"Copy what?" shouted Jake, laying hold of the boy's shirt-sleeve.

"Tell me what you want copied! tell me, sir, or I will shake your

interiors out of you-"

The boy was small, but spunky. His education had been received at

the corners of the streets. He had never taken lessons of a

professor, but he had practised upon a number of urchins smaller

than himself, and had become a thoroughly proficient and expert

pugilist.

It was not for Bill Bite to be roughly handled by any one, not even

by an editor. So he pushed him from him, and said,

"I want copy; that's a civil question,--I want a civil answer."

Jake's organ of combativeness became enlarged. He sprang at the boy,

grasped him by the waist, and would have thrown him down stairs, had

not a movement the boy made prevented him.

Bill's arms were loose, and, nearing the table, he took the inkstand

and dashed the contents into the face of his assailant.

"Murder!" shouted the editor.

"Copy!" shouted the boy; and such a rumpus was created, that up came

Mr. Pica, saying that the building was so shaken that an article in

type on the subject of "Health and Diet" suddenly transformed itself

into "pi."

The two belligerents were parted; the editor and Master Bill Bite

stood at extremes. At this crisis who should enter but Mr. Stubbs,

senior, who, seeing his son's face blackened with ink, inquired the

cause rather indignantly; at which Mr. Pica, not recognizing in the

indignant inquirer the father of the "talented editor," turned

suddenly about and struck him a blow in the face, that displaced his

spectacles, knocked off his white hat into a pond of ink, and made

the old fellow see stars amid the cobwebs and dust of the ceiling.

The son, seeing himself again at liberty, flew at the boy, and gave

him "copy" of a very impressive kind.

Down from the shelves came dusty papers and empty bottles, whilst up

from the printing-office came the inmates, to learn the cause of

the disturbance.

A couple of police-officers passing at the time, hearing the noise,

entered, and one of them taking Mr. Stubbs, senior, and the other

Mr. Stubbs, junior, bore them off to the lock-up.

This affair put a sudden stop to "The Buzz of the Nation." The first

number never made its appearance.

Mr. Pica, having obtained the amount of the check, went into the

country for his health, and has not been heard from since.

Elder Stubbs and Stubbs the younger paid a fine of five dollars

each; and when they reached home and related to Mrs. Stubbs the

facts in the case, she took off her spectacles, and, after a few

moments' sober thought, came to the sage conclusion that her son

Jake was not made for an editor.

HERE'S TO THE HEART THAT'S EVER BRIGHT.

HERE'S to a heart that's ever bright,

Whatever may betide it,

Though fortune may not smile aright,

And evil is beside it;

That lets the world go smiling on,

But, when it leans to sadness,

Will cheer the heart of every one

With its bright smile of gladness!

A fig for those who always sigh

And fear an ill to-morrow;

Who, when they have no troubles nigh,

Will countless evils borrow;

Who poison every cup of joy,

By throwing in a bramble;

And every hour of time employ

In a vexatious scramble.

What though the heart be sometimes sad!

'T is better not to show it;

'T will only chill a heart that's glad,

If it should chance to know it.

So, cheer thee up if evil's nigh,

Droop not beneath thy sadness;

If sorrow finds thou wilt not sigh,

'T will leave thy heart to gladness.

MORNING BEAUTY.

BRIGHTLY now on every hill

The sun's first rays are beaming,

And dew-drops on each blade of grass

Are in their beauty gleaming.

O'er every hill and every vale

The huntsman's horn is sounding,

And gayly o'er each brook and fence

His noble steed is bounding.

There's beauty in the glorious sun

When high mid heaven 't is shining,

There's beauty in the forest oak

When vines are round it twining;

There's beauty in each flower that blooms,

Each star whose light is glancing

From heaven to earth, as on apace

'T is noiselessly advancing.

Beauties are all around thy path,

And gloriously they're shining;

Nature hath placed them everywhere,

To guard men from repining.

Yet 'mong them all there's naught more fair,

This beauteous earth adorning,

Than the bright beauty gathering round

The early hours of morning.

THE RECOMPENSE OF GOODNESS.

WHEN our hours shall all be numbered,

And the time shall come to die,

When the tear that long hath slumbered

Sparkles in the watcher's eye,

Shall we not look back with pleasure

To the hour when some lone heart,

Of our soul's abundant treasure,

From our bounty took a part?

When the hand of death is resting

On the friend we most do love,

And the spirit fast is hasting

To its holy home above,

Then the memory of each favor

We have given will to us be

Like a full and holy savor,

Bearing blessings rich and free.

O, then, brother, let thy labor

Be to do good while you live,

And to every friend and neighbor

Some kind word and sweet smile give.

Do it, all thy soul revealing,

And within your soul you'll know

How one look of kindly feeling

Cause the tides of love to flow.

BRIDAL SONGS.

TO THE WIFE.

LET a smile illume thy face,

In thy joyous hours;

Look of sympathy be thine,

When the darkness lowers.

He thou lovest movest where

Many trials meet him;

Waiting be when he returns,

Lovingly to greet him.

Though without the world be cold,

Be it thy endeavor

That within thy home is known

Happiness forever.

TO THE HUSBAND.

WHATSOEVER trials rise,

Tempting thee to falter,

Ne'er forget the solemn vows

Taken at the altar.

In thy hours of direst grief,

As in those of gladness,

Minister to her you love,

Dissipate her sadness.

Be to cheer, to bless, to love,

Always your endeavor;

Write upon your heart of hearts

Faithfulness forever.

THE JUG AFLOAT.

"WHAT I tell thee, captain, is sober truth. If thee wishes to

prosper, thee must not allow thy sailors grog, lest, when at sea,

they become tipsy, and thy ship, running upon hidden rocks, shall be

lost; or else, when at the mast-head, giddiness come upon them, and,

falling, thy crew shall number one less."

Thus spake a good old Quaker, a native of the city of Penn. Captain

Marlin had been for many days and nights considering whether it were

best to carry a complement of wine for himself and friends, and grog

for his crew. He had that morning met Simon Prim, and asked his

opinion, which he gave as above; yet Captain Marlin seemed

undetermined. He felt it to be an important question, and he desired

to come to a right conclusion.

They had been passing up Broadway; had reached the Trinity, crossing

over towards Wall-street. Simon, with his usual gravity, raised his

hand, and, pointing to the towering steeple of the splendid edifice,

said:

"If thou, neighbor, desired to ascend yonder spire, thinkest thou

thou wouldst first drink of thy wine, or thy grog?"

"Certainly not," replied Captain Marlin.

"Then," continued the Quaker, "do not take it to sea with thee; for

thou or thy men mayest be called to a spot as high as yonder

pinnacle, when thee little thinkest of it."

The two walked down Wall-street without a word from either, till,

reaching a shipping-office, Captain Marlin remarked that he had

business within. The Quaker very politely bowed, and bade him take

heed to good counsel, and good-day.

The owner of the vessel was seated in an arm-chair, reading the

shipping news in the Journal.

"Did you know," said he, as his captain entered, "that Parvalance &

Co. have lost their ship, 'The Dey of Algiers,' and none were saved

but the cabin-boy, and he half dead when found?"

"Indeed not; when-where-how happened it?" inquired Captain Marlin,

in some haste.

"On a voyage from Canton, With a rich cargo of silks, satins, teas,

&c. The boy says that the men had drank rather too much, and were

stupidly drunk,--but fudge! Captain Marlin, you know enough to know

that no man would drink too much at sea. He would be sure to keep at

a good distance from a state of intoxication, being aware that much

was intrusted to his care which he could not well manage whilst in

such a state."

"Perhaps so," said Captain Marlin, doubtingly. "Mr. Granton, this

touches a question I have been for days considering. It is, whether

I shall allow my men grog."

"Of course, of course!" answered the ship-owner; "nothing so good

for them round the Cape. You know the winds there, rather tough

gales and heavy seas. Cold water there, Mr. Marlin! Why, rather give

them hot coffee with ice crumbled in it, or, carry out a cask of

ice-cream to refresh them! Man alive, do you think they could live

on such vapor? You talk like one who never went to sea, unless to

see a cattle-show."

Captain Marlin could not refrain from laughing at such reasoning,

yet was more than half inclined to favor it. He was fond of his

wine, and being, as such folks generally are, of a good disposition,

he wished to see all men enjoy themselves, especially when at sea.

He wished evil to no man, and had he thought that liquor might

injure any of his crew, he would not that morning, in that office,

have come to the conclusion to have it on board the "Tangus."

CHAPTER II.

On a bright, clear morning, a deeply-freighted ship started from a

New York slip; a fair wind bore it swiftly down the bay, and a few

minutes' sail found it far from sight of the metropolis of the

Union. Friends had taken the last glimpse of friends, the last

interchange of kindly feelings had passed, and deep waters now

separated them. It was the "Tangus," Robert Marlin captain, with a

picked crew, and bound for the coast of Sumatra. Simon Prim shook

his head, as he with others turned and walked home. "'T is a pity

men will not see evil and flee from it," said he, and he pulled his

straight coat-collar up, and thrust his hands more deeply than ever

into his pockets. He was a little startled by a light tap upon the

shoulder, and quite a happy voice exclaiming, "Why, Mr. Prim, how

are you?"

"Verily, neighbor; thou didst move me; but I was thinking so deeply

of Captain Marlin and his success, that no wonder thy light touch

should do so."

"But what of him, Prim?"

"His ship, the Tangus, has just left, bound on a long voyage, and

with a quantity of deadly poison on board, with which to refresh the

crew. I tell thee, neighbor, I have fears for the result. The jug

may possibly stand still when on land, but when it's afloat it's

rather unsteady."

"Very true, but you seem to express unusual anxiety in regard to

Captain Marlin and his good ship; thousands have been just as

imprudent."

"But not in these days of light and knowledge, friend. There have

been enough sad examples to warn men not to trifle on such subjects.

Twenty years ago I drank. We had our whiskey at our funerals and our

weddings. I have seen chief mourners staggering over the grave, and

the bridegroom half drunk at the altar; but times are changed now,

and thank God for the good that has been effected by this

reformation!"

"You speak true, Simon; and I wonder Captain Marlin could, if he

considered the evils brought about by intoxicating drink, carry it

to sea with him."

"I told him all as I tell it to thee, friend Jones. He asked my

opinion, and I gave it him, yet it seems he thought little of it.

Good-day, neighbor; I have business with a friend at the 'Croton,'

good-day;" and, saying this, Mr. Prim walked up a bye street.

Jones walked on, and thought considerable of the Quaker's last

words. His mind that day continually ran upon the subject. Indeed,

he seemed unable to think of anything else but of a jug afloat, and

at night spoke of it to his wife.

The wife of Captain Marlin had that day called upon Mrs. Jones, and,

although her husband had scarcely got out of sight, looked with

pleasure to the day of his return, and already anticipated the

joyous occasion. There is as much pleasure in anticipation as in

realization, it is often said, and there is much truth in the

saying. We enjoy the thought of the near approach of some wished for

day, but when it arrives we seem to have enjoyed it all before it

came.

Mrs. Jones was far from thinking it wrong in Captain Marlin that he

carried liquor with him on his voyage, and gave it as her opinion

that the vessel was as safe as it could possibly be without it.

"Remember what I say, that is a doomed ship," said Mr. Jones, after

some conversation on the subject.

"You are no prophet, my dear," said his wife, "neither am I a

prophetess; but I will predict a pleasant voyage and safe return to

the Tangus." With such opposite sentiments expressed, they retired.

CHAPTER III.

Insensible to all that is beautiful in nature, and grand and

majestic in the works of creation, must the heart of that man be who

can see no beauty, grandeur, or majesty, in the mighty abyss of

waters, rolling on in their strength-now towering like some vast

mountain, and piling wave upon wave, till, like pyramids dancing on

pyramids, their tops seem to reach the sky; then sinking as deep as

it had before risen, and again mounting up to heaven. There's beauty

in such a scene, and no less when, calm and unruffled, the setting

sun sinks beneath the horizon, and for miles and miles leaves its

long, glistening track upon the unmoved waters.

'T was so when the crew of the "Tangus" were assembled upon the deck

of that noble ship. The day previous had been one of hard labor; the

vessel had bravely withstood the storm, and seemed now to be resting

after the contest. Not a ripple was to be seen. Far as the eye could

reach, was seen the same beautiful stillness. So with the crew; they

were resting, though not in drowsy slumberings.

"I say what, Bill," remarked one, "'An honest man's the noblest work

of God,' somebody says, and that's our captain, every inch, from

stem to stern, as honest as Quaker Prim, of Gotham."

"Ay, ay, Jack," said another; "and did you hear how that same Prim

tried to induce Captain Marlin to deprive us of our right?"

"Grog, you mean?"

"Ay, ay."

"No; but how was it?"

"Arrah, the dirty spalpeen he was, if he was afther a trying for to

do that-the divil-"

"Will Mr. McFusee wait? By the way, Jack, he, Prim, got him by the

button, and began to pour into his ears a long tirade against a

man's enjoying himself, and, by the aid of thee, thy, and thou, half

convinced the old fellow that he must give up all, and live on

ice-water and ship-bread."

"Did?"

"Ay, ay, you know Captain Marlin. He always looks at both sides,

then balances both, as it were, on the point of a needle, and

decides, as Squire Saltfish used to say, 'cording to law and

evidence."

"By the powers, he's a man, ivery inch, from the crown of his hat to

the soles of his shoes, he is."

"Mr. McFusee, will you keep still?" said Mr. Boyden, the narrator.

Mr. McFusee signified that he would.

"Well, he balanced this question, and the evidence against flew up

as 't were a feather; but down went the evidence for, and he

concluded to deal every man his grog in due season."

"That's the captain, all over," remarked Jack.

As we before said, their labors the day previous were great, and, as

a dead calm had set in, and the vessel did not even float lazily

along, but remained almost motionless,--not like a thing of life, but

like a thing lifeless,--the captain ordered the crew each a can of

liquor, and now they sat, each with his measure of grog, relating

stories of the past, and surmises of the future.

"I tell you what," said Jack Paragon, "these temperance folks are

the most foolish set of reformers myself in particular, and the

United States, Texas, and the Gulf of Mexico, in general, ever saw."

"Even so," remarked Mr. Boyden, "but they do some good. 'Give the

devil his due,' is an old saw, but none the less true for that.

There's Peter Porper, once a regular soaker, always said his

'plaints were roomatic,--rum-attic, I reckon, however, for he used to

live up twelve pairs of stairs,--he and the man in the moon were

next-door neighbors; they used to smoke together, and the jolly

times they passed were never recorded, for there were no newspapers

in those dark ages, and the people were as ignorant as crows. Well,

one of these temperance folks got hold of him, and the next I saw of

him he was the pet of the nation; loved by the men, caressed by the

women-silver pitchers given him by the former, and broadcloth cloaks

by the latter."

"No selfish motives in keeping temperate!" said Jack Rowlin,

ironically.

"Can't say; but liquor never did me harm. When I find it does, I

will leave off."

"That's the doctrine of Father Neptune-drink and enjoy life."

"Every man to his post!" shouted the captain, as he approached from

the quarterdeck. Quick to obey, they were where they were commanded

in an instant, each with his tin can half filled with liquor.

Captain Marlin, seeing this, ordered them to drink their grog or

throw it overboard; they chose the former mode of disposing of it,

and threw their empty cans at the cook.

In the distance a small black speck was decried.

CHAPTER IV.

The sun had set in clouds. The heavens were hung in darkness. Ever

and anon a peal of thunder echoed above, a flash of vivid lightning

illumed the waters, and far as eye could see the waters tossed high

their whitened crests. The winds blew stormy, and now heavy drops of

rain fell upon the deck of the "Tangus." "Every man to his duty!"

shouted the captain; but the captain's voice was not obeyed.

Objects at two feet distance could not be seen. Louder that voice

was heard. "Every man to his duty,--save the ship!"

"Captain, what is my duty?" inquired the cook.

"I appoint you under officer. Search for the men, and, if they are

not all washed over, tell them I order them to work. If they do not

know it, tell them the ship's in danger, and they must work."

The storm was fast increasing, till, at length, instead of

blackness, one sheet of livid flame clothed the heavens above. Now

all could be seen, and the captain busied himself. But two of the

crew were to be seen, and they lay as senseless as logs. They heeded

not the rage of the storm. The terrific peals of thunder awoke them

not-they were dead drunk!

By the time the storm commenced, the liquor they had drank began to

have its effect. Four of the crew, who were usually wide awake-that

is, uncommonly lively-when intoxicated, had unfortunately fell

overboard, and were lost.

The captain had now food for reflection, but the time and place were

not for such musings.

He endeavored to arouse them, but in vain; so, with the aid of the

only sober man aboard besides himself, he conveyed them to a place

of safety. In the mean time the ship strained in every joint, and he

momentarily expected to find himself standing on its wreck.

The waves washed the deck, and everything movable, cook-house and

all, went by the board. The only hope of safety was in cutting away

the masts, and to this task they diligently applied themselves. All

night the captain and cook worked hard, and when morning came they

found the storm abating. Soon the sun shone in its brightness; but

what a scene did its light reveal! The once stately ship dismasted;

four men, including the mate of the vessel, lost, and two lying

insensible in the cabin.

It was not strange that the question came home to the mind of

Captain Marlin, with force, "Is it right to carry liquor for a

ship's crew?" He need ask the opinion of no one; he could find an

answer in the scene around him.

CHAPTER V.

"Then thy ship has put in for repairs?" said Simon Prim, as he

entered Granton & Co.'s office, on Wall-street.

"What?" exclaimed Mr. Granton, who had heard nothing of the matter.

Simon, pulling a paper from his pocket, read:

"LOSS OF LIFE AT SEA.--By a passenger in the 'Sultan,' from--, we

are informed that the ship 'Tangus,' from this port, bound to

Sumatra, and owned by Messrs. Granton & Co., of this city, put in at

that place in a dismasted condition.

"The 'Tangus' had been three weeks out, when, in a gale, four men

were washed overboard. The remainder of her crew being insensible,

and the whole duty falling upon the captain and cook, they with

great difficulty managed the ship. It is rumored that all were

intoxicated. This is the seventh case of loss at sea, caused by

intemperance, within four months. When will men become wise, and

awake to their own interests on this topic?"

The ship-owner rapidly paced his office. "Can it be?" said he to

himself. "Can it be?"

"Give thyself no trouble, friend," said Prim; "what is done is done,

and can't be undone. Thy ship is not lost, and things are not so bad

as they might be. Look to the future, and mourn not over the past;

and remember that it is very dangerous to have a jug afloat."

These few words somewhat quieted him, yet not wholly, At this moment

the wife of Captain Marlin entered. Having heard of the news, she

came to learn all that was known respecting it.

"Madam," said he, after relating all he knew, "my mind is changed on

the question we some time since discussed. Yes, madam, my mind is

changed, and from this hour I will do all I can to exterminate the

practice of carrying grog to sea for the crew. And I tell thee

what," he continued, turning to friend Prim, who stood near by, "I

tell thee what, thee was right in thy predictions; and, though it

has been a dear lesson to me, I have learned from it that it is poor

policy that puts a jug afloat."

GIVE, AND STAY THEIR MISERY.

WOULD ye who live in palace halls,

With servants round to wait,

Know aught of him who, craving, falls

Before thine outer gate?

Come with me when the piercing blast

Is whistling wild and free,

When muffled forms are hurrying past,

And then his portion see.

Come with me through the narrow lanes

To dwellings dark and damp,

Where poor men strive to ease their pains;

Where, by a feeble lamp,

The wearied, widowed mother long

Doth busy needle ply,

Whilst at her feet her children throng,

And for a morsel cry.

Come with me thou in such an hour,

To such a place, and see

That He who gave thee wealth gave power

To stay such misery!

Come with me,--nor with empty hand

Ope thou the poor man's door;

Come with the produce of thy land,

And thou shalt gather more.

THE SPIRIT OF MAN.

YE cannot bind the spirit down;

It is a thing as free

As the albatross-bird that wings

Its wild course o'er the sea.

Go, bind the lightning, guide the sun,

Chain comets, if you can;

But seek not with thy puny strength

To bind the soul of man.

Though all the powers of earth combine,

And all their strength enroll,

To bind man's body as they will,

They cannot bind his soul.

No power on earth can hold it down,

Or bid it hither stay,

As up to heaven with rapid course

It tireless wings its way.

Time is too limited for it,

And earth is not its clime;

It cannot live where sound the words,

"There is an end to time."

It seeks an endless, boundless sphere,

In which to freely roam;

Eternity its course of life,

Infinity its home.

There, there will it forever live;

And there, a spirit free,

'T will range, though earth may pass away,

And Time no longer be.

PAUSE AND THINK.

O! HOW many souls are sorrowing

In this sunlit world, to-day,

Because Wrong, heaven's livery borrowing,

Leadeth trusting souls astray;

Because men, all thoughtless rushing,

Dance along on Error's brink,

And, the voice of conscience hushing,

Will not for a moment think!

'T is the lack of thought that bringeth

Man to where he needs relief;

'T is the lack of thought that wringeth

All his inner self with grief.

Would he give a moment's thinking

Ere his every step is made,

He would not from light be shrinking,

Groping on in Error's shade!

Think, immortal! thou art treading

On a path laid thick with snares,

Where mischievous minds are spreading

Nets to catch thee unawares.

Pause and think! the next step taken

May be that which leads to death;

Rouse thee! let thy spirit waken;

List to, heed the word it saith!

Think, ere thou consent to squander

Aught of time in useless mirth;

Think, ere thou consent to wander,

Disregarding heaven-winged truth.

When the wine in beauty shineth,

When the tempter bids thee drink,

Ere to touch thy hand inclineth,

Be thou cautious-pause and think!

Think, whatever act thou doest;

Think, whatever word is spoke;

Else the heart of friend the truest

May be by thee, thoughtless, broke.

How much grief had been prevented,

If man ne'er had sought to shrink

From the right:-to naught consented,

Until he had paused to think!

LITTLE NELLY.

MATILDA was a fashionable girl,--a young lady, perhaps, would be the

more respectable name by which to call her. She had been reared in

affluence. She had never known a want. She had had wants, but she

did not know it. She had wanted many things that make a lady's life

indeed a life. But Matilda never dreamt of such things.

It was n't fashionable to love the outcast, and therefore she

bestowed no pitying look on them. It was n't fashionable to give a

few pennies even to a poor, lame orphan girl in the street. So she

pretended not to have noticed the plea of little Nelly, who had

accosted her during her morning rambles.

"Little Nelly." I remember how she looked when at twilight she sat

down on a curb-stone to count the money. She looked sorrowful. She

was, indeed, worthy of pity; but little she got. The crowd went

hurrying, hustling on: few thoughts came down to little Nelly, on

the curb-stone. It had been a gala day. Red flags had flaunted on

high poles, and there had been a great noise of drums and fifes, and

everybody had seemed happy. Why, then, should sorrow come, with its

dark lantern, and look in the face of this little girl?

I will tell you.

There was a poor woman whose husband had been killed in Mexico. She

lived in one small room in a secluded part of the city, and by means

of her needle, and such assistance as was given to her daughter, who

diligently walked the streets, selling apples, she managed to live

in a style which she denominated "comfortable." Thus, for upwards of

one year, she toiled and lived, and was thankful for all her many

blessings.

But sickness came; not severe, but of that kind that bears its

victim along slowly to rest. She was unable to do much. She did not

wish to do much; but she sat day by day, yea, night by night often,

and diligently pursued the avocation that brought her daily bread.

Weeks passed, and yet she was ill. One morning, she called her

daughter to her side, and, taking her hand in her own, said:

"Little Nelly, 't is Independence day, to-day. You heard the guns

fire, and the bells ring, and the shouts of the happy children, this

morning, before you arose. I watched you as you lay listening to all

these, and I asked myself, Will my little Nelly be happy? and I

thought I heard my mother's voice;--she died long, long ago, but I

thought I heard her voice right at my side, saying, 'We shall all be

happy soon;' and I wept, for I could not help it.

"But I've called you now, Nelly, to tell you that I'm much better

this morning, and that, if you can get twenty-five cents to-day, we

will have a happy time to-night."

Little Nelly looked happy for a moment, but soon a shadow came over

her face; for she could not comprehend the meaning of her mother

when she said she was "better," for she looked more feeble than she

had ever seen her since the news of how her father was shot in the

face at Monterey was told her.

But she tried to be cheerful. She tried to smile, but, O, it was

very hard; and she got her mother's breakfast, and, having cleared

the things away, took her little basket, and her mother's purse, and

went out.

It was, indeed, a happy day without. There was joy depicted on every

countenance, and the general happiness infused some of its spirit

into the heart of our little trader. She seemed almost lost in the

great crowd; and there were so many dealers about, and so many that

presented greater attractions in the display of their stock, that

few bought of little Nelly.

It was late in the afternoon, and she had sold but a little, when

she encountered a young lady gayly dressed, in whose hand was

prominently displayed a bead purse, through the interstices of which

the gold and silver glistened.

Nelly held out her humble purse, in which no beads were wrought,

through which no coin glistened,--she held it up, and ventured to

ask, in pleasant tones, a few pennies of the lady. But not a penny

for little Nelly. Not even a look recognized her appeal, but costly,

flowing robes rushed by, and nearly prostrated her; they did force

her from the sidewalk into the gutter.

Go on, ye proud and selfish one! Go, bend the knee to Fashion's

altar, and ask a blessing of its presiding spirit! Bestow no pitying

glance on honest poverty; no helping hand to the weak and falling!

There is a law which God hath written on all his works, proclaiming

justice, and giving unto all as they shall ask of him. Pass on, and

heed not that little praying hand; but remember you cannot do so

without asking of that law its just requital.

Nelly walked on. She mingled again with the great mass, and twilight

came. It was then that she sat down, as I have before stated, to

count her money. She had but thirteen cents. All day she had sought

to dispose of her stock, that she might carry to her mother the sum

named, with which to have a happy time at home. And now the day had

gone; the night was drawing its great shadowy cloak about the earth,

and Nelly had but about one half of the required sum. What should

she do?

It was at this moment I met her. I stooped down, and she told me all

her story;--told me all her sorrow,--a great sorrow for a little

breast like hers. I made up the trifling amount, and, taking her by

the hand, we went together towards her home.

Reaching the house, we entered, and were met on the stairs by an old

lady, who whispered in my ear, "Walk softly." I suspected in a

moment the reason why she asked me thus to walk. She then led the

way. She tried to keep back the little girl, but she could not. She

hurried up the stairs, and through a long, dark entry, to a door,

which she quickly opened.

Nelly sprang to the bed on which lay her mother. I heard a sigh-a

sob. It was from the child. The mother spoke in a tone so joyous

that I was at first surprised to hear it from one who, it was

supposed, was near her end. But I soon found it was no matter of

surprise.

How clear and fair was that face! How pleading and eloquent those

eyes, as they turned, in all their full-orbed brightness, upon me,

as I approached the bedside of the mother of Nelly! There were

needed no words to convey to my mind the thoughts that dwelt within

that soul, whose strength seemed to increase as that of the body

diminished.

With one of her pale hands she took mine; with the other, that of

her daughter.

"Blessings on you both!" she said. "Nelly, my dear Nelly, my

faithful, loving Nelly, I am much better than I was; I shall soon be

well, and what a happy time we will have to-night! I hear that voice

again to-night, Nelly. Don't you hear it? It says, 'We shall all be

happy soon.' I see a bright star above your head, my child; and now

I see my mother. She is all bright and radiant, and there is a

beauty around her that I cannot describe. Nelly, I am better. Why, I

feel quite well."

She sprang forward, and, with her hands yet clasping Nelly's and my

own, she stretched her arms upward. There was a bright glow of

indescribable joy upon her features. She spoke calmly, sweetly

spoke. "We shall all be happy soon-happy soon-happy-" then fell back

on the pillow, and moved no more-spoke not again.

She was indeed happy. But, Nelly-she was sad. For a long time she

kept her hand in that of her mother. She at length removed it, and

fell upon the floor, beneath the weight of her new sorrow. Yet it

was but for a moment. Suddenly she sprang up, as if imbued with

angelic hope and peace. We were surprised to see the change, and to

behold her face beam with so much joy, and hear her voice lose its

sadness. We looked forth with that inner sight which, on such

occasions, seems quickened to our sense, and could see that mother,

and that mother's mother, bending over that child, and raising her

up to strength and hope, and a living peace and joy.

Nelly's little purse lay on the floor, where she had dropped it when

she came in. The old nurse picked it up, and laid it on a stand

beside the bed. A tear stole out from beneath the eyelids of the

child as she beheld it, and thought how all day she had worked and

walked to get the little sum with which her mother and she were to

be made happy on that Independence night. I called her to me. We sat

down and talked over the past, the present and the future, and I was

astonished to hear the language which her pure and gentle, patient

soul poured forth.

"Well, sir," she said, "we are happy to-night, though you think,

perhaps, there is greater cause for sorrow. But mother has gone from

all these toiling scenes. She will work no more all the long day,

and the night, to earn a shilling, with which to buy our daily

bread. She has gone where they have food that we know not of; and

she's happy to-night, and, sir, we shall all be happy soon. We shall

all go up there to live amid realities. These are but shadows here

of those great, real things that exist there; and I sometimes think,

when sitting amid these shadows, that it will be a happy time when

we leave them, and walk amid more substantial things."

Thus she talked for some time.

Having rendered such assistance as I could, I left. The next day

there was a funeral, and little Nelly was what they called "the

chief mourner;" yet it seemed a very inappropriate name for one

whose sorrow was so cheerful. There were but few of us who followed;

and, when we reached the grave, and the face of the earthly form was

exposed to the sunlight for the last time, little Nelly sung the

following lines, which I had hastily penned for the occasion:

WE SHALL ALL BE HAPPY SOON.

Dry our tears and wipe our eyes!

Angel friends beyond the skies

Open wide heaven's shining portal,

Welcome us to joys immortal.

Fear not, weep not, ours the boon;

We shall all be happy soon!

Hark! a voice is whispering near us;

'T is an angel-voice to cheer us;

It entreats us not to weep,

Fresh and green our souls to keep;

And it sings, in cheerful tune,

We shall all be happy soon.

Thus through life, though grief and care

May be given us to bear,

Though all dense and dark the cloud

That our weary forms enshroud,

Night will pass, and come the noon,

We shall all be happy soon.

When the last line of each verse was sung, it was no fancy thought

in us, in Nelly more than all others, that suggested the union of

other voices with our own; neither was it an illusion that pictured

a great thing with harps, repeating the words, "We shall all be

happy soon."

The sexton even, he who was so used to grave-yard scenes, was doubly

interested; and, when the last look was taken, and Nelly seemed to

look less in the dark grave and more up to the bright sky above her

than those in her situation usually do, I saw him watch her, and a

tear trickled down his wrinkled face.

As we turned to leave, I asked him why he wept. His features

brightened up. "For joy, for joy," said he. "I have put away the

dead here for forty long years; but I never beheld so happy a burial

as this. It seems as though the angels were with that child. She

looks so heavenly."

Perhaps they were. And why say "perhaps"? Do we not know they are

ever round us, and very near to such a one as Nelly, at such a time?

REUNION.

WHEN we muse o'er days departed,

Lights that shone but shine no more,

Friends of ours who long since started

O'er the sea without a shore;

Journeying on and journeying ever,

Their freed spirits wing their flight,

Ceasing in their progress never

Towards the fountain-head of light;

Oft we wish that they were near us,--

We might see the friends we love,--

Then there come these words to cheer us,

"Ye shall meet them all above."

When the sun's first ray approacheth,

Ushering in the noonday light;

When the noise of day encroacheth

On the silence of the night;

When the dreams depart that blest us

In the hours forever fled,--

In which friends long gone carest us,

Friends we number with the dead,--

Comes this thought, Ye ne'er shall hear them,

Ne'er shall see the friends ye love;

Voices say, "Ye shall be near them,

With them in the world above."

When within the grave's enclosure

Ye do drop the silent tear,

Tremble not at its disclosure,

Myriad spirits hover near.

Hark! they whisper, do ye hear not,

Mingling with your rising sighs,

Words that bid you hope, and fear not,

Angel-voices from the skies?

And as dust to dust returneth,--

That which held the gem you love,--

Thine afflicted spirit learneth

It will meet that gem above.

Thus whene'er a friend departeth

In my soul I know 't is right;

And, although the warm tear starteth,

As he passes from my sight,

I do know that him I cherish

Here on earth shall never die;

That, though all things else shall perish,

He shall live and reign on high.

And, that when a few hours more

Shall have passed, then those I love,

Who have journeyed on before,

I shall meet and greet above.

THE VILLAGE MYSTERY.

ABOUT fifty miles from a southern city, about five years ago, a most

mysterious personage seemed to fall from the clouds into the midst

of a circle of young ladies, whose hours and days were thenceforth

busily employed in quizzing, guessing, pondering and wondering.

He was a tall, graceful-formed gentleman, wearing a

professional-looking cloak, and buff pants, tightly strapped over

boots of delicate make, polished up to the very highest capabilities

of Day and Martin. He had no baggage; which fact led some

wise-headed old ladies to report him to be a gentleman of leisure, a

literary millionaire, it might be, who was travelling through "the

States" for the purpose of picking up items for a book on "Ameriky."

The old men wagged their heads, and looked most impenetrably

mysterious. The young men became jealous. To be sure he was not

superlatively handsome, but he had a foreign air, which was

considerable among the girls; and his appearance indicated wealth,

for his dress was of the first quality and cut. He had half a dozen

glistening rings on his hands; he wore a breast-pin of dazzling

brilliance; and every time he moved a chained lion could not have

made more noise, and clatter, and show with his fetters, than he did

with a massive double-linked chain, that danced and flirted upon his

crimson vest.

Abby and Nelly, the belles of the place, had each had an eye upon

the new comer, since he passed by the splendid mansion of their

abode, casting a sly glance up to the open window at which they

stood.

In a week, our foreign friend had made the circuit of all the

fashionable society of Greendale. He had drank tea with the

"Commissioners," and walked out with their amiable daughters. He had

visited the pastor, and had evinced great interest in the prosperity

of the church. He had even exhorted in the conference-meeting, and

had become so popular that some few, taking it for granted that so

devout a man must be a clergyman, had serious thoughts of asking the

old parson to leave, and the stranger to accept the pulpit,--four

hundred and eighty-two dollars a year, and a donation-party's

offerings. He had attended the sewing-circle, and made himself

perfectly at home with everybody and everything. The young men's

society for ameliorating the condition of the Esquimauxs and

Hottentots had been favored with his presence; and, likewise, with a

speech of five minutes long, which speech had, in an astonishingly

short time, been printed on pink satin and handsomely framed.

The lower class of people, for whom the stranger talked so much, and

shed so many tears, and gave vent to so many pitiful exclamations,

but with whom, however, he did not deign to associate, were filled

with a prodigious amount of wonder at the lion and his adventures.

They gathered at Squire Brim's tavern, and at the store on the

corner, and wondered and talked over the matter. The questions with

them were, Who is he?-where did he come, and where is he going to?

They would not believe all they had heard conjectured about him, and

some few were so far independent as to hint of the possibility of

imposition.

There were two who determined to find out, at all hazards, the name,

history, come from and go to, of the mysterious guest; and, to

accomplish their purpose, they found it necessary for them to go to

Baltimore early the subsequent morning.

The morning came. After taking a measurement of the height, breadth

and bulk of the foreigner, as also a mental daguerreotype of his

personal appearance, they departed.

Having been very politely invited, it is no strange matter of fact

that, just as the sun has turned the meridian, on the fifth of

March, a young man is seen walking slowly upon the shady side of

Butternut-street, Greendale. To him all eyes are directed. Boys stop

their plays, and turn their inquisitive eyes towards the pedestrian.

The loungers at Brim's tavern flock to the door, and gaze earnestly

at him; while Bridget the house-maid, and Dennis the hostler, hold a

short confab on the back stairs, each equally wondering whose

"bairn" he can be.

As he continues on his way, he meets a couple of sociable old

ladies, with whom he formed an acquaintance at the sewing-circle.

They shake hands most cordially.

"Abby and Nelly are waiting for you; they're expecting you," says

one of the ladies, as she breathes a blessing and bids him good-by,

with a hope that he will have a pleasant time at the deacon's.

Let us now take a few steps in advance, and enter the hospitable

mansion to which our mysterious personage, who has given his name as

Sir Charles Nepod, is passing.

Up these beautiful white steps walk with dainty tread. At this

highly-polished door ring with gentle hand.

A stout serving-man answers our call, and a tittering serving-girl

scampers away and conceals herself behind the staircase, as we

enter. What, think you, can be going on? A wedding,

forsooth,--perhaps a dinner-party.

A brace of charming girls, the deacon's only daughters, are seated

in the front parlor. We are introduced, and soon learn that they are

waiting the arrival of the talented, the benevolent Sir Charles;

and, as a matter of form and courtesy, rather than of sincerity and

hospitality, we are invited to remain and meet him in the

dining-room. We decline; bid them good-by, and leave. As we pass

out, we are hailed in a loud whisper by the man who first met us,

who glibly runs on with his talk as he leads the way, walking

sideways all the time to the door.

"An' sirs,--sirs, dus yers know what the young Misthresses is afther?

Well, sirs, they's going' fur to hev' a greath dinner with the

furriner. Yes, sirs, with the furriner as come frum a furrin land,

and was n't born in this at all a' tall."

As we reach the door, he steps up, whispers in our ears, "An' I

tells yer what, sirs, Kate,--that's the gal yer sees, sirs,--me and

she's goin' to see all frum the little winder beyant. This is

conveniently private to you, sirs, an' I hopes ye'll say nothing to

no one about it, sirs; 't is a private secret, sirs."

What should induce this man to give us this information, we cannnot

conceive. However, we have no reason to doubt what he tells us, and

therefore understand that a dinner-party is to come off, with a

wedding in perspective.

As we pass into the street, we meet Nepod.

As he ascends the steps, the two girls, forgetting all rules of

etiquette, spring to the door, completely bewildering honest Mike,

who is at hand, and welcome the man of the age.

"Mother and aunty have just gone out," says Nelly;--"they thought we

young folks would enjoy our dinner much better by ourselves alone."

"How considerate!" replies the guest. "I met the good old ladies on

the street. How kind in them to be so thoughtful! How pleasantly

will pass the hours of to-day! This day will be the happiest of my

life."

The three pass to the dining-room. Though early in March, the

weather is quite warm. In the haste of the moment, and somewhat

confused by his warm welcome, our hero has taken his hat and cloak

and laid them on a lounge near an open window. Seated at the table,

the company discourse on a variety of subjects, and the two sisters

vie with each other in doing the agreeable.

Down town all was excitement, and a great crowd was gathered at the

tavern. The investigating committee had returned from the city, and

with the committee three men of mysterious look. To the uninitiated

the mystery that had puzzled them for so long a time grew yet more

mysterious. Nothing could be learned from the two who had returned,

respecting Sir Charles, or the additional strangers. Only dark and

mysterious hints were thrown out, rendering the whole affair more

completely befogged than before.

Mr. Brim, the keeper of the tavern, silently conducted the new

comers out by a back passage, and soon they were seen in the same

path which Sir Charles had followed.

One of the men quietly opened the front door of the deacon's home,

and, entering, knocked upon the door of the dining-room. A voice

said, "Come in;" and he proceeded to do so.

In an instant, as if struck by an electric shock, the distinguished

guest sprang from the table, and leaped through the open window,

leaving his hat and cloak behind. But the leap did not injure him,

for he fell into the arms of a man who stood ready to embrace him;

and, mystery on mystery, they placed hand-cuffs on his wrists!

Judge, if you can, of the astonishment and mortification of the

deacon's girls, when they were told that he who had been their guest

was a bold highwayman, who had escaped from the penitentiary.

There was great ado in Greendale that afternoon and evening. Those

who had been unable to gain his attention said they knew all the

time he was a rogue. The young men's society voted to sell the frame

and destroy the printed speech; and the next Sabbath the good pastor

preached about a roaring lion that went about seeking whom he might

devour.

THE WAYSIDE DEATH.

Not many years since, an old man, who had for a longtime sat by the

wayside depending upon the charity of those who passed by for his

daily bread, died a few moments after receiving an ill-mannered

reply to his request for alms. Subsequent inquiries proved that he

had been a soldier in the American Revolution.

WHEN Freedom's call rang o'er the land,

To bring its bold defenders nigh,

Young Alfred took a foremost stand,

Resolved to gain the day or die.

And well he fought, and won the trust;

When the day's conflicts had been braved,

The foe's proud ensigns lay in dust,

While Freedom's banner victor waved.

But now he is a poor old man,

And they who with him, side by side,

Fought bravely in that little van,

Have left him, one by one,--have died.

And now to no one can he tell,

Though touched with patriot fire his tongue,

The story of those days which well

Deserve to be by freemen sung,

And cherished long as life shall last;

To childhood told, that it may know

Who braved the storm when came the blast,

And vanquished Freedom's direst foe.

He sits there on the curb-stone now,

That brave old man of years gone by;

His head 'neath age and care would bow,

But yet he raiseth it on high,

And, stretching out his feeble hands,

He asks a penny from man's purse,

Food for himself from off that land

He fought to save. Yet, but a curse

Falls from their lips to greet his ear;

And he, despairing, turns and sighs,

And bows his head,--there fills one tear,

It is the last-he dies.

Now men do rudely lift his hat,

To gaze upon his furrowed face,

And say, "It is the man who sat

Here for so long a foul disgrace."

Crowds gather round the spot to see,

And then pass idly on, and say,

To those who ask who it can be,

"'T is but a vagrant of the way."

Thus he who fought and bled to gain

The blessings which are round us strewn,

For one he asked, besought in vain,

Received man's curse, and died-unknown.

O, my own country! shall it be,

That they who through thy struggle passed,

And bore thy banner manfully,

Shall thus neglected die at last?

O, shall it be no help shall come

From thy overflowing wealth to bless?

Wilt thou be blind, wilt thou be dumb,

To pleas like theirs in wretchedness?

Answer! and let your answer be

A helping hand lowered down to raise

From want and woe those who for thee

Won all thy honor, all thy praise,

And made thee what thou art to-day,

A refuge and a hope for man;

Speak! ere the last one wings away;

Act! act while yet to-day you can.

BEAUTY AND INNOCENCE.

[FOR AN ENGRAVING OF COTTAGE GIRL AND LAMB.]

O, MAIDEN, standing in the open field,

On pasture sparkling with the morning dew!

What joy thou findest Nature now to yield

To hearts developed right,--hearts that are true!

Above is beauty, as along the sky

The dawn of light sends forth its herald ray

To arch the heavens, and myriad leagues on high

Proclaim the coming of the god of day.

Beneath is beauty; see the glistening gems

Around thy feet in rich profusion strewn;

Such as ne'er glows in kingly diadems,

Such as man's handiwork hath never shown.

Around is beauty; on each vale and hill,

In open field and in the shady wood,

A voice is whispering, soft, and low, and still,

"All, all is beautiful, for God is good."

Thou, too, art beautiful, O, maiden fair,

While Innocence within thine arms doth rest;

And thou wilt e'er be thus, no grief thou 'lt share,

If such a blessing dwell within thy breast

As that whose emblem now lies gently there.

NIGHT.

I'VE watched the sun go down, and evening draw

Its twilight mantle o'er the passive earth,

And hang its robe of blue, all gemmed with stars,

High over all for mortal eyes to gaze at.

And now I come to tread this sodded earth,

To walk alone in Nature's vaulted hall;

Yet, not alone;--I hear the rustling leaf,

The cricket's note, the night-bird's early lay;

I feel the cool breeze as it fans my brow,

And scent the fragrance of the untainted air.

I love the night. There's something in its shade

That sends a soothing influence o'er the soul,

And fits it for reflection, sober thought.

It comes bearing a balm to weary ones,

A something undefinable, yet felt

By souls that feel the want of something real.

And now 't is night, and well it is that I

Am here. I stand, my hand on this old tree,

Pressing its mossy side, with no one near

I can call fellow in the human strife,

The great, unfinished drama of this life.

Alone, alone, with Nature and its God,

I'll sit me down, and for a moment muse

On busy scenes, and, like some warrior chief,

Behold, yet mingle not in earth's great acts.

To-night how various are the states of men!

Some, bowed by sickness, press their sleepless couch,

Wishing while day doth last that night would come,

And now that night is with them wish for day.

Remorse holds some in its unyielding grasp;

Despair, more cruel yet, haunts some men's souls;

Both, ministers of justice conscience sends

To do its fearful bidding in those breasts

Which have rebelled and disavowed its rule.

Perchance, a maiden happy as a queen

To-night doth fix her destiny. A happy throng

Gather around, and envy her her bliss.

They little know what magic power lies low

In the filled wine-cup as they pass it round;

They little think it plants a venomed dart

In the glad soul of her whose lips do press

Its dancing sparkles.

Sorrow's nucleus!

Round that cup shall twine memories so dark

That night were noonday to them, to their gloom.

Dash it aside! See you not how laughs

Within the chalice brim an evil eye?

Each sparkling ray that from its depth comes up

Is the foul tempter's hand outstretched to grasp

The thoughtless that may venture in his reach.

How to-night the throng press on to bend

The knee to Baal, and to place a crown

On Magog's princely head! Dollars and dimes,

A purse well-filled, a soul that pants for more;

An eye that sees a farthing in the dust,

And in its glitter plenitude of joy,

Yet sees no beauty in the stars above,

No cause for gladness in the light of day,--

A hand that grasps the wealth of earth, and yields

For sake of it the richer stores of heaven;

A soul that loves the perishing of earth,

And hates that wealth which rust can ne'er corrupt.

How many such! How many bar their souls

'Gainst every good, yet ope it wide to wrong!

This night they're all in arms. They watch and wait;

Now that the sun hath fled, and evening's shade

Doth follow in its path, they put in play

The plans which they in daylight have devised,

Entrapping thoughtless feet, and leading down

The flower-strewn path a daughter or a son,

On whose fair, white brow, the warm, warm moisture

Of a parent's kiss seems yet to linger.

Stay! daughter, son, O, heed a friend's advice,

Rush not in thoughtless gayety along!

Beware of pit-fills. Listen and you'll hear

From some deep pit a warning voice to thee;

For thousands low have fallen, who once had

Hopes, prospects, fair as thine; they listened, fell!

And from the depths of their deep misery call

On thee to think. O, follow not, but reach

A helping hand to raise them from their woe!

Clouds hide the moon; how now doth wrong prevail!

Wrong holdeth carnival, and death is near.

O, what a sight were it for man to see,

Should there on this dark, shrouded hour

Burst in an instant forth a noonday light!

How many who are deem‚d righteous men,

And bear a fair exterior by day,

Would now be seen in fellowship with sin!

Laughing, and sending forth their jibes and jeers,

And doing deeds which Infamy might own.

But not alone to wrong and base intrigue

Do minister these shades of night; for Love

Holds high her beacon Charity to guide

To deeds that angels might be proud to own.

Beneath the shadows that these clouds do cast,

Hath many a willing hand bestowed a gift

Its modest worth in secret would confer.

No human eye beheld the welcome purse

Dropped at the poor man's humble cottage door;

But angels saw the act, and they have made

A lasting record of it on the scroll

That bears the register of human life.

Many a patient sufferer watches now

The passing hours, and counts them as they flee.

Many a watcher with a sleepless eye

Keeps record of the sick man's every breath.

Many a mother bends above her child

In deep solicitude, in deathless love.

Night wears away, and up the eastern sky

The dawn approaches. So shall life depart,--

This life of ours on earth,--and a new birth

Approach to greet us with immortal joys,

So gently on our inner life shall come

The light of heaven.

Time moveth on, and I must join again

The busy toil of life; and I must go.

And yet I would not. I would rather stay

And talk with these green woods,--for woods can talk.

Didst ever hear their voice? In spring they speak

Of early love and youth, and ardent hope;

In summer, of the noon of wedded life,

All buds and blossoms and sweet-smelling flowers;

In autumn, of domestic bliss with all its fund

Of ripe enjoyments, and then winter hears

The leafless trees sing mysterious hymns,

And point their long lean arms to homes above.

Yes, the old woods talk, and I might hold

A sweet communion here with them to-night.

Farewell to Night; farewell these thoughts of mine,

For day hath come.

NOT DEAD, BUT CHANGED.

I SAT and mused o'er all the years gone by;

Of friends departed, and of others going;

And dwelt upon their memories with a sigh,

Till floods of tears, their hidden springs o'erflowing,

Betrayed my grief. Soon, a bright light above me,

Voices saying, "We're near thee yet to love thee,"

Dispelled my tears. I raised my drooping head,

And asked, "Who, who,--the dead?"

When the angelic lost around me ranged

Whispered within my ear, "Not dead, but changed."

THE DISINHERITED.

MY next door neighbor's name was Jotham Jenks. This was all I knew

about him, until the circumstance I am about to tell you occurred.

One evening I had seated myself by my fire, and had taken up an

evening paper with which to occupy my time, until an acquaintance of

mine, who I momentarily expected, should arrive. It was

December,--cold, blustering, and by no means an agreeable time to be

out of doors, or away from a good fire. Such being the state of

affairs, as far as weather was concerned, I began to think I should

not see my friend that night, when a smart rap upon the outer door,

half a dozen times repeated, prevented me from further speculation.

Why did n't he ring?-there was a bell. It must have been a stranger,

else he would have used it.

Presently a servant came with the information that a stranger was at

the door with a carriage, and wished my immediate presence.

"Request him to walk in," said I.

"He cannot wait a moment," answered the servant;--"he wishes you to

put on your hat and coat, and go with him."

"Where?"

"He did not say."

This was a strange interruption,--strange that a man, a stranger, in

fact, should call for me to go out with him on such a night; but I

mustered courage, and went out to meet him. I don't know what

induced me so readily to grant his request; but out I went, hatted,

coated and booted. As I approached, I heard the falling of steps,

and the voice of the coachman requesting me to hurry. Reaching the

carriage, I looked in and beheld Jotham Jenks. In I jumped, and

before I was seated the carriage was moving.

The whip snapped, the wheels whirled round, and we passed through

the lighted streets with almost incredible speed. I ventured to make

an inquiry, and the reply was,

"You are doing a good deed. My name is Jotham Jenks. Ask no

questions now."

Thus was a veto put upon the movements of my tongue for the time

being. I, however, recognized the voice of Mr. Jenks; and though I

knew but little respecting him, I judged from his appearance that he

was a quiet, unoffending man; and such I afterwards found him.

For thirty minutes the horses raced along, causing the water, ice

and snow, to take to themselves wings and fly upon pedestrians,

windows, and sundry other animate and inanimate objects of creation.

For myself, I began to experience some misgiving, for thus exposing

myself to what, I did not know.

At length the carriage turned down a dark, narrow street, leading to

one of the wharves, upon which we finally found ourselves. The

driver jumped from his seat, opened the carriage-door, threw down

the steps, and we got out.

Matters had reached a crisis. Was I to be thrown into the water? The

assurance of my companion that I was doing a good deed seemed to

disfavor this supposition, as what possible good could that do

myself or any one else? Yet, for what was I taken from a warm room,

on such a cold, dismal, dark night, and hurried to the wharf?

"Now," said I to the stranger, "I must know the meaning of all

this,--the why and the wherefore."

He took my hand in his. It was quite dark. I could not see, yet I

could tell by his voice that he wept, as he said,

"In a berth in the cabin of that vessel lies a young man, far from

his home, among strangers,--sick, perhaps dying. No relative, other

than those of the great brotherhood of. mankind, is near to minister

to his wants, or to speak comfort to his troubled heart. He had been

here about two days, when I was informed of his situation by a

friend who came in the same vessel. I have brought you here that you

might listen to his statements, and assist me in assisting him.

There is much of romance in his narrative, and, as you are preparing

a volume of life-sketches, as found in town and country, I have

thought that what falls from his lips might fill a few pages with

interest and profit to your readers."

I thanked him for his thoughtfulness. My suspicions and fears were

all allayed; I asked no more questions, but followed my friend as he

passed to the vessel, and descended the narrow stairway to the

cabin.

A small lamp hung from the ceiling, and shed a sort of gloomy light

around. I had been in chambers of sickness, but never in a room

where more neatness was discernible, or more sufficiency for its

tenant, than in the cabin in which I then was. A sailor boy seated

by a berth indicated to me the spot where the sick man lay. We were

informed that he had just fallen into a sleep, and we were careful

not to awake him.

But, notwithstanding all our care, our movements awoke him. He gazed

around as one often does after a deep sleep; but a consciousness of

his situation, and a recognition of my companion, soon dispelled his

vacant looks, and his features were illumed with as expressive a

smile as it has ever been my fortune to behold.

I was introduced to the invalid, and soon we were as familiar as old

acquaintances. His name was Egbert Lawrence, and his age I should

judge from appearances to be about twenty-five.

"It is possible that my dear, good friend, Mr. Jenks, has given you

some account of my circumstances," he remarked, addressing me.

I replied that he had not, any further than to state that he was

friendless. He started, as I said this, and exclaimed,

"Friendless! His own modesty, that sure mark of true merit, induced

him to say that; but, dear sir, I have a friend in him, greater than

in any other on earth now. I had a friend, but, alas! she's gone."

I corrected his impression; remarked that I only intended to convey

the fact that he was in a strange country, among a strange people,

and that Mr. Jenks had told me he was worthy of assistance, and that

a sketch of his life would interest me.

"Then you would like to hear of my past, would you?"

"Most certainly," I replied; "and should consider it a favor should

you consent to give it to me."

To this he at once consented.

"I was born in the west of England," he began, "and can well

remember what a charming little village it was in which I passed my

earliest days. My mother was a woman of the finest

sensibilities,--too fine, in fact, for the rough winds of this world.

Her heart beat too strongly in sympathy with the poor and oppressed,

the weary-footed and troubled ones, to live among and not have the

weight of their sorrows and cares bear also upon her, and gradually

wear out the earth tenement of her spirit.

"As far as a fine, sensitive feeling was hers, so far it was mine. I

inherited it. But I would not flatter myself so much as to say that

I, in like manner, partook of her heavenly, loving nature, or that I

in any of her noble traits was worthy of being her son.

"Many times have I been the bearer of her secret charities. Many

times have I heard the poor bless the unknown hand that placed

bounties at their door. Many times have I seen my mother weep while

I told her of what I heard the recipients of her benevolence tell

their neighbors, and the many conjectures in their minds as to who

the donor could be. And, O, there was joy sparkling in her eyes when

I told her of what I had seen and heard! The grateful poor,

concluding, after all their surmising, that, as they could not tell

for a certainty who it was who gave them food and clothing, they

would kneel down and thank God; for, said they, in their honest,

simple manner, He knows. The benevolent hand cannot hide itself from

his presence, or escape his reward.

"My father was quite a different person. How it was they met and

loved, I could not for a long time determine. But one evening my

mother told me all about it, and said he was not the man of her

choice, but of her parents' choice; and that she had never loved him

with that deep and earnest love that alone can bind two hearts in

one embrace. But she said she had endeavored to do her duty towards

him. Good woman! I knew that. 'T was her very nature to do that. 'T

was a law of her being, and she could not evade it.

"My father was a rough, coarse-minded man. He held an office under

the government, and, from being accustomed to the exercise of some

little authority without doors, became habituated to a morose,

ill-natured manner of words and behavior within our home. I remember

how I changed my tone of voice, and my mode of action, when at night

he came home. With my mother I talked and laughed, and played

merrily in her presence, and rather liked to have her look on my

sports; but when my father came I never smiled. I sat up on my chair

in one corner as stiff and upright as the elm-tree, in front of our

house. I never played in his presence. I seldom heard a kind word

from him. My mother used to call me 'Berty, my dear,' when she

wished me; but my father always shouted, sternly, 'Egbert, come

here, sir!' and I would tremblingly respond, 'Sir.'

"Few persons seemed to love him; those who did, did so with an eye

to business. It was policy in them to flatter the man who could

favor them pecuniarily, and they hesitated not to do so. One time,

when my father's vote and influence were worth five thousand pounds

to his party, and he exhibited symptoms of withholding them, he had

rich presents sent him, and every night some half a dozen or more

would call in and sit and talk with him, and tell him how admirably

all the schemes he had started for the good of the town had

succeeded, and in all manner of ways would flatter the old

gentleman, so that he would be quite pleasant all the next day. At

this time handsome carriages came to take him to ride, and gentlemen

proposed an afternoon's shooting or fishing, or sport of some kind,

and my father always accepted and was always delighted. The simple

man, he couldn't see through the gauze bags they were drawing over

his head! lie did not notice the nets With which they were

entangling his feet. When election came, he gave his vote, and did

not keep back his influence.

"My father was not benevolent to any great degree. He gave, it is

true. He gave to missionary societies, to education and tract

societies, and his name was always found printed in their monthly

reports; but he never gave, as my mother did, to the poor around us,

unseen, unknown. Not even he knew of my mother's charitable acts;

but all the town knew of his, and he was looked upon by the great

mass of public mind to be the most benevolent. But it was not so.

Far from it. One shilling from my mother, given with the heart, with

sympathy, given for the sake of doing good, not for the sake of

popularity, was a greater gift than a hundred pounds from my

father's hand, given as he always gave it.

"I attended school but little. My mother wished me to have a good

education, but my father said if I could 'figure' well it was

enough. I was taken from school and put in a store,--a place which I

abhorred. I was put there to sell tape, and pins, and thread, and

yarn; and I was kept behind the counter from early morn until late

at night.

"I had one brother, but his mind was nothing like mine. He partook

of my father's nature. We seldom agreed upon any matter, and I

always chose to be alone rather than with him. I do not think I was

wrong in this, for our minds were of different casts. Neither of us

made our minds or our dispositions. There was, therefore, no blame

upon any one, if, on account of the difference in our mental

organizations, our affinities led us apart. It was a perfectly

natural result of a natural cause.

"I will not weary you with more detail of my life to-night; but

to-morrow, if you have any interest in what I have begun to tell

you, I will tell you more."

I had noticed that he began to be exhausted with his effort, and was

about to propose that a future time be allotted to what more he

chose to relate.

I assured him of an increased interest in him, and suggested

removing him to a good boarding-house. He at first declined, but

upon further urging he accepted, and, having seen that all his wants

were for that night attended to, we left; with the understanding

that a carriage should convey him to more commodious quarters on the

morrow, if the weather permitted.

I had no fears of my companion as we rode up the wharf and drove

through the streets, the storm beating down furiously around us. I

reached my home, and Mr. Jenks thanked me for my kindness in blindly

following him, and I in return thanked him for the pleasant

adventure to which he had introduced me.

CHAPTER II.

The next morning the weather was clear and the air invigorating, as

is often the case after a severe storm. With my neighbor Jenks I

procured a good home for the wanderer, and in a short time he was

located in it.

I was soon seated by his side, and he continued his narrative.

"I told you last evening of my parents, and of my entrance upon

business life. About that time a great sorrow visited me. My mother

was taken sick, rapidly declined, and in a fortnight left this state

of existence. Beyond this world it seemed all dark to me then; but

now it is brighter there than here, and there is no uncertainty in

my mind respecting that coming state.

"I have not told you she died. She did not die. There is no such

word as death in my vocabulary. She did not sleep even. She passed

from a crumbling, falling building into an enduring and beautiful

temple, not made with hands. But to me, then, as I have told you, it

was all dark; and it was not a wonder that I was sad, and that it

was indeed a heavy sorrow that rested on my spirit. Even with the

faith that she had, the thought of being left with a man such as my

father was would have made me sad. You will wonder, perhaps, that I

had not learned from such a mother as mine a clearer faith than that

which possessed my mind at the time of her departure; but I had not.

It was impossible for me to accept a truth with that amount of

evidence which satisfied her mind, and I doubted, at times, a future

existence. But I do not doubt it now. I have had proof,--abundant

proof; and, O, the joy that fills my soul is unfathomable.

"My father now became more tyrannical than ever, and everything

tended to destroy whatever there was of my mother's disposition in

my character. But nothing could force it from me. I was sensitive as

ever to the remarks and the looks of all with whom I came in

contact, and the severe and unmerited reprimands of my father almost

crushed me.

"Several years passed by. I wasted them in a retail store. It was,

however, not a complete loss to me, for there I formed an

acquaintance with a young lady, the daughter of a poor collier. Our

friendship ripened to mutual love, and we were happy only when in

each other's presence. Our interviews were frequent, and unknown to

any one but ourselves for a long time. At length my father became

acquainted with the facts. He called me to his room one night, and

scolded me, threatened to disinherit me, and treated me as though I

had been guilty of the most heinous crime.

"'You miserable, good-for-nothing scamp!' said he. 'Why do you seek

to lower yourself in the estimation of every man, and bring disgrace

on the name and fame of my family, by associating with the poor

daughter of a worthless laborer?'

"This fired my brain; but I was timid and dare not speak my thoughts

in his presence. I listened. He showered upon me all the evil

epithets his tongue could dispense, and, raving like a madman, he

pushed me to the door, and told me to cease my visits upon Evelina

or leave his house forever and change my name, for he would not

shelter me, or own any relationship to me.

"Poor girl! She little thought how much I that night endured for

her, or how much I was willing to bear. She was a beautiful

being,--so much like my mother, so gentle, and loving, and

benevolent! We were one. True, no earthly law recognized us as such;

but God's law did,--a law written with his hand on our beating

hearts. We had been joined far, far back, ages gone by, when our

souls first had their birth,--long ere they became enshrined in earth

forms. The church might have passed its ceremonial bond about us,

but that would have been mere form--that would have been a union

which man might have put asunder, and often does. But of a true

union of souls it is useless to say 'what God has joined let no man

put asunder;' for he cannot any more than he can annul any other of

his great laws.

"My father's reprimands and threatenings could not, therefore,

dissolve that bond which united me to Evelina, and she to me. So, as

soon as I left his room, I sought her presence. I told her all, and

she wept to think of what she had caused, as she said. But I tried

to convince her, and succeeded in doing so finally, that it was not

she who had caused it. She had not made her soul or its attributes.

God had made them, and if they were in unison with mine, or if they

had attractions that drew my. soul to hers, the law under which they

came together and would not be separated was God's law, and we could

not escape it.

"That night we walked down by the river's side, and we talked of

those great principles that govern us. We studied, there in the

clear moonlight, God's works, and I asked her whether in loving the

beautiful and the good we did not love God.

"Her mind opened a bright effulgence of light to my spirit. 'Yes,'

said she, 'it is even so. God is a spirit. He fills immensity,--and

if so, then he imbues this little flower with his own life, for he

is the life of all things. It is as he made it, and as we love it we

love him. When we love a being for his goodness, we love God; for

that goodness is of God."

"'Yes,' I remarked; 'I see it is so. I do not love you as a material

being. It is not your flesh and bones merely that I love, but it is

the goodness dwelling in you. As that goodness is more abundant in

you than in others, in like degree does God dwell in you more than

in them. If, therefore, I love you more than I love them, I love God

more than I should did my supreme love find its highest object in

them. In loving you, therefore, I love God so far as you possess the

characteristics by which we personify that being. It is not wrong,

therefore, to love you or the flower; for goodness exists in one,

and beauty in the other, and they both are of God, and in loving

them we love God.'

"We parted at a late hour. I went with her to the door of the little

cottage in which she dwelt with her father. Her mother had died, as

they call it, long years before; and, as I kissed her, and pressed

her hand and bade her good-by, I felt more strongly than ever a

determination to bear any privation, endure any suffering, for her

sake.

"I reached my home. I found the doors fastened and all quiet. The

moon shone very clear, and it was nearly as light as at noon-day. I

tried the windows, and fortunately found one of them unfastened. I

raised it very carefully, and crept in, and up to my room. The next

morning at breakfast my father spoke not a word, but I knew by his

manner that he was aware of my disregard of his command, and I

thought that all that prevented him from talking to me was a want of

language strong enough to express the passionate feelings that ran

riot in his soul.

"I judged rightly. For at night his passion found vent in words, and

such a copious torrent of abuse that I shuddered. Nevertheless, I

yielded not one position of my heart, and was conscious that I had a

strength of purpose that would ever defend the right, and could not

be swayed by mere words.

"There was no limit to my father's abuse when it became known to a

few of his friends that I had been seen in company with the

collier's daughter. I endured all, and was willing to endure more.

He seemed to have a peculiar dislike of Evelina's father, as also to

her. This I could not account for.

"At length I became of age, and on my birthday my father called me

to him, and, in his usual stern, uncompromising way, asked me if I

persisted in paying attention to Evelina. I answered promptly that I

did. I had had so many conflicts that I had lost much of my

timidity, and I now defined my position clear, and maintained it

resolutely.

"'Then leave my house at once!' said my father. 'I throw you from me

as I would a reptile from my clothes; and go, go with my curse upon

you! Take your penniless girl, and build yourself a name if you can;

for you have lost the one you might have held with honor to yourself

and to me. I had chosen for you a wife, a rich and fashionable lady,

the daughter of a nobleman, and one of whom to be proud; but you

have thought best to be your own judge in such matters, and you made

a fool of yourself. But you shall not stamp my family with such

folly, or wed its name to dishonor.'

"I endeavored to reply; but he would hear no word from my lips. He

sprang from his seat, walked the room in the greatest rage, and

whenever I opened my mouth to speak would shout, 'Stop your noise,

you ungrateful, heartless wretch!'

"He was determined to carry out his threat. That night he locked me

out of the house, and took special pains to make the windows fast.

In the papers of the next day he advertised me as disinherited and

cast off, and warned the world against me. He also circulated false

reports respecting me, and spared neither money nor effort to injure

me. He prejudiced my employers, so that they at once discharged me,

without a moment's warning. And all this from a father! How often I

thought of that loving, sympathizing mother! How often I recognized

her presence in my silent hours of thought! Dear, sainted friend!

she was with me often, unseen but not unfelt.

"Evelina faltered not. She bore all the opprobrium of false friends

with a brave heart, and rested on my promises as the dove rests its

weary head beneath its downy wing. Her father had confidence in me.

"It was astonishing how changed all things were. The day previous, I

was the son of a wealthy and influential man. I was respected,

apparently, by all. Very many professed a friendship for me, and

told me how much they valued my company. Young ladies politely

recognized me as I passed through the streets; and old ladies

singled me out as an example for their sons to follow. But on that

day no one knew me. Not one of those who had professed such

friendship for me came and took me by the hand when I needed their

friendly grasp the most! Young ladies, when we met, cast their

glances on the earth, on the sky, anywhere but on me. Old ladies

scandalized me, and warned the objects of their paternal

consideration against a course like mine.

"And why all this? It was because I loved Evelina,--a poor man's only

child!"

CHAPTER III.

Egbert's health seemed to improve now that he was in more

comfortable quarters, and had sympathizing friends to whom he could

narrate the story of his life. In the course of a few days he rode

out a short distance. After a rest of a week, during which his

strength had increased, he continued his narrative, in which we had

become deeply interested.

"I found a home at the cottage of Evelina. We made arrangements to

be married according to law, and in due time I applied to the

minister of the town to perform the ceremonies. I was surprised when

he refused; yet I well knew what inducements led him to act thus. My

father was the leading man in his church. The minister looked to him

as one of the chief pillars of support to his society, and

consequently to his means of livelihood. There was no one in the

town upon whom the public eye, religious or political, rested with

more hope than upon my father. He exhorted in the meetings with an

earnestness worthy of the most devoted follower of Cromwell; and was

as strict and rigid in the performance of his public religious

duties as the most precise Puritan of the old school could wish. Did

the chapel need repairs, my father was consulted. Was it proposed to

make a donation to the pastor, my father was expected to head the

list with a large subscription, and he did. Was it strange, then,

that he gave such a decided refusal to my simple request, knowing,

as he did, and everybody did, my circumstances? It seems not.

Perhaps it was foolish for me to ask a favor of such a man; but I

did, and he had an opportunity of exhibiting his allegiance to

public opinion, and his disregard of the voice within, that must

have commanded him to do right, and to adhere to truth and justice

in the face of all opposition.

"It was soon noised abroad that I had endeavored to get married and

had failed. There was great rejoicing, and one old lady took the

trouble to send her man-servant to me with the message that she was

glad to know that her good pastor had indignantly refused to place

his seal on my bond of iniquity.

"The dark cloud that all this time overshadowed my path rested also

on the path of Evelina's father. This was all that troubled me. He,

good man, had more true religion in his soul than the pastor and all

the people in theirs; yet he was scorned and ill-treated. All this

was not new to him. He had lived in that town four-and-forty years,

and had always been frowned upon by the boasting descendants of

proud families, and had received but little good from their hands.

The church looked upon him as a poor, incorrigible sinner. No one

spoke to him, unless it was to ask him to perform some hard job. It

was not strange that, judging from the works of the people who

called themselves Christians, he had a dislike to their forms. He

chose a living Christianity; and theirs, with all its rites, with

all its pretensions, with all its heralded faith, was but a mockery

to him. It was but a shadow of a substantial reality. He chose the

substance; he rejected the shadow, and men called him 'infidel' who

had not a tithe of vital religion in their own souls, while his was

filled to repletion with that heavenly boon. For a time the war of

persecution raged without, and slander and base innuendoes the

weapons were employed against us. But within all was peace and

quiet, and our home was indeed a heaven,--for we judged that heaven

is no locality, no ideal country staked off so many leagues this

way, and so many that; but that it is in our own souls, and we could

have our heaven here as well as beyond the grave. We thought Christ

meant so when he said 'the kingdom of heaven is within you'! We

pitied those who were always saying that when they reached heaven

there would be an end of all sorrow, and wished they could see as we

did that heaven was to reach them, not they to reach it. We feared

that the saying of Pope, 'Man never is, but always to be, blest,'

might prove true of them, and that even when they had passed the

boundary which they fancied divided them from heaven, they would yet

be looking on to so the future state for the anticipated bliss.

"What cared we, in our home, for the jibes and sneers and falsehoods

without? Those who are conscious of being in the right have no fear

of the goal to which their feet are tending. I heard from my father

often, but never met him. By some means he always evaded me. That

which troubled him most was the calmness with which I received the

results of his course towards me. He knew that I was happy and

contented. This was what troubled him. Had I manifested a great

sorrow and writhing beneath what he deemed troubles, he would have

greatly rejoiced, and so would all his friends. I had accumulated a

small property, and was prospering, notwithstanding the efforts of

many to embarrass me. A few began to see that I was not so bad as I

had been represented to be, and they began to sympathize with me.

This aroused my father's anger afresh. We had been married by a

magistrate of another town, and the clouds above our outside or

temporary affairs seemed breaking away, when an event occurred that

frustrated all our plans.

"One evening I heard the cry of 'fire,' and, on attempting to go

out, I found the entry of the house filled with a dense smoke. The

smoke poured into the room in which Evelina and her father were

seated. I rushed to the window, dashed it out, and, having seen my

wife and her father safely deposited without, secured what of the

property I could. In a few moments the cottage was enveloped in

flames, and it was not long before no vestige of our happy home

remained, except the smoking embers and a heap of ashes. We were

now, indeed, poor in gold and lands; but it seemed to each of us

that what had been taken from our purse had been put in our hearts,

for we loved each other more than ever before, if such a love were

possible; and, though we received but little sympathy from without,

we had a fund of sympathy within, that made us forget our seeming

sorrows, and rejoice in bliss unspeakable.

"It was reported that I had fired the cottage. I well knew with whom

this charge originated, and I had good reasons for believing that

the match that fired our house came from the same source.

"Our condition was such that we concluded to leave the place where

so much had been endured, and those who had strewn our path with

what they intended for thorns and brambles.

"We left. We journeyed to Liverpool, and engaged a passage in a New

York packet for the United States. It was a beautiful morning when

we set sail, and everything seemed reviving in the possessing of

life. Our ship's flags looked like smiling guardians as they

fluttered above us, and all on board the 'White Wing' were happy.

There were about three hundred passengers. There were old and young;

some travelling on business, some for a place they might call their

home, some for pleasure, and a few for the improvement of their

health. There were entire families, and, in some cases, those of

three generations. How varied were the hopes that filled their

souls! how different the objects that led them forth over the deep

and trackless sea, exposing themselves to countless perils!

"Evelina and myself mused thus as we sat on the deck at twilight of

the first day out, and watched the movements, and listened to the

various expressions that fell from the lips of the crowded

passengers.

"She always had a bright gleam of religious, philosophical thought,

with which to illumine every hour of our existence, and radiate,

with heavenly joy, our every conversation. 'There are not more

dangers here than on land,' said she; 'to be true to our inner

consciousness, we must say that wherever we are we are exposed to

peril, and wherever we are we are protected from evil. I have known

a man to cross the ocean a hundred times, and fall at last at his

own door, and by it become maimed for life. There is no such a thing

as an accident. Every result has a legitimate cause. Everything acts

in obedience to undeviating laws of God. We complain when we fall,

but the same law that causes us to fall guides planets in their

course, and regulates every motion of every object. It is only when

we disobey these laws that evil comes, and every transgression

receives its own penalty. It is impossible that it should be

otherwise.'

"We soon became acquainted with a number of the passengers, and

passed very many pleasant and profitable hours together. Evelina was

the light of every circle, and the days flew by on rapid wings. The

ship had made a rapid passage, and we were fast nearing our destined

haven.

"One Sabbath evening a storm commenced. The wind blew a hurricane.

Everything on deck was lashed, and the sea rolled and pitched our

vessel about as though it had been but a feather on its surface. We

had all day expected the storm, and were prepared for it. As night

advanced the storm increased. The rain fell in torrents, and the

darkness was most intense. After a while, the lightning came, and

the thunder reverberated with terrific peals over us. There were

shrieks and wailings aboard our vessel, and many a brave heart

quailed beneath the terror upon us.

"I cared not for myself. My chief concern was for my dear wife and

her father. We kept our state-room for a long time, but at length

deemed it prudent to leave it. As we did so, we heard an awful

crash, and many a shriek and hurried prayer. I myself began to fear,

as the mast and flying rigging went by us; but Evelina, even in such

an hour, had words to cheer us all. She seemed, indeed, more of

heaven than earth; and I cared not for my fate, provided we both met

the same.

"The captain ordered the boats to be got in readiness, and it was

quickly done. Soon another crash, and another mast fell, bearing to

the raging abyss of waters another company of helpless men, women

and children.

"I clasped my wife in my arms, and, amid the wreck and frantic crowd

of passengers, sprang to a boat. I placed Evelina in it, and was

just about to assist her father to the same boat, when a large wave

dashed over the ship and bore me alone over the wide waters. I

remembered no more until I opened my eyes, and the sun was shining

brightly all around me, and a young man was bathing my head, and

brushing back my wet hair, while some were standing by expressing

great joy.

"I soon became conscious of my situation, and I asked for Evelina.

What a sadness filled my soul when I was told she was not

there,--that they had not heard of any such person! Human language is

weak with which to express the sorrow I then felt. Through all my

varied life I had had nothing that so crushed my spirit, and filled

it with a sense of loneliness which it is impossible to describe. I

ascertained that I was on board of a vessel bound to Boston; that I,

was found holding on a raft, almost insensible when found, and quite

so a few moments afterwards. For a long time no one expected that I

would recover my consciousness, but the constant efforts of the

passengers and crew were finally crowned with success, and I opened

my eyes.

"I gave all the information I could respecting the fate of the

vessel, but thoughts of my wife, and surmisings as to her fate and

that of her father, often choked my utterance, and my words gave way

for my tears.

"The next morning I was delirious, with a fever. My anxiety for my

wife, and the exposure I had suffered, brought my body and mind into

a very critical state. For several days I talked wildly. At the

close of the fifth, I became sane in mind. I was yet quite ill. That

night the ship entered Boston harbor. It anchored in the stream, and

the next morning it hauled up to a wharf."

CHAPTER IV.

"I was a perfect stranger. The captain was attentive to my wants,

and made me as comfortable as he could. You will remember how neat

and quiet all appeared when, with my friend Jenks, you called on me.

All of the passengers took an interest in my welfare, and made up a

purse for me; but they could not remain long with me. They had been

long absent from home, and were desirous of seeing their families

and friends, or else they had business in this or some other place.

One of them introduced my friend Jenks to me; and, O, sir, he has

been, indeed, a good friend to one having so few claims on his

attention. He told me one night of you, and, agreeable to his

promise, he brought you to the cabin of the vessel. The rest you

know."

Egbert had regained his strength to a great degree, and gave me the

close of his narrative while we were having a pleasant drive through

the country. A month had passed since we first met, and though many

of the passengers had been heard from, the names of Evelina and her

father had not been reported.

When we reached our home, from our afternoon's drive, I took up an

evening paper, and the first paragraph I read was the following:

"MORE FROM THE WHITE WING.-The Orion, which arrived at this port

this morning, brought fifteen passengers, rescued from the boats of

the 'White Wing.' Among the names mentioned in the above notice were

these: "Mrs. Evelina Lawrence and her father, of England;" and, at

the conclusion, was the following item:

"The case of Mrs. Lawrence and her father is one of those that

loudly call for a bestowal of public sympathy and aid in her behalf.

She has lost a beloved husband,--one who, judging from the heavy

sorrow that oppresses her, and the sighs and tears that break her

recital of the events of their last hours together, was bound with

the closest bonds of soul affinity to her own spirit. They must have

been one, and are, indeed, one now, though to mortal eyes separated.

We commend her to the kind charities of those who would follow the

golden rule of doing unto others as they, in like circumstances,

would have others do unto them."

Egbert noticed my interest in that which I was reading; indeed, it

would have been strange if he had not; for I could not suppress my

joy, and it found expression in an occasional exclamation.

At length, I handed him the paper.

"My God! my wife!" he exclaimed, and he actually danced with joy and

thankfulness. He would have rushed into the street, and by sudden

exposure have caused a relapse of disease, had not I taken him by

the hand, and forcibly, for a few moments, restrained him. So

excessive was his happiness that, for a short time, he was delirious

with joy. He laughed and wept by turns: at one moment extending

his arms, and folding them as if clasping a beloved form; the next,

trembling as if in some fearful danger. But this did not long

continue. He soon became calm and rational, and we called a carriage

for the purpose of going to the vessel on board of which he expected

to greet his wife and her father.

My neighbor Jenks accompanied us, and, as we rode hastily along, my

mind reverted to the night when first I met Egbert. That eventful

evening came more vividly to mind as we found ourselves on the same

wharf, and the carriage door was opened, and we alighted on nearly

the same spot that we did at that time.

Egbert leaped from the carriage, and at one bound was on the

vessel's deck. He flew to the cabin, and in a moment I heard the

loud exclamations on either side, "My Evelina!" "My Egbert!" Mr.

Jenks and myself followed below. An old gentleman met us, and,

though a stranger, he grasped a hand of ours in each of his, and

wept with joy as he bade us welcome. The cabin was witness of a

scene which a painter well might covet for a study. In close embrace

Egbert and Evelina mingled joys that seldom are known on earth. The

old man held our hands, his face raised, eyes turned upward, while

tears of happiness, such as he had never before known, coursed down

his features. The officers of the ship came hurrying in, and the

crew darkened the gangway with their presence. What a joyous time

was that! The evening was passed in recounting the adventures of

each; and even I had something to add to the general recital. It

appeared that the boat in which Egbert had placed his charge was

safely cleared of the wreck; and, after being floated about two

days, was met by an English ship bound to London. They, together

with about twenty others who were in the boat, were soon comfortably

cared for. At the expiration of a few weeks, they reached London,

and were there placed on board a vessel bound to Boston, at which

place they in due season arrived. The grief of Mrs. L. during all

this time I will not attempt to describe. The mind of my reader can

better depict it than I can with pen. Hope buoyed her up. And,

though she had seen him swept from her side into the waters where

waves towered up to the skies and sank again many fathoms below, yet

she did hope she might see him again on earth.

In the silent hour of night, as she lay and mused of those things,

she thought she could hear a sweet voice whispering in her ear,

"Berty lives, and you will meet him once again." And, as if in

response to the voice, she said in her own mind, "I know he lives;

but it may be in that bright world where, unencumbered with these

mortal frames, we roam amid ever-enduring scenes." The voice again

said, "On earth, on earth."

But now they had met. It was no mere vision now, and the truth

flashed upon her mind that that voice she had heard and thought a

dream was not all a dream. And then she mused on as she was wont to

do, and, after relating to us the incident, she said, "May it not be

that much of our life that we have thought passed in dreamland, and

therefore among unreal things, has been spent with actual

existences? For what is an 'unreal thing'? It would not be a 'thing'

had it no existence; and what is the 'it' that we speak of? Can we

not then conclude that there is nothing but what is and must have an

existence, though not so tangible to our senses as to enable us to

handle it or see it? What we call 'imagination' may be, after all,

more real than the hard stones beneath our feet-less indestructible

than they."

Thus she spake, and her theory seemed very plausible to me, though

my friend Jenks, who was an exceedingly precise, matter-of-fact man,

could not see any foundation for the theory.

It was a late hour when Mr. Jenks and myself passed to our homes.

The next day Evelina and her father were coseyly quartered at the

house in which Egbert had boarded.

In the course of a a few weeks they arranged to go to the west, and

locate in a flourishing town on the banks of the Ohio, not many

miles above Cincinnati.

Mr. Jenks and myself accompanied them to the cars; and, amid our

best wishes for their success, and their countless expressions of

gratitude to us, the train started, and in a few moments the

Disinherited was going to an inheritance which God had provided, and

which lay in rich profusion awaiting their possession.

Our hearts went with them. We could truly say they were worthy God's

blessing; yet we had not need ask him to bestow it upon them; for

their very existence was a proof that he gave it to them.

THE SEASONS ALL ARE BEAUTIFUL.

THE seasons all are beautiful,

There is not one that's sad,--

Not one that does not give to thee

A thought to make thee glad.

I have heard a mournful cadence

Fall on my listening ear,--

'T was some one whispering, mournfully,

"The Autumn days are here."

But Autumn is not sorrowful,--

O, full of joy is it;

I love at twilight hour to watch

The shadows as they flit,--

The shadows of the falling leaves,

Upon their forest bed,

And hear the rustling music tones

Beneath the maiden's tread.

The falling leaf! Say, what has it

To sadden human thought?

For are not all its hours of life

With dancing beauty fraught?

And, having danced and sang its joy,

It seeketh now its rest,--

Is there a better place for it

Than on its parent's breast?

Ye think it dies. So they of old

Thought of the soul of man.

But, ah, ye know not all its course

Since first its life began,

And ye know not what future waits,

Or what essential part

That fallen leaf has yet to fill,

In God's great work of art.

Count years and years, then multiply

The whole till ages crowd

Upon your mind, and even then

Ye shall not see its shroud.

But ye may see,--if look you can

Upon that fallen leaf,--

A higher life for it than now

The life you deem so brief.

And so shall we to higher life

And purer joys ascend;

And, passing on, and on, and on,

Be further from our end.

This is the truth that Autumn brings,--

Is aught of sorrow here?

If not, then deem it beautiful,

Keep back the intrusive tear.

Spring surely you'll call beautiful,

With its early buds and flowers,

Its bubbling brooks, its gushing streams,

And gentle twilight hours.

And Summer, that is beautiful,

With fragrance on each breeze,

And myriad warblers that give

Free concerts 'mong the trees.

I've told you of the Autumn days,

Ye cannot call them sad,

With such a lesson as they teach,

To make the spirit glad.

And Winter comes; how clear and cold,

In dazzling brilliance drest!-

Say, is not Winter beautiful,

With jewels on his crest?

Thus are all seasons beautiful;

They all have joy for thee,

And gladness for each living soul

Comes from them full and free.

SPRING.

IT is early spring-time. The winter has passed with reluctant step,

and even now the traces of its footsteps are discernible on every

side. At noon of these bright days the sun looks down smilingly upon

the soil it seeks to bless with its cheerful, cheering rays. The

tiny grass-blades peep out, and stretch forth their graceful forms,

as if to thank the unknown source from which their enjoyments

spring. "Unknown," I said. Is it "fancy" that makes my soul withdraw

that word, and suggest that it may be that even that blade of grass

recognizes the hand that ministers to all its wants? I think not. I

think that what we term "fancy" and "imagination" are the most real

and enduring portions of existence. They are of that immortal part

that will live after crumbling column and the adamantine foundations

of earth have passed away, and lost their present identity in

countless forms of a higher existence. Are not all the forces of

nature unseen, yet are they not real? Most assuredly they are. But I

am talking of spring. I hinted at winter's tardy withdrawal. Look

you how that little pile of snow hides itself in yonder shady

nook,--right there where the sun's rays never come; right there, as

if ashamed, like a man out of place,--pity that it lingers. Here and

there, at the side of the brook, a little ice is waiting to be

dissolved, that it may bound away, bright and sparkling, over the

glistening pebbles.

The farmer opens his barn doors that the warm, fresh breeze may

ramble amid its rafters. The cattle snuff the refreshing winds, that

bear tidings of green fields. The housewife opens door and windows,

and begins to live more without than within.

Let us to the woods. How the old leaves rustle beneath our tread!

Winter bides his cold, wet hand underneath these leaves and

occasionally we feel his chilling touch as we pass along. But from

above the pleasant sunshine comes trickling down between the

branches, and the warm south wind blows cheeringly among the trees.

Didst thou not hear yon swallow sing, Chirp, chirp?--In every note he

seemed to say, "'T is spring, 't is spring."

Yes, 't is spring; bright, glorious season, when nature awakes to

new life and forest-concerts begin.

Up with the window, throw open the closed shutter, let the fresh air

in, and let the housed captive breathe the invigorating elixir of

life; better by far than all your pills and cordials, and more

strengthening than all the poor-man's plasters that have been or

ever will be spread.

The bale and hearty youth, whose clear and boisterous laugh did the

old man good, as he heard it ring forth on the clear air of a

winter's night, has become satiated with the pleasures of

sleigh-rides and merry frolics, and welcomes the spring-time of year

as a man greeteth the return of an old friend from a long journey.

How his bright eye flashes with the joyous soul within him, as he

treads the earth, and beholds the trees put forth their buds, and

hears the warblings of the birds once again, where a few weeks since

winter brooded in silence!

In town and country, the coming of spring changes the general

appearance of affairs. Not early nature, but men change. There is no

longer the cold and frigid countenance. Men do not walk with quick

and measured tread, but pass carelessly, easily along, as though it

was a luxury and not a task to walk. Children are seen in little

companies, plucking the flowers and forcing the buds from their

stems, as though to punish them for their tardiness.

The very beasts of burden and of the field partake of the general

joy; as Thomson says, "Nor undelighted by the boundless spring Are

the broad monsters of the foaming deep From the deep ooze and, gelid

cavern roused, They flounce and tumble in unwieldy joy."

In the town storekeepers obtain fresh supplies of goods; the

mechanic contracts new jobs; the merchant repairs his vessel, and

sends it forth, deeply freighted with the productions of our own

clime, to far distant, lands; and the people generally brush up, and

have the appearance of being a number of years younger than they

were a month since.

In the country, the farmer is full of work. The ploughs are brought

forth from their winter quarters, the earth is opened, that the warm

sun and refreshing rains may prepare it for use; old fences are

repaired, and new ones made; the housewife brushes up inside and

out, and with the aid of the whitewash every old fence and shed is

made clean and pleasing to the eye.

Welcome spring, a hearty welcome to thee! Touch the cheek of the

maiden, and make it as bright as the rose; with thy fresh air give

health to the sick and joy to the downcast. Thou bringest with thee

sweet-smelling flowers, and the birds of the woods carol forth thy

welcome.

A TEXT FOR A LIFETIME.

ONE word for humanity. One word for those who dwell in want around

us. O, ye who know not what it is to hunger, and have naught to meet

your desire; ye who never are cold, with naught to warm your chilled

blood, forget not those who endure all these things. They are your

brethren. They are of the same family as yourself, and have a claim'

upon your love, your sympathy, your kindness.

Live not for yourselves. The world needs to learn this lesson.

Mankind have to learn that only as they bless others are they

themselves blest. It was the fine thought of the good Indian,

Wah-pan-nah, that man should not pile up his dollars,--they may fall

down and crush him,--but spread them out.

"There be dark spot on you brother's path,--go lay dollar there and

make it bright," said he.

And since that suggestion came we have thought it over and over, and

have found it a text for a lifetime of goodness. Go place the bright

dollar in the poor man's hand, and the good you do will be reflected

in rays of gratitude from a smiling face, and fall on you like the

warm sunshine, to cheer and refresh and strengthen your own soul.

There are in this world too many dollars "piled up," and on the

surface we see but the brightness of one. Were these all spread out,

what a wide field of radiant beauty would greet our vision! Instead

of being a useless encumbrance, a care, a constant source of

perplexity to one man, this wealth would make every man comfortable

and happy. It would perform its legitimate work, were it not chained

by avarice,--that canker-worm that destroys the fairest portions of

our social system.

And there is a joy in doing good, and in dispensing the bounties

with which we are blest, that hath no equal in the household of man.

To know that we have fed the hungry, clothed the naked, wiped away

one tear, bathed in the sunlight of hope one desponding spirit,

gives to us a happiness that hoarded wealth, though broad as earth

and high as heaven, cannot impart.

This is the true wealth. This the wealth that rust cannot corrupt.

There is no other real wealth in the universe. Gold and silver,

houses and lands, are not wealth to the longing, aspiring soul of

man. The joy of the spirit, which is the reward of a good deed,

comes a gift from God, a treasure worthy of being garnered into the

storehouse of an immortal being.

There was one spot on earth where joy reigned. It was not in marble

palace; but in a low cot, beneath a roof of thatch.

There was an indwelling sense of duty done; a feeling somewhat akin

to that which we might suppose angels to feel, when a poor,

earth-wearied traveller is relieved by them.

That was a subject fit for a Raphael's pencil, as she, of form and

feature more angelic than human, sat beside that cottage door, and

her mild blue eye gazed steadfastly up to heaven, and the light of

the moon disclosed to mortal view her calm and beautiful features.

Two hours previous, over a sick and languishing child a mother bowed

with maternal fondness. She pressed her lips to his chilled

forehead, and wiped the cold sweat from his aching brow.

"Be patient, my child," said she; "God will provide." And why did

she bid him "be patient"? None could have been more so; for through

the long hours of that long summer day he had lain there, suffered

and endured all; yet not one sigh had arisen from his breast, not

one complaint had passed his parched lips.

"I know it," said he. And the mother kissed him again, and again

said,

"God will provide."

Mother and son! the one sick, the other crushed down with poverty

and sorrow. Yet in this her hour of adversity her trust in the God

of her fathers wavered not; she firmly relied on Him for support,

whom she had never found forgetful of her. The widow and the

fatherless were in that low tenement, and above was the God who had

promised to protect them.

Again she whispered in the lad's ear, "God will provide."

The light of that day's sun had not rested upon food in that

dwelling. Heavily the hours passed by. Each seemed longer than that

which had preceded it.

A rap at the door was heard. She arose and hastened to it. No person

was in sight; but in the moon's bright rays stood a basket, on which

lay a card, stating that it and its contents were for her and her

child, and that on the morrow a nurse and every comfort they might

want would be provided.

She bowed herself beside it, and thanked God for the gift. Then with

a joyful heart she carried it within, and her child's eye sparkled

as he heard the glad news, that He who watcheth the sparrows had not

forgotten them.

Let us return now to that thatched cottage. She, whose mild eye

gazeth up to heaven, whilst passing the door of the famishing mother

and child an hour previous, had heard the words with which that

mother had encouraged her dying son.

With speed the maiden hastened to her home, and from her own limited

store carried forth that basket, and heaven-like bestowed the gift

unseen and unknown, save by Him who seeth and who rewardeth. The

deed of mercy accomplished, she hastened to her home; and now, as

she looks upward, how her eye beams with joy, and her heart breaks

forth in songs of gratitude to Him who made her the instrument of so

much good!

Gold, with all its power, cannot bring joy unless dealt forth with a

willing heart like hers. The king in his palace, whose sceptre's

sway extends over vast dominions, hath no pleasures capable of

rivalling that which, by an act of charity, was brought to the soul

of that young cottage girl.

Reader, whatever your condition, you can possess a joy like hers. If

you have not what men call wealth, with which to help the weak and

desponding, you have a smile of sympathy, a look of kindness, a word

of love. Give those, and you shall know what a blessed thing is

Charity.

NOW CLOSE THE BOOK.

NOW close the book. Each page hath done its part,

Each thought hath left its impress on the heart.

O, may it be that naught hath here been traced

That after years may wish to have effaced!

O, may it be Humanity hath won

Some slight bestowment by the task now done!

If struggling Right hath found one cheering word,

If Hope hath in desponding heart been stirred,

If Sorrow hath from one lone soul been driven

By one kind word of Sympathy here given,

Then in my soul a living joy shall dwell,

Brighter than art can paint or language tell.

Yes, close the book: the story and the song

Have each been said, and sung. I see the throng

Of gentle ministrants who've led my pen

Withdraw their aid. I hear the word, Amen.

And now to you, who have been with me through

The "Town and Country," I must bid adieu.