 | THE CITY CLERK
BY MISS CATHARINE M. SEDGWICK. Tales of city life |  |
THE CITY CLERK
BY MISS CATHARINE M. SEDGWICK.
THE CITY CLERK.
The only love on earth to which the earth
Has given no taint of self-regardful care.
Henry Ware.
It is about the middle of November—
a bright, soft day, when the genial spirit
of the year looks back with one of his
farewell smiles. His warm breath has
spread a silver haze over the rugged hill
sides. The mountain tops are shining
—the dried leaves bitten off by the frost,
a sound. A rather narrow, brisk stream
runs rapidly, descending as it goes, till
it reaches the rear of a one story house,
where, being set back by a dam below,
it seems like a plate of burnished steel
from which a soft vapor is rising. Around
its edges is a thin coating of ice, indicating
the cold of the preceding night. The
house stands on the declivity of a hill
that slopes gradually from the road, (a
hundred yards from it,) with one end to
the river, the other to the road, and fronting
south. Behind it is a little garden
patch, which, in its winter adversity,
shows signs of being cared for and loved;
a few covered with old boxes and barrels.
There are some other signs of refinement,
not too common about the humble dwellings
of our country parts; vines trained
about the low door, and rose bushes so
nicely fitted around the old windows, that
they seem to have come to stay there of
their own accord. Neatness, that good
angel of an humble home, keeping all
right with her ever-rustling wings, hover
round this pretty dwelling. A small
woodpile is laid up as if by mathematical
rule. No litter of any kind is any where
to be seen, and one wonders what the
splendid cock, with his pedestrian harem,
around the sunny doorway.
It is but nine o'clock, and morning at
that hour, on the fifteenth of November,
had hardly dawned on luxurious dwellers
in great homes; but here how much of
the daily work of life had been accomplished.
A pale, and in common parlance,
“unfortunate man,” is sitting bolstered
in an easy chair near a cheerful
fire, his right arm and leg, withered and
useless. His wife, a woman with a mild,
thoughtful face, sits near the window,
making a vest, and with the implements
of tailoring about her. With every stitch,
and without hindering it, she turns her
him as country wives use, she says, “Do
you find your paper interesting, father?
Is it not almost time for father's drops?”
and the answer is, “Yes,” or “No,” as
may be, but always in a cheerful tone,
which, coming from that poor, mutilated
figure, is startling, like a light suddenly
kindled in darkness. A trig, little lass
is putting the last touches to the morning's
housework. She has cleared away
the breakfast, skimmed the milk, “swept
up,” and “mopped up,” and is ready to
sit down by her mother, to finish off the
work that always accumulates for Saturday.
Both father's and mother's eyes
to look on a face so beaming with intelligence,
so fresh and cheerful. Never
were there prettier or brighter lips, or
more beautiful teeth, or in palace or cottage,
a more electrifying smile than little
Ruth Hathaway's. Perhaps it derived
this quality from a cast of sadness and
care on her brow; it was a shadow on a
rose. There it was when her father was
brought home from his new factory, with
the flesh torn from his arm and leg, and
there it remained indelible. As to the
rest, the face is pretty pleasing, but not
beautiful; her eyes are rather small and
greyish, and her complexion, clear and
does not curl, and is neither auburn,
chestnut, nor raven, but a very common
brown, and only remarkable for the neatness
with which she arranges it on her
well-shaped head. Ruth is said to be
the image of her father, and she rather
prides herself on this resemblance.
Ralph Hathaway is reckoned by common
observers, as we have said, an
“unfortunate man;” but could any
amount of ill luck or calamity make that
epithet fitting him whose temperament
is so cheerful, that his sun will break
through the heaviest clouds? His heart
is a never-intermitting fountain of
man.
“Ruth, what are you listening for?”
asked the father; “I hear nothing but
the factory.”
“Nor I, father; I wish we did not
always hear that,—it—”
“It puts you in mind of father's accident?
I know, Ruthy, and so it does me;
but then it sets me off thinking how my
life was spared, and how I should never
have known what a good woman mother
is, but for that—'tis not every wife that
would care for such a poor rack as I am.”
“O, father!” exclaimed both mother
and child.
“Well, then, it is not every woman
that would give up the thoughts of being
the wife of a rich agent for a company,
move out of a nice new house, and stitch,
stitch from morning to night, to support
her family. Who has a right to be
cheerful if I have not? I can tell you
there's times when the factory makes my
thoughts go straight up.”
Our friend Hathaway's voice was
rather choked; he cleared it, and added,
“but what were you listening to, Ruthy,
dear?”
“Why, father, I was listening for the
railroad whistle; we always hear it, you
know, when the wind is west.”
“Why, I heard it, Ruth, when you
were setting up the dishes.”
“Oh, did you, father? then Charlie's
letter is near the post office by this
time.”
“Don't be too sure, my child.”
“I can't help being sure, mother.
Charlie never fails to write when he says
he will, and this letter is to tell us
whether he can come home to thanksgiving,
and it is only twelve days to
that, and I shall be just sixteen that
day.”
“Yes, yes, Ruthy,” said the father,
“came what come may, thanksgiving
day will always be thanksgiving to us.”
“Oh, there's Colonel Miles!” exclaimed
Ruth, and she rushed to the door, not,
however, without giving her father a
brush of a kiss as she passed.
“Colonel Miles!” she shouted, “can't
you please to stop at the post office, and
bring our letter from Charlie?” The
colonel was not going to the post office,
but his turning off place was near it, and
it was but the work of two minutes for
Ruth to beg a seat in his little wagon, to
get her mother's leave to go herself to
the post office, to take the chance of the
two miles' walk home if she did not get
a cast, and above all, to obtain leave to
open the letter herself, as soon as received,
might be addressed.
Three hours had passed away, when
Anthony, a colored man, living at Mr.
Gardner's, in the village, brought Mrs.
Hathaway a letter from Ruth. It enclosed
one from Charles. On Ruth's
letter was written in large characters,
“Read this first;” and the mother read
as follows:
“Dear mother, and father,—Don't feel
too bad. I shall be on my way to New
York when you get this. Miss Emma
Gardner has lent me ten dollars, and
what clothes I shall want. Father can't
go; and you can't leave father, mother;
keep up mother's spirits, won't you? I
know it will all come right.
“P. S. Mr. Gardner has gone to Boston,
so Miss Emma and I had no one to
consult with. I would not tell any body
else for the world.”
Mrs. Hathaway, pale and trembling,
gave the letter to her husband, while she
read that from her son Charles.
“Dear father, and mother, and Ruth,—
I have got into some trouble. I ask of
you all not to feel anxious or distressed.
I expect (expect was erased, and hope substituted,)
“to get out well, but if I don't,
I shall still keep `right side up,' as father
Just before we locked up last night, I
observed a stranger come into the shop;
the doors were closed, and all the clerks
called into the middle of the shop, away
from the counters. Otis Jackson was
standing close to me at the time we were
spoken to. I heard him mutter, `d—n
it,' but I had not the least thought of
what was coming. Mr. Brown stood one
side of the stranger, Mr. Wilson the other.
Mr. Brown spoke: `We have been missing,'
says he, `fine goods for the last
month; a shawl was taken last week;
two yards of costly lace, and one of the
five dollar pocket handkerchiefs are gone
you must all be searched. One of you
must be guilty. I am sorry for the innocent,
but no disgrace will rest upon
them — do your duty, Rushton.' The
policeman began the search. Some of
our young men laughed and joked; I
could not, I was afraid it would prove to
be Otis. He was the fourth searched,
nothing was found on him. My turn
came next; the things were found in my
coat pocket, atop of my handkerchief
and every thing, just as if they had been
put there. How the truth is to be found
out, I don't know, but I feel as if it would.
All I ask is, that father will keep up
think how you would all feel if I had
taken the things. I shall write daily, so
don't be anxious.
Henshaw;' he is my friend among the
clerks.”
There was a dead silence in that home
of the Hathaways, till the father breaking
out into something between a cry and a
laugh, said, “Mother, Charles is an honest
boy, and well trained, and that is comfort
enough; how often have you said to me,
`Charlie never told a lie in his life.”'
“He never did, he never will!” sobbed
out the poor mother.
“Come here, mother — kneel down
here—we'll trust him with our Father
and his Father; we'll commit the case
to Him, and then we shall feel better;”
and the still, small voice of their prayer
arose, and God was there.
The next morning, at nine o'clock,
Ruth Hathaway disembarked from a
Hudson steamer, on a New York wharf,
dirty, crowded, and noisy enough to have
confounded a head and heart less clear
and strong of purpose than hers. She
had inquired of the captain the way to
Canal street, where Brown and Wilson's
her change of clothes, in her hand,
she walked straight up Liberty street, to
Broadway. Her quick step had caught
the eye of an omnibus driver, who beckoned
to her, and she nodding affirmatively,
jumped into the coach, thinking
“how very kind it was for him to give
her a ride!” She asked a man, one of
four passengers, to tell her when she got
to Canal street, and accordingly the man
pulled the strap, the coach stopped, and
with her habitual impetuous movements,
she jumped out, and dropping a curtsy
to the driver, said, “Thank you, sir.”
He, fancying she was tricking him, called
She's dodged her fare!” An impediment
of vehicles had accumulated the passengers
on the sidewalk, at the corner of
Canal street. Every eye was turned on
our poor little stranger. She stopped,
turned round, and in a voice that indicated
her honest perplexity, asked,
“What does he mean?” “He means to
be paid, my child,” said an elderly gentleman,
who was struck with the simplicity
of Ruth's manner; and himself gave
the fare to the vociferating driver. Ruth
now comprehended her mistake, and repaying
the sixpence, she said, with her
characteristic good sense, “I am a
have known better. He invited me to
ride with him, and the people where I
live often give rides to strangers.”
Her friend again smiled at her simplicity,
advised her to keep a good lookout,
now she had come to the city, and they
parted; he thinking her sweet smile
might pay her fare, and she to look for
the sign of “Brown, Wilson and Co.,”
which she soon found, and entered the
shop. It was thronged with eager buyers
and civil clerks, intent on their sales.
She looked up and down the long counters,
all were unknown to her, till at the
extremity of one, she saw Otis Jackson.
saw, that in that glance, he had recognized
her. He was her townsman, and
an old schoolmate of her brother, two
years older than Charles Hathaway.
Ruth went to the end of the counter
where he stood, and said, “Otis,” her
voice was low, but it had a heart-sound;
it seemed to come, as it, indeed, did, from
another world than that vanity-fair that
surrounded her. Ladies examining laces,
paused to look at her, and one or two of
the clerks turned their eyes to Otis Jackson,
expecting him to answer, but he
averted his eye, and went to the extremity
of the shop, to receive some new
asked Ruth. She was civilly answered,
“Yes,” and Henshaw was summoned.
“Where is my brother?” she said. There
were tears in her voice, though none in
her eyes. It was rather an indefinite inquiry
from a total stranger, but whether
it was her family resemblance to her
brother, or the tone of her voice, supplying
all that the words wanted, Henshaw
was sure the inquiry was for Hathaway,
and coming from behind the counter,
before he replied, said, in a low voice to
Ruth, “You have heard of your brother's
misfortune?”
“Yes; where is he?”
“Why—he—you cannot see him immediately;
if you will tell me where you
are staying, I will try to get leave to
come to you in the course of the day, and
go with you to see him.”
“Oh, I must go now. I shall stay
where he is; I have no other place.”
“Henshaw!” called out Mr. Brown,
“who are you talking to there?”
Henshaw went close to him, and explained.
“A pretty business this,” said
the surly master; “look, she is fingering
over the laces; they are birds of a feather,
brother and sister!” Poor Ruth had unconsciously
placed her hand on the box
of laces. “Go to your own busines, Henshaw,
and then striding up to Ruth, and taking
her by the arm, with a mixture of savageness
and familiarity, he said, “walk out
of my shop, or I will send you to the
police office.”
“Tell me first where my brother is?”
“Where all thieves should be—in the
Tombx.”
“The Tombs! where are the Tombs?”
“Go out, and ask along the street—
you'll soon find out.”
Ruth went forth with a burning heart.
She walked rapidly a few steps from the
hateful shop, and then stopped, confused
and uncertain what next to do. She
the faces of the passers-by. No one
heeded her, while it seemed to her that
all the world should know what she felt,
and what she wanted. She was proceeding
slowly, when suddenly a finger
touched her shoulder, and in a low voice
spoke kindly to her. It was Henshaw's.
His face was agitated and highly colored,
and hardly seemed the same serene, mild
countenance she had first addressed. “I
will go with you now,” he said, “to see
your brother.”
“Oh, can you? how kind you are.”
How much this kindness had cost
Henshaw, Ruth little dreamed. On her
to repress the expression of his indignation
at Brown's inhumanity. Brown
was abusive. Henshaw was hot and
hasty, and declaring his intention of attending
the little girl immediately to her
brother, Brown told him if he then left
the shop, never again to enter it.
“Is it far, sir,” asked Ruth, “to that
place?”
“No; a very short distance.”
“I suppose, sir, it is a—a prison?”
“Yes; a house of detention, where
persons are confined to await their trial.”
“Then Charlie is not yet tried?—he is
not yet condemned, is he?”
“No, no; not yet.”
“Not yet,” struck, like a tolling bell,
on Ruth's heart.
“Your brother,” resumed Henshaw,
“wrote to you the circumstances? He
told you, of course, that he was not guilty?”
“No; he did not say that.”
“He did not!” exclaimed Henshaw,
in an alarmed tone.
“No, sir; why should he?” she asked,
speaking for the first time with an assured
voice. “You would not ask such
a question, if you knew Charles, Mr.
Henshaw.”
“I do know him, and I feel a confidence
in his integrity,—but—”
“But, what?—oh, do speak out.”
“I only hesitated, because I cannot
bear to distress you. I fear we shall
have difficulty in proving your brother's
innocence; but we will not talk about
that now. You have never been inside
a prison, and you must try and keep up
good resolution.”
Ruth did try. But when she saw that
huge, stern edifice, called the Tombs—
when the massive locks were turned to
admit her—and when the keeper, having
been requested by Henshaw to permit
the young person with him to see Charles
Hathaway, scarcely noticing her, led
them along the dismal corridors, with
gives, her heart sunk, and her feet moved
draggingly. They were intercepted and
impeded by a party visiting the prison
from curiosity. It consisted of two or
three elderly people, two very young
ladies, from the country, full of pleasing
excitement, from being, for the first time,
within prison walls—the scene, to their
imaginations, of so much possible romance—and
their cousin, a young city
lawyer, who acted as exponent of the
scene.
“Babe,” the pirate,” said he to them,
“is in that cell, No. 81.”
“That horrid wretch we read the account
should like to see him!”
“There is a still more curious monster,
Cousin Jane, in No. 83—the German
who burned his wife to death.”
“Oh, horrors! And who can that be
between them, in No. 82?”
“I don't know; somebody worse than
either, I suppose. Who is it, Mr. Farran?”
“I don't know his name; a lad committed
for stealing.”
“Let us pass, if you please, ladies,”
said Ruth's conductor. Our amateur
visitors stared at Ruth. One said, touching
her cousin's arm, “Oh, Henry, did
you ever see any thing so pale as that
going to be shut up here?”
“No; that is impossible. What innocence,
sweetness, and misery!” Ruth's
conductor was now unbolting the door
of No. 82. The youngest of the young
ladies, impelled by irrepressible curiosity,
followed close enough to see, when the
door was opened, a handsome youth, pale,
haggard, and sorrowful, bending over a
sheet of paper, on which he was intently
writing. She could see that the paper
was wet with tears. Ruth darted into
the cell; the keeper shut the door, and
rebolting it, said to Henshaw, coolly,
“You may call me when she is ready to
unoccupied, in the corridor, presented too
tempting an opportunity to gratify the
young ladies' curiosity; and their cousin
being put up to asking some questions,
they got possession of Charles's story,
and, what was far more important, Henshaw
found out, that the inquirer was
Henry Sandley, a young lawyer, whose
very clever management of a criminal
case had, a few weeks before, been much
talked of in the city. Henshaw gave
him a retaining fee for his friend, on the
spot, and Sandley engaged to get the
trial put off till testimonials of Charles
Hathaway's good character could be obtained
and on the testimony of his fellow
clerks, he said, they must found all
their hopes of clearing him; at the same
time he confessed the chance was small,
against the overwhelming fact of the
stolen goods being found in Charles's possession.
“Was there,” he asked, “among
the clerks, any one who could be suspected
of the villany of putting the
stolen goods into Hathaway's pocket?”
Henshaw hesitated, and only said, in
reply, that there was not a clerk in the
shop he should not sooner have suspected
than Hathaway. Henshaw was a man
of strict principles. He did suspect—
but he was too scrupulous to run
the risk of wronging him by the expression
of suspicions that had no proof
whatever.
After Charles's first moment of surprise
at Ruth's appearance—after the
first burst of their young hearts—and
after Ruth had sat for a few moments on
his pallet, beside him, with her arms
linked around his neck, silent and shivering
with emotions, he said, “Now,
Ruthy, we must not give way so; I bear
it very well, only when I sit down to
write home; and then, thinking how
father, and mother, and you will feel,
Ruth, so soon? How did mother bear
it? What did father say?” Ruth told
her story, and concluded by saying, “Tomorrow,
Charlie, we shall certainly have
a letter from them.”
“We! You cannot stay here, Ruth.
Even if you had any place to stay, you
know father and mother want you a
great deal more than I do.”
“I can stay here, Charlie, and I shall
—and they would choose it—and there's
an end on't.”
“But, Ruth, you don't know what a
place this is; nor what New York is for
an unprotected girl.”
“Nonsense, Charlie; I can protect
myself.”
“Where can you sleep?”
“Sleep? I don't feel much like sleeping;
but I can lie here on the floor, or I
can get that man to lock me up in some
empty cell, like this. I can do any thing
but go away and leave you—that I will
not do.”
There was a knock at the door, the
bolts were turned, and Henshaw told
Charles that a lawyer was waiting to
speak to him.
“Let him wait one minute,” said Ruth,
and taking from her little sack, a bottle
of Cologne, and comb, and brush, provided
smoothed her brother's tangled locks,
and restored to his sweet countenance
its habitual aspect. “There, now you
look like our own Charlie,” she said.
Sandley entered, and he did not leave
the cell without being thoroughly convinced
that Charles was innocent, and
nearly as well convinced that they should
not be able to prove his innocence; and
so impressed with the love of the brother
and sister, that he resolved to strain
every nerve in their behalf. He comforted
Charles by assuring him that he
knew the matron of the prison—that she
was a humane woman—that he would
her own room, and to see that Miss Ruth
had every facility in going to and from
her brother's cell.
“Please tell them,” said Ruth, “I will
only trouble them twice a day. I shall
come to Charles in the morning, and go
away in the evening.”
Thus whole, deep, self-forgetting. Bowers of heaven
Witness it in the cherubs' changeless loves;
Earth sees it in a sister's heart alone.”
Ten days had passed since Ruth's departure
for New York; and on each of
these days the parents had received a
letter full of affection, and of details of
every occurrence that could be put in a
express strong hope, for they would not
embitter a too probable disappointment;
but neither did they impart their fears.
“For, if worst comes to worst,” said
Ruth, “mother will bear it better when
I am with her.” The deportment of these
young people—their mutual affection—
and the earnest devotion of the sister—
won for them unusual respect and attention
from the officers of the prison.
“There those innocent children are,”
said the turnkey, “both innocent, I am
sure of that. There they are, with a
pirate one side of them, and a murderer
the other, enjoying themselves. If that
declare, if I don't expect some day, when
I unlock their door, to see the angel of
the Lord with them—the same as walked
the fiery furnace!”
“An uncommon girl is that,” said the
matron. “Sometimes when we meet the
vagabonds going along the corridor, just
turned in from the Five Points, she looks
scared, and gathers her clothes close
round her, as if she were afraid of the
plague; yet she'll stay the livelong day
—yes, and till ten or eleven at night—
in that dismal cell, and talk, and read,
and keep up her brother's spirits. She
begins with the Bible in the morning,
times they read out of Dickens and
Punch, and every kind of nonsense Mr.
Henshaw brings; and they laugh together;
and their laugh sounds like the
best of music in a dark night. She is a
wise little thing, too. Mr. Henshaw sent
her a basket full of every kind of notion,
from the confectioner's. She would not
take them to 82; the dear child gave
them all to me, and asked Mr. Henshaw
—and so modestly, too—if he would send
her brother every day a bit of beefsteak,
or a mutton chop, to keep up his health
and spirits. She has been what I call
well trained.”
The last letter received from the
young Hathaway, was dated on Tuesday.
Charles's part expressed not hope, but a
cheerful courage, that he was sure could
not fail him, while his friends had faith
in him. “You have trained me up, dear
parents, he said, “to believe that the important
thing is, `to do right, not to seem
right,' and now I mean to feel and act
accordingly.”
Ruth wrote thus: “The trial comes on
to-morrow morning. There is nothing
new come to light: so we are preparing
for the worst. The amount of the stolen
articles put into Charles's pocket, is less
than twenty-five dollars, so that they
and he cannot be sent to Sing Sing, only
over to Blackwell's Island. The period
of his detention there is at the discretion
of the Judge. Mr. Sandley thinks it
cannot be long, with such testimonials
as Miss Emma has sent to us. Oh,
thanks to her! The worst—no, the best
—of it is, that Charlie positively refuses
to have any suspicion thrown on Otis.
Mr. Henshaw feels sure he is the real
culprit, and Mr. Sandley thinks it more
than probable.”
“You remember his exclamation when
the clerks were to be searched. Charles
has an impression that he then felt
both feel sure was Otis, thrusting the
parcel into it. But we know this would
be no evidence in court: so Charles wont
tell even Mr. Henshaw, or Sandley, of it.
He says time will bring it all out, and,
meanwhile, let Otis have a chance. Is
not he just like father? Let it storm
ever so horridly, he always believes it
will be fair weather to-morrow. Mr.
Henshaw feels certain that Otis will
prove the rogue at last; `and,' so he
says, `he don't see the use of sacrificing
an honest fellow to him, in the meantime.'
He watches him as a cat does a
mouse. The reasons of Mr. Henshaw's
HOPE
night, and he comes late to the shop in
morning. He dresses far beyond his
means, and goes often to places of amusement,
especially to the theatre, where,
Mr. Henshaw says, clerks never should
go; and Mr. Henshaw says, he has been
seen in `not the best company,' at the
theatre. I don't know quite what he
means by that; but I surmise it is something
awful. The people where Charlie
boarded were very fond of him; and
they will give their testimony, that he
was perfectly regular in his habits; and
Mr. Sandley will call on Messrs. Brown
and Wilson, to testify as to his conduct
may not overbalance the one great circumstance
against him; but this, with
the documents from Miss Emma, Mr.
Sandley says, will go a great way with
the Governor. So, if Charlie is sent to
the Island, I shall go straight to Albany;
for the living voice, with a throbbing
heart under it, mother, is better than a
dead writing. And if we don't get a
pardon, why then patience, dear father
and mother—heavenly patience!—such
as you, dearest father, have shown us
ever since we can remember; and you,
dear mother—only just borrow a little
hope and cheerfulness from father, and
and Charlie will shine out to the world
as he shines to us, who are above the
clouds, and can see the sun all the while;
and if the world never knows, still cannot
we be content and thankful?—We
will. So, dearest mother, take courage!
God will help us all, and I shall soon
be with you.
“P. S. I could not feel easy not to
make one effort with Otis. I thought if
he had plunged us in this trouble, he
would feel when he came to see me, and
remembered the days when we were
playmates, and happy together. I saw
him. I don't know what I said. My
but I got no satifaction. He denied—
refused. But, oh! dear mother, I feel
surer than ever, that he is the guilty
one. His eye did not once meet mine;
and he looked red and pale, by turns;
and when I came away the tears were
running down his cheeks. Who would
not rather be Charlie?”
It is “Thanksgiving Day”—a day of
old consecration, in New England, to
family festivity and family union—a day
of merry meetings, and merry makings
—a day for rustic weddings, and all sorts
of pleasant doings, and starting points
in life—a day, like other anniversaries,
who have not yet felt the severing of
heart chords.
The thanksgiving day connected with
our story, came in heavily enough to the
Hathaways. It was Thursday. Ruth's
last letter was dated the preceding Tuesday.
The trial was appointed for Wednesday
morning, and as it would be deemed
a small affair by the municipal authorities,
(albeit involving the happiness of
an entire family,) it would probably occupy
but an hour or two; and if it went
against them, Ruth would leave New
York in an afternoon's boat for Albany.
The day had come in with a furious
refolding Ruth's letter, after reading it
for at least the twentieth time, when a
sleigh stopped at his door; and Colonel
Miles, shaking the snow from his lion-skin
coat, and stamping it from his feet,
opened the door. “A pretty tedious
storm this, neighbors,” he said. “No
news, of course, since the letter I brought
you from the post office yesterday?”
“No, sir; none,” replied Mrs. Hathaway,
“we could not expect it, could we,
colonel?”
“Of course not, ma'am; and I mistrust
we shall have no mail to-day. The
river will feel this cold snap. Ruthy,
her letter, at Albany to-day; but I think
there'll be no boat up. However, if there
is a mail, you'll be sure of a letter: so I
shall go on to the post office, after meeting,
and wait till the stage comes in.”
“How thankful we ought to be for
such a kind neighbor as the colonel,”
said good Mrs. Hathaway, as the door
closed after him.
“Yes, mother, we have a great deal to
be thankful for, on the right hand and
the left, and we must not make a poor
mouth if we have our share of trouble.”
“I know I ought to feel as you do,
father; but I can't help thinking, all the
is sentenced to that desolate island.”
“Do? Why she'll do the right thing.
Now, mother, wipe off your tears, and
don't forget it's thanksgiving day; let
us keep it. And who has more reason.
Is not it Ruthy's birth day? To be
sure, the children have been on a
troubled sea, but have not they lain
their course well? You know I have
nothing to do but to sit here, and read,
and ruminate; and a happy life it has
been to me, since I was quite overset as
to outside prosperity. I have got a
habit of looking inward; and I have
come to the conclusion, that it is not the
but how they find us, and what they
make of us. Look at our dear children,
mother, how they have held fast their
integrity. Look at Charlie; calm and
manly, and so generous about Otis. He
is not of those that hold to misery loving
company—a mean company that. And
dear little Ruthy; her love for her brother
has carried her, as it were, through
fire and water! I tell you, mother, we
did not know the children till now. A
real thanksgiving day it shall be to us.”
Poor Mrs. Hathaway would have smiled
her assent, but it was a sunbeam vainly
struggling through clouds. “I'll try to
said: so she brought forth a provision
basket, sent by their kind friend, Miss
Gardner. “What a lovely, plump turkey,”
exclaimed Hathaway, as his wife
proceeded to unpack the basket, “and
cranberry sauce, I dare say, in that little
jar? Yes; just like Miss Emma, to
think of that. What is in that covered
dish? Oysters, I declare! just what I
told her I liked best, when she asked me
the question. Mince pie! pumpkin pie!
apple pudding! tarts! What's that?—
what's that, mother?”
“It feels like a loaf of cake, and it is
marked, `for dear Ruth.”'
“Well; no disrespect to the rest of the
world. But Miss Emma is thorough to
poor folks. A bottle of wine, too! Well;
Miss Emma and I are of opinion, that it's
right for temperate people to take a
cheerful glass once in a while. You are
a teetotaller, mother; but you won't object
to my `making my heart glad,' according
to Scripture. Now, would it not
have been a shame for us not to keep
the day?”
Mrs. Hathaway assented by proceeding
to get the dinner in progress; and
when the turkey was fairly roasting in
the little stove-oven, Hathaway said,
“Come here, mother—I can't kneel, you
since my leg was broken; but I trust
my heart is in the right position—kneel
down here on my well side, and we'll
have our worship, though it be a dark
day outside and in.” The wife knelt,
resting her troubled brow on the arm of
her husband's chair. Hathaway's spirit
of cheerful gratitude shone like a sun on
all the salient points of their lives. God's
mercies seemed to be sown at broadcast
around them. He thanked God for the
peace, prosperity, and progress of the
country—for their abounding political
advantages and Gospel privileges; not
in an inexpressive mass, but in such
impress on his heart. He spoke of the
rich harvest of the year, with a glow
that would have left no one to believe
that not an ear of it had been turned
into his garners. He thanked God for
his pleasant home, and his well-covered
board—for kind neighbors and bountiful
friends—for the dear mother, with industry
that never tired, and love that
never abated. He thanked him for his
own health—for painless limbs—for a
contented mind, and a spirit of enjoyment.
His voice trembled slightly when
he came to mention his children—“his
dear, absent children.” He paused for
tone of courage, and heavenly gladness,
“We thank Thee that they have
manifested themselves Thy children, too.
Though they have passed through the
waters, they have not overwhelmed
them; and through the fire, it has not
scorched them. We thank Thee that
Thou hast given them thus early to see
the value of innocence, and the importance
of affection.” When he finished,
Mrs. Hathaway rose comforted, and said,
“I almost forgot it stormed, father.”
And she did proceed with a step somewhat
lighter, and a heart somewhat less
faint, with her preparations for dinner,
Her eye turned often and anxiously to the
clock. She looked out on the road the
colonel was to come—remarked that the
storm grew heavier—and wondered again
and again, if Ruth were on her way to
Albany. Presently a sleigh bell was
heard; but it was not Colonel Miles',
but another neighbor, returning from
meeting, who called with a message from
the kind colonel. “The mail was not
in,” he sent them word; “it might not
come till dark; but he would wait till it
did come.”
“The colonel is wine and oil too,” said
Hathaway. “It has been so from the
a disappointment, there's a comfort
comes hand-in-hand with it.”
The days, as we have said, were at
their shortest. Mrs. Hathaway moved
slowly, the afternoon was very dark, and
the shadows of the stormy evening were
thickening, when the father and mother
sat down to their thanksgiving meal.
Mr. Hathaway's grace was much longer
than usual, but there was no allusion to
their affiiction. He could not now trust
his voice for this, his body and mind
were beginning to feel the pressure. It
was only half past three! he wondered
it was so dark! and again and again, he
to cut up for him his favorite bit of turkey.
He took, according to our rural
custom, “a little of all the various vegetables
and condiments,” and though he
remarked, “there was never a tenderer
turkey,” there seemed never to have
been a tougher one in the chewing. As
to the poor mother, she could not eat,—
she loathed the sight of food; and when
her husband, who had tried not to observe
her as she moved the dishes on the
table, first out of their places, and then
into them; and turned her food over and
over on her plate, without touching it,—
said, “Poor mother, there's no use in
took refuge in her little, adjoining bed
room. There she sat by the window,
looking up the road as long as she could
discern fence or tree, as landmark. The
night settled down on the earth, as it
had on her spirit. The snow no longer
fell, but the wind rose, and gusts came
sweeping down the hill side, and roaring
in the chimney, and penetrating every
crevice of the slight tenement. She
shook, as if an ague were on her, as she
returned to her husband, and drew her
chair close to him. “You had best light
a candle, mother,” said he; “Colonel
Miles will want a light to guide him
and set them in the window.” She lighted
and placed them, and sat down again;
the table was left standing. A woman
accustomed to perform the domestic
offices through all the routine of life—to
go steadily on, come what will, joy or
sorrow, with the periodical preparations
that sustain and solace animal life, must
be paralyzed before she neglects them.
And so was poor Mrs. Hathaway. The
thought of her good, honest, true, ever-cheerful
boy, in the convict's uniform,
among the motley gang of culprits,
and committed vagrants on Blackwell's
Island; such as she had heard it described,
wretchedness that prevailed there—the
thoughts of her little Ruth,—where was
she this cruel, stormy night? No wonder
the poor woman had left the table
standing as it was when she and her
husband rose from it. No wonder she
sat now leaning on the arm of her husband's
chair, listening for the colonel's
sleigh bells, and hearing only the howling
storm, and not heeding it, she heard
her husband's little consolations dropped
in every now and then, “if the colonel
comes at all, he'll come soon;” and with
a sigh (most unwonted sound,) from that
bosom of sunny cheerfulness; “it does
for it's certain no mail can come
through to-day. The colonel's folks will
be expecting him. I should not wonder
if he drove through, bad as it is!” A
long—long pause. “Mercy on us! that
is a sleigh bell!”—A breathless pause.
“They're gone by! I do wish the colonel
was well home—his people will feel
dreadfully, and it's all on our account.
It was a pity he staid, we might have
known there would have been no news
from them to-night!” Another pause,
and a howling blast of wind, and the
poor mother asked, “what will become of
Ruth if she is on the road this weather?”
“Mother, look to Him who tempers
the wind to the shorn lamb. If she gets
Charlie's pardon, she'll be paid for it all.”
“Pardon!” exclaimed Mrs. Hathaway,
in the only proud tone that ever came
from her; “I'd not ask pardon for the
innocent boy.”
“Good! mother, good! keep to that
brave feeling, and we'll weather the
storm.” But it seemed that all the
mother's courage had spent itself in that
one outbreak; she again sank into desperate,
motionless silence. “It is a bad
night, murmured Hathaway, “and worse
in-doors than out!” and sad it was to
see the miseries that belong only to ill-doing,
where patience and pious content had so
long reigned.
Suddenly Mrs. Hathaway raised her
head—her heart again fluttered. She
dared not speak, but as the wind for a
moment lulled, she thought she heard approaching
bells. Her husband's slower
senses heard them too. She started to
her feet. “They have stopped here! it
is the colonel!” she exclaimed; and in
another instant the outer door of the
little porch was thrown open, and the
inner door, and Ruth rushed in, and
threw herself into her mother's arms, exclaiming,
“Cleared! cleared! cleared!”
thoughtful and considerate, even at this
moment, and holding back lest he should
overwhelm his mother with sudden joy.
What followed can scarcely be described.
There were loud exclamations and hysterical
bursts of emotion, and then a
deep silence—first broken by the colonel,
who stood aloof, tears of sympathy running
down his cheeks fast enough to
melt away the ice that stiffened his
whiskers. “Goodness, mercy, Hathaway!”
he exclaimed. “Your withered
arm is round Charlie's neck!” And so
it was, that arm that had scarcely had a
perceptible movement for years, had received
of feeling that stirred his whole
being. Every eye was now turned to
“father;” mother and children gathered
round him, and embraced him, the withered
arm fell, but from the tongue rose
as joyful a thanksgiving as ever burst
from a grateful, relieved, faithful heart.
“Well — good night, friends, good
night!” said Colonel Miles. “I go home
the happiest man in Berkshire, except
you, Hathaway.”
“Oh, no, stay with us, and eat supper,”
replied Hathaway. “We'll have
the best thanksgiving in Massachusetts.
The table is set already,” he added,
“do stay—do stay, dear colonel,” came
from mother, Charles, and Ruth. But
the colonel could on no account stay.
“His own wife and children were waiting
at home,” he said; “and now he
began to think considerable of them;
and what decent father ever staid from
his own children on thanksgiving day.”
And with the showering thanks and
blessings of the Hathaways, he departed.
There are moments when the outer crust
of the undemonstrative Anglo-American
breaks away, and shows the glowing
fires beneath it.
Now it was that all Miss Emma Gardner's
play. The reheated turkey, oysters,
mince pie, and pumpkin pie, tarts, and
sauces, melted away before the keen appetites
of our happy family. Ruth's
cake alone was set aside. “Mr. Henshaw,”
she said, in a low voice, to her
mother, “talked of coming up the next
day.” Hathaway averred, as he asked
for another and another bit, that he had
not eaten a full meal since Ruth went
away; his good wife said every mouthful
had tasted bitter; and Ruth did not
believe that any thing could taste good
in New York. But these were only
parenthetical remarks, while every particular
Our brief summary must be in
strong contrast to the diffuseness of our
friends.
It seemed, that on the day proceeding
that on which Charles was to have his
trial, a treacherous friend of a noted
young woman, one Matilda Johnson,
came to Henshaw, and told him, that if
he would go to the theatre that evening,
he would see Otis Jackson in the pit—
that Otis would join Matilda Johnson as
she came down from the gallery, when
the play was over—and that this Matilda
would wear a certain shawl, which had
been missed from Brown and Wilson's, a
committal. Henshaw accordingly went
to the theatre with Sandley. A police
officer, well acquainted with Miss Matilda,
was directed to keep his eye on her.
Every thing was right. The miserable
parties were followed to their lodging.
Henshaw identified the shawl. Various
other articles, subtracted from the shop
of Messrs. Brown and Wilson, were found
among Miss Johnson's clothes; and she,
and the wretched young man whom she
had caught in her toils, and ruined, were
committed to the Tombs. Jackson confessed
that he thrust into Charles's
pocket the stolen goods found there, and
without a trial. “Even Mr. Brown
and Wilson,” Ruth said, in concluding
the story, “had the grace to say they
were sorry for what had happened; and
they offered Mr. Henshaw and Charles
much better terms than they were on
before, if they would return to them;
but Mr. Henshaw is not the man to be
whistled off and on, at the pleasure of
Messrs. Brown and Wilson. He is already
engaged at the first shop in the city,
where they have fixed prices—where, he
says, they despise the Brown and Wilson
fashion, of asking one price, and taking
another—of telling the customer, that
cost—or, that they have sold them for
what they never did sell them for—or,
that some grandee, Mrs. So-and-So, has
bought such—and, `that there is not
another in the shop, or city'—or, any
other of those contemptible lies by which
dishonorable dealers impose on foolish
women; and by which, Mr. Henshaw
says, father, they corrupt their clerks;
and, teaching poor boys to lie for them,
it cannot be wondered at if they end in
stealing for themselves.”
“And it does not end there,” said Mr.
Hathaway; “the covetousness, tricking,
and lying, that are practised in small
good name is endangered, and our country
degraded. The Browns and Wilsons
become speculators, and repudiators.
Henshaw is a sensible man, Ruth.”
“I guess he is, father; and a true
friend. There was nothing that could
be thought of that he did not do for us,
and crowned it all, at the last,”—and
little Ruth struck her hands joyously together—“by
getting Charlie a post next
to himself, in the shop of `A. T. Stewart
and Co.”'
| THE CITY CLERK
BY MISS CATHARINE M. SEDGWICK. Tales of city life | |