CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Cornell University Library PS 1006.A2T7 1854 Half-hour stories of choice reading for I III 3 1924 022 004 513 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022004513 HALT-HOUK STORIES HALF-HOra STORIES CHOICE READING? FOB HEOlS/fllE A.3SriD TK..A.-VEIJ. BY JOHN S. ADAMS. /^ BOSTON : O. W. OOTTRELL, 36 OORNHILL. \' Enterel according to Act of Congresa, in the yeu 1854, by a \V. COTTRELL. i the Clerk's Office of the District Coui-t for the District of MassachusetBL' /^^y^ ¥^S Btereotypoa dj HOBART k ROBBINS, ■•w England Type and.SteJibotjpe-FouDdEy, BOSTON. CONTENTS. Tioa SA.TKD BY KlSTDNESS, 9 The Loye of Elinobk 81 'Tts Sweet io be Eemembebed, S3 I CALL Thee Mink, 84 The Old Tree and it? Lessok 85 Voices from the Spikti Land 40 The Beacon Light,' 41 Bear TJf, 42 A Welcome Song to Spbino, 43 The Hope of the Fallen, ...........44 Thoughts that come from Long Ago 77 ' Determined to be Rich 78 The Heatbn-sent, Heaven-retttrned 79 Flowers, Bright Flowers : 80 Forget he Not 81 What is Truth? 82 Tee HoMESTEAp Yi^it, 87 The Mariner's Song, 89 . Love's IiAst Words 90 Light ik Bareness, 91 Mt. Vernon, and the Tomb oi' Washinqion, ...» 92 Fbeedoh's Oatberinc}, 98 Bona of ieh Bird, ■,' - 102 I Change but in DxtNO, 103 1* 5 . CONTENTS. 103 He is tht Brotheb, .., . 104 The Wine-deaier's Cieek, 128 Anoelina, • 130 Fakewell, my Native Lakd, 131 TJUUIABNED TO IiOVE, , * 181 What was it? 133 Letteks and Lettee-wriuko, '■" 141 A Vision of Reality, "-^ 145 Jewels ov the Heaet, • Light tkoh a Bettek Land ^*° Poor and Weaky, '^^' The Bandbox Movement, ^^° Wbw England Hosies, '■'^^ Onward Cotjraqeocsly, 1°^ A Forest Pic-nio Sono, 1-S3 The Wauiiior's Bride, 1"" The Advent of Hope, • 164 Child and Sire 1^^ A Brother's Welcome 169 ■The Immensity of Creation • • 170 A Vision of Heaven, 175 There 's Hope for Thee yet, 177 SoLILOaUY OVER THE GrAVE OF A WiFE 177 The Fugitives, 179 The TJniversai. Jubilee, 180 The Widow's Story, . . ' 181 The Battle of the Red Men, 191 Sunlight on the Soul 194 A Song from; the Absent 195 — To the Loved '6nb at Home, 195 TwTLiaHT Forest Hymn, 196 The Summer Shower 197 ■ Autobiography of an Automaton, 198 T^o the Unknown Dokok of a Botjqtiet 207 ^ A SlSTSKIS HEA-WiS, ! 208 I OONTENIS. _ 7 I Dekambu 'OP Thee Last Night, Love 210 They teli, of Happy Bowjsks 211 Man cannot Live and Love not, 21] Beitee than Gold, 213 Gone Away 227 Lines to mty Wipe 228 (Jheek Up,. _ 230 Tedst Thou in God 231 The MiNisTEiATtON of Sorrow, 232 glvinq poblicity to business, 234 The Mission of Kindness 242 A Plea for the Fallen, 245 JoY Beyond, 246 The SnMMSi Days are coming, 247 The Man who knows Everythino, 248 Pride and Poverty 251 Words that touch the Inner Heaet 253 Our Home, 254 Speculation and its Consequence 256 Beteospection, 265 Nature's Fair Dauohteu, Beautiful Water, 269 The Test op Friendship, 270 Weep Not 271 KicH AND Poor, 273 The Homeward Bound, 282 The Poor of Earth, 283 If I don't Others will 285 Not made for an Editor, 288 Here 's to the Heart that 'a ever Bright 296 MoRNiNO Beauty, 297 The Becompense of Goodness, 297 Bridal Songs, 298 The Jug afloat, 300 Give, and stay their Misery, 810 The Sfibii op Man, ^ . . 311 8 CONTENTS. Pause and Think 3^" Little Nellt • ^^^ We shaxl all be Happy soon 319 Kednion • ' • 321 " The Village Mtsteet 323 The Wayside Death, 829 Beauty and Innocence, 331 NioHT 332 Not Dead, but Changed, 335 The Disihhehited 336 The Seasons all are Beautiful, 360 Spring 362 A Text ;ob a Lifetime 365 Now Close the Book , 869 HALF-HOUR STORIES. SAYED BY KINDNESS. " A kind word is of mora value than gold or precious stones." CHAPTER I. " Then you are here ! " said a stern, gruff voice, address- ing a pale, sickly-looking youth, whose frame trembled and •whose lip quivered as he approached one who sat at the side of a low pine table ; — it was his master, a man of about forty, of athletic form, and of power sufficient to crush the feeble youth. " Well," he continued, " if you are sure that you gave it to him, go to bed ; but mind you, whisper — breathe not the secret to a living soul, on peril of your life ! You may evade my grasp, but like blood I will track you through life, and add a bitter to your every cup of sweet." The lad had no sooner left the room than a man entered, \rhose carelessly arranged apparel and excited appearance indicated that something of vast importance — at least, as far as he was concerned — burthened his mind. " Harry," he said, throwing himself upon a chair, " 1 fear we are betrayed — discovered — completely used up." "Discovered!" shouted the person addressed. ''How? where? why 1" 10 HALT HOUR STORIES. " It is SO, friend Harry. The boy_ you sent made a sax3 error." "Then murder the boy!" and, clutching a dagger, he motioned to leave the room, and ^Y0uld have done so to plunge it in the bosom of the lad, had not his informant in- terfered, and thus prevented him from executing so rash and cruel an act. " What ! — I will — loill do it ! " he shouted, endeavoring to release himself from the hands of the other. "Never!" Aras tlie bold, unwavering response. " Muve a step, and death shall be thy doom. Seest thou that 7 " and the speaker drew from his bosom a richly-mounted pistol. "Doubtless thou art right," said Harry, in a more calm manner; " the excitement of the moment urged me to des- peration, and, if any but you had arisen in my path, the glistening steel should have met his heart. Eut, Bill, how, — I am confused, my eyes swim, — tell me, how are we dis- covered 7 Must the last act in the great drama of our fortune- making be crushed in the bud ? — and who dare do it 7 " "If you will restrain your indignation, I will tell you." "A hard task, yet I will try." " That answer will not do ; you must say something more positive." " Then T say, I wilL" " Enough,— the boy Sim handed the note to the kitchen- girl." " But, Bill, think you she suspected its contents 7 " "That I cannot say, but she is inquisitive, and h.is been known to unseal letters committed to her care, by some in- genious way she has invented. She looked uncommonly •u'iso when she handed it to me and said, ' Mr. Bang, that 'a of no small importance to you.' " " The deuce she did ! I fear she deserves the halter," said Harry. " What, with the h off7 " SAVED BY KINDNESS. 11 " No, there is too much Caudleism in her to make her worthy of that; but this is no time for our jokes. Your suspicions are too true ; but how shall we act ? what plans shall we adopt?" "None, Harry, but this; — we must act as though we were the most honest men on earth, and act not as though we suspected any of suspecting us." "0, yes, I understand you. Bill ; we must not suspect anything wrong in her." " That 's it," answered Bill, and, plunging his hand into his pocket, he drew from thence a small scrap of greasy, pocket-worn paper, anjl read a few words in a low whisper to his friend Harry. A nod from the latter signified his approval. He returned the mysterious memorandum to his pocket, and planting upon his head a poor, very poor apology for a hat, swung his body round a few times on his heel, and leaving the house, pushed open a small wicket-gate, and entered the street. He hurriedly trudged along, heaping silent curses upon the head of Harry's boy, the kitchen-girl, and sundry other feminine and masculine members of the human family not yet introduced to the reader. Bold Bill gone, Harry sat for some considerable length of time ruminating upon the strange turn aifairs had taken, and indulging in vagUe speculations upon whether the next would be as unfavorable ; and at this point of our story we will divulge somewhat of his history. Henry Lang had been in years past a man well-to-do in the world ; he was once a merchant respected for his -strict in- tegrity and punctuality in business affairs ; but by a false step, a making haste to be rich, he was ruined. The great land speculation of '37 and thereabout was the chief, and in fact the only cause of his misfortune. On one day he could boast of his thousands, and no paper held better credit tlian that signed or endorsed by him. The next, the bubble broke, y' 12 HALF HOUR STORIES. his fortune was scattered, his riches took to themselves wings and flew away his creditors, like vultures, flocked around and speedily de zoured what little remained of his once large possessions. He was a man easily affected by such occur- rences, and they deeply wounded his sensitive feelings. What should he do 7 He looked around upon those who once professedly loved him ; but no hand was extended, no heart sympathized with him in thehour of trouble. He left his country, and with it a wife and one child, a daughter, lovely, if not in personal appearance, in highly virtuous and intellectual qualities, which, after all, will be admitted to be of more value than that which timp withers and sickness destroys. With a sad heq,rt Mr, Lang left these and the spot of ■ earth around which many fond recollections clustered. After twenty months of tedious wanderings, he returned, but he was a changed man ; his ambitious spirit had been crushed, all his hopes had departed, and he gave himself up to the fanciful freaks of a disordered mind. Defeated in his honest endeavors to obtain a livelihood, -he was now seeking out dis- honest ways and means to retrieve his fallen fortune. He sought for those of a kindred spirit, nor was he long in find- ing such ; in a short time he became acquainted, and soon after connected, with a gang of adventurous men, about six in nwmher, who by various fraudulent msans were each amass- ing much wealth. " And he deserted me in this my time of need ! Can it be true that he has gone ? For him I would willingly have endured any privation. Did he not know that my love was strong ? Could he not believe me when I said, that, as I joyed with him in his prosperity, I would mourn with him in its reverse ? — thxt I could ever be near to comfort and console, — one with him at all times, under all circum- gtances ? " SAVED BY KINDNESS. IS " Comfort yourself, dear mother ! " said a calm voice. " Kemember that these trials are for our good, and that the sorrows of earth are but to prepare us for the joys of heaven. Cheer up, mother ! let those thoughts rejoice thy heart ! Despair not, but take courage ! " With such -words did the daughter administer consolation to the afflicted, when hearing that her husband had forsaken her and sailed for a foreign port. It was indeed a heavy blow, and she felt it severely. She could have endured the thought of having all her earthly possessions taken from, her, — but to be "deserted, to be left at such a time dependent upon the charities of the world for a subsistence, such a thought she was not prepared to withstand. The few words of Julia having been said, a deep silence for some moments pervaded the room. She sat and gazed up into the -face of her mother, whose tears bore witness to the deep anguish of her soul. The silence was interrupted by the rising of the latter, who for a few moments paced the room, and then sank helplessly into a chair. The attentive child sprang to her relief, a few neighbors were called in, she was laid upon her bed. That night a severe attack of fever came upon her ; for many days her life was despaired of; but at length a ray of hope cheered the solitude of the chamber of the sick, and at the close of six weeks tier health was in a great degree restored. "Time heals all wounds," is a common saying, true in some cases, but not in all. Some wounds there are that sink deep in the heart, — their pain even time cannot remedy, but stretch far into eternity, and find their solace there. Others there are which by time are partially healed ; — such was that of Mrs. Lang. During her sickness, many of the little inci- dents that before had troubled her passed from her mind. She now yielded submissively to her sad allotment, believ- ing, as during her sickness she had often been told, that 2 14 HALF HOUR STOEJES. afflictions come but for our own good, however paradoxical such a statement might seem to be. The kindness of a neighbor enabled her, with her daugh- ter, to remove their place of residence. This neighbor — a ladj of moderate pecuniary circumstances — furnished them with needle-work, the compensation for which enabW them to obtain supplies necessary for a comfortable living. CHAPTER II. For some time Mr. Henry Lang sat with his head resting upon his hands, and with them upon the table. Deep silence prevailed, broken only, at lengthy intervals, by the loud laugh following the merry jest of some passer-by, or the dismal creaking of the swing-sign of an adjacent tavern. How long Mr. Lang might have remained in that position is not for us to determine. But it would have been much longer, had not a loud rap at the outer door awakened him from his drowsy condition. He started at the sound, and, taking in his hand a dim- burning candle, proceeded to answer the call. Opening the door, a man closely enveloped in a large cloak and seal-skin cap, the last of which hung slouchingly about his head and face, inquired, in a gruff, ill-mannered voice, whether a person unfavorably known to the police as " Bold Bill " had been there. Harry trembled, knowing his interrogator to be one of the city watch ; yet he endeavored to conceal his fears and embarrassment by a forced smile, and remarked : " That is indeed a strange name, and one of which I have never before heard. Tell me what he has been about." " Why do you think he has been about anything, or why think you I am acquainted with his actions 1 " inquired the stranger, in a stern voice, as though the supreme majesty of the law represented by him was not to be spoken lightly of SAVED BY KINDNESS. 15 His scrutinizing features relaxed not in the least, but ho looked our hero steadfastly in the face. ' ' By the appearance of your dress I judge you to be a ■watchman, and as such I suppose you to be in search of that odd-named person on account of his being suspected of having broken the law." " You are right," answered the officer. " I am a watch- man ! The authority invested in me is great. I trust I duly appreciate it. I guard your dwelling when you are slumbering, unconscious of what takes place around you." "You are very kind," remarked Harry, suddenly inter- rupting him, and speaking rather ironically than otherwise. The watchman continued : " Life is to me nothing unless I can employ it in doing good. Do you understand me 1 " " Perfectly." "Will you walk in 7" inquired Mr. Lang, as a sudden gust of wind nearly extinguished his light. "No, I thank you; that would be of no service to my fellow-men ; and, as I am in search of the man who com- mitted the robbery, ten minutes ago, upon Mr. Solomon Cash the broker, I must " " Robbery ! " exclaimed Harry, appearing perfectly aston- ished at the thought. " 0, the degeneracy of the nineteenth century, — the sinfulness of the age ! " " Amen ! " responded the officer ; and, pulling his large, loose cloak more closely about him, he made a motion to con- tinue on in the service of his fellow-men. " But wait, my good man," said Harry. " Am I to sup- pose, from what you said, that ' Bold Bill ' is the perpetrator of this base crime 1 " "Precisely so," was the laconic reply; and the man moved on in execution of his benevolent designs. "He should be brought to justice," said Harry, as ho turned to enter. No sooner, however, had he closed the door, 16 HALF HOUR STORIES. than he burst forth in a loud laugh. Thia waa soon changed to seriousness, for he became confident that his friend Bill was in danger. To shield him, if guilty, from detection,.and protect him, if innocent, was now his great object. But where should he find him 1 That was a problem he could not solve. The boy was sleeping soundly ; he must awaken him, he must go out in search of his friend. With this intention, he dressed himself in a stout, heavy overcoat, and, locking the door hurriedly, walked up the street. On he went, as though his life depended upon whether he reached a certain square at a certain time. He looked at nothing save some far-distant object, from which, as it approached, he withdrew his eyes, and fixed them on an object yet distant. Turning a corner, a collision took place between him and another man, who appeared to be in as much haste as himself He was about to proceed, when he who had met him so abruptly struck him very familiarly upon the shoulder, saying, as he did so, " Harry, how are you 1 — good luck — tin — lots of it — watch — haste." The person thus addressed was not long in discovering who it was that spoke to him, and from his words and actions that he had reason to be in some haste. It was he for whom he was in search ; and, being aware that the nature of the case demanded despatch, he cordially grasped his hand, and, without another word between them, they in a short time reached the dwelling of Mr. Lang. " What are the facts now? " inquired Harry, after having narrated the incident that had occurred since he left, namely, the watchman's visit. " Then you think there is no danger in my staying here 7" inquired Bill. " Not in the least," replied Harry; " for I positively as- serted that you was not here, and strongly intimated that I knew no person of your name. Danger ! there is none ; so proceed, friend Bill, — but a little wine." SAVED BY KINDNESS. 17 Wine is an indispensable with all rogues ; it nerves to law- lessness, and induces them,, when under its influence, to commit acts which in their sober moments they would scorn to perform. The wine-glass emptied, ■ Bill proceeded in his narrative. " When I left here, I started intending in q, direct course t3 go home. Musingly I walked along, cursing my fate, and several other things, too numerous to mention, and spec- ulating upon the probable success of our scheme, till I ar- rived in front of the old broker's. He was just putting up his iron-clamped shutters. I was on the opposite side, at some distance, yet not so far but that I plainly saw him enter and pack snugly away in his little black trunk divers articles of apparently great worth. I carelessly jingled the last change in my. pocket, of value about a dollar or so ; and the thought of soon being minus cash nerved me to the determination of robbing the broker. Thus resolved, I hid myself behind a pile of boxes tha,t seemed placed there on purpose, till I heard the bolt spring, and saw the broker, with the trunk beneath his arm, walk away. As he entered that dark passage, ' Fogg-lane,' I pulled my cap down over my face, and dogged him, keeping the middle of the passage ; and, seeing a favorable opportunity, I sprang upon him from behind, and snatched the box ; then left him to his fate. •'' I ran o£f as fast as my legs, urged on by the cry of ' stop thief,' would carry n.e. Notwithstanding the speed at which I ran, I found the ciowd bearing down upon me; and, my hope almost failing, 1 had resolved to give in and Buffer the consequences, when, seeing a dark lane, I ran into it, then dodged behind a pump. The crowd ran on ; I found I had escaped. Now, Harry, a friendly shake in honor of my good luck." '' As you say," answered Harry, " and it is my humble opinion you are not entirely free from change." 2* 18 HALF HOUR STORIES. " Really, Harry, I don't know what the box contains ; how- ever, 't is confounded heavy. It is full of gold or iron." "My face for a scrubber, if small change is n't pretty much the contents ; the fourpences and dimes lie pretty near 13 together, friend Bill." "But," continued Harry, " 't best to secrete yourself, box and all, till the law dogs are silenced. If they come here, I will throw them a bone ; but hark ! — " The two remained silent ; for the sound of approaching footsteps momentarily grew more distinct. It sounded nearer, and now was in front oT the door. " To the closet," whispered Harry ; and in a moment Mr. Lang was the only occupant of the room. He was right in his supposition ; for the door opened, and the same man, in the same cloak, with the same consequential air, accompanied by others, entered abruptly, and interrogated Harry rather closely. " Positively, I know nothing about him," said Mr. Lang. This declaration seemed to have a wonderful effect upon each of the officers. They gazed steadfastly at him, then at each other, and their features indicated their belief in what he said. " Benevolent as I am," said the officer, " I must require a strict search ; — not that we suspect him to be on your prem- ises, noble sir, but my duty demands it." The officer, having thus far declared what he thought to be his duty, proceeded to its performance by pushing open the doors through which egress could be had to the street, and all others. As chance would have it, the right door Was by them unobserved. But where was the fugitive? He had been hurried into a closet. It was not after the manner of most closets. It was about three feet square, at one side of which was a door communicating with the cel- lar, through which any person might pass, and from thence into the street. He could not stand long and listen to the SAVED BY KINDNESS. 19 loud converse of those without. He felt himself in danger if he remained, and determined upon leaving the closet. So, having passed into the cellar, he entered the street. The night was dark ; the hour late, and no persons stir- ring. Softly he crept beneath the window, and, perceiving none in the room but Harrj, softly tapped the glass. Mr. Lang raised his arm, by which signal Bill understood that he was aware of his having left the closet. Then through back lanes, seldom pedestrianated, and narrow passages, he .wended his way, with his stolen treasure closely held beneath the loose folds of his jacket. He passed on, till, reaching a dark street, he beheld a dim light in a low oyster-cellar ; he en- tered. A black fellow was the proprietor, cook, &c. Bill asked for lodgings. " "Well, massa, dem I 'ave ; but I always take pay in ad- vance from gemmen." Bill asked the price. "Wall, 'tis fourpance on a chest, and threepance on de floor." Mr. Bang availed himself of the best accommodations, and accepted the chest. He stretched himself upon it, having settled the bill, but slept little. His mind was continually roaming. Now he imagined himself in the .closet, with scarcely room to breathe, and an officer's hand on the latch ; now groping along un traversed paths, till, falling into some hole, he awoke from his revcry. 'T was near the dawn of day when, from his house, accom« panied by the boy, Mr. Lang passed out in search of Bill. A light rain was falling, and in perspective he saw a dull, drizzly sort of a day,— a bad air for a low-spirited individ- ual. The " blues " are contagious on such a day. Yet he strove to keep his spirits up, ami to make the best of a bad job. . ' As he passed by the office of tie broker, he perceived a 20 HALF HOUR STOKIES. crowd; and many anxious inquiries -were heard respecting the robbery. - It appeared the broker had received but little injury, and was as busy as any one in endeavoring to find out the rogue. Harry put on as bold a face as possible, and inquired of the broker the circumstances, which he very minutely narrated, "Have you any suspicions of any one'?" inquired Mr. Lang. " Of no one," was the brief response. " It would be very sad if the rascal could not be found,' continued Mr. Lang. " The gallows is too good for one who would make such a cowardly attack, and treat with such baseness one who never harmed his' fellow." " I am of your opinion," answered the broker; and the two, having thus fully expressed their opinion, parted. ^ Mr. Lang was not much troubled in finding his compan- ion. He entered the cellar just as the latter had arisen from his chesty couch, and a cordial grasp of the hand bore witness that friends had met. Both were aware that the place in which they were was . not o£ very good repute, and made all possible haste to re- move. But, to effect this successfully, it was necessary that Mr. Lang should have a change of dress. He was making this change when half a dozen men unex- pectedly entered. " You are my prisoner," said one, catch- ing hold of Mr. Lang by the coat-collar. "Tropes, secure the other." They were now both in custody, and the officers, after a little search, discovered the broken box, and arrested the black man. " For what ain I arrested 7 " inquired Mr. Lang. " That you will soon know," was the reply. " But I demand an answer now. I will not move a step tilllgetlt,'* SAVED BT KINDNESS. 21 " Wliat ! -what 's that? " said a stout, rough-looking man, striking the prisoner, and treating him more like a dog than Tft-hat he was. "I demand an answer to my inquiry. For what am I arrested 7 " i " He 's a dangerous man," remarked another of the offi- cers ; " it 's best to put him in irons ; " whereupon he drew' from a capacious pocket a pair of fusty manacles. Mr. Lang, and his two fellows in trouble, found it best to coolly submit, and did so. Five minutes passed, and the cold walls of a prison enclosed them. CHAPTER III. Daylight breaks, and the dwellers upon a thousand hilla rejoice in the first rays of the morning sun. | " Didst thou ever hear that promise, ' God will provide ' ? inquired a pale, yet beautiful girl, as she bent over the form of a feverish woman, in a small, yet neatly-furnished room. " Yes," was the reply ; "and he who allows not a spar- row to fall unnoticed, shall he not much more care for us 1 Yes, Julia, God will provide. My soul, trust thou in God ! " It was Mrs. Lang. The good lady who had befriended her was suddenly taken ill, and as suddenly died. Mrs. Lang,' with her daughter, left the house, and, hiring a small room at an ex- orbitant rent, endeavored, by the use of her needle, to live. She labored hard ; the morning's first light found her at her task, and midnight's silent hour often found her there. The daughter too was there ; together they labored, and together shared the joys and sorrows of a worse than widowed and orphaned state. Naturally of a feeble constitution, Mrs. Lang could not long bear up under that labor, and fell. Then that daughter was as a ministering angel, attending and watching over her, and anticipating her every want. Long 22 HALF HOUR STORIES. vas ske obliged to labor to provide the necessaries of life ; often irorkmg hard, and receiving but ten to fifteen cents a day for that which, if paid for as it should be, vrould have brought her a dollar. It was after receiving her small pit- tance and having returned to her home, that the words at the commencement of this chapter fell from her lips.. Her mother, with deep solicitude, inquired her success. " He says he can get those duck trousers made for three cents, and that, if I will not make them for that, he can give me no more work. You know, mother, that I work eighteen hours of the twenty-four, and can but just make two pair, — that would be but sia; ce?iis a day." " My child," said the mother, rising with unusual strength, "refuse such a slavish offer. Let him not, in order to enrich himself, by degrees take pou?- life. Death's arrows have now near reached you. Do not thus wear out your life. Let us die ! " She would have said more ; b&t, exhausted by the eifort, she sank back upon her pillow. Then came the inquiry, " Didst thou ever hear that promise, ' God will provide ' ? " The question had been put, and the answer given, when a slight rap at the door was heard. Julia opened it ; a small package was hastily thrust into her hand, and the bearer of it hasted away. It was a white packet, bound with white ribbon, and with these words, "Julia Lang," legibly writ- ten upon it. She opened it ; a note fell upon the floor ; she picked it up, and read as follows : " Enclosed you -will find four five-dollar bills. You are in want ; use them, and, when gone, the same unknown hand will grant you more. " Le'-, me break now a secret to you which I believe it is my duty to divulge.- You will recollect that your father mysteriously abandoned you. He is now in this city, in — \ SAVED BY KINDNESS. 23 street jail, awaiting his trial. I am confident that he is in- nocent, and tvill be honorably acquitted ; and I am as confident that it needs but your presence and your kind entreaty to bring him back once again to his family and friends. I have spoken to him, but my Tvords have had no efiect except -when I spoke of his family. Then I could see how hard he strove to conceal a tear, and that I had found a tender chord, that needed but your touch to cause it to work out a reformatory resolution. " I write because Mr. Lang was a friend of mine in his days of prosperity. I know he has no heart for dishonesty ; but, thinking himself deserted by those who should cling to him, ' he madly resolved to give himself up, and follow where {a,t6jf should lead. Yours, truly, " Charles B . "N. B. Others have also spoken with him; but their appeak,haVe been in vain. If you will be at the comer of L avenue and W street, at three o'clock to-day, a carriage will be in readiness to convey you to his pres- ence. C. B." Anxiously did Mrs. Lang watch the featuresof her child as she stood perusing the letter ; and as she sat down with it unfolded, apparently in deep thought, her inquisitiveness in^ creased. She inquired — she was told all. " Go," said she to her daughter, " and may the blessings of Heaven attend you ! " Julia stood wondering. She had doubted before; she feared it might be the scheme of some base intriguer ; but now her doubts vanished, and hope cheered her on. Long seemed the intervening hours, and many were the predictions made concerning the success of her mission; yet she determined to go, in the spirit of Martin Luther, 24 HALF HOUR STORIES. though every stone in the prison should arise to perse- cute her. The appointed hour came, and, letter in hand, she left her room, and repaired to the spot. There she found a car- riage; and the driver, who, it appeared, was acquainted, with her, inquired whether she desired to go to street jail. Replying in the affirmative, she entered, and the carriage drove off. When she had reached the street, and came in full view of the prison, her timidity almost overcame her ; but, recollecting the object she had in view, she resisted a desire that involuntarily arose to return. "Is the warden in?" inquired the driver of the gate- keeper. " He is ; — another feast for the lion, eh 7 " and the keeper, who had more self-assurance than manners, having laughed at his own nonsense, pulled a bell-cord, and the warden appeared. " The gentleman who came this morning to see Mr. Lang wished me to bring this young lady here, and introduce her to you as Mr. Lang's daughter." Having said this, the hack- man let down the steps, and aided her out. The gate-keeper retired into a sort of sentry-box, and amused himself by peeping over the window-curtain, laughing very immode- rately when anything serious was said, and sustaining a very grave appearance when anything having a shade of comical- ity occurred. The warden very politely conducted Julia into his office, and soon after into the jail. It was a long building inside of a building, with two rows of cells one above the other, each numbered, and upon each door a card, upon which was written, in characters only known to the officers of the prison, the prisoner's name, crime, term of imprisonment, and gen- eral conduct whilst confined. As Mr. Lang wm waiting trial, he was not in one of these SAVED BY KINDNESS. 25 cells, but in one of large dimensions, and containing more conveniences. As they entered, he was seated at a small table, with pen, ink and paper, engaged in writing. He did not at first rec- ognize his child, but in a moment sprang to her, and clasp- ing her in his arms, said, "My child." Such a change in him needs some explanation. After being committed to prison, his first thought was upon the change of his condition from what it formerly was ; and his first resolution was to reform. He thought of the deep plots he and his companion had laid to amass a fortune ; but, supposing that the latter would be convicted, and con- demned to serve a long time in confinement, he concluded that that scheme was exploded. "Yet," thought he, "if there be none on earth I can call my friends, — if my family forsake me (yet just would it be in them shouldthey reject my company), — of what avail would my reformation be, except to a few dogging creditors, who would jeer and scoff at me at every comer, and attempt to drive me back to my present situation 1 It might be some satisfaction to them to see me return ; but what feelings would it arouse within me, — with what hatred would I view mankind ! No ; if none will utter a kind word to me, let me con- tinue on ; let the prison be my home, and the gallows my end, rather than attempt to reform while those who were once my friends stand -around to drive me back by scoffing remarks ! " Such were the sincere thoughts of Mr. Lang. He would return, but none stood by to welcome him. A few had visited him, most of whom had severely reflected upon his misdeeds. They opened a dark prospect for him in the future. " Now," said they, " you must here remain; re- ceive retribution for your evil deeds, and a sad warning to others not to follow in your steps, lest they arrive at the 8 26 HALF HOUR STOBIBS. same goal." Was there encouragement in this? Surely not ; he deemed them not the words of friendship, and he was right in' his judgment. "Why did you visit this dark prison?" inquire! Mr. Lang. " Because you are here, father ! " was the artless reply. " And could you forgive your father 1 How could you seek him, when he forsook you 1 " Mr. Lang could not make this last observation without becoming affected even to tears. Julia seem"fed to take courage ; new energies seemed to be imparted to her. She felt an unseen influence at her side, and a holy calmness resting upon her soul. " Prison- walls cannot bar you from my heart, though in the worst place on earth. Though friends laugh me to scorn when I seek your presence, you are my father still, and un- grateful would I be did I not own you as such ! ■ " In thinking of the present, I do not forget the past; 1 remember the days of old, the years in which we were made glad ; — and you, father, when free from these walls, will you not return again to your family, and make home what it once was 1 To-day I will see Mr. Legrange ; he wants a clerk, and, by a little persuasion, I am certain I can get you the situation. Will you not reform? " She could say no more ; yet her actions spoke louder than words could possibly do, and her imploring attitude went home to the heart of her parent. He, for the first time since the commencement of his wayward course, felt that the hand of sympathy was extended to greet him, should he make a motion to return. And why should he not grasp it ? Ho did. There, in that prison-cell, upon his knees, he promised to repent and return. " Pleasant residence. Miss ! " said the gate-keeper, as our heroine left the yard, and then laughed as though he had SAVED BY KINDNESS. 2) committed a pun that would immortalize him from that time forth. She noticed not his ill-mannered remark, but, reentering the carriage, thought of nothing but the joy her mother would feel upon learning her success, till the carriage stopped and the driver let down the steps. Having related her adventure, she left her home with the intention of seeing Mr. Legrange. Mr. Legrange was a merchant on Cadiz wharf; he was wealthy, and as benevolent as wealthy. Notices were often seen in the papers of large donations from him to worthy insti- tutions, sometimes one and sometimes three thousand dollars. His fellow-men looked upon him as ablessing to the age. There was no aristocracy in him ; he did not live like a prince in the costliest house in the city, but a small, neat tenement was pointed out as his abode. Not only was he called the "Poor Man's Friend," but his associate and companion. He did not despise the poor man, and wisely thought that to do him good he must live and be upon an equality with him. -Mr. Legrange had just opened an evening paper, when a light rap at his counting-house door induced him to lay it aside. Opening it, a young woman inquired if Mr. Legrange was in. " That is my name," was the reply. " Good-morning, Miss Lang." Julia was rejoiced that she was recognized. She had not Bpoken to Mr. Legrange since her father's failure in busi- ness ; previous to that ' sad occurrence she had known him personally, yet she scarcely thought he would know her now " This is a lovely tlay," said Mr. Legrange, handing her 8 chair. " Your mother is well, I hope." ' " As well as might be expected ; she will recover fast, 28 HALF HOUR STORIES. ' ' Indeed ! What 7 Some glad news 1 ' ' " Yes, sir ; father is in the city, and has reformed.'' " Thank God for that ! " said Mr. Legi-ange. " It is one of the blessings of this life to hope for better days." " He has reformed," continued Miss Lang, "yet he may be led back unless he gets steady employment ; and I heard that " " that I want a clerk," said Mr. Legrange, antici- pating her in her remarks ; " and," continued he, " your father is just the man I want. I knew him in his better days, before a fatal misstep felled him to the ground. Miss Lang, let your father call next Tuesday ; to-morrow I start on a journey, and shall not return till then." With many sincere thanks, Julia left the room ; her heart overflowed with gratitude to the Giver of all things. She saw his hand and felt his presence. It was well that Mr. Legrange was about to leave the city, as Mr. Lang's examination was to be had the next day, and Mrs. Lang and her daughter confidently expected he ■would be acquitted. The morrow came ; the examination began and termi- nated as they had expected. William Bang was remanded back to prison to await his trial for robbery. Mr. Lang was acquitted, and, joining a company of friends whom Julia had collected, left for the residence of his family. What a meeting was that ! Angels could but weep for joy at such a scene, and drop their golden harps to wipe away their tears of gladness. Long had been their separa- tion. What scenes had the interval .disclosed ! And how changed were all things ! She was in health when he left, but now in sickness ; yet it was not strange. That day was the happiest he had spent for many months, and he rejoiced that an angel of light, his daughter, had Bought him out. She had been, indeed, a ministering spirit SAVED BY KINDNESS. 29 of good to him, and in the happy scene then around her she found her reward, — 0, how abundant ! With a light and joyous step did Henry Lang repair to the store of Mr. Legrange. The sun's rays were just. peer- ing over the house-tops, and he thought that he, like that sun, was just rising from degradation to assume new life, and put forth new energy. * We need not lengthen out our tale by narrating what there ensued. He that day commenced his clerkship, and to this day holds it. He often received liberal donations from his employer in token of his regard for him, and by way of encouraging him in his attempts to regain his lost fortune. ****** It was on a December evening that a family circle had gathered around their fireside. The wild wind whistled furi- ously around, and many a poor wight lamented the hard fate that led him abroad to battle the storm. " Two years ago this night," said the man, " where was II In an obscure house, planning out a way to injure a fellow-man ! Yea, would you believe it 1 the very man who has since been my benefactor, — my employer ! " The door-bell rang, and the conversation was abruptly ter- minated. In a few minutes none other than Mr. Legrange entered ; he received a hearty welcome, and was soon engaged in con- versation. " Mr. Lang," said he, as he was about to depart, " your daughter remembers receiving an anonymous letter signed ' Charles B .' I do not say it to please my own van- ity, but I ordered my clerk to write it, and sent it by my son. I thought of you when you little thought you had a friend on earth who cared for you, and rejoice that I have been the humble instrument in effecting your reformation." 3* 30 HALF HOUE STORIES. " Here," he continued, handing him a paper, " this is the deed of a house on street, valued at eight thou- sand dollars ; accept it as a present from me to you and your family, and remember this, that a kind word is of more value than gold or precious stones. It was that -which saved you, and by that you may save others. Good-even- ing; I will see you at the store to-morrow." Having said this, he left, waiting not to receive the thanks that gisiteful hearts desired to render him. And now, reader, our story is ended. If you have fol- lowed us thus far, neglect not to receive what we have faintly endeavored to inculcate ; and ever remember, while treading life's thorny vale, that " a kind word is of more value than gold or precious stones." THE LOVE OF ELINORE. She stood beside the sea-shore weeping While above her stars were keeping Vigils o'er the silent deep ; , While all others, wearied, slumbered She the passing moments numbered, She a faithful watch did keep. Him she loved had long departed, And she wandered, broken-hearted. Breathing songs he loved to hear. Friends did gather round to win her, But the thoughts that glowed within her Were to her most fond and dear. In her hand she held bright flowers, Culled from Nature's fairest bowers ; On her brow, from moor and heath, Bright green leaves and flowers did cluster Borrowing resplendent lustre From the eyes that shone beneath. Eose the whisper, " She is crazy," When she plucked the blooming daisy. Braiding it within her hair ; Biit they knew not what of gladness Mingled with her notes of sadpess, As she laid it gently there. For her loved one, ere he started. While she still was happy-hearted, Clipped a daisy from its stem, 32 HALF HOUR STORIES. Placed it in her hair, and told her, Till again he should behold her, That should be her diadem. At the sea-side she was roaming, When the waves were madly foaming, And when all was calm and mild, Singing songs, — she thought he listened, ■ And each dancing wave that glistened Loved she as a little child. For she thought, in every motion Of the ceaseless, moving ocean. She could see a friendly hand Stretched towards the shore imploring, - Where she stood, like one adoring, Beckoning to a better land. When the sun was brightly shining. When the daylight was declining. On the shore she 'd watch and wait, liike an angel, heaven-descending, 'Mid the ranks of mortals wending. Searching for a missing mate. Years passed on, and when the morning Of a summer's day gave warning Of the sweets it held in store, By the dancing waves surrounded. Like a fairy one she bounded To her lover's arms (5hce more. Villagers thus tell the story. And they say a light of glory Hovereth above the spot Where for days and years she waited. With a love all unabated. And a faith that faltered not. There 's a stone that is uplifted. Where the wild sea-flowers have drifted , Fonder words no stone e'er bore ; 'TIS SWEET TO BE REMEMBERED. 33 And the waves come np to greet them, Seeming often to repeat them, While afar their echoes roar — " Dbathless lovb or Eldjorb." 'TI& SWEET TO BE REMEMBERED. 'T IS sweet to he rememhered In the turmoil of this life. While toiling up its pathway, While mingling in its strife. While wandering o'er earth's holders, Or sailing o'er its sea, — 'T is sweet to be remembered Wherever we may be. What though our path be rugged, Though clouded be our sky. And none we love and cherish, No friendly one is nigh, To cheer us in our sorrow, Or share with us our lot, — 'T is sweet to be remembered. To know we 're not forgot. When those we love are absent From our hearth-stone and our side, With joy we learn that pleasure And peace with them abide ; And that, althj-agh we 're absent. We 're thought of day by day ; — 'T is sweet to be remembered By th« se who are away. 34 HALF HOUR ST0BIE3, When all our toils are ended, The conflict all ia done, And pea 36, in sweetest accents, Proclaims the victory -won-; When hushed is all the tumult, When calmed is aU the strife. And we, in patience, meekly Await the end of life : Then they who, when not present, In spirit yet were near, And, as we toiled and struggled. Did whisper in' our ear, " 'lis sweet to be remembered. And thou art not forgot," If fortune smile upon us, Shall share our happy lot. I CALL THEE MINE. Yes, ever such I '11 call thee, wiU ever call thee mine, And with the love I bear thee a wreath of poesy twine ; And when the stare are shining in their bright home of blue, Gazing on them, thou mayest know that I like them are true. Forget thee ! no, 0, never ! thy heart and mine are one. How can the man who sees its light forget the noonday sun? Or he who fefels its genial warmth forget the orb above ; Or, feeling sweet affection's power, its source — another's love? Go, ask the child that sleepeth upon its mother's breast Whether it- loves the pillow on which its head doth rest ; Go, ask the weary mariner, when the dangerous voyage is o'er, Whether he loves the parent's smile that meets him at the door : But ask not if I love thee when I would call thee mine, For words are weak to tell thee all, and I the task resign ; But send thy spirit out for love, and when it finds its goal, ' 'X will be encircled and embraced within my deepost soul. THE OLB TREE AND ITS OS80N. There is a story about that old tree ; a biography of that old gnarled trunk and those broad-spread branches. Listen. Many, very many years aga, — there were forests then where now are cities, and the Indian song was borne on that breeze which now bears the sound of the Sabbath bell, and where the fire of the work-shop sends up its dense, black smoke, the white cloud from the Indian's wigwam arose, — yes, 't was many years ago, when, by the door of a rough, rude, but serviceable dwelling, a little boy sat on an old man's knee. He was a bright youth, with soft blue eyes, from which his soul looked out and smiled, and hair so beau- tiful that it seemed to be a dancing sunbeam rather than what it really was. The old man had been telling him of the past ; had been telling him that when he was a child he loved the forest, and the rock, and the mountain stream. Then he handed the lad a small, very small seed, and, leading him a short distance, bade him make a small hole in the ground and place the seed within it. He did so. And the old man bent over and kissed his fair brow as he smoothed the earth above the seed's resting-place, and told him that ho must water it and watch it, and it would- spring up and' become a fair thing in his sight. 'Twas hard for the child to believe this; yet he did ..Relieve, for he knew that his friend was true. Night came ; and, as he lay on his little couch, the child 60 HALE HOUR STORIES. dreamed of that seed, and he had a vision of the future which passed with the shades of the night. Morning dawned, and he hastened to water and to watch the spot where the seed was planted. It had not come up ; yet he believed the good old man, and knew that it would. All day long he was bending over it, or talking with his aged companion about the buried seed. A few days passed, then a little sprout burst from the ground ; and the child clapped his hands, and shouted and danced. Daily it grew fairer in the sight of the child, and rose higher and higher. And the old man led him once more to the spot, and told him that even so would the body of his little sister rise from the grave in which a short time before it had been placed, and, rising higher and higher, it would never cea^e to ascend. The old man wept ; but the child, with his tiny white hand, brushed away his tears, and, with child-like simplicity, said that if his sister arose she would go to God, for God was above. Then the mourner's heart was strengthened, and the lesson he would have taught the child came from the child to him, and made his soul glad. A few weeks passed, and the old man died. The child wept ; but, remembering the good friend's les- son, he wiped away his tears, and wept no more ; for the seed had already become a beautiful plant, and every day it went upward, and he knew that, like that, his sister and hia good friend would go higher and higher towards God. Days, weeks, months, years passed away. The plant had grown till it was taller than he who had planted it. THE OLD TREE AND ITS LESSON. 37 Tears fled. The child was no more there, but a young man sat beneath the shade of a tree, and held a maiden's nand in his own. Her head reclined on his breast, and her eyes upturned met the glances of his towards her, and they blended in one. "I remember," said he, "that when I was young a good old man, who is now in heaven, led me to this spot, and bade me put a little seed in the earth. I did so. I watched the ground that held it, and soiji it sprang up, touched 'by no hand, drawn forth, as it would seem, from its dark prison by the attractive power of the bright heaven that shone above it. See, now,, what it has become ! It shades and shelters us. God planted jp my heart a little seed. None but he could plant it, for from him only emanates true love. It sprang up, drawn forth by the sunlight of thy soul, till now thou art shadowed and sheltered by it." There was silence, save the rustle of the leaves as the branches bowed assent to the young man's words. Time drove his chariot on; his sickle- wheels smote to earth many brave and strong, yet the tree stood. The winds blew fiercely among its branches ; the lightning danced and quivered above and around it ; the thunder muttered forth its threatenings ; the torrent washed about its roots ; yet it stood, grew strong and stately, and many a heart loved it for its beauty and its shade. The roll of the drum sounded, and beneath a tree gathered crowds of stalwart men. There was the mechanic, with upturned sleeves and dusty apron; the farmer, fanning himself with a dingy straw hat ; the professional man and trader, arguing the unrighteousness of " taxation without representation." Another roll of the drum, and every head was uncovered as a young man ascended a platform erected beneath the tiee. 4 38 HALF HOUK STORIES. In a soft, low voice, he began. As he proceeded, his voice grew louder, and his eloquence entranced his auditors. "Years ago," said he, "there were an old man and a young child. And the child loved the man, and the man loved the child, and taught him a lesson. He took him by the hand, and, leading him aside, gave him a seed and told him to plant it. He did so. It sprang up. It became mighty. Independent it stood, sheltering all who came unto it. That old man went hom^ but here stands the child, and here the tree, great and mighty now, but the child has not forgotten the day when it was small and weak. So shall the cause we have this day espoused go on ; and though, to-day, we may be few and feeble, we shaH increase and grow strong, till we become an independent nation, that shall shelter all who come unto it." The speaker ceased, and immediately the air resounded with loud shouts and huzzas. The struggle for independence came. Victory ensued. Peace rested once more upon all the land, but not as before. It rested upon a free people. Then, beneath that same tree, gathered a mighty host; and, as oft as came the second month of summer, in the early part of it the people there assembled, and thanked God for the lesson of the old tree. An old man lay dying. Around his bedside were hia children and his children's children. " Kemove the curtain," said he. " Open the window. Raise me, and let me see the sun once more." They did so. " See you yonder tree? Look upon it, and listen. I was a child once, and I knew and loved an old man ; and he knew me and loved me, and he led me aside, placed in my hand a tmy seed, and bade me bury it in the earth, and I did so. I^Tight came, with ita shade and its dew; day, with its sun- THE OLD TREE AND ITS LESSON. 39 ehine and it8 showers. And -the seed sprang up, — but the old man died. Yet, ere he went, he had taught me the les- son of that seed, which was, that those who go down to the earth like that, will arise, like that, towards heaven. You are looking upon that tree which my friend planted. Learn from it the lesson it hath taught me." The old man's task was performed, his life finished, and the morrow's light lit the pathway of many to his grave. They stood beneath the shadow of that tree; and deeply sank the truth in every heart as the village pastor began the burial service and read, " I am the resurrection and the life." VOICES FROM THE SPIRIT-LAND. In the silence of the midiiight, "When the cares of day are o'er, In my soul I hear the voices Of the loyed ones gone before ; And they, words of comfort -whispering Say they '11 watch on every hand. And my soul is cheered in hearing Voices from the spirit-land. In my wanderings, oft there cometh Sudden stillness to my soul ; When around, above, within it Rapturous joys unnumbered roll. Though around me all is tumult. Noise and strife on every hand, Yet vrithin my soul I list to Voices from the epirit-land. Loved ones who have gone before ma "Whisper words of peace and joy ; Those who long since have departed Tell me their divine employ Is to watch and guard my footsteps, — ! it is an angel band ! And I love, I love to list to Voices from the spirit-land. THE BEACON-LIGHT. DiMLT bums the beacon-light On the mountain top to-night ; Faint as whisper ever fell, Falls the watcher's cry, — " All 's well ; '• For the clouds have met on high, And the blast sweeps angry by ; Not a star is seen this night, — God, preserve the beacon-light ! Lo ! a man whom age doth bow Wanders up the pathway now ; Wistfully his eye he turns To the light that dimly burns ; And, as it less glow doth shed, Quicker, quicker is his tread ; And he prays that through the night God may keep the beacon-light. Far below him, rocks and waves Mark the place of others' graves ; Other travellers, who, like him. Saw the beacon-light burn dim. But they trusted in their strength To .attain the goal at length ; — This old traveller prays, to-night, " God, preserve the beacon-light ! " Fainter, fainter is its ray, — Shall its last gleam pass away ? Shall it be extinguished quite 7 Shall it burn, though not as bright ? Fervently goes up his prayer ; Patiently he waiteth there. Trusting Him who doeth right To preserve the beacon-light. 42 HALF HOUR STORIES. L'»k you now ! the light hath burst Brighter than it was at first ; Now with ten-fold radiance glows, And the traveller homeward goes. As the clouds grow darker o'er him, Brighter grows the light before him ; God, who doeth all things right, Hath preserved the beacon-light. Thus upon the path we tread ^ God a guiding light hath shed ; Though at times our hearts are weary, Though the path we tread is dreary, • Though the beacon's lingering ray Seems as if 't would pass away, — Be our prayer, through all the night, " God, preserve the beacon-light'" Threatening clouds may gather o'er us. Countless dangers rise before us : If in God we seek for strength, He will succor us at length : He his holy light will send, To conduct us to the end. Trust thy God, through day and night. He '11- preserve thy beacon-light. BEAR UP. Bear up, bear up, though Poverty may press thee , There 's not a flower that 's crushed that does not shed, While bowing low, its fragrance forth to bless thee. At times, more sweet than when it raised its head When sunlight gathered round it, When dews of even crovraed it,- By nature nursed, and watched, and from its bounty fed A WELCOME TO SPRING. 43 Bear up, bear up ! 0, never yield nor falter ! God reigueth ever, merciful and just ; If thou despairest, go thou to hi6 altar. Rest on his arm, and in his promise trust. There Hope, bright Hope, will meet thee ; There Joy, bright Joy, shall greet thee ; And thou shalt rise to thrones on high from out the dust. A WELCOME SONG TO SPRING Shout a welcoming to Spring ! Hail its early buds and flowers ! It is hastening on to bring Unto us its joyous hours. Birds on bough and brake are singing, All the new-dad woods are ringing ; In the brook, see Nature flinging * Beauties of a thousand dyes. As if jealous of the beauties Mantling the skies. Hail to Beauty ! Hail to Mirth ! All Creation's song is gladness ; Not a creature dwells on earth God would have bowed down in sadness ! Everything this truth is preaching, God ia all his works is teaching. As if man by them beseeching To be glad, for he doth bless ; And to trust him, for he 's mighty In his tenderness THJ; HOPE OF TH* FALLEN. CHAPTER I. It was at the close of a beautiful autumnal day that Ed- ward Dayton was to leave, the place of his nativity. For many years he had looked forward, in joyous anticipation, to the time when he should repair to the city, and enter upon the business of life. And now that ,that long looked-for and wished-for day had arrived, when he was to bid an adieu to the companions of his youth, and to all the scenes of hia childhood, it was well for him to cast a retrospective glance ; and so he did. Not far distant, rearing its clear white steeple far above the trees, stood the village church, up the broad, uncar- peted aisle of which he had scores of times passed ; and, as the thought that he might never, again enter those sacred walls came to his mind, a tear glistened in his eye that he could not rudely wipe away. Next was the cot of the pastor. He had grown old in the service of his Master, and the frosts of nearly three-score winters rested their glory upon his head. All loved and re- spected him, for with them he had wept, and with them he had rejoiced. Many had fallen around him ; withered age and blooming youth he had followed to the grave ; yet he stood forth yet, and, with clear and musical voice, preached the truths of God. An old gray building, upon whose walls the idler's knife had carved many a rude inscription, was the village school. THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 4& There, amid those carvings, were seen the rongh-hewn ini- tials of many a man now " well-to-do in the world." Sc«ie, high above the rest, seemed as captains, and almost over- shadowed the diminutive ones of the little school-boy, placed scarce thirty inches from the ground. Edward was a pet among the villagers. He had taken The lead in all the frolickings, and many a bright-eyed lass would miss his presence, and loud, clear laugh, at the com- ing " huskings." Young and old reluctantly bade him " good-by," and, as the stage wound its circuitous way from the village, from many a heart ascended a prayer Jjiat He who ruleth over all would prosper and protect him. " Good luck to him, God bless him ! " said dame Brandon, as she entered the bouse. "He was always a kind, well- meant lad," she continued, "and dame Brandon knows no evil can befall him ; and Emily, my dear, you must keep your eye on some of the best fruit of the orchard, for he will be delighted with it, and much the more so if he knows your bright eyes watched its growth and your hands gath- ered it." These words were addressed to a. girl of seventeen, who stood at an open window, in quite a pensive mood. She seemed not to hear the remark, but gazed in the direction the stage had passed. The parents of Edward had died when he was quite young, and he, their only child, had been left to the care and protection of dame Brandon ; and well had she cared for him, and been as a mother to the motherless. " Now, Emi', don't fret! Edward won't forget you. I've known him long ; he has got a heart as true as steel." 'T w«s not this that made her sad. She had no fears that he would forget his Emi', but another thought pressed heav- ily on her mind, and she said, 46 HALF HOUR STOEIBS. • " But, aunty, city life is one of danger. Temptations»are there we little think of, and stronger hearts than Edward's have quailed beneath their power." " Well done ! " quoth Mrs. B., looking over her glasses; "jL sermon, indeed, quite good for little you. But girls are timid creatures ; they start and are frightened at the least unusual sound." She assumed a more serious manner, and, raismg her finger, pointing upwards, Said, " But know you not there is a Power greater than that of which you speak? " Emily seemed to be cheered by this thought. She hummed over a favorite air, and repaired to the performance of her evening duties. a Emily Brandon was a lovely creature, and of this Ed- ward Dayton was well aware. He had spent his early days with her. His most happy hours had t^en passed in her company. Together they had frolicked over the green fields, and wandered by their clear streanis. Hours passed as minutes when in each other's company ; and, when sepa- rated, each minute seemed an hour. . Now, for the first time, they were separated ; and ever and anon, as she passed about at her work, she cast a fitful glance from the window, as if it were possible he might return. How she wished she could have gone with him, to gently chide when sinners should entice, and lead him from error's path, should gay temptation lure him therein ! She was young in years, yet olS in discretion ; and had a heart that yearned for the good of all. " Well, aunt," said she. I hope good luck will betide him, but sa^ thoughts will come when I think of what he will have to bear up under." -^ ■ " 0, hush ! " said the old lady ; " simple girls have- simple stories." THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 47 CHAPTEE II. It was a late hour in the evening that the coach entered the metropolis. Railroads were not then in vogue, and large baggage-waggons, lumbering teams and clumsy coaches, were drawn by two or moie horses, over deep-rutted roads, and almost endiess turnpikes. m The bells had rang their nine o'clock peal ; most of tire stores were closed ; the busy trader and industrious mechanic had gone to their respective homes, and left their property to faithful watchers, whose muffled forms moved slowly through the streelis of the great city. Not all had left their work ; for, by the green and crim- son light that streamed from his window, and served to par- tially dissipate the darkness, it was seen that he of pestle and mortar labored on, or, wearied with*his labor, had fallen asleep, but to be awakeneU oy the call of some customer, requesting an antidote for one of the many " ills which flesh is heir to." Other open places there were, whose appearance indicated that they were bar-rooms, for'^at their windows stood decan- ters filled with various-colored liquidl. - Near each of these stood a wine-glass in an inverted position, with a lemon upon it ; yet, were not any of these unmistakable signs to be seen, you would know the character of the place by a rumseller's reeling sign, that made its exit, and, passing a few steps, fell into the gutter. ^ In addition to these other signs, were seen scattered aboutj the windows of these places, in characters so large that hijt who ran might read, "Bar-room," "Egg-pop," "J& E. Rum," etc. ^ Those were the days of bar-room simplicities. " Saloons " were not then known. The refined names which men of the present day have attached to rum, gin and brandy, were 48 HALF HOUR STORIES. not then in use. There were no " Wormwood-floaters " to embitter man's life, wA,Jewett had not had his " fancy." The coach rolled on, and in a short time Edward was safely ensconced in a neatly-furnished room in a hotel known as " The Bull's Horn." It was indeed a great disadvantage to him that he came to a city in which he was a total stran- ger. He had no acquaintance to greet him with a friendly welcome ; and the next day, as he was jostled by the crowd, and pushed aside by the hurried pedestrian, he realized what it was to be a stranger in a strange land, and an indescrib- able sensation came upon him, known only to those who have been placed in similar circumstances. He looked around, — strange forms met his view. No one greeted him, no hand of friendship was held forth to welcome him. All the world seemed rushing on for soine- thing, he knew not what ; an d_, di sheartened at the apparent selfishness that pervaded socffly, he returned to his room, and wished for the quietness of his own sweet village, the companionship of his own dear Emi'. The landlord of the tavern at which our hero had housed himself was a stout, burly man, and quite communicative. From him Edward learned much of importance. Mr. Blinge was his name. He was an inveterate smoker, and his jtet was a little black pipe, dingy and old, and by not a few deemed a nuisance to "The Bull's Horn." This beheld between his teeth, and, seating himself behind his bar, puffed away on the high-pressure principle. ti* Edward had not been many minutes in his room before ^Irj^hnge entered with his pet in his mouth, hoped he ^i^mt intrude, apologized, and wished him to walk- below, sayiig that by so doing he might become acquainted with some '■'•rare souls." By " below " was meant a large, square room, on the ground floor, of dimensions ample enough to hold a caucus THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 49 in By some it was called a " bar-room," by others the "sitting-room," and others the " gentlemen's parlor." Entering, Edward encountered the gaze^of about twenty individuals. Old gentlemen with specs looked beneath them, and young gentlemen with papers looked above them. A young man in white jacket and green apron was endeav- oring to satisfy the craving appetites of two teamsters, who were loudly praising the landlord's brandy, and cursing the bad state of ths roads in a manner worthy of "our army in Flanders." One young man, in particular, attracted the attention of our hero. He was genteelly dressed, and possessed an g,ir of dignity and self-command, that would obtain for him at once the good will of any. Edward was half inclined to believe his circumstances to be somewhat similar to his own. He was reading an evening paper, but, on seeing our hero ?nter, and judging from his manner that he was a stranger, laid it aside, and, politely addressing himself to him, inquired after his health. The introduction over, they engaged in conversation. The young man seemed pleased in making his acquaintance, and expressed a hope that a friendship so suddenly formed might prove lasting and beneficial to each. "I also am from the country," said he, after Edward had informed him of his history, "and, like you, am in search of employment. Looking over the evening paper, T noticed an advertisement of a concern for sale, which I thought, as I read, would be a capital chance to make a fortune, if I CBuld find some one to invest in it with me. I will read it to you. ' 'For Sale. — The stock and stand of a Confectioner}" with a goDd business, well established. One or two young men will find this a rare opportunity to invest their money advan- t^eously. For other particulars inquire at No. 7 Cresto-st. 6 60 HALF HOUR STOKIES. " Now, I tell you what," said the young man, before Ei- ward had an opportunity to utter a word, "it is a fine chance. Why, Lagrange makes enough on his wines and fancy cordials to clothe and feed a regiment. Just pass there, some evening, and you will see a perfect rush. Soda- water, ice creams, and French wines, are all the rage, and La- grange is the only man in this city that can suit the bon ton ! " " You half induce me to go there," said Edward. " How fir is it from this place ? " " Not far, but it is too late ; to-morrow morning we will go there. Here, take my card — Othro Treves is my name , you must have known my father ; a member of Congress for ten years, when he died ; — rather abused - his health — at- tended parties at the capital — drank wine to excess — took a severe cold — fell ill one day, worse the next, sick the next, and died soon after. Wine is bad when excessively indulged in; so is every good thing." Edward smiled at this running account of his new-formed acquaintance, and, bidding him "good-night," betook himself to his chamber, intending to accompany Othro to the confec- tioner's in the morning. CHAPTER III. The next morning the sun shone bright and clear in a cloudless sky, and all were made joyous by its gladsome rays. Edward was awakened at an early hour by the departure, or preparations to depart, of the two teamsters, who, having patronized rather freely the young man in white jacket and green apron, were in a delightful mood to enjoy a joke, and were making themselves quite merry as they harnessed up their sturdy horses. It was near nine when Othro and Edward found them- nelvea on the way to the confectioner's. Edward was glad THE HOPE OP THE FALLEN. 61 on account of finding one whom he thought he could trust as a friend, and congratulated himself on his good luck. Near the head of Cresto-street might have been seen, not many years since, over the door of a large and fashionable store, a sign-board bearing this inscription : " M. Lagrange, Confectioner and Dealer in Wines and Cordials." We say "t was "large and fashionable;" and those of our readers who recollect the place of which we speak will testify to the truth of our assertion. Its large windows, filled with jars of confectionary and preserves, and with richly-ornamented bottles of wine, with the richest pies and cake strewed around, presented a showy and inviting appearance, and a temptation to indulge, too powerful to resist, by children of a larger growth than lisping infants and primary-school boys. Those who daily passed this store looked at the windows most wistfully ; and this was not all, for, at their weekly reckonings, they found that- several silver "bits" had disappeared very mysteriously during the previous seven days. To this place our hero and his nefrly-formed acquaintance were now hastening. As they drew near, quite a bevy of ladies made their exit therefrom, engaged in loud conversation. "Lor! " said one, "it is strange Lagrange advertised to sell out." " Why, if I was his wife," said another, " I 'd whip him into my traces, T would; an' he shouldn't sell out unless I was willin', — no, he should n't ! Only think, Miss Fitz- gabble, how handy those wines would be when one has a social soul step in ! " "0, yes," replied Miss Fitzgabble, "and those jars of lozenges ! How enchantingly easy to elevate the lid upon a Sabbath morn, slip in one's hand, and subtract a few ! How I should smell of sassafras, if / was Mrs. Lagrange ! " The ladies passed on, and were soon out of hearing. Ed- 52 HALF HOtTB STORIES. ward and his companion entered the store, where about a dozen ladies and gentlemen were seated, discussing the fashions, forging scandal, and sipping wine. Mr. Lagrange was actively engaged when the two entered ; but, seeing them, and supposing them to have called on the business for which they actually bad called, he called to one of the attendants to fill his place, and entered into conversa- tion with Messrs. Dayton and Treves, which in due time was terminated, they agreeing to call again the next day. First impressions are generally the most lasting. Those Edward and Othro received during their visit and subse- quent conversation were favorable to the purchase. On their return they consulted together for a long time, and finally concluded to go that day, instead of waiting till the next, and make Mr. Lagrange an offer of which they had no doubt he would accept. Mr. Lagrange's chief object in selling out was that he might disengage himself from business. He had been a long time in it ; he was getting somewhat advanced in life, and had accumulated suflBcient to insure him against want, and he deemed it best to step out, and give room to the young — an example worthy of general imitation. That the business was profitable there could be no doubt. As Othro had said, the profit on the wines was indeed immense. On pleasant evenings the store was crowded ; and, as it was filled with the young, gay, and fashionable of wealthy rank, not much difficulty was experienced in obtaining these large profits. The return of the ■ young men was riot altogether unex- pected by Mr. Lagrange. He was ready to receive them. Ho set before them his best wines. They drank freely, praised the wine, and extolled the store, for they thought it admirably calculated to make a fortune in. THE HOPE OF THE FALLEW. 53 Mr. Lagrange imparted to them all the information they desired. They made him an oiFer, which he accepted, after Bome thought ; and arrangements were entered into by which Messrs. Dayton and Treves were to take possession on the morning of the following Monday. CHAPTER IV. No one commences business without the prospect of suc- cess. Assure a man he will not succeed, and he will be cau- tious of the steps he takes, if, indeed, he takes any. If he does not expect to gain a princely fortune, he expects to earn a comfortable subsistence, and, at the same time, accumulate enough to shelter him in a rainy day, and* be enabled to walk life's busy stage in comfort and respecta- bility, and, as occasion may demand, relieve the wants of his less fortunate brethren. For this all hope, yet the experience of thousands shows "that few, very few, ever realize it. On the contrary, disap- pointment, in its thousand malignant forms, starts up on every hand ; yet they, struggle on, and in imagination see more prosperous days in the future. Thus they hope against hope, till the green sod covers their bodies, and they leave their places to others, whilst the tale is told in these few words : " They lived and died." The next Monday the citizens were notified, by the removal of his old sign, that Mr. Lagrange had retired from business. During the day, many of Mr. Lagrange's customers came in,_that they might become acquainted with the successors of their, old friend. To these Messrs. Dayton and Treves were introduced, and from them received promise of support. A colored man, who had been for a long time in the employ of Mr. Lagrange, was retained in the employ of the store. Kalpb Ortou was his name. He having been for a 6* 64 HALF HOUR STORIES. long time in the store, and during that time having had free access to the wines, had formed an appetite for them, in con- sequence of which he was often intoxicated- His inebriation was periodical, and not of that kind whose subjects are held in continual thraldom ; yet, to use his own words, "when he was drunk, he was drunk, and no mis- take." He obeyed the old injunction of "what is worth doing is worth doing well," and as long as he got drunk he got well drunk. He had ofttimes been reasoned with in his days of sober- ness, and had often promised \a:reform ; but so many around him drank that he could not resist the temptation to drink also, and therefore broke his promise. This habit had so faslened itself upon him, that, like one in the coil of the ser- pent, the more he strove to escape the closer it held him. If there is any one habit to which if a man becomes attached* he will find more difficulty to escape from than another, it is that of intemperance ; yet all habits are so one with our nature that the care taken to guard^;against the adoption of evil ones cannot be too great. Behold that man !' He was tempted, — he yielded. He has surrendered a noble estate, and squandered a large fortune. Once he had riches and friends ; his eye sparkled with the fire of ambition ; hope and joy beamed in each feature of his manly countenance,^ and all bespoke for him a long life and happy death. Look at him now! without a penny in his pocket, a wretched outcast, almost dead with starvation. Habit worked the change — an evil habit. Perchance some one in pity may bestow a small sum upon him. Utterly regardless of the fact that his wife and' chil- dren are at home shivering over a few expiring embers that give no warmth, without a crumb to appease their hunger, and although he himself a moment before believed that if aid iid not come speedily he must perish, he hastens to tha THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 55 nearest groggery, and, laying down his money, calls for that which has brought upon him and his such woe. If there is any scene upon earth over which demons joy, it must be when that rumseller takes that money. This propensity of Ralph's was a serious objection to him as a servant ; yet, in every other respect, he was all that could be desired. He was honest, faithful and obliging, and, knowing as they did that he was well acquainted with the trade of the city, and could go directly to the houses of Mr. Lagrange's customers, Messrs. Dayton and Treves were induced to have him remain. At the end of a month, Edward found himself in pros- perous circumstances, and wrote to his old village friends of the fact. They, as a matter in course, were overjoyed in the reception of such intelligence, and no one more so than Emily Lawton. Edward had entered into a business in whiah tempta- tions of a peculiar nature gathered about him. Like nearly ^ every one in those days, he had no scruples against the use' of wine. He thought no danger was associated with its use ; and, as an objection against that would clash with the interests of his own pecuniary affairs, he would be the last to raise it. In dealing forth to others, how strong came the temptation to deal it to himself ! Othro drank, and pronounced a certain kind of wine a great luxury. Edward could not (or, at least, so he thought) do otherwise ; and so he drank, and pronounced the same jiMgment upon it. "What say you for an evening at the theatre?" said Othro, one evening, as they were passing from their place of biisiness, having left it in care of their servants. " At the Gladiate the play is ' Hamlet,' and Mr. Figaro, from the old Drury, appears," Edward had been educated in strict puritanic style, and had been taught to consider the theatre as a den of iniquity. 66 HALF HOUR STORIES. It is not our purpose to defend or oppose this opinion. I6 was his, and he freelj expressed it. In fact, his partner knew it to be such before making the request. " I suppose," said Mr. Treves, "you oppose the theatre on account of the intoxicating drinks sold there. Now, I am for a social drop occasionally. Edward, a glass of pure ^Cogniac^ a nice cigar, and a seat in front of a grate of blazing coal, and I'll be joyful." "You may be joyful, then," replied Mr. Dayton; "but your joy might be changed to grief, and your buoyancy of spirit be turned to sadness of heart." " Indeed, Edward ! Quite a lecture, I declare ! Been studying theology, eh? " " Not so; you are mistaken, Othro," said he. " There," he continued, pointing to a reeling sot that passed them, " ask that man where he first went for joy, and he may tell you of th» theatre, or of social glasses of brandy, cigars, and such like." They had now arrived in front of the " Gladiate," a mas- sive stone structure, most brilliantly illuminated. Long rows of carriages stood in front, and crowds of the gay and fashionable were flocking in. All was activity. ■ Hackmen snapped their whijjs. Boys, ragged and dirty, were waiting for the time when " checks" would circulate, and, in fact, were in much need of checks, but those of a different nature from those they so eagerly looked for. • Anon, the crowd gathered closer ; and the prospect of a fight put the boys in hysterics of delight, and their raofs into great commotion. To their sorrow, it was but the shadow of a " row" ; and they kicked and cuffed each other, in order to express their grief. A large poster announced in flaming characters that that night was the last but two of Mr. Figaro's appearance, and THE HOPE OP THE FALLEN. 57 that other engagements would prevent him from prolonging his stay, however much the public might desire him to do so ; whilst, if the truth had been told, the public would have known that a printer was that moment "working off" .other posters, announcing a reengagement of Mr. Figaro for two weeks. " Will you enter ?" inquired Oth'ro. Edward desired to be excused, and they parted ; one entering the theatre, the other repairing to his home. CHAPTEE V. The " tavern " at which our hero boarded was of the coun- try, or, rather, the colony order of architecture, — for piece had been added to piece, untij what was once a small shed was now quite an extensive edifice. As was the case with all taverns in those days, «o also with this, — the bar-room was its most prominent feature. Mr. Blinge, the landlord, not only smoked, 'but was an inveterate lover of raw whiskey, which, often caused him to perform strange antics. The fact that he loved whiskey was not strange, for in those days all drank. The aged drank hia morning, noon and evening potations, because he had always done so ; the young, because his father did ; and the lisp- ing one reached forth its hands, and in childish accents called for the " thugar" and the mother, unwilling to deny it that which she believed could not harm it, gave. Those were the days when seed was being sown, and now the harvesting is in progress. Vain were it for us to attempt its description ; you will see it in ruined families, where are gathered blasted hopes, withered expectations, and pangs, deep pangs of untold sorrow. The child indulged has become a man, yet scarce worthy of the name ; for a habit h%s been formed that has sunkdn him 58 HALF HOUR STORIES. below the brute, and he lives not a help, but a burden, not a blessing, but a curse, to his fellow-men. Although Edward was opposed to the use of intoxicating drinks, his business led him to associate with those who held opposite opinions. , Among the boarders was one, a bold, drinking, independ- ent sort of a man, who went against all innovations upon old customs with a fury worthy of a subject of hydrophobia. His name was "Pump." Barrel, or bottle, would have been more in accordance with his character ; but, as the old Pump had not foresight enough to see into the future, he did not know that he was inappropriately naming his son. Every Pump must have its handle, on the same principle that "every dog must have his day." The handle to the Pump in question was a long one; 'twas " Onendago." " Onendago Pump " was written with red ink on the blank leaf of a " Universal Songster " he carried in his pocket. Dago, as he was called, lived on appearances ; that is, he acted the gentleman outwardly, but the beggar inwardly. He robbed his stomach to clothe his back : howbeit, his good outside appearance often got for him a good dinner. By the aid of the tailor and the barber, he wore nice cloth and curled hair; and, being blessed with a smooth, oily voice, was enabled, by being invited to dinner here and to supper there, to live quite easy. Edward had just seated himself, when a loud rap on the door was heard, and in a moment Mr. Onendago Pump, with two bottles, entered. With a low bow, he inquired as to our hero's health, and proposed spending an evening in his company. " Ever hear me relate an incident of the last war ? " said ho, as he seated himself, and placed his two bottles upon the, side- table. "Never," replied Edward. THl HOPl OF THE tALLEN. 59 " Well, Butler was our captain, and a regular man he ; right up and down good fellow, — better man never held sword or gave an order. Well, we were quartered at — I don't remember where — history tells. We led a lazy life ; no red coats to fire at. One of the men came home, one night, three sheets in the wind, and the fourth bound round his head ; awful patriotic was he, and made a noise, and swore he 'd shoot every man for the good of his country. Well, Captain Butler heard of it, and the next day all hands were called. We formed a ring ; Simon Twigg, he who was drunk the day before, stood within it, -and then and there Captain Butler, who belonged to the Humane Society, and never ordered a man to be flogged, lectured him half an hour. Well, that lecture did Mr. Dago Pump immense good, and ever since I have n't drank anything stronger than brandy. " Never a man died of brandy ! " said Mr. Pump, with much emphasis. " Brandy 's the word ! " and, without say- ing more, he produced a cork-screw, and with it opened a bottle. A couple of glasses soon made their appearance. " Now, you will take a glass with me," said Dago; " it is the pure Cogniac, quality one, letter A." " Drink, now," said he, pushing a glass towards him. " Wine is used by the temperance society. They '11 use brandy soon. Ah, they can't do without their wine, and we can't do without our brandy ! They want to bind us in a free country, what my father bled and almost died for, — - bind us to drink cold water ! " said Mr. Pump, sneeringly. " Let 'em try it ! I go for freedom of the press, — universal, everlasting, unbounded freedom ! " When this patriotic bubble had exploded and the mist cleared away, he sang a bacchanalian song, v/hich he wished every free man in the world would commit to memory. " What is the difference," said he, " between this and winel 60 HALF HOUR STORIES. Neither will hurt a man ; it is yaur rum-drinking, ;gin-guz- zling topers that are harmed ; — anything will harm them. Who ever heard of a genteel wine or brandy drinker becoming a pest to society 7 Who ever heard of such an one rolling in the mire 1 No ; such men are able to take care of them- selves. Away with the pledge ! " " Perhaps you are right," replied Edward ; "yet we should be' careful. Although all around me drink, I have until this moment abstained from the use of brandy ; but now, at your request, I partake of it. Remember, if I, by this act, am led into habits of intemperance, if I meet a drunkard' s grave, the hlame will rest upon you.^^ ' " Ha, ha, ha ! Well done ! So be it ! I ' 11 shoulder the blame, if a respectable man like you falls by brandy." Edward drank the contents of a glass, and, placing it upon the table, said " We must be careful ! " "True!" said Mr. Pump, as he again filled the glass ; " we cannot be too much so. We must avoid rum and gin as we Avould a viper ! How I abhor the very name of rum ! 0, Mr. Dayton, think of the misery it has brought upon man ! I had a sister once, a beautiful, kind-hearted creature. She was married to an industrious man ; all was fair, prospects bright. By degrees he got into bad company ; he forgot his home, loved rum more than that, became dissipated, died, and filled a drunkard's grave ! She, poor creature, went into a fever, became delirious, raved day after day, and, heaping curses upon him who sold her husband rum, died. Since then, I have looked upon rum as a curse ; but brandy, — it is a gentle stimulant, a healthy beverage, a fine drink, and it can do no harm." Onendago swallowed the contents of his glass, and Edwardj who, having taken the first, found it very easy to take the second, did the same. Yet his conscience smote him ; he felt that he was doing wrong. THE HOPE OF THB FALLEN. 61 Like the innocent, unthinking bird, who, charmed by the serpent's glistening eye's, falls an easy prey to its crushing embrace, was he at that moment. He the bird, unconscious of the danger behind the charm. 2^his is no fictitious tale. Would to Heaven it contained less of truth! The world has seen many men like "Mr. Pump," and many have through their instrumentality fallen ; many not to rise till ages shall have obliterated all memory of the past, with all its unnatural loves ! Whilst. others, having struggled on for years, have fit length seen a feeble ray of light penetrating the dark clouds that overshadowed their path, wkich light continued to increase, till, in all its beauty, the star of temperance shone forth, by which they strove ever after to be guided. It was near midnight when Mr. Pump left. The two had become quite sociable, and Mr. Pump saw the effect of his brandy in the unusual gayety of Edward. The latter was not lost to reflection ; and now that he was ^lone, thoughts of home, his business, and many other mat- ters, came confusedly into his mind. Letters he had received of warning and advice. He took them in his hands, looked over their contents, and with feel- ings of sadness, and somewhat of remorse, thought of his ways. A bundle of old letters ! A circle of loved friends ! How alike ! There is that's pleasant, yet sad, in these. How viv- idly they present to our view the past ! The writers, some, perhaps, are dead ; others are far away. Yet, dead or alive, near or far distant, we seem to be with them as we read their thoughts traced out on the sheet before us. As Edward read here and there a letter, it did seem as though his friends stood beside him, and spoke words of advice which conscience whispered should be heeded. Love was the theme of not a few, yet all warned lim to flee fiom 62 HALF HOUR STORIES. evil. He returned the parcel, and, as he did so, he pledged himself that if he drank any it should be with moderation : and that, as soon as he felt its ruinous effects, to abstain altogether. The next morning Othro was late at the store ; yet, when he arrived, he was full of praise of the play. " Figaro acted Hamlet to a charm," said he ; " and Fanny Lightfoot danced like a fairy. But two nights more ! Now, Edward, if you do not wish to offend me, and that exceed- ingly, say you will go with me to-morrow night." • CHAPTER VI. Three years had elapsed since the events of the last chapter. Edward had often visited his native village, and, as the results of these visits, Emily Lawton became Mrs. Dayton ; and she, with Mrs. Brandon, was removed to au elegantly furnished house in the city. Yet, with all its ele- gance, Mrs. Brandon, who had been accustomed to rural simplicity, did not feel happy except when in her own room, which Edward had ordered to be furnished in a style answering her own wishes. Messrs. Dayton and Treves had been highly successful in their business operations ; and, enjoying as they did the patronage of the ilite of the city, they, with but little stretch of their imaginative powers, could see a fortune at no great distance. Becoming acquainted with a large number of persons of wealth, they were present at very many of the winter enter- tainments ; and, being invited to drink, they had not courage to refuse, and did not wish to act so ungenteel and uncivil. Others drank ; and some loved their rum, and would have it. ;^dward had taken many steps since the events of our last chapter; yet, thought he, " I drink moderately." THE HOPE OE THa FALLEN. 63 There was to be a great party. A musical prodigy, in the shape of a child of ten years, had arrived, and the leaders of fashion had agreed upon having a grand entertainment on the occasion. Great was the activity and bustle displayed, and in no place more than at the store of Dayton and Treves. As ill- lack would have it, Ralph had been absent a week on one of his drunken sprees, and his employers were obliged to procure another to -fill his place. The event was to take place at the house of a distinguished city officer ; and, as Messrs. Dayton and Treves were to pro- vide refreshment, their time was fully occupied. The papers were filled with predictions concerning it ; and the editors, happy fellows, were in ecstasies of joy on account of having been invited to attend. Nor were Messrs. Day- ton and Treves forgotten ; but lengthy eulogies upon their abilities to perform the duty assigned them occupied promi- nent places, and " steamboat disasters," " horrid murders," and "dreadful accidents," were obliged to make room for these. In the course of human events the evening came. Hacks were in demand, and the rattling of wheels and the falling of carriage-steps were heard till near midnight. The chief object of attraction was a, small boy, who had attained considerable proficiency in musical knowledge, not of any particular instrument, but anything and everything; consequently a large assortment of instruments had been col- lected, upon which he played. As music had called them together, it was the employment of the evening, and the hour of midnight had passed when they were summoned to tho tables. Those gentlemen who desired had an apartment to them- selves, where wine and cigars circulated freely. Some, in, a short time, became excited; whilst others, upon whom the 64 HALF HOUR STORIES. same cause had a different effect, became stupid. One poor fcllow, whose bloated coudtenance told a sad tale, lay- almost St nseless ; another sat dreamingly over his half-filled glass, whilst another excited the risibilities of not a few by his .ineffectual attempts to light his cigar. ' Our hero, like his companions, was a little overcome by too frequent potations from the bottle. It was a sad sight to a reflective mind. The majority were young men, whose eyes had been blinded to the danger they were in, by Jidhering tc ,a foolish and injurious custom. As hour passed hour, they became more excited, untU a high state of enthusiasm existed. * ***** All the ladies had retired, except one, and she strove hard to conceal her rising sorrow by forced smiles; yet she could not restrain her feelings, — her heart seemed bursting with grief. In vain did oiSBcious servants seek to know the cause. To the inquiries of the lady of the house she made no reply. She dare not reveal the secret which pierced her very soul ; but, burying her face in her hands, seemed resolved upon not being comforted. Finally, yielding to the persuasive influ- ence of Mrs. Venet, she expressed her fears that Edward had tarried too long at the bowl. Mrs. Venet tried .to comfort her by saying that, if what .she so much feared was true, yet it was nothing uncommon ; and mentioned several men, and not a few ladies, who had been carried away in a senseless condition. These words did not comfort her ; on the contrary, they increased her fears, and led her to believe that there was more danger at such parties than there was generally thought to be; and the fact that Edward had often attended such parties increased her sorrow, for she knew not but that ho »had been among that number of whom Mrs. Venet spoke. Imagination brought to her view troublpa and trials as her THE HOPE OF THE FALLBW 65 future lot , and lijiSt, not least, the thought of Edward's tem- perament, and of how easily he might be led astray, rested heavily upon her heart. Mrs. Venet at length left her, and repaired to the gentleman's apartment, in order to learn the cause of his delay. She knocked at the door. " Who in the devil 's there, with that thundering racket?" inquired a loud voice. " It is Mrs. Venet," replied the lady. "0, it is, is it? Well, madam, Dayton the confectioner, and a dozen jovial souls, are having a rare time here. Put that down in your memorandum-book, and leave us to our meditations." " Yes, and these to profit and loss," said another, and the breaking of glasses was heard. " If Mr. Dayton is within, tell him his lady is waiting for him," said Mrs. Venet. " Ed, your wife 's waiting," said one of the party. " Then, friends, I — I — I must go," said the inebriated man, who, though badly intoxicated, had not wholly forgotten her. His companions endeavored to have him remain, but in vain. He unbolted the door, and, leaving, closed it upon them. Mrs. Venet, who was standing without, laid hold of his coat, and, knowing the excited state of Mrs. Dayton, and fearing that the appearance of her husband would be too much for her to bear ^endeavored to induce him not to enter the room, or, at least,lo wait until he had recovered from the effects of his drinking. He appeared rational for a while, but, suddenly breaking away, shouted, " Emily, where are you?" The sound of his voice resounded through the buildiog, 6* 66 HALF HOUR STOUIES. and his drunken companions, hearing it, made the building echo with their hoisterous laughter. He jan through the entries gazing wildly around, and .loudly calling for his wife. The servants, hearing the tumult, hastened to the spot; but neither they nor Mrs. Venet could induce him to be- come quiet. The latter, finding she could have no influence upon him, repaired to the room in which she left Mrs. Dayton, and found ^er senseless upon the floor, and to all appearances dead. She had heard his wild cries, and what she had so much feared she then knew to be true. Mrs. Venet rang for the servants, and ordered some restora- tives. These were soon obtained, and by their free use she had nearly recovered, when her husband rushed into the room. Upon seeing his wife, the raging lion became as docile a^ a lamb. A sudden change came over him ; he seemed to realize the truth, and it sent an arrow to his soul. Again ,the injured wife fainted, and again the restoratives were faithfully applied; but it was evident that if Mr. Dayton remained in her presence it would be difficult to restore her, ,and the man who before would not be approached was led quietly away. In a short time Mrs. Dayton became sensible, .and her first words were to inquire after Edward. Being told, she was induced to lie down, and, if possible, enjoy a ilittle sleep ; but sleep she could not. Her mind became almost delirious, and fears were entertained by her attend- .^ants that she would lose her reason. w The effects of Edward's carousal were entirely dissipated by the sudden realization of the truth. To Mrs. Dayton this was an hour of the deepest sorrow. She looked back upon the past, and saw happiness"; in the Suture nothing but misery scfsmed to await; her. Yet a^ change THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 6Y came over her ; she thanked God for his past mercies, and ■wisely trusted him for their continuance. She implored, jpardon for past ingratitude, and prayed that she qiight be more grateful in future, and that, having tasted of the cup of sorrow, she might not drink the bitter draught. CHAPTER VII. * The next morning Edward repented of his crime, and in his inmost soul felt it to be such, — a crime of deepest dye. Emily wept as she bent over him. " Cease thy tears," said he, " and forgive ; it is but that word, spoken by thee, that can send peace to my soul. Yet ■what peace can I expect 7 I have wronged thee ! " — and the .wretched man wept like a child. New thoughts continually sprang into existence, — the days of his youth, the bliss of home, and his present situa- tion. He felt disgraced ; — how should he redeem his char- ficter 1 " 0, that the grave would hide me," continued Edward, " and that in death I might forget this crime ! But no ! I cannot forget it ; it will cling to me through life, and the future " He would have said more, but the strong emotions of his soul choked his utterance. He arose and paced the room in agony of feeling which pen cannot describe. Suddenly halting, he gazed steadfastly upon the face of his wife. It was deadly pale, and a tear dimmed' the usual lustre of her eje. " Comfort thyself," said he; " no further evil shall come upon thee. It shall never be said you are a drunkard's wife, — no, no, no, never ! " " Let us, then, forget the past," said Mrs. Dayton. "What ! forget those days when I had not tasted? 0, 68 HALF HOUR STORIES. misery indeed, if I cannot retaa their remembrance ! " said Edward. " Ncjt so, Edward ; we would remember those, but forget the evil that has befallen us, — all will be well." " Do you — can you forgive 1 " " God will forgive ; and shall not 1 7 " "Then let this be a pledge of the fature ;" and, taking her hand in his, he said, " I resolve to walk in the path of right, ani never more to wander, God being my witness and my strength." " 'T is well thou hast pledged thyself," said she ; " but know thou the tempter is on every side. Should the wine- cup touch thy lips, dash it aside, and proclaim yourself a pledged man." " I will ! " was the response, and, taking a pen, he boldly placed his name to the following pledge : " Pledge. — We pledge ourselves to abstain from the use of all intoxicating drinks, except the moderate use of wine, beer and cider." Such was the pledge to which he affixed his name, and such the pledge by which men of those days endeavored to stay the tide of intemperance. Did not every man whD signed that pledge himself to become a moderate drinker ; and is not every moderate drinker pledged to become a drunkard 1 What a pledge ! Yet we should not blame the men of former years for pursuing a course which they con- scientiously thought to be right. That was the first step. It was well as far as it led ; but it paused at the threshold of the ark of safety, and there its disciples fell. They had not seen, as have men of late years, the ruinous tendency of such a course ; and knew not, as we now do, that total absti- nence is the only sure course. The pledge Edward had signed was no preventive in hia » THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 69 case. He had tasted ; in fact, he had become a lover of strong drink ; and the temptation of having it constantly beside him, and daily dealing it out to others, was too strong for., him to resist. When he drank, he did think, as Emily had bade him, that he was a pieced man ; but that pledge permitted him to drink wine. The remedy such a pledge applied was of no avail. \ It failed to reach the fountain-head, and,strove to stop the stream by placing slight resistances in its way. A long time must elapse before a man can know the heart of his fellow-man, if, indeed, it can ever be. known ; and it was not until Edward had become addicted to habits-of intem- perance that he discovered the professed friendship of Mr. Treves to be insincere. Words of warning seldom came from his lips. What cared he if Edward did fall ? Such being the case, the business would come into his own hands ; and such -" a consummation devoutly to be wished " it was very evident that if Edward did not soon reform was not far distant. Now Emily Dayton began to experience anxious days and sleepless nights, and Mrs. Brandon begged of Edward to reform. Often he would do so. He would sign that pledge ; but it was like an attempt to stay a torrent with a straw. That pledge! 'twas nothing! yea, worse than nothing ! • *Mi 4U ^ ^ ^ TP 'flP TT Tt TP Six months of sorrowing passed, and what a change we behold I Experience ha^ shown to Edward that the use of brandy is dangerous, and good dame Brandon has been led to believe that there are temptations in the city which she little thought of. Edward, driven from his business, revels in bar-rooms, and riots at midnight ; whilst the patient, uncomplaining, endur- ing Emily, forced by creditors from her former home, finds shelter from the storm in a small tenement ; where, by the 70' HALF HOUR STORIES. aid of her Eeedle, she is enabled to support herself and aged aunt, whilst a prattling infant plays at her side, and, laugh- ing in its childish sports, thinks not of the sorrows it was born to encounter, and knows not the sad feelings of its mother's wounded heart. « CHAPTER VIII. ' In a low, damp, dark cellar, behold a man washing the glasses of a groggery. His ragged dress and uncombed hair, his shabby and dirty appearance, do not prevent us from seeing indications of his once having been in better circum- stances, and that nature never designed that he should be where he now is. Having rinsed a few cracked tumblers, he sat down beside a red-hot cylinder stove, and, bending over till his head rested upon his hands, he, in a half-audible voice, talked to himself. " Here 't is, eighteen forty — some years since I saw that Dayton covfe ; eh, gone by the board 1 The daily papers say he was up for a common drunkard; but, being first time, was lectured and sent home. Plaguy poor home his, I reckon ! Wonder if the lecture did him as much good as Old Batter's did me. Ah ! he liked that brandy, and said I should bear the biaTne if he was ruined ; but he an't that yet. Here I am, ten times worse off than he is, and 7 an't ruined. No ! Mr. Dago Pump is a man yet. Well, well ! what shall I say 1 ■ — business awful dull, and it 's damp and dark here ; I feel cold 'side of this red-faced stove." Mr. Onendago Pump poked the fire, and continued to do so till a ragged little boy, without shoes, stockings or cap, came down the slippery steps, and asked for "two cents' worth of rum, and one cent's worth of crackers." The proprietor of this subterraneous establishment threw aside an old wire that served as a poker, and demanded pay- THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 71 inent in advance. The child handed him the three cents, received his rum and prackers, and left. Mr. Pump, who for a long time had lived on appearances, could do so no longer ; for, persisting in his opinion that hrandy could not hurt him, he drank so much that bad soon supplanted good appearances, and his company was soon discarded. Mr. Blinge would not have him about his primisea, although the one drank as much as the other, and a great similarity existed between them. He was turned out of the tavern, and, having purchased four shillings' worth of brandy, commenced business in the cellar we have alluded to, replenishing his stock by daily applying to a neighboring pump ; and, for every gill of brandy he drew from the tap, poured a gill of water in at the bung, and thus kept up a stock in trade. In a short time, a collection of drinking loafers met daily at his place, and Dago Pump could see no diflference between his respectability as proprietor of a bar-room, and his who, being owner of thousands, fitted up " oyster saloons," which places had suddenly sprung up in all large cities. Edward had fallen ; he had become what was termed a " common drulikard." His wife wept tears of anguish; she entreated ; she begged him to reform. She prayed to Heaven for its aid ; yet week passed week, month followed month, on Time's unending course, and she was a drunkard's wife still. All friends had forsaken her. Frier.ds ! shall we call them such ? No ; they did not deserve the name. Their friend- ship only had an existence when fortune smiled ; when a frown mantled its countenance, or a cloud intervened, they fled. Yet God was raising up friends for her, and from a class of society from whom she little expected aid. God was working, in his mysterious way, a deliverance. He had heard the prayers that for many long years had gone up to 72 HALF HOUR STORIES. his throne from thousands of wretched families ; and, moved to pity, he was to show them that he was a God of mercy. Othro Treves — where is he ? Not in that elegant store ; it long since passed into other hands. Has he made his for- tune, and retired 1 Such we might suppose to be the case, did we not know that he trusted to moderate drinking. Man might as well trust a leaky vessel to bear him across the ocean, as to trust that. The clock struck twelve. '"T is midnight," said a female voice, "and he has not come. God send repentance to his heart ! Hope has almost failed me ; yet I will hope on." " Another glass of brandy for me," said a man, address- ing Mr. Dago Pump. " And rum for me," said another. " Gin with a hot poker in it for me," said the third ; and Mr. Pump poured out the poisons. Half a dozen men stood in front of some rough boards that served as a " bar." One of these — a tall, well-formed jman — gazed fixedly upon the glasses, seemingly in deep thought. "Stop!" he suddenly exclaimed. Mr. Pump nearly dropped the bottle. It was as an electric 'shock to him : an ashy paleness came over his face. " Stop ! " he again exclaimed. All eyes were fixed upon him. Some tried to laugh, but could not. Dago set down the bottle, and the glasses, half filled, stood upon the bench before him. " I have been thinking," said he who had caused this strange efiect, " is it right for us to drink that 1 It does us no good ; it brings upon us much evil ; that 's what I 've been a-think- ing while 'twas being poured out." '' So have I," exclaimed another. "And I," said a third. "I would have been worth fifty THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 7B thousand dollars, this day, had I never touched stuff like that. I tell you what, coveys, let 's come out." " Hurra ! " shouted yet another ; " I,'ve spent a good for- tune in rum-shops. That 's what I say ; let 's come out." " Yes," said the first speaker, " let us come out. We have been in long enough ; — in the gutter, in the grog-shop, in mis- ery, in disgrace, in poverty, in jail, and in ruin. I say, let us come out, out of all these." " Amen ! " responded all. " Let us come out," he continued; " but what can tem- perance folks do ? I have signed the pledge, and signed, and signed, but I cannot keep it. I had no friends ; tem- perance folks never came to me. I have often thought that, if a friend would reach forth his hand, and help me from the gutter when I have lain there, I would do anything for such a friend. But when I am drunk they laugh at and jeer me. Boys stone and cuff me, and men stand by and laugh at their hellish sport. Yes, those calling themselves ' friends of temperance ' would laugh at me, and say, ' Miserable fool, nothing can save him ! When such are dead, we can train up a generation of temperate people.' I am kicked and cuffed about like a dog, and not a hand is extended to relieve me. When I first tasted, I told him who gave it me the blame should rest on him if I fell. Where he is now, I know not ; but, wherever he is, I know his is a miserable existence. Years have passed since thaBf and here I am, a miserable drunkard. My wife — where is she ? and my good old aunt — where is she 7 At home in that comfortless room, weeping over my fall, and praying for m,y reform. Brothers, let us arise ; let us determine to be men — free men ! " " It is done," said one and all ; and the keeper of the cel- lar dashed bottle after bottle against the wall. • " Yes, let us renounce these habits ; they are hard to renounce ; temptation is hard to resist." 7 74 HALF HOUB STOKIES. -" The present pledge is not safe for us," said the keeper of the cellar, as he took a demijohn of liquor up tie steps, and emptied it in the gutter. " Then let us have one of our own," said the first speaker. " Let it be called ' The Hope of the Fallen ;' for we are indeed fallen, and this, our last refuge from more fearful evils, is our only hope. May it not disappoint us ! May we cling to it as the drowning man grasps the rope thrown out for his rescue ! And not for us alone shall this hope exist. Let us go to every unfortunate in our land, and speak kindly to him. Ah, my friends, we know the value of a kind word. Let us lift him from the gutter, place him upon his feet, and say, ' Stand up ! I myself also am a man.' " Having said this, he sent out for pen, ink and paper, and a pledge was carefully drawn up, of which the follow ■ ing is a copy : " We, whose names are hereunto afiBxed, knowing by sad experience that the use of wine, beer, cider, rum, brandy, gin, and all kinds of intoxicating drinks, is hurtful to man, beast and reptile, do hereby pledge ourselves most solemnly to abstain now, henceforth, and forever, from the use of them in whatever shape they may be presented ; to neither eat, drink, touch, taste, nor handle them ; and in every place, and on every occasion, to use our influence in inducing oth- ers to do the same." The speaker was the first td^^lace his name to this docu- ment ; and the keeper of the cellar started when he read the name of " Edward Dayton." " Is it possible ! " said he, and, grasping his hand, he shook it most heartily. Edward was as much astonished as he. Such a change had tateen place that they could not at first recognize each other. THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. . 75 " Yes," said Edward, " you tempted me to drink. I for- give. I now tempt you to sign this pledge." No words were required to induce all present to sign. They all spake of their past lives, related the sorrows they Lad felt, the misery they had endured ; and such was the interest manifested hy each in listening to these plain, unvar- nished tales, that they resolved upon meeting in that same place the next night. The next day, the report spread like wild-fire about tho city that drunkards themselves were reforming. Many doubted, and would not believe such to be the case. " They WQ past reforming," said public opinion ; "let them die ; let us take care of the young." CHAPTER IX . They met in the same, place the next night, but the next they did not. Their numbers had so increased that the cel- lar would not contain them ; and they engaged a large hall, and gave public notice that a meeting would be held at which reformed drunkards would speak. Those who before doubted did so no more ; yet from many the sneering, cold-hearted remark was heard, " They will not hold on." At the hour appointed, hundreds thronged to the place, and hundreds' departed, being unable to gain admittance. That night, nearly five hundred signed the new pledge, and new additions were made daily. It had a power which no previous pledge had possessed ; a power, with God's aid, to bring man from the lowest depths of woe, place him on his feet, and tell him, " Sin no more." The new society increased in numbers. In other cities the same feeling arose, and societies of the same kind were formed. The papers were filled with accounts of their ^■6 HAIF HOUK STOEIES. meetings, and the cause spread, to the astonishment and grateful admiration of all. Days of prosperity gladdened the heart of Edward. Joy took the place of sorrow in his family. He, like his thou- sands of brethren, had been snatched as a brand from the burning, and stood forth a living monument to the truth that there was a hope for the fallen. Twelve years have passed since that ever-memorable night. Millions have become better men, and yet the pledge remains to exert its influence, and who can doubt that Grod directs its Qourse ? 'T is sending joy to the mourning, and many a wounded heart it heals. Is there a power that can exceed this ? Is there another pledge that has effected as much good? Let us, then, push on the car. Let our influence be such as will advance, and not retard, its progress. Let us do this, and ere long we may rejoice together, and earth hold a grand jubilee, and all men shall testify that the Pledge is the " hope of the fallen." THOUGHTS THAT COME FROM LOIiG AGO. Thi^rb are moments in our life When are hushed its sounds of strife , When, from busy toil set free, Mind goes back the past to see : Memory, with its mighty powers, Brings to view our childhood hours Once again we romp and play, As we did in youth's bright day ; And, with never-ceasing flow. Come the hours of Long Ago. Oft, when passions round us throqib And our steps incline to vrrong. Memory brings a friend to view. In each line and feature true ; Though he long hath left us here. Then his presence seemeth near, And with sweet, persuasive voice. Leads us from an evil choice ; — Thus, when we astray would go. Come restraints from Long Ago. Oft, when troubled and perplexed Worn in heart and sorely vexed, Almost sinking 'neath our load. Famishing on life's high road, — Darkness, doubt, and dark despair Leading us we know not where, — ' * How hath sweet remembrance caught From the past some happy thought I And, refreshed, we on would go. Cheered with hopes from Long Ago. 7* 78 HALF HOim SaX)RIES. What a store-house, filled with gems Of more worth than diadems, Each hath 'neath his own control, From which to refresh his soul ! Let us, then, each action weigh. Some good deed perform each day. That in future we may find Happy thoughts to bring to miad ; For, with ever ceaseless flow. Thoughts will come from Long Ago. DETERMINED TO BE RICH. KiSB up early, sit up late. Be thou unto Avarice sold ; Watch thou well at Mammon's gate. Just to gain a little gold. Crush thy brother neath thy feet. Till each manly thought is flown ; Hear not, though he loud entreat. Be thou deaf to every moan. Wield the lash, and hush the cry. Let thy conscience now be seared ; Pile thy glittering gems on high, TiU thy golden god is reared. Then before its sparkling shrine Bend the neck and bow the knee ; Victor thou , all wealth is thine. Yet, what doth it profit thee t THE HEAVEN SENT, HEAVEN KETURNED. THE HEAVEN SENT, HEAYEN RETURNED. Pure as an infant's heart that sin ne'er touched, That guilt had ne'er polluted ; and she seemed Most like an angel that had missed its way , On some kind mission Heaven had bade it go. Her eye beamed bright with beauty ; and innocence, Its dulcet notes breathed forth in every word, Was seen in every motion that she made. Her form was faultless, and her golden hair En long luxuriant tresses floated o'er Her shoulders, that as alabaster shone. Her very look seemed to impart a sense Of matchless purity to all it met. I saw her in the crowd, yet none were there That seemed so piu?e as she ; and every eye That met her eye's mild glance shrank back abashed, It spake such innocence. One day she slept, — How calm and motionless ! I watched her sleep Till evening ; then, until the sun arose ; And then, would have awakened her, — but friends Whispered in my ear she would not wake Within that body more, for it was dead, • And she, now clothed in immortality. Would know no more of change, nor know a oar). And when I felt that truth, methought I saw A bright angelic throng, in robes of white. Bear forth her spirit to the throne of God ; And I heard music, such as comes to us Oft in our dreams, as from some unseen life, And holy voices chanting heavenly songs. And harps and voices blending in one hymn. Eternal hymn of highest praise to God For all the good the Heaven-sent one had done Since first it left the heavenly fold of souls, To live on earth, and show to lower man How pure and holy, joyous and serene, They may and shall assuredly become 80 UALIB HOUB STORIES. When all the laws that God through Nature speaks Are kept unbroken ! * .* * " * * She had now returned, And heaven resounded with angelic songs. Before me lay the cold, unmoTing form ; Above me lived the joyous, happy one ! And who should sorrow ? Sure, not 1; not she ; Not any one ! For death, — there was no death, — But that which men called death was life more real Than heart had e'er conceived or words expressed ! FLOWERS, BRIGHT FLOWERS! Flowers from the wild-wood, Flowers, bright flowers ! Springing in desert spot. Where man dwelleth not, — Flowers, bright flowers. Cheering the traveller's lot. Given to one and all, ' Flowers, bright flowers ! When man neglecteth thee. When he rejecteth thee. Flowers, bright flowers, God's hand protecteth thee ! Remnants of paradise, Flowers,.bright flowers ! Tinged with a heavenly hue, Keflecting its azure blue. Flowers, bright flowers, * Brightest earth ever knew ! FORGET ME NOT. 81 Cheering the desolate, Flowers, bright flowers ! Coining with fragrance fraught, From Heaven's own breezes caught, Flowers, bright flowers. Teachers of holy thought ! Borne to the curtained room. Flowers, bright flowers ! Where the sick longs for light, Then, for the shades of night, Flowers, bright flowers. Gladdening the weariedsight I High on the mountain-top, Flowers, bright flowers ! Low in sequestered vale, On cliff, mid rock, in dale, Flowers, bright flowers. Ye do prevail ! FORGET ME NOT. FoRGiiT me not when other lips Shall whisper love to thee ; Forget me not when others twine Their chaplets for thy brow ; Forget me not,- for I am thine, Forever onward true as now. As long as time shall be. There may be words thou mayest doubt, But when / tell thee " I am thine," Believe the heart's assurance true, In sorrow and in mirth Forever it doth turn to you, Confiding, trusting in thy worth. Thou wilt, I know, be mine. WHAT IS TRUTH? Long, long ago, one whose life had been one of goodness — -whose every act had been that of charity and good will — was persecuted, hated and maligned ! He came with new hopes. He held up a light, whose rays penetrated far into the future, and disclosed a full and glorious immortality to the long doubting, troubled soul of man. He professed to commune with angels ! He had healed fie sick ; he had given sight to the blind ; caused the lame to walk ; opened prison-doors, and had preached the Gospel to the poor. Those he chose for his companions were from humble rank. Their minds had not become enslaved to any creed ; npt wedded to any of the fashionable and popular forms of the day, nor immovably fixed to any of the dogmas of the schools. He chose such because their minds were free and natural ; " and they forsook all and followed him." Among the rulers, the wealthy and the powerful, but few believed in him, or in the works he performed. To them he was an impostor. In speaking of his labors some cant phrase fell from their wise lips, synonymous with the " it is all a humbug " of our day. His healing of the sick was denied ; or, if admitted, was said to be some lucky circumstance of fate. His opening of the eyes of the blind was to them a -mere illusion ; the supposed cure, only an operation of the imagination. All his good deeds were underrated; and those who, having seen with their own eyes, and heard with their own ears, were honest enough to believe and openly declare their WHAT IS TRUTH? 83 belief, vrere looked upon by the influential and those in high places as most egregiously deceived and imposed upon. But, notwithstandiDg the\)pposition, men did believe; and in one day three thousand acknowledged their belief in the sincerity of the teacher, and in the doctrines which he taught. Impressed deeply with the reality and divinity of his mis- sion, — looking to God as his father, and to all mankind as his brethren, — Jesus continued his way. To the scoffs and jeers of the rabble, he replied in meekness and love ; and amid the proud and lofty he walked humbly, ever conscious of the presence of an angelic power, which would silence the loudest, and render powerless the might of human strength. He spoke as one having authority. He condemned the formalism of their worship; declared a faith that went deeper than exterior rites and ceremonies; and spoke wfth an independence and fearlessness such deep and soul- searching, truths, that the people took up stones to stone him, and the priests and the rulers held council together against him. At length the excited populace, beholding their cherished faith undermined, and the new teacher day by day incul- cating doctrines opposed to those of Moses and the prophets,, determined to take his life, and thus terminate his labors and put a stop to his heresies. They watched his every movement. They stood by and caught the words as they fell from his lips, hoping thus to get something by which to form an accusation against him. In this they failed. Though what he said was contrary to their time-worn dogmas, yet nothing came from his lips but sentiments of the purest love, the injunctions of reason and justice, and the language of humanity. Failing in this plan to ensnare hiin, justice was set aside, and force called in to their aid 84 HALF HOUR STORIES. See him now before a great tribunal, and Pilate, troubled in soul, compelled to say, " I find no fault in this man." Urged to action by the mad crowd around him, balancing his decision between justice, the prisoner's release, and in- justice, the call to crucify him, he knows not what to do. In an agony of thought, which pen caqnot describe or human words portray, he delays his irrevocable doom. In the mean time, the persecutors grow impatient ; and louder than eVer, from the chief priests and the supporters of royalty, goes up the infamous shout, " Crucify him, crucify him ! " At this moment, the undecided, fearful Pilate casta a searching glance about him. As he beholds the passionate people, eager for the blood of one man, and he innocent, and sees, standing in their midst, the meek and lowly Jesus, calm as an evening zephyr over Judea's plains, from whose eye flows the gentle lov« of an infinite divinity, — his face beaming in sympathy with every attribute of goodness, faith and humanity, — all this, too, before his mad, unjust accusers, from whose eyes flash in mingled rays the venom of scorn and hate, — his mind grows strong with a sense of right. His feelings will not longer be restrained, and, unconscious of his position, forgetting for the moment tfee dignity of his office, he exclaims, with the most emphatic earnestness "What is truth'?" Eighteen hundred years have intervened between ^at day and this ; and now the same inquiry is heard, and often with the same earnestness as then. Men ask, and often ask in vain, " what is truth ? " and yet the great problem to millions remains unsolved. Generations pass on, and leave to others the great ques- tion for them to ask , and they, in turn, to leave unanswered. The child, ere it can speak in words, looks from its wistful eye, " What is truth 1 " Youth comes, and all the emotions of the soul are awakened. It arises from the playfulness of WHAT IS TRUTH'! 85 childhood, forgets its little games, and, finding itself an actor in the drama of life, looks over the long programme of parts from which it is to choose its own, and anxiously inquires "What is truth?" Manhood feels the importance of the question ; and Age, though conscious of its near approach to the world of revealed truth, repeats it. The present is an era of thought. Men begin to assume a spirit of independence, and to look less upon human author- ity, and more upon that light which lighteth every man that Cometh into the world. And it is well that it is so. It is well that we begin to look upon liberty in another light than a mere absence of iroif bonds upon our hands and feet; that we begin to discern that " He is a freeman whom the'tra^ makes tree. And all are slaves beside." We are pressing on to know the truth. We have grown weary of darkness, and are seeking the light. We should remember, in our researches, that, to find out truth, we must not be pledged to any form, any opinion, or any creed, how- ever old or dearly cherished such limitations may have been with ourselves or others. We must come to the task like little children, ready to learn. We must leave our beliefs behind us. We must not bring them, and attempt to adapt our discoveries in the realms of eternal truth to them ; but we must build up the structure with the material we find in the universe of God ; and then, when reared, if we find that in doing so we have a stone from our old temple nicely ad- justed in the new, very well ; — let it remain, and thank God for it. Men have trusted too much in the views of past ages, and taken for truth many an error, because some one back, in by-gone ages introduced it as such, and it has been believed in and held most sacred. 8 00 HALF HOUR STORIES. Lei our course be our own course, and not that of others. Let us seek for truth as truth. Let us be honest and press on, trusting in God the rewarder of all, who will bless all our efforts to ascertain his truths, and our duty to him, to our fellow-men, and to ourselves. THE HOMESTEAD VISIT. Se had wandered far and long, and when, on his return to the scenes of his early life, he came in full view of the old house, in which and around which those scenes were clustered, he threw down his oaken staff, raised his hands, and clapped them like a child. Then a tear would roll down his face ; then a smile illumine it ; then he would dance with joy. As he ap- proached the building, he obserr'ed that the door was open ; and the large, hospitable-looking room was so inviting, and there being no one presents he entered, and indulged in thoughts like these ; I STAisTD where 'I have stood before : The same roof is ahove me, But they who were are here no more, For me to love, or love me. I listen, and I seem to hear A favorite voice to greet me ; But yet I know that none are near, Save stranger forms, to meet me. I 'U sit me down, — for I have not Sat here since first I started To run life's race, — and on this spot Will muse of the departed. Then I was young, and on my brow The rays of hope were shining ; But Time hath there his imprint now, That tells of life's declining. How great the change ! — though I can sea Full many a thing I cherished — Yet, since beneath yon old oak tree I stood, how much hath perished. Here is the same old oaken floor, And there the same rough ceiling Each telling of the scenes of yore, Each former joys revealing. 88 HALF HOUR STOEIES. But, friends of youth — they all have fled j Some yet on earth do love us ; While others, passed beyond the dead, Live guardian ones above us. Yet, o'er us all one powerful hand Is raised to guard forever, And all, ere long, one happy band Be joined, no more to sever. I 've trimmed my sail on every sea Where crested vraves are sw^eUing ; Yet oft my heart turnfed back to thee, My childhood's humble dwelling. I 've not forgot my youthful days, The home that was my mother's. When listening to the words of praise That were bestowed on others. See, yonder, through the window-pane^ The rock on which I rested ; And on that green how oft I 've lain — What memories there are vested ! The place where once a sister's hand I held — none loved I fonder ; But she 's now with an angel band, Whilst I a pilgrim wander. There was a pretty, blue-eyed girl, A good old farmer's daughter ; We used the little stones to hurl. And watch them skip the water. We 'd range among the forest trees, To gather woodland flowers ; And then each other's fancy please In building floral bowers. Within this room, how many a tune I 've listened to a story. And heard grandfather sing his rhyme 'Bout Continental glory ! THi. makineb's song. 89 And oft I 'd shoulder his old sta£f, And march as proud as any, Till the old gentleman would laugh, And bless me with a penny. Hark ! 'tis a footstep that I hear ; A stranger is approaching ; I must away — were I found here I should be thought encroaching. One last, last look — my old, old home! One memory more of childhood ! I '11 not forget, where'er I roam. This homestead and the wild-wood. THE MARINER'S SONG. THE sea, the sea ! I love the sea ! For nothing on earth seems half as free As its crested waves ; they mount on high, And seem to sport with the star-gemmed sky Talk as you will of the land and shore ; Give me the sea, and I ask no more. 1 love to float on the ocean deep. To be by its motion rocked to sleep ; Or to sit for hours and watch the spray, Marking the course of our outward way. While upward far in a cloudless sky With a shriek the wild bird passeth by. And when above are the threatening clouds, And the wild wind whistles 'mid the shrouds. Our masts bend low till they kiss the wave, As beckoning one from its ocean cave, 8* 90 HALF HOUR STOKJBS. . Then hurra for the sea ! I love its foam, And over it like a bird would roam. There is that 's dear in a mountain home, With dog and gun 'mid the woods to roam ■ And city life hath a thousand joys, That quiver amid its ceaseless noise ; Yet nothing on land can give to me Such joy as that of the pathless sea. When morning comes, and the sun's first rays All around our gallant topmast plays, My heart bounds forth with rapturous glee, O, then, 't is then that I love the eea ! Talk as you will of the land and shore ; Give me the sea, and 1 ask no more ! LOVE'S LAST WORDS. Thet knew that she was going To holier, better spheres, ■ Yet they could not stay the flowing Of their tears ; And they bent above in sorrow, Like mourners o'er a tomb. For they knew that on the morrow There 'd be gloom. There was one among the number Who had watched the dying's breath, With an eye that would not slumber Until death. There, as he bent above her. He whispered in her ear How fondly he did love her. Her most dear. LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 91 " One word, 't will comfort send me, When early spring appears, . And o'er thy grave I bend me In my tears. » A single word now spoken Shall be kept in Memory's shrine, Where the dearest treasured token Shall be thine." She pressed his hand — she knew him — With the fervor of a child ; And, looking fondly to him, Sweetly smiled. And, smiling thus, she started For her glorious home above. And her last breath, as it parted, Whispered " Love." LIGHT IN DARKNESS Sometimes my heart complaineth And moans in bitter sighs ; And dreams no hope remaineth, No more its sun will rise. But yet I know God liveth, • And TfiU do aU things well ; And that to me he giveth More good than tongue can tell. And though above me linger At times dark Sorrow's shroud, I see Faith's upraised finger Point far beyond the cloud. MT. VERNON, AND THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON. The heat of noon had passed, and the trees began to cast their evening shadows, when, in company with a friend, I seated myself in a carriage, and drove off in the direction of Mount Vernon. We crossed the long bridge, and found our- selves in the old State of Virginia. It was a delightful afternoon ; one just suited to the pur- pose to which we had devoted it. The trees were clad in fresh, green foliage, and the farms and gardens were bloom- ing into early life. To myself, no season appears so beauti- ful as that of spring. All seasons to me are bright and glo- rious, but there is a charm about spring that captivates the soul. Then Nature weaves her drapery, and bends over the placid lake to jewel herself, as the maiden bends before her mirror to deck her pure white brow with diamonds and rubies. All is life, all animation, all clothed with hope ; all tending upward, onward to the bright future. " The trees are full of crimson bnds, the woods are full of birds, And the waters flow to music, like a tune with pleasant words." In about one hour we reached the city of Alexandria, Between this place and Washington a steamboat plies, going and returning four times a day. The road from Washington to Alexandria is about decent ; but the road from thence to Mount Vernon is in the worst possible condition, — so bad, in fact, that we dismounted and walked a considerable distance, it being far less tiresome to walk than to ride. The road MT. VEENON, AND THE TOKB OF WASHINGTON. 93 winds in a very circuitous route through a dense forest, the lofty trees of which, rising upon either hand, cast their deep shadows upon us. The place, that would otherwise have been gloomy, was enlivened by the variable songs of the mocking- birds, and the notes of their more beautiful-plumed though less melodious companions. Occasionally we passed the hut of a negro, and met a loaded team from some Virginian farm, drawn by three or four ill- looking, yet strong and serviceable horses. These teams were managed by negroes, — never less than two, and in some cases by three or four, or, as in one instance, by an entire family, man, wife and children, seated on their loads, whis- tling and singing, where also sat a large black-and-white mastiff. Long after we passed and they had receded from our view, we could distinctly hear their melodious voices singing their simple yet expressive songs, occasionally inter- rupted by a " gee, yawh, shau" as they urged on their dil- atory steeds. The homes of the negroes were in some cases built of stone ; mostly, however, of boards, put loosely together, and in some instances of large logs, the crevices being filled with mud, which, the sun and wind having hardened, were white- washed, presenting a very strong though not very beautiful appearance, the architecture of w^hich was neither Grecian nor Roman, but evidently from " original designs " by a not very fastidious or accomplished artist. Groups of women and children were about these houses ; some seated on the grass, in the shade of the tall trees ; oth- ers standing in the doors, all unemployed and apparently having nothing to do but to talk, and this they appeared to engage in with a hearty good will. We continued our way over stones, up steep, deep-rutted hills, covered partly with branches and brambles, and down fcs steep declivities, through T)onds and brooks, now and then 94 HALF HOUR STOEIES. cheered by the pleasing prospect of a long road, evidently designed to illustrate the "ups and downs of life." After a tiresome journey, partly walked, partly ridden, which was somewhat relieved of its tediousness by the roman- tic and beautiful scenery through which we passed, we came in view of Mount Vernon. An old, infirm, yet good, sociable negro met us at the gate, and told us that there was another road to the Mount, but that it was not as good as the one we came over, and also that there was a private road, which was not as good as either of the others ! We smiled, threw out a hint about aerial navigation. He smiled also, and, thinking we doubted his word, said, "Indeed, it is npt as good; I wouldn't tell you a lie about it." Mercy on pilgrims to Mount Vernon ! If you ever go there, reader, do provide yourself with a con- science that can't be shaken out of you. Having been kindly furnished with a letter from Mr. Sea- ton, the editor of the Intelligencer, and Mayor of Washing- ton city, to the proprietor of the estate, we inquired whether he was at home, and with pleasure learned that he was. We passed into what we deemed an almost sacred enclos- ure, so linked is it with the history of our country, and the glorious days that gave birth to a nation's freedom. It seemed as though we had entered an aviary, so many and so various the birds that floated in the air around us, and filled it with the rich melody of their songs. At a short distance stood a beautiful deer, as if transfixed to the spot, his large, black, lustrous eyes turned towards us, his ears erect, till, suddenly starting, he darted away, and leaped down the steep hill-side to the water's brink. The house I need not describe, as most persons are ac- quainted with its appearance, from seeing the numerous engraved representations of it. It shows many evidences of age and decay. Time is having his own way with it, as the MT. VBKNON, AND THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON. 95 hand that would defend it from his ravages, and improve its looks, is kept back, that it may remain as nearly as possible in the same condition as when occupied by our first presi- dent. We entered and passed through several rooms, endeav- oring to allay our curiosity by asking more questions than our attendant could conveniently answer and retain his senses. We saw the massive key of that old French prison-house, the Bastile, presented to General Washington by that friend of freedom and humanity, General Lafayette,^ soon after the .destruction of that monument of terror. We noticed that depredations hgd been committed by visitors upon the costly marble fire-frame, which was a gift to Washington. Mr. Washington being called to the farm, we availed our- selves of the services of the old negro before mentioned, who led us around the estate. On our way to the tomb, we passed through what we judged to be a kitchen. The floor was brick, and a fireplace occupied nearly all of one side of the room ; one of those old-fashioned contrivances which were in vogue in those days when people went more for comfort than appearance. Half a score of negroes were in the room, who gazed at us as we entered, covered with dust and dirt, the real free soil of Virginia. They seemed to think our intentions more of a warlike than a peaceable nature. We soon inclined them to the latter belief, however, by gently patting a curly-headed urchin upon the head, and distrib- uting a few pennies among the crowd. Five minutes' walk, and we were at the tomb. " There is the old General," said the aged negro, as he touched lightly the sarcophagus with his cane ; " that, yon- der, is his wife," pomting to a similar one at the left. Silently I stood and gazed at the marble coffin that held the mortal remains of him whom, when he lived, all people loved, and the memory of whom, now that he has passed from 96 HALF HOTJE STORIES. our material vision, all people revere. A few branches of cypress lay upon it, and at its base a few withered flowers. The sarcophagus that holds the dust of Washington is placed upon a low pedestal, formed of brick. A brick wall is at the sides, and an iron slat fence or gateway in front. Over this gateway a white stone is set in the brick-work, and bears this inscription : WITHIN THIS BNCLOSUBB ARB THE REMAINS • OE GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON. Short, indeed, but how full of food for thought ! " General George Washington ! " He needs no long and fulsome epitaph carved in marble to tell his worth. Did his memory depend upon that alone, the marble would crumble into dust, mingle with his, and his name pass away with the stone that man vainly thought would preserve it. No ; his monument is a world made free, and his memory as lasting as immortal mind. Wherever the light of freedom shall pen- etrate, it will bear on its every glistening ray his cherished name ; and whenever and wherever men shall struggle with oppression, it shall inspire them with vigor, and cheer them on to victory. Marble will perish, and monuments of adamant will crum- ble to dust ; but the memory of Washington will live as long as there is a heart to love, or a mind to cherish a recollec- tion of goodness. " He was a good old man," said the negro, " and he has gone to his rest." "We are all going," he contuiued, after a pause. I thought a tear stole down his wrinkled face ; but he turned his back to me, and left me to my own reflections. Deep silence was about us. We heard not even the notes MT. VERNON, AND THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON. 97 of a bird. Not a zephyr moved the air, not a rustling leaf ■was there. In front, far below, lay the Potomac. Not a breath of wind moved the surface of its waters, but calmly, peacefully, undisturbed, the river moved on, as though con- scious of the spot it was passing. On its glassy surface were reflected the branches that bent over and kissed it as it flawed, and the last rays of a declining sun tinted with their gulden light the hills on the opposite shore. I stood at the tomb of Washington : on my right stood a distinguished Indian chief ; on my left, " Uncle Josh," the old African, of three-score years and ten. We represented three races of the human family, and we each were there with the same feelings of love, honor, and respect to departed worth. Night was hastening on. I clambered up the embank- ment, and plucked a few green leaves from a branch that himg over the tomb ; gazed once more, and yet again, within the enclosure ; then turned away, and hastened to overtake my companions, who were far in advance. If our country is ever called to pass through another strug- gle, may God, in his wisdom, raise up for it another Washing- ton ! The sun had passed the horizon, and the cool evening air, laden with the fragrance of shrubbery and flowers, gathered about us. A lively squirrel sprang across our path ; a belated bird flew by ; and, amid the pleasant, quiet scenes c'' lural life, we wended our way homeward. FREEDOM'S GATHERING I SEEMED to live beyond the present time ; Methouglit it was when all the world was free, And myriad numbers, from each distant clicce, Cime up to hold their annual jubilee. From distant China, Afric's sunburnt Shore, From Greenland's icebergs, Russia's broad domain They came as men whom fetters bou»d no more, And trod New England's valley, hill, and plain. They met to hold a jubilee, for all Were free from error's chain, and from the oppressor's thra L Word had gone forth that slavery's power was done ; The cry like wild-fire through the nations ran ; Russia's tame serf, and Afric's sable son. Threw off their chains — each felt himself a iuan. Thrones that had stood for ages were no more ; Man ceased to suffer ;he will bliss ours," said a well-dressed Irishman. "An' that he will," was the response; "an' God blisS" Father Mathew ! " " Amen," said half a dozen voices. " He 's coming ! " exclaimed another. The sound of distant music was heard, and far up the street was seen approaching a dense mass of people. White banners mingled with the stars and stripes. Nearer they approached, and THE wine-bealbe's clbek. 125 more distinct became, to the Irishman and his friends, the peals of music and the hurras of the multitude. Theobald Mathbw, the friend of Ireland, -was making his entry into Boston ! Never man was more gladly -syelcome. Never was man more enthusiastically received. It seemed as though all men strove to do him homage, for they looked upon one who was the instrument, under God, of saving five millions of human beings from the greatest curse sin brought into the world ; lifting them, and bidding them stand up as their Maker intended they should. The " apo^le " was seated in an open barouche, with his head uncovered, bowing to the crowds of stout men and fair women that filled the windows on either side, often shaking hands with those who pressed near him to do so. A young man stood upon the side- walk watching its ap- proach ; and when the carriage in which he was seated came near where te stood, he took off his hat, pressed through the assemblage, and, urging his way towards it, grasped the hand that was extended to him. The carriage stopped. Father Mathew arose, and, as his hand lay upon the head of the young man, he repeated the words of a pledge, which the latter, in a distinct tone, repeated after him. At its close, the words " / do !" were heard far and near, and James Clifijipk^had taken the pledge ! This was, done from no sudden impulse. During the previous wBek he had indulged rather freely, and when ita effecta were over he began for the first time to give serious thought upon the question whether it was not required of him to become a pledged man. He ffus becoming convinced that he was unsafe. He knew how often he had fallen, how liable he was to fall again, and that it might be never to rise. He found his companions did not look upon him with as much respect as formerly ; and he determined to break down the pride of opinion, rather than have it break him down. 11* 126 HALF HOUB STORIfiS. As he thought of his situation at Messrs. Laneville & Co.'s, he for a moment drew back, yet it was but foi a moment. He resolved to leave it, and beg rather than con- tinue to disgrace himself and bring ruin upon his relatives and friends. He was cheered by the thought that he had those around him who ^ould furnish him with employment suited to his mind, and in the steady pursuit of which he might live well. This resolution was made a few days pre- vious to the twenty-fourth, but he communicated it to no one. James hurried from the crowd that gathered around him,' and hastened to his home. The glad news preceded him, and his wife, meeting him at the door, caressed, blessed and welcomed him. George grasped his hand, and James, with tears in his eyes, asked pardon for the past, and promised much for the future. " Once," said he, "I refused to sign. I trusted to my own self, and thought because I was young and strong I could resist temptation. I said I would not make myself a slave to a pledge, and clung to my promise till I found my- self a slave to an appetite. I ask your pardon, George, for the manner in which I treated your request." " I grant it." " Then / am happy, we are happy, and the future shall redeem the past." * The door opened, and a bright-eyed boy, bounding into the room, sprang upon his father, and, with a smile, said, " Father, I 'm a Cadet of Temperance ! We formed a little society this morning, 'cause Father Mathew has come to Boston. We 've got six names, and we are to have more." James kissed his child, and encouraged him to go on in the cause he had so early espoused. Messrs. Laneville & Co. engaged a new clerk, — a young nan of seventeen, hopeful, promising. He had heard of the THE WINE-DEALEK'S CLERK. 127 fate of his predecessors, of the narrow escape of him whose place he was being trained to fill ; but, like them and him, he thought himself stronger than the tempter at his side. That firm is in the home-desolating business to-day, though James has used much endeavor to induce them to relinquish it. The young man is there to-day, open to temptations which have conquered many strong men, have destroyed many mighty. The pledge is with us to-day, open for those who have fallen, for those who yet stand, — .an instrument of God, in human lands, to rescue the one and to preserve •the other. ANGELINA. Blue-eyed child, with flaxen ringlets, 'Neath my window played, ona day ; And ite tiny song of gladness, Sounded like an angel's lay. Roses briglit in beauty blossomed Round the path the cherub trod Yet it seemed that child was fairest, freshest from the hand of God. Watched I her till hour of sunset Told me of the coming night. And the sun o'er rock and mountain Shed its flood of golden light. Yet she gambolled, though the dew-drops JFell upon her thick and fast ; Fearing ill, I went and told her, — " Dearest ohUd, the day hath past : *' Haste thee to thy home, — there waiting Is thy parent, thee to bless." Then she hasted from the play-ground, To her mother's fond caress. . Stars shone forth in all their splendor, And the moon with silver light Rose in beauty, and presided Queen o'er all the hosts of night. Days had passed ; I had not seen her, Had ujt heard hsr merry laugh. Nor those joyous tones that told ma Of the joy her spirit quaffed. ANGELINA. 129 Vain I asked -whence Angelina Had departed, — none could tell ; Feared I then that sorrow gathered O'er the child I loved so well. Funeral train passed by my window, — Banished ■were all thoughts of mirth ; And I asked of one who lingered, " "Who hath passed to heaven from earth? " In his eye a tear-drop glistened, As he, turning, to me said, " Heaven now holds another angel,,-?— Little Angelina 's dead ! " I could scarce believe the tidings, Till I stood above her grave, And beheld those flaxen ringlets, That so late did buoyant wave, lie beside a face whose features StiU in death did sweetly smile And methought angelic beauty Lingered on her cheeks the while. At the pensive hour of twilight. Oft do angel-footsteps tread Near her grave, and flowers in beauty Blossom o'er the early dead ; And a simple marble tablet Thence doth unassuming rise. And these simple words are on it, — " Here our Angelina lies." Oft at night, when others slumber. One bends o'er that holy spot ; And the tear-drops.fall unnumbered O'er her sad yet happy lot. Friends, though oft they mourn her absence, Do in meek submission bow ; For a voice from heaven is»whispering, " Angelina 's happy now." ISC HALF HOUR STORIES. FAREWELL, MY NATIVE LAND. Written for Kah-ge-ga-gah-bowh, a representative from the North-west Tribes of Ajnerican Indians to the Peace Convention in Erankfort-on-the- Maine, Germany ; and recited by him on board the British steamship Niagara, at the hour of sailing from Boston, July 10th, 1850. The day is brightening which we long have sought ; I see its early light and hail its dawn ; The gentle voice of Peace my ear hath caught, And from my forest-home I greet the morn. Here, now, I meet you with a brother's hand — Bid you farewell — then speed me on my way To join the white men in a foreign land, And from the dawn bring on the bright noon-day Noon-day of Peace ! 0, glorious jubilee, When all mankind are one, from sea to sea. Farewell, my native land, rook, hill, and plain ! River and lake, and forest-hoMe, adieu ! Months shall depart ere I shall tread again Amid your scenes, and be once more with you. I leave thee now ; but wheresoe'er I go. Whatever scenes of grandeur meet my syes, My heart can but one native country know. And that the fairest land beneath the skies. America ! farewell, thou art that gem. Brightest and fairest in earth's diadem. Land where my fathers chased -the fleeting deer , Land whence the smoke of council-fires arose ; Laud whose own warriors never knew a fear ; Laud where the mighty Mississippi flows ; Land whose broad surface spreads from sea to sea , Land where Niagara thunders forth God's praise ; — May Peace and Plenty henceforth dwell with thee, And o'er thee War no more its banner raise ! Adieu, my native land, — hill, stream, and dell ! The hour hath come t& part us, — fare thee well. UNLBAKNED TO LOVE — WHAT WAS IT? 131 UNLEARNED TO LOVE. He hath unlearned to love ; for once he loved A being vfhom his aoul almost adored, And she proved faithless ; turned in scorn upon His heart's affections ; to another gave The love she once did pledge as all his own. And now he doth not love. Within ms heart Hate dwells ki sullen silence. His soul broods Over its wrongs, over deluded hopes. -. Fancy no more builds airy castles. Amid the crowd he passes on alone. The branches wave no more to please his eye. And the wind singeth no sweet songs to him. The murmuring .brook but murmurs discontent, And all his life is death since Love hath fled. O, who shall count his sorrows ? who shall make An estimate of his deep, burning woes. And place them all in order, rank on rank ? Language is weak to tell the heart's deep wrongs. We think, and muse, and in our endless thought We strive to grasp, with all the mind's vast strength, The undefinable extent of spirit grief, And fail to accomplish the herculean task. WHAT VAS IT? It was a low, black, miserable place ; Its roof was rotting ; and above it hung A cloud of murky vapor, sending down Intolerable stench on all around. The place was silent, save the creaking noise, The stciidy motion of a dozen pumps, That labored all the day, nor ceased at night 132 HAU HOUK 8T0KIES. " Methought in it I heard a hundred groans ; Dropping of widows' tears, and cries of orphans; Shrieks of some victim to the fiendish lust Of men for gold ; woe echoing woe, And sighs, deep, long-drawn sighs of dark despair Around the place a dozen hovels stood. Black with the smoke and steam that bathed them all ; Their windows had no glass, hut rags and boards, Tom hats and such-like, filled the paneless sash. Beings, once men and women, in and out Passed and repassed from darkness forth to light ; And children, ragged, dirty, and despised. Clung to them. Children ! heaven's early flowers, In their spring-time of life, blighted and lost ! Children ! those jewels of a parent's crown. Crushed to the ground and crumbled to the dust. Children ! Heaven's representatives to man, Made menial slaves to watch at Evil's gate. And errand-boys to run at Sin's command. I asked why thus it was ; and one old man Pushed up the visor of his cap, and said : " That low, black building is the cause of all." And would you know what 't was that wrought such ill, And what the. name of that low building was? Go to thy neighbor, read to him these lines, And if he does not tell thee right, at first, Then come, to me and you shall know its name. LETTERS AND LETTER-WRITING. There is nothing from which more real enjoyment can be derived than the art of letter-writing. All praise to the in- ventive genius that gave to man a written language, and with it the implements with which to talk across the world ! Did .you ever think, reader, what a world this would be without pen, ink, and paper? Then, the absence of friends were painful, and, as we grasped the friendly hand, bade our ac- quaintances " good-by," and saw the last, far-distant wave of the parting signal, we might turn aside to weep, as we thought we should never hear from them till we met face to face — perhaps never. But, as it is, when friends leave, we expect a message from their hearts soon, to solace oar own. How we watch, and how we hope ! What a welcome rap is the postman's ! With what eagerness we loosen the seal ; with what pleasure we read, from date, to signature, every word ! It may not be uninteresting, nor wholly uninstructive, to examine the various modes of letter-writing, and to spend a brief half-hour with those who have by their letters made grave or gay impressions on the public mind. Some write letters with great ease ; others, with great diffi- culty. Miss Seward was an inveterate letter-writer. There hnve been published six large volumes of letters written by her ; besides these, she left twelve quarto volumes of letters to a publisher of London, and these, it is said', are but a twelfth part of her correspondence- It seems as though she 12* 134 HALF HOtIB STOEIBS. must have written nothing but letters, so many and various were they ; hut her fame as an authoress will convince any one that her industry overcame what might seem an impossi- bility, and that her genius in this particular resembled that of the steam-wftting machine, Dumas, of the present time. Lord Peterborough had such a faculty for this kind of composition, that, when ambassador to Turin, according to Pope, who says he was a witness of the performance, he em- ployed nine amanuenses, who were seated in a room, around whom Lord Peterborough walked and dictated to each what he should write. These nine wrote to as many different per- sons, upon, perhaps, nine times as many subjects ; yet the ambassador retained in his mind the connection of each letter so completely as to close each in a highly-finished and appro- priate manner. These facts show the ease and rapidity of some writers. Li contradistinction to these are the letters of many emi- nent Latin writers, who actually bestowed several months of close attention upon a single letter. Mr. Owen says : " Such is the defect of education among the modern Roman ladies, that they are not troubled to keep up any correspondence, "because they cannot write. A princess of great beauty, at Naples, caused an English lady to be informed that she was learning to write ; and hoped, in the course of time, to ac- quire the art of correspondence." There are many persons with whom it is thfe most difficult task of their existence to write a letter. They follow the old ■ Latin writers, and make a labor of what with others is a rec- reation. They begin with the stereotyped words, " I take my pen in hand," as though a letter could be written with- out doing so. Then follows, " to inform you that I am well, and hope this will find you the same." There is a period — a full stop ; and there are instances of persons going no fur ther, but closing -with, " This from your friend, John Short. LETTERS AND LETTBB-WEITIN(J. 135 This " difficulty " arises not from an inability, but from an excessive nicety — a desire to write a prize essay, instead of a good, sociable, familiar letter. To make a letter interest- ing, the writer must transfer his thoughts from his mind to his paper, as truly as the rays of the sun place the likeness of an object in front of the lens through which it acts upon tiie silvered plate. &eneca says, "I would -have my letters be like my discourses when we sit or walk together, unstud- ied and easy." Willis' letters are of a kind always "free and easy." His "Letters from Under a Bridge" are admirable speci- mens of letters as they should be ; and his " Pencillings by the Way " owe much of their popularity to their easy, famil- iar, talkative style. The letters of Cicero and Pliny, of an- cient, and Swift, Pope, Arbuthnot, Madame de Sevigne, and Lady Mary Wortley Montague, of modern times, are generally received as some l ' the best ' specimens extant of epistolary composition. The letters of Charles Lamb are a series of brilliances, though of kaleidoscope variety; they have wit' without buffoonery, and seriousness without melancholy. He closes one of them by subscribing himself his friend's "af- flicted, headachey, sorethroaty, humble servant, Charles Lamb." Some men, and women too, of eminence, have written curi- osities in the form of correspondence. The letter of the mother of Foote is a good example of this kind of correspond- ence. Mrs. Foote became embarrassed, and, being unable to meet a demand, was placed in prison ; whereupon she wrote to Mr. Foote as follows : "Dear Sam : I am in prison for debt; come, and assist your loving mother, B. Foote." It appears that "Sam" was equally entangled in the meshes of the law, for he answered as follows : 136 HALF HOXJR STORIES. " Dear Mother : — So am I ; which prevents his duty being paid to his loving mother by her affectionate son, " Sam Foote. "P. S. — I have sent my attorney to assist you; in the mean time, let us hope for better days." These laconic epistles are well matched by that of a French lady, who wrote to her husband this missive of intelligence, affection, &c., &c. : " I write to you because I have nothing to do ; I end my letter because I have nothing to say." But these are left far in the rear by the correspondence of two Quakers, the one living in Edinburgh, the other in London. The former, wishing to know whether there was anything new in London, wrote in the corner of a letter-sheet a small in- terrogation note, and sent it to his friend. In due time he received an answer. He opened the sheet and found, simply, 0, signifying that there was none. Li the London Times of January 3d, 1820, is the fol- lowing, purporting to be a copy of a letter sent to a medical gentleman : " Cer: Tote oblige me uf yole kum un ce me. I hov a Bad kowld, am Hill in my Bow Hills, and hev lost my Happy Tight." William Cowper, the poet, being on very familiar terms with the Rev. Mr. Newton, amused himself and his friend with a letter, of which the following is a copy : " Mt very dear Friend : I am going to send, what, when you have read, you, may scratch your head, and say, I suppose, there 's nobody knows, whether what I have got be verse or not; by the tune and the time, it ought to be rhyme ; but if it be, did you ever see, of late or of yore, such a ditty before 1 LBTTEBS AND LBTTBR-WBITINQ. 187 " I have -writ Chaiity, not for popularity, but as well as I could, in hopes to do good ; and if the reviewers should say, ' To be sure the gentleman's muse wears methodist shoes, you may know by her pace, and talk about grace, that she and her bard have little regard for the taste and fashions, and ruling passions, and hoydening play, of the modern day ; and though she assume a borrowed plume, and now and then wear a tittering air, 't is only her plan to catch, if she can, the giddy and gay, as they go that way, by a production on a new construction ; she has baited her trap, in hopes to snap all that may come, with a sugar-plum.' His opinion in this will not be amiss ; 't is what I intend my principal end ; and if I succeed, and folks should read, till a few are brought to a serious thought, I shall think I am paid for all I have said, and all I have done, though I have run, many a time, after rhyme, as far as from hence, to the end of my sense, and, by hook or crook, write another book, if I live and am here, another year. " I heard before of a room, with a floor laid upon springs, and such like things, with so much art, in every part, that when you went iii, you was forced to begin a minuet pace, with an air and a grace, swimming about, now in and now out, with" a deal of state, in a figure of eight, without pipe or string, or any such thing ; and now I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what will make you dance, and, as you advance, will keep you still, though against your will, dancing away, alert and gay, till you come to an end of what I have penned ; which that you may do ere madam and you are quite worn out with jigging about, I take my leave ; and here you receive a bow profound, down to the ground, from your humble me, "W. C." At one of those famous coteries, so fashionable in the time of George Selwyn, Selwyn declared that a lady never closed a letter without a postscript. One of his fair auditors defended 12* 138 HALF HOUR STORIES, her sex by saying that her next letter' should prove he was wrong. Soon after, Selwyn received a letter from the lady, in which, after the name, was " P. S. Who is right now, you or I?" "We have met the enemy, and they are ours" is an example for naval letters. Commodore Walton's letter, by which he gave information of his capture of a number of Spanish vessels of war, was as follows : " We have taken or destroyed all the enemy's ships or vessels on the coast, as per margin." General Taylor's letters are of the same class, — brief and to the point. As a specimen of w^fra-familiarity, see the Duke of Buck- ingham's letter to King James the First, which he commences as follows: "Dear Dad and Gossip," and concludes thus : — " Your Majesty's most humble slave and dog, " Stinib." Some letters have been distinguished for a play upon words. The following is supposed to have been written by one Zebel Rock, a stone-cutter, to a young lady for whom he cherished a love somewhat more than Platonic : "Divine Flint: "Were you not harder than Porphyry or Agate, the Chisel of my love, drove by the Mallet of my fidelity, would have made some impression on thee. I, that have shaped as I pleased the most untoward of substances, hoped by the Compass of reason, the Plummet of discretion, the Saw of constancy, the soft File of kindness, and the Polish of good words, to have modelled you into one of the prettiest Statues in the world ; but, alas ! I find you are a Flint, that strikes fire, and sets my soul in a blaze, though your heart is as cold as marble. Pity my case, pray, madam, for I know not what I say or do. If I go to make a Dragon, I strike out a Cupid ; instead of an Apothecary's Mortar, I make a LETTERS AND LETTEE-WKITINa. 139 Church Font for Baptism ; and, dear Pillar of joj hopes, Pedestal of my comfort, and Cornice of my joy, take com- passion upon me, for upon your pity I build all my hope, and will, if fortunate, erect Statues, Obelisks and Pyramids, to your generosity." As a specimen of alliteration the following may be consid- ered a fair off-hand epistle of love : * " Adoeed And Angelic Amelia: Accept An Ardent And Artless Amorist's Affections ; Alleviate An Anguished Admirer's Alarms, And Answer An Amorous Applicant's Avowed Ardor. Ah, Amelia ! All Appears An Awful As- pect ; Ambition, Avarice, And Arrogance, Alas, Are Attract- ive Allurements, And Abuse An Ardent Attachment. Appease An Aching And Affectionate Adorer's AJarms, And Anon Acknowledge Affianced Albert's Alliance As Agreeable And Accepta:ble. Anxiously Awaiting An Affec- tionate And Affirmative Answer, Accept An Ardent Admir- er's Aching Adieu. Albert." The custom of espionage among some nations, which led the government officials to open all letters supposed to con- tain matters at variance with the plans and purposes of their masters, induced the inventive to contrive various means of correspondence. One of the most singular of these was that adopted by Histaus, the Milesian, as related by Herodotus. Histaus was " kept by Darius at Susa, under an honorable pretence, and, despairing of his return home, unless he could find out some way that he might be sent to sea,, he purposed to send to Aristagoras, who was his substitute at Miletum, to per- suade his revolt from Darius ; but, knowing that all passages were stopped and studiously watched, he took this course : he got a trusty servant of his, the hair of whose head he caused to be shaved off, and then, upon his bald head, ha 140 HALF HOUR STORIES. wrote his mind to Aristagoras; kept him privately about him, till his hair was somewhat grown, and then bid him haste to Aristagoras, and bid him cause him to be shaved again, and then upon his head he should find what his lord had written to him." A volume might be written of the Curiosities of Letter- writing, and it w#ild be by no means an uninteresting pro- duction. Years ago, when New England missionaries first taught the wild men of the South Sea Islands, it so happened that one of the teachers wished to communicate with a friend, and having no pen, ink and paper at hand, he picked up a chip and wrote with a pencil his message. A native con- veyed it, and, receiving some article in return, he thought the chip endowed with some miraculous power, and could he have«obtained it would doubtless have treasured it as a god, and worshipped it. And so would seem to us this invalua- ble art of letter-writing, were we in like ignorance. We forget to justly appreciate a blessing while we have it in constant use ; but let us be for a short time deprived of it, and then we lament its loss and realize its worth. Deprive mankind of pen, ink and paper, obliterate from the human mind all knowledge of letter- writing, — then estimate, if you can, the loss that would accrue. The good resulting from a general intercommunication of thought among the people has brought about a great reduc- tion in the rates of postage. We look forward to the time when the tens of millions now expended in war, and invested in the ammunition of death, shall be directed into other channels, and postage shall be free. What better defence for our nation than education ? It is better than forts and vessels of war; better than murderous guns, powder and ball. Hail to the day when there shall be no direct tax on the means of education ! A YISION OP REALITY. I HAD a dream :" Methought one came ' And bade me with him go ; I followed, till, above the world, I wondering gazed below. One moment, horror filled my breast ; Then, shrinking from the sight, I turned aside, and sought for rest, Half dying with affright. My guide with zeal still urged me on ; ' See, see ! " said he, " what sin hath ione; How mad ambition fills each breast. And mortals spurn their needed rest, And all their lives and fortunes spend To gain some darling, wished-for end ; And scarce they see the long-sought prize, When each to grasp it fails and dies." Once more I looked : in a lonely room, On a pallet of straw, were lying A mother and child ; no friends were near, Yet that mother and child were dying. A sigh arose ; she looked above. And she breathed forth, " I forgive ;" She kissed her child, threw back her head, ,And the mother ceased to live. rhe child's blue eyes were raised to watch Its mother's smile of love ; 142 HALF HOUR STOEIBS. She was not there, — her child she saw From her spirit-home above. An hour passed by : that child had gone From earth and all its harms ; Yet, as in^leep, it nestling lay In its dead mother's arms. I asked my guide, " What doth this mean? " He spake not a word, but changed the scene. I stood where the busy throng Was hurrying by ; all seemed intent, As on some weighty mission sent ; And, as I asked what all this meant, A drunkard passed by. He spake, — I listened ; thus spake he : " Rum, thou hast been a curse to me ; My wife is dead, — my darling child. Who, when 't was born, so sweetly smiled. And seemed to ask, in speechless prayer, A father's love, a father's care, — He, he, too, now is gone ! How can I any longer live ? What joy to me can earth now give ? I 've drank full deep from sorrow's cup, — When shall I drink its last dregs up ? When will the last, last pang be felt ? When the last blow on me be dealt? Would I had ne'er been born ! " As thus he spake, a gilded coach In splendor passed by ; And from within a man looked forth, — ~ The drunkard caught his eye Then, with a wild and frenzied look. He, trembling, to it ran ; He stayed the rich man's carriage there, And said, " Thou art the man! A VISION OF REALITY. 143 '• Yes, thou the man ! You bade me come, You took my gold, you gave me rum ; You bade me in the gutter lie, My wife and child you caused to die ; You took their bread, — 't was justly theirs ; You, cunning, laid round me yotr snares, ^ Till I fell in them ; then you crushed, And robbed me, as my cries you hushed ; You 've bound me close in misery's thrall ; Now, take a drunkard's curse and fall ! " A momsnt passed,, and all was o'er, — He who 'd sold rum would sell no more And Justice seemed on earth to dwell, When by his victim's hand he fell. Yet, when the trial came, she fled. And Law would have the avenger dead. The gilded coach may rattle by. Men too may drink, and drunkards die, And widows' tears may daily fall. And orphans' voices daily call, — Yet these are all in vain ; The dealer seHs, and glass by glass He tempts the man to ruin pass. And piles on high his slain. His fellows fall by scores, — what then? He, being rich (though rich by fraud), ■ Is honored by his feUow-men, Who bend the knee and call him " lord.'' Again I turned ; Enough I 'd learned Of all the misery sin hath brought ; I strove to kave the fearful spot, And wished the scene might be forgot, 'T was so with terror fraught. I wished to go. No more to know. 144 HALF HOUR STORIES.- I turned me, but no guide stood there ; Alone, I shrieked in -wild dismay. When, lo ! the wsiou passed away, — I found me seated in my chair. The morning sun was shining bright, Fair chUdren gambolled in my sight ; A rose-bush in my window stood, And shed its fragrance all around ; My eye saw naught but fair and good, My ear heard naught but joyous sound. I asked me, can it be on earth Such scenes of horror have their birth. As those that in my vision past, And on my mind their shadows cast ? Can it be true, that men do pour Foul poison forth for sake of gold? And men lie weltering in their gore, Led on by that their brethren sold 7 Doth man so bend the suppla knee To Mammon's shrine, he never hears The voice of conscience, nor doth see His ruin in the wealth he "rears ? Such questions it were vain to ask. For Reason whispers, " It is so ;" While some in fortune's sunshine bask, Others lie crushed beneath their woe. And men do sell, and men do pour. And for their gold return men death ; Though wives and children them implore, With tearful eyes and trapnbling breath, And hearts with direst anguish riven, No more to sell, — 't is all in vain ; They, urged to death, by avarice driven. But laugh and tiim to sell again. JEWELS OF THE HEART. 145 JEWELS OP THE HEART. Theue are jewels brighter iar Than the sparkling diamonds are ; Jewels never wrought by art, — Katore forms them in the heart ! Would ye know the names they hold ? Ah ! they never can be told In the language mortals speak ! Human words are far too weak Yet, if you would really know What these jewels are, then go To some low, secluded cot. Where the poor man bears his lot ! Or, to where the sick and dying 'Neath the ills of life are sighing. And if there some one ye see Striving long and patiently To alleviate the pain, Bring the light of hope again ! One whose feet do lightly tread, One whose hands do raise the head. One who watches there alone, Every motion, every tone ; Unaware an eye doth see All these acts of charity. Know that in that lonely cot. Where the wealth of earth is not. These bright jewels will be found. Shedding love and light around ! Say, shall gems and rubies rare With these heart-shiined gems ccmpare T 13 146 HALF HOITB STOKIBS. Constancy, that will not perish. But the thing it loveth cherish, Clinging to it fondly ever, Fainting, faltering, wavering, never! Triist, that will not harbor doubt ; Putting fear and shame to rout. Making known how, ftee from harm, Love may. rest upon its arm. Hope, that makes the future bright. Though there eome a darksome night ; And, though dark despair seems nigh. Bears the soul up manfully ! These are gems that brighter shine Than they of Golconda's mine. Born amid love's fond caresses, Cradled in the heart's recesses, rhey will live when earth is old. Marble crumble, perish gold ! Live when ages shall have past, While eternity shall last ; Be these gems the wealth you share, Friends of mind, where'er you are ! •LIGHT FROM A BETTER LAND. Herb at thy grave I stand. But not in tears ; Light from a better land Banishes fears. Thou art beside me now. Whispering peace , Telling how happy thou Found thy release ! POOR AND WEARY. 147 Thou art not buried here ; Why should I mourn ? All that I cherished dear Heavenward hath gone ! Oft from that -world above Come ye to this ; Breathing in strains of love Unto me blisa ! POOR AND WEARY! In a low and cheerless cot Sat one mourning his sad lot ; All day long he 'd sought for labor ; All day long his nearest neighbor Lived in affluence and squandered Wealth, while he an outcast wandered. And the night with shadowy vring Heard him this low moaning sing : " Sad and weary, poor and weary. Life to me is ever dreary ! " Morning came ; there was no sound Heard vrithin. Men gathered round. Peering through the window-pane ; They saw a form as if 'twere lain Out for burial. Stiff and gaunt Lay the man who died in want. And methought I heard that day Angel voices whispering say, " No more sad, poor and weary. Life to me no more is dreary ! " THE BANDBOX MOVEMENT. " There ! Mr. McKenzie, I declare ! You are the most oncotnmon, oncivil man I ever sot eyes on ! " • " Peace, my lady ! I '11 explain." " Then do so." " You must know, then, that I have a perfect hatred of bandboxes, — so great, in fact, that if I see one on the walk, I involuntarily raise my foot and kick it." " So it appears," chimed in Mrs. McKenzie, with a sig- " nificant hunch of the right shoulder. " Therefore, " " Well, go on ! what you waitin' for ? " " Therefore, when I saw Arabella's bandbox in the entry, as I came down, sitting, as it did, directly tit the foot of the stairs, I jumped on it, thinking I would come over it that time " " An' crushed a new spring bonnet, that cost — let me see ! " " No matter ! " said Mr. McKenzie ; " that will be in the bill." ' Mr. McKenzie, having said thus much, placed his hat on his head and rushed from the house, fearful of another on- slaught of " oncommon oncivilities." A little shop at the North End, — seven men seated round said shop, — a small dog growling at a large cat, a large cat making a noise resembling that produced by root-beer con- fined in a stone bottle by a cork bound down with a piece of twine. Beader, imagine you see and hear all this 1 THE BANDBOX MOVEMENT. 149 [Enter Mr. McKenzie.] " Gentlemen, something must be done to demolish the idea held by the ' rest of mankind ' that they, the women, cannot exist without owning as per- sonal property an indefinite number of bandboxes. I there- fore propose that we at once organize for the purpose ; that a committee be appointed to draft resolutions, and repbrt a name for the confederacy." Voted unanimously; whereupon, a committee being ap- pointed, after a short session, reported the following "whereas, etc." " Whereas, We, in our perambulations up and down the earth, are frequently, oftentimes, and most always, beset with annoyances of various kinds ; and, as the greatest, most per- plexing, most troublesome and iniquitous of these, generally assumes the shape of a bandbox, in a bag or out of one ; and, whereas, our wives, our daughters, our sisters, and our female acquaintances generally and particularly,' manifest a determination to put said boxes in our way, at all times, and under all circumstances, therefore ' ' Resolved, That — we — wont — stand — it — any — longer ! ! ! " Resolved, That we form ourselves into a society for the purpose of annihilating this grievous eVil, and all bandboxes, of every size and nature. " Resolved, That this society be known by the name of ' The -Bandbox Extermination Association.' " The chairman of the committee made a few remarks, in which he stated that, in the performance of the duties which would devolve upon. the members, they would, doubtless, meet with some opposition. " But, never mind," said he; "it is a glorious cause, and if we get the tongs at one time, and the hearth-brush another time, let 'em come ! " He defined the duties, of members to be, — first and foremost, to pay six and a quarter cents to defray expenses ; to demolish a bandbox 13* 150 HALF HOUR STOBIBS. wherever and -whenever there should be one ; (for instance, if a fat woman was racing for the cars, with a bandbox in her arms, that box should be forcibly taken and burned on the spot, or whittled into such minute particles that it could no more be seen ; if, in an omnibus warranted to seat twelve, fifteen men are congregated, and an individual attempts to enter with a bandbox, the box shall have notice to quit.) "The manner of demolition," he sJEid, further, "might be variously defined. If the owner was a nervous lady, to kick the box would wound her feelings, and it were best to apparently unintentionally seat yourself on it ; then beg a thousand pardons, and, as you, in your efforts to make it better, only make it worse, give it up in despair, and console the owner by a reference to spilt milk and the uselessness of crying. As to the contents of the boxes, they must look out for themselves. If they get injured," hint that they should keep out of bad company." The chairman sat down, and, the question being put, it was more than unanimously voted (inasmuch as one man voted with both hands *) to adopt the resolutions, the name, and all the remarks that had been made in connection with them. Members paid their assessments, and with a hearty good. will. Thus we see how "oaks from acorns grow." Mrs. McKenzie's fretfulness on account of her husband's patriot- ism led to the formation of a society that will make rapid strides towards the front rank of the army now at work for the ameUonitioi of the condition of mankind. * Thit was MoKenzie. NEW ENGLAND HOMES. I 'vB been through all the nations, have travelled o'er the earth, O'er mountain-top and valley, far from my land of birth ; But whereso'er I wandered, vfherever I did roam, I saw no spot so pleasant as my own New England home. ■ I 've seen Italia's daughters, beneath Italian skies ; Seen beauty in their happy smUes, and love within their eyes ; But give to me the fairer ones that grace New England's shore, In preference to the dwellers in the vaUey of Lanore. I 've watched the sun's departure behind the " Eternal Hills," When with floods of golden light the vaulted heaven it fills ; But Italy can never boast, with its poetic power. More varied beauties than those of New England's sunset hour. I love my own New England ; I love its rooks and hills ; I love its trees, its mossy hanks, its fountains and its rUls ; I love its homes, its cottages, its people round the hearth ; I love, O how I love to hear New England shouts of mirth ! Tell me of the sunny South, its orange-groves and streams. That they surpass in splendor man's most enraptured dreams ; But never can they be as fair, though blown by spicy gales, As those sweet homes, those cottages, within New England vale* O, when life's cares are ending, and time upon my brow Shall leave a deeper impress than gathers on it now ; When age shall claim Its sacrifiise, and I no more shall roam, Then let me pass my latter days in my New England home ! 1.52 HALF HOIJB STORIES. LOVE THAT WANES NOT. O, WHEN should Love's true beacons glow the brightest, If not when darkness shrouds the path we tread ? When should its tokens, though they be the slightest, Be given, if not vhen clouds are overhead ? When light is 'round us, and when joys are glowing. Some hand may press our own, and vow to cherish A love for us which ne'er shall cease its flowing, — And yet that love, when darkness comes, may perish. But there is love which will outlive all sorrow, And in the darkest hour be nigh to bless, — Which need not human art or language borrow, Its deep affection fondly to express. The mother o'er the chUd she loveth bending Need not in words tell others of her love ; For, on the wings of earnest prayer ascending. It rises, and is registered above. 0, such is love — all other is fictitious ; All other 's vanquished by disease and pain ; But this, which lives when fate is unpropitious, Shall rise to heaven, and there an entrance gain. ONWARD COURAGEOUSLY. Bend thee to action — nerve thee to duty ! Whate'er it may be, never despair ! God reigns on high, — pray to him truly, He will an answer give to thy prayer. Shrinketh thyself from crosses before thee ? Art thou so made as to tremble and fear 7 Confide in thy God ; he will watch o'er thee ; t Humbly and trustingly, brother, draw nsar f A FOREST PIC-NIC SONG. 163 Clouds may be gathering, light may depart, Earth that thou treadest seem crumbling away ; New foes, new dangers, around thee may start. And spectres of evil tempt thee astray. Onward courageously ! nerved for theftask, Do all thy duty, and strength shall be thine ; Whate'er you want in humility ask. Aid shall be given from a source that 's divine. Do all thy duty faithful and truly ; Trust in thy Maker, — he 's willing to save Thee from all evU, and keep thee securely. And make thee triumphant o'er death and the grave. A FOREST PIC-NIC SONG. Within these woods, beneath these trees, We meet to-day a happy band ; All joy is ours, — we feel the breeze_ Blow gently o'er our native land. How brightly blooms each forest flower ! What cheerful notes the_ wild bird sings ! How nature charms our festive hour, What beauty round our pathway springs ! The aged bear no weight of years ; The good old man, the matron too, Forget their ills, forget their fears. And range the dim old forests through With youth and maiden on whose cheek The ruddy bloom of health doth glow. And in whose eyes the heart doth speak Oft more than they would have us know. How pleasant thus it is to dwell Within the shadow of this wood, Where rock and tree and flower do teD To ali that nature's God is good ! 154 HALF HOUR STORIES. Here nature's temple open stands, — There 's none bo nobly grand as hers,— Tho sky its roof; its floor, all lands, While rocks and trees are ■worshippers. There "s not a leaf that rustles now, A bird that chants its simple lays, A breeze that paasing fans our brow. That speaks not of its Maker's praise. O, then, let us who gather here Praise Him who gave us this glad day, And when the twilight shades appear Pass with his blessing hence away ! THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE. CHAPTER I. Rome -was enjojing the blessings of peace ; and so little emplojmtent attended the soldier's every-day life, that the ■words " as idle as a soldier " became a proverb indicative of the most listless inactivity. The people gave themselves up to joy and gladness. The ^ound of music was heard from all parts of the city, and per- , fumed breezes went up as an incense from the halls of beauty and mirth. It was, indeed, a blessed time for the city of the seven hills ; and its people rejoiced as they had not for many a long, long year — ay, for a century. " Peace, sweet peace, a thousand blessings attend thy glad reign. See you how quietly the peasant's flocks graze on our eternal hills 7 The tinkling bell is a sweeter sound than the trumpet's blast ; and the curling smoke, arising from the hearth-stones of contented villagers, is a ^truer index of a nation's power than the sulphurous cloud from the field of battle. What say you, Alett, — is it not 1 " Thus spake a youth of noble mien, as he stood with one arm encircling the waist of a lady, of whose beauty it were useless to attempt a description. There are some phases of beauty which pen cannot describe, nor pencil portray, — a beauty which seems to hover around the form, words, and motions of those whose special recipients it is ; a sort of ethe- 156 HALF HOUR STORIES. real loveliness, concentrating the tints of the rainbow, the sun's golden rays, and so acting upon the mind's eye of the observer as almost to convince him that a visitant from a sphere of perfection is in his presence. Such was that of Alett. She was the only daughter of a distinguished general, whose name was the terror of all the foes, and the confidence of all the friends, of Italy — his • eldest daughter ; and with love approaching idolatry he cherished her. She was his confidant. In the privacy of her faithful heart he treasured all his plans and purposes. Of late, the peaceful security in which the nation dwelt gave him the opportunity of remaining at home, where, in the companionship of a wife he fondly loved, children he ■ almost idolized, and friends whose friendship was not ficti- tious, he found that joy and comfort which the camp could never impart. Alett was ever in the presence of her father, or the young man whose apostrophe to peace we have just given. Rubineau was not the descendant of a noble family, in the worldly acceptation of the term. It wsts noble, indeed, but not in deeds of war or martial prowess. Its nobleness con- sisted in the steady perseverance in well-doing, and a strict attachment to what conscience dictated as right opinions. The general loved him for the inheritance he possessed in such traits of character, and the love which existed between his daughter and the son of a plebeian was countenanced under such considerations, with one proviso ; which was, that, being presented with a commission, he should accept it, and hold himself in readiness to leave home and friends when duty should call him to the field of battle. We have introduced the two standing on a beautiful emi- nence, in the rear of the general's sumptuous mansion. The sun was about going down, and its long, golden ray.' THE wakbior's brids. 157 streamed over hill and dale, palace and cot, clothing all in a voluptuous flow of rich light. They, had stood for several moments in silence, gazing at- the quiet and beautiful scene before them, when the musical voice of Rubineau broke forth in exclamations of delight at the blessings of peace.* Alett was not long in answering. It was a theme on which she delighted to dwell. Turning the gaze of her large, full eyes up towards those of Rubineau, she said, "Even so it is. Holy Peace ! It is strange that men will love the trumpet's blast, and the smoke and the heat of the conflict, better than its gentle scenes. Peace, peace ! blessings on thee, as thou givest blessings ! " Rubineau listened to the words of his Alett with a soul of admiration. He gaz^fl upon her with feelings he had never before felt, and which it was bliss for him to experi- ence. She, the daughter of an oflScer, brought up amid all the glare and glitter, show and blazonry, of military life, — she, who had seen but one side of the great panorama of martial life, — to speak thus in praise of peace, and disparagingjy of the profession of her friends — it somewhat surprised the first speaker. " It is true," he replied ; "but how uncertain -s the con- tinuance of the blessings we now enjoy ! To-morrow may sound the alarm which shall call me from your side to the strife and tumult of war. Instead of your gentle words, I may hear the shouts of the infuriated soldiery, the cry of the woiinded, and the sighs of the dying." " Speak not so," exclaimed Alett; " it must not be." " Do you not love your country ? " inquired the youth. " I do, but I love Rubineau more. There are warriors enough ready for the battle. It need not be that you go. But why this alarm? We were talking of peace, and, 158 HALF HOUR STOKIBS. behold, now we have the battle-field before us — war and ah its panoply ! " - " Pardon me, my dearest Alett, for borrowing trouble ; but at times, when I am with you, and thinking of our pres- ent joy, the thought will arise that it may be taken from us." No more words were needed to bring to the mind of Alett all that filled that of Rubineau. They embraced each the other more affectionately than ever, and silently repaired to the house of the general. CHAPTEE II. " To remain will be dishonor ; to go may be death ! When a Eoman falls, the foe has one more arrow aimed at his ance -of public a&irs, and it was not until war was not only certain, but actually in progress, that he called upon Ru- bineau to go forth. A -week hence 'Rubineau and Alett were to be united in marriage ; and invitations had been extended far and near, in anticipation of the event. It had been postponed from week to week, with the hope that the various rumors that were circulated respecting impending danger to the country might prove untrue, or at least to have a foundation on some- weak pretence, which reasonable argument might overthrow. THE warrior's BRIBE. 159 Day by day these rumors increased, and the gathering together of the soldiery betokened the certainty of an event ■which would fall as a burning meteor in the midst of the betrothed and their friends. The call for Rubineau to depart was urgent, and ita answer admitted of no dtelay. " To remain," said the general, " will be dishonor ; to go may be death : which will you choose 1 " It was a hard question for the young man to answer. Eut it must be met. The general loved him, and with equal unwillingness the question was presented and received. " I go. If Rubineau falls " "If he returns," exclaimed the general, interrupting him, "honor, and wealth, and a bride who loves and is loved, shall be his — all his." It was a night of unusual loveliness. The warm and sul- try atmosphere of the day had given place to cool and gentle breezes. The stars were all out, shining as beacons at the gates of a paradise above ; and the moon began and ended her course without the attendance of igne cloud to veil her beauties from the observation of the dwellers on earth. Rubineau and Alett were seated beneath a bower, culti- vated by the fair hand of the latter. * The next morning Rubineau was to' depart. AH' the happy scenes of the coming' week were to be de]liyed,'lind the thought that they might be delayed long. — ^y, forever — came like a shadow of evil to brood in melancholy above the place and the hour. We need not describe the meeting, the parting. "Whatever befalls me, I shall not forget you, Alett. Let us hope for the best. Yet a strange presentiment I have that I shall not return." ffi 160 HALF HOUR STOBIES. "Othat I could go with you!" said Alett. "Think you father would object 1 " "That were impossilble. Nothing but love, true anS enduring, could make such a proposal. It would be incur- ring a two-fold danger." "Death would be glorious with, you, — ISfe insupportable without you ! " In such conversation the night passed, and when the early light of morning came slowly up the eastern sky, the sound Df a trumpet called him away. The waving of a white flag was the last signal, and the general, all unused to tears as he was, mingled his with those of his family as the parting kiss waa given, and Rubineau started on a warfare the result of which was known only to Him who governs the destinies of nations and of individ- uals. And now, in the heat of the conflict, the war raged furi- ously. Rubineau threw himself in the front rank, and none was more brave than he. It seemed to his fellow-officers that he was urged on|by some 'unseen agency, and guarded from injury by some spirit of good. To himself but one thought was in his mind ; and, regard- less of danger, he pressed forward for a glorious victory, and honor to himself and friends. B^'^'^hose whose leader he was were inspirited by his courage- ous action, and followed like true men where he led the way. They had achieved several victories, and were making an onset upon numbers four-fold as large as their own, when their leader received a severe wound, and, falling from his noble horse, would have been trampled to death by his fol- 'owers, had not those who had seen him fall formed a circle around as a protection for him. ^ This serious disaster did not dampen the ardor of the sol- IHE wakkiok's bride. 161 diers; they pressed on, caxried the point, and saw the foe make a rapid retreat. The shouts of victory that reachedihe ears of Rubineau came with a blessing. He raised himself, and shouted, " On, brave men ! " But the effort was too much for him to sus- tain for any length of time, and he fell back completely ex- hausted. He was removed to a tent, and had every attention bestowed upon him. As night approached, and the cool air of even- ing fanned his brow, he began to revive, but not in any great degree. The surgeon looked sad. There was evidently reason to fear the worst ; and, accustomed as he was to such scenes, he was now but poorly prepared to meet it. "Rubineau is expiring," whispered a lad, as he proceeded quietly among the ranks of soldiers surrounding the tent of the wounded. And it was so. ECs friends had gathered around his couch, and, conscious of the approach of his dissolution, he bade them all farewell, and kissed them. " Tell her I love, I die an honorable death; tell her that her Rubiaeau fell where the arms of the warriors clashed the closest, and that victory hovered above him as his arm grew powerless ; and, 0, tell her that it was all for her sake, — love for her nerved his arm, and love for her ia borne upward on his last, his dying prayer. Tell her to love as I " " He is gone, sir," said the surgeon. " Gone ! " exclaimed a dozen voices. "A brave man has fallen," remarked another, as he raised his arm, and wiped the flowing tears from his cheek. 14* 162 HALF HOUK STORIES. CH APTEE III. At the mansion of ^he old general every arrival of news from the war sent a thrill of joy through the hearts of its inmates. Hitherto, every despatch told of victory and honor ; but now a sad chapter was to be added to the history of the conflict. Alett trembled as she beheld the slow approach of the messenger, wTio, at all previous times, had come with a quick step. In her soul she felt the keen edge of the arrow that was just entering it, and longed to know all, dreadful though it might be. Need we describe the scene of fearful disclosure 1 If the reader has followed the mind of Alett, as from the first it has presumed, conjectured, and fancied, — followed all its hopes of future bliss, and seen it revel in the sunshine of honor and earthly fame, — he can form some idea, very faint though it must be, of the effect which followed the recital of all the facts in regard to the fallen. In her wild frenzy of grief, she gave utterance to the deep feelings of her soul with words that told how deep was her sorrow, and how unavailing every endeavor which friends exerted to allay its pangs. She would not believe him dead. She would imagine him at her side, and would talk to him of peace, " sweet peace," and laugh in clear and joyous tones as she pictured its bless- ings, and herself enjoying with him its comforts. Thus, with enthroned reason, she would give vent to grief ; and, with her reason dethroned, be glad and rejoice. And so passed her lifetime. Often, all day long, attired in bridal raiment, the same in which she had hoped to be united indissolubly to Kubineau, she remained seated in a large oaken chair, while at her side stood the helmet and spear he had carried forth on the THE waSeior's bkidb. 163 morning when they parted. At such times, she was as calm as an infant's slumberings, saying that she was waiting for the sound of the marriage-bejls ; asked why they did not ring, and sat for hours in all the beauty of loveliness — the Warrior's Bride, THE ADVENT OF HOPE. Once on a ^ime, from sosues «f light An angel winged his airy flight ; Down to this earth in haste he came, And wrote, in lines of living flame, These words on everything he met, — " Cheer up, be not discouraged yet ! ' Then back to heaven with speed he flew, Attuned his golden harp anew j- Whilst the angelic throng came round To catch the soul-inspiring sound ; And heaven was filled with new delight, For Hope had been to earth that night. CHILD AND SIRE. " Know you what intemperance is? " I asked a little child. Who seemed too young to sorrow know. So beautiful and mild. It raised its tiny, blue-veined hand. And to a church-yard-near It pointed, whilst from glistening eye Came forth the silent tear. CHILD AND SIRE. 165 " Yes, for yonder, in that grave. Is my father lying ; And these words he spake to me While he yet was dying : •' ' Mary, when the sod lies o'er me And an orphan child thou art, — When companions ask thy story. Say intemperance aimed the dart. When the gay the wine-cup circle, Praise the nectar that doth shine. When they 'd taste, then tell tRy story, And to earth they 'U dash the wine.' " And there my dear-loved mother lies, — What bitter tears I 've shed Over her grave ! — I cannot think That she is really dead. And when the spring in beauty blooms, At morning's earliest hour I hasten there, and o'er her grave I plant the little flower. " And patiently I watch to see It rise from out the earth, To see it from its little grave Spring to a fairer birth. For mother said that thus would she. And father, too, and I, Arise from out our, graves to meet In mansions in the sky. " 0, what intemperance is, there 's none On earth can better tell. Intemperance me an orphan made. In this wide world to dwell ; Intemperance broke my mother's heart. It took my father's life, And makes the days of man below With countless sorrows rife." 166 HALF HOUR STOEIES. " Know you what intemperance is ? " I asked a trembling sire, Wliose lamp of life burned dim, and seemed As though 'twould soon expire. He raised his bow^d head, and then Slethought a tear did start, As though the question I had put Had reached his very heart. He raised his head, but 't was to bow It down again and sigh ; Methought that old man's hour had come In which he was to die. Not so ; he raised it up again. And boldly said, " I can ! Intemperance is the foulest curse That ever fell on man. " I had a son, as fair, as bright As ever mortal blest ; And day passed day, and year passed Tear Whilst I that son carest. JPor all my hopes were bound in him ; I thought, from day to day, That when old age should visit me That son would be my stay. " I knew temptations gathered near And bade him warning take, — Consent not, if enticed to sin, E'en for his father's sake. But in a fearful hour he drank From out the poisonous bowl, And tljen a pang of sorrow lodged Within my inmost soul. " A year had passed, and he whom I Had strove in vain to save Fell, crushed beneath intemperance, Into a druiJi:ard's grave. CHILD AND SIBB. 167 0, brother, I can tell to thee What'Tile intemperance is, When one in ■whom I fondly hoped « Met such an end as hia ! " This was not all ; a daughter I "Was blest with, and she passed Before me like an angel-form Upon my pathway cast. She loved one with a tender love, She left her father's side, And stood forth, in her robes of white, A young inechanic's bride. " She lived and loved, and loved and lived, For many a happy year ; No sorrow clouded o'er her path. But joy was ever near. Ay, those were pleasant hours we spent, Were joyful ones we passed ; ' Alas ! too free from care were they On earth to always last. " Then he was tempted, tasted, drank. And then to earth he fell ; And ever after misery « Within that home did dwell. And soon he died, as drunkards die. With scarce an earthly friend, Yet one bent o'er him tenderly Till life itself did end. " And when life's chord was broken, when His spirit went forth free. In all her anguish then she came To bless and comfort me. Yet she, too, died, ere scarce twelve months Had passed o'er her head. And in yon much-loved church-yard now She resteth vrith the dead. 168 HALF HOUR STORIBIS. " That little child you spoke to is The child she left behind ; I love ier for her mother's sake, And she is good and kind. And every morning, early, to Yon flovrery grave she '11 go ; And I thank my God she 's with me To Wess-me here belovr. " I had a brother, but he died The drunkard's fearfiil death ; He bade me raise a warning voice Till Time should stay my breath. And thousands whom in youth I loved Have fallen 'neath the blast Of ruin which intemperance Hath o'er the wide world cast." He spoke no more, — the gushing tears His furrowed cheeks did leap ; The little child came quick to know What made the old man weep. He, trembling, grasped my hand and said (The little child grasped his), " May you ne'er know, as I have known, What sad intemperance is ! " And since that hour, whene'er I look Around me o'er the earth. And see the wine-cup passing free 'Mid scenes of festive mirth, I think how oft it kindleth up Within its raging fire. And &iin would tell to all the truths I heard &om " Child and Sire." A BROTHERS WELCOME. 169 A BROTHER'S WELCOME, Welcome, brother, Tfelcome home ! Here 's a father's hand to press thee ; Here 'a a mother's heart to bless thee ; Here 's a brother's will to twine Joys fraternal close with thine ; Here 's a sister's earnest love, Equalled but by that above ; Here are friends who once did meet thee. Gathered once again to greet thee. Welcome, brother, welcome home! Thou hast wandered far away ; Many a night and many a day We have thought where thou might'st be, On the land or on the sea ; Whether health was on thy cheek, Or that word we dare not speak Hung its shadowy wing above thee, Far away from those who love thee. Welcome, brother, welcome home ! Here, where youthful days were spent JEre life had its labor lent. Where the hours went dancing by, 'Neath a clear, unclouded sky. And our thanks for blessings rendered Uhto God were daily tendered, Here as ever pleasures reign. Welcome to these scenes again ! 15 THE IMMENSITY OF CREATION. It is well for man to consider the heavens, the work of God's hands ; the moon and the stars, which He has created. To look forth upon the universe, of which we form a part, fills us with high and ennobling thoughts, and inspires us with an earnest desire to press onward in the endless path, at every step of which new wonders and new joys spring up to greet our vision, and to gladden our souls. Whichever way we look, above or below us, to the right or the left, we find a boundless expanse teeming with life and its enjoyments. This earth, large as it may appear to ua, is less than a grain of sand in size, when compared with the vastness around it. Take your soul away from earth, and send i-t on a mission of research among other worlds. Let it soar, far away to where the dog-star, Sirius, holds its course ; and then, though nineteen billion two hundred million miles from earthy a distance so great, that light, travelling, as it does, at the rate of six million six hundred and twenty thousand miles a min- ute, would require three years to pass it, — even then, when the journeying spirit had reached such a point, it might pass on and on, — new worlds meeting its gaze at every advance, and new wonders being seen as far beyond the point it had attained as the inconceivable length of the path it had already travelled multiplied a myriad of times. We can scarcely comprehend the vast distance of Sirius ; yet, great as this distance is, it is the nearest star to our THE IMMENSITY OE CREATION. 171 system, and stars have been seen whose distance from the earth is estimated to be a thousand times as great ! Can human mind mark that range ? A thousand times nineteen billion two hundred million ! , And were we to stand on the last of these discovered stars, we might look yet far beyond, and see " infinity, boundless infinity, stretching on, unfathomed, forever." To have an idea of the vastness of creation, we must pos- sess the mind of the Creator. What are we ? We live and move and have our being on a grain of creation, that is being whirled through boundless space with inconceivable rapidity. And we affect to be proud of our estate ! We build houses, and we destroy them ; we wage war, kill, brutify, enslave, ruin each other; or, we restore, beautify, and bless. We are vain, sometimes. We think the world was made for us ; the stars shine for ws, and all the hosts that gem the drapery of night created for our special benefit. Astonishing pre- sumption ! — born of ignorance and cradled in credulity ! The mind grows dizzy as it attempts to conceive of constel- lation beyond constellation, on and on, through endless space. Commencing with this earth, the mind given up to serious reflection muses upon its broad extent of territory, its conti- nents, and its oceans, and it appears very large indeed. For- getting, for a moment, its knowledge of other planets, it be- lieves that this world is the whole universe of God ; that the sun, moon and stars, are but lights in the firmament of heaven to give light upon the earth. But truth steps in and changes the mind's view. It shows that, large and important as this earth may appear, the sun, which is spoken of as inferior, is three hundred and fifty-four thousand nine hundred and thirty- six times larger ; and the stars, that seem like diamond points above us, are, many of them, larger than the sun, one being one billion eight hundred million miles in diameter. Yet, It2 HALF HOUR STORIES. Buch a bulk, when compared to the universe, is less than a monad. A "monad " is an indivisible atom. It is as incomprehensi- ble as the mysteries of creation, or the duration of eternity. Tripoli, or rotten-stone, an article used in every family, and tons of which are daily employed in manufactories, is composed entirely of animalculse. In each cubic inch there are forty-one billion, that is, forty-one million-million of these living, breathing creatures, each of whom has organs of sight, hearing and digestion. Think, if you can, of the internal organization of beings a million of whom could rest on the point of a cambric needle ! But there are more minute forms of creation than even those. Deposit a grain, the four hundred and eightieth part of an ounce of musk, in any place, and, for twenty years, it will throw off exhalations of fragrance, without causing any perceptible decrease of weight. The fragrance that for so many years goes forth from that minute portion of matter is composed of particles of musk. How small must each of those particles be, that follow each other in ceaseless succes- sion .for twenty years, without lessening, to any perceptible degree, the weight of the deposit ! And yet we have not reached the monad. A celebrated author * made a compu- tation which led to the conclusion that six billion as many atoms of light flow from a candle in one second as there are grains of sand in the whole earth, supposing each cubic inch to contain one million ! Here we must stop. Further advances are impossible, yet our end is not attained ; we have not yet reached the monad, for the animalculse and the less sentient particles of matter, light, are not, for they are divisible. The insect can be divided, because it has limbs with which * Niewentyt. THE IMMENSITY 0]? CEBATION. 173 to move ; and an intelligence higher than man can doubtless see emanations from those particles of light. But a monad is indivisible ! Think of each cubic inch of this great earth con- taining a million grains of sand, and those countless grains multiplied by one billion, or a million-million, and that the product only shows the number of particles of light that flow from a candle in one second of time ! — and not a monad yet ! Minds higher than ours can separate each of these particles, and yet perhaps they find not the indivisible, but assign over to other minds the endless task. With such thoughts let us return to our first point, and remark that the star tens of billions of miles distant, one bil- lion eight hundred million miles in diameter, is but a monad when compared with the creations of the vast universe of God! Here the mind sinks within itself, and gladly relinquishes the herculean task of endeavoring to comprehend, for a single moment, a fractional part of the stupendous whole. Deep below us, high above us, far as the eye of the mind can see around us, are the works of our Creator, marshalled in countless hosts. All animated by his presence, all breathed upon by his life, inspired by his divinity, fostered by his love, supported by his power. And in all things there is beauty — sunbeams and rain- bows ; fragrant flowers whose color no art can equal. In every leaf,. every branch, every fibre, every stone, there is a perfect symmetry, perfect adaptation to the conditions that surround it. And thus it is, from the minutest insect undia- cernible by human eye, to the planet whose size no figures can represent. Each and all the works of God order gov- erns, symmetry moulds, and beauty adorns. There are all grades of beings, from the monad to the high- est intelligences, and man occupies his position in the endless chain. Could you hear and see, as seraphs listen and behold, 15* 174 HALF HOUR STORIES. you -won A hear cne continuous song of glad praise go up from all creation ; you would see all things radiant with smiles, reflecting the joys of heaven. And why ? Because they follow nature's leading, and, in doing so, live and move in harmony. Who can scale the heights above us, or fathom the depths below us ? Who can comprehend the magnitude of countless worlds that roll in space — the distance that separates the nearest orb from our earth, the worlds of being in a drop of water, the mighty array of angel forms that fill immensity 1 Well may we exclaim, "Great and marvellous are thy works, Lord of Hosts, and that my soul knoweth right weU!" A VISION OF HEAVEN. Night had shed its darkness round me ; Wearied with the cares of day, Rested I. Sleep's soft folds hound me, And my spirit fled away. As on eagle pinions soaring, On I sped from star to star, Till heaven's high and glistening portale Met my vision from afar. Myriad miles I hasted over ; Myriad stars I passed by : On and on my tu-eless spirit Urged its ceaseless flight on high. Planets burned with glorious radiance, lighting up my trackless way ; On I sped, till music coming From the realms of endless day Fell upon my ear, — as music Chanted by celestial choirs Only can, — and then my spirit Longed to grasp their golden lyre* Stood I near that portal wondering Whether I could enter there : I, of earth and sin the subject, ■ Child' of sorrow and of care ! There I stood like one uncalled for, Willing thus to hope and wait, Till a voice said, " Why not enter? Why thus linger at the gate? 176. HALF HOUR STORIES. " Know me not ? Say whence thou comest Here to join our angel band. Know me not ? Here, take thy welcome — Take thine angel-sister's hand." Then I gazed, and, gazing, wondered ; For 't was she who long since died, — She who in her youth departed. Falling early at my side. " Up," said she, " mid glorious temples i Up, where all thy loved ones rest ! Ihey with joy will sing thy welcome To the mansions of the blest. " Mansions where no sin can enter, Home where all do rest in peace ; Where the tried and faithful spirit From its trials finds release ; " Golden courts, where watchful cherubs Tune their harps to holy praise ; Temples in which countless myriads Anthems of thanksgiving raise." I those shining portals entered, Guided by that white-robed one, When a glorious light shone round ma Brighter than the noonday sun ! Friends I met whom death had severed From companionship below ; All were there — and in each feature Immortality did glow. I would touch their golden lyres, When upon my ear there broke Louder music at that moment I from my glad vision woke. All was silent ; scarce a zephyr Moved the balmy air of night ; SOLILOQUY OVEB, THE GRAVE OE A WIEB. 177 And the moon, m meekness shining, Shed around its hallowed light. 'THERE 'S HOPE FOR THEE YET. What though from life's bounties thou mayest have fiiUen? What tbld be out ; he came home about eleven. Prisoner's counsel here inquired whether it was usual, upon his father's going out, to state where he was going or when he should return. He answered in the affirmative. This was all the knowledge Levi Smith had of the affair, and with this the evidence for the government closed. The counsel for the defendant stated, in the opening, that all he should attempt to prove would be the bad character of the principal witness, John Smith, and the unexceptionable character of the prisoner. He would prove that the reputa- tion of Smith for truth and veracity was bad, and that there- fore no reliance could be placed upon his statements. He should present the facts as they were, and leave it to them to say whether his client was innocent or guilty. A person by the name of Renza was first called who 220 HALF HOTTR STORIES. stated that for about two jears he had resided in the house with the prisoner; that he esteemed biin as a friend ; that tho prisoner had treated him as a brother, — had never seen any- thing au)iss in his conduct, — at night he came directly home from his place of business, was generally in at nine, seldom out later than ten,^ remembered the night in question, — thought he was in about ten, but was not certain on that point, — had been acquainted with John Smith for a number of years, — had not said much to him during that tiinOj — had often seen him \kalking about the streets, — had known him to be quarrelsome and avaricious, easily provoked, and rather lacking in good principle. After a few cross-questions the witness took his seat. Seven others were called, whose testimony was similar to the above, placing the evidence of the principal government witness in rather a disagreeable light. The evidence being in on both sides, the prisoner's counsel stood forth to vindi- cate the innocence of Castello. For three hours he faith- fully advocated the cause, dwelt long upon the reputation of Smith, and asked whether a man should be convicted upon such rotten evidence. He brought to light the character of Smith, and that of Castello ; placed them in contrast, and bade them judge for themselves. He wished to inquire why Smith, when he heard the terrible scream, when he saw a per- son running fiom the place whence the sound proceeded, why, when he heard and beheld all this, he did not make an alarm; why did Smith keep it a secret, and not till nine days had elapsed make this known ? " Perhaps he wpuld reply," ar- gued the counsel, " that he did not wish to suspect any per- son, fearing the person suspected might be the wrong one ; if so, why did he not inform of the person he saw runninc '? If he was not the doer of the deed, perhaps he might relate something that would lead to the detection of him who was. Beside, if he had doubts whether it was right to inform then BETTER THAN GOLD. 22] why does he do so now with so much eagerness ? It would be natural for one, after hearing such fearful noises, — after seeing what he testifies to having seen, — to have related it to some one ; but no — Smith keeps all this important informa- tion treasured up, and not till two weeks had nearly passed does he disclose it. But, gentlemen, I have my doubts as to the truth of John's evidence. It is my firm belief that he never saw a person running from that house ; he might have heard .the noise — I will not dispute that. I believe his story has been cut and dried for the occasion, and surely nine days and nights have afforded him ample time to do so. The brains of an ox could concoct such ideas in nine days. Now comes the inquiry, why should he invent such a story? Of what benefit can it be to him to appear in a crowded court- room 1 Gentlemen, I confess myself unable to give you big reasons ; to him and to his God they are only known. The veil which, in my opinion, now shrouds this affair, will some day be withdrawn, and we shall know the truth, even as it is." The defence here closed. The officer for the prosecution now arose, and with equal faithfulness and ability argued his side of the question. He thought the reasons why Smith had not before informed were full and explicit ; and, as to the testimony of the eight as to the past good character of the prisoner, he saw no reason why a man should be always good because for two or more years he had been so. A great temptation was presented; he was young — perhaps at thj moment regardless of the result, the penalty of the crime ; he did not resist, but yielded ; and as to the argument of the learned counsel, that Mr. S. did not see what he testifies to have seen, it is useless to refute such an unfounded allega- tion. Can you suppose Smith to be benefited by this pros- ecution further than to see justice have its dues ? Settle it then in your minds that Mr. Smith did actually see all he 19* 222 HALF HOUR STORIES. says he did. We come next to the description given by Smith of the man seen. He said he was short in stature, and wearing a fur cap. Look at the prisoner, — is he not short ? — and the testimony of two of the previous witnesses distinctly affirm that for the past six weeks he has wbrn a fur cap. What more evidence do you want to prove hia guilt 7 The prosecuting officer here closed. We have given but a faint outline of his remarks ; they were forcible and to the point. It was near the dusk of the second day's trial that the judge arose to charge the jury. He commented rather severely upon the attempt to impeach the character of Smith. His address was not lengthy, and in about thirty minutes the jury retired, while a crowded audience anxiously waited their return. It was not till the rays of the morning sun began to be seen that it was rumored that they had arrived at a decision and would soon enter. All was silent as the tomb. The prisoner, although aware that his life was at stake, sat in great composure, frequently hoMing converse with his friends who gathered around. How anxiously all eyes were turned towards the door by which they were to enter, wish- ing, yet dreading, to hear the final secret ! The interest of all watched their movements and seemed to read acquittal upan each juror's face. The prisoner arose, the foreman and he looking each other in the face. The clerk put the ques- tion, "Guilty, or not guilty?" The ticking of the clock was distinctly heard. " Guilty ! " responded the foreman. A verdict so unexpected by all could not be received in silence, and, as with one voice, the multitude shouted "False! false! false!" With great difficulty were they silenced and restrained from rescuing the prisoner, who, though greatly disappointed, heard the verdict without much agita- tion. Innocent, he was convinced that justice would finally BBTTER THAN GOLD. . 223 triumph, though injustice for a moment might seem to have the ascendeucj. One week had passed. Sentence had been pronounced upon the young Italiiin, and, notwithstanding the strenuous efforts his friends made for his pardon, he was committed to prison to. await the arrival of that day when innocence should suffer in the place of guilt, and he should by the rough hands of the law be unjustly dragged to the gallows, and meet his death at so wretched a place ; yet far better was it for him, and of this was he aware, to be led to that place free from the blood of all men, than to proceed there a guilty criminal, his hands dyed in the warm blood of a fellow-creature, pointed out as a murderer, and looked upon but with an eye of condemnation. He was certain that in the breasts of hundreds a spark, yea, a burning flame, of pity sliono for him, — - that he met not his death uncared for, — tliat many a tear would flow in pity for him. arid tlisit he would wend his way to the scaffold com- forted by the consciousness of his innocence, and consoled by many dear friends. ****** The day had arrived for the execution, and crowds of people flocked to the spot to gratify their love of sight-seeing — to allay their curiosity — even though that sight were nothing less than the death of a fellow-being. Crowds had assem- bled. A murder had been committed, and now another was to follow. To be sure it was to be executed "according to law," but that law was inspired with the spirit of revenge. Its n.ottc was " blood for blood." It forgot the precepte of Christ, "forgive your enemies;" and that that which is a wrong when committed by one in secret, is no less a wrong when committed by many, or by their sanction, in public. The condemned stood upon the death-plank, yet he hoped justice ■would be done. "Hope!" what a cheering word ! 'twill nerve man for evrry trial. Yes, Castello hoped, and relied 224 • HALF HOUR STORIES. upon that kind arm that had hitherto supported him, and had enabled him to bear up under an accumulated mass of afflic- tion. He had a full consciousness of innocence, and to the oft-repeated inquiry as to his state of mind he replied, "I am innocent, and that truth is to me better than gold." It lacks but five minutes of the appointed time — now but three — but two. But yonder the crowd seem excited. What is the cause of the sudden movement ? But a few moments since and all were silently gazing at the centre of attraction, the scaffold. Lo, a messenger, breathless with haste, shout- ing " innocent ! innocent! innocent!" and a passage is made for him to approach, whilst thousands inquire the news. He answers not, save by that shrill shout, " inno- cent ! " and pressing forward touches the gallows just as Castello is about to be launched forth. The stranger ascends the steps and begs that the execution may be deferred, at least until he can relate some recent disclosures. His wish is granted, and he speaks nearly as follows : "The testimony of the principal witness .was doubted. Last night I remained at the house of Smith. Owing to the great excitement I did not retire to rest, and sat in a room adjoin- ing that in which Smith lodged. About midnight I heard a voice in that room. I went to the door, and, fearing he was sick and desired aid, I entered. He was asleep, and did not awake upon my entering, but continued talking. I thought it strange, and thinking I might be amused, and having nothing else to do, I sat and listened. He spoke in some- what this manner, and you may judge of my surprise while. I listened: '"I'm rich; too bad Pedro should die; but I'm rich; no matter, I 'm rich. Kings kill their millions for a little money. I only kill one man ; in six months 't will be for- gotten; then I'll go to the bank of earth back of the red Eiill and get the gold ; I placed it there safe, and safe it is. BETTER THAN flOLD. 225 Ha, ha! I made that story m nine days — so I did, and might have made it in less ; let him die. „ But supposing I should be detected ; then it may be that I shall find that Pedro is right when he says there is something better than gold. But I am in no danger. The secret is in my own heart, locked up, and no one has the key but myself; so cheer thee, my soul, I'm safe ! — and yet I don't feel right. I shall feel, when Pedro dies, that I kill him ; but why should I care 1 I, who have killed one, may kill another !' " After waiting some time, and hearing no more, I hastened to the spot he had alluded to, for the purpose of satisfying myself whether what he had ramblingly spoken of was truth or fancy. After searching the hill for over an hour, I found a stone, or rather stumbled against it ; I threw it aside, so that others might not stumble over it as I had, when to my astonishment I found it to be a large flat one, beneath which I found a collection of bags and boxes, which upon opening I found filled with gold and silver coin, and in each box a small paper, — one of which-I hold in my hand ; all are alike, and written upon each are these words : "'This gold and silver is the property of Pedan, who enjoyed it but little himself; he leaves it to posterity, and hopes that they may find more pleasure and more satisfaction in its use than he ever did.' " Not content with this, I pushed my researches still fur- ther and, having taken out all the bags and boxes, I found this knife, all bloody as you see it, and this hatchet in nearly the same condition. Now I ask if it is not the course of justice to delay the execution of this young man until more examinations can be made?" The executioner obeyed the mandate of the sheriff, and stayed his avenging hand. " Better than gold ! " shouted the prisoner, and sank help- less upon the platform. 226 HALF HOUR STORIES. Th&k day John Sqiith was arrested, and, being bluntly charged with the murder, confessed all. Castello was imin&- diately released, and went forth a free man. In four weeks Smith was no more of earth ; he had paid the penalty of his crimes, and died not only a murderer but a perjured raan. The next Sabbath the pastor of the church discoursed upon the subject, and an indescribable thrill pervaded the hearts of some of the people as they repeated the words, " Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against oa.' GONE A¥AY. Here, where now are mighty cities, Once the Indians' wigwam stood ; Once their^council-fires illumined, Far and near, the tangled wood. Here, on many a grass-grown border, Then they met, a happy throng ; Rook and hill and valley sounded With the music of their song. Now they are not, — they have vanished. And a voice doth seem to say, Unto him who waits and listens, " Gone away, — gone away." Yonder in those valleys gathered Many a sage in days gone by ; Thence the wigwam's smoke ascended, Slowly, peacefiiUy, on high. Indian mothq^'S thus their children Taught around the birchen fire, — " Look ye up to the great Spirit ! To his hunting-grounds aspire." Now those fires are all extinguished ; Fire and wigwam, where are they ? Hear ye not those voices whispering, " Gone away, — gone away ! " Here the Indian girl her tresses Braided with a maiden's pride ; Here the lover wooed and won her, On Tri-mountain's glassy side. Here they roamed from rook to river» Mountain peak and hidden cave ; 228 HALF HOUR STORIES. Here the light canoe they paddled O'er the undulating wave. All have vanished ; — lovers, maidens, Meet not on these hills to-day, But unnumbered voices whisper, " Gone away, — gone away ! " ' Gone away ! " Yes, where the waters Of the Mississippi roll, And Niagara's ceaseless thunders With their might subdue the soul. Now the noble Indian standeth Gazing at the eagle's flight, Conscious that the great good Spirit Will accomplish all things right. Though like forest-leaves they 're passing. They who once held boundless sway, And of them 't will soon be written, " Gone away, — gone away ! " As they stand upon the mountain. And behold the white man press Onward, onward, never ceasing, Mighty in his earnestness ; As they view his temples rising, And his white sails dot the seas. And his myriad thousands gathering. Hewing down the forest trees ; Thus they muse : " Let them press onward, Not far distant is the day VThen of them a voice shall whisper, ' Gone away, — gone away ! ' " LINES TO MY WIPE. Thou art e^er standing near me, In wakeful hours and dreams ; Like an angel-one, attendant On life and all its themes ; TO MY WIFE. 229 And though I wander from thee, 7 In lands afar away, I dream of thee at night, and wake To think of thee by day. In the morning, when the twilight, like a spirit kind and true, Comes with its gentle influence, It whispereth of you. For I know that thou art present, With love that seems to be A band to bind me williogly To heaven and to thee. At noon-day, when the tumult and The din of life is heard, When in life's battle each heart is With various passions stirred, I turn me from the blazonry, The fickleness of life, And think of thee in earnest thought, My dearest one — my wife ! When the daylight hath departed. And shadows of the night Bring forth the stars, as beacons fail For angels in their flight, I think of thee as ever mine. Of thee as ever best, And turn my heart unto thine own. To seek its wonted rest. Thus ever^hou art round my path, And doubly dear thou art When, with my lips pressed to thine own, I feel thy beating heart. And through the many joys and griefi, The lights and shades of life. It will be joy to call thee by The holy name of " wife ! " 20 230 HALF HOUR STORIBS. I love thee for thy gentleness, I love thee for thy truth ; 1 love thee for thy joyousnesa, Thy buoyancy of youth I love thee for thy soul that soars Above earth's soi-dicj pelf; And last, not least, above these all, I love thee for thyself. Now come to me, my dearest, Place thy hand in mine own ; Look in mine eyes, and see how deep My love for thee hath grown ; And I vnll press thee to my heart, Will call thee " my dear wife," And own that thou art all my joy And happiness of life. CHEER UP. Cheer up, cheer up, my own fair one ! Let gladness take the place of sorrow ; Clouds shall not longer hide the sun, — There is, there is a brighter morrow ! 'T is coming fast. I see its dawn. See ! look you, how it gilds the mountain ! We soon shall mark its happy morn, Sending its light o'er stream and fountain. My bird sings with a clearer 'note ; He seems to know our hopes are.brighter, And almost tires his little throat ,^ To let us know his heart beats lighter. * I wonder if he knows how dark The clouds were when they gathered o'er us t TRUST THOU IN GOD. 231 No matter i — gayly as a lark He siiiga that bright paths are befoie ua. So cheer thee up, my brightest, beet ! For clear 's the sky, and fair 's the •weather. Since hand in hand we 've past the test, Hence heart in heart we '11 love together. TRUST THOU IN GOD, Trust thou in God ! he '11 guide thee When arms of flesh shall fail ; With every good provide thee. And make his grace prevail.' Where danger most is found. There he his power discloseth ; And 'neath his arm. Free from all harm. The trusting soul reposeth. Trust thou in God, though sorrow Thine earthly hopes destroy ; To him belongs the morrow. And he wiU send thee joy. When sorrows gather near, Then he '11 delight to bless thee! When all is joy, Without alloy. Thine eafcthly friends caress thee. Trust tomi in God ! he reigneth >• The Lord of lords on high ; His justice he maintaineth In his unclouded sky. To triumph Wrong may seem, 232 HALF HOUR SIOKIES. The day, yet justice winneth, And from the earth Shall songs of mirth Rise, when its sway beginneth. When friends grow faint and weary, When thornff are on thy way, When life to thee is dreary, When clouded is thy day, Then put thy trust in God, Hope on, and hoping ever ; Give him thy heart. Nor seek to part The love which none can sever ! THE MINISTRATION OF S0III10¥. There 's sorrow in thy heart to-day. There 's sadness on thy brow ; For she, the loved, hath passed away, And thou art mourning now. The eye that once did sparkle bright, The hand that pressed thine own, No more shall gladden on thy sight, — Thy cherished one hath flown. And thou didst love her well, 't is true ; Now thou canst love her more. Since she hath left this world, and you, On angel wings to soar Above the world, its ceaseless strife. Its turmoU and its care, . : To enter on eternal life, * ^ And reign in glory there. 0, let this thought now cheer thy soul, And bid thy tears depart ; #■ THE MINISTBATION OF SORRO'W. 233 A few more days their course shall roll, Thou 'It meet, no more to part. No more upon 'thine ear shall fall, The saddening word " farewell •" No more -a parting hour, but all In perfect union dwell. This world is not the home of man ; Death palsies with its gloom, Marks out his life-course but a span, And points him to the tomb ; But, thanks to Heaven, 't is but the gate By which we enter bliss ; Since such a life our spirits wait, 0, cheer thy soul in this, — And let the sorrow that doth press Thy spirit down to-day So minister that it may bless Thee on thy pilgrim way ; And as thy friends shall, one by one, Leave earth above to dwell, Say ihou t_o God, " Thy will be dons, T'lMu doest all things well." 20* GIVING PUILICITY TO BUSINESS. From the ?irliest ages of society some means have been resorted to whereby t) give publicity to business which would otherwise remain in comparative privacy. The earliest of modes adopted was the crying of names in the streets ; and before the invention of printing men were employed to trav- erse the most frequented thoroughfares, to stand in the mar- ket-places a'nd other spots of resort, and, with loud voices, proclaim their message to the people. This mode is not alto- gether out of use at the present time ; yet it is not generally considered a desirable one, inasmuch as it does not accom- plish its purpose so readily or completely as any one of the numerous other methods resorted to. Since the invention of printing, handbills, posters, and newspapers, have been the principal channels of communica- tion between the inside of the dealer's shop and the eye of the purchaser, and from that to the inside of his purse. So advantageous have these modes been found, that it is a rare thing to find a single individual who does not, either on a large or small scale, rein the press into the path he travels, and make its labor conducive to the profits of his own. England and France have taken the lead in this mode of giving publicity tc business; but the United States, with its unwillingness to be beat in any way, on any terms, has made such rapid strides of late in this enterprise, that the English lion will be lef ; in the rear, and the French eagle far in the background. GIVING PUBLICITY. TO BUSINESS. 23^ In London many curious devices have been used or proposed. Of these was that of a man who wished to prepare a sort of bomb-shell, to be. filled with cards or bills, which, on reaching a certain elevation above the city, would explode, and thus scatter these carrier doves of information in all conceivable* directions. In that city, butchers, bakers, and fishmongers, receive quite an income from persons who wish their cards attached to the various commodities in which they deal. Thus, a person receiving a fish, a loaf, or a piece of meat, finds the advertisement of a dealer in silks and satins attached to the tail of the fish ; that of an auction sale of domestic flannels wrapped around the loaf; and perhaps flattering notices of a compound for the extermination of rats around the meat. In the evening, transparencies are carried about the streets, suspended across the public ways, or hung upon the walls. In this country, no person has taken the lead of a famous doctor in the way of advertising. Nearly every paper in the Union was one-fourth filled with ably-written artiijles in praise of his compound. In feet, he published papers of his own, the articles in which were characterized by the "one idea principle," and that one idea was contained in a bottle of Dr. 's save all and cure all, "none true -but the genuine," "warranted not to burst the bottles or become sour." In addition to these, he issued an almanac — millions of them — bearing glad tidings to the sick and credulous, and sad tidings to the " regulars " in the medical fraternity. These alma- nacs were distributed everywhere. They came down on the American people like rain-drops. The result was, as we all know, the doctor flourished in a fortune equal to his fame, and disposed of his interest in the business, a few yean: since, for one hundred thousand dollars. The amount of capital invested in advertising is very great, some firms expending thousands of dollars monthly in this 236 HALF HOUR STOEIBS. mode of making known their business. It has been truly Baid that a card in a newspaper, that costs but a few dollars, is of far more value than costlj signs Dver one's door. The former thousands behold, and are directed to your place of ■ business ; the latter very few notice who do not know the fact it makes known before they see it. Attracted by the good fortune of those who have advertised, nearly every one has adopted the means that led to it, and the advertising system has become universal. We have been seated in a car, waiting impatiently for the sound of the "last bell," when a person in a brown linen coat entered with an armful of books, and gave to each pas- senger a copy, without a hint about pay. Thanking him for the gift, and astonished at his generosity, we proceeded to open it, when "Wonderful cures," "Consumption," " Scrof- ula," "Indigestion," and "Fits," greeted our eyes on every page. Illustrated, too ! Here was represented a man appar- ently dying, and near' by a figure that would appear to be a woman were it not for two monstrous wings on its back, throwing obstacles in the way of death in the shape of a two- quart bottle of sarsaparilla syrup. Presumptive man in a brown linen coat, to suppose that we, just on the eve of a pleasure excursion, are troubled with such complaints, and stand in need of such a remedy ! You buy a newspaper, go home, seat yourself, and, in the anticipation of a glorious intellectual feast, open its damp pages, when, lo and behold ! a huge show-bill .falls from its embrace, and you are informed of the consoling truth that you can have all your teeth drawn for a trifle, and a new set inserted at a low price, by a distinguished dentist from London. The bill is indignantly thrown aside, and you commence reading an article under the caption of " Aii interesting incident," which, when half finished, you find to refer to a young lady whose complexion was made beautiful by the free use of OrVINfl PUBLICITY TO BUSINESS. 237 ' Chaulks Poudres," a box of which can be obtained at 96 Azure-street, for 25 cts. After reading another column, headed " An act of mercy," you find at its close a most pathetic appeal to your tender sensibilities in an affectionate request for you to call on Dr. Digg and have your corns extracted -without pain. Despairing of finding the -'intellect- ual treat," you lay the paper aside, and resolve upon taking a walk. Before you are monstrous show-bills, emblazoned with large letters and innumerable exclamation-points. Above you, flaunting flags with flaming notices. Beneath you, marble slabs inscribed with the names of traders and their goods. Around you, boys with their arms full of printed notices, and men encased with boards on which are mammoth posters. Sick of seeing these, you close your eyes ; but you don't escape so easily ; — a dinner-bell is rung in your ears, and a voice, if not like mighty thunder, at least like an embryo earthquake, pro- claims an auction sale, a child lost, or news for the afflicted. And thus it is, the world is one great Babel. All is busi- ness, business, and we ask for "some vast wilderness" in which to lie down and get cool, and keep quiet. In Paris, the people long since adopted a plan which has not yet come in vogue among us. A long story is written ; in the course of this story, a dozen or more establishments receive the author's laudations, which are so ingeniously interwoven, that the reader is scarcely aware of the design. For instance, Marnetta is going to an evening party. In the morning she goes out, and is met by a sprig of gentility, a young man of fashion, who cannot allow her to omit entering the unrivalled store of Messrs. Veuns, where the most beau- tiful silks, etc., are to be seen and purchased. Leaving this, she next encounters a young lady acquaintance of- pru- dent and economical habits, by whom "our heroine" is led into a store where beauty and elegance are combined with 238 HALF HOUR STORIES, durability and a low price. She wishes perfdmery ; sc she hastens to Viot & Sons ; for none make so good as they, and the fragrance of their store has been wafted on the winds of all nations. Thus is the story led on from one step to another, with its interest not in the least abated, to the end. This embraces "puiTery," as it is called. And, while on this subject, we may as well bring up the following specimen of this species of advertising. It was written by Peter Seguin, on the occa- sion of the fij'st appearance in Dublin of the celebrated Mrs. Siddons. It caused much merriment at the time among some, while in others, who could not relish a joke, it excited anger. "The house was crowded with hundreds more than it could hold, with thousands of admiring spectators that went away without a sight. This extraordinary phenomenon of tragic excellence ! this star of Melpomene ! this comet of the stage ! this sun of the firmament of the Muses ! this moon of blank verse ! this queen arch-princess of tears ! this Donnellan of the poisoned bowl ! this empress of the pistol and dagger ! this child of Shakspeare ! this world of weeping clouds ! this Juno of commanding aspects ! this Terpsichore of the curtains and scenes ! this Proserpine of fire and earthquake ! this Katter- felto of wonders ! exceeded expectation, went beyond belief, and soared above all the natural powers of description ! She was nature itself ! she was the most exquisite work of art ! She was the very daisy, primrose, tuberose, sweet-brier, furze-blossom, gilliflower, wallflower, cauliflower, aurica and rosemary ! In short, she was the bouquet of Parnassus ! Where expectation was raised so high, it was thought she would be injured by her appearance ; but it was the audience who were injured ; several fainted before the curtain drew up ! but when she came to the scene of parting with her wed- ding-ring, ah ! what a sight was there ! The fiddlers in the GIVIXG PTTBLICITT "TO BUSINESS. 239 orchestra, ' albeit unused to the melting mood ! ' Uubbered like hungry children crying for their bread and butter ; and ■when the bell rang for music between the acts, the tears ran from the bassoon player's eyes in such plentiful showers, that they choked the fiuger-stops, and, making a spout of the in- strument, poured in such torrents on the first fiddler's book, that, -not seeing the overture Avas in two sharps, the leader of the band actually played in one flat. But the sobs and sighs of the groaning audience, and the noise of corks drawn from the sraelling-Siottles, prevented the mistakes between the flats and sharps being discovered. One hundred and nine ladies fainted ! forty-six went into fits ! and ninety-five had strong hysterics'! The world will hardly credit the truth, when they are told that fourteen children, five women, one hundred tailois. and jsix common-council men, were actu- ally drowned in the inundation of tears that flowed from the galleries, the slips and the boxes, to increase the briny pond in the pit; the water was three feet deep, and the people that were obliged to stand upon the benches were in that position up to their ancles in tears." There is nothing in the present style of criticism that can exceed the above. The author actually reached the climax, and all attempts to overtop him would be useless. Of advertisements there have been many worthy of preser- vation : seme on account of the ing'enuity displayed in their composition ; some in their wit ; some for their domesticative- ■ ness, — matrimonial offers, for example, — and others for the conceitednpss exposed in them, the ignorance of the writers, or the whimsicality qf the matter advertised. In 1804 there was advertised in an English paper, as for sale, ^The walk of a deceased blind beggar {in a charitable neighbor- hood'), with his dog and staff."' 240 HALF HOtJK STORIES. In the St. James Chronicle of 1772 was the following "Wanted, fifteen hundred or two thousand pounds, by a person not worth a groat ; who, having neither houses, lands, annuities, or public funds, can offer no other security than that of a simple bond, bearing simple interest, and engaging the repayment of the sum borrowed in five, six, or seven years, as may be agreed on by the parties," &c. We do not know whether the advertiser obtained his pounds or not, but such an advertisement, now-a-days, would draw forth a laugh much sooner than the money ; or, if "pounds" came, they would, most probably, fall upon the recipjpnt's shoulders, instead of into his pocket. The Chinese are not behind the age in this business. The following is an instance in proof : "AcHEU Tea Chincobu, sculptor, respectfully acquaints masters of ships trading from Canton to India that they may be furnished with figure-heads, any size, according to order, at one-fourth of the price charged in Europe. He also rec- ommends, for private venture, the following idols, brass, gold and silver : The hawk of Vishnoo, which has reliefs of his incarnation in a fish, boar, lion and bull, as worshipped by the pious followers of Zoroaster ; two silver marmosets, with gold ear-rings; an aprimanes for Persian worship; a ram, an alligator, a crafc, a laughing hyena, with a variety of household idols, on a small scale, calculated for family worship. Eighteen months credit will be given, or a discount of fifteen per cent, for prompt payment, on the sum affixed to each article. Direct, Canfon-street, Canton, under the marble Khinoceros and gilt Hydra." We subjoin another, in which self-exaltation is pretty well carried out. " At the shop Tae-shing (prosperous in the extreme) — GIVING PUBLICITY TO BUSINESS. 241 very good ink ; fine ! fine ! Ancient shop, great-grandfather, grandfather, father and self, make this ink ; fine and hard, very hard ; picked with care, selected with attention. I sell very good ink ; prime cost is very great. This ink is heavy; BO is gold. The eye of the dragon glitters and dazzles ; so doo3 this ink. No one makes like it. Others who make ink make it for the sake of accumulating base coin, cheat, while I make it only for a name. Plenty of A-kwan-tsaes (gentlemen) know my ink — my family never cheated — they have always borne a good name. I make ink for the ' Son of Heaven,' and all the mandarins in the empire. As the roar of the tiger extends to every place, so does the fame of the ' dragon's jewel ' (the ink). Come, all A-kwan-lsaes, come to my shop and see the sign Tae-shing at the side of the door. It is Seou-shwuy-street (Small Water-street), outside the south gate." 21 THE MISSION OF KINDNESS Go to the sick man's chamber ; low and soft Falls on the listening ear a sweet-toned Toice ; A hand as gentle as the summer breeze, Ever inclined to ofiBces of good, Smooths o'er the sick man's pillow, and then twcna To trim the midnight lamp, moisten the lips, And, passing over, soothe the fevered brow. Thus charity finds place in woman's heart ; And woman kind, and beautiful, and good, Doth thus administer to every want Nor wearies in her task, but labors on. And finds her joy in that which she imparts. Go to the prisoner's cell ; to-morrow's light Shall be the last on earth he e'er shall see. He mutters hate 'gainst all, and threatens ill To every semblance of the human form. Deep in his soul remorse, despair and hate, Dwell unillumined by one ray of light. And sway his spirit as the waves are swayed By wind and storm He may have cause to hold His fellow-men as foes ; for, at the first Of his departure from an upright course, They sAorned and shunned and cursed him. They sinned thus, and he, in spite for them, Kept on his sullen way from wrong to vraong. "Which is the greatest sinner? He shall say Who of the hearts of men alone is judge. Now, in his cell condemned, he waits the hour The last sad hour of mortal life to him. THE MISSION OF KINDNESS. 243 His oaths and blasphemies he sudden stays ' He thinks he hears upon his piison door A gentle, tap. O, to his hardened heart That gentle sound a sweet remembrance brings Of better days — two-seore of years gone by, Days when his mother, rapping softly thus. Called him to morning prayer. Again 't is heard. Is it a dream? Asleep ! He cannot sleep With chains around and shameful death before him i Is it the false allurement of some foe * Who would with such enticement draw him forth To meet destruction ere the appointed time? Softened and calmed, each angry passion lulled, By a soft voice, " Come in," he trembling calls. Slow on its hinges turns the ponderous door. And " Friend," the word that falls from stranger lips. As dew on flowers, as rain on parched ground. So came the word unto the prisoner's ear. He speaks not — moves not. 0, his heart is fuU, Too fuU for utterance ; and, as floods of tears Flow from his eyes so all unused to weep. He bows down low, e'en at the stranger's feet. He had not known vphat 't was to have a friend. The word came to him like a voice from heaven, A voice of love to one who 'd heard but hate. " Friend ! " Mysterious word to him who 'dknown nj friend 0, what a power that simple word hath o'er him ! As now he holds the stranger's hand in his. And bows his head upon it, he doth seem Gentle and kind, and docile as a child. Repentance comes with kindness, goodness rears Its cross on Calvary's height, inspiring hope Wiuch triumphs over evil and its guilt. 0, how much changed ! and all by simple words Spoken in love and kindness from the heart. 0, love and kindness ! matchless power have ye To mould the human heart ; where'er ye dwell There is no sorrow, but a living joy. 244 HALF HOUR STOKIKS. There is no man whom God hath placed on earth That hath not some humanity within, And is not moved with kindness joined with love. The wildest savage, from who^ firelit eye Flashes the lightning passions of his soul, Who stands, and feeling that he hath been wronged, That he hath trusted and been basely used. And that to him revenge were doubly sweet, Dares all the world to combat and to death, — Even hi hath dwelling in his inmost heart A chord that quick will vibrate to kind words. Go unto such with kindness, not with wrath ; Let your eye look love, and 't will disarm him Of aU the evil passions with which he Hath mailed his soul in terrible array. Think not to tame the wild by brutal force. As well attempt to stay devouring flames By heaping fagots on the blazing pile. Go, do man good, and the deep-hidden spark Of true divinity concealed within Will brighten up, and thou shalt see its glow, And feel its cheering warmth. O, we lose much By calling passion's aid to vanquish wrong. We should stand vrithin love's holy temple, And with persuasive kindness call men in. Rather than, leaving it, use other means, Unblest of God, and therefore weak and vain, To force them on before us into bliss. There is a luxury in doing good Which none but by experience e'er can know. He 's blest who doeth good. Sleep comes to him On wings of sweetest peace ; and angels meet • In joyous convoys ever rodnd his couch ; They watch and guard, protect and pray for Tiim All mothers bend the knee, and children too Clasp their fair hands and raise their undimmed eyes, As if to pierce the shadowy veil that hangs Between themselves and God — then pray that he Will bless with Heaven's best gifts the friend of man. A PLEA FOR THE FALLEN. 245 A PLEA FOR THE FALLEN. Pitt her, pity her ! Once she was fair, Once breathed she sweetly the innocent's prayer ; Parents stood by in pride o'er their daughter ; Sin had not tempted, Vice had not caught her ; Hoping and trusting, believing all true. Nothing hut happiness rose to her yiew. She, as were spoken words lovers might tell, Listened, confided, consented, and fell ! Now she 's forsaken ; nursing in sorrow. Hate for the night, despair for the morrow ! She 'd have the world think she 's happy and gay, - A butterfly, roving wherever it may ; Sipping (ielight from each rose-bud and flower, The charmed and the charmer of every hour. She will not betray to the world all her grief ; She knows it is false, and will give no relief. She knows that its friendship is heartless and cold • That it loves but for gain, and pities for gold ; That when in their woe the fallen do cry. It turns, it forsakes, and it leaves them to die! But after the hour of the world's bright show, When hence from her presence flatterers go ; When none are near to praise or caress her. No one stands by with fondness to bless her ; Alone with her thoughts, in moments like this, She thinks of her days of innocent bliss. And she weeps ! — yes, she weeps penitent tears O'er the shamj of a life and the sorrow of years : She turns for a friend ; yet, alas ! none is there ; She sinks, once again, in the deepest despair ! Blame her not ! blame not, ye fathers who hold Daughters you value more dearly than gold ! But pity, 0, pity her ! take by the hand One who, though fallen, yet nobly may stand, 21* 2iQ HALF HOUR STORIES. Turn not away from her plea and her cries ; Pity and help, and the fallen may rise ! Crush not to earth the reed that is broken, Bind up her wounds — let soft words be spoken ; Though she be low, though worldlings r^ect her, ^ tiet not Humanity ever neglect her JOY BEYOND. Beyond the dark, deep grave, whose lowly portal Must yet be passed by every living mortal, There gleams a light ; 'T is not of earth. It wavers not ; it gloweth With a blear radiance which no changing knoweth, Constant and bright. We love to gaze at it ; we love to cherish The cheering thought, that, when this earth shall perish, And naught remain Of ajl these temples, — things we now inherit, Each unimprisoned, no more fettered spirit Shall life retain. And ever, through eternity unending. It shall unto that changeless light be tending, TiU perfect day , Shall be its great reward ; and all of mystery That hath.made up its earthly life, its history. Be passed away ! 0, joyous hour ! O, day most good and glorious ! When from the earth the ransomed rise victorious. Its conflict o'er ; When joy henceforth each grateful soul engages, Joy unalloyed through never-ending ages, Joy evermore ! THE SUMMER DATS ARE COMING. 217 THI SUMMER DATS ARE COMING. The summer days are coming, The glorious summer hours, When Nature decks her gorgeous robe "With sunbeams and with flowers ; And gathers all her choristers In plumage bright and gay, TiU every vale is echoing with Their joyous roundelay. No more shall frosty winter Hold in its cold embrace The water ; but the river Shall join again the race ; And down the mountain's valley, And o'er its rocky side, The glistening streams shall rush and leap In all their bounding pride. There 's pleasure in the winter, When o'er the frozen snow With faithful friend and noble steed Right merrily we go ! But give to me the summer, The pleasant summer days When blooming flpwers and sparkling streams Enliven all our ways. ■ THE MAN WHO KNOWS EYERTTHING. Sansecrat is one of that class of persons -who think they know everything. If anything occurs, and you seek to inform him, he will interrupt you by saying that he knows it all, — that he was on the spot when the occurrence happened, or that he had met a man who was an eye-witness. Such a person, though he be the possessor of much assur- ance, is sadly deficient in manners ; and no doubt the super- abundancy of the former is caused by the great lack of the latter. Such men as he will thrive ; there is no mistake about it. This has been called an age of invention and of humbug. Nothing is so popular, or so much sought after, as that which cannot be explained, and around which a mysterious shroud is closely woven. My friend Arcanus came sweating and puffing into my room. I had just finished my dinner, and was seated lei- surely looking over a few pages of manuscript, when he entered. " News ! " said he ; and before I could hand him a chair be had told me all about the last battle, and his tongue flew about with so much rapidity, that a conflagration might have been produced by such excessive friction, had not a rap at the door put a clog under the wheels of his talkative loco- motive, and stayed its progress, which luckily gave me an opportunity to take his hat and request him to be seated. The door was opened, and who but Sansecrat stood be- fore me. THE MAN WHO KNOWS EVBRTTHINQ. 249 "Have you heard the news? " was the first interrogatory of my friend Arcanus, in reply to -which Sansecrat said that he knew it all half an hour previous, — was at the railroad station when the express arrived, and was the first man to open the Southern papers. In vain Arcanus told him that the information came by a private letter. He averred, point blank, that it was no such thing ; that he had the papers in his pocket ; and was about to exhibit them as proof of what he had said, when he suddenly recollected that he had sold them to an editor for one-and- sixpenee. Notwithstanding the proverb of "Man, know thyself," Sansecrat seems to know everything but himself Thousands of times has it been said that man can see innumerable faults and foibles in his neighbors, but none in himself. Very iarue ; and man can see his own character, just as he can see ■ his own face in a mirror. His own associates mirror forth his own character ; and the faults, be they great or small, that he sees in them, are but the true reflection of his own errors. Yet, blind to this, and fondly imagming that he is the very "pink of excellence," he flatters his own vain feeling with the cherished idea that, while others have faults, he has none, and so sluml^ers on in the sweet repose of ignorance. Sansecrat imagines that he knows everything; that to teach him would be like " carrying coals to Newcastle," or sending ship-loads of ice to Greenland, or furnaces to the coast of" Africa; yet he is as ignorant as the greatest dunce, who, parrot-like, repeats that he has heard, without having the least understanding of what he says. Strange as it may seem, it is nevertheless true that Sansecrat will prosper in the world ; for, though destitute of those qualifications which render their possessor worthy of success, he has an abundance of brazeu-facedness, with 250 HALF HOUR STORIES. which he will work himself into the good opinion of not a few, who look more closely upon exterior appearance than they do upon inward worth, and judge their fellow- men more by the good quality of their cloth than by the good quality of their hearts, and set more value on a shining hat and an unpatched boot than they do on a brilliant intel- lect and a noble soul. PRIDE AND POVERTY. I CANNOT brook the proud. I cannot love The selfish man ; he seems to have no heart ; And why he lives and moves upon this earth Which God has made so fair, I cannot tell. He has no soul but that within his purse, And all his hopes are centred on its fate ; That lost, and all is lost. I knew a man Who had abundant riches. He was proud, — Too oft the effect of riches vrhen abused, — His step was haughty, and his eye glanced at The honest poor as base intruders on The earth he trod and fondly called his own ; Unwelcome guests at Nature's banqueting. Years passed away, — that youth became a man ; His beetled brow, his sullen countenance, His eye that looked a fiery command. Betrayed that his ambition was to rule. He smiled not, save in scorn on humble men, Whom he would have bow down and worship him Thus with his strength his pride did grow, until He dijj become aristocrat indeed. The Kumble beggar, whose loose rags scarce gave Protection to hinf from the cold north wind. He scarce would look upon, and vainly said, As in his hand he held the ready coin, " No mortal need be poor, — 'tis his o^d fau.^' If such he be ; — if he court poverty, wet all its miseries be his to bear." 252 HALF HOUR STOEIES. 'T is many years since he the proud spake thus, And men and things have greatly changed since then. No more in wealth he rolls, — men's fortuiies change. I met a Icnely hearse, dowly it passed Toward the church-yard. 'T was unattended Save by one old man, and he the sexton. With spade beneath his arm he trudged along, Whistling a homely tune, and stopping not. He seemed to be in haste, for now and then He 'd urge to quicker pace his walking beast, With the rough handle of his rusty spade. Him I approached, and eagerly inquired Whose body thus was borne so rudely to Its final resting-place, the deep, dark grave. " His name was Albro," was the prompt reply. " Too proud to beg^ we found him starved to death, In a lone garret, which the rats and mice ' Seemed greatly loth to have him occupy. An' I, poor BUly Matterson, whom once He deemed too poor and low to look upon. Am come to bury him." The sexton smiled, — Then raised his rusty spade, cheered up his nag. Whistled as he was wont, and jogged along. Oft I have seen the poor man raise his hand To wipe the eye when good men meet the grave, — But Billy Matterson, he turned and smiled. The truth flashed in an instant on my mind. Though sad, yet deep, unchanging truth to me. 'T was he, thus borne, who, in his younger days, Blest with abundance, used it not aright. He, who blamed the poor because they were such ; Behold his end ! — too proud fi beg, he died. A sad example, teaching all to shun The rock on which he shipwrecked, — warning tnke, ' That they too fall not as he rashly fell. ■WORDS THAT TOUCH THE INNER HEART. 253 WORDS THAT TOUCH THE INNER HEART. Words, words ! 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 Bom to be as free as air, Yet crushed and cramped by Slavery's fcMuds, — 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 teeathe 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 vfith 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 ! 22 254 HALF HOUR STORIES. 0, men ! who have the power to weave la 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 ; Eoses 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 CONSEaiJENCE. Speculation is business in a high fever. Its termina- tion is generally very decided, whether favorable or other- wise, 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 nund 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 biow, 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 Umon there 256 HAIP HOUR 6T0MBS. resided, a few years since, a person in moderate circum- stances, by the name of Robert ghort. Bob, as be was usually called, was a shoemaker. With a steady run of cus' torn, 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 upoii 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 asso- ' ciate 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 pre- vailed 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 u^on that article most convenient, — whether a stool or a pile of leather, it mattered not, — relkting some tale of the Revolu- tion, 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, SPECULATION AND ITS CONSIQUENCE. 257 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 endeavoj-ed 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 com- mon 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 7" eagerly inquired Mr. Short. "Why," replied the squire, "it's no use forme to go into particulars. But why do you not associate with more respectable and fashionable company 7 " " Is not the present company respectable 7 " resumed Mr. Short; " and as for the fashion, I follow my own." Squire Smith did not reply to this inquiry, but stood shak- ing 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, appealing 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^wo^ dress so fashionably as you would wish, would you condemn him for the cut of his coat, or the quality of his cloth 7 Perhaps his means are not very extensive, and will 22* 258 HALF HOim STOKCES. not admit of a very expensive outlay, merely for show. It is much letter, 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 Kobert, 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 elo- quent words that fell from the Ups of his ynexpected 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 despondmg appear- ance ; he had heard of many losses caused by venturing in these speculations, and had some doubts as to hia. success, BPECUIATION ANl ITS CONSBQTJENCB. , 259 bHouM 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 GuUhaa 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 1 I have but a snug thousand." "0, don't trouble yourself about that," replied the de- lighted squire. " I will loan you the balance at once. You can return it at some convenient time. What say you 1 will you accompany me to the broker's, and inform him of the agreement?" i Mr. Short, after a moment's delay, arose, and, laying aside his leather apron, took the squire by the arm, and both sal- lied forth in search of the office of Varnum Gull. After .wending their way through short streets and long lanes, nar- row avenues and wide alleys, they came to a small gate, upon which was fastened a small tin sign with the following in- scription: " 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. 26C ^ HALF HOUR STORIES. " 'Olio, Squire, 'ere's tbe 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 oflfers, but 'ave reserved it for you. Your friend, ha? " he con- tinued, 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 'axe become 'quainted with the rare chance I 've oflfered, an^t ye ? and wish to accept it, don't ye 7 and can pay for it, can't ye 7 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, re- SPECULATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCE. 2G1 ceiving thereby the enormous profit of nineteen hundi-ed 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, ffr 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, f he 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 cus- tomer had yet applied for the land. It was near dusk on the eighth day succeeding the purchase, as ^hey 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 1 " 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 con- 262 HAtF HOUK STORIES. ditions ; 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 Jiave 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 satisfac- tion. 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 com- municated 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 sqftire. He rented a large store ; bought large quantities of shoes and leather, partly on credit. His busi- ness at first prospered, buV iu a short time became quite SPBCITLATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCE. 263 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 ? " " 0, ^* 's moderate, nothing extra," replied Mr. Short ; " won't you be seated 1 " The stranger seated himself. " Mr. Robert Short is your name, is it not 7 " he'inquired. " It is, sir." " Did I not make a bargain. with you about some eastern land, a few months since 1 " "Yes, some person did ;" and Mr. Short immediately recog- nized 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 7 " " 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 water- ing place, being wholly covekbd with water ; and is of no value unless it could be drained, and that, I think, ia impossible." The squire was astonished ; Mr. Short knew not what to 264 HALE HOUR STOEIES. " What is the name of the water bought for land?" iii» quired 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 strafiger, "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 id debt. He was obliged to work at such jobs as came along,- but at length obtained steady employ- ment. 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 tlis day he has steadily worked, with a vivid remembrance of the tonsequence 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 footateps turned to where His childhood's days were cast, And sat him 'neath an old oak tree Tojmuse 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 aU 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 aislet His youthful f^t had ttod ; 23 266 HALF HOUR STORIES. 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 hody crushed beneath its woe May some deliverance find, But who on earth hath power to heal The agony of mind? 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 lov*^ And with a worthy pride He led a cherished being tO' The altar 9» his bride ; EBTKOSPEOTION. 26 T 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 ! 0, 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 : r 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 '11 dash the bowl away ! " A smile passed o'er the wife's pale face. She grasped his trembUng hand, 268' HAM' HOTIK, STOEIES. 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 loneUness ^ And sorrow of his lot. It seemed as though his life had fled ; That aM he called his own. When her pure spirit took its flight. Had with that spirit flowh. 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 '11 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 ; Ihey asked no more why he did weep, Tor 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. NArnKB''S PAIS DAUGHTER, BEATJTIFUI, WATBE. 26^ NATURE'S FAIR DATJGHTER, BEAUTIFUL WATER. Natukb's fair daughter, Beautiful water ! 0, 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. Nohly appearing, O'er cliffi 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 felling. As if 'twere calling Spirits of beauty from forest and deU To welcome it on to grotto and cell. m 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 ! ■^here'er it sparkles cir ripples on earth, HaU it with joy and with echoes of mirth. 23* 270 HALB HOUR STOKIBS. THE TEST OP FRIENDSHIP. Beightest shine the stars above TV hen 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 '11 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 deemed friends forever ; Love them, trust them, have them know Nothing can your friendship sever. WEEP NOT. ' 271 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 'It meet her, Thou -wilt greet her Where reunions have no end Her life's true sun Its course did run Prom 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. 272 HALF HOTJE STORIES. Weep not, mother, For another Tie doth bind thyself above; Doubts are vanished, Sorrows banished, She it happj whom you love. RICH AND POOR. "GoOD-BT, 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, lie 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 1 " resumed the owner of a thousand acres ; " ask mo 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 'twas kindness that prompted him to do me a favor ; rather say 't was his duty, — and of you should I not expect better things 1 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 pas- sionate 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 reliera 274 ' HAtP HOIJB STOBIES. the wants ancl administer to the necessities of our fellow- men ? Shall Tve hoard them up, or shall we not rather giye with a free hand and a willing heart to those who have felt misfortune's scourging rod,— who are crushed, oppressed and trampled upon, hy not a few of their more wealthy neigh- bors 1" 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 con- stitute the true gentleman. His countenance beamed witjji 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 sev- ered, and Eay 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 man- ner. The hour of parting had come and gone. The fare- well 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 conve- niences 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. EICH AND POOR. ' 275 " 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 pau- per, that 's my only charge against him ; and all the thun- dering 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 conversa- tion, 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 lef^ 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 indiffer- ence 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 deter- mination. The command of her father not to associate with the poor only served to strengthen her resolution, for she 276 HALF HOUK STOEIES. 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? " inquireji 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 win- dows 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 1 " "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 ; RICH AND POflR. 277 ■and, shortly after dark, being provided with it, she proceeded to his house. It was a dark night. The moon was obscured by thick tflouds, and no twinkling star shone to guide her on her er- rand 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 andT 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, request- ing him not to disclose the manner in which he received it, and, as silently withdrawing, wended her way home. Aa she entered the parlor, she found her father and brother en- gaged 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 '11 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 !" Aa he said this the wealthy landlord left the room. .