seemed tolook less in the dark grave and more up to the bright sky above herthan those in her situation usually do, I saw him watch her, and atear trickled down his wrinkled face. 

As we turned to leave, I asked him why he wept. His featuresbrightened up. "For joy, for joy, " said he. "I have put away thedead here for forty long years; but I never beheld so happy a burialas this. It seems as though the angels were with that child. Shelooks so heavenly. "

Perhaps they were. And why say "perhaps"? Do we not know they areever round us, and very near to such a one as Nelly, at such a time?

REUNION. 

 WHEN we muse o'er days departed, Lights that shone but shine no more, Friends of ours who long since started O'er the sea without a shore; Journeying on and journeying ever, Their freed spirits wing their flight, Ceasing in their progress never Towards the fountain-head of light; Oft we wish that they were near us, -- We might see the friends we love, -- Then there come these words to cheer us, "Ye shall meet them all above. " When the sun's first ray approacheth, Ushering in the noonday light; When the noise of day encroacheth On the silence of the night; When the dreams depart that blest us In the hours forever fled, -- In which friends long gone carest us, Friends we number with the dead, -- Comes this thought, Ye ne'er shall hear them, Ne'er shall see the friends ye love; Voices say, "Ye shall be near them, With them in the world above. " When within the grave's enclosure Ye do drop the silent tear, Tremble not at its disclosure, Myriad spirits hover near. Hark! they whisper, do ye hear not, Mingling with your rising sighs, Words that bid you hope, and fear not, Angel-voices from the skies? And as dust to dust returneth, -- That which held the gem you love, -- Thine afflicted spirit learneth It will meet that gem above. Thus whene'er a friend departeth In my soul I know 't is right; And, although the warm tear starteth, As he passes from my sight, I do know that him I cherish Here on earth shall never die; That, though all things else shall perish, He shall live and reign on high. And, that when a few hours more Shall have passed, then those I love, Who have journeyed on before, I shall meet and greet above. 

THE VILLAGE MYSTERY. 

ABOUT fifty miles from a southern city, about five years ago, a mostmysterious personage seemed to fall from the clouds into the midstof a circle of young ladies, whose hours and days were thenceforthbusily employed in quizzing, guessing, pondering and wondering. 

He was a tall, graceful-formed gentleman, wearing aprofessional-looking cloak, and buff pants, tightly strapped overboots of delicate make, polished up to the very highest capabilitiesof Day and Martin. He had no baggage; which fact led somewise-headed old ladies to report him to be a gentleman of leisure, aliterary millionaire, it might be, who was travelling through "theStates" for the purpose of picking up items for a book on "Ameriky. "The old men wagged their heads, and looked most impenetrablymysterious. The young men became jealous. To be sure he was notsuperlatively handsome, but he had a foreign air, which wasconsiderable among the girls; and his appearance indicated wealth, for his dress was of the first quality and cut. He had half a dozenglistening rings on his hands; he wore a breast-pin of dazzlingbrilliance; and every time he moved a chained lion could not havemade more noise, and clatter, and show with his fetters, than he didwith a massive double-linked chain, that danced and flirted upon hiscrimson vest. 

Abby and Nelly, the belles of the place, had each had an eye uponthe new comer, since he passed by the splendid mansion of theirabode, casting a sly glance up to the open window at which theystood. 

In a week, our foreign friend had made the circuit of all thefashionable society of Greendale. He had drank tea with the"Commissioners, " and walked out with their amiable daughters. He hadvisited the pastor, and had evinced great interest in the prosperityof the church. He had even exhorted in the conference-meeting, andhad become so popular that some few, taking it for granted that sodevout a man must be a clergyman, had serious thoughts of asking theold parson to leave, and the stranger to accept the pulpit, --fourhundred and eighty-two dollars a year, and a donation-party'sofferings. He had attended the sewing-circle, and made himselfperfectly at home with everybody and everything. The young men'ssociety for ameliorating the condition of the Esquimauxs andHottentots had been favored with his presence; and, likewise, with aspeech of five minutes long, which speech had, in an astonishinglyshort time, been printed on pink satin and handsomely framed. 

The lower class of people, for whom the stranger talked so much, andshed so many tears, and gave vent to so many pitiful exclamations, but with whom, however, he did not deign to associate, were filledwith a prodigious amount of wonder at the lion and his adventures. They gathered at Squire Brim's tavern, and at the store on thecorner, and wondered and talked over the matter. The questions withthem were, Who is he?-where did he come, and where is he going to?They would not believe all they had heard conjectured about him, andsome few were so far independent as to hint of the possibility ofimposition. 

There were two who determined to find out, at all hazards, the name, history, come from and go to, of the mysterious guest; and, toaccomplish their purpose, they found it necessary for them to go toBaltimore early the subsequent morning. 

The morning came. After taking a measurement of the height, breadthand bulk of the foreigner, as also a mental daguerreotype of hispersonal appearance, they departed. 

Having been very politely invited, it is no strange matter of factthat, just as the sun has turned the meridian, on the fifth ofMarch, a young man is seen walking slowly upon the shady side ofButternut-street, Greendale. To him all eyes are directed. Boys stoptheir plays, and turn their inquisitive eyes towards the pedestrian. The loungers at Brim's tavern flock to the door, and gaze earnestlyat him; while Bridget the house-maid, and Dennis the hostler, hold ashort confab on the back stairs, each equally wondering whose"bairn" he can be. 

As he continues on his way, he meets a couple of sociable oldladies, with whom he formed an acquaintance at the sewing-circle. They shake hands most cordially. 

"Abby and Nelly are waiting for you; they're expecting you, " saysone of the ladies, as she breathes a blessing and bids him good-by, with a hope that he will have a pleasant time at the deacon's. 

Let us now take a few steps in advance, and enter the hospitablemansion to which our mysterious personage, who has given his name asSir Charles Nepod, is passing. 

Up these beautiful white steps walk with dainty tread. At thishighly-polished door ring with gentle hand. 

A stout serving-man answers our call, and a tittering serving-girlscampers away and conceals herself behind the staircase, as weenter. What, think you, can be going on? A wedding, forsooth, --perhaps a dinner-party. 

A brace of charming girls, the deacon's only daughters, are seatedin the front parlor. We are introduced, and soon learn that they arewaiting the arrival of the talented, the benevolent Sir Charles;and, as a matter of form and courtesy, rather than of sincerity andhospitality, we are invited to remain and meet him in thedining-room. We decline; bid them good-by, and leave. As we passout, we are hailed in a loud whisper by the man who first met us, who glibly runs on with his talk as he leads the way, walkingsideways all the time to the door. 

"An' sirs, --sirs, dus yers know what the young Misthresses is afther?Well, sirs, they's going' fur to hev' a greath dinner with thefurriner. Yes, sirs, with the furriner as come frum a furrin land, and was n't born in this at all a' tall. "

As we reach the door, he steps up, whispers in our ears, "An' Itells yer what, sirs, Kate, --that's the gal yer sees, sirs, --me andshe's goin' to see all frum the little winder beyant. This isconveniently private to you, sirs, an' I hopes ye'll say nothing tono one about it, sirs; 't is a private secret, sirs. "

What should induce this man to give us this information, we cannnotconceive. However, we have no reason to doubt what he tells us, andtherefore understand that a dinner-party is to come off, with awedding in perspective. 

As we pass into the street, we meet Nepod. 

As he ascends the steps, the two girls, forgetting all rules ofetiquette, spring to the door, completely bewildering honest Mike, who is at hand, and welcome the man of the age. 

"Mother and aunty have just gone out, " says Nelly;--"they thought weyoung folks would enjoy our dinner much better by ourselves alone. "

"How considerate!" replies the guest. "I met the good old ladies onthe street. How kind in them to be so thoughtful! How pleasantlywill pass the hours of to-day! This day will be the happiest of mylife. "

The three pass to the dining-room. Though early in March, theweather is quite warm. In the haste of the moment, and somewhatconfused by his warm welcome, our hero has taken his hat and cloakand laid them on a lounge near an open window. Seated at the table, the company discourse on a variety of subjects, and the two sistersvie with each other in doing the agreeable. 

Down town all was excitement, and a great crowd was gathered at thetavern. The investigating committee had returned from the city, andwith the committee three men of mysterious look. To the uninitiatedthe mystery that had puzzled them for so long a time grew yet moremysterious. Nothing could be learned from the two who had returned, respecting Sir Charles, or the additional strangers. Only dark andmysterious hints were thrown out, rendering the whole affair morecompletely befogged than before. 

Mr. Brim, the keeper of the tavern, silently conducted the newcomers out by a back passage, and soon they were seen in the samepath which Sir Charles had followed. 

One of the men quietly opened the front door of the deacon's home, and, entering, knocked upon the door of the dining-room. A voicesaid, "Come in;" and he proceeded to do so. 

In an instant, as if struck by an electric shock, the distinguishedguest sprang from the table, and leaped through the open window, leaving his hat and cloak behind. But the leap did not injure him, for he fell into the arms of a man who stood ready to embrace him;and, mystery on mystery, they placed hand-cuffs on his wrists!

Judge, if you can, of the astonishment and mortification of thedeacon's girls, when they were told that he who had been their guestwas a bold highwayman, who had escaped from the penitentiary. 

There was great ado in Greendale that afternoon and evening. Thosewho had been unable to gain his attention said they knew all thetime he was a rogue. The young men's society voted to sell the frameand destroy the printed speech; and the next Sabbath the good pastorpreached about a roaring lion that went about seeking whom he mightdevour. 

THE WAYSIDE DEATH. 

Not many years since, an old man, who had for a longtime sat by thewayside depending upon the charity of those who passed by for hisdaily bread, died a few moments after receiving an ill-manneredreply to his request for alms. Subsequent inquiries proved that hehad been a soldier in the American Revolution. 

 WHEN Freedom's call rang o'er the land, To bring its bold defenders nigh, Young Alfred took a foremost stand, Resolved to gain the day or die. And well he fought, and won the trust; When the day's conflicts had been braved, The foe's proud ensigns lay in dust, While Freedom's banner victor waved. But now he is a poor old man, And they who with him, side by side, Fought bravely in that little van, Have left him, one by one, --have died. And now to no one can he tell, Though touched with patriot fire his tongue, The story of those days which well Deserve to be by freemen sung, And cherished long as life shall last; To childhood told, that it may know Who braved the storm when came the blast, And vanquished Freedom's direst foe. He sits there on the curb-stone now, That brave old man of years gone by; His head 'neath age and care would bow, But yet he raiseth it on high, And, stretching out his feeble hands, He asks a penny from man's purse, Food for himself from off that land He fought to save. Yet, but a curse Falls from their lips to greet his ear; And he, despairing, turns and sighs, And bows his head, --there fills one tear, It is the last-he dies. Now men do rudely lift his hat, To gaze upon his furrowed face, And say, "It is the man who sat Here for so long a foul disgrace. " Crowds gather round the spot to see, And then pass idly on, and say, To those who ask who it can be, "'T is but a vagrant of the way. " Thus he who fought and bled to gain The blessings which are round us strewn, For one he asked, besought in vain, Received man's curse, and died-unknown. O, my own country! shall it be, That they who through thy struggle passed, And bore thy banner manfully, Shall thus neglected die at last? O, shall it be no help shall come From thy overflowing wealth to bless? Wilt thou be blind, wilt thou be dumb, To pleas like theirs in wretchedness? Answer! and let your answer be A helping hand lowered down to raise From want and woe those who for thee Won all thy honor, all thy praise, And made thee what thou art to-day, A refuge and a hope for man; Speak! ere the last one wings away; Act! act while yet to-day you can. 

BEAUTY AND INNOCENCE. 

[FOR AN ENGRAVING OF COTTAGE GIRL AND LAMB. ]

 O, MAIDEN, standing in the open field, On pasture sparkling with the morning dew! What joy thou findest Nature now to yield To hearts developed right, --hearts that are true! Above is beauty, as along the sky The dawn of light sends forth its herald ray To arch the heavens, and myriad leagues on high Proclaim the coming of the god of day. Beneath is beauty; see the glistening gems Around thy feet in rich profusion strewn; Such as ne'er glows in kingly diadems, Such as man's handiwork hath never shown. Around is beauty; on each vale and hill, In open field and in the shady wood, A voice is whispering, soft, and low, and still, "All, all is beautiful, for God is good. " Thou, too, art beautiful, O, maiden fair, While Innocence within thine arms doth rest; And thou wilt e'er be thus, no grief thou 'lt share, If such a blessing dwell within thy breast As that whose emblem now lies gently there. 

NIGHT. 

 I'VE watched the sun go down, and evening draw Its twilight mantle o'er the passive earth, And hang its robe of blue, all gemmed with stars, High over all for mortal eyes to gaze at. And now I come to tread this sodded earth, To walk alone in Nature's vaulted hall; Yet, not alone;--I hear the rustling leaf, The cricket's note, the night-bird's early lay; I feel the cool breeze as it fans my brow, And scent the fragrance of the untainted air. I love the night. There's something in its shade That sends a soothing influence o'er the soul, And fits it for reflection, sober thought. It comes bearing a balm to weary ones, A something undefinable, yet felt By souls that feel the want of something real. And now 't is night, and well it is that I Am here. I stand, my hand on this old tree, Pressing its mossy side, with no one near I can call fellow in the human strife, The great, unfinished drama of this life. Alone, alone, with Nature and its God, I'll sit me down, and for a moment muse On busy scenes, and, like some warrior chief, Behold, yet mingle not in earth's great acts. To-night how various are the states of men! Some, bowed by sickness, press their sleepless couch, Wishing while day doth last that night would come, And now that night is with them wish for day. Remorse holds some in its unyielding grasp; Despair, more cruel yet, haunts some men's souls; Both, ministers of justice conscience sends To do its fearful bidding in those breasts Which have rebelled and disavowed its rule. Perchance, a maiden happy as a queen To-night doth fix her destiny. A happy throng Gather around, and envy her her bliss. They little know what magic power lies low In the filled wine-cup as they pass it round; They little think it plants a venomed dart In the glad soul of her whose lips do press Its dancing sparkles. Sorrow's nucleus! Round that cup shall twine memories so dark That night were noonday to them, to their gloom. Dash it aside! See you not how laughs Within the chalice brim an evil eye? Each sparkling ray that from its depth comes up Is the foul tempter's hand outstretched to grasp The thoughtless that may venture in his reach. How to-night the throng press on to bend The knee to Baal, and to place a crown On Magog's princely head! Dollars and dimes, A purse well-filled, a soul that pants for more; An eye that sees a farthing in the dust, And in its glitter plenitude of joy, Yet sees no beauty in the stars above, No cause for gladness in the light of day, -- A hand that grasps the wealth of earth, and yields For sake of it the richer stores of heaven; A soul that loves the perishing of earth, And hates that wealth which rust can ne'er corrupt. How many such! How many bar their souls 'Gainst every good, yet ope it wide to wrong! This night they're all in arms. They watch and wait; Now that the sun hath fled, and evening's shade Doth follow in its path, they put in play The plans which they in daylight have devised, Entrapping thoughtless feet, and leading down The flower-strewn path a daughter or a son, On whose fair, white brow, the warm, warm moisture Of a parent's kiss seems yet to linger. Stay! daughter, son, O, heed a friend's advice, Rush not in thoughtless gayety along! Beware of pit-fills. Listen and you'll hear From some deep pit a warning voice to thee; For thousands low have fallen, who once had Hopes, prospects, fair as thine; they listened, fell! And from the depths of their deep misery call On thee to think. O, follow not, but reach A helping hand to raise them from their woe! Clouds hide the moon; how now doth wrong prevail! Wrong holdeth carnival, and death is near. O, what a sight were it for man to see, Should there on this dark, shrouded hour Burst in an instant forth a noonday light! How many who are deem‚d righteous men, And bear a fair exterior by day, Would now be seen in fellowship with sin! Laughing, and sending forth their jibes and jeers, And doing deeds which Infamy might own. But not alone to wrong and base intrigue Do minister these shades of night; for Love Holds high her beacon Charity to guide To deeds that angels might be proud to own. Beneath the shadows that these clouds do cast, Hath many a willing hand bestowed a gift Its modest worth in secret would confer. No human eye beheld the welcome purse Dropped at the poor man's humble cottage door; But angels saw the act, and they have made A lasting record of it on the scroll That bears the register of human life. Many a patient sufferer watches now The passing hours, and counts them as they flee. Many a watcher with a sleepless eye Keeps record of the sick man's every breath. Many a mother bends above her child In deep solicitude, in deathless love. Night wears away, and up the eastern sky The dawn approaches. So shall life depart, -- This life of ours on earth, --and a new birth Approach to greet us with immortal joys, So gently on our inner life shall come The light of heaven. Time moveth on, and I must join again The busy toil of life; and I must go. And yet I would not. I would rather stay And talk with these green woods, --for woods can talk. Didst ever hear their voice? In spring they speak Of early love and youth, and ardent hope; In summer, of the noon of wedded life, All buds and blossoms and sweet-smelling flowers; In autumn, of domestic bliss with all its fund Of ripe enjoyments, and then winter hears The leafless trees sing mysterious hymns, And point their long lean arms to homes above. Yes, the old woods talk, and I might hold A sweet communion here with them to-night. Farewell to Night; farewell these thoughts of mine, For day hath come. 

NOT DEAD, BUT CHANGED. 

 I SAT and mused o'er all the years gone by; Of friends departed, and of others going; And dwelt upon their memories with a sigh, Till floods of tears, their hidden springs o'erflowing, Betrayed my grief. Soon, a bright light above me, Voices saying, "We're near thee yet to love thee, " Dispelled my tears. I raised my drooping head, And asked, "Who, who, --the dead?" When the angelic lost around me ranged Whispered within my ear, "Not dead, but changed. "

THE DISINHERITED. 

MY next door neighbor's name was Jotham Jenks. This was all I knewabout him, until the circumstance I am about to tell you occurred. 

One evening I had seated myself by my fire, and had taken up anevening paper with which to occupy my time, until an acquaintance ofmine, who I momentarily expected, should arrive. It wasDecember, --cold, blustering, and by no means an agreeable time to beout of doors, or away from a good fire. Such being the state ofaffairs, as far as weather was concerned, I began to think I shouldnot see my friend that night, when a smart rap upon the outer door, half a dozen times repeated, prevented me from further speculation. 

Why did n't he ring?-there was a bell. It must have been a stranger, else he would have used it. 

Presently a servant came with the information that a stranger was atthe door with a carriage, and wished my immediate presence. 

"Request him to walk in, " said I. 

"He cannot wait a moment, " answered the servant;--"he wishes you toput on your hat and coat, and go with him. "

"Where?"

"He did not say. "

This was a strange interruption, --strange that a man, a stranger, infact, should call for me to go out with him on such a night; but Imustered courage, and went out to meet him. I don't know whatinduced me so readily to grant his request; but out I went, hatted, coated and booted. As I approached, I heard the falling of steps, and the voice of the coachman requesting me to hurry. Reaching thecarriage, I looked in and beheld Jotham Jenks. In I jumped, andbefore I was seated the carriage was moving. 

The whip snapped, the wheels whirled round, and we passed throughthe lighted streets with almost incredible speed. I ventured to makean inquiry, and the reply was, "You are doing a good deed. My name is Jotham Jenks. Ask noquestions now. "

Thus was a veto put upon the movements of my tongue for the timebeing. I, however, recognized the voice of Mr. Jenks; and though Iknew but little respecting him, I judged from his appearance that hewas a quiet, unoffending man; and such I afterwards found him. 

For thirty minutes the horses raced along, causing the water, iceand snow, to take to themselves wings and fly upon pedestrians, windows, and sundry other animate and inanimate objects of creation. For myself, I began to experience some misgiving, for thus exposingmyself to what, I did not know. 

At length the carriage turned down a dark, narrow street, leading toone of the wharves, upon which we finally found ourselves. Thedriver jumped from his seat, opened the carriage-door, threw downthe steps, and we got out. 

Matters had reached a crisis. Was I to be thrown into the water? Theassurance of my companion that I was doing a good deed seemed todisfavor this supposition, as what possible good could that domyself or any one else? Yet, for what was I taken from a warm room, on such a cold, dismal, dark night, and hurried to the wharf?

"Now, " said I to the stranger, "I must know the meaning of allthis, --the why and the wherefore. "

He took my hand in his. It was quite dark. I could not see, yet Icould tell by his voice that he wept, as he said, "In a berth in the cabin of that vessel lies a young man, far fromhis home, among strangers, --sick, perhaps dying. No relative, otherthan those of the great brotherhood of. Mankind, is near to ministerto his wants, or to speak comfort to his troubled heart. He had beenhere about two days, when I was informed of his situation by afriend who came in the same vessel. I have brought you here that youmight listen to his statements, and assist me in assisting him. There is much of romance in his narrative, and, as you are preparinga volume of life-sketches, as found in town and country, I havethought that what falls from his lips might fill a few pages withinterest and profit to your readers. "

I thanked him for his thoughtfulness. My suspicions and fears wereall allayed; I asked no more questions, but followed my friend as hepassed to the vessel, and descended the narrow stairway to thecabin. 

A small lamp hung from the ceiling, and shed a sort of gloomy lightaround. I had been in chambers of sickness, but never in a roomwhere more neatness was discernible, or more sufficiency for itstenant, than in the cabin in which I then was. A sailor boy seatedby a berth indicated to me the spot where the sick man lay. We wereinformed that he had just fallen into a sleep, and we were carefulnot to awake him. 

But, notwithstanding all our care, our movements awoke him. He gazedaround as one often does after a deep sleep; but a consciousness ofhis situation, and a recognition of my companion, soon dispelled hisvacant looks, and his features were illumed with as expressive asmile as it has ever been my fortune to behold. 

I was introduced to the invalid, and soon we were as familiar as oldacquaintances. His name was Egbert Lawrence, and his age I shouldjudge from appearances to be about twenty-five. 

"It is possible that my dear, good friend, Mr. Jenks, has given yousome account of my circumstances, " he remarked, addressing me. 

I replied that he had not, any further than to state that he wasfriendless. He started, as I said this, and exclaimed, "Friendless! His own modesty, that sure mark of true merit, inducedhim to say that; but, dear sir, I have a friend in him, greater thanin any other on earth now. I had a friend, but, alas! she's gone. "

I corrected his impression; remarked that I only intended to conveythe fact that he was in a strange country, among a strange people, and that Mr. Jenks had told me he was worthy of assistance, and thata sketch of his life would interest me. 

"Then you would like to hear of my past, would you?"

"Most certainly, " I replied; "and should consider it a favor shouldyou consent to give it to me. "

To this he at once consented. 

"I was born in the west of England, " he began, "and can wellremember what a charming little village it was in which I passed myearliest days. My mother was a woman of the finestsensibilities, --too fine, in fact, for the rough winds of this world. Her heart beat too strongly in sympathy with the poor and oppressed, the weary-footed and troubled ones, to live among and not have theweight of their sorrows and cares bear also upon her, and graduallywear out the earth tenement of her spirit. 

"As far as a fine, sensitive feeling was hers, so far it was mine. Iinherited it. But I would not flatter myself so much as to say thatI, in like manner, partook of her heavenly, loving nature, or that Iin any of her noble traits was worthy of being her son. 

"Many times have I been the bearer of her secret charities. Manytimes have I heard the poor bless the unknown hand that placedbounties at their door. Many times have I seen my mother weep whileI told her of what I heard the recipients of her benevolence telltheir neighbors, and the many conjectures in their minds as to whothe donor could be. And, O, there was joy sparkling in her eyes whenI told her of what I had seen and heard! The grateful poor, concluding, after all their surmising, that, as they could not tellfor a certainty who it was who gave them food and clothing, theywould kneel down and thank God; for, said they, in their honest, simple manner, He knows. The benevolent hand cannot hide itself fromhis presence, or escape his reward. 

"My father was quite a different person. How it was they met andloved, I could not for a long time determine. But one evening mymother told me all about it, and said he was not the man of herchoice, but of her parents' choice; and that she had never loved himwith that deep and earnest love that alone can bind two hearts inone embrace. But she said she had endeavored to do her duty towardshim. Good woman! I knew that. 'T was her very nature to do that. 'Twas a law of her being, and she could not evade it. 

"My father was a rough, coarse-minded man. He held an office underthe government, and, from being accustomed to the exercise of somelittle authority without doors, became habituated to a morose, ill-natured manner of words and behavior within our home. I rememberhow I changed my tone of voice, and my mode of action, when at nighthe came home. With my mother I talked and laughed, and playedmerrily in her presence, and rather liked to have her look on mysports; but when my father came I never smiled. I sat up on my chairin one corner as stiff and upright as the elm-tree, in front of ourhouse. I never played in his presence. I seldom heard a kind wordfrom him. My mother used to call me 'Berty, my dear, ' when shewished me; but my father always shouted, sternly, 'Egbert, comehere, sir!' and I would tremblingly respond, 'Sir. '

"Few persons seemed to love him; those who did, did so with an eyeto business. It was policy in them to flatter the man who couldfavor them pecuniarily, and they hesitated not to do so. One time, when my father's vote and influence were worth five thousand poundsto his party, and he exhibited symptoms of withholding them, he hadrich presents sent him, and every night some half a dozen or morewould call in and sit and talk with him, and tell him how admirablyall the schemes he had started for the good of the town hadsucceeded, and in all manner of ways would flatter the oldgentleman, so that he would be quite pleasant all the next day. Atthis time handsome carriages came to take him to ride, and gentlemenproposed an afternoon's shooting or fishing, or sport of some kind, and my father always accepted and was always delighted. The simpleman, he couldn't see through the gauze bags they were drawing overhis head! lie did not notice the nets With which they wereentangling his feet. When election came, he gave his vote, and didnot keep back his influence. 

"My father was not benevolent to any great degree. He gave, it istrue. He gave to missionary societies, to education and tractsocieties, and his name was always found printed in their monthlyreports; but he never gave, as my mother did, to the poor around us, unseen, unknown. Not even he knew of my mother's charitable acts;but all the town knew of his, and he was looked upon by the greatmass of public mind to be the most benevolent. But it was not so. Far from it. One shilling from my mother, given with the heart, withsympathy, given for the sake of doing good, not for the sake ofpopularity, was a greater gift than a hundred pounds from myfather's hand, given as he always gave it. 

"I attended school but little. My mother wished me to have a goodeducation, but my father said if I could 'figure' well it wasenough. I was taken from school and put in a store, --a place which Iabhorred. I was put there to sell tape, and pins, and thread, andyarn; and I was kept behind the counter from early morn until lateat night. 

"I had one brother, but his mind was nothing like mine. He partookof my father's nature. We seldom agreed upon any matter, and Ialways chose to be alone rather than with him. I do not think I waswrong in this, for our minds were of different casts. Neither of usmade our minds or our dispositions. There was, therefore, no blameupon any one, if, on account of the difference in our mentalorganizations, our affinities led us apart. It was a perfectlynatural result of a natural cause. 

"I will not weary you with more detail of my life to-night; butto-morrow, if you have any interest in what I have begun to tellyou, I will tell you more. "

I had noticed that he began to be exhausted with his effort, and wasabout to propose that a future time be allotted to what more hechose to relate. 

I assured him of an increased interest in him, and suggestedremoving him to a good boarding-house. He at first declined, butupon further urging he accepted, and, having seen that all his wantswere for that night attended to, we left; with the understandingthat a carriage should convey him to more commodious quarters on themorrow, if the weather permitted. 

I had no fears of my companion as we rode up the wharf and drovethrough the streets, the storm beating down furiously around us. Ireached my home, and Mr. Jenks thanked me for my kindness in blindlyfollowing him, and I in return thanked him for the pleasantadventure to which he had introduced me. 

CHAPTER II. 

The next morning the weather was clear and the air invigorating, asis often the case after a severe storm. With my neighbor Jenks Iprocured a good home for the wanderer, and in a short time he waslocated in it. 

I was soon seated by his side, and he continued his narrative. 

"I told you last evening of my parents, and of my entrance uponbusiness life. About that time a great sorrow visited me. My motherwas taken sick, rapidly declined, and in a fortnight left this stateof existence. Beyond this world it seemed all dark to me then; butnow it is brighter there than here, and there is no uncertainty inmy mind respecting that coming state. 

"I have not told you she died. She did not die. There is no suchword as death in my vocabulary. She did not sleep even. She passedfrom a crumbling, falling building into an enduring and beautifultemple, not made with hands. But to me, then, as I have told you, itwas all dark; and it was not a wonder that I was sad, and that itwas indeed a heavy sorrow that rested on my spirit. Even with thefaith that she had, the thought of being left with a man such as myfather was would have made me sad. You will wonder, perhaps, that Ihad not learned from such a mother as mine a clearer faith than thatwhich possessed my mind at the time of her departure; but I had not. It was impossible for me to accept a truth with that amount ofevidence which satisfied her mind, and I doubted, at times, a futureexistence. But I do not doubt it now. I have had proof, --abundantproof; and, O, the joy that fills my soul is unfathomable. 

"My father now became more tyrannical than ever, and everythingtended to destroy whatever there was of my mother's disposition inmy character. But nothing could force it from me. I was sensitive asever to the remarks and the looks of all with whom I came incontact, and the severe and unmerited reprimands of my father almostcrushed me. 

"Several years passed by. I wasted them in a retail store. It was, however, not a complete loss to me, for there I formed anacquaintance with a young lady, the daughter of a poor collier. Ourfriendship ripened to mutual love, and we were happy only when ineach other's presence. Our interviews were frequent, and unknown toany one but ourselves for a long time. At length my father becameacquainted with the facts. He called me to his room one night, andscolded me, threatened to disinherit me, and treated me as though Ihad been guilty of the most heinous crime. 

"'You miserable, good-for-nothing scamp!' said he. 'Why do you seekto lower yourself in the estimation of every man, and bring disgraceon the name and fame of my family, by associating with the poordaughter of a worthless laborer?'

"This fired my brain; but I was timid and dare not speak my thoughtsin his presence. I listened. He showered upon me all the evilepithets his tongue could dispense, and, raving like a madman, hepushed me to the door, and told me to cease my visits upon Evelinaor leave his house forever and change my name, for he would notshelter me, or own any relationship to me. 

"Poor girl! She little thought how much I that night endured forher, or how much I was willing to bear. She was a beautifulbeing, --so much like my mother, so gentle, and loving, andbenevolent! We were one. True, no earthly law recognized us as such;but God's law did, --a law written with his hand on our beatinghearts. We had been joined far, far back, ages gone by, when oursouls first had their birth, --long ere they became enshrined in earthforms. The church might have passed its ceremonial bond about us, but that would have been mere form--that would have been a unionwhich man might have put asunder, and often does. But of a trueunion of souls it is useless to say 'what God has joined let no manput asunder;' for he cannot any more than he can annul any other ofhis great laws. 

"My father's reprimands and threatenings could not, therefore, dissolve that bond which united me to Evelina, and she to me. So, assoon as I left his room, I sought her presence. I told her all, andshe wept to think of what she had caused, as she said. But I triedto convince her, and succeeded in doing so finally, that it was notshe who had caused it. She had not made her soul or its attributes. God had made them, and if they were in unison with mine, or if theyhad attractions that drew my. Soul to hers, the law under which theycame together and would not be separated was God's law, and we couldnot escape it. 

"That night we walked down by the river's side, and we talked ofthose great principles that govern us. We studied, there in theclear moonlight, God's works, and I asked her whether in loving thebeautiful and the good we did not love God. 

"Her mind opened a bright effulgence of light to my spirit. 'Yes, 'said she, 'it is even so. God is a spirit. He fills immensity, --andif so, then he imbues this little flower with his own life, for heis the life of all things. It is as he made it, and as we love it welove him. When we love a being for his goodness, we love God; forthat goodness is of God. "

"'Yes, ' I remarked; 'I see it is so. I do not love you as a materialbeing. It is not your flesh and bones merely that I love, but it isthe goodness dwelling in you. As that goodness is more abundant inyou than in others, in like degree does God dwell in you more thanin them. If, therefore, I love you more than I love them, I love Godmore than I should did my supreme love find its highest object inthem. In loving you, therefore, I love God so far as you possess thecharacteristics by which we personify that being. It is not wrong, therefore, to love you or the flower; for goodness exists in one, and beauty in the other, and they both are of God, and in lovingthem we love God. '

"We parted at a late hour. I went with her to the door of the littlecottage in which she dwelt with her father. Her mother had died, asthey call it, long years before; and, as I kissed her, and pressedher hand and bade her good-by, I felt more strongly than ever adetermination to bear any privation, endure any suffering, for hersake. 

"I reached my home. I found the doors fastened and all quiet. Themoon shone very clear, and it was nearly as light as at noon-day. Itried the windows, and fortunately found one of them unfastened. Iraised it very carefully, and crept in, and up to my room. The nextmorning at breakfast my father spoke not a word, but I knew by hismanner that he was aware of my disregard of his command, and Ithought that all that prevented him from talking to me was a want oflanguage strong enough to express the passionate feelings that ranriot in his soul. 

"I judged rightly. For at night his passion found vent in words, andsuch a copious torrent of abuse that I shuddered. Nevertheless, Iyielded not one position of my heart, and was conscious that I had astrength of purpose that would ever defend the right, and could notbe swayed by mere words. 

"There was no limit to my father's abuse when it became known to afew of his friends that I had been seen in company with thecollier's daughter. I endured all, and was willing to endure more. He seemed to have a peculiar dislike of Evelina's father, as also toher. This I could not account for. 

"At length I became of age, and on my birthday my father called meto him, and, in his usual stern, uncompromising way, asked me if Ipersisted in paying attention to Evelina. I answered promptly that Idid. I had had so many conflicts that I had lost much of mytimidity, and I now defined my position clear, and maintained itresolutely. 

"'Then leave my house at once!' said my father. 'I throw you from meas I would a reptile from my clothes; and go, go with my curse uponyou! Take your penniless girl, and build yourself a name if you can;for you have lost the one you might have held with honor to yourselfand to me. I had chosen for you a wife, a rich and fashionable lady, the daughter of a nobleman, and one of whom to be proud; but youhave thought best to be your own judge in such matters, and you madea fool of yourself. But you shall not stamp my family with suchfolly, or wed its name to dishonor. '

"I endeavored to reply; but he would hear no word from my lips. Hesprang from his seat, walked the room in the greatest rage, andwhenever I opened my mouth to speak would shout, 'Stop your noise, you ungrateful, heartless wretch!'

"He was determined to carry out his threat. That night he locked meout of the house, and took special pains to make the windows fast. In the papers of the next day he advertised me as disinherited andcast off, and warned the world against me. He also circulated falsereports respecting me, and spared neither money nor effort to injureme. He prejudiced my employers, so that they at once discharged me, without a moment's warning. And all this from a father! How often Ithought of that loving, sympathizing mother! How often I recognizedher presence in my silent hours of thought! Dear, sainted friend!she was with me often, unseen but not unfelt. 

"Evelina faltered not. She bore all the opprobrium of false friendswith a brave heart, and rested on my promises as the dove rests itsweary head beneath its downy wing. Her father had confidence in me. 

"It was astonishing how changed all things were. The day previous, Iwas the son of a wealthy and influential man. I was respected, apparently, by all. Very many professed a friendship for me, andtold me how much they valued my company. Young ladies politelyrecognized me as I passed through the streets; and old ladiessingled me out as an example for their sons to follow. But on thatday no one knew me. Not one of those who had professed suchfriendship for me came and took me by the hand when I needed theirfriendly grasp the most! Young ladies, when we met, cast theirglances on the earth, on the sky, anywhere but on me. Old ladiesscandalized me, and warned the objects of their paternalconsideration against a course like mine. 

"And why all this? It was because I loved Evelina, --a poor man's onlychild!"

CHAPTER III. 

Egbert's health seemed to improve now that he was in morecomfortable quarters, and had sympathizing friends to whom he couldnarrate the story of his life. In the course of a few days he rodeout a short distance. After a rest of a week, during which hisstrength had increased, he continued his narrative, in which we hadbecome deeply interested. 

"I found a home at the cottage of Evelina. We made arrangements tobe married according to law, and in due time I applied to theminister of the town to perform the ceremonies. I was surprised whenhe refused; yet I well knew what inducements led him to act thus. Myfather was the leading man in his church. The minister looked to himas one of the chief pillars of support to his society, andconsequently to his means of livelihood. There was no one in thetown upon whom the public eye, religious or political, rested withmore hope than upon my father. He exhorted in the meetings with anearnestness worthy of the most devoted follower of Cromwell; and wasas strict and rigid in the performance of his public religiousduties as the most precise Puritan of the old school could wish. Didthe chapel need repairs, my father was consulted. Was it proposed tomake a donation to the pastor, my father was expected to head thelist with a large subscription, and he did. Was it strange, then, that he gave such a decided refusal to my simple request, knowing, as he did, and everybody did, my circumstances? It seems not. Perhaps it was foolish for me to ask a favor of such a man; but Idid, and he had an opportunity of exhibiting his allegiance topublic opinion, and his disregard of the voice within, that musthave commanded him to do right, and to adhere to truth and justicein the face of all opposition. 

"It was soon noised abroad that I had endeavored to get married andhad failed. There was great rejoicing, and one old lady took thetrouble to send her man-servant to me with the message that she wasglad to know that her good pastor had indignantly refused to placehis seal on my bond of iniquity. 

"The dark cloud that all this time overshadowed my path rested alsoon the path of Evelina's father. This was all that troubled me. He, good man, had more true religion in his soul than the pastor and allthe people in theirs; yet he was scorned and ill-treated. All thiswas not new to him. He had lived in that town four-and-forty years, and had always been frowned upon by the boasting descendants ofproud families, and had received but little good from their hands. The church looked upon him as a poor, incorrigible sinner. No onespoke to him, unless it was to ask him to perform some hard job. Itwas not strange that, judging from the works of the people whocalled themselves Christians, he had a dislike to their forms. Hechose a living Christianity; and theirs, with all its rites, withall its pretensions, with all its heralded faith, was but a mockeryto him. It was but a shadow of a substantial reality. He chose thesubstance; he rejected the shadow, and men called him 'infidel' whohad not a tithe of vital religion in their own souls, while his wasfilled to repletion with that heavenly boon. For a time the war ofpersecution raged without, and slander and base innuendoes theweapons were employed against us. But within all was peace andquiet, and our home was indeed a heaven, --for we judged that heavenis no locality, no ideal country staked off so many leagues thisway, and so many that; but that it is in our own souls, and we couldhave our heaven here as well as beyond the grave. We thought Christmeant so when he said 'the kingdom of heaven is within you'! Wepitied those who were always saying that when they reached heaventhere would be an end of all sorrow, and wished they could see as wedid that heaven was to reach them, not they to reach it. We fearedthat the saying of Pope, 'Man never is, but always to be, blest, 'might prove true of them, and that even when they had passed theboundary which they fancied divided them from heaven, they would yetbe looking on to so the future state for the anticipated bliss. 

"What cared we, in our home, for the jibes and sneers and falsehoodswithout? Those who are conscious of being in the right have no fearof the goal to which their feet are tending. I heard from my fatheroften, but never met him. By some means he always evaded me. Thatwhich troubled him most was the calmness with which I received theresults of his course towards me. He knew that I was happy andcontented. This was what troubled him. Had I manifested a greatsorrow and writhing beneath what he deemed troubles, he would havegreatly rejoiced, and so would all his friends. I had accumulated asmall property, and was prospering, notwithstanding the efforts ofmany to embarrass me. A few began to see that I was not so bad as Ihad been represented to be, and they began to sympathize with me. This aroused my father's anger afresh. We had been married by amagistrate of another town, and the clouds above our outside ortemporary affairs seemed breaking away, when an event occurred thatfrustrated all our plans. 

"One evening I heard the cry of 'fire, ' and, on attempting to goout, I found the entry of the house filled with a dense smoke. Thesmoke poured into the room in which Evelina and her father wereseated. I rushed to the window, dashed it out, and, having seen mywife and her father safely deposited without, secured what of theproperty I could. In a few moments the cottage was enveloped inflames, and it was not long before no vestige of our happy homeremained, except the smoking embers and a heap of ashes. We werenow, indeed, poor in gold and lands; but it seemed to each of usthat what had been taken from our purse had been put in our hearts, for we loved each other more than ever before, if such a love werepossible; and, though we received but little sympathy from without, we had a fund of sympathy within, that made us forget our seemingsorrows, and rejoice in bliss unspeakable. 

"It was reported that I had fired the cottage. I well knew with whomthis charge originated, and I had good reasons for believing thatthe match that fired our house came from the same source. 

"Our condition was such that we concluded to leave the place whereso much had been endured, and those who had strewn our path withwhat they intended for thorns and brambles. 

"We left. We journeyed to Liverpool, and engaged a passage in a NewYork packet for the United States. It was a beautiful morning whenwe set sail, and everything seemed reviving in the possessing oflife. Our ship's flags looked like smiling guardians as theyfluttered above us, and all on board the 'White Wing' were happy. There were about three hundred passengers. There were old and young;some travelling on business, some for a place they might call theirhome, some for pleasure, and a few for the improvement of theirhealth. There were entire families, and, in some cases, those ofthree generations. How varied were the hopes that filled theirsouls! how different the objects that led them forth over the deepand trackless sea, exposing themselves to countless perils!

"Evelina and myself mused thus as we sat on the deck at twilight ofthe first day out, and watched the movements, and listened to thevarious expressions that fell from the lips of the crowdedpassengers. 

"She always had a bright gleam of religious, philosophical thought, with which to illumine every hour of our existence, and radiate, with heavenly joy, our every conversation. 'There are not moredangers here than on land, ' said she; 'to be true to our innerconsciousness, we must say that wherever we are we are exposed toperil, and wherever we are we are protected from evil. I have knowna man to cross the ocean a hundred times, and fall at last at hisown door, and by it become maimed for life. There is no such a thingas an accident. Every result has a legitimate cause. Everything actsin obedience to undeviating laws of God. We complain when we fall, but the same law that causes us to fall guides planets in theircourse, and regulates every motion of every object. It is only whenwe disobey these laws that evil comes, and every transgressionreceives its own penalty. It is impossible that it should beotherwise. '

"We soon became acquainted with a number of the passengers, andpassed very many pleasant and profitable hours together. Evelina wasthe light of every circle, and the days flew by on rapid wings. Theship had made a rapid passage, and we were fast nearing our destinedhaven. 

"One Sabbath evening a storm commenced. The wind blew a hurricane. Everything on deck was lashed, and the sea rolled and pitched ourvessel about as though it had been but a feather on its surface. Wehad all day expected the storm, and were prepared for it. As nightadvanced the storm increased. The rain fell in torrents, and thedarkness was most intense. After a while, the lightning came, andthe thunder reverberated with terrific peals over us. There wereshrieks and wailings aboard our vessel, and many a brave heartquailed beneath the terror upon us. 

"I cared not for myself. My chief concern was for my dear wife andher father. We kept our state-room for a long time, but at lengthdeemed it prudent to leave it. As we did so, we heard an awfulcrash, and many a shriek and hurried prayer. I myself began to fear, as the mast and flying rigging went by us; but Evelina, even in suchan hour, had words to cheer us all. She seemed, indeed, more ofheaven than earth; and I cared not for my fate, provided we both metthe same. 

"The captain ordered the boats to be got in readiness, and it wasquickly done. Soon another crash, and another mast fell, bearing tothe raging abyss of waters another company of helpless men, womenand children. 

"I clasped my wife in my arms, and, amid the wreck and frantic crowdof passengers, sprang to a boat. I placed Evelina in it, and wasjust about to assist her father to the same boat, when a large wavedashed over the ship and bore me alone over the wide waters. Iremembered no more until I opened my eyes, and the sun was shiningbrightly all around me, and a young man was bathing my head, andbrushing back my wet hair, while some were standing by expressinggreat joy. 

"I soon became conscious of my situation, and I asked for Evelina. What a sadness filled my soul when I was told she was notthere, --that they had not heard of any such person! Human language isweak with which to express the sorrow I then felt. Through all myvaried life I had had nothing that so crushed my spirit, and filledit with a sense of loneliness which it is impossible to describe. Iascertained that I was on board of a vessel bound to Boston; that I, was found holding on a raft, almost insensible when found, and quiteso a few moments afterwards. For a long time no one expected that Iwould recover my consciousness, but the constant efforts of thepassengers and crew were finally crowned with success, and I openedmy eyes. 

"I gave all the information I could respecting the fate of thevessel, but thoughts of my wife, and surmisings as to her fate andthat of her father, often choked my utterance, and my words gave wayfor my tears. 

"The next morning I was delirious, with a fever. My anxiety for mywife, and the exposure I had suffered, brought my body and mind intoa very critical state. For several days I talked wildly. At theclose of the fifth, I became sane in mind. I was yet quite ill. Thatnight the ship entered Boston harbor. It anchored in the stream, andthe next morning it hauled up to a wharf. "

CHAPTER IV. 

"I was a perfect stranger. The captain was attentive to my wants, and made me as comfortable as he could. You will remember how neatand quiet all appeared when, with my friend Jenks, you called on me. All of the passengers took an interest in my welfare, and made up apurse for me; but they could not remain long with me. They had beenlong absent from home, and were desirous of seeing their familiesand friends, or else they had business in this or some other place. One of them introduced my friend Jenks to me; and, O, sir, he hasbeen, indeed, a good friend to one having so few claims on hisattention. He told me one night of you, and, agreeable to hispromise, he brought you to the cabin of the vessel. The rest youknow. "

Egbert had regained his strength to a great degree, and gave me theclose of his narrative while we were having a pleasant drive throughthe country. A month had passed since we first met, and though manyof the passengers had been heard from, the names of Evelina and herfather had not been reported. 

When we reached our home, from our afternoon's drive, I took up anevening paper, and the first paragraph I read was the following:

"MORE FROM THE WHITE WING. -The Orion, which arrived at this portthis morning, brought fifteen passengers, rescued from the boats ofthe 'White Wing. ' Among the names mentioned in the above notice werethese: "Mrs. Evelina Lawrence and her father, of England;" and, atthe conclusion, was the following item:

"The case of Mrs. Lawrence and her father is one of those thatloudly call for a bestowal of public sympathy and aid in her behalf. She has lost a beloved husband, --one who, judging from the heavysorrow that oppresses her, and the sighs and tears that break herrecital of the events of their last hours together, was bound withthe closest bonds of soul affinity to her own spirit. They must havebeen one, and are, indeed, one now, though to mortal eyes separated. We commend her to the kind charities of those who would follow thegolden rule of doing unto others as they, in like circumstances, would have others do unto them. "

Egbert noticed my interest in that which I was reading; indeed, itwould have been strange if he had not; for I could not suppress myjoy, and it found expression in an occasional exclamation. 

At length, I handed him the paper. 

"My God! my wife!" he exclaimed, and he actually danced with joy andthankfulness. He would have rushed into the street, and by suddenexposure have caused a relapse of disease, had not I taken him bythe hand, and forcibly, for a few moments, restrained him. Soexcessive was his happiness that, for a short time, he was deliriouswith joy. He laughed and wept by turns: at one moment extendinghis arms, and folding them as if clasping a beloved form; the next, trembling as if in some fearful danger. But this did not longcontinue. He soon became calm and rational, and we called a carriagefor the purpose of going to the vessel on board of which he expectedto greet his wife and her father. 

My neighbor Jenks accompanied us, and, as we rode hastily along, mymind reverted to the night when first I met Egbert. That eventfulevening came more vividly to mind as we found ourselves on the samewharf, and the carriage door was opened, and we alighted on nearlythe same spot that we did at that time. 

Egbert leaped from the carriage, and at one bound was on thevessel's deck. He flew to the cabin, and in a moment I heard theloud exclamations on either side, "My Evelina!" "My Egbert!" Mr. Jenks and myself followed below. An old gentleman met us, and, though a stranger, he grasped a hand of ours in each of his, andwept with joy as he bade us welcome. The cabin was witness of ascene which a painter well might covet for a study. In close embraceEgbert and Evelina mingled joys that seldom are known on earth. Theold man held our hands, his face raised, eyes turned upward, whiletears of happiness, such as he had never before known, coursed downhis features. The officers of the ship came hurrying in, and thecrew darkened the gangway with their presence. What a joyous timewas that! The evening was passed in recounting the adventures ofeach; and even I had something to add to the general recital. Itappeared that the boat in which Egbert had placed his charge wassafely cleared of the wreck; and, after being floated about twodays, was met by an English ship bound to London. They, togetherwith about twenty others who were in the boat, were soon comfortablycared for. At the expiration of a few weeks, they reached London, and were there placed on board a vessel bound to Boston, at whichplace they in due season arrived. The grief of Mrs. L. During allthis time I will not attempt to describe. The mind of my reader canbetter depict it than I can with pen. Hope buoyed her up. And, though she had seen him swept from her side into the waters wherewaves towered up to the skies and sank again many fathoms below, yetshe did hope she might see him again on earth. 

In the silent hour of night, as she lay and mused of those things, she thought she could hear a sweet voice whispering in her ear, "Berty lives, and you will meet him once again. " And, as if inresponse to the voice, she said in her own mind, "I know he lives;but it may be in that bright world where, unencumbered with thesemortal frames, we roam amid ever-enduring scenes. " The voice againsaid, "On earth, on earth. "

But now they had met. It was no mere vision now, and the truthflashed upon her mind that that voice she had heard and thought adream was not all a dream. And then she mused on as she was wont todo, and, after relating to us the incident, she said, "May it not bethat much of our life that we have thought passed in dreamland, andtherefore among unreal things, has been spent with actualexistences? For what is an 'unreal thing'? It would not be a 'thing'had it no existence; and what is the 'it' that we speak of? Can wenot then conclude that there is nothing but what is and must have anexistence, though not so tangible to our senses as to enable us tohandle it or see it? What we call 'imagination' may be, after all, more real than the hard stones beneath our feet-less indestructiblethan they. "

Thus she spake, and her theory seemed very plausible to me, thoughmy friend Jenks, who was an exceedingly precise, matter-of-fact man, could not see any foundation for the theory. 

It was a late hour when Mr. Jenks and myself passed to our homes. The next day Evelina and her father were coseyly quartered at thehouse in which Egbert had boarded. 

In the course of a a few weeks they arranged to go to the west, andlocate in a flourishing town on the banks of the Ohio, not manymiles above Cincinnati. 

Mr. Jenks and myself accompanied them to the cars; and, amid ourbest wishes for their success, and their countless expressions ofgratitude to us, the train started, and in a few moments theDisinherited was going to an inheritance which God had provided, andwhich lay in rich profusion awaiting their possession. 

Our hearts went with them. We could truly say they were worthy God'sblessing; yet we had not need ask him to bestow it upon them; fortheir very existence was a proof that he gave it to them. 

THE SEASONS ALL ARE BEAUTIFUL. 

 THE seasons all are beautiful, There is not one that's sad, -- Not one that does not give to thee A thought to make thee glad. I have heard a mournful cadence Fall on my listening ear, -- 'T was some one whispering, mournfully, "The Autumn days are here. " But Autumn is not sorrowful, -- O, full of joy is it; I love at twilight hour to watch The shadows as they flit, -- The shadows of the falling leaves, Upon their forest bed, And hear the rustling music tones Beneath the maiden's tread. The falling leaf! Say, what has it To sadden human thought? For are not all its hours of life With dancing beauty fraught? And, having danced and sang its joy, It seeketh now its rest, -- Is there a better place for it Than on its parent's breast? Ye think it dies. So they of old Thought of the soul of man. But, ah, ye know not all its course Since first its life began, And ye know not what future waits, Or what essential part That fallen leaf has yet to fill, In God's great work of art. Count years and years, then multiply The whole till ages crowd Upon your mind, and even then Ye shall not see its shroud. But ye may see, --if look you can Upon that fallen leaf, -- A higher life for it than now The life you deem so brief. And so shall we to higher life And purer joys ascend; And, passing on, and on, and on, Be further from our end. This is the truth that Autumn brings, -- Is aught of sorrow here? If not, then deem it beautiful, Keep back the intrusive tear. Spring surely you'll call beautiful, With its early buds and flowers, Its bubbling brooks, its gushing streams, And gentle twilight hours. And Summer, that is beautiful, With fragrance on each breeze, And myriad warblers that give Free concerts 'mong the trees. I've told you of the Autumn days, Ye cannot call them sad, With such a lesson as they teach, To make the spirit glad. And Winter comes; how clear and cold, In dazzling brilliance drest!- Say, is not Winter beautiful, With jewels on his crest? Thus are all seasons beautiful; They all have joy for thee, And gladness for each living soul Comes from them full and free. 

SPRING. 

IT is early spring-time. The winter has passed with reluctant step, and even now the traces of its footsteps are discernible on everyside. At noon of these bright days the sun looks down smilingly uponthe soil it seeks to bless with its cheerful, cheering rays. Thetiny grass-blades peep out, and stretch forth their graceful forms, as if to thank the unknown source from which their enjoymentsspring. "Unknown, " I said. Is it "fancy" that makes my soul withdrawthat word, and suggest that it may be that even that blade of grassrecognizes the hand that ministers to all its wants? I think not. Ithink that what we term "fancy" and "imagination" are the most realand enduring portions of existence. They are of that immortal partthat will live after crumbling column and the adamantine foundationsof earth have passed away, and lost their present identity incountless forms of a higher existence. Are not all the forces ofnature unseen, yet are they not real? Most assuredly they are. But Iam talking of spring. I hinted at winter's tardy withdrawal. Lookyou how that little pile of snow hides itself in yonder shadynook, --right there where the sun's rays never come; right there, asif ashamed, like a man out of place, --pity that it lingers. Here andthere, at the side of the brook, a little ice is waiting to bedissolved, that it may bound away, bright and sparkling, over theglistening pebbles. 

The farmer opens his barn doors that the warm, fresh breeze mayramble amid its rafters. The cattle snuff the refreshing winds, thatbear tidings of green fields. The housewife opens door and windows, and begins to live more without than within. 

Let us to the woods. How the old leaves rustle beneath our tread!Winter bides his cold, wet hand underneath these leaves andoccasionally we feel his chilling touch as we pass along. But fromabove the pleasant sunshine comes trickling down between thebranches, and the warm south wind blows cheeringly among the trees. Didst thou not hear yon swallow sing, Chirp, chirp?--In every note heseemed to say, "'T is spring, 't is spring. "

Yes, 't is spring; bright, glorious season, when nature awakes tonew life and forest-concerts begin. 

Up with the window, throw open the closed shutter, let the fresh airin, and let the housed captive breathe the invigorating elixir oflife; better by far than all your pills and cordials, and morestrengthening than all the poor-man's plasters that have been orever will be spread. 

The bale and hearty youth, whose clear and boisterous laugh did theold man good, as he heard it ring forth on the clear air of awinter's night, has become satiated with the pleasures ofsleigh-rides and merry frolics, and welcomes the spring-time of yearas a man greeteth the return of an old friend from a long journey. How his bright eye flashes with the joyous soul within him, as hetreads the earth, and beholds the trees put forth their buds, andhears the warblings of the birds once again, where a few weeks sincewinter brooded in silence!

In town and country, the coming of spring changes the generalappearance of affairs. Not early nature, but men change. There is nolonger the cold and frigid countenance. Men do not walk with quickand measured tread, but pass carelessly, easily along, as though itwas a luxury and not a task to walk. Children are seen in littlecompanies, plucking the flowers and forcing the buds from theirstems, as though to punish them for their tardiness. 

The very beasts of burden and of the field partake of the generaljoy; as Thomson says, "Nor undelighted by the boundless spring Arethe broad monsters of the foaming deep From the deep ooze and, gelidcavern roused, They flounce and tumble in unwieldy joy. "

In the town storekeepers obtain fresh supplies of goods; themechanic contracts new jobs; the merchant repairs his vessel, andsends it forth, deeply freighted with the productions of our ownclime, to far distant, lands; and the people generally brush up, andhave the appearance of being a number of years younger than theywere a month since. 

In the country, the farmer is full of work. The ploughs are broughtforth from their winter quarters, the earth is opened, that the warmsun and refreshing rains may prepare it for use; old fences arerepaired, and new ones made; the housewife brushes up inside andout, and with the aid of the whitewash every old fence and shed ismade clean and pleasing to the eye. 

Welcome spring, a hearty welcome to thee! Touch the cheek of themaiden, and make it as bright as the rose; with thy fresh air givehealth to the sick and joy to the downcast. Thou bringest with theesweet-smelling flowers, and the birds of the woods carol forth thywelcome. 

A TEXT FOR A LIFETIME. 

ONE word for humanity. One word for those who dwell in want aroundus. O, ye who know not what it is to hunger, and have naught to meetyour desire; ye who never are cold, with naught to warm your chilledblood, forget not those who endure all these things. They are yourbrethren. They are of the same family as yourself, and have a claim'upon your love, your sympathy, your kindness. 

Live not for yourselves. The world needs to learn this lesson. Mankind have to learn that only as they bless others are theythemselves blest. It was the fine thought of the good Indian, Wah-pan-nah, that man should not pile up his dollars, --they may falldown and crush him, --but spread them out. 

"There be dark spot on you brother's path, --go lay dollar there andmake it bright, " said he. 

And since that suggestion came we have thought it over and over, andhave found it a text for a lifetime of goodness. Go place the brightdollar in the poor man's hand, and the good you do will be reflectedin rays of gratitude from a smiling face, and fall on you like thewarm sunshine, to cheer and refresh and strengthen your own soul. 

There are in this world too many dollars "piled up, " and on thesurface we see but the brightness of one. Were these all spread out, what a wide field of radiant beauty would greet our vision! Insteadof being a useless encumbrance, a care, a constant source ofperplexity to one man, this wealth would make every man comfortableand happy. It would perform its legitimate work, were it not chainedby avarice, --that canker-worm that destroys the fairest portions ofour social system. 

And there is a joy in doing good, and in dispensing the bountieswith which we are blest, that hath no equal in the household of man. To know that we have fed the hungry, clothed the naked, wiped awayone tear, bathed in the sunlight of hope one desponding spirit, gives to us a happiness that hoarded wealth, though broad as earthand high as heaven, cannot impart. 

This is the true wealth. This the wealth that rust cannot corrupt. There is no other real wealth in the universe. Gold and silver, houses and lands, are not wealth to the longing, aspiring soul ofman. The joy of the spirit, which is the reward of a good deed, comes a gift from God, a treasure worthy of being garnered into thestorehouse of an immortal being. 

There was one spot on earth where joy reigned. It was not in marblepalace; but in a low cot, beneath a roof of thatch. 

There was an indwelling sense of duty done; a feeling somewhat akinto that which we might suppose angels to feel, when a poor, earth-wearied traveller is relieved by them. 

That was a subject fit for a Raphael's pencil, as she, of form andfeature more angelic than human, sat beside that cottage door, andher mild blue eye gazed steadfastly up to heaven, and the light ofthe moon disclosed to mortal view her calm and beautiful features. 

Two hours previous, over a sick and languishing child a mother bowedwith maternal fondness. She pressed her lips to his chilledforehead, and wiped the cold sweat from his aching brow. 

"Be patient, my child, " said she; "God will provide. " And why didshe bid him "be patient"? None could have been more so; for throughthe long hours of that long summer day he had lain there, sufferedand endured all; yet not one sigh had arisen from his breast, notone complaint had passed his parched lips. 

"I know it, " said he. And the mother kissed him again, and againsaid, "God will provide. "

Mother and son! the one sick, the other crushed down with povertyand sorrow. Yet in this her hour of adversity her trust in the Godof her fathers wavered not; she firmly relied on Him for support, whom she had never found forgetful of her. The widow and thefatherless were in that low tenement, and above was the God who hadpromised to protect them. 

Again she whispered in the lad's ear, "God will provide. "

The light of that day's sun had not rested upon food in thatdwelling. Heavily the hours passed by. Each seemed longer than thatwhich had preceded it. 

A rap at the door was heard. She arose and hastened to it. No personwas in sight; but in the moon's bright rays stood a basket, on whichlay a card, stating that it and its contents were for her and herchild, and that on the morrow a nurse and every comfort they mightwant would be provided. 

She bowed herself beside it, and thanked God for the gift. Then witha joyful heart she carried it within, and her child's eye sparkledas he heard the glad news, that He who watcheth the sparrows had notforgotten them. 

Let us return now to that thatched cottage. She, whose mild eyegazeth up to heaven, whilst passing the door of the famishing motherand child an hour previous, had heard the words with which thatmother had encouraged her dying son. 

With speed the maiden hastened to her home, and from her own limitedstore carried forth that basket, and heaven-like bestowed the giftunseen and unknown, save by Him who seeth and who rewardeth. Thedeed of mercy accomplished, she hastened to her home; and now, asshe looks upward, how her eye beams with joy, and her heart breaksforth in songs of gratitude to Him who made her the instrument of somuch good!

Gold, with all its power, cannot bring joy unless dealt forth with awilling heart like hers. The king in his palace, whose sceptre'ssway extends over vast dominions, hath no pleasures capable ofrivalling that which, by an act of charity, was brought to the soulof that young cottage girl. 

Reader, whatever your condition, you can possess a joy like hers. Ifyou have not what men call wealth, with which to help the weak anddesponding, you have a smile of sympathy, a look of kindness, a wordof love. Give those, and you shall know what a blessed thing isCharity. 

NOW CLOSE THE BOOK. 

 NOW close the book. Each page hath done its part, Each thought hath left its impress on the heart. O, may it be that naught hath here been traced That after years may wish to have effaced! O, may it be Humanity hath won Some slight bestowment by the task now done! If struggling Right hath found one cheering word, If Hope hath in desponding heart been stirred, If Sorrow hath from one lone soul been driven By one kind word of Sympathy here given, Then in my soul a living joy shall dwell, Brighter than art can paint or language tell. Yes, close the book: the story and the song Have each been said, and sung. I see the throng Of gentle ministrants who've led my pen Withdraw their aid. I hear the word, Amen. And now to you, who have been with me through The "Town and Country, " I must bid adieu.