'LT 11
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VOLUME XXIX, NUMBER 41.1
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A Slip Between Cup and Lip.
eIIAIbTER. 1.
Some one has demanded—l really forget
who—how it is that so many cobblers have
become wonderful men. I will just mention
two; who, though dead, are still exercizing
a silent and a mighty influence upon Christ
endom—Jacob Belunan and George Fox.—
Newton himself "ploughed with- Behman's
heiffer;" and so we owe, indirectly, the
greatest scientific impetus of the modern
world to a theosophizing shoemaker. The
great William Low, the spiritual father of
John Wesley, and of the Methodist move
ment of the last century, and—as some say
—of the Anglo Catholic movement of this
century, confessed that the humble Jacob
was his true teacher. If so we owe the
two greatest religious impetuses of modern
England to a poor Christian cobbler.
If this were to be an essay upon wonder
ful shoemakers, I think I could add a list
which would be really surprising. How
ever, it is not to be au essay upon wonder
ful shoemakers, but merely the transcript-of
-one episode out of the life of a certain poor
honest journeyman cobbler, by name Wil
liam Griffin and out of the life of his beloved
sweet heart Anne Moss.
William Griffin and Anne Moss had been
engaged since she was fifteen and he twenty
years old. Great poverty, a drunken father,
the death of her mother, and the necessity
of independent work, had made Anne a
thoughtful little woman long before she had
reached the age of womanhood--a fact
which I feel it necessary to state, as the
prudent reader might otherwise stop during
the relation, to say over to himself, or her
self, three or four sober old proverbs con
cerning the evils of very early engagements
and the ignorance of their own minds sup
posed to be generelly characteristic of
'young girls: with which proverbs I most
cordially agree reserving the right of ex
exclusion from all their conditions to Anne
Moss alone. For if as a certain spasmodic
poet has said, we are to count life by heart
throbs, not by minutes, why, then our lit
tle Anne could reckon up heart-throbs
eaough at the age of fifteen to attest her
right to all the honors, privileges and con
siderations of fifty.
Anne was a little less than fifteen when
she took the place of maid of all work.—
This exchange of her miserable home for
domestic service was merely an escape out
of the fire into the frying-pan. Both of
them were a fiery trial to the poor girl; but
the latter burnt a /Rile leas fiercely. For,
.although her mistress never beat her, never
swore at her—while her father frequently
did both—because
.the lady had not the
heat of passion enough in her nature for
such violent exercise, yet she made the lit
tle servant's life very bitter to her by her
infinite applications of "Thou shalt not."—
Everything that was humane, natural, plea
sant or desirable, had this waving before it,
like the flaming sword, to keep off Anne's
.eyes, hands and longings. Above all she
was allowed no followers. Mrs. Darah,
having never—she thanked goodness—been
in love herself, considerel love the most
ridiculous folly and delusion under the sun.
Even if it might be indulged in by people
who had time and money for it, it certainly
was not fit for servants. She was heard to
say that love made more thie'ves than malice
.or selfishness did; destroyed cold meat more
rapidly than fly blows; and would empty n
larder tricker than a whole hungry family.
"She had had servants with huge appetites,
and servants with lovers; she found both
,expensive; but the letter the worse; for
Avert if their own appetites were ordinary,
' their lovers' wore usually exhorbitant.
In spite of the restrictions of her mistress
Anne met William very often. They man
„aged to have walks together, to betroth
' themselves to each other; and after five
years' steady love, under great difficulties,
to fix at last a wedding day: she by that
,time being twenty, and ha twenV five.
During these years of courtship they
had both worked very hard and saved some
money. William's situation was as good
as his sweetheart's was unpromising. In
deed, ho almost thought, and almost hoped,
too, that Anne must need every farthing of
her scanty wages fur her dress. The proud
youth delighted himself with the belief that
she was dependent upon him; his love was
pleased with the faney that lie should be
stow everything on her, and receive nothing
from her in return. He intended to set up
a small shop of his own, and begin an in
dependent business with his wedded life.
But the long selfneliance of his sweet :
heart had made her too proud to think of
entering a home to which she contributed no
tangible goods. It was kind and loving of
William, she said, and like him, to declare
that "if she had thousands, he should like
her none the better." She should like to
have thousands just to give them to him.—
Yet, since she had not the income of a
duchess or a banker's heiress, she would do
what she could towards enriching him with
the income of a poor little servant maid.—
She kept a secret stocking for her few, far
bztween and bard earned guineas. When
William talked of anything he had bought
or contemptated buying, the lovely maiden
inwardly smiled with her delight at the sly,
unexpected additions to his comfort and
pleasure which it was her intention and in
her power to add.
01 50
Mil
William's work was ten miles front his
sweetheart's; so he had a walk of twenty
miles whenever be wished to see her. He
could afford this only once a week—namely
on Saturday evenings, for then ho could
sleep at a tavern, spend some cif the Sunday
with Anne, and return at night, to be in
time fur the work of the new week.
I=
Item fell out, between the second and
third asking of the bans, that our little he
roine was taken ill. Her cold mistress,
having tried in vain to dissuade her from
what she called the false step of marriage,
believed every relative duty to be snapped
between them by Anne's persistent refusal
to become a spinster. Su soon, therefore,
as she found her useless, she sent her away.
"You would make a convenience of my
house, Anne Moss," she said. "You would
stay under my roof, although you have al
ready given me warning—fancy a servant
giving warning, indeed—now, you will find
your mistake. I don't know what your fu
ture husband may be--I am not rich enough
to keep sick people and idlers. I think you
will remember till the day of your death
what a good mistress I have been. All the
servants who have left my situation have
wished themselves back again."
Anne attempted, in a meek spirit, to dis
cover and imagine all sorts of benefits re
ceived by her from Mrs. Ihu•al'. It was a
hard and microscopic task; however, she
succeeded in it at last.
"I am sure, missus;" she said, "I thank
you heartily for all your kindnesses."
"It is no more than your duty, Anne,"
answered the lady, with . a gratified smile
and folding of the hands.
"No, missus. And if you see a young
man walkingabout here on Sunday. looking
up and down at the house, ma'am, would
you be so very kind, ma'am as to send the
new servant and ask him if his name is
William Griffin; and if it is William, ma'am
to ask him to go to my father's, and I will
send him word where lam ma'am?" And
Anne waited, t: embling and blushing.
"Anne Moss, I can't think how you dare
to take such a liberty with me and my
house," answered her mistress. "I have
always warned you of the folly and unfit
ness of young women, who have their living
to get, keeping lovers. You know that my
servants are not allowed to have followers;
and it is most likely that I shall send an
officer after the young man, instead of my
servant, if I see him prowling up and down
looking into these windows." So the poor
girl left dispirited.
Poor Anne feared to go and live with her
drunken father, lost she should be insulted
by any of his low associates, and lest he
should be tempted to lay his hands upon
the little store she had laid up for her
Wil
liam and herself. So she was obliged to
seek a lodging in the town, where she could
live decently until that day next week, when
William would take her as his wife to her
first and last real home.
The misiforturto she most dreaded—name
ly, the dissipation of her little capital—be
gan the moment she had left her mistress'
house. To save the expense she made u
her mind to carry her own trunk to her
lodging. Sho tried to do so, but she found
herself too weak. She was obliged to hire
a carrier; and that involved a dip into
"William's money," .as she delighted to
call it.
So that the dip might be as shallow as
possible, she engaged a lad instead of a man
for a porter. But before they had half
reached the quarter of the town whore An•
ne's lodgings was situated, his boyhood be
gan to evince itself in a very visible manner.
lie panted, and drew long breaths, and per.
spired greatly, and now and then stumbled
under the weight. His pride tried to hide
these signs. He endeavored to stimulate
himself with the thought of his payment;
but his efforts at self-encouragement came'
out very plainly in certain noises, and in
his unconscious compression and biting of
his lips. The tender-hearted lass espied
them; she could not endure to see him so
vexed and inconvenienced; and so, for the
rest of the way, she insisted on bearing half
the weight.
When she had arrived in her room, and
had dismissed her young porter, and sat
down to rest herself, she began to feel the
bitter results of her efforts with the heavy
trunk. She was very ill when she started:
she was now ten times worse. Her head
ached fiercely; her breath was short, audi
ble and gasping; her whole body was
parched mud feverish.
She allied her landlady into the room,
and asked her for a little cold water. The
woman had counted on providing a supper
for her, as she heard her stay was to last
only a week, she meant to make the week a
"NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEM' AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, MAY 7, 1859.
paying one, so she had prepared some two
penny or three halfpenny sausages, which
were even then 13 , 2mrin , : , in tier mind's bill
of fare at sixpence apiece. In rather a dis
appointed tone, therefore, she asked Anne
if she should bring her nothing to eat. The
poor girl said she was sure she could. not
swallow anything. The landlady said she
had some beautiful new-laid eggs—there
were a kind that wonderfully cured head
ache and fever; indeed, she told her that if
nny of her neighbors were ill in that way,
they always came and begged fur these
eggs. Anne was credulous, and did not
doubt her landlady's possession of the med
ical hen which laid such eggs; but Anne
was also resolute—no one could persuade
her out of her own methods. She said that
she felt a good long sleep was what she
needed the most, and that she should at
once go to bed.
But although she went to bed, she could
get no sleep; all the long night she wes
tossing restlessly over and over. She re
membered that William had promised, if
he could get away, to cull on her two or
three times before Saturday, for which a
friend had promised to lend him a horse and
cart. She began to picture to herself his
astonishment when lie heard that she was
gone, and she wondered if her mistress
would relent, and be countnuoicatire. She
made up her mind that so soon as the morn
ing had come, she would lie in wait for the
new servant, as she went out shopping, and
beg her to watch fur William; and if he
called, to tell him where his sweet-heart had
removed.
But, when the morning came, she knew
nothing of purposes and resolutions; she
was in a brain-fever, talking and rambling
widely.
The landlady wondered that she saw or
heard nothing of her at breakfast; and going
up to look after her, found her in that fright
ful condition. The woman neither knew
what money she owned, nor where she came
from, nor what connections she had. She
sent for the parish doctor. He ordered a
nurse for her immediately; so the woman
of the house took 'upon herself to examine
the maiden's trunks and pockets, counted
out the time which she could keep her and
a nurse for her, without injury to herself,
out of Annie's little store; and at once
offered the place to a personal friend a few
doors off.
For three weeks our poor little servant
maid lay unconscious of her condition, at
the rough mercy of these two cormorants.
Their negligence prolonged her illness. At
the end of that time the greater part of her
hard-won capital was cruelly dissipated.
lE=
Unhappy William Griffin, her natural
protector, knew not at this time what had
become of his darling. Two days after she
had left the place, lie was walking up and
down before the house in his usual manner,
hemming and coughing. He had never
been so long at that exercise before. He
concluded that Mrs. Darah was detaining
Anne, or was in the way somehow, or that
Anne was mischievously prolonging the
pleasure of hearing her lover's signals, re
membering that it was nearly the last time
that she should do so forever; so he hemmed
and coughed louder. But still no one an
swered with a merry mocking hem and
cough. No bright eyes suddenly peered
above the blind; no round head gave him a
series of short, sharp nods, indicating
whether he should stay or depart.
"Well," he said to himself, "She is now
more mine than her mistres's; I will knock
at the door." lie did so, and was prepared
to see either Anne or Dame Derail herself;
but he started when the door was opened
by a servant. The truth flashed upon him
at once. Mrs. Darah bad done with his
Anne, and would not keep ber, even on the
_round upon which she undertook to stay
or the coming week—namely, food and
drink, but no pay.
The new maid could not inform him
where his Anne had gone. She said that
she bad never seen the old servant, for her
mistress gave her to understand that she
was not good for much, and invited young
men there, and that it was her (Mrs.
Darah's) invariable custom to see the old
servant safely and clearly out of the house
before she admitted the new one, saying
that "if they only had their heads together
for five minutes, they were sure to corrupt
each other." 'William uttered a strong
and angry word or two, said he wished his
Anne had left the day her .time was out,
bade the maid good-night, and departed.
lie went off at once to her father's. He
found the miserable man sottish and maun
dering: he was incapable of being moved by
the news of his daughter's departure, and
as incapable of giving any clue to her
present whereabouts. William ran down
from the besotted creature's room, and
found himself under the dark sky, not
knowing whither to turn for his Anne. lie
went round to all the shops where he had
known Anne to call. At each place they
could only tell him that they bad not seen
her for the last three or four days, and that
another young woman now came on Mrs.
Darah's errands. He . exhausted all the
time allowed him in this fruitless search.
When he came to the place where he was
to meet the friends who had promised to
give him a lift on the way home, he found
them gone; he had arrived too late. He
had to walk the ten miles alone, a miserable
man, giving himself up to fears, to bemoan-
ings, and once or twice to anger, to wonder,
and even to suspicion.
Eery evening, for a week, William
walked twenty miles, from his work to the
town and back, seeking his sweetheart,
regularly visited her father and that same
series of tradesmen on whom he had called
the first night of his loss. But he received
not tidings, good or bad. Sometimes lie
felt that even bad news would be better
than none, for the the hope of any good ex
planation of her marvellous disappearance
often died out fiir hours together. Still ho
persevered in his inquiry.
At last the young men, in one of the
shops he was wont to call at, began to
speculate upon his case. When he entered.
they winked and smiled, r.nil whispered to
one another. They said they could very
accurately perceive what was what; she had
jilted him; but he was too great a booby to
believe it. One or two of them asked if it
would not be a true kindness to suggest
this explanation to him.
They agreed that it would; and they did so.
Ile answered with such scorn and passion,
with such a violent assertion of his Anne's
faithfulness, with such threats against any
one who should villify her unjustly, that
the suggesters wished they had let the sub
ject alone.
At the end of the week, on the day which
was to have been their wedding-day, while
Anne lay tossing over restlessly, and talk
ing wild nonsense, he came into the town
to settle in his own house and shop. As
night after night he returned alone to the
house he bad bought and furnished for
another, still without news of her, lie took
forth from his memory the suggestion of
the young shopmen; he laid it out, so to
speak, before him; he turned it over and
over; he looked at it in every light, on every
side, he began to admit its passibility; and
at last, in a morbid mood, he half believed
it. •
His shop was still unfinished, and be
spent his time mainly in traveling hither
and thither, seeking stock for it. But he
went about all business poorly, with a heavy
and half broken heart. It seemed a mock
ery to him to be making such preparations.
Ile did not believe ho should live to use
them. lie did not want to do so. Eta the
mystery of Anne's departure,: her terrible
silence, and this gradual, but surely ex
cusable, admission into his heart of suspi
cion of' her faith and love towards him,
plucked all the zest and purpose out of his
life. It was for her sake he had worked
submissively as a foreman so many years;
for her sake he had stinted himself in dress,
amusement, indulgences of all kinds, and
found delight in such sacrifices. Every
cut of a saw, every blow of a hammer or
mallet, every coat of paint, every boot and
shoe in his shop, held in his mind some re
lation to her comfort and prosperity, as a
part of that household of which she was
about to be the daily sunshine; the source
and of all its light, and warmth, and pleas
antness; the measure of its work and rest.
At last Anne came to besself; in a little
while she rose from her bed in good health.
But she was quite penniless. Her greedy
attendants had disposed of every mite of
her little fortune; even her wedding clothes
had gone into the nasty hands of the pawn
brokers, for medicine, food and lodging.
She felt ashamed, the proud lass, to send
after William, or let him see her as she
was. She got a little employment as a
charwoman, at one house and another,
; through recommendations of the Sisters of
Mercy and the parish clergyman, who were
I themselves too poor to give her any other
help. But she kept from item the story
; of her love and betrothal, and, by doing so,
kept peace from the aching heart of Wll
-
ham; fur the priest and the sisters had they
known it, would at once have sent her off to
him, or fetched him to her.
She made up her mind to continue cheer
fully at chasing until she could repurchase
some of her good clothes. She would then
visit William, make known her condition to
him, confess all the story of her savings,
and the sad way in which it was lost, and
steadily insist upon the wedding being put
off until she had removed her uneasiness,
and regained her sense of independence by
recovering at least some part of her former
wealth. Her disposition was all compact
of cheerfulness and hope. Whenever she
had found anything broken, inittead of
standing over it crying, she had looked to
see if it could be mended; if it could, she
set about mending it; if it could not, she
tried to procure another thing of its kind.
So she dealt with her own broken pros
pects, just as she had been used to deal
with her mistress's broken china. She
kept her mind fixed upon their restoration.
This hope gave her great zest and eager
ness in her servile work. She never let
herself remember that the time had come
in which, except for her misfortune, she
would have been a bride, and a mistress of '
a household; but she set about her dull
actualities as if no such bright possibility
had ever belonged to her. She looked for-
ward to the glory of that moment when she
should again find her head at rest on the
dear shoulder of her William. She went
to her work singing, she came from it
singing. She said to herself; "To 'think'
would destroy me; I shall never be able to
recover myself if I ponder on my loss and
say present state,"
Thus she kept a fever of counter excite: I
ment by shutting out of her thoughts all
Itruth which might excite her—the truth of
her own loss, the truth of 'William's aston
ishment and pain. Whenever she found
her mind inclining to the realization of his
sufferings, she would sigh and grieve; but
the moment the echo of her sigh struck
athwart her consciousness, she arrested
herself. "This will not do," she would say;
"it will be all the better afterwards; our
happiness will more than make up for our
misery." She never waited in gnietness of
spirit, and calmly analysed or probed these
hasty deductions. If she had
j done so, she would have espied a monstrous
residuum of "proper pride" underlying all
the other elements of that reluctance to see
William as she was. If she had done so,
she would have seen what wretchedness,
I doubt and despair she was sowing in the
true heart of her William. Whom that
quakerly impulse sprung up in her, she
Iscrubbed, or walked, or hummed more vig
orously; if a tear for William started into
I her eye, she used it as mercilessly as her
sighs, and brushed it hurriedly away. She
felt that if she looked at the present, she
should be weakened and do nothing. It
was only by keeping the end before her
that she could find spirit and moral sinew
fur work. And whilst she was at work,
her efforts raised a dust round her which
hid everything but those efforts.
But where was the need of all this? what
was the end of her eager and incessant
strivings? Would William love her the
less fur having suffered and lost all? Would
he love her the less fur having but one
gown, and that an old and ragged one? for
having shoes with holes in them? fur being
penniless? She knew him better; she knew
that he never suspected she had a farthing
if her own. She knew that the thought
was a delightful one to his open, generous
nature, as it made Lim feel himself the
supplier of all her needs. But the little
maid was vain. She had tasted the sweet,
pernicious intoxicating draught of false in
dependence. The draught gave her stimu
buns for her work. In a few weeks she had
made enough to redeem her best new
dresses, her shoes, and other articles of
dress, and to pay her standing debts.
William in the meantime, not having,
like Anne, :my insight into the causes of
her mysterious absence and silence, could
nut, as she did, find solace, excitement and
delight in looking forward. On the contrary
the future was his most bitter thought. His
disappointments lay there. All the glory
lof his life was behind hint—gone by fur
-1 ever. And even that past glory, since sus
picion and the present appearance of things
j had begun to cloud it, lost all its golden
worth. It had been no true possession. It
was miserable to think that, even when
he was most happy, he was only so by
being ignorant of the truth, by trusting in
heartless and well-acted deceit. Before him
he could see nothing but unescapable
misery; in the present, his thoughts exer
cised themselves worryingly on the causes
of Anne's strange departure, until by slow
processes, not without, as lie conceived, two
°CU Inr proofs, he admitted the awful and
1 maddening conclusion that she was dis
honest and unfaithful.
The first ocular proof was as follows:
One dark, foggy night, going front the
station to his home, after a dull day, all
through which his body had been taken up
Iby business, but he himself by the fiery
vexation of his thoughts, a shape rushed ,
by him which startled him, it was so like
I Anne. He would almost have ventured an
oath it was her. Without thinking, he I
pursued the figure. It turned down some ,
darker street, and was lost in the fog. The I
I other glimpse he had of it deepened his
persuasion that it was really his affianced
bride whom he had seen. "Whose is she '
now? What relation to those she chooses
in preference to me?" He went home with
these thoughts burning at his heart.
Still he determined with himself that he
• would not be unjust. He fought a brave
hard battle with his suspicions. The faith
of his heart in Anne strove against that
testimony of his senses, and overcame. He
concluded that his senses bad deluded him.
But he also concluded that if Anne wore in
the town, and could keep herself from him
at a time when she was so sacredly bound,
it must be because she had some other
lover. But he found this hard to believe.
The very memory, almost the taste, of her
last kisses rose to contradict it. He could
not persuade himself that those kisses were
deceitful and counterfeit.
A few days after, as he was walking
slowly along, musing gloomily over this
mysterious blow, ho chanced suddenly to
look up, and saw the sunshine fall upon a
shape which he had now no doubt of. He
I saw it was Anne, who hurriedly turned the
corner at the end of the street. Ile was
determined to stop her and upbraid her; he
felt in a moment half strong enough to Bing
I back in her face tho love of long years.—
'On second thoughts, however, he resolved
Ito discover where she was living, and fur
whom and for what she had broken her
faith. He noticed - that her clothes were
very ragged and ill looking; perhaps already
she had begun to earn the wages of unfaith
fulness by being cruelly used. Ile kept at
a moderate distance behind her, slinking
and hiding behind intervenient persons.—
In this way he followed her through several
streets; but turning suddenly into amore
crowded thoroughfare, as ho was straining
' forward eagerly to keep a glimpse of Anne
$1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; 82,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE
in the distance, quite regardless of what
was near by, a burly dustman ran against
him. Ile stutnbled and fell. When he
sprang up again he could see nothing of that
'soiled bonnet and torn dress his eyes had
been so steadily pursuing. Alas! he thought
;to himself, what matters it to find where
she is, and what she is doing. Plainly she
I was in the town; near him, yet not caring
to see him; trying to conceal herself from
him. Her very rags, perhaps, were but a
disguise.
Ile felt so faint and bewildered that he
, had to stumble into a tavern and call for
some brandy. As he sat still there, looking
the awful changes of his life in the face, he
lie made up his mind to depart out of the
country. A map of New Zealand bung on
one side of the fire, a view of Otago on the
other. Ile talked with two men in the room
about emigration. The old town of his
youth, the theatre now of such a mockery.
seemed to grow hateful to him. He talked
with these men until they persuaded him to
emigrate. Bat it was not the golden visions
of wealth which they set before hint that
tempted him; he was impelled by the strong
Idesire to burst all his present trammels.
He hardly knew whether his pride and in
dignation would save, or his sense of loss
destroy him. He made up his mind to get
rid of everything—shop, and house, and
business, at once.
In two hours time—having made an ap
pointment with the men for the nest day—
he returned to his shop. Two or throe
painters immediately came up to him with
inquiries. Would he have the shutters
painted green? or grained like oak? or
picked out with different colors?
Ile pushed by them, answering: "Oh,
anyhow."
The men looked confused. Experience
had taught them that anyhow was always
wrong. One of them advised oak.
"I don't care the least how the shutters
arc painted. I shall never see them, I
hope. I shall sell the shop, and go off in
a day or two to New Zealand."
The men fell back, and started at one
another. They looked at him again, as
doubting whether or no he was drunk, or
had begun to grow insane through his
troubles, which all of them pretty accurately
knew. The master determined to present
his bill, and insure payment. 'William acid
that he would pay him immediately. While
watching-the painter make out his bill, his
young apprentice came whistling into the
shop. After a little while, lie said to Wil
liam:
"'Lave you Been the person in the parlor,
sir?"
"What person? No," said lie.
"There was one came fur you over an
hour ago," said the lad, "and she told me
she should wait until you came in."
William gave a murmur, a sigh, and
pushed his way gloomily through the work
' men, and implements and packages into
the room at the back of the shop. Some
one fell back as he did so. Ah! through). little
window betwixt the shop and parlor, Anne
had been watching him ever since he came
in. Her heart lashed her with pain and
woe as she saw the thin figure and pinched,
altered face, and felt that she had made
him so meagre and so white. She leaned
on the sill and sobbed. She dared not go
through to him, for she feared the scene of
their meeting in the open gaze of the work-
I=
Nor shall I describe that scene here. It
was a long while before either of them could
realize its truth, and particularly before
William could, lie asked if he had not
passed her one night in the fog. She an
swered yes and that the night and the early
morning were the only times she dared go
out, she so dreaded meeting him. lle
asked her if he had not seen her that very
day, three hours ago. She blushed, and
pointed to her dress. William looked down
at it; it was a silken one. She told him she
was rushing to fetch it out of pawn, on pur
pose to visit him and explain himself, when
ho perceived her that morning: and then
she added all the story of her illness and
penury, with many tears and prayers for
forgiveness. William was so thankful that
that he wondered what he could have to
forgive. Her proposals to regain her little
capital, •just for vanity's sake' he would
not listen to, but demanded, as the only
penance, that they should be married before
any more separations were possible. He
called on the emigration agents who said he
was a very fickle man—and broke off his
negotiations; but as a kind of recompense,
he invited them to eat, drink and dance at
his wedding.
A dispute about Lot's Wife.
Two old gentlemen farmers, Isaac Ger
' raid and Billy Hodge, remarkable for their
mutual friendship and social habits, were
sitting one day on s bench in the piazza of
a retail grocery, with a couple of silver dol
lars on the seat between them. Both had
on their spectacles, and were busily en
gaged in turning with great care and scru
tiny the leaves of a small Bible they had
just procured from the Office of the Clerk
of the Circuit or Superior Court, as it is
called in Georgia.
The lids of the sacred volume bad been
worn or torn off; occasioning many dog
ears at both ends, showing evidently long
and bard usage.
Each gentleman seemed anzions to have
tbo book for the time being, while each
[WHOLE NUMBER 1,498_
seemed determined that the other should
not be so exclusive. After a most unsatis
factory examination, both participating,
Gerald jerked the book from Hodge, with
evident signs of impatience, saying:
"I can find it if you will just hands off
and lot me alone. I read all about it many
a time when I went to school. I tell yon
it's in the Psalms of Moses, who writ and
sung all about the old dispensation."
"I'll double the bet," Hodge replied; "it's
neither in the Psalms nor in your old dis
pensatory, as you call it. It is under the
new constitution, and if ever found 'twill be
in Revelations. What did Moses know
about the 'Postlo Paul and his family ar
rangements? I allow he was a right sharp
old gentleman, and could look into circum
stances about to crowd hies as far .as any
one in his day. But the Dark Ages, which,
they say, was as black as a night without
stars, meteors, or lightning-bugs, come
atweeu him and Paul; and he bad no specks,
magnifying-glass, or telegraph, could see
through or work in them times. I tell you,
Gerald, you ain't nowhnr with me in Bible
laming."
The person thus taunted had been anx
iously searching the Psalms, and had paid
very little attention to his companion; had
en indistinct idea s9pething had been said
about dark ages or dark night's; but dis
tinctly comprehended the invidious compar
ison instituted between his Biblical know
ledge and Hodge's." Raising his eyes from
the pages he had boon so closely scanning,
and shoving his spectacles to the top of his
head, he looked piercingly into the face of
the other.
"Whar was you brung up, Billy Hodge?
Whar eddyeated? Ali: I recollect now the
evening you went through college! You
staggered into one end drunk, and the boys
kicked you out the t'other! I s'pose you
thought that was graddyating! I could
have taken the same coarse, the same time,
but declined. But that is neither here nor
thar. What about the time you said they
had them dark nights? L wouldn't be sur
prised if they did make a power of fine
wheat then. You know they say, wheat
sowed in the dark nights of October always
does well. I never could account for it;
have looked plum thru the almanick several_
times to see bow it was! But this ain't set
ding our bet. / want to handle the rhino;
I know I've got you! Yonder is Bob Logan,
the Clerk; I reckon he moat take this book
and look up the passage."
Hodge heard nothing Gerald had just
said, except his allusion to the Clerk, etc.;
fur as soon as the latter had ceased his
search among the Psalms, lie seized the Bi
ble, and com menced looking through Reve
lations.
"'lanais, Logan!" •continuwl Gerald,
"come here." When dais official approached,
he proceeded; "I and 'lodge has made a
bet. lie stands me a silver dollar it was
Paul's and not Lot's wife which was turned
to a pillow of salt. We've been ransack
ing this old Bible, principally Psalms and
Revelations, and can't find the place what
treats on that toppack. Now, old fallow,
just he kind enough to take your old Bible
and settle this matter atwist us."
"It is no use to take the Bible," said
ME
"I thought every Sunday school bay and
girl knew it was Lot's wife they rubbed the
brine into so extensively. They used the
article so freely in the operation, it has
preserved her safe and sound through all
seasons, years and ages. Captain Lynch
reports it was but the other day be saw her
standing in the suburbs of Sodom or
Gomorrah—one, he could not tell exactly
which; but she was there, salty as ever,
with the smell of fire and brimstone around
her! As fur the Apostle Paul, if ever be
was married it was a clandestine affair; his
biography and autobiography are silent on
that subject; and I reckon that is an event
a man would never forget, whether foriu:
nate or unfortunate, though his friends
might."
"It's my money!" shouted Gerald, and he
was about raking the silver, when llodge
caught his hand.
"Not so fast, if you please; I have seen
sicker children live' Bob Logan don't
know everything—he is like me and you;
if all ho did not know had to be put into
books, printing paper would rise, certain.
What he and them school children rnay.say.
with our Captain Lynch flung in to boot,
can't move them deposits" (pointing to the
money), "Here is the dockyment, gentle
men," (holding up the Bible,)-"xnust settle
this game. Nice idea, indeed! I must give
up my money on the say-so of a man which
never reads his Bible, and wouldn't keep
one, if' the Judge didn't make him, to
swear people in Court on! and what chil
dren which gits all their larnin' from little
red primmers may say! and what the great
Captain Lynch may say! It was a good
thing he wa'nt sent into Utay, Brigham
Young's digging, whar salt and wives are
so plenty, and whar I hope there will be
be no lack of Ere and brimstone soon! Nice
idea, I say again, I must knock under to
all this rigmarole, with the Word of Truth
here in my hand, though right hard to sift
out! Here, take the book, Logan; strata
op the corners and look closely. I am
afraid it ayn't in here; some two or three of
the leaves near the near the end is minis';
you will certainly find it in the last book,
Revelations, if not torn out,"
After a long and tiresome search l y the
clerk, he found it in the 10th chapter, 26th