CHAPTER XVIII.

JULIA ANTRIM, AND OTHER OLD ACQUAINTANCES.

"Should old acquaintance be forgot?"

"There is a lost sheep returned to the fold."

If those who would reform the vicious, knew the power of love and kind words towards the poor fallen creatures who abound in our city, and how much stronger they are than prison bars, how much more powerful than handcuffs, fetters and whip lashes, we should soon see the spirit of reformation hovering over us like the guardian angel sent to save a city that should be found to contain only five righteous persons.

My readers may remember the slight glimpse they had of the face of Julia Antrim, on two occasions--once as a street walker, only thirteen years old, dressed in borrowed clothes, or rather in garments furnished by one of the beldams who keep the keys of our numerous city pandemoniums, where innocence is entrapped, and virtue sold at a discount; and again a year or two later, when the fiend who said "our trade," laughed to see her dragged out of one of the underground dens where demons dwell, where rum is sold and souls destroyed, on her way to prison, and the termination of a career, to which one half, at least, arrive at, who take the first step--false step--in the same road.

In the morning she was "sent up:" a short phrase which means imprisonment for six months in the city penitentiary. Penitentiary!! What is a penitentiary? A place of repentance and reformation.

Ours is a place to harden young offenders, or rum-made criminals--to make them worse rather than better. It made Julia Antrim worse. It was the work of the missionary, and the benevolent heart of Mr. Lovetree, and the kind words of Mrs. May and Stella, that effected what dungeons, fetters whips, and harsh language could not.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Morgan to me one evening, "such a story as my uncle has been telling me; do tell him, uncle, about one of those 'Five Point girls,' rescued from one of those miserable dens."

"You remember the girl," said he, "that you saw dragged out of the cellar for picking her paramour's pocket? Come with me and you shall see her and hear her own story. Athalia, come put on your hat and go with us. You know how glad Mrs. May and Stella always are to see you."

They were so this evening. Stella was in the front shop busy with her pins and needles, threads and tapes, and all the numerous little articles of necessity which go to make up an assortment, for which she had a demand that not only kept her busy, but also a fine bright active little boy. He is on the road to wealth and manhood now. He was on the road to ruin once. He was the son of a drunken father, who taught him to "prig" and sell the stolen articles for rum. The reader has seen him before. Would you like to know where? Turn back to page 30--look at that picture of the fireman rescuing two children from the flames. This bright boy is the child of drunken Bill Eaton. How Stella's eyes did sparkle as she saw us enter; far more than they would to see her best customer, for now she saw her best friend, her kind patron, who gave her the means to gain good customers.

"Oh, mother, mother, here is Mr. Lovetree and Mrs. Morgan, and that other gentleman!"

Then Mrs. May's eyes sparkled, for "she was so glad to see us"--she was always glad to see us. She was very busy in the little back shop, working away, and she had two very neat-looking industrious girls at work with her. We have seen both of them before. One of them for the first time on the steps of the Bank of the Republic, clothed in a poor dirty ragged dress, with that same little boy, sickly and pale, leaning upon his sister for support, and keeping her company as the two wandered through the streets, making midnight melodious with that ever pealing summer cry, of, "Hot corn, hot corn, here's your nice hot corn, smoking hot, smoking hot, just from the pot, all hot, hot, hot!"

She will sing, it no more. She is in a better situation now for a little girl than midnight street rambling; that is not the best school for young girls--we have seen how near the brink of ruin it led Sally Eaton.

She was rescued just in time--just before she was lost. Two great calamities fell upon her in one night. Her father was killed, and her mother's house was burned, leaving the poor widow and her two children in the street, naked, except one garment, amid the crowd that came to look upon what she then thought the wreck of all hope. It proved her greatest blessing; for in that crowd were those who took her in, and clothed and fed, and sent her children to school, and taught her girl how to work; and, finally, placed her as a help to another widow, where she will soon learn and earn enough to help herself. The other girl, who is now working with her old companion, was once her street associate in rags and wretchedness; afterwards, her envied, because better clothed, acquaintance. We saw her too, upon the same evening that we first saw the little Hot Corn girl driven away from her hard seat upon those cold stone steps--less cold than the heart of the great world towards its outcast population. We saw her again, just where we then knew that her course of life would lead her--to intoxication,--wretchedness--crime--prisons, and--no, she stopped just short of death, and returned to virtue, industry, and happiness.

After the heartfelt, happiness-giving congratulations of Mrs. May, Stella, Sally Eaton, and "Brother Willie," were over, I turned to a nice, modest-looking young girl and said, "and who is this? What is your name?"

"Julia Antrim, sir."

Did I dream? No, I did not dream, I looked upon sober reality. It was the poor outcast, whom I had seen dragged away from the underground abode of all that is bad, to "the Tombs," and from whence she went to "the Island," and as I heard, from there, at the expiration of her noviciate, to one of the lowest, most degraded, worse than beastly, abodes of those who have only the form of humanity remaining. So I told her I had heard, and she replied,

"True--where else could I go? I could go nowhere but there. I came out of prison with only the clothes they gave me there, with my hair cropped--branded, to tell all the world to beware of me--that I was a 'prison bird.' If I desired, and I really did, to return to a virtuous life, the door was for ever closed against me. I went back to Mrs. Brown's, the woman who had first tempted me, with fine clothes and jewelry, to sin--to that house where I lost all that a poor girl has on earth--her virtue--where I had sinned and profited, as the term is, by sinning; where I had left piles of rich clothing, and pretended friends. I knocked at the door, once so ready to open for my first admission, and that too was closed in my face with an oath, a horrid, wicked woman's oath, bidding me to go away or she would send a policeman--I knew the policeman would do her bidding--to take me away as a common street vagrant, coming there to disgrace a 'respectable house.' I went away, dispirited, broken-hearted, and sunk down into that wretched abode in Anthony street, where I was found by Mr. Pease, and actually compelled, much against my will, to go to the Five Points House of Industry, where I was washed, and clothed, and fed, and sobered, furnished with work, and, above all else, taught to love God and pray, and, for the first time in more than two years, to feel one moment of happiness.

"When I was with those wretches in that miserable hole where Mr. Pease found me, I really thought that my heart had got so bad, that it could not, would not, ever be good again.

"How I did use to curse and hate everybody that was good. That good man who saved me at last, I hated worse than all others. All who are like what I was then, hate him and fear him more then they do all the prisons and police in the city. If somebody would publish the truth, or only half the truth, of what I alone know of the crime and misery about the Five Points of New York, and how much good all the good men have done who have devoted themselves to the reformation of those wretched human beings, I do think that everybody with a good heart would buy the book, and thus contribute a mite to aid the good work--a work that saves from a life worse than death, scores of children and young girls, lost to every virtuous thought or action; lost to all hope in life or eternity.

"Oh, sir," and she seized me by the hands in her energy, "you can write--Stella has told me how you can write--that you have written some powerful stories; pray write more, more, more; the world will read, and it will do a world of good."

"Well, Julia, if I write, I must have characters and names, to fill up the incidents of my Life Scenes, shall I use yours?"

"Yes, yes, if it will do good, and save others."

"And mine." "And mine." "And mine." "I think," said Mrs. May, "that the incidents connected with Athalia's life, would alone make quite a volume; would you have any objection to having them written out and published, Mrs. Morgan?"

"Perhaps I might consent, if it was well done, if it would serve as a beacon to save others from being shipwrecked upon the same desolate shore where I came so near being totally lost; only escaping by the smallest chance, and by one of the most singular interpositions of Providence, and through the efforts of one of the weakest instruments. It is to Stella, first of all that I owe my present happiness. It was through her that all my friends became interested for me. In fact, if it had not been for her, my dear uncle would never have known where to find me."

"Rather give the credit to a higher power; that power which gave him the kind benevolent heart that beats in his breast; that disposition to watch over the young and guard the innocent, which led him to take an interest in my poor child. Let us be grateful to all the humble instruments of Him who giveth every good and perfect gift to man, but to Him to whom we owe all of our present happiness, be the final praise."

Now there was a little space of silence; a time for reflection; all were too full of thought, holy, happy thought, to speak. It is good to think. The world is generally too much given to act without thinking. Mr. Lovetree was not. He thought that we had agreed to visit Mrs. De Vrai, on our way home, "but before I go," said he, "I want to invite you all to dine with us next Sabbath. I want to see our little party of friends all together, for a certain purpose."

"Uncle always has a little surprise to play off upon his friends. I am afraid this is not a pleasant one, or else he would not have chosen Sunday."

"I chose that," said he, "because I know how difficult it is for the laboring poor to give a day from their working time, for any kind of recreation. I assure you that this will be a pleasant surprise, though not an inappropriate one for the day, for I intend to have a minister with us to ask a blessing upon our food."

"Oh," said Stella, "I can guess it."

Young girls are always ready to guess as she did. She guessed it was to be a wedding. She guessed that Mrs. Morgan was going to be married. Then the others guessed so too. Mrs. Morgan guessed not. She was sure she could not get married without somebody to have her. Of course not. But Stella thought that "somebody" would not be very hard to find. She knew a gentleman that liked her well enough to marry her.

At any rate, that the party was to be a wedding one was pretty well settled. Whether the bride will be Athalia or not we shall see. So then, after lots of "good night" and "do come again soon," we parted, and went on our way to visit the sick and dying victim of fashionable dissipation, which led her through a rapid career of a few happy months, and then through years of woe, from wine at dinner, to "cobblers" at late suppers, and bitters in the morning; till an appetite was acquired which could only be satisfied by constant libations of anything that would intoxicate, procured by any means, however debasing, till she ceased to be a lady; almost ceased to be a woman; quite forgot that she was a mother; else how could she have driven that poor little innocent child out upon the streets, murky and damp, with her cry of "Hot Corn, hot corn, all smoking hot!" while the poor child was chilly, cold, and starving?

Poor girl--poor little Katy! Thy mother loves thee now. Look down from thy blest abode--it is thy mother calls, it is thy voice she hears, and she answers, "Yes, yes I will come."

"She is better, sir," said Phebe, as we entered the door. "She has been sitting up a good deal, and she talks of going over to your house to-morrow, Mrs. Morgan; she says she must go out, and take the air, or she never will get well."

This was pleasant news, and it quite elated Mrs. Morgan. Mr. Lovetree gave one of his peculiar expressions of countenance as soon as he saw her, which told as plain as though he had spoken it, that she never would go out again but once, that would be a ride which all must, none are willing, to take.

We were all very much delighted to find Mrs. Meltrand and Agnes, with Mrs. De Vrai. Mrs. Meltrand, ever since she had first seen her, had fallen in love with little Sissee, the sweet little Adaleta, and this evening Mrs. De Vrai, had made her a final promise, that if she should not get well, Mrs. Meltrand should have her for her own; and she had promised to adopt her and make her as much her child as though she was really so.

"But what is the use of talking? I don't feel any more like dying than you do. I am almost well. My cough has quite gone."

But a bright crimson spot upon each cheek had not gone, and that told its own tale. Adaleta was delighted with sister Agnes. She could hardly bear to part with her. She will not, but her mother must. How little any one would have thought, as we parted that evening, leaving the invalid so cheerful and full of hope, that we had parted for the last time. No! not the last time--may we hope for one more meeting? Let us now retire to our chambers and prepare for that meeting. Let us say to the reader, as we said to the poor sufferer, "Good night. God be with you!"

CHAPTER THE LAST.

All things must have an end.

Where there is true friendship, there needs no gloss to our deeds, no hollow welcome to real friends.

"By and by" is easy said; it means an uncertain time, but it comes at last. It came to Mrs. De Vrai, only a few hours after our last parting. Phebe came with the early morning to say, "She is gone, sir; gone to meet her poor child in the hope of the penitent. After you went away, she lay and talked and talked about you, all of you, and Mrs. Meltrand and Agnes, and how happy she should be if she was a going to die, to think that her child would have such a good mother and sister, and so many real friends; and how different it would be with herself now, here and hereafter, as well as her child, than it would have been if she had died in her former residence of wretchedness, sin, and woe. Then I asked her if she would take her medicine and go to sleep, and she said; 'by and by, not now; I feel so well, so happy, I can almost fancy that I see my poor little Katy in heaven among the angels. I often see her here in the room when I am laying with my eyes closed, but not asleep; and I often think I hear her dying words, "Will he Come!" and I say "yes, he has come; the Saviour has come, my child, to your mother." Then she says, "then come, mother, come and live with us;" and I answer, "by and by." By and by, Phebe I shall go, but not yet, I am going to get well now.'

"So I went and lay down in the back room, and I heard nothing of her, though I got up and looked at her a good many times, but she seemed to be sleeping so sweet, I thought I would not wake her to take her medicine--the doctor said I need not. In the morning I got up, and looked in the room, and there was Sissee sitting up in the bed, trying to open her mother's eyes; then she would put her arms around her neck and kiss her, but there was no kiss in return. Then she sat back and looked at her a minute, and then called--'Phebe, Phebe, mamma does not speak, oh Phebe, is mamma dead!"

Yes mamma was dead. She had died as calm and free from pain and full of joy as when she said "good night" to her friends. She had died full of anticipation that she was going to live to get well; that she would not join the spirit of Little Katy now, but by and by: by and by she would come.

Drop a tear, drop a tear, for she's departed! Wreath a smile, for she died not broken-hearted.

This was on Friday morning. On the Sunday following, the intended party met at Mrs. Morgan's and partook of an early dinner. "For," said Mr. Lovetree, "we have a good deal to do this afternoon. In the first place, some of our friends are disposed to be united in the holy, the blessed bonds, that bind the sexes together in a union that should be indissoluble, and productive of nothing but happiness. After that we have a duty to perform, which though it is generally termed melancholy, must not be made so on the present occasion. We shall go to deposit the body in Greenwood, that lovely place of rest for the dead, of one who we have every reason to believe died a true penitent, and is now with the spirit of Little Katy, where those who are murdered by the same cause that produced her death, will seldom ever be found. Our good missionary is with us, and we will have the wedding ceremony before the funeral one, because many go from that to the grave, none come from there to the marriage feast."

Now all began to look around for the happy couple. Mrs. Morgan was dressed as though she might be a bride, but where was the groom? Mr. Lovetree whispered to Mrs. Meltrand, for she was there with Agnes and little Sis, and Mrs. Meltrand said that Frank would be there by the time.

"Now what Frank is that?" said Stella in a whisper to Mrs. May; "it must be Frank Barkley; and so it is Mrs. Morgan that is going to be married. Oh, dear, I am sorry, I was in hopes she would always live with her old uncle, as she does now."

It _was_ Frank Barkley who was expected. He was an old acquaintance of Mrs. Meltrand, a little wild in his youth, and came within an inch of the precipice over which so many young men tumble. Mr. Lovetree had said, "there is something good in the fellow," and between him and Mrs. Meltrand, it was developed. He is a good fellow--a sober fellow now--and he is going to be married. Now the door bell rings.

"There that is him."

Yes, it was him. He was told that all were waiting for him, and he said "he had come to the minute agreed upon." Poor Stella shed tears. She cried to think her dear friend, Mrs. Morgan, was about to be married. She cried without a cause.

Mr. Lovetree said to Frank, "allow me to introduce you to my niece, Mrs. Morgan."

He started back from her, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Stella rubbed hers. She was convinced now that they were not to be married. Poor Frank looked confused and in doubt. He approached near enough to Mrs. Morgan to whisper, "Lucy," to which she replied, "Yes," and he said, "God bless you then," and turned away to meet his bride.

This was Agnes. And he took her by the hand, and led her up to the minister who was to pronounce them man and wife, and said--"Now, sir, we are ready." Then a couple, who were to act as bridesmaid and bridegroom's attendant, took their stations upon the floor. It was the opinion of all present that they would act as principals in a similar scene by and by.

Perhaps the reader would like to know who this neatly-dressed, bright couple are, for he has seen them several times before. It is one of Mr. Lovetree's oddities that you see them now. You have seen them when they would not be very fitting guests in a parlor, but they wear wedding-garments now. This is Tom, who held the cup of cold water to the lips of the dying Madalina, and this is his reward. The neat, lovely girl at his side is Wild Maggie--Miss Margaret Reagan. The fine-looking hearty man that is leading up a well-dressed woman to the altar--another couple to be married--is one of the former customers of Cale Jones's grocery. It is Maggie's father. His bride is Mrs. Eaton. We have seen her and her two children in some of the early scenes of this volume. We saw them in the street then--we see them in the parlor now. We see them much better, much happier this time, and we see them just as we might see all the laboring class, if we could abolish the traffic in rum from the world. There are two other couples here to bear testimony to that fact. It was the particular request of Reagan and Maggie that they should be present to witness and rejoice over the power of the pledge to save. We have seen both these couples stand up to be married before the same minister who is now saying the solemn words of the marriage ceremony to those before him. You may see them as they were when you first saw them, if you will turn back to the plate facing the "Two Penny Marriage."

Julia Antrim and Willie Reagan act as attendants upon this last couple, and Sally Reagan and Stella May, dressed in pure white--dresses of their own make--with wreaths of flowers in their hair, made by their own hands--served the company with cakes and fruits and tea and coffee. Then the carriages came to the door, and all went--not to a tavern, or drinking saloon for a riot, to commemorate the most serious event of life, but in all soberness due to the occasion, to consign the remains of poor Madame De Vrai to her final resting-place on the earth.

It is a pleasant drive to Greenwood Cemetery, and it is a pleasant place for the tombs of our friends. It is a good place to go to meditate, among the new-made graves in the fresh-turned earth, and among the proud monuments of those who have lain long enough beneath their marble coverings to be forgotten. I did not forget to look, as I passed along, at the rose bush which I saw planted by a widow at the grave of her rum-murdered husband. It was growing fresh and vigorously.

Now we stand around the open grave that is soon to be filled by another victim of a trade that feeds scores and starves millions--that saves one life and causes a thousand deaths--that consigns youth, innocence and beauty, equally with old age, to a premature grave. Now we lower this last victim--still young, beautiful, intelligent, full of sweetness of disposition and kindness of heart--into her grave. Now we look at the little cherub, the darling, sweet, much loved Adaleta, her orphan child, and now at her sister's grave, then at the weeping circle, who stand and sob as the falling clods bring forth that hollow sound, never heard in any other place. Now the voice of him who says: "'Tis the last of earth," "Let us pray," breaks the charmed circle of intense silence.

Why is every eye upturned at the close? Did each listening ear fancy it heard the sound of an angel's voice in the air, breathing the words,--"Will he Come?" "Will he Come?"

And did they expect to see the face of Little Katy in the clouds, looking down upon those she loved, paying this tribute to her mother, now sleeping by her side in the grave; now with her child in the spirit land of the blest?

Now the tall corn is waving o'er the mountain and glen, And the sickle is reaping both the corn and the men; And the child that was sleeping where the lamps dimly shone, Like the corn, now is with'ring, in the vale all alone. "Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night, all alone, "Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone.

Where the chill rain was falling, sat the poor child asleep; Where the lights nightly burning, city vigils help keep-- Where the ague was creeping through the blood and the bone Of the child that was sleeping on the curb-stone alone. "Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone, "Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone.

In a dark room lonely, lay the child all awake, With a voice wildly crying, "Will he come, for my sake?" Then a good man was praying, while to her dimly shone, Poor fading light--ceases burning--and with God she's alone. "Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone, "Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone.

In the dark grave sleeping, while poor Katy's at rest, While the wild storm raging, ever sweeps o'er her breast-- While the mourners are weeping for the dead passed away, Let us pledge by the living that the cause we will stay. "Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone, "Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn," in the grave all alone.

A VOICE FROM KATY'S GRAVE.

Among the many poetical effusions which have been elicited by reading the story of "Little Katy," I think the following, which appeared in the New York Tribune, will be read with pleasure. It is from the pen of Mrs. B. F. Foster, of New York:--

With dizzy whirl, on rushed the wheels Along the City's murky street, And music's light, inspiring peals Rang out from folly's gay retreat; And busy footsteps hurried past, And human voices, harsh and wild, Commingling, floated on the blast; When the shrill accents of a child Rose mid the din, in tones forlorn, And cried, "Come, buy hot corn, hot corn!"

Like some sad spirit wafted by, A stranger to the ways of earth, Came up that little plaintive cry-- Sweet discord to the sounds of mirth. Unheeded by the reckless crowd, There stood a girl, a pale, wan thing, And 'neath her bosom's tattered shroud There lurk'd an age of suffering; While e'en till night approached the morn, In feebler voice, she cried, "Hot Corn!"

The gas lamp's glare fell on her face, But lighted not her languid eyes; And down her pallid cheeks, the trace Of tears, bespoke her miseries; With hunger gnawing at her heart, She shivered, as the night wind blew Her soiled and ragged clothes apart; Till all insensible she grew, And sinking in unblessed sleep, Forgot to cry, "Hot Corn," and weep.

Alone, so young, how came she there? To sell hot corn so late at night; Had she no friends, no home, nowhere To rest, and hide her from the sight Of the rude world? No mother? Hush! That holy name is not the one For Katy's parent. Woman! blush For thy lost sister; blush to own That thou canst ever fall so low, To plunge thy children into woe.

Within that mother's heart, the light Of love was quench'd, quench'd by the flood, The damning flood, whose waters blight All that is left of human good: And in her breast that demon reigned, Who "Give, give, give!" is ever crying; Demanding still to be maintained, While all within, around, is dying; Outpouring in its baneful breath, Destruction, sorrow, sin and death.

The lips which should have kiss'd away Her daughter's tears, dealt curses forth; The hand which should have been her stay, Was but the minister of wrath; Blind to her wants, deaf to her prayers, Regardless of the driving storm, To open streets and midnight airs, She drove that little shrinking form, To earn a dram! In shame and scorn With famished lips to cry, "Hot corn!"

"Hot corn, hot corn!"--night after night, More faint and feeble grew that voice-- Still fiercely burned each glaring light, Still music bade the town rejoice; The ceaseless footsteps passed along, Up came the wild discordant tones, The voices of the thoughtless throng,-- The bounding wheels rolled o'er the stones,-- But midst the din, the rush, the roar, Poor Katy's cry is heard no more.

In one of those dark, noisome cells, The wretched call their home, she lies All motionless; the icy spells Of death, have closed those weary eyes; She speaks not now. Alas! how dread! That calm reproachful silence, when Beside the wronged and injured dead, We kneel in vain! Low in that den Behold the stricken mother cower; Grown sober in one fearful hour.

She calls her, "Katy, darling!"--peers Into that pale and sunken face, She bathes her senseless brow with tears, Sees on those bruised limbs, the trace Of her own cruelty;--again She calls, and prays for one last word, Of blest forgiveness;--all in vain, The answering voice no more is heard, The soulless clay alone is there, And fell remorse, and dark despair.

Weep, wretched woman, weep! That face Shall haunt thee to thy dying day; Nor time from memory erase Thy child's deep wrongs; for they Shall scorch into thy guilty breast; In mad excitement thou shalt hear Her cries; and midst thy fitful rest, Shall that pale phantom form appear, And o'er thy drunken moping, stand To curse thee with an outstretched hand.

Yet not alone with thee, abides That curse. Oh, Men, and Christians! can Ye robe yourself in god-like pride, And boast your land, the one where man Is most exalted; yet permit The Demon Drunkenness to roam Unfettered through your streets; to sit By ev'ry corner, ev'ry home-- The weak and wretched to allure To drink, to suffer, and endure?

In mercy, then, arrest the reign Of this dread fiend; and Oh! protect Man from his self-inflicted pain. Spare the young wife, whose hopes are wreck'd, Whose heart is crushed, whose home forsaken, Whose life's a desolated wild. To infant prayers and tears awaken, And from the mother save the child. Hark to that echo!--"Save, oh, save!" Pleads a sad voice from Katy's grave.

* * * * *

"Pleads a sad voice from Katy's grave-- Save, oh, save!"

Fathers! mothers! sons! daughters! husbands! wives! Christians! philanthropists! All--brothers and sisters!--hear ye that voice? If ye do not, then, indeed, are ye deaf. Then have I cried in vain. In vain I have visited the abodes of wretchedness and sin, to draw materials for my panorama of "Life Scenes in New York." In vain I have painted you dark scenes of life, instead of those which shine out in the noonday sun.

In vain have I endeavored to awaken your sympathies by relations of tales of woe, or painted vice, as I have met with it in my midnight rambles, to guard you from its snares, if I have failed to touch that chord in your heart which brings a tear to the eye, for it is that which will prompt you to action--to sleepless vigilance, to eradicate from the world the great cause of such human misery as I have depicted. It is that which, will prompt you to give, if nothing more,

"Three grains of corn, Only three grains of corn, mother,"

towards the redemption of the fallen, and protection of those who need a staff and a guide to hold them back from the precipice over which they have gone down to ruin.

Reader, if you have not yet done it, do not close the book until you have paid the tribute of a tear at the grave of

Transcriber's Note:

Misspellings, archaic spellings, and multiple spellings retained as in original.