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be awakened, visit the mountains of Essex, the Adiron- him. The Quaker could scarcely think of escaping;

dacks, and see for yourself. Amid all our digressions, the half of the inducements have not been told.

The Quaker and the Robber.

FROM THE FRENCH OF N. FOURNIER.

There once lived at London an honest Quaker, by name Toby Simpton, who kept house with his daughter Mary, a beautiful blue-eyed girl not quite seventeen. Mary was as sensible as she was handsome. All the young men who were acquainted with her father paid her their homage; and all who lived in the neighborhood, endeavored, but often in vain, to get a glance from her. Mary was not a coquette, and instead of taking pleasure in the effect which her charms produced, she was even displeased when she saw herself noticed, and so signified to all her admirers, with the exception of a single one, Edward Weresford, a young artist, who was quite intimate with her father.

A very simple event gave rise to this intimacy. The Quaker's wife, while yet young and beautiful, had been snatched away by an early death, and as he wished to perpetuate the image of her who was so dear to him, he called a painter to take her portrait as she lay on her death-bed. It was there that Edward first saw Mary; it was there that a true affection began amid the tears of the one and the melancholy task of the other. The year which had rolled away since that event had only served to strengthen a bond formed under such auspices, and the young man had made known to the father his passion and his hopes.

The good Toby had no reason for objecting to the mutual inclination of his daughter and the young painter. Edward, though not rich, could earn enough by his pencil to support a family honorably. His father, Mr. Weresford, a merchant of good standing, was retired from business with a very splendid fortune. He afforded a rare example of rapid excess in speculation, so rapid even that few had been able to follow its progress. He was of a hasty and morose disposition, and lived alone in the suburbs of London, and without giving himself any uneasiness about his son, left him at full liberty to do as he pleased. In a word, he was one of those easy egotists, who trouble no one through fear of being themselves molested, a kind of people who are the pleasantest in the world, so long as you ask nothing

of them.

Now Edward was able to court the pretty quakeress without any obstacle whatever, fully persuaded that her father had no reason for objecting to their union. The situation of the lovers was, as we see, very favorable, and all that prevented the honest Toby from fixing immediately the day for their marriage, was that he had yet to collect the money which was due to him for the rent of his farms, which he intended to make use of upon that occasion. For this purpose he went into the country to his lands, which were situated a few miles from London, where he arranged his business in a single day and then set out in the evening to return on horseback. He had proceeded some distance when he noticed a horseman obstructing the road before him. He stopped, doubting whether it were better to advance or to Meanwhile the horseman rode forward toward

retreat.

The

so he put on a bold face and rode on. On approaching the horseman, he saw that he was masked. stranger drew a pistol, pointed it at the Quaker and demanded his purse. The Quaker did not want courage, but, mild by nature, inoffensive by religion, and unable to resist an armed man, being himself without arms, he very coolly drew from his pocket his purse which contained twelve guineas. The robber took it, counted the money, and stepped aside to let the poor man pass, who immediately started off on a trot. The bandit, seeing how little resistance had been offered him, and induced by the hope of a second prize, soon overtook the honest Toby, placed himself again before him, and presenting his pistol, as before, demanded his watch.

The Quaker, though surprised, yet did not show it in the least, but cooly drew his watch from his fob, looked at the hour, and then handed the time-piece to the robber, begging him at the same time to let him return home, as his daughter would be uneasy at his absence.

In a minute, replied the masked horseman, growing bold at the Quaker's docility, but swear to me first that you have no more money.

I never swear, replied the Quaker.

Very well, affirm then that you have no more money about you, and upon the word of an honest robber, incapable of having recourse to violence with a man who yields with such good grace, I will allow you to proceed on your journey.

Toby reflected a moment and shook his head.

"Whoever thou mayest be, said he gravely, thou hast divined that I am a Quaker, and that I would not tell an untruth to save my life. So I own to thee that I have under this housing the sum of two hundred pounds sterling.

Two hundred pounds sterling! cried the robber, his eyes sparkling through his mask.

But if thou art good, if thou art humane, continued the Quaker, thou wilt leave me this money. I am about to marry my daughter, and this sum is necessary to me. It will be a long time before I shall have another equally useful with this. The dear child is much attached to her lover, and it would be cruel to deny their union. Thou hast a heart; perchance thou hast loved; and I know that thou wilt not commit such a wicked action.

What do your daughter and her lover, and their marriage concern me? Less words and quick action !— They'se no reason for my not having the money.

Toby with a sigh lifted up the housing, took out a quite heavy bag, and slowly handed it to the bandit.— He was then going to set out on a gallop. But stop, friend Quaker, said the robber, seizing his bridle. As soon as you get home, you will report me to the police. That is all right enough, and I have nothing to say against it; but I must be in advance of them this night, at least. My horse is weak and beside that, fatigued. Your horse, on the contrary, appears to be strong, for the weight of this bag did not incommode him in the least; so dismount and give me your beast, and you may take mine, if you please.

It was too late to begin to resist, though these increasing demands were enough to rouse the temper of

the most patient even. The good Toby dismounted, rapidly. Really! my friend, really! replied Toby, not and took with resignation the poor jade which was able to recover from his astonishment. Weresford, Edgiven him in exchange. If I had known him, thought ward's father, a man of such standing, he my robber! he, I would have fled the minute I saw him, and cerFor a moment he thought himself the sport of a tainly he never could have overtaken me with such a dream, and was going to return home. However, many miserable nag as this. examples recurred to him of individuals of great respectability being connected with bands of robbers; then he thought of Weresford's sudden fortune, and then of the mare, which, to all appearances, entered her master's gate. Toby determined to sound the mystery.

Meanwhile, the man with the mask thanked him ironically for his complaisance, and putting spurs to his horse, disappeared.

Before reaching London, Toby had ample time to think over his misfortune, and to reflect upon the disappointment of Mary and Edward at their wedding-day being delayed. The sum which he had lost, was lost irrevocably. He had no means of finding it, or of recognizing the bold robber who took it. However, as if seized with a sudden idea, he stopped.

Yes, he exclaimed, this plan will insure me success. If the man lives in London, perhaps I shall meet him again. Heaven, without doubt, has destined that he shall be imprudent.

A little consoled by this uncertain hope, Toby went home, without any appearance of concern and without saying anything of his adventure. He did not go to the police, but embraced his daughter, who suspected nothing, went to bed, and went to sleep, trusting all to God.

Next day he thought, for the first time, of aiding Providence and making search. He took the mare from the stable where she had spent the night, threw her bridle over her back, and turned her loose, with the hope that guided by habit, she would naturally seek her master's house. In this manner the poor beast, which was very hungry, wandered through the streets of London, and Toby followed her. But he had attributed more instinct to the beast than it really had. For a long time she wandered to the right and to the left, making a thousand halts and turns, and going altogether at random. Toby was in despair That robber, thought he, has never lived in London. What foolishness it was in me, instead of going to the magistrates when there was hope, to trust myself to the random wandering of this poor animal.

These reflections were interrupted by the cries of some children, who were almost run over by the mare, which, all at once, started off on a gallop.

Stop! stop! cried voices from every direction.

With this resolution he boldly entered the court, and asked to speak to the master of the house. He was not yet up, though it was almost noon. A new proof of a night of fatigue! The Quaker insisted upon being conducted to him, and was soon shown to Weresford's chamber. Weresford, who had just awakened, rubbed his eyes, and asked a little hastily:

What are you, sir, who wish me?

Toby recognised his voice and was then perfectly convinced. He drew a chair up to the side of the bed and seated himself upon it, his hat still on. Do you remain covered? cried the merchant with surprise.

I am a Quaker, answered Toby very coolly, and thou knowest that such is our custom.

At the word Quaker, Weresford started up and looked his visitor in the face, recognizing him, without doubt, for he turned pale.

Very well, he continued, though stammering badly, what is if you please the the business which brings you here?

I ask thy pardon for my haste, said Toby, but friends, as thou knowest, do not mind such things, and so I am come unceremoniously, to ask thee for the watch which thou didst take from me yesterday. The- - watch!

I set great value upon it; it belongs to my poor wife, and I am loath to part with it. My brother-in-law, the alderman, would never pardon me, if I parted but a day with a token which reminds me of his sister.

The name of alderman seemed to make some impression upon Weresford. Toby, without waiting for a reply, continued:

Thou wilt do me the pleasure to return to me also the ten guineas which I lent to thee yesterday. However, if thou hast need of them, I consent to lend them

Don't stop! cried the Quaker. In the name of hea- to thee yet a little while, on condition that thou wilt ven don't stop her!

And anxiously following the animal's course with his eye, he saw her run at full speed through the gateway of a large mansion, which stood open.

give me a receipt for the same.

The Quaker's self-possession so confounded the old merchant that he did not even dare to deny his possession of the stolen property, but as he did not feel quite This is the place, thought the Quaker, raising his inclined to own it either, he hesitated in replying, when eyes to Heaven to thank Providence.

He went up to the house, and noticed a servant in the court, who was patting the poor beast as he led her to the stable. He then asked the first person who passed the name of the man who lived there.

What, answered the man whom he asked, don't you know that the rich merchant Weresford lives here; or have you never been in this quarter before? The Quaker was thunder-struck. Weresford, repeated the man, thinking that he was not understood; the man who has made his fortune so

Toby added:

I am come to inform thee of the near marriage of my daughter Mary. I had reserved the sum of two hundred pounds sterling to defray the expenses of the wedding, but by an accident I lost it. Last evening, while on my way to London, I was completely plundered, and therefore I am come to pray thee also to give thy son a dowry, which, otherwise, I had not asked. My son !

Yes, for dost thou not know that he is in love with Mary, and that he intends to marry her?

Edward! cried the merchant, throwing himself upon sembled a large number of happy friends, among whom the bed.

Edward Weresford, replied the Quaker mildly, at the same time taking a pinch of snuff. Come, friend, make some provision for him. I could heartily wish that he might know nothing of what passed last night, but if thou dost not produce the sum which I have named, forsooth I must tell him how I lost it.

At this, Weresford went to a bureau, and took from

one of its drawers a box fastened with a triple lock, which he opened, and returned to Toby successively his purse, his watch, and his bag of money.

many were noticed, who were congratulating each other upon the behaviour of the Loudon robbers, who through Toby's intervention, had returned to them the sums they had formerly lost, as well as the interest thereon.

Summer Thoughts.

Tis summer now, and earth is bright with leaves and grass and
flowers,

The streamlet sparkles in the glen and sends its murm`ring song
To blend with soft wind's melody as light it flies along;
And the leaves are talking merrily upon each parent bough,

And music fills the wand'ring breeze and echoes mid the bowers,

Very well, said the Quaker, as he received them, I As tho' they answer'd to the wind and to the stream let's flow. see that I was right in relying upon thee. The sky so pure and beautiful, it seems as if 'twas made For man to bow and worship it, is smiling o'er my head, As here within the pleasant shade of the silver beech we lie, And view the scene that spreads around in many a var.ed dye,

Is that all you wish? inquired the merchant some

what hastily.

No, it is not I still require something from thy With meadows sloping green before, and dark woods spotted friendship. Speak.

That thou shalt disinherit thy son.
Why?

Thou shalt disinherit him, because I do not wish that it can be said that I have speculated upon thy fortune. So saying, the Quaker left the chamber.

No, said he to himself, as he shut the door, children are not bound for their fathers' conduct. Mary may marry this man's son, but as for touching stolen money, he shall never do it. On reaching the court, he called to Weresford, who was looking out of the window:

My good friend, I have brought thee thy mare; return me, then, my horse.

there,

And sliding hills and mountains far sweet fading in the air.

The air is still and balmy, save when the cooling wind
Comes with its whispers from the wood and leaves perfume be-
hind,

Or wandering bec with murmuring song darts freely on our ear,
And mid the grass the grass-hopper chirps loud his anthem near,
Or mingling murmurs from the cale and wood steal softly by,

To linger floating around us, and then away to die.
How different will be the scene when winter scowls around,
when ice chains tree and river, and hard frost binds the ground,
When frozen mist is on the hill, and frowns the grey cold heaven,
And chill blasts shroud the morning glance, and snow-flakes
gleam at even;

When woods like barren lances stand through which the wild
wind rude

Now whistles shrill, now hoarsely sings, to mar the solitude.

Not many minutes after, Toby, well mounted, his money once more under his housing, and his watch and purse in his pocket, was slowly trotting on his way Then will the pure wind sigh no more upon the blushing blos.

home.

I am just come, said he to Edward, whom he met as he entered his door, I am just come from a call on thy father about the wedding. I believe that he will agree. Two hours after, Weresford visited Toby, and took

him aside.

Honest Quaker, said he, your behaviour has touched my very heart. You have it in your power to dishonor me, to dishonor my son, to ruin me in his eyes, and ruin him by refusing him your daughter. You have acted like a man who has both a head and a heart. I do not wish to blush before you any longer. Take these papers. You will never see me again.

So saying, he went out.

The Quaker, when by himself, opened the papers.He found, at first, checks for large amounts upon the first bankers in London. Then a long list of names, and opposite to each a greater or less sum of money. At the bottom of all was the following note.

"These names are of persons who have been robbed ; the figures indicate the amounts which are to be restored. Get the money of the bankers, and then make the restitutions secretly. The sum which remains is my honest property, and your daughter will one day be able to inherit my fortune."

Next day Weresford had left London, and all seemed to be satisfied that he was gone to France to collect his debts and attend to his affairs.

On Edward and Mary's wedding-day, the Quaker as

som,
Or streamlet sparkle in the sun along earth's glowing bosom,
No more the squirrel and the bird will sport amid the bowers,
Or wandering bee hum merrily at noon around the flowers,
But cold and rude and cheerless will the gloomy winter day,
Borne on the chill and ruthless blasts, roll heavily away.

Speech. There is a magic in free speeking, especially on sacred themes, most potent and resistless. It is refreshing, amidst the inane common places bandied in pulpits and parlors, to hear a hopeful word from an earnest, upright soul. Men rally around it as to the lattice in summer heats, to inhale the breeze that flows cool and refreshing from the mountains, and invigorates their languid frames. Once heard, they feel a buoyant sense of health and hopefulness, and wonder that they should have lain sick, supine so long, when a word has power to raise them from their couch, and restore them to soundness. And once spoken, it shall never be forgotten; it charms, exalts: it visits them in dreams, and haunts them during all their wakeful hours. Great, indeed, is the delight of speech; sweet the sound of one's bosom thought, as it returns laden with the fragrance of a brother's approval.-Orphic Sayings in the Dial.

Wounds in Trees,-Melt a pound of tar with four ounces of tallow, add half an ounce of saltpetre, and stir the whole together. A coat of this composition, applied to a cut or bruise, will prevent decay, and cause the wound to heal. Before applying it, all the unsound timber should be cleared away.-Hart.

Musings.

Fourier's Theory of Association.

Rightly to understand the evils of the social systein, as distinguished from disorders which are the native growth of the human heart, corrupted and swayed by passion, is evidently the proper basis of all efforts at social reform. Evils which result from the forms of social life, may be corrected by amending the forms from which they spring; whereas evils which are inherent in the moral nature of man, can be corrected by no social remedy. If the evil be really a social evil, springing out of the arbitrary arrangements of society, a social remedy may remove it. But if the evil be inherent in the individual, springing out of a disordered nature, and having its seat deep in the human heart, the remedy must not be addressed to the forms of social in

When the face of day is darkened by the shadows of twilight, when evening draws her sable drapery around the earth, I love to meditate on the scenes and things past and present. Like a sport-wearied babe, Nature is shrouded in sweet repose. Deep refreshing silence is around. The hour is as a calm to a tempest. It brings rest to the wearied one and an interval of peace to the wo-worn. To the mourner it brings forgetfulness, and to guilt and innocence alike oblivion. As a tender mother guarding childhood's sleep, so the brilliant and beautiful stars keep their tireless vigils as bright, holy spirits, watching poor, erring mortals. Wild hopes and feverish joys are fled. Rememberance alone is present with her blessed influence to control the mind. Night's holy quietude soothes the tired spirit. Its mad unholy tercourse-it must be addressed to the disease. Otherpassions are at rest. With pinions light the soul wings back to other days. On the verge of Memory's horizon appears a faint, dim speck. It is childhood! Season of innocence and quiet happiness! Every hill upon which we sported becomes more dear, and holier every vale by being connected with reminiscences of childhood.

I sometimes reflect on those by-gone hours till I am bewildered in the rapture of glad thoughts, and have again revelled in those happy scenes. Like a ray of moonlight on the troubled sea appears sweet childhood. Methinks I again see a group of little faces circled around the parental hearth, laughing gayly at the sallies of an affectionate mother. Those beautiful forms are in their turn laid on their earthly couches to dreamless rest. I sometimes indulge the beautiful thought that there holy angels are fluttering near their sister in her wayward path through life, waiting to welcome her to the "Better Land."

There is no music so sweet to me as the gushing sil very tones of those blessed beings over whom the dark wing of sorrow and sad experience has not swept. The winds of summer may whisper, but they are wafted to us from scenes of anguish. Some love the rippling of waves; but those sounds come from their depths, like the moans of weepers.

Next comes youth. We stand upon the brink of a sunny stream, garlanded with wreaths of dew-drops, called joys. We are charmed by its low gentle gush. The breeze that ripples its waters, like the sweet southern zephyr whispers of flowers blossoming afar. It says not that storm clouds may lower, that our joys may vanish before disappointments; that our hopes must be buried; that the syren song of promised happiness may end in strains of sorrow. Yet it is well, for "were it not for hope, the heart would break." Yet why not warn us that the heart cannot know one true joy that feels not the ministerings of religion. Why not tell us to look to the "Spirit Land" for the realization of brighter things than found on earth:

"The Spirit Land! Oh take me there,
And let me find my bower of rest:
Oh! bear me upward through the air
And lay me on my Saviour's breast."

Auburn, Aug. 1844.

A. J. A.

wise the outward symmetry and apparent health of the social body, will but conceal the silent working of a disease, corrupting in the very fountains of life and slowly distilling death through all its members.

There are then properly speaking two modes through which to secure and advance the well-being of society; the one social and the other individual; the one pertaining to the outward forms of the social order, and the other to the right education and developement of the individual mind. The one purifies the fountains of moral action: the other makes clear the channel through which its healing waters flow. Given a pure fountain, and of necessity it must work its way, till it find a channel down among the hills and valleys fertilizing and beautifying the region through which it passes. But the channel-may it not exist with no pure stream to flow through it; but instead, only now and then the muddy waters of a spring freshet?

In like manner there may be the finest theories of social life, and the best forms of political government, without the power to give them life, where there are no MEN to put them into a practical operation. There may be just laws, and institutions founded in the true principles of union and activity; and yet if there be no spirit of justice pervading the minds of the people, and no high estimation of the true end of human life and human society; vain is the attempt to put into execution laws which a vicious race cannot understand; and unavailing the effort to bring forth the true expression of institutions, whose spirit has passed away with the heroic men who reared them.

The practicability of the Theory of Association as taught by Fourier, like most other economic theories of the present day, is now the earnest question of very many noble men, honestly seeking to ameliorate the condition of society. A splendid theory, it most certainly is: one which if put into successful operation, promises to feed the hungry and clothe the naked, to furnish work for the idle and education to the ignorant. It is a theory which proposes to reorganise society, and mould it into a new shape, and give it a new energy of lifea new character. It proposes in short, to remove the evils of our present social system, by removing the system itself, and building in its place a new organization of society, on new principles; and by that means, to

Jury. Twelve prisoners in a box to try one or more perfect the social state and elevate the race. at the bar.

The way in which this object is sought forms the only

peculiar feature of the theory. And that is simply this: strong men, there is in the theory of association a practhe association of large numbers in one great familytical utility-at least, the possibility of success as a buthe joining of their capital, and the uniting of their siness concern. Beyond this, however, its mere outindividual interests in one great interest for the prosecu- ward physical success, we have no faith in its promises. tion of agriculture, manufactures, the arts and sciences, Liberal as they are, and beautiful in the picture as in education, and domestic industry. It is a great part-the condition of society anticipated in the scheme, we nership in all the interests of life; and is designed to can scarcely bring ourselves to believe in its successful harmonise the interests of society with those of the in-realization. The promise, impossible in the fulfilment, dividual. It is intended to teach men to regard and is indeed radient with a pleasing hope and adorned by cherish the welfare of each other, to look upon society whatever is excellent and useful in science, or beautias a great brotherhood, in every individual of which ful in the arts. As a theory, it has our admiration for every man has a brother's interest. It intends more. its benevolence: but as a problem, it has no solution. It proposes to join science with the cultivation of the Depending for success upon a high sense of justice and earth, and education with the practical affairs of life, an unbought benevolence reigning in each individual to throw around the toils of labor whatever is delight-member and blending the whole in one harmonious ful in works of art, and a highly cultivated taste. It will make labor honorable, and call into the field of active exercise the whole force of society.

Now upon what practical plan can this theory of the reorganization of the social system, proceed? Upon what principle can such a scheme go into operation? Will the rich and poor meet and make a common purse -buy a rich domain of land and build a splendid mansion, live together and cultivate the earth? No. The rich man will not divide with the poor. How then shall the land be purchased and how shall the rich and poor come together? Upon what principle? Why precisely upon the principle on which financial companies are formed; as men join their capital to form a bank and divide into shares of stock-each holding an interest in proportion to the amount of money paid in. So is this association formed. The rich purchase the land; and the comparatively poor are to work in its cultivation.

In this manner and in this alone, can associations be formed; and this is the avowed principle of Fourier.He makes it every man's interest to join the association. There is great economy in it, much to be saved, and very little needless expenditure to reduce the profits of the concern. There is a great concentration of skill; and consequently work is carried on to a very great advantage.

The original, grand principle and problem of the association is how best to secure the individual interest.

union, its first work is to elevate the moral character of its entire community-a work in our estimation of no easy performance, especially as it comes in contact with the reigning passions and prejudices, with the avarice and ambition native to the human heart. But says the advocate of association: "When a body of persons, perfectly united, are working for each other's welfare, (as they will be in our system) how easy will it be also to put in operation that other precept-Love thy neighbor as thyself. Man is not naturally selfishfar from it: to love-taken in its widest sense-is the first want of his nature. To bestow the sentiments of friendship, paternity, love and other social affections, causes a happiness as great to him who gives as to him who receives. If men are now selfish, if they sacrifice the love of God and their neighbor to worldly ends and material wants, it is because they are poor, harrassed by cares and anxieties, and because a thousand conflicts and discords divide them, fill their souls with littleness, and smother the higher feelings of their nature."

And this is the basis on which a social reform is to be brought about and the welfare of mankind secured? Is it true then, that man is selfish because he is poor ? Does he in fact sacrifice his love of God and the neighbor to material wants? If it is indeed really so, and the system of association will provide for the material wants of our nature, removing from society all the constraints of poverty, truly this is a noble system and worthy of a Heaven-commissioned proplet to unfold! Mankind are not naturally selfish. The old gospel was a mistake. Christianity taught nothing new. Her glad tiding of peace on earth and good will to men, her glorious hope and sublime teaching, her lofty faith and heroic bearing, her benevolence and beneficence, her courage and humanity-all that constitute the spirit and genius of christianity filled with the everywhere present, active, breathing energy of divinity, these is there no life of truth in them? The revelation itself—is it but a useless repetition of what was known before, a reuniting of what had been read and

Can such an association go into successful operation? Beyond all question it can, if it be in the right hands, and guided in the right spirit, efficiently, skillfully and perseveringly. If the association be governed by men of stern integrity and active and practical talents, we cannot doubt its success, as a business concern. For it is organised upon the universal principle of joint stock companies, to secure the interests of the whole in order to secure that of the individual. Success to this extent, we doubt not may crown the efforts of the unconquerable Phalanx. Honor to thee, then, thou patriot band! One thing thou mayest; and by dint of toil and strug-known of all men? "Love thy neighbor as thyself."— gle, thou shalt accomplish. Thou mayest work, and by work manfully done, demonstrate the practical truth there is in thee. Work then, thou living argument, work; for in it lie the elements of all great and all successful things.

At this point we meet the advocates of association, and on our part freely admit that in the hands of true,

Is it the gently descending voice of christianity from Heaven. Or is it the voice of the human heart, speaking through the system of the French, theorising Fourier? For near six thousand years, did the universal race wait in dumb suspense the appearing of Monsieur Fourier, to utter the real meaning and secret import of human character? And during all that time,

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