In two months his trial was to commence, and that short period soon

elapsed. The morning of the trial came; all was excitement, as we

have before said. A trial for murder! Such an event forms an era in

the history of a town, from which many date. That one so long

esteemed as an excellent neighbor, and of whose untarnished

character there could be no doubt, should be suddenly arrested,

charged with the committal of a crime at the thought of which human

nature revolts, was a fact the belief of which was hardly credible.

He himself remained not unmoved by the vast concourse of spectators;

he thought he could read in the pitying glance of each an acquittal.

An acquittal at the bar of public opinion always has and always will

be esteemed of more value than one handed in by a jury of twelve;

yet by that jury of twelve men he was to be tried,--he must look to

them for his release, if he was to obtain it. Their decision would

condemn him to an ignoble death, or bid him go forth once more a

free man. He had obtained the best of counsel, by whose advice he

selected, from twenty-five jurors, twelve, whose verdict was to seal

his fate.

The trial commenced. A deep silence prevailed, broken only by the

voice of the government officer, who briefly stated an outline of

the facts, to wit: "That murder and robbery had been committed; that

a young man was seen hastily leaving the spot upon which the crime

was committed; that the appearance of the defendant was precisely

that of the person thus seen; said he should not enter into an

examination of the previous character of the prisoner, giving as a

reason that a man may live long as a person of unquestionable

character, and after all yield to some strong temptation and fall

from the standard of excellence he had hitherto attained; he should

present all the facts that had come to his knowledge, tending to

substantiate the charge, and would leave it to the prisoner and his

counsel to undermine the evidence he presented, and to prove the

accused innocent, if possible; all that he should do would be to

attempt to prove him guilty; if he failed to do so a verdict must be

rendered accordingly." Having said this, he called upon his

witnesses. Those who first discovered the outrage were called and

testified to what they saw. John Smith was next called, and gave in

as evidence what has before been stated; at the close of a strict

cross-examination he returned to his seat. His son Levi was next

called, and stated that his father was out the night he himself

stated he was; he went out about half-past six or seven; did not say

where he was going, or how long he should be out; he came home about

eleven.

Prisoner's counsel here inquired whether it was usual, upon his

father's going out, to state where he was going or when he should

return. He answered in the affirmative. This was all the knowledge

Levi Smith had of the affair, and with this the evidence for the

government closed.

The counsel for the defendant stated, in the opening, that all he

should attempt to prove would be the bad character of the principal

witness, John Smith, and the unexceptionable character of the

prisoner. He would prove that the reputation of Smith for truth and

veracity was bad, and that therefore no reliance could be placed

upon his statements. He should present the facts as they were, and

leave it to them to say whether his client was innocent or guilty.

A person by the name of Renza was first called, who stated that for

about two years he had resided in the house with the prisoner; that

he esteemed him as a friend; that the prisoner had treated him as a

brother,--had never seen anything amiss in his conduct,--at night he

came directly home from his place of business, was generally in at

nine, seldom out later than ten,--remembered the night in

question,--thought he was in about ten, but was not certain on that

point,--had been acquainted with John Smith for a number of

years,--had not said much to him during that time,--had often seen him

walking about the streets,--had known him to be quarrelsome and

avaricious, easily provoked, and rather lacking in good principle.

After a few cross-questions the witness took his seat.

Seven others were called, whose testimony was similar to the above,

placing the evidence of the principal government witness in rather a

disagreeable light. The evidence being in on both sides, the

prisoner's counsel stood forth to vindicate the innocence of

Castello. For three hours he faithfully advocated the cause, dwelt

long upon the reputation of Smith, and asked whether a man should be

convicted upon such rotten evidence. He brought to light the

character of Smith, and that of Castello; placed them in contrast,

and bade them judge for themselves. He wished to inquire why Smith,

when he heard the terrible scream, when he saw a person running from

the place whence the sound proceeded, why, when he heard and beheld

all this, he did not make an alarm; why did Smith keep it a secret,

and not till nine days had elapsed make this known? "Perhaps he

would reply," argued the counsel, "that he did not wish to suspect

any person, fearing the person suspected might be the wrong one; if

so, why did he not inform of the person he saw running? If he was

not the doer of the deed, perhaps he might relate something that

would lead to the detection of him who was. Beside, if he had doubts

whether it was right to inform then, why does he do so now with so

much eagerness? It would be natural for one, after hearing such

fearful noises,--after seeing what he testifies to having seen,--to

have related it to some one; but no-Smith keeps all this important

information treasured up, and not till two weeks had nearly passed

does he disclose it. But, gentlemen, I have my doubts as to the

truth of John's evidence. It is my firm belief that he never saw a

person running from that house; he might have heard the noise-I will

not dispute that. I believe his story has been cut and dried for the

occasion, and surely nine days and nights have afforded him ample

time to do so. The brains of an ox could concoct such ideas in nine

days. Now comes the inquiry, why should he invent such a story? Of

what benefit can it be to him to appear in a crowded courtroom?

Gentlemen, I confess myself unable to give you his reasons; to him

and to his God they are only known. The veil which, in my opinion,

now shrouds this affair, will some day be withdrawn, and we shall

know the truth, even as it is."

The defence here closed. The officer for the prosecution now arose,

and with equal faithfulness and ability argued his side of the

question. He thought the reasons why Smith had not before informed

were full and explicit; and, as to the testimony of the eight as to

the past good character of the prisoner, he saw no reason why a man

should be always good because for two or more years he had been so.

A great temptation was presented; he was young--perhaps at the

moment regardless of the result, the penalty of the crime; he did

not resist, but yielded; and as to the argument of the learned

counsel, that Mr. S. did not see what he testifies to have seen, it

is useless to refute such an unfounded allegation. Can you suppose

Smith to be benefited by this prosecution further than to see

justice have its dues? Settle it then in your minds that Mr. Smith

did actually see all he says he did. We come next to the description

given by Smith of the man seen. He said he was short in stature, and

wearing a fur cap. Look at the prisoner,--is he not short?-and the

testimony of two of the previous witnesses distinctly affirm that

for the past six weeks he has worn a fur cap. What more evidence do

you want to prove his guilt?

The prosecuting officer here closed. We have given but a faint

outline of his remarks; they were forcible and to the point.

It was near the dusk of the second day's trial that the judge arose

to charge the jury. He commented rather severely upon the attempt to

impeach the character of Smith. His address was not lengthy; and in

about thirty minutes the jury retired, while a crowded audience

anxiously waited their return. It was not till the rays of the

morning sun began to be seen that it was rumored that they had

arrived at a decision and would soon enter. All was silent as the

tomb. The prisoner, although aware that his life was at stake, sat

in great composure, frequently holding converse with his friends who

gathered around. How anxiously all eyes were turned towards the door

by which they were to enter, wishing, yet dreading, to hear the

final secret! The interest of all watched their movements and seemed

to read acquittal upon each juror's face. The prisoner arose, the

foreman and he looking each other in the face. The clerk put the

question, "Guilty, or not guilty?" The ticking of the clock was

distinctly heard. "Guilty!" responded the foreman. A verdict so

unexpected by all could not be received in silence, and, as with one

voice, the multitude shouted "False! false! FALSE!" With great

difficulty were they silenced and restrained from rescuing the

prisoner, who, though greatly disappointed, heard the verdict

without much agitation. Innocent, he was convinced that justice

would finally triumph, though injustice for a moment might seem to

have the ascendency.

One week had passed. Sentence had been pronounced upon the young

Italian, and, notwithstanding the strenuous efforts his friends made

for his pardon, he was committed to prison to await the arrival of

that day when innocence should suffer in the place of guilt, and he

should by the rough hands of the law be unjustly dragged to the

gallows, and meet his death at so wretched a place; yet far better

was it for him, and of this was he aware, to be led to that place

free, from the blood of all men, than to proceed there a guilty

criminal, his hands dyed in the warm blood of a fellow-creature,

pointed out as a murderer, and looked upon but with an eye of

condemnation. He was certain that in the breasts of hundreds a

spark, yea, a burning flame, of pity shone for him,--that he met not

his death uncared for,--that many a tear would flow in pity for him,

and that he would wend his way to the scaffold comforted by the

consciousness of his innocence, and consoled by many dear friends.

The day had arrived for the execution, and crowds of people flocked

to the spot to gratify their love of sight-seeing-to allay their

curiosity-even though that sight were nothing less than the death of

a fellow-being. Crowds had assembled. A murder had been committed,

and now another was to follow. To be sure it was to be executed

"according to law," but that law was inspired with the spirit of

revenge. Its motto was "blood for blood." It forgot the precepts of

Christ, "forgive your enemies;" and that that which is a wrong when

committed by one in secret, is no less a wrong when committed by

many, or by their sanction, in public. The condemned stood upon the

death-plank, yet he hoped justice would be done. "Hope!" what a

cheering word! 't will nerve man for every trial. Yes, Castello

hoped, and relied upon that kind arm that had hitherto supported

him, and had enabled him to bear up under an accumulated mass of

affliction. He had a full consciousness of innocence, and to the

oft-repeated inquiry as to his state of mind he replied, "I am

innocent, and that truth is to me better than gold."

It lacks but five minutes of the appointed time-now but three-but

two. But yonder the crowd seem excited. What is the cause of the

sudden movement? But a few moments since and all were silently

gazing at the centre of attraction, the scaffold. Lo, a messenger,

breathless with haste, shouting "INNOCENT! INNOCENT! INNOCENT!" and

a passage is made for him to approach, whilst thousands inquire the

news. He answers not, save by that shrill shout, "INNOCENT!" and

pressing forward touches the gallows just as Castello is about to be

launched forth. The stranger ascends the steps and begs that the

execution may be deferred, at least until he can relate some recent

disclosures. His wish is granted, and he speaks nearly as follows:

"The testimony of the principal witness was doubted. Last night I

remained at the house of Smith. Owing to the great excitement I did

not retire to rest, and sat in a room adjoining that in which Smith

lodged. About midnight I heard a voice in that room. I went to the

door, and, fearing he was sick and desired aid, I entered. He was

asleep, and did not awake upon my entering, but continued talking. I

thought it strange, and thinking I might be amused, and having

nothing else to do, I sat and listened. He spoke in somewhat this

manner, and you may judge of my surprise while I listened:

"'I'm rich; too bad Pedro should die; but I'm rich; no matter, I'm

rich. Kings kill their millions for a little money. I only kill one

man; in six months 't will be forgotten; then I'll go to the bank of

earth back of the red mill and get the gold; I placed it there safe,

and safe it is. Ha, ha! I made that story in nine days-so I did, and

might have made it in less; let him die. But supposing I should be

detected; then it may be that I shall find that Pedro is right when

he says there is something better than gold. But I am in no danger.

The secret is in my own heart, locked up, and no one has the key but

myself; so cheer thee, my soul, I'm safe!-and yet I don't feel

right. I shall feel, when Pedro dies; that I kill him; but why

should I care? I who have killed one, may kill another!'

"After waiting some time, and hearing no more, I hastened to the

spot he had alluded to, for the purpose of satisfying myself whether

what he had ramblingly spoken of was truth or fancy. After searching

the hill for over an hour, I found a stone, or rather stumbled

against it; I threw it aside, so that others might not stumble over

it as I had, when to my astonishment I found it to be a large flat

one, beneath which I found a collection of bags and boxes, which

upon opening I found filled with gold and silver coin, and in each

box a small paper,--one of which I hold in my hand; all are alike,

and written upon each are these words:

"'This gold and silver is the property of Pedan, who enjoyed it but

little himself; he leaves it to posterity, and hopes that they may

find more pleasure and more satisfaction in its use than he ever

did.'

"Not content with this, I pushed my researches still further, and,

having taken out all the bags and boxes, I found this knife, all

bloody as you see it, and this hatchet in nearly the same condition.

Now I ask if it is not the course of justice to delay the execution

of this young man until more examinations can be made?"

The executioner obeyed the mandate of the sheriff, and stayed his

avenging hand.

"Better than gold!" shouted the prisoner, and sank helpless upon the

platform.

That day John Smith was arrested, and, being bluntly charged with

the murder, confessed all. Castello was immediately released, and

went forth a free man.

In four weeks Smith was no more of earth; he had paid the penalty of

his crimes, and died not only a murderer but a perjured man.

The next Sabbath the pastor of the church discoursed upon the

subject, and an indescribable thrill pervaded the hearts of some of

the people as they repeated the words, "Forgive us our trespasses as

we forgive those who trespass against us."

GONE AWAY.

HERE, where now are mighty cities,

Once the Indians' wigwam stood;

Once their council-fires illumined,

Far and near, the tangled wood.

Here, on many a grass-grown border,

Then they met, a happy throng;

Rock and hill and valley sounded

With the music of their song.

Now they are not,--they have vanished,

And a voice doth seem to say,

Unto him who waits and listens,

"Gone away,--gone away."

Yonder in those valleys gathered

Many a sage in days gone by;

Thence the wigwam's smoke ascended,

Slowly, peacefully, on high.

Indian mothers thus their children

Taught around the birchen fire,--

"Look ye up to the great Spirit!

To his hunting-grounds aspire."

Now those fires are all extinguished;

Fire and wigwam, where are they?

Hear ye not those voices whispering,

"Gone away,--gone away!"

Here the Indian girl her tresses

Braided with a maiden's pride;

Here the lover wooed and won her,

On Tri-mountain's grassy side.

Here they roamed from rock to river,

Mountain peak and hidden cave;

Here the light canoe they paddled

O'er the undulating wave.

All have vanished-lovers, maidens,

Meet not on these hills to-day,

But unnumbered voices whisper,

"Gone away,--gone away!"

"Gone away!" Yes, where the waters

Of the Mississippi roll,

And Niagara's ceaseless thunders

With their might subdue the soul,

Now the noble Indian standeth

Gazing at the eagle's flight,

Conscious that the great good Spirit

Will accomplish all things right.

Though like forest-leaves they're passing,

They who once held boundless sway,

And of them 't will soon be written,

"Gone away,--gone away!"

As they stand upon the mountain,

And behold the white man press

Onward, onward, never ceasing,

Mighty in his earnestness;

As they view his temples rising,

And his white sails dot the seas,

And his myriad thousands gathering,

Hewing down the forest trees;

Thus they muse: "Let them press onward,

Not far distant is the day

When of them a voice shall whisper,

'Gone away,--gone away!'"

LINES TO MY WIFE.

THOU art ever standing near me,

In wakeful hours and dreams;

Like an angel-one, attendant

On life and, all its themes;

And though I wander from thee,

In lands afar away,

I dream of thee at night, and wake

To think of thee by day.

In the morning, when the twilight,

Like a spirit kind and true,

Comes with its gentle influence,

It whispereth of you.

For I know that thou art present,

With love that seems to be

A band to bind me willingly

To heaven and to thee.

At noon-day, when the tumult and

The din of life is heard,

When in life's battle each heart is

With various passions stirred,

I turn me from the blazonry,

The fickleness of life,

And think of thee in earnest thought,

My dearest one-my wife!

When the daylight hath departed,

And shadows of the night

Bring forth the stars, as beacons fair

For angels in their flight,

I think of thee as ever mine,

Of thee as ever best,

And turn my heart unto thine own,

To seek its wonted rest.

Thus ever thou art round my path,

And doubly dear thou art

When, with my lips pressed to thine own,

I feel thy beating heart.

And through the many joys and griefs,

The lights and shades of life,

It will be joy to call thee by

The holy name of "wife!"

I love thee for thy gentleness,

I love thee for thy truth;

I love thee for thy joyousness,

Thy buoyancy of youth

I love thee for thy soul that soars

Above earth's sordid pelf;

And last, not least, above these all,

I love thee for thyself.

Now come to me, my dearest,

Place thy hand in mine own;

Look in mine eyes, and see how deep

My love for thee hath grown;

And I will press thee to my heart,

Will call thee "my dear wife,"

And own that thou art all my joy

And happiness of life.

CHEER UP.

CHEER up, cheer up, my own fair one!

Let gladness take the place of sorrow;

Clouds shall not longer hide the sun,--

There is, there is a brighter morrow!

'T is coming fast. I see its dawn.

See! look you, how it gilds the mountain!

We soon shall mark its happy morn,

Sending its light o'er stream and fountain.

My bird sings with a clearer note;

He seems to know our hopes are brighter,

And almost tires his little throat

To let us know his heart beats lighter.

I wonder if he knows how dark

The clouds were when they gathered o'er us!

No matter,--gayly as a lark

He sings that bright paths are before us.

So cheer thee up, my brightest, best!

For clear's the sky, and fair's the weather.

Since hand in hand we've past the test,

Hence heart in heart we'll love together.

TRUST THOU IN GOD.

TRUST thou in God! he'll guide thee

When arms of flesh shall fail;

With every good provide thee,

And make his grace prevail.

Where danger most is found,

There he his power discloseth;

And 'neath his arm,

Free from all harm,

The trusting soul reposeth.

Trust thou in God, though sorrow

Thine earthly hopes destroy;

To him belongs the morrow,

And he will send thee joy.

When sorrows gather near,

Then he'll delight to bless thee!

When all is joy,

Without alloy,

Thine earthly friends caress thee.

Trust thou in God! he reigneth

The Lord of lords on high;

His justice he maintaineth

In his unclouded sky.

To triumph Wrong may seem,

The day, yet justice winneth,

And from the earth

Shall songs of mirth

Rise, when its sway beginneth.

When friends grow faint and weary,

When thorns are on thy way,

When life to thee is dreary,

When clouded is thy day,

Then put thy trust in God,

Hope on, and hoping ever;

Give him thy heart,

Nor seek to part

The love which none can sever!

THE MINISTRATION OF SORROW.

THERE'S sorrow in thy heart to-day,

There's sadness on thy brow;

For she, the loved, hath passed away,

And thou art mourning now.

The eye that once did sparkle bright,

The hand that pressed thine own,

No more shall gladden on thy sight,--

Thy cherished one hath flown.

And thou didst love her well, 't is true;

Now thou canst love her more,

Since she hath left this world, and you,

On angel wings to soar

Above the world, its ceaseless strife,

Its turmoil and its care,

To enter on eternal life,

And reign in glory there.

O, let this thought now cheer thy soul,

And bid thy tears depart;

A few more days their course shall roll,

Thou 'lt meet, no more to part.

No more upon thine ear shall fall,

The saddening word "farewell"

No more a parting hour, but all

In perfect union dwell.

This world is not the home of man;

Death palsies with its gloom,

Marks out his life-course but a span,

And points him to the tomb;

But, thanks to Heaven, 't is but the gate

By which we enter bliss;

Since such a life our spirits wait,

O, cheer thy soul in this,--

And let the sorrow that doth press

Thy spirit down to-day

So minister that it may bless

Thee on thy pilgrim way;

And as thy friends shall, one by one,

Leave earth above to dwell,

Say thou to God, "Thy will be done,

Thou doest all things well."

GIVING PUBLICITY TO BUSINESS.

FROM the earliest ages of society some means have been resorted to

whereby to give publicity to business which would otherwise remain

in comparative privacy. The earliest of modes adopted was the crying

of names in the streets; and before the invention of printing men

were employed to traverse the most frequented thoroughfares, to

stand in the market-places and other spots of resort, and, with loud

voices, proclaim their message to the people. This mode is not

altogether out of use at the present time; yet it is not generally

considered a desirable one, inasmuch as it does not accomplish its

purpose so readily or completely as any one of the numerous other

methods resorted to.

Since the invention of printing, handbills, posters, and newspapers,

have been the principal channels of communication between the inside

of the dealer's shop and the eye of the purchaser, and from that to

the inside of his purse. So advantageous have these modes been

found, that it is a rare thing to find a single individual who does

not, either on a large or small scale, rein the press into the path

he travels, and make its labor conducive to the profits of his own.

England and France have taken the lead in this mode of giving

publicity to business; but the United States, with its unwillingness

to be beat in any way, on any terms, has made such rapid strides of

late in this enterprise, that the English lion will be left in the

rear, and the French eagle far in the background.

In London many curious devices have been used or proposed. Of these

was that of a man who wished to prepare a sort of bomb-shell, to be

filled with cards or bills, which, on reaching a certain elevation

above the city, would explode, and thus scatter these carrier doves

of information in all conceivable directions. In that city,

butchers, bakers, and fishmongers, receive quite an income from

persons who wish their cards attached to the various commodities in

which they deal. Thus, a person receiving a fish, a loaf, or a piece

of meat, finds the advertisement of a dealer in silks and satins

attached to the tail of the fish; that of an auction sale of

domestic flannels wrapped around the loaf; and perhaps flattering

notices of a compound for the extermination of rats around the meat.

In the evening, transparencies are carried about the streets,

suspended across the public ways or hung upon the walls.

In this country, no person has taken the lead of a famous doctor in

the way of advertising. Nearly every paper in the Union was

one-fourth filled with ably-written articles in praise of his

compound. In fact, he published papers of his own, the articles in

which were characterized by the "one idea principle," and that one

idea was contained in a bottle of Dr.--'s save all and cure all,

"none true but the genuine," "warranted not to burst the bottles or

become sour." In addition to these, he issued an almanac-millions of

them-bearing glad tidings to the sick and credulous, and sad tidings

to the "regulars" in the medical fraternity. These almanacs were

distributed everywhere. They came down on the American people like

rain-drops. The result was, as we all know, the doctor flourished in

a fortune equal to his fame, and disposed of his interest in the

business, a few years since, for one hundred thousand dollars.

The amount of capital invested in advertising is very great, some

firms expending thousands of dollars monthly in this mode of making

known their business. It has been truly said that a card in a

newspaper, that costs but a few dollars, is of far more value than

costly signs over one's door. The former thousands behold, and are

directed to your place of business; the latter very few notice who

do not know the fact it makes known before they see it.

Attracted by the good fortune of those who have advertised, nearly

every one has adopted the means that led to it; and the advertising

system has become universal.

We have been seated in a car, waiting impatiently for the sound of

the "last bell," when a person in a brown linen coat entered with an

armful of books, and gave to each passenger a copy, without a hint

about pay. Thanking him for the gift, and astonished at his

generosity, we proceeded to open it, when "Wonderful cures,"

"Consumption," "Scrofula," "Indigestion," and "Fits," greeted our

eyes on every page. Illustrated, too! Here was represented a man

apparently dying, and near by a figure that would appear to be a

woman were it not for two monstrous wings on its back, throwing

obstacles in the way of death in the shape of a two-quart bottle of

sarsaparilla syrup. Presumptive man in a brown linen coat, to

suppose that we, just on the eve of a pleasure excursion, are

troubled with such complaints, and stand in need of such a remedy!

You buy a newspaper, go home, seat yourself, and, in the

anticipation of at glorious intellectual feast, open its damp pages,

when, lo and behold! a huge show-bill falls from its embrace, and

you are informed of the consoling truth that you can have all your

teeth drawn for a trifle, and a now set inserted at a low price, by

a distinguished dentist from London. The bill is indignantly thrown

aside, and you commence reading an article under the caption of "An

interesting incident," which, when half finished, you find to refer

to a young lady whose complexion was made beautiful by the free use

of "Chaulks Poudres," a box of which can be obtained at 96

Azure-street, for 25 cts. After reading another column, headed "An

act of mercy," you find at its close a most pathetic appeal to your

tender sensibilities in an affectionate request for you to call on

Dr. Digg and have your corns extracted without pain. Despairing of

finding the "intellectual treat," you lay the paper aside, and

resolve upon taking a walk.

Before you are monstrous show-bills, emblazoned with large letters

and innumerable exclamation-points. Above you, flaunting flags with

flaming notices. Beneath you, marble slabs inscribed with the names

of traders and their goods. Around you, boys with their arms full of

printed notices, and men encased with boards on which are mammoth

posters. Sick of seeing these, you close your eyes; but you don't

escape so easily;--a dinner-bell is rung in your ears, and a voice,

if not like mighty thunder, at least like an embryo earthquake,

proclaims an auction sale, a child lost, or news for the afflicted.

And thus it is, the world is one great Babel. All is business,

business, and we ask for "some vast wilderness" in which to lie down

and get cool, and keep quiet.

In Paris, the people long since adopted a plan which has not yet

come in vogue among us. A long story is written; in the course of

this story, a dozen or more establishments receive the author's

laudations, which are so ingeniously interwoven that the reader is

scarcely aware of the design. For instance, Marnetta is going to an

evening party. In the morning she goes out, and is met by a sprig of

gentility, a young man of fashion, who cannot allow her to omit

entering the unrivalled store of Messrs. Veuns, where the most

beautiful silks, etc., are to be seen and purchased. Leaving this,

she next encounters a young lady acquaintance of prudent and

economical habits, by whom, "our heroine" is led into a store where

beauty and elegance are combined with durability and a low price.

She wishes perfumery; so she hastens to Viot & Sons; for none make

so good as they, and the fragrance of their store has been wafted on

the winds of all nations.

Thus is the story led on from one step to another, with its interest

not in the least abated, to the end. This embraces "puffery," as it

is called. And, while on this subject, we may as well bring up the

following specimen of this species of advertising. It was written by

Peter Seguin, on the occasion of the first appearance in Dublin of

the celebrated Mrs. Siddons. It caused much merriment at the time

among some, while in others, who could not relish a joke, it excited

anger.

"The house was crowded with hundreds more than it could hold, with

thousands of admiring spectators that went away without a sight.

This extraordinary phenomenon of tragic excellence! this star of

Melpomene! this comet of the stage! this sun of the firmament of the

Muses! this moon of blank verse! this queen arch-princess of tears!

this Donnellan of the poisoned bowl! this empress of the pistol and

dagger! this child of Shakspeare! this world of weeping clouds! this

Juno of commanding aspects! this Terpsichore of the curtains and

scenes! this Proserpine of fire and earthquake! this Katterfelto of

wonders! exceeded expectation, went beyond belief, and soared above

all the natural powers of description! She was nature itself! she

was the most exquisite work of art! She was the very daisy,

primrose, tuberose, sweet-brier, furze-blossom, gilliflower,

wallflower, cauliflower, aurica and rosemary! In short, she was the

bouquet of Parnassus! Where expectation was raised so high, it was

thought she would be injured by her appearance; but it was the

audience who were injured; several fainted before the curtain drew

up! but when she came to the scene of parting with her wedding-ring,

all! what a sight was there! The fiddlers in the orchestra, 'albeit

unused to the melting mood!' blubbered like hungry children crying

for their bread and butter; and when the bell rang for music between

the acts, the tears ran from the bassoon player's eyes in such

plentiful showers, that they choked the finger-stops, and, making a

spout of the instrument, poured in such torrents on the first

fiddler's book, that, not seeing the overture was in two sharps, the

leader of the band actually played in one flat. But the sobs and

sighs of the groaning audience, and the noise of corks drawn from

the smelling-bottles, prevented the mistakes between the flats and

sharps being discovered. One hundred and nine ladies fainted!

forty-six went into fits! and ninety-five had strong hysterics! The

world will hardly credit the truth, when they are told that fourteen

children, five women, one hundred tailors, and six common-council

men, were actually drowned in the inundation of tears that flowed

from the galleries, the slips and the boxes, to increase the briny

pond in the pit; the water was three feet deep, and the people that

were obliged to stand upon the benches were in that position up to

their ancles in tears."

There is nothing in the present style of criticism that can exceed

the above. The author actually reached the climax, and all attempts

to overtop him would be useless.

Of advertisements there have been many worthy of preservation: some

on account of the ingenuity displayed in their composition; some in

their wit; some for their domesticativeness,--matrimonial offers,

for example,--and others for the conceitedness exposed in them, the

ignorance of the writers, or the whimsicality of the matter

advertised. In 1804 there was advertised in an English paper, as for

sale, "The walk of a deceased blind beggar (in a charitable

neighborhood), with his dog and staff."

In the St. James Chronicle of 1772 was the following:

"Wanted, fifteen hundred or two thousand pounds, by a person not

worth a groat; who, having neither houses, lands, annuities, or

public funds, can offer no other security than that of a simple

bond, bearing simple interest, and engaging, the repayment of the

sum borrowed in five, six, or seven years, as may be, agreed on by

the parties," &c.

We do not know whether the advertiser obtained his pounds or not,

but such an advertisement, now-a-days, would draw forth a laugh much

sooner than the money; or, if "pounds" came, they would, most

probably, fall upon the recipient's shoulders, instead of into his

pocket.

The Chinese are not behind the age in this business. The following

is an instance in proof:

"ACHEU TEA CHINCOEU, Sculptor, respectfully acquaints masters of

ships trading from Canton to India that they may be furnished with

figure-heads, any size, according to order, at one-fourth of the

price charged in Europe. He also recommends, for private venture,

the following idols, brass, gold and silver: The hawk of Vishnoo,

which has reliefs of his incarnation in a fish, boar, lion, and

bull, as worshipped by the pious followers of Zoroaster; two silver

marmosets, with gold ear-rings; an aprimanes for Persian worship; a

ram, an alligator, a crab, a laughing hyena, with a variety of

household idols, on a small scale, calculated for family worship.

Eighteen months credit will be given, or a discount of fifteen per

cent. for prompt payment, on the sum affixed to each article.

Direct, Canton-street, Canton, under the marble Rhinoceros and gilt

Hydra."

We subjoin another, in which self-exaltation is pretty well carried

out.

"At the shop Tae-shing (prosperous in the extreme)--very good ink;

fine! fine! Ancient shop, great-grandfather, grandfather, father and

self, make this ink; fine and hard, very hard; picked with care,

selected with attention. I sell very good ink; prime cost is very

great. This ink is heavy; so is gold. The eye of the dragon glitters

and dazzles; so does this ink. No one makes like it. Others who make

ink make it for the sake of accumulating base coin, cheat, while I

make it only for a name, Plenty of A-kwan-tsaes (gentlemen) know my

ink-my family never cheated-they have always borne a good name. I

make ink for the 'Son of Heaven,' and all the mandarins in the

empire. As the roar of the tiger extends to every place, so does,

the fame' of the 'dragon's jewel' (the ink). Come, all A-kwan-

tsaes, come to my shop and see the sign Tae-shing at the side of the

door. It is Seou-shwuy-street (Small Water-street), outside the

south gate."

THE MISSION OF KINDNESS.

Go to the sick man's chamber; low and soft

Falls on the listening ear a sweet-toned voice;

A hand as gentle as the summer breeze,

Ever inclined to offices of good,

Smooths o'er the sick man's pillow, and then turns

To trim the midnight lamp, moisten the lips,

And, passing over, soothe the fevered brow.

Thus charity finds place in woman's heart;

And woman kind, and beautiful, and good,

Doth thus administer to every want,

Nor wearies in her task, but labors on,

And finds her joy in that which she imparts.

Go to the prisoner's cell; to-morrow's light

Shall be the last on earth he e'er shall see.

He mutters hate 'gainst all, and threatens ill

To every semblance of the human form.

Deep in his soul remorse, despair and hate,

Dwell unillumined by one ray of light,

And sway his spirit as the waves are swayed

By wind and storm. He may have cause to hold

His fellow-men as foes; for, at the first

Of his departure from an upright course,

They scorned and shunned and cursed him.

They sinn‚d thus, and he, in spite for them,

Kept on his sullen way from wrong to wrong.

Which is the greatest sinner? He shall say

Who of the hearts of men alone is judge.

Now, in his cell condemned, he waits the hour,

The last sad hour of mortal life to him.

His oaths and blasphemies he sudden stays!

He thinks he hears upon his prison door

A gentle tap. O, to his hardened heart

That gentle sound a sweet remembrance brings

Of better days-two-score of years gone by,

Days when his mother, rapping softly thus,

Called him to morning prayer. Again 't is heard.

Is it a dream? Asleep! He cannot sleep

With chains around and shameful death before him!

Is it the false allurement of some foe

Who would with such enticement draw him forth

To meet destruction ere the appointed time?

Softened and calmed, each angry passion lulled,

By a soft voice, "Come in," he trembling calls.

Slow on its hinges turns the ponderous door,

And "Friend," the word that falls from stranger lips.

As dew on flowers, as rain on parch‚d ground,

So came the word unto the prisoner's ear.

He speaks not-moves not. O, his heart is full,

Too full for utterance; and, as floods of tears

Flow from his eyes so all unused to weep,

He bows down low, e'en at the stranger's feet.

He had not known what 't was to have a friend.

The word came to him like a voice from heaven,

A voice of love to one who'd heard but hate.

"Friend!" Mysterious word to him who'd known no friend.

O, what a power that simple word hath o'er him!

As now he holds the stranger's hand in his,

And bows his head upon it, he doth seem

Gentle and kind, and docile as a child.

Repentance comes with kindness, goodness rears

Its cross on Calvary's height, inspiring hope

Which triumphs over evil and its guilt.

O, how much changed! and all by simple words

Spoken in love and kindness from the heart.

O, love and kindness! matchless power have ye

To mould the human heart; where'er ye dwell

There is no sorrow, but a living joy.

There is no man whom God hath placed on earth

That hath not some humanity within,

And is not moved with kindness joined with love.

The wildest savage, from whose firelit eye

Flashes the lightning passions of his soul,

Who stands, and feeling that he hath been wronged,

That he hath trusted and been basely used,

And that to him revenge were doubly sweet,

Dares all the world to combat and to death,--

Even he hath dwelling in his inmost heart

A chord that quick will vibrate to kind words.

Go unto such with kindness, not with wrath;

Let your eye look love, and 't will disarm him

Of all the evil passions with which he

Hath mailed his soul in terrible array.

Think not to tame the wild by brutal force.

As well attempt to stay devouring flames

By heaping fagots on the blazing pile.

Go, do man good, and the deep-hidden spark

Of true divinity concealed within

Will brighten up, and thou shalt see its glow,

And feel its cheering warmth. O, we lose much

By calling passion's aid to vanquish wrong.

We should stand within love's holy temple,

And with persuasive kindness call men in,

Rather than, leaving it, use other means,

Unblest of God, and therefore weak and vain,

To force them on before us into bliss.

There is a luxury in doing good

Which none but by experience e'er can know.

He's blest who doeth good. Sleep comes to him

On wings of sweetest peace; and angels meet

In joyous convoys ever round his couch;

They watch and guard, protect and pray for him.

All mothers bend the knee, and children too

Clasp their fair hands and raise their undimmed eyes,

As if to pierce the shadowy veil that hangs

Between themselves and God-then pray that he

Will bless with Heaven's best gifts the friend of man.

A PLEA FOR THE FALLEN.

PITY her, pity her! Once she was fair,

Once breathed she sweetly the innocent's prayer;

Parents stood by in pride o'er their daughter;

Sin had not tempted, Vice had not caught her;

Hoping and trusting, believing all true,

Nothing but happiness rose to her view.

She, as were spoken words lovers might tell,

Listened, confided, consented, and fell!

Now she's forsaken; nursing in sorrow,

Hate for the night, despair for the morrow!

She'd have the world think she's happy and gay,--

A butterfly, roving wherever it may;

Sipping delight from each rose-bud and flower,

The charmed and the charmer of every hour.

She will not betray to the world all her grief;

She knows it is false, and will give no relief.

She knows that its friendship is heartless and cold;

That it loves but for gain, and pities for gold;

That when in their woe the fallen do cry,

It turns, it forsakes, and it leaves them to die!

But after the hour of the world's bright show,

When hence from her presence flatterers go;

When none are near to praise or caress her,

No one stands by with fondness to bless her;

Alone with her thoughts, in moments like this,

She thinks of her days of innocent bliss,

And she weeps!-yes, she weeps penitent tears

O'er the shame of a life and the sorrow of years:

She turns for a friend; yet, alas! none is there;

She sinks, once again, in the deepest despair!

Blame her not! O blame not, ye fathers who hold

Daughters you value more dearly than gold!

But pity, O, pity her! take by the hand

One who, though fallen, yet nobly may stand.

Turn not away from her plea and her cries;

Pity and help, and the fallen may rise!

Crush not to earth the reed that is broken,

Bind up her wounds-let soft words be spoken;

Though she be low, though worldlings reject her,

Let not Humanity ever neglect her.

JOY BEYOND.

BEYOND the dark, deep grave, whose lowly portal

Must yet be passed by every living mortal,

There gleams a light;

'T is not of earth. It wavers not; it gloweth

With a clear radiance which no changing knoweth,

Constant and bright.

We love to gaze at it; we love to cherish

The cheering thought, that, when this earth shall perish,

And naught remain

Of all these temples,--things we now inherit,

Each unimprisoned, no more fettered spirit

Shall life retain.

And ever, through eternity unending,

It shall unto that changeless light be tending,

Till perfect day

Shall be its great reward; and all of mystery

That hath made up its earthly life, its history,

Be passed away!

O, joyous hour! O, day most good and glorious!

When from the earth the ransomed rise victorious,

Its conflict o'er;

When joy henceforth each grateful soul engages,

Joy unalloyed through never-ending ages,

Joy evermore!

THE SUMMER DAYS ARE COMING.

THE summer days are coming,

The glorious summer hours,

When Nature decks her gorgeous robe

With sunbeams and with flowers;

And gathers all her choristers

In plumage bright and gay,

Till every vale is echoing with

Their joyous roundelay.

No more shall frosty winter

Hold in its cold embrace

The water; but the river

Shall join again the race;

And down the mountain's valley,

And o'er its rocky side,

The glistening streams shall rush and leap

In all their bounding pride.

There's pleasure in the winter,

When o'er the frozen snow

With faithful friend and noble steed

Right merrily we go!

But give to me the summer,

The pleasant summer days,

When blooming flowers and sparkling streams

Enliven all our ways.

THE MAN WHO KNOWS EVERYTHING.

SANSECRAT is one of that class of persons who think they know

everything. If anything occurs, and you seek to inform him, he will

interrupt you by saying that he knows it all,--that he was on the

spot when the occurrence happened, or that he had met a man who was

an eye-witness.

Such a person, though he be the possessor of much assurance, is

sadly deficient in manners; and no doubt the super-abundancy of the

former is caused by the great lack of the latter.

Such men as he will thrive; there is no mistake about it. This has

been called an age of invention and of humbug. Nothing is so

popular, or so much sought after, as that which cannot be explained,

and around which a mysterious shroud is closely woven.

My friend Arcanus came sweating and puffing into my room. I had just

finished my dinner, and was seated leisurely looking over a few

pages of manuscript, when he entered.

"News!" said he; and before I could hand him a chair he had told me

all about the last battle, and his tongue flew about with so much

rapidity, that a conflagration might have been produced by such

excessive friction, had not a rap at the door put a clog under the

wheels of his talkative locomotive, and stayed its progress, which

luckily gave me an opportunity to take his hat and request him to be

seated.

The door was opened, and who but Sansecrat stood before me.

"Have you heard the news?" was the first interrogatory of my friend

Arcanus, in reply to which Sansecrat said that he knew it all half

an hour previous,--was at the railroad station when the express

arrived, and was the first man to open the Southern papers.

In vain Arcanus told him that the information came by a private

letter. He averred, point blank, that it was no such thing; that he

had the papers in his pocket; and was about to exhibit them as proof

of what he had said, when he suddenly recollected that he had sold

them to an editor for one-and-sixpence.

Notwithstanding the proverb of "Man, know thyself," Sansecrat seems

to know everything but himself. Thousands of times has it been said

that man can see innumerable faults and foibles in his neighbors,

but none in himself. Very true; and man can see his own character,

just as he can see his own face in a mirror. His own associates

mirror forth his own character; and the faults, be they great or

small, that he sees in them, are but the true reflection of his own

errors. Yet, blind to this, and fondly imagining that he is the very

"pink of excellence," he flatters his own vain feeling with the

cherished idea that, while others have faults, he has none, and so

slumbers on in the sweet repose of ignorance.

Sansecrat imagines that he knows everything; that to teach him would

be like "carrying coals to Newcastle," or sending ship-loads of ice

to Greenland, or furnaces to the coast of Africa; yet he is as

ignorant as the greatest dunce, who, parrot-like, repeats that he

has heard, without having the least understanding of what he says.

Strange as it may seem, it is nevertheless true that Sansecrat will

prosper in the world; for, though destitute of those qualifications

which render their possessor worthy of success, he has an abundance

of brazen-facedness, with which he will work himself into the good

opinion of not a few, who look more closely upon exterior appearance

than they do upon inward worth, and judge their fellowmen more by

the good quality of their cloth than by the good quality of their

hearts, and set more value on a shining hat and an unpatched boot

than they do on a brilliant intellect and a noble soul.

PRIDE AND POVERTY.

I CANNOT brook the proud. I cannot love

The selfish man; he seems to have no heart;

And why he lives and moves upon this earth

Which God has made so fair, I cannot tell.

He has no soul but that within his purse,

And all his hopes are centred on its fate;

That lost, and all is lost.

I knew a man

Who had abundant riches. He was proud,--

Too oft the effect of riches when abused,--

His step was haughty, and his eye glanced at

The honest poor as base intruders on

The earth he trod and fondly called his own;

Unwelcome guests at Nature's banqueting.

Years passed away,--that youth became a man;

His beetled brow, his sullen countenance,

His eye that looked a fiery command,

Betrayed that his ambition was to rule.

He smiled not, save in scorn on humble men,

Whom he would have bow down and worship him.

Thus with his strength his pride did grow, until

He did become aristocrat indeed.

The humble beggar, whose loose rags scarce gave

Protection to him from the cold north wind,

He scarce would look upon, and vainly said,

As in his hand he held the ready coin,

"No mortal need be poor,--'t is his own fault

If such he be;--if he court poverty,

Let all its miseries be his to bear."

'T is many years since he the proud spake thus,

And men and things have greatly changed since then.

No more in wealth he rolls,--men's fortunes change.

I met a lonely hearse, slowly it passed

Toward the church-yard. 'T was unattended

Save by one old man, and he the sexton.

With spade beneath his arm he trudged along,

Whistling a homely tune, and stopping not.

He seemed to be in haste, for now and then

He'd urge to quicker pace his walking beast,

With the rough handle of his rusty spade.

Him I approached, and eagerly inquired

Whose body thus was borne so rudely to

Its final resting-place, the deep, dark grave.

"His name was Albro," was the prompt reply.

"Too proud to beg, we found him starved to death,

In a lone garret, which the rats and mice

Seemed greatly loth to have him occupy.

An' I, poor Billy Matterson, whom once

He deemed too poor and low to look upon,

Am come to bury him."

The sexton smiled,--

Then raised his rusty spade, cheered up his nag,

Whistled as he was wont, and jogged along.

Oft I have seen the poor man raise his hand

To wipe the eye when good men meet the grave,--

But Billy Matterson, he turned and smiled.

The truth flashed in an instant on my mind,

Though sad, yet deep, unchanging truth to me.

'T was he, thus borne, who, in his younger days,

Blest with abundance, used it not aright.

He, who blamed the poor because they were such;

Behold his end!-too proud to beg, he died.

A sad example, teaching all to shun

The rock on which he shipwrecked,--warning take,

That they too fall not as he rashly fell.

WORDS THAT TOUCH THE INNER HEART.

WORDS, words! O give me these,

Words befitting what I feel,

That I may on every breeze

Waft to those whose riven steel

Fetters souls and shackles hands

Born to be as free as air,

Yet crushed and cramped by Slavery's bands,--

Words that have an influence there.

Words, words! give me to write

Such as touch the inner heart;

Not mere flitting forms of light,

That please the ear and then depart;

But burning words, that reach the soul,

That bring the shreds of error out,

That with resistless power do roll,

And put the hosts of Wrong to rout.

Let others tune their lyres, and sing

Illusive dreams of fancied joy;

But, my own harp,--its every string

Shall find in Truth enough employ.

It shall not breathe of Freedom here,

While millions clank the galling chain;

Or e'en one slave doth bow in fear,

Within our country's broad domain.

Go where the slave-gang trembling stands,

Herded with every stable stock,--

Woman with fetters on her hands,

And infants on the auction-block!

See, as she bends, how flow her tears!

Hark! hear her broken, trembling sighs;

Then hear the oaths, the threats, the jeers,

Of men who lash her as she cries!

O, men! who have the power to weave

In poesy's web deep, searching thought,

Be truth thy aim; henceforward leave

The lyre too much with fancy fraught!

Come up, and let the words you write

Be those which every chain would break,

And every sentence you indite

Be pledged to Truth for Freedom's sake.

OUR HOME.

OUR home shall be

A cot on the mountain side,

Where the bright waters glide,

Sparkling and free;

Terrace and window o'er

Woodbine shall graceful soar;

Roses shall round the door

Blossom for thee.

There shall be joy

With no care to molest,--

Quiet, serene and blest;

And our employ

Work each other's pleasure;

Boundless be the treasure;

Without weight or measure,

Free from alloy.

Our home shall be

Where the first ray of light

Over the mountain height,

Stream, rock and tree,

Joy to our cot shall bring,

While brake and bower shall ring

With notes the birds shall sing,

Loved one, for thee.

SPECULATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCE.

SPECULATION is business in a high fever. Its termination is

generally very decided, whether favorable or otherwise, and the

effect of that termination upon the individual most intimately

connected with it in most cases unhealthy.

It was a truth long before the wise man wrote it, that making haste

to be rich is an evil; and it always will be a truth that the

natural, unforced course of human events is the only sure, the only

rational one.

The desire to be rich, to be pointed out as wealthy, is a very

foolish one, unless it be coupled with a desire to do good. This is

somewhat paradoxical; for the gratification of the last most

certainly repels that of the first, inasmuch as he who distributes

his gains cannot accumulate to any great extent.

Wealth is looked at from the wrong stand-point. It is too often

considered the end, instead of the means to an end; and there never

was a greater delusion in the human mind than that of supposing that

riches confer happiness. In ninety-nine cases out of every hundred

the opposite is the result. Care often bears heavily on the rich

man's brow, and the insatiate spirit asks again and again for more,

and will not be silenced. And this feeling will predominate in the

human mind until man becomes better acquainted with his own true

nature, and inclines to minister to higher and more ennobling

aspirations.

In one of the most populous cities of the Union there resided, a few

years since, a person in moderate circumstances, by the name of

Robert Short. Bob, as he Was usually called, was a shoemaker. With a

steady run of custom, together with prudence and economy combined,

he was enabled to support his family in an easy and by no means

unenviable style. He did not covet the favors and caresses of the

world. He looked upon all,--the rich, the poor, the prince, the

beggar,--alike, as his brethren. He believed that all stood upon one

platform, all were bound to the same haven, and that all should be

equally interested in each other's welfare. With this belief, and

with rules of a similar character, guided by which he pursued his

course of life, it was not to be wondered at that he could boast of

many friends, and not strange that many should seek his

acquaintance. There is a desire planted in the hearts of honest men

to associate with those who, ambitious enough to sustain a good

character, are not so puffed up with pride, or so elevated in their

own estimation, as to despise the company of what are termed "the

common people." It was pleasant, of a winter's evening, to enter the

humble domicile of Mr. Short, and while the howling storm raged

fiercely without, and the elements seemed at war, to see the

contentment and peace that prevailed within. Bob, seated at his

bench, might be seen busily employed, and, as the storm increased,

would seem to apply himself more diligently to his task. Six or

perhaps eight of his neighbors might also be seen gathered around,

seated upon that article most convenient,--whether a stool or a pile

of leather, it mattered not,--relating some tale of the Revolution,

or listening to some romantic story from the lips of the respected

Mr. Short. 'T was upon such an evening, and at such a place, that

our story commences. Squire Smith, Ned Green, and a jovial sort of a

fellow by the name of Sandy, were seated around the red-hot

cylinder. Squire Smith was what some would term a "man of

consequence,"-at least, he thought so. Be it known that this squire

was by no means a daily visitor at the work-shop of our hero. He

came in occasionally, and endeavored to impress upon his mind that

which he had settled in his own, namely, that he, Robert Short,

might be a great man.

"I tell you what," said he, with an air of importance, "I tell you

what, it is against all reason, it is contrary to common sense and

everything else, that you remain any longer riveted down to this old

bench. It will be your ruin; 'pend upon it, it will be your ruin."

"How so?" eagerly inquired Mr. Short.

"Why," replied the squire, "it's no use for me to go into

particulars. But why do you not associate with more respectable and

fashionable company?"

"Is not the present company respectable?" resumed Mr. Short; "and as

for the fashion, I follow my own."

Squire Smith did not reply to this inquiry, but stood shaking his

head, and appeared at a loss for words with which to answer.

"Perhaps your ideas of respectability," continued the squire, "are

not in accordance with mine."

"Ay, ay; true, true," interrupted Sandy, with a shrug of the

shoulder.

Mr. Smith continued his remarks, appearing not to notice the

interruption. "Perhaps," said he, "one may be as honest as the days

are long; but, sir, he is far from being respectable, in my humble

opinion, if he is not genteel,--and certainly if he is not

fashionably dressed he is not. He does not think enough of himself;

that's it, my dear Mr. Short, he does not think enough of himself."

"But he is honest," replied Mr. Short. "Supposing he does not dress

so fashionably as you would wish, would you condemn him for the cut

of his coat, or the quality of his cloth? Perhaps his means are not

very extensive, and will not admit of a very expensive outlay,

merely for show. It is much better, my dear sir, to be clothed in

rags and out of debt, than to be attired in the most costly apparel,

and that not paid for. Sir, to hold up your head and say you owe no

man, is to be free, free in the truest sense of the word."

"Ah, I must be on the move," interrupted the squire, at the same

time looking at his "gold lever." And off he started.

Squire Smith had said enough for that night; to have said more would

have injured his plan. Mr. Green and Sandy shook hands with their

friend Robert, and, it being late, they bade him "good-by," and

parted. Our hero was now left alone. Snuffing the candle, that had

well-nigh burnt to the socket, he placed more fuel upon the fire,

and, resting his hands upon his knees and his head upon his hands,

he began to think over the sayings of his friend the squire.

Robert Short saw nothing of the squire for many days after the event

just described transpired. One day, as he began his work, the door

was suddenly thrown open, and the long absent but not forgotten

squire rushed in, shouting "Speculation! speculation!" Mr. Short

threw aside his last, and listened with feelings of astonishment to

the eloquent words that fell from the lips of his unexpected

visitor. "Gull, the broker," continued the squire, "has just offered

me a great bargain. I have come to make a proposition which is, that

you and I accept his offer, and make our fortunes."

"Fortunes!" exclaimed the son of Crispin; "speculate in what?"

"In eastern land," was the reply.

Bob Short's countenance assumed a desponding appearance; he had

heard of many losses caused by venturing in these speculations, and

had some doubts as to his success, should he accept. Then, again, he

had heard of those who had been fortunate, and he inquired the

conditions of sale.

"Why," replied Mr. Smith, Esq., "old Varnum Gull has three thousand

acres of good land, upon which are, as he assures me, some beautiful

watering places. It is worth five dollars an acre; he offers it to

me for one, and a grand chance it is; the terms are cash."

"Are you certain as to the quality of the land?" inquired Mr. Short.

"Perfectly certain," was the reply. "I would not advise you wrong

for the world; but I now think it best to form a sort of

co-partnership, and purchase the land. There is no doubt but that we

can dispose of it at a great advantage. Will you not agree to my

proposals, and accept?"

"I will," answered Mr. Short. "But how can I obtain fifteen hundred

dollars? I have but a snug thousand."

"O, don't trouble yourself about that," replied the delighted

squire. "I will loan you the balance at once. You can return it at

some convenient time. What say you will you accompany me to the

broker's, and inform him of the agreement?"

Mr. Short, after a moment's delay, arose, and, laying aside his

leather apron, took the squire by the arm, and both sallied forth in

search of the office of Varnum Gull. After wending their way through

short streets and long lanes, narrow avenues and wide alleys, they

came to a small gate, upon which was fastened a small tin sign with

the following inscription: "V. Gull, broker, up the yard, round the

corner, up two pair of stairs." The squire and Mr. Short followed

the directions laid down, and, having gone up the yard and turned

round the corner, they found themselves at the foot of the stairs.

They stood for a moment silent, and were about to ascend, when a

voice from above attracted their attention.

"'Ollo, Squire, 'ere's the box; walk right up 'ere; only look out,

there's an 'ole in the stairs."

Our hero looked above, and perceived a man with green spectacles

drawing his head in.

"We will go up," said the squire, "and look out for the hole; but,

as the stairway is rather dark, we shall not see much; therefore we

shall be obliged to feel our way."

They ascended, and escaped without injury. A little short man met

them at the door, holding in his hand a paper bearing some

resemblance to a map.

"Really, Mr. Smith, I feared you would lose that 'ere bargain I

expatiated on. I 'ave received many good offers, but 'ave reserved

it for you. Your friend, ha?" he continued, at the same time

striking Mr. Short in no gentle manner upon the shoulder.

"Not friend Hay, but friend Short," replied the squire.

"Hall the same, only an error in the spelling," resumed the broker.

"Good-morning, Mr. Short; s'pose you 'ave become 'quainted with the

rare chance I've offered, an't ye? and wish to accept it, don't ye?

and can pay for it, can't ye? Such an opportunity is seldom met

with, by which to make one's fortune."

"Well," replied Mr. Short, improving the time Mr. Gull stopped to

breathe, "well, I had some idea of so doing." "Hidea!" quickly

responded the broker; "why will you 'esitate? read that!" and he

handed a paper to Mr. Short which paper he kept for reference, and

pointed out to him an article which read as follows:

"It is astonishing what enormous profits are at present realized by

traders in Eastern Land. One of our neighbors purchased a thousand

acres, at one dollar and twenty-five cents per acre, of Gull, our

enterprising broker, and sold it yesterday for the round sum of

three thousand dollars, receiving thereby the enormous profit of

nineteen hundred and seventy-five dollars. He was a poor man, but by

this lucky movement has become rich."

As soon as our hero had read this cheering intelligence, he became

elated with the prospect, and soon came to a final agreement with

the squire to accept the offer. Papers were drawn up, signed by

each, and a check given to the broker, for which was returned a deed

for the land. They then left the office, Mr. Gull politely bidding

them good-by, with a caution to look out for the "'ole." They did

look out for the hole, but it might have been that the cunning

broker referred to a hole of more consequence than that in the

stairs. The squire on that day invited Mr. Short to his house to

dine. This, however, he did not accept, but returned to his shop.

One week had passed away, during which time the squire was often at

the shop of Bob Short, but no customer had yet applied for the land.

It was near dusk on the eighth day succeeding the purchase, as they

were talking over the best way by which to dispose of it, when a

short man entered, wrapped up in a large cloak, and a large bushy

fur cap upon his head.

"I understand," said he, "you have a few acres of land you wish to

dispose of."

"Exactly so," answered the squire.

"And how much do you charge per acre?" inquired the stranger.

"That depends upon the number you wish. Do you wish to purchase

all?"

"That depends upon the price charged," was the reply.

"If you wish all," continued Mr. Smith, "we will sell for four

dollars an acre. That is dog cheap, and a great sacrifice."

"Well," resumed the stranger, "I will take it on conditions;

namely, I will pay you your price, and if the land answers my

purpose I will keep it,--if not, you will return me the amount of

money I pay."

"That is rather a hard bargain. I know it to be good land," answered

the squire.

"Then," continued the stranger, "if you know it to be good,

certainly there can be no danger in disposing of it on the

conditions I have named."

After a few moments' conversation with Mr. Short, they agreed to

sell to the stranger. Papers were immediately drawn up and signed by

Messrs. Smith and Short, agreeing to return the money provided the

land did not give satisfaction. The sum of twelve thousand dollars

was paid in cash to the signers, and the papers given into the hands

of the purchaser, who then left. Robert Short on that night did

really feel rich. This was six thousand dollars apiece; after Mr.

Short had paid the fifteen hundred borrowed, he had forty-five

hundred left. Both were equally certain that the land would give

entire satisfaction, and acted according to this belief. With a

light heart he went home, and communicated the joyful intelligence

to his wife, who had from the first been opposed to the trade. He

did not, however, inform her of the terms on which he had sold. In a

few days he had disposed of his shop and tools to one of his former

workmen. Many were surprised when the sign of "Robert Short" was

taken from its long resting-place over the door. Mr. Short now began

to think the house in which he had for many years resided was not

quite good enough, and therefore engaged a larger and more expensive

one. He ordered new furniture, purchased a carriage and horses, and

had his new house fitted out under the direction of his friend, the

squire. He rented a large store; bought large quantities of shoes

and leather, partly on credit. His business at first prospered, but

in a short time became quite dull; his former customers left, and

all business seemed at a stand-still. In the mean time, the broker

had left town, having sold out his office to a young man. Matters

stood thus, when, early in the morning on a pleasant day in June, as

the squire and Mr. Short were seated in the counting-room of the

latter, a man dressed in a light summer dress entered.

"Good-morning," said the visitor. "Business is quite lively, I

suppose?"

"O, it's moderate, nothing extra," replied Mr. Short; "won't you be

seated?"

The stranger seated himself.

"Mr. Robert Short is your name, is it not?" he inquired.

"It is, sir."

"Did I not make a bargain with you about some eastern land, a few

months since?"

"Yes, some person did;" and Mr. Short immediately recognized him as

the purchaser. The new comer then took from his pocket the paper of

agreement, and presented it for the inspection of the two gentlemen.

"Are you not satisfied with your bargain?" inquired Mr. Smith.

"Not exactly," replied the stranger, laughing.

"Why, what fault is there in it?"

"Well," replied the stranger, "I suppose a report of my examination

will be acceptable."

"Certainly, sir," replied Mr. Short.

"Then I can give it in a few words. It is a good watering place,

being WHOLLY COVERED WITH WATER; and is of no value unless it could

be drained, and that, I think, is impossible."

The squire was astonished; Mr. Short knew not what to

"What is the name of the water bought for land?" inquired Squire

Smith.

"The location of it is in a large pond of water, twelve miles in

length, and about six in width, and is known in those parts by the

name of the 'Big Pond.' But," continued the stranger, "I must be

gone; please return me my money, according to agreement."

After some talk, the stranger agreed to call the next day. The next

day came, and with it came the stranger. Mr. Short had tried in vain

to obtain the requisite sum, and was obliged to request him to call

the next day. He came the next day, and the next, and the next, but

received no money; and he was at length obliged to attach the

property of the squire, as also that of Mr. Short. His other

creditors also came in with their bills. All the stock of Mr. Short

was sold at auction, and he was a poor man. He obtained a small

house, that would not compare with the one he had lived in in former

years. He had no money of his own, and was still deeply in debt. He

was obliged to work at such jobs as came along, but at length

obtained steady employment. The squire, who was the prime cause of

all his trouble, sailed for a foreign port, leaving all his bills

unpaid, In a short time Mr. Short obtained a sufficient sum to buy

back his old shop, in which to this day he has steadily worked, with

a vivid remembrance of the consequence of speculation.

RETROSPECTION.

HE had drank deep and long from out

The bacchanalian's bowl;

Had felt its poisonous arrows pierce

The recess of his soul;

And now his footsteps turned to where

His childhood's days were cast,

And sat him 'neath an old oak tree

To muse upon the past.

Beneath its shade he oft had sat

In days when he was young;

Ere sorrow, like that old oak tree,

Its own deep shadows flung;

Beneath that tree his school-mates met,

There joined in festive mirth,

And not a place seemed half so dear

To him, upon the earth.

The sun had passed the horizon,

Yet left a golden light

Along a cloudless sky to mark

A pathway for the night;

The moon was rising silently

To reign a queen on high,

To marshal all the starry host,

In heaven's blue canopy.

In sight the schoolhouse stood, to which

In youth he had been led

By one who now rests quietly

Upon earth's silent bed.

And near it stood the church whose aisles

His youthful feet had trod;

Where his young mind first treasured in

The promises of God.

There troops of happy children ran

With gayety along;

'T was agony for him to hear

Their laughter and their song.

For thoughts of youthful days came up

And crowded on his brain,

Till, crushed with woe unutterable,

It sank beneath its pain.

Pain! not such as sickness brings,

For that can be allayed,

But pain from which a mortal shrinks

Heart-stricken and dismayed:

The body crushed beneath its woe

May some deliverance find,

But who on earth hath power to heal

The agony of mind?

O Memory! it long had slept;

But now it woke to power,

And brought before him all the past,

From childhood's earliest hour.

He saw himself in school-boy prime;

Then youth, its pleasures, cares,

Came up before him, and he saw

How cunningly the snares

Were set to catch him as he ran

In thoughtless haste along,

To charm him with deceitful smiles,

And with its siren song:

He saw a seeming friendly hand

Hold out the glittering wine,

Without a thought that deep within

A serpent's form did twine.

Then manhood came; then he did love,

And with a worthy pride

He led a cherished being to

The altar as his bride;

And mid the gay festivity

Passed round the flowing wine,

And friends drank, in the sparkling cup,

A health to thee and thine.

A health! O, as the past came up,

The wanderer's heart was stirred

And as a madman he poured forth

Deep curses on that word.

For well he knew that "health" had been

The poison of his life;

Had made the portion of his soul

With countless sorrows rife.

Six years passed by-a change had come,

And what a change was that!

No more the comrades of his youth

With him as comrades sat.

Duties neglected, friends despised,

Himself with naught to do,

A mother dead with anguish, and

A wife heart-broken too.

Another year-and she whom he

Had promised to protect

Died in the midst of poverty,

A victim of neglect.

But ere she died she bade him kneel

Beside herself in prayer,

And prayed to God that he would look

In pity on them there:

And bless her husband, whom she loved,

And all the past forgive,

And cause him, ere she died, begin

A better life to live.

She ceased to speak,--the husband rose,

And, penitent, did say,

While tears of deep contrition flowed,

"I'll dash the bowl away!"

A smile passed o'er the wife's pale face,

She grasped his trembling hand,

Gave it one pressure, then her soul

Passed to a better land.

He, bent to kiss her pale cold lips,

But they returned it not;

And then he felt the loneliness

And sorrow of his lot.

It seemed as though his life had fled;

That all he called his own,

When her pure spirit took its flight,

Had with that spirit flown.

She had been all in all to him,

And deep his heart was riven

With anguish, as he thought what woe

He her kind heart had given.

But all was passed; she lay in death,

The last word had been said,

The soul had left its prison-house,

And up to heaven had fled;

But 't was a joy for him to know

She smiled on him in love,

And hope did whisper in his heart,

"She'll guard thee from above."

He sat beneath that old oak tree,

And children gathered round,

And wondered why he wept, and asked

What sorrow he had found.

Then told he them this sad, sad tale,

Which I have told to you;

They asked no more why he did weep,

For they his sorrow knew.

And soon their tears began to fall,

And men came gathering round,

Till quite a goodly company

Beneath that tree was found.

The wanderer told his story o'er,

Unvarnished, true and plain;

And on that night three-score of men

Did pledge them to abstain.

NATURE'S FAIR DAUGHTER, BEAUTIFUL WATER.

NATURE'S fair daughter,

Beautiful water!

O, hail it with joy, with echoes of mirth,

Wherever it sparkles or ripples on earth.

Down from the mountain,

Up from the fountain,

Ever it cometh, bright, sparkling and clear,

From the Creator, our pathway to cheer.

Nobly appearing,

O'er cliffs careering,

Pouring impetuously on to the sea,

Chanting, unceasing, the song of the free.

See how it flashes

As onward it dashes

Over the pebbly bed of the brook,

Singing in every sequestered nook.

Now gently falling,

As if 't were calling

Spirits of beauty from forest and dell

To welcome it on to grotto and cell.

Beauteous and bright

Gleams it in light,

Then silently flows beneath the deep glade,

Emblem of life in its sunshine and shade.

Beautiful water!

Nature's fair daughter!

Where'er it sparkles or ripples on earth,

Hail it with joy and with echoes of mirth.

THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP.

BRIGHTEST shine the stars above

When the night is darkest round us;

Those the friends we dearest love

Who were near when sorrow bound us.

When no clouds o'ercast our sky,

When no evil doth attend us,

Then will many gather nigh,

Ever ready to befriend us.

But when darkness shades our path,

When misfortune hath its hour,

When we lie beneath its wrath,

Some will leave us to its power.

Often have we seen at night,

When the clouds have gathered o'er us,

One lone star send forth its light,

Marking out the path before us.

Like that star some friendly eye

Will beam on us in our sorrow;

And, though clouded be our sky,

We know there'll be a better morrow.

We know that all will not depart,

That some will, gather round to cheer us:

Know we, in our inmost heart,

Tried and faithful friends are near us.

Brother, those who do not go

May be deem‚d friends forever;

Love them, trust them, have them know

Nothing can your friendship sever.

WEEP NOT.

WEEP not, mother,

For another

Tie that bound thyself to earth

Now is sundered,

And is numbered

With those of a heavenly birth.

She hath left thee.

God bereft thee

Of thy dearest earthly friend;

Yet thou'lt meet her,

Thou wilt greet her

Where reunions have no end

Her life's true sun

Its course did run

From morn unto meridian day;

And now at eve

It takes its leave,

Calmly passing hence away.

Watch the spirit-

'T will inherit

Bliss which mortal cannot tell;

From another

World, my mother,

Angels whisper, "All is well."

'Way with sadness!

There is gladness

In a gathered spirit throng;

She, ascended,

Trials ended,

Joins their ranks and chants their song.

Weep not, mother,

For another

Tie doth bind thyself above;

Doubts are vanished,

Sorrows banished,

She is happy whom you love.

RICH AND POOR.

"GOOD-BY, Ray, good-by," said George Greenville; and the stage wound

its way slowly up a steep ascent, and was soon lost to view.

"Well, well, he has gone. Glad of it, heartily glad of it! When will

all these paupers be gone?" said the father of George, as he entered

the richly-furnished parlor, and seated himself beside an open

window.

"Why so glad?" inquired George, who listened with feelings of regret

to the remark.

"Why?" resumed the owner of a thousand acres; "ask me no questions;

I am glad,--that's enough. You well know my mind on the subject."

"Father, act not thus. Is this a suitable way to requite his

kindness?"

"Kindness!" interrupted the old man; "say not 't was kindness that

prompted him to do me a favor; rather say 't was his duty,--and of

you should I not expect better things? Did I allow you to visit

Lemont but to become acquainted with such a poverty-stricken,

pauper-bred youth as Ray Bland?"

Saying this, he arose and left the room.

George seated himself in the chair vacated by his father. He looked

across the verdant fields, and mused upon his passionate remarks.

"Well," thought he, "I was right; shall I allow the god of Mammon to

bind me down? Of what use are riches, unless, whilst we enjoy, we

can with them relieve the wants and administer to the necessities of

our fellow-men? Shall we hoard them up, or shall we not rather give

with a free hand and a willing heart to those who have felt

misfortune's scourging rod,--who are crushed, oppressed and trampled

upon, by not a few of their more wealthy neighbors?" In such a train

of thought he indulged himself till the hour of dinner arrived.

George Greenville had formed an acquaintance with Ray Bland whilst

on a visit to a neighboring town. He was a young man, possessing

those fine qualities of mind that constitute the true gentleman. His

countenance beamed with intelligence, and his sparkling eye betrayed

vivacity of mind, the possession of which was a sure passport to the

best of society. When the time came that George was to return home

to the companionship of his friends, they found that ties of

friendship bound them which could not be easily severed, and Ray

accepted the invitation of George Greenville to accompany him, and

spend a short time at the house of his father. The week had passed

away in a pleasant manner. The hour of parting had come and gone;

The farewell had been taken, the "good-by" had been repeated, when

the conversation above mentioned passed between him and his father.

The family and connections of George were rich; those of Ray were

poor. The former lived at ease in the midst of pleasures, and

surrounded by all the comforts and conveniences of life; the latter

encountered the rough waves of adversity, and was obliged to labor

with assiduity, to sustain an equal footing with his neighbors. Thus

were the two friends situated; and old Theodore Greenville scorned

the idea of having his son associate with a pauper, as he termed all

those who were not the possessors of a certain amount of

money,--without which, in his opinion, none were worthy to associate

with the rich.

"Ray is a person not so much to be hated and sneered at as you would

suppose," said George, breaking the silence, and addressing his

father at the dinner-table.

"George, I have set my heart against him," was the reply.

"Then," continued the first speaker, "I suppose you are not open to

conviction. If I can prove him worthy of your esteem and confidence,

will you believe?"

"That cannot be done, perhaps. You may think him to be a worthy

young man; but I discard the old saying that poverty is no disgrace!

I say that it is; and one that can, if its victim choose, be washed

away. Ray Bland is a pauper, that's my only charge against him; and

all the thundering eloquence of a Cicero will not alter my opinion,

or move me an iota from the stand I have taken,--which is, now and

ever, to reject the company of paupers. It is my request that you do

the same."

Amelia, the sister of George, now joined in the conversation,

inquiring of her father whether it was against his will for her to

associate with the poor.

"Precisely so," was the brief reply; and the conversation ended. The

father left the house for a short walk, as was his custom, whilst

George and Amelia retired to the parlor, and conversed, for a long

time, upon the rash and unjust decision of their parent. The mutual

attachment that existed between George and Ray was not looked upon

with indifference by the sister of the former; and she determined

upon using all the means in her power to bring the latter into the

good will of her father; she resolved, like a noble girl, to cherish

a social and friendly feeling toward the friend of her brother. He

who knows the warmth of a sister's affection can imagine with what

constancy she adhered to this determination. The command of her

father not to associate with the poor only served to strengthen her

resolution, for she knew with what obstacles her brother would have

to contend. She had a kind heart, that would not allow a

fellow-being to want, so long as she had, or could obtain, the means

to relieve him.

"Do you think father was in earnest in what he said?" inquired

Amelia.

"I have no reason to doubt his sincerity," replied George; "but what

led you to ask such a question?"

"Because, you know, he often speaks ironically; and, as he left the

dinner-room with mother, he smiled, and said something about the

poor, and a trick he was about to play."

"True, Amelia," replied George, "he is to play a trick; but it

concerns not us. You know poor old Smith is one of father's tenants.

Smith has been sick, and has not been able to procure funds with

which to pay his rent, and father intends to engage a person to take

out all the doors and windows of the house. He hopes Smith will thus

be forced to leave. I have been thinking whether we cannot devise

some plan to prevent the poor man from being turned thus abruptly

from the house."

"I am sure we can," replied Amelia; "yet I had much rather have a

trick played upon us than upon poor Smith. Can you not propose some

way by which we can prevent father from carrying out his

intentions?"

"I will give you the money," replied George, "if you will convey it

to Mr. Smith, so that he will be enabled to pay his rent. Recollect

it must be carried in the night, and this night, as father expects

to commence his operations to-morrow or next day. You know that I

cannot go, as my time will be fully occupied in attending upon some

important business at home." It was not necessary to make this offer

more than once. The heart of Amelia bounded with joy, as she

anticipated being the bearer of the money to Smith; and, shortly

after dark, being provided with it, she proceeded to his house.

It was a dark night. The moon was obscured by thick clouds, and no

twinkling star shone to guide her on her errand of mercy. As she

drew near the lonely dwelling of Paul Smith, she perceived no light.

She feared that he might be absent. Stealthily along she crept, and,

listening at the door, heard the voice of prayer, imploring aid and

support during the trials of life, that relief might soon be sent.

Amelia silently opened the door, and placed the money on a table,

accompanied with a note to Smith, requesting him not to disclose the

manner in which he received it, and, as silently withdrawing, wended

her way home. As she entered the parlor, she found her father and

brother engaged in earnest conversation,--so earnest that she was not

at first noticed.

"Confound my tenants!" said Mr. Greenville. "There's old Paul Smith;

if to-morrow's sun does not witness him bringing my just dues, he

shall leave,--yes, George, he shall leave! I am no more to be trifled

with and perplexed by his trivial excuses. All my tenants who do not

pay shall toe the same mark. I'll make them walk up, fodder or no

fodder! Ha, ha, ha! old Smith shall know that I have some principle

left, if I have passed my sixtieth year-that he shall! Slipnoose,

the lawyer, shall have one job."

"You are always visiting your friends, George. It seems as though

all are your friends. Yet I don't blame you, for friends are very

happy appendages to one's character. I pity the man who lives a

friendless life. That's the reason I have been such a friend to

Smith,--but no longer!" As he said this the wealthy landlord left the

room.

Amelia related to her brother an account of her adventure, and both

were thankful that they been instrumental in relieving the wants of

their poor neighbors. The next morning, seated at the table, Mr.

Greenville began again to express his opinion respecting poor people

in general, and Paul Smith in particular, when a loud rap at the

door somewhat startled him. In a few moments a servant entered, and

gave information that a person was at the door who wished to see Mr.

Greenville. Arriving there, the landlord encountered his tenant,

Smith, who immediately told him that by some kind providence he was

enabled to pay him his due, and hoped that in future he should be

prompt in his payments.

The landlord took the money, and, looking it over, handed him a

receipt for the same, and returned to the breakfast-table. Nothing

was said about Smith until Mr. Greenville, as he left the room,

remarked "that he did not know but that Smith meant well enough."

Nearly a month had elapsed and nothing had been heard of Ray Bland,

when, on a certain morning, Mr. Greenville came in and handed George

a letter. Upon opening it, George found it to be written by his

friend Ray, informing him of his safe arrival home, thanking him for

the kind attention he received during his visit, and expressing

great pleasure in soon having another opportunity to visit him.

George communicated this intelligence to Amelia, and they determined

upon using their united efforts in endeavoring to bring over the

kind feelings of their father to their young, but poor, friend.

"It's no use for you to talk," said old Mr. Greenville, after a long

conversation with the two; "the die is cast. I have resolved, and

all the arguments you can bring forward will not cause me to break

my resolution."

"Well," remarked George, "perhaps the day will come when you will

deeply regret forming such a resolution. Perhaps the sunshine of

prosperity will not always illumine our path."

"Be that as it may," interrupted Mr. Greenville, "we will not allow

our imagination to wander forth into the mystical regions of the

future, or picture to ourselves scenes of wretchedness, if such

await us. Flatter me not with the good intentions of Ray Bland."

Months passed away, and the children of the proud Mr. Greenville

forbore to mention in the presence of their father aught concerning

their friend Ray Bland, or to excite the anger of the old gentleman

by combating his prejudices against the poor.

Months passed away, and again Ray Bland found himself beneath the

roof of his former friend. He was received by George and Amelia with

the cordiality that had ever marked his intercourse with them; but

the father was, if possible, more morose and sullen than usual.

Ray had several times made the attempt to know the cause of this

coldness, but as often as he alluded to it George would invariably

turn the subject; and he forbore to question further, content with

the happiness which he enjoyed in the society of those he held so

dear.

It was the evening of a fine day in the early spring, that the three

friends sat together. It was the last evening of his visit, and Ray

expected not to return for a long time. Alone in his study, the

father vented his indignation against paupers, which respect for his

daughter's feelings only prevented in the presence of their visitor.

He opened the casement. Clouds were gathering in the sky, and now

and then a faint flash of lightning illumined the increasing

darkness; and the far-off voice of the storm was audible from the

distance, each moment increasing in strength and violence. Soon the

storm was upon them.

The old gentleman retired to his apartment. Each moment the storm

increased in violence, and in vain did he strive to close his eyes

in sleep.

At length a flash more vivid, accompanied by a peal of thunder more

terrific than any that had preceded it, startled the inmates of the

mansion. The wind howled terribly, and the old trees groaned and

creaked about the dwelling with a fearful and terrific sound.

Within all was still and quiet. No word was spoken, for it was a

fearful night, and in fear and dread they suspended their

conversation.

Amelia first broke the silence. "Something must be burning,"

exclaimed she. In an instant the cry of fire was heard. All started

up and rushed to the door; and there, indeed, they were witnesses of

a sight which might well appall. The whole upper part of the house

was in flames. Instantly the cause flashed upon them. The house had

been struck and set on fire by lightning. "My father! O, my father!"

shrieked Amelia, and fell fainting to the floor. Quick as the word

came the thought of Ray Bland that the aged Mr. Greenville might be

in danger; and ere George Greenville had borne his sister to a place

of safety, through flame and smoke had Ray Bland reached the chamber

which he knew the old gentleman occupied. It was locked. One blow of

his foot, with all the force he could muster, and locks and bolts

gave way. The room was nearly enveloped in flames, the curtains of

the window and bed had been consumed, and now the flames had seized

the wood-work and burned with great fury. Upon the floor, prostrate

as if dead, lay the proud man, who scorned and detested the poor,

and who had boasted of being beyond the reach of adversity. To lift

him in his arms and bear him to the street was the work of an

instant. He had only been stunned, and the drenching rain through

which he was carried soon revived him. Ray bore him to the house of

poor Smith, the nearest to his own; and there, with feelings of

anguish which cannot be described, surrounded by his children and

neighbors, the old man learned a lesson which his whole previous

life had not taught, of the dependence which every member of society

has upon the whole. While his riches were taking wings to fly away

even before his own eyes, he felt how foolish and wicked was his

past conduct; and ever after the poor found no warmer friend or more

liberal hand than that of old George Greenville.

In the course of a few months a new and spacious building was

erected upon the site of the one destroyed; and the neighbors say

that the pretty cottage which is being built just over the way is to

be the future residence of Ray Bland and the fair Amelia, whose

aristocratic father now knows no distinction, save in merit, between

the rich and poor.

THE HOMEWARD BOUND.

SLOWLY he paced the vessel's whitened deck,

While thoughts of hours, and days, and scenes long past,

Brought forth from fountains well-nigh dry a tear:

For in imagination he could see

Himself a tiny boy, in childish sport

Upon a river's bank, quite near his home,

Chasing the butterfly, whose gaudy dress

Lured him away, till, wearied with the chase,

Upon some mossy stone he sat him down;

Or, in some rippling brook, beneath the shade

Of some tall oak, he bathed his parched brow;

Then up he sprang, retraced his wandering steps,

Yet heedless ran, and could not leave his play.

And since that day what scenes had he passed through,

What trials met, what sights his eyes beheld!

Beneath the burning skies of torrid zones,

On frozen banks of Nova Zembla's coast,

Or the more fertile climes of Italy;

There, where the luscious grape in fulness hangs,

And fields of roses yield a rich perfume;

'Mid orange-groves whence sweetest odors rise,

'Neath branches burdened with their fragrant fruit,

Forth he had wandered.

Mark the semblance now!

For much there is between his childish course

Upon the river's bank and his later

Wanderings. Then, he chased the butterfly. Now,

His inclination led to a pursuit

More bold, adventurous, and far more grand.

Ambition filled his soul. Sometimes he ran

In vain; and so it was in boyhood's days;

And thus 't is plainly seen that childhood hours

Are but an index of our future life,

And life an index of that yet to come.

As on the vessel swept, a tear would 'scape

Forth from its hidden cell, and trickle down

The sailor's deeply-furrowed cheek, to bathe

Those recollections with the dew of Thought!

Some deem it weak to weep. Away the thought!

It is not weakness when Affection's fount

O'erflows its borders, and to man displays

The feelings that its powers cannot conceal.

It is not weakness when our feeble words

Find utterance only in our flowing tears.

Call not such language "weakness"! Worlds may laugh,

Yet know no joy like that which often flows

In silent tears.

As nearer drew the seaman to his home,

As in the distance first he saw the spot

Where childhood's hours in happiness were spent,

His slow pace quickened to a faster walk,

And, had he had the power, he'd walked the waves,

And bravely dashed the intrusive spray aside,

To reach the much-loved spot more rapidly

Than wind and tide urged on his noble bark.

THE POOR OF EARTH.

I'VE often wondered, as I've sat

Within mine own loved home,

And thought of those, my fellow-men,

Who houseless, homeless, roam;

That one upon this earth is found

Whose heart good promptings smother;

And will not share his wealth with him

Who is his poorer brother!

I've often wondered, as I've walked

Amid life's busy throng,

And seen my fellows who have been

By Fortune helped along,

That they who bask in its bright rays

No tear of pity shed

On him who doth no "fortune" seek,

But asks a crust of bread!

I've seen the gilded temple raised,

The aspirant of fame

Ascend the altar's sacred steps,

To preach a Saviour's name,

And wondered, as I stood and gazed

At those rich-cushioned pews,

Where he who bears the poor man's fate

Might hear Salvation's news.

I've walked within the church-yard's walls,

With holy dread and fear,

And on its marble tablets read

"None but the rich lie here."

I've wandered till I came upon

A heap of moss-grown stones,

And some one whispered in mine ear,

"Here rest the poor man's bones."

My spirit wandered on, until

It left the scenes of earth;

Until I stood with those who'd passed

Through death, the second birth.

And I inquired, with holy awe,

"Who are they within this fold,

Who seem to be Heaven's favorite,

And wear those crowns of gold?"

Then a being came unto me,

One of angelic birth,

And in most heavenly accents said,

"Those were the poor of earth."

Then from my dream I woke, but

Will ne'er forget its worth;

For ever since that vision

I have loved "the poor of earth."

And when I see them toiling on

To earn their daily bread,

And dire oppression crush them down,

Till every joy hath fled,--

I mind me of that better world,

And of that heavenly fold,

Where every crown of thorns gives place

Unto a crown of gold.

IF I DON'T, OTHERS WILL.

"IF I don't make it, others will;

So I'll keep up my death-drugged still.

Come, Zip, my boy, pile on the wood,

And make it blaze as blaze it should;

For I do heartily love to see

The flames dance round it merrily!

"Hogsheads, you want?-well, order them made;

The maker will take his pay in trade.

If, at the first, he will not consent,

Treat him with wine till his wits are spent;

Then, when his reason is gone, you know

Whate'er we want from his hands will flow!

"Ah, what do you say?-'that won't be fair'?

You're conscientious, I do declare!

I thought so once, when I was a boy,

But since I have been in this employ

I've practised it, and many a trick,

By the advice of my friend, Old Nick.

I thought 't was wrong till he hushed my fears

With derisive looks, and taunts, and jeers,

And solemnly said to me, 'My Bill,

If you don't do it, some others will!'

"If I don't sell it, some others will;

So bottles, and pitchers, and mugs I'll fill.

When trembling child, who is sent, shall come,

Shivering with cold, and ask for rum

(Yet fearing to raise its wet eyes up),

I'll measure it out in its broken cup!

"Ah! what do you say?-'the child wants bread'?

Well, 't is n't my duty to see it fed;

If the parents will send to me to buy,

Do you think I'd let the chance go by

To get me gain? O, I'm no such fool;

That is not taught in the world's wide school!

"When the old man comes with nervous gait,

Loving, yet cursing his hapless fate,

Though children and wife and friends may meet,

And me with tears and with sighs entreat

Not to sell him that which will be his death,

I'll hear what the man with money saith;

If he asks for rum and shows the gold,

I'll deal it forth, and it shall be sold!

"Ah! do you say, 'I should heed the cries

Of weeping friends that around me rise'?

May be you think so; I tell you what,--

I've a rule which proves that I should not;

For, know you, though the poison kill,

If I don't sell it, some others will!"

A strange fatality came on all men,

Who met upon a mountain's rocky side;

They had been sane and happy until then,

But then on earth they wished not to abide.

The sun shone brightly, but it had no charm;

The soft winds blew, but them did not elate;

They seemed to think all joined to do them harm,

And urge them onward to a dreadful fate.

I did say "all men," yet there were a few

Who kept their reason well,--yet, weak, what could they do?

The men rushed onward to the jagged rocks,

Then plunged like madmen in their madness o'er;

From peak to peak they scared the feathered flocks,

And far below lay weltering in their gore.

The sane men wondered, trembled, and they strove

To stay the furies; but they could not do it.

Whate'er they did, however fenced the drove,

The men would spring the bounds or else break through it,

And o'er the frightful precipice they leaped,

Till rock and tree seemed in their red blood steeped.

One of the sane men was a great distiller

And one sold liquors in a famous city;

And, by the way, one was an honest miller,

Who looked on both their trades in wrath and pity.

This good "Honestus" spoke to them, and said,

"You'd better jump; if you don't, others will."

Each took his meaning, yet each shook his head.

"That is no reason we ourselves should kill,"

Said they, while very stupid-brained they seemed,

As though they of the miller's meaning never dreamed.

NOT MADE FOR AN EDITOR.

BEING A TRUE ACCOUNT OF AN INCIDENT IN THE HISTORY OF THE STUBBS FAMILY.

MR. and MRS. STUBBS were seated at the side of a red-hot cylinder

stove. On one side, upon the floor, a small black-and-white dog lay

very composedly baking himself; on the other, an old brown cat was,

in as undisturbed a manner, doing the same. The warmth that existed

between them was proof positive that they had not grown cold towards

each other, though the distance between them might lead one to

suppose they had.

In one corner of the room was the bust of a man, whose only

existence was in the imagination of a miserable ship-carver, who, in

his endeavors to breathe life into his block, came near breathing

life out of himself, by sitting up late at night at his task. In the

other hung a crook-necked squash, festooned with wreaths of

spider-webs. Above the mantel-piece was suspended a painting

representing a feat performed by a certain dog, of destroying one

hundred rats in eight minutes. The frame in which this gem of art

was placed was once gilt, but, at the time to which we refer, was

covered with the dust of ages.

Mr. Stubbs poked the fire. Mrs. Stubbs poked the dog, when suddenly

the door flew open, and their son entered with blackened eyes,

bloody hands; bruised face and dirty clothes, the most

belligerent-looking creature this side of the "Rio Grande."

"My voice a'nt still for war, it's loud for war," he said, as, with

a braggadocia sort of air, he threw his cap at the dog, who clenched

it between his teeth, shook it nearly to tatters, and then passed it

over to the cat.

"What's the matter now, Jake?" said Mrs. Stubbs. "Always in

trouble,--fights and broils seem to be your element. I don't know,

Jake, what will become of you, if you go on at this rate. What say

you, father?"

Mr. Stubbs threw down the poker, and casting a glance first at his

hopeful son, and then at his hoping wife, replied that Jake was an

ignorant, pugnacious, good-for-nothing scamp, and never would come

to anything, unless to a rope's end.

"O, how can you talk so?" said his wife. "You know it's nat'ral."

"Nat'ral!" shouted the father; "then it's ten times worse-the harder

then to rid him of his quarrelsome habits. But I've an idea," said

he, his face brightening up at the thought, as though he had

clenched and made it fast and sure.

The mother started as by an electric shock. The boy, who had retired

into one corner in a sullen mood, freshened up, and looked at his

father. The ship-carver's fancy sketch brightened up also; but not

of its own free will, for the force with which Mr. Stubbs brought

his hand in contact with the table caused the dirty veil to fall

from the bust-er's face.

"What is it?" inquired Mrs. Stubbs, with much animation.

"Why, my dear woman, as we can do nothing with him, we'll make him

an editor."

The old lady inquired what that was; and, being informed, expressed

doubts as to his ability.

"Why," said she, "he cannot write distinctly."

"What of that?'-let him write with the scissors and paste-pot. Let

him learn; many know q great deal more after having learned."

"But he must have some originality in his paper," said Mrs. Stubbs,

who, it seemed, did not fall in with the general opinion that "any

one can edit a paper."

"Never fear that," said Mr. Stubbs; "he'll conduct anything he takes

hold of, rather than have that conduct him. I'll tell you what, old

woman, Jake shall be an editor, whether he can write a line of

editorial or not. Jake, come here."

Jake, who had nearly forgotten his fight, was elated at the

proposition of his father, and, being asked whether, in his opinion,

he could conduct a paper with ability, originality and success,

replied, in the slang phrase of the day, that he "could n't do

anything else," at the same time clenching his fist, as though to

convince his sire that he could do something else, notwithstanding.

"As I have never asked you any question relative to public affairs,

and as the people of this generation are getting to be wise, I deem

it right that I should ask you a few questions before endeavoring to

obtain a situation. Now, Jake, who is the President of the United

States?"

"General George Washington," replied the intelligent lad, or rather

young man; for, though he indulged in many boyish tricks, he was

about twenty years of age, a short, dull-looking member of the

"great unwashed." The father intimated that he was mistaken; the son

persisted in saying that he was not.

"Never mind the catechizer," said Jake; "I'll conduct a newspaper, I

will, for Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs never see the day I could n't conduct

anything."

"That's bright," said Mrs. Stubbs; "he possesses more talent than I

was aware of; he'll make an editor."

"An' he shall," said the father, resolutely.

The clock struck nine, which was the signal for Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs

to retire, and they did so. No sooner had they left than their

dutiful son mounted the table, and, taking down the fancy bust,

pulled the dog by the tail to awake him, and set him barking at it.

The cat must have her part in the tragedy, so Jake thought; and,

pulling her by the tail, she was soon on the field of action.

"Now, sist-a-boy, Tozer; give her an editorial," said he; and, as

dog and cat had been through the same performance before, they acted

their parts in manner suiting. The dog barked, the cat snapped and

snarled, and Jake Stubbs stood by rubbing his hands in a perfect

ecstasy of delight.

It is needless for us to relate the many curious adventures Mr.

Stubbs met with whilst searching for a situation for Jake.

His endeavors to find a situation such as he wanted were, for a long

time, ineffectual. At length he blundered into a small

printing-office, where three men and a boy were testing the merits

of half a dozen doughnuts, and a bottle of root beer.

Mr. Stubbs was very sorry to disturb them. When he mentioned his

errand, one of the men-a tall fellow, with check shirt and green

apron-said that he had, for a long time, contemplated starting a

paper, but, as he was not capable of editing one, he had not carried

out his intention. The principal reason why he had not published

was, he was poor; business had not prospered in his hands, and an

outlay of two thousand dollars would be needed to commence and

continue the paper.

"Very well," replied Mr. Stubbs, "that is a large sum; but, if there

is no doubt of its being returned, I might think of loaning it to

you, for the sake of getting my talented son into business."

"Not the least doubt, not the least," replied Mr. Pica; and he so

inflamed the imagination of Mr. Stubbs, that, strange as it may seem

to the cautious reader, he wrote a check for the amount, merely

taking the unendorsed note of Mr. Pica as security; then, hastening

home, he told Mrs. Stubbs to brush up the boy, for he was an editor.

Behold, now, Mr. Jake Stubbs in a little room up three pair of

stairs, preparing "copy" for the first number of "The Peg Top, or

the Buzz of the Nation." He hasn't got black eyes now; all the

blackness of his person, if not of his character, has settled in his

fingers, and they are black with ink. Not all settled, for a few

daubs of the "blood of the world," as the dark fluid has been

called, were to be seen on his forehead, having passed there from

his fingers, when leaning upon them in a pensive mood, vainly

endeavoring to bring up thoughts from the mighty depths of his

intellect,--so mighty, in fact, that his thoughts were kept there,

and refused to come up.

Mr. Jake Stubbs had been cutting and pasting all day, when, thinking

it a little too severe to inflict further duty upon the assistant

editor, he took his pen in hand, resolved upon writing a masterly

article as a leader.

A sheet of blank paper had lain on the table before him for nearly

an hour. He would sit and think. Some idea would pop into his head,

then with a dash would the pen go into the ink, but before he could

get his pen out the idea had flown, and the world was the loser.

Then he threw himself back into his chair,--thought, thought,

thought. At length Jake obtained the mastery, as patience and

perseverance always will, and the pen became his willing slave,

though his mind, being the slave-driver, did not hurry it on very

fast. He was able to pen a few words, and wrote "The war with

Mexico-"

Well, he had got so far; that was very original, and if he never

wrote anything else, would stamp him a man of talent. Into the ink,

on the paper, and his pen wrote the little word are. "The war with

Mexico are." Ten minutes more of steady thought, and three more

words brought him to a full stop. "The war with Mexico are a

indisputable fact." That last but one was a long word, and a close

observer could have seen his head expand with the effort.

"Copy, sir, copy!" shouted the printer's boy, as he stood with his

arms daubed with ink, and a straw hat upon his head that had seen

service, and looked old enough to retire and live on a pension.

"Copy what?" inquired the editor, who began to feel indignant,

imagining that the publisher had seen his labor to write an article,

and had sent him word to copy from some paper.

"Here," said he, "take this to Mr. Pica, and tell him 't is

original, and gives an account of the war with Mexico, with news up

to this date."

The boy took it, trudged up stairs with two lines of MS., and the

editor arose and walked his office, as though his labors were o'er,

and he might rest and see some mighty spirit engrave his name upon

the scroll of fame.

He had crossed the floor half a dozen times, when in came the same

youth, shouting "Copy, sir, copy!"