My friends called one after another, to congratulate me on the beautiful appearance of my paper, and to predict, for my encouragement, its widely extended popularity. I believed all they said, and more. But for all this, by the time the second number made its appearance, my list had only increased one hundred. Still, on reflection, this appeared very good, for at the rate of a hundred a week, I would have five thousand in a year.

"Why don't you employ canvassers?" inquired one. "There are hundreds in the city who will take the paper if it is only presented to them."

Acting on this hint, I advertised for men to solicit subscribers. Five of those who applied were chosen and distributed through five different sections of the city. I agreed to pay fifty cents for every good subscriber obtained. This was, of course, a pretty heavy drawback upon my expected income, but then it was admitted on all hands that a subscriber was worth fifty cents, as after he was once obtained he would doubtless remain a subscriber for years.

At the close of the first day my men brought in an average of ten subscribers each. The agreement was, that I was to pay them twenty-five cents on the name of a new subscriber being handed in, and the remaining twenty-five cents when the subscription due at the expiration of the first three months was collected. So I had twelve dollars and a half cash, to pay down. But then my list was increased to the extent of fifty names. The average of new subscribers from my agents continued for a couple of weeks, and then fell off sensibly. By the end of two months, my canvassers left the field, some of them sick of the business, and others tempted by more promising inducements.

Many of the country papers noticed my "Gazette and Reflex" in the most flattering manner, and not a few of them copied my prospectus. This had the effect to bring me in a few hundred subscribers by mail, with the cash, in a large number of cases in advance. About one-third, however, promised to remit early.

At the end of three months, according to promise, I was to pay my printer and paper maker. Up to that time my cash receipts had been three hundred dollars, but every cent was gone. My clerk had to be paid seven dollars a week regularly, and a mail and errand boy, three dollars. Advertising had cost me twenty-five dollars; account and subscription books as much more; and I had paid over fifty dollars to my agents for getting subscribers. Besides, there had been a dozen little et ceteras of expense, not before taken into calculation. Moreover, out of this three hundred dollars of income I had my own personal expenses to pay.

In the thirteenth number of my paper, I gave notice that the three months having expired, all subscriptions were due for the year according to the terms, and called upon subscribers "to step to the captain's office and settle." There were of unpaid subscribers now upon my books the number of five hundred and forty, and my debt to printer and paper maker was exactly nine hundred and eighty dollars, I having kept on printing three thousand copies, under the belief that the list must go up to that.

Day after day went by after this notice appeared, yet not a single man answered to the invitation. I began to feel serious. Subscribers continued to come in, though slowly, and people all spoke highly of the paper and said it must succeed. But its success, so far, was not over flattering. Finding that people would not take the plain hint I had given, I went over the books and made out all the bills. One thousand and eighty dollars was the aggregate amount due. These bills, except those for the country, I placed in the hands of a collector, and told him to get me in the money as quickly as possible. Those for the country, about one hundred in number, I enclosed in the paper. On the faith of this proceeding, I promised the paper maker and printer each two hundred dollars in a couple of weeks.

Four days elapsed without my collector making his appearance, greatly to my surprise. On the fifth day I met him in the street.

"Well, how are you coming on?" said I.

"Oh, slowly," he replied.

"I expected to see you a day or two ago."

"I had nothing of consequence to return. But I will be in on Saturday."

I felt a kind of choking in my throat as I turned away. On Saturday the collector called—he opened his memorandum-book, and I my cash-book, preparatory to making entries of money returned.

"Mr. A——," said the collector, "says he never pays in advance for any thing."

"But the terms of the paper are in advance after the first three months."

"I know."

"Did you call his attention to this?"

"Oh, yes! but he said he didn't care for your terms. He'd been swindled once or twice by paying in advance, but never intended to give anybody the opportunity to do the same thing again."

Mr. A—— was a man whom I had known for years. I cannot tell how hurt and indignant I was at such language. He took my paper, knowing the terms upon which it was published, and when I sent my bill, refused to comply with the terms, and insulted me into the bargain. I turned to his name on the subscription-book, and striking it off, said—

"He can't have the paper."

"Credit Mr. B—— with six months and discontinue," said the collector, as he passed to the next name on his list. Mr. B—— was a man whom I knew very well by reputation. I had looked upon him as one of my best subscribers. He was a merchant in easy circumstances.

"Why does he wish it stopped?" I asked.

"He says he merely took the paper by way of encouraging the enterprise, and never supposed he would be called upon to pay for it. He told Mr. J——, who asked him to subscribe, that he had more papers now than he wanted, and Mr. J—— said, No matter. He would have it sent to him by way of adding another respectable name to the list."

"Very well," said I, as I entered the name of Mr. B—— in the cash-book, "pass on."

This went fairly ahead of any thing I had ever dreamed of. I was too much surprised even to make a remark on the subject.

"Mr. C—— was as mad as a March hare when I presented his bill."

"Indeed! Why?"

"He paid your agent when he subscribed!"

"Did you see his receipt?"

"Yes. The agent took a hat and paid him the difference."

"The scoundrel! And charged me a quarter in addition, for returning the subscriber!"

"These canvassers are a slippery set."

"That's swindling!"

"The fellow won't quarrel with you about the terms, seeing that he enjoys the hat."

"Too bad! Too bad! Well, go on."

"Mr. D—— paid two dollars, but wants you to stop at the end of the year. He merely took a copy at the start by way of encouraging the enterprise. Thinks highly of the paper, but can't afford to take it longer than a year."

"Very well."

"Mr. E—— has paid."

"Well?"

"Mr. F—— says he never subscribed, and does not want it. He says, if you will send to his house, you can get all the numbers. He told the carrier not to leave it from the first."

"I paid an agent for his name."

"He says he told the agent that he didn't want the paper. That he took more now than he could read."

"Swindled again!"

"Mr. G—— says he never saw the paper in his life."

"It's sent regularly."

"Some mistake in the carrier. Mr. H—— paid, and wishes the paper discontinued."

"Very well."

"Mr. I—— says he can't afford to take it. His name was put down without his consent."

I had received this name through one of my kind friends.

"Mr. J—— paid a dollar, and wants it stopped."

"Well?"

"Mr. K—— paid; also, Mr. L—— and Mr. M——."

"Well?"

"Mr. N—— says the paper is not left for him; but for a young man who has gone West. Thinks you had better stop it."

I erased the name.

Mr. O—— paid the agent."

"He never returned the money."

Mr. P—— and Mr. Q——, ditto."

"Never saw a copper of their money. Paid a quarter apiece, cash, for each of these subscribers."

"Mr. R—— says the paper is not worth reading. That he wouldn't pay a shilling a year for it. I advise you to stop it. He never pays for any thing if he can help it. Mr. S—— paid. Mr. T—— paid up to this date, and wishes it stopped. Never ordered it. Mr. U—— paid. I called upon a great many more, but they put me off with one excuse or other. I never had a much worse lot of bills."

A basin of cold water on a sentimental serenader could not have produced a greater revulsion of feeling than did this unlooked-for return of my collector. Nineteen dollars and fifty cents, instead of about two hundred dollars, were all he had been able to gather up; there was no promise of success in the future on any different scale. I received the money, less ten per cent. for collecting, and was left alone to my own reflections. Not of the most pleasant kind, the reader may well imagine. For an hour I brooded over the strangely embarrassing position in which I found myself, and then, after thinking until my head was hot and my feet and hands cold, I determined to reduce, immediately, the edition of my paper from three thousand to one thousand, and thus save an item of thirty dollars a week in paper and press-work. To send off my clerk, also, to whom I was paying seven dollars weekly, and with the aid of a boy, attend to the office, and do the writing and mailing myself. I then went over the subscription-book, and counted up the names. The number was just seven hundred and twenty. I had but a little while before replied to a question on the subject, that I had about twelve hundred on my list. And I did vaguely imagine that I had that number. I knew better now.

To describe minutely the trials, sufferings, and disappointments of the whole year, would take too much time and space. The subsequent returns of my collector were about on a par with the first. Finding it impossible to pay the printer and paper maker, as promised, out of the advance subscriptions falling due at the end of three months, I borrowed from some of my friends about four hundred dollars, and paid it over, stating, when I did so, that I must have a new contract, based upon a six months' credit.

I found no great difficulty in obtaining this from the paper maker, to whom I spoke in confident terms of my certain ultimate success. The printer required half cash, which I agreed to pay.

This arrangement I fondly hoped would give me time to make my collections, and, besides paying off the debt already accumulated, enable me to acquire a surplus to meet the notes given, from time to time, for paper and printing.

At the end of a year, my list, through various exertions and sacrifices, had arisen to twelve hundred. On this I had collected eight hundred dollars, and I calculated that there were about sixteen hundred dollars due me, which, I thought, if all collected in, would about square me up with the world. This I thought. But, when I came to go over my bill-book and ledger, I found, to my utter dismay, that I owed three thousand five hundred dollars! This must be a mistake, I said, and went over my books again. The result was as at first. I owed the money, and no mistake. But how it was, I could not for some time comprehend. But a series of memorandums from my cash-book, and an examination of printers' and paper makers' bills, at length made all clear. I had used, on my own personal account, four hundred dollars during the year. Office rent was two hundred and fifty. My carriers had cost over a hundred dollars. My boy one hundred and fifty, and ninety had been paid to the clerk during the first three months. Sundry little items of expense during the year made an aggregate of over a hundred. Paper and printing for the first three months had been nearly a thousand dollars, and for the last three quarters about twenty-two hundred dollars.

To go on with this odds against me, I had sense enough to see was perfect folly. But, how could I stop? I was not worth a dollar in the world; and the thought of wronging those who had trusted me in full reliance upon my integrity, produced a feeling of suffocation. Besides, I had worked for a year as few men work. From sunrise until twelve, one, and two o'clock, I was engaged in the business or editorial duties appertaining to my enterprise, and to abandon all after such a struggle was disheartening.

After much deliberation, I concluded that the best thing I could do was to sell out my list of subscribers to another and more successful establishment in the city, and, for this purpose, waited upon the publisher. He heard me, and after I had finished, asked my terms. I told him fifteen hundred dollars for the list. He smiled, and said he wouldn't give me five hundred for the whole concern, debts and all. I got up, put on my hat, and left him with indignant silence.

To go on was the worst horn for me to grasp in the dilemma in which I found myself. To stop, would be to do so with some three or four hundred persons paid in advance, for portions of a year. I was dunned, daily, by my printer, for money, and in order to meet the notes which had already fallen due, I had been compelled to borrow temporarily from my friends. Unable to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion, in despair, I summoned creditors and friends around me, and laid before them a full statement of my condition. There were some long faces at that meeting; but no one felt as I did. I shall never forget the suffering and mortification of that day, were I to live a thousand years.

The unanimous determination of the meeting was that I must stop, collect in the money due, and divide it pro rata among my creditors. I did so; announcing, at the same time, the heavy embarrassment under which I had been brought, and earnestly soliciting those who owed the paper, to settle their accounts immediately. To the few who had paid the fraction of a year in advance, I stated how much I had lost, and appealed to their magnanimity for a remission of the obligation I remained under to furnish the paper for the time yet due to them. It was but the matter of a few cents, or a dollar at most to them, I said, but it was hundreds of dollars to me.

Well, and what was the sequel to all this? Why, to sum up what remains to be told, in a few words; only two hundred dollars out of the sixteen hundred were collected, and from those who had paid small trifles in advance, I received dozens of letters, couched in the most offensive terms. Some charged me with being a swindler, and said, if I didn't immediately send the money overpaid, or some other paper in the place of mine, they would publish me to the world. Others said they would be in the city at a certain time and require me to refund; while many, residing on the spot, took out their money's worth, by telling me to my face what they thought of my conduct. One man issued a warrant against me for thirty-five cents, the sum overpaid by him.

So much for my experience in starting a newspaper. A year and a half before, I had a clerkship which brought me in seven hundred dollars a year; was easy in mind, respected by all my friends, looked upon as an honest man by every one who knew me, and out of debt. I started a newspaper in a moment of blind infatuation, and now I owed above three thousand dollars, my good name was gone, and I was dispirited, out of employment, afraid to walk the street lest I should encounter some one I owed, and as wretched as a man could well be. I soon after left the city, and sought employment hundreds of miles away. So much for my experience in starting a newspaper.



THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS.

"Do not go out to-night, Amanda. The pavements are damp, and the air is loaded with vapour."

"Indeed, ma, I must go."

"Amanda, there is no necessity for your attending this party; and very urgent reasons why you should stay at home. Your cough is still troublesome, and a little exposure might give it permanency. You know that from your father you inherit a predisposition to disease of the lungs."

"You only say that to alarm me."

"Not so, my child; I know your constitution, and know how fatally the exposure of a night like this may affect you."

"But I'll wrap up warmly, and put on my India rubbers."

"A necessary precaution, if you will go out, Amanda. But I wish I could persuade you to be guided by me. You know that the Bible says, the way of transgressors is hard."

"I don't know how you will apply that to me, ma. I am transgressing no law of divine appointment."

"Be not sure of that, Amanda."

"I do not understand you, ma."

"I will try and make my meaning clear. In our creation, as organized beings, we were so constituted as to bear a certain relation to every thing around us, and our bodily health was made dependent upon this relation. Here then, we have a law of health, which may be called a divine law—for there is nothing good that does not flow from the Divine Creator. If we violate this law, we become transgressors, and shall certainly prove the way we have chosen, in so doing, to be a hard one."

"Oh, is that all?" said the daughter, looking up with a smile, and breathing more freely. "I'll risk the consequences of breaking the law you have announced."

"Amanda!"

"Don't be so serious, ma. I will wrap up close and have my feet well protected. There is not the least danger of my taking cold."

"Well, you must do as you please. Still I cannot approve of your going, for I see that there is danger. But you are fully of age, and I will not seek to control you."

So strong was Amanda's desire to attend a large but select party, that she went, in company with a young man who called for her, notwithstanding the atmosphere was so humid and dense with fog, that breathing became oppressive.

The rooms were crowded, and the air in them so warm as to cause the perspiration to start from the fair brows of the merry dancers, among whom none was more fair or more lively than Amanda Beaufort. At eleven, after having passed an evening of much pleasure, she started for home with her companion. She was so well wrapped up, that she did not feel the cold, and her feet were protected from the damp pavement by the impervious India rubber.

"I'm safe home, ma, after all!" she exclaimed with her merry ringing laugh, as she bounded into the chamber where her ever-watchful and interested mother sat awaiting her daughter's return.

"I am glad to see you back, Amanda," said Mrs. Beaufort kindly, "and hope that no ill consequences will follow what I must still call a very imprudent act."

"Oh I'm just as well as ever, and have not taken the least cold. How could I, wrapped up so warm?"

Still, on the next morning, unaccountable as it was to Amanda, she was quite hoarse, and was much troubled by a cough occasioned by a slight but constant tickling in her throat. Accompanying these symptoms was a pale anxious face and a general feeling of lassitude.

"I feared all this, Amanda," said her mother, with manifest concern.

"It's only a slight cold, ma. And, anyhow, I don't believe it was occasioned by going out last night, I was wrapped up so warm. I must have got the bed-clothes off of me in the night."

"What to one is a slight cold, my daughter, is a very serious affair to another; and you are one of those who can never take a slight cold without shocking the whole system. Your pale face and your evident debility this morning show how much even this slight cold, as you call it, has affected you. That you have this cold is to me no subject of wonder. You were well wrapped up, it is true, and your feet protected. Still, your face was exposed, and every particle of air you inhaled was teeming with moisture. From dancing in a warm room, the pores of your skin were all opened, and the striking of moist chilly air upon your face could hardly fail of producing some degree of cold. The most susceptible parts of your body are your throat and lungs, and to these any shock which is received by the system is directly conveyed. You cannot take cold in your hand or foot or face, or any other part of your body, without your breast sympathizing;—that you are hoarse, and have a slight cough, then, is to me in no way surprising."

Amanda tried to make light of this, but every hour she felt worse and worse. Her hoarseness, instead of diminishing, increased, and her cough grew more and more troublesome. Finally, she was compelled to go to bed, and have the physician called in.—"Is there any danger?" asked Mrs. Beaufort, with an anxious and troubled countenance, as the physician, after prescribing among other things a stimulating application to the throat externally, was about leaving the house.

"Is your daughter subject to these fits of hoarseness, ma'am?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, whenever she takes cold."

"And does that frequent irritating cough always attend the recurrence of hoarseness?"

"Always."

"Then, madam, it is but right that you should know, that such results, following a slight cold, indicate a very great tendency to pulmonary or bronchial affections. The predisposition existing, very great care should be taken to prevent all exciting causes. With care, your daughter may retain her health until she passes over the most critical portion in the life of every one with such a constitution as hers—that is, from twenty years of age until thirty or thirty-five. Without great care and prudence during that time, her constitution may be shattered so as to set all remedial efforts at defiance."

"But, doctor, how is she now?" was Mrs. Beaufort's anxious inquiry.

"Not dangerous, madam, but still in a condition requiring care and skill to prevent unfavourable consequences."

"Then do your best for her, doctor."

"You can rely on me for that, Mrs. Beaufort. Good morning."

With a heavy heart the mother returned to the sick chamber of her daughter, and sat down by the bedside, thoughtfully, for a few moments, while she held Amanda's hand, that was hot with fever. Then recollecting herself, she left the room to prepare the stimulating application which had been ordered.

It is remarkable how the whole system will sympathize with one diseased part. The cold which Amanda had taken concentrated its active effects upon her respiratory organs; but it was felt also in every member, prostrating the whole body, and giving a sensation of general suffering. Her head ached violently, and a burning fever diffused itself over the entire surface of her body.

How sadly was she proving the truth of her mother's warning, when she said to her, in the language of divine authority, "The way of transgressors is hard."

She had violated a law of health, and in that violation, as in the violation of every physical or moral law, the penalty of transgression followed too surely.

It was a week before Amanda was able to go about again, and then her pale cheeks, and debilitated frame indicated but too plainly the sad consequences of a single imprudent act.

A few weeks after she had become restored apparently to her usual health, as Amanda was dressing one morning to go out, her mother said—

"Your clothes are a great deal too tight, Amanda."

"Oh no, I am not tight at all, ma. Julia Mason laces as tight again. She gets her sister to draw her lacings for her, and she has to pull with all her strength."

"That is wrong in Julia Mason, and yet half the pressure that she can bear would seriously injure you."

"How can that be, ma? I am as healthy as she is."

"I will tell you, Amanda. She has a full round chest, giving free play to the lungs; while your chest is narrow and flat. Without any compression, the action of your lungs is not so free and healthy as hers would be, laced as tightly as you say she laces. But when to your natural conformation you add artificial pressure, the action of your lungs becomes not only enfeebled, but the unhealthy action induced tends to develop that peculiar form of disease, the predisposition to which you inherit."

"That is only an idea of yours, ma. I am sure I have quite a full bust," said Amanda, glancing down at her chest, and embracing it with her hands.

"There you are mistaken. I have noticed this defect, with much anxiety, ever since you were a child; and having had my attention called to it, have frequently made comparisons, and have found that you are remarkably narrow and flat, and what is more, have a tendency to stoop, which still lessens the size of the cavity in which the lungs play."

"Well, ma, my clothes are not tight. Just see here."

Mrs. Beaufort tried her clothes, and found them to be much tighter than in her judgment was good for health.

"You are still unwilling, Amanda, to be governed by your mother, where her wishes come in opposition to your pride or inclinations. I know that you are compressing your chest too much, but you are not willing to yield to my judgment. And yet I prescribe no arbitrary rules, but endeavor to guide you by a rational consideration of true principles. These you will not see; and the consequences that must follow their violation will be the transgressor's reward."

"Indeed, indeed, ma, you are too serious. You are frightened at a shadow. No one of my friends enjoys better general health than I do."

"And so might the graceful maple say of the sturdy oak in the first years of their existence. But long after the first had been humbled beneath the hand of decay, the other would stand with its roots more firmly imbedded in the earth, and its limbs battling the storms as vigorously as ever."

Amanda made no reply to this, for she was suddenly struck with its force. Still she only pretended to loosen her stays to satisfy her mother, while the lacings remained as tense as ever.

It is unnecessary to trace, step by step, the folly of Amanda Beaufort through a series of years—years that caused her mother much and painful anxiety—up to her twenty-sixth summer, when, as a wife and mother, she was suffering the penalty of her indiscretion, proving too clearly the truth, that the way of transgressors is hard. In spite of all her mother's warnings and remonstrances, she had continued to expose herself to the night air in damp weather—to attend balls thinly clad, and remain at them to a very late hour, and to lace herself so tightly as to seriously retard the healthy action of the vital organs. At the age of twenty-three she married. A year after, the birth of a child gave her whole system, which had indicated long before its feebleness, a powerful shock, from which the reaction was slow and unsteady. The colour never came back to her cheek, nor the elasticity to her frame. She had so long subjected herself to the pressure of an artificial external support, that she could not leave off her stays without experiencing such a sinking, sickening sensation, as she called it, that she was compelled to continue, however reluctantly, the compression and support of tightly-laced corsets. And from frequently taking cold, through imprudence, the susceptibility had become so great, that the slightest dampness of the feet or the exposure to a light draught of air was sure to bring on a cough of hoarseness. Her nervous system, too, was sadly shattered. Indeed, every indication presented, foreshadowed a rapid and premature decline—consequent, solely, upon her thoughtless imprudence in earlier years.

"Shall I never feel any better, ma?" asked Amanda, one day, as a faint sickness came over her, compelling her to resign her dear little babe into the arms of its nurse, looking up at the same time so earnestly and appealingly into her mother's face, that Mrs. Beaufort's heart was touched with unwonted sorrow and tenderness.

"I hope so, Amanda," was replied, but in a tone that, though meant to encourage, conveyed little hope to the bosom of her child.

"Every time little Anna nurses, I feel so sick and faint, that, sometimes, it seems that I must give up. And yet the thought of letting the dear little angel draw her food from another bosom than mine, makes me fainter and sicker still. Can nothing be done to help me, ma?"

"We must see the doctor and consult with him. Perhaps he can do something," Mrs. Beaufort replied, in an abstracted tone.

That day the family physician was called in, and a long consultation held. The result was, a decision that Amanda must get a nurse for her child, and then try the effect upon her system of a change of air and the use of medicinal waters. In a word, she must put away her child and go to the Springs.

"Indeed, doctor, I cannot give up little Anna," said the invalid mother, while the tears started to her eyes. "I will be very careful of myself, and teach her to take a little food early, so as to relieve me as much as possible. It seems as if it would kill me, were I forced to resign to a stranger a mother's dearest privilege and holiest duty."

"I can but honour your devotion to your child, Amanda," the old family physician said, with a tenderness unusual to one whose daily intercourse was with suffering in its varied forms. "Still, I am satisfied, that for every month you nurse that babe, a year is taken from your life."

There was in the tone and manner of the doctor a solemn emphasis, that instantly aroused the young husband's liveliest fears, and sent a chill to the heart of Mrs. Beaufort.

For a moment or two, Amanda's thoughts were turned inward, and then looking up with a smile of strange meaning, while her eyes grew brighter, and something like a glow kindled upon her thin, pale cheek, she said, drawing her babe at the same time closer to her bosom—

"I will risk all, doctor. I cannot forego a mother's duty."

"A mother's duty, my dear young friend," the physician replied, with increased tenderness, for his heart was touched, "is to prolong, by every possible means, her own life, for the sake of her offspring. There are duties which none but a mother can perform. Reserve yourself for these, Amanda, and let others do for your babe all that can be done as well as you can perform it. Take my advice. Leave little Anna at home with your mother and a careful nurse; and then, with your husband and some female friend, upon whose judicious care you can rely, go to the Springs and spend a few weeks."

The advice of the physician was taken, and the young mother, with clinging, though lacerated affections, resigned to the care of a hired nurse the babe over which her heart yearned with unutterable tenderness.

Three weeks were spent at one of the Virginia springs, but little apparent benefit was the result. The young mother grieved for the loss of her babe so deeply and constantly, often giving way to tears, that the renovating effects of changed air and medicinal waters were counteracted, and she returned home, drooping in body and depressed in spirits. Her infant seemed but half restored to her, as she clasped it to a bosom in which the current of its young life had been dried up. Sad, sad indeed was her realization of the immutable truth, that the way of transgressors is hard!

Two years more of a painful and anxious existence were eked out, and Amanda again became a mother.

From this additional shock she partially recovered; but it soon became evident to all, that her shattered and enfeebled constitution was rapidly giving way. Her last babe was but four months old, when the pale messenger passed by, and gave his fearful summons.

It was toward the close of one of those calm days in September, when nature seems pausing to note the first few traces of decay which autumn has thrown upon garden, field, and forest, that Mrs. Beaufort, and the husband of her daughter, with a few friends, were gathered in the chamber of their beloved one, to see her die. How sad, how very sad is the death-bed of the young, sinking beneath premature decay! In the passing away of one who has met the storms of life, and battled with them through vigorous maturity, and sinks at last in the course of nature, there is little to pain the feelings. But when the young and beautiful die, with all their tenderest and earliest ties clinging to them—an event so unlooked for, so out of the true order of nature—we can only turn away and weep. We can extract from such an affliction but few thoughts of comfort. All is dreary, and blank, and desolate.

"Bring me my children," the dying mother said, rousing up from a state of partial slumber, with an earnest emphasis, that brought both her mother and her husband to her bedside.

"What did you want, dear Amanda?" asked the husband, laying his hand gently upon her white forehead, that was damp with the dews of coming dissolution.

"My dear babes," she replied in a changed tone, rising up with an effort. "My Anna and Mary. Who will be a mother to them, when I am laid at rest? Oh, that I could take them with me!"

Tears came to the relief of her overwrought feelings, and leaning her head upon the breast of her husband, she wept and sobbed aloud. The infant was brought in by her mother, and laid in her arms, when she had a little recovered herself.

"Oh, my baby! my sweet baby!" she said, with tender animation. "My sweet, sweet baby! I cannot give you up!" And she clasped it to her breast with an energy of affection, while the large drops rolled over her pale cheek. "And Anna, dear little girl! where is my Anna?" she asked.

Anna, a beautiful child, a few months past her second birth-day, was brought in and lifted upon the bed.

"Don't cry, ma," said the little thing, seeing the tears upon her mother's cheeks, "don't cry; I'll always be good."

"Heaven bless you and keep you, my child!" the mother sobbed, eagerly kissing the sweet lips that were turned up to hers; and then clasped the child to her bosom in a strong embrace.

The children were, after a time, removed, but the thoughts of the dying mother were still upon them; and with these thoughts were self-reproach, that made her pillow one of thorns.

"I now see and feel," said she, looking up into the face of her mother, after having lain with closed eyes for about ten minutes, "that all my sufferings, and this early death, which will soon be upon me, would have been avoided, if I had only permitted myself to be guided by you. I do not wonder now that my constitution gave way. How could it have been otherwise, and I so strangely regardless of all the laws of health? But, my dear mother, the past is beyond recall; and now I leave to you the dear little ones from whom I must soon part for ever. I feel calmer than I have felt for some time. The bitterness of the last agony seems over. But I do not see you, nor you, dear husband! Give me your hands. Here, let my head rest on your bosom. It is sweet to lie thus—Anna—dear child! Mary—sweet, sweet babe!"—

The lips of the young wife and mother moved feebly, and inarticulate whispers fell faintly from her tongue for some moments, and then she sank to sleep—and it was a sleep from which none wake in the body.

Thus, at the age of twenty-six, abused and exhausted nature gave up the struggle; and the mother, who had violated the laws of health, sank to the earth just at the moment when her tenderest and holiest duties called loudest for performance.

Who, in this brief and imperfect sketch, does not recognise familiar features? Amanda Beaufort is but one of a class which has far too many representatives. These are in every town and village, in every street and neighbourhood. Why do we see so many pale-faced mothers? Why are our young and lovely females so soon broken down under their maternal duties? The answer, in far too many cases, may be found in their early and persevering transgression of the most palpable physiological laws. The violation of these is ever followed, sooner or later, in a greater or less degree, by painful consequences. Sometimes life is spared to the young mother, and she is allowed to linger on through years of suffering that the heart aches to think of. Often death terminates early her pains, and her babes are left a legacy to the cold charities of an unfeeling world. How sad, how painful the picture! Alas! that it is a true one.



JUST GOING TO DO IT.

EVERY man has some little defect of character, some easily-besetting sin that is always overtaking him, unless he be ever on the alert. My friend, Paul Burgess, was a man of considerable force of mind; whatever he undertook was carried through with much energy of purpose. But his leading defect was a tendency to inertia in small matters. It required an adequate motive to put the machinery of his mind in operation. Some men never let a day pass without carefully seeing after every thing, little or great, that ought to be done. They cannot rest until the day's work is fully completed. But it was very different with Paul. If the principal business transactions of the day were rightly performed, he was satisfied to let things of less consideration lie over until another time. From this cause it occurred that every few weeks there was an accumulation of things necessary to be done, so great that their aggregate calls upon his attention roused him to action, and then every thing was reduced to order with an energy, promptness, and internal satisfaction that made him wonder at himself for ever having neglected these minor interests so long. On these occasions, a firm resolution was always made never again to let a day come to its close without every thing being done that the day called for. It usually happened that the first hour did not pass after the forming of this resolution without seeing its violation—so strong was the power of habit growing out of an original defect in the mind.

Every consequence in life is the natural result of some cause, and upon the character of the cause always depends the nature of the consequence. An orderly cause never produces a disorderly consequence, and the converse of this is equally true. Every defect of character that we have, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant it may be, if suffered to flow down into our actions, produces an evil result. The man who puts off the doing of a thing until to-morrow that ought to be done to-day, injures his own interest or the interest of others. This may not always clearly show itself, but the fact is nevertheless true. Sometimes the consequences of even the smallest neglect are felt most deeply.

My friend Paul had a very familiar saying when reminded by any one of something that ought to have been previously done. "I was just going to do it," or "I am just going to do it," dropped from his tongue half-a-dozen times in a day.

"I wish you would have my bill ready by three o'clock," said a customer to him, dropping in one morning.

"Very well, it shall be made out," replied Paul.

The customer turned and walked hurriedly away. He evidently had a good deal of business to do, and but a small time to do it in.

Precisely at three, the man called, and found the merchant reading the afternoon paper.

"Is my bill made out?" he asked.

"I am just going to do it," answered Paul, handing the paper towards his customer. "Look over the news for a few moments while I draw it off; it won't take me long."

"I am sorry," replied the customer, "for I cannot wait. I have three or four more accounts to settle, and the boat leaves in an hour. Send me the bill by mail, and I will remit you the amount. Good-by"—offering his hand—"I hope to see you again in the fall."

Paul took the extended hand of his customer, and shook it warmly. In the next moment he was standing alone, his ledger open before him, and his eye resting upon an account, the payment of which was of some importance to him just at that time. Disappointed and dissatisfied with himself, he closed the ledger heavily and left the desk, instead of making out the account and mailing it. On the next day, the want of just the amount of money he would have received from his customer kept him on the street two hours. It was three weeks before he made out the account and sent it on. A month elapsed, but no remittance came. He dropped his customer a line, and received for answer that when last in the city he had bought more goods than he intended, and consequently paid away all his cash; business had not yet begun to stir, and thus far what little he had sold had been for credit, but that he hoped soon to make him a remittance. The next news Paul had of his customer was that he had failed.

It was said of him that when a young man he became quite enamoured of a reigning belle, who to great beauty added many far more essential prerequisites in a good wife, not the least of which in the eye of Paul was a handsome fortune left her by a distant relative. To this young lady he paid very marked attentions for some time, but he did not stand alone in the number of her admirers. Several others were as much interested in gaining her favourable regard as he was.

One day a friend said to him—"Paul, have you heard the news?"

"What is it?"

"Sefton has offered himself to Miss P——."

"It a'n't possible! Why, I was just going to do it myself! Has she accepted him?"

"So it is said."

"I don't believe it."

"I don't know how you will ascertain, certainly, unless you ask the lady herself," replied the friend.

"I will find out within an hour, if I have to do what you suggest. Sefton offered himself! I declare, I didn't dream that any particular intimacy existed between them. My own mind has been made up these two or three months—in fact, long before Sefton knew her; but I have kept procrastinating the offer of marriage I determined to make, week after week, like a fool as I am, until I have allowed another to step in and carry off the prize, if what you say be true. But I can't believe it. I am sure Miss P—— wouldn't accept any man on so short an acquaintance."

"Sefton is a bold fellow, and prompt in all his movements," returned the friend. "I rather think you will find the report true. I know that he has been paying her the closest attentions."

"I won't believe a word of it until I have undoubted evidence of the fact. It can't be!" said Paul, pacing the floor in considerable perturbation of mind.

But it was all so, as he very soon ascertained, to his deep regret and mortification at allowing another to carry off the prize he had thought his own. When next under the influence of the tender passion, my friend took good care to do in good time just what he was going to do.

Paul was perfectly aware of his defect, and often made the very best resolutions against it, but it generally happened that they were broken as soon as made. It was so easy to put off until the next hour, or until to-morrow, a little thing that might just as well be done now. Generally, the thing to be done was so trifling in itself, that the effort to do it appeared altogether disproportionate at the time. It was like exerting the strength of a giant to lift a pebble.

Sometimes the letters and papers would accumulate upon his desk for a week or ten days, simply because the effort to put away each letter as it was read and answered, and each paper as it was used, seemed so great when compared with the trifling matter to be accomplished, as to appear a waste of effort, notwithstanding time enough would be spent in reading the newspapers, conversation, or sitting idly about, to do all this three or four times over. When confusion reached its climax, then he would go to work most vigorously, and in a few hours reduce all to order. But usually some important paper was lost or mislaid, and could not be found at the time when most needed. It generally happened that this great effort was not made until he had been going to do it for three or four days, and not then until the call for some account or other commercial paper, which was nowhere to be found, made a thorough examination of what had been accumulating for some time in his drawers and on his desk necessary. He was not always fortunate in discovering the object of his search.

Notwithstanding this minor defect in Paul's character, his great shrewdness and thorough knowledge of business made him a successful merchant. In matters of primary interest, he was far-seeing, active, and prompt, and as these involved the main chance, his worldly affairs were prosperous. Whatever losses he encountered were generally to be traced to his neglect of little matters in the present, to his habit of "going to do," but never doing at the right time.

Not only in his business, but in his domestic affairs, and in every thing that required his attention, did this disposition to put off the doing of little things show itself. The consequences of his neglect were always disturbing him in one way or another. So long as he alone suffered, no one had a right to complain; but it is not to be supposed that such a fault as he was chargeable with could exist and not affect others.

One day while Paul was at his desk, a young lady, dressed in deep mourning, came into his store and asked to see him. The clerk handed her back to where his principal was sitting, who bowed low to the stranger and offered her a chair. The young lady drew aside her veil as she seated herself, and showed a young and beautiful face that was overcast with a shade of sadness. Although Paul never remembered having seen the young lady before, he could not help remarking that there was something very familiar in her countenance.

"My name is Miss Ellison," said the stranger, in a low, tremulous voice. "I believe you know my mother, sir."

"Oh, very well," quickly returned Paul. "You are not Lucy Ellison, surely?"

"Yes, sir, my name is Lucy," returned the young lady.

"Can it be possible? Why, it seems but yesterday that you were a little girl. How rapidly time flies! How is your mother, Miss Ellison? She is one of my old friends."

"She is well, I thank you, sir," Lucy replied, casting her eyes timidly to the floor.

There was a pause. While Paul was turning over in his mind what next to say, and slightly wondering what could be the cause of this visit, the young lady said, "Mr. Burgess, my mother desired me to call upon you to ask your interest in procuring me the situation of French teacher in Mr. C——'s school. Since my father's death, our means of living have become so much reduced that it is necessary for me to do something to prevent absolute want from overtaking us."

Lucy's voice trembled very much, and once or twice a choking sensation in her throat prevented the utterance of a word; but she strove resolutely with herself, and was able to finish what she wished to say more calmly.

"I am perfectly ready," she continued, "to do any thing that lies in my power. The French language I have studied thoroughly, and having enjoyed the friendship and been on terms of intimacy with two or three French ladies of education, I believe I can speak the language with great accuracy. Mother says she knows you to be on intimate terms with Mr. C——, and that a word from you will secure me the situation."

"Mr. C—— is, then, in want of a French teacher?"

"Oh, yes," replied Lucy; "we learned the fact yesterday. The salary is five hundred dollars, which will give us a comfortable support if I can obtain the situation."

"Of which there can be no doubt, Miss Ellison," returned Paul, "if your qualifications are such as to meet the approval of Mr. C——, which I presume they are. I will certainly call upon him and secure you the place, if possible. Tell your mother that if in this or in any other way I can serve either you or her, I will do it with sincere pleasure. Please take to her my kind regards."

Lucy warmly expressed her thanks. On rising to depart, she said, "When shall I call in, Mr. Burgess, to hear the result of your interview with Mr. C——?"

"You needn't give yourself the trouble of calling at all, Miss Ellison," replied Mr. Burgess. "The moment I have seen the person of whom we were speaking, I will either call upon your mother or send her a note."

"You are very kind," dropped almost involuntarily from Lucy's lips, as, with a graceful inclination of her body, she drew her veil over her face, and, turning from the merchant, walked quickly away.

When Paul went home at dinner-time, he said to his wife, "I am sure you couldn't guess who I had for a visitor this morning."

"Then of course it would be useless for me to try," replied the wife, smiling. "Who was it?"

"You know the Ellisons?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Ellison, you remember, died about a year ago."

"Yes."

"At the time of his death it was rumoured that his estate was involved, but never having had any business transactions with him, I had no occasion to investigate the matter, and did not really know what had been the result of its settlement. This morning I was greatly surprised to receive a visit from Lucy Ellison, who had grown up into a beautiful young woman."

"Indeed!" ejaculated the wife. "And what did she want?"

"She came at her mother's request to solicit my influence with Mr. C——, who is in want of a French teacher. She said that their circumstances were very much changed since her father's death and that it had become necessary for her to do something as a means of supporting the family. The salary given by Mr. C—— to his French teacher is five hundred dollars. I really pitied the young thing from my heart. Think of our Mary, in two or three years from this, when, if ever, a cloudless sky should bend over her, going to some old friend of her father's, and almost tearfully soliciting him to beg for her, of another, the privilege of toiling for bread. It made my heart ache."

"She must be very young," remarked Mrs. Burgess.

"Not over eighteen or nineteen."

"Poor thing! What a sad, sad change she must feel it to be! But did you call upon Mr. C——?"

A slight shade passed over the countenance of Paul.

"Not yet," he replied.

"Oh, you ought to have gone at once."

"I know. I was going as soon as Lucy left, but I thought I would attend to a little business down town first, and go to Mr. C——'s immediately on my return. When I came back, I thought I would look over the newspaper a little; I wanted to see what had been said in Congress on the tariff question, which is now the all-absorbing topic. I became so much interested in the remarks of one of the members, that I forgot all about Lucy Ellison until I was called off by a customer, who occupied me until dinner-time. But I will certainly attend to it this afternoon."

"Do, by all means. There should not be a moment's delay, for Mr. C—— may supply himself with a teacher."

"Very true. If that were to happen through my neglect, I should never forgive myself."

"Hadn't you better call as you go to the store? It will be just in your way."

"So it will. Yes, I will call and put the matter in train at once," replied the husband.

With this good intention in his mind, Paul left his dwelling after dinner. He had only gone a couple of squares, however, before it occurred to him that as Mr. C—— had only one session of his school, which let out at two or half-past two, he didn't know which, he of course did not dine before three o'clock, and as it was then just a quarter past three, it would not do to call upon him then; so he kept on to his store, fixing in his mind four o'clock as the hour at which he would call. Four o'clock found Paul deeply buried in a long series of calculations that were not completed for some time afterwards. On leaving his desk, he sat leisurely down in an arm-chair for the purpose of thinking about business. He had not thought long, before the image of Lucy Ellison came up before his mind. He drew out his watch.

"Nearly half-past four, I declare! I'm afraid Mr. C—— is out now; but as it is so late, I will defer calling until I go home; it is just in my way. If I see him, I can drop in upon Mrs. Ellison after tea."

On his way home, Paul fell in with a friend whose conversation was very agreeable. He did not forget Lucy, but he thought a visit to Mr. C—— would accomplish just as much after supper as before. So the call was deferred without a twinge of conscience.

The first words of Mrs. Burgess, on her husband's entrance, were, "Well, dear, what did Mr. C—— say?"

"I haven't been able to see him yet, but I am going round after supper," Paul replied, quickly.

"Indeed! I am sorry. Did you call?"

"No; it occurred to me that C—— dined at three o'clock, so I put it off until four."

"And didn't go then?"

"No; I was going to"—

"Yes, that is just like you, Paul!" spoke up his wife with some spirit, for she felt really provoked with her husband; "you are always going to do!"

"There, there," returned Paul, "don't say a word more. A few hours, one way or the other, can make no great difference. I will go round after tea and have the matter settled. I shall be much more likely to find C—— in a state to talk about the matter than I would through the day."

As soon as tea was over, urged on by his wife, Paul put on his hat and started for the residence of Mr. C——. Unfortunately, that gentleman had gone out, and Paul turned away from his door much disappointed.

"I will call the first thing in the morning," he consoled himself by saying. "I will be sure to find him in then."

I am sorry to say that Paul was just going to do what he had promised Lucy he would do immediately, at least half-a-dozen times on the next day, but still failed in accomplishing his intended visit to Mr. C——. Mrs. Burgess scolded vigorously every time he came home, and he joined her in condemning himself, but still the thing had not been done when Paul laid his head that night rather uneasily upon his pillow.

When Lucy returned and related to her mother how kindly Mr. Burgess had received her, promising to call upon Mr. C—— and secure the situation, if possible, the widow's heart felt warm with a grateful emotion. Light broke in upon her mind, that had been for a long time under a cloud.

"He was always a kind-hearted man," she said, "and ever ready to do a good deed. If he should be so fortunate as to obtain this place for you, we shall do very well; if not, heaven only knows what is to become of us."

"Do not give way to desponding thoughts, mother," returned Lucy; "all will yet be well. The vacancy has just occurred, and mine, I feel sure, will be the first application. Mr. Burgess's interest with Mr. C——, if he can be satisfied of my qualifications, must secure me the place."

"We ought to hear from him to-day," said Mrs. Ellison.

"Yes, I should think so. Mr. Burgess, of course, understands the necessity that always exists in a case of this kind for immediate application."

"Oh, yes, he'll do it all right. I feel perfectly willing to trust the matter in his hands."

As the reader has very naturally inferred, the circumstances of Mrs. Ellison were of rather a pressing nature. Her family consisted of three children, of whom Lucy was the eldest. Up to the time of her husband's death, she had been surrounded with every comfort she could desire; but Mr. Ellison's estate proving bankrupt, his family were left with but a small, and that a very uncertain income. Upon this, by the practice of great economy, they had managed to live. The final settlement of the estate took away this resource, and the widow found herself with only a small sum of money in hand, and all income cut off. This had occurred about a month before the period of Lucy's introduction to the reader. During this time, their gradually diminishing store, and the anxiety they felt in regard to the future, destroyed all the remains of former pride or regard for appearances, and made both Lucy and her mother willing to do any thing that would yield them an income, provided it were honourable. Nothing offered until nearly all their money was exhausted, and the minds of the mother and eldest daughter were in a state of great uncertainty and distress. Just at this darkest hour, intelligence of the vacancy in Mr. C——'s school reached their ears.

Such being their circumstances, it may well be supposed that Lucy and her mother felt deeply anxious to hear from Mr. Burgess, and counted not only the hours as they passed, but the minutes that made up the hours. Neither of them remarked on the fact that the day had nearly come to its close without any communication having been received, although both had expected to have heard much earlier from Mr. Burgess. As the twilight began to fall, its gloom making their hearts feel sadder, Mrs. Ellison said, "Don't you think we ought to have heard from Mr. Burgess by this time, Lucy?"

"I hoped to have received some intelligence before this," replied the daughter. "But perhaps we are impatient; it takes time to do every thing."

"Yes; but it wouldn't take Mr. Burgess long to call upon Mr. C——. He might have done it in half an hour from the time you saw him."

"If he could have left his business to do so; but you know men in business cannot always command their time."

"I know; but still"—

"He has no doubt called," continued Lucy, interrupting her mother, for she could not bear to hear even an implied censure passed upon Mr. Burgess; "but he may not have obtained an interview with Mr. C——, or he may be waiting for a definite answer. I think during the evening we shall certainly hear from him."

But notwithstanding Lucy and her mother lingered up until past eleven o'clock, the so-anxiously looked for communication was not received.

All the next day they passed in a state of nervous solicitude and anxious expectation, but night found them still ignorant as to what Mr. Burgess had done.

On the next day, unable to bear the suspense any longer, Lucy went to the store of Mr. Burgess about ten o'clock.

"Have you called upon Mr. C—— yet?" she asked, before he had time to more than bid her a good-morning.

"I was going to do it this moment," replied Mr. Burgess, looking confused, yet trying to assume a bland and cordial manner.

In spite of her efforts to appear indifferent, the countenance of Lucy fell and assumed a look of painful disappointment.

"You shall hear from me in an hour," said Mr. Burgess, feeling strongly condemned for his neglect. "I have had a great many things on my mind for these two days past, and have been much occupied with business. I regret exceedingly the delay, but you may rely upon my attending to it at once. As I said, I was just going out for the very purpose when you called. Excuse me to your mother, and tell her that she will certainly hear from me within the next hour. Tell her that I have already made one or two efforts to see Mr. C——, but without succeeding in my object. He happened not to be at home when I called."

Lucy stammered out a reply, bade Mr. Burgess good-morning, and returned home with a heavy heart. She had little doubt but that the vacancy was already supplied. Scarcely half an hour elapsed, when a note was left. It was briefly as follows:—

"Mr. Burgess's compliments to Mrs. Ellison. Is very sorry to say that the vacancy in Mr. C——'s seminary has already been filled. If in any thing else Mr. B. can be of any service, Mrs. E. will please feel at perfect liberty in calling upon him. He exceedingly regrets that his application to Mr. C—— was not more successful."

The note dropped from the hands of Mrs. Ellison, and she groaned audibly. Lucy snatched it up, and took in its contents at a single glance. She made no remark, but clasped her hands together and drew them tightly across her breast, while her eyes glanced involuntarily upward.

About an hour afterwards, a lady who felt a good deal of interest in Mrs. Ellison, and who knew of the application that was to be made through Mr. Burgess to Mr. C——, called in to express her sincere regret at Lucy's having failed to secure the situation, a knowledge of which had just reached her ears.

"Nothing but the neglect of Mr. Burgess to call upon Mr. C—— at once, as he promised to do, has prevented Lucy from getting the place!" she said, with the warmth of a just indignation. "A person who was present when Mr. B. called this morning, told me, that after he left Mr. C—— remarked to her that he was perfectly aware of Lucy's high qualifications for teaching French, and would have been glad of her services had he known her wish to engage as an instructor, but that it was now too late, as he had on the day before employed a competent person to fill the situation."

Lucy covered her face with her hands on hearing this, and gave way to a passionate burst of tears.

When Mr. Burgess came home at dinner-time, his wife said, immediately on his entrance, "Have you secured that place for Lucy Ellison, my dear? I hope you haven't neglected it again."

"I called upon Mr. C—— this morning," replied the husband, "but found the vacancy already filled."

"Oh, I am so sorry!" said Mrs. Burgess, speaking in a tone of deep regret. "When was it filled?"

"I didn't inquire. Mr. C—— said that Lucy would have suited him exactly, but that her application came too late."

"Poor thing! She will be terribly disappointed," said the wife.

"No doubt she will be disappointed, but I don't know why it should be so very terrible to her. She had no right to be positively certain of obtaining the situation."

"Have you heard any particulars of her mother's situation?" inquired Mrs. Burgess.

"Nothing very particular. Have you?"

"Yes. Mrs. Lemmon called to see me this morning; she is an intimate friend of Mrs. Ellison. She told me that the small income which Mrs. Ellison has enjoyed since her husband's death has, at the final settlement of his estate, been cut off, the estate proving to be utterly insolvent. A month has elapsed since she has been deprived of all means of living beyond the small sum of money that happened to be in her hands, an amount not over thirty or forty dollars. Since that time Lucy has been anxiously looking about for some kind of employment that would yield enough for the support of the family, to obtain which she was willing to devote every energy of body and mind. The vacancy in Mr. C——'s school is the first opening of any kind that has yet presented itself. For this she was fully competent, and the salary would have supported the family quite comfortably. It is too bad that she should not have obtained it. I am almost sure, if you had gone at once to see about it, that you might have obtained it for her."

"Well, I was going to see about it at once, but something or other prevented me. If I really thought it was my fault, I should feel very bad."

That afternoon accident made him fully acquainted with the fact that he, and he alone, was to blame in the matter, and then he felt bad enough.

"That dreadful habit of procrastination," he murmured to himself, "is always getting me into trouble. If I alone were made to suffer, it would be no matter; but when it involves other people as it now does, it becomes a crime. In the present case I must make reparation in some way; but I must think how this is to be done."

When any matter serious enough to call for the undivided attention of Mr. Burgess presented itself, that thing was generally done, and well done. He had great energy of character, and mental resources beyond what were ordinarily possessed. It was only when he felt the want of an adequate purpose that neglect became apparent.

On the morning after the day upon which Lucy and her mother had been so bitterly disappointed, the former, while looking over the newspaper, called the attention of the latter to an advertisement of a young lady who was desirous of obtaining a situation as a French teacher in some private family or seminary. The advertiser represented herself as being thoroughly versed in the principles of the language, and able to speak it as well as a native of Paris. The highest testimonials as to character, education, social standing, &c. would be given.

"I think I had better do the same," Lucy said.

"It won't be of any use," replied the mother, in a tone of despondency.

"We don't know that, mother," said Lucy. "We must use the best means that offer themselves for the accomplishment of what we desire."

"There is already one advertisement for a situation such as you desire—some disappointed applicant for the place at Mr. C——'s, no doubt. It is hardly to be supposed that two more French teachers are wanted in the city."

"Let us try, mother," returned Lucy to this.

"If you feel disposed to do it, child, I have no objection," said Mrs. Ellison; "but I shall count nothing on it."

"It is the only method that now presents itself, and I think it will be right at least to make the trial. It can do no harm."

The more Lucy thought about an advertisement, the more hopeful did she feel about the result. During the day she prepared one and sent it down to a newspaper office. Her messenger had not been long gone before the servant came up to the room where she sat with her mother, and said that a gentleman was in the parlour and wished to see them. He had sent up his card.

"Mr. Burgess!" ejaculated Lucy, on taking the card from the servant's hand.

"I do not wish to see him," said Mrs. Ellison, as soon as the servant had withdrawn. "You will have to go down alone, Lucy."

Lucy descended to the parlour with reluctant steps, for she had little desire to see the man whose thoughtlessness and neglect had so cruelly wronged them. The moment she entered the parlour, Mr. Burgess stepped forward to meet her with a cheerful expression of countenance.

"Yesterday," he began immediately, "I had discouraging news for you, but I am happy to bring you a better story to-day. I have obtained a situation for you as a French teacher, in a new seminary which has just been opened, at a salary of six hundred dollars a year. If you will go with me immediately, I will introduce you to the principal, and settle all matters preliminary to your entering upon the duties of your station."

"I will be with you in a few minutes," was all that Lucy could say in reply, turning quickly away from Mr. Burgess and gliding from the room. Her heart was too full for her to trust herself to say more. In a moment after she was sobbing upon her mother's bosom. It was some minutes before she could command her feelings enough to tell the good news she had just heard. When she did find utterance, and briefly communicated the intelligence she had heard, her mother's tears of joy were mingled with her own.

Lucy accompanied Mr. Burgess to the residence of the principal of the new seminary, and there entered into a contract for one year to teach the French language, at a salary of six hundred dollars, her duties to commence at once, and her salary to be drawn weekly if she desired it. She did not attempt an expression of the gratitude that oppressed her bosom. Words would have been inadequate to convey her real feelings. But this was not needed. Mr. Burgess saw how deeply grateful she was, and wished for no utterance of what she felt.

That night both Mr. Burgess, as well as those he had benefited, had sweeter dreams than visited their pillows on the night preceding. The latter never knew how much they stood his debtor. He put in the advertisement which Lucy had read, and she was the person it described. Five hundred dollars was all the principal of the seminary paid; the other hundred was placed in his hands by Mr. Burgess, that the salary might be six hundred.



MAKING HASTE TO BE RICH.

"CENT to cent, shilling to shilling, and dollar to dollar, slowly and steadily, like the progress of a mole in the earth! That may suit some, but it will never do for Sidney Lawrence. There is a quicker road to fortune than that, and I am the man to walk in it. 'Enterprise' is the word. Yes, enterprise, enterprise, enterprise! Nothing venture, nothing gain, is my motto."

"Slow and sure is the safer motto, my young friend, and if you will take my advice, you will be content to creep before you walk, and to walk before you run. The cent to cent and dollar to dollar system is the only sure one."

This was the language of an old merchant, who had made his fortune by the system he recommended, and was addressed to a young man just entering business with a capital of ten thousand dollars, the joint property of himself and an only sister.

Sidney Lawrence had been raised in a large mercantile establishment, that was doing an immense business and making heavy profits. But all its operations were based upon adequate capital and enlarged experience. When he commenced for himself, he could not brook the idea of keeping near the shore, like a little boat, and following its safer windings; he felt like launching out boldly into the ocean and reaching the desired haven by the quickest course. He wished to accumulate money rapidly, and believed that, on the capital he possessed, five or six thousand dollars a year might as easily be made as one thousand, if a man only had sufficient enterprise to push business vigorously. The careful, plodding course pursued by some, and strongly recommended to him, he despised. It was beneath a man of true business capacity.

"As I said before, nothing venture, nothing gain," replied Lawrence to the old merchant's good advice. "I am not content to eke out a thousand or two dollars every year, and, at the age of fifty or sixty, retire from business on a paltry twenty or thirty thousand dollars. I must get rich fast, or not at all."

"Remember the words of Solomon, my young friend," returned the merchant. "'He that maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent.' Among all the sayings of the wise man, there is not one truer than that. I have been in business for thirty years, and have seen the rise and fall of a good many 'enterprising' men, who were in a hurry to get rich. Their history is an instructive lesson to all who will read it. Some got rich, or at least appeared to get rich, in a very short space of time. They grew up like mushrooms in a night. But they were gone as quickly. I can point you to at least twenty elegant mansions, built by such men in their heyday of prosperity, that soon passed into other hands. And I can name to you half a dozen and more, who, when reverses came, were subjected to trials for alleged fraudulent practices, resorted to in extremity as a means of sustaining their tottering credit and escaping the ruin that threatened to engulf them. One of these, in particular, was a young man whom I raised, and who had always acted with the most scrupulous honesty while in my store. But he was ardent, ambitious, and anxious to get rich. His father started him in business with ten thousand dollars capital. In a little while, he was trading high, and pushing his business to the utmost of its capacity. At the end of a couple of years, his father had to advance him ten thousand dollars more to keep him from failing. During the next five years, he expanded with wonderful rapidity, built himself a splendid house, and took his place at the court end of the town, as one of our wealthy citizens. It was said of him that he had made a hundred thousand dollars. But the downfall came at last, as come I knew it must. He toppled over and fell down headlong. Then it was discovered that he had been making fictitious notes, purporting to be the bills payable of country merchants, which his own credit had carried through a number of the banks, as well as made pass freely to money-brokers. He had to stand a long and painful trial for forgery, and came within an ace of being sent to the State's prison. As soon as the trial closed, he left the city, and I have never heard of him since."

"But you don't mean to insinuate," said Lawrence, rather sternly, "that I would be guilty of forgery in any extremity?"

"Sidney Lawrence!" replied the merchant, speaking in a firm, serious voice, "I am a plain-spoken man, and always tell my real mind when I feel it my duty to do so, whether I give offence or not. That Solomon spoke truly, when he said, 'He that maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent,' I fully believe, because I am satisfied, from what I have seen and know of business, that whoever follows it with an eager desire to make money rapidly, will be subjected to daily temptations, and it will be almost impossible for him not to seek advantages over his neighbour in trade, and trample under foot the interests of others to gain his own. If this is done in little matters unscrupulously, it will in the end be done in great matters. What is the real difference, I should like to know, between taking advantage of a man in bargaining, and getting his money by passing upon him a forged note? The principle is undoubtedly the same, only one is a legal offence and the other is not. And therefore, I hold that he who takes an undue advantage of his fellow man in trade, will not in the end hesitate about committing a greater wrong, if he have a fair chance of escape from penalty. In my young days, the motto of most business men, who were not very nice about the interests of others, was, 'Every man for himself and the Lord for us all.' But the motto has become slightly changed in these times. It now reads, 'Every man for himself, and the d——l take the hindmost!' I hear this too often unblushingly avowed, but see it much oftener acted out, all around me. My young friend, if you wish to keep a clear conscience, adopt neither of these mottoes, but regard, in every transaction, the good of others as well as your own good. And let me most seriously and earnestly warn you against making haste to be rich. The least evil that can overtake you, in such an effort, will be the almost certain wreck of all your worldly hopes, some five or ten years hence, and your fall, so low, that to rise again will be almost impossible."

This well-meant, but plainly uttered advice, more than half offended Lawrence. He replied, coldly, that he thought he knew what he was about, and would try, at least, to "steer clear of the penitentiary."

With shrewdness, tact, untiring industry, and a spirit that knew no discouragement, the young man pressed forward in business. The warning of the merchant, if it did not repress his desire to get rich in haste, caused him to look more closely than he would otherwise have done into every transaction he was about to make. This saved him from many serious losses.

The want of more capital soon began to be felt. He saw good operations every day, that might be made if he had capital enough to enter into them.

"A man deserves no credit for getting rich, if he have capital enough to work with," was a favourite remark. "There is plenty of business to be done, and ways of making money in abundance, if the means are only at hand."

One week, if he had only been in the possession of means, he would have purchased a cotton-factory; the next week become possessor of a ship, and entered into the East India trade; and, the next week after that, purchased an interest in a lead-mine on the Upper Mississippi.

Money, money, more money, was ever his cry, for he saw golden opportunities constantly passing unimproved. A neighbour, to whom he was expressing his desire for the use of larger capital, said to him, one day—

"I'll tell you how you can get more money!"

"How?" was the eager question.

"Get into the direction of some bank, push through the notes of a business friend, in whom you have confidence, who will do the same for you in another bank of which he is one of the managers. There are wheels within wheels in those moneyed institutions, from which the few and not the many reap the most benefit. Connect yourself with as many as you can of them, and make the most of the opportunities such connections will afford. You know Balmier?"

"Yes."

"And what a rushing business he does?"

"Yes."

"He dragged heavily enough, and was always flying about for money, until he took a hint and got elected into the Citizens and Traders' Bank. Since then he has been as easy as an old shoe, and has done five times as much business as before."

"Is it possible?"

"Oh, yes! You are not fully up to the tricks of trade yet, I see, shrewd as you are."

"I know well enough how to use money, but I have not yet learned how to get it."

"That will all come in good time. We are just now getting up a petition for the charter of a new bank in which I am to be a director, and I can easily manage to get you in if you will subscribe pretty liberally to the stock. It is to be called the People's Bank."

"But I have no money to invest in stock. That would be taking away instead of adding to my capital in trade, which is light enough in all conscience."

"There will be no trouble about that. Only an instalment of twenty cents in the dollar will be necessary to set the institution going. And not more than ten cents in the dollar will be called in at a time. After two or three instalments have been paid, you can draw out two-thirds of the amount on stock notes."

"Indeed! That's the way it's done?"

"Yes. You ought to take about a hundred shares, which will make it easy for us to have you put into the Board of Directors."

"I'll do it," was the prompt response to this.

"And take my word for it, you will not be many months a bank director, if you improve the opportunities that will be thrown in your way, without having a good deal more money at your command than at present."

The charter for the People's Bank was obtained, and when an election was held, Lawrence went in as a director. He had not held that position many months, before, by favouring certain paper that was presented from certain quarters, he got paper favoured that came from certain other quarters; and in this was individually benefited by getting the use of about fifteen thousand dollars additional capital, which came to him really but not apparently from the bank in which he held a hundred shares of stock. For the sake of appearances, he did not borrow back his instalments on stock notes. It was a little matter, and would have looked as if he were pressed for money.

From this time Sidney Lawrence became a financier, and plunged deep into all the mysteries of money-raising. His business operations became daily more and more extended, and he never appeared to be much pressed for money. At the end of a couple of years, he held the office of director in two banking institutions, and was president of an insurance company that issued post-notes on which three per cent. was charged. These notes, as the institution was in good credit, could readily be passed through almost any bank in the city. They were loaned pretty freely on individual credit, and also freely on real estate and other collateral security.

It is hard to serve two masters. The mind of man is so constituted, and the influences bearing upon it are so peculiar in their orderly arrangements, that the more it is concentered upon one object and pursuit, the more perfection and certainty attend its action. But if it be divided between two objects and pursuits, and especially if both of these require much thought, its action will be imperfect to a certain degree in both, or one will suffer while the other absorbs the most attention.

Thus it happened with Lawrence. While ardently engaged in financiering, his business received less attention. Instead of using to the best possible advantage the money already obtained in his financiering operations, he strove eagerly after more. In fact, too reckless an investment, in many instances, of borrowed capital, from which no return could be obtained perhaps for years, made his wants still as great as before, and kept in constant activity all the resources of his mind in order to meet his accommodations and steadily to increase them.

Ten years from the time when Sidney Lawrence started in business have passed. He is living in handsome style and keeps his carriage. Five or six years previously, he was married to a beautiful and lovely-minded woman, connected with some of the best families of the city. He has three children.

"Are you not well, dear?" asked his wife, one day about this period. They were sitting at the dinner-table, and Mr. Lawrence was hardly tasting his food.

"I haven't much appetite," he replied indifferently.

"You eat scarcely any thing; hardly enough to keep you alive. I am afraid you give yourself too much up to business."

Mr. Lawrence did not reply. He had evidently not heard more than half of his wife's last remark. In a little while he left the table, saying, as he rose, that he had some business requiring his immediate attention. Mrs. Lawrence glanced toward the door that closed after her husband with a troubled look, and sighed.

From his dwelling Mr. Lawrence hurried to his store, and spent an hour there in examining his account books, and in making calculations. At five o'clock he met the directors of the insurance company, of which he was still president, at an extra meeting. All had grave faces. There was a statement of the affairs of the company upon the table around which they were gathered. It showed that in the next two weeks post-notes, amounting in all to one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, would fall due; while not over fifty thousand dollars in bills receivable, maturing within that time, were on hand, and the available cash resources of the company were not over five thousand dollars. The time was, when by an extra effort the sum needed could have been easily raised. But extra efforts had been put forth so often of late, that the company had exhausted nearly all its resources.

"I do not understand," remarked one of the directors, looking up from the statement he had been carefully examining, "how there can be a hundred and fifty thousand dollars of post-notes due so soon, and only fifty thousand dollars in bills receivable maturing in the same time. If I am not mistaken, the post-notes were never issued except against bills having a few days shorter time to run. How is this, Mr. Lawrence?"

"All that is plain enough," the president replied promptly. "A large portion of these bills have been at various times discounted for us in the People's Bank, and in other banks, when we have needed money."

"But why should we be in such need of money?" inquired the director earnestly. He had been half asleep in his place for over a year, and was just beginning to get his eyes open. "I believe we have had no serious losses of late. There have been but few fires that have touched us."

"But there have been a good many failures in the last six months, most of which have affected us, and some to quite a heavy amount," returned the president. "Our post-note business has proved most unfortunate."

"So I should think if it has lost us a hundred thousand dollars, as appears from this statement."

"It is useless to look at that now," said Mr. Lawrence. "The great business to be attended to is the raising of means to meet this trying emergency. How is it to be done?"

There was a deep silence and looks of concern.

"Can it be raised at all? Is there any hope of saving the institution?" asked one of the board, at length.

"In my opinion, none in the world," was replied by another. "I have thought of little else but the affairs of the company since yesterday, and I am satisfied that all hope is gone. There are thirty thousand dollars to be provided to-morrow. Our balance is but five thousand, even if all the bills maturing to-day have been paid."

"Which they have, I presume, as no protests have come in," remarked the president.

"But what is the sum of five thousand dollars set off against thirty thousand? It is as nothing."

"Surely, gentlemen are not prepared to give up in this way," said the president, earnestly. "A failure will be a most disastrous thing, and we shall all be deeply sufferers in the community if it takes place. We must make efforts and sacrifices to carry it through. Here are twelve of us; can we not, on our individual credit, raise the sum required? I, for one, will issue my notes to-morrow for twenty thousand dollars. If the other directors will come forward in the same spirit, we may exchange the bills among each other, and by endorsing them mutually, get them through the various banks where we have friends or influence, and thus save the institution. Gentlemen, are you prepared to meet me in this thing?"

Two or three responded affirmatively. Some positively declined; and others wanted time to think of it.

"If we pause to think, all is ruined," said Mr. Lawrence, excited. "We must act at once, and promptly."

But each member of the board remained firm to the first expression. Nothing could be forced, and reflection only tended to confirm those who opposed the president's views in their opposition to the plan suggested. The meeting closed, after two hours' perplexing deliberation, without determining upon any course of action. At ten o'clock on the next day the directors were to meet again.

Mr. Lawrence walked the floor for half of that night, and lay awake for the other half. To sleep was impossible. Thus far, in the many difficulties he had encountered, a way of escape from them had opened either on the right hand or on the left, but now no way of escape presented itself. A hundred plans were suggested to his mind, canvassed and then put aside. He saw but one measure of relief, if it could be carried out; but that he had proposed already, and it was not approved.

The unhappy state in which she saw her husband deeply distressed Mrs. Lawrence. Earnestly did she beg of him to tell her all that troubled him, and let her bear a part of the burden that was upon him. At first he evaded her questions; but, to her oft-repeated and tenderly urged petition to be a sharer in his pains as well as his pleasures, he mentioned the desperate state of affairs in the company of which he was president.

"But, my dear husband," she replied to this, "you cannot be held responsible for the losses the institution has sustained."

"True, Florence; but the odium, the censure, the distress that must follow its failure,—I cannot bear to think of these. My credit, too, will suffer, for I shall lose all I have invested in the stock, and this fact, when known, will impair confidence."

"All this is painful and deeply to be regretted, Sidney," said the wife, speaking in as firm a voice as she could assume. "But as it is a calamity that cannot now be avoided, and is not the result of any wrong act of yours, let a clear conscience sustain you in this severe trial. Let the public censure, let odium be attached to your name—so long as your conscience is clear and your integrity unsullied, these cannot really hurt you."

But this appeal had little or no effect. The mind of the unhappy man could not take hold of it, nor feel its force. It was repeated again and again, and with as little effect. Finally he begged to be left to his own reflections. In tears his wife complied with his request. That night she slept as little as her miserable husband.

On the next day the —— Insurance Company was dishonoured, and "went into liquidation." On the day following Sidney Lawrence suspended payment. Trustees were appointed to take charge of the effects of the company, who immediately commenced a rigid examination into its affairs. Lawrence made an assignment at the same time for the benefit of his creditors.

One evening, about a week after his failure, Mr. Lawrence came home paler and more disturbed than ever. There was something wild in the expression of his countenance.

"Florence," said he, as soon as he was alone with her, "I must leave for Cincinnati in the morning."

"Why?" eagerly asked the wife, her face instantly blanching.

"Business requires me to go. I have seen your father, and have made arrangements with him for you to go to his house, with the children, while I am away. This property, as I have before told you, has to be sold, and the sale will probably take place while I am gone."

"How soon will you return?"

"I cannot tell exactly; but I will come back as quickly as possible."

There was something in the manner of her husband, as he made this announcement, that startled and alarmed Mrs. Lawrence. She tried to ask many questions, but her voice failed her. Leaning her head down upon her husband's breast, she sobbed and wept for a long time. Lawrence was much affected, and kissed the wet cheek of his wife with unwonted fervour.

On the next morning, early, the unhappy man parted with his family. His wife clung to him with an instinctive dread of the separation. Tears were in his eyes, as he took his children one after another in his arms and kissed them tenderly.

"God bless you all, and grant that we may meet again right early, and under brighter skies!" he said, as he clasped his wife to his bosom in a long embrace, and then tore himself away.

On the third day after Mr. Lawrence left, one of the city newspapers contained the following paragraph:

"THE —— INSURANCE COMPANY.—We understand that in the investigation of the affairs of this concern, it has been discovered that Mr. Lawrence, the president, proves to be a defaulter in the sum of nearly a hundred thousand dollars. The public are aware that post-notes were issued by the company to a large amount, and loaned to individuals on good collateral security. These bore only the signature of the president. It now appears that Mr. Lawrence used this paper without the knowledge of the directors. He signed what he wanted for his own use, and when these came due, signed others and negotiated them, managing through the principal clerk in the institution, who it seems was an accomplice, to keep the whole matter a secret. This was continued until he had used the credit of the concern up to a hundred thousand dollars, when it sank under the load. Preparations were made, immediately on the discovery of this, to have him arrested and tried for swindling, but he got wind of it and has left the city. We presume, however, that he will be apprehended and brought back. His own private affairs are said to be in a most deplorable condition. It is thought that not over twenty cents in the dollar will be realized at the final settlement."

Here we drop a veil over the history of the man who made haste to be rich, and was not innocent. His poor wife waited vainly for him to return, and his children asked often for their father, and wondered why he stayed so long away. Years passed before they again met, and then it was in sorrow and deep humiliation.



LET HER POUT IT OUT.

I HOPE there is no coolness between you and Maria," said Mrs. Appleton to her young friend, Louisa Graham, one evening at a social party. "I have not seen you together once to-night; and just now she passed without speaking, or even looking at you."

"Oh, as to that," replied Louisa, tossing her head with an air of contempt and affected indifference, "she's got into a pet about something; dear knows what, for I don't."

"I am really sorry to hear you say so," remarked Mrs. Appleton. "Maria is a warm-hearted girl, and a sincere friend. Why do you not go to her, and inquire the cause of this change in her manner?"

"Me! No, indeed. I never humour any one who gets into a pet and goes pouting about in that manner."

"But is it right for you to act so? A word of inquiry or explanation might restore all in a moment."