Joseph A. Altsheler - "The Guns of Bull Run"

Lysander Spooner - "An Essay on the Trial By Jury"

G. K. Chesterton - "Utopia of Usurers and other Essays"

Friedrich de la Motte Fouque - "Undine"

Town and Country, or, Life at Home and Abroad

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




"He says he can get those duck trousers made for three cents, and
that, if I will not make them for that, he can give me no more work.
You know, mother, that I work eighteen hours of the twenty-four, and
can but just make two pair,--that would be but six cents a day."

"My child," said the mother, rising with unusual strength, "refuse
such a slavish offer. Let him not, in order to enrich himself, by
degrees take your life. Death's arrows have now near reached you. Do
not thus wear out your life. Let us die!"

She would have said more; but, exhausted by the effort, she sank
back upon her pillow. Then came the inquiry, "Didst thou ever hear
that promise, 'God will provide'?"

The question had been put, and the answer given, when a slight rap
at the door was heard. Julia opened it; a small package was hastily
thrust into her hand, and the bearer of it hasted away. It was a
white packet, bound with white ribbon, and with these words, "Julia
Lang," legibly written upon it. She opened it; a note fell upon the
floor; she picked it up, and read as follows:

Enclosed you will find four five-dollar bills. You are in want; use
them, and, when gone, the same unknown hand will grant you more.

"Let me break now a secret to you which I believe it is my duty to
divulge. You will recollect that your father mysteriously abandoned
you. He is now in this city, in--street jail, awaiting his trial.
I am confident that he is innocent, and will be honorably acquitted;
and I am as confident that it needs but your presence and your kind
entreaty to bring him back once again to his family and friends. I
have spoken to him, but my words have had no effect except when I
spoke of his family. Then I could see how hard he strove to conceal
a tear, and that I had found a tender chord, that needed but your
touch to cause it to work out a reformatory resolution.

"I write because Mr. Lang was a friend of mine in his days of
prosperity. I know he has no heart for dishonesty; but, thinking
himself deserted by those who should cling to him, he madly resolved
to give himself up, and follow where fate should lead. Yours, truly,
"CHARLES B--.

N.B. Others have also spoken with him; but their appeals have been
in vain. If you will be at the corner of L--avenue and W--street,
at three o'clock to-day, a carriage will be in readiness to convey
you to his presence. C. B.

Anxiously did Mrs. Lang watch the features of her child as she stood
perusing the letter; and as she sat down with it unfolded,
apparently in deep thought, her inquisitiveness increased. She
inquired-she was told all. "Go," said she to her daughter, "and may
the blessings of Heaven attend you!"

Julia stood wondering. She had doubted before; she feared it might
be the scheme of some base intriguer; but now her doubts vanished,
and hope cheered her on.

Long seemed the intervening hours, and many were the predictions
made concerning the success of her mission; yet she determined to
go, in the spirit of Martin Luther, though every stone in the prison
should arise to persecute her.

The appointed hour came, and, letter in hand, she left her room, and
repaired to the spot. There she found a carriage; and the driver,
who, it appeared, was acquainted with her, inquired whether she
desired to go to--street jail. Replying in the affirmative, she
entered, and the carriage drove off. When she had reached the
street, and came in full view of the prison, her timidity almost
overcame her; but, recollecting the object she had in view, she
resisted a desire that involuntarily arose to return.

"Is the warden in?" inquired the driver of the gate-keeper.

"He is;--another feast for the lion, eh?" and the keeper, who had
more self-assurance than manners, having laughed at his own
nonsense, pulled a bell-cord, and the warden appeared.

"The gentleman who came this morning to see Mr. Lang wished me to
bring this young lady here, and introduce her to you as Mr. Lang's
daughter." Having said this, the hack-man let down the steps, and
aided her out. The gate-keeper retired into a sort of sentry-box,
and amused himself by peeping over the window-curtain, laughing very
immoderately when anything serious was said, and sustaining a very
grave appearance when anything having a shade of comicality
occurred.

The warden very politely conducted Julia into his office, and soon
after into the jail. It was a long building inside of a building,
with two rows of cells one above the other, each numbered, and upon
each door a card, upon which was written, in characters only known
to the officers of the prison, the prisoner's name, crime, term of
imprisonment, and general conduct whilst confined.

As Mr. Lang was waiting trial, he was not in one of these cells, but
in one of large dimensions, and containing more conveniences.

As they entered, he was seated at a small table, with pen, ink and
paper, engaged in writing. He did not at first recognize his child,
but in a moment sprang to her, and clasping her in his arms, said,
"My child."

Such a change in him needs some explanation.

After being committed to prison, his first thought was upon the
change of his condition from what it formerly was; and his first
resolution was to reform. He thought of the deep plots he and his
companion had laid to amass a fortune; but, supposing that the
latter would be convicted, and condemned to serve a long time in
confinement, he concluded that that scheme was exploded.

"Yet," thought he, "if there be none on earth I can call my
friends,--if my family forsake me (yet just would it be in them
should they reject my company),--of what avail would my reformation
be, except to a few dogging creditors, who would jeer and scoff at
me at every corner, and attempt to drive me back to my present
situation? It might be some satisfaction to them to see me return;
but what feelings would it arouse within me,--with what hatred would
I view mankind! No; if none will utter a kind word to me, let me
continue on; let the prison be my home, and the gallows my end,
rather than attempt to reform while those who were once my friends
stand around to drive me lack by scoffing remarks!"

Such were the sincere thoughts of Mr. Lang. He would return, but
none stood by to welcome him. A few had visited him, most of whom
had severely reflected upon his misdeeds. They opened a dark
prospect for him in the future. "Now," said they, "you must here
remain; receive retribution for your evil deeds, and a sad warning
to others not to follow in your steps, lest they arrive at the same
goal." Was there encouragement in this? Surely not; he deemed them
not the words of friendship, and he was right in his judgment.

"Why did you visit this dark prison?" inquired Mr. Lang.

"Because you are here, father!" was the artless reply.

"And could you forgive your father? How could you seek him, when he
forsook you?" Mr. Lang could not make this last observation without
becoming affected even to tears.

Julia seemed to take courage; new energies seemed to be imparted to
her. She felt an unseen influence at her side, and a holy calmness
resting upon her soul.

"Prison-walls cannot bar you from my heart, though in the worst
place on earth. Though friends laugh me to scorn when I seek your
presence, you are my father still, and ungrateful would I be did I
not own you as such!

"In thinking of the present, I do not forget the past; I remember
the days of old, the years in which we were made glad;--and you,
father, when free from these walls, will you not return again to
your family, and make home what it once was? To-day I will see Mr.
Legrange; he wants a clerk, and, by a little persuasion, I am
certain I can get you the situation. Will you not reform?"

She could say no more; yet her actions spoke louder than words could
possibly do, and her imploring attitude went home to the heart of
her parent. He, for the first time since the commencement of his
wayward course, felt that the hand of sympathy was extended to greet
him, should he make a motion to return. And why should he not grasp
it? He did. There, in that prison-cell, upon his knees, he promised
to repent and return.

"Pleasant residence, Miss!" said the gate-keeper, as our heroine
left the yard, and then laughed as though he had committed a pun
that would immortalize him from that time forth.

She noticed not his ill-mannered remark, but, reentering the
carriage, thought of nothing but the joy her mother would feel upon
learning her success, till the carriage stopped and the driver let
down the steps. Having related her adventure, she left her home with
the intention of seeing Mr. Legrange.

Mr. Legrange was a merchant on Cadiz wharf; he was wealthy, and as
benevolent as wealthy. Notices were often seen in the papers of
large donations from him to worthy institutions, sometimes one and
sometimes three thousand dollars. His fellow-men looked upon him as
a blessing to the age. There was no aristocracy in him; he did not
live like a prince in the costliest house in the city, but a small,
neat tenement was pointed out as his abode. Not only was he called
the "Poor Man's Friend," but his associate and companion. He did not
despise the poor man, and wisely thought that to do him good he must
live and be upon an equality with him.

Mr. Legrange had just opened an evening paper, when a light rap at
his counting-house door induced him to lay it aside. Opening it, a
young woman inquired if Mr. Legrange was in.

"That is my name," was the reply. "Good-morning, Miss Lang."

Julia was rejoiced that she was recognized. She had not spoken to
Mr. Legrange since her father's failure in business; previous to
that sad occurrence she had known him personally, yet she scarcely
thought he would know her now.

"This is a lovely day," said Mr. Legrange, handing her a chair.
"Your mother is well, I hope."

"As well as might be expected: she will recover fast, now."

"Indeed! What? Some glad news?"

"Yes, sir; father is in the city, and has reformed."

"Thank God for that!" said Mr. Legrange. "It is one of the blessings
of this life to hope for better days."

"He has reformed," continued Miss Lang, "yet he may be led back
unless he gets steady employment; and I heard that--"

"--that I want a clerk," said Mr. Legrange, anticipating her in her
remarks; "and," continued he, "your father is just the man I want. I
knew him in his better days, before a fatal misstep felled him to
the ground. Miss Lang, let your father call next Tuesday; to-morrow
I start on a journey, and shall not return till then."

With many sincere thanks, Julia left the room; her heart overflowed
with gratitude to the Giver of all things. She saw his hand and felt
his presence.

It was well that Mr. Legrange was about to leave the city, as Mr.
Lang's examination was to be had the next day, and Mrs. Lang and her
daughter confidently expected he would be acquitted.

The morrow came; the examination began and terminated as they had
expected. William Bang was remanded back to prison to await his
trial for robbery. Mr. Lang was acquitted, and, joining a company of
friends whom Julia had collected, left for the residence of his
family.

What a meeting was that! Angels could but weep for joy at such a
scene, and drop their golden harps to wipe away their tears of
gladness. Long had been their separation. What scenes had the
interval disclosed! And how changed were all things! She was in
health when he left, but now in sickness; yet it was not strange.

That day was the happiest he had spent for many months, and he
rejoiced that an angel of light, his daughter, had sought him out.
She had been, indeed, a ministering spirit of good to him, and in
the happy scene then around her she found her reward,--O, how
abundant!

With a light and joyous step did Henry Lang repair to the store of
Mr. Legrange. The sun's rays were just peering over the house-tops,
and he thought that he, like that sun, was just rising from
degradation to assume new life, and put forth new energy.

We need not lengthen out our the by narrating what there ensued. He
that day commenced his clerkship, and to this day holds it. He often
received liberal donations from his employer in token of his regard
for him, and by way of encouraging him in his attempts to regain his
lost fortune.

It was on a December evening that a family circle had gathered
around their fireside. The wild wind whistled furiously around, and
many a poor wight lamented the hard fate that led him abroad to
battle the storm. "Two years ago this night," said the man, "where
was I? In an obscure house, planning out a way to injure a
fellow-man! Yea, would you believe it? the very man who has since
been my benefactor,--my employer!"

The door-bell rang, and the conversation was abruptly terminated.

In a few minutes none other than Mr. Legrange entered; he received a
hearty welcome, and was soon engaged in conversation.

"Mr. Lang," said he, as he was about to depart, "your daughter
remembers receiving an anonymous letter signed 'Charles B--.' I do
not say it to please my own vanity, but I ordered my clerk to write
it, and sent it by my son. I thought of you when you little thought
you had a friend on earth who cared for you, and rejoice that I have
been the humble instrument in effecting your reformation."

"Here," he continued, handing him a paper, "this is the deed of a
house on--street, valued at eight thousand dollars; accept it as a
present from me to you and your family, and remember this, that a
kind word is of more value than gold or precious stones. It was that
which saved you, and by that you may save others. Good-evening; I
will see you at the store tomorrow."

Having said this, he left, waiting not to receive the thanks that
grateful hearts desired to render him.

And now, reader, our story is ended. If you have followed us thus
far, neglect not to receive what we have faintly endeavored to
inculcate; and ever remember, while treading life's thorny vale,
that "a kind word is of more value than gold or precious stones."






THE LOVE OF ELINORE.





SHE stood beside the sea-shore weeping,
While above her stars were keeping
Vigils o'er the silent deep;
While all others, wearied, slumbered,
She the passing moments numbered,
She a faithful watch did keep.
Him she loved had long departed,
And she wandered, broken-hearted,
Breathing songs he loved to hear.
Friends did gather round to win her,
But the thoughts that glowed within her
Were to her most fond and dear.
In her hand she held bright flowers,
Culled from Nature's fairest bowers;
On her brow, from moor and heath,
Bright green leaves and flowers did cluster,
Borrowing resplendent lustre
From the eyes that shone beneath.
Rose the whisper, "She is crazy,"
When she plucked the blooming daisy,
Braiding it within her hair;
But they knew not, what of gladness
Mingled with her notes of sadness,
As she laid it gently there.
For her loved one, ere he started,
While she still was happy-hearted,
Clipped a daisy from its stem,
Placed it in her hair, and told her,
Till again he should behold her,
That should be her diadem.
At the sea-side she was roaming,
When the waves were madly foaming,
And when all was calm and mild,
Singing songs,--she thought he listened,--
And each dancing wave that glistened
Loved she as a little child.
For she thought, in every motion
Of the ceaseless, moving ocean,
She could see a friendly hand
Stretched towards the shore imploring,
Where she stood, like one adoring,
Beckoning to a better land.
When the sun was brightly shining,
When the daylight was declining,
On the shore she'd watch and wait,
Like an angel, heaven-descending,
'Mid the ranks of mortals wending,
Searching for a missing mate.
Years passed on, and when the morning
Of a summer's day gave warning
Of the sweets it held in store,
By the dancing waves surrounded,
Like a fairy one she bounded
To her lover's arms once more.
Villagers thus tell the story,
And they say a light of glory
Hovereth above the spot
Where for days and years she waited,
With a love all unabated,
And a faith that faltered not.
There's a stone that is uplifted,
Where the wild sea-flowers have drifted;
Fonder words no stone o'er bore;
And the waves come up to greet them,
Seeming often to repeat them,
While afar their echoes roar-
"DEATHLESS LOVE OF ELINORE."






'TIS SWEET TO BE REMEMBERED.





'T IS sweet to be remembered
In the turmoil of this life,
While toiling up its pathway,
While mingling in its strife,
While wandering o'er earth's borders,
Or sailing o'er its sea,--
'T is sweet to be remembered
Wherever we may be.
What though our path be rugged,
Though clouded be our sky,
And none we love and cherish,
No friendly one is nigh,
To cheer us in our sorrow,
Or share with us our lot,--
'T is sweet to be remembered,
To know we're not forgot.
When those we love are absent
From our hearth-stone and our side,
With joy we learn that pleasure
And peace with them abide;
And that, although we're absent,
We're thought of day by day;--
'T is sweet to be remembered
By those who are away.
When all our toils are ended,
The conflict all is done,
And peace, in sweetest accents,
Proclaims the victory won;
When hushed is all the tumult,
When calmed is all the strife,
And we, in patience, meekly
Await the end of life:
Then they who, when not present,
In spirit yet were near,
And, as we toiled and struggled,
Did whisper in our ear,
"'Tis sweet to be remembered,
And thou art not forgot,"
If fortune smile upon us,
Shall share our happy lot.






I CALL THEE MINE.





YES, ever such I'll call thee, will ever call thee mine,
And with the love I bear thee a wreath of poesy twine;
And when the stars are shining in their bright home of blue,
Gazing on them, thou mayest know that I like them are true.
Forget thee! no, O, never! thy heart and mine are one.
How can the man who sees its light forget the noonday sun?
Or he who feels its genial warmth forget the orb above;
Or, feeling sweet affection's power, its source-another's love?
Go, ask the child that sleepeth upon its mother's breast
Whether it loves the pillow on which its head doth rest;
Go, ask the weary mariner, when the dangerous voyage is o'er,
Whether he loves the parent's smile that meets him at the door:
But ask not if I love thee when I would call thee mine,
For words are weak to tell thee all, and I the task resign;
But send thy spirit out for love, and when it finds its goal,
'T will be encircled and embraced within my deepest soul.






THE OLD TREE AND ITS LESSON.





THERE is a story about that old tree; a biography of that old
gnarled trunk and those broad-spread branches.

Listen.

Many, very many years ago,--there were forests then where now are
cities, and the Indian song was borne on that breeze which now bears
the sound of the Sabbath bell, and where the fire of the work-shop
sends up its dense, black smoke, the white cloud from the Indian's
wigwam arose,--yes, 't was many years ago, when, by the door of a
rough, rude, but serviceable dwelling, a little boy sat on an old
man's knee. He was a bright youth, with soft blue eyes, from which
his soul looked out and smiled, and hair so beautiful that it seemed
to be a dancing sunbeam rather than what it really was.

The old man had been telling him of the past; had been telling him
that when he was a child he loved the forest, and the rock, and the
mountain stream.

Then he handed the lad a small, very small seed, and, leading him a
short distance, bade him make a small hole in the ground and place
the seed within it. He did so. And the old man bent over and kissed
his fair brow as he smoothed the earth above the seed's
resting-place, and told him that he must water it and watch it, and
it would spring up and become a fair thing in his sight.

'Twas hard for the child to believe this; yet he did believe, for he
knew that his friend was true.

Night came; and, as he lay on his little couch, the child dreamed of
that seed, and he had a vision of the future which passed with the
shades of the night.

Morning dawned, and he hastened to water and to watch the spot where
the seed was planted.

It had not come up; yet he believed the good old man, and knew that
it would.

All day long he was bending over it, or talking with his aged
companion about the buried seed.

A few days passed, then a little sprout; burst from the ground; and
the child clapped his hands, and shouted and danced.

Daily it grew fairer in the sight of the child, and rose higher and
higher. And the old man led him once more to the spot, and told him
that even so would the body of his little sister rise from the grave
in which a short time before it hid been placed, and, rising higher
and higher, it would never cease to ascend.

The old man wept; but the child, with his tiny white hand, brushed
away his tears, and, with child-like simplicity, said that if his
sister arose she would go to God, for God was above.

Then the mourner's heart was strengthened, and the lesson he would
have taught the child came from the child to him, and made his soul
glad.

A few weeks passed, and the old man died.

The child wept; but, remembering the good friend's lesson, he wiped
away his tears, and wept no more; for the seed had already become a
beautiful plant, and every day it went upward, and he knew that,
like that, his sister and his good friend would go higher and higher
towards God.

Days, weeks, months, years passed away. The plant had grown till it
was taller than he who had planted it.

Years fled. The child was no more there, but a young man sat beneath
the shade of a tree, and held a maiden's hand in his own. Her head
reclined on his breast, and her eyes upturned met the glances of his
towards her, and they blended in one.

"I remember," said he, "that when I was young a good old man who is
now in heaven, led me to this spot, and bade me put a little seed in
the earth. I did so. I watched the ground that held it, and soon it
sprang up, touched by no hand, drawn forth, as it would seem, from
its dark prison by the attractive power of the bright heaven that
shone above it. See, now, what it has become! It shades and shelters
us. God planted in my heart a little seed. None but he could plant
it, for from him only emanates true love. It sprang up, drawn forth
by the sunlight of thy soul, till now thou art shadowed and
sheltered by it."

There was silence, save the rustle of the leaves as the branches
bowed assent to the young man's words.

Time drove his chariot on; his sickle-wheels smote to earth many
brave and strong, yet the tree stood. The winds blew fiercely among
its branches; the lightning danced and quivered above and around it;
the thunder muttered forth its threatenings; the torrent washed
about its roots; yet it stood, grew strong and stately, and many a
heart loved it for its beauty and its shade.

The roll of the drum sounded, and beneath a tree gathered crowds of
stalwart men. There was the mechanic, with upturned sleeves and
dusty apron; the farmer, fanning himself with a dingy straw hat; the
professional man and trader, arguing the unrighteousness of
"taxation without representation."

Another roll of the drum, and every head was uncovered as a young
man ascended a platform erected beneath the tree. In a soft, low
voice, he began. As he proceeded, his voice grew louder, and his
eloquence entranced his auditors.

"Years ago," said he, "there were an old man and a young child. And
the child loved the man, and the man loved the child, and taught him
a lesson. He took him by the hand, and, leading him aside, gave him
a seed and told him to plant it. He did so. It sprang up. It became
mighty. Independent it stood, sheltering all who came unto it. That
old man went home; but here stands the child, and here the tree,
great and mighty now, but the child has not forgotten the day when
it was small and weak. So shall the cause we have this day espoused
go on; and though, to-day, we may be few and feeble, we shall
increase and grow strong, till we become an independent nation, that
shall shelter all who come unto it."

The speaker ceased, and immediately the air resounded with loud
shouts and huzzas.

The struggle for independence came. Victory ensued. Peace rested
once more upon all the land, But not as before. It rested upon a
free people. Then, beneath that same tree, gathered a mighty host;
and, as oft as came the second month of summer, in the early part of
it the people there assembled, and thanked God for the lesson of the
old tree.

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