Pcuotcft to Citcmturc, Science, anb tl)c Sons of temperance, <D5b iTellomslpp, iilasonrn, auii ©eneval 3ntclliqcmc.
VOLUME I.
Slliifii lOIVIf.
THE FATHERLESS.
Speak softly to the fatherless !
And cjreck the harsh reply
That sends the crimson to the cheek,
The tear-drop to the eye.
They have the weight of loneliness
In this rude world, to hear;
Then gently raise the fallen hud,
The drooping floweret spare.
Speak kindly to the fatherless
The lowliest of their band,
God keepeth, as the waters,
In the hollow of his hand.
*Tis sad to see life’s evening sun
Go down in sorrow’s shroud,
But sadder still when morning’s dawn
Is darkened by the cloud.
Look mildly on the fatherless!
Ye may have power to wile
Their hearts from sadden’d memory,
By the magic of a smile !
Deal gently with these little oues—
Be pitiful—and He,
The friend and father of us all,
Shall gently deal with tliee !
m mm&w w &&as s.
THE RETURN.
BY ALFRED CROWQUIL.
The wind was north-east!
Every body knows that the wind can’t help
being frightfully and bitingly cold when it comes
from that quarter, said to be the place to
which all the ingenuity of man has never been
able to get him an introduction. I do not see
the use of it, if he could, for taking a long jour
ney, when he knows at starting he will only be
received in a. cold and cutting manner, is folly.
The wind, then, was north-east, as near as
could be guessed in the dark. If you turned
your face to that quarter, you might almost feel
certain it was, as the whistling sharpness seized
upon all prominences with such a numbing feel
that it made your profile a matter of doubt. Your
face became too rigid for a smile, and the tips of
l° ur hngers painfully obtrusive ; rubbing your
lands was a labor in vain ; to put them into \ T our
pockets is, in such cases, most advisable, as it
cjblodgesthe cold air which creeps in the most
insidious manner all over you —ay, into your very
oois, notwithstanding your patent straps..
ic wind was positively north-east, and vvork
e a " a J * n the most industrious manner, to do
ciu it to the quarter from whence it came, un
f°lng all that a soft south-west had been doing,
ln a darn P way, for days.
t turned the mud into hardbake, and licked up
rh^ 1101 P uddles as and c°uld, and then fin
l!i e od hy framing and glazing them in the
and most fanciful manner. The roads
ev^ 0 a p as die SC) fi d rock, giving a sound to
k LI ? t o()tste P enough to startle itself! Knock !
weiu\\ k noL ‘k-—hammer! hammer! hammer!
W ° men a ‘ ld Children ’
never liked'"'™, ,ivin g where th . e y are
with ihnir ’ not have come up to it, even
It was as if E'3T ble f ulti P Ued knockin f‘
inrr n 0,-., ,• c^]( f-hearted north-east was mak
samm?r°anl 1C C ? at a s,lort nolicc > to bul 7 the
and autumn in. T nn energetic ad
vocate for the P , r i u , . ke an energetic au
its sparkling C ° Si , ng inovement > 11 P ut U P
so thit th & Uist ‘"°rk shutters over every pane,
up for a VUK)t en °nes might as well have been
in tho T lat you could see of the goods and wares
C a e r . Bhopkee P ers ’ windows.
FS anc * Wor king-men began to belabor
mann” ve ® with both hands, in the most insane
E Ve £, er die fashion of devout disciplants.
c arr\i seeme d to aim at unusual velocity,
o n A out die delusion that they were “ putting
hrearh j tcam ’” the volumes of smoke-like
e Ver Ki roded palpably around them. Yet
°dy appeared pleased, although the tears
did come into their eyes, and their respiration be
came alternately hot and cold.
It was certainly bracing and invigorating, send
ing the warm blood to the heart, and giving birth
to pleasant feelings; thoughts of home and com
fortable firesides, and pitiful thoughts for those
without them. A north-east wind appears a cold
and boisterous visitor, yet it blows open die doors
of our hearts, and the doors of shelter for the poor,
that only open at its bidding. Even in its severity
it brings charity in its hand, and, with its cold
finger, points out to us our duties, too oftenTiog
iected at other times. So the north-east wind is
not so bad after all.
The wind commemorated in the foregoing
thoughts was a frolicsome visitor of a few winters
past, and, having gained its point, went the way
of all winds ; what particular way that is I do not
pretend to know; for, although we are pretty cer
tain as to where it comes from, if there be any
faith in weather-cocks, where it goes to is a
puzzle.
Long coaches were then on the road, at their
very best. I, and a companion to whom I shall
have much pleasure in introducing you, had
rubbed the frostiness off the window-glass of one
of those conveyances, which was taking us down
the road some forty miles or so, and seen all that
I have written about. My companion—for it is
with him this tale has to do, and not with me—
was a fine hale old man, between seventy and
eighty—so his family Bible said ; but he was a
boy. Age had rumpled his cheek into a perfect
cobweb of wrinkles, but had left the rosy color
of youth almost as bright as ever. His well
turned leg was as active, and his eye as clear, as
at middle age. Time seemed to have pegged
away at the tough old man, until he found it labor
in vain, and then given it up in despair, to take
his own time about his journey. The truth was,
he could not touch his heart; when that is young
man is never old.
He was an Independent man in the village
where he was born, to which locality we were
bound. The same roof sheltered his gray hairs
that had sheltered him when sleeping in his cradle.
He watching for the London coaches, bent over
the same gate that he had climbed up far that
purpose as a child. His life, with few exceptions,
had been one of calm and sunshine, undisturbed
in his cottage with the turmoil and vanity of the
great world.
I used to call him uncle, from a distant relation
ship by marriage ; I did not care how distant. —
There is always a pleasure and a pride in delud
ing oneself into a relationship with the good.
He, at the utmost stretch of his jocosity, called
me “my lord,” as I and the lord of the manor
were the only two seen about in black, except,
indeed, the gentleman who came over for an
hour and a half on Sunday mornings to preach,
from some distant village. He being only a
very small visitor, his coat was very little seen.
My uncle, in the kindness of his heart, excused
him: “Poor fellow,” said he, “he has two more
churches to attend to!”
We had progressed some miles on our journey,
and found the cold getting more severe at every
mile; consequently, upon the first stoppage to
change horses, we alighted to knock some life and
feeling into our feet. At the door of the little inn,
a small covered cart drew on one side to give us
room. After ordering something warm, we
popped into the large kitchen, invited by the roar
ing fire wheih illuminated the whole place. —
There, around its blaze, sat some poor, shudder
ing wretches, who, we understood, were being
passed to their parishes, in the little cart which
we had seen on our entrance. One more par
ticularly interested us, from her extreme old age,
which, from appearance, must have been upwards
of seventy. The cold seemed to have made her
insensible; her almost equally frozen companions
were attempting, by every attention, to bring
back some life to the poor old creature.
SAVANNAH, GA., THURSDAY, JUNE 7, 1849.
“fcbe’s blind, too, poor old soul,” said one rough
looking fellow, who was rubbing her bony hand
between his palms, as he saw our pitying looks;
“ she’ll never live the way down, I’m sure; it’s
come on so bitter, and that tilt draws the cold
through so dreadful.”
Where is she going to, poor soul?” said my
pitying uncle, as he drew the back of his hand
across his eyes.
“ Thirty miles on, sir,” answered the man;
“the village of
My uncle turned his eyes towards me; —the
very village—his own !
“ I do not know her face ,” said he.
“ 1 believe, sir, she’s been a long time away in
foreign parts, or somewhere : I don’t know right
ly,” continued the man.
“Poor thing! poor thing,” muttered the kind
old man; “she must not go on—it would be
worse than murder. Landlady,” said he, turn
ing to the kind-hearted woman who had brought
in a cup of hot tea for the poor creature, “ Black
Will’s coach comes through here in an hour, she
must go with him. I’ll pay. Put her inside.—
He’ll set her down : he’s a kind-hearted fellow.
Do what you can for her, there’s a good soul.”
“As he said this in a hurried tone, he kept
gazing upon the death-like features of the old
woman, and passing from one poor shivering ob
ject to another his hot glass of brandy and water.
He drew out his purse, and put some money into
the hand of the landlady. “ Give her what you
can to do her good,” continued he, and I’ll see
after her to-morrow. I live where she is going to.
Wrap her up, you know, and—”
“ Beady, sir,” says the coachman ; “the other
insides are in.”
We bowled away. For a few minutes we did
iiot utter a word ; at last the kind old man began
to rub his hand, and exclaim, “ Well, gettingout
for so short a time as that circulates one’s blood.
I leel all of a glow—as warm as a toast!” No
doubt ol it, but not a drop of the brandy and
water had passed his lips.
######*#
“Money!” said my uncle, placing the pegs
leisurely and thoughtfully in the cribbage board,
as we sat toasting our shins before the sparkling
logs on his hearth, after our cosy supper, on the
sell-same bitter night. “Money, my dear boy, is
given to us as almoners. Woe betide us if we
break our trust! The reward for charity is un
questionable, is immediate ; witness the glow that
pervades the heart when you give to those who
are in sorrow and distress. On the contrary,
the continual misery of the foolish ones, who close
their hands and their hearts against the call of the
needy : scraping a mountain of wealth, that they
may die worth so much money, but not one bles
sing. They drag the worthless weight with them
to the verge of the unfathomable future, and it
sinks them
‘ Deeper and deeper still.’
“If I ever feel indisposed, or out of humor, as
the world calls it (and we are all liable to me
grims,) I go among my fellows, and give my mite,
where I know it is a blessing, and rightly be
stowed, which is very easy to find out in .such a
small community as this is. You would be as
tonished what excellent physic I find it. Mind,
my dear boy,” continued he, “I don’t preach,
nor wish to give you lessons, for you have forgot
ten more than I, in my simple way, ever knew.
But these thoughts, after our painful scene of to
night, will find utterance. •
“ So take up your cards and let me see whether
you play better than you used to do.”
I did as he directed me, but as had been the
case on all my visits, I was most wofully beaten;
I never was a card-player. My brain was gal
lopingand careering away, upon a thousand sub
jects, called up by the last few hours’ incidents.
At last he threw down the cards with a laugh,
vowing that it was no honor to beat me. I bore
it like a martyr, and took my candlestick to retire
to bed—we parted on the broad landing. T shook
him heartily by the hand and wished him pleasant
dreams: who doubts that he had them ?
Such a bed! sweet as a bed of flowers, instead
of feathers. No more bumps in it than the waves
ol the sea, like which it received me as I plunged
into it.
That dear old patchwork counterpane, quilted
to a miracle of warmth, was to me always like
a memorandum-book of generations. Little
square bits of long departed pride, snipped from
the Sunday-going gowns of aunts and grand
mothers, all passed away, patterns of women.—
Could it have found tongues to prate of its pos
sessors, what a strange history it would have
been !
1 iek—tick—tick! went the powerful old clock.
It had me at an advantage now, and would be
heard. It was an unusual sound to my metro
politan ears, and I began counting its vibrations.
I positively felt as il I were swinging with its in
defatigable pendulum. W hen I had almost got
at full swing, much to my annoyance, the light of
my candle, which I had placed on a well-polished
old coffer, or clothes-chest, sent one of its little
rays upon the frame of a picture that hung oppo
site to my bed. I knew the picture well: it was
a very poor drawing of a young female head,
with high dressed hair, and a gipsy bonnet,
with flaunting ribbons. In fact, in the style of
the last century, so outre in our eyes at the present
day, as we, no doubt, shall be to the eyes of a
future day.
That picture was the skeleton of my uncle’s
peaceful house. Those blue eyes and rosy cheeks
had made him a bachelor, but not a cynic. It
was no secret, every body in the little village knew
of uncle’s being “crossed in love,” so I will tell
you.
“More than half a century before, the gray
headed old man, who slept in the next chamber,
was the young athletic hero of the village-green.
From his independence, a sort of squire—happi
ness, and the world all promise, before him. To
love was part of his nature —the original of that
little picture was the object—she was an orphan,
though well provided for, brought up by an old
aunt, and had never quitted the village of her
birth. She was spoiled and petted by every
body, who, of course, called her the village
belle.
“loung, handsome, and rich for his position,
he soon became the favored swain, to the dismay
ol many who had dared to hope. But who could
rival him? none. The old people chuckled and
said it was just as it should he—both rich, both
handsome, and such kindly hearts, what a merry
wedding it would he.
“ And so it would have been—hyt fate decreed
it otherwise ; months rolled on, and she leant on
hi*s arm at church and market and the old people
blessed them as they passed on their way. It
was all sunshine !
“ The feast or annual fair came round, and with
it, a host ol visitors from far and near. The rich
farmer and the poor cottager kept open house ;
all was innocent merriment and enjoyment. My
uncle, and his almost bride, Annie Leslie—that
was her name, although no one in my remem
brance ever mentioned it before him—danced
with the best, and better than anybody else, so
said the village gossips.
“Among the visitors was a gay, dashing young
buck from London, upon a visit to some farmer
relation who had driven him over to see the frol
ics. The cut ol his boots and the tie of his cra
vat almost set the village beaux mad. He was
young, gay, and agreeable. His eye soon fixed
on the village belle, Annie ; be sought her for a
partner, and danced his best. My uncle looked
on without the slightest spice of jealousy, only
pleased to see her acquit herself go charmingly
with the London gentleman. He felt proud of
her.
“ The feast was passed some days, when an
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