JEWELS IN THE MINE. BY ELIZABETH YOUATT.. How poor an instrument May do a noble deed!'-[Shakspeare. Ir is a common thing to hear of the crime and wickedness of the poor; while the manifold temptations which lead to them, the fearful and demoralizing influences by which they are surrounded, together with the total absence of all higher incentives, are not sufficiently taken into consideration. Let us judge of such, therefore, by a gentler rule; be very pitiful to their errors, and quick to mark and treasure up in memory the many instances daily occurring around us, of long suffering, meekly and patiently borne; domestic love, surviving amidst the ruins of hearth and homestead; helpful kindness one towards another; simple and unobtrusive piety; and generosity to which their destitution adds a moral worth not belonging to the good deeds of prosperous life. It is easy, comparatively speaking, to give of our affluence of that which costs us nothing and is never missed. Nay, it is a sweet, almost a selfish gratification; but the sacrifice is noble indeed when Poverty gives to Want! We purpose in the present number, to record a few simple events that actually took place in the heart of our great city not very long since; and the actors in which are many of them still alive. The houses of the very poor are like little villages, or colonies, each containing several families, varying in grade from the clerk and his wife in the first floor, to the lone woman who lives in the front kitchen, and takes in mangling. We have known as many as thirteen different families resident in one house; and although living under the same roof, some did not even know one another by sight, and only became acquainted at those seasons of sorrow and distress, which, breaking down the barriers of pride and reserve, knit human hearts together in one indissoluble bond of sympathy and love. It was an instance such as this we are about to relate. It chanced that a poor woman, a waistcoat-maker by trade, with two little children, the eldest not five years old, fell into a bad state of health from over-exertion and want of sufficient nourishment, and after suffering uncomplainingly for a long time, became wholly confined to her bed, from which there was small hope that she would ever rise up again. Poor thing! young as she was, hers had been a sad and weary life, and yet she clung to it still, for the children's sake; for what would become of them if she were taken? And meanwhile those little children played and laughed, in happy unconsciousness of sorrow, around the bed of their dying mother, who had no heart to hush their noisy mirthno strength to still their infant wailings when the mood changedand they cried for the food she could not any longer work to procure for them. In the next attic, lived a young dressmaker (whom we shall call Mary,) along with her aged parents; almost entirely supporting them by the labor of her hands. She was slightly deformed, and suffered dreadfully at times from internal cancer, which had once confined her to her bed for upwards of nine months. Their trials and privations during that period must have been very great; but Mary had a sweet and cheerful temper, and was never heard to complain. That long sickness was blessed to her in many ways; and she knew not how to be sufficiently thankful, when able to get about once again. Mary never wanted for employment, but was so quick and clever, and withal so gentle and oblig ing, that people were glad to have her. And although sitting so many hours frequently occasioned her great pain, she was happy to have the work to do, for they must otherwise have starved. Every morning about eight o'clock, let the weather be what it would, Mary might be seen issuing forth, in her old bonnet and thin faded shawl, to her daily tasks; from which she seldom returned until the same hour at night; and sometimes later if they happened to be busy. None who met her would have thought of looking a second time upon that pale, worn face, and heavy eyes. And thus it is the meek and better spirits of the earth pass by us unknown and unrecognized! All day long she sat silent at her sewing; for Mary was very shy and seldom spoke unless first addressed. And who thinks of talking to a poor work-girl-beyond telling her what she is expected to do? But when evening came, the mother stirred up the dying embers into a cheerful blaze, or perhaps went a little way to meet her, in the summer time; while the old father, who was too feeble to venture out, began to grow restless and uneasy, looking ever and anon into the dark streets, and praying that nothing might have happened to his darling Mary; and the little children listened for her step, and wondered what she would bring them; for she seldom came empty handed, often putting aside a portion of her own dinner for her young favorites, and sometimes, but very rarely, having a small piece of cake or pudding actually given her for that purpose: for when Mary did talk, it was always of others she never asked anything for herself. The sick woman, also, looked eagerly for the hour of her return; her dull, heavy eyes glistening with pleasure as she heard that cheerful voice first silencing the noisy clamor of the little ones, and then asking so kindly how she felt, and what she could do for her, and whether she would like to hear her read a chapter. For Mary had no book but the Bible; neither did they require any other. Or she would sit down and do "a stitch of work," for her as she called it. Poor Mary! many a weary stitch had she set that day; but this was a labor of love! As Mrs. M- grew worse, she and another woman, who lived in the same house, and was ever ready to do a kindness to a sick neighbor whenever her own numerous avocations permitted, took it by turns to sit up with her. After which Mary would snatch a few hours' rest, and go forth as usual to her work; often so weary as to be very near falling asleep over it several times in the course of the day. As we have said, she was far from strong; and her old mother often feared for her, but forebore to interfere. There was a poor widow lodging in the same house, who supported herself and four children by taking in washing a bustling, kind-hearted, rough-spoken woman, whom most people began by fearing and ended with loving. They all lived hardly enough at times, but contentedly, nevertheless. And after Mrs. M's illness, it was by no means an unfrequent occurrence to see six instead of four young faces gathered around her simple board, and eating their morning and evening meals together, just as if they had been all of one family. "A porringer more or less-what does it matter?" thought the good widow. "I shall never miss it?" Every one, indeed, was kind to the poor little children, who would so soon be motherless, and used to give them a slice of bread and butter, or an apple; while those who were parents themselves, would call them in to wash their faces, and smooth down their shining hair, and wonder over their after-destiny-the workhouse, the factory, or the grave! And, the last seemed the least terrible. Mrs. M's "bits of things," as her kind neighbor used to call them, were always included in her week's washing, and got up without trouble or expense to the owner. "What difference does it make, one or two bits while I am about it?" was her invariable argument. "And as she can't do it herself, poor thing! or afford to put them out, I see no other way of managing it. God knows, the poor have little enough to bestow upon one another but spare time and kind words, and they need not grudge those any how? In the same house was another dressmaker, who also went out to work. We have often thought what a startling amount it would make, to reckon up all the poor dressmaker girls living in only one narrow street in some populous neighborhood; and actually, as the phrase is, "eating each other up;" that is, working so much below the average price, in order to secure custom, that in the end all are forced to come down to the same low standard to keep themselves from starving; which is as much as they can contrive to do with all their unceasing exertions. When the younger of Mrs. M's children a little boy not three years old, fell ill and sickened of the small-pox, this heroic girl took him into her own bed, and nursed and tended him through that most loathsome disease, of which every woman, be she rich or poor, has an instinctive horror. The child died, however, in spite of all her care; and no one very much regretted it— not even the poor mother herself, for she knew that he was mercifully taken away from the evil to come." Fortunately, his little sister never caught the disease at all, and his noble but devoted nurse but very slightly; although it left her long weak and ailing, and she lost the best part of her employment in consequence; being either too ill to come immediately upon being sent for, and her place being consequently supplied by another, or from a lingering fear of contagion experienced by those who knew the circumstances of the case. All comment of our own is needless in repeating instances such as these, which speak at once to the heart, and far outvie the most touching creations of fiction. After her brother's death, the little girl grew sad and grave beyond her years and would sit for the hour together by the side of her poor mother's bed, sometimes questioning with tearful eyes when Willie would come back, or wishing that she might go to him. And then the sick woman became melancholy also, and prayed to God that he would take them all together. Until her kind neighbor the laundress, seeing how matters stood, used to insist upon little Letty's going down to play with her own children, and set the door wide back, that Mrs. M-might hear them all laughing together, and be able to distinguish her child's merry voice among the rest. And then a smile would steal for a moment over her poor pale face, until chased away by sadder thoughts. The close of Mrs. M's lingering illness was somewhat smoothed by the attentions of those who, fortunately, had both the will and the power to assist, having heard of her misfortunes from those good neighbors who were too proud too complain of their own poverty, and of whose kindness the dying woman spoke with tears of heartfelt gratitude, more especially Mary, and the comfort she had derived from her reading and prayers. "God knows," said Mrs. M-, what would have become of me and the children if they had not all helped me as they did! And Mary says it was He who put it into their hearts to do so, for He loves and cares for the poor." That young work-girl's was a true and beautiful faith! Mrs. Mdied at length, quite peaceful and resigned, and without a care; for the good widow had taken Letty to be her own child, promising to provide for her as such. She has five children now, and still argues after the usual fashion-" What does it signify, one little mouth more or less to feed? I shall never find the difference." Mary missed Mrs. M very much, just at first. It is so delightful to have any one to be kind to? But then she knew that she was better off. The luxury of doing good is one which all may enjoy, even the very poorest and weakest, in their own narrow sphere; and almost the only pleasure the memory of which remains ever fresh and green in the heart. Poverty has been called a dark and dreary mine; but there are jewels, nevertheless, to be found therein, which would add lustre to the most exalted station. It is true that we must dig deep for them, amidst a foul and pestilential atmosphere, that searches and withers up the noblest energies of those compelled to exist beneath its baneful influence. We must expect to come in contact with much of wretchedness and degradation, and have to weep over the most touching of all wrecks-that of humanity itself! Layer after layer of prejudice, and ignorance, and crime must be removed, carefully and tenderly, remembering that they are our fellow-creatures still. And then when and where we least expect it, many a bright gem may be seen glittering forth a thousand times more valuable for its dark setting. We have collected a few of these jewels in the present number; and have yet enough remaining to make a bright rosary, to be told over with tears and prayers. GETHSEMANE. THOU hallowed spot, where at calm eventide, |