Currie Cummings, or, Love's labor not lost
page: 0 (TitlePage) [View Page 0 (TitlePage) ] ALL IS FICTION THAT IS NOT TRUTH.
CURRIE CUMMINGS;
OR
LOVE'S LABOR NOT LOST.
HUMANITY.
BY L. A. HINE,
AUTHOR OF PROGRESS PAMPHLETS, & CO.
CINCINNATI.
PUBLISHED BY LONGLEY & BROTHER
WALNUT, ST. FOURTH & FIFTH STREETS.
1853.
page: 0[View Page 0] BROTHERHOOD.
"Each for all-be this our motto; nothing for ourselves but all for the brotherhood--be this the aim of our endeavor. By this deference we shall lose nothing, but win all our own self will come back from the general life, to which we yield, exalted, glorified, in- finitely enlarged. Among friends a friend lives a double existence; he who presses the whole nation, all humanity, to his breast, how infinitely he multiplies his life! All our impulses and efforts must flow into the general life, as the brook flows into the river, and the river into the sea; our existence is a note, which floats harmonious in the choral song of humanity. O, what ecstacy, to feel ourself amid the universal music, to revel in the fullness of harmony! And if thus we give ourselves fully up, heart, will, and all within us, it will not be very hard to give up what belongs to us externally; affectionate defer- ence leads to self-sacrifice. If the welfare of the brotherhood demands the sacrifice of our goods--if an object of the coimmon good is to be gained by no other way than by furnishing the means first which God has given us, shall we shrink?" --Dr. Witte.
PREFACE.
The literature of this age is strongly humanitarian. This is one of the signs of the times, that stimulate hope and encourage to action. Our poetry is pervaded by a human love that warms to a higher life. Our prose' literature is deeply imbued with a liberal, rational, and philosophical spirit-a spirit that exalts man and reason above the atheism which cherishes no faith in the integrity of human nature, nor permits a hope for the "good time coming."
For the increase of this faith and hope the author has written the following pages, feeling that scepticism is the great obstacle to Progress. No one who doubts can very cheerfully and zealously work for human advancement.
The following pages are not written for the sake of a story to beguile a few hours of the reader's time. The main object is to enforce some important truths in practical life, and inspire more lively emotions for the good and the true. The author would not waste his own time, or that of the reader, on a mere fiction. But he adopts this method of promoting the great cause of Progress.
The story in all its parts and in every sentence, addresses itself to the higher faculties of man's intellectual and moral nature. No appeal is made to the propensities or passions in a single incident. The vulgar cannot enjoy its perusal. The faithless conservative will not be pleased with its spirit. If it shall please any, it will be the " pure in heart," and the friends of Reform. It is an experiment, to settle the question whether a story can succeed without vulgarity, and frivolous imbecilities-whether there are not many readers who prefer that which is free from the gross, sensual and destructive.
Besides this, we need a more thorough enforcement of the solid duties of this life. While so many of the young are seeking an escape from the first duties and watching after the frivolity, idleness and dissipation of high life, thus imposing a greater burden upon those who toil, there is a necessity for some efforts to counteract this tendency and guide the young in the path of Truth and Duty. page: 0-5[View Page 0-5]
CURRIE CUMMNGS.
CHAPTER I.
IN 18 -, Geneva was a pleasant village, situated at the foot of Seneca Lake, which is one of that amiable family of lakes that so highly beautify and distinguish' the central portion of the great State of New York. This town was noted for its healthful and beautiful location, for the peaceful character of its inhabitants and the good order of its society. Situated on the bank of a lake measuring some thirty miles in length and three in width, that afforded abundance of excellent fish, and of course plenty of angling sport, and rendering the vicinity peculiarly delightful during the summer months, Geneva was a place of considerable resort for families of leisure, especially in the warm portion of the year. This circumstance gave to the inhabitants more style and fashion than they would other-wise have possessed. There were among them the too common vanity of dress and disposition to gossip which always characterize a people who have few ideas, but many fancies -little real knowledge, but a large fund of indefinite notions. In short, the ruling people of Geneva were gentlemen and ladies, the latter of whom were much like our city ladies, who have plenty of time in which to do anything but useful labor; and as, from the very necessity of their nature, they must be busy, and being too generally deficient in ideas to enjoy the pleasures of moral and intellectual culture, they are of course forced into the only remaining alterntivhae-that of vieing with each other in dress and display,smallitalk and folly. The gentlemen, too, of Geneva, as they are now in our cities, were engaged in such pur- suits as, in the language of high society, become gentlemen; and if some of them were occasionally compelled to cheat, or, maybe, steal a little, to supply their wives and daughters with shop-money, they excused their consciences on the score of "hard times". and stern necessity.
Early in May of the year above mentioned, the gossiping creation of Geneva were all at once startled by the arrival, at the village tavern, of four persons, in a style that indicated wealth and fashion, and bespoke them from a society of refinement to which even the most notable of the village were strangers. There was no carriage in all the town like that, or was even fit to raise the dust in the same street with it; and though there were many fine horses there, yet was not so perfect a span ot creams driven in all that country. Not only the people, but the very horses and carriage seemed to have suddenly invaded that peaceful town from another country. One thing seemed e ident to all-that people so dressed and so carried were no ordinary persons, and their respectful notice, if nothing more, was worth all pains to obtain.
The strangers consisted of two men and two women, whose appearance indicated not merely wealth, but great intelligence and high refinement. The men were of ordinary height, symmetrical and compact frames, and of features that are not repulsive to the admirers of good faces backed by better pockets.
The two ladies were tall, had never suffered for lack of good looks, were as richly dressed as money could provide, and their conversation and manners showed them to have been no strangers to schools nor to polished society. One of them was of a ruddy complexion ,- her cheek fairly bloomed; her eyes, of a page: 6-7[View Page 6-7] dark-blue, twinkled as she spoke, and her voice was distinct and charmingly melodious. The other lady looked in all respects like a twin sister of the other, except that the bloom had left her cheek, vivacity and mirth her countenance, and she seemed to shun society. Her general appearance told of some sorrow at theart, or of a degree of impaired health that at once excited the pity and sympathy of those she met. She bore a more thoughtful aspect than the other, and the lines that could be trace(d on her countenance told of the strion feelings that struggled in her breast.
The coach or hack-fashioned carriage in which they arrived was of the best city style. It was of the finest workmanship, and though it had been many days on the road, it still appeared as if just from the hands of the mechanic and artist. The inside was furnished with velvet cushions and curtains of the richest material. Not only the carriage, but the harnes-, with its silver and gilded fastenings, all sparkled in the sirt ; and the horses, full of life and the very models of beauty, moved as if the establishment, with the driver and four pas sengers, were no, burden to t hem. Is it surprising then, that men, women and children with no ideas higher than fine horses, clegadnt carriages and gaudy dress, should be at once on the qui vice at the appearance of ,such strangers? As their carriage moved through the principrl street "like a thing of life," we are not to -wonder that the good peo- ple crowded to the Nindows as they passed, full of surprise and curiosity. We cannot give half the exclamations that were uttered as they passecd. "O my!" said one. "Did you ever?" said another. "Dear me!" said a third. "How splendid!" exclaimed another. "What magnificence!" was another's idea of the scene. Such exclarmations, with hundreds of others. such as beautiful, exquisite, sublime, grand, iand all the superlatives that could be sum. ruoned, constituted 'the manner of speech for all the female portion of Geneva on that moment- oues occasion, and co)ntinued such for days and weeks after the distinguished arrival. All the ordinary topics of conversation and all do- irestic cares were at once suspended, as ' flat, stale, and unprofitrble," contrasted with the thoughts excited by that noble spectacle Mrs. B. at once put on her bonnet and shawl, and slipt out the back way, for fear of being seen by the distinguished strangers in her unbecoming dress, to tell her neighbor Mrs. C. of the great honor that had been paid to Geneva. Mrs. D. did the same thing; and, in short, the whole town was alive on that very afternoon, and before night all the mothers and daughters of high society in that village, were studying the style in which they could appear at church on the next Sabbath, expecting then to see the strangers and to be seen by them in return. The fact was, all the bon ton of the town had equipages good enough to appear in the pre- sence of the magnates of the land, but every one was dissatisfied wth what, she had, and a deep concern pervaded the town. But little sound sleep was had that night. Evern the men trembled, for they anticipated from the facial portents of their wives and daughters, the draught that was to be made on their de- posits. Costly bonnets, shawls, and dresses that had not been thrice worn, excited the loathing of their owners; they are not "fit to be seen," and "what shall I do," was the mno- mentous question that many a lady asked her soul that evening, and not herself only, but her husband or father. Many of those constituting the genteel so- ciketyf the village lived fully up to their means, and some went beyond them ; others Were in independent circumstances, and a. few families were possessed of considerable wealth. Of course the wealthy could dress up to the standard of the strangers, could make fine parties in their elegant houses, and secure their distinguished consideration. Oth- ers, who were in limited circumstances and were compelled to economize, found it neces- sary either to forego the great honor of associ- ation with the strangers, or to give up the lit- tle they had on deposit awaiting investment in permanent homes for their families. Many young men had recently commenced business, and economy was essential to their success. Others had notes in bank, and allowing for ordinary expenses, had calculated to meet them promptly, and it is not extraordinary that they should feel a little enervated in their joints and faint at heart in view of what was impending. Many scenes were enacted throughout the town on this occasion. We will merely lift the veil from a few as a spe- cirnen of the lot. Mr. Carter had purchased the house and lot where he lived-with his family, consisting of a wife, two daughters just blooming into woman-1 hood, and several youthful sons. He had long d wrestled with his fate-had liberally provided v for his family, and generously answered all the demands of an extravagant wife. Now, t when she had lost her attractions in rapidly approaching age, she had become more reason- able in her exactions from his purse, and he began to feel encouraged in the prospect of ob- j taining a home in which to spend the remain- der of his days in peace and quietude. His house and lot were yet under an incumbrance of a thousand dollars, which was due within six months, and which he expected to remove without difficulty by what he had and ex- pected to have on deposit. When the stran- gers excited such a coimmotion in town, Mrs. Carter looked in the glass and concluded her youth could in a measure be restored by strict attention to the necessary arts, and by a liber- al expenditure on her person. She thought of her neighbors with whom she had successful- ly competed, and once more resolved to enter again the lists of competition. One evening soon after the arrival of the strangers, and after the renmainder of the family had retired, Mrs. Carter drew her chair closer to her husband than usual, for the purpose of having a serious conversation. "My dear," said she, most affectionately. This was the first endearment that had for a long time escaped her lips, and instead of cre- ating a glow about the heart of "her dear," he felt a chill pass along his nerves, and he cold- ly answered- "Well, what now?" "Well, what now!" she repeated. "Is this tihe cold reply you make to me who has now adored you for eighteen years? It seenis that age has much dampened the ardor of your for- mer love." !I have merely advanced farther into the sober realities of life. I have learned that there is something more serious and substan tial in this world than the flutterings of a but- terfly, and the gaudy display of a peacock." With this he expected at least to embarrass his wife in communicating her wishes, which he fully anticipated. Mrs. Carter sighed from the very bottom of her heart. But she was not to be easily put off. So, hitching still closer to her obdurate husband, she placed her arm around his neck and gave him a salutation that smacked of their younger days. "My dear," said she, "have you seen the distinguished strangers that have honored our village with a visit?" "Honored! I shall not be surprised if it turn out to be dislidhnored by their visit, and my advice to the people is, to be a little cool, and not go crazy too soon." "How you talk, Mr. Carter! Why 'Mr. Jones, Mr. Snmith and Mr. Edwards are fitting up their splendid mansions in the best style for their reception, and you know they are riot often deceived in their opinions." "Well, what of it?" asked Mr. Carter, wishing to come to the heart of the matter at once. "Why, just this, Mr. Carter, that I have not had a new dress, a new shawl, nor a new hlat of any consequence, for a long time; and here are our daughters, Jane and Harriet, who are just coming out, and this is the opportunity for them to make an impression, if they can only be decently dressed." "I think," he replied, "that we have con- tinued to live in as good style as any of otir neighbors, and I see no necessity for an ex- travagant expenditure at this time. Besides, you know we have been long sighing for a home, and now we shall soon have one if we do not throw away our means." "I don't intend to be extravagant, Mr. Car- ter. A few hundred dollars will get all we want, and that you have on hand. You do not think of the great importance of giving our daughters a stl art at this time ; they might thus have an opportunity to make most for- tunate matchces." "Our daughters had better get their pants ; off before they think of matches. Besides, a few hundred spent in their education were of some use, while it will be worse than thrown away if expended in costly dress. They are just old enough to be spoiled, and if you in. sist upon their making an impression at this time, and, what is worse, ' fortune matches,' which will prove most unfortunate while they s are mere girls, I see their way to ruin dis- h tinctly marked." "Come, now, Mr. Carter, deont talk so.-- There are Susan Jones, Mary Edwards, So. phia Brown, and several others, no older than our Jane and Harriet, and not near as pretty and sprightly, who are making the greatest of preparations for a display, and if we are be- hindhand, we shall be turned out of good page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] society, and our daughters most certainly ruined. "Let them make fools of themselves if they will-why need we care about it?" "Mr. Carter," replied she in a more pos- itive tone, "will y'ou dare take the responsibil- ity of our fall at this late day of our lives, after we have successfully competed with our neigh- bors, for eighteen years? For fall we surely will, unless we come out on this occasion equal to the best of them." "I fear more the fall we shall meet by ex- travagance at this time, than the fall in the estimation of frivolous people. Let us get a home and become independent, that we may educate our children, and enable them to rise by their own merits, infinitely above the fol- lies into which you would plunge them." "Call it not folly, Mr. Carter," said she, with contrasted lips and contemptuous look. t"I have maintained our respectability too long to be thus taunted. The means I must and will have for the occasion. The only way for you to hold up your head and give your children respectability, is to stand up like a man and not cower at a little expense." "If you will, you will-that's all. So have your own way, and ' take the responsibility' yourself." Thus ended the interview of Mrs. and Mr. Carter, at a late hour at night, and what the result was we shall see in the progress of this history. If we go to another part of the village, we shall find a neat little house, surrounded' with a beautiful little garden. All about smells of comfort and happiness. If we en- ter, we shall find all within it arranged with order and good taste. Verily we think here is happiness-an industrious husband and fru- gal wife. Here we find a weddled pair who have scarcely passed their honeymoon. The husband had engaged in business just before marriage, and found it to promise well. lie had done business on the cash plan, paying down for what he bought and receiving the money in hand for all he sold. But the ex- pense of his wedding in that village of gen- teel society, had consumed much of his ready cash, and thrown him a little behindhand, so that he was forced to buy part of his stock on credit, giving his note payable in bank in six months at seven per cent. interest. He met' all the little wants of his young wife, who! had married a merchant and thought every-- ('thing at her command. He did not permit her to consume quite all his profits, but saved some to meet the note he had given, which, like a spectre, haunted him by day and night. He expected, too, that his beloved bride would soon settle down into sober life and second him in his life-struggle. If we lift the curtain from the privacy of this newly wedded pair, we shall behold another "scene in real life." Full of the flame of young love, with beautiful eyes beaming fond. ness, and a clear handsome countenance radi. ant with affection, the young bride sat herself in the lap of her doting lord, placed her arms gently around his neck, and snatching a kiss from his lips, said: "My beloved, how long is it since we were so happily married?" "About five months, my dear," replied lie, half suspecting her sincerity. "You have been very kind to me, and I have been very happy since we were married. My little wants you have ever supplied with- out even a question. I recollect your great generosity on several occasions in promising me some gold rings with diamond sets, some bracelets, a fine pin, a silver conmb, a gold watch, a splendid satin dress, a magnificient shawl, a bonnet such as Mrs. Bowen wears, and many other thiigs. I have been thinking how supremely happy I should be in your love, if I could have these nice things now, for the village is all astir, and the greatest preparations are being made by all the ladies for the reception of the strangers who have made such a brilliant entre into our midst. They are to remain here several months, and the village will be a constant scene of gaiety during the time. Now, my dear, I don't want it said, that you were too penurious to enable your fond wife to appear respectably in this society." At this the ghost of ruined credit rose be- fore him, and a shudder shook his frame. "Al," continued she, "I hope this is not a disagreeable subject. I can get along without all of these things. I know you said you could get them gradually as you became able; but this is an important crisis, and we shall be estimated at our apparent value. How im- portant then it is to both you and me, that I should not be far beneath the best in my ap- pearance. I shall take such pride in being a credit to you and in getting you an enviable reputation." The young and doating groom could not re- sist her pleading, and above all, he could not have her think him unable to gratify her, and his own pride revolted at the thought of giv- ing his wife a second place in the approaching soirees. Thus did the village ring with the note of preparation for several days; and the best the place afforded was not only obtained, but dis- patches were sent to neighboring towns for what the home miarket would not supply. Deposits were freely called in to be disbursed for the honor of the occasion; houses were newly furnished; men, women and children newly dressed, and every pantry filled with a fresh supply. But a change came. The distinghished strangers were determined on no account to mingle with theiinhabitants in. any sociability whatever. Calls were made upon them by the "first of the village," but they wished to see no one i Notes were sent,-but the answer was, "we have been overrun with company, and the bustle of society had rung in our ears so long in the city of-our abode that we escapedfor a few months' peace, freedom and quietude. We are here to enjoy your healthful air, to sail on your beautiful lake, and enjoy the pleasures it affords, but not for company, and we must be excused," This was a decided rebuff, and the first of the village illy brooked it. Such expense had been lavished on purpose to give the strangers a respectable reception, and now the refusal to partake of the hospitality of the people wa s, some said, a downright insult. Others said they (did not blame them, for it was such a mean village, and the society so inferior that it was not surprising that well-bred and highly cul- tivated people should spurn them as unfit for their society. These began to declare they had endured the place as long as patience would bear, and they now resolved to make their escape. The excitement had been carried so high by some that this damper on their display pro- duced a revulsion that terminated in severe illness, and to the expense of their folly was added that of the physician. Two or three of the "first ladies" of the town were soon car- ried to their graves, and appropriate funerals :they would have been had the neighbors all appeared in the costly apparel they had pro- vided for the reception of the strangers. An unhappy town was Geneva for many weeks. Those who expected to shine out brilliantly on this occasion now found all their hopes dashed to the ground. There was a deep si. lence among the gossips for several days; each seemed ashamed to be seen, and such a constant staying at home was never before known in that place. Weeks passed, and day after day the stran- gers rode out in their carriage, their fine cream horses fairly prancing with delight and gaily moving off at the crack of the driver's lash. The favorite route was by the road that led round upon the bank of the lake, presenting a full view of the beautiful scenery on the oppo- site shore. Toward sunset such a ride was peculiarly pleasant. The sinking sun tipped the eastern banks with a rosy hue, while it gradually left the hills and the forest trees; numerous waterfowls swam on. the lake, or sailed in the air, occasionally dashing down to its tranquil bosom and saluting the waters with their wings. Soon, too, they had a beautiful sailing-boat fitted to their taste, and frequently did they launch their bark, and sail pleasantly to the head of the lake and back, soietimnes fishing as they moved along, especially when the breeze was sparing of its favors, But they were inot permitted to enjoy their pleasure alone. A month had not passed be- fore there were half a dozen pleasure vessels launched, and often "*the first of the village" were seen trimming their sails to the same breezes which the strangers courted. Time passed on, and the "first of the vil- lage" began to manifest a wonderful indigna. tion toward the strangers. The tonguqs of the gossips were again unhinged, and the abused people seemed to seek particular ven, geance upon those who had so terribly slight- ed them. Every eye was upon them, to scan their movements; every word was noticed, and even the waiters about the hotel ques- tioned concerning them. -It was noticed that one of the ladies was unwell, and not even the fact that persons unwell frequently seek such rural pleasures for the, restoration of health, could shield them from the cruel sur- mises of the ingenious inquisitors. One of the gentlemen, too, was called Doctor, and that surely meant something. In short, sev- eral knowing ladies pretended to fathom the mystery, and it became universally reported that the strangers were not there for any ordi- I nary purpose. The sickness of that woman, page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] they said, was of a peculiar and delicate character, and that Doctor knew well what his duties were to be in the course of a few months. Thus the strangers became very much scan- dalized throughout the whole village, and the despotism of the gossip indulged at their expense, came near turning the heads of many a young Miss who gradually ventured on more familiarity and boldness toward their beaux. Not even the fact that the two gen- tlemen were brothers and the two ladies sis- ters, could shield them from the imputations of guilt that were the conmmon currency of the town. At length the landlord himself was led to tile altar of the gossips, and his sacrifice was threatened if he continued to harbor such in- famous people. In vain did he tell them everything about the strangers indicated vir- tue, refinement and the good society in which they had lived. In vain did he tell the peo- ple that the most affectionate feeling subsisted between the strangers, and that, no sign of an unpleasant situation could be discovered. The landlady herself was reasoned with, and a demand made that the scandalous per- sons be expelled from her house and the vil. lage. In vain did she protest that all was fair and honorable about them, and if they chose to spend a few months in a country vil- lage, this was3 a free country and they should be allowed to do so. "But," said one of the village ladies, "what in the name of goodness does the sickness of one of the strange ladies signify?--and such sickness you are not a stranger to yourself." That womnian," rejoined the landlady, is the wife of onle of tlihe gentlemen, and if her sickness is peculiar, it is no disgrace to her." . "You need not tell rnm she is a wife ; I know better. A wife never leaves her homnrej on such occasions. No, no. That woman is no virtuous character; and it is well known in this community for what purpose the stran- r gers have visited our village. They have t come here to disgrace us, and we will not sub- t mint to it any longer. They must leave your house and the town, or such judgment will be visited upon you as will make your con- i dition unpleasant." The landlord and his lady were firm, how. ever, and under the justification of the liberal reward they received from the strangers, suf- fered them to remain in peace. o fte In the meantime the genteel people of the at village, whlo had made such preparations to w receive the strangers, began to backbite and calumniate each other. Full of shame for hav- n- ing been so grievously imposed upon, the ie blame was charged to this one and then to ir i that one, for making the first movement in fa- if vor of the distinguished visitors. Thus the d whole upper society was thrown into one gen- ir eral hurly-bubur; friendships were broken, i- alliances ruptured, and partnerships dissolved. i- In short, there was soon no society at all s among them, and not only the new and splen- e did equipages they had lately obtained, but miuch of what they before possessed, weis, per- fectly useless, and were thrown aside for the s motIts to destroy. The mortgage on the house of Mr. Carter, was foreclosed, because lie could not meet the payment, and the place -sold away from him, involving the loss of several thousand dollars that he had paid. The note of the young merchant, whose bride we have seen was so affectionate to him, be- 1came due, went to protest, and so his credit was ruined. These are but examples of much similar distress that was occasioned by the same extravagance; and all for the sake of these scandalous, infamous strangers, as they were called. Oh, it was too much for poor humanity to endure, and such was the degree to which their hate and vengeance ran, that even the lives of the strangers seemed in great peril. A few weeks more passed, and the stran- gers took their leave of the town in the same quiet manner in which they hlad entered it. After they had departed, the people felt some- 'what relieved, though many a one prayed earnestly, that they might upset in the lake and be drowned before' they left; and, now they had gone, they thought it would be a just judgment if the horses would run away and break their necks. But the people learned a lesson from these' reverses, The men began to, feel as though they would control their own affairs after that, and the Women being cured of much of their folly, were enabled by industry and fru- gality to assist their husbands in obtainining an independence. CHAPTER II. Infancy! Thou art the flowery threshold of life--the pearly gate of existence. Thv abode is the garden of our days, where all is pleasant, and pure and beautiful, and where every breath is full of freshness and fragrance. Thy temple is the dwelling place of angels, and thy altar the shrine of innocence. There is such an air of goodness in thy presence, that wickedness- is abashed at the door of thy sanctuary. There the sinful shake the dust from their feet, the hateful forget their malice, the scoffer at innocence begs absolution for his sin, the calumniators of woman repent of their folly, and the debauchee bows in peni- tence and sorrow. Infancy! Thou art the morning light of life-the cloudless days of existence. Thy repose is in the arims of love, and thy lullaby is the music of an affectionate heart. All hu- inanity have rocked in thy cradle, and 'been baptized in the gushing fountain of a mother's tears. Whatever we are-good or bad, high or low, bond or free, happy or miserable-we have all passed thy halcyon period, and merged from thy bower of purity and bliss. In thy court we have all been equal, and at thy outer gate only have we separated-some to wander in folly and vice, some to traverse the desert of disappointment and woe, some to confine their spirits in the narrow prison of selfishness, and live in opposition to their fellows, and some to tread the highway of ex- cellence, and act for the highest good of the race and themselves. Infancy! How vast is thy empire, how comprehensive tliy dominion! No hero so great, no genius so lofty, but was once wrapped in thy drapery, the object of a moth- er's hope; no deformity so haggard, no cul- prit so base but was once dedicated to truth and goodness, amid the sighls and prayers and blessings of parental fondness. Alexander and Bonaparte-Aristotle and Bacon--I'lato and More- Socrates and Fenelion--Pythago- ras and Newton--Demostheiuese and Henry-- Cicero and Burke-Moses and Justinian-and high over all, and radiant in Divine glory, Jesus-of Nazareth-all have been folded in thy embrace, the objects of maternal caress- ings. More than this-the whole host of mur- derers, robbers and wicked men, from Cain to the last victim of the gallows, have all bloom- ed in thy beauty, smiled in -thy innocence, laughed in thy bliss, been deified by a moth- er's devotion, and breathed the sweet incense of her sacrifice. Ah no not quile all. Strange as it may seem-awful as is the fact--the Demon of Death has invaded human nature to her in- most heart of hearts, and sundered its strong- est and holiest ties. No Lucifer has been more recreant to the God of the Universe, than have some mothers to those sweet sinless and help. less little ones that should be the soul of their' souls, the joy of their joys, and the life of their lives. A What object so deserves our pity as an aban- doned infant? The mirrors of its soul are unsealed to the world it must buffet, but they meet no gaze of fondness ; it smiles from the depth of its stainless spirit and challenges a reciprocation of its joy, but in vain; it pos- sesses, perhaps, the soul of the truest noble- man that ever dignified humanity, but she who should be its guardian angel has flown and left it in the care of strangers. But, per- chlance, some Pharaoh's daughter may come to its rescue and Moses still be saved. Man is the only animal that ever, abandons its young. No brute of the forest ever fails in its affection for its offspring. The bear will brave every danger, and no enemy can ap- proach her cubs/except over her lifeless body. No matter how unamniable and ferocious a wild beast, may be, its ferocity is most dread- ful when an attempt is made to harm its help- less ones. But let not this contrast diminish our regard for the nobility of human nature. The mind of man is so vast in its compass, and mani- fests itself through such numberless channels -thoughts, feelings, passions anild emotions- that the chances are numerous for such an ex- cessive development of one faculty, or for such a temuporary ascendancy of one passion from sinister motives, as to almost annihilate an- other fitculty, or at lest to render it powerless for the exercise of its appointed influence in controlling the individual. If a human moth- er abandons her young; it is because some ap- peal is made to her that overpowers the strength of maternal affection, and thus she casts her offsprirng out upon the mercy of strangers. A spasmodic excitement of other organs may be temporarily destructive of philoprogenitiveness. But in this we see also the evidence of the greatness of our nature. We behold our. selves free for self-government, and able to cor- rect the defects of our education. If we are erroneous in our sentiments, perverted in our growth, and perverse in our action, we know page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] how to repair our defects and establish such an harmonious action of all our powers as will preserve us from vice and woe. Thus, as tle channels through which depravity may flow into the mind are numberless, so are those sources innumerable from which may flow an infinity of delight, a constant tide of bound- less bliss. On that pleasant elevation, about a rile from Geneva, was the residence of the prin- cipal clergyman of the village. It was one of the most charming sites; the ground descend- ed gradually at every point of the compass and commanded a wide view of the country round. The occupant, besides discharging the duties of his sacred office, had for many years gratified his taste for gardening, and daily had he sought mental recreat;on in beautify- ing his grounds; and, seconded by his noble companion, he cultivated every flower and shrub that could be obtained. His residence in all respects was calculated to satisfy the wants of the most cultivated mind, and with that sanctification of the heart, that rectitude of life, and the observance of the laws of our being, which is presumed of every holy man, it was not difficult to conclude that the high- est happiness was there enjoyed. The Rev. Mr. Backus was forty-five years of age, and had been preaching twenty years. His theology was of the most approved char- acter, and to him did many of the " first fuan- ilies" of the town look for divine instruction and spiritual consolation. He was beloved of his congregation, who always remembered him ,with a share of the first fruits of their gains. Not unfrequently was he surprised with a bas- ket of rich donations from some unknown in- dividual, who, by this, would convince his or d her spiritual guide of their strict observance of that injunction of holy writ, not to let the left hand know what the right hand doeth. u One morning in October, Amelia, the only h child of Mr. Backus, as she opened the door t to take her accustomed walk, found a basket e of nice wicker-work, filled with she knew not i what, but supposed it must be something un-a usually excellent, as the very drapery in which I it was wrapped was of the most elegant and costly quality. Overjoyed with what she had i] found, and without stopping to examine it, she hastened it to her mother, that she might E participate in her new joy. "O, mother, mother!" she exclaimed, "see : what a fine present some good people have d h made you. Do look-see how beautifully it is i1 covered." e "O, daughter," answered the mother, i" where did you get it?" e "At the door, as I was going out to walk." "n How bountiful is the kind Providence that - feeds the sparrows, and is so careful of his' children as to even number the hairs of their e heads!" was the exclamation of Mrs. Backus, - as her heart swelled with grateful emotions. f Go, call your father before we touch it, that - we may all enjoy the pleasure together." Amelia flew to his study, where he was al- r ways found early in the morning writing his sermons, and quickly returned, holding his S hand, and exclaiming, "how happy we shall r be! mother says Providence sent it to us- - but don't you think some human beings brought it?" "It is quite probable, my daughter," replied he, " but they are some angels in human form, whom Providence has directed to bring it to us." "' But father," again asked Amelia, " don't you think Providence would sooner send these angels to the poor folks that live over in the hollow, than to us who are not suffering for anything?" "They are wicked people, my child, and do not deserve the bounty of heaven." "But there is Mr. Dodson, who is a praying, pious man, and yet he never gets presents, though his children almost starve; why don't Providence send them something?" Before Mr. Backus could have time to frame an answer from his theological learning, they stood by the basket. As he saw about it the indications of the bountifulness of Provi- dence, he felt strongly the spirit of thanks- giving and lifting up his hands, said, "Let us give thanks to the Lord." He prayed with unusual fervency, invoking the blessing of heaven upon those who had thus remembered the ambassador of Christ, and being remind- ed of the '"poor over in the hollow" by the inquiry of his kind-hearted daughter. prayed also most fervently for them, hoping they might merit the bounty of heaven by turn. ing from the evil of their ways and closing in with the overtures of mercy. After this lhearfelt return of thanks, Mrs. Backus stooped to examine the contents of the basket. Removing the outer covering, which was a rich cashmere shawl of small dimensions, regarded as a present to Amelia, she took up a satin cloak of comparatively still smaller size, and exclaimed- "What in the world does this mean? We : have no small children, as all the people well I know." "'Perhaps some one thinks you ought to have," replied Mr. Backus, jocularly. 1 "Ah, I presume some one has thought so," she rejoined, as removing one thing after an- other, she exposed to view a most beautiful infant, apparently about four weeks old, that still slept as sweetly as if an angel were whis- pering to it, and a choir of angels were sing- ing about it. At this, Mr. Backus looked up in mingled disappointment and wonder, exclaiming-- "What does it mean?" Amelia clapped her little hands in a perfect ecstacy of delight, saying- "What a nice present!-give it to me-won't you, nother? May I not have it?"And' stooping over its cherub face she kissed it, and taking it up gently, exhibited all the tender- ness of a young mother. In the mean time, her father and mother stood almost petrified with astonishment, and silence was first bro- ken by Amelia, who inquired as shl watched with delight ler little charge- "Is not this the nicest present that Provi- dence could make us?" Mr. Backus shook his head doubtingly- Mrs. Backus ditto, and he replied- "There is something wrong in this. An infant abandoned by its mother. It speaks of guilt--a double guilt-guilt in bringing it into the world, and guilt in abandoning it to strangers!" But the maternal affections of Mrs. Backus began to awaken as her surprise passed away, and stepping to Amelia she also kissed it, and taking it in her arms, she said- "Oh! pitiful little angel No mother to love thee-no father to cherish thee! Cast out upon the world in thy helplessness, what tri- als and sorrows are before thee No, no-I will be thy mother, Amelia will be thy sister, and will love thee." "O, mother, how happy you make me," answered Amelia. 'We shall be so happy with such a dearlittle thing." 1 But Amelia, we never can be like its own mother and its own sister. An angel from heaven could scarcely supply the place of a true mother. Oh, it grieves me to think of its fate "-and the generous tears coursed down her cheek like rain. Amelia joined her mother in weeping, while Mr. Backus stood aside, coldly nreditating the mysterious affair. Recovering herself somewhat, Mrs. Backus inquired of him- ' Will you not be the fond father of this beautiful little innocent? See, it opens its dear little eyes; how they beam with purity! See, it smiles. O heavenly gift t What must be the cruelty of that mother who has thus forsaken thee?" "Let us not be too fast," interposed Mr. Backus. "This -is a new and extraordinary case; we must carefully consider our duty before committing ourselves too far." "Oh father," interposed Amelia, "this is a perfectly clear case to me. Providence sent it here for our child, seeing that we have none, and so well able to talie care of it. Provi- dence would not send it to any of those poor families over in the hollow, for theylhave more now than they can take care of. If it had been a basket of bread, I know Providence would have sent it to some of those poor folks, be- cause they have but little while we have a plenty." "Amelia," said her father, "you speak of things beyond your years. The way a of Prov- idence are inscrutible even to the most learned of the earth, and a little girl like you should not talk of such things." I would, 'not disobey you, father. But I was only saying that the case was perfectly clear to my mind. Why, I learned in my last Sunday School lesson, 'suffer little children ; to come unto me and forbid them not.'" - Yes, my child; but that means to bring them to the Church." Amelia, being somewhat puzzled by this I interpretation, turned her attention again to the child, and asked her mother if it was not a hungry. She was sent to bring some warm t milk and some sugar, and while it was being fed, Mr. Backus read a letter which he found [ in the'basket that brought the child. It ran as follows:- Mr. and Mrs. Backus- "With this, will you be so kind as to ac- cept the tender guardianship of my dear r child? It is with grief that I abandon it to your care, but an influence which 1 cannot re- n sist, impels me to forsake it, though I trust notfevr Iavetrul forer. I e struggled for weeks with acontending emotions and motives, and the a struggle has almost driven me to despera- )fi tion. Often as I gazed into its beautiful face di and saw so much of my own image reflected page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] there, have I resolved, let what will come, to I cling to it, and if it must be, die with it. Then, again, other thoughts would arise and choke down my maternal fondness. ("Oh, kind friends, if you knew the nature ' of my struggle, as I trust you will some day, ou would riot rashly blame me for the step 1 1 take. With this you will also receive one: thousand dollars to remunerate you for the t care of my dear one; and before it is ex- N hausted you shall receive more. I need not exhort you to show it a father's and a mother's regard ; I rest assured you will, and this as. surance greatly mitigates my grief in parting with it. "But my heart is too full, and I must soothe it with my tears. Pardon me-be kind l to my child until I see you and explain this mystery. "Yours in haste, R. C." "P. S. I have marked the various articles of clothing sent you, with the name I have given my child, CudarI CUMMNGS, by which I hope it will continue tobe known. Ia am a wretch- ed woruan." After concluding the letter, Mr. Backus leaned back in his chair, and placing his hand i to his brow, seemed to hesitate between con- tending thoughts. Mrs. Backus seemed to appreciate somewhat the circumstances of the case, and deeply did she syimpathize with both the mother and the child. While Amelia was not only sorry for so unfortunate a 'oman,i, but regretted that the child could not be called their child and her sister. Htur little heart seemed to suffer for the lack of a brother or sister to love, and the name that had beeni given the mysterious visitant appeared to be an obstacle to the txercihe of siterly affection. But the news of such an event was not long confined to the house of Mr. Backus. It flew over the village on the tongue of gossip with- in a few hours, and though there were many conjectures concerning the matter, yet there was quite a general acquiescence in the opin- ion of sonie of the knowing ones, who remem- bered to their sorrow the ado they made on a recent occasion, to wit: that the child came not into the world as honestly as it might have done ; that it was the fruit of tinselled lust; and finally, that the circumstances at- tending its appearance at Mr. Backus' com- pletely unfolded the object of the "distiuguish- ed strangeri," in their late visit to the town, This opinion was so agreeable to the " first" ladies of the place, inasmuch as it grati- fied their malice toward the stranlgers, that it passed into common currency and almnost uni- versal belief. It was to no purpose that the mother had stated in her letter that bhe would be acquitted of all blame even in abandoning her child, if all the reasons were explained. It was in vain that the elegant clothing sent with the child, and the thousand dollars were appealed to by Mrs. Backus as evidence of its lawful conception and honorable birth. No- thing would change the common opinion-it was nothing but the disgusting product of tinselled lust, as they called it, and the child should not be harbored in a respectable fami- ly. These strangers, they said, most grossly imposed upon them during their late visit, and now they would add insult to injury, by throwing their ill-gotten offspring upon the charity of our minister in order to screen themselves from the contempt of their ac- quaintances at ornme. It was too intolera- ble, and their pastor should not be so grossly abused. Mr. Backus seemed to sympathize with the gossips in this matter, and especially was he fearful of soiling his sacred robes with the care of such a spurious child, and more espe- cially as it was likely to destroy his holy in- fluence, and still more especially as his sala- ry, if not bread and butter, were at stake in the matter. he felt the force of the public scandal 11e was likely to bring upon himself by adopting one considered an illegitimate. But his wite; could not see the force of these tilings. Shle declared that if the child was as reputed it was not its fault, and if the people are laboring under amn error, she thought it the duty of the ministerl to correct it. She scorn- ed the spirit that would bow to a falsehood, merely to gratify a public whim. Indeed, the more the gossips attempted to scandalize the little innocent, the stronger she became at- tached to it. And little Amelia would snatch afresh kiss for every word she heard against it. -"But," said Mr. Backus, "Paul accommo- dated himself to the opinions of men, and is not he a good example?" "- Yes, but not when there was any sacrifice of opinion involved." "But," continued he, "you forget that the sins of the parents are visited upon the child- ren to the third and fourth generation; and shall we dare to interpose between God and tHis judgments, to mitigate the punishment He has prescribed? ,. Yes. but do you suppose this child, which has never thought an evil thought nor breath- ed an impure breath, is partaker of its pa- rents' guilt, supposing they have sinned? I cannot think so. The better impulses of my sh soul revolt at such a thought." 80 "The Bible says so," he replied. "I take up the Bible for my rule of faith and practice." "Why, then, are we created with sympa- be thies for the suffering, if we are to do nothing for their relief? I do not so read my Bible as p to annihilate the holiest affections of the ha heart." t To this he replied-"Your affections are in nc rebellion against God; they have not yet been brought into subjection to his will. io Another error you have advanced, in attribut- th ing innocence to the child. Are you so igno- ti rant of your Bible as not to know that human ai nature is naturally corrupt, is at enmity with n God, and that infants even are doomed, if they a( are not of the elect?" At this announcement of the depravity of y infants and the hopelessness of such as are - not of the elect, the parson's wife drew back d her form in an attitude of defiance, and with n a fixed determination of eye, and a nervous b tremble of her elevated hands, said, slowly o and solemly,- "I begin to see," and pausing, with a rigid A countenance and unmoved eye, she continued, "I begin to clearly discover"---another pause. a "What do you begin to see?" asked Mr. ( Backus. t But she made no immediate answer. The I parson began to take alarm at her appear- 1 ance, and wondered at the character of the thoughts that seemed to struggle in her mind. Again he asked,- "What do you begin to discover so clearly?" "I begin," she replied in a heavier tone of voice, "I begin to discover the absolute"- here she paused again, as if afraid to speak her thoughts. "Wife," said he, in greater surprise, "what has happened? Why th;s excitement?" At this she ran to Amelia, who held the child, caught it from her arms, pressed it gently to her bosom, and while the tears flow- ed in profusion down her cheeks, she kissed the little one again and again, saying em- phatically- "No-no-no,-it cannot be. This little in- nocent is as stainless as an angel's spirit. It hath never sinned. It is yet,a stranger to de- pravity." With this expression her former thought returned, and though at the risk of heterodoxy, and of incurring the displeasure of the Church, she assumed an invincible sternness and re- solved to speak the thoughts that had,flashed upon her mind. Said she- "I am now prepared to tell you what I begin to see. I begin to see the gross absur- dity of the doctrine of election and total de- pravity. I shudder when I think how long I have believed in infant damnation. This lit- tle innocent is a testimony against it I can- not resist" This bold inffidelity of hisbosom comupan- ion startled the reverend jentleman, and the more that she should venture to ques- tion his theological learning and set at defi- ance his authority. Assuming all the dig- nity and importance of his station, he thus admonished her:- "Let not your unregenerate feelings carry you away. Itemember that the devil lies in wait at all times to tempt the unwary. You do not think where this rebellion against God may lead. How imprudent, too, you have been in your bold infidelity in the presence of our daughter," "I think mother is right," interposed Amelia. The parson was thunderstruck. His wife and daughter whom he had so long and so often prayed with and instructed in holy things, to be thus taking the road to ruin: leaving him alone of his household to serve the true God! It was too much. He was overcome, and retired to his closet to pray for the return of his wife and daughter. Mrs. Backus now drew her chair close to Amelia and gazed fondly upon the object that f- had appealed so strongly to her affections. As - she thought of the little outcast from a moth- c er's love, and of the coldness with which it had already been received by all save her t daughter and herself, she was overwhelmed, and again sought relief in tears. Amelia e joined her mother in weeping, and alternate- t ly they kissed the infant as it lay asleep, un- - conscious of the excitement on its account. It d was now the third day since it was found t- at their door, and every moment had bound it more closely to her heart. i- A day or two more elapsed and the whole It village was astir on account of the infidelity e- of their parson's companion, and of the per- fidious influence she was exerting over her ht daughter. Those of his Church wondered, y, gossipped, protested and prayed for their dis- h, tressed minister, and for the reconversion of page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] his wife and daughter, while those of other sects secretly rejoiced at this commotion in a rival denomination. Some of the first and most influential of his eect, such as the dea-. con's wives, and the presidentess and secre. taryess of the Foreign Missionary Society for the conversion of the elect heathen, called upon Mrs. Backus to labor with her as a back. slider from the true faith. But to them she spoke with the same boldness with which she had addressed her husband. When they asked her for the authority of her recent denial of what she had so long believed, she smote her breast, saying, "Here, here is the author- ity, and there,' pointing to little Currie, 'is the evidence that supports it." But they soon gave her up as a hopeless infidel, and it was soon universally understood that there should be no more association with her. Mr. Backus, who was as good as his faith would permit, returned from his closet with eyes all red with weeping-if we may be pardoned for taking the reader back so sud- denly-and his companion could not avoid a stroung sympathy for him in his present dilem- ma. She also shed a tear in response to her husband's feeling, but she felt strong in the right. She too had knelt in prayer for en- lightenment from on high, and rose, confirmed in her resolution. When her husband ap- peared he told her he had received an answer to his prayer, and it was in the emphatic lan- guage of Scripture, "Set thine house in or- der." But she replied that she had also been answered, and the response was in the lan- guage of Jesus-' Suffer little children to come unto me and forbid them not." Both being thus confident of the authen- ticity of their answers, let the subject rest for a few days, during which they said little or nothing in relation to it. He revolved the difficulty and the best mode of extrication, and she wondered what would be the event, and the fate of little Currie. He had the sympathies and support of all his Church, while she must yield or stem the tide that swelled so high against her. The Sabbath came, and Mr. Backus ascend- ed his sacred desk as usual for the morning service. His congregation was larger than usual, owing to the curiosity that had been awakened. He read the only sermon he had been able to prepare during the week, but all the audience were confident that he was deep- ly embarrassed by the difficulty about the * child. In the afternoon he read one of his L old sermons, which was recollected by some, I but was excused by the circumstances. The next day he summoned his courage to the task of setting his rebellious house in or- ' der. He thus addressed his companion :- "Have you prayerfully considered your duty in relation to the difficulty between us?" 'I have." "And do you remain of the same opin- ions?" "I do, and they have been strengthened." "Ah, and have you gone so far as to reject the Bible?" "The Bible is my hope. My faith in its teachings has been strengthened." "And have you no disposition to gratify 2e?" "In all things where my conscience ap. proves I What is your wish?" "That this child be given up." "What reasons have you for this-and to whom can it be given?" "My reason is, that it is spurious and cursed of God; and that he will not bless my labors or my household until we are dis- connected with it." "Cursed of God!" exclaimed the good woman, almost frantically. "Let me see," taking it from the lap of Amelia, "Oh thou sinless spirit! how can'st thou be cursed of God. Look, Mr. Backus, look into its sweet face, and tell me the sign of the curse. Is beauty the evidence of the divine wrath? Then truly is it cursed, and then also are the most deformed the most pious and acceptable in his sight. Behold its angelic eyes--do you see in them the curse? There!--see how sweetly it smiles-is that the evidence of the curse? No--no--no,-it is not cursed?" With this she returned it to Amelia, who sat weeping from an almost bursting heart. "Woman," said Mr. Backus, "you are crazy-you know not what you do." "I am not crazy-I am quite sensible of my actions, and, alas, too sensible of my posi- tion," replied she, with an emphasis that sur- prised her husband. "Be calm, then, and let us reason together." "I am calm and anxious to hear." 1 You say you have not abandoned the Bible?" "Most certainly not." ",What think you, then, of the injunction of Paul? 'I Wives be obedient to your husbands.' " "I am ready to fulfil unto the very letter." "But how is it with your conscience, to which you appealed a moment since?" "What is your command?" "My desire is that you give up that child." , Where shall it be taken?" "To the Poor-House--tim place prepared and consecrated to such purposes." "To the Poor-House! God help the little innocent, and God help those who would thus abandon it to such a fate." "Will you obey?" "Obedience implies a command. A com- mand is something more than a desire. If you dare take the responsibility of coimmandiny me to cast off this little one, and if you will con- vey your command in writing, and in such positive terms as will leave no mistake, so that I can be acquitted when we both appear to answer for our treatment of this child, then will I obey, and not till then. You must take the responsibility-and when little Currie shall appear before the judgment seat to ac- cuse those who abandoned her, the awful charge shall not be recorded against me." Mr. Backus trembled. The matter was brought to a point, and he saw its importance. tHe dared not take the responsibility which he had not so fully considered before. Hie lapsed into a profound study ; and she drew closely to Amelia and little Currie. The subject was dropped for the present. 31r. Backus was one of those rigid men who regarded with abhorrence all opinions oppos- ed to what he deemed the truth, one of those intolerant bigots who regard opposing believ- ers as dcludled by the devil, and abandoned to his torments. More than this-he belived the sins of the parents were visited upon the children, and regarding little Cudrie as an outcast of heaven on account of-as he be- lieved-thie great wickedness of her parents, h deemed it contaminating to treat her ac- cording to the dictates of the feelings of his wife and daughter. He had crucified his feel- ings (on the altar of his faith, and, hence, would abandon little Currie to the care of those who wero made by societylihe especial guardians of the poor and outcast. To the errors of his head are to be attributed the defects of his heart and the wrongs of his action. But he lacked thre boldness to meet the issue so plain- ly presented by Ihis wife, and dared not take the responsibility she would throw upon him. Indeed, l1hewould now throw the responsibility upon her and permit matters to rest in quie- tude were it not for the influences from with- out, that pressed upon him. He was amid a gossiping and an intermeddling people, upon whom he depended for his position and his bread. Some of them looked uppn little Currie as he did, except that their bitterness was greater in consequence of the relation they supposed she held to the strangers that had recently sojourned in their midst, and stood aloof from their society. Others, who knew nothing and cared less for the peculiar theology involved, in the question, scorned the thought of harboring little Currie, the supposed daughter of the infamous strangers, and all thought it was scandalous for the principal clergyman of the village to receive an illegitimate into his family. The position of Mr. Backus was, therefore, most embarrassing. Standing between two powers-that of his wife and that of the peo- ple-lie knew not which way to turn. He hardly knew which was the stronger-- is theology, backed by the sentiments and plre- judices of the people, or the theology of his wife, supported by her own energies of hIead and heart. He was emphatically a bewilder- ed man--more to be pitied by his misfortunes than hated for his badness. The next Sunday came, but he was poorly prepared for his du. ties, rand his audience pitied him on account of his domestic troubles. During the following week prayer meetings were held in his behalf, and the Divine coun- sel invoked for guidance in this trying diffi- culty. It was gravely concluded by the par- son and the chief men and women of his sect, that God would not bless his labors as long as his household remained under the Divine dis- pleasure. At length a prayer meeting was called at tihe parson's house, on which occasion it was expected to make the last effort to subdue the rebellious heart of his companion, , It is im- possible to portray this scene. Reflection and her association with little Currie had con- firmed her, and her superiority in truth and nobility made her the heroine of the drama. 'There they sat in the parlor of the parson- age-all the more influential of his Church. An awful solemnity rested on the countenance of each, which was drawn down into the most rigid length. Their eyes were directed, with a kind of vacant stare, to the floor, and occa. sionally a heavy breathing and a contagious page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] sigh passed around the circle. There was the parson himself, haggard with thought and al- most grim with despair. There, too, was his noble wife, firm as truth, radiant as benevo- lence, and her strongest expression was that of pity for the delusion of the people. She held little Currie in her lap ;-poor little Cur- rie! she did not realize the importance of the occasion, nor that it was all on her account. The exercises of the evening were intro- duced by Mr. Long, the oldest deacon of the Church, by an elaborate statement of the ob- ject of the meeting, and the principles of what he thought Divine truth which settled the question. He enlarged upon the duties of a wife, and placed in a strong light the respon- sibilities of the wife of a clergyman-all of which the reader can imagine from the hints we have before given. Next arose Mrs. Lundy, the exhaustless talk- er on all occasions. She prefaced her remarks by a request directed to Mrs Backus, to whom she looked as if the glance of her eye was big with fate. The request was, that the offen- 1 sive child should be removed from their 1 presence. This manifestation of hate and cruelty to. i ward her tender charge, deeply affected Mrs. I Backus, and while the big tears stood in her t eyes she enfolded little Currie still more close- ly, and remarked that a company too good for it was too good for her; and in this she was c seconded by Amelia, who said it was too good for her also. But the presence of both was necessary to secure the object of the meeting, and Mrs. Lundy was compelled to yield. t Omitting the most that was said on this oc- casion, we will only say that several were most fervent in their prayers, and in this exercise Mrs. Backus was second to no one. She knelt down in body with the company, but in spirit only with Amelia, with God and his angels, s mild after a simple reference to little Currie, as 1 one whose stainless spirit needed no interces- rc sion, ,he implored forgiveness for those who fo would cast it off to perdition, andi( invoked a better spirit to guide and govern them. The tr strength of her soul was the power of truth, to and the eloquence of her words inspiration w from heaven. Hier prayer convinced the audience that py their efforts were vain, for they labored against vi a power superior to their own. As this course m was ineffectual, they concurred in another ex. to pedient-that of declaring the judgment of the ne 'community to be her expulsion from society. 1- If she persisted. she should be reproached by is every tongue, and no evil that could be spo. i- ken would be considered unjust to her. The It patronage of the Church would be withdrawn, e and the Poor-House should be the final refuge r- of herself, her daughter and the wretched little e one they had made their idol. But a deathly stillness pervaded the circle, as with porten- ,- tous accent they heard Mrs. Backus reply:- "-So be it. God fears you not, and as he is - my helper, why should I fear y'ou? We can t sleep upon straw, and live upon sulch a por- etion of t he bounty of heaven as may fall to our lot: and if little Currie should be driven to - the cold and dismal Poor-House, she will have f Amelia for a sister, and she whom you would frighten for a mother. In all this we can be happy-at least happy compared with the misery I should endure after abandoning her, even though I live in a palace and repose on a couch of down. One moment with truth and goodness and beauty, and but a morsel froni the sparing hand of public charity, is worth more than hours, days and years with falsehood and unkindness, though housed in marble, decked with jewels, and fed at the ta. ble of luxury. You are now convinced," con- tinued she with an emphasis that could not be , misunderstood, " that I anm not frightened, but on the contrary, know nmy duty and shall do it," At the conclusion of these eloquent words, the meetiong adjourned sine die and sine cere- mony. T'Ie women hastily departed, biting their lips. and the deac6ns f,ollowed without even casting a glance of pity, or uttering a word of consolation to the parson. Few know their strength, because io cir- cuniistances have concurred to test its full plwer. Individuals who lhave deemed them. selves but ordinary persons, have freqoently been surprised at their own firmness, energy, resolution and heroisi w-hein the time came for calling out their full nature. It is not al- ways, therefore, best to fly from trial and trouble, for it may prove like the refiner's fire, to bhow the purity of the elements of which we are composed. Neither are difficulties at all times to be considered evil, for they may prove the means of our elevation in power and virtue, Some arc of too sluggish a tempera- ment and require some pressing circumstance to arouse them. But for a trying occasion, woman is said tc be more reliable than man. Though she fre- . quently quails under light afflictions, yet it frequently chances that one great weight of trouble braces her up to an almost superhu- man energy, and she proves herself, emphati. cally, a heroine. Mrs. Backus had glided along a smooth stream of life, and scarcely a rimple had dis- turbed its quiet surface. But, though nearly in middle life, she had not known her real strength until called to mIeet the opposition we lave described. She was not only equal to the emergency, but felt that she had additional power, and was able to meet still more trying circumstances. But she was not long permitted to show her superiority to the bigotry, and prejudice, and hate and falsehood that so strongly opposed her. No one, under any circumstances, is ab- solutely assured of health and life for a day. Before the lapse of another week the good woman was prostrated with a fever. For two or three days she felt the premonitions of se- vere illness, and a deep concern for little Cur- rie, whom she feared to throw upon the mer- ciless community, was her only disquietude in view of the fate she feared. More and more closely did she confine herself to her lit- tle charge. There she sat, hour after hour, gazing upon its lovely features, and thrilling with the deepest emotions as she saw it so sweetly smile. It was enough to move the very stories to tears, to see her beaming, her benevolent countenance paling as the hours elapsed, and the tear of tenderness and of sor- row fall down her marble cheeks. Finding herself grow weaker and weaker, she called Amelia, who was rarely far distant from the little one she called her sister, and loved with more than a sister's devotion, and said to her: "My dear, good daughter, what will be- come of this unfortunate little one if I hhould be confined with sickness, and perhaps leave it forever 1?" ' Oh, my dear mother," said Amelia, "'talk not of dying; you will not die, mother-I cannot spare you--little Currie cannot spare you. Oh, mother, how pale you are--I fear you will be sick," and she placed her arm about her mother's neck, and while the tears streamed down her cheeks, she pressed them to her mother's and whispered "'0, mother do not be sick." M' My daughter, we must be resigned to the worst. I have only one unpleasant reflection in view of being sick, or even in view of death itself; and that is the fate of -little Currie, whom you and I love so well." "You would not leave me, would you, mother?" said Amelia. "Oh, daughter, you have a father to love you, and you will soon be a young woman ca- pable of caring for yourself ; but little Currie, -who will remain to love her? She has no mother to watch over her-no father to pro- tect her-oh, what will become of her?" and sire sobbed from almost a breaking heart. "Don't weep so, my dearest mother," said Amelia, "God and thy feeble daughter will remain, and what harm will come to little Currie?" "Oh, my noble daughter! May the angels whisper around thy spirit all thy days, and guard thy loveliness," said the mother, as- sured by her encouraging words "But I am weak-let me he down and rest." Amelia took little Currie, and her mother departed for some repose. After an hour's rest she rose again, but it was the last time sihe was able to attend to little Currie. The next day she was dangerously ill; Mr. Backus became alarmed, and although a physician had already made several calls, yet he now summoned all the medical aid of the town, to save, if possible, the wife he loved, not- withstanding the difficulties concerning her little ward. Night and day he sat by her side. Frequently slre called for Amelia to bring little Currie, that she might look into its face and commend it with her soul's most earnest prayer to the care of heaven. She I said not a word to her husband in its behalf, but that glance of tender eloquence, she pass- ed from its cherub face to himi, told well the deepest desire of iher heart. Still she grew worse. Now she was deliri- ous with a burning fever, and now she was faint with exhaustion. But " poor Currie" wias never forgotten. When dismal delirium confused her brain, still in the highest aspira- tion of her spiritual life, which roe superior to the decaying and diseased body, the mem- ory of - poor Currie" was emhialmed. Soon the fever had done its work, and left her all but lifeless. On the evening of the second day of her confinement she lapsed gradually I into a stupor. Mr. Backus became terrified, and scarcely could ihe command his feelings. , He spoke to her, but she answered not. Amelia I burst into the most convulsive sobs, and run. page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] ning from the cradle of Currie to her bedside,' called out with her clear, musical voice, deep- ened by the gushing of her heart,- "Mother-dear mother-speak once more to Amelia! Do not die without one more blessing for poor Currie and your daughter!" "A Amelia,-my dear,"-and that was all she said. Her senses were exhausted, and she still breathed unconscious of the little an- gel by her side. With the tenderest care through the night, her sensibilities were somewhat restored. To- wards morning she slept, and as the beams of the sun threw a glow over all things without, and filled the room with a beautiful light, her sensitive body seemed to catch new vitality, and she awoke. Returning consciousness brought the loved ones to her thought, and their names were on her tongue,-- "Amelia,-corne, Amelia-bring me poor Currie." But the idols of her affection were scarcely up at so early an hour, and Mr. Backus went to call them. Waiting a few moments more, she called again,- "Amelia-Currie-you have not deserted me." "Oh, mother, mother,-no-no," said her daughter, as she came running to her bedside 'with the little child in her arms, almost fran- tic with joy to hear her mother call once more. "Come close to me, Amelia-let me see poor Currie." Amelia laid the little one by her side, and reaching over sle exchanged a kiss with her mother, and raising the child to her lips she saluted it fondly, and closed her eyes upon the tears that had started. "Oh, mother!" said Amelia, "I knew you would be better-you will not die." "Soon, soon," was the reply. '- 1 shall not see another morning." "Do not say so, dear mother," and Amelia bowed to the bed with a bursting heart. "Amnlia, lbe firm-be true. I go hence, but will remain with you and poor Currie in spirit. I will commune witl you daily, and you shall feel your mother's presence. Call to I me often and I will coilme; but do not unless Currie is with you while she lives. God bless you, Amelia and Currie, and his angels at-! tend you both." She had said enough. She had gone to the , utmost limit of her strength, and could say no more. She remained quiet that forenoon, apparently unconscious of surrounding ob- jects. In the afternoon she again aroused, but it was the last effort of life before its ex- tinguimihment. She could merely say- "Arrielia--Currie-my husband--farewell." A few moments more and all was over. The curtain was drawn-the spirit had gone, and the inanimate body alone remained, the earthly relic of an angel in heaven. Amelia remembered the advice of her de- parted mother, to be courageous and not for- get little Currie. She was resigned, and felt the great responsibility that now rested upon her to watch and protect the twice motherless child. Her attachment to it now became a violent passion ; and while she wept for her sainted mother, the memory of her promise to be near her when she called in spirit, was a lively joy to her wounded heart. Two days more, and the last earthly kind- ness was performed to Mrs. Backus. "Dust to dust" is the fate of all human existences. and a mound of fresh earth in the church- vyard told where her remains had gone to min- gle with their original elements. The house of mourning is also a temple of devotion. A loved one dies, and the surviv- ors cherish the virtues of the departed as priceless treasures. They are then led to re- view their own lives, and to resolve on a life of greater purity. It is thus that the death of those we cherish is overruled to our spiritual good. CHAPTER III. "Oranges!" cried a boy passing slowly along Broadway, in the city of Gotham, some three years previous to the time in which oc- curred the events we have related. "Oranges! Fine, flesh oranges! Nice, beautiful oranges for sale! Who'll have some oranges to-day--beautiful, yellow oranges, just from the sunny South where dates and pomegranates grow." This was uttered in such a musical tone bv one of the finest voices that ever rolled from a youthful tongue, that many a gentleman and lady were enticed to buy of the clear- faced, bright-eyed boy that sold oranges day after day, summer and winter, in that city of temptations. he filled his little basket at night and started out each morning at the rising of the sun to begin his daily task. Sometimes he would exhaust his load be- fore the afternoon had passed, and some.. times he was compelled to quicken his weary pace, elevate his silver-toned voice, and continue until late in the evening before his stock was disposed of. He would eat nothing from the time he started out in the morning until his day's work was done. and often was he seen faint with hunger and weary with fatigue, still crying- "Oranges-a shilling each-five for four shillings"--for this kind of fruit was dear at that time. The effect which his hunger and fatigue had upon his young spirits lent a kind of supplicating pathos to his voice, which was sure to bring the requisite number of purchas- ers before he was compelled to give up in despair. The orange boy of New York, like all the host engaged in similar pursuits, was sur- rounded by the most pernicious influences. Unlike the rest of his trade, he fled from vices that so frequently thronged his path, and away he ran, industriously crying out, "1 Oranges to sell," as if a great object was be- fore him that allowed no time to pause amid the alluring follies and exciting scenes of wickedness that are so abundant in a crowd- ed city. Often was he met by the sneers, taunts and jeers of others; but with his heart full of pity for their depravity, he turned away and was quickly among the crowd of men and women, with the song upon his lips, -"Fine, beautiful oranges from the South, where the summer never ends--luscious oranges to sell." No profane word nor ex- pression of ill-will to another ever disturbed the harmony of his song. His soul seemed constantly turned to the warm, sunny and genial South, and the music of its beautiful groves whispered to his spirit. But what of this amiable Orange Boy? Fol- low him in the afternoon, or perhaps late at night, with the products of his day's sales in his pocket, as he hastens his wearied body to his home, and we shall find who he is. There, in a far corner of the city, where squalid poverty sickens the heart of the phil- anthropist, we ishall find a dingy little old wooden building, that trembles in the wind, yet is thronged with the poor. We follow the Orange Boy through the creaking door, up stairs, into a small back room ; and we find a woman, pale, care-worn and haggard, though scarcely in middle life. There she is, sup- ported by scarcely a ray of hope; her energies are gone, and she reposes on a bed of straw. She has exhausted her strength, and there she patiently awaits relief by death. That poor woman is the Orange Boy's moth- er. As he enters you see his handsome coun- tenance swell with the feelings that rise from his heart, and he rushes to the feeble yet warm embrace of her who nursed him, and whom lie is gently lifting down to the grave while yet in early life, in the arms of his filial love. He returns with the pennies he has earned, which are just sufficient to keep the feeble springs of his mother's life in motion and give himself a scanty supper and breakfast. The story of this woman is one of sorrow. She possessed an elevated character, and a re- finement for any station in life. She married a good young man, and their combined indus- try and virtue gave promise of many happy years, Hie was a mechanic of superior skill, and when in health could get a comfortable support and save something with which to procure a home. Two years of happiness passed and their first-born filled their hearts with a new and brighter joy I Two years more passed and they saw the little one begin to bud with a most encouraging promise. They promised themselves that their boy would live to bless them with his blooming virtues. Ah no-not to bless him, for soon the dread consumption insidiously stole upon his life, and gradually his strength failed until he could do no more for the support of his family. 'The husband and child now looked alone to the wife and mother for support. But, though stricken with a great grief in view of her first love's speedy fate, she braced her woman's energy to meet the responsibility. She was, a seamstress, and though she had continued to toil early and late with the nee- dle, in the hope of gathering around her all the elements of happiness, yet now she asked a double supply of work from her employers, to procure fuel and bread and room rent for her family, whose chief supporter was dis- abled. Busily she plied her needle,--far into the night did she toil until her overtaxed con- stitution bid her yield for repose. We will not here pause to paint the trials of a woman thus situated. Enough for our present pur- pose, that she continued thus to toil for four years, during which her husband continued to decline until he was relieved by death. Oh, page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] the measureless agony of that wife and moth- er, while watching the lamp of life, beholding the oil constantly diminish, and at last gazing upon the flame as it fitfully clings to the wick as if loth to quit its hold! There she sat with her work when hoarse consumption had almost done its worst, with no time to sup- port the head of her dying lover on her bosom, for bread must be obtained for herself and lit- tle boy. *"Oh, it was sorrowful to look in upon that woman, and her child that was now old enough to understand the force of these cir- cumstances! It was pitiful to see him bow his head in his mother's lap convulsing his frame with sobs, and then to see an over- whelmed mother drop her work, bow over her: son and frantically kiss the tears from his cheek! But soon the wife became a widow and that son an orphan. There were no friends to aid her in this hour of affliction, and the author- ities brought a coffin and hearse, and convey- ed him to his long home, attended only by that mother and boy, who walked by the dis. mal hearse, as it conveyed the remains of the father and husband to the public burying- ground! Who can describe the loneliness of early widowhood! Many are called to experience, it-they alone can feel it, but none can de- scribe its doubt and dreariness, its vacancy and gloom. There she sits by her fireside- but it is desolate, and never before did she know what it was to be alone. LIe who had become the half of her existence-with whom she had embarked for a happy voyage-upon whom she depended for counsel and consola- tion, for life and love, is snatched away, and she feels that more than half her own being is sundered by the blow. It is a deep grief for an aged wife to be deprived of one with whom she has traveled so long; it is still a deeper sorrow in middle life, while surrounded with all that wealth can supply and friendship command, to lose him whom she regards as the source of all that could render these com- forts enjoyable; it is an inconsolable afflic-. tion to lose the object of her love in the morn- ing of wedded life, when every breeze whis- pered hope, and every gale was full of bliss- ful promise ; but it is a terrible calamity for a poor wife and child, with nothing to buy their bread, and without friends to comfort and protect them, to be rabbed by death of a husband and father,-there is a double lone- liness in such an affliction, for, not only is the object of her hearty adoration gone forever, but the love she bears her child gives a keener edge to her agony when she gazes into the dismal future, and beholds its propable fate. She might procure it bread by the labor of her hands, but a world of temptations too strong for its unattended spirit, throngs about its footsteps, and she scarcely hopes for its safety. iHer husband has gone to his rest, and the thought is happiness compared to the dread- ful reflection that her little son will now be marshalled with the profane host of Babel and rush on to moral perdition! But not so is the case before us, for we have ;already seen the Orange Boy guarded by his discretion and protected by his virtue. Mrs. Clinton, now a widow in the garret of that rickety old building far out among the haunts of dismal life, was a woman of courage, and ag she had spent years of mourning in view of the certain fate of her husband, her grief was not so great as if he had been so , suddenly stricken down while bearing the promise of many years. Situated, too, as she was, with grim necessity pressing upon her, she had other thoughts and feelings crowding to her relief, and calling her energies into ac- tivity. True, her room was better fitted for any thing else than for the abode of human beings, but atill not even as poor a house was hers, and a price was demanded for the pain of sleeping within its dingy walls. She and her son must eat to live, and have clothes for protection and comfort. How were all their ex- penses to be defrayed, was now her engrossing thought, and if she should be taken ill, what relief would come to her and her little charge! The thought was terrible, and she bid it be- gone, for the difficulties of the present were enough without the aggravation of imaginary woe. Still she continued to ply her needle, and her earnings would pay her rent and keep herself and son alive. For three years more she thus lived, without society, for she had no time to make and enjoy the company of friends; without recreation or repose, except when exhausted nature forced her to retire. Night after night the watchman could see the candle at her window long after all other lights were extinguished, except those of wid- ows and families as poor as she. Night af- ter night she toiled beyond the midnight hour, when all was still save the watchman's tramp without, and all was quiet save the appeals of'weary energies and repose! How long can nature hold up under such a burden. Month after month rolled away, and she felt that her vigor diminished. With no society but, that of her son, she was sedulous in giving him all the instruction in her power. It was enough to move a heart of adamant to see her deep solicitude for him, to read the emotions that played on her countenance, aiid to see the eagerness with which she caught every word that fell from his lips, as if con- scious that all his future good was to spring from the virtues she inculcated and the in- formation she gave him,' When he went out to walk. she charged him as to the dangers lie might ioeet, and whlen he returned, he had a thousand things to tell her, good, bad and in. different. She enabled him to distinguish the virtuous from the vicious in human conduct. and pictured to his young spirit the conse- quences of vice. At last, after three or four years of toil, Mrs. Clinton was too weak too labor continuously, andi she was forced to spend a longer period in rest. Her little son, whom we may call Orlando, was now old enough to carry the products of her labor to her employers, and bring back other jobs ; indeed, he began to go fromn place to place, of his own accord, to find more profitable little jobs for his mother, so that she might obtain the same money for less labor. Mrs Clinton was now comnpelled to recline at work in her bed, and rarely did she rise for many months except to ptepare a morsel to eat. One day as the warm tear stole down her pale, cold cheek, s he said to her son,- "My dear Orlando;"-shhe could speak no farther, for her distress was too great. Orlando sprang to her bedside, and unable to restrain iis own tears, he asked,-- ' Mother, why do you weep so bitterly?" ' Oh, Orlando, have I not enough to make thie angels weep?' "You have told me, mother, that the angels are til about us. and see everything as plain- ly as we do; how they must weep to see the misery of my mother!" "But. Orlando, I shall not be able to work so hard-what then will become of us?" "Mother, I have seen little boys almost as small as I about the streets selling little things; and the other day I saw one buy some oranges by the dozen at eight cents a piece, and then I saw him selling them at a shilling. Can't I make some money in this way?" "You are too young yet, and the bad boys will injure you. I fear you will become wick- ed yourself." "O, no, mother, no danger of that. I be- lieve I will try." The next day his mother sent some work home by him ; but the employer, after turning it over and over and finding out the condition of his mother, bethought himself of reducing her pay a trifle, as she would be compelled to i take more work even at less pay. he examined the vests over and over, and making a mock- ery of dissatisfaction, told the boy that he could not allow his mother so much for such poor work--and he counted him a shilling less than his mother expected. This sntitakeeti an- guish to his little heart, for he knew how large an item was a mere shilling in the finances of his mother. How should he save the amount to her, and more than all, save the pain which the unkindness of her employer would occa- sion. A thought flashed upon his young mind;-- "I will buy a few oranges with some of the money-, and sell them to make up the amount." He made his purchase, and bounded down among the crowd to sell themn, and this was the introduction of Orlando as an orange boy to the public of Gotham. Being smaller than any other one seen peddling in the streets, and having the advantage of sinigular beauty and goodniess in his appearance, his lute-like voice, as it musically, announced his oranges for sale, was effectual in attracting purchasers, anid soon was the little stock exhausted. In doing all this, he had been gone longer than usual, and his mother began to be con- cerned. But soon he came bounding in with joyful heart, gave her the amount she expect- ed, and retained a trifle he had made beyond the amount required. The next day he started out early, made a small purchase, sold out, purchased again, and again sold out. The scheme was success- ful. He returned home full of gladness, and told his mrother what he had done, "Cheer up mother." he exclaimed as he en- tered, "-you need not toil so hard. for I can support you," and he emptied his little pock- page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] et of the change he had made by selling a few oranges. Language cannot express the emotions that filled that mother's heart. The little son, the object of her tenderest solicitude, and whom she was too feeble to maintain, had proved himself far beyond his years, and gave the brightest indications of a glorious manhood. She took his little hand, and blessed heaven that she had ever lived to give him birth. She was now more than paid for all her trials and troubles, and felt resigned to the fate she soon expected. Verily there is no life so des- olate but in its course some streams of bliss will bubble up. We have now traced the steps of Orlando to the position in which we found him in the beginning of this chapter,-a boy of eight years, with no friend in the wide world save his mother, who had lost her health and ru- ined her constitution by the pressing demandis upon her toil. But though pennyless, and reduced to the last extremity at which life can be sustained, yet she was worth to him the whole world beside, for her counsel was pure, and her virtue, courage, resolution and firm- ness were made a part of his young nature, and with these for a capital, what enterprise may not be undertaken-what success may not be obtained! We said his mother was reduced to the last extremity at which life could be sustained: worse than this-for her life rapidly wasted under her seclusion from the invigorating light and the refreshing air (of heaven, and un- der the ceaseless toil for a mere pittance to wlich she was subjected. Every month, week, day, hour, and moment of her life made her sensibly feel the rapid waste of lifte, and she knew he r days would be few on earth. But what was life worth to her? Did she not long for liberation fron her dreadful bondage by the grave? How could death have any terrors for her? Ah, no. Life-even a few years of life-were worth the world to helcr. Amid all her sorrows she dreaded death. Not that she feared. but because of her son, for whom she would do and endure everything in the hope that he would enjoy a happier lot, do honor to himself and be a blessing to the world. She desired to live long enough to see in his life the pledges of his future ex- cellence. As Orlando returned with the products of his first day's trade, she saw the promise of the man ; and when she reflected that his young mind understood her terrible situation, that his heart bled for her sorrows, and that he was thus inspired with an energy far be- yond his years, she was satisfied. "Enough--enough!" she exclaimed. "I can now depart in peace, for he is safe against the world." When Orlando saw his mother so pale and weak, he bethought himself of the physician to restore her strength. "Mother, I have seen many doctor's nanmes about the city; shall I not call o0 e to see you?" "No, my son. My malady is not curable. It is a gradual ebbing of life under too hard a pressure, and no medicine will aid me." 'Oh, mother," said Orlando, weepinllg, "'have I not been the cause that has brought, this dis- tress upon you!" "How so, my dear?" "You have labored so hard night and day to get food and clothes, and to instruct me." "Think not of this, my son; I am more than paid, if you shall make as good a man as I hope." "But, mother, will not rest from labor cure you? Would you not get well if you should cease work and walk out every day?" "1How can I cease work, my son? Must we not have food?" ' I will support you," said Orlando, assum- ing an energetic air. "I can enable you to live without work, and to live well." Imagine the joy of that mother as she heard this manly language from her little son. At this, a wrapping was heard at the rat. tling door. Orlando opened it, and a stern. faced mirn entered ite was no stranger. He had visited them regularly for several years. He was well acquainted with their situation, and frequently had he witnessed the evidence of their sorrow. At this time he saw the red eyes of the little boy and mother, who had been weeping, the alone in grief and the other in joy. Who was it? Did he come as n an angel from the realm of the pure to console and relieve?, Did he come evert as a man moved to some sense of pity for the distress before him? No, no- none of this. Who was he? He was actuat- ed by a passion stronger with the upper world than sympathy, philanthropy and love. Ava- rice had drawn those rigid lines along his countenance. Avarice had set those eyes against the promptings of pity. Who was lie? He was one of those who have nothing to do with other people. He thought every one was for himself, and if they were reduced to woe, it was their own fault, and nothing to him. He was. the LANDLORD who owned all that section of the city, and had called for his weekly rent! He lived in a sumptuous palace in a fashionable region of Gotlaam, and owned many good houses that he rented to prosper. ous people. But he could not lose a dollar on the rent of such a room, nor for the benefit of even such a woman as Mrs. Clinton, and such a son as Orlando. He was more avaricious than many landlords, for he could not afford to make his collections by an agent; while oth- ers, disliking to be brought in contact with suffering, hired agents to do the disagreeable part of their business-collecting from the poor and distressed. The week's rent was handed him, and he' quickly departed, nrot even giving them a friendly adieu. Orlando continued with a stout heart to sell oranges and support his mother. He calcu- lated the expense and made it a point to do so much each day. Every night after selling out, he hastened home, thinking only of his mother, and anxious to see what changes had taken place in her health. Sometimes he thought her improving, and his heart rejoiced; then he would find her worse, and a night of sorrow was before him. Finally he saw her sinking rapidly, and re- solved to find some physician that would come to her rescue, if there was for her a healing balm in Gotham. For this purpose he started out. Calling at one office and making known his want, the first question was as to the lo- cality of his residence. This information be- ing obtained, the physician was sure of the poverty of the invalid, and pinching his lips for such a profitless call, he told Orlando of tile pressing engagements he had already on hand-patients dying to-see him-and while going so far he could see several who were first in time apd equally sick. Calling at an- other office, he met the same repulse, and for several hours he traveled from office to office unable to get a physician for his mother. Was it that she was odious in their sight? Orlando knew she was good. What was tile re son none would accompany hinr? But his young mind could penetrate the reason. The grief that agitated his heart in view of the cause for so many refusals cannot be de. ? scribed. At last, while agitated with the i deepest emotions, he said to another physi- * cian in whose countenauce he thought there ) was goodness.- D "Sir, my mother is a widow and sick. She I is poor and cannot pay a physician, but if you will call upon her I will pay as soon as I can make the money." The mann could not resist the appeal, and ihe called. But when he saw her condition, Ihe knew that all was lost for her, and leaving some cordial he departed. Orlando continued at his business, and I saved each day a trifle to buy bread and pay rent while he should be compelled to watch by her side in her final struggle. We shall not pause to paint thlat scene in real life. It is realized by thousands daily, of whom the prosperous world is ignorant. She had con- tinued to work as long as she had strength enough to handle the needle, in spite of the expostulations of her son. She knew that neither rest nor recreation would rescue her, and,she would do as long as her strength re- nmained. But at last she passed through the outer gate of earthly life, and entered upon that brighit existence where sorrow is unknown and sighing unheard, Her spirit departed, and Orlando sat there alone by its worn-out tenement. There e he watched for two days, and there he communed with her pure spirit. Those hours were sad ones. but not profitless. He called up every lesson of goodness she had taught him, and they became a part of his thought, of his life and of himself. But Orlando had one more duty to dis- charge--his mother's remains must have a coffin and a tonmb. He thought of his father whom he had followed to the public ground a few years before, and its appearance remained in hiis memory. The desolation he there saw among the graves caused himi to shrink from the thought of having the body of iis sainted mother thrown into such a dismal yard. He wished to build a monument to her memory when he should be able, and in the meantime he would visit her grave, preserve it from dilapidation and cultivate a willow at its head. Engaging some of his poor neighbors to watch by her body, he started out in search of a burying place. He called at the offices of the cemeteries, but found that the land even for the burial of the dead was sold at a large page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] price, and when making known his poverty, was told thatr the city had prepared a place on purpose for the-poor, and there the author- ities must bury her! This was the unkindest cut of all. HHe could apologize for the heart- lessness of the landlord and the physician, but his young mind could not see the reason of excluding the poor from a respectable grave -a grave that would be safe from intrusion, and where the children of the deceased could drop a tear in quietude. But he did not despair. He called upon one of the clergymen who officiated in one of the finest churches of the city and was sus- tained by a wealthy congregation. Making his situation and wants known, he was asked if his mother belonged to the Church. lHe told the reverend clergyman that he did not know, for his mother had been compelled to stay at home and toil night and day for a liv. ing ever since he could remember. He told him she read the Bible on Sunday and con- versed with him of the Divine goodness to man and of the wickedness that had abused all His blessings. The story of Orlando moved the clergyman, but lhe knew the rich of his Church would not permit her grave to he dug amid their costly monuments. But he very kindly directed Orlando to the cler- gyniman of an humble Church, where many of the poor were found. he adopted his advice, and finally obtained the right to a spot of ground large enough to contain the remains of his mother. he was successful in this, and repaired to the public authorities for a coffin and hearse. But when he told them where she was to be buried, they charged him a price for the job, for their service was free only for burials in the public ground. Orlan- do was comnpelled to relate the circumstances of the life and death of his mother, and of the difficulty he had to obtain a place of burial in the church-yard. he was again successful, and his mother was decently buried. In all this we have a faint picture of real- ities too common in society. Comment is un- necessary. CHAPTER IV. Love!-Love! What is thy nature, and what thy mission? Who can tell what thou art, whence thou carnest and whither thou goest? Shall we call thee the soul of wisdom and the spirit of goodness? Will any other definition convey so full an idea of thy meaning? If not, then to love is to possess the light that guides to wisdom, and illumes our pathway to goodness. Happy is he who loves, for he shall rejoice in the truth and be glad in the paradise of the virtues! Love is manifested in ten thousanid forms. We look upward in the evening when the stars are out and the whole firmiiient seems to twinkle with the eyes of love, and we re- spond to their thrilling languiage. We rise in the morning when the East is full of rosy beauty awaiting the advent of a gushing fountain from the great source of litht, and heat and life, and not to love were imopossi- ble for the dullest soul. We look upon the budding, blooming glories of spring-time, when all nature is joyful and worshipful, and feel a love that awakes the soul to the good and the true. In short, all nature is over- flowing with the evidence that the Angel ot Love presides over the Universe, and the in- fluence of all creation tends to awaken the love-power of the soul, and to eiilarge its compass for the embrace of all humanity in her gentle arms. Love is the profit of the mind, foreseeing and foretelling the better time for stricken hu- manity that awaits the progress of mana. It opens the eye of the spirit upon the beauty, truth and glory that make up the ideal of ex- cellence, and straightway an enthusiasm is inspired in our warfare upon evil, and an ar- dent zeal for the elevation of the whole race to the enjoyment of all that is revealed to the vision of the lover. All hail to the universal lover! for he shall walk in wisdom, and to him the future of the earth and the interminable future of the hea- vens shall be ever full of all that is pleasant and joyful. No gloom shall pass along his path, no faint hope shall tremble 'above him like an extingushing star, nor will we doubt for a moment that a complete emancipation on earth awaits the whole family of man. But is this all of love? Go back and sit again in the presence of Mrs. Backus, Amelia and poor Currie; there was the heroism of love. Go again to that dark and dismal den where Mrs. Clinton and Orlando dwelt-close your eyes upon all but the countenances of those individuals, and shut out all from your i hearing but their conversation, and tell us if there is not still another phase of the manifes- tation of love. Here we see not only the courage and heroism, but the patience and en- durance which this light of life and soul of goodness imparts. These may be but manifes- tations of the same principle, increased in its strength by attending circumstances. Turn we to another scene, and when the drama is ended we shall perhaps understand its meaning. Slow and mournfully moved the solemn procession from the gate of the parsonage of Geneva. Various were the contending thoughts which agitated the minds of those who had called to accompany the remains of Mrs. Backus to their final resting place. Some who fully believed in the special interposi tions of Providence to protect his truth and defend his ambassadors, dared even to suspect that the fall of that noble woman was a judg- ment from heaven. - And when the holy man who performed the last religious duties to the departed, prayed that she might be received among the saints, if consistent with the Di- vine will, many of his solemn auditors more than half believed that hers was a hopeless case. Love and goodness, in their view, was but mockery, if what they believed to be truth was rejected. Poor Currie entered largely into the thoughts of that serious group. Amelia, too, to whom the care of the little one had been assigned by its departed guardian, was frequently and sighfully thought of as she passed along bear- ing little Currie with a firm step in the funeral procession of her mother. But lo! who is that youthful one that stands in pensive mood near the entrance of the church-yard? He is humbly but decently clad. Slim, though not in the full proportion of manhood, and of an exceeding youthfulness of countenance, though his appearance wa's thoughtful'far beyond his years. His coun- tenance was clear and symmetrical, his eyes charmingly expressive and seemed to look out from a full soul, his hair was of fine quality, of auburn-like texture, and hung in natural curls about his neck. He was a stranger in that village, and unknown to a single indi- vidual. There he stood, watching the pro- cession as it approachld, thinking of one who reposed in a church-yard far away. The changes of his countenance, occasioiJed by the sympathies of his heart, as he saw more of the funeral group, might be most distinctly seen. He saw the pall-bearers enter the gate, then the hearse, and then-. No more-enough. Amelia burst into a flood of tears as she saw the gloom of death before her and found herself so near the new- made grave of her mother. The young man saw her as she approached, but no one so beautiful and angelic had he ever seen amid the gaiety of joyful life, much less veiled in so deep a sadness. He saw :the child in her arms, and as she bowed to kiss it amid her convulsive grief, he could no longer resist, and Amelia had one hearty sympathiizer. The youth had wandered out without any particular object, and when he found himself standing by- that place of burial he knew not why he paused at that moment and in such a gloomy spot. But now all was clear-lhe had an object, and amid his sorrow he was glad. He filed in at the foot of the procession and advanced to the grave. he saw more and more of Amelia, learned more and more of her beautiful spirit, and after the final benediction was pronounced he departed leisurely with the others. Many saw him and wondered who he was, and why he should be so deeply initerested in the funeral ceremonies of a stran- ger. But let the futuire satisfy their curiosity. The youthful stranger had seen but sixteen summers of life, and yet it was evident he had well employed his time. He possessed far more of both heart and head than is often seen in one so young. If we follow him from the place of graves to the hotel where he was stopping for a few days, we shall find him seated in his room all alone and silent by a table, on which were a few of the most valuable books that he had brought in his trunk to be his friends among strangers, and his socie'y amid a distant and suspicious world. He did not take up a volume as usual on seating himself, for a new idea had been awakened by his late observations, and a thrilling emotion trembled in his spirit. An image of the beautiful and the lovel, accompa- tnied by the evidence of gentleness and purity, was before him, and the more he contemplated the ideal, the stronger grew his interest in the object of his reflection. He now resolved to remain in the village, and obtain employment at, his trade; for the interesting youth with his books and maturi- i ity of thought and feeling, was a mechanic. lie did not search lcng for business, because his appearance recommended him, and the page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] skill with which he could wield his tools, at once secured him employment at good pay. Follow him to the blacksmith shop, and there amid the black dust and sweat that ever at- tend the anvil, you might see the young man, who was naturally qualified to fill any station in life, busily employed day after day in the humble duties of common smithery. He had not been titus engaged many days before his noble countenance and surpassing intelligence attracted the attention of a lawyer of the village who boarded at the same place. lie gradually became acquainted with him, and the more he knew of him the more was he interested in his behalf. He saw the young man most i1dustrious at the anvil eight hours per day-for he deemed it wrong to de. vote a greater portion of the twenty four hours to manual toil and leave the mind un- cultivated and happiness unenjoyed-and he saw him for an equal period of time attentive to his books and his reflections. Surely such an one was born to no mean purpose, and the lawyer proposed to direct his footsteps in the path of distinction. One evening the lawyer called upon him to give him some good ad- vice, and after seating himself and passing the usual compliments of the times, said kindly,- "I find myself deeply interested in your welfare, and have come to converse with you." Imagine the emotions that thrilled the breast of the youth as he saw this manifestation of kindness in his behalf! All thai; he would say was seen legibly written in his expressive features, and the lawyer, whose business had led him to study these indications of charac- ter, was also moved by the great goodness lie saw before him. The young man replied, with a musical voice still more charmingly attuned iby the lawyer's kindness,-- "I need not tell you that I am tlankful for your kindness. There seems to be so little genuine brotherhood of feeling among men, that where I find this sacred relationship, on which the happiness of all inankind depends, I experience a joy that I cannot express." "I observe,' continued the lawyer, "that you are attentive to your books, and I see from the selections you make from the authors that your wmind is well adapted to the legal profession. Ah, Blackstone's commentaries!" he exclaimed, as he lifted a volume of this le- gal bible from the table; "I presume you are half a lawyer now, for he who understandsI all that work contains is more learned in the profession than imany who practice." "I hope," said the young man, "that I ap- preciate law as a branch of human learning. -and an acquaintance with it as essential to a thorough education." "Good," replied the lawyer. "I see you are laboring as a mechanic for a. livelihood; would you not like a situation in my office, where you can be almost exclusively devoted to your books? If you feel as though you must earn your own living, I will give you a little writing occasionally, which will pay well. Besides, you will thus escape the toil and filth of a smith's shop; say you will ac- cept my offer, and everything shall be as pleasant as you please." "I shall never forget your great kindness," answered the youth, '-but your generosity will lead you to respect the sentiments I hold. You may deem me extravagant and false in mny views, but I cannot withhold from you ;my conviction that it is my duty to earn my living with the labor of my hands, and then I shall have all the tiime to spend in mental pursuits which is consistent with the highest good of both the mind and body." "But the attorney's business is work of the severest kind," replied the lawyer, "and while hurman rights are violated there must Le attor. neys, counsellors, solicitors and advocates to protect society." "Excuse me," said the youth, "( but are not ignorance and poverty the great causes of vice and disorder in society, and are not these caused iby the oppressive burdens that are laid upon the nmasses by the great wealth and ex- travagance of some and the idleness and ab- stillence fromi mainual toil on the part of oth- ers? Did all men earn their own liviiig by the toil of their hands, would not the labori- ous duties of life be so divided amllong all that some would not be compelled to labor too severely, and all would have timie for in- tellectual anld moral culture, and no one be led into vice when so great pleasures are within, their reach?" - Oh! my young friend, are you not some- what dreamy in your thoughts? I trust that a few years mnore of observation will correct these notions, and you will look upon society as made up of the great and small, the strong and the weak, and that each one finds his proper level. Those who are capable of none but menial employment take the place of servants and latorers, and those who can rise to distinction enter the professions where they are not forced to low pursuits, and where they can cointinue to rise in the honor of the world." "Perhaps I am dreaming," said the youth; "but if-so, my drtams are quite agreeable, and I rather enjoy them than disobey the laws of right as I understand them. As to many being only capable of what you call menial service, and some bei g .designed for nore genteel and honorable eimployments, I cannot indorse your sentiments. All pursuits essen- tial to human happiness should be held equal- ly honorable; and as the first law of nature is that man shall toil for a livelihood, I hold all men bound to do so, and because all do not obey this law the world is full of ignorance, poverty and crime. T'Ie legal profession, therefore, tends to perpetuate the ills it at. tempts to cure, and I must be excused from engaging in it." "But," again suggested the lawyer, "have you no ambition to rise in the world? Recol- lect that our profession is the gate of distinc. tion, the door of the highest stations among men." "Yes, but I have no desire to abandon my toil, enter a profession, and thus throw the labor I should do upon others, and then rise to office by the votes of those whom I thius injure. I have no ambition of this kind. My sole object in this life is to do my duty, bene. fit the world and myself as much as possible, and pass away rejoicing in the life I have spent." " Alh-hem," said the lawyer, as he rose to depart, biting his lips and feeling the truth he had heard. "Excuse my. bluntness," continued the youth ; '* I could not do otherwise than to meet your kind proposition with my reasons for re- fusing it." All right," replied he, "I cannot indorse your views, and I see I cannot convince you: they are wrong." "But," said the youth, 'will you allow me to turn the conversation .to another topic." "Certainly," replied the lawyer, taking his C seat. "Are you acquainted with the circum- . stances of a funeral at the parsonage of Mr. Backus a few days since, and with quite a young lady and a child she carried in the pro- 1 v co sion?" "I am. There ihas been a world of talk in ,'this community about that child, about tile parson's deceased wife who took it to btir care, and about that young lady of whom you speak, that by the way is not far from a dozen years old'. But I hope I am a anian of more consequence than to take an interest in such trilling affairs. The child they call a bastard, and Mrs. Backus and her daughter are much blamed for disobeying Mr. Backus in relation to it." "Can I trouble you with the favor of an in- troduction to him and his daughter?" "Ah, in love so soon," said the lawyer quiz- zically. "Certainly, at any convenient time." N Not exactly in love," replied the youth, blushing, "(thut I shall avail mnyself of your kindness in this behalf." The conversation concluded for the present, and the lawyer departed. A few evenings after the conversation just given, the lawyer called to fulfil Iis promise of introducing the youth to Mr. Backus. They went over to the parsonage, and tlhe young man was introduced to the occupant as a young person of excellent qualities, though somewhat dreamy in his notions. After talking a while of this and that, of no particular consequence, the lawyer departed, leaving the youth to work his own way, hav- ing no doubt of hiis ability to do so success- fully. The good parson supposed the young man called upon him for some advice as to the for- mnation of character and so on, and proceeded very gravely. assuming all the airs peculiar to hiis office, to tell him of the dangers which en- viron the young, of the temptations which Satan is constantly devising for their destruc- tion, and of the only means of escaping so great perils. Finally, recalling the (Irealms to which reference had been made, ihe en- quired- "What shall I understand by the dreamy character attributed to you?" "I suppose," replied the young man, " that reference is made to my belief in the equality of the race aind in the final abolition of all the evils of life, so that every human being will enjoy the dignity and happiness for which all seem to be destined." "' All, young man," sighed the parson, "you are treadinge on dangerous ground. This world is a vale of tears, and will always re- main so. In heaven is our only hope. None page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] but infidels dream of perfection on earth, or even of a complete exemption frorn the ills we see about us." "Who are those infidels of whom you speak?" "Why. Plato was the first dreamer, and he was a heathei. Condorcet, of France, was an infidel, and he dreamed of the perfectibility of the race. Robert Owen. of England, is an infidel, aind is the most visionary dreamer of the age." "But Plato lived before Christ," replied the youth, "add as for Condorcet, he believed and wrote of Ihuman perfectibility after he had seen the bloodiest scenes of the French Revo- lution, and while he was actually in prison expectinrg his execution! Methiniks a hope so strong as his ought to win our respect, at least. As for Mr. Owen, I know he is an in. fidel, but infidels are not the only ones who have dreatned of hunian perfectibility. I think Jestus was one of these dreamers, and him I endeavor to follow. Sir Thomas Moore was a zealous Christian, and also a dreamer, as you call it, arnd I think the pure and Chris- tian Fenelon, of France, may be set off against Condo,rcet." The parson was surprised at the intelligence of the you tih. A perfect am:tzenment was pic- tured on his countenance. and both were si- lent. for some moments. Finally he said,- "Young rman, you are mnistaken in your knowledge of the Scriptures. You are on danrgerous grolund. Your principles will lead you to ldicard( the fundanmental doctrines of tire Church. Without discussing this matter further, I leave you niy warning. So young a mnan should listen to more mniature rinids, and nrot attemDt to form his own opinions." The youth uudertood the spiri'it of the man before him aid knew it was of no use to press tihe subject. But the olbject of his visit was not accomplished. He inquired-- H lave you not a daughter?" ("Yes." replied the parson, with a look that would say, ' wlhat Iulisiness is that to you?" "Excuse rme." continued the youth, "but I saw her once utitter solemn circumstances and ani anxious to see her again." This reference called up unpleasant associ- ations, and after a sigh and a pause. he said: "* My daughter is a little girl, and much confined. She receives no visits even from her acquaintances, much less from strangers." The youth, who disliked to make himself disagreeable, took his leave. Since the death of Mrs. Backus Amelia had, been permitted to watch over little Currie in peace, under the charge of her mother not to forsake her unless she could 'pass iiito better iands. iHer father, at the first opportunity, warned his daughter of the dangers in her path, arid particularly to beware of a youth- ful stranger, whose attention Satan had di- rected toward her. The young mian retired to his room to muse on the coldness and distrust that he had seen in one wiio should be a model of kindness and generosity. Said he to himself- I have never injured mortal man, and God is my witness that I only desire good to all. Why, then, should I be put off so roughly? Because I find myself interested in the wel- fare of that young woman, or girl, as some are pleased to call her, I must be looked upon with suspicion, and not permitted to see her. It is not right. I shall call directly upon her, and see if nature. and, what I would fain be- lieve, my honest look will not plead for me i" Accordingly, on the next Sabbath the youth took occasion, while the parson was before his congregation, to call for his daughter. Sirhe appeared in the parlor, and as her glance fell on the stranger sihe seemed to see a congenial spirit, and an Cnmrtion thrilled along hier clear, briglit countenance. The youth detected this, for' trhe pure in heart do not always requdire the world to tell themi the thoughts and fiel- ings of others. His own counitenanco respond- ed ill a still deeper fveling, as he ofiered her his hrand, saying as she grasped it,- "( You have the hand of Orlalndo Clinton, once an orange boy cf New York, more re- cently an apprentice in the country, and now at work in your village." "I arm glad to see you," replied Amelia, as . sweetly as if a zephyr rhad swept an angel's harp. "I have heard of you before, and been warned against you. But in all things of dhouht or difticulty, I commune with the spirit of my mother in heaven, and follow her ad- vice. She told me not to fear the young stranger, for he was true and good, and would give me joy." Orlando wept with mingled bitterness and joy. Amelia was happy in the sympathy she saw. "Amelia," said he, "I too have a mother , in heaven, I cannot tell you the trials and oorrows of her short pilgrimage on earth-how that she toiled night and day to support my invalid father, and myself while a child, and that she continued to toil after his death to, support us, until her life was nearly gone, arind how that she finally had no one but her little boy to depend upon for care arid comfort, and how that she died blessing her son, arid bid- ding him go into the country, where all is pure and pleasant. 1 obeyed, and here I am. Who knows but her spirit has directed me to Ame- lia, the youthful guardian of the abused little Ourrie." "Who knows," said she, "hbut the spirits of our mothers have counselled in the skies, and predestined our meeting." 'Itave yot: a brother?" asked Orlando, af. ter a mloinent's pause. I itave no brother. Have you a sister?" asked Amrelia. 'I have no father, no mother; no sister, no relation that I know." ' i Say niot tlhat you have no sister," said, Amelia tenderly. "Bless you--bless you!" exclaimed Orlan- do, as he saw her meaning arid grasped her hand. "' A thousand thanks for such a sister. O that I were worthy to be the brother of such a sister." After learning each other's mutual history, they separated, happy for so pleasant an in-! terview. When there shall be more congeni- ality anmong all mankind, how vastly will their hl:ppiness be increased. Orlando felt that he was not alone in the world. To be alone is to suffer. Man'is so constituted that he must enjoy the society of his fellows, or life is dreary arid desolate. Or- lando had endeavored to satisfy this demand of hiis nature, by an imaginary consociationi with the spirita of the great dead as thiey are portrayed on the printed page. He had form- ed none amongr the living during his shiort pilgritmage who could be to him congenial friends. His peculiar thoughts and feelings were not those of the masses, who could nrot appreciate their truthfulness arid beauty. His youthIfulIness also precluded many from his friendship for whose society he was qualified In short he was above the world, and had met none who could unite and blend with him as one indivisible and inseparable being. But now he was not alone. He knew there was one with whom he could fully sympa- thize, and that one was she who had knelt with him at the altar of brotherhood and of sisterhood. He now felt that life lad an ob. ject, and the more sacred sentiments and emo- tions of the soul were not to die by inianition. Every great joy, however, is not free from an attending trouble. Orlando ihad done what he knew was painful to anothier-though erro- nreously so-and the thought irwas painful'to him. lHe would not cause a momlent's unhiap- pinress if it could be avoided. But he felt that he was'in the right-- Amelia, too, thought they were botli in the right; but her father thought they were in the wrong, and there was a collision. Orlando, with all his infor- mation and thoughtfuluess, had learned to an- ticipate opposition, and that the oilly course for eachl was to be firm rnd true under all cir- cumstanices, let crone what will. ' If, then," said he to himself, " the Rev. Mr. Backus sets himself against the hatippiless of iis daughterr and myself, and if he be in the wronig and' we in the right, he must persist in the wrong at his own peril." When Mr. Backus came home anti found that the youth had called upon Iis daughlter, and that she had received him kinidly, ihe was shocked.' "I arnt astonishred," said lie- to Amelia, tlat my daughter so strenuously persists in her disobedience to her fiather! Oh, God I has it come to this, thlat a child will set at defi- ance the authority of a parent! To vlwhit a wretched pass are we coming, if the flist, Irin- ciple of Ihuinian gover,'nnienut is ths,; to be trnirm- pled under foot! Oh. Satan," groaned the par- son, " how hast thou desolatel my ihousehollld, takein away my wife and led astray my daughter!" Anmeilia wept at the grief of her fiather; but she felt the conrtinual presenc e of her mother, and with an intuition of what was true and good she was firm ini her position. "My (atiher," said slie. after quieting iher- self, "you know how wretched the people hiave attempted to make me on account of my obedience to the wish of my noble motrher inl regard to little Currie. You know that they have not only withdrawn all friendship and sympathy, but what is ten thousand times worse, have spoken ill of me and are yet, giv- ing me a bad name. I could forego their soci- ety and their love, but their malice and their slander are painful to one who is conscious of no wrong, but firm in the right. Father, I have no mother, no sister nor no brother. page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] Ihundreds should be ready to fill a mother's place and hundreds more should be sisters and brothers. But not so. I am abandoned by all-yea, even by my father, who gives me not the sweet comfort of his love. Now, fath- er, why in the name of my mother's spirit are you so offended when one so innocent and kind and good begs to be my brother, so that I may not be all alone in the world? Amielia bowed her lhead in convulsive grief. The father was moved with pity, and departed to his stundy. On taking his seat alone by his table he tookup his pen inadvertantly, and began to weigh the difficulties of his position. Hle was a man and a father,-more than this, a minis- ter unto others, and how could he expect to preserve order in thn Church unless he could preserve order in his own household? his ,sguation was humiliating in the extreme. There was the bastard, as every body called her, still disgracing him, under his leniency on accoiunt of the desire of his departed wife; and not less to his annoyance there was the young stranger, a mere mechanic, for whose good character there was no voucher, daring to invade his prromises and seek the friend- ship and perhaps the love of his daughter; and more territle than all, that daughter dared to yield him her sisterhood against the known wi-bhe a of her father. It was too much. lie still pondered the subject, and concluded that he had been too mild-too forbearing- too yielding,-and that Satan was only to be successfully vanquished by refusing him one iota of consideration. After he had thus mnuied for some time he was astounded by what he iaw written before him. Iiii mind had been so bewildered and wrought up that he was unconscious of having written a sylla- ble. flBt there were the words of fciarful im- port blazing and flashing before him: "Set thine hoiuse in order,for thou shalt die." lIe saw in his distorted fancy the finger of God in it, and was convinced that he in his wisdcm had written it to admonish him. He trembled like an aspen. Even B1elshezzar was not more alarmed at the mysterious hand-wri- ting on the. wall of the palace while feasting with the magnates of the kingdom, than was parson Backus at the wonderful writing be- fore him. But there was a difference between the two cases. The rebellious king of Baby- ion could not interpret the signs, neither could I his high priests, and Daniel alone could read 'the diven= inscription ; while this was per- fectly intelligible to Mr. Backus, who regard- ed himself as not less culpable in his tolera- tion of his wife and daughter, and in the al- most submission which the eloquent pleading of Amelia had produced. Hie was frightened -and with an almost insane wildness he called his rebellious daughter to read the judgment. 'See--see!" exclaimed he, as she entered, "see the decree of heaven against our house for its rebellion, What shall we do to escape destruction?" "Oh, father, why are you so agitated? I see nothing so terrible. Your fear shocks me." "Don't you see what it is? Read for your- self." 'I read father, but it is in your hand- wri- ting, and nothing extraordinary," "My hand-writing! Do you call that my hand? Compare it and see;-do those two lines bear the same hand," said he, holding up another paper, on which he had previously written. "Why, father, you are so agitated-your trembling hand shakes the papers so that you cannot see whether they are alike or not. Lay them down on the table-there--are they not alike?" Mr. Backus examined the two lines over and over, but could not recognize the first mark of his own chirography in the mysteri- ous and startling inscription. No, no-its not my writing, anti others will not say it is." "Well," said Amelia, "call some of the neighbors, and let them decide.' The first deacon of his Church was called -an old man who had scarcely escaped the superstition of the days of witchcraft. He adjusted his spectacles, and looked at it f.,r a long time, while the trembling parson stood before him, and after he had heard his fright- ful story. No wonder, therefore, that the deacon saw through a medium as distort(d as that of the parson, and decided solemnly that it was not his chirography, but must have been penned by some invisible hand. The deacon was more alarmed than the parson, and scarcely knowing what le did, left sud- denly 'without heeding the supplication of' thie parson to counsel with him in this awful crisis. That the writing which threw Mr. Backus into such a fright was precisely similar to his usual hand, we would not presume to assert; for the agitation into which he had been thrown so trembled along his nerves, that it somewhat affected his penmanship. But no cool and reliable judge could fail to pronounce it, if under oath, the writing of Mr. Backus. Within an hour after the deacon departed in such a feverish excitement, the whole town was in commotion about the mysterious dis. pensation of Providence against the house of Mr. Backus. The old fashioned and super- stitious of the village were nearly as much excited as the parson, though not quite so mnuch alarmed, for the matter did not come so directly home to them, Once more were all the gossips astir, and for weeks nothing was heard but conjecture, and expressions of won- der in relation to the divine inscription. Ev- ery old and middle aged lady of the place, and some of the old and middle aged gentle- men dreamed of thunderbolts launched at the parsonage, of fire and brimstone rained down upon the doomed house; and when the sun rose in the morning, the first thought was whether the ill-fated habitation still stood against the divine wrath ; and the first thing they did was to rusk to the window and see if heaven in its great mercy and forbearance had spared the parson, Amelia, and little Currie! All the circumstances brought to light in regard to Orlando were also a subject of town talk, and the general belief was that so intelli. gent a young man must be in league with Satan. He was universally reprobated for daring to call upon Amelia in tire absence and against the wish of her father. They applied to him all the epithets they could command; and the question was seriously discussed whether he should not be expelled from the town. The excitement ran so high against him that his employer was forced to withdraw his patronage, and no'other one dare give him work. the lawyer, who had first exhibited some friendship toward him, but who, as he said, cared little for public gossip, was asked his opinion on the question of his expulsion; but he only replied, that he was an inoffen- sive, artless young man, though somewhat crazy in his views. "But," said they, "that is why he should leave; he is -possessed by the devil, who has bewildered his head, and taken him captive, 3 and now he would seduce the parson's daugh. ter, bring reproach upon the Church, and ex- tend the dominiorn of Satan on the earth. In this we see the subtility of the serpent, and some steps should be taken to curtail him." "As for the devil," replied the lawyer, rath- er contemptuously, "I don't know as he has any thing to do with it-neither do I care." Haystacks and conflagration I Imaginethe horror with which the superstitious looked uponthe infidel lawyer I He did not believe Satan irad any thng to do with the young man!-and worse than all he did not care! That lawyer was used up. No more pa- tronage for him, and the news of his infidelity had extended so far Lefore the election came on that he lost the votes that would have elected him to Congress. "All the world and the rest of mankind" decided that Orlando was crazy. But as for the parson who could not recognize his own hand in the mysterious inscription, and was perfectly beside hinself--getting no sleep at night, and traveling about among his syDm- pat hizers for counsel and comfort, even absent- ing himself from his daughter and house for a week at a time ;-and as for the deacon, who was so terrified that he could not be prevailed upon to enter the house again;-and as to the people generally who would banish the young mad-man as the best means of curing him and overcoming Satan ;-they were all per- fectly sane-there was no doubt of it-not the least! A council was called of deacons and deacon- easses, and others of the most faithful of his sect, as well as of such others as they could fellowship, to consider this dispensation of Providence, and determine the safest course to pursue. But they could not be prevailed -ipon to meet at the parsonage. The whole premises seemed to them infested with de- moniacal spirits, and the most horrid shapes and frightful spectres rose before them as they thought of the parsonage. Neither would they meet at night, for it might be dark, or just light enough to see sights which they were sure of beholding thick as ghosts in a gravecyard. Such was the in- tensity which-the subject had excited in their minds that the idea of spirits from below and judgments from above, was personified before their imaginations and become to them as if real. The meeting was held In the barement of page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] the old church one clear, bright afternoon but many entered it tremblingly, forit looked somewhat pokerish, as going down cellar does to fearful children. Having assembled, a solemn and significant stillness pervaded the group, broken only by an occasional, half-suppressed sigh, that starting in one corner, would pass all round as if it were epidimical. After sitting some time in profound silence, a cloud passing over the sun rendered the dimin old basement darker than usual, at which the group began to look a little wild, and the terror was evidently in- creasing. A man soniewhat bolder than the rest, seeing the influence which the under- ground, sepulchral-like locality was exerting upon them, moved an adjournment to the more cheerful body of the church. No sooner was the motion made than it was seconded and! carried with a flash to it; and such another scattering had not been seen since our first parents and their offspring were driven fron paradise. Assembled in the story above ground, the assembly proceeded to business. There was a general recognition of the solemnity of the occasion, and of the direct aid which must be invoked from heaven. But we will not detail the proceedings of this important meeting. Suffice it to say that, dreading to proceed directly against the youthful stranger and Amelia, for the fear of r Satan with whom they were thought in league, I they concluded the parson should travel to at distance with his daughter and lodge her in some female seminary, strongly fortified t against his satanic majesty. This was the conclusion. Another conclu- sion not less grave but perhaps more sensible, r was that of the insanity of Orlando, while sI they themselves were of perfecth sound mind. a; But what of the youthful stranger and Ame- to lia during the period of which we have writ- vv ten? On the very day when that group was re engaged in such important deliberations, un. der such fearful solemnity, Orlando and Amne- lia also held a convention of no less interest, at though characterised by no fears-no trem- fri bling-no agitation. With countenances beau- al tiful as truth and serene as peace-with hearts to innocent as purity, and feelings chaste as the en new blown rose, they conversed of life and of death-of the antagonism of earth and the v1 fraternity of heaven. Amelia brought little Currie to receive his blessing, and she related ' ,n; all the circumstances that had thus far at. ed tended it. The beautiful little innocent ex.- lar cited a glow of admiration in the heart of Or- lando, and in him she was sure of a brother. "t "Orlando," said Amelia, ", what shall we :y do if the excitement becomes too strong for it, our peace? What will become of little Currie id if they should proceed to separate her violent- 're ly from us? \'hat shall we do if a barrier is er erected between us that we cannot surmount?" er "Be not afraid," replied Orlando, as he 'k pressed her hand to his lips. - Be not afr-aid, i- for if tlhey should separate our mere physical I' existences, still we shall be near in spirit and together we will roam the fields of beauty and g listen to the music of nature.' C "But, Orlando, I cannot live without you. s You are my only brother-and the only fr'iend l I have this side of the region where dwells the spirit of my sainted mother." Be inot troubled, my dear sister, truth will sulrmount all their opposition. We shall triumph and they shall fail. The excitement s is but a test of our devotion, and if we are firm, they will quail before us." "How happy you make me, Orlando! I am against my father, whom I am afraid I have f driven to madness, but my mother is with me." "Those who set their faces against truth rmust abide the consequences-they are their I own destroyers, and none else is guilty of their doom.'" Thus these unsullied beings conversed, and thus did they rely upon the convictions and intuitions of truth. Thus the final disposition of Amelia was resolved upon. They knew too mulich of her spirit to think of open opposition to her course, and prudently concluded that, as she onught to be well educated anrd should desire the ad- vantages of an academy, she could not well refuse to accept the proposition. If she could be kept away for a season, it was thought she would be weaned from her attachment to little Currie. and her growing friendship for Orlando would be overcome by absence among those who should be instructed to throw around her all the attracting influ. ences of society. They concluded, too, that a year or two at the female academy would ele. vate her views above the plane of the common mechanic, and blend her sympathies with the upper classes of society. At least, this they knew to be the usual' effect, and their reason- ing was quite sourd on this subject. Instead of cominig out boldly against the insiduous guile of his satanic majesty, they concluded to ameet him with his own weapons, and oppose craft with cunning. Accordingly Mr. Backus took the first op- portunity of conversing with his daughter with regard to the completion of her educa- tion. He was shrewd in permitting a few days to pass before proposing the plan to her, so that she might be less inclined to consider it as a trick to separate her from Currie and Or- lando. He said nothing to her of the diffi- culties between them, but seeming only to have in view her educational improvement, he introduced the subject by saying,- "Amelia, you will soon be a woman, and must expect to nmeet the denmands of woman- hood. To fill your proper station in life, vou must be qualified by education. Your respec- tability and usefulness in society will much depend upon your qualifications. You know your mother and I long since told you that you should have the benefit of an academy for a year or two before comprleting your educa- tion. What think you of soon leaving this place. where your relations with the people are not very pleasant, and going to an acade- 'my in Vermont, among her green hills and within hearing of her beautiful cascades?" O, I should be much pleased to obtain a good education, but what will become of little Currie." "I have thought of her disposition myself, and talked with some of the neighbors about it. There is Mrs. Dodge-she says she will take her while you are gone." "Father!" exclaimed Amelia, "how could you think of trusting the poor orphan to that woman?" "Is she not devotedly pious-and who would surround her with better religious in- fluenccs " ", Yes, but have you not heard how severe- ly she has abused the poor child, and how she slandered my very mother and myself for receiving it? No, I would as soon think of trusting the tender lamb to the keeping of the wolf, as of confiding little Currie to her care." Mr. Backus was somewhat shocked at the speech of his daughter, but he suppressed his feelings and mildly asked,- "To whom would you trust the child?" After thinking awhile, she mentioned the name of a family that had not participated in the excitement as she was aware of, and Mr. Buckus at once called to arrange the affair with the family which Amelia had selected. They did not wish to take it, but on the prom- ise of ir. Backus that some other disposition would soon be made of the child, they con- sented. Amelia did not satisfy herself as to the pro- priety of thus forsaking her charge, for sihe felt that no one would be so deeply interested in its welfare nor treat it as tenderly as she who had watched over it so long and become so strongly attached to it. But shle thought so reasonable a request of her father could not well be refused, and also she knew that there would never again be so favorable an oppor- tunity of completing her education. She therefore reconciled herself to the arrange- ment. Before leaving' little Currie in the hands of another, she called-to coiveinse with its future guardian, to acquaint her with all its little wants, and awaken some interest in its welfare. But she was received too coldly to please her, and put off with a contemlptu ous reply:- "I know as much as a little girl about nursing a child and need no instruction from you." "This reply chilled the heart of Amelia, and she could not repress her fears for the welfare of the poor orplhan--or, as the people thought, a worse than an orphan-a fruit of guilty conm- merce. A few weeks more and Amelia was to de- part. This, that and the other thng was to be arranged, and as soon as all could be pre. pared she was to leave for an academy in Vermont. At that period such a journey was a long and tedious one, and few were found to go so far unless for the miost urgenat reasons. There were not then, canals and railroads to rapidly convey the traveller from place to place for hundreds of miles, with as much ease as to sit in a church pew listeniing to a dull sermon; but the roads were bad, and the stage-coauires i were often nothing but common wagons that jolted almost continually over rocks, gutters, and cross-ways. We need not here remark that Orlando fre. quently visited her during the few weeks be- fore her departure. During this period they met with no opposition, for their enemies thought she would soon be out 'f his reach. page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] Amelia called daily upon the new guardian of Currie, to see how she was treated, and to gratify her fondness for one that had entered so largely into her own existence. Every time little Currie welcomed her with the sweetest smile, the most joyful prattle, and extended its little arms beseechingly to be folded in her gentle embrace. It was interesting to witness those manifestations of mutual fond- ness. At length all was ready for her departure. It only remained to bid farewell to poor Cur- rie and exchange adieus with Orlando. The reader can imagine the nature of the last interview with her adopted brother, and we will content ourselves with a few items of their conversation. - But, Orlando," said she, "there is one sub- ject in view of my departure that I cannot fio easily surmount. Though we separate, yet you will maintain yourself and I shall be pro- vided for, and we can both await with pa tience the time when we shall meet again. But who will provide for little Currie? Who will love it like a mother or a sister? Orlan- do," continued she, with emphasis, "I have a presentiment that all is not well. True, every thing seems as it should be where she now is, but imethinks I read in that woman's coun- tenance, and I think I see in my father's coun- tenance that which they would not tell me. I see that which does not augur the best for our little sister." "Amelia," replied Orlando, " trust to me. I will remain a brother to her as well as to thee, and no harm shall come to it." "But will you frequently write tome about her, that I may know what course to pursue?"C "You shall be advised of everything." Earnestly they invoked mutual blessings, and tenderly did they bid each other adieu. a After a final visit to little Currie, dropping i a tear, and begging heaven to cherish and pro- t tect her, Amelia departed with her father for Vermont. We shall leave them now for awhile to make the journey as best they can. As they arrived at the brink of the hill to the t eastward that overlooks the village, Amelia f turned to glance a farewell to thoqs dear ones - she had left behind, and scarcely could she t conceal her tears. Nature will be free, and a we cannot suppress her holiest emotions. t, s( )f CHAPTER V, And still we are at Geneva. Two years have e passed since the first date of our history, and t over one year from the period at which we t cloed the preceding chapter. What changes i have transpired during this brief period -- even far more and important than those we have described. One evening in October, 18 -, just before the setting of the sun there was a group of ladies standing by the church-yard of the vil. lage in earnest conversation. An acquaint- ance from the country had arrived to spend a few days, and at this hour chanced to meet fsome of her friends, who, of course, must tell her of all the events, important or trifling, that had occurred among them since her pre- vious visit. For some time they were in busy conversation. There also was seen a woman clad in a course garb, with a flannel shawl about her shoulders, and a simple hood upon her head, approaching them. She had just entered the village on foot, and as the roads were in the worst condition, it could scarcely be told whether she wore shoes or not, and her clothes were spattered with mud as if she had been a teamster on the highway. She was almost ready to faint under her wearisome march, and slowly she limped along her nearly ex- hausted body. Arrived within hearing of this group of ladies, she might have been seen to shudder and assume an attitude of the deepest inquls- itiveness. She forgot all her fatigue, and her mind was wholly absorbed in the subject of conversation. She slackened her pace that .he might hear the more as she passed, and when she had advanced as far beyond them as their words could be heartd, she paused, as if in thought of something forgotten, and af- ter a few moments turned to retrace her steps. Still she heard the story-a comparatively short one, but, full of the deepest concern to her. Pausing again when she had advanced to the extent of their voices, she stood a few moments, and again turned to retrace her steps. As she moved by them the third time, she at- tracted their attention, and excited so great a curiosity that they dropped the subject, and turned the discourse in relation to her. Just as they closed the conversation on the theme so interesting to her, a single phrase she heard again sent a shuddering movement through her frame, though she concealed her coun- tenance and emotions as far as possible. "What does that old hag mean," asked one of them, " passing and repassing so closely to us while in private conversation?" "What an ill-mannered wretch," exclaimed another, "to be so impudent and curious to hear what we say?" "I beg your pardon," said the strange wo- man, in melodious tones and beautiful ac- cent. "I was musing, and hope I have given no offence." "Hear that-the slut dares to speak to us!, Let us be gone." Even before they separated the strange wo- man had accelerated her pace and was moving far away from them. What was the word that first so deeply agi- tated the strange pilgrim, and what was that at the conclusion of the conversation which increased her agitation? The first word was CURBIE, and the startling phrase she finally heard was IN THE POOR-HousE. And why was she so concerned for her? The pilgrim paused as she came to the next corner and inquired, without unveiling her countenance, the way to the Poor-House. Having obtained her information she started along, and turned in the direction of the in- stitution. "There," said one standing by, "'is a wo- man with a veiled face, who has inquired the way to the Poor-House." "She is one of 'em," said another. "I say, stranger," called out another, " do you wish lodgings for the night?" But she only sighed for the degradation of humanity, on hearing their jeers, laughter and vile language, and passed on without noticing their abuse. Pitiful is the thought that a suspicion of vileness must be attached to one who bears the garments of poverty! Little sympathy have the people for the unfortunate of the earth. Rarely is it thought that a most beau- tiful spirit may be clothed in rags. Instead of having a breath of earnest sorrow for their misfortune, we abuse them with a vile tongue, or turn from thenm with disgust. Thp pilgrim stranger traveled until the shades of night came thickly on, and when the darkness prevented her from proceeding farther, she called at a farm-house for a sup- per and a bed on which to rest her weary frame. "La me," exclaimed the woman of the house, "where did you conae from?" "Excuse me now, for I am tired and hun. gry." "I Why, can't you as much as tell me a word about yourself? Come, now, you ask for food and lodging, and before I give them I have a right to know who I entertain." "Art thou a woman!" said the pilgrim, "* and dost not know that a woman often hath reason to keep her secrets? Art thou a wo man, and beholding one of thy sex in distress will not relieve her without extorting that which it is unpleasant for her to relate?" "Ask her if she has any money," said the man of 'the house, who had listened to their conversation, and was less inquisitive about the mysteries of her existence than about the condition of her wallet. "Gold and silver," replied she, "I have none, and those who provide me meat and re- pose must. do it from their love for their fel. lows." "Good, genuine bank bills will do, if you have no gold or silver," said the inhospitable pinchfist within. "Alas, alas!" said the pilgrim, "this is no house for me even for one short night. I can- not sup in peace where there is the poison of suspicion, and no welcome to a pennyless, hungry stranger." Turning her back upon the house, she slow- ly departed. Gloomy were her reflections as she made her way through the miry road. Arriving at another residence, where the light shone cheerfully from the windows, she call- ed, and to the woman who opened the door, said : "I am weary and worn and hungry; and worse than all I am pennyless; have I a hearty welcome to the hospitality of this happy home?" "You look suspicious," was the reply. "We cannot judge of the heart until w,e feel its beatings," remarked the pilgrim. ," Really we' would keep you, but our beds are all occupied." "I can repose on the floor." "Oh, I should not sleep a moment while one in my house was on so hard a bed." "Farewell," said the stranger, as she turned from this house also, trusting in Providence for the supply of her wants. page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] The next house was not distant, arid soon the pilgrim was at the door. A wowran opened the door, and from the purity and goodness that shope in her countenance she saw there was a welcome. "What an unfortunate woman!" was her exclamation. "Come in and stay with us." She entered, and sitting down, the good woman exclaimed,- "Mercy! how wet and muddy! Take off your shoes. Jane," said she to her eldest daughter, " bring a dry pair of stockings and my shoes for this lady, for she will take her death cold." "God bless you!" exclaimed the pilgrim, from a bursting heart. This kindness was enough to throw all the insults and slights she had met into oblivion. She was con- vinced that human beings yet lived on the earth, and all was not desolate. The good woman flew about, and setting her daughters to work, they cooked her a bountiful supper. All things ready, the pil- grim sat down, and, before commencing her repast, closed her eyes as the large tears rolled down her pale and care-worn cheeks, and a silent thankfulness went uip to the Giver of all good, and an earnest supplication for blessings upon the house that sheltered her. Amid all the desert wastes of life there are some refreshing oases. Amid all the repulses we meet when in distress, we are not permit- ted always to escape the evidence that benev- olence is yet enthroned in the human heart. After supper the pilgrim stranger and the noble woman of the house conversed for an hour in the most friendly manner, and con- cerning topics which were mutually interest- ing. Both were exceedingly intelligent, and sympathized very generally In their views. Though the circumstances under which the pilgrim had called were calculated to excite curiosity, yet her benefactor was too sensible a woman to inquire into private and delicate matters. She was willing to take the evi- dence of goodness which she voluntarily gave as satisfactory, until she should behold in her conduct that which was reprehensible. She would not allow herself to cherish a suspi- cious thought of one whose views were so truthful and whose heart seemed so pure. On the other hand, the pilgrim cherished no ill- will to those who had repul-ed her on the way, and did not so much as refer to their unkindness. 4fter the pleasant conversation which pro, ' duced the most friendly relations, the pilgrim retired to rest. Notwithstanding the heavy thoughts and distressing feelings which agi- tated her, the still heavier burden of exhausted nature and a consciousness that she must rest, for continued health to fulfil her important mission, soon composed her into a sleep which continued until the sun beamed full upon her ibeautiful though care worn countenance. She arose, and first invoking a blessing upon little Currie at the Poor-House, she then gave thanks for her refreshing slumbers and asked for blessings upon that hospitable house, De- scending to the family room. she was met by the priestess of that happy home with a hearty salute and with a warm-i- "Good morning-I am rejoiced to see you so much rested." The pilgrim could not restrain her emotions so dcvply excited by the friendship she met, and bowing her head upon the bosom of her benefactress she wept from that sacred foun- tain which is opened as well for the baptism of kindness as for the mitigation of grief. '0, the good woman!" said the matron, "what can I do to make you happy? You must remain with us and enjoy all the com- forts we possess." ", A thousand thanks," replied the pilgrim, 'but duty calls me-a duty that I must dis- charge before I can repose in peace. You will doubtless hear of me again, and that within a short time. I may be induced to draw upon your kindness to an extent greater than you can endure." "Any thing that we can do for you will be gladly performed." After breakfast tIe pilgrim resumed her journey with mingled feelings of joy and grief -joy that she found such a friend, and grief on account of the fate of Currie. She depart- ed, with the regret that prudence prevented her from revealing to so good a sister the secrets of her heart. She felt as though such a woman could be trusted, and as if she should have told her all. Tilhe pilgrim traveled on with a stout heart, and when she camne in sight ot the Poor- House, which she distinguished by the little cupola on its summit, and the dilapidated ap- pearance of all things around it, her grief was still moore excited, for there she knew was the object of her search, and the dire devastation around told her too plainly that Currie was emphatically a pauper-an object of charity' -that "charity which begins at home," and with difficulty extends her beneficence beyond the selfish circles of society. She quickened her pace, and soon stood at the door of the great barn-like house that shel- tered the miserably poor of the county. She had waded through the filth of the yard. and began to expect still sadder sights within. The door that, scarcely hung upon its hinges i was opened by a woman whose appearance sent a chill to the hea of the pilgrim. "Is the matron of thi house within?" she asked. "Yis, I'm matron here"' was the reply. Judge of the surprise this information oc-' casioned! Such a person, whose appearance indicated one of the lowest of society--whose face looked as if it were a total 'stranger to water-whose hair hung in knotted bunches about her head, as if the county could not!f- ford a comb-whose dress was ragged, and spotted over with grease and dirt.-whose I countenance was haggard and destitute of the least indication of amiable qualities-whose eves were almost dead with long standing dis- ease, and whose voice was husky and mcst unearthly in its tones,--such a woman to be matron of the last earthly house of the poor, and such a woman to be the mother of little Curric!-it was too much, and quickly she inquired,- Is the child called Curriein your charge?" Yis," was the reply, as though it were none of her business. "Quick, let me see her." "Don't fret your gizzard quite out. Who is you? Vihat you want of little Currie?" asked the matron, with all the impudence of which she was capable. The pilgrim did not pause to bandy words with the curious specimen of humanity before her, for there is a control incidental to supe- rior rmiental power which is silently and effec- tually exerted! Assuming an attitude of firmness, and bending upon her a look of mas- tery, she passed along the dark and narrow hall which led to the main apartment of the building. She opened herself into this room, and a spectacle for which she was little prepared, pr-esented itself to her view. There were some half a dozen girls and women, whose appear- ance was sutliciently in contrast witil that of the Imatron to give her the dignity dlue to her office! Some were setting on the floor, which had been for months a stranger to the broom some were dozing in the corner, and others sat upon such stools or broken chairs as were at hand. There were also several boys and men, some of whom were sick, as well as some of the fair paupers, some were disabled by broken limbs, and broken down constitutions, whle others represented the various classes of constitutional indolence, of blank despair, and of mental imbecility. Some were cursing and swearing. some1 tell- ing stories of lust and shame they had wit- nessed or participated in, while others were rehearsing the history of the disappointments, and abuses that had thrown them as beggars upon the world. Imnagine the thrill of horror that quivered through the frame of the sensitive and refined pilgrim, as shle witnessed this congregation of hurman wretchedness! The awful sight be- fore her caused a momentary forgetfulness of the object of her searcih, for she Iad never be- fo)re seen so much of a real hell on earth. She saw poor orphans there deforming their minds and bodies amid the most dreadful influences, and she silently exclaimed,-- "My God! is it true, that amid all the bounties of thy benevolence to man, human beings are driven to such a fate I Is it true that society will cast the young into such a den I the young who might become a comfort to themselves and a blessing to their fellows- the young, whom it would be merciful to bury alive in comparison to such a crucifixion- such a slow destruction of soul and body!" At tlis moment a most pitiful moaning of a child fell upon her ears, and with a sudden scream she sprang to the box in which it lay. Almost smothering it with her passionate ca- ressings, she cried out,- "Poor Currie! Thou hast a mother, but she has forsaken thee Thou wast left with one supposed to be a model of kindness, char. ity and benevolence, with money to pay for all the trouble of thy care, but thou wert again abandoned, and here in this den of sin and pollution thou hast been thrust for a human sacrifice on the altar of mammon and of pride." She gazed anroment into its pale, emaciated face, and the little innocent cast upon her such a look of earnest appeal for the love for which its young spirit panted that the pil- grim was again overcome." page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] "Can it be," said -he, again bending over it, "that thou art conscious of the slow death that awaits thee here? Can it be that there is a single impulse of affection remaining in thy ittle heart after being thrust out from a moth- er's love, and ruthlessly thrust in this rude coffin?" She lifted up the child, and it fondly clung to her bosom. It had seen the indications of love in the deeply moved countenance of the pilgrim, and heard its music in the tones of her voice. With these its uncorrupted spirit sympathized, for a year inl the Poor-House had not crushed out the feelings which na- ture had implanted in its heart. "What!" exclaimed the pilgrim, as she saw this manifestation of tenderness, "hast thou had an individual to love and caress thee? Surely this wretched place would have de- stroyed all thy goodness ere this. A thousand blessings on the head of her who has watched over, and reciprocated the little feelings ofl thy budding nature! Hlow long has bhe been here?" she inquired of the matron, who stood by almost petrified with astonishmlent. Quite a while," was the reply. "Has Lhe been here two years?" "Gue^s not." One year?" "E'na most," was the reply, after a short pause to count the months on her fingers. Who brought her here?" ' The man as brings all of 'ein here to be took care on." Where had she been before coming here?" "D1o," "Is there a master of this establishment?" "Yis'em." "Will you call him?" Away the matron started for him who con- trolled the home of the poor. While she was gone the pilgrim observed more closely the condition of the child. 'i Two years old," said she, "the little for- saken ought to walk by this time." - I never seen it walk," said one of the cu- rious spectators of the scene we have already mentioned. "' Has it not been taken up every day and exercised?" "No-it's lain there all day and all night a year or more without taken up, 'cept the mat- tern lifts up its head to feed it." "Dreadful! dreadful!" was the exclama tion, as she heard this evidence of neglect. It is a thousand wonders that the child is alive! How could human beings be so cruel! Why did not some of you take it up every day and teach it to walk?" asked she of the able bodied women present. "We cones here for a home," said one of them, "and won't tend babies when we are not forced to it." "But have you no feeling for the little sufferer?" "They had feelings once," replied a male cripple in the opposite corner, who possessed some intelligence and knew how matters worked, "but their feelings have been de- stroyed, as those of that little child are being destroyed here." "Right, right! I forgot myself," said the pilgrim. "I blame you not. Alas! alas! why should I blame these poor wretches when the educated and refined mother of the child abandoned it? But why should I blame her? The devotees of mammon and pride influ. enced her too strongly, and she yielded to their requirements." At this moment the superintendent of the establishment appeared, and not seeing a wo- man clad in silk or even in respectable appar- el, was not very polite. "What do you wish?" he asked. I' would know who nursed this child be. fore it was brought here?" "I never stop to inquire about the wretches whlo come here; but that child has been a subject of so much talk that I happen to know that a foolish little disobedient girl took care of her from the time her mother died until her father the parson sent her off to Vermont to school." ' You say you don't trouble yourself about those who come here ; have you no desire to promote their welfare?" "Promote their welfare! What a crazy woman you are! Promote the welfare of such wretches? This institution is not for such a a purpose. If we promoted their welfare half the county would be rushing in here. Pro- imote their welfare! Ah, ha!-fine policy that, to make one half the people support the other half." "Well, sir, I wish to take this child away." ' Are you its mother?" I would be more of a mother to it tnan it finds here." "Who are you?" "I am a mystery--but a human being, as you see, and she fixed upon him a look that excited his superstition. "Look here, sir. This child is two years. old, and see!" said she, attempting to make it stand alone, "see, there is no strength in its body-its limbs are almost paralyzed! See, its arms have no strength I And see, too, how weak and feeble it looks! How could you suffer it to be so abused?" "No matter. Go with me and get permis- sion to take it away. If it should be destroy- ed I might be imprisoned." "Destroyed! It is almost destroyed now!" Lay it down and go with me." She did so, and as she moved from it, little i Currie followed her with her eyes, and as she was closing the rickety door it screamed aloud in most piteous tones. "Oh, the poor little forsaken I I cannot- I will not leave thee. Come." And she took it up, and folding it as well al possible, start- ed out of the door in haste. "By what right do you carry off the child?" asked the superintendent. "By the rights of nature and of love," re- plied she, waving a defiance to the dignitary. The pilgrim departed without interruption, bearing her precious burden, and rejoicing in its escape from the pandemonium of public charity. It is true that little Currie had been better provided for at the Poor-House than she would have been, had it not been for the five hun- dred dollars saved from the original deposit in her favor. The parson's daughter-not him. self-had kept her one year, and though she would have scorned to take a cent for her pains, yet the parson's parishioners thought his wear and tear of conscience in relation to her was very poorly paid withtfive hundred dollars. They also thought that he could af- ford to reduce his salary, or at least to forego the usual donations on the strength of the half a thousand thus honestly obtained. One of them went so far as to propose converting the balance to the use of the missionary soci- ety for the conversion of the poor heathen who were exposed to endless woe, inasmuch as the child was to be supported by the county. This would be a justifiable pia fraus, to get money for so good a cause out of the sinners of the county, who never contributed to ben- evolent societies. As for little Currie, she was in a gospel land, surrounded with gospel privileges, and if she should be finally lost it would be on account of her own wilful striving against the spirit, or because she was from all eternity predestined to eternal damnation. But for the latter reason she was generally thought to be doomed, and neither the money nor any attention would save her. The superintendent of the Poor-House was to receive a certain sum per week for keeping the child, beside his regular salary, in consid- eration of extra attention thought justifiable by the money left for its benefit. He was, therefore, most sorely afflicted at the loss of so valuable a pauper, and under pretence of regard to the safety entrusted to him, espe- cially of the helpless, he at once took council as to the course to pursue. He had followed the pilgrim at a distance, and observed the house at which she stopped with her charge. It was most evident, said the lawyer, that the superintendent of the Poor-House had the right to the custody of the child, in preference to a strange woman who might take it to a worse place, or perhaps destroy it to secure same private end. Therewas a mystery about both little Currie and the strange woman, that looked suspicious; and especially did the thousand dollars with the promise of more, show that money to a large amount would be inherited by the child, and this abduction of it by a womanl who would neither tell her name, nor give any account of herself, seemed conclusive as to the fact that some foul play was intended by the woman for the lenefit either of herself or of some one who would ob- tain great wealth if she were out of the way. Accordingly a writ of habeas corpus was served upon the woman, and the man of the house at which she stopped, commanding them to bring little Currie before the proper magistrate, and answer by what authority they detained her. The news of these proceedings spread far and wide, and on the day of trial a large crowd assembled to see the child that had been the object of so much talk for two years past, and also to see the strange pilgrim who had been so bold as to take little Ourrie from the Poor-House, in spite of the superintedene t, who, as it was alleged, was overcnime by some satanic enchantment which the woman pos- sessed. Indeed, it was expected that the would cast a spell upon the court, the witness- es, and all concerned, and succeed against law, lawyers and all. page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] The pilgrim appeared with the child, at- tended by Mr. and Mrs. Sherwood, with whom she lodged the night previous to her appear- aice at the castle for the poor, and with whom she was still re:siding. All the parties being present and order called, the ciurt asked the pilgrim by what name sire would appear to answer the writ? "By any name," she replied with such a musical voice, such queenly accent, and such a bearing of superiority, that more than one began to think she was some witch in league with his majesty from below. '"Suppose we call you Aunt Ruth?" At this, some of the more rowdyish titter- ed, as a notorious woman by that name lived not far off. Observing this levity, she re- plied- "I care not by what name I am called; but I give you'warning that I am to be treated respectfully during this investigation, or I shall see what aid can be obtained from a higher power," said she, assuming an attitude of defiance, and casting a glance upon the court that made him quail. But she did not stop without administering a just rebuke for the insult. "I perceive," continued she, " that I am to be called after one with whom your Aonor is well and too intimately acquainted; but I care not-I would respect her virtue more highly thlan that of those who dip in the same foulness and yet sneer at her!" This fook thejudge all aback. Her glance was too much for his equanimity, and he blushed and trembled on his seat. The au- dience now laughed at him with a ten-fold contempt, eand his honor Was enraged:- "Constable preserve order and remove the first one that laughs." "Ah, I perceive said the pilgrim, "that it is no offence to insult an innocent but poor womnan, while it is a gross indignity to laugh at the court for reterring to a weakness to which he had himself directed attention!" By this time the court and the people un- derstood the character before them well enough to treat her civilly and with the highest re- spect. Quietude being again restored, the case was operned, and after the superintendent had giv- eu his evidence. proving the child to have been in his possession according to law, and that it was siezed and carried away without 'permission, the court inquired of the de- : fendant.- "By what authority do you hold the child Currie against the plaintiff?" "By the authority of nature and of love," she replied, with an emphasis that thrilled through the audience. "The defendant is unaware," replied the judge, "that the law and the court recognize no such authority. It is our duty to'adnminis- ter the law without 'fear, favor or affection.' The bosom of the court must be closed against all appeals to the affections, to love or to na- ture. Here is our guide," said he, tumbling over the leaves of a copy of the statutes. "I had no doubt of that as soon as I saw your countenance. I am not ignorant of the heart of'a man whose face is so easily read." "The court cannot submit to such indig- nity." "(Indignity Who began the indignity? But let it now pass." She then proceeded to state the facts in re- lation to the condition of the child at the Poor-House, and the probability that it could not live six months more in such a den arnd un- der such treatment. Her eloquence and appeals in behalf of the poor and outcast produced all the effect she desired, and when she asked if she should be compelled to resign little Cur- rie to certain death, a spontaneous "No, no," was heard on all sides, and the court yielded to the public wish. CHAPTER VI. But what of Amelia? What has she been about during the past year while such wrongs were being inflicted upon little Currie, whom her sainted mother had entrusted to her keep- ing? Did she grow forgetful of her plighted faith amid the whirl of giddy life? We shall see. We left her on the road to Vermont in com- pany with her father. Site arrived safely at her destination hfter a tedious journey. Mr. Backus, of course, was most affectionately re- ceived by the principal of the institution, for his position in the Church was sufficient to secure the highest regard from all of the same denomination. After presenting his, beautiful daughter and I expressing in her presence his deep concern L for her welfare, he accompanied the principal or superintendent of the institution into a pri- vate room, and conversed long and earnestly about the management of one who had given ; him so much trouble. He thought it his du- ty to give a full history of her course for the past year, that the faculty of the academy might be better enabled to manage her, and to be the more careful to guard her from the dangers which he feared. The rules of the institution were strict enough to reduce the students to slavery, For instance, nuo young lady was permitted to receive attentions from a young gentleman, unless a relative. No young lady should go out in the evening un- less accompanied by one of the teachers. No young lady should have the company of a young man either to or from the academy un- der any pretence whatever. All letters writ. ten by the students for the mail must- first be inspected by the principal, sealed in her pres- ence and handed to her for the post-office. No student should absent herself from either of the Church services on Sunday, and all must assemble at the chapel every morning i for prayers, and also one evening each week for a kind of conference. All these rules were stated to Mr. Backus; but he desired his daughter to be subject to a still stricter discipline. He insisted that Ame- lia should not be permitted to take a letter out of the post, but they must be procured by the principal, opened, read, and if from cer. tain persons, or treating of certain subjects so objectionable in her case, they were to be withheld and remailed to him. She must al- so read a chapter in the Bible every morning, and some religious tract every week; and in addition to this, some clergyman must call upon her once a week to talk upon religious subjects. Poor Amelia! You, too, must be subject to theology learned by rote as a parrot is taught to utter human language I Thy free spirit must also be chained' to the heartless formal- isms of the times Religion was not then, and to a great extent is not now, in our public institutions, regarded as something to be de- veloped in the soul by rational thought, pure feelings and charitable conduct. After Mr. Backus had given all his instruc- tions he departed, leaving his solemn injunc- tion to carry out his views to the very letter. It is needless to remark that what her father had said greatly prejudiced Amelia in the opinion of the principal, teachers, and even scholars of the institution; for though they did not tell her fellow students of the peculi- arities of her life, yet their bearing toward her was not unnoticed by the young ladies of the academy. It is true that Amelia's beauty, her bright love-Ieaming eye, and her melodious voice at first most favorably impressed the principal; but after she heard Mr. Backus's story, and learned the sentiments of the father toward Ihis daughter, she groaned within, and con- eluded that Amelia was another example that a body of faultless beauty may still be the ten- emrnent of a very ugly and- depraved spirit. Her bearing, therefore, toward her new pupil, became that of sternness, 'destitute of those gentle graces and amiable pleasantries which are so congenial to a heart full of sympathy, and continually panting for reciprocal affec- tion. The students from abroad boarded with the principal and teachers of the institution, in order that they might be under complete sub- jection. Amelia saw the character of the pris- on to which she had been brought, and was not without many misgivings. But she thought as her object was to learn, she could so employ her mind as to be unaffected by the circumstances around. The next day after her arrival she was call- ed into the private room of the principal, to signify what branchis she would study and to recieve the necessary advice. "Miss Backus," said she, assuming all the dignity of her office, and manifesting more than its coldness, "will you inform me of your intentions in entering tiis institution?"This question was asked with such an enmphasis, and such a rigidity of the muscles about the mouth, that Amelia was at once aware of all her thoughts, and of the information coinmu- nicated by her father. She therefore replied very gently, but so as to be understood: ," What the intentions of my father were in 'bringing me here, I may not be fully aware; but my intentions are educational." "I did not ask you about the intentions of your father," said the principal still more sternly. "It is your duty to answer my questions- directly." "Directly, my intentions are educational." "What branches do you propose to study'?" "I desire to learn whatever will be most useful to me through life." I1 suppose you desire to become a lady." page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] "I hope to be a woman," she replied with emphasis. "Will you tell me the difference between a lady and a woman? You seem to show your rebellious spirit even before entering a single class." "A lady, I have been told, and believe from what little experience I have had, is a fancy piece designed for a gentleman's parlor -her knowledge is fashionable, and her con- versation is gossip. A woman is a useful member of society, a lover of her species, and her life is one constant manifestation of good- ness and truth." At this the principal started, and scarcely knew what to say. But concluding it not best to press the point, she renimarked,- "I do not stop to discuss questions with my pupils. It is my business to teach and their business is to learn. What studies will you pursue?" "As chemistry is very useful to all cooks as well as to those who have the government of children I will study chemistry, if you please." The principal was uneasy in her seat, but Amelia continued- "* As mathematics is of great value to all engaged in the useful services of life, I will study mathematics, if you please." "The explanation of your reasons need not be given, Miss Backus. I do not wish to hear them," said the principal. "It is necessary that my intentions, on coming here, be understood. As physiology is of exceeding value to all, and to women par- ticularly, who bring the human family into the world, I will study physiology, if you please." The principal could not endure it longer. a She was insulted, and the institution scandal- v ized. Controlling her feelings as far as possi- I ble, she said,- i "' You will please to understand that we do n not teach cooking at this institution, nor the mode of calculating the value of butter and s eggs. neither do we encroach upon the prov. ince of the doctors in teaching physiology. \ Your views of life are wilder than is expected a even from a girl of fifteen. I am instructed a to bring you under wholesome restraint, and n to give you some idea of the elegancies and t refinements of life." " Excuse me for answering your own ques- m tions. What will you have me to study '" " If you are a proficient in reading and pen. s i inanship, and have a little knowledge of Eng- lish grammar, you can study French, and Mu- sic, Etiquette, Epistolary Correspondence, and Polite Literature or Belles-letters." ' This reply caused Amelia to smile at the educational folly of the age, exhibited in the reply of her future intellectual and moral Lmentor. But she thought more than she would permit herself to utter, believing her educational probation at that institution would be short. Not that she despised French and music, and polite learning, but she thought that useful information should be first ob- tained, and then if time and opportunity per- rmitted, those branches termed Polite Literature might be profitably pursued. "You do not intend to be a cook and cham- ber-maid, do you?" "I intend to be all that, and as much more as I can." "Why then did you come here?" "I came as I have explained, to acquire the information necessary to enable me to perform the active duties of life to the best advantage, and to fill the position you mention with dig- niity." "What a vulgar creature! No wonder your father is out of all patience with you. You may retire for the present." If the reader is surprised at the intelligence of Amelia with regard to the true object of existence, and at her radical views in regard to education, it rmust be remembered that she had conversed often with Orlando, and that her good sense enabled her to appreciate his opinions. It must not be forgotten, too, that the circumstances which surrounded her dur- ing the past year were well calculated to awaken her thoughts and fill her mind with valuable ideas. She had a mother, too, whose life was constantly before her. -It may be said that the past year had been whrth to her as much as three years of ordinary life. Miss Backus pursued the course we have sketched, toward the superintendent of the Academy, because she saw an evident design to break her down, that is, to subject her to a tyrannous government, and humiliate her as much as possible. This she was deter- mined not to permit, for her sense told her that it was not essential to the order and pros- perity of the institution, but, on the contrary, was most injurious to the pupils themselves. When she found they did not give much in- struction in the useful branches, she took up such as they did teach, giving the first prefer- e ence to those which were the most advanta- t geous. Music she intended to learn, being well aware that it greatly contributes to the refine- mient and happiness of mankind. She had a c true idea of genuine acccomplishments, and 1 knew that no real delicacy or refinement was inconsistent with any duty of life, fromn the kitchen to the garden or poultry yardi On the contrary, she knew that false and misera- bly ruinous was the delicacy which would not i recognize all the useful services as indispens- 1 able to a true womanly character. She soon saw how matters worked among the students, and concluded that she would introduce some wholesome reform-at least as far as she was able. She saw that the young ladies neither built their own fires, nor made their own beds ; and many, she saw, seemed to dread the task of dressing their own hair, and even of washing their own faces. Such was the extent to which every useful physical exercise was avoided, that the young ladies contracted an indolence that made thema most empliatically languishing beauties. When, therefore, the servant came to her room to make the bed and put all things in order, Amelia said she would dispense with her services in these repects, that she would wait on herself as far as possible, and only regretted that she could not do her portion of the cooking. -"La!" replied the chamber-maid who seemed to have some thought, " what would become of us poor servants, if all would do as you?" "c There would be no poor servants if all would do their duty, wait upon and support themselves." "What!" exclaimed the maid, with eyes wide open, as if some wonderful and strange idea had struck her. "What do you say'? There would be no servants? Would we all have our own homes, our own families, and our own means of living without seeking em- ployment from others?" "Most certainly. It is only the wrongs of mankind that divide them into two classes- the masters and servants. It is the idleness of some that throws an insupportable burden of toil upon others." Amelia continued to explain the matter to her until it was comprehended, and declared it as her conviction that the day is not far dis- tant when all mankind will mutually serve each other and none will be exempt from ac- tive and useful labor, and consequently none will toil for another to obtain a livelihood., Her sentiments, uttered with such benevolence of manner, deeply affected the maid, and she took her hand, with tears of joy in her eyes, saying,- "God bless you, Miss Backus! God bless you. I have many years been a servant-al- most a slave, under the most despotic coiim- mands, and when I have thought of old age my heart has almost fainted. I have sup- posed I should be compelled to toil until worn down prematurely into the grave, and there would be an end to my woes. But you lead me to hope for better things for those who shall come after me, and I am glad. God bless you again!" and she departed to the next room, where her services were always in de- minand. The maid told the occupant of the next room that Miss Backus did her own work. "Well, she is a fool. I shan't, you may de- pend on that. I'll not break miy back nor make my hands like beetles to gratify a lazy servant, who was made for such vulgar servi- ces! And while I am talking, I must tell you to be a little more faithful, or I will report you." And she slammed the door after her as she departed. What a contrast was here presented! And yet such is the contrast exhibited through- out the world by a few benevolent persons and the many steel-hearted, unsympathizing wretches in silks and satins, who despise, in- sult, abuse and oppress their poor servants as if they were created to be the victims of their folly. And Amelia was sent here to have her fountain of goodness changed to the seething vileness that so generally ilows from the hu- man heart I She was immniured in this prison called a Female Academy to be converted from a woman into a lady, and to be weaned from the vulgar Orlando who was cherished by her as a brother. An hour more and Amelia was pronounced a fool throughout the Academy. "Oh, the silly thing," exclaimed one. "What hands," said another. "Does she expect our society," asked a third. On the other hand, the chamber-maid re- ported among all the servants the conversa- tion she had held with Amelia, and how dif- ,ferent were their exclamations! I page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] "A thousand thanks for our friend!" "May she live long and be happy." "Heavea bless her continually!" And they felt the spirit of their prayers. They sought every opportunity to see and talk with her. Whenever she passed them they slinil. d most pleasantly and spoke most kind- ly. On the other hand, they dared not look delilberately in the face of aniy of the oIlier scholars or any of the teachers, and wheni they haild bluieiss with any orie of them, they did not wholly conceal their feeliings toward them in thte expressions of their countenances. The servanits frequently talked of her. and drew polintel c(roitrasts bet weeri her and her fellow studclits I ot a little to the discredit of the latter. S,omnctimes these conversations were overlhiardl and a general confusion was the con-qu'nlnice. They were accustomed to be fear n1 arid reverenced by their servants, and the rim st intolerable of all things was their conuetrltt--this they could not endure. To c,',"r'ct the evil, they at first thought to terrify ,tor by a f-ew expulsimns. But those obtaiiiel in thteir stead learned as rrmuch as their pIreldecessors knew, and were imrbued with tie i-intre crintimcrts and feelings. The evil grew worse; Armelia was feared, and the servants obtained a power over tihat helpless crew. t hi rough her precepts and example, which Clevatt el therm into considerable consequence. Mis lBackus saw this and was not sorry, furi sire knew it to be the fruit of truth, and if thry would maintain their dignity they must be truthfull also. She wavas called before the principal one day. and met with- "It i, perfectly intolerable. You are de- tcr-iiinintd to break uis tup. You treat us with indignlity arid mnake o(ur servants despise us." "I ltriv not sloken a iword aga inst you;t arid itf i)y opinions and example are truthful anid yours erroneous. you must abide the con. se(tiqeiic'-s-I am not responsible for them. As fir indignlity, I have merely endeavored to pre,rvrse riyself frorm beirig annihilated by it; I have always been respectful." "But you must conforir to our rules arid cusioms or I shall write to your father to take you away." "I conform to all the rules of the institu- tioni, and as for being taken away, I have a presentiment that I ought this moment to be at Geneva. Events, I fear, are being enacted there not a little unpleasant to me." At this the principal thought of the revela. tions her father had made, and concluded to trust to time for the correction of the evil. The conversation here closed for the present. CHAPTER VII. And what of Orlando during this'time? He had pronmised to be a brother to little Currie, and yet we have seen her confined in a dirty idunrgeon-the Poor-House-for a long year, and until rescued by the mrysterious pilgrim. he had promised also to write frequently to Airelia, inforrming her of all that transpired in relation to her and her adopted sister; but Amelia has now been at the Academy two months without hearing a word from him. Had he forgotten his pledges soon as the ob- ject of his brotherly affection, to say no more, was out of his siglit? When we last parted with Orlando, we found him turned out of employment, by the influence of public opition which set against him, and unable to obtain work at. any other Ishop. Ills amiability, kindness, generosity, virtue, intelligence and skill, were rot able to oppose the prejudice of the community and secure emlployment from those wlho had it to bestow. What was he to do? Alone, without a friend, and nothing to do, and worse than all, in an atmospihere all murky with slander, i what could he do? Most young ren would despair, under such circrnmstances, of living "i such a place, and remove where the breezes had not carried the prejudices against him, lIe might pursue a different course in a strange village or city, be silent as to those opinions which were so unpopular, and trim his sails for the popular breeze. Of what utility was it to be so open-hearted and frank in express- ing his views? Why should he be a friend to the friendless when such friendship would render him unpopular? Why not fall in with tihe current arind use his talents for selfish pur- poses? Hle miight have done this, but then lie would have forever despised himself, and felt deeply the degradation of his hypocrisy. No. Orlando had wrestled with the world from his very infancy, and he was conscious of his power. He had seen too much hard service--battled too successfully against wrong, and acquired too high a character to be intimidated by such circumstances, or suf- fer them to embarrass him for a moment. He c merely smiled at the folly of the people, and e: silently told them they would finally turn out ay second best in the controversy. eu But what should he do for employment? se No one would hire him. Do! Do for em. si ployment? He would employ himself; and owe no thanks to a stupid generation. He , h leased a spot of ground, built him a nice little a shop with the money his economy had ena-. n bled him to save, and published to the people c that he would work a little cheaper than his neighbors. he told the carpenter that ihe could make better tools than any one else, he I believed-the farmer that his axes and hoes were of a superior quality, and somewhat I cheaper than the capitalists, who employed 1 numruerous hands, could make-the teamsters, t that. he would shoe their horses more durably and for less money; and if the wagon-maker g yould save several dollars on the iron work of v a wagon, to call upon him, right there in Gen- eva -amnd they mnight listen as long as they c pleased to all that was said against him. Well, he appealed to the most sensitive spot -to their pockets; and how could public ulpinion stem such an appeal I Business at once flowed in, and a few weeks gave him more than he could do. He sent abroad and hired good workmen, and took such youth as were not frightened by his principles, as ap- prenitices, and from none did he exact more than eight hours per day of labor. He told them it was a sacrilege to break their bodies in slavish toil, and leave their minds, the no- blest part of their nature, running to waste. Well, his journeymen and apprentices be- gan to love him, and they felt tthemselves superior to those of any other shop, because they were treated with great respect, and not forced to an unnatural period of service. They cultivated their minds, under Orlando's tuition; and while at work, even, they all en- joyed themselves in saying some pleasant thing, pa-sing round the joke, and cultivating their ninids. They went to their work joy. fully, and with a fullness of life that other workmen did not possess, did more during the eight hours than others performed in twelve or fourteen hours. Mr. Clinton-for now he should be known by his principle name-soon became celebrated. Other shops lost their business, and he gained it. Those who had treated him with con- tenamt now hated him because he was so sue- cessful in his competition. Hands not want- ed were discharged from other est4ablishments, and they came to him for employment. He enlarged his shop, added forge to forge, and seemed to make preparations for doing all the smithing business of that village. Those who had been most bitter against him looked upon his success with perfect amazement. Mr. Backus returned fromnt Ver- mont, and' seeing what he was doing, ex- claimed-- "Verily, the wicked prosper in this world, but the righteous have treasures laid up in heaven!" The gossips heard from their husbands, and brothers, and fathers what he was doing, and how he was undoing his competitors, but said they-- "He is a low, vulgar mechanic, and if lie gets rich, the disgrace of his business will al- !, ways cling to him, and the most he ever can do in society will be to associate with those of calloused hands and sun-burnt faces!" The lawyer, too, who had proposed to make ;a lawyer of him, looked on while he thus tri. lumphed, and silently rejoiced-proud of not being mistaken in his talent. (I told you," said he to the people, " that I you would never make much fighting him, for he can beat you all under every disadvan- - tage! I discovered his talent when I first put my eyes upon him, and had it not been for I those crotchets in his head, I would now be 3 making a lawyer and a statesman of him!" This lawyer was an odd genius in that neighborhood, but his talent and learning - kept hlm above board, for litigants who feel s more strongly in the pocket than the heart, e employ those who can do the most for them. t But in the whirl of so'much business Or- lando did not forget Amelia and little Currie. s He called several times at the house whither the child had been taken, but was spurned it from the door as one whose step would for,- g ever stain its threshhold. Hie wrote to Amnc- lia of this ungenerous conduct, but received er no reply. He heard of the transfer of Ourrie e i to the Poor-House, and wrote again with great 'e haste and emphasis, but received no reply. He visited the little cast-off at the citadel of )y the poor, and seeing its dreadful situation, d. wrote again, but received no reply. In the id course of three months he wrote a score of a- letters, but received not a single line in re- c. turn. page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] What was the matter? Surely if he had not written at all she would have written to him -so anxious was she to hear from little Cur- rie. What was the trouble? He revolved the circumstances carefully and concluded that the potrtmasters at both ends of the route had an understanding with Mr. Backus that no suc h letters should be for- warded. What did hle do? He did not go to the postmnaster and charge him with misfeasance in his office, for that might put him on his de- fence, and no satisfaction would be obtained. Hle called firt upon Mr. Backuis, and said to him - Sir, I have business with you of the most weighty character." "What buiness have you with me?" "I have written twenlty letters to Amelia, which, instead of being forwarded have been handed to you." The parh.,on turned pale and trembled. His surpri e betrayed himi. Orlando continued:-- "I have come to demand these letters, and lshall not be refu.,ed." Collectirng himself a little, he asked- "IIas the postimaster told you I have them?" No." * "Tow dare you then to charge me with ; such an offence?" "I Bcause I know you are guilty," replied d Orlando, bendinfg uponl him a glance that went to hi, soul. "' Deliver me these letter, 1 and I dropI the suilbjct v ith you." The parson was frightenied. le went forth- a with to his detk, brought them forward, and p gave theni to Mr. Cdinton. "T}hank you, sir," and Orlando departed. Mr. Backus retired to his study, and buried t himself for some tinme in a torrent of brown j reflect ions. hle was inaturally a conscienitious 1 man, and would not, for a slight inducement violate either a law of the land or a precept of the gospel. he had given his instructions to the postmaster concerning these letters, and t after obtailiintg possession of them, he had an ' excessive curiosity to sec what they contain. H ei. Accordingly he opened them, not dream- d ing that he would ever be called to account by so young an individual-a mere youth- b so much despised as Orlando. But after he d found that the foresight of the young man had d penetrated the circumstances-taken a kind ir of spiritual glance into his desk, and there discovered the evidence of his underhanded tl )t scheme, and of his offence in breaking seals an held sacred by both the civil and the moral - law, he felt humiliated, and an inconsolable agony overwhelmed his spirit. 1 For any man to be thus guilty of a mean- s ness and a crime is bad enough; for any man to be detected in his offence is infinitely worse; but for a minister of the gospel to be both guilty and detected in his crime is ter- rible to think of And for him, the Rev. Mr. e Backus, to be so beaten and humiliated by such a sinner as Orlando was awful in the extreme! But he consoled himself with the reflection that this was different from ordinary .cases, for the interests of his daughter were atstake. and he was yet her guardian, having the rightful control of her person. Why, then, could he not take Orlando's letters, anrd open them too, without offence? Yes, he had the rightful guardianship of his daughter, as long as he followed a truthful course, but when his control went beyond the bounds of benevolence and justice-when he attempted a violence upon the purest sentiments of the heart, then his authority terminated, and Amelia became her own governor. Blesides, she had the example of her mother to direct, and was still conscious of her spiritual direc- tion even from the spirit-land, where she now dwelt. Orlando was not surprised when he saw his letters had been opened, for he expected noth- ing less. But he disdained the thought of appealing to the law for redress, or even re- porting the case to a single soul, to increase the misery of the parson. lie went directly to the postmaster, and told him lhe had not forwarded a single letter he had deposited in his office for Amelia Backus, "You impudent rascal!" was the reply. "I tell you the truth," said Orlando. "You great scoundrel! Dare you tell me to my face that I have not done my duty?" 'rThe postmaster was one of those rough and stubborn men not easily frightened or readily driven from his position. " I have dared to tell you what I know to be true," said Orlando. ' Do you see these documents?" he asked, holding up the bun- dle of letters. But the official preserved an imperturbable gravity, and coolly asked- "Do you pretend to say I did not forward them?" "Not according to their direction." "But I forwarded them to one who had the only right to receive them, and you may just hold your impudent tongue and be off." "BIut, sir, I am not done with this affairY You are liable to prosecution, and perhaps I should not do justice to the community by let. ting it pass." "Justice to the community You talk about doing justice to the community! ha, ha, ha!-that is laughable. Why, young man, you could not find a court or magistrate to be- lieve you under oath." "Don't be too rash in consoling yourself; you will find out that I am not so powerless as you may affect to believe." "If you have frightened the chicken-heart- ed parson you can't alarm me. Why, sir, I'll give you a written confession of the manner in which I disposed of those documents, as you call them." "Very well-do it if you dare." The postmaster wrote down the facts, sign- ed his name, and throwing it into Orlando's face, said- "There-begone and do your beast. You are a nuisance to this community, and the sooner you make your escape the better." Orlando carefully folded the paper, and put- ting it into his pocket, bid the official a very good day, and departed. What did he intend to do with it? Would he appeal to the law? No-none of this. Orlando never saw any good result from litigation, or from the admin- istration of criminal law. he believed socie- ty had no right to do aught but good to any human being, and it were better to let all of- fences not destructive of life or liberty pass unnoticed, than increase the degradation of an offender by ignomi nious p)unishmuents. But what use did he make of that confes- sion? He thought that such a man should not be in a public position, and oug!ht to be turned out of office. But how could he ac. complish it? The people were against him and would not listen to his story. They would tell him he was served right, and let it pass. He was young and unknown--but could he bring the proper influence to bear at Wash- ington, for his removal? His shrewdness and intelligence did not leave him long in doubt. Hie took the confession to a magistrate and asked him if he was acquainted with the hand writing of the postmaster. 4 "I am." "Is that it?" showing the document. "It is." ", Will you certify to it?" "For what purpose?" "Leave that to me. Thle man has told me to do my best with the document, and I ask you to append your certificate that it is in his own hand-writing." "Very well," said the magistrate; and he did so in his official capacity. "Now I wish to append my affidavit, that the postmaster wrote and signed the docu- ment in my presence." The magistrate wrote the affidavit as re. quested; after which he said to Orlando, handing him the Bible to kiss-- "Hold up your right hand." "Excuse me--I don't swear--I affirm--and have no use for the Bible but to read it at my leisure." "Are you a Quaker?" "I am n t." "None biut Quakers affirm-the affirmation is calculated for themt because of their consci- encious scruples about appealing to the judg- ment of God in such cases, and because they believe the injunction, ' Swear not at all,' for- bids an oath." "Well, I amu Quaker enough to think a man degrades himself by kissing the dirty sheep- skin that covers the Bible, and calling upon God to punish hitm' if he swear falsely; as though he had not integrity enough to tell the truth without the fear of damnation to re- strain him." "Then I must change the form of the affi- davit and make it an affirmation." The mag- istrate made the requisite change, and took the affirmation of Orlando with out raising his hand.. But did he stop here? Was the document strong enough to satisfy the Department? Or- lando thought it might be stronger; and tak- ing it to the proper officer hie. obtained his certificate that Mr. Page, before whom he had made affirmation, was a magistrate according to the import of the docnmerit. This done, Orlando folded it carefully, placed it in an envelope, and carrying it to a neighboring post office, mailed it to the De- partment at Washington. It was enough. Such a malfeasance in of- fice could not be tolerated, and the return mail brought the dismissal of th' offending page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] P. M., and the appointment of another in his place-one for whom many had endeavored to procure the office before, but not being so shrewd as his competitor, or so unscrupulous in the means employed, failed. When the ex-postmaster received his dis- mission he growled out "Well, he has done his best, and a pretty game he has played too." So sudden and unexpected a change caused the utmost excitement throughout the commu- nity, and there was no rest until all the facts were known. Orlando could not prevent their being known. The greater wonder, though, was that such a youth as Orlando could effect so much. The people now, from his success in business, and in removing the postmaster, concluded the less they said for or against him the better. CHAPTER VIII. When we last parted with Amelia, she had been called to account for the disregard of the aristocratic customs of the teachers and stu- dents of the Academy, and for her regard to- ward the servants, and her desire to promote their interests. She quietly observed the positive rules of the establishment, for she knew that they had the right to prescribe such rules as they pleas- ed, on which students can be admitted-and those who would not obey had no business there. She made rapid progress in all she under- took to learn, and was the first in all her class- es. The principal and teachers were compell- ed to acknowledge her superiority, for she was able to extortfrom them that reluctantconsid- eration they would be glad to withhold. Nei- ther could they gracefully ridicule the fruits of her benevolence, for they were too conscious of the self-evident truthfulness of her course. She was the first one on the lists of beauty, talent and goodness-what success could they expect against such formidable powers! In conversation she possessed an invincible at- traction, on account of the elegance of her language, the originality and truthfulness of her ideas, and the charming music of her voice. Scarcely had she been at the Academy three months before all would willingly recall what they had said against her, and follow her example, were it not for the general un- popularity of her democratic views among the aristocracy who scorn labor and despise those compelled to toil for bread. The contest was ever between pride and truth; and though the former is generally successful, yet the strength of pride becomes comparatively less when truth is supported by the example and firmness of one like Amelia. The principal and teachers of the institu- tion were afraid of adopting the views of Miss Backus, because they would bring odium upon it among the wealthy of society, who send their daughters thither for refinement, instead of learning the duties of life and the rights of mankind. It would lose caste-and that would le ruinous Amelia attended all the religious exercises required of her, for they were not irksome, and she would gladly elevate the religion of the institution above the vanities of life, and the degradation of the toiler. Though ex- eluded from all association with young gen- tlemnen, yet they could not veil her beauty, dim the lustre of her eye, nor throw a stupid- ity over her intelligent countenance. She was seen at these meetings only to be admired, and the beautiful student became a subject of common praise. Many of the lead- ing young men of the village secretly and even openly cursed the despotism that would not permit an acquaintance with one whose society was evidently so desirable. The knowledge of her intelligence and proficiency could not be concealed within the walls of the Academy. All knew the facts, all talked of them, and more than one resolved to seek her at home when she should make her es- cape. Even the poor of the villagq appreciated her as a champion of their rights, and in grat itude for her services in so changing public sentiment as to ameliorate their condition, tendered her a tea party, and earnestly so- licited her presence! The party was to be composed of both the male and the female ser- vants, and though the rules of the institution forbid her attendance upon such gatherings, yet the difficulty was obviated by placing her in charge of one of the clergyman of the place, who had been one of the number per- mitted to visit and converse with her on re- ligious topics, according to the advice of her father. The party was a numerous one, got up and conducted in good order. More than one sprig of the aristocracy wished they were la- borers, for the sake of appearing on that occa- sion and claiming the attention of the heroine We cannot describe the impressiveness of that scene ' There were the poor servants who were subjected to a burdensome toil and cast out of genteel society; they had found one friend who had given them hope that a better time would dawn for them. As they gazed upon the faultless figure of Amelia, and saw one who could be the first in any circle, and yet spurned aristocracy because it was false and soulless, and desired. only to be an humble agent of good to the oppressed-as they saw her under such circumstances oppo- sing prejudice and disregarding a false popu- lar opinion for their sake, who could wonder that their eyes swam with gratitude, and their hearts swelled with the holiest love for her I And when she meekly glanced around that thankful group, saw their emotions, and re- flected how they were victimized by the error and pride of the few, is it a wonder that she could scarcely restrain the tear-drop? But not to exend our notice of this happy entertainment, suffice ip to say, that the senti- ments of the party were expressed in the fol- lowing resolution, drawn by one who had seen better days, blit was thrown round the wheel of fortune into servitude. tesolted, That in the character of Miss Amelia Backus, and in the principles by which she is governed, we behold the evi. deace that the time is coming when all man- kind will dwell together as brethren and sis. ters, and mutual love will secure the highest mutual good. Such a thrill never passed from heart to heart as the reading of this resolution sent through all that group. The cheers it receiv- ed were as emphatic as the feeling it excited. Amelia felt the spirit that was manifested, and bowed her head to conceal her emotions. But she could not let the occasion pass without responding to the sentiment, and de. claring the reasons of her faith in the redemp- tion of humanity. Recovering herself she rose, and if an angel had suddenly appeared t amongst them a deeper silence, a profounder attention could not have been produced. She said- "I would that I were worthy this occassion, and merited the character that has been given me. I have simply endeavored to do my I duty, and for tlat I deserve no special thanks. e I know that we are all most bountifully pro. vided for by our Father in heaven, and I know, too, that the wrongs of mankind have I perverted his blessings, and filled the world f with ignorance, servility and woe. I know that we have a most beautiful and fruitful earth for a common inheritance, but I see it engrossed and abused by avarice; see multi- tudes deprived of their Father's bounty, and doomed to live without that home of abun- dance and joy which all might possess woer mutual good the universal motive. I am only ambitious of the true life, and if I can main, tain it, I shall rejoice both on my own account and in the hope of benefiting others. I shall never forget this occasion, and shall consider your gratitude an ample reward for a life of devotion to your welfare." The scene seemed to produce a peculiar ef- fect upon the feelings of the clergyman, who had accompanied Amelia to the comlplimen. tary party. He was proud of being the right- hand man of such a heroine, and rejoiced in this outpouring of affection and gratitude to her. lHe was not disinclined to mingle his sympathies with those of the company, for lie was inot insensible to the beauty, talent and natural refinement of Miss Backus. Neither were the company unmindful of the fact that a clergyman was in attendance ; nei ther were they unmindful of that other fact that some of their most grievous oppressions were inflicted by those professing to be of the strictest sects. They remnembered well that they had too often been compelled to watch the house and take care of the children on Sundays, while their employers worshipped, and that they were thus deprived of leisure, even on Sunday, and of all the means of reli- gious culture. The men-servants, also re- membered to their grief, that they had been compelled to driveo their masters with their families to Church in great state, and remain without in company with the horses, while their Christian employers worshipped within I Thiey, therefore, would not overlook the clergyman present, for he preached Jo some of these aristocrats, and, depending on them for his bread, was under their influence. Another resolution was introduced: Resolved, That it is an absurdity for the Church to attempt the promotion of our heav- enly interests, except by first advancing our earthly welfare. page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] This called out the clergyman. He was carried along in the current of feeling and forgot the cold atmosphere without. Amelia and the company had infused into his heart the spirit of equality, and he felt like giving a welcome response to the sentiment. He had held frequent conversations on the subject with Amelia, and she had convinced him that the enjoyment of heaven depended on the im- provement of the soul in this life-that virtue and religion depended upon the cultivation of our intellectual and spiritual powers in this world-and therefore the system of things was wrong that deprived the poor of this cul- tivation, and consequently of the happiness of heaven;-in fact she had convinced him that those who engross all the means by which the masses may be educated and christianized, and wasted them in luxurious living, were act. ing against their own highest celestial inter- ests; for, though they ride in state to church, worship in splendid temples, and listen to elo- quent clergymen, whose talents command salaries of thousands, still the spirit that did not revolt at all this display while the poor were suffering for physical comforts and dy. ing out spiritually, was better prepared for the company of the pit, than for that of the an- gels in heaven. The clergyman, therefore, responded in ac- cordance with the sentiment of the resolution, and expressed the hope that the Church would soon learn the science of the spirit, and guar- anty its highest development to every human being. He told them that he would throw all his influence in the scale with the great Church-reform that was demanded by every consideration of human well-being. The company heartily cheered his senti- ments, and finally separated full of hope and encouragement. The clergyman was yet a young man., hav- ing graduated with the highest honors at Yale College, and carried the prize for theological excellence. He had been preaching about two years, and being honest, eloquent, and in all respects a fine man--in the usual sense- he was popular in the community, and dearly beloved in his congregation, especially by the fairer portion of it. he was of a tall sym- metrical figure, commanding in his demeanor, intellectually noble in his appearance, and armed with black penetrating eyes, that pos- sessed the power either of fastening the be- holder in a kind of charmed thrall, or of crea-! i ting a desire to make an escape from their pen- [ etration. i t That Amelia had found a secure place in ;his esteem, and began to draw upon his more tender affection need not be related, after the intimation we have given of her influence in reforming his opinions. He had become a ; very promising disciple of hers and she had taught him more real truth in a few months : than he had learned during his whole collegi- f ate and ecclesiastical course. As the clergyman accompanied Amelia back to the Academy, he directed his conversation o her history, and the position she occupied. "Who taught you the peculiar philosophy which you advocate?" he asked. How many recollections were called up by this simple question! Orlando, Currie, moth- er, father, home-all came vividly before her, and with them the most bitter reflection that she had received no letter but from her father, nor heard a word of little Currie! She heav- ed a sigh that was not unnoticed. "Why do you sigh, my dear?" he asked. "Oh sir," she replied, " you are becoming a little to affectionate. You may call me Amelia or Miss Backus, without the dear. That I sighed 'tis true, and that I have rea- son to sigh when I think of home is also true. Your first question called up a host of asso- ciations." "I beg your pardon, i iss Backus. But why may I not call you my dear? If your home associations are unpleasant, lean upon me, I will protect and comfort you." (If a universal love prevailed among all mankind, so that each could honestly call the other my dear, I would have no objection; but in the present cold condition of the world, 'my dear' from a young man to a young wo- man is significant of a peculiar tenderness." "But may I not indulge this peculiar ten- derness toward you, Amelia'? In other words Imay I not love you?" "'For your own happiness, I warn you against it. I can give you no hope that any particular tenderness will be reciprocated." "But, Amelia, I will profit by one of your own doctrines, that you cannot entirely crush out the affections by any sudden stroke; we cannot by command call them out or drive them back ; in other words we cannot entire- ly control them. I must say to you, then, that I love you dearly, and cannot help it." Amelia sighed again, for she dreaded to be the occasion of his unhappiness. The cler-1 gyman noticed her unpleasant position, and politely said,- "Let the subject pass, then, for the present, and be so kind as to answer my first ques. tion." "Who instructed me in my philosophy? I have a brother and his name is Orlando. He has seen much of the world for one so young, and has profited by his experience. He holds the same views, and I would that he were here to give them the charm of his ear- nestness, his eloquence and his philanthropy! I have a mother, and she is in heaven; but still is my instructor, and to her spirit do I look for divine truth. I find no difficulty in obtaining all the truth I can advocate and reduce to practice." For some moments the clergyman, whom we may call Mr. Ormand, remained silent, and seemed to be absorbed by serious reflec- tions. At length he said,- ' I have spent ten years of time and thou- sands of dollars to obtain my education- classical, literary, scientific and theologi- cal-and all the practical truth I learned during that time does not amount to so much as I have learned from you in a few conversa- tions." "Oh, sir, you are endeavoring to flatter me. You have failed to learn the first princi- pleof my nature, if you are ignorant that flat- tery is wasted upon me. "I am serious, Miss Backus. I spent four years and nearly two thousand dollars in the study of theology, to qualify myself for a pub- lic teacher, and what did it all amount to? I had studied science, but theology taught me the grossest perversion of science. I stud.. ied intellectual and moral philosophy, but theology spread it all over with falsehood- falsehood as to the relations of man to man, of man to the bounties of the earth, and of man to God. Theology taught me that all the distinctions in society-of rich and poor, higli and low, bond and free-were of divine appointnenti. Theology taught me that the basest man is accountable for angelic goodnePss, that all are alike capable of moral and religious perfection-and yet theology taught me that all are naturally depraved-- totally incapable of any good whatever. I studied the classics, only to enable me to un. derstand the fathers of this absurd theology. It taught me the theory of the universal and [perpetual discord and antagonism of society; while a few suggestions from you have reveal- ed to me a beautiful system of harmony and brotherhood, in which all enjoy a fulness of the divine bounty, and none are the servants of another. You have let me into the truth, and the reason it cost so much time, study and expense to learn the common system of social and religious philosophy is, that it is false, and falsehood is always difficult of com- prehension. ' But the mind is adapted to truth and readily receives it, while it repels false. hood, and before receiving it must be, as it were, broken into it. "Well," said Amelia, "I have received much benefit from my conversations with you, and if I have paid you by a returning benefit, I rejoice." "I feel free now-emancipated, and more like one who can be happy himself, and aid in promoting the good of others. After receiv- ing so much benefit from you I ought not to ask an additional favor. But I cannot avoid it. I only lack one thing to complete my happiness. Could I enjoy your love, me- thinks I would insult heaven itself in crav- ing an additional blessing." "Do not mention that again. I have told you, Mr. Ormond, that my love must not be sought. Besides I am to young to incur the consequences and responsibilities of love, if not to think of it," "You may be young in years, Amelia, but you are mature in judgment, and better quali- fied at your age, for matrimonial life, than nine-tentlis at thirty. Besides, there may be a love that is blissful without any of its ordi- nary consequences or responsibilities." "I speak from the universal experience and practice of mankind, when I say that the consequences and responsibilities of love are, most momentous in their character. The world has been too long cursed by the wrongs of premature marriages. Both of us are yet too young by nearly half a score of years. We are not mature, and the physical and mental imbDecility of the progeny of immature parents should be a warning to us, who claim to possess so much trutlh, to beware of doing the same injury to others." "I had not tht most distant thought of these things in loving you, and asking your love in return. I only thought how happy I would be, if your pure spirit could blend with mine." page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] "I presume you did not, for such is the general error with those who passionately and purely love. But I am not blind to the sober realities of love, and know that, though it may be pleasant to indulge its spiritual ecsta- cy, yet it is not always mere poetry and rap. ture, for the sober realities will come. It is sinful to overlook this fact. I have expressed my determination, and as firmness is the most essential and the least maintained in the mat- ter of love, you will pardon me for my plain. ness." At this point of the conversation, they ar- rived at the door of the Academy, and separ- ated. The clergyman went to his study, and though it was late in the evening, he could not retire to rest until he had exhausted him- selfin reflecting upon what he had heard. Could it be possible that Amelia would never love him-him who had always been admired -him, who possessed every accomplishment, was envied for his talent, eloquence, com- manding appearance, influence and position? What could be the reason that she did not re- joice in his love? Was it possible that she loved another? This was not likely, for she said herself that she was too young to love. Then, she was under the displeasure of her father, and not popular with the teachers and students, except in respect to her talents, which they were forced to respect, why would she not be glad of the esteem-not the esteem merely, but the most ardent, undying love of one in so commanding a position? The Rev. Mr. Ormond reviewed all these circumstances, and concluding that there was yet hope, that she might only be testing the strength of his love, retired to rest, and to dream of his ideal of female excellence and loveliness. Miss Backus went to her study, but her thoughts were not long occupied with what she had seen and heard. Her spirits revisited the scenes of the past year and a half at her father's house. She had not yet heard from Orlando or little Currie, whom she had pledged herself to her mother to protect. She had a presentiment that all was not well, and as she invoked the spirit of her mother she felt rebuked. The death bed scene of that mother was presented anew to her mind. There she lay awaiting the moment of depart. ure, and there she saw herself holding little Currie to her cold cheek as she bid it a final farewell. And more impressive than all, she jseemed distinctly to hear the adieu to her only child and friend. f' Farewell, my dear Ame- lia. I depart, but I will not desert you. Call upon me and I will be near you; but call not unless all is well with little Currie." And then she saw her die, and finally she followed her to the grave. A thrill of terror passed through every fibre of her frame. She was more than convinced that all was not well, and that she could not commune with her mother until all waas right. She felt conscious that her mother was saying to her that all was not well-that little Currie was abused--that the little innocent must be rescued or she would soon receive it to her own bosom in heaven, and cherish it as a wit- ness of her daughter's unfaithfulness to her pledged faith. But she began to reason the case. Certain- ly she stood out against her father as long as she could, and not refuse a compliance with his reasonable request. Her father had ap- parently furnished a good place for Currie, and to make all more certain, Orlando had promised to write often that she might know all. Surely, she thought, there could be little blame attached to her, and if others were un- faithful she could not be held accountable for the consequences. But why did not Orlando write? Ah, she knew he did write, but a conspiracy was afoot to withhold his letters. This was evident from the strictness of the guardianship her father had enjoined upon the principal of the Academy. But why did le not carry his let- ters to a more distant office and thus have them forwarded? Ah, she knew he did, after waiting long without a reply. There must be letters in the hands of the principal belong- ing to her; but how should she obtain them? Having quieted herself with these reflec- tions, she retired to rest, and to dream of the sufferings of little Currie, the poor cast-off from a mother's love! Amelia did not welcome the morning light and nature's morning joys with her accustom- ed serenity of spirit. It would usually be supposed that the events of the preceding evening, so flattering to ambition and pride, would have occasioned in her mind unusual self-satisfaction and tended to increase her good opinion of herself and the world. With every one except an Amelia Backus this would have been the effect; but with her it was all of no other value than as an indica- tion that the oppressed are able to do some- thing for their own elevation, affording a hope of some speedy amelioration. But her humility would not tolerate the usual feelings excited by self-esteem and love of approbation. There was, moreover, a sadness resting on her spirit-a sadness occasioned by those let- ters which she knew had been withheld. She was satisfied that one or more of them were in the hands of the principal of the Academy, and she felt an irresistible prompting to ob- tain them at all hazards. She knew she was under the rules of the institution, and morally bound to obey the wishes of her father as com- municated to the principal, who was also bound to carry out his instructions. But she could not endure the thought of violating a single moral obligation; what then could she do? She examined the rights of her father, and herself, and scrutinized the duties of the principal and of herself in the premises. She sounded her own feelings and intuitions, and concluded there was a limit to the authority of her father as well as to that of the principal, and that neither of them had the right to impose obligations contrary to na- ture, involving the injury .of another. That the instructions relating to the letters were wrong, she was satisfied; and appealing to the spirit of her mother that presided over her thoughts and actions, she was confident of an approval of her opinions. Her course was resolved. She must have those letters, if her power could extort them. She therefore speedily called upon the princi- pal, and permitting her feelings to carry her just far enough to be firm and resolute, she opened the subject of her visit: "Mrs. Glover," said she, for that was the name of the principal, "I believe you have letters in your possession addressed to me which have been withheld according to the instructions of my father." "What reason have you for such a belief?" asked Mrs. Glover with some surprise. "My mental powers were not bestowed upon .me for nothing. The feelings of my heart were not designed to be suppressed, and it is foolish for others to oppose the honest conclusions of the former, or the inevitable dictates of the latter, and-it would be stupid for me to act against either." "But they may conclude and prompt erro- neously." "Who but me has the right of judging as to the truth of my own convictions and feelings? I was created to act according to the light within me, and that is a gross wrong that would prevent my action." "But you are young, under age, and yet under the authority of your father." "Society, or rather human law has fixed a certain age at which one may begin to govern himself. But what age has nature fixed? Our duties and responsibilities are prescribed by nature, or rather by God himself, who calls up in the soul of each a consciousness of self-ability for self-government, when the time comes in which they should control themselves. It is then that God begins to tell us what to do, and we do wrong in diso- beying his will, while others who prevent our obedience do a greater wrong. This age of self-government is fixed at an earlier or later period in life, according to the character of the individual. God's law is superior to all human law." Mrs. Glover, tie principal, was not so much surprised by these views so clearly expressed by one so young, as she would have been had she not had frequent manifestations of her intelligence. She, therefore, prudently re- plied,- "I have no disposition to argue these ques- tions with you; I fear they are too intricate for such as you or me to understand.. Modes. ty should modify our pretensions, and induce an acquiescence in the opinions of older, more learned and more capable persons." "Modesty'!" exclaimed Amelia. "But par. don my earnestness. Modesty against which the head and the heart rebel is a poor apolo- gy for annihilating ourselves, doing violence to our natures, and sealing our own misery. But as you have no desire to discuss this Iquestion, let me urge my request that those letters be given to me." "What letters?" "Several from Orlando Clinton." She knew by the blush that passed along the cheek of Mrs. Glover what she knew before, that the letters were certainly in her posses- sion. "I have no letters to which you are en. titled." "B lut you have the ones for which I ask- those from Oilando. I put the question to you, are they not ;n your possession?" I 'I have such letters, and am instructed to keep them." page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] "We have already spoken of the rightfulness of such intentions, and you refused to discuss the question. I understand your silence to be an acquiesence in the truth of what I have said, and I appeal to your own sense of right to hand them to me." "But I must execute the wishes of those who place their daughters here, or our insti- tution will lose all its credit, and be injured." "I understand that, and shall respect your position-trust me for that. Those letters deeply concern me, and I must either have them or take my sudden departure." "Will you wait until I can consider the matter and take advice?" "I will. But every moment's delay is mis- ery to me, and I hope you will consider my feelings." "Will you abide the decision of the Rev. Mr. Ormond?" "I will." Amelia left at this, expecting to wait no longer than till the next day. Early that evening Mrs. Glover sent for the Rev. Mr. Ormond, as she had business of importance and wished to settle it immediate- ly. He came over in haste, and Mrs. Glover soon opened her budget of business. Thle circumstances were explained, and the effect a compliance with Amelia's request would prob- ably have upon the institution. The clergy. man replied with great solemnity,- "This is a very grave question, and I must take time to consider before giving my opin- ion." "But Miss Backus is in a great hurry, as she says every moment's delay is a moment of misery to her." "Ah, so pressing as that?" and he paused as if a new thought had struck him. "When can you advise me? She says she must have the letters or leave immediately." "Will you entrust the letters to me until to-morrow morning, and then I will send you my opinion?" "Certainly," and she handed half a dozen to him, and he departed. Hold I What will be the result of the cler- gyman's curiosity in relation to these letters? Is any scheme afoot? CHAPTER IX. The letters had been opened and read, ac- cording to the instructions of the Rev. Mr. Backus, and information communicated to him of their contents. Seeing that. their seals had been broken, Mr. Ormond requested the i permission to take them away that he might peruse them at his leisure. He was pasion- iately in love with Amelia, as the reader is already aware, and nothing seemed so inter- esting to him as every circumstance relating to ler. These letters were from Orlando Clin- ton, whom she had called her brother; and Mr. Ormond concluded he was something more than a brother, soon as he heard his full name from the principal of the Academy. Mr. Ormond had found himself gliding into all the sentiments and feelings of Amelia, and felt that his love w as pure, and that he never could be happy without her society. tIe took the letters lhome with a palpitating heart, and as he sat down to the table to pe- ruse them, the clock struck the eighth hour of the evening. he first arranged them in the order of their date, as appeared in the post- mark written with a pen, and opening the first le read,- "My dearest Amelia:-" "Ah, his dearest Amelia! That is tender enough. She would not let me call her sim- ply my dear, in the positive degree. while this young man, her brother (!) uses the term in the superlative degree." With these reflec- tions he continued: "How long shall we continue separated in person?-we who are so thoroughly united in spirit?' The young clergyman threw down the let. ter and mused to himself: "Is that the reason she cannot love me? Perhaps she would become united to me in spirit were it not for this Orlando." But, taking up the letter again he read: "Amelia, this is the twenty first letter I have written, and not a word yet from you! What can it mean? Al, I suspect the reason, and shall soon look into the matter. I shall mail this at another office, expecting it to ar. rive at the Academy, if it does not come to your hand." The clergyman again paused to make a few comments. "So much in my favor. This Orlando is hated by her father-I have him on my aide. Well, who can tell what may yet be done. He read once more from the letter: "Amelia, our dear little Currie has been in the Poor-House more than six months! I have visited her several times. She is in the most-unpleasant situation you can imagine." We need not follow his description, for that we have already given. "Ah, what has our dear little Currie to do with Orlando and Amelia? He speaks of her as though she were their own child, but that cannot be. He tells her to hasten home if she would save the life of the child. He says that he has spent much time in finding a place for her, but without success, as the people all dislike him. Here again I am favored-the people of Geneva will be on my side." The Rev. Mr. Ormond perused all the let- ters, breathing the same spirit of earnest love, pure sentinient, and full of the doctrines which Amelia had advanced in her conversa- tions. He then reflected upon the probable effect of these doctrines in estranging her fatlh er and the people. He saw that Amelia had nearly triumphed with them in the Academy, and in the whole community around she was beloved by the laboring people. But he thought the child had something to do also with the estrangement, and rendered the suc- cess of her and Orlando more difficult. "1 must be cautious," continued he, "about advancing these unpopular doctrines in public. I thought of preaching some of them next Sunday, but will now hold on and wait the result. But what can be done? Here are six letters, all written in as many weeks, and the last one has been in the hands of Mrs. Glover nearly three weeks. I wonder how many times she has perused them? Is sle familiar with their contents? What shall I do? At this he rose and folding his arms began to pace the room with the extreme of anxiety and fear mingled in his countenance. Somne- times he would stand still for some minutes, gazing intently at nothing, but meditating a most extreme course. Finally he whispered to himself as if afraid to hear his own words: "Wonder how well I can imitate the writ- ing of Orlando?"At this he glanced up. ward with a wild look. and pausing a moment, whispered with emphasis,- "Forgery!--what I forgery! A blameless man thus far-a minister of the gospel-- commit the crime of foryry! A crimel Let me see-is it a crime at law? It seems to me, I have heard it said that forgery must be committed with the intention of defrauding another in pecuniary matters ;--if so, forgery in a matter of love is no forgery." This seemed to quiet him somewhat, and he sat down to try his hand. After writing a few lines to get hold of the chirography of Or- lando, he said,- "There, that looks very like his hand. It would deceive most people. I believe she has not received any letters from him. Twenty have been written that have not arrived, and here are six that she has not seen. Yes, my imitation would deceive her. It is good enough to deceive Mrs. Glover also, if she should choose to glance at them before hand- ing them to Amelia. The postmaster's hand too--let's see if I can imitate that. There- that is some like it--there-that is better. But she never saw the post-mnark, and the hand of that is of little consequence." Mr. Ormond threw down the pen and again paced the room. A struggle was going on in his mind. He was conscious of meditating a great wrong, if not a crime at law, but the temptation was too great. If he could conm- pletely deceive Amelia, he might.:lsueceld in gaining her love. If he should fail he would take care to secretly substitute the original for the forged letters; as he had noticed she left her trunk unlocked, and that could easily be done. "But," said he to himself, "how can I de- ceive so pure a being? Ah, pure she is, and that makes her more dear to me. If I can get her, I will imake up in goodness to her for the momentary pang that may be occasioned. If not, the substitution of the genuine letters will restore her happiness. But, how can I bear to deceive a woman? I who never yet deceived nmaun Her father has been deceiving her, and why may not I who am more inter. ested thant the father? She is under age, and morally bound to obey her father. The of- fence of deceiving her under these circum- stances cannot be very heinous, if I should succeed in reconciling her to her injured father." This appeared satisfactory, and even if it were not, the temptation occasioned by his passionate love were enough to induce the forgery. He sat down with a good degree of composure to the task of writing six letters to be substituted for those of Orlando. He wrote tile first one simply as a friendly epistle, on page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] matters of business. In the second he exhib- ited still more coldness, preserving Orlando's expressions where he could; the third was shorter, and still colder, still speaking of her as a sister, and nothing more; in the fourth he gave an account of a bright and beautiful one that had deeply impressed Orlando; in the fifth he represented Orlando in love, and already engaged to his ideal of all that is pure, beautiful and exalted." This, Mr. Ormond thought a capital hit. She had confessed Orlando to be a brother, and he was represented as having only a brother's esteem for her. Indeed, he went so far in his forgeries, as to make Orlando ask her advice as a sister concerning the marriage he had in view. All this seemed perfectly satisfactory, and he folded the letters, sealed them, put on the post-marks, broke the seals, and handled them over to give them as much the appear- ance of the original as possible. This done, the clock struck one, and Mr. Ormond retired to rest. Mr Ormond enjoyed but little "balmy sleep" that night, for there floated in his hazy vis- ions the spectres of ruined character, which now and then startled him as his weary pow- ers lapsed into rest. The act he had so far performed and intended to consummate shook his very constitution, more sensitive than one in ten because of the strict life he had thus far led. But he was not proof against the tempter, when he presented the hopes of such a prize as Amelia. The morning dawned, and without all was pleasant and peaceful as usual; but not so to the agitated mind of Mr. Ormond. The of- fence he had resolved was like a pestilential breath from the tomb, and it threw a mil-dew over the clear mirror of his spirit. Nature could not look into its chamber and behold the pure reflection of herself. Mr. Ormond arose, dressed himself with un- usual care to hide his ill appearance. He was met by the household with surprise; for the agitation and sleeplessness of the night had left the marks upon his countenance. The tenderest solicitude was manifested in his behalf. "Are you sick?" asked one. "What is the matter with you?" asked another. "Oh, I am only wearied with my writing last night. I became deeply interested in my subject and continued to a late hour." * Well, then, we shall have something extra next Sunday," said the good woman of the house in a jocular way. "I cannot promise you as to that," he mod- estly replied, while he thought to himself that if they had anything at all from him next Sunday it would be extra bad. His apology, however, was satisfactory. The lady of the house as usual brought for- ward the family Bible and the hymn-book, for the clergyman to perform his morning minis- trations at the family altar. The spirit of Ormond groaned within. He could not bear to desecrate the altar with his unclean hands, and handing them over to the man of the house, he requested an excuse on account of his own dullness, and retired. He went to his room, and laying the pack. age of letters from Orlafdo by the side of the spurious ones he was to substitute for them, ihe stood gazing upon them in agony for sev- eral minutes. "And shall this dark deed be perfected? I would gladly let this bitter cup pass from me. O, that there was the most distant hope of winning Amelia without such a course. She is dearly beloved by Orlando, and she doubt- less reciprocates all his affection. It were a pity to make them miserable-it were a great- er pity to tear apart two such holy and affec. tionate spirits. But--but-I love her too. It is not in the nature of man to sacrifice himself for another. The Bible-the Bible," he whis- pered, " teaches this self-sacrifice when a greater good will result. But the Bible teach- es a great deal that no one practices. Away -away-I cannot moralize now. It's too late. The risk must be run-the deed is re- solved." After taking several strong cups of tea-for coffee was little 'used in those days--he de- parted for the Academy to report his decision. Meeting the principal, he said, reaching to her the forged package: - I think the le tters should be delivered to Miss Backus. It is of no use to withhold them." "Do you intend to call upon her this morn- ing?" I do." "Be so good then as to convey her these letter and save ue the unpleasant act." "With pleasure," and the youtfg clergy- man summoning all his usual sweetness of temper, departed for the room of Amelia. Meeting her at the door he said: ' I thank you, Amelia, for the confidence you reposed in me by submitting the question between yourself and the principal to my de- cision. O, that I could find still greater fa- vor in your consideration. "I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Or- mond," said Amelia, as she took the letters with a trembling hand, and hastily retired to her table to read the epistles that she ex- pected were full of Orlando's love on one hand, and which she feared contained bad news as to little'Currie on the other hand. Mr. Ormond left, and unconsciously muf- fled his face with his handkerchief until he arrived at the outer gate. Then he paused for a moment, and whispered wildly to him- self: "Confidence!-the confidence she reposed in me! I thanked her for this confidence. Ugh-it is a bad business. And I kept that confidence with a precious care! Betrayed it But it is too late to retract or retreat. So let it work," and he passed on. With mingled hope and fear Amelia opened the first letter and began to read,- "MY DEAR SIsTER:" She started, and began to fear the worst both for Orlando and Currie. "' No more than that?" she asked herself. "Is he determined I shall be no more than a sister?"She continued to read,- "I still have for you a brother's regard, and should be glad to see you. When will you return?" "What!" Amelia silently exclaimed; "what! does he not love me? Did I not understand that he could not live without me? And is this all?" Amelia could hold no longer. After wait- ing so long to get a word from Orlando, and dreaming all the time of his love, and of how happy they would one day be, this chilling shock was too much. She bowed her head upon the table, and sobbed most convulsively. The brightest link that seemed to hold her to earth was broken. After some moments she became more qui- et, with the reflection that Orlando was yet young, and there was time enough yet to love, and she resumed her reading. The first letter told her of the fate of Currie, and she closed it, exclaiming to herself,-- "Father I Didst thou intend thus to de- cieve me? Is it consistent with thy character 'both as a father and a Christian thus to de- ceive nie? But I will not blame you; you think I am the guilty one for disobeying you -and that is a simple difference between us." She then read the second letter, but it was cold as the first, and told the same story of Currie. She read the third to the same effect, stat- ing also the wonderful success of Orlando in his business. She read the fourth, and Orlando spoke-or rather Mr. Ormond spoke-of a beautiful fairy, who had flown across his path. Amelia was thunder-struck. A bolt from the cloudless sky could not have more surprised her. o This is the-unkindest cut of all. What! amid all the opposition I have met on his account as well as on that of Currie, am I to be cast off? Is this support to fail me?" We will not stop to describe Amelia's grief. Let the reader picture it for himself. After some moments she again became more cool, and called upon her firmness and her philoso- phy for support. She read the fifth, and Orlando was passion- ately in love with the fairy. Amelia only permitted one quivering chill to shake her frame, for she knew it was of no use to give the affair an additional weight of woe. She read the sixth, and heradvice was ask- ed, as a sister, in relation to Orlando's mar- riage She threw down the letters, and the sweetest smile that ever adorned an angel's face, played upon her lips. She calmly said,- "I thank thee, Orlando, for teaching me the philosophy I need on this occasion. Let come what will-joy or sorrow, love or hate, life or death-be true, be firm, and calmly and reso. lutely bid the world defiance. Yes, Orlando, you too have deceived me; but you have fur- nished me an opiate for the pang. I did not think thee capable of deception. But it seems I am mistaken. True, I called you brother, and you called me sister, but I thought I read in your angelic eyes, in your words and whole bearing, something deeper than this. I feel a cutting pang, Orlando; it is a dreadful blow to me, but I am strong enough to endure it." Amelia's eagerness to see the contents of these letters concealed the fact that the seals had all been broken. As she came to the last one, she had already combatted with despair and resolved to meet the worst with an un- page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] shaken spirit. She therefore took it up with! of more deliberation, and noticed that the seal re was broken, which she then concluded to w have been the case with all of them. "Foul play!-foul play!" she whispered to herself. "But no matter, I have become ac- C customed to foul play, and this is the least of: a my grievances. My father probably instruct- ft ed Mrs. Glover to open the letters and commu- n nicate their contents to him. How he must sl rejoice in the news that Orlando does not love r me, and is soon to be out of the way by a hap- h py marriage with another. Another! another!" a and the wound she had partially healed by v her force of character was opened aftesh. Her a heart bled again, and in her grief she clasped c her hands, and elevating her face of pictured agony, she said,-- s "Oh, my mother, was I mistaken in giving v myself to Orlando, who appeared so frank, so 8 generous, so truthful, so loving and so divine s in all respects Has he given himself to a another, and am I still to be alone in this cold and ungenial world?"She paused as if in f fixed attention, as if endeavoring to listen to s the spirit of her mother and learn her counsel. I "Ah, my mother makes no answer! Has she. too, forsaken me? Am I to be deserted i by both heaven and earth?" She paused i again. But hold, my soul; cease thy repin- i ings. I am answered. A voice r hear from the bed of death-the voice of chastisement: ' Call not upon me unless all is well with Cur- rie.' Ah, all is not well. Away then, evan- 1 escent hope!-Away, then, deceitful love! Amelia is yet herself, and stoutly armed for any trial." Miss Backus did not attend her classes that day, and sent an excuse, which Mrs. Glover, thhi principal, could sufficiently appreciate. Indeed, she was excused for a week, on ac- countc of her agitation, which the principal was glad to conceal, because of her own self. consciousness of blame with regard to those letters. But what was Amelia to do? She was far away from Geneva, and there was neither ca- nals or railroad to convey one with expedition as now. Besides it was the fall season of the yea,', and the common mud-pikes were next to impassable. And again, slhe was alone, and how could she thus undertake so difficult and haiardous a journey i-'She mightwrite to her father, and implore him to come and take her home, but he would be likely to put her off for a season, or to entirely disregard her request. But, she again suggested to herself, would not her father be more reconciled to her now that Orlando was not her lover? Would he istill keep her away on account of Currie? She said to herself that .she might assure him of her desire only to seek a com- fortable place for the suffering innocent, and not to bring the child to his house. This she concluded was all she could do, and reconciling herself to the course, she wrote to her father, stating the design of her return, and declaring that she could not long live while aware that the injunction of her mother and her own pledged faith in reference to the child were being violated. We need not state all the contents of this epistle; suffice it to say that certain circumstances were portrayed with a force well calculated to occasion some sleepless nights to Parson Backus, unless he should comply with her request to come home, and start for her immediately. This letter was offered to the principal of the Academy for perusal, in obedience to the rules of the in- stitution, but Mrs. Glover refused to read it, bidding her 'write and send away what she pleased. .By this leniency she expected to mitigate the severity with which Amelia might regard her offence-opening her private cor- respondence. It was a week before Mr. Orinond could summon sufficient courage to call upon Ame- lia. But, finally, he put on his wonted amnia- bility and presented himself at her door, being a clergyman, and specially favored by the in- stitution in his pious visits to the students. "Mr. Ormond!" exclaimed Amelia, as he ; entered the door, " why have you been so dis- tant for some days past, knowing as you did the unpleasant news with which my letters - were filled. Surely, you have not been as I kind as usual." * Excuse me, Amelia," said he, pressing her * hand with his usual fervor, and manifesting mingled tenderness and sympathy. L You r will excuse me, when I tell you I was almost - an invalid for several days, and felt myself i poorly qualified to sympathize with you in e your afflictions. Buit, believe me, Amelia, I :t am the same that I have been, and love you e, with the same compassion." it '-Mr. Ormond," said Amelia, in a tone of o sternness. "I have confided in one, and that e Iconfidence has been betrayed." rl Mr. Ormiond began to tremble at heart, and his knees grew weak. He feared an exposure. But by an effort he made his confusion seem to be merely surprise, that one so pure and noble as Amelia could be betrayed. "Who," asked he, "could be so cruel as to oetray Amelia Backus?" "One I loved as the dearest part of my own existence. One whom I have mentioned to you--one whose mind was the fountain whence I drew the truth which you have so highly prized." "'Ah, Miss Backus, I suspected from your conversation that there was one you dearly loved. But how could that one betray such a being as thou? It seems as if my soul would sink at once at the thought of such a treason." "I know your suspicions, and as you had reason to imagine my disappointment I have told you all." "But you do not seem disposed to let it de- stroy you ; you bear the affliction with great resignation." "It is not Amelia Backus," said she, with emphasis, "'that will die under anything short of death itself. The pang was severe, and se- verely do I now feel it, but my philosophy is sufficient for me." "How can you confide in a philosophy coming from one so false?" "Because it is true. The falsehood of indi- viduals is no offence against philosophy. What do I say?" asked she, with a pause. "The truth should elevate its possessor above all wrong. But it failed with Orlando. His temptation was too great. It may be he did not fully understand the sacredness with which I viewed our relations. He may not be blameable. I will not hastily condemn him. But it is too late for me. Hle has pledged his faith to another, and from that he cannot retreat." "You are right as to the truth of the philos- ophy you mention, and one evidence of its truth is your own case!" "Mr. Ormond, I must leave the Academy immediately." 1"I have written to my father, and shall continue to write every week until he comes, or until my patience is exhausted. But if he should not come for me what shall I do? Lit- tle Currie is in the deepest misery, and I vow- ed to my mother a watchful guardianship of its welfare." "Amelia, be not concerned about the means of leaving. If your father does not arrive as soon, as he can well get here, I will speedily arrange my affairs, and accompany you home." "Thank you, Mr. Ormond, I have not mis- taken your kindness." "Remember I am at your service, and ready to make any sacrifice for you. Sacrifice, do I say? It is no sacrifice to be near you, and to promote your welfare." "I rejoice that I have one friend, Mr. Or- mond, and I shall not fail to be grateful to you ." Here the interview closed, and Mr. Ormond departed. We now pass over several weeks of impa- tience and anxiety. Amelia received letters from her father, but they contained only the advice that she had better remain contentedly for a short time until winter should close up the roads and make the journey more pleas- ant, It was nearly two months before she received the final reply, owing to the tardi- ness of the mails and the delay of her father. She could not wait for another reply to her request, for two months more would cause her too much unhappiness to endure 'while she had the power to avoid it, Accordingly she availed herself of the kind- ness of the Rev. Mr. Ormond, to accompany her to Geneva. He, of course, rejoiced at the turn matters had taken, and full of hope lie procured a good span of horses, and as fine and comfortable a carriage as the times afford- ed. Thus equipped they started off withl tile best wishes of the principal, teachers and stu. dento, of the Academy. Not a syllable was breathed as to the propriety of her starting off with Mr. Ormond-under the circumnstanres, for he was a clergyman and could neither do nor think a wrong. His own thoughts were now the most distant from further wrong to her, and he expected, if successful in winning her love, to make ample reparation for all the injury he had done her. The journey was a tedious one-the roads were wretched, the weather unsettled, though Mr. Ormondl thought it the most delightful portion of his life. He exerted all his amia- bility, learning and talent to make the most favorable impression upon her mind. He em- ployed all his eloquence, and love for nature, in diverting her attention from the unpleas- ant scenes at Geneva, and to a great extent succeeded. He studied her opinions and feel- ings, her likes and her dislikes, and accomo. page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] dated himself to them. They talked over and over her philosophy, and before they arrived at the end of the journey, the Rev. Mr. Or- mond almost forgot all his book theology; at, least it began to look wonderfully old, and seemed like the incongruous compendium of the opinions of the fathers in darker ages, when so little real truth was apprehended. After having traveled two weeks, they were within one day's drive of Geneva. Mr. Or- mond could not think of encountering Orlan-. do, without some assurance that Amelia would give him no countenance, and that she would feel nearer to him than merely as a friend. He opened the conversation on this subject: "Amelia, we are near our journey's edd." She heaved a sigh, and looked forward as if she might see the spire of the church in I which her father ministered. Mr. Ormond continued: "I fear your arrival as Geneva will call up old associations and make you unhappy." "I cannot avoid," replied Amelia, "think- ing of my dear mother, and I must go to her grave to drop a tear to her memory. I can- not avoid thinking of all the circumstances that have attended little Currie, and it may be her health is ruined at the Poor-House, in which event I 1saall be wretched on her ac- count, as well as on account of myself and the spirit of my mother." "Amelia, you often refer to your mother in heaven-I think your faith in future realities is stronger than that of one in a hundred of those who are the most devoted of our church- members." "I have more than a simple faith in these realities. I know, and knowledge is superior to faith." Mr. Ormond felt on this announcement still more like reverencing Amelia as one who had a farther spiritual foresight than is often vouchsafed to mortals. "But," said he, " will not a recollection of Orlando cause you the greatest affliction?" "Oh, no-I have settled all accounts with him, and he is to me a stranger." The heart of Mr. Ormond leaped for joy. He already regarded his hope as realized. What could prevent his triumph? Orlando out of the way-her father on his side, the people in his favor, and better than all, Ame lia entertainingtor him the strongest friend- ship-what should render his suit unsuc- cessful? "Amelia,' he said again, "you have not forgotten that I love you?" "I have not, and am under obligations to your love." "Talk not of obligations. You once refused me the happiness of calling you my dear- must I still address you in a cold and formal manner?" "I shall not hold you as strictly as former- ly, because my obligations to another are re- moved." Can you not reciprocate my love?" "Urge me not now. Let time develope her own events. I am yet somewhat chilled by my disappointment, and what the future will do for me and for you I cannot tell." The conversation on this subject closed here. They traveled on filling up the time with miscellaneous remarks and reflections, until they came in sight of the village or town of Geneva.. A short distance out they passed the shop of Orlando. There were many hap- py laborers at their toil, and Amelia knew from the letters that it was lis place of busi- ness. But, Orlando was not there. They drove speedily to her father's, and were welcomed by the parson with a world of gladness. He took it for granted that she was reclaimed, else the distinguished young cler- gyman could not have consented to accompa- ny her home. His second thought was an at. tempt to marry herto Mr. Ormond. In view of these circumstances he was joyful enough to forget all he had suffered in her behalf. After the common civilities, Amelia asked,- "Father, have you heard lately from little Currie?" O, daughter, all is well with her." "She is not dead?" "No, no-she is in a wealthy family a few miles distant; the servant of the family loves her dearly, and all the young and old are much attached to her." "I am rejoiced!" replied Amelia, with em- phasis, and lifting her eyes toward heaven, she clasped her hands and said, "Now thou wilt listen to me, and be near me. All is well with little Currie!"The tears of gladness that flowed down her cheeks, melted the heart of Mr. Ormond, and deeply affected that of the more stubborn parent. "To-morrow," resumed Amelia, "we will call upon this kind family, and I will show you the object that has so much excited your curiosity, Mr. Ormond." "With the greatest pleasure," he replied. The news of the arrival of 'Amelia with a young clergyman, and that she was perfectly reclaimed from her wild notions, spread like wild-fire through the village, and all the first ladies called to see and congratulate her. All was perfectly right, and if she did retain some lingering affection for the bastard, it was par- donable.- The next day Amelia and Mr. Ormond called to see the child, and she was thrice happy in finding her well, and amply provided for-and more than all she was rejoiced that Currie still remembered her. We shall not attempt to describe the interview, for we lshould only mar a most interesting scene. The next Sunday Mr. Backus' church was crowded to hear the eloquent Mr. Ormond-- the intended of Amelia, as it was reported. But what of Orlando? He had been gone for several weeks to see Amelia, and inform her of the fate of Currie, but she had left the Academy before his arrival. He returned in ten days after Amelia, and was astonished to see the turn which matters had taken. He found the report in the mouth of every one that she was engaged to the young clergyman. He accidentally passed her and Mr. Ormond in the street, but she only coldly nodded to him. We shall not stop here to describe Orlando's affliction. Enough that he saw the estrange- ment, and enough that all his philosophy was required to sustain him. Amelia did not care to remain at Geneva, and after two weeks she returned to the Acad- emy with Mr. Ormond. Orlando did not care to remain in Geneva after such a blow at his hopes and his love, and leaving his business to a partnership of those who had learned his mode of doing bus- iness, he left, as he supposed, forever, and traveled to the West. CHAPTER X. In those days also there were philosophers. One of this species of humanity dwelt in the State of Maryland-on a beautiful estate near Baltimore. He was immensely rich, and therefore the more wonder that he was a phi- losopher, He had a vast plantation, with plenty of slaves, male and female, to run at his bidding and to minister to all his wants and whims. Yes, philosophers sometimes are whimsical. The world called Heraclitus whimsical because he was contented with a happy life, and spurned the invitation of the king of Persia to make his court his resi- dence. The world called Epicurus whmsi- cal because he expended his patrimony in the purchase of a garden in which he and his dis- ciples could live in a state of perfect friend- ship, and because at his death he gave the garden to his successor in philosophy. The world called all those ancient sages wlhimsi- cal who expended their all in traveling for the sake of knowledge; and especially was lie considered whimsical who put all his wealth in the hands of the guardian of his children, telling him if they proved to be fools to give it to them, but if they knew enough to be phi- losophers to give it to those who needded it, as philosophers have need of nothing-they dwell among the gots and live upon their food, that which nourishes and exalts the mind. And in modern times the world thought Rousseau whimsical for refusing to reside with the great king of Prussia-telling him that he was poor indeed, and was under great obligations to the king for favors; but he asiked him emphatically if there were no poor in his dominions? and told him thlat his course had been truly glorious, but if he would make all his people happy he would render himself truly great, and 'J. J. Ros- seau, the enemy of kings, would willingly die at the foot of his throne." But the whims of our friend in Maryland were not exactly of this character. He was gray with years, and yet a hale, hearty old man, who sat like a king in his magnificent porch shaded by the beautiful drapery of hea- ven. He was the despot of his household, and every member had long since learned to obey every command without a word of mur- mur. But he esteemed himself a philosopher, and his idea of such a man was one who was king of men in the most literal sense. He was a great reader, and pretended to know all the opinions of the sages, and to be able to correct them when they fell into error. lie did not study that philosophy which overlooks the condition of society, for his sense of ben- evolence was so prominently developed, that he could scarcely endure the contemplation of the great evils of the social state both of Eu. rope and America, without having some plan for the reform of all abuses. His sense of jus. page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] tice, too, was such that he could not tolerate s any of the leveling principles that some began I to discuss, for certainly all that. a man had or could get was his own, and every one should c be permitted to get all he could. He therefore i felt confident that society had no claim on his t wealth; but in good advice he was most lib- i eral, and volunteered it on all occasions. His f family pride was enormous, and as he had but 1 one daughter, he was determinedI to marry her to an only son of a wealthy parent. But he I was a philosopher, and had spent twenty years, ever since his daughter was born, in solving two great, and as he was confident, the only problems of any consequence in hu- man affairs. The first was stated in this man- 4 ncr: How long, in this country where entail- inents are abolished, will an estate be likely to be perpetuated in the fumily? He had ob- served that the third or at farthest the fourth generation " ran out" the family estate and be. came poor as the poorest. To solve this ques- tion, he had gathered the facts furnished in all the wealthy families throughout the coun- try, and consulted the opinions of all who had any reputation for thoughtfulness. If any one called to see him, the first and last subject of discussion was as to this great problem. He kept a book in which he recorded all the facts and opinions in relation to it, and he became more and more satisfied that a family estate could not be considered safe beyond the fourth generation. This idea grew upon him as his years increased, and now that he was almost seventy, it became a monomania with him, or would have been, had there not been one other problem on which he was equally strenuous. He was the second inheritor of the patrimonial estate, and was therefore in the third geniera- tion, reckoning his grandfather who acquired it as the first. he thought by the most rigid discipline of his daughter in economy, and by miarrying her to an only son in the second or third generation of his patrimony, he would be sure the dignity of her house and her for- tune would be preserved. But what was the other great problem? It was this : How can the evils of poverty be ar- rested, and the state of Maryland, as well as other states, be preserved from the poverty which starved the masses in Europe? He con- sidered the problem in all its bearings, and could not conceive any other mode of relief consistent with theright of every one to obtain hoard and transmit vast estates, than a re- straint on the propensity for procreation. He became confirmed in the obligation of all the wealthy to consider the degree of their des- cent from the one who acquired the estate, and if in the third generation to beget no children to "run out" the family fortune in riotous liv- ing; and as to the poor, he said they were fools in begetting children when unable to leave them a fortune ; and as a greater stimu- lant to industry and economy, he would pro- hibit all the poor from having issue, until they had laid the basis of a fortune. This conclusion also grew more and more upon him as he grew older, and the world thought him exceedingly whimsical. But he could meet all opposition proudly; for he would tell the opponents of his views to pro- duce a better plan of social purification if they could, and if they could not, modesty should teach them to respect his philosophy. He *" headed" them here, for they had no plan to propose as a substitute, and they were com- pelled to hold-their peace. Hie frequently talked his philosophy to his daughter, after she came to years of under- standing, and endeavored to impress her with the fact that she was the last natural repre- sentative of his house, and it was fated that her children, if she should be so foolish as to have any, would "run out" the estate. This humiliation he could not endure. Not a drop of his blood should descend into the veins of poverty it would be a disgrace that would, as he thought, make his very bones restless in the grave. he was always talking on this subject with his neighbors, and sometimes tlhey asked him what he would do with his fortune after his daughter's death ; for if sihe should "live chaste" and die without heirs, it would go to some of her distant relations, who would per- haps be as wasteful and riotous as the children she might have. But he was prepared forthisdifficulty, He told them he had made his will, giving his wealthito his daughter during her life, provi- ded she should not give birth to a child, in which event it should go to ten industrious young poor nren, who were giving evidence that they were redeeming their families from * the curse and disgrace of poverty; and if I his daughter should live chaste, the estate f should go to those individuals after her death, , provided they continued to give evidence of - their rising greatness, and if not, his executes should select others to fill their places accord- ing to his intentions. This was thought a very curious will, but. the old man was a very curious individual, and no one could stand up with him in an ar- gument. Mr. Norman was another wealthy man of that county, and he had a son an only child. Young Mr. Norman was about twenty-five years of age, of many excellent qualities, and as well educated as his miserly fatlher thought he could afford to be. He was strictly watched by his parent lest he should be so foolish as to fall in love with a young lady of little or no fortune. He thought it a matter of justice that the wife should bring as large a fortune as the husband possessed; and this matter, in thet view of the old main, was of more importance! than all else. His son did fall in love with a bright and beautiful one of small estate, and he had riot visited her three times before the eagle eye of old Norman was upon him. "My son," said he, "you shall be disin- herited if you ,narry that gal. She is too inferior to you, and should keep on her own level." "In what respect is she inferior to me, fath- er? She is well educated, possesses a strong mind, is endowed with high moral qualities, and cannot be excelled in beauty. In, what respect is she inferior to me " - Ah, the unsophisticated soul! He had not yet learned what god the world worshipped. He had ever heard it said from the pulpit that "ye cannot serve two masters-ye cannot serve God and Mammon" -and really he thought it was true. But his gray-headed father, with a lean and narrow face and still narrower head, could teach him better than that. " Mind, morals, beauty!" exclainied he in s reply and with a snap of his finger, "they \ are not worth that, in the estimation of the world." "But the estimation of the world may be false ; and I an certain that great talents corn. mand high consideration." " Yes,'yes," replied the old man, with corn- pressed lips, but it is great talent in a man who is enabled to acquire both wealtli and sta- - tion by his talents.- But talk of talent and a morals and beauty in a woman!-whew I what a a foolish child. Why, young women have no talent of any account; and as for morals, the [ only rule of actin is her husband's; and as fi 5 for beauty. it is only given, like the charm of a snake in the grass, to fascinate and befool faint hearts. Ah, my son, I thought you were of sterner stuff-you must be taught better things." "1 But, father, does not one's happiness de- pend much upon his domestic relations?" ; Happiness I Why, child, you must look for happiness in another' quarter. Domestic relatirons are only a drawmon one's pocket and a burden on his back. You are my only child, and the reason you are so is, because I had sense enough to keep my domestic rela- tions as limited as possible. Happiness I My son, I must soon die I What greater hap- piness can you ask than to step into my shoes and possess all my money and my lands I And how can your happiness be increased ex- cept by marrying one who can bring you an equal estate! Then you would have it to boast thalit you excel your father. Die H- hlave my all! miery-isery ery!" and the old man trembled in the agony of the reflection. After a while he recovered, became calm' and continued: "Keep yourself from all foolish love, and I will provid orie oe who will be an honor to our house. But as soon as you marry without my consent, I will put rmy fortune where it will do you no good. Several months elapsed, during which old Mr. Norman was busy in seeking an honora. ' ble alliance forr his son. he was aware that this matter slould ble speedily arranged, else his son would throw himnself away in marry- ing a poor and therefore le thought worthless girl. Ire was successful. he talked with the philosopher, of whom wo s)poke at the begin- ning of this chapter, andt it, is surprising how speedily they struck a bargain for marrying the son and daughter. "Ia, ha, ha!" laughed the plhilosophner, "that is a capital hit. What a splendid fu- ture they will have after we are dead and gone!" " Dead and gone!" exclaimed old Mr. Nor- man, as the thought of leaving his gold and his lands rushed upon him like the spirit of a dreadiul fury. "Dead and gone " and again his rickety old franme shook with agony. "Why, yes, dead and gone I I am a philo- sopher. We must all be dead and gone be- fore long, and we might as well laugh at it, page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] and make the most of life while we live;" and tl hitching his chair toward the old miser, he' t slapped him on the shoulder with his trem- t bling hand, saying, "wake up, old boy, and h let death go to the devil. Be a philosopher." f; Old Mr. Norman was completely re-assured r by this onset, and he too laughed a kind of t hoarse half frantic laugh- b "' Ha, ha, let it go." Y "I hlave more to say to you," said the phii- losopher, "in relation to the union of your son e with my daughter." i * Well." f 'I have made my will, devising all my es- t tate, moneys and credits to my daughter, to s be hers during her natural life, provided she i have n3 issue from her body." t "What is that for?" asked the miser in great surprise The philosopher proceeded to explain to the miser his views on the two great problems 1 of which the reader is already informed, and ( which the miser had before heard. To all ( this the miser replied. "Crazy as ever." "Crazy as ever! do you say? Sir, I am a philosopher, and occupy a station to which you never aspired. It will not do for you to call me crazy." '; Well, well-never mind--let us continue about the business! I will consent to all the clauses of the will but one, and only ask you to make one modification, to wit, that to the clause during her natural life, you add, and at her death it shall descend to' Louis Nor- j man, if she shall marry him, according to nmy desire, and if he shall survive her, to be his estate during his natural life." The philosopher paused to reflect, and finally said, "This may defeat the great object I have in setting the world a lesson of true policy, and to vindicate the consistency of the two great problems I have solved." -"Not at all. If my son marry your daugh- ter and survive her, it Ilmay not, be bilt a few years, and he may die first; at all events it will only delay the reversion a very short time." Well, well, it is not worth standing about." V- The will was arranged satisfactorily, and the miser went home rejoicing. The matter was settled, and his son was told he might accept or refuse, but his refusal would make hilu a poor beggar all his life. The son thought the daughter of the philosopher was tolerable, and he would endeavor to love her. He began to visit her, and soon inmagined that lhe did love her, in which the fortunie of his father and that of her father were very mate- rial assistants. She hlad received iinstruc- tios from the philosopher and knew her fate; but as the son of the miser was a tolerably young man, she thought there was no great reason for refusi)g compliance with the wish- es of both the old parents. Slhe dreaded the injunction of chastity, and of drying childless, for she rather thought tlhat a son and a daugh- ter or two would add to her happiness; but she could not endure the thought of being dis- inliherited, so she made the most of it. She thoughllt how noble she and Louis Norman would be with both the vast estates; and this infatuation reconciled her to her childless fate. And so they were married--not amid dlisplay, for the old miser could inot afford it, and the old philosopllher thought simplicity the true order of all things. After the imatrimonial ceremony was con- cluded, thbe philosolpher, full of the highest satlsfaction in view of the fortunate marriage I of 'his daughiter, thought it ineumbrlnt, upon 1 him to give themn sOnhe solemni counsel from the fund of wisdom he had accumulated. Accordingly, after his huge volume contain- ing all the facts and statistics, touching his two pro/blems, he had been able to gather dur- ing twenty years of research, was broughlt to him, and after carefully cleanilgti and adjust- i ing his spectacles, he proceeded to di course r to the happy pair. After enlarging upon the i benefits of econoilly, industry and sobriety as esslenti'al to their individual hapDilness, as [ i well as to the preservation and increase of the t fortune they would soon. inherit, he opened e his encyclopedia of general knowledge, as he f deemed it, and proceededl: "My children, you have certain relations to - sustain to your fellows, and it is incumbent ;v upon you to listen t ttle voice of wisdoll. ' t I The book I hold in my hands," said he, ex- t;erting all his feeble strength in lifting it up with both hands, " this bookl contains the re- g suits of all lly studies and researches for thir- ty years. I shall transmit it to you as the d most valuable legacy you could receive, aside rI from your fortune, and shall expect you to it I profit by its instructions. It contains a solu- e 1 tion of the two great problems which underlie n all society, government and religion. In this book you will find the knowledge which all the philosophers of ancient and modern times have sought in vain-the knowledge of tile origin of all human evils, and the only sure means of remedy. It shows you by thousands of incontrovertible facts that all poverty, mis- ery, c'rime and insanity result froru the viola- tion of the first law I have discovered and demonstrated-the law that certain individu. als should not be instrumental in multiplying the human family, because their issue will cer- tainly fll among the poor and wretched. The second great law is, that a fortune cannot bo trusted to the heirs beyond the fourth genera- tion, as their descendants, and frequently tle children of the third generation, will dissipate it and become poor. It follows, therefore, that those without a fortune as well as those in the fourth generation of an estate, should un- der no circumstanaes become parents. These are laws I have discovered, demonstrated and endeavored to impress upon the world. You are in the third or fourth generation, and hence I have drawn my will with the inten- tion of constraining you to an obedience to them. I shall soon depart foirever, and I trust you will not dishonor the philosophy of Vour father by disobeying these laws." This is an outline of his most important in. structions. he was certain that he had dis- covered all truth, and that no improvements could be made in his theory. he was an ex- ample of a genuine hobby-rider; and such a horseman always thinks himself more firmly seated on his nag in trembling age than while in the prime of life. The philosopher having concluded, it was now the miser's turn. He, too, had some inm- portant wisdom to communicate. Elevating as well as he could his cadaverous counte- nance, out of which his miserly liabits had chased every line of delicate feeling and of pleasant expression, he began: 7 "My children, I never could comprehend the views you have just heard. But I have not lived in vain. No--no--no,' and he brought his cane to the floor with emphasis. "Look at my chest of gold, and all my vast plantations, and you will see I have not lived i for nothing. I have some good advice for you. i I will give you the rules by which I have t been governed. In the first place," said he, a with eyes flashing all the scheming fire that remained, , , In the first place, give nothing to 1 beggars-let churches build themselves--. I don't let the assessor value your possessions stoo high--make no parties, for they are expen- , sive-lend no money, except on the best secu- rity and at the hghest interest you can get-- 3have nothing to do with an unlucky man- don't feed your servants too well, nor keep too many of tlhem-never listen to friendship in accommodating others, for it is all hypocrisy; --in short, live at the least expense, and keep all mankind at a distance--thousands will live upon you if you give them any coun- tenance. If you observe these rules you will be sure to preserve your fortune ; if not, you will become poor. I, too, shall soon depart." At this he grew wild, and his nervous agi- tation incleased to an alarming extent. "Die!" exclaismed he, " die and leave my gold?"He turned pale as death itself, and faintly articu- lating the words ( die-gold--deeds-die-- leave all," his eyes rolled up, and became fixed in their sockets--his limbs stiffened--lie would have fallen prostrate on the floor had not his son anud the philosopher sprung to his support. The young bride screamed aloud, and was only quieted by the philosopher tell- ing her not to disgrace her father's wisdom. i' Death," said he, " is the lot of all, and he or she is no philosopher who cannot face the monster boldly." The old miser was laid upon a bed, and af- ter some careftl nursing revived. Slowly re. turning to his consciousness, he glanced about, him, and asked,-- ' Wheream I? What am I doing? How came I here?" Then glancing at his son and daughter-in-llaw, his recollection returned, and thinking of the marriage of his son, and of the probability that he would soon inherit all his gold and his land.(, he again becare fian- tic. Hie could not endure the sight of his son. "Away!-out of my sight!" said he--"thou fiend incarnate! You are anxious for amy death that you may get my gold 1" "Hush, hush1," said. the philosopher, pat- ting him gently, "be a philosopher; we must all die, and those who are bravest live tho longest." "But I am dying!--leave my gold and my title deeds? Oh horror Cursed fate that is so cruel! My gold--my deedsl Bring them to me--quick--quick, bring me my gold and my deeds i I am dying!" The wedding took place at the miser's house, in consequence of his feebleness. As nothing would compose him, his boxes of page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] gold and his deeds were brought from the iron ' safe in which they were kept, and as they i were brought to him he became more calm, I and a maniac smile was seen in his haggard face. i"There-there," said he, "lay them close to me that I may hug them. Louis-open them-open them quick!"Louis did so as speedily as possible, and raising up his hand the miser gazed with a frantic delight upon the shining metal. Closer and closer he bow- ed down toward it, breathing heavily, and the by-standers were transfixed by the scene. The miser continued,-- "Ah, thou precious treasure! ]how I love thee! Thou glory of life! Thou object of existence!"At this the thought of death again flashed upon him. "Death! death!l cursed death that would separate us!"And throwing his arms convulsively around the, gold. his eyes again rolled up and became fixed-he fell back upon his pillow,-and , again the daughter screamed, and the philos- opher and Louis sprang to his assistance. It was too late-death was there wrestling with the miser, who only revived with a few strug- gling gasps. The scene was closed, and the miser left the world an example of the fatali- ty of the passion for money-making carried to the extreme of its baseness. The house of marriage was also the house of death, if not of mourning; for who could mourn for a miser? Who but those who pity the man that thus becomes infatuated with a thirst for gold. The miser died and was buried. Louis Norman and his bride took itt their abode at the homestead, but it was long before the epi- sode of their marriage could be driven from their troubled minds. They thought it au- gured some sudden calamillty, and it required all the philosophlr's evidence to drive out their foolish fancies. The philosopher lived on for a season, per- suaded that he had solved the riddle of life, and unaware that his solution would cut off all the bounties of heaven from a large por- tion of the race, drive from the human mind many of its holiest affections, and frustrate the designs of Providence. But his theory was no falser than that actually in practice, which damns a large part of the world to pov- erty, slavery and woe. After two or three months Lonis Norman and his lady, the philosophers's daughter, were tolerably well settled in the old home of the miser. The father of Louis being now d&ad and out of the way, the son was rid of his parsimonious tyranny, and felt so free that he could scarcely preserve his equilibrium. It is always the case that when a pressure upon an elastic substance is removed it bounds to the opposite extreme. Louis and his wife readily agreed upon a wider scale of life than that of their parents. They had or would have wealth enough to command all the respect of the world-for half a million will confer more honor, even now, upon its possessor than the purest heart, the clearest head and the most faultless physi- cal endowmernts. Louis and his wife thought they had been excluded from society long enough--at least he thought such had been the case with him, and as for the daughter, her father had discouraged all society except with such as sympathized with the philoso- pher's theory, or would suffer to be endlessly bored with expositions of his problems con- cerning the rise and fall of family fortunes and the increase of the human race. Accordingly Mr. Norman at once began to plan more extensive buildings and gardens, and to look out for better carriages and horses. Indeed, the Norman family was to be redeem- ed, and no family in all that country should i be permitted to surpass the style and display of Louis and lady Norman. The philosopher wa-s not slow in detecting this spirit, and he took the earliest opportunity to obtain a hear- ing from the fortunate pair. Taking the first opportunity when they visited him, lie brought forward his manuscript encyclopedia and ran over again the evidences he had col- lected that a fortune was greatly endangered in the hands of the third generation, and del- icately hinted that he saw enough in their preparations to indicate the probable wreck of the fortune they had and would inherit. lie also hinted that such circumstances might I change his will. 'This discourse greatly troubled Mr. and Mrs, Norman, for the old man might disinherit her, and then--and then the inducement of the marriage on his part would be removed! But after talking it all over they concluded that as the terms of the will had been agreed upon between the miser and the philosopher before their marriage, and as the latter was "somewhat conscientious, he would not make ,. a change for a trifling cause. In this they were half right and half wrong; for though it was true that the philosopher was conscientious, yet he was well aware that "circumstances alter cases," and to make all more secure and not to defeat his object of setting the world a bright exam- ple of reform, he amended so much of his will as provided that the estate should go to the husband after the death of the daughter, and as the personal property rightfully belonging to the wife is given to the husband by the ab- surd law, he resolved to invest all his money and moveable property in real estate, so that the husband could waste no more than the "rents and profits." So far the philoso- pher thought himself justified in changing his will. If this should offend the husband, the philosopher was well aware that he had inher- ited enough of the miser's spirit to be induced to keep on peaceable terms with his wife for the sake of the rents and profits. Love or no love, he thought this was a sufficient bond of union,-and he did not greatly err in judg- ment. At the close of one year from the marriage of Louis Norman to the philosopher's daughter, the splendid buildings,. including the resi- dence and out-houses, were all completed ; the finest horses and carriages the country afford- ed were obtained, and Louis and his lady were fairly afloat on the ocean of high life. They spread every canvass and took aboard all that could contribute to the pleasantness of the voyage. But still they sailed no faster than the people thought justifiable consider- ing the half million of wealth in posses- sion and in prospect. True, the philosopher groaned from the very bottom of his heart; but Louis and his wife, intoxicated with the delights and gaieties of life that danced on their pathway and glittered overhead, could not heed his warnings nor listen to his entrea- ties. Said he-- "I care not so much for the waste of one of your parent's fortunes, and the income of my own, but it is a sore affliction in my old age to think that with me my theories are to die, and my two problems go clearly demonstrated are to be forgotten and lost to the world. What confidence can mankind have in my teachings if my children are to violate them in their practice 1" Why, father," replied the daughter, the noble Mrs. Norman, laughingly, "'many a philosopher's and clergyman's children have ! disobeyed the instruction they received, and no one pretends to hold the theories of the parents guilty of the frailties of the children. True, father, it costs us something to main- tain our establishment, but this cost is only a small item compared with our income, and we have not yet expended a cent of your in. come." The old man expostulated and entreated in vain. They had floated too far to recede. Parties, balls, soirees and so on in endless succession engaged their attention. Mr. Nor- man must have a grand resort for the wealthy and aristocratic, and to this end there must be slaves to cultivate his plantations, and there must be at least half a score of slaves as waiters about the house, and Mrs. Norman must have a genteel governess, and fully a score of female slaves to attend to the house- hold affairs and wait upon them. Mrs. Nor- man could not wash herself, dress herself, comb her own hair, nor lay off her bonnet and shawl after a ride-but there must be ser- vants ready to do all these duties for her. Mrs. Norman was, in short, one of the first ladies of quality, and all the people in high life thought she was a beauty of quality also. She was not devoid of intelligence, as her readiness in wit and rapartees fully testified. Many a gentleman who thought lhimself smart, was humbled in her presence if he attempted to joke. All things were full of life and joy, and Mr. and Mrs. Norman seenied to overflow with happiness. They could deny themselves in nothing and no pleasure could they forego. CHAPTER XI. Gloom gradually overshadows the house of Norman. All must be suspended. Paleness settles on the countenance of Mrs. Norman, and cards must be despatched far and near that she is in a decline. The philosopher trembled at this sudden change, and wondered what it meant But Louis was shrewd; he told him that he had concluded to come back to his theory, and i convince him that the estate was sate in their hands; that they had become tired of gayety and xwould now be sober. As a means of fairly disconnecting themselves fromi the world, they would retire to the country a few nionths and then return to a sober life. page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] The philosopher was elated, and he blessed his children. Tears of joy flowed down his venerable cheeks, and he began to breathe more freely. The trick worked-the estate of her father was safe, and away they went on a country jaunt. All things have their changes. Six months more and what a change! The heavens are veiled in black, and no ray from the bright and beautiful beyond penetrates the gloom that overshadows the spirit of Mrs. Norman. A single act, induced by the persuasion of her husband, and by a too strong temptation, have revolutionized all her thoughts and feel- ings. A few short months since, and she was exalted to the highest position of honor and nobility by the possession of a vast fortune ; now she feels humiliated to the lowest depth by the temptation of money, and her wealth weighs her down like a mountain. A few months since, and she was full of happiness and bounded in the joy of a youthful and sat- isfied spirit; now sorrow and shame and guilt have opened in that heart the bitterest fountain of woe and wailing. A few short months ago, and Mrs. Norman rejoiced in the giddy whirl of fashionable society, and she proudly flourished her gold and diamonds. challenging competition and rivalry; now all this is vain, foolish, and disgusting. Mrs. Norman would now sell all she had and give to the poor, if she could wash the guilt from her spirit and retrieve her innocence! From the moment of her return, yea from the mo- ment she turned her face homeward from her country jaunt. she began to feel the pangs off remorse, and the agony of a broken heart. No soothing caresses of her husband, nor no consoling arguments of her friends could al- lay her grief or quiet her spirit. Her agitation increased with every mile of travel, and for weeks after she returned to her splendid home, until she appeared more like a maniac than a woman of sound mind. What do we say? Though wild with re- morse and anguish, she was sounder than ever beforeI Truth, reason, and the outraged af- fections broke the bonds of temptation, fash- ion, pride, and wealth, and the head and heart were in rebellion against the despotism that had bewildered, confounded and perverted them. Nature assumed her throne, and was now dealing her terrible judgments upon the violence that had been committed against her highest laws. Belold Mrs. Norman as she gazes upon her jewelled fingers-see the wildness of her eyes, the mingled disgust and agony of her coun- tenance, as she exclaims,- "t Ah, ye little shining tempters I Once ye adorned the delicate hand of pride! a hand disdaining vulgar offices! Now ye but add to the guilt that stains that hand! For you this heart is whelmed in shame! Out of my sight, ye little monstersl Begone, for ye have ruined me!" and shaking with agitation, she stripped her fingers, and again exclaimed,- "What fate do you deserve? Shall the fire consume you as it shall one day consume all the dross and filth of the world? No-no, I'll save you for the benefit of the p)oor. You that corrupted this heart shall contribute to its purification. Purification! Oh! what can cleanse my soul from guilt!" Mrs. Norman gathered all her jewelry and placed it in a casket for a better use. She would sell it to those who delight in orna- ments, unheeding the cries of the widow and the orphan, and the proceeds should go to the needy. "The orphan! Ah cruel heart I have I not made an orphan! Have I not cast a little in- noeent upon strangers to meet a worse than an orphan's fate! Death I Death! Why didst thou not hurl this vile body in the dust, and save me from guilt and woe!" It was dreadful to behold the ravings and the convulsions of that self-injured woman. She passed from room to room, andI every or- nament, and costly equipage that met her gaze only excited still deeper pain, and increased her distress. She walked in the garden, but the flowers bloomed only to rebuke her guilt with the innocence which their beauties and their blossoms revealed. She retired to rest at night, but in the darkness she saw the ten- der form of the abandoned innocent. Ex- hausted nature sinking into :buniber, the de- mons of dream-land floating in her visions startled her with their horrid mockeories. Ver- ily there is no peace for the wicked. A distressed house was that of Louis Nor- man. All visitors were excluded, and it was thought necessary to keep the frantic woman in close confinement. Even the philosopher was excluded, for he must not know the cause of her trouble. But nothing brought her relief, while every thing increased her agitation. She knew not what to do. To r'tCurn to the place of her crime and recover the cast-off, would be to ex- pose their guilt, defeat their object, and Mr. Norman would not listen to her entreaties. What could she do. She addressed herself to the Eternal' Power, and sought advice. "Ye Powers that rule in mercy and over- rule all for go6d, judge now this wicked heart. What pennance shall I endure to mitigate my woe. Oil, God! thou art aware of the temptations that surround me, and with what a struggle I wrestled'with the demon of dark- ness. I have repented in dust and ashes. Is there no peace on the earth or in the heavens for a faithless mother?" She paused, and the silence of death pre- vailed. She leaned her head upon the bed by which she kneeled, and not even a breath could be heard. That spirit was communing with the angels above. That solemn room was full of ministering spirits, and the soul of that troubled woman was open to their rev- elations. To her, kneeling' there in spiritual rapture, there was no time, and hours passed 'that seemed but moments. See now, she re- turns to earth-consciousness again moves lier frame. There, she rises to her feet. A heavenly calmness reposes on her counte- nance. A sweet smile plays :upon her lips. She looks upward and in the thrill of her de- light, she clasps her hands and returns thanks-: "I, thank thee, oh, my Father in heaven. I will do all thy bidding and redeem my soul. Thou art merciful, for even the pennance thou hast prescribed will be a source of constant joy. Verily, no one shall come 'to thee in vain, who comes with a contrite heart and an honest spirit. I feel strong in heart to obey all thy commands. What has she been impressed to perform? It was to banish herself from the house of splen- dor, abandon all her wealth and luxurious ease, assume the humblest garb, and conse- crate herself to charitable' labors. She must wander through the earth, relieving the dis- tressed, consoling the afflicted' ard feeding the hungry. While on this mission she would have peace of mind, sweetness of sleep, and a constant growth in spiritual life. Calling Mr. Norman, she said in a calmn and resolute tone,-- "I go." "Go when?" asked he, surprised at hier ; sudden composure and the heavenly glow of ' her countenance. "I go about the earth to work righteous- ness." "Ali, what-your insanity is assuming a ' new phase." "I am commanded to go," said she with a firmness and emphasis that startled her hus- band. "Farewelll" and she reached out her hand to part with him forever. 'But you are not gone yet," said he, pla- cing himself between her and the door. "Think you to prevent me? As well at' tempt to defy the powers above, whose ser- ivant I am henceforth to be, and who will as- sist me in my escape from this fatal place." "'Don't you want some money to travel with?" asked he in a taunting manner. "Mock me not!" said she with a look and a gesture that shook his frame. "[ I have been cursed by money, and have no further use for it. I go on foot from place to place, minister. ing to the needy." 'Itow have you comne by such foolish no- tiorns?" -I have looked into heaven and beheld the works of the angels. They have neither purse nor scrip, and are constantly engaged in offi- ces of love. Earth should be like heaven, and I begin the reform. I go!" and she attempted to rmove, but was opposed by her husband. "'Stand aside and let me pass!" said she in a manner that weakened the muscles of Mr. Norman and strengthened her own. She passed, glided down stairs and out of the house, leaving her husband petrified with amazement. She had fitted herself in the humblest garb, and even her most intimnat friends would have been puzzled to recognize her among strangers. Before night she was many miles froiom the Norman mansion. She did not even call upon her father, for he would have interposed a more difficult barrier, and she took a course calculated to elude pur- suit. Mr. Norman thought it best to let the 'matter rest, believing she would return in a few days. CHAPTER XII. Five years have passed since the events of the last chapter were transacted, and threeo years since Amelia returned from the Acade- my and Orlando left his establishment in the page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] hands of his workmen to manage it for them-I selves, and removed from Geneva to forget and forgive the blow that had been aimed at his holiest affections and his happiness. For- get! Ah no! As well could an angel forget his love for the bright and the beautiful in the spirit land, as Orlando forget his love for' Amelia! But he could forgive, for that was an attribute of his nature, as it is of all pure- loving and truth-loving spirits. A lingering conviction remained with him 'that all was not right, that it could not have been a mis- understanding, and that Amelia was not all to blame. He knew not but her failure to receive any of the many letters he wrote might be construed into a disregard on his part of his faith in reference to little Currie, and thus Amelia might have lost confidence in him, and became cold of heart. There were many circumstances that excited suspicion on his part, but he thought she had treated him too summarily to make it honorable for hinm to open the subject to her. He retired to Buffalo, after visiting little Currie and having a beau- tiful conversation with the pilgrim who had rescued her froni the Poor-House. And Currie is now five years old. She and her savior had found a comfortable and pleas- ant homne in a family in good circumstances, not far out, by whom both were dearly beloved. The pilgrim engaged to act in any capacity. as servant of the family, while she should be at home, for she made it distinctly understood that bhe could have no constant abiding place, for where duty called there she must be. She remained sometime, however, during which{ she nursed Currie arid reinstated her almost ruined health and exhausted strength. Six months did she tenderly watch over her, and had the satisfaction at last of seeing her full of laughing joy. and bounding about with childish life. She also emiployd herself in the kitchen, and the chamber, and in every' useful capacity in which her services were needed. But she was received and treated as an equal of the lady of the house, between whom the . trongest friendship wis awakened. By an interchange they relieved each other and were a mutual benefit. After six months of such devotion she felt impelled to visit the Poor-House again to look after the sufferers there. She did so, and de. voted herself for several months to the search of benevolent families for the young, who were' wasting away there, and in promoting such reforms in the establishment as would be sanc- tioned by the authorities. She secured more cleanliness and comfort, and did much to awake better sentiments in the minds of the inmates, and among the overseers. But these are not the only charitable enter- prises of the pilgrim. lShe frequently absent- ed herself for months, during' which time she visited the poor, and when in distress obtained relief, and particularly looked after their chil- dren, and obtained comfortable places for many in more fortunate families. Those whose guardianship she assumed were fre- quently visited by her to receive good coun- sel, and the stimulation of their hope.... But we have said that Currie C(nmmings was now five years old. There she was, a bright-eyed cherub, containing enough in her own little person t9 inspire the most despond- ing with thanksgiving to God for the creation of man and the gift of the immortal mind. The redemption of humanity from deformity of body seemed to be commenced in Currie, in whose figure even the sculptor could not de- tect a fault. In her, too, seemed to be com- nmenced the deliverance of man from ugliness of mind, for those serene and spiritual eyes, and that beaming countenance, spoke of a soul within, translated from 'that bright abode whose spirits dwell in beapty, truth and puri- ty. Amid all the baseness, corruption and wretchedness that constantly meet the eye, one is apt to become misanthropic, and rashly conclude that man is a failure and the world a pandemonium. But such as little Currie in her beauty. joy, and innocence, correct these dishearteninig sentiments and convert the mis- anthrope into a lover of his species, and a la- borer for progress. Among little children we see the evidence that man is not by nature base, for it is only after the mis-education of vicious influences that holy nature is corrupted, and innocence 'changed to guilt, beauty into deformity, and angels into devils. Thus. we learn that by cor- recting outward abuses. by seeking and prac- ticing the truth, we guaranty a perpetuation of that loveliness and virtue which beam so brightly in early years. And there was Currie Cummings, the child of nature-the heir of heaven. She loved to linger among the flowers and the shrubbery, watch the sweet little birds as they bounded from bough to bough and carrolled so charm- ingly, and chase the golden butterflies as they sported their gaudy winglets in the air and iat her feet. It was a thrilling spectacle to see her buried in circling clusters of flowers, her- self the brightest ornament of them all. It was inspiring to see how she enjoyed the mu- sic of the birds, and how she seemed to plead with them to fondle in her bosom. Many of them appeared to love her, and flock where she was, to sing to her spirit. There were birds enough where she dwelt, for they knew she was pure and felt the influence of her gen- tleness. She loved to pass her time with the pilgrim in the garden, training the vines and cultiva- ting the flowers. She watched each growing plant and saw the progress it made, and with joy she beheld each bud open its precious treasures to the sun. Every new blossom was a new joy. One day Currie busied herself for hours in chasing the butterflies, and she thought it no harm to capture one that she might love and caress it. At last she succeeded, and full of joy at her triumph she bore it to the pilgrimn that she might see how beautiful it was. "Currie, Currie!" said she, "you know not what you have done." "What, Aunt?" asked she with surprise. "You have robbed that little beauty of its liberty, and you know not how miserable it may be." "Miserable, Aunt?" "Yes. It is a little thing, but its life and liberty are as dear to it as ours are to us. It has been well said that he who kills an insect creates 'a pang as great as when a giant dies.'" Currie let the butterfly escape into its na,- tive freedom, and bowxing her face in her hands, wept as if her heart were pierced with the keenest pang. "Don't weep, Currie. You did not know it was any harm and are not to blame. Forget it, Currie. You may watch them on the wing as much as you please, but leave them to sport with nature." COurrie quieted herself and thanked her guardian for correcting her wrong. Currie was happy, the pilgrim was happy, the family were happy, and all mankind should be happy. Thle fact that a single soul can be happy is a guaranty that the whole race can and will eventually become so. And the Rev. Mr. Backus was also happy. His daughter Amelia seemed to be regenera- ted.- The Rev. Mr. Ormond was regularly in.- stalled in a Geneva pulpit, and he and Mr. Backus were preaching to the people with a most hearty enthusiasm. Mr. Ormond was dearly beloved by his flock, and soon became the ecclesiastical prince of the village. Iae was considered a perfect model of piety, as he seemed to be in goodness and physical beauty. A most popular man was he, and to him was ascribed the restoration of Amelia to the true faith-a conversion which ler father and all the deacons and deaconesses could not. accom- plish. True, she had not actually subscribed her name to the old creed, nor been sprinkled from the hands of the priest, but it was ex- pected that Mr. Ormond would soon consumn. ate her conversion I Mr. Ormond continued devoted to Amelia, and passed much of his time in her company He lived with Mr. Backus, and did all in his power to please and win her love. For two years after his return with her to the Acade- my, as related in the ninth chapter, he con- tinued to preach in his old pulpit, and when she closed her attendance at the Academy, he bid-farewell to his faithful flock, and accomn- panied her to Geneva, where a church was soon opened for him . It was given up by every body that they would be married, and the publication of the banns, according to the custom of that day, was anticipated every Sunday. The people flocked to the house of -r. iBackus to signify their respect and love for Amelia, and some of themn went so far as to congratulaie her tin the splendid conquest she had made. It was true site yet loved the bas- tard, and often went to see her, and to breathei into her young mind some spirit of truth and universal love.- She passed her happiest mo- ments with the little girl and the pilgrim, for in the one, unporverted nature spoke from the fountain of truth and purity, and in the other a wholesome chastisment had restored the wound which temptation had inflicted. But the people excused her for this, expect ing she would soon wean' herself from such a foul attachment. Not even the beauty and innocence of that model of girlhood could de- fend her from the prejudice, sneers and con- tempt of a falsely instructed people. One day Mr. Backus took occasion to con- verse with his daughter, touching these mat- ters: 'I rejoice, my daughter, that you promise to be an honor to me and an ornament to our page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] Church. You cannot imagine how happy' your late conduct has made me. Your im- provement at the Academy, your relations with Mr. Ormnnond, and your reconciliation with the people, give me the greatest joy. How different are our relations at present from those of three or four years ago, I was then almost distracted-now I am happy." "Well, father, if you are happy I rejoice, for I would not willingly be the occasion of a single pang." "' But, my daughter, there is one thing that yet excites prejudice against yoc. The people are expecting you will change in that, as there is no real necessity for your course." "What is that, father?" "It is that you discontinue your attentions to Currie Cummings." Judge of the effect which this announcement occasioned. Amelia felt the wound, for it was inflicted upon her as well as upon her little friend, whom she cherished as a dearest sis- ter. Elevating her eyes, red with her strug- gling feelings, and lifting up her hands, she exclaimed,- "God of Love! what mockery of thy good- ness! Oh holy nature I How long will man- kind wage a warfare against thee!"Then di- recting her attention to her father she con- tinued, "How can any one of the least virtue despise a being so pure and beautiful as Cur- rie?" "Ah, my daughter, the devil always pre. sents himself in an attractive garb. He seeks the most attractive forms in which to appear, and we must not be seduced by these tempta- tions of physical beauty." "Father!" said Amelia, with that resolute appearance she could so well command, ' Father, 1 anm yet Amelia, and in my views and feelings there has been no change. I have learned to beware of the seductions of satan-but I look for them not in beauty and innocence, but in the errors, prejudices, vani- ties an follies of a deluded people." This took the old-fashioned clergyman all aback, and he seemed to repent the confession that he was a happy man, He paused for some time, but, knowiing Amelia too well, thought it dangerous to press the subject. But he did venture to speak of another point. "I trust you have abandoned Orlando.", Amelia hung her head, and gazing upon the floor with a kind of wildness, exclaimed,- "Alas! alas! it is he who has abandoned 'me. Oh, Orlando, how cruel thou art! But I forget myself. Yes, I have settled with him, and must gather up my firmness and en- ergy to re-establish my happiness. Amelia had endeavored to forget her past relations with Orlando, because a recollec- tion of them only told her how happy she should be had they been continued. "But. my daughter, you have the heart of Mr. Ormond-what better chance for happi- ness can you ask?" "Mr. Ormond is not Orlando Clinton. Oh, Orlando! wert thou ten fold more faithless than I believe thee, thou would still be above the brightest of the world! But I forget my- self again. Yes, I will make the most of Mr. Ormond. Mr. Backus was re-assured by this, and he let the matter drop. It is true that a soul can be won by the display of kindness and love. There is no one so stubborn that is not pleased with a manifestation of the esteem and attachment of another. Love to the human spirit is like the clear sunlight to the budding flower-it opens its casket and draws out its beauty and sweet- ness in gratitude to its benefactor. It is not strange, then, that a constant exh- bition of Mr. Ormond's love and his perpetu- al attention to her as the idea' of his heart, should insensibly force a confession of esteem and make her endeavor to return his love. He still agreed withbir opinions, though he kept them to himself, ai this want of boldness was the only blemish she could see in his charac- ter. She knew it was not like Orlando, who, she supposed, was living far away in happy wedlock. But as he was gone she knew not that any other individual was superior to Mr. Ormond. There was also this advantage, that her father and his friends would be gratified ' by her union with him, while her marriage with Orlando would have caused her father the deepest distress. That, however, was a circumstance for which she did not deem her- self responsible, and which she would not have regarded had Orlando remained. She * thought herself under a higher law in her love for him-a law which she believed it would be criminal to violate, and against which the efforts of herYfather were erroneously directed. CHAPTER XIII. Return we to the Norman mansion in the vicinity of Baltimore. Days, weeks and months passed, but Mrs. Norman, the bride of less than two years, the philosopher's daughter, returned not, neither did she inform her husband or father of her whereabouts. The deepest anxiety was felt by Mr. Nor- man, the miser's son, not so much on account of the void in his affections created by the ab- sence of his wife, as on account of the danger of a change in the will of the philosopher, who began to suspect his daughter had de- parted in a state of mental aberration, and either destroyed herself or died by some sud- den disease. But Louis Norman visited the old man daily, and endeavored to correct his suspicions by the assurance that she was safe, that he heard from her frequently, and that she would soon return. It is true. that Louis could not produce a letter from her, when the old man asked for them; but he assured him that they treated of private matters, and he was not at liberty to produce them. "Has she then violated my great law?" asked the philosopher with much vehemence. "INot at all," replied Louis, "as you will be convinced on her return." Mr. Norman, on account of the curious course taken by his wife, was compelled to absent himself from society; for the humilia. tion thus inflicted upon his pride, and the endless gossip it occasioned, rendered it un. comfortable for him to maintain the splendor with which he and his lady had commenced. His mind being thus separated from the gaiety, fashion, and high-life display, was forced to' another recourse to engage its activity and at- tention. As he had no thoughts of a high order to indulge, no benevolent plans of life, nor no other business but the superintendence of his estate, the second impulse of his na- ture, that which characterized the miser, be- gan to govern all his thoughts and feelings. The passion for money siezed upon him, and he began to care nothing for his absent wife except as a link which connected him with, her father's fortune. He continued his attentions to the old man, flattered and cajoled his childish disposition; and persuaded him that he was a convert to his two great la, i of social progress. To this end he abolished every indication of extrava. gance about his household, and settled down to nearly the standard of his miserly father. He also told the philosopher that he and his wife would advocate his doctrines, and he was patiently awaiting her return. Ha, ha!" the philosopher laughed, "you were then only sowing your wild oats, and have really settled down into sober philosoph- ical life?" "I regret the follies of our youthful feel- ings as much as you did, and shall ever feel grateful to you for winning us from our down- ward course." Thus Louis artfully deluded the old man, and managed to keep up the delusion for a year after the departuir of his daughter, when the philosopher died antd was out of theway, The old man was not yet buried, before Louis overhauled his papers, and gathered together his title-deeds, and at last fotind the document of such deep interest to him--the will. With lips quivering, and hands shaking with anxiety, he opened the document and glanced wildly through it to see the exact dis- position made of his vast estate. 'Scarcely did he breathe while devouring its contents, and as he came to the clause containing thile reverbion of his estate in case of her having issue, he laughed a low gutteral laugh. "Ha, ha! we deceived the old fiool there; no one can prove that she ever had a child." So he read along, and coming to the clause conveying the estate to strangers on thp death of his daughter, he shook with rage. "Damnation!" he exclaimed from his pro. fane thrQat, and rushing into the presence of the corpse, black with passion,-- "DamnationI I could-'" but an individ. ual being present he checked himself, and suddenly returned to the papers. he gath- ered them up and took them into his pos- session. During the funeral and while following the old man to his grave, Louis Norman bit his lips with rage, and occasionally muttered- 'Ilypocrite, liar, a base violator of his agreemintt to leave n'e his estate for life after my wife's death." But it was of no use-so the will read, and though he could not restrain his rage, yet there was the will in unmistakable terms. Louis did not sleep that night; for though he already held a quarter of a million, still his ruling desire was for more, and hto tumr page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] bled over and over in his restless bed, won- c dering how he could contravene the old man's t intentions as expressed in his will. d At length the morning dawned, and at the earliest business hour he presented himself t before a Baltimore lawyer to take counsel in reference to the will. He had thought that an effort should be made to get back his wife so that he could enjoy the rents and profits, V or at least to prove that she still lived, so that he could keep the possession of the estate in her name. If he could only prove that she was still living it would answer his purpose; but he knew not where she was-had not heard of her for a year, and knew not as he ever should hear from her. And so he talked with the lawyer, who as- sumed a position of wondrous wisdom as the wealthy Mr. Norman opened his case. The lawyer perceived his agitation as he entered. Said the young miser,- "I have important counsel to ask, and ex- pect I can confide in you my secrets." "Certainly, it is the lawyer's duty to keep the secrets of his clients." "Well, then, here is a will of my father-in- law who has died." The lawyer took the will and rapidly pe- rused it "I your wife living?" "I don't know. She has not been heard from for a year. She departed in an insane fit, and I have obtained no clue to her where- abouts." "Well, the presumption is she is dead. Or- dinarily the law presumes death after seven years absence without hearing from the absent person; but in this case I think the law will presume her dead after a year's absence, from the circumstances under which she left. "But it is for my interest to presume her alive, to get the rents and profits, is it not?" "Have you no children?" "No-that is-no. Don't you see that the will makes it a condition on which she shall retain the property that she have no issue?" Ha, ha, how ignorant of the sublime wis- dom of the law! Why, rny dear sir, it is con- trary to public policy to insert such condi- tions and the law disregards them. Mr. Norman bounded for joy. "Hurrah!" he exclaimed. "That's the talk; give us your hand on that." "If you only had a child living." contin. ued the lawyer, " all would be right; you could hold the estate for life, by right of cur- tesy for the child ; but as you have no child I dont know what you will do." ( Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Mr. Norman, "never be troubled about that,-I have a child." "But you just told me you had not." "Oh, well, nobody but my wife and a con- fidential friend or two knew that she had one, which I presume is still alive," "Ha, ha, ha," the lawyer laughed. "You are a shrewd one, I'll vouch for you. Send for your child, and the estate is safe enough." "Thank you, thank you. You are a learned counsellor, and you have made me a happy man." Mr. Norman departed, and as his foot passed the threshold of the office the lawyer laughed contemptuously, and said,- "' Go, you miserly fool; but you shall pay smartly for such good advice; it has made you so happy you can afford to pay for it. Here," taking up his journal, "Mr. Louis Norman Dr. for counsel, $500." Mr. Norman took possession of the estate left by the philosopher, in the right of his ab- sent wife, the sole heir of her deceased father. It was uncertain whether she was yet alive, and her death must be proved before the for- tune could pass to the young men designated in the philosopher's will. His possession was not disturbed for two years, when it was thought the court would presume her death in consequence of the re- markable state of mind in which she depart-; ed. Notices were published in the papers asking information of Mrs. Norman, who left her husband near Baltimore under peculiar circumstances, and has not been heard of by her friends for several years, and stating that her father had died leaving to her a large es. tate. This was extensively published, butno tidings came, and the poor, enterprising men E who were the objects of the philosopher's I bounty, began to take steps for recovering the estate from one so rich, so miserly and so - worthless as Louis Norman. The estate di. - vided among the young men would give to - each a handsome independence, and as the rphilosopher had shown himself a good judge of human qualities in selecting them, it was ; evident the public would be greatly benefitted by rescuing the estate from the grasp of Mr. * Norman. A suit commenced, and the young u miser again called upon his lawyer, who told him the estate must be relinquished unless the child was in existence. "But are you sure that the condition of the will against the birth of issue of her body is null and void?" "I never say what I am not sure of when giving legal advice," said the lawyer. "How shall I proceed?" "You must find the child, and assume its gvtardianship." "Will proof that it is still alive be sufficient without taking it into my possession?" "The court may presume you unfit for a guardian, if you do not exhibit a parental care for it, and may convey the estate to a guardian of its own appointment." "Yes, ah,hem, then I must bring the child home and support it? Another drain on my money. Those everlastiig expenses are enough to ruin one." But you are only entitled to the posses- sion of the estate in right of the child, and you might be contented to get it on such easy terms." "Oh, I am satisfied. I will start off im- mediately in search of the child," and Mr. Norman departed, muttering, "curse the ex pense of hunting and supporting the child." * a * * a In the fall of 18 - two strangers appeared in Geneva, with a plain doubie conveyance, and stopped at one of the hotels of the vil. lage. After the horses were stabled and the carriage safely housed, one of them inquired of the landlord if the Rev. Mr. Backus lived in that vicinity? He was answered affirma- tively, and without inquiring for his residence, as he was familiar with the situation of the old parsonage, he left the hotel in haste, and soon presented himself at the door of the par. sonage, He was met by Amelia, and in- quired,- "Is there a little girl named Currie Cum- mings living in this family?" "There was such a child in our family, but she is now at Mr. Manford's, a few miles out.". As Amelia was interested in the matter, and as it seemed strange that s a ranger should be inquiring for little oCr asked him in. After seating himself in the parlor, he inquired for Mr.'Backus. Amelia called in her father, and after the common civilities the stranger said- A 2,f 'I am in search of a girl called Currio Cummings, left in your charge five years ago?" Mr. Backus looked at the stranger as if he would read him as thoroighly, and far more accurately, than he did his Bible, and finally replied,- "Such a child was found at our door by Amelia here, and by her fondled for a year or so, greatly to ty annoyance and the scan- dal of the house." "Why the annoyance and the scandal?" asked the stranger. "Because it was illegitimate, and left under most suspicious circumstances." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the stranger. "' A greater mistake never happened. Why, my dear sir, that child is as legitimate as any ever born,anid is the heir of an immenlse for- tune," If the whole heavens had broken loose at once Mr. Backus would not have been nmore surprised. The very picture of amazement, lie exclaimed,- "You don't say so t" Now, father, who was right in the treat- ment of that child, you or I?" asked Amelia, with considerable emphasis, and yet with great calmness. Mr. Backus hung his head, and five years of thought rushed across his mind. The sympathy, kindness and love which his wife and daughter manifested to it; his treatment of her who had prematurely gone to her final home arose horribly before him as one of the causes of her sickness ; his treatment of Atie- lia after her mother's death ; his deception in separating the child from his daughter, and sending it to the Poor-House; and the folly into which he was driven by his false views -all rushed upon him, and the conscientious Mr. Backus was broken in heart, and he ex- claimed- "Fool!-fool, that I have been I God for- give my transgressions " and turning to Amelia, the tears of penitence and sorrow choked his utterance, and pressing her to his bosonl, he finally articulated,- "Forgive me, Amelia I have wronged you, deeply wronged you I I have wronged the little innocent which you havee lovedI And, oh God' forgive me! I Pinged your mother, who is not her I 1' Amelia could not refrain frl H nd she mingled her tears with thosepiher. page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] But she soon composed herself, and in a clear, calm tone reassured her penitent father. "I have nothing to forgive. I am too well aware of the imperfections of mankind, and always knew that it was not so much my father who pursued such a course toward Currie, as it wa, the pernicious doctrines of the creed he believed.. I followed nature and God as re- vealed in the heart and in his word; you fol- lowed the errors of olden theology that have perverted the divine revelation both through liathte and in his word. But you mistake again, father, in saying that mother is not pre?,-it to forgive you. She is with us now, and her s,pirit rejoices in the restoration of her husanl,: d an!d illy father to the truth!" "You are too gentle with me, my daughter. I no'w -ee the truthfulness of your faith, and hope znever again to be misled by such cruel errors.' Then tu rni ng to the stranger, who Iad wit- nessed the hcene in great perplexity, Mr. Backus said,- "Will you explain the circumstances under which 'pur Currie was left with us " "Excuse me, now," was the reply, "the story i, a long one, and I am in haiste. All will, doubtluss, be made known to you in a short timie." T'li. straing r departed for the hotel, not having t ile that day to call upon Mr. Man- for,!. 'I Do clhild was yet alive, and that was all he caied for. The next day he would try and hota iii po sisession of Currie Cummings. Entcriiig the thotel anld meetig his Iriend, lie exclailiiicd, clapping his hanlids,- "She is .safe, alive and safe!" and he; grinitcd all the delight which his craven spirit could fcel. "Hia, ha, ha," was the cold, calculating, heaitless laugh of Louis Norman, as he woke the intxL tmorn'ing. ' "Good, I'll defeat them now-thl. (C state is ;aife to rme as long as I live. Cur rie is alive and the rents and profits are all mnine! Let me see--I am thirty years old - ugod for forty years more. The in- come of that estate is $25,000 per year-in forty years it will amount to $1000,000-ha, ha, ha --is not that a fine sum i The income my present estate will amount to as much mo red I! glory I If I am not worth $3,- I die, there is no truth in orman soliloquized in bed that mo, and as his friend slept in the same room in another bed, Mr. Norman called to him in a flood of joy,- "Halloo, there, Doctor - I say, Doctor wake up there, you sleepy-- " "What's the fuss with you?--can't you let a fellow sleep?" "Ha, ha, ha, sleep after the sun is up! you never'll be a rich man. Why, my dear, sir, you ought to have waked long ago and been calculating how to increase your income." "Yes," replied the Doctor, in a quizzical way, "I have already calculated how to raise miy income!" "Good I how will you do it?" "Why, I understanid it is a penitentiary offence in this state, for a parent to abandon his or her child, as little Currie was aban- doned." "What!" yelled out Mr. Norman, with startled eyes. "A penitentiary offence, sir." "I don't believe it. What, a penitentiary offence to leave an insignificant infant at the' door of a priest withi a thousand dollars! Whew, it's not so." "But I am advised on that subject and know." "Well, what of it?" "Why, as I know all about the facts that would convict you, I have concluded that a little hush money would materially add to my income," and the Doctor looked at Mr. Nor- man withl a leerish eye to see how the propo. sition took with his miserly heart. "Stromboli and hurricanes! you are not going to extort from me? Why, man, you are a pretty friend indeed!" - But, sir, I am not to play into your pock- et, and encounter personal disgrace for noth- ing, I'll assure you." "I intend to pay you what is right." "How much do you think right?" "I pay all your expenses here and back, and then if I give you three dollars a day I think it good business for you." "Three dollars per day! Blazes! I could make more than that at home." "Four dollars?" "rfi dollars?" asked the miser with a groan. '-A o! I'll not measure by the day. I'll have ten thousand dollars, or I don't budge an inch in your favor." Mr. Norman groaned--threw himself about in his bed-groaned again, and said,- "You'll ruin me. You are a heartless--a swindler--a--" "'Hold, sir, or I'll have you arrested at once. Heartless! you dog, you!" said the Doctor, bounding out of bed, and taking the miser by the throat. "Heartless, you say? Who is heartless? It was not heartless to abandon your child? You are not heartless now when seeking that child merely to grati- fy a-filthy lust of lucre? Heartlessl I'll make you swallow that word, you vile dog!" and he choked the miser until he was blue. * Spare me-spare me! I'll give it." "Get up. then, and make me your note for twenty thousand dollars at once." "Twenty thousand!" "Yes, twenty thousand." "But you said ten." "I shall charge you ten thousand for call- ing me heartless. Give me a check on your banker for twenty thousand, or I'll have you under lock in quick time." Mr. Norinan groaned again, and could we give a portrait of him on this occasion it would reveal an old feature in human nature in new light. The miser arose, dressed himself, and be- fore permitted to leave the room, made the Doctor a check for twenty thousand. Placing it carefully in his pocket the Doctor left the room. As he retired, the miser gnashed his teeth, i1(id exclaimed,- ' Villain!--scoundrel! I'll head you. I'll write to my baniker forthwith, commanding him to withhold payment, as the check was extorted by threats of violence, and I intend to repudiate it." Mr. Norman sat down and did not rise un- til the letter was written and sealed for the post.-ofhice. Imniediately after breakfast--of which the miser ate very little-he ordered out the car- riage, and with the Doctor left for Mr. Man- ford's, the residence of little Currie. Arrived there, they called for her, and on her presen. tation by Mrs. Manford, Mr. Norman ex- claimed,- "My daughter!" and clasping her to his rocky bosom, kissed her over and over. "What a lovely girl, Doctor! Is she not beau. tiful? Such rosy cheeks, such exquisite eyes!" Little Currie did not relish his embraces, nor the flatterie. bestowed, and much less the (close-faced, frosty looking countenance of the father, and she repelled him. "Let me go, kind sir," said she. I do not like you." "' But you are my daughter!" '"I have heard that I have a father-and I have heard what kind of a father he is. I prefer to have nothing to do with him." She is a proud little wretch--but she will overcome her childishness.'? At this discretion manifested by Currie, Mrs. Manford was delighted, for she too saw enough of the stranger to know the internal passions of his nature. Mr. Norman continued: "Would you not like to go with me and be a rich woman?" "How rich, sir?" "To possess boundless estates in lands and houses, and have hundreds of tenants paying rent." "O no, sir, Orlando says it is wicked for one main to own so much land, and make the poor pay for that to which they have a natural right without payment." "What!" exclaimed Mr. Norman, "What is that she says? Such a little girl talking in that way I Who ever heard the like? Wick- led to have tenants? What absurdity I Say, my daughter, who is this Orlando that is so wise? ( Don't call inme your daughter, if you lpleaso; I dont wish to be your daughter." ': But you are my dauttghter." Little Currie looked up to Mrs, Manford with tears in her eyes, and asked,-- "Is he rmy father?" "I don't know, my good Currie. Never mind it." "Well, well," said Mr. Norrman, "I'll not call you my daughter, until you are willing. But who told you such stuff about hiaving so imuch land to rent?" G "Orlando Clinton, a very good young man, that I call brother, and who visits me occa- sionally. "Where does he live?" "In Buffalo, and he is a mechanic." Whew I mechanics are nobody. In my country mechanics and negro slaves are all one." "Yes, I have heard of your C and I think it a very wicked count 'What a child!" The Doctor looked at th a [sneer, saying,- page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] 1"You can't come here to tea-you better give it up." "But, Currie," continued Mr. Norman, would you not like to go with me, and have everything nice; have large gardens full of flowers, have fine horses and carriages to take you out every day ; have gold rings and watches, and all that is splendid?" "No sir, not at all; I am very happy ; Or- lando says that a life of simplicity is a life of virtue." ' How! wlien!" and the miser bit his lips, ground his teeth together, and with the Doc- tor took Iis leave, to consider the matter until the next day, Currie had never before been fairly tried- but hee e she proved herself worthy of Amelia, of Orlanldo, and of the pilgrim who rescued her from the Poor-House. By the way, the pilgrim was absent at this time, away in a neighboring town on a mission of love. It was a misfortrnre that she was absent, but let us await the issue of events. The next day he referred his case to a law. yer, and found that he could obtain posses. sion of Currie even against her will-for in the first place she was considered by the law as too young to have a will, and in the second place the father has the first right to the pos- session and guardianrship of the child, the mother is next in right, and both parents frail- ing, the nearest of kin is entitled to its con- trol. "Good!" replied Mr. Norman, "you are a wise counsellor. Now, I have one more im- portant question. Is it a criminal offence for parents to abandon an infant to the care of strangers, provided those strangers are abun- dantly able to bring it up, and provided mon- ey be left to pay the expense of keeping it?" The lawyer, of course, had overcome all surprise in view of the facts, for the circumi. stances under which Currie had appeared were well known. Besides lawyers are not often astonished at the heartlessness of men, because they are so constantly in contact with it, and their businet s depelnditig iupon human depravity, they become schooled into coolness and indifference at the most astounding dis- closures. The greater the corruption the more import Ptrofitable the case. T ooked at Mr. Norman a mo- mern e c difficulties that weighed upoyn o en replied: "Cetij not. It is no crime at law for parents to abandon their children, unless the abandonment directly result in death." "Good! good!" shouted the miser, jump. ing up and clapping his hands. ' Now, Doctor, I have you, you deceitful wretch. Sir," said he addressing the lawyer, " allow me to say to you that your opinion has given me a world of comfort, and that I consider you a most wise and learned counsellor." "Well," said the attorney coolly, "I ap- preciate your opinion. Allow me to ask why you have been so troubled about the abandon- ment?" "Why, an infamous scoundrel knowing the facts, extorted from me a check for twenty thousand on the ground that it was a crime and he might make me trouble unless silenced by hush money. But I have him now--not a cent shall he have. '-To be sure not-forbid its payment and he can't help himself." Tire whole matter was arranged. The law- yer was to aid him in bringing out Currie on a writ of habeas corpus, if Mr. Manford refrsed to give ler up. The lawyer called upon her guardians, stated the rights of her father, and inquired if they would restore her to him. ' No!" was the emphatic reply, "if Currie does not wish to go." Orlando chanced to be at Mr. Manforrd's on a visit to Currie and the pilgrim, and as he was deeply interested in her welfare was called in to talk with the attorney. "No, sir!" was his niost emphatic reply. "If Currie does not wish to go witlh her un- natural father, she shall not be taken away. Arid as she is young I shall advise her not to goi-advieo, by the way, which she does not nreed, as she has tun instinctive abhorrence of her cruel father, as every pure character should have." Aih, well," replied the lawyer, "you may save your morbid sentimentality, and refined moralizings, as I have to proceed legally, having nothing to do with such insane vapor- ings-the law must hrave its course, and I shall send the proper officer commanding Mr. Manford to -bring the girl before the court to try the father's right of possession." "Very well," replied Orlando, "we will see whrat can be-done." At this the lawyer departed, What, was to be done. The pilgrim, who had rescued little Currie from a lingering death, and had shown herself as good as a mnother, most undoubtedly had the best iight to her, seeirig that the little girl looked lip to the good woman as her guardian angel. It would be a double cruelty to separate thenm but what the law might do it was uncertain. But the first thing to be done was to seek out the pilgrim. For this purpose Or- lando procured a carriage and started off, leav- ing instructions that if the trial came on be.! fore tie returned, to have it put off a few days, as the most diligent search was being made for an absent witness whose evidence was most material to the rights arid welfare of lit- tle Currie. The writ was served a few hours after Or. lando departed, commanding Mr. Marnford to bring the body of Currie Cummings before the i proper tribunal, on the following day, to an. ,swer Louis Norman, her fatier, and to show cause why he should not have possession of her. Such was the substance of the writ. The next day came, and Mrs. Manford told Currie what was required by the law, not hav-y- ing courage to tell her before, on account ofi the grief it might occasion her. "Currie," said she, with tears in her eyes, the'law has commanded us to take you be- fore the court, to give reasons why we should not give you up to that man who says he is your father." h Poor Currie iad not yet learned much of a aiy other law than that of God urand nature, as I revenaled in the pure of heart, and little could N she at. first comprehend. She was surprised at the tears of her benefaetr'es, and asked,-- q Why do you weep, mother," for she had S ( learned to call Mrs. MaRitford her mother. 'I am sorry for' the troluble that, is coring I upon you, my little dear." Hler heart was too I full, and she could say io more. But Mr. tl Manford explained the proceedlings so that. i shire understood it, and told her, as she began i to weep, that she need not fear any trouble as a! Orlando arid Aunt iRuth, the pilgrim, would re be there to defrend ler. "Oh, you and they will protect me against of suci a man," said Currie, , and I shall not sl fear, nor weep about. it; conme, mother, don't yc grieve for me,' I ama safe." Mrs. Manford clasped the little girl to her an bosomn, rejoicing at her firmness and self-pos- tr. session. They soon appe-ared before the court, and ca as the judge saw the little angel, he was de- a lighted with her beauty and gentleness, and ht winning her confidence by a smile, he called to her to himi, and said- It "I am not surprised that Mr. Norman de- l' sires the possession of such a noble girl; I R. would be glad to have her myself." The at- to tention and kindness he showed secured her regard, and looking tenderly into his eyes, -she said- You will not suffer this man to take me s, off, will you?" le That was a powerful appeal to his kind- s ness-stronger than an argument from an elo- ;- queit lawyer. The court Saw the difficulty of the case, and felt embarrassed even before tithe trial commenced. He looked into the bright, tpleading eyes of Currie, anrd she ro- turned the gaze of tenderness until the tear stole along the cheek of the judge. Currie I anxiously for a reply. "Alas, alas! said the judget " the law somnetimres forces upon us a course contrary to thne sympathies of the heart. Go, my little 'angel ; I must obey the law, but I shall cou. struc it strictly onr your behalf." "T The chicken-hearted fool!" whispered Mr. Norman to his attorney. "'Yes, ihe is chicken-hearted, and unfit to adminiistir justice. A judge should close his heart agaist sympathy. he is not a lawyer, I ann proud to say, iut one of the people, who, by some mistakle, hias got the office he holds, Never mind, we will see." Thle case was called, and Mr. Manford re. quested I n aljournmlent on account of the ab- sence of a material witness, who was far away, but would be here in a fbw dayts. The request was granted, anld the case put off for one week. At this announcement by the court, Ihe attloney for' Mr. Normanal rose and objected to so long a time, for his cilent was here on expense, and worse than all, his affairs at homniie pressed him to an immnnediate return. But it was of no use. The court said it wais a most inrporteannt case. The happiness of an i'ndividual was involved, and the case should be fairly tried. But, rejonieled the law- yer, all W v ask is jurstice. We are prepared to prove that Currie is the child of my client, and the law always gives the father the con. trol of his children, if they are unbir&the age of discretion. But the judge was fiitand the case was adjourned for one week. er b ;( page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] A week of suspense rolled round, and the day of the final trial arrived, but Orlando and the pilgrim had not returned. Doubt and gloom seized upon the friends of Currie, in view of the stern exactions of the law. It is true that the removal of the stain of illegitimacy had done much to establish her reputation in the chaste circles of Geneva, but they said she was too young to know what was best for her, and as the father was entitled to his child he should be permitted to take her away. Amelia and Mr. Backus were summoned as witnesses by the friends of Currie, and the hall of the court was crowded by the people who had some curiosity to gratify, and still: many stood about the door and windows, On one side sat Currie and her friends. She was bitterly weeping, and not o:ly her few benefactors were deeply excited, but the warmest sympathy was manifested by the crowd. On the other side sat Mr. Norman, unmoved except by a fear that the public sympathy ex- i cited by childish tears might defeat his suit. But his attorney was cold as a stone, and as- -sured him that there was no danger. The Doctor sat there too, not entirely indifferent to the feeling around him, but sufficiently so to maintain his equilibrium. The case was called, and Orlando and the pilgrim being absent, an attempt was made to adjourn the case to another day, but in vain. It could riot be conceived what service these individuals could render, as they were in no manner related to Currie as any knew, except by a friendly feeling. The attorney said lie was prepared to prove all that the law re- quired to establish the father's right, and be- yond this there was nothing to know. The cause was opened, and the Doctor called as the principal witiiness. To him all eyes were turned, and a deep silence pre- vailed. Hle stated that he was the first one that saw the child after its birth-that lie knew of its ,beiun Iuialired Currie Cummings, after the maiden name of her mnother, and thiat he knew of its being placedt at the door of Mr. Backus with a thousand dollars and a note from its mother. He further stated that Mr. Norman was the husband of Currie's mother t he was worth a quarter of a millione his own right, and that a quarter of a million more had been left to the nioth- er by her deceased father, and it was to se- cure her this fortune that/the father now claimed tirhe little girl. He stated also that the object of leaving the child at Mr. Backus's was to secure the property of its maternal grandfather, who had declared that his daughter should live childless or he would make another disposition of his etate. What a change this testimony wrought in the feelings of the audience and even the Court! From regarding the abandonment of the child as the darkest crime agaiiist nature, they began to justify the parents in leaving it as they did in such good hands to secure it such a splendid fortune. They thought that though the parental affections were the strong- est of the humanii heart, yet they were nothing compared with the value of such aii estate, and all should be ready to restore the child to its fortutine! Such is the po1wer of wealth that it is stronger than truth, stronger than virtue, and stronger than love when brought in contact with them! But Currie was yet uncorrupted, and could not appreciate a fortune--she valued it as nothing compared with the loves of her an- gelic spirit. Still she refused to yield, for slhe said she was happy with her fi iends, and should be miserable with the man who claimed her, though possessing millions. In her behalf, Aiielia testified the facts with which the reader is familiar, and read the let- ter of Currie's miother, which was given in our first chapter. TlIe closing sentence, "I amt a wretched woman," could only be appreciated by a mother thus forced to strangle her affec- tions by the most powerful influences. The case was considered clear, and as the judge decided that Currie be delivered to her tfather, Mr. Norman, the little girl screamed wildly, and cliiiging in terror to Amelia and Mrs. Man ford, .she exclaimed- Dlon't let irCe be takenI away by such a ruiel man! Mother, you won't let me go? My good sister, Antelia, you will not let me go? I cannot, go with that disagreeable per. son? Comec, let us go hoIme.' Amelia and Mrs. Manford wept convulsive. ly at this unhappiness of Currie, and tenderly folded around her their shielding bosoms. The judge bowed his head upon his book before him and wept, regretting the sternness of the law, and the persistence of the father. lie could not appreciate Currie's objections, for his spirit was not as clear as hers, to read the dark heart of Mr. Norman in his counten- ance. To her all his thoughts and feelings were transparent, and to her he was a fright- ful terror. "The law, must have its course," said Mr. Norman's lawyer. "To be sure," replied his client, and as he advanced across the room and took hold of Currie, she gave a piercing scream, and faint- ed in the arms of Amelia. A shudder per- vaded the assembly, and lwhile efforts were being made to restore her, shout after shout rent the air without, and the assembly rushed out of doors to see what it all mieant. Scores were running up the road, shouiitng "Haste, haste! or you will be too late " A carriage was seen coining at the full speed of the horse, and a moment more Orlando and the pilgrim were at the door of tire Court: "* Make way here," was the cry on all sides. The pilgrim rushed to the opposite side, and seeing Currie apparently lifeless, the rosy hue all gone, she too screamed aloud, "My child-dead--dead! my child! Oh God is, it so?" Slie is niot dead," said Mrs. Manford. "See! she revives!" "Thank heaven!" and the pilgrim took her into her own arms, and pressed her to her bosom. She soon became conscious again, and looking into the face of the pilgrim she smiled and said,- "I am safe now, Aunt, you won't let me go. Orlando too ; kiss me, Orlando, you love me yet, and will protect me." "Yes, my angel sister, no one shall harm you-." The pilgrim now looked around to see the rman whro had nearly succeeded in his suit, but he was not to be found. He was terrified at the appearance of his long absent wife, and sudidenly took his departure. The Doctor also recognized her, and fearing to meet her reproaches, left with Mr. Norman, and the case was abandoned. "Where is the wretch?" inquired the pil. grim, "whose God is gold." "He is gone," said the Court, and the con- fusion of the scores that followed him a short distance, with their taunts and jeers, told that he had escaped; rapidly he and the Doctor whipped away. "If your Honor pleases," continued the pil- gim, "I discover this is a mysterious matter to you, but al? will be explained when I tell you that I atm the mother of Currie, a fact that I have kept a secret, until I could retrieve my crimne against nature by good works." At this her eye fell upon a letter on the ta- ble, and taking it up, she glanced at the sig- nature and corncl usion, and exclaimed,- "Yes, I was a wretched womtan-but now, by obeying the heavenly powers that pre. scribed my pienance, I ami happy." But what of Amelia? She glanced at tho noble Orlando, as he entered, and the blow that had been inflicted upon her heart was felt with redoubled pain. She paled, and throbbing with agitation, left the room, ac. comirpanied by her father, and departed for home, And so the matter terminated ; all retired to their homes satisfied with the issue of the proceedings: all except Mr. Norman--aye, he too was satisfied, for he could prove that his wife was livinig, and that, he thought, would still secure the-estate to him. The pilgrim is now to be known as Ruth Cummirngs, the mother of Currie, to whom she had given her maiden name, and with the ini- tials of which sire had signed the letter intro- duced in our second chapter. With joyful hearts Currie and her mother, Orlando and the Manfords departed fromi the court, and a happy evening they spent to- gther. Currie could hardly assure herself that she who had passed for her aunt was really hier mother. She scarcely spoke oni her way hionic, s'o great was iher perplexity ;, but on arriving at the house and laying off their traveling garments, Currie stepped to her so called aunt, and gazitig tenderly into her faco asked,- "Are you, then, my ownr dear motiher?" "My child," was tire reply, as she took Currie into her lap and p)ressed her to her bo- som, " have I not loved you au as a mother?" "O, how happy I should be to call you my own dear mother." Ruth wept tears of joy for the love of her child, and kissing her fondly said-- "You are my own dear daughter. I have kept it a secret from you and all others till to-day, that I might atone for the crime of abandoning my infant, anmd become worthy ot being its mother. Oh Currie," said she amid her sobbing, "will you forgive me?" "Don't weep, my dear mother, nor ask me to forgive you. Rather ask me to bless you for being so good to me." Orlando now entered the room, and seeing page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] the happiness of the daughter, restored to her natu al nmother, he could not restrain his ,yIn- ' pathy. Currie sprang to his side, and taking wl him by the hand exclaimed,-- t "Are vou not glad I now have a real motdh- er, Orlandlo ' O huw I wish you might prove di ny leal brother." '.In all respects," said Orlando, "you are a happy girl. But am I less dear to you than if bu I were vour natural brother? You are as dear ni to ine as a sister, and I ho101ld to the universal lbrotlerhood and siteihood of mnankind. Should we tit all love one another as broth- to ers and i-ters, mnoth i s and daughter,?" v "God bless you, Orlanlo!" exclaimled Mr. vi (u in i^i -. a-.-l:}e siezed his lhind, "; God bless i vou for s uch a 1oble seitimlien t! To me it a l;a-, 1,ecn recealcd fromi tlin .pi its of the ani- gels, aid lIhow glad I am to find another that feelts tlt. Ii,iver-,al rclationsihip! low clear must bc thy spirit to have reachied so suiblime V a truth' I hlave ieenj a pilgrim for five years, I and liave not before met one who could so m heartilv respond to the truth, as I have been enalledl t, see and feel it. This is the truth c that i- to, .save the wolid!" i True, true! I, too, am happier for finding one t10 think and feel in hartmony with i me. I, c too, hlave been mnany yt ar imnibued with this truthl, hot Iha\ e failed to fitnd one to symlpathize i \\ith me"Orlanndo paused, andI gazing a mo- nieiit in I,-atIhless Raltent iIn, he claspe'd his liand ll it}h ti emulous emplhasis, and lookinig Up, cuit inll d : "'Not ,o,'e dill I say? ()h (;o( of heaven! (did I nIt 'i,;d one aing'l suil, so young, so beautiful, si, tiutliful , so 1,ving, ndtl so pure, that I was I a;ppy!? , Answer me. ye powersI did I not find ,-ini a spirit, or w\a., I mistaken? Oh fatal mi-take!" "Oirlandt" exclaimCed Ir-. C' , inigg "why thi-. grief? Are you unliappy? ' Orlando calledl limself tack from h is wan- dering. andI looking at Cunie aind her mother, almnist petrified with astoniishmnent, he said,- I frgot toyelf. Yts. I amn happy-hal- itr n,w I that ('unrie and her mother are so pure and good." Surlv yvoU will tell me the cause of your unhappine's;." I am not unhiappy. I have strength for any fate, and notlhing shall liuger in durable grief ablout my heart. But I will be frank with you, thiugh you must keep my counsel. You know Amelia?" "Orlando!" 'Oh hleavens! how I loved that angel, 'whonm I thought direct from the upper realms to diffuse the sweetness of her love upon this dreary waste of human life. But I fear I was disappointed. Ask me no farther." "Amelia is my sister, Orlando," said Currie. "I rejoice that she is so, my dear Currie, but you will never breathe to her a syllable of ime?" "Not if you dent desire it, Orlando." ,- Now, Mrs Cuinmming, I have one request to make? I shall continue away from this vicinity, and onily call here occasionally to visit you. Will you inform me when Amelia is to be married to the Rev. Mr. Ormond, soon as the time of the event is fixedt " She will let me know, and I will tell you." ' And that in time for me to arrive at Gene- va before the event?" I lThe bans will be published, and I will -wiite you all about it." "And she will probably be married in the church ii blticly?' No doubt, as he is a clergyman so dearly beloved by his people, But, why don't you call upon her?" "She seemed to slight tme-has signified no dtesire to see me, and if she loves Mr. Or- miond more than me I would not embarrass ; her for the world, nor cause her an unpleasant fcelilg." "Now, Orlando, I have a request. My father lias died, leaving his large estate to me lby his will in case I had no child. But I thank God tthat Currie is tmy clild. Mr. Nor- , 'i man lhas attenipted to get Currie, and for the ? purptos.', as I iuinderstattd, of saviing the estate. it was supposed I was dead, and you have t old me that he could hold the estate by right {of courtesy, provided he had a child by me. I take it then, that omy father either changed , is will as to the birth of issue, or else the - clause is overruled." ' ' That is clear enough," said Orlando. "I o an sifficienitly :acultaitited with the law to know that all such stiulatioins are contrary r to pu'blic policy, and will not be regarded by the court." "r I That is clear. Now Orlando, Mr. Nor- lc ilman is more of a miser than was his father. k the will rent my father's estate to tenants, and oppress thetm by his cruel exactions. What can be done to keep the estate from him?" "I think the court would judge him unfit to have charge of Currie, if the facts were fully stated, and would decree the possession to you or to guardians for her benefit." "Can you go to Baltimore to look after tlihe matter? I care not for the estate, but I would not have human beings oppressed in the house where I was born, by one who has no reaL: right to the estate." "I can go, but think if you and I are ap- pointed guardians of Currie here, the appoint- ment would materially aid me." Without extending this account farther, suf- fice it to say that the appointment was made, and within two days Orlando was oi the track of Mr. Norman and the Doctor, with the cer- tificate of his appointment by the court, aid several depositions, containing all the cir- cumstainces in relations to Currie, in his pocket. CHAPTER XIV. Once more we are at Baltimore. Orlandol had traveled more rapidly than did Mr. Nor- man and the Doctor, and arrived there some days in advance,. He proceeded directly to the office of the court, procured the will which was on file in the case against Mr Norman ii behalf of the legatees, and learning whio the favorites of the deceased philosopher were, he called upon them and stated the facts in rela- tion to the wife of Mr. Normnn and his daugh. ter. Being high minded young men, they withdrew their claim on the pronmise of Orlan- do that the expenses they had incurred shou ld be paid if the estate was recovered from Mr. Norman. Orlando then consulted a lawyer, but was assured that the case was hopeless, as the husband had the right to the possession of his wife and child, aid if they absented them- selves, he was not blameable as long as he kept a comfortable home at which they could live in plenty. The right of the husband and father could not be affected by the wilful ab- sence of the wife and chiild. "Well," said Orlando, "I honor you for I your frankness, for as your advice is againist your pecuniary interest I know it must be, honest. But I will press the matter with you i that I may understand the spirit of the law?" '"Certainly-go oni." "Do you know Mr. Norman?" "I do." "What is his character in this communi- ty'?" "Very good. He is a man of wealth and highly honored. His wife ran away in an insane fit, and the people sympathise with him." ," That woman," replied Orlando, much af- fected by the charge of insanity against Mrs. Cummings, "' That woman is about as insane as was the Gr'ecian Philosopher who, being prosecuted for insanity, was visited by Hypo- crates and pronounced by the father of miedi- cine, after a conversation with hiim, to be the soundest man in all Greece. I have come here to vindicate that noble woman, and shall successfully comnbat a false pumblic opinion." The lawyer looked at Orlando with mingled surprise and contempt--surprise that the young man was so intelligent, and contempt for his visionary opposition to the wealthy Mr. Norman." - -"I understand your thoughts," continued Orlando, " but allow me to inquire if the law does not regard the welfare of its subjects and have a tender solicitude for the helpless youth?" "( To be sure ; but every sensible man would say, that an estate of half a million would bto the greatest blessing that could be conferred upon a child." Orlanmdo concluded that nothing could bo done with one of such sentiments; but as he had a large legal library he asked the privi- lege of using his books, which was granted with only a single question. "Are you a muember of the profession?" "I Uam not. I anm a mere mecehalnic, but trust that my leisure momnents have not been spent in vain, and think I have some knowl- edge of the principles of time Common Law." At this announcement the lawyer began to feel the mechanic to be a bore, but his spirit of southern generosity would not permiit him to deny the use of his books. Orlando saw the thoughts that were written in his counten- ance, but only smiled to himself and proceed- ed to his investigation. He knew the case to be one of Equity-the Court of Chiancery having the sole jurisdiction of suich matters. The first principle of this court, as it is relieved' fromt the rigid forms of law, was favorable to his cause. Orlando spent several days in the office, during which he took ample notes of all the page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] principles of law and practice that applied to I the case. He then clo-seted himself a day or; c two at the hotel where he stopped, and as onei of the guardians of Currie Cuimmings, he drew up a bill, relating all the circumnstances i of the case from the tinime that the philot opher and the old miser contracted for the marriage of their son and daughter down to the trial for the possession of Currie, from whic'h Mr. Norman precipitately tied, being terrified by the sudden appearance of his wife, whom he'l thought .afe in another world. This was, of course, a most voluminous bill, but all the facts were essential to the ca.',e, and it closed by calling Mr. Norman to an- swer to all the charges and allegations, and by praying for a subhlepna to couilpel him to answer. Soon after the return of Mr. Norman he was saluted with a process from the court to an- swer the bill of Ruth Norman and Orlando Clinton, guardians of Currie Culnmings. This process calme in the Imidst of hIis joy on hearing that the former case against himi wa s abandoned, ard he was to have the quiet pos- sessioln of thile disputed estate Damnllation o " he exclaimed, clinching his fists, and scowling most hideously. "What I does the fool want? 'that estate? He won'tI get it; omy wife and child are both alive, and I guess the fortune is safe." Mr. Nortman carried the miiatter directly to his lawyer, aid was told tlhat, le woiuld iproba- bly be called back to Geneva to iatenld the depositions which Orlando will give notice to be taken. "Damnation!" again shouted Mr. Norman, "I'll not incur more expense. I'll admit all he requires; they can't get the estate if I do?" "I think not," said the lawyer. "Think not! Don't you know that they can- not?" "The law is quite clear that they cannot," "Well, the n, let the fellow state what he wishes to prove, aniid I will admit it." "You will admit yourself to have been a most consumiate scoundrel." "( Scoundrel I What do I care for it if the law is only on my side?" ' But it will ruin your reputation.' "Reputation! What is reputation com- pared with moiney? Reputitol! Go to the devil withi your reptutation I Reputation! I can, with a few thousand dollais, bankrupt any man or womian' s reputation, amid what do I cate for a thng so frail!" "Just as you can afford." replied the law- yer. "' But you must use your nioney freely." "Use my inmley freely!" exclaimed tile miser, with consternation. "What do you mean '?" "Why I simply mean that you must keep the affair from the public unitil the decision is given, for if the people should get, hold of it you may well tremble before their indigna- tion " "Indignatiou What business has the public with it? What do I care for the pub- lic if they will let me alone?" "i Why, the public feeling will sway the court." '-Well, what can I do?" "You can first hush up the press; for if they should get hold of the facts there will be no liope for you. Such a history as the plain- tiff has presented would hbe a god-send for the press. You rimut secure their friendship by a free use of your moiiey. You must then re- tain all the ablest lawyers, for an eloquent man would play the deuce with you." A deep dedpair settled on the countenance of Mr. Norman, and he groaned as if his fin- est feelings had been outraged;-and they had, for his finest feelings were in his pocket, the most seilsitive heact-case of too many of the human family. The miiser returned home to meditate on the advice he had received to use his money free- ly, for the purpose of rmiaiintaining his standing in society against the indignation that miight bte excited by a plulblication of the facts ill Or- lando's possession. On the one hand. he hwas warled that the case might. be prejuiidiced lby raiuch a publication, aiid oH tie olhier hauidd was the loss of a few hundred dollars iin buyilng lip public influence. 'The thought of losing such an estate was terrible, but, the thlought of throwing money away was equfftly tel ible. for how can a miser spare a dollar not abso- lutely necessary to keep body and soul to- gethier? Mr. Noriman reltired to rest, but there was no slumiiber to his eye lids-.-o deeply was hs soul harrowed by the advice of his at- torney. Let us look into the house of that miser. His passion for umoney had increased day by day until he would no longer occupy his splendid mansion, that was built in the gaiety of Ilis youth. When the event occuried that rendered it necessary for him to exclude soci- ety, the next strong passion of his nature took the reins. and it rapidlly grew on what it fed. His lust of gain becaime so all absortfing that lie rented his homestead id d retired into a low, desolate and dirty hovel, where he lived all alone, not feeling able to hire a house- keeper, or to afford the service of a single slave. Thiere he sat, evening after evening, without a candle. for he was too poor to afford one, and with only a few coals ii the winter season to keep litnm warm. For clothes, he purchased old cast-off garments at auction, and wore theiii with the greatest care that they imight long endure. With an income of twenty-five thousand, he could not afford to live ill a better style, nor even supply his ta- ble with a sufliciency of wholesome food.- How, then, could such an individual spare a dollar for the purposes we have noticed? Tlhe next day he called again upon his law- y Ver, telling him that he shoild not use any of this nioney as advised. ", Do you think I can thus throw away my gtold? hBetter take my Heart's blood at once! e Oh cruel fate, that exacts such a sacrifice!" * ' The lawyer gazed at himi a moment with I contempt, and then said,- "You are the most desperate miser that ever lived.' "Well, what of that? A man must be a mi- ser to escape poverty, and I am not certain but I shall yet die in penury and want." "Your avarice and cupidity make you the poorest man I know. You are rich in money, but poor in high-minded and honorable qual- ities." "High-ninded! Zounds! I can buy up all your high-minded and homorable quali- ties." 'Dastard! Do you mean that I can be bought, you infernal wretch?" exclaimed the lawyer, stepping toward him with uplifted car e. '"Hold! don't strike," begged the miser, holding tip his arm to shield himself. "No, no. I did not say any such thing,--I said I could buy utip most of those men who claim high-minded qualities." This apology satisfied the lawyer, and peace was restored. After' a few tnlmoeleIt'S puause, the lawy er, looking upon his client, with con- tellmpt, aid the miser trembling with fear, the latter said,- "But what shall I do about my father-in- law's estate?" "If you wont try to keep public opinion ill your favor unitil a decision can be had, you must have the case tried as speedily as possi- ble, anrid get a decision before the miatter canl become public." "(Good! You are a wise man. Good, let it comenic o at onice." Here the conversation closed, and Mr. Nor- man's attorney called upon Orlando to see if the case could be tried at once, as his client did not desire the vexation of a delay. "Sioon as you please," replied Orlando. Adnmit all my depiositions as evidence, and admit .such a statement of a certain doctor's knowledge of facts as I wish to present, and thilt cae mlay be tried to-morrow." Orlandio iiatde out a statelent of facts he could prove, and sent them to the defendant's attorniitv. The next time Mr. Norman called uponi him the paper was read, and the statement that Mr. Niormman's sole object in obtaininig Currie, was to save the estate to him self, atd that he wias destitute of all pateridal affection, even re- gardiing the expense of hler support as a griev- ous burden, the lawyer read with i)articular eniihaiai s accompanied with a look o(f supreime contenipt. The statemient, aimong mnllny ,tlher th0imgs, contained arn account of Mr. Norman's haitit o,I he. his style of living and stio on- all of which Mr. Norman was comuielled to admnit, to save expense and rtime which would be uselessly spient in deneying themi. The statement of whattcould be proved by the Doc- tor threw Mr. Norman into a tower of piassion. "Di)::i the Doctor I The knave! The scoundrel!-the rascal! A pretty iricnd lie is!" ' t t l h01, save your virtuousL indignation "' said the lawyer, '- you know the whole is true" ( BIut are you going to desert ime'?" "No. I shall do the best I can for you, and ,think the law is so plainly in your favor that there can be no mistake. But I was merely advising you to hold your wrath." ,' Whly, that scoundrel extorted from me a clieck for twenty thousand on the supposition tlhat the abandonrmeiit of Currie wais a crime. He lied to me to extolt money--to extort mnon- e'y-mon, sir, extort money! What do you think of that?" "Did you give it?" "Yes, I gave the check, but I took good care to stop the payment. Ha, ha, ha,.-I headed the rascal-ha, ha, ha!-and now he turins against mime." '"That's the way of the world. You should have used your momney freely, as I advised- bought up the press, bribed the lawyers and corrupted the judge-that's the way to carry out a b:Id job." The thrial was set for the third day after the time at which the above conversation was hield, by the agreement of the parties. The ipapers and the evidence being all atdmitted, there remained nothing but the argument of tihe case, lThe third day arrived, and so did the court, the parties, and a large concourse of people whlo had altready helard of the proceeding. The departiure of Mrs. Norman, and tie extra- ordinmry course which he immediately pur- sued had continumied involved in imystery, and the people assenmbled to hear the whole mat- ter explained. It was thought by many that Mr. Normanu's afilict ion on account of the con- duct of his wile, had driven him into such a course of life, and while there was great sym- pathy for him, there was no less prejudice against her. Orlando' depended solely upon hinmself to manage the case and the argument, thinking there were riches inl the law applicable to the case in hand hwhich would not be likely to be set in their p1rolper light by one wlo hiad been nurtuied, and liad grown and thrived in the rigid forms and illiberual spirit of the common law--illiberal iin respect to such cases, as it had been too generally interpreted. The case against Mr. Normant behing set for the day. it was, of course, the first business in order. There sat the. defenmudamnt ciringing clo(selv to his attorD'ey, as if for prDtection, scarcely veinturing to look upn to Orlando or to thie allxiolus lauidience assembled to hiear the story of imis wrongs. His thin caidaverous (coiuntediaice(' told oIf the stingy style in which he lived, to those who knew the circumstances, or of so,me glaw i ig troulble to tho-se who were unacquainted with his domestic lift, IThere, too, sat Orlaindo Clintlon, so youth- fill ii aplHaurance as to nstmoish the people that he should undertal so important a case, so pleasant and benevolent of couunteniance as to wii the love of all who saw him, and so moi ihdest and franiik inm his manlners as to secure tht- esteemu-l (f all. To him all eyes were di- ;reelted. for it is good for the soul to look upon 'so noble a youth. It was also his duty to page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] open the argument, and all were watching the h first word he might say. When the Court had signified his readiness d to hear the argument of the case against Mr. Norman, Orlando Clinton arose. He mani fested some timidity as was ilndicated by the " blush that slightly coloreod his clear, exlpres- sive countenance and by the teqmporary tren u - lousness iin his voice. There was a profound V silence. and the d(eeipest anxiety througnhi)ut the crowd: for the prepo:-essing alppearance a of the youthfull speaker aind the mrelodv of his voice excited a deep desire to see how he 1 might acquit himself. Right or wrong, the 1 prevailing hope was that he might do honor to himself. After a beautiful exordium, in which he' alpologized for his rashness in unilertaking! rsuch a ca-e of so great magnmitude, expressing a the conviction that his youth would not be suffered to preijudice the truth he might de - dare, and assuring the court that he should confine himself to great anld startling facts, without an attempt to play the arts of the con- summate advocate, he proceeded with a clear statement of the facts of the case as related in the papers in the possession of the court. In conmmencing the narration of the facts he [ would not unnecessarily wound the feelings of the defendant by the use of a single term not authorized by the facts; indeed he would rather leave the court to supply the language in his own mind which should be justified by the nature of the evidence. He then comnmenced by giving a history of Mr and Mrs. Norman, with which the reader. is already acquainted, and but briefly noticed t the perniciousi character of that avarice which would crucify ail the nobler qualities of the head and heart, and which, ini this case, went so far as to strike down all the safeguards which nature had thrown around the helpless infant by planting deep in the humran heart the parettal affections. he pictured in a strong light the strength of that thirst for gain which, in Mr. Norman, hadl banished a fath- er's love and induced him to compel, as it were, his wife, and the mnother to econmnit the same desecration of that which is most beau- tifully and most conspicuously manifested in the human Iheart. Ite called the attention of the court to the fact that there was no poverty nor any need of the estate of Mr Cummings' which could iniduce such a terrible course, for Mr. Norman was already possessed of an im- mense estate. It was merely to cmoceal from the ecceiitric father. in-law the fact of the birth of a child, that he might secure an additional fortune, an iiicrease of his vast. estate, that Mr. Norman deinied the relations of a fatier and cast off among strangers his own off- spring! And during all the time that his child was banished from a father's love, Mi. Normai manifested no symptom of repentancee for his course, never signified his desire to see it un- til--a-- nld here the speaker paused to let the unutterable ft:elings of his soul speak from his countenance--until the possession of the estate left by Mr Cunmlings was likely to be disturbed on the probability also of the death of his wife. Now he discovered a child would secure the foirtune to him, and all att once a warm, an inappeasable desire to obtain pos- ses-,ion of the banished child siezed upon himini! Not only so, but ten tfold more aggra- vated is the case ; for Mr. Norman frequently lamented inll miot bitter terms the necessity of asstuming the care ;ild support of h own off- spring! What shall be said, exclaimed Or- lando, of the fitness of such a father to sup- port, and educate a child, a daughter, for the noble purposes of life Here he drew a thrill- ing picture of an innocent and heaven-aspir- ing spirit thrust into the den of the miser to waste away and die unless rescued from such a pestilential abode by some more human and symp)athizi ng neighbor! By thii time Orlando had the full command of his uaudience, and he found the bitterest condemnation of such a course as Mr. Nor- man had pursued, and the deepest contempt for so mean a spirit, pictured iin every coun- tenance. Even the judge could not preserve Iis stolidity in view of such a degradation, and he saw that the universal opinion was that no child should ,be suffered to die out amid such blighting influences, as the benair- tiful flower falls at the touch of tie fatal frost. But we need not follow the speaker over all the field. He could not be just to himself anid the noble woman whom hie represented without couimbutting the prejudice that, the peo- ple entertained against her. LHe therefore re- lated the inexpressible agonies that affllicted I that mother froim the moment she deserted her child ; he read the letter in which she declared herself a wretcheid woman. he pictured the in- crease of her distress, until she found lierself on her knees asking aid fromt above, and as she thought, receiving the comnand to go aand seek the abandloned infant, ttand to atone ;for her crime against nature by going about in search of sorrows to soothi, of distress to mitigate. He drew another beautiful picture here of one that like a descended angel is ever found minisitering to the afflicted, and re- lieving the unfortunate. Itc also presented a dreadful picture of the child at the Poor- F Hlouse, while her heartless father was rolling tin wealth and caring not whether his own sdaughter were alive or dead! While his in- r come was thousands, he never wondered - whether his iowni offspring was receiving every nattention, or pining away for lack of food and i are. he also represented the odium which had been heaped upon little Currie, who was supposed, to be al illegitimate, and how all who cared for the little innocent were abused with the severest epithets. Here Orlando's countenance fell, and he paused to stifle his s deep emotions. The thought of Amelia rushed nupon his mind; but little did the audience s think that aught else but the enormity of the - circumstances of the case afflicted him. But t he soon recovered himself, and after a glow. n ing encomium upon the character of the moth- er of little Currie, he referred briefly to the law in the case. Concerning the law of the case, the speaker said he was well aware that the father's right to his children was in general absolute, tand would be recognized against the world, and even against the niothier herself. The husband and wife were considered as one iii law, and the husband was solely recognized as that onie, except in such extreme cases as justify a di- vorce and a suitable provision for the wite out of the husband's estate. The father and husband being thuis consid- ered the responsible hlead of the family, the law entrusts to him the sole government of his childrenu, and holds him responsible for their nmaintenance and education. This is the common rule. But there are exceptions. When the father proves himself unworthy of the care of his children-especially when he is so far unqualified to have the charge of them as to make it ruinous to the children to entrust them to him, this court, as the watch ful guardian of the helpless will make such other disposition of them as the circumstances may demand. Now, continued he, the facts before the court are ample to prove that Mr. Normnan is totally unfit to train a chld, and -confiding children to himni would be positively ruinous to them. He cited a multitude of proofs from the books to fortify his position, and clearly de- monstrated that the court would be false to its trust in thus sending little ones to certain spir- itual if not physical destruction, The principle by which Mr. Norman claims possession of the estate in question, is, that tie has the right which the law gives to the husband over the estate of the wife-the right to its possession and to the rents and profits during her life, and also after her death, by the right of courtesy, if he have a child borni in wedlock. That his wife is living is not de- nied, and that the child is living is admitted., But the question is now submitted, if Mr. Norman has not thrown himself out of the fa- vor of the law by his most inhuman treatment, both of the wife and child? Is it possible for his absent wife and child to live with him and not be doomed to the lowest degradation and the most cruel sufferings? Look at the conduct of Mr. Norman at the trial in Geneva; when hs wife appeared he laughed in self- satisfaction, because he thought the estate se- cure without being burdened by the sulpportt of either his wife or child! Did he rejoice4 with tears of gladness at the appearance of his bosom companio viomn he thought dead? Did he attenipt to clasp her in his arms, and offer thanks to God for her restoration? No, sir, no. he bid the Doctor, his comnpainion, take notice that his wife yet lived, that the fact might be proved, and speedily made his escape. he desired not to say a sinugle word either on his own account or on that of her and his angelic daughter! He was glad that she lived to save him the expense of the child's support How did he behave -himself durimng the five years of her absence? W ile her fat hier lived ie kept him deluded with the belief that lie frequently heard from ler, and slhe would u-ooil return. But duriing all this time hue maniifest- ed not the least desire in reference to her until his right to the estate was called in quiestion, stid then--- and theu he lesired to ,rovv hier death and the life of the child, to secure her tortulle I Many other points were proesented. that left no doubt butm a divorce would be granted, and thie estate set apart for th e nmther and child who were thumus evidently excluded from a com- fortable home with the husband and fiather which he was under obligations to provide. In the house of Mr. Norman there is ing en- joyment for the body or thed mind. In a low liovel of poverty where the simplest wants cannot be supplied, there may be happiness if there is love and domestic harmony. A fam- ily locked in the tender embrace of affection may endure with cheerfumliess all its privation; for though the body finds a smiall ,supply, yet the mind is not starved, nature is not crucified and the light of hope is not extinguished I But in the hiouse of the wealthy Mr. Norman, there is nmothing to render life eveni a tolerable burden, for he has a miscr's heart and hates all-even his wife and daudihter--if they in- crease his expenses! He' as virtually ex- cluded themni not only from his love, but from a home with him; and this is equivalent to his wilful absence from hier, and hs absoluto denial of a homne to thlose who should be the objects of his solicitude I Moreover, this Mr. Norman abanidoned hi own infant iii a far away land, uand niever breathed a desire to recover it until tie thomught its posses iomn IlecesSary to the safety of tho1 estate in his hanmds. Why does not the law provide for the punishmentt of pai ents who thus abandon their offspriing secretly, as an enormous offeice? If a horse be stoleni, im- prisonment is the penalty; if ma house be burned by an incenidiary, endangering the loss of life, the gallows in some states must expiate the crime ; but if a parent leaves an infant by the road-side or on the door-sill of a distant famiily, perhaps to perish, no penallty is prescribed for this, the highest crime known to the law of nature! And why? Simply because the law will not presume t human be ing so abandoned as to be capable of such a crime! This poinit was forcibly amplified and beau- tifully illustrated by the speaker, who held the court and audience in breathless attention until he concluded so much to the honor of the law, which bo revolted at such a crime as to consider a parent incapable of -committing it. Here his leelings were so thoroughly com- municated to the audieuce that a deafening applause resounded through the building. It was a response of the people's hearts to the purity of the law in this respect. But, he continued, if a parent be found more depraved than the law dared suspect him capable, what course will the court pur. page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] sue? Will it decree that those who have been abandoned and constantly hated shall be re- d turned to his clutches by their necessity for T bread Y And especially in such a case as this, i will not the court decree a divorce and assign the ehtte in question to the u?,e of the nother and child Y orlando saw the decision already t written in the counetenance of the judge, and contiiued no farther. As Orlanido concluded his argument there wtib an cut hu ia-tic nmanifestation of the great f favor with which his efforti was received. f Loiig after he took his seat nearly all eyes t were directed to him, delighted with the ge- t niii us,el ql ence, aid trutJfuln ess of the young man. Little did they dream that he was once the poor D,;atnge Boy of the great Island city, or more recenitly the ,iniple bmith of Geieva, who beiing cast out as evil by the people, still toiled on, his own responsibility and tri- urnplied over all opposition. Mr. Normam's counsel succeeded Orlando, and as he rose the miser changed his look of deep anguish to i at of more hope and cheerful- ness, thinking that his attorney would succeed in giving a different interpretation to the law. But his advocate was greatly embarrassed by the success of Orlando, and could not speak with that fluency and assurance that had usually distinguished him. he did not pre- tend to deny or explain away the facts, except; in changing the coloring which had been given to them by his opponent's eloquence. His hope of success was in the sternness of, the law, which held sacred the marriage rela. tion, and would not disturb it for light and transiolt causes. he dwelt upon the righte which the law gives to the husband and father, and endeavored to enforce the conclusion that the facts did not warrant a decree according to the prayer of the plaintiff's bill. But we need not follow his argument. Suf- fice it to say, thlat Orlanido was so well per- suaded that he did not remove in tie least, the impressionl made, that he concluded not to use a privilege he had of replying, but submitted the case to the court for ia decision. This manifestation of his assurance of the fa- vorable opinion of the court as well as the people, was received with satisfaction by all excelpt Mr. Norman and his attorney, who ex- hibited a well grounded fear that all was lost. The miser could scarcely restrain himself, and he carried on a long and painful conver- satioi with his lawyer, who scowled and grinned, and bit his lips while hearing the re- proaches of his client. Only a doleful mur- muring could be heard from the miiser, until his coullstl1 broke away from him, as he said, in a tone loud enough to be heard by the court- "I'm ruined! The case is lost! I shall die in poverty!" At this the court smiled, the by-standers looked upon him withl contempt, but Orlando pitied the degradation to which he had sunk. -Ils att ornev made his escape from such a wretched churl as fast as he could, and Mr. Norman followed far behind muttering curses and doleful lamentations. In all this the court but saw additional evi- dence of the justice of the plaintiff s claim. The case was reserved for decision until the next morning. Orlando left the court-house, and directed his footsteps in rapid haste to the post-office, to inquire for letters front Geneva. lBehold him then at the -'gencial delivery." How anxiously he watches the clerk as he looks over the file in the letter C! At last one is found to Mr. Orlando Clinton. 'Quick as a flash he takes the letter from the clerk, drops the amiounit of postage, and steps aside to break the seal and peruse its contents. "MY DEA ORLANIO :- "( According to your request, I hasten to in- form you that Amelia Backus is to be married on Suniday at 4 o'clock P. M., four weeks from to-day, in her father's church. Mr. Ormond, the elegant divine, is the happy man who is to receive the beautiful and noble Amelia at the marital altar. ' My dear Currie is happy as ever, and hopes you will soon return. Our friends are all well. ("If it is important to you to be here on the day of Amelia's marriage, leave the business at once, for it is not of so much consequence { as the mnost trifling matter that concerns your ;happiness. Lands and money are nothing against the interests of the spirit, and should never be suffered to interfere with its highest welfare. "Hoping to see you soon, I remain "Your friend, RUTH OCUMMNS." With an agitated countenance Orlando fold- ed the letter and hastened to his lodgings. But he did not suffer himself long to continue unquiet, for it was against his philosophy to sutffer any circumstance to long disturb his peace and happiness. The letter liad beeni on the way two weeks, though it had not conme directly through. There must be no delay however in his re- turn, for accidents might make him too late. He packed up that night, tetired to rest, and banishing all thoughts from his mind, soon glided into a sleep as profound and as sweet as le ever eiijoyed. ' The morning dawned, and like the morning the pure and radiant spirit of Orlando, as if to welcome the beauty and cheerfulness of the - opeling day. At nine o'clock he called at the court-house - to receive the decision of the court. The mistr was not there, forlhe feared to learn the 1 result; but his counsel was, and seemed, when the decree was announced against the miser, - to be satisfied that so despicable a manu had I lost his cwuse. he shook Orlando-cordially by the hand, and said,- s "You have triumphed, but you will be o painied to hear that your triumph will proba- :. bly result in Mr. Norman's death. No com. a bination of terrible calamities could liave a r. more fatal effect upon him than would the loss a of such an estate." "I should, indeed, be sorry in being the oc- casion of so great a calamity but I am not' blamable - if he has so set himuself against justice, and against benevolence, and above all against the tenderest affections, he must meet the consequences." "As to the calamity of his death," replied the lawyer, "I do not conceive it to be other than a blessing to rid the world of such a wretch." Orlando took his leave of the Court, and af- ter appointing an agent to attend to the estate left by Mr. Cumminigs, he took his leave of Baltimore and was on his way back to Gen- eva, where he had acted a part in so many in- teresting scenes. CHAPTER XV. And again we are at Geneva. The issue of the proceedings on the habeas corpus created great excitement among the good people. The whole mystery was revealed concerning Cur- rie and her mother, and the object of that splendid expedition of the four remarkable personages who invaded Geneva in 18-, and so disturbed the quietude of the place, was fully unfolded. Little did -any one dream that Mrs. Cummings, the self-denying and de- voted pilgrim, was one of the principal char- acters thatt made their advent in such aristo. cratic style, setting their town in commnotion, and creating such a hurly-burly of prepara- tions to receive the exalted strangers! Little did they dream that a person could voluntari- ly-forego all the luxuries and honors which great wealth secures, for the simplest garb of a pedestrian philanthropist, subsisting by lier servile toil, wherever she stopped, or by the hospitality of the strangers when in search of the poor and distressed in society. This was a phienomtena almost incomprehensible, and even after the pilgrim had explained the causes of so great a change, they could scarce- ly believe it possible. But the facts could not be disputed. Little did the good people dream that Cur- rie was aught but the spurious product of il- licit love, and a cast-off by its wicked parents to conceal their sliaine. But now that they saw their mistake, they 'were solicitous to re- pair the wrongs they had done her ini thioiught and deed, and the once despised little Currie became the most popular girl of the country. She now seemed all that was pure, lovely, and beautiful ; and she was reported far and wide as the paragon of girlhood. She had more of society than she could well attend to ; but the thousand interesting incidents thiat oc- curred must be passed over. Mrs. Cunimnings. too, became, in-the estima tion of the people, a kind of prophete-tss. for her superior spiritlual knowledge was consid. ered the result ol soime superhunian aid. She became an object of veneration, for though she once 1ad sinned in abandoning her iinfatt, yet the people renmenbered the account of Paul's transgression, and of his iniracmulous conversion; and between his anud thi case of the pilgrim there seemed to be great similari- ty, But we cannot dwell liere. Amelia, too, became more the centre of at- traction, for the people now discovered that she had been right in her devotions to Currie, and that her father and themiselves had been wrong in their persecutions. All the firm- ness thati she manifested was now called a virtue, instead of a gross obstinacy and an infamous violation ot her father's commands. i The simple fact that so fine and pious a man as the Rev. Mr. Ormond had been captivated by her beauty and virtue, was enough of itself to force an otherwise unwilling respect; but now, thit all obstacles were retnoved, Anmelia was considered the most highly favored of the town. Her mananers were atudied and copied by all the young ladies; her style of dress and her tastes were considered perfect, and closely imitated ; and she was compelled to adopt some system in her social intercourse to {rescue any of her time from the conistant kindnesses and importunities of her admiring friends. It need not be said that she did much to promulgate tie te truth she had learned from Orlando, and which he hiad so successfully carried into practice, before he felt constrained to leave the place by the peculiar turn which his relations with her iad taken on her first arrival from the Academy. It was now all right. Those views once deenied heretical aid infidel, were now regarded as tilie dtc- trines of the great Teacher, because they had the sanction of the intended wife of such a holy man as Mr. Ormond! It soon became more like human life for la- borers to toil in that village, for thcir etnploy. ers were induced, by the teachings of Amelia and Mr. Ormond, to treat them more kindly and pay them more liberally. All the labor. ers of the village soon learned to bless her namie, and they almost unnimously flocked to hear Mr. Ormnond preach, because his teach. ings were infused with the spirit of Anielia. Great revivals had taken place under his min- istratioins: for the truth which is full of love and practical goodness will always win the heart, though presented in the plainest style. There is no difficulty in getting up revivals and making coniverts of "such as will be saved," when the gospel that is preached is really "glad tidings" to the people, and rich with thoth temporal and eternal blessings I But what of Mr. Ormlond? His passion for Amelia had cotinued to increase while he saw the love and veneration of the people di- rected toward her, and it now was impossible to harbor the thought lit ha t e should tnot be his own dear wife. He saw thani much of the esteem he obtained since the revelation of the mysteries connected with Currlie. was derived throught her. and he saw the toiling masses flocking to his church and bowing at his altar mainly through her Iu mobtrusive inst-rumental- ity. But even though all the world should persecute hbinm beccaus he elovev her, still lhe would cling to her with the tenacity of life. There was but otine trouble for Mr. Orimond page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] fHe could not efface from his memory the tor. i turing recollection of that dreadful deceit he had practiced to separate her from Orlando. It troubled him both by day and night; and though neither she nor he would suffer it to make them unhappy, yet he felt the wrong he had (done her, and saw the black inscription of guilt on his own hands. Amelia and Or- lando had mental resources enough to engage their attention, without yielding in sadnebs and sorrow to any event that might occur. 'They had both learned to let that which could not be avoided go to the winds ; for they con- sidered it unphilosophical to sacrifice their unhappiness upon inevitable fatalities. But to say that the measure of his happi- ness was full is to say falsely. There was a void their mutual love alone could fill, and this separation was the only circumstance they could regret. But they hushed the im- portunities of their hearts the moment they attempted to disturb their enjoyments. Mr. Ormond was self-tortured. He won. dered if, after his marriage with Amelia, he: should ever dare to confess his wrong and crave her pardon I He wondered if his decep- tion would ever be discovered!-if, after his marriage, Orlando would ever meet her, and the iniquity be unfolded I These reflections constantly afflicted him. And the fact, too, that Amelia still possessed those spurious letters, and that she might de- tect the hand-writing by closely comparing it with his own, wag another dangerous circum- stance. he therefore requested her to destroy those fatal letters before their marriage, say- ing that he wished her to forget Orlando en- tirely and learn to love him alone, which she could not do if her attention was frequently called to him by seeing the letters, "Would to heaven!" exclaimed Amelia, "that I could forget! But though you scene all that can be desired-so kind, so good, so talented and so highly esteemed, yet there is something that seems still better in Orlando. In spite of his abandonment I feel that he pos- sesses the purest spirit that ever adorned a human being. At this Mr. Ormond hung his head and sighed-sighed, because Amelia had pro- nounced him good while he saw the stain in his own hands. But she thought he sighed because she could not overcome her love for Orlando. At length he said,-- "Have you not heard from him directly nor indirectly since he left you?" I'I have not; and it seems as if he had warned his most intimate friends against tell- ing me a word of him. But 1 expect he is married and living in happiness. God grant that lit. mary ibe appy, but I can never be so happy as I would be were I his wife and loved by him as he is by me." Mr Orimond again hung his head and breathed heavily ior some time. The convic- tion came with additional force that he had done her ani irreparable wrong. Amelia was again deceived, thinking that he sighed be- cause another possessed her supreme love, and she said,- "Be not unhappy, Mr. Ormond; I shall be devoted to you and love you above all but one, and he shall be forced from my remem. brance soon as we are married." Mr. Ormond received her hand, and the conversation closed for the present. The interview we have just given, between Amelia and the Rev. Mr. Ormond, occurred one week previous to the day fixed for the marriage. It was on Sunday after the close of the church service, and when the pious du- ties of the day had darkened the enormity of his deception in the mind of the intended husband. Time passed on, and as the event approached Mr. Orimond became more and more deeply agitated by his self-conviction of guilt. He looked upon himself, wearing the external garb and bearing the character of an "ambas- sador of the cross," a commissioned preacher of righteousness, a representative of the cruci- fied Savior! Then hie looked into his own heart, and saw it black with enormous guilt- false to itself, false to wonrin, and false to the God he preached! The contrast was terrible to think of, and the miisery of the Rev, Mr. Or- mend could not have failed to excite pity in the coldest heart, had it been revealed, under a determination to do justice to the injured. Behold him on Saturday previous to the day fixed for his marriage. How .pale and haggard he looks while closeted by himself! A tumult of painful feelings is torturing his soul! He sits now by his desk, with his head suqpported on his hand and the elbow resting on the table I The sorrow that rankles in his heart for his wrong, and the temptation that conquers a desire to repair it and wash his guilt away are pictured in his rigid eye, in his half open mniouth, and in the distorted lines of his face. And thus he sits for an hour, weigh- ing the offence against the loss of character, of pride, and above all of Amelia! Now he rises, and wringing his hands, paces the floor. Ah, it is woful for a conscientious person to fall before a too powerful temptation! When the conflict between good and evil becomes violent, it is then that the strength of the human powers is tested. A iman may pass through the world without a blemi h, and secure the plaudit of "well done good and faithful servant," by reason of his exemption from great temptation, while another with really stronger moral powers may fall in his encounter with temptation, and receive the character of a devil, be scouted as a culprit, be cast out from the love of nien, and perhaps be doomed to the dungeon or the gallows! Alas! how little do mankind consider the cir- curestarces which make and ruin, which ex- alt and debase! Who is prepared to say that he is strong enough to breast any storm, to meet airy teimptation and preserve his spotless purity! None but a God can be perfect, and the imperfect are always liable to err. If one stands through life, it is because his lot has I been fortunate, and the ruin of every one who falls in the struggle for virtue, stamps him t only as an unfortunate person who needs the f sympathy and brotherly kindness of his fellow t mienr I ould to God, that we could carry in- a to practice all the beauty we behold in this t sublime truth! !f But what of Mr. Ormond? There he paced t his room, and the cold drops of agony settled a on his brow. "Mv God!" he exclaimed, "what shall I o do? dh that I could get relief from my woe!" t Then in silence he continued to walk while b the struggle continued. He could notdecide. i At last, falling on his knees by his desk, he r prayed fervently-- "' Oh God I if thou dost answer prayer, come o now to my relief. I confess to tlihee my guilt, s and if it be thy will that I confess mry sins to the world, come now and give me strength i to bear miy cross." And more he prayed there alone by that desk at which he had indited so many pious 1 utterances. He paused, and resting his head upon his arm, remained in silence many uin-. utes, until a voice audible as many thunders seemed to say,-- 'Guilt! GUILT is in thy soul! Thou knowest thy duti and doest it not. Rise, shake thy gar. inents, wash th1iy hands and be clean!" Mr. Ormond started to his feet, darted his glances about the room, clasped 'his brow with his hands, and then sprang to the door and looked without as if some one had heard the voice. Then closing it and turning the key (ecurely he, moved toward his deskb aind a low sepulcrhal voice audibly and solemnly pro- iounced the word- ', Obey!" "1 hear! My prayer is answered. Obey. Obey! Ah, what is the price of obedience? "oss of station, loss of reputation, loss of all. and worse than this,the loss of Amelia. Obey! I cannot obey at suchi a sacrifice! I dare not. I will not." And slowly he whispered to him- self, "I-will-not-I-will-not." He paused for some time, and not a move- ment of a muscle could be seen, or the breath- ing of a breath be heard. At last he stroked back his locks, calmed his countenance, and said emphatically,- "' Tis done! Away, trouble. The die is cast-I'll venture all for her." Mr. Ormoind now washed his hands and -face, adjusted his garments, took his hat and walked out to refresh-and invigorate his al- most exhausted powers. And what of Amelia? She was quietly and calmly preparing for her wedding. Of course she was free from social engagements on the last day before the important event, as all her friends were also adjusting everything neces- sary for doing grace to her auspicious mar- riage. Joy filled the village, for all regarded the match as peculiarly fortunate. But there was to be no costly display of dress and vanity, for Amelia had signified her pleasure to behold all her friends plainly though neatly dressed, and in a style which the humblest could afford. She signified to the humbler portion of society the great satis- faction it would afford her to see them all on that occasion. Thus Amelia was still herself, and no one was found to question the proprie- ty of her arrangeents. The people peole had found theniselvoes too sadly mistaken when they attempted to opprose her, to question again her views of propriety. Amelia, however, was rnot entirely hal ppy on the last day of heir nmaiden lie. Te1'l thought of Orlando Clinton would unavoida- bly steal upon her, and a consequent quiver- ing shrake her spirit, as the passing nrmomients reminded her of the near approachi of the iun- portaint event. But still sre was calnm, and only suffered herself occasionally to heave a sigh of tenderness for Orlando and invoke the spirit of her sainted mnother to guide her aright. Th'lie day passed, and so did the night. Sabbath morning dawned in beauty, and all nature sceemed auspicious. Mr. Orniond had so far nerved his resolution and quieted his feelings, that he obtaiined a good degree of re- pose, and rose with the dawn, invigorated in body and mind. An unusual solermnity per- vadod the family that morning, and at the 'ustual- devotions the Rev. Mr. Backuiri pInrjed with iunsual fervor. The 'old mran's heart was glad in'view of so fortunate a union of his beloved daughter with one so high in the esteem of the people, and so abundantly blessed of God. Tears of joy coursed dorwn his cheeks, while he prayed for the favor of heaven upon the approaching union. In the morning beforea church service Ame- lia and Mr. Ormond walked out to harnmonize their spirits preparatory to the imiporttiant event. None but the kindest words passed between them, and they seemed to be mutual- ly and heartily resigned. And what of Orlando? That morning lie arrived from Baltinmore, and calling upon Mrs. Cumninings amnd Currie learned the state of af- fairs. Both were to be present at the wed- ding, and were to have a seat among the nearest friends of the bride. Orlando did not pause to relate the result of his mission to Baltimnore, neither did Mrs. Cummnings make a single inquiry. he but reflected a moment, and took his leave, saying, that he should call again on Monday. He only retired to a neigh- bor's, to escape observation and inquiry. Mr. Ormonid preached as usual before his congregation on the morning before his wed. ding, and was listened to by an increased au- I dience, attracted thither by a curiosity to see e and hear a young and talented clergyman whio 3 was so soon to marry the queen of the town. r It seemed somewhat remarkable that he should - be " in the vein" of preaching on Ihis wedding - day, and scores of strangers to ihis church at- 1 tended to see how he would acquit himirself. And why not be devotional on one's wed. f ding day? Certainly as marriage is a divine r institution, and as it imposes some of the most solemn of moral and religious obliga- tions-certainly one should be unusually de- o vout on such an occasion. And so was the page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] Rev. Mr. Ormond ; for he dearly loved Ame- lia, and his struggle the day before called up his reverential and devotional feelings. To, forget his painful self-convictions he threw all his power upon those faculties which lead to worship and'inspire a deep earnestness in be- half of human salvation. It is usually regarded as a matter of sur- prise, that a thief, a seducer, a deceiver, or any guilty man can stand up in the presence of his Uod, lift up " holy hands" and earnestly engage inll the service of the sanctuary. But thl., i, readily understood by those who have thoroughly studied the true constitution of the human mind. It is well known that ambitious conquerors have borne the altar with the camp, and that the proudest heroes have reverentially bowed in the presence of the " man God," and side by side with his hunmblest soldiers. The Jews are said to have borne the ark with them in their military expeditions. The Spanish army that conquered the ancient Peruvians was at- tended by the most zealous of the priesthood, and Pizarro failed not to have the Holy Mass rehearsed morning and evening before the! whole army ; and on the eve of battle, or any perilous expiedition, a solemn invocation of the Almighty's aid was pronounced. Why could the blood-thirsty and blood- seeking thus engage in devotions? The rea- son is that while their destructive and com- bative propensities were so strongly developed as to impel them to battle, tiieir reverence amid veneration were also so strong that they were moved to worship. It is for this reason that a bad man may be found zealous in the cause of religion. He may have organs perversely developed and in- dulge in great sins, while at the same time his devotional faculties are so strong as even to make him a religious enthusiast Mr. Ormond made all extraordinary effort to be religious on this important day, and while he was offering up his morning prayer the big tears rolled down his cheeks, and many eyes were red as a testinony of their sympathetic response. His sermon, too, was uncommuouly eloqueint, and many were moved by his ap- peals. At the conclusion of the service, hundreds stopped to shake his hand in congratulation for his successful effort, aid above all ior the liappiness he must feel in view of the ap- proaching event. The church of the Rev. Mr. Backus was a large one, and having spacious galleries could accomodate a large part of the town. In this church the marriage was to be celebrated. A clergyman had been sent for from a neighbor. ing town-a man noted for his zeal and elo- quence. Promptly to the hour that afternoon, the congregation assembled to witness the inter- esting ceremonies. The building was crowd- ed above and below ; the aisles were crowded to within a few feet of the desk and altar, and still all could not be accommodated. The pews were filled with ladies, and the gentle- men-occupied the galleries and aisles as thick- ly as they could stand. All were now ready. Amelia. her" father, some relatives, Mrs. Cummings and little Currie, were sitting in one of the front seats, and Mr. Ormond was not far from them. The officiating clergyman was in his desk-a so- lemin and venerable looking man, though yet in the vigor of life. The audience was composed of all classes of people, even the laborinig classes, who had become imbued with an ardlent attacnment to Amelia, because of her personal loveliness, and above all, because this loveliness was made still lovelier by the generosity of her dispositions toward themn and by her ardent devotioni to their good. Frequently, during the past few years, had they thought'of Orlan- do Clinton as one especially worthy of her hand, aid ofien hadl they wondered where lie had gone, anti what was the occasion of his leaving his prosperous business so suddent- ly. But they al-,o heard good words of hope and encouragement fronm Mr. Ormiond, and conceived so high a regard for him that they were conitented to behold him and Amelia locked inl the bands of matrimony. That audience was dressed with almost Quarker plainness, and the humblest beiting able to appear in that style as well as the rich, there was no alppearance of inequality except, perhalps, that the hands of those who toiled were more sinewy and a little browner with tan, than those whose emlployment was of a more delicate character. Therie was no flut- tering of feathers, flourishing of jewelry, or rustling of costly silks, for Amelia had said tlhat those whose wages were low and fortunes small could not aflord them, and she deiied to see at her wedding io badges of distinction to miark somie as high and others as low in the social scale. But there was one man in that audience whom it will not do to forget. He had arrived at the liour alppoilited, but the seats were al- ready filled, as also the galleries, and some were beginiiing to stand in the aisles. It was in the middle aisle that he stood, and taking his station in front of the crowd, was gradu- ally mnoved upward until he found himself standing within a few feet of Amelia. He saw her, but she did not observe him, because her face was not toward him, and she did not choose to meet the gaze of the whole assembly. Orlando was recognized by many who had not forgotten him , and it was not many mo- ments before nearly all the male portion of the audience were observing the notorious and ' eccentric young man, and on the countenances of many could be observed the glow of ad- miration with which they regarded their no- ble friend, and more than one were impatient for the services to close that they might grasp his hand. The officiating clergyman finally rose, and after addressing the throne, and reading that noted chapter in one of Paul's epistles on the relations of husband and wife, he proceeded , to speak of the institution of marriage, as one established by God, and of the reciprocal ob- ligations and duties subsisting between the husband and wife. He then descended from the pulpit to the al.; tar, which was a little elevated from the floor, and Amelia and Mr. Ormond took a seat be. tween time altar and the pulpit. Amelia miere- ly glanced hastily over the vast assembly, re- cognizing no one in particular, but aratifying herself with the fact so plainly manifested, that she had the sympathy and good wishes of the people. A breathless silence pervaded the assembly, and the clergyman, after ad- dressing a few words to the candidates to the effect that man shall "forsake father and mother, and cleave unto nis wife,' and they twain shall become one flesh," he said- Let us pray.' "Ohl Lord God Almighty, the Ruler of the heavens and the earth: we invoke thy holy spirit on this important occasion to inspire our hearts with a due sense of the responisi- bilities before us. Thou hast said, 'it is not good for man to be alone,' and before thy infinite wisdomi could look abroad upon thy creations and pronounce them good, thou didst create woman to be a companion for man. And when she walked with Adam imn the garden, rejoicing in his love, and admirinig the flowers that bloomed in her path, herself the most beautiful of them all--when thy pure eye saw her an angel incarnate, soothing with her sympathy and dispensing blessings from the sweet fountain of her love-then thou wert satisfied with thy work and pronounced it good. All heaven resounded with the di- vine benediction, and the angelic choir caused the celestial arches to re-echo their song of thanksgiving. Here, in thine holy presence, one of thy man servants and miaid servants have presented themselves to acknowledge the oneness of their spirits, and take upon them- selves the holy obligations of wedlock. "'Wilt thou, oh God, now be especially mindful of him, thy acceptable and faithful servant in the ministry of thy holy word. who is about to receive from thee an help-mate in his - ardfuous labors. May his zeal for thy cause be increased, and may hie feel stronger to proclaim thy salvation to a perishing world. And be thlou especially minmdful of her who is about to dedicate herself anew to thy service in becominimr the companion of thy annointed servant, and( a co-worker with him for the sal- vation of the world. "Ohl Lord, thou hast abundantly blessed themo lIhus far in life, and we pray thee to con- tinue thy favor unto them that they may be happy themselves, and do much to increase the }'iDpiiie;s of their fellow-men in this - ," Id, and their salvation in heaven. "* Now. oh kiod, the father of us all, wilt thou regard this people, who have assembled in thy presence, on this occassion, in thy sa- cred temple, and omi thy holy day, to witness the ceremonies which thou hast ordained. May the services of this afternoon be a bless- ing to many before thee. May husbands love their wives, and wives their husbands, more devotedly than they have ever done, and may those who are yet alone be soon enabled to present themselves at thy marriage altar, anid begin the enjoyment of that haplpiimess which is found in conjugal love. and above all, may they feel more uand more of love for their benefactor and Savior. May all the uncon- verted give their hearts at once to thee, and be prepared to enjoy the company of thy holy angels throughout a happy eternity. And to Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, be all the praise ascribed, world withoutt end. Anmen." All having taken their seats, except the can- didates at the altar and those who we!e comn- pelled to stand, the clergyman proceeded to consumumate the union of the Rev. Mr. Ormnond and Amnielia Backus. There they stood by the altar--two noble looking individuals, full of youthful bloom and beauty, and having all the promise of a long life of unembittered happiness. It was good to look upon, them, for their appearance proved the fact that de- formity is not the necessary fate of a single humani being, nor should aughlut but symmetry and beauty, healtlh and loveliness, distinguish the human form. There was but one man in that audience superior to Mr. Ornoend, in the gifts of nature. That one stood not far distant, ragarding Ame- lia with the most fixed attentionm. He was somewhat pale, for it was proving a day fatal to his love, and to that happiness whichi lie might enjoy if Amelia were one with him. It would require more than a painter's skill to describe the feelings that were delineated in his expressive counItenance. There he grace. fully stood, fixed as a statue, and regarding but one individual in all that assemnbly. The candidates joined hanids, and the cler- gyman addressed Mr. Ormond the usual in- quiry, if he took Amelia Backus to be his wife, and if he would love and cherish her; and was concluding a similar inquiry to Amelia, when she started as under a sudden shock, and violently withdrawing her hand from Mr. Ormond, exclaimed, with an extended arm,-- "Hold!" ' Imagine the consternation with which the officiating clergyman, Mr. Backus, the ,whole 'congregation, and above all the al most imarried ' Mr, Ormond, were seized. Those who were seated, involuntarily rose, and an awful silence prevailed. Some of the women had screamed out at the sudden and startling command of of Amelia "Hold!" she said,'and standing a moment with quivering frame, she again exclaimed-- "Orlando!" "Amelia!" escaped from him at the same instant, and they rushed into each others arms. The confusion was general, and almost frightful. Mr. Ormond paled and fell sense- less to the floor. His deception was revealed, and who would have netve enough to stand such a shock? Screams were heard all over the audience, and as the officiating clergy. man was engaged, with one or two others, in removing Mr. Ormond to the window for air, there was no one to quiet the people. page: 96[View Page 96] But the embrace of the returned lovers, was for only a moment, and holding Amelia by the hand, hie stepped upon a bench and (ciled out to the people-. Silence was Soon restoredl, and Orlando explained the causu of the present confusion, by the simple statenent that a niis qundlr.-taLnding had occurred between hiirms lf and Amelia, and they had recognized in each other tlihe fact that it was a mdi sunderstandiiig only, and lovingi each other mont fonidly, they could riot avoid the course they had taken. Orlando had too much goodness to criminate Mr. Ormond, and simply stated that Ihte as profoundly Htorir' for him, and hoped he would meet this affliction with fortitude. Neither is Amelia to be blamed, for there are circumstances which have deceived her, but which shall never be kept a secret, and the fact of the deception is only stated that no one mnay reprobate her. Mr. Ormond had revived to hear these remarks, lltl lire was encouraged. he stelled aenroAs to Ame- lia and Orlardo, and taking their hanis hre invokedt the blessing of heaven upon tie. The generosity of Or- lanido i:ti saved him from exposing, for thour h he was not positively aware of the extent of his guilt, yet til- few words that Amelia had whispered to him ena- bled him to inairrine its character. Mr. a(ckiuns was unfounded by the issue of affairs, but Mr. Ormond, Orlando, and Amelia reassured him. The autherllce soon became lll recoir iletr to the result, nit, Isih dlirrisissed, the pIelie dCepartrld to their horeill1i, toi wonder how all the said witnessed was brought about. Ilre, tlitrn, we rest, Wer wouli be glal to carry onr tlihe rautiful hIitori v of the prnrilc il, chatrrit-rs oif this fir tionl ,f trlith, nllid give the reader uri idea of that con- ditiiin of sitiiv ior wiNiicrh we are atdvar'irgr. ilBut the aithor ldnNIt reslt hIre awshile, fiaring that he has ail- r..:r di wca;ri-d the i;ticrnce of hii rradctrs. 'lh i',l of events at the t welting of the Rev. Mr. OriondIin tlrcw lil, towi irtrn tie rceatcist c('ori! imo)tioll. All hii'tt oif go sip wer' inrriil-' g id refereince tI, it, tligl.'h the proiiensity of the peoplh fior tiis kind of fr.- tradlc }idt I'cn co'nsidieraily chal teinied lIv the nis- fortuins it hant hitherto oci atsioirned, and ty tie happy inflieiloe of Alrl,.ia. Surtlice it to?ir\, trhart Amelia "tl Orlandro i tooli nobly in the lef',ice of Mr. Or- In ruri. iand soon p!rstiade de i u-olnl tiat it was bet- ter to let li inaltter ipas i ithout too rigirtd enquiry. Mr. Ormiond wia, brokeon in spirit, Uand oil Ili.; knees bitrizedi fiortrivenres of thinso ih hail irjured. hBut they toll liitl it i ais i injury, a:s tlihe eventI wouild snnrve to i n,.ra-t Itheir Ihalqtrrrss if that wire pissithle. Tire) told himiii tid that t11ehad views on the iubjectfnt the caruse o nliirlccs ,. tlre ',rcet ir circltrnrra; rlcir , Sni 1 o i!lirlr , tiithflerit froir tlioir of the t rriii; and thease view's led liiti 1 to it\ itndt eXciise folly and crilre, Intil tIo ltibor fur t!., r,-!:r, .,il f tih' ,';ti,.r s raith'er thlan tl' dit'-true- tier1 of tin-, lii iho co mirlit tihilein. tihv I lieved that (ill .,t -in, ., i,; l, . t t I tlin t ..ll, " " i 11ii I .,ii llnt qi t l, ll C: it tin tiirt-t ,tl( e."' ir. I)rim iqionit llt their tk;il1hitii, ,rl thtianked therin % iii tI'fir- ' , f tT:iuri l, It ' -IW i it irr courst tlilt', It'l il viiNi,' I ' ur. great trirtlis whit ih Arirulii 'rutI }rl., ,tr ) IIl, ri t1. 'T'o i;,si,l t!!!r't irii itgl tlii linjinllice !'tlnt 'w-tlit , , , it( iri :,... tliri, lh \ :ti!ni hilk l tii ri il i h ich tire', felltjii..,tilicd bt'Iiuse his replent- ,li, a, u irr, aui hi iii,: si r mtir riri\ll fir' haviiis lit'" rli a oecerv oileal. Sifir'e of,' I!I1 I ) ) It H I \i filt thin rrinfiior rllit, irilr, rIt Jle i ; rI Ire was lint[ htrltrul;:Jt hinttiatl 'rilir ritiihrtlt:il i11iid ii er,iaItr i(It- % ttrt! . .iri, ruf bitlairt. i rut I i. c r, ld not help tilit e ;it- [ ir, ;i, n hiNs erir I iiti to ;i, ditn r ole t a l' i tl Jrtif ri . ("iliuniin,i ;til liitle Currie rij,ir(Cl at he , event, fir (Orlnl!o anl A incelia were rirost tlar to theri; theyi al- I. I eltx pitied M1ir. Ormirdl tid extendled to him a i Irk'trvrtlMCr'nA siN 11iplthviy. Thlr labo:iring liCopl to wlio loved Orland so so dearlv tin .iutcd at the result of the wN dding, but under his ad- vice, they still sustained Mr. Ormond. "If thine one- iny hunger, feed himn, if he be thirsty, give him drink." "Love your enemies d(to good to therm that persecute you, anrd pray for them thia despitcfully use vou,." Sonet noble man has said, that to return evil for good is fiend-like; to return evil for evil is brute-like; to re- turn good for good is man-like; but to return yoond for ecvil is (id-,'ik,! Orlando Clinton and Amelia Backus were married within a few weeks after the events tabove related. That the y lhad nta magnificent wedtdiig--thtt is ima-rnifl- curent in the outpouring of the people--iieed inot bo re- lated. It wats coniducted witih even greater simnldicity than we have described, and the evenit seemted a token of the true simplicity and equality which will some day prevail. Orhlardo retisuned his occupation in the town, giving ermlloymnent to it score of worlmenn, but /rot orl the lqlhutal terms of the i orhl. He sruperintendd the shop, laboriJug with the rest, andrl ilnpartinrg instruction and aminursecnent from the abundant resources of his mintd. The plroceeds were divided equally aniongi all, and no one wa, s comnrpelled to work Imore thani wi as :agrecable to hii ability and disposition. All felt it their duty to rerler equal service, and each vied with theli other in faithfulness and amiability. It was enouigh to nIlake thei true philanthinroplist weep tears of great joi) to wit- ness the hapipiness that was enjoyed by all the work- meln of that glorious shopt! Other shops putrsuedl tihu satme system utniler thre instructions of Orlaolu Clirutonr, thie hero of Indutstrital Reform, and rnot many )ears SlapruSd before all the mechanics of the town s eore thoir own employers. Mr. Clinton builtim h humble cottage-, land em- bowncredl it with trees, shrulbbery and floiwers. Thcre hie rand Anelia, Mrs. Cumnimings and Currie residetd, and it hmappuD family was that. Mrs. Cinmrninrgs contin- ued her labors of love, and the poor, fiar and wide, h:rd it true frienir to bless. And what of Mr. iewis Norman, the mniiser, swihoni we left onu the brink of the gr-ave? We shanll not ait- temnpt to describe the tigoony with which he received the decinion of tlihe court. nor to tell how it was talllnost ai fatal troniblet. he lived for nra:irly a year, aind died!. the nearth received his bones, til( if he had soul enot(iuIh to be identified in we hLV o peI IImih ic npassedL safely to the realms of bliss. He de- cl:rted to hiimnsel tflhst Iis child sotuld nrot inherit his estate, for he would dispose of it to soime distanirt rela- tives tly will. But a miser ncannot maike at will. It is more painful than deitrh itself for suich a worshilper of m1onenC to titink 4)f dini and leaving his goilden gtod fiorn er. And though hie mmany tinties rtlmnost ri'solvtd to doi it, yet the lpin so quivered in his hand ais he at- tinllpted tlo write -hins will limt hia itt oil the thl! unitil it iwas too late. He died, andt tule e tinte hpascd to I ur- rie- \W wotuil rie gladt to follow out this hin-itorv arnd shinow thuqi- t us, to whilch sh e aptplied her weanlth, but it \ tnll rncnlq irn :ullt)tillr iV(ntlt(mi,. Stiliceu It t, saq titit tMrs. C{ nlllnlln iigs, an I tier noIdu, n(atuighter tiIitied tlnte t anilieii thaut enre ilnponovnruiet ! tliheir fot)il as dtscriedrl in our tirst chaitcer,:nd they lrocurei, honris, :trl dt coumfortible suibsistence for tlrin, airho could niot ihll theiniselves. T'i[' rs, tlhon Ns tlr trild sorrnuw i n()t their t iaccoint, thourgh by lreasion o fthe'ir owni folly, s erct flilly enabllted tI tltes throse s Io had ttheeLr tint imniocent caulse of their miisfoilrt uinos. Mrs. C(' lllliniugn (Olthinullled to expendc her in coimemi rcli eving the distrhissld, clothrLg poor children-i, aund tpro iding the Inmeas of educatioin. Hoever, if we have befltwited you in the effort that is now concluded, we are amply rewarded. If nour have nonit sympathized with the views we have ad- vanced, the reason is that either you or we area' fhiult. Our thesis may be erroneous, but ai W do not thiu,' s(? Yours may be erroneous, but you do not think . We therefore part its good friends ars at the beginning, and to all we tender it most hearty FAREWELL.