University of Virginia Library

THE
WEDDING AND THE FUNERAL.

Shakspeare.

There was a great bustle in the village of
B— when James Murray, Esq. was married
to Lucy Marsh. Weddings are always, especially
by the ladies, considered important
occasions; and the marriage of a rich and distinguished
young man with the most beautiful
and amiable girl the country could boast, afforded
matter of description for many a tea party,
and speculation for many a fireside. `They
tell me the furnishing of the house cost James
all of three thousand dollars,' said Mrs. Colvin;
`I wonder what his father, poor man,
would say, were he living, to see such extravagance
and waste!'

`Waste do you call it?' said Miss Lucretia
Crane, elevating her long neck as she gave her
head a most supercilious toss—`Why, it is
nothing more than is necessary, if one intends
living genteelly in the country; they would
hardly call it decent in Boston. The only
thing that gives me any uneasiness, is, that

Lucy will not understand how to arrange her
furniture and order her table in good style.
A great deal depends on being accustomed to
such things—and though Lucy has had a tolerably
good education, she is not highly accomplished,
and has never had her taste improved
by mingling among fashionable society. And
her parents were so poor she could not learn
much at home.'

`She learned to work,' observed Mr. Colvin,
dryly—`and that, allow me to say, Miss Crane,
if not a high accomplishment, is an indispensable
one for every American lady. It is true,
the wife of James Murray appears to be placed
above the necessity of exertion; but sudden
changes of property are more common among
men of his vocation than any other; indeed,
changes in every station frequently occur, and
that parent who does not accustom his children
to reflect on a probability of a reverse, and, to
the best of his ability, qualify them to support
it, is, in my opinion, not only weak but cruel.
Lucy is not, I fear, in spirit, very well calculated
to bear misfortunes—she is too tender
and confiding—but she has always been an industrious
girl.'

`It might have been better for her to have
kept to her needle, and married John Russell,
as I am well convinced she was once engaged
to do'—replied Miss Lucretia, with that kind
of laugh which betrays both envy of a rival,
and exultation at the prospect of seeing her
mortified.—`I have been told'—she continued
in a low but eager whisper, `I have been told

that James does not always conduct like the
gentleman he pretends to be.'

`We should be cautious of trusting reports
affecting the character of our neighbours,' said
Mrs. Colvin, forgetting that she had began the
scrutiny by taxing James with extravagance.
`James is a generous, intelligent, and agreeable
gentleman, and his talents do honor to our
village. What did you ever hear to his disadvantage?'

`O they do say he has been known to take
a little drop too much—at particular times—
when in wild company. At least my brother
heard he did so when in college,' replied Miss
Crane.

`It cannot—must not be true,' said Mr. Colvin,
hastily. `James was piously brought up—
he has had excellent advantages, and possesses
good judgment and a quickness of penetration
rarely equalled. He is also ambitious of obtaining
the confidence of the people, and the
honors of public office. He will never yield to
that most brutalizing vice which degrades men.'

`I have good reason for believing he has
been guilty of it,' said Lucretia, composedly.
`But perhaps there is no reason to fear, as his
lovely wife will doubtless reform him.'

`Such reforms are seldom radical; and never,
I fear, with men of his temperament,' remarked
Mr. Colvin.—`But ten years will decide.'

`O, if James does turn out a profligate, how
I shall pity his mother!' said Mrs. Colvin, sighing.

`I shall pity his wife,' said Miss Lucretia

Crane, adjusting her ruffles with an air of great
self-complacency.

`I shall pity him,' said Mr. Colvin rising
hastily and traversing the apartment with the
perturbation of one who has heard some evil
reported openly which he had long suspected,
but had been striving to disbelieve.

The real concern of Mr. and Mrs. Colvin,
and the affected sympathy of Miss Crane, were
interrupted by the approach of the bridal cavalcade.
In an elegant carriage, drawn by two
noble grays, sat the new-married pair. They
were arrayed in costly apparel, and both possessed
that beauty of form and face which,
bearing the impress of nature's nobleness, is
not dependent on ornament for its power of
commanding admiration. A long line of carriages
followed, from which manly faces, beaming
with exultation, or fair ones blushing at the
thoughts of their own loveliness, looked forth;
the gay laugh was distinctly heard as the vehicles
rolled rapidly along, and no one, not even
a cynic, could have regarded the scene without
feeling a sentiment of joy and gratitude
pervading his heart at thus witnessing the perfection
of social happiness.

`What a comely couple they are!' exclaimed
Mrs. Colvin, as the carriage containing the
bridal pair drew up before a new and elegant
mansion—`and what a prospect of domestic felicity
is theirs. But few begin the world thus
advantageously. They have health and beauty,
wealth and reputation, and friends, and affection
for each other.'

`Could you add one item more to the catalogue
of advantages, the earthly picture would
be complete,' said Mr. Colvin. `How unfortunate
that the absence of that one requisite,
may, perhaps, render all the others nugatory.'

`You then probably have reason to credit
the report to which I alluded,' said Miss Crane.

`I did not mean to be so understood,' said
Mr. Colvin, calmly. `All that I intended was,
that self-control, in every station and to every
individual, is indispensable, if people would retain
that equanimity of mind, which, depending
on self-respect, is the essential of contentment
and happiness.'

Miss Crane reddened, for she felt she had
been displaying before one well skilled to read
character, the meanness of envy and anger,
while revealing a report confided to her under
the solemn injunction of secrecy, and which
she would never have pretended to have credited,
but for the pique she felt at not being
bidden to the wedding.

Indeed, no one who looked on James Murray,
could believe him guilty of aught mean or
vicious. He had that noble ingenuousness of
countenance which we always, in idea, associate
with great and good qualities; (but we do
not in the world always find our expectations realized)
and he had also that air of manly confidence
which usually distinguishes those who
have always been the favorites of fortune, and
consequently think themselves privileged to
expect her favors. Yet his was not the triumph
which the vanity of superior wealth imparts to

the weak minded. He had talents of a high
order. He had also been liberally educated,
and had he been permitted to study a profession,
would probably have become eminent.
But his father, a rich merchant, wished his
son to pursue the same business; it was the
way he had acquired his estate, and he thought
it the way in which James would best preserve
it. But the old gentleman did not act with his
usual sagacity when he sent his son to college to
qualify him the better to become a merchant.
There is a fitness in the manner of educating
to the character and destination of the educated,
an adaptation of means to some contemplated
end, which should never be lost sight of
by those who have the care of youth. James
had good sense, and a fine genius, and had he
considered the studies in which he spent so
much time preparatory to some pursuit which
was to be the business of his future life, he
would doubtless have applied himself more
diligently, and thus been spared many opportunities
for frolic, and saved from many temptations
to folly which those who are idle or
unemployed cannot escape. He knew, and all
his fellow students, that he was sent to college
to obtain a diploma more as an ornamental appendage
to a rich man's son, than for any real
benefit. So he passed his four years in gayety
and pleasure, and came home with his A. B. to
take his station in his father's counting-room.
He was then but nineteen, and many supposed
his college acquirements and predilections
would soon be obliterated from his mind by the
bustling life in which he had engaged. But it
should be remembered that though the human
heart is like water when we would write thereon
lessons of virtue, it is like the rock to retain
the impressions of vice. In what I am
about to relate I would not be understood as
reflecting on the management of any literary
institution, or the manners of any particular
class of students. Opportunities and examples
of vice occur everywhere—and the only effectual
shield to oppose their influence, with
which parents can invest their dear ones, when
sending them forth amid the temptations of
evil, which will meet them in the college and
in the cloister, as well as in the camp and
court, is to imbue their souls with the precepts
of our holy religion, and furnish, for their
minds, at least, active employment. James
was strictly educated in the principles of true
piety—his parents were, what they professed
to be, Christians—and though they had by
honest industry acquired a large estate, they
did not count their money merely by dollars—
but by a better tale—by the good deeds it
would enable them to perform. And they were
both remarkable for temperance, and the simplicity,
and even plainness, with which their
table was furnished and all their domestic arrangements
conducted. James had not, as
some children unquestionably do, acquired a
relish for rum before he could lisp its name—
his `nurse' never was allowed to keep him
`quiet on sweetened brandy'—he had an aversion
to spirituous liquors, as all, not taught
to love it, have; and so his parents had no
fear he would ever fall a victim to its pernicious
poison. They exposed him too early,
and unguardedly, to temptation. He went to
college with plenty of cash at command, and
plenty of leisure—he was unsuspicious and
generous, and, as such lively and ardent youths
generally are, fond of amusements and fond
of applause. There were among his classmates,
some who had the meanness to wish to
be treated at his expense, and these took advantage
of his inexperience and generosity—
and by flattery, and ridicule, and persuasion,
his squeamish prejudices, as they called them,
were overcome, and he learned to take his
glass as gaily and frequently as any member
of the convivial club to which he belonged,
and often paid, himself, the whole expense of
the entertainment. It would be painful and
almost impossible to paint the scenes in which
he was often engaged, and the effect they had
on his mind; but yet, notwithstanding his conduct,
he never lost his sense of the purity and
beauty of virtue, nor his determination to pursue
its paths, whenever circumstances should
make such a course easy and popular—that is
—when he returned home.

But no one `can take fire in his bosom, and
his clothes not be burned.' James did return
home, and his father soon after discovered,
with a concern bordering on horror, the fatal
relish for liquors which his son had aquired.
The daughters of Mr. Murray were married,
and all of them gone from the paternal roof—

James was the youngest child—the one who
was to perpetuate his father's name—his heir
—his hope, and his idol. There lay the fault
of his parents. They had loved James too
well, and trusted him too confidently, and expected
more from his discretion than human
frailty can warrant us to hope. Remonstrance
and reasoning, entreaties and reproaches,
were all in succession tried by his parents.
But though James ingenuously acknowledged
his fault and lamented it, and promised reformation,
he was found failing in strength of
purpose to keep his resolutions of abstaining
from brandy, till his father began utterly to
despair of his amendment, and was about resigning
him to infamy—for, with commendable
discretion, his parents had managed for nearly
a whole year to keep their son's misconduct
a profound secret in their family, lest the loss
of his good name should be the signal for his
losing all self-command—when a circumstance
occurred which promised, by awakening the
energy of a new passion, to grant him a chance
for victory over an appetite that had hitherto
wholly engaged his senses. James saw, and
immediately loved Lucy Marsh. Her father
was a very poor man, but beauty is not necessarily
of the patrician order. It is as often
found in the cottage as the palace, and Lucy,
then just sixteen, was one of the loveliest girls
that ever the light of the sun shone upon. It
were in vain to try to describe her. A Mahometan
would have likened her to the `dark
eyed Houris,'—a christian lover to an `angel,'
and both undoubtedly have thought the superiority
of loveliness on the side of the fair mortal.
At least, so thought James Murray on the
morning after his return from a ball, where he
had been permitted to touch for the first time
the hand of his charmer; to sit by her side;
and though the confusion of his feelings did not
permit him to say `soft things,' he had nevertheless
looked `things unutterable.' He was
sitting with his head reclined upon his desk,
and musing upon the `scenes of yesterday,'
so wrapped in contemplation that he did not
hear his father's step, nor notice his approach,
till the old gentleman laid his hand upon his
shoulder. James started on his feet, the blood
rushed to his face, and he looked around with
a half stupid, half frighted stare. A shade of
deep sorrow passed over the pale countenance
of Mr. Murray, and his voice quivered with
emotion as he said—`I am expecting my friend
Mr. Alden, of New-York, every moment. He
writes he shall dine with me to-day. I once
hoped to have presented to him my son—but I
see you will not be in a condition to appear.
He will doubtless inquire for you, and what
excuse shall I make for your absence?'

James strove to reply, but it was some minutes
before the swelling of his heart would
permit him to speak. At length he seemed to
have taken his resolution, and said with energy—`I
know your suspicions, sir, but for once
you wrong me. Though I confess I am intoxicated,
it is not with wine'—and then, with
an eloquence his father had never before heard

him display, he went on and told the whole history
of his love, and described the beauty of
Lucy, concluding with an earnest asseveration,
`that if he might be permitted to marry her,
he would never taste another drop of liquor
again while he lived.'

Mr. Murray gazed on James with that kind
of eager and overwhelming joy which we may
imagine glowed on the face of the father of
the prodigal when witnessing the return of his
son. But in a few moments the expression of
his features changed, and a deep and troubled
concern overspread them as he said impressively—`What
you ask, my son, neither my
honor or conscience will now permit me to approve.
I place interest out of the question.
The father of Lucy Marsh is a good, honest,
and industrious man; but he has met with crosses
and losses in the world, while I have been
blessed and prosperous. We came into life
equally destitute, we shall leave it on equal
terms. Six feet of ground is all the richest
man will permanently occupy, and, at death,
the right of the poor to the possession of that
freehold is never disputed. But, James, you
describe Lucy as possessing every virtue of
mind and heart that constitutes the excellence
of the female character; and I have before this
heard her merits praised. Her husband should
be equally worthy. Are you entitled to that
distinction?'

The color deepened on James's cheek, but
it was not all the hue of shame; there was the
kindling of proud and ardent resolve to deserve

the boon he sought; and he urged his determination
to be all that his father wished, so
earnestly and sincerely, that Mr. Murray could
not help feeling an assurance his son would, at
least, make a strong effort to overcome his evil
propensities. Still the father knew, for he had
been an observing man, how difficult it was to
effect a radical cure of the habit to which
James had yielded;—that though love might
furnish arms, and the most effectual ones perhaps
that could be wielded by a young man for
the combat, time only could determine the victory.
At length, after much pondering, he
said; `James, I have no doubt your intentions
of reform are sincere, but till I am convinced
of your perseverance in executing them, I cannot
consent you shall address Lucy, or endeavour
to gain her affections. She must not be
involved in the ruin which will finally overwhelm
you if persisting in intemperance.'

`What period of trial will satisfy you?' asked
James.

`As long for your recovery as for your fall.'

`What! four years!' exclaimed James; understanding
the allusion of his father to the
time passed in college.

`Even so,' replied the other—`and too short
a time to establish entirely my confidence in
your steadfastness. But pass that period in
activity and integrity, and I shall have strong
hope. I will myself speak to Mr. Marsh, and
if he consents to my proposal, I will provide
for the education of his daughter in such a manner
as shall qualify her to become a member

of my family. But I shall inform her and her
parents unreservedly of your past course, and
present resolution, and she shall not be bound
by any promise to you till the four years are
expired.'

James knew when his father had come to
a determination, and settled a plan of action
on the principles of what he conceived duty,
neither arguments or persuasions could move
him from his purpose—so James acquiesced.

Mr. Murray, though a good and judicious
man, was not indifferent to worldly considerations.
The business by which he had acquired
his property has a tendency to make calculation,
and in some degree, even with the
most liberal, pecuniary speculation, a favorite
pursuit of the mind. It is not probable he
would so unhesitatingly have approved the
choice of his son, and consented he should
marry one so poor, had he not hoped by that
indulgence to win him back to rectitude and
usefulness. But whatever were his motives,
his promise, once given, was promptly executed
and sacredly kept.

The parents of Lucy Marsh eagerly accepted
proposals so advantageous to their daughter,
for they doubted not but the folly of
James would soon be corrected. The proposal
seemed to Lucy so like a scene of romance,
she could not, for some time, be persuaded of
its reality. She had been struck with the appearance
of James Murray, and though his
station, so different from hers, had forbade her
to hope engaging his serious affections, yet

there had been, ever after the ball, wild
dreams of fancy in her imagination, which her
reason had been unable wholly to dispel.
When convinced she was destined to become
his wife, but one wish, one desire swelled her
heart—that she might become worthy of him
and of the excellent family who were adopting
her as their own.

To one not accustomed to reflect how much
of the excellence and virtue of character is
owing to energy in some favorite and useful
pursuit, the effect which this arrangement had
on James Murray would appear incredible.
He seemed to have shaken off an incubus that
had hitherto pressed down his faculties; or
only displayed them like the phantoms of that
disease, distorted and horrible. He walked
forth among men with a determination to become
a man. He engaged in business with
activity—he pursued it with energy, and soon
felt that proud consciousness of deserving the
approbation he received, which nothing but
our own rectitude of principle and conduct can
bestow. Without this self-approving voice
within us, the applause of shouting millions is
idle, empty praise. There is so much of real
excitement in the mode of life in America—so
much industry and enterprise in business—so
much stirring of the spirit in political canvassing,
in which all are interested, that it would
seem no citizen of our republic need resort to
artificial stimulants to remove

Certain it is that James Murray found the
pursuits in which he engaged, of essential
benefit in breaking off the associations of his
habit, and thus freeing him from its tyranny.
Yet perhaps to that restlessness which his first
abstinence from liquor engendered, may mostly
be attributed the eagerness with which he immediately
engaged in politics. For this pursuit
he was, by nature, admirably fitted. His
commanding and handsome person always attracted
attention, and he had a persuasive,
and whenever he chose to exert it, a powerful
voice, whose tones thrilled the heart. His education
also had given him advantages which
but few of the men among whom he resided,
possessed, and young as he was, he soon became
distinguished as the leader of his party,
and so effectually secured their confidence,
that before he was twenty three, he was elected
a member of the state legislature. His own
ambition and the fondest wishes of his parents
seemed realized; and his father, at his death,
which occurred about that time, as he embraced
and blessed his son, said,—`My cup of
earthly joy is full—I depart in peace, and
leave you, James, in the full belief that we
shall meet where a crown of rejoicing awaits
those who have overcome temptation.'

Death is called the king of terrors—but may
he not often be the angel of consolation?
How much of mortal sorrow is spared or ended
when he drops his sable curtain, and closes
the drama of human life! Mr. Murray
died in peace—confident of the worth of his

beloved son. Had he survived ten years—but
I am anticipating. In our country, especially
in the new and thinly settled towns, a man who
proposes marrying a wife, usually signifies his
intention by building a house; and consequently,
a new house is esteemed a very important
affair to the new married couple. It seemed
quite unnecessary that James should follow
this fashion, as his father left a good and convenient
dwelling; but he was ambitious, and so
the new house was determined on. In size
and elegance it was to exceed any building in
the village.

`Americans have no taste for the antique,'
says the European antiquary, `therefore they
are rude and ignorant, and unpolished.' But
is it not the same principle of taste only modified
by the difference of circumstances, which
leads the American to boast of his new edifice,
and the European to venerate his ancient one?
In both cases the pride of preference is associated
with the idea of merit. The European
prizes his old castle because it is blazoned
with the feats of his ancestors. The American
prefers his new dwelling because it is the
work of his own efforts; the one describes the
magnificence that once distinguished his domain—the
other shows the improvement he has
made on his estate. And if personal merit be
more praiseworthy than imputed excellence,
then is not the advantage on the side of our
countrymen?

But these remarks are quite irrelevant to
the subject—the new house of James Murray;

yet it would undoubtedly have been better for
him to have cultivated a taste for the antique,
and been contented with his father's old dwelling.
It was during the progress of the building
that, forgetting or disregarding the solemn
promise he had pledged his father, he again
began to taste the prohibited brandy. He
took but very little, however, and flattered
himself he had acquired sufficient strength of
mind to restrain and regulate his appetite by
the suggestions of reason. It seemed a reproach
on his character as a man, to lack firmness
to face his enemy. It was puerile to be
always trembling, like a whipped schoolboy,
when a glass was offered him; and finally, he
could not refuse without being considered
mean, as his workmen would imply he did not
wish them to drink, if he himself never tasted.
So he reasoned, and for several months no
perceptible bad effects followed his `temperate
use of ardent spirit,' as he styled it.
About three weeks before he was to be married,
a political bet, in which he was engaged,
was decided in his favor. The forfeiture was
to be paid in punch, and James Murray became
intoxicated. While under the delirium of his
temporary insanity, he presented himself before
his intended bride.

Lucy Marsh was just as lovely as a summer
rose, and just as easily bowed. She had never
suspected James of having violated his promise—she
was utterly unprepared for this storm
of affliction—she did not utter a word to him,
but fainted; and he had to be forced from her

presence, and carried home. The tumult of
his feelings, on recovering from his paroxysm,
can scarcely be imagined. After bitter self-reproaches
and curses on his folly, and resolutions
of the most rigid abstinence in future, he
repaired to the dwelling of Lucy to obtain, if
possible, her forgiveness. He knew she was
then released from all obligations to marry him
—that his father had advised, indeed enjoined
it on her, as she valued her own happiness,
never to wed his son if he again yielded to intemperance.
But James knew Lucy loved
him, and he knew, too, that women are prone
to palliate the failings, and trust the promises
of those they love; that they are, by nature,
unsuspicious, and confiding, and forgiving.
The event showed he judged rightly. Reason
urged to Lucy all the risk she was incurring;
imagination portrayed all the sorrows and agonies
she was exposed to suffer, if James did
not reform, and hope could hardly be so credulous
as to believe in his permanent reformation,
when he had thus broken the solemn and
voluntary pledge to his own father. But still,
her heart—O, she could not stifle the pleadings
of her heart. And when James came
before her, his tears, and entreaties, and protestations
prevailed. She forgave him, and
became his wife. She did not insist on his making
to her any particular promises of sobriety;
and in that she acted wisely. The teasing interference
of a woman, no man of sense and
spirit will brook—none ought to brook. And
Lucy had too much discretion to expect that
a promise of temperance made before marriage,
would bind her husband, if the sacred
vows he made at the altar to cherish her, the
preservation of his own character, and reverence
for morality and piety, could not restrain
him. She trusted, therefore, to his affection
and his honor, and for more than two years his
conduct fully justified her confidence.

Mrs. Colvin was reclining one cold winter
evening before a bright fire, her work table before
her, and as she listened to the storm that
beat furiously against the windows, and her eye
wandered around the commodious and well
furnished apartment in which she was seated,
she reflected on the blessings she enjoyed;
and contrasting her situation with millions of
her fellow-beings, in different parts of the
world, all equally with herself susceptible of
pain and pleasure, she breathed a fervent
thanksgiving that she had had her birthright
and habitation assigned her in a land so favored
as America. Her husband hastily entered.

`You look fatigued and sorrowful,' said Mrs.
Colvin.

`I have just come from the dwelling of affliction,'
he replied.

`O, I knew this was a world of suffering!'
—exclaimed Mrs. Colvin; `and yet I have
been this whole hour indulging in congratulations
on my own happy situation, and inferring
because I felt no grief, no privation, all my
neighbours were equally blessed.'

`When,' replied her husband, `men yield to

temptation, to sin—suffering must follow. Indeed
in our country, more than in any other
on earth, deviations from morality and integrity
are punished either with the loss of fame,
fortune, or public confidence;—and James
Murray has forfeited them all.'

`Is his situation as bad as we have heard?'
inquired Mrs. Colvin.

`Worse, far worse,' returned the other.
`We heard he would probably have sufficient
to pay his creditors, but he is a bankrupt by
several thousands, the mortgage on his estate
is foreclosed, and every article of personal
property has been attached; the sheriff was
removing the furniture when I reached the
house.'

`Is it possible that he can have spent the
large estate his father left him?' inquired Mrs.
Colvin. `It is but a little time—a year or
two, since he became so dissipated.'

`There is nothing more easy than for a man
to ruin himself,' returned her husband. `Let
him neglect his business, bet with every one
who will venture a wager, and generally take
the losing side, and keep constantly in a state
of inebriety, and his estate will soon be wasted.
But James Murray was never so rich as many
imagined. Much of his wealth depended, as
most of our country merchants' estates do, on
his credit; and then he built his costly house,
which he ought not to have done. And he has
been intemperate longer than you mentioned;
ever since he lost his election four years ago.
His wife told me he never tasted liquor after

their marriage, till that disappointment. But
his relish for spirit had been before acquired,
and when a man has unfortunately contracted
that thirst, every extraordinary emotion,
whether of joy or grief, or anger, seems to
awaken it anew. There is not, for such an
one, much hope of permanent reformation.'

`Where is his poor wife? and how does she
bear her trial?' asked Mrs. Colvin.

`I found her in her small parlour—her little
children gathered around or in her arms—like
a brooding dove sheltering her young ones
from the approach of danger. Her face was
pale as marble, but perfectly calm; yet at the
first expression of my concern she burst into
a passionate weeping. I endeavoured to console
her, and promised my assistance. She
dried her tears as she said—`Do not think, sir,
I am grieving for the loss of our property, or because
I must leave this dwelling. The display
of wealth is not necessary to my happiness,
indeed I think it has made me more wretched
—the splendor by which I was surrounded
seeming to mock my heart's misery. But my
husband—it is for his degradation, his ruin I
weep. O! I could joyfully share poverty with
him—I would work to support him—I would
willingly be a slave, or lay down my own life,
if he might be persuaded to return to virtue—
if he could be reclaimed!'

`What did you say to her?' asked Mrs.
Colvin, weeping.

`I could suggest nothing of earthly comfort,'
returned her husband. `I could only direct

her to that balm for sorrow which is found only
in him who has declared that all things shall
work together for good to them who love God.'

`What will become of her and her dear little
family?' again reiterated Mrs. Colvin.

`They will not be left to suffer,' said her
husband. `Her merits and her grief touched
every heart. I saw tears in the eyes of many
firm men, when speaking of her situation. Indeed,
the principal creditors declared they
would not have urged their claims, and taken
all the property, had they not thought it might
possibly rouse Murray to exertion. To show
kindness to him by allowing him means of indulging
his depraved appetite, would be cruelty
to his family. But we have made arrangements
that will secure for Mrs. Murray what
she needs for present comfort. The family
are to be removed to that house of mine which
stands close by the dwelling of Mr. John Russell.
It is small, to be sure, but comfortable,
and we shall furnish it. You, ladies, must
find employment for Mrs. Murray; she told
me she would sew for any one.'

`I do not wish her to work for me,' said Mrs.
Colvin, eagerly; `whatever I can do to assist
her shall be cheerfully rendered.'

`You forget, my dear,' said her husband,
smiling, `that the necessity of receiving alms
is, to the delicate and sensitive mind, the
most galling link in the chain of poverty. But
few of our native born Yankees, and none who
have the spirit of a Yankee, will long submit to
the ignominy of subsisting wholly by charity.

There is a pride of independence among us—a
nobility of soul, that spurns at vassalage, in
whatever way the yoke is imposed. Then do
not add to the embarrassments of Mrs. Murray,
by an offer of charity, which she may not feel
at liberty to refuse, but which will mortify her
to accept. Employ her, and pay her just as
liberally as you please, but let there be some
reciprocity between you. You will then secure
more than her `thank ye'—her esteem,
gratitude, and love.'

`But will not James Murray himself be
capable of doing something for his family?'
inquired this amiable woman.

`That is a question which cannot at present
be solved,' said her husband. James is a good
penman and accountant, and can find employment
if he will keep sober. O, when I looked
on him, extended as he was on the floor, in a
state of utter insensibility to everything passing
around him—the removal of his property
—the agony of his wife—and then when I
thought of his early promise—his excellent disposition—his
fine talents—his education—all
the advantages with which he began his career,
and the eminence he had obtained—and
saw all lost, ruined by his own folly, I could
not but weep over him. How much he has already
suffered! and how much he must hereafter
endure! He sees those who once waited
on his smile, now scornfully pass him by;
he reads contempt or pity in those countenances
that once brightened at his approach;
he finds himself shunned, neglected, or ridiculed,

where his lightest word was once heard
with attention. All this he must bear, and
who will not acknowledge that punishment
follows the transgressor? It ought to everywhere;
it invariably does among the descendants
of the Pilgrims. Rank may, in governments
less pure and popular than ours, secure
the semblance of respect to the unworthy. A
lord, though drunk, is still a lord, and parasites
may flatter him, and servants attend him.
But the spontaneous esteem, cofidence, and
applause of our free, independent, and intelligent
citizens, cannot be obtained by a degraded
and worthless character.'

The morning exhibited all the calmness, and
beauty, and gladness, that usually pervades
the summer sky, the day after a violent thunder
shower has cleared the atmosphere of all
impure vapors. The birds then sing their
gayest notes, as if congratulating each other
that the storm has so happily passed by.
There was a fresher green on the trees and
fields—a serenity in the deep blue sky, picturing,
as we may imagine, the repose of the
spirit, after the storms of earth are ended, and
it rests beneath the shade of the tree of life.
But amid all this beauty, joy, and peace,
there came a memento of man's mortality.
The sound of a funeral knell from the village
spire, fell more mournful than usual on the
ear, contrasted as it was with the rejoicing of
nature.

`It is the burial of Mrs. Murray,' said Mr.
Colvin, to a stranger who addressed him with
an inquiry. `Poor Lucy! she will find the
grave a refuge from suffering.'

`Was it she who was once called Lucy
Marsh?' inquired the stranger.

`The same.'

The stranger was much agitated. `I saw
her once,' he remarked, `just before she was
married. She was the most beautiful human
being I ever beheld. I heard that her husband
had failed—that he was intemperate—
and my journey through the village was induced
by curiosity to learn the situation of that
lovely woman. I confess, I hoped I should
find that her husband was no more.'

`You would probably then feel interested to
learn some particulars of her fate,' said Mr.
Colvin.

The stranger bowed.

`You observed you had heard of the failure
of James Murray,' continued Mr. Colvin.
`His father was my intimate friend, and once
did me a signal service; and I wished to express
my gratitude by showing kindness to the
son; so I established James and his family in
a house of my own. This building adjoined
one in which lived a man who had once been
an admirer of Lucy Marsh.'

`There were many such, I presume,' said
the stranger.

`Her beauty was doubtless much admired,'
returned Mr. Colvin, `but John Russell, as I

understood, had sanguine expectations of obtaining
her hand, and had she never seen
James Murray, would probably have been
successful. Poets may celebrate the omnipotence
of Cupid, but from observation I am inclined
to believe that, in at least one half of the
matches, propinquity has quite as much influence
as the arrows of the blind god. But
Mrs. Murray loved her husband truly and undividedly,
and excepting occasional starts of
passion or petulance when intoxicated, he was,
till his mind became inflamed with jealousy, a
most affectionate husband. This jealousy, excited
by a trifling circumstance, is a sad exemplification
of that alienation of reason which
is often caused by intemperance. Men seem
then possessed with the spirit of demons;
rage, envy, hatred, and they delight in inflicting
misery. I have said the house, in which
this unfortunate family resided, adjoined that
of Mr. John Russell. His was a very elegant
dwelling, for he had been gaining an estate
while James Murray was dissipating his
—and Mrs. Murray happened one day to remark
on the prosperity of Mr. Russell and his
handsome house. Her husband instantly became
exasperated, and pouring a torrent of
abuse both on her and Mr. Russell, declared
he would not reside so near a man whom he
doubted not was the favored paramour of his
wife. From that hour, his conduct to his
family became changed and cruel. I cannot
enter into details, your heart would sicken at
the recital, and it makes mine bleed to think
of the sufferings of that amiable woman.'

The stranger was evidently much agitated,
yet he begged Mr. Colvin to proceed.

`I must be brief,' returned he; `and can
only say that Mrs. Murray was so persecuted,
and rendered so wretched, by the jealousy of
her husband, that she consented to remove
from the house. Her husband provided another.
It was a lone building, situated in a wild
place, and half a mile from any neighbour. The
house was in a ruinous state, the roof pervious
to every storm, and there was not a glass window
in the building. In short, it was a mere
wreck; `the very rats instinctively had quit
it,'—yet there, this once angelic and still interesting
woman, was compelled to reside. The
sorrows of the poor are not understood from
description; to be known they must be felt.
Our charitable people did much for Mrs. Murray
and her little ones, yet still I have no doubt
they often suffered both from cold and hunger.
And then they were subjected to the capricious
cruelty of a drunken man. O! would young
ladies but once be sensible of that depth of
mortification and wretchedness which a woman
is doomed to feel who has an intemperate husband,
they never would for a moment hesitate
to discard a lover who had been guilty of that
degrading crime. They never would wed with
such an one, though he were before as dear as
their own life; they never could marry him—
no, never, never, never! You doubtless wonder

how such a delicate woman could live, subjected
to such distresses. The capacity of
the human mind and frame to endure, is, in
many cases, indeed astonishing. Mrs. Murray
had the consolations of religion for support,
and then affection for her children strengthened
her to `bear up under the load of life.' Yet
even the exercise of her piety was often fraught
with the most exquisite agony, for how lost,
when judged by the holy law of God, appeared
the character, and how terrible the condition of
the husband she still fondly loved! Every
day seemed widening the gulf between them,
and rendering more fixed and irreconcilable
the habits and principles which must finally
separate them forever.

He who created us, alone knoweth why some
of his children are appointed to win their heavenly
crown through so much tribulation. To
the trials of Mrs. Murray were now to be added
the sickness and death of her two youngest
children. Her eldest, a daughter, had
never enjoyed good health, and the hardships
and wants to which she was often exposed,
doubtless, injured her, till finally she became
subject to fits of epilepsy, and her case was
pronounced incurable. But still, the mother
had one precious treasure, a fine boy, just entering
on his seventh year, and the most perfectly
lovely and engaging child I ever beheld.
In him she `garnered up her heart,' and reposed
all her earthly hopes; in him she could
love his father's image without self-reproach,

and her affections continually wounded, or
trampled on by her husband, twined around
her child with those close foldings, whose delighted
throb is so nearly allied to agony.
This feeling, the fever of love, is never experienced
by those who live tranquilly, and have
not been necessitated to centre that affection
and hope on one object, which should have
been divided among a family. Last Monday
morning I called at their dwelling. I found
Mrs. Murray in better spirits than usual, and
there was a cheerfulness in her manner, I had
not for a long time witnessed. While we were
conversing, a carriage, in which were two
gentlemen, passed. A glove fell from the
chaise, and little James, who was playing before
the house, sprang with the agility of a
fawn, picked it up, and presented it with a low
bow, to the owner. The exceeding beauty of
the child, contrasted, as it was, with his mean
habiliments, made him a most interesting object.
The gentlemen were undoubtedly struck,
as I observed they pointed towards him, while
conversing with much animation. At length
one of them called the boy and presented him
a dollar.

I wish you could have seen the little fellow
when he came bounding into the house to exhibit
his prize. He was too young to feel any
mortification from being thought an object of
charity—there was nothing but pure joy in his
sensations. His bright eyes fairly lightened
with pleasure,—and his rosy face laughed and

dimpled all over, while his breath came so
short and eager, he could hardly find words
to express his feelings, as he exclaimed—
`Mother, dear mother, I shall buy something
for you—I shall buy everything you want!”
Tears and smiles were blended on the faded
and sad, but still sweet countenance of his
mother. I read her thoughts—she was anticipating
the day when her boy would be her
friend and protector. At that moment her
husband entered. He had, as I afterwards
learned, been that morning refused credit for
a glass of liquor, and in the contention that
ensued his wrath had been treated with contempt,
till he finally became so outrageous he
was driven from the store; the very one he
had formerly owned. I saw there was a
terrific frown on his brow, and that his wife
shuddered; but his little son, elated and joyous,
saw or heeded not the gathering storm.
He sprang to his father, and holding up his
money again told what he was intending to
buy for his mother.

`You shall do no such thing,' thundered the
savage parent, snatching the money from the
child's grasp. `Go, bring me yonder bottle—
I will see if I cannot have a glass of rum!'

`O! give me my dollar, father,—give me
my dollar,'—cried the child, clinging to his
father's knee.

With the fury of a madman flashing from his
eyes, that father raised his clenched fist.
Mrs. Murray shrieked, and we both sprang

forward to intercept the blow. It was too
late!

I have no idea James Murray intended to
kill his child, or indeed that he knew, at the
time, what he did;—but when he saw the
guiltless victim of his wrath, lying like a
crushed lamb—senseless—pale as marble—
the blood streaming from his mouth and nostrils,
it recalled the maniac to his senses.
The chords of his better feeling, which for a
long time had not vibrated, were touched—
and the fountain of his affections, which had
seemed withered, scorched, dried up, suddenly
gushed forth with the stream of tenderness.
With the most careful attention he assisted me
to raise the body of his child—he chafed his
temples and little hands—he spoke soothingly
to his wife, in the tone and with the words of
endearment, once so familiar to her ear. We
essayed everything to revive the child, but
in vain—the spirit
of the young sufferer had
passed from earth. When we became convinced
that life was extinct, the lamentations of
the mother were heart-rending. Her husband
listened one moment—his features were convulsed
with agony, and I hoped and prayed
he might weep—but that relief was denied
him. Suddenly his countenance assumed a
fixed and horrid expression; it was the wildness
of utter despair. His eyes glared, he
gnashed his teeth, and clenching both hands,
invoked on his own head the most awful denunciations,
and rushed from the house.

Mrs. Murray—but I see you are distressed,—and
I will not attempt to describe her
feelings. She died the next morning, and I
rejoiced at her release from a world she had
found so filled with thorns. Yesterday, just
as the thunder was bursting in fury, the body
of James Murray was found. He had drowned
himself! Probably he never paused after
leaving his house, as the expression of his
features was unchanged—his teeth were set—
and his hands still clenched. We buried him
in silence, near the spot where his body was
discovered; and yonder, attended by nearly
all the inhabitants of our village, as mourners,
come the remains of his murdered child and
victim wife.'