Activate Javascript or update your browser for the full Digital Library experience.
Previous Page
–
Next Page
OCR
£2 ene Sa ery
5 gt aus Speer | “wen ot!
zat Sot i sean bh
Dodge's Miterary Atusewm.
Bo Row ge ge ee te
251
“¢What friends?’ says I.
- “*That pack of painters that started for
heaven,’ says he.
“¢Can’t they get in there ?’ says I.
* “Not one of ’em,’ says he; ‘they be-
longed to New York city. I own that
burgh.
«Indeed !? says I.
«“¢That’s so,’ says he, ‘and if you had
lived there a little longer, I should have se-
cured you, if you had only stopped visiting
with your old friends.’
«My old friends. where ?” says I.
“¢Tn that city,’ says he.
“¢In what city ?’ says I.
“Where you came from,’ says he. ‘I
an’t allowed’ to speak the name of any
place that I haven’t got on my books; and
T've never got that down yet, though I’ve
sent a few agents there from New York, to
get up a friendly feeling; but the authori-
ties put ’em in jail for smoking in. the
streets, and as soon as they got out, they
always returned to New York.’
“©, it’s Boston!’ says I. And when I
mentioned that name, the Devil shook like
aw Irishman in a fit of the ager.
“*Beg pardon, says I, ‘but I didn’t
mean to frighten you; and now, if it’s con-
venient, I’ll leave, if this an’t the place
where I’m to stop.
“¢ Hold on a few minutes,’ says he, ‘and
your friends will be here. I’m sorry to
have you leave, though it’s a good trade for
me; I get forty-two for one. The mistake
is a slight one, and only amusing to me in
its results. The forty-two stole your ticket,
and have tried to impose on heaven and
hell by their ingenuity, but registers kept
by spirits won’t lie, and the painters’ll be
here in a few minutes to tell you that you're
wanted above!’”
“O, hold on!” shouted the company
present. “Uncle Abe, you're spreading
this on rather thick.” 5
“Tm telling you just fas it was,” replied
Abe, looking as innocent as a grandmother,
«and I’m sure, from the way it turned out,
that something serious is about to happen.”
« Well, finish your story,” exclaimed the
foreman, who now clearly, smelt, a. mice,
«and tell us the close of the dream.”
«Well, there wasn’t much more of it,”
said the old joker, “only I was so tickled
that I came from Boston that I laughed so
loud and merrily that the Devil wouldn’t al-
low it in his dominions, and 80 T left, just as
you chaps were all going in.”
Unele Abe was never again, troubled by
his shopmates with their witty sarcasm, and
the next season. he was appointed foreman
of the shop, which office he honorably filled
for five years. But alas, poor fellow! he’s
gone in reality this time to settle his last
account. We read: his name with sincere
regret, last, week, among the victims of the
cholera in Baltimore. ,
New York papers exempted from, the
copyright “ talked about ”, on the above.
a .
COriginal.]
An Epitaph 0 ‘on, a Friend.
BY. SCATHELOCK CC SK COCKEESCRAFT.
‘LIER: rests, beneath th this stone, a youth,
‘The friend of virtue and of truth; |...
_Blest with a modest, easy mien,
A mind improved, a soul serene; ©
Beloved by all, and crowned with praise,
He lived his few, alt too few days... . . >
Know, then, alike are turned to dust
The young, the old, the earned, the just;
And that, if worth from death could save,
": Gxorarvs had ever shunned the grave.
rots
oo
Ile who cannot keep his own secret ought
not to complain if another tells ite..(-
[Written for Dodge's Literary Museum.)
THE OUTCAST.
BY A. E. B.
¥! gather your silken garments closer
to your dainty limbs, and pass by on
the other side. Jesus and the good Samar- |
itan only should stop to mourn over the
mass of breathing filth lying there upon the
cold stones.
Mark ! tothe angry voices of the wild and
bitter winds, as with icy, relentless fingers
they tear the scanty covering and clinging
hair from that bloated form, those distorted
features. Nearer, yet a little nearer to
the polluted lips, and the foul, recking
breath escaping heavily between.
Shink not, start not suddenly away, but
go back with me over the mad seas of her
stormy life, and when thou hast with thine
own eyes beheld, thou shalt weep, and scorn
her not.
Miserably cold and dreary, and yet the
rain falls lazily down, and creeps slowly but
surely in at every crack and crevice of an
apartment where the shrill cries of a new-
born infant seem struggling to make ITeaven
hear.
Dampness on crumbling walls, on filthy,
ragged bed-clothes, on broken chairs, de-
cayed floor, and falling: ceiling. - Death-
dampness on the ghastly brow, the emaciat-
ed limbs, and in the fast-failing sight of a
wanderer, stepping feebly, blindly out upon
that vast and shadowy shore, stretching, we
know not whither.
Wildly, yet more wildly shrieks the child,
as the.mother passes from life’s grim por-
tals, never once looking back, nor shrinking
from the dreadful companion leading her
on. Beaten, and cold, and hungry, and
heart-sore, she has tottered away, and no
arm in: the wide and mighty universe can
harm her now.
Weep and wail, O ye winds! Send your
chilling rain in at the quaking doors and
windows of that dwelling, from. whence a
victim has escaped, and who, perchance, is
even now taking her way amid the stars;
reading by the light that emanates from the
eyes of. the angels, the mystery of all, her
wrongs.
Never more upon her shall fall cold looks,
fierce words, nor brutal blows. | Those
hands, folded so meekly now, have. fought
their last great battle with poverty and de-
spair.
The soft buds of love and undying ten-
derness, forever upspringing in that crushed
and_ bleeding heart, torn and blighted on
earth, shall blossom all the more brightly
along the green banks of Eternity. Night
and. day. ‘she has toiled, and ached, and
yearned, and never the reward she sought
passed to her greedy and famished . lips.
Thank God! that heart is satisfied now.
The iron’ realities of her rugged life bave
faded away, like a dreadful dream, before
the: brightness that lifts itself, like an ocean,
and shines forever and ever beyond the
boundaries of Time.
Well may’st thou weep and wail, little
one, as unseen hands are spreading thy tiny
sails to lift thee out upon that sea, whose
waves beat thus: stormily at thy approach.
The breast for which thy little lips do pine
and thirst is covered: by the © bony hand of
death.
Hunger and’ cold’ are the cruel hand-
maidens waiting ‘to tend upon thy infant
wants. They leer at thee through the thick
darkness... They hover by the blackened
hearthstone, ‘where not a spark shines forth
to light up the accursed spot where thou
wast born.
A small, haggard-looking child sits upon
the marble steps of one of our public build-
ings. She is not golden-haired, nor fair,
nor mild-eyed. O no! she is sallow and
, bony, loathsome and uninviting. Her skin-
ny arms hold piteously forth a little store of
sweetmeats, and those also are as loathsome,
to the refined and wealthy who pass her by,
as herself.
All the day long she sits, through winter's
cold, through summer's heat, patient, and
pale, and wretched as now. -Toets and fan-
ciful beings who sing of angelic creatures,
found amid the haunts of poverty and vice,
have not a thought for her. Ministers of
the Gospel, in broadcloth and white cravats,
hold their garments still closer to their forms,
and hurry by, as though pestilence and
disease lurked in her garments and her very
breath. Delicate creatures, clad richly, and
faring sumptuously every day, who pour out
their riches like water for some foreign en-
terprise or public good, give to her not a
penny, not a look. | And yet that little child
is the offspring’ of one as kindly nurtured
and as lovely in character as those whom
Tleaven favors most.
Something inherent in the child’s nature
kept her from thieving and from beggary.
Will she always be thus sinless? Will she
not, by and by, as silks, satins, jewels, and
gems float past, will she not learn to be en-
vious, grasping, thieving? As the prosper-
ous, the beloved, the protected pass on,
leaving her alone in her misery, her wretch-
ed poverty, will she not learn to lift her
hands toward Heaven, erying, “ Why is it
thus? Why am I a beggar, accursed from
my very birth?” Will it be a thing to
wonder at, and be amazed over, if, she seek
in the cup, that sparkles but to kill, oblivion
from suffering, and all sense of wrong? O,
ye who shrink from and sneer at the bloated
form and passion-marked - face, little do you
know of the temptation, the agony that pre-
coded the fall.
Ture chill winds of December are whist-
ling wild tales to the stripped and naked
trees. Every branch and bough bends and
stretches forth its leaflessness, as though im-
ploring mercy from the bitter breath of win-
ter., Threateningly, ghastly as a ghost, lies
the white snow by the dwellings of the poor.
Mad glances, from hollow eyes, fall upon its
icy face, while lean arms menace and strike
at it, as though it were a human thing.
But most mournful, most haggard, most
desolate of all who gaze forth upon the silent
snow, is the old, pale face of a young girl.
She stands awhile by the ricketty window,
staring as stupidly as years of cold and hun-
ger, ignorance and suffering can make her.
Tn infancy, she was starved and frozen in a
work-house._ In girlhood, almost babyhood,
she was thrust out to gain a living as she
best could. Matches and confectionery, it
is true, were given her to. sell; but if she
sold not, she went supperless to bed. . Not
a single being on the face of the earth can
say, “I did unto this child as I would have
others do unto me.”
O! that a time may come when srork:
houses shall be extinct, when the rich man
shall divide his treasures as God meant he
should, with his poor neighbors ;- and when
this forgetfulness of those around us shall be
no more. ,O! when the Great Day shall | y
come, with what shame will the rich man,
the well-to-do man, look back upon the mite
doled forth yeany by him, to, the suffering
poor. = : 4
I should like tosee “ Doing unto others as
ye would that they should do unto you”
practiced in one community one year. I
should like to see splendid furniture and
silken array exchanged for plainer articles,
and the residue given to those now sighing »
for bread. I should like to see young girls
as anxious to clothe little children, poor little
children, for school and for church, as they
seem to be to clothe themselves for parties,
for dances, for balls.
‘That which we spend for the things that
bring us only heart-aches, and peril our
souls, to say the least, would banish every
work-house, and make glad every heart now”
struggling in the bonds of poverty.
We can behold, we can put. our hands
upon the chain that binds the poor slave, |
but we are prone, alas! alas! alas! too.
prone to forget the chains of those close by-
us. They eat in rust, corrode the soul, and
then we wonder at crime, at criminals.
The Judge of all the Earth sits upon: His
Throne. Ue shall decide which is the more’
culpable—the sin-of. Omission’ or Commis- .
sion:
But I have digressed greatly’ from the:
“ Outcast.”
There she stood by the low, dim window,
staring stupidly out at the frozen snow. .No
bread in the closet, and O, so cold to go out, -
thinly clad, to earn it! A thin shawl, a
dilapidated bonnet, are put on by purple
hands, and the poor girl turns for her little
box of treasures.
“ Not there, where I put them last night ?..
Then they are gone—stolen, I s’pose—and
there’s nothing left for me but to starve.”
“QO, yes! there’s som’at left for ye, gal,”
says a voice by her side, and-a hideous face
grins ghastly enough into her hollow eyes.
She smiles faintly, resists still more faint-
ly, and the innocent Outcast at night-fall is
no more.
Welcome now a few days of strange glee,
ajoy painful, O! so painful to see. . Joy
oyer a little food that is palatable and.
wholesome! Joy over a jug of whisky, and
the first, too, the Outcast ever tasted. .
That night the poor girl slept soundly, 0,.
so soundly! And the next day, too, it was.
the same. ~The delights of intoxication were
hers, alas! never to be given over. Where
were her remembrances of former . cold
and suffering?’ Gone. .She was housed,
sheltered, warmed for a few days, and that .
without toil.. And after. that, what then ?
Ay, what then? Death! for aught she —
cared. Death! the grave, where cold and
hunger come not.
Reader, are you wondering, are you in-
dignant that a girl should sell herself for a.
piece of bread and a glass of liquid fire?
You had better weep. She was starving,
freezing;.and’' there are thousands around.
us as badly off every winter. The Outcast.
is a bloated, filthy thing now, with no trace :
of innocence. around, or’ about. her. She
lies in the streets, in the gutters, intoxicated,
and none but Jesus and the Good. Samari-
tans pity her, as she is kicked - by one, and:
cursed and carried away by another. “3
Do you. ask why she did not beg? ): A
little girl this morning, innocent as she once :
was, and as distressed ‘to the full, called at: .
your door for charity, and you turned a deaf.
ear. You said you had nothing to give. :.
You said beggars ara as.plenty ag dirt; You ~
sneered, at least, you loathed hery you know:
you did. = 8.1 Seer y o 3
It is as natural for. the wealthy, the deli. +
cately nurtured: fo scorn, tobe. disgusted;
with the poor, as it'is for God's creatures tor
inbale the. air. : Dependrupon: jt, despite, -