Activate Javascript or update your browser for the full Digital Library experience.
Next Page
OCR
oe
GOULD & ELWELL
BY
Office 80 Middle, near Corner of Exchange &t.
One
(nds
Cranscn
TERMS: $1,50 PER YEAR.
Dollar for Eight Months, in advance
AN INDEPENDENT FAMILY JOURNAL OF LITBRATURE, NEWS, SG.
“VOLUME XIV.
POETRY,
THE CHORDS OF, LOVE.
The heart's best treasures lie i in secret mines,
earth aré buried deepest;
The basest metal ‘onthe surface shines,
And quick-moved feelings are least worth and cheap-
esl 2
The chords of lovec cannot be: swept by al
Some strike rndely, a the soundis hollow; ,
Wiust, ita gentler touch upon vehetn fall,
‘The sweetest music wiil as eurely follow.
A Jow: breathed whisper may ignite the spark
af Hes conceated in the bosom s keeping,
And kindle brightness where all once was dark,
"Waieuing atfectious which before were sleeping.
How svweet-to know that when our bodies die,
And with the damp cold earth are lowly blending,
Embalm’d in Memory s sacred depths they
Cherish d by Love unspe akable. unendit be.
(Diekens’ Houseliold Words.
oA TALE WITHA ORAL.
» DOCTOR'S MATCH-MAKING,
BY a G. WHITTIER,
3 Good morning, Me Barnet r cried ‘ Doc-
tor Singletary, as we drew'near a neat farm-
house, during one, of our morning drives.
+ Atall,, healthfal, young woman, in the bloom
of ‘matronly beauty,’ was feeding chickens “at
the door. © She uttered an‘ éxclamation of de-
light, anil burried towards: us.’ , Perceiving a
stranger in the wagon, sue” paused, with a look
of embarrassment.»
“My friend, who is spending a few weeks
with me,” explained the Doctor. ..
p She greeted me civilly, and pressed the Doc-
tor’s hand warm
* «Oh, it is so long since you have called on
us, that we, have been talking of , going, up to
the village to see you as soon as Robert can get
away from his corn- -Beld. You don’t know how
little Lucy has grown. ’, You must stop aud sce
her.”
| She's coming ‘to see me e herself,” replied
the Doctor, beckoning to a sweet blue-eyed
childi in the door-way.
*, The delighted mother caught up her dar-
ling and held her before the Doctor.
«Doesn't she look like Robert!” she inquired.
«lis very eyes and forehead! Bless me!
here he is now.”
j A stont, bale, -young. farmer, ina coarse
checked frock and broad straw hat, came up
from the adjoining field.
«Well, Robert,” said the Doctor, «how do
matters now stand ‘with you ? * Well, I hope.”
/ All right, Doctor. We've paid off the last
cent of the mortgage, and the farm is all free
and clear. Julia and I have worked hard, but
we're none the worse for inn’
- «You look well and happy, I am ‘sure,” said
the Doctor. : «I don’t think you are sorry you
took the advice of an old bachelor, after all.”
| The young wife’s head drooped until her lips
touched those of her child.
-+Sorry I”. exclaimed her husband, «not we!
If there’s anybody: happier than we are within
ten miles ofus, [don’t know them. ° Doctor, I'll
tell you what I said to Julia the ni zht brought
home that mortgage: «Well, said I, ‘that debr’s
paid; but there’s one debt we can never pay as
long as we live!” ‘I know it,’ says. she, ‘but
Dr. Singletary, wants no better reward for his
Kindness than to see: us live happily together,
and do for others what he has done for us!”
~«Pshaw !” said the Doctor, catching up his
reins and whip. “You owe me nothing. Bat
J must not forget my errand. Poor old Widow
Whiting needs a “watcher to-night, and she in-
sists upon having", Julia Barnet, and nobody
else. | What shall [ tell her 2” i {
esl go, certainly. I can leave Lucy now
as well as not.” ,
‘ «Good bye, neighbors.”
“Good bye, Doctor.”
‘in-law.
PORTLAND, SATURDAY,
hand hastily » across “his eyes, and ihe said no-
thing for some minute: es.
«Public opinion,” said he at length, as if pur-
suing his meditations aloud—«Public opinion is,
in nine cases out of ten, public folly andimper-
tinence." We are slaves to one another. ‘We
dare not take counsel of our consciences and
affections, but must needs suffer popular preju-
dice and custom to decide for us, and at their
bidding are sacrificed love and friendship, and
all the best hopes of our lives. We do not
ask. what is right and best for us, but. what will
folks say of it! We have no individuality, no
self-poised strength, no sense of freedom. We
are conscious always of the gaze of the many-
eyed tyrant." We propitiate him with precious
offerings we burn incense perpetually to Mo-
loch, and pass through his fire the sacred first-
bore of our hearts. Ilow few dare to seek
their own happiness by the lights which God
has given them, or have strength to defy the
false pride and the prejudice of the world, and
stand fast in the liberty of Christians! Can
anything be more pitiable than the sight of so
many who should be the choosers and creators
under God of their own spheres of utility and
happiness, self-degraded ‘into mere slaves of
propriety and custom, their true natures unde-
veloped, their hearts cramped and shut up;
each afraid of his neighbor, and his neighbor of
him, living a life of unreality, deceiving and
being deceived, and forever walking ina vain
show ?, Ilere now we have just left a married
couple who are happy because they have taken
counsel of their honest affections, rather than
of the opinions of the multitude, and have dar-
ed to be true to themselves in defiance of im-
pertinent gossip.”
“You allude to the young. farmer Barnet
and his wife, I suppose,” sai
«Yes. I will give their case as an illustra-
tion... Julia. Atkins was the daughter of En-
sign Atkins, who lived: on the mill road, just
above Deacon Warner’s.. When she was ten,
years old, her mother died ; and in a few months
afterwards her father married Polly : Wiggin
the tailoress, a shrewd, selfish, managing woman.
Julia, poor girl, had a sorry time of it: 3 for the
Ensign, although a kind and affectionate man
naturally, was too weak and yielding to inter-
pose between her and his strong-minded, sharp-
tongued wife. “She had one friend, however,
who was always ready to sympathize with her.
Robert Barnet. was the son of her next door
neighbor, about ten years older than herself;
they had grown up together as school compan-
ions and playmates; and often in my drives I
used to meet them coming home hand jin hand,
from school, or from the woods with berries and
nuts, talking and laughing as if there were no
scolding step-mothers in the world.
It so fell out that when Julia was in her six-
teenth year, there vame a! famous writing-mas-
ter to Peewawkin. Ie was a showy, dashing
fellow, with a fashionable dress, a wicked eye,
and a tongue like the old serpent’s when he
tempted our great grandmother. ° Jalia’ was
one ‘of his scholars,’ and, perhaps, the. prettiest
of them all. The rascal singled her out from
the first, and, the better to accomplish bis pur-
pose; he left the tavern,and took lodgings at
the Ensign’s, IIe soon saw how matters stood
in the family, and governed himself according-
ly, taking special pains to conciliate the ruling
authority. «The Ensign’s wife bated young
Barnet, and wished to get rid of her daughter-
The writing-master therefore had a
fair field. Ile flattered the poor young girl by
his attentions,and praised her beauty. Iler mor-
al training had not fitted her to withstand this
seductive influence; no mother’s love, with its
quick, instinctive sense of danger threatening
its object, interposed between: her and the
tempter.) Her old ‘friend and playmate—he
who could alone have saved her—had been
rudely repulsed from the house by her mother-
in-law; and, indignant and. disgusted, he had
“As we drove off, I saw the Doctor draw his
rétired from all- competition with: his formida-
sFEBRUARY. 8, 1851.
ble rival. Thus abandoned to her own undis-
ciplined imagination, with the inexperience of
a child and the passions of a woman, she was
deceived by false promises, bewildered, fasci-
nated, and beguiled into
It is the same old itory Pot woman’s - confi-
dence, and man’s duplicity. The rascally
writing-master, under’ pretence of visiting a
neighboring town, left his lodgings, and never
returned. , The last I heard of bim, he was the
tenant of a Western penitentiary... Poor Julia,
driven in disgrace from her father’s house,found
a refuge in the humble dwelling of an old 'wo-
man of no very creditable character. , There I
was called to visit her; and, although not un-
used to scenes of cuffering and sorrow, I had
never before witnessed such an utter abandon-
ment to grief, shame, and remorse. . Alas!
what sorrow was like unto her sorrow. ’ The
birth-hour of her infant was that of its death.
The agony of her spirit seemed greater than
she could bear. Iler, eyes were opened, and
she looked upon herself with loathing and hor-
ror.’ She would admit of no hope, no consola-
tion ; she would listen to no palliation or ex-
cuse of her guilt... I could only direct her to
that source ot pardon and peace to which the
broken’ and contrite heart never appeals in
vain.
In the mean time, Robert Barnet shipped on
board a Labrador vessel. The night before he
left, he called on me, and put in: my hand’ a
sam of money, small indeed, but all he could
then command.
«You will see her often,” he said... «Do not
let her suffer, for she is more to be pitied than
blamed.”
I answered him that I would do all in my
power for: her, and added that I thought far
better of her, contrite and penitent as she was,
than of some who were busy in holding her up
to shame and censure.
«God bless you for these words!” he said,
grasping my hand. ' «I shall think of them of-
ten. '; They will be a comfort to me.”
As for Julia, God was more mercifal to ber
than man. She rose from her sick bed thought-
ful and humbled, but with hopes that transcend-
ed the world of her suffering and shame. She
no longer murmured against , her sorrowful al-
lotment, but accepted it with quiet and almost
cheerful resignation, as the fitting penalty of
God’s broken laws, and the needed discipline of
her spirit. She could say with the Psalmist,
«The judgments of the Lord are true, justified
m themselves. - Thou art just, oh, Lord, and
thy judgment is right”. Through my exer-
tions, she obtained employment in a respecta-
ble family, to whom she endeared herself by
her faithfulness, cheerful obedience, and unaf-
fected’ piety. Her trials had made her heart
tender with sympathy for all in affliction.
, She seemed inevitably drawn towards the
sick and suffering. - In their presence, the bur-
den of her own sorrow seemed to fail off. She
was the most cheerful and sunny-faced nurse I
ever knew ; and I always felt sure that my own
efforts would be well seconded when I found her
by the bed-side of a patient. Beautiful it was
to see this poor young girl, whom the world
still looked upon with scorn and unkindness,
cheering the desponding, and ! imparting, as it
were, her own strong, , healthfal life to the weak
and faint; supporting upon her bosom, through
weary nights, the heads of those who,in health,
would have deemed her touch pollution ; or to
hear her singing, for the ear of the dying,some
sweet hymn , of pious hope or resignation, or
calling to mind the consolations of the Gospel
and the great love of Christ.
“I trust,” ‘said T, «that the {celings of the
community were softened towards h
«You know what human nature i ia” return-
ed the Doctor ; “and with what hearty satisfac-
tion we abhor and censure sin and folly in others,
Ttiva luxury which we cannot easily forego, al-
though our, own experience fells us that the
NUMBER 43.
bitter enough, without | the aggravation “of ridi-
cule and reproach from without.» So you need
not be surprised to learn that, in poor Julia’s
case, the charity of sinners like herself did not
keep pace with the mercy and forgiveness of
Ilim who is infinite in purity. . Nevertheless,
I will do our people the justice to say, that ber
blameless and self-sacrificing life was not with-
out its proper effect upon them.”
“What became of Robert Barnet?” I in-
quired.
«IIe came back after an absence of several
months, and called on me before he had even
seen his father and mother. ' IIe did not men-
tion Julia; but I saw that his errand with me
concerned her. I spoke of her excellent de-
portment and her useful life, dwelt upon the
extenuating circumstances of her error, and of
her sincere and hearty repentance.”
«Doctor !” said he, at length, with a hesitat-
ing and embarrassed manner, “What should
you think if I should tell you that, after all that
has passed, I have balf made up my, mind to
ask her to become my wife ?”
«I should think better of itif you had wholly
made up your mind,” said J; “and if you were
my own son, I wouldn’t ask for you a better
wife than Julia Atkins. Don’t hesitate, Ro-
ert, on account of what some ill-natured peo-
ple may say. Consult your own heart, first of
all.”
«I don’t care for the talk of all the busy:
bodies in town,” said he; «but I wish father and
mother could feel as you do about her.”
«Leave that to me,” said 1; «they are kind-
hearted and reasonable, and I dare say will be
disposed to make the best of the matter, when
they find that you are decided in your purpose."
«I did not see him again, but a few days af-
ter I learned from his parents that he had gone
on auother voyage. It was now autumn, and
the most sickly season 1 have ever known in
Peewawkin. Ensign Atkins and bis wife both
fell sick, and Julia embraced with alacrity this
providential opportunity to return to her fath-
er’s house, ‘and fulfil the duties of a daughter.
Under her careful nursing,’ the Ensign soon
got upon his feet; but his wife, whose constitu-
tion was weaker, sunk under the fever. She
died better than she had lived, penitent and
loving, asking forgiveness of Julia for her ne-
glect and unkindness, and invoking blessings
on her head. Julia had now for, the first time
since the death of her mother, a comfortable
home, and a father’s love and protection. Her
sweetness of temper, patient endurance and
forgetfulness of herself in her labors for others,
gradually overcame the scruples and hard feel-
ings of her neighbors. They began to ques-
tion whether, after all, it was meritorious in
them to treat one like ber as a sinner beyond
forgiveness, Elder Staples and Deacon War-
ner were her fast friends. ‘The Deacon’s
daughters—the tall, blue-eyed, brown-locked
girls you noticed in meeting the other day—set
the example among the young people of treat-
ing her’as their equal and companion. The
dear good girls! they reminded me of .the
maidens of Naxos, cheering and comforting the
unhappy Ariadne.
One iidsummer evening, I took Julia with
me to a poor sick . patient of mine, who was
suffering for lack of attendance. The house
where she lived was in alonely and desolate
place, some two or three miles below us, on a
sandy level, just elevated above the great salt
marshes, stretching far away to the sea.. The
night set in dark and stormy ; the fierce north»
easterly wind swept over the level waste, driv-
ing thick snow-clouds before it, shaking the
doors and windows of the old house, and roar
ing in its vast chimney. . The woman ‘was dy-
ing when we arrived, and her drunken husband
was sitting in stupid unconcern in the corner
of the fireplace. ” oA Tine afer midnight she
breathed her last. * « -
In the mean time the storm had grown more
violent; there was a blinding snowfall: in. the
consequences of vice and error are evil and