WORDS THAT TOUCH THE INNER HEART.



WORDS, words! O give me these, Words befitting what I feel, That I may on every breeze Waft to those whose riven steel Fetters souls and shackles hands Born to be as free as air, Yet crushed and cramped by Slavery's bands,— Words that have an influence there. Words, words! give me to write Such as touch the inner heart; Not mere flitting forms of light, That please the ear and then depart; But burning words, that reach the soul, That bring the shreds of error out, That with resistless power do roll, And put the hosts of Wrong to rout. Let others tune their lyres, and sing Illusive dreams of fancied joy; But, my own harp,—its every string Shall find in Truth enough employ. It shall not breathe of Freedom here, While millions clank the galling chain; Or e'en one slave doth bow in fear, Within our country's broad domain. Go where the slave-gang trembling stands, Herded with every stable stock,— Woman with fetters on her hands, And infants on the auction-block! See, as she bends, how flow her tears! Hark! hear her broken, trembling sighs; Then hear the oaths, the threats, the jeers, Of men who lash her as she cries! O, men! who have the power to weave In poesy's web deep, searching thought, Be truth thy aim; henceforward leave The lyre too much with fancy fraught! Come up, and let the words you write Be those which every chain would break, And every sentence you indite Be pledged to Truth for Freedom's sake.



OUR HOME.



OUR home shall be A cot on the mountain side, Where the bright waters glide, Sparkling and free; Terrace and window o'er Woodbine shall graceful soar; Roses shall round the door Blossom for thee. There shall be joy With no care to molest,— Quiet, serene and blest; And our employ Work each other's pleasure; Boundless be the treasure; Without weight or measure, Free from alloy. Our home shall be Where the first ray of light Over the mountain height, Stream, rock and tree, Joy to our cot shall bring, While brake and bower shall ring With notes the birds shall sing, Loved one, for thee.



SPECULATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCE.



SPECULATION is business in a high fever. Its termination is generally very decided, whether favorable or otherwise, and the effect of that termination upon the individual most intimately connected with it in most cases unhealthy.

It was a truth long before the wise man wrote it, that making haste to be rich is an evil; and it always will be a truth that the natural, unforced course of human events is the only sure, the only rational one.

The desire to be rich, to be pointed out as wealthy, is a very foolish one, unless it be coupled with a desire to do good. This is somewhat paradoxical; for the gratification of the last most certainly repels that of the first, inasmuch as he who distributes his gains cannot accumulate to any great extent.

Wealth is looked at from the wrong stand-point. It is too often considered the end, instead of the means to an end; and there never was a greater delusion in the human mind than that of supposing that riches confer happiness. In ninety-nine cases out of every hundred the opposite is the result. Care often bears heavily on the rich man's brow, and the insatiate spirit asks again and again for more, and will not be silenced. And this feeling will predominate in the human mind until man becomes better acquainted with his own true nature, and inclines to minister to higher and more ennobling aspirations.

In one of the most populous cities of the Union there resided, a few years since, a person in moderate circumstances, by the name of Robert Short. Bob, as he Was usually called, was a shoemaker. With a steady run of custom, together with prudence and economy combined, he was enabled to support his family in an easy and by no means unenviable style. He did not covet the favors and caresses of the world. He looked upon all,—the rich, the poor, the prince, the beggar,—alike, as his brethren. He believed that all stood upon one platform, all were bound to the same haven, and that all should be equally interested in each other's welfare. With this belief, and with rules of a similar character, guided by which he pursued his course of life, it was not to be wondered at that he could boast of many friends, and not strange that many should seek his acquaintance. There is a desire planted in the hearts of honest men to associate with those who, ambitious enough to sustain a good character, are not so puffed up with pride, or so elevated in their own estimation, as to despise the company of what are termed "the common people." It was pleasant, of a winter's evening, to enter the humble domicile of Mr. Short, and while the howling storm raged fiercely without, and the elements seemed at war, to see the contentment and peace that prevailed within. Bob, seated at his bench, might be seen busily employed, and, as the storm increased, would seem to apply himself more diligently to his task. Six or perhaps eight of his neighbors might also be seen gathered around, seated upon that article most convenient,—whether a stool or a pile of leather, it mattered not,—relating some tale of the Revolution, or listening to some romantic story from the lips of the respected Mr. Short. 'T was upon such an evening, and at such a place, that our story commences. Squire Smith, Ned Green, and a jovial sort of a fellow by the name of Sandy, were seated around the red-hot cylinder. Squire Smith was what some would term a "man of consequence,"-at least, he thought so. Be it known that this squire was by no means a daily visitor at the work-shop of our hero. He came in occasionally, and endeavored to impress upon his mind that which he had settled in his own, namely, that he, Robert Short, might be a great man.

"I tell you what," said he, with an air of importance, "I tell you what, it is against all reason, it is contrary to common sense and everything else, that you remain any longer riveted down to this old bench. It will be your ruin; 'pend upon it, it will be your ruin."

"How so?" eagerly inquired Mr. Short.

"Why," replied the squire, "it's no use for me to go into particulars. But why do you not associate with more respectable and fashionable company?"

"Is not the present company respectable?" resumed Mr. Short; "and as for the fashion, I follow my own."

Squire Smith did not reply to this inquiry, but stood shaking his head, and appeared at a loss for words with which to answer.

"Perhaps your ideas of respectability," continued the squire, "are not in accordance with mine."

"Ay, ay; true, true," interrupted Sandy, with a shrug of the shoulder.

Mr. Smith continued his remarks, appearing not to notice the interruption. "Perhaps," said he, "one may be as honest as the days are long; but, sir, he is far from being respectable, in my humble opinion, if he is not genteel,—and certainly if he is not fashionably dressed he is not. He does not think enough of himself; that's it, my dear Mr. Short, he does not think enough of himself."

"But he is honest," replied Mr. Short. "Supposing he does not dress so fashionably as you would wish, would you condemn him for the cut of his coat, or the quality of his cloth? Perhaps his means are not very extensive, and will not admit of a very expensive outlay, merely for show. It is much better, my dear sir, to be clothed in rags and out of debt, than to be attired in the most costly apparel, and that not paid for. Sir, to hold up your head and say you owe no man, is to be free, free in the truest sense of the word."

"Ah, I must be on the move," interrupted the squire, at the same time looking at his "gold lever." And off he started.

Squire Smith had said enough for that night; to have said more would have injured his plan. Mr. Green and Sandy shook hands with their friend Robert, and, it being late, they bade him "good-by," and parted. Our hero was now left alone. Snuffing the candle, that had well-nigh burnt to the socket, he placed more fuel upon the fire, and, resting his hands upon his knees and his head upon his hands, he began to think over the sayings of his friend the squire.

Robert Short saw nothing of the squire for many days after the event just described transpired. One day, as he began his work, the door was suddenly thrown open, and the long absent but not forgotten squire rushed in, shouting "Speculation! speculation!" Mr. Short threw aside his last, and listened with feelings of astonishment to the eloquent words that fell from the lips of his unexpected visitor. "Gull, the broker," continued the squire, "has just offered me a great bargain. I have come to make a proposition which is, that you and I accept his offer, and make our fortunes."

"Fortunes!" exclaimed the son of Crispin; "speculate in what?"

"In eastern land," was the reply.

Bob Short's countenance assumed a desponding appearance; he had heard of many losses caused by venturing in these speculations, and had some doubts as to his success, should he accept. Then, again, he had heard of those who had been fortunate, and he inquired the conditions of sale.

"Why," replied Mr. Smith, Esq., "old Varnum Gull has three thousand acres of good land, upon which are, as he assures me, some beautiful watering places. It is worth five dollars an acre; he offers it to me for one, and a grand chance it is; the terms are cash."

"Are you certain as to the quality of the land?" inquired Mr. Short.

"Perfectly certain," was the reply. "I would not advise you wrong for the world; but I now think it best to form a sort of co-partnership, and purchase the land. There is no doubt but that we can dispose of it at a great advantage. Will you not agree to my proposals, and accept?"

"I will," answered Mr. Short. "But how can I obtain fifteen hundred dollars? I have but a snug thousand."

"O, don't trouble yourself about that," replied the delighted squire. "I will loan you the balance at once. You can return it at some convenient time. What say you will you accompany me to the broker's, and inform him of the agreement?"

Mr. Short, after a moment's delay, arose, and, laying aside his leather apron, took the squire by the arm, and both sallied forth in search of the office of Varnum Gull. After wending their way through short streets and long lanes, narrow avenues and wide alleys, they came to a small gate, upon which was fastened a small tin sign with the following inscription: "V. Gull, broker, up the yard, round the corner, up two pair of stairs." The squire and Mr. Short followed the directions laid down, and, having gone up the yard and turned round the corner, they found themselves at the foot of the stairs. They stood for a moment silent, and were about to ascend, when a voice from above attracted their attention.

"'Ollo, Squire, 'ere's the box; walk right up 'ere; only look out, there's an 'ole in the stairs."

Our hero looked above, and perceived a man with green spectacles drawing his head in.

"We will go up," said the squire, "and look out for the hole; but, as the stairway is rather dark, we shall not see much; therefore we shall be obliged to feel our way."

They ascended, and escaped without injury. A little short man met them at the door, holding in his hand a paper bearing some resemblance to a map.

"Really, Mr. Smith, I feared you would lose that 'ere bargain I expatiated on. I 'ave received many good offers, but 'ave reserved it for you. Your friend, ha?" he continued, at the same time striking Mr. Short in no gentle manner upon the shoulder.

"Not friend Hay, but friend Short," replied the squire.

"Hall the same, only an error in the spelling," resumed the broker. "Good-morning, Mr. Short; s'pose you 'ave become 'quainted with the rare chance I've offered, an't ye? and wish to accept it, don't ye? and can pay for it, can't ye? Such an opportunity is seldom met with, by which to make one's fortune."

"Well," replied Mr. Short, improving the time Mr. Gull stopped to breathe, "well, I had some idea of so doing." "Hidea!" quickly responded the broker; "why will you 'esitate? read that!" and he handed a paper to Mr. Short which paper he kept for reference, and pointed out to him an article which read as follows:

"It is astonishing what enormous profits are at present realized by traders in Eastern Land. One of our neighbors purchased a thousand acres, at one dollar and twenty-five cents per acre, of Gull, our enterprising broker, and sold it yesterday for the round sum of three thousand dollars, receiving thereby the enormous profit of nineteen hundred and seventy-five dollars. He was a poor man, but by this lucky movement has become rich."

As soon as our hero had read this cheering intelligence, he became elated with the prospect, and soon came to a final agreement with the squire to accept the offer. Papers were drawn up, signed by each, and a check given to the broker, for which was returned a deed for the land. They then left the office, Mr. Gull politely bidding them good-by, with a caution to look out for the "'ole." They did look out for the hole, but it might have been that the cunning broker referred to a hole of more consequence than that in the stairs. The squire on that day invited Mr. Short to his house to dine. This, however, he did not accept, but returned to his shop. One week had passed away, during which time the squire was often at the shop of Bob Short, but no customer had yet applied for the land. It was near dusk on the eighth day succeeding the purchase, as they were talking over the best way by which to dispose of it, when a short man entered, wrapped up in a large cloak, and a large bushy fur cap upon his head.

"I understand," said he, "you have a few acres of land you wish to dispose of."

"Exactly so," answered the squire.

"And how much do you charge per acre?" inquired the stranger.

"That depends upon the number you wish. Do you wish to purchase all?"

"That depends upon the price charged," was the reply.

"If you wish all," continued Mr. Smith, "we will sell for four dollars an acre. That is dog cheap, and a great sacrifice."

"Well," resumed the stranger, "I will take it on conditions; namely, I will pay you your price, and if the land answers my purpose I will keep it,—if not, you will return me the amount of money I pay."

"That is rather a hard bargain. I know it to be good land," answered the squire.

"Then," continued the stranger, "if you know it to be good, certainly there can be no danger in disposing of it on the conditions I have named."

After a few moments' conversation with Mr. Short, they agreed to sell to the stranger. Papers were immediately drawn up and signed by Messrs. Smith and Short, agreeing to return the money provided the land did not give satisfaction. The sum of twelve thousand dollars was paid in cash to the signers, and the papers given into the hands of the purchaser, who then left. Robert Short on that night did really feel rich. This was six thousand dollars apiece; after Mr. Short had paid the fifteen hundred borrowed, he had forty-five hundred left. Both were equally certain that the land would give entire satisfaction, and acted according to this belief. With a light heart he went home, and communicated the joyful intelligence to his wife, who had from the first been opposed to the trade. He did not, however, inform her of the terms on which he had sold. In a few days he had disposed of his shop and tools to one of his former workmen. Many were surprised when the sign of "Robert Short" was taken from its long resting-place over the door. Mr. Short now began to think the house in which he had for many years resided was not quite good enough, and therefore engaged a larger and more expensive one. He ordered new furniture, purchased a carriage and horses, and had his new house fitted out under the direction of his friend, the squire. He rented a large store; bought large quantities of shoes and leather, partly on credit. His business at first prospered, but in a short time became quite dull; his former customers left, and all business seemed at a stand-still. In the mean time, the broker had left town, having sold out his office to a young man. Matters stood thus, when, early in the morning on a pleasant day in June, as the squire and Mr. Short were seated in the counting-room of the latter, a man dressed in a light summer dress entered.

"Good-morning," said the visitor. "Business is quite lively, I suppose?"

"O, it's moderate, nothing extra," replied Mr. Short; "won't you be seated?"

The stranger seated himself.

"Mr. Robert Short is your name, is it not?" he inquired.

"It is, sir."

"Did I not make a bargain with you about some eastern land, a few months since?"

"Yes, some person did;" and Mr. Short immediately recognized him as the purchaser. The new comer then took from his pocket the paper of agreement, and presented it for the inspection of the two gentlemen.

"Are you not satisfied with your bargain?" inquired Mr. Smith.

"Not exactly," replied the stranger, laughing.

"Why, what fault is there in it?"

"Well," replied the stranger, "I suppose a report of my examination will be acceptable."

"Certainly, sir," replied Mr. Short.

"Then I can give it in a few words. It is a good watering place, being WHOLLY COVERED WITH WATER; and is of no value unless it could be drained, and that, I think, is impossible."

The squire was astonished; Mr. Short knew not what to

"What is the name of the water bought for land?" inquired Squire Smith.

"The location of it is in a large pond of water, twelve miles in length, and about six in width, and is known in those parts by the name of the 'Big Pond.' But," continued the stranger, "I must be gone; please return me my money, according to agreement."

After some talk, the stranger agreed to call the next day. The next day came, and with it came the stranger. Mr. Short had tried in vain to obtain the requisite sum, and was obliged to request him to call the next day. He came the next day, and the next, and the next, but received no money; and he was at length obliged to attach the property of the squire, as also that of Mr. Short. His other creditors also came in with their bills. All the stock of Mr. Short was sold at auction, and he was a poor man. He obtained a small house, that would not compare with the one he had lived in in former years. He had no money of his own, and was still deeply in debt. He was obliged to work at such jobs as came along, but at length obtained steady employment. The squire, who was the prime cause of all his trouble, sailed for a foreign port, leaving all his bills unpaid, In a short time Mr. Short obtained a sufficient sum to buy back his old shop, in which to this day he has steadily worked, with a vivid remembrance of the consequence of speculation.



RETROSPECTION.



HE had drank deep and long from out The bacchanalian's bowl; Had felt its poisonous arrows pierce The recess of his soul; And now his footsteps turned to where His childhood's days were cast, And sat him 'neath an old oak tree To muse upon the past. Beneath its shade he oft had sat In days when he was young; Ere sorrow, like that old oak tree, Its own deep shadows flung; Beneath that tree his school-mates met, There joined in festive mirth, And not a place seemed half so dear To him, upon the earth. The sun had passed the horizon, Yet left a golden light Along a cloudless sky to mark A pathway for the night; The moon was rising silently To reign a queen on high, To marshal all the starry host, In heaven's blue canopy. In sight the schoolhouse stood, to which In youth he had been led By one who now rests quietly Upon earth's silent bed. And near it stood the church whose aisles His youthful feet had trod; Where his young mind first treasured in The promises of God. There troops of happy children ran With gayety along; 'T was agony for him to hear Their laughter and their song. For thoughts of youthful days came up And crowded on his brain, Till, crushed with woe unutterable, It sank beneath its pain. Pain! not such as sickness brings, For that can be allayed, But pain from which a mortal shrinks Heart-stricken and dismayed: The body crushed beneath its woe May some deliverance find, But who on earth hath power to heal The agony of mind? O Memory! it long had slept; But now it woke to power, And brought before him all the past, From childhood's earliest hour. He saw himself in school-boy prime; Then youth, its pleasures, cares, Came up before him, and he saw How cunningly the snares Were set to catch him as he ran In thoughtless haste along, To charm him with deceitful smiles, And with its siren song: He saw a seeming friendly hand Hold out the glittering wine, Without a thought that deep within A serpent's form did twine. Then manhood came; then he did love, And with a worthy pride He led a cherished being to The altar as his bride; And mid the gay festivity Passed round the flowing wine, And friends drank, in the sparkling cup, A health to thee and thine. A health! O, as the past came up, The wanderer's heart was stirred And as a madman he poured forth Deep curses on that word. For well he knew that "health" had been The poison of his life; Had made the portion of his soul With countless sorrows rife. Six years passed by-a change had come, And what a change was that! No more the comrades of his youth With him as comrades sat. Duties neglected, friends despised, Himself with naught to do, A mother dead with anguish, and A wife heart-broken too. Another year-and she whom he Had promised to protect Died in the midst of poverty, A victim of neglect. But ere she died she bade him kneel Beside herself in prayer, And prayed to God that he would look In pity on them there: And bless her husband, whom she loved, And all the past forgive, And cause him, ere she died, begin A better life to live. She ceased to speak,—the husband rose, And, penitent, did say, While tears of deep contrition flowed, "I'll dash the bowl away!" A smile passed o'er the wife's pale face, She grasped his trembling hand, Gave it one pressure, then her soul Passed to a better land. He, bent to kiss her pale cold lips, But they returned it not; And then he felt the loneliness And sorrow of his lot. It seemed as though his life had fled; That all he called his own, When her pure spirit took its flight, Had with that spirit flown. She had been all in all to him, And deep his heart was riven With anguish, as he thought what woe He her kind heart had given. But all was passed; she lay in death, The last word had been said, The soul had left its prison-house, And up to heaven had fled; But 't was a joy for him to know She smiled on him in love, And hope did whisper in his heart, "She'll guard thee from above." He sat beneath that old oak tree, And children gathered round, And wondered why he wept, and asked What sorrow he had found. Then told he them this sad, sad tale, Which I have told to you; They asked no more why he did weep, For they his sorrow knew. And soon their tears began to fall, And men came gathering round, Till quite a goodly company Beneath that tree was found. The wanderer told his story o'er, Unvarnished, true and plain; And on that night three-score of men Did pledge them to abstain.



NATURE'S FAIR DAUGHTER, BEAUTIFUL WATER.



NATURE'S fair daughter, Beautiful water! O, hail it with joy, with echoes of mirth, Wherever it sparkles or ripples on earth. Down from the mountain, Up from the fountain, Ever it cometh, bright, sparkling and clear, From the Creator, our pathway to cheer. Nobly appearing, O'er cliffs careering, Pouring impetuously on to the sea, Chanting, unceasing, the song of the free. See how it flashes As onward it dashes Over the pebbly bed of the brook, Singing in every sequestered nook. Now gently falling, As if 't were calling Spirits of beauty from forest and dell To welcome it on to grotto and cell. Beauteous and bright Gleams it in light, Then silently flows beneath the deep glade, Emblem of life in its sunshine and shade. Beautiful water! Nature's fair daughter! Where'er it sparkles or ripples on earth, Hail it with joy and with echoes of mirth.



THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP.



BRIGHTEST shine the stars above When the night is darkest round us; Those the friends we dearest love Who were near when sorrow bound us. When no clouds o'ercast our sky, When no evil doth attend us, Then will many gather nigh, Ever ready to befriend us. But when darkness shades our path, When misfortune hath its hour, When we lie beneath its wrath, Some will leave us to its power. Often have we seen at night, When the clouds have gathered o'er us, One lone star send forth its light, Marking out the path before us. Like that star some friendly eye Will beam on us in our sorrow; And, though clouded be our sky, We know there'll be a better morrow. We know that all will not depart, That some will, gather round to cheer us: Know we, in our inmost heart, Tried and faithful friends are near us. Brother, those who do not go May be deemd friends forever; Love them, trust them, have them know Nothing can your friendship sever.



WEEP NOT.



WEEP not, mother, For another Tie that bound thyself to earth Now is sundered, And is numbered With those of a heavenly birth. She hath left thee. God bereft thee Of thy dearest earthly friend; Yet thou'lt meet her, Thou wilt greet her Where reunions have no end Her life's true sun Its course did run From morn unto meridian day; And now at eve It takes its leave, Calmly passing hence away. Watch the spirit- 'T will inherit Bliss which mortal cannot tell; From another World, my mother, Angels whisper, "All is well." 'Way with sadness! There is gladness In a gathered spirit throng; She, ascended, Trials ended, Joins their ranks and chants their song. Weep not, mother, For another Tie doth bind thyself above; Doubts are vanished, Sorrows banished, She is happy whom you love.



RICH AND POOR.



"GOOD-BY, Ray, good-by," said George Greenville; and the stage wound its way slowly up a steep ascent, and was soon lost to view.

"Well, well, he has gone. Glad of it, heartily glad of it! When will all these paupers be gone?" said the father of George, as he entered the richly-furnished parlor, and seated himself beside an open window.

"Why so glad?" inquired George, who listened with feelings of regret to the remark.

"Why?" resumed the owner of a thousand acres; "ask me no questions; I am glad,—that's enough. You well know my mind on the subject."

"Father, act not thus. Is this a suitable way to requite his kindness?"

"Kindness!" interrupted the old man; "say not 't was kindness that prompted him to do me a favor; rather say 't was his duty,—and of you should I not expect better things? Did I allow you to visit Lemont but to become acquainted with such a poverty-stricken, pauper-bred youth as Ray Bland?"

Saying this, he arose and left the room.

George seated himself in the chair vacated by his father. He looked across the verdant fields, and mused upon his passionate remarks. "Well," thought he, "I was right; shall I allow the god of Mammon to bind me down? Of what use are riches, unless, whilst we enjoy, we can with them relieve the wants and administer to the necessities of our fellow-men? Shall we hoard them up, or shall we not rather give with a free hand and a willing heart to those who have felt misfortune's scourging rod,—who are crushed, oppressed and trampled upon, by not a few of their more wealthy neighbors?" In such a train of thought he indulged himself till the hour of dinner arrived.

George Greenville had formed an acquaintance with Ray Bland whilst on a visit to a neighboring town. He was a young man, possessing those fine qualities of mind that constitute the true gentleman. His countenance beamed with intelligence, and his sparkling eye betrayed vivacity of mind, the possession of which was a sure passport to the best of society. When the time came that George was to return home to the companionship of his friends, they found that ties of friendship bound them which could not be easily severed, and Ray accepted the invitation of George Greenville to accompany him, and spend a short time at the house of his father. The week had passed away in a pleasant manner. The hour of parting had come and gone; The farewell had been taken, the "good-by" had been repeated, when the conversation above mentioned passed between him and his father.

The family and connections of George were rich; those of Ray were poor. The former lived at ease in the midst of pleasures, and surrounded by all the comforts and conveniences of life; the latter encountered the rough waves of adversity, and was obliged to labor with assiduity, to sustain an equal footing with his neighbors. Thus were the two friends situated; and old Theodore Greenville scorned the idea of having his son associate with a pauper, as he termed all those who were not the possessors of a certain amount of money,—without which, in his opinion, none were worthy to associate with the rich.

"Ray is a person not so much to be hated and sneered at as you would suppose," said George, breaking the silence, and addressing his father at the dinner-table.

"George, I have set my heart against him," was the reply.

"Then," continued the first speaker, "I suppose you are not open to conviction. If I can prove him worthy of your esteem and confidence, will you believe?"

"That cannot be done, perhaps. You may think him to be a worthy young man; but I discard the old saying that poverty is no disgrace! I say that it is; and one that can, if its victim choose, be washed away. Ray Bland is a pauper, that's my only charge against him; and all the thundering eloquence of a Cicero will not alter my opinion, or move me an iota from the stand I have taken,—which is, now and ever, to reject the company of paupers. It is my request that you do the same."

Amelia, the sister of George, now joined in the conversation, inquiring of her father whether it was against his will for her to associate with the poor.

"Precisely so," was the brief reply; and the conversation ended. The father left the house for a short walk, as was his custom, whilst George and Amelia retired to the parlor, and conversed, for a long time, upon the rash and unjust decision of their parent. The mutual attachment that existed between George and Ray was not looked upon with indifference by the sister of the former; and she determined upon using all the means in her power to bring the latter into the good will of her father; she resolved, like a noble girl, to cherish a social and friendly feeling toward the friend of her brother. He who knows the warmth of a sister's affection can imagine with what constancy she adhered to this determination. The command of her father not to associate with the poor only served to strengthen her resolution, for she knew with what obstacles her brother would have to contend. She had a kind heart, that would not allow a fellow-being to want, so long as she had, or could obtain, the means to relieve him.

"Do you think father was in earnest in what he said?" inquired Amelia.

"I have no reason to doubt his sincerity," replied George; "but what led you to ask such a question?"

"Because, you know, he often speaks ironically; and, as he left the dinner-room with mother, he smiled, and said something about the poor, and a trick he was about to play."

"True, Amelia," replied George, "he is to play a trick; but it concerns not us. You know poor old Smith is one of father's tenants. Smith has been sick, and has not been able to procure funds with which to pay his rent, and father intends to engage a person to take out all the doors and windows of the house. He hopes Smith will thus be forced to leave. I have been thinking whether we cannot devise some plan to prevent the poor man from being turned thus abruptly from the house."

"I am sure we can," replied Amelia; "yet I had much rather have a trick played upon us than upon poor Smith. Can you not propose some way by which we can prevent father from carrying out his intentions?"

"I will give you the money," replied George, "if you will convey it to Mr. Smith, so that he will be enabled to pay his rent. Recollect it must be carried in the night, and this night, as father expects to commence his operations to-morrow or next day. You know that I cannot go, as my time will be fully occupied in attending upon some important business at home." It was not necessary to make this offer more than once. The heart of Amelia bounded with joy, as she anticipated being the bearer of the money to Smith; and, shortly after dark, being provided with it, she proceeded to his house.

It was a dark night. The moon was obscured by thick clouds, and no twinkling star shone to guide her on her errand of mercy. As she drew near the lonely dwelling of Paul Smith, she perceived no light. She feared that he might be absent. Stealthily along she crept, and, listening at the door, heard the voice of prayer, imploring aid and support during the trials of life, that relief might soon be sent. Amelia silently opened the door, and placed the money on a table, accompanied with a note to Smith, requesting him not to disclose the manner in which he received it, and, as silently withdrawing, wended her way home. As she entered the parlor, she found her father and brother engaged in earnest conversation,—so earnest that she was not at first noticed.

"Confound my tenants!" said Mr. Greenville. "There's old Paul Smith; if to-morrow's sun does not witness him bringing my just dues, he shall leave,—yes, George, he shall leave! I am no more to be trifled with and perplexed by his trivial excuses. All my tenants who do not pay shall toe the same mark. I'll make them walk up, fodder or no fodder! Ha, ha, ha! old Smith shall know that I have some principle left, if I have passed my sixtieth year-that he shall! Slipnoose, the lawyer, shall have one job."

"You are always visiting your friends, George. It seems as though all are your friends. Yet I don't blame you, for friends are very happy appendages to one's character. I pity the man who lives a friendless life. That's the reason I have been such a friend to Smith,—but no longer!" As he said this the wealthy landlord left the room.

Amelia related to her brother an account of her adventure, and both were thankful that they been instrumental in relieving the wants of their poor neighbors. The next morning, seated at the table, Mr. Greenville began again to express his opinion respecting poor people in general, and Paul Smith in particular, when a loud rap at the door somewhat startled him. In a few moments a servant entered, and gave information that a person was at the door who wished to see Mr. Greenville. Arriving there, the landlord encountered his tenant, Smith, who immediately told him that by some kind providence he was enabled to pay him his due, and hoped that in future he should be prompt in his payments.

The landlord took the money, and, looking it over, handed him a receipt for the same, and returned to the breakfast-table. Nothing was said about Smith until Mr. Greenville, as he left the room, remarked "that he did not know but that Smith meant well enough."

Nearly a month had elapsed and nothing had been heard of Ray Bland, when, on a certain morning, Mr. Greenville came in and handed George a letter. Upon opening it, George found it to be written by his friend Ray, informing him of his safe arrival home, thanking him for the kind attention he received during his visit, and expressing great pleasure in soon having another opportunity to visit him. George communicated this intelligence to Amelia, and they determined upon using their united efforts in endeavoring to bring over the kind feelings of their father to their young, but poor, friend.

"It's no use for you to talk," said old Mr. Greenville, after a long conversation with the two; "the die is cast. I have resolved, and all the arguments you can bring forward will not cause me to break my resolution."

"Well," remarked George, "perhaps the day will come when you will deeply regret forming such a resolution. Perhaps the sunshine of prosperity will not always illumine our path."

"Be that as it may," interrupted Mr. Greenville, "we will not allow our imagination to wander forth into the mystical regions of the future, or picture to ourselves scenes of wretchedness, if such await us. Flatter me not with the good intentions of Ray Bland."

Months passed away, and the children of the proud Mr. Greenville forbore to mention in the presence of their father aught concerning their friend Ray Bland, or to excite the anger of the old gentleman by combating his prejudices against the poor.

Months passed away, and again Ray Bland found himself beneath the roof of his former friend. He was received by George and Amelia with the cordiality that had ever marked his intercourse with them; but the father was, if possible, more morose and sullen than usual.

Ray had several times made the attempt to know the cause of this coldness, but as often as he alluded to it George would invariably turn the subject; and he forbore to question further, content with the happiness which he enjoyed in the society of those he held so dear.

It was the evening of a fine day in the early spring, that the three friends sat together. It was the last evening of his visit, and Ray expected not to return for a long time. Alone in his study, the father vented his indignation against paupers, which respect for his daughter's feelings only prevented in the presence of their visitor. He opened the casement. Clouds were gathering in the sky, and now and then a faint flash of lightning illumined the increasing darkness; and the far-off voice of the storm was audible from the distance, each moment increasing in strength and violence. Soon the storm was upon them.

The old gentleman retired to his apartment. Each moment the storm increased in violence, and in vain did he strive to close his eyes in sleep.

At length a flash more vivid, accompanied by a peal of thunder more terrific than any that had preceded it, startled the inmates of the mansion. The wind howled terribly, and the old trees groaned and creaked about the dwelling with a fearful and terrific sound.

Within all was still and quiet. No word was spoken, for it was a fearful night, and in fear and dread they suspended their conversation.

Amelia first broke the silence. "Something must be burning," exclaimed she. In an instant the cry of fire was heard. All started up and rushed to the door; and there, indeed, they were witnesses of a sight which might well appall. The whole upper part of the house was in flames. Instantly the cause flashed upon them. The house had been struck and set on fire by lightning. "My father! O, my father!" shrieked Amelia, and fell fainting to the floor. Quick as the word came the thought of Ray Bland that the aged Mr. Greenville might be in danger; and ere George Greenville had borne his sister to a place of safety, through flame and smoke had Ray Bland reached the chamber which he knew the old gentleman occupied. It was locked. One blow of his foot, with all the force he could muster, and locks and bolts gave way. The room was nearly enveloped in flames, the curtains of the window and bed had been consumed, and now the flames had seized the wood-work and burned with great fury. Upon the floor, prostrate as if dead, lay the proud man, who scorned and detested the poor, and who had boasted of being beyond the reach of adversity. To lift him in his arms and bear him to the street was the work of an instant. He had only been stunned, and the drenching rain through which he was carried soon revived him. Ray bore him to the house of poor Smith, the nearest to his own; and there, with feelings of anguish which cannot be described, surrounded by his children and neighbors, the old man learned a lesson which his whole previous life had not taught, of the dependence which every member of society has upon the whole. While his riches were taking wings to fly away even before his own eyes, he felt how foolish and wicked was his past conduct; and ever after the poor found no warmer friend or more liberal hand than that of old George Greenville.

In the course of a few months a new and spacious building was erected upon the site of the one destroyed; and the neighbors say that the pretty cottage which is being built just over the way is to be the future residence of Ray Bland and the fair Amelia, whose aristocratic father now knows no distinction, save in merit, between the rich and poor.



THE HOMEWARD BOUND.



SLOWLY he paced the vessel's whitened deck, While thoughts of hours, and days, and scenes long past, Brought forth from fountains well-nigh dry a tear: For in imagination he could see Himself a tiny boy, in childish sport Upon a river's bank, quite near his home, Chasing the butterfly, whose gaudy dress Lured him away, till, wearied with the chase, Upon some mossy stone he sat him down; Or, in some rippling brook, beneath the shade Of some tall oak, he bathed his parched brow; Then up he sprang, retraced his wandering steps, Yet heedless ran, and could not leave his play. And since that day what scenes had he passed through, What trials met, what sights his eyes beheld! Beneath the burning skies of torrid zones, On frozen banks of Nova Zembla's coast, Or the more fertile climes of Italy; There, where the luscious grape in fulness hangs, And fields of roses yield a rich perfume; 'Mid orange-groves whence sweetest odors rise, 'Neath branches burdened with their fragrant fruit, Forth he had wandered. Mark the semblance now! For much there is between his childish course Upon the river's bank and his later Wanderings. Then, he chased the butterfly. Now, His inclination led to a pursuit More bold, adventurous, and far more grand. Ambition filled his soul. Sometimes he ran In vain; and so it was in boyhood's days; And thus 't is plainly seen that childhood hours Are but an index of our future life, And life an index of that yet to come. As on the vessel swept, a tear would 'scape Forth from its hidden cell, and trickle down The sailor's deeply-furrowed cheek, to bathe Those recollections with the dew of Thought! Some deem it weak to weep. Away the thought! It is not weakness when Affection's fount O'erflows its borders, and to man displays The feelings that its powers cannot conceal. It is not weakness when our feeble words Find utterance only in our flowing tears. Call not such language "weakness"! Worlds may laugh, Yet know no joy like that which often flows In silent tears. As nearer drew the seaman to his home, As in the distance first he saw the spot Where childhood's hours in happiness were spent, His slow pace quickened to a faster walk, And, had he had the power, he'd walked the waves, And bravely dashed the intrusive spray aside, To reach the much-loved spot more rapidly Than wind and tide urged on his noble bark.



THE POOR OF EARTH.



I'VE often wondered, as I've sat Within mine own loved home, And thought of those, my fellow-men, Who houseless, homeless, roam; That one upon this earth is found Whose heart good promptings smother; And will not share his wealth with him Who is his poorer brother! I've often wondered, as I've walked Amid life's busy throng, And seen my fellows who have been By Fortune helped along, That they who bask in its bright rays No tear of pity shed On him who doth no "fortune" seek, But asks a crust of bread! I've seen the gilded temple raised, The aspirant of fame Ascend the altar's sacred steps, To preach a Saviour's name, And wondered, as I stood and gazed At those rich-cushioned pews, Where he who bears the poor man's fate Might hear Salvation's news. I've walked within the church-yard's walls, With holy dread and fear, And on its marble tablets read "None but the rich lie here." I've wandered till I came upon A heap of moss-grown stones, And some one whispered in mine ear, "Here rest the poor man's bones." My spirit wandered on, until It left the scenes of earth; Until I stood with those who'd passed Through death, the second birth. And I inquired, with holy awe, "Who are they within this fold, Who seem to be Heaven's favorite, And wear those crowns of gold?" Then a being came unto me, One of angelic birth, And in most heavenly accents said, "Those were the poor of earth." Then from my dream I woke, but Will ne'er forget its worth; For ever since that vision I have loved "the poor of earth." And when I see them toiling on To earn their daily bread, And dire oppression crush them down, Till every joy hath fled,— I mind me of that better world, And of that heavenly fold, Where every crown of thorns gives place Unto a crown of gold.



IF I DON'T, OTHERS WILL.



"IF I don't make it, others will; So I'll keep up my death-drugged still. Come, Zip, my boy, pile on the wood, And make it blaze as blaze it should; For I do heartily love to see The flames dance round it merrily! "Hogsheads, you want?-well, order them made; The maker will take his pay in trade. If, at the first, he will not consent, Treat him with wine till his wits are spent; Then, when his reason is gone, you know Whate'er we want from his hands will flow! "Ah, what do you say?-'that won't be fair'? You're conscientious, I do declare! I thought so once, when I was a boy, But since I have been in this employ I've practised it, and many a trick, By the advice of my friend, Old Nick. I thought 't was wrong till he hushed my fears With derisive looks, and taunts, and jeers, And solemnly said to me, 'My Bill, If you don't do it, some others will!' "If I don't sell it, some others will; So bottles, and pitchers, and mugs I'll fill. When trembling child, who is sent, shall come, Shivering with cold, and ask for rum (Yet fearing to raise its wet eyes up), I'll measure it out in its broken cup! "Ah! what do you say?-'the child wants bread'? Well, 't is n't my duty to see it fed; If the parents will send to me to buy, Do you think I'd let the chance go by To get me gain? O, I'm no such fool; That is not taught in the world's wide school! "When the old man comes with nervous gait, Loving, yet cursing his hapless fate, Though children and wife and friends may meet, And me with tears and with sighs entreat Not to sell him that which will be his death, I'll hear what the man with money saith; If he asks for rum and shows the gold, I'll deal it forth, and it shall be sold! "Ah! do you say, 'I should heed the cries Of weeping friends that around me rise'? May be you think so; I tell you what,— I've a rule which proves that I should not; For, know you, though the poison kill, If I don't sell it, some others will!" A strange fatality came on all men, Who met upon a mountain's rocky side; They had been sane and happy until then, But then on earth they wished not to abide. The sun shone brightly, but it had no charm; The soft winds blew, but them did not elate; They seemed to think all joined to do them harm, And urge them onward to a dreadful fate. I did say "all men," yet there were a few Who kept their reason well,—yet, weak, what could they do? The men rushed onward to the jagged rocks, Then plunged like madmen in their madness o'er; From peak to peak they scared the feathered flocks, And far below lay weltering in their gore. The sane men wondered, trembled, and they strove To stay the furies; but they could not do it. Whate'er they did, however fenced the drove, The men would spring the bounds or else break through it, And o'er the frightful precipice they leaped, Till rock and tree seemed in their red blood steeped. One of the sane men was a great distiller And one sold liquors in a famous city; And, by the way, one was an honest miller, Who looked on both their trades in wrath and pity. This good "Honestus" spoke to them, and said, "You'd better jump; if you don't, others will." Each took his meaning, yet each shook his head. "That is no reason we ourselves should kill," Said they, while very stupid-brained they seemed, As though they of the miller's meaning never dreamed.



NOT MADE FOR AN EDITOR.

BEING A TRUE ACCOUNT OF AN INCIDENT IN THE HISTORY OF THE STUBBS FAMILY.



MR. and MRS. STUBBS were seated at the side of a red-hot cylinder stove. On one side, upon the floor, a small black-and-white dog lay very composedly baking himself; on the other, an old brown cat was, in as undisturbed a manner, doing the same. The warmth that existed between them was proof positive that they had not grown cold towards each other, though the distance between them might lead one to suppose they had.

In one corner of the room was the bust of a man, whose only existence was in the imagination of a miserable ship-carver, who, in his endeavors to breathe life into his block, came near breathing life out of himself, by sitting up late at night at his task. In the other hung a crook-necked squash, festooned with wreaths of spider-webs. Above the mantel-piece was suspended a painting representing a feat performed by a certain dog, of destroying one hundred rats in eight minutes. The frame in which this gem of art was placed was once gilt, but, at the time to which we refer, was covered with the dust of ages.

Mr. Stubbs poked the fire. Mrs. Stubbs poked the dog, when suddenly the door flew open, and their son entered with blackened eyes, bloody hands; bruised face and dirty clothes, the most belligerent-looking creature this side of the "Rio Grande."

"My voice a'nt still for war, it's loud for war," he said, as, with a braggadocia sort of air, he threw his cap at the dog, who clenched it between his teeth, shook it nearly to tatters, and then passed it over to the cat.

"What's the matter now, Jake?" said Mrs. Stubbs. "Always in trouble,—fights and broils seem to be your element. I don't know, Jake, what will become of you, if you go on at this rate. What say you, father?"

Mr. Stubbs threw down the poker, and casting a glance first at his hopeful son, and then at his hoping wife, replied that Jake was an ignorant, pugnacious, good-for-nothing scamp, and never would come to anything, unless to a rope's end.

"O, how can you talk so?" said his wife. "You know it's nat'ral."

"Nat'ral!" shouted the father; "then it's ten times worse-the harder then to rid him of his quarrelsome habits. But I've an idea," said he, his face brightening up at the thought, as though he had clenched and made it fast and sure.

The mother started as by an electric shock. The boy, who had retired into one corner in a sullen mood, freshened up, and looked at his father. The ship-carver's fancy sketch brightened up also; but not of its own free will, for the force with which Mr. Stubbs brought his hand in contact with the table caused the dirty veil to fall from the bust-er's face.

"What is it?" inquired Mrs. Stubbs, with much animation.

"Why, my dear woman, as we can do nothing with him, we'll make him an editor."

The old lady inquired what that was; and, being informed, expressed doubts as to his ability.

"Why," said she, "he cannot write distinctly."

"What of that?'-let him write with the scissors and paste-pot. Let him learn; many know q great deal more after having learned."

"But he must have some originality in his paper," said Mrs. Stubbs, who, it seemed, did not fall in with the general opinion that "any one can edit a paper."

"Never fear that," said Mr. Stubbs; "he'll conduct anything he takes hold of, rather than have that conduct him. I'll tell you what, old woman, Jake shall be an editor, whether he can write a line of editorial or not. Jake, come here."

Jake, who had nearly forgotten his fight, was elated at the proposition of his father, and, being asked whether, in his opinion, he could conduct a paper with ability, originality and success, replied, in the slang phrase of the day, that he "could n't do anything else," at the same time clenching his fist, as though to convince his sire that he could do something else, notwithstanding.

"As I have never asked you any question relative to public affairs, and as the people of this generation are getting to be wise, I deem it right that I should ask you a few questions before endeavoring to obtain a situation. Now, Jake, who is the President of the United States?"

"General George Washington," replied the intelligent lad, or rather young man; for, though he indulged in many boyish tricks, he was about twenty years of age, a short, dull-looking member of the "great unwashed." The father intimated that he was mistaken; the son persisted in saying that he was not.

"Never mind the catechizer," said Jake; "I'll conduct a newspaper, I will, for Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs never see the day I could n't conduct anything."

"That's bright," said Mrs. Stubbs; "he possesses more talent than I was aware of; he'll make an editor."

"An' he shall," said the father, resolutely.

The clock struck nine, which was the signal for Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs to retire, and they did so. No sooner had they left than their dutiful son mounted the table, and, taking down the fancy bust, pulled the dog by the tail to awake him, and set him barking at it. The cat must have her part in the tragedy, so Jake thought; and, pulling her by the tail, she was soon on the field of action.

"Now, sist-a-boy, Tozer; give her an editorial," said he; and, as dog and cat had been through the same performance before, they acted their parts in manner suiting. The dog barked, the cat snapped and snarled, and Jake Stubbs stood by rubbing his hands in a perfect ecstasy of delight.

It is needless for us to relate the many curious adventures Mr. Stubbs met with whilst searching for a situation for Jake.

His endeavors to find a situation such as he wanted were, for a long time, ineffectual. At length he blundered into a small printing-office, where three men and a boy were testing the merits of half a dozen doughnuts, and a bottle of root beer.

Mr. Stubbs was very sorry to disturb them. When he mentioned his errand, one of the men-a tall fellow, with check shirt and green apron-said that he had, for a long time, contemplated starting a paper, but, as he was not capable of editing one, he had not carried out his intention. The principal reason why he had not published was, he was poor; business had not prospered in his hands, and an outlay of two thousand dollars would be needed to commence and continue the paper.

"Very well," replied Mr. Stubbs, "that is a large sum; but, if there is no doubt of its being returned, I might think of loaning it to you, for the sake of getting my talented son into business."

"Not the least doubt, not the least," replied Mr. Pica; and he so inflamed the imagination of Mr. Stubbs, that, strange as it may seem to the cautious reader, he wrote a check for the amount, merely taking the unendorsed note of Mr. Pica as security; then, hastening home, he told Mrs. Stubbs to brush up the boy, for he was an editor.

Behold, now, Mr. Jake Stubbs in a little room up three pair of stairs, preparing "copy" for the first number of "The Peg Top, or the Buzz of the Nation." He hasn't got black eyes now; all the blackness of his person, if not of his character, has settled in his fingers, and they are black with ink. Not all settled, for a few daubs of the "blood of the world," as the dark fluid has been called, were to be seen on his forehead, having passed there from his fingers, when leaning upon them in a pensive mood, vainly endeavoring to bring up thoughts from the mighty depths of his intellect,—so mighty, in fact, that his thoughts were kept there, and refused to come up.

Mr. Jake Stubbs had been cutting and pasting all day, when, thinking it a little too severe to inflict further duty upon the assistant editor, he took his pen in hand, resolved upon writing a masterly article as a leader.

A sheet of blank paper had lain on the table before him for nearly an hour. He would sit and think. Some idea would pop into his head, then with a dash would the pen go into the ink, but before he could get his pen out the idea had flown, and the world was the loser. Then he threw himself back into his chair,—thought, thought, thought. At length Jake obtained the mastery, as patience and perseverance always will, and the pen became his willing slave, though his mind, being the slave-driver, did not hurry it on very fast. He was able to pen a few words, and wrote "The war with Mexico-"

Well, he had got so far; that was very original, and if he never wrote anything else, would stamp him a man of talent. Into the ink, on the paper, and his pen wrote the little word are. "The war with Mexico are." Ten minutes more of steady thought, and three more words brought him to a full stop. "The war with Mexico are a indisputable fact." That last but one was a long word, and a close observer could have seen his head expand with the effort.

"Copy, sir, copy!" shouted the printer's boy, as he stood with his arms daubed with ink, and a straw hat upon his head that had seen service, and looked old enough to retire and live on a pension.

"Copy what?" inquired the editor, who began to feel indignant, imagining that the publisher had seen his labor to write an article, and had sent him word to copy from some paper.

"Here," said he, "take this to Mr. Pica, and tell him 't is original, and gives an account of the war with Mexico, with news up to this date."

The boy took it, trudged up stairs with two lines of MS., and the editor arose and walked his office, as though his labors were o'er, and he might rest and see some mighty spirit engrave his name upon the scroll of fame.

He had crossed the floor half a dozen times, when in came the same youth, shouting "Copy, sir, copy!"

"Copy what?" shouted Jake, laying hold of the boy's shirt-sleeve. "Tell me what you want copied! tell me, sir, or I will shake your interiors out of you-"

The boy was small, but spunky. His education had been received at the corners of the streets. He had never taken lessons of a professor, but he had practised upon a number of urchins smaller than himself, and had become a thoroughly proficient and expert pugilist.

It was not for Bill Bite to be roughly handled by any one, not even by an editor. So he pushed him from him, and said,

"I want copy; that's a civil question,—I want a civil answer."

Jake's organ of combativeness became enlarged. He sprang at the boy, grasped him by the waist, and would have thrown him down stairs, had not a movement the boy made prevented him.

Bill's arms were loose, and, nearing the table, he took the inkstand and dashed the contents into the face of his assailant.

"Murder!" shouted the editor.

"Copy!" shouted the boy; and such a rumpus was created, that up came Mr. Pica, saying that the building was so shaken that an article in type on the subject of "Health and Diet" suddenly transformed itself into "pi."

The two belligerents were parted; the editor and Master Bill Bite stood at extremes. At this crisis who should enter but Mr. Stubbs, senior, who, seeing his son's face blackened with ink, inquired the cause rather indignantly; at which Mr. Pica, not recognizing in the indignant inquirer the father of the "talented editor," turned suddenly about and struck him a blow in the face, that displaced his spectacles, knocked off his white hat into a pond of ink, and made the old fellow see stars amid the cobwebs and dust of the ceiling.

The son, seeing himself again at liberty, flew at the boy, and gave him "copy" of a very impressive kind.

Down from the shelves came dusty papers and empty bottles, whilst up from the printing-office came the inmates, to learn the cause of the disturbance.

A couple of police-officers passing at the time, hearing the noise, entered, and one of them taking Mr. Stubbs, senior, and the other Mr. Stubbs, junior, bore them off to the lock-up.

This affair put a sudden stop to "The Buzz of the Nation." The first number never made its appearance.

Mr. Pica, having obtained the amount of the check, went into the country for his health, and has not been heard from since.

Elder Stubbs and Stubbs the younger paid a fine of five dollars each; and when they reached home and related to Mrs. Stubbs the facts in the case, she took off her spectacles, and, after a few moments' sober thought, came to the sage conclusion that her son Jake was not made for an editor.



HERE'S TO THE HEART THAT'S EVER BRIGHT.



HERE'S to a heart that's ever bright, Whatever may betide it, Though fortune may not smile aright, And evil is beside it; That lets the world go smiling on, But, when it leans to sadness, Will cheer the heart of every one With its bright smile of gladness! A fig for those who always sigh And fear an ill to-morrow; Who, when they have no troubles nigh, Will countless evils borrow; Who poison every cup of joy, By throwing in a bramble; And every hour of time employ In a vexatious scramble. What though the heart be sometimes sad! 'T is better not to show it; 'T will only chill a heart that's glad, If it should chance to know it. So, cheer thee up if evil's nigh, Droop not beneath thy sadness; If sorrow finds thou wilt not sigh, 'T will leave thy heart to gladness.



MORNING BEAUTY.



BRIGHTLY now on every hill The sun's first rays are beaming, And dew-drops on each blade of grass Are in their beauty gleaming. O'er every hill and every vale The huntsman's horn is sounding, And gayly o'er each brook and fence His noble steed is bounding. There's beauty in the glorious sun When high mid heaven 't is shining, There's beauty in the forest oak When vines are round it twining; There's beauty in each flower that blooms, Each star whose light is glancing From heaven to earth, as on apace 'T is noiselessly advancing. Beauties are all around thy path, And gloriously they're shining; Nature hath placed them everywhere, To guard men from repining. Yet 'mong them all there's naught more fair, This beauteous earth adorning, Than the bright beauty gathering round The early hours of morning.



THE RECOMPENSE OF GOODNESS.



WHEN our hours shall all be numbered, And the time shall come to die, When the tear that long hath slumbered Sparkles in the watcher's eye, Shall we not look back with pleasure To the hour when some lone heart, Of our soul's abundant treasure, From our bounty took a part? When the hand of death is resting On the friend we most do love, And the spirit fast is hasting To its holy home above, Then the memory of each favor We have given will to us be Like a full and holy savor, Bearing blessings rich and free. O, then, brother, let thy labor Be to do good while you live, And to every friend and neighbor Some kind word and sweet smile give. Do it, all thy soul revealing, And within your soul you'll know How one look of kindly feeling Cause the tides of love to flow.



BRIDAL SONGS.

TO THE WIFE.



LET a smile illume thy face, In thy joyous hours; Look of sympathy be thine, When the darkness lowers. He thou lovest movest where Many trials meet him; Waiting be when he returns, Lovingly to greet him. Though without the world be cold, Be it thy endeavor That within thy home is known Happiness forever. TO THE HUSBAND. WHATSOEVER trials rise, Tempting thee to falter, Ne'er forget the solemn vows Taken at the altar. In thy hours of direst grief, As in those of gladness, Minister to her you love, Dissipate her sadness. Be to cheer, to bless, to love, Always your endeavor; Write upon your heart of hearts Faithfulness forever.



THE JUG AFLOAT.



"WHAT I tell thee, captain, is sober truth. If thee wishes to prosper, thee must not allow thy sailors grog, lest, when at sea, they become tipsy, and thy ship, running upon hidden rocks, shall be lost; or else, when at the mast-head, giddiness come upon them, and, falling, thy crew shall number one less."

Thus spake a good old Quaker, a native of the city of Penn. Captain Marlin had been for many days and nights considering whether it were best to carry a complement of wine for himself and friends, and grog for his crew. He had that morning met Simon Prim, and asked his opinion, which he gave as above; yet Captain Marlin seemed undetermined. He felt it to be an important question, and he desired to come to a right conclusion.

They had been passing up Broadway; had reached the Trinity, crossing over towards Wall-street. Simon, with his usual gravity, raised his hand, and, pointing to the towering steeple of the splendid edifice, said:

"If thou, neighbor, desired to ascend yonder spire, thinkest thou thou wouldst first drink of thy wine, or thy grog?"

"Certainly not," replied Captain Marlin.

"Then," continued the Quaker, "do not take it to sea with thee; for thou or thy men mayest be called to a spot as high as yonder pinnacle, when thee little thinkest of it."

The two walked down Wall-street without a word from either, till, reaching a shipping-office, Captain Marlin remarked that he had business within. The Quaker very politely bowed, and bade him take heed to good counsel, and good-day.

The owner of the vessel was seated in an arm-chair, reading the shipping news in the Journal.

"Did you know," said he, as his captain entered, "that Parvalance & Co. have lost their ship, 'The Dey of Algiers,' and none were saved but the cabin-boy, and he half dead when found?"

"Indeed not; when-where-how happened it?" inquired Captain Marlin, in some haste.

"On a voyage from Canton, With a rich cargo of silks, satins, teas, &c. The boy says that the men had drank rather too much, and were stupidly drunk,—but fudge! Captain Marlin, you know enough to know that no man would drink too much at sea. He would be sure to keep at a good distance from a state of intoxication, being aware that much was intrusted to his care which he could not well manage whilst in such a state."

"Perhaps so," said Captain Marlin, doubtingly. "Mr. Granton, this touches a question I have been for days considering. It is, whether I shall allow my men grog."

"Of course, of course!" answered the ship-owner; "nothing so good for them round the Cape. You know the winds there, rather tough gales and heavy seas. Cold water there, Mr. Marlin! Why, rather give them hot coffee with ice crumbled in it, or, carry out a cask of ice-cream to refresh them! Man alive, do you think they could live on such vapor? You talk like one who never went to sea, unless to see a cattle-show."

Captain Marlin could not refrain from laughing at such reasoning, yet was more than half inclined to favor it. He was fond of his wine, and being, as such folks generally are, of a good disposition, he wished to see all men enjoy themselves, especially when at sea. He wished evil to no man, and had he thought that liquor might injure any of his crew, he would not that morning, in that office, have come to the conclusion to have it on board the "Tangus."



CHAPTER II.



On a bright, clear morning, a deeply-freighted ship started from a New York slip; a fair wind bore it swiftly down the bay, and a few minutes' sail found it far from sight of the metropolis of the Union. Friends had taken the last glimpse of friends, the last interchange of kindly feelings had passed, and deep waters now separated them. It was the "Tangus," Robert Marlin captain, with a picked crew, and bound for the coast of Sumatra. Simon Prim shook his head, as he with others turned and walked home. "'T is a pity men will not see evil and flee from it," said he, and he pulled his straight coat-collar up, and thrust his hands more deeply than ever into his pockets. He was a little startled by a light tap upon the shoulder, and quite a happy voice exclaiming, "Why, Mr. Prim, how are you?"

"Verily, neighbor; thou didst move me; but I was thinking so deeply of Captain Marlin and his success, that no wonder thy light touch should do so."

"But what of him, Prim?"

"His ship, the Tangus, has just left, bound on a long voyage, and with a quantity of deadly poison on board, with which to refresh the crew. I tell thee, neighbor, I have fears for the result. The jug may possibly stand still when on land, but when it's afloat it's rather unsteady."

"Very true, but you seem to express unusual anxiety in regard to Captain Marlin and his good ship; thousands have been just as imprudent."

"But not in these days of light and knowledge, friend. There have been enough sad examples to warn men not to trifle on such subjects. Twenty years ago I drank. We had our whiskey at our funerals and our weddings. I have seen chief mourners staggering over the grave, and the bridegroom half drunk at the altar; but times are changed now, and thank God for the good that has been effected by this reformation!"

"You speak true, Simon; and I wonder Captain Marlin could, if he considered the evils brought about by intoxicating drink, carry it to sea with him."

"I told him all as I tell it to thee, friend Jones. He asked my opinion, and I gave it him, yet it seems he thought little of it. Good-day, neighbor; I have business with a friend at the 'Croton,' good-day;" and, saying this, Mr. Prim walked up a bye street.

Jones walked on, and thought considerable of the Quaker's last words. His mind that day continually ran upon the subject. Indeed, he seemed unable to think of anything else but of a jug afloat, and at night spoke of it to his wife.

The wife of Captain Marlin had that day called upon Mrs. Jones, and, although her husband had scarcely got out of sight, looked with pleasure to the day of his return, and already anticipated the joyous occasion. There is as much pleasure in anticipation as in realization, it is often said, and there is much truth in the saying. We enjoy the thought of the near approach of some wished for day, but when it arrives we seem to have enjoyed it all before it came.

Mrs. Jones was far from thinking it wrong in Captain Marlin that he carried liquor with him on his voyage, and gave it as her opinion that the vessel was as safe as it could possibly be without it.

"Remember what I say, that is a doomed ship," said Mr. Jones, after some conversation on the subject.

"You are no prophet, my dear," said his wife, "neither am I a prophetess; but I will predict a pleasant voyage and safe return to the Tangus." With such opposite sentiments expressed, they retired.



CHAPTER III.



Insensible to all that is beautiful in nature, and grand and majestic in the works of creation, must the heart of that man be who can see no beauty, grandeur, or majesty, in the mighty abyss of waters, rolling on in their strength-now towering like some vast mountain, and piling wave upon wave, till, like pyramids dancing on pyramids, their tops seem to reach the sky; then sinking as deep as it had before risen, and again mounting up to heaven. There's beauty in such a scene, and no less when, calm and unruffled, the setting sun sinks beneath the horizon, and for miles and miles leaves its long, glistening track upon the unmoved waters.

'T was so when the crew of the "Tangus" were assembled upon the deck of that noble ship. The day previous had been one of hard labor; the vessel had bravely withstood the storm, and seemed now to be resting after the contest. Not a ripple was to be seen. Far as the eye could reach, was seen the same beautiful stillness. So with the crew; they were resting, though not in drowsy slumberings.

"I say what, Bill," remarked one, "'An honest man's the noblest work of God,' somebody says, and that's our captain, every inch, from stem to stern, as honest as Quaker Prim, of Gotham."

"Ay, ay, Jack," said another; "and did you hear how that same Prim tried to induce Captain Marlin to deprive us of our right?"

"Grog, you mean?"

"Ay, ay."

"No; but how was it?"

"Arrah, the dirty spalpeen he was, if he was afther a trying for to do that-the divil-"

"Will Mr. McFusee wait? By the way, Jack, he, Prim, got him by the button, and began to pour into his ears a long tirade against a man's enjoying himself, and, by the aid of thee, thy, and thou, half convinced the old fellow that he must give up all, and live on ice-water and ship-bread."

"Did?"

"Ay, ay, you know Captain Marlin. He always looks at both sides, then balances both, as it were, on the point of a needle, and decides, as Squire Saltfish used to say, 'cording to law and evidence."

"By the powers, he's a man, ivery inch, from the crown of his hat to the soles of his shoes, he is."

"Mr. McFusee, will you keep still?" said Mr. Boyden, the narrator. Mr. McFusee signified that he would.

"Well, he balanced this question, and the evidence against flew up as 't were a feather; but down went the evidence for, and he concluded to deal every man his grog in due season."

"That's the captain, all over," remarked Jack.

As we before said, their labors the day previous were great, and, as a dead calm had set in, and the vessel did not even float lazily along, but remained almost motionless,—not like a thing of life, but like a thing lifeless,—the captain ordered the crew each a can of liquor, and now they sat, each with his measure of grog, relating stories of the past, and surmises of the future.

"I tell you what," said Jack Paragon, "these temperance folks are the most foolish set of reformers myself in particular, and the United States, Texas, and the Gulf of Mexico, in general, ever saw."

"Even so," remarked Mr. Boyden, "but they do some good. 'Give the devil his due,' is an old saw, but none the less true for that. There's Peter Porper, once a regular soaker, always said his 'plaints were roomatic,—rum-attic, I reckon, however, for he used to live up twelve pairs of stairs,—he and the man in the moon were next-door neighbors; they used to smoke together, and the jolly times they passed were never recorded, for there were no newspapers in those dark ages, and the people were as ignorant as crows. Well, one of these temperance folks got hold of him, and the next I saw of him he was the pet of the nation; loved by the men, caressed by the women-silver pitchers given him by the former, and broadcloth cloaks by the latter."

"No selfish motives in keeping temperate!" said Jack Rowlin, ironically.

"Can't say; but liquor never did me harm. When I find it does, I will leave off."

"That's the doctrine of Father Neptune-drink and enjoy life."

"Every man to his post!" shouted the captain, as he approached from the quarterdeck. Quick to obey, they were where they were commanded in an instant, each with his tin can half filled with liquor. Captain Marlin, seeing this, ordered them to drink their grog or throw it overboard; they chose the former mode of disposing of it, and threw their empty cans at the cook.

In the distance a small black speck was decried.



CHAPTER IV.



The sun had set in clouds. The heavens were hung in darkness. Ever and anon a peal of thunder echoed above, a flash of vivid lightning illumed the waters, and far as eye could see the waters tossed high their whitened crests. The winds blew stormy, and now heavy drops of rain fell upon the deck of the "Tangus." "Every man to his duty!" shouted the captain; but the captain's voice was not obeyed.

Objects at two feet distance could not be seen. Louder that voice was heard. "Every man to his duty,—save the ship!"

"Captain, what is my duty?" inquired the cook.

"I appoint you under officer. Search for the men, and, if they are not all washed over, tell them I order them to work. If they do not know it, tell them the ship's in danger, and they must work."

The storm was fast increasing, till, at length, instead of blackness, one sheet of livid flame clothed the heavens above. Now all could be seen, and the captain busied himself. But two of the crew were to be seen, and they lay as senseless as logs. They heeded not the rage of the storm. The terrific peals of thunder awoke them not-they were dead drunk!

By the time the storm commenced, the liquor they had drank began to have its effect. Four of the crew, who were usually wide awake-that is, uncommonly lively-when intoxicated, had unfortunately fell overboard, and were lost.

The captain had now food for reflection, but the time and place were not for such musings.

He endeavored to arouse them, but in vain; so, with the aid of the only sober man aboard besides himself, he conveyed them to a place of safety. In the mean time the ship strained in every joint, and he momentarily expected to find himself standing on its wreck.

The waves washed the deck, and everything movable, cook-house and all, went by the board. The only hope of safety was in cutting away the masts, and to this task they diligently applied themselves. All night the captain and cook worked hard, and when morning came they found the storm abating. Soon the sun shone in its brightness; but what a scene did its light reveal! The once stately ship dismasted; four men, including the mate of the vessel, lost, and two lying insensible in the cabin.

It was not strange that the question came home to the mind of Captain Marlin, with force, "Is it right to carry liquor for a ship's crew?" He need ask the opinion of no one; he could find an answer in the scene around him.



CHAPTER V.



"Then thy ship has put in for repairs?" said Simon Prim, as he entered Granton & Co.'s office, on Wall-street.

"What?" exclaimed Mr. Granton, who had heard nothing of the matter. Simon, pulling a paper from his pocket, read:

"LOSS OF LIFE AT SEA.—By a passenger in the 'Sultan,' from—, we are informed that the ship 'Tangus,' from this port, bound to Sumatra, and owned by Messrs. Granton & Co., of this city, put in at that place in a dismasted condition.

"The 'Tangus' had been three weeks out, when, in a gale, four men were washed overboard. The remainder of her crew being insensible, and the whole duty falling upon the captain and cook, they with great difficulty managed the ship. It is rumored that all were intoxicated. This is the seventh case of loss at sea, caused by intemperance, within four months. When will men become wise, and awake to their own interests on this topic?"

The ship-owner rapidly paced his office. "Can it be?" said he to himself. "Can it be?"

"Give thyself no trouble, friend," said Prim; "what is done is done, and can't be undone. Thy ship is not lost, and things are not so bad as they might be. Look to the future, and mourn not over the past; and remember that it is very dangerous to have a jug afloat."

These few words somewhat quieted him, yet not wholly, At this moment the wife of Captain Marlin entered. Having heard of the news, she came to learn all that was known respecting it.

"Madam," said he, after relating all he knew, "my mind is changed on the question we some time since discussed. Yes, madam, my mind is changed, and from this hour I will do all I can to exterminate the practice of carrying grog to sea for the crew. And I tell thee what," he continued, turning to friend Prim, who stood near by, "I tell thee what, thee was right in thy predictions; and, though it has been a dear lesson to me, I have learned from it that it is poor policy that puts a jug afloat."



GIVE, AND STAY THEIR MISERY.



WOULD ye who live in palace halls, With servants round to wait, Know aught of him who, craving, falls Before thine outer gate? Come with me when the piercing blast Is whistling wild and free, When muffled forms are hurrying past, And then his portion see. Come with me through the narrow lanes To dwellings dark and damp, Where poor men strive to ease their pains; Where, by a feeble lamp, The wearied, widowed mother long Doth busy needle ply, Whilst at her feet her children throng, And for a morsel cry. Come with me thou in such an hour, To such a place, and see That He who gave thee wealth gave power To stay such misery! Come with me,—nor with empty hand Ope thou the poor man's door; Come with the produce of thy land, And thou shalt gather more.



THE SPIRIT OF MAN.



YE cannot bind the spirit down; It is a thing as free As the albatross-bird that wings Its wild course o'er the sea. Go, bind the lightning, guide the sun, Chain comets, if you can; But seek not with thy puny strength To bind the soul of man. Though all the powers of earth combine, And all their strength enroll, To bind man's body as they will, They cannot bind his soul. No power on earth can hold it down, Or bid it hither stay, As up to heaven with rapid course It tireless wings its way. Time is too limited for it, And earth is not its clime; It cannot live where sound the words, "There is an end to time." It seeks an endless, boundless sphere, In which to freely roam; Eternity its course of life, Infinity its home. There, there will it forever live; And there, a spirit free, 'T will range, though earth may pass away, And Time no longer be.



PAUSE AND THINK.



O! HOW many souls are sorrowing In this sunlit world, to-day, Because Wrong, heaven's livery borrowing, Leadeth trusting souls astray; Because men, all thoughtless rushing, Dance along on Error's brink, And, the voice of conscience hushing, Will not for a moment think! 'T is the lack of thought that bringeth Man to where he needs relief; 'T is the lack of thought that wringeth All his inner self with grief. Would he give a moment's thinking Ere his every step is made, He would not from light be shrinking, Groping on in Error's shade! Think, immortal! thou art treading On a path laid thick with snares, Where mischievous minds are spreading Nets to catch thee unawares. Pause and think! the next step taken May be that which leads to death; Rouse thee! let thy spirit waken; List to, heed the word it saith! Think, ere thou consent to squander Aught of time in useless mirth; Think, ere thou consent to wander, Disregarding heaven-winged truth. When the wine in beauty shineth, When the tempter bids thee drink, Ere to touch thy hand inclineth, Be thou cautious-pause and think! Think, whatever act thou doest; Think, whatever word is spoke; Else the heart of friend the truest May be by thee, thoughtless, broke. How much grief had been prevented, If man ne'er had sought to shrink From the right:-to naught consented, Until he had paused to think!



LITTLE NELLY.



MATILDA was a fashionable girl,—a young lady, perhaps, would be the more respectable name by which to call her. She had been reared in affluence. She had never known a want. She had had wants, but she did not know it. She had wanted many things that make a lady's life indeed a life. But Matilda never dreamt of such things.

It was n't fashionable to love the outcast, and therefore she bestowed no pitying look on them. It was n't fashionable to give a few pennies even to a poor, lame orphan girl in the street. So she pretended not to have noticed the plea of little Nelly, who had accosted her during her morning rambles.

"Little Nelly." I remember how she looked when at twilight she sat down on a curb-stone to count the money. She looked sorrowful. She was, indeed, worthy of pity; but little she got. The crowd went hurrying, hustling on: few thoughts came down to little Nelly, on the curb-stone. It had been a gala day. Red flags had flaunted on high poles, and there had been a great noise of drums and fifes, and everybody had seemed happy. Why, then, should sorrow come, with its dark lantern, and look in the face of this little girl?

I will tell you.

There was a poor woman whose husband had been killed in Mexico. She lived in one small room in a secluded part of the city, and by means of her needle, and such assistance as was given to her daughter, who diligently walked the streets, selling apples, she managed to live in a style which she denominated "comfortable." Thus, for upwards of one year, she toiled and lived, and was thankful for all her many blessings.

But sickness came; not severe, but of that kind that bears its victim along slowly to rest. She was unable to do much. She did not wish to do much; but she sat day by day, yea, night by night often, and diligently pursued the avocation that brought her daily bread.

Weeks passed, and yet she was ill. One morning, she called her daughter to her side, and, taking her hand in her own, said:

"Little Nelly, 't is Independence day, to-day. You heard the guns fire, and the bells ring, and the shouts of the happy children, this morning, before you arose. I watched you as you lay listening to all these, and I asked myself, Will my little Nelly be happy? and I thought I heard my mother's voice;—she died long, long ago, but I thought I heard her voice right at my side, saying, 'We shall all be happy soon;' and I wept, for I could not help it.

"But I've called you now, Nelly, to tell you that I'm much better this morning, and that, if you can get twenty-five cents to-day, we will have a happy time to-night."

Little Nelly looked happy for a moment, but soon a shadow came over her face; for she could not comprehend the meaning of her mother when she said she was "better," for she looked more feeble than she had ever seen her since the news of how her father was shot in the face at Monterey was told her.

But she tried to be cheerful. She tried to smile, but, O, it was very hard; and she got her mother's breakfast, and, having cleared the things away, took her little basket, and her mother's purse, and went out.

It was, indeed, a happy day without. There was joy depicted on every countenance, and the general happiness infused some of its spirit into the heart of our little trader. She seemed almost lost in the great crowd; and there were so many dealers about, and so many that presented greater attractions in the display of their stock, that few bought of little Nelly.

It was late in the afternoon, and she had sold but a little, when she encountered a young lady gayly dressed, in whose hand was prominently displayed a bead purse, through the interstices of which the gold and silver glistened.

Nelly held out her humble purse, in which no beads were wrought, through which no coin glistened,—she held it up, and ventured to ask, in pleasant tones, a few pennies of the lady. But not a penny for little Nelly. Not even a look recognized her appeal, but costly, flowing robes rushed by, and nearly prostrated her; they did force her from the sidewalk into the gutter.

Go on, ye proud and selfish one! Go, bend the knee to Fashion's altar, and ask a blessing of its presiding spirit! Bestow no pitying glance on honest poverty; no helping hand to the weak and falling! There is a law which God hath written on all his works, proclaiming justice, and giving unto all as they shall ask of him. Pass on, and heed not that little praying hand; but remember you cannot do so without asking of that law its just requital.

Nelly walked on. She mingled again with the great mass, and twilight came. It was then that she sat down, as I have before stated, to count her money. She had but thirteen cents. All day she had sought to dispose of her stock, that she might carry to her mother the sum named, with which to have a happy time at home. And now the day had gone; the night was drawing its great shadowy cloak about the earth, and Nelly had but about one half of the required sum. What should she do?

It was at this moment I met her. I stooped down, and she told me all her story;—told me all her sorrow,—a great sorrow for a little breast like hers. I made up the trifling amount, and, taking her by the hand, we went together towards her home.

Reaching the house, we entered, and were met on the stairs by an old lady, who whispered in my ear, "Walk softly." I suspected in a moment the reason why she asked me thus to walk. She then led the way. She tried to keep back the little girl, but she could not. She hurried up the stairs, and through a long, dark entry, to a door, which she quickly opened.

Nelly sprang to the bed on which lay her mother. I heard a sigh-a sob. It was from the child. The mother spoke in a tone so joyous that I was at first surprised to hear it from one who, it was supposed, was near her end. But I soon found it was no matter of surprise.

How clear and fair was that face! How pleading and eloquent those eyes, as they turned, in all their full-orbed brightness, upon me, as I approached the bedside of the mother of Nelly! There were needed no words to convey to my mind the thoughts that dwelt within that soul, whose strength seemed to increase as that of the body diminished.

With one of her pale hands she took mine; with the other, that of her daughter.

"Blessings on you both!" she said. "Nelly, my dear Nelly, my faithful, loving Nelly, I am much better than I was; I shall soon be well, and what a happy time we will have to-night! I hear that voice again to-night, Nelly. Don't you hear it? It says, 'We shall all be happy soon.' I see a bright star above your head, my child; and now I see my mother. She is all bright and radiant, and there is a beauty around her that I cannot describe. Nelly, I am better. Why, I feel quite well."

She sprang forward, and, with her hands yet clasping Nelly's and my own, she stretched her arms upward. There was a bright glow of indescribable joy upon her features. She spoke calmly, sweetly spoke. "We shall all be happy soon-happy soon-happy-" then fell back on the pillow, and moved no more-spoke not again.

She was indeed happy. But, Nelly-she was sad. For a long time she kept her hand in that of her mother. She at length removed it, and fell upon the floor, beneath the weight of her new sorrow. Yet it was but for a moment. Suddenly she sprang up, as if imbued with angelic hope and peace. We were surprised to see the change, and to behold her face beam with so much joy, and hear her voice lose its sadness. We looked forth with that inner sight which, on such occasions, seems quickened to our sense, and could see that mother, and that mother's mother, bending over that child, and raising her up to strength and hope, and a living peace and joy.

Nelly's little purse lay on the floor, where she had dropped it when she came in. The old nurse picked it up, and laid it on a stand beside the bed. A tear stole out from beneath the eyelids of the child as she beheld it, and thought how all day she had worked and walked to get the little sum with which her mother and she were to be made happy on that Independence night. I called her to me. We sat down and talked over the past, the present and the future, and I was astonished to hear the language which her pure and gentle, patient soul poured forth.

"Well, sir," she said, "we are happy to-night, though you think, perhaps, there is greater cause for sorrow. But mother has gone from all these toiling scenes. She will work no more all the long day, and the night, to earn a shilling, with which to buy our daily bread. She has gone where they have food that we know not of; and she's happy to-night, and, sir, we shall all be happy soon. We shall all go up there to live amid realities. These are but shadows here of those great, real things that exist there; and I sometimes think, when sitting amid these shadows, that it will be a happy time when we leave them, and walk amid more substantial things."

Thus she talked for some time.

Having rendered such assistance as I could, I left. The next day there was a funeral, and little Nelly was what they called "the chief mourner;" yet it seemed a very inappropriate name for one whose sorrow was so cheerful. There were but few of us who followed; and, when we reached the grave, and the face of the earthly form was exposed to the sunlight for the last time, little Nelly sung the following lines, which I had hastily penned for the occasion:



WE SHALL ALL BE HAPPY SOON.



Dry our tears and wipe our eyes! Angel friends beyond the skies Open wide heaven's shining portal, Welcome us to joys immortal. Fear not, weep not, ours the boon; We shall all be happy soon! Hark! a voice is whispering near us; 'T is an angel-voice to cheer us; It entreats us not to weep, Fresh and green our souls to keep; And it sings, in cheerful tune, We shall all be happy soon. Thus through life, though grief and care May be given us to bear, Though all dense and dark the cloud That our weary forms enshroud, Night will pass, and come the noon, We shall all be happy soon.

When the last line of each verse was sung, it was no fancy thought in us, in Nelly more than all others, that suggested the union of other voices with our own; neither was it an illusion that pictured a great thing with harps, repeating the words, "We shall all be happy soon."

The sexton even, he who was so used to grave-yard scenes, was doubly interested; and, when the last look was taken, and Nelly seemed to look less in the dark grave and more up to the bright sky above her than those in her situation usually do, I saw him watch her, and a tear trickled down his wrinkled face.

As we turned to leave, I asked him why he wept. His features brightened up. "For joy, for joy," said he. "I have put away the dead here for forty long years; but I never beheld so happy a burial as this. It seems as though the angels were with that child. She looks so heavenly."

Perhaps they were. And why say "perhaps"? Do we not know they are ever round us, and very near to such a one as Nelly, at such a time?



REUNION.



WHEN we muse o'er days departed, Lights that shone but shine no more, Friends of ours who long since started O'er the sea without a shore; Journeying on and journeying ever, Their freed spirits wing their flight, Ceasing in their progress never Towards the fountain-head of light; Oft we wish that they were near us,— We might see the friends we love,— Then there come these words to cheer us, "Ye shall meet them all above." When the sun's first ray approacheth, Ushering in the noonday light; When the noise of day encroacheth On the silence of the night; When the dreams depart that blest us In the hours forever fled,— In which friends long gone carest us, Friends we number with the dead,— Comes this thought, Ye ne'er shall hear them, Ne'er shall see the friends ye love; Voices say, "Ye shall be near them, With them in the world above." When within the grave's enclosure Ye do drop the silent tear, Tremble not at its disclosure, Myriad spirits hover near. Hark! they whisper, do ye hear not, Mingling with your rising sighs, Words that bid you hope, and fear not, Angel-voices from the skies? And as dust to dust returneth,— That which held the gem you love,— Thine afflicted spirit learneth It will meet that gem above. Thus whene'er a friend departeth In my soul I know 't is right; And, although the warm tear starteth, As he passes from my sight, I do know that him I cherish Here on earth shall never die; That, though all things else shall perish, He shall live and reign on high. And, that when a few hours more Shall have passed, then those I love, Who have journeyed on before, I shall meet and greet above.



THE VILLAGE MYSTERY.



ABOUT fifty miles from a southern city, about five years ago, a most mysterious personage seemed to fall from the clouds into the midst of a circle of young ladies, whose hours and days were thenceforth busily employed in quizzing, guessing, pondering and wondering.

He was a tall, graceful-formed gentleman, wearing a professional-looking cloak, and buff pants, tightly strapped over boots of delicate make, polished up to the very highest capabilities of Day and Martin. He had no baggage; which fact led some wise-headed old ladies to report him to be a gentleman of leisure, a literary millionaire, it might be, who was travelling through "the States" for the purpose of picking up items for a book on "Ameriky." The old men wagged their heads, and looked most impenetrably mysterious. The young men became jealous. To be sure he was not superlatively handsome, but he had a foreign air, which was considerable among the girls; and his appearance indicated wealth, for his dress was of the first quality and cut. He had half a dozen glistening rings on his hands; he wore a breast-pin of dazzling brilliance; and every time he moved a chained lion could not have made more noise, and clatter, and show with his fetters, than he did with a massive double-linked chain, that danced and flirted upon his crimson vest.

Abby and Nelly, the belles of the place, had each had an eye upon the new comer, since he passed by the splendid mansion of their abode, casting a sly glance up to the open window at which they stood.

In a week, our foreign friend had made the circuit of all the fashionable society of Greendale. He had drank tea with the "Commissioners," and walked out with their amiable daughters. He had visited the pastor, and had evinced great interest in the prosperity of the church. He had even exhorted in the conference-meeting, and had become so popular that some few, taking it for granted that so devout a man must be a clergyman, had serious thoughts of asking the old parson to leave, and the stranger to accept the pulpit,—four hundred and eighty-two dollars a year, and a donation-party's offerings. He had attended the sewing-circle, and made himself perfectly at home with everybody and everything. The young men's society for ameliorating the condition of the Esquimauxs and Hottentots had been favored with his presence; and, likewise, with a speech of five minutes long, which speech had, in an astonishingly short time, been printed on pink satin and handsomely framed.

The lower class of people, for whom the stranger talked so much, and shed so many tears, and gave vent to so many pitiful exclamations, but with whom, however, he did not deign to associate, were filled with a prodigious amount of wonder at the lion and his adventures. They gathered at Squire Brim's tavern, and at the store on the corner, and wondered and talked over the matter. The questions with them were, Who is he?-where did he come, and where is he going to? They would not believe all they had heard conjectured about him, and some few were so far independent as to hint of the possibility of imposition.