Chapter 27

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GIVE, AND STAY THEIR MISERY.

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

THE SPIRIT OF MAN.

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

PAUSE AND THINK.

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

LITTLE NELLY.

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

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

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

I will tell you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus she talked for some time.

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

WE SHALL ALL BE HAPPY SOON.

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

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

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

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

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

REUNION.

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

THE VILLAGE MYSTERY.

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

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

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

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

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

There were two who determined to find out, at all hazards, the name, history, come from and go to, of the mysterious guest; and, to accomplish their purpose, they found it necessary for them to go to Baltimore early the subsequent morning.

The morning came. After taking a measurement of the height, breadth and bulk of the foreigner, as also a mental daguerreotype of his personal appearance, they departed.

Having been very politely invited, it is no strange matter of fact that, just as the sun has turned the meridian, on the fifth of March, a young man is seen walking slowly upon the shady side of Butternut-street, Greendale. To him all eyes are directed. Boys stop their plays, and turn their inquisitive eyes towards the pedestrian. The loungers at Brim's tavern flock to the door, and gaze earnestly at him; while Bridget the house-maid, and Dennis the hostler, hold a short confab on the back stairs, each equally wondering whose "bairn" he can be.

As he continues on his way, he meets a couple of sociable old ladies, with whom he formed an acquaintance at the sewing-circle. They shake hands most cordially.

"Abby and Nelly are waiting for you; they're expecting you," says one of the ladies, as she breathes a blessing and bids him good-by, with a hope that he will have a pleasant time at the deacon's.

Let us now take a few steps in advance, and enter the hospitable mansion to which our mysterious personage, who has given his name as Sir Charles Nepod, is passing.

Up these beautiful white steps walk with dainty tread. At this highly-polished door ring with gentle hand.

A stout serving-man answers our call, and a tittering serving-girl scampers away and conceals herself behind the staircase, as we enter. What, think you, can be going on? A wedding, forsooth,--perhaps a dinner-party.

A brace of charming girls, the deacon's only daughters, are seated in the front parlor. We are introduced, and soon learn that they are waiting the arrival of the talented, the benevolent Sir Charles; and, as a matter of form and courtesy, rather than of sincerity and hospitality, we are invited to remain and meet him in the dining-room. We decline; bid them good-by, and leave. As we pass out, we are hailed in a loud whisper by the man who first met us, who glibly runs on with his talk as he leads the way, walking sideways all the time to the door.

"An' sirs,--sirs, dus yers know what the young Misthresses is afther? Well, sirs, they's going' fur to hev' a greath dinner with the furriner. Yes, sirs, with the furriner as come frum a furrin land, and was n't born in this at all a' tall."

As we reach the door, he steps up, whispers in our ears, "An' I tells yer what, sirs, Kate,--that's the gal yer sees, sirs,--me and she's goin' to see all frum the little winder beyant. This is conveniently private to you, sirs, an' I hopes ye'll say nothing to no one about it, sirs; 't is a private secret, sirs."

What should induce this man to give us this information, we cannnot conceive. However, we have no reason to doubt what he tells us, and therefore understand that a dinner-party is to come off, with a wedding in perspective.

As we pass into the street, we meet Nepod.

As he ascends the steps, the two girls, forgetting all rules of etiquette, spring to the door, completely bewildering honest Mike, who is at hand, and welcome the man of the age.

"Mother and aunty have just gone out," says Nelly;--"they thought we young folks would enjoy our dinner much better by ourselves alone."

"How considerate!" replies the guest. "I met the good old ladies on the street. How kind in them to be so thoughtful! How pleasantly will pass the hours of to-day! This day will be the happiest of my life."

The three pass to the dining-room. Though early in March, the weather is quite warm. In the haste of the moment, and somewhat confused by his warm welcome, our hero has taken his hat and cloak and laid them on a lounge near an open window. Seated at the table, the company discourse on a variety of subjects, and the two sisters vie with each other in doing the agreeable.

Down town all was excitement, and a great crowd was gathered at the tavern. The investigating committee had returned from the city, and with the committee three men of mysterious look. To the uninitiated the mystery that had puzzled them for so long a time grew yet more mysterious. Nothing could be learned from the two who had returned, respecting Sir Charles, or the additional strangers. Only dark and mysterious hints were thrown out, rendering the whole affair more completely befogged than before.

Mr. Brim, the keeper of the tavern, silently conducted the new comers out by a back passage, and soon they were seen in the same path which Sir Charles had followed.

One of the men quietly opened the front door of the deacon's home, and, entering, knocked upon the door of the dining-room. A voice said, "Come in;" and he proceeded to do so.

In an instant, as if struck by an electric shock, the distinguished guest sprang from the table, and leaped through the open window, leaving his hat and cloak behind. But the leap did not injure him, for he fell into the arms of a man who stood ready to embrace him; and, mystery on mystery, they placed hand-cuffs on his wrists!

Judge, if you can, of the astonishment and mortification of the deacon's girls, when they were told that he who had been their guest was a bold highwayman, who had escaped from the penitentiary.

There was great ado in Greendale that afternoon and evening. Those who had been unable to gain his attention said they knew all the time he was a rogue. The young men's society voted to sell the frame and destroy the printed speech; and the next Sabbath the good pastor preached about a roaring lion that went about seeking whom he might devour.

THE WAYSIDE DEATH.

Not many years since, an old man, who had for a longtime sat by the wayside depending upon the charity of those who passed by for his daily bread, died a few moments after receiving an ill-mannered reply to his request for alms. Subsequent inquiries proved that he had been a soldier in the American Revolution.

WHEN Freedom's call rang o'er the land, To bring its bold defenders nigh, Young Alfred took a foremost stand, Resolved to gain the day or die. And well he fought, and won the trust; When the day's conflicts had been braved, The foe's proud ensigns lay in dust, While Freedom's banner victor waved. But now he is a poor old man, And they who with him, side by side, Fought bravely in that little van, Have left him, one by one,--have died. And now to no one can he tell, Though touched with patriot fire his tongue, The story of those days which well Deserve to be by freemen sung, And cherished long as life shall last; To childhood told, that it may know Who braved the storm when came the blast, And vanquished Freedom's direst foe. He sits there on the curb-stone now, That brave old man of years gone by; His head 'neath age and care would bow, But yet he raiseth it on high, And, stretching out his feeble hands, He asks a penny from man's purse, Food for himself from off that land He fought to save. Yet, but a curse Falls from their lips to greet his ear; And he, despairing, turns and sighs, And bows his head,--there fills one tear, It is the last-he dies. Now men do rudely lift his hat, To gaze upon his furrowed face, And say, "It is the man who sat Here for so long a foul disgrace." Crowds gather round the spot to see, And then pass idly on, and say, To those who ask who it can be, "'T is but a vagrant of the way." Thus he who fought and bled to gain The blessings which are round us strewn, For one he asked, besought in vain, Received man's curse, and died-unknown. O, my own country! shall it be, That they who through thy struggle passed, And bore thy banner manfully, Shall thus neglected die at last? O, shall it be no help shall come From thy overflowing wealth to bless? Wilt thou be blind, wilt thou be dumb, To pleas like theirs in wretchedness? Answer! and let your answer be A helping hand lowered down to raise From want and woe those who for thee Won all thy honor, all thy praise, And made thee what thou art to-day, A refuge and a hope for man; Speak! ere the last one wings away; Act! act while yet to-day you can.

BEAUTY AND INNOCENCE.

[FOR AN ENGRAVING OF COTTAGE GIRL AND LAMB.]

O, MAIDEN, standing in the open field, On pasture sparkling with the morning dew! What joy thou findest Nature now to yield To hearts developed right,--hearts that are true! Above is beauty, as along the sky The dawn of light sends forth its herald ray To arch the heavens, and myriad leagues on high Proclaim the coming of the god of day. Beneath is beauty; see the glistening gems Around thy feet in rich profusion strewn; Such as ne'er glows in kingly diadems, Such as man's handiwork hath never shown. Around is beauty; on each vale and hill, In open field and in the shady wood, A voice is whispering, soft, and low, and still, "All, all is beautiful, for God is good." Thou, too, art beautiful, O, maiden fair, While Innocence within thine arms doth rest; And thou wilt e'er be thus, no grief thou 'lt share, If such a blessing dwell within thy breast As that whose emblem now lies gently there.

NIGHT.

I'VE watched the sun go down, and evening draw Its twilight mantle o'er the passive earth, And hang its robe of blue, all gemmed with stars, High over all for mortal eyes to gaze at. And now I come to tread this sodded earth, To walk alone in Nature's vaulted hall; Yet, not alone;--I hear the rustling leaf, The cricket's note, the night-bird's early lay; I feel the cool breeze as it fans my brow, And scent the fragrance of the untainted air. I love the night. There's something in its shade That sends a soothing influence o'er the soul, And fits it for reflection, sober thought. It comes bearing a balm to weary ones, A something undefinable, yet felt By souls that feel the want of something real. And now 't is night, and well it is that I Am here. I stand, my hand on this old tree, Pressing its mossy side, with no one near I can call fellow in the human strife, The great, unfinished drama of this life. Alone, alone, with Nature and its God, I'll sit me down, and for a moment muse On busy scenes, and, like some warrior chief, Behold, yet mingle not in earth's great acts. To-night how various are the states of men! Some, bowed by sickness, press their sleepless couch, Wishing while day doth last that night would come, And now that night is with them wish for day. Remorse holds some in its unyielding grasp; Despair, more cruel yet, haunts some men's souls; Both, ministers of justice conscience sends To do its fearful bidding in those breasts Which have rebelled and disavowed its rule. Perchance, a maiden happy as a queen To-night doth fix her destiny. A happy throng Gather around, and envy her her bliss. They little know what magic power lies low In the filled wine-cup as they pass it round; They little think it plants a venomed dart In the glad soul of her whose lips do press Its dancing sparkles. Sorrow's nucleus! Round that cup shall twine memories so dark That night were noonday to them, to their gloom. Dash it aside! See you not how laughs Within the chalice brim an evil eye? Each sparkling ray that from its depth comes up Is the foul tempter's hand outstretched to grasp The thoughtless that may venture in his reach. How to-night the throng press on to bend The knee to Baal, and to place a crown On Magog's princely head! Dollars and dimes, A purse well-filled, a soul that pants for more; An eye that sees a farthing in the dust, And in its glitter plenitude of joy, Yet sees no beauty in the stars above, No cause for gladness in the light of day,-- A hand that grasps the wealth of earth, and yields For sake of it the richer stores of heaven; A soul that loves the perishing of earth, And hates that wealth which rust can ne'er corrupt. How many such! How many bar their souls 'Gainst every good, yet ope it wide to wrong! This night they're all in arms. They watch and wait; Now that the sun hath fled, and evening's shade Doth follow in its path, they put in play The plans which they in daylight have devised, Entrapping thoughtless feet, and leading down The flower-strewn path a daughter or a son, On whose fair, white brow, the warm, warm moisture Of a parent's kiss seems yet to linger. Stay! daughter, son, O, heed a friend's advice, Rush not in thoughtless gayety along! Beware of pit-fills. Listen and you'll hear From some deep pit a warning voice to thee; For thousands low have fallen, who once had Hopes, prospects, fair as thine; they listened, fell! And from the depths of their deep misery call On thee to think. O, follow not, but reach A helping hand to raise them from their woe! Clouds hide the moon; how now doth wrong prevail! Wrong holdeth carnival, and death is near. O, what a sight were it for man to see, Should there on this dark, shrouded hour Burst in an instant forth a noonday light! How many who are deem‚d righteous men, And bear a fair exterior by day, Would now be seen in fellowship with sin! Laughing, and sending forth their jibes and jeers, And doing deeds which Infamy might own. But not alone to wrong and base intrigue Do minister these shades of night; for Love Holds high her beacon Charity to guide To deeds that angels might be proud to own. Beneath the shadows that these clouds do cast, Hath many a willing hand bestowed a gift Its modest worth in secret would confer. No human eye beheld the welcome purse Dropped at the poor man's humble cottage door; But angels saw the act, and they have made A lasting record of it on the scroll That bears the register of human life. Many a patient sufferer watches now The passing hours, and counts them as they flee. Many a watcher with a sleepless eye Keeps record of the sick man's every breath. Many a mother bends above her child In deep solicitude, in deathless love. Night wears away, and up the eastern sky The dawn approaches. So shall life depart,-- This life of ours on earth,--and a new birth Approach to greet us with immortal joys, So gently on our inner life shall come The light of heaven. Time moveth on, and I must join again The busy toil of life; and I must go. And yet I would not. I would rather stay And talk with these green woods,--for woods can talk. Didst ever hear their voice? In spring they speak Of early love and youth, and ardent hope; In summer, of the noon of wedded life, All buds and blossoms and sweet-smelling flowers; In autumn, of domestic bliss with all its fund Of ripe enjoyments, and then winter hears The leafless trees sing mysterious hymns, And point their long lean arms to homes above. Yes, the old woods talk, and I might hold A sweet communion here with them to-night. Farewell to Night; farewell these thoughts of mine, For day hath come.

NOT DEAD, BUT CHANGED.

I SAT and mused o'er all the years gone by; Of friends departed, and of others going; And dwelt upon their memories with a sigh, Till floods of tears, their hidden springs o'erflowing, Betrayed my grief. Soon, a bright light above me, Voices saying, "We're near thee yet to love thee," Dispelled my tears. I raised my drooping head, And asked, "Who, who,--the dead?" When the angelic lost around me ranged Whispered within my ear, "Not dead, but changed."

THE DISINHERITED.

MY next door neighbor's name was Jotham Jenks. This was all I knew about him, until the circumstance I am about to tell you occurred.

One evening I had seated myself by my fire, and had taken up an evening paper with which to occupy my time, until an acquaintance of mine, who I momentarily expected, should arrive. It was December,--cold, blustering, and by no means an agreeable time to be out of doors, or away from a good fire. Such being the state of affairs, as far as weather was concerned, I began to think I should not see my friend that night, when a smart rap upon the outer door, half a dozen times repeated, prevented me from further speculation.

Why did n't he ring?-there was a bell. It must have been a stranger, else he would have used it.

Presently a servant came with the information that a stranger was at the door with a carriage, and wished my immediate presence.

"Request him to walk in," said I.

"He cannot wait a moment," answered the servant;--"he wishes you to put on your hat and coat, and go with him."

"Where?"

"He did not say."

This was a strange interruption,--strange that a man, a stranger, in fact, should call for me to go out with him on such a night; but I mustered courage, and went out to meet him. I don't know what induced me so readily to grant his request; but out I went, hatted, coated and booted. As I approached, I heard the falling of steps, and the voice of the coachman requesting me to hurry. Reaching the carriage, I looked in and beheld Jotham Jenks. In I jumped, and before I was seated the carriage was moving.

The whip snapped, the wheels whirled round, and we passed through the lighted streets with almost incredible speed. I ventured to make an inquiry, and the reply was,

"You are doing a good deed. My name is Jotham Jenks. Ask no questions now."

Thus was a veto put upon the movements of my tongue for the time being. I, however, recognized the voice of Mr. Jenks; and though I knew but little respecting him, I judged from his appearance that he was a quiet, unoffending man; and such I afterwards found him.

For thirty minutes the horses raced along, causing the water, ice and snow, to take to themselves wings and fly upon pedestrians, windows, and sundry other animate and inanimate objects of creation. For myself, I began to experience some misgiving, for thus exposing myself to what, I did not know.

At length the carriage turned down a dark, narrow street, leading to one of the wharves, upon which we finally found ourselves. The driver jumped from his seat, opened the carriage-door, threw down the steps, and we got out.

Matters had reached a crisis. Was I to be thrown into the water? The assurance of my companion that I was doing a good deed seemed to disfavor this supposition, as what possible good could that do myself or any one else? Yet, for what was I taken from a warm room, on such a cold, dismal, dark night, and hurried to the wharf?

"Now," said I to the stranger, "I must know the meaning of all this,--the why and the wherefore."

He took my hand in his. It was quite dark. I could not see, yet I could tell by his voice that he wept, as he said,

"In a berth in the cabin of that vessel lies a young man, far from his home, among strangers,--sick, perhaps dying. No relative, other than those of the great brotherhood of. mankind, is near to minister to his wants, or to speak comfort to his troubled heart. He had been here about two days, when I was informed of his situation by a friend who came in the same vessel. I have brought you here that you might listen to his statements, and assist me in assisting him. There is much of romance in his narrative, and, as you are preparing a volume of life-sketches, as found in town and country, I have thought that what falls from his lips might fill a few pages with interest and profit to your readers."

I thanked him for his thoughtfulness. My suspicions and fears were all allayed; I asked no more questions, but followed my friend as he passed to the vessel, and descended the narrow stairway to the cabin.

A small lamp hung from the ceiling, and shed a sort of gloomy light around. I had been in chambers of sickness, but never in a room where more neatness was discernible, or more sufficiency for its tenant, than in the cabin in which I then was. A sailor boy seated by a berth indicated to me the spot where the sick man lay. We were informed that he had just fallen into a sleep, and we were careful not to awake him.

But, notwithstanding all our care, our movements awoke him. He gazed around as one often does after a deep sleep; but a consciousness of his situation, and a recognition of my companion, soon dispelled his vacant looks, and his features were illumed with as expressive a smile as it has ever been my fortune to behold.

I was introduced to the invalid, and soon we were as familiar as old acquaintances. His name was Egbert Lawrence, and his age I should judge from appearances to be about twenty-five.

"It is possible that my dear, good friend, Mr. Jenks, has given you some account of my circumstances," he remarked, addressing me.

I replied that he had not, any further than to state that he was friendless. He started, as I said this, and exclaimed,

"Friendless! His own modesty, that sure mark of true merit, induced him to say that; but, dear sir, I have a friend in him, greater than in any other on earth now. I had a friend, but, alas! she's gone."

I corrected his impression; remarked that I only intended to convey the fact that he was in a strange country, among a strange people, and that Mr. Jenks had told me he was worthy of assistance, and that a sketch of his life would interest me.

"Then you would like to hear of my past, would you?"

"Most certainly," I replied; "and should consider it a favor should you consent to give it to me."

To this he at once consented.

"I was born in the west of England," he began, "and can well remember what a charming little village it was in which I passed my earliest days. My mother was a woman of the finest sensibilities,--too fine, in fact, for the rough winds of this world. Her heart beat too strongly in sympathy with the poor and oppressed, the weary-footed and troubled ones, to live among and not have the weight of their sorrows and cares bear also upon her, and gradually wear out the earth tenement of her spirit.

"As far as a fine, sensitive feeling was hers, so far it was mine. I inherited it. But I would not flatter myself so much as to say that I, in like manner, partook of her heavenly, loving nature, or that I in any of her noble traits was worthy of being her son.

"Many times have I been the bearer of her secret charities. Many times have I heard the poor bless the unknown hand that placed bounties at their door. Many times have I seen my mother weep while I told her of what I heard the recipients of her benevolence tell their neighbors, and the many conjectures in their minds as to who the donor could be. And, O, there was joy sparkling in her eyes when I told her of what I had seen and heard! The grateful poor, concluding, after all their surmising, that, as they could not tell for a certainty who it was who gave them food and clothing, they would kneel down and thank God; for, said they, in their honest, simple manner, He knows. The benevolent hand cannot hide itself from his presence, or escape his reward.

"My father was quite a different person. How it was they met and loved, I could not for a long time determine. But one evening my mother told me all about it, and said he was not the man of her choice, but of her parents' choice; and that she had never loved him with that deep and earnest love that alone can bind two hearts in one embrace. But she said she had endeavored to do her duty towards him. Good woman! I knew that. 'T was her very nature to do that. 'T was a law of her being, and she could not evade it.

"My father was a rough, coarse-minded man. He held an office under the government, and, from being accustomed to the exercise of some little authority without doors, became habituated to a morose, ill-natured manner of words and behavior within our home. I remember how I changed my tone of voice, and my mode of action, when at night he came home. With my mother I talked and laughed, and played merrily in her presence, and rather liked to have her look on my sports; but when my father came I never smiled. I sat up on my chair in one corner as stiff and upright as the elm-tree, in front of our house. I never played in his presence. I seldom heard a kind word from him. My mother used to call me 'Berty, my dear,' when she wished me; but my father always shouted, sternly, 'Egbert, come here, sir!' and I would tremblingly respond, 'Sir.'

"Few persons seemed to love him; those who did, did so with an eye to business. It was policy in them to flatter the man who could favor them pecuniarily, and they hesitated not to do so. One time, when my father's vote and influence were worth five thousand pounds to his party, and he exhibited symptoms of withholding them, he had rich presents sent him, and every night some half a dozen or more would call in and sit and talk with him, and tell him how admirably all the schemes he had started for the good of the town had succeeded, and in all manner of ways would flatter the old gentleman, so that he would be quite pleasant all the next day. At this time handsome carriages came to take him to ride, and gentlemen proposed an afternoon's shooting or fishing, or sport of some kind, and my father always accepted and was always delighted. The simple man, he couldn't see through the gauze bags they were drawing over his head! lie did not notice the nets With which they were entangling his feet. When election came, he gave his vote, and did not keep back his influence.

"My father was not benevolent to any great degree. He gave, it is true. He gave to missionary societies, to education and tract societies, and his name was always found printed in their monthly reports; but he never gave, as my mother did, to the poor around us, unseen, unknown. Not even he knew of my mother's charitable acts; but all the town knew of his, and he was looked upon by the great mass of public mind to be the most benevolent. But it was not so. Far from it. One shilling from my mother, given with the heart, with sympathy, given for the sake of doing good, not for the sake of popularity, was a greater gift than a hundred pounds from my father's hand, given as he always gave it.

"I attended school but little. My mother wished me to have a good education, but my father said if I could 'figure' well it was enough. I was taken from school and put in a store,--a place which I abhorred. I was put there to sell tape, and pins, and thread, and yarn; and I was kept behind the counter from early morn until late at night.

"I had one brother, but his mind was nothing like mine. He partook of my father's nature. We seldom agreed upon any matter, and I always chose to be alone rather than with him. I do not think I was wrong in this, for our minds were of different casts. Neither of us made our minds or our dispositions. There was, therefore, no blame upon any one, if, on account of the difference in our mental organizations, our affinities led us apart. It was a perfectly natural result of a natural cause.

"I will not weary you with more detail of my life to-night; but to-morrow, if you have any interest in what I have begun to tell you, I will tell you more."

I had noticed that he began to be exhausted with his effort, and was about to propose that a future time be allotted to what more he chose to relate.

I assured him of an increased interest in him, and suggested removing him to a good boarding-house. He at first declined, but upon further urging he accepted, and, having seen that all his wants were for that night attended to, we left; with the understanding that a carriage should convey him to more commodious quarters on the morrow, if the weather permitted.

I had no fears of my companion as we rode up the wharf and drove through the streets, the storm beating down furiously around us. I reached my home, and Mr. Jenks thanked me for my kindness in blindly following him, and I in return thanked him for the pleasant adventure to which he had introduced me.