PURER ab Bi tueh ats ee oan Pes es i a y 3 ae aN ea . L a ee i ey ° ne ; ae EE Sy Earn Sec yer ise Uber par Sieh OU Ta TA re tf iy Ly, = = ve A i ie" LL SS ~ SQ ! 6 ma) \\ SAYS a ) \ LEN rae \ \ IN \ ASA \\\ " ry bE: ——SS=_= — === ti —== ——— TIMELY RELIEF. bn (OS | AN aa ill | i an . ~ = (/ ‘ ma / iG mT tii" SSS YT 224 67 7) VF | y) : wy Pa , Mi " 4 i 1 rs a wie >) Le S422 > ( ‘~ Ay . ee. Var.) . | A Leppincott Gramba¥l PHILA BAN OS “Re O_O Wn, ae, FS My THE POOR WOODCUTTER, OTHER STORIES. Br T. 8 ARTHUR. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY CROOME. PHILADELPHIA: LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO. 1852. ; —eeo es Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & 00. in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. STEREOTYPED BY 1. JOHNSON & OO. PHILADELPHIA. Sooo CONTENTS. THE POOR WOODCUTTER..........000 ccssscerescccceses socessece AN EVENING AT HOME.........cccssssseessosssscctscneesecsceece THE TEMPERANCE MEETING IN STEVE MILLER’S BAR-ROOM.......cooscecseesesssees sovessase soveesvescsescsenseseoes TLL SEB ABOUT IT........ssssresosscsecssrsesccensenterce assesses A GOOD INVESTMENT os cccscsescecresceeseensnseeessceeeee BEAUTY.....ssccsscsercoccassocsersecsersscsesceeee sansssssesseseeunueneee THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, AND THE MAN.......... THE MERCHANT'S DREAM.,....cccccsssescccsessnseessacseesesces § Pace 9 41 57 70 92 118 131 143 INTRODUCTION. WHILE several volumes in this series of books for the young are addressed to childrenas child- ren, others, like this one, are addressed to them as our future men and women, toward which estate they are rapidly advancing, and in which they will need for their guidance all things good and true that can be stored up in their memories. Most of the actors are men and women,—and the trials and temptations to which they are subjected, such as are experienced in maturer years. The object is to fix in the young mind, by familiar illustra- tions, true principles and just views of life and its varied responsibilities. a2 7 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. S Mr. Edgar was leaving the break- - fast room, one cold morning in Febru- ary, his wife called after him, and said— “Qur wood is gone; we must have more to-day.” “Not all gone!” returned Mr. Edgar, in a tone of surprise. “Yes. Sally says there are only three or four sticks in the cellar.” “T thought we had enough to last all winter,” said Mr. Edgar. “The cold has been unusually severe, you must remember,” was replied. “T know. But it is now only the begin- ning of February. A cord of good hickory . 9 10 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. wood ought to have lasted all winter. Per- kins says he doesn’t burn but one cord in his air-tight stove from November to April.” “T don’t know how it is,” said Mrs. Ed- gar, a little fretfully; “Tm sure the nursery is never too warm.’ “It's wasted by the servants in kindling fires in the range and heater, I suppose,” remarked Mr. Edgar, as he closed the door after him, and went away. Mr. Edgar happened to feel just at this time, particularly poor. His income was not large, yet ample, if dispensedawith pro- per care, for the comfortable support of his family. A rather freer use of money than was prudent, all things considered, had drained his purse so low as to bring on, as just said, a feeling of poverty;-and the thought of having to pay out four or five dollars for wood, when he had believed that there was fuel enough in the cellar to last until spring opened, was, in consequence, most unpleasant. It seemed little better than throwing so much money away. No THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 11 syeh feeling was experienced a week before, when he paid three dollars for concert tickets, nor when, a few days previously, he expended ten dollars in porcelain orna- ments for the pier-table and mantel. But it was in liberality of this kind that the poor feeling had its origin. Mr. Ed- gar found that money had been going too freely, and that the purse-strings must be held with a tighter hand. Too suddenly upon this resolution came-the announce- ment that more wood was needed. — “Tl get only a quarter of a cord,” said Mr. Edgar, as he walked along toward his office; “that, surely, ought to carry us through the cold weather.” But on reflection, seeing that it was only the first week in February, and that fire would have to be-kept up in-the stove for nearly three months, Mr. Edgar rather doubted the ability of a quarter of a cord of wood to afford the amount of warmth required. This conclusion of his mind was evidenced by a sigh. Instead of going di- 12 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. rect to the wharf and making the purchase, Mr. Edgar went to his office, where he gave up his thoughts to business until about half-past two o'clock. He then stepped down to the wharf, to purchase the wood previously to going home to dinner. He had settled the question as to the quantity that must be bought. Nothing less than half a cord would be sufficient. The day was very cold; colder than he ‘had supposed; for in his comfortable office but few evidences of the degree of tempera- ture without was apparent. As he drew near the wood-wharves on the Delaware, . the sharp wind came rushing by, causing him to shiver beneath his double-wadded coat. / “Any wood, sir?” inquired a carter, tipping his hat to Mr. Edgar, as that gen- tleman reached the wharves. “Yes,” was replied indifferently. “May I haul it, sir?” “‘T don’t care.” THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 18 “Do you wish it sawed?” eagerly asked another. “Oh yes.” So that much was settled. Into the little six-by-eight office of the corder, Mr. Edgar thrust himself. It was filled with men, poorly clad, and bearing about them many signs of extreme poverty. Most of them were there waiting for some job to turn up by which they could earn a trifle. The extreme cold had driven them into the office. Mr. Edgar looked at these poor men, but he did not feel any pity forthem. Not that he was indifferent to human want or suffering; but his mind was intent on knowing the price of wood, and he was somewhat worried at being compelled to expend money when he felt so very poor. “What is hickory?” inquired Mr. Ed- gar, as he crowded up to the corder’s desk. “Six dollars,” was the answer. “Do you want it sawed, sir?” inquired @ man in a quick voice. . “T have a sawyer,” replied Mr Edgar. 14 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. “ Shall I haul it for you?” asked another. - “Too late, Jack,” answered a man with a whip under his arm, smiling as he spoke; “Tm ahead of you in that job.” “What is oak?” inquired Mr. Edgar, who thought the hickory too high in price. “Five and a quarter.” “The difference is too small. I must have the hickory,” was replied. ““How much do you want?” asked the wood-merchant. “Only half a cord.” “Do you wish it split?” inquired a man who looked as if he was acquainted with few of the comforts of life, and was not over-supplied with things necessary. “No,” replied the buyer, an expression of impatience escaping him. “Walk out and look at the wood,” said the corder; ‘ you'll find none better on the wharf.” “ The price is high.” “ Not for this season. Last year, hickory brought seven dollars.” THE POOR WOODCUTTER.. 15 Mr. Edgar felt that six dollars was very high. Five and a half he had fixed asa maximum rate in his mind. “Well, I suppose I must take it,” fell from his lips in company with asigh. And he moved down toward the great piles of wood on the wharf, to look at the article he was purchasing. The carter and saw- ‘yer were by his side. After selecting the wood, he inquired of the former as to the price of hauling. “ Three ’ levies,” replied the carter. “Too much. I have never paid over half-a-dollar a cord.” “It’s the regular price for half a cord of hickory,” returned the carter. “‘ What are you going to charge me for sawing ?” asked Mr. Edgar, turning towards a poor Irishman, who stood by with his saw on his arm. “‘ How many cuts will there be ?” “Two. I want it sawed intothree pieces.” “That will be just a cord ?” “Yes.” 01L—B 16 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. “ Seventy-five cents.” * “What!” “Three quarters is the price of sawing hickory.” ‘“‘T'm sure I never paid over half-a-dollar, or sixty-two cents, at most.” “You may have got pine or oak sawed for that, but not hickory,” said the sawyer. “Ts three quarters the regular price ?” inquired Mr. Edgar of the carter. “Yes, sir,” answered the man of the _ whip, “they always get that. And I’m sure, sir, that if you were to run a saw through a cord of hard, seasoned hickory, you wouldn't think yourself too well paid even at seventy-five cents.” This was a form of argument that car- ried with it a convincing force. Mr. Ed- gar disputed the charge no further. While he yet stood musing over the great price his half-cord was going to cost him, the man who had asked if he did not wish it split, and who had followed him along the THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 17 wharf, said, as he touched his hat re- spectfully— “Td like to split it for you, sir.” ‘ Mr. Edgar remembered, by this time, that he had no one at home who could split the wood after it was sawed. So he in- quired as to the cost, remarking, at the same time, that, as it was for an air-tight stove, not more than half of it would need to be cleft, and that only into two pieces “Tl do it for half-a-dollar,” said the man. . “ Half-adollar!” returned Mr. Edgar, in surprise; “why you ask more than the cost of hauling. Oh no! I shall give no such price as that—Tll split the wood my- self, first. If you choose to do it for a quarter, you may. Not one half of it will have to be touched with an axe.” The man shook his head, and said that he couldn’t walk over’a mile and split half a cord of wood for twenty-five cents, even if he was very poor. 18 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. “You're doing nothing,” remarked Mr. Edgar. “Though I may get a job before night worth a dollar, instead of a quarter.” Mr. Edgar felt, as he looked at the man, whose clothes were poor, and above whose thin face masses of gray hair were visible, that it was hardly generous to beat him down so low for a job of work that it would take him at least a couple of hours, if not more, to perform, so he said— “The wood is merely to be thrown into +e vault beneath the pavement. If you will pile it after it is in, Pll give you half a-dollar.” “Very well,” replied the man, «I will do it.” Mr. Edgar next obtained his bill from the corder, and paying it, started home to dinner. It was nearly four o'clock when the wood arrived. Half an hour afterward, Mr. Edgar sat down in his parlour with one of his children on his lap, and glanced out of THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 19 the window. The wood-sawyer, a hearty- looking Irishman, was working away with an energy that brought the perspiration to his face, although the thermometer was within five degrees of zero; but the other man, who was splitting the wood and throwing it into the cellar, was slower in his movements, and appeared to be suffer- ing from the severity of the weather. As Mr. Edgar sat at the window of his warm and comfortable parlour, and looked out at this poor man, who swung his axe slowly, he noticed his countenance more particu- larly than he had done before. It was marked with many furrows, worn into it by toil or suffering, and had something subdued and sad, as if affliction and disap- pointment had been his attendants at some part of his journey through life. As Mr. Edgar looked at him, marking the slow progress he made in his hard work, and then thought of the many comforts he en- joyed, a feeling of pity came into his heart. “Poor man! You have to work hard Ti—2 82 20 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. for so small a pittance,” he said to himself, as he sighed and moved from the window. He made an effort, in doing this, to turn his thoughts. from the man; but this was not so easily accomplished. In thinking of him, he could not help contrasting his own labour and its reward, with the labour and reward of the woodcutter. “Tt will take him at least two hours to get through with this work,” said he men- tally; “and what will the hard labour yield? Fifty cents! And, in all probability, he has a wife and children at home. Ah me! the condition of the poor is hard enough.” With these thoughts came an inclination to pay the man more for his work than he had agreed to give him. This, however, was met, instantly, by an opposing argu- ment that arose in his mind almost spon- taneously. “A halfdollar for two hours’ work,” said he, “is very good for a labouring-man. Why, that would be two dollars-and-a-half for a day’s work of ten hours.” THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 21 To meet this came the thought that split- ting and piling wood was not steady work; and that, in all probability, the halfcord upon which the man was now engaged, was his only job for the day. This view of the case was not so pleasant. A recollection of some business at his office which required attention on that af- ternoon, caused these thoughts to retire. ‘When the man is done piling away the wood in the cellar, pay him half-a-dollar,” said Mr. Edgar to his wife, as he was leav- ¢ing the house to proceed to his office. It was after six o’clock when Mr. Edgar returned home. The wind rushed and ‘moaned along the streets, and the cold, which had increased by several degrees since midday, penetrated his warm gar- ments, and caused him to shiver as the chilly air seemed to pass through them as if they were but gossamer. On arriving at home, Mr. Edgar was rather surprised to find the man he had employed still cutting 22 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. wood in front of his house, although it ‘was getting quite dark. “ A’n’t you done yet?” said he, as he stood at his door. “Very nearly,” replied the man. “TI have only a few sticks more to split, and it won't take me a great while to pile it up in the cellar.” Mr. Edgar went in and joined his family, who were gathered in the parlours await- ing his return. His children were all well clad, healthy, and happy, and both he and his family were in the enjoyment of every comfort. As he sat down among them, he could not help thinking of the man at work before his door, nor was he able to repress a faint sigh, as he thought of what would be the condition of his beloved ones were he able to earn only the pittance he had grudged to the poor labourer. But these thoughts gradually retired, and the man was not again remembered until they were all assembled in the dining-room to partake of the evening meal. Then, the THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 28 room being in the basement, Mr. Edgar could hear him piling the wood below. It was full three hours since the work was commenced, and yet it was not completed. He was in a warm, bright room, clad in his dressing-gown; and with his family around him, while the poor woodcutter was in the cold cellar, alone, toiling by the light of a dim lamp, with his thoughts turning, per- haps, upon his little ones who awaited his coming that they might divide the loaf he would bring them. As he thought thus, Mr. Edgar felt how small was the price that awaited the com- pletion of the poor man’s task. “T will pay him more,” said he, in his own mind. But the moment this was con- cluded, he remembered that, to do so, would increase the price of his half-cord of wood. The poor feeling came back, and he said— “T can’t afford this. If I were to over- pay every one after this fashion, I would find myself badly off by the end of the year. The carter and wood-sawyer are just as 24 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. much entitled to a higher rate of payment asthisman. They have the fixing of their own price, and if they are satisfied, J am sure I ought to be.” But, for all this, humanity kept urging the claims of the woodcutter in the cellar. Sometimes Mr. Edgar would determine to act generously, and hand him seventy-five cents on the completion of his work. But that would make his half-cord of wood cost nearly five dollars. “If I were to increase all my expenses at this rate,” he argued with himself, “TI would be in debt several hundred dollars at the end of the year.” And then he would fall back to his ori- ginal state, and content himself with the reflection that fifty cents was enough for the job. “A smart man could have done it in half the time it has taken him.” This thought laid the matter to rest; but the rest was only temporary. Thought is the form of the affection; and sympathy THE POOR WOODCUTTER. | 25 for the poor woodcutter clothed itself, spontaneously, in generous thoughts. At length the work was done. Mr. Ed- gar heard the man’s slow, heavy tread, as he ascended the cellar-stairs. Now came the struggle between humanity and the poor feeling from which he had suffered all day. More than a dozen times, before the servant came in and said that the wood- cutter had. finished his work, did he alter his mind. Now he had seventy-five cents in his fingers, and now fifty. . “ Half-a-dollar is enough—it is all he asked,” he would say, as he commenced drawing his hand from his pocket with only the single coin in his fingers. ‘But he is poor, and has worked very hard. A quar- ter of a dollar is a little matter to you, but much to him,” would cause the hand to dive down again into the pocket, and take up an additional twenty-five cent piece. But from the other side would come a word, and then only the halfdollar re- mained. 26 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. “The man is done,” said a domestic, opening the door of the dining-room, while this debate was still going on. The time for the decision had arrived ; yet the question was not settled. Regard for another’s good had not been able to gain the victory over selfishness. There was still an active struggle. But the ne- cessity for an instant determination caused a slight confusion in the mind of Mr. Ed- gar, and in this state the halfdollar was handed to the domestic, who took the mo- ney and retired. He heard her close the door after her—heard her speak to the man in the entry, and heard the man walk away ; while a painful conviction that he had not done right in the case before him impressed itself upon his mind. Now that it was too late to recall the act, he deeply regretted what he had done, or rather what he had neglected to do, and felt that in saving the fourth of a dollar, he had gained only a disquieted mind. “To think,” he murmured to himself, THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 27 “that I could have-let the saving of such a paltry sum restrain me from the perform- ance of an act of humanity. I spend dol- lars in the gratification of my senses, and part freely with the money in doing so; but when the question of compensation to a poor labouring-man comes up, I chaffer for the value of a few pennies, and beat down to a minimum price, instead of taking a pleasure in paying liberally. Ah me! what strange inconsistency !” Leaving Mr. Edgar to his not very plea- sant reflections, we will follow the wood- cutter. His name was Harlan. He had been better off than now—-owning at one time a small farm near the city, from which he derived a comfortable support for his family. In an evil hour he was induced to sell this farm and remove to Philadelphia, for the purpose of keeping a store. The result was as might have been expected. Knowing nothing of business, he was not able to conduct it successfully. By the end of three years, he found himself unable T1—C 28 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. to go on any longer. Losses from trust ing out his goods, and from unwise pur- chases, added to the greatly increased ex- pense of his family from residing in a city, consumed all that he had, and he was forced to close his store, sell off his stock, and set- tle up the business. If, after this, he had been even with the world, it would not have been so bad. But debt was added to the burden of his troubles. The question, “ What next to do?” was now more easily asked than answered. Mr. Harlan had no trade at which he could work, and was comparatively a stranger in the city. His chances for getting employ- ment were, therefore, small; and as winter was closing in, he might well begin to feel deeply troubled, especially as his family consisted of his wife and three children. In order to meet some of the most urgent of his creditors, who were not satisfied when they saw the man broken up in business, and every barrel, box, and package of his goods sold off, and the proceeds distributed, THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 29 but still clamoured for their pay and threat- ened all manner of consequences if the mo- ney did not come, he sold the best of his ‘furniture—thus depriving his family of many comforts, and reducing himself to a still lower position. “What shall I do?” Ah! how often and anxiously was that question asked, and how silent was all around after its utterance. Bread must be had for his little ones, and no man was more willing to work for it than he; but who would give him work? By aneighbour who had dealt in his store, and with whom he conferred on the subject, he was advised. to try and get a place as labourer in one of the stores on the wharves. Acting on this suggestion, he visited the store of every merchant from South to Vine streets, and asked for work ; but without success. The fall business was over, and many were dis- pensing with regular aid instead of employ- ing more. “‘T must do something,” said the unhap- 80 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. py man, in this crisis of his affairs. “T will saw wood—do any thing for my chil- dren. How does Gardiner manage to get bread?” he asked of the neighbour before mentioned. He spoke of a poor man living not far off. “By picking up odd jobs along the wharves,” replied the man. “He splits and piles up wood, carries bundles, and does little turns of one kind and another for people who may happen to need his services.” On this hint Harlan acted. He went on the next day to the wharf, with an axe under his arm, and came home at night as poor as he had gone out in the morning. Several opportunities had offered for ob- ~ taining work, but more eager seekers for employment thrust him aside and secured even the jobs for which he had half bar- gained. On the day following, he was more successful, and earned a dollar. From that time he went to the wharves regularly in search of work. Sometimes THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 81 he did not earn half-a-dollar during the whole day; at other times he did better. But the avarage of his gains was not over four dollars a week. This sum he found altogether insufficient for the wants of his family. Many privations were the conse- quence. Sickness came at last to add to the distress of the unhappy man. For two weeks he was confined to the house—most of the time to his bed—and had it not been for the kindness and charity of some neigh- bours, his family would have suffered for food. As soon as he could get out again, and before he had so far recovered his strength as to be really able to go to work, he was on the wharf, seeking employment. He earned but a trifle on the first and second days, and on the third day his only job was that obtained from Mr. Edgar. The split- ting and piling of half a cord of seasoned hickory wood was work beyond his strength. It took him full three hours to perform it, and when he received his wages and turn- o2 82 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. ed his steps homeward, his head was ach- ing violently ; he felt feverish, and almost staggered as he walked. Mr. Edgar, as has been seen, was far from feeling happy. He could not get the thought of the poor labouring-man out of his mind, try as he would, nor help feeling that, even though he had paid him the price agreed upon for his work, he had not dealt by him fairly. So occupied was his mind with this idea, that he was not able to sleep for nearly two hours after retiring for the night. With the morning came back the same thoughts. He felt troubled and ashamed. On going to his office, he found himself still haunted by the man’s ‘Image. Finally he determined to go to the wharves, search him out, and pay him . half-a-dollar more, in hopes thus to ease his conscience, or lay the troubled spirit that was haunting him. Acting up to this resolution, Mr. Edgar went down to the Delaware, and walked along the wood- wharves for ten or fifteen minutes, in hopes THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 83 of seeing the man. But his search was not successful. As he was about going away, he met the sawyer who had been at his house on the day before, and remembered him. “Have you seen any thing of the man who split my wood for me yesterday ?” he asked of the sawyer. ‘“‘He hasn't been on the wharf to-day,” was replied. ‘“¢ Where does he live ?” “In Federal street, near Seventh.” “Do you know his name ?” “Yes, sir. His name is Harlan.” “Ts he very poor ?” “Yes, sir; and he’s been sick. He wasn’t able to undertake such a job as he had yesterday, and I’m afraid it has put him back.” “ Has he a family ?” “Oh yes. He has a wife and children.” Mr. Edgar stood musing for some mo- ments. Then he asked particularly as to 84 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. the man’s residence, and on being told, went away. In a small room, in the third story of a house in the lower part of the city, sat a man in adeeply desponding attitude. Three children were near him, the oldest not over seven years of age; and a woman stood by the fire of a few coals that scarcely took the chill from the air of the small apartment, washing. The woman worked on in si- lence, and the man sat with his eyes gloomily cast upon the floor. “Indeed, Jane,” said the man, ‘I must go out and earn something today. All that I received yesterday is gone; and when our dinner is eaten, there will not be a mouthful of food left.” The man, as he walked across the room, staggered, and had to lean against the wall to support himself. He was very pale, and his eyes were drooping and dim. The wife left her washing instantly, and going to her husband’s side, took hold of his arm and drew him towards the bed THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 35 that was in the room, saying, as she did so— “You must lie down, Henry. Indeed you must; for you are sick. Don’t think of going out. You are not able to work, and the attempt will do you harm. Iam sure you could not walk a square.” While she yet spoke, she had drawn him to the bed, upon which he sank down, murmuring— “‘ Heaven help us!” Just then came a knock at the door. On being opened, a man stepped in and said— “Does Mr. Harlan live here ?” At this inquiry, the sick man started up, and recognised in the visiter the person for whom he had done the job of work on the day previous, that had proved too much for his strength. Hope instantly came into his despairing heart, and he cried— “OQ sir—save my children !” All night the man had lain in a raging TH.—3 86 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. fever, and his pulses yet beat quickly and irregularly. He had little more strength than a child. The excitement caused by this sudden and unexpected appearance, was too much for him, and he fell back, on making this almost wildly uttered appeal, so exhausted that he panted like a fright- ened child who had shrunk trembling upon its mother’s bosom. Mr. Edgar, for he was the visiter, felt deeply moved by what he saw and heard. Sitting down by the bedside, and speaking a word of encouragement to the poor man in order to quiet his mind, he proceeded to make inquiries of the wife as to their cir- cumstances and the causes which had led to their present destitution. The narra- tive affected him much. “No, no,” said he, after the wife had finished her relation, which ended with a reference to her husband’s wish to go out and look for work on that day, “he must remain in bed, and I will send him a phy- siclan. Here is more than he could earn ;” THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 87 and he handed the woman a couple of dol- Jars. ‘Get necessary food for yourself and children. To-morrow I will either see you myself, or send to know if Mr. Harlan is better. In the mean time, don’t . let your minds be troubled. Better em- ployment can be had for you, I am very sure.” “If we were only back in the country again !” sighed the woman. “Oh yes,” said Mr. Harlan; “if we were only on some little place in the coun- try! It was a sad day for us when we turned our thoughts towards the city.” “ The way may open for you to get back,” returned Mr. Edgar; “at least, hope for the best. You have evidently reached the lowest point in the descending circle of for- tune, and -it is but fair to think that the movement will now be upward.” When Mr. Edgar retired, it was with a deeper feeling of sympathy for the poor than he had ever known; and his cheek burned as he called to mind the many in- 38 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. stances in which he had paid them their small wages with a grudging spirit, and meanly beaten them down in their prices for work, when these prices were already so low as to be scarcely sufficient for the commonest necessaries of life. He thought of the many times he had chaffered for a sixpence or a shilling with a porter or poor labourer, and after gaining a trifling ad- vantage at the expense of justice, thrown double the amount away in some foolish expenditure. All this was humiliating, but salutary. It was a lesson in life not soon to be forgotten. In Mr. Harlan’s case he took an active interest. He saw that his family were properly cared for until he was able to go to work again, and then ob- tained for him the place of overseer on the farm of an acquaintance who wanted a com- petent farmer. When spring opened, Har- lan went back to the country with a hope- ful spirit, and Mr. Edgar went on his way through life more thoughtful than he had been, and far more considerate of the poor. ce WY ee AN EVENING AT HOME. Page 47. AN EVENING AT HOME. “ Ne going to the ball?” said Mrs. Lind- ley, with a look and tone of surprise. “ What has Some over the girl ?” “TI do t know, but she says she is not going.” * Doesn’t her dress fit ?” “Yes, beautifully.” ‘What is the matter, then ?” “Indeed, ma, I cannot tell. You had better go up and see her. It is the strangest notion in the world. Why, you couldn't hire me to stay at home.” Mrs. Lindley went up-stairs, and, enter- ing her daughter’s room, found her sitting on the side of the bed, with a beautiful ball-dress in her hand. oI—pD 41 ' 42 AN EVENING AT HOME. “Tt isn’t possible, Helen, that you are not going to this ball ?” said she. Helen looked up with a half-serious, half- smiling expression on her face: “Tve been trying, for the last half- hour,” she replied, -“‘to decide whether I ought to go, or stay at home. I think, perhaps, I ought to remain at home.” “But what earthly reason can you have for doing so? Don’t you like your dress ?” “Oh yes! very much. I think it beau- tiful.” “ Doesn’t it fit you?” “ As well as any dress I ever had.” “ Are you not well?” “Very well.” “Then why not go to the ball?” It will be the largest and most fashionable of the season. You know that your father and myself are both going. We shall want to see you there, of course. Your father will require some very good reason for your ab- sence.” AN EVENING AT HOME. 48 Helen looked perplexed at her mother's last remark. “Do you think father will be displeased if I remain at home?” she asked. ‘“‘T think he will, unless you can satisfy him that your reason for doing so is a very good one. Nor shall I feel that you are doing right. I wish all my children to act under the government of a sound judg- ment. Impulse, or reasons not to be spoken of freely to their parents, should in no case influence their actions.” Helen sat thoughtful for more than a minute, and then said, her eyes growing dim as she spoke— “T wish to stay at home for Edward’s sake.” “And why for his, my dear ?” “ He doesn’t go to the ball, you know.” “ Because he is too young, and too back- ward. You couldn’t hire him to go there. But, that is no reason why you should re- main at home. You would never partake of any social amusement were this always to 44 AN EVENING AT HOME. influence you. Let him spend the evening in reading. He must not expect his sisters to deny themselves all recreation in which — he cannot or will not participate.” “He does not. I know he would not hear to such a thing as my staying at home on his account.” “Then why stay ?” “ Because I feel that I ought to do so. This is the way I have felt all day, when- ever I have thought of going. If I were to go, I know that I would not have a: moment's enjoyment. He need not know why I remain at home. To tell him that I did not wish to go will satisfy his mind.” “T shall not urge the matter, Helen,” Mrs. Lindley said, after a silence of some moments. “You are old enough to judge in a matter of this kind for yourself. But I must say, I think you rather foolish. You will not find Edward ‘disposed to sa- crifice so much for you.” “Of that I do not think, mother. Of that I ought not to think.” AN EVENING AT HOME. 45 “Perhaps not. Well, you may do as like. But I don’t know what your father will say.” Mrs. Lindley then left the room. Edward Lindley was at the critical age of eighteen ; that period when many young men, especially those who have been blest with sisters, would have highly enjoyed a ball. But Edward was shy, timid, and bashful in company, and could hardly ever be induced to go out to parties with his sis- ters. Still, he was intelligent for his years, and companionable. His many good quali- ties endeared him to his family, and drew forth from his sisters toward him a very tender regard. Among his male friends were several about his own age, members of families with whom his own was on friendly terms. With these he associated frequently, and with two or three others, quite intimately. For a month or two Helen noticed that one or another of these young friends called every now and then for Edward, 46 AN EVENING AT HOME. in the evening, and that he went out with them and stayed until bedtime. But unless his sisters were from home, he never went of his own accord. The fact of his being out with these young men had, from the first, troubled Helen; though the reason of her feeling troubled she could not tell. Edward had good principles, and she could not bring herself to entertain fears of any clearly defined evil. Still a sensation of uneasiness was always produced when he was from home in the evening. Her knowing that Edward would go out after they had all left, was the reason why Helen did not wish to attend the ball. The first thought of this had produced an unpleasant sensation in her mind, which increased the longer she debated the ques- tion of going away or remaining at home. Finally, she decided that she would not go. This decision took place after the inter- view with her mother, which was only half an hour from the time of starting. Edward knew nothing of the intention AN EVENING AT HOME. 4T of his sister. He was in his own room, dressing to go out, and supposed, when he heard the carriage drive from the door, that Helen had gone with the other mem- bers of the family. On descending to the ’ parlour, he was surprised to find her sitting by the centre table, with a book in her hand. “Helen! Is this you! I thought you had gone to the ball. Are you not well?” he said quickly and with surprise, coming up to her side. Looking into her brother’s face with a smile of sisterly regard, Helen replied, “I have concluded to stay at home this even- ing. Iam going to keep you company.” “Are you, indeed! Right glad am Iof it! though I am sorry you have deprived yourself of the pleasure of this ball, which, T believe, is to be a very brilliant one. I was just going out, because it is so dull at home when you are all away.” “Tam not particularly desirous of going to the ball. So little so, that the thought 48 AN EVENING AT HOME. of your being left here all alone had suffi- cient influence over me to keep me away.” “Indeed! Well, I must say you are kind,” Edward returned, with feeling. The self-sacrificing act of his sister had touched him sensibly. Both Helen and her brother played well. She upon the harp and piano, and he upon the flute and violin. Both were fond of music, and practised and played frequently together. Part of the evening was spent in this way, much to the satisfaction of each. Then an hour passed in reading and econ- versation, after which music was again re- sorted to. Thus lapsed the time pleasantly until the hour for retiring came, when they separated, both with an internal feeling of pleasure more delightful than they had ex- perienced for a long time. It was nearly three o'clock before Mr. and Mrs. Lindley, and the daughter who had accompanied them to the ball, came home. Hours be- fore, the senses of both Edward and Helen had been locked in forgetfulness. AN EVENING AT HOME. 49 Time passedon. Edward'Lindley grew up and became a man of sound principles—a blessing to his family and society. He saw his sisters well married; and himself, final- ly, led to the altar a lovely maiden. She made him a truly happy husband. On the night of his wedding, as he sat beside Helen, he paused for some time, in the midst of a pleasant conversation, thought- fully. At last he said— “Do you remember, sister, the night you stayed home from the ball to keep me com- pany ?” “That was many years ago. Yes, I re- member it very well, now you have. re- called it to my mind.” “T have often since thought, Helen,” he said, with a serious air, “that by the simple act of thus remaining at home for my sake, you were the means of saving me from de- struction.” “‘ How so?” asked the sister. “Twas just then beginning to form an intimate association with young men of 50 AN EVENING AT HOME. my own age, nearly all of whom have since turned out badly. I did not care a great deal about their company; still, I liked so- ciety, and used to be with them frequently —especially when you and Mary went out in the evening. On the night of the ball to which you were going, these young men had a supper, and I was to have been with them. I did not wish particularly to jom them, but preferred doing so to remaining at home alone. To find you, as I did, so un- expectedly, in the parlour, was an agree- able surprise indeed. I stayed at home with a new pleasure, which was heightened by the thought that it was your love for me that had made you deny yourself for my gratification. We read together on that evening, we played together, we talked of many things. In your mind I had never before seen so much to inspire my own with high and pure thoughts. remembered the conversation of the young men with whom I had been associating, and in which T had taken pleasure, with something like AN EVENING AT HOME. 51 disgust. It was low, sensual, and too much of it vile and demoralizing. Never, from that hour, did I join them. Their way, even in the early stage of life’s journey, I saw to be downward, and downward it has ever since been tending. How often since have I thought of that point in time, so full-fraught with good and evil influences! Those few hours spent with you seemed to take scales from my eyes. I saw with a new vision. I thought and felt differently. Had you gone to the ball, and I to meet those young men, no one can tell what might have been the consequences. Sen- sual indulgences, carried to excess, amid songs and sentiments calculated to awaken evil instead of good feelings, might have stamped upon my young and delicate mind a bias to low affections that never would have been eradicated. That was the great starting-point in life—the period when I was coming into a state of rationality and freedom. The good prevailed over the evil, and by the agency of my sister, as an angel 52 AN EVENING AT HOME. sent by the Author of all benefits to save me.” Like Helen Lindley, let every elder sis- ter be thoughtful of her brothers at that critical period in life, when the boy is about passing up to the stage of manhood, and she may save them from many a snare set for their unwary feet by the evil one. In closing this little sketch, we can say no- thing better than has already been said by an accomplished American authoress, Mrs. Farrar :— “So many temptations,” she remarks, “beset young men, of which young women know nothing, that it is of the utmost importance that your brothers’ evenings should be happily past at home, that their friends should be your friends, that their engagements should be the same as yours, and that various innocent amuse- ments should be provided for them in the family circle. Music is an accomplishment chiefly valuable as a home enjoyment, as rallying round the piano the various mem- AN EVENING AT HOME. 58 bers of a family, and harmonizing their hearts as well as voices, particularly in de- votional strains. I khow no more agree- able and interesting spectacle, than that of brothers and sisters playing and singing together those elevated compositions in music and poetry which gratify the taste and purify the heart, while their fond pa- rents sit delighted by. Ihave seen and heard an elder sister thus leading the fa- mily choir, who was the soul of harmony to the whole household, and whose life was a perfect example of those virtues which I am here endeavouring to inculcate. Let no one say, in reading this chapter, that too much love is here required of sisters, that no one can be expected to lead such a self-sacrificing life: for the sainted one to whom I refer was all I would ask my sis- ter to be, and a happier person never lived. To do good and to make others happy was her rule of life, and in this she found the art of making herself’ so. ‘Sisters should always be willing to OL—E TIl—4 54 AN EVENING AT HOME. walk, ride, visit with their brothers; and esteem it a privilege to be their companions. It is worth while to learn innocent games for the sake of furnishing brothers with amusements and making home the most agreeable place to them. “T have been told by some, who have passed unharmed through the temptations of youth, that they owed their escape from many dangers to the intimate companion- ship of affectionate and pure-minded sis- ters. They have been saved from a ha- zardous meeting with idle company by some home engagement, of which their sisters were the charm; they have refrained from mixing with the impure, because they would not bring home thoughts and feelings which they could not share with those trusting, loving friends; they have put aside the wine-cup and abstained from stronger potations, because they would not profane with their fumes the holy kiss with which they were accustomed to bid their sisters good-night.” OH). TT owe “WHY ANNA! WHAT IS THE MATTER?” yj ait YI) PD y 4 i ie FOI / << = Page 65. (3) THE TEMPERANCE MEETING IN STEVE MILLER’S BAR-ROOM. r[HOMAS LE ROY was a mechanic, who by industry and economy had saved enough to buy himself a neat little cottage, with ground for a garden and pasturage for a cow. Early in the mornings, be- fore he went to his work, he gave an hour or two, during the spring and sum mer months, to improving and beautify- ing this little homestead. All his fences were in perfect order; the shrubbery nicely trimmed, and the vines trained in the neatest manner. Every one said that the grounds around his cottage were better kept than any in the neighbourhood. ST 58 THE TEMPERANCE MEETING When remarks of this kind came to the ears of Le Roy, which was frequently the case, he felt highly gratified, and was sti- mulated to increased efforts. But the mechanic, with all his industry and thrift, had one fault, and that a very bad one, for it was a fault that increased by indulgence. He would take his glass occasionally; and would visit, at least two or three times a week, the village tavern, to meet a few acquaintances and talk over the news. This habit troubled his wife, who had, in her own family, seen and felt the evil effects of intemperance, and shrank with an instinctive fear from even the sha- dow of the monster. Once or twice she had hinted at the character of her feelings, but the effect. produced on the mind of her husband was surprise and displeasure. He felt in no danger, and was hurt that his wife could even dream of such a thing as his falling into habits of intemperance. At first, Le Roy’s visits to the tavern were rarely oftener than once a week, and IN STEVE MILLER’S BAR-ROOM. 59 then he never drank more than a single glass. He went more for the pleasant com- pany he found there. But, in process of time, two evenings in the week saw the mechanic at the tavern; and it generally took two glasses of an evening to satisfy his increasing desire for liquor. Three evenings and three glasses were the next progressive steps; and so on, until he felt no longer contented at home a single even- ing in the week. The tavern-keeper, whose name was Stephen Miller, had commenced his liquor- selling business some ten years before, and - was then about the poorest man in the vil- lage. He was poor, because he was too lazy to work steadily at his trade, which was that of a house-carpenter. At first he opened, in a miserable little shanty of a place, with a few jugs of liquor, and some bad groceries to tempt people to his shop. He didn’t seem to do a great deal, but somehow or ether, at the end of a year, he was able to buy the furniture of one of the 60 THE TEMPERANCE MEETING taverns in the village, which was sold at the death of the owner, and assume the responsibility of a public-house for the entertainment of travellers. People won- . dered. They could not understand it. How a man who never seemed to have more than fifty dollars’ worth of things in his shop could save up three or four hundred dollars in a year—the amount of cash paid down by Miller—passed their simple comprehension. None but he knew how many glasses and pints were sold in a day, nor how much profit was made on every dram. Two years after this the tavern-stand was sold. Miller was the purchaser, and paid down a thousand dollars of the purchase- money! It was a mystery to every one how a man who had been before so thrift- - less should now be getting along so fast. A couple of years more and Miller bought a farm in the neighbourhood, which one of his best customers, who had fallen into in- temperate habits, had neglected, and who, IN STEVE MILLER’S BAR-ROOM. 61 in the end, found himself obliged to sell out. Some people began to open their eyes after this. It was plain enough that Jones had lost his property through drunkenness; though all did not see so plainly that, in becoming its owner, Miller had not rendered back to the community in which he lived any equivalent use. Not long after this, the house and acre-lot of another good cus- tomer went into the hands of the sheriff, and Miller was the purchaser. “What was Steve Miller looking about here for, this afternoon?” asked Mrs. Le Roy of her husband, one evening when he came home to supper? “Tm sure I don’t know,” replied the me- chanic. “Looking about here ?” “Yes, he came along with another man, and stood and looked at the house, and talked for some time; and then they both went round, and looked over the fence into the garden. I was ashamed to have them do so, for every thing is so neglected to what it used to be.” 62 THE TEMPERANCE MEETING Le Roy made some indifferent answer, merely to satisfy his wife, who seemed worried by the incident. But the fact men- tioned produced an unpleasant impression on his mind. “T wonder what business he has spying about my place?” said he to himself. “T don’t owe him any thing.” The satisfaction with which he uttered the last part of the sentence was rather diminished by the recollection that his bill at; the store had been suffered to run up until it amounted to over sixty dollars, and that he owed the shoemaker nearly twenty more. Debts like these had never before been permitted to accumulate. After supper he was led by his inclina- tions, as usual, to the bar-room of Miller, which was always well filled with pleasant companions. His wife saw him depart with troubled feelings. She was, alas! too well aware that he had entered the downward road, and that his steps were on the way to ruin. IN STEVE MILLER’S BAR-ROOM. 68 Just off from the bar-room of Miller's tavern was a little parlour, and Le Roy, not feeling very social on that particular evening, took his glass of liquor and news- paper and sat apart from the rest of the company, at a table close to the door of this parlour, which stood ajar. He became directly aware that the landlord was in the next room, conversing with some one in an undertone, and as he heard his own name mentioned, he felt excused for listen- ing attentively to all that was said. “ Things don’t look as tidy around him as they used to,” remarked the person who was talking with Miller. “Not by any means. I was told that this was the case, and walked over to-day to see for myself. Evidently he is running down fast. I asked Phillips about him a little while ago, and he told me that his bill at the store was sixty dollars. In - former times he never owed a cent.” “He'll go to the dogs before long.” “T presume so. Well, I shall keep my 64 THE TEMPERANCE MEETING eye on that little place of his. I always had a fancy for it, and would like to get it at a bargain when it goes off, as it will have to before a great while.” “You buy a good deal of property ?” “Yes.” “What did you pay for Shriver’s place?” “‘ Nine hundred dollars.” “No more?” “No; Shriver refused, once, to my cer- tain knowledge, sixteen hundred for it.” “ He let it run down shamefully.” “Oh yes,” replied the tavern-keeper. “He became a mere sot, and neglected every thing. I wouldn't trust him, now, for a three-cent glass of whisky. His place was sold, of course, and I bought it at a bargain. I wouldn’t take, this hour, an ad- vance of four hundred dollars on the pur- chase. It’s always best to buy property that has been suffered by a drunken fellow to run down for a few years. It gets to look a great deal worse than it really is, and you're sure to buy a bargain.” IN STEVE MILLER’S BAR-ROOM. 65 “No doubt, you'll have Le Roy’s place, in the end, under this system.” “To a moral certainty. In about two years he will have to sell; and see if I am not the man who buys. I want that place for my daughter Jane. As soon as I get it, I will pull down the little kitchen, and build a dining-room twenty feet square where it stands. Half of the garden I will put in a green lawn, and make an orchard of the pasture-ground. You'll hardly know the place in a year after ’'m the owner.” Le Roy waited to hear no more. Rising up quickly, he left the bar-room without speaking to any one, and started on his © way homeward. “Have my place!” he muttered to him- self as he hurried along, clenching his fist and setting his teeth firmly as he spoke. “Have my place! We will see!” On reaching his home and entering sud- denly, Le Roy found his wife sitting by her little work-table with her face bent down and buried in her hands. She looked 66 THE TEMPERANCE MEETING up quickly, at the sound of his footsteps, and he saw that tears were on her cheeks. “Why, Anna! what's the matter?” he inquired. “Oh, nothing,” she replied evasively, trying to force a smile. Le Roy looked at her for some moments, earnestly, and as he did so, the truth flashed over his mind. She, too, saw as clearly as the tavern-keeper, that he was on the road to ruin! “ Anna,”—Le Roy spoke seriously, yet with earnestness, and in a tone of affection and confidence,—‘ Anna, I have found out why Steve Miller was spying about here “He wants this place for his daughter Jane.” Mrs. Le Roy looked bewildered. “He thinks that, in about two years, I will run it down, so that he will be able to get it for about half its value. He was looking to see how much progress I had IN STEVE MILLER’S BAR-ROOM, 67 made in the road to ruin, and thinks the prospect for his getting the place in about two years very fair. He will tear down the kitchen, and build a handsome dining- room in its place, and so improve the ground that it will hardly be known as the same spot ina year. But, Anna, he'll find himself mistaken! Ive got my eyes open. Not while I am living shall Steve Miller own this property !” Tears of thankfulness gushed. from the eyes of Mrs. Le Roy, as she said— “Oh, what a mountain you have taken from my heart!” On the next day, Le Roy related to every acquaintance he met the conversation he had heard while in Miller’s bar-room; and these told the story to others. So that, before evening, it was all over the village. “Let's go there in a crowd to-night,” suggested one, “ and organize a temperance society in the bar-room.” The suggestion struck the fancy of all IL—F 68 THE TEMPERANCE MEETING who heard it. That night the bar-room of the tavern-keeper was filled to overflowing. Miller was at first delighted, though a little surprised that no one called for liquor, and at the air of business that sat upon every countenance. “YT move that Le Roy take the chair,” said one. The mechanic was handed to the post of honour, when he related minutely the occurrences and conversation of the day previous; and then said that the object of the meeting was to organize a temperance society, and thus prevent the tavern-keeper from getting all their property. “I can assure the gentleman,” he said in closing, “that his daughter Jane will never live -in my place while I have breath in my body.” “‘ My hand to that!” was echoed around the room by a dozen voices. The society was regularly formed, the pledge signed by every individual present, and a vote of thanks to the landlord passed IN STEVE MILLER’S BAR-ROOM. 69 for the use of his bar-room. Five minutes afterward he occupied it alone. Stephen Miller’s affairs were never after- ward as prosperous as they had been; but fewer estates run down in the village, and fewer families are reduced to beggary. And so it would be in hundreds of towns and villages, if the inhabitants would act as Le Roy and his friends did in this case. PLL SEE ABOUT IT. M® EASY sat alone in his counting- room, one afternoon, in a most comfort- able frame, both as regards mind and body. A profitable speculation in the morning had brought the former into a state of great complacency, and a good dinner had done all that was required for the repose of the latter. He was in that delicious, half-asleep, half-awake condition, which, oc- curring after dinner, is so very pleasant. The newspaper, whose pages at first pos- sessed a charm for his eyes, had fallen, with the hand that held it, upon his knee. His head was gently reclined backwards against the top of a high leather-cushioned 70 I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. 71 chair; while his eyes, half-opened, saw all things around him but imperfectly. Just at this time the door was quietly opened, and a lad of some fifteen or sixteen years, with a pale, thin face, high forehead, and large dark eyes, entered. He approached the merchant with a hesitating step, : and soon stood directly before him. Mr. Easy felt disturbed at this int: for so he felt it. He knew the lac the son of a poor widow, who had once seen better circumstances than those that now surrounded her. Her hus: ~ had, while living, been his intimate ” nd he had promised him, at his dying hour, to be the protector and adviser of his wife and children. He had meant to do all he pro- mised; but, not being very fond of trouble, except where stimulated to activity by the hope of gaining some good for himself, he had not been as thoughtful in regard to Mrs. Mayberry as he ought to have been. She was a modest, shrinking, sensitive wo- man, and had, notwithstanding her need of TH.—5 P2 72 I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. a friend and adviser, never called upon Mr. Easy, nor even sent a request for him to act for her in any thing, except once. Her hus- band had left her poor. She knew little of the world. She had three quite young children, and one, the oldest, about sixteen. Had Mr. Easy been true to his pledge, he might have thrown many a ray upon her dark path, and lightened her burdened heart of many a doubt and fear. But he had permitted more than a year to pass since the death of her husband, without having once called upon her. This neglect had not been intentional. His will was good, but never active at the present mo- ment. ‘ To-morrow,” or “next week,” or “very soon,” he would call upon Mrs. May- berry; but to-morrow, or next week, or very soon, had never yet come. As for the widow, soon after her hus- band’s death, she found that poverty was to be added to affliction. A few hundred dollars made up the sum of all that she received after the settlement of his busi- V'LL SEE ABOUT IT. 78 ness, which had never been in a very pros- perous condition. On this, under the ex- ercise of extreme frugality, she had been enabled to live for nearly a year. Then her scanty store made it but too apparent that individual exertion was required in order to procure the means of support for her little family. Ignorant of the way in which this was to be done, and having no one to advise her, nearly two months more passed before she could determine what to do. By that time she had but a few dol- lars left, and was in a state of great mental distress and uncertainty. She then applied for work at some of the shops, and obtained common sewing, but at prices that could not yield her any thing hke a support. Hiram, her oldest son, had been kept at school up to this period. But now she had to withdraw him. It was impossible any longer to pay his tuition fees. He was an intelligent lad—active in mind,.and pure in his moral principles; but, like his mo- ther, sensitive, and inclined to avoid obser- 74 VLL SEE ABOUT IT. vation. Like her, too, he had a proud in- dependence of feeling, that made him shrink from asking or accepting a favour, or putting himself under an obligation to any one. He first became aware of his mother’s true condition, when she took him from school, and explained the reason for so doing. At once his mind rose into the determination to do something to aid his mother. He felt a glowing confidence, arising from the con- sciousness of strength within. He felt that he had both the will and the power to act, and to act efficiently. “Don’t be disheartened, mother,” said he, with animation. “I can and will do something. I can help you. You have worked for me a great many years. Now I will work for you.” Where there is a will there is a way. But it is often the case, that the will lacks the kind of intelligence that enables it to find the right way at once. So it proved in the case of Hiram Mayberry. He had a strong enough will, but did not know how Y’LL SEE ABOUT IT. 75 to bring it into activity. Good, without its appropriate truth, is impotent. Of this the poor lad soon became conscious. To the question of his mother— “What can you do, child?” an answer came not so readily. “Oh, I can do a great many things,” was easily said; but, even as he said this, a sense of inability followed. The will impels, and then the under- standing seeks for the means of effecting the purposes of the will. In the case of young Hiram, thought followed desire. He pondered for many days over the means by which he was to aid his mother. But, the more he thought, the more con- scious did he become that, in the world, he was but a weak boy. That however strong might be his purpose, his means of action were limited. His mother could aid him but little. She had but one sugges- tion to make, and that was, that he should endeavour to get a situation in some store or counting-room. This he attempted to 76 YVLL SEE ABOUT IT. do. Following her direction, he called upon Mr. Easy, who promised to see about looking him up a situation. It happened, the day after, that a neighbour spoke to him about a lad for his store—(Mr. Easy had already forgotten his promise)—Hiram was recommended, and the man called to see his mother. “How much salary can you afford to give him?” asked Mrs. Mayberry, after learning all about the situation, and feeling satisfied that her son ought to accept of it. “Salary, ma'am?” returned the store- keeper, in a tone of surprise. ‘“ We never give a boy any salary for the first year. The knowledge that is acquired of business is always considered a full compensation. After the first year, if he likes us, and we like him, we may give him seventy-five or a hundred dollars.” Poor Mrs. Mayberry’s countenance fell immediately. “T wouldn’t think of his going out now, if it were not in the hope of his earning I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. iT something,” said she, in a disappointed voice. “How much did you expect him to earn?” was asked by the storekeeper. “TY didn’t know exactly what to expect. But I supposed that he might earn four or five dollars a week.” “Five dollars a week is all we pay our porter, an able-bodied, industrious man,” was returned. “If you wish your son to become acquainted with mercantile busi- ness, you must not expect him to earn much for three or four years. At a trade, you may receive for him barely a sufficien- cy to board and clothe him, but nothing more.” This declaration so dampened the feel- ings of the mother, that she could not re- ply for some moments. At length she said— “Tf you will take my boy, with the un- derstanding, that, in case I am not able to support him, or hear of a situation where a salary can be obtained, you will let him 738 YVLL SEE ABOUT IT. leave your employment without hard feel- ings, he shall go into your store at once.” To this the man consented, and Hiram Mayberry went with him according to agreement. A few weeks passed, and the lad, liking both the business and his em- ployer, his mother felt exceedingly anxious for him to remain. But she sadly feared that this could not be. Her little store was just about exhausted, and the most she had yet been able to earn by working for the shops, was a dollar and a half a week. This was not more than sufficient _ to buy the plainest food for her little flock. It would not pay rent, nor get clothing. To meet the former, recourse was had to the sale of her husband’s small, select li- brary. Careful mending kept the younger children tolerably decent, and by altering for him the clothes left by his father, she was able to keep Hiram in a suitable con- dition to appear at the store of his em- ployer. Thus matters went on for several months, LL SEE ABOUT IT. 79 Mrs. Mayberry working late and early. The natural result was, a gradual failure of strength. In the morning, when she awoke, she would feel so languid and heavy, that to rise required a strong effort; and even after she was up, and attempted to re- sume her labours, her trembling frame almost refused to obey the dictates of her will. At length nature gave way. One morning she was so sick that she could not rise. Her head throbbed with a dizzy, blinding pain —her whole body ached, and her skin burn- ed with fever. Hiram got something for the children to eat, and then taking the youngest, a little girl about two years old, into the house of a neighbour, who had showed them some good-will, asked her if she would take care of his sister until he returned home at dinner-time. This the neighbour readily consented to do—promis- ing, also, to call in frequently to see his mother. At dinner-time Hiram found his mother quite ill. She was no better at night. For nO—@ 80 I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. three days the fever raged violently. Then, under the careful treatment of their old family physician, it was subdued. After that she gradually recovered, but very slowly. The physician said she must not attempt again to work as she had done. This injunction was scarcely necessary. She had not the strength to do so. ““T don’t see what you will do, Mrs. Mayberry,” a neighbour, who had often aided her by kind advice, said, in reply to the widow’s statement of her unhappy con- dition. ‘ You cannot maintain these chil- dren, certainly. And I don’t see how, in your present feeble state, you are going to maintain yourself. There is but one thing that I can advise, and that advice I give with reluctance. It is to endeavour to get two of your children into some orphan asy- lum. The youngest you may be able to keep with you. The oldest can support himself at something or other.” The pale cheek of Mrs. Mayberry grew paler at this proposition. She half sobbed, I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. 81 caught her breath, and looked her adviser with a strange, bewildered stare in the face. “Oh no! I cannot do that. I cannot be separated from my dear little children. Who will care for them like a mother?” “ Tt is hard, I know, Mrs. Mayberry. But necessity is a stern ruler. You cannot keep them with you—that is certain. You have not the strength to provide them with even the coarsest food. In an asylum, with a kind matron, they will be better off than under any other circumstances.” But Mrs. Mayberry shook her head. “ No—no—no,” she replied—“I cannot think of such a thing. I cannot be sepa- rated from them. I shall soon be able to work again—better able than before.” The neighbour, who felt deeply for her, did not urge the matter. When Hiram re- turned at dinner-time, his face had in it a more animated expression than usual. “‘ Mother,” said he, as soon as he came in, “I heard to-day that a boy was wanted at the Gazette-office, who could write a 82 I'LL SEE ABOUT Iv. good hand. The wages are to be four dol- lars a week.” “You did!” Mrs. Mayberry said quickly, her weak frame trembling, although she struggled hard to be composed. “Yes. And Mr. Easy is well acquainted with the publisher, and could get me the place, I am sure.” ‘Then go and see him at once, Hiram. If you can secure it, all will be well; if not, your little brothers and sisters will have to be separated, perhaps sent into an orphan asylum.” Mrs. Mayberry covered her face with her hands and sobbed bitterly for some mo- ments. Hiram ate his frugal meal quickly, and returned to the store, where he had to re- main until his employer went home and dined. On his return, he asked liberty to be absent for half an hour, which was granted. He then went to the counting- house of Mr. Hasy, and disturbed him as has been seen. Approaching with a timid VLL SEE ABOUT IT. 88 step and a flushed brow, he said in a con- fused and hurried manner— “‘ Mr. EHasy, there is a lad wanted at the Gazette-office.” “Well?” returned Mr. Easy in no very cordial tone. “Mother thought you would be kind enough to speak to Mr. G. for me.” “‘ Haven't you a place in a store?” “Yes, sir. But I don’t get any wages. And at the Gazette-office they will pay four dollars a week.” “But the knowledge of business to be gained where you are will be worth a great deal more than four dollars a week.” “ T know that, sir. But mother is not able to board and clothe me. I must earn something.” “Oh ay, that’s it. Very well, Ill see about it for you.” “When shall I call, sir?” asked Hiram. “When? Oh, almost any time. Say to- morrow or next day.” The lad departed, and Mr. Easy’s head a2 84 YLL SEE ABOUT IT. fell back upon the chair, the impression which had been made upon his mind pass- ing away almost as quickly as writing upon water. With anxious, trembling hearts did Mrs. Mayberry and her son wait for the after- noon of the succeeding day. On the suc- cess of Mr. Easy’s application rested all their hopes. Neither she nor Hiram ate over a few mouthfuls at dinner-time. The latter hurried away, and returned to the store, there to wait with trembling eager- ness until his employer should come from dinner, and he again be free to go and see Mr. Easy. To Mrs. Mayberry the afternoon passed slowly. She had forgotten to tell her son to return home immediately, if the applica- tion should be successful. He did not come back, and she had, consequently, to remain in a state of anxious suspense until dark. He came in at the usual hour. His de- jected countenarice told of disappoint- ment. I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. 85 “Did you see Mr. Easy?” asked Mrs. Mayberry in a low, troubled voice. “Yes. But he hadn’t been to the Ga- zette-office. He said he had been very busy. But that he would see about i¢ soon.” Nothing more was said. The mother and son, after sitting silently and pensive during the evening, retired early to bed. On the next day, urged on by his anxious desire to get the situation of which he had heard, Hiram again called at the counting- room of Mr. Easy, his heart trembling with hope and fear. There were two or three men present. Mr. Easy cast upon him rather an impatient look as he entered. His ap- pearance had evidently annoyed the mer- chant. Had Hiram consulted his feelings, he would have retired at once. But there was too much at stake. Gliding to a corner of the room, he stood with his hat in his hand, and a look of anxiety upon his face, until Mr. Easy was disengaged. At length the gentlemen with whom he was occupied went away, and Mr. Easy turned toward 86 I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. the boy. Hiram looked up earnestly in his face. “T have really been so much occupied, my lad,” said the merchant in a kind of apologetic tone, “as to have entirely for- gotten my promise to you. But I will see about it. Come in again to-morrow.” Hiram made no answer, but turned with a sigh toward the door. The keen disap- pointment expressed in the boy’s face, and the touching quietness of his manner, reached the feelings of Mr. Easy. He was not a hard-hearted man, but selfishly indif- rent to others. He could feel deeply enough if he would permit himself to do so. “Stop a minute,” said he. And then stood in a musing attitude for a moment or two. “As you seem so anxious about this matter,” he added, “if you will wait here a little while, I will step down and see Mr. G: at once.” The boy’s face brightened instantly. Mr. Easy saw the effect of what he said, and it made the task he was about entering upon LL SEE ABOUT IT. 87 reluctantly a lighter one. Hiram waited for nearly a quarter of an hour, so eager to know the result that he could not compose himself to sit down. The sound of Mr. Easy’s step at the door, at. length made his heart bound. The merchant entered. Hi- ram looked into his face. One glance was sufficient to dash every dearly cherished hope to the ground. “Yam sorry,” said Mr. Easy, “but the place was filled this morning. I was a little too la The boy was unable to control his feel- ings. The disappointment was too great. Tears gushed from his eyes as he turned away and left the counting-room without speaking. “Tm afraid I've done wrong,” said Mr. Easy to himself, as he stood in a musing attitude, by his desk, about five minutes after Hiram had left. If I had seen about the situation when he first called upon me, I might have secured it for him. But it’s too late now.” i--6 88 I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. After saying this, the merchant placed his thumbs in the armholes of his waist- coat, and commenced walking the floor of his counting-room, backwards and forwards. He could not get out of his mind the image of the boy as he turned from him in tears, nor drive away thoughts of the friend’s widow whom he had neglected. This state of mind continued all the afternoon. Its na- tural effect was to cause him to cast about in his mind for some way of getting em- ployment for Hiram that would yield imme- diate returns. But nothing presented itself. “TI wonder if I couldn’t make room for him here?” he at length said. ‘ He looks like a bright boy. I know Mr. is high- ly pleased with him. He spoke of getting four dollars a week. That’s a good deal to give to a mere lad. But, I suppose I might make him worth that to me. And now I begin to think seriously about the matter, I believe I cannot keep a clear conscience and any longer remain indifferent to the welfare of my old friend’s widow and chil- I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. 89 dren. I must look after them a little more closely than I have heretofore done.” This resolution relieved the mind of Mr. Easy a good deal. When Hiram left the counting-room of the merchant, his spirits were crushed to the very earth. He found his way back, how he hardly knew, to his place of busi- ness, and mechanically performed the tasks allotted him until evening. Then he re- turned home, reluctant to meet his mother, and yet anxious to relieve her state of sus- pense, even if in doing so he should dash a last hope from her heart. When he came in, Mrs. Mayberry lifted her eyes to his inquiringly; but dropped them instantly— she needed no words to tell her that he had suffered a bitter disappointment. “You did not get the place?” she’ at length said, with forced composure. ““No—it was taken this morning. Mr. Easy promised to see about it. But he didn’t do so. When he went this after- noon, it was too late.” 90 VLL SEE ABOUT IT. Hiram said this with a trembling voice and lips that quivered. “Thy will be done!” murmured the widow, lifting her eyes upward. “If these tender ones are to be taken from their mo- ther’s fold, oh! do thou temper for them the piercing blast, and be their shelter amid the raging tempests.” A tap at the door brought back the thoughts of Mrs. Mayberry. A brief struggle with her feelings enabled her to overcome them in time to receive a visitor with com- posure. It was the merchant. “< Mr. Easy !” she said in surprise. ‘* Mrs. Mayberry, how do youdo?” There was some restraint and embarrassment in his manner. He was conscious of having neglected the widow of his friend, before he came. The humble condition in which he found her quickened that consciousness into a sting. “Tm sorry, madam,” he said, after he had become seated and made a few inquiries, “that I did not get the place for your son. I'LL SEE ABOUT IT. 91 In fact, Iam to blame in the matter. But I have been thinking since that he would suit me exactly, and, if you have no objec- tions, I will take him and pay him a salary of two hundred dollars for the first year.” Mrs. Mayberry tried to reply, but her feelings were too much excited by this sudden and unlooked-for proposal to allow her to speak for some moments. Even then her assent was made with tears glistening on her cheeks. Arrangements were quickly made for the transfer of Hi- ram from the store where he had been en- gaged, to the counting-room of Mr. Easy. The salary he received was just enough to enable Mrs. Mayberry, with what she her- self earned, to keep her little ones together, until Hiram, who proved a valuable assist- ant in Mr. Easy’s business, could command a larger salary, and render her more im- portant aid. OI— A GOOD INVESTMENT. HAT’S a smart little fellow of yours,” said a gentleman named Winslow to a labouring-man, who was called in, occa- sionally, to do work about his store. “ Does he go to school ?” “‘ Not now, sir,” replied the poor man. “Why not, Davis? He looks like a bright lad.” “ He’s got good parts, sir,” returned the father, “ but”?—— “ But what?” asked the gentleman, see- ing that the man hesitated. “Times are rather hard now, sir, and I. have a large family. It’s about as much as I can do to keep hunger and cold away. 92 “ur TT \ CAN \ = = 1 Ta LW NH | Wd a SINS SW97“7~r EK SS SI \\ —~ MON NN ». \c , ty + We ” (3) Page 96. A GOOD INVESTMENT. 93 Ned reads very well, writes a tolerable fair hand, considering all things, and can figure a little. And that’s about all I can do for him. The other children are coming for- ward, and I reckon he will have to go to a trade middling soon.” “How old is Ned?” inquired Mr. Wins- low. “ He’s turned of eleven.” “You won't put him to a trade before he’s thirteen or fourteen ?” “‘Can’t keep him at home idling all that time, Mr. Winslow. It would be his ruin- ation. It’s young to go out from home, I know, to rough it and tough it among strangers”—there was a slight unsteadiness in the poor man’s voice—“ but it’s better than doing nothing.” “‘ Ned ought to go to school a year or two longer, Davis,” said Mr. Winslow, with some interest in his manner. “ And as you are not able to pay the quarter-bills, I guess I will have todo it. What say you? If I pay for Ned’s schooling, can you keep 96 A GOOD INVESTMENT. him. at home some two or three years longer ?” “T didn’t expect that of you, Mr. Wins- low,” said the poor man, and his voice now trembled. He uncovered his head as he spoke, almost reverently. “You an’t bound to pay for schooling my boy. Ah, sir!” “ But you hav’n’t answered my question, Davis. What say you?” “Oh sir, if you are really in earnest ?” “T am in earnest. Ned ought to go to school. If you can keep him home a few years longer, I will pay for his education during the time. Ned”—Mr. Winslow spoke to the boy—‘‘ what say you? Would you like to go to school again ?” “Yes, indeed, sir,” quickly answered the boy, while his bright young face was lit up with a gleam of intelligence. “Then you shall go, my fine fellow. There’s the right kind of stuff in you, or I'm mistaken. We'll give you a trial, at ‘any ra’ 2 : A GOOD INVESTMENT. 97 Mr. Winslow was as good as his word. Ned was immediately entered at an excellent school. The boy, young as he was, appre- ciated the kind act of his benefactor, and resolved to profit by it to the full extent. ‘“‘T made an investment of ten dollars to- day,” said Mr. Winslow, half-jestingly, to a mercantile friend, some three months after the occurrence just related took place, “ and here’s the certificate.” He held up a small slip of paper as he spoke. “Ten dollars! A large operation! In what fund ?” “A charity fund.” “Oh!” And the friend shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t do much in that way myself. No great faith in the security. What dividend do you expect to receive ?” “Don’t know. Rather think it will be large.” “‘ Better take some more of the stock, if you think it so good. There is plenty in market to be bought at less than par.” H2 98 _A GOOD INVESTMENT. Mr. Winslow smiled, and said that in all probability he would invest a few more small sums in the same way, and see how it would turn out. The little piece of paper which he plea- santly called a certificate of stock, was the first quarter-bill he had paid for Ned’s schooling. For four years these bills were regularly paid; and then Ned, who had well improved the opportunities so gene- rously afforded him, was taken, on the re- commendation of Mr. Winslow, into a large importing house. He was at the time in his sixteenth year. Before the lad could en- ter upon this employment, however, Mr. Winslow had to make another investment in his charity fund. Ned’s father was too poor to give him an outfit of clothing such as was required in the new position to which he was to be elevated; knowing this, the generous merchant came forward again and furnished the needful supply. As no wages were received by Ned for the first two years, Mr. Winslow continued A GOOD INVESTMENT. 99 to buy his clothing, while his father still gave him his board. On reaching the age of eighteen, Ned’s employers, who were much pleased with his industry, intelli- gence, and attention to business, put him on a salary of three hundred dollars. This made him at once independent. He could pay his own boarding and find his own clothes, and proud did he feel on the day when advanced to so desirable. a position. “‘ How comes on your investment?” asked Mr. Winslow's mercantile friend about this time. He spoke jestingly. “Tt promises very well,” was the smil- ing reply. “Tt is rising in the market, then ?” “Yes.” “ Any dividends yet ?” “Oh, certainly. Large dividends.” “Ah! You surprise me. What kind of dividends ?” “ More than a hundred per cent.” “Indeed! Not in money ?” “Qh no. But in something better than 100 A GOOD INVESTMENT. money. The satisfaction that flows from an act of benevolence wisely done.” ‘Oh, that’s all.” The friend spoke with ill-concealed contempt. “Don’t you call that something?” asked Mr. Winslow. “It’s entirely too unsubstantial for me,” replied the other. “TI go in for returns of a more tangible character. Those you speak of won’t pay my notes.” Mr. Winslow smiled, and bade his friend good-morning. “He knows nothing,” said he to himself, as he mused on the subject, “of the plea- sure of doing good; and the loss is all on his side. If we have the ability to secure investments of this kind, they are among the best we can make; and all are able to put at least some money in the fund of good works, let it be ever so small an amount. Have I suffered the abridgment of a single comfort by what I have done? No. Have I gained in pleasant thoughts and feelings by the act? Largely. It has A GOOD INVESTMENT. 101 been a source of perennial enjoyment. I would not have believed that, at so small a cost, I could have secured so much plea- sure. And how great the good that may flow from what I have done! Instead of a mere day-labourer, whose work in the world goes not beyond the handling of boxes, bales, and barrels, or the manufac- ture of some article in common use, Ed- ward Davis, advanced by education, takes a position of more extended usefulness, and by his higher ability and more intelligent action in society, will be able, if he rightly use the power in his hands, to advance the world’s onward movement in a most im- portant degree.” Thus thought Mr. Winslow, and his heart grew warm within him. Time proved that he had not erred in affording the lad an opportunity for obtaining a good education. His quick mind acquired, in the position in which he was placed, accurate ideas of business, and industry and force of charac- ter made these ideas thoroughly practical. 102 A GOOD INVESTMENT. Every year his. employers advanced his salary, and, on attaining his majority, it was further advanced to the sum of one thousand dollars per annum. With every increase the young man had devoted a larger and larger proportion of his income to improving the condition of his father’s family, and when it was raised to the sum last mentioned, he took a neat, comfortable new house, much larger than the family had before lived in, and paid the whole rent himself. Moreover, through his ac- quaintance and influence, he was able to get a place for his father at lighter em- ployment than he had heretofore been engaged in, and at a higher rate of compen- sation. “‘ Any more dividends on your charity investment?” said Mr. Winslow’s friend, about this time. He spoke with the old manner, and from the old feelings. “Yes. Got a dividend today. The largest yet received,” replied the merchant, smiling. A GOOD INVESTMENT. 108 “Did you? Hope it does you a great deal of good.” “T realize your wish, my friend. It is doing me a great deal of good,” returned Mr. Winslow. “No cash, I presume ?” “Something far better. Let me explain.” “Do so, if you please.” “You know the particulars of this in- vestment?” said Mr. Winslow. His friend shook his head, and re- plied— “No. The fact is, I never felt interest enough in the matter to inquire about par- ticulars.” “Oh, well, then, I must give you a little history. “You know old .Davis, who has been working about our store for the last ten or fifteen years ?” “Yes.” “My investment was in the education of his son.” : “ Indeed !” 104 A GOOD INVESTMENT. “ His father took him from school when he was only eleven years old, because he’ could not afford to send him any longer, and was about putting the little fellow out to learn a trade. Something interested me in the child, who was a bright lad, and act- ing from a good impulse that came over me at the moment, I proposed to his father to send him to school for three or four years, if he would board and clothe him during the time. To this he readily agreed. So I paid for Ned’s schooling until he was in his sixteenth year, and then got him into Webb & Waldron’s store, where he has been ever since.” “Webb & Waldron’s!” said the friend, evincing some surprise. “I know all their clerks very well, for we do a great deal of business with them. Which is the son of old Mr. Davis?” “ The one they call Edward.” “ Not that tall, fine-looking young man —their leading salesman ?” “The same.” A GOOD INVESTMENT. 105 . “Ts it possible! Why, he is worth any two clerks in the store.” ““T know he is.” “For his age, there is not a better sales- man in the city.” “ So I believe,” said Mr. Winslow; “nor,” he added, “a better man.” “T know little of his personal character; but, unless his face deceives me, it cannot but be good. ” “Tt is good. Let me say a word about him. The moment his salary increased beyond what was absolutely required to pay his board and find such clothing as his position made it necessary for him to wear, he devoted the entire surplus to rendering his father’s family more comfort- able.” “ Highly praiseworthy,” said the friend. “J had received, already, many divi- dends on my investment,” continued Mr. Winslow; “but when that fact came to my knowledge, my dividend exceeded all the other dividends put together.” 1—? Tt.—~ 106 A GOOD INVESTMENT. The mercantile friend was silent. If ever in his life he had envied the reward of a good deed, it was at that moment. “To-day,” went on Mr. Winslow, “I have received a still larger dividend. I was passing along Buttonwood street, when I met old Mr. Davis coming out of a house, the rent of which, from its appearance, was not less than two hundred and twenty-five dollars. ‘ You don’t live here, of course ?” said I, for I knew the old man’s income to be small—not over six or seven dollars a week. ‘Qh, yes, I do, he made answer, with a smile. I turned and looked at the house again. ‘ How comes this?’ I asked. ‘You must be getting better off in the world. ‘So Iam, was his reply. ‘ Has anybody left you a little fortune? I in- quired. ‘No, but you have helped me to one, said he. ‘I don’t understand you, Mr. Davis, I made answer. ‘Edward rents the house for us,’ said the old man. ‘Do you understand now ? “T understood him perfectly. It was A GOOD INVESTMENT. 107 then that I received the largest dividend on my investment which had yet come into my hands. If they go on increasing at this rate, I shall soon be rich.” “Rather unsubstantial kind of riches,” was remarked by the friend. “That which elevates and delights the mind can hardly be called unsubstantial,” replied Mr. Winslow. “Gold will not al- ways do this.” The friend sighed involuntarily. The remarks of Mr. Winslow caused thoughts to flit over his mind that were far from being agreeable. A year or two more went by, and then an addition was made to the firm of Webb & Waldron. Edward Davis received the offer of an interest in the business, which he unhesitatingly accepted. From that day he was in the road to fortune. Three years afterward one of the partners died, when his interest was increased. Twenty-five years from the time Mr. Winslow, acting from a benevolent impulse, 108 A GOOD INVESTMENT. proposed to send young Davis to school, have passed. One day, about this period, Mr. Winslow, who had met with a number of reverses in business, was sitting in his counting-room, with a troubled look on his face, when the mercantile friend before-mentioned came in. His countenance was pale and disturbed. “ We are ruined! ruined!” said he, with much agitation. Mr. Winslow started to his feet. “ Speak !” he exclaimed. ‘“ What new disaster is about to sweep over me ?” “The house of Toledo & Co., in Rio, has suspended.” . Mr. Winslow struck his hands together, and sank down into the chair from which he had arisen. “Then it is all over,’ he murmured. “All over !” “Tt is all over with me,” said the other. “A longer struggle would be fruitless. But for this, I might have weathered the storm. Twenty thousand dollars of drafts 4 GOOD INVESTMENT. 109 drawn against my last shipment are back protested, and will be presented to-morrow. I cannot lift them. So ends this matter. So closes a business-life of nearly forty years, in commercial dishonour and personal ruin !” “ Are you certain that they have failed?” asked Mr. Winslow, with something like hope in his tone of voice. “Tt is too true,” was answered. ‘“ The Celeste arrived this morning, and her letter- bag was delivered at the post-office half an hour ago. Have you received nothing by her ?” “JT was not aware of her arrival. But I will send immediately for my letters.” Too true was the information communi- cated by the friend. The large commis- sion-house of Toledo & Co. had failed, and protested drafts had been returned to a very heavy amount. Mr. Winslow was among the sufferers, and to an extent that was equivalent to ruin; because it threw back upon him the necessity of lifting over 2 110 A GOOD INVESTMENT. fifteen thousand dollars of protested paper, when his line of payments was already fully up to his utmost ability. For nearly five years, every thing had seemed to go against Mr. Winslow. At the beginning of that period, a son, whom he had set up in business, failed, involving him in a heavy loss. Then, one disaster after another followed, until he found him- self in imminent danger of failure. From this time he turned his mind to the considera- tion of his affairs with more earnestness than ever, and made every transaction with a degree of prudence and foresight that seemed to guarantee success in whatever he attempted. A deficient supply of flour caused him to venture a large shipment to Rio. The sale was at a handsomely remu- nerative profit, but the failure of his con- signees, before the payment of. his drafts for the proceeds, entirely prostrated him. So hopeless did the merchant consider his case, that he did not even make an effort to get temporary aid in his extremity. A GOOD INVESTMENT. 111 When the friend of Mr. Winslow came with the information that the house of Toledo & Co. had failed, the latter was searching about in his mind for the means of lifting about five thousand dollars’ worth of paper, which fell due on that day. He had two thousand dollars in bank; the balance of the sum would have to be raised by borrowing. He had partly fixed upon the resources from which this was to come, when the news of his ill-fortune arrived. Yes, itwas ruin. Mr. Winslow saw this in a moment, and his hands fell powerless by his side. He made no further effort to lift his notes, but, after his mind had a little recovered from its first shock, he left his store and retired to his home, to seek in its quiet the calmness and fortitude of which he stood so greatly in need. In this home were his wife and two daughters, who all their lives had enjoyed the many exter- nal comforts and elegancies that wealth can procure. The heart of the father ached as his eyes rested upon his children, and he 112 A GOOD INVESTMENT. thought of the sad reverses that awaited them. On entering his dwelling, Mr. Winslow sought the partner of his life, and commu- nicated to her without reserve the painful intelligence of his approaching failure. “Ts it indeed so hopeless?” she asked, tears filling her eyes. “T am utterly prostrate!” was the reply, in a voice that was full of anguish. And in the bitterness of the moment, the un- fortunate merchant wrung his hands. To Mrs. Winslow, the shock, so unex- pected, was very severe; and it was some time before her mind, after her husband’s announcement, acquired any degree of calm- ness. About half an hour after Mr. Winslow’s return home, and while both his own heart and that of his wife were quivering with pain, a servant came and said that a gentleman had called and wished to see him. “Who is it?” asked the merchant. A GOOD INVESTMENT. 118 “T did not understand his name,” replied the servant. Mr. Winslow forced as much external composure as was possible, and then de- scended to the parlour. “Mr. Davis,” he said on entering. “Mr. Winslow,” returned the visitor, taking the merchant’s hand and grasping it warmly. As the two men sat down together, the one addressed as Mr. Davis, said— “‘T was sorry to learn, a little while ago, that you will lose by this failure in Rio.” “Heavily. It has ruined me!” replied Mr. Winslow. “Not so bad as that I hope!” said Mr. Davis. “Yes. It has removed the last prop that I leaned on, Mr. Davis. The very last one, and now the worst must come to the worst. It is impossible for me to take up fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of returned drafts.” “Fifteen thousand is the amount?” “Yes.” 114 A GOOD INVESTMENT. Mr. Davis smiled encouragingly. “Tf that is all,” said he, “there is no difficulty in the way. I can easily get you the money.” Mr. Winslow started, and a warm flush went over his face. “Why didn’t you come to me,” asked Mr. Davis, “the moment you found your- self in such a difficulty? Surely!” and his voice slightly trembled, “surely you did not think it possible for me to forget the past! Do not I owe you every thing ?—and would I not be one of the basest of men, if I forgot my obligation? If your need were twice fifteen thousand, and it required the division of my last dollar with you, not a hair of your head should be injured. I did not believe it was possible for you to get into an extremity like this, until I heard it whispered a little while ago.” So unexpected a turn in his affairs com- pletely unmanned Mr. Winslow. He cover- ed his face and wept for some time, with the uncontrollable passion of a child. A GOOD INVESTMENT. 115 “Ah! sir,” he said at last, in a broken voice, “I did not expect this, Mr. Davis.” “You had a right to expect it,” replied the young man. “Were I to do less than sustain you in any extremity not too great for my ability, I would be unworthy the name of a man. And-now, Mr. Winslow, let your heart be at rest. You need not fall under this blow. Your drafts will pro- bably come back to you to-morrow ®” “Yes. To-morrow at the latest.” “Very well. I will see that you are provided with the means to lift them. In the mean time, if you are in want of any sums toward your payments of to-day, just let me know.” “T can probably get through to-day by my own efforts,” said Mr. Winslow. “Probably? How much do you want?” asked Mr. Davis. “In the neighbourhood of three thousand dollars.” “T will send you arouid a check for that sum immediately,” promptly returned the 116 A GOOD INVESTMENT. young man, rising as he spoke and drawing forth his watch. “Tt is nearly two o'clock now,” he added, “so I will bid you good day. In fifteen minutes you will find a check at your store.” And with this Davis retired. All this, which passed in a brief space of time, seemed like a dream to Mr. Wins- low. He could hardly realize its truth. But it was a reality, and he comprehended it more fully, when, on reaching his store, he found there the promised check for three thousand dollars. On the next day the protested drafts came in; but, thanks to the grateful kind- ness of Mr. Davis, now a merchant, with the command of large money facilities, he was able to take them up. The friend before introduced was less fortunate. There was no one to step forward and save him from ruin, and he sank under the sudden pres- sure that came upon him. A few days after his failure he met Mr. © Winslow. A GOOD INVESTMENT. 117 “How is this?” said he. ‘ How did you weather the storm that drove me under? I thought your condition as hopeless as mine !” “So did J,” answered Mr. Winslow. “But I had forgotten a small investment made years ago. I have spoken of it to you before.” The other looked slightly puzzled. “‘ Have you forgotten that investment in the charity-fund, which you thought money thrown away ?” . “Oh!” Light broke in upon his mind. “You educated Davis. I remember now!” “And Davis, hearing of my extremity, stepped forward and saved me. That was the best investment I ever made !” The friend dropped his eyes to the pave- ment, stood for a moment or two without speaking, sighed, and then moved on. How many opportunities for making similar in- vestments had he not neglected ! —K BEAUTY. “ (EAUTIFUL”” exclaimed Mary Mar- vel, with a toss of the head and a slight curl of her cherry lips. ‘“ There isn’t a good feature in her face.” “And yet, I think her beautiful,” was the calm reply of Mrs. Hartley. “Why, aunt! Where are your eyes?” “ Just.where they have always been, my child !” * “ Agnes is a good girl,” said Mary, speak- ing in a less confident manner. Every one knows this; but, as to being handsome, that is altogether another thing.” “Is there not a beauty in goodness, Mary?” asked Mrs. Hartley, in her low, quiet way, as she looked, with her calm, 118 “Ny, e pr ec N Ny \ DRESSING FOR THE PARTY. (3) Page 124. BEAUTY. 121 penetrating eyes, into the young girl’s face. “Oh yes, of course there is, aunt. But, beauty of goodness is one thing, and beau- ty of face another.” “The former generally makes itself vi- sible in the latter. In a pure, unselfish, lov- ing heart lives the very spirit of beauty.” “Oh yes, aunt. All that we know. But, let the spirit be ever so beautiful, it cannot re-mould the homely countenance ; the ill- formed mouth, the ugly nose, the wedge- shaped chin must remain to offend the eye of taste.” » “ Do you think Miss Williams very home- ly?” asked Mrs. Hartley. “‘ She is deformed, aunt.” “Well!” “She has no personal beauty whatever.” “Do you think of this when you are with her ?” “No. But when I first saw her, she so offended my eyes that I could hardly re- main in the room where she was.” 122 BEAUTY. “You do not see her deformity now.” “T never think of it.” “The spirit of beauty in her heart has thrown a veil over her person.” “Tt may be so, aunt. One thing is cer- tain, I love her.” “More than you do Ellen Lawson?” “T can’t bear Ellen Lawson!” The whole manner of the young girl expressed re- pugnance. “ And yet Ellen, by common consent, is acknowledged to be beautiful.” “She is pretty enough; but I don’t like her. Proud, vain, ill-tempered. Oh: dear! these spoil every thing.” “In other words, the deformity of her spirit throws a veil over the beauty of her person.” “ Explain it as you will, aunt. Enough that Ellen Lawson is no favourite of mine. Ever as I gaze into her brilliant eyes, a something looks out of them that causes me to shrink from her.” The conversation between Mary Marvel BEAUTY. 123 and her aunt was interrupted, at this point, by the entrance of a visitor. Mary was passing through her twentieth summer. She was handsome; and she knew it. No wonder, then, that she was vain of her good looks. And being vain, no wonder that, in attiring her person, she thought less of maidenly good taste than of that effect which quickly attracts the eye. She had beautiful hair, that curled natu- rally, and so, when dressed for company, a perfect shower of glossy ringlets played ostentatiously about her freely exposed snowy neck and shoulders, causing the eyes of many to rest upon and follow her, whose eyes a modest maiden might wish to be turned away. In fact, Mary’s attire, which was generally a little in excess, so set off her showy person, that it was scarcely pos- sible for her to be in company without be- coming the observed of all observers, and drawing around her a group of gay young men, ever ready to offer flattering atten- Ti—s 124 BEAUTY. tions and deal in flattering words where such things are taken in the place of truth and sincerity. Such, with a groundwork of good sense, good principles, and purity of character, was Mary Marvel. Some few days after the conversation with which this sketch opens occurred, Mary was engaged in dressing for an evening party, when her aunt came into her room. “ How do I look, aunt?” inquired Mary, who had nearly completed her toilet. Mrs. Hartley shook her head and looked grave. ‘“*' What is the matter, aunt? Am I over- dressed, as you say, again ?” ““T would rather say, under-dressed,” re- plied the aunt. “But you certainly are not going in this style?” ““ How do you mean?” And Mary threw _a glance of satisfaction into her mirror. “You intend wearing your lace-cape ?” “Oh dear, no !” Mary’s neck and shoulders were too BEAUTY. 125 beautiful to be hidden even under a film of gossamer. “‘ Nor under-sleeves ?” “Why, aunt! How you do talk!” “‘ Where are your combs ?” Mary tossed her head until every free ringlet danced in the brilliant light, and fluttered around her spotless neck and bosom. “ Ah, child!” sighed Mrs. Hartley ; “this is all an error, depend upon it. Attire like yours never won for any maiden that respect for which the heart has reason to be proud.” “Oh, aunt! Why will you talk so? Do you really think I am so weak as to dress with the mere end of attracting attention? You pay me a poor compliment !” “Then why do you dress in a manner so unbecoming ?” “T think it very becoming!” And Mary threw her eyes again upon the mirror. “Time, I trust, will correct your error,” said Mrs. Hartley, speaking partly to her- 126 BEAUTY. self; for experience had taught her how futile it was to attempt to influence her niece in a matter like this. And so, in her “ undress,” as Mrs. Hart- ley made free to call her scanty garments, Mary went to spend the evening in a fashionable company, her head filled with the vain notion that she would, on that occasion, at least, carry off the palm of beauty. And something more than simple vanity was stirring in her heart. There was to be a guest at the party in whose eyes she especially desired to appear lovely —and that was a young man named Per- cival, whom she had met a few times, and who was just such a one as a maiden might well wish to draw to her side. At a recent meeting, Percival had shown Mary more than ordinary attentions. In fact, the beauty of her person and graces of her mind had made upon his feelings more than a passing impression. On entering the rooms, where a large portion of the company were already as- BEAUTY. 127 sembled, Mary produced, as she had ex- pected and desired, some little sensation, and was soon surrounded by a circle of gay young men. Among these, however, she met not Percival. It was, perhaps, half an hour subsequent to her arrival, that Mary’s eyes rested on the form of him she had been looking for ever since her entrance. He was standing, alone, in a distant part of the room, and was evidently regarding her with fixed attention. She blushed, and her heart beat quicker as she discovered this. Almost instantly a group of young persons came between her and Percival, and she did not see him again for some twenty mi- nutes. Then he was sitting by the side of Agnes Gray, the young lady to whom her aunt referred as being beautiful, and whom she regarded with very different ideas. Agnes wore a plainly made sprigged muslin dress, that fitted close to the neck; her beautiful hair was neatly but not showily arranged, and had a single ornament, which was not conspicuous. 128 BEAUTY. For the first time, an impression of beauty in Agnes affected the mind of Miss Marvel. She had been listening to something said by Mr. Percival, and was just in the act of replying, when Mary’s eyes rested upon her; and then the inward beauty of her pure spirit so filled every feature of her face that she looked the very impersonation of loveliness. A sigh heaved the bosom of Mary Marvel, and, from that moment, her proud self-satisfaction vanished. An hour passed, and yet Percival did not seek her in the crowd, though, during that time, he had danced not only with Agnes Gray, but with one or two others. It was toward the close of the evening, and Mary, dispirited and weary, was sitting near one of the doors that opened from the drawing-room, when she heard her name mentioned in an undertone by a person standing in the hall. She listened involun- tarily. The remark was— ““T hardly know whether to pronounce Miss Marvel beautiful or not.” BEAUTY. 4129 The person answering this remark was Percival; and his. words were— “T once thought her beautiful. But that was before Imet one more truly beauti- ful.” “Ah! Who has carried off the palm in your eyes?” “You have seen Agnes Gray?” “Oh yes. But she is not so handsome as Miss Marvel.” “ She has not such regular features ; but the more beautiful spirit within shines forth so radiantly as to throw around her person the very atmosphere of beauty. So artless, so pure, so innocent! To me, she is the realization of my best dreams of maiden loveliness.” “Miss Marvel,” remarked the other, ** spoils every thing by her vanity and love of display. She dresses in shocking bad taste.” “ Shocking to me !” said Percival. “ Real- ly, her arms, neck, and bosom, to-night, are so much exposed that I cannot go near 180 BEAUTY. her. I would almost blush to look into her face; and yet, I respect and esteem her highly. Pity, that personal vanity should spoil one who has so many good qualities —so much to win our love and admira- tion.” The young men moved away, and Mary heard no more. Enough, however, had reached her ears to overwhelm her with pain and mortification. She soon after re- tired from the company. The rest of the night was spent in weeping. The lesson was severe, but salutary. When Percival next met Mary Marvel, her dress and manners were much more to his taste; but she had changed too late to win him to her side, for his heart now wor- shipped at another shrine. THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, AND THE MAN. THE KNIGHT. IR GUY DE MONTFORT was as brave a knight as ever laid lance in rest or swung his glittering battle-axe. He pos- sessed many noble and generous qualities, but they were obscured, alas! by the strange thirst for human blood that marked the age in which he lived—an age when “ Love your friends and hate your enemies” had taken the place of “ But I say unto you, love your enemies; bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you.” nt in 132 THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, Ten knights as brave as Sir Guy, and possessing as many noble and generous qualities, had fallen beneath his superior strength and skill in arms; and for this, the bright eyes of beauty looked admiringly upon him—fair lips smiled when he ap- peared, and minstrels sang of his prowess, in lady’s bower and festive hall. - Ata great tournament given in honour of the marriage of the king’s daughter, Sir Guy sent forth his challenge to single and deadly combat; but, for two days, no one accepted this challenge, although it was three times proclaimed by the herald. On the third day, a young and strange knight rode, with vizor down, into the lists, and accepted the challenge. His slender form, his carriage, and all that appertained to him, showed him to be no match for Guy de Montfort—and so it proved. They met —and Sir Guy’s lance, at the first tilt, pe- netrated the corslet of the brave young knight and entered his heart. As he rolled upon the ground, his casque flew off, and AND THE MAN. 188 a shower of sunny curls fell over his fair young face and neck. Soon the strange news went thrilling from heart to heart, that the youthful knight who had kissed the dust beneath the sharp steel of De Montfort, was a maiden! and none other than the beautiful, high- spirited Agnes St. Bertrand, whose father Sir Guy had killed, but a few months be- fore, in a combat to which he had chal- lenged him. By order of the king the tournament was suspended, and rampant knights and ladies gay went back to their homes, in soberer mood than when they came forth. Alone in his castle, with the grim faces of his ancestors looking down upon him from the wall, Sir Guy paced to and fro with hurried steps. The Angel of Mercy was nearer to him than she had been for years, and her whispers were distinctly heard. Glory and fame were forgotten by the knight—for self was forgotten. The question—a strange question for him— 134 THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, “What good ?” arose in his mind. He had killed St. Bertrand—but why? To add an- other leaf to his laurels as a brave knight. But was this leaf worth its cost—the broken heart of the fairest and loveliest maiden in the land? nay, more—the life- drops from that broken heart? For the first time the flush of triumph was chilled by a remembrance of what the triumph had cost him. Then came a shud- der, as he thought of the lovely widow who drooped in Arto Castle—of the wild pang that snapped the heart-strings of De Cres- sy’s bride, when she saw the battle-axe go crashing into her husband’s brain—of the beautiful betrothed of Sir Gilbert de Ma- rion, now a shrieking maniac—of Agnes St. Bertrand ! As these sad images came up before the knight, his pace grew more rapid, and his brows, upon which large beads of sweat were standing, were clasped between his hands with a gesture of agony. ‘“‘ And what for all this?” he murmured. AND THE MAN. 185 “What for all this? Am I braver or better for such bloody work ?” Through the long night he paced the hall: of his castle; but with daydawn he rode forth alone. The sun arose and set; the seasons came and went; years passed ; but the knight returned not. THE HERMIT. Far from the busy scenes of life dwelt pious recluse, who, in prayer, fasting, and various forms of penance, sought to find repose for his troubled conscience. His food was pulse, and his drink the pure water that went sparkling in the sunlight past his hermit-cell in the wilderness. Now and then a traveller who had lost his way, or an eager hunter in pursuit of game, met this lonely man in his deep seclusion. To such he spoke-eloquently of the vani- ties of life and of the wisdom of those who, renouncing these vanities, devote them- L2 1386 THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, selves to God; and they left him, believing the hermit to be a wise and happy man. But they erred. Neither prayer nor pe- nance filled the aching void that was in his bosom. If he were happy, it was a happiness for which none need have felt an envious wish; if he were wise, his wis- dom partook more of the selfishness of this world than of the holy benevolence of the next. The days came and went; the seasons changed; years passed; and still the her- mit’s prayers went up at morning, and the setting sun looked upon his kneeling form. His body was bent, though not with age; his long hair whitened, but not with the snows of many winters. Yet all availed not. The solitary one found not in prayer and penance that peace which passeth all understanding. + One night he dreamed in his cell that the Angel of Mercy came to him, and said: “Tt is in vain—all in vain! Art thou not a man, to whom power has been given AND THE MAN. 187 to do good to thy fellow-man? Is the bird on the tree, the beast in his lair, the worm that crawls upon the earth, thy fellow? Not by prayer, not by meditation, not by penance, is man purified; not for these are his iniquities washed out. ‘Well done, good and faithful servant.’ These are the divine words thou hast not yet learned. Thou callest thyself God’s servant; but where is thy work? I see it not. Where are the hungry thou hast fed ?—the naked thou hast clothed ?—the sick and the pri- soner who have been visited by thee? They are not here in the wilderness!” ' The angel departed, and the hermit awoke. It was midnight. From the bend- ing heavens beamed down myriads of beautiful stars. The dark and solemn woods were still as death, and there was no sound on the air save the clear music of the singing rill, as it went on happily with its work, even in the darkness. “Where is my work?” murmured the hermit, as he stood with his hot brow un- 138 THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, covered in the cool air. “The stars are moving in their courses; the trees are spreading forth their branches and rising to heaven; and the stream flows on to the ocean; but I, superior to all these—lI, gifted with a will, an understanding, and active energies—am doing no work! ‘ Well done, good and faithful servant. Those blessed words cannot be said of me.” ‘Morning came, and the hermit. saw the bee at its labour, the bird building its nest, and the worm spinning its silken thread. “And is there no work for me, the noblest of all created things?” said he. The hermit knelt in prayer, but found no utterance. Where was his work? He had none to bring but evil work. He had harmed his fellow men—but where was the good he had done? Prayers and peni- tential deeds wiped away no tear from the eye of sorrow—fed not the hungry— ' clothed not the naked. “De Montfort !—it is vain! there must be charity as well as piety !” AND THE MAN. 189 Thus murmured the hermit, as he arose from his prostrate attitude. When night came, the hermit’s cell, far away in the deep, untrodden forest, was tenantless. THE MAN. A fearful plague raged in a great city. In the narrow streets where the poor were crowded together, the hot breath of the pestilence withered up hundreds in a day. Those not striken down, fled, and left the suffering and the dying to their fate. Ter- ror extinguished all human sympathies. In the midst of these dreadful scenes, a man clad in plain garments—a stranger— approached the plague-stricken city. The flying inhabitants warned him of the peril he was about encountering, but he heeded them not. He entered within the walls, and took his way with a firm step to. the most infected regions. 140 THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, In the first house that he entered he found a young maiden alone and almost in the agonies of death; and her feeble cry was for something to slake her burning thirst. He placed to her lips a cool draught, of which she drank eagerly ; then he sat down to watch by her side. Ina little while the hot fever began to abate, and the sufferer slept. Then he lifted her in his arms and bore her beyond the city walls, where the air was purer and where were those appointed to receive and minister to the sick who were brought forth. Again he went into the deadly atmo- sphere and among the sick and the dying; and soon he returned once more with a sleeping infant that he had removed from the infolding arms of its dead mother. There was a calm and holy smile upon the stranger's lips as he looked into the sweet face of the innocent child ere he resigned it to others; and those who saw that smile said in their hearts—“ Verily, he hath his rewar AND THE MAN. 141 For weeks the plague hovered, with its black wings, over that devoted city—and during the whole time, this stranger to all the inhabitants passed from house to house, supporting a dying head here, giving drink to such as were almost mad with thirst there, and bearing forth in his arms those for whom there was any hope of life. But when “the pestilence that walketh in darkness and wasteth at noonday” had left the city, he was no where to be found. _For years the castle of De Montfort was without a lord. Its knightly owner had departed, though to what far country no one knew. At last he returned—not on mailed charger, with corslet, casque, and spear-—a boastful knight, with hands crim- soned by his brother’s blood,—nor as a pious devotee from his cloister; but, as a man, from the city where he had done good deeds amid the dying and the dead. He came to take possesion of his stately castle 142 THE KNIGHT—THE HERMIT—THE MAN. and his broad lands once more—not as a knight, but as a man—not to glory once more in his proud elevation, but to use the gifts with which God had endowed hin, in making wiser, better, and happier his fellow-men. He had work to do, and he was faithful in its performance. He was no longer a knight-errant, seeking for adventure wher- ever brute courage promised to give him renown ; he was no longer an idle hermit, shrinking from his work in the great har- vest-fields of life; but he was a man, doing valiantly, among his fellow-men, truly noble deeds—not deeds of blood, but deeds: of moral daring, in an age when the real uses of life were despised by the titled few. There was the bold Knight, the pious Hermit, and the Man; but the Man was best and greatest of all. THE MERCHANT’S DREAM. A LGERON was amerchant. All through a long summer day he had been en- gaged among boxes, bales, and packages; or poring over accounts current; or musing over new adventures. When night came he retired to his quiet chamber and re- freshed his wearied mind with music and books. Poetry, and the harmony of sweet sounds, elevated his sentiments, and caused him to think, as he had often before thought, of the emptiness and vanity of mere earth- ly pursuits. “In what,” said he, “‘am I wasting my time? Is there any thing in the dull round of mercantile life to satisfy an immortal spirit? What true congeniality is there m—M 148 144 THE MERCHANT’S DREAM. between the highly gifted soul and bales of cotton or pieces of silk? Between the human mind and the dull, insensible ob- jects of trade? Nothing! Nothing! How sadly do we waste our lives in the mere pursuit of gold! And after the glittering earth is gained, are we any happier? I think not. The lover of truth—the wise, contemplative hermit in his cell is more a man than Algeron !” Thus mused the merchant, and thus he gave utterance to his thoughts—sighing as he closed each sentence. The book that he loved was put aside—the instrument from which his skilful hand drew eloquent music lay hushed upon a table. He was unhappy. He had remained thus for some time, when the door of his room opened, and a beautiful being entered and stood be- fore him. Her countenance was calm and elevated, yet full of sweet benevolence. For a moment she looked at the unhappy merchant, then extending her hand, she said— THE MERCHANT'S DREAM. 145 “ Algeron, I have heard your complaints. Come with me, and look around with a broader intelligence.” As she spoke, she laid her finger upon the eyes of the young man. Arising, he found himself in the open air, walking by the side of his strange conductor, along a path that led to a small cottage. Into this they entered. It was a very humble abode —but peace and contentment were dwellers in the breasts of its simple-minded occupants —an aged female and a little girl. Both were engaged with reels of a curious and somewhat complicated construction; and both sang cheerily at their work. A basin of cocoons on the floor by each of the reels, told Algeron the true nature of their employment. A small basket of fine and smoothly reeled spools were upon a table. While the merchant still looked on, a man entered, and after bargaining for the reeled silk, paid down the price, and carried it away.