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EVENING
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LEMENT
VOL. X-No. 145.
PHILADELPHIA, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 19, 18G8.
TRIPLE SIIEET-TIIREE CEKTS.
ADDRESS
WBRVOUS A.ND DEBILITATED,
WHOSE SUFFERINGS HAVE BEBN PRO
TRACTED FROM IIIDDKX CAUSES,
AND
WHOSE CASKS REQUIRE PROMPT TREAT
MENT TO RENDER EXISTENCB
DESIRABLE.
If 70a are sufTerlnf, or have suffered, from
Involuntary discharges, what elijot does It pro
duce upon your general health T Da youfoel
weak, debilitated, easily tired ? Does a little
extra exertion produce palpitation of the
heart t Dots your liver urinary organs, or
yonr kidneys, frequently get oat of order? Is
yonr urine sometimes thick, milky, or floooy,
or Is It ropy on settling ? Or does a thlok scum
rise to the top ? Or la a sediment at the bot
tom after It has stood awhile f Do you have
spells of short breathing or dyspepsia ? Are
yonr bowels constipated? Do you have spells
of fainting or rushes of blood to the head ? I
your memory Impaired ? Is your mind con
stantly dwelling upon this subject? Da you
feel dull, listless, moping, tlied of company, of
life ? Do you wish to be left alouo, to get away
trom everybody ? Does any little thing make
yon start or Jump ? Is your bleep broken or
restless ? Is the lustre of your oyo as brilliant ?
The bloom on yonr check as bright? Da you
enjoy yourself In society as well 1 Do you pur
sue yonr business with the same energy ? Do
yon feel as much confidence In yourself ? Are
your spirits dull and fldgsing, given to fits of
melancholy? If so, do not lay It to your liver
or dyspepsia. Have jou unites sights?
Tour back weak, your knees weak, and have
but little appetite, and you tttlrlbate this to
dyspepsia or liver complaint ?
.Now, reader, diseases badl7 cured and ex
cesses are capable of proJuoluj a weakness In
I he generative orgaus. The organs of genera
tion, when In perfect health, make the man.
Did yen ever thluk that those bold, defiant,
energetlo, persevering, successful business men
are always thoNe whose generative organs are
In perfect health ? You never hear suoh men
complain of betas: melanoboly, or nervousness,
Of palpitation of the heart. They are never
afraid they cannot snccoed In business; they
don't become sad and discouraged; they are
always polite and pleasant In the company of
ladles, and look you aud them right In the face
none of your downcast looks or any other
meanness about them. I do not mean those
who keep the organs Inflamed by running to
excess. These will not ouly ruin their consti
tutions, but also those they do business with or
for.
Bow many men, from badly cured diseases
and excesses, have brought about that state of
Weakness' In those organs that has reduced the
general system bo much as to Induce almost
every otber disease Idiocy, luaaoy, paralysis'
spinal a flection s, suicide, and almost every
other form of disease which humanity Is heir
to and the real cause of the trouble scarcely
ever suspected, and have doctored for all but
the right one.
Diseases or these organs rej a Ire the a-je of a
Uuiwtlo.
CHRISTMAS COLUMN
TOO MANY COOKS.
A JCEW KDOE TO AN OLD HAW.
HKLMBOLD'S FLUID EXTRACT BUCHU
Is the Great Diuretic, and a Certain Care for
Diseases of the Bladder, Kidneys, Gravel,
Dropsy, Organio Weakness, Female
Complaints, General Debility, aal
all Diseases of the Urinary
Organs, whether ex
isting in Male or
Female,
From whatever cause originating, and no mat
ter of ho long standing.
If so treatment is submitted to, Consump
tion or Insanity may ensue. Oar flesh and
blood are supported from the soaroes.and
the hoalth and happiness, aud that of pos
turitv. dartenda noon nromnt in of a ralifth'rt
y j g . . M
remedy.
llKLMBOLD'S EXTRACT BUCI1U,
lixlki'l'bhtd upwards of eighteen years,
Prepared by
II. T. HELM BOLD, DRUGOIS !,
No. m BROADWAY, NEW YORK.
MEDICAL DEPOT, .
No. 104 Bonth TENTH Street, Plilla., P4.
Price 1 1-25 per bottle, or Biz Bottles for
10 CO; delivered to any address.
Bold ly all Druggists everywhere.
hone are genuine unless done op In steel
graved wrappers.
DY TOM IIOOD.
No honntlng song Is mine, I ween,
Though in the illustration seen
Are dear, and buok, and dough;
Nor Is't a song for summer bo w'rs,
Although 'tis floury; for the flour's
What's ground and doesn't grow.
It is a song of Christmas-tide
Of love and cookery beBide
Of spoons that do not stir.
"Yon pays your money; what you buys"
Is making pies or making eyes,
Whichever you prefer.
Behold a pair of maidens fair
"Girls of the Period" I swear
Not fairly oalled they'd be,
Sinoe they're dough-mestioated mail,
Here as the housewife's skilful aids
Enlisted, as yon see 1
For, every Christmas, folks must make
Great store of pudding, jelly, cake,
And apple tart, or quince;
Not to omit to mention rioh
And mighty savory pies, for which
Some matters we most mince.
With snowy apron round her waist,
See, dainty Laura deals in paste,
And Graoe in candied peel.
Yet Laura, though she paste supplies,
lias real brilliants for her eyes,
As every one must feel.
Though Grace for candied peel we'll thauk,
She has a graoe and face more frank
Than peel most candied boasts.
Behold our Laura, then, and Graoe
Each in the kitchen at her plaoe
Both faithful to their posts.
And now they're settled to theirta3k:
And who would dare to think, I ask,
That they won't do their work T
They' 11 shred their peels and roll their pastes
They're girls with snob, domestic tastes
And ne'er their duties shirk.
A shadow at the window, see !
'Tis he the enviable he
On whom our Laura smiles,
lie stops, the open window at,
Aud with a little pleasant chat
The maidens' time beguiles.
Ala, fair maidens 1 muoh I fear
Your boasted household skill's a mere
Delusion and a dream.
You're making, you sad pussies, you
Not muoh o' dough, but muoh ado
'Bout nothing, it would seem 1
Come, Laura, at your paste begin,
Not let yours be a rolling-pin
That does not gather dough.
Come, Graoe, I prithee, slice that pel,
You need not listen with such zeal
To his appeal, you know I
And, when he's waited full aa hour,
Still Laura has not touohed the flour-
Oh 1 sadly wasted time 1
While Grace's fingers Idly pause
She quite forgets the peel beoause
She thinks of marriage-chime.
HOBAL.
By way of moral here, the sage
(Who pens for you, sweet maids, the page,
And on your pioture looks)
This topsy-turvy saw employs:
"Dan Cupid, who's the broth of boys,
Has spoilt too many cooks 1"
AUNT GRACE'S SWEETHEART.
A ChrlHtuMH Ntory. by Mark T.ciuou, (lie
iAlitor of "I'uucli."
CHAPTER I.
Doctor Gregory always told the story of
Aunt Graoe Maxwell's Sweetheart after this
manner, and when he had been duly furnished
with a second dose of ''Pipkin punch," com
posed according to a recipe of Charles II, and
only known in his family:
My mother was a lighthearted woman, as I
remember her, with a handsome and intelli
gent face, dark grey eyes, aud a profusion of
chesnut ringlets, .she was rather short in
figure, but her form was faultless, and she had
the merriest laugh I tver heard. She was
fond of a practical joke, by no means an un
ladylike propensity in bur young days, though
happily long discountenanced, and by no oue
more than by my mother. My father being a
captain in the merchant service, my mother
Usually spent the time he wa absent on his
voyages with her aunt, who wai a widow with
a good property, and uo incumbrances except
myself, whom she loved aud indulged to the
utmost. My aunt of course I mean my great
aunt being ouly forty, with three thousand a
year at her own disposal, was as handsome as
Euglich matrons generally are who commence
by being pretty in their maidenhood, had
many oilers; but she had given her whole
heart to the mau whom she had married, aud
had none left for any one else, She lived con
futed with the memory of a happy past,
made so by the love of him who had gone
before to the better land where all is love.
Among other Buitors was a well-to-do law
yer, about Aunt draoo's age, an emigraut
from the principality whence my mother's
family origiually came, and who had been a
constant visitor during the life of my uncle.
His proposal met with similar disuouragement
to all the others, but for the sake of old times
he was allowed to continue his frienlship.
lie was persevering and constant, and
annually tried it on again, and always
with the same result, until Mr. David
Thomas' declarations were looked for like the
waits and the holly, the mistletoe, and the
mince-pies, and other Christmas cheer.
As my aunt was not offended at Mr. Thomas'
pertinacity neither was he at his rejections Ills
visits were continued; and so constantly, that it
came to be thought that Mr. David Thomas
was an accepted suitor an idea which my
aunt did not discourage, as it defended her
from the assaults of other assailants.
"Old Thomas" was greatly disliked by my
mother and her two cousins, who suggested
that Aunt Grace's money was the cause of his
constancy, as be was saving to meanness, and
often gave extra trouble by coming late for
dinner; and trouble was all he did give, as no
servant was ever known to be the richer for
him. He never took the young ladies to the
play, nor the opera, nor to any of the sub
scription balls, then popular with the upper
middle-class; but if Aunt Grace gratified the
young people with such amusements, heoame
in at half-price, or met them at the door,
amply remunerating himself by his indulgence
at supper.
There was always some little plot against
old Thomas. Aunt Graoe was fond of whist,
and would play Bixpenny points in preference
to silver threepences, which Mr. Thomas
generally proposed, and no wonder. Mr.
Thomas was very near-sighted and had a bad
memory, so, as my aunt was invariably his
partner.the young people opposed to them had
no hesitation in taking his queen of hearts
with the king of diamonds, and covering his
knave of clubs with the queen of spades.
Aunt Graoe connived at these irregularities,
which had their origin in no other motive
than plaguing old Thomas, who hated to lose
his money. 1 am bound to say, for the credit
of my mother and my aunt and cousins, that
the money was devoted to charitable pur
poses. I have said that my mother was a light
hearted woman; and her cousin Janet was a
fair match for her. Aunt Grace having taken
a cottage for the summer on the banks of the
Thames, old Thomas presented himself there
one evening, uninvited. Somewhat to the
consternation of my aunt, and greatly to the
diegUBt of the young ladies, he had come to
pass the night, as was evident from his little
valise, which was adapted to a most limited
wardrobe, and might have been only intended
as an intimation to his friends that he required
to be lodged as well as fed. It is probable our
good-natured aunt might have pleaded the
slight impropriety of a widow and her nieces
receiving a bachelor admirer, but the weather
turned out exceedingly wet, aud old Thomas
professed his willinguees to sleep on a sofa, or
on the kitchen drester, rather than go to the
next inn, some two miles on. He was com
pelled, he said, to leave for London by the
lirst coach in the morning, having business iu
court. Under the ciroumstauoes, therefore,
he was permitted to remain.
Amongst old Thomas' little peculiarities was
his non-adherence to any continuous style of
costume, if we except a blaok coat and a
cream-colored cravat which had originally
been wLite. At one time he would appear iu
tight pantaloons and shoes; at another, in Cos
pack trousers, through which protruded his
foot encased in a black worsted stocking anl
shoe, instead of the well-polished Wellington
required to give effect to the once fashionable
garment. On the present occasion he ap
peared in a pair of blue elastic tights and
Hessian boots, minus one tassel. Tula pecu
liarity as regards costume was, after a time,
discovered to proceed from the fact of his hav
ing obtaiued the settlement of a bill of costs
in kind, due to him from a dealer iu left-off
wardrobes. The evening being too wet to
admit of going out of doors, whist had been
resorted to, and old Thomas had baen cheated
of Borne shilling or two as usual, which he
made np by requiring a large basin of gruel,
amply flavored with mm. In the morning
my mother and her cousins were astir by day
light; and as the rain Lad left off, they went
out for a walk, leaving word that they should
not return until after the hour which old
Thomas had announced for his departure for
London. The cause of this rather singular
conduct was fully explained when old Thomas
put on his heseians, as he found that the mis
chievous cousins had made them the recep
tacle for the groats used the preceding night.
Old Thomas' indignation was naturally very
great; but he was compelled to mount the
ooaob, vowing that be would never enter th
house of my aunt again. Old Thomas kept
bis word so long as my aunt remained in the
country.
His wrath was very great; but, after a time,
not sufficient to keep him away from Aunt
Grace's comfortable fireside aud hot suppers.
We had gone one Christmas time to spend
the holidays at Brighton, my father's health
requiring sea-air, and Aunt Grace had also
taken a small house for herself and her nieces,
bo that we might have the usual family gath
ering on Christmas Day. Old Thomas had
been usually a guest on these occasions, as he
had no relations in London, but on this occa
sion it was not thought necessary to ask him,
as the journey could at that time be only
made by coach, and the weather promised to
be seasonably inclement. He was not to be
avoided, however; aud a letter arrived on the
morniDg of the "lib, to say that he might be
expected on Christmas Eve.
When he arrived at Aunt Grace's, his lug
gage was again contined to the little valise.
He wore a rough Witney coat one is rarely
seen nowadays, and was, at the time of
which I speak, chiefly confined to the use of
country people and tbe old watchmen: under
it was a suit of black, consisting of a coat,
waistcoat, knee breeches, and blaok silk stock
ings; and in this state of full dress had old
Thomas travelled some fifty odd miles, ou a
bitter December day, outBide the Item ooaoh.
He was, as might have been expected, nearly
frozen to death; aud I well remember my sur
prise at the quantity of hot brandy-and-water
required to thaw him 1 Even Auut Graoe was
vexed at what she felt to be a liberty on the
part of her admirer; but her nature was too
gentle to be revengeful, and she therefore con
tented herself with scouring a bed for him at
the New Ship, which Mr. Thomas duly occu
pied, and for which (from a sense of delicacy,
perhaps, considering himself my aunt's guest)
he omitted to pay.
As tbe families had arranged to spend
Chsistmas Eve together, Aunt Graoe had no
choice but to bring old Thomas ou to my fa
ther, whose hospitable disposition overlooked
intrusion, and, continuing the warm applica
tions commenced at Aunt Graoe's, old Thomas
bad to be escorted at an early hour to the
New Ship by our footman. For some reason
or the other, old Thomas would not go abroad
In bis Witney coat, and It was therefore
left hanging up in the hall at Aunt Graoe's
lodgings, where it came at last to be so sug
gestive to me of a London watchman, that I
could not resist the temptation to complete
the resemblance, by adding the Urge let
ters indicating the parish to which the guar
dian of the night belonged. The only mode
of doing this which occurred to me was to
form the letters of red sealing-wax; and, ao
cordingly, with the assistance of my mischie
vous cousin (but quite unknown to aunty), I
designed a royal crown, with G. R. as its sup
porters. The day after Christmas Day, old
Thomas had to return to London, and was no
who insisted upon helping him into his Wit- I
ney coat wnen me item t,as tue coaou was
named) called at the door for its passenger.
It was not until the coach drove away that
Aunt Grace became aware of the trick which
had been played on her self-invited visitor;
and it is right to own that she was very
angry at the perpetration of this praotical
joke.
When old Thomas discovered the liberty
which bad been taken with him, there can be
no question bnt he was "mighty indignant,"
as he actually wrote to my father claiming
thirty shillings for the damage done to the
coat, which he stated he had only borrowed
from a friend. My father gave me a sharp
wigging, but I heard him telling the story
afterwards to my mother as a oapltal joke.
Any other man but old Thomas would have
discovered that be was unpopular in our
family; but he was determined not to Bee, and
resolutely kept his ground, notwithstanding
that Aunt Grace's failing health made it in
convenient to receive him at all times. At
last, constant residenoe in the country was
advised for my aunt, who therefore disposed
of her bouse in town, and went to live some
hundred miles from London, taking with her
one of her nieces, an orphan, and who was
devotedly attached to her aunt. Old Thomas
was greatly disturbed when he heard of these
arrangements for the future, and was even
inconsiderate enough to call all doctors hum
bugs, and to prognosticate an early death to
Aunt Grace, if she attempted to bury herself
in the country. For this display of selfish
ness my mothor rated him well.
Two days before Aunt Graoe was to leave
London forever, the twopenny postman
brought her a letter. It was from old Thomas
a love letter.
Love letters are generally very spoany
affairs, and uninteresting to every one but the
persons to whom they are addressed; but old
Thomas' was bo unique that I will repeat it as
nearly as I can remember it. It was dated
from Staples Inn, and ran nearly thus:
'My Dear Mrs. Maxwell: I do not think
you can doubt tbe sincerity of my strong re
gard for you, after the many proposals I have
made to you, and the many indignities I have
put up with for your sake from your nieces
and that. cub of Mrs. Gregory's." (The onb
meaning me.) ''I once more ask you to be
come my wife, and on the following terms:
"I will take a house in any part of London
you may select, not exoeeding 200 a year.
"I will keep you a carriage aud pair, coach
man and footman.
"I will settle on you '10,000 provided you
o,utlive me.
"Yonr own property shall be Rettled upon
yourself for your own life, with the reversion
of 10,000 thereof to me, should I prove to be
the survivor.
"I will give yon at once .1000 for your free
hold property, and which now only realizes
jcu 150 a year.
"Household expenses to be psid out of our
joint income.
"Our marriage to take place in a mouth
from the date of your acceptance.
"An early answer will oblige
"Your faithful servant,
"Davio Thomas."
Aunt Grace was a clever womun, bnt she
was a woman pur et simple also; and the con
stancy of her old admirer touched her. bhe
therefore, having read his letter, refolded it,
and put it direotly into her pocket. Nor was
ts contents known to us until some months
afterwards, when she was completely satis
fied at the refusal she bad given, by discover
ing that the piece of freehold land which
Thomas had so generously offered to pur
chase was worth 10,000 at least, being
wanted for the terminus of one of the great
railways juBt then in course of development.
From that time we lost sight of old Thomas
for many years. He was either disgusted at
bis rejection, or ashamed at having his little
dodge discovered.
A few months before Aunt Grace's death, at
the request of my mother, I paid a visit to
Staples Inn, to Bee if "David Thomas" Btlll
appeared en the doorway of No. , Staples
Inn.
"No," the porter told me; "Mr. Thomas
bad been gone 'or a yoar or more, and was off
the law-list."
CHATTER II.
Aunt Grace died in December. She was
sincerely beloved by us all, and her death cast
a certain amount of gloom upon what with us
was usually the merriest time of the year. I
am still old-fashioned enough to keep Christ
mas, as it is called, and find, without any
"gush" or affectation, that there are pleasant
associations with that period of tbe year which
come at none other not the least weloome,
the recollection of the old house at home and
the genial man my father, who had the happy
knack of taking sunshine with him wherever
be went. My mother, too but ou know all
about her. Well, we were making ourselves
as merry as we could in our miserable-looking
mourning garments (bow I bate mourning I
too often, Indeed, "the mockery of wool")
when the man-servant asked to speak to my
father. My mother's thoughts, no doubt,
flew away to the kitchen chimney, prone to
take tire on the most Important oooasiona. It
couldn't be the pudding that was in difficul
ties, or she would have been the person oalled
for. Her conjectures were soon at an end by
my father returnirgln a few minutes, followed
by a stranger, as we thought.
"An old friend, my dear," sail my father,
"who has been good enough to look us up on
Christmas Kve Mr. Thomas, my dears."
My mother fairly stared at the dingy appa
rition which Btood bowing and grinning as be
approached, placing at last an icy hand in
hers, almost tending the blood cold to her
heart.
"Long sinoe we have met, Mrs. Gregory;
but I was passing by, and recollecting your
former kindness, I thought I would venture
to intrude, if only for half an hour."
My mother, of course, gave him welcome,
whilst my father wheeled an easy ctair closer
to the Are, and bade his guest to be seated. A
more miserable object could scarcely have
been abroad on that cold Christmas night.
Ills threadbare coat was fastened across hit
chest by what few buttons that remaiued,
whilst a pieoe of string seemed to be the
mainstay of the oentre. His trousers glis
tened in the ilrellght; and those who looked
closely at them would have seen that, where
the folds came, they were worn through aud
showed no underooveiing to the spare,
shrivelled limbs of the wearer.
Old Thomas, in his younger days, always
bad an odd sniffiog manner, but now, from the
effects of the cold, his nasal peculiarity was so
incessant that my mother quietly left the
room, and returned with a pocket handker
chief, which Bhe presented with a smile to her
old antagonist, lie received it with a Bimple
"Thank you: always thoughtful;" and the
rest of the party was equally thankful.
I shall never forget the hunger in that man's
looks. I have seen many tad faces in my
time, pinched and lined by want, but there
was something terrible in the expression of
David Thomas when the servant brought in
a well-furnUbed supper-tray, which my
mother had quietly ordered. Nor can ( forget
the ravenous manner in which the hungry,
man devoured the food placed at his disposal,
nor the time he remained ooonpied in eating.
"Oh, bow hungry he must have been 1" said
my mother, afterwards. All the shillings and
sixpences of which I had cheated him years
ago seemed jingling in my ears, and reproach
ing me for my wlokedness; and yet but a few
yearn ago he was worth thousands t
When old Thomas had finished his meal, he
took his seat again by the fire, aa though
nothing extraordinary had ooonrred siaoe he
had leit it, and having made free use of my
mother's pocket-handkerchief, said
"I'm afraid we are going to have a sharp
winter f"
"There was every prospect of it, no doubt;
and there he Bits," thought my father, "with
no more clothing on him than would be need
ful in the tropics."
After two or three sips at a glass of hot
brandy-and-water, which my mother had
compounded for him, old Thomas said, rather
abruptly
"So poor Mrs. Maxwell Is gone at last: I
saw her death in the paper yesterday."
"Yesterday?" said my father: "it was there
three weeks ago."
"Ay, yes; but I don't often Bee the papers
now. Did she leave any legacies I"
"Her property was very fairly divided
amongst her kindred."
"And friends f" asked the old man.
"No; unless her servants oculd be called
bo," replied my father; "they were not for
gotten." "Humph 1" and o'd Thomas drained his
glass nearly at one gulp, and then rose to go.
"Well, 1 muBt be oil," he said, as though
he had been an every-day visitor. "Good
night, Captain."
My mother was gesticulating to my father,
and his own kind heait soon lound the mean
ing of her pantomime.
"But you've no overcoat, Mr. Thomas, and
it's freezing like mad," said my father; "live
degrees colder since you came into the hous.
Here, let me lend you this old roquelaire; it
will at least keep you warm."
The garment in question was a plaid roque
laire or cloak, with a red plush collar, fastened
by a brass clasp once the thing, I assure you,
young gentlemen and I, who had been sent to
fetch it by my mother, felt as though I were
making some restitution for the damage I had
done to the Witney coat.
"Well," replied old Thomas, "as you say,
it is colder since I came out; and this this
certainly is a comfortable garment yes; I will
borrow it, Captain. I'll send it back." He
paused.
"Oh, don't trouble yourself about that. Any
time you are passing you can bring it, you
know."
"YeE yes," muttered old Thomas. "I've
had a charming evening 1 very pleasant even
ing. Good-night 1"
And bo talking, old Thomas went home.
Home f Where was that f
"How sorry I am I did not ask him," said
my mother and then she made her speech
about her cheating. "I'm afraid he ia very
badly off; and I should have been glad to have
made amends for my former folly."
"Too late now," replied my father, after a
few moments' pause. "Do you know, my
dear, I do not believe he is as poor aa he
looks."
"Good gracious, my dear I when his hunger
drove him into our house to get a meal 1 "ex
claimed my mother.
"Well, he certainly must have been hungry
to have cleared the dishes as he did," replied
my father, "aud I hope he is better for his
stowage. But it was .not the supper that he
came for though that wight have been in
cluded in his calculation."
"What thent" asked my mother, In sur
prise. "lie came to know if Aunt Grace had left
him a leg y,"'said my father.
"Why, he could have learnt that for a shil
ling, could he not ?"
"Yes; but he preferred saving his shilling,"
replied my father. "What I have seen to
night, coupled with his inquiry about the lega
cies, confirms me iu an opinion I have long
entertained, that old Thomas is a miserable
old miser."
"Miser I" exclaimed my mother, adding pre
sently, "well, he was always very stingy aud
mean, and "
"There are vices which grow with age, my
dear, and bring their own punishment. None
more bo than loving money better than our
lellow-creatures."
"Then we've seen the last of our old roque
laire," said I.
"George for hame t" cried my mother.
"George, you're a sharp fellow," said my
father. "1 don't believe he will ever have the
heart to return it, especially as I almost made
him a prefent of it."
Father and I were right. The old Scotch
cloak came not back to us, though my mother
landed she eaw it on a certain occasiuu.
. CUAl'TEB III.
In a email bouse in Islington lived Mrs.
Drury, and of which Bhe made the most by
letting lodgings. The house consisted of six
rooms only two underground, two parlors,
and two upper rooms. The pallors were let to
a single gentleman, the upper rooms to a
widow and her daughter, and the basemeut
Mrs. Drury occupied herself, having ouly her
surplus rent and an annuity of thirty pounds
to live upon, save and exoept what she made
by occasional speculations at auctions. The
widow and her daughter, Mrs. and Martha
Ramsay, were, comparatively speaking, new
comers. Mr. Ramsay had held a position of
trust in a large piano-forte establishment, until
nis lauing neaitn compelled mm to resign.
For nearly eighteen months he had lingered
and lingered, until all his available means
were exhausted, and then, very reluotantly,
he "declared upon his club." He ought to
have done so long before, as he was justly
entitled to do; but from, I think, a feeling of
false pride, he abstained, until he had hardly
a choice between that and the workhouse. A
few months afterwards be died, and the onoa
harpy home of the Ramsays was broken up.
What a terrible change those words con
vey 1 none can know but the poor man and
the poor man's family. It ia not a sentimental
sorrow at a change of place "the old familiar
room" "the tree my lather planted" and all
that. It ia as it were like to a ship driving
from its anchor, while shoals and rocks are
abont ber on every side.
The poor man's "home" has been made bit
by tit, and every object within it marks the
progress of bis married life. How hard they
worked, how closely they saved, to add this
am) that to the first few neoesary pnrohases t
With the small sum realized by their re
maining furniture some of It had been sold
long ago and the twenty pounds payable by
tbe club to Mrs. Ramsay as "a member's
widow," the mother and daughter had to look
the world in the face. Mrs. Drury's rooms
were only eight shillings a week, and Martha
had hopes that she could earn s omething by
teaching. Mrs. Drury had kindly consented
to have a printed card with the words "Day
School" hung on the knooker during the
hours that the parlors were absent; but the
bait hung many weeks without attracting a
nibble. Martha did not wait for employment
to knock at the door, as she went every day
In search of needlework, always returning
with the same ill success. She would gladly
have gone into service, as she had done onoa
during her father's long sickness; but she was
a fragile creature, subject to recurrent attacks
of nervous headache, which entirely pros
trated ber for a time. Her mother, too, from
long mental anxiety, had become partially
paralyzed In her left arm. Do not think I am
describing an Imaginary case. I have met
with more than one similar instance of com
bined circumstances that contributed to the
pains of poverty; and at times it is well to be
reminded of the suffering whioh is around us,
that we may be more lloeral in our thank
olforings for the good which we ourselves
enjoy.
The little capital of the Ramsays had sensi
bly decreased, and they resolved to seek
cheaper lodgings, now that the expectations
had failed which had induced them to pay so
large a rent. But Mrs. Drury had beoome in
some way attached to her lodgers, and was
lucky enough to find a gentleman, a surveyor,
temporarily engaged in the neighborhood,
who wanted the use of a room for two or
three hours one day in the week, and who
agreed to pay more than half the rent for the
accommodation. This arrangement afforded
help, but only for a time. The money dwin
dled still, aud then the Ramsays had recourse
to the pawnbroker. One by one the fow
superfluities they possessed were parted with,
until there was not sufficient to pay the small
amount of rent due on the following day.
"What is to be done f What is to become
of us?" anked the mother, despairingly.
"God has abandoned us."
"Oh, do not say that I We are being tried
very sorely; but we have never done wrong,
and have His promise that the fatherless ana
widow will be cared for, and we shall be in
His good time," said Martha, kneeling down
beside her mother.
"But when will that be? when we are with
out food 1 To-morrow we shall have no right
to stay here. No, there is nothing for us but
the that dreadful place 1"
"There are good and bonest people even in
the workhouse, mother. Think that think
anything but that God has deserted us."
Mrs. Kamsay shook her head despairingly.
After a few moments' silence she Bald, "Some
thing must be done to keep us here. I would
rather starve here than go into any of the
miserable holes where we can find shelter. I
would rather (die than be made a pauper."
"We have striven bravely, 1 am sure
bravely to the last," said Martha. "It would
be sin to die by our own will, when any means
were left us whereby we could live oat our
allotted time."
The two women eat silent for some time, eaoh
busy with her thoughts. They were aroused
by Mrs. Drury calling from the bottom of tbe
stairs:
"Here's a letter for Mrs. Ramsay."
"A letter I" cried Martha, hastening from
the room, her heart beating rapidly with the
vague hope that some good had come to them
at their utmost need.
The letter had been long in finding them,
and it was indorsed with many addresses,
which the postman had been directed to try.
It was very brief, and misspelt, and came
from a country friend of Mrs. kamsay, to say
that her sister Charlotte, whom all had
thought long since dead, had returned to her
native village, and had been inquiring after
Mrs. Kamsay. There was not muoh to hope
from this; but, coming at this time, the almost
despairing women received it as a promise of
deliverance.
"Let us now tell our position to Mrs. Drury.
Show her this lettter, and no doubt she will
help us," said Martha, rapidly.
"Stop not yet," replied Mrs. Rtimay.
"Mrs. Drury is like the rest of the world, I'm
afraid. So long as we cau pay, Bhe is civil;
but I have not told you this of late she his
been very different in her manner towards
me suspecting, no doubt, the truth, and pre
paring us for the cousequsnoes. It is more
necetsary than ever that we stay here, that
Charlotte may be able to find us. She may
not be able or willing to bdlp us, aud we mast
net leave here."
"But the rent, mother f"
"Mast be paid. We have nothing of our
own ou which we can raise a shilling."
What she then proposed was nit with
such earnest objections from Martha, that it
was evening before she gained her daughter's
assent to adopt it.
Mrs. Ramsay was right In her observation
of change in Mrs. Drury's bearing to her, and
(be would have been right in her estimate of
Mis. Drury's character as a letter of lodgings.
But of this presently.
CRAI'TBIt IV.
Doctor Gregory baviug replenished ' his
glass, went in with his story:
As 1 have told you, Mrs. Diary's lodgr Iu
tbe pallors was a single gentleman. "I did
bim at firfct," Mrs. Drury had been heard to