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About Richards' weekly gazette. (Athens, Ga.) 1849-1850 | View Entire Issue (Jan. 26, 1850)
A xAMihl ■3MMAIi t . t ... wt M WSiB TO UTEMTBMS, Til UTS MB jjg TO 6MMIL MELLISEHCE. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. THE ANCIENT SUITOR. I. Old Time was an ancient suitor, Who, heedless of fashion and youth, Still kept to the saws of his tutor, Aiid held that all change was untruth ; He never kept terms with the Tailors, The aid if the iiarber he scorn’d, And, with person as huge as a whaler’s, Ilis person he never adorn’d. Sing—Out on that ancient suitor ! 11. What chance could he have with a maiden, i When, round her, the gallant and guy, (’ame flocking, their bravest array’d in, Still leading her fancies astray ? lie raved for awhile, but grew wiser, And showing the whites of his eyne, Sung— I Now for a game to surprise her, With charms that shall make her see mine!” Sing—lley, for that ancient suitor! 111. | His beard had grown whiter than ever, lie still made no change in his dress, I And, as for his manners, you never Would think he could dream of success! but the ladies now smiled at his presence, I And sigh’d, while each play’d out her trumps, inu his coming now conjured up pWasance, Where, before, it but conjured up dumps. Sing—Ho! for that ancient suitor ! And what were the arts of our suitor 1— Why, the simplest of all, to be sure: i- Plutus he turn’d, as his tutor — Grew older—and ceased to be poor. He gave up all sentiment-gammon, And found that, whene'er he could prove That his worship found favor with Mammon, Hi* Worship found favor with Love! Hurrah! for that ancient suitor ! BURTON. —— For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. MADELEINE—IMPROMPTU. but hear me, Madeleine! I complain, since in vain, 1 implore thee, Madeleine ! ‘Aot a bird that cheers our tree, Witk his gong of melody, But receives an answer free, Such as vainly, Madeleine, 1 implore of thee:— ‘•ailing hopeless—hapless pleading—heartless Madeleine! bo but hear me, Madeleine, i hough in vain, Madeleine, i implore thee to m} r pain ! Be, I pray thee, unto me, Hike (he bird that cheers our tree— Bet thy song, with answer free, Though it. answers, Madeleine, I here s no hope for thee ! f answer, to my pleading—only answer, Madileine! e b bethink thee, Madeleine, bra the strain, sung in vain, Hies away in sighs again. 1 fckc thy counsel from the bird. ho will surely, one prefer’d, Answer to some wooings heard T iud sonic mate, my Madeleine— -1 hough it bo not me, ■' Solne brother, happier pleading, for thy fa vor Madeleine ! For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. TRUST IN GOD. MRS. C. W • DUBOSE. 1 rust in God—he will uphold thee, ’ * ien Hie billows o’er thee roll— HU the waters angry raging— M liiaper peaoe unto thy soul; ompest shall not overwhelm thee, Held within his strong control! * ““hh B d, despairing, doubting, ( otneto Him with every grief; _ My thy sorrows all before Him, l lu will give thee sweet relief 1 I T'st thee safely in the shadow I 1 wing beneath! I* hi God—lie will sustain thee, Neath the might of human woe— (eer thy soul with living waters, liich from heavenly fountains flow : AH the treasures of His mercy, 1 0 thy tainting spirit show. * “id in God—His hand will guide thee Hely through the snakes of life— a 0 sting from every sorrow— .j thy way with blessings rife; 11 “ u gh the tempests rage within thee, * l ‘ will calm thy spirit's strife ! * r,, 't hi God—no power shall harm thee, bile thy Savior proves thy friend ; ben the cares of earth assail thee, , ‘dp and comfort He will send ; I j l ' l a ®L*tion’s keenest unguish, e Bus taining grace will blend! | rUdt h* Uod—the world may fail thee— Friends prove faithless, and forsake ; On thy head, in wrathful vengeance, storms of sorrow often break ; Hut thy God will still be faithful— Trust him for His mercies sake ! I rust in God—lfis boundless mercy Will thy sinking soul sustain, When affliction’s hand is on thee, And thy body rack'd with pain ! J o 11 is throne, from hearts believing, Prayer was never made in vain ! f rust in God, and He will keep thee In His own especial care, And in His eternal kingdom, Make for thee a mansion fair; In that hour of glory endless, Thou a crown of lifeshalt wear! Tranquilla, Ga ., 1849. ■rasSSIMIHISiSIS. 1 ~ n.--..-. . .j For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. SUCCESS DEFEATED. bp “la georgif.nne.” PART SECOND. Revelling in uncaged liberty, the Lars den party never tired of roving. If a horse only neighed within hearing, they were up for a ride; and woe betide the luckless wight who should object to their doing as they pleased. Amid them all, ivas poor Ella, wearied with the constant effort to seem gay. Her father had rightly judged that her duties as hostess, would compel her to exertion ; hut cold and indifferent in his own nature he little dreamed that to a soul like her’s, exertion would but hasten decay. Alas, he had yet to learn, that affection built upon esteem cannot be shaken, even by the hand that reared it. He thought it would crumble with time, but did not know that when one lies in ruins, the other looked on, a wreck. He was distressed at the change; to do him justice, whatever of maternal affection he had, had been lavished on this child. She alone had lightened the weight of his own selfishness, by rousing up feelings of a kindlier nature. And now that he saw her fading by his side, he felt almost in clined to yield to her weakness, and pur chase his own happiness and hers, by the sacrifice of his pride. But he still thought “it will wear away soonand he daily expected to see her becoming, as she was wont to be. “ the light of his eyes” and “the pride of his heart.” Not so Larsden. He saw too plainly, the sure, steady pro gress of grief; and he knew its workings too well, to fancy that a saddened heart could ever be renewed. He shuddered at the change which must come over her, while he felt that even could he remove the blight, it would but settle as a curse on himself. His intercourse with her, was as constant and affectionate as ever. She seemed, now that all other support was withdrawn, to look to him for advice and hope; and although he felt that every day made separation still harder, he could not bear that she should think his affection withdrawn, when most needed. Fortu nately, he was one who had always pos sessed great self-control, and now his calm ness and unchanged manner surprised even himself. Often when he saw her sur rounded by her gay companions, with her feelings vainly trying to rise uppermost, would he spring from some petty occupa tion, and declaring that there was some thing to be seen, lead her off to become calm in the cool evening air, or laughingly send her on some errand, which gave her time for one free gush of tears. Such was the slate of things, when the party determined upon returning. Ella, with two other young ladies, was to have ridden in a barouche, driven by Larsden, but this, his nephew, Henry, would not hear of. So Ella, to cut the matter short, sprang into his buggy, and kissing her hand to the rest, drove off, amid the ironic congra tulations of her friends. It was the im pulse of the moment, and she forgot en tirely the long tete a tete before them, until she was wonderfully awakened by the deep sighs and olt-repealed “ah ! me’s” of her companion. Amazed at her thought lessness, and anxious to prevent a regular ‘ scene,’ she tried to keep it off by a grace ful play of small wit, suiting her ideas to the capacity of her listener; and at last succeeded so well, that he joined her mer riment and laughed heartily, declaring that she had not been so agreeable all the week. “Just hear that, girls,” she exclaimed, turn ing suddenly to the barouche, as it came driving up, “ Henry says”—but at this instant, she was almost thrown from her seat, by a sudden start of the horse; and before Henry had time to rein in, they were racing through the woods at a speed which threatened their lives. The ladies almost sprang from the carriage in their terror, calling aloud, “oh stop them! save them.” The gentleman seemed no less excited, and Larsden alone retained any presence of mind. “To the right,” he ex claimed, and giving the rein to his horses, they dashed into an obscure road which led in the same direction. The others were soon lost sight of, for Larsden’s horses seemed borne by their master’s spirit. Suddenly, he reined in on an open plain. “Good God!” he exclaimed, “who is that I” The buggy had been stopped, and Henry, with a coarse looking man, was raising a lifeless body. Ella was not there. Larsden knelt over the bleeding man—“ Howard, Howard,” he murmured in agony. Every thought was forgotten. He did not groan, hut he seemed almost lifeless beside him. “Oh, your honor, your honor, he’s kill- j ed,” sobbed Pat, “and the young laydic she’ll throw herself into the river,” he cried, imploringly. “ The young lady ! where ?” exclaimed Larsden, not stopping for an answer. He found that she had fallen on the river’s j bank, in an attempt to go for water. Has tily bathing her face, he left her to the care of others, and returned to Howard, who was lying, slightly raised, with the blood gushing from his head. One look sufficed to show that no time was to be lost. He bound the wound, and taking him up like a child in his arms, bore him to the carri- j age, calling to the Irishman to follow him. I “That will 1, your honor,” exclaimed Pat. jumping in after him. “Oh, the dar lint young ginthleman to he killed for the young laydie.” “ How did it happen ?” asked Larsden, bending over his senseless friend. “Oh, your honor, the cratur was going straight for the river.” Pat stopped to cry afresh. “I was sitting, convarsing with the ginthleman so pleasant, and lie was laughing and calling me a regular Irish man, when all at once he screeched out, ‘Ella;’ and when I jumped up to see what was the matter, he was half way to the horse, or else he niver should have been murthered in this way.” Here the poor man could not control his feelings, and sobbed aloud. Larsden was not given to weakness, but as Pat ceased, a tear fell upon the face of his friend. “My poor Howard,” he murmured, “there is more than one who would have given his life to save yours.” A call from one of the car riages roused him, and he learned that Ella still remained senseless. The curtain fell from his hand, he leaned backward, and shook his head as if in agony. “Hea vens! heavens!” he groaned, “this is God’s work, but it works destruction to us all.” The tone of his voice startled the Irish man, who looked up with the tears stand ing in his eyes. Larsden saw that he was observed, and his face returned to its wonted calmness. When Ella returned to her senses, she found herself in her own room. Her father stood over, weeping like a child. Alas! what availed contrition now. The victims were before him, but where the power to give happiness? In the remorse of that moment, he could have sacrificed every thing. Every thing sank into in significance, in comparison with the misery which he had wrought. Ella’s eyes were turned on him. He thought they looked reproachfully, and buried his face to avoid their glance. “Dear father,” she mur mured, her arm twined around his neck, and his head sank on her pillow. Neither spoke. Would that they had. While the hand of remorse was upon him the heart relaimed its sovereignty, but that hour passed and pride commenced its struggle. Larsden was at Howard’s. Ella’s fever raged high, but the wretched father could not stand it. He put on his hat, and rush ed from the house. Night had set in, and the streets but dimly lighted, scarce served to show him his way. But he hurried on. In other days, he had. in a fit of admira tion, payed Howard a visit; and now he turned his steps towards the same dwell ing. He was surprised to find it shut up and dark. Bewildered, he was going away, when two well known surgeons passed him hurriedly. “ That noble fellow ” exclaimed one, “ I hope he is not killed.” He waited to hear no more, but trembling in every joint, fol lowed. They entered a large hotel. “ Al- most dead, sir,” said a servant girl, wiping her eyes, as the surgeons passed up. The old gentleman leaned against the stair. Life seemed giving way beneath him. The girl thinking that he would faint, caught his arm and called for some water. They brought it, but he motioned it away, and begged her to lead on. The next moment he stood beside the dying man. Larsden | did not notice him as he entered. His attention seemed absorbed in the groans of his friend. The surgeons were consulting over him. “ Gentlemen, whatever is to be done, must be done quickly,” said Larsden, al most sternly. “ We can do nothing, sir, it isa hopeless case,” said the surgeon. “Something must be done,” exclaimed Larsden. “We shall only add to his sufferings, sir.” “ He cannot suffer more than he does,” exclaimed Larsden, springing up. The surgeons saw that resistance was useless, and turned their sleeves for the bloody operation. “ Do you think he is conscious of his sufferings?” asked the old gentleman, in a weak voice. “f am afraid so, sir,” answered the sur geon. A deep piteous groan seemed meant to answer him, and no longer able to stand it, he sprang up and rushed from the room. “ Lock the door!” said Larsden. They locked it, and the head was re-wound. “ 1 am afraid there is some internal in jury,” said one of the surgeons, feeling about his chest. Larsden shook his’ head and sighed, i All night long they watched, expecting that every moment would be his last; but as morning approached, his breathing be came easier, and Larsden, for the first time, began to hope that he would not die. He i immediately wrote to Ella, telling her how matters stood, and promising to write con stantly through the day. Days passed away. Howard seemed slowly returning to consciousness: but it was hard to recognize in that wasted form the spirited youth of former days. Even the disappointment of his early hopes had done but little towards saddening his brow. So unchanged had the man been, that Larsden was at times inclined almost to think him incapable of lasting attachment, and in his own mind blamed him for not feeling it more. Not sanguine in his own nature, he knew nothing of that buoyancy which wells over all obstacles, and looks to hope beyond. Exclusive in his own attachment, he could not comprehend that love which centres on one , but is boundless as the world. But if ever thoughts like these had raised a doubt, or led him to re gard coldly one whom he began to dis trust, it was all forgotten in the present agonies of his friend. And, as he bent over the silent sufferer, he thought he could trace many a care-worn line, which had escaped detection yvhen obscured by the youth’s glad smile. Time wore on. Many had offered their services, and many had insisted that Lars den was fatigued and needed rest. But for Larsden there was no rest. His friend’s fate seemed upon him, and whether sleep ing or waking, anxiety hung over him, not weighing him down, but urging him to greater watchfulness. Pat was his con stant companion, and spite of the coarse ness, and sometimes noisiness of the un lettered Irishman, he could not help being pleased with his warm hearted sincerity and disinterested affection. He was sur prised to find himself bestowing confidence and even affection, on one who was so far his inferior. And Pat, on the other hand, began to believe that gentlemen were a great deal better than he took them for. “ Arrah,” your honor, he’d say, “ I’ll go away with quite a rispict for the ginthle man.” “But why go away, Pat ? 1 was think ing of employing you as my coachman, or if you like it better, to clean my boots.” “Oh, your honor, if he dies,” he said, pointing to the bed, “I’ll lave the coun thrie.” Larsden stopped. “It he lives?” he asked. “I’ll never sarve any body else, your honor.” Larsden turned away. “A friend, a friend,” he thought, “ what would I not give for one friend.” And, as the memory of one who might have been his friend came upon him, his soul turned shuddering upon itself. “Were I where Howard is,” he thought, “whose life would hang upon mine ?” But his lips closed, and his heart was forced into stillness. It was moments before even a sigh attested to the inward struggle. The old gentleman, meanwhile, was con stant in his visits. His anxiety was in tense; and all that money could procure, or interest suggest, was iavished upon the sufferer. But none cherished a hope of ultimate recovery; and when left alone with Larsden, neither broached the future. Had Larsden urged his suit then, he could have done as he pleased ; but he was too honorable, to force consent from an almost frantic man. And he could not but be lieve that should Howard he restored, no farther obstacles would meet him. Alas, with all hm penetration, he knew not the depth of a selfish heart, and little thought that remorse once removed, would leave it harder than before. But he was not al ways to be blind. As was often the case, they were one evening together seated by the invalid’s bed. Larsden held the thin cold hand in his, and in a deep reverie was watching the still face, when the eyes opened full on him. while a confused mur mur seemed meant to ask a question. It was the first time he had spoken, and they both hailed the change. Larsden spoke to him, and hung anxiously awaiting an an swer; but a slight pressure of the hand was the only sign of recognition. This, however, was enough for the old gentle man. His fears vanished, and from this moment pride stood uppermost. Larsden’s quick eye caught the change, and a pang shot through him as he saw that his hour was lost. A consciousness that he had been restrained only by a sense of honor, pre vented self-reproach ; but he determined to seize the very first recurrence of his uncle’s better feelings. Those feelings never came. As Howard’s recovery slowly progressed, he gradually absented himself, until at length, day after day would puss, and bring only a polite message, or trifling present. Larsden was enraged. He could hardly realize such inconceivable folly; and his displeasure, which had hitherto kept within bounds, was hardly concealed from the eye of his uncle. Fortunately, the invalid, I >r a long time, seemed to have no distinct th night of either past or future, and had never indulged the hopes which now depressc I his friend. Otherwise, the disappointim it might have proved fatal. Now he was conscious of the old gentle man’s presen. e, and sometimes smiled as he saw him approaching. Larsden knew not how to ward off’ the blow. He dared not build him up on false hopes, as he knew that in a very short time they must be destroyed ; and he dreaded the time when restored recollection should excite him with anxiety about the future. Troubled with these thoughts, he watched closely every passing expression of sadness, but the face was placid as if it had never known trou ble once. He was startled. The old gen tleman took Howard's hand, to bid him good bye. He looked up, and hope and anxiety seemed struggling for an instant. Larsden’s heart sank within him. His uncle saw it 100, and turned away. Lars den closed the door on him, and then anx ious to ascertain the truth, leant over his friend and brushed the hair from his fore head. The same expression was lurking there, but it cleared away as their eyes met, and he said in a low voice, “Your uncle, Larsden?” “ Has gone.” “ And Ella?” “Will not be perfectly well until you are,” replied Larsden. Howard smiled, but turned away with a sigh. And now Larsden had to watch over both mind and body. It was impossible to conceal the truth, and yet its immediate disclosure was not to be thought of. In his anxiety to avoid one extreme, he ap proached the other ; and his over careful ness roused Howard to a consciousness of what was passing in his friend’s mind. “ I am not altogether the baby you take me for, Edward,” he said, smiling, as his friend hesitated. “ I know as well as you do that your uncle is no more inclined to make me his son, than he was at first. Now, you see I know as much as you do. So don’t be racking your brain, to find out how to cheat me out of my senses.” The remark had its desired effect. From that hour all evasion was thrown aside, and Larsden spoke as freely as he would have done months before. But there was a third person who seem ed to have a voice in the matter. To be sure he never alluded to the “young lay die,” but he was most annoying in his conduct to the old gentleman. Pat had pretty well guessed the cause of what he called the “breaking off,” and when he saw the old gentleman so constant in his visits, his warm heart glowed at the thought, that if ever “the young ginthle man was spared to the world, he and the young laydie would go through it toge- ther.” Accordingly, poor Pat was most obsequious to the old gentleman, always bowing and scraping him into the room. But now, as the visits came “few and far between,” the case was very different, and Pat could hardly be restrained from grumb ling at him the moment lie appeared. In deed, so obstinately persevering had he become, that Larsden usually managed to get him out of the room. This evening there was no doing any thing with him. Unfortunately, the old gentleman called for a glass of water. “ I’m not your sarvant,” grumbled Pat between his teeth. Larsden saw that a storm was coming, and got the water himself, taking occasion at the same time to send Pat to the apo thecaries. But Pat stood stock still. A moment after, he commenced grumbling at the object of his wrath again. “ Pat, what are you waiting for? I want the soda.” “ Soda on the ’able, your honor.” Larsden got up and spoke to him. Pat now consented to be quiet, hut he seated himself on a low stool, and kept watching the visitor like an old bull dog. “ An insolent fellow,” said the old gen tleman. Howard began to suspect the cause of the disturbance, and called to him. In a moment, the faithful fellow was at his bedside. “ Pat,” he said. “ I had a bill at Roberts the tailors. 1 want you to go and pay it, and get a better suit of clothes for yourself. Those are not fit for you to wear here.” “Your honor! it isn’t yourself would despise a frind, for the coat on his back,” sail Pat, growling, in conclusion, at the old gentlemen. “Nonsense, Pat! Edward, you’ll find a fifty dollar bill in my purse. Do send him off,” he said, in a low voice. But low as it was, Pat heard it, and tears started into his eyes. “No! your honor,” he said, “I’ll go without the money. Howard looked pained, and Larsden followed Pat to settle matters. The poor fellow was half angry, but more sorry, and it was a long time before he could be convinced that Howard only wanted him not to offend the old gentleman. “Oh! it’s for the young laydie, then,” said Pat, brightening up. Larsden laughed, and Pat was satisfied. [Concluded next week.] If a & Pa II & IB [From “ The MISERIES OF A HUNDRED THOU SAND POUNDS A-YEAR. [Sir Sedley Beaudesert, a fine gentleman, with a reasonable fortune—a true man of pleasure—suddenly becomes, by the death of a near relative, at an age when his easy habits of living are confirmed, a Marquis, with an immense estate. The following conversation will show that exalted rank and fortune are not always without their peculiar cares and troubles, in cases where the possessor of them is the least conscien tious :] “ A sad affliction has befallen me,” said the Marquis, “ and none sympathize with me!” “ Yet all, even unacquainted with the late lord, must have felt shocked at the death of one so young, and so full of pro mise.” “ So fitted in evety way to bear the bur then of the great Castleton name and prop erty, and yet you see it killed him ! Ah ! if he had been but a simple gentleman, or if he had had a less conscientious desire to do his duties, he would have lived to a good old age. I know what it is already. Oh, if you saw the piles of letters on my table! I positively dread the post. Such colossal improvements on the property which the poor boy had begun, for me to finish. What do you think now takes me to Fudge and Fidget’s? Sir, they are the agents for an infernal coal mine which my cousin had re-opened in Durham, to plague my life out with another thirty thousand pounds a-year! How am I to spend the money ?—how am Ito spend it! There’s a cold blooded head steward, who says that charity is the greatest crime a man in high station can commit; it demoralises the poor. Then, because some half a dozen farmers sent me a round-robin, to the effect that their rents were too high, and I wrote them word the rents should be lowered, there was such a hullabaloo—you would have thought heaven and earth were coming to gether. ‘lf a man in the position of the Marquis of Caallelon set the example of letting land below its value, how could the poorer squires in the country exist ?—or, if they did exist, what injustice to expose them to the charge that they were grasping landlords, vampires, and bloodsuckers. — Clearly, if Lord Castleton lowered his rents, (they were too low already,) he struck a mortal blow at the property of his neigh bors, if they followed his example ; or at their character, if they did not.’ No man can tell how hard it is to do good, unless fortune gives him a hundred thousand pounds a-year, and says,—‘Now, do good with it! Sedley Beaudesert might follow his whims, and all that would be said a gainst him would be, ‘ Good-natured, sim ple fellow !’ But if Lord Castleton follow his whims, you would think he was a sec ond Catiline —unsettling the peace, and un dermining the prosperity, of the entire na tion!” Here the wretched man paused, and sighed heavily ; then, as his thoughts wandered in a ne\v channel of woe, he re sumed, —“Ah, if you could but see the for lorn great house I am expected to inhabit, cooped up between dead walls, instead of my pretty rooms, with the windowsfull on the park : and the balls I am expected to give, and ibe parliamentary interest I am to keep up; and the villainous proposal made to me to become a lord steward, or lord chamberlain, because it suits my rank to be a sort of a servant. Oh, Pisistratus ! you lucky dog—not twenty-one, and with, I dare say, not two hundred pounds a-year in the world !” Thus bemoaning and bewailing his sad fortunes, the poor Marquis ran on, till at last he exclaimed, in a tone of yet deeper despair,— “And every body says I must marry, too!—that the Castleton line must not be extinct! The Beaudeserts are a good old family eno’—as old, for what I know, as the Castletons; but the British empire would suffer no loss if they sank into the tomb of the Capulets. But that the Cas tleton peerage should expire, is a thought of crime and woe, at which all the moth ers of England rise in a phalanx ! And so, instead of visiting the sins of the fathers on the sons, it is the father that is to be sacrificed for the benefit of the third and fourth generation!” Despite my causes for seriousness, 1 could not help laughing ; my companion turned on me a look of reproach. “At least,” said I, composing my coun tenance, “ Lord Castleton has one comfort in his afflictions—if he mustmarry,he may choose as he pleases ” “ That is precisely what Sedley Beau desert could, and Lord Castleton cannot do,” said the Marquis gravely. “ The rank of Sir Sedly Beaudesert was a quiet and com fortable rank—he might marry a curate’s daugter, or a duke's—and please hiseyeor grieve his heart as the caprice took him. But Lord Castleton must marry, not for a wife, but for a marchioness, —marry some one who will wear his rank for him, —take the trouble of splendor off his hands, and allow him to retire into a corner, a id dream that he is Sedley Beaudesert once more ! Yes, it must be so—the crowning sacrifice must be completed at the altar.” [From “(>ld Portrait* and Modern .Sketches,” by J. G. Whittier.] THE MS. OF PARADISE LOST. “ ‘Wherefore, some little time before I went to Aylesbury jail, I was desired by my quondam Master Milton to take an house for him in the neighborhood where I dwelt, that he might go out of the city for the safety of himself and his family, the pestilence then growing hot in London. I took a pretty box for him in Giles Chalfont, a mile from me, of which I gave him no tice, and intended to ha'’e waited on him and seen him well settled, but was prevent ed by that imprisonment. But now being released and returned home, 1 soon made a visit to him, to welcome him into the coun try. After some common discourse had passed between us, he called for a manu script of his, which having brought, he de livered to me, bidding me take it home with me and read it at my leisure, and when 1 had so done, return it to him with my judg ment thereupon.’ “Now, what does the reader think young Ellwood carried in his grey coat pocket a cross the dikes and hedges and through the green lanes of Giles Chalfont that autumn day? Let us look further: ‘When I came home, and had set myself to read it, I found
