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and ready wit when he was in any doubt himself, gentle epicurean thankfulness which accepts all and to trust Ada to her care--that he now asked blessings lovingly but without question, and never whether it were not rather a divided life he was traces the stream which waters its garden to its leading, and whether, between his wife and sis- source near the heavens.. ter, it was not the last who held the highest Ada's summons had sounded; her innocent place? This is scarcely what one looks for in a and loving life was sentenced to its end. Useless perfect marriage. It was Margaret who was on earth, but asked for in heaven, she must die, his companion, his intellectual comrade ; while that she may be at peace. And it was in mercy Ada played with the baby or botched kettle- that she was taken away; for age and care were holders and urnstands; and they were Margaret's not made for her. They would have made life thoughts which he sketched on the canvas, Ada more tiresome than she could support. But this standing model for the heads and hands. last little blossom, although it looked so fragile,
It was Margaret too who taught the children broke down the slight twig on which it flowered, when they were old enough to learn, and who and the young mother and her baby passed to calmed down their little storms, and nursed them heaven together. The light had faded away and when they were ill. Ada only romped with them, the shadow fell softly in its place. laughed with them, let down her hair for their What had passed from Horace? A child ; a baby hands to ruffle into a mesh of tiny ringlets, sunny landscape; a merry laugh; a tamed woodkissed them as they rushed past, or stood terri bird ; something very lovely but not necessary; fied and weeping by the cot where they lay sick something loved more than himself, and yet not and sad in illness. But the real discipline and his true self. With Ada, all the beauty and the the real work of life she never helped on. When joy of his life had gone; but the spirit remained. the eldest child died it was Margaret who watch- Not a thought hung tangled in his brain for want ed by his pillow the whole of that fearful illness : of a clearer mind to unravel it : not a noble imit was Margaret who bathed his fevered temples, pulse fell dead for want of a strong hand to help placed the leeches on his side; and dressed that it forward. What he was with Ada he was red and angry sore : it was Margaret who raised without her; in all save pleasure. She had been his dying head, and laid him quietly to rest in the delight of his life, not its inspiration. It was the narrow coffin forever: it was Margaret, worn beauty, not nobleness, that she had taken with and weak with watching as she was, who con- her: love, not strength. It made even himsoled Horace and soothed Ada's tears to a sob- unreflecting artist, man of impulse as he was, bing sleep; who ordered the details of the fune- stand by that grave-side wondering. He knew ral, and saw that they were properly performed. how much he loved her. He knew his whole All steadily and strongly done, although that heart and soul had been centred on her and her pretty boy had been her godson and her favorite, alone; but he almost shuddered to find that one had slept in her arms from the first hour of his part of his being had been uninfluenced by her, birth, and had learnt every childish lesson from and that his mind was not wrecked in the ruin her lips. And it was only at night, when the of his heart. day's work was done and all others had been Ada's death made Margaret's path yet more comforted, that Margaret suffered herself to sit difficult. Of course she was to remain with Hordown with her grief, and give vent to the sorrows ace. He could not understand existence without she had to strengthen in action.
her; and the world would not be ill-natured to And when that debt, for which Horace had a wife's sister; so unlovely and so ancient in her been bound, became due; the friend to whom he spinsterhood. Not even the most suspicious pruhad lent his name failing him, and the lawyers dery could imagine a love that had been given to sent bailiffs into the house, it was Margaret who the fairy Ada, that darling child of Nature, transcalmed the frightened servants; who restored ferred to the tall thin figure clothed in the scant Ada, fainting with terror, and who arranged the black dress, with even the once magnificent tresses means of escape from this embarrassment, by turning sadly from their purer beauty, and silvergiving up her own property ; every farthing she ed now with white hairs. No, she might remain possessed barely covering the claim. A sacrifice there safe enough, the poor Margaret! Who Horace was forced at last to accept, after much cared to know that she had loved with that one delay and much anguish of mind, not seeing his deep powerful love of a neglected heart; that she way clearer out of the strait, and unwilling, for had bound herself to a daily cross when she acAda's sake, delicate as she was just now, to brave cepted agonies without name and without term, the horrors of an arrest. So Margaret, who had that she suffered and was still? Who cared to always been the giver and the patroness, had her praise her strength or to honor her heroism? Not world reduced to dependence ; of itself a sore even they for whom she had suffered. The sac trial to a strong will.
rifice had been accepted; but not even a garland In every circumstance of life it was the same. had been prepared for the victim. Without pity She was the good angel of the household, with and without praise for her own deed, she must out whom all would have been loose and disjoint- be contented without reward. ed; to whom love gave the power of consolation, | Time went on; and, excepting that Horace and suffering the might of strengthening. Yet was graver and more watchful of his sister-in-law, Horace and Ada lived on sightless and unper- with a certain indefinable tenderness at times, ceiving; satisfied to taste life-enjoying that and then a rigid coldness that was almost like displeasure at others, there was no change in / of hope and love to reach it ; my feet refuse, him since his wife's death; neither in their posi- / Margaret--I can not !". tion with each other, nor in Margaret's place in "We will walk together, Horace, and I will the household. For strong souls the ordeal of show you the graves which I have strewn before life never ends, and Margaret must pass through me. Come !" i hers to the end. On a certain soft, still summer's night, Horace
THE KIND OF PREACHING THAT DOES and Margaret, for the first time for many months,
GOOD TO THE POOR. went on the lake together, the little Ada, the TAMES FIELDING was the son of a potter, eldest now of that fairy world, with them. They d and bred up to his father's trade. He marrowed about for some time in silence, the child ried young-long before he could keep a wife saying to itself pretty hymns or nursery rhymes, and with both his parents' consent, or rather with muttering in a sweet low voice, like a small bell their forgiveness, as they could not help therntinkling in the distance. They landed on the selves. For, as they said, it war very nat'ral, island where, years ago, they had landed with an' he might ha' done worse : 'twar, to be sure, another Ada. The moonlight now, as then, filled the first time, an' belike he wouldn't do it agen. the wide sky and rested over the whole valley ; | And so they cordially shook hands with him, and and, again, of all the things that stood in its light, pledged the pretty bride in a flagon of old BurMargaret was the only unlovely thing. But Ho-ton, and were both present at the first child's race had changed since then.
christening. But the cholera came soon afterThey sat down on the rustic bench, the child ward, and took off the old man and his wife. playing at their feet.
This was the opening-scene of James Fielding's “ Years ago we sat together, Margaret, on this sufferings-want-pestilence--and death. His same bench," said Horace, suddenly, “when I wife and himself were soon afterward both seized asked my destiny at your hands. I have often with the disorder, and, though they recovered thought, of late, that I asked it amiss." He spoke slowly, it was only to find their father and morapidly, as if there was something he wished to ther, and first-born child, removed from their say, and a weight he wished to thrust off his once comfortable home to the churchyard, and heart.
they themselves with feeble bodies and accumu"Amiss, Horace? Was any life happier than lated debts, which had run on wildly during sickyours? The sorrow that has darkened it was not ness. First, James was put into jail for the doca part of the destiny you asked from me.” tor's bill, and then the landlord distrained for
" But now, now, Margaret,” he cried impa- rent, and turned them on the world; and so tiently.
they were ruined. “And now, Horace, you have a life of duty." | To be in prison, never serves a man; he gets
“Margaret, Margaret, give me your strength! | a habit of shifting and shuffling, and leaning, and This gray life of mine terrifies me. It is death I talking, and idling; he has the short hand-inlive in, not life.”
the-pocket walk, and the hang-down look of a “Learn strength, then, by your sorrow,” she jail companion; he is never a man again. James whispered. “Be content to suffer in the present Fielding came out of Stafford jail a changed for the gain and good of the future. Learn that character: more clever and less capable of work life is striving, not happiness; that love means --daintier, but not so refined-prouder, but not nobleness, not pleasure. When you have learnt more honorable ; the edge was taken from the this well enough to act it, you have extracted mind and given to the appetites; nevertheless, the elixir from the poison."
he was a fond father, for he shortly became one As she spoke, a heavy cloud wandering up again, and a loving husband to a wife who doated from the east, passed over the moon, and threw on him. But a thoroughly fallen man seldom them all into the shadow.
rights himself, and bankruptcy is a break-up for Margaret turned to Horace. “To-morrow, my life in the constitution of successful industry. dear brother,” she said, smiling, “the shadow of James Fielding labored, but his toil was thriftthe moonlight will have passed away, and we less; he found friends, but, one way or other, shall be in the full light of heaven. The present, he let in every body who had any thing to do Horace, with its darkness and its silence will | with him. By degrees, he got, as was natural, lead us into a blessed future if we have but faith a very bad character, and, as is generally the and hope in ourselves, and in each other. Let case under such circumstances, without altogether us go; I have long learnt to suffer; you are only deserving it. He was an unfortunate, but not beginning. Lean on me, then, and I will help an evil man; and we all know how falling bodies you; for the task of self-denial and self-suppres- quicken in their descent. sion is hard when learnt alone and in silence." | Still, he was a man born to suffer, and to earn
She held out her hand, clasped his, and carried his bread by the sweat of his brow. Men of all it to her lips, affectionately and reverently, adding countries, stations, and fortunes, labor- from the gently—“A sister's arm is a safe guide, Horace. serf to the lord—and Fielding's destiny was only Lean on it never so hardly; it will bear your that of his sex. But the gentle, pretty girl, weight, and will neither fail nor misdirect you." whom he had taken from her father's home to
“Sister," sobbed the artist, « blessed though comfort and cherish, to keep his fireside clean, that name may be, one must walk over the graves and to nurse his little ones around him/her lot THE KIND OF PREACHING THAT DOES GOOD TO THE POOR.
was not cast by God for labor, for toil and moil, i dern's cries, an' him a dyin', drives the thought and anguish; yet who can tell what arrows of away from me. I ant got the hard stomach o' grief pierced that woman's heart during her twelve hunger, sir; 'tis unfeelin' in a mother.” years apprenticeship to wifehood! Who shall No wonder she did not feel the gnawings of describe the unwomanly miseries, alas, too com- want; she had passed her being into other exmon in England! of her daily shifts and strug- istences; she had lost her identity in the wife gles, her pigmy gaunt looks, her thread-bare and the mother. clothes insufficient to protect her from the win- “Well, well, we must do something for the ter weather, her hard day-labor, her sharp endur- children, Mary." ance of her children's hunger, and forgetfulness “Oh, sir, I did na come for that. What I of her own: her long, sad catalogue of distresses, wants is work. You ha' comed atween us an' compared with which the pains of childbirth, and death many's a time. But indeed, what I am even the death of the child at the breast, are no- here for, is, afore Jeames goes I wish he could thing, being feminine sufferings.
see you, sir, an' talk wi' you a bit. His mind be This poor woe-begone mother stood before good strange an' uncomfortable like, about religion.” curate Godfrey, one of a noiseless wayfaring body “I thought him a believer, Mary." of Christian men who make little stir beyond their “Mayhap he be; but men tell their wives own parish, but are there constantly felt and what, if they could, they would hide from God, heard of; the true disciples of the Father of the an' I ha' heerd him say awful things; he war poor, the world's first teacher of quiet charity. always so courageous like. Howsomdever, his
"He be goin' fast, indeed he be," said Mary hour be come, an' he ha' losed his darin, an' beFielding, speaking of the potter, who had been lieves jist like a child. I thought if he could down some weeks in a low fever. “ 'Tis hard to on'y see you, sir.” lose the father of one's child'en. I could ha' Mr. Godfrey rang the bell. An aged, but notaborne any stroke but thisn. Every where is a ble servant woman came. churchyard now—the life is dug out o' me.” “Martha, bring Mrs. Fielding a little warm
“Do not murmur, but think of the past. I bread and milk." remember christening some of those children, “Oh, no, no, sir! 'Tis only my way, what when he and you were full of health and joy. you see in my face; I war alway' palish like In this journey of life, Mary, there is no hill leastways this many a day.” without its hollow. Your neighbor Susan Jack- Martha, who had promptly obeyed her master, son will not have to mourn the loss of a husband, returned in a few minutes with a basin. for she has never known the love and protection “ There, take that gently, Mary ; it will warm of one; and when she goes, she will not leave you." orphans to grieve for her. But, for all that, Susan “Will you forgive me, sir ? Indeed I can noi. is very lonely and destitute, and says nobody It 'ud choke me. The child'en—the poor hungry cares for her.”
child'en, sir !" “Mayhap; but Susan Jackson can't be sorry | “They shall be thought of.” Mr. Godfrey for what she never had; and poor folk didn't left the room, returning shortly after with his ought to be fanciful. 'Tis me, sir, partin' wi' long surtout buttoned closely up, and a small my husband, that should fret.”
parcel in his hand. “But you should remember, Mary, that when “This contains a loaf, Mary-and something James and you were married, it was on the con- else-you know what to do with it. Let me have dition you were to part one day. We must not the ticket when I call, which will be in the course forget the ninety-nine favors because the hun- 1 of the evening. Leave me now." dredth is not granted. The Lord gave, and the | The comforted mother looked on Heaven's minLord taketh away.”
ister and then up to heaven, and passed noise“Oh, sir, 'tis beautiful to hear ye talk; you | lessly through the small door, with faith, hope, alway say summut so comfortin', feelin', an' sen-' and maternal love the three strongest pulses of sible like. One is ashamed to grumble afore you, the heart—to support her. She had had the only 'tis so selfish and ill-natured.”
full and perfect lesson of religion-charity. But “ But how are the little ones, Mary?”
she did not know, until she got to the pawnshop, “I can't say much for 'em, sir--they be but that the poor curate had taken his only waistcoat poorly."
from his back to feed her children. Then, indeed, “They have had some food to-day, I hope ?" the tide of religion came strong upon her. So
“ 'Tis early yet, sir." It was past mid-day. true it is, that one act of kindness is worth a “ But indeed they hante well.”
volume of sermons in converting people. The "Did they eat any thing last night before lying curate's vest was a baptismal robe to the unredown?"
generated spirit of Mary Fielding, the freethink“ Baby had a sup o gruel out o' James's cup, ing potter's wife. but Billy an' Jacky, an' the t'other ent had no It was on an evening in the middle of June thing."
that Mr. Godfrey passed along to the potter's " And you ?"
cottage. There had been some smart refreshing “Oh, sir, God be praised, I am used to it. showers during the day, and the grass was healthTen years is a long 'prentisage. 'Tis surprisin' ily green, and the flowers were vigorous and how the famine feeds itself. An' then, the chil. I balmy, and here and there was the restless un
Vol. IX.-No. 53.—UU
easy chirp, in the tree or bedge, of the young | a long day sin' I could prove my gratitude to any bird in its nest. The sheep were settling down body.” for the night in the meadows; and the cows, after “Never mind that. The Searcher of all hearts milking, were scattered over the distant pastur- | knows your intentions, James." ages. At intervals there was an unyoked horse “Yes-true! But d'ye think God heeds a exulting in abundance and freedom. The poor | poor critter like me ?" saluted Mr. Godfrey as he passed, and the rich “Undoubtedly. Our Father.” cordially greeted him, for he was universally be- “Ah! "Good-good. But I never found a loved.
true friend but Him and yourself, sir-they all "All God's works are beautiful and happy," forsook and misbelied me. I never was as bad said he to himself, as he wound among the green as people made me; He knows that, and the lanes, and gazed upon the broad benignant sky children. One's hearth is a fair assize." “Man alone makes the world miserable. I can “True, a fond husband and a kind father can not think the design of Providence was to make not be a very bad man. I never believed you illthe chief of a joyous creation wretched; there disposed, Fielding." must be some key to human felicity. The de- ! "No, bless thee for it, and He will bless thee. parting sun shines on these dingy cottages, and Ye ha' made me a Christian; the ways o' the the few straggling flowers bloom cheerfully, and world made me an infidel long ago. A man kindcast their sweetness abroad on the air. Outside ly treated, feels like a Christian, sir." is God's work ; within, is man's.”
“But we must give up resentments now. I And the curate entered the cabin of James see by your countenance you will soon meet your Fielding, the potter.
God. Prepare, Fielding, for that great judgment.” There had evidently been preparations to re- “Yes, I know it will come soon, an' that ha' ceive him. The clay floor was newly sprinkled changed me. But, indeed, sir, I am aweary of and swept, and the few articles of crockery and the world. If it war not for her and the children, china, nearly all misshapen, or otherwise defect- I had gone years back.” ive, were as clean as the pebbles in a river. The “The Christian religion always supposes povchildren's faces, hands, and feet-for they had no erty and suffering, James. Were all the world shoes-were all fresh from the washing-basin, sinless and happy, the Atonement had been useand their hair was sleekly combed across their less." foreheads. There was evident poverty, but an 1 “I can well believe thisn o' thee, sir. If yer equally evident wish to conceal it. Not a vestige wer dumb an' blind, yer han' would preach ; 'tis of furniture or ornament was in the room, beyond the on'y sarmint as goes home to a hungry man. the few articles of earthenware mentioned; all Fine words be o small account. But when a rich the rest, to the three-legged stool for the baby, I parson, or a bishop, or such, as never gives, an' had either been sold or burned for fuel. There never suffers, tells starvin poor fellows like me to were three or four hassocks of hay for seats, but bear their crosses, as the only road to heaven, it these too had been preyed on for fuel, and ran looks like humbug, sir. If heaven is to be won out at the sides; and there were some layers of by poverty-sartintly nothing is so easy for 'em as chipped, dried-up straw, as a bed, in the corner. to give all they ha' more than enow, to feed the On this was stretched the dying man. The eld- hungry, an' comfort the afflicted.” est boy ran to borrow a chair as Mr. Godfrey “Ah, James, this is bad grace in a dying man. entered, and the thristy housewife had just drawn It is enough for every one to look to himself; to the old rags from the three lower panes of the bear his own burden, and to know that in the glassless and only window in the hovel, to let the midst of trial, and sorrow, and suffering, he can sun and air in. This was the abode of an En- have recourse to One who knew them all on glishman in the heart of England.
earth. This, surely, is fair comfort." The patient had been propped up somewhat on “ It be, sir. 'Tis at the point I am at now, a his straw, and a neighbor had shaved him and man feels he must believe in some religion, an lent him a shirt, which, though old, was clean. there is none so nat’ral like as our own. A dyin' So, what with well-washed skin and combed hair, | man is not a doubter. I wish I ha' been o' this and a cup of refreshing tea, he was prepared to way o' thinkin' long ago~'twould ha' made me receive the curate's visit in something of a decent content--an'a contented man is a regular man, and Christian manner. One of the boys was in, an' a regular man is a toilsome man, an' a toilor rather on, the bed—for there was no covering some man is a thriving man; but when one be- from sheer nakedness. He partly nestled in gins in grumblin' one ends wi' sorrow. Mary the straw, and was partly concealed by the rags dear, gi' me a drink. I feel faintish." taken from the window; he was contented and The curate took the teapot from the yearning happy, for he had had the blessing of a full meal :) and attentive wife's hand, and the fevered patient, a rarity in the hut of the dying potter.
from the broken spout held to his mouth, drained The curate took the chair borrowed for him, the vessel greedily, till the few leaves at the placed it by the bedside, and leaned toward the strainer whizzed with their dryness. As he drank, sick man.
Godfrey had an opportunity of observing his coun"Well, James, how do you feel now?". tenance. “This man," said he to himself, “was
“Better, sir, thank you, but still weakly. God formed for a lofty destiny, but with him ignorance will bless you for what you ha' done. 'Tis mony has marred nature. When will man vindicate the purposes of God to his fellows? When will En-England will be right. Mary, a drink, dear: the gland provide education for all her people ?” As heart is as dry as a cinder within me.” these thoughts passed rapidly through the pastor's His wife brought him a little cold water, into mind, the sick man spoke with a fainter voice, but which the curate squeezed some orange juice. with rene ved energy : “ The spirit war willing, “Mary! To our Father I commit thee, girl, but the flesh war weak.' Well, sir, I know I am when I am gone. I am dead afore I am dead, a dyin'. I war never a coward, but I does fear leaving my Mary. Kiss my forehead, girl. God death. 'Tis like a goin' over a common one don't bless thee! Comfort these little children, God! know, on a dark night-there be none about you they be orphans now." but sperits."
And he prayed inwardly. In that hour he had “Keep your eyes steadily on your guiding star, no succor but prayer, and the remembrance of James. That light sufficeth."
any good he had done in his life. The baby was “ I believe, sir. O Lord, help my unbelief.” crying on its mother's breast, and the candle
Thank Heaven for those words," said the trembled in the hands of the weeping boy who curate ; "and now, Fielding, since you are in this still held it. The wife was still and pale ; her good frame of mind, I must tell you one thing heart was being rifted from her. The curate had that will lighten your last moments. Old Mrs. bent his knee in prayer, and comforted the dying Williams is getting too aged for the parish school, and the desolate. and as she is to retire on a small pension, I have secured the post for Mary. I know she will fill
LADY AMBER MAYNE. it well. This will keep the wolf from the door, AH! how beautiful were the young girls of my and I will look to the little ones. So you see 1 youthful days. Perhaps it might be from things are not so bad as you expected. You will the style of dress, which I shall always think leave those dear to you pretty middling off, and was piquante and elegant, notwithstanding that they will remain, under Providence, to be a bless- little Mary looks at a print of the Lady's Magaing to themselves and to their country.” Izine for 1777 with grimaces and exclamations of
* Thank God, thank God! My soul is at “ What frights !” What is there in the freedom peace now. She is provided for, and they, too. and ease of the modern belle to compare with the Read to me, sir, please ; 'twill rouse me up-1 rich petticoat, the looped robe, the flowing sacque, feel drowsyish.”
the jaunty lace kerchief, half revealing, half hidThe curate opened his pocket Bible, and in a ing, the snowy neck, or the rich ruffles, showing sweet low voice read from the fourteenth to the off the rounded arms? Even in the tedious headseventeenth of John. As he proceeded, the little dress and the elaborate coiffure, there was a digboy peeped up from his straw, and sucked in the nity and majesty of beauty quite unknown in the words. The sick man opened his stiffening lids present day. Then grandmothers dressed like from time to time, and murmured a prayer from grandmothers, and did not ape their juveniles ; unparted, motionless lips, which sounded strange then class had some distinction. All were not and unearthly in the small chamber. The pale confused in heaps of cheap and gaudy finery. wife, with her infant daughter in her lap, wept | Every thing in female attire was good and dursilently; and the little boy, Jemmy, was seated able, lasting out sometimes the life of the wearer, on one of the worn-out hassocks, holding the can but always appropriate to her age, station, and dle, which was stuck in a bottle, for the good pas. appearance. And also with regard to female tor, as he read. The other boy was gone of an names, there were many pretty simple appellaerrand for a neighbor. Night had set in, and a tions, quite unknown to us in our time. The gentle breeze fanned the chamber through the | youngest daughter of the Marchioness of Sumopen door and paneless window. People glided merdown had one of these quaint, pretty names cautiously by, from time to time, urged by pity or --Amber !-and what a lovely creature she was !
The first time I ever saw her was on the occasion After about an hour's stillness, the sick man of her coming to our establishment to choose a stirred, then tried to sigh, but the groan died court-dress for her approaching presentation. within him, and for a time he whispered; but no She had then just attained her eighteenth year, body knew what he said. At length, after the and was a great heiress; for though the Sumcurate had applied a few drops of moisture from merdown family were never rich, and not likely an orange to his lips, he spoke audibly.
to be then, the marquis being lately deceased, “I was dreaming, Mary, as we war happy with and having left no son to inherit his honors ; yet God. The children had enow to eat; they give a maternal uncle, who had been resident in India, me my good name back agen; an' we were all and had amassed one of those fortunes which very happy.” After a pause, and much internal seem now all but fabulous, had left this vast muttering, he resumed with a perceptible spirit of wealth to the young lady, Amber Mayne. On energy, although his spent powers made him the occasion I speak of, her slight figure was hidscarcely audible. “Oh, Mr. Godfrey, if more den by the marchioness, a lady of much presence, would, like thee, only come and see the poor, an and who was haughty and pompous; and, indeed, what they suffers! Tell the lads, sir, to wait a I knew not that any one was with my Lady Sumbit-but to struggle on, for there is hope for the merdown, till, on her ladyship desiring, in a working man. An' bid the rich folk consider the haughty voice, to see some rose-color paduasoys, laborer, an' the parsons to be all like thee, an' | one of the sweetest voices I ever heard said, as