John Greenleaf Whittier - "Narrative and Legendary Poems: The Bridal of Pennacook"

E. P. Roe - "Taken Alive"

George Hartmann - "Tales of Aztlan"

William D. Howells - "The Register"

Town and Country, or, Life at Home and Abroad

J >> John S. Adams >> Town and Country, or, Life at Home and Abroad




"No selfish motives in keeping temperate!" said Jack Rowlin,
ironically.

"Can't say; but liquor never did me harm. When I find it does, I
will leave off."

"That's the doctrine of Father Neptune-drink and enjoy life."

"Every man to his post!" shouted the captain, as he approached from
the quarterdeck. Quick to obey, they were where they were commanded
in an instant, each with his tin can half filled with liquor.
Captain Marlin, seeing this, ordered them to drink their grog or
throw it overboard; they chose the former mode of disposing of it,
and threw their empty cans at the cook.

In the distance a small black speck was decried.





CHAPTER IV.




The sun had set in clouds. The heavens were hung in darkness. Ever
and anon a peal of thunder echoed above, a flash of vivid lightning
illumed the waters, and far as eye could see the waters tossed high
their whitened crests. The winds blew stormy, and now heavy drops of
rain fell upon the deck of the "Tangus." "Every man to his duty!"
shouted the captain; but the captain's voice was not obeyed.

Objects at two feet distance could not be seen. Louder that voice
was heard. "Every man to his duty,--save the ship!"

"Captain, what is my duty?" inquired the cook.

"I appoint you under officer. Search for the men, and, if they are
not all washed over, tell them I order them to work. If they do not
know it, tell them the ship's in danger, and they must work."

The storm was fast increasing, till, at length, instead of
blackness, one sheet of livid flame clothed the heavens above. Now
all could be seen, and the captain busied himself. But two of the
crew were to be seen, and they lay as senseless as logs. They heeded
not the rage of the storm. The terrific peals of thunder awoke them
not-they were dead drunk!

By the time the storm commenced, the liquor they had drank began to
have its effect. Four of the crew, who were usually wide awake-that
is, uncommonly lively-when intoxicated, had unfortunately fell
overboard, and were lost.

The captain had now food for reflection, but the time and place were
not for such musings.

He endeavored to arouse them, but in vain; so, with the aid of the
only sober man aboard besides himself, he conveyed them to a place
of safety. In the mean time the ship strained in every joint, and he
momentarily expected to find himself standing on its wreck.

The waves washed the deck, and everything movable, cook-house and
all, went by the board. The only hope of safety was in cutting away
the masts, and to this task they diligently applied themselves. All
night the captain and cook worked hard, and when morning came they
found the storm abating. Soon the sun shone in its brightness; but
what a scene did its light reveal! The once stately ship dismasted;
four men, including the mate of the vessel, lost, and two lying
insensible in the cabin.

It was not strange that the question came home to the mind of
Captain Marlin, with force, "Is it right to carry liquor for a
ship's crew?" He need ask the opinion of no one; he could find an
answer in the scene around him.





CHAPTER V.




"Then thy ship has put in for repairs?" said Simon Prim, as he
entered Granton & Co.'s office, on Wall-street.

"What?" exclaimed Mr. Granton, who had heard nothing of the matter.
Simon, pulling a paper from his pocket, read:

"LOSS OF LIFE AT SEA.--By a passenger in the 'Sultan,' from--, we
are informed that the ship 'Tangus,' from this port, bound to
Sumatra, and owned by Messrs. Granton & Co., of this city, put in at
that place in a dismasted condition.

"The 'Tangus' had been three weeks out, when, in a gale, four men
were washed overboard. The remainder of her crew being insensible,
and the whole duty falling upon the captain and cook, they with
great difficulty managed the ship. It is rumored that all were
intoxicated. This is the seventh case of loss at sea, caused by
intemperance, within four months. When will men become wise, and
awake to their own interests on this topic?"

The ship-owner rapidly paced his office. "Can it be?" said he to
himself. "Can it be?"

"Give thyself no trouble, friend," said Prim; "what is done is done,
and can't be undone. Thy ship is not lost, and things are not so bad
as they might be. Look to the future, and mourn not over the past;
and remember that it is very dangerous to have a jug afloat."

These few words somewhat quieted him, yet not wholly, At this moment
the wife of Captain Marlin entered. Having heard of the news, she
came to learn all that was known respecting it.

"Madam," said he, after relating all he knew, "my mind is changed on
the question we some time since discussed. Yes, madam, my mind is
changed, and from this hour I will do all I can to exterminate the
practice of carrying grog to sea for the crew. And I tell thee
what," he continued, turning to friend Prim, who stood near by, "I
tell thee what, thee was right in thy predictions; and, though it
has been a dear lesson to me, I have learned from it that it is poor
policy that puts a jug afloat."






GIVE, AND STAY THEIR MISERY.





WOULD ye who live in palace halls,
With servants round to wait,
Know aught of him who, craving, falls
Before thine outer gate?
Come with me when the piercing blast
Is whistling wild and free,
When muffled forms are hurrying past,
And then his portion see.
Come with me through the narrow lanes
To dwellings dark and damp,
Where poor men strive to ease their pains;
Where, by a feeble lamp,
The wearied, widowed mother long
Doth busy needle ply,
Whilst at her feet her children throng,
And for a morsel cry.
Come with me thou in such an hour,
To such a place, and see
That He who gave thee wealth gave power
To stay such misery!
Come with me,--nor with empty hand
Ope thou the poor man's door;
Come with the produce of thy land,
And thou shalt gather more.






THE SPIRIT OF MAN.





YE cannot bind the spirit down;
It is a thing as free
As the albatross-bird that wings
Its wild course o'er the sea.
Go, bind the lightning, guide the sun,
Chain comets, if you can;
But seek not with thy puny strength
To bind the soul of man.
Though all the powers of earth combine,
And all their strength enroll,
To bind man's body as they will,
They cannot bind his soul.
No power on earth can hold it down,
Or bid it hither stay,
As up to heaven with rapid course
It tireless wings its way.
Time is too limited for it,
And earth is not its clime;
It cannot live where sound the words,
"There is an end to time."
It seeks an endless, boundless sphere,
In which to freely roam;
Eternity its course of life,
Infinity its home.
There, there will it forever live;
And there, a spirit free,
'T will range, though earth may pass away,
And Time no longer be.






PAUSE AND THINK.





O! HOW many souls are sorrowing
In this sunlit world, to-day,
Because Wrong, heaven's livery borrowing,
Leadeth trusting souls astray;
Because men, all thoughtless rushing,
Dance along on Error's brink,
And, the voice of conscience hushing,
Will not for a moment think!
'T is the lack of thought that bringeth
Man to where he needs relief;
'T is the lack of thought that wringeth
All his inner self with grief.
Would he give a moment's thinking
Ere his every step is made,
He would not from light be shrinking,
Groping on in Error's shade!
Think, immortal! thou art treading
On a path laid thick with snares,
Where mischievous minds are spreading
Nets to catch thee unawares.
Pause and think! the next step taken
May be that which leads to death;
Rouse thee! let thy spirit waken;
List to, heed the word it saith!
Think, ere thou consent to squander
Aught of time in useless mirth;
Think, ere thou consent to wander,
Disregarding heaven-winged truth.
When the wine in beauty shineth,
When the tempter bids thee drink,
Ere to touch thy hand inclineth,
Be thou cautious-pause and think!
Think, whatever act thou doest;
Think, whatever word is spoke;
Else the heart of friend the truest
May be by thee, thoughtless, broke.
How much grief had been prevented,
If man ne'er had sought to shrink
From the right:-to naught consented,
Until he had paused to think!






LITTLE NELLY.





MATILDA was a fashionable girl,--a young lady, perhaps, would be the
more respectable name by which to call her. She had been reared in
affluence. She had never known a want. She had had wants, but she
did not know it. She had wanted many things that make a lady's life
indeed a life. But Matilda never dreamt of such things.

It was n't fashionable to love the outcast, and therefore she
bestowed no pitying look on them. It was n't fashionable to give a
few pennies even to a poor, lame orphan girl in the street. So she
pretended not to have noticed the plea of little Nelly, who had
accosted her during her morning rambles.

"Little Nelly." I remember how she looked when at twilight she sat
down on a curb-stone to count the money. She looked sorrowful. She
was, indeed, worthy of pity; but little she got. The crowd went
hurrying, hustling on: few thoughts came down to little Nelly, on
the curb-stone. It had been a gala day. Red flags had flaunted on
high poles, and there had been a great noise of drums and fifes, and
everybody had seemed happy. Why, then, should sorrow come, with its
dark lantern, and look in the face of this little girl?

I will tell you.

There was a poor woman whose husband had been killed in Mexico. She
lived in one small room in a secluded part of the city, and by means
of her needle, and such assistance as was given to her daughter, who
diligently walked the streets, selling apples, she managed to live
in a style which she denominated "comfortable." Thus, for upwards of
one year, she toiled and lived, and was thankful for all her many
blessings.

But sickness came; not severe, but of that kind that bears its
victim along slowly to rest. She was unable to do much. She did not
wish to do much; but she sat day by day, yea, night by night often,
and diligently pursued the avocation that brought her daily bread.

Weeks passed, and yet she was ill. One morning, she called her
daughter to her side, and, taking her hand in her own, said:

"Little Nelly, 't is Independence day, to-day. You heard the guns
fire, and the bells ring, and the shouts of the happy children, this
morning, before you arose. I watched you as you lay listening to all
these, and I asked myself, Will my little Nelly be happy? and I
thought I heard my mother's voice;--she died long, long ago, but I
thought I heard her voice right at my side, saying, 'We shall all be
happy soon;' and I wept, for I could not help it.

"But I've called you now, Nelly, to tell you that I'm much better
this morning, and that, if you can get twenty-five cents to-day, we
will have a happy time to-night."

Little Nelly looked happy for a moment, but soon a shadow came over
her face; for she could not comprehend the meaning of her mother
when she said she was "better," for she looked more feeble than she
had ever seen her since the news of how her father was shot in the
face at Monterey was told her.

But she tried to be cheerful. She tried to smile, but, O, it was
very hard; and she got her mother's breakfast, and, having cleared
the things away, took her little basket, and her mother's purse, and
went out.

It was, indeed, a happy day without. There was joy depicted on every
countenance, and the general happiness infused some of its spirit
into the heart of our little trader. She seemed almost lost in the
great crowd; and there were so many dealers about, and so many that
presented greater attractions in the display of their stock, that
few bought of little Nelly.

It was late in the afternoon, and she had sold but a little, when
she encountered a young lady gayly dressed, in whose hand was
prominently displayed a bead purse, through the interstices of which
the gold and silver glistened.

Nelly held out her humble purse, in which no beads were wrought,
through which no coin glistened,--she held it up, and ventured to
ask, in pleasant tones, a few pennies of the lady. But not a penny
for little Nelly. Not even a look recognized her appeal, but costly,
flowing robes rushed by, and nearly prostrated her; they did force
her from the sidewalk into the gutter.

Go on, ye proud and selfish one! Go, bend the knee to Fashion's
altar, and ask a blessing of its presiding spirit! Bestow no pitying
glance on honest poverty; no helping hand to the weak and falling!
There is a law which God hath written on all his works, proclaiming
justice, and giving unto all as they shall ask of him. Pass on, and
heed not that little praying hand; but remember you cannot do so
without asking of that law its just requital.

Nelly walked on. She mingled again with the great mass, and twilight
came. It was then that she sat down, as I have before stated, to
count her money. She had but thirteen cents. All day she had sought
to dispose of her stock, that she might carry to her mother the sum
named, with which to have a happy time at home. And now the day had
gone; the night was drawing its great shadowy cloak about the earth,
and Nelly had but about one half of the required sum. What should
she do?

It was at this moment I met her. I stooped down, and she told me all
her story;--told me all her sorrow,--a great sorrow for a little
breast like hers. I made up the trifling amount, and, taking her by
the hand, we went together towards her home.

Reaching the house, we entered, and were met on the stairs by an old
lady, who whispered in my ear, "Walk softly." I suspected in a
moment the reason why she asked me thus to walk. She then led the
way. She tried to keep back the little girl, but she could not. She
hurried up the stairs, and through a long, dark entry, to a door,
which she quickly opened.

Nelly sprang to the bed on which lay her mother. I heard a sigh-a
sob. It was from the child. The mother spoke in a tone so joyous
that I was at first surprised to hear it from one who, it was
supposed, was near her end. But I soon found it was no matter of
surprise.

How clear and fair was that face! How pleading and eloquent those
eyes, as they turned, in all their full-orbed brightness, upon me,
as I approached the bedside of the mother of Nelly! There were
needed no words to convey to my mind the thoughts that dwelt within
that soul, whose strength seemed to increase as that of the body
diminished.

With one of her pale hands she took mine; with the other, that of
her daughter.

"Blessings on you both!" she said. "Nelly, my dear Nelly, my
faithful, loving Nelly, I am much better than I was; I shall soon be
well, and what a happy time we will have to-night! I hear that voice
again to-night, Nelly. Don't you hear it? It says, 'We shall all be
happy soon.' I see a bright star above your head, my child; and now
I see my mother. She is all bright and radiant, and there is a
beauty around her that I cannot describe. Nelly, I am better. Why, I
feel quite well."

She sprang forward, and, with her hands yet clasping Nelly's and my
own, she stretched her arms upward. There was a bright glow of
indescribable joy upon her features. She spoke calmly, sweetly
spoke. "We shall all be happy soon-happy soon-happy-" then fell back
on the pillow, and moved no more-spoke not again.

She was indeed happy. But, Nelly-she was sad. For a long time she
kept her hand in that of her mother. She at length removed it, and
fell upon the floor, beneath the weight of her new sorrow. Yet it
was but for a moment. Suddenly she sprang up, as if imbued with
angelic hope and peace. We were surprised to see the change, and to
behold her face beam with so much joy, and hear her voice lose its
sadness. We looked forth with that inner sight which, on such
occasions, seems quickened to our sense, and could see that mother,
and that mother's mother, bending over that child, and raising her
up to strength and hope, and a living peace and joy.

Nelly's little purse lay on the floor, where she had dropped it when
she came in. The old nurse picked it up, and laid it on a stand
beside the bed. A tear stole out from beneath the eyelids of the
child as she beheld it, and thought how all day she had worked and
walked to get the little sum with which her mother and she were to
be made happy on that Independence night. I called her to me. We sat
down and talked over the past, the present and the future, and I was
astonished to hear the language which her pure and gentle, patient
soul poured forth.

"Well, sir," she said, "we are happy to-night, though you think,
perhaps, there is greater cause for sorrow. But mother has gone from
all these toiling scenes. She will work no more all the long day,
and the night, to earn a shilling, with which to buy our daily
bread. She has gone where they have food that we know not of; and
she's happy to-night, and, sir, we shall all be happy soon. We shall
all go up there to live amid realities. These are but shadows here
of those great, real things that exist there; and I sometimes think,
when sitting amid these shadows, that it will be a happy time when
we leave them, and walk amid more substantial things."

Thus she talked for some time.

Having rendered such assistance as I could, I left. The next day
there was a funeral, and little Nelly was what they called "the
chief mourner;" yet it seemed a very inappropriate name for one
whose sorrow was so cheerful. There were but few of us who followed;
and, when we reached the grave, and the face of the earthly form was
exposed to the sunlight for the last time, little Nelly sung the
following lines, which I had hastily penned for the occasion:






WE SHALL ALL BE HAPPY SOON.





Dry our tears and wipe our eyes!
Angel friends beyond the skies
Open wide heaven's shining portal,
Welcome us to joys immortal.
Fear not, weep not, ours the boon;
We shall all be happy soon!
Hark! a voice is whispering near us;
'T is an angel-voice to cheer us;
It entreats us not to weep,
Fresh and green our souls to keep;
And it sings, in cheerful tune,
We shall all be happy soon.
Thus through life, though grief and care
May be given us to bear,
Though all dense and dark the cloud
That our weary forms enshroud,
Night will pass, and come the noon,
We shall all be happy soon.

When the last line of each verse was sung, it was no fancy thought
in us, in Nelly more than all others, that suggested the union of
other voices with our own; neither was it an illusion that pictured
a great thing with harps, repeating the words, "We shall all be
happy soon."

The sexton even, he who was so used to grave-yard scenes, was doubly
interested; and, when the last look was taken, and Nelly seemed to
look less in the dark grave and more up to the bright sky above her
than those in her situation usually do, I saw him watch her, and a
tear trickled down his wrinkled face.

As we turned to leave, I asked him why he wept. His features
brightened up. "For joy, for joy," said he. "I have put away the
dead here for forty long years; but I never beheld so happy a burial
as this. It seems as though the angels were with that child. She
looks so heavenly."

Perhaps they were. And why say "perhaps"? Do we not know they are
ever round us, and very near to such a one as Nelly, at such a time?






REUNION.





WHEN we muse o'er days departed,
Lights that shone but shine no more,
Friends of ours who long since started
O'er the sea without a shore;
Journeying on and journeying ever,
Their freed spirits wing their flight,
Ceasing in their progress never
Towards the fountain-head of light;
Oft we wish that they were near us,--
We might see the friends we love,--
Then there come these words to cheer us,
"Ye shall meet them all above."
When the sun's first ray approacheth,
Ushering in the noonday light;
When the noise of day encroacheth
On the silence of the night;
When the dreams depart that blest us
In the hours forever fled,--
In which friends long gone carest us,
Friends we number with the dead,--
Comes this thought, Ye ne'er shall hear them,
Ne'er shall see the friends ye love;
Voices say, "Ye shall be near them,
With them in the world above."
When within the grave's enclosure
Ye do drop the silent tear,
Tremble not at its disclosure,
Myriad spirits hover near.
Hark! they whisper, do ye hear not,
Mingling with your rising sighs,
Words that bid you hope, and fear not,
Angel-voices from the skies?
And as dust to dust returneth,--
That which held the gem you love,--
Thine afflicted spirit learneth
It will meet that gem above.
Thus whene'er a friend departeth
In my soul I know 't is right;
And, although the warm tear starteth,
As he passes from my sight,
I do know that him I cherish
Here on earth shall never die;
That, though all things else shall perish,
He shall live and reign on high.
And, that when a few hours more
Shall have passed, then those I love,
Who have journeyed on before,
I shall meet and greet above.






THE VILLAGE MYSTERY.





ABOUT fifty miles from a southern city, about five years ago, a most
mysterious personage seemed to fall from the clouds into the midst
of a circle of young ladies, whose hours and days were thenceforth
busily employed in quizzing, guessing, pondering and wondering.

He was a tall, graceful-formed gentleman, wearing a
professional-looking cloak, and buff pants, tightly strapped over
boots of delicate make, polished up to the very highest capabilities
of Day and Martin. He had no baggage; which fact led some
wise-headed old ladies to report him to be a gentleman of leisure, a
literary millionaire, it might be, who was travelling through "the
States" for the purpose of picking up items for a book on "Ameriky."
The old men wagged their heads, and looked most impenetrably
mysterious. The young men became jealous. To be sure he was not
superlatively handsome, but he had a foreign air, which was
considerable among the girls; and his appearance indicated wealth,
for his dress was of the first quality and cut. He had half a dozen
glistening rings on his hands; he wore a breast-pin of dazzling
brilliance; and every time he moved a chained lion could not have
made more noise, and clatter, and show with his fetters, than he did
with a massive double-linked chain, that danced and flirted upon his
crimson vest.

Abby and Nelly, the belles of the place, had each had an eye upon
the new comer, since he passed by the splendid mansion of their
abode, casting a sly glance up to the open window at which they
stood.

In a week, our foreign friend had made the circuit of all the
fashionable society of Greendale. He had drank tea with the
"Commissioners," and walked out with their amiable daughters. He had
visited the pastor, and had evinced great interest in the prosperity
of the church. He had even exhorted in the conference-meeting, and
had become so popular that some few, taking it for granted that so
devout a man must be a clergyman, had serious thoughts of asking the
old parson to leave, and the stranger to accept the pulpit,--four
hundred and eighty-two dollars a year, and a donation-party's
offerings. He had attended the sewing-circle, and made himself
perfectly at home with everybody and everything. The young men's
society for ameliorating the condition of the Esquimauxs and
Hottentots had been favored with his presence; and, likewise, with a
speech of five minutes long, which speech had, in an astonishingly
short time, been printed on pink satin and handsomely framed.

The lower class of people, for whom the stranger talked so much, and
shed so many tears, and gave vent to so many pitiful exclamations,
but with whom, however, he did not deign to associate, were filled
with a prodigious amount of wonder at the lion and his adventures.
They gathered at Squire Brim's tavern, and at the store on the
corner, and wondered and talked over the matter. The questions with
them were, Who is he?-where did he come, and where is he going to?
They would not believe all they had heard conjectured about him, and
some few were so far independent as to hint of the possibility of
imposition.

There were two who determined to find out, at all hazards, the name,
history, come from and go to, of the mysterious guest; and, to
accomplish their purpose, they found it necessary for them to go to
Baltimore early the subsequent morning.

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