Newspaper Page Text
ME jiMMIDM Kit.
BY J. A. TURNER. j
VOLUME 11.
, floetr!).
Be Gentle to thy Wife.
Be gentle! for you little know
How many trials rise,
Although to thee they may be small,
Td her of giant size:
Be gentle 1 though pefchance that lip
May speak aNnUrmtiring tone,
The heart may beat with kindness yet,
And joy to be thine own.
Be gentle! weary hours of pain
‘Tis woman's lot to bear;
Then lend her what support thou canst,
And all her sorrows share.
Be gentle \ for the noblest hearts
At times may have some grief,
And even in a pettish world
May seek to find relief.
Be gentle! for unkindness now
May rouse an angry storm,
That all the after years of life
In vain may strive to calm.
Be gentle! none ah* perfect—
Thou’rt dearer fat* thfth life,
Then, husband, bear, and still forbear—
Be gentle to thy wife.
Hisallaitcous.
The Mechanic’s Home.
An old Story for the New Year.
3BY g. L. NICHOLS, M. D.
[The following simple story has
been widely circulated, but believing
that it teaches some useful lessons we
republish it here.J
One evening in the early part of
winter, the door-bell rang with energy,
and the servant announced &?nan who
wished to see me. A “man,” is one
thing with a servant, a “gentleman”
another, and a “person” something difi
ferent fromeither. The man stood in
the hall, but I wondered why he had
not been called a gentleman. I was
puzzled where to place him myself.
His dress Was very neat, but plain and
rather coarse. Li is linen, that badge
of refinem nt, was white, in perfect
order, and almost elegant. Every
thing about him seemed substantial;
but notning gave me a clue to his po
sition in life. In all outward seeming
he was simply “a man. ’ When he I
spoke to me, his address was simple,
clear, and with a eertain air of self
reliance.
“Doctor,” he said, “I wish you to
come and see my child. We fear he
is threatened with croup.”
I put on my hat, and prepared to ac
company him: for if the case were as
he supposed, there was no time to lose. \
In this disease a single hour may
make a life’s difference.
In a moment we were in the street,
and walking briskly up one of our
broad avenues. The child, he said,
had been playing out of doors, had
eaten heartily at supper, gone to sleep,
and waking up a short time since very
hoarse, with a choking cough, The
case was a pretty clear one, and I hur
ried rny walk still more, and in a few
moments we were at the door. We
went up—up, up—to the fourth story.
The last flight of steps was carpeted,
and a small lamp at the top lighted us
up. An excellent and very durable
kind of mat lay at the door. You will
see in time why I give these little par
ticulars.
I entered the open door, and was
Welcomed by a rather pretty and re
markably tidy woman, who could
have been nobody in the world but the
wife of the man who had summoned
tne.
“I am glad you have come so soon,”
whe said, in a soft, but pure accent. —
“Little William seeins so distressed
that he can hardly breathe and the
bext moment as we passed through a
harrow passage to where he lay, I
heard the unmistakable croupy sound,
that justly earries such terror to the
parent’s heart.
“Is it the croup, doctor ?” asked the
father, with a voice of emotion, as I
bent over the child—a fine boy, three
years of age.
“It is certainly the croup, a.nd a
pretty violent attack. How long is it
«ince you thought him sick ?”
“Not above an hour,” was the calm
reply. It whs made calm by a firm
eelf-eontroL I looked at the mother.
She was very pale but did not trust
herself to speak.
“Then there is probably but little
danger,” I said ; “ but we have some
thing to do. Have you the water
here?”
The husband went to what seemed a
closet, opened two doors, and disclosed
a neat pine bathing-tub, supplied with
Croton. This was beyond my hopes;
but I had no time to wonder. The
little crib, where he lay on a nice hair
mattress, fit for a prince to sleep on, I
took off his clean night-clothes, stood
him in the bath tub, and made his
father pour Aril upon his neck and
•
% (ffitrelitn Journal-Iltbotdi to literature, f olitira, anil (general Uisrellann.
chest throe pailfi til cold water) while
I rubbed him briskly With ftiy haiid.
lie was then wiped dry, and rubbed
until his whole body was in a flame.
Then I wrung a large towel out of
cold water, and put it around his
throat, and then wrapped him up in
blankets. The brave little fellow had
borne it all without complaint, as if he
understood- that under his father’s eye
no harm could could corne to him;—
In fifteen minutes after he was wrap 1
ped in the blankets' he was in a pro
fuse perspiration, in a sound slumber,
and breathing freely. The danger was
over —so rapid is the disease, and so
easily cured. *>
Happiness had shed a serene light
upon the countenance of the father,
and thrown over the mother’s face a
glow of beauty. I looked upon thetti)
and was more than ever puzzled where
to piace them. There were marks of
high birth or superior breeding, not
the shadow of decayed gentility about
them. It was rather the reverse, as if
they were working up from a low
rank of life to a higher.
I looked around the room. It. was
the bed-room. Everything in it was
perfectly orderly. The bed, like the
crib, ivas excellent, but not expensive.
The white counterpane did not cost
more than ten shillings—yet how
beautiful it looked! The white win
dow curtains were shilling muslin, but
their folds hung as richly as though
they were damask—and how very ap
propriate they seemed ! The bath,
with its snug folding-doors, I knew
had not cost, plumber’s bill and all,
more than ten dollars. The toilet
table, of an elegant form, and com
pletely covered, I had no doubt was
white pine, and cost half a dollar.—
The pictures on the wall were beauti
fully tinted lithographs—better, far
better, than oil paintin prs I have seen
in the houses of millionaires ; yet they
can be bought atGoupil’s, or Williams
& Stevens’, for from three to five shil
lings, and a dollar a-piece had framed
them. The floor had a carpet that
seemed to match everything with its
small neat figure, and light chamber
color. It v/as ajewel of a room, in as
perfect keeping in all its parts as if an
artist had designed it.
Leaving the boy to his untroubled
sleep, and giving directions for his
bath on his waking, I went into the oth
er room, which was differently, but
just as neatly arranged. It might
have answered for a parlor, only that
it had a cooking-stove ; or an artist’s
studio, or a dining-room. It was
hung with pictures—heads, historical
pieces, and landscapes; all such as a
man of taste could collect and buy
cheap, but which, like good books, are
invaluable. And, speaking of books,
there was a hanging library on one
side of the chimney, which a single
glance assured me contained the very
choicest treasures of the English
tongue.
The man went to the bureau, open
ed the drawer, and took out some
money. “What is your fee, doctor?”
he asked, holding the bills so as to se
lect one to pay me.
Now I had made up my mind, before
I had gone half way up the stairs, that
I would have to wait for my pay, per
haps never get it; but all this had chang
ed. I could not, as I often did, in
quire into the circumstances of the
man, and graduate my price accor
dingly. Then he stood ready to pay
me, with money enough ; vet it was
evident that he was a hard working
man, and far from being wealthy. I
had nothing left but to name the low
est fee.
“One dollar does not seem enough,”
said he. “You have been at more
trouble than to merely write a pre
scription.”
“Do you work for your living ?” I
asked ; hoping to solve the mystery.
He smiled and held out his hands,
which bore the unquestionable marks of
honest toil.
“You are a mechanic?” I said; wil
ling to know more of him.
“Take that,” said he, placing a two
dollar note in my hand, with a not*to
be-refused air, and I will gratify your
curiosity; for there is no use pretend
ing that you are not a little curious.”
There was a hearty, respectful free
dom about this that was irresistible.
I put the note in my pocket, and the
man, going to a door, opened it into a
closet of moderate size, and displayed
the bench and tools of a shoemaker.
“ You must be an extraordinary
workman,” said I, looking around the
room, which seemed almost luxurious;
but when I looked at each item, I
found that it cost very little.
“ No, nothing extra. I barely man
age to earn a little over a dollar a day.
Mary helps some. With the house
work to do, and our boy to look after,
she earns enough to make our wages
average eight dollars a week. We be
gan with nothing—we live as you
see.”.
All this comfort, this respectability,
this almost luxuary, for eight
week ! I expressed my surprise.
“I s'lould be very sorry if we spent
so much,” said he. “We have not only
manged to live on that, but we have
something laid up in the savings
bank.” °
“Will you have the goodness,” said
I, “just, to explain to me how you do
EATONTON, GrA., SATURDAY, JANUARY 27, 1855.
it?” For I was really anxious to know
how a shoemaker and his wife, earning
but eight dollars a week, could live iil
comfort and elegance, and lay up
money.
I took a chair which he handed me.
We were seated, and his wife, after go
ing to listen to the soft and measured
breathing of little Willie, sat down to
her sewing.
“My name, ” said he } “is William
Carter. My father died when I was
young, and I was bound out appren
tice to a shoemaker, with the usual
provision of schooling. I did as well
as boys do generally at school ; and
as I was very fond of readiiig, I made
the most of my spare time, and the
advantages of the Apprentices’ Li
brary. Probably the books that help
ed me most were the sensible writings
of William Cobbett. Following his
example, I determined to give myself
a useful education, and have to some
extent succeeded. But a man’s educa
tion is a life-long process; and the
more I learn, the more I see before
me.
“I was hardly out of my time when
I fell in love with my Mary there,
whom some people think very pretty,
but whom I know to be very good.”
Mary looked up with such a bright,
loving smile as to fully justify “some
people” in their notion.
“When I had been one year a jour
neyman, and had laid up a few dollars,
(for I had a strong motive to be sa
ving,) we were married. I boarded at
her hither’s, and she bound shoes for
the shop where I worked. We lived
a few weeks at her home ; but it was
not our home--the home we wanted;
so we determined to set up house
keeping. It was rather a small set-up,
but we made it answer. I spent a
week in house-hunting. Some were
too dear, some too shabby. At last
I found this place. It was new and
clean, high and airy, and I thought it
would do. I got it for fifty dollars a
year; and though the rents all around
have advauced, our landlord is satis
fied with that, or takes it in preference
to risking a worse tenant. The place
was naked enough, and we had little
to put i|4 it save ourselves; but we
went ipeerfully to work, earned all
we could —and you see the result.”
“I see; but I confess Ido not under
stand it,” said I; willing to hear him
explain the economies of his modest
and beautiful home.
“ Well, it is simple enough. When
Mary and I moved ourselves here,
and took possession, with a table, two
chairs, a cooking-stove, a saucepan or
two, and a cot-bed, with a straw mat
tress, the first thing we did was to
hold a council of war. ‘Now, Mary,
my * : love,’ said I, ‘here we are;
we have next to nothing, and we
have everything to get, and nobody
but ourselves to help ourselves.”
“We found that we could earn on
an average, eight dollars a week. We
determined to live as cheaply as possi
ble, save all we could and make our
selves a home. Our rent was a dollar
a week —our fuel, light, water-rent,
and some little matters, a dollar more.
We have allowed the same amount
for our clothing ; and by buying the
best things, and keeping them care
fully, we dress well enough for that.
Even my wife is satisfied with her
wardrobe, and finds that raw silk at
six shillings a yard is cheaper in the
long run than calico atone shilling.—
That makes three dollars a week, and
we had still our living to pay for.—
That costs us, with three in our family,
just one dollar a week more.”
“ One dollar a piece ?”
“ Come this way, and I will show
you,” he said,
“No—one dollar for all. You
seemed surprised, but we have reckon
ed it over and over. It cost more at
first, but now we have learned lo live
both better and cheaper. So that we
have a clear surplus of four dollars a
week, after paying all expenses of rent,
fire, light, water, clothing, and food.
I do not count luxuries, such as an
evening at the theatre, a concert,
or a treat to our friends when we
give a party.”
I know a smile came over my face,
for he continued:
“Yes, give a party; and we have
some pleasant ones I assure you. Some
times we have a dozen guests, which
is quite enough for comfort, and our
treat of chocolate, cakes, blanc mange,
&c., costs as much as two dollars ; but
this is not very often. Out of our
surplus—which comes, you see, to
two hundred dollars a year—we have
bought all you see, and have money
in the bank.”
“ I see it all,” said I; “ all but the
living. Many a mechanic spends more
than that for segars, to say nothing of
liquor. Pray, tell me precisely liow
you live.”
“With pleasure. First of all, then,
I smoke no segars, and chew no tobac
co, and Mary takes no snuff.”
Here the pleasant smile came in, but
there was no interruption, for Mary
seemed to think her husband knew
what he was about, and could talk very
well without her aid,
“I drank a glass of liquor
since the daj f I was married, except a
glass of wine about four times a year,
on Chri||mas, New Year’s, Fourth of
July, and Willie?* birth-day. The
iPia&iUo (dib &roia(o^2t(DP w
last is our especial holidajra I have
read enough of physiology to make
up my mind that tea and coffee con
tain no nutriment, and are poisonous
besides ; and I tried a Vegetable diet
long enough to like it better than a
mixed one, and to find that it agrees
with me better; and as we have read
and experimented together, of course
Mary thinks as I do.”
“But what do you eat and drink ?”
I asked, curious to see how far this
self taught philosopher had progressed
in the laws of health.
Taking the light and leading the
way into a capacious store-room. —
“Here, first cf all, is a mill, which
cost tne twelve shillings. It grinds all
n>y grain, gives me the freshest and
most beautiful meal, and saves tolls
and profits. This is a barrel of wheat.
I buy, the best, and am sure that it is
clean and good. It costs less than
three cents a pound; and a pound of
wheat a day, you know, is food enough
for any man. We make it into bread,
mush, pies, and cakes. Here is a bar
rel of potatoes. This is hominy.—
Here are some beans, a. "box of rice,
tapioca, macaroni. Here is a barrel of
apples, the best that I can find in Ful
ton Market. Here is a box of sugar,
and this is our butter jar. We take
a quart of country milk a day; I buy
the rest of our living by the box or
barrel, where I can get it best and
cheapest. Making wheat —eaten as
mush or bread, and all made without
bolting—and potatoes, or hominy, or
rice, the staples, you can easily see that
a dollar a week for provisions is not
only ample but allows of a healthy
and almost 1 uxurious variety. For the
rest, we eat greens, vegetables, fruit
and berries, in their season. In the
summer we have strawberries and
peaches, as soon as they are ripe and
good. Mary will get up a dinner from
these materials at the cost of a shilling,
better than the whole bill of fare at the
Astor House.”
I was satisfied. Here was comfort,
intelligence, taste, and modest luxury,
all enjoyed by a humble mechanic
who knew how to live at the cost I
have mentioned. How much useless
complaining might be saved—how
much genuine happiness enjoyed—
how much of evil and suffering might
be prevented, if all the working men
in New York were as wise as Wil
liam Carter!
I never shook a man or woman by
the hand with more hearty respect
than when I said “Good night” to this
happy couple, who, in this expensive
city, are living in luxury and grow
ing rich on eight dollars a week, and
making the bench of a s.ioemaker a
chair of practical philosophy.
Reader, if you are inclined to profit
by this little narrative, I need not
write out any other moral than the in
junction of Scripture, “Go and do
likewise.”
What it Costs to Dress a Lady,
The editor of the Home Journal, or
rather one of his female correspondents,
says :
“As to what it costs to dress a lady,
now-a-days, different persons would
answer very differently. I should
think the least, for the mere dress of
one who goes out a great deal, might
be a thousand dollars a year, and that
spent very carefully.
Two thousand is nearer the average,
probably; though even this without
including furs and jewelry. Russian
sables and diamonds are bought, of
course, but once in a life-time, and yet
there are other adornments upon which
a woman who dresses at all thought
lessly, may easily spend three or four
thousand.”
We know some ladies “who go out
a great deal,” whose dress ought not,
judging from external appearance, to
cost so much as a thousand dollars in
fifty years. They are ladies who go
out in the morning and do not return
until the shadows of the evening have
fallen around their homes; they earn
less than a dollar a day; and out of
it support an old mother, a sick sister,
or a young child. Ladies who spend
two thousand dollars a year on their
dress, ought to think of these sisters
of theirs, and occasionally put on the
robe of charity which covers a multi
tude of misdeeds.
Keep out of debt. It is better to be
in want that in debt. We once over
h >ard a conversation on this subject,
between two young men, which struck
us as worthy of record. ‘ Never go
in debt, 7 said o ;e. ‘Suppose that I am
in absolute want,’ replied the other.
‘ Beg then.’ ‘lf I cannot beg, shall I
starve ?’ ‘Do any thing rather than
go in debt. You will be happier in
your poverty or starvation, free from
indebtedness than surrounded by the
luxuries of life, unpaid for.’ It is this
sentiment which made Shakespeare re
cord the misery of rustling in unpaid
for silks.’
A correspondent of the Richmond
Enquirer , writing from Powhattan,
states that there is a negro woman
living in that neighborhood who is
known to be one hundred and twenty
six years old ; who has never lost her
appetite or eyesight, never took a dose
of medicine or was sick a day, and who
was the mother of sixteen children all
of whom died of old age. • *
“It was Rum that did it. ”
Such was the text from which was
preached a most impressive sermon on
Friday last in our sister city, Buffalo ;
and the text was the sermon also ; and
the text and sermon were the last
words of one ot God’s erring crea
tures.
There was no organ with its swell
ing notes dying away in lengthened
aisles to open the services, there were
no anthems of joy and praise with
which to continue the worship of God,
there was no benediction sweetly
breaking upon the ear of devout wor
shippers as they rose from cushioned
seats to leave the house of prayer; but
the service was imposingly solemn,
and it sunk deep into the hearts of an
awe-stricken assembly.
It was the “Court of Death.” There
stood justice, stern justice, in the per
son of the executive of the law, and
in his hand the warrant which com
manded him to revenge the injury
done to the peace and dignty of soci
ety ; there were the men of God de
voutly asking offended Heaven to pu
rify the blood-stained soul of the
trembling victim; there was the plat
form, the gallows, the rope, the drop ;
and, observed of all, there stood the
cringing, shivering outcast, who was to
expiate his crime by yielding up his
life as the last lesson he could read to
evil-doers. That criminal was the
preacher, robed in a frock of white,
girt by a black sash, and, on his brow,
the fatal cap. During this dressing for
the grave, the distracted man cried
out:—
“ Great God ! Oh ! my God ! what
an end I have come to! Merciful God,
look clown on me ! Oh ! Lord, have
mercy on my soul! It was rum
THAT DID IT !”
To his dying moment did that terri
fied man proclaim that his murdered
wife did not offend him in anything,
that he loved her, anJ yet, under the
infernal spell of rum, had he imbrued
his hand in her blood ; that hand with
which, three short months before, he
had pledged her his love and protec
tion.
We have never read of a more har
rowing scene than the death of Darry.
He shrieked with terror, and his cries
for mercy were piteous. He had been
guilty of one of the foulest murders
on record, and he must die ; the safe
ty of Society demanded his life. He
could not escape his fate, and he stood
with the halter about his neck, and
the hatchet was raised to sever the
cord which should launch himintoeter
nity ; and there, looking upon the
terrible past and the dreadful future,
did he raise his voice and utter the
fearful warning against the use of in
toxicating drink.
Will the world hear and heed the
words of this despairing man ? “Oh
that I should come to such an end !
It was rum that did it.” Will those
who daily put an enemy in their
mouths to steal away their brains, lis
ten to the voice from a murderer’s
grave ? “Tell them to leave liquor
alone; it has been the death of me!”
Weeping and groaning as the grave
opened beneath his feet, he screamed,
“ God help me !” “ God forgive me!”
“Christ assist me to pass through this
struggle !”
This is no fancy picture, but drawn,
word for word, from the scene in the
prison.
“It was rum that did it.”
[Cleveland Herald.
Supposed Insanity of the Duke
of Cambridge.— The London corres
pondent of the Boston Post writes as
follows:
Madness, like murder, will out, how
ever ; and the young scion of Royal
ty proves the purity of his blood, bv
getting crazy, like his grandfather. It
seems that some strangness of conduct
was noticed after the battle of the Al
ma, in the Duke of Cambridge, but no
thing of a decided character appeared
until after the defeat of the Russians
at Inkermann. Riding across the bat
tlefield and observing a wounded Rus
sian endeavor to shoot an English sol
dier, instead of running him through
on the spot, the Duke began to reason
with him, and his aids coming up, they
overheard him saying: that he should
use all his influence at head quarters to
to have him hanged ! As the dead
were being carried by, the Duke be
gan to remark—“ That man is not
dead, set him on his legs, he’ll walk,”
and upon Lord Raglan’s remonstra
ting with him ijpon the ill time for
such buffoonery, he replied, “ Buffoo
nery, my Lord 1 lam amazed. The
man is not dead. I myself saw him
alive, and talked with him this very
morning!” Measures were instantly
taken to report the Duke as an invalid,
and to remove him from his com
mand.
Cross Firing.— “ Did you see the
fire in my eyes !” asked a Swaggering
toper of a temperance lecturer. “ I
didn’t make any observation, beyond
your nose,” was the answer, “ M Do
you mean any reflection, sir?” “If
the fire was in your eye, as you inti
mate, I think it must have been a re
flection,” The loafer couldn’t stand
the fire. ifc&Vjjjjjm
Who wrote the Vestiges of Creation.
Mr. Page desires us to reproduce the
substance of a statement made by him,
a few days ago, in Dunbee, as to the
author of the “Yestiges of Creation.”
Mr. Page fixes the authorship on a
gentleman who has generally been
credited with the work. At the time
the “ Yestiges ” were published, Mr.
Page says, he was engaged as one of
the literary and scientific collaborateurs
of the Messrs. Chambers. The first
time he saw it was in the hands of
Mr. Wm. Chambers, who came into
his room one day with the
“here is a curious work, making some
sensation,” and requested that he (Mr.
Page) should write a notice of it for
the Journal, ( Chambers' Edinburgh
Journal .) For this purpose Mr. Page
took the work home—and he had not
read twenty pages of it before he felt
convinced that it was the production
of Mr. Robert Chambers.
When asked for the review, he sta
ted he could pot prepare one for two
reasons: Ist, that he did not think the
work suited for notice in the Edinburgh
Journal; and 2d, because he believed
it to be the work of Mr. Robert
Chambers. Mr. William Chambers
received this announcement with ap
parent surprise, but denied all knowl
edge of the matter—and there the
subject dropped. Some time after,
however, and when the work was se
verely handled by the reviewers, Mr.
Robert Chambers alluded to the mat
ter, affecting ignorance ancl innocence
of the authorship, upon which Mr.
Page remarked, that had he seen the
sheets before going to press, he could
have prevented some of the blunders.
The consequence of this remark was
that Mr. Robert Chambers sent him
the proof sheets of the second or third
edition- of the “ Vestiges,” with the
request that he would enter on the
margin any corrections or suggestions
that occurred. Mr. Page says he made
some notes; but he does not say wheth
er these notes were adopted in the re
impression. However, he has, as he
declares “ made a clean breast of it”
at length—and he concludes with the
remark—“ If merit is attached to the
work, the author will reap his high re
ward—if demerit the blame will, at
least, fall on the right shoulders.”
\_London Anthenceum , Dec. 2.
Better Times.
Judging from the tone of the news
papers in the different sections of the
country, there are indications of grow
ing ease in the money market. The
drain of the specie is checked, and our
gold mines are furnishing us about one
million per week. Produce of all
kinds is in great demand. Railroads
are doing a fine business, and almost
all the interests of trade are presenting
a cheerful aspect. Labor is still high,
and the demand for workmen, in most
places, is not seriously abated.
The monetary pressure, during the
present season, has been exceedingly se
vere. But it has not proved an un
mitigated evil. Not at all. If we.
could only form an estimate of the
wild, reckless schemes that such times
cheek ; of the disenchanting power it
exerts in tearing off the deceitful guises
of myriads of ambitious and ruinous
schemes; of the touchstone it applies
to character and credit; of the business
lepers it sends off into the wilderness,
and the healthy blood it infuses into
the veins of active industry and com
merce, we should feel that Hard Times
had a great and good office to perform.
Men seldom value any truth that has
not cost them some sorrow and suffer
ing to learn; and our best habits are
generally scourged into us by the rod
of severe correction.
There are always persons who keep
up the cry of Hard Times as loug as
possible. But it is obvious that in a
country like ours, and under circum
stances as they now exist, the heavy
difficulties through which we have been
struggling, cannot continue to oppress.
One of the encouraging facts of the
day is the ability which we have shown
to resist the pressure. The business
of the country is generally sound, and
so long as this is- the case our ener
getic people will have elasticity enough
to bound forward.— Mont. Mail.
What Will Take the Scent
out of Clothing.— Sitting on the
piazza of the Cataract, was a young,
foppish-looking gentleman, his gar
ments very highly scented with a min
gled odor of musk and cologne. A
solemn-faced, odd-looking man, after
passing the dandy several times with
a look of aversion which drew general*
notice, suddenly stopped, and in a con
fidential tone, said:
“Stranger, I know what’ll take the
scent out of your clothes; you —”
“What! what do you mean?” said
the exquisite, “fired with indignation,”
starting from his chair.
“ Oh, get mad now, pitch round,
flight—-just because a man wants to do
you a kindness!” replied the stranger.
“ But I tell you I do know what’ll
take out that smell—phew ! You just
go burry your clothes—bury ’em a
day or two. Uncle John got afoul of
a skunk, and he—”
At this instant there went up from
the crowd a simultaneous roar of mer
riment, and the dandy very sensibly
( rmr je2 mm. mm
j $2.00 A YEAR, IS ADV ANCE.
NUMBER 4.
Mr. Bourcicault’s Sketches of Eh-bK
ropean Socfety..
THE LONDON MERCHANT.
John Oakheart and Son are Baltic
merchants.—Young John entered his
father’s office as a clerk at sixty pounds
a year, of which he paid his mother
forty for board, lodging, and washing
and clothed himself with the odd tSfen
tv.' I)o not imagine that Mr. Oak’
heart’s establishment required this as
sistance. The old gentleman desired
to make his son feel independent—he
was a man, he earned his own livelihood
and should feel that he supported him- ~
self. At twenty-five years of age,
young Oakheart marries, receiving
with his wife a moderate sumo! mon
ey. He wants to purchase a share in
his father’s business : they cannot come
to terms. Young John can make a
better bargain with a rival house in
the trade. The old man hesitates: he
likes the sound of J. Oakheart & Son;
but business is business. Had his son .
married a penniless girl his father would
have given him what he now refuses,
to sell: but now business is business,
and as a calculation he can’t do it. So
young John becomes chief partner in
a rival firm to that which must one
day be his, and trades against the old
man, whose only aim is to lay up wealth
for his son.
Every day, at 4 o’clock, leaning
against a particular corner on Change*
stands the elder merchant, his hands
deeply sunk into his dog-eared pockets.
A young city man approaches; they
exchange a quiet, careless nod:
“ Feel inclined to discount for 1,200
at long date?”
“ What names ?” asks old John.
“My own. I will give four per
cent.”
“ I should want more than that, as
money goes —say 45-8.”
“The brokers only ask 4 re
plies the young man.
“ Then give it.” And they separate
with an indifferent nod. That was fa
ther and son.
Every Sunday, young John and his
wife dine at Bussell Square, in the
same house where old Oakheart has
lived for thirty years. His name has
been cleaned out of the brass plate on
the door. This house young John
still looks upon, and speaks of as his
home. All the associations of his
childhood are there, every piece of
furniture is an old friend, —every ob- ,
ject is sacred in his eyes, from his own
picture, taken at four years old, with
its chubby face and fat legs, to the
smoke dried print of General Aber
crombie. They form the architecture
of that temple of his heart—bis home.
After dinner the ladies have retired.
The crimson curtains are comfortably
closed. The crackling fire glofys with
satisfaction, and old John pushes
the bottle across to his son, for, if Old
John has a weakness, it is for tawuey
port.
“Jack, my boy,” says he, “what
do you want with 1200 pounds?” *
“Well Sir,” replies young John, “there
is a piece of ground next to my villa
at Brixton, and they threaten to build
upon it—if so they will spoil our view.
Emily,” meaning his wife, “ has ofteii„
begged me to buy it, and enclose it in
our garden. Next Wednesday
birthday, and I wish to gratify her
with a surprise; but I have reconsider
ed the matter —I ought not to afford
it—so I have given it up.”
“Quite right, Jack,” responded the
old man, “it would have been a piece
of extravagance,”—-and the subject is
dropped. »
Next Wednesday, on Emily’s birth-.
daj r , the old couple dine with the
young folks, and just before diTnleff
Old John takes his daughter-in-law
aside, and places in her hand a parch
ment —it is the deed'of the little plot
of ground she coveted.—He stops her
thanks with a kiss and hurries away.
Ere the ladies retire from the table,
Emily finds time to whisper the secret
to her husband. And the father and
son are alone. Watch the old man’s
eyes fixed on the fire, for he has de
tected this piece of affectionate treach
ery, and is almost ashamed of his act,
because he does not know how to re
ceive his son’s thanks. In a few mo
ments a deep, gentle feeling broods
upon the young man’s heart, ne has no
words—it is a prayer syllabled in emo
tions that make his heart tremble. He
lays his hand upon his father’s arm
and their eyes meet.
“ Tut, Jack. Sir! pooh ! sir, it must
1 all come to 3 r ou some day. God bless
you, my boy, and make yon as happjr
at my age as 1 am now.” In silence
the souls of these men embrace. But
who is that seraph that gathers them
beneath her outspread angel wings? I
have seen her at the fireside fluttering
like a dove from bosom to bosom. Its
have seen her linking distant hearts'
parted by the whole world. She is
the good genius of the Anglo-Saxon
family. And her name is home.
“Our art was hailed from kingdoms far abroad*,
And cherished in the hallow’d house of God;
•From which we learn the homage it received,
And how our sires in heavenly birth believed.
Each .printer, hence, howe’er unblest his walks; -•
E’en to this day Ids house adiiAPBI. calk”
■From AT Cretry'f Potfri of “Th* Present