not ask how, they became so, but endeavor to alleviate, and remove the probable cause. Then let us go down into the cellars, and the groggeries, amid the depraved, the houseless and the hopeless-there we shall learn a fearful lesson. It is here we shall see, how rum will, nay has brought down on a level with the ignorant, the learned and the wise, here we will find intellect maddened, ruined. Here the once fine mind becomes a wreck, aye reader, men and women, they who were once the pride and admiration of a ball room, are here on a par with those, who never lived beyond the precincts of crime and of vice. And this is life! the chains of the mon Societies, and the Missionary it is true have done much, Temperance associations have in a manner reformed society, but there yet remains much to do, We must provide for the children of those who are yet in ster vice, and its attendant, rum! These little creatures whose ears are stunned with curses, and whose little eyes gaze on no other scene but that of crime, they whose little hearts become hardened to the world, and whose minds receive no impression of good; they must not be swept away from this blessed world, with the world's curse upon them, No! It is for us to save them, for salvation is not extinct on earth. LEAF TWENTY-EIGHTH. THE following tale was written by the author for the purpose of portraying some of the scenes alluded to in the Missionary's notes. As fiction falls far short of reality, it would perhaps be unnecessary to state, that, but little of the former finds place in any of the incidents or sketches introduced in this work. HENRY MONTFORD, THE DISCARDED. CHAPTER I. "Take him hence."-CYMB. "One more appeal and it is the last: stern necessity compels me to throw myself upon your charity." These words were uttered by Henry Montford, as he cast himself at the feet of his stern father. "Avaunt! thou viper! thou scourge to my existence: I disown you! Avaunt! I will not listen, nor will I heed your prayers; you have demeaned yourself-disgraced your family-for which I have discarded you, and again proclaim it-you are no longer my son." "But, father, hear me; she is of respectable parentageher only fault is poverty." "That in itself is a crime, in my eyes; and of her virtue I know nothing; though perhaps-" "Stop, sir; no more; heap upon me insult and contumely, use language as unbecoming the man as your conduct is unbecoming the parent, but do not, dare not, insult the object of my affection-the wife of my bosom-I will not hear her abused, though thou wert ten times more nearly allied to me." "Do you beard me, boy! do you brave it thus !—hence, out of my sight; lest I forget that I once loved you; away, sir, nor let me ever see you more. Go beg, steal, starve; do any thing, but never cross this threshold again—away— away!" This was the last interview between a father and son. Born to a rich inheritance, Henry Montford could have won the fairest, the richest lady in the land; but he selected for his wife the daughter of a poor officer; one who had fought in the days of our revolution, and shed his blood for the sacred cause of LIBERTY! They were poor; poverty is the child of generosity; it is the offspring of charity and good-will toward mankind; then why should it be a curse? The penurious man, who hoards up wealth and becomes, in time, "the observed of all observers," never knows or experiences one glow of that generous feeling which is ever the poor man's companion. It is his sun by day; the pale bright moon of his dream by night; he may feel the cold chill of the winter wind, it is true, as it howls around his peaceful home; not even this can cool the warmth of a noble heart, which not unfrequently beats beneath the garb of poverty. The rich man!-why, I would not change my present state of feeling for the proudest millionnaire in the land. Poverty is not a crime! We have said the old veteran was poor; he was also happy, and when he breathed out his last sigh, and blest his weeping children, he left them that-'twas his all! No sooner had Henry Montford's father become acquainted with the marriage of his son, than his inflated pride took offence; he worked himself into a passion, and as the reader is already advised, turned him out of doors. Left destitute, with a young and interesting wife, without a profession or a trade, he made one more effort to allay his father's anger, and conciliate his affections-the result of which we have already detailed. Hatred-if we dare use the term-deep and lasting hatred took possession of his soul: his whole nature underwent a change; a revulsion of feeling, which astonished himself, resulted in a fixed resolution never to breathe the name of his father more. The sound of a parent's title was silenced in his heart. "I will never forgive him; no-the limb has been fiercely torn from the tree; nature's self cannot restore it; it may wither, die, and turn to dust, he shall never know the misery such a severation has caused me." After his grief had somewhat subsided, the unfortunate young husband thus addressed his wife: "We must part, Maria, nay, start not, I will seek my fortune in other climes, and return with it-or poverty again." "Part! dearest Henry! Oh, say not so! I can work; I can sew, do anything; these hands are strong, and I am both able and willing to work. You must not go; you cannot leave me." "Dearest Maria, listen to me: it is my only chance of avoiding utter ruin, and the seeing her I love sink day by day beneath the iron hand of poverty. A friend of mine has a house in the West Indies; it is a branch of a very extensive one in London, he wishes me to go out for the purpose of transacting some business; the issue will probably place me in a situation which may ultimately secure me an independence. You, my dear Maria, will remain with Mrs. Snyder; 'tis but for a short time, and all will be well." "You are my only prop, now, Henry, earth has no other charm-life no attraction; but I will not urge affection's tie to induce you to stay, for that would be ungenerous. Go, my beloved, my prayers shall accompany you, and may they be as a shield to protect you from danger.” The reader must picture a scene too melancholy for the pen to describe. The parting of man and wife, is one of those sorrowful events which can only be felt by those who have experienced the pangs attendant on them. There is a connecting link between two hearts which ere they part must be broken; it is affection's tie severed; it is the sunshine of the heart o'erclouded by woe; it is nature's darkest hour! The spell once dissolved-the link once broken -time may heal, but cannot cure the wound. parted. * * * * They 'Twas night; the winds had gone down with the sun; the noble vessel lay motionless on the calm bosom of the mighty ocean, and the silvery moon rode gracefully through its crystal home, showering as she passed, her myriads of rays upon the sparkling waters. Henry leaned over the vessel's side, and as the gentle waves rolled silently away, he pictured on each, some event, which, like unto them had rolled away upon the ocean of time, leaving not a trace of their existence behind. But again-there were others which came up like the dreams of memory-how sweet is memory! Associating the past and its affections with the present-they were as by-gone visions, and all, save one, rolled on, glided away, and left him still meditating, that one still lingered on the wave; every curve bore its image; every ray of moonlight rendered it more plain. Again another and still another; he gazed, and wondered by what magic of the mind, fancy could draw a picture so vivid, even on the surface of the mighty deep. So it was; he saw the came |