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."