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him all confidence. He started for the West, hoping there to regain his character. He wept to break his heart at times, and yet was weak as an infant to resist his besetment. And thus had he gone down deeper into his degradation, until the gifted William was so low, that a rum-seller, the liberal patron of his own liquids, having got his last cent, dares to turn him into the street!

But we are tarrying too long. The wretched husband has entered the wretched dwelling. He yet loves his wife, and he loves the boy God has given them. Their misery is the bitterest drop in his own cup. The wife saw, that though wretched, he was not drunk, and flew to his arms. A true woman's love is the sunlight of sorrow. The husband felt that he deserved no such meeting and greeting as this.

Oh, Emily, my injured wife," he uttered, as he wept, "God forgive me for reducing you to this! Leave me, and go back to your father, who has enough to keep you from this beggary, and let me go to ruin alone!"

It was true, her father was rich, but she would not forsake her husband, and now he could not learn where she was. She knew that she would be welcomed back home, but not the sot she called her husband. She never even balanced the thing in her mind. She would cleave to him, though it rent her heart in twain. To his despairing words she replied, as none but a woman can

"Do not say so, William; all is not lost. Only give up this one bad habit, and we shall see years of happiness. You are young, and your talents will lift you high in your profession, and give us all the comforts of life. Cut away this millstone from your neck now, and see whether my words do not all prove true."

He was subdued by her kindness, and wept like a child. But past resolutions, as often broken as made, discouraged him, as he replied

"Thank you, dearest wife, thank you, and God bless you for your goodness. But before we were married, and a hundred times since, I have vowed to abandon this vice, and yet here I am, an outcast drunkard, so worthless, that even-the tavern keeper has driven me from his door! Yes, I am a castaway' of all but you."

"And what of that? The wretch drove you away because you had no money. Come now,

assert your manhood, and cast off your chain. If not for my sake, then do it for our boy !”

The little fellow, by this time, with quick intuition, seeing his father was gentle to his mother, had climbed up on his knees, and presented his lips for the fond kiss which he always received when the father was sober. This was more than he could bear, and again he sobbed like a child.

In the life of a vicious man, as in some diseases, there is a crisis, and woe-betide him if the change is not for the better. The whole man is subdued and crushed, and you may cast him on any flood-tide, to be borne whither you will. As when the crisis in a fever comes on, if the patient is neglected, death soon ensues, so in reformation, when Divine Providence produces a crisis, we should "watch and pray," that the result be life. Such was the precise state of William's mind. A rum publican had driven him ignominiously from his door; a wife, heartbroken only on his account, had forgiven him and blessed him with holy words of hope; and to crown all, his little son had come and nestled once more in his. father's heart, as he was wont in better days. The drunkard was now ready for any favoring flood-tide to bear him back to virtue, to society, and to God. In his case it came, and that at the right moment.

Scarcely had the little boy received that fervent kiss from his weeping father, when a knock at the door startled them; and a very respectable man walked in, scarcely waiting for permission, with the question, "Does William reside here?"

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Yes, sir," said William, "that is my name; have you any business with me?"

In an instant the stranger had seized the hand of the drunken lawyer, and was examining his countenance with a mournful scrutiny. "Is it possible," at last he exclaimed; "is it possible that this is William and Emi

ly - ? and looking thus, and living so miserably? But come; say whether you know me or not, for I have business with you, and very important business too."

William and Emily looked puzzled, and at last the former said, "You really seem to have an undue advantage over us in the matter of recognition. I cannot detect a familiar line in your face, except you recall James, of our native town, who, when we left it, was the most hopeless sot there. Excepting that habit,

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Ay, ay," was the answer; "look at me well, and remember what I was six years ago. When you left our place, I became much worse than you ever saw me, and seemed abandoned of God and men. I barely lived through an attack of delirium tremens. I was on the very verge of the drunkard's grave, the treacherous brink of which was giving way under me. One day, beastly drunk, I had fallen in the street, and all looking on me passed by on the other side, save one little boy. You know him well enough, William; he is your brother's oldest son. He stood by me, and spoke to me so respectfully and kindly that it touched my heart. Says he to me,

"Mr. come, get up, and I will get you something to eat; and to-night you shall go to the meeting, and sign the pledge, and then you will be happy again!'

"It seemed just as if heaven had drawn aside the darkness from my heart one moment, and let in one blessed beam of hope. I got up, with his assistance, signed the pledge, and God has thus far kept me.'

As the reformed man thus talked with the eloquence of experience, his very appearance inspired courage.

"But," said William, "how did you find us out? I thought our residence was concealed from all our friends."

"That is easily explained," replied his friend. "As I got out of the stage-coach at the tavern, a short time since, I found the bar-room in a perfect uproar of excitement because the miscreant there had turned you out of doors, and

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your name was repeated in the course of the talk. Without delay, my mind all excited to meet an old friend, I inquired the way, and hurried here to see you. And now, come; your little nephew saved me; let me discharge part of my debt to him by rescuing his uncle. Come, William, in the fear of God sign this pledge."

"Oh husband, there is yet hope! Only sign the pledge and we shall yet be happy!"

Another moment and the pledge was signed, and the generous James I called on them, in that mean house, to bow with him in gratitude before the Great Author of this mercy. The scene was an impressive one. Husband, wife, child, and deliverer, all united in the hearty thanksgiving of the occasion.

The

We need not enter more into details. moment his habit was given up, William began to recover the confidence of his fellow-men. Emily's father heard of the change, and showed his interest in giving them a generous pecuniary benefit, placing them in easy circumstances. In two years William had a lucrative practice in his profession. His heart had been touched, so that a new principle was therein implanted, and now he lives in a humble sense of his constant need of God's aid to keep him from again falling. Emily, now so happy in her family, looks beautiful as she did on the night she plighted her vows to William. And their little son talks of no one in the world so much as of "good uncle James, who got pa to sign." Even the aged pastor, who married them, has been heard to say

shall

"We have entered on a new dispensation. When I was young, the drunkard's case was considered hopeless. But now, that James and William have reformed, who say that any case is hopeless ?" "Thirty years ago" and the present day, are very different for vicious men. Thirty years ago even good men looked on the poor inebriate, robbed as he was almost of manhood, and "passed by on the other side." But in our day "the good Samaritan" is seen in every hovel, penetrating every haunt of infamy; and, taking the vicious by the hand, he points to the cross and says, "Behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world!"

I LOVE Snow. I have loved it from childhood. And where is the child that does not love snow? But my fondness for snow was not one of those fancies which vanish with our early years; with me it is a passion which years have served rather to strengthen than otherwise. The feeling may be somewhat changed in character, but not in intenseness. Yes, I love snow, and snow-storms are of all others my especial favorites. I love, too, to look upon the forests of winter, when the snow, as if out of pure benevolence, covers the naked branches of the trees with a robe of dazzling whiteness, making them seem the creations of another, I had almost said a purer world.

Snow does not fall upon you with the saddening, depressing influence of rain, drenching you to the skin, and chilling you to the bone; on me, at least, its effect is of a cheering and exhilarating nature.

I love to watch the flakes dancing and whirling about in the air, before they reluctantly fall to the earth. And their touch, when they chance to find their way to your neck, is like that of the fingers of some tiny elf, tickling you out of sheer playfulness. But would you see a snow-storm in perfection, you must not spend a winter here in the city, but take a trip to the northern part of the state, where Jack Frost for six months reigns undisputed, monarch of the waste.

Here it was the occurrence took place which I am about to relate. I had spent part of the summer and most of the autumn in rambling about the country, making sketches, and towards the commencement of winter went into St. Lawrence County, for the purpose of executing some commissions for some friends I had residing there. My stopping-place was the village of G. I had finished my last engagement, and was preparing to return home, when I accepted the invitation of an acquaintance, a Mr. Hunt, to spend a few days

with him at his farm, distant about ten miles. It was at a time when the temperance movement was agitating the whole country, and the little village of G- felt its full share of the commotion. There was to be a temperance meeting during the evening, and as my friend was not only an enthusiast in the good cause, but one of the speakers engaged for the occasion, our departure was of necessity delayed until after the close of the meeting.

There was in the village, at the same time, a neighbor of my friend, by the name of Clark, a violent opposer of the temperance cause, and who delayed his journey only, as he said, in order that he might see what fools the coldwater men would make of themselves. In the mean time, at the bar of the public house, he was unremitting in his devotions. It was late when the meeting broke up; the snow-storm, which had commenced in the afternoon, had been all the evening increasing in violence, so that when I contrasted the powerful animals and strong double sleigh of farmer Clark, with the light jumper and small horse of my friend Hunt, I was half inclined to accept the invitation of the former to ride with him, saying, as he made it, that if I went with that cold-water man and his little pony, we would all freeze to death upon the road.

But when, on looking into the speaker's face, I beheld the effect his deep potations were having upon him, I judged it most prudent to adhere to my first engagement, and ride with my friend Hunt.

The night, notwithstanding the snow, was one of almost pitchy darkness, and our road, none of the smoothest at the best, was by no means improved by the snow-drifts. Add to this, the wind was high, and blew as if out of very spite directly in our faces. I have said that I liked snow-storms, but this was an exception to the general rule, for this one I must admit was not exactly to my liking. Be

sides, snow-storms, to be enjoyed, must be seen as well as felt.

Although the road, as before remarked, was not a good one, yet the only serious obstacles to be encountered were, first, a long hill called "the ridge," very difficult of ascent; one side of this hill, sinking almost perpendicularly, formed from the top a precipice of some eighty or ninety feet. From this latter fact, however, we apprehended no danger, for there was an ample breadth of road on the top; it was only the climbing that we dreaded. The only other place where we had reason to fear any serious obstacle was where the way lay for a short distance through a narrow ravine. This ravine was sometimes so completely choked up by snow-drifts as to be quite impassable for several days. We had passed the ridge in safety, and, almost dead with cold, reached the entrance of the ravine, when, to our dismay, we found it closed against us; completely shut up with snow. Here then was a dilemma. The road at this point was intersected by another, which by a circuitous route of several miles would take us to our place of destination. But it was a road little used, and in order to travel it in safety we needed daylight; so that our only alternative, now, was to retrace our steps and endeavor to obtain lodging for the night at a log cabin, which we had passed about half a mile from the foot of the ridge.

We had just completed the descent of the hill on our return, when we met farmer Clark, his horses much fatigued from hard driving, preparing to ascend it. We informed him of the state of the road at the ravine, and advised him to return with us. He was evidently intoxicated, and received our advice with a jeering laugh. Just what he expected of coldwater men, he said; he knew that we would back out, but he had started for home, and home (he declared with a horrid oath) he would be, snow or no snow, that very night. Saying this, he invited us to drink some brandy with him from a bottle which he drew from his pocket. Upon our refusing, he put it to his own lips, took a long draught, replaced the bottle, lashed his horses, and commenced ascending the hill. We, in a few minutes, were at the log cabin, comfortably seated by a good fire. As we saw no more of farmer Clark that night, we came to the conclusion that, upon reaching the ravine, and seeing the

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condition that it was in, he had taken the other road, and had succeeded in reaching his home in safety. We found upon waking in the morning that the violence of the storm had abated; the wind had fallen, and the snow descended in large flakes. Towards noon the weather cleared up, and we were enabled to pursue our journey, which we did by the longer road, before mentioned. The journey, though long, and to the poor horse a fatiguing one, was to me one of exquisite enjoyment.

The country through which we now passed was one of valley and woodland, lake and mountains, possessing just enough of the evidences of cultivation to take from it the appearance of absolute wildness. Such a country, viewed as we now did this, glittering under the rays of a noonday sun, all its rough edges and sharp corners rounded off, and softened down by the fleecy mantle which covered it; the tall pines, their lower branches trailing the earth, and just enough of their dark foliage visible to give effect to the dazzling whiteness of the snow; even the arms of the sturdy oak bending under the weight of their unwonted burden; all conspired to make it appear a scene of enchantment rather than of reality, and any attempt to describe it in mere words must inevitably be a failure.

On reaching the home of my friend Hunt, we were suprised to learn that farmer Clark had not yet returned. And when that day, and the greater part of the next, had passed without bringing any tidings of him, his family became seriously alarmed for his safety. The whole neighborhood was now aroused in search of him, but all to no purpose. Neither the people of the village, nor those who lived on the road he was supposed to have taken, had seen anything of him since the night of the

storm.

We now recollected that when last seen by us he was in the act of ascending the ridge. Could it be that, intoxicated as he was, he had driven off the precipice? Unwilling to alarm his friends with what might prove to be unnecessary fears, my friend Hunt and myself returned by ourselves to the spot.

On reaching the edge of the precipice our worst apprehensions were confirmed. The unfortunate man in his recklessness had driven too near the edge of the rocks. At this place there was a gradual slope of a few yards,

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the rest of the descent being nearly perpendicular. On reaching this inclined plane, from which the snow had been driven by the wind, leaving a surface of smooth ice, the hinder part of the sleigh had swung round, and the horses, unable to retain their footing on the glassy surface, the whole had gone over the precipice together. The body of poor Clark was found deeply buried in the snow under the sleigh, which had fallen on him. The horses, too, were both killed by the fall. The fate of the wretched man (the result, as it was, of his intemperate habits) created quite a sensation at the time, and fearful as was the blow to his

family, it was not unattended by some beneficial results even to them. He had left two sons on the verge of manhood, who, under the influence of his bad example, were fast following in his footsteps. His sudden death was to them a fearful warning. They turned from the error of their ways, and have grown up worthy members of society.

Thus ended my experience of northern winters. I have been in many snow-storms since, some quite as severe as the one I have attempted to describe, but no one that has so indelibly impressed itself on my memory.