CHAPTER XXIII.

A PLEASING INCIDENT.

Again it is the twentieth of May; and, this day five years ago, was my

wedding-day. Two years since, and the fountain of a new love was stirred

in my heart, namely, the love of a mother for her first-born son. One

year since, I was called to stand by the dying-bed of Aunt Patience. Her

end was peace; and her earthly remains rest beside those of my mother.

My uncle still lives with us, a hale and vigorous old man, over seventy

years of age. The parents of Willie still reside in the city. Birdie and

Lewis are both at home. Lewis assists his father in their business,

which has again become very prosperous.

I bring my story to a close by relating an incident which took place

the summer succeeding the date of this chapter. I had long wished to

visit my friends in New Hampshire: but my own cares had hitherto

prevented me; but this season I decided to pay the long-deferred visit.

Willie was very glad to accompany me, having long wished to visit the

Eastern States. Birdie and Lewis also bore us company. As our way lay

through a portion of Massachusetts, I determined once more to visit the

small village which formerly had been the home of Aunt Patience. We

arrived at Woodville late on a Saturday evening, and on Sabbath morning

were invited to hear a talented young preacher, who, we were informed,

had lately been called as pastor to the Congregational Church in that

village. As the young minister ascended the pulpit, his countenance

struck me as being strangely familiar. As I was endeavoring to decide in

my own mind where I could have before met him, it suddenly occurred to

me that the young preacher was no other than my old friend, Obadiah

Hawkins; and when, upon again raising my eyes I encountered one of those

old-time furtive glances, I felt certain that I was right in my

conjecture. The rough-looking youth, whom I had once thought so

uncomely, had changed to a really fine looking man. When the services

were closed, I at once made my way to him; and, as he had already

recognized me, we soon renewed our former acquaintance. I introduced him

to Willie, also to Birdie and Lewis. During the few days we remained at

Woodville the young preacher called frequently. He soon evinced a marked

partiality for the society of Birdie and, strange as it may seem, I

observed that she was deeply interested in him. I know not how the

matter may end, but I do know that, since our return home, Birdie

receives frequent letters, addressed in a gentleman's hand, and

post-marked "Woodville." Who knows but Obadiah Hawkins may yet be my

brother-in-law?

In taking a retrospective view of the past, and contrasting it with the

happy present, I feel that the consoling words which, in a dream, my

mother uttered to me, years ago, have been more than verified,--"Fear

not, my beloved daughter; only continue in the path of duty, and all

will yet be well."

THE END.

TERRY DOLAN.

Some years since circumstances caused me to spend the summer months in

a farming district, a few miles from the village of E., and it was there

I met with Terry Dolan. He had a short time previous come over from

Ireland, and was engaged as a sort of chore boy by Mr. L., in whose

family I resided during my stay in the neighborhood. This Terry was the

oddest being with whom I ever chanced to meet. Would that I could

describe him!--but most of us, I believe, occasionally meet with people,

whom we find to be indescribable, and Terry was one of those. He called

himself sixteen years of age; but, excepting that he was low of stature,

you would about as soon have taken him for sixty as sixteen. His

countenance looked anything but youthful, and there was altogether a

sort of queer, ancient look about him which caused him to appear very

remarkable. When he first came to reside with Mr. L. the boys in the

neighborhood nicknamed him "The Little Old Man," but they soon learned

by experience that their wisest plan was to place a safe distance

between Terry and themselves before applying that name to him, for the

implied taunt regarding his peculiar appearance enraged him beyond

measure. Whenever he entered the room, specially if he ventured a

remark--and no matter how serious you might have been a moment

before--the laugh would come, do your best to repress it. When I first

became an inmate with the family, I was too often inclined to laugh at

the oddities of Terry--and I believe a much graver person than I was at

that time would have done the same--but after a time, when I learned

something of his past life, I regarded him with a feeling of pity,

although to avoid laughing at him, at times, were next to impossible.

One evening in midsummer I found him seated alone upon the piazza,

with a most dejected countenance. Taking a seat by his side I enquired

why he looked so sad;--his eyes filled with tears as he replied--"its of

ould Ireland I'm thinkin' to-night, sure." I had never before seen Terry

look sober, and I felt a deep sympathy for the homesick boy. I asked him

how it happened that he left all his friends in Ireland and came to this

country alone. From his reply I learned that his mother died when he was

only ten years old, and, also, that his father soon after married a

second wife, who, to use Terry's own words, "bate him unmarcifully."

"It's a wonder," said he, "that iver I lived to grow up, at all, at all,

wid all the batins I got from that cruel woman, and all the times she

sint me to bed widout iver a bite uv supper, bad luck to her and the

like uv her!" He did live, however, but he certainly did not grow up to

be very tall. "Times grew worse an' worse for me at home," continued he,

"and a quare time I had of it till I was fourteen years of age, when one

day says I to mesilf, 'flesh and blood can bear it no longer,' and I ran

away to the city uv Dublin where an aunt by me mother's side lived. Me

aunt was a poor woman, but she gave a warm welcim to her sister's

motherless boy; she trated me kindly, and allowed me to share her home,

although she could ill afford it, till I got a place as sarvant in a

gintleman's family. As for my father, he niver throubled his head about

me any more; indade I think he was glad to be rid uv me, an' all by

manes of that wicked woman. It was near two years afther I lift home

that I took the notion of going to Ameriky; me aunt advised me against

going, but, whin she saw that me mind was set on it, she consinted, and

did her best, poor woman, to sind me away lookin' dacent and

respectable. I niver saw me father or me stepmother agin. I had no wish

to see her; but, although I knew me father no longer loved me, I had

still some natral-like feelin's for him; but, as I had run away from

home, I durst not go back, an' so I lift Ireland widout a sight uv him.

But I _could_ not lave it foriver, as it might be, widout one more sight

uv me mother's grave. I rached the small village where me father lived

about nightfall, and lodged in the house uv a kind neighbor who

befrinded me, an' he promised, at my earnest wish, to say nothing to any

one uv my wish. Early in the morning, before any one was astir in the

village, I stole away to the churchyard where they buried me mother. I

knelt down, I did, an' kissed the sods which covered her grave, an'

prayed that the blessin' which she pronounced before she died, wid her

hand restin' on me head, might follow me wheriver I might go." The boy

took from his pocket a small parcel, carefully inclosed in a paper,

which he handed to me, saying "I gathered these shamrocks from off me

mother's grave, before I lift it forever." My own eyes grew moist as I

gazed upon the now withered shamrock leaves which the poor boy prized so

highly. Would that they had proved as a talisman to guard him from evil!

I listened with much interest to Terry's story till our conversation was

suddenly interrupted by Mr. ---- calling him, in no very gentle tones, to

go and drive home the cows from the pasture. To reach this pasture he

must needs pass through about a quarter of a mile of thick woods. He had

a great dread of walking alone in the woods, which his imagination

filled with wild animals. When he returned that evening he seemed very

much terrified, and when questioned as to the cause, he replied that he

"had met with a wild baste in the woods, and was kilt entirely wid the

fright uv it."

We endeavoured to gain from him a description of the animal he had

seen, but for some time were unable. "What color was the animal?"

enquired Mrs. ----. "Indade Ma'am, an' its jist the color uv a dog he

was," answered Terry. This reply was greeted with a burst of laughter

from all present, at which he was highly offended. In order to pacify

him I said, "we would not laugh at you, Terry, only that dogs are of so

many different colors that we are as much in the dark as ever regarding

the color of the animal you saw." "Well thin," replied he, "if you must

know, he was a dirthy brown, the varmint, that he was." From what we

could learn from him we were led to suppose that he had met with one of

those harmless little creatures, called the "Woodchuck," which his

nervous terror, aided by the deepening twilight, had magnified into a

formidable wild beast.

A few evenings after, two or three friends of the family chanced to

call; and in course of conversation some one mentioned an encampment of

Indians, who had recently located themselves in our vicinity, for the

purpose of gathering material for the manufacture of baskets, and other

works of Indian handicraft. Terry had never seen an Indian, and

curiosity, not unmixed with fear, was excited in his mind, when he

learned that a number of those dark people were within three miles of

us. He asked many questions regarding their personal appearance, habits,

&c. It was evident that he entertained some very comical ideas upon the

subject. After sitting for a time silent, he suddenly enquired, "Do they

ate pratees like other people?" A lady, present, in order to impose upon

his credulity, replied, "Indeed Terry they not only eat potatoes, but

they sometimes eat people." His countenance expressed much alarm, as he

replied, "Faix thin, but I'll kape out o' their way." After a short time

he began to suspect they were making game of him, and applied to me for

information, saying, "Tell me, sir, if what Mrs. ---- says is true?" "Do

not be alarmed, Terry," I replied, "for if you live till the Indians eat

you, you will look even older than you now do."

This allusion to his ancient appearance was very mischievous on my

part, and I regretted it a moment after; but he was so much pleased to

learn that he had nothing to fear from the Indians that he readily

forgave me for alluding to a subject upon which he was usually very

sensitive. I remember taking a walk one afternoon during the haymaking

season to the field where Terry was at work. Mr. ---- had driven to the

village with the farm horses, leaving Terry to draw in hay with a

rheumatic old animal that was well nigh unfit for use. But as the hay

was in good condition for getting in, and the sky betokened rain, he

told Terry, upon leaving home, to accomplish as much as possible during

his absence, and he would, if the rain kept off, draw in the remainder

upon his return. As I drew nigh I spied Terry perched upon the top of a

load of hay holding the reins, and urging forward the horse, in the

ascent of a very steep hill. First he tried coaxing, and as that proved

of little avail, he next tried the effect of a few vigorous strokes with

a long switch which he carried in his hand. When the poor old horse had

dragged the heavy load about half way up the hill, he seemed incapable

of further exertion, and horse, cart, Terry and all began a rapid

backward descent down the hill.

Here the boy's patience gave way entirely. "Musha thin, bad luck to ye

for one harse," said he as he applied the switch with renewed energy.

Just then I arrived within speaking distance and said, "Do you think,

Terry you would be any better off if you had two of them." "Not if they

were both like this one," answered he. I advised Terry to come down from

his elevated position, and not add his weight to the load drawn by the

overburdened animal. He followed my advice, and when with some

difficulty we had checked the descending motion of the cart-wheels, we

took a fair start, and the summit of the hill was finally gained.

"Its often," said Terry, "that I've seen a horse draw a cart, but I

niver before saw a cart drawing a horse." There was one trait in the

character of the boy which pleased me much; he was very grateful for any

little act of kindness. He often got into difficulties with the family,

owing to his rashness and want of consideration, and I often succeeded

in smoothing down for him many rough places in his daily path; and when

he observed that I interested myself in his behalf, his gratitude knew

no bounds. I believe he would have made almost any sacrifice to please

me. He surprised me one day by saying suddenly, "Don't I wish you'd only

be tuck sick." "Why Terry," replied I, "I am surprised indeed that you

should wish evil to me." "Indade thin," answered he, "its not for evil

that I wish it, but for your good jist to let ye see how tinderly I

would take care uv ye." I thanked him for his kind intentions, saying

that I was very willing to take the will for the deed in this case, and

had no wish to test his kindness by a fit of sickness.

He came in one evening fatigued with a hard day's work, and retired

early to bed. His sleeping apartment adjoined the sitting-room. I had

several letters to write which occupied me till a late hour; the family

had all retired. I finished writing just as the clock struck twelve. At

that moment, I was almost startled by Terry's voice singing in a very

high key. My first thought was that he had gone suddenly crazy. With a

light in my hand I stepped softly into the room, to find Terry sitting

up in bed and singing at the top of his voice, a song in the "Native

Irish Tongue." By this time he had roused every one in the house; and

others of the family entered the room. By the pauses which he made, we

knew when he reached the end of each verse. He sang several verses; at

the time I knew how many, but am unable now to recall the exact number.

He must surely have been a sound sleeper or the loud laughter which

filled the room would have waked him, for the scene was ludicrous in the

extreme: Terry sitting up in bed, sound asleep, at the hour of midnight,

and singing with a loud voice and very earnest manner, to an audience

who were unable to understand one word of the song. At the close of the

last verse he lay quietly down, all unconscious of the Musical

Entertainment he had given. The next morning some of the family began

teasing him about the song he had sung in his sleep. He was loth to

believe them, and as usual enquired of me if they were telling him the

truth. "I'll believe whatever you say," said he, "for its you that niver

toult me a lie yet." "You may believe them this time," said I, "for you

certainly did sing a song. The air was very fine, and I have no doubt

the words were equally so, if we could only have understood them."

"Well thin," replied he, "but I niver heard more than that; and if I

raaly did sing, I may as well tell yee's how it happint. I dramed, ye

see, that I was at a ball in Ireland, an' I thought that about twelve

o'clock we got tired wid dancin and sated ourselves on the binches which

were ranged round the walls uv the room, and ache one was to sing a song

in their turn, an' its I that thought my turn had come for sure." "Well

Terry," said I, "you hit upon the time exact at any rate, for it was

just twelve o'clock when you favoured us with the song." Soon after this

time I left the neighbourhood, and removed to some distance. Terry

remained for a considerable time with the same family; after a time I

learned that he had obtained employment in a distant village. The next

tidings I heard of him was that he had been implicated in a petty

robbery, and had run away. His impulsive disposition rendered him very

easy of persuasion, for either good or evil; and he seldom paused to

consider the consequences of any act. From what I could learn of the

matter, it seemed he had been enticed into the affair by some designing

fellows, who judged that, owing to his simplicity, he would be well

adapted to carry out their wicked plans; and, when suspicion was

excited, they managed in some way to throw all the blame upon Terry, who

fearing an arrest, fled no one knew whither. Many years have passed

since I saw or heard of Terry Dolan; but often, as memory recalls past

scenes and those who participated in them, I think of him, and wonder if

he is yet among the living, and, if so, in what quarter of the world he

has fixed his abode.

THE FAITHFUL WIFE.

It is a mild and beautiful evening in the early autumn. Mrs. Harland is

alone in her home; she is seated by a table upon which burns a shaded

lamp, and is busily occupied with her needle. She has been five years a

wife; her countenance is still youthful, and might be termed beautiful,

but for the look of care and anxiety so plainly depicted thereon. She

had once been happy, but with her now, happiness is but a memory of the

past. When quite young she had been united in marriage to Wm. Harland,

and with him removed to the City of R., where they have since resided.

He was employed as bookkeeper in a large mercantile house, and his

salary was sufficient to afford them a comfortable support,--whence then

the change that has thus blighted their bright prospects, and clouded

the brow of that fair young wife with care? It is an unpleasant truth,

but it must be told. Her husband has become addicted to the use of

strong drink, not an occasional tippler, but a confirmed and habitual

drunkard. His natural disposition was gay and social, and he began by

taking an occasional glass with his friends--more for sociability than

for any love of the beverage. His wife often admonished him of the

danger of tampering with the deadly vice of intemperance; but he only

laughed at what he termed her idle fears. Well had it been for them both

had the fears of his wife proved groundless! It is needless for me to

follow him in his downward path, till, we find him reduced to the level

of the common drunkard. Some three months previous to the time when our

story opens his employers were forced to dismiss him, as they could no

longer employ him with any degree of safety to their business. It was

fortunate for Mrs. Harland that the dwelling they occupied belonged to

her in her own right--it had been given her by her father at the period

of her marriage--so that notwithstanding the dissipated habits of the

husband and father they still possessed a home, although many of the

comforts of former days had disappeared before the blighting influence

of the demon of intemperance. After being dismissed by his employers Mr.

Harland seemed to lose all respect for himself, as well as for his wife

and children, and, but for the unceasing toil of the patient mother, his

children might have often asked for bread in vain.

So low had he now fallen that almost every evening found him in some low

haunt of drunkenness and dissipation; and often upon returning to his

home he would assail his gentle wife with harsh and unfeeling language.

Many there were who advised Mrs. Harland to return with her children

to her parents, who were in affluent circumstances, but she still

cherished the hope that he would yet reform. "I pray daily for my erring

husband," she would often say, "and I feel an assurance that, sooner or

later, my prayers will be answered; and I cannot feel it my duty to

forsake him." But on this evening, as she sits thus alone, her mind is

filled with thoughts of the past, which she cannot help contrasting with

the miserable present, till her reverie is interrupted by the sound of

approaching footsteps, which she soon recognizes as those of her

husband: she is much surprised--for it is long, very long, since he has

returned to his home at so early an hour--and, as he enters the room,

her surprise increases when she perceives that he is perfectly sober. As

he met her wondering gaze a kind expression rested upon his countenance,

and he addressed her saying: "I do not wonder at your astonishment, dear

Mary, when I call to mind my past misconduct. I have been a fiend in

human shape thus to ill-treat and neglect the best of wives; but I have

made a resolve, 'God helping' me, that it shall be so no longer."

Seating himself by her side, he continued: "If you will listen to me,

Mary, I will tell you what caused me to form this resolution. When I

went out this evening I at once made my way to the public house, where I

have spent so much of my time and money. Money, I had none, and, worse

than this, was owing the landlord a heavy bill. Of late he had assailed

me with duns every time I entered the house; but so craving was the

appetite for drink that each returning evening still found me among the

loungers in the bar-room trusting to my chance of meeting with some

companion who would call for a treat. It so happened that to-night none

of my cronies were present. When the landlord found that I was still

unable to settle the 'old score,' as he termed it, he abused me in no

measured terms; but I still lingered in sight of the coveted beverage;

and knowing my inability to obtain it my appetite increased in

proportion. At length I approached the bar, and begged him to trust me

for one more glass of brandy. I will not wound your ears by repeating

his reply; and he concluded by ordering me from the house, telling me

also never to enter it again till I was able to settle the long score

already against me. The fact that I had been turned from the door,

together with his taunting language stung me almost to madness. I

strolled along, scarce knowing or caring whither, till I found myself

beyond the limits of the city; and seating myself by the roadside I

gazed in silent abstraction over the moonlit landscape; and as I sat

thus I fell into a deep reverie. Memory carried me back to my youthful

days when everything was bright with joyous hope and youthful ambition.

I recalled the time when I wooed you from your pleasant country home,

and led you to the altar a fair young bride, and there pledged myself

before God and man to love, honour and cherish you, till death should us

part. Suddenly, as if uttered by an audible voice, I seemed to hear the

words 'William Harland, how have you kept your vows?' At that moment I

seemed to suddenly awake to a full sense of my fallen and degraded

position. What madness, thought I, has possessed me all this time, thus

to ruin myself and those dear to me? And for what? for the mere

indulgence of a debasing appetite. I rose to my feet and my step grew

light with my new-formed resolution, that I _would_ break the slavish

fetters that had so long held me captive; and now, my dear wife, if you

can forgive the past and aid me in my resolutions for amendment there is

hope for me yet." Mrs. Harland was only too happy to forgive her erring

but now truly penitent husband; but she trembled for the future, knowing

how often he had formerly made like resolutions, but to break them. She

endeavoured, however, to be hopeful, and to encourage him by every means

which affection could devise.

Through the influence of friends, his former employers were induced to

give him another trial. He had many severe struggles with himself ere he

could refrain from again joining his dissipated companions; but his

watchful wife would almost every evening form some little plan of her

own for his amusement, that he might learn to love his home. In a short

time their prospects for the future grew brighter, his wife began to

smile again; and his children, instead of fleeing from his approach as

they had formerly done, now met him upon his return with loving caresses

and lively prattle. Some six months after this happy change, Mrs.

Harland one evening noticed that her husband seemed very much downcast

and dejected. After tea, she tried vainly to interest him in

conversation.

He had a certain nervous restlessness in his manner, which always

troubled her, knowing, as she did, that it was caused by the cravings of

that appetite for strong drink, which at times still returned with

almost overwhelming force. About eight o'clock he took down his hat

preparatory to going out. She questioned him as to where he was going,

but could obtain no satisfactory reply; her heart sank within her; but

she was aware that remonstrance would be useless. She remained for a few

moments, after he left the house, in deep thought, then suddenly rising

she exclaimed aloud, "I will at least make one effort to save him." She

well knew that should he take but one glass, all his former resolves

would be as nothing. As she gained the street she observed her husband a

short distance in advance of her, and walking hastily she soon overtook

him, being careful to keep on the opposite side of the street, that she

might be unobserved by him. She had formed no definite purpose in her

mind; she only felt that she must endeavor to save him by some means. As

they drew nigh the turn of the street she saw two or three of his former

associates join him, and one of them addressed him, saying, "Come on,

Harland; I thought you would get enough of the cold water system. Come

on, and I'll stand treat to welcome you back among your old friends."

For a moment he paused as if irresolute; then his wife grew sick at

heart, as she saw him follow his companions into a drinking saloon near

at hand. Mrs. Harland was by nature a delicate and retiring woman; for a

moment she paused: dare she go further! Her irresolution was but

momentary, for the momentous consequences at stake gave her a fictitious

courage. She quickly approached the door, which at that moment some one

in the act of leaving the house threw wide open, and she gained a view

of her husband in the act of raising a glass to his lips; but ere he had

tasted its fiery contents it was dashed from his hand, and the shattered

fragments scattered upon the floor. Mr. Harland, supposing it the act of

one of his half-drunken companions, turned with an angry exclamation

upon his lips; but the expression of anger upon his countenance suddenly

gave place to one of shame and humiliation when he saw his wife standing

before him, pale but resolute. In a subdued voice he addressed her,

saying, "Mary, how came you here?" "Do not blame me, William," she

replied; "for I could not see you again go astray without, at least,

making an effort to save you. And now will you not return with me to

your home?" The other occupants of the room had thus far remained silent

since the entrance of Mrs. Harland; but when they saw that Mr. Harland

was about to leave the house by her request, they began taunting him

with his want of spirit in being thus ruled by a woman. One of them, who

was already half drunk, staggered toward him, saying, "I'd just like to

see my old woman follerin' me round in this way. I'll be bound I'd teach

her a lesson she would'nt forget in a hurry." Many similar remarks were

made by one and another present. The peculiar circumstances in which

Mrs. Harland found herself placed gave her a degree of fortitude, of

which upon ordinary occasions she would have found herself incapable.

Raising her hand with an imperative gesture she said in a firm voice:

"Back tempters, hinder not my husband from following the dictates of his

better nature." For a few moments there was silence in the room, till

one of the company, more drunken and insolent than the others, exclaimed

in a loud, derisive voice: "Zounds, madam, but you would make a capital

actress, specially on the tragedy parts; you should seek an engagement

upon the stage." Mr. Harland's eyes flashed angrily as his listened to

the insulting words addressed to his wife, and, turning to the man who

had spoken, he addressed him, saying, in a decided tone of voice: "I

wish to have no harsh language in this room while my wife is present,

but I warn each one of you to address no more insulting language to

her." The manner in which Mr. Harland addressed them, together with the

gentle and lady-like appearance of his wife, had the effect to shame

them into silence. His voice was very tender as he again addressed his

wife, saying, "Come Mary I wills accompany you home--this is no place

for you." When they gained the street the unnatural courage which had

sustained Mrs. Harland gave way, and she would have fallen to the earth,

but for the supporting arm of her husband. For a few moments they walked

on in silence, when Mr. Harland said, in a voice choked with emotion,

"You have been my good angel, Mary, for your hand it was which saved

me from violating a solemn oath; but I now feel an assurance that I have

broken the tempter's chains forever." I am happy to add that from this

hour he gained a complete victory over the evil habit which well-nigh

had proved his ruin; and in after years, when peace and prosperity again

smiled upon them, he often called to mind the evening when his

affectionate and devoted wife, by her watchful love, saved him from

ruin, and perchance from the drunkard's grave.

EMMA ASHTON.

It was a sad day for Emma Ashton, when, with her widowed mother, she

turned from her father's new-made grave, and again entered their

desolate home. None but those who have experienced a like sorrow can

fully understand their grief as they entered their now lonely home,

where a short time since they had been so happy. But the ways of

Providence are, to our feeble vision, often dark and incomprehensible,

and the only way by which we can reconcile ourselves to many trials

which we are called to endure is by remembering that there is a "need

be" for every sorrow which falls to our lot, in the journey of life.

Emma was an only child and had been the idol of her father's heart, and

no marvel if the world, to her, looked dark and dreary when he was

removed by death. Added to the grief occasioned by their bereavement,

the mother and daughter had yet another cause for anxiety and

disquietude, for the home where they had dwelt for so many years in the

enjoyment of uninterrupted happiness was now no longer theirs. Since

quite a young man, Mr. Ashton had held the position of overseer, in a

large manufactory in the village of W. Owing to his sober and

industrious habits he had saved money sufficient to enable him, at the

period of his marriage, to purchase a neat and tasteful home, to which

he removed with his young wife. He still continued his industry, and

began in a small way to accumulate money, when, unfortunately, he was

persuaded by one whom he thought a friend to sign bank-notes with him to

a large amount; but, ere the notes became due, the man he had obliged

left the country, and he was unable to gain any trace of him, and was

soon called upon to meet the claim. Bank-notes must be paid, and to

raise money to meet the claim he was forced to mortgage his house for

nearly its full value. His health failed; and for two years previous to

his death he was unable to attend to his business. The term of the

mortgage was five years, which time expired soon after his death. During

the few last weeks of his life his mind was very much disturbed

regarding the destitute condition in which he must leave his beloved

wife and daughter; for he was too well acquainted with the man who held

the claim to expect any lenity to his family when it should become due,

and he was sensible that the hour of his own death was fast approaching.

His wife tried to cheer him by hopeful words, saying: "Should it please

our Heavenly Father to remove you, fear not that He will fail to care

for the fatherless and widow." A short time before his death a sweet

peace and hopeful trust settled over his spirit, and the religion he had

sought in health afforded him a firm support in the hour of death. When

all was over, and the mother and daughter found themselves left alone,

their fortitude well-nigh forsook them, and they felt almost like

yielding to a hopeless sorrow. Emma was at this time but fifteen years

of age, possessed of much personal beauty, and also a very amiable and

affectionate disposition. Since the age of six years she had attended

school, and made rapid progress in her various studies till the sad

period of her father's death. As Mr. Ashton had foreseen, Mr. Tompkins,

the man who held the mortgage, soon called upon the widow, informing her

that the time had already expired, and unless she found herself able to

meet the claim, her dwelling was legally his property; but, as a great

favor, he granted her permission to occupy the house till she could make

some arrangement concerning the future, giving her, however, distinctly

to understand, that he wished to take possession as soon as she could

find another home. Mrs. Ashton thanked him for the consideration he had

shown her, little as it was, telling him she would as soon as possible

seek another home, however humble it might be; and Mr. Tompkins departed

with a polite bow and a bland smile upon his countenance, well pleased

that he had got the matter settled with so little difficulty. I presume

he never once paused to think of the grief-stricken widow and her

fatherless daughter, whom he was about to render homeless. Money had so

long been his idol that tender and benevolent emotions were well-nigh

extinguished in his world-hardened heart. For a long time after Mr.

Tompkins left the house Mrs. Ashton remained in deep thought. There are,

dear reader, dark periods in the lives of most of us, when, turn which

way we will, we find ourselves surrounded, as by a thick hedge, with

difficulties and troubles from which we see no escape.

At such periods it is good for us to call to mind the fact, that the

darkest cloud often has a silver lining, and that if we discharged, to

the best of our ability, our duties for the time being, the cloud,

sooner or later, will be reversed, and display its bright side to our

troubled view. The time had now arrived, when Mrs. Ashton must come to

some decision regarding the future. She had no friends to whom she could

turn for aid or counsel in this season of trial. When quite young she

had emigrated from England with her parents and one sister, and settled

in Eastern Canada. About the time of her marriage and removal to W. her

parents, with her sister, removed to one of the Western States: and it

may be the knowledge that she must rely solely upon herself enabled her

to meet her trials with more fortitude than might have been expected.

Some fifty miles from W. was the large and thriving village of Rockford,

and thither Mrs. Ashton at length decided to remove. One reason for this

decision was the excellent institution for the education of young

ladies, which was there located. She was very anxious that her daughter

should obtain a good education, but was sorely puzzled as to raising the

money needful for defraying her expenses. There were a few debts due her

husband at the time of his death; these she collected with little

difficulty. Their dwelling had been handsomely furnished, and she

decided to sell the furniture, as she could easily, upon their arrival

at Rockford, purchase what articles were necessary for furnishing their

new home, which must, of necessity, be humble. One article she felt they

must retain if possible, and that was the piano given her by her father

at the period of her marriage. She did at first entertain the idea of

parting with it, thinking how far the money it would bring would go in

defraying the expenses attendant upon Emma's education, but upon second

consideration, she resolved that they would not part with her father's

parting-gift to her, unless compelled to do so by actual want; and so

when their old home was broken up the piano was carefully packed and

forwarded to Rockford. The home where they had resided so long was very

dear to them, and it would have grieved them to leave it at any time;

but to leave at the glad season of spring, when the trees which shaded

their dwelling were beginning to put forth their leaves, and the flowers

which adorned their garden were bursting into bloom, seemed to them

doubly sad. But their preparations for removal were finally completed;

and they left their home followed by the good wishes of many who had

long known and loved them. Upon their arrival at Rockford, Mrs. Ashton

hired a cheap tenement in a respectable locality, which she furnished in

a plain but decent manner. When they became settled in their new home

they had still in hand money sufficient to secure them from immediate

want, but as Mrs. Ashton wished Emma to enter at once upon her studies,

she was very anxious to devise some means of earning money to meet

necessary expenses. There was one family residing in Rockford with whom

Mrs. Ashton had several years before been intimately acquainted: their

name was Lebaron, and they at one time resided in the same village with

the Ashtons. Mr. Lebaron had opened a store upon removing to Rockford;

the world had smiled upon him, and he was now considered one of the most

wealthy and influential men in the village.

It has been often said that "prosperity hardens the heart of man,"

but if such is the case in general, Mr. Lebaron proved an exception to

the general rule. He had heard with much sorrow of the death of Mr.

Ashton, and also of the other misfortunes which had overtaken the

family; and no sooner did he learn of the arrival of the widow and

daughter in Rockford, than, accompanied by his wife, he hastened to call

upon them to renew their former acquaintance, and in a delicate and

considerate manner to enquire if he could assist them in any way. Mrs.

Ashton thanked them for their kindness, saying that although in no

immediate need of assistance, yet she would be very thankful if they

would assist her in obtaining employment. "If such is the case," replied

Mrs. Lebaron, "I can easily secure you employment, as I am acquainted

with many ladies who give, out work, and will gladly use my influence in

your favor." "You will confer a favor upon me by so doing," replied Mrs.

Ashton, "for I must rely upon my labor for a support for the future."

Through the influence of these kind friends Mrs. Ashton soon obtained an

abundant supply of work; and, when she became somewhat acquainted with

the people of Rockford, her gentle and unobtrusive manner gained her

many warm friends. Agreeable to her mother's wishes, Emma soon became a

pupil in the seminary for young ladies, which was at that time under the

direction of Miss Hinton, a lady who possessed uncommon abilities as a

teacher, and was also aided by several competent assistants. Mrs.

Lebaron had two daughters attending the institution at the time, and

this circumstance, in a great measure, relieved Emma from the feeling of

diffidence she might have experienced in entering a large school a

stranger to both teachers and pupils; but her modest and unassuming

manners, added to her diligence in study soon caused her to become a

general favorite with her teachers. In schools, as well as other places,

we often meet with those who are inclined to be jealous of merit

superior to their own, and the seminary, at Rockford was no exception in

this matter. Her teachers were guilty of no unjust partiality; true,

they oftener commended her than some other members of her class, but not

oftener than her punctual attendance, perfect recitations and correct

deportment generally, justified them in doing. But it soon became

evident that, if Emma was a favourite with her teachers, she was far

from being such with many members of her class. At the time she entered

school Miss Hinton found, after examining her in her various studies,

that her attainments were already superior to those of several young

ladies who had been for some time members of the school. Among the

pupils who at the time attended the institution was a Miss Carlton, from

the distant city of H. She was the petted and only child of wealthy

parents; and, as is often the case, her disposition, which, under proper

training, might have been amiable, had been spoiled by unwise indulgence

on the part of her parents. Her capacity for learning was not good; she

was also sadly wanting in application, and, at the time Emma entered the

school, although Miss Carlton had attended for more than a year, her

progress in study was far from being satisfactory to her teachers. She

was at much pains to inform her classmates of her wealth and position,

seeming to entertain the idea that this would cover every defect. Owing

to Emma's superior attainments, compared with her own, she soon learned

to regard her with a feeling of absolute dislike, which she took little

pains to conceal; and many were the petty annoyances she endured from

the vain and haughty Julia Carlton. She soon learned that Emma was poor;

and that her mother toiled early and late to defray the expenses of her

education; and more than once she threw out hints regarding this fact,

among the other pupils, even in hearing of Emma; and, as often as

opportunity offered, she slighted the unoffending girl, and treated her

with all the rudeness of which she was capable. "Let those who wish

associate with Miss Ashton," she would often say to her companions; "but

I am thankful that I have been better taught at home than to make a

companion of a girl whose mother is obliged to take in sewing to pay her

school bills." These and other remarks equally malicious were daily made

by Miss Carlton; and I am sorry that she soon found others in the school

who were weak enough to be influenced by her also to treat Emma with

coldness and contempt. Emma could not long fail to notice the many

slights, both direct and indirect, which she endured from many members

of the school, and she taxed her memory to recall any act by which she

might have given offence; but, finding herself unable to recollect any

thing on her part which could have offended any member of the school,

she was not a little puzzled to account for the rudeness with which she

was treated. It happened one day that during recess she remained at her

desk in the school-room to complete an unfinished French exercise.

Several of her companions soon after entered the adjoining recitation

room, and, as they were not aware of her proximity, she became an

unwilling listener to a conversation which pained her deeply. As Sarah

Lebaron entered the room one of the girls addressed her, saying:--"When

you first introduced Miss Ashton among us, I supposed her to be at least

a companionable girl, but I have lately been informed that she resides

in a cheap tenement, and, further, that her mother takes in sewing, and,

if such is the case, I wish to cultivate no further acquaintance with

her." "But then," added another girl, "Miss Hinton thinks her almost a

saint, and sets her up as a model for us all; if there's any thing I do

detest, it's these model girls, and I don't believe she's half as fond

of study as she pretends; and, in my opinion, its only to hear the

commendations of the teachers that she applies herself with such

diligence; but Miss Hinton is so taken with her meek face and lady-like

manners that she places her above us all, and, I suppose, we must

submit, for as the old song says:

'What can't be cured must be endured.'"

"Well, I for one shall try some method of cure, before I put up with

much more of her impudence and assumption," chimed in the amiable Miss

Carlton; "pay attentions now, girls," continued she, "while I take my

place in the class like Emma Ashton;" and separating herself from her

companions, she crossed the room to one of the class-seats, with such a

ludicrous air of meekness and decorum, that the girls were almost

convulsed with laughter. Starting up and tossing her book from her hand

she exclaimed, "It is so disgusting to see a girl in _her_ position put

on such airs." Miss Lebaron had not before spoken, but, when at length

there was silence, she addressed her companions, saying, "if no other

young lady present has any further remarks to make, I will myself say a

few words if you will listen to me. I must say, I am surprised at the

unkindness, even rudeness, which many of you have exhibited towards Miss

Ashton. If she is poor it is death, and other misfortunes which have

caused her to become so; and this circumstance should excite your

sympathy, but surely not your contempt and ridicule. Poor as she is, she

is my friend, and I am proud to claim her as such. As to her being

companionable that is a matter of taste; I shall continue to follow

mine, and each young lady present is at liberty to do the same; but be

assured that unless you can furnish some more satisfactory reason for

your disparaging remarks than you have yet done, they will bear no

weight with me." With much irony in her voice Miss Carlton replied,

"Really, Miss Lebaron, I am unable to reply to your very able defence of

your charming friend, and will only say that I shall avail myself of the

liberty you have kindly granted us, for each to follow her own taste in

the choice of associates, and avoid Miss Ashton as much as possible."

"As you please," replied Miss Lebaron, "it is a matter of perfect

indifference to me;" and just then the school bell put an end to further

conversation. As may be easily supposed, the delicate and sensitive

spirit of Emma was deeply wounded by the above conversation; and it was

with much difficulty that she maintained her composure for the remaining

portion of the day. For once her lessons were imperfect; and with a

heavy heart she returned to her home. That evening she, for the first

time, mentioned to her mother the daily annoyances she suffered from her

companions at school; and concluded by relating the conversation she had

that day chanced to overhear. Mrs. Ashton could not feel otherwise than

grieved; but as much as possible she concealed the feeling from her

daughter. "My dear Emma," she replied, "their unkind words can do you no

real harm, although they may render you unhappy for the time being. But

keep the even tenor of your way; and they will, probably, after a time

become ashamed of their folly. Should they make any further remarks

regarding my laboring to give you an education, you may tell them that I

esteem it as one of my chief blessings that I have health granted me so

to do."

Time passed on; and the invariable kindness with which Emma treated her

classmates finally gained her several warm friends; and some of them

even apologized for their past unkindness. Miss Carlton still regarded

her with a feeling of enmity and dislike; but as Emma seemed not to

notice the many annoyances she experienced she was at length forced to

desist, although the same resentful feeling remained in her heart.

When Emma left the seminary, after attending it for four years, her

departure was deeply regretted by both teachers and pupils. As she had

pursued her studies in a very systematic manner, she had acquired,

before leaving school, a thoroughly good education, which she intended

turning to account by teaching. Miss Carlton also left school at the

same time to return to her elegant home in the city of H. It was

fortunate for her that she was not obliged, as was Emma, to teach as a

means of support; for, notwithstanding the unwearied pains of her

teachers, her education, when she left school, was very superficial.

Emma soon obtained a situation as teacher in a small village some twenty

miles from Rockford, where she remained for two years. During her

absence, her mother, to avoid being left alone, received as boarders two

or three young ladies who attended school in the village. Emma's success

as a teacher become so well known that she was at length offered a high

salary to accept of the position of assistant teacher in an academy in

the city of H., the same city where Miss Carlton resided. As the salary

offered was very liberal, she decided to accept of the position, and as

the situation was likely to prove a permanent one she was very anxious

that her mother should accompany her; and after some deliberation upon

the subject, Mrs. Ashton consented, thinking they would both be much

happier together than otherwise. Emma proved quite as successful in thus

her second situation as in the first; and owing to her position as

teacher she soon formed acquaintance with several families of cultivated

tastes and high respectability. She often received invitations to

parties; but her tastes were quiet, and she usually preferred spending

her evenings with her mother in the quiet of their own home, to mingling

in scenes of mirth and gaiety; and it was only upon a few occasions that

she attended parties, that her friends might not think her unsocial. At

one of these parties she chanced to meet her former school mate, Miss

Carlton, whose only sign of recognition was a very formal bow. This gave

her no uneasiness; she cherished no malice towards Miss Carlton; but her

ideas and tastes so widely differed from her own that she did not covet

her friendship even had she been inclined to grant it her.

Meanwhile, with the widow and her daughter, time passed happily away.

Emma's salary was more than sufficient for their support and they were

happy in the society of each other. There was one family, by the name of

Milford, who had treated them with much kindness since their residence

in the city. Mrs. Milford at first placed two little girls under Emma's

instruction, and thus began an acquaintance which soon ripened into

intimate friendship; for, although occupying a high position of wealth

and influence, Mrs. Milford was one of the few who place "mind above

matter" and respected true worth wherever she met with it. Her eldest

daughter, having finished her education at a distant boarding school,

returned home about the same time her two sisters were placed in charge

of Emma; and the little girls were so eloquent in their praise of their

teacher, that their eldest sister became interested, and decided to call

upon her at her home; and the lady-like appearance of both mother and

daughter, together with the appearance of good taste which their home

exhibited, strongly interested her in their favor.

Some six months previous to the period of which I am writing a young

physician from the Upper Province located himself in the city of H. for

the practice of his profession. According to common report, he was

wealthy, and the study of a profession had with him been a matter not of

necessity but of choice. Owing to his pleasing manners, as well as his

reputed wealth, he soon became an object of much interest to many of the

match-making mammas and marriageable young ladies of the city of H. He

was soon favored with numerous invitations to attend parties, where he

formed acquaintance with most of the young people in the fashionable

circle of the city; and he soon became a general favorite in society.

Among others, he attended a large party given by the Carltons, and by

this means became acquainted with the family. He had called

occasionally; and during one of those calls Mrs. Carlton very feelingly

lamented that her daughter was often obliged to forego the pleasure of

attending concerts, lectures and other places of public amusement for

want of a suitable escort; and courtesy to the family would of course

allow him to do no less than offer to become her attendant upon such

occasions. Mrs. Carlton, however, put a very different construction upon

these slight attentions, and already looked upon him as her future

son-in-law.

When Dr. Winthrop had resided for about a year in the city, the

Milfords also gave a large party, and Miss Ashton was included among

their guests. The party was a brilliant affair, for the Milfords were a

family of wealth and high social position. The young physician was among

their guests; and Miss Carlton managed some way or other to claim his

attention most of the evening. There was the usual amount of small talk,

common to such occasions; about the usual number of young ladies were

invited to sing and play, and, as usual, they were either out of

practice or were afflicted with "bad colds." But it so happened that

several young ladies who at the first begged to be excused, after much

persuasion allowed themselves to be conducted to the piano, and played

till it was evident from the manner of many that the music had become an

infliction instead of a pleasure. When after a time Miss Ashton was

invited to play, she took the vacant seat at the piano without any of

the usual apologies; and began playing the prelude to a much admired

song of the day; and before she reached the close of the first verse

there was a hush through the room, and the countenance of each evinced

the pleasure with which they listened to her performance. As she rose

from the instrument Dr. Winthrop addressed Miss Carlton, saying: "Can

you inform me who is that young lady? I never met her before; but she

has favored us with the first real music I have listened to this

evening." The young physician was not wanting in politeness, and he

certainly must have forgotten that Miss Carlton occupied the seat at the

piano a short time before. That young lady colored with anger as she

replied: "Her name is Miss Ashton, and I understand she is engaged as an

assistant teacher in one of the Academies in the city." "It is

singular," replied Dr. Winthrop, "that I have never before met her at

any of the numerous parties I have attended during the past year."

"There is nothing very singular in that," replied Miss Carlton, "for I

presume she is not often invited to fashionable parties, and I suppose

it is owing to Mrs. Milford's two little girls being her pupils that we

find her among their guests; but as you seem so much interested, I will

tell you all I know of the _person_ in question. When I attended school

at Rockford, Miss Ashton was a pupil in the same institution; but, when

I learned that her mother, who is a widow, took in sewing, to pay her

school bills, I did not care to cultivate her acquaintance. She left

school about the same time with myself, and I heard no more of her till

she obtained a situation in this city." "Pardon me," replied the young

physician; "but I see nothing in what you have stated that is in the

least disparaging to the young lady; and I should be much pleased to

make her acquaintance." "Our ideas slightly vary in these matters,"

replied Miss Carlton, with a haughty toss of her head; "but I will not

detain you from seeking the introduction for which you seem so anxious.

I am sorry I cannot oblige you by introducing you myself; but as I did

not associate with her when at school, I am still less inclined to do so

at the present time; I hope, however, you may find her an agreeable

acquaintance;" and with a haughty manner she swept from his side in

quest of companions whose tastes were more congenial. Dr. Winthrop

obtained the desired introduction; and if Miss Carlton indulged the hope

that he would find Miss Ashton an agreeable acquaintance, there was soon

a fair prospect that her wishes would be realized; for the marked

attention which Dr. Winthrop paid the lovely and engaging Miss Ashton

soon formed the chief topic of conversation among the circle of their

acquaintances. For once, public rumor was correct. Dr. Winthrop was very

wealthy; but when a mere youth he had a decided taste for the study of

medicine; and his parents allowed him to follow the bent of his own

inclinations, in fitting himself for a profession for which he

entertained so strong a liking. He had an uncle residing in a distant

city, who was also a physician of high reputation, and, after passing

through the necessary course of study, he had practiced his profession

for two years under the direction of his uncle, before removing to the

city of H. Up to the time when we introduced him to the reader matrimony

was a subject to which he had never given a serious thought, and until

he met with Miss Ashton he had never felt any personal interest in the

matter. From what I have already said the reader will not be surprised

to learn that the acquaintance begun at Mrs. Milford's party terminated

in a matrimonial engagement; with the free consent of all who had a

right to a voice in the matter. When the matter became known it caused

quite a sensation in the circles in which Dr. Winthrop had moved since

his residence in the city; but, happily for him, he was possessed of too

independent a spirit to suffer any annoyance from any malicious remarks

which chanced to reach his ears. When Miss Carlton first learned of the

engagement, she indulged in a long fit of spiteful tears, to the

imminent risk of appearing with red eyes at the forthcoming evening

party. In due time the marriage took place; and the young physician and

his lovely bride set out on their wedding tour amid the congratulations

and good wishes of many true friends. After their departure Mrs. Carlton

remarked to several of her "dear friends" "that she had long since

discovered that Dr. Winthrop was not possessed of refined tastes; and

for her part she thought Miss Ashton much better suited to be his wife

than many others which she could name." Had the doctor been present to

express his sentiments regarding this matter, they would in all

probability have exactly agreed with those already expressed by Mrs.

Carlton. During their wedding tour, which occupied several weeks, they

visited many places of note, both in Canada and the United States. Upon

their return to the city Dr. Winthrop purchased an elegant house in a

central location, which he furnished in a style justified by his

abundant means; and with his wife and her mother removed thither.

In conclusion, we will again bestow a passing glance upon this

happy family after the lapse of some twenty years. We find Dr. Winthrop

now past the meridian of life surrounded by an interesting family of

sons and daughters, whom he is endeavoring to train for spheres of

usefulness in this life, as well as for happiness in the "life to come."

His graceful and dignified wife still gladdens his heart and home. Time

has dealt very gently with her; she is quite as good and almost as

beautiful as when we last saw her twenty years ago. The two eldest of

their family are boys, and this is their last year in College. Mrs.

Winthrop has thus far attended herself to the education of her two

daughters. Along with many other useful lessons, she often seeks to

impress upon their minds the sin and folly of treating with contempt and

scorn those who may be less favored than themselves in a worldly point

of view; and to impress the lesson more strongly upon their young minds,

she has more than once spoken to them of her own early history, and of

the trials to which she was subject in her youthful days. But what of

Mrs. Ashton? She still lives; although her once active form is beginning

to bow beneath the weight of years, and her hair has grown silvery

white. This year Dr. Winthrop has completed his preparations for leaving

the city after more than twenty years close application to his

profession. He resolved to remove with his family to some quiet country

village, which would afford sufficient practice to prevent time from

hanging heavily upon his hands; but he now felt quite willing to resign

his fatiguing and extensive practice in the city. When he first formed

the idea of seeking a country home, he enquired of his wife, if she had

any choice regarding a location. "If it meets your wishes," replied she,

"no other place would please me so well as the village of W, the home of

my childhood and youth, and where my dear father is buried." He soon

after made a journey to W, and was so much pleased with the thriving

appearance of the village, and the industry and sobriety of the

inhabitants, that he decided to seek there a home. Before he left his

home, his wife requested him, should he decide upon removing to W, if

possible to re-purchase their old home, knowing how much this would

please her now aged mother. The purchase was soon completed, and ere he

left the village the old house was in the hands of workmen, with his

instructions as to improvements and repairs. Mrs. Ashton was very happy

when she learned that they were to return to W. "I have been happy

here," said she, "but I shall be still happier there." In a short time

they removed from the city to take possession of the "dear old home" in

W, now enlarged and adorned in various ways; but the same clear brook

still flowed at the foot of the garden, and the same trees, only that

they were older, and their branches had grown more wide-spreading,

shaded the dwelling. As they passed beneath the shade of those

well-remembered trees, Mrs. Winthrop addressed her mother, saying, "Do

you remember, mamma, how sad we felt the morning we left our home so

many years ago, and we little thought it would ever again be ours." Mrs.

Ashton gazed fondly upon her daughter and the blooming children at her

side, as she replied in the language of the Psalmist, "I have been young

and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken nor his seed

begging bread."

THOUGHTS ON AUTUMN.

Again has the season of Autumn arrived. The stated changes of the

seasons serve as monitors to remind us of the flight of time; and upon

such occasions the most unthinking can hardly avoid pausing to reflect

upon the past, the present, and the probable future. Autumn has been

properly styled the "Sabbath of the year." Its scenes are adapted to

awaken sober and profitable reflection; and the voice with which it

appeals to our reflective powers is deserving of regard. This season is

suggestive of thoughts and feelings which are not called forth by any

other; standing, as it were, a pause between life and death; holding in

its lap the consummate fruits of the earth, which are culled by the hand

of prudence and judgment, some to be garnered in the treasury of useful

things, while others are allowed to return to their primitive elements.

When spring comes smiling o'er the earth, she breathes on the icebound

waters, and they flow anew. Frost and snow retreat before her advancing

footsteps. The earth is clothed with verdure; and the trees put forth

their leaves. Again, a few short months, and where has all this beauty

fled? The trees stand firm as before; but, with every passing breeze, a

portion of their once green leaves now fall to the ground. We behold the

bright flowers, which beautify the earth, open their rich petals, shed

their fragrance on the breeze, and then droop and perish. Sad emblem of

the perishing nature of all things earthly. May we not behold in the

fading vegetation, and the falling leaves of autumn, a true type of

human life? Truly "we all do fade as a leaf." Life at the best is but a

shadow that passes quickly away. Why then this love of gain, this thirst

for fame and distinction? Let us approach yonder church-yard and there

seek for distinction. There we may behold marble tablets cold as the

clay which rests beneath them: their varied inscriptions of youth,

beauty, age, ambition, pride and vanity, are all here brought to one

common level, like the leaves which in autumn fall to the earth, not one

pre-eminent over another. The inspired writers exhibit the frailty of

man by comparing him to the grass and the flowers withering and dying

under the progress and vicissitudes of the year; and with the return of

autumn we may behold in the external appearance of nature the changes to

which the sacred penman refers, when he says, "So is man. His days are

as grass; as a flower of the field so he flourisheth. For the wind

passeth over it and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no

more." Autumn too, is the season of storms. Let this remind us of the

storms of life. Scattered around us, are the wrecks of the tempests

which have beaten upon others, and we cannot expect always ourselves to

be exempt. Autumn is also the season of preparation for winter. Let us

remember that the winter of death is at hand, and let us be impressed

with the importance of making preparation for its approach. Let us then,

as we look upon the changed face of nature, take home the lesson which

it teaches; and, while we consider the perishable nature of all things

pertaining to this life, may we learn to prepare for another and a

happier state of being.

WANDERING DAVY.

It was while I was spending a few days in the dwelling of Mr. C., a

Scottish immigrant, that he received a long letter from his friends in

Scotland. After perusing the letter he addressed his wife, saying: "So

auld Davy's gone at last." "Puir man," replied Mrs. C. "If he's dead let

us hope that he has found that rest and peace which has been so long

denied him in this life." "And who was old Davy; may I enquire," said I,

addressing Mr. C. "Ay, man," he replied, "'tis a sad story; but when my

work is by for the night, I'll tell ye a' that I ken o' the life o' Davy

Stuart." I was then young and very imaginative; and a story of any kind

possessed much interest for me; and the thought that the story of Old

Davy was to be a true one, rendered it doubly interesting; so I almost

counted the hours of the remaining portion of the day; and when evening

came I was not slow to remind Mr. C. of his promise. Accordingly he

related to me the following particulars of the life of Davy Stuart;

which I give, as nearly as possible, in his own words; for it seems to

me that the story would lose half its interest were I to render it

otherwise.

"Davy Stuart was an aul' man when I was a wee boy at the school. I had

aye been used wi' him; for he often bided wi' us for days thegither; and

while a boy I gave little heed to his odd ways an' wanderin' mode o'

life; for he was very kind to mysel' an' a younger brither an' we

thought muckle o' him; but when we had grown up to manhood my father

tell'd us what had changed Davy Stuart from a usefu' an' active man to

the puir demented body he then was. He was born in a small parish in the

south of Scotland, o' respectable honest parents, who spared nae pains

as he grew up to instruct him in his duty to baith God an' man. At quite

an early age he was sent to the parish school: where he remained maist

o' the time till he reached the age o' fourteen years. At that time he

was apprenticed to learn the trade o' shoemaker, in a distant town. It

wad seem that he served his time faithfully, an' gained a thorough

knowledge o' his trade. Upon leaving his master, after paying a short

visit to his native parish, he gie'd awa' to the city o' Glasgow, to

begin the warld for himself. He continued steady and industrious, and

was prospered accordingly; and at the age o' twenty-five he had saved

considerable money. It was about this time, that he was married to a

worthy young woman, to whom he had been long deeply attached. They had

but one bairn, a fine boy, who was the delight o' his father's heart,

and I hae heard it said by they who kenn'd them at the time, that a

bonnier or mair winsome boy could 'na hae been found in the city, than

wee Geordie Stuart. Time gied on till Geordie was near twelve years

aul', when it began to be talked o' among Mr. Stuart's friends that he

was becoming owre fond o' drink. How the habit was first formed naebody

could tell; but certain it was, that during the past year he had been

often seen the war o' drink. His wife, puir body, admonished an'

entreated him to break awa' fra the sinfu' habit, and he often, when

moved by her tears, made resolutions o' amendment, which were broken

maist as soon as made; an' it was during a longer season o' sobriety

than was usual wi' him, that his wife, thinkin' if he was once awa' fra

the great city he would be less in the way o' temptation, persuaded him

to leave Glasgow an' remove to the sma' village o' Mill-Burn, a little

way frae the farm which my father rented.

I well mind, said my father, o' the time when they first cam'

among us, an' how kin' was a' the neebors to his pale sad-lookin' wife

and the bonny light-hearted Geordie, who was owre young at the time, to

realize to its fu' extent the sad habit into which his father had fa'n.

When Mr. Stuart first came to our village he again took up his aul'

habits o' industry, an' for a long time would'na taste drink ava; but

when the excitement o' the sudden change had worn off, his aul' likin'

for strong drink cam' back wi' fu' force, an' he, puir weak man--had'na

the strength o' mind to withstand it. He soon became even war than

before; his money was a' gane, he did'na work, so what was there but

poverty for his wife an' child. But it is useless for me to linger o'er

the sad story. When they had lived at Mill-Burn a little better than a

twelve month, his wife died, the neebors said o' a broken heart. A wee

while afore her death she ca'd Davie to her bedside, an' once mair

talked lang an earnestly to him o' the evil habit which had gotten sic a

hold o' him, an' begged him for the sake o' their dear' Geordie, who,

she reminded him, would soon be left without a mither to care for him,

to make still anither effort to free himself fra the deadly habit. I

believe Davie was sincere when he promised the dyin' woman that he wad

gie up drink. Wi' a' his faults, he had tenderly loved his wife, an' I

hae nae doubt fully intended keepin' the promise he made her. For a lang

time after her death, he was n'er seen to enter a public house ava', an'

again he applied himsel' to his wark wi' much industry. After the death

o' Mrs. Stuart, Geordie an' his father bided a' their lane. Their house

was on the ither side o' the burn which crossed the high-road, a wee bit

out o' the village. Time gie'd on for some time wi' them in this way.

Davy continued sober and industrious, an' the neebors began to hae hopes

that he had gotten the better o' his evil habit; he had n'er been kenned

to taste strong drink o' ony kin' sin' the death o' his wife. One

evening after he an' Geordie had ta'en their suppers, he made himsel'

ready to gang out, saying to Geordie that he was gaun' doon to the

village for a wee while, and that he was to bide i' the house an' he

would'na be lang awa'. The hours wore awa' till ten o'clock, an' he

had'na cam' hame. It was aye supposed that the boy, becoming uneasy at

his father's lang stay, had set out to look for him, when by some

mishap, it will n'er be kenned what way, he lost his footin', an' fell

frae the end o' the narrow brig which crossed the burn. The burn was'na

large, but a heavy rain had lately fa'n, an' there was aye a deep bit at

one end o' the brig. He had fa'n head first into the water in sic a way

that he could'na possibly won 'oot. It was a clear moonlicht night, an'

when Davy reached the brig, the first thing he saw was his ain son lyin'

i' the water. I hae often been told that a sudden shock o' ony kind will

sober a drunken man. It was sae wi' Davy; for the first neebor who,

hearin' his cries for assistance, ran to the spot, found him standin i'

the middle o' the brig, perfectly sober, wi' the drooned boy in his

arms; although it was weel kenned that he was quite drunk when he left

the village. Every means was used for the recovery o' the boy, but it

was a' useless, he was quite deed an' caul'. "Ah" said Davy, when tell'd

by the doctor that the boy was indeed dead, "my punishment is greater

than I can bear." Geordie had aye been as "the apple o' his een"; never

had he been kenned to ill use the boy, even when under the influence o'

drink; and the shock was too much for his reason. Many wondered at his

calmness a' the while the body lay i' the house afore the burial; but it

was the calmness o' despair; he just seemed to me like ane turned to

stane. The first thing that roused him was the sound o' the first earth

that fell on puir Geordie's coffin. He gie'd ae bitter groan, an' wad

hae fa'n to the earth had'na a kind neebor supported him. His mind

wandered fra that hour; he was aye harmless, but the light o' reason

never cam' back to his tortured mind. Sometimes he wad sit for hours by

Geordie's grave, an' fancy that he talked wi' him. On these occasions

nothing wad induce him to leave the grave till some ither fancy

attracted his mind. As I hae before said he was never outrageous, but

seemed most o' the time, when silent, to be in deep thought; but his

reason was quite gone, and the doctors allowed that his case was beyond

cure. Many questioned them as to whether it were safe to allow him his

liberty, lest he might do some deed o' violence; but they gave it as

their opinion that his disease was'na a' ta' likely to tak' that turn

wi' him, an' so was left to wander on. He never bided verra lang in a

place, but wandered frae house to house through a' the country-side: and

every one treated him wi' kindness. The sight o' a bonny fair-haired boy

aye gave him muckle pleasure, an' he wad whiles hae the idea that

Geordie had cam' back to him. From the day o' Geordie's death to that o'

his ain', which took place a month sine, he was n'er kenned to taste

strong drink; he could'na bear even the sight o' it. He lived to a verra

great age, an' for many years they who did'na ken the story o' his early

life ha'e ca'd him Wanderin' Davy. "I hae noo tell'd you his story,"

said Mr. C. addressing me; "an I hope it may prove a warnin' to you an'

ithers o' the awfu' evils o' intemperance; an' I think it's high time my

story was finished, for I see by the clock that it's growin' unco late."

When the evening psalm had been sung, Mr. C. read a portion of the

Scriptures and offered the usual nightly prayer, and soon after we all

sought repose; but it was long ere I slept. The story I had listened to

still floated through my mind, and when sleep at length closed my eyes

it was to dream of "Wandering Davy," and the poor drowned boy.

LOOKING ON THE DARK SIDE.

It is an old but true saying, that "troubles come soon enough without

meeting them half way." But I think my friend Mrs. Talbot had never

chanced to hear this saying, old as it is; for she was extremely prone

at all times to look only upon the dark side, and this habit was a

source of much trouble to herself as well as her family. Mr. Talbot

might properly have been called a well-to-do farmer. They were

surrounded by an intelligent and interesting family; and a stranger, in

taking a passing view of their home and its surroundings, would have

been strongly inclined to think that happiness and contentment might be

found beneath their roof; but a short sojourn in the dwelling alluded

to, would certainly have dispelled the illusion. This Mrs. Talbot was

possessed of a most unhappy disposition. She seemed to entertain the

idea that the whole world was in league to render her miserable. It has

often struck me with surprise, that a person surrounded with so much to

render life happy should indulge in so discontented and repining a

temper as did Mrs. Talbot. She was famous for dwelling at length upon

her trials, as often as she could obtain a listener; and when I first

became acquainted with her I really regarded her with a feeling of pity;

but after a time I mentally decided that the greater part of her

grievances existed only in her own imagination. She spent a large

portion of her time in deploring the sins of the whole world in general,

and of her own family and immediate neighbors in particular; while she

looked upon herself as having almost, if not quite, attained to

perfection.

I recollect calling one day upon Mr. Talbot; he was of a very

social disposition, and we engaged for a short time in a lively

conversation. Mrs. Talbot was present, and, strange to tell, once

actually laughed at some amusing remark made by her husband. He soon

after left the room, and her countenance resumed its usual doleful

expression as she addressed me, saying, "I wish I could have any hopes

of Mr. Talbot; but I am afraid the last state of that man will be worse

than the first." I questioned her as to her meaning; and she went on to

tell me that her husband had once made a profession of religion; but she

feared he was then in a "backslidden state," as she termed it. I know

not how this matter might have been; but during my acquaintance with Mr.

Talbot I never observed any thing in his conduct which to me seemed

inconsistent with a profession of religion. He certainly excelled his

wife in one thing, and that was christian charity; for he was seldom if

ever heard to speak of the short-comings of others. It is quite possible

that he thought his wife said enough upon the subject to suffice for

both. Mrs. Talbot made a point of visiting her neighbors, if she chanced

to hear of their meeting with any trouble or misfortune. The reason she

gave for so doing was that she might sympathize with them; and if

sickness invaded a household Mrs. Talbot was sure to be there; but I

used often to think that her friends must look upon her as one of "Job's

comforters," for no sickness was so severe, no misfortune so great, that

she did not prophesy something worse still. According to her own ideas

she was often favored with warnings of sickness and misfortune both to

her own family and others. She was also a famous believer in dreams; and

often entertained her friends at the breakfast table by relating her

dreams of the previous night. I remember meeting with her upon one

occasion, when it struck me that her countenance wore a look of unusual

solemnity, even for her, so much so, that I enquired the cause. "Ah!"

said she, "we are to have sickness, perhaps death, in our family very

soon; for only last night I dreamed I saw a white horse coming toward

the house upon the full galop; and to dream of a white horse is a sure

sign of sickness, and the faster the horse seems in our dream to be

approaching us the sooner the sickness will come." Her husband often

remonstrated with her upon the folly of indulging in these idle fancies.

I remember a reply he once made to some of her gloomy forebodings: "I

think the best way is for each one to discharge their duty in the

different relations of life; and leave the future in the hands of an

All-wise Providence." "That is always the way with you," was her reply,

"You have grown heedless and careless with your love of the world; but

you will perhaps think of my warnings when too late." Before meeting

with Mrs. Talbot I had often heard the remark that none were so cheerful

as the true christian; but I soon saw that her views must be widely

different. A hearty laugh she seemed to regard as almost a crime. A

cheerful laugh upon any occasion would cause her to shake her head in a

rueful manner, and denounce it as untimely mirth. Upon one occasion she

went to hear a preacher that had lately arrived in the neighboring

village. This same preacher was remarkable for drawing dismal pictures,

and was very severe in his denunciations, while he quite forgot to offer

a word of encouragement to the humble seeker after good. Upon the

Sabbath in question Mrs. Talbot returned from church, and seated herself

at the dinner table with a countenance of most woeful solemnity. Her

husband at length enquired, how she had enjoyed the sermon. "Oh!"

replied she, "he is a preacher after my own heart, and his sermon

explained all my views clearly." "Indeed," replied Mr. Talbot, "he must

have a wonderful flow of language to have handled so extensive a

subject, in the usual time allotted to a sermon." His answer displeased

her very much. Among her other gloomy forebodings she always seemed sure

of the fact that Mr. Talbot would survive her; and she replied: "That is

always the way. You make light of every thing I say; and I only hope you

wont have all these things to repent of when I shall be no more." Mr.

Talbot seemed sorry he had wounded her feelings, and replied: "We shall

both live our appointed time, and it is not for us to decide which of us

will be first removed." The last time I saw Mrs. Talbot she was

indulging in her anticipation of some coming calamity. I have learned

from various sources, that since I last saw her she has met with _real_

afflictions of a very trying nature, even to the most hopeful; and it

may be that the presence of real troubles, has put to flight many which

were only imaginary; and she may by this time have learned to be

thankful for whatever of blessings may yet be left her in her path

through life.

EDWARD BARTON.

My schoolmate Edward Barton, or 'Ned' as he was usually called

by the boys, was such an odd character in his way, that I trust my

readers will pardon me for introducing him to their notice. His father

was a physician in a distant village, and was justly esteemed among the

residents of the place. He had an extensive practice both in the village

and surrounding country, and his time was very much occupied; and as Ned

grew up he proved a source of constant anxiety to his father, who, being

unable to keep him under his own eye, at length decided to send him to

reside with some relatives in a farming district some twenty miles

distant from his home. Ned's disposition was a singular compound of good

and evil, and his conduct depended in a great measure, upon the

companions he associated with. He was easily persuaded, and often during

his father's frequent and lengthened absences from home he played truant

from school, and associated with the worst boys in the village. I well

remember the first morning he entered our school. He was then about

twelve years of age; but, owing to his carelessness and inattention, he

had made but slight progress in study. I learned afterwards that he had

so long borne the names of "dunce" and "blockhead" in the school he

attended in his own village, that he supposed himself to be really such,

and made up his mind that it was useless for him to try to be anything

else: and I think when our teacher first called him up for examination

he was inclined to be of the same opinion. The teacher first addressed

him by saying, "How far have you advanced in reading, my boy?" "Don't

know sir, never thought anything about how far I've been." "Well, at

least," replied the master, "you can tell me the names of the books you

have studied, in reading and spelling." "Oh, yes," replied the boy,

"I've been clean through 'Webster's Elementary and the Progressive

Reader.'" "Can you tell me the subject of any of your lessons?" "I can

just remember one story about a dog that was crossing a river on a plank

with a piece of meat in his mouth, and when he saw his shadder in the

water, made a spring at it and dropped the meat which he held in his

mouth, and it was at once carried away by the current." "Well," said the

teacher, "as you remember the story so well, you can perhaps tell me

what lesson we can learn from this fable." "I thought," replied the boy,

"when I read the story, that the best way is to hold on to what we are

sure of, and not grab after a shadder and lose the whole." "Your idea is

certainly a correct one," said the master, "and now we will turn to some

other branch of study; can you cipher?" "Don't know, I never tried,"

replied the boy, with the greatest coolness imaginable. "Well," replied

the teacher, "we will after a time see how you succeed, when you _do_

try. Can you tell me what the study of Geography teaches us!" "O," said

the boy, "geography tells all about the world, the folks who live in it,

and 'most every thing else." The master then asked him some questions

regarding the divisions of land and water, and for a short time he

answered with some degree of correctness. At length, while referring to

the divisions of water, the master said "can you tell me what is a

strait?" This question seemed a "puzzler" to him, and for some moments

he looked down as if studying the matter; when the question was repeated

in rather a sharp tone, it seemed he thought it wiser to give an answer

of some kind than none at all, and he replied: "When a river runs in a

straight course, we call it straight, and when it twists and winds

about, we call it crooked." "A river is not a strait," replied the

teacher with the manner of one who prayed for patience. "Well! at any

rate," said the boy, "straight is straight, and crooked is crooked, and

that is all I know about it." It was evident from the teacher's manner

that he was half inclined to think the boy was endeavoring to impose

upon him by feigning ignorance; and he dismissed him to his seat for the

time being, thinking, no doubt, that he had met with a case out of the

common order of school experience. It seems that the boy had never

before attended school with punctuality, and it required a long time to

teach him to observe anything like system either in his conduct or

studies. Our teacher though very firm, was mild and judicious in his

government; and, thinking that possibly Ned's disposition had been

injured by former harshness at school, resolved to avoid inflicting

corporal punishment as long as possible; and try upon him the effect of

kindness and mild persuasion. He had one very annoying habit, and that

was he would very seldom give a satisfactory answer if suddenly asked a

direct question, and often his reply would be very absurd, sometimes

bordering on downright impudence. The master noticed one afternoon,

after calling the boys from their play at recess, that Ned had not

entered the school-room with the others. Stepping to the door, he found

him seated very composedly in the yard, working busily upon a toy he was

fashioning with a knife from a piece of wood. "Why do you remain

outside, Edward, after the other boys are called in?" said the master.

"Cos I did'nt come in, sir," replied Ned, without looking up, or even

pausing in his employment. This was too much for the patience of any

one; and seizing him by the arm the master drew him into a small room

which adjoined the school-room; and bestowed upon him, what Ned

afterwards confidentially informed us, was "a regular old-fashioned

thrashing." I was not aware till then that the style of using the rod

was liable to change, but it would seem that Ned thought otherwise; and

if his screams upon this occasion were taken as proof in the matter, I

should be inclined to think the old-fashioned method very effective. The

whipping which Ned received created quite a sensation among us boys, for

it was not often that Mr. S. used the rod. We began to have our fears

that as he had got his "hand in," more of us might share the fate of

poor Ned. In a very serious conversation which we held upon the matter,

on our way home that evening, some of us asked Ned, why he screamed so

loud. "I thought," said he, "if I hollered pretty well, he would think

he'd licked me enough and stop; but I don't see what great harm I did

any way. He asked why I stayed out; and I said, cos I did'nt go in, and

I am sure I could'nt give a better reason than that." Time passed on,

and by degrees Ned dropped many of his odd ways; and began to make

tolerable progress in study; but still, much patience and forbearance

was necessary on the part of the teacher. He had the same habit of

frequently giving absurd answers in his class, as well as upon other

occasions; but after a time his stupid answers were much less frequent,

and Mr. S. began to indulge the hope that he would soon overcome the

habit entirely. When he had attended school for about six months, as was

the custom two or three times a year, we passed under what to the school

boys was an "awful review" in presence of those awe-inspiring

personages, termed in those days the school-trustees, and any other

friends of the school who might chance to be present. We all, even to

the teacher, had our fears lest Ned (who had not yet entirely

discontinued the practice) should give some of his comical answers when

questioned by our visitors; but the day came, and with it the

school-trustees and a number of other friends. The classes were first

examined in reading and spelling; and Ned acquitted himself much better

than we had dared to hope; and we began to think he might pass the

afternoon without making any serious blunder. After the reading and

spelling lessons, the class was summoned for examination in Geography.

Elated by his success in reading and spelling, Ned took his place with a

pompous consequential manner, as if expecting to win countless laurels

for his proficiency. He got along very well till some one put the

question, "What may the Island of Australia properly be called on

account of its vast size?" "One of the Pyramids," answered Ned in a loud

confident voice. The gentleman who was questioning us looked astounded,

and there fell an awkward silence, which was only broken by the

half-smothered laughter of the others in the class. The teacher wishing

to get over the matter in some way, at length said, "I am surprised,

Edward, that you should give so senseless an answer to so simple a

question." Now, one very striking peculiarity in Ned's character was his

unwillingness to acknowledge himself in the wrong, however ridiculous

his answer might be; and he was disposed to argue his point up on this

occasion. "Any way," said he, "the Pyramids are large, and so is

Australia; and I thought it might sometimes be called a pyramid for

convenience of description." The idea of Ned entering into an argument

with the trustees of the school, struck the rest of the boys as so

extremely ludicrous, that our long pent-up mirth found vent in a burst

of laughter through the whole class, and no one present had the heart to

chide us; for it was with intense difficulty that the elderly gentlemen

maintained their own gravity. The teacher was obliged to exercise his

authority before Ned could be silenced; and the remaining part of the

examination proved rather a failure. I know not how it happened, but

from that day there was a marked improvement in Edward Barton, in every

respect. He attended the school for two years; and when he left us it

was to accompany his parents to one of the far Western States. His

father had relatives residing in the West, and had received from them

such glowing accounts of the country, that he decided upon removing

thither. Any one who saw Ned when he left us would almost have failed to

recognize him as the same boy who entered the school two years previous.

Mr. S. was his friend as well as his teacher; and during the second year

of his stay took a deep interest in him; he had thoroughly studied his

disposition, and learned to bear with his faults, and under his

judicious management Ned began really to make good progress in study. We

had all become attached to him, and were all sorry when he left us. He

was much elated with the prospect of his journey to the West; and talked

much of the wonders he expected to behold on his way thither. He came

one day at the noon-hour to collect his books and bid us good-bye, his

father having come to take him home for a short time before setting out

on their journey. The boys were all on the play ground when he entered

the school-room to bid his teacher good-bye. When he came out he looked

very sober, and there was a suspicious moisture in his eyes which very

much resembled tears. Instead of the usual noisy mirth on the play

ground there was almost complete silence, while Ned shook hands with us

one by one, saying, "he would tell us all the wonders of the Western

world when he came back." Years have rolled by with their various

changes since that day; he has never yet returned; and I have only heard

from him two or three times during the time. My last tidings were, that

he was married and settled down to a life of industry upon a fine farm,

in his western home; but I sometimes, when I think of him, even yet

wonder, if he has learned the difference between the "Pyramids of Egypt"

and the "Island Continent of Australia."

THE WEARY AT REST.

The weary at rest. The idea was very strongly impressed upon my mind by

a funeral which I once attended in the distant village of C. It was that

of a very aged woman, whom I had often heard mentioned as one who had

been subjected for many years to bodily suffering in no ordinary degree.

I had never seen her, but was acquainted with many who visited her

frequently; and I became interested from hearing her so often spoken of

as a bright example of patience and resignation under affliction; and I

was accustomed to enquire for her as often as I had opportunity. Owing

to a rheumatic affection of her limbs, she had, as I was informed, been

unable for several years to rise from her bed without assistance, and

much of the time experienced severe pain. I was informed by her friends

that through her protracted period of suffering she was never heard to

utter a complaining or repining word, but was found daily in a calm even

cheerful frame of mind. After a time I left the village and returned to

my home. Returning thither to visit some relatives after the lapse of a

few months, I met with a friend, soon after my arrival, who informed me

of the death of old Mrs. H., which had taken place the day previous. Two

days later I joined the large numbers who assembled to pay their last

tribute of respect to one of the oldest residents of their village. As

is usual upon funeral occasions, the coffin was placed in front of the

pulpit, and a large number occupied the front pews which were

appropriated to the friends of the deceased. In those pews were seated

men in whose hair the silver threads were beginning to mingle, and women

who were themselves mothers of families who all met around the coffin of

their aged mother. Childhood, youth and middle age were all represented

in that company of mourners. Their pastor, Mr. M., delivered a very

appropriate discourse from the words, "Blessed are the dead who die in

the Lord." In the course of his sermon he took occasion to remark, that

a funeral discourse should apply to the living--not the dead. I had

before listened to different sermons from this same text; but I never

listened to a more searching application of the words than upon this

occasion.

Near the close of his sermon, he said: "I presume many of you are aware

that I deem it unnecessary as well as unwise, on occasions of this kind,

for a minister to dwell at length upon the life and character of the

deceased, for, as I have before said, our duty is with the living; but

upon the present occasion, I think I may with propriety say, that we see

before us the lifeless remains of one who has 'died in the Lord.' I have

been for many years acquainted with our aged sister now departed, and

have ever regarded her as an humble and earnest christian. I have

frequently visited her during her lengthened period of suffering; and

have felt deeply humbled for my own want of resignation to the ills of

life, when I observed the exemplary manner with which this aged woman

bore her sufferings, which at times were very severe; and more than

this, I stood by her dying bed, which I can truly say presented a

fore-taste of heavenly triumph."

At the close of the service permission was given for any one who was

desirous of so doing to look upon the "corpse," and with many others I

drew nigh the coffin. I had been told that the habitual expression of

her countenance was one of pain, and I was surprised by the calm and

peaceful expression which rested upon the face of the dead. There was no

sign of past suffering visible; and the idea of perfect rest was

conveyed to my mind, as I gazed upon her now lifeless features. When the

strangers had all retired, the relatives and near friends drew nigh to

take their last sad look of the aged one who in life had been so dear to

them. It seemed that her age and utter helplessness had all the more

endeared her to her children and other friends; and many of them wept

audibly as they retired from the coffin. As the coffin was borne from

the church, the choir sung in subdued tones, accompanied by the solemn

notes of the organ, the beautiful hymn commencing with the lines,

"Thou art gone to the grave but we will not deplore thee,

Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb;

The Saviour hath passed through its portals before thee,

And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom."

When the long procession reached the church yard, the coffin was

lowered to its final resting place, and the Burial Service was read by

their pastor, and most of the company departed to their homes. I know

not how it was, but, although a stranger to the deceased, I was among

the few who lingered till the grave was filled up. That funeral

impressed me deeply; and has often since recurred to my mind, amid the

cares and turmoil of after life.

THE RAINY AFTERNOON.