Chapter 20

Notwithstanding the entreaties of George, added to those of Josephine, James continued in the way he had begun to walk, and which was leading him to ruin. The arguments of the one, and the tears of the other, were equally unavailing.

So far had he proceeded in a downward course that his employers remonstrated; and the same arguments they had used upon their former clerks were urged upon his consideration. Fearing the loss of situation, he repented, but it was only to fall again before the power of that appetite with which he had tampered as with a torpid viper, which now felt the warmth of his embrace, and became a living, craving creature within his bosom.

His old companions perceived the change he was undergoing, and, like butterflies that hovered about his path in sunshine, left him as clouds overshadowed his way. But he had friends who would not leave him. He had a wife who clung to him with all the affection of woman's love, and a brother whose hand was ever extended to aid him.

James saw the evil that threatened to overwhelm him; yet, strangely infatuated, he would not come to a fixed determination to reform so far as to sign the pledge.

The sun never shone with a brighter effulgence than it did on the morning of the 24th of July, 1849. The streets of Boston were filled with busy crowds, and banners and flags streamed from balconies and windows. Delegates of men from the suburbs poured into the city, and the sound of music filled the air. Men, women, and children, the rich and the poor, the merchant and the mechanic, the American and the foreigner, joined in the movement; and a stranger could not long remain ignorant of the fact that some great event was to transpire that day in the capital of the Old Bay State. Crowds gathered at the corners, and lined the principal thoroughfares.

"He has blist his own country, an' now 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 more distinct became, to the Irishman and his friends, the peals of music and the hurras of the multitude.

THEOBALD MATHEW, the friend of Ireland, was making his entry into Boston! Never man was more gladly welcome. 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 "apostle" 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 approach; and when the carriage in which he was seated came near where he 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 "I do!" were heard far and near, and James Clifton had taken the pledge!

This was done from no sudden impulse. During the previous week he had indulged rather freely, and when its effects 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 was 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.

As he thought of his situation at Messrs. Laneville & Co.'s, he for a moment drew back, yet it was but for a moment. He resolved to leave it, and beg rather than continue to disgrace himself and bring ruin upon his relatives and friends. He was cheered by the thought that he had those around him who would 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 previous 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 myself a slave to an appetite. I ask your pardon, George, for the manner in which I treated your request."

"I grant it."

"Then I 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 man of seventeen, hopeful, promising. He had heard of the 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 hands, to rescue the one and to preserve the other.

ANGELINA.

BLUE-EYED child, with flaxen ringlets, 'Neath my window played, one day; And its tiny song of gladness, Sounded like an angel's lay. Roses bright 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 Fell upon her thick and fast; Fearing ill, I went and told her,-- Dearest child, 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 not heard her merry laugh, Nor those joyous tones that told me Of the joy her spirit quaffed. 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 Still 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."

FAREWELL, MY NATIVE LAND.

Written for KAH-GE-GA-GAI-BOWH, a representative from the Northwest Tribes of American Indians to the Peace Convention in Frankfort-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! O, glorious jubilee, When all mankind are one, from sea to sea. Farewell, my native land, rock, 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 eyes, 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; Land whose own warriors never knew a fear; Land 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 to part us,--fare thee well.

UNLEARNED TO LOVE.

HE hath unlearned to love; for once he loved A being whom his soul 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 his heart Hate dwells in 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 WAS 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 steady motion of a dozen pumps, That labored all the day, nor ceased at night. 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, but rags and boards, Torn 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 inventive 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 acquaintances "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 our 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 difficulty. Miss Seward was an inveterate letter-writer. There have 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 must have written nothing but letters, so many and various were they; but her fame as an authoress will convince any one that her industry overcame what might seem an impossibility, and that her genius in this particular resembled that of the steam-writing 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 employed 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 persons, 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 appropriate manner.

These facts show the ease and rapidity of some writers. In contradistinction to these are the letters of many eminent 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 acquire the art of correspondence."

There are many persons with whom it is the 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 recreation. They begin with the stereotyped words, "I take my pen in hand," as though a letter could be written without 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 further, but closing with, "This from your friend, JOHN SHORT."

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 interesting, 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 the silvered plate. Seneca says, "I would have my letters be like my discourses when we sit or walk together, unstudied and easy."

Willis' letters are of a kind always "free and easy." His "Letters from Under a Bridge" are admirable specimens of letters as they should be; and his "Pencillings by the Way" owe much of their popularity to their easy, familiar, talkative style. The letters of Cicero and Pliny, of ancient, and Swift, Pope, Arbuthnot, Madame de S‚vign‚, and Lady Mary Wortley Montague, of modern times, are generally received as some of 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 "afflicted, headachey, sorethroaty, humble servant, CHARLES LAMB."

Some men, and women too, of eminence, have written curiosities in the form of correspondence. The letter of the mother of Foote is a good example of this kind of correspondence. 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, E. FOOTE.

It appears that "Sam" was equally entangled in the meshes of the law, for he answered as follows:

"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 interrogation note, and sent it to his friend. In due time he received an answer. He opened the sheet and found, simply, O, signifying that there was none.

In the London Times of January 3d, 1820, is the following, purporting to be a copy of a letter sent to a medical gentleman:

"CER: Yole oblige me uf yole kum un ce me. I hev 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:

"MY 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?

"I have writ Charity, 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 in, 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 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 ultra-familiarity, see the Duke of Buckingham'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,

"STINIE."

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 Church Font for Baptism; and, dear Pillar of my hopes, Pedestal of my comfort, and Cornice of my joy, take compassion 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 considered a fair off-hand epistle of love:

"ADORED 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 Aspect; Ambition, Avarice, And Arrogance, Alas, Are Attractive Allurements, And Abuse An Ardent Attachment. Appease An Aching And Affectionate Adorer's Alarms, And Anon Acknowledge Affianced Albert's Alliance As Agreeable And Acceptable. Anxiously Awaiting An Affectionate And Affirmative Answer, Accept An Ardent Admirer's Aching Adieu. ALBERT."

The custom of espionage among some nations, which led the government officials' to open all letters supposed to contain 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 persuade 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, he 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 would be by no means an uninteresting production. 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 conveyed 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 invaluable 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, thee loss that would accrue.

The good resulting from a general intercommunication of thought among the people has brought about a great reduction 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 VISION OF 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 done; 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. The child's blue eyes were raised to watch Its mother's smile of love; 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 sleep, 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 pass‚d 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 pass‚d 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! "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 your 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 moment 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 sells, 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 fellow-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 leave the fearful spot, And wished the scene might be forgot, 'T was so with terror fraught.

I wished to go,

No more to know. I turned me, but no guide stood there; Alone, I shrieked in wild dismay, When, lo! the vision passed away,-- I found me seated in my chair. The morning sun was shining bright, Fair children 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? Doth man so bend the supple 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 trembling 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 turn to sell again.

JEWELS OF THE HEART.

THERE are jewels brighter far Than the sparkling diamonds are; Jewels never wrought by art,-- Nature 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-shrined gems compare? Constancy, that will not perish, But the thing it loveth cherish, Clinging to it fondly ever, Fainting, faltering, wavering, never! Trust, that will not harbor doubt; Putting fear and shame to rout, Making known how, free from harm, Love may rest upon its arm. Hope, that makes the future bright, Though there come 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, They 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.

HERE 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! 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 bliss!

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 wing 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 within. Men gathered round, Peering through the window-pane; They saw a form as if 't were 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 oncommon, oncivil man I ever sot eyes on!"

"Peace, my lady! I'll 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 significant 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 at 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 onslaught 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 confined in a stone bottle by a cork bound down with a piece of twine. Reader, imagine you see and hear all this!

[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 personal property an indefinite number of bandboxes. I therefore propose that we at once organize for the purpose; that a committee be appointed to draft resolutions, and report a name for the confederacy."

Voted unanimously; whereupon, a committee being appointed, 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 perplexing, 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 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 said, 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 That was McKenzie. ) 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 patriotism led to the formation of a society that will make rapid strides towards the front rank of the army now at work for the amelioration of the condition of mankind.

NEW ENGLAND HOMES.

I've 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, wherever 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 smiles, 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 valley 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 rocks and hills; I love its trees, its mossy banks, its fountains and its rills; 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 vales. 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 sacrifice, and I no more shall roam, Then let me pass my latter days in my New England home!

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 when 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 child 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. O, 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? Confide in thy God; he will watch o'er thee; Humbly and trustingly, brother, draw near! 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 the task, 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 evil, 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 tell To all that nature's God is good! Here nature's temple open stands,-- There's none so nobly grand as here,-- The 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 passing 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.