All the boyish habits of Helph were at once thrown aside,
and much Aunt Wetherbe marvelled when she saw him a day
or two after his return from the city, bring forth from the
cellar a little sled on which all previous winters he had been
accustomed (out of the view of the highway, it is true), to ride
down hill.

“What on airth now?” she said, placing her hands on
either hip, and eyeing him in sorrowful amazement. A great
deal of pains had been lavished on the making of the sled, the
runners were shod with iron, and it was nicely painted; indeed
Helph had considered it quite an article of bijoutry, and
now as he dragged it forth to light, dusted it with his handkerchief
and brushed the spider-webs from among its slender
beams, he found it hard to suppress the old admiration for his
beautiful handiwork. Nevertheless, when he found himself
observed, he gave it a rough toss which lodged it broken and
ruined among some rubbish, and drawing his hat over his
eyes to conceal from them the wreck, he strode away without
at all noticing his aunt, who immediately went in search of
her good man, who (in her estimation at least) knew almost
every thing, to ask an explanation of the boy's unaccountable
conduct.

But the strange freaks of the young man were not yet at
an end, and on returning to the house he took from a nail
beneath the looking-glass a string of speckled birds'-eggs and

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

the long silvery skin of a snake, where they had long hung,
the admiration of all visitors, and threw them carelessly into
the fire, thereby sending a sharp pang through the heart of
Aunt Wetherbe, if not through his own. He next took from
the joist a bundle of arrows and darts, the latter cut in fanciful
shapes, and which he had made at various times to amuse his
leisure, and crushed them together in a box of kindlings, saying
in answer to the remonstrance of his relative, that was all
they were good for.

From the pockets of coats and trowsers he was observed at
various times to make sundry ejectments, such as the election
tickets of former years, variously colored, yellow, blue, and
pink, together with bits of twine, brass-headed nails, &c.
But when he brought from an out-house a squirrel's cage,
where many a captive had been civilized into tricks never
dreamed of in its wild swingings from bough to bough, Aunt
Wetherbe took it from his hands just as she had done when he
was a wayward boy, exclaiming with real displeasure, “Lord-a-mercy,
child, has the old boy himself got into you!” But
Helph soon proved that he was not possessed of the evil one,
by the manliness with which he talked of the coming election,
discussing shrewdly the merits of the several candidates. All
the apparatus pertaining to shaving operations were shortly
procured, and Helph was observed to spend much of his time
in their examination and careful preparation, though no special
necessity for their use was observable, and hitherto the old
razor of his uncle had only now and then been brought into
requisition.

When the first flush of exuberant manhood had subsided, a
thoughtful and almost sorrowful feeling pervaded the dreams
of the young man; he kept much alone, knit his brows, and
answered vaguely when questioned. At last he abruptly

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

announced his intention of beginning the world for himself. He
would sell his horse and the various farming implements he
possessed, together with the two young oxen that he had
played with and petted, and taught to plough and draw the
cart, and with the means thus acquired he would procure a
small shop in the vicinity of the great city, and resume his
blacksmithing.

“Tut, tut,” said the aunt, “I'd rather you would steal away
from the splitting of oven-wood and the churning of a morning,
just as you used to do, to set quail traps and shoot at a mark,
than to be talking in this way. Your uncle and me can't get
along without you: no, no, my child, you mustn't think of
going.”

Helph brushed his hand across his eyes and appealed to the
authority which had always been absolute; and removing his
spectacles the good old man rubbed them carefully through
the corner of his handkerchief as he said, sadly but decidedly,
“Yes, my son, you have made a wise resolve—you are almost
a man now (here the youth's face colored), and it's time you
were beginning to work for yourself and be a man amongst
men;” and approaching an old-fashioned walnut desk in which
all manner of yellow, musty receipts and letters from relatives
were kept, he unlocked it slowly, and pouring from a stout
linen bag a quantity of silver, counted the dollars to the
amount of a hundred, and placing them in the hand of the
young man, he said, “a little present to help you on in the
world—make good use of it, my boy, but above all things, continue
in the honest, straight path in which you have always
kept, and my word for it, prosperity will come to you, even
though you have but a small beginning. I have lived to be
an old man,” he continued, “and I have never seen the righteous
forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.”

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

Boyishly Helph began drawing figures rapidly on the table
with his finger, for he felt the tears coming, but it would not
do, and looking rather than speaking his thanks, he hurried
from the house, and for an hour chopped vigorously at the
wood-pile.

It was soon concluded to hurry the preparations of his departure,
so that he might get fairly settled before the coming
on of cold weather, and a list of goods and chattels to be sold
at public vendue on a specified day, was made out, and bills
posted on the schoolhouse, at the cross-roads, and in the bar-room
of the tavern, stating the time and place of sale. Ellen
Blake was sent for in haste to come right away and make up
half a dozen shirts, and the provident old lady briskly plied the
knitting-needles, that her nephew might lack for nothing. All
talked gayly of the new project, but the gayety was assumed,
and Ellen herself, with all her powers of making sombre things
take cheerful aspects, felt that she succeeded illy.

Now that he was about to part with them, the gay young
horse that had eaten so often from his hand, and the two gentle
steers that had bowed their necks beneath the heavy yoke at
his bidding, seemed to the young master almost humanly endeared,
and he fed and caressed them morning and evening
with unusual solicitude, tossing them oat sheaves and emptying
measures of corn very liberally.

“Any calves, or beef cattle to sell,” called a coarse, loud
voice to Helph, as he lingered near the stall of his oxen the
evening preceding the day of sale.

“No,” answered the young man, seeing that it was a butcher
who asked the question.

“I saw an advertisement of oxen to be sold here to-morrow,”
said the man, striking his spurred heel against his horse, and
reining him in with a jerk.

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

“I prefer selling to a farmer,” said Helph, as he leaned
against the broad shoulders of one of the steers, and took in
his hand its horn of greenish silver.

“My money is as good as any man's,” said the butcher, and
throwing himself from the saddle he approached the stall, and
after walking once or twice around the unconsciously doomed
animals, and having pinched their hides with his fingers, he
offered for them a larger sum than Helph expected; he however
shut his eyes to the selfish advantage, saying he hoped to
sell them to some neighbor who would keep and be kind to
them.

A scornful laugh answered in part as the butcher turned
away, saying he was going further into the country, and would
call on his return—they might not be sold.

Thus far, Helph had not advised with Jenny relative to the
new movement he was about making, and when all arrangements
were made, and it was quite too late to retract, he resolved
to ask her advice; and I suspect in this conduct he
was not acting without a precedent.

From amongst a bunch of quills that had remained in the
old desk from time immemorial, he selected one with great
care, and having rubbed his pocket-knife across the toe of his
boot for an hour or more, there began a search for ink, of
which his uncle told him there was a good bottle full on the
upper shelf of the cupboard. But said bottle was not to be
found, and after a good deal of rummaging and some questioning
of Aunt Wetherbe, it was finally ascertained that the ink
alluded to must have been bought ten or twelve years previously,
and that only some dry grounds remained of it now
in the bottom of a broken inkstand: to this a little vinegar
was added, and having shaken it thoroughly, the young man
concluded it would do. More than once during all this

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

preparation, he had been asked what he was going to do, for
writing was not done in the family except on eventful occasions,
but the question elicited no answer more direct than
“nothing much,” and so at last with a sheet of foolscap, ink,
and quill, he retired to his own room—Aunt Wetherbe having
first stuck a pin in the candle, indicating the portion he was
privileged to burn.

Whether more or less candle were consumed, I am not ad
vised, but that a letter was written, I have good authority for
believing. Murder will out, there is no doubt about that, and
the day following the writing Aunt Wetherbe chanced to
have occasion to untie a bundle of herbs that in a pillow-case
had been suspended from the ceiling of Helph's room for a
long time, and what should she find but a letter addressed to
Jenny Mitchel, fantastically folded and sealed with four red
wafers, where it had evidently been placed to await a secret
opportunity of conveyance to the post-office. Long was the
whispered conference between the old lady and Ellen that
followed this discovery; very indignant was the aunt at first,
for old people are too apt to regard love and marriage in the
young as highly improper, but Ellen, whose regard for matrimony
was certainly more lenient, exerted her liveliest influence
in behalf of the young people, nor were her efforts unsuccessful,
and unobtrusive silence was resolved upon.

During this little excitement in doors, there was much noise
and bustle without; Helph's young horse was gayly caparisoned,
and bearing proudly various riders up and down the
space where, among ploughs, harrows, scythes, &c., a number
of farmers were gathered, discussing politics, smoking, and
shrewdly calculating how much they could afford to bid for
this article or that. Yoked together, and chewing their cuds
very contentedly, stood the young, plump oxen of which I have

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

spoken, but no one admired them with the design of purchasing.

The vendue was soon over, and all sold readily and well but
the oxen. The sleek bay was gone, proudly arching his neck
to the hand of a new master, and the farmers brought their
teams to carry home whatever they had purchased, and Helph
half sighed as one after another put into his hand the money
for which he had sold them.

As he lingered at the stile he saw approaching a large flock
of sheep; closely huddled they were, and the red chalk marks
on their sides indicated their destiny; close behind came a
mingled group of cows, calves, and oxen; all driven by the
butcher mentioned before.

“Well, neighbor,” he said, thrusting his hand in his pocket
and drawing thence a greasy leathern pouch, “I see you have
kept the bullocks for me.”

At first Helph positively declined selling them, but he didn't
want them; it was very uncertain when an opportunity of
disposing of them as he wished, would recur, and when the
butcher added something to his first liberal offer, he replied,
“I suppose, sir, you will have to take them;” and riding into
the yard, he drove them roughly forth with whip and voice
from the manger of hay and the deep bed of straw. Free
from the yoke they were, and yet they came side by side and
with their heads bowed close together just as they had been
accustomed to work. Passing their young master, they turned
towards him their great mournful eyes, reproachfully, he
thought, and crushing the price of them in his hand, he walked
hastily towards the house.

“The bad, old wretch,” exclaimed Ellen, looking towards the
butcher, as she stood on the porch wiping her eyes with the
sleeve of the shirt she was making, and just within the door

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

sat Aunt Wetherbe, her face smothered in a towel, and crying
like a child.

A week more, and Helph was gone, Ellen still remaining
with the old people till they should get a little accustomed to
their desolate home. The tears shed over his departure were
not yet dry, for he had gone in the morning and it was now
dusky evening, when, as the little family assembled round the
tea-table, he entered, with a hurried and anxious manner that
seemed to preface some dismal tidings.

Poor youth! his heart was almost breaking—he had no
concealments now, and very frankly told the story of his love,
and what had been his purposes for the future. Mr. and Mrs.
Randall had given up their house—gone abroad, and taken
Jenny with them, under the pretext of giving her a thorough
education in England. But the young lover felt instinctively
that she was separated from him for a widely different purpose.

Poor faithful Aunt Kitty had been dismissed without a shilling
above her scanty earnings, to work, old and disabled as
she was, or die a beggar. After much inquiry, he had learned
that she had obtained an engagement at an asylum as a servant
for the sick.

“Poor old soul!” said Aunt Wetherbe, “you must go right
away in the morning and bring her here; she shan't be left to
suffer, and I know of it.”

“Never mind—all will come out bright,” said Ellen, as Helph
sat that night on the porch, alone and sorrowful.

But he would not be comforted—Jenny had not left a single
line to give him assurance or hope, and even if she thought of
him now, she would forget him in the new life that was before
her. All this was plausible, but Ellen's efforts were not altogether
idle; and when she offered to go with him to the city

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

and see Aunt Kitty, who perhaps might throw some light upon
the sudden movement, he began to feel hopeful and cheerful
almost: for of all eyes, those of a lover are the quickest to
see the light.

Some chance prevented the fulfilment of Ellen's promise,
and I was commissioned by her to perform the task she had
proposed for herself. “It will help to keep him up like,” she
said, “if you go along.” A day or two intervened before I
could conveniently leave home, but at last we set out, a clear
frosty morning of the late autumn. Behind the one seat of
the little wagon in which we rode, an easy chair for Aunt
Kitty was placed. A brisk drive of an hour brought us to the
hospital; and pleasing ourselves with thoughts of the happy
surprise we were bringing to a poor forlorn creature, we entered
the parlor, and upon inquiry, were told that we were come
too late—she had died half an hour before our arrival, from
the effects of a fall received the previous night in returning
from the dead-house, whither she had helped to convey a body.
“I have ordered her to be decently dressed,” said the superintendress,
“from my own wardrobe; she was so good, I thought
that little enough to do for her,”—and she led the way to the
sick ward, where Aunt Kitty awaited to be claimed and buried
by her friends. It was a room some fifty or sixty feet in length,
and twenty in width, perhaps, lined on either side with a long
row of narrow dirty beds, some of them empty, but mostly filled
with pale and forlorn wretches—some nigh unto death, some
groaning, some propped on pillows and seeming to stolidly
regard both the fate of others and themselves. The sun streamed
hot through the uncurtained windows, and the atmosphere
was pervaded with most offensive odors.

As my eye glanced down the beds of suffering, it was arrested
by the corpse of the poor old woman—gone at last. I

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

shuddered and stood still as the two haggish-looking old
women wrapped and pinned the sheet about the stiffening
limbs, with as much imbecile glee as they apparently were
capable of. “What in Heaven's name are you laughing at?”
said Helph, approaching them. “Just to think of sarving a
dead nigger,” tittered one; and looking in his face, she drew
from her pocket a sealed letter, saying, “May be you can tell
who this is for—we found it in her bosom when we went to
dress her.” It was a letter from Jenny to himself: poor Aunt
Kitty had been faithful to the last.

Not till I was turning from that terriblest shelter of woe I
ever saw, did I notice a young pale-cheeked girl sitting near
the door on a low wooden rocking-chair, and holding close to
her bosom an infant of but a few days, not with a mother's
pride, I fancied, for her eyes drooped away from mine, and a
blush burned in her cheek as though shame and not honor
covered her young maternity. A moment I paused, praised
the baby, and spoke some words of cheer to herself; but she
bowed her head lower and lower on her bosom, speaking not
a word,—and seeing that I only gave her pain, I passed on,
heavy in spirit, and this more for the living than the dead.

Jenny's letter proved a wonderful solace, and cheerfulness
and elasticity gradually came back; but when, at the expiration
of a year, his parents returned without her, and bringing
the report of her recreancy and marriage, all courage and
ambition deserted him, and years and years and years went by,
during which he lived in melancholy isolation. Poor youth!
he had no liking for quiltings and wood-choppings any more.

Nearly fifteen years were gone since Jenny crossed the sea,
and country belles had bloomed and faded before his eyes,
without winning from him special regard: when, as he sat
before a blazing hickory fire one evening, waiting for Aunt

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

Weatherbe, who still enjoyed a green old age, to bring to the
table the tea and short-cake, there was a quick, lively tap on
the door, and the next moment, in the full maturity of womanhood,
but blushing and laughing like the girl of years ago,
Jenny stood in the midst of the startled group—Jenny Mitchel
still! I need not speak of the base desertion and downright
falsehood of her adopted parents, of her long struggle with
sorrow and poverty, striving the while to bind her heart from
breaking for the faithlessness of her lover, whom she was
taught to believe had abandoned her—all this the reader can
imagine, as well as the new life that dawned upon, and endowed
her with almost superhuman powers of exertion, when
she learned by chance that Helph still lived, true to her
memory.

As we introduced the reader to their happy home in the
opening of this story, we need not linger, save to say that the
quilting-quilt, still as good as new, adorned the nuptial bed;
and that Ellen Blake, good and generous and amiable as ever,
presided at the wedding, quite forgetful of her waning maidenhood
in the happiness of others.

p487-090 THREE SCENES IN THE SOUTH.

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

BY C. B. PARSONS.

Much has been written and said, and deservedly too, of the
beauty and gracefulness of New-England towns and villages.
The uniform white painted walls of their houses, their regular
walks and avenues, with their clean fields and nice “home
lots,” all indicative in no small degree, of intellectual training
and moral thrift, are sure to attract the attention of the traveller,
and are worthy of all praise. But this state of things is not confined
alone to the land of the Pilgrims,—the soil of chivalry,
also boasts of the beautiful and picturesque. The villas and
verandahs of the South, interspersed as they are with orange
groves and magnolia forests, though not so prim and precise,
are more gorgeous and grand; and, compared with the North,
show as the unrestricted expanse of the magnificant sun-flower,
to the trim-built and exclusive little buttercup. We remember
a cottage scene of the South; and though years have passed
since the events transpired, which we are about to record, there
are those living, in the green of whose memories they will ever
remain—so strong is the impress of woe upon the tables of the
mind.

In the lovely village of H—, where it was our good
fortune to be some time resident, in the year 184—, and just
at the turn of the Big Road, which stretches down the Bay on
towards the Gulf, stood a beautiful cottage, built after the style

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

of the Peninsula, in the age of Cervantes. A venerable grove
of magnolias, more gorgeous than Acedemus ever dreamed of,
spread their arms to each other above, and embracing together,
canopied the place. The broad white blossom in summer, and
the perpetual green of winter, of these monarchs of the woods,
not only filled the surrounding atmosphere with the most deli
cious odors, while they closed in the whole area above with
umbrageous and unbroken shade, but furnished the beholder,
at every elevation of the eye, a fadeless remembrance and
emblem, of the imperishable life of hope—that hope, which as
a heavenly cynosure, leads the Christian to the contemplation
of things beyond this suffering vale. In the midst of this gorgeous
clump of evergreens, and in happy contrast, rose the
white walls of the “Spanish Cottage.” It was a lovely scene
to look upon. Without, and in splendid profusion, festoonings
of running rose, eglantine and honeysuckle, sweetly intermingling
together, entwined the pillars and draped the porches;
while within, the richer elegance of intellectual culture and
moral worth, adorned the place. The fields were carpeted with
flowers of every hue, and the air rung merrily, with the songs
of birds. It was such a picture as Chateaubriand describes, as peculiar
to the great valley of the South. This was the residence
of old Mr. Wilton, who had now been dead about two years,
leaving his son William, who was his only child, the sole heir
and possessor of his sufficient fortune. The estate had formerly
belonged to the Spanish agent, Sir William Dunbar, a noble
gentleman, who was an intimate friend of Mr. Wilton, and in
honor of whom William was named. Young Wilton was a
highly educated young man, of many noble virtues—generous,
charitable and brave, and seemed to emulate the distinguished
qualities of heart and mind, of both his father and his patron.
He had been, during the years of his novitiate, a student at one

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

of the eastern universities, where he had graduated with the
first honors of his class; and where, as the sequel will show
the beginning of circumstances was made, which ultimately
involved much misery and more crime. In the same hour of
his high college honors, and ere he had descended from the
platform of his achievements, a letter bearing the impress of a
black seal, was handed him by the janitor. The superscription
was in a strange hand. Tremblingly, and with fearful foreboding,
he broke the envelope, and read,—his brain reeled
with the shock,—his father was dead! How strange a world is
this, where the quality of joys and sorrows are so assorted to
each other. Little joys are modified with little griefs, but great
transports must be rebuked by great suffering. Into the cup of
ecstacy, just about to be quaffed by the Roman Father, an
envious fate stood ready, to cast the life-drops of a daughter
slain in the moment of triumph, by a victorious brother's
hand.

With a saddened heart, young Wilton, turned his footsteps
towards his home in the South, where now his presence was
imperiously demanded. A warm welcome from the two old
domestics greeted his arrival, but a father's smile of approbation,
that boon which he had so calculated upon, and for which he
had toiled, had been stricken away. All that was now left,
was to pay the tribute of a tear at his father's grave, and look
about himself for his future course. This he speedily adjusted,
and having given a few brief orders, was soon on his way again
for the North—gossip said to select a partner for life's mazy
dance, with whom to share the joys and sorrows of his cottage
home. In this instance the old dame of many tongues told the
truth; for he soon returned again, and bearing with him his
beautiful and accomplished bride, the elegant daughter of the
Honorable Mr. B—. Rumor says the match was a rash one—

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

on the lady's part—that her parents were bitterly opposed to it,
on the score of prejudice against the South, and that to accomplish
their purpose the young couple were compelled to elope.
Be that as it may, it was now near two years since their settlement
in the cottage, and by common consent they were the
happiest people in all this region, especially among the poorer
classes, they have been idolized; with whom the lady is an
angel of mercy, and the gentleman a benefactor of his race.

“But come,” said our friend, “as we are so near the cottage,
let us extend our walk little, and pay them a morning
call. It will be pleasant to make the acquaintance of this interesting
family. This is the place.”

“Good morning, Mr. Wilton; a pleasant morning, sir;”
said we.

“Good morning,—good morning, sirs,” was his reply.
“Yes, sirs, a delightful Southern morning. Come, sirs, sans
ceremonie, walk in and rest you a bit; I am glad to see you
hoth, and feel no little honored by this early visit. Your
drowsy, after-dinner visiations, may do for loungers, who, overcome
with spiritual ennui, study more sedulously how to kill
time, than ever Archimedes did to solve his great problem; but
for me, there is more music in the notes of the lark than in the
song of the cricket.”

“You are right, sir,” said we; “and your taste, in this regard,
well accord with our own. But there's another to be
consulted in this matter, I think; perhaps the madam might
not fancy to see company at this early hour.”

“O, yes,' said he, smiling, “my wife is myself in that
respect; and indeed, in almost every other. Our love-path, it
is true, was not as smooth, perhaps, as it might have been, but
when it widened into wedlock, it was equal to the famous
`shell-road' When we married, we two `were no longer

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

twain but one flesh.' She would consider the hour a little out
of season perhaps, if she was, at her father's, in the far `downeast'
country, but with us here, in the sunny South, we shake
off many of those arbitrary notions of upper-crust-dom, (which,
by the way, are sometimes a little `done brown,' by our
baking,) and in place thereof we have untrammeled intercourse
and enjoyment with our friends at all hours. Isn't it so,
wife? I beg pardon, Alice, this is our friend, Mr. P— from
Kentucky, with Mr. — from the village; this is Mrs. Wilton,
gentlemen.”

We bowed, and he went on.

“I often thought,” said he, “while resident in the North,
in the family of Dr. Birch and Professor Hickory, that compared
with the sans-souci and wreathy ease of our Southern
homes, the image of their manners was like a figure of snow,
with icicle trimmings.”

“Come, come,” said we, “you must not be too severe
upon the manners and customs of the cold land, because you
are so snug and warm here in the South; recollect, you gathered
the loveliest flower you ever saw, in that sterile clime.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the lady, slightly coloring.

“I acknowledge the compliment,” said he, bowing, and
casting a glace of unmingled affection upon his gentle wife;
“but you see, even that blossom, so perfect and so good, had
to be transplanted to a southern soil before it could mature into
fruitfulness; don't you see,” said he, laughing, “the richness
and beauty of our southern production;” and he pointed to a
lovely babe of near a year old, who was quietly sleeping upon
its mother's lap.

“You must not mind Mr. Wilton,” said she, recovering
a little from the confusion which the last remark had occasioned,
“he don't mean half he says about the coldness of the

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

North, for he knows full well that some of his happiest hours
were spent there.”

“That's true, Alice,” said he; “and I will never forget
them: no—never.”

“O, I don't mind him,” said I, “nor will my friend here.
We rejoice to see you so delightfully situated and so happy.
May no blighting spirit ever cross your threshold to mar your
felicity.”

“God grant it,” said Wilton; while a respondent tear glistened
in the eye of the wife, and told the deep interest she felt
in the subject.

“But come,” said Wilton, “before you go you must take
a glass of wine, or brandy if you prefer it, and pledge our young
and promising household. I suppose the Temperance folk
have not got hold of you yet?” They tried a little after
me once—it was some time since, when I was at Cincinnati—
but they soon discovered it was no go to follow that trail. That
man Gough, though, did come mighty near hooking me, at one
time, and Genl. Garey at another, but I shook them off. By
the way, these Temperance associations seem to me, to be, not
only unnecessary and unreasonable, but they strike at the most
manly prerogative of human constituency—liberty. I cannot
think with complacency, even upon the invitation, to sign
away my freedom, much less upon the act itself. As if a man
needed a conservator to keep his moral machinery checked and
balanced, lest it should run wild. The very thought is humiliating,
and unworthy the dignity of intelligent manhood. But
come, what shall it be—wine, water, brandy? What you will;
take your choice; but for my part, I like something a little
stronger.”

Water was the beverage of our pledge, of course, but he
drank brandy. We said farewell, and turned away from that

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

beautiful cottage and happy family; but for days and weeks,
that “something a little stronger,” haunted our mind, and
seemed to predict, that it would one day prove the “strong
man armed,” that would destroy their peace for ever. Poor
Wilton!

How truly it is said, that “virtue does not always meet its
just reward in this bad world,” where the honest, the excellent
and the noble, are as likely to be made the quarry of an insidious
and subtle foe, as the base, the worthless and the vile.
Nature's universal characteristic, is mutation; change, is written
upon all things. It is a common duty therefore, dictated as well
by safety, as by happiness, to watch with exceeding carefulness,
in order that moral progress may lead from good to better,—else,
through carelessness and temptation, its tendencies may be, in
an opposite direction. About seven years after the period of the
previous chapter, it was our fortune, again to visit the sunny
land, where


“The notes of the wild Thrush, ring through the brake,
And the Nightingale sings in the grove”
Just as the sun was sinking to rest, wrapt and pillowed by one
of those red and portentous hazes, peculiar to the south in the
vernal season of the year, we found ourselves once more entering
the pleasant village of H—.

We had almost forgotten the happy family of the Wiltons,
whom we knew on our first pilgrimage south,—but as we had
several acquaintances in the village and some among them remembered
our former visit to the cottage,—especially the friend
who accompanied us on that memorable morning, it was not long
before their name was introduced. We were anxious to hear of

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

their welfare, and yet we knew not why, we felt a sad foreboding
that all was not right there. That “something a little
stronger,” came back again with the name, and assumed, in the
mirror of the mind, the hideous demon of the Still—glancing
and gloating upon his victims. To-morrow morning, said our
friend, we will resume again our early walk, of seven years ago,
in the direction of what was then the beautiful Spanish Cottage;
but strange changes have been rung upon the bells of life, from
that day to this. Poor Wilton!—but I will not anticipate—you
shall see and judge for yourself. “Do you remember your remark
then, about the strong man armed?” “Yes,” said we,
perfectly; the vision has been with us a hundred times. “Well,”
said he, significantly, he has been there, sure enough. How
strange is the philosophy of life. Moments, sometimes, make
impressions upon the mind which years of oblivion can never
efface or obliterate. By the dim fore-shadowings of the future,
such seemed to be the character of events, which the coming
day was to evolve.

The next morning, the sun rose murky and red, and as with
swollen face, he peeped forth from the chambers of the east,—
looked more like a drunken sluggard, forced forth from his rest
to his task, than the coming up of a cheerful bride-groom, or as
“a strong man, rejoicing to run a race.” We were soon on our
way towards the cottage. “Come said we, tell us of the ruin
which has befallen the—what's that?”

“O nothing,” said he “but the distant croaking of a
family of Ravens, which have singularly enough taken up their
abode among the magnolias at the cottage. Their hoarse notes
have filled the air of late, to the no little annoyance of the
neighbors; many of whom are superstitious enough to think it
ominous of evil. They say the croaking of the raven, indicates
the shedding of blood; but I have no belief for such things.”

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

“You remember the time when Wilton made us drink with
him, and pledge his family, when we drank water, and he
“liked something a little stronger?”

“Yes; I remember it as a thing of yesterday.”

“Well, that `liking' never left him, but grew upon him,
without abatement, until, as with bands of iron, it bound him
an abject slave, and it is Forever. He soon became a confirmed
drunkard; though for a year or two, while his fortune
held up his wild-orgies, his debauches and his abuses were
chiefly confined to his own cottage, where, as far as possible,
they were concealed by his amiable wife from the public view.
But as his means became scant, his vice grew bold; every sense
of shame was at length banished, and the once elegant and accomplished
William Wilton was lost. He has for years been
the common tavern-loafer, and pot-house sot. One circumstance,
however, in his miserable career, more than anything
else, removed from him the last vestige of sympathy, and fixed
him in the eye of the community as a loathsome and repulsive
moral offence. There were two aged servants, whom you may
remember, that were left by his father as a part of his estate, a
male and female; whether they were man and wife, or not, I
do not remember. The woman—and probably the very nurse
of his infancy—he sold to a trader for a barrel of whiskey (she
was redeemed, however, by one of the neighbors who would
not see the horrid sacrilege, but He knew nothing of it) and
the other, an old man, he tied up and beat, in a drunken fit, for
some imaginary insult, so severely, that he soon died of his
wounds. It was with great difficulty that the public was restrained
from taking popular vengeance on him for these acts;
but on account of his family they spared him, and partly in the
hope also, I suppose, that he would finish himself with his barrel
of whiskey (so they said). But in this last they were

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

disappointed; like a monster, as he is, he lived through it, and he
still lives on.”

From the accomplished gentleman you knew him, he has
become an incarnate fiend, and to such an extent does he demonstrate
his nature, that the neighbors often tremble for the
safety of his wife and child. The little girl, you remember,
was an infant when you were here; she is now near eight years
old, and a most intelligent and interesting child. Poor Mrs.
Wilton, she bears it all with meek patience, and much submission,
but every one can see that she is a broken-hearted
woman.

“And all this misery,” said we, “is the fruit of that one
error,—the liking of `something a little stronger.”'

“Well, here we are, in sight of the place,” said our
friend. Mark the contrast of seven years. One thing you will
note, and that is, a strict harmony has been preserved betwixt
the moral and the physical of the scene; the outer change is as
great as that of the inner man.”

“Yes, and all this,” said we, “is the work of the bottle.
Where, now, is the `dignity of intelligent manhood'—the
`freedom,' of which he spoke so eloquently? The dog at his
vomit; the sow in the wallow; or the man with his bottle;
which of these three hath most of the beast?”

There stood the shattered and decayed cottage, it is true,—
like a tomb ruin—a gloomy remembrance of other days; and
there, too, what remained of the splendid Magnolia grove—
time and abuse had done their work on both. The axe had
leveled most of the beautiful trees for firewood, while those that
remained, seemed to stand silent and sad in their dark fol age,
as if sensible of the dishonor that had befallen them. The
largest and noblest of the grove had been ruined by the

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

lightning, during a severe thunder-storm, and hung in halves, sustained
by the adjacent trees, which seemed in this, as dutiful
children, amidst the desolation, holding up a stricken sire. The
very thunderer had spoken in threatening and in wrath. The
grounds had been let go to waste; briars had usurped the fence
corners, and thistles covered the fields. Since the murder
of the old servant man there was no one left to till the soil,
which, like the moral waste of Wilton's mind, seemed as if a
simoom had passed over it; and was not such the fact? More
blasting than the “Zamiel,” is the fire breath of the Still.
With the cottage itself, the contrast was greater, if possible, than
with the grove. Doorless openings, and sashless windows, with
furniture broken and destroyed, told of times of violence. Desolation
and misery, had been lighted to their possession of the
beautiful cottage, by the spirit-lamp of hell, where now, hand
in hand, they stalked and ruled supreme. A Satan, in the
Garden of Eden, is that “something a little stronger,” in the
house of the happy.

Some one comes; it is the little daughter, and followed to
the door by her ruffian father, who, with threatening and abuse
is sending her upon some errand. He seems even now, at this
early time in the day, to be under the influence of the demon.
See, he is standing and staggering in the door-way still, and
with bloated face and blood-shot eyes, is muttering something
hetwixt his teeth, in reference to that little girl. Alas, for
the fate of a drunkard's daughter!

“And is that man Wilton? The man we knew? the gentleman
and the scholar? Merciful heaven, what a metamorphosis!”

“Did you observe,” said our friend, “that the little girl
had a jug in her hand as she left the house? He is still under

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

the maddening influence of the last night's drunken brawl, and
has doubtless sent his child to the grocery in the village for
more whiskey to cool off upon. Woe betide that little innocent
if she fail in her degrading mission.”

“Come,” said we, “let us go; we have seen enough. O
it harrows up the very soul. What talents; what usefulness;
what respectability; what everything, indeed, might have been
his; but all—all, are sacrificed to that prince of evils, strong
drink. Why don't Mrs. Wilton take her little daughter and
return to her father's house? he would receive her kindly, we
doubt not.”

“Well, that has been spoken of,” said he, “but when
Wilton is sober, as he sometimes is, his former good nature returns
again; he is kind then, and promises amendment. And
though every body else has lost all confidence in his pledges,
his wife has not, but hopes still. A woman's heart is slow to
give up the object of its early affections; a woman's love never
forsakes. Besides, the match at first, was consummated by an
elopement, and a sense of pride, perhaps, forbids the idea of
such an event as her return. I think, however, that some of
the friends (unknown to her) have written to the old gentleman,
and if I mistake not, he is expected here about this time.”

“I am glad of it, may God speed his journey. I would he
was here now; for O I fear—I fear! Let us return to our
lodgings. Our walk has produced a melancholy upon my
mind which I cannot shake off. If I was superstitious, I should
think there was some fearful calamity at hand. Poor Wilton,
what a terrible contrast has the progress of seven years drawn
upon the tables of his life, and how fearfully has his own hand
guided the pencil. Is there hope? O God! is there hope? let
us think.”

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

An hour, it may be, had elapsed, after the morning ramble
of the last scene, during the interview of which we had sought
the retirement of our chamber and communion with God.
“He is our refuge,” and always “a present help in trouble.”
Such was our condition and though we had no adequate conception
of what the cause should be, a trouble seemed ready to
settle down upon our mind. From this we sought relief, only
where relief can be found for an oppressed spirit, at the throne
of grace. Suddenly a busy hum in the street below, fell upon
our ear. On approaching the window to ascertain the cause,
we observed a crowd about the door and a fainting female just
being borne within the house. Almost immediately, as if
moved by a common impulse, the whole village—men, women,
and children—were seen hurriedly crossing the lawn, in the
direction of the cottage.

“What has happened? Some dire event has transpired
to cause this rush of excitement. We will follow, also, and
learn the cause.”

Just then our door opened, and our friend of the morning,
pale and agitated, entered the room.

“What is the matter?” said we. “What has occurred?
For heaven's sake, speak!”

“I am come,” said he, “to ask you, once more, to accompany
me to the cottage. The dreadful drama is near the close,
the bloody denouement of which is terrible to behold.”

“Bloody! do you say? What has happened?”

“Murder has happened,” said he. “Murder, not only
most `foul and unnatural,' but of circumstances so horrible that
the mind trembles to know and think upon them.”

“Who is murdered?” said we; “and who is the murderer?”

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

“They have just borne the fainting form of Mrs. Wilton
into the house below, but little Alice and the wretched father—
come put on your hat, and let us visit the scene; I came for
you on purpose, because I saw you were so interested in the
welfare of the family. As we go, I will tell you what has come
to pass.”

We immediately started for the cottage.

“The state of the case appears to be about this,” said he,
“as near as we could ascertain, from the incoherent and anguished
speech of poor Mrs. Wilton: the fiend of a father, as
we learn, who was still under the influence of last night's
drunkenness, had sent the little girl to the grocery for more
whiskey; just as we supposed was the case, when we saw her
pass us with the jug in her hand.”

“Where,” said one, “could he have gotten the means to
purchase the poison? would they trust him?”

“O no,” said he. “It appears that on yesterday, while
the miserable drunkard, and more wretched husband and father
was absent at his tavern orgies, Mrs. Wilton, driven to her last
extremity, in order to purchase food for herself and daughter,
sold to a pedlar who passed through the Village, her wedding
ring. This was the last article of any value that remained, and
even this brought but a trifle. Still, it would buy a little bread—
and though she had clung to it, as a remembrance of faded
joys, and wept upon it as a witness of untold sorrows,—the
pressing demands of hunger were not to be resisted, and the
ring, which was placed upon her finger with solemn oaths, now
left it, midst bitter sighs. This transaction, by some means Wilton
found out, and demanded the money. This she refused.
With threats and imprecations, he persisted, and even went so
far as to fetch the axe from the yard, and raise it menacingly
over her head, threatening her life if she continued to refuse.

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

Alarmed for her safety, at length she yielded, and gave him the
money. Immediately the scanty product of the sacrifice, which
was intended to purchase bread to sustain life, was on the way
to the Grocery, for “more whiskey,” to produce death. On her
return, it seems, the little girl stumbled against some obstacle in
the path, and unfortunately fell. In her fall, the jug was broken,
and the whiskey spilled. Sensible of the extent of her misfortune,
and the violent wrath which awaited her, little Alice, gathered
up the fragments of the broken jug, in token of her mishap,
and weeping bitterly, made her way, fearful and trembling, into
the presence of her unnatural parent. In a moment he saw the
truth, and maddened into a paroxysm of rage, at his disappointment,
he bounded like a tiger from his seat, and scizing the axe,
with a savage yell swore instant vengeance. Against the child,
his first fury was levelled, who fled out at the back door, pursued
by her father, while the mother, who was equally the
object of his hellish design, escaped through the front of the
house. It is likely the fleetness of little Alice would have
baffled the pursuit of the monster father which she had often
done before, had not her feet become entangled in some brushwood
about the door, which had been placed there for purposes
of fuel. This proved fatal to her life—the murderous axe came
down, and poor little Alice was dead.—A single horrid scream
from the child, reached the fleeing mother's ear, who with a
groan, sank senseless by the road side;—whence she was borne
to the house we left. One stroke of the axe did the deed, and
almost cleft the child in twain. The descending blow struck
her, in a falling condition as it would seem, just at the back of
the head, and passed quite through the neck and breast, dividing
them entirely asunder. Poor child, it was a sight horrible to behold.
No sooner had this fiend in human shape accomplished
this part of his design, than he rushed back into the house

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

again, to finish his work upon his abused and devoted wife,—
Fortunately she was not there. Disappointed of the chosen
subject of his vengeance, his next purpose seemed to be to select
some object, animate or inanimate, upon which to wreak his
fury. A portrait of Mrs. Wilton, painted by Inman—a beautiful
picture, hung upon the wall of the apartment,—against this
he now launched his wildest and most frantic madness. It is said
that the frenzied soul, which under the influence of alcoholic
madness steeps itself in murder, knows neither mercy nor remorse.
One broad cut appeared in the face of the portrait, but
in the effort to inflict a second blow, the head of the axe struck
the ceiling of the room,—being lifted too high,—and glancing
struck deep into the side of his own head and neck, severing
the main artery, and producing instant death.

“This is the apartment,” said our friend,—“and there you
see he lies, in the centre of the floor weltering in his blood,—
with the fatal axe still in his grasp;—and just over him the indentation
in the ceiling.—And there too they have laid the body
of little Alice.—Great God, what a sight is here?—This also is
the work of the bottle,—the legitimate fruits of `something a
little stronger.' ”

Let us turn aside from this place of terrors. Horrors thicken
fast,—they rise like the whelming tide, and mock at rest.—
The very currents of the heart curdle and chill, and the pulses
pause in fear, among scenes like these. And this is the end of
that beginning, which was so bright and joyful, and so full of
promise. Like the coiled adder at the bottom of a lucid fountain,
poisoning its sweet waters with the virus of death, is the
spirit of the still, midst the springs of life. Who would have
said seven years ago, that this would be the end of William
Wilton,—the accomplished, the generous and the just.—But so

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

it is—the tempter was busy—and the fire streams were full,—
they roll unresisted, and have borne to hell their victim.

It were idle to attempt a description of the scene, which communicated
to the bereaved and distracted wife, the terrible
events that had taken place. Scream answered to swoon,—and
swoon succeeded scream,—following close upon each other, and
in such rapid succession, that fears were entertained that her reason
would perish, if her life was not also added to the list. But
kind heaven directed otherwise,—her time was not yet. The
next day at an early hour, was the appointed time for the funeral,
which was to take place near the cottage, where the grave
had been already prepared.—Sorrow and gloom held vigil together
that night, in the village of H—.

“John;” said a voice to a servant man, as he was hurrying
through the hall of the Hotel early in the morning,—“who
was that tall old gentleman, that came in the stage last night?”

“I don't know, sir,” said John, “he is the strangest old man
that I ever saw, that's certain. He seems almost like he was
a lunatic.”

“Why so, John?”

“Why sir,” said the servant, “though he had been riding in
the stage for two days without rest or sleep, he did not he
down nor ask for a bed at all, but wandered about the village
all night like a ghost. He asked about the murder down at the
cottage, and while they told him the story, he shook and groaned
as if he had been in an ague fit.—Two or three times he
started off to go down there, and then turned suddenly back
again, afraid I reckon, that he would see the spirit of Wilton.”

“It is certainly he,” said the voice, and the door closed.

“He,” said John, looking for a moment at the closed door,—
yes, it is HE,—and a singular HE he is. I think he is mad.

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

The assembled village stood round the grave. A large plain
coffin had been provided, which contained the bodies of both
father and daughter—the murderer and the murdered. This, it
is likely would not have been the arrangement, but a sympathetic
commisseration, had suddenly sprung up in the popular mind
on behalf of the wretched murderer, ascribing the horrid deed
rather to madness, than to premeditation. This, without doubt,
was a right view of the subject. It was madness, and of the
worst and most fatal type. A madness, full of horrors, and fit
exponant of the condition of the damned,—the madness of the
Still.

Upon the coffin, in gorey state, lay the fatal axe. The instrument
of the murder, was to be buried with the murderer
and the murdered. A strange “hatchment,” truly, but in strict
keeping with the nature of the scene. The services were short,
solemn and impressive, and as the coffin was lowered to its last
resting-place, the widow sunk upon her knees, and remained
in that situation until the friends had filled the grave. The
tall grey-headed stranger stood unnoticed by her side. As the
crowd was about to disperse, he turned to the mourner, and
with tremulous emotion said, “Alice.” It was like the shock
of a Galvanic battery. She threw back her veil at the sound
of his voice; started to her feet, and with a long, piercing, unearthly
shriek, fell senseless into his arms.

A moment more, and the story was told;—he was her
father, She was dead!

p487-108 MARY NEILLY.

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

BY MRS. JENNIE DOWLING DE WITT.

“Ha! ha! our Paddy friend is far enough gone now
we'll make him take us over to Widow Neilly's to-night to
see his pretty sweetheart; I guess she will not be saying much
to him in this plight.” The speaker gave a significant glance
at a young man lying at full length on one of the boxes at the
furthest corner of a low groggery (of which so many can be
found in every city and town in our Western country), and,
advancing towards him, administered a plentiful shower of
oaths and kicks, in order to assist to his feet his almost senseless
victim. “Here, Joe,” shouted the first speaker, “come
along and help me, or I'll have hard work to get him home.
We are goin' home with you, Bill, for fear you'll break your
neck before you get there; ain't we mighty kind to you, old
boy?” As he spoke, he leered triumphantly over his fallen
rival, and said in an under tone to his less intoxicated companion:
“Very kind; if I play my cards well, I'll get Mary
Neilly yet, with her pretty face, and may be her rosy cheeks
will come back again, if she leaves off her eternal worrying
over this drunken fool. Come on, Bill, or it'll be dark before
we get over there.”

The drunken man looked vacantly up, and made a vain
effort to free himself from the firm grasp of his companions.
“I—I'll be afther gitting along as well without the like of ye's.
Mary don't like me to be fetchin' ye home with me, so ye had
bitter stay here and—”

“Ha! ha! ha!” shouted he; “she'll not like you to be
bringing yerself home to-night, I'll warrant you; she'll like me
better than you this time, so come along.”

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

The young Irishman, intoxicated as he evidently was,
staggered round to face his tormentor, muttering: “You'll not
be daring to say that, when it was yersel' that lured me to the
drhink, and faith, I'd knock any other man down that would
be afther sayin' it.”

“You look like knocking anybody down, don't you?
You don't think I made you drunk on purpose to get your pet
done away from you; never fear, I'll have her yet in spite of
you.”

“Hould yer lying tongue,” answered the other, at the
same time aiming a blow at his persecutor, which the other
avoided, thereby precipitating his assailant over the steps into
the street. A loud laugh echoed from his two comrades just
as a female figure appeared at the side of the fallen man. She
laid her hand on his arm, and whispered, in a choking voice:
“Willie, for my sake, for Heaven's sake, come away home;
why did ye come with the two bad men that'd take the life
o'ye if they dared? Come quick, they are coming.”

“Here she is,” cried the one inside, coming towards them:
“come now, we'll see which your beauty likes best.” The
speaker pushed the veil and hat from the face of the anxious
and terrified girl. Her lover, intoxicated as he was, rushed
in between them, but the other mockingly pushed him aside,
and threw his arm about her neck, exclaiming in a jeering
tone: “Now for a dozen kisses, if I like; your protector isn't
in a very fit condition to hinder me.”

One glance at his lovely Mary, pale and trembling, a
second vain attempt to interpose, and he seized a knife lying
upon a barrel, and plunged it into the bosom of his tormentor.
They rolled over together upon the ground, while the terrorstricken
girl could only gaze in mute horror upon the deed of
murder that she thought had been committed.

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

Three months passed away, and the trial of William
Harty, for an assault, with intent to kill, upon the person of
George Brown, was brought before the court. The prosecution
was carried on with all the energy that hatred, revenge,
and jealousy could prompt. George Brown, on his recovery,
had spent the earnings of years in the attempt to have his
rival put out of his way, for since the affray, Mary had so
effectually avoided him, that he had not once seen her. The
trial was one of unusual length, enlisting the warmest sympathy
of the spectators in behalf of the prisoner and the fair
young girl who was compelled to testify against him. It was
difficult to imagine that, beneath the open, manly brow, and
mild blue eye, a heart was hidden so full of guilt and evil passions,
as the charge preferred against him implied. But justice,
not mercy, were demanded at the hands of the court; it
was theirs to decide, not from the appearance of the prisoner,
but from the facts of the case.

The jury brought in a verdict of guilty, and William
Harty was sentenced to ten years' solitary confinement. As
the sentence was pronounced, Mary Neilly uttered a cry of
pain, and her brother rushed forward, only to carry her halffainting
from the court. The prisoner started up as if to follow,
but sank back with a burst of uncontrollable agony, as he
remembered that he was not at liberty.

All that night poor Widow Neilly watched over her child,
while James glided about holding his breath, as if fearful of
the young life flickering out from his sister's breast. “Ah!”
wept the mother; “my swate, swate child, ye was the darlint
o' my life; little did I iver think to see ye so for Willie's sake.
Sorra's the day for ye that ye let him away from ould Ireland.
Not all the gould o' the counthry could ha' tempted ye if ye'd
dhramed o' this. Poor Willie! I love ye yet, though it's nigh
enough ye ha' come to laying my wee Mary in the ground;

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

but it was the dhrink that did it, not yer own thrue heart.
Bad luck to the wretches that made ye the slave o the crathur
when we weren't by to kape ye. Oh! Mary mavourneen!
Mary mavourneen!”

James was active during the next month in obtaining
signers to a petition drawn up by a kind clergyman in behalf
of the unfortunate prisoner. The circumstances of the case,
combined with the young Irishman's earnest pledges of his
friend's future abstinence from intoxicating drink, the indulgence
in which seemed, to nine out of every ten who heard
the case, the only absolute crime of which he was guilty, that
he found no difficulty in obtaining names.

With the greatest confidence, he presented his petition,
signed by over a thousand persons, but, to his utter dismay,
was positively refused. For several weeks the household was
gloomier than ever. Mary seemed failing under her weight
of sorrow; her mother could do nothing but watch her and
weep with her, while James hung over his twin sister almost
with the sadness of despair.

One day, when the governor was seated in his private
study, he heard a timid knock at the door. Upon opening
it, what was his surprise to see a middle-aged woman, plainly,
but neatly dressed, standing without! Not waiting for him to
speak, she immediately explained the cause of her intrusion.
“Yer honor, it's for life and death I'm come; an' I thought
may be your servants wouldn't be letting the likes o' me in to
see the governor. But it's meself that has heard o' the kind
heart in yer honor's bosom, an' I thought ye'd like enough give
a helping-hand even to a poor ould body like me.”

“Come in, my good woman,” answered he; “I am not in
the habit of refusing to do what I can for my fellow-beings.”

His kind tone encouraged her, and she held out to him a
folded paper. A shade passed over his brow as he glanced at

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

the contents, and he returned it instantly, saying: “Indeed, it
is utterly impossible for me to yield to your desires in this respect;
I have examined this case before, and felt it my duty
to refuse the petition. There have been half a dozen similar
cases lately, and we must make an example of him that shall
intimidate others. The community, as well as the individual,
requires justice, and one must suffer for the good of many.”

The poor woman burst into tears, exclaiming, “Indade, sir,
its Willie'd be killed hisself before he'd be killing another, if
the dhrink didn't dhrive him beside hisself. Don't I know
him better than them all, an' sure ye'll not belave me word.
Ye must listen to me, sir, for a little, I'll not kape ye long. It
was fourteen years agone that I was left a widow in ould Ireland,
with my two blessed childher. Ye see Willie Harty's
mother and I were always sisters like, bekase we lived in the
one house, from the time we weren't more nor two year old.
When she died (that was just afther I was married), she tould
me to take care of her orphan baby, and God would reward
me for the dade of mercy. Poor Ellen! it would almost make
her wape, though she's a blessed angel in heaven now, to see
her Willie where he is this day. A good many years went
on, an' I got childher o' my own, but I always loved Willie
just the same; and faith, niver could yer honor ha' found in
all Ireland a cleverer or a nicer boy.

“At last I found out that he an' my swate Mary loved each
other. I was as glad as the childher at the betrothal, an' right
proud was I when I heard the people whispering, as they went
home from church, that Willie and Mary would be the prettiest
couple in Ailendeen. Jist a twelvemonth afore the wedding
was to ha' been, we thought we'd come to Ameriky,
bekase ever since my husband died we had tight work to get
along. Willie came first to find us a place. How well do, I
mind that first letter that we got, telling us that he was so

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

lonely, and wanted so much to see us. Well, after a while,
we came, too; we were all in a bustle at first, hurrying to get
ready for the weddin', and two happier hearts niver beat than
theirs. But Willie had a new frind, that I didn't like at all
at all, an' that was George Brown. He used to be coaxin'
Mary to go out with him when Willie was away, an' I could
see plain enough that he'd ha' put 'em apart if he could, but
Mary couldn't bear him, an' at first he seemed angry at 'em
both, but all of a suddint he got very friendly like wi' Willie,
and purtended to be very fond o' him. But by-and-by Willie
would come in wi' the fire o' the dhrink in his eyes, an' I
can't be saying how it was that he got such a fast hold on the
boy, but I'm sure he maned to make Mary lave him, though
he didn't often come to see her hisself, for fear we'd be having
suspicions of his black heart. He'd watch for him whereever
he could find him, and get him away wi' him. Mary
would sometimes go out, o' dark nights, after him hersel', an'
she growing pale an' sick when the wedding was put off so
many times, for she wouldn't marry Willie till he'd lave off
dhrinking. George Brown niver said any thing to Mary for
a good while afore Willie stabbed him, nor I don't belave he
would then, barrin' he'd been taking a little o' the crathur.
He thought he'd get her after a while, when nobody stood in
his way. When Willie was better o' the liquor they'd been
pouring down his throat, he hardly minded a thing he'd done,
an' when I went to the prison to see him, he asked me what
he was there for, and told me the next day, when he was free,
he'd sign the pledge.

“When the sentence was spoke, my poor Mary fainted,
and her brother brought her home, but she acted wild like all
night, an' didn't get off her bed for two weeks; now she goes
about more like a shadow nor a young, hopeful girl, an' I'm
sure she'll niver live ten years, with the shame, an' grief, an'

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

a', to see poor Willie out again. He's his own blissed silf
again now, I saw it in his eyes in the coort.

“Oh! your ixcellence,” cried the weeping mother, dropping
on her knees, “if ye've e'er a child at home to bless ye,
an' call ye father, ye'll not send mine to the grave, for if ye
but say the word, ye can save her.”

The tears sparkled in the eyes of the governor. “Hold,
hold! my good woman,” said he, “yours is an extraordinary
case. Before night the prisoner will be set at liberty.” The
sobs so choked her utterance that she could not thank him;
but the savior of her child was never forgotten in her prayers.

Before nightfall Mary Neilly was clasped rapturously, yet
tearfully, to the bosom of her repentant lover and affianced
husband.

Eight or ten years after the above events, when the merciful
governor was travelling in Illinois, his carriage-wheel
broke, and he alighted at a nice, snug-looking farm-house, to
repair it. What was his surprise to recognize in the fine
sturdy farmer the pardoned prisoner of former years, and to
receive again the tearful thanks of the old mother, joined to
the blessings of the happy wife, while two or three rosy children,
with clean frocks and faces, peeped from behind grandmother's
dress upon the illustrious stranger! He discovered
that James also was married and settled close by, but he had
never been able to prevail upon his mother to leave her favorite
child. Willie and Mary declared that they had ceased to
look with sorrow upon the events of that memorable trial,
and could only thank God for the never-to-be-forgotten lesson
they had received, and pray blessings upon his head who had
changed the night of sorrow into the morning of joy, and
given them the peace of a happy life, instead of the misery of
a disgraceful punishment.

p487-115 THE LAST OF TORCONNIER'S BAND.

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

BY MRS. C. W. DENISON.

Torconnier was an Italian, and the leader of a band
famous for its great harmony and power. All Verona rang with
its praise. Was there to be a marriage of some Don's dark-eyed
daughter? Torconnier must be there with his handsome, straight
young musicians, that is, if one was able to pay them their stipulated
price, which, it must be confessed, was enormous.

Of gigantic stature, massive frame, and portly mein, this
chief of melody surpassed all others of his countrymen in grace
of form and commanding beauty of feature. Passionately fond
of his profession, at times his deep set eyes would sparkle with
a fire that made them almost too intensely brilliant, and his finely
cut lips, naturally of a coral glow, grew pale and tremulous with
the emotion that, wild or sweet sounds conjured in his heart.

To belong to Torconnier's band was esteemed a great honor;
and many young men of noble families met with him in private
at his rehearsals, and in public showed him much favor and feted
him, getting up entertainments in a style of almost princely
magnificence. The great leader was unmarried, constantly receiving
immense sums of money, yet, always poor. His saloons
were rich in adornment, beyond description; the rarest works of
art, the most elegant and costly tapestry, the softest frescoing on
walls and ceilings, carpet of luxurious pattern and material,

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

statue of the finest marble, and gorgeous furniture; indeed
the mansions of the great were rarely equalled with that of
Torconnier.

But alas' what a sight was this mighty leader, at times,
when the carousel was over, and the last midnight lamp gave a
yellow tinge to his handsome face as its sickly flame streamed
over him. Stretched out upon one of his velvet couches, his
great eyes glaring and bloodshed, his fine features convulsed,
poor Torconnier laid, drivelling and insensible; he had sipped
the wine till he was drunk; and none of his band as they reeled
home from his splendid suppers were in better condition than
himself. Generally, at such a time, a young female of great
beauty stood, weeping over him and lavishing caresses upon his
insensible form. She was his niece; the beautiful Viola Torconnier,
whom a dying brother had commended to the care of
his famous kinsman; and she was betrothed to young Tricolo,
first player upon the flute, who, Torconnier himself said, would
yet be the wonder of the world.

Both loved with a passionate fervor peculiar to that clime
burning and fervid as it is, and Viola seldom appeared in public,
because her loveliness made her subject to many annoyances, for
all Verona knew that the famous Torconnier had in his splendid
home, a gem for the possession of which, many would have
parted with their whole fortunes.

A dark day dawned upon the Italian city. Not that the
sun shone with less splendor, not that the soft winds were less
cool and fragrant of flowers, or the skies shorn of their blue
enamel-like transparency—no; the harp still sounded in the
land of song, but fair fingers elicited most melancholy cadences;
Torconnier was dead; the man who moved all hearts with his
stirring melodies, who brought forth, tears, smiles or sighs at his

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

pleasure, would never again sway the baton, or with the magic
of his pen clothe with glorious garments the noble creations of
his genius.

No! he slept for ever; his tongue was mute, his thrilling
glance passionless. Shorn of his great strength, he slept motionless
beneath a canopy of sable velvet over the dim splendor
of his darkened room, the tall candles threw at times a startling
light, the warm wind from between the marble pillars sweeping
their dull flames aside, as the mourner, or the sorrowing stranger
entered to pay their last tribute of respect to Torconnier. The
massive cross at the foot of his couch, all blazing with diamonds,
flashed with a ghastly radiance over the scene of death, and the
tall forms of monks gliding here and there in the funeral gloom,
gave a ghastly sort of harmony to the sad scene.

Poor Viola, her slight girlish figure trembled like the silver
aspen; she leaned upon young Tricolo near the tall jasper vase
that a monarch had presented the gifted Torconnier; one of
her white arms shining through its slight drapery of black, laid
upon the embossed handle of the ornament, the other within
that of Tricolo.

Her betrothed occasionally spoke to her soothingly, but his
eyes were troubled, though tearless, and his manly heart swelled
with this swollen grief. He of the few favored ones admitted
into the great composer's presence, enjoyed most his confidence,
understood best his wild, wayward genius. Early bereft of parents,
the chance child of fortune, he cherished in Torconnier all
the emotions of filial gratitude because he had indeed been as a
father to him. And then did he not feel the gentle but more
decided pressure of that fair arm? had not that little hand been
laid within his own, by the doting uncle? and now, left as she
was without father, mother, relatives; full of gentleness, guileless
as innocence and beautiful as the light, was he not bound to

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

stand before the altar with her—yes, even on the morrow, and
take upon himself those vows which no strong power but that
of death could sever.

Not such were the thoughts of Viola, her sorrowful glances
were fixed on the still troubled face of the corpse. He had died
in her presence, died raving mad—drunken with wine. She
knew whatever the smooth-faced physician might say, that, to
his last breath, he had raved the incoherent blasphemy of the
inebriate, the sot; that he knew her not, though her fingers
sometimes laid upon his burning temples—that he saw her not,
though his starting eyeballs glaring with the red lustre of the
maniac, roved meaningless from feature to feature of her beautiful
face. And yet so accustomed was she to the sight of this
ruby beverage, crowned with frothy pearls as it leaped from the
sparkling champaign crystal, so often had she seen it upon the
tables of the wealthy, so frequently had she herself sipped the
juice of the grape, since she was a little child, that she comprehended
not the true source of this great calamity, or very slimly
felt that an excess of indulgence and that only, had been the
ruin of her beloved uncle.

The grand funeral procession marched from the house of
mourning in solemn state; it was conducted on an almost regal
scale of splendor. Neither music nor mourners were wanting;
the priests chanted, and the solemn line of monks, all belonging
to the monastery where Torconnier had sometimes electrified
thousands with his entrancing strains, swelled the cortege to an
mmense number, and gave an appearance of due solemnity to
the occasion.

Viola returned to her desolate home; sobbing like a child,
and throwing herself within the open arms of her old nurse, she
half shrieked, half sobbed, “what friend have I now on earth,
dear old Lara—oh! this terrible loneliness at my heart.”

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

“Tricolo will take care of you now, my child, see—you
distress him with your grief. Compose yourself, my darling,
nay, he does not hear me, he is weeping over Master's baton—
I can see his eyes are full of tears. Torconnier, your uncle—
may his soul be at rest—has left you all this beautiful furniture
these magnificent rooms; Tricolo has wonderful genius, your
uncle himself said that; he will yet be a leader; he will be
famous; rich; ah! he will take care of you as if you were a
queen. See, younder; the poor youth is refreshing himself with
wine; I do not wonder; he wishes to drive away his heavy
thoughts.”

Viola shuddered as she turned her gaze slowly towards
him; the nurse's kindly meant consolation had not lifted an
atom of the weight that crushed her spirit.

Before many months Viola wore the long bridal veil with
its complement of orange blossoms, and her young face, though
pale, gleamed bewitchingly sweet through the thick tresses of
curling hair that fell heavily over her white neck and down to
her jewelled waist. And there she spoke solemn words which
one like her breathes not lightly, and from thence she moved,
amid admiring multitudes, the bride of Tricolo, the matchless
flutist of Torconnier's band. A home of splendor had been
decorated for her; a deathless fame seemed awaiting the husband
of her love, in the future. By degrees, the sad calamity
that had befallen her assumed a softer shade, and though for a
long while she mourned Torconnier, and looked through tears
upon the many possessions which his touch had hallowed in
her eyes, yet the sunny smile came back as of old, and she
gradually forgot that she had ever felt so lonely and heart-broken,
as when she left the ashes of the great composer in
his last and lowly home.

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

Bellonte, a citizen of Verona, noted for his benignity and
deeds of benevolence, was hurrying along a narrow street,
lighted here and there by the flames of candles in the shopwindows,
whose gaudy red signs displayed a legion names of
choice liquors.

A man stood near one of these villainous pits, whose master
is the great prince of darkness, and peered so strangely, holding
out his long thin neck at Bellonte, that he could not forbear
pausing, and gazing into the cavernous eyes that met his
own.

The stranger deliberately raised the slouching cap that
kept his face in shadow, and speaking in a sepulchral tone,
exclaimed, “how do you like the looks of a starving man,
signor?”

“Good God!” exclaimed Bellonte, falling back apace,
for the horribleness of the countenance before him was too much
for even his equilibrium, seldom though it was moved.

The eyes of the wretched man shone like a fitful fire, but
they were deep, deep within his brain. His hair, intensely
black, fell in unstudied waves over his threadbare coat collar,
and his cheeks, whiter than parchment, were plastered in as
it were to the very bone. Wild and ghastly, famished, yet
awful, as if inside that pallid receptacle, a mighty and restless
spirit struggled for release, looked that strange, yet truly,
as he had said—starving face.

“Is it possible! can you want for food?”

“I could gnaw the verriest bone that ever a dog fought
over in the street; but—but, sir—I would die sooner than tell
you this, had I not a wife—a wife”—he articulated thickly,

[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]

and then his utterance was checked by tears. Bellonte had
never so pitied a human creature. He drew nearer to him
and smelt the fumes of wine upon his breath; he looked closer,
and noticed the unmistakeable rim of flame around those tomblike
eyes, such as none but the Bacchanalian displays.

“You have had wine recently?” he said in a tone of
inquiry.

“To-night, once. I snatched it from the very lips of my
sick babe; it was a choice treasure, saved by my poor girl for
the hour of need; but my tongue was swollen with starvation;
my breath was leaving me and already sounded dry and rattling;
away down my throat was Death, choking me; good
heavens! I could not bear the thought of starving then, of
falling dead at the feet of my wife—no, no; I prayed for
strength to carry me from the house; and if I find no succour—
to-morrow—” he made a fierce gesture passing his lean forefinger
across his shrivelled cheek.

Bellonte shuddered. “My poor man;” he exclaimed,
his heart deeply moved, “do not tempt God. Has he not sent
me to your relief? Have faith in Him.”

“Give my sick wife some nourishment, and then I will
talk to you about faith. I only ask mercy when I feel to what
depth of poverty I have brought her. But if you will go with
me—no—no, trust me not with that”—he quickly added, as a
piece of silver shone in the hand of the stranger, “go to her;
give it to her; I have not the heart to ask it of her.”

Bellonte, at one glance, comprehended the case; he threw
the folds of his ample cloak around him, and motioning the
sufferer to go forward, walked hurriedly after him.

In a still narrower and more filthy street, where balcony
after balcony of the tall grey buildings overhung each other,
like inverted terraces, until the old black walls nearly met

[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]

away up in the gloomy space, lived this poor victim of his own
base appetite. Flight after flight of broken and still crumbling
stairs did the two men ascend, hearing on all sides noisy mirth
and drunken revelry, till they had gained and entered the topmost
apartment. A feeble little candle flickered upon the
hearth, and close beside it, watching the face of her babe with
the most agonizing earnestness, sat a young creature whose soft
mournful eyes were floating in unshed tears, so that they
flashed like diamonds in pearl setting, as they were raised, with
sudden surprise, to the benevolent countenance of the stranger.

She, too, had the abundant and glossy locks of an Italian
woman, and her rich, clear complexion was instantly suffused
with a burning flush, as she glanced quickly around the
wretched room, and then with almost a look of reproof, towards
her husband.

In truth it was a most deserted and cheerless place, being
a room of unusually large dimensions, containing not a particle
of furniture beside a high-post bedstead without coverlid, and a
low bench or table, perhaps used as both, against the wall from
which latter hung remnants of diverse colored paper.

Closet there appeared to be none; there was no food in
sight; the ember had long ago died out in the black fire-place,
and that young creature, so beautiful, sitting wan and hopeless
by the desolate hearth, completed the most affecting picture
that Bellonte had ever beheld.

“What is the matter with the babe?” he asked, in a low
voice.

“Want of proper nourishment,” exclaimed the father,
abruptly; “he and that poor girl are dying by inches.”

The woman moved her face towards the wall; large tears
were streaming from her eyes.

“Go and get whatever this will furnish;” exclaimed

[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]

Bellonte, placing a gold coin in the burning palm of the husband
and father; “but—stop,” he ejaculated rapidly, as the
man turned away, “promise me—”

“I know what you would say,” interrupted the other,
almost haughtily; “but there is no need; yesterday I promised
the Infinite—did I not, my Viola—that I would never again
quaff the infernal poison; and perish this right arm if I keep
not my oath,” he muttered with clenched teeth; and the
slight frame of the woman shuddered perceptibly, as again the
large hot tears rolled unrestrained over her cheeks. “Stop!”
exclaimed her husband, with energy, and hastening to a corner,
he returned with something wrapt in green baize. Unrolling
it, he displayed a magniflcent flute with silver rims and keys,
and curiously inlaid with crimson and violet pearl that ran in
delicate vines from end to end. Kissing it reverently, he held
it forth to the stranger, saying, as he did so, “take it as a
pledge; never yet have I asked charity; I do not now. Take
it—it is costly; the companion of my life; I have declared that
nothing should separate us but death; but I cannot beg. Dear
and loved relic of Torconnier, farewell; I will redeem it should
my fortunes brighten;” and he held it out towards Bellonte.

“You mentioned Torconnier;” said the stranger, in a
tone of inquiry, without assenting to his proposition; “is it the
great composer, you speak of?”

“Yes,” answered the other, toying nervously with his
flute, “but Torconnier is dead—perhaps you knew; his band
did badly after his death; and, would you believe it, out of his
twenty fine fellows, as most of them were, but one remains.
You see him before you. Yes,” and his voice grew low, “I
am the last of Torconnier's band, and in a few little days, the
sun will shine too upon my grave.”

“Alberti!” exclaimed a voice in agonized accents, and

[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]

before either could spring to her assistance, the fragile creature,
the gentle wife, had fallen insensible upon the hard floor.

“My poor girl!” said Alberti, in a low tone, springing
beside her; “you are starving, and I am mad thus to forget—
oh! that we might both die. I, that have been a brute, have
murdered you, my poor, poor lily—so pale—so deathly!” and
a groan from the very depths of his spirit, told of anguish, mortal
in the extreme, as he took both mother and child in his
arms, and staggered with them to the wretched bed.

Bellonti hurried from the room; his steps were bent
towards a salon, as he left the ricketty tenement; he ordered
fresh viands and a basket full of delicacies, and, with a boy to
carry them before him, returned to the suffering family of
Tricolo the once eminent flutist. He found him still hanging
over his wife, who had partially revived, lavishing the most
passionate kisses upon her marble forehead. Tricolo started, as
the food, varied and bountiful, was taken from the basket, and
spread over the narrow table; his cheeks, his high temples, his
very throat crimsoned; but mastering his pride, he snatched a
delicate cake with which to tempt the appetite of the young
mother, and held it to her lips.

“You will take my flute,” he said rapidly, as Bellonte, assuring
him that he would send him many comforts on the morrow,
turned to depart.

“But I am no musician; I do not need it, and you do
You are welcome, to the favors I have showt
you, and some time, not now, you can repay me.”

“I insist that you must take the flute,” exclaimed Tricolo,
with energy springing to his feet; but Bellonte had already
gone, and was hurriedly descending the stairs, aided here and
there by the casual opening of some door, through which light
streamed upon the broken staircase.

[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

The following day, two hours before high noon, Bellonte,
true to his promise, again visited the lodgings of Alberti Tricolo.
Before he gained the door, he was astonished to hear loud voices
as though a harsh and angry altercation were going on within.
Entering, a terrible sight, truly, presented itself. The young
wife, crouched in a corner, corpse-like and with distended eyeballs,
was vainly striving to hush the moaning of the miserable
babe. Two or three persons stood near the bed, and as they
moved aside at Bellonte's wish, he saw that the unfortunate
man was lashed, almost limb by limb, with strong cords to the
bedstead. Tricolo, frothing at the mouth and making most unearthly
noises, was now, the men assured the stranger, much
calmer than he had been; still, for all their assertions, Bellonte
instinctively shrank from the scene, and the yells were unlike
anything he had heard before.

“He has gone mad,” thought he to himself; “he is dangerous;
he will burst his puny bonds;” but just than a halfwhispered
sentence, gave him a better light on the subject.

“I thought it would come to this,” said one; “for three
weeks drunk-drunk steadily—and for a week this has been
advancing steadily. Delirium tremens, they call that complaint;
that is what he has got, signor.”

Suddenly, as Tricolo's blood-shot eyes rolled upon his
benefactor, he ceased raving and became comparatively quiet.
Bellonte's mild face seemed to act like a charm upon his bewildered
senses, till by degrees he grew passive.

“Where is my flute? give me my flute,” he whispered;
“unbind my hands, and let me call forth its forgotten melodies
for the last time; give me my flute;” he repeated, so plaintively,
that the men turned to Bellonte, recognizing his superiority,
and to their mute inquiry, he said, “give him his flute,
poor fellow.”

[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]

They unpinioned his arms, and Viola, grieved and careworn,
came forward with the beautiful instrument, and as she
timidly bent over her husband and placed it within his hands,
she imprinted a kiss upon his hot forehead.

“Thank you, my poor, forgiving girl,” exclaimed Tricolo,
gratefully, “you will not be troubled with me long; take care
of her, signor, she is a dear wife;” and as Viola retreated to
the corner to weep unobserved, the musician, half reclining on
his elbow, placed the flute to his lips, while the bystanders stood
ready to seize him on any renewed act of violence.

“My fingers are strangers to it,” he murmured, after running
lightly through the scale; “yet 'tis the same flute; Torconnier
loved it; it has swayed the impulses of an audience
both divine and mortal; it has the tones of an angel—hear;”
and again resuming an attitude, he broke out into a soft foreign
melody, beautiful and impassioned, and performed with so much
skill, that the strangers present gazed at each other, seemingly
transported with pleasure. By degrees, a sort of inspiration
came upon him; the tones grew wilder and leaped from the
flute as from the silvery throat of a mocking-bird; they seemed
to have flashed and penetrated the very soul of the listener; now
dancing and sparkling, anon tumultuous and intermixed—flying
from harmony to discord, and from discord to harmony with
inconceivable rapidity. In the pathos, Tricolo would bow and
bend, and sway his thin body from side to side, his eyes swimming
in tears; in the excution of the swifter passages, his brow
flushed, his eyes were rigid, his whole frame trembled, the veins
on his white hands, delicate as a woman's, swelled and grew
purple; indeed, sitting on the wretched mattrass, his lean arms
thrust through the wide sleeves of what had once been a rich
dressing tunic, and to which some of the silken fringe yet
adhered, his black wiry tresses falling in disorder down his

[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]

bony neck, his fingers quivering yet flying over the stops, he
looked the personification of a fiend, striving to pour all his unhallowed
passions into the thrilling language of melody.

Suddenly pausing, he blew a shrill, unearthly note, his
brow gathered blackness, and his eyes shot fire, as he raised the
flute high above his head, and with a yell of agony, dashed it
against the opposite wall with such violence that it was broken
into fragments.

“It has struck him,” he yelled; clapping his hands with
maniac triumph; “the blood streams and the wound gapes;
let me at him and thrust him to perdition—” the arms of four
strong men held him firm; they struggled with him, grappling
as often as he with his giant strength shook them off again;
but his frenzy gradually forsook him, and once more were the
ropes crossed and recrossed above his slender body; in his exhaustion
he resisted them not; and Bellonte, without striving to
soothe the agonized wife, who stood sobbing aloud, motioned to
one of the attendants to keep strict watch, and hurried away.
When he returned, he came in a carriage with two men; they
were ushered into the chamber of the wretched victim, and in
a few moments more he was pinioned within a straight-jacket,
and led down stairs, Bellonte, in the meantime, detaining the
poor distracted wife, who implored, with piteous shrieks, to be
allowed to follow her husband.

“He shall be well cared for, and you too;” he said—as
finding her passionate entreaties useless, poor Viola had thrown
herself upon her knee and was violently weeping; but the
woman looked up with such a strange mixture of pride and
dislike, glaring in her dark eyes, that the benevolent man was
distressed; “I have aided her, I have done a most needful office
for her husband,” he thought, “and she evidently hates me.

[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]

“I leave here, in a few hours, for England;” at last he
said, when Viola was more calm; “if you will, you shall have
a home in my family, you and your child, till the recovery of
your husband. To-morrow, if you are willing, I will send for
you, and my servant will convey you to my residence; you
should not distrust me, I wish to befriend you and save your
husband.”

In the morning a grand equipage rolled up before the
frowning tenement, and Bellonte springing out, wended his way
up to the forlorn room of the Tricolo's. It was empty; neither
mother or child was there; the people in the next apartment
had seen them go away the night before. Bellonte returned
dissatisfied to his carriage, near which some curious tenants of
the old house had crowded.

“It is useless to wait!” he exclaimed to the driver, “drive
to the quay, I must lose no more time; tell the family when
you return that the bird has flown.”

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

Five years had gone; Bellonte was becoming an old man;
his abundant locks were tinged with grey, yet his forehead was
smooth, for a peaceful life, a clear conscience, and temperate
habits, seldom indent a man's brow with wrinkles. He had sojourned
two years in America; and, since then, he had heard
no tidings of the last of Torconnier's band, except that he was
discharged from the hospital, cured of his malady, but wretch
edly thin and dispirited. Time banished the trio from his mind
though his benevolence was more active than ever, and he was
always bestowing charity upon some needy recipient.

On his sixty-seventh birth-day, all his family met together
as usual, to celebrate the occasion. They were assembled in
the beautiful parlors of Signor Bellonte; the young and the
lovely and the gay were there—wit, mirth, music and dancing
had alternately engaged the happy company, till it was now
near the midnight hour. All had grown still and thoughtful—
lovers whispered together, as they sat in the wide nooks that
shielded them from prying observation; and of the older persons
some were serious, some sleepy.

On a sudden, when each one thought of whispering a happy
“good night,” a tone of tremulous music floated on the breeze—
unearthly and heavenly. Purer and stronger it arose, the clear,
soft music of a flute; and so much did each one fear to break
the sweet illusion than an angel filled the midnight air with
melody, that no one stirred until two very beautiful airs had been
played entirely through.

Then a murmur arose—who could it be? Several ran to the
window as the music ceased, but only in time to behold an elegant
carriage start from before the mansion, and move rapidly away.

Every tongue was busy with conjecture, save Bellonte's;
he alone was silent, revolving anxious thoughts in his mind;

[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]

anxious yet pleasing, and perhaps, too, somewhat perplexing—
but he kept his own council.

The next afternoon, Bellonte and his two nieces were riding
in a volante; the weather was peculiarly charming, and the
ladies, more pleased than otherwise at the attention their very
beautiful faces attracted, persuaded the old gentleman to drive
slowly through the avenue that led directly on the suburbs.
They had just reached an extremely elegant cottage, whose
grounds were laid out with such faultless taste, that they paused
to admire them. The girls broke out with exclamations, commenting
on this and the other rare flower, when a sound that
thrilled them to their innermost being, surprised them into silence.
As if entranced they sat there, while a wierd and singular
melody issued from behind the Venetian blind; a flute
solo, so magical that the youngest niece declared it to be the
production of no human effort.

“Hark!” said Bellonte suddenly, “I recognize that—it is so distinct,
I shudder--I remember the night”--he continued, half speaking
to himself, while the young girls looked at him in astonishment.

“We will get out here,” he said, abruptly, and leaping to
the ground—he assisted his wondering nieces to alight.

A little rosy cheeked girl with a happy round face, and
laughing black eyes, answered to his impatient knock. Who
should he ask for?

“Do you want to see papa?” asked the little fairy, “he
told me to let you come in;” and leading the way, she threw
open the door of a beautiful little study, ushering them into the
presence of her father.

“Is it you? Tricolo,” and “Signor Bellonte I am overpowered;”
both simultaneously exclaimed, as each sprang forward.

“I am happy beyond measure to behold you thus,” said
Bellonte with unusual animation; “your wife—”

[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]

“Is here;” answered Tricolo, with a proud smile, as Viola,
lovely as ever, and with a sweet dignity, entered at that moment,
followed by a noble little fellow, and the child who had met
them at the door.

Frankly smiling, she advanced towards Bellonte, and
exlaimed,

“How much do we owe you; thanks my good benefactor,
it is you that have saved us and restored us to happiness; my
little son, and you Viola, this is the good gentleman we have
taught you to pray for.”

“The generous man was affected almost to tears; but half
smiling he replied, “I hardly see how I have been of this very
essential service, since you so cunningly eluded me and my family
when we have attempted to find you, in order to learn how
you were prospering.”

“Be seated, sir,” said Tricolo, “with these young ladies.”

“My nieces, sir; and let me add that they paid you a high
compliment; declaring that no mortal power called forth the
strains to which they have just listened.”

Tricolo's face grew red, and he looked grateful: “I have
much praise in public,” he said, “because I am popular; but
when commendation is given impulsively, and from such a
source, I am always happy. My little boy, or my little girl
sometimes say, `Oh you do make such sweet music papa;' it
is better Signor, than showers of ducats, it is so fresh, so real.”

“We think them good judges,” said Viola, smiling.

“Excellent;” exclaimed her husband; “my boy there,
plays even now upon this difficult flute; it is my highest ambition
that he shall be a second Torconnier. But I must tell you
my story Signor; I left the hospital whither I was carried that
dreadful night, in company with my wife who had lived concealed,
near me. I was weak and penniless; Viola too looked

[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]

languid, our child was still sick. I knew not what to do—where
to get food; we had already taxed too much the purse of poor
old Zara, once the nurse of my wife, with whom we were residing
for a time. Each morning I felt less inclination for life;
my wife smiled in vain; how humiliating the feeling, that I, a
man—an Italian, was dependant upon the bounty of a faithful
old servant. The thought distracted me; I sat one night weeping
inwardly; I was too proud to show my tears; my wife had
just said, “surely if you do right, something good will happen,”
when the door opened, and in walked Zelda; Claude Zelda, the
superintendent, whom I had often seen at the hospital. He
came straight up to the table, and I know not why, but in a
moment my heart was light.

“I have been absent from my post, the last week,” he
said, “else before you came away, I should have delivered you
a message left by Signor Bellonte, to this effect; that you
should use this purse of gold; consider it as a loan, and pay it
back whenever you shall be able.”

“The good man went out, leaving me in bewilderment; I
doubted the evidence of my senses; I drew the purse towards
me, and pushed it back again twenty times; but my Viola came
and laid her head upon my shoulder; that restored me to recollection.
If you had seen me then, signor, you would have
thought me delirious in reality; I felt free; a man once more;
I was elated beyond reason; I danced around the room, draging
Viola after me; I laughed and shouted; I could scarcely
contain myself for happiness.”

“Now, my wife,” said I, as soon as I could command my
faculties, “here we are, placed once more above want, thanks
to our benefactor: I have three things to do which are imperative;
the first is, not a particle of this gold shall be expended
for that fire-liquid which has proved almost my undoing; the

[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]

second, I will buy a good flute to-morrow; the third, you shall
go in the country and drink plenty of milk, you and the boy,
till you are healthy again.”

“Ah! signor, how can I repay you? I went forth into the
world; they crowded again in my path; they clamored for my
music. I had some choice pupils who paid me well; I have
tasted not a drop of wine since; my concerts have brought me
a fortune, and signor, here is your purse—the same amount is
there; take it, and make some other poor heart rejoice as mine
does now.”

“I will accept it,” said Bellonte, with quivering lip, “because
I know the delicacy of a noble heart; but—I—I am
overcome with delight—I really know not what to say; young
man you have done bravely; I thank God that it is so good to
help His creatures.”

The evening was near; Bellonte and his nieces prepared
to depart, after exchanging mutual kind wishes. The latter
had fallen in love with the amiable and beautiful Viola, and
they were lavish in her praise long after they reached home.
There the story was told, and the unknown flutist of the birth-night
recognized.

The following day, a parcel was delivered into the hands
of Tricolo, by a servant in livery; it was one of the costliest
flutes that could be purchased in Verona, adorned with pearls
and gems; and inscribed on a delicate plate of pure gold were
the words: “To the son of Tricolo the flutist—may he be
Torconnier the Second.”

And now I have only to say, that for many years the
citizens of Verona boasted that there had been raised in their
midst so glorious a genius as young Alberti Tricolo, and so good
and virtuous a musician as the great flutist, The Last OF Torconnier's
Band.

p487-134 THE SPOILER.

[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]

BY JOHN WESLEY WHITFIELD.

[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]

p487-136 A COUNTRY RECOLLECTION, OR, THE REFORMED INEBRIATE.

[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

It is many years since I was in a certain neighborhood
among the mountains of New Jersey, where the richest cultivation
enhances the beauty of scenery unusually fine, though not
wild or bold enough for sublimity. It was a valley somewhat
extensive, bordered on the south by abrupt and very high hills,
wooded to their summit; except a small strip of cultivated land
near their base, and terminating on the north side in sloping
uplands covered with the wealth of harvest. A quiet stream
murmured through the meadows, now narrowed between high
banks, now expanding into a lakelet, near which stood a flourmill.
The house where I passed some days, at this time, had
lawns sloping down to the stream; and I remember there
flourished three large drooping willows, which I hoped might
always escape the axe, and grow old, as guardians of the crystal
waters. Their exact locality was fixed in my memory by
the circumstance, that over their tops might be seen a cottage,
situated on the side of the mountain, just in the verge of the
woods, and about half a mile distant. The loneliness of its
situation gave it something of romance; and I observed then,

[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]

that what had once been a garden was choaked with tall weeds
and briers, and that a rude screen of boards had been built directly
in front of the cottage, so as to shut out all view of the neighboring
dwellings. This strange precaution seemed misanthropical;
or, was it adopted for the purpose of concealing from
curious eyes what might pass within door? To my inquiry
who occupied that hermit's hut, the reply was “Walter B—.”

“The B—who married Jane S—?”

“The same.”

Her name called up distant recollections. I had seen Miss
S. once at a rustic ball. She was a country beauty; rather
better educated than most of the damsels who were her companions.
Indeed, her father used to complain that she spent
too much time in reading. His idea was, that after a girl had
left school, and completed her education, she had nothing more
to do with books. But he rarely interfered except by a little
grumbling, with her pursuits, especially as his house was always
in the best order and his dinners excellent. Jane was a choice
housekeeper, and her leisure hours she spent as pleased herself—
not heeding her father's ominous shake of the head, when he
saw her earnestly devouring a book, or noticed the shelves filled
with books in her little chamber. “She will leave off such follies
when she marries,” was his consolatory remark; and in
truth, when the indulged girl did marry, whether she gave up
her reading or not, she did not suffer it to interfere with her
household duties. She was the most exemplary wife and mother
in the country; and all her neighbors predicted happiness from
her union with young B. His father had left him a small
farm, well stocked, with a house large enough for comfort and
even elegance; and few men began life with better prospects of
contentment. Walter was active and ambitious, and wanted to
secure something more than a competency for old age. My

[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]

acquaintance with the young couple had left them thus, and I
was naturally somewhat suprised to find them living in a home
of so little pretension.

“The only marvel about it,” said the friend to whom I
expressed my wonder, “is, that they have a home at all.
When Walter took to drink, his stock went first, and then his
farm was neglected, till at last, when sold to pay his debts it
brought less than half its value.”

Alas! it was the common story of the intemperate man;
first moderate indulgence in frequent convivial meetings with
his friends; then occasional excess that unfitted him for work for
days, during which time he would vow and resolve and pledge
his word to his wife that each should be the last, followed by
more frequent returnings to the same excess, till the doom of
the victim was sealed, and the very friends who had led him
into vice abandoned him in disgust.

Since the desertion of his boon companions, Walter had
become gloomy and sullen; a mood which, under the excitement
he now every day sought, gave place to a wild and savage
ferocity. The little children ran from him if they saw him on
the road; and it was rumored that his wretched home too
frequently witnessed his cruel brutality toward his unoffending
wife. But he soon removed to this retired cottage on the mountain,
and the screen of boards he built, effectually excluded all
observation.

I listened to this melancholy history with the deepest
sympathy for the unfortunate girl, now a helpless mother. She
had sought no assistance from the neighbors, and few visited
her, partly because they dreaded her husband, partly because
she herself did not encourage them. But some compassionate
persons sent her provisions from time to time.

While I looked at the little dwelling which was now the

[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]

scene of so much misery, with an aching heart for the countless
victims of this dreadful vice, a bright flash suddenly shot up
from the roof of the hut, while at the same time a volume of
smoke poured from the chimney and upper windows. At the
same moment a female figure rushed from behind the screen
before mentioned, clasping an infant to her breast, and dragging
along a child of about four years of age, and rapidly descended
the slope of the mountain. Not many paces behind, her husband
followed, calling upon her with shouts and execrations to
return; but his evident intoxication rendered it impossible for
him to equal the speed of his flying wife; and well was it for
her, for a large knife was in his hand, which he brandished with
frightful menaces. In less time than it would take to narrate
what passed, several of the neighbors had run to meet her.
Just as she reached the stream, through which she rushed with
both children in her arms, then sank exhausted on the bank,
they crowded round her with eager offers of assistance.

B. now came up, heedless of the men and women who
regarded him with looks of fear and horror. He had dropped
the knife, but had not changed his threatening tone; and with
shocking imprecations he ordered his wife to “get up, and come
home this instant.” The poor woman uttered no reply, indeed
she was hardly capable of speech; but the miller, a sturdy
man, answered for her that she should go no more to the home
of a villain who had nearly killed her. These words provoked
B. to unbounded fury; he rushed upon the man who had
spoken them, with such violence as to throw him off his guard,
and would have strangled him but for the interference of others.
When he found himself overpowered by superior strength, he
revenged himself by the most fearful curses, vented especially
on his poor wife, whom again, with abusive epithets, he ordered
to go home, and not expose herself in this ridicnlous manner

[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]

“No, Walter,” said his wife, rising at last, and confronting
him with pale but determined face; “no—I will not return to
you. I could have borne, as I have long done, your harshness
and violence towards me, but you have this day raised your
hand against the lives of these children; and, as it is my duty
before God to protect them, I leave you for ever!”

Whatever reply the drunkard might have made, it was
drowned in the indinant clamors of the by-standers, and he
was dragged off to gaol. His wife was cared for by her sympathizing
female acquaintance, and soon provided with a permanent
situation, where, by the labor of her hands, she could
support herself and her little ones. And soon, very soon, did
her changed appearance bear witness to the improvement.
She became contented and even cheerful; and the playful
caresses of her children beguiled her of many sad thoughts.

When B. awoke from his intoxication in prison, the recollection
of what he had done overwhelmed him with shame and
remorse. He sent for one of his neighbors, and entreated him
to go, on his part, to his injured wife, supplicate her forgiveness,
and pledge the most solemn promises of future amendment.
Jane wept much; she forgave him from her heart, as she
prayed God he might be forgiven; but she could not, dared not
trust his oft-violated word, and sacrifice her children. Her
determination was fixed; and for weeks together, though with
a bleeding heart, she returned the same answer to the entreaties
of her repentant husband, she dared not even see him lest her
resolution might be shaken.

When at last B. was discharged from gaol, full of indigna
tion at what he termed the cruel obstinacy of his wife, he made
no effort to see her or the children; but—after shutting himself
up a month or two in the cottage, which had been saved, by
timely attention, from being burned the night of Jane's escape—

[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

he departed, none knew whither. He left a reproachful letter
to his wife, professing himself driven to desperation by her
desertion, and laying on her the blame of his future crimes.
No furniture of any value was found in the house, the greater
part having been disposed of to procure food and—liquor.

Two years after this occurrence, (I have the particulars
from a friend,) a crowd was assembled round the gaol in the
little town of—. A murder, under the most appalling cir
cumstances, had been committed in the neighborhood; a man
to whom suspicion attached had been arrested, and after strict
examination committed for trial. Particulars that had trans
pired, left no doubt of his guilt on the minds of the people;
and it was with suppressed execrations that the multitude followed
the suspected felon to prison. When he disappeared
from their sight within the gloomy walls, the popular rage
broke out in groans and murmurs. One woman, young and
interesting in appearance, who had listened with undisguised
eagerness to a knot of idlers discussing the case, walked away
when they ended their conference, and presenting herself at
the door of the magistrate, who had conducted the examination,
asked leave to speak with him. It was the wife of B. She
had seen her husband led to gaol, loaded with the most terrible
suspicions, and she came to have her worst fears allayed or
confirmed.

The magistrate soothed her by assuring her that the evidence
against B., though strong, was only circumstantial, and
by no means absolutely proved his guilt. It was impossible to
say what might be the event of the trial; but there was ground
for hope. Poor Jane clung to this hope. “Oh, sir,” sobbed
she, “if he is guilty and must die, it is I who have murdered
him! I deserted him, when all the world cast him out!”

When the unhappy wife returned home it was to give way

[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]

to the bitter anguish of remorse; to weep and sob all night as
if her heart would break. “How have I been able to kneel,
night and morning, to ask pardon of God,” she cried to herself,
“when I refused my aid to save a fellow-being from destruction!”
And yet—these little ones—and she hung over her
sleeping children; the fair boy, with bright cheek, shaded by
his clustering curls; and the sweet dark-eyed girl, so like him,
before excess had marred his manly beauty! Could she have
brought these innocent ones into wretchedness; perhaps guilt?
Had she not done right to snatch them from ruin, even by
abandoning their father? She knelt once more, and prayed for
guidance, for discernment of the right; and her mind was
calmed.

The next day before noon, the gaol was again visited by
groups of idlers, gazing into the window of B.'s cell, which
looked upon the street. It might be that the prisoner was
maddened by their taunts and derision; he was leaping about
with frantic gestures, clapping his hands and laughing immoderately,
or thrusting his face between the bars to grin defiance
at his tormentors. Suddenly a woman, her face concealed by
a drooping bonnet and thick veil, glided through the crowd, and
reaching up to the window offered a parcel to the prisoner. He
grasped it eagerly, with a wistful look, but the woman did not
stay to be recognised. It was observed, as she hastened away
that her steps tottered, and she held down her head apparently
overcome by emotion. Well might the fearfully changed countenance
of the accused appal one who had known him in better
days!

The parcel contained a portion of food more palatable than
is usually allowed to prisoners, and a small pocket Bible—the
book B. had once prized—the gift of his dying mother. His
name was written on the first page in her hand. Many times

[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]

in the week, always at dusk, did the same compassionate visitor
stand at the grated window, and offer food or books to the
prisoner, who was evidently affected by the kind attention. He
ceased his idiotic dancing and laughing; he answered nothing
more to the upbraidings of vagrants without, and those who
looked into his window saw him most frequently seated quietly
at the table reading, or with his head on his hand in deep
thought. With thankfulness unspeakable, Jane saw this
change; but her joy was dashed with sadness, when on one
of her visits the prisoner besought her, with piteous entreaty, to
bring him a bottle of brandy.

It now occurred to the wife to do what she had never
dared, when B. was at home, to force on his perusal some tracts
containing the most awful warnings against intemperance, and
encouragements to the victim to struggle for recovery. He had
no other books to beguile the time; he could not now as formerly,
rail at or punish her, even had he any suspicion who she
was; what might ensue if he read them? Her effort was
crowned with success. Not a week had passed, when the abject
entreaty for liquor, which had been urged night after
night, was dropped, to be renewed no more. Jane's heart
throbbed when she thought of this; but alas! even if he were
really reformed, would he live to prove himself so?

Thus days rolled on, and the time for the trial arrived. The
prisoner had communicated with his counsel; witnesses had
been sent for; the principal lawyer engaged in the prosecution
had unfolded the chain of evidence by which his guilt was to
be proved; the court was to open next morning. The accused
had received some of his former acquaintance during the day,
and as night drew near he was alone. On his table lay a letter
which he had just written; he was pacing the room, tranquil,
but with mind filled with painful thoughts. The gaoler opened

[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]

the door, announced a name, received the prisoner's startled
assent; and the next moment the long estranged husband and
wife were together. B. did not stir; he was petrified by surprise;
but Jane rushed to him; her arms were round his neck,
and she wept aloud. Her husband was moved, but struggled
apparently with his pride; he unclasped her arms, stepped back
a little, and looked earnestly at her.

Sad, indeed, the contrast between the two; the man almost
spectral in aspect, haggard, wan, emaciated—not even the
shadow of his former self; the woman blooming in the freshness
of almost maiden beauty: no unhallowed vigils, or excess,
or evil passions, had stamped their traces on her brow, or marred
the symmetry of her form, and the very purity and tenderness
that shone in her expression, rebuked the conscious sinner as
loudly as if an angel's tongue had proclaimed his degradation!
As he shrank back, and stood thus silent, Jane stretched out her
hands beseechingly; “Oh, Walter!” she cried, “have you
not yet forgiven me?”

“Forgive you, Jane? Oh, Heaven! what a wretch am I!”

“I was wrong, Walter, to desert you, even at the worst;
but oh! say you do not bear hard thoughts towards me!”

“Tell me, Jane, is it you who brought me these?” pointing
to the books.

“Yes, Walter; for I thought you would read them now—
and—”

She was interrupted by the sobs of her husband; he sank
on his knees as if to thank her, but to prevent that, she knelt
with him, and prayed for him in the deep emotion of her
heart.

When B. was sufficiently calm, he asked after his children,
and, pointing to the table, said: “There, Jane, is a letter I had
written you, in a better spirit, I trust, than the last. If it were

[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]

God's will I should live longer, I might make a better husband
and father; but I dare not think of that now.”

Jane longed to ask one question, but her tongue refused to
utter the words. Her husband seemed to read the meaning of
her anxious look.

“Before high Heaven,” said he, “I declare to you that I
am innocent of the crime for which I shall be tried to-morrow.”

A shriek of joy, scarce suppressed, burst from the wife; she
clasped her hands and raised them upwards; gratitude denied
her speech.

“Then you will live”—she gasped at length.

“No—Jane—I dare not hope it; and I deserve to die. I
am guiltless of murder, but what have I been to you and my
children? What have I been these last years? a reckless
outcast—my own destroyer—the enemy of God! I tell you,
Jane, I have long looked to the gallows as the end of my caeer,
and I have come to it at last! But I have mastered the
tyrant that brought me to this; yes, I have!” He laughed
convulsively as he said this, and his wife turned pale. “Look
here, Jane—look here!” and lifting up the coverlet of his bed,
he produced several bottles of brandy and whiskey. They
were full.

“I asked you to give me liquor,” he continued, “and
you would not; but others, less merciful, brought these to me!
Do not shudder and grow so pale, Jane; I swear to you, I have
not tasted one drop, though I have had them a fortnight!
Those books saved me; for I read of even worse cases than
mine. I took an oath, Jane, on the Bible you brought me the
first night, my mother's Bible, that I would never taste liquor
again. And I have these, to try if I could keep my resolution.”

[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]

“Oh, Walter!” was all the sobbing wife could say; but
her tears were those of joy.

“You know, Jane, I was always fond of books, and if I
had not been a slave to drink, I have been fit society even
for the judges who are to try me to-morrow. Oh, if I could
only live my life over! But it is too late now, yet it is something—
is it not,” and his pale face kindled, “to think that I
can, that I have overcome the fiend at last! That I shall not die
a drunkard Remember that, and let everybody know it; I
have it written here in your letter. God will remember it, will
he not, when my soul stands before him in judgment.”

“Oh, my husband, you shall not die!” cried the wife, as
with streaming tears, she clasped him again to her arms.

“The will of God be done; and that I can say now sincerely;
I am willing to go. The Bible says no drunkard shall
enter His kingdom; but I am not a drunkard! I am a degraded
wretch, an outcast of men, about to die a felon's death;
but I feel a triumph, Jane, a joy unspeakable, that I have conquered
my worst enemy. I thank God that he has supported
me through the struggle. It was a terrible one!”

I need not at length record this interview; I need say
no more than that, after weeks of the most agonizing suspense
and anxiety, Jane had the happiness to hear that her
husband was fully acquitted of the crime laid to his charge; to
receive him once more and welcome him to a home.

For months he lay helpless, the victim of a wasting sickness;
but his wife worked day and night to procure him comforts,
and her children played round his bed, and in her was
what the poet sweetly terms, “a hymn of thankfulness,” never
silent. When he recovered, he found it not hard to bear her
company in her cheerful toil, and never would he suffer

p487-147 [figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]

himself to be persuaded to touch what once had proved his bane,
and so nearly brought him to an ignominious end.

It is not long since I heard an address of touching eloquence,
on the subject of Temperance, delivered by Walter B.
There was truth in every word of it, for he deeply felt what he
uttered; and it came home to many a heart, and drew tears
from many an eye. He told his own history, and described
himself as once the most wretched and lost among the victims
of that vice, and yet there had been others more lost than he,
who recovered. It was this, he said, that first inspired him
with hope for himself.