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233 
THE BUBAL NEW-YORKER 
old—you must ’souse me, but somehow I can’t 
help cryln right out loud. I alluz. do when I tall 
a-tuInking ’bout, bcr’n him. An’ sometimes 1 git 
so worked up’t I forglt, 'bout, the fever an* how 
good he was then, an’ wish ter goodness *t I could 
ketch hold o’ suthln that ’ud smash right Inter 
that oyster shell o’ hls’u—I don’t mean murder, 
neither—an’ let out the meat an’ Juice, ef they Is 
any—so’t sister .Task could hev one good look at 
It, afore she dies, an - he sure she's married to a 
man, an’ not to a side o’ sole leather. 
Gracious me! tho’, how I hev run on! A-most 
as bad as Miss Woodard ; but you see. I’ve been 
a-staylng up to sister .Tank’s fur quite a spoil, an’ 
what with the quiet ways she’s a-glttiu, an' the 
fecllns l hev about It when l*m there, and the 
ere say In—I know ’twaut a woman—may have 
the “deep" and the bottom ot it for all't I care. 
Than there’s some o’ the book writers, women, 
too, that’s set to work lately to make folks think 
It’s nice ter live with a dura’ mate all your life. 
May be ’Us, but. Miss Wbitnkt an’ her “Hither¬ 
to ’’—though I’m free to confess II s a likely book, 
a very likely book, all but the subjook—an’ Miss 
Prentiss an' her “Stcppln’ Heavenward,” good 
books as t hey be, nover’ll convince me that havin’ 
SUch a husband as sister Jane’s got would bring 
mo nlgher heaven. Why, I'm so wruthy’t times, 
Jest a seeln’ her suffer, ’l 1 could bite a tenpenny 
nail In two; an’ how should l feel, I'd like ter 
know, to be tied up ter 1dm myselt, ami know’t I 
couldn’t git away, and had got ter stan’ It my 
dull, durln’life? Wouldn't I he more likely to 
stop toward t’other place, think" I’m morally 
sure ou’t. An ‘besides,‘you needn’t, tell mo—1 
don’t mean ter say nothin’ agin’em. an’ ’taint, fur 
It’s no fault o’ thelr’u — but, 'tween you an’me 
au’ the elder press, them wtthmen hev suffered 
thelrselves, an’ prob’ly the world knows It, an' 
they know It knows It, au’ It’s nateral ’nough, 
bein’ wlmmen, an’ so loyal by nat.ur’—It’s nateral, 
1 say, fur ’em to try to make the best on’t, an’ I 
’sped ’em fur’L What I’m afeard on is, that it’ll 
encourage the oysters an’ clams to keep to thelr¬ 
selves an’ shot up Ughter’n ever, a-t,Ulnkin’ some¬ 
how that the poor wives ’ll bear It, an’ make a 
vartue on’t, an’ so they can keep a-goln’ right on 
easy an’ comfortable, In their own close way, for¬ 
ever ’u ever. 
’Twouldn’t. he so bad fur sister .Tank ef she an’ 
BiJAn didn’t live on a farm. But there "Us. She’s 
to home all day not a-workIn’ hard, I’m free to 
state, for Bi.iah Is gen’rous in Ills way an’ a good 
pur wider, an’ ’dulgent, an’ all that, an’ the heft 
o’ the work Is done over l the other house. But 
there she alts the day long, with her sewin’ an' 
hooks ah’ planner fur company—an’ I’m boun’ ter 
say she'll git more 'doty out o' them t hlugs than 
anybody 'at ever I seen—but not a soul 'oepther 
hired girl to speak to from mornlu’ till night— 
when I ain't there—till Bijaii comes home at 
eight, o’clock In the evening—you see, ho don’t 
work the farm himself, but, stays down to his 
store In the village—and then becomes in with 
his Tribune—nlgli 'bout, every man in Vermont, 
takes the Tribune—pulls off his boots, puts on ids 
slippers—the ones she worked him—an’sets down 
to read, which ho continuers a-doln’ in his news¬ 
paper or some book—for he's a master hand to 
read, Bijaii Is—till 'bout half-past ten o’clock. 
Then he Jumps up an, says: 
" Wile, ain’t It ’bout bed-time An’off lingoes. 
“There’s “feast 'o reason an’flow o’ soul" fur 
you! There's “companionship' an' “spiritual 
communion!" There’s “ two souls blent In one!" 
Only hO’s the only one. I wonder sometimes If 
lie in so blind he don’t, see the hunger lu her eyes 
when she looks up at him from her sewin’ or 
book, longin' so lur a bit o' news, ef 'twan’t, 
more’n village gossip, or a little chut on business 
or politics—rur she’d be willin’ to talk ’bout any¬ 
thing to break the a wtul, dead Bllence! 
“ Golden silence,’’ indeed! 1 wish whoover put 
them two words together had ter spend a year o’ 
Vermont winter evenings alone with Bar ah 
Brown, I guess they’d be willin’ to change their 
“ gold ” fur good, lively greenbacks, long Toro the 
end o’ that time, an’shot up furever a norwards 
’bout the “ beauties " o’ silence. 
Why, sc nee I’ve turned roily, l ain’t, no great of 
a talker myself; but Utile’s T hev to say, 1 don’t 
b’ltcve but anybody’t goes In fur solid comfort, 
would rutber spend a hull evenin’ with me than 
him, fur all he knows a heap morn'n 1 do. What's 
worse'n all tlio rest, he means well, Bn ah docs, 
an* that’s the plague on’t. Ef I could only hate 
him riglit. smart an’ licv a good, square quarrel 
with him now an’ then, t here’ll be some satersfac¬ 
tion l n’t. 
But somehow he’s that ,klnd o’ man you don’t 
like to meddle with a great deal. Once I did offer 
to learn him the deef and dum’ alphabet, so’t be 
could t alk with Ills lingers when his Ups wouldn't. 
Twant, but one look he give me, but I let go quick, 
T tell you. Besides, I know't, arter all lie sets a 
store by sister Jank. How do I know ? Well, In 
the first, place, 'cause he gives her everything she 
wants, 'cept what she wants most of all—a sight, 
at Ids soul now and then; an' In the secondly, 
’cause they alnt nothin l he won't do for her, 
when lie once gits waked up to't. Don’t I re¬ 
member how’t when she had tin- fever lie d work 
hard all day In the Held—tur’twas haylu-tline 
an’ few hands, so he left the store to his pardner 
for two or three weeks—an’ then rub his eyes 
open all night a-watchlu with her. lie said 1 did 
'nough t-akln care on her daytimes—an’ kep right 
on too, in ter she was able to reach out an’ git, bel¬ 
ow n medlcln ’thout hurl In or her a mite, an’ so 
she told him time an’agin, an’tried an’tried to 
git him ter go to toed. But no, lie-wouldn’t con¬ 
sent ter do nosech tiling, he was so areared sutliln 
might happen an’ he be needed. An’ he only give 
up at last, ’cause she made him see ‘t, worried her 
more to know’t he was a-doln ’thout Ills sleep 
than all the mcdlcin done Tier good. 
Yes, I remember all that; tout bless you, when 
Bhe got, better an’ able to set up—though she was 
as weak as water, an’ needed a-cossetln, an’ 
a-comfortln an’ lalkln to, an’ things said to please 
her—then he was agin Jest, as bad’s ever. Away 
all the (lay, an’ all the eventu with his books an’ 
papers. I declare, when I used to sec her try so 
hard to git sut hln out, o’ him,—suthln to cheer her 
up. poor thing,—an’ then fall back, at his short 
answers, on her sofer plller, kinder tired an’ d< 
spalrln-tUce, all I could think on was them words 
she used to sing so often: 
" Break, break on thy crags, oh wa I” 
Fur It seemed to mo she might break heart an 
all, an’ he set, there like a rock an’ let her. Some 
folks wouldn’t suffer so much with this sort o 
tiling as sister Jank docs, fur she’s one o’ your 
’thuslastlc kind o’woman, full o’ potry an’ high, 
thoughts, an’ alio doos want so to hev somebody 
to talk ’em over with, an’ that somebody her hus¬ 
band, as he’d oughter he. 
But she turn ter want It. she mlghter had agree¬ 
able company, of her own gert too. There was 
Tom Kniojit an* Will Jones, lawyers, ’spectable 
young men, an’ her husband’s friends, who would 
er been glad to come there an’ chat with her ’bout 
books, an’ lectures, an’ music, an’ dramas, an’ 
| things, an’she could er hoed her own row with 
the best on ’em, ef she is my sister .Tanr. 
But she discouraged ’em all. You sec she’s so 
kinder high sperrlood an’ honorable like, sister 
Jank is, that she seemed ter think, ef she couldn't 
enjoy them things with, her husband—couldn't 
share, what she thought, the best part, of her 
natur with him—nobody else shouldn’t have It. 
So she shot up a-most as tight, as Bijau hlsself. 
But, 1 tdl you, there irn.t times, when they was 
first, married—afore she got “broke m,” poor 
thing, an’ settled down to what she Is now—that 
I used ter gtt scart at what I see In her face. It 
seemed terine Jestnscf 1 could look right through 
her eyes an’ see her soul a-rampln up an’ down 
like a wild animal, an’ a-ragln an’ u-tcarln at Its 
bars, as ef It must burst right through Inter free 
air an’ liberty agin. An' to think he never knew 
It! Men are such calves! 
Ah’arter ull there’s sutliln "bout that man ’tl 
can’t understand with all my pitzz.Iln. Why, I’ve 
said things lo hint and at him—all along o’ sister 
Jank— ’twould er made any other man ‘s mad as 
Mohkr ; but Loan love ye, he never seemed to lay 
it up a mite, tin's allers a-sendln lor me, an’ aliens 
as glad ter see me w lien I conn*, as tlio’ we under¬ 
stood each other perteckly, an’ was the very best 
friends In the world. 1 spose it’s cause we arc 
'greed bout one thing, an' that is a-lovin o' sister 
Jank. Then, too, they Is times when I’m a spec- 
ulatin, an’ nlgli about erazln my brain over the 
stngler things he don’t do—for Bmn’s sins, all 
on ’em, are sins o’ omission—an' the feelln things 
r look out o’ t hem blue eyes o’ hts’n ’t turn dark 
so suddent, sometimes,—they Is times, I say, when 
I really wonder cf It cau be true ’t that man 
a-golu round with his shot up soul, w ould he jest 
as glad ter speak his mind as anybody else, only 
’t. somehow he can’t. 
Suthln ’t, Jane told me once makes me a-most 
b'llcYo so. ’Twos a pretty good spell ago It hap¬ 
pened; but. one day she Jest broke right out, sis¬ 
ter J ank did, an’ said some things to Bu ah— pretty 
tough ones, loo, by her own toll, lor she'd been a- 
broodtn over ’em ever an’ ever so long, an’ didn’t 
much mind what she ’euserl him of—an’ what do 
you think l hat blessed BrjAtr did, right In the 
midst on’t, when she’s a-golog on’t the worst too! 
’St id o’ bouneln out. o’ the house, as any other man 
would ov done, he Jest give her seeh a look as 
you see In a deer's eyes when It'sshot through the 
heart, an’ opens his arms an' takes her right, Inter 
’em, a-sayln “Janie! Janie!" In such a tender, 
movln, pathetic, kinder way, that’thout another 
word, she broke right down herself, sister Jane 
did. an’ rorglve him on the spot for all he’d never 
done an’ never was a-golu! to do; an’ made a sol¬ 
emn vow all to herself as she lay there a-sobbtn 
on his breast, that she’d never liavrer him any 
more, whatever happenei. An’ it’s my opinion’t 
she never has, from that day to this. 
But i don’t believe It's any easier to bear for all 
that, when I see her white face n-growin whiter 
and whiter every nay, an’ her readln of her Bible 
more’n site used ter, an’ that look in her eyes as 
though she's a-seeiri things wc can't, sec—praps 
suthln in t’other world where Bijah’s lnterruptlv 
flesh Tl drop off, I spose, an’ he'll have, to stan up 
In his soul like a man an' 1st her see what a good, 
lovln soul it is. Fur somehow, as I said afore, l 
alters do bTlcve 'ti that when I’m t the maddest. 
I'raps, i say. she has a foresee! rf o' that now, an’ 
It’s that't keeps her up so wonderful. 
We thought ’t.was bad ’nough—mother ’n mo 
an’the girls—when Bijau come down to Massa¬ 
chusetts an’ took her away from us off to ills Ver¬ 
mont hill-farm; but when we found out how 'the 
wont no kind o’ company for her, 'twos a million 
times worse. Whot'd we ever let him have her 
for? Why, when he come a-courtln, ef he didn't 
say much, we thought 'Lwas ’cause he was kinder 
bashful like, never thinking 't a man wouldn’t 
talk to his own wile, or seem to care no more 
’bout who twos a-golu on In her mind an’ heart 
than he did ’bout his cows? How wc girls did 
miss her! 
You sec, we’d been used ter having such high 
times Together. There was four on U3, but me 
an'sister .Jane dll the biggest part of the talkln 
genorly. An’ didn't we enjoy goln on—wo two— 
till the other girls thirty cried and mother dropped 
her kniltln work and spectacles for laugh in! 
Mother used tur say, moral ns, “Now, girls, fly 
’round an’ do up your chores afore Jank an' Rox- 
anny git a-goln, or everything ’ll be at loose ends 
here.” An’ now to think o' her shet up with that 
alluz sure to Und out whenever he’d let you have 
a sight of that orgln. But to return to my sub- 
jeck, as the books say. It may be very well, an’ 
sounds nice ’nough. a ll this talk ’bout still streams 
a-runnln the deepest. I wish though ’tl had a 
chance with my biggest broom at the silly head T 
wrote that precious bit 0 ’ nonsense, fur I b'tlove 
In my soul, it’s done a mint of mischief. My good¬ 
ness me! what do i care 'bout how deep a stream 
is, or what's at the bottom out, ef I ain't never a- 
goln to see the “ deep" nor reach tire bottom ? its 
the surface 1 I'm mostly concerned with. Ef that, 
shines and sparkles and notices me, an’ says 
pleasant, comfortable things, that’s the stream r 
want, and the fishes, and the man T made that 
squelcher that dum’ husband o’hem is, it’s kinder 
a relief ter git home agin’ an’ let out. 
-- 
LOST JEWELS. 
Some years ago I was admiring the handsome 
rings of a relative of mine, when I noticed upon 
her little linger an Insignificant little ring of pale 
gold, set with a bloodstone. “ Why do you wear 
that trumpery little tiling?" I asked; and In 
reply she told me the following anecdote“ The 
night before my eldest son Was born 1 undressed, 
as usual, in my big bed-room up stairs, and put 
my rings into a little china plate (which contained 
some oat-moal used ror washing my hands) on my 
dressing table. I had only two or three rings at 
the time, and among them was this little blood¬ 
stone, which had been given me by a school friend 
before my marriage. My boy James was horn the 
next, morning; and so it. came about that for the 
next, fortnight or three weeks I never wore nor 
thought of my rings. However, when l was con¬ 
valescent, and dressed for the first lime, i natur¬ 
ally looked for my rings, and found all there ex¬ 
cept tho bloodstone. Search was made fur It 
through the whole room, and afterward through 
the whole house, but with no success; It was not 
to be found. I never thought for a moment that 
It had been stolen, for it was of little value, and 
this turquols hoop which had Lain with it would 
have been more attractive to a thief. Years 
passed, and James was a sturdy boy of ten, when 
some alteration being made In the house, the 
flooring of my bed-room was removed, ruder 
one of the planks was found the skeleton of a 
mouse with my bloodstone ring round Its neck. 
It had evidently ventured upon my toiler, table In 
search or the oatmeal, had unwlttlhgly pushed Its 
head through the ring, and toad returned to Its 
hole to die; au unintentional thief strangled by 
Its useless prize." The second is an out-or-door 
story. A young lady, a governess lu a mend’s 
family, was one autumn day walking with her 
pupils in their father’s kitchen garden. The 
children pulling at their governess’ hands, as she 
walked between them, loosened ft ring which she 
wore, and before they noticed whither It sprang, 
the ring was gone from her linger and was no¬ 
where l o be seen. The garden beds around which 
had been newly dug over, were searched, so were 
the celery and cabbages growing near; but no 
ring was forthcoming. The governess mourned 
for The loss of her ornament, more particularly 
because It had been her father's signet ring; and 
every day for some time she and her pupils 
searched the kitchen garden, but In vain. A 
month at ter ward she returned home for a holiday, 
taking with her a basket of garden produce as a 
present to her mother from her pupils’ parents; 
when lo! almost the ttrst thing unpacked from 
the country basket was a tine hearty cabbage 
with a close green heart, among whose curled 
blades lay the much-lamented, long-soughtrfor 
Hlgnet-rlng." 
■- * * * 
A DRUNKEN FARM. 
Often and often, while passing through the 
country, we have passed a farm whose history we 
can rend at a glance. The door-yard has disap¬ 
peared—burned up in the shltUessness boru of 
drink. The house was unpainted and battered; 
broken panes of glass were stopped with rags or 
old hats; the chimney stood in a tottering atti¬ 
tude; the doors swung (n a creaking condition on 
one hinge; the steps were unsteady, like their 
owner’s; everything was dilapidated, decayed, 
untidy, cheerless. A single, look showed that Its 
owner had traded too much at one shop—the rurn 
shop. The Spirit of thrift had been killed by the 
spirit of the still; fresit paint, repairs, Improve¬ 
ments, good cheer, and beauty tor the farmer’s 
throat. 
Outside matters were the same. Tho barnyards 
were wretched stys; the doors were off, the roofs 
were leaky, the. gates down, the carts crazy, the 
tools broken, the fodder scarce, and the stock 
poor and wretched. Neglect, cruelty, wasteful¬ 
ness, ruin, all had come from drink. The farm 
showed the trail of the same serpent. The strag¬ 
gling and tumhted stone walls, the rickety fences, 
the wood-grown Helds, the sparse and half-headed 
crops, the dying orchard, all said to the passer¬ 
by, “ Whisky did It.'* Drink had given the plas¬ 
ter of a mortgage instead of a coating of fertilizer, 
sloth instead of labor, tmthrift Instead of care, 
and demoralization in lieu or system. The farm 
was drink-blighted, and advertised Its condition 
as plainly as Its owner did when he came reeling 
home from the town. One of the most Impressive 
temperance lect ures, for young farmers especially, 
Is a good look at a drunken farm. 
-a-*-*- 
No Grace —“On one occasion," says Dr. Chas. 
Hodge ot the Princeton Theological Seminary, 
“ I went into the room of my old classmate. Bishop 
John Jones of Virginia, and, picking up one of his 
vestments, threw It over rny shoulders, and asked: 
* John Is there any grace in these clothes ?' • Not 
now, Charley,’ retorted the Bishop." 
ial)Irat| ^raMiicj, 
FAITH. 
Is not all this world a lie, 
Wherein, to love and neck our love, wo jrropc 
Through darkness, and live and die 
Without fulminant of our sweetest hope ? 
Is not all this life alle, 
For that in the dear perfectness we clasp 
Sometime, a phantom doth lie 
In our arms Instead, or elude the gTasp; 
Or in that our belief 
In endless day, a darker night succeeds— 
When Joy has begotten Grief, 
And overthrown our trust—our firmest creeds? 
Wc are but helple.se.at best; 
Each one and all. We twine the warp and woof 
Of hope; Time weaveth the rest, 
And broiders, or tears the frail threads aloof. 
To leave but our own despair! 
Faithful, we seek the faultless; do we find 
The realization there 
Of all our day-dreams—or emptiness behind ? 
Ah! deep in our hearts to know 
How aimless the seckin«! The strong tide drifts— 
Placid, resistless, slow— 
To the. one groat ending the future lifts; 
And our only saerament 
Is in our counterpart. It seems to me; 
The perfect fulfillment 
Lies just beyond that higher, shimmering Bea! 
--- 
WHY DO YOU PREACH? 
Why do you preach the Gospel ? Is It, because 
you have a sense of the sinner’s danger, or be¬ 
cause you love the Gospel, or because you feel a 
constraining sense of God's love and piety? Or, 
again, 1 b it. because you Und tho pulpir, an appro¬ 
priate Held for the display ot your talents, or a 
sphere for the exercise of your ambition ? Do you 
preach for ease or gain ? Have you felt, the bur¬ 
den of souls on you and been constrained, with 
St. Paul, to cry, " Woe is me ir I preach not the 
Gospel ?" The effectiveness of your ministrations 
will depend greatly on the purpose with which 
they are (IeUvrod. The arrow will not go beyond 
the point for which the bow Ls bent. In the min¬ 
istry. as In all else, the results of our labor will 
transcend our Intention, ir our aim ho low, we 
we shall have our reward lu kind. 
To make the life of a minister grand, there must 
be an exalted aim and a ceaseless devotion of all 
his powers to secure Its advantages. It Is not the 
Held you occupy that will make your life grand; 
It Is the spirit and purpose with which you do your 
work. The final “ well done” will coiuc to many 
a minister In humble spheres, while others In 
larger or more exalted places may bo found want¬ 
ing In the groat day. The possibility of success 
is in your own bands. Place Is in the hands ot 
God; faithfulness Is In yours. 
-- 
CONSECRATION. 
Consecration, lo be availing, must be real. The 
question Is not what others think of us or what 
we think of ourselves, or how we compare with 
our neighbors, hut how does our case stand before 
God 7 Have our sins been forgiven and washed 
away through faith In the Saviour? If so, are we 
still walking in Christ as we received Him, grow¬ 
ing in grace und abounding In the work and labor 
of love? Consecration must, be entire. God ac¬ 
cepts not a divided heart. Many a consecra¬ 
tion is but partial. Some devote a portion and 
keep back the rest. Some are liberal with the lip, 
but defective In the life. It Is easy to make com¬ 
promises, while fail'ng to do the very tiling re¬ 
quired. 
■ *» ♦ « 
THOUGHTS FOR THINKERS. 
Everyone complains of his memory and no one 
complains or his Judgment. 
Every affection has its own enjoyment, and 
enjoyments tie minds together. 
Do all the good you can In the world and make 
as little noise about It as possible. 
Rashness will admit of nought for reason, but 
what unreasonable self shall dictate for reason! 
God hears no more than the heart speaks; and 
If the heart be dumb, God will certainly be deaf. 
Closet duty speaks out most slucerlty. He 
prays with a witness who prays without a wit¬ 
ness. 
As sloth seldom brings actions to a good birth, 
so rashness makes them always abortive ere well 
formed. 
It was a saying of Bede, “that he who comes 
not willingly to church, shall one day go unwil¬ 
lingly to hell." 
It is the- greatest measure of grace that ushers 
In the greatest measure of Joy and comfort into a 
believing heart. 
God, who hath done singular things for our 
good, may indeed justly expect that that we 
should do singular things lor his glory. 
It were ten thousand times better that we had 
never been born into the world than that we 
should go unrewarded out of the world. 
The trouble with our praying Is, not so much 
' that we do not pray enough or have not faith 
enough, as that we all want to he on God's Ways 
awl Means Committee. 
A good name is always better than a great 
name, and a uame in heaven is Infinitely better 
than a thousand names ou earth; and the way to 
. both of these is to be much with God In secret. 
