September, 1842. 



THE FARMER'S MONTHLY VISITOR, 



131 



Let us advance the characters we liave intro- 

 duced, n year in their life's pilgrimage, and see if 

 there are any fruits of th^se good resolutions. 



"Where is Thorne, this morning?" asked the 

 owner of the shop of Moreland, one morning, 

 an hour after all the other workmen had come 

 in. 



" I do not know, really," Moreland replied. "I 

 saw him yeslerdaj', when he was well." 



"He's off gunning, I suppose again. If so, it 

 is the tenth day he has lost in idleness din-ing 

 the last two months. I am afraid I shall have to 

 get a hand in his place, U])on whom 1 can place 

 more dependence. I shall he sorry to do this for 

 your sake, and the sake of his wife. But I do 

 not like such an example to the workmen and 

 apprentices, and hesides, being away from the 

 shop often disappoints a job." 



"1 could not hiame you sir," Moreland said; 

 "and yet, I hope you will hear with him for the 

 sake of Ellen. I think if you would talk to him, 

 it would do him good." 

 '•But why don't you talk to him, William ?" 

 "I have talked to him frequently, but he has 

 got so that he won't hear it any longer from 

 me." 



"Nor would he hear it from me, either, I fear, 

 William." 



Just at that moment, the subject of conversa- 

 tion came in. 



"You are late this morning, Henry," said the 

 owner of the shop to him in the presence of the 

 other workmen. 



"It's only a few minutes past the hour," he re- 

 plied, moodily. 



"It's more than an hour past." 

 " Well, if it is, I can make it up." 

 " That is not the right way, Henry ; lost time 

 is never made up." 



Thorne did not understand the general truth 

 intended to be ex[)ressed, but supposed at once, 

 that the master of the shop meant to intimate 

 that he would wrong him out of the lost hour, 

 notwithstanding he had promised to make it up. 

 He theretore turned an angry look upon him and 

 .said, " do you mean to say that I would cheat you 

 sir ?" 



The employer was a hasty man, and tenacious 

 of his dignity as a master. FIc invariably dis- 

 charged a journeyman who was in the least de- 

 gree disrespectful in his language or manner to- 

 wards him, before the other workmen. Acting 

 under the im])ulse that at once i)rompted him, 

 he said, "you are discharged," and instantly 

 turned away. 



As quickly did Henry Thorne turn and leave 

 the shop. He took his \\»y homeward, but he 

 paused and lingered as he drew nearer and near- 

 er his little cottage, for troubled thoughts had 

 now taken the place of angry feelings. At length 

 he was at the door, and lilVmg slow the latch, he 

 entered. 



" Henry !" said Ellen, witii a look and tone of 

 surprise. Her face was paler, and nrore care- 

 worn than it was a year before; and its calm ex- 

 pression hail changed into u troubled one. She 

 had a babe upon her lap, lier first and only one. 

 The room in which she s.il, was far from indica- 

 ting circumstances in)prov(',d by the passage of a 

 year, was far less tidy and conilbrtable ; and her 

 own attire, though neat, was faded and unseason- 

 able. Her husband replied not to her inquiring 

 look, and surprised ejaculaiion, but seated him- 

 self in a chair, and burying his face in his hands, 

 remained silent, iniiil, unable to endure the sus- 

 pense, Ellen went to him, and taking his hand, 

 asked, so earnestly, and bo tenderly, what it was 

 that troubled him, that he could not resist her ap- 

 peal. 



"I am discharged !" he said, with bitter em- 

 jjhasis. "And there is no other establishment in 

 the town, nor within fifty miles." 

 " O Henry ! how did that happen .'" 

 "I hardly know myself, Ellen, for it all seems 

 like a dream. When I left home this morning, I 

 did not go directly to the i-lmp; I wanted to see 

 a man at the upper end ot tin.' town, and when I 

 got back it was an hour l,itt:r than usual. Old 

 Ballard took me to task before all the shop, and 

 intimated that I was not disjiosed to act honestly 

 towards hnn. This I caiiimt bear from anyone; 

 1 answered him in anger and was discharged on 

 the spot. And now, what we are to do, heaven 

 only knows. Winter is almost upon us, and we 

 have uot five dollars in iho world." 



" But something will turn ui> for us. Hem 3', I 

 know it will," Ellen said, trying to smile encour 

 agingly, although her heart was heaving in her 

 bosom. 



Her husband shook his head doubtingly, and 

 then all was gloomy and oppressive silence. For 

 nearly an hour, no word was spoken by either. 

 Each mind was busy with painful thoughts, and 

 one with learful forebodings of evil. At the end 

 of that time, the husband took up his hat and 

 went out. For a long, long time after, Ellen sat 

 in dreamy, sad abstraction, holding her babe to 

 her breast. From this state, a sense of duty 

 roused her, and laying her infant on the bed, — 

 for they had not yet been able to spare money 

 for a cradle — she began to busy herself in her 

 domestic duties. This brought some little re- 

 lief 



About eleven o'clock, Jane came in with her 

 usual cheerful, almost Iiappy face, bringing in 

 her hand a stout bundle. Her countenance 

 changed in its expression to one of concern, the 

 moment her eye rested upon her sister's face, 

 and she laid her bundle on a chair quickly, as if 

 she half desired to keep it out of Ellen's sight. 



" What is the matter, Ellen ?" she asked vvith 

 tender concern the moment she had closed the 

 door. 



Ellen could not reply ; her heart was too full. 

 But she leant her head upon her sister's should- 

 er; and, for the first time since she had heard 

 the sad news of the morning, burst into tears. 

 Jane was surpiised, and filled with anxious con- 

 corn. She waited until this ebulitiou of feeling 

 hail in some degree abated, and she then said in 

 a tone still more tender than that in which she 

 had first spoken, " Ellen, dear sister! tell me what 

 has happened." 



" I am foolish, sister," at length Ellen said, 

 looking up and endeavoring to dry her tears. 

 "But I caimot help it. Henry was discharged 

 from the shop this morning and now what are 

 we to do ? We have nothing ahead, and I am 

 afraid he will not be able to get anything to do 

 here, or within many miles of the village." 



"That is bad, Ellen," Jane said, white a shad- 

 ow fell upon her face, but a few moments betbre 

 glowing and happy. And that was nearly all 

 she could say ; for she did not wish to offer false 

 consolation, and she could think of no genuine 

 words of comfort. After a while, each grew 

 more composed in mind, and less reserved, and 

 then the whole matter was talked over, and all 

 that Jane could say, she did say, that seemed 

 likely to soothe and give hope to Ellen's mind. 



" What have you there.'" at length asked El- 

 len, glancing toward the chair upon which Jane 

 had laid her bundle. 



Jane paused a moment, as if in self-comrnu- 

 niou and then said; " only a pair of blankets, 

 and a coiijde of calico dresses that I have been 

 out buying. 



" Let me look at them," Ellen said, in as cheer- 

 ful a voice as she could assun)e. 



A large heavy pair of blankets, for which Jane 

 had (laid five dollars, were now unrolled, and a 

 cou])le of handsome chintz dresses displayed, of 

 dark rich colors, suitable tor the winter season. 

 It was with dilKcully that Ellen could restrain a 

 sigh, as she looked at these comlbrtai>le. things 

 and ihouglit how nnicb she needed, and of how 

 little she had to hope fur. June felt that such 

 thoughts must |>uss ihrough her sister's mind, and 

 s!ie also felt much pained, that she had midesign- 

 eilly thus added, by contrast, to Ellen's unhappy 

 feelings. When she returned home, she init 

 away her new dresses and her blankets. She had 

 no heart to look at them, no heart to enjoy her 

 own good things, while the sister she so much 

 loved was denied like present comforts, and 

 worse than all, weighed down with heart-sicken- 

 ing dread of the future. 



We will not linger to contrast, in a series of do- 

 mestic pictures, the effects of industry and idle- 

 ness on the two married sisters and their fiimi- 

 lios — efl^ects, the causes of which, neither aided 

 materially in producing. Such contrasts, though 

 useful, cannot but be painful to the mind, and we 

 would a thousand times, rather give pleasure than 

 pain. But one more striking contrast we will 

 give as requisite in shosviuj; the tendency and 

 end of good or bad principles, united with good 

 or bad liabits. 



Unable to get any employment in the village, 

 Thorne, hearing that steady work could be ob- 



tained in Charleston, South Corolina, sold off a 

 portion of his scanty furniture, and his cow, by 

 which he received money enough to remove there 

 with his wife and child. Thus were the sisters 

 separated ; and in that separation, gradually es- 

 tranged fiom the tender and lively aflTection that 

 presence and constant intercourse had kept burn- 

 ing with undiminished brightness. Each became 

 more absorbed every day in increasing cares and 

 duties; yet to one those cares and duties were 

 painful, and to the other full of delight. 



Ten years from the day on which they parted 

 in tears, Ellen sat, near the close of the day, in a 

 meanly furnished room, in one of the southern 

 cities, watching with troubled countenance, the 

 restless slumber of her husband. Her face was 

 <tery thin and pale, and it had a fixed and strong- 

 ly marked expression of suffering. Two children 

 a boy and a girl, the one about six, and the other 

 a little over ten years of age, were seated listless- 

 ly on the floor, which was uncarpeted. They 

 seemed to have no heart to play. Even the elas- 

 ticity of childhood had departed from them. — 

 From the appearance of Thorne, it was plain he 

 was very sick ; and from all indications the room 

 in which he lay, afforded, it was plain, that want 

 and suffering were its inmates. The habits of 

 "dieness he had suflfered to creep at a .slow but 

 iteady pace upon him, and idleness brought in- 

 temperence, and intemperance reacting upon 

 idleness completed his ruin, and reduced his fam- 

 ily to poverty in its most appalling form. Now 

 he was sick with a southern fever, and his miser- 

 able dwelling afforded him no cordial, nor his 

 fe and children the healthy food that nature re- 

 quired. 



" Mother !" said the little boy getting up from 

 the floor, where he had been sitting for half an 

 hour, as still as if he were sleeping, and coming 

 to Ellen's side, he looked up earnestly and implor 

 ingly in her fiice. 



"What, my child.'" the mother said, stooping 

 down and kissing his forehead, while she parted 

 with her fingers the golden hair that fell in tang 

 led masses over it. 

 " Can't I have a piece of bread, mother ?" 

 Ellen did not reply, but rose slowly and went 

 to the closet from which she took part of a loaf, 

 cutting a slice from it, handed it to her hun- 

 gry boy. It was her last loaf, and all their mon- 

 ey was gone. The little fellow took it, and break- 

 ing a piece off for his sister, gave it to her ; the 

 two children then sat down side by side, and eat 

 in silence the morsel that was sweet to them. 



With an instinctive feeling, that from nowhere 

 but above could she look for aid and comfort, did 

 Ellen lift her heart and pray that she might not 

 he forsaken in her extremity. And then she. 

 bought of her sister Jane, from whom she had 

 lot heard for a long time, and her heart turned 

 owards her with an eager and yearning desire to 

 see her face once more. 



And now let us look in upon Jane and herltim- 

 ly. Her husband, by saving where Thorne spent 

 in foolish trifies, and working when Thorne was 

 He, gradually laid by enough to purchase a lit- 

 tle farm, upon which be had removed, and there, 

 industry and frugality brought its sure rewards. 

 Tiiey had three children ; little Ellen had grown 

 to a lively, rosy cheeked, merry-faced girl of elev- 

 n years; an<l George who had followed Ellen 

 ,as in his seventh year, and after him came the 

 aby, now just completing the twelfth month of 

 its innocent happy lifi^. It was in the season 

 hen the farmers toil is rewarded, and William 

 Moreland was among those whose labor had met 

 ample return. 



How diflerent was the scene, in his well estab- 

 lished cottage, full to the brim of plenty and com- 

 fort, to that wiiicb was passing the same hour of 

 the day, a few weeks before, in the sad abode of 

 Ellen, herself the saddest inmate. 



The table was spread for the evening meal, al- 

 ways eaten before the sun hid his bright face, and 

 Ueorge and Ellen, although the supper was not 

 yet brought in, bad taken their places ; and More- 

 laud, too had drawn up with the baby on his knee, 

 which he was amusing with an apple from a well 

 filled basket, the product of his own orchard. 



A hesitating rap drew the attention of the 

 tidy mui<len wh.o assisted Mrs. Moreland in her 



" It is the poor old blind man," she said, in a 

 tone of compassion, as she opened the door. 

 "Here is a shilling for him, Sally," said Mor©- 



