• a na*i a r^t 
MTO1M HfMA HlW^OlEll 
group and received their last kisses,—she 
used to sit at her great high desk in a sad 
dreaminess, and grow sorrowful. If lie 
should fall again! If his new strength 
should fail him under some sudden beset* 
ment of the tempter! 
If, and if! There are many its, ever, to 
loving anxiousness. She echoed them all. 
She dreamed whole hours away tracing out 
his, their, probable future, preluded with an 
if of one kind or another. Love has some 
rare prophecies; aye, and some painful fore¬ 
bodings. God grant its prophecies be most 
numerous, and all fulfilled! 
Of course no one knew the relations that 
had come to exist between Job Lang well 
aud the little school teacher. If Em ily La no- 
well surmised them, at any time previous 
to that last day of Joe’s stay among them, 
her surmiaiugs counted for naught. That 
she surmised much, is probable; that she 
secretly fretted much over the failure of her 
own individual purposes touching the young 
man, is certain. 
Casual lookers-on considered it the height 
of folly for JOB to go a way as he did, when 
he might have married the’Squire’s heir and 
never lifted a finger to labor during bis life. 
Now be must go to work, or take to gam¬ 
bling, or something dreadful. Most likely 
the latter, They had always supposed he 
would turn out had. 
The only person really glad because of 
Job’s going was Mr. Makepeace Law moke. 
He had entertained great fears that the deep¬ 
est part of bis scheme would fail, with the 
young man present. With the coast clear 
he had considerable hope of success. 
His client successful, Mr. Makepeace 
Lawmoke’r spoils would be something hand 
some, any way, and he should have been 
satisfied therewith. But, he was not. Inti¬ 
mate association with said client had in¬ 
creased his desire for not only the half of 
her estate, but the whole of it, with herself 
thrown in. She had been as attractive as 
possible to him, and her kind of attractive¬ 
ness would have its fullest effect on just, 
such a nature as his. It, was for her interest 
to please him; and she would lie sure to do 
what was prompted by selfish mot ives. And 
since her suit was gained she still liked to 
please and attract him, parti}’ for the sheer 
love of the thing, partly because she had 
resolved to bring him to the dust at. her feet, 
and partly, perhaps, because that strange 
fascination which had from the first drawn 
them together was grown even yet more 
powerful. 
So the legal gentleman was hopeful, and 
disinclined to claim his fees for service. lie 
had better wait a year, at least, ho thought, 
before pressing her for bis half of the estate, 
lie was moved to this opinion by several 
considerations, the chief one being that of 
Dr. Pn.i.sm iiv’H claim upon him. If half 
the estate were to pass into his hands that 
gentleman might prove Ids claim good; if 
he secured virtual control of the whole by 
marriage, the claim wouldn’t be valid. And 
then, people might think strangely of it, 
should he come into possession of so much 
of ’Squire Lanqweli/b properly. Putting 
all things together, he had better be in no 
hurry. 
As a consequence of such reasoning, Mr. 
Makepeace Law more was quite content to 
see his client in undisputed possession of all 
they had planned so carefully to gain. Hav¬ 
ing no rival to annoy hiiu, he was disposed 
to look on everything in a most favorable 
light, and had, for a bachelor past the sea¬ 
son of gushing sentimentalism, quite rose- 
colored visions of the future. 
Ills client fretted him at times, ’tis true. 
She were hardly a woman, — certainly not 
her kind of a woman,—else. Now aud then 
she acted the proud beauty, imperious and 
distant, as she so well could, and to such ex¬ 
tent that befell inclined to remind lnr of 
their peculiar business relations; but site' 
knew just how far to continue this manner, 
and was generally very gracious. Sho de¬ 
clined Ills attentions rarely, and from regard¬ 
ing him as her legal adviser simply, the 
discerning public soon came to look upon 
him as the probable successor to ’Squire 
Lang well. 
Aud so days grew into weeks, and weexs 
into months, and The Corners still occasion¬ 
ally wondered what Joe Langwell had 
really done with himself. 
chapter x. 
A continual struggle against others is bad 
enough, but a constant struggle against one’s 
self is worst of all. Temptation from with¬ 
out is not so hard to withstand as tempta¬ 
tion from within. There is nothing so 
strong to work a man’s ruin as weakness; 
the habit of doing is tenfold more powerful 
than the love of doing. 
Joseph Langwell fought a weakness and 
a habit, through all those months that, fol¬ 
lowed his abrupt going away from The Cor¬ 
ners. The weakness consisted in the in¬ 
clination to yield up tils better self at the 
invitation of every jolly, social fellow who 
chose to ask it; the habit had grown out of 
such continual yielding, until to turn aside 
with a firm denial was very difficult indeed. 
He did not grow strong in his own 
strength—had he. tried that he would have 
failed utterly. Something in Faith Works’ 
quiet, implicit trust, in God had touched 
him very nearly. It was better than much 
preaching to him. It led him to bow in 
meek submission, and accept God’s help as 
trustingly as the child would take hold of 
its father’s hand. This did not come about 
iu a day. It was the inworking and out¬ 
working of weeks of struggling and beset- 
meut, in which but for remembrance of 
Faith Works lie would have gone down 
never to rise again. She was praying for 
him daily, he knew; and the knowing 
helped him to pray for himself. And 
through prayer and trust he was growing 
slowly into a new manliness, strong, noble 
and true. 
The West, then, as to-day, was the El Do¬ 
rado of - ambitious young men. Thither lie 
went, and there he found work. It was 
menial, and once lie would have shrunk from 
it. But lie was becoming another self, now, 
and whatever was honest and held a promise 
he could take up cheerfully. Jli3 cleverness 
helped him. He could do many tilings well, 
and his willing service won for him kindly 
opinions. 
So it. happened,—happened? no; I think 
it was Providence,—that within a year he 
found himself in a position of trust oil one of 
those floating palaces of the Mississippi, lie 
was clerk of The River Belle, and fortune 
seemed doing generous tilings for him. But 
it Sorely tested his new strength,—this float¬ 
ing, exciting life. Thrown constantly among 
a class of men who appeared to exist only in 
stimulus, it did seem sometimes that, bis vow 
of total abstinence must, be broken. That lie 
preserved it faithfully, however, 1 hold to be 
little short of a miracle. 
He sat one night in his small box of an 
office, thinking of little Faith. It signifies 
much to a man when there bides with him, 
wherever he goes, the memory of a pure wo¬ 
man. Such a memory has saved many a one 
from sin. I havo sometimes fancied that 
woman would do more for mankind by her 
sweet, silent influences, than by :lny platform 
declarations she might chouse to make. 
Little Faith! He had once thought 
Faith an odd name. Now it. was the sweet¬ 
est, lie knew. It meant something. It must 
have been a prophecy that gave it to that 
earnest, trusting girl, It fitted her exactly. 
It suggested Iter Inmost nature. And so 
when lie. thought, of her, as lie was doing to¬ 
night, he could think of Her as faithful in¬ 
deed, not doubting his love, not wavering 
herself, but waiting patiently his return. 
He would go back ere many months more 
and claim her for his own. God had been 
very good to him. Ho was earning a hand¬ 
some salary, and she must leave the old 
school-house pretty soon, please God, and 
share a snug little home with him somewhere 
out. under the sunset. These were pleasant 
thoughts, and so, shutting his eyes, lie was 
dreaming over them in a kind of glad content 
when,— 
Boom—crash—shiver—shriek! Out on 
the si ill night air there rang a chorus of dread¬ 
ful sounds tme.li as might well make the stout¬ 
est. heart quail. 
The River Belle had blown up. From the 
silence of sleep several hundred people had 
been suddenly awakened to a perfect pande¬ 
monium of sounds. It was fearful; it was 
sickening. 
Then there blazed through the darkness 
that terrible glare of a vessel on fire,- that 
glare more terrible than any other that ever 
lighted up the heavens. Those who saw it 
will never forget it to their dying day. 
You will remember what, followed. The 
papers told thrilling stories of the dreadful 
scene,—so thrilling none have forgotten them 
yet. We all read the details; wherefore 
need I repeat them ? My pen shrinks from 
portraying afresh what was so very painful 
then. 
The fire did one kindly thing, as it flashed 
up and leaped along the dry wood-work of 
the boat in fiendish glee. lL disclosed to the 
crowds gathered here and there upon the 
fragments, and strewing the water all about, 
a low lying shore only a hundred feet away ; 
and many who had given up all hope of es¬ 
cape grasped whatever they could find near¬ 
est and succeeded in reaching land. Those 
who could not. swim perished pitiably. Com¬ 
pelled by the flames to forsake what portions 
of the boat were left intact, they were dragged 
down by others as helpless as they, and the 
dark river claimed its victims by scores. 
It was fortunate that scarcely hall a mile 
away was the little village of Riverlown. 
Roused from their slumbers by a deafening 
report of which they but too well knew the 
meaning, the inhabitants hastily repaired to 
the scene of disaster, and did humane service 
in rescuing and caring for the sufferers. It 
was wild midnight work, and in the weird 
glare of the burning palace many cheeks 
blanched, while stout hearts nerved willing 
hands on to heroic doing. 
When all had been saved whom human 
power could succor,—when the last dying 
wail had echoed grieving]}- on the air, and 
the glare of the burning wreck had been 
eclipsed by engulfing waters, — two men, 
searching along the river bank to seo if per¬ 
chance any unfortunate had gained the shore 
in such desperate strait us to preclude further 
effort, came upon the body of a young man, 
bruised and bleeding, with the life apparent¬ 
ly all blown out of him. The iace was 
terribly blackened, and an arm and leg were 
broken. It seemed, at first, that nothing 
was left of what had late been a proud, 
manly physique, but a wreck. 
“ Poor follow! ” said one of the two men, 
as be bent down to scan more closely the 
mangled form, “ he came ashore in a hurry. 
Wo can’t do anything for him any way. 
Reckon he was one of the hands.” 
“ Ho ain’t dead,” the other answered, who 
bail been examining the unfortunate man’s 
condition by the aid of the lantern he car¬ 
ried. “ He ain’t dead, and we can do some- 
tiling for him. Let’s carry him to my house 
at once; it’s the nearest, and he must have 
help right away, or he’ll be past helping.” 
Tenderly as though he were a woman, did 
they carry him away to the speaker’s cot¬ 
tage. And when the kind housewife there 
had wiped the black from his face, and the 
physician had taxed all the resources of the 
craft to bring him back to life,—when they 
were beginning to despair of success, and 
were expecting but to see the little of vitality 
that remained slip out from under their en¬ 
deavor in that cold stupor which was next 
to death itself,— Joseph Langwell opened 
his eyes, east a surprised, weary look about 
him, seemed for a moment as if making an 
effort to think, smiled a little, and relapsed 
into a quiet, lethargic sleep. 
“ We will save him 1” Raid the physician, 
confidently. “ With proper care the man 
may live. But it was n narrow chance — a 
very narrow chance I" 
Of those many weeks in which our friend 
lay, weak and helpless, clinging as it were 
to only a straw, 1 will not speak. Those 
who do not know upon how little nature can 
rebuild a life will perhaps find it hard to 
believe that, one so shattered could be re¬ 
stored to vigorous manhood again. Nothing 
short of a constitution absolutely perfect 
could have rendered the work possible. 
It was slow restoration, however, running 
through weeks, in which the good matron 
who nursed him was as patient and tender 
as a mother. But for her patient, tenderness, 
indeed, I doubt if even a sound constitution 
would have brought him through. 
Finally, when be could sit. up, bolstered 
by pillows, and look about him with some¬ 
what of his accustomed consideration, Jo¬ 
seph Laxgwiaj. began to realise how much 
he owed to these kind people who so unself 
ishly cared for him, and how little he now 
had wherewith to compensate them. He 
grew almost, disheartened, then. ‘What lie 
had seemingly come very near to,—tho ful¬ 
fillment of love and the reward of labor,— 
was put far away, lie must begin and go 
the whole distance over again. In his pres¬ 
ent bodily weakness this seemed very hard. 
There were times when he shut his eyes, as 
if wearied of the prospect, and groaned in 
very bitterness of spirit. 
But the motherly care and quiet cheerful¬ 
ness of his self-.appointed nurse, and tho 
warm though rougher kindliness of her 
husband, wore a panacea lor him. After 
other days, when he grew slowly stronger, 
he told them his story. They were entitled 
to know it,—they who had so nobly proved 
Good Samaritans. 
He told his story one evening, sitting by 
the little cottage window. He kept nothing 
back. The two who listened were sympa¬ 
thetic listeners, They had come to feel a 
deep interest in the young ,inan so sorely 
smitten, and many times had wondered over 
ills history. To learn it now satisfied one 
of their most earnest wishes. 
Almost at. the outset of his recital, there 
was a double surprise. He was telling of 
his home, and where it was. 
“ Wily, that’s where our girl’s been this 
long while,” said the husband quickly. 
“ Reckon likely you know little Faith, 
don’t you ?’’ 
“ Faith Works !’’ the invalid answered, 
flushing up in glad astonishment. “ 1 owe 
as much to iter as 1 do to you. I was going 
to tell you about her. Is this her home? 
Are you really her parents ?” 
“ This is really Faith’s home,” said the 
mother, “ and she is ours.” 
And this is why the young man kept 
nothing back. They had an interest in 
common. So he related all the incidents 
of bis acquaintance with little Faitii, paus¬ 
ing frequently to wonder over the curious 
providence which had thus brought him 
to her home. 
Faitii had gone North at the advice of 
physicians, they informed him, to try a colder 
climate. Finding it beneficial, she had con¬ 
tinued to tarry there. 
Joseph Langwei/l went on to speak, at 
length, of the circumstances which combined 
to send him out friendless and penniless upon 
the world. He narrated them fully. He 
dwelt upon them with a minuteness nothing 
could have rendered possible, except the fact 
that his hearers seemed near to him because 
they were near to her. The whole history 
of his deposition as heir lie recounted, from 
its inception at the appearance of Emily 
Lang well, to its culmination at his disap¬ 
pearance on the eve of her taking possession. 
Of course this involved a statement of all 
the alleged facts touching his supposed fath¬ 
er’s first marriage and subsequent double af¬ 
fliction. How that first wife and infant 
daughter had been lost as lie came near be¬ 
ing lost, was duly set forth. 
Just here his listeners’ interest in his nar¬ 
rative seemed to become intensified. They 
looked at each other from time to time in a 
kind of amazed perplexity, as he proceeded. 
Their manner puzzled him. Once the wo¬ 
man was about to speak, hut Her husband 
signaled her to silence. He began to think 
they doubted him, they acted so strangely. 
Yet lie went on with his story, gome what 
wonderingly, and was surprised indeed when, 
at its close, his Good Samaritans arose ns by 
agreement and, without a word, left the room. 
It was very odd, he thought. Very odd 
that they should say nothing of his recital. 
Very odd that they should take such Intense 
interest in it. as they had suddenly manifest¬ 
ed, and then treat, it. and him with such ap¬ 
parent indifference, i le couldn’t understand 
it, at all. And he was worrying His brains 
over it, a good half-hour later, when they re¬ 
turned. lie would ask some explanation 
then, he determined; and lie was about to 
do so when they forestalled him. And their 
forestalling was a revelation more surprising 
to him even thau his had been to them,—[To 
be concluded. 
POETRY. 
15Y J. W. QUINBY. 
I want to say a word about poetry. 
Some men seem to bold it in supreme con¬ 
tempt. But l cannot think that it is so much 
poetry that they despise as it i; some un¬ 
natural thing w hich Jins come to represent 
it to them. The mere rattling chime, whose 
chief inspiration was the desire of a cheap 
applause, is not poetry. But rather that 
deserves the name which has a quickening 
for our prosy lives, that stirs .something 
good in us, and that makes it, seem a better 
thing to live, 
We may safely count any such tiling poe¬ 
try, whether it is the lightness and gayety 
of spring — rivers bursting their bonds, 
brooks hastening, singing to the sea, birds 
with their blithe notes, clad in tropic tight, 
and heralds of summer glories; whether it 
is summer, autumn, or even winter, for 
every season has its brightness if we would 
see it, and its meaning more than simply of 
measured days and hours; or whether it is 
the record of human deeds that thrill us, 
and lift us, and make us thank God that lie 
lets us know such things; whether it is the 
light and beauty of this goodly frame of 
nature, or the higher glory of the good in 
human hearts and deeds, it is true poetry, 
though never sung in ballad or epic. Words 
linked and woven by the magic of genius 
speak grandly, but the poetry of nature and 
life was never all bottled in any man-made 
forms, more than Heaven’s light and air. 
It is everywhere and for us. It is iu 
everything avc can admire, and tho more we 
admire, the better. Wo quaff the nectar of 
the gods in admiration—in poetry. Let no 
poor man or woman so work for pelf that 
there is no time or strength left for this. 
Men can so drive the fainting body that it 
shall no longer have the power to digest the 
food on which alone it can subsist. It is 
certainly so of the soul. 
Let us, then, give some scope to the im¬ 
agination. Let the pure ideals of goodness, 
beauty and truth, evoked by this power, 
shine forth in their brightness. We cannot 
afford to lose their inspiration. To lose it, 
is to cease to lie men in the highest sense. 
Let no passion cloud them. Let no eye be 
blind, no ear, full of market’s din, be deaf to 
them. But let tlie touch or nature awaken 
them—the witchery of stars and sunshine 
aud flowers, and everything beautiful in 
strength and life. So our lives shall become 
sweeter and better. Trouble will not so 
bear us down; and at last. Ave shall lie in a 
hotter frame to go on to a higher state—into 
the glory behind the veil. 
-- 
DISAPPOINTMENT IN FRIENDS. 
Charlotte Bronte thus philosophizes 
in regard to this, and we think ivitli truth r 
Ill the matter of friendship, 1 have ob¬ 
served that disappointment, here arises chief¬ 
ly, not from liking our friends too well, or 
thinking of them too highly, hut rather from 
an over-estimate of their liking for and opin¬ 
ions of us; and that if ayo guard ourselves 
with sufficient scrupulousness of care from 
error in this direction, and can be content, 
and even happy to give more affection than 
Ave receive—can make just comparison ot 
circumstances, and lie severely accurate in 
drawing inferences thence, and never let 
self-love blind our eyes—I think we may 
manage to get though life Avith consistency 
and constancy, unembitlcrcd by that inisan- 
tliropy springing from revulsions of feeling. 
If we would build on a sure foundation in 
friendships, Ave must love our friends for 
their sakes, rather than for our own; avc 
must look at their truth to themselves, full 
as much as their truth to us. In the latter 
case, every avouih! to self-love would he a 
causa of coldness; in the former, only some 
painful change in that friend’s character and 
disposition—some fearful breach in his alle¬ 
giance to his better self—could alienate the 
heart. 
A COUNTRY CHOIR. 
The singing of a country choir is thus de¬ 
scribed in a volume called “ Homespun, or, 
Fivc-and-Twenty Years Ago.” 
“ As I look at such matters, nothing 
sweeter or purer, or more delicious to a sim¬ 
ple soul, can be conceived than tho unaffect¬ 
ed singing of a country choir. There is so 
little scientific fuss mul professional palaver 
about it. And the melodies come out so full 
and clear—ft creation each by itself, rising 
and falling in its cadences like the steady 
swell of the sea! I know few things, for 
myself, more true and hearty. There stands 
the choral row, male and female, heads erect 
and mouths opened avhIo, lotting out souls 
and voices together; the fiddle squeaking 
Avith excitement to get the lead, and the 
hard - working chorister, with quick eyo 
thrown to one side and the other, actually 
singing down the whole! As to the melody 
itself—so simple and direct, so plaintive, so 
stirring, filling the house as with a flood from 
floor to ceiling, and drifting out through the 
opened doors and windows into the echoing 
street—it is enough to move the most world¬ 
ly heart that ever tried Jo mint itself into 
money. One hardly thinks-he catches such 
seraphic strains again, though lie goes all the 
way from New England to Rome.” 
AWAKENING. 
Some one lias thus and very truly written: 
To the boy, the Avorld beyond immediate 
surroundings is only a picture. He does not 
knoAV liow real are the sorrows, the passions, 
the ambitions of men. His sports, his les¬ 
sons, tiis home life are alone real. But there 
av ill come a change. Like a stereoscopic 
picture before it is put into the stereoscope, 
the life of men has nobody oi reality: but 
Avhen the boy awakens, as Avith tho picture 
within the instrument, so with him a solidity 
and naturalness will be acquired by the ex¬ 
ternal world, and he will feel that it is his 
henceforth to live and move amongst these 
grander and graver forms. Many mistakes 
Avill be committed, the very earnestness of 
his new conceptions will hurry him into ex¬ 
travagances and generous errors; but if 
there is truth in his nature and nobleness in 
his spirit, just views Avill be formed and the 
day in which is given him to work Avill find 
him not unmindful of the responsibility 
which arises from a knowledge of the com¬ 
ing fight. 
-- 
OUR MORTALITY. 
Addison lias the following reflections; 
When I look upon the tombs of the great, 
every emotion of envy dies in me ; when I 
read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every in¬ 
ordinate desire goes out; when I meet with 
the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my 
heart melts with compassion; when 1 sea 
the tomb of tho parents themselves, 1 con¬ 
sider the vanity of grieving lor those whom 
avc must quickly follow. When I see kings 
lying by those avIio deposed them, when 1 
consider rival Avits placed side by side, or 
the holy men that divided tho world with 
their contests and disputes, I reflect with 
sorrow and astonishment on the little com¬ 
petition, factions and debates of mankind. 
When 1 read the several dates of the tombs, 
of some that, died yesterday, and some six 
hundred years ago, 1 consider that great day 
when avc shall all of us be contemporaries, 
and make our appearance together.” 
-- 
THE TERRITORY OF THE MIND. 
I am not a landlord, but I have a territory, 
one not entirely in the realms of fancy. I 
have a territory which 1 have consecrated 
in m}’ heart, and peopled beyond the reach 
of fortune and fate; there I meet with all 
that is manly and intrepid; there are the 
lovers of liberty, whose necks never bowed 
beneath the yoke of oppression; there 1 
meet scenes, the very conception of which 
exalts the lowliest to I he highest grade; there 
I have found sometimes a claim, if not 10 
the applause, at least to the affection and re¬ 
spect of my fellow-countrymen. — Wilson. 
- -♦♦♦—- 
A OEM. 
Better trust all, and be decived. 
And weep that trust, and that deeetving. 
Than doubt one heart, that, it believed, 
Hud blest one’s life with true believing. 
Oh 1 in this mocking world, too fast 
The doubting fiend o’ertakes our youth; 
Better be cheated to tho last 
Than lose the blessed hope of truth. 
