Earlier text: POLLY HASTINGS’ VALENTINE.AFTER a separation of ten years I met my old friend, Major ——, at a railway station. If he had not spoken first I should not have recognized my Virginia comrade of ’64. It was not merely the disguise of a silken hat and shaven cheek, but—as I told him after we had chatted a little about each other’s ups and downs since the war—I was sure this was the first time I ever saw him away from the table without a cigar in his mouth. “Haven’t smoked for five years,” was his reply. “I’m down on tobacco as thoroughly as you ever were.” “Good! Tell me all about it.” We locked arms, and walked leisurely up and down the platform. Dropping the dialogue, this was, in substance, his story:— “It wasn’t a sudden conversion. I never was quite so easy in my mind over it as I pretended to be. I intended to taper off when I got home from the army. And I did, smoked less in three weeks than I used to in one.213But one summer I went off on some business for our company, which kept me up in the mountains, among the charcoal burners, three days longer than I expected. I got out of cigars, and couldn’t obtain any for love or money. In forty-eight hours I was more uncomfortable and unstrung than I ever was before in all my life. I actually borrowed an old Irishman’s filthy clay pipe, and tried to smoke it. I thought of that miserable summer we spent crawling about the trenches in Virginia, and I wished I was there again, with a cigar in my mouth. Then I began to realize what a shameful bondage I was in to a mere self-indulgence. I, a man who secretly prided himself on his self-control, nerve, and manliness,—who never flinched at hard fare or rough weather,—a downright slave to a bad habit; unnerved and actually unfit for business for lack of a cigar. It made me angry at myself; I despised myself for my pusillanimity. “Going into the matter a little further, I found that the money I had spent for cigars in a dozen years would have paid for my house and furnished it. I had smoked away more money than I had laid out for our library,214our periodicals, and our intellectual culture generally. Cigars had cost me nearly twice as much as I had given to church work, missions, and charity. My conscience rose up at the record. I knew I could not plead any equivalent for the outlay; it had not fed me; it had not strengthened me; it had simply drugged me. Every cigar had made the next cigar a little more necessary to my comfort. To use the mildest word, it had been a useless expenditure. “My detention in the mountains was calculated to open my eyes to my domestic shortcomings, and I saw, as I never saw before, how selfishly unsocial tobacco had made me at home. I smoked before I was married, and my wife never entered any protest against my cigars afterward. But our first baby was a nervous child, and the doctor told me it would not do for it to breathe tobacco smoke. So I got in the way of shutting myself up in the library of evenings, and after meals, to enjoy my cigars. As I look at it now, nothing is more absurd than to call smoking a social habit. It’s a poor pretense of sociability, where a man is simply intent on his own enjoyment. My wife owns now,215that my tobacco-tainted breath and tobacco-saturated clothing were always more or less a trial to her. The satisfaction it has given her to be rid of a tobacco atmosphere, and the thought of my contemptibly selfish indifference to her comfort all those years, have humbled me, I tell you. And I wouldn’t exchange my own daily satisfaction nowadays in being a cleaner man—inside and outside—for the delight that anybody gets out of his cigars.” “I didn’t need to go outside of my own doors to find reasons enough for giving up the habit; but I think I found still stronger ones, after all, when I went away from home. The more I thought about the harm tobacco does in the community at large, the more sure I felt that it was time for me to stop giving it the moral support of my example. I know I smoked too much, and that my nervous system is the worse for it; and I think the people who are likely to be hurt the most by it are just the ones who are most likely to smoke excessively. And then, I’ve noticed that the medical men who stand up for tobacco, are always men who use it, and are liable to the suspicion of straining a point in justification of their own self-indulgence. “On one point, though, I believe the authorities agree. No one denies that it is a damaging indulgence for boys. It means a good deal when smoking is forbidden to the pupils in the polytechnic schools in Paris, and the military schools in Germany, purely on hygienic grounds. The governments of these smoking nations are not likely to be notional on that matter. But the use of tobacco by our American boys and men is excessive and alarming. We ought to save our rising generation for better work than they can do if tobacco saps the strength of their growing years, and makes the descent easier, as no doubt it often does, to worse vices. I don’t know how to forgive myself for the temptation I set before my Sabbath-school class of bright boys, year after year, by my smoking habits. “It isn’t in the family, either, that the selfishness of the habit is most apparent. I don’t believe, other things being equal, there is any other class of men who show such a disregard in public for other people’s comfort as tobacco-users do. A man would be considered a rowdy or a boor who should willfully spatter mud on the clothing of a lady as217she passed him on the sidewalk. But a lady to whom tobacco fumes are more offensive than mud, can hardly walk the streets in these days, but that men who call themselves gentlemen—and who are gentlemen in most other respects—blow their cigar smoke into her face at almost every step. Smokers drive non-smokers out of the gentlemen’s cabins on the ferry boats, and the gentlemen’s waiting-rooms in railway stations, monopolizing these rooms as coolly as if they only had any rights in them. I can’t explain such phenomena except on the theory that tobacco befogs the moral sense, and makes men specially selfish.” The Major’s train came in just then, and as he took my hand to say good-by, its smoking car drew his parting shot: “See there! Did you ever reflect how the tobacco habit levies its taxes on everybody? The railway company furnishes an extra seat to every smoker, which, in the nature of the case, must be paid for by an extra charge on the tickets of all the passengers. What a stir it would raise, if the legislature should attempt to furnish luxuries to any special class, at public cost, in this way. How we’d vote them down! I vote against this thing by throwing away my cigar!” “It is of no use, Mrs. N., I have tried again and again, and I cannot be a Christian.” “So you said a year ago, yet you thought there was nothing in the way.” “I don’t think there is now; but I don’t feel any different from what I did then, and I don’t believe I ever shall be a Christian.” The first speaker was a bright, talented girl somewhat over twenty, who, at a previous interview nearly a year ago, had confided to her elder friend her earnest desire to become a Christian. Of her evident sincerity there could be no doubt, and the visitor was sorely puzzled to understand why her young friend had not yet found peace. The two were standing by the half-opened door of the Sunday-school room, where a rehearsal for an “entertainment” was in progress; and the girl, looking in, seemed suddenly to find there a suggestion for further thought. “I believe,” she said hesitatingly, “there is one thing I cannot give up.” “Come to Jesus first, then, and he will give you the power.” “I don’t want him to. I would rather be lost than give up my passion.” “And what is this dearly loved thing, worth so much more than your salvation?” “Oh, it isn’t worth more, only I love it more, and I can’t and won’t give it up. It’s that I—I want to be an actress; I know I have the talent; I’ve always hoped the way would open for me to go upon the stage, and I can’t help hoping so still.” “Do you think it would be wrong for you to do so, provided the way did open?” “I don’t know that it would be a sin; but I couldn’t do it and be a Christian; the two things don’t go together.” “How did you come by such a taste? I am sure you do not belong to a theatre-going family?” “Oh, no! my father and mother are Methodists; they always disapproved of the theater. I’ve been in Sunday-school all my life. They used to make me sing and recite at the entertainments when I was four years old, and I acted the angel and fairy parts in the dialogues; and when I grew older, I always220arranged the tableaux, charades, etc. Then I joined a set of sociables got up by our church young people. At first we did ‘Mrs. Jarley’s Wax-works,’ and sung ‘Pinafore,’ for the benefit of the church; and then we got more ambitious, studied, and had private theatricals, and last winter we hired Mason’s Hall and gave a series of Shakespearean performances, which cleared off a large part of the church debt. But that’s only second-class work, after all. I want to do the real thing, to go upon the stage as a profession. My father won’t hear of it; but I hope some time the way will be opened that I may realize my heart’s desire.” “And meantime will you not come to Jesus and be saved?” “No, I cannot do it and keep to this hope, and I will not give this up.” And so the visitor turned sadly away, thinking for what miserable messes of pottage men and women are willing to sell their glorious birthright as children of God; thinking also of the seeds that are being sown in our Sunday-schools, the tares among the wheat, and the terrible harvest that may yet spring up from this injudicious seed-sowing. “IT’S dreadful to live this way! I do wonder why God doesn’t answer your prayers and send you some work, father.” “Are you hungry, mother? I’m sure I thought we had a very good breakfast. And what a nice, pleasant house this is that we live in!” “But we’ve nothing for dinner!” “But it isn’t dinner time.” “Well, I must confess I like to know what we are to have just a little while before dinner time.” “God has said our bread and water shall be sure, but he has not promised that we shall know beforehand where it’s coming from.” “Father,” said little Maggie, “do you s’pose God knows what time we have dinner?” “Yes, dear, I suppose he knows exactly that. I’ve done my best to get work, and I’ll go out now and look around, and you go222to school and don’t be the least mite afraid, Maggie. There’ll be some dinner.” “But we’re out of soap and starch and saleratus,” said the mother. “As for the saleratus, you couldn’t use it if you had it, unless you had some flour. I’m sure I had soap when I washed my hands this morning.” “Yes, a little bit. But it’s not enough to do the washing.” “But the washing won’t come till next Monday. As for the starch, it isn’t one of the necessaries of life. I’m going out now to try to find some work. You just cast your care on the Lord, mother, and go about your housework as if you knew what was coming next, and don’t go and take the burden right up again. That’s the trouble with you. You can’t trust the Lord to take as good care of it as you think you would, and so you take it up again, and go round groaning under the burden.” “Well, I do wonder he lets such troubles come. Here you’ve been out of work these three months, and you’ve been a faithful, conscientious Christian ever since I knew you.” “I’ve been an unfaithful, unprofitable servant, and that’s true, mother, whatever you may think of me,” replied Mr. Wilson humbly. “God is trying our faith now. After he’s provided for us so long, what will he think of us if we distrust him now just because want seems to be near, before ever it has touched us?” Mr. Wilson went away to seek work, and spent the forenoon seeking vainly. God saw that here was a diamond worth polishing. He subjected his servant’s faith to a strain, but it bore the test. I will not say that no questioning or painful thoughts disturbed the man as he walked homeward at noon. Four eager, hungry little children, just home from school, to find the table unspread and no dinner ready for them; an aged and infirm parent, from whom he had concealed as far as possible all his perplexities, lest he should feel himself a burden in his old age,—these were not pleasant pictures to contemplate, and all through the long, weary forenoon Satan had been holding them up to his view, and it was only by clinging to the Lord, as drowning men cling to the rope that is thrown to them, that he was kept from utter despondency. “Thou knowest, O Lord, that I’ve done my best to support my family. My abilities are small, but I’ve done my best. Now, Lord, I’m waiting to see thy salvation. Appear for me! Let me not be put to shame.” “Increase my faith, increase my hope,
Or soon my strength will fail.”
So he prayed in his own simple fashion, as he walked along. It was true, as he had said. His abilities were not great. Some frivolous young people at the prayer-meeting smiled at the phraseology of his prayers. But there were educated men and earnest women who were helped and strengthened by those very prayers. Religion had raised above mediocrity a man to whom Nature had been niggardly. Without it he would have been a cipher in the community—or worse than a cipher. He drew near to his own door with something of dread. But the children rushed out to meet him with joyous shouts. “Come right in, father; quick! We’ve got a splendid dinner all ready. We’ve been waiting for you, and we’re fearful hungry.” The tired steps quickened, and the strongly drawn lines in the weary face softened to a225look of cheerful questioning, such as was oftenest seen there. He came in and stood beside his wife, who was leaning over the stove dipping soup out of the big dinner-pot. “How is this, mother?” said he. “Why, father! Mr. Giddings has been over from Bristol. He came just after you went out. And he says a mistake was made in your account, which he has just found out by accident; he owed you three dollars more, and he paid it to me. So I—” “I don’t think it was by accident, though,” said Mr. Wilson, interrupting her. “Well, I thought as we had nothing for dinner I’d better buy some meat and—” “Do you think it was accident that sent us that money to-day, mother?” persisted the thankful man. “No, I don’t think so,” said his wife humbly. “I think it was Providence. And I’m thankful, I’m sure. I did try to trust; but I’ll try harder next time. You haven’t heard the whole, though. Mr. Giddings wants you next Monday for all the week, and he thinks for all summer.” The grace at table that day was a long one, full of thanks and praise; but not even the youngest child was impatient at its length. THERE is a God! The herd of the valley and the cedars of the mountains bless him; the insects sport in his beams; the birds sing to him in the foliage; the thunder proclaims him in the heavens; the ocean declares his immensity; man alone has said, “There is no God!” Unite in thought at the same instant the most beautiful objects in nature; suppose that you see at once all the hours of the day and all the seasons of the year; a morning of spring and a morning of autumn; a night bespangled with stars and a night covered with clouds; meadows enameled with flowers, forests hoary with snow, and fields gilded by tints of autumn; then alone you will have a just conception of the universe. While you are gazing upon that sun which is plunging under the vault of the west, another observer admires him emerging from the gilded gates of the east. By what inconceivable magic does that aged star which is sinking, fatigued and burning, in the shade (226)227of evening, re-appear at the same instant, fresh and humid with the rosy dews of morning? At every instant of the day the glorious orb is at once rising, resplendent at noonday, and setting in the west; or, rather, our senses deceive us, and there is, properly speaking, no east, west, or south in the world. Everything reduces itself to a single point, from whence the king of the day sends forth at once a triple light. The bright splendor which nature presents, is most beautiful, and gives us an idea of the perpetual magnificence and resistless power of the Creator. Is there no God? The white rose made reply, “My spotless robe was woven in the sky.” The bluebird warbled from his shady bower, “My plumage fell from hands that made the flower.”
Is there no God? The silvery ocean spray
At the vile question startles in dismay;
And, tossing wild against earth’s impious clod,
Old ocean thunders, “Yes! there is a God!”
“We publish God!” the towering mountains cry.
Jehovah’s name is blazoned on the sky,
The dancing streamlet and the golden grain,
The lightning gleam, the thunder and the rain;
The dew-drop diamond on the lily’s breast,
The tender leaf by every breeze caressed;
The shell, whose pearly bosom ocean laves,
And sea-weed bowing to a troop of waves;
The glow of Venus and the glare of Mars,
The tranquil beauty of the lesser stars;
The eagle, soaring in majestic flight,
The morning bursting from the clouds of night;
The child’s fond prattle, and the mother’s prayer,
Angelic voices floating on the air,
Mind, heart, and soul, the ever-restless breath,
And all the myriad mysteries of death.
Beware, ye doubting, disbelieving throng,
Whose sole ambition is to favor wrong;
There is a God; remember, while you can,
“His Spirit will not always strive with man.”
“MAMMA, O mamma!” cried an eager young voice; and Nellie Alton, a plump, rosy school-girl of twelve summers, rushed into her mother’s room, and flinging her text-books on the sofa, she seated herself on an ottoman at her mother’s feet. Mrs. Alton looked up from her sewing with a quiet smile, and said, as she pushed back the tangled curls from Nellie’s uplifted forehead,— “What is the matter with my daughter? Has anything serious occurred at the institute?” “O mamma,” said Nellie, half reproachfully, “you can’t have forgotten that it is just a week to-day since I received that invitation to Minnie Shelburne’s party. You said at the time, that you didn’t know whether I might accept, and I think I’ve been very patient not to tease you about it. Almost all the girls are going. Mrs. Doane has bought the loveliest silk for Carrie and Jessie; and Mrs. Hilton has three women sewing on230Emma’s dress. Here I am not knowing whether I can go. Cousin Sue said she thought my ‘mother a woman of great deliberation.’” “In years to come you will rejoice over the truth of that remark, my darling.” “But, mamma, please decide now, won’t you?” “I have decided, my dear. Last night your father and I had a long talk about the matter, and we agreed—”
“To let me go!” cried eager Nellie. “No, dear. Anxious for your truest good, we were sorry we should have to disappoint you. But we cannot grant you a harmful pleasure.” Nellie bit her lip, while her eyes filled with tears. “May I ask your reasons, mamma?” “Yes, dear; and I feel that my sensible little daughter cannot but be satisfied with them. All the advantages you are now having tend to make you at some future time, a useful woman in society. To obtain their full benefit, your mind must remain undiverted from your studies, and yourself kept free from everything that will detract from your health and strength. Parties will excite231you, deprive you of sleep, fill your mind with foolish fancies, retard you in your school work, and make you thin, pale, and irritable. We would sadly miss our bright, blooming Nellie. Do you wonder we refuse to let you attend the party?” “But just once cannot hurt me,” pleaded Nellie. “The one party, my child, will be followed by a score of them. If you go to Miss Shelburne’s, the other girls will wonder why you cannot attend theirs, and ill feeling will arise. We will talk no more about it now. Sometime you will thank me for my course. Are you satisfied?” “I’ll try to be, mamma,” said Nellie; but there were a few suspicious drops on her eyelashes. The night of the party arrived. Nellie had had a very trying week at school, for the girls thought of nothing else besides their fine preparations. She bore it bravely, and after tea sat resolutely down to her lessons, which were unusually difficult. Half-past eight found her closing her books with the air of a conqueror, while she exclaimed,— “Now, mamma, they’re all done, every232one. May I run over and see Cousin Sue off?” Consent was given, and Nellie entered her uncle’s vestibule just as Sue was descending the stairs, in a cloud of lace and pink silk. She felt a little choking in her throat, but said, quietly, “Sue, you look lovely; but tomorrow’s French exercise is terribly hard.” “And Miss Propriety Stay-at-home has prepared for it, I infer. Aren’t you sorry you can’t go?” said Sue, settling her flounces with a satisfied air. “Mother knows best,” said Nellie, decidedly; then she went home. While her sixth hour of sleep, sweet and restful, was passing by, poor, tired, cross Sue returned home, and wearily climbed the stairs to her room. Next day Nellie came home, saying, “I am at the head of all my classes. Some of the girls were late, others had headaches, all of them were disagreeable, and none of them had half prepared their lessons. Professor Marshly was very angry, but he thanked me for my good example to others. You dearest mother! I’ll trust you as long as I live.” And grateful Nellie sealed the compact with a kiss. Years afterward, two ladies were seated in a pleasant room engaged in conversation. One of them reclined on a sofa, and her sallow features and restless, dissatisfied manner marked her an invalid. The face of the other was bright with health and vivacity. Her sunny smile and cheery voice showed her a stranger to sickness and pain. “Nellie, my dear,” sighed the former, “you can have no idea of the dreadful condition of my nervous system. I spend the greater part of the day on the sofa. The children are a perfect worriment, everything about the house goes wrong, Ralph looks so discontented. I cannot enjoy society at all. In fact, the doctor says I had too much dissipation when young, and ruined my constitution with the parties and late suppers. I would give my fortune for your good health and cheerful spirits.” “Cousin Sue, I remember when you used to drive off to parties, and think scornfully of my quiet home evenings.” “I remember, Nellie. Do hand me the hartshorn and another cushion, and please lower that shade a little. There, thank you. Now will you inform me to what you owe your healthy, happy life?” At this moment, the door opened, and a silver-haired, sweet-faced lady entered. Nellie rose to meet her, and twining one arm about the lady’s waist, “Cousin Sue,” she said, “my perfect health, my calm, happy mind, the good I am enabled to do for God and humanity, the comfort I succeed in giving to my husband and children, the knowledge I have of my Heavenly Father, and the love I bear him, I owe to the judicious care, the wise counsel, and the tender love and prayers of my mother.” BEAUTIFUL! yes; but the blush will fade,
The light grow dim which the blue eyes wear;
The gloss will vanish from curl and braid,
And the sunbeam die in the waving hair.
Turn from the mirror, and strive to win
Treasures of loveliness still to last;
Gather earth’s glory and bloom within,
That the soul may be bright when youth is past.
The boys of our time are too much afraid of work. They act as if the honest sweat of the brow was something to be ashamed of. Would that they were all equally afraid of a staggering gait and bloated face! This spirit builds the gambling houses, fills the jails, supplies the saloons and gaming places with loiterers, and keeps the alms-houses and charitable institutions doing a brisk business. It doesn’t build mammoth stores and factories, nor buildings like the Astor Library and Cooper Institute. The men who built such monuments of their industry and benevolence were not afraid of work. All the boys have heard of the great publishing house of the Harpers. They know of their Monthly, Weekly, the Bazar, and interesting books of all kinds, and perhaps have seen their great publishing house in New York City. If I should ask them how the eldest of the brothers came to found such an illustrious house, I should perhaps be told that he was a “wonderfully lucky man.” He was lucky, and an old friend and fellow-workman, a leading editor, has revealed the secret of his luck. He and the elder Harper learned their trades together, fifty years ago, in John Street, New York. They began life with no fortune but willing hands and active brains; fortune enough for any young man in this free country. “Sometimes after we had done a good day’s work, James Harper would say, ‘Thurlow, let’s break the back of another token,—just break its back.’ I would generally reluctantly consent just to break the back of the token; but James would beguile me, or laugh at my complaints, and never let me off until the token was completed, fair and square! It was our custom in summer to do a fair half-day’s work before the other boys and men got their breakfast. We would meet by appointment in the gray of the morning, and go down to John Street. We got the key of the office by tapping on the window, and Mr. Seymour would take it from under his pillow, and hand it to one of us through the blind. “It kept us out of mischief, and put money in our pockets.” The key handed through that window tells237the secret of the luck that enabled these two men to rise to eminence, while so many boys that lay soundly sleeping in those busy morning hours are unknown. No wonder that James Harper became Mayor of the city, and head of one of the largest publishing houses in the world. When his great printing-house burned down, the giant perseverance learned in those hours of overwork, enabled him to raise, from the ashes, a larger and finer one. Instead of watching till his employer’s back was turned, and saying, “Come, boys, let’s go home; we’ve done enough for one day,” and sauntering off with a cigar in his mouth, his cry was, “Let’s do a little overwork.” That overwork which frightens boys nowadays out of good places, and sends them out West, on shipboard, anywhere, eating husks, in search of a spot where money can be had without work, laid the foundation of the apprentice boy’s future greatness. Such busy boys were only too glad to go to bed and sleep sound. They had no time nor spare strength for dissipation, and idle thoughts, and vulgar conversation. Almost the last words that James Harper uttered were appropriate to the end of such238a life, and ought to be engraven upon the mind of every boy who expects to make anything of himself: “It is not best to be studying how little we can work, but how much.” Boys, make up your minds to one thing,—the future great men of this country are doing just what those boys did. If you are dodging work, angry at your employer or teacher for trying to make you faithful, getting up late, cross, and sleepy, after a night of pleasure-seeking, longing for the time when you can exchange honest work for speculation, you will be a victim to your own folly. The plainly-dressed boys whom you meet carrying packages, going of errands, working at trades, following the plow, are laying up stores of what you call good luck. Overwork has no terrors for them. They are preparing to take the places of the great leaders of our country’s affairs. They have learned James Harper’s secret. The key handed out to him in the “gray of the morning”—that tells the story! “The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.”
In the winter of 1870 I had occasion to go from Green Bay to Chicago on the Northwestern Railway. At Oshkosh we were joined by a delegation of lawyers, on their way to Madison, the capital, to attend the Legislature then in session. They were all men of more than usual intellect, and of unexceptionable character. Two were ex-Judges of the Circuit Court, and one I had seen chairman of the Young Men’s Christian Association. The party found seats near together, and after the first salutation was over, they began to look about for means to while away their time. After awhile, some one proposed a game of cards. No sooner said than done. Two seats were turned apart so as to face each other, a cushion improvised to serve as a table, and three of the lawyers, including the chairman of the Y. M. C. A., and a Chicago runner on good terms with them, were soon deep in the mysteries of a game of euchre. I was surprised to see the Christian gentlemen (239)240men—judges of the law and equity, leaders of society, makers of public sentiment, law-givers of a great State, directors of public morals, supposed to be public exemplars of all that is good, and guides to the young—thus setting publicly their seal of approval to a most evil and dangerous practice. To be sure, they played for stakes no higher than the cigars for the party; but it seems to me that in the eyes of all discreet persons this does not change the act nor lessen the danger of its example, but rather heightens it, as from the less to the greater is the invariable course of crime. While I was filled with such thoughts as these, one of the party grew tired of the game, and the remaining judge was invited to take his place. I saw the blood mount to his manly face in an honest blush of disapproval, and he hesitated and drew back. But the game had become interesting, and his excited companions urged him on,— “Come, Judge, take a hand; we can’t go on without it.” The judge rose slowly from his seat, inwardly condemning the act, as I evidently saw, and stepping forward, took a seat among the players, and the game went on. I had noticed an old lady in a seat to the rear of the players. Gray, and bent with age, she sat abashed, and with eyes closed, seeming asleep most of the time, until the train stopped at Oshkosh and took on board the company of lawyers. She then underwent a change, and became greatly interested in the company, looking from one to another, as if she recognized them all, or was trying to recall their faces. When the game of cards was started, she became restless, would move about uneasily in her seat, and take up the hem of her faded apron and nervously bite the threads. Once or twice I thought she wiped her eyes under her “shaker bonnet.” She acted so strangely that I became more interested in her than in the players, and I watched her very closely. She got up after a time, and tottered forward, holding on to the seats as she passed. She brushed against Judge — in passing, but he had become interested in the game, and did not notice her. Reaching the water tank, she drank a cup of water and took a seat near the door with her back to the players. But she did not remain there. Rising with difficulty, she tottered back to her former242seat, but reaching the players, she paused directly in front of them, and excitedly threw back her long bonnet and looked around at the company. Her actions at once arrested their attention, and pausing in their play they all looked up inquiringly. Gazing directly in the face of Judge —, she said in a tremulous voice,— “Do you know me, Judge——?” “No, mother, I don’t remember you,” said the judge, pleasantly; “where have we met?” “My name is Smith,” said she, “and I was with my poor boy three days, off and on, in the court-room in Oshkosh, when he was tried for—for—for robbing somebody, and you are the same man that sent him to prison for ten years; and he died there last June.” All faces were now sobered, and passengers began to gather around and stand over them to listen and see what was going on. She did not give the judge time to answer her, but becoming more and more excited, she went on:— “He was a good boy, if you did send him to jail. He helped us clear the farm, and when father was taken sick and died, he did243all the work, and was getting along well till he took to town, and got to playing cards and drinking; and then somehow he didn’t like to work after that, but used to stay out till morning, and then he’d sleep so late; and I couldn’t wake him when I knocked, he’d been out so late the night before. And then the farm run down, and then we lost the team. One of the horses got killed when he’d been to town one awful cold night. He stayed late, and I suppose they got cold standin’ out, and got scared and broke loose and run most home; but they ran against the fence, and a stake run into one of them, and when we found him next morning he was dead and the other was standing under the shed. And so after awhile he coaxed me to sell the farm and buy a house and lot in the village, and he’d work at carpenter work. And so I did, as we couldn’t do nothing on the farm. “But he grew worse than ever, and after awhile couldn’t get any work, and wouldn’t do anything but gamble and drink all the time. I used to do everything I could to get him to quit and be a good industrious boy again, but he used to get mad after awhile,244and once he struck me; and then in the morning I found he had taken what little money there was left of the farm and had run off. After that I got along as well as I could, cleanin’ house for folks, and washin,’ but I didn’t hear nothing of him for four or five years; but when he got arrested and was taken up to Oshkosh for trial, he wrote to me.” By this time there was not a dry eye in the car, and the cards had disappeared. The old lady herself was weeping silently, and speaking in snatches. But recovering herself, she continued:— “But what could I do? I sold the house and lot to get money to hire a lawyer; and I believe he is here somewhere. Oh, yes, there he is, Mr. —. And this is the man, I am sure, who argued against him. And you, Judge —, sent him to prison; for the poor boy told me that he really did rob the bank. But he must have been drunk, for they had all been playing cards most all night, and drinking. But oh dear! it seems to me as though if he hadn’t got to playing cards he might have been alive yet. But when I used to tell him it was wrong, and bad to play, he used to say, ‘Why, mother, everybody plays245now. I never bet only for candy or cigars, or something like that.’ And when we heard that the young folks played cards down at Mr. Culver’s donation party, and that Squire Ring was going to get a billiard table for his young folks to play at home, I couldn’t do anything with him. We used to think it was awful to do that way when I was young; but it seems to me as if everybody nowadays was going wrong in something or other. But may be it isn’t right for me to talk to you, Judge, in this way; but it just seems as if the sight of them cards would kill me, Judge. I thought if you only knew how bad I felt, you wouldn’t play on so; and then to think, right here before all these young folks! “May be, Judge, you don’t know how young folks look up to such as you; and then I can’t help thinking that may be if them that ought to know better than to do so, and them that are higher learnt, and all that, wouldn’t set such examples, my poor Tom would be alive and caring for his poor old mother. But now there ain’t any of our family left but me and my poor gran’child, my dead daughter’s little girl; and we are going to stop with my brother in Illinois.” Tongue of man nor angel never preached a more eloquent sermon than that gray, withered old lady, trembling with age and excitement, and fear that she was doing wrong. I cannot recall half she said, as she, a poor, lone, beggared widow, stood before those noble-looking men and pleaded the cause of the rising generation. The look they bore as she poured forth her sorrowful tale was indescribable. To say that they looked like criminals at the bar would be a faint description. I can imagine how they felt. The old lady tottered to her seat, and taking her little grandchild in her lap, hid her face on her neck. The little one stroked her gray hair with one hand, and said, “Don’t cry, gran’ma; don’t cry, gran’ma.” Eyes unused to weeping were red for many a mile on that journey. And I can hardly believe that one who witnessed that scene ever touched a card again. It is just to say that when the passengers came to themselves, they generously responded to the Judge, who, hat in hand, silently passed through the little audience.