Morning Star

MISCELLANY.

Truth is Stranger than Fiction.

BY REV. G. W. WEEKS.

It was a beautiful morning in June, 1819, when I left my play at the call of my mother, took dinner from her, and received her usual counsel,-" Be a good boy to-day, George,"—and hastened away to school. O, how those days of innocence and joy come back on memory's wing. They are green and sunny spots in this cold world. They are springs and running brooks to the parched and weary traveler over life's desert. O, the memories of early days gone forever, yet loved for what they were.
On my way to school, I lingered for a moment beneath a lofty elm, whose spreading branches shaded the neat little cottage of the widow W., and sat down till her son, my schoolmate, would be ready to go with me. He was later than usual. While he tarried I heard several loud words, and casting my eyes toward the house, I saw Mary, the widow's only daughter, standing in the door, smoothing her long tresses which fell in rich profusion around her neck. Her mother soon stood beside her, and it was evident that something uncommon was stirring the passions of both mother and child. Billy soon made his appearance from a back door, and I rose from my grassy seat to depart, when I heard the mother utter, in tones which even now seem to vibrate on my ear, the following solemn sentence :—
"Mary I tell you, once for all, if you follow that vile seducer, and leave your mother in her old age, you will break my heart, and ruin yourself, both soul and body."
Mrs. W. was the widow of a kind and generous man, who had for some years been dead. She was left, however, with ample means for the support of herself and these two children. Mary at this time was only seventeen ;-young, handsome, thoughtless and gay,-with little knowledge of the world., and less of the human heart.- Billy was twelve, a good boy, sober and thoughtful ; and his love for his mother and sister was little less than adoration. Poor Billy ! he died before sixteen summers had cast their light upon him.
There was in our neighborhood a gentleman dancing-master. He was just like most men of his profession, and just what such professions are calculated to make of any man-conceited, hollow, heartless, and intemperate. It was against the wiles of such a man, that I had heard the mother warning her lovely daughter. But with this creature, despite the fearful warnings of her mother, the gay Mary soon eloped.
Sadness and sorrow veiled the poor mother's dwelling ; for the sunlight of youth and innocence which had cheered her heart so long, had set forever-had set in shame and infamy ! The childless, broken-hearted mother, soon followed her darling boy to the grave. Poor woman! The iron had entered her soul. The last we knew of the poor deluded Mary, she was in New York city.
Years rolled away.

" They never wait for mortals' care or bliss."

Time changes all things earthly, and, ah, how sad the change we sometimes see ! Time's changes had obliterated from my memory all recollection of this family, except so much of it as might still linger in its secret silent chambers.
It was a bitter day in February, 1834. The storm of the preceding night had increased to a perfect tempest of snow and hail, and I was compelled to give over my journey, and halt for the day, six miles to the north of Providence, R. I. All day the storm had raged without abatement, and approaching night threw a sullen gloom over earth and sky. I stood by a window gazing on the scene before me. " God help the poor traveler," thought I, " who has no shelter in such a night." I was just turning away, when I beheld a poor horse endeavoring to make his way into an adjacent shed.- He halted. In an old box, an apology for a sleigh, from beneath snow, hay, and rags, issued a man and woman, followed by five children. I will not attempt to describe the dress or appearance of this miserable group. They were the wretched workmanship of intemperance, and its attendant vices.— At first, the landlord refused them admittance, but another stranger and myself plead the cause of suffering humanity, and they entered the bar-room.- The man was intoxicated, and while the woman was holding in her arms, and endeavoring to warm the stiffened limbs of her infant, the big tears ran down her pale and care-worn cheeks. I gazed on the scene before me, with feelings of unmingled pity. At length she ventured to look up, and for a moment our eyes met. A thrill, like a shock of electricity, passed through my whole frame. A spark had fallen on memory's altar, and was lighting up her slumbering fires.
" Where is your native place?" I asked. It was not until I had repeated this question several times, that I obtained an answer. At length, with faltering voice she said, " P., in New Hampshire, was my home."
" And your mother was the widow W."' I added.
With some effort she rose from her seat, cast into my face a searching glance, reeled for a moment, then sunk down on the floor. With some effort she was restored to consciousness, when I learned from her own lips, the following brief history of one, who by the curse of disobedience and ingratitude. had been made to drink deep of the waters of misery and despair.
Soon after arriving in New York she began to see things in their true light. In less than a year her paramour had become so degraded as to be unable to support her, and she was obliged to earn a scanty subsistence with her own hands. Step by step the guilty man descended to the lowest depths of vice, infamy, and crime. For two years he was confined in prison, while she was reduced to the most deplorable state of poverty and wretchedness. She had no home, no friends, no employment-and was left in a land of strangers to struggle with life, death, and misery. Sometimes she was the object of public, sometimes of private charity. She had embraced the meanest and most servile employments to keep from starvation. At length her guilty companion was released from prison. They sought and found each other. She had since endured years of shame and suffering with him, which none can know but those who feel them. She had at length prevailed on him to leave the city and go into the country ; but wherever they wandered, the wages of sin had been his portion and the misery consequent upon disobedience to a kind parent, hers.
They were now endeavoring to make their way back to New Hampshire, in the vain hope of relieving a guilty conscience, and finding sympathy among early friends.' To return and die among her native hills, seemed to be her only wish. " To return," said she, "and lay me down on my mother's grave and die, is all I ask. O, for that hour." Her heart was bursting ! Sobs choked her utterance.- I turned away and wept. Alas ! 's for poor human nature. My heart bleeds white I rehearse its tales of wo. I weep over the miseries which fall to her lot, and many of these I feel are the direct results of the sin of disobedience to a parent's wishes.
I have been a constant traveler for more than eight years out of my short life, and have seen misery in all its various forms, but few instances have more deeply affected my heart than the one I have related.
When shall we learn wisdom from the past, and by timely caution, save ourselves from the mournful fate of the once lovely Mary W.? Merciful Father ! may the erring children heed the command, " Obey your parents in the Lord."