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Uncle Snooks had a pretty hard time on it sometimes, when the women folks used to come and plague him about not selling any more rum to their husbands. There was one Barney Belcher, who drank up his farm. They used to say his old cow choked him, because he sold her last of all his stock, and died in a fit, while he was drinking the very first dram that he bought with the money he got for her. Barney's wife tormented uncle 'Zeik from morning to night; and her persecution, together with the loss of his property, as I always thought, drove him out of his business, and shortened his days. She was a proper firebrand, though she never took any spirit herself. There was not a happier couple in our parish, when they were first married; and they had a family of four little children, that every body used to notice, for their neat appearance, I've seen them many a time, of a Sunday going to meeting, hand in hand, and all four abreast, along with their father and mother. Barney was a very thrifty farmer, and I never thought he was the man to die a drunkard. It used to be said, that there had'nt been a likelier couple married in the parish for many years; for though they had almost nothing to start with, yet they were amazing handsome to look at; they were generally as smart as a couple of steel traps, and very industrious into the bargain. They did surprising well for years. But he got to be an ensign, and rum and regimentals did the business for poor Barney in less than no time. When he got to be pretty bad, she first came to the house, and then to the shop, to get uncle 'Zeik not to let him have any more liquor. They had a good many talks about it, but uncle 'Zeik would have his At last she consulted a lawyer, and came over to the shop, and gave uncle 'Zeik a real dressing, before more than a dozen customers. Well, Nelly Belcher," said uncle 'Zeik, when she came in, resolved to be beforehand with her, "what do you want to-day?" Mercy," said she, if I can't have justice. You well know what I want. I now request you once again to sell my husband no more spirits." And how can I help it?" said uncle 'Zeik, somewhat disturbed by her resolute manner. have taken a lawyer's advice,” said she, "and you have no right to sell liquor to common drunkards." "Do you say that your husband is a common drunkard?" said he. To be sure I do," she replied.
band and children." "Touch the Foor woman!" cried Nelly, stretching herself up-and she was the tallest woman in the parish-let him lay the weight of his rummy finger upon me if he dares; and, though I'm poor enough in purse, Heaven knows, I'll show him that I've the same spirit of my father, who thrashed him when he was eighteen, for stealing a sheep-skin. I won't go out of his shop, nor budge an inch, till I've said my say, in the presence of ye all."« Nelly Belcher," said uncle 'Zeik, you'll have to pay for this." Pay for it!" cried Nelly, in a screaming voice, and hav'nt you got your pay already?-Hav'nt you got the homestead and the stock and the furniture? And did'nt Barney pawn the children's clothes last Friday, and bring you every cent he got for them? You've got every thing from the ridge-pole down; you've got all here, among your wages of iniquity; and as she said this, she gave a blow with her fist, upon the top of uncle 'Zeik's till, that made the coppers pretty lively I tell ye. «Snooks" said she, "you've got every thing. I have not a pint of meal, nor a peck of potatoes for my children. Stop-I'm mistaken, there's an old rum jug in the house, that's been in your shop often enough; you ought to have that; and there's a ragged straw bed, you shall have them both, and any thing else you'll find, if you don't let Barney have any more rum. You've made your bargain, Snooks, your own way; but there's a third party to it, that's the devil. You've got poor Barney's money in your till, and the devil's got your soul in his fire-proof, and he'll keep it there till the day of judgment." Uncle 'Zeik offered 'Bijah Cody a handsome present, if he'd turn her out of the shop. I'd a leetle rather not, Mr. Snooks," answered 'Bijah with a look that showed plainly enough how much he enjoyed uncle 'Zeik's torment. "Look here Nelly Belcher," said uncle 'Zeik-and he was getting wrathy, for he stamped his foot pretty smart- the second Tuesday in November next the court will sit, and you shall answer for this." "What care I for your court?" replied she 66 the day will come and it may come this hour when a higher court may sit; and you shall answer for more than all this a thousand fold. Then you cold "Ihearted old man, I will lead my poor ragged children, before the bar of a righteous God and make a short story of their wrongs, and that poor young man's who has fallen by your hands, just as though he had been killed with ratsbane. There's none of you here that does'nt remember me and Barney when we were first married. Now, I ask you if ever you dreampt that we should come to this? Was there ever a little farm better managed!-And if
"I really do not think your husband is a common drunkard, Nelly Belcher," said uncle 'Zeik. Snooks," said she, clinching her fist, "you are what you are. You know that Barney is a common drunkard, and you made him so, you old—I was not a careful, faithful industrious wife to Barlicensed, rumselling, church member." Go out of ney, I wish you to say the very worst to my face. my shop," cried uncle 'Zeik; stepping towards her. And were my little ones ill-treated? Had'nt they "I would'nt touch the poor woman,” said one of the whole clothes for Sunday, and was'nt they constant company; she's driven on by the state of her hus- lat meeting for years, till this curse crept in upon
us, like an adder? And till then did ye ever see a likelier man than Barney? And as for his kindness to me and the children till that hour, it's for me to witness; and I say it before ye all, that before he tasted this old man's liquor, there never was a hard thought or a bitter word between us. He was the boy of my foolish love when he was seventeen, and the man of my choice when he was three and twenty. I gave him an honest heart that never loved another, and the trifle of worldly goods that my mother left me; but he has broken the one and squandered the other. Last night, as I lay upon my straw bed, with my poor children, I thought of our young days, and of our little projects of happiness; and, as I saw poor Barney in my fancy just the trim lad that he was with his bright eye and ruddy cheek, I felt my eyes filling with tears, as they're filling now. I hope I may never shed another," said she, dashing them off with the back of her hand, and resuming her look of vengeance. "I'm going to cross your threshold for the last time, and now mark me well, I ask you once for all, to sell poor Barney no more liquor. If you do, I will curse you till I die, as the destroyer of my husband, and I will teach my children to curse you when I am dead and gone, as the destroyer of their father.
Uncle Snooks continued to sell rum to Barney Belcher, as before, whenever he got any money. It was thought by a good many that Nelly had lost her reason, or very near it, about that time. She found out that Barney got rum at our store, and sure enough, she brought her four little children, and standing close to the shop door, she cursed uncle 'Zeik, and made them do so too. It worried him exceedingly. Whenever she met him in the road, she stopped short, and said over a form she had, in a low voice; but every body knew, by her raising her eyes and hands, that she was cursing uncle 'Zeik. Very few blamed her; her case was a very hard one; and most folks excused her on the score of her mind's being disordered by her troubles. But even then she made her children obey her, whether present or absent, though it was said she never struck them a blow. It almost made me shudder sometimes, when I've seen these children meet uncle 'Zeik. They'd get out of his way as far as they could; and when he had gone by, they'd move their lips, though you could'nt hear a word, and raise up their eyes and hands just as their mother had taught them. When I thought these children were calling down the vengeance of heaven upon uncle 'Zeik, for having made them fatherless, it made my blood run cold.
After the death of her husband, she became very melancholy, and a great deal more so, after the loss of her two younger children. She did not curse uncle 'Zeik after that. But she always had a talent
for rhyming; and she used to come and sit upon the horse-block before our shop, and sing a sort of song, that was meant to worry uncle 'Zeik, and it did worry him dreadfully, especially the chorus. Whenever he heard that, he seemed to forget what he was about, and every thing went wrong. 'Twas something like this
He dug a pit as deep as hell,
One time when poor Nelly sung the chorus pretty loud, and the shop was rather full, uncle 'Zeik was so confused that he poured half a pint of rum, which he had measured out, into his till and dropped the change into the tin pot, and handed it to the customer.
I really felt for him; for about this time, two of his sons gave him a sight of trouble. They used to get drunk and fight like serpents. They shut the oldgentleman down in the cellar one night, and one of them when he was drunk slapped his father in the face. They did nothing but run him into debt; and at last he got to taking too much himself, just to drown care. Old Nelly was right; for uncle Snooks fell into his own pit before he died.
After the Temperance Society was formed, he lost his license, and got to be starving poor, and the town had to maintain him. He's been crazy for several years. I went to see him last winter with father, who has tried to get him into the state hospital. It made me feel ugly to see him. He did'nt know me, but all the time I was there he kept turning his thumb and finger as though he was drawing liquor, or scoring it with a bit of chalk upon the wall. It seemed as if he had forgotten all his customers but one; for though the wall was covered with charges of rum and brandy and flip and toddy, the whole was set down against Barney Belcher.
BY WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.
How fall fame's pillars at the touch of time!
How fade, like flowers, the memories of the dead! How vast the grave that swallows up a clime! How dim the light by ancient glory shed! One generation's clay enwraps the next, And dead men are the aliment of earth; Passing away," is Nature's funeral text, Uttered co-evous with creation's birth. What though 'tis certain that my humble name, With this frail body, shall soon find a tomb? It seeks a heavenly, not an earthly fame,
Which through eternity shall brightly bloom: Write it within thy Book of Life, O Lord, And in the last great day," a golden crown award!
THE MARTYR OF THE ARENA.
BY EPES SARGENT.
Narrated in Gibbon's Roman Empire.
Honour'd be the hero evermore,
Who at mercy's call has nobly died! Echoed be his name from shore to shore, With immortal chronicles allied!
Verdant be the turf upon his dust,
Bright the sky above, and soft the air! In the grove set up his marble bust,
And with garlands crown it, fresh and fair.
In melodious numbers, that shall live
His eulogium to the future years!
Not the victor in his country's cause,
Not the chief who leaves a people free,
Shall deserve a greater fame than he !
Fill'd with gazing thousands were the tiers,
Rang the dome with plaudits loud and long,
Was there no one in that eager throng
To denounce the spectacle of blood?
Ay, Telemachus, with swelling frame,
Saw the inhuman sport renew'd once more: Few among the crowd could tell his nameFor a cross was all the badge he wore! Yet with brow elate and God-like mien, Stepped he forth upon the circling sand; And, while all were wondering at the scene, Check'd the encounter with a daring hand.
Beckoning to him, with a martyr's crown? Fiercer swell'd the people's frantic shout! Launched against him flew the stones like rain! Death and terror circled him about
But he stood and perish'd-not in vain!
Not in vain the youthful martyr fell!
Then and there he crush'd a bloody creed! And his high example shall impel
Future heroes to as great a deed!
Stony answers yet remain for those
Who would question and precede the time ! In their season may they meet their foes, Like TELEMACHUS, with front sublime.
The Anniversary of Lovejoy's Martyrdom.
BY MARIA WESTON CHAPMAN.
No tears to-day! a lofty joy should crown
We will not water it with griefs and tears; But, o'er its harvest in the future years Rejoice, as those before whose gaze hath shone A vision of the faithful, girt to die
'Mid hostile crowds, in darkness for the right; Yet may we mourn that, ringing through the night,
Sharply to theirs thine answering shots reply. Tears for the blood of others shed by thee;Joy for thy blood poured forth so joyously and free.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
They pass me by like shadows, crowds on crowds,
"We only truly live, but ye are dead." Alas, poor fools! the anointed eye may trace A dead soul's epitaph in every face.
On the outward world relying,
Earthly treasures thou wouldst heap; Titled friends and lofty honors
Lull thy higher hopes to sleep.
Thou art stored with worldly wisdom,
Brightly sparkle wit and wine.
Richly droop the silken curtains,
Round those high and mirrored halls; And on mossy Persian carpets,
Silently thy proud step falls.
Not the gentlest wind of heaven
Dares too roughly fan thy brow, Nor the morning's blessed sunbeams
Tinge thy cheek with ruddy glow. Yet midst all these outward riches,
Has thy heart no void confessedWhispering, though each wish be granted, Still, oh still I am not blessed?
And when happy, careless children,
Lured thee with their winning waysThou hast sighed in vain contrition,
Give me back those golden days. Hadst thou stooped to learn their lesson, Truthful preachers—they had told Thou thy kingdom hast forsaken,
Thou hast thy own birthright sold.
Thou art heir to vast possessions,
Up, and boldly claim thine own: Seize the crown-that waits thy wearingLeap at once into thy throne.
Look not to some cloudy mansion, 'Mong the planets far away; Trust not to the distant future,
Let thy Heaven begin to-day.
When thy struggling soul hath conquered,-
When thou art prepared for Heaven,
THE BROTHERHOOD OF MAN.
BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.
The population of Lowell is constituted mainly of New Englanders, but there are representatives here of almost every part of the civilized world. The good-humored face of the Milesian meets one at al. most every turn,-the shrewdly solemn Scotchman, the trans-Atlantic Yankee, blending the crafty thrift of Bryce Snailsfoot with the stern religious heroism of Cameron, the blue-eyed, fair-haired German, from the towered hills which overlook the Rhine, slow, heavy, and unpromising in his exterior, yet of the same mould and mettle of the men who rallied for Father-Land" at the Tyrtean call of Korner, and beat back the chivalry of France from the banks of the Katzbach-the countryman of Ritcher, and Goethe, and our sainted Follen. Here, too, are pedlars from Hamburgh, and Bavaria, and Poland, with their sharp Jewish faces and black keen eyes. At this moment, beneath my window, are two sturdy, sun-browned Swiss maidens, grinding music for a livelihood, rehearsing in a strange Yankee land the simple songs of their old mountain home, reminding me by their foreign garb and language, of
"Lauterbrunnen's peasant girl."
Poor wanderers!-I love not their music; but now as the notes die away, and, to use the words of Dr. Holmes, silence comes like a poultice to heal the wounded ear," I feel grateful for their visitation.Away from the crowded thoroughfare, from brick walls and dusty avenues, at the sight of these poor peasants I have gone in thought to the vale of Chaumony, and seen, with Coleridge, the Morning Star pausing on the "bald awful head of Sovran Blanc," and the sunrise and the sunset glorious upon snowycrested mountains, down in whose vallies the night still lingers-and following in the track of Byron and Rousseau, have watched the lengthening shadows
I smell the blood of an Englishman,
of the hills on the beautiful waters of the Genevan ple of England as my enemies, nor sympathize with lake. Blessings, then, upon these young wayfarers, that blustering sham-patriotism, which is ever exfor they have blessed me unawares." In an hour claiming, like the giant of the nursery tale: of sickness and lassitude, they have wrought for me the miracle of Lorretto's chapel, and borne me away from the scenes around me and the sense of personal suffering, to that wonderful land where Nature seems still uttering, from lake and valley and mountains whose eternal snows lean on the hard blue heaven, the echoes of that mighty hymn of a new-created world, when "the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy!"
an abstraction to me; it is no longer a vague mass; it spreads out before me into individuals, in a thousand interesting forms and relations; it consists of husbands and wives, parents and children, who love one another as I love my own home; it consists of affectionate women and sweet children; it consists of Christians, united with me to the common Savior, and in whose spirit I reverence the likeness of his divine virtue; it consists of a vast multitude of laborers at the plough and in the workshop, whose toils I sympathize with, whose burden I should rejoice to lighten, and for whose elevation I have pleaded; it
I remember that the same sun which shines upon England's royalty and priestcraft, streams also into the dusty workshop of Ebenezer Elliot-rests on the drab coat of the Birmingham Quaker Reformergreets O Connell through the grates of his prison -glorifies the grey locks of Clarkson, and gladdens But of all classes of foreigners the Irish are by far the heroic-hearted Harriet Martineau, in her sick the most numerous. They constitute a quiet and in-chamber at the mouth of the Tyne. With heart and dustrious portion of the population; and are conse-soul I respond to the sentiments of Channing, when quently respected by their Yankee neighbors. For speaking of a foreign nation: "That nation is not myself, I confess I feel a sympathy for the Irishman. I see him as the representative of a generous, warmhearted and cruelly oppressed people. That he loves his native land—that his patriotism is divided—that he cannot forget the claims of his mother islandthat his religion, with all its abuses, is dear to himdoes not decrease my estimation of him. A stranger in a stange land, he is to me always an object of interest. The poorest and rudest has a romance in his history. Amidst all his apparent gayety of heart, and national drollery and wit, the poor emigrant has sad thoughts of the "ould mother of him," sitting lonely in her solitary cabin by the bog-side-consists of men of science, taste, genius, whose writrecollections of a father's blessing, and a sister's farewell are haunting him--a grave-mound in a distant churchyard, far beyond the “wide wathers," has an eternal greenness in his memory-for there perhaps lies a darlint child," or a "swate crather" who once loved him,-the New World is forgotten for the moment-blue Killarney and the Liffy sparkle before him-Glendalough stretches beneath him its dark still mirror-he sees the same evening sunshine rest upon and hallow alike with Nature's blessing the ruins of the Seven Churches of Ireland's apostolic age, the broken mound of the Druids, and the Round Towers of the Phenician sun-worshippers,beautiful and mournful recollections of his home waken within him-and the rough and seemingly careless and light-hearted laborer melts into tears. It is no light thing to abandon one's own country and household gods. Touching and beautiful was the injunction of the Prophet of the Hebrews: "Ye shall not oppress the stranger, for ye know the heart of the stranger, seeing that ye were strangers in the land of Egypt."
I love my own country-I have a strong New England feeling: but I am no friend of that narrow spirit of mingled national vanity and religious intolerance, which, under the name of "Native Americanism," has made its appearance among us. I reverence man, as man. Be he Irish or Spanish, black or white, he is my brother man. I have no prejudices against other nations-I cannot regard the peo
ings have beguiled my solitary hours, and given life to my intellect and best affections. I love this nation: its men and women are my brothers and sisters."
THE STRUGGLE FOR FAME.
BY CHARLES MACKAY.
If thou wouldst win a lasting fame;
Begin thy perilous career,
If thou canst struggle day and night,
If thou canst bear the rich man's scorn: