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diff --git a/old/54708-0.txt b/old/54708-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7972319..0000000 --- a/old/54708-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9474 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Camperdown, by Mary Griffith - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Camperdown - or, News from our neighbourhood: being sketches - -Author: Mary Griffith - -Release Date: May 11, 2017 [EBook #54708] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMPERDOWN *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - CAMPERDOWN; - OR, - NEWS FROM - OUR NEIGHBOURHOOD: - BEING - SKETCHES, - - - BY - - THE AUTHOR OF “OUR NEIGHBOURHOOD,” &C. - - - _PHILADELPHIA_: - CAREY, LEA & BLANCHARD. - - 1836. - - - - -Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1836, by CAREY, -LEA & BLANCHARD, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the -Eastern District of Pennsylvania. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - DEDICATION. - - - THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS DEDICATED TO - - MRS. WILLIAM MINOT, - - -A lady distinguished as a writer and an artist; and esteemed by her -friends for her domestic virtues. With her accomplishments, and -excellence of character, she would be appreciated any where; but it has -been her peculiar good fortune to belong to Boston; a place, above all -others, wherein a woman receives that high respect and consideration to -which she is so justly entitled. - - - - - Table of Contents - - - DEDICATION. - PREFACE. - THREE HUNDRED YEARS HENCE. - THE SURPRISE. - THE SEVEN SHANTIES. - THE LITTLE COUPLE. - THE BAKER’S DOZEN. - THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. - - - - - PREFACE. - - -A few years ago a book was published, called “Our Neighbourhood;” and -those who read it, will recollect that the author intended, in the -second series, to give a short sketch of some of the most conspicuous -characters therein mentioned. The second series is now presented to the -public, and is called “Camperdown,” the name of our neighbourhood. The -work will be continued, under different titles, until the author has -accomplished the object stated in the preface to the first series; and -which the tenor of the two volumes will more fully explain. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - THREE HUNDRED YEARS HENCE. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - - -It is seldom that men begin to muse and sit alone in the twilight until -they arrive at the age of fifty, for until that period the cares of the -world and the education of their young children engross all their -thoughts. Edgar Hastings, our hero, at thirty years of age was still -unmarried, but he had gone through a vast deal of excitement, and the -age of musing had been anticipated by twenty years. He was left an -orphan at fourteen, with a large income, and the gentleman who had the -management of his estates proved faithful, so that when a person of -talents and character was wanted to travel with the young man, a liberal -recompense was at hand to secure his services. From the age of fourteen -to twenty-one he was therefore travelling over Europe; but his -education, instead of receiving a check, went on much more -advantageously than if he had remained at home, and he became master of -all the modern languages in the very countries where they were spoken. -The last twelve months of his seven years’ tour was spent in England, -being stationary in London only during the sitting of Parliament. - -His talents thus cultivated, and his mind enlarged by liberal travel, he -returned to America well worthy the friendship and attention of those -who admire and appreciate a character of his stamp. He had not therefore -been back more than a year, before his society was courted by some of -the best men in the country; but previous to his settling himself into -_a home_, he thought it but proper to travel through his own country -also. His old friend, still at his elbow, accompanied him; but at the -close of the excursion, which lasted nearly two years, he was taken ill -of a fever caught from an exposure near the Lakes, and died after a few -days’ illness. - -Edgar Hastings was now entirely alone in the world, and he would have -fallen into a deep melancholy, had he not engaged in politics. This -occupied him incessantly; and, as his purse was ample and his heart -liberally disposed, he found the demands on his time gradually -increasing. He had occupations heaped upon him—for rich, disengaged, and -willing, every body demanded his aid; and such were the enthusiasm and -generosity of his nature, that no one applied in vain. - -His first intention, on returning from his tour through his own country, -was to improve an estate he had purchased in Pennsylvania, promising -himself an amiable and beautiful wife to share his happiness; but -politics interfered, and left him no time even for the luxury of musing -in the evening. But a man can get weary of politics as well as of any -other hard up-hill work; so, at the end of seven years, seeing that the -young trees which he had planted were giving shade, and that the house -that they were to overshadow was not yet begun, he fell to musing. He -wanted something, likewise, to love and protect—so he fell to musing -about that. He wished to convert a brisk stream, that fell down the side -of a hill opposite to the south end of his grounds, into a waterfall—so -he fell to musing about that. He wanted to make an opening through a -noble piece of woods that bounded the north side, that he might catch a -view of the village steeple—so he fell to musing about that. A beautiful -winding river lay in front of his estate, the bank of which sloped down -to the water’s edge; this tranquillizing scene likewise operated on his -feelings, so that politics faded away, and his mind became calm and -serene. Thus it was, that at thirty years of age he had these fits of -abstraction, and he became a muser. - -Men of his age—sensible men—are not so easily pleased as those who are -younger. He admired graceful, easy manners, and a polished mind, far -before beauty or wealth; and thus fastidious, he doubted whether he -should marry at all. Every now and then, too, an old bachelor feeling -came over him, and he feared that when his beloved twilight found him -sitting under the noble porticos which he intended to build, his wife -would drag him away to some far distant route in the city; or that she -would, untimely, fill the house with visiters. So, with all the -dispositions in the world, he lived alone, though every fit of musing -ended by finding a wife at his side, gazing on the dim and fading -landscape with him. - -While his house was building, he occupied a small stone farm house, at -the extremity of the estate. Here he brought his valuable books and -prints, well secured from damp and insects by aromatic oils; here did he -draw his plans during the day, and here, under a small piazza, did he -meditate in the evening, transferring his musings to the little parlour -as soon as the damp evenings of autumn compelled him to sit within -doors. - -Adjoining his estate lived a quaker, by the name of Harley, a steady, -upright man, loving his ease, as all quakers do, but having no objection -to see his neighbours finer or wiser than himself. He took a fancy to -our hero, and the beloved evening hour often found him sitting on the -settee with Hastings, when, after enjoying together an animated -conversation, he also would fall into the deep feeling which fading -scenery, and the energy of such a character as his young friend’s, would -naturally excite in a mind so tranquil as his own. - -At length, the quiet quaker spoke of his daughter, but it was not with a -view to draw Edgar’s attention; he mentioned her incidentally, and the -young man was delighted. In a moment, his imagination depicted her as a -beautiful, graceful, accomplished creature; and there could be no doubt -that she was amiable and gentle; so he strolled over to his friend’s -house, and was regularly introduced to her. She _was_ beautiful, and -amiable, and gentle—all this he saw at a glance; but, alas! she had no -accomplishment farther than that she wrote an exquisitely clear, neat -hand, and was an excellent botanist and florist. But “propinquity” -softened down all objections. Every time he strayed away to Pine Grove -the eligibilities of the match became more apparent, and his love of -grace and polish of mind seemed to be of comparatively little -importance, when he listened to the breathings of the innocent quaker, -who thought all of beauty was in a flower, and who infinitely preferred -the perfume of a rose or a lilac, to the smell of a dozen lamps in a -crowded room. Her name was Ophelia, too. - -Mr. Harley, or friend Harley as he was called, was nowise rigid in his -creed; for the recent lawsuits between the Orthodox and Hicksite quakers -had very much weakened his attachments to the forms of quakerism. He -found that the irritable portion of his society had great difficulty in -keeping _hands off_, and in preserving the decorum of their order. -Peaceful feelings, equable temperaments, being the foundation—the -cement, which, for so many years, had bound the fraternity together, -were now displaced for the anger and turbulence so often displayed by -other sects of Christians. - -Litigations amongst themselves—the law—had done that which neither fine -nor imprisonment, the derision nor impositions of other sects, could -accomplish. The strong cement had cracked along the edge of the -bulwarks, where strength was the most necessary, and the waters of -discord and disunion were insinuating themselves into every opening. The -superstructure was fast crumbling away, and friend Harley looked to the -no very distant period when his posterity should cast off the quaker -dress, and naturally follow the customs and obey the general laws which -govern the whole body of Americans. - -This was sensible Valentine Harley’s opinion and feeling; in rules of -faith he had never been inducted—are there any quakers, apart from a few -of their leaders, who can define what their religious faith is? So, -although he loved the forms in which he had been educated—although he -wore the quaker dress, and made his son and daughter do the same—yet -when Edgar Hastings left off musing in the twilight, and was seen at -that hour walking slowly down the glen, with Ophelia hanging on his arm, -he only heaved a sigh, and wished that the young man said _thee_ and -_thou_. But this sigh was far from being a painful one; he felt that -when the obscure grave, which shuts out all trace of the quaker’s place -of rest, should close over him, his memory would live fresh and green in -the heart of his daughter. Far more should he be reverenced, if he gave -her gentle spirit to the strong arm, the highly gifted mind of such a -man as Edgar Hastings, than if he compelled her to marry a man of their -own order—to the one who was now preferring his suit, friend Hezekiah -Connerthwaite, a rich, respectable, yet narrow minded and uneducated -man. - -That he consented to his daughter’s marriage willingly, and without an -inward struggle, was a thing not to be expected; but he was too manly, -too virtuous, to use a mean subterfuge with his sect that he might -escape the odium which falls on the parent who allows his daughter to -marry out of the pale. He would not suffer his child to wed -clandestinely, when in reality his heart and reason approved of her -choice; when her lover’s merits and claims, and her own happiness, -strongly overbalanced his scruples. She might have married privately, -and her father, thus rid of the blame of consenting to her apostacy, -could, as usual, take his seat in their place of worship, without the -fear of excommunication. But Valentine Harley scorned such duplicity and -foolishness; Ophelia was therefore married under her father’s roof, and -received her father’s blessing; and here, in this well regulated house, -Edgar Hastings spent the first year of his wedded life. Here, too, his -son was born; and now no longer a being without kindred or a home, he -found how much happier were the feelings of a husband and father than -those of a selfish, isolated being. - -As he was building a spacious, elegant, and durable mansion, one that -should last for many years, he went slowly to work. It was begun a year -before his marriage, and it was not until his young son was three months -old that he could remove his family, of which Mr. Harley now made a -part, to their permanent home. The younger Harley, who had married and -settled at a distance, being induced to come among them, again to take -the property at Pine Grove, thus adding another link to the bond of -friendship which this happy marriage had created. In the month of May -the younger Harley was expected to take possession of his father’s -house. - -It was now February. The new house was completely furnished, and every -thing ready for their removal as soon as Mr. Hastings returned from New -York, where he had some business of importance to transact. As it called -for immediate attention, he deferred unpacking his books, or indeed -taking them from the farm house, until his return. It was with great -reluctance that he left his wife, who grieved as if the separation was -to last for years instead of a fortnight; but he was compelled to go, so -after a thousand charges to take care of her health, and imploring her -father to watch over her and his little boy, he once more embraced them -and tore himself away. His wife followed him with her eyes until she saw -him pass their new habitation, cross over the stile and turn the angle; -here he stopped to take one more look at the spot where all he loved -dwelt, and seeing the group still looking towards him, he waved his -handkerchief, and a few steps farther hid him from their sight. - -The farm house was at the extremity of the estate, and as it lay on the -road leading to the ferry, he thought he would look at the fire which -had been burning in the grate all the morning. Mr. Harley said he would -extinguish it in the afternoon, and lock up the house, but still he felt -a curiosity to see whether all was safe. His servant, with the baggage, -had preceded him, and was now waiting for him at the boat; so he hurried -in, and passed from the hall to the middle room, where the books were. -Here he found an old man sitting, apparently warming himself by the -still glowing coals, who made an apology for the intrusion, by saying -that he was very cold, and seeing a fire burning, for he had looked in -at the window, he made bold to enter. - -Mr. Hastings bade him sit still, but the man said he was about to cross -the ferry and must hurry on, observing that he thought there would be a -great thaw before morning, “and in that case,” said he, pointing up to -the hill, at the foot of which the house stood, “that great bank of snow -will come down and crush the roof of this house.” Hastings looked up and -saw the dangerous position of the snow bank, and likewise apprehending a -thaw, he begged the man to hurry on and tell his servant to go over with -his baggage, and get all things in readiness for him on the other side, -and that he would wait for the next boat, which crossed in fifteen -minutes after the other. He gave the poor man a small piece of money, -and after he left the house Hastings wrote a note about the snow bank to -Mr. Harley, which he knew that gentleman would see, as he was to be -there in the afternoon. Knowing that he should hear the steam boat bell, -and feeling cold, he drew an old fashioned chair, something in the form -of an easy chair, and fell into one of his old fits of musing. He -thought it would not be prudent to return to his family merely to say -farewell again, even if there were time, but a melancholy _would_ creep -over him, as if a final separation were about to take place. In vain he -tried to rouse himself and shake it off; he closed his eyes, as if by -doing so he could shut out thought, and it did, for in less than five -minutes he was fast asleep. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - - -Hearing a noise, he suddenly started up. It was dusk, and having lain -long in one position, he felt so stiff as to move with difficulty; on -turning his head, he saw two strangers looking at him with wonder and -pity. “Is the steamboat ready?” exclaimed he, still confused with his -long sleep. “Has the bell rung, gentlemen? Bless me, I have overslept -myself—what o’clock is it? Why, it is almost dark—I am ashamed of -myself.” - -Finding, after one or two attempts, that he could not get up easily, the -two strangers hastened forward and assisted him to rise. They led him to -the door, but here the confusion of his mind seemed rather to increase -than diminish, for he found himself in a strange place. To be sure, -there lay the river, and the hills on the opposite shore still rose in -grandeur; but that which was a wide river, now appeared to be a narrow -stream; and where his beautiful estate lay, stretching far to the south, -was covered by a populous city, the steeples and towers of which were -still illuminated by the last rays of the sun. - -“Gentlemen,” said the bewildered man, “I am in a strange perplexity. I -fell asleep at noon in this house, which belongs to me, and after -remaining in this deep repose for six hours I awoke, and find myself -utterly at a loss to comprehend where I am. Surely I am in a dream, or -my senses are leaving me.” - -“You are not dreaming, neither is your mind wandering; a strange fate is -yours,” said the elder of the two young men. “When you are a little more -composed we will tell you how all this has happened; meantime, you must -come with me; I shall take you where you will find a home and a -welcome.” - -“What is your name,” said the astonished Hastings, “and how have I been -transported hither.” - -“My name is Edgar Hastings,” said the young man; “and I feel assured -that yours is the same. If I thought you had sufficient fortitude to -hear the strange events which have occurred, I would tell you at once; -but you had better come with me, and during the evening you shall know -all.” - -Hastings suffered himself to be led by the two strangers, as he felt -cramped and chilly; but every step he took revived some singular train -of thought. As he proceeded, he saw what appeared to be his own house, -for the shape, dimensions and situation were like the one he built, and -the distance and direction from his farm house was the same. What -astonished him most was the trees; when he saw them last they were -silver pines, chestnuts, catalpas, locusts and sycamores—now the few -that remained were only oak and willow; they were of enormous size, and -appeared aged. - -“I must wait, I see,” said poor Hastings, “for an explanation of all -this; my hope is, that I am dreaming. Here lie trees newly felled, -immense trees they are, and they grew on a spot where I formerly had a -range of offices. I shall awake to-morrow, no doubt,” said he, faintly -smiling, “and find myself recompensed for this miserable dream. Pray -what is your name?”—turning to the younger of the two men. - -“My name is Valentine Harley, and I am related to this gentleman; our -family have, at intervals, intermarried, for upwards of three hundred -years.” - -“Valentine Harley!” exclaimed Hastings, “that is the name of my wife’s -father. There never was any of the name of Valentine, to my knowledge, -but his; and I did not know that there was another Edgar Hastings in -existence, excepting myself and my young son.” - -They were now in front of the house—the massive north portico had been -replaced by another of different shape; the windows were altered; the -vestibule, the main hall, the staircase, no longer the same—yet the -general plan was familiar, and when they opened the door of a small room -in the north wing, he found it exactly to correspond with what he had -intended for his laboratory. - -After persuading him to take some refreshments, they conducted him to -his chamber, and the two young men related to the astonished Hastings -what follows. We shall not stop to speak of his surprise, his -sufferings, his mortal agony—nor of the interruptions which naturally -took place; but the group sat up till midnight. It is needless to say -that not one of the three closed his eyes the remainder of the night. - -“Early this morning,” began the younger Edgar Hastings—“and be not -dismayed when I tell you, that instead of the 15th of February, 1835, it -is now the 15th of April, 2135—several of us stood looking at some -labourers who were at work cutting a street through the adjoining hill. -Our engines had succeeded in removing the trees, rocks and stones, which -lay embedded in the large mounds of earth, and about ten o’clock the -street, with the exception of the great mass which covered your farm -house, was entirely cut through to the river. This portion of it would -have been also removed, but both from papers in my possession and -tradition, a stone building, containing many valuable articles, was -supposed to be buried there, by the fall of the hill near which it -stood. - -“To extend the city, which is called Hamilton, my property, or rather, I -should say, your property, was from time to time sold, till at length -nothing remains in our possession but this house and a few acres of -ground; the last we sold was that strip on which your farm house stands. -It was with great reluctance that I parted with this portion, as I could -not but consider it as your sepulchre, which in fact it has proved to -be. - -“When they commenced cutting through the hill the top was covered with -large oaks, some of which, when sawed through, showed that they were -upwards of a century old; and one in particular, which stood on the -boundary line, had been designated as a landmark in all the old title -deeds of two hundred years’ standing. - -“About three hours before you were liberated the workmen came to a solid -stratum of ice, a phenomenon so extraordinary, that all the people in -the vicinity gathered to the spot to talk and ponder over it. An aged -man, upwards of ninety, but with his faculties unimpaired, was among the -number present. He said, that in his youth his great grandfather had -often spoken of a tradition respecting this hill. It was reported to -have been much higher, and that a ravine, or rather a precipitous slope, -a little below the road, was quite filled up by the overthrow of the -hill. That the fall had been occasioned by an earthquake, and the peak -of the hill, after dislodging a huge rock, had entirely covered up a -stone building which contained a large treasure. He very well remembered -hearing his aged relative say, that the hill was covered with immense -pines and chestnuts. - -“The truth of part of this story was corroborated by ancient documents -in my possession, and I hastened to my library to search for some old -family papers, which had been transmitted to me with great care. I soon -found what I wanted, and with a map of the estate, in which, from father -to son, all the alterations of time had been carefully marked down, I -was able to point out the exact spot on which the old stone farm house -stood. In a letter from a gentleman named Valentine Harley, which, with -several from the same hand, accompanied the different maps, an account -was given of the avalanche which buried the house and filled up the -ravine and gap below. As the originals were likely to be destroyed by -time, they had been copied in a large book, containing all the records -of the family, which, from period to period, receive the attestation of -the proper recording officer, so that you may look upon these documents -as a faithful transcript of every thing of moment that has occurred -within the last three hundred years. It was only last November that I -entered an account of the sale of this very strip of land in which the -stone house lay. - -“Here is the first thing on record—a letter, as I observed, from the -father-in-law of Edgar Hastings, my great ancestor—but I forget that it -is of you he speaks. Believe me, dear sir, that most deeply do we -sympathize with you; but your case is so singular, and the period in -which all this suffering occurred is so very remote, that your strong -sense will teach you to bear your extraordinary fate like a man. Allow -me to read the letter; it is directed to James Harley, son to the above -mentioned Valentine Harley. - - “‘Second month, 17th, 1834. My dear son—Stay where thou art, for - thy presence will but aggravate our grief. I will give thee all - the particulars of the dreadful calamity which has befallen us. I - have not yet recovered from the shock, and thy sister is in the - deepest wo; but it is proper that thou shouldst know the truth, - and there is no one to tell thee but myself. On Monday the 15th, - my dear son Edgar Hastings took a tender farewell of thy sister - and his babe, shaking hands with me in so earnest and solemn a - manner, that one prone to superstition would have said it was - prophetic of evil. We saw him walk briskly along the road until - the angle, which thou knowest is made by the great hill, shut him - from our sight; but just before he turned the angle he cast a look - towards the house wherein all his treasure lay, and seeing that we - were watching his steps, he waved his handkerchief and - disappeared. His intention, thou knowest, was to proceed to New - York; Samuel, his faithful servant, was to accompany him, and had - gone forward in the carriage with the baggage, as Edgar preferred - to walk to the boat. Thy poor sister and myself stood on the old - piazza waiting until the little steamboat—it was the Black - Hawk—should turn the great bend and appear in sight, for it was - natural, thou knowest, to linger and look at the vessel which held - one so dear to us both. It was the first time that thy sister had - been separated from Edgar, and she stood weeping silently, leaning - on my arm, as the little steamboat shot briskly round the bend and - appeared full in sight. Thou must recollect that the channel - brings the boat nearly opposite the stone farm house, and even at - that distance, although we could not distinguish features or - person, yet we fancied we saw the waving of a handkerchief. At - that instant the Black Hawk blew up, every thing went asunder, and - to my affrighted soul the boat appeared to rise many feet out of - the water. I cannot paint to thee our agony, or speak of the - profound grief, the unextinguishable grief, of thy dear sister; - she lies still in silent wo, and who is there, save her Maker, who - dares to comfort her. - - “‘I told thee in a previous letter, written I believe on the 12th, - that I apprehended a sudden thaw. I mentioned my fears to our dear - Edgar, and with his usual prudence he gave orders to strengthen - some of the embankments below the ravine. Among other things I - thought of his valuable books and instruments, which still - remained in the stone farm house, and that very afternoon I - intended to have them removed to Elmwood. At the instant the - dreadful explosion took place, the great snow bank, which thou - recollectest lay above the house in the hollow of the hill, slid - down and entirely covered the building; and, in another second, - the high peak of the hill, heavily covered with large pines, fell - down and buried itself in the ravine and gap below. The building - and all its valuable contents lie buried deep below the immense - mass of earth, but we stop not in our grief to care for it, as he - who delighted in them is gone from us for ever. - - “‘Thy sister, thy poor sister, when the first horrible shock was - over, would cling to the hope that Edgar might be spared, and it - was with the greatest difficulty that I could prevent her from - flying to the spot where the crowd had collected. Alas! no one - lived to tell how death had overtaken them. Of the five persons - engaged on board, three of their bodies have since been found; - this was in dragging the water. It seems there were but few - passengers, perhaps only our beloved Edgar, his poor servant - Samuel, and one or two others. An old man was seen to enter the - boat just as she was moving off; _his_ body was found on the bank, - and on searching his pockets a small piece of silver, a quarter of - a dollar, was taken out, which I knew in a moment; it was mine - only an hour before, and had three little crosses deeply indented - on the rim, with a hole in the centre of the coin; I made these - marks on it the day before, for a particular purpose; I could - therefore identify the money at once. About an hour before Edgar - left us, thinking he might want small silver, I gave him a - handful, and this piece was among the number. He must have given - it to the man as soon as he got on board, perhaps for charity, as - the man was poor, and probably had begged of him. This at once - convinced me that our dear Edgar was in the fatal boat. We have - made every exertion to recover the body, but are still - unsuccessful; nor can we find that of our poor faithful Samuel. - The body of the horse was seen floating down the river yesterday; - and the large trunk, valueless thing now, was found but this - morning near the stone fence on the opposite shore. - - “‘There were some valuable parchments, title deeds, in a small - leather valise, which our dear Edgar carried himself—but what do - we care for such things now, or for the gold pieces which he also - had in the same case. Alas! we think of nothing but of the loss of - him, thy much valued brother. Edgar Hastings has been taken from - us, and although thy poor sister is the greatest sufferer, yet - _all_ mourn. - - “‘Offer up thy prayers, my son, that God will please to spare thy - sister’s reason; if that can be preserved, time will soften this - bitter grief, and some little comfort will remain, for she has - Edgar’s boy to nourish and protect. As to me, tranquil as I am - compelled to be before her, I find that my chief pleasure, my - happiness, is for ever gone. Edgar was superior to most men, ay, - to any man living, and so excellent was he in heart, and so - virtuous and upright in all his ways, that I trust his pure spirit - has ascended to the Great Being who gave it. - - “‘Do not come to us just now, unless it be necessary to thy peace - of mind; but if thou shouldst come, ask not to see thy sister, for - the sight of any one, save me and her child, is most painful to - her. - - “‘Kiss thy babe, and bid him not forget his afflicted grandfather. - God bless thee and thy kind wife.—Adieu, my son. - - VALENTINE HARLEY.’” - -It need not be said that Edgar Hastings was plunged in profound grief at -hearing this epistle read; his excellent father, his beloved wife, his -darling child, were brought before him, fresh as when he last saw them; -and now the withering thought came over him that he was to see them no -more! After a few moments spent in bitter anguish, he raised his head, -and motioned the young man to proceed. - -“Meantime the workmen proceeded in their labours, and so great was the -anxiety of all, that upwards of fifty more hands were employed to assist -in removing the thick layer of ice which apparently covered the whole -building. When the ice was removed, we came immediately to the crushed -roof of the house, into which several of the labourers would have worked -their way had we not withheld them. After placing the engines in front -they soon cleared a road to the entrance, and by sundown Valentine -Harley and myself stood before the doorway of the low stone farm house. - -“It was not without great emotion that we came thus suddenly in view of -a building which had lain under such a mass of earth for three -centuries. We are both, I trust, men of strong and tender feelings, and -we could not but sigh over the disastrous fate of our great ancestor, -distant as was the period of his existence. We had often thought of it, -for it was the story of our childhood, and every document had been -religiously preserved. We stood for a few moments looking at the -entrance in silence, for among other letters there were two or three, -written late in life by your faithful and excellent wife—was not her -name Ophelia?” - -“It was, it was,” said the afflicted man; “go on, and ask me no -questions, for my reason is unsteady.” - -“In one of these letters she suggested the possibility that her beloved -husband might have been buried under the ruins; that the thought had -sometimes struck her; but her father believed otherwise. That within a -few years an old sailor had returned to his native place, and as it was -near Elmwood, he called on her to state that it was his firm belief that -Mr. Hastings did not perish in the Black Hawk. His reason for this -belief was, that on the way to the ship he encountered an old friend, -just at that moment leaving the low stone building. ‘I wanted him,’ said -the old sailor, ‘to jump in the wagon and go with me to the wharf, but -he refused, as he had business on the other side of the river. Besides, -said my friend, the gentleman within, pointing to the door, has given me -a quarter of a dollar to go forward and tell the captain of the Black -Hawk that he cannot cross this trip. This gentleman, he said, was Mr. -Hastings.’ - -“Another letter stated—I think it was written by the wife of James -Harley, your brother-in-law—that, in addition to the above, the old -sailor stated, that the ship in which he sailed had not raised anchor -yet, when they heard the explosion of the Black Hawk, of which fact they -became acquainted by means of a little fishing boat that came along -side, and which saw her blow up. He observed to some one near, that if -that was the case, an old shipmate of his had lost his life. The sailor -added likewise, that he had been beating about the world for many years, -but at length growing tired, and finding old age creeping on him, he -determined to end his days in his native village. Among the recitals of -early days was the bursting of the Black Hawk and the death of Mr. -Hastings, which latter fact he contradicted, stating his reasons for -believing that you were not in the boat. The idea of your being buried -under the ruins, and the dread that you might have perished with hunger, -so afflicted the poor Lady Ophelia that she fell into a nervous fever, -of which she died.” - -“Say no more—tell me nothing farther,” said the poor sufferer; “I can -listen no longer—good night—good night—leave me alone.” - -The young men renewed the fire, and were about to depart, when he called -them back. - -“Excuse this emotion—but my son—tell me of him; did he perish?” - -“No—he lived to see his great grandchildren all married: I think he was -upwards of ninety when he died.” - -“And what relation are you to him?” - -“I am the great grandson of your great grandson,” said Edgar Hastings -the younger; “and this young man is the eighth in descent from your -brother, James Harley. We both feel respect and tenderness for you, and -it shall be the business of our lives to make you forget your griefs. Be -comforted, therefore, for we are your children. In the morning you shall -see my wife and children. Meantime, as we have not much more to say, let -us finish our account of meeting you, and then we trust you will be able -to get a few hours’ rest.” - -“Rest!” said the man who had slept three hundred years, “I think I have -had enough of sleep; but proceed.” - -“When the thought struck us that your bones might lie under the ruins, -we did not wish any common eye to see them; we therefore dismissed the -workmen, and entered the door by ourselves. We came immediately into a -square hall, at the end of which was the opening to what is called in -all the papers the middle room; the door had crumbled away. The only -light in the room proceeded from a hole which had been recently made by -the removal of the ice on the roof, but it was sufficient to show the -contents of the room. We saw the boxes, so often mentioned in all the -letters, nine in number, and four large cases, which we supposed to be -instruments. The table and four chairs were in good preservation, and on -the table lay the very note which you must have written but a few -minutes before the ice covered you. On walking to the other side of the -room, the light fell on the large chair in which you were reclining. - -“‘This is the body of our great ancestor,’ said Valentine Harley, ‘and -now that the air has been admitted it will crumble to dust. Let us have -the entrance nailed up, and make arrangements for giving the bones an -honourable grave.’ - -“‘Unfortunate man,’ said I; ‘he must have perished with hunger—and yet -his flesh does not appear to have wasted. It is no doubt the first owner -of our estate, and he was buried in the fall of the ice and hill. The -old sailor was right. His cap of sealskin lies at the back of his head, -his gloves are on his lap, and there is the cameo on his little finger, -the very one described in the paper which offered that large reward for -the recovery of his body. The little valise lies at his feet—how -natural—how like a living being he looks; one could almost fancy he -breathes.’ - -“‘My fancy is playing the fool with me,’ said Valentine; ‘he not only -appears to breathe, but he moves his hand. If we stay much longer our -senses will become affected, and we shall imagine that he can rise and -walk.’ - -“We stepped back, therefore, a few paces; but you may imagine our -surprise, when you opened your eyes and made an attempt to get up. At -length you spoke, and we hastened to you; our humanity and pity, for one -so singularly circumstanced, being stronger than our fears. You know the -rest. I picked up the valise, and there it lies.” - -We shall draw a veil over the next two months of our hero’s existence. -His mind was in distress and confusion, and he refused to be comforted; -but the young men devoted themselves to him, and they had their reward -in seeing him at length assume a tranquil manner—yet the sad expression -of his countenance never left him. His greatest pleasure—a melancholy -one it was, which often made him shed tears—was to caress the youngest -child; it was about the age of his own, and he fancied he saw a -resemblance. In fact, he saw a strong likeness to his wife in the lady -who now occupied Elmwood, and her name being Ophelia rendered the -likeness more pleasing. She had been told of the strange relationship -which existed between her guest and themselves; but, at our hero’s -request, no other human being was to know who he was, save Edgar -Hastings the younger and his wife, and Valentine Harley. It was thought -most prudent to keep it a secret from the wife of the latter, as her -health was exceedingly delicate, and her husband feared that the -strangeness of the affair might disturb her mind. - -Behold our hero, then, in full health and vigour, at the ripe age of -thirty-two, returning to the earth after an absence of three hundred -years! Had it not been for the loss of his wife and son, and his -excellent father, he surely was quite as happily circumstanced, as when, -at twenty-one, he returned from Europe, unknowing and unknown. He soon -made friends _then_, and but for the canker at his heart he could make -friends again. He thought of nothing less than to appear before the -public, or of engaging in any pursuit. His fortune, and that part of his -father-in-law’s which naturally would have fallen to him, was now in the -possession of this remote descendant. He was willing to let it so -remain, retaining only sufficient for his wants; and his amiable -relation took care that his means were ample. - -To divert his mind, and keep him from brooding over his sorrows, his -young relative proposed that they should travel through the different -states. “Surely,” said he, “you must feel a desire to see what changes -three hundred years have made. Are not the people altered? Do those -around you talk, and dress, and live as you were accustomed to do?” - -“I see a difference certainly,” said Hastings, “but less than I should -have imagined. But my mind has been in such confusion, and my grief has -pressed so heavily on my heart, that I can observe nothing. I will -travel with you, perhaps it may be of service; let us set out on the -first of May. Shall we go northward first, or where?” - -“I think we had better go to New York,” said Edgar, “and then to Boston; -we can spend the months of May, June and July very pleasantly in -travelling from one watering place to another. We now go in locomotive -cars, without either gas or steam.” - -“Is that the way you travel now?” exclaimed Hastings. - -“Yes, certainly; how should we travel? Oh, I recollect, you had balloons -and air cars in your time.” - -“We had balloons, but they were not used as carriages; now and then some -adventurous man went up in one, but it was merely to amuse the people. -Have you discovered the mode of navigating balloons?” - -“Oh yes; we guide them as easily through the air, as you used to do -horses on land.” - -“Do you never use horses to travel with now?” - -“No, never. It is upwards of a hundred years since horses were used -either for the saddle or carriage; and full two hundred years since they -were used for ploughing, or other farming or domestic purposes.” - -“You astonish me; but in field sports, or horse racing, there you must -have horses.” - -The young man smiled. “My dear sir,” said he, “there is no such thing as -field sports or horse racing now. Those brutal pastimes, thank heaven, -have been entirely abandoned. In fact, you will be surprised to learn, -that the races of horses, asses and mules are almost extinct. I can -assure you, that they are so great a curiosity now to the rising -generation, that they are carried about with wild beasts as part of the -show.” - -“Then there is no travelling on horseback? I think that is a great loss, -as the exercise was very healthy and pleasant.” - -“Oh, we have a much more agreeable mode of getting exercise now. Will -you take a ride on the land or a sail on the water?” - -“I think I should feel a reluctance in getting into one of your new -fashioned cars. Do the steamboats cross at what was called the Little -Ferry, where the Black Hawk went from when her boiler exploded?” - -“Steamboats indeed! they have been out of use since the year 1950. But -suspend your curiosity until we commence our journey; you will find many -things altered for the better.” - -“One thing surprises me,” said Hastings. “You wear the quaker dress; -indeed, it is of that fashion which the gravest of the sect of my time -wore; but you do not use the mode of speech—is that abolished among -you?” - -The young man, whom we shall in future call Edgar, laughed out. -“Quaker!” said he; “why, my dear sir, the quakers have been extinct for -upwards of two centuries. My dress is the fashion of the present moment; -all the young men of my age and standing dress in this style now. Does -it appear odd to you?” - -“No,” said Hastings, “because this precise dress was worn by the people -called Friends or Quakers, in my day—strange that I should have to use -this curious mode of speech—my day! yes, like the wandering Jew, I seem -to exist to the end of time. I see one alteration or difference, -however; you wear heavy gold buckles in your shoes, the quakers wore -strings; you have long ruffles on your hands, they had none; you wear a -cocked hat, and they wore one with a large round rim.” - -“But the women—did they dress as my wife does?” - -“No.—Your wife wears what the old ladies before my time called a _frisk_ -and petticoat; it is the fashion of the year 1780. Her hair is cropped -and curled closely to her head, with small clusters of curls in the -hollow of each temple. In 1835 the hair was dressed in the Grecian -style—but you can see the fashion. You have preserved the picture of my -dear Ophelia; she sat to two of the best painters of the day, Sully and -Ingham; the one _you_ have was painted by Ingham, and is in the gay -dress of the time. The other, which her brother had in his possession, -was in a quaker dress, and was painted by Sully.” - -“We have it still, and it is invaluable for the sweetness of expression -and the grace of attitude. The one in your room is admirable likewise; -it abounds in beauties. No one since has ever been able to paint in that -style; it bears examination closely. Was he admired as an artist in your -day?” - -“Yes; he was a distinguished painter, but he deserved his reputation, -for he bestowed immense labour on his portraits, and sent nothing -unfinished from his hands.” - -“But portrait painting is quite out of date now; it began to decline -about the year 1870. It was a strange taste, that of covering the walls -with paintings, which your grandchildren had to burn up as useless -lumber. Where character, beauty and grace were combined, and a good -artist to embody them, it was well enough; a number of these beautiful -fancy pieces are still preserved. Landscape and historical painting is -on the decline also. There are no good artists now, but you had a -delightful painter in your day—Leslie. His pictures are still considered -as very great treasures, and they bring the very highest prices.” - -“How is it with sculpture? That art was beginning to improve in my day.” - -“Yes; and has continued to improve. We now rival the proudest days of -Greece. But you must see all these things. The Academy of Fine Arts in -Philadelphia will delight you; it is now the largest in the world. In -reading an old work I find that in your time it was contemptible enough, -for in the month of April of 1833, the Academy of Fine Arts in that city -was so much in debt, as to be unable to sustain itself. It was with the -greatest difficulty that the trustees could beg a sum sufficient to pay -the debts. The strong appeal that was made to the public enabled them to -continue it a little longer in its impoverished condition, but it seems -that it crumbled to pieces, and was not resuscitated until the year -1850, at which time a taste for the art of sculpture began to appear in -this country.” - -On the first of May the two gentlemen commenced their tour—not in -locomotive engines, nor in steamboats, but in curious vehicles that -moved by some internal machinery. They were regulated every hour at the -different stopping places, and could be made to move faster or slower, -to suit the pleasure of those within. The roads were beautifully smooth -and perfectly level; and Hastings observed that there were no dangerous -passes, for a strong railing stretched along the whole extent of every -elevation. How different from the roads of 1834! Then men were reckless -or prodigal of life; stages were overturned, or pitched down some steep -hill—rail cars bounded off the rails, or set the vehicles on -fire—steamboats exploded and destroyed many lives—horses ran away and -broke their riders’ necks—carts, heavily laden, passed over children and -animals—boats upset in squalls of wind—in short, if human ingenuity had -been exerted to its fullest extent, there could not be contrivances -better suited to shorten life, or render travelling more unsafe and -disagreeable. - -Instead of going directly to New York, as they at first contemplated, -they visited every part of Pennsylvania. Railroads intersected one -another in every direction; every thing was a source of amazement and -amusement to Hastings. The fields were no longer cultivated by the horse -or the ox, nor by small steam engines, as was projected in the -nineteenth century, but by a self-moving plough, having the same -machinery to propel it as that of the travelling cars. Instead of rough, -unequal grounds, gullied, and with old tree stumps in some of the most -valuable parts of the field, the whole was one beautiful level; and, -where inclinations were unavoidable, there were suitable drains. The -same power mowed the grass, raked it up, spread it out, gathered it, and -brought it to the barn—the same power scattered seeds, ploughed, hoed, -harrowed, cut, gathered, threshed, stored and ground the grain—and the -same power distributed it to the merchants and small consumers. - -“Wonderful, most wonderful,” said the astonished Hastings. “I well -remember this very farm; those fields, the soil of which was washed away -by the precipitous fall of rain from high parts, are now all levelled -smooth. The hand of time has done nothing better for the husbandman than -in perfecting such operations as these. Now, every inch of ground is -valuable; and this very farm, once only capable of supporting a man, his -wife and five children in the mere necessaries of life, must now give to -four times that number every luxury.” - -“Yes, you are right; and instead of requiring the assistance of four -labourers, two horses and two oxen, it is all managed by four men alone! -The machines have done every thing—they fill up gullies, dig out the -roots of trees, plough down hills, turn water courses—in short, they -have entirely superseded the use of cattle of any kind.” - -“But I see no fences,” said Hastings; “how is this? In my day, every -man’s estate was enclosed by a fence or wall of some kind; now, for -boundary lines I see nothing but a low hedge, and a moveable wire fence -for pasturage for cows.” - -“Why should there be the uncouth and expensive fences, which I find by -the old books were in use in 1834, when we have no horses; there is no -fear of injury now from their trespassing. All our carriages move on -rails, and cannot turn aside to injure a neighbouring grain field. Cows, -under no pretence whatever, are allowed to roam at large; and it would -be most disgraceful to the corporate bodies of city or county to allow -hogs or sheep to run loose in the streets or on the road. The rich, -therefore, need no enclosure but for ornament, which, as it embellishes -the prospect, is always made of some pleasant looking evergreen or -flowering shrub. In fact, it is now a state affair, and when a poor man -is unable to enclose the land himself, it is done by money lawfully -appropriated to the purpose.” - -“And dogs—I see no dogs,” said Hastings. “In my day every farmer had one -or more dogs; in little villages there were often three and four in each -house; the cities were full of them, notwithstanding the dog laws—but I -see none now.” - -“No—it is many years since dogs were domesticated; it is a rarity to see -one now. Once in awhile some odd, eccentric old fellow will bring a dog -with him from some foreign port, but he dare not let him run loose. I -presume that in your time hydrophobia was common; at least, on looking -over a file of newspapers of the year 1930, called the Recorder of -Self-Inflicted Miseries, I saw several accounts of that dreadful -disease. Men, women, children, animals, were frequently bitten by mad -dogs in those early days. It is strange, that so useless an animal was -caressed, and allowed to come near your persons, when the malady to -which they were so frequently liable, and from which there was no -guarding, no cure, could be imparted to human beings.” - -“Well, what caused the final expulsion of dogs?” - -“You will find the whole account in that old paper called the Recorder -of Self-Inflicted Miseries; there, from time to time, all the accidents -that happened to what were called steamboats, locomotive engines, -stages, &c. were registered. You will see that in the year 1860, during -the months of August and September, more than ten thousand dogs were -seized with that horrible disease, and that upward of one hundred -thousand people fell victims to it. It raged with the greatest fury in -New York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore; and but for the timely -destruction of every dog in the South, ten times the number of human -beings would have perished. The death from hydrophobia is as disgraceful -to a corporate body, as if the inhabitants had died of thirst, when good -water was near them.” - -“This was horrible; the consternation of the people must have been very -great—equal to what was felt during the cholera. Did you ever read of -that terrible disease?” - -“No, I do not recollect it——Oh, yes, now I remember to have read -something of it—but that came in a shape that was not easy to foresee. -But dogs were always known to be subject to this awful disease, and -therefore encouraging their increase was shameful. Posterity had cause -enough to curse the memory of their ancestors, for having entailed such -a dreadful scourge upon them. The panic, it seems, was so great, that to -this day children are more afraid of looking at a dog, for they are kept -among wild beasts as a curiosity, than at a Bengal tiger.” - -“I confess I never could discover in what their usefulness consisted. -They were capable of feeling a strong attachment to their master, and -had a show of reason and intelligence, but it amounted to very little in -its effects. It was very singular, but I used frequently to observe, -that men were oftentimes more gentle and kind to their dogs than to -their wives and children; and much better citizens would these children -have made, if their fathers had bestowed half the pains in _breaking -them in_, and in training them, that they did on their dogs. It was a -very rare circumstance if a theft was prevented by the presence of a -dog; when such a thing _did_ occur, every paper spoke of it, and the -anecdote was never forgotten. But had they been ever so useful, so -necessary to man’s comfort, nothing could compensate or overbalance the -evil to which he was liable from this disease. Were the dogs all -destroyed at once?” - -“Yes; the papers say, that by the first of October there was but one dog -to be seen, and the owner of that had to pay a fine of three thousand -dollars, and be imprisoned for one year at hard labour. When you -consider the horrible sufferings of so many people, and all to gratify a -pernicious as well as foolish fondness for an animal, we cannot wonder -at the severity of the punishment.” - -“I very well remember how frequently I was annoyed by dogs when riding -along the road. A yelping cur has followed at my horse’s heels for five -or six minutes, cunningly keeping beyond the reach of my whip—some dogs -do this all their lives. Have the shepherd’s dogs perished likewise—all, -did you say?” - -“Yes; every dog—pointers, setters, hounds—all were exterminated; and I -sincerely hope that the breed will never be encouraged again. In fact, -the laws are so severe that there is no fear of it, for no man can bring -them in the country without incurring a heavy fine, and in particular -cases imprisonment at hard labour. We should as soon expect to see a -wolf or a tiger running loose in the streets as a dog.” - -Every step they took excited fresh remarks from Hastings, and his mind -naturally turned to the friends he had lost. How perfect would have been -his happiness if it had been permitted that his wife and his father -could be with him to see the improved state of the country. When he -looked forward to what his life might be—unknown, alone—he regretted -that he had been awakened: but his kind relative, who never left him for -a moment, as soon as these melancholy reveries came over him hurried him -to some new scene. - -They were now in Philadelphia, the Athens of America, as it was called -three centuries back. Great changes had taken place here. Very few of -the public edifices had escaped the all-devouring hand of time. In fact, -Hastings recognised but five—that beautiful building called originally -the United States Bank, the Mint, the Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb, and -the Girard College. The latter continued to flourish, notwithstanding -its downfall was early predicted, in consequence of the prohibition of -clergymen in the direction of its affairs. The dispute, too, about the -true signification of the term “orphan” had been settled; it was at -length, after a term of years, twenty, I think, decided, that the true -meaning and intent of Stephen Girard, the wise founder of the -institution, was to make it a charity for those children who had lost -_both_ parents. - -“I should not think,” said Hastings, on hearing this from Edgar, “that -any one could fancy, for a moment, that Girard meant any thing else.” - -“Why no, neither you nor I, nor ninety-nine out of a hundred, would -decide otherwise; but it seems a question was raised, and all the books -of reference were appealed to, as well as the poets. In almost every -case, an _orphan_ was said to be a child deprived of one or both -parents; and, what is very singular, the term orphan occurs but _once_ -throughout the Old and New Testaments. In Lamentations it says, ‘We are -_orphans_, and fatherless, and our mothers are as widows.’ Now, in the -opinion of many, the _orphan_ and _fatherless_, and those whose mothers -are as widows, here mentioned, are three distinct sets of children—that -is, as the lament says, _some_ of us are orphans, meaning children -without father and mother, _some_ of us are fatherless; and the third -set says, ‘our mothers are as widows.’ This means, that in consequence -of their fathers’ absence, their mothers were as desolate and helpless -as if in reality they were widows by the _death_ of their husbands. This -text, therefore, settles nothing. Girard, like all the unlettered men of -the age, by the term _orphan_, understood it to mean a child without -parents.” - -“I very well remember,” said Hastings, “that on another occasion when -the term came in question, I asked every man and woman that worked on -and lived near the great canal, what they meant by orphan, and they -_invariably_, without a _single_ exception, said it meant a child -without parents.” - -“Well, the good sense of the trustees, at the end of the time I -mentioned, decided after the manner of the multitude—for it was from -this mass that their objects of charity were taken. And there is no -instance on the records, of a widow begging admittance for her -fatherless boys. They knew very well what being an orphan meant, but to -their praise be it said, if _fatherless_ children had been included in -the term, there were very few who would not have struggled as long as it -was in their power, before their boys should be taken to a charitable -institution.” - -“I recollect, too,” said Hastings, “that great umbrage was taken by many -persons because the clergy were debarred from any interference in the -management of the college. No evil, you say, has arisen from this -prohibition?” - -“None at all,” replied Edgar. “The clergy were not offended by it; they -found they had enough to do with church affairs. It has been ever since -in the hands of a succession of wise, humane, and honest men. The funds -have gone on increasing, and as they became more than sufficient for the -purposes of the college, the surplus has been lawfully spent in -improving the city.” - -“In the year 1835—alas, it seems to me that but a few days ago I existed -at that period—was there not an Orphan Asylum here?” - -“Yes, my dear sir, the old books speak of a small establishment of that -kind, founded by several sensible and benevolent women; but it was -attended with very great personal sacrifices—for there was in that -century a very singular, and, we must say, disgusting practice among all -classes, to obtain money for the establishment of any charitable, -benevolent, or literary institution. Both men and women—women for the -most part, because men used then to shove off from themselves all that -was irksome or disagreeable—women, I say, used to go from door to door, -and in the most humble manner beg a few dollars from each individual. -Sometimes, the Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries says, that men and -women of coarse minds and mean education were in the habit of insulting -the committee who thus turned beggars. They did not make their refusal -in decent terms even, but added insult to it. In the course of time the -Recorder goes on to say, men felt ashamed of all this, and their first -step was to relieve women from the drudgery and disgrace of begging. -After that, but it was by degrees, the different corporate bodies of -each state took the matter up, and finally every state had its own -humane and charitable institutions, so that there are now no longer any -private ones, excepting such as men volunteer to maintain with their own -money.” - -“Did the old Orphan Asylum of Philadelphia, begun by private -individuals, merge into the one now established?” - -“No,” replied Edgar; “the original asylum only existed a certain number -of years, for people got tired of keeping up a charity by funds gathered -in this loose way. At length, another man of immense wealth died, and -bequeathed all his property to the erection and support of a college for -orphan girls—and this time the world was not in doubt as to the -testator’s meaning. From this moment a new era took place with regard to -women, and we owe the improved condition of our people entirely to the -improvement in the education of the female poor; blessed be the name of -that man.” - -“Well, from time to time you must tell me the rise and progress of all -these things; at present I must try and find my way in this now truly -beautiful city. This is Market street, but so altered that I should -scarcely know it.” - -“Yes, I presume that three hundred years would improve the markets -likewise. But wherein is it altered?” - -“In my day the market was of one story, or rather had a roof supported -by brick pillars, with a neat stone pavement running the whole length of -the building. Market women not only sat under each arch and outside of -the pillars, but likewise in the open spaces where the streets -intersected the market. Butchers and fish sellers had their appropriate -stalls; and clerks of the market, as they were called, took care that no -imposition was practised. Besides this, the women used to bawl through -the streets, and carry their fish and vegetables on their heads.” - -“All that sounds very well; but our old friend, the Recorder of -Self-Inflicted Miseries, mentions this very market as a detestable -nuisance, and the manner of selling things through the streets shameful. -Come with me, and let us see wherein this is superior to the one you -describe.” - -The two friends entered the range above at the Schuylkill, for to that -point had the famous Philadelphia market reached. The building was of -two stories, built of hewn stone, and entirely fire-proof, as there was -not a particle of woodwork or other ignitable matter in it. The upper -story was appropriated to wooden, tin, basket, crockery, and other -domestic wares, such as stockings, gloves, seeds, and garden utensils, -all neatly arranged and kept perpetually clean. On the ground floor, in -cool niches, under which ran a stream of cold, clear water, were all the -variety of vegetables; and there, at this early season, were -strawberries and green peas, all of which were raised in the -neighbourhood. The finest of the strawberries were those that three -centuries before went by the name, as it now did, of the _dark -hautbois_, rich in flavour and delicate in perfume. Women, dressed in -close caps and snow white aprons, stood or sat modestly by their -baskets—not, as formerly, bawling out to the passers-by and entreating -them to purchase of them, but waiting for their turn with patience and -good humour. Their hair was all hidden, save a few plain braids or -plaits in front, and their neck was entirely covered. Their dress was -appropriate to their condition, and their bearing had both dignity and -grace. - -“Well, this surpasses belief,” said Hastings. “Are these the descendants -of that coarse, vulgar, noisy, ill dressed tribe, one half of whom -appeared before their dirty baskets and crazy fixtures with tawdry -finery, and the other half in sluttish, uncouth clothes, with their hair -hanging about their face, or stuck up behind with a greasy horn comb? -What has done all this?” - -“Why, the improvement which took place in the education of women. While -women were degraded as they were in your time”—— - -“In my time, my dear Edgar,” said Hastings, quickly—“in my time! I can -tell you that women were not in a degraded state then. Go back to the -days of Elizabeth, if you please; but I assure you that in 1835 women -enjoyed perfect equality of rights.” - -“Did they! then our old friend, the Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries, -has been imposing on us—but we will discuss this theme more at our -leisure. Let us ask that neat pretty young woman for some strawberries -and cream.” - -They were ripe and delicious, and Hastings found, that however much all -other things had changed, the fine perfume, the grateful flavour, the -rich consistency of the fruit and cream were the same—nature never -changes. - -There were no unpleasant sights—no rotten vegetables or leaves, no mud, -no spitting, no——in short, the whole looked like a painting, and the -women all seemed as if they were dressed for the purpose of sitting for -their portraits, to let other times have a peep at what was going on in -a former world. - -“If I am in my senses,” said Hastings, “which I very much doubt, this is -the most pleasing change which time has wrought; I cannot but believe -that I shall wake up in the morning and find this all a dream. This is -no market—it is a picture.” - -“We shall see,” said Edgar. “Come, let us proceed to the butchers’ -market.” - -So they walked on, and still the rippling stream followed them; and here -no sights of blood, or stained hands, or greasy knives, or -slaughter-house smells, were present. The meats were not hung up to view -in the open air, as in times of old; but you had only to ask for a -particular joint, and lo! a small door, two feet square, opened in the -wall, and there hung the identical part. - -“This gentleman is a stranger,” said Edgar, to a neatly dressed man, -having on a snow white apron; “show him a hind quarter of veal; we do -not want to buy any, but merely to look at what you have to sell.” - -The little door opened, and there hung one of the fattest and finest -quarters Hastings had ever seen. - -“And the price,” asked he. - -“It is four cents a pound,” replied the man. - -A purchaser soon came; the meat was weighed within; the man received the -money, and gave a ticket with the weight written on it; the servant -departed, and the two friends moved on. - -“Our regulations are excellent,” said Edgar; “formerly, as the old -Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries says, the butchers weighed their -meats in the most careless manner, and many a man went home with a -suspicion that he was cheated of half or three quarters of a pound. Now, -nothing of this kind can take place, for the clerks of the market stand -at every corner. See! those men use the graduated balance; the meat is -laid, basket and all, on that little table; the pressure acts on a -wheel—a clicking is heard—it strikes the number of pounds and quarters, -and thus the weight is ascertained. The basket you saw, all those you -now see in the meat market, are of equal weight, and they are marked 1, -2, 3, 4 or more pounds, as the size may be. Do you not see how much of -labour and confusion this saves. I suppose, in your day, you would have -scorned to legislate on such trifling objects; but I assure you we find -our account in it.” - -“I must confess that this simplifies things wonderfully; but the -cleanliness, order and cheerfulness that are seen throughout this -market—these are things worthy of legislation. I suppose all this took -place gradually?” - -“Yes, I presume so; but it had arrived to this point before my time; the -water which flows under and through the market was conveyed there upward -of a century ago. But here is beef, mutton, all kinds of meat—and this -is the poultry market—all sold by weight, as it should be; and here is -the fish market—see what large marble basins; each fishmonger has one of -his own, so that all kinds are separate; and see how dexterously they -scoop up the very fish that a customer wants.” - -“What is this?” said Hastings, looking through one of the arches of the -fish market; “can this be the Delaware?” - -“Yes,” replied Edgar; “the market on which we are now, is over the -Delaware. Look over this railing, we are on a wide bridge—but let us -proceed to the extremity; this bridge extends to the Jersey shore, and -thus connects the two large cities Philadelphia and Camden.” - -“In my day, it was in contemplation to build a bridge over the Delaware; -but there was great opposition to it, as in that case there would be a -very great delay, if not hinderance, to the free passage of ships.” - -New wonders sprung up at every step—vessels, light as gossamer, of -curious construction, were passing and repassing under the arches of the -bridge, some of three and four hundred tons burden, others for the -convenience of market people, and many for the pleasure of the idle. -While yet they looked, a beautiful vessel hove in sight, and in a moment -she moved gracefully and swiftly under the arches, and by the time that -Hastings had crossed to the other side of the bridge she was fastened to -the pier. - -“Is this a steamboat from Baltimore?” said Hastings. “Yet it cannot be, -for I see neither steam nor smoke.” - -“Steamboat!” answered his companion—“don’t speak so loud, the people -will think you crazy. Why, steamboats have been out of date for more -than two hundred years. I forget the name of the one who introduced them -into our waters, but they did not continue in use more than fifty years, -perhaps not so long: but so many accidents occurred through the extreme -carelessness, ignorance and avarice of many who were engaged in them, -that a very great prejudice existed against their use. No laws were -found sufficiently strong to prevent frequent occurrences of the -bursting of the boilers, notwithstanding that sometimes as many as nine -or ten lives were destroyed by the explosion. That those accidents were -not the consequence of using steam power—I mean a _necessary_ -consequence—all sensible men knew; for on this river, the Delaware, the -bursting of the boiler of a steam engine was never known, nor did such -dreadful accidents ever occur in Europe. But, as I was saying, after one -of the most awful catastrophes that ever took place, the bursting of a -boiler which scalded to death forty-one members of Congress, (on their -way home,) besides upwards of thirty women and children, and nine of the -crew, the people of this country began to arouse themselves, and very -severe laws were enacted. Before, however, any farther loss of lives -occurred, a stop was put to the use of steamboats altogether. The -dreadful accident of which I spoke occurred in the year 1850, and in -that eventful year a new power was brought into use, by which steamboats -were laid aside for ever.” - -“What is the new principle, and who first brought it to light?” - -“Why, a lady. The world owes this blessed invention to a female! I will -take you into one of our small boats presently, where you can handle the -machinery yourself. No steam, nor heat, nor animal power—but one of -sufficient energy to move the largest ship.” - -“Condensed air, is it?—that was tried in my time.” - -“No, nor condensed air; that was almost as dangerous a power as steam; -for the bursting of an air vessel was always destructive of life. The -Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries mentions several instances of loss -of life by the bursting of one of the air machines used by the -manufacturers of mineral waters. If that lady had lived in _this_ -century, her memory would be honoured and cherished; but if no memorial -was erected by the English to Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, a reproach -could not rest upon us for not having paid suitable honours to the -American lady.” - -“Why, what did lady Mary Wortley Montagu do?” said Hastings: “I -recollect nothing but that she wrote several volumes of very agreeable -letters—Oh, yes, how could I forget—the small-pox! Yes, indeed, she did -deserve to have a monument; but surely the English erected one to her -memory?” - -“Did they?—yes—that old defamer of women, Horace Walpole, took good care -to keep the public feeling from flowing in the right channel. He made -people laugh at her dirty hands and painted cheeks, but he never urged -them to heap honours on her head for introducing into England the -practice of innoculation for the small-pox. If this American lady -deserved the thanks and gratitude of her country for thus, for ever, -preventing the loss of lives from steam, and I may say, too, from -shipwreck—still farther was Lady Mary Wortley Montagu entitled to -distinction, for the very great benefit she bestowed on England. She -saved thousands of lives, and prevented, what sometimes amounted to -hideous deformity, deeply scarred faces, from being universal.—Yes, the -benefit was incalculable and beyond price—quite equal, I think, to that -which the world owes to Dr. Jenner, who introduced a new form of -small-pox, or rather the small-pox pure and unadulterated by any -affinitive virus. This modified the disease to such a degree, that the -small-pox, in its mixed and complicated state, almost disappeared. The -Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries states, that after a time a new -variety of the small-pox made its appearance, which was called -_varioloid_; but it was quite under the control of medical skill.” - -“Well, you live in an age so much in advance of mine, and so many facts -and curious phenomena came to light during the nineteenth century, that -you can tell me what the settled opinion is now respecting small-pox, -kine-pox, and varioloid.” - -“The settled opinion now is, that they are one and the same disease. -Thus—the original disease, transferable from an ulcer of the cow’s udder -to the broken skin of a human being, produced what is called the kine or -cow-pox. This virus of the kine-pox, in its original state, was only -capable of being communicated by contact, and only when the skin was -broken or cut; but, when _combined_ with the other poison, infected the -system by means of breathing in the same atmosphere. The poison from the -ulcer called cow-pox was never communicated to or by the lungs, neither -was the poison which had so strong an affinity for it communicated in -that way: but when the two poisons united, and met in the same system, a -third poison was generated, and the _small-pox was result_. But here we -are discussing a deep subject in this busy place—what gave rise to -it?—oh, steamboats, the new power now used, Lady Mary Wortley, and Dr. -Jenner.” - -“I presume,” said the attentive Hastings, “that Dr. Jenner fared no -better than your American lady and Lady Mary Wortley.” - -“You are much mistaken,” said Edgar. “Dr. Jenner was a _man_, which in -your day was a very different circumstance. I verily believe if it had -been a woman who brought that happy event about, although the whole -world would have availed itself of the discovery, her name would -scarcely be known at this day.” - -Hastings laughed at his friend’s angry defence of women’s rights, but he -could not help acknowledging the truth of what was said—there was always -a great unwillingness in men to admit the claims of women. But it was -not a time, nor was this the place, to discuss so important a subject; -he intended, however, to resume it the first leisure moment. He turned -his eye to the river, and saw vessels innumerable coming and going; and -on the arrival of one a little larger than that which he first saw, the -crowd pressed forward to get on board as soon as she should land. - -“Where is that vessel from?” said Hastings; “she looks more -weather-beaten than the rest—she has been at sea.” - -“Yes; that is one of our Indiamen. Let us go to her, I see a friend of -mine on board—he went out as supercargo.” - -They went on board of the Indiaman, and although it had encountered -several storms, and had met with several accidents, yet the crew was all -well and the cargo safe. The vessel was propelled by the same -machinery—there was neither masts nor sails! - -“How many months have they been on their return?” said Hastings. - -“Hush!” said his friend Edgar; “do not let any one hear you. Why, this -passage has been a very tedious one, and yet it has only occupied four -weeks. In general twenty days are sufficient.” - -“Well,” said Hastings, “after this I shall not be surprised at any -thing. Why, in my time we considered it as a very agreeable thing if we -made a voyage to England in that time. Have you many India ships?” - -“Yes; the trade has been opened to the very walls of China: the number -of our vessels has greatly increased. But you will be astonished to hear -that the emperor of China gets his porcelain from France.” - -“No, I am not, now that I hear foreigners have access to that mysterious -city, for I never considered the Indian china as at all equal to the -French, either in texture or workmanship. But I presume I have wonders -to learn about the Chinese?” - -“Yes, much more than you imagine. It is not more than a century since -the change in their system has been effected; before that, no foreigner -was allowed to enter their gates. But quarrels and dissensions among -themselves effected what neither external violence nor manœuvring could -do. The consequence of this intercourse with foreign nations is, that -the feet of their women are allowed to grow, and they dress now in the -European style. They import their fashions from France; and I see by the -papers that the emperor’s second son intends to pay this country a -visit. They have English and French, as well as German and Spanish -schools; and a great improvement in the condition of the lower classes -of the Chinese has taken place; but it was first by humanizing the women -that these great changes were effected. Their form of government is fast -approaching that of ours, but they held out long and obstinately.” - -“Their climate is very much against them,” observed Hastings; “mental -culture must proceed slowly, where the heat is so constant and -excessive.” - -“Yes; but, my dear sir, you must recollect that they have ice in -abundance now. We carry on a great trade in that article. In fact, some -of our richest men owe their wealth to the exportation of this luxury -alone. Boston set the example—she first sent cargoes of ice to China; -but it was not until our fast sailing vessels were invented that the -thing could be accomplished.” - -“I should think it almost impossible to transport ice to such a -distance, even were the time lessened to a month or six weeks, as it now -is.” - -“You must recollect, that half of this difficulty of transporting ice -was lessened by the knowledge that was obtained, even in your day, of -saving ice. According to the Recorder, who sneered at the _times_ for -remaining so long ignorant of the fact, ice houses could be built above -ground, with the certainty that they would preserve ice. It was the -expense of building those deep ice houses which prevented the poor from -enjoying this luxury—nay, necessary article. Now, every landlord builds -a stack of ice in the yard, and thatches it well with oat straw; and the -corporation have an immense number of these stacks of ice distributed -about the several wards.” - -“I have awakened in delightful times, my friend. Oh, that my family -could have been with me when I was buried under the mountain.” - -Young Hastings, seeing the melancholy which was creeping over the -unfortunate man, hurried him away from the wharf, and hastened to -Chestnut street. Our hero looked anxiously to the right and to the left, -but all was altered—all was strange. Arcades now took precedence of the -ancient, inconvenient shops, there being one between every square, -extending from Chestnut to Market on one side, and to Walnut on the -other, intersecting the smaller streets and alleys in their way. Here -alone were goods sold—no where else was there a shop seen; and what made -it delightful was, that a fine stream of water ran through pipes under -the centre of the pavement, bursting up every twenty feet in little -jets, cooling the air, and contributing to health and cleanliness. The -arcades for the grocers were as well arranged as those for different -merchandize, and the fountains of water, which flowed perpetually in and -under their shops, dispersed all impure smells and all decayed -substances. - -“All this is beautiful,” said Hastings; “but where is the old Arcade—the -original one?” - -“Oh, I know what you mean,” said Edgar; “our old Recorder states that it -fell into disuse, and was then removed, solely from the circumstance -that the first floor was raised from the level of the street; even in -our time people dislike to mount steps when they have to go from shop to -shop to purchase goods.” - -“And what building is that?—the antiquated one, I mean, that stands in -the little court. The masons are repairing it I perceive.” - -“That small, brick building—oh, that is the house in which William Penn -lived,” said Edgar. “It was very much neglected, and was suffered to go -to ruin almost, till the year 1840, when a lady of great wealth -purchased a number of the old houses adjoining and opened an area around -it, putting the whole house in thorough repair. She collected all the -relics that remained of this great man, and placed them as fixtures -there, and she left ample funds for repairs, so that there is a hope -that this venerable and venerated building will endure for many -centuries to come.” - -“And what is this heap of ruins?” said Hastings, “it appears to have -tumbled down through age; it was a large pile, if one may judge from the -rubbish.” - -“Yes, it was an immense building, and was called at first the National -Bank. It was built in the year 1842, during the presidency of Daniel -Webster.” - -“What,” said Hastings, “was he really president of the United States? -This is truly an interesting piece of news.” - -“News, my dear sir,” said Edgar, smiling—“yes, it was news three hundred -years ago, but Daniel Webster now sleeps with his fathers. He was really -the chief magistrate for eight years, and excepting for the project of a -national bank, which did not, however, exist long, he made an able -president, and, what was very extraordinary, as the old Recorder of -Self-Inflicted Miseries states, he gained the good will even of those -who were violently opposed to him. He was the first president after -Washington who had independence of mind enough to retain in office all -those who had been favoured by his predecessor. There was not a single -removal.” - -“But his friends—did not they complain?” said Hastings. - -“It is not stated that they did; perhaps he did not promise an office to -any one: at any rate the old ‘Recorder’ treats him respectfully. It was -during his term that copyrights were placed on a more liberal footing -here. An Englishman now can get his works secured to him as well as if -he were a citizen of the country.” - -“How long is the copyright secured! it used to be, in my time,” sighed -poor Hastings, “only fourteen years.” - -“Fourteen years!” exclaimed Edgar—“you joke. Why, was not a man entitled -to his own property for ever? I assure you that an author now has as -much control over his own labours after a lapse of fifty years as he had -at the moment he wrote it. Nay, it belongs to his family as long as they -choose to keep it, just the same as if it were a house or a tract of -land. I wonder what right the legislature had to meddle with property in -that way. We should think a man deranged who proposed such a thing.” - -“But how is it when a man invents a piece of machinery? surely the term -is limited then.” - -“Oh, yes, that is a different affair. If a man invent a new mode of -printing, or of propelling boats, then a patent is secured to him for -that particular invention, but it does not prevent another man from -making use of the same power and improving on the machinery. But there -is this benefit accruing to the original patentee, the one who makes the -improvement after him is compelled to purchase a right of him. Our laws -now, allow of no monopolies; that is, no monopolies of soil, or air, or -water. On these three elements, one person has as good a right as -another; he that makes the greatest improvements is entitled to the -greatest share of public favour, and, in consequence, the arts have been -brought to their present state of perfection.” - -“But rail-roads—surely _these_ it was necessary to guarantee to a -company on exclusive privilege for a term of years, even if a better one -could be made.” - -“And I say, surely not. Why should all the people of a great nation be -compelled to pass over an unsafe road, in miserably constructed cars, -which made such a noise that for six hours a man had to be mute, and -where there was perpetual fear of explosion from the steam engine—why -should this be, when another company could give them a better road, more -commodious cars, and a safer propelling power? On consulting the -Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries, you will find that in the year -1846, the monopolies of roads, that is public roads, were broken up, and -these roads came under the cognizance of the state governments, and in -the year 1900 all merged under one head. There was then, and has -continued ever since, a national road—the grand route from one extreme -of the country to the other. Cross roads, leading from town to town and -village to village, are under the control of the state governments. -Here, let us get in this car which is going to Princeton; it is only an -hour’s ride. Well, here we are seated in nice rocking chairs, and we can -talk at our ease; for the fine springs and neat workmanship make the -cars run without noise, as there is but little friction, the rails of -the road and the tires of the wheels being of wood. In your time this -could not be the case, for as steam and manual labour were expensive, -you were forced to club all together—there were, therefore, large cars -that held from eight to fourteen persons; consequently, there had to be -heavy iron work to keep these large machines together. Now, you -perceive, the cars are made of different sizes, to accommodate either -two or four persons, and they run of themselves. We have only to turn -this little crank, and the machine stops. This is Bristol. It was a very -small town in your day, but by connecting it to Burlington, which lies -slantingly opposite, the town soon rose to its present eminence. -Burlington, too, is a large city—look at the green bank yonder; it is a -paradise: and look at that large tree—it is a buttonwood or sycamore; we -cannot see it very distinctly; take this pocket glass. Well, you see it -now at the foot of the beautiful green slope in front of the largest -marble building on this bank. That tree is upwards of four hundred years -old, but the house was built within the last century.” - -“What a change,” said Hastings, as they returned to their car,—“all is -altered. New Jersey, the meanest and the poorest state in the union, is -now in appearance equal to the other inland states. It was in my time a -mere thoroughfare. What has thus changed the whole face of nature.” - -“Why canals and rail roads in the first place, and rail roads now; for -in a few years canals were entirely abandoned. That is, as soon as the -new propelling power came into use, it was found far more economical to -travel on rail roads. The track of canals through four of the principal -states is no longer to be seen.” - -At Princeton, the first thing to be seen was the college; not the same -that existed in Hastings’s day, but a long, deep range of stone -buildings, six in number, with work shops attached to them, after the -mode so happily begun by Fellenberg. In these work shops the young men -worked during leisure hours, every one learning some trade or some -handicraft, by which he could earn a living if necessity required it. -Large gardens lay in the rear, cultivated entirely by the labour of the -students, particularly by those who were intended for clergymen, as many -of this class were destined to live in the country. The college was well -endowed, and the salaries of the professors were ample. It was able to -maintain and educate three hundred boys—the children of the rich and the -poor. - -“How do they select professors?” said Hastings; “in my day a very -scandalous practice prevailed. I hope there is a change in this -particular.” - -“Oh, I know to what you refer,” said Edgar; “I read an account of it in -the Recorder. It seems that when a college wanted a professor, or a -president, they either wrote a letter, or sent a committee of gentlemen -to the professor of another college, and told him that if he would quit -the people who had with so much difficulty made up a salary for him, -they would give him a hundred dollars a year more. They made it appear -very plausible and profitable, and the idea of being thought of so much -consequence quite unsettled his notions of right and wrong, so that, -without scruple, he gave notice to his patrons that they must get -another man in his place. I believe this is the true state of the case. -Is it not?” - -“Yes, that is the _English_ of it, as we say. The funds for the support -of a professor were gathered together with great difficulty, for there -were very few who gave liberally and for the pure love of the -advancement of learning. When by the mere force of entreaty, by -appealing to the feelings, to reason, to—in short, each man’s pulse was -felt, and the ruling passion was consulted and made subservient to the -plan of beguiling him of his money. Well, the money thus wrung from the -majority,—for you must suppose that a few gave from right motives,—was -appropriated to the salary of a professor, and then the question arose -as to the man to be selected. They run their eye over the whole country, -and, finally, the fame of some one individual induced them to consider -him as a suitable candidate. This man was doing great service where he -was; the college, almost gone to decay, was resuscitated by his -exertions; students came from all parts on the faith of his remaining -there; in fact, he had given an impulse to the whole district. What a -pity to remove such a man from a place where the benefits of his labour -and his energies were so great, and where his removal would produce such -regrets and such a deteriorating change! But our new professor, being -established in the new college, instead of going to work with the same -alacrity, and with the same views, which views were to spend his life in -promoting the interests of the college which he had helped to raise, now -began to look ‘_a-head_,’ as the term is, and he waited impatiently for -the rise of another establishment, in the city perhaps, where every -thing was more congenial to his newly awakened tastes. Thus it went -on—change, change, for ever; and in the end he found himself much worse -off than if he had remained in the place which first patronised him. It -is certainly a man’s duty to do the best he can for the advancement of -his own interest, and if he can get five hundred dollars a year more in -one place than in another, he has a right to do it; but the advantage of -change is always problematical. The complaint is not so much against -him, however, as against those who so indelicately inveigle him away.” - -“Yes. I can easily imagine how hurtful in its effects such a policy -would be, for instance, to a merchant, although it is pernicious in -every case. But here is a merchant—he has regularly inducted a clerk in -all the perplexities and mysteries of his business; the young man -becomes acquainted with his private affairs, and by his acuteness and -industry he relieves his employer of one half of his anxieties and -cares. The time is coming when he might think it proper to raise the -salary of the young man, but his neighbours envy the merchant’s -prosperity, and they want to take advantage of the talent which has -grown up under his vigilance and superintending care. ‘If he does so -well for a man who gives him but five hundred dollars a year, he will do -as well, or better, for ten.’ So they go underhandedly to work, and the -young man gives the merchant notice that his neighbour has offered him a -larger salary. The old Recorder is quite indignant at this mean and base -mode of bettering the condition of one man or one institution at the -expense of another. But was it the case also with house servants?—did -the women of your day send a committee or write a letter to the servant -of one of their friends, offering higher wages—for the cases are exactly -similar; it is only talent of another form, but equally useful.” - -“Oh, no, indeed,” said Hastings—“then the sex showed their superior -delicacy and refinement. It was thought most disgraceful and unladylike -conduct to enveigle away the servant of a neighbour, or, in fact, of a -stranger; I have heard it frequently canvassed. A servant, a clerk, a -professor, or a clergyman, nine times out of ten, would be contented in -his situation if offers of this kind were not forced upon him. A servant -cannot feel an attachment to a mistress when she contemplates leaving -her at the first offer; no tender feeling can subsist between them, and -in the case of a clergyman, the consequence is very bad both to himself -and his parish. In the good old times”— - -“And in the good new times, if you please,” said Edgar; “for I know what -you are going to say. In our times there is no such thing as changing a -clergyman. Why, we should as soon think of changing our father! A -clergyman is selected with great care for his piety and learning—but -principally for his piety; and, in consequence of there being no old -clergymen out of place, he is a young man, who comes amongst us in early -life, and sees our children grow up around him, he becomes acquainted -with their character, and he has a paternal eye over their eternal -welfare. They love and reverence him, and it is their delight to do him -honour. His salary is a mere trifle perhaps, for in some country towns a -clergyman does not get more than five or six hundred dollars a year, but -his wants are all supplied with the most affectionate care. He receives -their delightful gifts as a father receives the gifts of his children; -he is sure of being amply provided for, and he takes no thought of what -he is to eat or what he is to wear. He pays neither house rent, for -there is always a parsonage; nor taxes; he pays neither physician nor -teacher; his library is as good as the means of his congregation can -afford; and there he is with a mind free from worldly solicitude, doing -good to the souls of those who so abundantly supply him with worldly -comforts. In your day, as the Recorder states”— - -“Yes,” said Hastings, “in my day, things were bad enough, for a -clergyman was more imposed upon than any other professional man. He was -expected to subscribe to every charity that was set on foot—to every -mission that was sent out—to every church that was to be built—to every -paper that related to church offices; _he had to give up all his time to -his people_—literally all his time, for they expected him to visit at -their houses, not when ill, or when wanting spiritual consolation, for -that he would delight to do, but in the ordinary chit-chat, gossiping -way, that he might hear them talk of their neighbours’ backslidings, of -this one who gave expensive supper parties, and of another who gave -balls and went to theatres. Never was there a man from whom so much was -exacted, and to whom so little was given. There were clergymen, in New -York and Philadelphia, belonging to wealthy congregations, who never so -much as received a plum cake for the new year’s table, or a minced pie -at Christmas, or a basket of fruit in summer; yet he was expected to -entertain company at all times. His congregation never seemed to -recollect that, with his limited means, he could not lay up a cent for -his children. Other salaried men could increase their means by -speculation, or by a variety of methods, but a clergyman had to live on -with the melancholy feelings that when he died his children must be -dependent on charity. Women _did_ do their best to aid their pastors, -but they could not do much, and even in the way that some of them -assisted their clergymen there was a want of judgment; for they took the -bread out of the mouths of poor women, who would otherwise have got the -money for the very articles which the rich of their congregation made -and sold for the benefit of this very man. Feeling the shame and -disgrace of his being obliged to subscribe to a charity, they earned -among themselves, _by sewing_, a sum sufficient to constitute him a -‘life member!’ What a hoax upon charity! What a poor, pitiful -compliment,—and at whose expense! The twenty-five dollars thus necessary -to be raised, which was to constitute their beloved pastor a life member -of a charitable society, would be applied to a better purpose, if they -had bought him some rare and valuable book, such as his small means -could not allow him to buy.” - -“I am glad to hear that one so much respected by us had those -sentiments,” said Edgar, “for the old Recorder, even in the year 1850, -speaks of the little reverence that the people felt for their clergy. -Now, we vie with each other in making him comfortable; he is not looked -upon as a man from whom we are to get our pennyworth, as we do from -those of other professions—he is our pastor, a dear and endearing word, -and we should never think of dismissing him because he had not the gift -of eloquence, or because he was wanting in grace of action, or because -he did not come amongst us every day to listen to our fiddle-faddle. -When we want spiritual consolement, or require his services in marriage, -baptism, or burial, then he is at his post, and no severity of weather -withholds him from coming amongst us. In turn we call on him at some -stated period, when he can be seen at his ease and enjoy the sight of -our loving faces, and happy is the child who has been patted on the head -by him. When he grows old we indulge him in preaching his old sermons, -or in reading others that have stood the test of time, and when the -infirmities of age disable him from attending to his duties, we draw him -gently away and give him a competence for the remainder of his life. -What we should do for our father, we do for our spiritual father.” - -“I am truly rejoiced at this,” said Hastings, “for in my day a clergyman -never felt secure of the affections of his people. If he was deficient -in that external polish, which certainly is a charm in an orator, or was -wanting in vehemence of action, or in enthusiasm, the way to displace -him was simple and easy: dissatisfaction showed itself in every action -of theirs—to sum up all, they ‘held him uneasy,’ and many a respectable, -godly man was forced to relinquish his hold on his cure to give place to -a younger and a more popular one.” - -“Do you send a committee to a popular clergyman, and cajole him away -from his congregation, by offering him a larger salary or greater -perquisites?” - -“Oh no—never, never; the very question shocks me. Our professors and our -clergymen are taken from the colleges and seminaries where they are -educated. They are young, generally, and are the better able to adapt -themselves to the feelings and capacities of their students and their -congregation. Parents give up the idle desire which they had in your -time, of hearing fine preaching at the expense of honour and delicacy. -When a congregation became very much attached to their pastor, and he -was doing good amongst them, it was cruel to break in upon their peace -and happiness merely because it was in a person’s power to do this. We -are certainly much better pleased to have a clergyman with fine talents -and a graceful exterior, but we value him more for goodness of heart and -honest principles. But, however gifted he may be, we never break the -tenth commandment, we never desire to take him away from our neighbour, -nor even in your time do I think a clergyman would ever seek to leave -his charge, unless strongly importuned.” - -“Pray can you tell me,” said Hastings, “what has become of that vast -amount of property which belonged to the —— in New York?” - -“Oh, it did a vast deal of good; after a time it was discovered that the -trustees had the power of being more liberal with it; other churches, or -rather all the Episcopal churches in the state, were assisted, and, -finally, each church received a yearly sum, sufficient to maintain a -clergyman. Every village, therefore, had a church and a clergyman; and -in due time, from this very circumstance, the Episcopalians came to be -more numerous in New York than any other sect. It is not now as it was -in your time, in the year 1835; then a poor clergyman, that he might -have the means to live, was compelled to travel through two, three, and -sometimes four parishes: all these clubbing together to make up the sum -of six hundred dollars in a year. Now this was scandalous, when that -large trust had such ample means in its power to give liberally to every -church in the state.” - -“Why, yes,” said Hastings, “the true intent of accumulating wealth in -churches, is to advance religion; for what other purposes are the funds -created? I used to smile when I saw the _amazing_ liberality of the -trustees of this immense fund; they would, in the most freezing and -pompous manner, dole out a thousand dollars to this church, and a -thousand to that, making them all understand that nothing more could be -done, as they were fearful, even in doing this, that they had gone -beyond their charter.” - -“Just as if they did not know,” said Edgar, “that any set of men, in any -legislature, would give them full powers to expend the whole income in -the cause of their own peculiar religion. Why I cannot tell how many -years were suffered to elapse before they raised what was called a -Bishop’s Fund, and you know better than I do, how it was raised, or -rather, how it commenced. And the old Recorder of Self-Inflicted -Miseries, states, that the fund for the support of decayed clergymen and -their families, was raised by the poor clergymen themselves. Never were -people so hardly used as these ministers of the Gospel. You were an -irreverent, exacting race in your day; you expected more from a preacher -than from any other person to whom they gave salaries—_they_ were -screwed down to the last thread of the screw; people would have their -pennyworth out of them. It is no wonder that you had such poor preachers -in your day; why few men of liberal education, aware of all the -exactions and disabilities under which the sacred cloth laboured, would -ever encounter them. But, now, every village has its own pastor; and -some of them are highly gifted men, commanding the attention of the most -intelligent people. The little churches are filled, throughout the -summer, with such of the gentry of the cities who can afford to spend a -few months in the country during the warm weather. No one, however, has -the indecency or the unfeelingness to covet this preacher for their own -church in the city. They do not attempt to bribe him away, but leave him -there, satisfied that the poor people who take such delight in -administering to his wants and his comforts, should have the benefit of -his piety, his learning and his example. Why, the clergymen, now, are -our best horticulturists too. It is to them that we owe the great -advancement in this useful art. They even taught, themselves, while at -college, and now they encourage their parishioners to cultivate gardens -and orchards. Every village, as well as town and city, has a large -garden attached to it, in which the children of the poor are taught to -work, so that to till the earth and to ‘make two blades of grass grow -where only one grew before,’ is now the chief aim of every individual; -and we owe this, principally, to our pastors. I can tell you that it is -something now to be a country clergyman.” - -“But how were funds raised for the purchase of these garden and orchard -spots?” - -“Why, through the means of the _general tax_, that which, in your day, -would have been called direct tax.” - -“Direct tax! Why my dear Edgar, such a thing could never have been -tolerated in my time; people would have burnt the man in effigy for only -proposing such a thing. It was once or twice attempted, indirectly, and -in a very cautious way, but it would not do.” - -“Yes—direct tax—I knew you would be startled, for the old Recorder of -Self-Inflicted Miseries states that at the close of Daniel Webster’s -administration something of the kind was suggested, but even then, so -late as the year 1850, it was violently opposed. But a new state of -things gradually paved the way for it, and now we cannot but pity the -times when all the poor inhabitants of this free country were taxed so -unequally. There is now, but one tax, and each man is made to pay -according to the value of his property, or his business, or his labour. -A land-holder, a stock-holder and the one who has houses and bonds and -mortgages, pays so much per cent, on the advance of his property, and -for his annual receipts—the merchant, with a fluctuating capital, pays -so much on his book account of sales—the mechanic and labourer, so much -on their yearly receipts, for we have no sales on credit now—that -demoralizing practice has been abolished for upwards of a century.” - -“The merchants, then,” said Hastings, “pay more than any other class of -men, for there are the customhouse bonds.” - -“Yes,” said Edgar, “I recollect reading in the Recorder of -Self-Inflicted Miseries,—you must run your eye over that celebrated -newspaper—that all goods imported from foreign ports had to pay -_duties_, as it was called. But every thing now is free to come and go, -and as the custom prevails all over the world, there is no hardship to -any one. What a demoralizing effect that duty or tariff system produced; -why honesty was but a loose term then, and did not apply to every act as -it now does. The Recorder was full of the exposures that were yearly -occurring, of _defrauding the revenue_, as it was called. Some of these -frauds were to a large amount; and then it was considered as a crime; -but when a man smuggled in hats, shoes, coats and other articles of the -like nature, he was suffered to go free; such small offences were winked -at as if defrauding the revenue of a dollar were not a crime _per_ se as -well as defrauding it of a thousand dollars—just as if murdering an -infant were not as much murder as if the life had been taken from a -man—just as if killing a man in private, because his enemy had paid you -to do it, was not as much murder in the first degree as if the -government had paid you for killing a dozen men in battle in open -day—just as if”— - -“Just as if what?” said the astonished Hastings, “has the time come when -killing men by wholesale, in war, is accounted a crime?” - -“Yes, thank Heaven,” said Edgar, “that blessed time has at length -arrived; it is upwards of one hundred and twenty years since men were -ordered to kill one another in that barbarous manner. Why the recital of -such cruel and barbarous deeds fills our young children with horror. The -ancient policy of referring the disputes of nations to single combat, -was far more humanizing than the referring such disputes to ten thousand -men on each side; for, after all, it was ‘might that made right.’ -Because a strong party beats a weaker one, that is not a proof that the -_right_ was in the strong one; yet, still, if men had no other way of -settling their disputes but by spilling blood, then that plan was the -most humane which only sacrificed two or one man. As to national honour! -why not let the few settle it? why drag the poor sailors and soldiers to -be butchered like cattle to gratify the fine feelings of a few morbidly -constructed minds?” - -“Oh, that my good father, Valentine Harley, could have seen this day,” -said Hastings. “But this bloodthirsty, savage propensity—this murdering -our fellow creatures in cold blood, as it were, was cured by degrees I -presume. What gave the first impulse to such a blessed change?” - -“The old Recorder states that it was brought about by the _influence of -women_; it was they who gave the first impulse. As soon as they -themselves were considered as of equal importance with their husbands—as -soon as they were on an equality in _money matters_, for after all, -people are respected in proportion to their wealth, that moment all the -barbarisms of the age disappeared. Why, in your day, a strange perverted -system had taken deep root; _then_, it was the _man that was struck_ by -another who was disgraced in public opinion, and not the one who struck -him. It was that system which fermented and promoted bloodthirstiness, -and it was encouraged and fostered by men and by women both. - -“But as soon as women had more power in their hands, their energies were -directed another way; they became more enlightened as they rose higher -in the scale, and instead of encroaching on our privileges, of which we -stood in such fear, women shrunk farther and farther from all approach -to men’s pursuits and occupations. Instead of congregating, as they did -in your time, to beg for alms to establish and sustain a charity, that -they might have some independent power of their own—for this craving -after distinction was almost always blended with their desire to do -good—they united for the purpose of exterminating that _war seed_ above -mentioned—that system which fastened the _disgrace_ of a blow on the one -who received it. This was their first effort; they then taught their -children likewise, that to kill a man in battle, or men in battle, when -mere national honour was the war cry, or when we had been robbed of our -money on the high seas, was a crime of the blackest die, and contrary to -the divine precepts of our Saviour. They taught them to abstain from -shedding human blood, _excepting in self defence_—excepting in case of -invasion. - -“They next taught them to reverence religion; for until bloodthirstiness -was cured, how could a child reverence our Saviour’s precepts? How could -we recommend a wholesome, simple diet to a man who had been accustomed -to riot in rich sauces and condiments? They had first to wean them from -the savage propensities that they had received through the maddening -influence of unreflecting men, before a reverence for holy things could -be excited. Then it was that clergymen became the exalted beings in our -eyes that they now are—then it was that children began to love and -respect them. As soon as their fathers did their mothers the poor -justice of trusting them with all their property, the children began to -respect her as they ought, and then her words were the words of wisdom. -It was then, and not till then, that war and duelling ceased. We are -amazed at what we read. What! take away a man’s life because he has -robbed us of money! Hang a man because he has forged our name for a few -dollars! No: go to our prisons, there you will see the murderer’s -fate—solitary confinement, at hard labour, for life! that is his -punishment; but murders are very rare now in this country. A man stands -in greater dread of solitary confinement at hard labour than he does of -hanging. In fact, according to our way of thinking, now, we have no -right, by the Divine law, to take that away from a human being for which -we can give no equivalent. It is right to prevent a murderer from -committing still farther crime; and this we do by confining him for life -at hard labour, _and alone_.” - -“Women, you say, produced a reform in that miserable code called _the -law of honour_.” - -“Yes, thanks be to them for it. Why, as the old Recorder states, if a -man did not challenge the fellow who struck him, he was obliged to quit -the army or the navy, and be for ever banished as a coward, and it was -considered as disgraceful in a private citizen to receive a blow without -challenging the ruffian that struck him. But the moment that women took -the office in hand, that moment the thing was reversed. They entered -into a compact not to receive a man into their society who had struck -another, unless he made such ample apology to the injured person as to -be forgiven by him; and not only that, but his restoration to favour was -to be sued for by the injured party himself. A man soon became cautious -how he incurred the risk.” - -“It often occurred to me,” said Hastings, “that women had much of the -means of moral reform in their power; but they always appeared to be -pursuing objects tending rather to weaken than to strengthen morals. -They acted with good intentions, but really wanted judgment to select -the proper method of pursuing their benevolent schemes. Only look at -their toiling as they did to collect funds towards educating poor young -men for the ministry.” - -“Oh, those young men,” replied Edgar, “were, no doubt, their sons or -brothers, and even then they must have been working at some trade to -assist their parents or some poor relation, and thus had to neglect -themselves.” - -“No, indeed,” said Hastings, “I assure you these young men were entire -strangers, persons that they never saw in their lives, nor ever expected -to see.” - -“Then, all I can say is, that the women were to be pitied for their -mistaken zeal, and the men ought to have scorned such aid—but the times -are altered: no man, no poor man stands in need of women’s help now, as -they have trades or employments that enable them to educate themselves. -Only propose such a thing _now_ and see how it would be received; why a -young man would think you intended to insult him. We pursue the plan so -admirably begun in your day by the celebrated Fellenberg. When we return -this way again, I will show you the work-shops attached to the -college—the one we saw in Princeton.” - -“While we are thus far on the road, suppose that we go to New York,” -said Hastings, “I was bound thither when that calamity befell me. I -wonder if I shall see a single house remaining that I saw three hundred -years ago.” - -Edgar laughed—“You will see but very few, I can tell you,” said he, -“houses, in your day, were built too slightly to stand the test of _one_ -century. At one time, the corporation of the city had to inspect the -mortar, lest it should not be strong enough to cement the bricks! And it -frequently happened that houses tumbled down, not having been built -strong enough to bear their own weight. A few of the public buildings -remain, but they have undergone such changes that you will hardly -recognize them. The City Hall, indeed, stands in the same place, but if -you approach it, in the rear, you will find that it is of marble, and -not freestone as the old Recorder says it was in your time. But since -the two great fires at the close of the years 1835 and 1842 the city -underwent great alterations.” - -“Great fires; in what quarter of the city were they? They must have been -disasters, indeed, to be remembered for three hundred years.” - -“Yes, the first destroyed nearly seven hundred houses, and about fifteen -millions of property; and the second, upwards of a thousand houses, and -about three millions of property; but excepting that it reduced a number -of very respectable females to absolute want, the merchants, and the -city itself, were greatly benefited by it. There were salutary laws -enacted in consequence of it, that is, after the second fire; for -instance, the streets in the burnt districts were made wider; the houses -were better and stronger built; the fire engines were drawn by horses, -and afterwards by a new power: firemen were not only exempt from jury -and militia duty, but they had a regular salary while they served out -their seven years’ labour; and if any fireman lost his life, or was -disabled, his family received the salary for a term of years. The old -Recorder says that there was not a merchant of any enterprise who did -not recover from his losses in three years.” - -“But what became of the poor women who lost all their property? did they -lose insurance stock? for I presume the insurance companies became -insolvent.” - -“The poor women?—oh, they remained poor—nothing in _your_ day ever -happened to better their condition when a calamity like that overtook -_them_. Men had enough to do to pity and help themselves. Yes, their -loss was in the insolvency of the insurance companies; but stock is safe -enough now, for the last tremendous fire (they did not let the first -make the impression it ought to have done,) roused the energies and -_sense_ of the people, and insurance is managed very different. Every -house, now, whether of the rich or the poor man, is insured. It has to -pay so much additional tax, and the corporation are the insurers. But -the tax is so trifling that no one feels it a burden; our houses are -almost all fire-proof since the discovery of a substance which renders -wood almost proof against fire. But I have a file of the Recorder of -Self-Inflicted Miseries, and you will see the regular gradation from the -barbarisms of your day to the enlightened times it has been permitted -you to see.” - -“But the water, in my day,”—poor Hastings never repeated this without a -sigh—“in my day the city was supplied by water from a brackish stream, -but there was a plan in contemplation to bring good water to the city -from the distance of forty miles.” - -“Where, when was that? I do not remember to have read any thing about -it.—Oh, yes, there was such a scheme, and it appears to me they did -attempt it, but whatever was the cause of failure I now forget; at -present they have a plentiful supply by means of boring. Some of these -bored wells are upwards of a thousand feet deep.” - -“Why the Manhattan Company made an attempt of this kind in my time, but -they gave it up as hopeless after going down to the depth of six or -seven hundred feet.” - -“Yes, I recollect; but only look at the difficulties they had to -encounter. In the first place, the chisel that they bored with was not -more than three or four inches wide; of course, as the hole made by this -instrument could be no larger, there was no possibility of getting the -chisel up if it were broken off below, neither could they break or cut -it into fragments. If such an accident were to occur at the depth of six -hundred feet, this bored hole would have to be abandoned. We go -differently to work now; with our great engines we cut down through the -earth and rock, as if it were cheese, and the wells are of four feet -diameter. As they are lined throughout with an impervious cement, the -overflowing water does not escape. Every house is now supplied from this -never-failing source—the rich, and the poor likewise, use this water, -and it is excellent. All the expense comes within the one yearly general -tax: when a man builds he knows that pipes are to be conveyed through -his house, and he knows also that his one tax comprehends the use of -water. He pays so much per centum for water, for all the municipal -arrangement, for defence of harbour, for the support of government, &c., -and as there is such a wide door open, such a competition, his food and -clothing do not cost half as much as they did in your day.” - -“You spoke of wells a thousand feet deep and four feet wide; what became -of all the earth taken from them—stones I should say.” - -“Oh, they were used for the extension of the Battery. Do you remember, -in your day, an ill constructed thing called Fort William, or Castle -Garden? Well, the Battery was filled up on each side from that point, so -that at present there are at least five acres of ground more attached to -it than when you saw it, and as we are now levelling a part of Brooklyn -heights, we intend to fill it out much farther. The Battery is a noble -promenade now.” - -They reached New York by the slow line at two o’clock, having travelled -at the rate of thirty miles an hour; and after walking up Broadway to -amuse themselves with looking at the improvements that had taken place -since Hastings last saw it—three hundred years previous—they stopped at -the Astor Hotel. This venerable building, the City Hall, the Public -Mart, the St. Paul’s Church, and a stone house at the lower end of the -street, built by governor Jay, were all that had stood the test of ages. -The St. Paul was a fine old church, but the steeple had been taken down -and a dome substituted, as was the fashion of all the churches in the -city—the burial yards of all were gone—houses were built on -them:—vaults, tombs, graves, monuments—what had become of them? - -The Astor Hotel, a noble building, of simple and chaste architecture, -stood just as firm, and looked just as well, as it did when Hastings saw -it. Why should it not? stone is stone, and three hundred years more -would pass over it without impairing it. This shows the advantage of -stone over brick. Mr. Astor built for posterity, and he has thus -perpetuated his name. He was very near living as long as this building; -the planning and completing of it seemed to renovate him, for his life -was extended to his ninety-ninth year. This building proves him to have -been a man of fine taste and excellent judgment, for it still continues -to be admired. - -“But how is this?” said Hastings, “I see no houses but this one built by -Mr. Astor that are higher than three stories; it is the case throughout -the city, stores and all.” - -“Since the two great fires of 1835 and 1842, the corporation forbid the -building of any house or store above a certain height. Those tremendous -fires, as I observed, brought people to their senses, and they now see -the folly of it. - -“The ceilings are not so high as formerly; more regard is shown to -comfort. Why the old Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries states, that -men were so indifferent about the conveniences and comforts of life, -that they would sometimes raise the ceilings to the great height of -fourteen and fifteen feet! Nay, that they did so in despite of their -wives’ health, never considering how hard it bore on the lungs of those -who were affected with asthma or other visceral complaints. Heavens and -earth! how little the ease and pleasure of women were consulted in your -day.” - -“Yes, that appears all very true,” said Hastings, “but you must likewise -recollect that these very women were quite as eager as their husbands to -live in houses having such high flights of stairs.” - -“Poor things,” exclaimed Edgar, “to think of their being trained to like -and desire a thing that bore so hard on them. Only consider what a loss -of time and breath it must be to go up and down forty or fifty times a -day, for your nurseries were, it seems, generally in the third story. We -love our wives too well now to pitch our houses so high up in the air. -The Philadelphians had far more humanity, more consideration; they -always built a range of rooms in the rear of the main building, and this -was a great saving of time and health.” - -“Where, at length, did they build the custom house?” said Hastings; “I -think there was a difficulty in choosing a suitable spot for it.” - -“Oh, I recollect,” said Edgar. “Why they did at length decide, and one -was built in Pine street; but that has crumbled away long since. You -know that we have no necessity for a custom house now, as all foreign -goods come free of duty. This direct tax includes all the expenses of -the general and state governments, and it operates so beautifully that -the rich man now bears his full proportion towards the support of the -whole as the poor man does. This was not the case in your day. Only -think how unequally it bore on the labourer who had to buy foreign -articles, such as tea, and sugar, and coffee, for a wife and six or -eight children, and to do all this with his wealth, which was the labour -of his hands. The rich man did not contribute the thousandth part of his -proportion towards paying for foreign goods, nor was he taxed according -to his revenue for the support of government. The direct tax includes -the poor man’s wealth, which is his labour, and the rich man’s wealth, -which is his property.” - -“But have the merchants no mart—no exchange? According to the map you -showed me of the two great fires, the first exchange was burnt.” - -“Yes, the merchants have a noble exchange. Did you not see that immense -building on State street, surrounded by an area? After the first great -fire they purchased—that is, a company purchased—the whole block that -included State street in front, Pearl street in the rear, and Whitehall -street at the lower end. All mercantile business is transacted there, -the principal post office and the exchange are there now; the whole go -under the general name of Mart—the City Mart.” - -“Is it not inconvenient to have the post office so far from the centre -of business?—it was a vexed question in my day,” said Hastings. - -“You must recollect that even then, central as the post office was, -there were many sub-post offices. If men in your day were regardless of -the many unnecessary steps that their wives were obliged to take, they -were very careful of sparing themselves. We adopt the plan now of having -two sets of post men or letter carriers; one set pass through the -streets at a certain hour to receive letters, their coming being -announced by the chiming of a few bells at their cars, and the other set -delivering letters. They both ride in cars, for now that no letter, far -or near, pays more than two cents postage—which money is to pay the -letter carriers themselves—the number of letters is so great that cars -are really necessary. All the expense of the post office department is -defrayed from the income or revenue of the direct tax—and hence the man -of business pays his just proportion too. It was a wise thing, -therefore, to establish all the mercantile offices near the Battery; -they knew that the time was coming when New York and Brooklyn would be -as one city.” - -“One city!” exclaimed Hastings; “how can that be? If connected by -bridges, how can the ships pass up the East river?” - -“You forget that our vessels have no masts; they pass under the bridges -here as they do in the Delaware.” - -“Oh, true, I had forgotten; but my head is so confused with all the -wonders that I see and hear, that you must excuse my mistakes. The old -theatre stood there, but it has disappeared, I suppose. It was called -the Park Theatre. How are the play houses conducted now? is there only -one or two good actors now among a whole company?” - -“Well, that question really does amuse me. I dare say that the people of -your day were as much astonished at reading the accounts handed down to -them of the fight of gladiators before an audience, as we are at your -setting out evening after evening to hear the great poets travestied. If -we could be transported back to your time, how disgusted we should be to -spend four hours in listening to rant and ignorance. All our actors now, -are men and women of education, such as the Placides, the Wallacks, the -Kembles, the Keans, of your day. I assure you, we would not put up with -inferior talent in our cities. It is a rich treat now to listen to one -of Shakspeare’s plays, for every man and woman is perfect in the part. -The whole theatrical corps is held in as much esteem, and make a part of -our society, as those of any other profession do. The worthless and the -dissolute are more scrupulously rejected by that body than they are from -the body of lawyers or doctors; in fact it is no more extraordinary now, -than it was in your day to see a worthless lawyer, or merchant, or -physician, and to see him tolerated in society too, if he happen to be -rich. But there is no set of people more worthy of our friendship and -esteem than the players. A great change, to be sure, took place in their -character, as soon as they had reaped the benefit of a college -education. I presume you know that there is a college now for the -education of public actors?” - -“Is it possible?” said Hastings; “then I can easily imagine the -improvements you speak of; for with the exception of the few—the stars, -as they were called—there was but little education among them.” - -“Here it is that elocution is taught, and here all public speakers take -lessons,” said Edgar; “you may readily imagine what an effect such an -institution would have on those who intended to become actors. In your -day, out of the whole theatrical corps of one city, not more than six or -seven, perhaps, could tell the meaning of the _words_ they used in -speaking, to say nothing of the _sense_ of the author. There is no more -prejudice now against play-acting than there is against farming. The old -Recorder states, that, before our revolution, the farmers were of a more -inferior race, and went as little into polite society as the mechanics -did. Even so far back as your time a farmer was something of a -gentleman, and why an actor should not be a gentleman is to us -incomprehensible. One of the principal causes of this change of personal -feeling towards actors has arisen from our having expunged all the low -and indelicate passages from the early plays. Shakspeare wrote as the -times then were, but his works did not depend on a few coarse and vulgar -passages for their popularity and immortality; they could bear to be -taken out, as you will perceive, for the space they occupied is not now -known; the adjoining sentence closed over them, as it were, and they are -forgotten. There were but few erasures to be made in the writings of Sir -Walter Scott; the times were beginning to loathe coarse and indelicate -allusions in your day, and, indeed, we may thank the other sex for this -great improvement. They never disgraced their pages with sentences and -expressions which would excite a blush. Look at the purity of such -writers as Miss Burney, Mrs. Radcliffe, Miss Edgeworth, Miss Austin, -Madame Cotton, and others of their day in Europe,—it is to woman’s -influence that we owe so much. See what is done by them now; why they -have fairly routed and scouted out that vile, disgraceful, barbarous -practice which was even prevalent in your time—that of beating and -bruising the tender flesh of their children.” - -“I am truly rejoiced at that,” said Hastings, “but I hope they extended -their influence to the schools likewise—I mean the common schools; for, -in my day in the grammar school of a college, a man who should bruise a -child’s flesh by beating or whipping him would have been kicked out of -society.” - -“Why, I thought that boys were whipped in the grammar schools also. In -the year 1836, it appears to me, that I remember to have read of the -dismissal of some professor for injuring one of the boys by flogging him -severely.” - -“I do not recollect it; but you say 1836—alas! I was unconscious then. -It was the remains of barbarism; how a teacher could get roused to such -height of passion as to make him desire to bruise a child’s flesh, I -cannot conceive—when the only crime of the poor little sufferer was -either an unwillingness or an inability to recite his lessons. I can -imagine that a man, when drunk, might bruise a child’s flesh in such a -shocking manner as that the blood would settle under the skin, because -liquor always brutalizes. Is drunkenness as prevalent now as formerly?” - -“Oh no, none but the lowest of the people drink to excess now, and they -have to get drunk on cider and wine, for spirituous liquors have been -prohibited by law for upwards of two hundred years. A law was passed in -the year 1901, granting a divorce to any woman whose husband was proved -to be a drunkard. This had a good effect, for a drunkard knew that if he -was abandoned by his wife he must perish; so it actually reclaimed many -drunkards at the time, and had a salutary effect afterwards. Besides -this punishment, if a single man, or a bachelor, as he is called, was -found drunk three times, he was put in the workhouse and obliged to have -his head shaved, and to work at some trade. It is a very rare thing to -see a drunkard now. But what are you looking for?” - -“I thought I might see a cigar box about—not that I ever smoke”— - -“A what?—a cigar? Oh yes, I know—little things made of tobacco leaves; -but you have to learn that there is not a tobacco plantation in the -world now. That is one of the most extraordinary parts of your history: -that well educated men could keep a pungent and bitter mass of leaves in -their mouth for the pleasure of seeing a stream of yellow water running -out of it, is the most incomprehensible mystery to me; and then, to push -the dust of these leaves up their nostrils, which I find by the old -Recorder that they did, for the mere pleasure of hearing the noise that -was made by their noses! The old Recorder called their pocket -handkerchiefs flags of abomination.” - -Hastings thought it was not worth while to convince the young man that -the disgusting practice was not adopted for such purposes as he -mentioned. In fact his melancholy had greatly increased since their -arrival in this city, and he determined to beg his young friend to -return the next day to their home, and to remain quiet for another year, -to see if time could reconcile him to his strange fate. He took pleasure -in rambling through the city hall, and the park, which remained still of -the same shape, and he was pleased likewise to see that many of the -streets at right angles with Broadway were more than twice the width -that they were in 1835. For instance, all the streets from Wall street -up to the Park were as wide as Broadway, and they were opened on the -other side quite down to the Hudson. - -“Yes,” said Edgar, “it was the great fire of 1842 which made this -salutary change; but here is a neat building—you had nothing of this -kind in your time. This is a house where the daughters of the poor are -taught to sew and cut out wearing apparel. I suppose you know that there -are no men tailors now.” - -“What, do women take measure?” - -“Oh no, men are the measurers, but women cut out and sew. It is of great -advantage to poor women that they can cut out and make their husbands’ -and children’s clothes. The old Recorder states that women—poor women—in -the year 1836, were scarcely able to cut out their own clothes. But just -about that date, a lady of this city suggested the plan of establishing -an institution of this kind, and it was adopted. Some benevolent men -built the house and left ample funds for the maintenance of a certain -number of poor girls, with a good salary for those who superintend it. -And here is another house: this is for the education of those girls -whose parents have seen better days. Here they are taught accounts and -book-keeping—which, however, in our day is not so complicated as it was, -for there is no credit given for any thing. In short these girls are -instructed in all that relates to the disposal of money; our women now -comprehend what is meant by stocks, and dividends, and loans, and -tracts, and bonds, and mortgages.” - -“Do women still get the third of their husband’s estate after their -husband’s death?” - -“Their thirds? I don’t know what you mean—Oh, I recollect; yes, in your -day it was the practice to curtail a woman’s income after her husband’s -death. A man never then considered a woman as equal to himself; but, -while he lived, he let her enjoy the whole of his income equally with -himself, because he could not do otherwise and enjoy his money; but when -he died, or rather, when about making his will, he found out that she -was but a poor creature after all, and that a very little of what he had -to leave would suffice for her. Nay, the old Recorder says that there -have been rich men who ordered the very house in which they lived, and -which had been built for their wives’ comfort, during their life time, -to be sold, and who thus compelled their wives to live in mean, pitiful -houses, or go to lodgings.” - -“Yes,” said Hastings,—quite ashamed of his own times,—“but then you know -the husband was fearful that his wife would marry again, and all their -property would go to strangers.” - -“Well, why should not women have the same privileges as men? Do you not -think that a woman had the same fears? A man married again and gave his -money to strangers—did he not? The fact is, we consider that a woman has -the same feelings as we have ourselves—a thing you never once thought -of—and now the property that is made during marriage is as much the -woman’s as the man’s; they are partners in health and in sickness, in -joy and in sorrow—they enjoy every thing in common while they live -together, and why a woman, merely on account of her being more helpless, -should be cut off from affluence because she survives her husband, is -more than we of this century can tell. Why should not children wait for -the property till after her death, as they would for their father’s -death? It was a relic of barbarism, but it has passed away with wars and -bloodshed. We educate our women now, and they are as capable of taking -care of property as we are ourselves. They are our trustees, far better -than the trustees you had amongst you in your day—they seldom could find -it in their hearts to allow a widow even her poor income. I suppose they -thought that a creature so pitifully used by her husband was not worth -bestowing their honesty upon.” - -“But the women in my day,” said Hastings, “seemed to approve of this -treatment: in fact, I have known many very sensible women who thought it -right that a man should not leave his wife the whole of his income after -his death. But they were beginning to have their eyes opened, for I -recollect that the subject was being discussed in 1835.” - -“Yes, you can train a mind to acquiesce in any absurd doctrine, and the -truth is, that as women were then educated, they were, for the most -part, unfit to have the command of a large estate. But I cannot find -that the children were eventually benefited by it; for young men and -women, coming into possession of their father’s estate at the early age -of twenty-one, possessed no more business talent than their mother; nor -had they even as much prudence and judgment in the management of money -matters, as she had. Men seldom thought of this, but generally directed -their executors to divide the property among the children as soon as -they became of age—utterly regardless of the injustice they were doing -their wives, and of the oath which they took when they married—that is, -if they married according to the forms of the Episcopal church. In that -service, a man binds himself by a solemn oath ‘to endow his wife with -_all_ his worldly goods.’ If he swears to endow her with all, how can he -in safety to his soul, _will_ these worldly goods away from her. We -consider the practice of depriving a woman of the right to the whole of -her husband’s property after his death, as a monstrous act of injustice, -and the laws are now peremptory on this subject.” - -“I am certain you are right,” said Hastings, “and you have improved more -rapidly in this particular, during a period of three hundred years, than -was done by my ancestors in two thousand years before, I can understand -now, how it happens, that children have the same respect for their -mother, that they only felt for their father in my time. The custom, or -laws, being altogether in favour of equality of rights between the -parents, the children do not repine when they find that they stand in -the same relation of dependence to their mother, that they did to their -father; and why this should not be, is incomprehensible to me now, but I -never reflected on it before.” - -“Yes, there are fewer estates squandered away in consequence of this, -and society is all the better for it. Then to this is added the great -improvement in the business education of women. All the retail and -detail of mercantile operations are conducted by them. You had some -notion of this in your time; for, in Philadelphia, although women were -generally only employed to make sales behind the counter, yet some were -now and then seen at the head of the establishment. Before our -separation from Great Britain, the business of farming was also at a low -ebb, and a farmer was but a mean person in public estimation. He ranks -now amongst the highest of our business men; and in fact, he is equal to -any man whether in business or not, and this is the case with female -merchants. Even in 1836, a woman who undertook the business of a retail -shop, managing the whole concern herself, although greatly respected, -she never took her rank amongst the first classes of society. This -arose, first, from want of education, and, secondly, from her having -lived amongst an inferior set of people. But when women were trained to -the comprehension of mercantile operations, and were taught how to -dispose of money, their whole character underwent a change, and with -this accession of business talent, came the respect from men for those -who had a capacity for the conducting of business affairs. Only think -what an advantage this is to our children; why our mothers and wives are -the first teachers, they give us sound views from the very commencement, -and our clerkship begins from the time we can comprehend the distinction -of right and wrong.” - -“Did not our infant schools give a great impulse to this improvement in -the condition of women, and to the improvement in morals, and were not -women mainly instrumental in fostering these schools?” - -“Yes, that they were; it was chiefly through the influence of their pen -and active benevolence, that the scheme arrived at perfection. In these -infant schools a child was early taught the mystery of its relation to -society; all its good dispositions and propensities were encouraged and -developed, and its vicious ones were repressed. The world owes much to -the blessed influence of infant schools, and the lower orders were the -first to be humanized by them. But I need not dwell on this particular. -I shall only point to the improvement in the morals of our people at -this day, to convince you that it is owing altogether to the benign -influence of women. As soon as they took their rank as an equal to man, -equal as to property I mean, for they had no other right to _desire_; -there was no longer any struggle, it became their ambition to show how -long the world had been benighted by thus keeping them in a degraded -state. I say degraded state, for surely it argued in them imbecility or -incapacity of some kind, and to great extent, too, when a man appointed -executors and trustees to his estate whilst his wife was living. It -showed one of three things—that he never considered her as having equal -rights with himself; or, that he thought her incompetent to take charge -of his property—or, that the customs and laws of the land had so warped -his judgment, that he only did as he saw others do, without considering -whether these laws and customs were right or wrong. But if you only look -back you will perceive, that in every benevolent scheme, in every plan -for meliorating the condition of the poor, and improving their morals, -it was women’s influence that promoted and fostered it. It is to that -healthy influence, that we owe our present prosperity and happiness—and -it is an influence which I hope may forever continue.” - -It was not to such a man as Hastings that Edgar need have spoken so -earnestly; he only wanted to have a subject fairly before him to -comprehend it in all its bearings. He rejoiced that women were now equal -to men in all that they ever considered as their rights; and he rejoiced -likewise that the proper distinction was rigidly observed between the -sexes—that as men no longer encroached on their rights, they, in return, -kept within the limits assigned them by the Creator. As a man and a -Christian, he was glad that this change had taken place; and it was a -melancholy satisfaction to feel that with these views, if it had been -permitted him to continue with his wife, he should have put her on an -equality with himself. - -The moment his wife and child appeared to his mental vision, he became -indifferent to what was passing around him; Edgar, perceiving that he -was buried in his own thoughts, proposed that they should return home -immediately, and they accordingly passed down Broadway to the Battery, -from which place they intended to take a boat. They reached the wharf—a -ship had just arrived from the Cape of Good Hope, with a fine cargo. The -captain and crew of which were black. - -——“That is true,” said Hastings, “I have seen very few negroes; what has -become of them. The question of slavery was a very painful one in my -time, and much of evil was apprehended in consequence of a premature -attempt to hasten their emancipation. I dread to hear how it -eventuated.” - -“You have nothing to fear on that score,” said Edgar, “for the whole -thing was arranged most satisfactorily to all parties. The government -was rich in resources, and rich in land; they sold the land, and with -the money thus obtained, and a certain portion of the surplus revenue in -the course of ten years, they not only indemnified the slaveholders for -their loss of property, but actually transplanted the whole of the negro -population to Liberia, and to other healthy colonies. The southern -planters soon found that their lands could be as easily cultivated by -the labour of white men, as by the negroes.” - -“But a great number remained, I presume, for it would not have been -humane to force those to go who preferred to stay.” - -“All that chose to settle in this country were at liberty to do so, and -their rights and privileges were respected; but in the course of twenty -or thirty years, their descendants gradually went over to their own -people, who by this time, had firmly established themselves.” - -“Did those that remained, ever intermarry with the white population, and -were they ever admitted into society?” - -“As soon as they became free, as soon as their bodies were unshackled, -their minds became enlightened, and as their education advanced, they -learned to appreciate themselves properly. They saw no advantage in -intermarrying with the whites; on the contrary, they learned, by close -investigation, that the negro race becomes extinct in the fourth remove, -when marriages took place between the two colours. It seemed to be their -pride to keep themselves a distinct people, and to show the world that -their organization allowed of the highest grade of mental culture. They -seemed utterly indifferent likewise about mixing in the society of white -men, for their object and sole aim was to become independent. Many of -their descendants left the United States with handsome fortunes. You -could not insult a black man more highly than to talk of their -intermarrying with the whites—they scorn it much more than the whites -did in your time.” - -“How do they treat the white people that trade with them in their own -country?” - -“How? why as Christians—to their praise be it said, they never -retaliated. The few excesses they committed whilst they were degraded by -slavery, was entirely owing to a misdirection of their energies; but the -moment the white man gave up his right over them, that moment all -malignant and hostile feelings disappeared. The name of negro is no -longer a term of reproach, he is proud of it; and he smiles when he -reads in the history of their servitude, how indignant the blacks were -at being called by that title. They are a prosperous and happy people, -respected by all nations, for their trade extends over the whole world. -They would never have arrived at their present happy condition if they -had sought to obtain their freedom by force; but by waiting a few -years—for the best men of their colour saw that the spirit of the times -indicated that their day of freedom was near—they were released from -bondage with the aid and good wishes of the whole country. It showed -their strong good sense in waiting for the turn of the tide in their -favour; it proved that they had forethought, and deserved our -sympathies.” - -“I am glad of all this,” said Hastings—“and the Indians—what has become -of them, are they still a distinct people?” - -“I am sorry you ask that question,—for it is one on which I do not like -to converse—but - - ‘The Indians have departed—gone is their hunting ground, - And the twanging of their bow-string is a forgotten sound. - Where dwelleth yesterday—and where is echo’s cell? - Where hath the rainbow vanished—there doth the Indian dwell!’ - -“When our own minds were sufficiently enlightened, when our hearts were -sufficiently inspired by the humane principles of the Christian -religion, we emancipated the blacks. What demon closed up the springs of -tender mercy when Indian rights were in question I know not?—but I must -not speak of it!” - -They now proceeded homewards, and in three hours—for they travelled -slowly, that they might the better converse,—they came in sight of the -low, stone farm-house, in which poor Hastings had taken his nap of three -hundred years. They alighted from the car, and as he wished to indulge -himself in taking one more look at the interior—for the building was -soon to be removed—his young relative left him to apprize his family of -their arrival. After casting a glance at Edgar, he entered the house, -and seating himself mechanically in the old arm chair, he leaned his -head back in mournful reverie. Thoughts innumerable, and of every -variety chased each other through his troubled brain; his early youth, -his political career, his wife and child, all that they had ever been to -him, his excellent father, Valentine Harley, and all their tender -relationship, mingled confusedly with the events that had occurred since -his long sleep—copyrights—mad dogs—bursting of steam boilers—the two -great fires in New-York—direct tax—no duties—post-offices—the improved -condition of clergymen—no more wars—no bruising of children’s -flesh—women’s rights—Astor’s hotel—New-York Mart in State-street—Negro -emancipation—all passed in rapid review, whilst his perplexities to know -what became of the Indians were mixed with the rest, and ran through the -whole scene. At the same time that all this was galloping through his -feverish brain, he caught a glance of his young relative, and in his -troubled imagination, it appeared that it was not the Edgar Hastings who -had of late been his kind companion, but his own son. He was conscious -that this was only a trick of the fancy, and arose from his looking so -earnestly at the young man as he left him at the door of the house; but -it was a pleasant fancy, and he indulged in it, till a sudden crash or -noise of some kind jarred the windows and aroused him. He was sensible -that footsteps approached, and he concluded it was his young friend who -had returned to conduct him home. - -“Edgar—Edgar Hastings—my son is it thou—didst thou not hear the cannon -of the Black Hawk—hast thou been sleeping?” - -“Amazement! Was that the voice of his father—was this the good Valentine -Harley that now assisted him to rise—and who were those approaching -him—was it his darling wife, and was that smiling boy his own son, his -little Edgar!” - -“You have been asleep, I find, my dear husband,” said the gentle -Ophelia, “and a happy sleep it has been for me, for us all. See, here is -a letter which makes it unnecessary for you to leave home.” - -“And is this reality?—do I indeed hold thee to my heart once more, my -Ophelia—oh, my father, what a dream!” - - - - - THE SURPRISE. - - -Nothing injures a man’s prospects in life more than a bad name. My -father, an honest, good man, never could rise above it, it depressed him -to his dying day. His name was Pan, and no one ever spoke to him without -some small joke, a thing which my father’s sensitiveness could not bear. -He was a gardener and sent the finest of vegetables to market, striving -to excel all others—I presume that my taste for horticulture arose from -this circumstance. - -Adjoining our garden was one that belonged to a man by the name of -Patrick O’Brien; he likewise raised fruits and vegetables for sale, and -there was a constant strife between him and my father as to who should -get the pre-eminence; but it so happened that, although my father had -the greatest abundance of large and fine specimens, yet Patrick O’Brien -had the largest for the monthly exhibitions. My father was not of a -jealous nature, yet he did envy his friend’s success; and there is no -knowing whether a breach might not have been made in their long tried -friendship but for my excellent mother. She always begged my father to -try and try again; and, above all, to try for the yearly fair. - -My father did persevere, and to his great joy, he got three premiums. - -“I cannot tell how it has happened, wife,” said he, “I have certainly -acquired the premiums, but O’Brien’s tulips were, to my notion, far more -beautiful than mine; and you yourself saw how much larger his salad was; -and then the early strawberries—I had the greatest quantity, but his -were the largest.” - -My mother certainly was glad that my father’s spirit was elated, but she -was of a timid, nervous temperament, and she could not bear excitement -of any kind. She therefore trembled very much whilst he stood talking to -her, nor was she the less agitated when Patrick O’Brien entered the -room. - -“Right glad am I, neighbour Pan, that you have the three prizes this -day,” said honest Patrick, “and you must try your luck again, for -there’s to be a great prize given next year. Early peas, my boy. Arrah, -but won’t I try for them; and you have a fine warm spot for them too. -But, mistress Pan, for what are you not wishing your husband joy this -bright day, seeing he has what he so long wished for?” - -“Mr. O’Brien,” said my mother, the next day, “it must not be done again; -my husband will find it out, and he will die of vexation. Pray -discourage him from making the attempt next spring, for he will not bear -a disappointment so well then as he has hitherto done. Did no one see -you put the large strawberries in his dish?” - -“No, never a creature, and I’m wondering you’ll mention a thing to me -that I have almost forgotten. I was frightful, though, about the Parrot -tulip, for one of the gentlemen would keep talking about it, and I had -to keep saying, ‘It’s not a Parrot, your honour, it’s a Bijou.’” - -The fact was, that this kind hearted creature could not bear to see my -father so crest-fallen, and he determined, as he had borne off so many -premiums, to let his friend share the pleasure with him. He slily put -three of his finest tulips in the bunch belonging to my father, and, one -by one, he put a dozen of his largest strawberries on the dish. He told -all this to my poor mother, for which he was very sorry, seeing that it -troubled her tender conscience; but, as her husband was not to know of -the trick, she endeavoured to forget it also. “And you, too, poor -Patrick,” said she, “you feel badly at not getting the prizes; you have -had them so long that it must be hard for you to lose them now—and -particularly when, by rights, you should have them.” - -“Oh, honey, never you mind me; I care more to name your little baby, -when it comes; and if you’ll let it be called Patrick, why I have a -little matter of money which shall all be his; and we will make the boy -a great scholar. I’ll bring him up like a gentleman.” - -I was born on St. Patrick’s day; a double reason, as the poor Irishman -said, for getting the name; but my mother cared little about that; all -she thought of was leaving me to the mercy of heartless strangers. She -was in very delicate health, and just lived long enough to hear me call -her mother. Her death was a severe blow to my father and my poor -godfather, for she was the peacemaker in their little disputes, and the -consoler in all their little troubles and miscarriages, of which a -gardener, you know, has many. In less than three months I lost my father -also; and thus I became entirely thrown on the care of this good and -honest Irishman. - -As my father was liberal and spirited, it cannot be supposed that he -had, in a few short years, made much money; when his effects were sold, -and every thing converted into money, there only remained about five -hundred dollars. A far greater sum, as Patrick said, than he expected to -realize; but nothing at all equal to what was necessary. He was a very -sanguine creature, and always had a hope that the next year would do -wonders; so putting the money thus obtained from my father’s effects -into safe hands, he determined on providing for me himself. - -Never was there a father so proud of a child as Patrick was of his -little godson; and never did a child fare better, for three years, than -I did. He dressed me in the finest clothes; and I was never without a -lap full of toys; in fact, he could not resist my entreaties for more -when we passed a toy shop. He often neglected his work to take me either -a riding or walking with him; and even when toiling in the garden, he -was uneasy unless I was running around him. But, alas, this state of -things was not to last long; he missed my father’s excellent example and -my mother’s gentle hints, so he went on as if his income was never to be -diminished, and as if he had thousands at his command. - -Like all weak people, the moment his affairs became embarrassed, he gave -up all endeavours at retrieving them; he ended by neglecting every -thing; and when my nurse presented the quarterly account for my board, -poor Patrick had to sell a valuable watch to meet the demand. My little -property was in the Savings Bank, and, hitherto, untouched; but much as -it was against his inclination—and, oh, how sore a thing it was—he was -compelled to take up the year’s interest, which he fondly hoped to leave -with the principal, to pay the woman for my next quarter. - -Thus it went from bad to worse, until it came to utter ruin; and Patrick -had sunk so low in public esteem, that he could not obtain even the -ordinary wages of a common gardener. He seemed to have lost his skill -with his pride, and all was aggravated by the thought of being unable to -provide for me as he once intended to do. He used to hug me to him and -weep over me, calling on my father, but most frequently on my mother, to -scorn him and hate him for breaking his promise, which was to educate -me, and give me a gentlemanly trade. He was so true to his trust, -however, that he never would touch my little patrimony; he only grieved -too much, as I observed, at having to draw upon the interest, little as -it was. But five shillings a week was not a sum sufficient to satisfy my -nurse. She had taken care of me for three years, and had been well paid -by my godfather, who likewise made her several valuable presents; but -when it came to the shillings, she at once told Patrick, who was -thunderstruck at her hardness of heart, that he must get another place -for the little spoilt boy; that she found him so troublesome she could -keep him no longer. - -I shall not tell of the change that came over me, nor the resistance I -made to every new face, for I was turned over to a dozen strangers in -the course of a year. Nor shall I tell of poor Patrick’s misery at -seeing my altered looks and spirits. He rallied a little and went in a -gentleman’s service as under gardener, that he might not only be near -me, but comfort my little heart, which was breaking with ill usage and -neglect. Small as the sum was, which Patrick gave for my board, there -were miserable creatures who offered to take me for less, so that one -woman, with whom I lived, actually farmed me out, keeping two shillings -a week out of the scanty allowance. No one can have an idea how poor -little orphans are abused when there are no kind friends to interest -themselves for them. - -I was a very unprepossessing child, neither good looking nor pleasant -tempered; not that I was really ill-tempered, but that ill usage had -stupified me. I never entered into play with the children of my own age, -nor did I seek the amusements that were even within my reach. I loved to -be alone, to lie under a tree near a brook, listening to the babbling -and murmuring of the waters, and fancying that I heard my mother talking -to me. Little as I was, I used to frame long conversations with her, and -they had the effect of soothing me. Her gentle spirit was for ever -present, and constantly encouraging me to bear all, and suffer in -silence, and that when I was a man I should be rewarded. I bless the -good Irishman’s memory for having so early and so constantly spoken of -my parents; particularly of my mother. - -A man finds he cannot make his way in the world without honesty and -industry, so that, although his father’s example may do much, he has to -depend upon his own exertions; he _must_ work, he _must_ be honest, or -he cannot attain to any enviable rank. But the tender soothings of a -mother, her sympathy, her devotedness, her forgiving temper—all this -sinks deep in a child’s heart; and let him wander ever so wide, let him -err or let him lead a life of virtue, the remembrance of all this comes -like a holy calm over his heart, and he weeps that he has offended her, -or he rejoices that he has listened to her disinterested, gentle -admonition. - -When I reached the age of eight years I was taught to read, and the -eagerness with which I proceeded, mastering every difficulty, and -overcoming every impediment from cold, hunger and chilblain, might have -shown to an observer how suitable this occupation was to my character. -Poor Patrick used to boast of my acquirements to every one who would -listen; and every fresh book that I read through, gave him visions of my -future glory. - -No one can tell how the poor fellow pinched himself to give me this -scanty education, but hard necessity had taught me to think; I was -compelled to make use of my judgment, young as I was; and, knowing that -he had the sum of five hundred dollars in his possession, for my use, I -tried to prevail on him to draw out a fifth part of it for the purpose -of paying a better board, and getting me a better teacher. If any one -could have seen this poor man as I saw him at that time, thin, bowed -down by poverty and neglect, ragged and with scarcely a home, they would -have wondered that his honesty could have held out as it did when he had -what might be considered as so large a sum within his power. He not only -did not touch a penny himself, but he would not take a cent of it from -the principal. He distrusted his own judgment, and he distrusted mine, -for I was such a mere child; yet his anxiety to give me an education was -still uppermost, and he wavered for a long time about adopting the only -means of accomplishing it. - -He had been digging post holes, one day, for a gentleman, and when his -task was finished, he began to speak of the books which he saw lying -about—it was a printing office—and, as was most natural to him, he spoke -of me. He told the printer of his anxieties and his desire that I should -have a good education, and finally he spoke of my proposal respecting -the money. The printer told Patrick, that it was very good advice, and -he had better take it; for if his object was to educate me, there was no -other way but this of effecting it, unless he sent me to a charity -school. The blood mounted in the poor fellow’s cheeks at this -suggestion, and he told me that he had great difficulty in commanding -his temper, but his love for me conquered. - -As soon as he could swallow the affront—an affront, he said, to my -father, and to my angel of a mother; for he, too, never separated my -feelings from their’s—he begged the printer to let him bring me there -and see how far I had advanced in my learning; but the man did not seem -disposed to grant this favour. Bring the boy to me one year from this, -and then I shall be better able to judge, said he; mean time, do you see -that he is placed with a good teacher; one that will keep him to his -studies. - -With a heavy heart, Patrick obeyed him, and I thus obtained a knowledge -of reading, writing and arithmetic; but he seemed to be failing fast; -every time he came to see me he appeared weaker, and was still more -wretchedly clad, and I could devise no plan for his comfort. He never -complained of his poverty, but of his laziness; and his constant -exhortations were, “Patrick, my boy, be industrious; never allow of an -idle moment; give over lying under the trees, and do not saunter about -when your lessons are over—look at me; I am in rags and despised by -every body because I have been an idler.” - -At the end of the year, in as good a suit of clothes as my poor -godfather could manage to procure for me, I was taken to the printer. He -cast a look at me as he stood at his desk writing, and then told us to -take a seat. His cold manner struck a chill through my heart, and I -crowded myself on Patrick’s chair that I might feel the warmth of his -kindness. There we sat, speechless, for half an hour, until the letters -were finished and despatched, and then the man turned his head again and -gave another look. - -“Will you be for speaking to the boy touching his learning, your -honour?” said honest Patrick, his feelings hurt by this coldness of -manner; “or shall we come some other time?” - -“I have no time to question him now,” said the printer, “but if he can -read and write—here, my boy, write your name on this leaf—Patrick Pan! -hem—Pan, is it?” - -“Yes, your honour,” said the indignant Irishman, “and it was an honest -man that bore it, and gived it to him, and I trust he’ll never disgrace -it.” - -“I trust so too,” said the man. “He writes legibly, and if you have -nothing better to do with him, he may have his food and clothing for the -few errands he can do.” - -“And Patrick, dear,” said O’Brien, “will you be liking this employment, -sure my son it’s a good berth, though a mean one, to what I meant to -give you; but you’ll be industrious and mind what’s told you, and I’ll -still be looking after you, and you’ll have plenty of books, dear, for -they are not scarce here.” - -“The boy will have but little chance of meddling with books,” said the -printer, “it will be time enough when he is older. Is he to stay now, or -do you wish him to come next week? he must be apprenticed to me, you -recollect.” - -Smothering and choking was the poor fellow for a minute or two; he knew -that the hundred dollars was all gone, and that my last quarter had just -ended. He knew it was entirely out of his power to assist me any -further, so with a mighty effort he made the sacrifice—he transferred me -to another. - -It was but the work of half an hour, and I became this man’s property; -for twelve years he was to rule my destiny. I looked up in his face -whilst he was speaking, and I saw nothing to cheer me; his countenance -was only expressive of care and deep thought. I cast another glance at -him when my indentures were signed, and there was no change. Poor -Patrick never thought of his looks; he was only alive to the misery of -having consigned me to another; of having no longer any power or control -over my comforts and enjoyments. - -When all was over, and the printer had left us together, the poor man -burst into tears, bewailing his cruel fate that would not let him alone, -as he said, that he might perform his promise of giving me a good -education. “I wanted to be industrious,” said he, “but something always -pulled me back and pointed to a toy or a hobby-horse, or a fine suit of -clothes, or a ride, or a pleasant walk, and so all these things being -more agreeable to my nature, I left my garden for the pleasure of -pleasing you, my poor boy; and now you must work for this nigger, who -won’t let you touch one of his books even. But remember your mother, -Patrick, whatever becomes of you; be honest, and she will be looking -down upon you, my jewel; and that will encourage you; and I shall be -looking after you too, dear, for all I am—for all I am—in the -poor-house. Don’t cry, poor fellow, I did not mean to tell you; but -where’s the use of being proud now, when you can’t even get a book to -read, but must just be an errand boy and be pushed about any how, and it -all comes of my laziness.” - -“Oh no, Patrick, you have done every thing for me,” said I, “and only -keep a good heart for twelve years, and then I shall have a trade, and I -can make you happy and comfortable; but you must come and see me every -day, for I shall miss you so much; and there is such a difference -between Mr. Bartlett and you. It will kill me if you don’t come every -day.” - -“Well, child, it is idle to stand here making you more unhappy than you -need be; I will come as often as I can; but I shall just walk up and -down the alley, there, till you get sight of me, for I’ll not be after -knocking at the door and shaming you before your new acquaintances, and -I all in these old rags.” - -So we parted with many a last look and last speech; I following him, -poor, ragged, broken down old creature as he was, as far as my eye could -see him, and then sat on the stairs in the hall and cried myself asleep; -nor did I awake till the bell rang for dinner. Mr. Bartlett pointed to a -little room, as he passed me on coming down stairs, telling me to go -there and take my seat at the table as soon as the cook told me that the -dinner was ready. The cook cast a surly glance at me, and so did the -chambermaid, muttering in audible whispers that “here was more trouble; -and wondering what could possess Mr. Bartlett to bring such a mere child -in the house, one not big enough to fetch a pail of water.” - -In the afternoon I was allowed to lounge about the room, no one taking -the least notice of me, till the foreman said, “Here is a little errand -boy, one of the elder apprentices must take him out when he goes with -books and papers, that he may learn to find his way.” Then they all cast -a look at me, and seeing my tiny size, and how awkward and poorly clad I -was, they made themselves very merry at my expense. But small and -contemptible as I appeared, they did not think me too small nor too mean -for their services. I was made to toil from morning till night, scarcely -sitting down to my impoverished meals; for I always had to wait till the -elder boys had finished, and I was scarcely seated before I was wanted. -By degrees I lost all pride about my outward appearance. From my infancy -I was particularly careful to keep my face and hands clean; but now that -I was driven about from place to place I had no time. All I could do was -to dip my hands and face hastily in a basin, or a pail, or more -commonly, under the pump, and either let the water dry off, or else use -a pocket-handkerchief. My master never looked after me, nor inquired -about me, that I ever heard, so that I was as much neglected as if I was -among wild beasts—is not this the case with the most of apprentices? - -It was a week, and more, before I had a room to sleep in; and I was -forced to lie about on floors, or on benches, wherever my mattress was -to be found. At length, by the removal of a young man, I was put up in a -small garret room, and in this hole I slept for twelve years. There was -one thing, however, which made it endurable; and this was, that the -branches of a large buttonwood tree reached up to the window and -sheltered it from the afternoon sun; but for this I should have suffered -from the heat. Many and many an evening have I been soothed by the -gentle rustling of the leaves, as the mild breeze passed over them. It -seemed as if the spirit of my mother was there, and I would listen and -fancy that I heard her whispering to me, and then I would shut my eyes -and let the cool soft air fall on my cheek, and say to myself, Perhaps -it is the breath of my mother. To this day, now that I am a man, I still -seem to hear that ever-to-beloved voice in the silence of the night, -when the summer wind murmurs through the foliage. I used, at that -forlorn period of my existence, to give myself up to these delusions -till my heart has fairly throbbed with emotion. - -I looked around for something to love, but no one ever dreamed of me, -all were engaged in their business, or when the day closed, in their own -amusement; all that I could draw to me was a poor singed cat, which I -coaxed into my garret-room, and domesticated there. I rescued her from -the gripe of the cook’s son, a hard-hearted little tyrant, who took -great pleasure in tormenting animals. - -But my unfortunate name—that, too, added to my miseries. I told you it -was Pan. I was called Pat from the first; but when they found out my -father’s name, it was an easy thing to call me Patty Pan; and by this -name I went for years. Oh, how hard it was to my sensitive spirit to -hear my father’s—my mother’s name turned into ridicule by these -inconsiderate and callous people. - -Every Sunday poor Patrick met me in one of the public squares, and there -we would talk together, and he would tell me anecdote after anecdote of -my parents and their family, always making them out grandees at home. -Both my father and mother were from Scotland, and I learned that my -mother had displeased her only brother by her marriage, and that his -ill-natured conduct towards her caused them to come to America. - -“You are come of a good stock, Patrick, dear,” said he to me, when I was -about fourteen years old, “barring that your uncle was such a nigger. I -have written twice to him, my jewel, and its never an answer I’ve got, -so I’ll trouble him no more, only I’ll just be for telling Mr. Bartlett -who you are; and in case your uncle should ever deign to inquire about -you, he can answer for you. I’ve kept all safe, honey; here in this old -tobacco-box is the certificates of your parents’ marriage, and of your -birth, and, oh, wo’s me, of their death too; and here is an account of -your money in the savings bank, and not a penny has been touched since -you began your trade, so that the five hundred dollars are all whole -again, and something over.” - -It was in vain that I entreated the poor fellow to take the interest and -spend it on himself; he would not do it; and from seeing his self-denial -I found it impossible to make use of it myself, although I was sadly in -want of comforts. Often and often would the old man question me as to my -usage at the printing office; but I could not bear to tell him how -utterly neglected I was; it would have killed him. Every time I saw him -he appeared weaker and weaker, and at length his eye-sight failed, and -it was with great difficulty that he could grope his way to our -accustomed haunts. He never would allow me to come to the alms-house, -not so much as to meet him at the door or near it; but I bribed a poor -man to lead him to the place and call for him again; this I was enabled -to do from the few shillings that I received from Mr. Bartlett on the -new year’s day and the fourth of July. - -My master called me to him, one morning, with some little show of -sympathy; he said that Patrick O’Brien was very ill, and that it was -doubtful whether he would live till night; that he had been to the -alms-house and was satisfied that the poor man was properly treated. I -begged to go to him, but Mr. Bartlett said that Patrick had desired that -I should not, and that I should not follow him to the grave; but, added -he, on seeing my grief, if you really desire to go, I will send you -there or go with you myself. - -I was so astonished at this unexpected kindness, that my tears dried up -in an instant, and I blessed and blessed him over and over again—not by -speech, for I was unfit for it, but mentally. My master told me to go to -my room and remain there till he sent for me, bidding me say nothing to -any one either respecting my poor godfather or what had recently -occurred. He need not have enjoined this on me; no one had ever thought -it worth while to inquire whence I came, or to whom I belonged. The -general opinion was, that I was a poor, spiritless, melancholy creature. - -The last link was broken; I followed my only friend to the grave, my -master having the humanity to take me in a carriage to the funeral; and -I need not tell you that one of the first acts of my life, when I had -the power to do it, was to put a stone at the head of poor O’Brien’s -grave. - -But heaven opened one source of pleasure to the poor orphan’s heart. If -the living denied me their sympathy, the dead did not; I became fond of -reading; and all at once, as it were, a flood of light and knowledge -entered my whole soul. To indulge myself in this newly found pleasure -was scarcely possible, for my labours seemed to increase as I grew -older. Indeed there were greater difficulties in the way now than there -would have been at first, for then I was a mere cipher, and was only -used as a convenience. But there were certain things going on which made -it necessary that there should be no spies or tell-tales about; and as I -would not join the young men in their irregularities, they thought I -meant to ingratiate myself with Mr. Bartlett by exposing them. As the -follies they committed were not injurious to our master’s interest, I -had no intention of exposing them, for he was a hard man and showed them -but few favours. My companions, however, became shy of me, and I found -that they even preferred to do without my assistance than to have me -near them; but I held fast by my integrity; and I have the satisfaction -of knowing that I was true to my employer’s interests, never injuring -them myself nor suffering others to do it. - -My only chance of reading was after supper; I then went to my room, and -there I sat, devouring book after book, night after night, by the light -of my little lamp, with my old cat, either on my lap or on my bed, the -only living thing that claimed any companionship with me. When I had -exhausted the books in the house, I hired others at the libraries; and -thus I went on, my appetite increasing as I proceeded; and my eighteenth -year found me exactly in the same round of duty, but with a mind that -seemed almost bursting its bounds with the knowledge that I had thus -crammed into it. - -Just at this period, my uncle, that cruel man, of whom poor O’Brien had -so often to speak, wrote to Mr. Bartlett concerning me. He said that, if -I would take the name of Parr he would make over to me a tract of land -which he owned in Virginia, and that if money were necessary, towards -procuring this change of name, I might draw on a certain firm in New -York to the amount of two hundred dollars. I was very indignant at -first, but Mr. Bartlett seemed resolute in accomplishing the thing, and -I at length reluctantly consented to give up the name. In the course of -a year, the whole was arranged. I adopted the name of Parr, and Mr. -Bartlett, thinking it better to sell the land at a moderate price than -to let it lie unproductive, found a purchaser for it, and the -money—twelve hundred dollars—was judiciously placed out at good -interest. - -My fellow-apprentices only laughed amongst themselves when Mr. Bartlett -told them that in future I was to be called by another name; but it soon -passed out of their thoughts, and I was again left to my own solitude -and insignificance. - -But the same objections did not exist with respect to the income I -derived from my uncle’s bounty. I felt a sort of pleasure in spending -it; and the first things I purchased was a looking-glass and other -little comforts for my forlorn garret-room. Oh, the luxury of a large -wash basin, a white towel and pleasant soap; and the infinitely greater -luxury of giving a few shillings to the poor objects who solicited -charity. The pride of my childhood returned, and I once more took care -of my dress and my outward appearance. I no longer went slouching and -careless along, inattentive to what was passing, but stopped to let my -eye rest on the shop windows; suffering myself to take pleasure in the -beauty and brightness that was spread out around me—such a difference is -there between the penny-less and crushed spirit and the one who has -wealth at command. - -But there was still a craving at the heart, which money could not -satisfy—I wanted a home, kind fellowship, a brother, a sister, something -near and dear, that I could call my own. In my Sunday walks I used to -look at the cheerful and happy young people that passed me, selecting -first one and then the other as a companion, and held mental -conversation with them, trying in this way to cheat myself into the -belief that I was of consequence to some one being. Oh, if any one could -have guessed at the deep feeling which lay hidden under my cold manner; -if they could but have known whence arose the nervous tremblings which -assailed me when I performed any little friendly office for strangers! - -As to Mr. Bartlett, he never varied his treatment of the work-people; -they were all kept at the same distance; he paid them their wages and -exacted obedience in return; and when the rules were neglected, or when -his commands were disobeyed, he dismissed the offender at once, without -remark or dispute. Of all that came and went, I was the only one that -served out my apprenticeship. Out of fourteen men and boys, when I left -him, there was not one that had been with him four years. But this gave -me no advantages. I was no nearer his confidence than I was when I -entered his service. I was advanced in the regular way, from step to -step, until I had arrived at the highest point; and I did not consider -myself as master of the trade until my time was expired. He could not -prevent me from feeling gratitude towards him, for I recollected his -kindness in going with me to poor O’Brien’s grave, and in his care and -attention to my interests respecting the change of name and the -investment of the money for the Virginia land; but he did not require -sympathy, and he never gave it to others. - -My last act of duty was to correct the proofs of a very valuable work, -requiring a knowledge of the subject matter, almost equal to that of the -author. Several had undertaken it, but made so many blunders that the -poor author was in despair. Mr. Bartlett was very much mortified, and -determined to put back the work until he could procure a competent -person to read the proofs. Having been fond of that particular branch of -study—Vegetable Physiology—I knew that I could accomplish the task; so I -stepped into the office and told Mr. Bartlett that if he had no -objection I would read the proofs, for having always had access to works -of the kind, the terms made use of were quite familiar. He looked at me -with astonishment, having, like the rest of the house, always considered -me as a mere automaton; a faithful drudge, who did every thing -mechanically. He put the work into my hands, and I laboured at it with -care and diligence, so that the work came out without a single erratum. -Mr. Bartlett said, “This is well done, Mr. Parr, excellent, and you -deserve all our thanks; the author has sent you _his_ grateful thanks -and this little box; it contains a compound microscope. I have the -pleasure, likewise, of giving you a copy of the work.” - -But praise from him, respect from my fellow labourers, came too late to -satisfy me; the time was approaching when I should be _free_, when I -could at intervals relieve both mind and body from this unnatural -monotony, and roam about in the country unrestrained. I hoped likewise -to meet with some congenial mind to whom I could pour out my feelings -and thoughts; for to this one point all my wishes turned; my whole soul -was so swallowed up with this one sentiment that every other -passion—wealth, fame, and all, were but things seen at a vast distance. -I was born with tender and strong feelings, and a friend was the bounds -of my ambition. - -At length the day came, St. Patrick’s day, blessed be his name, it gave -me freedom. My agitation had kept me awake the whole night before, for I -had a sort of fear that something would occur to hinder me from leaving -the office. As to where I was to go, that never troubled me—green -fields, the river, running brooks, trees, birds, and the animals of the -country, were all before me, and to me they would speak volumes. If man -denied me his sympathy, they would not refuse it; and to the haunts of -my childhood, to the very spot where I drew my breath, there I meant to -direct my steps. I knew I had not neglected a single duty, nor disobeyed -a single command. God had blessed me with health, so that I never had to -keep my room for one day even. To be sure, there were times when I had -severe headaches, and wretched coughs, and great weakness from night -sweats; but I never complained, determined that, when my day of service -expired, there should be nothing exacted of me for lost time. I did not -know that my master would make me remain, to work out the days that were -lost by sickness, but it had been put in my head by some of the -apprentices, and I never forgot it. - -On this happy, memorable morning, dressed in a full suit of mourning, -even to the crape on my new hat, with a valise well filled with good -linen, handkerchiefs, and stockings, I entered Mr. Bartlett’s private -office for the last time. He looked at me with an inquiring eye, as I -stood covered with confusion and agitation. “What is the meaning of -this, Mr. Parr?” said he, “you seem equipped for a journey.” - -“I was twenty-one years of age at six o’clock this morning,” said I, my -face flushed as I could feel by the tingling in my ears. - -“Well, what if you were,” said he, looking as much surprised as if an -apprentice never was to leave his master. “I thought your time was -nearly out—this is St. Patrick’s day, is it? but you are going to -return. You shall have good wages, and I shall take care that you have a -good berth.” - -“No, sir,” said I, almost breathless with fear that I should be spell -bound,—“no, sir, I intend to travel about in the country this summer; I -am going to put head stones to the graves of my father and mother: that -is my first purpose, now that I have money and am free. I hope and trust -that you think I have served a faithful and honest apprenticeship, and -that if I want a situation in a printing office I can ask you for a good -character.” - -“Yes, most assuredly you can; but you need not apply elsewhere. I know -your worth, young man, and I have both the power and inclination to -serve you. Serve me for five years as well as you have done, and I will -make you a partner in the concern.” - -I thanked him warmly for this gratifying mark of esteem, but I could not -accept of his offer, my very heart turned sick at the thought of staying -another day even. He was evidently disconcerted, and made several -pauses, as if to consider whether he might not propose something more -acceptable, but I fortified myself against all that he might urge, and I -am sure that an offer to make me his full partner immediately would not -have induced me to remain. - -I asked for my indentures. “Well,” said he, “Mr. Parr, you are not to be -moved, I see; but that shall not hinder me from doing you justice; you -have served me well, and it is but fair that I should look to your -interest. He turned from me and wrote a letter of recommendation to two -publishers, one in New York and the other in Boston, and taking his -check book from the shelf, he drew a check, which I found was for two -hundred dollars. He gave me the three papers, and then proceeded to look -for the indenture; he handed it to me, endorsed properly, and after -thanking him for his former and present kindness, I asked him if he -would allow me to beg one more favour of him, which was that he would -still keep for me the certificates of my parents’ marriage and my birth, -and allow me to draw on him, as usual, for the interest of the mortgage -which he held for me. He had previously to this put me in possession of -it, and of the money in the savings bank, he having held it in trust for -me. He readily promised me this favour, begging me to use the money -prudently as hitherto, and in case of any difficulty to apply to him. We -shook hands, and I was in the act of picking up my valise to depart when -the crape on my hat caught his eye. - -“You are in mourning, I perceive,” said he, “there is crape on your hat -and your clothes are black; I did not know that you had a single -relation here.” - -“Nor have I,” said I. “I put on this mourning dress as a mark of -affectionate gratitude to my poor godfather, Patrick O’Brien. I had it -not in my power to do it before, but as his goodness lives still fresh -and green in my memory, why should I omit doing that which I know would -gratify his spirit if it should be permitted him to know it?” - -“I wish for your sake that he had lived to see this day,” said Mr. -Bartlett, “but I will not detain you longer; I wish you well from the -bottom of my heart.” - -“There is but one thing more, sir,” said I, turning back from the door. -“There are several articles belonging to me in my bed room; I have given -them to the youngest apprentice, and I wish he may have your sanction to -retain them; here is a list of them.” He took the list: I left the room, -walked hastily through the hall, and shut the street door as I went -out—I shut out the whole twelve years from my memory. - -It was a clear, cold, bright day; the frost had been out of the ground -for some time, so that the roads were dry and the walking pleasant, but -the sense of freedom was exquisite. “What,” said I, “no calls upon my -time, no hurry, no driving? can I call this blessed day my own? is that -_my_ sun? that glorious sun which goes careering through the sky, and -shedding its brightness all around, filling my eyes with the beautiful -pictures which it illuminates?” And thus I went on, step by step, -rejoicing, my enraptured soul drinking in new cause for exultation at -every turn. - -In the whole twelve years I had never eaten a meal out of Mr. Bartlett’s -house, nor had I ever been within the walls of any other house than his, -so strictly did I keep within the limits of my duty. I was exceedingly -shy, therefore, of entering a public house, although my hunger was -beginning to make itself felt. But I conquered my timidity, and entering -a house of entertainment I called for dinner. I was ushered into a neat -room, and in the course of half an hour was served with what appeared to -me then an excellent dinner. I was covered with confusion because the -host would wait on me, and I was equally embarrassed with the services -of a good-natured waiter, who bowed low when I paid for the dinner, and -still lower when I refused to take the half dollar change. - -I was now completely in the country, and in the neighbourhood of the -place that gave me birth. Having a faint recollection of the house in -which my parents lived, I determined, if I ever was rich enough, that I -would purchase it; for visions of a beautiful river, and a waterfall, -and every variety of romantic scenery, were constantly floating before -me; and then there was the inspiration of my mother to heighten the -picture. I reached the spot at nightfall, and engaged lodgings at the -inn—not the one that you now see at the head of the briery lane, but -further on; it was destroyed by fire about four years ago; you must all -recollect it. Here I remained three weeks, going over the haunts of my -early childhood—infancy, I might say—and reviving the almost faded -images, by being amongst the same scenes. The willow and the aspen tree, -near my spring house, O’Brien helped me to plant when I was about six -years old, and under the large elm I used to lie when I first began to -read. You need not be surprised that I purchased this little estate as -soon as I had the means of doing so; I contemplated it from the moment I -entered Mr. Bartlett’s employment, and it was a project that never -ceased to occupy my thoughts. The house was small, but substantially -built; it is the one on the edge of the common, in which Martha’s -brother lives; and I keep it in neat repair, as I also do the garden in -which my father worked; these fine apple trees are of his planting. I -made several attempts to purchase the little property which once -belonged to my poor godfather, but it belonged to an old man by the name -of Banks; he added it to the Oak Valley farm, which I do not regret now, -as it has fallen into the hands of our excellent neighbours, Mr. and -Mrs. Webb. - -I knew the precise spot where my parents were buried, for poor Patrick -had described it accurately, making a drawing of it upon a piece of -paper which I shall preserve to the day of my death; I therefore placed -a tomb stone to each grave, with an inscription that satisfied my ardent -feelings, but which I have since replaced with others more suited to -their humble merits and my more mature judgment. Patrick’s grave was -about a mile from the city, and, with Mr. Bartlett’s assent, I had -caused a neat stone to be put over it, as many as six years before this -period. - -My hard hearted old nurse was then and is still living; that fine, -promising boy that was lost at sea, and in whom you all took such an -interest, was her only child; for his sake I allow her a small yearly -sum, but she has no idea that I am the one that she so cruelly gave up -to the ill usage of the poor creatures around her. Poor Patrick, how he -hated her; she even taunted him when she afterwards saw him with me, -pretending to wonder why he did not dress me in such fine clothes as -formerly. He had, in his days of wealth, bought me a hobby horse, the -skeleton of which I found about three years ago in an old barn, and -which I knew immediately, for the initials of my name were carved -underneath by him; it is in complete order again. How it would gratify -the poor, kind old man, were he living, for he would know the motives -which influenced me in this trifling act. - -What a tumult of mind I was in during these three weeks! The country had -not the tranquillizing effect that I expected, for I was striving to -recall far-gone images and thoughts; I went to every old tree, to the -brook, to the river, to the church, and to the pew in which my parents -sat, for of this too I had inquired of Patrick. I thought my all of -happiness was centred in this one place, and that, though human sympathy -was denied me, I might here pass the remainder of my days in peace and -quiet, worshipping my Maker, and in doing good to the poor creatures -around me. But the money was to be made to purchase these blessings, for -I had but eighteen hundred dollars, and it required as many thousands to -accomplish this desirable object, and Patrick’s last injunction for ever -rung in my ears—“never be idle.” - -I tore myself away from this cherished spot, and walked back again to -the city just in time to get in one of the cars for New York, where I -arrived the same afternoon. After I had looked at the curiosities which -were, to me, so thickly scattered about, I thought it quite time to -commence work in earnest. I therefore called on a printer by the name of -Blagge and offered my services. He happened, luckily, to be in want of a -proof reader, and without entering into any definite agreement, I -commenced the work, he having meanwhile written to Mr. Bartlett, that he -might be sure of the genuineness of the letter of recommendation. Mr. -Blagge was quite pleased with my care and industry, as well as with my -knowledge of the subject matter of the work; he said that he could now -bring out a book which he had long wished to publish, but that his proof -readers were, in general, so profoundly ignorant of science, that he was -unwilling to undertake it. I begged him to defer it until the ensuing -spring, that I intended to improve myself by attending the lectures, and -that I should then be better able to take charge of the work. Meantime -he gave me four hundred dollars a year, with a promise of presenting me -with tickets to such of the lectures as I chose to attend. - -My companions in the office were civil, nay, respectful; for I came -amongst them under favourable circumstances, and Mr. Blagge’s kind -manner towards me had a great effect on them. But they were not suited -to me; I looked from one to the other in vain for one of congenial mind; -they were all industrious, and some ambitious; but their minds were a -blank, and their pursuits, when disengaged from their business, were of -a low order. Not one could I find that loved to walk out in the country -for the sake of breathing pure air, and of enjoying the soft, tender -scenes of nature; their pleasures lay in eating cellars where the best -suppers could be had for their limited means, and in playing at some low -pastime night after night, such as Domino, All-fours, Vingtun, and other -games of chance; and on Sundays to take a sail, or something, in fact, -which tended to demoralize rather than improve. - -Mr. Blagge was, as I observed, respectful and kind, but he was full of -cares and anxieties, having a very large family to support, and with but -slender means; in fact, he had been very much embarrassed, and was just -recovering from it. It was not to be supposed that he could interest -himself in the feelings of a young man with whom he had so slight an -acquaintance—one, likewise, who did not ask for his sympathy. I -therefore moved on in silence, occupying myself at leisure hours in -learning the French and Latin languages, which, with the help of good -teachers and books I was enabled to do in the course of a few months. -This was a delightful occupation to me, and I soon overcame all the -difficulties, excepting the pronunciation, which I was unable to -accomplish, as I had no one with whom I could converse. I learned the -Latin that I might more fully comprehend the meaning of the technical -terms made use of in all the works of science, and which I considered it -absolutely necessary to do, as I was so soon to take charge of the -reputation of the great forthcoming work. - -Here was, therefore, another pleasure, for I now became passionately -fond of works of this nature, and my greedy mind devoured all that came -within reach. I had nothing to interfere with my plan of study, living -entirely alone, and having no associates; I hired a room in which I -slept and studied, and I took my breakfast, dinner, and supper, at a -cheap ordinary near the office. As I stipulated to labour only between -sunrise and sunset, I had as much time as I wanted for exercise and -reading, and my practice was to walk from the hour I left the office -until it was dark, eat my supper, and then retire to my room. Being an -early riser, there was time, therefore, to attend to my dress, for I had -again become fastidiously clean. It now appears to me that I hurried -from one thing to another, and engaged in every thing so vigorously, to -keep off the ever-intruding feeling of loneliness. I wonder if any other -human being suffered so acutely on this subject as I did; it seemed as -if I would have given all I was worth in the world for one friend. - -But heaven at length took pity on my desolate situation, and I was about -to be rewarded for all that I had suffered; it came in a way, too, in -which a man should be blest—in the form of love. - -I was always a regular attendant at divine worship, excepting during the -latter part of poor O’Brien’s life, being then compelled to walk out -with him and talk to him; but after his death I used to go twice every -Sunday to church, going to every one that would admit me. Now that I was -my own master, and had the means to do it, I hired a seat in a church -about three miles out of town, where I could worship God without the -fear of having my attention distracted by the restlessness and frivolity -of a fashionable city congregation. I gained another object, too; I had -a pleasant walk, and the exercise was necessary to my health. - -Directly in front of the pew that I occupied sat two ladies and a -gentleman, regular attendants likewise; the elderly lady was very lame, -and required assistance both in getting in and out of the carriage, and -the gentleman, I thought, seemed rather indifferent about her comfort, -for he was not as tender and delicate in his attentions as he should -have been. Almost the whole trouble of assisting her fell on the young -lady, who, I presumed, was her daughter. I had a very great desire to -offer my services, but my shyness of strangers prevented me, although -every succeeding week I saw that the poor invalid was less and less able -to help herself. Standing very near them one day, I found that it was -utterly impossible for the young lady to get her aged relative in the -carriage without help, so I stepped hastily forward just as the old lady -was falling from the step, and in time to catch her in my arms. I lifted -her gently in the carriage, seated her comfortably in it, sprung out -again, and offered my hand to the young lady. It was the impulse of a -moment. The door closed, and the carriage was soon out of sight. - -But what a tumult and confusion I was in; what strange feelings -overpowered me. There had been magic in the touch of the hand. There had -been magic in the glance of her eye, as she turned to thank me. A dreamy -softness came over me, and diffused itself through my very soul. I could -not imagine why it was that so slight an incident should have affected -me so deeply; but I thought of nothing, dreamed of nothing, but the -touch of that hand and the glance of that beautiful eye. It was in vain -that I took up my pen or my book, in the evening; in a few seconds, my -hand dropped and my eye rested on vacancy. - -With more than usual care I attended to my dress on the following -Sunday, and I was there at the church door sooner than necessary, -waiting for the carriage. It did not arrive, and I was compelled to -enter and take my seat, as the clergyman had commenced the service. You -may imagine my feelings when I saw the lady sitting quietly in her pew, -by the side of the old gentleman: they had walked to church, having left -the invalid at home; and they had passed me while I was gazing up the -road for the carriage. When leaving the church I inquired whether the -lady had been prevented from coming to church from indisposition; and a -voice, the sweetest and the gentlest that ever fell on human ear, -answered my question. I was so startled, both by my own temerity, in -thus venturing to address her, and by the uncommon softness of her -voice, that I did not hear the import of the words; but the loveliness -of the tones remained imprinted on my memory for ever. No music, since, -has ever made the like impression. - -Sunday was now a day of exquisite enjoyment; for, added to strong -devotional feelings, I was breathing the same atmosphere with a being -that I considered as all perfection. She appeared to be that for which I -had so long sought—a friend, a sister—and I hoped the time was not far -distant when I could approach her and again hear that musical voice. In -this blissful state the summer passed, unclouded, save that the lady was -once absent from church—it was owing to the death of the elderly person -who, I discovered, was not her mother, but a distant connexion, who had -resided with them for many years; and that the gentleman I supposed to -be her father was her uncle. She was an orphan, and her destiny seemed -for ever linked with mine, from this circumstance. - -Toward the close of the summer, the young lady sometimes came to church -alone; and fearing that, when the cold weather set in, I should lose -sight of her, perhaps for ever, I determined to make one attempt to -interest her in my favour. I had superintended the getting up of a -beautiful prayer-book, the type, paper, plates and execution were -perfect, and I had one copy exquisitely bound. I even ventured to write -the name of this fair being in the first page, and intended to present -it to her; but it was a month before I gained courage to make the -attempt. At one time I thought to lay it on the ledge of her pew, in -silence; but I could not bear that her devotions should be interrupted -by what might be considered as an act of levity on my part, so I -forbore. I ventured, at last, to address her on coming out of church; -and to my surprise, I found myself walking forward with her. She always -carried her prayer-book, and I asked permission to look at it; she -smiled and gave it to me, and I then took the one intended for her from -my pocket, and presented it to her, making my bow suddenly, and -hastening with the speed of lightning from her sight—I need not say that -the little worn out prayer-book is still a treasure to me. - -How she received the book I could not tell, nor had I an opportunity of -knowing, on the following Sunday, for it stormed so violently that none -but a devoted lover, like myself, would have ventured out. She was not -there, nor did I expect to see her; but I had an exquisite pleasure in -being in a spot where I had so frequently been near her. On the Saturday -following the lectures commenced; I was to attend three, Astronomy, -Natural Philosophy and Chemistry, but fearing that my mind was in too -unsettled a state to attend to them all, I only entered my name for -two—Chemistry and Astronomy. - -The lecture room was in a narrow street, badly lighted; and, there being -a basement, it became necessary to have a number of steps to the porch. -It was November, and there had been a little sleet in the afternoon, so -that the steps were slippery, and I could not avoid the reflection that -it would be exceedingly unsafe for ladies to pass up and down. It being -an introductory lecture, the room was crowded, as it always is, and I -therefore stood near the door, not caring to disturb any one by making -an attempt to look for a seat. A lady and gentleman sat near to the -corner where I stood, and on his getting up, she turned her head. You -may judge of my amazement and rapture when I saw it was the lady who was -ever present to my mind. - -She smiled, and in a moment I was at her side—she spoke, for I could -not; I again heard that musical, that charming voice, and the lecturer -and the crowd were forgotten. I think she said something pleasing of the -book, but my heart beat so violently that I could not tell what it was. -She saw my agitation, but thought it proceeded from mere bashfulness, -and she therefore talked on, of the lecture and of the crowd. I said -yes, no, any thing—but I soon recovered, for of one thing I was now -certain—my book was not to be returned; she had spoken graciously of it, -and I was the happiest of mortals. My tongue seemed loosened from its -long iron bondage, and I poured out my thoughts in a strain that now -astonishes me. She listened whilst I explained to her the advantages and -pleasures of science, particularly that branch of it which now occupied -the attention of the audience. I was the lecturer, and the voice of the -one now speaking, which was falling on the ears of all in the room, was -like a far distant sound—we heard it not. - -The young man who came with her was standing up near us and taking -notes; he had come regularly provided with a book and pencil, and seemed -more intent on getting information than on the comfort of his charge. He -now and then cast a look towards us, and it appeared to me that I had -seen him somewhere, but I was too happy to let the subject take hold of -my mind. What did I care for him, or all the world, whilst I was drawing -in new life at every breath. - -Our conversation was carried on in the lowest whispers, so as not to be -overheard; but we were far removed from the centre, and there were -others talking in louder tones near to us; for of the number who came to -listen there were but few who had a real desire to learn. As it -afterwards proved, the class was very small, there not being more than -fifty of the audience now present. I was overjoyed to hear that the -young lady intended to come every night; that she was to remain at a -friend’s in town, on purpose to attend the lectures; and this gentleman -was to be her escort. I learned that he was her uncle’s grandson, and -that he had a passion for study, particularly chemistry. I exerted all -my eloquence to prevail on her to attend the astronomical lectures -likewise; but she said, much as she desired it, she feared it was out of -her power, but that she would write to her uncle for permission. - -The minutes flew, and the audience were making a move to retire before I -awakened from this blissful trance. The young man came to us at last, -and asked the lady how she was pleased with the lecture. She smiled, and -said, very much, and then the crowd pressed on and separated us. I got -out as quickly as possible, to have the pleasure of handing her down the -slippery steps; and, as if expecting it, her precious hand was ready as -soon as I offered mine. - -Oh, what visions of happiness floated through my brain that eventful -night. Even my dreams were filled with the sweet silvery tones of her -voice. It seemed as if angels were hovering round my bed, to sooth and -tranquilize my troubled spirit; and not one discordant thought or sound -mingled with it. Oh, if man would but give up his whole soul to pure -love. If he would let it mix up with his worldly occupations. If he -would allow it to be for ever present, how exalted would his nature -become; how free from all grossness and immoral thoughts and actions. -For my part, it had such an effect upon me that my whole nature was -changed. I was, to be sure, free from all vicious tendencies; and I was -active in benevolence towards the poor; but my heart was frozen up, and -I looked on the world, and those immediately around me, with a cold, -averted eye. Now, my full heart seemed bursting to communicate its -happiness to others; and I became sensible that it was in my power to -impart pleasure although I might receive neither thanks nor sympathy in -return. - -I was attentive, therefore, to what was passing around me; moving my -desk a few feet farther, to give more light to one man, and nailing a -cleat between the tall legs of a stool, to give ease to the feet of -another. I bought a pot of pomatum, and made one of the young -apprentices rub it on his poor cracked and chopped hands, buying him a -stout pair of gloves, to protect them from the cold. I helped the -book-keeper through an intricate account, begging him not to speak of it -to others; a thing which he did not intend to do, being only too fearful -that I might mention it myself. My thawed heart expanded to all around -me; and, as it acquired warmth, it diffused its sympathies to every -thing within its reach. Oh, holy love, when in thy true shape, how -benign is thy influence! - -The lady’s uncle was gracious, and allowed her to attend the -astronomical lectures likewise; and I need not say how regular I was in -my attendance and devotion; for as the young man was not particularly -interested in this study, he sometimes brought the young lady in the -room and left her, calling for her either before or after the lecture -was over. This he did not scruple to do, as the lady with whom she -lived, at present, always accompanied her to this lecture. I brought her -note-books and pencils, and assisted her in taking notes, contriving -that she should have the most comfortable seat in the room; and all -these attentions she received in the kindest manner—she received them as -a sister would from a brother, and I was satisfied. - -Thus the winter wore away, and the month of February had nearly closed, -before the lectures were over. There was still one more evening for -each, and then this delightful intercourse was to cease; for I could not -devise any plan by which I could gain access to the presence of the -young lady; more particularly as the young man had been more than -usually vigilant and careful of her, and seemed desirous of preventing -her from receiving so much of my attention. Her companion, too, scarcely -condescended, of late, to notice me; all of which I saw was painful to -the only being for whom I cared. I went, as usual, to the astronomical -lecture—it was, as I observed, the last; and she was there also with the -same lady, who cast a scornful glance at me as I approached their seat. - -I could not imagine what had produced such a change in this lady’s -manner towards me, unless she had been told of my humble occupation, and -that it had mortified her vanity to receive attention from one who might -be considered as a journeyman. From the first evening of my meeting the -fair creature to whom I had so unresistingly yielded up my heart, I made -her acquainted with my actual situation, my prospects and my hopes. It -seemed necessarily interwoven in the theme that I was discussing; for I -spoke of the difficulties I had to encounter, in consequence of which -knowledge came to me slowly; contrasting it with the facilities which -were now in my power. Neither she nor I dreamed that high birth or -fortune were at all necessary to an intercourse so simple, so unexacting -as ours. She redoubled the kindness of her usual manner on seeing that I -was a little hurt by her friend’s coolness; but she little knew the pain -I suffered on hearing that she was not to be at the last chemical -lecture—her uncle was in town, and they were to return home on that day. - -It came like a death knell to my heart. What, was she to go and not be -informed of the tender and enduring love I bore her! Was I never to see -her; to hear that voice again! Was this to be the last interview! I -could not bear it. I took her note book, tremblingly, from her hand, and -wrote as follows— - -“You have pierced my heart with grief. You are to leave the city, and I -am to see you no more. My whole soul is absorbed in one feeling; and -that is, love for you; and now that you are going from me, existence -will be a burden. I ask you not to love me in return; that seems -impossible. I can never hope to create a passion such as I now feel for -you; such as I felt from the moment I first heard your voice. But deign -to think of me—no, I cannot give up the thought of calling you mine—at -some future day, when fortune has been propitious; or should some evil -overtake you, remember me. I must hasten from your presence, for I am -unfit to remain here; but if, on reading this, you can feel compassion -for my hopeless love, let these few lines remain; but if you have no -pity to offer me, tear them out and put them in my hand as you leave the -house. I shall be there to receive my doom; but be merciful.” - -After having written this, in great agony of mind, I turned to her, and -our eyes met. She saw that I was uncommonly agitated, and her concern -for me prevented her speaking. I bent close to her ear and said, read -this immediately—pointing to the page—and remember that my life depends -on what you do. I hurried from her, and walked up and down the narrow -street until the lecture was over; which, to my fevered apprehensions, -seemed never to have an end. - -At length the door opened, and I saw one, and another, and then groups, -descend the steps; the young lady appearing amongst the last, moving -slowly, so as to give me time to see and approach her. When at the -bottom of the flight she stopped, for a moment, and as I came near her -she said, in a low tone, “Here are the notes, and I have added a few -lines to them; good night.” It was well she said this, as the giving me -the paper, as I requested, would have plunged me into despair. I need -not say that I hastened to my lodgings, that I might read the precious -contents; for I could not but augur favourably of them from the manner -of her giving the paper to me. Under my own impassioned scrawl were -these lines. - -“Notwithstanding the fear of giving you pain, I must return the leaf; -for I should not like to leave it in the book. My whole manner must be a -convincing proof that I have a high esteem for your character, and that -I feel a strong interest in your welfare; more than this I dare not say. -I am entirely dependent on my uncle; and it has been his wish, for many -years, to see me the wife of his grandson—the person who has always -accompanied me to the lectures. You need not fear that this event will -ever take place, as my disinclination to it has long been known to the -young man; and neither he nor my uncle have any power to compel me. In -saying thus much I do not wish to encourage you, as my uncle is -obstinate and unyielding, and would never consent to the addresses of -any other man. I hope you may forget me and be as happy as you deserve. -I do violence to my feelings in bidding you farewell; but prudence and a -regard to your interests dictate it.” - -Prudence, indeed! What were the prudential reasons? My inability to -support her? Surely if she loved me, there were means enough to be -comfortable, and I would move mountains to place her in affluence. She -has an esteem for me, and she does violence to her feelings in bidding -me farewell. I have hopes, therefore, that, as her heart is disengaged, -I may, in time, aspire to her love. - -In thoughts like these I passed the night; nor did I recover my -equanimity for several days; every thing, every thought, that did not -relate to her, was irksome and distasteful, and my labours at the office -were conducted mechanically. The commencement of the great work was now -contemplated. I was told to get ready for it; and, as there was a -translation of a very popular French work wanted, Mr. Blagge pressed me -to undertake it. Perhaps it was well for me that I was thus suddenly -compelled to exertion, for with this depression of spirits I might have -sunk into apathy incurable. I likewise owed much to Mr. Blagge’s -kindness; and being of a grateful nature, determined not to disappoint -him. - -To work, therefore, I went, reading proofs and attending to the types -during the day, and translating at night. Proceeding in this way for six -weeks, not allowing myself any exercise but a short walk, between -churches, on Sunday. Mr. Blagge was delighted, both with the execution -and diligence, and he promised to raise my salary the ensuing year, to -six hundred dollars. The French translation was likewise commended; and -I felt an honest pride in sending all the papers which spoke of the -merits of my performances to the only one whose applause I desired. For -this translation I received two hundred dollars; so that my little -fortune had increased to two thousand dollars. I saw it with a pleasure -that cannot be expressed, for I had now an object in view; and instead, -as heretofore, of spending all my income, I began a rigid system of -economy, amounting almost to meanness—but thank heaven, my heart was not -so exclusively selfish as to forget the poor. - -As soon as these two important works were through the press, I went to -my accustomed seat in the church, on Sunday; which, as I before -mentioned, was three miles out of town; but my disappointment was very -great in not seeing the young lady. On inquiry of the sexton, I learned -that the family had removed to a country seat, about thirty miles -distant; and that they had given up their pew. He could not tell the -name of the place to which they had gone; but he promised to inquire, -and let me know on the following Sunday. It is impossible to describe my -uneasiness at this intelligence. I fancied that what was so desirable a -blessing to me would be equally coveted by others; and that her uncle -and cousin had removed her from the world that their plans might be the -more readily executed. I was fearful that her tender nature might be -subdued by importunities; and that she would yield to their wishes, -rather than incur their displeasure. I did not flatter myself that her -love for me was strong enough to enable her to brave persecution; and -how could she be assured of the strength and continuance of mine? - -Four long weeks passed and I could gain no further intelligence, than -that Mr. Bewcastle, the young lady’s uncle, had purchased a farm on the -island, three miles from the river and about thirty from the city; that -he was devoted to the cultivation of it, and was making preparations for -building a large house. My worst fears were realized: these improvements -were no doubt in the expectation of his niece’s marriage, and I once -more abandoned myself to despair. This state of mind, added to the -severe labour I had gone through, had so perceptible an effect on my -health that Mr. Blagge became concerned. He entreated me to relax a -little in my attention to business, but I persevered until the first of -August, when fearing that I should really be unable to continue in the -office I determined on making an excursion in the country. - -I need not say in which direction I bent my steps. In fact, my intention -was to explore the whole of the neighbourhood until I heard where Mr. -Bewcastle lived, and then to take up my residence near him. I was very -fortunate indeed, for the man in whose house I rested the first night, -knew the family, and he promised to take me to a friend of his who lived -about half a mile from them. It was about ten o’clock the next morning -when I reached the house, and as I liked the place and the appearance of -the people, I was induced to remain with them, paying them a moderate -board. I had a bed-room and parlour entirely to myself, and their -kindness soon made me feel myself at home. They saw I was the very sort -of lodger they wanted, and they exerted themselves to the utmost to make -me comfortable. When I tell you that the landlord of the little inn was -old uncle Porter, now living in the small stone house, and that his -sister was our kind aunt Martha, you will think how fortunate I was in -becoming an inmate of their house. - -As I did not then know their worth, I was cautious in my inquiries about -the young lady, and it has amused both Martha and myself to recollect -how guarded, and with what apparent unconcern I talked and asked -questions about the family. I gathered that Mr. Bewcastle was a harsh -and obstinate man, loving his own ways and his own money better than any -thing in the world excepting his grandson, Mr. Anglesea, who could -prevail on him to do almost any thing. That it was talked of amongst the -neighbours that he wanted to marry his cousin, or rather second cousin, -but that she could not bear him. - -I asked if they knew the young lady personally, and they said that she -often walked their way and sometimes stopped to speak to Martha, who had -when young lived with her parents. That she had called there on her way -to church on Sunday last, and they were sorry to see her look so thin -and unhappy. - -I had to turn away suddenly from the good people to hide my emotion, nor -did I dare to resume the conversation for some time, lest they might -suspect my designs. I had, of course, no settled plan of proceeding; my -first object was to see the young lady and learn the state of her -affections; if they were favourable to my hopes I then intended to offer -my hand; my love had been hers from the first hour I saw her. I -projected a number of schemes either to see her, or get a letter -conveyed to her, but I became nervously timid when I attempted to put -any one of them in execution. At that time if I could have been sure of -our good Martha, I should have been spared two days of great distress, -for she, kind soul, would have assisted me immediately. I knew of no -better plan, at last, than to get her to take a note to Mr. Bewcastle’s, -and contrive to give it to the dear lady unobserved by the family, but -my hatred of deception was so great I was exceedingly reluctant to -practise this little artifice. - -Towards the close of the second day, which was passed in wandering -through the fields and along the lanes, I made a desperate effort to -speak once more on the subject nearest my heart. Aunt Martha came in the -little parlour up stairs, and seated herself near to me looking -anxiously in my face, it was a motherly tender look, and I felt the -tears starting to my eyes. You are quite indisposed, said she, at -length, and I told my brother that I would make so bold as to ask you if -you had any trouble that we could relieve, and to say if you are short -of money that you can stay here a fortnight or longer, and never mind -paying us till you can afford it. - -I was truly grateful for this kindness, and of course showed her my -pocket book full of notes. “What then ails you,” said she, “for it is -something more than ill health. May I guess?” I told her, smiling, that -she might guess, and if she came near the truth, and could assist me, I -should be eternally grateful. - -“Well, then, I am sure it is connected with Mr. Bewcastle’s niece, and -if you are the gentleman that I have heard people talk about—are you a -printer?” - -“Yes,” said I, “and I am determined to trust you—my name is Parr; now -tell me what you have heard.” - -“Why, I have heard that one cause of the young lady’s aversion to this -Mr. Anglesea, is her love for a young printer by the name of Parr.” - -My face was like scarlet; to hear this talked of publicly—to hear that -from others which I would give kingdoms to know was truth, rendered me -almost incapable of listening any further. - -“Well, you need not answer,” said the kind-hearted woman, “I was pretty -sure last evening, that you were the very one, and now what can I do to -serve you. We both love the young lady, and should be very sorry to see -her married to a man she dislikes, particularly as she loves another.” - -“Oh, do not say that,” said I, “there is no reason to say that, I have -not the slightest hope that she has any other sentiment for me than -friendship.” - -“No matter, no matter, you are right,” said she, “not to expect too -much, but if you give me leave I will just let the young lady know that -you are here, and then you can see her yourself; perhaps you had better -write a few lines.” - -I thought so too, so I went to my room and wrote as follows:— - -“You will not be surprised, dearest lady, to hear that I am once more -near to you, nor will I disguise the truth, that my intention is to -learn from your own lips, whether my honest and faithful love can ever -meet with favour. You spoke kindly in your note to me, but I had not the -presumption to make any further advances until my circumstances were so -much improved that I could offer you competence. The anxiety of my mind -has preyed on my health, and I am now determined to know my fate at -once, for this suspense paralyzes all the energies of my soul. - -“I learn that you are unhappy; confide but in me, give yourself up to my -devoted tender cares, and my whole life shall be spent in loving and -protecting you. Be generous, and give peace to my heart by saying that -you will endeavour to return my affection, at present I ask no more. - -“I do not want fortune, indeed I should infinitely prefer that you had -not a cent in the world; if you are not ambitious I have enough to -render you happy; my income is now nearly eight hundred dollars a year, -and I shall soon have it in my power to increase it to a thousand. I -know that your tastes are simple, and with your right-mindedness and my -unceasing cares, you will find enough for all that is desirable. Dearest -lady, listen to my entreaties, and do not drive me to despair by doubts, -either of my love or my ability to make you happy.” - -Martha Porter took this letter from my trembling hand, and promising to -be back by noon, she departed, leaving me in a state to which I cannot -look back without great pain—the answer was to seal my fate. - -One o’clock, two o’clock came; but Martha Porter did not return; I -invented a thousand excuses—it might have been difficult to see the -young lady alone—she might be ill—married—every thing pressed on my -burning brain at once, and when poor Martha made her appearance at last, -I rushed up to my room unable to hear the result of her mission. - -A gentle knock at the door, and a gentle voice as I opened it brought -some comfort—Martha’s face too was in smiles, and a letter was in her -hand—she saw that I was stupified, as it were, and unable to ask -questions, so she quietly laid the letter on the table, and closing the -door, went softly down stairs. Martha, dear Martha Porter, have I not -been as a son to thee? - -When the tumult of my feelings subsided I ventured to open the precious -letter; my eye ran over the lines, but the sense came not, I did not -comprehend a word. I sealed myself and prayed for composure, for my -reason seemed departing, and as I prayed my strength returned. I am now -persuaded that it was a sense of the blissful import of the letter that -so completely unmanned me, although I would not allow myself to believe -it. The blessed letter was as follows: - - “I am convinced of your affection for me, I have known it for a - long time, and I am sure that I can trust you. I am indeed very - unhappy and with no hope that my uncle will ever cease his - persecutions; but for your generous letter I should this day have - sent for Martha Porter to confide in her, and to get her to go to - the city. Will you love me the less when I say, that it was to see - you and to make my situation known to you? But do not suppose that - mere personal distress induces me to throw myself on your - protection. I esteem you highly, and am perfectly willing to share - your fortune be it what it may. Perhaps my repugnance to marry Mr. - Anglesea would not have been so great—perhaps if I had never known - you, I should have found less difficulty in obeying my uncle. You - perceive that I trust in you entirely.” - -It was not till I had read this dear letter over and over again that I -could comprehend the full measure of my felicity; then came a rush of -joy, then came an exquisite calm over my troubled heart. My aspiring eye -shot a quick glance over days of happiness, of thankfulness, of -usefulness, till my beloved and I had finished our duties on earth, and -were safely and securely and for ever seated among angels in Heaven. - -I was in this tranquil yet exhausted state when the kind Martha again -came to the door; she thought by this time that I might be able to hear -the particulars of her visit to my angel, and confer with me as to the -best mode of proceeding. - -“I found her in tears,” said she, “which she hastily dried when I -entered the room, and after welcoming me, she asked whether any thing -particular had brought me to her. I said, yes, something very particular -indeed, but that I did not like to tell her all at once. ‘Have you a -letter?’ said she, and oh, Mr. Parr, how the dear young lady coloured. I -told her I had, so I gave her your letter and went to the window that -she might read it unobserved. She wept a great deal while reading it, -and then went immediately to the table to answer it; and when it was -finished, and sealed, she called me to her. ‘Martha,’ said she, again -blushing up to the temples, ‘do you know the person who wrote this -letter?’ I told her that I did. ‘And can you get this conveyed to the -gentleman soon?’ I looked at her in surprise; I found she did not know -how near you were to her. ‘O yes,’ said I, ‘he shall get it in less than -ten minutes, for my dear young lady, he is at our house.’ This threw her -in a great flutter and she smiled, I suspect for the first time in a -year; for the neighbours say, and they had it from the servants, that -both the old man and the young one have been almost cruel to her, -because she would not consent to the marriage. Well, I left her happy -enough I dare say, and now what is best to be done; for old Mr. -Bewcastle will be on the look-out now, and who knows what he may do -next?” - -I was not slow in deciding on what was best to be done; it was now three -o’clock, and I despatched Mr. Porter to a clergyman living about six -miles from us, requesting his attendance the next morning at eleven -o’clock. Martha went to a jeweller’s in the village, and brought home -several gold rings, going with them to my dear angel, and carrying also -a letter, wherein I detailed all our plans. All that a tender love, all -that a devoted, honest heart could dictate, was strongly urged, to -reconcile her to this precipitous step, and I had the happiness to learn -that she gave herself up wholly to my wishes. I arranged every thing as -well as the short time would allow, and aunt Martha was not idle; she -spent the evening with the dear young lady, packing up and preparing for -her departure, observing the utmost caution lest they might be -suspected. I knew that her uncle had no right to detain her, for she was -of age, and of course her own mistress; but we both thought it better to -prevent disagreeable scenes—scenes which might delay our marriage, -perhaps prevent it altogether. - -The good clergyman came at the appointed time, and I went, as was -previously arranged, in a carriage to meet my beloved at the head of the -lane leading to the garden. She saw the carriage at a distance from her -window, and by the time it stopped she was at the gate. The steps were -down; I hastened to the dear creature, who trembled so much that I was -compelled to lift her in the carriage; the door closed, and I pressed -her to my heart—that heart which was filled with the purest esteem and -affection, an affection which was to endure for ever. - -I entreated her to be composed, assuring her that there was nothing to -fear, that in a few moments it would be out of the power of any one to -separate us. I thanked her over and over again for thus making me the -happiest of men, pouring out my whole soul in words of love and truth. - -In a few moments we stood before the clergyman; our vows were -pronounced, which with our prayers, I trust, were registered in heaven. - -Behold me now, my friends; look at the proud and happy being; see the -swelling of his grateful heart. Was this the poor, despised, forsaken -orphan, toiling through a thankless servitude, without a kind look or a -cheering word; without pity, without a single comfort of any -kind—suffering through twelve long years, and with a heart formed to -love and be loved in return—could one short year have produced this -blessed change? - -My bride!—oh, what a tender name! how sweetly it falls on the ear of the -man of tender sensibility. It is a word in common use; it is heard -daily; thousands and tens of thousands repeat it; in itself it is -nothing; but to the young husband, when it comes to be _his_ bride, then -does the magic of the name cast its glorious spell over him—it is then -that he feels all its beauty and its loveliness. - -“My bride! thou art wholly mine, beloved one,” said I; “no evil that I -can avert shall ever come near thee. How is it that the few words which -we have just uttered have given thee so wholly to my protection? but -thou hast trusted to my strong arm and to my still stronger principles -and feelings, and may I perish if I ever deceive thee.” - -We spent three weeks in a retired spot among the Highlands, each day -restoring tranquillity to my dear wife, and showing how infinitely -happier I was than my ardent fancy had ever contemplated. We talked over -our future prospects, and she drew a scheme and decked it out in such -beautiful colours—all, too, within the compass of my abilities—that I no -longer feared she would repine at the contrast of the humble home I -could offer, and that to which she had been accustomed. We had a letter -from our good friend, Martha, giving us an account of the consternation -they were in at Mr. Bewcastle’s when they read the letter which I sent -to them on the day of our marriage. They sent for her brother and -questioned him angrily, threatening to prosecute him for allowing the -ceremony to take place in his house; but he was not to be intimidated, -as he told Mr. Bewcastle, for he knew that the young lady was of age. -Martha proceeded to say, that as it was now exceedingly unpleasant for -them to remain in their neighbourhood, they had determined to sell their -little effects and go to the west. Her brother was to set out as soon as -this was settled, and she was to remain at lodgings until he had -selected a suitable place, his object being to purchase a small farm. - -Nothing could have happened to suit our views better, for in all my dear -wife’s little plans there would arise a little distrust of herself when -it came to the marketing for our little household, and now, at the very -moment, came dear aunt Martha to our aid. We wrote immediately, begging -her to remain with us as a friend as long as it suited her -convenience—nay, to live with us always, if her good brother could do -without her. I told her to join us in New York as soon as their effects -were sold, and my dear wife added a postscript longer than my whole -letter, telling her of our happiness, and of the little plans of our -future establishment. She told her to reserve such articles as might be -useful to us, such as a bed and bedding, all of which we would pay for -as soon as she came to us. - -It was on a beautiful September morning that we arrived in New York. As -I had written to the good lady with whom I lodged, she was prepared to -receive us, and I had the pleasure of finding that my beloved was -satisfied with her apartments. But the moment came when I was to leave -her for several hours—it would not do to linger in her dear presence any -longer, and she was the first to hint that my duties must be resumed. To -a solitary creature, whose existence was wrapped up in this one being, -this separation, short as it might be, was most painful; I bade her -farewell over and over again without moving, having a most horrible fear -that something or some one would spirit her away during my absence. I -was compelled at length to leave her, and I had the folly to beg her to -lock herself in the chamber until my return. I smile now while I think -of it, but O what tenderness steals over me when I look back to that -dear one, and recollect how sweetly she soothed my apprehensions, and -how careful she was not to ridicule my weakness. - -I reported myself to Mr. Blagge, who expressed great pleasure at my -return, complimenting me on my improved looks. “I told you,” said he, -“that you wanted a little country air; where have you been?” - -“I have been amongst the Highlands,” said I, “and I have brought back -health, happiness, and a wife.” - -“Ah! that was the trouble, was it?” said he; “I feared it was a love -affair, but you are such a shy fellow that one cannot come at what is -passing in your mind.” - -“Well, my dear sir, you will not find that the case any longer,” said I, -“I shall now carry my heart in my hand.” - -“That is,” said Mr. Blagge, “you think you will; but excepting that your -face will be beaming with pleasure as it does now, no one will be the -better of what is going on within; I know you very well now; you will be -more reserved than ever.” - -I laughed at this, for I was in fact at that very moment grudging the -time I spent in this little friendly talk, for I wanted to be thinking -of my wife. - -“Oh, by the way,” said Mr. Blagge, “there is a letter for you from your -old master, Mr. Bartlett; it came enclosed to me, and he requested that -it might be given to you immediately. Now as you did not let me know -where you were going, I could not send it to you. I suspect the good -gentleman wants your services: but you must not leave me now, Mr. Parr, -for I am almost beside myself with business.” - -I assured him that I would not; and as to Mr. Bartlett, much as I now -desired an increase of income I would not live under his chilling -influence, different as I was now in circumstances, for half his wealth. -I actually shuddered at the thoughts of taking my wife to the scenes of -my melancholy servitude. - -It was curious, but the letter could not be found; high and low, in -every corner, on every shelf, did we look, but in vain; so we were -compelled to give up the search. I did not regret it in the least, for I -had learned from one of the young men belonging to Mr. Bartlett’s office -that he intended to make me an offer. Mr. Blagge had answered his -letter, stating why I did not write myself, and as this thing did not -concern me any further I dismissed the subject from my mind, not even -thinking it worth mentioning when I returned to my wife. - -Every evening, the moment the sun went down, I returned to that dear, -solitary one, and then after taking our supper we would wander about -from place to place, caring very little in what direction we strayed. We -lived for ourselves, and most deeply and gratefully did we enjoy the -felicity of being together unnoticed and unknown. We frequently passed a -small, one-storied brick building; it was untenanted, and had been shut -up for two years, not happening to suit any one. My wife thought, if it -were repaired a little, it might answer for a dwelling house, for that a -stack of chimneys could soon be run up. On inquiry I found that it had -been built for lawyers’ offices during the last yellow fever that had -appeared in the city, and that it had since that been only used -occasionally for a school-house. - -There were four very small rooms, only ten feet square, with a narrow -hall in the centre, and neither cellar nor garret; but the house stood -among trees and back from the street, so that this was a charm to -counterbalance many inconveniences. I saw the owner of it, and he agreed -to put it in repair provided I took it on a lease for four years; this I -gladly did; the rent was to be eighty dollars a year, and cheap enough -we thought it, as there was a good well of water directly in front of -the house. Aunt Martha came in the precise moment that she was wanted, -and now whilst the house was being repaired there came the pleasant task -of going from shop to shop to purchase the tiny furniture that was to -suit these tiny rooms. The front one of the left hand rooms was to be -used as a bed room for aunt Martha, and the one behind it as a kitchen; -of the other two the front was to be the parlour, and the back one our -bed room. No one can tell the pleasure I had in hearing and seeing all -that was going on—I had read of going to coronations and to brilliant -spectacles, but I hastened home every evening with a far more exquisite -pleasure to hold one end of a breadth of carpeting whilst my dear wife -cut it off, or listen to her little rambles with aunt Martha, or looked -at the neat candlesticks and the little set of china, all so cheap and -yet so very simple and pretty. - -By the first of October the house was finished and the smell of the new -paint entirely gone; every thing, therefore, was ready, and I had begged -a holiday that I might assist in the grand move. The sun set gloriously -as I walked out of the office, and it seemed to my joyous spirit that it -smiled graciously as I poured forth my grateful feelings in song. Only -think of the poor, broken down, neglected apprentice, caroling along the -street “home, sweet home,” and having a sweet home to go to in the -bargain. Fast as I walked and quickly as I reached our lodgings, I did -not come too soon for my dear wife, for she was expecting me at the door -with hat and shawl, all equipped for a walk. - -“What!” said I, “dearest, a walk before tea? or is it to be a little -shopping expedition? here is my arm; and which way now, my life? not -far, for I think you look fatigued.” - -“Why, to tell the truth, Patrick, dear, I am a little tired, for I have -worked hard to-day that I may enjoy your holiday to-morrow. I am only -going to the house; aunt Martha is there waiting for us. And you can be -at home to-morrow, can you? oh, what a day of pleasure it will be! such -a day as to-morrow comes but once in a married life, dear husband.” - -To me every day was one of happiness, and with her near me, even the -bustle of moving was a pleasant thing to anticipate; but in the -abstract, apart from the thought of my wife, nothing could be more -irksome than the hurry of change. It was not far to our new habitation, -and in looking up there stood dear aunt Martha at the door, bending -forward to look for us. - -“Walk in, walk in,” said she; “walk in your own house, good folks; come -and see if every thing is to your liking, Mr. Parr,” and open went all -the doors of the four tiny rooms. - -It was, indeed, as my darling said, a sight and a feeling that came but -once in the married life—the first moment that the young husband and his -bride put their feet on the threshold of their own house. I have changed -that humble dwelling for the princely one that I now inhabit, but that -same gentle touch came no more. My wife had an instinctive feeling that -I should be annoyed by the moving and lifting and hurry of the scene, -and she and Martha agreed to spare me; so there I stood, and it appeared -to me that some good fairy had been at work, so neatly and beautifully -every thing was arranged. In the middle of the little parlour stood the -tea table, and after I had gone through the rooms and praised every -thing over and over again, we sat down with grateful hearts to our own -frugal meal. - -Every day my spirit rose higher; and my thoughts grew loftier; I did not -envy the greatest man in existence, so many and so varied were my -blessings. Mr. Blagge placed the most unlimited confidence in me; and, -as his profits increased through my exertions, he generously allowed me -to close my labours an hour earlier every day. This was a great favour; -and as the winter set in he moved the printing-office a great deal -higher up, so that I had the additional comfort of dining at home. Our -kind friend, aunt Martha, would not allow us to hire a servant, and my -wife took a share in the household duties, working for me, keeping my -drawers in order, and arranging every thing in the way she knew I liked. -I could not but indulge her in it, seeing that it gave her such -pleasure. - -We made no acquaintances; we wanted none; there seemed scarcely time -enough for ourselves; and why should we be troubled with strangers? -Martha, seeing the innocent life we led, became sincerely attached to -us; promising never to leave us; and thus passed the first winter of my -married life. We were all happy. My dear wife was as cheerful as a bird; -and, at times, when I was particularly weary—too weary to read, or even -to listen to her reading—she would put away her little work-basket, set -the candle in the farthest corner, and draw her chair close to mine, -charming away my fatigue with her clear soft voice and gentle -endearments. She had bright visions of the future; and they always ended -as she knew I wished, in our purchasing the little estate on which I was -born. How delightful it is to listen to the little nothings of a -sensible woman; one that loves us too. - -This was the way that heaven rewarded me for all that I had endured; and -the reward came to me in such a shape too—a wife! I spoke of the -rapturous feelings of a young husband, at the mention of his bride, but -they are nothing in comparison to those he has when she is called his -wife—when the quiet evenings of winter bring him for ever near her; when -he listens to her innocent conversation, full of love, and care, and -thoughtfulness—all for him. I often wondered whether all men loved their -wives as I loved mine. There was no way in which I could judge, for I -had never been even in the same room with a husband and wife; but I had -read of disagreements, and hatreds, and separations. It had given me -great uneasiness before my marriage; but I always took the side of the -wife, wondering why the man wanted to have his own way, in the merest -trifles too. As to me, every thing my wife or Martha did, seemed the -very best thing to be done; I was sure that their taste and judgment -were more to be depended upon than mine; particularly as it related to -household economy. - -And then, was I not to be envied when, with the dear creature’s arm -linked in mine, we walked out either for exercise or business? A man -never feels his power and responsibility so strongly as when a lovely -woman leans on him for support, and relies on his courage and his -ability to protect her. What a delightful sensation comes over a man -when he knows that there is one being in the world who trusts to him -entirely, and looks up to him as the first and the best—none but a -husband can have this feeling—he enjoys it as long as life continues; it -is a pleasure of which he never wearies. - -May came, with all its pleasantness and its flowers, and our love for -one another made every thing appear in the gayest and brightest colours. -Nothing could be more inconvenient than our house; nothing could be more -irksome than my occupation—the dullest of all dull employment, -correcting proofs—yet it was for me that my wife overlooked the -privations and difficulties she had to encounter from a limited income -and a house of such diminutive size—and it was for her that I continued -to drudge on, monotonously, without a thought of change. My wife was far -more prudent and economical than I was; that is, in every thing that -related to herself. I could not resist the pleasure of buying her all -the delicate fruits and early vegetables of the season; and I had great -pleasure in taking all sorts of little pretty table ornaments and -delicate perfumes, and prints, and books; in short, I scarcely went home -without something in my hand. - -“My dear husband,” said she one evening, when I came home with a present -as usual, “have you found Aladdin’s lamp, that you are so lavish of your -money? You will have to put a rein on your generous nature, for instead -of laying up two hundred dollars this year, as we intended, there will -be nothing left. Come, dearest, and look over this little statement with -me, and then say whether we should not retrench? The worst of it, to me, -dearest, is the knowledge that the two hundred dollars have been -expended for my gratification: you have hardly allowed yourself any -thing; I must put a stop to your dear generous spirit; aunt Martha and I -have talked quite seriously about it.” - -I promised to be more prudent for the future; and if there ever was any -thing trying to my temper it was the inability to purchase such little -articles of luxury as I thought my wife ought to have. Mr. Blagge, -however, true to his promise, raised my salary to a thousand dollars; -and with this welcome news I could not refrain from buying a pretty -little set of chess men; for my wife had a great desire to teach me to -play the game; and so, after telling her of the addition to our income, -I gave her the chess men and board. I thought to make it the more -welcome by hinting to her that it was for myself. The dear creature -smiled and shook her head. “Ah, my husband,” said she, “you think you -have found out a new way of indulging me; but I am not to be taken in. -Do you think I don’t know that you have no particular fancy for games of -any sort; and that the chess men are to give me pleasure? But I shall -punish you by sitting down to the game this evening in good earnest; you -will soon tire of it, however.” - -In this way our evenings passed; part of them in playing at chess, in -which I soon became interested, as I had such a pleasant teacher; and in -part, in studying the German language. We had a German in the office, -who taught me the pronunciation, and what he taught me in the morning I -transferred to my wife in the evening; and it was really wonderful to -find how quickly she conquered all the difficulties. But if it was -wonderful that she acquired this language in so short a time, I could -not but feel surprised that nothing was neglected; there seemed to be -time for every thing; and she was always ready for a walk; always in -time, and always neatly dressed. What a happy fellow I was, to have no -care of my wardrobe; I, that never knew what it was to have a button to -my collar or wristbands. - -I thought that no event could make her dearer to me than she now was; -but there did come the time when I found that, ardently as I loved her, -my tenderness and my cares were still more strongly excited; but they -came coupled with such apprehensions that I watched over her with -mingled emotions of joy and fear. It was now that I saw the necessity of -prudence and economy; and I could not but hope that some means might be -found by which my salary would be increased; for I desired, of all -things, to place my dear wife in a more comfortable house. Mr. Blagge -had, I knew, done his very best in allowing me two hundred dollars a -year more, so I could not expect any thing from him; but I thought there -might be ways to make money independently of the office. Perhaps I might -write for the magazines; or who knows whether I might not write a -saleable book. It was in vain that my wife discouraged me. It was in -vain that she assured me the want of a cellar was nothing, as the -grocer, at the corner, supplied her with every thing from day to day; -and that the little cabin rooms were quite large enough; and that larger -ones would but increase her labours. - -I mentioned that Mr. Bartlett had written to me under cover to Mr. -Blagge, but as the letter had been mislaid, I knew nothing of the -contents. It struck me that he had made me an offer of partnership; and -what I then shuddered at, seemed not so very bad a thing now that I had -such an endearing prospect before me. I mentioned it to my wife, and she -was surprised that I had not written to Mr. Bartlett; but I told her, -that as Mr. Blagge had said to him, that he would give me the letter as -soon as I returned from the country, I thought there was no use in -saying any thing further, for I did not intend to avail myself of any -offer he might make. - -“O, but, Patrick, my love,” said she, “the letter might relate to your -friends in Scotland; nay, I dare to say it did, for Mr. Bartlett, cold -and heartless as he is, has some sense of honour and honesty. He never -would have made you an offer, however advantageous, whilst you were -employed by Mr. Blagge; all that you tell me of him proves this. Do you -not think, dearest, that you had better write to him?” - -This shows how much more acute a woman’s intellect is than ours; I never -so much as dreamed of my old uncle Parr in Scotland; and now it almost -amounted to conviction, that the letter related to him. I questioned Mr. -Blagge respecting the letter, and he said, that as far as his -recollection served, it appeared to be a double one, and he was quite -surprised to find that I had not written. There was no doubt on his mind -that the letter was still amongst the papers, and he proposed another -search, particularly as there were two or three boxes that had not been -opened since the office was removed, and he advised me to look there. We -opened the boxes and assorted the papers; they were principally old -manuscripts and the correspondence relating to them; but my letter did -not appear. Just as we had gone through the last box, one of the clerks -lifted up an old black morocco portfolio, which lay at the bottom, and -as he slapped off the dust a letter flew out and fell near Mr. Blagge. -The moment he saw the letter the whole thing flashed across his mind. -That one reminded him of mine, and he now recollected that he had put it -along with several others in this very letter book. Sure enough, there -it was, unsealed, just as it came from the postman; but as it was quite -dark, I hurried home, lest my wife should feel uneasy at my protracted -stay: in truth, I met her at the door with her hat on, intending to walk -down to the office, with Martha, to see what had detained me. - -Martha brought the candle, and then a little doubt arose as to who -should read the letter first; but Martha decided in my wife’s favour. -“She can bear good or bad news better than you, Mr. Parr,” said the good -woman, “and if the news is good, why, she will break it to you by -degrees, and you will not be set all on a tremble; and if it is bad -news, such as the loss of your money in the Savings Bank, or the -mortgage”—Heavens, I had never thought of this—“why she will teach you -to bear it.” My darling, therefore, opened the now dreaded letter; but -you may judge of her astonishment when she read as follows— - -“Sir—Yesterday I received by the packet ship Monongahela, the following -letter, enclosed in one directed to me; mine, I presume, was a copy of -yours; by it you perceive that your uncle is dead, and that you are the -sole heir to his estate, provided you go to Glasgow and identify -yourself before the month of October—next October year. I had intended -to write to you on my own account, offering you a third partnership in -our concern, but I presume this piece of good fortune will make it -unnecessary for you to toil at your profession.” - -I sat watching my wife’s countenance, as did our good Martha likewise, -and we saw her change colour, first pale and then red; but she did not -speak until the letter was folded and in her bosom. “Patrick, love,” -said she, “what month is this?” I told her it was July—the first of -July. “Oh my,” said she, “then we have no time—it will all be lost—July, -August, September; only three months—but come, here is the tea; let us -drink it first, otherwise some people may forget to eat—aunt Martha, I -know you will not get a wink of sleep to-night; I shall sleep as sound -as a top, as I always do—and you, dearest, you will have golden dreams; -oh, what a fine house you will build at Camperdown; and how snugly uncle -Porter will be ensconced in the little, neat, comfortable stone house; -and dear aunt Martha, what a glorious south room you are to have on the -first floor, along with us; and oh, what planning and what perplexities -we shall be in for the next two years. Why, Mr. Bartlett has made a most -princely offer.” - -And thus the dear creature went on, leading me to believe that the good -news related to him; but aunt Martha knew better. So, when tea was over, -and she was seated on my knee, I heard the whole truth. I pressed her to -my bosom in an ecstasy, at the thought of placing her in affluence; but -too soon came the reflection, that the ocean must be crossed before this -desirable event could take place. Sleep, dream, did she say? not I; no -sleep nor dreams for me; but she, the dear creature, with a mind so -justly balanced, and thinking nothing an evil that was to save me from -anxiety; she slept like a top, as she said she would. It was aunt Martha -that had the dreams all to herself. - -Mr. Blagge expressed both joy and sorrow; joy at my good fortune, and -sorrow at parting with me. He, too, he said, intended to offer me better -terms the next year; perhaps an equal partnership; so that if the event -did not equal our expectations I had two means of advancement, and I -need not say that my choice would have fallen upon Mr. Blagge. He never, -for a moment, thought there could be a doubt on my mind as to the -propriety of going to Scotland; and I absolutely hated him for the ease -with which he discussed the subject; just as if there were to be no -fears, no struggles. When I went home, there was my dear wife, looking -calm, and receiving me cheerfully, but with an inquiring eye; and there -sat aunt Martha, ready for a thousand questions, and with a thousand -observations. - -Long and painfully did the subject occupy me; I said nothing, but my -dear wife left off her interesting needlework and employed herself in -preparing for the voyage. As I had not made up my mind whether I would -go at all, the point of her going with me had not been discussed, and I -sat with a stupid wonder looking at certain dresses which she and Martha -were making, and at certain convenient caps that were to suit both the -cabin and deck. They talked and they chatted on, and congratulated -themselves that the smallness of the ship’s cabin would not be an -inconvenience, seeing that they had been so long accustomed to our small -rooms. - -I still went daily to the office as if nothing had occurred, but my mind -was in a terrible state. To go, and leave my wife to the mercy of -strangers, and at such an interesting time too, was very painful; to -take her with me was to expose her to certain danger, for if there were -no storms, no shipwrecks, yet sea-sickness might prove fatal. When I -made up my mind to take her I reproached myself as being the most -selfish of mortals, and when I finally concluded to leave her behind, -her death knell rung in my ears. Most sincerely did I wish that the -hated letter had never been found. It became at length the subject of -discussion, that is, with me. My opinion was asked on several points, -and answers were wrung from me; but there seemed one thing certain in my -wife’s mind, that although I might not decide on her going with me, yet -I could not but choose to go. She never questioned it. - -I fell to reading the biography of voyagers to see how the females of -their party bore the perils of the sea, and then I made many inquiries -as to their perils on shore, even with the tenderness of a husband to -sustain them. Recollect, my friends, that this beloved being was my only -tie on earth, and that without her, existence would be a burden. I was -not going rashly to decide on her fate and mine; it was therefore but -consistent with the love I bore her to weigh well the difficulties on -either side. She, too, had thought of every thing, and her mind was made -up at once—and that was to go with me. “I have but this to say, dearest -husband,” said she at the beginning, and her mind underwent no change, -“if we are permitted to go safely, we shall be a comfort to one another -throughout the voyage and on shore; but if otherwise—if the sea is to be -our grave, then we shall perish together; I could not survive your loss, -and you, dearest”— - -I never could let her proceed further; as to live without her seemed a -thing impossible. At such times I seemed to yield assent, and began to -make preparations; but having read an account of the illness and death -of a lady on her passage across the Atlantic, I determined at once, if -the going was insisted upon, that I would let her remain behind. Then -again, if I saw in the papers the death of a young mother, I repented of -my former decision; and in this miserable state of mind I was during the -whole month of July. August still found me irresolute; but I had only -two weeks left to waver, for there would then be but little time left to -come within the limits of the bequest. There were but six weeks from -that time to the first of October; it therefore became necessary to -bring my mind to the painful decision of leaving my wife behind. I wrote -to Mr. Porter, entreating him to come immediately, and remain in the -house during my absence. I saw an eminent physician, and interested him -in such a way that I was sure he would never let a day pass without -paying her a visit, whether she were indisposed or not; and I took every -precaution, in short, that love and prudence could dictate to make her -comfortable and happy. - -How she bore with all this nervous, morbid irritability, I cannot tell; -but never by word or look did she betray any impatience; her sole object -was to sooth me and make light of her own sufferings. She promised to -take great care of her health, and Martha exhausted words in her desire -to set my mind at rest. Mr. Porter declared she should never be out of -his thoughts, and Mr. Blagge promised to take his wife and daughter to -her the day after I should sail. But all this was nothing, absolutely -nothing, in my estimation, when I considered how much more than all this -I could do for her were I near her myself. - -The time came at last; Mr. Blagge had taken my passage, and my trunk had -gone to the ship. I had been to get some necessary papers of the British -consul, and was hastening home—that home where I had enjoyed such -exquisite happiness—like a fool I was leaving it—for what?—for an -uncertain good—and when I returned, if Providence permitted me to -return, might I not find that dear and cherished spot desolate! Whilst I -was thus tormenting myself with these fearful fancies, the funeral of a -lady passed me; she had been married at the same time with us, and she -had died of inflammation of the lungs. I inquired of a person who was -acquainted with her, and I found that she had taken cold from sitting in -the draft of two doors, and, he added, the room was very small, so that -there was no avoiding the exposure—the very situation in which I had -left my dear wife only an hour before! - -Of course I hastened home with greater speed and opened the door of the -little parlour with the dismal feelings that I came too late. But she -had removed to the window, and the sash was down. Oh, how I blessed her -for this act of prudence. She saw my nervous apprehension and asked what -had thus disturbed me, and finding my fears groundless I was ashamed to -tell her the cause. She looked earnestly at me and said, “My dear -husband, you are wearing yourself out with fears and anxieties; I am -well, and with the blessing of Providence I hope so to remain; nay, I am -strong enough to encounter the voyage, much more able to bear it than -you are with your excited feelings. There are our trunks, Martha’s and -mine, ready packed, and we are only hoping and waiting for your assent -to go with you; so, dearest, knowing how unhappy you will be to leave me -behind, even let me go. I shall not urge you any further, my love, but -think of it this evening, and we shall have time in the morning to get -ready what little remains to be done. Now throw all care from your mind -and let us sit down cheerfully to our supper; depend upon it we shall be -sitting here together this day four months laughing and talking over our -present anxieties.” - -Laugh, indeed, thought I; there never can come a time when I shall laugh -at what I am now feeling so keenly. But I cast all selfishness aside, -and determined to go alone as the lesser evil of the two, going over and -over again the whole argument, and more fully convinced that although it -was most painful to leave her, yet it would be cruel and presumptuous to -make her encounter the risks of a sea voyage. I had but little sleep -this last night; but my dear wife, after vainly endeavouring to prevail -on me to court repose, fell asleep like an infant and slept soundly till -morning. She suffered as acutely as I did, but her nervous temperament -was of a less irritable cast; her sensibilities were more equally -balanced. A knowledge of this always gave me comfort. - -The dreaded morning came; all was hurry and bustle, and of course but -little time for conversation. The trunks still stood in the room; mine -had gone the day before, and I cast a look at them, and then on my wife, -who, pale as death, was looking at the carriage that was to convey me to -the boat. She saw my look and said, “I may go then, dear husband, you -consent then that we shall go?” But I shut my eyes, as if to shut out -the temptation, and shook my head. “Put the trunks out of the room, Mr. -Porter,” said I, “for I shall be tormented with the desire to take her -with me, and that I ought not to do; I must not waver any more, or I -shall be unable to go at all.” The trunks were removed, and my dear wife -seated herself and sighed. “But why do not you and Martha accompany me -to the wharf?” said I—“perhaps we shall feel the parting less. There -will be no time for any thing there but getting on board. Do you think, -Martha, that she can bear it?” - -“Oh yes, I dare say she can,” said Martha, “and I am sure it will do her -good, and we can keep the carriage for an hour or so and take a little -ride, for she has sat too much at her needle lately. Brother, do you get -another carriage for us, and let them go together; Mr. Parr will feel -the better for having her all to himself. We can return with her, you -know.” - -I was thankful for being a few minutes longer with my beloved, and I -hoped that we might remain at the wharf an hour at least, as it was now -only nine o’clock. We thought it best to go, however, as the wind was -fair, and the captain might be anxious to sail; so we entered the -carriage, leaving Martha to come with her brother. We drove slowly to -the wharf, and there the first person we saw was Mr. Blagge, who had -kindly come to see me off. My dear wife drew back in the carriage and -begged that he might not see her, so I went to him and thanked him for -this proof of his friendship, and again entreated him to remember how -essential it was to my peace of mind that he should do all in his power -to lessen my wife’s anxieties—if I could not ask a favour for myself, I -would for this dear one. - -Mr. Porter came to us and said that they had better return, as the -horses were restless and Mrs. Parr might get frightened. Mr. Blagge -thought so too, and blamed me for bringing her down to a scene of so -much confusion; so I hastily snatched one kiss, pressed her dear hand as -she held it out to me after the door was closed, and she and Martha -disappeared from my sight. - -What Mr. Blagge said to me I don’t know, but I now and then heard the -sounds of new publications, and letters, and manuscripts, but I could -only dwell on the grief that my poor wife was now in; it was too much to -expect I could listen to him on such uninteresting subjects; why did he -not talk of what he knew was the only feeling of my mind?—and to hold me -by the arm too, lest I should get away. The steamboat, however, called -all hands aboard, and passengers with all their friends jumped on board -to go to the ship, which lay in the stream. I made a move to go also, -but the captain, coming up at the instant, told me he would give me ten -minutes longer, as he had to see a man on business, and that I could go -with him in the ship’s boat which lay there ready for him. The steamboat -left the wharf, and Mr. Blagge talked on; I never knew him so loquacious -before, and he kept jerking me around as if the nervousness under which -I was labouring had imparted itself to his arm. - -At length the captain returned, and Mr. Blagge, shaking hands with me, -promised to look most carefully—and, he added with strong emphasis—most -affectionately, after all the concerns I left behind. The oars cut the -water, and as soon as we were on board the captain gave orders for -sailing. The steamboat was just departing, and on turning my eye towards -it I saw poor Mr. Porter. I called out to him that I was safely on -board, most thankful that he had seen me, for what would have been the -agony of my dear wife if he had returned and reported that the vessel -had sailed without me. He entered the boat, thought I, with the -intention of seeing me safely to the ship; his consternation must have -been great when I was not to be found amongst the passengers. He waved -his hat, however, on seeing me as I bent over the side of the vessel, -and pressing his hand to his heart he pointed towards the shore—it told -me that he intended to fulfil his promise of guarding well the sacred -trust I had confided to him. - -Through the narrows and out in the broad ocean we soon were; but I stood -immovable with my eyes turned to that dear shore where all my hopes were -centred. I could not realize it—what! voluntarily to leave the only -creature on earth to whom I was attached?—she, too, who had chosen me -when poor and unknown. Could I not be content with the independence that -my own honest labour procured, but must I show how much more I valued -money than the pains to us both of such a bitter separation—a separation -that might be for ever! Before the pilot left us I had serious thoughts -of returning with him; but the captain was at my elbow, and assuming a -kind of authority; I was forced to see him depart without me. The wind -blew fresh, and before night there was a heavy gale; yet I cared not, my -feelings were too strong even for that to subdue. I could not go down to -dinner, nor was I disposed to sit with strangers at the supper table; -but the captain showed so much good natured solicitude that I yielded -and took my seat beside him. - -I do not recollect now how many of the passengers were at supper, but -they were not all there, for some were already seasick and in their -berths. I only remember that opposite to me sat a young lady who looked -at me very frequently, and who could scarcely keep from laughing, -although the gentleman next her reprimanded her once or twice for her -ill breeding. I could not imagine what had caused her mirth, unless it -were the melancholy expression of my countenance. There was not much -time, however, to speculate on any thing, for the gale increased and -every body on board became anxious and watchful. The captain advised me -to go to bed, but I chose rather to remain on deck, hoping that if there -were any danger I might be of some use. Just as I was leaving the cabin -I heard the laughing lady say to her companion, “I am glad he is going -on deck, for I can hardly stand it.” - -I had been so unaccustomed to the society of women, and my dear wife and -the gentle Martha, in all my various moods of gaiety and melancholy, had -always shown so much tenderness and sympathy for me, that the mirth of -this young lady excited something like uneasiness in my mind, and I -could not help referring to it in the midst of the storm that was -raging. Perhaps it was of service to me; but I could not help thinking -how indignant my wife would be had she been witness to it; for, as she -respected me herself, she could not but suppose that I would be entitled -to the same respect from others. - -Having never been on the ocean before, the violence of the gale was -truly appalling, though the captain assured me there was no danger; it -continued unabated for two days and nights, and at every meal, there set -the laughing lady. I asked who the young lady was, that seemed so amused -when I went to the table. The captain laughed heartily and then begged -my pardon. “Indeed, Mr. Parr,” said he, “you must cheer up; why man, we -want mirth and not melancholy on shipboard. I cannot find out why you -look so very unhappy, for Mr. Blagge tells me that you have a lovely -wife, and are in expectation of getting a large fortune. Why you did not -bring your lady along with you is more than I can tell; this gale is -nothing, the ship is a fast sailer and the voyage will be a short and a -pleasant one, no doubt, so you might have enjoyed her society in -comfort, if it is the leaving her behind that makes you look so -miserable. I am sure I do not wonder that the young lady is amused; why -I could hardly keep my own countenance at the breakfast table this -morning, you looked so disturbed, and cast such suspicious glances at -the harmless young thing who was looking at you.” - -But this did not mend the matter, for I was not to become gay merely -because others were amused by the expression of sadness in my -countenance. That I had willingly parted from my wife was a reality that -could not be forgotten, and I told the captain that to avoid giving the -tittering lady any further food for her mirth, I should take my seat on -the same side of the table with her. He consented that I should, and the -dinner passed off very well, for my opposite neighbour was a decrepit -old woman whose head was bent low, and who seemed to suffer too much -from sickness to care who looked sad or merry. - -The gale abated, and by sundown it had died away to a pleasant breeze; -the full moon rose beautifully out of the ocean, and my whole soul was -filled with wonder and admiration. If my wife had been at my side, what -a happiness to enjoy it with her; I sighed heavily, and the good natured -captain broke in upon my meditations. “I am more and more sorry Mr. -Parr,” said he, “that you did not bring your wife with you; if I had -only known how hard you were going to take it, I should have brought her -along by main force. You will destroy yourself if you continue thus to -grieve, and yet I cannot blame you much neither, for I had pretty nearly -the same kind of feelings when I left my wife for the first time. It was -different with me, however, I was only mate then, and had not the power -to bring her with me, but I warrant you I did so as soon as I became -captain.” - -“Why, is your wife on board now,” said I, frightened out of my senses -lest the laughing lady might be her. “I have not seen her, have I.” - -“No, she is quite indisposed,” said he; “in fact she goes this voyage to -see whether it may not cure her eyes; she has to wear goggles all the -time as the light is so painful; if it were not for that she would be a -very pretty woman; one of these evenings I will get her to take them -off, and you must come down and see her. Do you play at chess? You do -hey; well, I am glad of it, for she plays a good game, and it will keep -you both to while away the time, particularly since my wife’s eyes won’t -allow her to sew. She has beautiful hair, too, though I say it,” -continued the warm-hearted captain, and I liked him all the better for -talking so tenderly of his wife. “That old lady that sits opposite to -you now, almost bent double, as you see, is a friend of my wife’s, and -we are taking her on a visit. Poor old thing she is so near-sighted, -that every thing must go close to her eyes, or her eyes be sent close to -the object, otherwise she could not see to cut her food even. Excuse me, -Mr. Parr, is your wife handsome?” - -“I think she is,” said I, “to me she appears beautiful, and I wish she -was here to enjoy this delicious evening with me.” - -“Why yes, as I said, it would be better to have her here. My wife has a -few freckles on her face—is your wife freckled?” - -“Freckled!” said I indignantly, “no, why do you ask that question; she -has a remarkably clear skin.” - -“Oh, I meant no offence; what colour are her eyes? my wife has blue -eyes; people say they are handsome, and I think so too.” - -Would any one believe me when I say, that to this moment, I could not -tell the colour of her eyes. To me they always beamed with intelligence -and love; and as to whether they were blue or grey, I never thought. But -the persevering captain thinking that it gave me great pleasure in -talking of her, went on in this way to question me about her dear face -until I got as miserable as possible. “Well, well,” said he, moving off, -“you can’t bear more to-night, so I’ll go below and talk to the ladies a -little, and tell my wife the good news that you can play chess.” - -Good news, indeed, to sit opposite to his goggle-eyed wife, and play at -chess, when she that taught me was sitting solitary at home. I thought I -should go mad, if I did not try and invent some excuse; for the idea was -intolerable, and yet I pitied the poor woman too. - -The next morning the captain’s wife was at table; she had taken her seat -before I went down, so that I could not see her distinctly, although she -was on the opposite side. She wore green spectacles and plenty of curls, -which were certainly of a beautiful colour; but the cap she wore hid the -back hair entirely; so I thought, after all, it was only a little brag -of the captain, for these curls might be artificial. As to the freckles, -there they were, sure enough; ugly little yellow things. She did well, I -thought, to let the curls cover her face as much as possible, for these -freckles were well worth hiding. And then, such great clumsy hands too; -and to make them look still larger by wearing gloves. I was at last -quite ashamed of myself, for I really felt spiteful towards this poor -lady; more particularly as the tittering one opposite to her was now -fairly laughing out; and all the rest, but the captain’s wife and the -poor old lady opposite to me, laughed along with her. I looked at the -captain, and he sat with his handkerchief to his face. - -I made a short meal of it; and I determined if this foolery was -continued at dinner, that I would eat in the steerage, any where, rather -than encounter such incivilities; for I, somehow or other, associated it -all with myself; but to my great relief, neither the captain’s wife nor -the young lady were at table, so that I ate my dinner without annoyance. -But there was no getting rid of the captain’s desire to amuse his poor -wife with a game of chess. He set aside every excuse; and at length, -fairly told me that he saw through my artifice; but that he knew better -than I did, how to make the voyage endurable; and that the sooner I -broke through my reserve and shyness the better able I should be to bear -up against the separation with my wife. - -There were but three gentlemen passengers, so that, in all, there were, -besides myself and the captain’s wife, only the laughing lady and the -one who sat opposite to me. There were, to be sure, a number in the -steerage; but I had not taken any notice of them, nor, in fact, had I -exchanged a word with the gentlemen in the cabin. I was, therefore, very -much surprised when they all three left the table and went with me on -deck, talking with me as familiarly as if I had been the most -communicative person in the world. They were in high glee, and said a -number of pleasant things, all of which I might have enjoyed at any -other moment; but the chess and the captain’s wife crowded out all -social feelings; and when the captain came for me, and said the chess -board was arranged, and his wife waiting, I went down provoked -enough.—Only to think of being placed in such a dilemma—to sit with the -captain’s wife, dawdling over the chess men, with a mind so far away. My -only hope was, that she would beat me so easily that she would not ask -me to play with her again. - -When I got in the cabin, the first person I saw was the old lady, who -was pulling and jerking at her black hood, and laughing heartily. -Surely, thought I, that laugh is familiar to me; but she could not untie -the string of her hood, so I offered to help her. Thereat she laughed -louder and pushed me away. I then turned to the captain’s wife, and she -seemed beside herself too. I never heard of such a cracked set of people -in my life; they all seemed bursting with fun. She threw, first one, and -then the other, ugly glove, across the floor; and then away went the -spectacles, away went the cap, and away went the curls, and I stood -amazed and wondering what was coming next, when a voice that sprung -fresh and warm to my heart, said, “Patrick, my dear Patrick, do you know -me now?” I had no words; not a syllable could my overjoyed heart allow -me to utter, as my dear wife lay in my fond arms. - -And there she was, and Martha too. The captain and his wife, who was the -laughing lady, all were in the plot; and I was for a long time in such -agitated bliss that I did not want to hear how it had all happened; but -it was a surprise—a most joyful surprise. - -“And so, Patrick, dearest,” said she, “you never knew I had freckles, -just look at them.” “No, no,” said I, kissing the dear cheek that she -held towards me, “nor do I see them now; nor could I tell the colour of -these eyes; all I was ever sensible to is their tender expression. And -here is dear Martha too; how completely were you both disguised. By and -by you must tell me all about it; but now I only want to feel the bliss -of being near to you, and to know that this is all reality.” - -In half an hour some one tapped at the door, and in came my late -tormentor, and in came the captain; and now they laughed heartily; and I -smiled in return, for my heart was too full to break out in loud mirth. -It seems it was as much as they could all do to restrain the lively -lady, fearing that the plot would be discovered before the time. My wife -intended to show herself as soon as the pilot left us; but she was so -very seasick that she thought I could better bear the pain of thinking -her away from me than witness suffering which I could not relieve. The -gale came on, and her sickness continued, and she thought it most -prudent to wait till it was over. Her plan was to write me a note, and -prepare me for it, but the captain and his wife, as well as the -gentlemen, begged her to allow of this little artifice, which, as they -had taken such an interest in her affairs, she thought it right to -indulge them in. Finding me so averse to her going, and knowing that I -should so bitterly regret it, she and Martha went in a carriage, one -day, and interested Mr. Blagge in her scheme. The captain and his wife -were delighted; and whilst he detained me by a sham business, on shore, -Mr. Porter saw her and Martha safely on board. She had left the trunks -till the last, hoping that I might relent, and thus prevent any -necessity of a plot; but as I would not consent, Mr. Porter, who had -another carriage in waiting, took them down to the wharf. - -What more is to be said? Our voyage was delightful. I had no difficulty, -whatever, in identifying myself; and I returned in possession of a large -estate, which I trust I shall spend with grateful feelings. Dr. Bently -and his amiable niece, Miss Sidney, now Mrs. North, were our -fellow-passengers on returning. They little knew what an interest I had -in the village of Camperdown, when they so earnestly pressed me to -settle in their neighbourhood. My beloved wife was not at all the worse -for the three months’ excursion; and two months after our return, we -were made still happier, if possible, by the birth of a son. My wife, -always mindful of my feelings, has called him Cyrus, after my poor -father; and we are, I trust, bringing him up in the love of his Maker, -and in the fear of breaking his commandments. Aunt Martha, as you know, -lives with us, and Mr. Porter resides altogether in the stone house, -where I was born; we could not do without him. Now that you all know my -dear wife, you can easily imagine that my love for her can never -diminish; and that, to be separated from her, would be the greatest of -evils. - -You have asked me to write a memoir of my life; but, after all, what is -it? It is only a description of my heart and its feelings; of my early -sorrows, and of my deep, deep love for one, whom I still continue to -think is far too good—too far above me. Of her unworthy uncle I will not -speak; she was his sister’s only child, and he could neither appreciate -nor love her. All my felicity has arisen from his blindness, and I -therefore forgive him. But if there has been nothing remarkable in this -memoir, if the events are such as we meet with frequently, surely there -is some novelty in the Surprise. - - - - - THE SEVEN SHANTIES. - - -“Jemmy, come here—come quick, will ye,” said a poor, dirty, good-natured -looking fellow, to a man as ragged and poor as himself—“step faster, -will ye, and help me to raise this wagon.” - -They lifted up the overturned light carriage and dragged out of the -mud—first, a trunk and carpet bag, then a gun case, and lastly the owner -of all this, a middle aged man, apparently, who had been stunned by the -fall, although in so soft a spot. - -He recovered his senses, however, as soon as the men raised him from the -ground, and the next thing was to know what to do with him. One of the -men, Jemmy Brady, scratched his head and said, “If I had ever a room but -the one in which the wife and childer are, I would take the gentleman -there any how, but the noise would be too great for him I’m thinking.” - -“Och! but he’ll never mind the childer, God bless them,” said the other. -“I dare say his honour has plenty of them—the likes of these jontlemen -are always fond of young childer.” - -“You are very much mistaken, my friend,” said the stranger, “I do not -like children. Is there no cabin or hut about here where I could rest -for an hour or two, and change my clothes? I see that the wheel is off -the carriage, so I cannot proceed to the tavern.” - -“Yes, sure,” said Larry, “plenty of them, barring Jemmy Brady’s and -mine. Jemmy has seven childer and I have five,—too much noise for your -honour, I’m thinking, and the mud is almost as thick on the floor of my -shanty as it is here, your honour—but if you’ll step a bit this way, -I’ll take you to Sally M’Curdy’s.” - -The gentleman asked if this Sally M’Curdy had any children. Larry said -that she had not—that she was a lone woman. “She’s left with one -grand-daughter,” said he, “Norah—you’ll may be have heard of little -Norie, yer honour, for she is very smart at her latters, and can read -and write too, and she’s very quiet and very mindful of her -grandmother.” - -Both Jemmy and Larry had the instinctive feeling, that this widow’s -shanty bade fairer for comfort than any other in the range, and they -were hastening forward to show the way and to prepare her for the guest, -when he discovered that he had sprained his ancle, and could not move. - -“What _now_ is to be done,” said he, impatiently, “I cannot lift my foot -from the ground, and the pain is becoming intolerable.” - -“Och, hub-bub-boo,” said Larry, “what is better to be done than to carry -your honour on our hands, crossed this fashion. I’ve carried a bigger -man nor you in this way, in play even.” So he called lazy Jemmy to him, -who scratched his head and sighed, to think of the heavy weight they -were to carry. He crossed hands with Larry, the stranger seated himself, -and in this awkward, singular way, with much vexation of spirit, he was -taken to Sally M’Curdy’s shanty. - -“Here is a good ould gentleman what’s lame,” said Larry, as they lifted -him up a few steps into the neat little room—“he’s broke his foot any -how, Mistress M’Curdy, and shall I run for a doctor, your honour, to set -the leg?” - -“My leg is not broken, my honest friend. If this good lady gives me -leave to rest here all night, all that I shall require is, to have the -boot cut off and my ancle bathed—it is only a sprain.” - -“And is it I that will cut that good boot, your honour, I that am a -shoemaker by trade, if the white boys at home would have let me earn a -penny at it. Sure I know where the stitches are, and can’t I cut the -thread?” So down Larry knelt, and with speed and skill, giving the -stranger as little pain as possible, he cut through the seam, and took -the boot from the swelled foot. Meantime Mrs. M’Curdy was not idle, she -called her little grand-daughter, and immediately began to prepare -supper, as the gentle clatter of cups in the next room indicated. - -The stranger, whose name was Price, begged Jemmy to take his horse and -dearborn to the next inn, and tell the landlord of his accident, and to -say where he was to be found. He knew there was nothing better to be -done than to put his foot in a tub of warm, salt water, and to remain as -quiet as possible. Larry, whose good nature was a strong recommendation, -promised to assist him in undressing, so that in half an hour after -changing his clothes and keeping his foot in the tepid water, he felt so -much easier that he was glad to hear that tea was ready. He was very -willing to have the little tea table drawn close to his chair, and -partake of the nice supper which his kind hostess had prepared for him. - -“Don’t wait—don’t stand up, my good lady,” said he, “have you no young -person to assist you; pray sit down and pour out tea for me.” - -Mrs. M’Curdy quietly seated herself and made tea, while Larry answered -the question about the young person, by pulling in the little shy Norah. - -“Oh, Norah, dear,” said Mrs. M’Curdy, “you should not be coming in, -child, and the gentleman in such pain—may be children trouble you, sir.” - -“I am not over fond of children, that’s certain,” said Mr. Price, “but I -should not imagine this nice little girl, who seems so unwilling to -intrude, could be noisy or troublesome. Let her go, Larry—I believe -that’s your name—let her hand go.” - -Off darted the little girl, much to Mr. Price’s gratification; and much -to Larry’s joy. After getting the gentleman snugly to bed, he received a -dollar for his evening’s services, with a request to call in the morning -and assist him to rise. - -But the morning found Mr. Price, although able to rise, in so much pain -that there was no hope of proceeding on his journey; he, therefore, -after securing Larry’s services during those intervals allotted to the -labourers at the forge, quietly settled it in his mind that here he must -remain until the ankle recovered its strength. Mrs. M’Curdy was gentle, -neat and attentive; anticipating his wants, and only wishing that more -was to be done. But Mr. Price was neither troublesome nor ungracious, -and before the dinner hour approached she wondered how so good-natured a -gentleman could dislike children. - -“To be sure,” said she, finishing her thoughts aloud, “Larry’s little -ones are very noisy, and not over clean, and poor Jemmy’s are still -worse than noisy; for they are rude and mischievous. But Norah is not -like other children, sir, and she knows a world of stories, your honour, -if it is stories out of books would amuse you. Sure will you try and -coax the little creature in to sit by you a bit, till I come back from -the grocer; and if she tires you, just let her go when Larry comes in.” - -“Well, send her in,” said Mr. Price, “and let me hear her little -stories. I will promise to get rid of her when she becomes troublesome.” - -“Then your honour will want to keep her for ever at your side, for Norah -is never troublesome. She is an orphan, your honour, and that, as your -honour knows, is a child without father or mother; although in -Philadelphia they have found out, it is said, that an orphan means a -child with one parent. But little Norah’s mother died broken-hearted -because her husband left her and married another woman. She had too much -feeling for her little girl to prosecute him; so she bore it all and -died. Since that time her husband is dead; but I keep it all to myself, -not letting his hard-hearted family know of little Norah. Indeed, I have -kept purposely from knowing where they now are; for out of pride, like, -they would take her away from me, and put her to some grand -boarding-school; for, from what I could learn from him, they are rich.” - -The grandmother brought in the blushing little girl, almost by force, to -the gentleman’s arm-chair; but on his stroking her hair, and speaking -tenderly, she, by degrees, began to look up and cast side glances at -him; and, finally, on his asking her to hand him a glass of water, she -shook back her curly locks, and, with the movement, threw off part of -her fright. - -“Well, you are no longer afraid of me, Norah; you have a little chair -there, I see; bring it here, and sit by me till your grandmother comes -back. How old are you?” - -“I am nine years old; but I can remember my mother quite well, for I was -five years old when she died. I have not cried about her for a great -while, but I feel as if I could cry now.” - -“No, don’t cry, Norah, don’t,” said Mr. Price, as the poor little -creature burst into a passionate flood of tears—“don’t cry, my dear;” -and lifting the child up, he drew her to him, while she sobbed on his -bosom. “What makes you cry now?” - -“Why, Jemmy Brady came in the room last evening, when grandmother was -getting your supper ready, and he said something to me which made me -think of my mother, and I have been all the morning thinking of her, and -of all that she said and did.” - -“Well, what did this Jemmy Brady say to you that has troubled you so -much?” But Norah would not tell. She said it was no matter now, she -should not cry again; for she was sure he was good-natured. - -It was a new thing for Mr. Price to be soothing a crying child—he kept -referring to it himself—but Norah advanced in his good graces, and by -the time Mrs. M’Curdy returned, he was laughing aloud at some of her -childish remarks. Norah too, was very much pleased with Mr. Price; her -bright blue eye seemed to watch every motion of his, and at length he -really felt a want, a restlessness whenever the child was called out of -the room. - -A week still found Mr. Price sitting in the widow M’Curdy’s arm chair, -and little Norah at his side. A sprained ankle, every one knows, -requires time and quiet and an outstretched limb, but above all, a -tranquil mind. He had time, for he was rich; and where on earth, thought -he, could I be so quiet as in this neat little room. Friction was now -necessary, and who could rub his leg so tenderly as the dear little -girl; then her prattle was delightful. He had never been much among -children; he once had a son, but an indulgent mother ruined him. His -child from boy to manhood had been a constant source of disquiet and -misery to him, and he had three years before this period, followed him -to the grave. He thought that no child could ever again interest him, in -fact he had steeled his heart against children, and but for this -accident, and the good chance of meeting with Mrs. M’Curdy, the warm and -pleasant feelings which the innocence and beauty of childhood always -create, had been unknown to him for ever. - -Nothing could be cleaner and neater than the old lady; all her ways were -tidy. She never ran her forefinger in a tumbler or tea cup, nor washed -the tea things in a wash basin, nor dried them on the same towel with -which the hands were dried, as many of the poor do. All this Mr. Price -saw, and what made his room particularly comfortable was, that there -were shutters to his window. His room was facing the road, which Mrs. -M’Curdy very much regretted, as the children of the other shanties were -for ever in view of the house, keeping up an eternal squalling and noise -of some kind or other, frequently amounting to screams and yells. When -things arrived at this height, the mothers of the different children -would rush out, and by dint of pulling, tugging, beating and scolding, -succeed in dragging the delinquent away from “the sick gentleman.” - -“Can’t ye be after seeing that your noise disturbs the lame gentleman, -ye sinners you,” said Mrs. Brady one fine spring morning, as she was -separating her two eldest boys from a fighting frolic—“come away, will -ye, and get me the chips, or ye’ll no get your breakfast, let alone your -father’s and the baby’s.” - -One eye was directed to Mr. Price’s window, while this was screamed out -by the woman, a poor, dirty, broken down looking creature; who, although -not more than five and thirty, looked at least fifty. She had never had -the “luck” to see Mr. Price, a thing she ardently longed for, as every -one else at some odd time or other, had taken a peep at him. Larry was -loud in his praise, and lazy Jemmy, as he was called by one and all of -the women, and by his own wife too, had also testified to the liberality -of the lame gentleman. - -“Why are not these children made to work,” said he to Mrs. M’Curdy, as -he turned from the window in disgust. “Those two boys could be employed -in the factories, I should think; they must be at least eight and ten -years of age.” - -“Yes, they are old enough to work,” said Mrs. M’Curdy, “but it is only -in the paper-mills that such young children are wanted; and those who -have even worked in a paper-mill know that nothing tires such young -children so much as picking and pulling about old rags. If they could be -employed at some other thing half the day, I think both the employer and -the children could be greatly benefited by it.” - -“Well, why can they not? Why can’t they be made to work in a garden all -the morning, and at some quiet work in the afternoon? Here you have a -population of several thousand persons, and according to your own -account throughout the summer you have no fruit nor vegetables, scarcely -a potato. You live then on bread and meat. Are not those men who have an -eye to the interests of the community aware, that a diet of this kind -creates thirst, and they must know that a thirsty man will not always -drink water. How do you get along with such a poor diet as bread and -meat?” - -“Oh, it is far different with us; when your honor is able to leave the -room I will show you my little garden, our little garden I should say; -for here is Norah, who is sitting on your lap, so helpless like just -now, she assists me greatly in the garden. She fetches and carries, -helps sow the seeds, and more than helps weed; indeed last summer I had -so much sowing to do that there was but little time to weed. And the -dear child picked every bean and pea herself, and from a very little -patch she got as much as a quart of strawberries every day; and did I -not get eighteen pence for every quart, without stirring away from the -door to sell them? And how much, dear, did you get from your little row -of raspberries?” Norah said it was thirteen shillings. “Well, we made -clear money, besides helping ourselves to as much as we wanted for our -own eating, just fourteen dollars; it paid our rent and two dollars -over; so it was no more than right that Norah, the little dear, should -get the two dollars to herself; the very frock and shoes she has on, can -show it.” - -Mr. Price kissed the little girl, whose sparkling eye showed how deeply -she was interested in her grandmother’s story—he asked if all the -shanties had gardens attached to them, and whether the children assisted -their parents in working them. - -“Oh, no, poor things,” said the old lady, “they would work, even lazy -Jemmy’s children would work if they were encouraged. But see how it is, -your honour. When I came here nine years ago, Norah was just two months’ -old—this shanty was knocked up quickly for me; and it had never a floor -even till the winter came. There were then no other shanties near, and -as I had paid for the building of the house and for the fence around the -garden, I by degrees, got very comfortable. Before I built the chimney, -sashed the window, and made the floor, it was bad enough; but I had not -enough money at the time, and it was only by working early and late, and -my poor dear daughter helped too, that I got all these things done, and -proud enough I was to show people how much a lone woman could do. -There’s many a woman here, your honour, in these shanties, that could do -very well if their husbands would let them, but a poor woman has no -chance at all. Here is Biddy Brady, my next neighbour, she has seven -children, from ten years down to that little wee thing yonder, that has -just now been taken out for the first time—there it is, Norah dear, and -she’s called it Norah after my grandchild, sir, because Norah has been -kind like in her ways to poor Biddy, who is to be sure, a little bit of -a scold, and always in a hubbub of some kind or other. My landlord -leased me this piece of ground for ten years; but well he may, for I -have made this house quite comfortable, you see. There are three rooms, -small enough to be sure, but if I have to leave it, and oh, how loath I -shall be to go from it, he will get thirty-six dollars for it instead of -twelve—only think of that. He is a good man, and I dare say when I ask -him to renew my lease, for the sake of the good I have done to his -property, he will rent the place to me for thirty dollars.” - -“Well, well,” said Mr. Price, who had been musing during this long -speech, “don’t think about your rent for the next year, or the year -after,—don’t cry, Norah, your grandmother shall have no rent to pay for -five years, if you will always be as good a girl as you are now. Who -taught you to read, Norah?—come kiss me, my child, and don’t sob so; you -are on my lap, and your crying jars my lame foot.” - -“Oh, grandmother,” said the little girl, “tell the gentleman why we -don’t want to go away from this pleasant house,”—and she pointed to a -small enclosure on a rising hill a little way from the road. - -“It is a burial ground, your honour,” said Mrs. M’Curdy in a low subdued -tone, “and under that old hemlock tree poor Norah’s mother lies buried.” - -Mr. Price, whose sympathies had been long pent up; in fact, who had been -soured towards all the world; for his disappointment both in his -marriage and in his only child, had been severely felt; now suffered -himself to be deeply interested in the fate of this innocent family, he -pressed the child closer to his bosom, and resolved that he would -immediately place her and her grandmother above want. But this sudden -thawing of his feelings produced a kindlier interest towards others; he -saw a mass of suffering in this little community which he thought could -be alleviated without much trouble or expense, and his quick -apprehension soon pointed out the way. He put Norah down from his lap, -asked for his portfolio, and in a few moments a letter was written and -despatched to a gentleman in the neighbourhood. - -“Now my good Mrs. M’Curdy, bring your work in this room, and tell me all -about your neighbours—tell me exactly how things are; I do not ask out -of idle curiosity, but I have a plan in my mind which I think will be of -service to them. I have an eye to you, too; I have become interested in -you and your little girl, and I should like to leave you in a better -neighbourhood. Only don’t call me your honour, but Mr. Price; I hate -your honour.” - -“Well, sir, here is my work, and I can’t do better than just to say a -little more about myself. You see my pride, for I had a good bringing -up, would not let me live along so lazily and so miserably as the poor -people around me; besides, times in one respect, were better eight years -ago than they are now, at least for poor women I mean. The ladies’ -societies had not then found us out, and widow women and young girls got -plenty of sewing to do, and for a decent price too. I could then earn -from three to four shillings a day, and there never was a time, until a -month before—Norah, dear, put chips under the pot, will you love, and -then set the milk pans in the sun, and be sure and put on your bonnet—I -never like to speak of my poor daughter before the tender hearted little -thing; for although she was but little more than five years old when her -mother died, yet she recollects her perfectly, and all her nice orderly -ways, and how she taught her to read and sew and pray. She says the same -prayers yet, sir, and indeed no better can be taught her. But as I was -saying when I sent Norah out, there never was a time until a month -before my daughter died, that she did not, weakly and drooping as she -was, earn two shillings a day. Had she lived till now, she would have -found an alteration.” - -“Why, what has happened to deprive you of work? your town has increased -in numbers greatly since that time.” - -“I’ll tell you, sir. Then, when ladies of large families had more linen -to make up than they or their maids could do, they gave a poor woman a -chance; there were then three ladies in this very town, that gave me -every year, a set of shirts to make; and my daughter made pincushions, -and thread cases, and night caps, and darned silk stockings for -gentlemen, and made linen gloves, all so neatly and prettily, that the -price she got for them purchased all our little comforts; but as soon as -the societies found us out, as I said before, the ladies of the town -themselves undertook to make all these things.” - -“But if that was a saving to their families, my good friend, it was all -perfectly right.” - -“Oh, it was not for their families that they met together to sew; -sometimes it was for a Dorcas society, sometimes for a Sunday school, -sometimes for an Infants’ school, sometimes to get a church out of debt, -or to buy an organ; and oftentimes to educate young men for the -ministry. For all the purposes I have mentioned, excepting that of -educating young men, I found some excuse, but I own I did inwardly fret -and find fault, with the kind-hearted women who belong to these -societies, when they neglected their own families, and let us poor women -who were willing to work, starve, while they did the things by which we -formerly earned our bread.” - -“Why do not the young men work for themselves, or why are there not -societies of young men for these purposes; surely men can labour, and at -more trades too than women can—mechanics I mean, and rich young men, -they can contribute in money.” - -“Yes, sir, that is what I said when these ladies came to me and begged -me to sew one day for this purpose; for seeing me a little better off -than my poor neighbours, they thought I was quite too well off. God -forgive me for my uncharitableness, but I looked at smart little Norah, -and was thinking how much at that moment she wanted a good warm cloak -for winter, so with all the willingness in the world, my love for the -child got the better of my wish to oblige the ladies.” - -“In some parts of Connecticut, the young men destined for the church, -work for themselves.” - -“Yes, sir, I hear they do, and why should not they as well as artists -and lawyers and doctors. Those who are poor find ways and means to -educate themselves; they go in gentlemen’s houses and teach children, or -they teach school, or write; in short, a man has ways and means enough -if he chooses.” - -“This is all very true, Mrs. M’Curdy; I taught school myself, and -besides that I laboured in a garden for two years for my food and -lodging. With the profits of my school I bought books, and got myself -instructed in book-keeping and French; I had besides, two hundred -dollars in hand, to pay my board when I went as merchant’s clerk. In -five years I was sent out as supercargo, and from that hour I began to -make money. But I think you would not complain if these ladies were to -raise a fund for the education of females, not to preach, but to teach.” - -“Yes, indeed, that is what I have often thought would be more creditable -to them, and there is not a poor body who would not join in it. I have -often thought how happy I should be, if at my death, I could leave Norah -at the head of a good school; instead of knowing, as I do, that she must -be put out to service, nay, bound out, as a common kitchen girl, if I -should die before she grows up.” - -“You need not fear that, my good friend, I shall take care of that; but -let us leave that subject for the present. I have heard your grievances, -and you do not complain without cause. As to the women working for -missionaries, unless it be for missionaries who go out to teach reading -and writing, and the English or French language, I think they will soon -feel a little ashamed of it; and men will be ashamed to be under such an -obligation to women. We will try and get up societies among the young -men, and then women will direct their charities to their own sex.” - -“I wish they would do this, but I am afraid it will be a long time -before men will give their time and money to such purposes. Why, I hear -they buy things at the ladies’ fairs very reluctantly, and there are -very few who give money to their societies willingly. I know that the -two young men I wash for, Mr. Green and Mr. Wilber, often make fun of -these ladies, and say they only do it to show themselves, and to be -talked about. Men are very ill-natured in these matters. For my part, I -think that ladies should teach at Sunday schools, if they are so -benevolently disposed, and in Infant schools, and in Dorcas societies; -which Dorcas societies should be for the relief of poor, sick women, but -_men should give the funds, and poor women should do the work and be -paid for it_. This _I_ think is the proper way; as it is, these -societies _create_ a great deal of distress, by sewing themselves. And -as to Sunday schools, the excellent persons who first set them going, -did not intend them for the children of rich parents. I am not the one -however, to put this matter in its proper light; the evil of the thing -will soon be seen, and then there will be a cure. But I am talking quite -astray; you wanted to hear about my neighbours, and I have gone off to -other matters.” - -“I am glad of it, if I have the means of doing your poor neighbours a -little good, I should know where the grievance lies; this will enable me -to apply a remedy. I shall bear it in mind; at present we will speak of -the poor people immediately around you. You are on the edge of the -common, who is your next neighbour? It is Jemmy Brady, is it not?” - -“Yes, poor Jemmy lives there, and a better tempered fellow never lived; -but ill luck pursues him in every thing he does, and I cannot think that -any thing can improve his condition. He has lived in that poor shanty -these seven years, and has never yet been able to put a floor to it, let -alone a chimney. To be sure, they have a stove in winter, and in summer -they set their pot over stones, yet it is a poor way of living. The two -eldest boys that you saw fighting this morning, did work a little in the -paper mill, but the confinement made them sick, at least one of them -became sick, and the other had to come home to help his mother nurse -him, for her other children were too young to bring her a pail of water -even.” - -“Do you ever go into their cabin?” - -“Do I? yes, sure. I go in every now and then, particularly when she’s -confined. If her neighbours did not go in to make her a little gruel, -and look after the children, they must perish; and the Catholic women, -we are all Catholics here, sir, are very good to one another. ‘Tis the -poor man alone that hears the poor man,’ you know, sir; but I am -thankful that Biddy Brady is the worst off; that is, I am thankful that -there are no more so very badly off; if there were, I do not know what -we should do.” - -“Does not Jemmy like to work? he is a strong, healthy looking man.” - -“Why, he likes to work, and he does not like to work; he was bred up to -do just nothing at all; but he can write a good hand, and is a good -weaver enough, but no one wants a clerk looking so ragged and dirty as -Jemmy; and no one weaves now in a small way. If he had a loom by himself -he could earn a little; that is, if he could have other employment with -it; for Jemmy, unlike Irishmen in general, cannot bear to keep all day -at one thing.” - -Mr. Price set down this man’s name, and the ages of his children, -desiring Mrs. M’Curdy to proceed to the next shanty. - -“Next to Jemmy Brady, lives lame David, a poor drunken creature; he has -an aged mother, two sisters, a wife and one child. He is a blacksmith, -and could get good wages throughout the year if he would only keep -sober. His son bids fair to be a decent honest man; but the child, now -only fourteen, works beyonds his strength, and his poor mother was -telling me the other day that he had dreadful night sweats, and is -losing his appetite. I wish you could see this boy, sir, I am sure you -would think he is overworked.” - -“Don’t his employers take notice of it?” - -“Why, yes, they tell him not to work so hard; but men have not time to -attend to such things; if they were to notice the ailings of all their -work people they could never get on—no, when poor people get sick they -must go home and trust to their family for help. Patrick Conolly is an -ill-favoured looking lad; he is red-haired, freckled and bandy-legged; -yet for all that he is a very interesting child, at least to his mother, -grandmother and aunts, to say nothing of myself. I wish the lad could be -sent to school, he has been so decently brought up, that I am sure he -would make a good school master to the poor Catholic children.” - -“Well, Mrs. M’Curdy, your wish shall be gratified; Patrick Conolly shall -be sent to a good school for one year; nay, don’t stop to thank me, it -will cost me nothing. How do the women, his aunts and mother, maintain -themselves?” - -“They wash for the men at the forge and the quarry; and they pick -blackberries in the season, and they go out to day’s work to clean house -and so on, and the old woman patches and mends and knits. They are as -industrious as possible, but they barely make out to keep life and body -together; for money is scarce and women are plenty. If the man only was -sober it would do very well, but he is so notorious a drunkard that he -can get no work during the few days he is sober.” - -“And thus the peace and well doing of a whole family are destroyed by -the beastliness of one man. Who lives next to lame David?” - -“Ah! then comes Larry M’Gilpin—there’s an honest creature spoiled, sir, -by too much willingness to help others. He is always too late at the -forge or the quarry, or the mill, for he is never steady at one place, -because he has to help one neighbour look for his run-a-way pig, or to -put up a fence, or to run for a doctor, or something or other. Every -body calls upon Larry M’Gilpin, but no one does a thing for him. I never -heard of any one doing him a good turn but yourself, sir, and it was but -small service he did for you. I try to be of use to him as far as I can, -and Norah teaches his little girl to read, which you know is something; -but his wages, somehow or other, amounts to very little the year out. -How they contrive to live I cannot tell; for they have five children, -all living in one room, and on the bare ground too. To be sure, he has a -chimney in it, and in winter they can keep themselves warm when they -have wood to burn; but they do certainly live on less means than any -family I know. I do not wonder she has the name of dirty Rachel; for how -can a poor creature keep a husband and five children clean, when she has -not money to buy soap even. But they are a quiet, well behaved set, and -disturb no one. Larry keeps the children around him, and by his eternal -good humour and pleasant ways he has contrived to make us all like him; -so one throws him this thing and the other that; and your little -bounties have come in a very good time. He only wishes, he says, that -such gentlemen as you would sprain their ankle every day.” - -“Is his wife lazy?—does she take in work, or go out to work?” - -“I can’t say that she is lazy—only spiritless like. You know a woman -with five children, the oldest only eight years old, cannot be expected -to do much more than take care of them; and yet Rachel would be willing -to make a coarse shirt now and then, if the price was not next to -nothing. But next to Larry M’Gilpin, lives the woman of women! Here, -just let me lift up this sash, sir, for one minute—now listen—do you -hear any thing?” - -“Yes, I hear some one singing; do I not?” - -“You do; that is Bonny Betty, as the ladies call her. She is a very -large, bony woman, full six feet high, and well looking too. She works -from morning till night, and has contrived to maintain herself and six -children without the help of a human being, and not one child to do a -turn for her, in the way of earning money, I mean. Her husband died a -drunkard; she buried him three years ago, and from that hour she seemed -to alter her very nature. Before that, she used to go about the country -to beg, carrying all the children with her; and, when far away from -home, would sleep in outhouses and barns. With the little money she -gathered in this way, she bought wood and other necessaries for the -winter, mending up the rags she had begged, and preparing for a traipse -in the summer, may be with an additional child on her arm. As soon as -Christie Kelley died, she bought a broom, the first ever seen in her -house, swept the two rooms of her shanty clean,—pulled out an old -leather glove from her huge pocket, and counted out fifty dollars in -notes and silver. ‘Now, Mrs. M’Curdy,’ said she, ‘you’re a sensible -woman; sit down by me and tell me how I had best lay out all this money. -I kept it unknown to poor Christie, and a little more too—how else could -he have been buried so decently?’ In a little time, sir, with her -prudence in laying out this money, her cabin got to look as well as -mine, barring that six ailing children will make a litter and some -noise.” - -“How does she maintain herself, if work is so scarce, and what is the -matter with her children?” - -“How does she maintain herself? why, in the strangest way you ever heard -of. She does every thing and any thing. In the morning she finds out -which of the children are likeliest to be the sickest through the day; -these she carries with her, for she is a powerful, strong woman; and -into a house she goes, seats the children in an obscure corner, and -falls to work—nothing comes amiss. If it is washing day, she is up to -her elbows in the suds before the lady of the house is up, and nothing -but a constable will force her out till she has done two women’s work, -has eaten three hearty meals, and fed the ailing children with such -little scraps as their feeble health requires. She then gathers up the -children, and, with a basket added to her load, off she goes to feed -those at home with the savoury scraps in her basket. When she forces her -way into a house she takes no money, contenting herself with receiving -broken meat for her pay, and if there is more than enough for the -family, she takes it in to Biddy Brady, or to one poor body or other. -But this vagrant disposition is fast leaving her, for she is so useful -and so cheerful that there are very few families that can do without -her. She scents a dinner or a tea party at a great distance, and she -gets there in the nick of time to be of service. She makes yeast, soap, -candles, bread,—whitewashes, takes out grease and stains, paints rooms, -mends broken windows and china,—cuts better cold slaw, as the Dutch call -it, finer and quicker than any one,—makes sourcrout, pickles and -preserves,—knows how to put up shad and smoke herrings; in short, in her -ramblings she watched the different ways of doing things, and now she -sets up for herself. You cannot think what a really useful woman Bonny -Betty is; it is a pity that the children are so sickly.” - -“Has she a doctor?—does she ever consult a doctor?” - -“A doctor! why they are all more or less deformed. Ben, the eldest, has -a great wen over his left eye which has nearly destroyed his sight; -Kate, the next, has a broken back, and is lame; Jemmy is one sore from -head to foot, and has been in that way for four years; Bob is a thin, -sickly boy, that has fainty turns, and is beginning to lose his hearing; -Susy is deaf and dumb; and little Christie, only four years old, has the -dropsy.” - -“Good heavens! and this woman is cheerful, and maintains them all with -the labour of her own hands?” - -“Yes, and is laying up money. She has nearly a hundred dollars in the -Savings Fund; her children are well clothed for poor people’s children, -and well fed; she has two pigs in the pen; and she and I are the only -persons in the neighbourhood that keep a cow. She has a fresh cow in the -fall and I in the spring; so we both do well by them. I wish she had a -better shanty.” - -“Well, I shall make acquaintance with Bonny Betty; who comes next?” - -“Sammy Oram is the sixth; he is a shoemaker, a poor, do-little kind of -man, with five boys; he is a widower. Three of his boys work at times in -the cotton factory and at times in the paper mill; but Sammy talks of -going to Philadelphia, and so get rid of them all at once; for he calls -his boys _orphans_, and he thinks as they were all born there, (for he -only came here about five years ago,) he can get them in the Girard -College. I wish he may, I am sure. Next to him lives an old man with one -leg. He was once a good gardener, they say, but it is many years since -he had to quit the trade owing to a white swelling which finally caused -him to lose his leg. He lives alone, and maintains himself by making -mats and brooms and such things; he is a very honest, sober man, and -would make a good overseer, or some such thing, if any body knew his -worth; but he is shy and melancholy like for an Irishman, and we often -think he suffers in winter for comforts; but he never complains, and if -people never complain, you know, why no one will thrust kindness on -them.” - -“But there is Bonny Betty, with six helpless children—you see that she -can get along.” - -“Yes, sir,—but Betty is a woman, and somehow they have a higher spirit -than a man. Why, a man would have broken down if he had been left with -six such children as she has, or if he had not sunk, he would have run -away and _left them to Providence_. You have no idea, sir, how long a -poor woman will bear up against every evil and misfortune if she has -children dependent upon her.” - -“You have now told me the little history of the Seven Shanties, but has -no one a garden but yourself. I should think that the man you mentioned -last—what’s his name?—the man with one leg—he ought to have a garden.” - -“Daniel M’Leary,—yes, he might do a little in that way, but for two -reasons; one is that he cannot dig, for his back is weak,—and a better -reason still is, that there’s never a shanty but mine that has a bit of -land to it. Daniel M’Leary has not even enough for a pig pen if he had -wherewithal to feed a pig. He has done, however, all that man could do; -he has planted a grape vine behind his shanty, and last summer, being -the third year of its bearing, he sold from it five dollars’ worth of -grapes. He gave me some cuttings; I planted them against the back of my -shanty which faces the south, and last summer two of them had a few -bunches on them, but the children pulled them off before they were ripe. -I don’t think, however, it was the neighbours’ children.” - -The next day Mr. Price was able to get out of the little room and enjoy -the fresh air of the open commons. He saw, what Mrs. M’Curdy said, that -the shanties had no ground attached to them. In front was the road, and -behind a precipitous bank, scarcely a foot-path behind that of Bonny -Betty. Yet these poor people paid from ten to twelve dollars a year for -a piece of ground not more than twenty feet square. Mrs. M’Curdy was on -the edge of a common, and her plot took in a strip of land about twenty -by a hundred feet; this was the admiration and envy of the neighbours, -who all imagined that if they only had “the luck to get such a bit -garding spot” they would thrive as well as Mrs. M’Curdy. - -At noon a gentleman called on Mr. Price; he was the owner of some of the -land thereabout, and likewise of the little strip on which all the -shanties, excepting Mrs. M’Curdy’s, stood. He came by consequence of the -letter which Mr. Price had written to him the day before, and being a -sensible and considerate man, he was soon convinced by this gentleman’s -arguments that some change in the circumstances of these poor people, -his tenants, would be beneficial to him as well as to them. He finally -agreed to lease to Mr. Price a piece of land not more than a few rods’ -distance from the shanties; it was to be about one hundred and sixty -feet square. It was leased for twelve years. - -As money can command any thing, in two weeks two hundred loads of manure -were spread over this spot and ploughed in, and a good rough board fence -enclosed the whole, with a wide gate in the centre of each side. Near -the upper gate, under a large hemlock, a comfortable shanty was built, -well floored, with two rooms, and a chimney between. On the lower side -was another, only larger, having four small rooms; this was shaded by a -fine silver pine. This shanty guarded the south gate. The fence and -gates, all the posts being made of cedar, cost Mr. Price one hundred and -fifty dollars, the manure and ploughing were one hundred more, the two -shanties cost three hundred and fifty dollars. Furniture for the two -shanties, grape vines, currant bushes, strawberry plants, garden seeds, -two carts, six wheelbarrows, and other garden tools, with a shed to keep -them in, cost four hundred dollars more. Here was an expenditure of the -round sum of ten hundred dollars. The interest of this at six per cent. -amounted only to sixty dollars, and he was only charged one hundred and -forty dollars for the rent of the land, so that the interest of the -money was but two hundred dollars a year. What was this to a man worth -twelve thousand a year? - -Mr. Price, quick in planning and executing, soon arranged every thing to -his mind, and what was extraordinary, to the liking of every one. In ten -days he installed Daniel M’Leary in the north shanty, giving him the key -of the north, east and west gates; in the south shanty, he placed Bonny -Betty and her six helpless children; and a day it was to see, for both -he and Mrs. M’Curdy, as well as dear little Norah, kept the thing a -profound secret. The first intimation Bonny Betty had of the good luck, -was in the morning of the day of her removal; Mrs. M’Curdy called in by -accident, as it were, and observed that she should not be surprised if -Mr. Price were to call in and see about the wen on Benny’s forehead; “so -Betty, my friend, suppose you red up the children a little; here is -Susan quite able, I am sure, to lend a hand, deaf and dumb though the -poor little thing is. See how handy she goes to work.” - -“If you thought he’d be coming Sally, why I’d leave my work, and put on -their Sunday clothes; but poor little Jemmy is very feverish to-day, and -Christie’s legs are more swelled than common; are you sure he’ll be -coming this way?” - -“No, I am not sure, but at any rate red up the children, for who knows -what may happen; you’re an honest industrious woman, and you may well be -called Bonny Betty; I think ye’ll eat your dinner in a better house than -this ere you die; good folks are not always neglected.” - -Well, Bonny Betty left her work, and in an hour the poor little -creatures were dressed in their best; and at ten o’clock, Mrs. M’Curdy -and Norah, with all the women of the other shanties, as well as those -children that were at home, proceeded to her house, and asked her to -take a walk and look at the gentleman’s improvements. On being urged by -Mrs. M’Curdy, whom she very much respected, and seeing the eager looks -of the children, she sat out with them. All was wonderment and pleasure -when they got to the shanty, for the pots were boiling, and the meat was -roasting, loaves of bread, and plates of butter, and gingerbread, and -small cakes, were all paraded on a clean new table; in short, a -house-warming was prepared for some one. - -“Oh! if all this was for me and my poor children,” thought Bonny Betty, -“how happy I should be; but then there’s the other poor bodies, I’m -thinking, wishing the same thing, and sure, have not they as good a -right as me?” - -“Now Betty, did not I tell you, that you’d eat your dinner in a better -house than your old ricketty forlorn one? You are in your own house now, -Bonny Betty! for the good kind man, God bless him, has bid me tell you, -that by giving him the same rent that you pay for that old one, you may -live in this nice comfortable house.” - -There was a general cry of joy; and Bonny Betty fell on her knees, and -bade them all kneel down with her, and pray that she might continue to -deserve this great good. Every thing was of the plainest materials, -wooden presses, wooden bedsteads; in short, though all was new, yet -there was nothing better than poor people generally buy; but what went -most to Betty’s heart, were the neat comfortable beds for her children, -and the nice kitchen furniture, and the shed for the cow. - -After they had dined, and assisted in washing up the plates and pots, -the neighbours after again wishing her joy departed, and left her “alone -in her glory,” and no creature could be happier nor more thankful. It -cannot be doubted that she prayed most fervently, and that she slept -soundly on her clean straw bed that night. - -In the morning, Mr. Price sent for Jemmy Brady, Larry M’Gilpin, David -Conolly, Sammy Oram, and Daniel M’Leary. Through respect of age, he -addressed the latter first; he asked him if he liked his new quarters. -The poor Irishman said, he was only too comfortable. “Well then,” said -Mr. Price, “I hope you will lend a hand in what I propose doing; you -need not speak; the time of these men is precious; I know you will -assist me, and I trust as I leave you overseer, or agent, or give it any -name you please, over that square of land yonder, you will follow my -directions strictly. They are these: In the first place, you are to open -and shut three of the gates, keeping the keys yourself; and only opening -them for carts and wagons, which are to go in and out, whenever the -tenants desire it. You are to set down in a book, how many tools each -man takes out every day, and note down such as are not brought to you -when the day is ended. All the tools are to be mended at my expense for -one year. You are to give every man or boy as much seed as is required; -and as you are, I am told, a good gardener, you will be able to decide -on the quantity to be given. This is all I can recollect to ask of you -just now; excepting furthermore, to set down the names of such men and -children as are regular at their work; and to ask each person to let you -know how much money he makes from day to day, all of which you must -commit to writing. I do not wish to know this to raise the rent on the -tenants of that piece of ground, but to know to whom I am to give the -premium in the fall. I shall be here in November, to look at your book. -You will find paper and pens and ink in abundance in a box, which I -shall send you next week. Find out the men’s ages, and let the oldest -have the first choice of twenty-five feet. Good morning my friends—no -thanks—let me see whom I am to thank in November next. Here M’Leary, -here are twenty-five dollars; give five to the wife of each man, keep -five for yourself, and give a dollar a piece to Sammy Oram’s boys. I -hope you’ll give no trouble to Mr. M’Leary, and that people will come -far and near to see your garden—Good morning.” - -This thing being settled, Mr. Price now turned his attention to his new -friend Mrs. M’Curdy; he asked her how she would like to have one of -David Conolly’s sisters to live with her? “You have given me so good a -character of her,” said he, “Nelly, I think you call her, that I should -like her to live an easier and a happier life. She is younger than -yourself, and is more able to do the rough work of the house, and I can -make it a desirable thing, for I will allow her good wages. My little -Norah must not labour any more; I want her to grow tall and fair, and -she must go to school likewise.” - -Poor Sally did not like this part of the arrangement, which Mr. Price -seeing, he observed, that if she disliked to part with the little girl, -he would make another arrangement; but at any rate he should consult her -feelings in whatever he proposed. He intended to give her pleasure and -not pain. Reformers and patrons were too apt, he knew, to order things -to suit their own views, without regard to the feelings of those whom -they wish to benefit. At any rate one thing he was sure would give her -pleasure, and this was the adding a small house to the shanty she lived -in. - -The house was soon begun—it was to be a neat two-storied brick house—and -while it was building he persuaded Mrs. M’Curdy to live with him, -leaving Nelly Conolly in the shanty to take care of the furniture, cow, -pigs and garden. They all set out together in a week from that time, -every heart blessing Mr. Price, and lamenting the absence of the old -lady and Norah, whose neatness and kindness of disposition had wrought -such a change in their prospects. - -Sammy Oram was found to be the oldest man of the four candidates; but as -Bonny Betty had testified a desire to hire one of the lots, he very -gallantly resigned his rights of seniority to her; of course she chose -the one parallel with her own shanty; she therefore, had one of the -centre strips. Sammy Oram took the lot adjoining; at which Larry -M’Gilpin gave a knowing wink to Jemmy Brady. Jemmy took the one next to -him, being the corner lot. Between Bonny Betty and the next lot was a -cart road of ten feet; Larry had the one adjoining the road, David -Conolly the next, and his son Patrick, with Sammy Oram’s two oldest boys -took the corner lot—making in all six different tenants. - -Mr. Price’s interest in this little community did not stop here; he -persuaded Bonny Betty to let her son Ben go to the hospital, and have -the wen on his forehead examined, promising that he would himself pay -all the necessary expenses; such as suitable clothes, travelling charges -and extra nursing. The boy was so eager and the neighbours so clamourous -in their entreaties, that poor Betty gave a reluctant assent. Ben went, -and in one month he returned perfectly cured—the wen taken out, and his -eye-sight very much improved. Kate was sent to town next, and by means -of Casey’s dormant balance, and Mrs. M’Curdy’s kind treatment, the -injured spine, although not entirely restored to its healthy state, was -prevented from further distortion. She remained under medical care, and -it was owing to this humane and judicious treatment that she was -relieved of her lameness, a lameness caused by general debility. A few -bottles of Swaim’s panacea, entirely removed the scrofulous complaint of -Jenny. Bob was found to be nearly devoured by worms; the doctor of the -village, when called in, soon removed _his_ complaint, and his hearing -improved as his stomach recovered its tone. But poor little Christie was -beyond cure; he died in the fall to the very great grief of poor Betty, -who was passionately attached to her children. The little deaf and dumb -girl was sent to the asylum in Hartford, and there she received an -education, which fitted her as a teacher to others of her own class. The -lifting up of one kind hand did all this for poor Bonny Betty; five good -little creatures, helpless and forlorn, an incumbrance to their mother, -and a tax on all around them, were thus made useful members of society; -whereas, in the course of time, they must necessarily have gone to the -alms-house. - -But to return to our friends in the shanties. Early, full an hour before -sunrise, on the fifteenth of April, all the gardeners were at work under -old Daniel M’Leary’s superintendence; for his very youth seemed renewed, -so much was he raised in his own estimation. Instead of being a cumberer -of the earth, as in his fits of despondency he used to call himself, he -was now a second Napoleon ruling over the destiny of others—their well -doing was entrusted to his care, and many were his mental promises to be -just—if he could keep them. At the sound of his shrill whistle the -little band left off work, in time to eat their breakfast, and be ready -to go to their several employments when the bells rung. At twelve all -ate their dinner, and for half an hour were again in their garden plot -where they wrought—and pleasant it was to work in the open air under -such a glorious sky, with more satisfaction than they ever did in their -lives; for the proceeds of their labour was their own. - -Their supper was ready when their working hours were over, and once more -they went up to their garden, and it was difficult for Daniel to -persuade them to leave off at the allotted time. Instead of lounging -about before a dram shop, which was their custom in the evening, and -often becoming noisy if not riotous, they went quietly to bed and slept -soundly. Even Pat Conolly, the overworked boy declared, that although he -went very tired to his rest, it was a far different sort of fatigue from -that which he nightly felt before. - -By the first of June, the whole lot was one beautiful green, bright -spot. The land, naturally good, had been so well manured, and carefully -laboured, that the seeds could not help coming up freely. But if the -truth must be told, Bonny Betty and the three boys’ gardens, were more -forward than the rest; at least they had a more smiling gay look. And no -wonder, for in the first place, women and children will put a few flower -seeds in the garden; in the second place, the boys and Betty had the -double advantage of working in the afternoons, as Bonny Betty having a -little shop, scarcely ever went out to work by the day, and the children -only worked half a day in the mills; and lastly Daniel M’Leary lent a -hand “to beautify the women and childers’ bit garding.” - -Every one in the neighbourhood had an eye on this project, and every one -predicted that the woman and boys might persevere, but that Sammy Oram -would give out first, Davy Conolly next, Lazy Jemmy next, and, lastly, -Larry M’Gilpin. Sammy Oram was very near verifying this prediction in -consequence of his taking it into his head to offer himself as a -helpmate to Bonny Betty; but the reader shall hear the progress and end -of the affair in a letter received by Mr. Price from Daniel M’Leary. - -“Your honour asks how we are getting on—O beautifully, your honour, and -all work with good heart, with a pleasant thought of your praise in the -fall. I am glad your honour mistakes about Lazy Jemmy—Lazy Jemmy no -longer, for he’s here before any one, and brings his little boy with -him, and because there’s never a spade small enough for so young a boy, -he’s bought him one, your honour. I’m thinking Jemmy will hold out, and -his little girrel, I’m tould, is crying to come with the daddy to help -too; and why should she not? for here’s Bonny Betty’s little Jenny, now -quite cured, God bless your honour for ever and ever, she weeds and -helps her mother at every chance. So I bid Jemmy bring the little girrel -with him. - -“Larry laughs and works, and runs over to one garden to help the boys a -bit, though they bid him keep off, and then he digs among the potatoes -for Bonny Betty; but he’s broke off that, your honour, for as soon as -she found it out she went to his garding and dug just as many rows as he -did. I’m thinking it will be hard to tell which of the men’s gardings -will get the premium, for they’re jealous like, and they all put in the -same things and work in the same way as near as possible, but they scorn -the flowers, your honour. - -“David Conolly still drinks, but for very shame’s sake he works morning -and evening, and he would get behind hand only that that fine boy, his -son, just steps over now and then and keeps the garding up to the -others. His wife tould me t’other day that for certain David does not -drink so much, and she’s certain he will leave off in time, for now on -Sundays he takes up a book or lies in bed after chapel hours, and this -she thinks is a good sign. Pat, the boy, is another crater, your honour; -his master at the factory is well pleased with the change in him, and -agrees to his only coming half a day, since he’s all the better for it, -and his mother says for the last week he has not had any of those bad -night sweats, and he does not talk in his sleep—so the change of work -has done him good. - -Sammy Oram is none the worse for working out of doors, and he’s better -tempered too, your honour, for we none of us took much to Sammy, he was -so soured like, owing to his sitting all day cobbling shoes and -fretting. He thought at one time of making _orphans_ of his boys and -getting them all off his hands in the Girard College, for the kind -gentlemen there made it out at one time that all childer that had only -one parent was orphans, but our priest, father M’Guire, tould him that -so many orphans came with their daddies, that the overseers, or whatever -their names may be, found that, large as the college was, it would not -hold all the orphans that the daddies brought. Father M’Guire said that -the truth ought to be tould, that very few mothers took their orphans; -they preferred to educate them themselves. - - “When Sammy, your honour, found there was no chance to get his - little boys off his hands as orphans, he then thought to fall in - love with Bonny Betty, for she’s now well off in the world, thanks - to your honour. So one day last week he stept over the row of - currant bushes, nimbly like, and says, ‘Mistress Kelly,’ says he, - ‘you and I have wrought side by side since the 15th of April, and - it’s now June. I’m thinking we could work on this way to the end - of our lives, and I’ll be a good fader to your children, and keep - you from such hard work as this, for it’s a shame to see a fine - woman like yourself, Mistress Kelly, working like a man any how.’ - Well, what does Bonny Betty do but one thing, and Sammy Oram might - be sure she’d tell; indeed we were all in the garding at the time, - and saw them speak together, and we saw her lift him, easy like, - with one hand, by the waistband behind, over the currant bushes, - and set him gently down on the other side, and then Betty she - laughed out loud, scornful like. Sammy Oram, after that, had no - heart to work next to Bonny Betty. ‘And I knew what he comed next - to me for at the time,’ said she, ‘but I said I’ll fit him when - he’s ready to spake—he a fader to my childer—he’s not a fader to - his own. There’s Lizzy Conolly, she’s a good enough body for him, - and he’ll find her a better mammy to his childer than I would be.’ - Sammy’s a man, your honour, that soon tires of a wife. I remember - once he tould me when his first wife had been a long time ailen, - that he wished he could get her back to Ireland to her fader, he - did not see why he was obliged to take care of another man’s - child. But Sammy’s an honest man, your honour, and he’ll may be do - well yet. I think the hint of Lizzy Conolly not a bad one, and - she’s fond of little childer. We are all wishing to see your - honour, not forgetting our respects to Mrs. M’Curdy and sweet - little Nory. I remain your honour’s humble and obedient servant, - - “DANIEL M’LEARY.” - -On the fourth of July the four gates were thrown open, and all the -village, rich and poor, went in, for the first time, to see what the -idle hours of six persons had accomplished. The praises that the men and -boys received, to say nothing of Bonny Betty, who was there in all her -pride with her children, quite compensated them for any little extra -fatigue they had undergone. The boys and girls were neatly dressed, and -the poor women, the wives of the gardeners, began to take rank among the -better order of labourers, for their husbands were beginning to attract -notice. It was constantly—“Well, Jemmy Brady, how does your garden come -on? are you almost tired yet?” “Tired! Is it I that am tired, sir, when -I and the wife and children had a dish of potatoes of my own raising -larger nor any you ever seed in our foolish little market? Sure you have -not seen Bonny Betty’s stall, as they call it—only just go over -to-morrow, being Monday, ye’ll see a sight—early York cabbage—ye see -I’ve learned the names of things since I belonged to your garding—and -there’s real marrowfat peas, and big white ingans, as big as a tay -saucer, and ye’ll may be hardly see the end of the beets and carrots, -they’re so long, and then there’s the early turnip just fit to melt in -your mouth; sure we had a mess of them with our pork and potatoes this -blessed day, and how could a poor man like me, with seven childer, all -babies nearly, get the like of turnips and white ingans, unless I made -them grow myself, barring I might send to York for them, but poor people -can’t do that.” - -Every one of the shanty people took a pride in having vegetables on the -table every Sunday, and in a little time Bonny Betty did nothing, -literally, but sell vegetables; and most scrupulous was she in keeping -the different interests separate. Each man and boy had his basket, and -every morning they were filled and carried to Betty’s shed, erected for -the purpose. No market woman was ever prouder, and none certainly so -happy, if we make allowance for the increased illness of her youngest -child. But even this she did not see, for so great a change had taken -place in the circumstances and health of all the rest, that she went on, -hoping that in God’s good time little Christie would get well too. - -The trial day came—the first of November. It was on Saturday, and the -six candidates took a holiday, for they could now afford it. Jemmy Brady -and Larry M’Gilpin, at one time the worst off, and the most dirty and -ragged of them all, were now clean and decently dressed; they were each -the richer too, in having another child added to their number, but they -were very much set up about, as Larry had the felicity of calling his -new daughter Sally M’Curdy—and never even when in a hurry did he shorten -the name—and Jemmy only wished that his boy had been twins, that they -might both have been called Oliver Price. - -Mr. Price, Mrs. M’Curdy and Norah arrived the day before; a wagon -followed them loaded with presents, and at ten o’clock on the day of -trial the three went together to the shanty of Bonny Betty. The gate was -thrown open, and after they had all walked over the grounds and had seen -the neat order in which each garden was prepared for the winter, they -went to Daniel M’Leary’s shanty to look at his accounts. - -“I’m thinking,” said good natured Larry, “that the boys will get the -premium any how, and if neither Bonny Betty nor myself is to get it, why -the master, God bless his honour, could not do better than let the -children have it”—so he stood back, and in this happy frame of mind -waited the award of his industry. - -Mr. Price, assisted by several gentlemen of the village, examined each -man’s account as rendered in by himself every day, all fairly written -out by Jemmy Brady. The result was wonderful; these poor families had -not only a large mess of vegetables of the best kind for their tables -every Sunday, and from twelve to fifteen bushels of potatoes for their -winter use, but they had cleared—first, the boys in the corner -lot—twenty-one dollars each, making sixty-three dollars. This was after -paying Bonny Betty a per centage for selling the different vegetables -for them, and Betty was not extortionate; this yielded the boys about -four dollars a month, which with the money they earned at their -different employments enabled them to buy themselves two good suits of -clothes, pay their parents for their board, and put a few dollars in the -savings fund. But I ought to go on with the other gardens. - -Next to the three boys came David Conolly—he looked so much better in -health that Mr. Price did not recollect him—he produced his account; he -had cleared fifty dollars. “Well done, David,” said Mr. Price, “who -could have believed this?—what! fifty dollars, and such good looks! I -must shake hands with you—and your wife, which is she? let me wish her -joy too.” - -Poor Mrs. Conolly stepped forward with her handkerchief to her eyes, and -shook hands with Mr. Price, but her heart was too full to speak, though -Bonny Betty punched her in the side several times and whispered to her -to hold up a bit. - -David Conolly, so long despised as a drunken vagabond, had undergone -something of a change in his feelings too. He knew that, but for the -assistance of his good son, his garden would have been overrun with -weeds; and that, so often was he drunk, in the early part of the summer, -when every thing required so much care and attention, that if Patrick -had not turned in and helped, he would not have held up his head this -day. All this came full to his mind; and he was not slow in giving his -son this praise. Perhaps this was the most gratifying thing to Mr. Price -that had occurred. Here, by the little he had done, was a poor creature -restored to a moral sensibility, which had become almost extinct in his -bosom. Here, through his means, was a husband and a father restored to -the respect of his wife and child. “I am satisfied,” said Mr. Price, -inwardly, “and I humbly thank thee, oh, my God, for being the means of -saving this poor creature.” - -Next came Larry, hitching and twisting himself into all manner of -shapes—he had sixty dollars—for by good luck, as he said, his -cauliflowers was bigger nor David’s; and a man had given a great price -for them, to take to York; and he had planted squashes in among his -potatoes, so that they took up no more room; and his little datters had -helped him weed; “and so, your honour,” said he, “you see that David’s -not behind me, any how, seeing he has no little datters to weed for -him.” - -“Plase your honour,” said Bonny Betty, whose turn came next, “just pass -me by and let Jemmy Brady bring up; I’ll be better ready, being the -last.” - -“Why, I thought that Sammy Oram had the next lot to you,” said Mr. -Price, “has Jemmy changed?” - -“Yes, Sir,” said Jemmy, walking proudly up, with a decent smart dress -on; and, in his nervous anxiety to show himself to Mr. Price, he had his -hat on his head. His wife, however, twitched it off, and told him not to -forget where he was. “But he’s scared, like, your honour,” said Biddy, -dressed up as smart as her husband; “and I’ve brought you my little boy; -he’s a new comer, your honour, and if your honour would not be -affronted, we intend to call him Oliver Price.” - -Mr. Price patted the chubby little thing on the cheek, and thanked the -mother for the compliment, saying, that when his little namesake was old -enough, he should be sent to school. Jemmy, with hat now in hand, -brought his account—alas, poor Jemmy, his account showed only forty -dollars—but eight children! “No, don’t feel ashamed,” said Mr. Price. “I -have heard that you were often obliged to remain at home to nurse your -wife—but what’s the matter, Bonny Betty, why do you look so amazed?” - -“Why, sure, your honour, Jemmy’s fine clothes have crazed him. I kept -the money, and sure, Jemmy, there’s more; sure you had sixty dollars.” - -“Yes, you gave me sixty,” said honest Jemmy, “but can’t I write and -read, and isn’t all these bills made out by myself? and did I not set -down all the time I worked? and sure I am that forty dollars is all I -earned any how. There’s the twenty dollars, and they’re none of mine; -but to be shared wid my two little boys—shame on me for spaking of my -own first, and Bonny Betty’s little Ben, to say nothing of Petey and Ody -Oram, them two good little fellows. When I could not work, your honour, -they all fell to, and my little garding looked none the worse, I can -tell you.” - -Sammy Oram came next—he could not bear to work next to Betty, so good -natured Jemmy changed with him; and Sammy, after that, plucked up heart -a little, offered himself to Lizzy Conolly, got married, and really -improved wonderfully, for Lizzy was cheerful, and his children became -very fond of her. He had forty dollars likewise. - -“And now, your honour, here’s my earnings, your honour,” said Bonny -Betty, stepping forward with five healthy children at her side—poor -little Christie having died about two weeks before. “Here is my money,” -and she opened a little box, counting out one hundred and ten dollars, -all in silver. - -“I’m thankful” said Larry, “that she’ll get the premium, any how.” “No, -I’ve not earned all this money by my garden,” said honest Betty, “but by -selling for the rest—I had that chance over ye all. If I could rightly -tell how much I made by selling for you, you’d find I may be would be a -great deal behind you all.” - -“I see, my friends,” said Mr. Price, “that it is difficult to tell which -has made the most. I shall not give the premium to any one in -particular. You have all done well. David Conolly is, certainly, most to -be praised, because he has broken himself of an accursed vice.”—“I’ll -never drink a drop, your honour, from this hour,” said David—“The boys,” -continued Mr. Price—“but I dare not trust myself to speak of them—the -gentlemen present will take care that they shall always have the best -wages and the best places in their gift; they deserve it well; and, as I -thought they would behave exactly as they have done, I have brought them -each something suited to their present wants. As to you, Bonny -Betty—seeing that you are a woman, by rights I ought to distinguish you -beyond the others. You shall have your shanty and lot rent free; the -rest shall pay into the hands of Daniel M’Leary ten dollars each, for -the next year. I shall charge them nothing now. The gardens will be -better, as the raspberries and strawberries will be ready for sale; and -the year after, the asparagus will be large enough to cut. I shall then -build a small market-house, and place Mr. M’Leary at the head of it. -Make way there, Larry, and let the packages from the wagon be brought -in.” - -Mr. Price gave every one a parcel, containing a number of things -necessary to the coming winter; such as blankets, coarse cloth for the -children, stockings, and stuff for cloaks and coats—besides sewing -cotton, pins, tape, needles, scissors; and for the boys plenty of paper, -pencils, books and carpenter’s tools—the men could hardly stagger home -under their pleasant loads; and the women went trotting along by their -side, laughing and talking loud in the joy of their hearts. Mr. Price -did not stay for their thanks, which, after the Irish fashion, they were -pouring out feelingly and rapidly. All he heard, as he jumped in the -dearborn, with the gentleman who owned the land, was the end of Jemmy -Brady’s outpouring—“God bless him; if his son had lived, he’d, may be, -in time have been as good a man as himself.” Mr. Price was very much -affected; stopped with the intention of speaking to the man, but feeling -unable, he rode away. - -“Norah, dear,” said he, in the evening of this busy day,—“Norah, you -have done being afraid of me, have you not? You may remember how -unwilling you were to come near me when I first saw you.” - -“Yes,” said the little girl, “I was afraid of you then, but it was not -long. It was only something that Jemmy Brady said to me in the kitchen -that made me not like you at first; but I love you dearly now,” said -she, as she jumped on his lap and threw her arms around his neck. - -“I wanted you then to tell me what Jemmy said to make you fear me, but -you would not. You will tell me now, will you not?” and he pressed the -little creature fondly to his bosom. - -“Why, Jemmy said you were the image of my father; and that if he chose, -he could make my dear grandmother very unhappy; but that he would not -tell—he liked me too well to let any one separate me from him. So I was -afraid, and yet I did not know why you would take me from my dear -grandmother; for that was what I thought Jemmy meant.” - -Mr. Price sent her to call Jemmy. When questioned, he said he firmly -believed that Mr. Price’s son was Norah’s father; that he lived in the -neighbourhood, very near to Sally M’Curdy; that the young man, who -called himself White, fell in love with Ellinora M’Curdy, who was a -beautiful girl, but too virtuous to listen to any one excepting in the -way of marriage—that he finally did marry her, but under the name of -White. After a few months, he came to America, where he married again, -and this was the last they ever heard of him. Jemmy Brady went on to -observe that he came to this country about a year after Mrs. M’Curdy, -and heard from them that Mr. White had married again, and that they had -made up their minds never to molest him, fearing that the little girl -would be taken from them. He had seen the likeness between Mr. Price and -the young man who called himself White, and he said aloud—but not in the -hearing of Mrs. M’Curdy—that the likeness was very strong; but he did -not think, at the time, the little girl minded it. - -On further inquiry, and on recollecting what his son had said in his -last moments, owning that he had left a wife, and, he believed, a child, -in Ireland, Mr. Price had no doubt that little Norah was his grandchild. -A book, with a few lines in the title page, which Mrs. M’Curdy had -preserved, recognized as his own, given to his son before he sailed, -more fully proved it; but he could hardly be said to love the child more -after this disclosure. He immediately acknowledged her; and glad was he -that his unhappy son had left no children by this second marriage. Of -course, Mrs. M’Curdy returned no more to the shanty. She lived with Mr. -Price, and had but one regret—that her poor daughter had not lived to -share their happiness. Both she and Norah went yearly to visit the grave -under the old hemlock tree. - -Here was an unlooked-for reward for his kindness to a hapless family; -but as every man who does good is not to expect a grandchild to start up -in his walk, he must look to other sources for compensation. Mr. Price -had these likewise; for the shanty people never relapsed into idleness -and dirt; but continued to improve in their circumstances. At the end of -ten years, (and they passed quickly away,) every man was able to buy the -lot of ground on which he had so long wrought. The owner sold them at a -moderate price; but he more than made up for this small advance by the -greater prices obtained for the rest of the land which he owned in the -neighbourhood. - -In consequence of the success of this scheme other landholders adopted -the same wise policy, and the benefit to their property was immense. The -love of horticulture opened the way to better habits and tastes among -the poor of the district; and there was none so humble that had not a -garden spot of their own. The ladies’ societies fled from them for ever; -and the poor women blessed the day of their departure, for now they -could earn an honest living by their needle. - -During the ten years of which we speak, other changes had taken place, -greatly beneficial to the village. A pier had been built by a company -from New York, and steamboats now plied there daily. In compliment to -Mr. Price they intended to call the first one that was built for the -place, “Oliver Price,” but that gentleman declined the honour for the -present; he said, if they had no objection, he would give them a more -suitable name—“The Seven Shanties”—and that if they ever built another, -of which there was no doubt, he wished it might be called the “Bonny -Betty.” - -They did build another, and another; and at this moment there are no -less than five for the trade and pleasure of that place alone.—_The -Seven Shanties_—_The Bonny Betty_—_The Little Norah_—_The Henry -Barclay_, and the ——. - - - - - THE LITTLE COUPLE. - - -“I wish my dear Hassy,” said Mrs. Webb to her husband, “I do really wish -that we had a house of our own; I dislike to live at lodgings, it leaves -me so little to do. When my baby is dressed and your bureau is put in -order, I have nothing to do but to sew, no exercise at all; and as to -you, you read, read until you lose your colour and health. Now, if we -had a house to ourselves, you would have exercise enough in going to -market—(Heavens, Mr. Webb go to market!!)—and in one little odd notion -or other; and as to me, I should be as busy as a bee, and would scarcely -have time to sit down from morning till night.” - -“My dear Winny,” said her husband, “I detest this mode of life as much -as you can do, I am even more anxious to leave these lodgings than you -are—and—I have several times lately been going to mention the subject to -you. I have weighed it over and over in my own mind for a long time, and -if you have no _material_ objection—(Here Mr. Webb refrained from -looking at his wife)—I should prefer, when we do move, to live in the -country.” - -Now, this was precisely what Mrs. Webb disliked; she had for some time -been dreading that her husband would make a proposal of this kind, and -she had fortified herself well to meet it. She, too, as she thought, had -weighed the affair well, and all things being considered, her decision -was, that there was more real comfort for man, woman and child, in the -city than in the country. “When one comes to speak of horses, cows and -dogs,” said she one day to a friend, “why then the case is altered. -Keeping a horse at livery is an expensive thing, as Mr. Webb finds to -his cost, and milk from cows which are fed about a stable yard, is unfit -to drink. Dogs to be sure, nine cases in ten, are useless and worthless -animals, in any place; but they lead a life of misery in the city, -kicked and cuffed and half starved as they always are. If dogs must be -kept, the country is the best place for them too.” - -Mr. Ahasuerus Webb was a gentleman born and bred; the peculiar cast of -his mind led him to study theology, and but for his timidity, for he -distrusted his own powers, he would have destined himself to the church. -His friends, however, thought there was a much stronger objection to his -taking orders than what arose from timidity or the absence of powerful -talent. Mr. Webb was one of the most diminutive of men—almost a -dwarf.—But was there ever a small man who felt conscious that he was -unable to achieve actions which belonged exclusively to those possessing -superior stature and strength? - -Year after year, however, passed away in irresolution on his part in -choosing an occupation which might increase his income. He had no -employments but such as were the result of reading; and his friends at -length ceased to urge him to exertion, as there seemed every probability -that he would always remain single, having then attained his -twenty-eighth year. - -But Mr. Webb at last fell in love and married; and the lady that he -selected, independently of the obligation which his marriage vows laid -him under, of loving her with the greatest tenderness, was entitled to -his utmost sympathy from another cause—she was even of smaller stature -than himself. She suited him therefore, in every particular but two, -which at the time of courtship seemed no difference at all; but which, -now that they had been man and wife for two years, seemed likely to -result in a very uncomfortable state of things. Mrs. Webb hated books, -and she detested the thoughts of living in the country; on the contrary, -Mr. Webb was a great reader, and was passionately fond of the country, -and of rural occupations. - -“You are not very partial to the country, my dear Winny,” said he, -venturing to cast a look at his wife, whose tiny fingers were plying -like lightning over her work, while her cheeks were flushed with -agitation, “but if you will give up this small point.” - -“Small point, Mr. Webb, do you call _that_ a small point which is so -very disagreeable to me? Nay,” said she, laughing, “if it be such a -_small_ point, why contend about it; do _you_ concede this small point -to me, and when it comes to one that you consider of greater magnitude, -why—exert your prerogative my dear.” - -Mr. Webb looked grave and sighed; the little lady, although very fond of -her husband, was not disposed to yield, much as her husband’s sighs and -grave looks affected her. She continued to sew very fast, without -looking up for some time. At length, finding that his eyes were again -dropped on his book, and that he had resumed his tranquil manner, she -called his attention to the offer of a compromise. “Suppose my dear -Hassy, that we both give up a little? Do _you_ give up this small point -of living in the country, and I will live as frugally as I can in ever -so small a house in the city, that you may purchase books and keep the -horse—and—and—now my dear Hassy,” said she, drawing her chair nearer to -her husband and looking up to his face—“think of the very great point -lam going to give up for your small one—you shall have the naming of our -little girl!” - -This was indeed a temptation, for Mr. Webb was of a romantic turn of -mind, and considered a good name as a thing of vital importance. His own -name, Ahasuerus, had been a source of much mortification to him; and -that of his wife, Winifred, was equally inharmonious and distasteful. -But Mrs. Webb had no romance about her; she called her husband’s horse -_Mush_, because the animal happened one day to run his nose into a -dishful of that article; and a fine handsome little terrier she called -Scratch, although her husband had named the one Orelio and the other -Bevis. - -As to her own name, or that of her husband, she saw nothing disagreeable -in either of them; and could she have followed her own inclinations she -would have called her little girl Rachel. But, although thus indifferent -about names, which in general were thought old fashioned—such as -Margaret, Magdalen, Sarah and the like, yet she had an active dislike to -fanciful ones; Emily, Caroline and Matilda, had nothing notable or -thrifty in their character; they were novel names, and she hated novels. -Still less did she like those of Myrtilla, Flora, Narcissa; they -savoured too much of the country; she dreaded her husband’s tastes -either way. - -If romances were uppermost at the time, then the first mentioned names -would be present to his imagination; and if her child were so -unfortunate as to get one of them, it might be the means of fastening a -lackadaisical character on her for life; she would never be fit for any -rational employment. - -If, on the contrary, her husband had the country mania on him, then what -could she hope for but a Pastorella or a Daphne? What a milk and water -creature would this make of her child! For Mrs. Webb, too, in her way, -was of opinion that peculiar names gave a peculiar turn to character. In -either case, therefore, she was in a dilemma, and the baby, now three -months old, had no name. - -Mr. Webb laid down his book at this unlooked-for offer of a compromise, -and was about to enter into a discussion concerning it, when a servant -announced a visiter. An elderly gentleman entered, at whose appearance -Mrs. Webb started up in great dismay and confusion. She hastily, and in -much trepidation, introduced the stranger as her uncle, Mr. Banks, her -mother’s only brother. - -Mr. Banks, a rich planter, had just arrived from Jamaica, where his -principal estates lay. He had never seen Mr. Webb; and had now come to -pay his first visit. As Mrs. Webb was the only child of his only sister, -the old gentleman, in his way, had been very fond of her; yet, in spite -of this, and of his real goodness of heart, he could never see his niece -without laughing at her tiny little figure; and she was always called by -him, “the Little Fairy.” His only hope was, that she would either not -marry at all, or else choose a husband of ordinary size, that their -offspring might have a chance of looking as if they had not come from -fairy land. He had hardly got over the mirth of his niece’s marriage, -when he learned that her husband was as diminutive as herself; and his -impatience to see them together overcame his discretion. After making a -few purchases, as presents to the little couple, he posted immediately -to their lodgings. - -“And so Winny,” said the old gentleman, after he had kissed his niece, -and had shaken hands with her husband, (without looking at him though) -“so, this is your—husband, and you have a baby too, they say; where is -it? cannot I see it? what is its name? tell the servant to bring it in.” -He could hardly restrain his impatience, so much did he want to see the -child of this diminutive couple; and when the maid brought it in, -dressed in its very best; its little cap, with pink bows; its little -sleeves, looped up with pink ribands; and its pretty little frock, all -stiff with delicate needlework, he was in an ecstasy of delight. He -snatched the child from the maid, and holding it from him, at arm’s -length, he laughed so loud and long that the poor child screamed with -fright. - -He then drew the innocent, terrified little creature close to him to -take a nearer look; but no sooner had he examined its little features, -and had poised it in his arms, to ascertain its weight, than his -laughter was renewed with redoubled energy; and so little command had he -over himself, that if Mr. Webb, angrily enough, had not taken the child -from him, it must have fallen to the ground. - -There seemed no end to the old gentleman’s mirth, when Mrs. Webb, unable -to contain herself any longer, indignantly exclaimed—“Uncle Banks, I -wonder at your coming here to insult us in this manner! What can make -you act in this strange unnatural way? You have hurt my husband’s -feelings; which, I can tell you, is more painful to me than if you had -insulted me alone.” - -When the old gentleman could stop himself, he held out his arms as if he -still held the child—“Here, Winny,” said he, the tears of laughter -running down his cheeks—“here, take the baby; why don’t you take the -child, I say? I shall certainly let it fall.” - -“Uncle Banks, if you would only come to your senses, you would know -that”— - -“Hold your peace, Winny, and take the doll—the baby I mean.” - -“You know well enough, uncle, that Mr. Webb took the child from you and -left the room. I could see that he was exceedingly hurt at”— - -“What?” said the obdurate man—“what, did he actually take away the baby, -and I not miss it nor him either? Winny, I thought it was light, but I -did not dream it was so feathery that I could not tell whether I held it -or not—why I should have missed a down pincushion.” - -Mrs. Webb burst into tears. This sobered the old man at once. “My dear -Winny,” said he, going suddenly to her, and kissing her cheek, “how -foolish it is in you to mind what your old uncle says or does in his -fun. Come, deary, do not cry any more, but save your eyes to look at the -pretty things I have brought you. Here, girl,” calling to a servant, -“tell those men to bring in that trunk.” - -A large trunk was brought in, which he hastened to open; and it was not -in the nature of one so constituted as Mrs. Webb, to remain insensible -to the pleasure of examining such presents as her uncle had placed -before her. She forgot her vexation, and her eyes sparkled with delight -as the old gentleman, with much ostentatious parade, drew out each -valuable article. When he had, in this way, emptied the trunk, he asked -her if she had forgiven him for his laughter. - -“Indeed, uncle Banks,” said she, “I am so used to your humour, that if I -alone were concerned, I should not mind it; but Mr. Webb feels such -things keenly, for he has a great deal of sensibility. I am sure, -however, that he will be delighted with the books—how elegantly they are -bound—and he will be more than pleased with this beautiful tea set of -silver. What a great help this is to our housekeeping; and all these -spoons too, and silver forks—Mr. Webb has a great fondness for silver -plate. I must call him in to thank you.” - -“No don’t, Winny, don’t,” said her uncle, “I shall relapse, for I can -hardly help going at it fresh again when I think of his tiny, slender -little figure. Why don’t you send him in the country, to get a little -flesh on his little bones?” - -Mrs. Webb reddened, but a look at the presents, as they lay on the -floor, kept her from replying; and finding him tolerably grave, she -thought it better for her husband to get accustomed to the coarse ways -of her uncle at once. She, therefore, went to him to prepare the way for -a better understanding. Mr. Webb, however, felt no willingness to be -under obligations to so vulgar a mind; but seeing his wife’s distress, -in consequence of his refusal to go into the room, and having, likewise, -a point to gain with her, he at length resolved to bear with the folly -of the old man, without showing his sense of the indignity. - -It was some time before he made his appearance. Meantime Mrs. Webb had -been coaxing her uncle to behave with decency before her husband. “You -can but turn your back,” said she, “if you think you cannot refrain from -laughing; but if you knew how kind he is to me, and how much every body -respects him, you would not mind his size. You have no idea what an -excellent scholar he is. It is really cruel, my dear uncle, to make game -of what, by your mirth, you consider as a ludicrous affliction—a thing -which we neither of us have been instrumental in doing; and which we -would alter if we could. Do, dear sir, let him see what you really are—a -kind and affectionate man. I will give my husband a chair the moment he -comes in; he does not look so small when he sits.” - -This last unlucky observation undid all that her previous conversation -had effected; and when Mr. Webb entered, the old man was in a roar of -laughter; and only one glance at the unfortunate man, as he came into -the room, increased it to such a degree, that he fairly rolled over the -floor. - -In fact, a person of even more refinement, would have had his risible -faculties excited at the appearance which Mr. Webb made. Conscious of -his inferior size, and being now, for the first time, coarsely treated -in consequence of it, he had taken some pains to improve his figure. He -had on a long skirted coat and high heeled boots, with a hat of an -uncommonly high crown. His walk, as he entered, was constrained, and his -manner was formal. He was exceedingly provoked at the old gentleman’s -mirth; and nothing less than his wife’s distress could have induced him -to remain one moment in the room. But he _did_ stay, and he even helped -the silly old man to rise, who, through sheer weakness, was unable to -move from the floor. - -When he had, in some measure, composed his features, he beckoned to his -niece, who stood looking very angrily at him; and, as she came near, he -mustered up resolution enough to restrain himself so that he could -articulate. He whispered in her ear, in a sort of hoarse giggle—“My dear -Winny—take off his hat, and get between us, while you coax him to look -at the things on the floor—the boots I do not mind—make him sit, Winny, -will you?—and then I shall not see his coat.” - -Mrs. Webb could not, at length, help laughing herself; so she twitched -off the unfortunate hat, got a chair for her husband, and, after putting -a pile of books in his lap, she endeavoured to screen him from her -uncle’s view. In this way they all sat for a few minutes; the old -gentleman in a sort of convulsive titter, which he tried to disguise by -keeping a handkerchief close to his mouth. Mrs. Webb was then compelled -to leave the room on account of the poor little child, who could not -recover from its fright; but, as she was going out, she whispered to her -husband not to mind her uncle. “Laugh with him, my dear,” said she, “it -is the only way to stop him; but, above all, look at the beautiful -silver, and do not let his folly vex you. I will be back in a few -minutes.” - -Mr. Banks behaved much better after his niece left the room; and he even -trusted his voice in making an apology. By degrees, poor Mr. Webb was -appeased; and, in looking at his dress, he could not but acknowledge -that he cut an exceedingly grotesque figure. He was, therefore, soon -disposed to bear with the oddity of his relation; and, in fact, to join -in his mirth, when the old gentleman put on his high crowned hat, by -mistake, for his own. - -“Well, sir,” said he, “that hat, I must confess, is rather of the -tallest, and I can join you in your laugh. You may laugh at my slight, -small figure, and I will laugh at your robust one, and your red face, -for one is as fit a subject for mirth as the other.” - -“You are very much mistaken,” said the old gentleman, rousing himself -suddenly. “You can see nothing at all to laugh at in me; for I am made -like most people—and—besides—I allow no man to laugh at me. This reminds -me, Mr. Webb, of the golden rule—I beg your pardon for my mirth; but, -really, the hat and coat, to say nothing of the boots, were too much for -me. But, my little man—hem—Mr. Webb, I mean, why do you not go into the -country and gather a little colour and flesh? You would look more like -a—hem—you would look as well again. Little Winny and the -little—doll—baby—would be the better for country air too.” - -Mr. Webb, thoroughly good tempered, had long since smiled off his -chagrin, for he had a splendid edition of Shakspeare on his lap; and he -could not but think that the hint of the country might be of use to him. -He thought there was a possibility of drawing Mr. Banks over to his -scheme of living there; he, therefore, hastily explained his reasons for -being in town; and spoke of his regrets at not being able to live in the -country, both on his child’s account and his own. He finished by stating -his wife’s strong aversion to the plan, and of the impossibility of her -ever consenting to it. - -“What income have you, my little—hem—Mr. Webb, I mean.” - -“Why, sir, we have about six hundred dollars a year. Now I think that -sum, with my wife’s economy—and I have no expensive habits”— - -“No, I’ll be sworn that your clothes won’t cost you much—nay,” said he, -on seeing the colour fly into Mr. Webb’s face, “let me have my joke, and -I’ll make you amends. In the first place, I will manage your wife, so -that she shall come into your plans. Winny always liked to have her own -way; and, as I helped to spoil her, when young, it is but fair that I -should endeavour to set things a little square now. And, to repay you -for bearing so well with an old man’s humour—which, considering how -little there is of you—nay, my boy—Mr. Webb, I mean, don’t look so -angry; I was only going to observe, that I might as well give you, in my -lifetime, what I should certainly leave you at my death. I mean a little -estate I have, called Oak Valley. It is just the very thing for two such -little—I mean two such agreeable young people.” - -“I am much obliged to you for your kindness, sir, but it will be a -useless present; you forget your niece has a strong aversion to the -country.” - -“What, Winny? Have I not told you to let me manage her; hush, there she -comes. I hope she has left the little doll—baby I mean—behind; two I can -stand, now that I am used to it, but a third would set me going again. -Well, Winny, your husband is not so much vexed at my laughter as you -are. I think him a good, pleasant tempered little—fellow. In short, -Winny, I begin to like him, he bears a joke so well. Now, a joke to me -is a great thing; and I shall be tempted, now that I find you in the -city, to remain here a year or two, and pitch my tent near you. If you -lived in the country I should not be able to enjoy your society, as I -never go there. But here, in the city, I could see you very often; and I -know two or three old fellows like myself, who would often come with me -to pay you an evening visit. You will soon get used to my jokes, eh, Mr. -Webb. You will not mind my laughing, Winny, when it comes to be a daily -thing?” - -Mrs. Webb was struck dumb. What! to undergo the same torture daily? To -see her sensitive husband daily, hourly, exposed to such coarse insults -as he had been obliged to submit to during this day?—and before -strangers too, to be the butt of vulgar and unfeeling people?—It was too -much—nothing on earth could compensate for such an evil. She cast her -eye towards her husband, not doubting but that he was feeling precisely -as she did; but his back was towards her, and she could not learn how -this communication affected him. It would not do—that she knew at once; -she saw nothing but misery in having her uncle near them, and she -therefore determined to make an effort to prevent the threatened evil. - -“My dear uncle,” said she, with much embarrassment, for she knew that -her husband was likewise interested in what she was saying,—“you would -no doubt be very kind to us, if we lived together in the city, which, on -many accounts, I should prefer to the country; but just before you came -in Mr. Webb had been expressing a strong desire to go in the -country—and—and—you know you, yourself, recommended our going—you -advised me to it, you know.” - -“Yes, Winny, I told you that you had better send the little man—I mean -your little husband—in short, Winny, where is the use of your reddening -up to your temples every time I make a mistake? You must get used to it -if I live near you. I _must_ call your husband little, while I am near -him, and see that he is small. At my time of life people want indoor -amusement, and you three here, would be a great—no, a little help, to -wile away an hour or two in a rainy evening.” - -This settled the matter with poor Mrs. Webb; not for worlds would she -put herself in the way of such an evil; she therefore, with much -pretended humility, disclaimed all right to decide on the question of -living in the town or country; she said that, like a prudent wife, she -meant to give up her own wishes to please her husband—that she was -certain of its being better for him and the child to be in pure air, and -now all that she should ask for this full compliance with his wishes -was, that she should have the privilege of naming their little girl. - -“That is but fair, Winny,” said her uncle, “you have certainly the right -of naming little tiny as you choose. But stop—let me see—let _me_ give -the child a name; I will stand godfather to it, and, what is better, I -will act as a godfather should. I will settle a thousand dollars a year -on her, and will give _you_ a very pretty little farm—my Oak Valley -farm. Winny, you remember that farm.” - -“You _shall_ have the naming of our little girl—remember Oak Valley! -yes, indeed I do; I can safely trust her name to you—my dear husband, -you can have no objection; you will give your consent, I hope.” - -“Certainly,” said poor Mr. Webb, his mind misgiving him about the name, -as on looking at Mr. Banks, he saw his features announcing a new burst -of merriment—“I have no objection to a scripture name, and I would even -prefer Winnifred,”—casting a timid glance at the old humourist,—“to many -that I know.” - -“Well, you both consent then, and will not retract—give me your word of -honour to let me name the child as I like, in case I settle a thousand -dollars a year upon her.” Mrs. Webb eagerly gave her word, and her -husband, after again expressing his entire willingness, once more hinted -that a plain scripture name was quite as agreeable to him now, as any -other. - -“Well, then,” said Mr. Banks, “the thing is settled. I will now take my -leave and go to my lodgings. The deed for Oak Valley shall be made out -immediately, as shall the settlement on our little dolly—but, Winny,” -said he, casting a sly look at Mr. Webb—“you had better change your mind -and live in the city; your going so far off from me will drive me back -to Jamaica—what, you are determined? well, I must submit; but remember, -I must name dolly.” Saying this, he walked nimbly out of the house, -apparently unwilling to trust himself a minute longer in their sight. - -In the course of the next day the deeds were sent to them by which the -estate of Oak Valley was secured to them, as was likewise a settlement -of one thousand dollars a year, which sum was for the use of the parents -until the child came of age. There was a letter accompanying the papers, -saying that he would tell them his mind concerning the name of the -child, meantime he had sent them each a present, which he hoped would do -away all past offences. - -“Generous man,” said the enraptured Mrs. Webb, “I have no doubt but that -these two parcels, so carefully sealed, contain bank notes; here, my -dear, this one is directed to you—let him laugh, I only wish I may be -able to sleep this night under such a load of kindness. That farm of Oak -Valley, my dear, is a very excellent one—such pasturage, such fine -springs on it”—and while she was regaling herself with a recollection of -its many beauties and comforts, she was at the same time opening her -little packet, which was enveloped in fold after fold of paper, each one -carefully sealed. Mr. Webb was, however, in such a pleasing reverie, -that her words fell on his ear without his having any very distinct -notion of what she was saying, further than that they were harmonizing -with his feelings. As to his own packet, it remained untouched in his -hand. - -“And then there is such a pretty river, navigable too for small craft, -running at the very foot of the farm; you can take——what a curious -conceit this is of Uncle Banks, what trouble he has given himself and me -to, in enclosing this money, for such I have no doubt it is, in so many -covers; I am afraid to tear them loose at once, lest I may tear the -notes—my dear, why do you not begin to open yours? I am sorry my poor -uncle does not like the country, for all things considered we might bear -with his fooleries—there, thank goodness, I have opened the last pa”——. -But what was her chagrin on finding that it contained the old story -book, “There was a little woman, as I’ve heard tell.” - -Casting her quick eye towards her husband, she saw that his “eye was in -fine frenzy rolling,” and that he had been long past attending either to -her packet or his own; so, wishing to spare him the mortification which -she had just encountered, she gently took the unopened parcel from his -unresisting hand, and went quietly out of the room. She opened this -second parcel with much less ceremony than she did her own, cutting and -tearing through the numerous folds, and just as she expected, she saw a -book of the same size as the other, called, “There was a little man, and -he wooed a little maid.” - -Indignation was the first effect, as she threw the books across the -room, but surprise and pleasure soon succeeded, for as the books dashed -against the wall, sundry bank notes fell out and were scattered on the -floor. On examination she found that the eccentric humourist had placed -a one hundred dollar bank note between every two leaves of each book. - -“I know exactly, my dear Hassy,” said the now delighted wife, as she -rushed into the room, “I know what uncle Banks means by these handsome -presents—here is a thousand dollars for you and the same sum for me. -Your money is to purchase stock for the farm, and mine is to buy -furniture; was there ever any one so generous!—laugh? who cares for his -laughter and his odd ways, when he atones for them in such a handsome -manner as this? Here, my dear, put the money carefully away, while I -pick up these foolish bits of paper.” - -She raised herself from her stooping posture on hearing her husband -sigh. “What, upon earth, my dear Hassy, is the matter with you?” said -she, in great alarm, for she feared that this sudden accession of wealth -had disturbed his brain, particularly as her own was in a whirl. She -recollected, too, at the moment, that Mr. Webb had read some -observations of Dr. Burroughs on the subject of insanity, which went to -prove that there were more frequently cases of aberration of mind from a -rise to sudden prosperity, than from adversity. “What can ail you? -surely you are not one of those weak minded persons who cannot bear a -sudden turn of good fortune?” - -“My dear Winny,” said her husband, in the most rueful tone imaginable, -“I am not thinking in the least of the money, nor of the farm, but of -the probability of our child’s having a preposterous name.” - -Mrs. Webb fairly laughed aloud. “Is that all?” said she. “Why, my dear -Hassy, I would not care if she were called Nebuchadnezzar—provided she -were a boy—fret about a name! Why, cannot we make a pleasant -abbreviation of it in case it be an ugly one? But my uncle is an old -fashioned man, and I apprehend nothing worse than Jerusha, or Kezia, or -Margaret.” - -“I hope it may be so, Winny, but I fear that you are too sanguine; I -dread to hear the name—nothing can compensate me if the name be a -ridiculous one.” - -After breakfast the next morning a note was brought from Mr. Banks, -bidding them farewell, saying that urgent business called him -immediately to Jamaica. He said that he had dwelt with much anxiety on -the subject of selecting a suitable name for their baby, and after -discarding a number of them he had at length pitched on one that he -thought would suit all parties; that it was a little of the longest, to -be sure, but then this fault was made up in its dignity. The child, he -said, should be called Glumdalclitch. - -Any one would have pitied the poor little couple if they could have seen -the consternation which this billet produced. - -“I never will consent to this,” said Mr. Webb, as soon as his anger and -shame would allow him to speak—“never shall my child reproach me with -fastening such a ridiculous name upon her. I will write this instant to -your uncle and refuse to accept any of his gifts on such disgraceful -conditions. No, no, my dear Winny, we are—_I_, at least, am mark enough -for ridicule, but this is a thing which I have learned to bear, as it -has been our Creator’s will to make me as I am; but to name our child in -such fantastic fashion, would be indeed to invite both scorn and -laughter.” - -But prudent Mrs. Webb had cooled in proportion as her husband was -excited. She had felt a good deal mortified at first at the outlandish -name; but during the indignant burst of feeling of her husband, she -began to think that Glumdalclitch, although harsh and difficult to -pronounce, might have a short and pleasant abridgment, at any rate there -was no prohibition to a double name. - -Clearing up as this passed through her mind, she then turned to give her -husband what comfort she could; for little refinement as she had in -general, she still could comprehend the morbid sensibilities of those -she loved. How few men there are who know how to appreciate the sympathy -of a prudent, tender wife! Mr. Webb understood the excellence of the -woman who now stood with affectionate earnestness before him, and before -she had talked the matter over the _third_ time—in her vague yet -decisive way—he had recovered his equanimity. Happy to perceive that he -had resumed his quiet manner again, Mrs. Webb continued, - -“One thousand dollars a year may easily compensate for an ugly name; and -even if we do not choose to give the child a middle name, which is -optional with us, she will not have to be called by her Christian name -long; for after a girl is in her teens, she gets the title of her -surname. She will be called Miss Webb, you know. Perhaps, after all, my -dear, this name which is so disagreeable to us, may not be thought ugly -by some people.” - -“Ugly,” said her husband, “do you know what this name means?—but no—I -heard you say the other day that you had never read Gulliver’s Travels, -my dear Winny,” blushing deeply as he said it—“Glumdalclitch is the name -of a giantess!” - -“Well, this comes of so much reading; I bless my want of taste that way; -it is enough to make one forswear books; never reproach me again for my -indifference towards them. I am sure I wish Mr. Gulliver had staid at -home, if he could have communicated nothing better than such a hideous -name. But where is the use of fretting? since it is so, we must make the -best of it, and then you know we need not call the name out in full; you -never call me Winnifred, nor do I call you Ahasuerus. Let us shorten the -name to Glummy—no? Well, how would Clitchy sound—you don’t like that. -Let us shorten it to Dally, that I know will please you, for it is the -name of a flower.” - -“How often Winny,” said her fretted husband, “have I told you that the -flower is called Dahlia;” suspending for a moment his right to feel -indignant and irritable, to do justice to the pronunciation of the name -of a flower. - -“Dahlia is it? well, that is the way an Irishman would call Delia. Let -us call her Delia then, it is a pretty pastoral name;” and as she said -this, she cast a side glance at her husband. - -After this, and other conversations of the kind, they agreed to give the -child this uncouth name, for the charm of living in the country was -hourly growing more captivating to Mr. Webb, and Mrs. Webb had a great -reverence for a thousand dollars a year. Besides, the misery of living -where they would daily be subject to the coarse mirth of her uncle, when -he made his regular visits to the city, which he had until of late -years, been always in the habit of doing, was becoming more and more -apparent. She even with more alacrity than one could expect, set about -making preparations for her departure to Oak Valley. - -“This is all very hard upon you, my dear wife,” said Mr. Webb to her one -day when he saw how cheerfully she was preparing for their removal; -“this is worse for you than for me. With the _one_ part, at least, I am -more than gratified, whereas your feelings and taste have not been -consulted at all. You have neither the satisfaction of living where you -like best, nor the pleasure of having a decent name for your child.” - -“But I have the pleasure of knowing that my little girl will have a -handsome independence—and do you think, my dear Hassy, that it is no -gratification to me to see that our going to the country is an event of -great importance to your health and happiness?” - -“My dearest Winny,” said her tender-hearted, conscience-stricken -husband, “I do not deserve this goodness. I cannot enjoy the thought of -going into the country, unless I tell you how it has been brought about. -You were manœuvred into this scheme, my dear wife; and I here declare, -that much as I wish to leave the city, you shall yet remain if you wish -it. Your uncle had no intention of living near us, if we remained here; -he was eager to get us all into the country, on the score of our health, -and he made use of this stratagem to induce you to consent to it. Now -that I have told you the truth, pray do as you like best; but with -respect to the settlement on our child, much as I dislike the name, I -fear she would not thank us if we gave that up for a thing of such -little consequence. Giving up the farm,” continued he, sighing deeply, -“is another affair.” - -“Yes,” said his wife laughing, “I see it is, and it would be a worse -affair if you knew what a sweet spot Oak Valley is; but here is this -money, this two thousand dollars—would you think it right to return this -too,—my part of it I need not return, for I am persuaded it was to -purchase furniture, which will suit me either for a town or a country -house. Your’s was no doubt, for purchasing stock for the farm; if we -live in the city we can have no pretence for keeping that part of it.” - -But Mr. Webb did not like this view of the business at all, and he was -besides getting quite uneasy, notwithstanding his late compunctious -feelings, lest his wife should take him at his word, and remain where -she was. - -Strange perplexities for these little people, but money always brings as -much pain as pleasure. Mrs. Webb had, however, accommodated herself -wonderfully to circumstances; she generally looked on the sunny side of -a question, and she had, by working it over in her mind early and late, -viewing it in every possible shape, fairly brought herself to think, -that all things considered (this was a favourite expression of hers) -farm, income, money and health, and, though last not least, the pleasure -of obliging her husband; and if it must be told, the _hold_ she would -have on him for this double disappointment of hers—the plan of living in -the country would be the very best thing for them all. - -The spring opened delightfully, and the farm was to be ready for them in -a few days; but Mr. Webb, wishing to make the removal as pleasant as -possible, could not bear to let his wife go until every thing was -tolerably well arranged in their new house. He proposed, therefore, that -she and the child should go to see a relation of his who had never yet -seen her, and who had several times given her pressing invitations to -pay her a visit. The rooms they occupied at present had been let, and -new boarders were to take possession of them immediately. - -But Mrs. Webb strongly objected to this plan—“My dear Hassy,” said she, -“no fear of my fatiguing myself or of taking cold. I shall remain -quietly in my room until the carpets are down and the furniture -unpacked. You will never catch me paying a visit to a near relation in -the spring of the year, unless there be other guests there at the same -time; I have seen too much of that.” - -“But why,” said Mr. Webb, “why in the spring of the year more than in -any other season?” - -“Because, then you are treated most scandalously. In the first place, -they begin with—a constrained smile on their face all the while—I am -very sorry that you have come just at this time, not sorry on our -account, but on your own; we are pulling every thing to pieces to -commence house cleaning. Our best bed-room, which you ought to have, is -all upside down; you will have to take the third story—and such a room, -my dear Hassy—you can have no idea of it; I shudder when I think of -exposing my baby to it. Perhaps it has been a nursery or neglected -school room; spots of ink and grease cover the floor, great black knots -show themselves, and the unseasoned boards gape wide. Three odd chairs, -a half circular wooden toilet table without a cover, and a slim-posted, -ricketty bedstead, with a feather bed scantily filled, and which still -more scantily covers the bedstead—happy if it have a sacking instead of -a rope bottom—coarse patched sheets, darned pillow cases, an old -heirloom blue chequered counterpane, a broken wash basin on a little -foot-square tottering table, and a blurred looking glass, complete the -furniture of this cold north room. I shall say nothing of ‘the hearth -unconscious of a fire,’ nor of the long deep cracks in the coarse -whitewashed walls, nor of the rattling of the window sashes.” - -“What a picture you have drawn, Winny! you speak very feelingly; have -you ever been compelled to sleep in such a room? But what sort of fare -do you receive under such circumstances?” - -“Oh, the worst in the world; when it is meal time, then you hear this, -or something like it: ‘How unfortunate to come at this unpropitious -season? it is so uncomfortable for you; no vegetables, but old potatoes; -no salad yet; all our hams gone; nothing but shoulders; and the hens are -so backward this spring.’—No, no, my dear Hassy, unless there be -visiters of some consequence in the house, never go near a relation in -the spring of the year; I mean, if they live in the country. There is no -exertion made to gratify your taste or your palate; a more forlorn state -of things cannot be imagined. Now in June, or July, you may, on the -score of your being a near relation, which is always a justifiable -excuse, be ushered up in that comfortless north room; but then coolness -and shade is not unpleasant—there are strawberries and blackberries, in -their season, along the hedges and meadows, if none are to be had in the -garden—then there are fresh milch cows, and the hens cannot help laying -if they would—new potatoes come in plenty, and dock and pigweed grow -without culture. I would rather have them than spinach at any time; -buttermilk too can be had for asking; and you can rove about uncared for -and unheeded, which I can tell you is as great a luxury when you are in -the country, as to eat fresh eggs and breathe fresh air.” - -Mr. Webb was exceedingly amused with this description, and as his wife -did not seem to consider it an evil to go to an unaired house, he did -not think it prudent to make her think it one. Her pliant, -well-regulated mind soon enabled her to overcome her dislike to country -occupations; and even to exult in her achievement in the way of making -butter and cheese, and she soon excelled in raising poultry—three things -which formerly belonged to female management alone. Now, however, in -these wonder-working days, so ravenous are men for monopolies and for -experimentalizing, that they have encroached on privileges, which even -the old taskmasters of the female sex unreluctantly yielded to them. - -Mrs. Webb, although of slender figure, and small in size, had a mind as -active and as comprehensive, a temper as irritable, and was as bold an -asserter of her own rights, as the stoutest of her sex. She soon -regulated her household in a quiet, economical way, and had none but -female servants within doors; detesting, as well she might, the -appearance of a stale, heavy-looking, half-dirty man about the room, -doing woman’s work, when he should be out of doors with a spade or a -hoe. - -What a bower did the happy Mr. Webb make of Oak Valley! Such a profusion -of sweet-scented shrubs and flowers had never before been seen in the -neighbourhood. Fruit trees soon made their appearance; and their crops -of grain and grass were abundant and good. But what his wife most -admired was, the regular supply of wood which he provided for the -house—nicely cut and piled; a thing generally less attended to, and the -cause of more vexatious disputes between the farmer and his wife than -any other part of their arrangements. All things, therefore, considered, -which Mrs. Webb was still in the habit of saying, “it really was -preferable to live on such a pleasant, well regulated farm than in a -narrow street or at lodgings.” - -Then there was so much speculation about the right breed of cows and -poultry. Mr. Webb first inclined to long-horns, then to short-horns; but -Mrs. Webb cut the matter short by declaring for no horns; and to this -day they have from ten to fifteen of these meek, subdued animals, so fat -that they could not do much in the way of running from a cross cur if -any such should attack them. - -She had her own way, too, with the poultry. She soon banished the -coarse, long-legged Buck’s county fowls, with their uncouth looking -bodies. She said their tread was almost as heavy as a young colt’s; and, -really, when she pointed to a dozen of them which were _picking_ their -way over a strawberry bed, her husband submitted in silence to the order -given to the farmer, to prepare them for market. “And, David,” said Mrs. -Webb, after the man had chased the fowls from the garden, “see what -prospect there is of selling off our stock of Bantoms. It takes twenty -of their eggs to make a pudding, and they lay no more eggs a day than -other hens—and, David, when you return from Wicklowe, cross over to -neighbour Haywood’s, and see what he will take for two or three pair of -those old fashioned kind of hens—those full, broad breasted, pale -speckled ones; sometimes a dingy yellow and sometimes brown and gray, -with large spreading tails. Those are the only kind. But above all, -David, see that they have _flesh coloured_ legs; they fatten well; those -with yellow or black legs are not worth raising—strange that people are -so inattentive to such important matters.” - -Sixteen years passed away, and time, as the little lady said, seemed to -fly with them; every thing prospered. Mr. Banks, to their great -surprise, never came near them. He contented himself with sending them a -yearly present; and heard of the birth of each succeeding child with a -fresh burst of merriment. Their children, all girls, were six in number; -and their income was now about three thousand dollars a year. - -Mr. Webb, in the most peaceable, unaccountable manner, had been allowed -the pleasure of naming four of his children. Perhaps—for woman’s -tenderness _will_ sometimes increase—perhaps she felt for his first -disappointment; and, as it rose out of the caprice of a relative of her -own, she determined on remaining quiet, only resolving to interfere if -an outrageously romantic name presented itself to his imagination. - -The first child literally had no name until the birth of the second; -then, as the “child,” or the “baby” could no longer distinguish it, they -took it to the font and had it christened. The clergyman, old Mr. -Saxeweld, was then a stranger to them, for through very shame they would -not apply to their own pastor. He did not rightly understand what Mr. -Webb said, when he demanded the name of the child, for he never, for a -moment, dreamed of Gulliver. He asked over and over again, and still the -sound of Glumdalclitch came to his ear. “Is it a French name?” said he, -looking angrily at Mrs. Webb, who, nothing disconcerted by all this -hubbub about the name, was enjoying the triumph which she should have -over her husband when she got home, in telling him that there was one -other person in the world beside herself who had not read Gulliver’s -Travels. - -Mr. Webb was ready to sink in the earth; he felt that he could at that -moment renounce the world and all its vanities, as well as the child’s -income, which had caused all this disgrace. - -“I presume,” said Mr. Saxeweld, willing to put an end to the scene, “I -presume it is a French name. Colombe—what?” But Mr. Webb was past -appeal; he felt a hollow ringing in his ears; and, in time to save him -from fainting, the child was christened Colombe. - -The clergyman, a testy old man, was so provoked at what he thought -stupidity in the father of the child, that he felt disposed to rebuke -him; and when poor Mr. Webb turned to him, as he was leaving the church, -to offer him the accustomed fee, he not only refused it, but broke out -in this way—“Never come to _me_ again; you, with a name bigger than your -whole body; and which is too long for your mouth to utter. If it had not -been for my knowledge of French, I should have christened your child -Glumdalclitch, and it would have been serving you right if I had.” - -After Colombe came Flora, then Rosa, then Imogen, then Christabelle; -and, when the sixth was old enough for baptism, while Mr. Webb was -deciding between Diana and Lilius, Mrs. Webb went to church during a -week-day service, with a friend, and came home in triumph, with the only -Christian name, as she said, in the family—it was Rebecca. Mr. Webb -thanked his stars that it was no worse. - -Old Mr. Banks made no other remarks, when he heard of the mistake in the -child’s name, than that the income should now be divided between the -children, as at the time he did not imagine that the little girl would -ever have any rivals. When the little Rebecca was about two years old, -the old gentleman took it into his head to pay the tiny family a visit, -to see how they all looked together. - -Early, one fine spring morning, he made his appearance at Oak Valley, -accompanied by Stephen Haywood, with whose father he had long been -acquainted. While on the way to the farm, he entertained our young -friend Stephen with an account of his first interview with the little -couple and their tiny little child. “How I shall stand it now,” said he, -“I cannot tell; but I am sixteen years older, and a man of eighty has -nearly expended all his laughter. It is high time, I think.” - -Young Haywood, who, although not introduced to the family at that time, -yet knew them well, from report, could not help smiling; but the old -gentleman’s attention was soon directed to the neatness and order of the -farm; and, when Stephen asked him if he had an idea that the children -were all as small as their parents, he could scarcely answer. - -“Assuredly they are; why, if any one of the six had been but an inch -taller than themselves, they would have sent an express to me at -Jamaica.” - -A servant came to the door, and Mr. Banks asked eagerly, if Mr. and Mrs. -Webb and the six little children were at home. The girl stared, but -replied that Mr. and Mrs. Webb, and some of the children, were in the -garden, and some of the younger ones were in the nursery; but that Miss -Webb, the eldest daughter, was in the parlour. “Show me in, show me in,” -said he; and into the room he nimbly stepped, winking aside to young -Haywood, to express his glee. He seemed quite disappointed at seeing -only a middle sized young lady sitting there. She arose on the old -gentleman’s precipitate entrance, while he exclaimed, “I thought to find -one of Mr. Webb’s tiny little children here.” - -“I am Mr. Webb’s eldest daughter,” said the young lady, blushing, “my -parents will be in presently—will you sit down?” and she presented each -gentleman with a chair. - -Never was man more amazed—this young lady his little niece’s -daughter?—he certainly saw a likeness; but it was altogether a puzzle. -At length he roused himself to say, “Why did not your mother write me -word that they had a child as tall as you are? What is your name? Oh,—I -remember—Colombe. It is a foolish name enough; but it might have been -worse. Never mind, my dear, I will make you amends for your French name; -better though than—but no matter; let me introduce you to Mr. Stephen -Haywood.” - -Just then the door opened, and his niece, with her husband, and the five -children, made their appearance. But if Mr. Banks was amazed at seeing -the respectable height of the eldest daughter, how much more so was he -when he saw that there was not one of the diminutive stature of the -parents. Even the youngest, a rosy little girl, just beginning to walk, -bade fair to be as tall as her sisters. - -Mrs. Webb enjoyed her uncle’s amazement; not without suspicion, however, -that he was disappointed at bottom, because there were no dwarfs among -them. But in a short time, the old gentleman’s good-natured eye -glistened at the pictures of health, order and obedience of the -children, and at the improved looks of the parents. He did not laugh -once during his visit, which was of a week’s duration; and when he left -them, he had the satisfaction of seeing that Stephen Haywood was -following his advice; which was, to fall in love with his pretty pigeon -as fast as possible. - - - - - THE BAKER’S DOZEN. - - -“Mrs. Bangs, look here,” said the cook, “look at this queer thing in the -turkey’s craw; it looks for all the world like a brickbat.” - -“O never mind the brickbat,” said Mrs. Bangs, “let that alone; ‘tis no -concern of ours—only make haste and prepare the turkey for the spit. -Your head is always running after things that don’t concern you.” - -Thus spoke Mrs. Bangs, the mother of thirteen children, all girls. She -was a strong, healthy woman of fifty years of age, and in the three -characters of daughter, wife and mother, had been exemplary. She was the -only child of a respectable farmer, and at her parent’s death inherited -the farm which a few years after her marriage rose greatly in value. It -was on the outskirts of a populous city which had increased so rapidly -that at the birth of her second child the farm was laid out in streets, -in every one of which they had sold several lots for buildings. - -Her husband was a chemist, and his laboratory was very near this -valuable property, so that he could attend to his business in the -manufactory and look after the workmen who were building his houses. -What Mr. Bangs learned during his apprenticeship, that he knew well, and -on that stock of knowledge he operated all his life. He manufactured the -best aqua ammonia in the country, free from that empyreumatic, old -tobacco-pipe taste and smell, which it has in general when made in -America, and his salt of tartar had not an opaque grain in it. Thus it -was with all the drugs that he made, for he was more intent upon keeping -up his good name than in making money speedily, and his pride was in -having it said that Christopher Bangs’s word was as good as his bond. -Further than this there was but little to be said, excepting that he was -a disappointed man, and had the feeling of being ill used. - -This disappointment consisted in not having a son—one, he said, who -could take up the business when he laid it down—one to whom he could -confide the few secrets of his trade. - -When the birth of the first girl was announced, it was very well; not -that he did not fret in secret, but he took it as a thing of course, and -as he was daily in the habit of hearing Mrs. Bangs congratulate herself -that the child was a girl, because she could assist her in her household -cares, he was resigned to it, although it was full three months before -his club mates were told of his having an increase of family. But he -really did murmur when the second girl came. “Why, at this rate,” said -he, indignantly, “I cannot have a child named after me at all. -Christopher Bangs will end with me, and who is to be the better of all -the valuable secrets of the laboratory?” - -“Oh, la! my dear,” said his wife, “let that alone, it’s no concern of -ours, and as to the child’s name, don’t fret about that, for can’t I -name this dear chubby little thing Christina, the short of which is -Kitty, and that is as good as Kit any day in the year; and only think -what a help this dear, chubby little thing will be to her sister.” - -Mr. Bangs sulked out of the room and went to his laboratory, and his -wife went through her nursing and household duties with double alacrity. -The third daughter came, and Mr. Bangs heard it with surprise that -bordered on despair. “Never mind it, Kit,” said the contented, -good-tempered Mrs. Bangs; “we’ll call this dear, chubby, little thing -after your old uncle Joseph; Josephine is a very pretty name.” - -“I don’t care what you call it,” said her crusty husband; “I consider -myself as an ill used, injured man; only I hope, since you like girls so -well, that you may have a round dozen of them.” - -“Oh la! husband, what makes you so spiteful against girls?” said -she—“but let that alone, it is no concern of ours—a dozen, indeed! how -do you think we can manage to live in this small house with so large a -family? You must build a bigger house, man; so, my dear Kit, set about -it,”—and this was all the concern it gave her. - -After that he troubled himself no more with inquiries about the sex of -the child, and in due time, one after the other, the round dozen came. -The only thing that troubled the contented, busy woman was the naming of -the little girls. She certainly, when she could spare her thoughts from -her increased cares, would have liked a boy now and then, to please her -husband; but as this was not to be, she did the next best thing to -it—she gave them all boys’ names. So, after the first, which was called -Robina, came Christina, then Josephine, then Phillippa, Augusta, -Johanna, Gabriella, Georgiana, and Wilhelmina. At the birth of her tenth -child she paused—her father’s name was Jacob, and as she had named -Gabriella after her husband’s father, Gabriel, she thought it but fair -to honour her own likewise—but Jacob! However, she was not a woman to -stop at trifles, even if she had the time; so the _poor_, little, chubby -thing—for now she added _poor_ to the chubby—the poor, chubby, little -thing was called Jacobina. Then in due time came the eleventh, which was -Frederica—the twelfth, Benjamina—“and now,” said the still happy Mrs. -Bangs, “what to call my baker’s dozen is more than I can tell. I have -one more than Christopher wished me to have, but let that alone; ‘tis no -concern of ours; only Robina, dear, step to the parlour and tell your -father what a strait I am in about the name. There is his friend, Floss; -he has a curly headed, chubby little boy by the name of Francis, and it -is a girl’s name too; ask him if he would like to name the poor, dear, -chubby, little thing after his friend’s son.” - -“Tell your mother—are you Phillippy?” “No, father, I am Robina.” “You -are all so much alike,” said he, “that I don’t know you apart; girls all -look alike; now if one of you had been a boy, as any reasonable man had -a right to expect, I could have told the difference. It is a hard thing -that a man cannot tell one child from another, a thing that I could have -done if they had been boys.” - -“But mother knows us all apart,” said Robina, “and so do Hannah French -and our dear grandfather and grandmother Bangs—they never are in doubt.” - -“Don’t tell me this,” said surly Mr. Bangs, “for have I not heard your -mother call you the one half of four or five names before she could hit -on the right one? Does she not call out ‘Phil—Will—Fred—Jo—Ben—Robina, -fetch me the poor, dear, chubby, little thing out of the cradle?’ Tell -her that Fabius Floss won’t think it any compliment to name a girl after -his fine little boy, and tell her that I am not going to stand godfather -to any more of her children, for I am tired of it.” - -“But the name, father—shall mother call it Frances?” - -“She may call it _Souse_ if she likes; what is the name of a girl to me? -it is all one, so go away, Robina, for I am busy.” - -Christopher Bangs was now a rich man, and was cautious and prudent in -all his money matters, but he had no more care of his children and -household than if he were the great-grandfather. He arose early, went to -the workshop, saw that every thing went right there, returned home at -eight, with the certainty of finding the breakfast waiting for him. At -this meal he only saw some of the eldest of the girls, but being a man -of few words, and looking on women and girls as mere workers, and of a -different race, he had no thoughts in common with them. The -conversation, therefore, was all on the part of Mrs. Bangs, who told of -the price of beef and poultry, and what her husband might expect at -dinner. He nodded his head drily, but said nothing, being sure that, -come what would, he should find an excellent meal. He gave her as much -money as she wanted, a privilege which she never abused, and all he had -to do was to build a new house whenever she presented him with another -poor, chubby, little thing; for she had resolved that every child should -have a house. - -Exactly at one o’clock his dinner was ready, and at this meal all the -children were assembled—for, as his wife observed, if he did not see -them all together once a day, he might chance to forget some of them; -so, in time, Frances, the baker’s dozen, came to sit on Mrs. Bangs’s -lap. Every day he made the same remark on entering the dining room, the -children all being seated before he entered, that the bustle of placing -them might be over before he came—“What! here you all are, all waiting I -see; well, keep quiet and help one another; don’t expect me to do more -than carve.” - -Mrs. Bangs had drilled the children well, for a more orderly, peaceable -set were never seen. Her chief aim was to keep them from troubling their -father. “Poor man,” she would say, “he must not be plagued with noise, -for what with the business of the laboratory and building new houses, -his hands are full—but let that alone, ‘tis no concern of ours.” - -She never thought of her own full hands; for she was of a nature that -delighted in work, and in doing things regularly and methodically, and -all the girls were like her. Busy, busy, busy, they all were from -morning till night, and most happily busy. It was making, and mending, -and razeeing, and cooking, and preserving, and housekeeping, and -shopping, and keeping accounts. Was not this quite enough to occupy -them? - -Mr. Bangs built houses and Mrs. Bangs looked to the tenants and -collected the rents. The only thing she knew, out of the routine of her -family duties, was the various ways of disposing of money, and before -she was the mother of three children she made herself fully acquainted -with the meaning of the terms _dividends_, _stock_, _per centage_, -_mortgages_ and _notes of hand_. She put the money in the bank as fast -as she received it, and Mr. Bangs drew checks to any amount she -chose—well he might. - -Mrs. Bangs thought it more suitable and economical to have a governess -for her daughters, so she hired a decent young person, who was an -excellent needle woman, and who could write and cipher admirably. -Reading and spelling, Mrs. Bangs said, seemed to come “by nature” with -the poor, dear, chubby, little things; how else could they learn, for -poor Hannah French was as deaf as a post. So eternally busy were they -all from morning till ten at night, that Robina, a pretty, delicate -girl, with a good understanding, and very excitable, had never found -time to cultivate the acquaintance of any of the young girls of her own -age, although in the abstract there was no unwillingness to it. Neither -her father nor mother would have hindered her, but sisters and -companions came so fast at home, and that home was made so happy by her -active, well-principled mother, that there was no craving for out-door -society. - -Mrs. Bangs was a pious and benevolent woman too, and after going through -all her home duties she thought of the poor, and three days she set -apart in every month to sew for them. All the children, down to the -baker’s dozen, felt this as part of their duty, and they no more thought -it possible to break through the rule than not to eat when they were -hungry. It was a _want_ which they sought to attain like any other want -or comfort. - -Mrs. Bangs never staid to inquire whether the poor wretches were worthy -of her attentions—“Let that alone,” she would say, “‘tis no concern of -ours.” She reverently left it to a higher power to judge of their -worthiness. All she had to do was to feed the hungry and clothe the -naked, choosing old age and infancy whenever she could, for the objects -of her bounty. The children thus brought up, I should like to know,—as -they did their own clear-starching, knitted stockings for their father, -grandfather, and three aged uncles, made their own linen and worked all -the baby caps, as well as sewed for the poor—I should like to know what -time they had to gossip or make acquaintances, excepting with the poor? - -They _had_ no time—even on Sunday their faces were not familiar to the -congregation, for a cottage bonnet and a veil kept them from gazing -about; so the conversation, when they returned, was not about the dress -or spiteful looks of this person or that. If by accident an observation -was made, indiscreetly, the mother would stop them immediately by her -eternal saying—“Let that alone, ‘tis no concern of ours.” - -She kept her accounts in excellent order, initiating her children early -in the mysteries of bank stock operations; for when it came to be -explained to them in the mother’s simple way, the children understood it -as well as A, B, C. It is the hard words, and the mystification, and -solemn nonsense kept up about it that keeps women so ignorant and -helpless in these matters, and makes them so entirely dependent on men, -who nineteen times out of twenty cheat them when they become widows. - -As their wealth increased, so were her benevolent feelings excited, and -Mr. Bangs was no hinderance, for he had no love of hoarding now that -there were no boys to inherit his property. “Never mind that, -Christopher,” she would say, when this sore subject was touched upon, -“let that alone, ‘tis no concern of ours; but I am of opinion that every -man should make a will, and here is one that I drew up, which I wish you -to sign.” “I’ll tell you what it is, Molly Bangs,” said he, on reading -the will, “I’ll do none of this. I’ve made my will already, and if you -outlive me then all belongs to you; but if you die first, then I mean to -marry again, because the chance is that I may have sons; for I tell you -that such secrets as I have to disclose about my business ought not to -die with a man.” - -Mrs. Bangs knew her husband’s obstinacy too well to make further words -about the matter, so she set herself to work to remedy the evil. Instead -of wanting to build a hospital or an asylum for the poor and destitute, -she built a row of houses in one of the back streets of her valuable lot -of ground, for poor widows with young children, and she studied their -comfort in every thing. Each division, for the row was uniform and -fire-proof, consisted of four rooms, two below, and two above. The -sitting room and bed-rooms were warmed by means of heated air from a -furnace in the kitchen, which was so constructed that the cooking was -done at the same fire. Even the stove pipe which was carried up to let -off the gas and smoke, threw all the external heat into the room above, -so that all was kept warm by one fire. The cistern of rain water was -close to the kitchen, and the water was drawn within by means of Hale’s -rotary pump. Drinking-water was likewise introduced by a pipe, and a -drain carried off all the slops from the house. She could not bear to -think that poor women should have to put up with so many inconveniences, -when it cost so little to make them comfortable. - -When a very rich man has a few lots in an out of the way place, he -builds a row of houses for poor people and gets a good rent for -them—enjoining it on his agent not to let a poor widow have any one of -them; because, if she should be unable to pay her rent, he would be -ashamed to sell her little furniture. His houses are miserably built, -generally one brick thick, and with only one coat of plaster on the -walls; no crane in the kitchen, no cistern, no well, no comfort of any -kind. The poor tenants might think themselves well off with having the -shell to cover them. - -Mrs. Bangs knew that the life to come was a long one—to last for ever; -so she thought it was not worth while to hoard up money for the very -short time she had to live here. She had a great love of comfort -herself, and so had all her children; and they could not bear to set a -poor widow in an empty house, without even a closet to put her clothes -in. So she had closets made between the two bed rooms, and likewise -between the parlour and kitchen. And she gave them a chance of helping -themselves still further by having a good deep, dry cellar, where they -could keep their half barrel of fish, and their little joints of meat, -and small pots of butter from the heats of summer, and their vegetables -from the frosts of winter, and why coal and wood should be kept out of -doors in winter was more than she could tell. It was easy to build a -cellar, she thought, and so the cellars were made. “It seems to me,” she -continued to say, “that men have no idea of comfort themselves, or they -would not grudge it to their poor tenants; women understand these -matters better, and as God has endowed them with greater sensibilities -than the other sex, why it is incumbent on them to show their grateful -sense of this partiality in their favour; and how can we show it but by -attending to those little things which make up, by their great number, -all the happiness of life? Men never view the subject in this light, but -let that alone, ‘tis no concern of ours.” - -The thirty houses, with the plainest furniture that could be bought, -cost exactly thirty thousand dollars—the precise sum she intended to -appropriate to them. Fuel and repairs and taxes cost her twelve hundred -a year; this with the interest on the thirty thousand, came to three -thousand dollars a year. With an income of more than thirty thousand, -and the prospect of a great rise in the value of her lots of ground, -what was the annual loss of three thousand dollars? - -As it was solely for poor widows that this charity was built, she did -not allow a woman to live in one of the houses a moment after she -married again; nor would she take a woman who had been twice a widow. -When the children grew up and were no longer a burden to their mother, -then this mother was allowed a dollar a week, and placed comfortably -with one of her children elsewhere, and this sum was continued until the -child was able to maintain her. To see that no one imposed upon her -became one of her tasks; but she was seldom deceived, for she made many -allowances for poor people. She even made more allowances for them, than -for the rich; for poverty, she thought, was such an evil in itself that -we should not expect all the virtues to centre in the poor alone. If she -saw that some little unfair attempt was made to excite her pity, she -would wink at it and say, “let that alone, ‘tis no concern of ours; of -one thing I am certain, deceive me in other things as they may, the poor -things are in great want, and must be helped through with it.” Mr. Bangs -did nothing towards all this; but still I wish him to keep some hold of -my readers’ good opinion, for was it not a great merit to let his -excellent wife manage as she liked? - -To be sure the farm, and all the income ever to be derived from it, were -made fast, by will to his wife and her heirs; but a man knows that there -are one or two lawyers always at hand to pick flaws in a will; and a -suit can be carried up to the court of errors, and there brought to -issue in his favour, although neither law nor equity is on his side. So -Mr. Bangs, knowing this, would not go to law; for, thought he, whether I -should win or lose, the whole would go to the lawyers; and as the farm -was really intended, by the father, to belong to her and hers, why e’en -let them have it; but I must say it is hard that I can’t have a boy. - -In the course of time Francis Floss, the foreman of the shop, had a -regular invitation to sit in their pew at church, partake of their -Sunday dinner, and join in their walk after church. Mr. Bangs begged the -lad of his father when he was of a suitable age, for the laboratory, and -he being of a curious and ingenious turn and very industrious, came not -only to find out all the little secrets of the art, so tenaciously -withheld from all eyes by simple Mr. Bangs, but to add more to the stock -of knowledge. He could not but see that his apprentice had outwitted -him, and that he more than rivalled him in his art; but he would not -allow himself to get angry about it, for two reasons—one was, that if he -quarrelled with him, the young man would leave him and set up for -himself—the other reason was, that he intended Francis Floss for the -husband of his wife’s baker’s dozen. - -A young man in love with a beautiful girl, with the prospect of a -handsome independence with her, does not pay particular attention to the -extent of her acquirements. Inquisitive as Mr. Floss might be in -general, he was in utter ignorance of all things that concerned the -education of Mr. Bangs’s family. He fell in love with Fanny, before he -thought of her mind or her qualifications. He knew how far the mind of -Christopher Bangs stretched; but he had great reliance that all was -right at home, for every body allowed that Mrs. Bangs was a sensible, -notable, thrifty, shrewd, energetic, capable woman, and he knew that all -the virtues and talent generally come from the motherly side of the -house. Of the daughters no one knew any thing, excepting the shopkeepers -and poor people; the former thought them sensible and modest, and the -latter loved them entirely. All this, and he saw that she was docile and -affectionate at home, was fortune enough for him, as he was thoroughly -in love. He made proposals and was accepted—by all. Mr. Bangs for once -in his life, would have asked the reason why, if he had been rejected. I -think that all the girls loved Frank Floss nearly as well as Fanny did. - -It was on the wedding day, and preparing the wedding dinner, that the -cook called Mrs. Bangs’s attention to the piece of brickbat in the -turkey’s craw. Four of her daughters were assisting likewise, but I -guess that _they_ did not stop to inquire or even look at the stone. -Their work was to attend to the jellies and pastry—pleasant work for -women, rich or poor. If they had found a _whole_ brick in the craw, all -their care would be to see that the cook got it out without breaking the -skin. But let that alone, as Mrs. Bangs says, ‘tis no concern of ours. - -The happy Francis Floss took his beautiful bride home to a handsome, -well-furnished house; and never was there a bride that had less to do -with sublunary affairs than Mrs. Bangs’s thirteenth daughter. For in the -first place, there was she—the mother—both able and willing to relieve -her darling of all the cares of marketing. There were Robina, Christina, -Josephine and Philippa, by right of seniority and by having taught her -to read and spell—for good Hannah French being very deaf could not make -much display of erudition in these branches—and by making and mending -for her all her brief life, were they not fairly entitled to do the same -kind offices for her still, particularly as she had now a husband who -would require all her time? There were Augusta, Johanna, Gabriella, and -Georgiana, what suited them as well as to go from the garret to the -cellar, and thence back again, to see that no dust or cobweb found a -place there? Were there not Wilhelmina, Jacobina, Frederica, and -Benjamina to fuss about the pantries and kitchen, and to keep the -larders and store room filled with the choicest and best? - -There was deaf Hannah French, too, to see that the fire was carefully -raked up at night; for Hannah, on the evening of the wedding day, -without question, or leave, or license—but to no one’s surprise—quietly -took her night things and her little work basket, and followed the bride -home. She took possession of a snug room in the back building, which -room she kept till her dying day. And there was Mr. Bangs himself; did -he not every night, on his way home from his club, where he had spent -all his evenings, excepting Sunday, for thirty years; did he not open -the street door with his night-key, walk to the back door, bolt that and -then latch the inside parlour window-shutters? He did this at his own -house, from the day of his marriage, for his wife left this part of -housekeeping duty purposely for him, “to keep him in mind,” she said, -“that he had a house and family to protect from thieves.” Fanny Floss -thought it part of her duty to let her father do this for her likewise; -and her husband was so accustomed to all their ways, that he naturally -fell into these agreeable regularities himself. - -Well, then, Mr. Floss was a happy man; he went to the laboratory and -came home; went and came; went and came, for seven years; and whenever -his step was heard in the hall Fanny ran to meet him, to give him a -kiss. If it rained, there was a dry coat ready for him; and if the day -were warm, then she stood in the hall with a thin coat and a glass of -lemonade. Every evening he saw her in the rocking-chair, either sewing -or knitting; for now the three days for the poor had grown to three -times three. Her good temper and excellent nature never varied; she was -the gentlest, the tenderest, the purest and the most devoted wife that -man was ever blessed with—what could he desire more? Did he wish her -altered? Would any man wish such a wife to change? - -Mr. Floss, as I observed, had an inquiring mind, and he went on from one -point to another until he became a man of consequence; and, as Mr. Bangs -predicted, _when he saw his name up_, he was a candidate for Congress. -Mrs. Bangs had some indistinct notion that a Congressman was a grandee; -but it passed through her head like a dream; for it was only in her -dreams that her fancy was ever excited. Her daughters never so much as -pondered on the word; and as to Fanny, that sweetest and gentlest of -human beings, it would have been cruel to mention the thing to her. -Going to Congress would have sounded to her like going down a deep pit, -among miners; or sailing in an open boat to Botany Bay. “Don’t tell -Fanny of it, my dear Francis; it will only set her to wondering and -crying, for she can’t understand it,” said good Mrs. Bangs; “but let -that alone, ‘tis no concern of ours.” - -So Mr. Floss said nothing when he went home; and, in the evening, as -Fanny sat in the rocking chair, singing an evening hymn, in a low, sweet -voice, he looked steadily at her, for five minutes, and watched the -innocent play of her beautiful modest face, and gave the matter up. “It -will never do,” said he, “for as to leaving her behind, that is out of -the question; neither of us could bear the separation; and as to taking -her to Washington—Good Heavens!” - -Well might he thus exclaim; for, excepting to knit, and sew, and work -muslin, and do kind little offices for the poor, and love her father and -mother, her twelve sisters—and, oh, best of all, her husband, what else -did Fanny Floss know?—not an earthly thing. - -It was some time after his marriage before Mr. Floss found it all out; -but when the first surprise was over, he soon got used to it; and, after -a few vain attempts to enlighten her, he gave it up, and let his mind -flow into other channels. He made friends; had dinner parties—Could not -_he_ give dinner parties, with so many able and willing coadjutors?—and -nothing could show off to better advantage than his beautiful, modest -wife, and four or five of her neat, happy sisters, scattered about the -dinner table. - -“What was it,” you ask, “that Fanny did not know?” All that she knew I -have told you already, gentle reader. Do you think that she ever so much -as dreamed that the earth moved around the sun?—that mahogany was once a -tree?—that the carpet came from a sheep’s back?—that her bobbinet lace -came from a cotton pod?—As to her silk dress, could it be supposed that -her imagination ever ran riot so far as to believe that little worms -spun the web? Does any one think for a moment, that she knew that quills -were plucked from the wing of a goose?—that paper came from old -rags?—that a looking-glass was ever any thing but the smooth, polished -thing it now is? She saw loads of hay pass, and knew that horses were -fed with it; but she never speculated on the manner in which it became -hay. It is a chance if she knew that it was once grass. Not that Fanny -had never read all this, when very young, in her little books; but she -read without letting any thing make an impression. Nothing was a mystery -to her; she never made a doubt of any thing; but took things and left -them just as she found them, either in books or in conversation. - -Once her husband said, “I wonder whether they pull the feathers from the -tail of the ostrich while he is alive?” “Would it hurt him if they did?” -said Fanny. “Yes, I presume it would,” replied he. “Then they wait till -the poor thing dies,” quoth she—“only look, dear husband, see that merry -little group of children, all boys too; how my father would rejoice if -they were all his sons.” - -You will ask whether Fanny ever took a walk. Yes, often; her husband had -great delight in letting her hang on his arm, and walk up the long -street with him. Sometimes, on Sunday, after church, they strayed as far -as the commons; she, pouring out her grateful feelings for being allowed -to enjoy the bright sunshiny day, and accustoming her husband to dwell -on the Divine source whence all our blessings flow. Mr. Floss, himself, -had a hard bringing up; to obey his father and mother; keep himself neat -and clean; to bring home medals from school, and to be honest in his -dealings, were all that he had to observe. Fanny never dipped into _his_ -mind, or she would have seen how cold and barren all lay there; while, -outward, all was so fair. She thought that every one’s heart—but -no—Fanny never speculated on any thing; she talked to her husband as if -his heart was of the same mould as hers. He dipped into her mind though; -and the purity and excellence of it more than compensated for her want -of worldly knowledge. So all the way from church he listened to the -outpourings of her spirit; always fresh and animated, and clothed in a -language peculiar to herself; for Fanny knew nothing of the forms and -phrases in which bigots disguise the truth. - -Her husband, therefore, listened and loved; and, at length, he loved the -subject; so that her very simplicity was the means of his becoming a -religious man. “To meet you in Heaven, my Fanny,” he said, one day, “I -must strive to think on these subjects as you do. I am afraid I shall -not be found worthy to join you there.” - -“But you do think as I do, love,” said she, looking affrighted—“you -do—and you think more than I do; you can argue better. I never think at -all; all my feelings come naturally. You _will_ go to heaven, my -Francis, for the prayers of the humble and penitent are heard; and is -there a night, nay an hour in the day, that my spirit is not lifted up -to ask for forgiveness for you and for us all?” - -“You are so merry and cheerful, my dear Fanny, that one would not -suppose you were in prayer so constantly.” - -“Well, Francis, and is not that the time to pray?—why must God be -addressed only in darkness, and when we are ill and sad? Then we pray -through fear and selfishness. It is when I am happy and merry that I am -most afraid of committing sin; and it is then, too, that I feel God’s -goodness and mercy most. Dear Francis, what a pleasure it is to feel -this bright, warm sun shine on our face; and see, that little dog barks -in very gladness, too, for I see nothing near it to make it bark. He -feels the warmth and it gives him pleasure; but he forgets it, you see, -and falls to quarrelling with that little black dog, for the bone. God -is ever present to me, my husband, and that keeps me merry and cheerful. -I am sure I have no wish to quarrel for any thing.” - -“I believe it, Fanny,” said her husband, as he pressed her arm closely -to his heart; “and I will let this thought sink deep, that I may in time -come to be merry and cheerful in your way.” - -And then they would walk on till they reached the commons, where they -were sure to meet some of the family; and there talk over the subjects -of the sermon—when they could understand it, which was not very often -the case. The exposition of a doubtful text never made any thing the -clearer to these simple minded people. They had the Scriptures, and they -believed in the holy book most sincerely; nothing was a mystery to them; -they thought that the words and actions of our blessed Saviour were easy -enough to comprehend; and that they were all-sufficient to our -salvation. They could not imagine why clergymen darkened up a point by -hard words and cramped unintelligible terms and phrases, when the -meaning was so clear to them. As to the doctrine of the Trinity—even -Fanny, the least gifted, as to acuteness of intellect—even she could -believe all and adore; for a tree, the sun, moon and stars, a living, -moving being, and, above all, that perpetual spring of love which she -felt within her towards the Almighty, towards her family, and towards -her husband—all this was quite as incomprehensible to her as what her -religion enjoined on her to believe. So that Fanny never speculated even -on this subject. - -Mr. Bangs felt nothing of all this; and his Sunday walk was to the -shipyards or arsenal; and his Sunday talk, scanty enough, was of laying -that that are ship would outsail the other; and that that are cannon -would do for the English. He never would walk with his daughters, -because they were not boys; and he always wound up by saying, “Time -enough to walk out with you when Fanny gives me a grandson; there will -be some sense in my going then.” - -But Mr. Bangs was doomed to disappointment; for the little boy did not -come; nor was there any sister to put his nose out of joint; yet Mr. -Floss did not grieve, for Fanny was pet enough for him. When he was -tired out with business, and did not want to take up a book, she would -talk over her thoughts and feelings. Heavens! what a gush of tenderness -and pathos it was; and how the young man’s soul melted away in him as -she talked—and yet, what could it be about? - -You will ask, perhaps, if Fanny ever read. Not much. When a child, and -learning to read, she had little story-books of good and naughty boys -and girls, which she read over and over again—wept over often—but -sensible Mrs. Bangs saw no use in all this, and she therefore seldom -opened her polished, mahogany book-case. Fanny loved poetry, tender, -pathetic poetry; but as she selected only such, and as it always set her -crying and sobbing, why, poetry was interdicted too. Mrs. Bangs gave her -son several hints on this point; a thing which he soon found out of -himself, as Fanny was made perfectly unhappy for a whole week after he -had read Keats’s Isabella to her. She had the most tender love for a -virtuous and beautiful heroine; the mishaps and death, therefore, which -overtook her, were taken to heart with such earnest grief that Mr. -Floss, after that, wisely, read all such things to himself. In fact, it -soon amounted to this, that he never read aloud at all; for works of wit -and fancy were lost on his gentle wife—a repartee she thought must cost -somebody pain, and that brought no pleasure to her. - -While her husband read in the long winter evenings, she sat in her -rocking-chair and knitted or sewed; and had many little pleasant chats -with one or the other of her sisters or her mother—Fanny was never -alone. Let us listen to what she is saying to Robina; raising her voice -to its highest pitch, that poor Hannah French, who now and then made one -of the evening party, might feel that she was considered as one of the -family. - -“Oh, Robina, dear, what a delightful walk we had. I just went up to the -laboratory with Gabriella, to say how do you do to my dear husband, -when, there he stood, ready for a walk, (here Mr. Floss laid down his -book to listen too) so up the road we went; and the warm sunshine, and -the brisk winds seemed to be playing with each other, and gambolling, as -it were, before us. We both felt grateful that we did not meet a single -beggar or a discontented face. So we walked around our own division and -inquired of the widows how they were getting on; and their glad looks, -when they saw my husband”—“It was you, Fanny,” said he, interrupting -her, “I am certain it was your sweet face, and not my hard, sunburnt -one, that made them brighten up so.” - -“Hannah French, has my husband a hard, sunburnt face?” said Fanny, -raising her voice very loud—for she knew how very handsome poor Hannah -thought he was. - -“Sunburnt!” exclaimed Hannah,—“no, indeed—sometimes I have seen it -smutted with the stuff which he is cooking over the great pots in his -furnace; but he is not sunburnt—he is fire-burnt.” - -“There,” said Mr. Floss, laughing, “you will not appeal to Hannah French -again about my beauty—but go on, dearest; tell Gabriella all about your -walk. I should really be glad to know, too, for although I was with you, -yet my mind was so occupied with what I had been cooking, as Hannah -calls it, in that great pot, that I just followed where you led; and yet -I was sensible, all the time, of what you were saying. Her voice, -Gabriella, is always so musical that I feel its influence even when the -_sound_ only makes an impression.” - -“So mother always said,” answered the modest Gabriella. “Fanny never -hurt her sweet voice by crying or getting in a passion, as some of us -did when we were children.” - -Well, Fanny was not elated by all this fond praise; she felt that it was -love which had dictated it, and it came over her gentle nature like a -sunbeam, where all was mild and gracious before; she laid her hand -gently on her husband’s arm and proceeded. - -“All this took up half an hour; and, cool as the weather was, I could -not help thinking how much of summer still remained; for almost every -window had rosebushes and geraniums in it, and our widows’ row looked -like one long green-house; for every window, there too, had a rosebush, -full of roses, in it. And that lemon tree belonging to Mrs. Green—did I -tell you, Hannah, that I bought you that fine, large lemon tree? Poor -Mrs. Green hated to part with it; but it was too large for her room. It -has ten large, ripe lemons on it; and ever so many blossoms.” - -For fear of a mistake, Hannah feigned a little more of deafness than -belonged to her; but to have her hopes destroyed by misapprehension was -painful; for, of all things, she coveted a lemon tree, she so loved the -smell of its delicate white blossoms. - -Fanny repeated it loud enough to bring conviction to poor Hannah; and in -a few moments the ten lemons were appropriated to more uses than one -hundred could satisfy. Custard! oh, how much superior was a boiled -custard, with the gratings of a _fresh_ lemon; and many a glass of jelly -did she fancy herself making with the sprightly _well ripened_ juice; so -much sprightlier, and having so much more of a perfume with it, than the -stale, unripe lemons of the shop—oh, how Hannah French, at that moment, -despised the shop lemons. And then to surprise Mr. Floss with the half -of a fine, well rolled, plump, ripe lemon on Sunday, to eat with his -fish or cutlet—on Sunday, when none could be bought—and Hannah laughed -out in very happiness. The deaf have many pleasant, innocent fancies. - -I hope, gentle reader, you do not think that Fanny was an insipid kind -of person. Oh, if you could but know how much of beauty and loveliness -there is in a nature wherein truth dwells constantly, you would covet to -be like my Fanny. Yet, although she never read any thing but the Bible, -or some good little pattern book, now and then,—although she only -visited the poor and comfortless, and knew nothing of a theatre, yet her -conversation was full of life; and, I might say, poetry. Her soul was in -such harmony with all God’s works; and there was such melody in her -accents, and such eloquence in her eye and her smile—such devotion to -those she loved, that no one ever dreamed that she was an ignoramus. - -Mr. Floss, as I before observed, after the first surprise was over, -doubted whether a woman more learned would have made him half so happy. -He saw that other men did not care twopence for their wives’ sense or -reading, after a month or so. Very few, he observed, talked out of book -to their family, or seemed particularly pleased to hear that their wives -were reading women. - -As to sights—no one ever thought of taking so refined and delicate a -creature as Fanny to see them; particularly such as the Siamese twins, -or fat children, or the wild beasts in their closely confined, stifled -menageries. She certainly knew that there were wild beasts; for well she -remembered how often she had cried over the story, in a little gilt -covered book, of the boy who went too near the lion, and had his head -struck off. But Fanny, as she grew up, was not allowed to suffer her -mind to dwell on such things; her judicious mother said there was too -much of real life business to occupy her without crying over little boys -that had their heads chopped off by wild beasts; and, another thing, she -did not believe a word of the story—“But, let that alone,” said she, -“Fanny dear, ‘tis no concern of ours.” - -But, although Fanny’s thoughts and actions were full of piety, yet there -was nothing mawkish, or canting, or tiresome, in her way of talking -about it. She made even the poor themselves feel cheerful by her -pleasant ways. It was not in her nature to exact any thing of them in -return for what she did; nor did she pry into the little unhappy affairs -which had contributed to bring them to poverty. It is only the callous -heart that does this; only those who wish to make themselves conspicuous -who ferret out the little miserable secrets of the poor. - -At length, on Christmas day, the little boy was born; his mother’s -birthday likewise; and it seemed as if Mr. Bangs had never lived till -that moment. He was sitting in a very nervous, dogged, defying sort of -way, by himself, in the front parlour, before a large fire, having some -anxiety about his daughter, but a greater sympathy for himself and his -thirteen disappointments, when Mrs. Bangs entered the room. He turned -slowly around and stared at her with his mouth wide open, as she -announced that Fanny was safely through her trouble; and that Mr. Floss -was too happy to do more than cry like a child. - -Mr. Bangs was speechless, while his wife expatiated on Fanny’s -fortitude, and her anxiety to prevent her mother from knowing what her -sufferings were. Still Mrs. Bangs did not hear the sound of thanksgiving -from his lips. She little dreamed that the foolish old man’s head was -running on the sex of the child. - -“And—and—wife,” said he at last, “it is a girl, I presume; nothing but -girls in this life,” said he, as he jerked himself around and stared at -the fire. “I hope I shall be rewarded in the other world, by having some -of my girls turned to boys.” - -“Why, Christopher, did I not tell you that the dear chubby little thing -was a boy?” - -“A boy!” exclaimed he, jumping on his feet, his face flushed with -agitation, “a boy—a boy—now, Molly Bangs, are you sure?—take -care—remember, a man can’t bear disappointments for ever—I’ve had -thirteen, remember.” - -“Am I sure—certainly I am; and a sweet, dear, blessed, chubby little -thing it is; one roll of fat and good nature; and the very picture of -you; but let that alone, ‘tis no concern of ours, just now; but I hope -that you are suited at last.” - -Mr. Bangs could not speak; but he untied his cravat, and wiped the -perspiration from his face, while his wife stood looking at him with -amazement. - -“Why, Christopher—Kit, what ails you?” said she, really frightened at -this extraordinary display of animation—“is it possible that a boy sat -so close to your heart? and have you borne your thirteen disappointments -so long, and so well? I really give you credit for not showing a great -deal of ugly temper; and now I trust that this dear, little, chubby -fellow will make amends.” - -“It will, Molly, it will: and I heartily forgive you for giving me -thirteen girls. How soon will little Christopher walk? Hang it all; but -he shall have a hobby-horse as soon as he can call me grandpapa. And you -must dress him in his best when I walk out with him. I’ll take him to -our club, some warm evening. I’ll not let a servant touch him, to get -his back broke, but will carry him myself.” - -“Heaven help him,” thought his wife, as she slowly walked up stairs, “he -is growing foolish.” - -But Mr. Bangs! He went to the glass and said, “Grandpa, grandpa,” as if -a child was calling him—then he whistled and laughed. “Who is that,” -said he, as one of his daughters entered the room. “Is that you, -Fillippi?” “No, father, it is Georgiana; how glad you must be, father, -to hear that dear Fanny is so well.” - -“Yes, child, yes. Does the little fellow grow? But don’t call him Kit; -it is too feminine. Call him out, boldly, Christopher;” and the -enraptured, foolish man made an attempt to chassée across the room, to -the no small amazement of his daughter. “I must tell mother,” said she, -“his joy is making him lose his wits.” - -Mr. Bangs, in due time, was asked up to Fanny’s room, into which he -walked on tiptoe, giggling. But when he got a glimpse of the baby, his -cheek was flushed, and his lip quivered. It seemed as if all the -feelings of a father had been pent up till that moment; for when the -nurse put the little boy in his arms, he tenderly kissed it, and, -“lifting up his face, he wept aloud.” - -Mr. Floss was kneeling by his wife, and blessing her every moment -between his grateful prayers; this sudden burst therefore of the old man -was not surprising, but it was to his wife. As to Hannah French, she -laughed so loud at the oddity of it, that Mrs. Bangs fearing that their -hubbub would be injurious to her daughter, made them both go out of the -room; but Hannah French laughed by snatches for the remainder of the -day. - -“Adieu to business and to clubs now. The boy has been so long coming,” -said he to his wife, “and no thanks to you, that I shall make myself -amends for my thirteen disappointments, and having to wait seven years -too, in the bargain.” - -So he staid nearly all the time in the nursery, and waited for the -development of growth and intellect with the most intense and feverish -anxiety. Every day he pulled the little fellow’s mouth open to look for -a tooth, and when it came at last, which it did at the end of six -months, he tore himself from the pleasure of looking at it, to rush out -among his old friends to make them as happy as himself. - -The first that he saw was one of his club companions, for he consorted -with no others. This person was just coming up the street from the -river. - -“Good morning, neighbour Bangs,” said he, “have you seen the steamboat -Sea Serpent? She has just come in—twenty miles in one hour!” - -“My Christopher has a tooth,” roared Mr. Bangs, for his old friend was a -little deaf. - -“She is expected to go even faster when her boiler is a little larger,” -said the club man, Peter Broo, by name. - -“You never saw a finer tooth. It is a thundering large one. He bit my -little finger—here, just put your thumb in my mouth, and I’ll show you -how the little rogue tried to bite.” - -“Yes; but you had better take a look at the boat, for it will be off -again in an hour.” - -“‘Tis a thundering big tooth, and I thought I would just stop and tell -you; and the other will be out to-morrow at farthest. Good morning, I -must go and tell the good news to the captain, for every body is glad to -hear that the first tooth comes through without fits.” - -His club mate, not a whit more gifted than himself, stared at Mr. Bangs, -as in very boyishness of heart he hopped off first on one foot, and then -on the other, as children do. He wondered how a baby’s tooth should -prevent any one from going to the wharf to see the famous steamboat Sea -Serpent. “If the old goose thought he had a thundering big tooth coming -through his own gums I should not wonder at it—but a baby’s tooth! as if -they did not get teeth every day—there, he has met the captain; _he’ll_ -smoke him with his baby tooth. I will go look at the steamboat Sea -Serpent again.” - -“Hillo! captain, stop, will you?” said Mr. Bangs; “we have a tooth, and -a thundering large white tooth it is.” - -“What! your little grand-daughter has a tooth at last—well, it has been -long a coming; is it up or down?” - -For thirty-seven years Mr. Bangs had had evening intercourse with -captain Muff, and till this morning he had never found out that he was a -fool; and what was worse, as he said to himself, an old fool. -Indignation kept him silent—forgot that he had a grandson when he had -talked of it for six months! At length he burst out. - -“I presume it would make no difference to you, captain Muff,” said he, -grinning hysterically, “if I had thirteen more daughters?” - -“No, why should it?” rejoined the sage captain, “I like girls. If my -wife and your wife had not been girls when they were babies, I wonder -where our wives would have been? You may be glad your little grandchild -is a girl.” - -“Why, what a good for nothing old fat fool you are—that I must call you -names in your old age,” said the enraged Christopher. “Your memory is -very short this morning; have I not told you that my Christopher is a -boy?” - -“No, I cannot forget what you tell me every day; but what has a boy to -do with what you were telling me about a thundering large tooth. Does -she grow?” - -“You are enough to make a man swear, you damned old goose,” said Mr. -Bangs, in a huff—(too mad to pop off this time,) “to call Christopher -_she_: man and boy,” said he to himself, as he turned sulkily away, -“have I known captain Muff for sixty years, and I have but just found -out what a disadvantage he has been to me; why he is but half witted.” - -Mr. Bangs turned homewards, fearing to find out more foolish old men -among his club. He was anxious too, to see whether the other tooth had -not got the start of him. The quiet, regular Mr. Bangs had become a -nuisance. No one had ever suspected him of being _soft_, and but for -this unlucky male child he might have “died as he lived, an excellent -chemist, an honest man, and one of the best husbands in the world;” but -if a weak man _will_ talk, people will find him out. - -He passed away very easy, not long after this, just in time to save his -credit, so that no one but Peter Broo and captain Muff gave a ha, ha, or -a smile when his death was announced. The baby’s tooth stood for ever -uppermost in their eyes; and when they told the story, which they did -every day for a twelvemonth, they got the thundering big tooth to the -size of an elephant’s. - -He was missed at home, particularly when the window shutters were to be -latched, which office Hannah French now undertook, and the first sound -of mirth that was heard in the house was from her. The baby’s teeth all -came out finely; and one day as she put on her spectacles to look at -them, she gave one of her little deaf laughs. Mrs. Bangs asked her what -she laughed at, but Hannah French was too “cute” to tell. It was what -follows that passed through her brain and produced the laugh at the end -of it. - -“I am glad,” thought she, “the old man went off as he did, for the -baby’s mouth would have gone from ear to ear, by his grandfather’s -constantly pulling it open to see what thundering big tooth was coming -out next; and the baby was so used to have his mouth stretched open, -that whenever he heard his grandfather’s voice on the stairs, he used, -of his own accord, to throw his head back and open his mouth as wide as -possible.” Then it was, as this passed through her mind, that Hannah -French laughed; but it would not have done to tell Mrs. Bangs of it. - -Every one of Mrs. Bangs’s thirteen daughters married, and every one had -sons and daughters. I have something pleasant to say of all of them, -though not so much as I have said of Fanny. She lives still, and is -loved by her husband and family as dearly as ever. - -Mrs. Bangs would not have one of her grandsons called Christopher, -through fear of their hating her as they grew up. “I had such a deal of -trouble about naming you all,” said she, to her thirteen daughters, -“that I am resolved my grandchildren shall not be named after kit or kin -of mine.” Whether she meant this as a pun, or only as an old saw, I do -not know; I should rather suspect the latter; but we will let that -alone, ‘tis no concern of ours. - - - - - THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. - - -Martin Barton, a respectable, well looking lad, entered Mr. Daly’s -thread and needle store at the age of fourteen. He was a faultless and -enduring creature, always at his post, and serving out his appointed -time—seven years—without giving his master the least cause of complaint. -The morning of his birthday was his day of freedom, and although Mr. -Daly knew that this day must come some time or other, yet he was quite -unprepared for it. Great, therefore, would have been his sorrow, if -Martin Barton had not, in announcing that his apprenticeship was -expired, asked his consent to marry Miss Letty Daly—his only child. - -Now Mr. Daly had not the least suspicion that Martin Barton had a fancy -for his daughter, for he had always considered him as a young man that -had no fancy for any thing outside the counter. Even Mrs. Daly, as -sharp-eyed as one of her needles, heard the news pretty much as he had -done—sorrow that Martin Barton’s time was up, and surprise that he -wanted to marry their daughter. - -“Martin Barton in love with our Letty!—it cannot be, Mr. Daly, for to my -knowledge he has never spent an evening with her in his life.” - -“I did not say he was in love with her, Mrs. Daly, I only said he wanted -our consent to marry her—so, wife, if you have no objection, I may as -well let them marry at once; business is a little slack just at present, -and he can be spared better now than in the spring.” - -“Why, to be sure, husband, Martin Barton is worth his weight in gold in -such a shop as ours, and no one could supply his place if he were to -leave us; so I’ll just step back and tell Letty—oh, here she -comes—Letty, my dear, Martin Barton’s time is up, he is twenty-one this -morning, and he told your father, and your father told me, that he wants -to have you for a wife.” - -“Yes, so Martin Barton told me himself,” said Miss Letty, a fine -tempered girl of eighteen, and as brisk as a bee. - -“Oh, then he has spoken to you himself, has he? When did you see him? -Not this morning after church, I guess, for I saw him turn the corner -with Ira Elkado, and I saw him come back with old Hosea Bringle around -the very same corner.” - -“We talked the matter over after church about a month ago; indeed we -have done all our courting in that way while coming home after church, -for Martin Barton has no time to court on week days, you know.” - -“No more he has not,” said the satisfied mother, “so, husband, all we -have to do now is to get them married and pass the shop over to Martin -Barton. You and I are tired of all this hard work, so we will go to our -little farm in the country and live at our ease.” Live at their ease!! - -Martin Barton expected as much, and so did Miss Letty; they were married -the following week, and before another week had expired Mr. and Mrs. -Daly bade adieu to the thread and needle store, and went into the -country _to live at their ease_! - -Hosea Bringle, with whom Martin Barton had gone round the corner, was -the book keeper as long as goods were sold on credit, but as soon as it -was determined to sell for cash alone, the old man’s occupation was -gone. He was transferred to the lower end of the counter—but, alas! -Hosea Bringle was found to be a poor vender of tape and bobbin. It did -well enough when it came to a dozen of stockings or socks, but he never -could tell which thread of yarn was thick or which thin, and above all -he could not tell linen tape from cotton tape. It was plain, therefore, -that Hosea Bringle had to go. - -Sigismund Sloper had entered the shop at the same time with Martin -Barton, but although he was a decent lad enough, and had been a year out -of his time, for he was fifteen when he began his service, yet Mr. Daly -had no great partiality for him. He continued on, therefore, at good -wages, till the present time, when little Jenny Hart spoke up and said -that Sigismund Sloper was not wanted any longer, as she had heard of an -excellent lad of the right age who would work better and cheaper. - -Now Jenny Hart was the oracle of the shop; she likewise had been in Mr. -Daly’s employ for a term of years—three, I believe—but it was a far -different thing to see her move about and direct every thing that was -done, than when the clerks or Martin Barton did it. Clean and neat, too, -was little Jenny Hart, quick at meals and quick at work, an early riser -and a late sitter up; and such a tongue as she had, such a spirit as she -showed, such a goer and comer! In short, little Jenny Hart was the life -and soul of the establishment, and money came in so fast that the money -drawers had to be emptied every night—no credit—happy thread and needle -people were Mr. and Mrs. Martin Barton. - -Sigismund Sloper vowed vengeance against little Jenny Hart; for she was -a free spoken little thing, and made no scruple of speaking out her -thoughts. He was too slow and too tardy of speech for such off hand -business as theirs, and was too mulish to learn, so she fairly told him -that on the first of May—three months ahead—Ira Elkado was to take his -place. She cast many an anxious glance at old Hosea Bringle, wishing him -out of the concern too, for he was very much in her way, and it was -really hard upon her, for thus it went all day, week in and week out: -“It is three cents a yard, Hojer Bringle—(she always called him -Hojer)—this way, miss, that old gentleman does not know our private -mark, and yet he has lived in this shop seven years.” The old man -sighed, and little Jenny Hart heard him. “To be sure there is an excuse -for him, as he was always at the desk when we gave credit—nine yards and -a half?—yes, sir, stocks of all kinds, beautiful and well made—too high -a price!—oh, no indeed—will I take eighteen shillings? no, but I’ll -split the difference—Hojer Bringle, give this gentleman five -shillings—Hojer Bringle examines all the three dollar notes, sir.” And -so little Jenny Hart’s tongue run on, while she cast rueful glances at -the old man and strove to harden her heart against him. - -Ira Elkado came in at one fold of the double door as Sigismund Sloper -went out at the other, and Jenny Hart laughed out in one of the -customers’ face while selling him a pair of stockings. The man looked at -his waistcoat and at his hands, and cast a glance at himself in the -glass behind the little shop girl’s head, but as nothing was amiss he -attributed it to a joyous spirit, as in reality it was. “You are merry, -Jenny Hart, this fine May morning,” said he. “I suspect you are thinking -of your lover.” - -“Lover! oh, sir,” said Jenny Hart, casting a sly glance at Ira Elkado, -as he solemnly stalked behind the counter, and, as if he had been there -for years, fell to putting up a bundle of misses’ hose. “Such a lover, -too,” thought Jenny Hart, as he would make,—pretty much, however, like -Mr. Martin Barton,—and she cast her eye to the other end of the counter, -where Martin Barton stood folding up a bundle of suspenders in the very -same solemn way. Hosea Bringle, instead of taking a little girl’s penny -for two needles,—he had given her nines for sixes, the paper being -turned upside down when he looked at it,—was staring at the new clerk, -Ira Elkado. - -“Put the cent in Hojer Bringle’s hand, little girl; he is thinking”—said -Jenny Hart—“here, let me stick the needles in the paper or you’ll lose -them; they are tiny little needles; are you hemming fine work, my dear?” - -“No, Miss Jenny Hart, mother is making a cloak—these are sixes,” said -the child, “are they not?” So Jenny Hart had to go to the needle box and -get out No. 6, saying—“Look here, Hojer Bringle, the numbers are all at -the top; this paper, if turned up so, looks like nines; do you see now?” - -Hosea Bringle sighed again, and Jenny whispered in his ear—“there are -two fine pair of ducks and a huge mess of corn salad for dinner to-day, -and I’ll have them at my side of the table and give you the _four_ legs -all to your own share, and all the stuffings out of two of them—precious -little will I give to Ira Elkado, beside the neck and rack, or may be -the drumsticks. Hosea Bringle wiped his mouth and put the needle box -nicely away, pitying Ira Elkado for the poor dinner he was to get, for -Hosea Bringle held the rack and drumsticks very cheap; while Ira Elkado -was revelling in the thoughts of owning this very thread and needle -store that day three years, with Jenny Hart for clerk and wife. No one, -to look at Ira Elkado, would ever suppose that he had an excursive -imagination, he looked so sober and acted so cautiously; but, oh! what a -turmoil and what business was going on within. He took all the company -in at a glance, and made up his mind that he would rule them all as -Jenny Hart did, and her into the bargain. So he began that very moment. - -“This counter is very inconvenient, Miss Jenny Hart,” said he, striking -his foot against the bottom, “it ought to slope inward; it is very -wearisome for you to keep at such a distance from the counter. Now, if -it sloped inward—now Sigismund Sloper, he”— - -Ah ha! did Ira Elkado think this was news to Jenny Hart? she had felt -the inconvenience often and often, but she counted cost, and made up her -mind that the house was old, the counter old, and time precious, so that -it was not worth while to make a new counter, and, besides, there was no -time to do it. She gave one of her peculiar stares, as if trying to -comprehend what Ira Elkado was saying. - -“Sigums Sloper, did you say, Ira Elkado,—he went out as you came in; I -persuaded Mr. Martin Barton to change him for you because he was a fault -finder; I warned him, when he came, to mind the customers; the fact is, -we are such busy people that we have no time to fiddle-faddle and look -out for flaws and specks. This is your money drawer—here are four places -to drop money in—this for sixpenny pieces—this for shillings—this for -quarters, and this for half dollars. Hojer Bringle, there, changes three -dollar notes, I five, Mrs. Martin Barton ten, and Mr. Martin Barton all -larger ones. Do you recollect?—to-morrow I shall tell it to you over -again.” Oh, how small Ira Elkado felt, and how he hated Jenny Hart! - -Little Jenny Hart did not tell him that she twitched the notes from -every hand first, before the others had a chance of looking at them. In -fact, she handed them to the one whose business it was to take them, -with a nod or a shake of the head, if good, or bad, for she was as wise -as a serpent about bank notes—and in what was she not wise? - -Every body that went to the shop took a good look at Jenny Hart, but no -one took the least liberty with her; there she stood helping the -customers, watching Hosea Bringle, curbing Ira Elkado, keeping Martin -Barton from prosing, and relieving Mrs. Martin Barton from the most of -her labours. The worthy couple had now been married eight years, and had -but two children, twin girls, now in their seventh year, and it was odd -enough to see how they were brought up; in fact, if it had not been for -Jenny Hart they would not have been brought up at all. The shop was -opened at daylight winter and summer; Jenny Hart was the first in it, -and the last to leave it; every thing, as they said, went through her -mouth and through her hands; neither Martin Barton nor his wife had the -least concern in the world, for Jenny Hart ordered the marketing too; -and as the girl brought the market basket through the long shop, the -little body would whisk from behind the counter, lift up the cover, and -satisfy herself that all was as she ordered. Then she hired the cook, -and nurse, and maid of all work, and little Betty the waiter was of her -choosing. - -“Mrs. Martin Barton, what a noise those children make,”—said Mr. Martin -Barton; “you must tell Jenny Hart that we shall have to build a room -back of the parlour, and let them range about there, for their play is -as noisy as their cries.” - -Jenny Hart had just returned from quieting them, and a lady who was -buying some German worsted asked Mrs. Martin Barton how old the little -girls were. - -“Let me see—how old are the two twins?”—for she always called them the -two twins, just as if they were speaking of two candles, or two pinches -of snuff—“how old are the two twins, Jenny Hart?” - -“Just seven years old, Mrs. Martin Barton,” and Jenny Hart had answered -this question of the age of the two twins ever since they were a year -old. Mr. Martin Barton never knew, and Mrs. Martin Barton always forgot. - -“As to building another room, Mr. Martin Barton, that will never do,” -(oh, how Ira Elkado stared to see what a sway she had!) said Jenny -Hart,—“for the back parlour is dark enough already, and we shall have -less draft through the shop, too, if we clutter up the yard; but the -twins are soon going to school; I spoke to Mrs. Playfair yesterday,—she -was buying canvass of me,—and she has promised to take good care of the -children, and for one year let them off easy—after that,” said she, -whispering in Mrs. Martin Barton’s ear—“after that, we’ll get poor old -Hojer to teach them at home, and Mrs. Armstrong will be a sort of -governess to them; for old Hojer Bringle is a dead weight in the shop.” - -“Good,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, and she went the other side of Jenny -Hart and whispered it to Martin Barton. “Good,” said he. - -“Oh, if I had only the ruling of that girl,” thought Ira Elkado, “how I -would quell her.” Just as he said this, mentally, however, Jenny Hart, -who had sold a gross of pearl buttons while the Martin Bartons were -saying “good, good,” thrust a bad shilling in his hand. “You took that -bad shilling from a boy, yesterday,” said she, “and gave it to Amy -Russel this morning; it has come back, and it must be charged to you.” -Ira Elkado put it in his pocket and gave her a good shilling; but the -moment her quick eye was directed to something else, he slipped the bad -piece of money in old Hosea Bringle’s drawer and helped himself to -another, for he did not see why he should lose it. Hosea Bringle stood -up, holding by the counter, fast asleep, and did not see it. - -“That bad shilling,” said Jenny Hart, “will be known again, I’ll -warrant, for I run the file across the edge. You had better put it in -Hosea Bringle’s bad money drawer, that last slit in the corner; all the -counterfeit money goes there.” “Powers on earth!” thought Ira Elkado, -“did the little black-eyed devil see me slip the shilling in?” - -No, Jenny Hart did not see him do it, but she suspected he would. She -knew that he was a capital hand to buy goods at auction, and it was for -this purpose she hired him—we may as well say she hired him, for it was -all her doings. Martin Barton had nothing to do but approve; Jenny Hart, -therefore, put up with many things from him. - -“Mrs. Martin Barton,” said her husband, “what a long holiday those -children have; how noisy they are, jumping and screaming like mad -things; and old Hosea Bringle with your night cap on—only look there.” - -“No, it is my cap,” said Jenny Hart, “let the poor old man play, for -once in his life; only think how long he has been nailed to this -counter. Just make a codicil to your will, Mr. Martin Barton, and give -the poor old soul one hundred dollars a year for life—I am only too glad -to get him out of the shop. By twelve to-morrow we shall have two nice -young lads—if I can only remember their names—I wish people would give -their children plain names. Oh, I forgot, Mrs. Armstrong will be in town -to-morrow; I have hired the house next door, as you told me, and here is -the lease. I paid one year’s rent, you see, in advance.” - -“Good,” said Martin Barton. “Excellent,” said his wife. The back door -stood open, and happy Hosea Bringle was playing _sleep_ with the -children, while they were tickling his ears with a straw, and then he -would snap at the straw, which made the little girls shout again. “Hojer -Bringle will fall asleep in good earnest,” said Jenny Hart to a lady who -was buying hair pins of her, and in a few moments he was snoring. - -“How old are your little girls?” said the lady to Mrs. Martin Barton. - -“How old are the two twins?—how old are they, Jenny? I forget.” - -“Ten years old, Mrs. Martin Barton; I thought I had better leave them -another year with old Mrs. Playfair, for they had been cooped up so -here, in this close place, that they were sickly like, and the good old -lady has quite freshened them up again. They have not learned much, that -is book learning, but all that will come in a few years, as Mrs. -Armstrong is a rock of learning. Ira Elkado, you are the very prince of -buyers.” The young man had just come in loaded from auction. “Oh, what -beautiful slippers—just what we wanted. Chessmen!—how many have you? -only three sets—well, I’ll take them off your hands, for we don’t sell -chessmen, you know, and I have been wanting to make a few presents. -Never buy things we are not in the habit of selling; it only confuses -us. Here is your money; pray Mr. Martin Barton charge me with fifteen -dollars—they are as cheap as dirt, Ira Elkado.” “Devil take the girl,” -thought Ira Elkado. - -And so she went on, talking and acting, and letting no one get the -better of her, while the good couple did their share of labour too, for -the shop had a very great run, and customers stood three deep sometimes. -“We shall have to push the shop into the back room,” said she to Martin -Barton, “and get two more clerks—I mean two more besides those that are -coming to-morrow.” “Good,” said Martin Barton. - -“I don’t hear the children’s voices any more,” said a lady to Mrs. -Martin Barton, “where are they?” - -“Oh, they live next door with Mrs. Armstrong; we could not attend to -them ourselves, you know, having so much to do.” - -“How old are they now, Mrs. Martin Barton.” - -“How old are the two twins?—let me see—how old are they, Jenny Hart?” - -“Twelve years old this month, Mrs. Martin Barton, and as fine, healthy -children as you would wish to see. Here, Alfred Gray, put up these -goods, the porter has laid them before me, and they belong to Mr. Martin -Barton’s shelves. These buttons are for the drawer, we shall retail -them. Mr. Martin Barton, to-morrow we begin to close the shop at -sundown. Alfred Gray and Jasper Merry stipulated, you know, that at the -end of two years they were only to tend shop between sunrise and -sunset.” - -“Very well,” said Martin Barton, “I am glad of it. Then we may as well -all quit together, at the same hour, for the other young men have the -like privilege.” - -“No,” said Jenny Hart, “Ira Elkado made no such bargain, he is to work -evenings, and as there are many bundles to pack up, he can help the -porter to”—but Jenny Hart cast those black eyes of hers to the end of -the long counter, and there stood Ira Elkado figuring away at accounts, -his auction accounts, and making all square. Her heart smote her, but -she reasoned herself out of her tender feelings, for the man had been -presumptuous and disposed to meddle, particularly with a fifth clerk, a -clever young man who had his station on the right hand of Martin Barton, -and, of course, next to her. Ira Elkado had at first longed for this -post of honour, but his having to turn buyer at auctions kept him from -having a regular station behind the counter. His place was the old spot -once occupied by Hosea Bringle, and here he had to sit perched up at a -small desk. - -Oh, how these people worked; never shop had such a run; and Jenny Hart’s -fame had spread far and wide. Some people said she was beautiful, very -beautiful; far too beautiful to stand behind the counter; but others -thought that she was not so very beautiful either; only so remarkably -shrewd and good humoured. The gentlemen made business every day to get a -peep at her; and yet, after all, what was it? She had a neat, well made -figure; a pretty hand, and a small foot, with a delicate ankle. Her eyes -were like black cherries dipped in clear spring water; and her teeth -were like grains of white corn, standing out a little. She had a large, -well shaped mouth and rich red lips, with a breath like new made hay. -Her cheek bones were a little too high, and her nose a thought too -small; and her skin, the hundredth part of a shade too dark; but take -her all in all there was a something which was very piquant about her. I -forgot her voice; it was fine, clear, and musical, and such as no one -could ever forget. - -“I’ll have her yet,” said Ira Elkado, as he sat watching her from the -corner of his eye. “That lad, Archy Campbell, next her, thinks he is in -a fair way to win her, but he shall eat poison first. I have wrought -hard for her, and she and this shop shall be mine. I wonder how old the -black eyed gipsy is.” - -More than Ira Elkado had wondered; and had asked this question, but no -one knew. Jenny Hart was an orphan, and came early into Mr. Daly’s -family. We knew her age, however; she was just six and twenty when Ira -Elkado sat wondering. - -At ten o’clock the postman brought two letters, one for Martin Barton, -and one for Mrs. Martin Barton—the first letter, really the first letter -either of them had ever received in their lives. Jenny Hart had never -read a letter, but she knew how one ought to be opened; a thing which -neither of the two owners of the shop did. - -“Jenny Hart, can you tell how to open this letter?” - -“Yes, surely I can; I have seen many a one opened—here, let me cut the -seals—there—they are open. This is yours, Mr. Martin Barton;—twelve -cents a dozen, Miss—and this is yours, Mrs. Martin Barton; but what is -the matter?” - -The fact is, that Martin Barton was perplexed. The letter began thus: -“Dear sir, I am sorry to inform you of the death of ——,” he had got so -far when Jenny Hart, true as steel to her business, no sooner had said, -“What is the matter?” than she turned to a customer who wanted black -silk stockings. “Mr. Martin Barton, said she, please to show this -gentleman the best black silk stockings—here is a pin, stick it in the -place where you left off.” (Jenny Hart used to do so when reading a -book.) - -Martin Barton stuck in the pin, laid down the letter, and sold the -stockings, while the gentleman was eyeing the pretty shop-girl. Archy -Campbell could have knocked him down; and Ira Elkado was well pleased to -see his rival vexed. Jenny Hart was indifferent to all this; turning to -Mrs. Martin Barton with, “some ladies’ gloves wanting—here, stick a pin -in the letter where you leave off; the gloves are twenty-five cents, you -know, Mrs. Martin Barton.” - -“Archy Campbell,” said she, one day, “why did you look so angrily at the -gentleman who gave me the bunch of flowers yesterday? It was not like -you; and it gave me great pain; you will drive customers away if you -behave so rudely to them.” - -“You know well enough, Jenny Hart, why I looked angrily; and there sits -Ira Elkado, who knows it too”— - -“Carpet binding by the gross?” - -“Yes, sir. Archy Campbell, show the best carpet binding,” said the -indefatigable Jenny Hart; never waiting to hear why Archy Campbell -looked so mad at the customer. - -It certainly was a great relief to them all, when the shop closed at -sundown. Every one felt it a blessing but Ira Elkado; it cut him off -from two or three hours of gazing at Jenny Hart, and in regaling himself -with the thoughts of conquering this hard hearted gipsy, as he always -called her. He lay awake for hours, very often, in trying to perfect -some plan by which he could get admittance to her during the evening; -but it never came to any thing. He was one of those kind of persons -whose imaginations are fertile enough; but with physical capacities so -entirely different, that a life is spent, or dawdled away, without any -benefit to themselves or others. Had Ira Elkado been as brisk in his -motions as he was in his mind, the shop and Jenny Hart might have been -his long ago; but her good genius preserved her from a hard fate. Hard -it would have been; for Ira Elkado never ended one of his aspiring -soliloquies without grinding his teeth and promising himself great -satisfaction in scourging her, after marriage, as she had scourged him -before. Poor Jenny Hart did not mean to scourge him; it was her way of -managing people. She was shrewd, and treated them according to their -merits; but she was never unjust. - -As soon as the shop was shut, and she had presided at the tea-table, -(for in the old fashioned way, the clerks always lived in the house, and -ate at the table, one after the other,) she assisted Martin Barton and -Archy Campbell in counting the money of the day; and it was a job. But -by the judicious mode of keeping the different money apart; and, oh, how -she rated the poor clerk, in whose box a sixpence was found in the -shilling department—much time was saved. Martin Barton and his wife, -good souls, went tired to bed, as soon as this was over; and then came -Jenny Hart’s holiday: then was the time to see her. Talk of her beauty -and musical voice; her bounding spirit and her grace of motion, behind -the counter; what was all that to the seeing her up in Mrs. Armstrong’s -room, with the twin sisters! Then her joyous spirit relaxed; tape, -bobbin, buttons, money, marketing, bank stock, rents—for Jenny managed -all the money concerns; and Martin Barton was now immensely rich—then -all was combed out of her head with the first brush that was put to her -fine glossy hair. - -It was the signal for fun and frolic, when her light step was heard -bounding up the narrow stairs; and there stood the two girls ready to -snatch the first kiss, and to say the first word. From the time they -could hold the brush, they coveted the pleasure of combing and brushing -her hair; and the poor thing was generally so tired that she was really -glad when they were old enough to do it properly for her. So up she -came, and down she sat on the sofa; and a world of things had she to -hear from the two innocent girls; and then came the rummaging of her -apron pockets and her ample basket; and then came Mrs. Armstrong, with -her account of the progress of her pupils. - -“Oh, such sweet walks as we have, dear Jenny Hart. Why can you not -sometimes go with us? it would do you so much good,” said Rona, a -beautiful black eyed girl; “you must go with us to-morrow.” - -“Or, if you cannot take a walk, you can surely go with us to the museum -in the evening, now that the shop closes at sundown,” said Ida, the blue -eye, and quite as beautiful as her sister. - -“Why, that is true,” said Jenny Hart, “and we can do a great deal in -that way, now that winter is coming and the evenings long.” - -“Jenny Hart, dear, I want some fine cotton stockings,” said Rona. “And I -want gloves,” said Ida. “And I want a fresh supply of needles and -thread, and every thing, in short, for these little gipsies have given -away my whole stock.” - -“Plenty, plenty shall you have; for plenty there is. And do you know -that you are to have a grand Christmas present? But if you guess till -morning you will not guess right; for ‘tis a present that does not often -fall to the lot of the daughters of thread and needle people. Oh, Mrs. -Armstrong, let us remember the poor, for we are growing very rich.” - -The girls guessed; and Mrs. Armstrong was made to guess; but they fell -either above or below the mark; and tell, Jenny Hart would not. Then -came the little story, that one or the other read every evening. And, to -see Jenny Hart’s admiration at their progress! And then came the writing -books; and, lastly, just as the clock struck ten, came a tap at the -door, and little Betty, with her face hidden in her handkerchief, -presented to the astonished Jenny Hart _two_ letters. - -“Oh, you rogues,” said the delighted little maiden—“letters from you—oh, -how nicely they are written. And I dare say they are all spelled right; -hey, Mrs. Armstrong? And how sweetly they smell of roses. I’ll show them -to your father and mother in the morning; and, if there is a chance, to -Archy Campbell.” - -“And to Jasper Merry,” said black eyed Rona; “and to Alfred Gray,” said -the little blue eye. “I will, I will,” said Jenny Hart. - -“And why not to Peter Squires and Ira Elkado?” said Mrs. Armstrong. -“Because,” said Jenny Hart, “I never think of Peter Squires from one -year’s end to the other. I see quite through him when he stands near me; -such a mere shadow he is. Not but that he is a faithful, honest -creature. I’ll get Mr. Martin Barton to set him up in business, one of -these days; and, as to Ira Elkado—I tell you what, Mrs. Armstrong, I go -as near to hating him as I can hate any one; and yet, poor soul, he does -me no harm. I think I’ll set him up with Peter Squires; but we cannot -spare him yet. We have not made, what I think, enough money yet. I shall -remember the museum; and, perhaps, I may bring Archy Campbell with me.” - -“And Jasper Merry,” said Rona. “And Alfred Gray,” said Ida. “Yes, yes, -dears; I’ll bring them all; and so, good night—good night; and write me -such a pretty letter every day; and who knows what I’ll do when -Christmas comes?” - -Christmas was indeed a day with the whole family of Martin Barton. -First, there was the great long counter, covered with squares of -table-cloths, before each clerk’s stand; and then, there was the hall -table, for the servants; and, lastly, there was the parlour, next -door—literally full of presents for the children, Mrs. Martin Barton’s -two twins; and there were the little baskets for the poor customers—I -suspect they did not pay much for needle and thread. Jenny Hart had -arranged every thing herself; and there she stood in the shop, at -sunrise, having given them all an early breakfast. With a little white -wand in her hand, she pointed to a table that stood out from the corner, -and said— - -“Hosea Bringle—our oldest and our best clerk—lift up the table cover; -Martin Barton hopes you will be pleased with what is under.” - -Old Hosea, who had not been in the shop for a long time, lifted up the -cover—“Oh, Jenny Hart, how kind; how excellent all these things are; and -I was wishing for this box of tools, and all this fine wire; (just as if -Jenny Hart did not know his wants) and here is fine perfumed soap, and -every thing an old man wants; and, ah ha, Miss Jenny Hart, you have -found out I have a sweet tooth, have you? (Jenny Hart had furnished him -with confectionary for twelve years,) and what’s this?—a suit of -clothes? oh, Miss Jenny Hart—and the old man wrung her hand, with his -eyes swimming; while she, the good little maiden, laughed till she -cried. - -“Ira Elkado—lift up that cover,” said she, touching it with her wand. -“What can it be?” thought he; “it lies flat; I think she means to play -me a trick. I shall not touch it. Nothing can lie under that flat -cover;” so he said, “Never mind me, Jenny Hart; pass on to Mr. Archy -Campbell.” - -“Well, then,” said Jenny Hart, laughing, “Archy Campbell, lift up your -parcel;” and Archy Campbell lifted up the cover; but there was nothing -but a bunch of rods and a little note. He slipped the note into his -pocket, without looking at it, reddening up to the very temples. He -likewise took up the bunch of rods, and gallantly kissed it, which made -Jenny Hart blush in return. “Devil take the impudent rascal,” said Ira -Elkado. - -“You come next, Alfred Gray;” and Alfred Gray lifted up the cover, where -lay chess men and drawing materials, and perfumery, and books, and -keepsakes in plenty. A little note lay there, too; but he left all and -went near the door to read it. “Keep the contents to yourself,” -whispered Jenny Hart. - -Jasper Merry’s parcel was similar to his friend’s; and the little note -caused them both to smile. Peter Squires came last; and there lay a nice -new suit of clothes for him, and a variety of very useful and pretty -articles likewise; such as a poor young man would like to have, and -could not afford to buy. - -“Now you are all pleased,” said Jenny Hart, “but Ira Elkado; and why he -don’t lift up the cover I cannot tell. I must do it for him.” She lifted -up the cover, and only a little note was seen. Archy Campbell felt -injured, for he dreaded the contents of the note; but he need not have -been jealous. It ran thus: - -“Mr. Ira Elkado, you have served me faithfully for seven years. I shall -want you no longer. At the corner of Joice street, you will find your -shop. I hope it will be to your liking. One year’s rent is paid. Your -friend, Martin Barton.” - -Ira Elkado had nearly fainted; but, rallying, he lifted up his head to -thank Jenny Hart; but she was gone. Out he rushed to look at his shop. -He might well thank Jenny Hart, for it was all her doings. She had -persuaded Martin Barton to give the young man this outfit—a thousand -dollars’ worth. Ira Elkado made heaps of money, and died a rich man; but -he had visions of Jenny Hart to the last. - -At twelve o’clock the little girls’ present was at the door; a handsome -new carriage, and a pair of excellent, gentle horses. “There’s for you, -dears,” said she, as the happy children flew to the window; “there, jump -in. After sitting in church so long you will be the better for a little -ride. Come, let us all go; Martin Barton has never been inside of a -carriage in his life; and I can scarcely remember how it is.” The whole -family—six—took a nice ride to old Mr. Daly’s, and had a fine Christmas -dinner. - -“Well, young gentlemen, how did you like the contents of the notes?” -said she, the next morning. “O delightful! Most happy it made us,” said -Alfred Gray and Jasper Merry. “And the honour is deeply felt by me,” -said Archy Campbell, blushing and looking tenderly at Jenny Hart, who -said, “Pshaw.” The notes were nothing more than an invitation from Mrs. -Armstrong to go with them to the museum. From that hour every evening -was spent in Mrs. Armstrong’s parlour; and innocent they were, for the -lady was indeed, as Jenny Hart said, a rock of learning; and loved to -improve young people. - -Martin Barton knew no more what was going on next door than if the -family was not his; all the day was spent behind the counter, and the -evening found them so tired that they were only fit for the bed when the -money was counted, and put in the iron chest. On Sunday they went -regularly to church, in the morning, dined, took a long nap in the -afternoon, were called up to tea, yawned while drinking it; and, after a -few vain attempts to keep awake, fairly took the candle and went to bed. -Poor tired souls; if it had not been for this one day’s rest, they never -could have gone through the week. But Jenny Hart did not tire; her -little caoutchouc frame never failed her. Her twins and herself, with -Mrs. Armstrong and old Hosea, spent almost every Sunday with Mr. and -Mrs. Daly, going with them to the village church. - -Still they toiled on; the years passed—flew, it seemed; and they grew -richer and richer, until even Jenny thought they had enough; and most -judiciously had she placed the money. She had chosen her counsellor -well; honest Mr. Norton, the broker; he never deceived her for a moment; -and, as to herself, even Archy Campbell did not covet her hand more than -did Mr. Norton. He would have taken her without a cent; indeed he did -not know that she had a penny in the world; but Jenny Hart was as honest -as himself; and she settled it in her mind, long ago, that she could -never be his wife. He was true to her, however—dear Jenny Hart, who -would not be true to her? - -“Take this parcel up to Mrs. Armstrong, Betty,” said Jenny Hart, one -fine morning in May, “and say, that if it suits she can keep the whole -dozen.” “Twelve for a shilling, sir; thank you.” “Knitting needles?” -“Yes, the best of steel; Alfred Gray, some of the best steel knitting -needles—A newspaper from Mr. Norton, my boy?—thank you; stop, here is a -pair of gloves for you; now run home.—You have only measured off seven -yards, Mrs. Martin Barton, and the lady asked for eight—Jasper Merry, -make that dog go out—Your’s, madam, is it?”—“well, Jasper Merry, just -put him outside of the door and shut it—Why did Mr. Norton send me the -paper?—Oh, I see—The Camperdown property is for sale, Mrs. Martin -Barton—Mr. Daly, your father wants you to buy it sadly. We rode out -there yesterday afternoon; and, really, it is a place for a prince, let -alone poor thread and needle people, like ourselves. It is very much -improved since you were there, last fall, Mrs. Martin Barton; all the -houses are finished; and now the gardens are all laid out, and the -fences and the grounds; and it looks like a little settlement already. -Four beautiful houses, all large and very roomy; and the river in front, -too. I wonder what it will bring. It is to be sold separate or together; -but I fear it is beyond our means. The property is to be sold on Monday -next.” - -“I wonder how it came to be called Camperdown,” said Martin Barton. “I -had a scapegrace of a cousin, called Camperdown Barton; but for him my -old uncle Davies would have left me something handsome. Some people did -say, that this Camperdown Barton forged a will in his own favour; but I -could not believe it.” - -“Mr. Barton,” said a man, entering the shop—“Martin Barton, if you -please, sir,” said Mr. Martin Barton. - -“Mr. Martin Barton,” said the man, smiling, “have you any white -galloon?” “Yes.” “Alfred Gray, hand down that box of white galloon,” -said Jenny Hart. - -“And where is this Camperdown Barton, now,” said Jenny Hart, when the -man had bought the galloon, and was out of the shop. - -“I can hardly tell; but he was in the West Indies when I last heard of -him. He married, and had two children, and”— - -“La, Mr. Martin Barton,” said his wife, “what became of my letter; I am -sure there was some mention made in it of this Camperdown Barton—I stuck -a pin in it, Jenny Hart, as you told me, at the very place; and I had no -time to finish the letter; in fact I don’t know where I put it. Do you -know, Jenny Hart?—it is many years ago.” - -“Well, let me see—yes, I think I know; it is in the japan box, on the -toilet table. And what became of your letter, Mr. Martin Barton?” - -“Mine, Jenny Hart? that is more than I can tell. I laid it just here; -and I stuck a pin in at where I left off, as you told me.” - -“It must have been pushed aside; or perhaps it was folded up in one of -the bundles of stockings. It is gone, certainly. I trust it had nothing -of importance in it.” Jenny Hart always placed Martin Barton before the -shelves of socks and stockings, as they were the least perplexing -articles to sell. - -“Here is a letter,” said Jasper Merry, “I picked it up the other day, by -Mr. Martin Barton’s feet; I think it must have fallen from that bundle -of stockings that you sent up to Mrs. Armstrong.” - -“Let me see,” said Jenny Hart. She took it, and cast her eye over the -contents, while Mr. Martin Barton and his wife were plunged in tapes, -bobbins, buttons and pins. She quietly put it in her little French -pocket, and as quietly walked out of the shop. In five minutes Mr. -Norton was with her up in Mrs. Armstrong’s parlour. - -“Look here,” said Jenny Hart, “just read this letter, Mr. Norton. Only -think what luck to find it as we did. Two days later, and all would have -been lost to us.” Mr. Norton was indeed surprised, for this letter -announced the death of this very cousin, and his two children—this -Camperdown Barton; and he had left all the property to his cousin, -Martin Barton, on condition that he claimed it before a certain period. -If not claimed then, it was to be sold and the money divided among some -distant relations. As Martin Barton had not claimed it—how tired I am of -always writing his name at full length; but I shall soon have done—the -property was to be sold on the following Monday, the very day the term -expired. - -“There is no difficulty, then, Mr. Norton,” said Jenny Hart, “we can -claim it yet, can we? Certainly my dear Jenny Hart—he could not have -called her Jenny for the world, nor could I—so send Martin Barton to me. -Can you tell why he chose to be called Martin Barton?—‘tis so tiresome.” - -“Why, this very Camperdown Barton was the cause; he was a bad character -even when very young, and our Martin Barton kept the two names together, -that he might not be taken for his cousin. I only heard all this this -morning, for we have been always too busy to talk of such matters. I -think that Mrs. Martin Barton is even more particular on this point than -he is. But, oh, Mr. Norton, don’t our dear little girls grow finely?” - -“Little girls indeed! why they are young women, taller than yourself, -Jenny Hart; but they don’t eclipse you yet; you are as pretty and good -as ever, hard-hearted girl that you are; but I claim the promise of -giving you away,” said the kind old bachelor, seeing Jenny Hart shy off. -“Good morning, then, if you must go; but this shop business will kill -you; you work too hard.” - -“Never fear,” said she, and down she tripped, pitying Mr. Norton for his -hopeless love, although he was now quite resigned to it; and -congratulating Martin Barton on this handsome accession of property. Of -course, every thing was properly done, and to the entire satisfaction of -every one but the poor folks, who were on the point of getting the -money. This Camperdown Barton had, in reality, secreted the will of -their uncle; but on the death of his children he repented, and restored -as much of the property as was left to the true owner. - -But oh, what a plot Jenny Hart had in hand—her first plot and her last. -She had acquainted Martin Barton and his wife, with the affection that -was growing up between their daughters and the two excellent young -clerks, Jasper Merry and Alfred Gray; and the good couple were very well -content. The acme of bliss was to stand day in and day out, in the -thread and needle shop, eat their three nice meals, count out their five -long boxes of copper and silver and bank notes, rock themselves for a -quarter of an hour in their high backed rocking chairs, and go lovingly -to bed as innocent and happy as their “two” twins. - -For one month did Jenny Hart toil as no woman ever did toil; for she had -all sorts of work people to superintend, and all sorts of secrets to -keep; and above all she had to repress Archy Campbell’s highly excited -feelings, for he was as far as ever from coming to any understanding -with her. Well, all was ready—the first of June came; Archy had been -told in a quiet kind of way, that he was to be bride’s man to his two -young companions; and that he must be ready at a minute’s warning, and -to go on as if nothing was to happen, particularly on this their last -day in the shop. - -The last day came—the first of June, and the shop was unusually full; -for quietly as Jenny Hart managed every thing, still something had -leaked out, and as she was the most conspicuous person, the secret was -attached to her. It was conjectured, that she was either to be married -to Mr. Norton or to Archy Campbell, and in either case she would -disappear from public eyes. - -It will be a great loss to the shop when she goes, said one; a public -loss said another; Jenny Hart ought never to marry said a young -gentleman; for half the pleasure in life we young fellows have, is to -get a look at her and hear her musical voice, so modest and so arch and -gay as she is too. I have a great mind to choke old Norton, and shoot -this Archy Campbell; and there he stands, looking as if no happiness -awaited him. I think it must be old Norton after all; for no man could -look so grave on the eve of marrying such a peerless creature as this -Jenny Hart. Young and old caught a whisper of the news, but no one dared -to banter her; in fact, there was no chance, she was so busy. - -Tired and fagged they all were that day; and if you had looked down -behind the counter, you would have seen Martin Barton, the much enduring -creature, standing on one foot to rest the other. His wife had told him -to do it years ago; and so, whenever he saw her standing on one foot, -which was generally every Saturday, he thought it was high time to do -the same. This day poor Jenny Hart did complain of fatigue, the first -time Archy Campbell had ever heard her complain of any thing. “Are you -tired, Jenny Hart?” said Martin Barton, “how sorry I am.” “Tired, are -you?” said Mrs. Martin Barton, “stand on one foot as we do Jenny Hart, -that will rest the other.” “Stand on one foot,” said Jenny Hart, -laughing, “I have not a foot left to stand upon.” - -“Oh, what a beautiful bunch of flowers,” said a lady, “where did they -come from, and whom are they for?” - -“They came from our new place Camperdown,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, “and -they are for our two twins to-morrow.”—Jenny Hart pushed her. - -“Ah! true,” said the lady, “I recollect you have twins; how old are -they?” - -“How old? let me see,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, who really had known the -night before; but Jenny’s push had bewildered her—she was afraid that to -tell their age, would be to tell the secret. “How old are they Jenny -Hart?” - -“Just seventeen, Mrs. Martin Barton, and the sun is down, you see. We -shut up shop now at sundown,” said Mr. Martin Barton. Seeing that many -of the customers lingered—we are going to the—Jenny gave him a push. -“What ails them both to tell things now,” thought she, “just at this -present moment, and never before?” - -Well, the shop was closed, the clerks had their tea, the boxes were -brought in and the money counted; Archy Campbell put all in the strong -box and disappeared. Jenny Hart,—a thing of late years, quite unusual, -set herself down in a chair, and seemed as if she were going to spend -the evening in the little back room. - -“I have something to say to you my good kind friends,” said she at last, -“something that I fear will give you pain; and I have also a favour to -beg of you, and this I know you will have pleasure in granting.” - -“Tell us all in the morning, dear Jenny Hart,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, -“for I am so sleepy and tired, that I cannot even listen.” - -“Just stop one moment,” said she, as Mrs. Martin Barton was pulling her -husband by the sleeve to go, she having the candlestick in her hand. - -“You are going with us to Camperdown to-morrow,” said he, “and you can -come in our carriage, and tell us all about it. Poor thing, see how -tired she is;” and he looked down, and saw Mrs. Martin Barton on one -foot. - -“Going with you,” said Jenny Hart, her lip quivering, “yes, just for -to-morrow; but you’ll see then—you’ll see. But go to bed, for I fear -that what I have to say, will rob you of sleep.” - -“Oh, no,” said Martin Barton, “nothing can keep two such tired souls -awake, so say out and have done with it. You see that even poor tired -Letty is broad awake, has let go my sleeve, and has put down the -candlestick.” - -“Well, to be sure,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, “a change has come over -you. I have not heard you call me Letty this many a day. Speak out Jenny -Hart.” - -“I won’t detain you long,” said Jenny, rising as she spoke, and going -near her friends, “We have taken an account of stock you know—and my -wages for the last fourteen years, untouched you know, is about equal to -the amount of goods. I want you to let Archy Campbell have the goods and -the shop, and your good will—and—poor Jenny Hart in the bargain. Archy -Campbell has saved money too; will you give your consent?” - -“No,” thundered out Martin Barton, wide awake, “that I won’t. The goods -he may have for nothing, the shop he may have for nothing, and our best -good will he may have; but as to your leaving us—no, never. Oh, Jenny -Hart, Jenny Hart, can you bear to leave us? You may well cry and take on -so, Letty; why it is impossible, Jenny Hart—we could not stand it.” - -“Oh, Jenny Hart, dear Jenny Hart,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, wide awake -now, falling on the afflicted little maiden’s neck, and trembling like a -leaf—“don’t leave us, we shall both die if you think of leaving us. -Martin Barton, don’t let us go to Camperdown—that is, to live there, I -mean. If she will stay, let us remain and keep shop for her as she has -done for us.” - -“Good heaven,” thought Jenny Hart, almost fainting with emotion, “could -I have believed that under this untiring money-making spirit there was -so much of deep feeling?—and for me too! But I cannot give up Archy -Campbell; he has wrought hard for me. If I go with them I must give him -up, and that I find I cannot do.” - -“There is no sleep for us to-night, Jenny”—seeing her hesitate—“how much -did you say we were now worth?” - -“Why, Archy Campbell was just whispering to me as he went out that you -were now worth half a million of dollars, besides the large Camperdown -property. He has been hard at work with Mr. Norton for the last week.” - -“Half a million!” said Mrs. Martin Barton; “well, it is really time to -leave off selling thread and needles.” - -“Yes, a good half million,” said the little shopwoman exultingly. Martin -Barton whispered to his wife, and she wiped her tearful eyes, and -laughed out aloud. “Excellent,” said she,—“ah, Jenny, you have had your -day, now we’ll have ours; it is all settled, Jenny Hart, we have settled -it all, and now I am getting sleepy again—so, good night.” - -What did Jenny do when the good couple left her? why she sent little -Betty for Archy Campbell, and when he came in she pointed to a chair. - -“Archy Campbell,” said she, “I have never told you that this was the -last day that Mr. and Mrs. Martin Barton were to be in the shop. They -have left it entirely, and—and—it is yours—all yours, goods, shop, and -all.” - -“And _you_, Jenny Hart,” said the young man, rising and standing before -her, trembling with emotion. - -“I,” said she, rising also, and stepping to the door of the entry which -led to the next house,—“I, why I am going to Camperdown with the -family.” (Oh, Jenny Hart, Jenny Hart, how could you torment the young -man in this way?) - -“Then the devil take the goods, the shop, and all,” said he, putting on -his hat. “They may look out for another bridesman to-morrow, and so I -will tell the young man. I had hoped that in time”— - -“They _are_ going to look out for another bridesman in your place,” said -the provoking girl, breaking her heart, too, to see him so unhappy. -“They went to see one of their friends an hour ago, and I am to have the -two sweet girls for my bridesmaids, and you are to have both Jasper -Merry and Alfred Gray for your bridesmen; so get yourself ready and”— - -“Jenny, dearest Jenny,” said he, approaching her, almost beside himself -through hopes and fears, “are you in earnest? am I at last”—and he that -had never wept since he left his mother, now covered his face and wept -aloud. - -“Archy Campbell, I did not think you would be so greatly affected. Oh, -how I have underrated every body! what a world we live in, myself the -poorest in it. Here is my hand, dear Archy Campbell; it is so long since -I gave you my heart that I forget I ever had one.” - -One embrace and the lovers parted; she tripped up, frightened to death -at what she had done, and he threw his hat to the farthest end of the -room in a transport of joy. - -So the carriages came to the door, and then first stepped in Mr. and -Mrs. Martin Barton, Mrs. Armstrong and Mr. Norton, (they were married -that day six months, and I was at the wedding,) and little Betty, who -sat down between Martin Barton’s feet. Then, in the second carriage, -stepped Rona, Jasper Merry, Ida, and Alfred Gray; then went Archy -Campbell—no, I ought rather to say, then went Jenny Hart and Archy -Campbell; he felt too deeply to wish for any other person near him at -that moment but his own darling, Jenny Hart—let me call her so a little -longer;—and, lastly, went the bridesmaids and bridesmen, who rattled -away, and were the first to get at the church door to help the party -out. - -There had been great altercation the morning before as to who should be -married first, but Jenny Hart did not conquer this time. They all coaxed -and threatened, and at last she had to consent, to save time, she said. -“I would not give up now, my dear girls, but I feel as if the poor shop -girl”— - -“Hold your tongue, Jenny Hart,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, “you are not a -poor”— - -Martin Barton gave her a push. Then came the dispute as to which of the -twins should stand up first, for Mrs. Martin Barton had forgotten which -was the oldest; there was only half an hour’s difference, however. Jenny -Hart settled that by saying, that, as Jasper Merry was older than Alfred -Gray, his bride should take the precedence—and all was settled. - -So Jenny Hart, and her manly, handsome lover, Archy Campbell, were -married first—and there had like to have been no one else married, there -was so much kissing and crying; but the ceremonies proceeded, and the -clergyman said he had never married three such lovely couples before. He -had five little notes in his hand as the carriages drove off; it was a -surprise to the poor clergyman, for each paper contained a hundred -dollar note—even Mr. Martin Barton and Mr. Norton made the clergyman a -present. But—half a million! - -Away the carriages flew—five miles to Camperdown—and there, looking -quite young and handsome, stood good Mr. and Mrs. Daly, waiting to bless -them all, and to tell them that dinner was ready. - -The table—two tables, I should say, were set out, and people may believe -it or not as they choose, but, though every delicacy was on them, there -was neither decanter nor wine glass. Temperance was their motto; it was -by temperance in all things that these thread and needle people made -themselves rich and happy. - -The dinner was all one happy confusion; and, if Hosea Bringle had not -solaced himself with a good luncheon, beforehand, he would have risen -from the table with but a poor account of delicacies eaten—he was -impelled on by the tide of joyful faces, to follow, as they left the -house to take possession of their future homes. - -Archy Campbell, with Jenny hanging on his arm, (good reader, let me go -back again, and call her Jenny Hart.) Archy Campbell, with dear Jenny -Hart hanging on his arm; walked slowly forward; his heart was too full -to be gay; his happiness was too new; his gratitude too deep, to know -what was passing; and his bride, letting in a flood of new feelings, was -pondering and wondering to see the quiet, yet alert, shopman, who, for -fifteen years, had frittered away the minutes in selling pennyworths of -tape and needles, transformed into a man of great elevation of soul, and -deep, tender feeling. “And this man is my husband,” said she, casting -her eyes up to his handsome countenance, which was all radiant with joy -as her eye met his. - -First they installed Rona in her house. Every thing that heart could -wish was there, down to the minutest thing; and beautiful every thing -was; for dear Jenny—see, reader, I have dropped the other name—had an -exquisite taste. And then, Ida took possession of her home, exactly like -her sister’s, in point of beauty and completeness; but different only in -fancy. Then Mrs. Armstrong was taken to her house; every thing complete, -like the other two, only the furniture a thought more grave. Then the -whole flock proceeded to the fourth house—it was the one for the father -and mother—good, honest Martin Barton and his wife; this also was a -model of comfort and beauty. The whole party stood on the steps and -under the portico. - -“Step in Jenny Hart—dear Jenny Campbell, now”—said Martin Barton, “step -in, Archy Campbell; I have made up my mind to one thing; and that is, -that I cannot let you have the thread and needle store; I have made it -all over to Peter Squire and Jacob Teller.”—Jacob Teller was the fifth -clerk. - -Jenny turned pale and Archy red—“Come this way, Hosea Bringle,” said old -Mr. Daly, “don’t go to cry, man, you’ll hear all presently—come, son and -daughter, make haste, it is getting late.” - -“Jenny Hart, my own Jenny,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, drying her eyes, -“this house, and all in it, is yours; and here comes Mr. Norton, to make -over to you one-fifth of the money you helped us to make. What, did you -think we could bear to see you toil, and toil again, as you have done; -and Archy Campbell, too—so in with you.” And in they went, with hearts -too full to thank their friends. - -There was, indeed, plenty of room at Mr. Daly’s for Martin Barton and -his wife, and little Betty and all; and, as to Hosea Bringle, he was a -fixture there. Mrs. Armstrong, as I said, did not live alone long, in -her handsome house. - -And now, gentle reader, I must leave off. But would you not like to hear -more of our dear Jenny—how she managed her house and her gardens, and -the poor people in the neighbourhood—and how her husband idolized her; -and how all the old customers, rich and poor, came to see her, and -partake of her hospitalities. Only let me know, and I will tell you more -of her, and how Hosea Bringle read to the four innocent people every -evening, either some good book or other; or in the Arabian Nights; and -how they blended the genii that wanted to kill the merchant, with the -giant in Pilgrim’s Progress. And how the old man sat whittling with a -penknife, making weathercocks for the stables; and, finally, little -go-carts, and little wheelbarrows, and little rakes, for the young -family that was fast rising up around him. They could not come too fast -for old Hosea Bringle. And then, how easy it came to Martin Barton to -take care of a garden; working as hard at it as he did in his thread and -needle store. Only encourage me, and I will write on; or drop a line in -the Evening Star, and the American, of New York, and my pen will soon be -set going again. - - - THE END. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - NEW NOVELS, &c. - - - LATELY PUBLISHED - - BY CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD. - - - _DR. BIRD’S NOVELS._ - - THE HAWKS OF HAWK HOLLOW. A Tradition of Pennsylvania. By the author - of “Calavar,” and “The Infidel.” In 2 vols. 12mo. - - A second edition of - - CALAVAR, OR THE KNIGHT OF THE CONQUEST. A Romance of Mexico. 2 vols. - 12mo. By the author of “The Infidel.” - - THE INFIDEL, OR THE FALL OF MEXICO. A Romance. In 2 vols. 12mo. By - the author of “Calavar.” - - PENCIL SKETCHES, OR OUTLINES OF CHARACTER AND MANNERS. By Miss - Leslie. In 2 vols. 12mo. - - CLINTON BRADSHAW, OR THE ADVENTURES OF A LAWYER. In 2 vols. 12mo. - - TALES AND SKETCHES. By the author of “Linwoods,” “Redwood,” &c. 1 - vol. 12mo. - - THE INSURGENTS. 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