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
circles 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
in 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 leas 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 ice-bound
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 David 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' a 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 of 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 hoy could'na hae been found in the city, than
wee Geordie Stuart. Time gied on till Geordie was near twelve year 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' frae 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' frae
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 Davy to her bed-side, 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 frae the deadly habit. I
believe Davy 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 ne'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 ne'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 ne'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 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 frae 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 at a' likely to tak'
that turn wi' him, an' so he 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 ne'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.