Daily evening star. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1852-1854, 1854-01-25


poor man was dead the very day the pro.
motion reached 'un, a didn't die a can.
tain after all, and so the poor widder
didn't get no pension. How THEY'VE a
managed to live is more than can tell
The oldest gal is very clever, they saw:
but Lor' bless ZEE! faint much to snort
three as is to be got out o broiderin'."
Thus enlightened on the subject of their
private history, it was with very different
feelings afterwards regarded these un-
fortunate children. Bereft of both pa.
rents, and cast upon a world with the
ways OF which they were utterly unac-
qualnted, and in which they might be
doomed to the most painful struggles,
even to procure bare subsistence one
treasure was yet left for them-it was
the treasure of each others love. 81 for
as the depth of this feeling could be esti.
mated from the looks and actions of both
it was all in all to each. But the sacred
bond that bound them was destined to
be rudely rent asunder. The cold wind
OF autumn began to visit too roughly the
fair pale face of the younger girl, and
the unmistakeable indications of con.
sumption made their appearance-the
harassing cough, the hectic cheek, the
deep-settled pain in the side, the falling
breath. Against these dread forerunners
twas vain long to contend, and the moor
child had to remain at home in her soli-
tary sick chamber. while the loving Sis
ter toiled harder than ever to provide, if
possible, the means of comfort and resto.
ration to health. All the world knows
the ending of such hopeless strife as
thus. 1t is sometimes the will of heaven
that the path of virtue, like that of glory
leads but to the grave. So it was in the
present instance: the blossom of this
fair young life withered away, and the
grass-fringed lips of the child's early
TOMB closed over the lifeless relics ere
spring had dawned upon the year.
Sorrow had craven legible traces upon
the brow of my hapless Mentor when |
saw her again. How different now was
the vision that greeted my daily sight
from that of former years. The want
that admits not of idle wailing compelled
her still to pursue her daily course of
labor, and she pursued it with the same
constancy and Iunciuality as she had
ever done. But the exquisitely chiseled
face, the majestic gait, the elastic step.
the beauty and glory of youth-unsha-
Ken, because unassaulted by death and
sorrow-where were they? Alas all
the bewltching charms of her former
being had gone into the grave of her
mother and sister, and she, their support
and idol, seemed no more now than she
really was-a wayworn, solitary. and
isolated struggler for daily bread.
Were this fiction that am writing,
1t would be an easy matter to deal out
measure of poetical justice, and to recon.
pense poor Ellen for all her industry, self
denial, and suffering, in the arms of a
husband-who should possess as many
and great virtues as herself, and an am
pie fortune to boot. | wish with all nv
heart that it were fiction, and that Prov.
ldence had never furnished me with such
seeming anomaly to add to the list of
my desultory chronicles. But am tell.
ing true story of life. Ellen found no
mate. No mate, dld 1 say! Yes, one
the same grim yoke-fellow whose delight
1t is to ''gather roses in the spring." paid
ghastly court to her faded charms, and
wed her-who shall say an unwilling
bride! l could see his gradual but dead
ly advances in my daily walks; the same
indications that gave warning of the Sis
ter's fate, admonished me that she also
was on her way to the tomb, and that the
place that had known her would soon
know her no more. She grew day by
day more feeble, and one morning found
her seated on the step of a door, unable
to proceed. After that she disappeared
from my view; and though l never saw
her again at the old spot, have seldom
passed that place since, though for many
years following the same route, without
recognizing again in my minds eye the
graceful form and angel aspect of Ellen ID.
"And is this the end of your mournful
history 9 some querulous reader de-
mands. Not quite. There is soul of
good in things evil. Compassion dwclIs
with the depths of misery, and in the
valley of the shadow of death dove-eyed
charity walks with shining wings.
1t was nearly two months after
had lost sight of poor Ellen, that during
one of my dinner-hour perambulations
about town, 1 looked IN almost acciden.
tally upon my old friend and chum, Jack
w =. Jack keeps perfumer's shop,
not hundred miles from Gray's Inn,
where, ensconced up to his eyes in deli
cate odOrs, he passes his leisure hours
the hours when commerce flags, and peo-
pie have more pressing affairs to attend
to than the delectation of their nostrils-I
in the enthusiastic study of art and rertu.
His shop is hardly more crammed with
bottles and altar, soaps, scents, and all
the etceteras of the toilet, than the rest of
his house with prints, pictures. carvings
and curiosities of every sort. Jack and
went to school together, and sowed our
slender crop of wild oats together, and,
indeed, in some sort, have been together
ever since. We both have our own COL |
lection of rarities, such as they are, and
each criticises the others new purchases. |
On the present occasion, there was new
Van Somebody's old painting awaiting
my judgment; and no sooner did my
shadow darken the door than, starting |
from his lair, and bidding the boy ring
the bell should he be wanted, he hustled |
me up stairs, calling by the way to his
-housekeeper, Mrs. Jones-Jack is a bach
elor-to bring up coffee for two. Twas