Newspaper Page Text
fOlAJME VII.
i 1 £) £ Y Iff Y .
THE INFANT’S DUE AM.
Temperance, Ga., Dec. 8, 1879.
r Brother Burch :
,
Enclosed I send you the “Infant’s Dream,’
THci.sr
A Timc-;. I do not know who the'joy^ is the author
! i l J an'eunest of departed hope™
i w e i I shall meet my long loved
, s in the realms of eternal happiness “Infant’s ; and
' beta the publishing of the
Dream’ w 11 do good to many of jriendsin and
ft b >ut Eastman. May God grant it may
( J is the sincere and earnest prayer of
Uncle Jimmie.
m dle me on thy knee, nutma,
An I sing mo that holy strain,
>othecl me last when you fondly prest
M v glowing cheek to your soft white breast,
j j-’or I saw a scene when I slumbered last
I That I fain would see again.
And smile as you then did smile, mama, .
And weep as you then did weep ;
Then fix on me thy ^listening eye
And gaze and gaze till the tear be dry -
Then rock me gently and sing and sigh
Till j ail loll me fast asleep.
Tot I dreamed a heavenly dream, mama,
When slumbering on thy knee ;
And Hived iu aland where forms divine
In kingdoms of glory eternally shine,
Ami the world *’d give if the world were mine
Again that laud to see.
[ fancied we roamed iu a wood, m mi i,
Ami rested as under a bough,
i When near me a butterfly flaunted iu pride,
! And 1 chased it away through the forest wide,
And the night came on and 1 lost my guide,
And I knew not what to do.
My heart grew faint with fear, mama,
Aud I loudly wept for thee ;
But a white-robed maiden appeared in the air,
Ami she flung back (be curls of her golden hair
■ ■ ’ u" o'-ly ore I was aware,
■ cvme pretty .be with me.
lieted, ultima,
Am- e-'l mo faraway—
Weu the ilwor ot the dark, dark tomb,
Wt passed through a long, long vault of gloom
Then opened our eyes on a land of bloom
Aud a sky of cloudless day.
And heavenly forms were there, mama,
Aud lovely cherubs bright ;
They smiled when they saw me, but I was
amazed,
An 1 wondering around me I gazed i ud gazed,
I Audsoags I heard aud sun-beams blazed,
All glorious iu that land of light.
But hoou came a shiuiug throng, mama,
Of wkitu-wiuged babes to me ;
Their eyes looked love, their sweet lips smiled,
And they marveled to meet with earth-bora
child,
And they gloried that I from earth was exiled,
Btiyiug, here, love, blessed shall thou be.
Then l mixed with the shining throng, mama,
With cherub and seraphim lair,
Ami smv as I ioauied the regions of peace
Spirits which come from this world ot distress,
Aud there was the jcy no tongue can express,
For they knew no sorrow there.
Do you mind tvLeu sister June, mama,
Lay dead a short time agoue,
Tou gazed on ihe sail and lovely wreck,
'bth a full flood of woe you could not check.
Aud y cur heart was so sore you wished it would
break,
But you loved and you aye sobbed on.
But bad you been with me, mama,
In the realms unknown to care,
Aud neeu what I saw you ne’er hail cried,
Though they buried pretty Jane in the grave
whtn she died;
F°r shining with the blessed and adorned like
ft brtde,
Sweet bis;or Jane was there.
Ik* you naiad that silly old man, mama,
Mio came so l ate to our door ?
And the night was dark auJ the tempest loud,
And his heart was weak but bis soul was proud,
Auu bw ragged old, mantle served for his
shroud
Ero the midnight watch was o er
-AcJ think what a weight of woe, mama,
Made heavy each long-drawn sigh,
As the good man sat iu papa’s old chair,
Mile the rain dripped down from nis thin
gray hair,
Aud last as the big tear of speechless care
Ihiu down from his glazing eye.
And think what a heavenward look, mama,
Flashed through eaah trembling eye,
A* he told how he went to .the baron’s
stronghold,
Mviug, oh, let mo iu, for the night is so cold;
But the rich man cried, go sleep iu the wold,
T or we shelter no beggars here.
Mil, he was iu glory, too, mam i,
G happy as the blest cun be—
no alms in the mansions of light,
anarchs clothed in white*
cr>>wn more bright’
: i lain mid sleep, m itna,
A lea m l.h as i dreamed beiore;
Fc i sound was the slumber and sweet was my
\ bile my sou.1 in the kingdom of life was
guest;
And the heart that has throbbed in the climes
of the blest
Gui love this world no more.
“ —
1- , , LIFE WORTH LIVING?”
IL 'tiler was a beggar.
e 1> moor died in want.
CV t viu tes died of hunger.
Tmci.ce, the ,1,amulet was n slave,
Ih vcleti liven in poverty anti distiees
^ t Walter Raleigh died on the scaf
Lid.
Hiitdor lived a life of penury and du d
poor.
2*
€ t— <* 'W<J
iff y ■j.,T-. n ♦
VIVIAN AND BRENDA.
BY W. PHILIPS.
On a beautiful afternoon in the
month of August, Vivian Barton and
his cousin, Brenda Howard, were rid
0" horseback along a shady corn,
try road. At the time our story
°P t ; n8 they had reached an eminence
which command' d a splendid view of
the surrounding scenery crowned by
the gorgeous sunset.
Their figures seemed to complete
the scene. Brenda, sitting gracefully
upon the back of a fine sorrel, was
habited in green of a becoming shade.
She was not one of those grand, mag¬
nificent creatures that sometimes cross
our paths and linger in memory ; but
still was very lovely, and her person
bespoke elegance.
You could riot have called her a de¬
villed blonde, for her hair was a light
shade of chestnut, falling in rich ring¬
lets around her nezk. In her manner
she was sweet and gentle, and when
she turned her soft blue eyes upon
Vivian, and her lips parted in a win¬
ning smile, he felt that very few
girls could compare with his boy¬
hood's love.
Vivian himself presented a flue,
manly appearance, his countenance
was intelligent and expressive, with a
resolute mouth, and when he laughed
lie revealed a splendid set o( teeth.—
He, too was perfectly at home in the
saddle.
Brenda and Vivian were together
agam for the first time iu several
years, both haying spent the interven¬
ing period at school—Vivian at a uni¬
versity. Vivian hud chosen the pro¬
fession of the law, and having e mi
pleted his studies, had now returned
to the scones of ids boyhood.
Brenda was now an accomplished
young lady, beloved by all, and at¬
tractive beyond the promise of her
childhood. A lien the pair parted she
was a romping girl with a gay and
laughing disposition, and of such a
character as to win the admiration of
our hero.
It was quite observable that these
two, as children were very fond of
each other, and it did not escape the
notice of Mr. Howard, Brenda’s fath¬
er; but children always outgrow early
attachments, he argued, and of course
these yoiwig folks would not prove an
exception to the rule. So he gave
himself no concern about the mat
ter.
A few evenings l>ef< re the tide of
which I had sp.'ken, their first meet¬
ing had taken place in the dining
room at ‘‘Glen Albion." They soon
fell into their former habits <. f inti¬
macy, and Vivian began to regard his
gentle cousin us the guardian soil it of
bis uncle’s household, and a deeper
tenderness vibrated in his heart than
had ever been excited by his early af
fectioil for her.
In the description introducing our
hero and heroine to the attention of
the reader, I icraarked that they were
on tin eminence which afforded a glo¬
rious view of the landscape and sun
set.
Vivian touched his cousin's trm and
drew his own rein, and they drank in
the splendor of the scene together.
Thus absorbed, silence prevailed for
some mom nis. It was broken at
^' ,h Vivian, . who, turning ... to his
n g
companion, sniff, in words of tow aud
tender music:
‘Brenda,'it distresses* me beyond
tlu? power of language to express, to
realize that we are no lunger children,
and to feel that the impression made
upon rny heart by your girldish charms
years ago, seems to be increasing to
a i leeper and stronger sense of your
loveliness and grace. Pardon me if
>u, but I love
j Brenda, with CL and ho
best sentiments of my heart, and I
feel that without you my life will be
a hopeless future of sadness and gloom.
Had I never seen you as I now be
hold you, time might, perhaps have
ei . af( ,q p rom memory the lender asso
ciatioas of the past with which you
are connected ; but I I eel that the
impression of your loveliness can nev
er f a de from my mind.’
j, e concluded he saw a tear stand
on hoi cvelash. and ill tbe silence
w ,^ h foUoWt<1( lhe a „„ sank down
behind the mountains, and they turned
their horses’ heads mechanically, and
began to descend the hill which led
to the oM village chmvh and grave
\ yard.
S .rrow was in the heart of
lhe saddest moments , of her past life
were upon her. She loved Vivian
Bal lon as lie dearly loved her. Now
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, DECEMBER IS, 1SU).
he had told her in his only manly
terms how sincerely he loved her, and
how hopeless his life must be unless
he could feel that one day she might
be his wife. But, alas for both 1 With
this realization came a near view of
the msourmonntable impediment
to the cousumation of their early
dreams.
They knew that Mr. Howard disap¬
proved of marrage between cousins.
No word had escaped either to indi
cate that this common conscious¬
ness was uppermost in their minds,
but each divined the other’s thoughts;
so in silence they proceeded.
The h arvfst moon was rising like a
conflagration in the east, as the lov¬
ers, nursing their reflections, ap¬
proached the iron gate of the old
graveyard.
The old church was built of brick,
and in its time had numbered some
curious characters among its congre¬
gations. Standing to the right, ihe
road passed through the churchyard
within a few feet.
Deeply rooted in the minds of the
plain folks in that part of the country
there were some ghostly legends; and
on bad nights when the storm raged
without, and the men were collected
around the fire at the village inn, some
were heard to say that they cid not
ike to pass through the gruvevard ;
and one man asserted that he had
heard strange noises in the old vestry
room just as the sun was declining,
when ho was going home from his
work. It was a common saying that
no one cared to go that way at. night;
a?id even a horse pricked his ears in
the solemn shades
What amount of truth there may
have been-in these stories, it is not my
purpose to discuss, and it does not
matter in t iis narrative. But when
Brenda and Vivian crossed the gate**
way and entered into the gloomy
shadows, their minds were running a
little on these graveyard legends,
many of which tlu-y Jiad been familiar
with from early childhood.
They rode silenly along; everything
was solemn and quit ; the tall old ce
dais stood up in their silent dignity,
and the evening air was filled with a
fragrance of toe woodbine and sweet
brier.
Suddenly Brenda’s horse trembled
and snorted, and making one tremen¬
dous spring, dash on with lightning
speed, with the terrified girl clinging
to his mane. In one instant, and be
fore Vivian could recover from the
momentary shock, horse and rider
were out of sight.
Quickly realizing the position in
which she was placed, the young man
dashed his spurs into the flanks of his
own spirited animal and started in
pursuit, iu the hope of overtaking his
precious charge, his soul filled with
apprehension and dread for the fate of
his consie.
At Mr. Howard's outer gate he
found Brenda, lying on the ground j |
but the horse was nowhere to be
seen.
The pooi fell w knelt by the side of
the prostrate girl and called her by
her name, but she did not answer. -
In great distress lie took her gently in
his arms and moved hastily toward
the house.
Dr. Wilton was the popular physi¬
cian of St. Mary's parish, and inar
tied the ward of Mr. Howard, creat¬
ing a family connection which both of
the gentlemen found it agreeable to
cultivate, establishing thereby a warm
friendship, so that the doctor always
called at Mr. Howard's when he was
attending a patient iu the neighbor
hood.
It so happened that at the moment
when Brenda’s horse threw her ofi as
|, e leaped to clear the fence at the gate,
Dr. Wiltou was ou the verandah with
her father.
The attention of , bodi , gentlemen
was attracted i by the rideless horse of
Brenda tearing towards the house.—
Without stopping to secure the ani—
into the '
mal, they sprang doctor's gig
and drove rapidly in the direction I
whence the horse had come, and we»e I
j ns t ascending a slight declivity near j
the gate when they perceived Vivian :
with his charge rapidly approaching
them.
Doctor Wilton drew iu his horse,
and Mr. Howard, jumping out of the
carriage, said :
Vivian is my daughter badly
hurt V
‘I fear, sir, that she is.'
‘I hope, sir,' said Mr. Howard cold
ly, ‘this will teach you in the future
not to race with a lady on horses
with which you are not perfectly fa*.
miliar.'
Dr. Wilton mide a brief examina
tion of the wounds of the sufferer, and
directed the father to convey her as
gently as he possibly coaid to the
house.
When the gig containing the dis
tressed father and his child started,
Vivian held back and was much iu
clined to indulge in his own sad reflec
tions, but the aimable doctor had al
ready opened his heart in sympathy
for him, and now ( taking him by the
arm, said :
‘Mr Barton, cheer up, sir. I hope
the case does net justify your serious
mode. 1
The doctor and Vivian walked rap¬
idly to the house, keeping a pretty
space with the gig.
At the house the commotion which
is usual upon the occasion of an an ac¬
cident followed, and Vivian lingered
near Brenda's room, in the hope that
some word to encourage his sad heart
might fall from the kind-hearted doc¬
tor.
But he could only inform our hero
that she had recovered from her
swoon, and that nothing positive cons
cerning her state could be ascertained
before morning.
Vivian spent a cheerless heavy
night, and early the next morning
sought his uncle, to assure him that
he had not been the cause of Brenda’s
accident, explaining just how it oc ¬
curred.
Mr. Howard apologized fer his h asty
words, and told Vivian that his daugh¬
ter was much better, her injuries prov¬
ing slight, and that with quiet and re¬
pose, she would do very well in a few
days
This report soothed Vivian's feel¬
ings in a great degree, but still they
dragged a'ong sorrowfully.
On the morning of the second day
after the accident above described, th e
good old vigar called on Mr. How¬
ard to inquire after Miss Brenda, and
to give the following note into her
fathers hand:
Dear Uncle: —I love Con ism
Brenda just as you loved Aunt Bertha
when you were united in the holy
bonds of marriage. Knowing, as I
have known from our early childhood,
the settled aversion t! at noth you and
Aunt Bertha entertained to the mar
riage of first cousins, I feel the utter
hopelessness of my passim for my
cousin, and seek to banish the unhappy
feeling from my heart by foreign trav¬
el. Ere this reaches you, I shall be
on my way to distant scenes, and my
return is likely, I fear, to be long de¬
layed. I am with deep affection for
you all, Y r our nephe w,
Vivian Barton.
Mr. Howard was not a little amaz¬
ed when lie perused these lives, and
Vivian’s short epistle awake tied iu his
mind a volume of thought. He may
have been* rash in pronouncing the
edict against the marriage of near rel¬
ations, but hud he not reason to do so
since he led his own beautiful cousin
from the altar a bride ?
Three sons had been born him, but
only one ever called him ‘father;’ that
one never stood upon his feet, but,
after causing a long warfare of hope
and despair iu his father's breast, had
been laid l>y the others in the old
ch urchyard.
Mr. Howard had resolved to save
his child from the bitter experience
he and his wife had known in this re¬
spect, and this resolution might have
Wilton, strengthen with had time, opinion but the Doctor sub- j
too, an on i
ject, and il there was any ot.e man
inclined to have confidence in the I
opinions of another, that man was Mr.
Howard.
Dr. Wilton had expressed the idea,
after going carefully over a gre ».t deal
of science, that unfortunate births;
are not the probable results from the
marriage . ot relatives,except i under . pe- , ;
r
• •
culiar . circumstances, . and j that i is • only ,
persons of similar tempera
ments are united that this result is
probable—or, in other words, where
of both their parents family. resemble He drew the same conclu* branch j
tie j
jions partly from an extended practi
C»1 experience, aud an opinion so well
founded had long since altered Mr.
Howard's view in a great degree.—
But still he thought that such mar
riages were not desirable, aud that all
things had turned for the best in re
gard to his daughter. \ ivian was
young, and absence would cure him |
of his youth; ul infatuation. (
And there he thought the m .t or
ended ; but, as the wisest of us some¬
times d“, ‘he reckoned without his
host/ as an old saying goes ; lor, af- j
ter the doctor pronounced Brenda
well, she seemed to decline ; no
tige of her injury remained, but her
natural vivacity and animation seem
ed in a measure to have forsaken her.
i She was, if possible, more aimableand
considerate to those around her than
ever, but she was becoming an object
of anxious solicitude to all, and espec
j ially to her devoted father. Every one
seemed to have an undefined fear
that something was wrong .in the
household.
Mr. Howard had a vague itnpres
sion that his daughter's condition
was in some way associated with the
sudden and unceremonious departure
of Vivian Barton ; but she bad no
tangible clue to the case, and so she
waited with the well-tried patience of
a mother.
Tito Tact was the’heart of the fair
flower had received a shock which
must have caused it to perish, but for
the timely circumstance of her father
having drawn her to him one day,
asking her if she had any secret sor¬
row . To this interrogatory the gent’e
maiden answered ‘No,' and would
have concealed her secret ; but he
saw the truth in her manner, an tak¬
ing Vivian’s letter from his pocket,
he placed it in her band and told her
to read it, saying as he did so:
‘Brenda, do you love Vivian Bar
ton V
She answered with her arms around
his neck, and her head upon his shou ! -
der:
‘Yes, even as mother loves you,
dear father.
Then Mr. Howard kissed her and
said :
‘Well, my darling child, I will not
be an obstacle in the path of your hap¬
piness. With your mother’s consent
you may write to Vivian, for I know
him to be a noble fellow; and if lie re¬
turns and has not forgotten you. you
may turn the old home of my father
upside down and inside out.'
So Brenda sought her mother, who
was so glad to see the bright smile of
old on the sweet face of her daughter,
that she could not have resisted if she
had been so disposed confirming the
consent which had been given her by
her lather. After this event a change
soon soon followed ; the old house
grew to l»e like itself again, and so
did the sweet girl.
One bright morning as Vivian Bar¬
ton had been indulging in one of the
gloomy leveries that now habitually
attacked him, a missive was put in his
hand. The address was in a mascu**
line hand, which was at once recog¬
nized as that of his uncle, and as he
drew the letter from the envelope, the
photograph of his lovely cousin fell on
the bench by his side. His heart
leaped witti joy, as he unfolded the
welcome letter, and read as fol¬
lows
Dear Cousin Vivian:— Papa has
shown me the letter you sent him, and
with his permission I write to say that
if you are willing to return, and have
not forgotten, he will address you in
the language of Laban to Jacob, 19th
verse, and 29th chapter of Gensis.
Brenda.
Vivian, on turning to the passage
mentioned, found these lines : ‘And
Laban said, it is better that I rive her
thee than I should give her to another
man ; abide with me.’
From this moment Vivian was a
new man. He has claimed his bright ,
reward, lives in a handsome house
nar Mr. Howard’s and Vivian is a
thriving farmer, his happiness crowd
mg out of his mind that mournful
time when lie was vainly endeavoring
to forget her who had taken posses¬
sion of his heart.
CHOICE SENTENCES.
Faith.—Faith is the earnest press'
. of . the , soul . toward _. ,, God. ,
ing s
Tinkering.—a worldly man is a
man not mended ; a religious man is
often a man spoiled in mending,
Christ and Salvati >u. — When
Christ spoke •f “salvation” He was
Himself the salvation of which He
gpake.
Forgetfulness of Christ.—To how
many b onses must Christ invite Ilim
so ]f jf he is ever to be a guest there
j sl ?
Need—S unetimes what we have
need of from God we do not even wish
for ; but sometimes what we greatly
wish for we dare not expect.
Bible Teaching.—Tue Bible is not
ptirr>e, but it is poueifui; and the nai
urainess and ieaiU of i’s incident* 1
fftxatly conmbute to its power.
TI1E CAPTAIN’S GIRL.
‘No/ said I, 'you shan’t have him.'
‘Oh, papa !’ said she, *1 love him so
—I love him so dearly !'
‘I don't eare/ said I. A common
sailor like him !' And then she bellow,
ed and wiped her eyes, as might have
expected of a girl.
My girl was a beauty, and she was
the only one I had—the only I ever
had—and I owned a boat, and I was
known everywhere as Captain Parker
of the Fauey Jane, and all I had Jen¬
nie would have s^me day ; and was
it likely I'd give her to Jack Blaze, as
was before the mast ? No!
S Well,'! set my foot down and I sup¬
posed she would obey. But, lo and
behold, what should I sec one day as
I came home from the river but a coup¬
le of people swinging on my gate.
' It Was that Jack Blaze and Jennie,
and his arm was around her waist.
I bolted in between ’em like a shell
and ordered Jennie to her room, and I
ordered Jack away and told him what
would ha/pn to him if I saw him on
my gate again. •
If you Wern't her father, sir/ said
Jack, ‘I‘d npt bear such words from
you; but as it is, and as you're an old
man- '
7 i V
With that I fifed a flowerpot at him
and called him a confounded mutineer,
and he sheered off!
‘Jennie/ says I, 'I've done well by
you—your old father has done well by
you, and what have you done by him?
I've taught you to play the pianna, or
had you taught, which is the same
thing, and you have got one. You
dress in silks, and I keep a servant lor
you, I‘ve got you down in my will for
all that I shall leave, and how do you
use me ? While Fin away following
the water, you mutiny. Now, I'm sor¬
ry to punish you. I dare not leave
you alone, and I'll lock the house and
take you with me on my trips. The
cabin is comfortable and you'll not suf¬
fer, and if you dont't like it you ‘shall
lump it. Keeping company with a
fellow like that 1 Ugh l’
‘D->nt be cross, papa/ said Jennie.
I will like to go, I um sure. As for
Jack, he is the best fellow I know, and
1 will kee company with no one else ;
but if you do not like it yet, we will
wait.'
‘Wait!’ says T. 'Wait! Why, if
I wanted you to marry, Jennie, there
is the captain of a steamer, Jennie
—think of that.'
‘I do not think he is as nice as Jack,
said Jennie, ‘and I love Jack.'
Then I shook her, I'm sorry to say
I shook her, and the next day' I had
her trunk sent down to the boat and
took her under my arm to the same
place.
The cabin was good enough for a
queen and (he little stateroom a pic¬
ture, and she seemed to like it.
You would have thought I was giv¬
ing her a treaWpunishing her.
She used to sit out on deck all the
fine days, with knitting and solving or
a book, and she sang to me every
evening.
But she didn't give up ; not even
when she saw the captain—six feet
three ; handsome as a picture.'
No, she stuck to Jack, and I stuck
out against him as stiff as she, and so
we sailed up aud down the river, and
summer went and autumn came and
winter was a coming, but my girl was
obstinate as ever .J
I was my last trip.
All winter after the river was frozen
the Saucy J ane lay at the dock.
‘If you were a good, obedient girl/
said I, ‘I shouldn't have to lock you
up, but as it is I must.*
So I kissed her—I was glad to re¬
member afterwards that I kissed her—
and I victualed the cabin and locked
the door and put the key in my pocket
and off I wefit.
I had to go a distance out of town,
and when I settled my business there,
I dined, and it was evening before I
got back to the Saucy Jane, or rather
to Poplartown, where she lay.
I thought to myself, as I came dowu
that I had never seen the place so busy,
but as I neared the dock I saw that
something had happened.
There was a crowd there, and peo¬
ple were talking and shaking their
heads, and somehow I couldn't seethe
smoke-stack of the Saucy Jane peer
through the shadows as I might, nor
the red and green lights at her head,
nur any sign of her, and a great fear
crept into my heart, aud i began to
shiver.
‘It is only the fog/ says I, but there
was no fog.
‘It is dark/ says I, but tbe darker
NO. 51.
was the brighter the lights always
shone out.
Then all trembling and shaking like
an 0 h] man—like my old grandfather
who had the paisy use to do, I re*
#
member thinking—I caught hold of a
man who was passing, and s.ff 1 I :
’Look here, man, what's the matter ?
What's the crowd about about ?—
What has kappeued ?
‘It's the little steamboat down there,
said the man, ‘the Saucy Jane. She‘s
beou run into and sunk by a coal boat.
She went down in thirty minutes.—
The captain was awav, they sav, and
the men went on a spree. Only the
cabin boy was there ; they picked him
up. You can just now see the smoko
stack above the water. The coal boat
was hurt a bit too. She’s lying out
there.
‘Oh* my God !‘ said I. ‘My daugh¬
ter !'
1 hen I d;dn‘t know what happened
but I found myself in the doctor's
shop pretty soon, and a crowd around
me, and heard some one saying very
softly :
‘Ilis daughter was on board, Sho
went down with the boat/
‘I locked her in ! said I. ‘Cruel old
brute that I am ! 1 locked her in that
cabin—I murdered her—I, her father !
Then the doors were locked and the
windows small, and locked her iu to •
drown like a r it !*
Tnen I went off again, and it was
all hoi i ible dream, until I awoke to
fir - that it was night, and I saw a man
sin mg beside me.
\\ ho is this ?' said I in a kind of
fright, as I recognized the face.
It's Jack Blaze, captain, said tiie
man. ‘Do you think yourst If better?
‘Do you think I want to be better ?
sai\l I. ‘All I want is to die and go
to Jamie. I murdered her, Jack.
‘No, no, captain, said Jack, softly.
You locked her up from her true love
as loved her, but you didn't know what
was coming.
‘Oh, if I could die this minute ! said
I. 'Jack if you have got a pistol put
it to my head ! My little girl !
‘Well, she is sale from marrying me,
Captain/ said Jack. ‘I suppose that
is a comfort to you.
‘Oh, Jack !‘ said I. ‘Oh, Jack Blaze,
if my Jennie could come to life again
there is nothing I would deny her! I
would give her my blessing, let aloue
a good sailor like you I know nothing
against, but that he’s what I was 30
years ago. Oh, Jack, if Jennie could
come back to life I'd give her to you
and be happy ; but it's no use, she‘s
drowned 1
‘Captain/ said Jack Biaze, bending
over me, ‘I do not feel sure of that.
‘Eh ! ; said X.
‘To be sure/ said he. if she was in
the cabin, locked up as you left her,
she'd been drowned, certain, but she
mayu’t have been.
'Eh ? I shrieked again.
‘Indeed ! said Jack, I know she was
not.
Ob, God, help mo ! Don't torture
me ! said I. Speak out.
‘She warn't, captain, for fifteen min¬
utes after you left I went aboard, burst
open the door—these was no one ihere
but the ciibin boy—and I took her
out. We went to the circus together
and had a lovely day. The tfaucy
Jane’s cabin was stove in ; the coal
boat walked straight into the cabin,
captain, and it's God’s mercy I took
her out.
Then I heard a dear, sweet voice
crying out; ‘Jack, open the door ; let
me come to papa.
I hadn’t cried before since I had been
flogged at school, but I cru d like a
baby then ; and how could I help it ?
For Jennie had come out of the grave,
as it seemed to me, and was holding
my head in her aims and kissing me
and calling me her darling,
I was so happy 1 thought 1 should
die, aud I never remembered that I
had lost the Saucy Jane until the next
morning, though the boat was tbe ap¬
ple of my eye.
I own another now, and Jm k and I
take her up and down the river.
Jennie goes with us very often, for
she was married to Jack Blaze on last
Christmast, and I like the iad—yes I
like him almost as weil as Jennie does,
I think, for I had been left to myself
and t he had not set himself a n ainst me
that dreadful day, I shuuid have no
daughter now, aud I should be her
murderer.
Goldsmith's “Vicar of Wakefield"
was sold for a trifle to save him from
the gr«p of the law.
Fielding, lies in the burying ground
of ihe English factory at Lisbon, with
out a stone to mark the spot.