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 THE CHRISTMAS DAY. P. 108. 
 
(C&.M1E0()B£ft§©IM*ffi® 
 
OUE FOLKS AT HOME; 
 
 OE, 
 
 LIFE AT THE OLD MANOR HOUSE. 
 
 BY EDWARD TOLIVER. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY ENGRAVINGS, 
 
 FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS. 
 
 JlhflaWpftfa: 
 
 C. Q. HENDERSON & CO., AECH & FIFTH STREETS. 
 NEW YORK: — D. APPLBTON & CO. 
 
 M . D C C C . L V. 
 
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, 
 
 BY C. G. HENDERSON & CO., 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, 
 for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
 DEACON &■ PETERSON, PRINTERS, 
 66 South Third Street. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Under the guise of mere entertainment for 
 young persons, the reader will perceive in 
 this volume, a steady undeviating purpose of 
 utility. The object is to impress upon the 
 forming minds of youth the importance of 
 having an object in life, and that object a 
 really useful one — an increase of the world's 
 happiness, by each person furnishing his own 
 contingent, whether large or small. 
 
 The intention of the author has this extent. 
 The reader will judge respecting his success 
 
 *** in the execution of his work. 
 
 (iii) 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 OUR FOLKS AT HOME, 7 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS HAMPER, 11 
 
 LITTLE CON, - - - - - - - - 20 
 
 UNCLE PRATT, 47 
 
 A CURE FOR ENNUI, - - 51 
 
 FRANK WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY, - 54 
 
 MY COUSIN TOM, 73 
 
 OUR SERVANTS AT HOME, 79 
 
 THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED, ... 82 
 
 MY MOTHER'S PHILOSOPHY, 103 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS DAY, 106 
 
 LITTLE GREAT MEN, 117 
 
 CONSEQUENCE; OR, DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM, - 120 
 
 JANE'S PETS, 127 
 
 JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS, 129 
 
 USEFULNESS, 145 
 
 THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL, - - 147 
 
 A RUSSIAN PRODIGY, 172 
 
 1* (v) 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 MY MOTHER'S STORY, 196 
 
 MARY'S WHISPER, 197 
 
 SISTER MARTHA, 206 
 
 WILLIE'S PET, 221 
 
 LITTLE CAUSES PRODUCE GREAT EFFECTS, - - 231 
 
 " 'TIS ONLY A PENNY," 233 
 
 A MAN IS A MAN, 253 
 
 HOW THE FISHMONGER WAS TAUGHT CIVILITY, - 256 
 
 GREAT INVENTIONS, 266 
 
 THE LYONESE WEAVER, 268 
 
 THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR, - - - - 282 
 
 PITY THE IDIOT. - - 299 
 
OUR FOLKS AT HOME. 
 
 We are a small family, our folks at home, strictly 
 speaking. That is to say the immediate family, 
 who reside at the old mansion house, under the 
 hill, consists of my father and mother, my sister 
 Jane and myself. But there is no end to our family 
 connexions, uncles and aunts, and cousins, and 
 second and third cousins, to say nothing of the ex- 
 tensive circle of strongly attached personal friends, 
 which extends through the whole of a pretty wide- 
 spread, though thinly inhabited country town. 
 
 We are a very quiet family, rather fond of 
 spending the long winter evenings, in reading, 
 when one of us reads aloud, generally, either my 
 father or myself, while my mother and Jane are 
 engaged with their feminine work of sewing or knit- 
 ting, except upon the Sabbath evening, when my 
 
 (7) 
 
8 OUR FOLKS AT HOME. 
 
 father generally reads us a sermon or a portion of 
 Holy Writ ; and we conclude the evening -with 
 sacred music, Jane performing on the piano forte, 
 and all singing, according to the time-honored 
 usage of the family. On other evenings of the 
 week, Jane intersperses our reading pleasures with 
 music of the secular sort, in which she is a very 
 good performer. 
 
 My father has been quite a traveller in his early 
 days, and has seen some service in the wars with 
 the British and the Indians ; and he often enter- 
 tains us with very lively and graphic descriptions 
 of his own adventures. His brothers were all killed 
 or lost at sea ; and when, rather late at life, he mar- 
 ried and settled at the old mansion house, as he had 
 neither brother or sister nor parents surviving, the 
 whole of my grandfather's large landed estates were 
 his inheritance. 
 
 Though we live in a plain, quiet way, I dare say 
 that my father is very rich ; and might go and 
 live in New York or Philadelphia in a very dashing 
 and expensive style, without exceeding his income. 
 But my parents have both seen enough of the gay 
 world ; and prefer a retired country life, to all the 
 nonsense and glare of high fashion of the city. 
 
OUR FOLKS AT HOME. 9 
 
 For myself, I am studying law with my mother's 
 brother, Uncle Pratt, I don't take to it very kindly, 
 I must confess, and I hardly expect to make a great 
 figure at the bar ; but my father wishes me to study 
 that profession in preference to any other. I have 
 a suspicion that his principal object is to qualify 
 me for taking care of all these broad acres of land, 
 which at some future time, a great while hence, I 
 hope, will belong to Jane and myself. At any rate I 
 am determined to conquer my dislike to old Black- 
 stone and the other big wigs, and make myself as 
 good a lawyer as I can. 
 
 Our little circle at home, though rather quiet, 
 is nevertheless, exceedingly genial. We have a 
 great deal of sport in our own way. Besides the 
 more solid reading, we indulge what is humorous. 
 Washington Irving's funny stories delighted us 
 quite as much as his pathetic ones ; and my father 
 is rather pleased with Fanny Fern's lively sallies, 
 although my mother shakes her head at some of 
 them, and wonders where Fanny learnt a great 
 many queer things and odd expressions with which 
 she seems familiar,. 
 
 A considerable portion of our reading library, 
 (will it be believed ?) consists of juvenile books, real 
 
10 OUR FOLKS AT HOME. 
 
 children's books, in which my father, strange as it 
 may seem, takes especial delight. Edgeworth and 
 Barbauld we read long ago ; and latterly my father 
 has sent a standing order to Messrs. Henderson & 
 Company, of Philadelphia, to send us all the new juve- 
 nile books that come out. Besides this, we receive 
 a number from London, and we regard with special 
 favor those magazines which have a " Child's 
 Corner." 
 
 Two stories in one of these magazines afforded 
 us so much pleasure in the reading that, without 
 any fear of displeasing .my readers I copy them 
 here before going on with my story. They are 
 called "The Christmas Hamper," and "LittleCon." 
 
THE CHRISTMAS HAMPER. P. 11. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS HAMPER. ' 
 
 " Papa papa, dear papa, a Christmas-box, please 
 a Christmas-box, please," cried Mr. Loving's little 
 boy and girl, as they came dancing round him on 
 his return from the office. 
 
 "Why, you little simpletons, it is not yet Christ- 
 mas Day. What should you want with Christmas- 
 boxes before the time ? And how do you know that 
 I shall be inclined to give you any at all?" 
 
 " Because you are a good papa," lisped Charley, 
 the younger of the two children, a flaxen headed ur- 
 chin, of some six or seven years of age. " Because 
 you are a good papa, and we are going to be very 
 good children." 
 
 "Very fine indeed. It is easy to make promises." 
 "What is all this about, Miss Claridge ?" said 
 Mr. Loving, good humoredly, to the governess, who 
 at that moment came out of the school-room. " Here 
 are your pupils clamoring already for their Christ- 
 
 (11) 
 
12 THE CHRISTMAS HAMPER. 
 
 mas-boxes. What they intend to do with them I 
 cannot imagine. I trust you mean to superintend 
 the disposal of the half dollars." 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! half a dollar, half a dollar each, papa 
 means to give us, dear Miss Claridge. Is it not, 
 delightful ?" cried Mary and Charley, clapping their 
 hands for joy. 
 
 " Now my dears," said their father more seri- 
 ously, "lam cold and tired, so you must be patient 
 till I have had tea. Miss Claridge will then be so 
 kind as to bring you into the drawing-room, and we 
 will have a little conversation about the matter of 
 the half dollars." 
 
 The children obeyed ; and when they had eaten 
 their suppers, the governess took them into the 
 drawing-room to their papa. The conversation that 
 passed must have been tolerably satisfactory, for it 
 ended in their kind parent giving them the promised 
 Christmas-boxes. 
 
 The next morning Mary and Charles went out 
 with their governess, and made various purchases, 
 which were quietly and somewhat mysteriously de- 
 posited in the large school-room cupboard, where 
 they kept their toys. A profound silence was ob- 
 served on the subject of these purchases, though we 
 
THE CHRISTMAS HAMPER. 13 
 
 must say that this silence was a difficult matter to 
 both the children, especially to the lively little 
 Charley. But the next day was Christmas Eve, 
 and then they would be burdened with their secret 
 no longer. 
 
 But now we must invite our young readers to a 
 very different picture from that presented by this 
 brother and sister, living in their papa's handsome 
 house, in the possession of every comfort. 
 
 It was the afternoon before Christmas Day, and 
 twilight had begun to close over the foggy streets 
 of the little country town, which is the scene of our 
 narrative. In a poor cottage, in a narrow court, 
 situated in one of the narrow streets, a widow and 
 her five children were gathered close round a frugal 
 fire, shivering with cold. Not that the weather 
 was any ways inclement for the season, but simply 
 that this poor woman and her offspring were nei- 
 ther sufficiently clothed nor, fed ; and in such a 
 strait it is well known that we cannot feel comfor- 
 table or warm. The widow was patching up a few 
 articles of clothing, that her little ones might be as 
 decent as possible for the morrow, a day when fes- 
 tivity should cheer the most poverty-stricken. The 
 eldest girl was helping her mother, and two others 
 2 
 
14 THE CHRISTMAS HAMPER. 
 
 were endeavouring to earn a few pennies by knitting 
 coarse stockings. 
 
 "We shall have no Christmas pudding to- 
 morrow," sighed the widow. "In your poor 
 father's time we never went without a Christmas 
 pudding, pinched though we might be." 
 
 " Oh, mother !" said little Jemmy, the eldest 
 boy, " there are such beautiful cakes in the shop- 
 windows, arn't there, Tom ? How I should like a 
 slice !" 
 
 " Well, well, my boy, we must be thankful that 
 we have a bit of pig's fry to eat with our potatoes 
 to-morrow. Neighbor Jones is very kind. I am 
 sure I don't know how to pay her back." 
 
 " I can't mend this so that it will hold together, 
 mother," said Hannah, the eldest girl. " It will 
 tear out again as soon as Jane puts it on." 
 
 " And I have not a bit of the same sort left to 
 patch it with," said the mother. " Dear, dear ! 
 from being decent sort of people, we shall look 
 like beggars soon." 
 
 " When that kind Miss Claridge was here yes- 
 terday, mother, I did so want you to tell her how 
 lost you were for an old shawl. You will not be fit 
 to go to church." 
 
THE CHRISTMAS HAMPER. 15 
 
 "No, and I have never yet missed church on 
 Christmas day. It was an old habit that — ." 
 
 " Hush !" said Jane. " Was not that a knock?" 
 
 " I believe it "was. Neighbor Jones, perhaps. 
 Come in," cried the widow. 
 
 The door opened wide, and a man stepped in, 
 with a small hamper on his shoulder, which he 
 lifted to the floor. 
 
 "I suppose I am right?" he said, inquiringly. 
 " This here be widow Simpson's ?" 
 
 " The same," replied the widow. " But — ." 
 
 The poor woman was about to utter a disclaimer 
 as to the ownership of the hamper, but the man 
 hastily retreated, closing the door behind him. 
 The family remained transfixed, and staring at one 
 another. 
 
 " There must be a mistake," at length said the 
 widow. " Who should send us a present like that ?" 
 
 "Let us look at the direction," said Hannah. 
 "'Mrs. Simpson, Duke's Yard.' It is for you, 
 mother, sure enough." 
 
 " It strikes me," said Jemmy, slily, " that we had 
 better look inside. Don't you think so, mother ?" 
 
 " Oh yes ! mother, do, do open it !" cried all the 
 children. 
 
16 THE CHRISTMAS HAMPER. 
 
 The cord was soon untied (for Mrs. Simpson was 
 too thrifty to cut the knot,) and the lid lifted, 
 when the hamper was seen to be full of small par- 
 cels. Each child made a dive, and joyfully pro- 
 claimed the nature of the prize he or she had 
 brought up. 
 
 " A lump of suet, mother !" cried one. " A bag 
 of flour!" exclaimed another. " Currants, raisins, 
 sugar, and spice !" 
 
 "All for our Christmas pudding," said the mo- 
 ther. " Who can have been so kind ? It passes 
 my understanding." 
 
 " And look!" cried Hannah. " Here is such a 
 nice piece of bacon ! Two or three pounds weight, 
 I am sure, mother." 
 ' And so went on the happy creatures, each find- 
 ing some thing more wonderful than the rest. The 
 general delight was at length raised to its utmost 
 pitch by the discovery of two or three half- worn 
 suits of boy's and girl's clothing, which were de- 
 posited in the very bottom of the hamper. 
 
 "Oh, mother! let us try them on," entreated 
 Jemmy. " These will just fit me and Tom." 
 
 They only fitted Tom, however; and Jemmy, 
 notwithstanding his affection for his brother, looked 
 
THE CHRISTMAS HAMPER. 17 
 
 rather disappointed. But the widow remarked, that 
 now Tom was rigged out, she could easily beg a suit 
 for Jemmy, at one of the houses where she washed, 
 and where there were several big boys. 
 
 Jane and Kitty also tried on their new frocks 
 and petticoats, which presented a very tolerable fit. 
 There was nothing suitable for Hannah, but the 
 motherly little damsel did not care for this, so 
 pleased was she to behold her sisters' joy. They 
 were dancing about the floor in their delight, when 
 another knock was heard at the door ; and Miss 
 Claridge, with her two pupils, warmly clad in 
 cloaks and furs, softly lifted the latch and walked 
 quietly in. 
 
 "I beg your pardon for intruding," said the 
 young lady, " but my pupils and I are going to 
 drink tea, with a friend, and as it is yet early, we 
 thought we would give you a passing call." 
 
 The widow begged her visiters to be seated, tell- 
 ing Miss Claridge she was always welcome ; and 
 apologised for the disorder of her house and the 
 freaks of her children. "But we have just had 
 such a beautiful present," added the poor woman. 
 " Surely an angel from heaven must have sent it ; 
 
 for I don't know who would think of our wants." 
 2* 
 
18 THE CHRISTMAS HAMPER. 
 
 Meanwhile the little Lovings were looking on 
 with sparkling eyes ; for to let the reader into the 
 secret, which he or she has perhaps already anti- 
 cipated, all the joy of this afternoon in Widow 
 Simpson's poor cottage was produced by the two 
 half dollars which Mr. Loving had presented to his 
 children as Christmas-boxes ; helped out, we must 
 confess, by a considerable addition from Miss 
 Claridge's purse. 
 
 But the happy family never knew to whom 
 they were indebted, for it was the aim of this excel- 
 lent young governess, to teach her pupils to " do 
 good by stealth," and simply for its own sake, not 
 for the pleasure of hearing themselves praised and 
 blessed by the objects of their bounty. 
 
 " Well, young ones," said Mr. Loving to his 
 children that evening, when they came into the 
 drawing-room, on their return from their visit, for 
 half-an-hour's chat before retiring to rest — " am I 
 not at length to be entrusted with the secret of the 
 Christmas-boxes, according to promise ?" 
 
 Mary and Charles smiled and blushed, and 
 looked at their governess to speak for them ; and 
 Miss Claridge, who never wished to hide any thing 
 from their kind papa, acquainted Mr. Loving with 
 
THE CHRISTMAS HAMPER. 19 
 
 the use to which the half-crowns had been put. 
 "My darlings," he said, as he bade them good 
 night, "believe that your parent can never expe- 
 rience a happier moment than when he sees his 
 children love and practise benevolence towards 
 their less-favored fellow creatures." 
 
LITTLE CON. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Allers were people of very large 
 property resided on their own estate in one of the 
 most retired and beautiful places of Kent. Swell- 
 ing hills, verdant with hanging woods, surrounded 
 the grounds on every side ; and the sweetest green 
 lanes, shaded by lofty-spreading elms and oaks, and 
 whose mossy banks were studded by tufts of primroses 
 and violets, besides innumerable other natural flow- 
 ers, led here, there, and every where — so that one 
 might wander the whole summer-day under the 
 most grateful shade, and make up besides the most 
 lovely bouquets of wild flowers that eye ever beheld. 
 
 This worthy couple had three children — two girls, 
 Sophia and Emily — the first some ten years old, 
 the other rather more than a year younger, and 
 one son, Conway, or " Little Con," as he was usually 
 called. 
 
 These children had been very well brought up 
 (20) 
 
LITTLE CON. 21 
 
 by their judicious, but none the less affectionate, 
 parents, whose tenderness they repaid by trusting 
 love and dutiful obedience— not but that they had 
 their faults, and were naughty sometimes — for 
 what childern are quite perfect ? Even the best of 
 grown-up people, as well as little children, have 
 ever need to put up the prayer to God to make 
 them better ! But when these young people were 
 not, or had not been, quite so good as one could 
 wish, they not only innocently asked pardon of their 
 parents, but knelt also humbly, and with contrite 
 hearts, asked forgiveness of that great Being, who 
 alone could enable them to get the better of their 
 disobedient tempers, and make them become a bless- 
 ing not only to those dear parents, but to every one 
 about them. 
 
 Now Sophia and Emily were the staunchest, most 
 inseparable friends ever seen, sharing all their play- 
 things in common, and rarely, if ever, disagreeing ; 
 so that, sometimes Sophia would nurse " Jessie 
 Matilda" (Emily's doll,) a whole day, lavishing 
 upon it all the tenderness she would have given to 
 her own child, the while Emily would take the 
 entire responsibility on her hands of looking after 
 the comfort and general welfare of "Anna Maria" 
 
22 LITTLE CON. 
 
 (Sophia's Doll ;) so that, like twin streams, these 
 two sisters would unite, as it were, their little cur- 
 rents, and glide on bubbling and sparkling in the 
 sunshine, in the most charming way in the world. 
 
 But poor Con had no respect at all for dolls : he 
 regarded them afar off in silent wonder, not un- 
 mixed with contempt. He could not at all comprehend 
 how his sisters could possibly prefer nursing and 
 petting these dumb effigies, to playing at horses ; 
 and as he justly considered these Avaxen beauties 
 to be the great cause of this want of taste, as well 
 as good-fellowship on his sister's part, his little bile 
 rose against the dolls, whom in the bitterness of his 
 heart he pronounced to be "two little stoopids;" 
 in return for which compliment, Sophia and Emily 
 assured him, in no measured terms, that he himself 
 was the "little stupid," who had not good sense 
 enough to admire the " two most darling pets in 
 the whole world." 
 
 On one occasion only had Con regarded with 
 any thing approaching to interest one of the tribe of 
 these waxen female individuals — namely, on So- 
 phia's being presented with a large doll, that opened 
 and shut her eyes, with a languid, dieaway grace, 
 not quite unmixed with affectation perhaps. 
 
LITTLE CON. 23 
 
 Con was a very strange boy ; lie never spoke 
 much, but then he thought a great deal, and the 
 idea that entered his little brain on this occasion 
 was. What would this languishing young beauty 
 do, were he to introduce a finger into the wonder- 
 ful blue eyes — into one of them, that is, and then 
 pull the string ? "If she does it then," thought he, 
 "ha !" So the very instant that Con found him- 
 self quite alone with this affected young lady, he 
 forthwith eagerly thrust a finger into one of her 
 dieaway orbs, and then pulled the string with all 
 his might. As Con breathlessly anticipated, she 
 could not perform this mysterious feat ; but this 
 proved to be the least considerable result of his ex- 
 periment, for, to his horror and consternation, the 
 lovely blue eye itself entirely disappeared, and 
 left nought but a dismal hole in its place ; the while 
 the other blue eye, entirely cured of any remaining 
 affectation, answered no longer the guiding-string, 
 but kept wide open, staring with all its might. 
 Master Con suffered for this little trick ; though he 
 showed great contrition for his misdeed, it still 
 rankled in the minds of the sisters, who in conse- 
 quence kept him a good deal aloof; and this was 
 not very kind of them, though natural, for they 
 
24 LITTLE CON. 
 
 ought to have remembered that he was very young 
 (he was not yet five years of age,) and had no bro- 
 ther, and consequently looked almost entirely to 
 them for companionship and sympathy. 
 
 However, Con managed to hide his wounded feel- 
 ings on this, as on every other occasion, under a 
 considerable assumption of dignity, pouring into 
 Jane's, the nursemaid's ears alone the tale of his 
 conceived wrongs and sufferings — for between Jane 
 and Con there existed a strong love and friend- 
 ship. Jane, who doated on him, perfectly under- 
 stood his meanings and strange ways. He was 
 never naughty with his dear Jane — she could read 
 as- in a book every look and revelation of his large 
 dark eyes, that had a world of expression in them — 
 for Con was a very pretty boy, with a beautiful 
 straight nose, dark curly hair, and dimpled waxen 
 cheeks like a girl. Jane sang him to sleep each 
 night, or told him some pretty tale, till slumber 
 weighed down his eyelids ; and at Jane's knee it was 
 that he generally said his prayers, and recited his 
 quaint little hymn. 
 
 Above all things Con loved to stroll with her 
 down the shady lane that led out on the village high 
 road, where, seated on a favorite gate, he would 
 
LITTLE CON. 25 
 
 lean one little elbow on her shoulder, and resting his 
 little head on his hand, watched with large wonder- 
 ing eyes every body and every thing that passed 
 along. Nothing escaped him ; without moving his 
 head, his eyes took in and followed every thing 
 with immense interest ; though a quick-breathed 
 "ha!" was the only exclamation that gave token 
 of his feelings being more than usually excited. 
 
 Now and then, indeed, he would raise himself 
 from Jane's shoulder, and sedately inserting his 
 hand into one of the little fringed pockets of his 
 frock, draw out with the most profound gravity a 
 paper screw — like some quaint old gentleman about 
 to indulge in a quiet pinch of snuff. But Con had 
 no opinion whatever of tobacco in any shape — 
 sugar was his staple commodity. 
 
 In his book of trades, the sugar-baker was the 
 one that most entirely met his approbation. " When 
 I'm a man, Jane," he would say, "I will be a 
 sugar baker ! won't we have nice things then ! Ha?" 
 So that, of course, Con's little paper-screws invari- 
 ably contained some dainty in this line ; after 
 selecting and introducing which between his own 
 cherry lips, he would carefully select the next best 
 bit, and, putting out his little hand, proffer it to 
 3 
 
26 LITTLE CON. 
 
 Jane's every whit as ruddy lips, which, sucked 
 away also, apparently with equal relish to his own. 
 That done, and the screws carefully restored to his 
 pocket, he would resume his former position on 
 Jane's shoulder, and stare away with increased 
 energy and satisfaction. 
 
 Now came papa's birth-day, and it fell on a 
 lovely sunny day in June. The birth-day of each 
 of their parents was a very important affair to the 
 children — a holiday, of course ; and on such au- 
 spicious occasions they invariably came in to break- 
 fast Avith their Papa and Mamma, dressed in their 
 best, each bearing a little bouquet of choice flowers, 
 to be presented with a kiss, and every fond grate- 
 ful wish that a good child could offer to the dear 
 and respected author of its being. 
 
 Well, in they came, as usual ; the sisters arrayed 
 in snowy muslin frocks, with broad pink sashes, 
 and hair beautifully curled, and little Con in white 
 blouse trousers, hair nicely done up with sweet 
 pomatum, by Jane's tidy fingers, and face radiant 
 with happiness and Windsor soap. The bouquets 
 were duly presented ; the kisses given ; every 
 kind wish wished ; and their Papa, after fondly 
 returning their caresses, inserted, with an important 
 
LITTLE CON. 27 
 
 smile, one hand in his pocket, from whence he drew 
 out a small parcel in silver paper, which, on being 
 unfolded, revealed no less than five bran new half- < 
 dollar pieces, two of which he presented to the 
 girls, and one to Con, with the desire that they 
 were to spend them entirely as the fancy of each 
 should dictate. 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed Con, turning his treasure 
 round and round, and rolling his large eyes over 
 it with immense satisfaction, " ! thank you, 
 dear Pa !" and off he went to exhibit his riches to 
 Jane, who exclaimed, with lifted hands — 
 
 " My goodness, Con ? why you are rich now, 
 quite a nabob !" 
 
 Now, in the midst of breakfast-time, while they 
 were in the full enjoyment of the good things 
 which loaded the table, news was brought that their 
 old nurse, Dame Golding, who lived in a small 
 cottage at the end of the pretty lane that led to the 
 village, was very ill indeed, and of course wanted, 
 as they well knew, all the little comforts and deli- 
 cacies which tend so much to alleviate the sufferings 
 
 o 
 
 of the rich, but which, alas ! stern poverty denies 
 to the wants of the poor and needy ; for the small 
 annuity which the worthy Mr. Allers had settled 
 
28 LITTLE CON. 
 
 on the poor, but excellent old woman, was most 
 sadly tax^d to meet the urgent demands of her 
 married children and their families; so that the 
 poor, dear old nurse pinched and screwed, and half- 
 starved herself, in fact, in order to supply the 
 wants of those dearer to her than self. 
 
 Papa and Mamma, exchanged looks in silence. 
 Papa went on quietly reading his paper — Mamma 
 as quietly and silently sipped her tea. The sisters 
 exchanged looks also ; their eyes brightened — the 
 color mounted to their cheeks — their hearts beat 
 quicker, as though some good, holy thought had 
 passed through each at the same moment, and left 
 the glow of good resolve on each brow. Hastily 
 they finished their meal ; and rising with one ac- 
 cord, they flew, hand in hand, down the garden to 
 the pretty arbor, where they had left their child- 
 ren, "Jessie Matilda" and, "Anna Maria," who, 
 of course, were also decked out in their very best 
 attire, to do honor to the auspicious morn. 
 
 Each snatched up with breathless excitement her 
 own child. "My precious love!" exclaimed So- 
 phia, covering Jessie Matilda with caresses, " you 
 must go without the new frock I intended buying for 
 you, you really must, my sweetest girl ! Poor nurse I" 
 
LITTLE CON. 29 
 
 " Yes," sighed Emily, " and you, too, my pretty 
 Anna, must make that chip bonnet last the summer. 
 I cannot afford the new pink hat and feather which 
 I promised you ; so 'tis no use of pouting, darling ! 
 make up your mind to it at once, like a good child, 
 and wait for better times !" 
 
 "Well, do you know, Emily," said Sophia 
 gravely, "lam not sure but this may be the best 
 for them, after all ; it will teach them to bear dis- 
 appointments betimes — they must meet with it in 
 the world, you know, poor things !" As she sighed 
 and gazed mournfully at Jessie Matilda, whose un- 
 ruffled smile seemed to give firm assurance that 
 she was fully prepared to meet not only that, but 
 every other disappointment the cold, unfeeling world 
 had in store for her, not merely with perfect for- 
 titude, but the most charming affability. 
 
 " I should not so much mind it," returned Emily 
 with a deep sigh, "but Charlotte and Louisa Smith's 
 children, "Anastasia and Clotilda," have got en- 
 tirely new dresses — scarlet satin, with blue plumes 
 in their hats ; and our poor girls must feel it — it is 
 but natural for them to show some disappointment, 
 poor dears !" 
 
 "Well!" said Sophia loftily, "if Charlotte and 
 3* 
 
30 LITTLE CON. 
 
 Louisa Smith like to deck out their girls like pea- 
 cocks, let them ; it does not show their good sense, 
 let me tell you ; for my part, I am not going to be- 
 have so injudiciously as to bring up my child with 
 notions above her station in life, I can assure you." 
 And she glanced severely at Jessie Matilda, who 
 certainly had rather a puffed-up look. 
 
 "Well," said Emily, "I cannot exactly accuse 
 dear Anna Maria of vanity ; but" (and she drew 
 in her breath, shook her head, and gazed with eyes 
 full of maternal solicitude at the young lady in 
 question) " I must freely admit that she is getting 
 of late a leetle too forward in her manners ; but 
 depend upon this, miss, that I will not put up with 
 it one moment; so I don't deceive you!" (This 
 was said in a tone that must, had Anna Maria pos- 
 sessed one spark of feeling, have gone through her 
 like pins and needles.) 
 
 Having deposited once more these young ladies, 
 who, after in the first instance being smoothed with 
 caressses, had now received such severe reprimands, 
 in their respective places against the wall (where 
 however, they kept smiling on; in this respect 
 most assuredly a perfect pattern not only to childhood 
 but to grown-up people, of all ages and conditions,) 
 
LITTLE CON. 31 
 
 the sisters now turned to each other, and pulling 
 out their new bright silver coins, gazed at them a 
 moment with admiring looks; while Emily ex- 
 claimed, exultingly, " Two dollars, in all, dear ! 
 Now what shall we do for dear old nurse ?" 
 
 " Oh I can tell you," returned Sophia, eagerly ! 
 " let us buy her first a pound of the best tea, half 
 green (she dotes on green tea you know,) and a 
 pound or two of fine lump sugar, and a pound of 
 Mr. Firkin's delicious fresh butter, and — " 
 
 "And a nice neck of mutton, to make broth," 
 broke in Emily; "and some pearl-barley for 
 barley-water at night." 
 
 "Yes, that will do beautifully," said Sophia. 
 " Mamma would let us readily have the sugar and 
 butter, and tea too ; but let us do it ourselves, eh ?" 
 
 Now all this time Con had been an attentive lis- 
 tener. He stood just outside the arbor, leaning with 
 his back against a tree. Enter Con could not ; he 
 wished to be in peace that day ; he wanted to bear 
 no malice against any creature or thing ! 
 
 Con felt himself to be a person of immense 
 wealth, but he was not lifted up on that account ; 
 on the contrary, he would willingly have displayed 
 his riches to any honest dog that came in his way. 
 
32 LITTLE CON. 
 
 He had done so, in fact, not only to the yard-dog 
 Ponto, but even to the black cat in the kitchen. 
 But he dared not trust himself to face Jessie Ma- 
 tilda, and Anna Maria, and hope to keep that charm- 
 ing equanimity with which he proposed to him- 
 self to conclude the day. 
 
 The very caresses and endearing words which 
 he heard his sisters lavishing upon the " two little 
 stoopids," as he profanely called them, caused his 
 anger to rise against them. But at the latter part 
 of the conversation, he pricked up his ears, the 
 color mounted in his cheek ; and hastily pulling 
 out his half dollar, he gazed long and earnstly at 
 it, with round open mouth, and eager breathings, 
 like one absorbed in mental speculation. 
 
 " What are you doing here, Master Con ? Have 
 you been listening to what we have been saying ?" 
 exclaimed Sophia, suddenly, as the sisters came 
 from out the arbor. 
 
 " Maybe I have, and maybe I haven't," returned 
 Con, with considerable dignity of manner, inserting 
 once more his hands in his little pockets, and 
 staring straight before him, the while he kept kick- 
 ing one foot against the trunk of a tree. 
 
 " And what are you going to do with your half 
 
LITTLE CON. 33 
 
 dollar, sir?" demanded Emily. " Buy sugar-plums 
 with it?" 
 
 "Perhaps I am, and perhaps I ain't?" returned 
 Con. 
 
 "Come, tell us, Master Con, what?" asked 
 Sophia. 
 
 "Never you mind, miss; I know," said Con, 
 importantly. 
 
 " Well, come along, Emily," said Sophia. " Let 
 us go at once; the sooner the better." And the 
 sisters clapped their hands for joy, and tripped 
 lightly towards the house to get their bonnets ; and 
 presently forth they sallied again, each bearing a 
 basket en the arm, and took their way with quick 
 steps down the shady lane that led past Nurse Gold- 
 ing's cottage to the village. Con watched them 
 out of the garden, and then followed down the lane ; 
 keeping, however, a convenient distance behind, to 
 avoid being seen. He saw them pass nurse's cot, 
 and go up the street ; and the instant a turning hid 
 them from sight he made straight for Mistress 
 Tilden's shop, whose bow window revealed a tempt- 
 ing display of cakes and tarts, and fruits of all 
 sorts, together with sugar-plums, mintsticks, secrets, 
 taffy and what not. 
 
34 LITTLE CON. 
 
 Con entered the well-known receptacle of sweets 
 with a flushed face, and in a state of considerable 
 excitement ; and pulling out his half dollar, ad- 
 vanced to the counter and laid it down with all the 
 importance the case required. 
 
 " My gracious, Master Conway, why, you are 
 rich!" exclaimed the worthy woman; "and what 
 do you want, my dear ?" 
 
 " Ha ! I want ever-so-many things," said Con, 
 in ever-increasing state of excitement. " How 
 many six-pences will there be in that ?" he asked. 
 
 " How many six-pences in a half-a-dollar ? Why 
 eight, to be sure, my dear," returned she. 
 
 "Ha! and how many half-six-pences, pray?" 
 asked Con. 
 
 " Why, don't you know my dear ? Twice eight — 
 how many do they make? Count up, now." 
 
 Con held up both hands, and counted his fingers. 
 " How many?" said he, giving a loose guess " eight." 
 
 " No ; count your thumbs in too, my dear, and 
 that will make it right — sixteen," said she. 
 
 " Ha — yes ; then I want sixteen papers of things, 
 please." 
 
 " Why, Master Conway, you are not going to 
 spend it all at once ? Why, my dear boy, you will 
 
LITTLE CON. 35 
 
 make yourself quite ill," exclaimed the woman, in 
 a tone of great surprise. 
 
 " Perhaps I am, mum, if you please," returned 
 Con, loftily, rather offended at his right to do so 
 being doubted. 
 
 " Oh, very well, my dear ; but does your Pa know 
 of it, eh?" said she again; hesitating to comply 
 with his wishes. 
 
 " Perhaps he does and perhaps he doesn't. 
 Never you mind, mum. I know," returned Con, 
 with immense dignity, now justly incensed at the 
 woman's pertinacity. 
 
 " Oh ! perhaps you are going to have a little 
 feast ? That's it ! "Well, then, what shall it be ?" 
 
 " Make me up, please, three cents worth of ever- 
 so-many things," said Con, in breathless eagerness ; 
 secrets and mintsticks and — and — burnt almonds — 
 and carryaway- comforts (meaning carraway com- 
 fits) — and rock candy — and peppermint — and — and 
 every thing." 
 
 Con's great eyes followed, with intense eager- 
 ness, all the woman's proceedings. 
 
 " Stop," said he suddenly, as she was about to 
 do up the first packet, " give me a bit of paper, 
 mum; a good sized bit, please." And having re- 
 
36 LITTLE CON. 
 
 ceived it, Con proceeded with great solemnity to 
 make a small deduction from the burnt almonds — 
 for his own peculiar screw — laying the same em- 
 bargo on each packet in succession ; which when 
 completed he stuffed down all the other packets till 
 his little pockets looked almost ready to burst with 
 repletion. 
 
 " Stop," said he, once more, as the .woman was 
 pocketing the half dollar piece ; " let me look at it 
 once more, if you please. Ha ! don't it glitter, 
 mum?" and Con sighed heavily, as he turned- it 
 round and round, for the light to play upon it. 
 But just at that moment Con saw his sisters pass 
 the shop-window, on their way back, with quick 
 steps, laughing and chattering away in high spirits, 
 with their full baskets on their arms ; and hastily 
 returning the bright half dollar piece to the rather 
 alarmed old lady, Con left the shop, and cautiously 
 followed the sisters. He watched them enter Nurse 
 Gol ding's cottage, and then made straight way for it 
 himself. 
 
 Con stood a moment on tiptoe, gazing in breath- 
 less excitement through the ,low cottage window. 
 Nurse Golding was sitting in her old arm-chair, 
 propped up by cushions, before the fire ; for though 
 
LITTLE CON. 37 
 
 it was summer time the poor old creature was 
 shaking with fever-cold like the ague. He saw 
 how his sisters opened their basket and presented 
 their little offerings, and how old Nurse lifted up 
 both hands in joyful surprise and gratitude, and 
 how she fondly kissed them both and blessed them, 
 and how she then raised the corner of her apron 
 and wiped the tears from her eyes ; and Con's ex- 
 citement grew too painful to bear. " Ha ! won't 
 she be ever so much pleased at what I've got for 
 her," thought he to himself, and in he rushed. 
 
 "Hollo, Master Con, what do you do here?" 
 exclaimed Sophia and Emily in a breath. 
 
 " Ha, never you mind, miss; I know," said Con, 
 bending his head in the most tremendous dignity. 
 " Here, Nurse, dear, ain't I got something nice for 
 you ? Ha, better Ijhan nasty tea and bread and 
 butter ! See here (pulling out with intense eager- 
 ness his various packets of sweets.) There, you 
 just taste them — and suck some of this. Just 
 suck 'em now. Ha ! ain't this nice for you. Look ! 
 you won't mind being sick now, will you, Nursy, 
 dear?" And Con heaped his packets into the lap 
 of the astonished old woman. 
 
 " Oh, you little goose, you ! Do you think poor 
 4 
 
88 LITTLE CON. 
 
 Nurse cares for such trash ?" exclaimed Sophia 
 and Emily, holding up their hands. 
 
 " What am I a little goose for, pray ? "Won't she 
 like them ? Won't you, Nurse, dear, eh ?" stuttered 
 out poor Con, indignantly, knitting his brow and 
 clenching his little hand. 
 
 " Oh ! don't find fault with the precious boy, 
 my dears," exclaimed the nurse; " bless his little 
 heart, he meant it well. But dear me, dear me, my 
 darling little boy, what am I to do with all these 
 sweets ? 
 
 " You must take them all back, and suck them 
 yourself, my dear ; that will be the best thing to 
 do with them." 
 
 "No, no," returned Con, resolutely, " you must 
 have them, Nurse, dear ! Why don't you suck 'em ? 
 See." And Con popped one into his own mouth. 
 " You try, now ; it is so good !" 
 
 " Oh you little booby," exclaimed his sisters ; 
 " what will Papa say when he hears how you've 
 wasted your half dollar ?" 
 
 "What for, pray?" sputtered Con again, quite 
 red in the face ; and stamping his foot upon the 
 floor, he rushed from the cottage, and made oif 
 for home as fast as he could, a prey to a complica- 
 
LITTLE CON. 39 
 
 tion of emotions, among which the disagreeable rather 
 predominated. 
 
 Sophia and Emily were to dine in the parlor, Con 
 and Jane were to dine in the nursery ; but he was to 
 come in to the desert. The sisters during the dinner- 
 time had related the whole history of the morning's 
 proceedings, and how poor Con had disposed of his 
 half dollar. Con had not seen his parents since his 
 return home ; into Jane's faithful bosom alone, had 
 he poured the history of his doings, and of the deep 
 wrongs he had suffered in consequence ; so that when 
 Con made his appearance in the dining room to 
 partake of the dessert, he was in a very uncertain 
 state of mind. 
 
 " Come here, my boy," said his father to him on 
 his entrance ; and Con moved silently towards his 
 father, and was placed on his knee. "Why, Con — 
 what is this I hear?" began his father — "all your 
 half dollar gone — wasted on sweets ? that is not 
 exactly the manner in which I wished you to dispose 
 of it." 
 
 " Yes, little goose !" began his sisters ; but Papa 
 stopped them, at once. " Hush !" said he, " young 
 ladies, if you please — you are both as much to blame 
 in this affair as poor Con, who has not half your 
 
40 LITTLE CON. 
 
 years. If on the one hand I am much pleased 
 with the manner in which you have laid out your 
 presents — however, I fully expected it of you — I am 
 not, on the other, at all satisfied with the unkind 
 manner with which you have treated him." 
 
 Con gave a deep sigh of injured feeling, glanced 
 reproachfully at his sisters, and then turned his 
 eyes, brimming with tears, once more to his father's. 
 " Why," continued Mr. Allers, " did you not advise 
 and take the poor little fellow into your counsels 
 and confidence, pray ?" 
 
 "Because he did not ask us, papa !" answered the 
 sisters, but in some confusion. 
 
 " Well," continued Papa, " you two ladies laid out 
 your money in the judicious manner which your 
 years and experience assured you would be accept- 
 able to poor sick Nurse ; and poor little Con laid 
 out his money in the presents that would have 
 proved the most acceptable to himself — therein 
 practising the blessed rule, of 'Do unto others, 
 as you would they should do unto you.' " 
 
 "But now, my boy!" — and papa kissed poor 
 Con, who made up a little face to cry, but thought 
 better of it, arresting the tears by a good sniff or 
 two — "you must understand that old people do not 
 
LITTLE CON. 41 
 
 take the same pleasure in sucking sugar-plums that 
 little boys do ! on the contrary, they care nothing 
 for them — and to sick people, most especially, they 
 are quite an abomination. Now, if my little Con had 
 taken Jane with a good basket on her arm, with 
 him, and had, with one shilling, bought a dozen or 
 more of those fine oranges that I saw in the grocer's 
 window ; and another shilling, in purchasing a dozen 
 or more, new-laid eggs, and the other money on 
 some fine lemons, to make cooling drink, or to 
 squeeze in the barley water — then, I rather fancy, 
 Nurse Golding would have held up her hands quite 
 in a transport of delight and gratitude." 
 
 Con gazed up in his father's face, whilst speak- 
 ing this, with a look of intense eagerness ; and then 
 suddenly scrambling from off his father's knee, he 
 made for the door as fast as he could. 
 
 "Holloa! what's that for ? where are you running 
 to?" demanded Mr. Allers, in some surprise. 
 
 "Oh, I know, Pa!" exclaimed Con, in breath- 
 less eagerness — " I'm going to old Mother Tilden's 
 to make her take them all back, and give me my 
 half dollar, to buy oranges and eggs, and 
 
 "No — no — Master Con!" broke in his father, 
 
 laughing heartily ; " come back, sir, directly ; that 
 4* 
 
42 LITTLE CON. 
 
 won't do ! — pretty way of doing business ! — a bar- 
 gain's a bargain ! Poor Mrs. Tilden is not to blame 
 and what makes you call her ' old mother Tilden ?' 
 that's not a very proper manner to name a respect- 
 able woman. Besides, she is not old, and has no 
 child; and therefore cannot, with any degree of 
 justice, be termed 'old mother Tilden.' Don't you 
 think now that ' Mistress Tilden' would sound much 
 better?" 
 
 "Yes, Pa," responded Con. 
 
 " And, with regard to those unlucky sugar 
 plums," continued Mr. Allers, " I should rather 
 imagine that you would find it a very difficult 
 matter to get many of them back, Con ! I should 
 say that by this time the greatest part of them have 
 found their way down the throats of nurse Golding's 
 little grandchildren, and that seems to me the very 
 best place for them. But what is this that makes 
 your pocket stick out so?" asked his father, 
 suddenly laying his hand on Con's private screw. 
 " Come, Master Con, out with it, and let us have a 
 look at it : it feels and looks rather suspicious." 
 
 Con turned very red, hung his head, and very 
 reluctantly obeyed his father in pulling it out. 
 
 "Ho! ho! Master Con!" said papa, opening 
 
LITTLE CON. 43 
 
 the rather bulky screw ; " what, you laid an embargo 
 on each packet of sugar plums, did you ? That was 
 not quite the thing, I think, was it ?" Con's tell-tale 
 eyes glanced from his father's face to that of his 
 mother, and those of his sisters ; and then he looked 
 down in a great confusion at his fingers. 
 
 " I don't think that your sisters reserved any part 
 of their money for private use — they gave all ; and 
 so should you have acted, Con. Were I to make up 
 my mind to give you a slice of cake, what would 
 you say to see me take a good bite of it first — eh ? 
 But, however, we must not be too hard upon you : 
 you will know better in time — indeed, I hope that 
 the little morning's transaction will prove a useful 
 lesson to you, and teach you not to do things in too 
 great a hurry, and, above all, make you seek the 
 advice of those who, being so much older and more 
 experienced than yourself, must know better. And 
 now, since you have suffered, after all, in a good 
 cause — there — you shall try again" — and Mr. Al- 
 lers pulled out another half dollar, and placed it in 
 the delighted little Con's hand — "and now, off with 
 you ; take Jane, and a good basket, and let us see 
 if you cannot retrieve your good name, and come 
 home in a more comfortable state of mind to tea." 
 
44 LITTLE CON. 
 
 Con gratefully kissed his father, and then rushed 
 to impart his glad tidings to his friend Jane, in the 
 nursery, who very joyfully put on her bonnet, and, 
 with basket on arm, soon escorted Con to the village. 
 
 Six as fine oranges as ever were seen, as*many 
 large snow-white new-laid eggs, and half-a-dozen 
 splendid lemons, were soon stowed away in Jane's 
 basket, as the product of the half dollar. 
 
 Mrs. Firkin, to whom Jane related the events 
 of the day, told Con that he was a good boy, and 
 presented him with an extra splendid orange for 
 himself; which however, Con, full of high resolve, 
 thrust into the basket with the rest. Then away 
 they both went to old nurse's cottage. 
 
 Sophia and Emily came up at the door, eager to 
 witness nurse's delight, at the same moment as them- 
 selves ; and the very first scene that greeted Con's 
 eyes on entrance was, ever so many of nurse's little 
 grandchildren (just as Papa predicted) sucking 
 at the sweets, which gave Con considerable delight. 
 
 "Here, nurse, dear," exclaimed Con, rushing to 
 her — " see, we have brought you something better 
 than sugar-plums this time — ha ! ain't they nice ? 
 won't you like to suck them, eh?" and the de- 
 lighted Con spread out his stores on the table. 
 
13— / 
 
 LITTLE CON AND NURSE. P. 45. 
 
LITTLE CON. 45 
 
 " Oh, my precious boy ! the very thing that I 
 ■was longing for !" exclaimed Nurse, holding up her 
 hands in grateful joy and astonishment ; then she 
 kissed Con again and again, and wiped her poor eyes. 
 " How I shall enjoy those lovely cooling oranges 
 in my long feverish nights no one can tell ! and I 
 will have one of these new-laid eggs with a cup of 
 the nice tea, that the dear young ladies gave me — 
 and some of the nice fresh butter and home-baked 
 bread ! Oh, how good you have been to me, my pre- 
 cious children !" said she, wiping her eyes and look- 
 ing up gratefully to heaven — " and, oh, how good 
 has our heavenly Father, who remembereth the poor 
 and needy, been to me ! may He make me more 
 grateful for these, and all His other mercies. And 
 oh ! may he look down and bless you too, my dear, 
 dear children ! have your young, innocent hearts 
 in His keeping ! prosper in them those precious 
 seeds of virtue, truth, and religion, which your 
 good parents have striven to plant there ! may he 
 make you a rich blessing not only to them but to 
 others !" And poor old Nurse buried her face in 
 her apron, and wept — the while the sisters meekly 
 bowed their heads, and whispered — "Amen !" 
 
 As for little Con, his feelings became too many 
 
46 LITTLE CON. 
 
 for him ; and making a rush to the door, he started 
 off home again at a tremendous pace, without Jane, 
 or any one, in order that he might be home the first, 
 and so have the pleasure of recounting, to Papa 
 and Mamma, the whole affair. 
 
UNCLE PRATT. P. 47. 
 
UNCLE PRATT. 
 
 I have already referred to ray Uncle Pratt. He is 
 my mother's favorit^ brother, a very excellent, 
 good natured old bachelor, who spends so much of 
 his time at our house, that he may be very properly 
 classed among Our Folks at Home. Indeed, I believe 
 he feels more at home in the old mansion house, 
 than any where else. 
 
 Uncle Pratt is very fond of children. I have 
 heard an old tradition of the family that a cruel 
 disappointment in early life, is what made him an 
 old bachelor. His lady-love died ; and Uncle Pratt 
 is true to her memory. But his affectionate dispo- 
 sition finds abundant exercise among the children 
 of his relations and acquaintance. In his house 
 one room is actually set apart and consecrated to 
 his juvenile friends. It is a complete museum of 
 curious toys and giro cracks, such as children de- 
 light in. Curious images of Turks and soldiers that 
 
 (47) 
 
48 UNCLE PRATT. 
 
 sit or stand on a musical box and move their limbs 
 by clock work while the music is playing ; trees full 
 of beautiful birds that fly about and chirp, when the 
 machinery is wound up and set a-going ; stuffed 
 birds and squirrels and other animals set upon pe- 
 destals; glass cases full of all sorts of brilliant 
 beetles and bugs and butterflies ; precious carvings 
 in ivory from China ; lacquered boxes, from Japan ; 
 images of Hindoo gods and goddesses, carved in 
 soap stone, from Calcutta; a splendid collection 
 of marine shells from the Oriental countries and 
 the Pacific Ocean ; with other curiosities, too nu- 
 merous, as the advertisements say, to mention. 
 
 This great room with its contents, is the de- 
 light of my Uncle Pratt to show to all his acquaint- 
 ances on some Saturday afternoon, or in the school 
 holidays. Such occasions he enjoys quite as well 
 as the children, showing and explaining every thing, 
 lifting up the very little children on his shoulder, 
 to see the birds on the high shelf, setting all the 
 musicb oxes agoing, the birds singing, the Turks 
 gesticulating, and the soldiers performing the ma- 
 nual exercise. A holiday at Uncle Pratt's is a 
 real holiday and no mistake. 
 
 When Uncle Pratt visits the house of his friends 
 
UNCLE PRATT. 49 
 
 where there are little children, his pockets are 
 filled with gingerbread and bonbons ; and his en- 
 trance among them is always the signal of a frolic. 
 In parties of pleasure, pic-nics, boatings, and 
 "visits to remarkable places," he always accompa- 
 nies young people of a larger growth, and acts as 
 " the good genius, who turns all things to pleasure." 
 Uncle Pratt is not unlike the "Uncle Jamie," 
 who is celebrated by a Scottish poet in the follow- 
 ing lines. 
 
 UNCLE JAMIE. 
 
 Weel the bairns may mak' their mane, 
 Uncle Jamie's dead an' gane ! 
 Though his hairs were thin an' grey, 
 Few like him could frisk an' play. 
 Fresh and warm his kindly heart 
 Wi' the younkers aye took part ; 
 An' the merry sangs he sung 
 Charm'd the hearts o' auld an' young. 
 
 Uncle Jamie had a mill, 
 An' a wee mouse it intill, 
 Wi' a little bell to ring, 
 An' a supple-jack to fling ; 
 
50 UNCLE PRATT. 
 
 An' a drummer, rud-cle-dud, 
 On a little drum to thud, 
 An' a mountit bold dragoon, 
 Eidin' a' the lave aboon. 
 
 When the mousie drave the mill, 
 Wi' the bairns the house would fill ; 
 Such a clatter then began ! 
 Faster aye the mousie ran ! 
 Clinkum, clankum ! rad-cle-dad ! 
 Flang the supple-jack like mad ! 
 Gallop went the bold dragoon, 
 As he would gallop owre the moon ! 
 
 Some, wha aiblins think they're wise, 
 Uncle's frolics may despise ; 
 Let them look as grave's they may, 
 He was wiser far than they. 
 Thousands a' the warld would gi'e 
 Could they feel as blythe as he. 
 Weel the bairns may mak' their mane, 
 Uncle Jamie's dead an' gane ! 
 
A CURE FOR, ENNUI. 
 
 Sitting- with my uncle Pratt, one day, in his 
 office, I happened unguardedly to complain of ennui. 
 The old gentleman deliberately took off his spec- 
 tacles, and laid down the book he was reading, and 
 turning his chair round, so as to look me full in the 
 face, said, 
 
 " Edward, you must learn to call things by their 
 right names. You are suffering just now from a 
 feeling, which fashionable people call ennui, but 
 which common people call laziness. In most cases, this 
 proceeds from the want of a good, strong motive, 
 and an earnest purpose. You must not suffer this 
 feeling to gain upon you. Otherwise it will become 
 the bane of your life. I must tell you frankly, 
 that you are in very great danger of becoming a 
 lazy man. You will inherit much property, and if 
 you yield yourself in early life to a feeling of self- 
 indulgence, it would be fatal to your happiness. 
 
 (51) 
 
52 A CUKE FOR ENNUI. 
 
 You should endeavor to look beyond yourself, and 
 make it a serious object to promote the happiness 
 of others. I can assure you that this is the only 
 sure way to be always cheerful, and always happy." 
 
 " How shall I begin, uncle" said I. 
 
 "As you are a reasonable being," he replied, 
 " begin by investigating the matter fully and satisfy- 
 ing yourself that what I have been telling you is true. 
 Having thus formed a theory of your own upon 
 the subject, you will find no difficulty whatever in 
 beginning to put it in practice. You will of course 
 recollect that charity, which is another name for 
 true and active benevolence, begins at home ; and 
 you will set yourself earnestly about promoting by 
 every means in your power the happiness of your 
 own immediate family, the " Folks at Home." 
 
 " My father, for example," said I. 
 
 "Yes," said my uncle," you know his heart is 
 set upon your becoming an able lawyer, and you 
 will please him by studying with all your might 
 during your regular study hours ; and showing a 
 real interest in the pursuit, whenever you converse 
 with him." 
 
 "My mother." 
 
 " Your own heart will instruct you how to please 
 
A CURE FOR ENNUI. 53 
 
 her by those thousand little delicate attentions at 
 home, which are so pleasing to a loving mother." 
 
 "My sister." 
 
 " Jane is already proud of your talent and ac- 
 quirements. She will participate in the pride 
 which your father and myself will feel in seeing 
 you become a really useful, hard-working, earnest 
 man. But there are many details of attention at 
 home which will readily present themselves when 
 you are on the look out for them." 
 
 "I will commence forthwith," said I. It occur- 
 red to me, on the instant, that not only was my 
 uncle's theory strictly true ; but that he was 
 himself a living exemplar of its truth. For I had 
 never known a person more thoroughly devoted to 
 the happiness of others, or one who seemed always 
 so happy and cheerful himself. 
 
 "Perhaps," saidmyuncle, "you would like to read 
 a little narrative, written by an English friend of 
 mine, to illustrate the cure of ennui." 
 
 And he handed me the story which I now give 
 to my readers. It is entitled " Frank Weston and 
 the Italian Image Boy." 
 5* 
 
FRANK WESTON AND THE ITALIAN 
 IMAGE BOY. 
 
 " Well, sir, I -will not pick your pocket by pre- 
 scribing medicine for you which you do not need ; 
 but I suppose I must not leave you without a pre- 
 scription of some kind. Now as you are in good 
 health, and I suspect that the weakness and fatigue 
 of which you complain arise from want of exertion, 
 I would advise plenty of exercise. You should ride, 
 walk, or run if you will, but not sit still. If you 
 were in yonder drayman's place, you would have 
 no more squeamish days or restless nights. You 
 must not be inactive, or you may really bring on 
 that which at present does not exist — serious disease. 
 
 " Do you think a tour on the continent would be 
 the thing, sir? only I always miss English comforts 
 so terribly abroad. No, I have a great mind to take 
 a walking tour through the Highlands, since you re- 
 commend exercise. What say you, sir ?" 
 
 " For what object ?" 
 (54) 
 
WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 55 
 
 " For health and amusement, doctor. Is it not 
 just what you have been suggesting?" 
 
 " I had not quite finished my prescription when 
 you spoke. I knew your father ; and since you 
 have flattered me by saying that you came from 
 town for the purpose of asking my advice, because 
 of your confidence in my judgment, I will use the 
 privilege of a friend as well as a physician, and I 
 tell you plainly that I fear your disorder will not 
 be removed by a trip to Scotland, or a walking 
 tour through the Highlands. I have no immediate 
 fear for your body, but there is a kind of mental 
 paralysis with which you are threatened, against 
 which I conceive it to be my duty to warn you. 
 You have let me into the secret of your malady — 
 a malady usually designated by a word for which 
 we have no adequate translation. It is ennui. 
 But ennui has a cause. You are living without an 
 object — is it not so ? You have had enough money 
 spent on your education ; but you are making no 
 use of it. Forgive me," glancing at a novel that 
 lay on the table, " I see those break fast-table compa- 
 nions at more than one house I visit ; but novel 
 reading is only one branch of literature, and but an 
 inferior branch." 
 
56 WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 
 
 The young man sighed. 
 
 "I believe you are right doctor, and I scarcely 
 know whether one ought to be very grateful to one's 
 father for leaving one independent of all exertion. 
 I begin to think that there may be a greater evil 
 than that of being obliged to earn one's living. If 
 there were any thing to day, for instance, that I 
 must do — if any being in the universe were depen- 
 dent on my exertions — I believe I could exert my- 
 self; but to tell the truth, doctor, the day's work 
 with me seems scarcely worth the trouble of dress- 
 ing for. As to this London life, I am sick to death 
 of it. The ball, the concert, and the opera ; the 
 great dinner parties, with their much wine and little 
 sense ; the more snug tete-a-tete with fellows jovial 
 enough, but who care no more for you than a snap 
 of the fingers, and not so much as for a bottle of 
 port ; — all these are very unsatisfactory. There is 
 nothing solid left after they are over ; such life seems 
 like the froth on trifle aud syllabub ; it tastes sweet 
 and makes a great show, but it does not satisfy the 
 appetite." 
 
 The physician gazed earnestly on his youthful 
 speaker, and sighed in his turn. He knew the 
 human heart better than to suppose that, with all 
 
WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 57 
 
 this disgust and world-weariness, the young man's 
 heart was willing to give up the world. He remem- 
 bered that slaves had been known to hug their chains. 
 
 " Come and spend this afternoon with me ; or, 
 rather, come in at one o'clock and take luncheon 
 with us. I would then ask for your company when 
 I go my second round of visits. But I must not 
 stay now," said he ; and hastily taking leave of his 
 friend, he passed into the hall. 
 
 A pale, thin, and slightly deformed girl stood 
 there, whose constant cough had reached the doc- 
 tor's ears, while talking to Frank Weston, and al- 
 though the handle of the door was in his hand, he 
 paused to look at the stooping figure before him 
 Their eyes met, and she dropped him a low curtesy. 
 
 " I suppose I ought to know your face. Indeed, 
 I think I do ;- yet it can scarcely be the same." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I called on you about a twelvemonth 
 since. I have not forgotten your kindness, if you 
 have." 
 
 " Really ; oh, you used to employ yourself in 
 shirt-making." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "And did you take my advice, and go to service ?" 
 
 " No, sir, I could not." 
 
58 WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 
 
 " How is your health then ?" 
 
 "No better, sir; I have that same old cough. "- 
 
 " How is it that you have never been to see me ?" 
 
 " It would have been uselessly robbing you of 
 your time, since I could not take your advice, sir." 
 
 " Call on me before nine to-morrow ; come quite 
 early;" and he jumped into his carriage, which 
 rolled quickly away, leaving Frank Weston in a 
 state of wonder, not unmixed with contempt, for 
 the interest that this first-rate physician manifested 
 in a poor shirt-maker. He wondered that he, for 
 whose morning call many a fine lady and rich gen- 
 tleman were waiting in anxious expectancy, should 
 have wasted time in talking to a poor miserable- 
 looking little shirt-maker. But the shirt-maker 
 had business with Frank ; and hearing her speak 
 as he was going up-stairs, he turned towards her 
 and inquired her errand. 
 
 "lam come, sir, to say, that I hope you will 
 excuse my not having finished your shirts. I am the 
 person, sir, that Mrs. Hally, the lady of this house, 
 was good enough to recommend to you, and I came 
 to say that I could not finish your work. I hoped 
 to have done so, but have been prevented." 
 
 " Well, pray how long do you mean to keep me a 
 
WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 59 
 
 waiting ? This is always the way with your coun- 
 try hands," said he, turning to Mrs. Hally, the 
 landlady, who was looking at Bessie Briant in deep 
 commiseration ; in London I should have had these 
 shirts a week ago." 
 
 " I beg your pardon sir ; I have not yet had them 
 a week in hand ; the pattern is so full of work, the 
 material is so very fine, and — " 
 
 " Well, if you can't do them, send them home to 
 me, and I will find some one who can. It is quite 
 absurd; you had better not have undertaken them. 
 Send them home, done or undone ; I cannot wait." 
 
 " Sir, two of them are nearly finished ; if you 
 wait till to-morrow night, I will send home those 
 two, if possible, all ready to put on." 
 
 " I cannot have any ifs. Will you promise to 
 send them home ? 
 
 " I will, sir ;" and the girl left the house. 
 
 " I wonder," said Mrs. Hally to her daughter 
 as they went up-stairs together to make Mr. Wes- 
 ton's bed, and " rightside," as she called it, his 
 room — " I wonder if Mr. Weston ever looked at 
 the stitches in one of his fine shirts, or even calcu- 
 lated on the amount of labor that such a shirt 
 must require. Poor girl !" 
 
60 WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 
 
 Poor girl, indeed ! she is but one of a large class 
 of slaves, and quite of the better sort too, whose 
 lives are too often sacrificed to the love of bargains, 
 to the curse of cheap dress and ill-requited labor. 
 Those advertisements of cheap shirts should make 
 every woman's heart ache who knows how many 
 weary hours their sisters are doomed to spend over 
 that one article of raiment, to be paid alas, how ill ! 
 
 Bessie could have wept on her homeward path, 
 but weeping would have hurt her eyes, and they 
 already felt weak and aching. She must work all 
 day, and she feared all night too, to fulfill her en- 
 gagement, or she must forfeit her bitterly needed 
 payment. So she went into the house and up into 
 her chamber, where she would be quiet and unin- 
 terrupted by her little brothers and sisters, took off 
 her bonnet, and began work. 
 
 "Work, work, work, 
 
 In the dull December light ; 
 And work, work, work, 
 
 When the weather is warm and bright ; 
 While underneath the eaves 
 
 The brooding swallows cling, 
 As if to show their sunny backs, 
 
 And twit her with the Spring. 
 
WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 61 
 
 Oh, but to breathe the breath 
 
 Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, 
 With the sky above her head, 
 
 And the grass beneath her feet ; 
 For only one short hour, 
 
 To feel as she used to feel, 
 Before she knew the woes of want, 
 
 And the walk that costs a meal." 
 
 And oh, that Frank Weston could have heard 
 the short, quick cough, the weary sigh of fatigue, 
 and could have seen the faintne'ss and the gasping 
 for breath of the poor seamstress over his fine shirts ! 
 
 Dr. L. was waiting luncheon for him when he ar- 
 rived, and the meal was hastily dispatched. 
 
 " We must be quick. I have only an hour and 
 a half for this round. 
 
 " But are they patients ? because I am no doctor." 
 
 " Precisely on this account I take you. Such 
 scenes as we shall pass through to day are, alas ! 
 no novelties to physicians." 
 
 There was no mistaking the expression of Frank 
 Weston's face, as they entered a very dirty and low 
 part of the city, near the river side. It was one 
 of extreme and undisguised disgust. They were on 
 foot too, and Frank's step was beginning to falter, 
 6 
 
62 WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 
 
 when they suddenly stopped at the door of one of 
 the better sort of lodging houses. The door was 
 open, and the physician and his companion entered 
 unobserved. They stopped at a room on the right 
 hand side, and entered at once, after having 
 knocked. 
 
 It was a large, dreary, scantily-furnished apart- 
 ment, at the extreme end of which an old woman 
 sat knitting, and a girl reclined in a chair, appa- 
 rently asleep. She looked as though she might 
 never awake from that sleep, so thin and worn 
 was her sharp contracted face. 
 
 " Is there any change ?" 
 
 " No, sir, I did not see any ; she is, maybe, a 
 little weaker, but as I say, poor dear, she may last 
 to the fall. Hush ! she is waking." 
 
 " Scarcely so long, mother, I think." 
 
 Dr. L. gently took her hand, and after asking 
 her a few common questions, inquired if she felt 
 the wine any comfort to her. The girl blushed, 
 and the mother being suddenly taken with an idea 
 that some one knocked, made the best of her way 
 to the door, whilst the girl said hurriedly : "Many 
 thanks to you ; but no more wine — I am past hope, 
 you know, sir; and what are a few days to one 
 
WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 68 
 
 ■who is ready for Eternity ? Do not send me any 
 more." And she looked earnestly and with deep 
 meaning into the doctor's face. 
 
 " You are not past the Bible I hope ?"■ said he, 
 looking round for the volume that usually lay by 
 her side. The girl's bosom heaved, and he said lit- 
 tle more. "You would like, perhaps, that some one 
 should come and read to you." 
 
 "Yes, oh yes!" 
 
 " I will try and have that wish gratified ; mean- 
 time, remember those words of the dying mission- 
 ary which I heard you say you loved to think of. 
 ' There is but one thing needful on a sick or on a 
 death bed, and that is to feel one's arms round the 
 cross.' " 
 
 She smiled a grateful assent, and they left the 
 room ; but Frank Weston said that her anxious, 
 longing expression of face, when speaking about the 
 wine, he should never forget. 
 
 "There is a sad history belonging to that girl. 
 It is a case in which merely putting your hand into 
 the pocket does no good, nay, it does positive harm. 
 That girl's mother loves drink better than her own 
 child. She has perilled her soul for the gratifica- 
 tion of that vicious appetite ; and while the means 
 
64 WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 
 
 remain she will continue to do so. How is one to 
 help such a case then ? Did you not hear her con- 
 vulsive sigh when I looked round for and mentioned 
 the Bible ? That is gone, I doubt not. But do 
 you think that she does not want that Bible ?" 
 
 " Well, it could be easily replaced. I did not 
 understand," replied Frank. 
 
 " To replace it would be very useless, and she is 
 now almost too weak to read. There are other means 
 of doing good, besides through the purse." 
 
 They were now at another house. A poor rail- 
 way laborer lay extended on a low bed ; his wife 
 was gone out to get a little shoe-binding, he said, 
 and he was all alone,, with the exception of two 
 children. After examining the limb, and speaking 
 cheerfully of its appearance — for the poor man had 
 lately broken his leg, from the fall of some earth 
 upon it — the doctor asked him how they got on. 
 There was no sign of squalid poverty there. The 
 clock still ticked, and a piece or two of good solid 
 furniture adorned the little chamber ; the children 
 who sat by the hearth looked clean and tidily clad ; 
 but poverty, grinding poverty, was there neverthe- 
 less. The accident which had befallen the poor 
 man had taken away all means of support, and even 
 
WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 65 
 
 that day — he owned it in a low whisper as the doctor 
 bent over him — some of their best clothes were taken 
 to pledge, and more must go soon. Yet such cases 
 as these are not called cases of extreme distress ; 
 and because they looked so respectable, and because 
 the man had been in the receipt of good wages and 
 they had not yet begged, they had hitherto received 
 no relief. 
 
 "This is only my second visit," said the doctor, 
 as they were leaving. " He is not a patient of mine, 
 but a young medical friend who attends him is 
 taken ill, and I promised to call yesterday or to day. 
 I said it was not an extreme case of distress; I 
 should have said of poverty. I believe that the 
 suffering of poverty in its extreme and squalid stage 
 is less severe and intense than in such a case as the 
 one we have just seen. I will not say that the 
 feelings of such people are naturally finer than the 
 feelings of those who sink deeper in poverty ; but 
 I have no doubt whatever that the edge of their 
 feelings is blunted as they are pushed down the 
 rough road of adversity. It is people such as these, 
 however, that I think it behooves us to help in their 
 hour of need. I have only one more call to make." 
 
 He led the way down a narrow dirty court, where 
 6* 
 
66 WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY 
 
 children were playing in the dirt heaps that lay 
 before the doors, and amongst whom there was 
 not a healthy or a natural-looking being to be seen. 
 They all looked blanched with impure air and scanty 
 light, dwindled by insufficient and unwholesome 
 food, and running wild in rude, boisterous, and 
 quarrelsome play. 
 
 The ascent to the sick chamber was a difficult, 
 almost a perilous one. It was in the roof of one of 
 those high and dilapidated houses which every old 
 city possesses in abundance. There were several 
 beds on the floor of the chamber, but they were all 
 unoccupied, with the exception of one to which the 
 physician with some difficulty groped his way. 
 
 It was a dying-bed this time, and it was that of 
 a poor Italian Image boy, to whose forlorn case 
 Dr. L.'s attention had only been that morning di- 
 rected by one of the missionaries of the city. He 
 could speak scarcely any English, and his wants 
 had hitherto been made known by signs ; but hear- 
 ing himself addressed in his own tongue by the 
 physician, the dying boy seemed to gather life and 
 strength ; and whilst he poured forth his tale of woe 
 in the stranger's ears, he seemed for a while to 
 forget his weakness and pain, for joy and gratitude. 
 
"WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 67 
 
 " Can you speak Italian?" the doctor asked of 
 his companion, as they left the room. 
 
 " I ought to be able, sir ; I have had great pains 
 bestowed on me, and spent two years at Florence." 
 
 " Will you then become that boy's friend and 
 instructor ?" 
 
 "I! I!" 
 
 " I thought you wanted employment ; I thought 
 you regretted that there was no one actually depend- 
 ent on you in the world. Now it strikes me that 
 you have both time and ability to go and read to 
 that dying foreigner out of the book of life. Did 
 you ever seriously consider the worth of a person's 
 soul ?" 
 
 " I have thought but little of my own, doctor, 
 hitherto." 
 
 " Well, who knows, but that if you go and read 
 to him, and accompany the good man in his visits 
 as interpreter, you may be led to think of your own 
 as well as of his. There is only one way, you know. 
 It is the same for the educated man, as for that 
 poor benighted Italian yonder. Come, our time is 
 up — we must hasten home." 
 
 " Before I leave you, doctor, just tell me, do you 
 think it is really required of you with your large 
 
68 WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 
 
 practice and many engagements, to become little 
 
 better tban a dispensary doctor, or (forgive me) an 
 
 itinerant preacher?" Dr. L. smiled. 
 
 " Did you ever read the parable of the talents, 
 
 sir?" 
 
 "Yes, oh yes." 
 
 " What do you think it means ? Don't you 
 believe that it contains a lesson for you, for me, 
 and for every intelligent being who has ever seen 
 or read it ? Do you think that Grod gave you your 
 property, your powers of mind, your natural ad- 
 vantages, your knowledge of Italian for instance, 
 to lay them by in a napkin unused and unapplied ? 
 Of him to whom much is given, much will be re- 
 quired. I believe it is required of me to use every 
 talent, whether of mind or of wealth, or of bodily 
 strength, that I possess, in his service who has 
 bought me with a price — You will not come home 
 to dine then? but let me see you to-morrow ; I leave 
 home at half-past nine ; if you will come before 
 that hour, you will just catch me." 
 
 Frank "Weston went home, musing as he had never 
 mused before. He was deeply affected by the scenes 
 of misery which he had witnessed. The feeling, 
 however, was stronger tha'n mere sympathy. A 
 
WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 69 
 
 conviction flashed upon him that he stood an idler 
 in the world ; in a world, too, where, from what he 
 had seen that clay, there was no lack of opportuni- 
 ties for doing good, if but the inclination were pre- 
 sent. He carried these thoughts with him to his 
 pillow. In the morning he remembered the request 
 which the doctor had made to him that he would 
 act as interpreter to the Italian image boy ; and 
 partly out of respect for the doctor, and partly from 
 a new feeling of duty which was dawning on his 
 mind, he resolved, although at some sacrifice of 
 pride and inclination, to pay a visit to the poor 
 invalid, in company with the missionary whom the 
 doctor- had mentioned. He dressed himself in his 
 plainest suit, and before nine o'clock was at the 
 physician's house. 
 
 " I am come, sir," he said, with some confusion, 
 on being shown into the doctor's study, "to ask you 
 the name of that missionary — I think you called 
 him — who goes about amongst the poor. I am sure 
 if my knowledge of the poor boy's language can be 
 of any use, I shall have great pleasure in going ; 
 but you know, sir, I make no profession of being- 
 religious, none whatever ; and I think I shall be 
 rather out of place there ; however, simply as an 
 
70 WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 
 
 interpreter I am quite willing to go. I am really 
 ashamed to think how little I have done in any way 
 for the good of my fellow creatures ; but this may 
 be the beginning of better days." 
 
 Dr. L., with a smile, put into the young man's 
 hand the addre = s of the missionary, with an ex- 
 planatory note. " I heartily wish you God speed," 
 he added, " in your new undertaking. Let me see 
 you again when you return." 
 
 The Italian was alone when they entered, and he 
 looked at first rather disappointed when he found 
 that the physician was not of the party. As soon, 
 however, as Frank Weston addressed the boy in 
 his native tongue, the languid eyes brightened as yes- 
 terday, and his thoughts seemed to come too thick 
 for his rapid utterance. 
 
 It was a scene fit for a painter's eye. That dy- 
 ing dark-eyed foreigner on his lowly pallet bed ; 
 the humble room ; the board of images on the floor, 
 and the sunburnt hat and well-worn wallet hang- 
 ing on a rusty nail at his head. On one side of 
 the bed, knelt the solemn-toned, earnest, and be- 
 nevolent missionary, his anxiety to teach the lad 
 quickened by consciousness of inablity to convey 
 intelligible instruction, and his belief that the boy 
 
WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 71 
 
 hung on the verge of eternity. On the other side of 
 the Italian knelt the young votary of the world — the 
 gay, fashionable Frank Weston, holding the poor 
 boy's wasted hand, and a copy of the New Testa- 
 ment in the Italian tongue, prepared to translate 
 the simple comments into words that the lad could 
 understand. 
 
 It was a solemn hour. He was an ignorant, 
 lonely stranger, dying on a foreign shore, and at the 
 eleventh hour offered the great salvation, and made 
 willing to receive the message of reconciliation. 
 The missionary very little thought that he had 
 preached repentance to the benighted Italian image 
 boy and to the English gentleman and scholar at 
 the same time, and when the simple earnest prayer 
 was put up for mercy by that dying lad, it was re- 
 echoed by him who knelt there, clad in fine linen, 
 as well as by the beggar wrapped in rags. It was 
 even so. The tear of penitence trembled in his 
 eye. He now breathed the prayer that henceforth 
 he might live for God. 
 
 They left for a few hours, and in the afternoon 
 were there again. There was a great change in the 
 boy. His eyes was bright still, but it wore the 
 peculiar and glassy look of approaching death ; the 
 
72 WESTON AND THE ITALIAN IMAGE BOY. 
 
 voice was faint, and the breathing labored. Hour 
 after hour they watched the young life ebb away, 
 reading at times, and at times repeating in his ear 
 assurances of the Saviour's willingness and ability 
 to save. Again and again he made signs that the 
 account of the dying thief should be rea$ to him — 
 a narrative well suited to the condition and com- 
 prehension of the Italian. For the fourth time 
 Frank Weston poured it into his ears. There was 
 a pause ; they thought he slept ; when suddenly 
 the dark eye opened intelligently, a smile illumined 
 his pale lips, as raising himself on his elbow, he 
 faintly uttered the words of the dying thief, in his 
 own beautiful and expressive language : " Signore, 
 ricordati di me," ("Lord, remember me,") and im- 
 mediately the silver cord was loosed, and the Ita- 
 lian image boy sank lifeless on Frank Weston's arm. 
 From that day Frank Weston's life, received a 
 new direction. Many years have passed away since 
 then, and no one would now recognise the languid 
 votary of the world, in the active, cheerful, bouyant 
 Christian man. The love of Christ fills his heart ; 
 his happy service fills his hand ; and the prospect 
 of eternal happiness cheers him on, and gives life 
 a zest to which he was before an utter stranger. 
 
MY COUSIN TOM. 
 
 There are a great many remarkable babies in 
 the world, I dare say ; perhaps there may be forty 
 or fifty, all told. But there is not a baby in the 
 whole habitable globe to be compared with my little 
 cousin Tom — it being understood always, that his 
 mother's estimate of him is to be taken as the true 
 one. 
 
 His mother, my aunt Sarah Fairfax, who is my 
 mother's youngest sister, has been married only 
 three or four years ; and Tom is her only child. 
 There is not the least doubt that he is a paragon 
 because his mother pronounces him one ; and cer- 
 tainly nobody knows cousin Tom better than his 
 own mother. 
 
 His sayings and doings, according to Aunt 
 
 Sarah, are all of the wonderful sort. He asks 
 
 very profound questions in theology and philosophy. 
 
 For example, " Why is it naughty to tell fibs ?" a 
 
 7 (73) 
 
74 MY COUSIN TOM. 
 
 question which the astute mother observes, goes at 
 once to the origin of moral obligation, where the 
 great Doctor Paley was so utterly at fault. So 
 much for theology. 
 
 Then again in philosophy, " How came the pretty 
 China clog to fall from the ' What Not' when little 
 Tom only touched it." "Wonderful!" says his 
 mother. " That is the very question that suggested 
 itself to Sir Isaac Newton, when he saw the apple 
 fall to the ground ! — the very identical question 
 which led to the discovery of the true solar system !" 
 
 Nor is Tom's practical wisdom less remarkable 
 than his speculative sagacity. He knows the diffe- 
 rence for example, between Henrion's best French 
 sugar plums, brought from Philadelphia, and the 
 country-made goodies that come from the grocers — 
 he prefers white bread to brown, and buttered 
 toast to dry. He likes riding pickaback, better 
 than walking ; the knowing young rogue, is far 
 more partial to mamma, who indulges him in all 
 his freaks, than to papa, who makes him do as he is 
 bidden. 
 
 Such a memory as he has too ! It is perfectly 
 marvellous. As for example, when I came home at 
 a college vacation, he had hardly given me the 
 
MY COUSIN TOM. T. 75. 
 
MY COUSIN TOM. 75 
 
 customary greeting kiss, before he thrust his little 
 hand into the very identical pocket where I used to 
 keep the bright pennies for him on my previous va- 
 cation. This instance of acute recollection perfectly 
 amazed his mother, who made it the subject of quite 
 a long dissertation to her husband at dinner-time, 
 and seemed, I thought, a little hurt that the good 
 man did not perceive any thing very remarkable 
 in it. 
 
 Then he has such curious tricks and smart 
 doings. Once his mother caught him helping him- 
 self to the cheese, with which she had baited a 
 mouse-trap ; and on another occasion he made free 
 with a lump of sugar, stuck between the wires of 
 the canary's cage and intended for the bird's 
 dessert, and not for Tom's. Again and again, he 
 has actually gnawed off all the butter from his 
 bread, and handed it to mamma to be buttered 
 again — a very palpable evidence to her that he is 
 a smart fellow. 
 
 She thinks too that he has decided histrionic 
 talent, which is shown chiefly in adopting the cos- 
 tume of his father's boots and hat ; and figuring 
 and strutting before the pier glass, with mamma 
 for an audience, that receives each performance, 
 
76 MY COUSIN TOM. 
 
 with, as the play bills say, "unbounded applause." 
 These and many more doings and sayings of my 
 cousin Tom go to prove to my own satisfaction and 
 his mother's that he is decidedly the most wonder- 
 ful child in America. There appears, however, to 
 have been one other, at some remote period of 
 history, in Scotland, who was scarcely less remark- 
 able in his way, as we learn from the following 
 lines of the Scottish poet, quoted in a former 
 chapter. 
 
 THE WONDERFU' WEAN. 
 
 Our wean's the most wonderfu' wean e'er I saw, 
 It would tak' me a lang summer day to tell a' 
 His pranks, frae the mornin' till night shuts his e'e, 
 When he sleeps like a peerie, 'tween father an' me. 
 For in his quiet turns, siccan questions he'll speir : 
 How the moon can stick up in the sky that's sae clear? 
 AVhat gars the win' blaw ? and frae whar comes the 
 
 rain? 
 He's a perfect divert — he's a wonderfu' wean. 
 
 Or wha was the first bodie's father ? an' wha 
 Made the very first snaw-show'r that ever did fa' ? 
 
MY COUSIN TOM. 77 
 
 An' wha made the first bird that sang on a tree ? 
 An' the water that sooms a' the ships in the sea ? — 
 But after I've tauld him as weel as I ken, 
 Again he begins wi' his wha ? an' his when ? 
 An' he looks aye sae watchfu', the while I explain, — 
 He's as auld as the hills — he's an auld-farrant 
 wean. 
 
 An' folks wha ha'e skill o' the lumps on the head, 
 Hint there's mae ways than toilin' o' winnin' ane's 
 
 bread ; — 
 How he'll be a rich man, an' ha'e men to work for 
 
 him, 
 Wi' a kyte like a bailie's, shug snugging afore him, 
 Wi' a face like the moon, sober, sonsy, and douce, 
 An' a back, for its breadth, like the side o' a house, 
 'Tweel I'm unco ta'en up wi't, they mak' a' sae 
 
 plain ; — 
 He's just a town's-talk — he's a bye-ord'nar wean ! 
 
 I ne'er can forget sic a laugh as I gat, 
 To see him put on father's waistcoat and hat ; 
 Then the lang-leggit boots gaed sae far ower his 
 knees, 
 
 The tap loops wi' his fingers he grippet wi' ease, 
 
 7* 
 
78 MY COUSIN TOM. 
 
 Then he march't thro' the house, he marcht but, 
 
 he marcht ben, 
 Sae like mony mae o' our great-little men, 
 That I laugh clean outright, for couldna contain, 
 He was sic a conceit — sic an ancient-like wean. 
 
 But mid a' his daffin sic kindness he shows, 
 That's he's dear to my heart as the dew to the rose ; 
 An' the unclouded hinnie-beam aye in his e'e, 
 Mak's him every day dearer an' dearer to me. 
 Though fortune be saucy, an' dorty, and dour, 
 An' glooms thro, her fingers, like hills thro' a show'r, 
 When bodies ha'e got ae bit bairn o' their ain, 
 He can cheer up their hearts, — he's the wonderfu' 
 wean. 
 
 For the benefit of those readers who are not 
 familiar with the Scotch dialect, I will add a little 
 glossary to this poem. 
 
 Wean is child ; peerie, a boy spinning top ; 
 siccan, such ; gars, makes ; auld-farrant, wise beyond 
 his years ; sonsy, pleasant ; but and ben, kitchen 
 and parlor ; daffin, merriment ; dorty and dour, 
 pettish and stubborn. 
 
OUR SERVANTS AT HOME. 
 
 My mother has a remarkable faculty of manag- 
 ing servants. She always makes them reverence 
 and love her. They remain with her a great while. 
 Our old colored cook, Debby, has been in the family 
 near twenty years ; and the relation between her 
 and the children is one of mutual affection and at- 
 tachment. She never spoke a harsh word to me 
 in all her whole life ; and yet when I was a little 
 fellow in petticoats, Debby always had authority 
 enough over me to keep me out of mischief in the 
 kitchen and to make me observe all the rules of po- 
 liteness when I was in her dominions. Her disposi- 
 tion being very mild and affectionate and her man- 
 ner quiet, she has the good will of all who know 
 her ; and in the rather extensive circle of our ac- 
 
 (79) 
 
80 OUR SERVANTS AT HOME. 
 
 quaintance, Debby is always held up as the pattern 
 and paragon of good servants. 
 
 So of others who have been domesticated for a 
 longer or a shorter time with us ; even if they were 
 indifferent "helps" before they came to our house, 
 they soon become efficient and trustworthy. 
 
 Now all this is the effect of my mother's excel- 
 lent method. She is always kind and considerate. 
 She consults the comfort of her servants, never over- 
 tasks them and always observes in her intercourse 
 with them the genuine law of Christain charity. 
 Her success in house-keeping proves the truth of 
 that old saying that "good masters make good 
 servants." 
 
 The grand secret with servants is to treat them 
 justly and to sympathise with them — to enter into 
 their feelings and plans ; and to remember that 
 they have their own likings and dislikings, their 
 own plans and schemes with reference to their com- 
 fort and interest, and all these matters are entitled 
 to consideration. The employer should endeavor 
 to imagine himself in the place of the servant ; and 
 should often say to himself, "how should I like to 
 be treated as I am treating this servant." Do unto 
 others as ye would that they should do unto you. 
 
OUR FOLKS AT HOME. 81 
 
 The following story by Mrs. Crosland, shows the 
 mischiefs that result from an opposite course to 
 that which I recommend. The scene is laid in 
 London, where, servants, of course, are more at the 
 mercy of their employers than in this country ; but 
 the principles which should govern our treatment 
 of them hold good in all countries. 
 
THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 
 
 It was an exceedingly comfortable dining-room, 
 in an exceedingly comfortable house. The month 
 was January, and the air was so clear and frosty, 
 that every step which passed seemed to ring upon 
 the pavement. Thick warm curtains, however, ex- 
 cluded all draught, and the brightest of fires blazed 
 in the polished grate ; while the clear light of a pen- 
 dent lamp shone upon the dessert of chestnuts, in 
 their snowy napkin, and golden oranges. Amber 
 and ruby-tinted wines sparkled through the rich 
 glass which held them; but the "comfortable" 
 party were only a trio — Mr. and Mrs. Dixon, and 
 their son. They were people whom the world had 
 used very kindly, who had never had a real trouble 
 in their lives. No doubt they had imagined a 
 few ; and imaginary differ from real ones, I be- 
 lieve, chiefly in this — that they teach nothing, un- 
 (82) 
 
THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. $6 
 
 less, indeed, their indulgence teach and strengthen 
 selfishness. 
 
 Mr. Dixon was a fine-looking man of about fifty, 
 with rather a pleasing expression of countenance. 
 He was often visited by good, kind impulses, but 
 a certain indecision of character had made him fall 
 under the rule of his partner early in their mar- 
 ried life ; and the instances, during twenty-five 
 years, in which his best inclinations had been 
 checked, were beyond all numbering. The lady, 
 who was about five years his junior, bore every 
 trace of having been a pretty woman, though on 
 the petite scale. Yet there were people who did 
 not like her face ; and certainly, bright as her eyes 
 were, they put you in mind of March sunshine, 
 with an east wind blowing all the time. Her lips 
 were thin, and she had a trick of smiling, and show- 
 ing her white teeth very often, even when she said 
 the most disagreeable things. Richard Dixon, the 
 son, bore a strong resemblance to his mother ; 
 though, if the mouth were indicative of rather more 
 sentiment than she possessed, it also betrayed more 
 sensuality. 
 
 " This is a very serious charge, my dear," said 
 Mr. Dixon, putting down the glass he had raised 
 
84 THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 
 
 half-way to his lips ; " are you sure there is no 
 mistake ?" 
 
 " Quite sure," replied the lady — " quite -certain 
 Mary must have taken it. I put the piece of lace 
 at the top of the drawer, and the key was never out 
 of my possession, except when I entrusted it to her." 
 
 " We never had a servant I should so little have 
 suspected," returned Mr. Dixon. 
 
 " Nor I either," said the son ; " and she is, out 
 and out, the best housemaid we ever had — at least 
 the best that ever has been willing to stay." 
 
 Trut halways hits hard, and the color rose to 
 Mrs. Dixon's cheek. She was one of those ladies 
 who cannot " keep their servants," " Then bad is 
 the best I am sure," she exclaimed angrily ; " and 
 for my part I am very glad she is a going." 
 
 " And I am very sorry," said her husband. 
 "But why did you not tell me a month ago that 
 you had given her warning, instead of leaving it 
 n this way to the last moment ?" 
 
 "Really I cannot see, Mr. Dixon, what you 
 have to do with these arrangements. I mention 
 these circumstance now, because the girl is leaving 
 to-night, and you will see a strange face, to-mor- 
 row, and you would wish to know all about it." 
 
THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 85 
 
 " But what did she say "when you accused her of 
 theft?" 
 
 " Accused her ! You don't suppose I should 
 have done such a foolish thing. A pretty scene 
 there would have been. I know the fact, and that 
 is enough : you don't believe I should have got back 
 the lace, do you?" 
 
 " But justice, my dear, justice ; surely you should 
 tell her your suspicions." 
 
 " Oh ! now that I have engaged another ser- 
 vant — now that she is going, you can tell her if 
 you like. But I don't see myself what use it is. 
 She is sure to deny it, and then there will be a 
 scene — and I hate scenes as much as you do." 
 
 At that moment there was a slight tap at the 
 parlor door, and, obedient to the " come in" of 
 Mr. Dixon, the discarded Mary entered. She was 
 a gentle-looking girl, of about twenty, attired in a 
 dark cloak and straw bonnet. She came to take a 
 dutiful leave of the family, and to ask a question ; 
 ■which latter natural proceeding seemed not to have 
 occurred to the party before. In engaging her- 
 self with any future mistress, and referring to Mrs. 
 Dixon for a " character," what was she to give as 
 the reason that she was discharged ? 
 
86 THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 
 
 So innocent, so interesting did Mary look — the 
 tears just starting to her eyes at the thought of 
 leaving a home for many months, and her cheek 
 slightly flushed — that neither of the gentlemen 
 could believe her guilty. But Mrs. Dixon was one 
 of those ladies who discharge about a dozen servants 
 a-year, of one sort or another, and was quite har- 
 dened against "appearances." 
 
 Mr. Dixon evaded an immediate answer to Mary's 
 question by asking her where she was going !" 
 
 "I am going into a lodging, sir." 
 
 " That is a pity : have you no friends to stay 
 with?" 
 
 " My friends are all in Wiltshire," said the girl, 
 with a sigh ; " and besides that it would cost me a 
 great deal of money to go to them, I would rather 
 look out for a place than to make a holiday." 
 
 " Your wages, which I sent down to you were 
 quite right, I believe?" said Mrs. Dixon, with an 
 icy dignity that was intended to close the conference. 
 
 "Quire right, thank you, ma'am," replied Mary, 
 with a courtesy ; " but if you please, when I go after 
 a place what shall I say was the reason you dis- 
 charged me ? 
 
 " I think your own conscience must tell you," re- 
 
n 
 
 THE TEMPTEES AND THE TEMPTED. 87 
 
 plied the lady, smoothing her braided hair with her 
 hand, as she had a trick of doing when she was grow- 
 ing angry. Poor Mary turned pale at these words, 
 indefinite as they were, and could hardly murmur — 
 " Tell me, oh ! tell me, what is it I have done ?" 
 
 Her change of color was to Mrs. Dixon evidence 
 of guilt ; and with a sort of a horrible satisfaction 
 at this proof (to her) that she was right, the lady 
 charged the poor girl with the theft which she had 
 just mentioned to her husband. It was, indeed, a scene 
 which followed — a very piteous one, Mary uttered 
 but a few words of brief and emphatic denial — far 
 removed from the loud asseverations which the guilty 
 can sometimes deliver. Tears seemed driven back 
 to her heart ; and as she stood for a moment with 
 clasped hands and rigid features, she looked like a 
 statue of woe. Richard Dixon was by no means 
 unmoved. He had his own reasons for believing 
 her a girl of good principles. Like many other — 
 more thoughtless, perhaps, and heartless — young 
 men, he never disguised his admiration of beauty 
 to the object, even if the revealing it bordered on 
 insult. And he remembered that Mary had always 
 received his idle compliments with a dignity that 
 repelled further rudeness, and with a deportment 
 
88 THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 
 
 that he should have admired in a sister. He placed 
 a chair near Mary, and begged her to be seated ; 
 but, absorbed in her own misery, she took no no- 
 tice of the attention. Meanwhile, Mr. Dixon had 
 poured out a glass of wine, and offered it to her, 
 exclaiming — " I must hope there is some mistake. 
 I cannot believe this of you." 
 
 The word and act of kindness seemed to melt 
 the statue, and she burst into tears. But Mrs. 
 Dixon felt this would never do. It was time now 
 for her to play a more interesting scene in the 
 drama, and applying her filmy, lace-bordered hand- 
 kerchief to her eyes, she leaned back in her chair, 
 and sobbed out reproaches to her husband for his 
 cruelty in doubting her word. Poor man ! what 
 could he do ? Chiefly, I believe, he resolved never — 
 never again — to interfere between two of woman- 
 kind ; and hurrying poor Mary to the hall-door, 
 where a cab and her boxes awaited her, he put a 
 sovereign into her hand, as a remembrance of her 
 kind attention to the buttons of his shirts, and such 
 et cetera. The gold dropped from her grasp, as 
 she exclaimed — " No, sir, no sir — my character ! my 
 character !" 
 
 Mr Dixon stooped for the money, and pressed it 
 
THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 89 
 
 upon her again — till, trusting to his assurances that 
 he did not believe her guilty, and that he would see 
 her righted, she consented to accept it 
 
 It is a subject of painful interest to ask how the 
 hundreds and thousands of female servants " out of 
 place " contrive to exist for weeks, and even months 
 together, as they do upon the scanty savings from 
 their scanty wages ? And plain as the duty is of 
 employers not to deceive one another by giving an 
 unjust character of a servant, or hiding glaring 
 faults, there is a terrible responsibility in depriving 
 a young woman of a situation which is not, I fear, 
 generally sufficiently felt. 
 
 It seems too often forgotten that servants have 
 peculiarities of temper and disposition as well as 
 their mistresses, and that she who would not suit 
 one family might be admirably adapted to please 
 another. Surely, it is the most truthful, as well as 
 the most humane plan, in a character ; judging 
 charitably — if there be knowledge darker than 
 doubt — of the general acquirements. Sensible 
 people may commonly get on well with servants 
 who speak the truth, and have a tolerable sha,re of 
 brains : so much that is valuable must follow in the 
 wake. If one cannot have both — truth is even more 
 
90 THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 
 
 precious than sense. What was poor Mary to do, 
 robbed of her character for honesty ? 
 
 A day or two after her dismissal she called upon 
 Mrs. Dixon, re-asserting her innocence, and implor- 
 ing her mistress to give her such a character as 
 would procure her a situation. But the mistress 
 was firm in her resolve to tell the circumstance to 
 any lady who might call, just as it had occurred. It 
 would be tedious to narrate the trials of the friend- 
 less girl. How one stranger would have taken her 
 into her house, but for this unfortunate episode re- 
 vealed by Mrs. Dixon ; and how, on Mary defend- 
 ing herself with tears and entreaties, the half-con- 
 vinced lady declared she would have taken her, had 
 Mary told the story at first. 
 
 Prompted by this assertion, in her next applica- 
 tion she confessed the suspicion which attached to 
 her ; but there is a very strong esprit de corps 
 among mistresses, and they very seldom think each 
 other wrong. The lady could not fancy that Mrs. 
 Dixon had been mistaken. It was after these sorrows 
 that the thought occurred to her of applying to the 
 mistress with whom she had lived previously to her 
 service with Mrs. Dixon, and who had discharged her 
 only in consequence of reducing her establishment. 
 
THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 91 
 
 Alas ! she had left the neighborhood, to reside near 
 a married daughter ; but, as they had paid every 
 bill with scrupulous exactness, not one of the trades- 
 people could tell her whither they had gone. The 
 nearest intelligence she could gain was — " Some- 
 where in Kent." Poor Mary! — her last anchor 
 of hope seemed taken from her. * * * 
 
 Winter had given place to Spring ; but though 
 the frost no longer bleached the pavement or crisped 
 all moisture, and though the sun seemed struggling 
 to warm the atmosphere, there was a cold wind 
 which would have rendered warm garments very 
 acceptable, and which blew through the thin shawl 
 of a young girl, as she stood at the corner of a 
 street, talking to a friend, a few years older than 
 herself. The latter appeared more a favorite of 
 fortune than poor Mary, for she was the shivering 
 girl. Now millionaires can afford to dress in rusty 
 black, and a great many of the sterner sex are 
 either careless to slovenliness about their equip- 
 ments, or disfigure themselves by a horrible taste ; 
 but it may be taken as a general rule, subject to 
 but few exceptions that women — especially young, 
 pretty ones — dress as well as their means will per- 
 mit. Hence the warmer, richer clothing of Mary's 
 
92 THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 
 
 companion, proclaimed her better off in the world. 
 " It must come to that, or worse," said Mary, 
 with a shudder ; and the tears stood in her eyes, 
 which shone with that strange glassy lustre that 
 often accompanies, perhaps reveals, intense mental 
 suffering. "After all, as you say," she continued 
 " it would not be a false character, for I never 
 wronged any one of a farthing's worth in my life. 
 If it could be managed — if I could but get a place !" 
 
 " Oh ! it can be managed — never fear. Do you 
 suppose that I could not act the fine lady, when I 
 have acted at a real theatre for three seasons, 
 and done much harder things, I can tell you ? I 
 don't say but what I shall expect you to do me a 
 good turn some of these days, if I should want it." 
 
 "What can I ever do for you?" exclaimed 
 Mary — "you who are so much above me !" 
 
 Poor Mary ! how sadly had her heart been warped 
 by temptation ! how sadly must her self-respect 
 have been lowered before she could have formed 
 such an estimate of herself — fallen, or falling as 
 she already was ! Perhaps it were best not to in- 
 quire what were the probable services this unprin- 
 cipled woman expected in return for giving the 
 false character. It is hardly to be supposed that 
 
THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 93 
 
 she had sought the acquaintance of the friendless 
 girl without some selfish plan or motive. They 
 stood talking a few minutes longer, and then they 
 walked away in different directions — the elder with 
 the confident air of many schemes of deception; the 
 other trembling and abashed at the first breaking- 
 down of the barriers of integrity. Oh ! ye thought- 
 less women in your homes of ease — ye whose breath 
 can give or take away reputation — be merciful in 
 your judgment of her, and pause well, ere, on some 
 similar occasion, you drive a helpless female to des- 
 peration ! 
 
 " Oh ! it was pitiful, 
 
 Near a whole city full, 
 
 Friend she had none." 
 
 Mary had no longer the means of returning to her 
 family in Wiltshire ; she was already reduced to 
 poverty's sad extremity, and had that very morn- 
 ing conveyed her warm cloak to the safe keeping 
 of the pawnbroker. Besides, how could she have 
 borne to go as a disgraced pauper among the large 
 poor family to which she belonged — among those 
 who had looked with such pride upon their " sister 
 at service in London ?" 
 
 And yet, notwithstanding her many gifts, and 
 
94 THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 
 
 the gaunt figure of absolute want which loomed upon 
 her, and was drawing nearer and nearer, she had 
 refused assistance only the day before from her 
 " young master," whom she had chanced to meet in 
 the street, and who had accosted her, apparently 
 with much sympathy. From him she had learned 
 that Mrs. Dixon was as implacable as ever ; yet 
 though he pressed silver and even gold upon her, 
 let us be thankful she was still hedged round by 
 the feelings of delicacy, and feminine propriety for- 
 bade her accepting money from "an admirer." 
 Surely the world-hardened tempters do not always 
 the dreadful work they are about. 
 
 "If you please, ma'am, do you know of a place ?" 
 was the inquiry of Mary, about an hour after she 
 had parted from her new acquaintance. She had en- 
 tered a respectable-looking baker's shop, in one of 
 the great thoroughfares. 
 
 "What sort of a place ?" said the mistress, a 
 good-tempered, good-looking young woman of seven 
 or eight and twenty, who was just then sweeping 
 the counter with a hand-brush, with great activity. 
 Mary, by the way, had observed at a glance that 
 shop, and counter, and hand-brush, and all appurte- 
 nances, were what every thing belonging to a 
 
THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 95 
 
 baker's shop should be, exquisitely clean and neat ; 
 and that the mistress herself, in her snowy cap 
 and light-colored cotton dress, was a pattern of 
 neatness. 
 
 "I could take a housemaid's place, ma'am," re- 
 plied Mary, " or servant of all-work in a small 
 family." 
 
 " Lor ! I wonder if you will suit us ?" said Mrs. 
 Allen, the baker's wife ; we sent off our servant in 
 a great huff last night, and I have no one to do a 
 stroke for me, except the nurse-girl, and she has 
 enough to do with three children to mind. Could 
 you come directly — to day, I mean?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, to-day, if you like." 
 
 Then followed the ordinary questions, and, of 
 course" among them — " Where did you live last ?" 
 
 " With Mrs. Bell, ma'am, No, 20, street." 
 
 Alas, alas, poor Mary ! 
 
 " And can you have a good character ?" 
 
 " I am sure I can, ma'am. I only left because 
 Captain Bell was obliged to go with his ship, and 
 Mrs. Bell did not want two servants any longer." 
 
 "Well, wait here in the shop a minute, while I 
 go and speak to my husband. James, James," she 
 continued, calling from the stairs which led to the 
 
96 THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 
 
 bake house, " I want you." And up there came a 
 portly-looking man, with shirt-sleeves tucked up, 
 and his arms covered above the elbows with flour 
 and dough. The Aliens were a happy couple, well 
 to do in the world, and in good humor with it and 
 themselves. An attentive listener might have 
 heard some thing about, " tidy-looking girl ; think 
 she'd just do : but here it's Friday : I am sure I 
 never can get out for her character, either to-day 
 or to-morrow." 
 
 " That's a pity," said the husband. 
 
 "If we could but be sure of her honesty, I 
 would'nt be so stupid as to say she could have a 
 good character if she were not honest," replied the 
 wife, whose mind seemed veering very much to- 
 wards trying her. 
 
 " That's true," exclaimed the baker, as if a new 
 light were let in on the subject. 
 
 " Come and see her," said the wife. 
 
 There were two or three customers waiting in 
 the shop, but during Mrs. Allen's short absence, 
 her second child, a little girl of about three years old. 
 had "made friends" with Mary, and was clinging 
 to her hand, and looking up in her face, as if she 
 were an old accquintance. It may be that this 
 
THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 97 
 
 was the feather which pleased the parents and 
 turned the scale. 
 
 The feelings with which Mary learned that she 
 was to be received in this usual manner, and that 
 the falsehood that was planned would not be acted 
 for three days to come, at least, were something like 
 those we may imagine a culprit to entertain, when 
 he receives a respite of his sentence. A dim hope 
 would make itself felt, a dim hope that something 
 would occur to prevent it being carried into 
 execution. 
 
 With what wonderful activity Mary set to work, 
 or how anxiously she strove to please, words cannot 
 easily tell. But the lie was a haunting presence 
 that seemed to banish even the hope of happiness. 
 The honest baker and his wife were evidently well 
 satisfied with their new servant. The advantage by 
 which she had profited of living in a family belong- 
 ing to a higher station, enabled her to do many things 
 in a superior way, and the Aliens were people to 
 appreciate all this. And the neat and nice manner 
 in which she served the Sunday's dinner, of which 
 a couple of friends partook, was duly commented 
 on. Then the children "took to her" amazingly, 
 and the circumstance of her discovering a half- 
 9 
 
98 THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 
 
 sovereign which had strangely escaped from the till, 
 seemed to give them the most perfect confidence in 
 her honesty ; so that, when, on the afternoon of 
 Tuesday, the appointment being duly made with 
 the fictitious Mrs. Bell, Mrs. Allen was equipped in 
 a handsome silk dress, ready to go " after Mary's 
 character," she almost felt that it was a mere form, 
 so certain was she of the girl's integrity. 
 
 This was a dreadful moment to Mary. She felt 
 as if her quickly-beating heart sent the blood to the 
 crown of her head, and that the next instant it re- 
 ceded, and left her ready to faint, while all the 
 events of her troubled career rushed in strange dis- 
 tinctness before her, even to the history she had 
 learned of the baker's former servant having been 
 discharged for telling a falsehood. But then he 
 had said — " We would have forgiven hei, if she had 
 not persisted in it !" 
 
 By an uncontrollable impulse, as Mrs. Allen was 
 leaving her parlor, Mary seized the skirt of her 
 dress, and throwing herself on her knees before her, 
 exclaimed amid a passionate torrent of tears — "It 
 is your goodness that has saved me ! oh, hear me, 
 hear me!" And then, in broken phrases, she poured 
 out the story of her trials and temptations. 
 
MARY AND MRS. ALLEN, P. 98, 
 
THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 99 
 
 Sad was it to see the altered looks of her bene- 
 factors, and to hear the cold and mournful tone in 
 which Mrs. Allen said — " So you have deceived me 
 after all : you would have cheated me with a false 
 character :" and the kind-hearted woman sank in 
 her chair, overcome with the surprise. 
 
 "We cannot keep you," returned the baker 
 sternly. 
 
 "Mercy — mercy !" exclaimed the poor girl, and 
 weak from recent scanty fare, for she had been too 
 wretched to eat during even the few days that 
 abundance had been before her, she fainted outright. 
 When she came to herself she was stretched on a 
 sofa, with master and mistress both leaning over her. 
 There was pity on their faces, and tears rolled down 
 Mrs. Allen's cheeks. In loosening her dress, in their 
 endeavors to restore her, they had come upon a 
 packet of pawnbroker's duplicates, the dates of 
 which, and the nature of the articles pledged, were 
 a touching confirmation of her story. From the 
 " cornelian brooch," so easily dispensed with, to 
 the necessary cloak, and a prayer-book, the mourn- 
 ful chain was complete. 
 
 "We will not turn you away" said, the baker, 
 "just yet : we will try you a little longer." 
 
100 THE TEMPTEKS AND THE TEMPTED. 
 
 "Your goodness has saved me!" was all the 
 stricken girl could utter. 
 
 "But," continued he, "nry wife will go imme- 
 diately to your real mistress, and hear her version 
 of the story. Certainly your confession is volun- 
 tary, and I do not believe you are hardened in 
 deception." 
 
 Mrs. Allen set off, and the distance beino; con- 
 siderable, she was gone upwards of two hours. 
 What an eternity they seemed to the poor servant ! 
 
 "Well, my dear," exclaimed the baker, when at 
 last she returned, "what do you think ?" 
 
 " Why, I think, James, that a great many people 
 who call themselves ladies are no ladies at all. 
 Would you believe it, this Mrs. Dixon has found 
 the piece of lace she accused the girl of stealing — 
 found it slipped behind the drawer, or something 
 of that sort : and except for her own regret at 
 sending away a good servant, I don't think she 
 feels her wickedness at all. Poor girl, I cannot help 
 pitying her. It was very wrong to attempt to cheat 
 us with a false character, but it's my belief we none 
 of us know what we should do, if we were sorely 
 tempted. And besides, you see she was not equal 
 to carrying out the deception." 
 
THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 101 
 
 "Let us keep her," was the baker's emphatic 
 rejoinder. 
 
 "I don't know that we can," said Mrs. Allen, 
 shaking her head dubiously. 
 
 " Mrs. Dixon says she'll take her back, if she likes 
 to go, for the lady has had three house-maids since 
 she left, and you know it is a much grander place 
 than ours. At any rate, she promises to give her 
 an excellent character." 
 
 "Did you tell this Mrs Dixon about the 
 intended false character?" 
 
 " No, I didn't ; for I soon found out how matters 
 were, and I felt I should have been wicked to do the 
 girl a further mischief." 
 
 " Quite right, my love," said the baker, very 
 affectionately. 
 
 Mary was called in, and the facts related. With 
 tearful joy, and amid thanksgiving to Heaven, she 
 implored that her benefactors would allow her to 
 stay with them, rejecting with something like scorn, 
 the idea of a " grander" place. Faithfully has she 
 now served them for years ; and, promoted to the 
 dignity of shopwoman, she is looked upon rather 
 as a tried friend than any thing else. But even in 
 the sunshine of happiness she never forgets that it 
 9* 
 
102 THE TEMPTERS AND THE TEMPTED. 
 
 is the " goodness," as she calls it, of the baker and 
 his "wife which has saved her. 
 
 "Alas, for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity !" 
 
 How often would a generous trust save the sorely 
 Tempted ! 
 
MY MOTHER'S PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 "It is all for the best," said my mother to Jane. 
 
 " So you always say, mother ;" replied my sister, 
 " but I some how can't see how this shower coming 
 up, and depriving me of a delightful walk, can be 
 all for the best." 
 
 " That is because you have not learned to acqui- 
 esce in that which Providence ordains. It is enough 
 to know that whatever happens to us, through means 
 entirely beyond our control, is ordered by infinite 
 wisdom and goodness, and is therefore ordered 
 aright and is precisely the way which is most for 
 our good." 
 
 "But does this apply to such little matters as a 
 shower coming on just at the time I was going on 
 an excursion of pleasure." 
 
 " Certainly. Nothing is trifling in the view of 
 Providence ; Are we not told by an unerring au- 
 
 (103) ' 
 
104 my mother's philosophy. 
 
 thority that the very hairs of our heads are num- 
 bered?" 
 
 " Well, well, if I can only get in the way of al- 
 ways recollecting this, it seems to me it will save 
 a world of fretting and complaining." 
 
 "Just so. And is that not very desirable — 'a' 
 consummation devoutly to be wished?' ' 
 
 " I think it is. I suppose that belief in a par- 
 ticular superintendence of Providence is what makes 
 you, dear mother, always so calm and serene." 
 
 " Whatever serenity I possess comes from my en- 
 deavors to be submissive to Divine Providence ; 
 but, indeed, I am not successful. Still, I have, 
 reason to know that a little, even a little quiet sub- 
 mission to what is ordered by our Heavenly Father 
 is worth more than all the teachings of philosophers." 
 
 " And for all that, I have heard my dear father 
 commending your philosophy." 
 
 Dear Jane, I have learnt my philosophy from the 
 New Testament ; and I thank Heaven that this school 
 of philosophy is accessible to the humblest laborer as 
 well as the proudest among the wise and learned and 
 powerful of the earth." 
 
 " Now I think of it, mother, what you say of 
 folks in humble life reminds me of a story of Mrs. 
 
my mother's philosophy. 105 
 
 Crosland's, which I read the other day, in which the 
 
 heroine, a poor little seamstress, is represented as 
 
 having adopted your philosophy." 
 
 "Pray go and get the story and read it." 
 Jane did as she was desired and read the story 
 
 of the Christmas Day, as follows. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 " Mother, there's only Mrs. MacDingaway's 
 plaid cotton-velvet dress to finish, and the young 
 lady's, her companion tarlatan muslin to make, 
 and Miss Brightington's blue body to sew on," said 
 Susan Bennett, a pretty little dressmaker, "who had 
 just set up in the aristocratic suburb of Islington. 
 " I shall get them finished by Christmas-eve," she 
 added, " and shall have time to make you the new 
 cap, and put the flounce on my own brown merino." 
 
 Alas ! for the vanity of human expectations. 
 Napoleon foresaw not the frosts and snows of Rus- 
 sia; and Susan Bennett did not know the colder 
 elements of envy and selfishness that were to chill 
 her heart on Christmas-day. The eve came, and, 
 basket in hand, the little dressmaker tripped along. 
 The ponderous velvet, of vast dimensions, and the 
 freezing muslin, were safely delivered ; and now 
 
 . (106) 
 
THE CHKISTMAS DAT, 107 
 
 came the delicate silk, for the only daughter and 
 sole heiress of a retired stockbroker, but one who 
 would not give her a guinea for dower while he 
 lived. Here Susan was desired to walk in ; and 
 then she was told to walk up into the snug and 
 comfortable dressing-room of that elderly young 
 lady, for Miss Brightington was thirty or there- 
 abouts. Not that I would hint that there is any 
 impeachment of the moral character in being thirty, 
 or that it is even a legal crime, which might be 
 quite another thing, or even that parties acknow- 
 ledging such a fact are amenable to any obsolete 
 law ; but, unhappily, Miss Brightington made 
 herself ridiculous, by behaving a la seventeen, and 
 was afflicted with a shortness of memory quite de- 
 plorable. She could not remember the Queen's ac- 
 cession — not a bit — and had only a vague idea of 
 being taking to see the illuminations on the au- 
 spicious event of her Majesty's marriage ; adding, 
 of course, that " children always like such things." 
 Miss Brightington also ascended into the warm 
 dressing-room, and, combining the expression of an 
 injured individual with as much dignity as w T as 
 compatible with the dainty feet-upon-fender-and-fire- 
 screen-in-hand attitude she adopted, she spoke to 
 
108 THE CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 the trembling Susan, who saw that something was 
 wrong, but could not tell what, seeing that the new 
 dress was yet to be tried, and she did believe it 
 would fit "beautifully." 
 
 " I could not have believed such a thing," said 
 the lady, taking the dress in her hand with some- 
 thing very like a snatch. (N. B. To snatch is not 
 dignified.) 
 
 " What have I done wrong, ma'am," said Susan, 
 meekly ; " I have made it exactly as you ordered." 
 
 " As I ordered, indeed ! But haven't you made 
 Miss Clarington's green satin with a Polka 
 Jacket?" 
 
 Susan admitted the fact. 
 
 " And she is to dine here to-morrow ! Do you 
 suppose I'll wear this thing?" and the irate lady 
 threw the dress from her. 
 
 "I think it looks so nice, ma'am," said Susan, 
 holding it out in the most attractive manner ; " and 
 it's just the make you thought so becoming." 
 
 " Thought — three months ago ! I tell you what 
 it is, you must take it back, and make me a Polka 
 Jacket by five o'clock to-morrow." 
 
 "It's Christmas day !" exclaimed the now tear- 
 ful dressmaker. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DAY. 109 
 
 " Well I know it is. I want it for the Christ- 
 mas party. No harm in working, I am sure, if 
 there is no harm in playing forfeits, and all that." 
 
 " I must make quite a new body : I must sit up 
 all night to do it." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! you people always say that ; 
 if you won't do it somebody else will," returned the 
 lady; and assuming the air of a patroness, she 
 continued — " I did think, after all I had done for 
 you, I should have met with a little gratitude ! but 
 there's no such a thing in the world, I believe." 
 And doubtless she spoke from personal experience. 
 
 Poor simple-hearted Susan was quite overpowered 
 by the charge of ingratitude ; and not clearly un- 
 derstanding that all she had to be grateful to Miss 
 Brightington for, was, being allowed to work for 
 her cheaper and better than that distinguished in- 
 dividual could find any one else to do, she would, 
 at the moment, have consented to make Polka 
 Jackets for a hundred days and nights to escape 
 from it. 
 
 Now poor little Susan had a thorough woman's 
 heart. Not one, however, at all like that of a fash- 
 ionable belle, with all its glow and glory worn off by 
 countless flirtations. Nor did she a bit resemble the 
 10 
 
110 THE CHRISTMAS DAT. 
 
 class of " strong minded" women who despise dress 
 and all such appurtenances, who wouldn't be hand- 
 some if they could — not they — and who yet feel a 
 natural antipathy to those afflicted with the gift of 
 beauty, albeit so despised by them. For ourselves, 
 we would not give a pin for a woman who had not 
 just enough of a natural kind of fascinating de- 
 sire to please, which teaches her how to put on a 
 shawl or a bonnet in the most effective manner. 
 Now Susan Bennett had precisely the right quantity 
 of this feminine talent ; and it was not only the 
 flounce to her own dress that she wanted to prepare 
 against that coming day — there were half-a-dozen 
 et ceteras of the toilet that seemed urgent necessities 
 ere she could appear at a certain Christmas party, 
 which she had looked forward to, with the eager- 
 ness of those who taste few pleasures, for many a 
 week. 
 
 Who could it be before whom she wished to appear 
 charming ? Not, surely, her grandmother, who by 
 the way, was yet young enough to make a plum- 
 puddmg, and to enjoy the same ; not her uncles 
 and aunts, and the juvenile sprouts, whose numbers 
 seem legion. Though, if she had been asked to 
 make out a list of the Christmas guests expected to 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DAY. Ill 
 
 meet at uncle Tom's, the chances are would she 
 have left out a certain merry-hearted young watch- 
 maker, who always said " every thing was for the 
 best" — or at any rate, she would have named him 
 last, with a sort of " Oh, I forgot cousin Robert." 
 
 The little dressmaker had talked of sitting up all 
 night ; but there came a recollection of red eyes 
 and pale cheeks consequent upon such freaks ; so 
 to bed she went, meaning to rise at four in the 
 morning. But alas ! she could not sleep, or if for 
 a moment she lost all consciousness, she dreamt of 
 cousin Robert making love to somebody in a hor- 
 rible Polka Jacket. So up she rose on the bitter 
 Christmas morning at three of the clock, and kin- 
 dled a few cinders to keep her from quite shiver- 
 ing, and by the light of a thin candle she set about 
 her task. 
 
 We wonder what Miss Arabella Brightington was 
 dreaming of just then ! 
 
 The tabby cat rubbed against Susan's foot, as if 
 asking for a saucer of milk ; she was used to a 
 candle-light breakfast sometimes, and did not know 
 the hour. But she must wait as well as her mis- 
 tress — no milk in the streets yet for hours. 
 
 See, daylight is breaking ! And hark ! there's 
 
112 THE CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 a shrill young voice pouring out a Christmas carol. 
 Foolish Susan ; the tears are dropping on your 
 work : and what is the reason — not that merry 
 carol surely ? Do tears stain blue silk ? We can 
 not positively tell ; but judging from circumstantial 
 evidence should say not. At any rate she dashes 
 them away, because — she has no time to fret. The 
 mother must make her own cap — that's certain ; 
 and finally she fusses about it ! Susan shows her 
 how, and might almost as well have done it entirely. 
 
 Noon comes ; no chance of the flounce on her 
 own gown — that hope is abandoned entirely. 
 
 Thread breaks, needles snap, and pins drop out in 
 the most rebellious manner imaginable. Susan is 
 getting nervous, her fingers tremble, and she sees, 
 with prophetic truth, she must also give up going 
 to the three o'clock dinner ; this is worse than giving 
 up the flounce ; but there's no help for it — the Polka 
 Jacket cannot be done. 
 
 The mother talks of staying at home to bear her 
 company ; but as Susan justly says, " What's the 
 use of that ; especially as there's no dinner pro- 
 vided ? She will have bread and cheese, and come 
 to tea : sure to have some supper at uncle Tom's 
 on Christmas-day." 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DAY. 113 
 
 The mother yields, though not without some 
 kindly regrets, to such potent reasonings ; and 
 the little dressmaker is left to her Christmas dinner 
 of bread and cheese — and to work at the Polka 
 Jacket. Once she goes to the window to see how 
 the world looks outside. 'Flys and coaches rattle 
 along ; brisk pedestrians are smartly dressed ; and 
 omnibuses look gayer than usual ; and a remarka- 
 bly bright fire shines from the opposite house. Silly 
 Susan ! tears again ! they only hinder your work, 
 and make your eyes quite red as a wakeful night 
 would do. 
 
 Four o'clock ! the Polka Jacket, with its pipings 
 and linings, and buttons, completed at last. Haif- 
 a-mile to be carried home ; but the little dressmaker 
 almost flies along, and, extravagant creature, spends 
 sixpence to ride back by omnibus — which crawls 
 the distance. 
 
 Miss Brightington gloried in the Polka Jacket ; 
 especially as her rival did not wear hers ; so that, 
 after all, she might have spared poor Susan, with- 
 out suffering very cruelly for it. Just as she was 
 sitting down to her three courses, Susan Bennett 
 was making her toilet to join the Christmas party 
 at tea. The brown merino would really do very well 
 10* 
 
114 THE CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 without a flounce, and she had contrived to sew a 
 bit of lace on the top, that being one of the most 
 important of the et ceteras. She is locking the doors 
 of the two rooms she and her mother occupy, but 
 is so startled by a loud knock that the key drops 
 out of her hand. Who can it be ? Somebody opens 
 the door, and the wind almost blows out Susan's 
 candle, but it does not quite ; and she sees by the 
 flickering light that cousin Robert springs two steps 
 at a time up the stairs. For that matter, though, 
 she knew his step without staying to look who it 
 was. 
 
 " How kind of you to come for me !" exclaimed 
 Susan. 
 
 " They would'nt let me come before — at least 
 they began laughing and quizzing. I hate to be 
 quizzed; don't you?" 
 
 " Yes," murmured Susan, in the faintest of treble 
 notes ; but somehow or other her cousin heard the 
 word, and by this time they were out in the street. 
 
 " How cold it is !" said Robert. 
 
 "Yes — no; yes; it is cold." 
 
 " Cold ! why your hand is like ice ! There wrap 
 the other in your cloak ; I'll keep this warm for 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DAY. 115 
 
 " Robert ! let go ! What nonsense !" 
 "I will, I say." But the remainder of that con- 
 ference is sacred. 
 
 " What a time you must have kept Robert !" said 
 the grandmother. 
 
 " She was not quite ready," he answered for her. 
 True, she had the key to pick up and one door to 
 lock, and they had come a long way round. There 
 was a little quizzing after the cousins arrived, but 
 they did not seem to mind it much. People don't 
 when they have a thorough understanding between 
 themselves. 
 
 Though Susan had no dinner, she ate very little 
 supper ; and yet she could not be ill — she had such 
 a beautiful color : but that might be from her long 
 walk. Certainly nobody would have thought she 
 had sat up half the night, and been weeping half 
 the morning. Cousin Robert, notwithstanding his 
 gaiety, had always been a bit of a philosopher ; he 
 said the works of the clocks and watches made him 
 think, and, as we have said before, his favorite 
 maxim was " all is for the best." He is going into 
 business for himself very soon ; but he must have 
 told Susan something more than that, in their long 
 
116 THE CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 walk, or she would never have agreed with him 
 that it was " all for the best" that he had fetched 
 her, and consequently that she had had to stay at 
 home and make Miss Arabella Brightington's Polka 
 Jacket ! 
 
LITTLE GREAT MEN. 
 
 Our village, like all other villages, is infested 
 with little great men. Some of them have petty 
 offices, and hold their heads very high upon the 
 imagined importance which this gives them. Others 
 have what they suppose to be wonderful gifts in 
 the way of genius. Of these the village portrait 
 painter is one. His faces are what Charles Surface 
 calls formidable likenesses. They certainly are 
 very terrible to look at, especially if the beholder 
 has ever seen a really good portrait. He receives 
 from five to fifteen dollars a portrait ; and they are 
 very dear at that. But he imagines himself a 
 Rubens or a Stuart at the very least. 
 
 Our justice of the peace is an official great man. 
 He carries a gold-headed cane always in his hand, 
 and walks with a self-important strut. I never see 
 
 (117) 
 
118 LITTLE GREAT MEN. 
 
 him without recollecting an anecdote of what hap- 
 pened once to William Penn. 
 
 This illustrious man was once travelling in Vir- 
 ginia, and being overtaken by a shower, he, to- 
 gether with his travelling companion, another 
 Quaker gentleman, took refuge under a shed be- 
 longing to a plantation. The planter, considering 
 this proceeding a sort of trespass, came out of his 
 house, and entering the shed, began to rate the 
 gentlemen very roundly, and in a loud voice, for 
 the liberty they had taken in entering his pre- 
 mises. 
 
 Penn's friend answered him very coolly, giving 
 him to understand that it was a matter of very 
 little importance, and hardly worth talking about ; 
 especially in so commanding a style. 
 
 "Pray, sir," said the planter, "do you know 
 who I am ?" 
 
 "No, friend," said the Quaker, "I have no per- 
 sonal knowledge of thee." 
 
 " Then," said the planter, " you must know that 
 I am a justice of the peace !" 
 
 " Indeed," said the Quaker, smiling, and point- 
 ing to Penn, "my friend, here, makes just such 
 things as that. He is governor of Pennsylvania." 
 
LITTLE GREAT MEN. 119 
 
 It may be easily imagined what a crest-fallen 
 figure the little great man cut, when he found 
 himself so suddenly and so unpleasantly confronted 
 with a really great man. 
 
 He begged a thousand pardons for his rudeness, 
 was profuse in his offers of hospitality ; and wanted 
 the gentlemen to have their horses put up, and to 
 spend a week with him. But they were as little 
 moved by his servility as they had been by his 
 impertinence ; and the shower having now passed 
 over, they mounted their horses and rode off, leav- 
 ing the planter to devour his chagrin the best way 
 he could. The following story impresses a moral 
 connected with this matter of greatness on a small 
 scale. 
 
CONSEQUENCE ; OR, DO YOU KNOW 
 WHO I AM? 
 
 It has been said, though we suspect the remark 
 must have emanated from one short in stature, " that 
 all great men are little men ;" Alexander the Great, 
 Bonaparte, Doctor Watts, and a score others, being 
 cited as illustrations of the fact. Without stooping 
 to gainsay an opinion so manifestly apocryphal, 
 we will content ourselves with the observation that, 
 to our certain knowledge, all little men are not 
 great men. 
 
 Mr. Silas Sydney was a little man, being barely 
 five feet in height, but, as many a six-foot man 
 loses an inch by stooping in the shoulder, so he 
 gained an inch by his unusually erect position ; and 
 besides, he wore boots with thick soles, and a hat 
 with a high crown. Trees and plants are supposed 
 to stretch themselves upwards in quest of air and 
 light, but the upward aspiring of Mr. Sydney, may 
 (120) 
 
CONSEQUENCE — DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM. 121 
 
 witho ut doing him injustice, be attributed to a dif- 
 ferent origin. If ever the self-important conse- 
 quence of a would-be great man was set forth in a 
 miniature scale, it was in the stinted proportions of 
 Mr. Silas Sydney. 
 
 Deficiency in personal appearance is, by no means 
 a proper object of reproach, for a plain casket may 
 contain a lovely jewel, and homely bodies have often 
 been the abode of exalted minds ; but when one of 
 mean appearance affects the great and consequential, 
 he invites derision and makes himself a target for 
 the shafts of ridicule. 
 
 Mr. Silas Sydney had been a small tradesman, 
 and though sadly deficient in general knowledge, a 
 natural cunning and quick-sightedness in regard to 
 his own interest, enabled him to extend his business 
 and acquire wealth. He was chosen churchwarden, 
 and in course of time appointed a magistrate. Like 
 many others who have risen rapidly, he became in- 
 sufferably vain and consequential, so much so, that 
 his appearance alone seemed to say, " Do you know 
 who I am?" 
 
 We have sometimes wished that a scale of ex- 
 cellence could accompany degrees in society, and 
 that the higher a man rose in station, the higher 
 11 
 
122 CONSEQUENCE — DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM. 
 
 he should be required to ascend in wisdom and 
 virtue. Position would then be the standard of the 
 man, and rank and dignity would receive the will- 
 ing homage of the head and heart. Such a state 
 of things, however, is far beyond our expectation, 
 or our hope ; still we think that it behoves every 
 one who rises in life do his best to fill the position 
 he occupies creditably, and to fit himself for a dis- 
 charge of its duties. 
 
 In acting as a magistrate, Mr. Sydney, who had 
 never so much as opened " Coke upon Littleton," 
 or "Blackstone's Commentaries," in his life, till the 
 very week in which he was appointed to the com- 
 mission of the peace, was of necessity greatly depen- 
 dent for information on his brother magistrates and 
 the clerks. Little inconvence might have arisen 
 from this circumstance, had he conducted himself 
 with becoming diffidence and modesty; but, instead 
 of this, his upstart consequence and insufferable 
 conceit led him into continual altercation. 
 
 It would be difficult to decide which is the more 
 lamentable spectacle, that of a feeble man striving 
 with one of greater strength ; or a man of limited 
 intellect playing the mental gladiator against one 
 of acknowledged understanding. In each of these 
 
CONSEQUENCE — DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM. 123 
 
 unenviable positions Mr. Sydney was occasionally 
 to be found. 
 
 It happened that a disagreement took place be- 
 tween Mr. Silas Sydney and one of his work-people, 
 and things were carried to such a pitch that the latter 
 was given into custody. Every one expected, when 
 the affair was about to be decided, that Mr. Sydney, 
 as a matter of course, would retire from the bench, 
 and not sit in judgment in his own case. So far 
 however, from this was the fact, that he remained 
 as a member of the court, and persisted in adjudi- 
 cating in the most arbitary manner. Rather than 
 sanction such barefaced injustice, his brother ma- 
 gistrates unanimously quitted the bench. 
 
 Thus left to himself, Mr. Sydney soon involved 
 himself with the chief clerk, to whom, in his conse- 
 quential arrogance, he cried out, " Do you know who 
 I am, sir?" 
 
 Whereupon the clerk, excited far beyond discre- 
 tion, replied in open court, " Yes, sir, I do know 
 who you are. You are a magistrate without law, 
 and a man without modesty." 
 
 On one occasion when passing along the street, 
 Mr. Sydney met a stout fellow, who was in his cups, 
 who was bawling aloud. Such a one was a more 
 
124 CONSEQUENCE — DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM. 
 
 fit subject for the attention of a policeman, than 
 that of a magistrate. It is by no means a mark of 
 discretion %o struggle, either mentally or bodily, 
 with a drunken man, and still less if he be powerful 
 in his frame. Mr. Silas Sydney, however, not 
 being a man of discretion was free from prudential 
 regulations. He knew that he was magistrate, and 
 being thus " drest in a little brief authority," pro- 
 ceeded at once to reprimand the drunkard. 
 
 " Do you know who I am ?" said he, finding that 
 little attention was paid to his reproof. 
 
 "No !" replied the brawler, "who are you?" 
 
 "I am a magistrate." 
 
 " Then here's at you, Mr. Magistrate," and down 
 went his worship, measuring his length in the mire. 
 No sooner was Mr. Sydney reinstated on his legs, 
 than he again consequentially vociferated, "Do you 
 know who I am?" 
 
 "Who are you?" cried out the drunkard. 
 
 " I am a magistrate." cried out Mr. Sydney, 
 with even more consequence than before. 
 
 "Take that then," was the instantaneous reply 
 of the staggerer, again prostrating Mr. Sydney on 
 the ground. A rush was now made by some stran- 
 gers, not to rescue the man from the magistrate but 
 
CONSEQUENCE — DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM. 125 
 
 the magistrate from the man, which timely assistance 
 in all probability saved Mr. Silas Sydney from 
 another roll in the dirt. 
 
 On a subsequent occasion, a dog, from a cottage 
 at the skirts of the town, ran after him barking. 
 This so much excited his anger, that he forthwith 
 proceeded to reprove in no measured terms the 
 poor cottager who owned the animal which had of- 
 fended him. " Do you know who I am ?" said he, 
 in his customary, consequential way, towering with 
 indignation. 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied the simple cottager, " I knows 
 who you be ; but the misfortune is, that my dog 
 doesn't know it, sir." 
 
 As the little great man walked away, smarting 
 with wounded pride, his mortification was height- 
 ened by hearing a band of boys, who happened 
 to be playing near, mimicking his voice and manner, 
 crying out to one another, " Do you know who I 
 am ? Do you know who I am?" 
 
 This is a world of ups and downs, and Mr. Syd- 
 ney found it to be such. His consequential disposi- 
 tion led him to abandon his trade, and to affect the 
 fine gentleman ; but the littleness of his real worth 
 so ill suited the largeness of his pretentions, that 
 
126 CONSEQUENCE — DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM. 
 
 those who were of the grade to which he aspired, 
 had no desire for his society. His arrogance made 
 him enemies, and his measures brought upon him 
 contempt. At last his name disappeared from the 
 commission of the peace, his property declined, and 
 by degrees, without the sympathy of a single being, 
 the little great man became a neglected nobody. 
 When he left the place he was too unimportant even 
 to be missed, and too worthless to be regretted. 
 
 Many years have rolled away since Mr. Silas 
 Sydney's career, and the records of history are 
 very scanty ; he never had a friend, and therefore 
 cannot, as such, be remembered. No almshouse is 
 inscribed with his name, and no widow or orphan 
 pronounces his name as a benefactor. In short 
 whether he is dead or alive, nobody seems either to 
 know or care. 
 
 Sometime ago the inquiry was put to an old in- 
 habitant of the place, " Do you remember any thing 
 of one Silas Sydney?" "Oh yes!" said he, "a 
 consequential little man, who wore thick heeled boots, 
 and a high-crowned hat. He was made a magis- 
 trate — more's the pity — and got laughed at by 
 all for his arrogance and conceited question, " Do you 
 know who I am, sir ? Do you know who I am ?" 
 
JANE'S PETS. 
 
 My sister Jane having no younger children 
 living with her in the house, with whom she can 
 associate in her play hours, has gathered together 
 a number of pets, in which she takes great delight. 
 
 She generally keeps two or three canary birds, a 
 goldfinch, a pair of Java sparrows, and a quaint 
 little troopial. This last bird she lets out of his 
 cage in the parlor to amuse us with his feats in 
 catching flies, and hopping about his mistress's 
 arms and shoulders. He is very tame and familiar, 
 and as full of tricks as a monkey. 
 
 With her canaries, she holds long conversations, 
 getting a whining or a gay answer from them, 
 according to the tone in which she addresses them. 
 They are also suffered to come out of their cages 
 occasionally, and show a great deal of attachment 
 to her. 
 
 Besides these, she has some white rabbits, a 
 
 (127) 
 
128 jane's pets. 
 
 delicate little spaniel of the King Charles breed, 
 and a fawn, which was the gift of a friend in 
 Virginia. 
 
 These pets occupy much of Jane's leisure time 
 very agreeably; and her penchant for them is 
 indulgently humored by her mother, who sympa- 
 thizes with her fondness for many pets, although 
 she keeps but one herself — her great tortoise shell 
 cat. This cat is a character in her way. It is a 
 curious fact that although she enjoys the reputa- 
 tion of being a good mouser, she has never mani- 
 fested any " catish" ferocity towards Jane's pets. 
 On the contrary she seems to have made up her 
 mind that good policy, as well as politeness, re- 
 quires her to be on the very best terms with the 
 rabbits, the spaniel, and even with the birds. In- 
 deed she permits Tom, the troopial, to give her 
 occasionally a smart tap with his bill. This may 
 seem strange, but the anecdotes of Poor Puss col- 
 lected in the article which follows, shows that it is 
 by no means unprecedented. 
 
JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS. 
 
 Few animals, I consider, have received a greater 
 share of unjust calumny than the cat, and it is my 
 intention in the present paper to stand up for it, 
 and prove its claim to consideration by recapitu- 
 lating certain passages of feline history, with 
 which it has been at various times my lot to 
 become acquainted. I shall state nothing but facts. 
 If puss be dear to me, truth is dearer ; and let no 
 man suspect me of sophistication,* if I tell him 
 what he never heard before, and might have been 
 slow to suspect. My feline friends, some traits of 
 whose personal history and character I am about 
 to recall, are all, with one exception, dead and 
 buried long ago. Did I say "buried?" Having 
 pledged myself to speak truth, I must recall that 
 expression : few of them, I am sorry to say, were 
 buried ; one or two, I recollect, did find rest in 
 honored graves — in the garden under the goose- 
 
 (129) 
 
130 JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS. 
 
 berry bushes ; for the remainder, the reader will 
 be so good as to substitute "dust-boxed" for 
 " buried," And now, that point being settled, we 
 may proceed to invoke from what some long-haired 
 poet calls " the caverns of memory," the slumber- 
 ing shades of Grimalkin grey and his parti-colored 
 compeers, and exhibit their virtues to the world. 
 
 The first was my mother's cat " Brindle." What 
 a host of endearing associations does the name 
 recall to memory, and what an endless panorama 
 of family pictures, which must all vanish, as they 
 come, without observation. Naturalists have said 
 that the cat is attached to places and not to per- 
 sons. Brindle would have said, if he could have 
 said any thing, that they knew nothing about it. 
 He was an over-grown Tom, of the true tabby pat- 
 tern. All places were alike to him, if one person, 
 his mistress, were present. He would sit and doze 
 on the narrow back of her chair for hours together, 
 but preferred the middle of the table, under her 
 eye, and close to the book from which she read. 
 He always overlooked the preparation of the 
 pastry when she visited the kitchen for that pur- 
 pose, and followed her up stairs and down through 
 all her domestic duties daily. At night he escorted 
 
JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS. 131 
 
 her regularly to her chamber door, and then 
 descended to the lower regions on a mousing expe- 
 dition. In the morning he called her regularly at 
 seven o'clock, by crooning and scratching at the 
 door, where he waited till she came forth. He 
 slept a good part of the day, but would wake up 
 immediately if she rose to leave the room. In case 
 of her illness he took his station on the landing 
 outside of the chamber where she lay, and had to 
 be fed there, as nothing could induce him to leave 
 the spot. He was a cat of no accomplishments, 
 and would rarely submit to be fondled by any but 
 his mistress. Poor fellow ! his fine coat and portly 
 proportions were the death of him ; he was snatched 
 up by a member of the skinners' company, while 
 watching at the door for the return of her he 
 loved, and was slaughtered for the sake of his fur. 
 " Turnkey" was intended for Brindle's successor, 
 and might have led a happy life had he known our 
 good intentions towards him. He was brought up at 
 a dairy-farm, was a magnificent tortoise-shell Tom, 
 and derived his name from the figure of a large key 
 plainly visible on his flank. Happening to be on a 
 visit to the farm soon after the loss of Brindle, I 
 begged him of farmer Bolton, and putting him in a 
 
132 JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS. 
 
 canvass bag, which I thoughtlessly suspended from 
 the axletree of the gig, drove him home, a distance 
 of some miles. When released from the bag in my 
 mother's kitchen, while Betty was preparing, ac- 
 cording to the prescribed formula, to butter his feet, 
 to prevent his straying, he darted like a mad crea- 
 ture twenty times round the room, shot over the 
 fire and up the chimney, where being stopped by 
 the smoke-jack, he came down again, looking black 
 and furious, dashed through a pane of glass, and 
 made off. Of course we gave him up for lost, and 
 expected neither to see or hear of him again. Not so, 
 however. When farmer Bolton rose next morning, 
 Turnkey, dirty, draggled, wet and wounded, and 
 shorn of half his coat, was the first living thing 
 that met his eyes. How he found his way back is 
 one of those mysteries not easily fathomed. No 
 wonder that he was shy of strangers ever after, and 
 would fly from the house whenever they appeared. 
 "Peter" was a stray, who came, as cats are fre- 
 quently known to do, to volunteer for the situation 
 of Brindle, which he must have discovered to be 
 vacant. He was an undersized foxy -looking fellow, 
 with a disreputable tail which had suffered fracture, 
 and, from lack of surgery, had healed with a knot 
 
JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS. 133 
 
 in the middle. But he was a knowing tactician, 
 and earned his way to favor before he claimed it. 
 At first he hung about the house, seizing such 
 scraps as were offered to him out of compassion for 
 his hungry face, and not venturing to be familiar 
 till he had proved himself of use. One night he 
 managed to avoided being shut out, and the next 
 morning he brought an enormous rat, which he had 
 killed in the cellar, and laid it in the centre of the 
 kitchen-floor, where he was found keeping guard 
 over it. This exploit was interpreted, as it was 
 doubtless meant, as an offer of service, accompanied 
 with a specimen of workmanship. A compact was 
 entered into, ratified by a basin of milk, into which 
 Peter dipped his whiskers, and took post at once as 
 the house cat, giving general satisfaction by the 
 dilligent discharge of his duties. He soon began 
 to exhibit extraordinary talents. His first acquire- 
 ment was the art of opening the kitchen-door for 
 himself, and this he learned to do ere long by a 
 single leap at the latch; the dining-room door, 
 however, presenting but a smooth brass handle, 
 cost him more pains ; pawing, though it evidently 
 required a strong inducement to impel the under- 
 taking. Though he would not submit to nursing, 
 12 
 
134 JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS. 
 
 the children grew fond of him, and taught him to 
 fetch and carry. In this he excelled the cleverest 
 dogs, and liked the sport so well that he 'would 
 bring the ball in his mouth and solicit a game two 
 or three times a day, He was neither greedy or a 
 thief, and though he would beg with the patience 
 and perseverance of a Carmelite monk, it was never 
 from choice, but at the word of command, that he 
 did so. He refused to grow fat and sleek. Per- 
 haps this was owing to his eating nothing but flesh, 
 fish, and fowl, of which latter, by the way, he con- 
 trived to help himself to a liberal quantity, by pounc- 
 ing from under the cabbage leaves, or out of a tree, 
 upon the sparrows in the garden. Peter died in 
 the height of his popularity from the bite of a ter- 
 rier dog, who had the reputation of having killed 
 half the cats in the neighborhood. 
 
 Prince was a spoiled beauty, the pet of a 
 maiden lady whom I was in the habit of occasion- 
 ally visiting about twenty years ago. He was 
 proud beyond all parallel, and as much an exclu- 
 sive as any lap-dog in Belgravia. He was of a 
 light, clear grey color, deepening to black along 
 the back of the spine ; and of a prodigious size, 
 weighing twenty-four pounds. He fed from the 
 
JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS. 135 
 
 same fowl or joint, and the same pies and pastry 
 as his mistress ; and took his siesta in a bed of 
 down, shaded by silk curtains, and supported on 
 gilded pillars, constructed regardless of expense 
 for his sole use. He would associate with none 
 of his race, and savagely drove away all feline 
 intruders ; but having no vocation to utter solitude, 
 he cultivated the acquaintance of a huge rat. If 
 it be the natural and instinctive propensity of a 
 cat to destroy rats, which I neither affirm nor 
 deny, then it may be the nature of excessive in- 
 dulgence to annihilate such a propensity. How- 
 ever this may be, I have on several occasions been 
 witness to the following scene, which I can account 
 for on no other principle. Prince dined with his 
 mistress daily at three o'clock. His dinner con- 
 sisting of meat and vegetables for the first course, 
 was served upon a large plate laid upon the hearth 
 rug before the fire. So soon as it was set, the 
 creature would walk round it several times, utter- 
 ing a kind of whimpering cry, at which his friend 
 the rat would come forth from beneath the fender, 
 and both would at once fall to eating the food. 
 Rat was a fine whiskery guest, but not nearly so 
 polite as Prince, and would eat with ravenous 
 
136 JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS. 
 
 haste, snatching dainty morsels from beneath his 
 very nose. This behavior Prince bore with per- 
 fect good temper ; but when rat, not content with 
 clearing his own side of the plate, veered round to 
 that at which Prince was leisurely feeding, the 
 latter would lift his paw, and with a sound box on 
 the ear return him to his own position. Rat never 
 withdrew while a scrap remained, though he van- 
 ished immediately when the affair was over. This 
 friendship endured to the best of my recollection, 
 about two years ; and when an attempt was made 
 to put an end to it by stopping up the hole in the 
 flooring from which rat emerged at his friend's 
 call, Prince refused to eat his dinner at all, and 
 would have starved had not his friend been restored 
 to him. How this anomalous friendship originated 
 no one could guess. Rats and cats, as we all 
 know, have been trained by professed animal 
 tamers to live amicably together ; but this is the 
 only instance, as far as I am aware, of two ani- 
 mals of these hostile races having spontaneously 
 cultivated a friendship for each other. Prince, in 
 the end, was mercifully killed, to save him from 
 the agonies of dying of indigestion, to which he 
 had become a victim through over-indulgence. 
 
JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS. 137 
 
 Cats are sometimes taxed with, a want of grati- 
 tude ; but this is a charge which no one who is 
 systematically kind to them would ever think of 
 making. The fact is, they have more discrimina- 
 tion of human character than most dogs possess, 
 and are slow to testify attachment which may not 
 be deserved or reciprocated. Pincher wags his 
 tail and licks the hands of a dozen benefactors in 
 a day, if they turn up. Puss rarely bestows her 
 affections on more than one, and/that one must be 
 essentially a keeper at home, a part and parcel 
 of the establishment of which puss is a member. 
 She manifests her gratitude much in the same way 
 as the dog, that is, by licking the hands of her 
 benefactor, or rubbing herself against his feet or 
 garments ; and if such demonstrations are much 
 less frequent with the cat than with the dog, it 
 may be that they are none the less sincere. A 
 playful tabby of our acquaintance, in gambolling 
 with a ball of worsted, unhappily swallowed a 
 needle and a portion of the thread which had been 
 left thrust through the ball. In the course of a 
 few days the needle worked its way to the shoulder, 
 which swelled and festered into an unsightly 
 gathering. Unable to walk about, puss lay in a 
 12* 
 
138 JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS. 
 
 corner, moaning with pain. A child, whose com- 
 panion and playfellow she had long been, thought 
 of examining the wound to see if any thing could 
 be done for the relief of her favorite. The exami- 
 nation led to the discovery of the needle beneath 
 the skin. The child tenderly urged it to the sur- 
 face, and drew it gently forth, together with a yard 
 of worsted with which it was threaded. The operation, 
 so successfully performed, restored instant ease to 
 the cat. Any one who could have witnessed the 
 strange antics by which puss sought to express her 
 gratitude — the licking, patting, rubbing, and actual 
 embracing of the child that ensued, together with 
 the indescribable tones, all but words, by which her 
 feelings were in a manner articulated — would have 
 formed a different idea of feline gratefulness from 
 that which is generally current. We might adduce 
 other instances of the kind ; but we must pass on to 
 illustrate feelings and faculties of a yet higher order, 
 as evidence in our next sketch. 
 
 In London, cats are frequently the victims of 
 cruel negligence, from being thoughtlessly aban- 
 doned by their owners upon a change of residence. 
 Poor puss is too often omitted from the catalogue 
 of "goods removed," and is left to bewail her fate 
 
JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS. 139 
 
 in the empty house, in which she is sometimes 
 starved to death through the absence of any tenant ; 
 or, escaping that fate, has to subsist by hunting 
 and foraging upon the cat's common ground, the 
 roofs of outhouses, the gardens, and garden-walls 
 of the district. Sometimes puss has a family to 
 rear under these distressing circumstances, and 
 half-a-dozen mouths to provide for without the aid 
 of the cat's-meat-man or the milkwoman. How she 
 manages to get through the difficult undertaking is 
 more than we can explain categorically ; but the 
 following sample of maternal anxiety, prudence 
 and knowledge of the world in a cat, may serve to 
 throw some light upon the business. A friend, 
 whose avocations call him early to the city, was 
 lately making his morning toilet, when he observed 
 the abandoned cat of a neighbor, who had removed 
 some time before, stealthily surmounting his garden 
 wall. She carried a kitten in her mouth ; and, 
 finding the back door open, flew past the servant, 
 darted into the house, ran up stairs, and deposited 
 the kitten on the soft rug before the parlor fire, 
 retreating immediately without beat of drum. The 
 kitten, on examination, was found half dead with 
 cold and hunger, and almost in the last stage of 
 
140 JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS. 
 
 existence. It was of course fed with a little warm 
 milk, and encouraged to get well if it could. A 
 few days effected a wonderful change, and within 
 a week it was as well and playful as kittens gene- 
 rally are. In a fortnight it had grown quite stout 
 and strong ; and then, at the same hour in the 
 morning, the mother re-appeared in precisely the 
 same way, with another sick and starved infant in 
 her mouth, which also she deposited in the same 
 way upon the rug. Then, driving the first and 
 now fat kitten before her, the two descended to the 
 garden. But now there was a difficulty to be got 
 over, which puss, with all her forethought, had not 
 anticipated. The first visiter had grown so fat and 
 heavy that the mother could not carry it in her 
 mouth ; and yet it was not strong enough to leap 
 to the top of the garden wall. Happily the dust 
 bin presented a half-way station ; but even this was 
 too high a leap for the kitten, who appeared un- 
 willing to make the atttempt. Twenty times at 
 least did the mother jump up and down, to show 
 the youngster how it was to be done. At last the 
 kitten plucked up courage and made an effort", 
 which only succeeded at length by the mother's 
 taking her station on the top and seizing it by the 
 
JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS. 141 
 
 neck as it leaped to meet her. Thus the two got 
 clear off and never again made their appearance. 
 The second kitten, like the first, soon grew strong 
 and frolicsome, and was left in the enjoyment of 
 its comfortable home without further visit from the 
 parent. 
 
 It is not difficult to imagine the circumstances 
 which drove the mother cat, in this instance (for 
 the truth of which I am in a condition to vouch,) 
 to these extraordinary proceedings. We know that 
 she had herself been accustomed to an in-door life, 
 and no doubt the recollection of the warmth, and 
 comfort, and regular feeding she had there enjoyed 
 prompted her to secure such a position for her sick 
 offspring. We may fairly suppose, as she did not 
 come again, that some of her family (for cats rarely 
 have so few as two kittens) had perished from cold 
 and hardship before she had recourse to the step 
 she took to preserve the remaining two. She must 
 have known, too, and in her way reasoned upon it, 
 that housekeepers kept but one cat, and that it 
 was necessary to remove the first in order to secure 
 the safety of the second. How cleverly she car- 
 ried out her plan, and how pertinaciously she 
 adhered to it, we have seen. 
 
142 JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS. 
 
 I am of opinion that cats differ as much in char- 
 actei as human beings do ; and, like human beings, 
 their character is very much to be predicated from 
 their countenances. No two are ever seen alike, 
 and they vary as much in the conformation of 
 their skulls as do the different races of mankind. 
 Southey, in his "Doctor," gives a curious chapter 
 upon the cats of his acquaintance — a chapter in 
 which humor and natural history are agreeably 
 mingled together ; he was evidently a close ob- 
 server of the habits of poor puss, and took much 
 delight in the whims, frolics, and peculiarities of 
 his favorites. Gilbert White, in his "Natural 
 History of Selborne," records an instance of a cat 
 who suckled a young hare, who followed her about 
 the garden, and came jumping to her call of affec- 
 tion. The Rev. Mr. Sawley of Elford, near Lich- 
 field, once took the young ones out of a hare which 
 was shot. They were alive, and the cat, who had 
 lately lost her own kittens, carried them off — it 
 was supposed to eat them ; but it soon appeared 
 that it was affection and not hunger that actuated 
 her, as she suckled them and brought them up as 
 their mother. 
 
 Cats may be trained to obedience and to regular 
 
JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS. 143 
 
 habits by those who choose to take the necessary 
 pains. We have seen a cat sit at table, spectacles 
 on nose, apparently reading a big volume, and 
 occasionally turning over the leaves with all the 
 gravity of a philosopher. Some time ago — it may 
 be ten years — a man appeared in London with an 
 exhibition of cats, four of which drew him about 
 the room in a small chariot. They were introduced 
 to the public as " Tibby, Tabby, Tottle, and Tott," 
 and possessed various accomplishments, which some 
 of our readers may possibly have witnessed. In 
 France, the cat (puss is a word unknown there,) 
 plays a prominent part in the shops of fashion 
 frequented by the ladies. She has a cushion on 
 the counter, where she sits, or lies coiled up all 
 day long, soothed by the caresses of the customers 
 waiting their turn to be served. She is a pampered 
 idol, fond of sweetmeats, and grows to an enormous 
 size, the bigger the better and the more creditable 
 to the establishment. There, too, she is an article 
 of commerce, and is bred and reared for the 
 market — a fine cat being a necessary appendage 
 to a well-furnished house. 
 
 But I must cut off my cats' tales, lest I be 
 accused of a design upon the reader's patience, 
 
144 JUSTICE TO POOR PUSS. 
 
 while my real design is upon his compassion. In 
 vindicating the claims of a persecuted race to 
 more merciful consideration, I have brought them 
 forward that they might speak for themselves. 
 The essence of their united appeals may be sum- 
 med up in three words, justice to puss ! 
 
USEFULNESS. 
 
 My worthy uncle often, in the intervals of busi- 
 ness and study, gives me a little extemporaneous 
 lecture ; some times his subject is the law, the 
 best methods of studying ; sometimes, general 
 literature, in which he is very well read. At other 
 times he expatiates on real life and the social 
 system. Here he is quite at home, and draws 
 largely on his own varied experience for illustration. 
 
 To-day, his subject was the importance of every 
 person endeavoring, to the best of his ability, to 
 make himself really useful. He went so far as to 
 say that this should be every one's grand and 
 paramount object. Self-indulgence and self-ag- 
 grandizement, he said, not only hindered our 
 usefulness, but very often led people into the 
 greatest mistakes and even crimes, from which 
 they would have been saved by making usefulness 
 their object. 
 
 13 (145) 
 
146 USEFULNESS. 
 
 "But," I inquired, "were there not many who 
 are too poor, too weak and insignificant to hope 
 that they can he of any use in the world ?" 
 
 "No," said my uncle, "not one. I will illus- 
 trate this by a story," and he read the story which 
 follows. 
 
THE CRIPPPLED ORPHAN OF THE 
 TYROL. 
 
 " God has Ms plan 
 For every man." 
 
 Tyrolese Pkovbeb. 
 
 This saying was once exemplified in Tyrol by 
 the short and simple history of a poor crippled boy 
 whose memory is still cherished there. 
 
 About fifty years ago a soldier's widow came 
 with an only child to reside in a small hut near to 
 one of those romantic villages which may be seen 
 nestled amid the splendid mountains of that country 
 on the table-lands, or sierras, which afford space for 
 the habitations of the mountaineers, who there 
 shelter in winter the numerous flocks they drive in 
 the summer to pasturage on the heights above. That 
 village was the scene of busy industry ; the people 
 were independent and comfortable; they worked 
 for themselves, and, except the emperor, to whom 
 
 (147) 
 
148 THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 
 
 they were loyally devoted, they called no man lord. 
 Still, at the time when this poor widow took up her 
 abode there, agitation and fear had invaded this 
 once happy and peaceful spot. It was the period 
 when the reckless ambition of Napoleon deluged 
 Europe with blood ; this widow's husband had fallen 
 fighting against him in the fearful battle of Auster- 
 litz. Had the issue of that battle been different, 
 and the army in which he served been victorious, it 
 is probable that the bereaved wife would have felt 
 her loss just as deeply, for what the world calls 
 glory does not heal a bleeding heart, nor atone for 
 the individual sufferings which war occasions. The 
 widow was very poor, and as the partner of a sol- 
 dier's life, she had been long separated from the 
 friends of her youth : her affliction was then such a 
 common one that it excited little interest ; and the 
 grief which she felt the deepest was just that which 
 caused her to be of no consequence to the little 
 community among which she came. 
 
 It has been already said she had one child — a 
 maimed, disabled boy. The dangers to which the 
 mother had been exposed, the hardships which had 
 attended his infant life, produced this effect. Hans, 
 the widow's son, was deformed ; his figure was 
 
THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OP THE TYROL. 149 
 
 drawn considerly to one side, and he had very little 
 power in using his arms. This was a sore trial to 
 the poor woman ; often would she look at her boy 
 and sigh, for she thought in her age she should be 
 left without aid or support ; she could no longer 
 work for him, and he could neither work for him- 
 self nor her. But when the murmuring thought 
 found entrance to her heart, she hid it there, or 
 rather she prayed to God to take it thence ; she 
 never let her son perceive it; she would have him 
 only to feel that he was the solace of her life. And 
 so he was ; a true mother's love is ever most strongly 
 shown to the child that needs her love, her care, her 
 toils ; and beyond this maternal feeling were her 
 affections drawn to him. 
 
 Hans was, moreover, a kind boy, an affectionate, 
 tender son ; he was naturally of a thoughtful, re- 
 flective disposition ; the peculiarities of his consti- 
 tution tendered to render him so. Separated by 
 his bodily infirmity from the rude sports, the hardy 
 pursuits, and daring adventures, in which the other 
 young mountaineers engaged, that grave, reflective 
 cast of countenance, which characterizes the bold, 
 independent, and gay, while deeply superstitious, 
 Tyrolese, was in his blended with actual melancholy 
 13* 
 
150 THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 
 
 thoughtfulness. His mother's tender care had not 
 prevented him from gaining a knowledge of his 
 helplessness ; and his inability to assist her secretly 
 preyed on his heart. When he saw her, for 
 instance, carrying a burden he would run to relieve 
 her, but, though active enough in running, his arms 
 had no power ; as a child his mother might de- 
 ceive him into a belief that he was of use, but as a 
 lad of fifteen years of age that kind concealment 
 could no longer succeed, and, at that age, being the 
 time when this story commences, the state of his 
 country was the means of fully impressing on his 
 sensitive mind, the conviction of his own uselessness. 
 The arbitrary will of Napoleon Bonaparte, then 
 in the zenith of his glory had decreed that Tyrol 
 should belong to Bavaria, and not to Austria, and 
 a French and Bavarian army was already garrisoned 
 in the country. We do not mean to discuss the 
 propriety of the attachment which the Tyrolese 
 shoAved to the latter ; the chief reason of their 
 attachment was however a right one ; it was that 
 their once independent land had passed to the do- 
 minion of Austria, by right of legitimate succession ; 
 their last native princess, Margaret, having married 
 a prince of the house of Hapsburg, who became 
 
THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 151 
 
 emperor of Austria, and as such, added his wife's 
 dominion to his own. Royalty and religion had 
 hitherto been closely combined in Tyrol, and the 
 aversion its people testified to a union inforced by 
 the French, sprang from the strength of those prin- 
 ciples ; they regarded them Avith horror, and a 
 resolute zeal in the defence of their country and 
 their religion, had begun to animate men, women, 
 and even children throughout that mountain land. 
 
 At the juncture of which we now write, that va- 
 liant struggle was beginning which has afforded 
 themes to many pens. Austria, unable to compete 
 with Napoleon, withdrew the forces stationed in 
 Tyrol, and left its people to defend themselves : 
 their resistance to the powerful invader was one of 
 the most celebrated and most successful that history 
 records. 
 
 The Pass of Finstermunz still presents its terrible, 
 records to the eye of the traveller, who, amidst the 
 sublimity of the spectacle, recalls to memory the 
 awful scene enacted there in the time to which our 
 story refers. This pass lies between the towns of 
 Landeck and Meran ; a splendid road has since 
 been formed there by engineering skill, but even 
 still, amid modern improvements, the passage be- 
 
152 THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 
 
 tween the rocks is so narrow in places as to appear 
 a mere cleft formed by the violence of the torrent, 
 which is heard roaring in the deep gulf below. These 
 rocks rise towering over that narrow pass, clothed 
 sometimes with trees, at others opening splendid 
 views of snow-gemmed mountains, and green spark- 
 ling vales ; while the ceaseless roar of the strug- 
 gling water is the only sound that is heard. At 
 times, as its passage opens, the nearly calmed and 
 deep blue stream of the river Inn, crested with 
 some of the snow-white foam which tells of its 
 struggle, is seen gliding by ; at others, rushing 
 wildly ; or again, as the gorge contracts, is dimly 
 beheld, like a flake of snow, tossed in the dark gulf 
 through which its suffocated murmurs alone an- 
 nounces its progress. From the little bridges which 
 span this torrent, the views of the white glaciers 
 and green mountain fastnesses, with the peasant's 
 dwellings and the pretty green church spires, are 
 charming ; but at one spot the rocks on each side 
 curl over so as almost to meet ; and threaten to 
 drop on those who pass under them ; which, indeed, 
 they would probably at some time do, if they were 
 not propped by the stems of felled trees. At this 
 wildest and most romantic spot, the bridge crosses 
 
THE CKIPPLED OKPHAN OF THE TYKOL. 153 
 
 the torrent at a height which, as you attempt to 
 gaze down on the tossing snow-flakes beneath, con- 
 veys a sense of dizziness. Here an old, once for- 
 tified gateway, and the remains of an ancient 
 tower, remind one of the times when fierce rob- 
 ber-knights held indomitable forts in such fast- 
 nesses of nature. At this spot there is now a 
 quiet inn, and a very little chapel. " Rest and 
 give thanks," seems to be the idea presented by 
 their united appearance. 
 
 This sublime mountain pass, so remarkable for 
 natural beauty, has acquired a terrific celebrity in 
 history from the epoch which just followed the 
 incident that exemplified, as we have said, the 
 Tyrolese proverb already quoted. We fervently 
 hope that such celebrities are at an end ; but were 
 there ever a cause which could sanction the 
 slaughter of our fellow creatures, it is the defence 
 of our land, our homes, and our faith : it is when 
 the unjust invader is resisted, and the motto of a 
 people is that which the Tyrolese flag bore in- 
 scribed upon its folds — 
 
 "For God, our Emperor, and our Fatherland." 
 
 Here, as we stand in this sublime scene, and 
 look up at the tree- covered heights, and bring our 
 
154 THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 
 
 eye down over the shattered masses of rock that 
 lie in the descent, we recall that terrible event, and 
 involuntarily repeat the words : 
 
 " Fit spot to make the invaders rue, 
 The many fallen before the few." 
 
 For it was here that, in the year 1809, upwards 
 of ten thousand French and Bavarian troops were 
 destroyed by an unseen foe. An immense ava- 
 lanche of felled trees and broken rocks had been 
 prepared, and was held suspended along the 
 heights : as the advancing army marched in undis- 
 turbed order along this romantic pass, the foremost 
 heard the startling words, " 1st es zeit ?" "Is it 
 time ?" repeated above them. The officer halted, 
 and sent back to ask directions. He was ordered 
 to go forward. They went on. That word was 
 repeated, and a louder voice in a tone of solemn 
 command, announced it was time ! and desired the 
 avalanche to be let go. It was loosened ; it thun- 
 dered down ; and of all the living host who a few 
 minutes before had trod that pass, few, if any, 
 escaped from it alive. 
 
 It was this determination to resist, and expel 
 the foreign forces then stationed in their country, 
 that had begun to animate the Tyrolese at the 
 
THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 155 
 
 time when our poor Hans, having reached his 
 fifteenth year, might be expected by the youth of 
 the village to partake in their enthusiasm. That 
 enthusiasm was general ; a secret understanding 
 prevailed among all the people of Tyrol ; arrange- 
 ments were made with noiseless resolution; intel- 
 ligence of the advance of the Bavarian troops was 
 to be conveyed from post to post, from village to 
 village, by means of signal fires, materials for 
 which were laid ready on the rocky heights. 
 
 The village of which I have spoken lay directly 
 in the line of route which that army would take ; 
 and with the animation and bustle it displayed, a 
 great degree of fear and anxiety mingled. The 
 old people felt the latter emotions — the dread of 
 being surprised, of having their houses burned, 
 their property destroyed, themselves killed, or 
 driven shelterless to the mountains ; such thoughts 
 disturbed more or less every home, but did not 
 shake the courage and resolution of the people. 
 Even the children acted in their plays what they 
 heard their fathers and older brothers talk of, or 
 saw them practise ; and thus from the aged and 
 timid — the latter indeed were few — down to the 
 child who thoughtlessly mimicked in his sports the 
 
156 THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 
 
 hostile events that were approaching, only one 
 theme was heard in the village, or in the whole 
 country ; only one spirit seemed to be felt, and 
 scarcely any persons were to be found who were 
 not preparing, in some way, to take a part in the 
 coming struggle. I say scarcely any — for it will 
 have been already seen that two, at least, of that 
 small community knew their part was to sit still 
 and see how the matter would go. These were the 
 soldier's widow and her deformed boy. The widow 
 had had enough of war ; she had known its reali- 
 ties, while many of her young neighbors were 
 deceived by its visionary renown. She had felt 
 its horrors, while they contemplated in imagination 
 its glories. She looked now at her disabled son, 
 and did not sigh, as she had often done, in think- 
 ing of his helplessness. 
 
 " Ah, Hans," said she abruptly, as she gazed 
 upon him one evening, "it is well for us now that 
 thou canst be of little use ; they would take thee 
 from me to serve thy country, my boy, wert thou 
 fit to be a soldier." The widow did not know how 
 very tender was the chord she touched in her son's 
 mind. 
 
 Hans had long been secretly suffering much 
 
THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 157 
 
 pain from the rude discovery of the very fact she 
 thus alluded to. That secret pain had been ex- 
 posed even to a tender mother's eye. Now the 
 wound was touched. Hans bowed down his head ; 
 his mother had not observed that of late he had 
 been more peculiarly pale, silent, and averse to go 
 out. Now the large tear that suddenly rolled down 
 the pale cheek and dropped upon his knee, told her 
 that the feelings of the youth had been compressed 
 in his own bosom. That tear seemed to fall upon 
 the mother's heart : she felt its cause. 
 
 " My son, what aileth thee ?" 
 
 " Mother ! I am useless !" cried the youth, with 
 a burst of now irrepressible grief. 
 
 " Useless!" the widow repeated ; but the tone 
 in which she uttered the word might seem to denote 
 some little surprise at the discovery her son had 
 only then made. 
 
 " Yes, useless," Hans continued : " look round our 
 village — all are busy, all preparing, all ready to 
 strive for homes and fatherland — and I am utterly 
 useless !" 
 
 " My boy, my kind, dear son, thou art not use- 
 less to me." 
 
 "Even to thee — I cannot work for thee ; cannot 
 14 
 
158 THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 
 
 in thy age support thee. Ah ! I know all now. 
 Why was I made, mother?" 
 
 " Hush, Hans," said his mother: "these repining 
 thoughts become you not. You will live to find 
 the truth of our old proverb : — 
 
 ' God has his plan 
 For every man.' " 
 
 Little did Hans think that ere a few weeks had 
 passed this truth was to be verified in a most 
 remarkable manner. 
 
 Easter Monday came — the most festive season 
 in the Tyrol ; and the non-arrival of the expected 
 invaders had, in some degree, relaxed the vigilance 
 of the inhabitants. The holiday in question, we 
 may observe, in Switzerland, resembles somewhat 
 old Christmas in England ; families meet, presents 
 are exchanged ; the toys, gloves, the ornaments of 
 deer's horn, and other articles of Tyrolese industry, 
 are all in request then. Early in the morning of 
 the Easter Monday of which we now speak, child- 
 ren were seen carrying bunches of flowers to their 
 
THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 159 
 
 grand-parents, aunts, or other old relatives, whose 
 doors had been wreathed with branches of trees, 
 interspersed with flowers, during the preceding 
 night ; and the children now stood before them, 
 and sang the hymns which are often heard in their 
 country. Women, too, were seen with little bas- 
 kets on their arms, hastening to the house of the 
 poor curate to present their small offerings; and 
 young men brought some simple present to lay on 
 the windows of the maidens who they hoped 
 before the next Easter should be their wives. But 
 what was the most curious feature in the pleasant 
 scene was the cattle procession, which takes place 
 on this day ; for now the winter is over and gone, 
 the time of the singing of birds hath come, and 
 the voice of the turtle is heard in the land. Now 
 go the cattle forth from the sheds where they have 
 been sheltered from snow and frost, and wend their 
 way gladly to the mountains. The pride of the 
 family, the favorite cow, goes first, and proud of 
 her honors she seems to be, as she steps boldly on 
 in advance, her bell tinkling at her neck, her head 
 loaded with ornaments, and her horns wreathed 
 with flowers ; all the flocks are more or less adorned, 
 but she is the queen in her regal state. Behind 
 
160 THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN" OF THE TYROL. . 
 
 them come the joyous owners, or their herdsmen, 
 playing on musical instruments, and adding noise 
 to the pomp. What a rural, what a pleasant 
 scene ! There is nothing rude or revolting in this 
 merriment; a sense of thanksgiving seems to 
 mingle with it ; one sees, at least, the expression 
 of gratitude, the acknowledgment of God as the 
 Author and Giver of all good things. Yes, I have 
 felt how pleasant it is to see this acknowledgment 
 when the hardy Tyrolese shepherd has passed me, 
 mounting to difficulty and danger on the heights 
 above, and wearing in his girdle the words, largely 
 embroidered in white letters — " God is good." 
 
 And was every one in that mountain village 
 busy in the exchange of good- will offerings, or 
 festive preparations ? Hans leaned against the 
 porch of his mother's house, the porch in which at 
 eventide, they sang their hymns after the manner 
 of the country, and with joined hands repeated 
 their evening prayers. Often may an aged couple, 
 with children and grandchildren, be seen thus em- 
 ployed in the pretty porches of their houses while 
 the sun declines. Hans stood alone; the hut was 
 a little beyond the village, on the ascent of the 
 mountain ; he could see all that passed below, but 
 
THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 161 
 
 he had no presents to offer, for he had no money 
 to buy them, and no hands to make them ; no 
 hands, at least capable of such work. No one 
 thought of him ; if he had been a beggar they 
 would have remembered him, and given him their 
 charity willingly ; but as it was, he was forgotten. 
 Those who feel no want themselves too seldom 
 think of the wants of others, unless they are re- 
 minded of them. Hans looked down on the busy 
 village, and thought of his mother. The Tyrolese 
 proverb which she had quoted, 
 
 " God has his plan 
 For every man." 
 
 had made a passing impression on his mind, but he 
 sighed, as amidst his own loneliness in the general 
 bustle there seemed so little prospect of its fulfill- 
 ment. Still, however, though he scarce knew why, 
 the words, as he uttered them, seemed to shoot a 
 gleam of unwonted hope through his soul. 
 
 The evening of the bustling holiday at last 
 arrived, Hans strolled about in the gloom ; all the 
 village houses were lighted up ; fear seemed to be 
 forgotten, and watchfulness too. Hans was glad 
 not to be disturbed by the careless remarks of 
 the patrolling youths, who, on other evenings per- 
 14* 
 
162 THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 
 
 formed their usual exercise on the green, but now 
 all were within doors ; families and friends had met, 
 and children were merry and happy. Hans came 
 to the dwelling of a comfortable proprietor, one 
 who in our land would be termed a rich farmer. 
 The supper table was prepared ; in its centre a fir 
 tree was planted in a bucket filled with earth ; little 
 tapers were fastened in its branches, and a variety 
 of glittering objects suspended around it, were in- 
 tended for presents to the younger ones in the 
 family. Some of the little children who had already 
 secured theirs, were playing at a small table in the 
 open window. One of them had got a number of 
 soldiers, and an elder brother, a lad about the age 
 of our poor Hans, was amusing himself, apparently, 
 by directing their movements, and arranging them 
 in military order. Like all the youths of the Tyrol, 
 he aspired to be thought expert in such matters, 
 but he was of a more presuming and arrogant dis- 
 position than many of the others. Seeing that 
 Hans, standing near the window, must become one 
 of his auditors, he affected still more the tone of 
 command, as if to impress the helpless boy with a 
 higher opinion of his military knowledge. Almost 
 immediately, however, the children, disputing for 
 
THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OE THE TYROL. 163 
 
 one of the tin soldiers, broke it in two. The young 
 general was in the midst of a plan for the defence 
 of their village in case of an attack. Displeased 
 at the loss of one of his corps, he angrily seized 
 the broken soldier, and threw it out of the window. 
 
 "Why throw it away?" said the children. 
 
 "Because it is as useless now as Hans himself 
 would be if the enemy came," was his answer. 
 
 Hans heard the words, whether it was intended 
 he should do so or not. He turned away, and 
 went home to his mother. 
 
 The widow had shared her son's sentiments that 
 day : she was quite sensible that on this day of 
 general festivity they were overlooked and forgot- 
 ten. The mother and son knew they had sympathy 
 one with the other, but neither expressed it. The 
 widow felt for her son. The son felt for his 
 mother. But Hans resolved not to grieve her 
 with the recital of the fresh annoyance he had 
 met with. The widow, not sorry to end a clay 
 which made their forlorn position more evident to 
 themselves, proposed that they should avoid 'the 
 expense of light, by going early to rest. Hans 
 felt little inclined to sleep, but knowing his mother 
 would sit up if he did so, he complied with her 
 
1G4 THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 
 
 request. He had been early trained never to close 
 his eyes in slumber without reverently bending the 
 knee, and asking the care of a Divine protector. 
 On the present occasion he did not omit that duty, 
 but breathed the wish with earnest fervor that the 
 Father of all mercies would, in his good time, pre- 
 sent him with some opportunity of being useful to 
 others. Almost immediately after doing this, he 
 dropped into a deep slumber, being fatigued with 
 his rambles during the day. 
 
 How long his slumbers lasted poor Hans never 
 knew; he only related afterwards, that he had 
 awoke as if from a dream, but still under a strong 
 impression that the French and Bavarian army was 
 approaching him. He could not persuade himself 
 but that the soldiers were close to him. He 
 thought he saw their distinct uniform, the gleam 
 of their arms, and even felt as if their bayonets 
 were presented at him. He awoke in fear, but 
 even when awake could scarcely persuade himself 
 it was a dream. It was, however, a natural one ; 
 it would be by no means surprising if every one 
 of the villagers, and himself also, had dreamed 
 much the same whenever they slept. Hans recol- 
 lected this, but unwilling to remain under an ini- 
 
THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 165 
 
 pression so unpleasant, he rose, and, hastily dress- 
 ing himself, he went to the door and looked forth. 
 The night was calm, and even warm ; the moon 
 was beginning faintly to rise; and thinking that 
 illness had perhaps caused his troubled dream, 
 Hans walked out, believing the night air would 
 relieve the headache from which he had been suf- 
 fering. He strolled up the mountain path on the 
 side of which their cottage stood. Excitement and 
 agitation had indeed heated his blood, and the cool 
 air did him good. That sense of relief made him 
 continue his walk, and as he went up the mountain 
 path, he recollected that it led to the signal pile, 
 which had been laid ready for igniting when the 
 advance of the Bavarian garrisons from their 
 winter posts should commence ; a movement which 
 the combined Tyrolese had determined to resist. 
 An impulse he felt little inclination even to ques- 
 tion seemed still to lead him on, and prompt him 
 to mount the rugged path that conducted to that 
 important spot. Perhaps it was some feeling that 
 a surprise on this night was not impossible — some 
 scarcely understood impression left by his dream — 
 that, unconsciously to himself, led Hans thus up- 
 ward and upward on his solitary way, until he 
 
166 THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 
 
 came within view of the dark mass of firewood 
 piled up on the cliff. "Whatever was the feeling 
 that influenced him, however, (and the result, the 
 reader will remember, is a matter of history, not 
 mere fiction,) the boy found himself, as we have 
 said, at the signal post. 
 
 Hans walked round the pile, as it lay there 
 quiet and lonely. But the watchers, where were 
 they ? Forgetful, perhaps, of their duty, they had 
 amidst the festivities of Easter omitted their im- 
 portant office on this occasion ; at all events they 
 were nowhere to be seen. The village, far beneath, 
 was in as great security as if no dreadful war- 
 signal was likely to be needed, and all in the 
 neighborhood was calm. A dark old pine tree 
 stood near it ; in its hollow stem the tinder was laid 
 ready, with the other means for raising a speedy 
 conflagration. Hans paused in his circuit by the 
 hollow tree, and seemed to listen to the silence. 
 There is something in the feeling of utter silence 
 that impels the ear to listen for its interruption. 
 As he so listened, a singular sound, that seemed to 
 be reverberated along the ground, caught his 
 eager attention. It was slow and quiet, but so 
 measured and equal, as to be distinct. He listened 
 
THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 167 
 
 with painful intensity for about a minute ; it stop- 
 ped. Hans was just about to leave the spot, when 
 another sound was heard ; it was the click of mus- 
 kets ; then a distinct but stealthy tread ; then a 
 pale ray of moonshine glanced on the fixed bayo- 
 nets of two soldiers, who cautiously crept along 
 the edge of the cliff at the opposite side of tho 
 pile. They mounted the eminence, looked round, 
 and seeing no one there — for poor Hans was hid- 
 den by the old tree — gave the signal apparently to 
 some comrades in the distance. Then the measured 
 tread of marching men was heard again, but Hans 
 did not wait to listen to it. Like a flash of inspi- 
 ration, the whole circumstance was visible to his 
 mind, The secret had been discovered by, or 
 treacherously revealed to, the enemy ; a party had 
 been sent forward from the enemy's troops to 
 destroy it ; the body from which they were de- 
 tached was then marching up the pass that led to 
 his village ; the fears he had heard the old and 
 timid express would be realized ; and the plans of 
 the others, which he had heard so much talked of, 
 would be of no avail ! It is singular, that though 
 naturally, as most infirm persons are, of a timid 
 disposition, no thought of his own perilous situa- 
 
168 THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 
 
 tion occurred to Hans. All that has here taken 
 some time to state on paper, flashed on his mind 
 with the rapidity of a vision, and perhaps it was 
 followed by one equally rapid self-recollection. 
 
 "God has Ms plan 
 For every man," 
 
 might the youth have mentally said, as quick as 
 thought he seized the tinder, struck the light, and 
 flung the flaring turpentine brand into the pile. 
 
 The two scouts, who had advanced first, had then 
 their backs turned to it, waiting the arrival of 
 some comrades, whose arms just glittered above 
 the edge of the cliff at the moment when the sud- 
 den blaze towered up, and flashed upon them. A 
 cry of astonishment, we might say of fear, burst 
 from the foremost ; but in the light of that mount- 
 ing blaze they soon perceived no ambushed foes 
 were there ; a single youth was seen hastily re- 
 treating down the mountain path. They fired — 
 cruelly fired. A shriek of agony told them one 
 bullet, at least, though fired at random, had found 
 its mark. The light was too indistinct for an aim, 
 but a bullet had lodged in the boy's shoulder. Yet 
 the signal fire was blazing high, and the whole 
 country would be shortly aroused. Already, before 
 
THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OP THE TYROL. 169 
 
 tlieir surprise was over, or their retreat effected, 
 the signal was answered from a second mountain 
 top, and another and another began to repeat it. 
 The advancing party, seeing their plan for a sur- 
 prise thus rendered abortive, made a hasty escape. 
 
 Hans, meantime, was not killed ; faint and 
 bleeding, he contrived to reach the village, where 
 already the greatest consternation prevailed. Trem- 
 bling old people stood at the door demanding in- 
 telligence, and the peasantry, with their arms, 
 were mustering thick and fast. At the door of the 
 proprietor's house, where Hans had stood to wit- 
 ness the Easter party on the previous evening, an 
 anxious group was gathered ; among them was the 
 lad who had made so good and brave a general of 
 the tin soldiers, and who had so unfeelingly, we 
 would hope thoughtlessly, declared the broken one 
 to be as useless as Hans in the defence he was 
 planning of the village. He was now aroused, from 
 sleep with the cry that the enemy was come. Pale, 
 confused, uncertain what to do, he was anxiously 
 joining in the inquiry which no one could answer — 
 "Who lighted the pile?" 
 
 "It was I!" said, at last, a faint, almost ex- 
 piring voice. 
 
 15 
 
170 THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 
 
 They turned, and saw the crippled Hans totter- 
 ing towards them. 
 
 "Thou?" exclaimed many voices ; but the pro- 
 prietor's son gazed in stupified silence. 
 
 " The enemy — the French — were there," Hans 
 faltered, and sank upon the ground. " Take me to 
 my mother. At last I have not been useless." 
 
 They stooped to lift him ; but drew back, for 
 their hands were full of blood. 
 
 " What is this ?" they cried. " He has been 
 shot ! It is true ! Hans the cripple has saved us." 
 
 They carried Hans to his mother's house. Some 
 ran before him and told her the alarming news ; of 
 the danger that had approached them, and who 
 had been, for that time at least, their preserver. 
 Then they carried the wounded youth in, and laid 
 him before her. As the mother bowed in anguish 
 over his pale face, Hans opened his eyes — for he 
 had fainted from loss of blood and pain — and 
 looking at her, he made an effort to speak. "It 
 is not now, dear mother, you should weep for me ; 
 I am happy now. Yes, mother, it is true — 
 
 "God has his plan 
 For every man." 
 
THE CRIPPLED ORPHAN OF THE TYROL. 171 
 
 You see He had it for me, though we did not know 
 what it was." 
 
 Hans did not recover of his wound ; but he was 
 permitted to live long enough to know he had been 
 of use : he lived to hear of the result of his timely 
 warning, not to his village only, but to the country 
 around ; he lived to see grateful mothers embrace 
 his mother : to hear that she should find a son in 
 every brave youth in the village, a. home for her 
 age in every house ; that she should be considered 
 a sacred and honored bequest to the community 
 which her son had preserved at the cost of his life. 
 
 Our little story is told. It is not from scenes 
 of battle and strife that we would willingly draw 
 illustrations of great truths and principles ; and 
 great emergencies, like those which met Hans, it 
 would be unreasonable to expect as usual occur- 
 rences. To all, however, the motto speaks — 
 
 " God has his plan 
 For every man." 
 
 None need stand useless in the great social system. 
 There is work for every one to do, if he will but 
 look for it. So long as there is ignorance to instruct, 
 want to relieve, sorrow to soothe, let none stand as 
 listless gazers in the great vineyard of the world. 
 
A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 
 
 In the course of my reading I have met with a 
 great many accounts of persons who have shown 
 remarkable proficiency in the arts and sciences and 
 literary composition at a very early age. Paschal, 
 Anna Maria Schurman, and the admirable Crich- 
 ton excited my astonishment considerably ; but a 
 very recent instance, has occurred of literary pre- 
 cocity, which appears to me to leave all former 
 examples far behind. I transcribe the account of 
 this remarkable person from an English periodical 
 of the last year. 
 
 " The bright Star of the North" — such was the 
 name given by Jean Paul to one of the most bril- 
 liant of early developed geniuses that ever rose 
 above the literary horizon, dazzling for a while the 
 astounded beholder, but then disappearing from his 
 sight, like a meteor suddenly extinguished by the 
 too rapid exhaustion of its own inflaraable mate- 
 rials. Elizabeth Kulmann was born at St. Peters- 
 (172) 
 
A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 173 
 
 burg, July 5th, 1808, " in the humble cottage of 
 want," as she herself expresses it, in one of her 
 poems. Her father, an officer in the Russian army, 
 died in her earliest infancy, leaving the tender 
 exotic plant to be brought up by her mother, amid 
 the cares and deprivations of extreme poverty. An 
 elder sister was married, and her seven brothers 
 were already provided for in the army, or military 
 schools, so that Elizabeth was the object of her 
 mother's undivided attention. Of her brothers, 
 nearly all perished in the wars with France. Mrs. 
 Kulmann was a woman of superior mind and great 
 attainments, and was well fitted, in many respects, 
 to guide the early developed genius of her gifted 
 child. She was a native of Germany, but spoke 
 the language of her adopted country with the cor- 
 rectness of a native, and, from the birth of her 
 daughter, carefully instructed her in the languages 
 of both countries. 
 
 Elizabeth's wonderful talent for language, ex- 
 traordinary powers of observation and retentive 
 memory, began to manifest themselves before she 
 had completed her second year. She knew, in 
 German and Russian, the names of every object 
 that came within her sphere of observation, was an 
 15* 
 
174 A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 
 
 incessant talker, and found in her mother a patient 
 listener, and an unwearied answerer, to all her in- 
 numerable questions. As her ideas expanded she, 
 endowed, as it were, all inanimate objects in her 
 little world with a soul ; would sit for hours together, 
 asking different objects respecting their nature, 
 qualities, destination, and relation to mankind ; and 
 then, personifying the object, give a ready reply to 
 all her own questions. Let us imagine her at the 
 age of five years, sitting on the step of their cot- 
 tage door, watching a blade of grass growing in 
 the little gutter formed by the dropping of the rain, 
 from the eves of the house. 
 
 " Who are you ? Whence do you come ?" asked 
 the child. After a short pause, as if waiting for 
 an answer, she replied : " I am a child of the earth ; 
 our house is silent and dark. We see no sun, we 
 see no bird. From the roof comes the water, drop, 
 drop, drop. That is our nourishment — a mother's 
 milk. When we leave our cradle, our mother says, 
 ' Rush your way through the covering, then you 
 will see the sun and hear the birds. The butterflies 
 will greet you and admire your green dress, and 
 near by, you will see the violet, the lily of the 
 valley, and the rose !" We see here already the 
 
A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 175 
 
 germ of that wonderful facility of invention which 
 afterwards found vent in verse, and which enabled 
 her to complete a long poem, full of luxuriant images 
 and beautiful thoughts, before another would have 
 completed the arrangement of the subject. 
 
 Elizabeth gave early manfestations of that ex- 
 treme sensibility to the pain of others, and that 
 sweetness and gentleness of disposition, which was 
 no less characteristic of her than her intellectual 
 endowments. For a long time she could not suffer 
 the presence of an otherwise esteemed friend, when 
 she heard that he was fond of shooting. " Are not 
 the birds God's creatures," said, she, "as well as 
 we are? Why shoot them, then?" One day she 
 called her mother's attention to a spider in its web. 
 "Look, mother," cried she, "how the spider is 
 watching over these flies, that are sleeping near 
 him. I saw him invite the fly, and then he came 
 down stairs to conduct his guests into the room, 
 and now see how he watches him, that he may not 
 be disturbed in his sleep !" Beautiful illusion of an 
 unsophisticated mind ! She attained her fifth year 
 without ever having seen a book, for her mother, 
 knowing her incessant thirst for knowledge, had 
 prudently removed from her sight the few she her- 
 
176 A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 
 
 self possessed ; at last a friend presented her -with 
 a work on natural history, with plates. This opened 
 a new world to her inquisitive mind, with such eager- 
 ness did she apply herself to its contents, that, 
 with the assistance of her friend and of her mother, 
 she soon learnt the German, French, English, 
 Italian, and even Latin names of the objects repre- 
 sented. Portions of the text were read to her, and 
 immediately she asked to be taught to read. A 
 spelling book was given her, but she threw it aside 
 the next day, after having learnt the words of one 
 syllable, and applied herself to the German text of 
 her book, which in a few weeks she read with ease. 
 The following anecdote will afford a key to the 
 correctness of the accent with which she afterwards 
 spoke so many languages. She had often lis- 
 tened to the conversation of an Englishman, a 
 Frenchman, and an Italian, who occasionally visited 
 her mother, the former being the owner of their 
 cottage, and an intimate friend. She had paid much 
 attention to the rising and falling of the voice, in 
 their respective languages, and could imitate it 
 with singular exactness. In a playful mood, she 
 took it into her head one day to imitate these lan- 
 guages, to an old man who daily supplied them with 
 
A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 177 
 
 bread, and with whom she was a great favorite. 
 She repeated to him names of animals in Russian, 
 German, and English. " Can you speak English?" 
 cried the old man, astonished. Instead of answer- 
 ing, she spoke with great volubility, and without 
 hesitation, a number of English words, at the same 
 time raising and dropping her voice as if really con- 
 versing. She then did the same with French and 
 Italian. The old man related the wonder to his 
 master, who henceforth ordered him to leave his 
 bread at the house, even if they had no money to 
 pay for it. Often, alas ! did this kindness of the 
 worthy baker save mother and daughter from going 
 to bed supperless. 
 
 So acute were Elizabeth's powers of observation, 
 that she could recall the most trival circumstance 
 years after it happened. She was only two years 
 and a half old when she accompanied her mother 
 one day to the house of the landlord, the above 
 mentioned Englishman. The child was busily oc- 
 cupied with her doll, when the landlord folded up a 
 paper, about which he had been talking to her mo- 
 ther, and going to a closet in an adjoining room, 
 unlocked it and laid the paper in a drawer. Three 
 years afterwards he was regretting to Mrs. Kulmann 
 
178 A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 
 
 the loss of the document, which he had some indis- 
 tinct recollection of having once shown her at his 
 house. Elizabeth recalled to his memory, not only 
 the day when it happened, but also the minutest 
 circumstances, and described exactly where he had 
 laid the paper. He ran home, and soon returned 
 with a large cactus, which Elizabeth had often ad- 
 mired, exclaiming, " Admirable child ! you are my 
 memory. If I were emperor, you should be my 
 secretary of state." 
 
 Elizabeth had hitherto received all her instruc- 
 tion from her mother ; she now found one teacher 
 worthy of such a pupil, in the friend who had pre- 
 sented her with the book on natural history. He 
 was a German, and possessed great classical attain- 
 ments, and was familiar with many modern lan- 
 guages. A tutor by profession, and engaged during 
 the day, in the wearying and arduous duties of his 
 calling, he devoted his holidays and leisure hours 
 to the instruction of Elizabeth ! Under his guidance 
 she learned writing, history, and geography, and 
 before the completion of her seventh year, the forms 
 of countries, the courses of rivers, the situations of 
 towns, and the principal historical events, were 
 firmly fixed in her mind, never afterwards to be for- 
 
A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 179 
 
 gotten. She soon became acquainted with French, 
 having learned to speak it fluently in three months, 
 being well versed in German, from the instruction 
 of her mother, she learnt many little poems in that 
 language by heart, but had as yet no clear idea of 
 rhythm. She had often questioned her instructor 
 on this point, but he, as if fearing the too early de- 
 velopement of these extraordinary poetical powers 
 with which he saw she was endowed, carefully 
 avoided all allusion to the subject, and evaded even 
 her direct questions. This silence on a point with 
 which she was sure he was acquainted, excited her 
 curiosity, and she meditated for herself. She re- 
 marked the rhymes, counted the syllables, and re- 
 solved on making the attempt to do something. 
 The result was a poem, that put an end to the 
 silence of her friend, who then initiated her into 
 the mysteries of versification. From this time she 
 almost seemed to live but for two things — to acquire 
 knowledge, and then to give it new forms in her 
 own poetical compositions. The Italian language 
 was soon added to her other acquirements. Scarcely 
 had she taken three lessons when she exclaimed 
 with rapture, that she should study no tongue with 
 such zeal and pleasure. So well did she keep her 
 
180 A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 
 
 word, that in a few months she wrote it with ele- 
 gance, and indeed she never required more than 
 three months to learn a living; tongue.* 
 
 It was on her tenth birthday that her instruc- 
 tor came to dine with them, bringing with him a 
 large piece of Elizabeth's favorite gingerbread. 
 When dinner was over, it was presented to her, 
 and she was told to break it in two. She did so, 
 when lo ! a little book was concealed within it. 
 She glanced at the first page. " Tasso ! Oh, I 
 have Tasso !" cried the child, weeping with joy, 
 and dancing about the room ; " Tasso, dear Tasso, 
 I will learn you by heart." She then counted the 
 stanzas, and reckoned how long it would take her 
 to learn the whole, allowing three stanzas for each 
 day. But on the third day, she exceeded the 
 limits she had allowed herself, and in a short time 
 never learnt less than nine verses a day. She had 
 hitherto spoken Russian with their landlord. How 
 surprised was he one day, by being addressed by 
 her in excellent English. She had studied it only 
 for a month or two, and from that day never spoke 
 
 * Lest the rapidity of acquiring languages should appear 
 incredible, it may be well to remind the reader that Russians 
 in general have a peculiar facility in this department of know- 
 ledge. 
 
A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 181 
 
 any thing to him but his own tongue. Some En- 
 glish strangers presented her with Milton's works, 
 which soon became her favorite reading in that 
 language. 
 
 A change now took place in the domestic ar- 
 rangements of the Kulmann's, beneficial for both 
 mother and daughter. Two dear friends, who had 
 rendered the former constant pecuniary assistance, 
 were dead, and it was with the greatest difficulty 
 that they could procure oil and wood — important 
 articles of winter consumption in a Russian, house- 
 hold. Their landlord, who loved Elizabeth as his 
 own child, reduced their rent to an almost nominal 
 amount, but it was still more than they could dis- 
 charge. Through the medium of an old friend of 
 the family, named Meder, who had been appointed 
 to an official situation in St. Petersburg, they 
 made the acquaintance of an aged priest, named 
 Abram Abramow, who had lost his wife, and lately 
 also his only daughter. On hearing of Elizabeth's 
 talent and her mother's poverty, the old man im- 
 mediately offered them an asylum in his house, 
 which was now too large for himself. The above- 
 mentioned friend had two daughters, and as he 
 possessed great scientific knowledge, he devoted 
 16 
 
182 A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 
 
 himself to their education, Elizabeth being allowed 
 to join them in their lessons. She thus learnt 
 botany, mineralogy, natural philosophy, and ma- 
 thematics, with music and drawing. Elizabeth had 
 often heard her two new benefactors speaking 
 Latin together, and to hear a language with which 
 she was unacquainted was but to excite in her 
 mind a longing desire to gain a knowledge of it. 
 She wished to show her gratitude to Abramow by 
 learning Latin, and congratulating him in that 
 tongue on his next birth-day. " Is Latin difficult ?" 
 asked she of her tutor, who still continued his 
 occasional instructions. ''For you no language is 
 difficult," was the reply; "in six months you will 
 know it as well as you do your other languages." 
 " Will you teach me ?" " Willingly. To-morrow 
 I will send you a grammar, which you will learn 
 by heart at your leisure." She had formed an 
 idea that Latin was difficult, and therefore resolved 
 to be doubly diligent. Such, accordingly, was her 
 extraordinary perseverance and capacity that in 
 less than three months she had completely mas- 
 tered the difficulties of Cornelius Nepos, Cassar, 
 and Cicero ! She then turned her attention to 
 Greek. She had listened attentively one evening 
 
A KUSSIAN PKODIGY. 183 
 
 to a conversation on the advantages to be derived 
 from the study of the dead languages. Her enthu 
 siastic and profound attention had not escaped the 
 watchful eye of her friend and instructor. He 
 was fully prepared for what followed on his next 
 visit. She was abstracted, and unusually quiet 
 during her lessons, and he at once perceived that 
 she was absorbed by some new plan that she had 
 conceived, and immediately guessed what that pro- 
 ject was. " How warmly we disputed the other 
 night on Homer and the ancients," said he, with a 
 scrutinizing glance at his pupil. "Oh yes," cried 
 she, her eye lighting up with enthusiasm, " and I 
 feel you were quite right." " Shall we learn 
 Greek?" Elizabeth smiled. "You will not be 
 the only female who has known Greek ; Madame 
 Dacier has even translated Homer." Elizabeth 
 seized her tutor's hand with joy. In six months 
 Homer was her favorite author. 
 
 She had casually heard of the celebrated Italian 
 linguist, Mezzofanti,* afterwards cardinal, who at 
 that time was acquainted with thirty-six languages. 
 
 * Mezzofanti died March 16th, 1849, in the seventy-fifth 
 year of his age. He is said to have known more or less of 
 fifty-six languages. 
 
184 A RUSSIAN PRODIGY, 
 
 She resolved to tread in his footsteps, in so far as 
 to become acquainted with every language that 
 could store her mind with new ideas, thus differing 
 from her proposed model, with whom the learning 
 of languages was a mere passion. Before she had 
 completed her sixteenth year, she learnt modern 
 Greek, Spanish, Portuguese, and Sclavonian, 
 making in all eleven tongues, eight of which she 
 spoke fluently. She was preparing to study Per- 
 sian and Arabian, when her first illness interrupted 
 her studies. In three of the above languages, 
 Russian, German, and Italian, she wrote with a 
 purity of diction which no native could excel ; and 
 most of the poems she composed in either of these 
 tongues, were immediately translated by her into 
 the other two. Her future destination had often 
 been a subject of anxiety to her mother, who saw 
 the necessity of her gaming her own living. Her 
 instructor, convinced of her high poetical powers, 
 but wishing to have the opinion of one whose judg- 
 ment none could dispute, wrote to a friend of his 
 in Germany, inclosing some of her poems in Ger- 
 man, Italian, and French, and requested him to 
 obtain Goethe's opinion of them. We give an 
 extract from the answer : — " On my reading ' The 
 
A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 185 
 
 Stream,' Goethe listened with attention, and when 
 I had finished, exclaimed, ' Boldly imagined and 
 boldly executed ! He then read himself, and on 
 reading ' The Lightn'ing,' exclaimed repeatedly, 
 ' Excellent, excellent ! Tell the young poetess in 
 my name, in Goethe's name, that I prophesy her 
 a high rank in literature, in whichever of the lan- 
 guages known to her she may choose to write.' " 
 
 Elizabeth was endowed with other qualities 
 which would have been sufficient to raise her to 
 eminence. She possessed a beautiful voice, which 
 had been highly cultivated by the old priest, and 
 whenever a foreigner happened to come to their 
 house, she had always his national songs ready, 
 which she sang with such taste, spirit, and feeling, 
 that her hearers were filled with astonishment and 
 admiration. To an Italian, on one occasion, she 
 repeated some verses of Metastasio and Tasso. 
 " What a marvel !" he exclaimed. You have figure, 
 action, feeling, expression, and a voice such as I 
 have never heard before, though I have travelled 
 over the whole of Europe.'' 
 
 Of the self-denial she was capable of, when the 
 pleasure of others was concerned, the following 
 anecdote gives pleasing evidence. She was invited 
 16* 
 
186 A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 
 
 by some friends to attend the performance of some 
 music of a very high order, of which she was pas- 
 sionately fond. For several days she was greatly 
 elated in anticipation of the coming treat. On the 
 very evening, however, when she was to have 
 enjoyed it, her tutor, whom she now seldom saw, 
 and who happened to be at liberty, called to spend 
 the evening with her. She immediately dispatched 
 a note of excuse to her friends, and all their endea- 
 vors to induce her to go were in vain. It was not 
 till some days afterwards that her instructor heard 
 of what pleasure he had been the unconscious 
 means of depriving her. " It would have been un- 
 grateful of me," said she, "to have left the com- 
 pany of even a less benefactor, but what name would 
 my conduct have deserved if I had quitted you, my 
 greatest benefactor on earth ? Even if I had been 
 sure that I would never have had an opportunity 
 of hearing the music, I would not, under such cir- 
 cumstances, have gone." 
 
 With all her talents and acquirements she was 
 modest and retiring in company, and seldom ven- 
 tured to offer her opinion unless it was asked for. 
 But when it was solicited, she was no longer the 
 timid listener, but the leader of the conversation ; 
 
A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 187 
 
 while on disputable points, the most learned found 
 in her an antagonist who gained their love and 
 esteem, as much as she excited their wonder and 
 astonishment. Nor was she less remarkable for 
 the love of order she manifested in every action of 
 daily life. Never was a book lent to her known to 
 have a stain upon it when returned ; hence all her 
 friends willingly intrusted her with all the books 
 she required. " In one thing," said she, jestingly, 
 " I am superior even to Franklin — the order in 
 which I keep all that belongs to me, for Franklin 
 complains that he could not keep his papers in such 
 order as he would have wished." 
 
 She was extremely neat in her person, and was 
 never seen in a untidy or dirty dress, even during 
 the period of her greatest poverty. On the occasion 
 of some festival, the prettiness and even elegance 
 of her attire attracted general ' attention. " It is 
 only calico," said she, laughing, " and, like many 
 of the boldest pictures and expressions of the poets, 
 looks well at a distance ; but you must not examine 
 their texture. For instance, Milton's ' darkness 
 visible' is a picture which astonishes the boldest 
 imagination ; but if you look at it closer, (pardon 
 me, beloved Milton, if I speak the truth, in spite of 
 
188 A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 
 
 my veneration,) you find it nothing but nonsense." 
 Up to her sixteenth year, her constitution, though 
 delicate, had been such as to give hopes of a much 
 longer life than she was destined to enjoy. At her 
 birth the nurse said she would be a talented child, 
 but would not live long. This prophecy, the latter 
 part of which it required no great skill to make, 
 had been carefully concealed by her mother, till it 
 was accidently revealed to her by a well-meaning 
 but foolish gossip of their acquaintance. An ex- 
 pression of unpleasantness was painted on the coun- 
 tenance of all present (for the Russians are some- 
 what superstitious,) and the ominous words, which 
 Elizabeth saw at a glance had been purposely kept 
 back from her, made a lasting impression on her 
 mind. Her tutor, however, with the help of pro- 
 phecies which had failed in their fulfilment, suc- 
 ceeded in calming her, and she regained her wonted 
 cheerfulness. 
 
 In 1824, St, Petersburg was visited by an inun- 
 dation, terrible in its effects for the Kulmanns, and 
 the inhabitants in general. A few days previously, 
 her eldest brother had married, and Elizabeth, being 
 obliged to wait for the carriage, during stormy 
 weather, had caught cold. Her brother invited her 
 
A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 189 
 
 to spend some days with them, to which she unwil- 
 lingly consented, as she felt unwell. It was during 
 her residence here that the inundation happened. 
 She was separated from her mother, and uncertain 
 as to her fate. Her brother's house was filled with 
 the weeping and wailing families who dwelt on the 
 ground floors of the neighboring houses, which were 
 filled with water. Amidst the general distress and 
 confusion, Elizabeth was seen on her knees in a 
 corner, fervently praying to God for the safety of 
 her mother and all the afflicted. 
 
 The waters at length subsided, but Elizabeth's 
 health was permanently injured by the unpropitious 
 character of the season. Her tutor took the first op- 
 portunity to inquire after her. One glance revealed 
 to him the change that had come over her ; and 
 he turned pale when she greeted him with the me- 
 lancholy words, " The prophecy of the nurse is ful- 
 filled." We need hardly add, however, that there 
 was no connection between the two events of the 
 nurse's prediction and her untimely end. As a 
 delicate child she was exposed to special risks. 
 
 As we are now arrived almost at the close of her 
 poetical career, we will pause to take a glance at 
 the literary works she left behind her. 1. The 
 
190 A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 
 
 Gallery of Pictures in Sixty Saloons. This is a 
 collection of short poems on all subjects. 2. Trans- 
 lations of Anacreon in eight languages. 3. Trans- 
 lation of Oserow's tragedies. 4. Translations of 
 two of Alfieri's tragedies in German, and of his 
 "Saul" in Russian. 5. "Poetical Attempts" in 
 German, Russian, and Italian. 6. Translations of 
 Mate's Fables, from the Spanish ; fragments of 
 Cameon's Lusiacle and thirty odes of Manoel ; frag- 
 ments of Milton's Paradise Lost and Paradise Re- 
 gained ; several poems of Metastasio ; all into 
 German. 7. Tales, Russian, oriental, and foreign ; 
 all written in Russian, with the exception of two in 
 German. 8. The national songs of modern Greece. 
 This was her last work. 
 
 To give an idea of the extent of the above works, 
 we will only remark, that the edition of them now 
 before us, containing only her original poems in 
 German, is a large octavo volume of six hundred 
 and seventy pages, each with double columns. They 
 were first published in Germany in 1846, and have 
 already reached the sixth edition. 
 
 It will naturally be asked, How is it possible that 
 one so young could write works, which, if written 
 by a man who had attained the age of half a cen- 
 
A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 191 
 
 tury, would entitle him to be called a productive 
 genius ? A glance at her daily life will explain 
 much of the mystery, and show how far natural 
 genius was assisted by an almost supernatural 
 industry and perseverance. 
 
 Since her eleventh year, Elizabeth never slept 
 more than six hours. On rising in the morning, 
 her first thought was her prayers, which she re- 
 peated with every mark of an inward, fervent 
 devotion. Her toilet never occupied more than six 
 or seven minutes, though, as we have said, she was 
 always neat and clean. Breakfast, also, was the 
 occupation of a few minutes only, and " even this 
 time I sometimes gain," said she, "for if we happen 
 to have no tea in the house, I take my piece of 
 bread in one hand and my pen in the other, and 
 sit down to work." 
 
 It is said that a poet's life is his works. This 
 was especially the case with Elizabeth Kulmann. 
 She lived and breathed but in poetry. At half- 
 past six she sat down to her desk, where she 
 remained till one, absorbed in the composition of 
 her poems, never suffering herself to be distracted 
 by what was going on around her. It is recorded 
 of her, that she seemed to be writing under the 
 
192 A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 
 
 dictation of an invisible attendant, rather than 
 committing to paper the produce of her own brain, 
 so rapidly did she write. She has been known to 
 write a poem of five hundred lines in twelve hours ; 
 her manuscript showing that not more than twenty- 
 seven lines had been subjected to correction. 
 Many of these lines are, doubtless, not what would 
 have satisfied her riper years ; but none are un- 
 worthy of her, and many contain beauties which 
 few poets have excelled. At one o'clock, she laid 
 her pen aside, and walking about the room, would 
 join the conversation of her friends. 
 
 At half-past one she partook of her extremely 
 simple dinner, of which meat seldom formed a. 
 part, neither she nor her mother being partial to 
 it. Walking and conversation filled up the time 
 till half-past two, when she began to work again. 
 This time, however, it was not with the pen, but 
 with books, to gather new ideas which were to be 
 moulded into poetical forms on the following 
 day. Her afternoon studies were generally per- 
 formed walking or standing ; but she was not the 
 less absorbed in them, and fully abstracted from 
 the world around her. At tea-time, her classical 
 studies were laid aside, and she found time for 
 
A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 193 
 
 music, drawing, embroidery, and even plain sewing. 
 Her mother often read aloud to her during the 
 latter occupations ; and the remarks of mother 
 and daughter are said to have been such as would 
 have done honor even to the learned. Three or 
 four times a week, at nine o'clock in the evening, 
 she used to visit their friend Mr. Meder, where, in 
 the shape of conversation, she gained an extensive 
 knowledge of astronomy, geology, and natural 
 philosophy. Never, perhaps, were thirst of know- 
 ledge, memory, and activity, united in one indi- 
 vidual in so high a degree as in Elizabeth Kul- 
 mann. But the secret spring which set in motion 
 such extraordinary perseverance must be sought 
 in her ambition, or rather in her innate aspirations 
 for fame. " I will acquire fame," said she, " but 
 how ? certainly not by inaction. Well, I will be 
 active. What is necessary in order to be a poet ? 
 Knowledge, knowledge of a thousand different 
 kinds, invention, unceasing activity in execution; 
 in a word, the determination to be a poet." Earthly 
 fame is a poor and fleeting object of pursuit ; and 
 although she has used that term, yet we think that 
 she did not employ it in the ordinary sense of the 
 word, for her industry was founded rather on the 
 17 
 
194 A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 
 
 conviction that she had been gifted with great 
 abilities, and a desire to be a pattern to others of 
 diligently improving them. 
 
 A few of the little poems found among her 
 papers after her death, prove that it was not with- 
 out a feeling of regret that she saw her early 
 career drawing to a close. Others, however, prove 
 that she was really resigned to her lot, as her 
 behavior on her death-bed proved to those beloved 
 ones who wept beside her. She died on the 19th 
 of November, 1825, aged seventeen years and 
 three months. Three nations have given her an 
 honorable rank among their native poets. 
 
 A monument was erected to her memory by the 
 Empress Alexander Fedorowna and the Grand 
 Duchess Helena Pawlowna, both of whom had 
 paid her marks of distinction during her lifetime. 
 On the monument are eleven inscriptions in the 
 different languages with which she was acquainted. 
 In Latin are the words : " The first Russian female 
 who learned Greek, understood eleven languages, 
 spoke eight, and, though a young girl, yet was a 
 distinguished poetess." In English are the words: 
 " She from her early days prepared herself for 
 heaven." We do not know enough of her "in- 
 
A RUSSIAN PRODIGY. 195 
 
 terior life" to know the grounds on which this con- 
 clusion rests. But her whole career is certainly 
 well fitted to teach us the lesson of the 'slight 
 tenure by which the highest earthly gifts are held ; 
 and the wisdom, therefore, of making that prepara- 
 tion which her tombstone declares that she did. 
 Our daily life should indeed be a constant prepa- 
 ration for heaven by seeking and diligently using 
 those supplies of the Holy Spirit's grace, which 
 are so freely imparted to all who ask for them 
 aright. 
 
MY MOTHER'S STORY. 
 
 I have often suspected that my mother was 
 fond of occupying her leisure hours in writing ; 
 and I knew from the style of her conversation 
 that she was capable of writing very well either in 
 prose or verse, if she chose to make the attempt. 
 But she is so very averse to every thing like dis- 
 play, that whatever she may have produced in this 
 way has always been destroyed or carefully locked 
 up in her desk, so that none even of her own 
 family could obtain a sight of it. 
 
 This diffidence, however, recently gave way 
 under the pressure of her habitual desire for use- 
 fulness. To produce a favorable impression on the 
 mind of a friend, who was suffering intense grief 
 from the loss of a favorite child, she wrote the 
 following story, which consequently became known 
 to me ; and, in hopes of its being of still further 
 use, she consented to its publication. 
 
MARY'S WHISPER. 
 
 Maky Lee, in her luxurious home, surrounded 
 by costly comforts and kind and loving parents 
 and friends, was the object of envy to many a less 
 favored child. Early accustomed to see around 
 her all external advantages, she had not, as many 
 have done, hardened her heart against suffering in 
 others, or considered that she was more worthy than 
 others, because she had never known hardship or 
 sorrow. 
 
 She had reached the sweet age of sixteen before 
 a cloud had passed over her, or any but childish 
 sorrows ever pained her gentle heart. She had 
 always been a very thoughtful, quiet child, and her 
 early youth had been blessed with such teachings 
 from her beloved mother as had made her ac- 
 quainted with the source of all true happiness, and 
 the reward of earnest "well-doing" here. To 
 listen to her mother's teachings, and her daily 
 17* (197) 
 
198 MARY'S WHISPER. 
 
 reading from the "Book of "Life" was Mary's 
 happiness. 
 
 Her mother's health, always delicate, had failed 
 rapidly since the birth of her last little boy, and 
 she knew that her earthly career must soon termi- 
 nate, and to prepare Mary to fill her place as 
 much as possible, was her daily endeavor. 
 
 Mary listened to her every word with tearful 
 eyes and a throbbing heart, but with an earnest, 
 prayerful desire to fulfil the slightest wish ex- 
 pressed by the daily sinking parent. 
 
 "Mother, dear, let me dress little brother this 
 morning," said Mary, "you seem so tired, and 
 your cough troubles you. I know you do not like 
 to call nurse from the other children. I am sure I 
 can dress the little darling." 
 
 "You may try, Mary," said her mother, with a 
 gentle sigh. " It will be your daily duty soon, my 
 child ; Henry will soon have no other mother. 
 Will you be very patient with him, Mary, for my 
 sake ? You know he is a fretful child ; but he 
 would not be so if he were not suffering pain. I 
 think he will not stay very long here, Mary, and 
 you will try and make his little life as pleasant as 
 you can, when I am gone home, will you not ?" 
 
mary's whisper. 199 
 
 With many tears, Mary promised all her dear 
 mother wished; and very soon the charge came 
 upon her, young as she was. Mrs. Lee soon passed 
 away, leaving to her children a sweet memory of 
 never-failing love and patience. Little Henry soon 
 followed, his brief existence made as joyous as 
 possible by his kind sister, who made him her 
 especial charge — the other children being well and 
 strong. 
 
 Mr. Lee, though a very kind, indulgent father, 
 was rather reserved and silent, and his children 
 were seldom very communicative when with him. 
 His grief for the death of his wife and child had 
 never been very demonstrative ; but those who 
 knew him best could trace in his thinned face and 
 silvered hair tokens of inward grief. 
 
 Mr. Lee had one son, older than Mary, who had 
 always been an especial favorite with his father, 
 and whose early promise of great and good quali- 
 ties had been fully realized. He had reached 
 the age of twenty-one, and his father had gradu- 
 ally transferred to him many of his cares, and 
 found in his ready sympathy a sure support in 
 many an anxious hour. 
 
 To Mary he was more than brother, sharing 
 
200 mary's whisper. 
 
 with her even the daily little vexations to which 
 she was subject in the care of so large a household 
 as her father's, always cheering her on when a 
 little despondent, or rallying her with a light laugh 
 when oppressed with some of her daily duties. 
 
 "Come, Mary, now for a ride 'over the hills 
 and far away,'" said Charles, bounding into the 
 nursery, whsre patient Mary was trying to subdue 
 the cries of a refractory little girl. " There, Lucy, 
 don't you see dear sister Mary is almost crying too, 
 to see you naughty." 
 
 The child lifted her big, blue eyes to Mary's 
 tearful ones, and instantly subdued by their look 
 of patient sorrow, threw her little arms around her 
 neck and whispered words of obedience. 
 
 Away they rode over hill and dale, enjoying the 
 sweet breath of spring, and conversing gaily on 
 various subjects, when suddenly a bird springing 
 from a bush, near the head of Charles's horse, 
 frightened him into a gallop, before Charles could 
 recover his rein, which he had laid on his horse's 
 neck for an instant. Mary's horse, more gentle, did 
 not run, but her distress became very great when 
 she found she had lost sight of Charles. She did 
 not know what to do, but after having pursued the 
 
mary's whisper. 201 
 
 path taken by Charles's horse, for many miles, with- 
 out seeing him, she resolved to return home, think- 
 ing, perhaps, he might have turned that way. 
 
 On reaching home, however, she found he had 
 not arrived, and fearing to distress and alarm her 
 father, who was quite unwell, she proceeded to the 
 stable to send one of the men in pursuit of Charles, 
 but the sound of a horse's feet galloping rapidly 
 up the gravel walk caused her to stop. She 
 turned, and there was Charles's horse — but where 
 was his rider ? Down on the river's bank, his fair 
 curls pillowed on the wet rushes, sleeping his 
 dreamless sleep, lay poor Charles Lee. His horse 
 had throw him over his head down the steep bank 
 to the edge of the river. 
 
 Now had a mighty sorrow, indeed, taken pos- 
 session of the elegant house of Mr. Lee. A crush- 
 ing weight of grief seemed on every heart, and 
 silence was broken only by sobs and cries. Mr, 
 Lee bowed, broken hearted, beneath this heavy 
 sorrow, and nothing seemed able to rouse him from 
 his grief. For hours he would sit in his study, his 
 head bowed down on his hands, unheeding any 
 questions, and impatient only at being disturbed. 
 
 Mary wandered about with her mighty grief, at 
 
202 mary's whisper. 
 
 first unable to react under its pressure. Gradu- 
 ally, however, with her came back the promise to 
 her dead mother to fill her place in the household. 
 "She would not have mourned this way," said poor 
 Mary. "No! she would have been every body's 
 comforter, and I took upon me her duties, and 
 must fight against this selfish gi-ief which is making 
 me unfit for her place. My poor father needs my 
 constant care, and I will rouse again to action. 
 Poor, poor Charles, where shall I turn for help 
 now you are gone?" said Mary, bursting into a 
 fresh flood of tears. 
 
 But Mary knew where to trust. The lessons of 
 her dead mother came before her with full force, 
 and on her bended knees, in the silence of her own 
 room, did she seek and find an Arm on which to 
 lean, though the earthly one had crumbled into 
 dust. 
 
 Mary's chief anxiety now became her father. 
 He had never been what is called a religious man, 
 and Mary had but little idea of what his thoughts 
 were over these earthly partings. Sometimes, 
 when in his study, she would try to ascertain what 
 books he read most, but his habits of order, made 
 him restore each book to its place after he had 
 
mary's whisper. 203 
 
 done with it, and she could not find out what his 
 favorites were. Of one thing she was certain, the 
 "Book of Books," the guide and counsellor of her 
 dead mother, was not the book most loved and 
 cherished. It was a sealed book to Mr. Lee, or if 
 read, it was only with a faint perception of its 
 truths, and very little application to his own state. 
 
 Mary had watched and prayed for her dear 
 father, and earnestly hoped that light would break 
 in on his dark night of grief, but she watched in 
 vain. Darker and darker grew the shadows round 
 her despairing father. 
 
 One day she resolved to try and induce him to 
 read some of her own and her mother's favorite 
 passages from the Bible. She felt timid to speak 
 to him, but she thought she might venture to lay 
 on the table before him his wife's Bible, open where 
 she used to read. 
 
 The chapter selected by Mary was that which 
 records the raising of Lazarus, and with a beating 
 heart and many tears she left her mother's Bible 
 on the the table, before his easy chair, where he 
 habitually sat, nursing his grief, and never seeking 
 to know why it was that he was called to suffer. 
 
 Mary was in the next room when she heard her 
 
204 mary's whisper. 
 
 father enter his study, and she waited in silence to 
 hear some word spoken by the grief-stricken man 
 which might indicate his state of mind. She 
 waited long in silence. No sound reached her 
 anxious ear, until at last she was roused from her 
 long reverie by the sound of a heavy book falling 
 to the floor. She ventured in, and saw her father 
 with his head buried in his hands, the Bible on 
 the floor, and big tears coursing down his cheeks. 
 She stood behind his chair silent, and crushing 
 back, with a great effort, the sobs which she longed 
 to utter, but letting the tears fall unchecked. At 
 last, laying her hand gently on her father's 
 shoulder, she whispered " They are not dead, but 
 sleeping." 
 
 Soft as was the whisper, it was heard within the 
 strong man's heart, and tears, such as he had 
 never shed before, took the place of despairing sobs. 
 
 Day after day did Mary find the shadow grow- 
 ing less on her dear father's brow, and slowly, but 
 steadily came back the marks of his loving care for 
 his dear ones yet left to him. 
 
 Mary never found that Book shut or laid away. 
 It was always by him — always open, and though 
 many words were never spoken between them, his 
 
mart's whisper, p. 204. 
 
MARY'S WHISPER. 205 
 
 rapidly returning cheerfulness told that he had 
 found the "Comforter," and that his dear ones 
 still lived for him. "Mary's "whisper" had found 
 his better-self, and out of the thick darkness of his 
 selfish sorrow, the light had shone which once 
 brightened that scene. Now our Lord spoke com- 
 fort to the despairing ruler, "She is not dead, but 
 sleepeth." 
 
 18 
 
SISTER MARTHA. 
 
 The following story, read with much delight by 
 the " Folks at Home," is abridged and adapted 
 from the French. 
 
 " Remember that if the hundred crowns arrears 
 of rent on your farm are not paid before to-morrow 
 evening, you must turn out ; I have a solvent tenant 
 ready to take possession." So saying, a stern- 
 looking man, dressed in brown, walked quickly out 
 of a cottage in the pretty village of Thoraise, near 
 Besancon. 
 
 " Oh, sir !" said a woman, following him and 
 clasping her hands, " have pity on my poor hus- 
 band, who has been ill all the summer, and who is 
 still " 
 
 "I should have no objection, Madame Biget," 
 
 said the steward ; " but it does not rest with me. 
 
 My lord is now absent, but he will be here to-day or 
 
 to-morrow ; my accounts must be all squared and 
 
 (206) 
 
SISTER MARTHA. 207 
 
 ready for his inspection. I am not going to lose 
 my situation for your convenience, Madame Biget 
 so you must manage the best way you can." 
 
 "Ah me!" exclaimed the poor woman, raising 
 her eyes appealingly towards Heaven : " I have no 
 hope then left me from man." 
 
 Re-entering the cottage, she opened a cupboard 
 and took out a piece of brown bread. " Martha," 
 she said, addressing a child of ten years old, " there 
 is your breakfast, my child ; I have neither milk 
 nor butter to give you to-day." 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! that does not signify ; but why 
 do you look so sad?" 
 
 " Don't ask me, child, but make haste to eat your 
 bread. Your aunt at Besancon has sent you and 
 your brothers and sisters a cake a piece ; I wish 
 you to take them theirs to school." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, mamma ; and if you will allow 
 me, I will go at once, and keep my cake and bread 
 to eat with them when they are all together." 
 
 Her mother gave her leave ; and Martha, with 
 her little basket on her arm, was soon tripping 
 gaily along the road. 
 
 It was a fine morning in October, 1757, and as 
 little Martha went on her way, she saw a vast cloud 
 
208 SISTER MARTHA. 
 
 of dust advancing. Presently a large party of 
 dragoons appeared, followed by a number of men 
 on foot, dressed in uniform, but unarmed. The 
 child stopped on the road close by the hedge, and, 
 as the party passed by her, she heard a low sigh, 
 and saw that one of the prisoners of war, for such 
 they were, had fallen on the ground. He looked 
 pale as death and his eyes were closed. Martha 
 bent over him, and said, " What is the matter poor 
 man ?" 
 
 The fainting soldier did not answer, but one of 
 his comrades, who knew a little French, replied, 
 " He's dying of hunger, like the rest of us, little 
 girl." 
 
 " Dying of hunger !" repeated she, and her first 
 impulse was to open her basket and to give its con- 
 tents to the prisoner ; but a sudden thought checked 
 her. " These cakes don't belong to me," she said 
 to herself. However, she took her own cake and 
 her piece of bread and gave them to the poor man, 
 who was now some what revived, and began to de- 
 vour the food with the utmost eagerness. At the 
 same moment several other prisoners held out their 
 supplicating hands : they looked so pale and thin 
 and wretched, that the child's eyes filled with tears. 
 
SISTER MARTHA. 209 
 
 " Oh !" she thought, "if my brothers and sisters 
 were here, I am certain they would not grudge 
 their cakes to these poor people. I'm afraid 
 mamma won't be pleased ; but then hunger is such 
 a dreadful thing, I must give them." So the little 
 girl, who had not herself tasted any thing that day, 
 divided her little store, as far as it would go, 
 amongst the prisoners. 
 
 "I have no more," she said at last,. in so sad a 
 tone that the French captain who commanded the 
 detachment, and who had been silently watching 
 her, approached. 
 
 "A pretty business this," he said, affecting a 
 severe tone, " to give your breakfast to your 
 enemies !" 
 
 "Enemies, sir!" exclaimed Martha, "they are 
 poor hungry people." 
 
 "Yes, but they are English; and the English 
 are the enemies of France." 
 
 " Sir, I never thought whether they were ene- 
 mies or not when I saw them suffering." 
 
 The officer took her little hand. " Have you 
 eaten your own breakfast, my child?" 
 
 "No sir." 
 
 " Then you must be very hungry ?" 
 18* 
 
210 SISTER MARTHA. 
 
 " Oh, I don't much mind ; I'm used to it." 
 " Does your mother allow you to want food ?" 
 " Oh, no, sir, my mother always gives us child- 
 ren our meals before she takes a bit herself. "When 
 I am hungry, it is not her fault, but mine for 
 giving my bread away." 
 
 At that moment, an inferior officer approached 
 the captain to ask for orders, and Martha went 
 away, retracing her steps towards home ; for, not 
 having any thing to carry to her brothers and 
 sisters, it would have been useless to visit them at 
 school. " What will my mother say ?" she thought. 
 " I will tell her the exact truth, and then I hope 
 she will not be angry." 
 
 When Martha entered the usually neat cottage, 
 she was surprised to see the furniture in disorder, 
 and her father, who during the last six months had 
 never quitted his bed, seated, pale and faint, in an 
 arm-chair. Her mother was counting some money 
 in her lap, pausing now and then to brush away 
 the tears that filled her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, what is the matter ?" 
 " We are ruined," replied her mother, " and will 
 in future have to beg our bread." 
 
 The child threw her arms around the poor 
 
SISTER MARTHA. 211 
 
 woman's neck, and exclaimed " Oh, no, mamma, I'll 
 work for you !" 
 
 " Poor child !" said Madame Biget, sorrowfully, 
 looking at her daughter's slight delicate frame. 
 
 "But mamma how has all this happened?" 
 
 " We owe our Lord de Varenne one hundred 
 crowns for rent ; all that we possess would not pay 
 it, and his steward told us we must give up the 
 farm." 
 
 "Instead of talking to that child, Catherine," 
 said her husband, peevishly, " you ought to cook 
 the dinner." 
 
 "The dinner is both cooked and eaten, dear," 
 said his wife, gently ; " did not I give you your 
 soup just now?" 
 
 "But your dinner and the children's?" 
 
 "Ah, they had some nice cakes which my sister 
 sent them ; and as for me, my heart is too full to 
 eat." 
 
 Poor little Martha turned pale, and trembled so 
 visibly, that her father remarked it, and said, " I'll 
 answer for it, she has, as usual given her breakfast 
 to some poor person." 
 
 " Mamma — papa — don't be angry," said the 
 child bursting into tears; "but I met some poor 
 
212 SISTER MARTHA. 
 
 prisoners on the road ; they seemed to be dying of 
 hunger, and you know that God commands us to 
 feed the hungry, and so I could not help giving them 
 all the cakes." 
 
 "Naughty child!" cried her mother, angry at 
 the thought of what her children might suffer ; 
 " how dared you give away all that you had ?" 
 
 ," God feeds the little birds, mother, he will not 
 let us want," said Martha, in a tone of such gentle 
 persuasion, that Madame Biget was quite softened, 
 and said ; " Well, well, I have enough for ye all to- 
 day." And, giving the child a bowl of vegetable 
 soup, thickened with barley, she laid by equal por- 
 tions for the others. As Martha was eating hers, 
 she remarked that her mother had kept none for 
 herself, and said: " Mamma, you don't eat." 
 " I can't, child." 
 
 "Mamma," said Martha, after a pause, "will 
 you permit me to go out for two hours ?" 
 "Whither do you want to go ?" 
 " Please don't ask me until I return." 
 "Let her go if she wishes it," said her father; 
 " I dare say there are some poor sick persons she 
 wants to visit. Kiss me, Martha; you are a kind 
 child, and God will bless you." 
 
SISTER MARTHA. 213 
 
 Good morning, Dame Siinonne," said Martha, as 
 she approached a cottage door where an old woman 
 was sitting. 
 
 "And good morning to you, Martha Biget; you 
 look tired, little one. Come in and rest yourself. 
 Have you far to go ?" 
 
 " To the castle, dame." 
 
 "Ah, you want to see the bonfires that are to 
 be lighted in honor of my lord's return." 
 
 " Then he is arrived ?" said the child, clapping her 
 hands; "I am so glad, for I want to speak to him." 
 
 The old woman burst out laughing. " It won't 
 be very easy for a poor child like you to get speech 
 of him to-day." 
 
 "What shall I do ?" said Martha, despondingly. 
 
 "Is your business very pressing?" 
 
 "Oh, indeed it is, dame. But who are these 
 two children coming towards us ? how beautifully 
 they are dressed !" 
 
 " They are my foster-children, Martha — the son 
 and daughter of Lord de Varenne. The moment 
 they return from town, they run to see their old 
 nurse. Darlings!" she exclaimed, extending her 
 arms to receive a boy of ten and a girl of about a 
 year older. 
 
214 SISTER MARTHA. 
 
 " Have you made a hot cake for us, nurse ?" 
 asked the little boy, throwing his arms round her 
 neck. 
 
 "Look at the beautiful scarf that papa has given 
 me," said the girl, spreading out on Dame Si- 
 monne's knees a silken scarf, splendidly embroi- 
 dered with silver and seed-pearls. " Is it not 
 lovely? Papa says it cost a hundred crowns." 
 
 Martha, who had hid herself bashfully behind 
 nurse's chair, ventured to glance at the scarf. 
 
 "A hundred crowns !" thought she; "just what 
 my father owes." And she thought sadly .how 
 happy the sum which that piece of useless finery 
 had cost would have made her parents. 
 
 "How melancholy that little girl looks!" said 
 the young lady, remarking Martha's presence for 
 the first time. 
 
 " She wants very much to speak to your father, 
 Mademoiselle Marie," said her nurse. 
 
 "To papa? That won't be difficult. He is 
 quite near, for he walked hither with us. Papa ! 
 papa ! Cyprien, do you call, for your voice is 
 stronger than mine — papa!" she continued, ad- 
 dressing an officer, who advanced, talking to an 
 elderly man, dressed in brown, " here is a little 
 
SISTER MARTHA. 215 
 
 girl who wants to speak to you." And taking 
 Martha kindly by the hand, Marie presented her 
 to her father. 
 
 Poor Martha ! she had arranged a little speech 
 in her head, which was to have commenced with, 
 "My lord, have pity on us!" But when she found 
 herself standing before him, she blushed and 
 trembled, and could not utter a single word. 
 
 Meantime, Lord de Varenne looked at her 
 closely, and exclaimed, " 'Tis the little damsel of 
 the cakes ! What do you wish me to do for you, 
 dear child?" he asked, smiling kindly. " Do you 
 want some more cakes to give to the prisoners ?" 
 
 " Ah, no, my lord ! It was something quite 
 different" 
 
 " Well, my child, speak, don't be afraid. I saw 
 you this morning peform an action, which I would 
 have given the best farm in my possession to have 
 seen done by Marie. I looked for you afterwards, 
 but you were gone. Come, hold up your head and 
 speak freely. If what you want be in my power to 
 bestow, I promise now not to refuse it to her who 
 this morning went without her breakfast to feed the 
 hungry prisoners." 
 
 At these kind words Martha fell on her knees, 
 
216 SISTER MARTHA. 
 
 and clasping her hands, exclaimed : " Oh, my 
 father and my mother ! you will be saved ! My 
 lord," she continued, "my father owes you one 
 hundred crowns — he cannot pay it, on account of 
 the hail, and the rain, and 
 
 " Stuff and nonsense !" interrupted the man in 
 brown. " My lord if you listen to all your tenants 
 choose to tell you, you will find that the hail, or the 
 rain, or the sun, will always prevent them paying 
 their rent." 
 
 " Silence ! M. Dubois," said his master, sternly. 
 "If this little girl assures me that her father can- 
 not pay, I fully believe her. The parents who 
 have brought her up, must be worthy people. Stand 
 up, my child ; go home and tell your father and 
 mother not to be uneasy. I will go and see them 
 to-morrow. Meantime, here is something to re- 
 plenish your basket of cakes." And Lord de Va- 
 renne put into Martha's trembling hands a purse 
 nearly filled with silver. 
 
 The child felt as if she were dreaming. " Is it 
 mine — all mine — all mine ?" she said. And her 
 friend having assured her that it was, she scarcely 
 waited to thank and bless him, but darted off home- 
 wards at full speed. Out of breath, she rushed into 
 
SISTER MARTHA. 217 
 
 the cottage, threw the purse into her mother's lap, 
 and exclaiming : " Take this ; my lord will come 
 himself to-morrow !" — fell nearly fainting on the 
 ground. She soon, however, recovered ; and in 
 her parents' thanks and blessings found a sweet 
 recompense for her conduct. 
 
 Such is one of the anecdotes which a French 
 writer had related of the early life of Martha Biget, 
 whose subsequent career of benevolence corresponds 
 with the promise of her childhood. During the 
 bloody scenes of the French Kevolution, she lived 
 at Besan^on, and her house was a place of refuge for 
 old or sick people or children. She lived on brown 
 bread and milk, in order to have more to give 
 away. On the 23d of March, 1805, a fire broke 
 out in a small village near Besangon. Sister 
 Martha (as she was commonly called) hastened to 
 the spot, and did what she could to bring aid to 
 the sufferers. A cottage, inhabited by a woman 
 and two orphan children of whom she had charge, 
 burned so rapidly, that despite of Martha's tears 
 and entreaties, no one would venture to enter it. 
 She offered every thing she possessed as a bribe, 
 but in vain. At length, feeble woman as she was, 
 she rushed herself into the burning ruin, and, aided 
 19 
 
218 SISTER MARTHA. 
 
 no doubt by the Divine assistance on which she 
 relied, succeeded in rescuing the three helpless in- 
 mates. On another occasion, in 1807, while occu- 
 pied in gathering medicinal herbs on the bank of 
 the river Doubs, she heard a loud splash near her : 
 it was a child of nine years old, the son of a poor 
 shepherd, who had fallen into the water. Martha, 
 without knowing how to swim, jumped in after 
 him, and succeeded in rescuing the drowning child. 
 Prisoners of war always excited her most active 
 sympathy. There was at Besangon a sort of depot 
 of sick and wounded prisoners, belonging to almost 
 every country in Europe. Martha worked for 
 them, begged for them, and nursed them in their 
 illness. Many a stout fellow was through her kind 
 offices, restored to the friends who wept for him on 
 the banks of the Tagus, the Oder, or the Volga. 
 
 During the years 1813 and 1814, France was 
 desolated by the horrors of war. Sister Martha 
 braved all the dangers of the battle-field, to carry 
 succour to the wounded, whether friends or ene- 
 mies. She has been seen to approach them under 
 the very mouth of the cannon, and after the 
 bloodiest actions were ended, her place was in the 
 field-hospitals. On one occasion, in 1814, the 
 
SISTER MARTHA. 219 
 
 Duke of Reggio met her, and said, " I have long 
 been familiar with your name, madame, for when- 
 ever my soldiers are wounded, their first cry always 
 is, ' Where is our Sister Martha ?' " 
 
 Shortly after this period she received what, to a 
 disposition like her's, was the sweetest reward : she 
 succeeded in obtaining the pardon of a poor con- 
 script who had deserted, and who had been led out 
 to be shot. Sister Martha, however, was not left 
 without worldly honors. In 1801, the Agricultural 
 Society of Besangon presented her with a silver 
 medal, on which was inscribed, " Homage to 
 virtue." In 1815, the war minister sent her the 
 decoration of a cross ; and the same year the 
 Emperor of Russia sent her a gold medal. The 
 King of Prussia caused one of his ministers, Prince 
 Hardenberg, to write her a letter of thanks for the 
 care she had bestowed on the sick and wounded 
 Prussian prisoners, and the letter was accompanied 
 by an offering of one hundred pieces of gold. The 
 Emperor of Austria and the King of Spain sent 
 her decorations. On his restoration to his throne, 
 Louis XVIII. desired to see her, and gave her a 
 most gracious reception. 
 
 The famine of 1817 exhausted all the treasury 
 
220 SISTER MARTHA. 
 
 of presents which Sister Martha had received. She 
 found means, however, to distribute gratuitously to 
 the poor, two thousand portions of soup every day. 
 When the return of abundance put an end to the 
 sufferings of the people, and when war had given 
 place to peace, Sister Martha retired to end her 
 days in peaceful obscurity, and died on the 29th of 
 March, 1824, aged seventy-six years. 
 
 How sweet it is to contemplate a career of be- 
 nevolence in contrast with a life of selfishness. 
 Especially delightful is it to do so when kindness 
 flows from Christian principle, and is the fruit of 
 love to God, the only motive which can be regarded 
 with favor by the great Searcher of hearts. 
 
WILLIE'S PET. 
 
 [By much entreaty I have obtained one more 
 story from my mother, and here it is.] 
 
 " Poor, poor little Emma ! what will she do ? 
 what will become of her ? She will fret herself to 
 death!" was the repeated exclamation when Em- 
 ma's darling brother Willie slept the long sleep of 
 death. And no wonder it was said and thought, 
 for between the children there had always existed 
 a more than ordinary affection. The only offspring 
 of loving and tender parents, their early childhood 
 had passed unsullied by bad passions, and un- 
 touched by sorrow. Every day was renewed joy- 
 fulness to the sweet children, and a thought of 
 separation had never crossed their minds. Perfect 
 health had always been theirs, and even their 
 parents, anxious at first for their darlings, had 
 become lulled into security by their long freedom 
 19* (221) 
 
222 WILLIE'S PET. 
 
 from any illness. But, when least expected, death 
 entered the sanctuary of their home. 
 
 "Mamma," said little Emma, as she returned 
 with. Willie from a long walk in the village near 
 their beautiful home on the Hudson, " I think little 
 Charlie Wilson must be sick." 
 
 " Why so ?" said her mother. 
 
 " He would not play with Willie and me. What 
 made his cheeks so red, mamma?" 
 
 Emma's mother told her she would walk to the 
 village and call on the little boy, but no thought 
 of danger to her own little ones crossed her mind. 
 There was no sickness prevailing at the time, and 
 she scarcely thought of Charlie's indisposition as 
 any thing of consequence. On reaching the village, 
 however, before visiting him, she stopped for a 
 moment to speak to a farmer who was proceed- 
 ing to her house with some hay. 
 
 " Good morning, ma'am," said Farmer Jones, 
 " fine morning. 
 
 " Very fine," said Mrs. Hammond. " How are 
 all your family ?" 
 
 " Right well and hearty, I thank you, ma'am ; 
 but our neighbor Wilson is in great trouble." 
 
 "Why, what is the matter?" said Mrs. Ham- 
 
WILLIE'S PET. 223 
 
 mond, suddenly seized with a troubled feeling, " is 
 Charlie worse ?" 
 
 " Then you knew he was sick," said Farmer 
 Jones. 
 
 " Yes, my children were there yesterday, and 
 said he would not play at all." 
 
 "I am sorry to hear that," said Farmer Jones, 
 and then stopped, as if he did not know what to say. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Jones, you alarm me," said Mrs. 
 Hammond, "what can you mean ?" 
 
 " Why — little Charlie is dead — died of scarlet 
 fever, ma'am, and I was sorry to hear that Miss 
 Emma and Master Willie had been there." 
 
 Mrs. Hammond was very anxious and alarmed, 
 but went on to the house of Mrs. Wilson. Having 
 done all she could for the distressed family, her 
 thoughts again painfully recurred to the danger to 
 her own children, and it seemed as if she wanted 
 wings to fly to them and assure herself of their 
 safety. Their joyous laughter and merry shouts, 
 as they frolicked on the lawn, eased her mind of its 
 anxiety, though she had to check their gayety and 
 saddened their kind hearts by telling them of little 
 Charlie's departure. So sudden and unexpected, 
 it awed them into silence, and for a day or two 
 
224 willte's pet. 
 
 they seemed very quiet ; but their natural liveli- 
 ness soon returned, and Mrs. Hammond's anxiety 
 was fast subsiding, as each successive day seemed 
 to remove further the danger of their having taken 
 the disease from the little boy. 
 
 "Where are the children, nurse?" said Mrs. 
 Hammond, returning from a visit. 
 
 " They are in the wood, ma'am," said the nurse. 
 " They said they were so tired of playing with 
 their toys that they would take their books and go 
 to their favorite seat under the great elm." 
 
 " Very well, I will go to them ; I have some 
 very pretty little gifts for them," said Mrs. 
 Hammond. 
 
 On reaching the tree, Mrs Hammond was sur- 
 prised to find both the children sleeping soundly 
 on the grass, and became very uneasy when she 
 noticed their quick breathing and flushed cheeks. 
 She awoke them gently and showed them their 
 presents, but they seemed wanting in their usual 
 vivacity, and showed comparatively little interest 
 in their pretty toys. 
 
 Mrs. Hammond's fears were confirmed. The 
 next day the dreaded disease showed itself plainly, 
 and for many hours the symptoms were very 
 
WILLIE'S PET. 225 
 
 severe. Little Emma, however, soon showed signs 
 of amendment ; but Willie grew rapidly worse, and 
 a few days terminated his beautiful earthly exist- 
 ence, to be removed and to become more beautiful in 
 his real and eternal home. 
 
 Of the grief of the parents it is in vain to 
 speak. Those who have bowed under the same 
 trial well know it cannot be described in half its 
 bitterness, and to those who have not, language 
 would fail to give any just idea. Willie's parents 
 sorrowed as those do who have earnest, trusting 
 faith that though removed from their care and 
 love, "It was well with the child." 
 
 But what can we say of Emma's wild, passion- 
 ate grief when she found her little playmate, her 
 constant companion, her loving brother, absent 
 from her side, silent to her tearful cries. It was 
 painful to see her wandering about the house and 
 grounds, listless and melancholy, only varying by 
 tears and sobs her joyless existence. Every means 
 was tried to rouse her and interest her, but in 
 vain; and "poor, poor Emma," was the remark 
 made by all who saw her, " she will fret herself 
 to death." Even the physician said something 
 must be done to rouse her, and recommended 
 
226 WILLIE'S PET. 
 
 change of scene ; but the result showed no great 
 improvement, and Mrs. Hammond returned home 
 almost despairing of Emma's recovery, and think- 
 ing that another link in her ties to earthly loves 
 must soon be broken. 
 
 But a remedy was near of which they had not 
 thought. Willie had shared his love to Emma 
 with numerous pets. He had a love for animals 
 unusual in a boy of his age, and which his father 
 indulged by procuring for him such as he liked 
 most. He had, among others, a noble Newfound- 
 land dog, the gift of an uncle, who was dead. 
 Carlo, the dog, was one of the finest specimens of 
 his race. Gentle and affectionate to all who were 
 kind to him, he was capable of guarding and pro- 
 tecting from the unfriendly or the robber. He was 
 considered by the children's parents sufficient pro- 
 tection for them in their long rambles from home, 
 and they never felt anxiety when he was near 
 them. Willie's love for his dog, was nearly as 
 strong as his love for Emma ; and of all his pets, 
 Carlo was the chosen. At the time of his illness, 
 Carlo was sent away, as his cries and barks for his 
 young master became distressing to the family, and 
 he had remained with a friend until a considerable 
 
WILLIE'S PET. 227 
 
 time had elapsed after Emma's departure for her 
 journey. 
 
 During her absence, Carlo returned, and it would 
 have melted a hard heart to have seen the poor 
 animal's distress at missing both the children. 
 He wandered about from house to garden, and 
 then to the wood, expressing his sorrow in low 
 cries and howls, and refusing his food until they 
 thought he too would die. 
 
 Poor Carlo was laying asleep, under the portico, 
 when Mrs. Hammond and Emma returned. Em- 
 ma looked, if possible, more distressed than when 
 she left home. She had for a long time ceased to 
 weep for Willie, and the silent grief of such a child 
 was more alarming than more violent sorrow. 
 
 The moment the poor child caught sight of 
 Carlo, she made a loud outcry, and bounded up the 
 steps, flinging her arms around the dog's neck, and 
 crying "Willie! Willie!" with floods of tears. 
 The dog apparently sympathized with her, for he 
 licked her face and hands and alternately bounded 
 around her, with barks of joy, and then changing 
 them to a low, mournful wail. 
 
 From that time, Emma improved rapidly. She ' 
 seemed to have somewhat united again the chain 
 
228 WILLIE'S PET. 
 
 of her loving thoughts for her dear little brother 
 Willie, and found in his lowly friend a comforter 
 and companion. 
 
 To walk with Carlo to the river's bank, and 
 watch and feed Willie's rabbits, formed her daily 
 happiness. For hours would the affectionate child 
 sit with the patient, loving animal, her soft, white 
 arms around his shaggy neck, and talk with him 
 about her dear brother Willie, perfectly satisfied 
 with his mute answers, and seeking for sympathy 
 in his intelligent eyes. 
 
 The mother once came near her without Emma's 
 knowledge, and her own heart was comforted to 
 hear the sweet, trusting words murmured by her 
 only darling to her silent companion. 
 
 "You know, Carlo, dear, mamma says, darling 
 Willie is not in the ground, where I used to think 
 he was, in those sad, sad days when he first left 
 us, but that he is living in such a beautiful country, 
 more beautiful than this, Carlo, where it never 
 rains nor snows, and where he can never suffer 
 dreadful pain again. Oh ! Carlo, I want to go 
 there so much ; but then dear mamma would be 
 left all alone, and she could not talk to you and 
 hug you as I do, Carlo, and then she would feel 
 

 willih's pet. p. 228. 
 
WILLIE'S PET. 229 
 
 very sad. So I will not wish to go any more, but 
 will try and be very happy here." 
 
 " Carlo, see that pretty, white cloud — up there," 
 said the little child, pointing her little, white 
 finger upward, and making the dog follow with his 
 eyes, " do you think that pretty, white cloud comes 
 from Willie's home ? I think it must, it is so white 
 and pure, and mamma says, every thing there is 
 pure and beautiful, and that our hearts must be 
 very pure, too, if we wish to live near the throne 
 of our Father in Heaven. I wonder if Willie can 
 see me now where he lives ? Carlo, we love dear 
 Willie, now, don't we ?" said little Emma, the big 
 tears chasing each other down her cheeks, " though 
 we can't see him. But I must not cry any more, 
 mamma says it is wrong, and I will try and do as 
 she bids ; so now, Carlo, let's feed Bunnies once 
 more, and then for a race home." 
 
 Emma's health gradually became restored, and 
 all could trace its improvement from the time she 
 first saw Willie's dearly loved dog. As she grew 
 older, and time softened her grief, Carlo was still 
 her constant companion, and he was never satis- 
 fied except when by her side, and would still listen 
 with apparent intelligence when, beneath the tree 
 20 
 
230 willie's pet. 
 
 at the river side, Emma would talk with a loving 
 voice, but without tears, of her darling Willie, and 
 caress, with a gentle hand, "Willie's Pet." 
 
 I have tried very hard to obtain some more 
 stories from my mother ; but shs seems averse to 
 writing, at present. I am not without hopes, how- 
 ever, that at some future time I may prevail upon 
 her to let me examine the contents of an old 
 writing desk, which she keeps carefully locked ; 
 and whenever I get sight of the papers in that 
 desk, I believe I shall obtain materials for an 
 entertaining and useful volume. 
 
LITTLE CAUSES PRODUCE GREAT 
 EFFECTS. 
 
 In my uncle's office there is a little boy, whose 
 business it is to sweep, dust, make fires and run 
 on errands. He seems to be an amiable, well disposed 
 child, but evidently neglected by his parents, who 
 are too careless about his morals. 
 
 One day, it came out incidentally that he had 
 appropriated and carried away a certain print of 
 trifling value. When charged with the offence, he 
 endeavored to excuse himself by saying that he 
 had found it on the floor, and that he supposed it 
 was of no value. 
 
 " That does not mend the matter," said my 
 uncle, " you knew that it was not yours, and that 
 you had no right to carry it away. Besides, you 
 knew that it was mine, and you did not know but 
 that I valued it highly. What you did was steal- 
 ing — on a very small scale, to be sure — but not 
 
 (231) 
 
232 LITTLE CAUSES PRODUCE GREAT EFFECTS. 
 
 the less stealing. I call it by its right name in 
 order that you may understand the dangerous 
 tendency of excusing such acts to yourself. Small 
 crimes lead to great ones. The young man who 
 was sent to the state prison last week for robbing 
 a bank, began his career of wickedness with very 
 small thefts, and went on very gradually, till he 
 has gone to prison for seven years, and inflicted a 
 terrible disgrace on his family. His mother lies 
 at the point of death with a broken heart." 
 
 The boy began to cry. 
 
 "I am glad," said my uncle, "that you begin 
 to see this thing in its true light. I think you 
 will be more careful in future. Read this story," 
 continued my uncle, handing him the volume con- 
 taining it; "and to-morrow we will talk this 
 matter over again." 
 
 The story was called " 'Tis only a Penny." 
 
" 'TIS ONLY A PENNY." 
 
 " 'TiS only a penny," said Anthony Archer to 
 himself; and he put it into his pocket, instead of 
 putting it into his master's till. The penny lay 
 very temptingly in his way, behind a cask of rice 
 "which the boy was moving. The cask of rice was 
 under the counter of his master's shop. How the 
 penny got there Anthony did not know. It might 
 have been there for weeks, or months, or years. 
 Perhaps it had ; for it was in a dark corner, and 
 was green with verdigris. 
 
 "' Losings, seekings ; findings, keepings.' 'Tis 
 only a penny : if it were a sovereign, now, or even 
 a shilling — but 'tis only a penny." And in it went. 
 
 Anthony had not long been an apprentice. He 
 was " the only son of his mother, and she was a 
 widow." Not a rich widow ; but a respectable 
 character had stood her and her two children in 
 good stead ; and Anthony had profited by it so far 
 20* (233) 
 
234 " 'tis only a penny." 
 
 as to get a start in life beyond his mother's expec- 
 tations. And thereupon the widow Archer was 
 building fond hopes for the future. A mother may 
 be pardoned for indulging in a day-dream now and 
 then. This mother's dream was of a pretty little 
 shop in one of the streets of her native city ; this 
 same shop being well stocked with all manner of 
 groceries, and having the name " Anthony Archer" 
 prominently appearing over the shop window. She 
 dreamt further of Anthony himself, grown to be 
 a fine young fellow, standing in apron and sleeves 
 behind the counter from morning to night, packing 
 up tea and sugar, coffee and spices, or dealing out 
 butter, bacon, and cheese till his arms ached; of 
 money jingling on the counter all day long ; of a 
 neat back parlor, or a front room overhead may be, 
 as a work-room for Anthony's sister, the milliner 
 and dressmaker that was to be ; and of her own 
 self, Anthony's mother, keeping house for son and 
 daughter, and as happy as the days would be long. 
 This was one of Anthony Archer's mother's day- 
 dreams. She had others. 
 
 " 'Tis only a penny," quoth Anthony; and he 
 slipped the stray coin into his pocket. 
 
 Ah ! widow Archer, had you seen that simple 
 
"' 'tis only a penny." 235 
 
 but indicative action, where would your day-dream 
 have been ? or what would it have been ? But 
 the widowed mother did not see it. None saw it 
 but He whose eyes are " in every place, beholding 
 the evil and the good." Anthony was safe then. 
 And the penny was safe, in his pocket. He bought 
 an orange with it the next day. Very sweet and 
 luscious it was, no doubt ; for even " stolen waters 
 are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant." 
 
 Anthony was an industrious boy, clever and 
 willing. He was up in the morning early, brushing 
 about, sweeping the shop, putting the goods in 
 order. No need ever to call him twice out of his 
 bed-room ; no need to call him at all. He was, 
 moreover, a good-natured, good-tempered, merry 
 boy ; the customers soon got to like Anthony to 
 serve them, he was so quick, and handy, and 
 obliging. But there was " the dead fly," as Solo- 
 mon says, " in the ointment" — the secreted penny ; 
 but nobody suspected it then. 
 
 Anthony became a youth of sixteen. He was 
 kept very short of money. His mother could not 
 help that. Nobody could help it. It was as much 
 as his mother could do to keep him respectably 
 clothed ; she had to deny herself to do that. And 
 
236 " 'tis only a penny." 
 
 then there was Caroline Archer, Anthony's sister, 
 a year younger than himself, who had just been 
 apprenticed to a milliner and dressmaker; the 
 premium paid with her had exhausted all the 
 mother's savings, and Caroline, as well as Anthony, 
 had to be clothed. 
 
 But the poor widow held on cheerfully. She 
 left off eating butter to her bread ; she left off 
 drinking sugar in her tea ; then she left off buying 
 the half-pennyworth of milk every day ; then she 
 left off drinking tea altogether ; she left off dealing 
 with the butcher, she could do very well without 
 meat, she said to herself; but she didn't leave off 
 wearing old garments, and mending them over and 
 over again, till they would not bear another stitch, 
 though she took care never to look shabby. What 
 did it matter to her, or to any body else, what she 
 wore, or what she did not wear — what she ate and 
 drank, or what she did not eat and drink? No 
 body need know how she pinched herself for her 
 boy's sake, and her girl's. 
 
 And she did not leave off day-dreaming either, 
 this widowed mother. Every day brought her 
 nearer to the consummation of her wishes — the 
 pretty little shop, with all its accompaniments. It 
 
" 'tis only a penny." 237 
 
 would be years and years, certainly, before An- 
 thony would be out of his time ; and years added 
 to those before he would have earned money 
 enough, and saved money enough out of his earn- 
 ings, to add to the hundred pounds that his grand- 
 father had left him, and that would come to him 
 when he was of age, to set up in business for him- 
 self, in a shop of his own. But the time would 
 come, no doubt of it — in the dream : no more 
 doubt of it than that Caroline would, by that time, 
 have set up in business for herself, and attracted 
 the custom of ladies innumerable, by her taste and 
 skill and good conduct. 
 
 But the youth Anthony had not much money to 
 spend, and he had a growing inclination to spend 
 more than he had got. A very common case, we 
 believe. 
 
 As we have before said, the stain of the stolen 
 penny had fastened on Anthony Archer's heart. 
 The "'Tis only a penny" had become " 'Tis only 
 a shilling." No body knew it ; no body suspected 
 it ; but so it was. Anthony had, at first, no settled 
 intention of being dishonest. When he adroitly 
 slipped aside the shilling, and afterwards conveyed 
 it to his trousers pocket, he only thought that his 
 
238 " 'tis only a penny." 
 
 master could very well spare the shilling, and that 
 he himself very much wanted it. He meant, as 
 far as he knew his own meaning, to stop short at 
 that shilling, and at every successive shilling. 
 More than this, perhaps, he meant to pay them 
 all back again some day, when his apprenticeship 
 was out, and he should be receiving a salary. 
 
 " 'Tis only a shilling !" said Anthony Archer ; 
 " and it is only borrowing it !" 
 
 Anthony was prudent, nevertheless : that is, he 
 was prudent in a small way. Understand this, 
 reader, that no man, woman, or child, who lives in 
 the practice of any unrighteousness towards God, 
 is any thing but immensely prudent. They who 
 have become reconciled to God in his own way of 
 reconciliation, who have repented of sin, fled to 
 Christ for salvation, and who, being born of his 
 Holy Spirit, keep God's commandments from a 
 principle of love — these only are the prudent ones. 
 
 But with his terrible imprudence, Anthony 
 mixed up a small flavoring of prudence. By little 
 and little, step by step, he got to persuade him- 
 self to think lightly of his unfaithfulness and dis- 
 honesty. But the money that he thus obtained he 
 did not spend wantonly. Now and then, perhaps, 
 
" 'tis only a penny." 239 
 
 he surprised his mother by some little youthful 
 extravagance for which his very small means would, 
 she thought, have been inadequate. But such an 
 idea as that he had stolen, or would steal even a 
 penny, never entered her mind. 
 
 Anthony's master, again — an easy, unsuspicious 
 little tradesman, in comfortable circumstances, and 
 conducting his small business in an old-fashioned, 
 slovenly sort of way — he could see nothing in his 
 apprentice — " the best apprentice he had ever had, 
 the most industrious, and the most obliging" — that 
 savored of dishonesty. 
 
 Anthony knew all this of his master and his 
 mother, and the opinion they both held respecting 
 him : and he had the prudence to act so as not to 
 forfeit that opinion. He practised self-denial so 
 far as not to seem to have more money at his com- 
 mand than he ought to have ; or if he indulged 
 himself, he did it with systematic secresy. Never- 
 theless, shilling after shilling was jerked out of the 
 till, and found its way, by a round-about process, 
 into Anthony's pocket. "'Tis only a shilling and 
 will never be missed," said Anthony to himself. 
 
 The youth of sixteen and seventeen is bordering 
 upon manhood at twenty. And at twenty, An- 
 
240 " 'tis only a penny. 
 
 thony thought himself a man ; or, if not, his 
 mother and his sister thought so for him. 
 
 Caroline, just out of an apprenticeship shorter 
 than her brother's, was beginning to fulfil her 
 mother's day-dream. She had skill and taste and 
 industry, was earning her own living as journey- 
 woman and shopwoman in the "first concern" in 
 her native place ; and in two or three years would 
 begin business on her own account. She was very 
 proud of her brother, and their mother was proud 
 of them both. 
 
 The shillings had become half-crowns now ; or, 
 if still shillings, they were oftener abstracted. By 
 this time Anthony's conscience had become almost 
 silent. He had no occasion to lull it to rest with 
 a " 'Tis only." But still no one suspected him. 
 
 Another year, and young Archer was out of his 
 apprenticeship. His employer, Mr. Hacket, did 
 not wish to part with so useful a servant, and 
 offered a salary larger than Anthony could have 
 got elsewhere ; and he agreed to the proposal. And 
 will he not begin now to pay back, secretly, the 
 pence, shillings, and pounds of which, during the 
 seven years past, he had robbed his master's till ? 
 Do you think he will, young reader ? Have you 
 
" 'tis only a penny." 241 
 
 never read or heard such words as, " The heart 
 is deceitful above all things, and desperately 
 wicked ?" It is a dreadful thing to "be hardened 
 through the deceitfulness of sin." Anthony Archer 
 was. 
 
 Three more years passed away; and the day- 
 dream of Anthony's mother seemed to be near 
 upon its fulfilment, in part at least. Caroline, for 
 instance, had set up in business for herself, in a 
 small way, and was justifying her mother's expec- 
 tations of her taste and skill and steadiness insur- 
 ing patronage. For the present, the business was 
 carried on in Mrs. Archer's small house, and pro- 
 duced profit enough to afford housekeeping on a 
 more liberal scale than that to which the widowed 
 mother, when alone, had unmurmuringly submitted 
 for her children's sake. Anthony was off his 
 mother's hands, too ; and, like a dutiful, affection- 
 ate son, contributed something to her comfort. 
 There was no need, now, for her to patch and darn 
 till one garment after another would bear patching 
 and darning no longer. 
 
 There was one particular, however, in which the 
 mother's day-dream became somewhat obscured. 
 She had never calculated upon Anthony's " falling 
 21 
 
242 " 'tis only a penny." 
 
 in love." She had never thought of that. But 
 he did it ; that is to say, he formed an en- 
 gagement with Miss Hacket, his employer's only 
 daughter, and his housekeeper, for he was a 
 widower. 
 
 "Of course," thought Mrs. Archer to herself, 
 when she found this out, "that will put a stop to 
 my keeping Anthony's house for him when he has 
 one, and to Caroline's living with us ; but no 
 matter ; it will help him all the sooner to have a 
 house and business of his own, or to be taken into 
 partnership, perhaps, with Mr. Hacket himself, 
 who can tell?" And then the widow went on 
 dreaming about that. Her dream had been dis- 
 turbed, but her rest was not broken ; and the frag- 
 ments of her dreams re-assorted themselves with 
 wonderful facility into a prettier picture than 
 before. 
 
 Dream on, fond mother ; dream on, while you 
 may. A rough awakening is at hand. Mr. Hacket, 
 the easy, unsuspecting grocer, had readily given 
 his consent to the connexion young Archer had 
 formed with his daughter. He looked upon An- 
 thony as a steady young fellow, with a good tact 
 for business, and likely to succeed. He liked him, 
 
" 'tis only a penny," 243 
 
 too, and had liked him all the way up from boy- 
 hood. So "the course of love" in this case did 
 run smooth, in spite of the old saying. 
 
 And now, perhaps, Anthony began to find out 
 that, after all, honesty would have been good 
 policy, as regarded his own position and prospects ; 
 that, in fact, his "pleasant vice" had become a 
 scourge for his own back : for, unsuspected as he 
 yet was, the consequences of his guilt began to 
 recoil upon himself. 
 
 "I don't know how it is, Anthony," said Mr. 
 Hacket one day, when they were talking about 
 future plans — "I don't want to put off your mar- 
 riage ; but, somehow, I have not much money to 
 spare ; and beyond your hundred pounds, you, of 
 course have none." 
 
 Anthony did not speak, and Hacket went on. 
 
 " I never had so much difficulty in keeping my 
 accounts straight and well paid up ; and the fact 
 is, I don't think I can spare any thing out of my 
 business, to set you and Kate up with." 
 
 "It would not want much, sir, to begin in a 
 small way," the young man ventured to say. 
 
 But Mr. Hacket would not listen to this. " You 
 young fellows," said he, good humoredly, "think 
 
244 "'tis only a penny." 
 
 you are going to drive every thing before you. If 
 you can but get married, that's all you want ; you 
 can live upon love afterwards. But it won't do ; 
 you can't go into business without capital ; and 
 where that is to come from is the question now. I 
 can't think how it is," he continued, rubbing his 
 head like a man perplexed ; " I used to think I 
 should have five hundred pounds to give the girl 
 when she married, if 'twas according to my liking ; 
 but I can't do it, Anthony ; and without something 
 like that, you can't begin business." 
 
 Anthony knew where to put his hand upon two 
 or three hundred pounds at once ; but to have 
 tried to have said so would have choked him. 
 
 "We'll see about it, Anthony. We'll take 
 stock, my boy, and then see what's to be done. I 
 ought to be pretty well off," he continued, speaking 
 more to himself than to young Archer ; " but, 
 somehow, business doesn't seem to be so profitable 
 as it ought to be. I can't make it out." 
 
 Anthony was glad to get away, after that. 
 Hardened as he was, he could not stand it ; and 
 on the evening of that same day, as it afterwards 
 proved, he paid his mother and sister a visit. 
 
 "Here, Carry," he said to his sister, as they 
 
" 'tis only a penny." 245 
 
 were by themselves, "I wish you would take care 
 of this for me;" and he put into her hand a small 
 packet, closely sealed. 
 
 "What is it Anthony?" 
 
 " Nothing but a book. I — I don't want it opened 
 till the day I am married. I'll ask you for it then." 
 
 And Caroline, thinking it to be perhaps a wed- 
 ding gift intended for Kate, or it might be for 
 Anthony's mother or herself, put the book or the 
 packet in one of her drawers, locked it up, and 
 thought no more about it until — until her brother 
 was for ever lost to her, and she and her mother 
 were broken hearted and desolate. 
 
 I have said that Mr. Hacket was a slovenly 
 tradesman. He rarely took stock ; it was such a 
 disagreeable job, that he was in the habit of 
 putting it off from time to time. But now he set 
 about it. 
 
 "I can't make it out," he said again, when all 
 was over, and his books were balanced; "I am 
 poorer than I thought I was ;" and he looked the 
 picture of perplexity as he sat smoking his pipe by 
 the fire, with Anthony and Kate as his companions. 
 
 "Perhaps, sir," faltered out Anthony, "there 
 may be a mistake in the books." 
 21* 
 
246 " 'tis only a penny." 
 
 "Go over them yourself, then, Anthony." 
 
 The young man pretended to do so ; but while 
 his eyes were wandering over volumes of figures, 
 his thoughts were turned inwards. " What a fool 
 I have been ! What a labyrinth I have brought 
 myself into for nothing!" We may well imagine 
 that these were his reflections. 
 
 "I tell you what, Anthony," said Mr. Hacket, 
 at last, as though an idea had entered his head ; 
 "you see the business is no great things — not so 
 profitable as it ought to be ; but it may be made 
 better, I think ; and if you and Kate like to marry 
 out of hand, and on the strength of it, I'll take 
 you in as partner, and we'll rub on together for a 
 while." 
 
 What a relief was this to the guilty young man ! 
 It did not require many words to conclude the 
 bargain ; and that evening all preliminaries were 
 settled — time and every thing. 
 
 But while every thing seemed bright and pro- 
 mising to the infatuated sinner ; while poor Kate 
 was thinking of bridal dresses and wedding favors ; 
 while Caroline Archer was rejoicing at the thought 
 of her brother's prospects ; and while their mother, 
 now that her long day-dream seemed ready to be 
 
" 'tis only a penny." 247 
 
 accomplished — was flattering herself with other 
 bright visions of the future ; a storm was gathering 
 and ready to burst upon them all. 
 
 As not material, hitherto, to our story, nothing 
 has been said of " Old Ambrose," a poor half-witted 
 man who had, more than a quarter of a century, 
 filled the position of porter, shoe-cleaner, gardener, 
 and general jobber, in Mr. Hacket's small esta- 
 blishment. He must come forward now. A little 
 hump-backed, monkey-faced, club-footed, and sad- 
 ly-distorted piece of humanity was old Ambrose. 
 Ignorant, in many things, as an infant he was, too ; 
 and, like an infant, he could not speak plain. He 
 loved his master, however, who had, in kindness 
 and charity, first employed him ; and though his 
 wages were small, his wants were as limited as his 
 knowledge. 
 
 One day — it might be a week after the summing 
 up of the stock-taking accounts — young Archer 
 went out for the day on business, and Kate "minded 
 the shop," while her father was superintending old 
 Ambrose, whom he had set to knock up some old 
 hogsheads, and with the staves to construct a new 
 pig-sty. For awhile the work went on in silence. 
 At last, the old porter looked up in his master's 
 
248 " 'tis only a penny." 
 
 face ; " Miss Kate isn't-a-be Miss Kate much longer. 
 Her-a-be Mrs. Archer ? eh ? Old Ambrose know 
 all about it." 
 
 Mr. Hacket nodded and smiled. 
 
 " Miss Katy lucky ; marry rich man — gentle- 
 man. Old Ambrose know." 
 
 " Not so very rich, Ambrose ; but that's neither 
 here nor there." 
 
 " Plenty of money, he, Mr. Archer, master. Ha ! 
 ha ! Old Ambrose know." 
 
 "Not too much of that, Ambrose," returned Mr. 
 Hacket, who had no objection, on the score of dig- 
 nity, to chat with the old porter; "not too much 
 money, Ambrose; but a good, clever lad." 
 
 " Very clever, he, Mr. Archer : very good na- 
 tured, too. Rich, too ; plenty of money — a great 
 bag. Miss Katy lucky. Old Ambrose know." 
 
 "Nonsense, Ambrose; you know nothing at all 
 about it." 
 
 "What say you, master?" said the old man, 
 suddenly standing as upright as he could, which 
 was not very, and looking provokingly knowing. 
 " Old Ambrose know," he added as usual. 
 
 " I don't lay wagers, Ambrose, you know ; but 
 I'll lay a farthing cake, and have the first bite, that 
 
" 'TIS ONLY A PENNY." 249 
 
 you know nothing of what you are now talking 
 about." 
 
 "Done, master!" shouted the poor idiot, with 
 sudden alacrity. " Come along with me. Old Am- 
 brose know." He threw down his hammer, and 
 led the way to a corner of the warehouse in which 
 the conversation had been carried on. 
 
 It was a crafty hiding-place. None but a half- 
 witted being, with the prying faculty of a magpie, 
 or a police officer, would ever have discovered it. 
 Shillings, half-crowns, crowns, half-sovereigns, and 
 sovereigns — there they were. 
 
 The idiot chuckled out, " There ! Old Ambrose 
 know ! Mr. Archer rich man. Miss Katy lucky. 
 Old Ambrose know!" 
 
 But it was lost upon the bewildered grocer. Ut- 
 tering a prayer that his wits might be preserved, he 
 turned to Old Ambrose : " What do you know about 
 this, old man ?" 
 
 Terrified by this unexpected change in his mas- 
 ter's tone and aspect, Old Ambrose explained, as 
 well as he was able, how he had a month or two 
 before found out this hoard, ingeniously as it had 
 been hidden, that he had watched, and more than 
 once had seen Mr. Archer resorting to it. 
 
250 " 'tis only a penny." 
 
 " But don't tell of me, master," said the old man. 
 " Mr. Archer, he-a-be mad with me, mayhap. Rich 
 man, he, master. Miss Kate lucky. Old Ambrose 
 know." A blank look then came over his counte- 
 nance. " Another nest some-a-where, master, Old 
 Ambrose don't know." 
 
 "Another !" gasped the poor grocer, holding in 
 his trembling hand the recovered treasure. " Where ? 
 and what do you mean !" 
 
 There was more than that a month ago, old Am- 
 brose said : another bag. 
 
 I need not describe — I could not, if I were to 
 try — the distress of mind which now fell upon Mr. 
 Hacket, on making these discoveries. 
 
 " Say nothing about it, Ambrose," he gasped; 
 and hastening to his chamber, he shut himself in. 
 He tried to count the money, but he couldn't, and 
 he threw himself on his knees in an agony of deep 
 grief. 
 
 An hour or two later, he was in close conference 
 with his daughter. 
 
 " Kate," he said kindly, but peremptorily, " An- 
 thony shall have fair play ; but if it is as I fear it 
 must be, there must be no marrying." 
 
 A few hours later and Anthony returned. It 
 
" 'tis only a penny. ' 251 
 
 was early in the evening, but the shop was closed. 
 He went round to the back door, and entered the 
 parlor that way. Mr. Hacket was alone. 
 
 "My dear sir, is any thing the matter?" asked 
 Anthony. He might well ask — such a change had 
 a few hours' agitation of mind wrought in the usu- 
 ally calm and undisturbed old man. 
 
 "Do you know any thing of this, Anthony !" 
 hoarsely whispered the grocer ; and he uncovered a 
 heap of money on the table, and held up a thick 
 canvass bag. 
 
 No need for another accuser. Pale as a corpse, 
 the unhappy man staggered to the door, and tried 
 to speak, but his bloodless lips refused their office, 
 and his tongue seemed to cling to the roof of his 
 mouth. He opened the door. 
 
 " Stop, stop !" exclaimed his employer, not un- 
 willing, even then, to be deceived, if he could be — 
 "Stop, Anthony, stop !" 
 
 But Anthony was gone. 
 
 He never came back again ; but a week or two 
 afterwards came a letter from him, written appa- 
 rently in an agony of remorse and despair, which 
 put the question of his delinquency beyond a doubt. 
 The first act of his dishonesty, he declared, was 
 
252 " 'ti^ only a penny." 
 
 zohen he pocketed a penny which he found behind 
 a tub of rice under the counter. There was a packet, 
 lie said, in his sister's keeping, containing some 
 bank notes, between the leaves of a book ; but she 
 did not know what it contained. That, and the 
 hoard which Mr. Hacket had found, was the bulk 
 of what he had taken ; and, if not quite all, there 
 was the hundred pounds, his grandfather's legacy, 
 which was in his mother's hands — that would more 
 than cover it. There was a scrap of writing, almost 
 illegible, inclosed for Kate. That was alL 
 
A MAN IS A MAN. 
 
 One day I was guilty of an action, which, to say 
 the least, was in very bad taste. An old man, in 
 a very poor but not dirty dress, came into the office 
 with a basket full of oranges, which he was retail- 
 ing about the village. When he desired me to pur- 
 chase some, I answered him rather roughly and 
 slightingly, and turned again to my books ; not, 
 however, without observing that my uncle raised 
 his eye-brows a little, at my want of good manners. 
 
 When the old orange pedlar had gone out, mv 
 uncle turned round and looking me full in the face, 
 said, " My boy, you appear to have forgotten an 
 old maxim handed down in your family, time out 
 of mind. It is this : ' A man is a man.'' Every 
 person, however humble his station or calling, is 
 entitled to your respect as a man, and so long as 
 you are ignorant of his having forfeited all claim 
 to consideration, by criminal or scandalously im- 
 22 (253) 
 
254 A MAN IS A MAN. 
 
 moral behaviour, you should treat him with polite- 
 ness, and if he is old, with marked respect. Age 
 itself has a perpetual claim to reverence. Did you 
 never hear the story of the Russian Princess. She 
 was on some pleasure excursion, with a gay party 
 in France, I think, or Germany, when they fell in 
 with an old man, in a humble walk in life, a rustic, 
 coarsely attired, and wearing a long beard. An 
 impertinent lordling treated the old man contemp- 
 tuously, laughed at his beard, and offered a round 
 sum in gold to any lady of the party who would kiss 
 the veteran. 
 
 " Instantly the fair Russian, who, by the way was 
 young and one of the most beautiful women in 
 Europe, stepped forward and accepted the challenge. 
 The purse of gold was deposited on a plate, which, 
 after kissing the old man, the princess gracefully 
 presented to him, saying, ' Take this, my good 
 friend, as a testimonial that the daughters of Rus- 
 sia are taught to respect old age.' 
 
 "But it is not the old only that are entitled to 
 respect. If I remember rightly, an Apostle says, 
 'Honor all men.' Consider that every man is 
 entitled to politeness, as a man, an immortal be- 
 ing, destined to exist for ever, with yourself in the 
 
A MAN IS A MAN". 255 
 
 world of spirits to which, we are all hastening, and 
 where we shall be classed, not according to the 
 clothes we have worn, but the lives we have led on 
 earth." 
 
 The reader may suppose that I am not likely to 
 forget this lesson in a hurry. My uncle added a 
 good deal more on the good policy as well as the 
 duty of politeness ; and he enforced this last branch 
 of the subject by referring me to the following 
 story. 
 
HOW THE FISHMONGER WAS TAUGHT 
 CIVILITY. 
 
 My uncle is a respectable fishmonger in London. 
 We all think he has made his fortune, and must be 
 near seventy. Old Stilton, our neighbor, who was 
 not very wise in his youth, they say, often wonders 
 how he can attend to his business at such an age ; 
 but, having led a temperate life, my uncle is still 
 a robust, active man, and like to keep the old shop. 
 It is not, however, for the love of gain he does so. 
 My uncle's trust has been long set in the wealth 
 that cannot waste or "flee away ;" but forty years 
 of honest and successful trade have made both place 
 and habit familiar ; besides, his business enables 
 him to bestow more on needy friends, missionary 
 funds, and charitable institutions. I have heard my 
 uncle say as much, by way of explanation, to old 
 Stilton ; but he wonders on, and doubtless will to 
 the end of the chapter. 
 
 It is in my remembrance that our whole family 
 (256) 
 
HOW THE FISHMONGER WAS TAUGHT CIVILITY. 257 
 
 had once a wondering point of their own concern- 
 ing my uncle. He had helped my mother when 
 suddenly left a widow, apprenticed my three bro- 
 thers at creditable houses, and took me into the 
 shop ; but none of us could ever make out why a 
 man so old and rich should serve the most shabby- 
 looking stranger, who bought a sole or a mackerel, 
 with the same respectful civility he showed his best 
 customers. This problem puzzled me in particular, 
 because it caught my attention most frequently in 
 the shop ; and once, when I had in a manner 
 gained my uncle's confidence, and was helping him 
 to take stock — which he did regularly once a year, 
 in a quiet, old-fashioned way — we had some talk on 
 the subject, which he finished with the following 
 story. 
 
 When I was a boy — that is, more than fifty years 
 ago — nobody had a greater notion of good manners ; 
 my ambition was to be quite genteel and polite ; 
 but, unhappily, these good intentions never ex- 
 tended beyond my superiors, and they were known 
 to me only by fine clothes or a grand equipage. It 
 is to be feared that, in this great and wealthy Lon- 
 don, there is still a strong inclination to such esti- 
 mates ; and though a worthy man in weightier 
 22* 
 
258 HOW THE FISHMONGER WAS TAUGHT CIVILITY. 
 
 matters, it was among the weak points of Mr. 
 Sampson Huggins, with whom I served my appren- 
 ticeship in Covent-garden. Mr. Sampson Huggins 
 was the very model of a fishmonger. He knew to an 
 hour how long a cod had been in pickle, or a salmon 
 out of the water ; as for crabs and eels, no man 
 understood them better ; and in ice-packing I never 
 saw his equal. Moreover, Mr. Sampson was proud 
 of his business. He pretended, indeed, to have 
 had an ancestor who had kept shop in Billingsgate 
 when it was in its early days, and who for aught 
 that could be proved to the contrary, might have 
 supplied Whittington, Lord mayor of London, with 
 pieces of whale for lent dinners, and sent eels every 
 Saturday to his celebrated cat ; at all events, the 
 fishmonger's company — so he would assure his 
 friends — had never since wanted one of his family, 
 and he himself was the third of his name in 
 Convent-garden. 
 
 Touching the certainty of these particulars I 
 know nothing ; but none of Mr. Sampson's prede- 
 cessors, even he who furnished the whale, might 
 have been ashamed of him. To me he was a just 
 and kindly master, though somewhat exacting and 
 consequential. His premises were kept like a man 
 
HOW THE FISHMONGER WAS TAUGHT CIVILITY. 259 
 
 of war. There was a place for every thing, and 
 every thing in its place. Better oysters, turbot, 
 or turtle could be found nowhere in London ; at 
 least the west-end gentry and rich city people 
 thought so. I have seen aldermen's ladies and 
 French cooks at the shop by half dozens, in a 
 morning of a dinner-giving season, looking out for 
 choice fish ; and, next to this superior goods, my 
 master's glory was set on the distinguished cus- 
 tomers who bought them. 
 
 My belief is, that the same amount of profit com- 
 ing from inferior rank or riches would not have had 
 half such value in his eyes. The feeling is not so 
 uncommon as you may think it. Mr. Sampson's 
 gentility rose in proportion to that of the families 
 he supplied, and the grandeur of every house to 
 which he sent a turtle seemed somehow or other 
 reflected on himself. My master's great customers 
 were, therefore, much talked of. There was sel- 
 dom a great dinner given at any of their houses, 
 throughout the season, that he could not describe, 
 from soup to wines ; but the chief subject of his 
 discourse and reverence was Sir Joseph Banks. 
 
 However scholars may hold Sir Joseph now, he 
 had a great name for learning in those days, when 
 
260 HOW THE FISHMONGER WAS TAUGHT CIVILITY. 
 
 it was scarcer among us than at present. I have 
 heard, too, that he was a worthy gentleman, and 
 the private friend of our good king, George the 
 Third.| But it was none of these distinctions that 
 called forth Mr. Sampson's respect. It was founded 
 on far different considerations. Sir Joseph kept a 
 large retinue and a fine carriage. He bought ex- 
 pensive fish, was particular in •selecting them at my 
 master's shop, and gave splendid dinners to the 
 Royal Society. 
 
 Being then young and foolish, I took strongly to 
 Mr. Sampson's way of thinking ; in spite, too, of 
 the admonitions of my good mother, who, while she 
 encouraged a proper respect for my superiors in 
 station, as a rational and Christian duty, could not 
 help perceiving the silly and slavish reverence for 
 mere luxury and display which grew upon my mind. 
 Many a time did that wise and kindly mother re- 
 mind me that splendor often walked with sin, while 
 piety was clad in poor apparel ; that sometimes 
 rich men preferred plainness, and even at the west- 
 end the grandest was not always the greatest. 
 These sensible remarks made small impressions 
 on me ; boyish conceit suggested that my poor 
 mother, who had worked so hard for us five (I mean 
 
HOW THE FISHMONGER WAS TAUGHT CIVILITY. 261 
 
 myself and four sisters,) ever since our father was 
 lost at sea, when the youngest girl was a baby, 
 knew nothing of the great world. Besides, Mr. 
 Sampson's example was before me. To be candid, I 
 rather surpassed him in my admiration of wealth 
 and style, having latterly advanced so far as not 
 to care for serving common people on any terms. 
 My great desire, however, was to see Sir Joseph 
 Banks. I had been almost a year apprenticed, and 
 had heard an immensity concerning his carriage 
 and house in Soho-square ; for, seeing that I had 
 a genteel taste, my master favored me with par- 
 ticular details ; but as the gentlemen had been out 
 of town, making a collection of rare flies, I had no 
 opportunity of seeing him all that time. 
 
 The premises which Mr. Sampson Huggins oc- 
 cupied in Covent-garden consisted of a shop and 
 and back parlor, with cellars below for storeage. 
 His family lived in a country house near Hackney, 
 though few fishmongers put up so high in my ap- 
 prentice days. Omnibuses were not invented then, 
 cabs hadn't been heard of in London, and the 
 hackney-coaches being rather expensive, Mr. Samp- 
 son saved money by sleeping in an old fashioned 
 cupboard he had kept in the said back parlor for 
 
262 HOW THE FISHMONGER WAS TAUGHT CIVILITY. 
 
 that purpose, and going home only late on Satur- 
 day evenings, during what is called the season. 
 He was sure to Jbe back early on Monday morning ; 
 for no man was more attentive to business, on which 
 account but few helpers were kept about the shop ; 
 a salesman, the senior apprentice, William Jones, 
 myself, and two porters, being his entire retinue. 
 
 On Wednesday, in the beginning of May, the sales- 
 man was sick, Jones had got a holiday to see his 
 grandmother in Paddington, the porters were out on 
 their duty, and I was alone in the shop. Mr. Hug- 
 gins had attended a city dinner the evening before, 
 but he rose in time to superintend the unpacking 
 of a magnificent turbot sent express from Brighton 
 for the glory of his establishment. Turbot were 
 particularly dear that season. 
 
 This was one of the finest specimens ever caught ; 
 so Mr. Sampson triumphed over surrounding fish- 
 mongers, wished Sir Joseph could only see it, and 
 retired to shave — an operation which he always 
 performed in the back parlor. As for me, my ap- 
 prentice pride was high. I had set forth the splen- 
 did fish where it could be seen to the best advan- 
 tage, and early as it was (not yet nine in the morn- 
 ing) a sort of crowd had collected to gaze at it. I 
 20 
 
HOW" THE FISHMONGER WAS TAUGHT CIVILITY. 263 
 
 felt myself magnified in that turbot, and was won- 
 dering which of my master's grand customers would 
 buy the fish, when a little old man, looking decided- 
 ly shabby, in an old beaver hat and gray overcoat, 
 paused at the door, took a long, keen look, and 
 walked in. What could such a person want in our 
 shop ? I had half made up my mind to say we 
 did'nt keep such things, if he asked for smoked 
 herrings or a lobster ; and fairly laughed out when 
 pointing to the splendid fish, he inquired, " What's 
 the price of that turbot ?" 
 
 " Too dear for you, old fellow !" said I, moving 
 from my stand. " But we have cod and haddock 
 here" 
 
 " I asked you the price of the turbot, child," 
 said the old man, quietly. 
 
 " Only five guineas ! Will you take it home under 
 your arm?" said I, wishing my master to know what 
 smart things I could say, as he had often com- 
 mended my wit ; and not only was every word au- 
 dible through the thin partition, but, by means of 
 a glass pane and a small mirror, Mr. Huggins could 
 see all that went on. 
 
 " Boy, does your master keep you to offer im- 
 pertinence to customers ?" said the old man, get- 
 
264 HOW THE FISHMONGER WAS TAUGHT CIVILITY. 
 
 ting warm. " Go and tell Mr. Huggins I wish to 
 see him." 
 
 " He is too busy to attend the like of you," I 
 would have said ; but at that moment, with a face 
 half shaved and soapy, out rushed my master, ex- 
 claiming, "You young jackanapes, I'll teach you 
 to talk so to Sir Joseph ;" and seizing me by the 
 collar, he cuffed me soundly and shoved me into 
 the street. The boys began to shout and the crowd 
 to thicken. I had no chance but to run home and 
 tell my mother. 
 
 On my way I saw a handsome carriage with two 
 footmen drive up to the shop, and when my mother 
 went to intercede for me, she learned that Sir Jo- 
 seph had bought the turbot for a great dinner, at 
 which the king and queen were to be present. In 
 all his tales of grandeur and fish-buying, my master 
 had forgotten to mention that his patron sometimes 
 went about streets and shops in very plain attire, 
 and my gentility never imagined that the great Sir 
 Joseph Banks could be seen in an old coat and a 
 shabby beaver. 
 
 My mother's intercession was successful — per- 
 haps through the sale of the turbot. Mr. Huggins 
 consented to take me back without further punish- 
 
HOW THE FISHMONGER WAS TAUGHT CIVILITY. 265 
 
 ment, though at first he talked of cancelling the 
 indentures and making an example of me. How- 
 ever, my former place in his favor was never re- 
 gained. From that day William Jones became the 
 genteel boy, and the hearer of his greatest stories. 
 
 The neighboring apprentices knew that I "had 
 been cuffed for giving sauce to Sir Joseph Banks," 
 and when the baronet or any of his servants came 
 to the shop I felt ready to hide in a herring-barrel. 
 In short, the day of the great turbot, which began 
 in such pride, left, like man's proud days, a long 
 train of petty vexations behind it ; but it helped to 
 teach me that civility should not be governed by 
 appearances, and the wisdom of that text which 
 says, "Honor all men." 
 
 Here my uncle's story closed ; and, readers, it 
 is a fact to which some old residents in the city of 
 London could even yet testify. All the names are 
 of course altered ; excepting that of the celebrated 
 naturalist ; and I have written it, in hopes that some 
 of the young or old may likewise learn by the same 
 lesson which taught my uncle civility. 
 
 23 
 
GREAT INVENTIONS. 
 
 My cousin, Tom Fairfax, is a youth of a deci- 
 dedly mechanical turn. He is always building little 
 mills to go by wind or water, or making curious 
 models of machines, or turning with a lathe which 
 he has, little ivory or box-wood ornaments, or uten- 
 sils for his mother or sisters. He has a little work- 
 shop over the stable, with a carpenter's bench and 
 tools ; and his father permits him to employ his 
 leisure hours in this way. 
 
 At school he applies himself very diligently to 
 his studies, especially to the mathematics, in which 
 he is already quite a proficient for one of his years. 
 I have no doubt that he will distinguish himself 
 at some future time ; because the bent of his mind 
 towards mechanical invention is decided, and he 
 (266) 
 
GREAT INVENTIONS. 267 
 
 will be afforded ample means to "go ahead," when 
 he has finished his college course. 
 
 Others have succeeded under more discourag-ina- 
 circumstances ; Jacquard, for example. His story 
 will interest my readers, and I proceed to give it 
 in a brief way, as it may serve to encourage others 
 in a career of useful exertion. 
 
THE LYONESE WEAVER. 
 
 Marie Joseph Jacquard, whose name has 
 gained a well-earned celebrity, was born at Lyons, 
 on the 7th of July, 1752. His father was a weaver 
 of brocade stuffs, and his mother worked in the 
 same establishment, as, what was technically called, 
 "reader of designs." Her business was to point 
 out to the workmen the threads which were to be 
 used in succession for tinting the stuffs. About 
 this period the manufacture of silk in Lyons had 
 received great extension. Crowds of sturdy agri- 
 culturalists from the fertile banks of the Rhone 
 flocked into the city, and often died prematurely 
 from the effects of a sedentary occupation, and the 
 foul air of over-crowded workshops. Those who 
 survived, usually became owners of looms ; but 
 even then their savings Avere often swallowed up by 
 too bold speculations ; they once more worked for 
 others, and generally ended their days in a hospital. 
 (268) 
 
THE LYONESE WEAVER. 269 
 
 At the time of Joseph Jacquard's birth, his fa- 
 ther's circumstances were flourishing ; he had pur- 
 chased a loom, and when the boy grew old enough 
 he sent him to school, instead of condemning him 
 to the lot which usually awaited the children of 
 weavers — an early apprenticeship to the unhealthy 
 labors of the workshop. 
 
 The old teacher to whom Joseph was sent, could 
 teach nothing but reading. That the boy soon ac- 
 quired, and the father seeing him as learned as his 
 tutor, desired him to select a trade. He chose that 
 of a bookbinder, and in his master's house there 
 lodged an old man, a land-surveyor's clerk, who 
 struck with the boy's intelligence, taught him in 
 the evenings the first elements of mathematics. 
 
 The young apprentice was then about thirteen 
 years old, and his taste for mechanics was shown 
 by a number of curious little inventions, which, he 
 was in the habit of displaying to his old friend. 
 One evening when he had finished constructing a 
 coach out of a few old cards, the clerk said to him : 
 
 " Joseph, is there any other trade which would 
 suit you better than that of a bookbinder ?" \ 
 
 "Ah ! there is indeed," replied the boy. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 23* 
 
270 THE LTONESE WEAVER. 
 
 Joseph, rubbed bis forehead in perplexity, and 
 after a few moments said : 
 
 " The misfortune is, that my father is not rich : 
 if he were, I could get tools and instruments of all 
 kinds, and if I had a forge and workmen at com- 
 mand, I am certain that I could invent some new 
 machinery." 
 
 " Have you the idea of any new invention in your 
 head ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Jacquard. " The other day, hap- 
 pening to enter the cutler's shop opposite, I saw 
 an hour occupied in passing the blade of a knife 
 through the hands of three workman. One sharp- 
 ening the edge, another polishing the blade, and a 
 third piercing holes in the handle. After consider- 
 ing, I thought of a piece of mechanism which 
 would do it all in five minutes. If I could choose, 
 I think I should like to be a cutler." 
 
 It was late at night, when the elder Jacquard, 
 uneasy at his son's prolonged absence, came to seek 
 him in the clerk's apartment. He found him occu- 
 pied in explaining the details of the machine to his 
 old friend, who was listening with breathless atten- 
 tion, and who placed his finger on his own lips to 
 enjoin silence on the visitor. 
 
THE LYONESE WEAVER. 271 
 
 Joseph continued his demonstration without per- 
 ceiving; his father's entrance, and soon the latter 
 shared the clerk's admiration of the boy's earnest 
 and unchildlike eloquence. It was not difficult to 
 gain his consent to Joseph's becoming a cutler. It 
 happened unfortunately, however, that his new 
 master was both dull and ignorant, and mocked at 
 the idea of any new invention. 
 
 Jacquard soon got tired of his position, and pre- 
 vailed on his father to place him with a founder of 
 printing types. He soon displayed his rich inven- 
 tive powers in his new occupation ; but the death 
 of his father, who left him the legacy of two work- 
 ing looms, caused him once more to change his oc- 
 cupation. At the age of nineteen he found himself 
 at liberty to spend his time in inventing various 
 improvements in the art of weaving. But, unhap- 
 pily, money began to fail ; all his father's prudent 
 savings were spent, and Jacquard, who, like too 
 many geniuses, was thoughtless and improvident, 
 began seriously to think he had been robbed. He 
 sold his looms to pay his debts ; and then, when he 
 he had nothing left, he committed what, under the 
 generality of circumstances, would have proved a 
 most disastrous step, for him at the present time, 
 
272 THE LYONESE WEAVER. 
 
 by entering on marriage "with a girl as needy as 
 himself. 
 
 Notwithstanding its unpromising auspices, how- 
 ever, this marriage proved a happy one. The young 
 wife was affectionate, self-denying, and so good a 
 manager of their slender income, that Jacquard, 
 who was constantly absorbed in his mechanical re- 
 veries, allowed himself to be fed like a child, with- 
 out thinking or inquiring whence the means of sup- 
 port were derived. But at length a day came when no 
 food was to be had. Jacquard, during the previous 
 week, had earned nothing ; all his wife's little or- 
 naments were sold, and even the house in which 
 they lived was now the property of another. Ma- 
 dame Jacquard had just been confined with her first 
 child, and obtained from the purchaser of the house 
 permission to remain in it for a short time, until 
 her health should be re-established. 
 
 Stern necessity aroused Jacquard from his dreams. 
 With great difficulty he obtained employment as a 
 lime burner, while his wife worked as a straw bon- 
 net maker. During several succeeding years we 
 possess few authentic details of the life of Jacquard. 
 He was at Lyons during the stormy period of the 
 revolution, suffering from many perils and much 
 
THE LYONESE WEAVER. 273 
 
 poverty ; the latter evil effectually preventing him 
 from executing a plan for an improved loom, which 
 had long been revolving in his brain. 
 
 In the year of 1810, he obtained employment 
 from an intelligent silk manufacturer, who kindly 
 advanced money for him during the time that the 
 construction of the machine would require. In the 
 commencement of the next year he had the happi- 
 ness of exhibiting his loom at the "Exhibition of 
 National Industry" and obtained a bronze medal, 
 for what was, after all, but a rudimental outline of 
 of what he subsequently accomplished. 
 
 Shortly afterwards, while patiently laboring in 
 his obscure garret, he was honored by a visit from 
 the minister Carnot, who, having seen the new loom, 
 came thus in person to express his satisfaction to its 
 maker. The object of the invention, and which is 
 now amply accomplished by the perfected Jacquard 
 loom, was to substitute machinery for a number of 
 human workers, condemned by the very nature of 
 their unhealthy employment to premature decline 
 and death. 
 
 In 1802, Jacquard went to Paris, led thither by 
 the following circumstance. The Society of Arts 
 in London, and also that in Paris, had offered a 
 
274 THE LYONESE WEAVER. 
 
 prize for the invention of any process by which the 
 making of fishing-nets and quarter-netting for 
 ships might be facilitated. During a quiet country 
 ■walk one evening, Jacquard invented the theory 
 of the desired improvement. 
 
 " Do you know," said he, next morning, to his 
 employer, " that I have thought of a method of 
 making nets, without the use of a shuttle, by 
 means of a machine, which will cost but a hundred 
 crowns ?" 
 
 The manufacturer, who had become his friend, 
 desired him to explain the process ; and its sim- 
 plicity was so great, that Jacquard spoke of it as 
 a thing which any one might discover. 
 
 "Well, Jacquard," said his master, "you must 
 try for the prize." 
 
 "Oh!" replied Joseph, "it would not be worth 
 while for such a trifle. I have much more im- 
 portant inventions in my head." 
 
 His employer, however, insisted, and advanced 
 the necessary money; and in three weeks the 
 machine was completed. 
 
 In a few days, Jacquard received a summons 
 from the Prefect of Lyons. He obeyed the call, 
 and was introduced into a private room. 
 
THE LYONESE WEAVER. 275 
 
 "Ah! Jacquard," said the Prefect, "I hear 
 that you have invented an ingenious method of 
 weaving nets without using a shuttle ; and as it is 
 my duty to make known to the government every 
 thing that may concern the promotion of national 
 industry, I request that you will write for me a 
 description of the process, and I will immediately 
 forward it to Paris." 
 
 "But, Monsieur," replied Joseph, "I never 
 composed a written Sentence in my life, and how, 
 then, could I write what you require ? But if you 
 like to send for the machine (two men will easily 
 bring it,) I can explain its construction by word 
 of mouth ; and then you can, if you wish, ivrite a 
 description of it." 
 
 " An excellent plan," said the Prefect. And in 
 less than two hours the machine, in all its effective 
 simplicity, was in full operation beneath the Pre- 
 fect's eyes : he himself had the pleasure of weaving 
 several rows of meshes. An accurate description 
 was sent to Paris, and in a fortnight Jacquard 
 received a peremptory order from the agent of the 
 secret police to follow him to the great city. No 
 explanation of the motive of this enforced journey 
 was given by his guide ; and he passed the first 
 
276 THE LYONESE WEAVER. 
 
 night after his arrival in the dwelling of the min- 
 ister of police. Next morning, this official con- 
 ducted him to the Tuilleries, when they were im- 
 mediately introduced into a room occupied by a 
 gentleman seated at a table. 
 
 "Is your name Jacquard?" said this latter. 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur." 
 
 " Do you know me ?" 
 
 "No, Monsieur, I don't remember" 
 
 "I am the Emperor— sit down." 
 
 At these unexpected words, Jacquard stood 
 speechless. 
 
 " Come, my friend, be seated," said the Empe- 
 ror, with a benevolent smile ; and the artisan fell, 
 rather than placed himself, on a chair. The min- 
 ister of police remained standing. 
 
 Then commenced a long and earnest conversa- 
 tion between the poor workman and the master of 
 France. It was a part, and not the least success- 
 ful one, of Napoleon's policy, to speak with frank 
 and cordial familiarity to his humblest subjects. 
 Jacquard soon felt completely at his ease ; he 
 explaine 1 his ideas of mechanical invention as 
 freely as if he had been conversing with an equal, 
 and even smiled and and shook his head when the 
 
THE LYONESE WEAVER. 277 
 
 Emperor, in his eagerness to jump to a conclusion, 
 hazarded some erroneous conjecture. 
 
 The interview lasted two hours, during which 
 but little was said of the netting machine, and a 
 great deal as to the projected improvements in 
 silk weaving. At its close, the Emperor took 
 Jacquard's hand, pressed it cordially, and said : — 
 " Your ideas are excellent, and must be applied : 
 remain at Paris, and study machinery. You shall 
 have rooms at your disposal at the Institute of 
 Arts and Manufactures, and will be in constant 
 communication with men who can teach you what- 
 ever you require to learn. But remember that 
 your genius ought to invent things far beyond its 
 present scope. When I had you conveyed hither 
 as a prisoner, all I knew of you was, that you had 
 invented a machine for which England had offered 
 a reward. I did not wish that she should profit in 
 the smallest degree by the genius of our French 
 workmen. Now I know you, Jacquard ; you will 
 devote your labors to the service of France, and 
 I shall not forget you." 
 
 Once installed at the Conservatory of Arts and 
 Manufactures, our hero concentrated all his powers 
 in seeking to accomplish his great aim — that of 
 24 
 
278 THE LYONESE WEAVER. 
 
 substituting mechanical agency for the labours of 
 a multitude of workers, condemned by the nature 
 of their occupation to physical suffering and 
 moral degradation. 
 
 Amongst the machines preserved at the Conser- 
 vatory, was an imperfect model designed by Vau- 
 canson. It consisted of a cylinder perforated with 
 holes, which allowed to pass, or impeded, according 
 to the holes which it presented, needles causing to 
 deviate the threads of the warp, and thus formed 
 a pattern in the weft. The sight of this machine, 
 unfinished as it was, and hitherto regarded as 
 merely an object of curiosity, suggested a new 
 idea to Jacquard. To Vaucanson's cylinder, he 
 added a pasteboard spiral pierced with holes, 
 through which the threads of the warp passed to 
 the weaver ; thus dispensing with the intervention 
 of the thread-drawer. He also added an ingeni- 
 ous contrivance for showing the weaver the color 
 of the shuttle which he was to throw ; thus ren- 
 dering superfluous the employ of a reader of 
 patterns. 
 
 When Jacquard had finished his loom, the first 
 use he made of it was to weave several ells of rich 
 tissue as a present to the Empress Josephine. It 
 
THE LYONESE WEAVER. 279 
 
 is said that Napoleon came in person to the Con- 
 servatory, to express his lively satisfaction : it is 
 certain, at all events, that he showed it, by em- 
 ploying expert workmen to construct on Jacquard's 
 model several beautiful looms, which he presented 
 to their inventor. Jacquard returned to Lyons, and 
 me improvements were speedily adopted there by the 
 principal manufacturers. There speedily, however, 
 hroke out a tumult among the workmen. They 
 complained that the use of machinery deprived them 
 of the use of bread ; totally forgetting that the vast 
 impetus given thereby to their trade, must cause 
 tlie employment of a double number of operatives. 
 But mobs never listen to reason ; and poor Jac- 
 quard, so far from meeting honor in his own city, 
 was doomed to see his looms torn into pieces, 
 "the iron sold for old iron, and the timber for fire- 
 wood," So he said himself when speaking, at the 
 age of eighty, before the Chamber of Commerce ; 
 and he uttered the words in a voice of the deepest 
 emotion. Nor was this the worst ; three times he 
 narrowly escaped with his life ; on one occasion 
 being menaced with a watery grave in the Rhone, 
 and being saved almost by a miracle. Truth and 
 right, however, generally prevail. The increase 
 
280 THE LYONESE WEAVER. 
 
 of the silk trade in Lyons, the opulence of its con- 
 ductors, and the number of persons employed, be- 
 came shortly so great, that in a very few years the 
 people who had vowed vengeance against Jacquard, 
 carried him in triumph through the streets, while 
 celebrating the anniversary of his birth. 
 
 It was not long before England, and then the 
 ■whole world, adopted the Jacquard loom. 
 
 We must not forget to make honorable mention 
 of two master weavers, Depouilly and Schirmer, and 
 the machinist Breton. They encouraged and sup- 
 ported Jacquard during the sharp struggle in whic'a 
 he had been nearly overcome. " These men," said 
 Jacquard, " have become rich through my inven- 
 tion, and I am glad of it. I remain poor, but I do 
 not complain : it suffices me that I have been use- 
 ful to my countrymen." 
 
 A patent was taken out for the loom, and Jac- 
 quard was with difficulty persuaded to make use of 
 it ; neither could he ever be prevailed on to prose- 
 cute offenders. When the municipal council of 
 Lyons proposed to him to devote his entire time 
 and labour to the service of their town, and to be- 
 stow on it all the future improvements which his 
 genius might devise, he hesitated not to comply, 
 
THE LYONESE WEAVEK. 281 
 
 and accepted in return only a very moderate com- 
 pensation of his own naming. These few facts 
 strongly attest his disinterestedness. 
 
 At the age of seventy, Jacquard retired to the 
 village of Ouillins, his father's native place. There, 
 in 1820, he received the decoration of the Legion 
 of Honor ; and lived happy and respected until the 
 year 1834, when he expired at the age of eighty- 
 two. A fine statue of Jacquard has since been 
 erected by public subscription at Ouillins. 
 
 This account of Jacquard carries its own moral 
 with it. He was a pattern of disinterestedness, 
 and the desire to be useful. 
 
 The French story which I shall now give to the 
 reader is not less impressive. It illustrates the 
 great law of Christianity — the law of kindness — 
 the golden rule, to do to others as we would that 
 they should do unto us. 
 
 24* 
 
THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR. 
 
 At the entrance of the small town of Thaun, by 
 the side of the road -which leads to Mulhausen, 
 stands a building which partakes of the character 
 of a farm-house and of the habitation of a trades- 
 man. In the yard, where chickens are picking and 
 scratching at random, and in a rick of corn still 
 entire, near which is a cart recently detached from 
 the horse, one recognises the farm ; while the 
 white curtains to each window, the garden with its 
 arbor of painted trellis-work, and the six stone 
 steps with the iron balustrade which lead to the 
 entrance as decidedly mark the abode of a citizen. 
 
 On the stone steps was seated Jacques Ferron, 
 the master of the house, whose appearance partook 
 of the same double character as his dwelling. He 
 wore the blouse of the artsian, with the velvet cap 
 and slippers of the proprietor. Jacques was ex- 
 (282) 
 
THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR. 283 
 
 pecting his son Stephen, who had gone to Mul- 
 hausen with his bethrothed to buy wedding pre- 
 sents ; and as the father kept his eye on the road, 
 his mind dwelt upon this marriage, which settled 
 his son near him and assured him of pleasant 
 society in his old age. 
 
 The noise of a char-a-banc disturbed at last the 
 reverie into which he had fallen, and he recognised 
 the travellers in the midst of the clouds of dust 
 which surrounded the horse and carriage. When 
 they arrived at the gate of the yard in front of 
 the house, Perron advanced to meet them, and was 
 saluted by the joyful exclamations of the travel- 
 lers. These were Madame Lorin and her daughter, 
 and a young man, who was almost entirely con- 
 cealed behind the bandboxes and packets. 
 
 " Good night, father," said Louise, who, by an 
 act of affectionate courtesy, anticipated in her 
 salutation to the old builder the appellation to 
 which he would not be entitled for some days. 
 
 " Good evening, my child," replied Ferron, ex- 
 tending his hands to the young girl, and embracing 
 her. "Your servant, Madame Loring," he added 
 to her elder companion. " Why, you are laden 
 like a market cart." 
 
284 THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR. 
 
 " Oh, this is comparatively nothing," said the 
 mother of Louise; "if we had attended to your 
 son, we should have almost emptied the shops." 
 
 Ferron smiled and held out his hand to Stephen, 
 who had just descended to open the yard gate and 
 admit the char-a-banc. " I understand," said he ; 
 " we like to make those we love comfortable ; if we 
 could do as we please, they should walk on velvet ; 
 you must not contradict his humor." 
 
 " Exactly so ; but we must not let his humor be 
 his ruin," replied the mother. 
 
 The builder shrugged his shoulders, and ex- 
 claimed: "Bah! will not Stephen have all my 
 savings, to say nothing of what he earns by his 
 own building speculations ? for, now he is a master, 
 I have no doubt but he will get on; and as to 
 industry, that's in the blood." 
 
 And kindness and generosity also, I hope," 
 continued Madame Lorin; "for I have not for- 
 gotten, M. Ferron, that my daughter and I owe 
 every thing to you ; and if it had not been for the 
 credit that you formerly gave me " 
 
 "Don't speak of that, I entreat," abruptly in- 
 terrupted Jacques, visibly embarrassed; "you 
 must require refreshment. Come, Louise, you 
 
THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR. 285 
 
 must do the honors of your new home, my child ; 
 I know nothing about receiving guests." 
 
 The young girl, who had rejoined Stephen, and 
 who, under pretence of assisting him to unharness 
 his horse, had stuck a flower in his button-hole, 
 immediately left them, and preceded them into the 
 sitting-room. She laid the cloth, and brought all 
 that was required with a rapidity which showed 
 that she was familiar with the house. The repast 
 was soon ready. Stephen, meanwhile, in his 
 eagerness to welcome his betrothed, quickly put 
 his char-a-banc in the coach-house and the horse in 
 the stable, and rejoined his father, who rallied him 
 on his promptitude. The bandboxes were opened 
 to show the new purchases for the bride, while ar- 
 rangements were made for the present and plans 
 laid for the future. At last, the meal being con- 
 cluded, the young couple retired to the window, 
 where they spoke in low tones ; and while they 
 were apparently engaged in watering a box of 
 mignionette, their parents arranged their future 
 settlements. 
 
 Besides the customers and the leases to which he 
 was indebted for his comfortable condition in life, 
 the builder gave up to his son all his out-standing 
 
286 THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR. 
 
 debts. Madame Lorin, on her part, gave to 
 Louise her household furniture, wedding-clothes, 
 and twenty thousand francs payable on the wedding 
 day. This was much more than M. Ferron ex- 
 pected, and he said as much. 
 
 " You may easily suppose," said he, " how happy 
 it makes me to see these young people so comfor- 
 tably off; to expose a young couple to poverty is 
 like throwing wheat into the sewer. One must 
 not, as they say, let the honeymoon rise over a 
 barrel of rue ; neither must we suffer the happiness 
 of the young people to be the misery of the old ones. 
 While bestowing a portion on my son, I have kept 
 enough to furnish me with three meals a day, and 
 I should be very sorry if the fortune you give your 
 daughter compels you to make but two." 
 
 " Don't be afraid," said Madame Lorin, smiling; 
 "I have kept a proper part for myself. Besides 
 another sum of twenty thousand francs, there is 
 my business, which is worth much more." 
 
 "Well done!" exclaimed Jacques, surprised; 
 " I did not reckon upon marrying my son to such 
 a fortune. Do you know, Madam Lorin, that the 
 advantage is all on our side." 
 
 "Say rather," replied the old lady, "that it 
 
THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR. 287 
 
 comes from your side." Jacques would have inter- 
 rupted her. " Oh ! you must not deny it," she 
 continued eagerly. " Do I not owe all I possess 
 to my business in timber and iron ; and do I not 
 owe my success in business to the house that you 
 built for me?" 
 
 " It is our business, as builders, to erect houses," 
 rejoined Ferron. 
 
 " But it is also your business to make people pay 
 for them at the proper time," replied the old lady; 
 " and when my husband died without having paid 
 what he owed you, you would have been justified 
 in taking possession of it." 
 
 "I intended to have done so," said Jacques, 
 sullenly. 
 
 "And your kindness prevented you," added 
 Madame Lorin. 
 
 Ferron, who appeared ill at ease, tried in vain 
 to turn the conversation ; for the old lady appeared 
 determined to let him know that she had not for- 
 gotten the benefit, and dilated upon the generous 
 conduct of the builder. If he had not consented to 
 postpone a payment which would have compro- 
 mised her credit, the unhappy widow would have 
 been obliged to give up every thing to her credi- 
 
288 THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR. 
 
 tors, and must have fallen into a state of poverty. 
 It was to his humane consideration that she owed 
 the easy circumstances that she then enjoyed, as 
 well as the happiness of the two young people. 
 Stephen and Louise, whose attention was attracted 
 by the old lady's voice, which she had unconsci- 
 ously raised, joined with her in expressions of 
 gratitude ; but the embarrassment of Ferron ap- 
 peared to increase, and he desired them to be 
 silent. 
 
 " Come, don't be vexed, papa," said Louise, 
 placing her hand on his shoulder, and coaxing him. 
 " Nobody shall thank you, nobody shall be obliged 
 to you, nobody shall say you have a kind dispo- 
 sition." 
 
 " And they will be right," cried Jacques. "I 
 am tired of hearing praise which I do not deserve." 
 
 "What!" 
 
 " Yes ! I repeat it. I did not do the thing 
 intentionally ; it was in consequence of an acci- 
 dental occurrence ; and for this reason your praises 
 annoy me. I have stolen a reputation too long ; 
 you must now know the truth, especially as it may 
 serve for a lesson to the young ones." 
 
 The two young people looked at one another 
 
• THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR. 289 
 
 with surprise, and sat down on each side of the 
 builder. Madame Lorin, who had suffered some 
 expressions of incredulity to escape her, fixed her 
 eyes upon him interrogatively. At length, after a 
 short pause to collect his thoughts, he began as 
 follows. 
 
 " Well, then, as our neighbor told you, M. 
 Lorin died just at the time we were taking down 
 the scaffolding from his new house, and his affairs 
 were in such disorder that everybody said, after 
 the general winding-up, the widow's whole fortune 
 would consist of her night-cap. As to myself, I 
 was not much alarmed, for the building was suffi- 
 cient security for my debt ; but it was necessary 
 to adopt legal precautions and to take possession, 
 for fear of accidents. Madame Lorin did not oppose 
 my claim ; she only explained to me by what means 
 she hoped to pay me every thing. But, in order to 
 accomplish this, it was necessary that I should 
 leave her in possession of the house, and wait for 
 a return of the profits, I knew not how T long, and 
 perhaps at the risk of my own credit, for in busi- 
 ness we can only be sure of what we actually hold 
 in our hands. This was running too much risk 
 without any fair prospect of advantage. In vain 
 25 
 
290 THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR.' 
 
 did the widow show me her baby asleep in its 
 cradle, entreating me with tears in her eyes not to 
 make her a beggar. I left her fully resolved to 
 take advantage of my legal rights. If by this 
 means the widow and orphan were ruined, I could 
 not help it ; they had, I felt, no right to complain 
 of me, but of circumstances, to use that common 
 but not very true saying, over which neither of us 
 had any control. I had taken as my motto the 
 words, 'It is justice;' and having once satisfied 
 myself on this point, I went forward without 
 troubling myself as to who or what I crushed 
 under my feet. 
 
 " Besides, if the widow Lorin had a daughter, I 
 had a son to bring up, and to whom I was the more 
 attached, inasmuch as for six years I had been 
 always expecting his death. His constitution is 
 strong enough now; but at that time it trembled 
 like a slight building with every puff of wind. 
 Every one who looked at him seemed to say, ' Poor 
 little thing !' and this commiserating attention 
 went to my heart. The doctor who had attended 
 him in his illness, said his lungs were delicate ; he 
 recommended that cold and damp should be 
 avoided, and said that another attack of pleurisy 
 
THE UNCONSCIOUS PKECEPTOR. 291 
 
 would infallibly carry him off. So I took the 
 same care of him as I should of a bird in a cage ; 
 he never went out but with me, and in fine weather 
 I almost measured the sun and wind before I 
 exposed him to their influence. 
 
 " Having made up my mind then, as I told you, 
 to take possession of the widow's house in satisfac- 
 tion of my debt, I was just going to Mulhausen with 
 my papers, when the child ran after me and begged 
 me to take him with me. There was not a single 
 cloud in the sky, the birds were singing in the 
 hedges, and the old monk, who served me for a 
 barometer, had let fall his hood; there was every 
 prospect of a fine day. I put the saddle on the 
 donkey, and seated on it the child, who was pleased 
 as a cuirassier. Every thing went well till we 
 reached the town. The lawyer took my papers, 
 promised to make arrangements for putting me in 
 possession, and said the house should be mine before 
 six months were over. I went away overjoyed at 
 this promise, and set out to return home with the 
 little boy and the donkey. 
 
 " During the time we were with the lawyer the 
 weather had changed for the worse ; the wind began 
 to raise the dust in eddies along the road, and large 
 
292 THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR. 
 
 clouds rose from behind the mountains. I hesitated 
 a moment as to whether I should return on account 
 of the child ; but he was beginning to get tired, and 
 asked to go home. I thought we should have time 
 to get there before the storm came on, and walked 
 faster accordingly. Unhappily, the donkey had 
 settled her own pace, and she would not be diverted 
 from it. In vain did I call her by her name and 
 urge her on, she would not hasten her steps. 
 Stephen offered a cake by way of encouragement, 
 which she ate to the last crumb, but went on 
 nevertheless in the old jog-trot. I was the more 
 provoked at the obstinacy of the animal because 
 the clouds had now overspread the sky, and from 
 them there descended a small cold rain, which the 
 wind, that was still rising higher, blew in our faces. 
 We were too far advanced, however, to return, and 
 as the clouds broke now and then, showing the 
 blue sky, I hoped it would soon clear up. 
 
 "Meanwhile, Stephen, overcome by the cold, 
 began to shiver from head to foot ; and the rain 
 having penetrated his summer clothes, his cough 
 returned — that cough which the doctor so much 
 dreaded. I was now in despair. I cut a stick from 
 the hedge, and struck the donkey furiously ; she 
 
THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR. 293 
 
 appeared indignant, and drew back ; I repeated 
 the blows, when she immediately lay down. At 
 that moment, the clouds seemed to burst all at 
 once, and the rain came down in torrents. The 
 shivering child could no longer speak ; his teeth 
 chattered, his cough increased, and he moaned 
 plaintively. I was quite bewildered. Not knowing 
 what to do in this extremity, I raised the boy in 
 my arms, pressed him to my breast, and ran for- 
 ward almost blinded by the rain. I sought for 
 shelter without knowing where to look for it, 
 without indeed knowing where I was, when the 
 sound of a horse's feet and of some one calling to 
 me made me turn my head. I then noticed a car- 
 riage which had just stopped. A gentleman with 
 white hair put his head out of the window. 
 
 " ' What has happened ? where are you carrying 
 that child ?' asked he. 
 
 " ' Into the first house where he can receive 
 assistance,' answered I. 
 
 " ' Is he wounded V 
 
 " ' No ; but the cold has seized him ; he is just 
 recovered from illness, and this weather is enough 
 to kill him.' 
 
 "'Let us see,' quickly rejoined the stranger, 'I 
 25* 
 
294 THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR. 
 
 am a doctor ; bring the child here, and let me look 
 at him.' 
 
 " He opened the door of the carriage, and 
 received the child streaming with wet, on his knees. 
 On seeing the child's face, and hearing him cough, 
 he could not forbear an exclamation of emotion. 
 1 Quick, quick,' said he, turning to some ladies who 
 were seated at his side ; ' help me to take off these 
 wet clothes ; we will cover him with your pelisses. 
 There is danger, and the warmth must be at once 
 recalled to the extremities. Alfred, pass me the 
 phial, which you will find in the pocket of the 
 carriage close by you.' 
 
 " While he was thus speaking, he undressed 
 Stephen, with the assistance of the ladies, and 
 began to rub his body with the contents of the 
 phial. When the child appeared warm, he wrapped 
 him up in several garments which his companions 
 took off, made a sign to the young man whom he 
 called Alfred to descend quickly, and laid the sick 
 child upon the cushions. He then turned to me, 
 inquired whether we were far from my house, and 
 after receiving my reply, he ordered the coachman 
 to proceed gently. 
 
 " I thanked him, and followed close by the door 
 
THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR. 295 
 
 of the carriage. In my anxiety I had quite for- 
 gotten my donkey, but the young man who had 
 left the carriage now brought her to me. We con- 
 tinued thus until we arrived at Thaun. The rain 
 continued to fall in torrents, but I thought no more 
 of it. I could not take my eyes from the interior 
 of the carriage in which the child was lying. The 
 gentleman with the white hair, leaning over him, 
 observed him with attention, and watched his 
 slightest movements. After a time he made a sign 
 to me that all was going on well. The respira- 
 tion of the child became more free, and drops of 
 perspiration appeared on his face. At last we 
 reached home, when the stranger himself carried 
 the little patient to the bed, which he had caused 
 to be warmed, and in a few minutes be fell asleep. 
 I endeavored to thank him, but he interrupted me. 
 
 " 'Don't think about it,' said he; 'but go and 
 change your own clothes ; perhaps also you will 
 permit my son to do the same ; here he is coming 
 up-stairs.' 
 
 " The young man immediately afterwards en- 
 tered, carrying his portmanteau. I then recol- 
 lected that he had come on foot with me, but in 
 my anxiety I had not noticed it. 
 
296 THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR. 
 
 " 'Oh, if the gentleman should be ill !' I exclaimed. 
 
 "< How can that be ?' said the old gentleman; 
 ' he is young and strong ; with dry clothes and a 
 little fire he will do very well.' 
 
 " ' But why did he expose himself to the rain ?' 
 
 " ' Was he not right in giving up his place ?' re- 
 plied the old man, smiling ; ' would you have the 
 man in good health let the sick child remain out in 
 the rain V 
 
 u i The carriage belonged to you,' I replied, much 
 affected, ' and if you could have kept your son in it 
 instead of mine, I could not have complained ; it 
 was but just.' 
 
 " The doctor looked at me, and taking my hand, 
 said with friendly gravity : ' You must not think so 
 sir. Be satisfied that there can be no justice where 
 there is no humanity.' 
 
 " He did not permit me to reply, but sent me to 
 change my clothes. I persuaded him to remain 
 with his family an hour longer, and forced him to 
 accept some refreshment ; he then left, after having 
 reassured me of the child's safety. In fact, the sleep 
 of the latter continued tranquil. It was evident that 
 the attention so seasonably bestowed had arrested 
 the disease in the beginning, and had saved his life. 
 
THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR. 297 
 
 " I do not know whether you have ever known a 
 great anxiety followed by great happiness. The one 
 softens you, while the other makes you reflect : you 
 seem pressed down by a sense of deep obligation to 
 God, and long to do something whereby you may 
 testify your gratitude for his great favours. Thus it 
 was with me. I stood there then, by the side of 
 the child's bed, my heart full of agitation, thinking 
 of this kind family, and of the beautiful maxim, that 
 there is no justice where there is no humanity, when 
 all at once I recollected my premeditated treatment 
 of the Widow Lorin and her little girl. They also, in 
 their affliction, required assistance, and instead of 
 giving it to them I remained shut up in my rights, 
 as the unknown physician might have remained in 
 his carriage. The comparison touched my heart. It 
 was an instant when emotion renders one impressible 
 by holy thoughts and principles. I remembered the 
 declaration of the great Teacher on this point, and 
 felt a conviction that if I was without pity for the 
 widow, God would not have compassion on my boy, 
 and I should not be allowed to retain him. This idea 
 took such powerful possession of my mind, that al- 
 though the rain still continued to fall, I ran to the 
 stable, mounted my horse, galloped to Mulhausen, 
 
£93 THE UNCONSCIOUS PRECEPTOR. 
 
 and reached the house of the laywer just as he was 
 going to bed. When I told him that I was come 
 to take back the papers, he thought me mad ; but 
 this did not deter me from my purpose. As soon 
 as I had them under my arm, I felt pleased and 
 tranquil. I returned to Thaun as fast as my horse 
 could carry me, and found my darling boy still 
 enjoying a calm and blessed slumber. 
 
 " You know the rest. Instead of being paid all 
 at once, I allowed Madame Lorin ten years to pay 
 me in ; and now her business has so increased, and 
 her daughter is so grown, that the old lawsuit is 
 going to be turned into a wedding. Henceforth 
 you will understand why, whenever you remind me 
 of what I have done for you, I blush like a school- 
 girl. Praise that is not deserved weighs heavily 
 on the heart. But now that I have confessed, I 
 shall no longer be ashamed ; for you know that my 
 good action does not belong to me. I owe it pri- 
 marily to Him who is the author of every good 
 thought and holy purpose, and instrumentally to 
 that excellent man whom I never saw again, but 
 whose disinterested kindness taught me to under- 
 stand what true justice is, and who was thus my 
 unconscious preceptor." 
 
i£2fc 
 
 PITY THE IDIOT. P. 299. 
 
PITY THE IDIOT. 
 
 [Before taking leave of my readers, I must 
 present them with some verses, which my mother 
 has done into English from our old friend the 
 Scotch poet. The moral of the poetry will com- 
 mend it to all feeling hearts.] 
 
 " Come, boys, now stop such cruel sport ; for shame, for shame, 
 
 give over ! 
 That poor, half-witted creature you've been fighting with this 
 
 hour ; 
 What pleasure have ye seeing him thus lay his bosom bare ? — 
 Ye must not hurt the Idiots — they're God's peculiar care. 
 
 The wild flower seeks the shady dell, and shuns the moun- 
 tain's brow, 
 
 Dark mists may gather o'er the hills, while sunshine gleams 
 below : 
 
 But oh ! the canker-worm oft feeds on cheek of beauty fair — 
 
 Ye must not hurt the Idiots — they're God's peculiar care. 
 
 The smallest things in nature are weak as they are small, 
 They take up very little space — there's room enough for all ; , 
 And this poor, witless wanderer, although he is not fair — 
 Ye must not hurt the Idiots — they're God's peculiar care. 
 
 (299) 
 
300 PITT THE IDIOT. 
 
 There's some of you, may'be, that have, at home, a brother 
 
 dear, 
 Whose helpless, mournful cries ye cannot bear to hear ; 
 And is there one among you but your best with him would 
 
 share ? 
 Ye must not hurt the Idiots — they're God's peculiar care." 
 
 The rude boys eyes were filled with tears, they gazed on one 
 
 another, 
 They felt what they ne'er felt before, ' The Idiot was their 
 
 brother !' 
 They set him on a sunny seat, and stroked his tangled hair, 
 The reckless boys now truly felt — he's God's peculiar. care." 
 
 And now, reader, for the present, farewell. If 
 the foregoing pages have proved entertaining, per- 
 adventure on some future day, you may hear again 
 from " Our Folks at Home." 
 
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