The aegis & intelligencer. [volume] (Bel Air, Md.) 1864-1923, 1877-09-21
MI i scellane O u 8.
The POStman's Daughter.

BY THE AUTHOR OF John HALIFAX, GEN
TLEMAN."
Are there in America-I doubt not there
are-children like some of our English
children whose constant out cry is that
they "hate lessons 2" Regardless of the
endless anxieties-to say nothing of the
endless pounds-which their parents have
expended upon their education, they seem
determined to learn, not as much, but as
little as they possibly can are glad of any
excuse that helps them to shirk work. and
appear to consider that the whole end and
aim of life is play. Poor little souls, they
will soon find out their mistake Quickly
enough comes the time of all work and no
play, when to please ones self or to amuse
ones selfis the last thing one is ever able
to think of. But-no preaching just now
Il only want to tell for the benefit of all
idle children, a simple little story which
has lately come under my notice-a quite
true" story, though as yet mere fragment
literally "story without an end" What
the end may be, fate-that is, Goodwill
prove in time; meanwhile l can do no
harm, and may do some good, especially
to those lazy children aforesaid, to give its
beginning.
arrived one afternoon, on a brief three
days. visit, at certain town in the west of
England. Almost as soon as I entered
there was put into my hand, with my
post letters, another, unstamped, which
looked not unlike bridesmaids cir
cular, more especially as it was addressed
in clear, clerk-like hand.
noticed this, being rather particular
about handwritings, as it is natural to
one accustomed to read many MSS. Some
people, especially young people, hardly
recognize how strong is the involuntary
impression thus given: whether good or
bad, careless or neat, firm or feeble.
opened the letter:
"DEAR MApAM,-Please excuse the liberty
take in writing to you, but have been so in.
tercsted in some of your books"
closed it abruptly. Truly, if one were
given to profane jesting, one would be in
clined to hope that heaven was place
where ones "works" did not follow one.
Oh the innumerable letters which we au-
thors are in the habit of receiving, where
little eulogistic comment on our writ
ings is followed by reference to the cor
respondents and petition to read them
or get them printed A young 'poet"
actually once asked me to publish his
volume at my own expense, adding that
"posterity would reward me |" And some
thing very like page of verses occupied
the second sheet of this letter. No wonder
shut it up with kind of sigh, half
weariness, half pity. viii these hapless
rhymsters never learn that poetry-e
real poetry-sedom pays2 And prose
scribblers, "the mob of gentlemen" or
gentlewomen (alas too often poor gentle
women), "who write with ease" and think
that their facility and their poverty consti-
tute an undeniable claim upon the world
to read them-can these unfortunates not
take in the simple truth that really good
work, soon or late, is sure to find its mar
ket-it is too rare commodity not to be
valuable-while bad work, however bolster
ed up by the best of introductions, if anyone
be SO uncandid as to give them, will as
certainly find ito level too, and drop into
its natural grave, the waste-paper bask-
eta
Replacing the letter in its envelope, to
be read when less busy, did not think Of
it again for twenty-four hours.
"There was note for you," said one OF
my friends next day; "the postman brought
it from his little invilid daughter. She
cannot stir out of doors. She thought
perhaps you might come and see her."
This was quito another story. Some
what conscience-smitten, sought for the
letter, and reopened it.
$50 interested in some OF your books
which have read, and so often wished t.
see you, that thought perhaps if yor
could spare time you would not mind call
ing. Father, who is the postman, told m,
you were here.
II am little deformed girl, and an