HE had drank deep and long from outThe bacchanalian's bowl;Had felt its poisonous arrows pierceThe recess of his soul;And now his footsteps turned to whereHis childhood's days were cast,And sat him 'neath an old oak treeTo muse upon the past.Beneath its shade he oft had satIn days when he was young;Ere sorrow, like that old oak tree,Its own deep shadows flung;Beneath that tree his school-mates met,There joined in festive mirth,And not a place seemed half so dearTo him, upon the earth.The sun had passed the horizon,Yet left a golden lightAlong a cloudless sky to markA pathway for the night;The moon was rising silentlyTo reign a queen on high,To marshal all the starry host,In heaven's blue canopy.In sight the schoolhouse stood, to whichIn youth he had been ledBy one who now rests quietlyUpon earth's silent bed.And near it stood the church whose aislesHis youthful feet had trod;Where his young mind first treasured inThe promises of God.There troops of happy children ranWith gayety along;'T was agony for him to hearTheir laughter and their song.For thoughts of youthful days came upAnd crowded on his brain,Till, crushed with woe unutterable,It sank beneath its pain.Pain! not such as sickness brings,For that can be allayed,But pain from which a mortal shrinksHeart-stricken and dismayed:The body crushed beneath its woeMay some deliverance find,But who on earth hath power to healThe agony of mind?O Memory! it long had slept;But now it woke to power,And brought before him all the past,From childhood's earliest hour.He saw himself in school-boy prime;Then youth, its pleasures, cares,Came up before him, and he sawHow cunningly the snaresWere set to catch him as he ranIn thoughtless haste along,To charm him with deceitful smiles,And with its siren song:He saw a seeming friendly handHold out the glittering wine,Without a thought that deep withinA serpent's form did twine.Then manhood came; then he did love,And with a worthy prideHe led a cherished being toThe altar as his bride;And mid the gay festivityPassed round the flowing wine,And friends drank, in the sparkling cup,A health to thee and thine.A health! O, as the past came up,The wanderer's heart was stirredAnd as a madman he poured forthDeep curses on that word.For well he knew that "health" had beenThe poison of his life;Had made the portion of his soulWith countless sorrows rife.Six years passed by-a change had come,And what a change was that!No more the comrades of his youthWith him as comrades sat.Duties neglected, friends despised,Himself with naught to do,A mother dead with anguish, andA wife heart-broken too.Another year-and she whom heHad promised to protectDied in the midst of poverty,A victim of neglect.But ere she died she bade him kneelBeside herself in prayer,And prayed to God that he would lookIn pity on them there:And bless her husband, whom she loved,And all the past forgive,And cause him, ere she died, beginA better life to live.She ceased to speak,—the husband rose,And, penitent, did say,While tears of deep contrition flowed,"I'll dash the bowl away!"A smile passed o'er the wife's pale face,She grasped his trembling hand,Gave it one pressure, then her soulPassed to a better land.He, bent to kiss her pale cold lips,But they returned it not;And then he felt the lonelinessAnd sorrow of his lot.It seemed as though his life had fled;That all he called his own,When her pure spirit took its flight,Had with that spirit flown.She had been all in all to him,And deep his heart was rivenWith anguish, as he thought what woeHe her kind heart had given.But all was passed; she lay in death,The last word had been said,The soul had left its prison-house,And up to heaven had fled;But 't was a joy for him to knowShe smiled on him in love,And hope did whisper in his heart,"She'll guard thee from above."He sat beneath that old oak tree,And children gathered round,And wondered why he wept, and askedWhat sorrow he had found.Then told he them this sad, sad tale,Which I have told to you;They asked no more why he did weep,For they his sorrow knew.And soon their tears began to fall,And men came gathering round,Till quite a goodly companyBeneath that tree was found.The wanderer told his story o'er,Unvarnished, true and plain;And on that night three-score of menDid pledge them to abstain.
NATURE'S fair daughter,Beautiful water!O, hail it with joy, with echoes of mirth,Wherever it sparkles or ripples on earth.Down from the mountain,Up from the fountain,Ever it cometh, bright, sparkling and clear,From the Creator, our pathway to cheer.Nobly appearing,O'er cliffs careering,Pouring impetuously on to the sea,Chanting, unceasing, the song of the free.See how it flashesAs onward it dashesOver the pebbly bed of the brook,Singing in every sequestered nook.Now gently falling,As if 't were callingSpirits of beauty from forest and dellTo welcome it on to grotto and cell.Beauteous and brightGleams it in light,Then silently flows beneath the deep glade,Emblem of life in its sunshine and shade.Beautiful water!Nature's fair daughter!Where'er it sparkles or ripples on earth,Hail it with joy and with echoes of mirth.
BRIGHTEST shine the stars aboveWhen the night is darkest round us;Those the friends we dearest loveWho were near when sorrow bound us.When no clouds o'ercast our sky,When no evil doth attend us,Then will many gather nigh,Ever ready to befriend us.But when darkness shades our path,When misfortune hath its hour,When we lie beneath its wrath,Some will leave us to its power.Often have we seen at night,When the clouds have gathered o'er us,One lone star send forth its light,Marking out the path before us.Like that star some friendly eyeWill beam on us in our sorrow;And, though clouded be our sky,We know there'll be a better morrow.We know that all will not depart,That some will, gather round to cheer us:Know we, in our inmost heart,Tried and faithful friends are near us.Brother, those who do not goMay be deem‚d friends forever;Love them, trust them, have them knowNothing can your friendship sever.
WEEP not, mother,For anotherTie that bound thyself to earthNow is sundered,And is numberedWith those of a heavenly birth.She hath left thee.God bereft theeOf thy dearest earthly friend;Yet thou'lt meet her,Thou wilt greet herWhere reunions have no endHer life's true sunIts course did runFrom morn unto meridian day;And now at eveIt takes its leave,Calmly passing hence away.Watch the spirit-'T will inheritBliss which mortal cannot tell;From anotherWorld, my mother,Angels whisper, "All is well."'Way with sadness!There is gladnessIn a gathered spirit throng;She, ascended,Trials ended,Joins their ranks and chants their song.Weep not, mother,For anotherTie doth bind thyself above;Doubts are vanished,Sorrows banished,She is happy whom you love.
"GOOD-BY, Ray, good-by," said George Greenville; and the stage wound its way slowly up a steep ascent, and was soon lost to view.
"Well, well, he has gone. Glad of it, heartily glad of it! When will all these paupers be gone?" said the father of George, as he entered the richly-furnished parlor, and seated himself beside an open window.
"Why so glad?" inquired George, who listened with feelings of regret to the remark.
"Why?" resumed the owner of a thousand acres; "ask me no questions;I am glad,—that's enough. You well know my mind on the subject."
"Father, act not thus. Is this a suitable way to requite his kindness?"
"Kindness!" interrupted the old man; "say not 't was kindness that prompted him to do me a favor; rather say 't was his duty,—and of you should I not expect better things? Did I allow you to visit Lemont but to become acquainted with such a poverty-stricken, pauper-bred youth as Ray Bland?"
Saying this, he arose and left the room.
George seated himself in the chair vacated by his father. He looked across the verdant fields, and mused upon his passionate remarks. "Well," thought he, "I was right; shall I allow the god of Mammon to bind me down? Of what use are riches, unless, whilst we enjoy, we can with them relieve the wants and administer to the necessities of our fellow-men? Shall we hoard them up, or shall we not rather give with a free hand and a willing heart to those who have felt misfortune's scourging rod,—who are crushed, oppressed and trampled upon, by not a few of their more wealthy neighbors?" In such a train of thought he indulged himself till the hour of dinner arrived.
George Greenville had formed an acquaintance with Ray Bland whilst on a visit to a neighboring town. He was a young man, possessing those fine qualities of mind that constitute the true gentleman. His countenance beamed with intelligence, and his sparkling eye betrayed vivacity of mind, the possession of which was a sure passport to the best of society. When the time came that George was to return home to the companionship of his friends, they found that ties of friendship bound them which could not be easily severed, and Ray accepted the invitation of George Greenville to accompany him, and spend a short time at the house of his father. The week had passed away in a pleasant manner. The hour of parting had come and gone; The farewell had been taken, the "good-by" had been repeated, when the conversation above mentioned passed between him and his father.
The family and connections of George were rich; those of Ray were poor. The former lived at ease in the midst of pleasures, and surrounded by all the comforts and conveniences of life; the latter encountered the rough waves of adversity, and was obliged to labor with assiduity, to sustain an equal footing with his neighbors. Thus were the two friends situated; and old Theodore Greenville scorned the idea of having his son associate with a pauper, as he termed all those who were not the possessors of a certain amount of money,—without which, in his opinion, none were worthy to associate with the rich.
"Ray is a person not so much to be hated and sneered at as you would suppose," said George, breaking the silence, and addressing his father at the dinner-table.
"George, I have set my heart against him," was the reply.
"Then," continued the first speaker, "I suppose you are not open to conviction. If I can prove him worthy of your esteem and confidence, will you believe?"
"That cannot be done, perhaps. You may think him to be a worthy young man; but I discard the old saying that poverty is no disgrace! I say that it is; and one that can, if its victim choose, be washed away. Ray Bland is a pauper, that's my only charge against him; and all the thundering eloquence of a Cicero will not alter my opinion, or move me an iota from the stand I have taken,—which is, now and ever, to reject the company of paupers. It is my request that you do the same."
Amelia, the sister of George, now joined in the conversation, inquiring of her father whether it was against his will for her to associate with the poor.
"Precisely so," was the brief reply; and the conversation ended. The father left the house for a short walk, as was his custom, whilst George and Amelia retired to the parlor, and conversed, for a long time, upon the rash and unjust decision of their parent. The mutual attachment that existed between George and Ray was not looked upon with indifference by the sister of the former; and she determined upon using all the means in her power to bring the latter into the good will of her father; she resolved, like a noble girl, to cherish a social and friendly feeling toward the friend of her brother. He who knows the warmth of a sister's affection can imagine with what constancy she adhered to this determination. The command of her father not to associate with the poor only served to strengthen her resolution, for she knew with what obstacles her brother would have to contend. She had a kind heart, that would not allow a fellow-being to want, so long as she had, or could obtain, the means to relieve him.
"Do you think father was in earnest in what he said?" inquiredAmelia.
"I have no reason to doubt his sincerity," replied George; "but what led you to ask such a question?"
"Because, you know, he often speaks ironically; and, as he left the dinner-room with mother, he smiled, and said something about the poor, and a trick he was about to play."
"True, Amelia," replied George, "he is to play a trick; but it concerns not us. You know poor old Smith is one of father's tenants. Smith has been sick, and has not been able to procure funds with which to pay his rent, and father intends to engage a person to take out all the doors and windows of the house. He hopes Smith will thus be forced to leave. I have been thinking whether we cannot devise some plan to prevent the poor man from being turned thus abruptly from the house."
"I am sure we can," replied Amelia; "yet I had much rather have a trick played upon us than upon poor Smith. Can you not propose some way by which we can prevent father from carrying out his intentions?"
"I will give you the money," replied George, "if you will convey it to Mr. Smith, so that he will be enabled to pay his rent. Recollect it must be carried in the night, and this night, as father expects to commence his operations to-morrow or next day. You know that I cannot go, as my time will be fully occupied in attending upon some important business at home." It was not necessary to make this offer more than once. The heart of Amelia bounded with joy, as she anticipated being the bearer of the money to Smith; and, shortly after dark, being provided with it, she proceeded to his house.
It was a dark night. The moon was obscured by thick clouds, and no twinkling star shone to guide her on her errand of mercy. As she drew near the lonely dwelling of Paul Smith, she perceived no light. She feared that he might be absent. Stealthily along she crept, and, listening at the door, heard the voice of prayer, imploring aid and support during the trials of life, that relief might soon be sent. Amelia silently opened the door, and placed the money on a table, accompanied with a note to Smith, requesting him not to disclose the manner in which he received it, and, as silently withdrawing, wended her way home. As she entered the parlor, she found her father and brother engaged in earnest conversation,—so earnest that she was not at first noticed.
"Confound my tenants!" said Mr. Greenville. "There's old Paul Smith; if to-morrow's sun does not witness him bringing my just dues, he shall leave,—yes, George, he shall leave! I am no more to be trifled with and perplexed by his trivial excuses. All my tenants who do not pay shall toe the same mark. I'll make them walk up, fodder or no fodder! Ha, ha, ha! old Smith shall know that I have some principle left, if I have passed my sixtieth year-that he shall! Slipnoose, the lawyer, shall have one job."
"You are always visiting your friends, George. It seems as though all are your friends. Yet I don't blame you, for friends are very happy appendages to one's character. I pity the man who lives a friendless life. That's the reason I have been such a friend to Smith,—but no longer!" As he said this the wealthy landlord left the room.
Amelia related to her brother an account of her adventure, and both were thankful that they been instrumental in relieving the wants of their poor neighbors. The next morning, seated at the table, Mr. Greenville began again to express his opinion respecting poor people in general, and Paul Smith in particular, when a loud rap at the door somewhat startled him. In a few moments a servant entered, and gave information that a person was at the door who wished to see Mr. Greenville. Arriving there, the landlord encountered his tenant, Smith, who immediately told him that by some kind providence he was enabled to pay him his due, and hoped that in future he should be prompt in his payments.
The landlord took the money, and, looking it over, handed him a receipt for the same, and returned to the breakfast-table. Nothing was said about Smith until Mr. Greenville, as he left the room, remarked "that he did not know but that Smith meant well enough."
Nearly a month had elapsed and nothing had been heard of Ray Bland, when, on a certain morning, Mr. Greenville came in and handed George a letter. Upon opening it, George found it to be written by his friend Ray, informing him of his safe arrival home, thanking him for the kind attention he received during his visit, and expressing great pleasure in soon having another opportunity to visit him. George communicated this intelligence to Amelia, and they determined upon using their united efforts in endeavoring to bring over the kind feelings of their father to their young, but poor, friend.
"It's no use for you to talk," said old Mr. Greenville, after a long conversation with the two; "the die is cast. I have resolved, and all the arguments you can bring forward will not cause me to break my resolution."
"Well," remarked George, "perhaps the day will come when you will deeply regret forming such a resolution. Perhaps the sunshine of prosperity will not always illumine our path."
"Be that as it may," interrupted Mr. Greenville, "we will not allow our imagination to wander forth into the mystical regions of the future, or picture to ourselves scenes of wretchedness, if such await us. Flatter me not with the good intentions of Ray Bland."
Months passed away, and the children of the proud Mr. Greenville forbore to mention in the presence of their father aught concerning their friend Ray Bland, or to excite the anger of the old gentleman by combating his prejudices against the poor.
Months passed away, and again Ray Bland found himself beneath the roof of his former friend. He was received by George and Amelia with the cordiality that had ever marked his intercourse with them; but the father was, if possible, more morose and sullen than usual.
Ray had several times made the attempt to know the cause of this coldness, but as often as he alluded to it George would invariably turn the subject; and he forbore to question further, content with the happiness which he enjoyed in the society of those he held so dear.
It was the evening of a fine day in the early spring, that the three friends sat together. It was the last evening of his visit, and Ray expected not to return for a long time. Alone in his study, the father vented his indignation against paupers, which respect for his daughter's feelings only prevented in the presence of their visitor. He opened the casement. Clouds were gathering in the sky, and now and then a faint flash of lightning illumined the increasing darkness; and the far-off voice of the storm was audible from the distance, each moment increasing in strength and violence. Soon the storm was upon them.
The old gentleman retired to his apartment. Each moment the storm increased in violence, and in vain did he strive to close his eyes in sleep.
At length a flash more vivid, accompanied by a peal of thunder more terrific than any that had preceded it, startled the inmates of the mansion. The wind howled terribly, and the old trees groaned and creaked about the dwelling with a fearful and terrific sound.
Within all was still and quiet. No word was spoken, for it was a fearful night, and in fear and dread they suspended their conversation.
Amelia first broke the silence. "Something must be burning," exclaimed she. In an instant the cry of fire was heard. All started up and rushed to the door; and there, indeed, they were witnesses of a sight which might well appall. The whole upper part of the house was in flames. Instantly the cause flashed upon them. The house had been struck and set on fire by lightning. "My father! O, my father!" shrieked Amelia, and fell fainting to the floor. Quick as the word came the thought of Ray Bland that the aged Mr. Greenville might be in danger; and ere George Greenville had borne his sister to a place of safety, through flame and smoke had Ray Bland reached the chamber which he knew the old gentleman occupied. It was locked. One blow of his foot, with all the force he could muster, and locks and bolts gave way. The room was nearly enveloped in flames, the curtains of the window and bed had been consumed, and now the flames had seized the wood-work and burned with great fury. Upon the floor, prostrate as if dead, lay the proud man, who scorned and detested the poor, and who had boasted of being beyond the reach of adversity. To lift him in his arms and bear him to the street was the work of an instant. He had only been stunned, and the drenching rain through which he was carried soon revived him. Ray bore him to the house of poor Smith, the nearest to his own; and there, with feelings of anguish which cannot be described, surrounded by his children and neighbors, the old man learned a lesson which his whole previous life had not taught, of the dependence which every member of society has upon the whole. While his riches were taking wings to fly away even before his own eyes, he felt how foolish and wicked was his past conduct; and ever after the poor found no warmer friend or more liberal hand than that of old George Greenville.
In the course of a few months a new and spacious building was erected upon the site of the one destroyed; and the neighbors say that the pretty cottage which is being built just over the way is to be the future residence of Ray Bland and the fair Amelia, whose aristocratic father now knows no distinction, save in merit, between the rich and poor.
SLOWLY he paced the vessel's whitened deck,While thoughts of hours, and days, and scenes long past,Brought forth from fountains well-nigh dry a tear:For in imagination he could seeHimself a tiny boy, in childish sportUpon a river's bank, quite near his home,Chasing the butterfly, whose gaudy dressLured him away, till, wearied with the chase,Upon some mossy stone he sat him down;Or, in some rippling brook, beneath the shadeOf some tall oak, he bathed his parched brow;Then up he sprang, retraced his wandering steps,Yet heedless ran, and could not leave his play.And since that day what scenes had he passed through,What trials met, what sights his eyes beheld!Beneath the burning skies of torrid zones,On frozen banks of Nova Zembla's coast,Or the more fertile climes of Italy;There, where the luscious grape in fulness hangs,And fields of roses yield a rich perfume;'Mid orange-groves whence sweetest odors rise,'Neath branches burdened with their fragrant fruit,Forth he had wandered.Mark the semblance now!For much there is between his childish courseUpon the river's bank and his laterWanderings. Then, he chased the butterfly. Now,His inclination led to a pursuitMore bold, adventurous, and far more grand.Ambition filled his soul. Sometimes he ranIn vain; and so it was in boyhood's days;And thus 't is plainly seen that childhood hoursAre but an index of our future life,And life an index of that yet to come.As on the vessel swept, a tear would 'scapeForth from its hidden cell, and trickle downThe sailor's deeply-furrowed cheek, to batheThose recollections with the dew of Thought!Some deem it weak to weep. Away the thought!It is not weakness when Affection's fountO'erflows its borders, and to man displaysThe feelings that its powers cannot conceal.It is not weakness when our feeble wordsFind utterance only in our flowing tears.Call not such language "weakness"! Worlds may laugh,Yet know no joy like that which often flowsIn silent tears.As nearer drew the seaman to his home,As in the distance first he saw the spotWhere childhood's hours in happiness were spent,His slow pace quickened to a faster walk,And, had he had the power, he'd walked the waves,And bravely dashed the intrusive spray aside,To reach the much-loved spot more rapidlyThan wind and tide urged on his noble bark.
I'VE often wondered, as I've satWithin mine own loved home,And thought of those, my fellow-men,Who houseless, homeless, roam;That one upon this earth is foundWhose heart good promptings smother;And will not share his wealth with himWho is his poorer brother!I've often wondered, as I've walkedAmid life's busy throng,And seen my fellows who have beenBy Fortune helped along,That they who bask in its bright raysNo tear of pity shedOn him who doth no "fortune" seek,But asks a crust of bread!I've seen the gilded temple raised,The aspirant of fameAscend the altar's sacred steps,To preach a Saviour's name,And wondered, as I stood and gazedAt those rich-cushioned pews,Where he who bears the poor man's fateMight hear Salvation's news.I've walked within the church-yard's walls,With holy dread and fear,And on its marble tablets read"None but the rich lie here."I've wandered till I came uponA heap of moss-grown stones,And some one whispered in mine ear,"Here rest the poor man's bones."My spirit wandered on, untilIt left the scenes of earth;Until I stood with those who'd passedThrough death, the second birth.And I inquired, with holy awe,"Who are they within this fold,Who seem to be Heaven's favorite,And wear those crowns of gold?"Then a being came unto me,One of angelic birth,And in most heavenly accents said,"Those were the poor of earth."Then from my dream I woke, butWill ne'er forget its worth;For ever since that visionI have loved "the poor of earth."And when I see them toiling onTo earn their daily bread,And dire oppression crush them down,Till every joy hath fled,—I mind me of that better world,And of that heavenly fold,Where every crown of thorns gives placeUnto a crown of gold.
"IF I don't make it, others will;So I'll keep up my death-drugged still.Come, Zip, my boy, pile on the wood,And make it blaze as blaze it should;For I do heartily love to seeThe flames dance round it merrily!"Hogsheads, you want?-well, order them made;The maker will take his pay in trade.If, at the first, he will not consent,Treat him with wine till his wits are spent;Then, when his reason is gone, you knowWhate'er we want from his hands will flow!"Ah, what do you say?-'that won't be fair'?You're conscientious, I do declare!I thought so once, when I was a boy,But since I have been in this employI've practised it, and many a trick,By the advice of my friend, Old Nick.I thought 't was wrong till he hushed my fearsWith derisive looks, and taunts, and jeers,And solemnly said to me, 'My Bill,If you don't do it, some others will!'"If I don't sell it, some others will;So bottles, and pitchers, and mugs I'll fill.When trembling child, who is sent, shall come,Shivering with cold, and ask for rum(Yet fearing to raise its wet eyes up),I'll measure it out in its broken cup!"Ah! what do you say?-'the child wants bread'?Well, 't is n't my duty to see it fed;If the parents will send to me to buy,Do you think I'd let the chance go byTo get me gain? O, I'm no such fool;That is not taught in the world's wide school!"When the old man comes with nervous gait,Loving, yet cursing his hapless fate,Though children and wife and friends may meet,And me with tears and with sighs entreatNot to sell him that which will be his death,I'll hear what the man with money saith;If he asks for rum and shows the gold,I'll deal it forth, and it shall be sold!"Ah! do you say, 'I should heed the criesOf weeping friends that around me rise'?May be you think so; I tell you what,—I've a rule which proves that I should not;For, know you, though the poison kill,If I don't sell it, some others will!"A strange fatality came on all men,Who met upon a mountain's rocky side;They had been sane and happy until then,But then on earth they wished not to abide.The sun shone brightly, but it had no charm;The soft winds blew, but them did not elate;They seemed to think all joined to do them harm,And urge them onward to a dreadful fate.I did say "all men," yet there were a fewWho kept their reason well,—yet, weak, what could they do?The men rushed onward to the jagged rocks,Then plunged like madmen in their madness o'er;From peak to peak they scared the feathered flocks,And far below lay weltering in their gore.The sane men wondered, trembled, and they stroveTo stay the furies; but they could not do it.Whate'er they did, however fenced the drove,The men would spring the bounds or else break through it,And o'er the frightful precipice they leaped,Till rock and tree seemed in their red blood steeped.One of the sane men was a great distillerAnd one sold liquors in a famous city;And, by the way, one was an honest miller,Who looked on both their trades in wrath and pity.This good "Honestus" spoke to them, and said,"You'd better jump; if you don't, others will."Each took his meaning, yet each shook his head."That is no reason we ourselves should kill,"Said they, while very stupid-brained they seemed,As though they of the miller's meaning never dreamed.
MR. and MRS. STUBBS were seated at the side of a red-hot cylinder stove. On one side, upon the floor, a small black-and-white dog lay very composedly baking himself; on the other, an old brown cat was, in as undisturbed a manner, doing the same. The warmth that existed between them was proof positive that they had not grown cold towards each other, though the distance between them might lead one to suppose they had.
In one corner of the room was the bust of a man, whose only existence was in the imagination of a miserable ship-carver, who, in his endeavors to breathe life into his block, came near breathing life out of himself, by sitting up late at night at his task. In the other hung a crook-necked squash, festooned with wreaths of spider-webs. Above the mantel-piece was suspended a painting representing a feat performed by a certain dog, of destroying one hundred rats in eight minutes. The frame in which this gem of art was placed was once gilt, but, at the time to which we refer, was covered with the dust of ages.
Mr. Stubbs poked the fire. Mrs. Stubbs poked the dog, when suddenly the door flew open, and their son entered with blackened eyes, bloody hands; bruised face and dirty clothes, the most belligerent-looking creature this side of the "Rio Grande."
"My voice a'nt still for war, it's loud for war," he said, as, with a braggadocia sort of air, he threw his cap at the dog, who clenched it between his teeth, shook it nearly to tatters, and then passed it over to the cat.
"What's the matter now, Jake?" said Mrs. Stubbs. "Always in trouble,—fights and broils seem to be your element. I don't know, Jake, what will become of you, if you go on at this rate. What say you, father?"
Mr. Stubbs threw down the poker, and casting a glance first at his hopeful son, and then at his hoping wife, replied that Jake was an ignorant, pugnacious, good-for-nothing scamp, and never would come to anything, unless to a rope's end.
"O, how can you talk so?" said his wife. "You know it's nat'ral."
"Nat'ral!" shouted the father; "then it's ten times worse-the harder then to rid him of his quarrelsome habits. But I've an idea," said he, his face brightening up at the thought, as though he had clenched and made it fast and sure.
The mother started as by an electric shock. The boy, who had retired into one corner in a sullen mood, freshened up, and looked at his father. The ship-carver's fancy sketch brightened up also; but not of its own free will, for the force with which Mr. Stubbs brought his hand in contact with the table caused the dirty veil to fall from the bust-er's face.
"What is it?" inquired Mrs. Stubbs, with much animation.
"Why, my dear woman, as we can do nothing with him, we'll make him an editor."
The old lady inquired what that was; and, being informed, expressed doubts as to his ability.
"Why," said she, "he cannot write distinctly."
"What of that?'-let him write with the scissors and paste-pot. Let him learn; many know q great deal more after having learned."
"But he must have some originality in his paper," said Mrs. Stubbs, who, it seemed, did not fall in with the general opinion that "any one can edit a paper."
"Never fear that," said Mr. Stubbs; "he'll conduct anything he takes hold of, rather than have that conduct him. I'll tell you what, old woman, Jake shall be an editor, whether he can write a line of editorial or not. Jake, come here."
Jake, who had nearly forgotten his fight, was elated at the proposition of his father, and, being asked whether, in his opinion, he could conduct a paper with ability, originality and success, replied, in the slang phrase of the day, that he "could n't do anything else," at the same time clenching his fist, as though to convince his sire that he could do something else, notwithstanding.
"As I have never asked you any question relative to public affairs, and as the people of this generation are getting to be wise, I deem it right that I should ask you a few questions before endeavoring to obtain a situation. Now, Jake, who is the President of the United States?"
"General George Washington," replied the intelligent lad, or rather young man; for, though he indulged in many boyish tricks, he was about twenty years of age, a short, dull-looking member of the "great unwashed." The father intimated that he was mistaken; the son persisted in saying that he was not.
"Never mind the catechizer," said Jake; "I'll conduct a newspaper, I will, for Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs never see the day I could n't conduct anything."
"That's bright," said Mrs. Stubbs; "he possesses more talent than I was aware of; he'll make an editor."
"An' he shall," said the father, resolutely.
The clock struck nine, which was the signal for Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs to retire, and they did so. No sooner had they left than their dutiful son mounted the table, and, taking down the fancy bust, pulled the dog by the tail to awake him, and set him barking at it. The cat must have her part in the tragedy, so Jake thought; and, pulling her by the tail, she was soon on the field of action.
"Now, sist-a-boy, Tozer; give her an editorial," said he; and, as dog and cat had been through the same performance before, they acted their parts in manner suiting. The dog barked, the cat snapped and snarled, and Jake Stubbs stood by rubbing his hands in a perfect ecstasy of delight.
It is needless for us to relate the many curious adventures Mr.Stubbs met with whilst searching for a situation for Jake.
His endeavors to find a situation such as he wanted were, for a long time, ineffectual. At length he blundered into a small printing-office, where three men and a boy were testing the merits of half a dozen doughnuts, and a bottle of root beer.
Mr. Stubbs was very sorry to disturb them. When he mentioned his errand, one of the men-a tall fellow, with check shirt and green apron-said that he had, for a long time, contemplated starting a paper, but, as he was not capable of editing one, he had not carried out his intention. The principal reason why he had not published was, he was poor; business had not prospered in his hands, and an outlay of two thousand dollars would be needed to commence and continue the paper.
"Very well," replied Mr. Stubbs, "that is a large sum; but, if there is no doubt of its being returned, I might think of loaning it to you, for the sake of getting my talented son into business."
"Not the least doubt, not the least," replied Mr. Pica; and he so inflamed the imagination of Mr. Stubbs, that, strange as it may seem to the cautious reader, he wrote a check for the amount, merely taking the unendorsed note of Mr. Pica as security; then, hastening home, he told Mrs. Stubbs to brush up the boy, for he was an editor.
Behold, now, Mr. Jake Stubbs in a little room up three pair of stairs, preparing "copy" for the first number of "The Peg Top, or the Buzz of the Nation." He hasn't got black eyes now; all the blackness of his person, if not of his character, has settled in his fingers, and they are black with ink. Not all settled, for a few daubs of the "blood of the world," as the dark fluid has been called, were to be seen on his forehead, having passed there from his fingers, when leaning upon them in a pensive mood, vainly endeavoring to bring up thoughts from the mighty depths of his intellect,—so mighty, in fact, that his thoughts were kept there, and refused to come up.
Mr. Jake Stubbs had been cutting and pasting all day, when, thinking it a little too severe to inflict further duty upon the assistant editor, he took his pen in hand, resolved upon writing a masterly article as a leader.
A sheet of blank paper had lain on the table before him for nearly an hour. He would sit and think. Some idea would pop into his head, then with a dash would the pen go into the ink, but before he could get his pen out the idea had flown, and the world was the loser. Then he threw himself back into his chair,—thought, thought, thought. At length Jake obtained the mastery, as patience and perseverance always will, and the pen became his willing slave, though his mind, being the slave-driver, did not hurry it on very fast. He was able to pen a few words, and wrote "The war with Mexico-"
Well, he had got so far; that was very original, and if he never wrote anything else, would stamp him a man of talent. Into the ink, on the paper, and his pen wrote the little word are. "The war with Mexico are." Ten minutes more of steady thought, and three more words brought him to a full stop. "The war with Mexico are a indisputable fact." That last but one was a long word, and a close observer could have seen his head expand with the effort.
"Copy, sir, copy!" shouted the printer's boy, as he stood with his arms daubed with ink, and a straw hat upon his head that had seen service, and looked old enough to retire and live on a pension.
"Copy what?" inquired the editor, who began to feel indignant, imagining that the publisher had seen his labor to write an article, and had sent him word to copy from some paper.
"Here," said he, "take this to Mr. Pica, and tell him 't is original, and gives an account of the war with Mexico, with news up to this date."
The boy took it, trudged up stairs with two lines of MS., and the editor arose and walked his office, as though his labors were o'er, and he might rest and see some mighty spirit engrave his name upon the scroll of fame.
He had crossed the floor half a dozen times, when in came the same youth, shouting "Copy, sir, copy!"
"Copy what?" shouted Jake, laying hold of the boy's shirt-sleeve. "Tell me what you want copied! tell me, sir, or I will shake your interiors out of you-"
The boy was small, but spunky. His education had been received at the corners of the streets. He had never taken lessons of a professor, but he had practised upon a number of urchins smaller than himself, and had become a thoroughly proficient and expert pugilist.
It was not for Bill Bite to be roughly handled by any one, not even by an editor. So he pushed him from him, and said,
"I want copy; that's a civil question,—I want a civil answer."
Jake's organ of combativeness became enlarged. He sprang at the boy, grasped him by the waist, and would have thrown him down stairs, had not a movement the boy made prevented him.
Bill's arms were loose, and, nearing the table, he took the inkstand and dashed the contents into the face of his assailant.
"Murder!" shouted the editor.
"Copy!" shouted the boy; and such a rumpus was created, that up came Mr. Pica, saying that the building was so shaken that an article in type on the subject of "Health and Diet" suddenly transformed itself into "pi."
The two belligerents were parted; the editor and Master Bill Bite stood at extremes. At this crisis who should enter but Mr. Stubbs, senior, who, seeing his son's face blackened with ink, inquired the cause rather indignantly; at which Mr. Pica, not recognizing in the indignant inquirer the father of the "talented editor," turned suddenly about and struck him a blow in the face, that displaced his spectacles, knocked off his white hat into a pond of ink, and made the old fellow see stars amid the cobwebs and dust of the ceiling.
The son, seeing himself again at liberty, flew at the boy, and gave him "copy" of a very impressive kind.
Down from the shelves came dusty papers and empty bottles, whilst up from the printing-office came the inmates, to learn the cause of the disturbance.
A couple of police-officers passing at the time, hearing the noise, entered, and one of them taking Mr. Stubbs, senior, and the other Mr. Stubbs, junior, bore them off to the lock-up.
This affair put a sudden stop to "The Buzz of the Nation." The first number never made its appearance.
Mr. Pica, having obtained the amount of the check, went into the country for his health, and has not been heard from since.
Elder Stubbs and Stubbs the younger paid a fine of five dollars each; and when they reached home and related to Mrs. Stubbs the facts in the case, she took off her spectacles, and, after a few moments' sober thought, came to the sage conclusion that her son Jake was not made for an editor.