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,

And errand-boys to run at Sin's command.

I asked why thus it was; and one old man

Pushed up the visor of his cap, and said:

"That low, black building is the cause of all."

And would you know what 't was that wrought such ill,

And what the name of that low building was?

Go to thy neighbor, read to him these lines,

And if he does not tell thee right, at first,

Then come to me and you shall know its name.

LETTERS AND LETTER-WRITING.

THERE is nothing from which more real enjoyment can be derived than

the art of letter-writing. All praise to the inventive genius that

gave to man a written language, and with it the implements with

which to talk across the world! Did you ever think, reader, what a

world this would be without pen, ink, and paper? Then, the absence

of friends were painful, and, as we grasped the friendly hand, bade

our acquaintances "good-by," and saw the last, far-distant wave of

the parting signal, we might turn aside to weep, as we thought we

should never hear from them till we met face to face-perhaps never.

But, as it is, when friends leave, we expect a message from their

hearts soon, to solace our own. How we watch, and how we hope! What

a welcome rap is the postman's! With what eagerness we loosen the

seal; with what pleasure we read, from date to signature, every

word!

It may not be uninteresting, nor wholly uninstructive, to examine

the various modes of letter-writing, and to spend a brief half-hour

with those who have by their letters made grave or gay impressions

on the public mind.

Some write letters with great ease; others, with great difficulty.

Miss Seward was an inveterate letter-writer. There have been

published six large volumes of letters written by her; besides

these, she left twelve quarto volumes of letters to a publisher of

London, and these, it is said, are but a twelfth part of her

correspondence. It seems as though she must have written nothing but

letters, so many and various were they; but her fame as an authoress

will convince any one that her industry overcame what might seem an

impossibility, and that her genius in this particular resembled that

of the steam-writing machine, Dumas, of the present time.

Lord Peterborough had such a faculty for this kind of composition,

that, when ambassador to Turin, according to Pope, who says he was a

witness of the performance, he employed nine amanuenses, who were

seated in a room, around whom Lord Peterborough walked and dictated

to each what he should write. These nine wrote to as many different

persons, upon, perhaps, nine times as many subjects; yet the

ambassador retained in his mind the connection of each letter so

completely as to close each in a highly-finished and appropriate

manner.

These facts show the ease and rapidity of some writers. In

contradistinction to these are the letters of many eminent Latin

writers, who actually bestowed several months of close attention

upon a single letter. Mr. Owen says: "Such is the defect of

education among the modern Roman ladies, that they are not troubled

to keep up any correspondence; because they cannot write. A princess

of great beauty, at Naples, caused an English lady to be informed

that she was learning to write; and hoped, in the course of time, to

acquire the art of correspondence."

There are many persons with whom it is the most difficult task of

their existence to write a letter. They follow the old Latin

writers, and make a labor of what with others is a recreation. They

begin with the stereotyped words, "I take my pen in hand," as though

a letter could be written without doing so. Then follows, "to inform

you that I am well, and hope this will find you the same." There is

a period-a full stop; and there are instances of persons going no

further, but closing with, "This from your friend, JOHN SHORT."

This "difficulty" arises not from an inability, but from an

excessive nicety-a desire to write a prize essay, instead of a good,

sociable, familiar letter. To make a letter interesting, the writer

must transfer his thoughts from his mind to his paper, as truly as

the rays of the sun place the likeness of an object in front of the

lens through which it acts upon the silvered plate. Seneca says, "I

would have my letters be like my discourses when we sit or walk

together, unstudied and easy."

Willis' letters are of a kind always "free and easy." His "Letters

from Under a Bridge" are admirable specimens of letters as they

should be; and his "Pencillings by the Way" owe much of their

popularity to their easy, familiar, talkative style. The letters of

Cicero and Pliny, of ancient, and Swift, Pope, Arbuthnot, Madame de

S‚vign‚, and Lady Mary Wortley Montague, of modern times, are

generally received as some of the best specimens extant of

epistolary composition. The letters of Charles Lamb are a series of

brilliances, though of kaleidoscope variety; they have wit without

buffoonery, and seriousness without melancholy. He closes one of

them by subscribing himself his friend's "afflicted, headachey,

sorethroaty, humble servant, CHARLES LAMB."

Some men, and women too, of eminence, have written curiosities in

the form of correspondence. The letter of the mother of Foote is a

good example of this kind of correspondence. Mrs. Foote became

embarrassed, and, being unable to meet a demand, was placed in

prison; whereupon she wrote to Mr. Foote as follows:

"DEAR SAM: I am in prison for debt; come, and assist your loving

mother, E. FOOTE.

It appears that "Sam" was equally entangled in the meshes of the

law, for he answered as follows:

"DEAR MOTHER:-So am I; which prevents his duty being paid to his

loving mother by her affectionate son,

"SAM FOOTE.

"P. S.-I have sent my attorney to assist you; in the mean time, let

us hope for better days."

These laconic epistles are well matched by that of a French lady,

who wrote to her husband this missive of intelligence, affection,

&c., &c.:

"I write to you because I have nothing to do; I end my letter

because I have nothing to say."

But these are left far in the rear by the correspondence of two

Quakers, the one living in Edinburgh, the other in London. The

former, wishing to know whether there was anything new in London,

wrote in the corner of a letter-sheet a small interrogation note,

and sent it to his friend. In due time he received an answer. He

opened the sheet and found, simply, O, signifying that there was

none.

In the London Times of January 3d, 1820, is the following,

purporting to be a copy of a letter sent to a medical gentleman:

"CER: Yole oblige me uf yole kum un ce me. I hev a Bad kowld, am

Hill in my Bow Hills, and hev lost my Happy Tight."

William Cowper, the poet, being on very familiar terms with the Rev.

Mr. Newton, amused himself and his friend with a letter, of which

the following is a copy:

"MY VERY DEAR FRIEND: I am going to send, what, when you have read,

you may scratch your head, and say, I suppose, there's nobody knows,

whether what I have got be verse or not; by the tune and the time,

it ought to be rhyme; but if it be, did you ever see, of late or of

yore, such a ditty before?

"I have writ Charity, not for popularity, but as well as I could, in

hopes to do good; and if the reviewers should say, 'To be sure the

gentleman's muse wears methodist shoes, you may know by her pace,

and talk about grace, that she and her bard have little regard for

the taste and fashions, and ruling passions, and hoydening play, of

the modern day; and though she assume a borrowed plume, and now and

then wear a tittering air, 't is only her plan to catch, if she can,

the giddy and gay, as they go that way, by a production on a new

construction; she has baited her trap, in hopes to snap all that may

come, with a sugar-plum.' His opinion in this will not be amiss; 't

is what I intend my principal end; and if I succeed, and folks

should read, till a few are brought to a serious thought, I shall

think I am paid for all I have said, and all I have done, though I

have run, many a time, after rhyme, as far as from hence, to the end

of my sense, and, by hook or crook, write another book, if I live

and am here, another year.

"I heard before of a room, with a floor laid upon springs, and such

like things, with so much art, in every part, that when you went in,

you was forced to begin a minuet pace, with an air and a grace,

swimming about, now in and now out, with a deal of state, in a

figure of eight, without pipe or string, or any such thing; and now

I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what will make you dance, and, as you

advance, will keep you still, though against your will, dancing

away, alert and gay, till you come to an end of what I have penned;

which that you may do ere madam and you are quite worn out with

jigging about, I take my leave; and here you receive a bow profound,

down to the ground, from your humble me,

"W. C."

At one of those famous coteries, so fashionable in the time of

George Selwyn, Selwyn declared that a lady never closed a letter

without a postscript. One of his fair auditors defended her sex by

saying that her next letter should prove he was wrong. Soon after,

Selwyn received a letter from the lady, in which, after the name,

was "P. S. Who is right now, you or I?"

"We have met the enemy, and they are ours" is an example for naval

letters. Commodore Walton's letter, by which he gave information of

his capture of a number of Spanish vessels of war, was as follows:

"We have taken or destroyed all the enemy's ships or vessels on the

coast, as per margin."

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

point.

As a specimen of ultra-familiarity, see the Duke of Buckingham's

letter to King James the First, which he commences as follows:

"DEAR DAD AND GOSSIP,"

and concludes thus:--

"Your Majesty's most humble slave and dog,

"STINIE."

Some letters have been distinguished for a play upon words. The

following is supposed to have been written by one Zebel Rock, a

stone-cutter, to a young lady for whom he cherished a love somewhat

more than Platonic:

"DIVINE FLINT: Were you not harder than Porphyry or Agate, the

Chisel of my love, drove by the Mallet of my fidelity, would have

made some impression on thee. I, that have shaped as I pleased the

most untoward of substances, hoped by the Compass of reason, the

Plummet of discretion, the Saw of constancy, the soft File of

kindness, and the Polish of good words, to have modelled you into

one of the prettiest Statues in the world; but, alas! I find you are

a Flint, that strikes fire, and sets my soul in a blaze, though your

heart is as cold as marble. Pity my case, pray, madam, for I know

not what I say or do. If I go to make a Dragon, I strike out a

Cupid; instead of an Apothecary's Mortar, I make a Church Font for

Baptism; and, dear Pillar of my hopes, Pedestal of my comfort, and

Cornice of my joy, take compassion upon me, for upon your pity I

build all my hope, and will, if fortunate, erect Statues, Obelisks

and Pyramids, to your generosity."

As a specimen of alliteration the following may be considered a fair

off-hand epistle of love:

"ADORED AND ANGELIC AMELIA: Accept An Ardent And Artless Amorist's

Affections; Alleviate An Anguished Admirer's Alarms, And Answer An

Amorous Applicant's Avowed Ardor. Ah, Amelia! All Appears An Awful

Aspect; Ambition, Avarice, And Arrogance, Alas, Are Attractive

Allurements, And Abuse An Ardent Attachment. Appease An Aching And

Affectionate Adorer's Alarms, And Anon Acknowledge Affianced

Albert's Alliance As Agreeable And Acceptable. Anxiously Awaiting An

Affectionate And Affirmative Answer, Accept An Ardent Admirer's

Aching Adieu. ALBERT."

The custom of espionage among some nations, which led the government

officials' to open all letters supposed to contain matters at

variance with the plans and purposes of their masters, induced the

inventive to contrive various means of correspondence.

One of the most singular of these was that adopted by Histaus, the

Milesian, as related by Herodotus. Histaus was "kept by Darius at

Susa, under an honorable pretence, and, despairing of his return

home, unless he could find out some way that he might be sent to

sea, he purposed to send to Aristagoras, who was his substitute at

Miletum, to persuade his revolt from Darius; but, knowing that all

passages were stopped and studiously watched, he took this course:

he got a trusty servant of his, the hair of whose head he caused to

be shaved off, and then, upon his bald head, he wrote his mind to

Aristagoras; kept him privately about him, till his hair was

somewhat grown, and then bid him haste to Aristagoras, and bid him

cause him to be shaved again, and then upon his head he should find

what his lord had written to him."

A volume might be written of the Curiosities of Letter-writing, and

it would be by no means an uninteresting production. Years ago, when

New England missionaries first taught the wild men of the South Sea

Islands, it so happened that one of the teachers wished to

communicate with a friend, and having no pen, ink and paper at hand,

he picked up a chip and wrote with a pencil his message. A native

conveyed it, and, receiving some article in return, he thought the

chip endowed with some miraculous power, and could he have obtained

it would doubtless have treasured it as a god, and worshipped it.

And so would seem to us this invaluable art of letter-writing, were

we in like ignorance. We forget to justly appreciate a blessing

while we have it in constant use; but let us be for a short time

deprived of it, and then we lament its loss and realize its worth.

Deprive mankind of pen, ink and paper, obliterate from the human

mind all knowledge of letter-writing,--then estimate, if you can,

thee loss that would accrue.

The good resulting from a general intercommunication of thought

among the people has brought about a great reduction in the rates of

postage. We look forward to the time when the tens of millions now

expended in war, and invested in the ammunition of death, shall be

directed into other channels, and postage shall be free. What better

defence for our nation than education? It is better than forts and

vessels of war; better than murderous guns, powder and ball. Hail to

the day when there shall be no direct tax on the means of education!

A VISION OF REALITY.

I HAD a dream: Methought one came

And bade me with him go;

I followed, till, above the world,

I wondering gazed below.

One moment, horror filled my breast;

Then, shrinking from the sight,

I turned aside, and sought for rest,

Half dying with affright.

My guide with zeal still urged me on;

"See, see!" said he, "what sin hath done;

How mad ambition fills each breast,

And mortals spurn their needed rest,

And all their lives and fortunes spend

To gain some darling, wished-for end;

And scarce they see the long-sought prize,

When each to grasp it fails and dies."

Once more I looked: in a lonely room,

On a pallet of straw, were lying

A mother and child; no friends were near,

Yet that mother and child were dying.

A sigh arose; she looked above,

And she breathed forth, "I forgive;"

She kissed her child, threw back her head,

And the mother ceased to live.

The child's blue eyes were raised to watch

Its mother's smile of love;

She was not there,--her child she saw

From her spirit-home above.

An hour passed by: that child had gone

From earth and all its harms;

Yet, as in sleep, it nestling lay

In its dead mother's arms.

I asked my guide, "What doth this mean?"

He spake not a word, but changed the scene.

I stood where the busy throng

Was hurrying by; all seemed intent,

As on some weighty mission sent;

And, as I asked what all this meant,

A drunkard pass‚d by.

He spake,--I listened; thus spake he:

"Rum, thou hast been a curse to me;

My wife is dead,--my darling child,

Who, when 't was born, so sweetly smiled,

And seemed to ask, in speechless prayer,

A father's love, a father's care,--

He, he, too, now is gone!

How can I any longer live?

What joy to me can earth now give?

I've drank full deep from sorrow's cup,--

When shall I drink its last dregs up?

When will the last, last pang be felt?

When the last blow on me be dealt?

Would I had ne'er been born!"

As thus he spake, a gilded coach

In splendor pass‚d by;

And from within a man looked forth,--

The drunkard caught his eye.

Then, with a wild and frenzied look,

He, trembling, to it ran;

He stayed the rich man's carriage there,

And said, "Thou art the man!

"Yes, thou the man! You bade me come,

You took my gold, you gave me rum;

You bade me in the gutter lie,

My wife and child you caused to die;

You took their bread,--'t was justly theirs;

You, cunning, laid round me your snares,

Till I fell in them; then you crushed,

And robbed me, as my cries you hushed;

You've bound me close in misery's thrall;

Now, take a drunkard's curse and fall!"

A moment passed, and all was o'er,--

He who'd sold rum would sell no more

And Justice seemed on earth to dwell,

When by his victim's hand he fell.

Yet, when the trial came, she fled,

And Law would have the avenger dead.

The gilded coach may rattle by,

Men too may drink, and drunkards die,

And widows' tears may daily fall,

And orphans' voices daily call,--

Yet these are all in vain;

The dealer sells, and glass by glass

He tempts the man to ruin pass,

And piles on high his slain.

His fellows fall by scores,--what then?

He, being rich (though rich by fraud),

Is honored by his fellow-men,

Who bend the knee and call him "lord."

Again I turned;

Enough I'd learned

Of all the misery sin hath brought;

I strove to leave the fearful spot,

And wished the scene might be forgot,

'T was so with terror fraught.

I wished to go,

No more to know.

I turned me, but no guide stood there;

Alone, I shrieked in wild dismay,

When, lo! the vision passed away,--

I found me seated in my chair.

The morning sun was shining bright,

Fair children gambolled in my sight;

A rose-bush in my window stood,

And shed its fragrance all around;

My eye saw naught but fair and good,

My ear heard naught but joyous sound.

I asked me, can it be on earth

Such scenes of horror have their birth,

As those that in my vision past,

And on my mind their shadows cast?

Can it be true, that men do pour

Foul poison forth for sake of gold?

And men lie weltering in their gore,

Led on by that their brethren sold?

Doth man so bend the supple knee

To Mammon's shrine, he never hears

The voice of conscience, nor doth see

His ruin in the wealth he rears?

Such questions it were vain to ask,

For Reason whispers, "It is so;"

While some in fortune's sunshine bask,

Others lie crushed beneath their woe.

And men do sell, and men do pour,

And for their gold return men death;

Though wives and children them implore,

With tearful eyes and trembling breath,

And hearts with direst anguish riven,

No more to sell,--'t is all in vain;

They, urged to death, by avarice driven,

But laugh and turn to sell again.

JEWELS OF THE HEART.