CHAPTER IV.

Mrs. Darlington was a woman of refinement herself, and had been used to the

society of refined persons. She was, naturally enough, shocked at the

coarseness and brutality of Mr. Scragg, and, ere an hour went by, in

despair at the unmannerly rudeness of the children, the oldest a stout,

vulgar-looking boy, who went racing and rummaging about the house from the

garret to the cellar. For a long time after her exciting interview with Mr.

Scragg, she sat weeping and trembling in her own room, with Edith by her

side, who sought earnestly to comfort and encourage her.

"Oh, Edith!" she sobbed, "to think that we should be humbled to this!"

"Necessity has forced us into our present unhappy position, mother,"

replied Edith. "Let us meet its difficulties with as brave hearts as

possible."

"I shall never be able to treat that dreadful man with even common

civility," said Mrs. Darlington.

"We have accepted him as our guest, mother, and it will be our duty to make

all as pleasant and comfortable as possible. We will have to bear much, I

see--much beyond what I had anticipated."

Mrs. Darlington sighed deeply as she replied--

"Yes, yes, Edith. Ah, the thought makes me miserable!"

"No more of that sweet drawing together in our own dear home circle,"

remarked Edith, sadly. "Henceforth we are to bear the constant presence and

intrusion of strangers, with whom we have few or no sentiments in common.

We open our house and take in the ignorant, the selfish, the vulgar, and

feed them for a certain price! Does not the thought bring a feeling of

painful humiliation? What can pay for all this? Ah me! The anticipation had

in it not a glimpse of what we have found in our brief experience. Except

Mr. and Mrs. Ring, there isn't a lady nor gentleman in the house. That

Mason is so rudely familiar that I cannot bear to come near him. He's

making himself quite intimate with Henry already, and I don't like to see

it."

"Nor do I," replied Mrs. Darlington. "Henry's been out with him twice to

the theatre already."

"I'm afraid of his influence over Henry. He's not the kind of a companion

he ought to choose," said Edith. "And then Mr. Barling is with Miriam in

the parlor almost every evening. He asks her to sing, and she says she

doesn't like to refuse."

The mother sighed deeply. While they were conversing, a servant came to

their room to say that Mr. Ring was in the parlor, and wished to speak with

Mrs. Darlington. It was late in the afternoon of the day on which the

Scraggs had made their appearance.

With a presentiment of trouble, Mrs. Darlington went down to the parlor.

"Madam," said Mr. Ring, as soon as she entered, speaking in a firm voice,

"I find that my wife has been grossly insulted by a fellow whose family you

have taken into your house. Now they must leave here, or we will, and that

forthwith."

"I regret extremely," replied Mrs. Darlington, "the unpleasant occurrence

to which you allude; but I do not see how it is possible for me to turn

these people out of the house."

"Very well, ma'am. Suit yourself about that. You can choose between us.

Both can't remain."

"If I were to tell this Mr. Scragg to seek another boarding-house, he would

insult me," said Mrs. Darlington.

"Strange that you would take such a fellow into your house!"

"My rooms were vacant, and I had to fill them."

"Better to have let them remain vacant. But this is neither here nor there.

If this fellow remains, we go."

And go they did on the next day. Mrs. Darlington was afraid to approach Mr.

Scragg on the subject. Had she done so, she would have received nothing but

abuse.

Two weeks afterwards, the room vacated by Mr. and Mrs. Ring was taken by a

tall, fine-looking man, who wore a pair of handsome whiskers and dressed

elegantly. He gave his name as Burton, and agreed to pay eight dollars.

Mrs. Darlington liked him very much. There was a certain style about him

that evidenced good breeding and a knowledge of the world. What his

business was he did not say. He was usually in the house as late as ten

o'clock in the morning, and rarely came in before twelve at night.

Soon after Mr. Burton became a member of Mrs. Darlington's household, he

began to show particular attentions to Miriam, who was in her nineteenth

year, and was, as we have said, a gentle, timid, shrinking girl. Though she

did not encourage, she would not reject the attentions of the polite and

elegant stranger, who had so much that was agreeable to say that she

insensibly acquired a kind of prepossession in his favor.

As now constituted, the family of Mrs. Darlington was not so pleasant and

harmonious as could have been desired. Mr. Scragg had already succeeded in

making himself so disagreeable to the other boarders that they were

scarcely civil to him; and Mrs. Grimes, who was quite gracious with Mrs.

Scragg at first, no longer spoke to her. They had fallen out about some

trifle, quarreled, and then cut each other's acquaintance. When the

breakfast, dinner, or tea bell rang, and the boarders assembled at the

table, there was generally, at first, an embarrassing silence. Scragg

looked like a bull-dog waiting for an occasion to bark; Mrs. Scragg sat

with her lips closely compressed and her head partly turned away, so as to

keep her eyes out of the line of vision with Mrs. Grimes's face; while Mrs.

Grimes gave an occasional glance of contempt towards the lady with whom she

had had a "tiff." Barling and Mason, observing all this, and enjoying it,

were generally the first to break the reigning silence; and this was

usually done by addressing some remark to Scragg, for no other reason, it

seemed, than to hear his growling reply. Usually, they succeeded in drawing

him into an argument, when they would goad him until he became angry; a

species of irritation in which they never suffered themselves to indulge.

As for Mr. Grimes, he was a man of few words. When spoken to, he would

reply; but he never made conversation. The only man who really behaved like

a gentleman was Mr. Burton; and the contrast seen in him naturally

prepossessed the family in his favor.

The first three months' experience in taking boarders was enough to make

the heart of Mrs. Darlington sick. All domestic comfort was gone. From

early morning until late at night, she toiled harder than any servant in

the house; and, with all, had a mind pressed down with care and anxiety.

Three times during this period she had been obliged to change her cook,

yet, for all, scarcely a day passed that she did not set badly-cooked food

before her guests. Sometimes certain of the boarders complained, and it

generally happened that rudeness accompanied the complaint. The sense of

pain that attended this was always most acute, for it was accompanied by

deep humiliation and a feeling of helplessness. Moreover, during these

first three months, Mr. and Mrs. Grimes had left the house without paying

their board for five weeks, thus throwing her into a loss of forty dollars.

At the beginning of this experiment, after completing the furniture of her

house, Mrs. Darlington had about three hundred dollars. When the quarter's

bill for rent was paid, she had only a hundred and fifty dollars left.

Thus, instead of making anything by boarders, so far, she had sunk a

hundred and fifty dollars. This fact disheartened her dreadfully. Then, the

effect upon almost every member of her family had been bad. Harry was no

longer the thoughtful, affectionate, innocent-minded young man of former

days. Mason and Barling had introduced him into gay company, and,

fascinated with a new and more exciting kind of life, he was fast forming

associations and acquiring habits of a dangerous character. It was rare

that he spent an evening at home; and, instead of being of any assistance

to his mother, was constantly making demands on her for money. The pain all

this occasioned Mrs. Darlington was of the most distressing character.

Since the children of Mr. and Mrs. Scragg came into the house, Edward and

Ellen, who had heretofore been under the constant care and instruction of

their mother, left almost entirely to themselves, associated constantly

with these children, and learned from them to be rude, vulgar, and, in some

things, even vicious. And Miriam had become apparently so much interested

in Mr. Burton, who was constantly attentive to her, that both Mrs.

Darlington and Edith became anxious on her account. Burton was an entire

stranger to them all, and there were many things about him that appeared

strange, if not wrong.

So much for the experiment of taking boarders, after the lapse of a single

quarter of a year.

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY OF SIXTEEN.

BY MRS. L.G. ABELL.

Oh, I cannot, cannot think of her without a starting tear;

So late, in youthful loveliness, I felt her presence near:

Her healthful form of fairest mould, I seem to see her still,

And to hear her sweet and gentle voice, as the voice of summer rill.

Her eye of blue, like azure sky of clear pure light above,

With soft silk fringes on the lids, shading the deepest love,

Was a light that gleamed from out the heart, and its rainbow hues

revealed--

A ray from its own full happiness, too full to be concealed.

At twilight's calm and silent hour, on the hushed lake's quiet breast,

I saw her gliding joyously, as glide the waves to rest--

And music, too, was on the air, soft as Eolian strain;

But I thought not then that Death was near, a victim soon to gain.

Oh, can it be that this is life!--a thing so frail as this!

Like a lovely flower that only smiles to give one thought of bliss--

That blooms in light and beauty a fleeting summer day,

Then closes up its sweetness, and passes thus away?

How still she lies! her ringlets droop, of pale and soft brown hair--

Parted upon her marble brow, they fall neglected there;

Her cold hands folded on her breast, her round arms by her side--

How sad all hearts that knew her well that she so soon has died!

How she is missed from out each spot where she so late has been;

Her silent chamber thrills the heart with keenest throbs of pain;

Her music, too, of voice and string seems ling'ring on the ear,

Only to fill the heart with woe that its sound ye cannot hear.

How long life looked to her; its far and distant day

Seemed like the rosy path she trod, and perfumed all the way;

No tear but those for others' woe had ever dimmed her eye,

For her youth was cloudless as the morn, and bright as noonday sky.

But ah! how soon the light is quenched that shone so sweetly here--

And oh! if love to God was hers, it glows in a brighter sphere!

That strange, mysterious spark of mind, shrined in the frailest clay,

Now flames amid the seraph band in a "house" that will not decay.

This world we know is full of tombs, covered with fairest flowers;

But yet how soon we all forget, and think them _rosy bowers_!

We build our hopes of pleasure here, select a fairy spot;

But Death soon proves to our pierced souls that he has not forgot!

Oh! wisely, wisely let us learn that this earth is not our home;

'Tis but the trial-place of life--a race that's swiftly run:--

Our precious hours are links of gold in that mysterious chain,

That fastens to our life above its _pleasure_ or its _pain_.

Reclining on a Saviour's arm, we then walk safely here;

He whispers holiest words to us, and wipes the falling tear:

If Death appears, He takes away his cruel, poisonous sting--

Then for a home of perfect bliss He plumes the spirit's wing.

* * * * *

THE JUDGE; A DRAMA OF AMERICAN LIFE.

BY MRS. SARAH J. KANE.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

JUDGE BOLTON.

HENRY BOLTON, _son of the Judge_.

DR. MARGRAVE, REV. PAUL GODFREY, _Classmates and friends of the Judge_.

PROF. OLNEY, _Teacher of a Classical School_.

FREDERICK BELCOUR, _son of Madame Belcour_.

CAPT. PAWLETT, _friend of Fred. Belcour_.

LANDON, _Counselor at Law_.

SHERIFF.

CLERK OF THE COURT.

CRIER OF THE COURT.

OFFICERS OF THE COURT.

TWELVE JURYMEN.

DENNIS O'BLARNEY, _servant of Dr. Margrave_.

MICHAEL MAGEE, _servant of the Judge_.

CITIZENS, MESSENGERS OF THE COURT, WATCHMEN, &c.

MADAME BELCOUR, _a widow, cousin of the Judge, and presiding in his

household_.

BELINDA, _daughter of Madame Belcour_.

LUCY, _daughter of the Judge_.

MRS. OLNEY, _wife of Prof. Olney_.

ISABELLE, _reputed daughter of Prof. Olney_.

RUTH, _waiting-maid at Judge Bolton's_.

SCENE--partly in the city; partly at Rose Hill, near the city.

TIME OF ACTION, twenty-four hours, commencing at 10 o'clock, A.M., and

ending at the same hour on the following day.

ACT I.

SCENE I.--_A Doctor's study. Books and instruments scattered around. Table

in the centre, strewn with books and pamphlets._ DR. MARGRAVE _seated by

the table, cutting the leaves of a pamphlet_.

DR. MARGRAVE.

Thus, ever on and on must be our course:

Even as the ocean drinks a thousand streams,

And never cries "enough!"--the human mind

Would drain all sources of intelligence,

Yet ne'er is filled, and never satisfied.

And theory succeeds to theory

As regular as tides that ebb and flow.

This treatise will disprove the last I read.

Shade of Hippocrates! what creeds are formed,

What antics practiced with your "Healing Art!"

I will not sport with fate, nor tamper thus

With man's credulity and nature's strength.

No: I will gently coincide with nature,

And give her time and scope to work the cure--

Strengthening the patient's heart with trust in God,

And teaching him that genuine health depends

On true obedience to the natural laws

Ordained for man--not on the doctor's skill.

_Enter_ DENNIS, _with a card to the Doctor_.

DENNIS.

The gentleman awaits you in the hall.

DR. MARGRAVE (_reading the card_).

"Reverend Paul Godfrey"--my old college chum!

Is't possible! (_To_ DENNIS.) Bring him up, instantly.

[_Exit_ DENNIS.

I have not seen him since our hands were clasped

In Harvard Hall:--I wonder if he'll know me.

(_Enter_ REV. PAUL GODFREY.)

Ah! welcome! welcome!--You are Godfrey still.

The changes of--how many years have passed

Since last we parted?

GODFREY.

Thirty years;--and you--

MARGRAVE.

Are altered, you would say. I know it well.

My hair, that then was black as midnight cloud,

Is now as white as moonbeams on the snow.

The image that my mirror gives me back

I scarce believe my own--so pale and worn.

Would you have known me had we met by chance?

GODFREY.

Ay, ay--among a million--if you spoke.

There's the old touch of kindness in your voice;

And then your eye from its dark thatch looks out

Like beacon-light, soul-kindled, as of yore.

Warm hearts will hold their own, tho' frosts of age

May lay their blighting fingers on our hair.

MARGRAVE.

Thank Heaven 'tis so!--But you are little changed,

Save the maturing touch that manhood brings

When health and strength have won the victory,

And laid their trophies on the shrine of mind!

GODFREY.

My lot has been amid the wild, fresh scenes

Of Nature's wide domain; where all is free.

Life seems t' inhale the vigorous breath required

To struggle with the elements around,

And thus keeps Time at bay. Like good old Boone,

The patriarch hunter, in the forest wilds

I've found that God supplied, and healed, and blessed.

Men live too fast in cities.

MARGRAVE.

Not if they

Would give their energies a noble aim.

The opportunities to compass good,

And good effected--these are dates that give

The sum of human life.

GODFREY.

True; most true.

It is in cities where men congregate,

And good and evil strive for mastery,

The sternest strength of soul must needs be tested.

But all that stirs the passions makes us old.

'Twould wear me out--this round of ceaseless toil,

In the same range of artificial life;

And I must greet you with a traveler's haste,

And back to my free forest home again.

MARGRAVE.

'Tis well that every part and scene in life

Can find its actors ready for the stage,

And well that our wide land has scope for all.

And yet to feel that those who raised together

Their hope-swelled canvass when life's voyage began--

Like ships, storm-parted, on the world's rough sea--

Can sail no more in sweet companionship!

'Tis a sad thought! Of all our college friends,

But one, beside myself, is here to greet you.

GODFREY.

Who is he?--There is one would glad my heart.

When college scenes arise, yourself and Bolton--

MARGRAVE.

'Tis he I mean.

GODFREY.

What, Bolton? Harry Bolton?

I heard some fellow-travelers in the cars

Talking of one Judge Bolton, as the man

Who filled his orb of duty like the sun--

Shining on all, and drawing all t' obey.

Surely this cannot be our Harry Bolton--

The frank, warm-hearted, but most wayward youth.

Whose mind was like a comet--now all light.

Anon, away where reason could not follow.

He surely has not reached this grave estate

Of Judge!

MARGRAVE.

The same, the same--our Harry Bolton.

And better still, a man whom all men honor.

GODFREY.

I must see him. Let us go at once. I feel

A joy like that of Joseph's when he found

That his young brother Benjamin had come.

Though now the order is reversed, for here

The youngest claims the honors.

MARGRAVE.

No, not so.

Your order should be first in estimation,

And always is, where men are trained for heaven

And mine would be the second, were we wise,

And followed Nature as you follow God.

And Law is the third station on the mount,

When men are placed as lights above life's path

And Bolton is, in truth, a light and guide.

GODFREY.

Where shall I find him?

MARGRAVE.

In his place, to-day,

The seat of Justice. We'll go--it is not far

The cause is one of special interest:

I'll give its history as we pass along.

Wilt go?

GODFREY.

Ay, surely, surely. I am ready now.

It is the very place and time to see him.

[_Exeunt._

* * * *

SCENE II.--_A street. Crowds of people hurrying on._

_Enter PROFESSOR OLNEY and FREDERICK

BELCOUR._

OLNEY.

You say the sentence will be passed to-day?

BELCOUR.

Most certainly; and crowds will press to hear it

Judge Bolton has a world-wide reputation,

And 'tis a cause to rouse his eloquence.

OLNEY.

I wish I could be there.

BELCOUR.

What should hinder?

'Twould but detain you for an hour or two.

OLNEY.

My pupils stand between. Yet Isabelle

Might hear the recitations; she does this

Often, when I am ill. A dear, good child:

She thinks her learning of no more account,

Save as the means to help me in my tasks,

Than though she only could her sampler sew

Yet she reads Latin like a master, and

In Greek bids fair to be a Lizzy Carter.

If she but knew I was detained--

BELCOUR.

A note

Would tell her this. Write one, and I will send it.

Here's paper, pencil--

[_Taking them from his pocket, OLNEY writes._

OLNEY.

I shall trouble you.

BELCOUR.

No trouble in the least. Now, hurry on.

The court-room will be filled. I'll send the note--

_[Exit OLNEY._

Or bear it, rather. She shall see me, too

Before she has the letter from my hand.

A proud, ungrateful girl:--reject my love!

[_Turns to go out_.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN PAWLETT

PAWLETT

How, Belcour--what's the matter? You go wrong.

'Tis to the court-house all the world is going.

BELCOUR (_impetuously_).

Let the world go its way, and me go mine

We've parted company, the world and I.

When Fortune frowns, the wretch is left alone

PAWLETT.

Ah! true--I've heard of some embarrassments--

BELCOUR.

Embarrassments!--A puling, milliner phrase!

One of those tender terms we coin to throw

A sentimental interest round the bankrupt;--

As though he may recover if he choose.

Why, Pawlett, man, I'm ruined, if the plan

I've formed to-day should fail. It shall not fail.

I will succeed. And Isabelle once mine,

With cash to bear us to a foreign land,

I care not for the rest, though death and hell

Should stand at the goal to seize me.

[_Exit violently_.

PAWLETT (_looking after him_).

The fool!

He's in a furious mood--and let him rave--

He'll never win his way with Isabelle.

My chances there are better, but not good.

Young Bolton's in my way. He loves her well;

And she, I fear, loves him. But then his father

Is proud as Lucifer, and selfish too.

Ambition makes the generous nature selfish.

He'll ne'er consent his only son should wed

The portionless daughter of a pedagogue.

No, no. I'll tot these bitter waters out.

I'll give the judge an inkling of the matter.

I'll write a note--he'll think it comes from Belcour.

If I can drive young Bolton from the field,

Then Isabelle is mine.--I'll do it.

(_As_ PAWLETT _is going out, Enter_ DR. MARGRAVE

_and_ REV. PAUL GODFREY.)

GODFREY.

You say Judge Bolton lives in princely style.

Is he a married man?

MARGRAVE.

He has been married;--

Most happily married, too. His wife was one

Of those pure beings, gentle, wise, and firm.

That mould our sex to highest hopes and aims.

He loved her as the devotee his saint:

And from the day he wed he trod life's path

As one who came to conquer.

GODFREY.

I see it now.

The motive to excel was all he needed.

He had a vigorous mind, a generous heart,

An innate love of goodness and of truth.

But he was wayward, and he hated tasks.

Such men must have an aim beyond themselves,

Or oft they prove but dreamers. And with such,

Woman's companionship, dependence, love,

Are like the air to fire:--the smouldering flame

Of genius, once aroused, sweeps doubts away,

And brightens hope, till victory is won.

MARGRAVE.

'Twas thus with Bolton. To his keeping given

The weal of one so dear--then he bore on,

Gathering from disappointments fruitful strength,

As winter's snows prepare the earth for harvest.

And when his angel wife was taken from him,

She left him pledges of her love and trust,

A son of noble promise, and a daughter

To nestle, dove-like, in her father's heart,

And keep her place for ever. She is blind!

GODFREY.

I marvel not that Bolton has excelled,

And won a station of the highest trust,

If his warm heart enlisted in the work:

But the small cares, the constant calculations

Required to make, at least to keep, a fortune--

I never should have looked to him for these.

MARGRAVE.

'Twas luck that favored him; or Providence,

As you would say. A friend of his and ours.

De Vere, the young West Indian in our class--

You must remember him--he left to Bolton

All his estate. A hundred thousand pounds

'Twas said he would inherit.

GODFREY.

How happened this?

De Vere returned to Cuba, there to marry?

MARGRAVE.

He did, and had a family. But all

His children died save one, and then his wife.

And so he hither came to change the scene.

Bolton, just widowed then, received his friend

With more than brother's kindness, for their griefs

Bound them, like ties of soul, in sympathy.

De Vere was ill, and, with his motherless babe,

He found in Bolton's home the rest he sought.

And there he died, and left his little daughter

To his friend's guardian care; and to his will

A codicil annexed, unknown to Bolton,

That gave him all if Isabelle should die

Before she reached the age of twenty-one,

And die unmarried.

GODFREY.

She is dead, then?

MARGRAVE.

She is. Her life was like the early rose,

That bears th' frost in its heart. The bud is fair;

The strength to bloom is wanting; so it dies

But come, we shall be late.

GODFREY.

What crowds are going!

And Irishmen!--Are these so fond of Justice?

MARGRAVE.

Ay; where they feel she holds an even scale,

And is the friend alike of rich and poor,

They yield a prompt obedience, and become

Americans. Our motto is--"The law."

[_Exeunt._

* * * *

SCENE III.--_The Court-room. A crowd of people._ PRISONER _in the dock. His

Wife, an infant in her arms, and his Sister, both in deep mourning, near

him_. LANGDON, _counsel for the prisoner;_ SHERIFF; CLERK _of the Court_;

CRIER _of the Court;_ CONSTABLES. _Enter_ JUDGE BOLTON, _followed by two

other_ JUDGES. _All take their places on the bench. Then enter_ DENNIS

_and_ MICHAEL.

DENNIS (_staring at the_ JUDGE).

I' faith, 'tis a _purty_ thing to be a judge,

And sit so high and cool above the crowd.

And your good master well becomes his seat.

He looks, for all the world, like Dan O'Connell.

MICHAEL.

He looks like a better man, and that's himself.

I wish he was judge of Ireland.

DENNIS.

So do I;

And my good _masther_ was her doctor too.

They'd set the _ould_ country on her legs right soon.

He's coming now.

_Pointing to_ DR. MARGRAVE, _who is entering,

followed by_ REV. PAUL GODFREY.

MICHAEL.

Who's with your master?

He looks as he had mettle in his arm.

DENNIS.

He is my master's friend--a sort o' priest.

MICHAEL.

And sure can battle with the fiend himself.

He looks as strong as Samson.

DENNIS.

Well for him

Living away in the West, 'mong savages,

And bears, and wolves, and--

CRIER OF THE COURT.

Silence!

MARGRAVE (_turning to_ GODFREY, _who is gazing_

_at_ JUDGE BOLTON).

You seem surprised. Has he outlived the likeness

Kept in your mind? Seems he another man?

GODFREY.

He is another man. The soul has wrought

Its work, as 'twere, with fire, and purified

The dross of selfish passion from his aims.

I read the victory on his open brow,

And in the deep repose of his calm eye.

MARGRAVE.

His was a noble nature from the first.

GODFREY.

He had a searching mind, a strong, warm heart,

And impulses of nobleness and truth.

But Nature sets her favorite sons a task:

We are not good by chance. Bolton had pride--

An overweening pride in his own powers.

This pride obeys the will; and when the brain

Is mean and narrow, like a low-roofed dungeon,

And only keeps one image there confined--

The image of self--the heart soon yields its truth,

And makes this self its idol, aim, and end.

Such is the Haman pride that mars the man,

And makes the wise contemn and hate him too--

Hate and contemn the more, the more he prospers.

MARGRAVE.

This is not Bolton's picture?

GODFREY.

No. His pride,

Now his strong lion will has curbed the jackals--

Those appetites and vanities of self

That mark the coxcomb rare wherever seen--

Is all made up of generous sentiments,

The father's, citizen's, and patriot's pride.

MARGRAVE.

You read him like a book.

GODFREY.

An art we learn

Of reading men when we have few books to read.

CRIER OF THE COURT.

Silence!

_Enter two_ OFFICERS OF THE COURT, _attending the twelve_ JURYMEN, _who

take their seats. A crowd follows._ PROFESSOR OLNEY _trying to press

through the crowd: young_ HENRY BOLTON _makes room for him_.

YOUNG BOLTON.

Stand here, Professor Olney--take this place;

Here you will not be crowded. Ah! your cough

Is troublesome to-day. Pray, take this seat;

You'll see as well, and be much more at ease.

PROFESSOR OLNEY (_taking the seat_).

Thank you! thank you! This is kind, indeed.

I am not well to-day, but could not lose

This chance of listening to your father's voice.

His eloquence is classic in its style;

Not brilliant with explosive coruscations

Of heterogeneous thoughts at random caught,

And scattered like a shower of shooting stars

That end in darkness--no; Judge Bolton's mind

Is clear, and full, and stately, and serene.

His earnest and undazzled eye he keeps

Fixed on the sun of Truth, and breathes his speech

As easy as an eagle cleaves the air,

And never pauses till the height is won.

And all who listen follow where he leads.

YOUNG BOLTON.

I hope you will be gratified. Are all--

All well at home?

PROFESSOR OLNEY _(smiling)_.

I should not else be out.

And Isabelle will hear the recitations.

YOUNG BOLTON _(aside)_.

I'll go, and see, and help her. Not to conquer

As Cæsar boasted--she has conquered me.

I'll go and yield myself her captive.

[_Exit_ YOUNG BOLTON.

CRIER OF THE COURT.

Silence!

CLERK OF THE COURT.

Gentlemen of the jury, are you ready

To give the verdict now?

FOREMAN.

We are ready.

CLERK OF THE COURT.

Prisoner, stand up and look upon the jury.

Jury, if and up and look upon the prisoner.

The man you now behold has had his trial

Before you for a crime. What is the verdict?

Is he, the prisoner, guilty or not guilty?

FOREMAN _(reading the verdict)._

Guilty of murder in the second degree.

[_A deep silence, broken only by the sobs of prisoner's wife and sister.

Prisoner sinks down on his seat_. CLERK OF THE COURT _records the

sentence_.

CLERK OF THE COURT.

Gentlemen of the jury, listen to

The verdict as recorded by the court

The prisoner at the bar is therein found

For crime committed--and that has been proven--

Guilty of murder in the second degree.

So say you, Mister Foreman? So say all?

FOREMAN AND JURY.

All (_bowing_).

JUDGE BOLTON.

A righteous verdict this, and yet a sad one

A fellow-being banished from our midst,

To pass his days in utter loneliness

Prisoner you've heard the verdict. Have you aught

To say why sentence should not now be passed?

Speak; you may have the opportunity.

LANGDON _counsel for the prisoner, confers

with him then addresses the_ JUDGE.

LANGDON

He cannot speak; his heart o'erpowers his tongue;

The tide of grief seeps all his strength away,

As rising waters drown the sinking boat.

And he entreats that I would say for him,

The court permitting me, a few last words.

JUDGE BOLTON

Go on. You are permitted.

LANGDON.

May it please

The court, the jury, and all these good people,

The prisoner prays that I would beg for him,

As on his soul's behalf, your prayers and pardon:

That is, while he in penitence will yield

To the just punishment the law awards,

You'll think of him as one misled--not cruel.

The murderous deed his hand did was not done

With heart consent--he knew it not. The fiend

That _rum_ evokes had entered him, and changed

His nature. So he prays you will never brand

His innocent boy with this his father's guilt;

Nor on his broken-hearted wife look cold,

As though his leprous sin defiled these poor

And helpless sufferers. Then he prays that all

Would lend their aid to root intemperance out,

And crush the horrid haunts of sin and ruin,

Where liquid poison for the soul is sold!

And while the victims of this deadly traffic

Must bear the penalty of crimes committed,

Even when the light of reason has been quenched,

That you would frame a law to reach the tempter,

Nor let those go unscathed who cause the crime.

And then he prays, most fervently, that all

Who may, like him, be tempted by the bowl,

Would lake a warning from his fearful fate,

And "touch not, taste not" make their solemn pledge,

And so he parts with all in charity.

[_A pause--the sobs of the prisoner's wife and

sister are heard._

CRIER OF THE COURT.

Silence!

CLERK OF THE COURT.

Prisoner, stand up and listen to the sentence.

JUDGE BOLTON (_solemnly_).

Laws hitherto are framed to punish crime

All legislators have been slow to deal

With vice in its first elements; and here

Lie the pernicious root and seeds of sin.

That children are permitted to grow up

From infancy to youth without instruction,

Is a grave wrong, and ne'er to be redeemed

By penal statutes and the prisoner's cell.

We leave the mind unfortified by Truth,

And wonder it should fill with wayward Error.

There's no blank ignorance, as many dream;

Each soul will have its growth and garnering.

As the uncultured prairie bears a harvest

Heavy and rank, yet worthless to the world,

So mind and heart uncultured run to waste;

The noblest natures serving but to show

A denser growth of passion's deadly fruit.

Another error of our social state--

We charter sin when chartering temptation.

We see the ensnarer, like a spider, sit

Weaving his web; and we permit the work.

How many souls Intemperance has destroyed,

Lured to his den by opportunities

The law allows! The prisoner at the bar

Is one of these unhappy instances.

The testimony offered here has shown

He bore a character unstained by crime.

Nay, more--an active, honest, prudent man,

Prisoner, you have appeared, since you came here

Five years ago. You came with us to share,

In this free land, the blessings we enjoy;

Blessings by law secured, by law sustained;

The impartial law that, like the glorious sun,

Sends from its central light a beam to all,

And binds in magnet interest all as one.

And you had married here, and were a father

And prospered in your plans, and all was well.

Nay, more--'tis proved you had a generous heart,

And had been kind to your poor countrymen,

The homeless emigrants who gather here,

Like men escaped from sore calamities,

Where only life is saved from out the wreck.

And one of these, an early friend, who died

Beneath the kindly shelter of your roof,

Left to your care his precious orphan child--

His only child, his motherless, his daughter.

And you received the gift, and vowed to be

A father to the little lonely one.

Where is that orphan now?--Must I go on?

'Tis not to harrow up your trembling soul.

I would not lay a feather on the weight

Stern memory brings to crash the guilty down.

But I would stir your feelings to their depths.

And bring, like conscience in your dying hour,

The sense of your great crime, that so you may

Repent, and Heaven will pardon. Here on earth,

Man has no power t' absolve such guilty deed.

Prisoner, one month ago, and you were safe--

A man among your neighbors well beloved,

And in your home the one preferred to all.

No monarch could have driven you from the throne

You held in th' loving hearts of wife and child.

Your coming was their festival; your step,

As eve drew on, was music to their ears.

The little girl, the adopted of your vow,

Was always at the door to claim the kiss

That you, with father's tenderness, bestowed.

Alas! for her--for you--the last return!

One fatal night you yielded to the tempter,

And drained the drunkard's cup till reason fled,

And then went reeling home, your brain on fire,

And, raging like a tiger in the toils,

You fancied every human form a foe.

And when that little girl, like playful fawn,

Unconscious of your state, came bounding forth

To clasp your knee and welcome "father home"--

You, with a madman's fury, struck her dead!

[_A shriek is heard from prisoner's wife._

Prisoner, for this offence you have been tried,

And every scope allowed that law could grant

To mitigate the awful punishment.

No one believes that malice moved your mind;

But murdering maniacs may not live with men;

And therefore, prisoner, you are doomed for life

To solitary toil. Alone! alone! alone!

Love's music voice will never greet your ear;

Affection's eye will never meet your gaze;

Nor heart-warm hand of friend return your grasp;

But morn, and noon, and night, days, months, and years,

Will all be told in this one word--alone!

Prisoner, the world will leave you as the dead

Within your closing cell--your living tomb.

But One there is who pardons and protects,

And never leaves the penitent alone.

Oh, turn to Him, the Saviour! so your cell,

That opens when you die, may lead to heaven:--

And God have mercy on your penitence!

[_Prisoner sinks down, as the curtain

slowly falls_.]

END OF ACT I.

* * * * *

SABBATH LYRICS.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.

GOD THE GUARDIAN.--PSALM XI.

How say ye to my soul,

As a mountain bird depart?

For the wicked bend the bow,

With the aim upon the heart.

In the Lord I put my trust--

The Great Giver of my breath--

He is mighty as he's just,

He wilt guard my soul from death.

On his holy throne he sits,

With his eye o'er all the earth;

But his shaft, that slays the vile,

Never harms the breast of worth.

The man of wrath he dooms

To the terror and the blight;

But his love the soul sustains

That walks humbly in his sight.

* * * * *

LET WELL ENOUGH ALONE.

BY MRS. EMMA BALL.

"A word spoken in due season, how good is it!" and how often is its

influence more lasting and more beneficial than at the time of its

utterance either speaker or hearer dreams of.

To illustrate. When about seventeen, I was, at my earnest solicitation,

placed in a seminary, with the understanding that for one year I should

devote myself to study, and thus become better fitted for future usefulness

as a teacher. How I had wished for such an opportunity! How often had my

wish been disappointed! and how narrowly I had escaped disappointment even

then! But I was there at last, and everything seemed to be just as I would

have it. Thus far I had studied unaided, and amid incessant interruptions.

Now I could obtain assistance, and command the necessary leisure. The last

four years I had passed in a crowded city. Now I breathed the purest

atmosphere, and the scenery around me was of surpassing beauty. My window

commanded the prettiest view; and, better still, I had no room-mate to

disturb me with unwelcome chit-chat. Who could be happier than I? There was

but one inconvenience, one drawback to the feeling of entire satisfaction

with which, day after day, I looked around "my charming little room;" and

that was the position of my bedstead. I did not like that; for the head was

so near the door as to leave no room for my table; and consequently, as I

could not place my lamp in perfect safety near my bed, I was compelled

either to waste the precious hour before broad daylight, or to rise and

study in a freezing room. "If I could only turn this bedstead round,"

thought I, "so that the head would be near the table, how many hours I

might save!" and I resolved that, on the coming Saturday, I would make the

desirable change. On the afternoon of that day, I was engaged to ride home

with one of the teachers, and the morning I had intended to devote to

sewing and study: "but no matter," thought I; "by a little extra effort I

can accomplish all." Accordingly, when Saturday came I commenced

operations; but, after removing the bed and mattress I discovered, to my

great concern, that, although the bedstead would stand as I wished, yet I

could not turn it thither without first taking it apart; and for this a

bed-key was necessary. "Well," thought I, "it is worth the trouble;" so I

procured a bed-key; and at length--at length--two of the screws yielded to

my efforts. The others, however, _would not_ yield. I tried and tried, but

without avail; and, wearied and disappointed, I stood wondering what I

should do. Just then, the door opened; and "Aunty," an old lady whose

kindness and sound sense had already won my regard, stepped in. "What is

the matter?" she exclaimed--"why, what has the child been about?" "I was

trying to turn my bedstead so," said I, ruefully pointing towards the

table; and I went on to explain why I had done so. "I dare say thou wouldst

find it more convenient so," answered Aunty; "but it is quite beyond thy

strength." "I see it is," sighed I. "I would have it turned for thee" she

said; "but that is the most troublesome bedstead in the house: no one can

do anything with it except John Lawton, and he won't be home till Monday."

"What shall I do?" asked I. "I'll get Mary to come up and help thee fix it

as it was before," answered Aunty. I drew a long breath. "Oh, never mind,"

said she, soothingly; "it is not quite so convenient this way, to be sure,

but--" "I'm not thinking of the inconvenience now," interrupted I, "but of

the time I've wasted. Why, I've spent nearly four hours over that foolish

old bedstead. I was to have taken tea with Miss Mansell this afternoon, and

I had expected to learn a good French lesson besides: but now the morning

is gone, and a profitable time I've made of it!" "I should not wonder if it

prove one of the most profitable mornings of thy life." rejoined the old

lady, "and teach thee a lesson more valuable than thy French or thy music

either." "What is that?" inquired I. "To let well enough alone." answered

Aunty--and she smiled and nodded slowly as she spoke. "I'll let well enough

alone after this, I promise you," said I. "People of thy ardent temperament

seldom learn to do it in one lesson," replied she; "but the sooner thou

dost learn it, the better it will be for thy happiness. However, I'll go

now and send Mary to help thee." Mary came: but it was nearly two hours

before my room resumed its usual neat appearance.

Some three months after, I learned that a young lady whom I had unwillingly

offended, by declining to receive her as a room-mate, had spoken of me

disparagingly, and greatly misrepresented various little incidents of our

every-day intercourse. Surprised and indignant, I at once resolved to "have

a talk with her;" but first I made known my disquietude to Aunt Rachel.

"What shall I do?" asked I, in conclusion. "Not much," she answered. "Take

no notice of it. I see she has been talking ill of thee; but she can do

thee little or no real injury. Those who know thee won't believe her," "But

those who don't know me--" interrupted I. "Won't trouble themselves much

about it," she replied; "and if ever they become acquainted with thee,

they'll only have the better means of judging thee truly." "If I say

nothing about it, though," urged I, "she'll feel encouraged to talk on, and

worse." "If thou dost find she is really doing thee an injury," returned

Aunty, "I'll not dissuade thee from taking it in hand; but, as it now

stands, it is not worth disturbing thyself about." "I could make her feel

so ashamed," persisted I. "I don't doubt thee," replied she, laughing; "I

don't doubt thee in the least: but in doing so, won't thou get excited?

Won't thou sleep better, and study better, and waste less time, if thou

just 'let well enough alone?'" "That seems a favorite maxim with you,"

observed I. "I have found it a very useful one," she answered; "and, had I

known its value earlier in life, I might have escaped a good deal of

suffering. Ten years ago, I had a kind husband, and a promising son, and

slowly, yet surely, they were gathering a pretty competence. We thought we

could gather faster by going south; but the location proved unhealthy, and

in one season I lost them both by a bilious fever." Sympathy kept me

silent. "You would not discourage all attempts to better one's condition?"

I at length inquired. "By no means," answered Aunt Rachel; "for that were

to check energy and retard improvement. I would only advise

people--impulsive people especially--to think _before_ they act: for it is

always easier to avoid an evil than to remedy it. Thou art fond of

History," she continued, "and that, both sacred and profane, abounds with

examples of those who, in the day of adversity or retribution, have wished,

oh how earnestly, that they had let well enough alone. Jacob, an exile from

his father's house: Shimei, witnessing the return of David: Zenobia,

high-spirited and accustomed to homage, gracing Aurelian's triumph, and

living a captive in Rome: Christina, after she had relinquished the crown

of Sweden; and, in our own days, Great Britain, involved in a long and

losing war with her American colonies. Every-day life, too, is full of such

examples." I asked her to mention some. "Thou canst see one," she answered,

"in the speculator, whose anxiety for sudden wealth has reduced his family

to indigence; and in the girl who leaves her plain country home, and

sacrifices her health, and perhaps her virtue, in a city workshop.

Disputatious people, passionate people, those who indulge in personalities,

and those who meddle with what don't concern them, are very apt to wish

they had let well enough alone. People who are forever changing their

residence or their store, their clerks, or their domestics, frequently find

reason for such a wish. Even in household affairs, my maxim saves me many

an hour of unnecessary labor. Dost thou remember the bedstead?" she added,

with a smile. "Yes, indeed," I answered; "I shall never forget that. The

other day I was going to alter my pink dress into a wrapper, like Miss

Mansell's; but the thought of that old bedstead stopped me; and I'm glad of

it; for, now that I look again, I don't think it would pay me for the

trouble." "Well, think again before thou dost notice Jane Ansley's talk,"

said Aunty. I followed her advice; and I have never regretted that I did

so.

Dear old lady! I left her when that pleasant year was ended, and never saw

her again. She has long since entered into her rest: but I often think of

her maxim, and in many cases have proved its value.

I think of it when I see a man spending time and money, and enduring all

the wretchedness of long suspense or excitement, in a lawsuit which he

might have avoided; and which, whether lost or gained, will prove to him a

source of continual self-reproach. When I see a business man who, by an

overbearing demeanor and oppressive attempts to make too much of a good

bargain, has converted a conscientious and peace-loving partner into an

unyielding opponent: or, when I hear of a farmer who has provoked a

well-disposed neighbor by killing his fowls and throwing them over the

fence, instead of trying some neighborly way of preventing their

depredations on his grain. When I have seen a teacher exciting the

emulation of a jealous-minded child; or by threats, or even by ill-timed

reasoning(?), converting a momentary pettishness into a fit of obstinacy--I

have felt as if I wanted to whisper in her ear, "Do not seem to notice

them; let well enough alone." When I see an envious mother depreciating and

finding fault with a judicious and conscientious teacher till she has

discouraged or provoked her, I think it likely that the day will come when

both mother and children will wish that she had "let well enough alone."

So, too, when I observe a mother forcing upon her daughters an

accomplishment for which they have no taste: a father compelling his son to

study law or physic, while the bent of his genius leads to machinery or

farming: or a widow with a little property placing her children under the

doubtful protection of a young stepfather. Vanitia is intelligent and well

read, and appears to advantage in general society; but her love of

admiration, her wish to be thought _superior_, is so inordinate, that she

cannot bear to appear ignorant of any subject; hence she often tries to

seem conversant with matters of which she knows nothing, and perceives not

that she thereby sinks in the estimation of those whose homage she covets.

Affectua is pretty and accomplished, and, two years ago, awakened goodwill

in all who saw her. Latterly, however, she has exchanged her simple and

natural manners for those which are plainly artificial and affected. What a

pity these ladies cannot "let well enough alone!"

But I must stop, or my reader may exclaim: Enough--practice thy own

precept--and let well enough alone.

* * * * *

SUSAN CLIFTON; OR, THE CITY AND THE COUNTRY.

BY PROFESSOR ALDEN.

CHAPTER I.

On a pleasant afternoon in August, two gentlemen were sitting in the shade

of a large walnut tree which stood in front of an ancient, yet neat and

comfortable farmhouse. Perhaps it would be more in accordance with modern

usage to say that a gentleman and a man were sitting there; for the one was

clothed in the finest broadcloth, the other in ordinary homespun. They had

just returned from a walk over the farm, which had been the scene of their

early amusements and labors.

"I don't know," said he of the broadcloth coat, "but that you made the

better choice, after all. You have time to be happy; you have a quiet that

I know nothing about--in truth, I should not know how to enjoy it if I had

it."

"The lack of it, then," replied his brother, "can be no hardship. I have

often regretted that I did not secure the advantages of a liberal education

when they were within my reach."

"That is an unwise as well as a useless regret. If you had gone to college,

you would, as a matter of course, have chosen one of the learned

professions. Your talents and industry would, doubtless, have secured to

you a good measure of success; but you would often have sighed for the

peace and rest of the old farmhouse. Remember, too, that it and these lands

would have passed into the hands of strangers."

"Perhaps you are right. Still, as I am now situated, I should be very glad

to have the advantages and influence which a liberal education would

bestow."

"I think you overrate those advantages. You are substantially a well

educated man; and you can now command leisure to add to your information.

If you should be in want of any books which it may not be convenient for

you to purchase, it will give me great pleasure to procure them for you. I

can do so without the slightest inconvenience."

"I am greatly obliged to you; and, if it should be necessary, I will,

without hesitation, avail myself of your kind offer. I feel the deficiency

of my education most sensibly in respect to my daughter. I find myself

incompetent to take the direction of her opening mind."

"That is the very point I wish to speak upon. You must, my good brother

allow me to take charge of her education. I owe it to you for keeping the

old homestead in the family. It will give me great pleasure to afford her

the very best advantages. Let me take her to the city with me on my

return."

"We may, perhaps, differ in our estimate of advantages. I can conceive of

none at present sufficiently great to compensate for the loss of her

mother's society and example."

"No doubt these are very valuable; but girls must go away from home to

complete their education, especially if they live in the country. Even in

the city, a great many parents place their daughters in boarding-schools,

and that, too, when the school is not half a mile distant from their

residence."

"A great many parents, both in the city and country, do many things which I

would not do."

"You are willing to do what is for the best interests of your child."

"Certainly."

"If you will allow Susan to go with me to New York, I will place her at the

first school in the city. She shall have a home at my house; and my wife

will, for the time being, supply the place of her mother."

"I fully appreciate your kind intentions; but I could almost as soon think

of parting with the sunlight as with Susan."

"You forget the advantages she would enjoy. You are not wont to allow your

feelings to interfere with the interests of those you love. I am sure you

will not in this case. Think the matter over, and talk with your wife about

it. She has an undoubted right to be consulted. I must go and prepare some

letters for the evening mail." So saying, he arose and went to his room.

The two brothers, Richard and Henry Clifton, had been separated for many

years. When Richard was seventeen years of age, his father indulged him in

his earnest desire to become a merchant. At a great pecuniary sacrifice, he

was placed in the employment of an intelligent and prosperous merchant in

New York; and when, at the age of twenty-one, he was admitted as a member

of the firm, his patrimony was given him to be invested in the concern.

To his remaining son, Henry, Mr. Clifton offered a collegiate education.

This offer was declined by Henry, not through lack of a desire for

knowledge, but in consequence of a too humble estimate of his mental

powers. When he became of age, a deed of the homestead was given him. Not

long afterwards, his father was carried to his long home.

The business of the firm to which Richard Clifton belonged rendered it

necessary for him to repair to a foreign city, where he resided for fifteen

years. He was now on his first visit to his native place, subsequent to his

return to the commercial emporium.

Susan, the only child of Henry and Mary Clifton, was just sixteen years of

age. Her light form, transparent countenance, brilliant eye, and graceful

movements, were not in keeping with the theory that rusticity must be the

necessary result of living in a farmhouse, especially when the labors

thereof are not performed by hireling hands.

From the first day of his visit, the heart of the merchant warmed towards

the child of his only brother. Her delicate and affectionate attentions

increased the interest he felt in her. That interest was not at all

lessened by a distinct perception of the fact that she was fitted to adorn

the magnificent parlors of his city residence. It was, therefore, his fixed

purpose to take her with him on his return. Some objections, he doubted

not, would be raised by his sober brother; but he placed his reliance for

success upon the mother's influence. No mother, he was sure, could reject

so brilliant an offer for her darling child.

The time spent by the merchant in writing letters, affecting operations in

the four quarters of the globe, was passed by the farmer in thoughtful

silence, though in the presence of his wife and daughter. He withdrew as he

heard his brother coming from his room.

"Uncle," said Susan, "do you wish to have those letters taken to the

post-office?"

"Yes, dear."

"Let me take them for you."

She received the letters from his willing hand, and left him alone with her

mother.

"Your husband," said he to Mrs. Clifton, "has spoken to you of the

proposition I made to him respecting my niece?"

"He has not," said Mrs. Clifton.

"I requested him to consult you. I proposed to take her home with me, and

give her the very first advantages for education that the city can afford."

"You are very generous. But what did Henry say to it?"

"He does not like the idea of parting with her; but, as I understand it, he

holds the matter under advisement till he has consulted you. I hope you

will not hesitate to give your consent, and to use your influence with my

brother, in case it should be necessary."

"I should be sorry to withhold my consent from anything which may be for

the good of my child. So generous an offer should not be declined without

due consideration. At the same time, I must frankly say that I do not think

it at all probable that I can bring myself to consent to your proposal."

"What objection can be urged against it?"

"I doubt very much whether it will be for the best."

"Why not for the best? What can be better than a first rate education?"

"Nothing; certainly, taking that term in its true sense. A first rate

education for a young lady is one adapted to prepare her for the sphere in

which she is to act. If Susan were to go with you, she would doubtless

learn many things of which she would otherwise be ignorant; but it may be a

question whether she would be thereby fitted for the station she is to

occupy in life. That, in all probability, will be a humble one."

"She has talents fitted to adorn any station, only let them receive

suitable cultivation. She shall never be in a position which shall render

useless the education I will give her. I have the means of keeping my

promise."

"I doubt it not. But ought a mother to consent that one so young and

inexperienced should be removed from home and its influences, and be

exposed to the temptations of the great world in which you live? It is a

very different one from that to which she has been accustomed."

"As to removing her from home, my house shall be her home, and my wife

shall supply the place of her mother."

"I will give to your kind proposal the consideration which it deserves; but

I must say, again, that it is very doubtful whether I can bring myself to

consent to it."

"I can't say that I have any doubt about the matter," said her husband, who

entered the room as she uttered the last remark. "To be plain, my dear

brother, if there were no other reasons against the plan, I should not dare

to place her in a family where the voice of prayer is not heard, especially

as her character is now in process of formation."

Richard was silent. At first, he felt an emotion of anger; but he

remembered that they were in the room in which their excellent father was

accustomed to assemble his family each morning and evening for social

worship. On no occasion was that worship neglected, even for a single day.

After a long silence, he remarked, "You may think better of it, my

brother," and retired to his room.

* * * *

CHAPTER II.

For some time after Richard Clifton had exchanged the quiet of agriculture

for the bustle of commercial life, he read his Bible daily, and retained

the habit of secret prayer which had been so carefully taught him in

childhood. But, at length, the Bible began to be neglected, and the altar

of mammon was substituted for the altar of God. In his business

transactions, the laws of integrity were never disregarded, nor was his

respect and reverence for religion laid aside, but he had no time to be

religious. When he became the head of a family, the Word of God lay

unopened on his parlor table, and family worship was a thing unknown.

Though God had guarded him at home and abroad, on the sea and on the land,

and had made him rich even to the extent of his most sanguine expectations,

yet he had forgotten the source of his prosperity, and had never bowed his

knee in thanksgiving. The education of his wife, a daughter of one of the

"merchant princes," had been such that she found nothing to surprise or

shock her in the practical atheism of her husband's course.

On the morning after the occurrence of the events recorded in the chapter

above, as Susan returned from the village post-office, she handed her uncle

a letter. Having perused it, he remarked--

"I must return to the city tomorrow. Will you go with me, Susan?"

"I should be delighted to do so, if father and mother could go with me."

"I should be happy to have them go. But suppose they do not? You cannot

expect to have them always with you."

"Must you go so soon?" said Henry. "You make a very short visit after so

long a separation."

"I must return to the city to-morrow; but my presence will be needed there

only for a day or two. If Susan will go with me, I will return here next

week and spend a few days more with you."

The matter was referred to Susan for decision. Her desire to see the

wonders of the great city, as well as to gratify her uncle, overcame the

reluctance which she felt to be separated, even for so brief a period, from

her happy home.

The preparations for her sudden journey required the assistance of several

neighbors; and thus the news of her intended visit to the city spread

quickly through the village. There was, of course, much speculation

concerning it. Some said it was merely a passing visit. Others said she had

been adopted by her wealthy uncle, and was thenceforth to be a member of

his family. Some regarded the supposed adoption as fortunate, and rejoiced

in it for Susan's sake. Others were envious, and were ingenious and

eloquent in setting forth the evils which might ensue. Some were sorry to

see one so young and innocent exposed to the temptations of a city life. A

few were surprised that her parents should consent to have her leave them,

even though it were to become the heiress of almost boundless wealth.

In the course of the evening, a number of Susan's friends called to bid her

good-by. As each new visitor came, an observant eye might have seen that

she was disappointed. Her manner indicated that she expected one who did

not come. The evening wore away, the social prayer was offered, and they

were about to separate for the night.

"Susan, dear," said her uncle, "I will thank you for a glass of water."

Susan took a pitcher and repaired to the spring, which gushed out of a bank

a few yards from the house. She had filled her pitcher, when a well-known

voice pronounced her name.

"Is it you, Horace?" said she. "I am away to-morrow."

"So I have heard. Are you going to live with your uncle?"

"Oh no. I am coming home in less than a week."

"I am sorry you are going."

"Are you?"

"I am afraid you will not want to come home."

"Why Horace!"

"Come back as soon as you can."

"I will."

"Good-by!" He extended his trembling hand, and received one still more

trembling. It was carried to his lips. Another good-by was uttered, and he

was gone.

It was well for Susan that her uncle was not sitting in his own brilliantly

lighted parlor when, with blushing cheek and trembling hand, she handed him

the glass of water. In the dim light of a single candle, her agitation

passed unnoticed.

In the morning, after oil-repeated farewells, and amid tears not wholly

divorced from smiles, Susan set out on her journey, and, on the following

day, arrived at the busy mart where souls are exchanged for gold, and

hearts are regarded as less valuable than stocks. She entered the mansion

of her uncle, and was introduced to his polished and stately wife.

* * * *

CHAPTER III.

No pains were spared by her uncle to amuse Susan and to gratify her

curiosity. Mrs. Clifton, also, to her husband's great delight, put forth

very unusual exertions tending to the same end. Still, Susan was far from

being perfectly happy. She wanted a place like home to which she couid

retire when weary with sight-seeing and excitement. In her uncle's house,

notwithstanding his manifest affection and the perfect politeness of his

wife, she did not feel at ease--she felt as if she were in public. And then

to sit down at the table and partake of God's bounties, when his blessing

had not been asked upon them, and to retire for the night when his

protection had not been invoked, detracted greatly from the enjoyment which

her visit was in other respects adapted to afford. The week during which

she was to remain had not elapsed ere she desired to return home. Of this

desire she gave no voluntary indication, but exerted herself to appear (as

she really was) thankful for the efforts designed to contribute to her

happiness.

"What do you think of our niece?" said Mr. Clifton to his wife one morning,

when Susan was not present.

"I think she will make a fine girl--that is, with due attention," said his

wife. She would have expressed her meaning more accurately if she had said,

"I think she will make a fine impression--will attract admiration, if her

manners are only cultivated."

"Would you like to have her remain with us permanently?"

"I rather think I should. I like her very well." This was uttered in a very

calm tone.

"What school would you send her to if she should remain?"

"I would not send her to any school. She is old enough to go into society;

and all that she needs is a little attention to her manners."

"She is only sixteen years old."

"She is quite tall, and will pass for eighteen at least. If we make a

school-girl of her, she can't go into society for a year or more to come."

"It was a part of my plan to give her a thorough education."

"It is a part of my plan to have some one to go into society with me."

"I do not believe her parents will consent to part with her, except on

condition that she shall spend several years in one of our best schools."

"Then let them keep her and make a milkmaid of her. If I take a girl and

fit her for society, and introduce her into the circle in which I move, I

wish to be understood as conferring a favor, not as receiving one."

"My dear, you know that the ideas of those who have always lived in the

country must, of necessity, be somewhat contracted. We must not judge them

by the standard to which we are accustomed."

"We ought not to make the girl suffer for the follies of her parent, to be

sure. You can say what you please to them about it, and then the matter can

be left with her. She will be glad to escape the drudgery of school, I dare

say."

"I think not. She has an ardent desire for knowledge; and the strongest

inducement I can set before her to come to the city is the means it

furnishes for gratifying that desire."

"There are other gratifications furnished by the city which she will soon

learn to prize more highly. Let her once be at home here, and be introduced

to society, and her desire for book-knowledge will not trouble her much. I

know more about women than you do, perhaps."

Mr. Clifton was silent. The last remark of his wife made a deep impression

upon his mind. Certain it was that his knowledge of woman was rather more

extensive and of a different character from that which he had expected to

acquire, when he lived amid the green fields of the country, ere the stain

of worldliness was upon his soul.

"I like Susan," said Mrs. Clifton. "I think she will prove quite

attractive. I have never seen a girl from the country who appeared so well.

She has a quick sense of propriety, and will give me very little trouble to

fit her for society."

"I am glad you like her," said. Mr. Clifton. "Her residence with us will

make our home more cheerful; and, with your example before her, her manners

will soon become those of a finished lady."

Mr. Clifton went to his counting-room, and his wife was left alone. The

compliment her husband had just paid her inclined her to dwell with

complacency upon the plan of adopting Susan. She liked her for her fair

countenance and her faultless form, and her quick observation and ready

adoption of conventional proprieties. Her presence, moreover, would attract

visitors, who were now less numerous than when Mrs. Clifton was young. Her

name, too, favored the idea of adoption. The difference between a real and

an adopted child would not readily be known. She made up her mind to adopt

her, and would have made known her determination to Susan at once, had not

an engagement compelled her to go out.

* * * *

CHAPTER IV.

While Susan was thus left alone for a little season, she employed herself

in writing the following letter to her mother--

"My Dear Mother: I have been so long without any one to speak to (you know

what I mean), that I must write you, though I hope to reach home almost as

soon as this letter. I am treated in the kindest manner possible. My uncle,

I think, really loves me, and I certainly love him very much. His wife is a

splendid woman. She was once, I doubt not, very beautiful, and she looks

exceedingly well now when she is dressed. She is very polite to me. I am, I

believe, a welcome visitor; and she desires me to stay longer than I

engaged to when I left home. I have not been out much, except with my uncle

to see the curiosities with which the city abounds. I have seen but few of

my aunt's friends. In truth, I suppose I have pleased her not a little by

not wishing to be seen. I am from the country, you know; though she thinks

I am making rapid progress in civilization. I judge so from the

commendation she bestows upon my attempts to avoid singularity. I remember

you used to commend me when I made successful efforts to govern my temper:

aunt commends me for the manner in which I govern my limbs, or rather when

they happen to move to please her without being governed. Last evening (I

had not seen uncle since the day before at dinner), I was glad to find him

in the parlor as I entered it. Aunt said to me, 'If you could enter the

parlor in that way when company is present, you would make quite a

sensation.' I can hardly help laughing to think what a matter of importance

so simple a thing as putting one foot before the other becomes in the city.

I suppose, if I were to live here, I should learn to sleep, and even to

breathe, by rule. I was going to say to think by rule; but thinking is not

in fashion. So far as I can learn, the thinking done here is confined to

thinking of what others think about them. Aunt was originally taught to do

everything by rule. Custom has become with her a second nature. Her manners

are called fascinating; but to me they are formal and chilling. I suppose

they are perfectly well suited to those who desire only the fascinating.

You have taught me to desire something more.

"I find myself deficient in the easy command of language which seems so

natural here. I have been astonished to find what an easy flow of polished

and tolerably correct language is possessed by some with whom language

might rather be regarded as the substitute for, than the instrument of,

thought. It must be owing to practice; though it is a mystery, to me how

persons can talk so smoothly, and even so beautifully, without ideas.

"I have seen a great many new things. I will tell you all about them when I

get home. I long for that time to come, though it be only two days off.

Every one has so much to do here, or rather in in such a hurry, that, were

it not for my uncle's mercantile habit of keeping his word, I should not

expect to see home at the appointed time.

"I am glad I came, for many reasons. I did not know so well before how

little the external has to do with happiness. As persons pass by and look

through the plate glass upon the silk damask curtains, they doubtless think

the owner of that mansion must be very happy. Now I believe my dear father

is far more happy than my uncle. I do not believe that my uncle's

magnificent parlors (I use strong language; but I believe they are regarded

as magnificent by those who are accustomed to frequent the most richly

furnished houses) have ever been the scene of so much happiness as our own

plain _keeping-room_ has. I would not exchange our straight-backed chairs,

which have been so long in the _home-service_, for the costly and luxurious

ones before me, if the _adjuncts_ were to be exchanged also. I long to sit

down in the old room and read or converse with my parents, by the light of

a single candle. I prefer that homely light to the cut-glass chandelier

which illuminates the parlors here. I love to see beautiful things, and

should have no objection to possessing them, provided the things necessary

to happiness could be added to them. Of themselves, they are insufficient

to meet the wants of the heart. Instead of being discontented with my plain

home, I shall prize it the more highly in consequence of my visit to this

great Babel. Do not think I am ungrateful to my dear uncle and to his wife

for their efforts to amuse me and make me happy. I should not be your

daughter if I were.

"Aunt has just come in, and has sent for me to her room. Kiss my dear

father for me, and pray for me that I may be restored to you in safety.

"Your affectionate daughter,

"SUSAN."

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

SING ME THAT SONG AGAIN!

BY MISS E. BOGART.

Sing me that song again!

A voice unheard by thee repeats the strain;

And as its echoes on my fancy break,

_Heart-strings_ and _harp-chords_ wake.

Sing to my viewless lyre!

Each note holds mem'ries as the flint holds fire;

And while my heart-strings in sweet concert play,

Thought travels far away.

And back, on laden wings,

The music of my better life it brings;

For years of happiness, departed long,

Are shrined in that old song.

Its cadence on my ear

Falls as the night falls in the moonlight clear--

The darkness lost in Luna's glittering beams,

As I am lost in dreams.

Sing on, nor yet unbind

The chain that weaves itself about my mind--

A chain of images which seem to rise

To life before my eyes.

The veil which hangs around

The past is lifted by the breath of sound,

As strong winds lift the dying leaves, and show

The hidden things below.

I listen to thy voice,

Impelled beyond the power of will or choice,

And to those simple notes' mysterious chime,

My rushing thoughts keep time

The key of harmony

Has turned the rusted lock of memory,

And opened all its secret stores to light,

As by some wizard sprite.

But now the charm is past,

My heart-strings are too deeply wrung at last,

And harp-chords, stretched too far, refuse to play

Longer an answering lay.

The music-spell is o'er!

And that old song, oh, sing it nevermore

It is so old, 'tis time that it should die!

Forget it--so will I.

Let it in silence rest;

Guarded by thoughts which may not be expressed

There was a love which clung to it of old--

_That_ love has long been cold.

Then sing it not again!

The voice that seemed to echo back the strain

Has filled succeeding years with discords strange

And won my heart to change

And thou mayst surely cull

Songs new and sweet, and still more beautiful:

Sing _new_ ones, then, to which no memories cling--

_Most_ memories have their sting.

* * * * *

COSTUMES OF ALL NATIONS.--SECOND SERIES.

THE TOILETTE IN ENGLAND.

CHAPTER I

Ancient authors disagree in the accounts they give of the dress of the

first inhabitants of Britain. Some assert that, previously to the first

descent of the Romans, the people wore no clothing at all: other writers,

however (and, probably, with more truth), state that they clothed

themselves with the skins of wild animals; and as their mode of life

required activity and freedom of limb, loose skins over their bodies,

fastened, probably, with a thorn, would give them the needful warmth,

without in any degree restraining the liberty of action so necessary to the

hardy mountaineer.

Probably the dress of the women of those days did not differ much from that

of the men: but, after the second descent of the Romans, both sexes are

supposed to have followed the Roman costume: indeed, Tacitus expressly

asserts that they did adopt this change; though we may safely believe that

thousands of the natives spurned the Roman fashion in attire, not from any

dislike of its form or shape, but from the detestation they bore towards

their conquerors.

The beautiful and intrepid Queen Boadicea is the first British female whose

dress is recorded. Dio mentions that, when she led her army to the field of

battle, she wore "a various-colored tunic, flowing in long loose folds, and

over it a mantle, while her long hair floated over her neck and shoulders."

This warlike queen, therefore, notwithstanding her abhorrence of the

Romans, could not resist the graceful elegance of their costume, so

different from the rude clumsiness of the dress of her wild subjects; and,

though fighting valiantly against the invaders of her country, she

succumbed to the laws which Fashion had issued!--a forcible example of the

unlimited sway exercised by the flower-crowned goddess over the female

mind.

With the Saxon invasion came war and desolation, and the elegancies of life

were necessarily neglected. The invaders clothed themselves in a rude and

fantastic manner. It is not unlikely that the Britons may have adopted some

of their costume. From the Saxon females, we are told, came the invention

of dividing, curling, and turning the hair over the back of the head.

Ancient writers also add that their garments were long and flowing.

The Anglo-Saxon ladies seldom, if ever, went with their heads bare;

sometimes the veil, or _head-rail_, was replaced by a golden head-band, or

it was worn over the veil. Half circles of gold, necklaces, bracelets,

ear-rings, and crosses, were the numerous ornaments worn at that period by

the women. It is supposed that mufflers (a sort of bag with a thumb) were

also sometimes used.

Great uncertainty exists respecting the true character of a garment much

used by the Anglo-Saxon ladies, called a _kirtle_. Some writers suppose it

to have meant the petticoat; others, that it was an under robe. But, though

frequently mentioned by old authors, nothing can be correctly determined

respecting it.

Little appears to be known concerning the costume in Britain under the

Danes; but we are told that the latter "were effeminately gay in their

dress, combed their hair once a day, bathed once a week, and often changed

their attire."

[Illustration]

The ladies' dress continued much the same till the reign of Henry the

First, when the sleeves and veils were worn so immensely long, that they

were tied up in bows and festoons, and _la grande mode_ then appears to

have been to have the skirts of the gowns also of so ridiculous a length,

that they lay trailing upon the ground. Laced bodies were also sometimes

seen, and tight sleeves with pendent cuffs, like those mentioned in the

reign of Louis the Seventh of France. A second, or upper tunic, much

shorter than the under robe, was also the fashion; and, perhaps, it may be

considered as the _surcoat_ generally worn by the Normans. The hair was

often wrapped in silk or ribbon, and allowed to hang down the back; and

mufflers were in common use. The dresses were very splendid, with

embroidery and gold borders.

[Illustration]

About the beginning of the thirteenth century, the ladies found their long

narrow cuffs, hanging to the ground, very uncomfortable; they therefore

adopted tight sleeves. Pelisses, trimmed with fur, and loose surcoats, were

also worn, as well as _wimples_, an article of attire worn round the neck

under the veil. Embroidered boots and shoes formed, also, part of their

wardrobe.

The ladies' costume, during the reigns of Henry and Edward, was very

splendid. The veils and wimples were richly embroidered, and worked in

gold; the surcoat and mantle were worn of the richest materials; and the

hair was turned up under a gold caul.

[Illustration]

Towards the year 1300, the ladies' dress fell under the animadversion of

the malevolent writers of that day. The robe is represented as having had

tight sleeves and a train, over which was worn a surcoat and mantle, with

cords and tassels. "The ladies," says a poet of the thirteenth century,

"were like peacocks and magpies; for the pies bear feathers of various

colors, which Nature gives them; so the ladies love strange habits, and a

variety of ornaments. The pies have long tails, that trail in the mud; so

the ladies make their tails a thousand times longer than those of peacocks

and pies."

The pictures of the ladies of that time certainly present us with no very

elegant specimens of their fashions. Their gowns or tunics are so immensely

long, that the fair dames are obliged to hold them up, to enable them to

move; whilst a sweeping train trails after them; and over the head and

round the neck is a variety of, or substitute for, the wimple, which is

termed a _gorget_. It enclosed the cheeks and chin, and fell upon the

bosom, giving the wearer very much the appearance of suffering from

sore-throat or toothache.

When this head-dress was not worn, a caul of net-work, called a _crespine_,

often replaced it, and for many years it continued to be a favorite

coiffure.

The writers of this time speak of tight lacing, and of ladies with small

waists.

In the next reign, an apron is first met with, tied behind with a ribbon.

The sleeves of the robe, and the petticoat, are trimmed with a border of

embroidery; rich bracelets are also frequently seen; but, notwithstanding

all the splendor of the costume, the gorget still envelops the neck.

* * * * *

SONNET.--WINTER.

BY LEWIS GRAHAM, M.D.

Stern Winter comes with frowns and frosty smiles,

The angry clouds in stormy squadrons fly,

While winds, in raging tones, to winds reply;

Old Boreas reigns, and like a wizard, piles,

Where'er he pleases, with his gusty breath,

The heaps of snow on mountain, hill, or heath,

In strangest shapes, with curious sport and wild;

But soon the sun will come with gentle rays,

To kiss him while with fiercest storms he plays,

And make him mild and quiet as a child.

Though now the bleak wind-king so boisterous seems,

And drives the tempest madly o'er the plain,

He smiles in Spring-time soft as April rain,

In Summer sleeps on flowers in zephyr-dreams.

* * * * *

BUBBLES.

BY JOHN NEAL.

"Hurrah for bubbles! I go for bubbles, my dear," stopping for a moment on

his way through the large drawing-rooms, and looking at his wife and the

baby very much as a painter might do while in labor with a new picture.

"Bubbles are the only things worth living for."

"Bubbles, Peter!--be quiet, baby!--hush, my love, hush! Papa can't take you

now."

Baby jumps at the table.

"Confound the imp! There goes the inkstand!"

"Yes, my dear; and the spectacles, and the lamp, and all your papers. And

what, else could you expect, pray? Here he's been trying to make you stop

and speak to him, every time you have gone by the table, for the last half

hour, and holding out his little arms to you; while you have been walking

to and fro as if you were walking for a wager, with your eyes rolled up in

your head, muttering to yourself--mutter, mutter, mutter--and taking no

more notice of him, poor little fellow, than if he was a rag-baby, or

belonged to somebody else!"