with all. He was famous for relating funny stories, of which he had a
never-failing supply; and when the day was too stormy to allow of
out-of-door sports, during the noon hour, we used to gather around the
large stove which stood in the centre of the room and coax H. M. to tell
us stories. The story which recurred to my mind was of a poor Irishman,
who, in describing a visit which he paid to the home of his childhood
after a long absence, said: "At the sober hour of twilight, I entered
the lonely and desarted home uv me forefathers, an' as I gazed about the
silent walls, I said, 'me fathers, where are they?' an' did not echo
answer, 'Is that you Pathrick O'Flannigan, sure?'"
I was in no mood for laughter, and yet I could not repress a smile, as
memory recalled the comical voice and inimitable gestures with which
young H. M. related the story. He was beloved by us all, and when he
left school we parted from him with real sorrow. As I walked around, and
looked upon the worn and defaced desks, I observed the initials of many
once familiar names which many years before had been formed with a
knife, which were not so much obliterated but I could easily decipher
the well known letters. That desk in the corner was occupied by two
brothers who when they grew up removed to one of the Eastern States,
where they enlisted as soldiers in the war between the North and South.
One of the brothers received his death-wound on the battlefield. In a
foreign hospital he lingered in much suffering for a brief period, when
he died and was buried, far from his home and kindred. The younger
brother was naturally of a tender constitution and was unable to endure
the hardships and privations of a soldier's life. His health failed him,
and he returned to his friends, who had left their Canadian home, and
removed to the State of Massachusetts; but all that the most skilful
physicians could do, aided by the most watchful care of his tender
mother, failed to check the ravages of disease. Consumption had marked
him for its prey, and he died a few months after leaving the army; and,
as his friends wept over his grave, they could see with their mind's eye
another nameless grave in a far-away Southern State, where slept the
other son and brother. The desk on my left hand was occupied by a youth,
who has been for many years toiling for gold in California; and I have
learned that he has grown very rich. I often wonder if, in his eager
pursuit after riches, in that far-off clime, he ever thinks of the
little brown school-house by the butternut trees, and of the smiling
eager group who used daily to meet there. One large family of brothers
and sisters, who attended this school for several years, afterward
removed with their parents to one of the Western States, and years have
passed away since I heard of them; but along with many others they were
recalled to mind by my visit to the old School-House.
On the opposite side of the room is the range of desks which were
occupied by the girls, and I could almost fancy that I again saw the
same lively, restless group who filled those desks in the days of
long-ago. Again I saw the bright smile which was often hidden from the
searching eye of our teacher, behind the covers of the well-worn
spelling-book, again I saw the mischievous glances, and heard the
smothered laughter when the attention of the teacher was required in
some other part of the room. But these happy careless days of childhood
are gone never to return. Were I inclined, I could trace the
after-history of most of the companions whom I used daily to meet in
this school-room. With many of them "life's history" is done, and they
sleep peacefully in the grave. Others have gone forth to the duties of
life; some far distant, others near their paternal homes. Many of the
number have been successful in life, and prospered in their
undertakings, while others have met with disappointment and misfortune.
It seemed somewhat singular to me that, as I stood alone in that room
(after the lapse of so many years), I could recollect, by the name, each
companion I used to meet there; yet so it was, and it seemed but as
yesterday since we used daily to assemble there; and, when I reflected
for a moment on the many changes to which I have been subjected since
that period, I could hardly realize that I was one and the same. I
lingered long at the old School-House, for I expected never to behold it
again, having been informed that it was shortly to give place to a
building of a larger size, and of more modern structure.
ARTHUR SINCLAIR.
For several hours we had endured the jolting of the lumbering
stage-coach over a rough hilly road which led through a portion of the
State of New Hampshire; and, as the darkness of night gathered around
us, I, as well as my fellow-travellers, began to manifest impatience to
arrive at our stopping-place for the night; and we felt strongly
inclined to find fault with the slow motion of the tired horses, which
drew the heavily-loaded vehicle. Thinking it as well to know the worst
at once, I asked the driver "what time we might expect to reach our
destination for the night?" "It will be midnight at the least, perhaps
later," replied he. This news was not very cheering to the weary
travellers who filled the coach; and I almost regretted having asked the
question. The roughness of the roads, together with the crowded state of
the vehicle, made it impossible for any one to sleep, and it became an
important question how we should pass away the tedious hours. A
proposition was at length made, that some one of the passengers should
relate a story for the entertainment of the others. This proposal met
with the hearty approval of all, as a means of making our toilsome
journey seem shorter; and the question of who should relate the story
was very soon agitated. There was among the passengers one old gentleman
of a very pleasant and venerable appearance, and judging from his
countenance that he possessed intelligence, as well as experience, we
respectfully invited him to relate a story for our entertainment. "I am
not at all skilled in story-telling," replied the old gentleman, "but,
as a means of passing away the tedious hours of the uncomfortable ride,
I will relate some circumstances which took place many years since, and
which also have connection with my present journey, although the
narrative may not possess much interest for uninterested strangers." We
all placed ourselves in a listening attitude, and the old man began as
follows: "I was born in the town of Littleton in this State, and when a
boy, I had one school-mate, whom I could have loved no better had he
been a brother. His name was Arthur Sinclair. And the affectionate
intimacy which existed between us for many years is yet to me a green
spot in the waste of memory. I was about twelve years of age when
Arthur's parents came to reside in Littleton. That now large and
thriving village then contained but a few houses, and when the Sinclairs
became our neighbours, we soon formed a very pleasing acquaintance. I
was an only child, and had never been much given to making companions of
the neighbouring boys of my own age; but from the first I felt strongly
attracted toward Arthur Sinclair. He was two years younger than myself.
At the time when I first met him he was the most perfect specimen of
childish beauty I ever saw, and added to this he possessed a most
winning and affectionate disposition, and in a short time we became
almost inseparable companions. My nature was distant and reserved, but
if once I made a friend, my affection for him was deep and abiding. We
occupied the same desk in the village school, and often conned our daily
lessons from the same book, and out of school hours, shared the same
sports; and I remember once hearing our teacher laughingly remark to my
parents, that he believed, should he find it necessary to correct one of
us, the other would beg to share the punishment. Notwithstanding the
strong friendship between us, our dispositions were very unlike. From a
child I was prone to fits of depression, while Arthur on the other hand
possessed such a never-failing flow of animal spirits, as rendered him
at all times a very agreeable companion; and it may be that the
dissimilarity of our natures attracted us all the more strongly to each
other; be that as it may the same close intimacy subsisted between us
till we reached the years of early manhood. The only fault I could ever
see in Arthur was that of being too easily persuaded by others, without
pausing to think for himself; and being the elder of the two, and of a
reflective cast of mind, as we grew up, I often had misgivings for him
when he should go forth from his home, and mingle with the world at
large. The intimacy between us allowed me to speak freely to him, and I
often reminded him of the necessity of watchfulness and consideration,
when he should go forth alone to make his way in a selfish and unfeeling
world.
"He used to make light of what he termed my "croaking" and say I
need have no fears of him; and I believe he spoke from the sincerity of
his good intentions; he thought all others as sincere and open-hearted
as himself, and happy had it been for him if he had found them so.
Arthur received a very good business education, and, when he reached the
age of twenty-one, obtained the situation of book-keeper in an extensive
mercantile house in the city of Boston. There was a young girl in our
village to whom Arthur had been fondly attached since the days of his
boyhood, and I need scarcely say the attachment was reciprocal, and that
before he left home he placed the engagement ring on her finger, naming
no very distant period when he hoped to replace it by the wedding ring.
Belinda Merril was worthy in every way of his affection, and loved him
with all the sincerity of a pure and guileless heart. I almost wonder
that the shadows which were even then gathering in what to them had ever
been a summer sky, did not cast a chill over her heart. In due time
Arthur went to the city. I could not help my fears, lest his pleasing
manners and love of company should attract to him those who would lead
him into evil; but I strove to banish them, and hope for the best. Our
pastor, an old man, who had known Arthur from his childhood, called upon
him, previous to his departure from home, and, without wearying him with
a long list of rules and regulations regarding his future conduct, spoke
to him as friend speaks to friend, and in a judicious manner
administered some very good advice to the youth who was almost as dear
to him as his own son. The young man listened attentively to the words
of his faithful friend and sincerely thanked him for the advice which he
well knew was prompted by affection. During the first year of his
residence in the city, we wrote very frequently to each other, and the
tone of his letters indicated the same pure principles which had ever
governed his actions. Time passed on, and by-and-bye, I could not fail
to notice the change in the style of his letters. He spoke much of the
many agreeable acquaintances he had formed, and of the amusements of the
city, and was warm in his commendations of the Theatre. My heart often
misgave me as I perused his letters, and I mentally wondered where all
this was to end? After a two-years' absence, he returned to spend a few
weeks at home in Littleton, but he seemed so unlike my former friend,
that I could hardly feel at ease in his society. He never once alluded
to any incidents of our school days, as he used formerly so frequently
to do, and objects of former interest possessed none for him now. He
called Littleton a "terribly stupid place," and seemed anxiously to look
forward to his return to Boston. "Surely," said I to him one evening as
we were engaged in conversation, "Littleton must still contain one
attraction for you yet." He appeared not to comprehend my meaning, but I
well knew his ignorance was only feigned. But when he saw that I was not
to be put off in that way, he said with a tone of assumed indifference,
"O! if it is Belinda Merril you are talking about, I have to say that
she is no longer an object of interest to me." "Is it possible, Arthur,"
said I, "that you mean what you say; surely an absence of two years has
not caused you to forget the love you have borne Miss Merril from
childhood. I am very much surprised to hear you speak in this manner." A
flush of anger, at my plain reply, rose to his cheek, and he answered in
a tone of displeasure: "I may as well tell you first as last, my ideas
have undergone a change. I did once think I loved Belinda Merril, but
that was before I had seen the world, and now the idea to me is absurd
of introducing this awkward country girl as my wife among my
acquaintances in the city of Boston. I once had a sort of liking for the
girl, but I care no longer for her, and the sooner I break with her the
better, and I guess she won't break her heart about me." "I hope not
indeed," I replied, "but I must be allowed to say that I consider your
conduct unmanly and dishonourable, and I would advise you, before
proceeding further, to pause and reflect whether it is really your heart
which dictates your actions, or only a foolish fancy." Knowing how
deeply Miss Merril was attached to Arthur, I hoped he would reconsider
the matter, and I said as much to him; but all I could say was of no
avail, and that very evening he called and, requesting an interview with
his betrothed, informed her that, as his sentiments toward her had
changed, he presumed she would be willing to release him from their
former engagement. Instantly Miss Merril drew from her finger the ring
he had placed there two years before, and said, as she placed it in his
hand, "I have long been sensible of the change in your sentiments, and
am truly glad that you have at last spoken plainly. From this hour you
may consider yourself entirely free, and you have my best wishes for
your future happiness and prosperity," and, bidding him a kind
good-evening, the young lady left the apartment. Her spirit was deeply
wounded, but she possessed too much good sense to be utterly cast down
for the wrong-doing of another. Whatever were Arthur's feelings after he
had taken this step, he spoke of them to no one. I never again mentioned
the subject to him, but, knowing him as I did, I could see that he was
far from being satisfied with his own conduct, and he departed for the
city some weeks sooner than he had at first intended. Owing to the
friendly feeling I had ever cherished for him, I could not help a
feeling of anxiety after his departure, for I feared that all was not
right with him. He did not entirely cease from writing to me; but his
letters were not frequent, and they were very brief and formal--very
unlike the former brotherly communications which used to pass between
us. A year passed away. I obtained a situation nearly a hundred miles
from home. I had heard nothing from Arthur for a long time, and, amid my
own cares, he recurred to my mind with less frequency than formerly; yet
often after the business of the day was over, and my mind was at
leisure, memory would recall Arthur Sinclair to my mind with a pained
sort of interest. About six months after I left home I was surprised by
receiving from Mr. Sinclair a hastily written letter, requesting me, if
possible, to lose no time in hastening to Littleton, stating also that
he was obliged to take a journey to Boston on business which vitally
concerned Arthur, and he wished me to accompany him. He closed by
requesting me to mention the letter I had received from him to no one,
saying that he knew me and my regard for Arthur sufficiently well to
trust me in the matter. My fears were instantly alive for Arthur, and I
feared that some misfortune to him was hidden behind this veil of
secrecy: and I soon found that my fears were well founded. I set out at
once for Littleton, and upon arriving there I proceeded directly to the
residence of Mr. Sinclair. When he met me at the door I was struck by
the change in his countenance; he appeared as if ten years had been
added to his age since I last saw him, six months ago. He waited not for
me to make any inquiries, but, motioning me into a private apartment, he
closed the door, and seating himself by my side, said in a hoarse voice:
"I may as well tell you the worst at once: my son, and also your once
dear friend, Arthur, is a thief, and, but for the lenity and
consideration of his employer, before this time would have been lodged
within the walls of a prison." I made no reply, but gazed upon him in
silent astonishment and horror. When he became more composed, he
informed me that he had lately received a letter from Mr. Worthing
(Arthur's employer) informing him that he had detected Arthur in the
crime of stealing money from the safe, to quite a large amount. In
giving the particulars of the unfortunate circumstance, he further
stated, for some time past he had missed different sums of money, but
was unable to attach suspicion to any one; "and, although," said he, "I
have been for some time fearful that your son was associating with evil
companions, I never once dreamed that he would be guilty of the crime of
stealing, till I lately missed bank-notes from the safe, to quite a
large amount, having upon them some peculiar marks which rendered them
easy to be identified. For some time the disappearance of those notes
was a mystery, and I was beginning to despair of detecting the guilty
one, when I obtained proof positive that your unfortunate son parted
with those identical notes in a noted gambling saloon in the city; and,
as I have also learned that he has spent money freely of late, I have no
longer any doubt that it is he who has stolen the other sums I have
lost. Out of regard to you and your family I have kept the matter
perfectly quiet; indeed, I never informed the parties who told me his
losing the notes at the gaming-table that there was anything wrong about
it. I have not mentioned the matter to your son, and shall not do so
till I see or hear from you. I presume you will be willing to make good
to me the money I have lost. Of course I cannot much longer retain your
son in my employ, but he must not be utterly ruined by this affair being
made public. I would advise you to come at once to Boston, and we will
arrange matters in the best possible manner, and no one but ourselves
need know anything of the sad affair; let him return with you for a time
to his home, and I trust the lesson will not be lost upon him. When he
first came to the city, I am positive that he was an honourable and
pure-minded young man, but evil companions have led him astray, and we
must try and save him from ruin."
I had never seen Mr. Worthing, but I at once felt much respect for
him, for the lenity and discretion he had shown in the matter. To no one
but his own family and myself did Mr. Sinclair reveal the contents of
that letter; but the very evening after my arrival in Littleton we set
out on our journey to Boston, and, upon arriving there, we proceeded at
once to the residence of Mr. Worthing, where we learned all the
particulars of Arthur's guilt. Mr. Worthing stated that he had ever
entertained a very high opinion of Arthur, and, when he missed various
sums of money in a most unaccountable manner, he never thought of fixing
suspicion upon him, till circumstances came to his knowledge which left
no room for doubt; but, owing to the high regard he entertained for his
parents, with whom he had (years since) been intimately acquainted, he
said nothing to the young man of the proofs of his dishonesty which had
come to his knowledge, and still retained him in his employ till he
could communicate with his father, that they together might devise some
means of preventing the affair from becoming public. After Mr. Sinclair
had listened to the plain statement of the affair by Mr. Worthing, he
requested him as nearly as possible to give him an estimate of the
amount of money he had lost. He did so, and Mr. Sinclair immediately
placed an equivalent sum in his hands, saying: "I am glad to be able so
far to undo the wrong of which my son has been guilty." All this time
Arthur knew nothing of our arrival in the city; but when his father
dispatched a message, requesting him to meet him at the house of his
employer, he was very soon in our presence. I hope I may never again
witness another meeting like that one, between the father and son. When
charged with the crime, Arthur at first made a feeble attempt at denial,
till finding the strong proofs against him, he owned all with shame and
humiliation of countenance. The stern grief of Mr. Sinclair was
something fearful to witness. "How could you" said he, addressing
Arthur, "commit so base a deed? Tell me, my son, in what duty I have
failed in your early training? I endeavored to instil into your mind
principles of honor and integrity, and to enforce the same by setting
before you a good example. If I have failed in any duty to you, it was
through ignorance, and may God forgive me if I have been guilty of any
neglect in your education."
Trembling with suppressed emotion Arthur replied: "You are blameless,
my father; on me alone must rest my sin, for had I obeyed your kind
counsels, and those of my dearest friend, (pointing to me) I should
never have been the guilty wretch I am to-day." Turning to me, he said:
"Many a time within the last few months have I called to mind the
lightness with which I laughed away your fears for my safety, when I
left home for the city. O! that I had listened to your friendly warning,
and followed the path which you pointed out for me. When I first came to
the great city, I was charmed with the novelty of its never-ceasing
scenes of amusement and pleasure. I began by mingling with company, and
participating in amusements, which, to say the least of them, were
questionable; and I soon found my salary inadequate to meet my fast
increasing wants for money; and, as many an unfortunate youth has done
before, I began the vice of gambling with the hope of being one of the
lucky ones. My tempters, no doubt, understood their business, and at
first allowed me to win from them considerable sums of money; till,
elated with my success, I began playing for higher stakes, and when I
lost them, I grew desperate, and it was then that I began adding the sin
of theft to the no less heinous one of gambling. But it is no use now to
talk of the past; my character is blasted, and all I wish is to die and
hide my guild in the grave, and yet I am ill-prepared to die." He became
so much excited, that we endeavored to soothe him by kind and
encouraging words. His father bade him amend his conduct for the future,
and he would freely forgive and forget the past. In my piety for my
early friend, I almost forgot the wrong he had done, and thought only of
the loved companion of my boyhood and youth. I cannot describe my
feelings, as I gazed upon the shame-stricken young man, whom I had so
often caressed in the days of our boyish affection and confidence.
Little did I then think I should ever behold him thus. The utmost
secrecy was observed by all parties; and it was decided that we would
remain for the night with Mr. Worthing, and, accompanied by Arthur, set
out early the next morning on our homeward journey. But it was ordered
otherwise. The next morning Arthur was raving in delirium of brain
fever, brought, on doubtless, by the mental torture he had endured. Mr.
Sinclair dispatched a message, informing his wife of Arthur's illness,
and three days later she stood by the bed-side of her son. For several
days the fever raged. We allowed no stranger to watch by him, for in his
delirium his mind dwelt continually upon the past, and no one but
ourselves must listen to his words. Mr. Worthing was very kind, and
shared the care of the poor young man with his parents and myself. At
length came the crisis of his disorder. "Now," said the physician, "for
a few hours, his life will hang, as it were, upon a thread. If the
powers of life of are not too far exhausted by the disease he may rally
but I have many fears, for he is brought very low. All the encouragement
I dare offer that is, while there is life there is hope."
He sunk into a deep slumber, and I took my place to watch by him
during the night. Mr. Worthing persuaded his parents to seek a few hours
rest, as they were worn out with fatigue and anxiety; and exacting from
me a promise that I would summon them if the least change for the worse
should take place, they retired, and I was left to watch alone by my
friend. All I could do was to watch and wait, as the hours passed
wearily on. A little before midnight the physician softly entered, and
stood with me at his bed-side; soon after he languidly opened his eyes,
and in a whisper he pronounced my name. As I leaned over him, and
eagerly scanned his countenance, I perceived that the delirium of fever
was gone. The physician, fearing the effect upon him of the least
excitement, made a motion to me enjoining silence, and mixing a quieting
cordial, held to his lips. He eagerly quaffed the cooling draught, and
again fell into a quiet slumber. "Now," said the physician, "I have a
faint hope that he may recover, but he is so weak that any excitement
would prove fatal; all depends upon keeping him perfectly quiet for the
next few hours." The doctor departed, and again I was left alone to
watch over his slumber. Before morning, anxiety brought Mr. and Mrs.
Sinclair to the room, to learn if there had been any change. In a
whisper I informed them of the favorable symptoms he had evinced upon
waking, and persuaded them to retire from the apartment. When Arthur
again awoke, the favorable symptoms still continued, and the physician
entertained strong hopes of his recovery. By degrees he was allowed to
converse for a few moments at a time. It seemed to him, he said, as
though he had awakened from a frightful dream; and he begged to know how
long he had been ill, and what had happened during the time. We were all
very cautious to say nothing to excite him; and by degrees as his mind
grew stronger, everything came back clearly to his mind, his father's
visit, and the circumstances which had brought him to the city. It is
needless for me to dwell upon the long period, while he lay helpless as
an infant, watched over by his fond mother, who felt that he had almost
been given back from the dead. But he continued slowly to recover, and
being unable to remain longer, I left his parents with him, and returned
to my home in Littleton, and soon after went back to my employer. Mr.
and Mrs. Sinclair remained with Arthur till he was able to bear the
journey to Littleton, and it was to them a happy day, when they arrived
safely at their home, accompanied by their son, who seemed to them
almost as one restored from the dead. The unfortunate circumstances
connected with Arthur's illness were a secret locked up in the bosoms of
the few faithful friends to whom it was known. Arthur arose from that
bed of sickness a changed man, and it was ever after to him a matter of
wonder how he could have been so far led astray, and he felt the most
unbounded gratitude to Mr. Worthing for the kindness and consideration
he had shown him. His father did quite an extensive business as a
merchant in Littleton, and as Arthur became stronger he assisted in the
store; and after a time his father gave him a partnership in the
business, which rendered his again leaving home unnecessary. A
correspondence, varied occasionally by friendly visits, was kept up
between the Sinclairs and the family of Mr. Worthing; for Arthur never
could forget the debt of gratitude he owed his former employer. I have
little more to tell, and I will bring my long and, I fear somewhat
tedious, story to a close, by relating one more event in the life of my
friend. I resided at a quite a long distance from Littleton, and some
two years after Arthur's return home, I was surprised by receiving an
invitation from him to act as groomsman at his wedding, and the bride
was to be Miss Merrill. I know not exactly how the reconciliation took
place. But I understood that Arthur first sought an interview with the
young lady, and humbly acknowledged the wrong of which he had been
guilty, saying, what was indeed true, that he had ever loved her, and he
knew not what infatuation influenced him in his former conduct. Many
censured Miss Merrill for her want of spirit, as they termed it, in
again receiving his addresses, but I was too well pleased by his happy
termination of the affair to censure any one connected with it. The
wedding day was a happy one to those most deeply concerned, and such
being the case, the opinion of others was of little consequence; and the
clouds which had for a time darkened their sky, left no shadow upon the
sunshine of their wedded life. Arthur and his father were prospered in
their business, and for many years they all lived happily together. In
process of time his parents died, and Arthur soon after sold out his
share in the business to a younger brother, as he had received a
tempting offer to remove to Boston, and enter into partnership with Mr.
Worthing's son, as the old gentleman had some time before resigned any
active share in the business. When Arthur learned their wishes he was
very anxious to return to them; "For," said he, "it is to Mr. Worthing I
owe my salvation from disgrace and ruin." For many years he has carried
on a lucrative business with the son of his former employer and friend.
An interesting family of sons and daughters have grown up around him,
and I may with truth call them a happy family. Old Mr. Worthing has been
for some years dead; and his earthly remains quietly repose amid the
peaceful shades of Mount Auburn. My own life has been a busy one, and
twenty years have passed away since I met with Arthur Sinclair; but the
object of this journey is to visit my early friend, who, as well as
myself, is now an old man." As the old gentleman finished the story, to
which we had all listened with much interest, we arrived at our stopping
place for the night, and, fatigued with the day's journey, we were soon
conducted to our several apartments. The next morning we parted with the
kind old man, as his onward route lay in another direction, but I could
not help following him in thought, and picturing the joyous meeting
between himself and his early friend, Arthur Sinclair.
THE SNOW STORM.
The event I am about to relate happened many years ago, but I have often
heard it mentioned by those to whom all the circumstances were well
known; and, when listening to this story, I have often thought that
there is enough of interest attached to many events which took place
during the period of the early settlement of that portion of Eastern
Canada which borders on the River St. Francis, to fill volumes, were
they recorded.
The morning had been clear and pleasant, but early in the afternoon
the sky became overcast with dark clouds, and for several hours the snow
fell unceasingly, and now the darkness of night was added to the gloomy
scene. As the night set in, the snow continued to fall in a thick
shower, and a strong easterly wind arose, which filled the air with one
blinding cloud of drifting snow; and the lights in the scattered
habitations in the then primitive settlement of D. could scarcely be
distinguished amid the thick darkness. It was a fearful night to be
abroad upon that lonely and almost impassable road; and Mrs. W. fully
realized the peril to which her husband was exposed on that inclement
night. He had set out that morning, on foot, to visit a friend, who
resided at a distance of several miles, intending to return to his home
at an early hour in the evening. It was a lonely road over which he had
to pass; the habitations were few and far between, and, as the storm
increased with the approach of night, Mrs. W. strongly hoped that her
husband had been persuaded to pass the night with his friend; for she
feared that, had he been overtaken by the darkness of night, he would
perish in the storm; and the poor woman was in a state of painful
anxiety and suspense. The supper-table was spread, but Mrs. W. was unable
to taste food; and, giving the children their suppers, she awaited with
intense anxiety the return of her husband. The storm increased till it
was evident that it was one of unusual severity, even for the rigorous
climate of Canada, and, as the wind shook the windows of their dwelling,
the children often exclaimed in tones of terror: "O! what will become of
poor father if he is out in this storm." Bye-and-bye the tired children
fell asleep, and Mrs. W. was left alone by her fireside. She endeavoured
to quiet her fears by thinking him safe in the house of his friend, but
she could not drive away the thought that he had set out upon his return
home, and she feared, if such was the case, he had met his death in that
pitiless storm. She was two miles from any neighbour, surrounded by her
family of young children; so all she could do was to wait and watch as
the hours wore on. Sleep was out of the question, and the dawn of day
found her still keeping her lonely vigil. As the sun rose the wind
calmed, but the thick drifts of snow rendered it impossible for her to
leave the house, and she watched anxiously if any one might chance to
pass, to whom she could apply for assistance in gaining tidings of her
husband. Alas! her fears of the previous night were but too well
founded. He had perished in the storm. His friend tried his utmost to
persuade him to remain for the night when the storm began, but he was
anxious to return to his home, fearing the anxiety of his family: and he
left his friend's house about four o'clock in the afternoon. The weather
was intensely cold, as well as stormy, and, owing to the depth of snow
which had already fallen, he could make but slow progress, and, when
overtaken by darkness and the increasing tempest, benumbed with cold,
and blinded by the whirling drifts of snow, he sank down by the roadside
to die, and the suspense of his wife was at length relieved by the
painful certainty of his fate.
About noon on the day succeeding the storm, as Dr. S. was slowly
urging his horse onward, in order to visit a patient who resided in the
vicinity, he observed some object lying almost concealed in the snow.
Stopping his horse, he left his sleigh to examine it, and was
horror-struck to find it the body of a man. Thinking that, possibly,
life was not extinct, he took the body into his sleigh and made all
possible haste to the nearest dwelling, where every means was used for
the recovery of Mr. W.; but all was of no avail, he was frozen to death.
It was the kind physician himself who first bore the sad tidings to Mrs.
W. When the lifeless body of the husband and father was borne to his own
dwelling, I have heard the scene described by those who witnessed it, as
most heart-rending. On the day of his burial the settlers in the
vicinity came from a long distance to pay their last tribute of respect
to one who had been much esteemed as a friend and neighbour. The widow
of Mr. W. is still living, but she now is of a very advanced age. His
children grew up and settled in various places, and the elder ones among
them retained a distinct recollection of the sad death of their father.
THE NEW YEAR.
Another year has just glided away, and it seems but as yesterday that we
stood at its threshold, and looked forward over its then seemingly
lengthened way, and fancy was busy with many plans and projects for
future happiness and delight. We looked forward through the whole border
of its months, weeks, days and hours, and life grew bright with pleased
anticipations. The year has now passed away, and how few, very few, of
all our bright hopes have been realized. With how many of us have
unexpected and unwished for events taken the place of those to which we
looked forward with so much delight.
As the hours and moments of the past year have slowly glided into
the ocean of the past, they have borne with them the treasures of many a
fond heart. The sun shines as brightly as ever, the moon and stars still
look placidly down upon the sleeping earth, and life is the same as it
has ever been; but for these their work is over, and they have done with
time. As I sat watching the fast gathering shadows over the last night
of the old year, I fell into a sort of waking dream, and I seemed to
hear the slow measured tread of one wearily approaching. Turning my eyes
in the direction of the approaching footsteps, I beheld the form of a
very aged man; his countenance appeared somewhat familiar, yet it was
furrowed by many wrinkles, and on his once high and beautiful forehead
were the deep lines of corroding care and anxiety. His step was slow,
and he leaned for support on his now well-nigh failing staff. He bore
the marks of extreme feebleness, and gazed forward with a manner of
timidity and uncertainty, and on his changeful countenance was expressed
all the multitudinous emotions of the human breast. His garments had
once been white and shining, but they were now stained and darkened by
travel, and portions of them trailed in the dust. As he drew nigh I
observed that he carried in his hand a closely written scroll, on which
was recorded the events of the past year. As I gazed upon the record, I
read of life begun, and of death in every circumstance and condition of
mortal being, of happiness and misery, of love and hate, of good and
evil,--all mingling their different results in that graphic record; and
I trembled as my own name met my view, with the long list of
opportunities for good unimproved, together with the many sins, both of
omission and commission, of which I had been guilty during the past
year; but there was nothing left out,--the events in the life of every
individual member of the human family were there, all recorded in
legible characters. As the midnight hour struck the aged man, who
typified the old year, faded from my view, and, almost before I was
aware of the change, youth and beauty stood smiling before me. The old
year gone, the new year had begun. His robes were white and glistening,
his voice was mirthful, and his step buoyant; health and vigor braced
his limbs. He, too, bore in his hand a scroll, but white as the
unsullied snow; not a line was yet traced upon its pure surface, except
the title, Record of 1872. I gazed on its fresh and gladsome visage with
mingled emotions of sorrow and joy, and I breathed my prayer for
forgiveness, for the follies and sins of the departed year.
EARNEST HARWOOD;
OR,
THE ADOPTED SON.
CHAPTER I.
It was on a pleasant afternoon, in the month of June, some years ago,
that a small funeral procession might have been seen slowly wending its
way to the church-yard from the dwelling of Mr. Humphrey, in the village
of Walden in one of the Eastern States. Although a deep seriousness
pervaded the small company, and the manner of each was subdued, yet
there were no visible tokens of that strong grief which overwhelms the
soul when the ties of nature are rent asunder; for, with the exception
of a little boy, apparently about five years of age, whom Mr. Humphrey
kindly led by the hand, no one present bore any relationship to the
deceased. As the procession approached the grave, and the coffin was
lowered to its final resting-place, the little boy sobbed bitterly as he
begged of Mr. Humphrey not to allow them to bury his mamma in the
ground. Mr. Humphrey took the child in his arms, and endeavored to quiet
him by many kind and soothing words, explaining to him, so far as the
child was able to comprehend his meaning, that the soul of his mamma was
now in Heaven, but that it was necessary that her dead body should be
buried in the grave; and that although he would see her no more in this
world he would, if he were a good boy, meet her one day in Heaven. The
child still continued to weep, though less bitterly than before,--and
when the grave had been filled up he quietly allowed Mr. Humphrey to
lead him from the church-yard.
In order that the reader may understand the event above narrated, it is
necessary that I should go back a little in my story.
A few weeks previous to the circumstance related at the opening of this
chapter a pale weary-looking woman, leading by the hand a little boy,
might have been seen walking one evening along the principal street of
the small village of Walden. Although her dress was extremely plain, yet
there was a certain air of refinement about her which informed the
observer that she had once occupied a position very different from what
was indicated by her present appearance. The little boy by her side was
indeed a child of surpassing beauty. His complexion was clear and fair,
and a profusion of dark brown hair clustered in thick curls around his
full white brow. His childish features were lighted up by large and
expressive eyes of a dark hazel color. He was a child which the most
careless observer would hardly pass by without turning to gaze a second
time upon his wondrous beauty.
I have been thus particular in describing the little boy as he is to be
the principal actor in the simple scenes of my story.
As they walked slowly forward the woman addressed the child in a voice
that was weak and tremulous from fatigue, saying,--
"We must call at some house and seek a shelter for the night, for indeed
I am unable to walk further."
It required not this remark from her to satisfy the beholder of her
inability to proceed, for extreme fatigue and exhaustion were visible in
her every motion.
She approached the door of a handsome dwelling situated in the central
portion of the village, and rang the bell. The door was opened by an
elderly-looking man, who accosted her civilly and seemed waiting for her
to make known her errand.
In a low and timid voice the woman asked him if he would allow herself
and child to rest for the night beneath his roof?
He replied, in a voice that was decidedly gruff and crusty,--
"There are two hotels in the village; we keep no travellers here," and
immediately closed the door in her face.
Could he have seen the forlorn expression that settled on her
countenance when, on regaining the street, she took her little boy by
the hand and again walked slowly onward--his heart must indeed have been
hard if he had not repented of his unkindness.
After walking a short distance further, the woman paused before a house
of much humbler appearance than the former one, and, encouraged by the
motherly appearance of an elderly lady who sat knitting at her open door
in the lingering twilight, she drew nigh to her, and asked if she would
shelter herself and child for the night.
The old lady regarded her earnestly for a moment; she seemed, however,
to be impressed favorably by her appearance, for her voice was very
pleasant, as she replied to her request,--
"Certainly you can remain for the night, for I have never yet denied so
small a favor (as a shelter for the night) to any one who sought it.
Come in at once, and I will endeavor to make you and your little boy
comfortable, for you look very much fatigued."
The woman gladly followed the kind old lady into the house, and seated
herself in the comfortable rocking chair which she had kindly placed for
her; she also placed a seat for the child, but he refused to leave his
mother's side, and stood leaning upon the arm of her chair. The old lady
soon after left the room saying, as she did so, that she would soon
bring them some refreshment, of which they evidently stood much in need.
Mr. Humphrey, the husband of the old lady, soon came in, and his wife
said a few words to him in a low voice in the adjoining room; a kind
expression was upon his countenance when he entered the room where were
the strangers. He coaxed the little boy to come and sit upon his knee,
by the offer of a large red-cheeked apple which he took from his pocket.
He stroked his brown curls and asked him to tell him his name.
"Ernest Harwood," replied the boy.
Mr. Humphrey told him he thought it a very nice name, and also that he
thought him a very fine little boy. The little fellow blushed, and hid
his face at the praise thus bestowed upon him.
Mrs. Humphrey soon after re-entered the room, bringing a small tea-tray,
on which was a cup of tea and some other suitable refreshment for the
weary woman; she also brought a bowl of bread and milk for the child.
The woman drank the tea eagerly, like one athirst, but partook sparingly
of the more substantial refreshment which Mrs. Humphrey urged upon her;
but the sight of the brim-full bowl of bread and milk caused the eyes of
the little boy to glisten with pleasure, and he did ample justice to the
hospitality of the benevolent old lady.
Mrs. Harwood wished to give Mrs. Humphrey some account of the
circumstances which caused her to be travelling alone with her child,
but the worthy and considerate lady would not allow her to further
fatigue herself by talking that night, and insisted upon her retiring at
once to rest.
"To-morrow," said she, "I shall be happy to listen to any thing you may
wish to communicate."
Mrs. Humphrey conducted the woman and her child up stairs to a neat
bed-room where, after making every arrangement necessary to their
comfort, she bade them a kind good night, and left them to enjoy the
rest which they so much needed.
CHAPTER II.
When Mrs. Humphrey rejoined her husband in the sitting-room, their
conversation very naturally turned to the stranger who was resting
beneath their roof. They evidently felt deeply interested by her
delicate and lady-like appearance.
"I am sure of one thing," said Mrs. Humphrey, "that this woman has seen
better days, notwithstanding the poverty which her present appearance
indicates."
"And I am convinced of another thing," replied Mr. Humphrey, "that no
fault of her's has reduced her to her present circumstances, for her
countenance shews her to be a worthy and true-souled woman; and she
shall freely remain beneath my roof until it shall be her wish to leave
it."
Little did Mr. Humphrey think, when he made this remark, how soon the
poor woman would exchange the shelter of his roof for that of the grave.
Next morning on visiting the room of the stranger, Mrs. Humphrey found
her too ill to rise from the bed. She complained of no pain, but seemed
very weak and languid. Mrs. Humphrey did all that lay in her power for
the comfort of the sick woman. Taking little Ernest down stairs she
beguiled him with amusing stories, as she attended to her domestic
duties, so that his mother might be left in quiet; and when the child
grew weary of the confinement of the house Mr. Humphrey took him to walk
with him while he attended to some business in the village. Before
returning home Mr. Humphrey called upon Dr. Merton, with whom he was
intimately acquainted, and spoke to him concerning the sick woman at his
house. He requested the physician to call to see her in the course of
the day, saying, that if the woman was not able to pay him he would
himself see him paid for his services.
"It makes no difference," replied the humane physician, "whether she is
rich or poor, if she requires the attention of a physician she must not
be neglected; I will certainly call in the afternoon."
The physician accordingly called in the afternoon, and, after some
conversation with Mrs. Harwood, prescribed for her some medicines, and
left her, promising to call again in a short time. Before leaving the
house, however, he informed Mrs. Humphrey that he thought the woman
alarmingly ill. "As near," said he, "as I can judge from her appearance,
I think that consumption has been for a long time preying upon her
constitution, and over-fatigue has thus suddenly prostrated her. The
powers of life," continued Dr. Merton, "are fast failing, and in my
opinion a few weeks will terminate her earthly existence. I have
prescribed for her some simple medicines, but I fear her case is already
beyond the aid of medicine. All we can do," said the physician in
conclusion, "is to render her as comfortable as may be, for she will
soon require nothing which this world affords."
The lonely situation of the stranger had deeply touched the kind heart
of Dr. Merton.
As the Doctor had predicted, Mrs. Harwood failed rapidly. She suffered
but little bodily pain, but her strength failed her daily, and it soon
became evident to all who saw her, that the day of her death could not
be far distant.
She gave to Mrs. Humphrey a brief sketch of her past life, which will be
made the subject of another chapter.
Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey had reared a family of five children; three of
them now slept in the village church-yard; the remaining two had
married, and removed to a long distance from their paternal home,
consequently the worthy couple had for some years dwelt alone in the
home where once had echoed the glad voices of their children.
They soon decided that, should Mrs. Harwood not recover, they would
gladly adopt her little boy as their own, if she felt willing to leave
him to their care. So great was the anxiety of Mrs. Harwood regarding
her child, that it was long ere she gave up hopes of recovery, but when
she at length became aware that she must die, she at first found it very
difficult to resign herself to the will of Heaven.
"Were it not for my child," she would often say, "the prospect of death
would not be unpleasant to me, for I have a comforting hope of a life
beyond the grave; but who will care for my orphan boy when I am no more?
I must not distrust the goodness of the orphans' God."
Mr. Humphrey, in reply to these remarks one day, said to her--
"I hope you will make your mind perfectly easy in regard to your child;
for, should it please God to remove you by death, I have already decided
to adopt little Ernest as my own son, if you feel willing to consign him
to my care; and you may rest assured that while my life is spared he
shall be tenderly cared for, as though he were my own son."
"Now," replied Mrs. Harwood, "can I die willingly. Since my illness it
has been my daily and nightly prayer, that should it be the will of
Heaven that I should not recover, God would raise up friends to care for
my orphan boy, and that prayer is now answered."
Just six weeks from the evening on which Mrs. Harwood entered the
dwelling of Mr. Humphrey, her eyes were closed in death. The last day of
her life was passed mostly in a kind of lethargy, from which it was
almost impossible to arouse her. Toward evening she rallied, and her
mind seemed clear and calm. She was aware that the hour of her death had
arrived; but she felt no fears in the prospect of her approaching
dissolution. She thanked Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey for their kindness to
her, and again tenderly committed to their care her boy, who would soon
become an orphan.
"I am powerless to reward you," said the dying woman, "but God will
certainly reward you for your kindness to the widow and orphan."
She requested that her child might be brought and placed by her side.
Placing her thin wasted hands upon his head she said, in a voice
scarcely audible,--
"May the God who never forsakes the orphan preserve my precious boy amid
the perils and dangers of the sinful world!"
She drew the face of the child close to her own, and imprinted a
mother's last kiss upon his brow, and sank back exhausted upon her
pillow. A few more fluttering quick drawn breaths and her spirit had
winged its way from earth, and no one who witnessed her death felt a
doubt that its flight was heavenward.
CHAPTER III.
The following brief account of the early life of Mrs. Harwood I give as
nearly as possible in her own words:--
"My earliest recollection carries me back to a small village in
Scotland, about one hundred miles distant from the city of Edinburgh,
where I was born the daughter of a minister of the Church of Scotland. I
was an only child. The salary which my father received was moderate, but
was nevertheless sufficient to support us respectably. When I became of
suitable age I was sent to school, and continued to pursue my studies
until I arrived at the age of fourteen years. At that period I was
deprived by death of a fond and indulgent father. Previous to the death
of my father neither my mother nor myself had ever experienced an
anxious thought as regarded the future. The salary my father received
had enabled us to live in comfort and respectability; and we do not
often anticipate the death of a strong and healthy man. He died very
suddenly; and when my mother's grief at our sudden bereavement had so
far subsided as to allow her taking some thought for the future, she
found that although my father had died free from debt he had been unable
to lay by anything for our future support. During my father's lifetime
we had occupied the parsonage, rent free, as had been stipulated when my
father became pastor of the church over which he presided till his
death. Consequently we had no longer any rightful claim to the dwelling
which had been our home for so many years. They kindly gave us
permission however, to occupy the house for one year, but my mother
liked not to continue to occupy a home which, in reality, was no longer
ours. After some deliberation upon the subject, my mother decided upon
teaching, as a means of support, as her own education had been
sufficiently thorough to render her competent for the undertaking. But,
as the village where we resided was small and already well supplied with
schools, she wrote to an old friend of my father's, who resided in
Edinburgh, as to what he thought of her removing to that city, for the
purpose of opening a school. She received a very encouraging reply from
the old gentleman, in which he promised to render her all the assistance
in his power in the way of obtaining pupils, and as the gentleman was
well known and much respected in the city, we found his assistance in
this respect to be of much value. The task of breaking up our old home
proved a very sad one both to my mother and myself. The furniture of the
parsonage was our own. My father had left quite an extensive library,
considering his limited means. With the exception of a few volumes which
my mother reserved for ourselves, she disposed of the books among our
acquaintances at a fair value, as each was anxious to obtain some relic
of their beloved pastor. The kind people, among whom we had resided,
expressed many kind wishes for our future welfare, when we left them to
seek a home in the great city. The school which my mother opened upon
our removal to the city proved very successful, and soon yielded us a
comfortable support. I assisted my mother both in the duties of the
school-room and also in our household work. We were prospered and lived
contentedly in our new home. We missed, it is true, the familiar faces
of our old friends, but we soon found friends in our new home; we were
cheerful, and should have been happy but for the sad loss we had
recently sustained. Four years thus glided by, during which time our
school continued to afford us a comfortable support. About this time I
became acquainted with Mr. Harwood, who had a short time before
commenced the practice of law in the city of Edinburgh, and one year
later I became his wife. His pecuniary circumstances were but moderate,
as he had been only a short time engaged in the practice of his
profession. We resided with my mother, as she could not bear the idea of
being separated from me. I continued as usual to assist her in the
duties of her school. We, in this way, lived happily, till the event of
my mother's death, which took place two years after my marriage. She
took a sudden cold, which settled upon her lungs, and terminated in a
quick consumption, which, after a short period of suffering, closed her
life. She died as she had lived, full of religious hope and trust. Of my
own sorrow I will not now speak; the only thought which afforded me the
least consolation was--that what was my loss, was her eternal gain.
About a year after the death of my mother my husband formed the idea of
going to America. He had little difficulty in gaining my consent to
accompany him. Had my mother still lived the case would have been very
different; as it was, I had no remaining tie to bind me to Scotland, and
wherever he deemed it for the best to go, I felt willing to accompany
him, for he was my all in the wide world. We left the British shores on
the tenth of June, and after a prosperous voyage, we found ourselves
safely landed in the city of Boston. We brought with us money sufficient
to secure us from want for a time, and my husband soon began to acquire
quite a lucrative practice in his profession, and our prospects for the
future seemed bright. For a long time my spirits were weighed down by
home-sickness. I felt an intense desire to return to the home we had left
beyond the sea, but in time this feeling wore away, and I began to feel
interested in our new home, which appeared likely to be a permanent one.
When we had resided for a little more than a year in our adopted
country, my little Ernest was born, and the lovely babe, with my
additional cares, doubly reconciled me to my new home. When my little
boy was about a year old I was attacked by a contagious fever, which at
that time prevailed in the city. By this fever I was brought very near
to death. I was delirious most of the time, and was thereby spared the
sorrow of knowing that my child was consigned to the care of strangers.
But the fever at length ran its course, and I began slowly to recover.
But just when I was considered sufficiently strong to be again allowed
the care of my child, my husband was prostrated by the same disease from
which I had just recovered, and in ten days I was left a widow with my
helpless child. I cannot even now dwell upon this season of sorrow. All
my former trials appeared as nothing when compared with this. Had it not
been for my boy I could almost have wished I had not been spared to see
this hour, but I banished such thoughts as wrong and impious, and tried
to look the dreary future calmly in the face. I soon found it necessary
to devise some means of support for myself and child. I thought of many
plans only to discard them as useless. I once thought of opening a
school as my own mother had done, but the care of my child prevented me
from supporting myself in this way; and I would not consign him to the
care of strangers. I at length decided to seek to support myself by the
use of the needle, and accordingly rented two rooms on a respectable
street, and removed thither with my child, where, by the closest
industry I succeeded in keeping above want for more than three years,
when my health failed from too close application to my employment. My
physician strongly advised me to leave the city, as he thought country
air would have a beneficial effect upon my health. I followed his
advice, and, with the small sum of money which I had been able to lay
by, added to what I received from the sale of my few articles of
household furniture, I left the city. When I left Boston I had no
particular place in view as to where I might find a home. I had decided
upon opening a school in some country village if I could meet with
encouragement in the undertaking. About fifty miles distant from this
city I was taken ill, and for several weeks was unable to proceed on my
way. When I was sufficiently recovered to allow of my again travelling I
found it to be imperatively necessary that I should seek some place
where I could earn a support for myself and child, as the small sum of
money with which I left Boston was now nearly gone. The kind gentleman,
in whose house I remained during my illness, informed me that he was
well acquainted in the village of Walden, and he thought it a place
where I would be likely to succeed in establishing a select school for
young children, as he informed me there were many wealthy people
residing here, who would patronize a school of this kind. With this
intention I came to this village, and when I purchased my ticket for
Walden I had but one dollar remaining in my purse, which, with the
clothing and other articles contained in my trunk is all I possess in
the world. But this matters little to me now, for I feel that my days on
earth are numbered. I am unable to reward you for your exceeding
kindness to myself and child; but I pray Heaven to reward and bless you,
both temporally and spiritually. It is hard for me to leave my dear
child, but I now feel resigned to the will of Heaven, knowing that
whatever He wills is for the best."
CHAPTER IV.
And so the little orphan boy found a home and friends to love and
cherish him.
Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey felt a tender love for the lovely and engaging
orphan. Mrs. Humphrey, in particular, seemed almost to idolize him.
She had many years before lost, by death, a little boy, when of about
the same age which little Ernest was when thus strangely cast upon her
bounty; and this circumstance may have attached her more strongly to the
child.
Mr. Humphrey was equally fond of the boy, but his disposition was less
demonstrative than was that of his wife he was, therefore not so much
inclined to indulge, the child in a manner which would prove injurious
to him as he grew older.
Although the child had a very affectionate disposition he yet possessed
a will that liked not to yield to that of another. Young as the child
was, his mother had discovered this trait in his character and had,
previously to her death, spoken of the matter to Mrs. Humphrey, and
besought her--as she valued her own happiness and that of the child--to
exact strict obedience from him when he should be left solely to her
care.
"Even," said she, "should it require severe measures to break that will,
it must be done. Remember it is for the best good of the child."
Had Mrs. Humphrey strictly followed the counsels of the dying mother in
the early training of her child it might have spared her much
after-sorrow.
Mr. Humphrey treated the child very kindly, but made it a point that he
should yield to him a ready obedience in all things. But the little
fellow was quick to notice that when Mr. Humphrey was not present he
could usually, either by dint of coaxing or noisy rebellion, carry his
point with Mrs. Humphrey.
Her husband often remonstrated with her upon the course she was pursuing
in the management of the child. She used often to say--
"I cannot find it in my heart to punish the poor child when I consider
that he is both fatherless and motherless, and I trust he will outgrow
these childish ways."
Poor Mrs. Humphrey! She is not the only one that has been cheated by
this hope, and has thereby allowed their child to grow up with an
obstinate will that has marred their happiness for life.
In after years Mrs. Humphrey many times recalled to mind a remark which
a friend made to her one day in regard to little Ernest, then six years
old. He came into the parlor where the two ladies were sitting, and
taking from the centre table an elegantly bound book, began turning the
leaves with fingers that were none of the cleanest. Mrs. Humphrey gently
requested him to replace the book, which request she was obliged to
repeat two or three times before he paid the slightest attention to it.
And then it was only to say in a coaxing voice--
"Ernest wants this pretty book; do let me keep it."
Mrs. Humphrey replied that the book was not suitable for little boys,
and again requested him to replace it on the table. When a few minutes
had passed, and he still continued to turn the leaves of the book, Mrs.
Humphrey again repeated her request in a decided manner, telling him to
replace the book immediately, when his childish temper burst forth in a
regular tempest. He tossed the book from his hand, and threw himself on
the floor in a corner of the room, where he gave vent to his anger by a
succession of screams, which were anything but melodious. But his desire
to retain possession of the coveted book was yet strong, and when the
ladies again became engaged in conversation he quietly approached the
table and, hastily taking the book therefrom, left the room, and Mrs.
Humphrey, to save further trouble, appeared not to notice the act. The
lady, who was an intimate friend, asked Mrs. Humphrey if she were not
pursuing a wrong course in thus allowing the boy to do what she had once
forbidden him?
"Oh," said Mrs. Humphrey, "he is but a child, and will become ashamed
of such conduct as he grows older."
"I sincerely hope he may," replied the lady, "but I very much fear you
will see a day when you will regret not having been more firm in your
government of this child."
CHAPTER V.
Nine years have rolled by the with their various changes since we first
introduced Earnest Harwood to the reader, a child of five years of age,
weeping at the grave of his mother.
Let us again glance at him when he has nearly attained to the age of
fourteen years. We find him grown a strong healthy youth, still
retaining that wondrous beauty which had rendered him so remarkable in
the days of his childhood.
The reader will doubtless be ready to enquire if his mind and character
are equally lovely with his person. Would that it were in my power to
give a favourable answer to the question. But the truth must be told,
and, at the age of fourteen, Ernest Harwood was decidedly a bad boy.
When of suitable age he had been put to school, and for a time made
rapid progress in his studies. From the first he was rather averse to
study, but as he learned readily and had a most retentive memory he
managed to keep pace in his studies with most boys of his age.
Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey exercised much watchfulness in regard to his
companions, as, when he began to mingle with other boys, they discovered
that he seemed inclined to make companions of such boys as they could
not conscientiously allow him to associate with. But, notwithstanding
their vigilance, it was soon remarked that he was often seen in company
with boys of very bad repute. He soon came to dislike school, and often
absented himself from it for a very trivial excuse, and in many
instances played truant, when Mr. Humphrey refused to listen to his
excuses for being allowed to remain at home.
Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey endeavored to discharge their duty to the boy; and
more than that, they loved him as their own child.
I cannot describe the sorrow they experienced on his account, when, as
he grew older, he seemed more and more inclined to the company of
vicious boys, and to follow their evil examples. Many of his misdoings
never reached the ears of his foster parents, for they were very much
respected by their neighbors, who disliked to acquaint them with what
must give them pain. He soon became so bad that if a piece of mischief
was perpetrated among the village boys, the neighbors used at once to
say they felt sure that Earnest Harwood was at the bottom of it. Often
when among his wicked companions, those lips that had been taught to
lisp the nightly prayer at his mother's knee were stained with oaths and
impure language.
Mr. Humphrey, one day, in passing along the street, chanced to find him
in company with some of the worst boys in the village, smoking cigars at
the street corner. He was hardly able to credit his own eyesight. He
requested him to accompany him home at once. He at the first thought of
administering punishment with the rod, but as he had done so in former
instances of misconduct with apparently no effect but to make him more
defiant and rebellious, he thought in this instance he would try the
effect of mild persuasion.
"My dear boy you little know the pain you are inflicting upon your best
friends by thus seeking the company of those wicked boys who will
certainly lead you to ruin, if you allow yourself to follow their
example."
He talked long to him of his deceased mother, telling him of her many
earnest prayers for the future good of her child.
For some time the boy maintained a sulky, defiant manner, but his heart
at length softened, and, covering his face with his hands, he wept
aloud. He begged of Mr. Humphrey to forgive his past misconduct, and he
certainly would try to reform in the future.
For a time there was a marked change for the better in the conduct of
the boy, and his friends began to indulge the hope that the change would
prove to be lasting. But his resolutions of amendment soon yielded to
the influence of his evil companions, from whom he found it very
difficult to keep aloof. He was of a rash, impulsive disposition, and he
soon forgot his good resolves, and became even worse than before.
Mr. Humphrey still maintained sufficient control over him to oblige him
to attend church regularly, in company with himself and wife, but often,
when they supposed him to be attending the Sabbath-School, would he join
some party of idle, strolling boys, and spend the day in a very sinful
manner. The Superintendent of the school hearing of this, called and
acquainted Mr. Humphrey of the matter.
"I am obliged to you for your kindness in calling upon me," said Mr.
Humphrey, "although I fear I can do nothing that will have any good
effect upon the boy. I have endeavoured to do my duty by the child, I
know not wherein I have failed. I have counselled, persuaded, and even
punished him, and you behold the result. I am at a loss what to do with
him. I have brought up children of my own, who never caused me a real
sorrow in their lives. Why is it, that this poor orphan seems so
strongly resolved to follow only evil ways? Would that some one could
advise me as to what my duty is, in regard to the boy, for, unless a
change for the better soon takes place, he will be ruined for time and
eternity."
Mr. Humphrey sighed deeply as he spoke, and seemed oppressed with
sorrow. The gentleman with whom he was conversing, endeavoured, as well
as he was able under the circumstances, to comfort him; telling him that
they could only give him good counsel, and pray for him, and leave the
result to an over-ruling Providence.
CHAPTER VI.
Previous to her death, the mother of Earnest had entrusted to the care
of Mrs. Humphrey, a closely sealed package directed to Ernest in her own
hand-writing. She had left the request that this package should not be
given to him until he had reached the age of fourteen years. Many
surmises were formed among the few who knew of this package, as to what
it might contain. Some were of the opinion that it contained papers
which might lead to the possession of wealth. But from what Mrs. Harwood
had related to Mrs. Humphrey, concerning her early life, she thought
this idea to be highly improbable.
However, she carefully laid by the package, and was very careful that
it should sustain no injury. In the meantime, the boy had continued to
go on from bad to worse, till he became known as the leader in every
kind of mischief among the bad boys of the village. He now seldom spent
an evening in his own home. In one or two instances he narrowly escaped
being sent to jail. The respect entertained for his foster parents by
the people of the village was all that caused them to show lenity to the
erring boy. The conduct of Earnest had borne heavier upon them than
their years; they had fondly loved the beautiful and friendless boy, and
it almost broke their hearts to see him go thus astray. Many there were
who advised them to cast him off, as he seemed given over to evil, and
even treated them with unkindness and disrespect; but with all his
faults, they still clung to him, hoping almost against hope that he
would yet reform.
"I promised his mother," said Mr. Humphrey, "that I would care for her
boy so long as I lived to do so, and that promise I intend to keep."
"And," added Mrs. Humphrey, "as long as we possess a home, he shall not
be homeless. For if we can do no more we can at least pray for him; and
I have a hope that the prayers offered in faith will yet meet with an
answer."
Time passed on, till the evening preceding the fourteenth birth-day of
Ernest. Mr. Humphrey sat with his wife by their lonely fireside, Ernest
had gone out directly after tea, and the hour was growing late. They
were speaking of him, for they felt very sad.
"I often wonder," said Mr. Humphrey, addressing his wife, "in what duty
I have failed to Ernest. I have endeavored to set before him a good
example, and to do by him in all things as I would have done by my own
son. I have prayed with and for him; and yet since quite a little child,
he has been a source of grief and anxiety to us, by his evil conduct."
"I am conscious," replied Mrs. Humphrey, "that I have erred in his early
training, by too often yielding to his childish will, rather than
administer punishment to enforce obedience from him. I meant well, and
if I have done him a wrong it is now too late to remedy it. I can only
pray that he may yet forsake his evil ways. To-morrow will be his
birth-day, let us hope that the contents of the package which so many
years ago, his poor mother entrusted to my care, may have some influence
for good upon his future life."
While they were yet speaking a rap sounded at the door. Mr. Humphrey
rose and opened it, but stood speechless, when he beheld Ernest
supported by two or three of his companions. At the first he supposed
him either hurt or seriously ill. But upon going near to him what was
his amazement when he discovered that he was too much intoxicated to
allow of his walking without assistance. This was something entirely
unexpected. Some had hinted that, added to his other faults, he was
acquiring a taste for strong drink, but those whispers never reached the
ears of Mr. Humphrey or his wife. And when he was brought home in this
state, they had no words adequate to describe their feelings.
Dismissing his companions they assisted him into the house, and to his
room, Mrs. Humphrey only saying, "poor misguided boy, what will become
of him?"
When they returned to the sitting room their minds were too much
agitated to allow them to converse. After some time passed in silence,
Mr. Humphrey said, "we will not attempt to talk of this new sorrow
to-night, but we will pray for the poor boy as well as for ourselves,
before we retire to rest."
Opening his Bible, Mr. Humphrey read the forty-sixth Psalm, then
kneeling, he poured out his troubled soul in prayer. He prayed earnestly
for the poor youth now lying in the heavy sleep produced by
intoxication. He also prayed for forgiveness, if they erred in the
management of the boy, and for future aid in the performance of their
duty. Could the boy have heard the prayer which Mr. Humphrey sent up to
heaven on his behalf, hard indeed must have been his heart, if he had
not from that moment resolved to forsake his evil ways, and by his
future good conduct endeavoured to atone for his past sins and follies.
CHAPTER VII.
When Earnest came down to breakfast the next morning, neither Mr. or
Mrs. Humphrey made any allusion to the situation in which he had been
brought home the previous evening. They treated him with their usual
kindness, but it was evident, by his subdued manner and downcast
countenance, that he felt sensible of his shame and degradation. They
intended to talk with him of the matter, but deferred it for the
present. Mr. Humphrey advised his wife to give him the package herself,
as it was to her care it had been committed. Soon after breakfast was
over, he went up to his room, whither Mrs. Humphrey soon repaired with
the package in her hand. Earnest opened the door when she rapped for
admission. He looked somewhat embarrassed, and seemed by his manner to
expect she had visited his room for the purpose of talking to him of the
event of the last evening. She made no mention of the circumstance, but
seating herself by his side, addressed him, saying--
"My dear Earnest, you have often told me that you retain a distinct
recollection of your mother. I have never before told you that, previous
to her death, she consigned a sealed package to my care, directed to you
with her own hand, with the request that I should give it to you on your
fourteenth birthday. The time has now arrived, and by giving you this
package I fulfil what was a dying request of your mother." As she
concluded, she placed the package in his hand, and immediately left the
room, thinking he would prefer being left alone to open the package.
When some time had passed, and Earnest did not come down, Mr. Humphrey
went upstairs, and softly opened the door of his room. He found the boy
with his face bowed upon his hands, weeping bitterly. He approached him,
and gently placing his hand upon his shoulder, enquired the cause of his
grief.
He replied, in a voice choked with sobs,--
"Oh! I have been so wicked--so--bad--I know not what will become of me.
It is well that my mother did not live to see how widely I have strayed
from the path in which it was her last hope and prayer that I should
walk."
Mr. Humphrey endeavoured to comfort the poor boy, wisely thinking this
to be no time to reproach him for past errors.
Mrs. Humphrey, thinking that something unusual must have taken place
followed her husband to the room of Earnest.
By the tearful request of Earnest, she examined the package, which had
for so long a time remained in her keeping. First there was a Bible and
Hymn Book, the books were elegantly bound, and had silver clasps. Then
there was an old-fashioned locket of gold, containing a picture of the
father and mother of Ernest, which had been taken many years before.
Between the leaves of the Bible was placed a letter addressed to Ernest,
in the hand-writing of his mother. The letter had been written at
different times as her strength permitted, during the last few days of
her life. It read as follows:--
"My dear little Earnest,--Long before your eyes will rest
upon these lines, the hand that traces them will have mouldered
into dust. The contents of this package with my prayerful blessing,
is all I have to leave you. As I write these lines you are playing
about my room a happy, innocent child. Would that my knowledge
could extend into the future, that I might know what manner of
youth you will be, when this letter is placed in your hands. But I
fear that I am wrong in thus wishing to know the future which a
kind Providence has mercifully hidden from us. It is my anxiety for
you alone that prompts the desire. I leave a request that this
letter be not placed in your hands till you shall have attained the
age of fourteen years. For should your life be spared to that
period, you will then be capable of reflection. It is my earnest
prayer, that you should grow up a good and dutiful boy, and by so
doing, reward Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey for the care and instruction,
which, I feel confident they will bestow upon you. But, O! my son,
should it be otherwise, and you have been led astray by evil
companions, I beseech you, my child, to pause and think. Listen to
the voice of your mother as if speaking to you, from her grave.
_Again_, I say, 'pause and reflect.' If you have evil companions,
forsake them at once, and forever. But I trust that these sad
forebodings are needless, and that when you read these lines, you
will be all that the fond heart of a mother could desire. The Bible
and Hymn Book which I leave you belonged to my father, who was a
minister of the Church of Scotland. Is it too much for me to hope
that you will follow in the footsteps of your deceased grandparent,
and use this Bible as he did in the pulpit, as a minister of the
gospel? The locket contains the likeness of your father and myself,
taken a short time after our marriage. I commit you with many
prayers, to the care of your Heavenly Father, for I feel that the
hand of death is upon me, and that a few brief days will close my
earthly existence. My last prayer will be that my boy may so live
on earth, as to meet his mother in Heaven. My strength fails me. I
can write no more.
"From your loving, but dying mother,
"Charlotte Harwood."
CHAPTER VIII.
The reader who has got thus far in the narrative of the early life of
Earnest Harwood, will doubtless learn, with pleasure, that the letter
written by his mother, proved, under the blessing of God, the means of
his salvation. The earnest persuasion of that letter, induced him to
form a firm resolve, that he _would_ amend his conduct, and cease from
his evil ways. He was, at the first, fearful that he had lost the love
of his foster parents, by his ungrateful conduct. He one day expressed
this fear to them, and together they assured him, that although he had
certainly caused them much grief and anxiety, their love for him had
remained unchanged. They took this opportunity, when his feelings were
thus softened, to urge him to be firm in his resolution of amendment.
They also, for the first time, spoke of the fearful sorrow he had caused
them by being brought to his home in a state of intoxication; and
besought him never again to allow himself to be persuaded to taste of
the intoxicating cup. Mrs. Humphrey pressed a motherly kiss upon his
fine brow, and said,--
"My dear boy I hope that you will not again disappoint our fond hopes,
and that you will yet do credit to the fine abilities with which our
Heavenly Father has so liberally endowed you."
From this time there was a marked and decided change in the character of
Earnest. Many feared that the change would not be permanent, but Mrs.
Humphrey was very hopeful.
"I feel an assurance," said she "that the many prayers which have been
offered to heaven on his behalf, are about to be answered."
It was even so. And they who feared a relapse into his former evil ways
were happily disappointed. He again punctually attended school, and
applied himself diligently to his neglected studies; and his teachers
were surprised, as well by the astonishing progress he made, as by his
correct exemplary deportment. As may be readily supposed, he had much to
contend with from the vicious boys who had been his former associates.
He shunned their company as much as possible, but he could not avoid
occasionally coming in contact with them, and I am happy to say, that
they found him immovable in his resolutions for good. They tried every
means again to entice him into evil ways, but without success. As a last
resort, they tried the effect of ridicule, but they learned now, that he
had allowed his better nature to assert its power, for he possessed a
spirit far above the influence of ridicule; and when they found they
could by no means induce him to mingle with them, they were forced to
give him up, and allow him to go his way in peace. When Mr. and Mrs.
Humphrey found that the change in Earnest was likely to prove a
permanent one, their gratitude and joy was heartfelt and sincere.
Two years have now passed away, since the beginning of the happy change
in the life of the orphan boy. We now find him a fine, tall youth of
sixteen, as much respected as he had formerly been shunned and pitied.
His personal appearance was still as attractive as in his childhood. He
was called by many the finest looking youth in all the village of
Walden. He had attended closely to his studies, and had obtained a good
English education. During the mid-summer vacation Mr. Humphrey asked if
he had turned his mind towards any particular calling in life which he
wished to follow,--
"For," said he, "it is my intention to assist you in fitting yourself
for any profession you may feel inclined to pursue."
Ernest blushed deeply as he replied,--
"You know, sir, the wish which my mother expressed in regard to my
calling in life, and I feel a desire to fulfill her wish in the matter.
I deeply feel my unworthiness for a calling so sacred, yet I hope my
unworthy services may be accepted, should I be spared to enter upon the
Ministry."
When Mr. Humphrey learned the wishes of Ernest he gladly defrayed his
expenses while pursuing the studies necessary to fit him for the
Ministry.
He passed through his college course with much credit to himself, and
then devoted the necessary time to the study of divinity in the
seminary.
CHAPTER IX.
In conclusion I would ask the reader to accompany me to what is now one
of the oldest churches in the city of Boston.
It is a beautiful Sabbath morning in the balmy month of June.
Let us enter the church. Something of more than usual interest seems to
pervade the large congregation there assembled. As we enter the church
we observe in one of the front pews an aged couple, whom we at once
recognize as Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey. They are now quite aged and feeble,
yet the countenance of each is cheerful and placid. Notwithstanding
their age they have made the journey of two hundred miles to be present
upon this occasion. For their beloved Earnest is this day to be set
apart to the Work of the Holy Ministry by the solemn service of
ordination.
When the services were closed, and Earnest came forward to accompany
his aged foster parents from the church, they felt themselves more than
rewarded for all the care they had bestowed upon the orphan boy; and
they might have said, as did Simeon of old,--
"Lord, now lettest thou thy servants depart in peace according to thy
word, for our eyes have seen thy salvation."
To the boys who may read this story I would say: As you value your own
well-being in time and eternity, avoid evil companions--for these have
worked the ruin of many a promising youth.
Should this little story be read by any who are mothers of families, it
is my hope that it may afford them encouragement to persevere in their
prayerful efforts, for the good of the immortal beings committed to
their care. The letter penned by the feeble hand of his dying mother,
under the divine blessing, saved Earnest Harwood from ruin. Let this
circumstance encourage you, never to grow weary nor discouraged in your
labours for the good of your children, and "ye shall in no wise lose
your reward."
THE END.
[Transcriber's note: Punctuation inconsistencies of the original have
been retained in this etext.]