injustice to his wife; he ought not to have involved | through the six working days, amounted to just himself in this way without her concurrence. He had injured his children, who were more to him than any given number of Tom Hogans; and now, what could he look for but to be continually reproached by his wife? Well, he deserved it, and must try to bear it; but it would be “hard lines" with him. If Jane had known exactly what was then passing in her husband's mind, she could not have done better than she did, as, turning to him with a smile, she said :-" Well, Jesse, what's done is done, and fretting won't mend it. Let us be thankful that we had fifteen pounds to lose. Supposing you hadn't had it in the bank, and had been security for Hogan, that would have been a deal worse, wouldn't it? And now, I'll promise you, dear, faithfully, never to say a word about it from this time forward, without you talk about it first; and then I won't say anything to vex you there." Folks may live a good many years together without knowing all the good qualities of each other until one little event after another brings them out, like a bright beam of sunshine in a dark corner. So it was with Jane; and it was worth the loss of all Grant's money to find what a generous-hearted wife he had got. He slept soundly that night, and had pleasant dreams who can doubt it ? four shillings a week, or nearly a sixth part of Jesse's earnings. It was as much as he paid for rent; "but what of that ?" had been Jesse's line of argument: "it is as much a necessary of life to me as bread, and there's the long and the short of it." "But about these shoes-they must be got somehow," said Grant again to himself; and before he had solved the problem, he was stripped, and hard at work in his yard. There were, to be sure, more ways than one by which Willy might instantly have been new shod. Jesse Grant might have had credit at the shoemaker's for a few weeks, or he might have borrowed money of his master, or put off paying his rent for a week or two, or he might, with great management, have squeezed the price of a pair of shoes out of his week's wages; but neither of these plans took his fancy. He might have had recourse to either of the two former but for the loss of his fifteen pounds; but now he felt himself poor, and was conscientiously fearful of getting into debt. In short, poor Jesse was greatly disconcerted; and three things that day tended to keep alive his discomposure. In the first place, he had to give written notice to the savings-bank, for the withdrawal of the whole of his deposits; in the second place, when Willy brought his father's dinner to the yard, as usual, "But about these shoes," said Jesse Grant to he had on his best shoes; and lastly, towards himself as, early the next morning, he was going evening, the pot-boy of the public-house in the to the yard where he worked. "Poor Willy must next street went round the yard for the weekly not go barefoot because I have been a simpleton." beer-money, it being Saturday, and wages just Grant's wages were twenty-five shillings a week, paid. Never had Jesse parted with three shillings sometimes, indeed, thirty shillings; but this was so reluctantly. "These three shillings," thought when he worked overtime. And, considering that he, "and the shilling at the Crown,' would buy a he paid a rent of four shillings a week for his house, pair of shoes!" It had never struck Jesse in this and had a wife and four children to keep out of light before. It was the bursting in upon him of the remainder, it is not greatly to be wondered at a new consciousness. From that moment his dethat even the price of a pair of shoes was not alto-termination was formed. For one week, a water gether a trifling matter in his estimation. That diet won't kill me," thought he; "and till Willy he had contrived in ten years to accumulate fifteen has got his new shoes, not a drop of anything pounds in a savings-bank was a proof of tolerably stronger than water passes my lips!" good management. There was one weak and assailable point, however, in Jesse Grant's personal economy; and it was one, therefore, which he was very tenacious to defend it was his habit of beer-drinking. Not that Jesse was a hard drinker. He was as much opposed to sottishness and intemperance-taking intemperance to mean drunkenness as any man. But he was a free drinker from principle. Hard work and strong drink could not, in his opinion, be dissociated; and as his daily labour was very exhausting to his physical powers, so were his daily potations as regularly exhausting to his purse -to a certain extent, that is, and that extent was the price of four pints of porter, taken at intervals through the sixteen waking hours of the day. Beyond this cart-ropes would not have drawn him. Nor would any ordinary considerations have induced Jesse to drink a drop of porter on Sundays. He did not need it then, he said; and it was only to keep up his strength for work that he took it. But when he was told, as he had sometimes been, that such drink was very innutritions, he " poohpooh-ed" with very decided incredulity, and drank his next pint with extra gusto. Now, the price of four pints of porter a day, Now, Jesse Grant had what some would call a firm and determined, and others an obstinate, dogged temper. Perhaps there was a little of both, for firmness does sometimes degenerate into obstinacy, and determination into doggedness. At any rate, it was hard, at all times, to induce Jesse to change his mind or alter an opinion; but when he did see reason to do either of these, no. man was more amenable to the force of conviction. It was not with him, as with too many who, Convinced against their will, Are of the same opinion stifi." Thus, for instance, in times gone by, Jesse had been a downright opponent of the bible, and of everything connected with the bible, and it had seemed a hopeless task to seek to convince him that in that despised book God had given a revelation of his will and good-will to man. He held out long and stoutly; but by some simple means, the conviction was irresistibly forced upon him, that he had, all his life long, been fighting against God, and rejecting the only hope of safety and happiness. From that time forward he had become as a little child," willing to follow the teachings of God's word, wherever they might lead him; and he had become, too, a sort of cham- | no, no; let every one be persuaded in his own mind. pion for the truth-that truth which had "made But this lesson, at least, every one may learn from him free." From that time, wonderful and strange my story, that where there is a will to save, there had been the alteration in him; and it was this is a way, by giving up some favourite self-inchange which had mainly contributed to the gene- dulgence." rally favourable position of his affairs and the comfort of his home. As to the four pints of porter daily, Jesse had conscientiously believed them to be necessary. "Work as I work, twelve hours in the day," said he on one occasion to a small-boned friend of his, who was recommending the discontinuance of the habit to him" do it only for a week, and then tell me what you think of it. Why, man, I could take you by the waist, if it were worth while, and almost pitch you over yonder sign-post: not that you need be afraid of any doing it," continued he, langhing, and shaking heartily in his broad hard palm the soft hand of his little friend; "but all that I mean is, hard work needs strong drink, and enough of it enough to give nerve and grapple, my dear fellow." "Nerve and grapple, indeed!" said the other, rubbing his hand, which had been benumbed by the hearty gripe of his friend; and there the controversy ended. But now the controversy had taken a new turn, and he had a new opponent. It was Jesse Grant the porter-drinker against Jesse Grant the father; and the question was simply, porter for self, or shoes for the boy; and, as we have seen, the father gained the day. Jane shook her head doubtfully when Jesse told her his determination; but, once again, judicious silence stood his friend. And now, Jesse Grant shall speak for himself. "It is just five years ago," he says, "since I began to discontinue my four pints of beer. I commenced the custom without meaning to carry it on, but just to get money for a pair of shoes; and I should not have done it then, but for losing fifteen pounds that it had taken me ten years to save. As to being able to do without them long, why I believed it to be all moonshine. But I did give them up, and went on from week to week without feeling the worse for their disuse, whereupon it naturally occurred to me that I might say good-bye to them altogether. THE POETRY OF HOME.* UNDER this title a small poem has been published by an author who bears the somewhat inharmonious name of Goodwyn Barmby. Although issued at the modest price of a shilling, it contains more genuine poetry than many volumes of ten times its cost; and has treated an interesting subject with great elegance. We have pleasure in introducing the work to our readers, and presenting them with the following extracts from it. After some introductory passages, Mr. Barmby thus happily describes the love for home impressed upon every living thing: "Whether earth or sea or air we roam, "And now, I can tell you what that five years' 'beer-money' has done for me, with God's blessing upon it. In the first place, instead of fifteen pounds in the bank, which it took me ten years to save, I have saved five-and-twenty pounds in five years. In the second place, I have bought with it a new bed, which we wanted badly enough, and one or two bits of furniture besides. Say ten pounds for that. In the third place, I can spare fifteen-pence a week, without feeling it, for a life insurance; that will bring in a hundred pounds to elaborated, yet our readers, we think, will agree Although many passages in the poem are too my wife and children, when I am dead and gone. with us that there is much of pleasing descriptive And in the fourth place--but there, I don't want to sound my own trumpet, and yet it is not my power in the following address to the robin own trumpet either that I am sounding-I can "Red-breasted robin! home's own gentle bird! only say that the greatest gain I ever had for this Thy sweet voice ever by the homestead heard: world was the loss of fifteen pounds, and the best Whether to garden-plot thou wing'st thy way, bargain I ever made was when I set four-and-To seize the upturned worm-thy choicest prey: twenty pints of porter against a pair of shoes. "I don't mean to say," adds Jesse, “that everybody is bound to think as I think, or do as I do: Goodwyn Barmby." London: William Tweedie. "The Poetry of Home: a poem in three parts, by Whether on orchard bough thou trillest a song, "Tis not the mansion that bestoweth rest, Come with thy smooth plumes, with thy bright brown The prince's palace and the baron's hall, eye, Thy pleasing coquetry-thy movements sly: "Give me a home with garden lawn around- Let it slope gently to the soft-breathed south, And through its meads a bright blue stream be led; It matters not-so it has rustic style; The carven ceiling and the painted wall, "Then envy not, ye poor! the palaced great- We could have wished that in this and some other passages reference had been made to the power of religion to make home happy. Poets may draw beautiful sketches of family bliss; but where the love of God is awanting, the picture is incomplete. However, we have no wish to find fault, and therefore close our notice of this interesting production with the following quotation. describing the wanderer's return to the home of his infancy. Mr. Barmby has really well mastered the difficulty of putting a hackneyed subject in a new light. "From travels far the Wanderer returns Queen of the Hearth with household honours To his dear-loved birth-place and ancestral urns: crowned! The Lady of the Board-supremely sweet- Earth's great historians and sweet singers fair- "Let not the Muse howe'er to Fancy roam'Tis not the tenement that makes the hone, Long has he roamed the noisy world's thronged waste, Long has he found with every varied view, And long with all acquaintanceship could lend That oak its acorns and that pine its cones, Till lo! a white spire rose amid the trees And filled his soul with sacred images: While all around the moss-roofed dwellings stood, With flowery arbours or with porch of woodThe little gardens decked with many a row Of plants for table and of flowers for showThe ridged potatoes with their lilac bloomThe yellow jessamine with its faint perfume-The white-globed turnip peeping from the ground--The earthed-up celery with its heart all soundThe monthly rose, as red as maiden's cheek, The gentian blue and stock with blood-dyed streak, The sweet-spiked lavender and the gardener's dower, Of flowers the best-the big white cauliflower! All these he saw, yet quickly passed them by : One garden wicket seized his eager eye: Soon at the gate he stood, nor long did stand, Although the latchet trembled in his hand : A moment more: and with eyes dewy dim, He folded felt-the arms that cradled him, Heard old sweet names, a thousand questions kind: Speech within speech involved from mind and mind: Gave hurried answers in a jumbled storePressed some young hands he never pressed beforeSaw vacant seats: an old familiar chair Resting unfilled when once sat kindness there: Heard some were married: grieved for others dead; And told the tidings of his travels sped: Pressed once again the white couch of his youth, Awoke and found his wakeful dreams were truth: Met children men: and sought old scenes to find The homely pleasures he once left behind: Now, well resolved, whenever death might come, To gild its shadows with the beams of Home." A CHAPTER ON SPIRITS. A WORD that bears so many different significations as the term "spirit," will be accepted by every reader in that peculiar sense in which, by accidental circumstances or by natural disposition, it has most frequently presented itself to his mind. Let us, therefore, say a few words with reference to one idea that the word frequently suggests to superstitious persons. Once we were earnest and anxious believers in every tale of ghosts and goblins. Every night had its alarms, every lonely spot its vague mysterious terrors. We could fancy sharp faces peering round the bedposts, and white figures beckoning to us from the corners of the room. It never occurred to our childish minds that it was a somewhat unworthy employment for the spirits of the dead to flit from place to place, and to walk the earth in robes of white, for the mere purpose of frightening nervous ignorant men or weak and timid children. We listened with awe and held our breath while the old nurse told us of spectral figures waving to and fro in the moonlight rays; of misers coming from their graves to watch the treasures they had loved too well; and of restless thieves and unfaithful servants returning to lament over the goods they had purloined when in the world. We could even hear of coffins walking up-stairs and gravestones starting into life, without for a moment disputing in our minds the possibility of the things narrated. This was natural enough while we were yet children. We received as truthful whatever we were told by those to whom we were accustomed to look for education, instruction, and example. Oh, that the foolish gossiping women who pour forth such trash into the ears of listening infants would consider how serious and fearful a matter the tale spoken in jest, or with a view to quiet the troublesome child, may become. Young children naturally give credit to every assertion. If they hear of ghosts, what is there more wonderful in a ghost than in a thousand other things which they see daily and cannot understand? If they are told of dreadful goblins that shall come and steal them, why should they not believe this as well as other things which they suppose are plain and intelligible to their seniors, though incomprehensible to themselves? Impressions formed upon the youthful Imind are not easily removed in after years. How sad and mischievous an error, then, to instil ideas of a nature so distressing and so difficult to be eradicated! But there are some persons who, though arrived at years of maturity, do still believe that ghosts wander to and fro upon the earth, and that the spirits of the dead return to the world and show themselves, either for their own amusement or for the especial benefit of others, to their surviving fellow-creatures. This belief has prevailed more or less in all ages; but it is worthy of remark that in the times of greatest ignorance it has been most general. Ghosts are truly said to make their appearance in the dark: they flee before the light; knowledge, education, reason, drive them away. Our ghost-seers are almost always the foolish and unenlightened, and the times in which ghosts abound and prosper are the periods of greatest ignorance and darkness. Where there is a predisposition to believe a marvel, as in the weak and credulous and wonderloving mind, it is astonishing how easily a simple natural event may be invested with a marvellous and supernatural appearance. A short time ago, as I was returning late in the evening from a lonely house at which I had been paying a visit, having occasion to pass along a road overhung with dark thick trees on each side, I discerned, as I approached the avenue, an ancient dame, clad in one of those picturesque scarlet cloaks which are now so seldom seen, lingering or watching with uncertain steps by the road-side. As soon as she perceived me, she advanced, and in respectful but earnest tones begged that I would slacken my pace a little in order that she might walk with me through the gloomy avenue. On interrogating her, she informed me that a "spirit" was said to haunt that road by night, and that, though it had seldom been seen, it was accustomed to make its presence known by the rattling of a chain. Joe Hobson, the farrier's boy, had once caught a glimpse of it, dressed in white, with long horns upon its head, passing nimbly through the thick trees on both sides, without being impeded, it would seem, either by the solid trunks or by the thick underwood and twining brambles. She dared not go alone, she told me; indeed, none but a parson could be considered safe from the intrusions of the chained but still nimble ghost; but if I would allow her to aecompany me, she would walk as fast as her limbs could carry her, I might be sure. As we went along I tried to reason with her, and to show her the absurdity of her fears, but evidently with little effect; for she declared with singular tained with marvellous narratives to make their hearts throb and their blood run cold. Children have a natural craving for such food. Whatever stimulates the curiosity and excites the mind they will eagerly receive, and the mischief that is done after years. Let your neighbours know that you have at last both seen and handled the ghost of Southwood avenue; and tell them that all other hobgoblins, if pursued and examined, would doubtless prove as innocent and natural as poor Jenny, the brickmaker's donkey." perversity that if she were told enough to disbe- | dren you may have to do with are never enterlieve, she should expect the ghost to show itself immediately, to punish her incredulity. As we advanced, the grove became narrower and darker, and the old woman grasped me more tightly by the arm; when, strange to say, the rattling of a chain, at a short distance from me, distinctly reach-in a few idle moments may not be remedied in ed my ears. My companion heard it also. "There it is!" said she; "I hear it now! Oh! let us go back; come, come!" " Nonsense," I replied, leading her on; "'tis nothing to be afraid of." "It's the -, you know what," she cried, not daring to utter the name of the thing she dreaded. "Don't leave me ; oh! do come back." With some difficulty, I persuaded her to remain standing on a spot where the moonlight penetrated through the trees, while I advanced in pursuit of the invisible ghost: a few steps brought me near to a dark object, which moved as I approached, dragging a chain along the ground close to my feet; and soon I was able to arrest the "spirit," and to lead it, in the shape of a donkey which had slipped its tether, to the trembling old woman. Having thus allayed her fears, I asked her as we proceeded on our journey and emerged upon the high road, how she could suppose that spirits would walk about in chains through the dark woods- | what object they could have in such midnight rambles. She answered, with a groan, "No good, you may be sure." 'Did you ever hear of their doing harm to any one ?" "Yes," she replied; "Jemmy Brown was frightened almost out of his wits by the ghost in this avenue." By the ghost, or by the donkey? In my opinion, Jemmy Brown had only himself to thank for the fright he got; if he had had more wits to lose, there would have been less ghost to rob him of them. But seriously, it is not only very foolish but very wicked to entertain and to propagate such fears. Setting aside the absurdity of supposing that spirits would show themselves here and there, and rattle chains or rustle about in shrouds for no possible object, it shows a great want of faith in the protecting care of God, to be afraid where no fear is, and to imagine dangers where none exist. You would have had a far more pleasant walk this evening, if our mind had been occupied with the evidences and tokens of God's goodness which surround us everywhere and always. There are indeed dangers by night as well as by day; but if you look habitually to him for protection, you will soon learn to trust in his providence, and to banish all vain, unworthy fears from your mind." The love of the wonderful prevails so generally over the love of truth, that I was not surprised to hear afterwards that many of the neighbours to whom the old woman told her story believed the former part of it, namely, that she had heard the rattling of a chain and seen a dark object cross her path; but they scorned to accept the result of our examination of the ghost: so that with many our adventure was regarded as confirming the existence of the "spirit" that had so long rattled its chains by night under the dark shade of the trees. So much for a ghost story; with one other I will conclude my remarks. A gentleman being on a visit at a large rambling house in the country, was shown at night to an old-fashioned bed-room, the walls of which were formed of oak panels, upon which were suspended the portraits of several ancestors of the family to whom the house belonged. These looked at him, as he imagined, grimly and suspiciously. He had never been in such a room before, and he could not help thinking (so strongly had the prejudices of his childhood affected his otherwise sensible mind) that it was just the place in which ghosts would delight to show themselves. He sat down at the table near the foot of his bed, feeling rather nervous, and began to read a book by way of composing his mind before he lay down to rest. As he sat poring over the pages of his book, thinking but little of what he read-the very silence that reigned around being distressing to him-suddenly he felt a blow upon his back as from a soft but heavy hand! He started in dismay, sprang upon his feet, and looked around him. All was still and silent; nothing could be discovered that might in any way account for the sensation he had felt. He searched in every direction-under the bed, behind the cur tains, in the cupboards, hardly knowing what he looked for-but in vain. Could it have been a freak of his imagination? Impossible: the blow was too decided, just between his shoulders; a soft hand seemed to have been laid upon him for a moment and then withdrawn. Was there anything that could have fallen upon him? No; for then it must have been found upon the floor, and there was nothing near him. After considerable time spent in examining and wondering, he almost persuaded himself that he must have been deceived, and tried to laugh at the idea of any ghost saluting him before the light of a candle in so ecThis is the fault of education," said I. "Habit centric a manner, though why it should not do is second nature; but you must reason against it, so as much by candle-light as in the dark he did and try to overcome it. As you have suffered so not consider. He prepared at length to go to bed, much inconvenience and alarm from the false and though still feeling very uncomfortable. The eyes foolish stories of others, be sure you never spread of the various portraits on the wall seemed to be abroad such tales yourself; take care that any chil-staring at him. Here a thin, dark face, with a "You speak truly, sir," said the old woman, "but I can't help feeling as I do. I hear so many stories that I don't know what to think about them; and even if I could be persuaded that there is no truth in them, yet they come back to me when I chance to be alone in the dark, and frighten me in spite of myself." 66 |