“G——, April 2, 183-.“Mr. Merritt—Dear Sir,—Your favor, in answer to inquiries contained in my letter of 10th ult., came duly to hand. I think the property sufficiently reasonable at your valuation, and have no wish to take advantage of your pecuniary embarrassments to obtain a reduction of price. Therefore, if you please, you will consider me the purchaser. The enclosed check for eleven thousand dollars will release the estate from the execution, and the remainder I will pay as soon as the necessary titles are perfected. I have appointed Mr. —— my agent in the matter, who will attend to their arrangement.“Your obedient servant,“G—— S——.”
“G——, April 2, 183-.
“Mr. Merritt—Dear Sir,—Your favor, in answer to inquiries contained in my letter of 10th ult., came duly to hand. I think the property sufficiently reasonable at your valuation, and have no wish to take advantage of your pecuniary embarrassments to obtain a reduction of price. Therefore, if you please, you will consider me the purchaser. The enclosed check for eleven thousand dollars will release the estate from the execution, and the remainder I will pay as soon as the necessary titles are perfected. I have appointed Mr. —— my agent in the matter, who will attend to their arrangement.
“Your obedient servant,
“G—— S——.”
When Mr. Merritt took this last letter from the post-office, he determined to take it home and open it there. But his anxiety proved too great, and the seal was broken. The check came first in sight, and he panted for breath. He read on, quickening his pace more and more, until he arrived at home, almost on a full run.
“Thank God! we are free!” he exclaimed. “Wife, read this.”
She did read it to the end. The day had dawned, and the bright sun of hope shone once more. What a happy family was Mr. Merritt’s! Free from debt! They did not forget, in the fullness of their joy, to assemble around the family altar, and pour forth fervent thanksgiving to the Hand which had supported them through tribulation, and had brought them succor when there was none to help.
On the next morning, to the utter dismay of the bank attorney, Mr. Merritt walked into his office, and demanded the execution, at the same time presenting the money.
Choking with rage and surprise, the attorney gazed first at the money, and thence at the mechanic, and proceeded to an iron closet, which he opened, and brought out the notes. Mr. Merritt paid them every one, and with an air of mingled triumph and scorn, bade Esquire Rock a good morning, and left the office. That gentleman’s wrath broke out afresh when he was again alone, and he occasionally muttered aloud, “The scoundrel! I could have killed him!” and no doubt he spoke truly.
——
THE FAREWELL.
After many consultations and long reflection, Mr. Merritt decided to emigrate to the West. Though repeatedly urged by the new purchaser to remain for a time at his old home, he refused, being determined, as he said, to try farming, and the new country.
About two months after the sale, Mr. Merritt received the last instalment of the purchase-money; and having parted with such of his household goods as would be unnecessary where he was going—save a few dear old pieces of furniture, which they could not bear to give up—he had nearly two thousand dollars to invest in lands.
With many tears they parted from one old friend and another, and lingered affectionately around every familiar object, until no more excuses could be framed for delay—and at length commenced their journey. Emma would have given the world to have seen William Warden once more; but he had left the village, and gone, no one knew whither. Little George, notwithstanding his curiosity to see a prairie, had his sorrows too, and wept as though his heart would break. The infant was the only one who had no regrets for their old home.
——
THE PRAIRIE HOME.
Illinois—as every traveler in the Great West knows—abounds in prairies, many of them of great extent. Among them all, however, there are none so large and varied asLa Prairie, so called, which stretches from the Mississippi River more than a hundred miles into the interior. Now, it spreads to the horizon’s verge a vast level, carpeted, in the spring-time, with luxuriant verdure, amid which are scattered myriads of beautiful wild flowers—anon, the surface slopes in gentle undulations, rising higher as you proceed, until they become romantic and broken, dividing into hills and ridges, while clear and sparkling rivulets flow down the valleys between. Here and there the eye rests upon an oasis of timber, covering a few acres, and again the traveler scans the field of vision in vain for a single tree or shrub to relieve the wearisome monotony of space. Although the soil is rich, and easy of cultivation, the extreme scarcity of timber has deterred the emigrant from its occupation, and, save a few settlementsin the neighborhood of these timber-groves, La Prairie is to this day the same solitude as when the buffalo fed in its green pastures, undisturbed by the ride of the pale-faced hunter.
Having an opportunity of buying an improvement in one of these beautiful groves, at a trifling advance from the government price, Mr. Merritt selected it for his home. They named it Elmwood, and Selkirk, in the South American isle, was not more isolated from his race than were the mechanic and his little family in their new abode.
The limits of this history will not allow us to detail the many ingenious devices that were of necessity resorted to, or the ludicrous contrivances of Mr. Merritt in the way of carpentry, or the substitutes adopted for the thousand conveniences they had always been used to, and never knew the value of before; but suffice it to say, the mechanic labored earnestly in his new vocation, and succeeded in planting acres sufficient to insure a plentiful provision for his little flock.
——
SICKNESS.
The second summer had nearly passed away, when sickness visited Elmwood. Mr. Merritt was prostrated by a violent fever. Early and late his wife watched by his bed. Sleep was a stranger to her eyes. Agonizing prayers ascended in petition for his recovery. At last they were heard. Slowly the sick man improved, and after many weeks, was able to breathe the fresh air, and walk abroad.
Then, the dear little prattler, the youngest child, drooped. The petted one lay helpless in its willow cradle, and pale and anxious faces gathered around it. Eyes, red with weeping, witnessed its struggles. Several days it lingered after hope had fled the broken-hearted mourners, and then the little sufferer was called in its pure, unspotted innocence, to Heaven!
——
A STORM ON THE PRAIRIE.
A short time after Mr. Merritt settled at Elmwood, a small village sprung up about twenty miles distant, on the edge of the prairie; and, as the country filled up beyond, it was made the county-seat; and a store or two being established there, it became quite a market-place for the farmers on the prairie.
On a cold morning in January of the third winter of his residence at Elmwood, Mr. Merritt, having some business which called him to the village, Miss Emma improved the opportunity to accompany him, for the purpose of exercising her taste in the purchase of a few articles from the store. The snow was too thin for sleighing, and the wagon was therefore rigged with two chairs and a cloak, together with a buffalo robe for the feet; and, all things being ready, they set off in high spirits.
Emma succeeded to her utmost satisfaction in cheapening and securing the requisite bargains, and was ready to return, long before her father had completed his share of the business of the day. It was nearly night, and she was quite out of patience, when Mr. Merritt drove up with the one-horse wagon, to convey them homeward.
“I am afraid you will have a storm, sir,” said the polite shopkeeper, bowing a farewell, and glancing at the clouds.
“I hope not before we reach Elmwood,” replied Mr. Merritt, returning the salutation, and applying the whip. He cast an anxious eye overhead, and applied the whip more vigorously.
Dark clouds had gradually overspread the sky, and were thickening every moment, while an occasional gust sweeping along the prairie, gave evident manifestation of an approaching storm. They had not gone half the distance, when a feathery snow-flake floated slowly down, and then another, and another. Now they came thicker and faster, and the darkness increased so much, that Mr. Merritt could hardly discern the road.
“Emma, dearest, wrap your cloak closely, it will be very cold,” said he, urging his horse to greater speed.
“I am very comfortable, now, father,” returned Emma; “are we not nearly home?”
“I hope that we may be, for it will be a dreadful night.”
As the night set in, the wind increased. The snow had hitherto fallen gently, but now it was driven into their faces by the gale, and almost blinded them. It grew colder, too, very rapidly, and the mechanic’s fingers could hardly grasp the lines. Still he continued to ply the whip, and they rolled on at a gallop.
“Emma, can you see a light?—we should be near Elmwood.”
“No, father, I can see nothing.”
Again they hurried on.
“Look all around you, Emma,” said her father, anxiously; “we must certainly be nearly home.”
She strained her eyes in every direction, but no light was visible.
A dreadful thought flashed upon him then. He stopped his horse, leaped from the wagon, and bent his eyes close to the ground.
“O my God!” he exclaimed, in agony, “we have lost the road!”
The storm howled in fury—the track was entirely covered with snow—to go forward was uncertainty—to return would be folly—to remain, was to perish. What man, how stout-hearted soever he might be, would not have quailed at such a prospect.
“What shall we do, father? I am very cold;” said Emma, faintly.
“Heaven only can preserve us, my dear Emma. Take this buffalo, I do not need it,” said the kind father, carefully wrapping the fur robe to shield her tender frame from the storm, while an involuntary shivering through his system evinced the extent of his self-denial.
After an earnest invocation to Heaven, in silent petition, for their preservation, he resolved to go forward, and leave the result with Providence.
“Are you warm enough, Emma?” said her father, after a pause.
“I am not cold now, father, but I amsosleepy.”
“My child, exert yourself—do not sleep!” said the mechanic, in alarm—“it is death!”
As he spoke, a dull, heavy sound was borne along the gale. Mr. Merritt listened. It was not the wind. Another report was heard.
“’Tis a gun!” he exclaimed. “Heaven be praised! it is a gun from Elmwood!” He turned his horse’s head in the direction of the sound. A third time the report was heard, evidently nearer. Soon a faint glare was visible, which continued to increase as they approached. There stood his dwelling, with every window brilliantly illuminated; and just as he reached the house, the door was opened, and George appeared with the gun, which he was about to fire again, when he saw them.
“Mother, they’ve come!” he shouted, “and this in honor of their return,” he added, blazing away, and almost thrown on his back by the recoil a moment after.
The mother was at the door ere he had finished. Mr. Merritt was so stiffened and benumbed with cold that he descended from the wagon with difficulty to meet the warm embrace of his wife; but Emma sat still nor spoke. She was asleep. At this discovery, the excitement and alarm of the mechanic seemed to endow him with superhuman strength, and lifting her as if she had been an infant, he hurried into the house with his lifeless burden, and laid her upon a couch. With frantic energy they applied the restoratives at command—and they were blessed. Her eyes opened slowly, and she attempted to speak.
“The crisis is past, and our Emma is preserved!” exclaimed Mrs. Merritt, clasping her hands together in joyful thanksgiving.
Emma was soon entirely recovered, but the careful mother forbade exertion, and with her own hands prepared and brought a nice cordial to her daughter’s bed, under the soothing influence of which she ere long sunk into pleasant and refreshing slumbers.
Mrs. Merritt, while supper progressed, was relating to the mechanic the anxiety she had felt for their safety when night came on, and he had not returned; and how George had suggested the thought of firing the gun, which had led to their preservation, when a loud knock was heard at the door. George opened it, and a stranger entered, muffled to the eyes in a capacious cloak, which was almost concealed by a covering of snow.
“Can a traveler find shelter with you to-night?” asked the new comer, who appeared to be a young man.
“God forbid that we should drive a human being from our roof on such a night as this,” said Mr. Merritt. “Sir, you are quite welcome to the best we have to offer.”
The traveler expressed his thanks, and divested of his cloak, exposed the features of a handsome young man, of apparently not more than two-and-twenty years.
A sudden exclamation burst simultaneously from the lips of Mr. and Mrs. Merritt.
“William Warden!” It was he.
“You recognize me, I see,” said Warden, “although three years have changed me somewhat;” and he continued, “will you, Mr. Merritt, for the moment, forget that I am the son of my father, and accord to me the welcome of a stranger?”
The mechanic evidently struggled with bitter recollections, but subduing them, offered his hand calmly to Mr. Warden. “You are my guest, Mr. Warden,” said he, “and as such, are not the less entitled to my hospitality that you are the son of one who has done cruel wrong to me and mine.”
“But not irretrievable wrong, thank Heaven!” replied young Warden. “The son shall expiate the crimes of the father. To-morrow, Mr. Merritt—to-morrow shall be the dawn of a happier day.”
Mr. Merritt made no reply. Warden did not resume the subject, and they sat some time in silence. William had frequently glanced around the room since his entrance, and his countenance now assumed a perplexed and anxious expression. There was one missing, of whom he wished, yet feared to know. At length he mustered sufficient courage to inquire in as indifferent a tone as he could assume, “Where is Miss Emma?”
Mrs. Merritt then recounted the history of Emma’s trip to the village, and her narrow escape from a dreadful death on the prairies, and how the firing had been the means of their rescue; to all of which he listened with intense interest. He, too, had heard the gun, and been saved by it from a similar fate.
On the next morning Emma was quite herself again. She had not heard of the traveler’s arrival, and when she came into the breakfast-room and saw William Warden, she almost fainted. The tell-tale blood, which had at first retreated, now crimsoned her cheek—and William himself seemed to have caught the contagion, for his face was all on fire. They shook hands as composedly as possible under the circumstances, and succeeded in exchanging a few interrogatories without betraying the secret agitation of their hearts to the eye of the mechanic. If William had loved Emma at sixteen, how much more worthy of his love did she now appear. She had grown taller, and every childish grace had matured into beautiful womanhood. The climate had tinged her complexion with the slightest possible brown, and her plain western dress fitted her charming figure so well, that he would not have exchanged it for the richest robe that ever decked a haughty ball-room belle.
William, too, how vastly he was improved. Three years had transformed the slight stripling into the form of manly beauty; and his eyes beamed with the intelligence of superior intellect. Emma thought him even handsomer than ever.
After breakfast was over, Mr. Merritt and young Warden walked out together, and when the latter returned to the house, he found Emma alone. He approached the fair girl, and his voice trembled as he spoke.
“Emma,” said William, “have you forgotten our last parting yet. O, Emma, the words you then whispered in my ear have sustained and encouraged me since that day; and the hope of one day being worthyof you, and repairing the injury done to your father, has borne me onward and upward over difficulties of every kind, until at last I am here to remind you of your promise. ‘I will be yours, and yours only, William,’ you said; and now, dearest Emma, I have just explained all to your father, who will not withhold his blessing, and it needs but your confirmation to seal my happiness forever.”
The happy girl did not withhold it.
——
A MORNING CALL IN NEW ENGLAND.
“Have you heard the news about Mr. Merritt?” said a young lady, to an acquaintance, whom she was honoring with a morning call.
“No, I have not; what about him?”
“Why, you know that Mr. Warden ruined him, and his property was sold to a gentleman in ——, and the mechanic and his family moved to the West. This was about three years ago. Well, Mr. Warden’s son was violently in love with Mr. Merritt’s daughter, Emma; a fine looking fellow he was, too; and he felt so terribly about his father’s failure, that he immediately left the village; and where should he go, accidentally, but to the very man who purchased Mr. Merritt’s property, and who employed him as a clerk. He happened to suit his employer exactly—for, as I said before, he is a fine looking fellow—and somehow or other he found out lately that young Warden was so much attached to Mr. Merritt’s Emma; and what does he do but give William a deed in full of all the property, and resigned business in his favor, then sends him off to Illinois, to marry the daughter, and bring back the whole family to their old home. And, sure enough, last night they came, bag and baggage, and have commenced housekeeping already. Young Warden and his wife, are the handsomest couple I ever saw. I hear that they are to give a party to their old friends as soon as they are settled.”
TO MY SISTER E . . . . A.
———
BY ADALIZA CUTTER.
———
Sweet sister, at this twilight hour,While sings the bird her evening lay,And gentle dews refresh each flowerThat drooped beneath the noontide ray;While cool, soft breezes play around,And gently fan my burning brow,Falling with sweet and soothing soundUpon my ear like music now;While trembling there in yonder skyThat little star looks down on me,I’ll wipe the tear-drops from my eye,And trill a simple song for thee.My heart is full, oh, sister dear,Of tender thoughts of one whose loveNo longer lights our pathway here,But purer glows in worlds above;And though a year has almost flownSince we have laid her down to rest,To-night her form sat by my own,Her lips upon my brow were pressed;Her low, sweet voice was in my ear,Entranced I listened to each word,So soft, so silvery, and so clear,As ne’er from mortal lips was heard!With glowing eye she talked with meOf our own happy childhood’s hours,When hand in hand we sisters threeWith chainless footsteps sought the flowers;Or sat beneath the forest trees,Upon some green and mossy bed,While, stirred by the low, murmuring breeze,The leaves made music overhead;While on the gentle summer airThe birds poured forth their thrilling song,Till every green leaf waving thereSeemed the sweet echoes to prolong.She spoke to me of girlhood’s days,When we had hopes unmixed with fears,Ere we had learned the world’s cold ways,And smiles were ours undimmed by tears;When life seemed like a long, bright dream,Our spirits buoyant as the air,And looking o’er life’s gentle stream,Thought not that rocks lay hidden there;While onward, onward lightly spedOur little barks adown the river,Trusting the sunbeams overheadWould keep the waters bright forever.She talked with me of riper years,When time less lightly speeded by,And, seen through nature’s flowing tears,The rainbow spanned a clouded sky;Some of our brightest dreams had flown,And that strange lyre, the human heart,Awoke a deeper, sadder tone,That things so lovely should depart;And while we could not stay the tear,To think those cloudless days were o’er,A sad voice whispered in our ear,They’ll come no more—they’ll come no more!They’ll come no more, oh, sister mine,Those sunny hours that we have known,But shall we murmur, or repine,So many blessings still our own?True, clouds have gathered on our way,Deep shadows round about us lie,But waiting for a brighter day,Upward we’ll look with steadfast eye;And as we linger round the tombOf one whom our warm hearts held dear,Sweet voices will dispel the gloom—She is not here—she is not here!
Sweet sister, at this twilight hour,While sings the bird her evening lay,And gentle dews refresh each flowerThat drooped beneath the noontide ray;While cool, soft breezes play around,And gently fan my burning brow,Falling with sweet and soothing soundUpon my ear like music now;While trembling there in yonder skyThat little star looks down on me,I’ll wipe the tear-drops from my eye,And trill a simple song for thee.My heart is full, oh, sister dear,Of tender thoughts of one whose loveNo longer lights our pathway here,But purer glows in worlds above;And though a year has almost flownSince we have laid her down to rest,To-night her form sat by my own,Her lips upon my brow were pressed;Her low, sweet voice was in my ear,Entranced I listened to each word,So soft, so silvery, and so clear,As ne’er from mortal lips was heard!With glowing eye she talked with meOf our own happy childhood’s hours,When hand in hand we sisters threeWith chainless footsteps sought the flowers;Or sat beneath the forest trees,Upon some green and mossy bed,While, stirred by the low, murmuring breeze,The leaves made music overhead;While on the gentle summer airThe birds poured forth their thrilling song,Till every green leaf waving thereSeemed the sweet echoes to prolong.She spoke to me of girlhood’s days,When we had hopes unmixed with fears,Ere we had learned the world’s cold ways,And smiles were ours undimmed by tears;When life seemed like a long, bright dream,Our spirits buoyant as the air,And looking o’er life’s gentle stream,Thought not that rocks lay hidden there;While onward, onward lightly spedOur little barks adown the river,Trusting the sunbeams overheadWould keep the waters bright forever.She talked with me of riper years,When time less lightly speeded by,And, seen through nature’s flowing tears,The rainbow spanned a clouded sky;Some of our brightest dreams had flown,And that strange lyre, the human heart,Awoke a deeper, sadder tone,That things so lovely should depart;And while we could not stay the tear,To think those cloudless days were o’er,A sad voice whispered in our ear,They’ll come no more—they’ll come no more!They’ll come no more, oh, sister mine,Those sunny hours that we have known,But shall we murmur, or repine,So many blessings still our own?True, clouds have gathered on our way,Deep shadows round about us lie,But waiting for a brighter day,Upward we’ll look with steadfast eye;And as we linger round the tombOf one whom our warm hearts held dear,Sweet voices will dispel the gloom—She is not here—she is not here!
Sweet sister, at this twilight hour,While sings the bird her evening lay,And gentle dews refresh each flowerThat drooped beneath the noontide ray;While cool, soft breezes play around,And gently fan my burning brow,Falling with sweet and soothing soundUpon my ear like music now;While trembling there in yonder skyThat little star looks down on me,I’ll wipe the tear-drops from my eye,And trill a simple song for thee.
Sweet sister, at this twilight hour,
While sings the bird her evening lay,
And gentle dews refresh each flower
That drooped beneath the noontide ray;
While cool, soft breezes play around,
And gently fan my burning brow,
Falling with sweet and soothing sound
Upon my ear like music now;
While trembling there in yonder sky
That little star looks down on me,
I’ll wipe the tear-drops from my eye,
And trill a simple song for thee.
My heart is full, oh, sister dear,Of tender thoughts of one whose loveNo longer lights our pathway here,But purer glows in worlds above;And though a year has almost flownSince we have laid her down to rest,To-night her form sat by my own,Her lips upon my brow were pressed;Her low, sweet voice was in my ear,Entranced I listened to each word,So soft, so silvery, and so clear,As ne’er from mortal lips was heard!
My heart is full, oh, sister dear,
Of tender thoughts of one whose love
No longer lights our pathway here,
But purer glows in worlds above;
And though a year has almost flown
Since we have laid her down to rest,
To-night her form sat by my own,
Her lips upon my brow were pressed;
Her low, sweet voice was in my ear,
Entranced I listened to each word,
So soft, so silvery, and so clear,
As ne’er from mortal lips was heard!
With glowing eye she talked with meOf our own happy childhood’s hours,When hand in hand we sisters threeWith chainless footsteps sought the flowers;Or sat beneath the forest trees,Upon some green and mossy bed,While, stirred by the low, murmuring breeze,The leaves made music overhead;While on the gentle summer airThe birds poured forth their thrilling song,Till every green leaf waving thereSeemed the sweet echoes to prolong.
With glowing eye she talked with me
Of our own happy childhood’s hours,
When hand in hand we sisters three
With chainless footsteps sought the flowers;
Or sat beneath the forest trees,
Upon some green and mossy bed,
While, stirred by the low, murmuring breeze,
The leaves made music overhead;
While on the gentle summer air
The birds poured forth their thrilling song,
Till every green leaf waving there
Seemed the sweet echoes to prolong.
She spoke to me of girlhood’s days,When we had hopes unmixed with fears,Ere we had learned the world’s cold ways,And smiles were ours undimmed by tears;When life seemed like a long, bright dream,Our spirits buoyant as the air,And looking o’er life’s gentle stream,Thought not that rocks lay hidden there;While onward, onward lightly spedOur little barks adown the river,Trusting the sunbeams overheadWould keep the waters bright forever.
She spoke to me of girlhood’s days,
When we had hopes unmixed with fears,
Ere we had learned the world’s cold ways,
And smiles were ours undimmed by tears;
When life seemed like a long, bright dream,
Our spirits buoyant as the air,
And looking o’er life’s gentle stream,
Thought not that rocks lay hidden there;
While onward, onward lightly sped
Our little barks adown the river,
Trusting the sunbeams overhead
Would keep the waters bright forever.
She talked with me of riper years,When time less lightly speeded by,And, seen through nature’s flowing tears,The rainbow spanned a clouded sky;Some of our brightest dreams had flown,And that strange lyre, the human heart,Awoke a deeper, sadder tone,That things so lovely should depart;And while we could not stay the tear,To think those cloudless days were o’er,A sad voice whispered in our ear,They’ll come no more—they’ll come no more!
She talked with me of riper years,
When time less lightly speeded by,
And, seen through nature’s flowing tears,
The rainbow spanned a clouded sky;
Some of our brightest dreams had flown,
And that strange lyre, the human heart,
Awoke a deeper, sadder tone,
That things so lovely should depart;
And while we could not stay the tear,
To think those cloudless days were o’er,
A sad voice whispered in our ear,
They’ll come no more—they’ll come no more!
They’ll come no more, oh, sister mine,Those sunny hours that we have known,But shall we murmur, or repine,So many blessings still our own?True, clouds have gathered on our way,Deep shadows round about us lie,But waiting for a brighter day,Upward we’ll look with steadfast eye;And as we linger round the tombOf one whom our warm hearts held dear,Sweet voices will dispel the gloom—She is not here—she is not here!
They’ll come no more, oh, sister mine,
Those sunny hours that we have known,
But shall we murmur, or repine,
So many blessings still our own?
True, clouds have gathered on our way,
Deep shadows round about us lie,
But waiting for a brighter day,
Upward we’ll look with steadfast eye;
And as we linger round the tomb
Of one whom our warm hearts held dear,
Sweet voices will dispel the gloom—
She is not here—she is not here!
THE LIFE INSURANCE.
———
BY HENRY G. LEE.
———
“You look sober this morning,” said I to my neighbor Lincoln one day. “What’s the matter? Any thing wrong?”
“No; I can’t exactly say that,” he replied, with unusual gravity.
“You look as if you were under a mountain of trouble.”
“Do I?” And he made an attempt to laugh; but it was not entirely successful.
“I’m only a little worried just now; but it will pass off,” he added. “I get into these states sometimes—periodically, I might say.”
“Ah, I understand. Imaginary troubles.”
“Oh no,” he quickly replied. “Not just that. There is something like real flesh and blood about the matter. The fact is, to come out plain, Mrs. Lincoln, in her over-kindness, has presented me with another baby.”
“And you are so unreasonable as to grumble about it! You don’t deserve to have blessings.”
“There is such a thing as being blessed to death, you know,” said Mr. Lincoln, smiling; but the smile was still, as they say, on the wrong side of his mouth. “Five babies were enough, in all conscience, without adding a sixth. It was as much as I could do to get bread for what I had.”
“He who sends the mouths will send the bread. Never fear for that.”
“I know. This general trust in Providence is all well enough. But it takes more mental stamina than I possess to bring it down into particular applications. My faith isn’t overly strong. If I were worth a hundred thousand dollars, the babies might come as fast as they liked. I wouldn’t call a baker’s dozen too many. No. I like babies; bless their hearts! but I like them properly cared for. If I live, I suppose all will be well enough. But life is held by the most uncertain tenure. Upon my daily exertions depend the sustenance of my family. If I were to die my wife and children would be in a sad way.”
“Get your life insured,” said I promptly.
Lincoln shook his head and looked grave.
“Why not?”
“Shouldn’t like to do that.” His face became still more serious.
“Any particular objection?”
“It looks like running in the face of Providence. I should feel as if I were signing my death warrant.”
“That’s a strange notion.”
“It’s just as I feel. I’ve thought about it a number of times. But it seems to me that life is too serious a thing to be placed on a common level with a house or a ship. In putting a money-value upon his earthly existence, it seems to me that the Divine Being would be outraged, and visit the mercenary offender with death as a judgment.”
“You have a strange idea of the Divine Being,” said I, evincing surprise in turn. “In getting your life insured, would you purpose evil to your neighbor?”
“No; but rather good. I would seek, in doing so, not only to keep my wife and children from becoming a burden upon others, but to secure to them those worldly advantages so necessary to the healthy development of mind and body.”
“And do you think a merciful God would visit you, vindictively, for acting with such an unselfish purpose in your mind? How strange must be your notion of Him who is represented to us as being in his very nature love! Now, we know that love seeks to impart a blessing to all—not a curse.”
“But there is such a thing as running in the face of Providence, and this life insurance has always struck me as being something of the kind.”
“What do you mean by running in the face of Providence?”
“Doing something in order to counteract the Divine purpose.”
“Do you know the Divine purpose in regard to yourself?”
“No; of course not.”
“Then, how can you, knowingly, do any thing to counteract that purpose?”
“I can’t, knowingly; but I may do so ignorantly.”
“Then you think that the Lord sometimes punishes men for acts innocently done?”
“Such an idea has been in my mind. Man is responsible for his acts, and should, therefore, be very guarded about what he does. His ignorance will not always excuse him.”
“Suppose your child were to do something wrong, yet you had the clearest evidence in your mind that his intentions were good, and not evil; would you punish him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I would regard his intentions.”
“Because they made the quality of the act so far as he was concerned?”
“Yes.”
“Will you make God less reasonable, considerate, and just than yourself? Does not He also regard the motives which influence his children?”
“Why—yes—I suppose He does. But—we ought to be very sure that our motives are right.”
“I grant you that, with all my heart. We must take care that we are not consenting to the death of the saints, under the mad hallucination that we are doing God’s service. But, with reason and revelation for our guide, we need not be in much fear of going wrong.”
“No; I suppose not. Still, I can’t get away from the idea suggested. I feel as if to insure my life would be trifling with a solemn matter.”
“And that life might fail you in consequence?”
“Such is the impression, I must confess.”
“You must, then, think that the providence in regard to the time of a man’s death is arbitrary and capricious?”
“I don’t understand much about the matter; and my very ignorance makes me fearful,” replied Mr. Lincoln.
“It must be plain to you, on reflection,” said I, “that, in a matter so important as the fixing of a man’s eternal state by death, the divine wisdom and mercy of the Lord must be exercised in a most perfect manner, so to speak. That, in fact, no one is called to pass from a natural into a spiritual state of existence, except at the time when such a change will be best for him. The mere circumstance of making an insurance upon the life, with a view to providing for those left behind, who would, perhaps, suffer great evils but for such a provision, could not precipitate this time; for the act could not foreclose a man’s state and prevent his further regeneration.”
Lincoln admitted that there was some force in this view, but said he could not see the subject clearly, and was afraid to act in the matter.
Six months afterward, on meeting my neighbor, his serious face induced me to ask after the cause of his trouble.
“Worried about my affairs, as usual,” said he. “The fact is, I have but little peace of mind. Every thing is so uncertain. By this time I ought to have had a neat little property laid up, but am not worth a copper. My family has increased so rapidly, that it has taken every thing I could make to feed and clothe them. If I were certain of living, I would not feel troubled; for I can earn a comfortable support. But no man has a lease of his life. It makes me heart-sick to think of the consequences if I were to die. What would become of my wife and children! I have not a cent to leave them.”
“Why don’t you get your life insured? Take out a policy of five thousand dollars, for, say seven years. It will cost you only about ninety dollars a year; and you can easily save that much from your income by a little extra economy. Your mind would then be comparatively easy.”
“Five thousand dollars would be a nice little sum to leave,” said Mr. Lincoln, “and would help a great deal.”
“You could pay the premium easily enough?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then make the insurance by all means.”
“I have thought of it several times since we conversed on the subject; but some how or other have put it off from time to time. I must do so no longer. My doubts as to the propriety of life insurance, which I expressed some time ago, I do not feel as strongly as then. I thought a good deal of what you said, and came to the conclusion that your views were pretty nearly correct.”
“Life is uncertain. We can only call the present our own. Be wise, then, and make this provision for your family.”
“I must do it,” said Lincoln, as he left me.
“Have you effected that insurance yet?” said I to him a few months afterward.
“No, I have not,” he replied, “but I must do it. The fact is, when it comes to the pinch, the amount of premium is something. A man hasn’t always got ninety dollars to spare.”
“True. But didn’t I see a new sofa and a set of mahogany chairs going into your house a week or two ago?”
“Yes.”
“And they cost, no doubt, a hundred dollars.”
“Just that.”
“Would it not have been wiser—”
“I know what you would say,” interrupted Lincoln. “Yes, it would have been wiser. The possession of a policy for five thousand dollars would give me a far greater pleasure than I have yet derived from looking at or sitting upon my new chairs and sofa. The old ones were comfortable enough.”
“Don’t put it off any longer. Better take out a policy for two thousand five hundred now, if the amount of premium is an object, and another policy for a like sum in two or three months.”
“I’ll do that,” said he, speaking earnestly.
We parted. A month or two afterward, I alluded to the matter again. The insurance had not been made, and Lincoln seemed a little annoyed at my reference to the subject. After that I avoided any further remark touching the advantages of life insurance when in company with Lincoln. But I never met his wife, a fragile looking creature, that I did not feel an emotion of pain at the thought of her being left destitute, with six children clinging to her for support.
Nearly a year elapsed from the time of my last reference to the subject of life insurance, when news came to the city that, while bathing on the sea-shore, Lincoln had been drowned. The sad event was made sadder in my mind, as my thoughts turned, involuntarily, to his wife and children, left without a protector and provider. What were they to do? Lincoln had been engaged in the business of a real estate broker. At his death, there was no estate to settle up—no store to sell out—few if any debts to collect. The office would be closed, and the income cease.
“Poor woman! what is she to do?” said I to myself a dozen times in the first hour that elapsed after I had heard the afflictive news. “Without fifty dollars in the world, probably, besides furniture and clothing, how is she to maintain, by her own unaided exertions, a family of six children?”
So much was I afflicted by the occurrence, that I could not sleep for some hours after retiring to bed in the evening.
On the next morning the newspapers contained a notice of the accident, with this announcement:
“We are happy to state, that a few days before leaving for the sea-shore, Mr. Lincoln had his life insured in the Girard Life Insurance and Trust Company, for five thousand dollars.”
I was so much affected in reading this, that my hands trembled, and the paper dropped from them to the floor.
Some years have elapsed since the occurrence of this sad event. Almost daily I pass a small store in a well frequented street, behind the counter of which issometimes seen the widow of Mr. Lincoln, or a daughter who has attained the age of fourteen years. The face of the former has a sober, quiet look, but bears no evidence of distressing care. Under the advice and assistance of friends, four thousand dollars of the money received at the death of her husband, were safely invested in six per cent. securities, and with the balance, a small store was stocked with goods. The interest on four thousand dollars paid her rent, and the profits on her little business enabled her to meet the real wants of her family.
How different would all have been but for this life insurance.
BUNKER-HILL AT MIDNIGHT.
———
BY E. CURTIS HINE, U. S. N.
———
I stand upon the sacred hillWhereLibertyhath made her home.’Tis midnight, all is hushed and stillWhere’er my footsteps roam;While towering through the air of nightYon stately pile doth rear its head,A granite flower, of giant height,Sprung from the dust ofPatriotsdead!Methinks I hear the rustling soundOf myriad angels’ hovering wings,Who guard this famed, enchanted ground,Around which Romance clings!Like those that o’er gray MarathonAre hovering in the night’s still noon,Spirits descend and stand uponThis hill when clouds obscure the moon!Beneath me sleeps the city dim,Whose dusky spires tower on high,And white-winged vessels slowly skimYon river winding by.The wandering night-winds round me moan,And for that day of glory sigh,When Freedom’s star in splendor shoneThrough the torn clouds inWar’sdark sky!Where now the men that nobly dealtA nation’s wrath upon the foe,And for their injured country feltTheir cheeks indignant glow?Alas! they all have passed away,Like stars that leave the sky at morn,When in the east the king of dayOn couch of gilded clouds is born!And silence reigns where’er I tread,Like that which greets the passer-byIn that lone city of the dead’Neath Egypt’s brazen sky!Brave men are sleeping everywhere,Their ashes hallow every strand,And this lone hill-top has its share,On which in musing mood I stand!
I stand upon the sacred hillWhereLibertyhath made her home.’Tis midnight, all is hushed and stillWhere’er my footsteps roam;While towering through the air of nightYon stately pile doth rear its head,A granite flower, of giant height,Sprung from the dust ofPatriotsdead!Methinks I hear the rustling soundOf myriad angels’ hovering wings,Who guard this famed, enchanted ground,Around which Romance clings!Like those that o’er gray MarathonAre hovering in the night’s still noon,Spirits descend and stand uponThis hill when clouds obscure the moon!Beneath me sleeps the city dim,Whose dusky spires tower on high,And white-winged vessels slowly skimYon river winding by.The wandering night-winds round me moan,And for that day of glory sigh,When Freedom’s star in splendor shoneThrough the torn clouds inWar’sdark sky!Where now the men that nobly dealtA nation’s wrath upon the foe,And for their injured country feltTheir cheeks indignant glow?Alas! they all have passed away,Like stars that leave the sky at morn,When in the east the king of dayOn couch of gilded clouds is born!And silence reigns where’er I tread,Like that which greets the passer-byIn that lone city of the dead’Neath Egypt’s brazen sky!Brave men are sleeping everywhere,Their ashes hallow every strand,And this lone hill-top has its share,On which in musing mood I stand!
I stand upon the sacred hillWhereLibertyhath made her home.’Tis midnight, all is hushed and stillWhere’er my footsteps roam;While towering through the air of nightYon stately pile doth rear its head,A granite flower, of giant height,Sprung from the dust ofPatriotsdead!
I stand upon the sacred hill
WhereLibertyhath made her home.
’Tis midnight, all is hushed and still
Where’er my footsteps roam;
While towering through the air of night
Yon stately pile doth rear its head,
A granite flower, of giant height,
Sprung from the dust ofPatriotsdead!
Methinks I hear the rustling soundOf myriad angels’ hovering wings,Who guard this famed, enchanted ground,Around which Romance clings!Like those that o’er gray MarathonAre hovering in the night’s still noon,Spirits descend and stand uponThis hill when clouds obscure the moon!
Methinks I hear the rustling sound
Of myriad angels’ hovering wings,
Who guard this famed, enchanted ground,
Around which Romance clings!
Like those that o’er gray Marathon
Are hovering in the night’s still noon,
Spirits descend and stand upon
This hill when clouds obscure the moon!
Beneath me sleeps the city dim,Whose dusky spires tower on high,And white-winged vessels slowly skimYon river winding by.The wandering night-winds round me moan,And for that day of glory sigh,When Freedom’s star in splendor shoneThrough the torn clouds inWar’sdark sky!
Beneath me sleeps the city dim,
Whose dusky spires tower on high,
And white-winged vessels slowly skim
Yon river winding by.
The wandering night-winds round me moan,
And for that day of glory sigh,
When Freedom’s star in splendor shone
Through the torn clouds inWar’sdark sky!
Where now the men that nobly dealtA nation’s wrath upon the foe,And for their injured country feltTheir cheeks indignant glow?Alas! they all have passed away,Like stars that leave the sky at morn,When in the east the king of dayOn couch of gilded clouds is born!
Where now the men that nobly dealt
A nation’s wrath upon the foe,
And for their injured country felt
Their cheeks indignant glow?
Alas! they all have passed away,
Like stars that leave the sky at morn,
When in the east the king of day
On couch of gilded clouds is born!
And silence reigns where’er I tread,Like that which greets the passer-byIn that lone city of the dead’Neath Egypt’s brazen sky!Brave men are sleeping everywhere,Their ashes hallow every strand,And this lone hill-top has its share,On which in musing mood I stand!
And silence reigns where’er I tread,
Like that which greets the passer-by
In that lone city of the dead
’Neath Egypt’s brazen sky!
Brave men are sleeping everywhere,
Their ashes hallow every strand,
And this lone hill-top has its share,
On which in musing mood I stand!
LINES.
———
BY SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.
———
“The undying voice of that dead time,With its interminable chime,Rings on my spirit like a knell.”
“The undying voice of that dead time,With its interminable chime,Rings on my spirit like a knell.”
“The undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings on my spirit like a knell.”
Dost thou remember that September dayWhen by the Seekonk’s lonely wave we stood,And marked the languor of repose that lay,Softer than sleep, on valley, wave and wood?A trance of solemn rapture seemed to lullThe charméd earth and circumambient air,And the low murmur of the leaves seemed fullOf a resigned and passionless despair.Though the warm breath of summer lingered stillIn the lone paths where late her footsteps passed,The pallid star-flowers on the purple hillSighed dreamily “we are the last! the last!”I stood beside thee, and a dream of heavenAround me like a golden halo fell!Then the bright veil of phantasy was riven,And my lips murmured “fare thee well!—farewell!”I dared not listen to thy words, nor turnTo meet the pleading language of thine eyes,I onlyfelttheir power, and in the urnOf memory treasured their sweet rhapsodies.We parted then forever—and the hoursOf that bright day were gathered to the past—But through long wintry nights I heard the flowersSigh dreamily, we are the last!—the last!
Dost thou remember that September dayWhen by the Seekonk’s lonely wave we stood,And marked the languor of repose that lay,Softer than sleep, on valley, wave and wood?A trance of solemn rapture seemed to lullThe charméd earth and circumambient air,And the low murmur of the leaves seemed fullOf a resigned and passionless despair.Though the warm breath of summer lingered stillIn the lone paths where late her footsteps passed,The pallid star-flowers on the purple hillSighed dreamily “we are the last! the last!”I stood beside thee, and a dream of heavenAround me like a golden halo fell!Then the bright veil of phantasy was riven,And my lips murmured “fare thee well!—farewell!”I dared not listen to thy words, nor turnTo meet the pleading language of thine eyes,I onlyfelttheir power, and in the urnOf memory treasured their sweet rhapsodies.We parted then forever—and the hoursOf that bright day were gathered to the past—But through long wintry nights I heard the flowersSigh dreamily, we are the last!—the last!
Dost thou remember that September dayWhen by the Seekonk’s lonely wave we stood,And marked the languor of repose that lay,Softer than sleep, on valley, wave and wood?
Dost thou remember that September day
When by the Seekonk’s lonely wave we stood,
And marked the languor of repose that lay,
Softer than sleep, on valley, wave and wood?
A trance of solemn rapture seemed to lullThe charméd earth and circumambient air,And the low murmur of the leaves seemed fullOf a resigned and passionless despair.
A trance of solemn rapture seemed to lull
The charméd earth and circumambient air,
And the low murmur of the leaves seemed full
Of a resigned and passionless despair.
Though the warm breath of summer lingered stillIn the lone paths where late her footsteps passed,The pallid star-flowers on the purple hillSighed dreamily “we are the last! the last!”
Though the warm breath of summer lingered still
In the lone paths where late her footsteps passed,
The pallid star-flowers on the purple hill
Sighed dreamily “we are the last! the last!”
I stood beside thee, and a dream of heavenAround me like a golden halo fell!Then the bright veil of phantasy was riven,And my lips murmured “fare thee well!—farewell!”
I stood beside thee, and a dream of heaven
Around me like a golden halo fell!
Then the bright veil of phantasy was riven,
And my lips murmured “fare thee well!—farewell!”
I dared not listen to thy words, nor turnTo meet the pleading language of thine eyes,I onlyfelttheir power, and in the urnOf memory treasured their sweet rhapsodies.
I dared not listen to thy words, nor turn
To meet the pleading language of thine eyes,
I onlyfelttheir power, and in the urn
Of memory treasured their sweet rhapsodies.
We parted then forever—and the hoursOf that bright day were gathered to the past—But through long wintry nights I heard the flowersSigh dreamily, we are the last!—the last!
We parted then forever—and the hours
Of that bright day were gathered to the past—
But through long wintry nights I heard the flowers
Sigh dreamily, we are the last!—the last!