Litchfield enquirer. [volume], January 06, 1848, Image 1

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THE LITCHFIELD ENQUIRER.
■ofcr * v* ~ ^ ^ “ ' mm' * ' " "* *' ' ' »■'■■«■ —■■ ■ ~~~
Orbotcb to iJolftfra, portion «n« Bomratft Xttoa, jMoralo, ja(a«U*«s, »u.
• tT*
Voi. xx ir.
LITCHFIELD, (CONN.,) THURSDAY, JANUARY 6, IH40.9
No. 84. Who..* N*. 1136- I
8 Ijr frftciifirUj Enqueue.
IS VITBI. I»Hi:d KVKRY THURSDAY M»RI«I KG
Bj PAFVH fcfiFFOF KILU9FXV,
\/n l/ie Bui/tJins nett Kastnflhr Comt-hnwi
UTOMKIELIJ, CONN.
TEfl.ns.
Village and sinsjlr Mail subscribers, £|.r»(
In Bundles of ->o and upwards. jfl.-ifi ; nr,
paid for strict! t/ in adeavcr, £1.1)0.
- $^*The I ow price at Yvhieh avc have placed
he Etiquirsr, renders it necessary that our
teems should he strictly com id ted with.
k —... . ^
Jonathan 7. XVorton,
ATTORNEY & COUNSELOR
AT LAW.
West Cornwall, Conn.
Kov. 15, 1847. 27
William K. Peck, jr.
JSYTOBA'Ey fc COUA'SKUA.li AT
\ 3LAW*
Norfolk, Conn.
HENRY B. GRAVES,
Alioihcy nnd Counsellor nt l.nw.
Commissioner uj Dents fur the tit ate uj J\'cU'
Turk, &c
Pi.Y.MOitTit, Cony.
J. B. ELLIOTT,
Physician Jf Surgeon,
U” Olfice with Dr >1. R. Hubbard,
, New Hartford, Conn.
I, rooty-- -
* march C. M. HOOKER,
JKi: 2 N T 1ST.
»nd J "y be eonsil/tnl us herelujore, ill J.iti h- I
y nt, Goshen and G’oodbui y.
LUrhJield, Se/it. ,‘llb, In.|7. IS
33d ward w. Hit he.
May always be found al bis resi
dence in South sired.
Liicbfipld. Nov. IS. IS 17. 27
ALMOST every nrtii Ip in tho lino, irtav
he found One Boor Eftsf ot
the Court House /—m *’ A I it
MF.AFOY & TROWBRIOGK
I' Mitiulil, Oct 6th IS 17. 20 I
1
ONK of the best FARMS in Sharon.
consisting of lf!2 acres, situated in the
Valley. Terms made easy for the purchas
er. ANNUL STKflUNG.
Pino \\ imrds, Shin
Ci L R & <’ L A P K O A II D S .
THR Subscriber offers for stile
50!) It)» feet clear and meroeunlable Boards
and Planks.
230 0)1) lect clear and merchantable Clap
boards
O')) rived and sawed shingles.
O') O K) feet white wood Hoards t nd Plank.
JOOU Bunches eastern Lath. logclhei with a
general assortment of building materials.
2G 2in H. M. WKI.CH.
Farmington Canal, Plainvillc Nov R. I'it7.
Shut the Door,
AND
HOLD IT OPEN.
KRLSRY’S Gate &. Door Spring.
/PUR public generally that want
*■ Gale and Door Springs aie respectful!)
invited to on 11 and see Hie article, (made as it
slinnl.l-tie,) and in operation on the smro door
ot the subscriber, oue um r west of Hie Court
House.
S:\MHRL CLOCK.
General Agent for Litchfield Connlv.
Litchfield, Nov 24, I1* 17. 2*
B OOTS & SHOES,
k
Leather gtore !
■
I ITT NEW FIRM XU
■ MEAFOY & TROWBIiJDGK,
I TT AVE opened a STORE in Litchfield
H Jl at the Old Stand of L. O MEAFOV,
one door east of the Conn House, for the
purpose of conducting the ah.,ve business in
all its brauches. They ban uow in store
a complete assortment of every thing in the
||{'l -‘ne appropriate for the season. India Kub
*erb of every kind. Sole and Upper l^eath
Mr B er, Calf, Morocco, Lining and Binding
Skins.
rvl £C^“Our friends, together with the Pub
iel^B' tie generally, are most respectfully invited
■ to call and examiue our Goods lor tbera
^ ■ selves.
L. O MEAFOY,
"HH; H. P TROWBRIDGE.
lpt» __
yc#” All those indebled to the undersigns
|,il sd are requested to call aud settle the same.
hI All who have claims against me are inviu
n<uH. to call aud receive their cash.
irsV L. O. MEAFOY.
■i j Litchfield, Sept 6. 1847. HHf
K ZkVJLht* Lime, a new supply rcceiv
jTB J b3oHr L.. J SMITH.
■***■ jyj OTICE.—Ail persons who have givs
***^1 1.1 en their notes to tnr Treasurer ol the
'aJH at Ecclesiastical Society for pew rent.
nd all who have subscribed towards the
■ laymen', of the debts of said Society, are
■ equested to pay the same on or before
D| ^Hne 1st of January to Chaxles Adams
'reasorer, or to
ANDREW BUELL, Collector.
{MiH JCy>All peisons holding orders againsl
7i3M aid S iciety are requested topresent then
Mfjl »r payment.
■Mil Litchfield Dae. 28th 1847
! Ctjr ]»o(t*0 Corner.
lie are Cronin? (lid.
{ BT FRANCES BROWN.
I H> rtrr gratrhtg o/ti ! How tile tho’t will rise.
When a glance is backward cast,
On gome long remembered spot that lies
Til the silence of the Past!
It may he the shrine of onr early vow*.
Or the tomb of our early tears ;
Bill it seems like a far-off Isle to us,
In the stormy sea of yeats.
Oh. wide and wild are the waves that part
Our steps from its greenness now,
And we miss the joy of many a heart,
And the light of many a brow ;
For deep o’er many a stately ba'rk.
Have the whelming bilious tolled,
That steer’d with ns from that early mark,—
Oh, friends, we are growing old.
Old in the dimness and the dust •
Of our daily toils and cures ;
Old in the wrecks of love and trust.
Which our burdened memory bears.
Mach loini may wear, to the passing gaze,
The bloom ol life’s freshness yet.
And hiatus may brighten our latter days,
Which the morning never met.
But Oh. the changes we have seen
In till far and winding wav—
The graves in out path Ilia' havegrnvn green,
And the loeks that have grown gray !
The winter stillun our own may spate
The sable ot the gold ;
mu we see me mows upon nrignrer nair—
And, friends, we me growing old.
We }utvv gained ■ lit: world’* eotd w isdom now,
Via leave learned to pause and fear;
Hut where are the living founts whole flow
Was a joy of h|jaatn hear ?
We have won the wealth of many aelime,
Alid the lore of many a page;
Bnl where, is I lie* Hope that saw in t.me,
But ils boundless heritage?
Will it come a gain when the violet wakes,
And the woods their youth renew ?
W< have stood in the light of sirinv brakes,
Where the bloom was drop anil blue ;
\nd our souls might jov in the spring lime then,
But l he joy was faint and cold,
i'«r il i.e’er could give us the youth again
Oi hearts t lint are grind ng old.
For Me Ftiquirtr.
TO A FAVORITE STAR.
BY naiBENCE C.KEEN V1I,I,K.
0 —
Oh, welcome, lonely orb, as thou rollest there
above,
Phou seetr’st a glorious emblem of purity and
love ;
Bike Heaven’s recording angel, thou silted
iliere mi high—
!s ihv pen the silvery moon-ligb't, thy scroll,
thy azure sky ?
Dost thou untold the mysteries of Fate’* eternal
pr ire ?
Here overthrow an empire, there an orphan’s
griel assuage ?
Dr didst limn with chernli armies awake cre
ation’s morn ?
While Heavei’s bright arches echoed, another
world is born !
Art tlinil Mai’s ‘guardian angel ’ with r adiert
wings unfurled.
Dost thou hear the smiles of mercy to onr a
pnstate world 7
Whispering ever to F.arth’s sail ones,of a home
ni*vH|M| I Ilf- VI
Where lifl’* pilgrim* *w»etly slumber, like
sunshine on Ihe wave !
Or ari Ihnu a ray of glory from that weiM be.
yond the skies,
Where unnumbered strains ot rapture in one
hallelujah rise!
No answer thou returnesf—-but I know that
thou wert given
To guide o-er life’s dark wave our shattered
barks to Heaven.
I 'know thou art a link in that endless chain
ot love}
That binds our sin-dimmed spirits to our Far
rhc-i’* throne above !
New Preston. Dec 14. IM1.
A MEXICAN WEDDING.~
On the 12th of July lost, we attended
muss with some otfic-r«, and returning
from the ehn|M, we fi ll in with two sur«
germs of the Mexican army, who were
well educated men, one ot them speak,
ing French tolerably well. Having in*
vited them to dine with us, they made
themselves very agreeable, and told ui
that Ampudia was fortifying Monterey
and that we would no doubt have a deci
atve battle there. Alter dinner they in
vitrd us to an entertainment, which they
said was tot-ike place that evening- Be
fore which, however, we went to witness
u marriage between a young Mexican of
ficerand a very pretty Mexican girl. Tin
parties, it appears, had been engaged toi
two years, and the young officer duriut
the tale halllea, had bis teg shot olf —not
withstanding, the girl was true and con
srasr.and determined to have him. 1 b
bride was dressed to white, with a golt
necklace, which hung over her bosom
and a white lac* covering half of npe
head and face. The groom waa in ful
uniform, which looked very imposing.
They were married by the priest, afie
which there was a shaking of hands, am
miugling of congratulations.
mm&LAHY."
From Ihr Lnriirs J\ atinnn! .Magazine.
Toor Johnny.
BY MRS. ANN 3. STEPHEN*.
“ Suffer litilo children in come unto me for >f
such i* ihe kingdom of Heaven !”
Ab-iut half an hour’s ride from the
thickly settled portions of New York, is
one of lhe most beautiful little islands that
you ever set eyes upon. Just where the
hanks of the E-ist River are the most
broken and picturesque on the main bot
tom shore, and the sunny slimes of Long
Island are the most verdant in their ar
cadian beauty, the river opens its bright
waters and Blackwell's Island rises
green, verdant, and beautiful from its az
ui£ h> sum. Beauiitul. even now, is that
island—but it was more so, years ago,
when its hollows were fragrant with wild
roses, haunted with black-birds and
thrashes—when its shores were hemmed !
in with the snow-white dog-wood, wild
cherry and maple trees, joined together
with senrlrt ivy and a thousand clinging
vines, that oven now hang along its
shores, like torn banners left on n battle
field. Then, the island must have seem- j
ed a mile’s length of Paradise chopped
into the waters—but now, alas Black
well's Island has other inhabitants than
the singing birds, and the sweet wild
blossoms. Its extremelies are burdened,
and crushed down, as it were, to the very
water’s tdge, with an edifice of ma-sive
stone, while human crime and human
misery are crowded together in masses
appalling t5 reflect upon.
VJ.I out1 UUU Ol IHO IMUIKl, UMHIiail) «U
quiet and beautiful, rises rise rugged walls
oi the Penitentiary, flunked by out-booses,
hospitals,and others, every stone of which
is eloquent <>t human degradation, lit re,
a thousand wretched beings, bowed with
misery and branded ^iih crime, are
crowded together. All tho day long,
herds of these degraded beings may be
seen in their coarse ami faded uniform,
burrowing in the earth, blasting awl slur
ping Hie rucks that are to form new prison
walls, and tilling the sweet air r/ilh
groans and curses which once thrilled
only to the Summer-bird songs
At the other extremity of the island
Mauds I ho Insnno Asylum, a beautiful
pile, towering proudly over.* scene of
misery that is enough to make the hear'
humble with awe and sympathy. From
its grated windows you may hear every
sound, horrid or pathetic, in which the ius
sane mind expresses ils ravings. At uric
window is a wild face peering through
ihe bars.and looking wistfully ut the pas
ser by with eye* lull of entreaty, ijjid the
*van hand waving fainter and fainter as
the wild gesture is unheeded—from an
other shrieks ring out upon the Wuler, as
ihe poor maniac calls for his mother to
come out from the woods—a beautiful
grove that rises afar off on the Long Is
land shore.
. _ _ _ 11... ....
• mcjimr—muinni « vwim- * ■
waited—I have pb.nried—1 have prayed
for you to o*»e. Mother t mother !”
This is the Jaily cry of a poor Gcr.
man boy. The fisherman hears it as l»«
| glides by tho walls of that gloomy mad
house, and lifts his oar with a sort of
terror, as if his own freedom were a
mockery to the poor creatures.blockcd in
by those massive nod iron built walls
from ill# sweet sunny air—the passed
g. rs that float by in our palace sicam
bouts sometimes hear a wild shout, rising
even above the ,*oisc ol the engine, and
see nn arm thrust wildly through the iron
burs of the window" where this boy i*
confined—and in the still night, that cry
of “mother, mother, come,” rings over
the woods—and dies in plaintive mur
murs amid tht^Wur and turmoil of “ Hell
Gate.”
Other sounds there nre issuing from
that dismul dwelling—curses that chill
the blood—pleadin#s-fthat might melt a
heart of stone—wild, riotous laughter*
and wit, often more keen and satirical
than springs from the most brilliant in
tellect- Besides all this amount of liv
ing misery, every association, painful or
bur rid, seems crowded os: this beautiful
bpol—there is a little mouud scarcely u
stone’s throw from the water, and »ur
rndfiiited by s mutely trimmed apple tree,
that looks like some prety hillock, left by
tbe gardener as a pleasant object to greet
the |*jor maniac as ho gazes from the
window ul.his cell. Quiet and verduht
it seems, with the calm sunshine steeping
on if", and the shadow ol the slender treo,
pencilled delicately on the sward, as it
nothing less beautiful hud ever touched
iis surlace. Yet that is the gallows tree'.
Under its young boughs year after year,
was the fstal limbers reared from which
one bumau soul alter another was rude
ly thrust into eternity- That soft grass,
so bright and beautiful, has been trodden
[" over and over by tbe executioner. Those
young boughs have trembled to the death.
‘ agony of many a wretched convict Lc*
r gaily murdered, amid the shoula, th<
1 sneers, the horror of h;s fellow men—aoc
yet tbe scene from that tree is se he%uli
fnl. ftw blue expanse of the river sweep
srotted one broad mirror of sunshine and
wate^ The shores nil around nre indon
ted into fniry promontories, and rise in
the dftost henniifut slopes that rver gave
birth tr, a world of wild flowers. Close
bv. tgo waters of “Hell Gate” toss up
theiri|r*nm, nnd spnrkle in the sunshine,
nnd in the purple dis'nnee sleep* many n
scene of rurnl loveliness that is more
thnn .arcadian in its rural benuty. Yet
with all this beauty slumbering around,
there*!nnd the gnllows tree—ihere looms
the Insane Asylum, and there the black
Penitentiary is sequestered like some
loathsome, monster upon the spot which
wns many years since a pet feet-jungle of
sweat biiar and swamp roses. «
Amj| wrong then in snying thafeonibw
little iBpr-nf earth is kneaded together
more of human wretchedness thf»n can
I he fognd in the same space throughout
the length and breadth of our Inuii- The
moment your foot touches the shore you
feel oppressed with tho crowd of feelings
that seem ioexplicaMe—pity, horror, and
a painful blending of both crowd upon
the henrt with ererv breath you draw.—
Nothing but tho air seems free—nothing
hut lb* blue sky above seems pure ns, you
wulk from one scene of distrtss to unoth,
er. You feel tho more oppressed because
human effort seems so powerless to allu
viate thu misery you witness. All that
humanity enn accomplish—all that sym
pathy can do to alleviata distress, is al
ready extended by tiiose who are entrus
ted to regulate thu charities ol a great
city—but what cab minister to a mind
diseased 1 VVhal can lake away ilte de
formity nnd the sting of guilt 1 Where
lies the power to lift pauperism (rum the
degradation that the haughty aod evil
spirit of man has flung around it? The
vary heart grows faint ns it beats in this
wilderness of woo. and finds no fining
answer to questions like those.
mil i lit ir is bi 111 uiir i fin iiti 111 in i tea ui 11 ii i Hit'*
lure left on Blackwell's Island—one spot where
the flowers are yet left to bloom in the pure
breath ol Heaven—where the trees are yet
rooted to the earth, and tilled, as of old with
the music of Summer bit da. On the vety cen
tre i f the island is an old mansion house, for
merly the residence of its proprietor before the
paradise became city properly. It is a ram'
tiling old building, with wings of unequal length
shailet^wilh some magnificent old willows, and
surrounded by shrubberies, pretty lawns, sha
ded with tine old trees—terraces, beautifully
lifted from the water’s edge—the gravel walks,
with here and there a grape arbor flung over
them, and bordered with seme ol the thickest
and heaviest box In he found within tan miles
around. A neglected and rude old place it is,
nut perhaps the mote lovely for that, Neglect
only seems to add to the wild luxuriance of
every thing around, the hedges anti rose thick*
e*s ate tangled together. flreat snow-hall
trees, trumpet vines, and honeysucklesoccrn to
shoot out more vigorously from want of pru
ning, and the trees have become dressed in the
majesty ol their ago.
- You can stand in the old ban and see the
river on either hand sparklihg through the
spreading branches—now and I lien a snow w hite
sail glides by, and at sunset the water seem*
heaving up waves ot gold wherever your (ye is
turned
I ms is mo i_iiiiiuen s iinspiini. in me tow
chamber*, sml the fine old fashioned rooms,
from a hundred and fifty lo two hundred chil
dren lie upon their little cots, in all the stages
of suffering to which infancy is subject. Oh,
it is a mournful sight,—those helpless little
creatures, orphaned, or worse Ihao orphaned,
in the morning of lile, Their wasled teat ores
wearing such looks of pain, and yft so pliant.
God,helt» them!
The physician in this hospital is a relative
^my own, and many a heart ache has it given
me lo watch the brightening of those little la
ces, as he or the good matron pass into the
the wards, ministering to their comfort—poor
tilings, by a kind look and soothing word,
where medicine might often less avail, irtrange
manifestations of character have I witnessed
among those tittle creatures—fortitude, that
might lu»»e shamed a warrier—patience, the
most saint like—and again, but why should I
dwell upnnjheevil that sometimes exhibits it.
seTf, full grown, in the heart of an inlant ? But
theie was one little child, whose history, sim
ple as it is, yet to me, lull of touching interest,
I am about to relate. There is no romance in
it—nothing to excite, but still I think the rea
der will not turn away from what I have to tell
of poor little Johny, without a feeling of sym
pathy, a sigh, perhaps a tear. I shed more
than one when they told me that his little col
tin rested among the dead heaped together in
Potiei’s Field.
We had gone up lo spend an afternoon with
inv relatives, and were silling out upon the pi
azza that runs along iho front of the hospital,
enjoying the delicious fragrance that came up
from the shrubberies, rnd sneaking, now and
then, a word to a group of little crippled chil
dren that were lying around Ilia steps, when
the commissioner's boat, from the Alms House
at Bellevue, came in eight, with two or three
of the young physicians of that institutior on
board. They landed, and came through the
giounda, one of them bearing t mop of red flan
nel end fiery fustian in his arms, amid which a
pale hand falling over the doctor’s shoulder,
and a thin little face, reading upon his bosom
, was just discernible. As the group passed u,
and entered the ball, the child’s head waa fully
lifted, and he turned upon us a face so meek
aadyet beaining.with vivid intelligence, that
it made the heart thrill painfull} t« look
him.
His dress was of the coarsrst kind, neglected
ami even “fpialid. A red flannel under garment
which had belonged to some lull grown man
was huddled about him in coarse foids, and
lasti ned to his thin waist Hr a nether garment
also much too large—hut the legs were rolled
"i1 i'« » solid mop, through which hit thin an
cles and torn shoe* protruded, and the long red
sleeve* were folded bark to the shoulder over
his long and deathlv white arms. I had often
seen sick children carried into the hospital be
fore and never wifhmil a thrill of pain, but
there was something about this child so singu
lar that l could not east him from my mind—
his fare had all the intelligence of an oM man’s
worn out in struggle with, the evils of life.—
Vet there was something saint-like and holy
in Ihe large eyes, that the heart could f«el,
though the pen would altogether foil in c<h?f
veying an idea of it. ^
Atter a tithe 1 went «p to ice the little
stranger. He hyMdj^en put in a bath, and his
rags displaced by clean and wholesome garm
ents. The thin, golden hair was combed back
from his for> head, and altogether, he had a
look of cleanliness and comfort that had some
thing cheering in it. He seemed to feel the
genial effect of this change, for his large eyea
had brightened somewhat, and on hit hollow
cheek lay n faint tinge of red. The chtM was
not handesome, perhaps had never been so in
her Ith—hut the heart yearned toward him with
a feeling hoiie> a thousand times than infan
tine beaniy could excite.
I sat down by the .child, who had seated
himself on a stool near the l**ot ofjhi* cot,and
taking bis little band, asked if he were ill,
‘A little,' he said,in a voice that Correspond
ed willi his meek face. *
'What is the matter—have you been long
ill V
{Yes, a little ill, nothin'* very bad, though
my back is burned a good deal, but it will be
well soon, now that 1 am here and everybody
so kind,’
He turned his eyes from the comfortable and
clean cot to my face, amlthcn dropped them do
Ins hands tjiat were elaspi d and testing on bia
knees.
’IVnat ia your name.’
‘John—but my mother and aunty call me
‘Then you have a mother V
•Yea.’
His eyes drooped down, and hi* (alien voice
was still more faint. I saw that there was
something wrong, some thought at the.child’s
heart which it would pain him to drag forth.
I would nt>( <p:e*tinn him further, but proceed*
ed to say a few encouraging word* to him and
was about to leave the room hut the boy turned
his eyes upon mo as if he had something *Co
say, so f went back,
‘Is there anything I can do for you, Johnny.
I am going home now, but shall come up again
soon ; shall I bring you somu oranges, or ap
ples, or cake ?’
He lay still and kept his eyes down, and I
saw, that unlike any child 1 bad seen there be*
lore, he did not seem elaled with tha offer of
these danlies : he hesitated, moved en his
stool, said he thanked me very much indeed,
but did I live in New York !
i ‘Yes.’
I • wen. men, ii ii wnnici noi i>e too muen i
trouble—if 1 would just as lief do it as to give I
him the apples—would l go and tsehis moth- I
er and tell her how comfortable he wai, and '
that he wanted to see her very much—and
aunty too, he would like t>. aee them both ;
would I go?—his aunty had brought him to
Bellevue four days ago, hut she might not have
heard about his coming up here, and so it
would he a Tong time before they found him.
would I beso Kind ?’
‘Would I be so kind /’ had that child asked
me to walk fifty miles with that voice, a'nd ,
those pleading eyes, I could not have denied
him: So taking bis mother’s address I gave the
promise.
‘Tell her I want very much to see hy Wed
nesday, .if you please ma’am, [ don’t feel as if I
could wait longer than Wednesday !’
She will come, I will tell her all, and per
haps come with her,’ I said, fully resolved that
I lie sick child should have his wish.
Well, I returned home with my thoughts Bill
of this pauper child, this little sick child,with
bis lips all parched, and his eyes kindled with
a.death glow, who could ask a eight of hi*
mother instead of the grateful fruit lhat even
healthy children will sacrifice so much for I
His mother, too ! I was curious to see the
nithar of this sing liar child, .surely *he
must be something superior—an intelligent
and feeble woman broken down hy misfortune
and at last compelled to separate from her offs
pring. These thoughts were in my mind tha
last thing as I went to sleep that night.
It wanted two days oftWednesday, and I
* went in search ol Johnny’s mother, 1 had the
address in one of those straete where misery
pay* a high price lor the privilege of existing
and after findiog my way uptwo flight* of dirty
stairs to the attic, ! found a passage through
' sundry wood-lobe, hall full of dirty water, two
oi three unwashed kettles and a.broken stove
. that furnished the outer garret—and knocked
, at a rirkiiy door through which the eateod of a
. low, foggy sort cf voice came, a* if some oue
i were muttering to himself within. The voice
i was lifted u> answer to my knock, and I enter -
i ed a Utile bolaofa room containing a pile of
ruga in on* gpyner. a broken table, on which
i was a buttle, a tea-cur, and aome fragments ef
, ‘cold victuals,> on a dilapidated old eheet sat a
, bloated, elip-ehod woman, seemingly with no
garment on but a ragged gown and more than
* intoxicated, though it was quit# eariy in the
1 morning. A little boy of tbia* years old, pet
f haps, sat sear the tire place almost without
clothe*, and playing with tome dirty shaving* j
that littered the hearth. |
Could this woman be the mother of little
Johnny—that meek aud aweet faced child J 1
1 could hardly aak the question—yet so it was’
When ? told her of thCchild.and gave his sim
ple melange, she got up from the chest and be
gan curteseying to the ground over and over
again, mumbling ont her thanks that the ‘likes
of me* should come to'see her, and adding a 9
serioaof disgusting end half intdMgihi- ex
cuses for the state of her room aud dress.
To my inquiries if she would go and sao 9
her tick child on the followin' Wednesday,she
gave me to underrlaud that she thought a
great deal ol Johnny—that she would like to
see him nfall things, only she had no money 9
to pay lor a ride in thfc stage, and no rime Io
wash her dress, then ahe fell to weeping, and
I left her in a (It of maudlin lementafions o*
*er the evil* of her fate, which terminated as
r went out fit a burst of those 'Volgar blessipga
that are so revolting in the mouths of the vile
—all because I had promised to pay bee stave
fare, and supply her with a dean dress, if she
would promise te be in condition to go and see
her child on Wednesday.
And this was tha Mother of little Johnny !
this woman— so vile, so utterly debased ! Her
inebriate kisses had warmed hie infuncy. .In
her loatheomebosom that pale cfcildhnd slept,
f went home heart aick and decked beyond
measure ; poor little Johnny—he how became
more than ever an object of compassion. What
a heart he must have thus to pine for the sight
of a mother like that! I could now understand
the blush that lay on that poor cheek,juid the
faultering of histoice when she was mentions
ed. He was ashamsd of the drunken mother
that he hwed ee much.
On Wednesday I sent eatly to know if the
woman was reedy to to visit her dying child.
She was so intofticeted that it was impossible
to obtain a definite answer from her.
I wear up to tna hospital alone. Johnny
was sitting ont by tbe piam crouched alt in a
heap, with the tun falling brightly around him;
hie fine eye lighted up when he saw me, and
his /ace beamed with the most beautiful smile
l ever saw-he looked eagerly down .the walk
as If expecting some one te follow me.
" She could not ceaae, my child,” I said an
swering the look: « your mother was n. * •*
w.tl <•>
Hu flted those Urge,earnest eyes on me for a
moment, Then they drooped to the earth, and
I could see tears swelling under the lids,
“ She will come very soon though,” l said
filled with p'ty for his disappointment, and
perpetrating an harmless fraud. I gave him a
couple of oranges as if from hev. Ifis face
brightened. , He took the oranges, jjeld them a
HrWmlnutes, and then crept ronndawingof
the building whera a couple ot little hunch
backed cripples were standing, and gave one
to each.
*' I don’t care so very much for oranges,” b* *
said, coming hack with a smile on his lips, and
crouching down on the turf again—“and no one
ever brings them anything. They are orphans,
you know."
“ Doctor,” said Johny, that day, as my broth
er was passing through the ward,” have yon
some paper and a pen and ink; I should like
very much to writs a letter to my mother
This was a singular request from a child of
eigh' years old, and it quite startled the doc
tor—hut he ordered the writing materials 1st
1 the boy, and eiltrcd to have a table sent, but'in
1 drew a stool up to hia cot, and turning a tin
I pan bottom up on the bed, began hi* letter on
that.
It wss* touching epistle, well written,amt
pathetic in its manifestation of earnest affect
ion. He spoke of his comforts, of the care and
kindness extended te him, and begitcd her to
eeme very, tety seen. He should watch for
hsrnow every day—she need not wait till she
had money to buy something for him, he did
not care (or that, all he wanted was lo see her,
During the whole week that woman was never
sober enough lo read or understand tne pm*
port of this pleading letter.
Johnny was in a consumption. The doctor
told me this on my next visit—and, as the bum
on his back healed, the hectic lever and rack
ing cough grew worse. For a little time, while
the Autumn sunshine was warm and golden, the
dear little fellow might he found in the open
air with his shadowy limbs gathered under
him, and that tad, patient smile forever on his
lips. He never complained, and yet never
spoke of getting well. Everything given him
was received with thankfulness: every little
attention acknowledged with a smile so sweet,
a id patient enough to give a heart-ache to the
most hardened. I never saw him that he did
not ask for his mother.
" I have waited,” he said, after weeks hid
gone by, and he was growing more feeble every
day : “ I have waited so long, expecting her
everyday, that aemetimes I seem to get dis
couraged. Perhaps she is staying away be*
cause she hag no mon*y to buy tilings ier Die,"
he would aay, " but she needeu’t wait for that.
I doa’t care much for nice thing! Beside*, |
haven’t breath to eat them. Tell her this - t«l|
her all I waat In the wide world is to see her
and aunty and Joseph.’*
1 I did tell her! Again and again I went to
1 (hat squalid garret. I informed the womau
that her child dying, that a lew weeks must
end hie life. 1 atged, estreated, persuaded,
but always to a brain as clouded with dtirik
that it aaeaaad incapable ol remembeiing lot
Jen minutes anything l might say. She prom
ised to bo ready each time, but nexer ktyt
her promise, or eeemad te remember that she
bad made one. At length, when the bay w > >
so feeble that he was obligsd lo be brought (r<" i
1 the wards in rhe arms af his uurse, and ***
still pleading for a tight of his wretched |u
rent—I lesolved to make one mnie effort. &»
evey early in the morning 1 aant the erenu t
l ward not to go out, for at ten 1 should call tot