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VOL. XtV
jSTEW BLOOMFIELD, 1j.A.., TUESDAY, MAY 11, 188.
NO. 20.
WW
THE TIMES.
la Independent Family Newspaper,
IB PUBLISHED BVBHT TCB8D1T BT
F. MORTIMER & CO.
o
TEWM8 I
INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE.
One vear (Postage Free) II 8"
Six Months " " 80
To Subscribers in this County
Who pay In Abvawcb a Discount of 25 Cents will
be made from the above terms, making
subscription within the Comity,
When Paid In Advance, 91.25 Per Tear.
Advertising rates furnished uponappll-cation.
Deacon Sharpe's Wife's Niece.
il "yOU Just look here," said Mrs. For
I bearance Sharpe, wife of Deacon
Sharpe, of Pentonvllle; "If you stay
here, Mercy Lane, you'll have to pay
your way. We've seven children of our
own to look out for, and the deacon
Isn't a very forehanded man. You're
fourteen years old now, and you've had
all the eddication you'll ever get out of
me, I can tell you, once for all. Any
gal that can read the Bible and the
newspapers, and write a fair hand,
ought to be satisfied, unless she's got a
fortin. And as for them new-fangled
notions Miss Carter's putting Into your
head, the sooner you get over them the
better. You're at liberty to leave us
any day, but, so long as you stay here
you've got to earn your bread and but
ter," and Mrs. Bharpe settled anew to
shelling a bushel of beans, which she
intended to " lay up" for the winter's
use.
I cannot say what notion induced that
lady's progenitors to christen her " For
bearance;" but there certainly never
was a greater misnomer, as any physi
ognomist could have told by one glance
at her sharp wiry visage, with its small,
keen, sunken eyes, and its thin, pale
lips, whereon her character was wiitten,
as legible as the life can write Itself on
the face.
Mercy Lane was an orphan, and the
' daughter of Mrs. Sharpe's younger sis
ter. Bhe had resided with her aunt
about six years ; and temperaments
more thoroughly antipathetic were never
brought in social and domestio relations
with each other. Mercy was a very
singular child, combining those qualities
which are accompanied with genius of
a certain order. Bhe was dreamy, indo
lent, and impulsive ; capable, too,. of a
great deal of stubborn endurance, and
outbreaks of wild energy and wrath.
There was in her a great latent power of
great good, or evil ; but her aunt did
not understand her, any more than a
eavage would the soft beauty, and the
stirring grandeur of the Iliad.
It is one of the darkest riddles of life,
why two natures so essentially unlike
should ever be brought in contact with
each other a contact that must result
in exquisite suffering to one of these.
. But so it is ; the early life of most
geniuses is a harrowing history to him
who reads it. But the fearful discipline
may be needed ; the fine gold must have
the ordeal of the fire. Up there we shall
" know even as we are known."
Mercy Lane stood very still, and
listened to her aunt's speech. Bhe was
neither pretty, nor, a, first sight, Inter
esting. She was a dark, thin, sunburnt
child, and just now her face had a harsh,
sullen expression, that made it almost
disagreeable. The lips, large and full,
were set down firmly together, and the
thin brown arms moved to and fro with
a nervous restlessness. Her features
were large and Irregular; her figure
lean, awkward,undeveloped ; you would
never have dreamed there' was any
beauty or loveliness there. And yet
there was. If she were to lift suddenly
these short thick lashes you might see a
pair of eyes, dark, and warm, and
radiate as a cboloe bit of agate; and if
that harshly set mouth were to flash out
on you suddenly one of its smiles, the
face of Mercy Lane would be something
more than dark, and lean, and homely
to you ; for you would see it ever after
ward in the light of that wondrous
mile.
Deacon Bharpe was a good man, but
he was a weak, lymphatic sort of char
acter, largely controlled by his active
spouse, who, to do her Justice, was
much the smarter, and sharper of the
two. Bhe was a notable housekeeper,
an ingrained termagant, a coarse, narrow-minded,
most unloveable woman.
We lived half a mtle from the Bharpes,
on the road that leads from Pentonvllle
to Fairfield. There were only three of
us ; cousin Miranda Carter, my brother
Gorham, and myself.
We two were orphans, and cousin
Miranda Carter was the village school
teacher. Our house, all that our parents
left us, was a straw-colored cottage, not
large, but plain and neat, and comforta
ble, with two great chestnut trees in
front.
Gorham was ten when mamma fol
lowed papa " across the river." Two
weeks later, cousin Miranda Carter came
to our house. She and mamma were
own cousins, and had been the tender
eat of friends through all their girl and
womanhood.
" Children," said cousin Miranda Car
ter, drawing her arms arouud Gorham
and me, " I am an orphan too, and God
has brought us together. Ever since
they laid Lucy by Edward's side I have
heard a voice in my heart that I knew
was God speaking to me, ' Go, and be a
mother to the children, Miranda,' and I
have come to be this." And she was
father and mother to us. Bhe was poor,
and taught school, as she had done
before. We lived, of course, very plain
ly, but still comfortable, for Pentonvllle
was not an expensive place, and we had
a garden, some chickens, and a cow.
Nobody need starve with these in the
couutry.
They called her an old maid, cousin
Miranda Carter ; and she must have
been more than thirty when Bhe came
to us, for she was Just my mother's age.
Bhe was not handsome, and yet ahe had
one of those gentle, fair, womanly faces
that "grow upon you." Years after
ward we learned the history of. her life,
and why she gave so many of its years
to us. ' Perhaps my father and mother
have learned it now in heaven, and,
perhaps, if they had learned it sooner
they would never have been my father
and mother, for cousin Miranda Carter
was very dear to the hearts of both ; but
my mother was very beautiful I
Ah I I wonder often, if amid the
crowns which the angels set down on
the foreheads of the redeemed, there are
many fairer, even among priest, and
prophet, and the holy of the world,
than the one she wears cousin Miranda
Carter I
Mercy Lane had attended her school
two terms. Our couBin had remarkable
acute perceptions of character. Bhe saw
the germs of much that was rare and
good in the girl. Bhe encouraged and
stimulated her in her studies. Mercy's
teacher was the first friend she had had
since her mother died ; and the hapless
child grew in a little while to love her
with all the ardor which belonged to her
deep intense nature.
At the close of Mercy's second term
her aunt removed her from school;
needing, as she averred, her services at
home. This was a terrible blow to the
ghild, for Mercy's taste of knowledge
had awakened a great " hunger and
thirst in her soul." Cousin Miranda
called on Mrs. Sharpe, and vainly en
deavored to Induce her to send her niece
to school another term. Mrs. Bharpe
was inexorable. " It was useless to stuff
girl's heads with notions and knowl
edge," she said. " Mercy must stay at
home, to take care of Tom," a fat, white
haired, flabby.faced boy, of two and a
half years.
But Miranda did not despair, for the
sight of Mercy's disappointment greatly
moved her. Bhe told the girl she would
give her lessons every evening, in
geography, grammar and arithmetic, if
she would come over to our. house, after
the supper dishes were washed. Bhe
was more diplomatic, however, this
time, and urged Mercy to make the
proposition herself to her aunt, fearing
she might dislike interference on her
part.
With what success Mercy urged her
cause may be Inferred from Mrs.Sharpe's
remarks at the commencement of my
story.
" Mercy I Mercy ! what is the mat
ter V"
The golden painting of the twilight
had filled the little back sitttlng-room,
where we were all at supper, when
Mercy burst suddenly Into the room,
threw her sun-bonnet en the floor, and
sinking into a chair, broke into quick,
sharp sobs that fairly convulsed her
thin frame. We all sprang up from the
table and rushed to her with exclama
tions of alarm and commiseration. At
last Mercy sobbed out the story of her
appeal to her aunt, and its unsuccessful
issue.
"Ami now I shall have to go back
and drudge and slave from morning till
night and never see the luside of a
book. I Just wIbIi I was dead this
minute, and lying close by the side of
mammal"
"The old curmudgeon,! I've a good
will to get two or three of the boys, and
go down there and give her a Hogging
she'll remember till she's greyer than
she is now," said Gorham, glancing
at his horsewhip which stood In the
corner.
" I wish you would, Gorham. I'd
peep through the window and clap my
hands with a relish," I answered.
"Children, children, it Is very wrong
for you to talk so," said the soft, grave
tones of cousin Miranda Carter. " Of
course I do not attempt to deny that
Mrs. Sharpe is very unkind to Mercy,
but you Bee her conduct doesn't excuse
our talking about her after this fash
ion." " Yes It does too," retorted Gorham,
in his fiery way. " Oh, wouldn't I like
to " au expressive pantomime with
his clenched hand concluded the sen
tence more emphatically than any words
could have done ; and I could not help
thinking how handsome he looked with
his great, bright, flashing eyes all aglow
with generous rays.
But we gathered round poor little
Mercy Lane with what words of sym
pathy and consolation we could. At
last we prevailed upon her to sit down
and take supper with us ; cousin Miran
da telling her in that soft cheerful voice
of hers not to despair, for some good
would Burely come to her yet. Oh, it
was because of her faith in God, the
Father, that cousin Miranda Carter's
voice always dropped like sweet balsam
to a wounded heart.
After supper Gorham pulled Miranda's
sleeve, "Come into the parlor with me,"
he whispered.
So they went into the parlor together
and stood by the window, and Gorham
eald very rapidly as he always talked,
" Bee here, Miranda, you know that
twenty-five dollars I earned by carrying
the mall-bag last winter V"
" Yes, Gorham."
" Well, you see I Intended to -buy
Deacon Hubbard's colt with it, (love of
horses was Mr. Gorham'a greatest pas
sion.) Now I've concluded to go with
out the colt this year, and I'll give the
money to that skin. flint if she'll agree
to let Mercy come here five nights out
of the week to study with Lettie. You
Bald she told you she wanted a new
carpet for her front room, but the
deacon couldn't afford to get her one.
Twenty-five dollars will buy it, and I
know she can't resist the temptation.
I'll leave you to manage the matter,
women folks always understand these
things best."
" Gorham ! you are a noble, noble
boy I God bless you!" said cousin Miran
da Carter, in an unsteady voice, for she
knew how Gorham had set his heart on
the colt.
" Well, mind now you must give me
permission to slander the old witch Just
as long and as hard as it suits my
pleasure to do. I must be off now to
Jack Howe about that fishing to-morrow,"
and he plunged out of the room
in his usual nervous, graceful way, and
standing at the window his cousin
watched him, murmuring with unsteady
lips, " He has the eyes, oh, he has the
eyes of his father !"
Cousin Miranda returned home with
Mercy Lane, and had a private inter
view with Mrs. Sharpe. The prospect
of a new carpet for her parlor reached
the one vulnerable corner in the heart
of that lady ; and under its softening
influence Miranda succeeded in obtain
ing promises of unexampled magnitude
and generosity. Mrs. Bharpe consented
to Mercy's coming to recite five eve
nings out of the week for the next year
and a half, and to her studying two
hours each day at borne.
Of Mercy's delight and gratitude to us
all, especially to Gorham, I cannot tell
you now, because I cannot write it with-
out tears that blind my eyes and blister
my paper.
Well, to tell the story briefly. Mercy
pursued he studies with us for th next
year and a half. She made rapid
progress, for her heart was in the- work.
God knows she suffered enough at home,
but she was not unhappy as she had
been, for her life had an object, and Its
horlson was not bounded by Mrs..
Bharpe 'a kitchen.
" I shall be free some time," she said,
and there flashed something of settled
purpose over the thin, sun-browned face,
that was a prophecy for the- woman's
future.
It was cousin Miranda's alien to pre
pare Mercy for a district school teacher,
and It was with this purpose she had
directed ali her studies.
Shutting my eyes now I still see the
head with Us mass of brlgbt,half tangled
hair, drooping over the books on the
little stand near the great fire-place, in
those long winter evenings evenings
whose memory shine down on me now
like the tender, mournful faces of those
that have lain lower and soared higher
than me.
Somehow we all felt that Mercy was,
in a degree, our protege. Bhe was
always gentle and docile with us, and
there was a good-humored rivalry be
tween her and myself, but after awhile
she outstripped me, for I was two years
her junior, but my advantages had been
much superior to hers.
Mercy was just fifteen and a half yeara
old when she went to South Woods to
take charge of a small school there. It
was all cousin Miranda Carter's doings.
Farmer Peters would never have con
sented to take her except on Miranda's
earnest recommendation.
The old man shook his head when
pale and tremulous with hope and
excitement, the little thin, restless fig
ure, looking scarcely as old as it was,
stood before him.
"She'll never do, Miss Carter," said
the old man, peering at her through his
iron-bound spectacles. "The children
are all small, and haven't much larnin',
but they're very obstropolous ; they'll
never mind such a little klnderlln as
that."
" Try her," answered Miranda Carter.
Bhe knew what was in Mercy Lane ;
and at last the old man consented.
" Though you mustn't be disappointed
if we send her back in a week," he
added.
I do not think Mrs. Sharpe would
ever have consented to Mercy's paving
her, (her domestio assistance being al
most invaluable to that lady,) if she had
not so frequently averred to the neigh
bors that her niece was a terrible ex
pense to the poor deacon, and nobody
could tell how glad she should be when
Mercy could shift for herself; a period
that was nearer than Mrs. Sharpe appre
hended, she was therefore, obliged to
submit with the best grace poaslble.
Well, Mercy was duly installed school
mistress of the little district school in
South Woods. It was a newly organ
ized one, and the salary only a dollar
and a half a week. But this seemed a
fortune to the young orphan, and cer
tainly she earned it. People stared, and
said they were " sending their children
to a child," and anticipated no good
from her youth and inexperience, but
they soon discovered there was a world
of power and energy encase In the
small, thin figure of Mercy Lane.
She soon succeeded in making her
scholars stand In awe of her, and she
succeeded In making them learn too ; in
short, she gave such general satisfaction
that she remained a year at South
Woods, coming once a month to visit
us.
At the end of the year, cousin Miranda
Carter received a note from her enclos
ing twenty-five dollars, and It ran
" My Dear Miss Carter You will
no doubt be greatly surprised to hear I
have had an oiler of a situation in. a
seminary in Brooklyn. My salary will
be two hundred dollars a year, and
include my board. Will you please tell
Gorham I send him many thanks, and
thank God too that I can pay him that
debt. And remember, dear Miss Carter,
what I shall never forget, that if the
future shall find in me anything that is
great and good, I shall owe it to you, to
Gorham, to Lettie. And in this belief I
am yours, as I am no other's on earth,
Mercy Lane."
Eight years had passed. It was wear
ing tenderly into October. The bright,
still morning looked into our pleasant
home In the suburbs of the cily, with
the "God bless you!" which is the
language of all beautiful days if our
hearts could but understand them.
Our home was now quite In. the
suburbs of New York, and though by
no means a pretending, It certainly wa
a very pleasant one that little white
cottage, with its long window-blinds,
set down, behind larches and cedars.
We had sold our home In the country,
and for two years had resided here.
Gorham, my noble, handsome, fasci
nating brother was one of the book,
keepers in a large mercantile firm in
New York; and it was to him that we
owed most of the comfort and happiness
of oui li ves.
"Yes, Gorham," I answered, to a
remark of his, on the morning of which
I write, " I'll go to this grand party
next mouth, if you'll consent to- my
taking rauslo scholars, and supplying
my own wardrobe. I'm tired of being
dependent on you." Concluded, next
week.
FOUND BY A DREAM.
JOHN CALLAGHAN, was a. well-to-do
farmer, residing in the County
Cork. He was a sober, steady man, and
bad never been known to be behind
hand in paying his rent. Though his
farm was not very large, still, by good
management, he was able to-support bis
family comfortably out of it. There
came one summer, however, that the
weather was so bad that nearly all poor
John's crops failed, so that when rent
day came he had no money to meet it.
There was only one thing to. be done
under the circumstances he must sell
off his stock. He regretted much being
obliged to do this ; but he had no other
alternative, if he wished to retain his
farm, for the agent was a very bard
man, and would eoon turn him out if he
did not pay punctually. So the next
fair-day John took two of his best cows
and some fat hogs to. sell at the fair. He
spent all day there trying to get a good
price for them, and at last he succeeded
In doing so. He was very tired on bis
return, and looking so ill that his wife
remarked it to him. Assuring her that
it was nothing but over-fatigue, and that
he would be all right in the morning,
he told her be had sold the cattle very
well, having got fifty pounds for them,
which was enough for the half year's
rent, and something over. He went to
bedjin mediately after his supper, and
soon fell asleep. Next morning, how
ever, his wife wondered why he did not
answer her when she spoke to him. At
first she thought he was in a faint, and
gent at once for a - doctor, who pro
nounced him dead. It was supposed
that the anxious state of his mind, and
the over-fatigue be bad gone through,
hod hastened his death, bis heart having
been affected for some time past.
Poor Mrs. Callaghan got such a shock
by this sad occurrence that at first she
did not think of looking for the money
her husband said be had got at the fair ;
but as the rent was due, and accounts
came in for the funeral; she went to the
place where her husband usually kept
his money. Her search was fruitless ; '
no money was there. She looked in the
pockets of the clothes he bad worn, and
in every press and drawer in bis room.
It was all in vain. The fifty pounds
could not be found anywhere. Could he
have lost It on his way borne t Or had
be been robbed t Perhaps so. He cer
tainly said he bad got the money ; but
she bad not seen him with it. It may
have been only promised to him by the
parties he sold to ; but that ' was not
likely. The poor woman was In a bad
way, and spent all her time in searching
for the missing money, and could think
of nothing else. In a few daya the agent
was to call for the rent ; and If she could
not pay, she and her helpless little ones
would have to leave their dearly beloved
borne, and either beg or starve. Such
was the state of things when the very
night before the expected agent's visit,
Mrs. Callaghan dreamed that her hus
band came to her, and told her that she
would find the fifty pounds pinned to
the paper behind the looking-glass over
the chimney-piece in the bedroom. He
put it there for safety, he said, fearing
the bouse might be robbed, as it was
known he brought the money home
with bim, and he thought it would be
safest there. The moment Mrs. Calla
ghan woke she went over to the place
mentioned by her husband In ber dream
and found the bank notes in the exact
position he bad described.