"History, so warm on meaner themes,
Is cold on this."--COWPER'S TASK.
"Let no one say that his task is o'er,
That bonds of earth are for him no more,
Until by some kind or holy deed
His name from forgetfulness is freed;
Until by words from his lips or pen,
Dying, he's 'missed' from the ranks of men."
ALICE LEE.
THE BEGGAR BOY AND THE GOLDEN-HAIRED HEIRESS.--MY MIDNIGHT CALL.--THE
CONSCIENCE-STRICKEN MOTHER.--"OLD SEROSITY."--THE ILLEGITIMATE
CHILD.--DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL.--WHO IS THE HEIR?--A TOUCHING
SCENE.--FATE OF THE "BEGGAR BOY."--THE TERRIBLE CALLER.--AN IRISH
SCENE, FROM DR. DIXON'S BOOK.--BIDDY ON A RAMPAGE.--TERRY ON HIS DEATH
BED.--THE STOMACH PUMP.--BIDDY WON'T, AND SHE WILL.--THE BETRAYED AND
HER BETRAYER.--"IS THERE A GOD IN ISRAEL?"--THE HUSBANDLESS
MOTHER.--THE CRISIS AND COURT.--ANSWER.--THERE IS A "GOD IN ISRAEL."
Ill-clad poverty, benumbed with cold, was abroad alone, exposed to that
winter's night, as the white snow fleeced the frost-hardened ground. But
never mind earth's cold bosom. The rich man's heart warms _him_, making
him merry, however blows the wind or rages the storm. Shiver, shiver on,
beggar poor! Starvation and sense-dulling cold alone belong to you.
Through the crunching snow-drifts trudged a weary boy, with alms-basket on
his shivering arm. From his figure, he seemed not over ten years old; but
his face was so wan and melancholy, that it was difficult to tell how
many year-blights the beggar child had experienced. Summer clothes were
still clinging to him; a tattered comforter was the only winter article he
wore.
[Illustration: CHARITY THROWN AWAY.]
A gay carriage rolled noiselessly by, with a beautiful girl within, well
wrapped in fur and cloak, whilst the snow was dashed from the rapid wheels
like white dust. She saw, through the dim light, the weary, thin-clad boy,
as he stopped, with face bent aside to the flake-burdened blast, to gaze
at the smoking horses, as they plunged through the fast-deepening sheet.
She dropped the sash, and threw the boy a coin. It sank from her warm hand
deep into the drifted snow. It might have brought him bread and a
cheering fagot, but the smitten child never found it. The snow closed over
the coveted prize, while the blast grew keener.
On, on toiled the beggar boy, through drift and darkness, more weary as
night gathered on. Thus is it ever with the humble poor; their load grows
heavier as life lessens. No light or warming hearth is there--things that
make house a home--to welcome the wandering boy.
The clock had just struck two as I was summoned to the house of Mrs. T.
The same carriage that, in the evening, had borne the beautiful young
girl, awaited at my door, with its impatient horses snorting against the
frosted air. A few minutes later I entered the house. Mrs. T. met me in
the hall, with her face deadly pale, and manner much excited. Her singular
nervousness had before struck me on my visits, whenever her daughter
ailed. She informed me that her "darling Emily" was very ill with a high
fever.
We entered the chamber. The young girl lay with her head turned aside upon
the pillow, her golden-brown hair scattered in wild profusion upon its
white cover, while the nurse was gently moistening the fevered palm of her
outstretched hand. The pulse was beating wildly at the wrist and temples,
and fever heat glowed from her lustrous eyes. Whilst the nurse held the
light to her face, the traces of dried tears were revealed upon her
suffused cheeks.
"Heartache surely is here," I said to myself.
There was something in the whole appearance of my patient that excited my
curiosity and surprise. Only eight or ten hours had passed since she, from
her carriage, had thrown the snow-claimed alms to the beggar boy, and
_now_ a high fever was running hot through every artery of her body.
Silently seated by the bedside, after administering a cooling draught I
awaited and watched for the changes that might ensue. Her mother sat near
the fire, its blaze lighting up every feature of her once beautiful face,
which still remained very pale. In all my intercourse with Mrs. T., I
never before had so prolonged an opportunity of examining in detail the
expression of her countenance. The longer I gazed on her, the more
satisfied I became that she had not passed through life without a fearful
history.
It was this sensation which struck me when I first became acquainted with
her. A few vague rumors had floated about relative to her history; that a
strange desertion of her husband had taken place, and that he afterwards
was found drowned in the river, near his residence, and that by his death
Mrs. T. had become possessed of an immense estate. These stories had,
however, soon subsided; and as her means were ample, and her charities
liberal, the gossips of the town quietly dropped the past, and speculated
upon the future, as should all respectable gossips.
The voice of the patient diverted my thoughts; a few words were murmured,
and then the lips pressed tremblingly together, and the tear-drops again
started to her cheeks. Suddenly springing up in bed, and threading her
long, curling hair through her slender fingers, she exclaimed, in a
thrilling, delirious tone,--
"It cannot be true! O, mother--tell me, mother!"
Mrs. T. fairly leaped to the bedside, and placing her hand over the
daughter's mouth, with affrighted gestures, she exclaimed,--
"What is it? What does she mean? My God, doctor, she raves!"
The girl fell back on her pillow; the mother stood, pale and trembling, by
the bedside, with a nameless terror depicted on every feature. Turning to
me, in a quick, restless voice, she bade me hasten to give her child a
quieting draught.
"O, anything that will keep her from raving!"
The room was not over warm for such a bitter night, yet the perspiration
stood upon the brow of the excited mother like the fallen dew.
"Conscience must lie here," I thought to myself.
In the course of an hour the sufferer slumbered heavily; her breathing was
hurried and oppressed, the fever had increased, and her moanings were
constant.
Day was breaking, as I left my young patient to return home through the
falling snow. As I looked out of the carriage window, I saw a little boy
sitting on the cold walk. It was the poor beggar boy of yesterday, as
thinly clad, with his pale cheek as white as the snowdrifts through which
he had toiled. I ordered the coachman to stop.
[Illustration: THE BEGGAR BOY.]
"What brought you out, and where are you going, on this cold winter
morning, my poor boy?" I exclaimed.
He raised his beautiful dark eyes to my face, and my heart grieved at
their look of utter hopelessness, as he faintly answered, "To beg for me
and old grandma."
"Are you not very cold, in those thin clothes?" I asked.