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(Continued from 2d page,)
cowards. I said nothing to them till they began
toinsnlt me. Not that that mattered much; bat
it wasn't likely I was going to stand by and see
them annoying two girls without interfering.'
‘Well, n-o I don't see how yon coaid, v«
well,' Tom admitted, ‘ for I couldn't myself,
don’t like fighting, you know, but I couldn’t
help catching hold of Master Bumpus’s arm
when I saw him going to hit that little gipsy
girL
• Of course you couldn’t, old fellow,’ exclaim
ed Ben. heartily. ‘ and I admire you for your
pluck. Bother Master Bnmpus, and his teeth
too!'
‘ I wish he hadn't swallowed them though,'
remarked Tom regretfully.
• I shouldn't care if they’d choked him, the
fat spooney!' said Ben, forcibly; ‘ but I tell you
what, Tom, I don’t see the fun of being locked
up here all night.’
‘ No more do I,’ assented Tom, ruefully.
• I don't see that we’ve done anything wrong
to deserve it. We only thrashed a pair of cow
ards for insulting two girls. I think if the mag
istrate had done what was right he’d have sent
them here, not ns.'
‘I think so too,’ Tom acquiesced; 'but then
one of them was his son, and I suppose magis
trates never lock up their own sens.’
‘ They ought to though, if they do wrong,’
said Ben. There was a pause of a few moments,
and then Tom remarked:
‘Poor dad’ll wonder what’s become of us,
and be frightened to death. You know how
nervous he is if we’re out late, and now we shall
be shut up in this dreary place all night.’ Tom
spoke in very doleful accents, but his brother
replied promptly,—
‘ I'm not quite sure of that.'
There was something hopeful in the tone in
which these words were spoken, and Tom in
quired,—
' What do you mean, Ben ?’
•Why, I was thinking,' returned Ben, re
flectively, whether it wouldn’t be possible to get
out’
‘ Get out. Ben ?’ echoed Tom, looking quite
scared. ‘ You don't mean to say you’d do that ?’
• Wouldn't I ?' returned his brother, boldly.
‘I only wish I had the chance. It’s not whether
I would, but whether 1 can. Wouldn’t you ?’ he
asked.
‘ Well,’returned Tom, doubtfully, ‘I think,
perhaps, if the door was to fly open I should
feel inclined to walk out But—’
‘ I should do more than feel inclinedL I should
walk out pretty quickly, I know,'said Ben, in a
tone of determination that proved he was in
earnest ‘But what were you going to say ?'
‘ Why, wouldn’t it be all the worse for us if
we ran away and were caught afterwards?’ asked
Tom timidly.
‘ Perhaps it might,’ Ben replied. * Therefore,
if we could manage to get out we should have to
take care that we were not caught.’
‘But how could we do that? Every one
knows us about here. Where could we hide?’
asked Tom. whose timid nature foresaw nothing
but dangers.
‘Dan Dark would hide us in his cottage,’ re
turned Ben, confidently. ‘ There’s a cellar un
derneath it where no one would ever think of
looking for us.'
Tom looked at his brother with admiration.
‘ I wish I was as brave as you are,’ he said.
6 You deserve to be called Bold Ben.'
‘And so you are the brave, old fellow, when it
comes to the point,'returnedBen, affectionately;
‘though I confess you’re apt to fear a little
beforehand.’
But Tom could not bring himself to acknowl
edge his own courage, but shook his head de-
apondingly, as be replied:
'I’m a great coward, I know, and I'm afraid I
always shall be. But I suppose it’s my nature,
and I can't help it.’
Ben had turned away, and was looking
thoughtfully up at the window.
Tom watched him for a moment, and then
said:
‘I can guess what you're thinking about. Yon
are wondering how you can get rid of those
bars.’
‘I am, Tom,’ Ben answered, ‘and I’m also
thinking that if they were broken away, and
you saw me getting out of the window, you
wouldn’t be long in following my example.’
‘I don't think I should,’ replied Tom, with a
smile. ‘I'm sure I shouldn’t I should always
follow you, Benny. But I don't think I should
have the courage to attempt to go myself.’
•There'll be no occasion, old boy,’ said Ben.
•We’ll stick together, tnat’s the way to get on.’
Tom pressed his brother’s hand lovingly, and
then Ben remarked, as he returned the squeeze:
•Those bars seem pretty thick. They wouldn’t
break very easily.’
•I snould think not’ answered Tom; ‘and
yet, don’t you remember reading about some
one who broke out of Newgate, where the walls
and bars are a great deal stronger and thicker
than those, with only a nail?’
‘Yes; it was Jack Sheppard,’ returned Ben,
abstractedly. ' I wish I had that nail just now.’
' But be was a thief, wasn't he ?’ asked Tom.
• He was—a desperate one, too, and deserved
to be imprisoned,’ replied Ben. ‘But there’s
one comfort—though we are treated like thieves,
we are honest, and have no right to be punish
ed. That is why I’m determined to get out if I
can.’
Tom was so inspired by his brother’s resolu
tion that he said, pointing to the window:
• Couldn’t you climb up, and Bee if the bars
are very firm ?’
•So I will,’ returned Ben; ‘but I shall have
to stand on your shoulder to get at them.’
• All right, I can bear you,’ said Tom as he
stepped on the seat.
In another moment Ben had made a ladder of
his brother and mounted to the bars, through
which he looked.
No one was in Bight
Ben felt them and tugged at them.
• How are they ?’ asked Tom.
‘Very well, thank'ee,’ answered Ben, with a
serio-oomic expression on his faoe; ‘ they’re as
firm as rocks.’
‘You’ll never be able to move them, will you ?
asked Tom, anxiously, when his brother had
once more reached the ground.
‘Well, I don’t know what I might do with Jack
Sheppard’s nail, ’ returned Ben; ‘ but without
any nail at all but those on my fingers, I m
afraid • He shook his head expressively, and
felt in his pockets.
He found a key, some marbles, a pieoe of
string and some half-pence.
' They're no use,’ be exclaimed ruefully.
Tom produced a stick of slate pencil and a
table book.
‘These are just as useless,’ he remarked;
* have you got your knife ?’
• No, that's lost It must have dropped from
my pocket when I took off my jacket—the only
thing that might have been of use,’ said Ben,
fretfally.
Altogether the prospects of escape looked par
ticularly gloomy.
Bo also began to look the place in which they
were.
Twilight was drawing on.
The sky looked gray and cold through their
prison bars, and the wind blew in and chilled
them.
Much depressed, the brothers sank despair
ingly upon the seat side by side, and involun
tarily took each other’s hands.
And there they sat, moodily watching the
twilight fading away, until at last it died out
[ether, and the night had oome.
afraid there’ll be no getting out to
night ! ’ remarked Tom, sadly, after a long pause
of silence.
'I’m afraid not, old boy,’ assented his brother
in much the same tone. T only wish—'
He broke off suddenly as the Bound of a voice
broke upon his ear, singing in a remarkably
cheerful tone, an old and familiar song.
‘It's Dan’s voioe! ’ they cried together, ex-
ultingly.
‘Call to him, Ben; don't let him pass f exclaim
ed Tom, excitedly. ‘Here’s my shoulder, jump
up!’
In less time than it takes to write it, Ben had
once more clambered up, and was looking
throngh the bars, in the direction from which
Dan was rapidly approaohing.
BRASS VS, BRAINS.
The Career of J. Byron Smythe, of
Goobertown.
BY MARY' K. BRYAN.
There was one other of the Smythe family, not
as yet belonging to the literary coterie. Lizzie,
the youngest daughter—just turned seventeen, the
junior of the “songstress,” her sister, by eight
years, and a dozen years younger than the amia
ble Rosamond—had, ever einee her childhood,
been an inmate of the family and farm house of
her aunt, on the father’s side, and, during the
time, had paid only one visit to her parents. Now,
however, her aunt had unexpectedly married and
Lizzie was coming home. The enterprising Byron
immediately determined that she should contribute
another feather to the wing of the “Household
Angel.” The Angel wanted “spice,” as a string
of slang phrases and Bowary vernacular is called.
Lizzie wrote sprightly letters, and would, without
doubt, serve as a Fanny Fern. He had even chosen
her nom deplume and thought how well Nellie
Nettle would look at the top of his list of “regular
paid contributors.”
Well, Lizzie came, and to her mother’s great dis
appointment, proved to be a plump, rosy-cheeked,
even dumpy girl, with bright hazle eyes, white
teeth, (constantly displayed by the smiles and
laughter that parted the red lips), and a simple,
unaffected, joyous manner—in short, having an
appearance the farthest imaginable from one pos
sessing a “literary turn of mind.” She laughed
at the idea of her turning authoress, protested that
she never used a pen in her life, except to mark
handkerchiefs and write letters, and averred that
she thought there were scribblers enough in the
family already, and that instead of putting more
ink upon paper, it must be her mission to get some
of it up from floors and tables. She very quietly
took the housekeeping under her charge, and soon
“Jessamine Bower” wore quite a changed aspect,
and Patty Peony’s messes gave place to well cooked
meals and delicious tea and coffee. However,
little the Muses might like this intrusion of the
commonplace into their chosen retreat, the Penan-
tes were certainly well pleased. Lizzie’s presence
acted like the charm of an enchantress. Dust and
rubbish fled at her approach, hoary spider-webs
“dissolved like the baseless fabric of a vision,”
stockings were heeled at her touch, buttons grew
out as though by magic upon dilapidated linen,
and that ancient little implement of female indus
try—the needle—now unfortunately voted a slow
institution—once more dared to show itself in
company with its rival—the pen—that had so long
reigned sole autocrat in the temple of Apollo.
And Lizzie was bright as she was busy. Her
cheery voice and good-humored face carried music
and sunshine wherever she wen*, and, through her
influence, even the two young devotees of mint
stick (“the dreamers,” as their mother called
them) were induced to quit lolling about and con
descend to
“ Lay their lovely dreams aside.”
long enough every day to solve a few problems
under Davie’s rule of simple fractions. Mean
while, the triad of “song birds” were greatly
shocked at the “ want of soul” displayed by a
member of their illustrious family. Miss Rosa
mond, with a glance in the mirror at her parch
ment visage, thanked goodness that she did not
have a milkmaid’s complexion, and gave it as her
solemn opinion that Lizzie was fit for nothing but
to cook beefsteaks and darn stockings. The
“young thing” in corals and corkscrew curls mur
mured something about a muscovy duck in the
eyrie of the eagle, and mamma sighed and said:
“ Poor thing! she couldn't help her nature, it was
certainly a pity that all her children did not re
semble her; but poor Lizzie was always just like
her father.” Meantime, this last mentioned per
son, who had sat overshadowed by the laurels of
his brilliant progeny so long that he had acquired
the most contemptible opinion of himself, and
firmly believed that he was the nonentity his amia
ble spouse represented him—this much.-snubbed
individual appeared to have entered upon a new
state of existence. His eyes followed his daugh-
ter’s neatly dressed, embonpoint figure whenever
■he moved, as though he feared, lest she should
vanish away, or be metamorphosed into a slouchy,
hawk-eyed, strong-minded vixen, eternally bent
upon scribbling a “piece of her mind,” this being
the picture he had sketched of her, from lis
tening to the “ table-talk ” of the literary circle.
Every morning he looked carefully at the little
hand that combed his hair, to see if there was any
ink mark upon the plump thumb and first finger.
He made no demonstrations, however, being in
great awe of his illustrious offspring, and well
knowing the capabilities of Mrs. Patty’s tongue ;
but his grateful eyes thanked his daughter as he
put his feet into the waiting slippers, or broke the
light, foamy rolls.
The “ Angel of the Household ” was all this
while spreading its wings and blowing its own
trumpet in a very cock-a-doodle-doo manner. J.
Byron was the busiest and most fidgety mortal
alive. Every great paper boasted letters from
abroad, and the “ Angel” must not be behind.
Accordingly, for a microscopical consideration,
he engaged a Foreign Correspondent in the person
of a seedy and dilapidated ex-music teacher, whose
residence was in a neighboring town, and whose
fondness for lager and dirty linen, having exiled
him from decent circles, had drifted him into the
shabbiest impecuniosity, forcing him to pick up a
scanty livelihood by teaching a few ambitious
youths how to make day hideous by means of that
much tortured instrument—the fiddle.
Mr. Blumpus undertook the office of foreign
correspondent, with alacrity. Raking up all the
numbers of the “ Times and Herald ” that he could
lay his hands upon, be sharpened his stubby pen
cil, took out his dirty account book, where unpaid
board and washing bills stared him in the face—
and proceeded to indite reliable letters from “our
own correspondent—Rath.” Letters from the
seat of war, descriptions of bloody battles which
he professed to have witnessed through a field-
glass, revelations of the secret policies of the
Great Powers, whispered in his ear by confiding
diplomats; also gay glimpses into Court Life at.
Vienna, Paris, Naples, bits of scandal in high life—
the gallantries of starred and coronetted person-*
ages and the frailties and diamonds of nieo and
naughty beauties; in brief, all the glittering, gassy,
snobbish, slangy, dirty details, which the Amer
ican public delights in, and oalls " Spioy Corres
pondence.”
“Rath”—ottos old Max Blumpus dished it all
up delectably for the “ Angel, ” grinning sardon
ically, as seated in his dingy little don with his ma
ty boots thrown np over the mantle-piece, his
short-stemmed pipe in his mouth end old blank
book in his lap, he dated his letters from brilliant
foreign cities and dashed off into descriptions of
courts, balls, pagean's, operas, costumes, eto.
Being disappointed in manufacturing a Fanny
Fern out of the matter-of-faot Lizzie, the enter*
prising editor, (that, we believe, is the stereotyped
phrase among the fraternity,) looked about for
some fresh “ attractive feature.” The thrilling
Romance of “ Wrong and Retribution” was draw
ing to a grand finale, and there was no other to
begin when the curtain dropped npon this—the
fair Rosamond having, with the impetuosity and
romance of youth, fallen sentimentally in love with
the “ Foreign Correspondent,” exchanged photo
graphs and carried on with him a correspou denoe
of rather a more delicate •ture, than that which
appeared in the columns ,he “ Angel.” As the
said Correspondent could aot well leave his inter
esting occupation the devoted Rosamond concluded
to pay him a visit, that he might behold the reality
of those charms, of which he had only seen the
“pictured semblanee.” If the mountain could
not come to Mohammed, why Mohammed would
go to the mountain; and so Rosamond the romant
ic packed up her pink silk, and taking with her a
band-box and a bugle head dress, set forth in quest
of adventures.
“ Like errant Demoiselle of yore,”
preferring (true to our feminine nature) rather to
act a romance than to write one, and mo leaving J.
Byron in a perplexity and the “ Angei ” minus of
one of its attractive features. There was none in
all the list of “ Regular Contributors ” who could,
or would, take the relinquished pen of Miss Rosa
mond, as the proprietor of the Angelic journal was
up to his chin in financial and editorial duties;
Minnie Myrtle’s Muse, like Mrs. Osgood’s, could
do nothing but sing ; Lizzie was incorrigable and
Patty Peony was giving all her energies to the in
vention of a new pudding, the names of whose in
gredients should fill half a column in the “Angel."
Now, it chanced that in the city of Goobertown
there was a young lawyer (a dozen of them at your
service, all sitting in the doors of their offices, like
so many gaunt spiders at the mouths of their holes,
and watching out with lynx-eyes, seeking whom
they might entrap.) But there was one young
lawyer in particular—handsome, genial, warm
hearted Harry Vale—a cousin, two degrees re
moved, of the Smythe family, and considered by
the big wigs of the County Court as a promising
young man. The Smythes had taken him under
their patronage, and Misses Rosamond and Minnie
had magnanimously made up their minds to let
him fall in love with them; but he had seemed
rather shy of Jessamine Bower, though whether he
found the atmosphere too highly charged with
p*jtry and romance, or whether (as Minnie was
confident) the feminine charms had proved too
great for resistance, and he was compelled to flee
their power, or whether he merely wished to es
cape the constant importunities of the family, and
of the editor in particular, that he would contribute
to the “ Angel,” could not be satisfactorily de
termined.
Of late, however, he had seemed more disposed
to appreciate the privilege of companionship with
such exquisitely refined spirits as those of his
distinguished cousins. His visits became quite
frequent, and the fair Minnie congratulated her
self upon a complete conquest. He listened, while
reclining on the sofa with her portfolio in her lap,
she read to him all the lackadaisical verses she
had ever perpetrated, and quoted all that she had
succeeded in cramming away in her memory. He
was “silent, timidly silent,” when, looking unut
terable things at him, she repeated—
“ Thera are hearts that live and love alone.”
And ho frsqusntly sighed, put on the
wrong hand, forgot his own name, stafavb-red and
blushed, and exhibited all the phenomena of one
in that indescribable state called love. To be sure,
he never exactly made lova to her, but then he
probably thought there was no nse in it; the lady
was making enough for both, and doing it better
than he could. Upon my word, I think the ladies
do most of the courting any way, though in their
insinuating, sly, bewitching manner, of course.
The cause is plain enough. Courting is such a del
icate business, that the nice, instinctive female
taste is shocked at seeing it mismanaged—and the
men are such bunglers ! Now, a woman can do the
matter up in the most charming style, and make
love while an uninterested listener would fancy
she was only talking philosophy or religion.
(to be continued.)
Petals Plucked from a Sunny
Clime.
Appearance of the SI. Johns, Mandarin, the Home
of Mrs. H. B. Stowe—Its Products—Green Cove
Springs —Picolata — Tocoi — Indian Massacres
Near St. Augustine—Murder of Mr. B eednum—
Eight Medicis Bloodhounds—New York Drama
during the Indian War—Desire for Pence.
Hakch —, 1878.
Everything in this world has a terminus, and
onr pleasant stay in Jacksonville is ended. Tne
ocean steamer Dictator is waiting at the wharf,
and we are among the happy number to embark
on this reliable running craft.
The St Johns river to-day appears overspread
with a kind of semi-transparent mist, throngh
which the sun shines with a nimbus of golden
sheen that fills the air and sky. Imagination
coaid not paint the river of Life more beauti
ful. IIow smoothly we glide npon its peaceful
bosom, while fleecy clonds of unrivalled purity
float over us like fairy forms, which leave an
undefinable idea of an invisible presence.
The first noticeable landing after we leave
Jacksonville is Mandarin, fifteen miles distant,
the winter residence of Hariet B. Stowe, at which
point many stop as though she was expected to
fnrnisba gratuitous exhibition, designed as a
kind of compensation, for the benefit of those
who tread her dominions. Visitora- come here
thinking they are at the same liberty to inspect
her person as though she was connected with a
menagerie, and obligated to present herself for
their inspection. Very carious people open her
window blinds, if they cannot see her by any
other means. These impudent violations of
etiqnette do not meet with her approval, and
those indulging in them must abide the conse
quences, remembering that although patience is
a virtue, it is not always on exhibition.
Mandarin is quite unpretentious in its gen
eral appearance. The inhabitants are indus
trious. Raising fine, sweet oranges and other
produce, which they bring to market in little
boats, is the most perceptible stir it makes in
this portion of country. Like many other lo
calities in the State, it has its histone reoords
of tragic date extending to the Indian wars.
Green Cove Mineral Springs, 30 miles above
Jacksonville, is a resort for rbeumatios, the
temperature of the water always being warm
enough in winter to stimulate the system and
give relief. Sufferers from diseases are also
benefitted. Very happy faces Always come
down here to look at ns, which is\)no donbt at
tributable to the exhilerating influence of the
water, and fine flare at the Clarendon House.
Pioolata, 46 miles above Jacksonville, was
formerly the stage terminus from St Augus
tine, 18 miles distant >od of some importance
in a commercial point of view, with a weekly
stage line established to Tallahassee and St.
lf^rhi This was known as Fort Fksolata during
tfcc Spanish - occupation, where once stood' a
very ancient fortress. The following is a truth
ful description of its dimensions, written over
a century since: 'It was constructed with a
tosrqr 3(1 feet in height invested with a high
wall without bastions, about breast high on the
inside* with loop holes* and surrounded by a
deep ditch. The upper story was open on eaoh
side, with battlements supporting a cupola or
roof; these parapets were formerly mounted
with eight four-pounders, two on each side.
The works were constructed with hewn stone,
cemented with lime. The rock was cut out of
quarries on St. Anastasia Island, opposite St
Augustine. ’
Tocoi is reached at last, 52 miles from Jack
sonville, on the east bank of St Johns, about
which so much ink and paper has been wasted,
because it present so unattractive an appear
ance, bat has never made any pretentions only
as a starting point for SL Augustine.
Let those who manifest signs of impatience
at the ample arrangement for transportation,
peruse the following encounters with which un
fortunate travlerg had to contend between Tocoi
and St. Augerstine less than forty years since.
‘Another atrocious act of violence was com
mitted Nov. 2oth 1839 by the Savages upon a
worthy and respected citizen of ours Philip Weed-
man Senior. Shortly after the departure of the
mail train this morning, Mr. Weedman accom
panied by his little son, 12 years of age, left in j
an open wagon for the purpose of visiting his \
former residence, now occupied as a garrison ;
by a part of Capt. Micklers company. On arriv- |
ing at the commencement of Long Swamp, with- ;
out any previous warning, he was fired upon i
and killed, having received two balls in his i
breast, his little son received one in his head
which bared his brain, also wounds with a
knife.’
Afterwards Mr. Francis Medicis was murder- !
ed, May, 22d, 1839, by the Indians, within i
seven miles of St. Augustine, when twenty of
the savages were seen near the spot where he
fell. Mr. Medicis was found lying on his side
with his (hands clasped as if in the attitude of
supplication, his shirt sleeve was burned and
his faoe covered with blood.
It was about this time blood-hounds were in
troduced into Florida under difficulties which
will be seen from the following paragraph.
‘Tbe^e distinguished auxiliaries have received
more attention than their services deserve.
While great apprehensions fill the mind of many
for fear they should perchance bite a Seminole!
As a quietus to their fears, we would state that a
competent tooth drawer will accompany them,
entering upon his detail duties very soon.’
Daring the Florida war, New York dramatized
these terrific scenes, but they were too stern
stirring realities to be trifled with by the citi
zens.
The following account is given of a drama,
taken from the capturing and killing of the
mail rider, between Picolata and St. Augustine, j
daring the year 1841:
‘ Having at one time wttnessed some of the '
handicrafts of our red brethren, I thought I
would step in; and lo! the room was filled with
some 300 persons, anxious to behold this new
scene of blood. The Indians were stout, mur
derous-looking rascals; the mail carrier a six
foot yonth. oiled locks beautifully parted, ele
gantly combed mustache, white pantaloons,
straps and boots. This was the grandest speci
men of a mail rider ever seen in Florida. He
might have personated some of those fictitious
pretenders of gentility, which sometimes visit
yon, bat for a letter-carrier, heaven save the
mark! The wife was a pretty, plump, well-fed
girl of sixteen, dressed in all the simplicity of
girlhood, before fashion had desecrated its pnre
feeling, with tonrnures converting the hnman
form divine into a monstrosity.
Well the race was interesting, our six-footer
stretched his tegs, and black cost-toils with ef
fect When fairly caught by his pursurers, he
was bound; his wife being likewise brought in
a captive; then rose the loud yells of these
fierce demi-devils. The mimic scene was one
of intense interest, and the quick dispatch of
life argued something in favor of the captors,
nntil the process of scalping commenced—when
the blood rnshed in gashes on the bosom of the
girl, as her tresses were held np amidst the
fiendish hnrrahs of the Indians. Here was a
pause, imagination had been wound np to the
highest pitch, when something of a less gloomy
character was famished for the audience.’
It was then the Florida settlers prayed for the
peace we now enjoy; when their streams should
have the dreary solitude broken by the splash
of the oar, and their moss-covered banks send
back the song of contented boatmen; when their
tranquil surface should be rippled by the
freighted bark, and with her white canvass
bending before the breeze, sail into the ocean.
When the watch fires of their foes should be ex
tinct, and the yell of murder give place to the
melody of grateful hearts, as their songs of
praise should rise from the hammocks and
plains, that the land might be indeed the home
of the Christian, the abiding place of joy, hap
piness and contentment
Silvia Sunhhinh.
THE LITTLE BOY THAT DIED.
Inscribed to J. T. Glenn, Esq.
BY SIDNEY HEBBEET.
“‘O Death! thou loveet the beautiful,’
In the woe of my spirit I cried:
For sparkled the eye, and the forehead was lair,
Of the littie boy that died.”
Thk little boy that died. Oh ! how ten
derly yon loved him. How you hoped he would
live to bear yonr honored name (which he had
in fall,) into higher walks of nsefnlness and
distinction than yon have yet done, or may do;
for he was such a bright, sweet child, and had
such a clear, sparkling eye, and keen, pene
trating mind. But he is dead now. And how
that one harsh and dreaded word, dead, throws
a dark and lengthened shadow over all yonr
future pathway in life! Yon look far beyond the
present sad hoar of bereavement; for yon had
thought of him so mnch, after his birth-days had
increased and his germs of character unfolded,
as yonr companion daring his years of boy
hood, yonth and early manhood; and, later in
lifs, should you live long, as a sharer in your
daily business cares; and, finally, when the in
firmities of age should have placed you on the
“retired list,” as your most appropriate succes
sor in public life and business or professional
circles. There is, therefore, something of
worldly self-interest underlying your grief—sin
cere though it may be in its intensity—which
makes your burden of sorrow heavier, and your
sense of bereavement more acute than otherwise
would be the case. To you, under these cir
cumstances, there is less of comfort than you
ought to find, in the words whioh Shakespeare
puts into the mouth of King John, in his honr
of similar bereavement:
~ . ... “I haTe heard yon say
That we shall see and know onr frienda in heaven.
u this be tree, I shall see my boy again.”
The little bot that died. How you miss
him every day and hour, as a feeling of loneli
ness creeps over your heart in the unoccupied
moments of your business hoars. But you are
a man—a strong, brave man. Yon feel this—
and show it to everybody, and everywhere, in
publio—-and it bears you up beneath the ever
springing tide of grief that so often seeks to
overwhelm yonr emotions. Yon do not walk
the street in tears, nor sit in yonr law office
surrounded by the gloomy shadow of yonr great
sorrow. Yon meet yonr business associates,
one after another during the day, and you speak
to than as familiarly aa ever, bat in a more
aabdued tone. If an intimate friend alludes to
your great loss in suoh a way as to cause a tear
to start to your eye, you brush it away hastily,
and pass on to yonr office, or professional en
gagements, or turn again to your books and
documents for a momentary relief And as
often as this scene recurs and causes the tear to
start, it is as hastily pushed aside from ths gaze
of men’s eyes. Of course you are more subdued
in your manner for a time, and you almost con
stantly think of your great loss. Yet how many
times during each succeeding day do the cares
of business intervene between suoh sad thoughts,
thus giving, occasionally, full relief and relaxa
tion to your sorrow-burdened heart You wii
no doubt realize this more fully bye and bye^'
for you will have a more undisturbed feeling of
sadness, and a deeper sense of loneliness,
“As yon miss him when the flowers come
la the garden where he played;
As yoa miss him there by the fireside.
When the flowers have all decayed ;
You will see his toys and his empty chair,
And the horse he ased to ride;
Ah! these will speak with a silent speech,iffi
Of the little boy that died."
The little boy that died. Yet you are not
the one over whom his early death has east the
heaviest and darkest clond of sorrow. That
heavier and darker pall has settled over and
around the tender heart of your faithful wife —
his loving and devoted mother. How different
from your daily experience, is that of yonr
stricken companion. All day she sits or walks
— sometimes quite alone—within the sombre
shadow of the great sorrow that has fallen so
heavily upon the light and joy of your pleasant
home. There, in the very rooms which his
cheerful presence once made so joyous and at
tractive, and that his absence now fills with an
unspeakable sense of desolation and gloom,
she spends her more quiet, undisturbed hours,
and engages in her simpler and less engrossing
duties, with a tearful eye and an ever sorrowing
heart. Everywhere she turns, and at every step
she takes, there is something constantly before
her eyes to remind her of the little boy that
died. His toys, scattered here and there about
the corners of the rooms which he nsed to make
so vocal with his clear, laughing voice; the un
broken stillness which pervades the house, and
causes her to pause and listen for the patter of
his childish feet, and the well-known greeting
of filial tenderness, to break the dreadful quiet
by which she finds herself surrounded; the
clothes that she laid aside when she undressed
him—for the tost Hme —and put him into the little
bed where he—died. Oh! what a grief is hers
—and how often and how painfully is it thus
suddenly re-opened and made still more bur
densome.
“Yet, though at times impetuous with emotiou.
And anguish unsuppressed,
Her swelling heart heaves, moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest—
Hhe will prow patient, and assuage the feeling
She may not wholly stay ;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing.
The grief that must have sway."
The little boy that died.—Ah ! who ean tell
how much of a burden of grief yonr stricken wife
daily takes np, and with a pleading, motherly
prayer to God for strength to bear patiently and
resignedly the heavy affliction which he in in
finite wisdom has sent upon her, tries (how
hard no human heart can ever know), to walk
her round of domestic duty with a brave, trust
ing spirit Still, at such a time, a mothers, lov
ing heart is weak even in its strength, when a
wave of sudden and inexpressible sorrow sweeps
over it like a terrible cyclone. This is the case
when she sees the little frock and hat and shoes
that he laid aside forever, that he might be cloth
ed anew in heavenly robes, in which to walk
the golden streets of the “Shining|City of Light ’j
Oh ! how many times before the long-wished for
shades of evening bring you home again, do-j»
this sorely bereaved mother bury her grief
stricken face in the gentle, loving hands that
so unweariedly and tenderly ministered to her
darling boy in his dying hours, and give way to
a flood of bitter tears. She has no professional
engagements or business cares to intrude upon
and divide up ( as you have), her sorrowful mo
ments; no companions whose presence oan
check her tears. She is a woman and tears—
thank God—are womanly. If a friend calls, and
the sad bereavement is alluded to, she does not
hastily brush away the first starting tear and
check those that would follow it. She allows
them free course down her pallid cheeks. And
when she is alone onoe more, with her sorrow
again fresh upon her heart, there oomes— and
with increased power-that earnest longing
for the close of day, that yon may come back to
her, and ( comfort her as no other hnman being
can. She never felt the need of your presence
and companionship so mnch before —never. For
it is only when yon have re-entered yonr deso
lated home, and come again within the solemn
stillness that so impresses yon with a terrible
sense of yonr irreparable loss, that you give way
to yonr grief. It is manly for yon to weep then
and there. Oh! what a blessed privilege to
mingle yonr tears with hers. This is her great
est source of earthly comfort Let it never foil
her in her sorrowing moments;
"Andover your souls, in this solitude,
Sweet comfort and hope will glide;
Tho’ each heart and eye be fall, as you think
Of the little boy that died!”
Kimball House, Feb., 10th, 1878.
A Young Man anti His Society.
A young man, just launching into business,
should make it a point not to mix with those
whom he wonld be ashamed of in years to come.
There are many who started in life with good
prospects, and intended to act in good faith and
lead honest and npright lives, and would un
doubtedly have done so had they associated with
men of unsullied character, whose names were
above reproach, bat no, the pleasures and friv-
olties of the other picture they were unable to
withstand. Society can be appropriately term
ed temptation. If a person’s intentions are
good and he shonld unfortunately fall into bad
society, he would eventually, from being thrown
continually into snoh company, acquire like
habits, and finally find himself in a position
from whioh it would be impossible for him to
extricate himself. Such oases as these are daily
occurring in our midsL How many of us know
of men who have had golden opportunities,men
who lost wealth, position and honor through
the influence of immoral society. Look at the
numbers of well educated men travelling from
door to door in search ot food—men who have
lost their name and standing in the world, and
have fallen so low that they have lost all shame.
We think we have drawn this picture well
enough to satisfy the young man that now is the
time—now is their harvest, and if they foil to
these advantages they will rue the day
when they did not take warning in time and
become a credit to their families and to the
community. But if immoral company is a temp
tation to evil courses, the influenoe of proper
associates is equally strong in the opposite di
rection. Society may be a temptation for good
as well as eviL To a young man, who, from any
circnmstanoes, may be momentarily inclined to
tarn aside from the path oi honor and recti
tude, the presence of an upright person will aet
as a rebuke and save him from falling, while the
very atmosphere of society of this kind will
keep his morals nnoorrnpted, keep his thoughts
for away from improper channels, and be a
moral fenee around him, effectually preventing
him, an lees obstinately determined from going
stray.—-fiz.
Give the people cheep cremation.—Ckvsland
Leader. That is to sey, you would have their
urninge according to their earnings. Speak to
an undertaker about it