THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
THE MONEYLESS MAN. 
Is there no place on the face of the earth 
Where charity dwelleth where virtue hath birth ? 
Where bosoms in mercy and kindness will heave. 
And the poor and the wretched shall ask and receive ? 
Is there no place on earth, where a knock from the 
poor 
Will brinK a kind anirel to open the door? 
Ah! search the wide world wherever you can. 
There is no open door for the moneyless man! 
Go look In your hall, where the chandelier light 
Drives ofF with Its splendor the darkness of night, 
Where the bright hanging velvet, in shadowy fold. 
Sweeps gracefully down with its trimming of gold. 
And the mirrors of silver hike, up and renew 
In long-lightcd vistas the withering view : 
Go there in yonr patches and find, if yon can, 
A welcoming smilo for tho moneyless man! 
Go look in yon church of the cloud-reaching spire, 
Which gives back to the sun his same look of red lire; 
Where the arches and columns are gorgeous within, 
And the wal Is seem as pure as a soul without sin; 
Go down the long aisle—see the rich and the great, 
In the pornp and the pride of their worldly estate; 
Walk down in your patches and Jind if you can 
Who opens a pew for a moneyless man. 
Go look to yon Judge in dark flowing gown. 
With the stales wherein law weighetli quietly down; 
Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on the strong, 
And punishes right while he Justifies wrong; 
Where Jurors t.heir lips on the Bible have laid, 
To render a verdict they’ve already made; 
Go there in the court mom, aud llnrl if you can, 
Any law for the cause of a moneyless mau. 
Go look in the baDkg where Mammon has told 
His hundreds aud thousands of silver and gold; 
Where safe from the. hands of the starving and poor, 
Lies pile upon pile of the glittering ore; 
Walk up to the counter—ah, there you may stay 
Till your limbs grow old and your hairs turn gray— 
And you'll And at the bank not one of the clan 
With money to lond to a money lose mau. 
Then go to your hovel—no raven has fed 
The wife who has autre red so long for her bread— 
Kneel down by the pallet and kiss the death frost 
From the Ups of tho angola your poverty lost— 
Then turn in your agony upward to God 
And bless while it smites you the chastening rod. 
And you'll find at the end of your life’s little span 
There’s a welcome above for the moneyless man. 
[Henry Stanton. 
A "CASE” OF MINE, 
The subject of “Memory” having been much 
discussed lately In connection with a celebrated 
trial, 1 propose placing before my readers a case 
that I had under my own ken and care for some 
time, that may be interesting as an illustration 
of “Imperfect Memory" vs. •• Imperfect Knowl¬ 
edge." 
I was one day called upon to visit professionally 
a lady residing not far rrom my own house In 
Bloomsbury; tho malady some common ailment, 
influenza or feverish cold, hut accompanied by 
unusual nervous depression. I found my patient 
a woman about thirty to thirty-two years of age, 
of nervous temperament and rather constrained 
manner. A half-susplclous, restless look In her 
eyes made me notice her more particularly than 
I otherwise might have done, and when I left t he 
room the impression that I received was, that she 
was a woman with a “story.” 
She was dressed In deep mourning, which made 
me remark to her sister, who was taking a few 
Instructions from me concerning my treatment: 
“ She has sustained a loss, I see, and the nervous 
depression attendant on that has lowered the 
vital energies; thus an otherwise slight cold has 
fastened itself rather tightly on her.” 
“Yes,"returned her sister, “she lias, indeed, 
gone through much lately. Perhaps, as her doc¬ 
tor, you ought to be told more fully of her case; 
and. Indeed, It may interest you from another 
point of view.” 
We sat down, and I will condense her narrative 
as far as possible. 
My patient, Mrs. Hammond, and her husband 
were returning to England from the West Indies, 
where the latter had some property, when one of 
those unfortunate collisions between ships oc¬ 
curred which, though unhappily frequent of late, 
were then rare. The collision took place In very 
rough weather and a boisterous, fitful wind, 
A few were saved, among tnem Mrs. Hammond; 
but her husband was never seen again, Her baby, 
only six months old, was washed away. I did 
not attend very much to the particulars of the 
shipwreck, and all 1 can be certain of is, that Mrs. 
Hammond, husbandless, childless, penniless and 
unconscious, was, with a few others, saved on 
that fearful night In one or the ship’s boats and 
taken on board oi another homeward bound ves¬ 
sel of some sort that came to them soon after the 
calamity. Her husband's family was well off, and 
when the ship reached England she proceeded to 
their house m London. It was at the residence 
of her father-in-law that I had now seen the poor 
lady, Just a year and a half after her bereave¬ 
ment. 
“But the strange thing Is this," continued ray 
companion, “that she does not fret me least for 
her child, because all memory of having had one 
is gone. When returning to consciousness, we 
are told that she cried piteously for her husband 
—but no one expression ever escaped her lips 
about the baby, and when naturally we condoled 
with her on Its loss, she looked at us as If we had 
taken leave of our senses'" 
“ Perhaps It Is God’s mercy,” I said, reverently. 
“ The double grief might have upset her reason." 
“But has It not already?" asked her sister. 
“She has as utterly forgotten the baby’s having 
existed as If—well, as If In fact it never had.” 
“ Are you sure she has really forgotten It?” 1 
questioned. 
“Oh, certainly. She was never particularly 
fond of children. She was brought up by an aunt, 
separate from me and my brother Frank, very 
much to herself, and never took to children of her 
own age. She used to say she hoped she never 
would have any; but when baby came, then,” 
laughed Miss Dennis, “ she made us great a fuss 
over It as any one; at least, so I heard, for It was 
born in Jamaica.’’ 
" The child was certainly drowned?" I asked. 
“ Oh, yes. Out of seven little ones on board, 
only one was saved—the child of a poor steerage 
woman, who was taken back by the culprit steam¬ 
er. Although wc sometimes endeavor to rake up 
old memories to her mind, we do not txy too much. 
What would you advise 7" 
" Leaving her with her own sorrow, unconscious 
of her other loss," 1 answered. “ If tho truth ever 
dawns upon her, she will the better bear up 
against Its consequent grief; the more strength 
of mind and body can be gathered up now. Keep 
her up tn every way; cheerful looks about her 
and plenty of light, nourishing food.” 
“It is not madness, is It, doctor?” said poor 
Miss Dennis, looking me searchlngly in the face. 
“ By no means; merely a case of suspended 
memory. The veil may be lifted any moment, 
though we could hardly wish for it.” And to ray- 
self I said, “ How many of us would pray that 
such a veil might fall upou our past!' 
Her cold took Us usual course, unattended by 
any worse symptoms than ordinary, except for 
the natural depression consequent upon her pecu¬ 
liar circumstances. Two or three times I led the 
way cautiously to the subject we were interested 
In—I mean her sister and myself; but the suspi¬ 
cious, restless look l her eyes became so Intense, 
that I desisted, quite aware t hat she would be far 
more likely to think us Insane than 1 could think 
her to be so. 
In Lwo or three weeks 1 discontinued myat- 
tendauce, with th understanding between her 
sister and myself that If any material change 
took place In her mental condition 1 should be 
made aware of It. Almost a your passed by with¬ 
out, my hearing any more of her, when one after¬ 
noon, just its 1 had tlnlshed a hasty lunch, prepar¬ 
atory to going to my afternoon “ round,” I recelv- 
ed a note from Mrs. Dennis, saying how grateful 
she would be to me If I could look In upon her that 
afternoon. At three o’clock I was at, their house, 
and found myself once more tvt.e~a.-tHv. with Miss 
Dennis. 
“We agreed,”she commenced, “that I should 
let you know anything special concerning yonr 
old patient, and I have really something very odd 
to tell you. About, six months ago there was some 
little hitch In my sister’s monoy affairs—you know 
her husband had some property In .Jamaica, and 
It was considered advisable that some one should 
go out and see after tho estate, which had been 
intrusted to careless hands on my brother-in- 
law’s death. The money had been coming In very 
Irregularly, so our brother Frank, who had lived 
In the north of England for the last seven years, 
volunteered to go and look up matters tor her. 
Me has not, been well for some time, and his doc¬ 
tor said a sea voyage would be just the very thing 
for him. The long and short of It Is, that yester¬ 
day the mall arrived with letters from him for us 
both. He hopes, he says, to make everything 
straight very soon; found affairs In a great mud¬ 
dle, and believes the agent anything but trust¬ 
worthy. In his letter to me wasaaocher Inclosure 
marked ‘private.’ Tills I took Into my own room 
and read. The best way, doctor, Is for you to read 
it yourself; it will not take you long.” 
Miss Dennis handed me the letter, of which the 
substance follows 
“ In one oi my r mbles before the sun was well 
up, l was walking along a path near Kingston 
when 1 came upon a woman with two children 
sitting by the roadside. The eldest was playing 
with little red berries, and seemed between two 
and three years old; the other quite a boy. I 
should not have noticed them much, but that the 
mother spoke crossly to the eldest, as I passed, 
which caused me to look at him. As I did so I 
was staggered to see what at the tlrst glance 
seemed the image of Mary. Then the Image re¬ 
solved Itself Into a still stronger likeness to poor 
Edward; nor, in the features, perhaps; but as he 
lUted his eyes to mine, the same halt-mclaneholy 
expression looked out from them. There was not 
the slightest likeness to the woman in him. I 
stopped In my walk and got Into conversation 
with her, and as 1 did so the little feUow quietly 
put his baud in mine, as u wo had been old ac¬ 
quaintances. She noticed It by saying“ Well, 
that Is a wonder! he hardly ever takes to any one 
—little shy monkey!’ The wards were said play¬ 
fully, but the cone was hardly motherly, I thought. 
" I questioned her about different things, and 
as we talked the wind got much fresher and the 
morning betokened a rough day. I made a re¬ 
mark on the change In the weather. 
“ 4 It will be a stormy day, I fear,' she said; 
aud It Is so stupid of me; but ever since the ship¬ 
wreck that 1 was In, 1 get quite upset when the 
wind blows high—it madcs me shudder.' 
“ This remark naturally sharpened my wits aud 
I got from her the following particulars:—She 
was going to England with her husband aud baby 
when, within a few days of urrlval, the ship 
struck; a groat many were washed overboard and 
never seen again, she and her husband and baby 
were In the water some time, and she and th'’ 
baby were ultimately saved, though not together. 
She had given up both her treasures as lost and 
had sunk Into a kind of swoon, wUen a satlo 
placed the little thing dripping In her arms. ‘ My 
Joy was great,’she said, simply; ‘and when all 
hope was gone of my husband being saved, l turn¬ 
ed to the little wet bundle lu ray arms for com¬ 
fort, and I bollevo the necessity rov giving It food 
saved my life. With some others I decided to go i 
back again in the other ship that offered to rake I 
us. W hat could 1 do wit hout my husband In a 
strange land? 8 o 1 never saw Eugland, sir, and 
I came back without money, clothes, husband or 
child.’ 
“ ‘Or child?’ I repeated after her. 
“‘Yes. sir. It was not nay child.' Here she 
hurst Into tears. ‘ It, was not my own dear baby, 
but another. I found it out soon; but for many 
hours I nursed It as my own, for 11 , in a sort of 
stupor, hardly noticing anything that, occurred 
around me, and then, sir, what could I do but 
keep It,? It. was fatherless and motherless, as I 
was husbandless and childless; and so, sir, I have 
kept him ever since—this little orte!’ She touched 
the boy’s forehead as she spoke. 
“ * How did you nna out thathe was not yours?’ 
I asked, with a strange fluttering hope at my 
heart. 
“ * By his clothes first, sir. You see, tho collis¬ 
ion happening la the night, there were hardly 
any of us dressed. He had only bis little night 
shirt, on that he had been snatched up In, and 
when given to me was wrapped in something 
thick and warm by tho good sailor; so It was not 
till I roused a Utile as some kind ladles offered 
ine some of their own babies’ clothing for him 
that l found his shirt was line and delicate—aud 
my boy’s was poor and coarse, it startled meat 
once and roused mo up like a shock, and when I 
gazed eagerly Into his eyes I saw he was not my 
own! My boy put out his little arms and crowed 
In my race—this one drank of my milk and never 
cooed or chirped to thank t’ 
“The tears were coming fast to her eyes. I 
pressed tho little dollcate hand flrmer to mine as 
tho child looked up wonderlngly to his foster- 
mother’s face. 
“ 1 Were the clothes marked?’ I asked. 
“ ’ Yes, sir; there was ‘ E. H.’ on the shirt, and 
I’ve always kept, it, by me safely.’ 
"Now, my dear sister, does not your opinion 
coincide with ml no, that the child Is our poor sis¬ 
ter’s lost darling? 
"I saw the likeness to both parents at once; 
tho shin is marked with the Initials that would 
have heen on It; r bring the shirt, with mo, saved 
In the collision. In fact,, everything points, In my 
opinion, to the same conclusion; and though I 
might get a scolding from my little wife at homo, 
I have acted to my Arm belief, l told the woman 
our story ana lully convinced her. Indeed, sho 
did not need much inducement to give the little 
fellow up. She had a certain reeling for him, she 
said, as having nursed him, bat‘I have never 
quite got over the turn he gave me when I saw 
he was not my own. God forgive mo!’ she con¬ 
tinued, • r have tried to do ray best for him. Last 
year l married again, air, and have another dear 
little one now. My husband never took to Clyde 
(I called him after the ship, sir,) but to please me 
he remains with us and shares the llttlo wo have; 
nut l don’t, think he’d fret at all at leaving its—lie 
never took to us any more than my husband to 
him.’ 
“ l saw her husband the next day, and with a 
small sum or money I got him to resign his pater¬ 
nal charge over the boy with great alacrity. Mrs. 
L— , the consul’s wife, had kindly undertaken to 
tit him out. respectably, and next week, if all goes 
well, I hope to start for England with iny—as 1 
firmly believe—long-lost nephew. . But what l 
am to do with him when there I don’t know. It’s 
a queer business to force a child on a woman who 
says she never had one. .Surely she’d say (and 
with seeming truth) that ‘she ought to know 
best,!’ But as I believe Providence ordered my 
steps here to recover the poor little rellow. 1 will 
trust the same good Providence to restore him to 
his natural protectors, if not, why it. makes only- 
one more mouth to feed. He Is 1 ust Bobby’s age 
within a week or two; they will be capital play¬ 
fellows.” 
Here the letter entered upon other matters. 
“ And now,” said Miss Dennl 3 , looking at me 
steadily with lior large earnest eyes, " What are 
we to do?” 
“ When does your brother return ?” f asked. 
“ He is on his way now. In three weeks, please 
God, he will be at home. To think of her little 
darling being alive and restored to her, and she 
not aware of his existence—or Ills ever having 
existed! It would be almost laughable, were it 
not so sad. Iiow would you advise us to act?" 
** 1 must consider," mused I. “ We must be cau¬ 
tious. With a nervous temperament such as hers, 
a shock even of joy, would be a great pain, and If 
the memory returns It mlgUt be with such a rush 
as to overthrow reason itself.” After a few mo¬ 
ments’ silence I proposed the following plan: 
“ They must meet tn the ordinary course of cir¬ 
cumstances—at least, it must seem so to her. She 
knows, of course, of her brother’s having gone to 
Jamaica?" 
“Ob, yes; and takes an interest in all the ar¬ 
rangements ; often talks about him and the old 
places he wilt visit; Is quite cheerful when we 
mention hts returning soon and paying us a visit 
of ft week or two, after he has run down to sec 
his wife and family. Indeed, she said It might 
enliven me if he could bring one of his children 
with him.” 
“ She has never seen Master Bobby, whom your 
brother speaks of as being about the same age as 
her own?” 
“ Never.” 
"I have it!" I exclaimed. “Introduce Master 
Clyde as Master Bobby', and see If any particular 
effect will he made upon her. Let your brother 
come as expected, and bring the boy with him. 
Is there a girl anywhere?” 
“Yes, the eldest., Mary; named after herself.” 
The long and the short of It is this, that 1 ad¬ 
vised the bringing up hts little girl Mary, and his 
supposed nephew Clyde, whoso real name—If In¬ 
deed ho was his nephew—was Edward ; and let 
the mother and child be brought together as 
events would naturally occur. “And let mo 
know,” I concluded, “as soon as you can, If any¬ 
thing comes of our little stratagem." 
I must, now put, another letter before my reader, 
for what followed will be better understood from 
MISS Dennis' narrative than from words of mluo. 
“Dbaii Doctor:—A s f have now really some¬ 
thing to relate to you, r will write you my prom¬ 
ised letter, l must Just tell you that, for some 
days before Frank returned, Mary bad seemed 
very uneasy in her mind ; restless and fitful; com¬ 
plained of bad nights and strange dreams. But 
on the day that. Frank was expected and came, 
she was much calmer and herself again. She 
flew to meet him, and the servants taking forci¬ 
ble possession of the children at a previous hint, 
of mine, wo had some minutes lu the drawing- 
room before they were brought In. 
“On their arrival Frank said, 1 Your little name¬ 
sake Mary, and Master Bobby.' 
“ As her eyes fell on the boy I saw her start. 
My heart boat, fearfully. 
“* 8 o tills is Bobby, Is ID?’ sho said, and Just 
laid her hand on his head. ‘ He Is like—not you,’ 
and she looked fixedly at Frank; ‘ nor, your wife’ 
-here she paused, and turning away passed her 
hand across lior brow, Frank signed to me to 
take the children out of the room, which l did; 
left them with tho nurse and returned. Mary had 
walked to the window ami for «, few seconds wo 
took no notice of her, hut, conversed on different, 
subjects, 'then I turned to her and said, ‘I’ll 
leave you two together, Mary; there’s lots of bu¬ 
siness to talk over, and I’ll go and look artcr tho 
chicks.’ 
"She turned round undone would have thought 
she had aged ten years In l hose row moments. 
She had a pained and wearied look, and her 
thoughts seemed far away as she answered, ‘ Do, 
Ellen—and keep them quiet—and get, Bobby— 
Bobby!’she repeated,‘who is ho like? I don’t, 
think 1 can be well, I feel so strange.’ And she 
turned back again to tho window and looked out. 
“ I confess I thought, or sending at once for you, 
she had such a wild, oppressed look on her face. 
She was close to us, and yet one felt that sho was 
very far away. I feared that wo had done wrong 
in testing her tn this manner, and might, kill her 
roason it we ventured further* I wished at the 
moment that the boy had never born found, and 
went out of the room quite savagely. I remem¬ 
bered what, you said about letting things come 
naturally, so we did not have the children In 
again, or even mention them, until a young laugh 
rang In our oars from the floor above, whore a 
temporary nursery bad been arranged. 
“They seem making themselves quite at homo, 
Miss Polly, at any rate,’said my brother, ‘111 
go and see tho fun.’ Mary had been unusually 
quiet. The business matters that had to bo dis¬ 
cussed seemed for the time to have lost, their Im¬ 
portance. She would break off in the middle of 
a sentence, the strange look come over lior again, 
and her hand would bo passed over her forehead 
and eyes. When Frank had gone sho remarked, 
faintly, 4 Bobby was not, laughing—It was t he girl’s 
laugh.’ 
“ How did she know t She then left the room, 
aud I went to dress for dinner. Frank tells me 
that on going up stairs he found Polly In a state 
of glee. Nurse was remonstrat ing as she wiped 
a saucer, and Master Edward sitt ing utterly dis¬ 
consolate lu a very big arm-chair, with two big 
tears coursing quietly down h)s cheeks. At her 
papa's entrance, Polly rushed to him. * Oh, papa! 
Isn’t he a fu nny boy ? He’s crying because nurse 
won't, let blm go and see Aunty Mary again. He 
says he wants to go U) the lady and stole away 
outside—nearly all the way down, and nurse had 
to carry him back and then lie cried again ! Isn’t 
he a funny boy, papa?’ 
“ Frank quieted Polly wit h a look, and comforts 
ed Edward by saying that he would soon see the 
lady again if he was a good boy. He gulped down 
his tears and Frank left hint. The nurse was In 
the secret, and he looked to me for orders In the 
matter. On the chance of Mary visiting theroom 
wo had left out on the table the Uttle night-shirt, 
the baby had ou when the poor woman discovered 
ou her recovery that he was not her own child. 
It was thrown carelessly on the table with a few 
odds and ends and toys. She would think it was 
the workmanship of the nurse for the benefit of 
another little addition, that Frank Is dally expect¬ 
ing in the family. 
“ After 1 was dressed I ran up stairs ro have 
another look at the young ones, and met Mary 
Just outside the door on the point of entering. 
She blushed red when sne saw me. 1 Gome along, 
Mary,’ I said, entering flrst and taking her hand. 
• We’ll have a romp before dinner—it will give us 
an appetite.’ 
“Edward was standing at the window, Polly 
was nursing a doll and finishing what had once 
been a largo slice of cake. Strange to say, Mary 
spoke to Polly and not to 4 Bobby,' though it. was 
evident It was 4 Bobby’ she had come to see, for 
her eyes wandered to him and rested with a puz¬ 
zled look upon his face. She stood by the little 
table, and soon I saw her ringers take up the 
shirt. She turned and twisted It abour, for some 
time before she looked at It, then said , 4 You have 
plenty to do now, t suppose nurse; another little 
one expected.’ ‘Oh, yes, ma'am—the more the 
merrier, bless their hearts!’ She talked a deal 
more Of nurse talk; but Mary’s eyes were now on 
the shirt, and I saw her give a short of shiver. I 
