University of Virginia Library

7. HOME AND POLITICS.

Cowper.

At the bend of a pleasant road winding under the
shade of a large elm, stood a small school-house. It
was a humble building; and the little belfry on the
top seemed hardly large enough for the motions of
the cow-bell suspended there. But it was a picturesque
feature in the landscape. The elm drooped
over it with uncommon gracefulness, and almost
touched the belfry with its light foliage. The weather-beaten,
moss-grown shingles were a relief to
the eye of the traveller, weary of prim staring
white houses. Moreover, a human soul had inscribed
on the little place a pastoral poem in vines
and flowers. A white Rose bush covered half one
side, and carried its offering of blossoms up to the
little bell. Cypress vines were trained to meet
over the door, in a Gothic arch, surmounted by a
cross. On the western side, the window was
shaded with a profusion of Morning Glories; and a

great rock, that jutted out into the road, was thickly
strewn with Iceland moss, which in the spring-time
covered it with a carpet of yellow stars.

It was at that season it was first seen by George
Franklin, a young New York lawyer, on a visit to
the country. He walked slowly past, gazing at
the noble elm slightly waving its young foliage to
a gentle breeze. Just then, out poured a flock of
children, of various ages. Jumping and laughing,
they joined hands and formed a circle round the
elm. A clear voice was heard within the school-house,
singing a lively tune, while measured strokes
on some instrument of tin marked the time. The
little band whirled round the tree, stepping to the
music with the rude grace of childhood and joy.
After ten or fifteen minutes of this healthy exercise,
they stopped, apparently in obedience to some
signal. Half of them held their hands aloft and
formed arches for the other half to jump through.
Then they described swift circles with their arms,
and leaped high in the air. Having gone through
their simple code of gymnastics, away they scampered,
to seek pleasure after their own fashion, till
summoned to their books again. Some of them
bowed and courtesied to the traveller, as they
passed; while others, with arms round each other's
necks, went hopping along, first on one foot, then
on the other, too busy to do more than nod and
smile, as they went by. Many of them wore
patched garments, but hands and faces were all

clean. Some had a stolid, animal look; but even
these seemed to sun their cold nature in the rays
of beauty and freedom, which they found only at
school. The whole scene impressed the young man
very vividly. He asked himself why it could not
be always thus, in the family, in the school, every
where? Why need man forever be a blot on Nature?
Why must he be coarse and squalid, and
gross and heavy, while Nature is ever radiant with
fresh beauty, and joyful with her overplus of life?
Then came saddening thoughts how other influences
of life, coarse parents, selfish employers, and
the hard struggle for daily bread, would overshadow
the genial influences of that pleasant school,
which for a few months gilded the lives of those
little ones.

When he repassed the spot, some hours after, all
was still, save the occasional twittering of birds in
the tree. It was sunset, and a bright farewell
gleam shone across the moss-carpet on the rock,
and made the little flowers in the garden smile.
When he returned to the city, the scene often rose
before his mind as a lovely picture, and he longed
for the artist's skill to re-produce it visibly in its
rustic beauty. When he again visited the country
after midsummer, he remembered the little old
school-house, and one of his earliest excursions was
a walk in that direction. A profusion of crimson
stars, and white stars, now peeped out from the
fringed foliage of the Cypress vines, and the little

front yard was one bed of blossoms. He leaned
over the gate, and observed how neatly every plant
was trained, as if some loving hand tended them
carefully every day. He listened, but could hear
no voices; and curiosity impelled him to see how
the little building looked within. He lifted the
latch, peeped in, and saw that the room was empty.
The rude benches and the white-washed walls were
perfectly clean. The windows were open on both
sides, and the air was redolent with the sweet
breath of Mignonette. On the teacher's desk was
a small vase, of Grecian pattern, containing a few
flowers tastefully arranged. Some books lay beside
it, and one had an ivory folder between the leaves,
as if recently used. It was Bettine's Letters to Günderode;
and, where it opened at the ivory folder,
he read these lines, enclosed in pencil marks;
“All that I see done to children is unjust. Magnanimity,
confidence, free-will, are not given to the
nourishment of their souls. A slavish yoke is put
upon them. The living impulse, full of buds, is
not esteemed. No outlet will they give for Nature
to reach the light. Rather must a net be woven, in
which each mesh is a prejudice. Had not a child
a world within, where could he take refuge from
the deluge of folly that is poured over the budding
meadow-carpet? Reverence have I before the destiny
of each child, shut up in so sweet a bud. One
feels reverence at touching a young bud, which the
spring is swelling.”

The young man smiled with pleased surprise;
for he had not expected to find appreciation of such
sentiments in the teacher of a secluded country
school. He took up a volume of Mary Howitt's
Birds and Flowers, and saw the name of Alice
White written in it. On all blank spaces were
fastened delicate young fern leaves, and small bits
of richly-tinted moss. He glanced at the low ceiling,
and the rude benches. “This seems not the
appropriate temple for such a spirit,” thought he.
“But, after all, what consequence is that, since
such spirits find temples everywhere?” He took
a pencil from his pocket, and marked in Bettine's
Letters: “Thou hast feeling for the every-day life
of nature. Dawn, noon-tide, and evening clouds
are thy dear companions, with whom thou canst
converse when no man is abroad with thee. Let
me be thy scholar in simplicity.”

He wrote his initials on the page. “Perhaps I
shall never see this young teacher,” thought he;
“but it will be a little mystery, in her unexciting
life, to conjecture what curious eye has been peeping
into her books.” Then he queried with himself,
“How do I know she is a young teacher?”

He stood leaning against the window, looking
on the beds of flowers, and the vine leaves brushed
his hair, as the breeze played with them. They
seemed to say that a young heart planted them.
He remembered the clear, feminine voice he had
heard humming the dancing-tune, in the spring

time. He thought of the mosses and ferns in the
book. “Oh, yes, she must be young and beautiful,”
thought he. “She cannot be otherwise than
beautiful, with such tastes.” He stood for some
moments in half dreaming reverie. Then a broad
smile went over his face. He was making fun of
himself. “What consequence is it to me whether
she be either beautiful or young?” said he inwardly.
“I must be hungry for an adventure, to
indulge so much curiosity about a country school-mistress.”

The smile was still on his face, when he heard a
light step, and Alice White stood before him. She
blushed to see a stranger in her little sanctuary,
and he blushed at the awkwardness of his situation.
He apologized, by saying that the beauty
of the little garden, and the tasteful arrangement
of the vines, had attracted his attention, and, perceiving
that the school-house was empty, he had
taken the liberty to enter. She readily forgave the
intrusion, and said she was glad if the humble little
spot refreshed the eyes of those who passed by, for
it had given her great pleasure to cultivate it. The
young man was disappointed; for she was not at all
like the picture his imagination had painted. But
the tones of her voice were flexible, and there was
something pleasing in her quiet but timid manner.
Not knowing what to say, he bowed and took
leave.

Several days after, when his rural visit was

drawing to a close, he felt the need of a long walk,
and a pleasant vision of the winding road and the
little school-house rose before him. He did not
even think of Alice White. He was ambitious,
and had well nigh resolved never to marry, except
to advance his fortunes. He admitted to himself
that grace and beauty might easily bewitch him,
and turn him from his prudent purpose. But the
poor country teacher was not beautiful, either in
face or figure. He had no thought of her. But to
vary his route somewhat, he passed through the
woods, and there he found her gathering mosses
by a little brook. She recognized him, and he
stopped to help her gather mosses. Thus it
happened that they fell into discourse together;
and the more he listened, the more he was surprised
to find so rare a jewel in so plain a setting.
Her thoughts were so fresh, and were so simply
said! And now he noticed a deep expression in
her eye, imparting a more elevated beauty than is
ever derived from form or colour. He could not
define it to himself, still less to others; but she
charmed him. He lingered by her side, and when
they parted at the school-house gate, he was half
in hopes she would invite him to enter. “I expect
to visit this town again in the autumn,” he said.
“May I hope to find you at the little school-house?”

She did not say whether he might hope to find
her there; but she answered with a smile, “I am

always here. I have adopted it for my home, and
tried to make it a pleasant one, since I have no
other.”

All the way home his thoughts were occupied
with her; and the memory of her simple, pleasant
ways, often recurred to him amid the noises of the
city. He would easily have forgotten her in that
stage of their acquaintance, had any beautiful heiress
happened to cross his path; for though his
nature was kindly, and had a touch of romance,
ambition was the predominant trait in his character.
But it chanced that no woman attracted him
very powerfully, before he again found himself on
the winding road where stood the picturesque little
school-house. Then came frequent walks and confidential
interviews, which revealed more loveliness
of mind and character than he had previously supposed.
Alice was one of those peculiar persons
whose history sets at naught all theories. Her
parents had been illiterate, and coarse in manners,
but she was gentle and refined. They were utterly
devoid of imagination, and she saw every thing
in the sunshine of poetry. “Who is the child
like? Where did she get her queer notions?”
were questions they could never answer. They
died when she was fourteen; and she, unaided and
unadvised, went into a factory to earn money to
educate herself. Alternately at the factory and at
school, she passed four years. Thanks to her
notable mother, she was quick and skilful with her

needle, and knew wonderfully well how to make
the most of small means. She travelled along unnoticed
through the by-paths of life, rejoicing in
birds, and flowers, and little children, and finding
sufficient stimulus to constant industry in the love
of serving others, and the prospect of now and then
a pretty vase, or some agreeable book. First, affectionate
communion, then beauty and order, were
the great attractions to her soul. Hence, she
longed inexpressibly for a home, and was always
striving to realize her ideal in such humble imitations
as the little school-house. The family where
she boarded often disputed with each other, and,
being of rude natures, not all Alice's unassuming
and obliging ways could quite atone to them for
her native superiority. In the solitude of the little
school-house she sought refuge from things that
wounded her. There she spent most of the hours
of her life, and found peace on the bosom of
Nature. Poor, and without personal beauty, she
never dreamed that domestic love, at all resembling
the pattern in her own mind, was a blessing she
could ever realize. Scarcely had the surface of
her heart been tremulous with even a passing excitement
on the subject, till the day she gathered
mosses in the wood with George Franklin. When
he looked into her eyes, to ascertain what their
depth expressed, she was troubled by the earnestness
of his glance. Habitually humble, she did not
venture to indulge the idea that she could ever be
beloved by him. But when she thought of his
promised visit in autumn, fair visions sometimes
floated before her, of how pleasant life would be in
a tasteful little home, with an intelligent companion.
Always it was a little home. None of
her ideas partook of grandeur. She was a pastoral
poet, not an epic poet.

George did come, and they had many pleasant
walks in beautiful October, and crowned each other
with garlands of bright autumnal leaves. Their
parting betrayed mutual affection; and soon after
George wrote to her thus: “I frankly acknowledge
to you that I am ambitious, and had fully resolved
never to marry a poor girl. But I love you so well,
I have no choice left. And now, in the beautiful
light that dawns upon me, I see how mean and
selfish was that resolution, and how impolitic withal.
For is it not happiness we all seek? And how happy
it will make me to fulfil your long-cherished dream
of a tasteful home! I cannot help receiving from
you more than I can give; for your nature is richer
than mine. But I believe, dearest, it is always
more blessed to give than to receive; and when
two think so of each other, what more need of
heaven?

“I am no flatter, and I tell you frankly I was
disappointed when I first saw you. Unconsciously
to myself, I had fallen in love with your soul. The
transcript of it, which I saw in the vines and the
flowers attracted me first; then a revelation of it

from the marked book, the mosses and the ferns.
I imagined you must be beautiful; and when I saw
you were not, I did not suppose I should ever think
of you more. But when I heard you talk, your
soul attracted me irresistibly again, and I wondered
I ever thought you otherwise than beautiful. Rarely
is a beautiful soul shrined within a beautiful body.
But loveliness of soul has one great advantage over
its frail envelope, it need not decrease with time,
but ought rather to increase.

“Of one thing rest assured, dear Alice; it is now
impossible for me ever to love another, as I love
you.”

When she read this letter, it seemed to her as if
she were in a delightful dream. Was it indeed possible
that the love of an intelligent, cultivated soul
was offered to her, the poor unfriended one? How
marvellous it seemed, that when she was least expecting
such a blossom from Paradise, a stranger
came and laid it in the open book upon her desk,
in that little school-house, where she had toiled with
patient humility through so many weary hours!
She kissed the dear letter again and again; she
kissed the initials he had written in the book before
he had seen her. She knelt down, and, weeping,
thanked God that the great hunger of her heart for
a happy home was now to be satisfied. But when
she re-read the letter in calmer mood, the uprightness
of her nature made her shrink from the proffered
bliss. He said he was ambitious. Would he

not repent marrying a poor girl, without beauty,
and without social influence of any kind? Might
he not find her soul far less lovely than he deemed
it? Under the influence of these fears, she answered
him: “How happy your precious letter made me,
I dare not say. My heart is like a garden when
the morning sun shines on it, after a long, cold
storm. Ever since the day we gathered mosses in
the wood, you have seemed so like the fairest dreams
of my life, that I could not help loving you, though
I had no hope of being beloved in return. Even
now, I fear that you are acting under a temporary
delusion, and that hereafter you may repent your
choice. Wait long, and observe my faults. I will
try not to conceal any of them from you. Seek the
society of other women. You will find so many
superior to me, in all respects! Do not fear to give
me pain by any change in your feelings. I love
you with that disinterested love, which would rejoice
in your best happiness, though it should lead
you away from me.”

This letter did not lower his estimate of the beauty
of her soul. He complied with her request to cultivate
the acquaintance of other women. He saw
many more beautiful, more graceful, more accomplished,
and of higher intellectual cultivation; but
none of them seemed so charmingly simple and
true, as Alice White. “Do not talk to me any
more about a change in my feelings,” he said, “I
like your principles, I like your disposition, I like

your thoughts, I like your ways; and I always
shall like them.” Thus assured, Alice joyfully dismissed
her fears, and became his wife.

Rich beyond comparison is a man who is loved
by an intelligent woman, so full of home-affections!
Especially if she has learned humility, and gained
strength, in the school of hardship and privation.
But it is only beautiful souls who learn such lessons
in adversity. In lower natures it engenders discontent
and envy, which change to pride and extravagance
in the hour of prosperity. Alice had
always been made happy by the simplest means;
and now, though her husband's income was a moderate
one, her intuitive taste and capable fingers
made his home a little bower of beauty. She
seemed happy as a bird in her cozy nest; and
so grateful, that George said, half in jest, half in
earnest, he believed women loved their husbands as
the only means society left them of procuring homes
over which to preside. There was some truth in
the remark; but it pained her sensitive and affectionate
nature, because it intruded upon her the
idea of selfishness mingled with her love. Thenceforth,
she said less about the external blessings of a
home; but in her inmost soul she enjoyed it, like
an earthly heaven. And George seemed to enjoy
it almost as much as herself. Again and again, he
said he had never dreamed domestic companionship
was so rich a blessing. His wife, though far less
educated than himself, had a nature capable of the

highest cultivation. She was always an intelligent
listener, and her quick intuitions often understood
far more than he had expressed or thought. Poor
as she was, she had brought better furniture for his
home, than mahogany chairs and marble tables.

Smoothly glided a year away, when a little
daughter came into the domestic circle, like a flower
brought by angels. George had often laughed at
the credulous fondness of other parents, but he
really thought his child was the most beautiful one
he had ever seen. In the countenance and movements
he discovered all manner of rare gifts. He
was sure she had an eye for color, an eye for form,
and an ear for music. She had her mother's deep
eye, and would surely inherit her quick perceptions,
her loving heart, and her earnestness of thought.
His whole soul seemed bound up in her existence.
Scarcely the mother herself was more devoted to
all her infant wants and pleasures. Thus happy
were they, with their simple treasures of love and
thought, when, in evil hour, a disturbing influence
crossed their threshold. It came in the form of
political excitement; that pestilence which is forever
racing through our land, seeking whom it may
devour; destroying happy homes, turning aside
our intellectual strength from the calm and healthy
pursuits of literature or science, blinding consciences,
embittering hearts, rasping the tempers of men, and
blighting half the talent of our country with its
feverish breath.

At that time, our citizens were much excited
for and against the election of General Harrison.
George Franklin threw himself into the melée with
firm and honest conviction that the welfare of the
country depended on his election. But the superior
and inferior natures of man are forever mingling
in all his thoughts and actions; and this generous
ardor for the nation's good gradually opened into a
perspective of flattering prospects for himself. By
the study and industry of years, he had laid a solid
foundation in his profession, and every year brought
some increase of income and influence. But he had
the American impatience of slow growth. Distinguished
in some way he had always wished to
be; and no avenue to the desired object seemed so
short as the political race-course. A neighbour,
whose temperament was peculiarly prone to these
excitements, came in often and invited him to clubs
and meetings. When Alice was seated at her
work, with the hope of passing one of their old
pleasant evenings, she had a nervous dread of hearing
the door-bell, lest this man should enter. It
was not that she expected, or wished, her husband
to sacrifice ambition and enterprise, and views of
patriotic duty, to her quiet habits. But the excitement
seemed an unhealthy one. He lived in a
species of mental intoxication. He talked louder
than formerly, and doubled his fists in the vehemence
of gesticulation. He was restless for newspapers,
and watched the arrival of mails, as he

would once have watched over the life of his child.
All calm pleasures became tame and insipid. He
was more and more away from home, and staid
late in the night. Alice at first sat up to wait for
him; but finding that not conducive to the comfort
of their child, she gradually formed the habit of
retiring to rest before his return. She was always
careful to leave a comfortable arrangement of the
fire, with his slippers in a warm place, and some
slight refreshment prettily laid out on the table.
The first time he came home and saw these silent
preparations, instead of the affectionate face that
usually greeted him, it made him very sad. The
rustic school-house, with its small belfry, and its
bright little garden-plat, rose up in the perspective
of memory, and he retraced, one by one, all the incidents
of their love. Fair and serene came those
angels of life out of the paradise of the past. They
smiled upon him and asked, “Are there any like
us in the troubled path you have now chosen?”
With these retrospections came some self-reproaches
concerning little kind attentions forgotten, and professional
duties neglected, under the influence of
political excitement. He spoke to Alice with unusual
tenderness that night, and voluntarily promised
that when the election was fairly over, he
would withdraw from active participation in politics.
But this feeling soon passed away. The nearer the
result of the election approached, the more intensely
was his whole being absorbed in it. One morning,
when he was reading the newspaper, little Alice
fretted and cried. He said, impatiently, “I wish
you would carry that child away. Her noise disturbs
me.” Tears came to the mother's eyes, as
she answered, “She is not well; poor little thing!
She has taken cold.” “I am sorry for that,” he
replied, and hurried to go out and exult with his
neighbour concerning the political tidings.

At night, the child was unusually peevish and
restless. She toddled up to her father's knees, and
cried for him to rock her to sleep. He had just
taken her in his arms, and laid her little head upon
his bosom, when the neighbour came for him to go
to a political supper. He said the mails that night
must bring news that would decide the question.
The company would wait for their arrival, and
then have a jubilee in honour of Harrison's success.
The child cried and screamed, when George
put her away into the mother's arms; and he said
sternly, “Naughty girl! Father don't love her
when she cries.” “She is not well,” replied the
mother, with a trembling voice, and hurried out
of the room.

It was two o'clock in the morning before George
returned; but late as it was, his wife was sitting
by the fire. “Hurrah for the old coon!” he exclaimed.
“Harrison is elected.”

She threw herself on his bosom, and bursting
into tears, sobbed out, “Oh, hush, hush, dear
George! Our little Alice is dead!” Dead! and

the last words he had spoken to his darling had
been unkind. What would he not have given to
recall them now? And his poor wife had passed
through that agony, alone in the silent midnight,
without aid or consolation from him. A terrible
weight oppressed his heart. He sank into a
chair, drew the dear sufferer to his bosom, and
wept aloud.

This great misfortune sadly dimmed the glory
of his eagerly-anticipated political triumph. When
the tumult of grief subsided, he reviewed the
events of his life, and weighed them in a balance.
More and more, he doubted whether it were wise
to leave the slow certainties of his profession,
for chances which had in them the excitement
and the risks of gambling. More and more seriously
he questioned whether the absorption of his
faculties in the keen conflicts of the hour was the
best way to serve the true interests of his country.
It is uncertain how the balance would have turned,
had he not received an appointment to office under
the new government. Perhaps the sudden
fall of the triumphal arch, occasioned by the death
of General Harrison, might have given him a lasting
distaste for politics, as it did to many others.
But the proffered income was more than double
the sum he had ever received from his profession.
Dazzled by the prospect, he did not sufficiently
take into the account that it would necessarily

involve him in many additional expenses, political
and social, and that he might lose it by the very
next turn of the wheel, without being able to return
easily to his old habits of expenditure. Once
in office, the conviction that he was on the right
side combined with gratitude and self-interest to
make him serve his party with money and personal
influence. The question of another election
was soon agitated, and these motives drove him
into the new excitement. He was kind at home,
but he spent little time there. He sometimes
smiled when he came in late, and saw the warm
slippers by the fire, and a vase of flowers crowning
his supper on the table; but he did not think
how lonely Alice must be, nor could he possibly
dream what she was suffering in the slow martyrdom
of her heart. He gave dinners and suppers
often. Strangers went and came. They
ate and drank, and smoked, and talked loud.
Alice was polite and attentive; but they had nothing
for her, and she had nothing for them. How
out of place would have been her little songs and
her fragrant flowers, amid their clamor and tobacco-smoke!
She was a pastoral poet living in a
perpetual battle.

The house was filled with visitors to see the
long Whig procession pass by, with richly-caparisoned
horses, gay banners, flowery arches,
and promises of protection to every thing. George
bowed from his chariot and touched his hat to

her, as he passed with the throng, and she waved
her handkerchief. “How beautiful! How magnificent!”
exclaimed a visitor, who stood by her.
“Clay will certainly be elected. The whole city
seems to be in the procession. Sailors, printers,
firemen, every thing.”

“There are no women and children,” replied
Alice; and she turned away with a sigh. The
only protection that interested her, was a protection
for homes.

Soon after came the evening procession of Democrats.
The army of horses; temples of Liberty,
with figures in women's dress to represent the
goddess; raccoons hung, and guillotined, and
swallowed by alligators; the lone star of Texas
everywhere glimmering over their heads; the
whole shadowy mass occasionally illuminated by
the rush of fire-works, and the fitful glare of lurid
torches; all this made a strange and wild impression
on the mind of Alice, whose nervous system
had suffered in the painful internal conflicts of her
life. It reminded her of the memorable 10th of
August in Paris; and she had visions of human
heads reared on poles before the windows, as they
had been before the palace of the unfortunate
Maria Antoinette. Visitors observed their watches,
and said it took this procession an hour longer to
pass than it had for the Whig procession. “I
guess Polk will beat after all,” said one. George
was angry and combated the opinion vehemently.

Even after the company had all gone, and the
street noises had long passed off in the distance,
he continued remarkably moody and irritable. He
had more cause for it than his wife was aware of.
She supposed the worst that could happen, would
be defeat of his party and loss of office. But antagonists,
long accustomed to calculate political
games with a view to gambling, had dared him to
bet on the election, being perfectly aware of his
sanguine temperament; and George, stimulated
solely by a wish to prove to the crowd, who
heard them, that he considered the success of
Clay's party certain, allowed himself to be drawn
into the snare, to a ruinous extent. All his worldly
possessions, even his watch, his books, and his
household furniture, were at stake; and ultimately
all were lost. Alice sympathized with his
deep dejection, tried to forget her own sorrows,
and said it would be easy for her to assist him,
she was so accustomed to earn her own living.

On their wedding day, George had given her a
landscape of the rustic school-house, embowered
in vines, and shaded by its graceful elm. He
asked to have this reserved from the wreck, and
stated the reason. No one had the heart to refuse
it; for even amid the mad excitement of party
triumph, everybody said, “I pity his poor wife.”

She left her cherished home before the final
breaking up. It would have been too much for
her womanly heart, to see those beloved household

goods carried away to the auction-room. She
lingered long by the astral lamp, and the little
round table, where she and George used to read
to each other, in the first happy year of their
marriage. She did not weep. It would have
been well if she could. She took with her the
little vase, that used to stand on the desk in the
old country school-house, and a curious Wedgewood
pitcher George had given her on the day
little Alice was born. She did not show them to
him, it would make him so sad. He was tender
and self-reproachful; and she tried to be very
strong, that she might sustain him. But health
had suffered in these storms, and her organization
fitted her only for one mission in this world; that
was, to make and adorn a home. Through hard
and lonely years she had longed for it. She had
gained it, and thanked God with the joyfulness
of a happy heart. And now her vocation was
gone.

In a few days, hers was pronounced a case of
melancholy insanity. She was placed in the hospital,
where her husband strives to surround her
with every thing to heal the wounded soul. But
she does not know him. When he visits her, she
looks at him with strange eyes, and still clinging
to the fond ideal of her life, she repeats mournfully,
“I want my home. Why don't George
come and take me home?”

Thus left adrift on the dark ocean of life, George
Franklin hesitated whether to trust the chances
of politics for another office, or to start again in
his profession, and slowly rebuild his shattered
fortunes from the ruins of the past. Having
wisely determined in favor of the latter, he works
diligently and lives economically, cheered by the
hope that reason will again dawn in the beautiful
soul that loved him so truly.

His case may seem like an extreme one; but
in truth he is only one of a thousand similar wrecks
continually floating over the turbulent sea of American
politics.