But, in an evil hour, an invasion of Goths and Vandals came down upon us in the shape of cheap English goods' merchants. They inundated the place with gaudy, worthless trash at half price, gave unlimited credit, sold at almost any price you would offer, and seemed only anxious to have all the villagers' names in their books, and to double the consumption of English goods. The consequence was that the thoughtless part of the population deserted the worthy captain's shop, which henceforward received the custom only of the old steady-going people. His ancient-looking wooden tenement, with its weather-beaten sign, was put out of all countenance by the new brick stores, and flaring gilt signs, and plate glass windows of his rivals. The captain, however, foreseeing the result, bore it all with a dignity and quiet worthy of his character. He "guessed" that the importers in Boston and New York were destined to suffer at a future day; and so it turned out; for, after charging many thousand dollars in their books to people who were not very punctual about payment, his rivals, one by one, all failed; their stocks were sold out by the sheriff, and their book debts were handed over to the lawyers by assignees.
After the lapse of a few months, a new swarm of cheap merchants succeeded them, with precisely the same result. Meantime, the captain kept the noiseless tenor of his way, and maintained the original character of his own modest establishment. He had grown rich, but exhibited none of the airs of a presumptuous millionaire. He was too dignified to be insolent.
Well do I remember, on a certain day, when the captain, now quite an old man, was near the close of his career, calling at his shop with my cousin Caroline, commissioned by her mother to purchase with ready money a piece of Irish linen. When she had examined the captain's stock, and was about to make a purchase, she happened casually to remark that Irish linen was sold sometimes at a lower price.
"O yes, my dear," answered the captain—he always called a lady, old or young, "my dear"—"O yes; you can buy Irish linen over the way, where the big sign is, for less money. They will sell it to you, I dare say, at half price, and cheat you at that. But their goods are not like mine. They will generally take less than they ask you at first; but I never have but one price. I was bred a merchant before chaffering came into fashion. You can go and trade with them if you like, however."
Poor Caroline, who had not been aware of the captain's weak point, hastened to apologize, concluded her purchase, and was careful in future to respect the captain's sensitiveness on the subject of cheap goods.
Ere I left my native village to become a wanderer over the wide world, the captain had been gathered to his fathers. Having no relatives, he directed the executors of his will to apply his handsome fortune to the establishment of an asylum for orphans, which still remains a monument of his sterling goodness and public spirit.
TO A. E. B., OR HER WHO UNDERSTANDS IT
BY ADALIZA CUTTER.
Dearest, my sad and lonely breast
Is full to-night of thoughts of thee,
And as the tired dove seeks its nest,
With its dear little ones to be,
E'en thus my weary spirit turns
To thee, for whom it fondly yearns,
And flies unfettered o'er the sea:
Upon thy breast it folds its wing,
And there its sweetest song doth sing.
I am thinking of those twilight hours
When, hand in hand, we used to rove;
When little birds in sylvan bowers
Awoke the echoes of the grove;
When flowers closed up their dewy eyes,
And o'er us arched those cloudless skies,
Smiling upon our mutual love:
And oh, my heart doth sadly yearn
For hours that may no more return!
More and more sadly, day by day,
I miss thy gentle loving tone,
And long to soar far, far away,
To meet once more my loved, my own.
I sit to-night with tearful eye
Fixed on that star in yonder sky;
But oh, it shines on me alone!
For she who watched its pale soft beam
With me, has gone like some bright dream.
I sometimes take my lute to sing
The simple songs we loved so well;
But when I touch each quivering string,
Sad, mournful sounds arise and swell;
For she whose presence could inspire
My heart with such poetic fire
Has kissed her last, her sad farewell
Upon my cheek, and left me here
To shed alone the silent tear.
I take my books; but bard and sage
Have half their beauty lost for me,
And tears fall fast upon the page
That I so oft have read with thee.
And then I throw those books aside,
While faster still the tear drops glide,
That by my side thou canst not be.
Poor heart, be still, nor sigh in vain
For joys that may not come again!
Where, where art thou? Oh, well I know
What joy my presence would impart!
What rapture in thine eye would glow
To clasp me to thy loving heart!
For in that noble heart of thine
Beats the same love that throbs in mine;
Nor time shall bid that love depart.
Meet me in Heaven! my heart's warm prayer,
I love thee here—I'll love thee there!