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Town and Country; Or, Life at Home and Abroad, Without and Within Us

by John S. Adams · English · Gutenberg #4669 · 571,982 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Town and Country; Or, Life at Home and Abroad, Without and Within Us

Author: John S. Adams


        
Release date: November 1, 2003 [eBook #4669]
                Most recently updated: June 13, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4669

Credits: This etext was created by Charles Aldarondo


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOWN AND COUNTRY; OR, LIFE AT HOME AND ABROAD, WITHOUT AND WITHIN US ***

TOWN & COUNTRY.

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

BY JOHN S. ADAMS.

BOSTON:

1855.






CONTENTS.





SAVED BY KINDNESS
THE LOVE OF ELINORE
'TIS SWEET TO BE REMEMBERED
I CALL THEE MINE
THE OLD TREE AND ITS LESSON
VOICES FROM THE SPIRIT LAND
THE BEACON LIGHT
BEAR UP
A WELCOME SONG TO SPRING
THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN
THOUGHTS THAT COME FROM LONG AGO
DETERMINED TO BE RICH
THE HEAVEN-SENT, HEAVEN-RETURNED
FLOWERS, BRIGHT FLOWERS
FORGET ME NOT
WHAT IS TRUTH
THE HOMESTEAD VISIT
THE MARINER'S SONG
LOVE'S LAST WORDS
LIGHT IN DARKNESS
MT. VERNON, AND THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON
FREEDOM'S GATHERING
SONG OF THE BIRD
I CHANGE BUT IN DYING
HE IS THY BROTHER
THE WINE-DEALER'S CLERK
ANGELINA
FAREWELL, MY NATIVE LAND
UNLEARNED TO LOVE
WHAT WAS IT?
LETTERS AND LETTER-WRITING
A VISION OF REALITY
JEWELS OF THE HEART
LIGHT FROM A BETTER LAND
POOR AND WEARY
THE BANDBOX MOVEMENT
NEW ENGLAND HOMES
LOVE THAT WANES NOT.
ONWARD COURAGEOUSLY
A FOREST PIC-NIC SONG
THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE
THE ADVENT OF HOPE
CHILD AND SIRE
A BROTHER'S WELCOME
THE IMMENSITY OF CREATION
A VISION OF HEAVEN
THERE'S HOPE FOR THEE YET
SOLILOQUY OVER THE GRAVE OF A WIFE
THE FUGITIVES
THE UNIVERSAL JUBILEE
THE BATTLE OF THE RED MEN
SUNLIGHT ON THE SOUL
A SONG FROM THE ABSENT
TO THE LOVED ONE AT HOME
TWILIGHT FOREST HYMN
THE SUMMER SHOWER
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN AUTOMATON
TO THE UNKNOWN DONOR OF A BOUQUET
TO A SISTER IN HEAVEN
I DREAMED OF THEE LAST NIGHT, LOVE
THEY TELL OF HAPPY BOWERS
MAN CANNOT LIVE AND LOVE NOT
BETTER THAN GOLD
GONE AWAY
LINES TO MY MIFE
CHEER UP
TRUST THOU IN GOD
THE MINISTRATION OF SORROW
GIVING PUBLICITY TO BUSINESS
THE MISSION OF KINDNESS
A PLEA FOR THE FALLEN
JOY BEYOND
THE SUMMER DAYS ARE COMING
THE MAN WHO KNOWS EVERYTHING
PRIDE AND POVERTY
WORDS THAT TOUCH THE INNER HEART
OUR HOME
SPECULATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCE
RETROSPECTION
NATURE'S FAIR DAUGHTER, BEAUTIFUL WATER
THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP
WEEP NOT
RICH AND POOR
THE HOMEWARD BOUND
THE POOR OF EARTH
IF I DON'T OTHERS WILL
NOT MADE FOR AN EDITOR
HERE'S TO THE HEART THAT'S EVER BRIGHT
MORNING BEAUTY
THE RECOMPENSE OF GOODNESS
BRIDAL SONGS
THE JUG AFLOAT
GIVE, AND STAY THEIR MISERY
THE SPIRIT OF MAN
PAUSE AND THINK
LITTLE NELLY
WE SHALL ALL BE HAPPY SOON
REUNION
THE VILLAGE MYSTERY
THE WAYSIDE DEATH
BEAUTY AND INNOCENCE
NIGHT
NOT DEAD, BUT CHANGED
THE DISINHERITED
THE SEASONS ALL ARE BEAUTIFUL
SPRING
A TEXT FOR A LIFETIME
NOW CLOSE THE BOOK






TOWN AND COUNTRY.

SAVED BY KINDNESS.

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





CHAPTER I.




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

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

The lad had no sooner left the room than a man entered, whose
carelessly arranged apparel and excited appearance indicated that
something of vast importance-at least, as far as he was
concerned-burthened his mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A hard task, yet I will try."

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

"Then I say, I will."

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

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

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

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

"What, with the h off?"

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

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

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

"That's it," answered Bill, and, plunging his hand into his pocket,
he drew from thence a small scrap of greasy, pocket-worn paper, and
read a few words in a low whisper to his friend Harry. A nod from
the latter signified his approval. He returned the mysterious
memorandum to his pocket, and planting upon his head a poor, very
poor apology for a hat, swung his body round a few times on his
heel, and leaving the house; pushed open a small wicket-gate, and
entered the street. He hurriedly trudged along, heaping silent
curses upon the head of Harry's boy, the kitchen-girl, and sundry
other feminine and masculine members of the human family not yet
introduced to the reader.

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

Henry Lang had been in years past a man well-to-do in the world; he
was once a merchant respected for his strict integrity and
punctuality in business affairs; but by a false step, a making haste
to be rich, he was ruined. The great land speculation of '37 and
thereabout was the chief, and in fact the only cause of his
misfortune. On one day he could boast of his thousands, and no paper
held better credit than that signed or endorsed by him. The next,
the bubble broke, his fortune was scattered, his riches took to
themselves wings and flew away, his creditors, like vultures,
flocked around and speedily devoured what little remained of his
once large possessions. He was a man easily affected by such
occurrences, and they deeply wounded his sensitive feelings. What
should he do? He looked around upon those who once professedly loved
him; but no hand was extended, no heart sympathized with him in the
hour of trouble. He left his country, and with it a wife and one
child, a daughter, lovely, if not in personal appearance, in highly
virtuous and intellectual qualities, which, after all, will be
admitted to be of more value than that which time withers and
sickness destroys.

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

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

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

With such words did the daughter administer consolation to the
afflicted, when hearing that her husband had forsaken her and sailed
for a foreign port. It was indeed a heavy blow, and she felt it
severely. She could have endured the thought of having all her
earthly possessions taken from her,--but to be deserted, to be left
at such a time dependent upon the charities of the world for a
subsistence, such a thought she was not prepared to withstand.

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

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

The kindness of a neighbor enabled her, with her daughter, to remove
their place of residence. This neighbor-a lady of moderate pecuniary
circumstances-furnished them with needle-work, the compensation for
which enabled them to obtain supplies necessary for a comfortable
living.





CHAPTER II.




For some time Mr. Henry Lang sat with his head resting upon his
hands, and with them upon the table. Deep silence prevailed, broken
only, at lengthy intervals, by the loud laugh following the merry
jest of some passer-by, or the dismal creaking of the swing-sign of
an adjacent tavern.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perfectly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When I left here, I started intending in a direct course to go
home. Musingly I walked along, cursing my fate, and several other
things, too numerous to mention, and speculating upon the probable
success of our scheme, till I arrived in front of the old broker's.
He was just putting up his iron-clamped shutters. I was on the
opposite side, at some distance, yet not so far but that I plainly
saw him enter and pack snugly away in his little black trunk divers
articles of apparently great worth. I carelessly jingled the last
change in my pocket, of value about a dollar or so; and the thought
of soon being minus cash nerved me to the determination of robbing
the broker. Thus resolved, I hid myself behind a pile of boxes that
seemed placed there on purpose, till I heard the bolt spring, and
saw the broker, with the trunk beneath his arm, walk away. As he
entered that dark passage, 'Fogg-lane,' I pulled my cap down over my
face, and dogged him, keeping the middle of the passage; and, seeing
a favorable opportunity, I sprang upon him from behind, and snatched
the box; then left him to his fate.

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

"As you say," answered Harry, "and it is my humble opinion you are
not entirely free from change."

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

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

The two remained silent; for the sound of approaching footsteps
momentarily grew more distinct. It sounded nearer, and now was in
front of the door.

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

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

The officer, having thus far declared what he thought to be his
duty, proceeded to its performance by pushing open the doors through
which egress could be had to the street, and all others. As chance
would have it, the right door was by them unobserved. But where was
the fugitive? He had been hurried into a closet. It was not after
the manner of most closets. It was about three feet square, at one
side of which was a door communicating with the cellar, through
which any person might pass, and from thence into the street. He
could not stand long and listen to the loud converse of those
without. He felt himself in danger if he remained, and determined
upon leaving the closet. So, having passed into the cellar, he
entered the street.

The night was dark; the hour late, and no persons stirring. Softly
he crept beneath the window, and, perceiving none in the room but
Harry, softly tapped the glass. Mr. Lang raised his arm, by which
signal Bill understood that he was aware of his having left the
closet. Then through back lanes, seldom pedestrianated, and narrow
passages, he wended his way, with his stolen treasure closely held
beneath the loose folds of his jacket. He passed on, till, reaching
a dark street, he beheld a dim light in a low oyster-cellar; he
entered. A black fellow was the proprietor, cook, &c. Bill asked for
lodgings.

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

Bill asked the price.

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

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

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

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

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

"Of no one," was the brief response.

"It would be very sad if the rascal could not be found," continued
Mr. Lang. "The gallows is too good for one who would make such a
cowardly attack, and treat with such baseness one who never harmed
his fellow."

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

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

Both were aware that the place in which they were was not of very
good repute, and made all possible haste to remove. But, to effect
this successfully, it was necessary that Mr. Lang should have a
change of dress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





CHAPTER III.




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Long seemed the intervening hours, and many were the predictions
made concerning the success of her mission; yet she determined to
go, in the spirit of Martin Luther, though every stone in the prison
should arise to persecute her.

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

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

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

"The gentleman who came this morning to see Mr. Lang wished me to
bring this young lady here, and introduce her to you as Mr. Lang's
daughter." Having said this, the hack-man let down the steps, and
aided her out. The gate-keeper retired into a sort of sentry-box,
and amused himself by peeping over the window-curtain, laughing very
immoderately when anything serious was said, and sustaining a very
grave appearance when anything having a shade of comicality
occurred.

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

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

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

Such a change in him needs some explanation.

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

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

Such were the sincere thoughts of Mr. Lang. He would return, but
none stood by to welcome him. A few had visited him, most of whom
had severely reflected upon his misdeeds. They opened a dark
prospect for him in the future. "Now," said they, "you must here
remain; receive retribution for your evil deeds, and a sad warning
to others not to follow in your steps, lest they arrive at the same
goal." Was there encouragement in this? Surely not; he deemed them
not the words of friendship, and he was right in his judgment.

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

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

"And could you forgive your father? How could you seek him, when he
forsook you?" Mr. Lang could not make this last observation without
becoming affected even to tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed! What? Some glad news?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We need not lengthen out our the by narrating what there ensued. He
that day commenced his clerkship, and to this day holds it. He often
received liberal donations from his employer in token of his regard
for him, and by way of encouraging him in his attempts to regain his
lost fortune.

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

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

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

"Mr. Lang," said he, as he was about to depart, "your daughter
remembers receiving an anonymous letter signed 'Charles B--.' I do
not say it to please my own vanity, but I ordered my clerk to write
it, and sent it by my son. I thought of you when you little thought
you had a friend on earth who cared for you, and rejoice that I have
been the humble instrument in effecting your reformation."

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

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

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






THE LOVE OF ELINORE.





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






'TIS SWEET TO BE REMEMBERED.





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






I CALL THEE MINE.





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






THE OLD TREE AND ITS LESSON.





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

Listen.

Many, very many years ago,--there were forests then where now are
cities, and the Indian song was borne on that breeze which now bears
the sound of the Sabbath bell, and where the fire of the work-shop
sends up its dense, black smoke, the white cloud from the Indian's
wigwam arose,--yes, 't was many years ago, when, by the door of a
rough, rude, but serviceable dwelling, a little boy sat on an old
man's knee. He was a bright youth, with soft blue eyes, from which
his soul looked out and smiled, and hair so beautiful that it seemed
to be a dancing sunbeam rather than what it really was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the mourner's heart was strengthened, and the lesson he would
have taught the child came from the child to him, and made his soul
glad.

A few weeks passed, and the old man died.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They did so.

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

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






VOICES FROM THE SPIRIT-LAND.





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






THE BEACON-LIGHT.





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






BEAR UP.





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

       When sunlight gathered round it,

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

       There Hope, bright Hope, will meet thee;

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






A WELCOME SONG TO SPRING.





    SHOUT a welcoming to Spring!
        Hail its early buds and flowers!
    It is hastening on to bring
        Unto us its joyous hours.
    Birds on bough and brake are singing,
        All the new-clad woods are ringing;
    In the brook, see Nature flinging
        Beauties of a thousand dyes,

       As if jealous of the beauties
    Mantling the skies.
    Hail to Beauty! Hail to Mirth!
        All Creation's song is gladness;
    Not a creature dwells on earth
        God would have bowed down in sadness!
    Everything this truth is preaching,
        God in all his works is teaching,
    As if man by them beseeching
        To be glad, for he doth bless;

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






THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN.

CHAPTER I.





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

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

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

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

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

Young and old reluctantly bade him "good-by," and, as the stage
wound its circuitous way from the village, from many a heart
ascended a prayer that He who ruleth over all would prosper and
protect him.

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

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

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

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

'T was not this that made her sad. She had no fears that he would
forget his Emi', but another thought pressed heavily on her mind,
and she said,

"But, aunty, city life is one of danger. Temptations are there we
little think of, and stronger hearts than Edward's have quailed
beneath their power."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





CHAPTER II.




It was a late hour in the evening that the coach entered the
metropolis. Railroads were not then in vogue, and large
baggage-waggons, lumbering teams and clumsy coaches, were drawn by
two or more horses, over deep-rutted roads, and almost endless
turnpikes.

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

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

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

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

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

The coach rolled on, and in a short time Edward was safely ensconced
in a neatly-furnished room in a hotel known as "The Bull's Horn." It
was indeed a great disadvantage to him that he came to a city in
which he was a total stranger. He had no acquaintance to greet him
with a friendly welcome; and the next day, as he was jostled by the
crowd, and pushed aside by the hurried pedestrian, he realized what
it was to be a stranger in a strange land, and an indescribable
sensation came upon him, known only to those who have been placed in
similar circumstances.

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

The landlord of the tavern at which our hero had housed himself was
a stout, burly man, and quite communicative. From him Edward learned
much of importance. Mr. Blinge was his name. He was an inveterate
smoker, and his pet was a little black pipe, dingy and old, and by
not a few deemed a nuisance to "The Bull's Horn." This he held
between his teeth, and, seating himself behind his bar, puffed away
on the high-pressure principle.

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

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

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

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

The introduction over, they engaged in conversation. The young man
seemed pleased in making his acquaintance, and expressed a hope that
a friendship so suddenly formed might prove lasting and beneficial
to each.

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

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

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

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

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

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





CHAPTER III.




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

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

It was near nine when Othro and Edward found themselves on the way
to the confectioner's. Edward was glad on account of finding one
whom he thought he could trust as a friend, and congratulated
himself on his good luck.

Near the head of Cresto-street might have been seen, not many years
since, over the door of a large and fashionable store, a sign-board
bearing this inscription: "M. Lagrange, Confectioner and Dealer in
Wines and Cordials." We say it was "large and fashionable;" and
those of our readers who recollect the place of which we speak will
testify to the truth of our assertion.

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

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

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

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

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

The ladies passed on, and were soon out of hearing. Edward and his
companion entered the store, where about a dozen ladies and
gentlemen were seated, discussing the fashions, forging scandal, and
sipping wine.

Mr. Lagrange was actively engaged when the two entered; but, seeing
them, and supposing them to have called on the business for which
they actually had called, he called to one of the attendants to fill
his place, and entered into conversation with Messrs. Dayton and
Treves, which in due time was terminated, they agreeing to call
again the next day.

First impressions are generally the most lasting. Those Edward and
Othro received during their visit and subsequent conversation were
favorable to the purchase.

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

Mr. Lagrange's chief object in selling out was that he might
disengage himself from business. He had been a long time in it; he
was getting somewhat advanced in life, and had accumulated
sufficient to insure him against want, and he deemed it best to step
out, and give room to the young-an example worthy of general
imitation.

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

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

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

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





CHAPTER IV.




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

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

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

The next Monday the citizens were notified, by the removal of his
old sign, that Mr. Lagrange had retired from business. During the
day, many of Mr. Lagrange's customers came in, that they might
become acquainted with the successors of their old friend. To these
Messrs. Dayton and Treves were introduced, and from them received
promise of support.

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

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

He had ofttimes been reasoned with in his days of soberness, and had
often promised to reform; but so many around him drank that he could
not resist the temptation to drink also, and therefore broke his
promise. This habit had so fastened itself upon him, that, like one
in the coil of the serpent, the more he strove to escape the closer
it held him.

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

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

Perchance some one in pity may bestow a small sum upon him. Utterly
regardless of the fact that his wife and children are at home
shivering over a few expiring embers that give no warmth, without a
crumb to appease their hunger, and although he himself a moment
before believed that if aid did not come speedily he must perish, he
hastens to the nearest groggery, and, laying down his money, calls
for that which has brought upon him and his such woe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They had now arrived in front of the "Gladiate," a massive stone
structure, most brilliantly illuminated. Long rows of carriages
stood in front, and crowds of the gay and fashionable were flocking
in.

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

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

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

"Will you enter?" inquired Othro. Edward desired to be excused, and
they parted; one entering the theatre, the other repairing to his
home.





CHAPTER V.




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Never," replied Edward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like the innocent, unthinking bird, who, charmed by the serpent's
glistening eyes, falls an easy prey to its crushing embrace, was he
at that moment. He the bird, unconscious of the danger behind the
charm.

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

It was near midnight when Mr. Pump left. The two had become quite
sociable, and Mr. Pump saw the effect of his brandy in the unusual
gayety of Edward.

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

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

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

As Edward read here and there a letter, it did seem as though his
friends stood beside him, and spoke words of advice which conscience
whispered should be heeded. Love was the theme of not a few, yet all
warned him to flee from evil. He returned the parcel, and, as he did
so, he pledged himself that if he drank any it should be with
moderation: and that, as soon as he felt its ruinous effects, to
abstain altogether.

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

"Figaro acted Hamlet to a charm," said he; "and Fanny Lightfoot
danced like a fairy. But two nights more! Now, Edward, if you do not
wish to offend me, and that exceedingly, say you will go with me
to-morrow night."





CHAPTER VI.




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

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

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

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

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

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

The papers were filled with predictions concerning it; and the
editors, happy fellows, were in ecstasies of joy on account of
having been invited to attend. Nor were Messrs. Dayton and Treves
forgotten; but lengthy eulogies upon their abilities to perform the
duty assigned them occupied prominent places, and "steamboat
disasters," "horrid murders," and "dreadful accidents," were obliged
to make room for these.

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

The chief object of attraction was a small boy, who had attained
considerable proficiency in musical knowledge, not of any particular
instrument, but anything and everything; consequently a large
assortment of instruments had been collected, upon which he played.
As music had called them together, it was the employment of the
evening, and the hour of midnight had passed when they were summoned
to the tables.

Those gentlemen who desired had an apartment to themselves, where
wine and cigars circulated freely. Some, in a short time, became
excited; whilst others, upon whom the same cause had a different
effect, became stupid. One poor fellow, whose bloated countenance
told a sad tale, lay almost senseless; another sat dreamingly over
his half-filled glass, whilst another excited the risibilities of
not a few by his ineffectual attempts to light his cigar.

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

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

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

Mrs. Venet tried to comfort her by saying that, if what she so much
feared was true, yet it was nothing uncommon; and mentioned several
men, and not a few ladies, who had been carried away in a senseless
condition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sound of his voice resounded through the building, and his
drunken companions, hearing it, made the building echo with their
boisterous laughter.

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

The servants, hearing the tumult, hastened to the spot; but neither
they nor Mrs. Venet could induce him to become quiet.

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

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

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

Again the injured wife fainted, and again the restoratives were
faithfully applied; but it was evident that if Mr. Dayton remained
in her presence it would be difficult to restore her, and the man
who before would not be approached was led quietly away. In a short
time Mrs. Dayton became sensible, and her first words were to
inquire after Edward. Being told, she was induced to lie down, and,
if possible, enjoy a little sleep; but sleep she could not. Her mind
became almost delirious, and fears were entertained by her
attendants that she would lose her reason.

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

To Mrs. Dayton this was an hour of the deepest sorrow. She looked
back upon the past, and saw happiness; in the future nothing but
misery seemed to await her. Yet a change came over her; she thanked
God for his past mercies, and wisely trusted him for their
continuance. She implored pardon for past ingratitude, and prayed
that she might be more grateful in future, and that, having tasted
of the cup of sorrow, she might not drink the bitter draught.





CHAPTER VII.




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

Emily wept as she bent over him.

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

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

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

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

He arose and paced the room in agony of feeling which pen cannot
describe. Suddenly halting, he gazed steadfastly upon the face of
his wife. It was deadly pale, and a tear dimmed the usual lustre of
her eye.

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

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

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

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

"Do you-can you forgive?"

"God will forgive; and shall not I?"

"Then let this be a pledge of the future;" and, taking her hand in
his, he said; "I resolve to walk in the path of right, and never
more to wander, God being my witness and my strength."

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

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

"PLEDGE.-We pledge ourselves to abstain from the use of all
intoxicating drinks, except the moderate use of wine, beer and
cider."

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

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

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

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

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

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





CHAPTER VIII.




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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Pump, who for a long time had lived on appearances, could do so
no longer; for, persisting in his opinion that brandy could not hurt
him, he drank so much that bad soon supplanted good appearances, and
his company was soon discarded.

Mr. Blinge would not have him about his premises, although the one
drank as much as the other, and a great similarity existed between
them.

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

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

Edward had fallen; he had become what was termed a "common
drunkard." His wife wept tears of anguish; she entreated; she begged
him to reform. She prayed to Heaven for its aid; yet week passed
week, month followed month, on Time's unending course, and she was a
drunkard's wife still. All friends had forsaken her. Friends! shall
we call them such? No; they did not deserve the name. Their
friendship only had an existence when fortune smiled; when a frown
mantled its countenance, or a cloud intervened, they fled. Yet God
was raising up friends for her, and from a class of society from
whom she little expected aid. God was working, in his mysterious
way, a deliverance. He had heard the prayers that for many long
years had gone up to his throne from thousands of wretched families;
and, moved to pity, he was to show them that he was a God of mercy.

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

The clock struck twelve.

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

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

"And rum for me," said another.

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

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

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

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

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

"So have I," exclaimed another.

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

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

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

"Amen!" responded all.

"Let us come out," he continued; "but what can temperance folks do?
I have signed the pledge, and signed, and signed, but I cannot keep
it. I had no friends; temperance folks never came to me. I have
often thought that, if a friend would reach forth his hand, and help
me from the gutter when I have lain there, I would do anything for
such a friend. But when I am drunk they laugh at and jeer me. Boys
stone and cuff me, and men stand by and laugh at their hellish
sport. Yes, those calling themselves 'friends of temperance' would
laugh at me, and say, 'Miserable fool, nothing can save him! When
such are dead, we can train up a generation of temperate people.' I
am kicked and cuffed about like a dog, and not a hand is extended to
relieve me. When I first tasted, I told him who gave it me the blame
should rest on him if I fell. Where he is now, I know not; but,
wherever he is, I know his is a miserable existence. Years have
passed since then, and here I am, a miserable drunkard. My
wife-where is she? and my good old aunt-where is she? At home in
that comfortless room, weeping over my fall, and praying for my
reform. Brothers, let us arise; let us determine to be men-free
men!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No words were required to induce all present to sign.

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

The next day, the report spread like wild-fire about the city that
drunkards themselves were reforming. Many doubted, and would not
believe such to be the case.

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





CHAPTER IX.




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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






THOUGHTS THAT COME FROM LONG AGO.





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






DETERMINED TO BE RICH.





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






THE HEAVEN SENT, HEAVEN RETURNED.





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






FLOWERS, BRIGHT FLOWERS!





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






FORGET ME NOT.





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






WHAT IS TRUTH?





LONG, long ago, one whose life had been one of goodness-whose every
act had been that of charity and good will-was persecuted, hated and
maligned! He came with new hopes. He held up a light, whose rays
penetrated far into the future, and disclosed a full and glorious
immortality to the long doubting, troubled soul of man.

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

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

All his good deeds were underrated; and those who, having seen with
their own eyes, and heard with their own ears, were honest enough to
believe and openly declare their belief; were looked upon by the
influential and those in high places as most egregiously deceived
and imposed upon.

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

Impressed deeply with the reality and divinity of his
mission,--looking to God as his father, and to all mankind as his
brethren,--Jesus continued his way. To the scoffs and jeers of the
rabble, he replied in meekness and love; and amid the proud and
lofty he walked humbly, ever conscious of the presence of an angelic
power, which would silence the loudest, and render powerless the
might of human strength.

He spoke as one having authority. He condemned the formalism of
their worship; declared a faith that went deeper than exterior rites
and ceremonies; and spoke with an independence and fearlessness such
deep and soul-searching truths, that the people took up stones to
stone him, and the priests and the rulers held council together
against him.

At length the excited populace, beholding their cherished faith
undermined, and the new teacher day by day inculcating doctrines
opposed to those of Moses and the prophets, determined to take his
life, and thus terminate his labors and put a stop to his heresies.

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

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

Urged to action by the mad crowd around him, balancing his decision
between justice, the prisoner's release, and injustice, the call to
crucify him, he knows not what to do. In an agony of thought, which
pen cannot describe or human words portray, he delays his
irrevocable doom.

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

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

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

The present is an era of thought. Men begin to assume a spirit of
independence, and to look less upon human authority, and more upon
that light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world. And
it is well that it is so. It is well that we begin to look upon
liberty in another light than a mere absence of iron bonds upon our
hands and feet; that we begin to discern that "He is a freeman whom
the truth makes free, And all are slaves beside." We are pressing on
to know the truth. We have grown weary of darkness, and are seeking
the light. We should remember, in our researches, that, to find out
truth, we must not be pledged to any form, any opinion, or any
creed, however old or dearly cherished such limitations may have
been with ourselves or others. We must come to the task like little
children, ready to learn. We must leave our beliefs behind us. We
must not bring them, and attempt to adapt our discoveries in the
realms of eternal truth to them; but we must build up the structure
with the material we find in the universe of God; and then, when
reared, if we find that in doing so we have a stone from our old
temple nicely adjusted in the new, very well;--let it remain, and
thank God for it.

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

Let our course be our own course, and not that of others. Let us
seek for truth as truth. Let us be honest and press on, trusting in
God the rewarder of all, who will bless all our efforts to ascertain
his truths, and our duty to him, to our fellow-men, and to
ourselves.






THE HOMESTEAD VISIT.





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

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






THE MARINER'S SONG.





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






LOVE'S LAST WORDS.





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






LIGHT IN DARKNESS.





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






MT. VERNON, AND THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON.





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

It was a delightful afternoon; one just suited to the purpose to
which we had devoted it. The trees were clad in fresh, green
foliage, and the farms and gardens were blooming into early life. To
myself, no season appears so beautiful as that of spring. All
seasons to me are bright and glorious, but there is a charm about
spring that captivates the soul. Then Nature weaves her drapery, and
bends over the placid lake to jewel herself, as the maiden bends
before her mirror to deck her pure white brow with diamonds and
rubies. All is life, all animation, all clothed with hope; all
tending upward, onward to the bright future. "The trees are full of
crimson buds, the woods are full of birds, And the waters flow to
music, like a tune with pleasant words."

In about one hour we reached the city of Alexandria. Between this
place and Washington a steamboat plies, going and returning four
times a day. The road from Washington to Alexandria is about decent;
but the road from thence to Mount Vernon is in the worst possible
condition,--so bad, in fact, that we dismounted and walked a
considerable distance, it being far less tiresome to walk than to
ride. The road winds in a very circuitous route through a dense
forest, the lofty trees of which, rising upon either hand, cast
their deep shadows upon us. The place, that would otherwise have
been gloomy, was enlivened by the variable songs of the
mocking-birds, and the notes of their more beautiful-plumed though
less melodious companions.

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

The homes of the negroes were in some cases built of stone; mostly,
however, of boards, put loosely together, and in some instances of
large logs, the crevices being filled with mud, which, the sun and
wind having hardened, were white-washed, presenting a very strong
though not very beautiful appearance, the architecture of which was
neither Grecian nor Roman, but evidently from "original designs" by
a not very fastidious or accomplished artist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The house I need not describe, as most persons are acquainted with
its appearance, from seeing the numerous engraved representations of
it. It shows many evidences of age and decay. Time is having his own
way with, it, as the hand that would defend it from his ravages, and
improve its looks, is kept back, that it may remain as nearly as
possible in the same condition as when occupied by our first
president. We entered and passed through several rooms, endeavoring
to allay our curiosity by asking more questions than our attendant
could conveniently answer and retain his senses.

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

Mr. Washington being called to the farm, we availed ourselves of the
services of the old negro before mentioned, who led us around the
estate. On our way to the tomb, we passed through what we judged to
be a kitchen. The floor was brick, and a fireplace occupied nearly
all of one side of the room; one of those old-fashioned contrivances
which were in vogue in those days when people went more for comfort
than appearance. Half a score of negroes were in the room, who gazed
at us as we entered, covered with dust and dirt, the real free soil
of Virginia. They seemed to think our intentions more of a warlike
than a peaceable nature. We soon inclined them to the latter belief,
however, by gently patting a curly-headed urchin upon the head, and
distributing a few pennies among the crowd.

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

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

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

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

WITHIN THIS ENCLOSURE ARE

THE REMAINS

OF

GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sun had passed the horizon, and the cool evening air, laden with
the fragrance of shrubbery and flowers, gathered about us. A lively
squirrel sprang across our path; a belated bird flew by; and, amid
the pleasant, quiet scenes of rural life, we wended our way
homeward.






FREEDOM'S GATHERING.





        I SEEMED to live beyond the present time;

       Methought it was when all the world was free,
        And myriad numbers, from each distant clime,

       Came up to hold their annual jubilee.
        From distant China, Afric's sunburnt shore,

       From Greenland's icebergs, Russia's broad domain,
        They came as men whom fetters bound no more,

       And trod New England's valley, hill, and plain.
    They met to hold a jubilee, for all
    Were free from error's chain, and from the oppressor's thrall.
        Word had gone forth that slavery's power was done;

       The cry like wild-fire through the nations ran;
        Russia's tame serf, and Afric's sable son,

       Threw off their chains-each felt himself a man.
        Thrones that had stood for ages were no more;

       Man ceased to suffer; tyrants ceased to reign;
        And all throughout the world, from shore to shore,

       Were loosed from slavery's fetter and its chain;
    And those who once were slaves came up as free,
    Unto New England's soil, to keep their jubilee.
        New England! 't was a fitting place, for it

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

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

       From their deep lethargy, then look and see
        That they of Freedom's boon might have a part,

       Their nation glorious as New England be.
    And then like men they struggled till they won,
    And Freedom's high-born light shone as a noonday sun.
        Men gathered there who were men; nobly they

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       In which man groped and wandered, till the damp,
    Cold, cheerless gateway of an opening tomb
    Met his extended hand, and sealed his final doom.
        Perchance one mind, illumined from above,

       Did strive to burst the heavy bonds it wore,
        Pierce through the clouds of error, and, in love

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

       It would be free; but tyrants saw and crushed
        Man's first attempt to cast his chains away,

       The first aspirings of his nature hushed.
    Thus back from men was Freedom's genius driven,
    And Slavery's chains in ten-fold strength were riven.
        In gazing o'er the past, 't was this they saw-

       How Evil long had triumphed; but to-day
        Man bowed to nothing but God's righteous law,

       And Truth maintained its undisputed sway.
        Right conquered might; and of this they were proud,

       As they beheld all nations drawing near,--
        Men from all lands, a vast, unnumbered crowd,

       While in their eyes full many a sparkling tear
    Trembled a while, then from its cell did start,
    Witness to the deep joys of an o'erflowing heart.
        There came up those who'd crouched beneath the lash,

       Had bowed beneath the chains they scarce could bear,
        Till Freedom's lightning on their minds did flash,

       And roused them as a lion in his lair
        Is roused when foes invade it, then, with strength

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

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

       Far in the distance met my wondering eye;
        On hill and dale, on all New England's coast,

       White banners waved beneath a cloudless sky.
        The aged sire leaned on his oaken staff,

       Manhood stood up in all its strength and pride,
        And youth came dancing with a joyous laugh,

       With woman, lovely woman, at their side;
    Bright eyes, glad hearts, and joyous souls, were there,
    Free as the light that shone, unfettered as the air.
        The mind, that spark of Deity within

       That hath its nurture from a higher world,
        No longer bound by tyranny and sin,

       Beheld its highest, noblest powers unfurled.
        No more did Error bind it to its creed,

       Or Superstition strive to blind its sight;
        It followed only where God's truth did lead,

       And trusted him to guide its course aright.
    The inner as the outer man was free,
    And both united held this glorious jubilee.
        --'T was all a vision, and it passed away,

       As dreams depart; yet it did leave behind
        Its deep impressions, thoughts that fain would stay

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

       The clank of Slavery's fetters rend the air;
        And feelings of my heart were deeply stirred,

       When I beheld my brethren, who dare
    Proclaim all "equal," yet in chains of steel
    Bind men, who, like themselves, can pain and pleasure feel.
        God in his wisdom meant all should be free,

       All equal: each a brother unto man.
        Presumptuous mortal! who His great decree

       Durst strive to change to suit thy selfish plan!
        Know thou that his fixed purpose will be done,

       Though thou arrayest all thy puny strength
        In war against it! All who feel the sun

       Shall own his goodness, and be free at length.
    God cares for mortals, though he reigns on high;
    Freedom is His own cause, and it shall never die!
        My country! if my heart one wish doth hold,

       For thee and for thy good, it is that thou
        No more permit thy children to be sold!

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

       For them they poured their life-blood forth as rain;
        Shall it in foreign lands of us be said,

       We bind our brothers with a galling chain?
    While the Old World is struggling to be free,
    America! shall this foul charge be laid to thee?
        We all may err; may oft be led astray;

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

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

       Then, on as brothers, hand in hand proceed!
        Paths that seem intricate will all be plain,

       If we but follow where God's truth would lead.

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






SONG OF THE BIRD.





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






I CHANGE BUT IN DYING.





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






HE IS THY BROTHER.





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






THE WINE-DEALER'S CLERK.

CHAPTER I.





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

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

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

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

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

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

All these facts were known to the public; yet they countenanced the
traffic in which Messrs. Laneville & Co. were engaged. They were
merchants, they were wealthy; for these reasons, it would seem, the
many-headed public looked up to them with a feeling bordering on
reverence, somewhat awed by their presence, as though wealth had
made them worthy, while many a less rich but ten-fold more honest
man walked in the shadow of the mighty Magog, unseen,--uncared for,
if seen. Messrs. Laneville & Co. knew that the law was against their
business; they knew, also, that public opinion, if not actually in
favor of it, willingly countenanced it.

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

The "Vincennes" had just arrived at the wharf as James entered the
store. It had been the custom of the owners, on the annual arrival
of this vessel, to have a party on board. On this occasion, they
made the usual arrangements for the festivity. Cards of invitation
were speedily written, and distributed among members of the city
government, editors, clergymen, and other influential persons. James
was free to invite such of his friends as he chose, and in doing so
the question arose whether he should ask George Alverton to be
present. It was known to him that George was a teetotaller, and had
that morning invited him to sign the pledge. He knew that at the
entertainment wine would circulate. He knew that some would indulge
rather freely, and that the maintenance of a perfect equilibrium by
such would be very difficult. Suppose he, himself,--that is,
James,--should be among these last mentioned, and that, too, before
his friend George; would it not demolish his favorite argument,
which he had a thousand times advanced, that he knew right from
wrong,--when to drink and when to stop drinking? yet, thought he, I
may not indulge too freely. Yes; I will maintain my position, and
show by practice what I teach by preaching. Besides, it would be
very impolite, as well as uncourteous, in me, not to invite one
whose character I value so highly as his,--one whose friendship I so
much esteem. I will invite him. He shall be present, and shall see
that I can keep sober without being pledged to do so.





CHAPTER II.




George Alverton was the son of a nobleman. Start not, republican
reader, for we mean not a stiff-starched branch of English nobility,
but one of America's noblemen,--and hers are nature's! He was a
hard-working mechanic; one of God's noblest works,--an honest man!
Americans know not, as yet, the titled honors of the Old World; and
none, save a few, whose birth-place nature must have mistook, would
introduce into a republican country the passwords of a monarchical
one.

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

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

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

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

George, observing the superscription, was convinced that it was from
James Clifton, and remarked,

"Don't be too hasty; it is from James; the direction must be wrong;
it was doubtless intended for you. Look out, Jos; you may be the
captured one, after all!"

Josephine was not to be thus thrown from her ground; so, turning to
her brother with a laugh, she said,

"For me! Well, if so 't is so; but I judge from what I see.
Notwithstanding your insinuation that James writes to no one but
myself, I'll venture a bright gold dollar that this is for yourself,
even though it be from James. Open the budget, and prove the truth
of what I say."

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

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

"Go, by all means," said his sister; "stand your own ground, be
firm, be resolute, refuse if asked to partake; but do so in a manner
that, while it shows a determination to resist temptation, will not
offend, but rather induce him you respect to think whether it will
not he best for him also to refuse."

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





CHAPTER III.




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

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

Messrs. Laneville & Co. were in high glee. They drank and played
cards with men worth millions; spoke of the inclemency of the
season, and expressed great surprise that so much poverty and
wretchedness existed, with one breath, and with the next extolled
the wines and administered justice to the eatables. Editors were
there who had that morning written long "leaders" about the
oppression of the poor by the rich, and longer ones about the
inconsistencies of their contemporaries, who ate and drank, and
dreamt not of inconsistency in themselves, though they guided the
press with temperance reins, and harnessed themselves with those who
tarried long at the wine.

James drank quite often, and George as often admonished him of his
danger. But the admonitions of a young man had but little if any
influence, counteracted as they were by the example of the rich and
the great about him. There was Alderman Zemp, who was a temperance
man in the world, but a wine-drinker in a ship's cabin. He had
voted for stringent laws against the sale of liquors, and had had
his name emblazoned on the pages of every professedly temperance
paper as a philanthropist and a righteous man; and on the pages of
every anti-temperance publication, as a foe to freedom, and an enemy
to the rights of humanity. But he drank; yes, he had asked James to
take a glass of the water of Italy, as he called it. Clergymen, so
called, disgraced themselves, and gave the scoffers food for
merriment. Judges who that day might have sentenced some unfortunate
to imprisonment for drinking, drank with a gusto equalled only by
lawyers who would talk an hour in court to prove a man discreditable
evidence because he was known to visit bar-rooms! It was the
influence of these, and such like, that made James drink, and caused
the labor of George to prove all unavailing. It is the example of
the rich that impedes the progress of temperance,--they who loll on
damask sofas, sip their iced champagnes and brandies, and never get
"drunk," though they are sometimes "indisposed."

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





CHAPTER IV.




The next morning George called at the store of Laneville & Co. No
one was in save a small lad, who, to his inquiry, replied that all
were sick. The youth was a short, porpoise-shaped lad, who appeared
quite independent for his age and station, and told George that he
had better call the next day, as the folks would n't be down. In an
instant George suspected the cause of their absence. Though he knew
James would be mortified to be seen, yet he determined upon visiting
him, thinking it a favorable opportunity to submit to him the
expediency of taking that step which he had urged upon him on the
morning previous.

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

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

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

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

The closing of a door put an end to this extemporaneous address.
George stood like a statue; he knew not which course to
take,--whether to go up to his friend's room, or go down to the
street. He soon determined, and sent word that he wished to speak to
James. In a moment the latter was again to be heard declaiming
disconnected sentences on all manner of subjects, until, learning
the wish of George, he shouted,

"Yes, tell him to come up and revel in the groves of Madeira, or
dance with peasant-girls at the grape-gatherings in Sicily! Yes,
George, up here, and see how a man can live a temperance life
without signing the pledge, and be as independent as he pleases!"

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

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

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

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

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

Notwithstanding all this, George seemed inclined to argument, for he
immediately said,

"Don't you see the ill effects of last night's indulgence in the
confusion around you, and feel them in your own mind and body?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't drink?"

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

"Everybody drinks."

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

"Well, my employer sells liquors, my minister drinks his wine, and
my friends all drink, except you; and you are a sort of nondescript,
a sort of back-action member of human society, a perfect ginger-cake
without any ginger in it. Say, got a pledge in your pocket? I have;
here it is:" and he pulled forth a slip of paper, on which he had
written some half-legible lines.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





CHAPTER V.




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

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

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

She was answered in the negative, and in the examination of a few
articles that were being prepared for her bridal-day she gradually
forgot all unpleasant misgivings, and nothing but happiness could
she see before her.

It was not until the next day that George had an opportunity of
seeing his friend. He then met him at the store, and James laughed
over the doings of the day previous as a "good joke," as he called
them. On that occasion, as on several subsequent ones, he urged him
to sign and become a total-abstinent; but, with such influences as
those which surrounded him, it was not strange that these efforts
proved ineffectual.

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

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

Love is stronger than death; and, mastering all things, overlooks or
decreases the evil and enlarges the goodness of its object. It was
so in this case. Josephine's attachment to James led her to
sacrifice all other feelings and opinions to her deep affection for
him, and made her willing to stand by him or fall with him, as the
vine to the tree, bright and fresh, though the once sturdy oak lies
fallen and blighted.

The evening came, and with it many a bright and joyous heart to the
home of George Alverton. A more beautiful bride never pronounced the
bridal-vow than she who there, encircled with bright eyes and
smiling faces, gave all to James Clifton. And when it was over, when
they joined the bright galaxy that were about them and mingled with
others in the festive mirth of the hour, a life of joy and social
comfort was predicted for the hearts which that night were made
one! Music was there with its charms, Terpsichore with her graceful
motions, and everything from commencement to close was conducted in
so happy and agreeable a manner, that not a few young folks, as they
rode home, agreed to go through the same performance at their
earliest convenience.

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

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





CHAPTER VI.




For a year the young couple were most happy. The moments flew too
quickly by; so laden were they with joy, they would have them endure
forever. "Little Jim" was a smart one, if he was n't as old as his
father, and the handsomest piece of furniture in the house! Nobody
doubted that; at least, it would n't have been well for them to have
expressed their doubts in a very audible manner, if they held any.

Tasting, trying and judging of liquors, led to a loving, sipping and
drinking of them. We may hate temperance; but it is certain we
cannot hate a good without loving a bad thing. In offering for sale
an article of food or beverage, the influence of our using it
ourselves, or not using it, goes a great ways towards our disposing
of it, or our not disposing of it. James knew this, and acted
accordingly. He always had the best of liquors in his house, as it
was often the case that, after selling a man a large amount, he
invited him home to dine. They, in turn, invited him out in the
evening, and it was often a late hour when he returned. At home the
presence of his wife prevented him from indulging too freely; but
away from home, and surrounded by gay companions, he went as full
lengths as any.

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

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

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

"Why?" she inquired.

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

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

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

"James, James!" exclaimed she. He opened his eyes, gazed for a
moment listlessly upon her, then closed them again. "O, James! don't
you know me? James! say,--wake thee, dearest!"

She pressed his hand in her own, and, as the tears fell freely from
her eyes, so unused to weep, she continued her calls upon him who
lay insensate before her. She whispered in his ear the breathings of
her heart, or in louder tones gave vent to the grief that wounded
it.

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

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

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

He sank into a quiet sleep. Josephine had wept as she caught his
words partly uttered in a whisper so low as to be scarcely
distinguishable. Now, as he slept, she watched his breathings, and
hoped that when he awoke he would be of a sane mind, and that a
realization of what had occurred might influence his future career
for the better.





CHAPTER VII.




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

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

"Rather plain spoken."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The night was one of carousal. The betting on both sides had been
considerable, and the payment of these debts caused the small change
to circulate pretty freely among the dispensers of eatables and
drinkables.

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

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

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





CHAPTER VIII.




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

So far had he proceeded in a downward course that his employers
remonstrated; and the same arguments they had used upon their former
clerks were urged upon his consideration. Fearing the loss of
situation, he repented, but it was only to fall again before the
power of that appetite with which he had tampered as with a torpid
viper, which now felt the warmth of his embrace, and became a
living, craving creature within his bosom.

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

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

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

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

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

"Amen," said half a dozen voices.

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

THEOBALD MATHEW, the friend of Ireland, was making his entry into
Boston! Never man was more gladly welcome. Never was man more
enthusiastically received. It seemed as though all men strove to do
him homage, for they looked upon one who was the instrument, under
God, of saving five millions of human beings from the greatest curse
sin brought into the world; lifting them, and bidding them stand up
as their Maker intended they should.

The "apostle" was seated in an open barouche, with his head
uncovered, bowing to the crowds of stout men and fair women that
filled the windows on either side, often shaking hands with those
who pressed near him to do so.

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

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

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

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

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

"I grant it."

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

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

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

Messrs. Laneville & Co. engaged a new clerk,--a young man of
seventeen, hopeful, promising. He had heard of the fate of his
predecessors, of the narrow escape of him whose place he was being
trained to fill; but, like them and him, he thought himself stronger
than the tempter at his side. That firm is in the home-desolating
business to-day, though James has used much endeavor to induce them
to relinquish it. The young man is there to-day, open to temptations
which have conquered many strong men, have destroyed many mighty.
The pledge is with us to-day, open for those who have fallen, for
those who yet stand,--an instrument of God, in human hands, to rescue
the one and to preserve the other.






ANGELINA.





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






FAREWELL, MY NATIVE LAND.





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

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






UNLEARNED TO LOVE.





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






WHAT WAS IT?





    IT was a low, black, miserable place;
    Its roof was rotting; and above it hung
    A cloud of murky vapor, sending down
    Intolerable stench on all around.
        The place was silent, save the creaking noise,
    The steady motion of a dozen pumps,
    That labored all the day, nor ceased at night.
        Methought in it I heard a hundred groans;
    Dropping of widows' tears, and cries of orphans;
    Shrieks of some victim to the fiendish lust
    Of men for gold; woe echoing woe,
    And sighs, deep, long-drawn sighs of dark despair.
        Around the place a dozen hovels stood,
    Black with the smoke and steam that bathed them all;
    Their windows had no glass, but rags and boards,
    Torn hats and such-like, filled the paneless sash.
    Beings, once men and women, in and out
    Passed and repassed from darkness forth to light;
    And children, ragged, dirty, and despised,
    Clung to them. Children! heaven's early flowers,
    In their spring-time of life, blighted and lost!
    Children! those jewels of a parent's crown,
    Crushed to the ground and crumbled to the dust.
    Children! Heaven's representatives to man,
    Made menial slaves to watch at Evil's gate,

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