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Home Lights and Shadows

by T. S. Arthur · English · Gutenberg #4594 · 405,241 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Home Lights and Shadows

Author: T. S. Arthur


        
Release date: October 1, 2003 [eBook #4594]
                Most recently updated: December 28, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4594

Credits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOME LIGHTS AND SHADOWS ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.









HOME LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.


BY

T. S. ARTHUR,



AUTHOR OF "LIFE PICTURES," "OLD MAN'S BRIDE," AND "SPARING TO SPEND."




NEW YORK:

1853.




CONTENTS.


  RIGHTS AND WRONGS
  THE HUMBLED PHARISEE
  ROMANCE AND REALITY
  BOTH TO BLAME
  IT'S NONE OF MY BUSINESS
  THE MOTHER'S PROMISE
  THE TWO HUSBANDS
  VISITING AS NEIGHBORS
  NOT AT HOME
  THE FATAL ERROR
  FOLLOWING THE FASHIONS
  A DOLLAR ON THE CONSCIENCE
  AUNT MARY'S SUGGESTION
  HELPING THE POOR
  COMMON PEOPLE
  MAKING A SENSATION
  SOMETHING FOR A COLD
  THE PORTRAIT
  VERY POOR




PREFACE.


HOME! How at the word, a crowd of pleasant thoughts awaken. What
sun-bright images are pictured to the imagination. Yet, there is no
home without its shadows as well as sunshine. Love makes the
home-lights and selfishness the shadows. Ah! how dark the shadow at
times--how faint and fleeting the sunshine. How often selfishness
towers up to a giant height, barring out from our dwellings every
golden ray. There are few of us, who do not, at times, darken with
our presence the homes that should grow bright at our coming. It is
sad to acknowledge this; yet, in the very acknowledgement is a
promise of better things, for, it is rarely that we confess, without
a resolution to overcome the evil that mars our own and others'
happiness. Need we say, that the book now presented to the reader is
designed to aid in the work of overcoming what is evil and selfish,
that home-lights may dispel home-shadows, and keep them forever from
our dwellings.




RIGHTS AND WRONGS.


IT is a little singular--yet certainly true--that people who are
very tenacious of their own rights, and prompt in maintaining them,
usually have rather vague notions touching the rights of others.
Like the too eager merchant, in securing their own, they are very
apt to get a little more than belongs to them.

Mrs. Barbara Uhler presented a notable instance of this. We cannot
exactly class her with the "strong-minded" women of the day. But she
had quite a leaning in that direction; and if not very strong-minded
herself, was so unfortunate as to number among her intimate friends
two or three ladies who had a fair title to the distinction.

Mrs. Barbara Uhler was a wife and a mother. She was also a woman;
and her consciousness of this last named fact was never indistinct,
nor ever unmingled with a belligerent appreciation of the rights
appertaining to her sex and position.

As for Mr. Herman Uhler, he was looked upon, abroad, as a mild,
reasonable, good sort of a man. At home, however, he was held in a
very different estimation. The "wife of his bosom" regarded him as
an exacting domestic tyrant; and, in opposing his will, she only
fell back, as she conceived, upon the first and most sacred law of
her nature. As to "obeying" him, she had scouted that idea from the
beginning. The words, "honor and obey," in the marriage service, she
had always declared, would have to be omitted when she stood at the
altar. But as she had, in her maidenhood, a very strong liking for
the handsome young Mr. Uhler, and, as she could not obtain so
material a change in the church ritual, as the one needed to meet
her case, she wisely made a virtue of necessity, and went to the
altar with her lover. The difficulty was reconciled to her own
conscience by a mental reservation.

It is worthy of remark that above all other of the obligations here
solemnly entered into, this one, _not_ to honor and obey her
husband, ever after remained prominent in the mind of Mrs. Barbara
Uhler. And it was no fruitless sentiment, as Mr. Herman Uhler could
feelingly testify.

From the beginning it was clearly apparent to Mrs. Uhler that her
husband expected too much from her; that he regarded her as a kind
of upper servant in his household, and that he considered himself as
having a right to complain if things were not orderly and
comfortable. At first, she met his looks or words of displeasure,
when his meals, for instance, were late, or so badly cooked as to be
unhealthy and unpalatable, with--

"I'm sorry, dear; but I can't help it."

"Are you sure you can't help it, Barbara?" Mr. Uhler at length
ventured to ask, in as mild a tone of voice as his serious feelings
on the subject would enable him to assume.

Mrs. Uhler's face flushed instantly, and she answered, with dignity:

"I _am_ sure, Mr. Uhler."

It was the first time, in speaking to her husband, that she had said
"Mr. Uhler," in her life the first time she had ever looked at him
with so steady and defiant an aspect.

Now, we cannot say how most men would have acted under similar
circumstances; we can only record what Mr. Uhler said and did:

"And I am _not_ sure, Mrs. Uhler," was his prompt, impulsive reply,
drawing himself up, and looking somewhat sternly at his better half.

"You are not?" said Mrs. Uhler; and she compressed her lips tightly.

"I am not," was the emphatic response.

"And what do you expect me to do, pray?" came next from the lady's
lips.

"Do as I do in my business," answered the gentleman. "Have competent
assistance, or see that things are done right yourself."

"Go into the kitchen and cook the dinner, you mean, I suppose?"

"You can put my meaning into any form of words you please, Barbara.
You have charge of this household, and it is your place to see that
everything due to the health and comfort of its inmates is properly
cared for. If those to whom you delegate so important a part of
domestic economy as the preparation of food, are ignorant or
careless, surely it is your duty to go into the kitchen daily, and
see that it is properly done. I never trust wholly to any individual
in my employment. There is no department of the business to which I
do not give personal attention. Were I to do so my customers would
pay little regard to excuses about ignorant workmen and careless
clerks. They would soon seek their goods in another and better
conducted establishment."

"Perhaps you had better seek your dinners elsewhere, if they are so
little to your fancy at home."

This was the cool, defiant reply of the outraged Mrs. Uhler.

Alas, for Mr. Herman Uhler; he had, so far as his wife was
concerned, committed the unpardonable sin; and the consequences
visited upon his transgression were so overwhelming that he gave up
the struggle in despair. Contention with such an antagonist, he saw,
from the instinct of self-preservation, would be utterly disastrous.
While little was to be gained, everything was in danger of being
lost.

"I have nothing more to say," was his repeated answer to the running
fire which his wife kept up against him for a long time. "You are
mistress of the house; act your own pleasure. Thank you for the
suggestion about dinner. I may find it convenient to act thereon."

The last part of this sentence was extorted by the continued
irritating language of Mrs. Uhler. Its utterance rather cooled the
lady's indignant ardor, and checked the sharp words that were
rattling from her tongue. A truce to open warfare was tacitly agreed
upon between the parties. The antagonism was not, however, the less
real. Mrs. Uhler knew that her husband expected of her a degree of
personal attention to household matters that she considered
degrading to her condition as a wife; and, because he _expected_
this, she, in order to maintain the dignity of her position, gave
even less attention to these matters than would otherwise have been
the case. Of course, under such administration of domestic affairs,
causes for dissatisfaction on the part of Mr. Uhler, were ever in
existence. For the most part he bore up under them with commendable
patience; but, there were times when weak human nature faltered by
the way--when, from heart-fulness the mouth would speak. This was
but to add new fuel to the flame. This only gave to Mrs. Uhler a
ground of argument against her husband as an unreasonable,
oppressive tyrant; as one of the large class of men who not only
regard woman as inferior, but who, in all cases of weak submission,
hesitate not to put a foot upon her neck.

Some of the female associates, among whom Mrs. Uhler unfortunately
found herself thrown, were loud talkers about woman's rights and
man's tyranny; and to them, with a most unwife-like indelicacy of
speech, she did not hesitate to allude to her husband as one of the
class of men who would trample upon a woman if permitted to do so.
By these ladies she was urged to maintain her rights, to keep ever
in view the dignity and elevation of her sex, and to let man, the
tyrant, know, that a time was fast approaching when his haughty
pride would be humbled to the dust.

And so Mrs. Uhler, under this kind of stimulus to the maintainance
of her own rights against the imaginary aggressions of her husband,
trampled upon his rights in numberless ways.

As time wore on, no change for the better occurred. A woman does not
reason to just conclusions, either from facts or abstract principles
like man; but takes, for the most part, the directer road of
perception. If, therefore her womanly instincts are all right, her
conclusions will be true; but if they are wrong, false judgment is
inevitable. The instincts of Mrs. Uhler were wrong in the beginning,
and she was, in consequence, easily led by her associates, into
wrong estimates of both her own and her husband's position.

One day, on coming home to dinner, Mr. Uhler was told by a servant,
that his wife had gone to an anti-slavery meeting, and would not get
back till evening, as she intended dining with a friend. Mr. Uhler
made no remark on receiving this information. A meagre, badly-cooked
dinner was served, to which he seated himself, alone, not to eat,
but to chew the cud of bitter fancies. Business, with Mr. Uhler, had
not been very prosperous of late; and he had suffered much from a
feeling of discouragement. Yet, for all this, his wife's demands for
money, were promptly met--and she was not inclined to be over
careful as to the range of her expenditures.

There was a singular expression on the face of Mr. Uhler, as he left
his home on that day. Some new purpose had been formed in his mind,
or some good principle abandoned. He was a changed man--changed for
the worse, it may well be feared.

It was late in the afternoon when Mrs. Uhler returned. To have
inquired of the servant whether Mr. Uhler had made any remark, when
he found that she was absent at dinner time, she would have regarded
as a betrayal to that personage of a sense of accountability on her
part. No; she stooped not to any inquiry of this kind--compromised
not the independence of the individual.

The usual tea hour was at hand--but, strange to say, the punctual
Mr. Uhler did not make his appearance. For an hour the table stood
on the floor, awaiting his return, but he came not. Then Mrs. Uhler
gave her hungry, impatient little ones their suppers--singularly
enough, she had no appetite for food herself--and sent them to bed.

Never since her marriage had Mrs. Uhler spent so troubled an evening
as that one proved to be. A dozen times she rallied herself--a dozen
times she appealed to her independence and individuality as a woman,
against the o'er-shadowing concern about her husband, which came
gradually stealing upon her mind. And with this uncomfortable
feeling were some intruding and unwelcome thoughts, that in no way
stimulated her self-approval.

It was nearly eleven o'clock when Mr. Uhler came home; and then he
brought in his clothes such rank fumes of tobacco, and his breath
was so tainted with brandy, that his wife had no need of inquiry as
to where he had spent his evening. His countenance wore a look of
vacant unconcern.

"Ah! At home, are you?" said he, lightly, as he met his wife. "Did
you have a pleasant day of it?"

Mrs. Uhler was--frightened--shall we say? We must utter the word,
even though it meet the eyes of her "strong minded" friends, who
will be shocked to hear that one from whom they had hoped so much,
should be frightened by so insignificant a creature as a husband.
Yes, Mrs. Uhler was really frightened by this new aspect in which
her husband presented himself. She felt that she was in a dilemma,
to which, unhappily, there was not a single horn, much less choice
between two.

We believe Mrs. Uhler did not sleep very well during the night. Her
husband, however, slept "like a log." On the next morning, her brow
was overcast; but his countenance wore a careless aspect. He chatted
with the children at the breakfast table, goodnaturedly, but said
little to his wife, who had penetration enough to see that he was
hiding his real feelings under an assumed exterior.

"Are you going to be home to dinner to-day?" said Mr. Uhler,
carelessly, as he arose from the table. He had only sipped part of a
cup of bad coffee.

"Certainly I am," was the rather sharp reply. The question irritated
the lady.

"You needn't on my account," said Mr. Uhler. "I've engaged to dine
at the Astor with a friend."

"Oh, very well!" Mrs. Uhler bridled and looked dignified. Yet, her
flashing eyes showed that cutting words were ready to leap from her
tongue. And they would have come sharply on the air, had not the
manner of her husband been so unusual and really mysterious. In a
word, a vague fear kept her silent.

Mr. Uhler went to his store, but manifested little of his usual
interest and activity. Much that he had been in the habit of
attending to personally, he delegated to clerks. He dined at the
Astor, and spent most of the afternoon there, smoking, talking, and
drinking. At tea-time he came home. The eyes of Mrs. Uhler sought
his face anxiously as he came in. There was a veil of mystery upon
it, through which her eyes could not penetrate. Mr. Uhler remained
at home during the evening, but did not seem to be himself. On the
next morning, as he was about leaving the house, his wife said--

"Can you let me have some money to-day?"

Almost for the first time in her life, Mrs. Uhler asked this
question in a hesitating manner; and, for the first time, she saw
that her request was not favorably received.

"How much do you want?" inquired the husband.

"I should like to have a hundred dollars," said Mrs. Uhler.

"I'm sorry; but I can't let you have it," was answered. "I lost five
hundred dollars day before yesterday through the neglect of one of
my clerks, while I was riding out with some friends."

"Riding out!" exclaimed Mrs. Uhler.

"Yes. You can't expect me to be always tied down to business. I like
a little recreation and pleasant intercourse with friends as much as
any one. Well, you see, a country dealer, who owed me five hundred
dollars, was in the city, and promised to call and settle on the
afternoon of day before yesterday. I explained to one of my clerks
what he must do when the customer came in, and, of course, expected
all to be done right. Not so, however. The man, when he found that
he had my clerk, and not me, to deal with, objected to some
unimportant charge in his bill, and the foolish fellow, instead of
yielding the point, insisted that the account was correct. The
customer went away, and paid out all his money in settling a bill
with one of my neighbors. And so I got nothing. Most likely, I shall
lose the whole account, as he is a slippery chap, and will, in all
probability, see it to be his interest to make a failure between
this and next spring. I just wanted that money to-day. Now I shall
have to be running around half the morning to make up the sum I
need."

"But how could you go away under such circumstances, and trust all
to a clerk?" said Mrs. Uhler warmly, and with reproof in her voice.

"How could I!" was the quick response. "And do you suppose I am
going to tie myself down to the store like a slave! You are mistaken
if you do; that is all I have to say! I hire clerks to attend to my
business."

"But suppose they are incompetent? What then?" Mrs. Uhler was very
earnest.

"That doesn't in the least alter my character and position." Mr.
Uhler looked his wife fixedly in the face for some moments after
saying this, and then retired from the house without further remark.

The change in her husband, which Mrs. Uhler at first tried to make
herself believe was mere assumption or caprice, proved, unhappily, a
permanent state. He neglected his business and his home for social
companions; and whenever asked by his wife for supplies of cash,
invariably gave as a reason why he could not supply her want, the
fact of some new loss of custom, or money, in consequence of
neglect, carelessness, or incompetency of clerks or workmen, when he
was away, enjoying himself.

For a long time, Mrs. Uhler's independent spirit struggled against
the humiliating necessity that daily twined its coils closer and
closer around her. More and more clearly did she see, in her
husband's wrong conduct, a reflection of her own wrong deeds in the
beginning. It was hard for her to acknowledge that she had been in
error--even to herself. But conviction lifted before her mind,
daily, its rebuking finger, and she could not shut the vision out.

Neglect of business brought its disastrous consequences. In the end
there was a failure; and yet, to the end, Mr. Uhler excused his
conduct on the ground that he wasn't going to tie himself down like
a galley slave to the oar--wasn't going to stoop to the drudgery he
had employed clerks to perform. This was all his wife could gain
from him in reply to her frequent remonstrances.

Up to this time, Mr. Uhler had resisted the better suggestions
which, in lucid intervals, if we may so call them, were thrown into
her mind. Pride would not let her give to her household duties that
personal care which their rightful performance demanded; the more
particularly, as, in much of her husband's conduct, she plainly saw
rebuke.

At last, poverty, that stern oppressor, drove the Uhlers out from
their pleasant home, and they shrunk away into obscurity, privation,
and want. In the last interview held by Mrs. Uhler with the "strong
minded" friends, whose society had so long thrown its fascinations
around her, and whose views and opinions had so long exercised a
baleful influence over her home, she was urgently advised to abandon
her husband, whom one of the number did not hesitate to denounce in
language so coarse and disgusting, that the latent instincts of the
wife were shocked beyond measure. Her husband was not the brutal,
sensual tyrant this refined lady, in her intemperate zeal,
represented him. None knew the picture to be so false as Mrs. Uhler,
and all that was good and true in her rose up in indignant
rebellion.

To her poor, comfortless home, and neglected children, Mrs. Uhler
returned in a state of mind so different from anything she had
experienced for years, that she half wondered within herself if she
were really the same woman. Scales had fallen suddenly from her
eyes, and she saw every thing around her in new aspects and new
relations.

"Has my husband really been an exacting tyrant?" This question she
propounded to herself almost involuntarily. "Did he trample upon my
rights in the beginning, or did I trample upon his? He had a right
to expect from me the best service I could render, in making his
home comfortable and happy. Did I render that service? did I see in
my home duties my highest obligation as a wife? have I been a true
wife to him?"

So rapidly came these rebuking interrogations upon the mind of Mrs.
Uhler, that it almost seemed as if an accuser stood near, and
uttered the questions aloud. And how did she respond? Not in self
justification. Convinced, humbled, repentant, she sought her home.

It was late in the afternoon, almost evening, when Mrs. Uhler passed
the threshold of her own door. The cry of a child reached her ears
the moment she entered, and she knew, in an instant, that it was a
cry of suffering, not anger or ill nature. Hurrying to her chamber,
she found her three little ones huddled together on the floor, the
youngest with one of its arms and the side of its face badly burned
in consequence of its clothes having taken fire. As well as she
could learn, the girl in whose charge she had left the children, and
who, in the reduced circumstances of the family, was constituted
doer of all work, had, from some pique, gone away in her absence.
Thus left free to go where, and do what they pleased, the children
had amused themselves in playing with the fire. When the clothes of
the youngest caught in the blaze of a lighted stick, the two oldest,
with singular presence of mind, threw around her a wet towel that
hung near, and thus saved her life.

"Has your father been home?" asked Mrs. Uhler, as soon as she
comprehended the scene before her.

"Yes, ma'am," was answered.

"Where is he?"

"He's gone for the doctor," replied the oldest of the children.

"What did he say?" This question was involuntary. The child
hesitated for a moment, and then replied artlessly--

"He said he wished we had no mother, and then he'd know how to take
care of us himself."

The words came with the force of a blow. Mrs. Uhler staggered
backwards, and sunk upon a chair, weak, for a brief time, as an
infant. Ere yet her strength returned, her husband came in with a
doctor. He did not seem to notice her presence; but she soon made
that apparent. All the mother's heart was suddenly alive in her. She
was not over officious--had little to say; but her actions were all
to the purpose. In due time, the little sufferer was in a
comfortable state and the doctor retired.

Not a word had, up to this moment, passed between the husband and
wife. Now, the eyes of the latter sought those of Mr. Uhler; but
there came no answering glance. His face was sternly averted.

Darkness was now beginning to fall, and Mrs. Uhler left her husband
and children, and went down into the kitchen. The fire had burned
low; and was nearly extinguished. The girl had not returned; and,
from what Mrs. Uhler gathered from the children would not, she
presumed, come back to them again. It mattered not, however; Mrs.
Uhler was in no state of mind to regard this as a cause of trouble.
She rather felt relieved by her absence. Soon the fire was
rekindled; the kettle simmering; and, in due time, a comfortable
supper was on the table, prepared by her own hands, and well
prepared too.

Mr. Uhler was a little taken by surprise, when, on being summoned to
tea, he took his place at the usually uninviting table, and saw
before him a dish of well made toast, and a plate of nicely boiled
ham. He said nothing; but a sensation of pleasure, so warm that it
made his heart beat quicker, pervaded his bosom; and this was
increased, when he placed the cup of well made, fragrant tea to his
lips, and took a long delicious draught. All had been prepared by
the hands of his wife--that he knew. How quickly his pleasure sighed
itself away, as he remembered that, with her ample ability to make
his home the pleasantest place for him in the world, she was wholly
wanting in inclination.

Usually, the husband spent his evenings away. Something caused him
to linger in his own home on this occasion. Few words passed between
him and his wife; but the latter was active through all the evening,
and, wherever her hand was laid, order seemed to grow up from
disorder; and the light glinted back from a hundred places in the
room, where no cheerful reflection had ever met his eyes before.

Mr. Uhler looked on, in wonder and hope, but said nothing. Strange
enough, Mrs. Uhler was up by day-dawn on the next morning; and in
due time, a very comfortable breakfast was prepared by her own
hands. Mr. Uhler ventured a word of praise, as he sipped his coffee.
Never had he tasted finer in his life, he said. Mrs. Uhler looked
gratified; but offered no response.

At dinner time Mr. Uhler came home from the store, where he was now
employed at a small salary, and still more to his surprise, found a
well cooked and well served meal awaiting him. Never, since his
marriage, had he eaten food at his own table with so true a
relish--never before had every thing in his house seemed so much
like home.

And so things went on for a week, Mr. Uhler wondering and observant,
and Mrs. Uhler finding her own sweet reward, not only in a
consciousness of duty, but in seeing a great change in her husband,
who was no longer moody and ill-natured, and who had not been absent
once at meal time, nor during an evening, since she had striven to
be to him a good wife, and to her children a self denying mother.

There came, now, to be a sort of tacit emulation of good offices
between the wife and husband, who had, for so many years, lived in a
state of partial indifference. Mr. Uhler urged the procuring of a
domestic, in place of the girl who had left them, but Mrs. Uhler
said no--their circumstances would not justify the expense. Mr.
Uhler said they could very well afford it, and intimated something
about an expected advance in his salary.

"I do not wish to see you a mere household drudge," he said to her
one day, a few weeks after the change just noted. "You know so well
how every thing ought to be done, that the office of director alone
should be yours. I think there is a brighter day coming for us. I
hope so. From the first of next month, my salary is to be increased
to a thousand dollars. Then we will move from this poor place, into
a better home."

There was a blending of hopefulness and tenderness in the voice of
Mr. Uhler, that touched his wife deeply. Overcome by her feelings,
she laid her face upon his bosom, and wept.

"Whether the day be brighter or darker," she said, when she could
speak calmly, "God helping me, I will be to you a true wife, Herman.
If there be clouds and storms without, the hearth shall only burn
the brighter for you within. Forgive me for the past, dear husband!
and have faith in me for the future. You shall not be disappointed."

And he was not. Mrs. Uhler had discovered her true relation, and had
become conscious of her true duties. She was no longer jealous of
her own rights, and therefore never trespassed on the rights of her
husband.

The rapidity with which Mr. Uhler rose to his old position in
business, sometimes caused a feeling of wonder to pervade the mind
of his wife. From a clerk of one thousand, he soon came into the
receipt of two thousand a year, then rose to be a partner in the
business, and in a singularly short period was a man of wealth. Mrs.
Uhler was puzzled, sometimes, at this, and so were other people. It
was even hinted, that he had never been as poor as was pretended. Be
that as it may, as he never afterwards trusted important matters to
the discretion of irresponsible clerks, his business operations went
on prosperously; and, on the other hand, as Mrs. Uhler never again
left the comfort and health of her family entirely in the hands of
ignorant and careless domestics, the home of her husband was the
pleasantest place in the world for him, and his wife, not a mere
upper servant, but a loving and intelligent companion, whom he cared
for and cherished with the utmost tenderness.




THE HUMBLED PHARISEE.


"WHAT was that?" exclaimed Mrs. Andrews, to the lady who was seated
next to her, as a single strain of music vibrated for a few moments
on the atmosphere.

"A violin, I suppose," was answered.

"A violin!" An expression almost of horror came into the countenance
of Mrs. Andrews. "It can't be possible."

It was possible, however, for the sound came again, prolonged and
varied.

"What does it mean?" asked Mrs. Andrews, looking troubled, and
moving uneasily in her chair.

"Cotillions, I presume," was answered, carelessly.

"Not dancing, surely!"

But, even as Mrs. Andrews said this, a man entered, carrying in his
hand a violin. There was an instant movement on the part of several
younger members of the company; partners were chosen, and ere Mrs.
Andrews had time to collect her suddenly bewildered thoughts, the
music had struck up, and the dancers were in motion.

"I can't remain here. It's an outrage!" said Mrs. Andrews, making a
motion to rise.

The lady by whom she was sitting comprehended now more clearly her
state of mind, and laying a hand on her arm, gently restrained her.

"Why not remain? What is an outrage, Mrs. Andrews?" she asked.

"Mrs. Burdick knew very well that I was a member of the church." The
lady's manner was indignant.

"All your friends know that, Mrs. Andrews," replied the other. A
third person might have detected in her tones a lurking sarcasm. But
this was not perceived by the individual addressed. "But what is
wrong?"

"Wrong! Isn't that wrong?" And she glanced towards the mazy wreath
of human figures already circling on the floor. "I could not have
believed it of Mrs. Burdick; she knew that I was a professor of
religion."

"She doesn't expect you to dance, Mrs. Andrews," said the lady.

"But she expects me to countenance the sin and folly by my
presence."

"Sin and folly are strong terms, Mrs. Andrews."

"I know they are, and I use them advisedly. I hold it a sin to
dance."

"I know wise and good people who hold a different opinion."

"Wise and good!" Mrs. Andrews spoke with strong disgust. "I wouldn't
give much for their wisdom and goodness--not I!"

"The true qualities of men and women are best seen at home. When
people go abroad, they generally change their attire--mental as well
as bodily. Now, I have seen the home-life of certain ladies, who do
not think it sin to dance, and it was full of the heart's warm
sunshine; and I have seen the home-life of certain ladies who hold
dancing to be sinful, and I have said to myself, half shudderingly:
"What child can breathe that atmosphere for years, and not grow up
with a clouded spirit, and a fountain of bitterness in the heart!"

"And so you mean to say," Mrs. Andrews spoke with some asperity of
manner, "that dancing makes people better?--Is, in fact, a means of
grace?"

"No. I say no such thing."

"Then what do you mean to say? I draw the only conclusion I can
make."

"One may grow better or worse from dancing," said the lady. "All
will depend on the spirit in which the recreation is indulged. In
itself the act is innocent."

Mrs. Andrews shook her head.

"In what does its sin consist?"

"It is an idle waste of time."

"Can you say nothing worse of it?"

"I could, but delicacy keeps me silent."

"Did you ever dance?"

"Me? What a question! No!"

"I have danced often. And, let me say, that your inference on the
score of indelicacy is altogether an assumption."

"Why everybody admits that."

"Not by any means."

"If the descriptions of some of the midnight balls and assemblies
that I have heard, of the waltzing, and all that, be true, then
nothing could be more indelicate,--nothing more injurious to the
young and innocent."

"All good things become evil in their perversions," said the lady.
"And I will readily agree with you, that dancing is perverted, and
its use, as a means of social recreation, most sadly changed into
what is injurious. The same may be said of church going."

"You shock me," said Mrs. Andrews. "Excuse me, but you are profane."

"I trust not. For true religion--for the holy things of the
church--I trust that I have the most profound reverence. But let me
prove what I say, that even church going may become evil."

"I am all attention," said the incredulous Mrs. Andrews.

"You can bear plain speaking."

"Me!" The church member looked surprised.

"Yes, you."

"Certainly I can. But why do you ask?"

"To put you on your guard,--nothing more."

"Don't fear but what I can bear all the plain speaking you may
venture upon. As to church going being evil, I am ready to prove the
negative against any allegations you can advance. So speak on."

After a slight pause, to collect her thoughts, the lady said:

"There has been a protracted meeting in Mr. B----'s church."

"I know it. And a blessed time it was."

"You attended?"

"Yes, every day; and greatly was my soul refreshed and
strengthened."

"Did you see Mrs. Eldridge there?"

"Mrs. Eldridge? No indeed, except on Sunday. She's too
worldly-minded for that."

"She has a pew in your church."

"Yes; and comes every Sunday morning because it is fashionable and
respectable to go to church. As for her religion, it isn't worth
much and will hardly stand her at the last day."

"Why Mrs. Andrews! You shock me! Have you seen into her heart? Do
you know her purposes? Judge not, that ye be not judged, is the
divine injunction."

"A tree is known by its fruit," said Mrs. Andrews, who felt the
rebuke, and slightly colored.

"True; and by their fruits shall ye know them," replied the lady.
"But come, there are too many around us here for this earnest
conversation. We will take a quarter of an hour to ourselves in one
of the less crowded rooms. No one will observe our absence, and you
will be freed from the annoyance of these dancers."

The two ladies quietly retired from the drawing rooms. As soon as
they were more alone, the last speaker resumed.

"By their fruits ye shall know them. Do men gather grapes of thorns,
or figs of thistles? Let me relate what I saw and heard in the
families of two ladies during this protracted meeting. One of these
ladies was Mrs. Eldridge. I was passing in her neighborhood about
four o'clock, and as I owed her a call, thought the opportunity a
good one for returning it. On entering, my ears caught the blended
music of a piano, and children's happy voices. From the front
parlor, through the partly opened door, a sight, beautiful to my
eyes, was revealed. Mrs. Eldridge was seated at the instrument, her
sweet babe asleep on one arm, while, with a single hand, she was
touching the notes of a familiar air, to which four children were
dancing. A more innocent, loving, happy group I have never seen. For
nearly ten minutes I gazed upon them unobserved, so interested that
I forgot the questionable propriety of my conduct, and during that
time, not an unkind word was uttered by one of the children, nor did
anything occur to mar the harmony of the scene. It was a sight on
which angels could have looked, nay, did look with pleasure; for,
whenever hearts are tuned to good affections, angels are present.
The music was suspended, and the dancing ceased, as I presented
myself. The mother greeted me with a happy smile, and each of the
children spoke to her visitor with an air at once polite and
respectful.

"'I've turned nurse for the afternoon, you see,' said Mrs. Eldridge,
cheerfully. 'It's Alice's day to go out, and I never like to trust
our little ones with the chambermaid, who is n't over fond of
children. We generally have a good time on these occasions, for I
give myself up to them entirely. They've read, and played, and told
stories, until tired, and now I've just brightened them up, body and
mind, with a dance.'

"And bright and happy they all looked.

"'Now run up into the nursery for a little while, and build block
houses,' said she, 'while I have a little pleasant talk with my
friend. That's good children. And I want you to be very quiet, for
dear little Eddy is fast asleep, and I'm going to lay him in his
crib.'

"Away went the children, and I heard no more of them for the half
hour during which I staid. With the child in her arms, Mrs. Eldridge
went up to her chamber, and I went with her. As she was laying him
in the crib, I took from the mantle a small porcelain figure of a
kneeling child, and was examining it, when she turned to me. 'Very
beautiful,' said I. 'It is,' she replied.--'We call it our Eddy,
saying his prayers. There is a history attached to it. Very early I
teach my little ones to say an evening prayer. First impressions are
never wholly effaced; I therefore seek to implant, in the very
dawning of thought, an idea of God, and our dependence on him for
life and all our blessings, knowing that, if duly fixed, this idea
will ever remain, and be the vessel, in after years, for the
reception of truth flowing down from the great source of all truth.
Strangely enough, my little Eddy, so sweet in temper as he was,
steadily refused to say his prayers. I tried in every way that I
could think of to induce him to kneel with the other children, and
repeat a few simple words; but not his aversion thereto was
unconquerable. I at last grew really troubled about it. There seemed
to be a vein in his character that argued no good. One day I saw
this kneeling child in a store. With the sight of it came the
thought of how I might use it. I bought the figure, and did not show
it to Eddy until he was about going to bed. The effect was all I had
hoped to produce. He looked at it for some moments earnestly, then
dropped on his little knees, clasped his white hands, and murmured
the prayer I had so long and so vainly striven to make him repeat.'

"Tears were in the eyes of Mrs. Eldridge, as she uttered the closing
words. I felt that she was a true mother, and loved her children
with a high and holy love. And now, let me give you a picture that
strongly contrasts with this. Not far from Mrs. Eldridge, resides a
lady, who is remarkable for her devotion to the church, and, I am
compelled to say, want of charity towards all who happen to differ
with her--more particularly, if the difference involves church
matters. It was after sundown; still being in the neighborhood, I
embraced the opportunity to make a call. On ringing the bell, I
heard, immediately, a clatter of feet down the stairs and along the
passage, accompanied by children's voices, loud and boisterous. It
was some time before the door was opened, for each of the four
children, wishing to perform the office, each resisted the others'
attempts to admit the visitor. Angry exclamations, rude outcries,
ill names, and struggles for the advantage continued, until the
cook, attracted from the kitchen by the noise, arrived at the scene
of contention, and after jerking the children so roughly as to set
the two youngest crying, swung it open, and I entered. On gaining
the parlor, I asked for the mother of these children.

"'She isn't at home,' said the cook.

"'She's gone to church,' said the oldest of the children.

"'I wish she'd stay at home,' remarked cook in a very disrespectful
way, and with a manner that showed her to be much fretted in her
mind. 'It's Mary's day out, and she knows I can't do anything with
the children. Such children I never saw! They don't mind a word you
say, and quarrel so among themselves, that it makes one sick to hear
them.'

"At this moment a headless doll struck against the side of my neck.
It had been thrown by one child at another; missing her aim, she
gave me the benefit of her evil intention. At this, cook lost all
patience, and seizing the offending little one, boxed her soundly,
before I could interfere. The language used by that child, as she
escaped from the cook's hands, was shocking. It made my flesh creep!

"'Did I understand you to say that your mother had gone to church?'
I asked of the oldest child.

"'Yes, ma'am,' was answered. 'She's been every day this week.
There's a protracted meeting.'

"'Give me that book!' screamed a child, at this moment. Glancing
across the room, I saw two of the little ones contending for
possession of a large family Bible, which lay upon a small table.
Before I could reach them, for I started forward, from an impulse of
the moment, the table was thrown over, the marble top broken, and
the cover torn from the sacred volume."

The face of Mrs. Andrews became instantly of a deep crimson. Not
seeming to notice this, her friend continued.

"As the table fell, it came within an inch of striking another child
on the head, who had seated himself on the floor. Had it done so, a
fractured skull, perhaps instant death, would have been the
consequence."

Mrs. Andrews caught her breath, and grew very pale. The other
continued.

"In the midst of the confusion that followed, the father came home.

"'Where is your mother?' he asked of one of the children.

"'Gone to church,' was replied.

"'O dear!' I can hear his voice now, with its tone of
hopelessness,--'This church-going mania is dreadful. I tell my wife
that it is all wrong. That her best service to God is to bring up
her children in the love of what is good and true,--in filial
obedience and fraternal affection. But it avails not.'

"And now, Mrs. Andrews," continued the lady, not in the least
appearing to notice the distress and confusion of her over-pious
friend, whom she had placed upon the rack, "When God comes to make
up his jewels, and says to Mrs. Eldridge, and also to this mother
who thought more of church-going than of her precious little ones,
'Where are the children I gave you?' which do you think will be most
likely to answer, 'Here they are, not one is lost?'"

"Have I not clearly shown you that even church-going may be
perverted into an evil? That piety may attain an inordinate growth,
while charity is dead at the root? Spiritual pride; a vain conceit
of superior goodness because of the observance of certain forms and
ceremonies, is the error into which too many devout religionists
fall. But God sees not as man seeth. He looks into the heart, and
judges his creatures by the motives that rule them."

And, as she said this, she arose, the silent and rebuked Mrs.
Andrews, whose own picture had been drawn, following her down to the
gay drawing rooms.

Many a purer heart than that of the humbled Pharisee beat there
beneath the bosoms of happy maidens even though their feet were
rising and falling in time to witching melodies.




ROMANCE AND REALITY.


"I MET with a most splendid girl last evening," remarked to his
friend a young man, whose fine, intellectual forehead, and clear
bright eye, gave indications of more than ordinary mental
endowments.

"Who is she?" was the friend's brief question.

"Her name is Adelaide Merton. Have you ever seen her?"

"No, but I have often heard of the young lady."

"As a girl of more than ordinary intelligence?"

"O yes. Don't you remember the beautiful little gems of poetry that
used to appear in the Gazette, under the signature of Adelaide?"

"Very well. Some of them were exquisite, and all indicative of a
fine mind. Was she their author?"

"So I have been told."

"I can very readily believe it; for never have I met with a woman
who possessed such a brilliant intellect. Her power of expression is
almost unbounded. Her sentences are perfect pictures of the scenes
she describes. If she speaks of a landscape, not one of its most
minute features is lost, nor one of the accessories to its
perfection as a whole overlooked. And so of every thing else, in the
higher regions of the intellect, or in the lower forms of nature.
For my own part, I was lost in admiration of her qualities. She will
yet shine in the world."

The young man who thus expressed himself in regard to Adelaide
Merton, was named Charles Fenwick. He possessed a brilliant mind,
which had been well stored. But his views of life were altogether
perverted and erroneous, and his ends deeply tinctured with the love
of distinction, for its own sake. A few tolerably successful
literary efforts, had been met by injudicious over praise, leading
him to the vain conclusion that his abilities were of so high a
character, that no field of action was for him a worthy one that had
any thing to do with what he was pleased to term the ordinary
grovelling pursuits of life. Of course, all mere mechanical
operations were despised, and as a natural consequence, the men who
were engaged in them. So with merchandizing, and also with the
various branches of productive enterprise. They were mere ministers
of the base physical wants of our nature. His mind took in higher
aims than these!

His father was a merchant in moderate circumstances, engaged in a
calling which was of course despised by the son, notwithstanding he
was indebted to his father's constant devotion to that calling for
his education, and all the means of comfort and supposed distinction
that he enjoyed. The first intention of the elder Mr. Fenwick had
been to qualify his son, thoroughly, for the calling of a merchant,
that he might enter into business with him and receive the benefits
of his experience and facilities in trade. But about the age of
seventeen, while yet at college, young Fenwick made the unfortunate
discovery that he could produce a species of composition which he
called poetry. His efforts were praised--and this induced him to go
on; until he learned the art of tolerably smooth versification. This
would all have been well enough had he not imagined himself to be,
in consequence, of vastly increased importance. Stimulated by this
idea, he prosecuted his collegiate studies with renewed diligence,
storing a strong and comprehensive mind with facts and principles in
science and philosophy, that would have given him, in after life, no
ordinary power of usefulness as a literary and professional man, had
not his selfish ends paralysed and perverted the natural energies of
a good intellect.

The father's intention of making him a merchant was, of course,
opposed by the son, who chose one of the learned profession as more
honorable--not more useful; a profession that would give him
distinction--not enable him to fill his right place in society. In
this he was gratified. At the time of his introduction to the
reader, he was known as a young physician without a patient. He had
graduated, but had not yet seen any occasion for taking an office,
as his father's purse supplied all his wants. His pursuits were
mainly literary--consisting of essays and reviews for some of the
periodicals intermixed with a liberal seasoning of pretty fair
rhymes which rose occasionally to the dignity of poetry--or, as he
supposed, to the lofty strains of a Milton or a Dante. Occasionally
a lecture before some literary association brought his name into the
newspapers in connection with remarks that kindled his vanity into a
flame. Debating clubs afforded another field for display, and he
made liberal use of the facility. So much for Charles Fenwick.

Of Adelaide Merton, we may remark, that she was just the kind of a
woman to captivate a young man of Fenwick's character. She was showy
in her style of conversation, but exceedingly superficial. Her
reading consisted principally of poetry and the popular light
literature of the day, with a smattering of history. She could
repeat, in quite an attractive style, many fine passages from Homer,
Virgil, Milton, Shakspeare, Pope, Byron, Shelley, Coleridge, and a
host of lesser lights in the poetic hemisphere--and could quote from
and criticise the philosophy and style of Bulwer with the most
edifying self-satisfaction imaginable--not to enumerate her many
other remarkable characteristics.

A second visit to Adelaide confirmed the first favorable impression
made upon the mind of Fenwick. At the third visit he was half in
love with her, and she more than half in love with him. A fourth
interview completed the work on both sides. At the fifth, the
following conversation terminated the pleasant intercourse of the
evening. They were seated on a sofa, and had been talking of poetry,
and birds, and flowers, green fields, and smiling landscapes, and a
dozen other things not necessary to be repeated at present. A pause
of some moments finally succeeded, and each seemed deeply absorbed
in thought.

"Adelaide," at length the young man said in a low, musical tone,
full of richness and pathos--"Do you not feel, sometimes, when your
mind rises into the region of pure thoughts, and ranges free among
the beautiful and glorious images that then come and go like angel
visitants, a sense of loneliness, because another cannot share what
brings to you such exquisite delight?"

"Yes--often and often," replied the maiden lifting her eyes to those
of Fenwick, and gazing at him with a tender expression.

"And yet few there are, Adelaide, few indeed who could share such
elevating pleasures."

"Few, indeed," was the response.

"Pardon me, for saying," resumed the young man, "that to you I have
been indebted for such added delights. Rarely, indeed, have I been
able to find, especially among your gentler sex, one who could rise
with me into the refining, elevating, exquisite pleasures of the
imagination. But you have seemed fully to appreciate my sentiments,
and fully to sympathize with them."

To this Adelaide held down her head for a moment or two, the
position causing the blood to deepen in her cheeks and forehead.
Then looking up with an expression of lofty poetic feeling she
said--

"And, until I met you, Mr. Fenwick, I must be frank in saying, that
I have known no one, whose current of thought and feeling--no one
whose love of the beautiful in the ideal or natural--has seemed so
perfect a reflection of my own."

To this followed another pause, longer and more thoughtful than the
first. It was at length broken by Fenwick, who said, in a voice that
trembled perceptibly.

"I have an inward consciousness, that sprung into activity when the
first low murmur of your voice fell upon my ear, that you were to me
a kindred spirit. Since that moment, this consciousness has grown
daily more and more distinct, and now I feel impelled, by a movement
which I cannot resist, to declare its existence. First pardon this
freedom, Adelaide, and then say if you understand and appreciate
what I have uttered in all frankness and sincerity?"

Not long did our young friend wait for an answer that made him
happier than he had ever been in his life--happy in the first
thrilling consciousness of love deeply and fervently reciprocated.
To both of them, there was a degree of romance about this brief
courtship that fully accorded with their views of love truly so
called. The ordinary cold matter-of-fact way of coming together,
including a cautious and even at times a suspicious investigation of
character, they despised as a mere mockery of the high, spontaneous
confidence which those who are truly capable of loving, feel in each
other--a confidence which nothing can shake. And thus did they
pledge themselves without either having thought of the other's moral
qualities; or either of them having formed any distinct ideas in
regard to the true nature of the marriage relation.

A few months sufficed to consummate their union, when, in accordance
with the gay young couple's desire, old Mr. Fenwick furnished them
out handsomely, at a pretty heavy expense, in an establishment of
their own. As Charles Fenwick had not, heretofore, shown any
inclination to enter upon the practice of the profession he had
chosen, his father gently urged upon him the necessity of now doing
so. But the idea of becoming a practical doctor, was one that
Charles could not abide. He had no objection to the title, for that
sounded quite musical to his ear; but no farther than that did his
fancy lead him.

"Why didn't I choose the law as a profession?" he would sometimes
say to his young wife. "Then I might have shone. But to bury myself
as a physician, stealing about from house to house, and moping over
sick beds, is a sacrifice of my talents that I cannot think of
without turning from the picture with disgust."

"Nor can I," would be the wife's reply. "And what is more, I never
will consent to such a perversion of your talents."

"Why cannot you study law, even now, Charles?" she asked of him one
day. "With your acquirements, and habits of thought, I am sure you
would soon be able to pass an examination."

"I think that is a good suggestion, Adelaide," her husband replied,
thoughtfully. "I should only want a year or eighteen months for
preparation, and then I could soon place myself in the front rank of
the profession."

The suggestion of Charles Fenwick's wife was promptly adopted. A
course of legal studies was entered upon, and completed in about two
years. Up to this time, every thing had gone on with our young
couple as smoothly as a summer sea. A beautifully furnished house,
well kept through the attention of two or three servants, gave to
their indoor enjoyments a very important accessory. For money there
was no care, as the elder Mr. Fenwick's purse-strings relaxed as
readily to the hand of Charles as to his own. A pleasant round of
intelligent company, mostly of a literary character, with a full
supply of all the new publications and leading periodicals of the
day, kept their minds elevated into the region of intellectual
enjoyments, and caused them still more to look down upon the
ordinary pursuits of life as far beneath them.

But all this could not last forever. On the day Charles was admitted
to the bar, he received a note from his father, requesting an
immediate interview. He repaired at once to his counting room, in
answer to the parental summons.

"Charles," said the old man, when they were alone, "I have, up to
this time, supplied all your wants, and have done it cheerfully. In
order to prepare you for taking your right place in society, I have
spared no expense in your education, bearing you, after your term of
college life had expired, through two professional courses, so that,
as either a physician or a lawyer, you are fully equal to the task
of sustaining yourself and family. As far as I am concerned, the
tide of prosperity has evidently turned against me. For two years, I
have felt myself gradually going back, instead of forward,
notwithstanding my most earnest struggles to maintain at least the
position already gained. To-day, the notice of a heavy loss
completes my inability to bear the burden of your support, and that
of my own family. You must, therefore, Charles, enter the world for
yourself, and there struggle as I have done, and as all do around
you, for a living. But, as I know that it will be impossible for you
to obtain sufficient practice at once in either law or medicine to
maintain yourself, I will spare you out of my income, which will now
be small in comparison to what it has been, four hundred dollars a
year, for the next two years. You must yourself make up the
deficiency, and no doubt you can easily do so."

"But, father," replied the young man, his face turning pale, "I
cannot, possibly, make up the deficiency. Our rent alone, you know,
is four hundred dollars."

"I am aware of that, Charles. But what then? You must get a house at
one half that rent, and reduce your style of living, proportionably,
in other respects."

"What! And compromise my standing in society? I can never do that,
father."

"Charles," said the old man, looking at his son with a sterner
countenance than he had ever yet put on when speaking to him,
"remember that you have no standing in society which you can truly
call your own. I have, heretofore, held you up, and now that my
sustaining hand is about to be withdrawn, you must fall or rise to
your own level. And I am satisfied, that the sooner you are
permitted to do so the better."

The fact was, that the selfish, and to old Mr. Fenwick, the
heartless manner in which Charles had received the communication of
his changed circumstances, had wounded him exceedingly, and suddenly
opened his eyes to the false relation which his son was holding to
society.

"You certainly cannot be in earnest, father," the son replied, after
a few moments of hurried and painful thought, "in declaring your
intention of throwing me off with a meagre pittance of four hundred
dollars, before I have had a chance to do any thing for myself. How
can I possibly get along on that sum?"

"I do not expect you to live on that, Charles. But the difference
you will have to make up yourself. You have talents and
acquirements. Bring them into useful activity, and you will need
little of my assistance. As for me, as I have already told you, the
tide of success is against me, and I am gradually moving down the
stream. Four hundred dollars is the extent of what I can give you,
and how long the ability to do that may last, Heaven only knows."

Reluctantly the young couple were compelled to give up their
elegantly arranged dwelling, and move into a house of about one half
of its dimensions. In this there was a fixed, cold, common place
reality, that shocked the sensibilities of both even though
throughout the progress of the change, each had remained passive in
the hands of the elder Mr. and Mrs. Fenwick, who had to choose them
a house, and attend to all the arrangements of moving and refitting
the new home. For Charles to have engaged in the vulgar business of
moving household furniture, would have been felt as a disgrace;--and
as for Adelaide, she didn't know how to do any thing in regard to
the matter, and even if she had, would have esteemed such an
employment as entirely beneath her.

While the packing up was going on under the direction of her
husband's mother, Adelaide, half dressed, with an elegant shawl
thrown carelessly about her shoulders, her feet drawn up and her
body reclining upon a sofa, was deeply buried in the last new novel,
while her babe lay in the arms of a nurse, who was thus prevented
from rendering any assistance to those engaged in preparing the
furniture for removal. As for her husband, he was away, in some
professional friend's office, holding a learned discussion upon the
relative merits of Byron and Shelley.

After the removal had been accomplished, and the neat little
dwelling put, as the elder Mrs. Fenwick termed it, into "apple-pie
order" the following conversation took place between her and her
daughter-in-law.

"Adelaide, it will now be necessary for you to let both your nurse
and chambermaid go. Charles cannot possibly afford the expense, as
things now are."

"Let my nurse and chambermaid go!" exclaimed Adelaide, with a look
and tone of profound astonishment.

"Certainly, Adelaide," was the firm reply. "You cannot now afford to
keep three servants."

"But how am I to get along without them? You do not, certainly,
suppose that I can be my own nurse and chambermaid?"

"With your small family," was Mrs. Fenwick's reply, "you can readily
have the assistance of your cook for a portion of the morning in
your chamber and parlors. And as to the nursing part, I should think
that you would desire no higher pleasure than having all the care of
dear little Anna. I was always my own nurse, and never had
assistance beyond that of a little girl."

"It's no use to speak in that way, mother; I cannot do without a
nurse," said Adelaide, bursting into tears. "I couldn't even dress
the baby."

"The sooner you learn, child, the better," was the persevering reply
of Mrs. Fenwick.

But Adelaide had no idea of dispensing with either nurse or
chambermaid, both of whom were retained in spite of the
remonstrances and entreaties of the mother-in-law.

Driven to the absolute necessity of doing so, Charles Fenwick opened
an office, and advertised for business. Those who have attempted to
make their way, at first, in a large city, at the bar, can well
understand the disappointment and chagrin of Fenwick on finding that
he did not rise at once to distinction, as he had fondly imagined he
would, when he turned his attention, with strong reasons for
desiring success, to the practice of his profession. A few petty
cases, the trifling fees of which he rejected as of no
consideration, were all that he obtained during the first three
months. At the end of this time he found himself in debt to the
baker, butcher, milkman, tailor, dry-goods merchants, and to the
three servants still pertinaciously retained by his wife.--And, as a
climax to the whole, his father's business was brought to a
termination by bankruptcy, and the old man, in the decline of life,
with still a large family dependent upon him for support, thrown
upon the world, to struggle, almost powerless, for a subsistence.
Fortunately, the Presidency of an Insurance Company was tendered
him, with a salary of fifteen hundred dollars per annum. On this he
could barely support those dependent upon him, leaving Charles the
whole task of maintaining himself, his wife, and their child.

To be dunned for money was more than the young man could endure with
any kind of patience. But creditor tradesmen had no nice scruples in
regard to these matters, and duns came, consequently, thick and
fast, until poor Charles was irritated beyond measure. Cold, and
sometimes impatient, and half insulting answers to applications for
money, were not to be endured by the eager applicants for what was
justly their own. Warrants soon followed, as a matter of course,
which had to be answered by a personal appearance before city
magistrates, thus causing the infliction of a deeper mortification
than had yet assailed him. Added to these came the importunities of
his landlord, which was met by a response which was deemed
insulting, and then came a distraint for rent. The due bill of the
father, saved the son this utter prostration and disgrace.

The effect of all this, was to drive far away from their dwelling
the sweet angel of peace and contentment. Fretted and troubled
deeply in regard to his present condition and future prospects,
Charles had no smiling words for his wife. This, of course, pained
her deeply. But she readily found relief from present reality in the
world of pure romance. The more powerful fictions of the day,
especially the highly wrought idealities of Bulwer, and those of his
class, introduced her into a world above that in which she
dwelt,--and there she lingered the greatest portion of her time,
unconscious of the calls of duty, or the claims of affection.

A single year sufficed to break them up entirely. Expenses far
beyond their income, which rose to about three hundred dollars
during the first year of Charles' practice at the bar, brought
warrants and executions, which the father had no power to stay. To
satisfy these, furniture and library had to be sold, and Charles and
his wife, child and nurse, which latter Adelaide would retain, were
thrown upon old Mr. Fenwick, for support.

For four years did they remain a burden upon the father, during
which time, unstimulated to exertion by pressing necessities,
Charles made but little progress as a lawyer. Petty cases he
despised, and generally refused to undertake, and those of more
importance were not trusted to one who had yet to prove himself
worthy of a high degree of legal confidence. At the end of that time
both his father and mother were suddenly removed to the world of
spirits, and he was again thrown entirely upon his own resources.

With no one now to check them in any thing Charles and his wife,
after calculating the results of the next year's legal efforts, felt
fully justified in renting a handsome house, and furnishing it on
credit. The proceeds of the year's practice rose but little above
four hundred dollars, and at its conclusion they found themselves
involved in a new debt of three thousand dollars. Then came another
breaking up, with all of its harrowing consequences--consequences
which to persons of their habits and mode of thinking, are so deeply
mortifying,--followed by their shrinking away, with a meagre remnant
of their furniture, into a couple of rooms, in an obscure part of
the town.

"Adelaide," said the husband, one morning, as he roused himself from
a painful reverie.

"Well, what do you want?" she asked abstractedly, lifting her eyes
with reluctant air from the pages of a novel.

"I want to talk to you for a little while; so shut your book, if you
please."

"Won't some other time do as well? I have just got into the middle
of a most interesting scene."

"No--I wish to talk with you now."

"Well, say on," the wife rejoined, closing the book in her hand,
with her thumb resting upon the page that still retained her
thoughts, and assuming an attitude of reluctant attention.

"There is a school vacant at N----, some twenty miles from the city.
The salary is eight hundred dollars a year, with a house and garden
included. I can get the situation, if I will accept of it."

"And sink to the condition of a miserable country pedagogue?"

"And support my family comfortably and honestly," Fenwick replied in
a tone of bitterness.

"Precious little comfort will your family experience immured in an
obscure country village, without a single congenial associate. What
in the name of wonder has put that into your head?"

"Adelaide! I cannot succeed at the bar--at least, not for years. Of
that I am fully satisfied. It is absolutely necessary, therefore,
that I should turn my attention to something that will supply the
pressing demands of my family."

"But surely you can get into something better than the office of
schoolmaster, to the sons of clodpoles."

"Name something."

"I'm sure I cannot tell. That is a matter for you to think about,"
and so saying, Mrs. Fenwick re-opened her book, and commenced poring
again over the pages of the delightful work she held in her hand.

Irritated, and half disgusted at this, a severe reproof trembled on
his tongue, but he suppressed it. In a few minutes after he arose,
and left the apartment without his wife seeming to notice the
movement.

"Good morning, Mr. Fenwick!" said a well known individual, coming
into the lawyer's office a few minutes after he had himself entered.

"That trial comes on this afternoon at four o'clock."

"Well, John, I can't help it. The debt is a just one, but I have no
means of meeting it now."

"Try, and do so if you can, Mr. Fenwick, for the plaintiff is a good
deal irritated about the matter, and will push the thing to
extremities."

"I should be sorry for that. But if so, let him use his own
pleasure. Take nothing from nothing, and nothing remains."

"You had better come then with security, Mr. Fenwick, for my orders
are, to have an execution issued against your person, as soon as the
case is decided."

"You are not in earnest, John?" suddenly ejaculated the lawyer,
rising to his feet, and looking at the humble minister of the law
with a pale cheek and quivering lip. "Surely Mr. ---- is not going to
push matters to so uncalled-for an extremity!"

"Such, he positively declares, is his fixed determination. So hold
yourself prepared, sir, to meet even this unpleasant event."

The debt for which the warrant had been issued against Mr. Fenwick,
amounted to ninety dollars.

The whole of the remaining part of that day was spent in the effort
to obtain security in the case. But in vain. His friends knew too
well his inability to protect them from certain loss, should they
step between him and the law. Talents, education, brilliant
addresses, fine poetry "and all that," turned to no good and useful
ends, he found availed him nothing now. Even many of those with whom
he had been in intimate literary association, shrunk away from the
penniless individual, and those who did not actually shun him had
lost much of their former cordiality.

The idea of being sent to jail for debt, was to him a terrible one.
And he turned from it with a sinking at the heart. He said nothing
to Adelaide on returning home in the evening, for the high communion
of spirit, in which they had promised themselves such deep and
exquisite delight, had long since given place to coldness, and a
state of non-sympathy. He found her deeply buried, as usual, in some
volume of romance, while every thing around her was in disorder, and
full of unmitigated realities. They were living alone in two small
rooms, and the duty of keeping them in order and providing their
frugal meals devolved as a heavy task upon Adelaide--so heavy, that
she found it utterly impossible to do it justice.

The fire--that essential preliminary to household operations--had
not even been made, when Fenwick reached home, and the dinner table
remained still on the floor, with its unwashed dishes strewn over
it, in admirable confusion.

With a sigh, Adelaide resigned her book, soon after her husband came
in, and commenced preparations for the evening meal. This was soon
ready, and despatched in silence, except so far as the aimless
prattle of their little girl interrupted it. Tea over, Mrs. Fenwick
put Anna to bed, much against her will, and then drew up to the
table again with her book.

Cheerless and companionless did her husband feel as he let his eye
fall upon her, buried in selfish enjoyment, while his own heart was
wrung with the bitterest recollections and the most heart-sickening
anticipations.

Thoughts of the gaming table passed through his mind, and with the
thought he placed his hand involuntarily upon his pocket. It was
empty. Sometimes his mind would rise into a state of vigorous
activity, with the internal consciousness of a power to do any
thing. But, alas--it was strength without skill--intellectual power
without the knowledge to direct it aright.

Late on the next morning he arose from a pillow that had been
blessed with but little sleep, and that unrefreshing. It was past
eleven o'clock before Adelaide had breakfast on the table. This
over, she, without even dressing Anna or arranging her own person
sat down to her novel, while he gave himself to the most gloomy and
desponding reflections. He feared to go out lest the first man he
should meet, should prove an officer with an execution upon his
person.

About one o'clock, sick and weary of such a comfortless home, he
went out, glad of any change. Ten steps from his own door, he was
met by a constable who conveyed him to prison.

Several hours passed before his crushed feelings were aroused
sufficiently to cause him even to think of any means of extrication.
When his mind did act, it was with clearness, vigor, and decision.
The walls of a jail had something too nearly like reality about
them, to leave much of the false sentiment which had hitherto marred
his prospects in life. There was, too, something deeply humiliating
in his condition of an imprisoned debtor.

"What shall I do?" he asked himself, towards the close of the day,
with a strong resolution to discover the best course of action, and
to pursue that course, unswayed by any extraneous influences. The
thought of his wife came across his mind.

"Shall I send her word where I am?"--A pause of some moments
succeeded this question.

"No," he at length said, half aloud, while an expression of pain
flitted over his countenance. "It is of little consequence to her
where I am or what I suffer. She is, I believe, perfectly
heartless."

But Fenwick was mistaken in this. She needed, as well as himself,
some powerful shock to awaken her to true consciousness. That shock
proved to be the knowledge of her husband's imprisonment for debt,
which she learned early on the next morning, after the passage of an
anxious and sleepless night, full of strange forebodings of
approaching evil. She repaired, instantly, to the prison, her heart
melted down into true feeling. The interview between herself and
husband was full of tenderness, bringing out from each heart the
mutual affections which had been sleeping there, alas! too long.

But one right course presented itself to the mind of either of them,
and that was naturally approved by both, as the only proper one. It
was for Fenwick to come out of prison under the act of insolvency,
and thus free himself from the trammels of past obligations, which
could not possibly be met.

This was soon accomplished, the requisite security for his personal
appearance to interrogatories being readily obtained.

"And now, Adelaide, what is to be done?" he asked of his wife, as he
sat holding her hand in his, during the first hour of his release
from imprisonment. His own mind had already decided--still he was
anxious for her suggestion, if she had any to make.

"Can you still obtain that school you spoke of?" she asked with much
interest in her tone.

"Yes. The offer is still open."

"Then take it, Charles, by all means. One such lesson as we have
had, is enough for a life time. Satisfied am I, now, that we have
not sought for happiness in the right paths."

The school was accordingly taken, and with humbled feelings, modest
expectations, and a mutual resolution to be satisfied with little,
did Charles Fenwick and his wife re-commence the world at the bottom
of the ladder. That he was sincere in his new formed resolutions, is
evident from the fact, that in a few years he became the principal
of a popular literary institution, for which office he was fully
qualified. She, too, learned, by degrees, to act well her part in
all her relations, social and domestic--and now finds far more
pleasure in the realities, than she ever did in the romance of life.




BOTH TO BLAME.


"OF course, both are to blame."

"Of course. You may always set that down as certain when you see two
persons who have formerly been on good terms fall out with each
other. For my part, I never take sides in these matters. I listen to
what both have to say, and make due allowance for the wish of either
party to make his or her own story appear most favorable."

Thus we heard two persons settling a matter of difference between a
couple of their friends, and it struck us at the time as not being
exactly the true way in all cases. In disputes and differences,
there are no doubt times when both are _equally_ to blame; most
generally, however, one party is _more_ to blame than the other. And
it not unfrequently happens that one party to a difference is not at
all to blame, but merely stands on a just and honorable defensive.
The following story, which may or may not be from real life, will
illustrate the latter position.

"Did you hear about Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Tarleton?" said one friend
to another.

"No; what is the matter?"

"They are up in arms against each other."

"Indeed; it's the first I've heard of it. What is the cause?"

"I can hardly tell; but I know that they don't speak. Mrs. Tarleton
complains bitterly against Mrs. Bates; and Mrs. Bates, they say, is
just as bitter against her. For my part, I've come to the conclusion
that both are to blame."

"There is no doubt of that. I never knew a case of this kind where
both were not to blame."

"Nor I."

"But don't you know the ground of the difference?"

"They say it is about a head-dress."

"I'll be bound dress has something to do with it," grumbled out Mr.
Brierly, the husband of one of the ladies, who sat reading a
newspaper while they were talking.

"My husband is disposed to be a little severe on the ladies at
times, but you mustn't mind him. _I_ never do," remarked Mrs.
Brierly, half sarcastically, although she looked at her husband with
a smile as she spoke. "He thinks we care for nothing but dress. I
tell him it is very well for him and the rest of the world that we
have some little regard at least to such matters. I am sure if I
didn't think a good deal about dress, he and the children would soon
look like scarecrows."

Mr. Brierly responded to this by a "Humph!" and resumed the perusal
of his newspaper.

"It is said," resumed Mrs. Brierly, who had been asked to state the
cause of the unhappy difference existing between the two ladies,
"that Mrs. Bates received from her sister in New York a new and very
beautiful head-dress, which had been obtained through a friend in
Paris. Mrs. Tarleton wanted it very badly, and begged Mrs. Bates for
the pattern; but she refused to let her have it, because a grand
party was to be given by the Listons in a few weeks, and she wanted
to show it off there herself. Mrs. Tarleton, however, was not going
to take 'no' for an answer; she had set her heart upon the
head-dress and must have it. You know what a persevering woman she
is when she takes anything into her head. Well, she called in almost
every day to see Mrs. Bates, and every time she would have something
to say about the head-dress, and ask to see it. In this way she got
the pattern of it so perfectly in her mind that she was able to
direct a milliner how to make her one precisely like it. All unknown
to Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Tarleton came to the party wearing this new
style of head-dress, which made her so angry when she discovered it,
that she insulted Mrs. Tarleton openly, and then retired from the
company."

"Is it possible!"

"That, I believe, is about the truth of the whole matter. I have
sifted it pretty closely."

"Well, I declare! I was at the party, but I saw nothing of this. I
remember Mrs. Tarleton's head-dress, however, very well. It
certainly was very beautiful, and has become quite fashionable
since."

"Yes, and is called by some the Tarleton head-dress, from the first
wearer of it."

"This no doubt galls Mrs. Bates severely. They say she is a vain
woman."

"It is more than probable that this circumstance has widened the
breach."

"I must say," remarked the other lady, "that Mrs. Tarleton did not
act well."

"No, she certainly did not. At the same time, I think Mrs. Bates was
served perfectly right for her selfish vanity. It wouldn't have hurt
her at all if there had been two or three head-dresses there of
exactly the pattern of hers. But extreme vanity always gets
mortified, and in this case I think justly so."

"Besides, it was very unladylike to insult Mrs. Tarleton in public."

"Yes, or anywhere else. She should have taken no notice of it
whatever. A true lady, under circumstances of this kind, seems
perfectly unaware of what has occurred. She shuns, with the utmost
carefulness, any appearance of an affront at so trivial a matter,
even if she feels it."

Such was the opinion entertained by the ladies in regard to the
misunderstanding, as some others called it, that existed between
Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Tarleton. Both were considered to blame, and
nearly equally so; but whether the parties really misunderstood
their own or each other's true position will be seen when the truth
appears.

Mrs. Bates did receive, as has been stated, a beautiful head-dress
from a sister in New York, who had obtained it from a friend in
Paris. The style was quite attractive, though neither unbecoming nor
showy. Mrs. Bates had her own share of vanity, and wished to appear
at a large party soon to take place, in this head-dress, where she
knew it must attract attention. Although a little vain, a fault that
we can easily excuse in a handsome woman, Mrs. Bates had a high
sense of justice and right, and possessed all a lady's true delicacy
of feeling.

The head-dress, after being admired, was laid aside for the occasion
referred to. A few days afterwards, Mrs. Tarleton, an acquaintance,
dropped in.

"I have something beautiful to show you," said Mrs. Bates, after she
had chatted awhile with her visitor.

"Indeed! What is it?"

"The sweetest head-dress you ever saw. My sister sent it to me from
New York, and she had it direct from a friend in Paris, where it was
all the fashion. Mine I believe to be the only one yet received in
the city, and I mean to wear it at Mrs. Liston's party.

"Do let me see it," said Mrs. Tarleton, all alive with expectation.
She had an extravagant love of dress, and was an exceedingly vain
woman.

The head-dress was produced. Mrs. Tarleton lifted her hands and
eyes.

"The loveliest thing I ever saw! Let me try it on," she said, laying
off her bonnet and taking the head-dress from the hands of Mrs.
Bates. "Oh, it is sweet! I never looked so well in anything in my
life," she continued, viewing herself in the glass. "I wish I could
beg it from you; but that I havn't the heart to do."

Mrs. Bates smiled and shook her head, but made no reply.

"Here, you put it on, and let me see how you look in it," went on
Mrs. Tarleton, removing the cap from her own head and placing it
upon that of her friend. "Beautiful! How well it becomes you! you
must let me have the pattern. We can wear them together at the
party. Two will attract more attention than one."

"I am sorry to deny you," replied Mrs. Bates, "but I think I shall
have to be alone in my glory this time."

"Indeed, you must let me have the pattern, Mrs. Bates. I never saw
anything in my life that pleased me so much, nor anything in which I
looked so well. I have been all over town for a head-dress without
finding anything I would wear. If you don't let me have one like
yours, I do not know what I will do. Come now, say yes, that is a
dear."

But Mrs. Bates said no as gently as she could. It was asking of her
too much. She had set her heart upon appearing in that head-dress as
something new and beautiful, and could not consent to share the
distinction, especially with Mrs. Tarleton, for whom, although a
friend, she entertained not the highest esteem, and for the reason
that Mrs. Tarleton had rather a vulgar mind, and lacked a lady's
true perceptions of propriety.

"Well, I must say you are a selfish woman," returned Mrs. Tarleton,
good-humoredly, and yet meaning what she said. "It wouldn't do you a
bit of harm to let me have the pattern, and would gratify me more
than I can tell."

"I'll tell you what I will do," said Mrs. Bates, to this, with a
reluctant effort that was readily perceived by her visitor, "I will
give you the head-dress and let you wear it, as long as you seem to
have set your heart so upon it."

"Oh no, no; you know I wouldn't do that. But it seems strange that
you are not willing for us to wear the same head-dress."

The indelicate pertinacity of her visitor annoyed Mrs. Bates very
much, and she replied to this rather more seriously than she had
before spoken.

"The fact is, Mrs. Tarleton," she said, "this head-dress is one that
cannot fail to attract attention. I have several very intimate
friends, between whom and myself relations of even a closer kind
exist than have yet existed between you and me. If I give you the
pattern of this cap and the privilege of wearing it with me for the
first time it is seen in this city, these friends will have just
cause to think hard of me for passing them by. This is a reason that
would inevitably prevent me from meeting your wishes, even if I were
indifferent about appearing in it myself alone."

"I suppose I must give it up, then," said Mrs. Tarleton, in a
slightly disappointed tone.

"As I said before," returned Mrs. Bates, "I will defer the matter
entirely to you. You shall have the head-dress and I will choose
some other one."

"Oh no; I couldn't think of such a thing," returned Mrs. Tarleton.
"That is more than I ought to ask or you to give."

"It is the best I can do," Mrs. Bates said, with a quiet smile.

"Sister," said Mrs. Tarleton, on returning home, "you can't imagine
what a sweet head-dress Mrs. Bates has just received from Paris
through her sister in New York. It is the most unique and beautiful
thing I ever saw. I tried hard for the pattern, but the selfish
creature wouldn't let me have it. She is keeping it for the Liston's
party, where it will be the admiration of every one."

"What is it like?"

"Oh, I can't begin to describe it. It is altogether novel. I wish
now I had asked her to let me bring it home to show it to you."

"I wish you had. You must go there again and get it for me."

"I believe I will call in again to-morrow.--Perhaps she will have
thought better of it by that time, and changed her mind. At any
rate, if not, I will ask her to let me bring it home and show it to
you."

This was done. Mrs. Bates did not object to letting Mrs. Tarleton
take the head-dress and show it to her sister, for she had the
fullest confidence that she would not do anything with it that she
knew was against her wishes, which had been clearly expressed.

The sister of Mrs. Tarleton was in raptures with the head-dress.

"It is right down mean and selfish in Mrs. Bates not to let you have
the pattern," she said. "What a vain woman she must be. I always
thought better of her."

"So did I. But this shows what she is."

"If I were you," remarked the sister, "I would have it in spite of
her. It isn't _her_ pattern, that she need pretend hold it so
exclusively. It is a Paris fashion, and any body else may get it
just as well as she. She has no property in it."

"No, of course not."

"Then while you have the chance, take it to Madame Pinto and get her
to make you one exactly like it."

"I have a great mind to do it; it would serve her perfectly right."

"I wouldn't hesitate a moment," urged the sister. "At the last
party, Mrs. Bates managed to have on something new that attracted
every one and threw others into the shade, I wouldn't let her have
another such triumph."

Thus urged by her sister, Mrs. Tarleton yielded to the evil counsel,
which was seconded by her own heart. The head-dress was taken to
Madame Pinto, who, after a careful examination of it, said that she
would make one exactly similar for Mrs. Tarleton. After charging the
milliner over and over again to keep the matter a profound secret,
Mrs. Tarleton went away and returned the head-dress to Mrs. Bates.
It had been in her possession only a couple of hours.

Mrs. Pinto was a fashionable milliner and dress maker, and was
patronized by the most fashionable people in the city, Mrs. Bates
among the rest. The latter had called in the aid of this woman in
the preparation of various little matters of dress to be worn at the
party. Three or four days after Mrs. Tarleton's visit to Mrs. Pinto
with the head-dress, Mrs. Bates happened to step in at the
milliner's, who, during their consultation, about little matters of
dress, drew the lady aside, saying--"I've got something that I know
I can venture to show you.--It's for the party, and the loveliest
thing you ever saw."

As she said this she took from a box a facsimile of Mrs. Bates' own
beautiful head-dress, and held it up with looks of admiration.

"Isn't it sweet?" she said.

"It is the most beautiful head-dress I ever saw," replied Mrs.
Bates, concealing her surprise. "Who is it for?"

"It's a secret, but I can tell _you_. It is for Mrs. Tarleton."

"Ah! Where did she get the pattern?"

"I don't know; she brought it here, but said she couldn't leave it
for the world. I had to study it all out, and then make it from my
recollection of the pattern."

"The pattern did not belong to her?"

"Oh, no. Somebody had it who was going to show it off at the party,
she said; but she meant to surprise her."

"Have you any new patterns for head-dresses not chosen by the ladies
who have made selections of you for Mrs. Liston's party?" asked Mrs.
Bates, not seeming to notice the reply of Mrs. Pinto.

"Oh, yes, ma'am, a good many," and half-a-dozen really handsome
head-dresses were shown--none, however, that pleased her half so
well as the one she was about throwing aside. She suited herself
from the assortment shown her, and directed it to be sent home.

Mrs. Bates felt justly outraged at the conduct of Mrs. Tarleton, but
she did not speak of what had taken place, except to one or two very
intimate friends and to her husband. The evening of the party at
length arrived. Mrs. Tarleton was there a little earlier than Mrs.
Bates, in all the glory of her ungenerous triumph. The beautiful
head-dress she wore attracted every eye, and in the admiration won
by the display of her taste, she lost all the shame she had felt in
anticipation of meeting Mrs. Bates, to whom her meanness and
dishonesty would be at once apparent.

At length she saw this lady enter the parlors by the side of her
husband, and noticed with surprise that her head-dress was entirely
different from the one she wore. The truth flashed across her mind.
Mrs. Pinto had betrayed her secret, and Mrs. Bates, justly outraged
by what had occurred, had thrown aside her beautiful cap and
selected another.

Now Mrs. Bates was a woman whom Mrs. Tarleton would be sorry to
offend seriously, because her position in certain circles was
undoubted, while her own was a little questionable. The fact that
Mrs. Bates had declined wearing so beautiful a head-dress because
she had obtained one of the same pattern by unfair means, made her
fear that serious offence had been given, and dashed her spirits at
once. She was not long left in doubt. Before ten minutes had elapsed
she was thrown into immediate contact with Mrs. Bates, from whom she
received a polite but cold bow.

Mrs. Tarleton was both hurt and offended at this, and immediately
after the party, commenced talking about it and mis-stating the
whole transaction, so as not to appear so much to blame as she
really was. Mrs. Bates, on the contrary, said little on the subject,
except to a few very intimate friends, and to those who made free to
ask her about it, to whom she said, after giving fairly the cause of
complaint against Mrs. Tarleton--"I spoke to her coldly because I
wished our more intimate acquaintance to cease. Her conduct was
unworthy of a lady, and therefore I cannot and will not consider her
among my friends. No apologies, if she would even make them, could
change the wrong spirit from which she acted, or make her any more
worthy of my confidence, esteem or love."

"But you will surely forgive her?" said one.

"The wrong done to me I am ready enough to forgive, for it is but a
trifling matter; but the violation of confidence and departure from
a truly honest principle, of which she has been guilty, I cannot
forgive, for they are not sins against me, but against Heaven's
first and best laws."

But that did not satisfy some. Persons calling themselves mutual
friends strove hard to reconcile what they were pleased to call a
misunderstanding in which "both were to blame." But it availed not.
To their interference, Mrs. Bates usually replied--"If it will be
any satisfaction to Mrs. Tarleton to be recognized by me and treated
kindly and politely in company, I will most cheerfully yield her all
that; but I cannot feel towards her as heretofore, because I have
been deceived in her, and find her to be governed by principles that
I cannot approve. We can never again be on terms of intimacy."

But it was impossible to make some understand the difference between
acting from principle and wounded pride. The version given by Mrs.
Tarleton was variously modified as it passed from mouth to mouth,
until it made Mrs. Bates almost as much to blame as herself, and
finally, as the coldness continued until all intercourse at last
ceased, it was pretty generally conceded, except by a very few, that
"both were about equally to blame."

The reader can now make up his own mind on the subject from what has
been related. For our part, we do not think Mrs. Bates at all to
blame in at once withdrawing herself from intimate association with
such a woman as Mrs. Tarleton showed herself to be, and we consider
that a false charity which would seek to interfere with or set aside
the honest indignation that should always be felt in similar cases
of open betrayal of confidence and violation of honest and honorable
principles.

We have chosen a very simple and commonplace incident upon which to
"hang a moral."--But it is in the ordinary pursuits of business and
pleasure where the true character is most prone to exhibit itself,
and we must go there if we would read the book of human life aright.




IT'S NONE OF MY BUSINESS.


"WAS N'T that young Sanford?" asked Mrs. Larkin of her husband, as
the two stood at a window of their dwelling one Sunday afternoon,
noticing the passers by. The individual she alluded to was a young
man who had ridden gaily along on a spirited horse.

"Yes," was the reply.

"He rides past here almost every Sunday afternoon, and often in
company with Harriet Meadows. He is quite a dashing young fellow."

"He is dashing far beyond his ostensible means. I wonder at Millard
for keeping him in his store. I would soon cast adrift any one of my
clerks who kept a fast horse, and sported about with the gay
extravagance that Sanford does. His salary does not, I am sure, meet
half his expenses. I have heard some of my young men speak of his
habits. They say money with him is no consideration. He spends it as
freely as water."

"Strange that his employer does not see this!"

"It is. But Millard is too unsuspicious, and too ignorant of what is
going on out of the narrow business circle. He is like a horse in a
mill. He sees nothing outside of a certain limit. He gets up in the
morning, dresses himself, goes to his store, and then devotes
himself to business until dinner time. Then he goes home and dines.
After this he comes back to his store and stays until night. His
evenings are either spent in reading or dozing at home, or with a
neighbor at checkers. On Sunday morning he goes to church, in the
afternoon he sleeps to kill time, and in the evening retires at
eight, unless a friend steps in, to sleep away the tedious hours. Of
the habits of his clerks, when out of his store, he knows as little
as the man in the moon."

"But some one ought to give him a hint."

"It would be a charity."

"Why do n't you do it?"

"Me! Oh, it's none of my business. Let Millard look after his own
affairs. I 'm not going to get myself into trouble by meddling with
things that do n't concern me. It is his place to see into the
habits of his clerks. If he neglects to do so, he deserves to be
cheated by them."

"I do n't know. It seems to me that it would be no more than right
to give him a hint, and put him on his guard."

"It would be a good turn, no doubt. But I'm not going to do it. It's
no affair of mine."

"I do n't think he is fit company for Harriet Meadows," said Mrs.
Larkin, after a pause.

"Nor I," returned her husband. "I should be very sorry to see our
Jane riding with him, or indeed, associating with him in any way.
Surely Harriet's father and mother cannot know that their daughter
rides out with him almost every Sunday afternoon."

"Of course not. They are religious people and would think it a sin
for her to do so. I am surprised that Harriet should act in such
direct violation of what she knows to be their real sentiments."

"Some one ought to give them a hint upon the subject."

"I think so. If it were my child I would take it as a great favor
indeed."

"Yes, so would I. Suppose, Ellen, you drop a word in Mrs. Meadows'
ear."

"Me!" with a look and tone of surprise. "Oh no, I never interfere in
other people's business. Every one ought to look after his or her
own concerns. I hate your meddlesome folks. I 'll take good care
that my own child do n't form such associations. Let every body else
do the same. The fact is, parents are too careless about where their
children go, and what kind of company they keep."

"That's very true. Still I think no harm could come of your just
giving Mrs. Meadows a hint."

"Oh, no indeed! It's none of my business."

"Well, just as you like," returned Mr. Larkin, indifferently. "Let
every one see that his own stable door is locked before the horse is
stolen."

Mr. Millard, who was in the same line of business with Larkin, was
just the plodding, unobserving, unsuspicious person that the latter
had described him. Sanford was an intelligent clerk and an active
salesman. These were valuable qualities, for which he was
appreciated by his employer. As to what he did or where he went
after business hours, Millard never thought. He, doubtless, on the
supposition of the merchant, went into good company, and acted with
the same prudence that had governed himself under similar
circumstances. But in this he was mistaken. The young man's habits
were bad, and his associates often of a vicious character. Bad
habits and bad associates always involve the spending of money
freely. This consequence naturally occurred in the case of Sanford.
To supply his wants his salary proved insufficient. These wants were
like the horse-leech, and cried continually--"give, give." They
could not be put off. The first recourse was that of borrowing, in
anticipation of his quarterly receipt of salary, after his last
payment was exhausted. It was not long before, under this system,
his entire quarterly receipt had to be paid away to balance his
borrowed money account, thus leaving him nothing to meet his
increasing wants for the next three months. By borrowing again from
some friends immediately, and curtailing his expenses down to the
range of his income, he was able to get along for two or three
quarters. But, of course, he was always behind hand just the amount
of three months' salary. At length, as new wants pressed upon him,
he was tempted to exceed in his borrowed money account the sum
received as his quarterly dues. This made it impossible for him to
pay off, when he received his instalments of salary, the whole
amount of borrowed money, and caused him to cast about for some new
resource. In balancing the cash account one day,--he had charge of
this,--he found that there was an error of one hundred dollars in
favor of cash--that is, there were on hand one hundred dollars more
than was called for by the account. He went over the account again
and again, but could not discover the error. For more than an hour
he examined the various entries and additions, but with no better
success. At last, however, a little to his disappointment, for he
had already began to think of quietly appropriating the surplus, he
found the error to consist in the carriage of tens--four instead of
five having been carried to the third or column of hundreds on one
of the pages of the cash book, thus making the amount called for in
the book one hundred dollars less than the real sum on hand.

For some time after this discovery, Sanford sat at his desk in a
state of abstraction and irresolution. He was vexed that the error
had been found out, for he had already nearly made up his mind to
keep the overplus and say nothing about it. He did not attempt to
change the erroneous figure.--Why should it not remain so?--he at
length asked himself. If it had cost him so much time and labor to
find it out, it was not probable that any one else would detect it.
Indeed, no one but himself and Mr. Millard had any thing to do with
the general cash account of the establishment, and he knew very well
that the latter did not examine it with a very close scrutiny.
Finally, pressing demands for money determined him to put the
surplus into his pocket, at least for the present. He did so, and in
that act let into his mind a flood of evil counsellors, whose
arguments, enforced by his own cupidities, could at any time
afterwards have sufficient control to guide him almost at will. With
this sum of one hundred dollars, he paid off a portion of what he
owed, and retained the rest to meet the demands that would be made
upon him before the arrival of the next quarter day. It was a rule
with Millard to pay off his clerks only in quarterly instalments. No
other payments were allowed them.

It was not long before a deliberate false entry was made, by which
another hundred dollars passed into Sanford's pockets. With this
increase of income came a freer expenditure. Hitherto he had been in
the habit of riding out on Sundays on hired horses; but now he was
inspired with a wish to own a horse himself. A beautiful animal just
at this time came under his eye. It was offered at one hundred and
fifty dollars. The owner, knowing Sanford's fondness for a gay,
fast-going horse, urged him to buy.

The temptation was very strong. He looked at the animal again and
again, rode him out, talked about him, until, finally, the desire to
own him became almost irresistible. He had not twenty dollars,
however, and it would be two months before his salary came due,
which at any rate was all wanted for current expenses. The cash book
was looked at for a week or ten days before he could make up his
mind to pen another false entry. At last, however, he picked up the
courage to do so. The horse was purchased, and for a few days the
thought of possessing so noble an animal was very pleasant.

On the third day after this act of dishonesty, Mr. Millard, who had
been looking over the cash book, discovered the erroneous figures.

"Look here, Sanford," said he, "you have made a mistake here. This
figure should be nine instead of eight, and this five instead of
four."

The young man's heart gave a quick throb, but he controlled himself
by a strong effort.

"Where?" he asked, quickly, coming at once to Mr. Millard, and
looking over the cash-book.

"Here--just add up these two columns."

Sanford added them up, and then said--

"Yes, that's a fact. I'm glad you have found it out. The cash has
been over about two hundred dollars for several days, and I have
tried in vain to find where the error lay. Strange, after adding up
these columns for some twenty times or more, I should have still
been wrong in these figures. Let me strike a balance for you now, so
that you can count the cash, and see that there is just this amount
over."

This dispelled all suspicions from the mind of Millard, if any had
found a place there.

"No," he replied, "I hav n't time now. I have no doubt of it being
right. Make the corrections required."

And as he thus remarked, he turned away from the desk.

Sanford trembled from head to foot the moment his employer left him.
He tried to make the corrections, but his hand shook so that he
could not hold the pen. In a little while he mastered this agitation
so far as to be externally composed. He then changed the erroneous
figures. But this did not make the matter straight. The cash account
now called for two hundred dollars more than the funds on hand would
show. If the money should be counted before he could make other
false entries, he would be discovered and disgraced. And now that
errors had been discovered, it was but natural to suppose that Mr.
Millard would glance less casually at the account than he had been
in the habit of doing. At last, he determined to erase a few pages
back certain figures, and insert others in their places, and carry
down from thence the error by a regular series of erasures and new
entries. This he did so skilfully, that none but the eye of
suspicion could have detected it. It was some weeks before he again
ventured to repeat these acts. When he did so, he permitted the
surplus cash to remain in the drawer for eight or ten days, so that
if a discovery happened to be made, the balance on hand would show
that it was an error. But Mr. Millard thought no more about the
matter, and the dishonest clerk was permitted to prosecute his base
conduct undetected. In this way month after month passed, until the
defalcation rose to over a thousand dollars. Nightly Sanford
attended places of public amusement, usually accompanied by a young
lady, the daughter of some respectable citizen, who knew as little
of the habits and character of the young man as did his employer
himself. Among those with whom he had become intimate was Harriet
Meadows, the daughter of a merchant possessing a high sense of honor
and considerable wealth. Mr. Meadows, so soon as the young man began
to visit at his house, gave him to understand by his manner that he
was not welcome. This was so plainly done that there was no room for
mistake in the matter. Piqued at this, Sanford determined that he
would keep the daughter's company in spite of her crusty old father.
Harriet was gay and thoughtless, and had been flattered by the
attentions of Sanford. She met him a few times after his repulse, at
balls, and hesitated not to dance with him. These meetings afforded
full opportunity for the young man to push himself still farther
into her good opinion, and to prevail upon her at length to meet him
clandestinely, which she frequently did on Sunday afternoons, when,
as has already been seen, she would ride out in his company. This
kind of intimacy soon led to a declaration of love on the part of
Sanford, which was fully responded to by the foolish girl. The
former had much, he thought, to hope for in in a union with Miss
Meadows. Her father was well off, and in a very excellent business.
His fortune would be made if he could rise to the position of his
son-in-law. He did not hope to do this by a fair and open offer for
Harriet's hand. The character of Meadows, which was decided,
precluded all hope of gaining his consent after he had once frowned
upon his approaches. The only road to success was a secret marriage,
and to that he was gradually inclining the mind of the daughter at
the time our story opened.

It is not always that a villain remains such alone. He generally, by
a kind of intuition, perceives who are like him in interiors, and he
associates with these on the principle that birds of a feather flock
together. He was particularly intimate with one of Larkin's clerks,
a young man named Hatfield, who had no higher views of life than
himself, and who was governed by no sounder principles. Hatfield
found it necessary to be more guarded than Sanford, from the fact
that his employer was gifted with much closer observation than was
Millard. He, too, rode a fast trotting horse on Sunday, but he knew
pretty well the round taken by Larkin on that day, and the hours
when he attended church, and was very careful never to meet him. At
some place of public resort, a few miles from the city, he would
join Sanford, and together they would spend the afternoon.

On Jane Larkin, his employer's only daughter, Hatfield had for some
time looked with a favourable eye. But he felt very certain that
neither her father nor mother would favor his addresses.
Occasionally, with her parents' knowledge, he would attend her to
places of public amusement. But both himself and the young lady saw
that even this was not a thing that fully met their approbation.
Hatfield would, on such occasions, ingeniously allude to this fact,
and thus gather from Jane how she regarded their coldness. It was
not agreeable to her, he quickly perceived. This encouraged him to
push matters further.

Soon the two understood each other fully, and soon after the tacit
opposition of the parents to their intimacy was a matter of
conversation between them, whenever they could get an opportunity of
talking together without awakening suspicion.

Harriet Meadows and Jane Larkin were particular friends, and soon
became confidants. They were both quite young, and, we need not say,
weak and thoughtless. Sanford and Hatfield, as the reader has seen,
were also intimate. In a short time after the latter had made up
their minds to secure the hands of these two young ladies, if
possible, there was a mutual confession of the fact. This was
followed by the putting of their heads together for the contrivance
of such plans as would best lead to the effectuation of the end each
had proposed to himself. It is a curious fact, that on the very
Sunday afternoon on which we have seen Mr. and Mrs. Larkin
conversing about the danger and impropriety of Harriet Meadows
keeping company with a man like Sanford, their own daughter was
actually riding out with Hatfield. In this ride they passed the
residence of Mr. Meadows, who, in turn, commented upon the fact with
some severity of censure towards Mr. Larkin and his wife for not
looking more carefully after their only child.

"They certainly cannot know it," finally remarked Mr. Meadows.

"No, I should think not. It would be a real charity for some one
just to mention it to them."

"It certainly would."

"Suppose you speak to Mr. Larkin about it," said Mrs. Meadows.

"Me? Oh no!" was the reply. "It is none of my business. I never
meddle with family affairs. It is their duty to look after their
daughter. If they don't, and she rides about with Tom, Dick and
Harry on Sundays, they have no one to blame but themselves for the
consequences."

Thus their responsibility in the affair was dismissed. It was no
business of theirs.

In the mean time the two clerks were laying their plans for carrying
off the young ladies, and marrying them secretly.

"Have you sounded Jane on this subject?" asked Sanford of his friend
one evening, when the matter had come up for serious discussion.

"I have."

"How does she stand?"

"I think there is no doubt of her. But how is Harriet?"

"All right. That point we settled last night. She is ready to go at
any time that Jane is willing to take a similar step. She would
rather not go all alone."

"If she will only second me in urging the absolute necessity of the
thing upon Jane, there can be no doubt of the result. And she will
do that of course."

"Oh yes--all her influence can be calculated upon. But how do you
think Larkin will stand affected after all is over?"

"It's hard to tell. At first he will be as mad as a March hare. But
Jane is his only child, and he loves her too well to cast her off.
All will settle down quietly after a few weeks' ebullition and I
shall be as cosily fixed in the family as I could wish. After that,
my fortune is made. Larkin is worth, to my certain knowledge, fifty
or sixty thousand dollars, every cent of which will in the end come
into my hands. And, besides, Larkin's son-in-law will have to be set
up in business. Give me a fair chance, and I'll turn a bright penny
for myself."

"How are you off for funds at this present time?"

"Low, very low. The old fellow don't pay me half a salary. I'm in
debt three or four hundred dollars, and dunned almost to death
whenever I am in the way of duns. All the people I owe know better
than to send their bills to the store, for if they were to do so,
and by thus exposing me cause me to lose my situation, they are well
aware that they might have to whistle for their money."

"Can't you make a raise some how? We must both have money to carry
out this matter. In the first place, we must go off a hundred or two
miles and spend a week. After we return we may have to board for
weeks at pretty high charges before a reconciliation can be brought
about. During this time you will be out of a situation, for old
Larkin won't take you back into the store until the matter is made
up. You ought at least to have a couple of hundred dollars."

"And I have n't twenty."

"Bad, very bad. But don't you think you could borrow a couple of
hundred from Larkin, and pay him back after you become his
son-in-law?"

"Borrow from Larkin! Goodness! He'd clear me out in less than no
time, if I were to ask him to loan me even fifty dollars."

"No, but you don't understand me," remarked Sanford after a
thoughtful pause. "Can 't you borrow it without his knowledge, I
mean? No harm meant of course. You intend borrowing his daughter,
you know, for a little while, until he consents to give her to you."

Hatfield looked into the face of his tempter with a bewildered air
for some moments. He did not yet fully comprehend his drift.

"How am I to borrow without his knowing it? Figure me that out if
you please," he said.

"Who keeps the cash?"

"I do."

"Ah! so far so good. You keep the cash. Very well. Now is n't it
within the bounds of possibility for you to possess yourself of a
couple of hundred dollars in such a way that the deficit need not
appear? If you can, it will be the easiest thing in the world, after
you come back, and get the handling of a little more money in your
right than has heretofore been the case, to return the little loan."

"But suppose it possible for me thus to get possession of two
hundred dollars, and suppose I do not get back safely after our
adventure, and do not have the handling of more money in my own
right--what then?"

"You'll only be supporting his daughter out of his own money--that
is all."

"Humph! Quite a casuist."

"But is n't there reason in it?"

"I do n't know. I am not exactly in a state to see reasons clearly
just now."

"You can see the necessity of having a couple of hundred dollars, I
suppose?"

"Oh yes--as clear as mud."

"You must have that sum at least, or to proceed will be the height
of folly."

"I can see that too."

"It is owing to Larkin's mean pride that you are driven to this
extremity. He ought to pay for it."

"But how am I to get hold of two hundred dollars? That's the
question."

"Is there ordinarily much cash on hand?"

"Yes. We deposit some days as high as ten thousand dollars;
particularly at this season, when a good many merchants are in."

"The chance is fair enough. Two hundred won't be missed."

"No, not until the cash is settled, and then it will come to light."

"That does n't follow."

"I think it does."

"You may prevent it."

"How?"

"Miss a couple of tens in your additions on the debit side of the
cash book. Do you understand?"

"Not clearly."

"You are dull. Change a figure in footing up your cash book, so that
it will balance, notwithstanding a deficit of two hundred dollars.
After you come back, this can be set right again. No one will think
of adding up the back columns to see if there is any fraud."

"After Sanford ceased speaking, his friend cast his eyes to the
floor, and reflected for some time. There was in his mind a powerful
struggle between right and wrong. When the plan was first presented,
he felt an inward shrinking from it. It involved an act of fraud,
that, if found out, would blast his character. But the longer he
reflected, and the more fully he looked in the face of the fact that
without money he could not proceed to the consummation of his
wishes, the more favorable the plan seemed.

"But," he said, lifting his eyes and drawing a long breath, "if it
should be found out?"

"Larkin will not expose his son-in-law for his daughter's sake."

"True--there is something there to hope for. Well, I will think of
it. I must have two hundred dollars from some source."

And he did think of it to evil purpose. He found no very great
difficulty in getting Jane to consent to run away with him,
especially as her particular friend, Harriet Meadows, was to
accompany her on a like mad-cap expedition with Sanford.

Nothing occurred to prevent the acts proposed. By false entries,
Hatfield was enabled to abstract two hundred dollars in a way that
promised a perfect concealment of the fraud, although in doing it he
felt much reluctance and many compunctions of conscience.

About ten days after the conversation between the young men, just
given, Jane Larkin obtained her mother's consent to spend a few days
with a cousin who resided some miles from the city on a road along
which one of the omnibus lines passed. Harriet Meadows did not use
this precaution to elude suspicion. She left her father's house at
the time agreed upon, and joined young Sanford at an appointed
place, where a carriage was waiting, into which Hatfield and Jane
had already entered. The two couples then proceeded to the house of
an alderman, who united them in marriage bonds. From thence they
drove to a railroad depot, took passage for a neighboring city, and
were soon gliding away, a suspicion unawakened in the minds of the
young ladies' friends.

The absence of Harriet on the night following alarmed the fears and
awakened the suspicions of her father and mother. Early on the next
day, Mr. Meadows learned that his daughter had been seen entering
the ---- cars in company with young Sanford. Calling upon Millard, he
ascertained that Sanford had not been to the store on the previous
day, and was still absent. To merge suspicion and doubt into
certainty, the alderman who had married the couples was met
accidentally. He testified to the fact of his having united them.
Sick at heart, Mr. Meadows returned home to communicate the sad
intelligence to the mother of Harriet. When he again went out, he
was met by the startling rumor that a defalcation had been
discovered on the part of young Sanford to a large amount. Hurrying
to the store of Mr. Millard, he was shocked to find that the rumor
was but, alas! too true. Already false entries in the cash book had
been discovered to the amount of at least five thousand dollars. An
officer, he also learned, had been despatched to ----, for the
purpose of arresting the dishonest clerk and bringing him back to
justice.

"Quite an affair this," remarked Larkin to an acquaintance whom he
met some time during the day, in a half-serious, half-indifferent
tone.

"About Meadows' daughter and Sanford? Yes, and rather a melancholy
affair. The worst part of it is, that the foolish young man has been
embezzling the money of his employer."

"Yes, that is very bad. But Millard might have known that Sanford
could not dash about and spend money as he did upon his salary
alone."

"I do n't suppose he knew any thing about his habits. He is an
unsuspicious man, and keeps himself quietly at home when not in his
store."

"Well, I did then. I saw exactly how he was going on, and could have
told him; but it wasn't any of my business."

"I do n't care so much for Millard or his clerk as I do for the
foolish girl and her parents. Her happiness is gone and theirs with
it."

"Ah, yes--that is the worst part. But they might have known that
something of the kind would take place. They were together a good
deal, and were frequently to be seen riding out on Sunday
afternoons."

"This was not with the knowledge of her parents, I am sure."

"I do n't suppose it was. Still they should have looked more
carefully after their child. I knew it and could have told them how
things were going--but it was n't any of my business. I always keep
myself clear from these matters."

Just at this moment a third person came up. He looked serious.

"Mr. Larkin," he said, "I have just heard that your daughter and
Hatfield, your clerk, were married at the same time that Sanford
was, and went off with that young man and his bride. Alderman ----,
it is said, united them."

Larkin turned instantly pale. Hatfield had been away since the
morning of the day before, and his daughter was not at home, having
asked the privilege of going to see a cousin who resided a few miles
from the city. A call upon Alderman ---- confirmed the afflicting
intelligence. The father returned home to communicate the news to
his wife, on whom it fell with such a shock that she became quite
ill.

"He might have known that something of this kind would have
happened," remarked the person who had communicated the
intelligence, as soon as Larkin had left. "No man who does n't wish
his daughters to marry his clerks, ought to let them go to balls and
concerts together, and ride out when they please on Sunday
afternoons."

"Did Larkin permit this with Jane and Hatfield?"

"They were often thus together whether he permitted it or not."

"He could n't have known it."

"Perhaps not. I could have given him a hint on the subject, if I had
chosen--but it was none of my business."

On the next day all the parties came home--Sanford compulsorily, in
the hands of an officer; Hatfield voluntarily, and in terrible
alarm. The two brides were of course included. Sanford soon after
left the city, and has not since been heard of. His crime was
"breach of trust!" As for Hatfield, he was received on the principle
that, in such matters, the least said the soonest mended. In the
course of a few months he was able to restore the two hundred
dollars he had abstracted. After this was done he felt easier in
mind. He did not, however, make the foolish creature he had married
happy. Externally, or to the world, they seem united, but internally
they are not conjoined. Too plainly is this apparent to the father
and mother, who have many a heart-ache for their dearly loved child.




THE MOTHER'S PROMISE.


A LADY, handsomely dressed, was about leaving her house to make a
few calls, when a little boy ran out from the nursery, and clasping
one of her gloved hands in both of his, looked up into her face with
a glance of winning entreaty, saying, as he did so:

"Mamma! dear mamma! Won't you buy me a picture-book, just like
cousin Edie's?"

"Yes, love," was the unhesitating reply; and the lady stooped to
kiss the sweet lips of her child.

"Eddy must be a good boy, and mind nurse while mamma is away," she
added.

"I'll be so good," replied Eddy, with all the earnestness of a
childish purpose. "You may ask nurse when you come home, if I have
not been the goodest little boy that ever was."

Mrs. Herbert kissed her darling boy again, and then went forth to
make her morning round of calls. Eddy returned to the nursery,
strong in his purpose, to be a good boy, as he had promised.

"Such a dear little picture-book as mamma is going to bring me
home," he said to nurse, as he leaned his arms against her, and
looked up into her face. "Oh! won't I be so glad. It's to be just
like cousin Edie's. Mamma said so; and cousin Edie's book is so
beautiful. I 've wanted one ever since I was there. Is'nt mamma
good?"

"Yes, Eddy," replied the nurse, "your mamma is very good; and you
should love her so much, and do everything she tells you to do."

"I do love her," said the child. "Oh, I love her more than all the
world; and I'm going to mind every thing she says."

Then the child went to his play, and was happy with his toys. But
his thoughts were on the picture-book, and pleasantly his young
imagination lingered amid its attractive pages.

"Is'nt it 'most time for mother to be home?" he asked, at the end of
half an hour, coming to the side of his nurse, and gazing up into
her face.

"Why no, child," replied the nurse, "not for a long while yet."

Eddy looked disappointed. But that instant the door bell rung.

"There's mamma!" exclaimed the child, clapping his hands; and before
nurse could restrain him, he had bounded from the room, and his
little feet were heard pattering down the stairs. Slowly he came
back, after a little while, and with a look of disappointment on his
sweet young face, entered the nursery, saying, as he did so:

"It was only a man with brooms to sell."

"Your mamma won't be home for a long time yet, Eddy," said his
nurse, "so it is of no use for you to expect her. Go and build block
houses again."

"I'm tired of block houses," replied the little boy, "and now that
mamma has promised me a picture-book like cousin Edie's I can't
think of anything else."

"Oh, well," said nurse, a little impatiently, "she'll be home in
good time. Try and not think of the book. It won't do any good--it
won't bring her home a minute sooner."

"I can't help thinking of it," persisted the child, in whom the
imaginative faculty was unusually, strong for one of his age.

In a little while, however, something occurred to interest him, and
a full hour elapsed before he again recurred to his mother and the
expected picture book. As best she could, his nurse diverted his
mind, and kept him, in a measure, occupied with what was around him.
At length it was full time for Mrs. Herbert to return. Eddy had
ceased to find interest in anything appertaining to the nursery. He
went down into the parlor, and seating himself at the window,
watched, with childish eagerness, for the form of his mother.

Strange as it may seem to the reader, Mrs. Herbert had scarcely
passed into the street, ere her promise was forgotten. Not that she
was indifferent to the happiness of her child--not that she was a
heartless mother. Far very far from this. Purely and truly did she
love this sweet boy. But, so much were her thoughts interested in
other things, that she did not, at the time, comprehend the
earnestness of his childish wishes; nor think of her promise as a
sacred thing. The request for a picture book seemed to her but the
expression of a sudden thought, that passed from his mind as soon as
uttered. And yet, she had not promised without intending to meet the
wishes of her child, for she was an indulgent mother, and rarely
said "No," to any request that might reasonably be gratified. She
had noticed Cousin Edie's pretty book, and thought that she would,
some time or other, get one like it for Eddy. The child's request
but seconded this thought. There was will, therefore, in her
promise. She meant to do as she had said.

But things of more interest to Mrs. Herbert, than the simple wish of
a child, so fully occupied her mind from the time she left her own
door, that she never again thought of the book, until she saw Eddy's
dear face at the window. It was serious, and slightly impatient, as
if he were wearied with watching and waiting; but the moment his
eyes rested upon her form, his whole countenance brightened, as
though lit up by a sunbeam. Almost as soon as Mrs. Herbert's hand
touched the bell, the street door was thrown open, and the glad
child stood, like a rebuking spirit, before her.

"Where's my book, mamma? Give me my book, mamma! Oh, I'm so glad
you've come!"

Now, the first conviction of wrong, often has an irritating effect
upon the mind, obscuring its perceptions, and leading, sometimes, to
the impulsive commission of greater wrongs. It was so in the present
case. The happy countenance of her child did not bring joy to the
mother's heart; for she knew that with a word, she must dash to the
ground all his buoyant anticipations. And she remembered, too, at
the moment, how poorly he could bear disappointment.

"Eddy, dear," said Mrs. Herbert, taking her little boy by the hand,
and advancing toward the parlor door with him, "Eddy, dear, let me
tell you something."

Her grave tone and look caused a shiver to pass inward toward the
heart of the child. He understood, but too well, that the mother,
whose word he had trusted so implicitly, had been faithless to her
promise.

Poor child! even this advancing shadow of a coming disappointment,
darkened his young face and filled his eyes with tears.

Mrs. Herbert sat down on the nearest chair, as she entered the
parlor, and drew Eddy to her side. She saw, from his sad face, that
words were not required to make him aware that the promised book was
not in her possession; and she knew, from former experience, that
trouble was before her. Unhappily, she did not feel softened, but
rather irritated, toward the child.

"Eddy," she said firmly, yet with as much tenderness as she could
assume, "Eddy, you know you promised me to be such a good boy."

"And I have been good," eagerly answered the little fellow, lifting
his swimming eyes to her face, "you may ask nurse if I havn't been
good all the time."

"I'm sure you have," said Mrs. Herbert, touched by the manner of her
child; "and yet, Eddy, I have not brought your book."

The tears, which had been ready to start, now gushed over his face,
and a low cry pained the mother's ears.

"Eddy," said she, seriously, "let me tell you about it. You must
listen to reason."

Reason! poor, disappointed little one! He had no ear for the
comprehension of reasons.

"Now, Eddy! I can't have this!" Mrs. Herbert spoke firmly, for
already the child was weeping bitterly. "Crying will do no good. I
promised you the book, and you shall have it. I had no opportunity
to get it this morning. Come now! you must stop at once, or I----"

Mrs. Herbert did not utter the threat which came to her lips; for
her mind shrunk from the thought of punishing her child, especially
as his fault was a consequence of her own actions. But, as he
continued to cry on, and in a louder voice, she not only began to
feel excessively annoyed, but deemed it her duty to compel a
cessation of what could do no possible good, but rather harm.

"Eddy, you must stop this crying!" Firmness had changed to
sternness.

The words might as well not have been spoken.

"Then you are not going to stop!" The tones were angry now; and, as
Mrs. Herbert uttered them, she caught the arm of her child with a
tight grip.

At this moment, the sound of the latch-key was heard in the street
door. It was dinner time, and Mr. Herbert entered.

"Bless us! what's the trouble here?" the father of Eddy exclaimed,
good-naturedly, as he presented himself in the parlor.

"The trouble is," said Mrs. Herbert, in a fretful voice, "that I
promised to buy him a book, and forgot all about it."

"Oho! Is that all?" Mr. Herbert spoke cheerfully. "This trouble can
soon be healed. Come, dear, and let us see what I can do for you."

And Mr. Herbert drew forth a small, square packet, and began untying
the string, with which it was bound. Eddy ceased crying in an
instant, while a rainbow light shone through his tears. Soon a book
came to view. It was _the_ book. Singularly enough, Mr. Herbert had,
that morning, observed it in a store, and thinking it would please
his child, had bought it for him.

"Will that do?" he said, handing the book to Eddy.

What a gush of gladness came to the child's face. A moment or two he
stood, like one bewildered, and then throwing his arms around his
father's neck and hugging him tightly, he said, in the fullness of
his heart,

"Oh! you are a dear good papa! I do love you so much!"

Ere the arms of Eddy were unclasped from his father's neck, Mrs.
Herbert had left the room. When, on the ringing of the dinner bell,
she joined her husband and child at the table, her countenance wore
a sober aspect, and there were signs of tears about her eyes. What
her thoughts had been, every true mother can better imagine than we
describe. That they were salutary, may be inferred from the fact
that no promise, not even the lightest, was ever afterwards made to
her child, which was not righteously kept to the very letter.




THE TWO HUSBANDS.


"Jane, how _can_ you tolerate that dull, spiritless creature? I
never sat by his side for five minutes, without getting sleepy."

"He does not seem so very dull to me, Cara," replied her companion.

"It is a true saying, that there never was a Jack without a Jill;
but I could not have believed that my friend Jane Emory would have
been willing to be the Jill to such a Jack."

A slight change was perceptible in the countenance of Jane Emory,
and for a moment the color deepened on her cheek. But when she spoke
in reply to her friend's remark, no indication that she felt its
cutting import, was perceptible.

"I am convinced, from close observation of Walter Gray," said Jane,
"that he has in his character that which should ever protect him
from jest or ridicule."

"And what is that, my lady Jane?"

"Right thoughts and sound principles."

"Fiddle stick!"

"These should not only be respected, but honored wherever found,"
said Jane, gravely.

"In a bear or a boor!" Cara responded, in a tone of irony.

"My friend Cara is ungenerous in her allusions. Surely, she will not
assert that Walter Gray is a bear or a boor?"

"He is boorish enough, at any rate."

"There I differ with you, Cara. His manner is not so showy, nor his
attentions to the many little forms and observances of social life,
so prompt as to please the fastidious in these matters. These
defects, however, are not defects of character, but of education. He
has not mingled enough in society to give him confidence."

"They are defects, and are serious enough to make him quite
offensive to me. Last evening, at Mrs. Clinton's party, I sat beside
him for half an hour, and was really disgusted with his marked
disregard of the little courtesies of social life."

"Indeed!" replied Jane, her manner becoming more serious, "and in
what did these omissions consist?"

"Why, in the first place, while we were conversing,----"

"He could converse, then?" said Jane, interrupting her friend.

"O, no, I beg pardon! While we were _trying_ to converse--for among
his other defects is an inability to talk to a lady on any subject
of interest--I dropped my handkerchief, on purpose, of course, but
he never offered to lift it for me; indeed, I doubt whether he saw
it at all."

"Then, Cara, how could you expect him to pick it up for you, if he
did not see it?"

"But he ought to have seen it. He should have had his eyes about
him; and so should every gentleman who sits by or is near a lady. I
know one that never fails."

"And pray, who is the perfect gentleman?" asked Jane smiling. "Is he
one of my acquaintances?"

"Certainly he is. I mean Charles Wilton."

"He is, I must confess, different from Walter Gray," Jane remarked,
drily.

"I hope he is!" said Cara, tossing her head, for she felt that
something by no means complimentary was implied in the equivocal
remark of her friend.

"But, seriously, Cara, I must, in turn, express regret that you
allow yourself to feel interested in one like Charles Wilton. Trust
me, my friend, he is unworthy of your regard."

"And pray, Miss," said Cara, warming suddenly, "what do you know of
Charles Wilton, that will warrant your throwing out such
insinuations against him?"

"Little beyond what I have learned by my own observation."

"And what has that taught you? I should like very much to know."

"It has taught me, Cara," replied Jane, seriously, "to estimate him
very lightly indeed. From what I have seen, I am convinced that he
possesses neither fixed principles nor any decision of character. In
the world, without these a man is like a ship upon the ocean, having
neither helm nor compass."

"You make broad and bold charges, Jane. But I am sure you are
mistaken."

"I may be. But so certain am I that I am right, that I would rather
die this hour than be compelled to link my lot in life with his.
Certain I am that I should make shipwreck of hope and affection."

"You deal in riddles, Jane. Speak out more plainly."

"Surely, Cara, long before this you have or ought to have
discovered, that Charles Wilton exhibits far too much love of
appearance for a sensible man. He dresses in the very best style and
may be able to afford it; but that is not all;--he evidently esteems
these external embellishments of superior importance to mental or
moral endowments. He rarely fails to remark upon men not so well
dressed as himself, and to refer to the defect as one sufficient to
make the individual contemptible, no matter what may be the
circumstances or merit of the person referred to. I have more than
once noticed that Charles Wilton passes over every thing in his
disgust for defect in dress."

"I do not see a matter of serious importance in that," said Cara.
"His love of dress is a mere foible, that may be excused. It
certainly has nothing to do with his real character."

"It is an indication of the man's true character," her friend
replied. "I am sure that I want no plainer exhibition. If he was
simply fond of dress, and indulged in that fondness even to the
extent he now does it might indicate a mere weakness of character,
in the form of an undue love of admiration. But when, to this, we
see a disposition to value others, and to judge of them by their
garments, then we may be sure that there is a serious defect of
character. The man, Cara, believe me, who has no higher standard of
estimation for other men, than the form, manner, and texture of
their garments, has not the capacity rightly to value a woman or to
know wherein her true merit lies. This is _one_ of the reasons why I
said that I would rather die than link my lot in life with that
young man."

"Well, as for me, Jane, I am sure that I would rather have a man
with some spirit in him, than to be tied to such a drone as Walter
Gray. Why, I should die in a week. I can't for my life, see how you
can enjoy his society for a moment!"

"I should think any woman ought to be able to enjoy the company of a
man of sense," Jane remarked, quietly.

"Surely, Jane, you don't pretend by that to set up Walter Gray as
the superior of Charles Wilton in regard to intelligence?"

"Certainly I do, Cara."

"Why, Jane! There is no comparison, in this respect, between them.
Every one knows that while Walter is dull, even to stupidity,
Charles has a brilliant, well-informed mind. It is only necessary to
hear each converse for an hour, to decide upon their respective
merits."

"In that last sentence you have uttered the truth, Cara, but the
result would depend much upon the character of the listeners. For a
time, no doubt, if Charles made an effort to show off, he would
eclipse the less brilliant and unobtrusive Walter. But a close and
discriminating observer would soon learn to judge between sound and
sense, between borrowed thoughts and truthful sentiments originating
in a philosophical and ever active mind. The shallow stream runs
sparkling and flashing in the sunlight, while the deeper waters lie
dark and unattractive."

Cara shook her head as her friend ceased speaking, and replied,
laughingly--

"You can beat me at talking, Jane--but all your philosophy and
poetry can't make me think Charles Wilton less brilliant and
sensible, or Walter Gray less dull and spiritless."

The two young men whose merits Jane Emory and Cara Linton had thus
been discussing, had been law students for some years in the same
office, and were now just admitted to practice at the bar in one of
our Atlantic cities. They were friends, though altogether unlike
each other. Walter Gray was modest and retiring, while Charles
Wilton was a dashing, off-hand kind of a fellow, with more
pretensions than merit. The mind of Walter was rather sluggish,
while that of his friend was quick, and what some were disposed to
esteem brilliant. The one was fond of dress and show, and effect;
while the other paid less regard to these things than was really
necessary to make him, with many, an agreeable companion. But the
quick perceptions of the one were not equal to the patient, untiring
application of the other. When admitted to practice, Wilton could
make an effective, brilliant speech, and in ordinary cases, where an
appeal to the feelings could influence a jury, was uniformly
successful. But, where profound investigation, concise reasoning,
and a laborious array of authorities were requisite, he was no
competitor for his friend Gray. He was vain of his personal
appearance, as has before been indicated, and was also fond of
pleasure and company. In short, he was one of those dashing young
men to be met with in all professions, who look upon business as an
necessary evil, to be escaped whenever a opportunity offers--whose
expectations of future prosperity are always large, and who look for
success, not in the roads of patient, laborious application, but by
a quicker and more brilliant way. They hope to produce a sensation
by their tact or talents, and thus take fortune by storm. Few,
indeed we might say none, of this class succeed. Those who startle a
community by rapid advances, are, in all cases, such as have, to
quick perceptions and brilliant powers, added much labor. Talent is
nothing without prolonged and patient application; and they who
suppose the road to success lies in any other way, may discover
their error too late.

The estimation in which the characters of these two young men was
held, at least by two individuals, the preceding conversation has
apprised the reader. Each made his impression upon a certain order
of mind, and each was regarded, or lightly esteemed accordingly.
Although in talents and in a right estimation of life and its true
ends, the two young men were altogether dissimilar; yet were they
friends, and in many respects intimate. Why they were so, we shall
not stop to enquire, but proceed to introduce them more particularly
to the reader.

"I suppose you are going to Mrs. Melton's this evening?" said Wilton
to his friend, a few weeks after the period indicated in the opening
of this story.

"I feel as if I would like to go. A social evening, now and then, I
find pleasant, and I have no doubt it is useful to me."

"That is right, Walter. I am glad to see you coming out of your
recluse habits. You want the polish and ease that social life will
give you."

"I feel that, Wilton. But I fear I am too old now to have all the
rough corners knocked off, and worn smooth."

"O, don't despair. You'll make a ladies' man after awhile, if you
persevere, and become more particular in your dress. But, to change
the subject, a little, tell me what you think of Cara Linton? Her
father is worth a plum, and she is just the showy, brilliant woman,
of which a man like me ought to be proud of."

"As you ask me, Charles, I must reply candidly. I would think her a
dear bargain with all her father's money thrown in with her; and as
to your other reasons for thinking of her as a wife, I consider
them, to speak plainly, as I always do to you, despicable!"

"And why so, Mr. Philosopher?"

"A wife should be chosen from much higher considerations than these.
What do you want with a brilliant, showy wife? You marry, or ought
to marry, a companion for yourself--not a woman for the world to
admire."

"You are too matter-of-fact, by half, Walter. Your common sense
ideas, as you call them, will keep you grubbing in a mole hill all
your life.

"I should like to see the woman _you_ would choose for a wife!"

"I wish you had a few of these common sense ideas you despise so
much. I am afraid, Charles, that the time is not very distant when
you will stand sadly in need of them."

"Don't trouble yourself, Walter. I'll take care of number one. Let
me alone for that. But, I should like to know your serious
objections to Cara? You sweep her aside with one wave of your hand,
as if she were too insignificant to be thought of for a moment."

"I said that _I_ should consider her a dear bargain, and so I
would--for she would not suit me at all."

"Ah, there I believe you. But come, let me hear why she would not
suit you."

"Because she has no correct and common sense estimation of life and
its relations. She is full of poetry and romance, and fashion, and
show, and 'all that kind of thing;' none of which, without a great
deal of the salt of common sense, would suit me."

"Common sense! Common sense! Common sense! That is your hobby.
Verily, Walter, you are a monomaniac on the subject of common sense;
but, as for me, I will leave common sense to common people. I go in
for uncommon sense."

"The poorest and most unprofitable sense of all, let me tell you.
And one of these days you will discover it to be so."

"It is no use for us to compare our philosophical notes, I see
plainly enough," Wilton responded. "We shall never view things in
the same light. You are not the man of the world you should be,
Walter. Men of half your merit will eclipse you, winning opulence
and distinction--while you, with your common sense notions, will be
plodding on at a snail's pace. You are behind the age, and a
stranger to its powerful, onward impulses."

"And ever do I desire to remain behind the age, Wilton, if mere
pretension and show be its ruling and impulsive spirit."

"The old fashioned way of attaining eminence," Charles Wilton
replied, assuming an attitude and speaking out truly the thoughts
that were in his mind; "by plodding on with the emmet's patience,
and storing up knowledge, grain by grain, brings not the hoped for
reward, now. You must startle and surprise. The brilliant meteor
attracts a thousand times more attention, than the brightest star
that shines in the firmament."

"You are trifling, Charles."

"Never was more in earnest in my life. I have made up my mind to
succeed; to be known and envied. And to gain the position of
eminence I desire, I mean to take the surest way. The world _will_
be deceived, and, therefore, they who would succeed must throw dust
in people's eyes."

"Or, in other words, deceive them by pretension. Charles, let me
warn you against any such unmanly, and, I must say, dishonest
course. Be true to yourself and true to principle."

"I shall certainly be true to myself, Walter. For what pray do we
toil over dry and musty law books in a confined office, months and
years, if not to gain the power of rising in the world? I have
served my dreary apprenticeship--I have learnt the art and mystery,
and now for the best and most certain mode of applying it."

"But, remember your responsibility to society. Your----"

"Nonsense! What do I, or what does any one else care about society?
My motto is, Every one for himself, and the deuce take the hindmost.
And that's the motto of the whole world."

"Not of the whole world, Charles."

"Yes, of the whole world, with, perhaps, the single, strange
exception of Walter Gray. And he will be flung to the wall, and soon
forgotten, I fear."

"You jest on a serious subject, Charles."

"I tell you, Walter, I am in earnest," Wilton replied with emphasis.
"He that would be ahead, must get ahead in the best way possible.
But I cannot linger here. It is now nearly night; and it will take
me full two hours to prepare myself to meet Miss Cara Linton. I must
make a captive of the dashing maiden this very evening." And so
saying, he turned, and left the office.

That evening, amid a gay and fashionable assemblage at Mrs.
Merton's, was to be seen the showy Charles Wilton, with his easy,
and even elegant manners, attracting almost as much attention as his
vain heart could desire. And the quiet, sensible Walter Gray was
there also, looking upon all things with a calm, philosophic mien.

"Your friend Mr. Wilton is quite the centre of attraction for the
young ladies, this evening," remarked Jane Emory, who was leaning
upon the arm of Walter Gray, and listening with an interest she
scarcely dared confess to herself, to his occasional remarks, that
indicated a mind active with true and healthful thought.

"And he seems to enjoy it," replied Walter, with a pleasant tone and
smile.

"Almost too much so, it seems to me, for a man," his companion said,
though with nothing censorious in her manner. She merely expressed a
sentiment without showing that it excited unkind feelings.

"Or for a woman, either," was the quick response.

"True. But if pleased with attentions, and even admiration may we
not be excused?"

"O, certainly. We may all be excused for our weaknesses; still they
are weaknesses, after all."

"And therefore should not be encouraged."

"Certainly not. We should be governed by some higher end than the
mere love of admiration--even admiration for good qualities."

"I admit the truth of what you say, and yet, the state is one to
which I have not yet attained."

Walter Gray turned a look full of tender interest upon the maiden by
his side, as she ceased speaking, and said in a tone that had in it
much of tenderness,

"You express, Miss Emory, but the feeling which every one has who
truly desires the attainment of true excellence of character. We
have not this excellence, naturally, but it is within the compass of
effort. Like you, I have had to regret the weaknesses and
deficiencies of my own character. But, in self-government, as in
everything else, my motto is, Persevere to the end. The same motto,
or the same rule of action, clothed in other words, perhaps, I
trust--nay, I am sure, rules in your mind."

For a few moments Jane did not reply. She feared to utter any form
of words that would mislead. At length she said, modestly,

"I try to subdue in me what is evil, or that which seems to me to
act in opposition to good principles."

Before Walter Gray, pleased with the answer, could frame in his mind
a fitting reply, Charles Wilton, with Cara Linton on his arm, was
thrown in front of them.

"Has Walter been edifying you with one of the Psalms of David, Miss
Emory?" said Wilton, gaily. "One would think so from his solemn
face, and the demure, thoughtful expression of yours."

Neither Walter nor his fair companion were what is called
quick-witted; and both were so checked in their thoughts and
feelings that neither could, on the moment, fitly reply.

"O, I see how it is," the gay young man continued. "He has been
reading you some of his moral homilies, and you are tired to death.
Well, you must bear with him, Miss Emory, he will learn better after
awhile." And the young man and his thoughtless companion turned
laughing away.

For a few moments the disturbed thoughts of Walter and his fair
friend, trembled upon the surface of their feelings, and then all
was again as tranquil as the bosom of a quiet lake.

Enough has now been said, to give a fair idea of the ends which the
two young men, we have introduced, set before them upon entering
life. Let us now proceed to trace the effects of these ends;
effects, which, as a necessary consequence, involved others as much
as themselves.




CHAPTER II.


"Well, Gray, the business is all settled," said Wilton, one day,
coming into the office of the individual he addressed so familiarly.

"What business, Charles?"

"Why, I've won the rich and beautiful Miss Linton. Last night I told
my story, and was referred to the old man, of course. I have just
seen him, and he says I am welcome to the hand of his daughter. Now,
is not that a long stride up the ladder! The most beautiful and
attractive woman in the city for a wife, and an old daddy in law as
rich as Croesus!"

"You are what some would call a lucky dog," said Wilton, with a
smile.

"And yet there is no luck in it. 'Faint heart, they say, 'never won
fair lady.' I knew half-a-dozen clever fellows who were looking to
Miss Linton's hand; but while they hesitated, I stepped boldly up
and carried off the prize. Let me alone, Walter. I'll work my way
through the world."

"And I, too, have been doing something in that line."

"You? Why, Walter, you confound me! I never dreamed that you would
have the courage to make love to a woman."

"Wiser ones than you are mistaken, sometimes."

"No doubt of it. But who is the fair lady?"

"Can you not guess?"

"Jane Emory?"

"Of course. She is the most sensible women it has yet been my
fortune to meet."

"Has the best common sense, I suppose?"

"Exactly."

"You are a genius, Walter. When you die, I expect you will leave a
clause in your will, to the effect that the undertaker shall be a
man of good, plain, common sense. O dear! What a dull life you will
lead! Darby and Joan!"

"You are still a trifler with serious matters, Charles. But time
will sober you, I trust, and do it before such a change will come
too late."

"How much is old Emory worth, Walter?" Wilton asked, without
regarding the last remark of his friend.

"I am sure I do not know. Not a great deal, I suppose."

"You don't know?"

"No; how should I?"

"Well, you are a queer one! It is time that you did then, let me
tell you."

"Why so?"

"In the name of sense, Walter, what are you going to marry his
daughter for."

"Because I love her."

"Pah! I know how much of that sort of thing appertains to the
business."

"Charles!"

"Don't look so utterly dumfounded, friend Walter."

"I am surprised, and I must say pained, to hear you speak thus.
Surely you love the young lady you propose to marry?"

"Of course. But then I have a decent regard for her old father's
wealth; and I am by no means insensible to her personal attractions.
I group all that is desirable into one grand consideration--beauty,
wealth, standing, mental endowments, etc.,--and take her for the
whole. But for love--a mere impulse that will die of itself, if left
alone,--to marry a young lady! O no,--I am not the simpleton for
that!"

Walter Gray looked his friend in the face for a moment or two, but
did not reply. He was pained, even shocked at his levity.

"You seem really to doubt my being in earnest?" said Wilton, after a
pause.

"I would doubt, if I could, Charles. But I fear you are speaking out
too truly, sentiments that I could not have believed you capable of
entertaining."

"You are too simple and unsophisticated to live in this world, my
old friend Walter Gray."

"And long may I remain so," was the calm response, "if to be honest
and sincere is to be simple and unsophisticated."

"Well, good morning to you, and success to your love marriage."

And so saying, Charles Wilton left the office of his friend.

A few weeks more passed away, and the two young men had, in the
meantime, consummated their matrimonial engagements. The wedding of
Charles Wilton and Cara Linton was a splendid affair, succeeded by
parties and entertainments for five or six weeks. That of Walter
Gray and Jane Emory passed off more quietly and rationally.

Three months after their wedding-day, let us look in upon the two
friends and their fair partners; and first, upon Charles Wilton and
his bride. The time is evening, and they are sitting alone in one of
their richly furnished parlors.

"O dear!" yawned out Wilton, rising and walking backwards and
forwards, "this is dull work. Is there no place where we can go and
spend a pleasant evening?"

"I don't know, dear. Suppose we step over and see Pa?"

"O no. We were there two or three evenings ago. And, any how, I am
in no humor for playing at draughts."

"Well, I should like to go there this evening. I want to see Ma
about something."

"You can easily go to-morrow, Cara, and stay as long as you choose."

"But I should like to go to night, dear."

"Don't think of it, Cara."

"Then suppose we call in and sit an hour with the Melton's?"

"Not to-night, Cara. The old man is deaf, and talks you out of all
patience about sugars and teas cotton and tobacco."

"But the girls are lively and entertaining."

"Not for me, Cara. Think again."

"Why not stay at home?"

"And pray what shall we do here?"

"I'll sing and play for you."

"I am in no humor for music to-night."

His young wife sighed, but Wilton did not notice it.

"Come, let us go over to the Grogans?" he at length said.

"I can't say that I care much about going there," his wife replied.

"Of course not. You never seem to care much about going where I wish
to," said Wilton, pettishly.

His wife burst into tears, and sat sobbing for some minutes, during
which time Wilton paced the room backwards and forwards, in moody
silence. After a while his wife rose up and stole quietly from the
room, and in a few minutes returned, dressed, to go out.

"I am ready," she said.

"Ready to go where?"

"To Mr. Grogan's, of course. You wish to go."

"I don't care about going now, as long as you are unwilling."

"Yes, but I am willing, Charles, if the visit will be pleasant to
you."

"O, as to that, I don't wish to compel you to go anywhere."

"Indeed, Charles, I am willing to go," said his wife, while her
voice trembled and sounded harshly. "Come, now that I am ready. I
wish to go."

For a moment longer Wilton hesitated, and then took up his hat and
went with her. Few were the words that passed between them as they
walked along the street. Arrived at their friend's house they both
suddenly changed, and were as gay, and seemed as happy, as the
gayest and the happiest.

"Shall we call in upon some pleasant friends to-night or spend our
evening alone?" asked Walter Gray, taking a seat upon the sofa
beside his happy wife, on the same evening that the foregoing
conversation and incidents occurred.

"Let it be as you wish, Walter," was the affectionate, truthful
reply.

"As for me, Jane, I am always happy at home--too happy, I sometimes
think."

"How, too happy?"

"Too happy to think of others, Jane. We must be careful not to
become isolated and selfish in our pleasures. Our social character
must not be sacrificed. If it is in our power to add to the
happiness of others, it is right that we should mingle in the social
circle."

"I feel the truth of what you say, Walter, and yet I find it hard to
be thus unselfish. I am sure that I would a thousand times rather
remain at home and read with you a pleasant book, or sing and play
for you, than to spend an evening away from our pleasant home."

"I feel the same inclinations. But I am unwilling to encourage them.
And yet, I am not an advocate for continual visitings. The delights
of our own sweet fireside, small though the circle be, I would enjoy
often. But these pleasures will be increased tenfold by our
willingness to let others share them, and, also, by our joining in
their home--delights and social recreations."

A pause of a few moments ensued, when Mrs. Gray said,

"Suppose, then, Walter, we call over and see how they are getting on
at 'home?' Pa and Ma are lonesome, now that I am away."

"Just what I was thinking of, Jane. So get on your things, and we
will join them and spend a pleasant evening."

These brief conversations will indicate to the reader how each of
the young men and their wives were thus early beginning to reap the
fruits of true and false principles of action. We cannot trace each
on his career, step by step, during the passage of many years,
though much that would interest and instruct could be gathered from
their histories. The limits of a brief story like this will not
permit us thus to linger. On, then, to the grand result of their
lives we must pass. Let us look at the summing up of the whole
matter, and see which of the young men started with the true secret
of success in the world, and which of the young ladies evinced most
wisdom in her choice of a husband.




CHAPTER III.


"Poor Mrs. Wilton!" remarked Mrs. Gray, now a cheerful, intelligent
woman of forty, with half-a-dozen grown and half-grown up daughters,
"it makes me sad whenever I see her, or think of her."

"Her husband was not kind to her, I believe, while she lived with
him," said Mrs. Gray's visitor, whom she had addressed.

"It is said so. But I am sure I do not know. I never liked him, nor
thought him a man of principle. I said as much as I thought prudent
to discourage her from receiving his attentions. But she was a gay
girl herself, and was attracted by dashing pretension, rather than
by unobtrusive merit."

"It was thought at one time that Mr. Wilton would lead in the
profession here. I remember when his name used frequently to get
into the newspapers, coupled with high compliments on his brilliant
talents."

"Yes. He flashed before the eyes of the crowd for awhile, but it was
soon discovered that he had more brilliancy than substance. The loss
of two or three important cases, that required solid argument and a
well-digested array of facts and authorities, instead of flights of
fancy and appeals to the feelings, ruined his standing at the bar.
The death of his father-in-law, with an insolvent estate,
immediately after, took wonderfully from the estimation in which he
was held. Thrown, thus, suddenly back, and upon his own resources,
he sunk at once from the point of observation, and lingered around
the court-house, picking up petty cases, as a matter of necessity.
Long before this, I had noticed that Mrs. Wilton had greatly
changed. But now a sadder change took place--a separation from her
husband. The cause of this separation I know not. I never asked her,
nor to me has she ever alluded to it. But it is said that his manner
towards her became insufferable, and that she sought protection and
an asylum among her friends. Be the cause what it may, it is enough
to make her a poor, heart-stricken creature."

"How well I remember, when their parties were the most splendid and
best attended of the season."

"Yes, I well remember it too. Still, even then, gay and brilliant as
Mrs. Wilton was, I never thought her happy. Indeed, seeing her often
alone as I did, I could not but mark the painful contrast in her
spirits. At home, when not entertaining company, she was listless or
unhappy. How often have I come in upon her, and noticed her
moistened eyes."

"Ah me! it must be a wrong beginning that makes so sad an ending."

The truth of the remark, as applicable in this case, struck Mrs.
Gray forcibly, and she mused in thoughtful silence for a few
moments.

"Have you heard the news, Judge Gray?" said a lawyer, addressing the
individual he had named, about the same hour that the conversation,
just noted, occurred.

"No. What is it?"

"Why, Wilton has committed a forgery."

"O no, it cannot be!" said the Judge, in tones of painful surprise.

"It is too true, I fear, Judge."

"Is the amount considerable?"

"Ten thousand dollars is the sum mentioned."

"Has he been arrested?"

"No. But the officers are hard after him. The newspapers will
announce the fact to-morrow morning."

Judge Gray leaned his head upon his hand, and, with his eyes cast
upon the floor, sat for some moments in painful thought.

"Poor man!" he at length said, looking up. "The end has come at
last. I have long feared for him. He started wrong in the
beginning."

"I hope they will catch him," remarked the individual he was
addressing.

Judge Gray did not reply, but cast his eyes again upon the floor.

"He has lived by gambling these six years," continued the lawyer,
"and I suppose he has committed this forgery to pay some 'debt of
honor.' Well, I can't say that I am sorry to be rid of him from this
bar, for he was not a pleasant man to be forced into contact with."

"And yet he was a man of some talents," remarked the Judge,
musingly.

"And when that is said all is said. Without industry, legal
knowledge, or sound principles of action, what was he good for? He
would do for a political stump declaimer--but, as a lawyer, in any
case of moment, he was not worth a copper."

And thus saying, the lawyer turned away, and left Judge Gray to his
own thoughts.

"I have unpleasant news to tell you, Jane," said Judge Gray, coming
into the room where sat his wife, an hour afterwards.

"What is that, husband?" asked Mrs. Gray, looking up with a
concerned countenance.

"Why, our old friend Charles Wilton has committed a forgery!"

"Poor Cara! It will break her heart," Mrs. Gray said in a sad tone.

"I do not suppose she has much affection for him, Jane."

"No, but she has a good deal of pride left--all, in fact, that
sustains her. This last blow, I fear, will be too much for one who
has no true strength of character."

"Would it not be well for you to call in and see her to-morrow? The
papers will all announce the fact in the morning, and she may need
the consolation which a true friend might be able to afford her."

"I will go, most certainly, much as my natural feelings shrink from
the task. Where she is, I am sure she has no one to lean upon: for
there is not one of her so-called friends, upon whom she feels
herself a burden, that can or will sympathize with her truly."

"Go, then. And may mercy's errand find mercy's reward."

On the next morning all the city papers teemed with accounts of the
late forgery, and blazoned Charles Wilton's name, with many
opprobrious epithets before the public. Some went even so far as to
allude to his wife, whom they said he had forsaken years before, and
who was now, it was alleged, living in poverty, and, some hinted in
disgrace and infamy.

Early in the day, Mrs. Gray repaired to the cheerless home of her
early friend. She was shown to her chamber, where she found her
lying insensible on the bed, with one of the newspapers in her hand,
that alluded to herself in disgraceful terms.

Long and patient efforts to restore her, at length produced the
desired result. But it was many days before she seemed distinctly
conscious of what was passing or would converse with any degree of
coherency.

"Come and spend a few weeks with me, Cara."

Mrs. Gray said to her, one day, on calling in to see her; "I am sure
it will do you good."

There was a sad, but grateful expression in the pale face of Mrs.
Wilton, as she looked into the eye of her old friend, but ventured
no reply.

"You will come, will you not, Cara?" urged Mrs. Gray.

"My presence in your happy family would be like the shadow of an
evil wing," said she bitterly.

"Our happy family, say-rather, would chase away the gloomy shadows
that darken your heart. Come then, and we will give you a cheerful
welcome."

"I feel much inclined, and yet I hesitate, for I ought not to throw
a gloom over your household," and the tears filled her eyes, and
glistened through the lids which were closed suddenly over them.

"Come, and welcome!" Mrs. Gray urged, taking her hand and gently
pressing it.

That evening Mrs. Wilton spent in the pleasant family of her old
friend.

Three weeks afterwards, Mrs. Gray asked of her husband, if anything
had been heard of Mr. Wilton.

"Nothing," he replied. "He has escaped all pursuit thus far, and the
officers, completely at fault, have returned."

"I cannot say that I am sorry, at least for the sake of his wife.
She seems more cheerful since she came here. I feel sometimes as if
I should like to offer her a home, for she has none, that might
truly be so called."

"Act up to your kind desire, Jane, if you think it right to do so,"
said her husband. "Perhaps in no other home open to her could so
much be done for her comfort."

The home was accordingly offered, and tearfully accepted.

"Jane," said the sad hearted woman, "I cannot tell you how much I
have suffered in the last twenty years. How much from
heart-sickening disappointments, and lacerated affections. High
hopes and brilliant expectations that made my weak brain giddy to
think of, have all ended thus. How weak and foolish--how mad we
were! But my husband was not all to blame. I was as insane in my
views of life as he. We lived only for ourselves--thought and cared
only for ourselves--and here is the result. How wisely and well did
you choose, Jane. Where my eye saw nothing to admire, yours more
skilled, perceived the virgin ore of truth. I was dazzled by show,
while you looked below the surface, and saw true character, and its
effect in action. How signally has each of us been rewarded!" and
the heart-stricken creature bowed her head and wept.

And now, kind reader, if there be one who has followed us thus far,
are you disappointed in not meeting some startling denoument, or
some effective point in this narrative. I hope not. Natural results
have followed, in just order, the adoption of true and false
principles of action--and thus will they ever follow. Learn, then, a
lesson from the history of the two young men and the maidens of
their choice. Let every young man remember, that all permanent
success in life depends upon the adoption of such principles of
action as are founded in honesty and truth; and let every young
woman take it to heart, that all her married life will be affected
by the principles which her husband sets down as rules of action.
Let her give no consideration to his brilliant prospect, or his
brilliant mind, if sound moral principles do not govern him.

"But what became of Charles Wilton and his wife?" I hear a
bright-eyed maiden asking, as she turns half impatient from my
homily.

Wilton has escaped justice thus far, and his wife, growing more and
more cheerful every day, is still the inmate of Judge Gray's family,
and I trust will remain so until the end of her journeying here. And
what is more, she is learning the secret, that there is more
happiness in caring for others, than in being all absorbed in
selfish consideration. Still, she is a sad wreck upon the stream of
life--a warning beacon for your eyes, young lady.




VISITING AS NEIGHBORS.


"I see that the house next door has been taken," remarked Mr. Leland
to his wife, as they sat alone one pleasant summer evening.

"Yes. The family moved in to-day," returned Mrs. Leland.

"Do you know their name?"

"It is Halloran."

"Halloran, Halloran," said Mr. Leland, musingly. "I wonder if it's
the same family that lived in Parker Street."

"Yes, the same; and I wish they had stayed there."

"Their moving in next door need not trouble us, Jane. They are not
on our list of acquaintances."

"But I shall have to call upon Mrs. Haloran; and Emma upon her
grown-up daughter Mary."

"I do not see how that is to follow as a consequence of their
removal into our neighborhood."

"Politeness requires us to visit them as neighbors."

"Are they really our neighbors?" asked Mr. Leland, significantly.

"Certainly they are. How strange that you should ask the question!"

"What constitutes them such? Not mere proximity, certainly. Because
a person happens to live in a house near by, can that make him or
her really a neighbor, and entitled to the attention and
consideration due a neighbor?"

This remark caused Mrs. Leland to look thoughtful. "It ought not,"
she said, after sitting silent a little while, "but still, it does."

"I do not think so. A neighbor--that is, one to whom kind offices is
due--ought to come with higher claims than the mere fact of living
in a certain house located near by the dwelling in which we reside.
If mere location is to make any one a neighbor, we have no
protection against the annoyance and intrusions of persons we do not
like; nay, against evil-minded persons, who would delight more in
doing us injury than good. These Hallorans for instance. They move
in good society; but they are not persons to our mind. I should not
like to see you on terms of intimacy with Mrs. Halloran, or Jane
with her daughter. In fact, the latter I should feel, did it exist,
to be a calamity."

"Still they _are_ our neighbors," Mrs. Leland said. "I do not see
how we can avoid calling upon them."

"Perhaps," remarked the husband, "you have not thought seriously
enough on the subject.

"Who is my neighbor? is a question of importance, and ought to be
answered in every mind. Something more than living in the same
street, or block of houses, is evidently implied in the word
neighbor. It clearly involves a reciprocity of good feelings. Mere
proximity in space cannot effect this. It requires another kind of
nearness--the nearness of similar affections; and these must,
necessarily, be unselfish; for in selfishness there is no
reciprocity. Under this view, could you consider yourself the
neighbor of such a person as Mrs. Halloran?"

"No matter what the character, we should be kind to all. Every one
should be our neighbor, so far as this is concerned. Do you not
think so?"

"I do not, Jane."

"Should we not be kind to every one?"

"Yes, kind; but not in the acceptation of the word as you have used
it. There is a false, as well as a true kindness. And it often
happens that true kindness appears to be any thing but what it
really is. In order to be kind to another, we are not always
required to exhibit flattering attentions. These often injure where
distance and reserve would do good. Besides, they too frequently
give power to such as are evil-disposed--a power that is exercised
injuriously to others."

"But the simple fact of my calling upon Mrs. Halloran cannot,
possibly, give her the power of injuring me or any one else."

"I think differently. The fact that you have called upon her will be
a reason for some others to do the same; for, you know, there are
persons who never act from a distinct sense of right, but merely
follow in the wake of others. Thus the influence of a selfish,
censorious, evil-minded woman will be extended. So far as you are
concerned, the danger may be greater than you imagine. Is Mary
Halloran, in your estimation, a fit companion for our daughter?
Could she become intimate with her, and not suffer a moral
deterioration?"

"I think not."

"Are you sure that a call upon Mrs. Halloran will not lead to this
result?"

"No, I am not _sure_. Still, I do not apprehend any danger."

"I should be very much afraid of the experiment."

"But, do you not think, husband, that, apart from all these fears, I
am bound to extend to Mrs. Halloran the courtesies due a neighbor?"

"I cannot, in the true sense of the word, consider her a neighbor;
and, therefore, do not see that you owe her the courtesies to which
you allude. It is the good in any one that really makes the
neighbor. This good should ever be regarded. But, to show
attentions, and give eminence and consideration to an evil-minded
person, is to make evil, instead of good, the neighbor.--It is to
give that power to evil which is ever exercised in injury to
others."

Mrs. Leland's mind perceived only in a small degree the force of
what her husband said.--She was not a woman who troubled herself
about the characters of those who stood upon a certain level in
society. Mrs. Halloran claimed her place from wealth and family
connexions, and this place was rather above than below that occupied
by Mrs. Leland. The temptation to call upon her was, therefore,
pretty strong. It was not so much a regard for her new neighbor, as
a desire to make her acquaintance, that influenced her.--Acting in
opposition to her husband's judgment, in a few days she called upon
Mrs. Halloran.

She found her, to use her own words, a "charming woman." The next
move was for the daughter to call upon Mary Halloran. Before the
week passed, these calls had been returned. In a month the two
families--that is, the female members of them--had become quite
intimate. This intimacy troubled Mr. Leland. He was a man of pure
principles, and could tolerate no deviation from them. Deeply did he
regret any association that might tend to weaken the respect for
such principles with which he had sought to inspire the mind of his
daughter. In them he knew lay the power that was to protect her in
the world. But he could not interfere, arbitrarily, with his wife;
that he would have considered more dangerous than to let her act in
freedom. But he felt concerned for the consequence, and frequently
urged her not to be too intimate with her new neighbor.

"Some evil, I am sure, will grow out of it," he would say, whenever
allusion was in any way made to the subject of his wife's intimacy
with Mrs. Halloran. "No one can touch pitch and not be defiled."

"I really must blame you," Mrs. Leland replied to a remark like
this, "for your blind opposition to Mrs. Halloran. The more I see of
her, the better I like her. She is a perfect lady. So kind, so
affable, so--so"--

Mr. Leland shook his head.

"The mere gloss of polite society," he returned. "There is no
soundness in her heart. We know that, for the tree is judged by its
fruit."

"We have seen no evil fruit," said the wife.

"Others have, and we _know_ that others have.--Her conduct in the
case of the Percys is notorious."

"Common report is always exaggerated."

"Though it usually has some foundation in truth. But granting all
the exaggeration and false judgment that usually appertain to common
report, is it not wiser to act as if common report were true, until
we know it to be false?"

But it was useless for Mr. Leland to talk.--His wife was charmed
with the fascinating neighbor, and would hear nothing against her.
Jane, too, had become intimate with Mary Halloran, a bold-faced
girl, who spent half of her time in the street, and talked of little
else but beaux and dress. Jane was eighteen, and before her
acquaintance with Mary, had been but little into company. Her
intimacy with Mary soon put new notions into her head. She began to
think more of dress, and scarcely a day passed that she did not go
out with her very intimate and pleasant friend. Mrs. Leland did not
like this. Much as she was pleased Mrs. Halloran, she never fancied
the daughter a great deal, and would have been much better satisfied
if the two young ladies had not become quite so intimate.

"Where are you going?" she said to Jane, who came down stairs
dressed to go out, one morning.

"Mary and I are going to make some calls," she replied.

"You were out making calls, yesterday, with Mary, and the day before
also. This is too great a waste of time, Jane. I would rather see
you at home more."

"I don't know why you should wish to confine me down to the house.
Mary Halloran goes and comes when she pleases."

"Mary Halloran is in the street a great deal too much. I am far from
wishing to see you imitate her example."

"But what harm is there in it, mother?"

"A great deal, Jane. It gives idle habits, and makes the mind
dissatisfied with the more sober duties of life."

"I am too young for the sober duties of life," said Jane, rather
pertly.

"That is, doubtless, one of your friend Mary's sentiments; and it is
worthy of her."

This was true, and Jane did not deny it.

"Go now," said Mrs. Leland, with much sobriety of manner. "But
remember that I disapprove of this gadding about, and object to its
continuance. I should be very sorry to have your father know to what
extent you are carrying it."

Jane went out and called for Mary, and the two young ladies made a
few calls, and then walked the streets until dinner time; not,
however, alone, but accompanied by a dashing young fellow, who had
been introduced to Mary a few evenings before, and now made bold to
follow up the acquaintance, encouraged by a glance from the young
lady's bright, inviting eyes.

Mrs. Leland, in the mean time, felt unhappy. Her daughter was
changing, and the change troubled her. The intimacy formed with Mary
Halloran, it was clear, was doing her no good, but harm. By this
time, too, she had noticed some things in the mother that were by no
means to her taste. There was a coarseness, vulgarity and want of
delicacy about her, that showed itself more and more every day,
traits of character particularly offensive to Mrs. Leland, who was a
woman of refined sentiments. Besides, Mrs. Halloran's conversation
involved topics neither interesting nor instructing to her
neighbors; and often of a decidedly objectionable kind. In fact, she
liked her less and less every day, and felt her too frequently
repeated visits as an annoyance; and though "Why don't you come in
to see me oftener?" was repeated almost daily, she did not return
more than one out of every half dozen calls she received.

"I've seen Jane in the street with that Mary Halloran no less than
three times this week," said Mr. Leland, one day, "and on two of
these occasions there was a beau accompanying each of the young
ladies."

"She goes out too often, I know," returned Mrs. Leland seriously. "I
have objected to it several times, but the girl's head seems turned
with that Mary Halloran. I do wish she had never known her."

"So do I, from my heart. We knew what she was, and never should have
permitted Jane to make her acquaintance, if it had been in our power
to prevent it."

"It is too late now, and can't be helped."

"Too late to prevent the acquaintance, but not too late to prevent
some of the evil consequences likely to grow out of such an improper
intimacy, which must cease from the present time."

"It will be a difficult matter to break it off now."

"No matter how difficult it may be, it must be done. The first step
toward it you will have to make, in being less intimate with the
mother, whom I like less and less the oftener I meet her."

"That step, so far as I am concerned, has already been taken. I have
ceased visiting Mrs. Halloran almost entirely; but she is here just
as often, and sadly annoys me. I dislike her more and more every
day."

"If I saw as much in any one to object to as you see in Mrs.
Halloran, I would soon make visiting a thing by no means agreeable.
You can easily get rid of her intrusive familiarity if you think
proper."

"Yes, by offending her, and getting the ill-will of a low-minded
unprincipled woman; a thing that no one wants."

"Better offend her than suffer, as we are likely to suffer, from a
continuance of the acquaintance. Offend the mother, I say, and thus
you get rid of the daughter."

But Mrs. Leland was not prepared for this step, yet. From having
been fascinated by Mrs. Halloran, she now began to fear her.

"I should not like to have her talk of me as she talks of some
people whom I think a great deal better than she is."

"Let her talk. What she says will be no scandal," returned Mr.
Leland.

"Even admit that, I don't want to be on bad terms with a neighbor.
If she were to remove from the neighborhood, the thing would assume
a different aspect. As it is, I cannot do as I please."

"Can't you indeed? Then I think we had better move forthwith, in
order that you may be free to act right. There is one thing that I
intend doing, immediately, in any event, and that is, to forbid Jane
from associating any longer with Mary Halloran."

"She cannot help herself. Mary calls for her every day."

"She can help going out with her and returning her calls; and this
she must do."

"I wish it could be prevented. But I am afraid of harsh measures."

"I am more afraid of the consequences to our daughter. We know not
into what company this indiscreet young lady may introduce, nor how
deeply she may corrupt her. Our duty to our child requires us at
once to break up all intercourse with the family."

The necessity Mrs. Leland saw clearly enough, but she hesitated. Her
husband, however, was not a man to hold back when his duty was
before him. Neither fear nor favor governed him in his actions
toward others. When satisfied that a thing ought to be done, he
entered fearlessly upon the work, leaving consequences to take care
of themselves.

While they were yet conversing Jane came to the door, accompanied by
a young gallant. Mr. Leland happened to be sitting near the window
and saw him.

"Bless my heart!" he said, in an excited voice.

"Here she is now, in company with that good-for-nothing son of Mr.
Clement. She might almost as well associate with Satan himself."

"With John Clement?" asked Mrs. Leland, in surprise.

"It is too true; and the fellow had the assurance to kiss his hand
to her. This matter has gone quite far enough now, in all
conscience, and must be stopped, if half the world become offended."

Mrs. Leland doubted and hesitated no longer. The young man who had
come home with Jane bore a notoriously bad character. It was little
less than disgrace, in the eyes of virtuous people, for a lady to be
seen in the street with him. Mr. and Mrs. Leland were shocked and
distressed at the appearance of things; and mutually resolved that
all intercourse with Mrs. Halloran and her daughter should cease.
This could not be effected without giving offence; but no matter,
offence would have to be given.

On that very afternoon Mrs. Halloran called in. But Mrs. Leland sent
her word that she was engaged.

"Engaged, indeed!" said the lady to the servant, tossing her head.
"I'm never engaged to a neighbor."

The servant repeated the words.

"Be engaged again, if she calls," said Mr. Leland, when his wife
mentioned the remark of her visitor. "It will raise an effectual
barrier between you."

Some serious conversation was had with Jane that day by her mother,
but Jane was by no means submissive.

"Your father positively forbids any farther intimacy between you and
Mary Halloran. I shall have nothing more to do with her mother."

Jane met this declaration with a passionate gush of tears, and an
intimation that she was not prepared to sacrifice the friendship of
Mary, whom she believed to be quite as good as herself.

"It must be done, Jane. Your father has the best of reasons for
desiring it, and I hope you will not think for a moment of opposing
his wishes."

"He doesn't know Mary as I know her. His prejudices have no
foundation in truth," said Jane.

"No matter how pure she may be," replied the mother, "she has
already introduced you into bad company. A virtuous young lady
should blush to be seen in the street with the man who came home
with you to-day."

"Who, Mr. Clement?" inquired Jane.

"Yes, John Clement. His bad conduct is so notorious as to exclude
him entirely from the families of many persons, who have the
independence to mark with just reprehension his evil deeds. It
grieves me to think that you were not instinctively repelled by him
the moment he approached you."

Jane's manner changed at these words. But the change did not clearly
indicate to her mother what was passing in her mind. From that
moment she met with silence nearly every thing that her mother said.

Early on the next day Mary Halloran called for Jane, as she was
regularly in the habit of doing. Mrs. Leland purposely met her at
the door, and when she inquired for Jane, asked her, with an air of
cold politeness, to excuse her daughter, as she was engaged.

"Not engaged to _me_," said Mary, evincing surprise.

"You must excuse her, Miss Halloran; she is engaged this morning,"
returned the mother, with as much distance and formality as at
first.

Mary Halloran turned away, evidently offended.

"Ah me!" sighed Mrs. Leland, as she closed the door upon the giddy
young girl; "how much trouble has my indiscreetness cost me. My
husband was right, and I felt that he was right; but, in the face of
his better judgment, I sought the acquaintance of this woman, and
now, where the consequences are to end, heaven only knows."

"Was that Mary Halloran?" inquired Jane, who came down stairs as her
mother returned along the passage.

"It was," replied the mother.

"Why did she go away?"

"I told her you were engaged."

"Why, mother!" Jane seemed greatly disturbed.

"It is your father's wish as well as mine," said Mrs. Leland calmly,
"that all intercourse between you and this young lady cease, and for
reasons that I have tried to explain to you. She is one whose
company you cannot keep without injury."

Jane answered with tears, and retired to her chamber, where she
wrote a long and tender letter to Mary, explaining her position.
This letter she got the chambermaid to deliver, and bribed her to
secrecy. Mary replied, in an epistle full of sympathy for her
unhappy condition, and full of indignation at the harsh judgment of
her parents in regard to herself. The letter contained various
suggestions in regard to the manner in which Jane ought to conduct
herself, none of them at all favorable to submission and concluded
with warm attestations of friendship.

From that time an active correspondence took place between the young
ladies, and occasional meetings at times when the parents of Jane
supposed her to be at the houses of some of their friends.

As for Mrs. Halloran, she was seriously offended at the sudden
repulse both she and her daughter had met, and spared no pains, and
let no opportunity go unimproved, for saying hard things of Mrs.
Leland and her family. Even while Mary was carrying on a tender and
confidential correspondence with Jane, she was hinting disreputable
things against the thoughtless girl, and doing her a serious injury.

The first intimation that the parents had of any thing being wrong,
was the fact that two very estimable ladies, for whom they had a
high respect, and with whose daughters Jane was on terms of
intimacy, twice gave Jane the same answer that Mrs. Leland had given
Mary Halloran; thus virtually saying to her that they did not wish
her to visit their daughters. Both Mr. and Mrs. Leland, when Jane
mentioned these occurrences, left troubled. Not long after, a large
party was given by one of the ladies, but no invitations were sent
to either Mr. or Mrs. Leland, or their daughter. This was felt to be
an intended omission.

After long and serious reflection on the subject, Mrs. Leland felt
it to be her duty, as a parent, to see this lady, and frankly ask
the reason of her conduct towards Jane, as well as toward her and
her husband. She felt called upon to do this, in order to ascertain
if there were not some things injurious to her daughter in common
report. The lady seemed embarrassed on meeting Mrs. Leland, but the
latter, without any excitement, or the appearance of being in the
least offended, spoke of what had occurred, and then said--

"Now, there must be a reason for this. Will you honestly tell me
what it is?"

The lady seemed confused and hesitated.

"Do not fear to speak plainly, my dear madam. Tell me the whole
truth. There is something wrong, and I ought to know it. Put
yourself in my place, and you will not long hesitate what to do."

"It is a delicate and painful subject for me to speak of to you,
Mrs. Leland."

"No matter. Speak out without disguise."

After some reflection, the lady said--

"I have daughters, and am tremblingly alive to their good. I feel it
to be my duty to protect them from all associations likely to do
them an injury. Am I not right in this?"

"Undoubtedly."

"There is one young man in this city whose very name should shock
the ear of innocence and purity. I mean Clement."

"You cannot think worse of him than I do."

"And yet, I am told, Mrs. Leland, that your daughter may be seen on
the street with him almost every day; and not only on the street,
but at balls, concerts, and the theatre."

"Who says so?"

"I have heard it from several," replied the lady, speaking slower
and more thoughtfully. "Mrs. Halloran mentioned it to the person who
first told me; and, since then, I have frequently heard it spoken
of."

In answer to this, Mrs. Leland related the whole history of her
intercourse with Mrs. Halloran, and the cause of its interruption.
She then said--

"Once, only, are we aware of our daughter's having met this young
man. Since then, she has gone out but rarely, and has not been from
home a single evening, unless in our company; so that the broad
charge of association with Clement is unfounded, and has had its
origin in a malignant spirit."

"I understand it all, now, clearly," replied the lady. "Mrs.
Halloran is a woman of no principle. You have deeply offended her,
and she takes this method of being revenged."

"That is the simple truth. I was urged by my husband not to call
upon her when she moved in our square, but I felt it to be only
right to visit her as a neighbor."

"A woman like Mrs. Halloran is not to be regarded as a neighbor,"
replied the lady.

"So my husband argued, but I was blind enough to think differently,
and to act as I thought. Dearly enough am I paying for my folly.
Where the consequences will end is more than I can tell."

"We may be able to counteract them to a certain extent," said the
lady. "Understanding as I now do, clearly, your position toward Mrs.
Halloran, I will be able to neutralize a great deal that she says.
But I am afraid your daughter is misleading you in some things, and
giving color to what is said of her."

"How so?" asked Mrs. Leland in surprise.

"Was she out yesterday?"

"Yes. She went to see her cousins in the morning."

"One of my daughters says she met her in the street, in company with
the very individual of whom we are speaking."

"Impossible!"

"My daughter says she is not mistaken," returned the lady.

Mrs. Leland's distress of mind, as to this intelligence, may be
imagined. On returning home, she found that Jane had gone out during
her absence. She went up into her daughter's room, and found a note
addressed to Jane lying upon her table. After some reflection, she
felt it to be her duty to open the note, which she did. It was from
Mary Halloran, and in these words:--


"MY SWEET FRIEND,--I saw Mr. Clement last night at the opera. He had
a great deal to say about you, and uttered many flattering
compliments on your beauty. He says that he would like to meet you
to-morrow evening, and will be at the corner of Eighth and Pine
streets at half past seven o'clock. Can you get away at that time,
without exciting suspicion? If you can, don't fail to meet him, as
he is very desirous that you should do so. I was delighted with the
opera, and wished a hundred times that you were with me to enjoy it.

"Yours, forever,

"MARY."


Mrs. Leland clasped her hands together, and leaned forward upon the
bureau near which she had been standing, scarcely able to sustain
her own weight. It was many minutes before she could think clearly.
After much reflection, she thought it best not to say anything to
Jane about the note. This course was approved by Mr. Leland, who
believed with his wife, that it was better that Jane should be kept
in ignorance of its contents, at least until the time mentioned for
her joining Clement had passed. Both the parents were deeply
troubled; and bitterly did Mrs. Leland repent her folly in making
the acquaintance of their new neighbor, simply because she was a
neighbor according to proximity.

It was after seven o'clock when the tea bell rang that evening. Mr.
and Mrs. Leland descended to the dining-room, and took their places
at the table.

"Where is Jane?" asked Mrs. Leland, after they had been seated a few
moments.

"She went out five or ten minutes ago," replied the waiter.

Both the mother and father started, with exclamations of surprise
and alarm, from the table. Mr. Leland seized his hat and cane, and
rushing from the house, ran at full speed toward the place which
Clement had appointed for a meeting with his daughter. He arrived in
time to see a lady hastily enter a carriage, followed by a man. The
carriage drove off rapidly. A cab was passing near him at the time,
to the driver of which he called in an excited voice.

"Do you see that carriage?" Mr. Leland said eagerly, as the man
reined up his horse. "Keep within sight of it until it stops, and I
will give you ten dollars."

"Jump in," returned the driver. "I'll keep in sight."

For nearly a quarter of an hour the wheels of the cab rattled in the
ears of Mr. Leland. It then stopped, and the anxious father sprang
out upon the pavement. The carriage had drawn up a little in
advance, and a lady was descending from it, assisted by a man. Mr.
Leland knew the form of his daughter. Ere the young lady and her
attendant could cross the pavement, he had confronted them. Angry
beyond the power of control, he seized the arm of Jane with one
hand, and, as he drew away from her companion, knocked him down with
a tremendous blow from the cane which he held in the other. Then
dragging, or rather carrying, his frightened daughter to the cab,
thrust her in, and, as he followed after, gave the driver the
direction of his house, and ordered him to go there at the quickest
speed. Jane either was, or affected to be, unconscious, when she
arrived at home.

Two days after, this paragraph appeared in one of the daily papers.

"SAVED FROM THE BRINK OF RUIN.--A young man of notoriously bad
character, yet connected with one of our first families, recently
attempted to draw aside from virtue an innocent but thoughtless and
unsuspecting girl, the daughter of a respectable citizen. He
appointed a meeting with her in the street at night, and she was mad
enough to join him at the hour mentioned. Fortunately it happened
that the father, by some means, received intelligence of what was
going on, and hurried to the place. He arrived in time to see them
enter a carriage and drive off. He followed in another carriage, and
when they stopped before a house, well known to be one of evil
repute, he confronted them on the pavement, knocked the young
villain down, and carried his daughter off home. We forbear to
mention names, as it would do harm, rather than good, the young lady
being innocent of any evil intent, and unsuspicious of wrong in her
companion. We hope it will prove a lesson that she will never
forget. She made a most fortunate escape."

When Jane Leland was shown this paragraph, she shuddered and turned
pale; and the shudder went deeper, and her cheek became still paler,
a few weeks later when the sad intelligence came that Mary Halloran
had fallen into the same snare that had been laid for her feet; a
willing victim too many believed, for she was not ignorant of
Clement's real character.

By sad experience Mrs. Leland was taught the folly of any weak
departure from what is clearly seen to be a right course of action;
and she understood, better than she had ever done before, the
oft-repeated remark of her husband that "only those whose principles
and conduct we approve are to be considered, in any true sense,
neighbors."




NOT AT HOME.


JONAS BEBEE has one merit, if he possesses no other, and that is,
the merit of being able to make himself completely at home with all
his friends, male or female, high or low, rich or poor, under any
and all circumstances. His good opinion of himself leaves no room
for his imagination to conceive the idea, that possibly there may
be, in his character, certain peculiarities not agreeable to all. It
never occurs to him, that he may chance to make a _mal apropos_
visit, nor that the prolongation of a call may be a serious
annoyance; for he is so entirely satisfied with himself that he is
sure every one else must feel his presence as a kind of sunshine.

Of course, such being the character of Mr. Jonas Bebee, it may
readily be inferred that he is very likely to commit an occasional
mistake, and blunder, though unconsciously, into the commission of
acts most terribly annoying to others. His evening calls upon ladies
generally produce a marked effect upon those specially selected for
the favor. The character of the effect will appear in the following
little scene, which we briefly sketch--

"Gentleman in the parlor," says a servant coming into a room where
two or three young ladies sit sewing or reading.

"Who is he?" is the natural inquiry.

"Mr. Bebee."

"Goodness!"

"Say we are not at home, Kitty."

"No--no, Kitty, you mustn't say that," interposes one. "Tell him the
ladies will be down in a little while."

Kitty accordingly retires.

"I'm not going down," says one, more self willed and independent
than the rest.

"You've as much right to be annoyed with him as we have," is replied
to this.

"I don't care."

"I wish he'd stay away from here. Nobody wants him."

"He's after you, Aggy."

"After me!" replied Agnes. "Goodness knows I don't want him. I hate
the very sight of him!"

"It's no use fretting ourselves over the annoyance, we've got to
endure it," says one of the young ladies. "So, come, let's put on
the best face possible."

"You can go, Cara, if you choose, but I'm in no hurry; nor will he
be in any haste to go. Say to him that I'll be along in the course
of half an hour."

"No, you must all make your own apologies."

In the meantime Mr. Bebee patiently awaits the arrival of the
ladies, who make their appearance, one after the other, some time
during the next half hour. He compliments them, asks them to sing
and play, and leads the conversation until towards eleven o'clock,
when he retires in the best possible humor with himself and the
interesting young ladies favored with his presence. He has not even
a distant suspicion of the real truth, that his visit was considered
an almost unendurable infliction.

Mr. Bebee's morning calls are often more unwelcome. He walks in, as
a matter of course, takes his seat in the parlor, and sends up his
name by the servant. If told that the lady is not at home, a
suspicion that it may not be so does not cross his mind; for he
cannot imagine it possible that any one would make such an excuse in
order to avoid seeing _him_. Should the lady not be willing to utter
an untruth, nor feel independent enough to send word that she is
engaged, an hour's waste of time, at least, must be her penalty; for
Mr. Bebee's morning calls are never of shorter duration. He knows,
as well as any one, that visits of politeness should be brief; but
he is on such familiar terms with all his friends, that he can waive
all ceremony--and he generally does so, making himself "at home," as
he says, wherever he goes.

One day Mr. Jonas Bebee recollected that he had not called upon a
certain Mrs. Fairview, for some weeks; and as the lady was, like
most of his acquaintances, a particular friend, he felt that he was
neglecting her. So he started forth to make her a call.

It was Saturday, and Mrs. Fairview, after having been, for the
greater part of the morning, in the kitchen making cake, came up to
the parlor to dust and re-arrange some of the articles there a
little more to her liking. Her hair was in papers, and her morning
wrapper not in a very elegant condition, having suffered a little
during the cake-making process. It was twelve o'clock, and Mrs.
Fairview was about leaving the parlor, when some one rung the bell.
Gliding noiselessly to the window, she obtained a view of Mr. Bebee.

"O, dear!" she sighed, "am I to have this infliction to-day? But
it's no use; I won't see him!"

By this time the servant was moving along the passage towards the
door.

"Hannah!" called the lady, in a whisper, beckoning at the same time
with her hand.

Hannah came into the parlor.

"Say I'm not at home, Hannah."

"Yes, ma'am," replied the girl, who proceeded on towards the street
door, while Mrs. Fairview remained in

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