The voice of freedom. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1839-1848, 1846-10-01
BRANDON, Thursday October 1, 1916.


4 name of mercy my mother dies of hunger
V o. it was touching sight, that frail ,shiverins
: child, with her dark, earnest eyes upturned
as ifpleading for the protection of heaven, al
' the same time that she asked charity Of hel
fellow man.
; MI. Hargrave stopped not to question
5 whether it was his particular duty to shield
= the unfortunate child before him, but with
; her, threaded the dark street in quest of her
wretched home. She pointed out to him a
dim light in the upper story of a dilapidated
building, towards which they anxiously has
: tened, So eager was Mr.. Hargrave to do
good, that he scarcely noticed the creaking of
the stairs which shook beneath his feet, but
passed on until door was opened by the
child,an the words" my mother" brought
Mr.. Hargrave to a stand. All, thought he,
the wealthy may talk of poverty, but they can
not realize what it is. On a pallet of straw
in one corner of the room, lay an emaciated
woman, beautiful still, Notwithstanding she
had been assailcd by poverty, hunger and
distress. A low stool and a sort Of box,
which served the double office of chair and
table, were the only fixtures of which the a.
Ipartmcnt could boast. The faint Pickering
of the smouldering fire seemed but to render
the cold more piercing, and shed pale and
sickly light over the abode Of poverty and
wretchedness.
The child advanced to the bedside of her
mother, and said, in low, musical tones
" Mother, the doctor would not come. He
said he could not live without money, and
must attend to those who could pay for his
services and O mother, he looked so coldIy
on me, and spoke so harshly, it almost broke
my heart And then | went out into the
streets and asked charity of the passers-by,
till my heart ached, and my blood seemed fro
zen but here is a kind gentleman, who; |
am sure, will aid us"
The tear of pity moistcncd the eye of Mr..
IIargrayc while listening to the voice Of little
Amy Pierce. Tears ucre not all he gacc.-.
lie left them not till a physician had been
summoned to the bedside of Mrs. Pierce :;
such nourishmcnt provided as she greatly
needed, and a bright fire sparllled on she
hearth, dilusing light and warmth through
the before cherries apartment. But few
days passed, ere Mrs. Pierce had so far re-
covered her strength, as to be able to relate
her history to him who had so kindly befiend-
ed her.
"Mine, said she, "is a sad tale of disobc-
dicncc. My father, OIargraye started on
hearing her pronounce the name of one Of the
most wealthy men Of the city, Judge Mars
ton, in early life surrounded me with all the
Injuries that wealth could produce.
No pains were spared in my education
not one desire Of my heart left unqualified; i
to me life ever wore Ia coulem' dc rose
thought not that poverty and misery such as
| have since endured, could exist. Among
my young associates, Henry Pierce was CON
spicuous for intelligence, noblencss and gem
crosby Of spirit and | had learned to feel for
him an unconqucrable regard-our faith was
plighted. | had not dreamed that my tatherI
would or could object to our marriage, as his
character was uneXceptionabe but alas he
WIS poor Fathers rage knew no bounds, !
when solicited to sanction our union. Henry
was forbidden to enter lis house, and | was
told to forget him but alas! that was impos-
sible. Suffice it to say, that we met in pri-
vatc after long and severe struggle in NY
heart between love and duty to my parent, |
and affection to my bctrothed, consented to
a private marriage believing my father could
not long cherish feelings OF resentment to-
wards his only child. The result showed | |
was mistaken. All attempts on my part at
reconciliation have been met with naughty
silence One act of disobcdience has forever
stcclcd his heart against me- Had it not been
III lllt DlIItI 1ClICCJOl III gaining
band had lost father, we might have been
comparatively happy, for a time at least
Henry struggled hard to surround me with
the luxuries to which l had been accustomed
from early childhood; his health (always del
icate) gave way to unremitting toll, and in az
ony of spirit, which language, however elo-
quent, would fail to portray, | saw him clasp
cd in deaths icy arms. | had borne the an
ger Of my father with calmness; | had SUBJ
mtted to the evils attending the life Of pow
crty and obscurity which ] had chosen with !
out murmur but this last--greaieSt-grie
was too much for my almost bursting heart
To see him, the chosen of my affections, him,
on whom | had laviShed such deep, undying
love, suddenly snatched from me, was too
too much. For a time | was nearly stupe-
fed with my overwhelming sorrow; but my
helpless condition, together with that of my
my child, now dependent on me alone for
support and protection, reused me to action
Two long, weary years | supported myself
and my child by the aid Of my needle but
at length sickness came, and hunger stared
me in the face. / believe, under God, | owe
my life to you"
What a volume Of sorrow, summed up in a
few brief words And can it be that man is
so unforgiving? IT'S even so. He who eX-
poets forgiveness at the hands Of his Heaven
ly Father for his many wiltul transgressions,
often refuses to overlook the slightest act of
disobcdience in his fellow creatures, forgetting
that he is depriving himself of much fervid
happiness in refusing oiolow the shining ex-
ample of our prosecuted Saviour. The UNI
bounded delight resulting from forgiveness is
natural the forgiven and forgiving spirit arc
equally benefited, by the exercise Of trait
so enrolling to the human heart. Who then
will not forgive, even as they would be forgiv-
en- by their Father in Heaven?
While Mrs. Pierce was relating her tale of
grief, another and different scene was enact
ed in distant part Of the city. The elegant
mansion of Judge Marston looked dark and