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"Can't help it, sir. Who's a-goin' to touch me? Called in a watchman. Whole mess of 'em had cut. Who knows 'em? Nobody knows 'em. Man that was struck, never see the fellers as struck him in all his life till then. Didn't know wich one of 'em did it. Didn't know nothing. Don't now, an' never will, 'nless he meets 'em in hell. That's all. Feller's dead, an' who's a-goin' to touch me? Can't do it. Ca-n-t do it."

"Mr. Rollins," said Dr. Renton, thoroughly disgusted with this man's brutal indifference, "your lease expires in three days."

"Well, it does. Hope to make a renewal with you, Dr. Renton. Trade's good here. Shouldn't mind more rent on, if you insist-hope you won't-if it's anything in reason. Promise sollum, I shan't have no more fighting' in here. Couldn't help this. Accidents will happen, yo' know."

"Mr. Rollins, the case is this, if you didn't sell liquor here, you'd have no murder done in your place-murder, sir. That man was murdered. It's your fault, and it's mine, too. I ought not to have let you the place for your business. It is a cursed traffic, and you and I ought to have found it out long ago. I have. I hope you will. Now, I advise you, as a friend, to give up selling rum for the future: you see what it comes to-don't you? At any rate, I will not be responsible for the outrages that are perpetrated in my building, any more-I will not have liquor sold here. I refuse to renew your lease. In three days you must move."

hurt my

“Dr. Renton, you Now, how would you-"


"Mr. Rollins, I have spoken to you as a friend, and you have no cause for pain. You must quit these premises when your lease expires. I'm sorry I can't make you go before that. Make no appeals to me, if you please. I am fixed. Now, sir, good night."

The curtain was pulled up and Rollins rolled over to his beloved bar, soothing his lacerated feelings by swearing like a pirate, while Dr. Renton strode to the door, and went into the street, homeward.

He walked fast through the magical moonlight, with a strange feeling of sternness, and tenderness, and weariness, in his mind. In this mood, the

sensation of spiritual and physical fatigue gaining on him, but a quiet moonlight in all his reveries, he reached his house. He was just putting his latchkey in the door, when it was opened by James, who stared at him for a second, and then dropped his eyes, and put his hand before his nose. Dr. Renton compressed his lips on an involuntary smile.

"Ah! James, you're up late. It's

near one."

"I sat up for Mrs. Renton and the young lady, sir. They're just come, and gone up stairs."

"All right, James. Take your lamp and come in here. I've got something to say to you." The man followed him into the library at once, with some wonder on his sleepy face.

"First, put some coal on that fire, and light the chandelier. I shall not go up stairs to-night." The man obeyed. "Now, James, sit down in that chair." He did so, beginning to look frightened at Dr. Renton's grave man


"James". -a long pause-"I want you to tell me the truth. Where did you go to-night? Come, I have found you out. Speak."

The man turned as white as a sheet, and looked wretched with the whites of his bulging eyes, and the great pimple on his nose awfully distinct in the livid hue of his features. He was a rather slavish fellow, and thought he was going to lose his situation. Please not to blame him, for he, too, was one of the poor.

"O, Dr. Renton, excuse me, sir; I didn't mean doing any harm."

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James, my daughter gave you an undirected letter this evening; you carried it to one of my houses in Hanoverstreet. Is that true?"


'Ye-yes, sir. I couldn't help it. I only did what she told me, sir."

"James, if my daughter told you to set fire to this house, what would you do?"

"I wouldn't do it, sir," he stammered, after some hesitation.

"You wouldn't? James, if my daughter ever tells you to set fire to this house, do it, sir! Do it! At once. Do whatever she tells you. Promptly. And I'll back you."

The man stared wildly at him, as he received the astonishing command. Dr. Renton was perfectly grave, and had

spoken slowly and seriously. The man was at his wits' end.

"You'll do it James-will you?"
"Ye-yes, sir, certainly."

"That's right. James, you're a good fellow. James, you've got a family—a wife and children-hav'n't you?"

"Yes, sir, I have; living in the country, sir. In Chelsea, over the ferry. For cheapness, sir."

"For cheapness, eh? Hard times, James? How is it?"

"Pretty hard, sir. Close, but toler'ble comfortable. Rub and go, sir."

"Rub and go. Ve-r-y well. Rub and go. James, I'm going to raise your wages-to-morrow. Generally, because you're a good servant. Principally, because you carried that letter to-night, when my daughter asked you. I shan't forget it. To-morrow, mind. And if I can do anything for you, James, at any time, just tell me. That's all. Now, you'd better go to bed. And a happy Christmas to you!"

"Much obliged to you, sir. Same to you and many of 'em. Good night,

sir." And with Dr. Renton's "good night" he stole up to bed thoroughly happy, and determined to obey Miss Renton's future instructions to the letter. The shower of golden light which had been raining for the last two hours, had fallen, even on him. It would fall all day to-morrow in many places, and the day after, and for long years to come. Would that it could broaden and increase to a general deluge, and submerge this world!

Now, the whole house was still, and its master was weary. He sat there, quietly musing, feeling the sweet and tranquil presence near him. Now, the fire was screened, the lights were out, save one dim glimmer, and he had laid down on the couch with the letter in his hand, and slept the dreamless sleep of a child.

He slept until the gray dawn of Christmas day stole into the room, and showed him the figure of his friend, a shape of glorious light, standing by his side, and gazing at him with large and tender eyes! He had no fear.


was deep, serene, and happy with the happiness of heaven. Looking up into that beautiful, wan face-so tranquilso radiant; watching with a child-like awe the star-fire in those shadowy eyes; smiling faintly, with a great, unutterable love thrilling slowly through his

frame, in answer to the smile of light that shone upon the phantom countenance; so he passed a space of time which seemed a calm eternity, till, at last, the communion of spirit with spirit -of ancient love with love immortalwas perfected, and the shining hands were laid on his forehead, as with a touch of air. Then the phantom smiled, and, as its shining hands were withdrawn, the thought of his daughter mingled in the vision. She was bending over him! The dawn-the room, were the same. But the ghost of Feval had gone out from earth, away to its own land!


Father, dear father! Your eyes were open, and they did not look at me. There is a light on your face, and your features are changed! What is itwhat have you seen?"

"Hush, darling: here-kneel by me, for a little while, and be still. I have seen the dead."

She knelt by him, burying her awestruck face in his bosom, and clung to him with all the fervor of her soul. He clasped her to his breast, and for minutes all was still.

"My dear-my good, dear child !”

The voice was tremulous and low. She lifted her fair, bright countenance, now convulsed with a secret trouble, and dimmed with streaming tears, to his, and gazed on him. His eyes were shining; but his pallid cheeks, like hers, were wet with tears. How still the room was! How like a thought of solemn tenderness, the pale gray dawn! The world was far away, and his soul still wandered in the peaceful awe of his dream. The world was coming back to him-but oh! how changed!in the trouble of his daughter's face.

"Darling, what is it? Why are you here? Why are you weeping? Dear child, the friend of my better days-of the boyhood when I had noble aims, and life was beautiful before me-he has been here! I have seen him. He has been with me-oh! for a good I cannot tell!"

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I heard you come down stairs, and I came here to find you. But you were lying here so quietly with your eyes open, and so strange a light on your face. And I knew I knew you were dreaming of him, and that you saw him, for the letter lay beside you. O, father! forgive me, but do hear me ! In the name of this day-it's Christmas day, father-in the name of the time when we must both die-in the name of that time, father, hear me! That poor woman last night--O, father, forgive me, but don't tear that letter into pieces and trample it under foot! You know what I mean-you know-you know. Don't tear it, and tread it under foot!" She clung to him, sobbing violently, her face buried in his hands.

"Hush, hush! It's all well-it's all well. Here, sit by me. So. I have"His voice failed him, and he paused. Sitting by him-clinging to him-her face hidden in his bosom-she heard the strong beating of his disenchanted heart!


My child, I know your meaning. I will not tear the letter to pieces and trample it under foot. God forgive me my life's slight to these words. But I learned their value last night, in the house where your blank letter had entered before me."

She started, and looked into his face steadfastly, while a bright scarlet shot into her face, and overspread her neck and bosom.

"I know all, Netty-all. Your secret was well kept, but it is yours and mine, now. It was well done, darling, -well done. O, I have been through strange mysteries of thought and life since that starving woman sat here! Well-thank God!"


Father, what have you done?" The flush had failed, but a gladder color still brightened her face, while the tears stood trembling in her eyes.


Netty," he answered, "I have done what you wished me to do yesterday. Mrs. Miller is to stay-forever, if she likes. The liquor-seller is to go, and he will have no successor."


"O, father!"-She stopped. bright scarlet shot again over her face, and neck, and bosom, but with an April shower of tears, and the rainbow of a smile.

"Listen to me, Netty, and I will tell you, and only you, what I have done." Then, while she mutely listened, sitting by his side, and the dawn of Christmas broadened into Christmas-day, he told her all.

And, when he had told all, he read to his daughter the lesson of the day and of his life, the words of George Feval's letter: Farewell-farewell! But, O! take my counsel into memory on Christmas Day, and forever. Once again, the ancient prophecy of peace and good-will shines on a world of wars and wrongs and woes. Its soft ray shines into the darkness of a land wherein swarm slaves, poor laborers, social pariahs, weeping women, homeless exiles, hunted fugitives, despised aliens, drunkards, convicts, wicked children, and Magdalens unredeemed. These are but the ghastliest figures in that army of humanity which advances, by a dreadful road, to the Golden Age of the poets' dream. These are your sisters and your brothers. Love them all. Beware of wronging one of them by word or deed. O friend! strong in wealth for so much good-take my last counsel. In the name of the Saviour, 1 charge you, be true and tender to all men! Come out from Babylon into manhood, and live and labor for the fallen, the neglected, the suffering, and the poor. Lover of arts, customs, laws, institutions, and forms of society, love these things only as they help mankind! With stern love, overturn them, or help to overturn them, when they become cruel to a single-the humblest-human being. In the world's scale, social position, influence, public power, the applause of majorities, heaps of funded gold, services rendered to creeds, codes, sects, parties, or federations-they weigh weight; but in God's scale-remember!-on the day of hope, remember!-your least service to Humanity, outweighs them all!”


"Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
This bird of dawning singeth all night long;
And then, they say, no spirit darea stir abroad,
The nights are wholesome then-no planets strike-
No fairy takes-nor witch bath power to charm-
So gracious and so hallowed is the time."

OH bird of dawning! all the night

Sing, for the season is at hand
When hearts are glad and faces bright,
When happiness is heaven's command.

Shout, chanticleer! that all may hear

Whom cares have chastened through the year; Christmas is come to cheer the land.

And now no spirit walks, but one
Of love, nor shall that spirit cease.
No planet rules, except the Sun
Of righteousness-the Prince of peace!

That star, whose ray first led the way
To where the Babe in Bethlehem lay-
The star that ne'er shall know decrease.

This is God's house, this world of ours;
We are his children, and the morn
Should come in sunshine, crown'd with flowers,
On which Immanuel was born.

Make merry, then, ye toil-worn men!

And thou, shrill chanter, sound again

The glad note of thy bugle-horn!

A canticle, my chanticleer!

A song of joy for every shore :

Shout, Christmas! to the new-born year,

Good will, on earth, toward men once more!
Dread Janus! close in long repose

Thy hateful gates; make friends of foes,
And peace to all the world restore!





IN the height of the season there are a hundred arrivals a day at the White Sulphur. Then, when nobody can get accommodations, everybody will insist on being there; for, in the month of August, the most beautiful ladies of Virginia and the South hold their court of love at this fountain; and, their fame going abroad throughout the mountains, the guests of the other springs hasten to this centre of attraction. All the generals and judges of the Southern country, too, then come to drink at these white waters. Nobody is of a lower grade than a colonel; and, to be called esquire, would argue a man of doubtful consideration.

To the northerner, this sounds a little singular; and, if he happens to be a peaceful scholar, for example, who has scarcely pulled a trigger in his life, and knows only so much of arms as is contained in the

"Arma virumque

of the poet, it is not without a certain degree of surprise, and a keen sense of the ludicrous, that he hears himself respectfully dubbed a colonel.

But not even the being addressed by the very highest titles, will, at this part of the season, save a single man the necessity of sleeping-two in a chamber. There are no adequate accommodations for all these fine ladies and gentlemen. At night, the floors of drawingrooms and parlors are strewn with mattresses, and lucky is the guest who can secure one. Trunks are piled up, ceiling high, in the halls and passages; so that, excepting the fortunate inmates of the pretty private cottages, the thousand and one visitors at the White Sulphur are, of all men-by no means the most miserable-but probably the most uncomfortable.

One August morning, as I was standing in the door-way of the office, a well dressed gentleman drove up in a buggy, and, getting out, asked for a room.

"We cannot accommodate you, sir," said the clerk, looking at the stranger

with an air of disinterested uncon


"But you can give me a mattress, or a sofa?" was the confident rejoinder.

"Impossible! not one left; and the last three chairs in the house taken half an hour ago!"

"Boy," said the rejected, but not disconcerted new-comer, turning his quid from one cheek to the other, at the same time that he turned on his heel towards a servant, "unstrap my trunk."

"It really is of no use, sir," continued the clerk, calmly, "we cannot accommodate you."


Carry my trunk under that oak tree, yonder," no less quietly added the stranger, and still addressing the black boy.


Now," said he, sitting down on the trunk, which had been deposited under the protection of the branches, "fetch my buffalo robe; and I'll be d-d if I can't sleep here!"

This proof of pluck was an indirect appeal to the generous and hospitable sentiments which no true Virginian could withstand. There was a general clapping of hands on the utterance of this Diogenic resolution to take things as they came, and the luck of the pot with them; and one of the by-standers, immediately stepping forward, politely offered to share his quarters with the tenant of the buffalo robe, who, accordingly, instead of living under an oak, like a Druid, now found himself the fortunate possessor of an apartment in one of the prettiest cottages on the grounds.

In the very height of the season, there is no such thing as dining satisfactorily at some of the springs, however well a person may fare there at all other times. Then, you fee the waiters, and still they bring you nothing. Poor fellows, they have nothing to bring; for the flour has given out; the cows have been milked dry; the mutton has run off into the mountains, and the chief cook has gone distracted! If you can manage to seize upon a bit of beef and a slice of bread, 'tis your main chance, and hold on to it. Do not run any risks in looking about for vegetables, much less for side

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