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 on 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 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 a 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 schoolmate, 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
after 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 for 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 upon 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
secresy; 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 of 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."