THE next day was Sunday. I rose, dressed myself mechanically, and went down to breakfast. I was suffering from no sharp sensations. A dull, heavy, muffled pang, at regular intervals, took the place of the usual nervous, energetic action of the heart. Literally it seemed to be broken.

So much were Alice and Matilda impressed by the change in me, that neither ventured to ask for an explanation. The younger children shared magnetically in the feeling. What a silent table! How different from our usual cheerfulness and hilarity!

At the proper hour, we all started for church. I thought the placid face of the old clergyman looked more benevolent and tranquil than ever. He is at rest, at rest, I said to myself. 'Shall I ever be at rest?'

The services did not attract my attention, until the text was announced. It was as follows:

'The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity; but a wounded spirit who can bear?'

'My friends,' said the old minister, 'the translation of a part of this verse from the Hebrew is not felicitous. Let me improve it by another rendering. 'The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity; but a wounded spirit — what shall sustain it?' That is the question I propose to answer this morning.

'The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity! What a statement of the power, and might, and pride of the human race! Ah! yes; the spirit will sustain against all infirmity; it will carry man resolute and undaunted midst

fire and sword; through perils by land and by water; through misfortunes and calamities; through contests, troubles, and dangers; midst disease and pestilence; and it may even nerve him to meet death itself with dignity and composure.

'But if man's spirit falters; if the day comes 'when the keepers of the house shall tremble,' if a wound is inflicted here,' (he laid his hand on his heart,) 'what is to be done? The form of the question in the text implies that there can be no help from within. Physically, a man cannot support himself by his own weight. Neither can the spirit receive support through its own power.'

The venerable man went on to show how only the 'FATHER of our spirits' can heal the wounds of the spirit. That it is not until man is brought into direct communion with his MAKER, that he is armed at all points, and proof against whatever may happen.

I have no design to give even an abstract of the discourse, but only to convey the leading paramount idea. I listened entranced. Every word seemed prepared for me, directed toward me.

By degrees, as he proceeded, I felt a sense of relief steal over me. The action of the heart resumed its healthful pulsation. By a sort of instinctive effort, I ejaculated in a low tone, 'God help me!'

I went out with the rest of the congregation, a happy, cheerful man. The children felt the change, and acted accordingly; they were cheerful too. But no explanation was asked. All seemed more than content that I was myself again.

MONDAY morning I resumed my labors in the street, as if nothing had happened to disturb my serenity. Now, not one of the four worthies whom I have mentioned cared a jot whether I was honest or not. Neither would Frink ever stop to inquire the character of a man who brought him a note to shave. I knew, however, that my reputation had been greatly injured by the report of my arrest. It had the effect to ostracise me to a certain extent, but it did not interfere with my every-day drudgery.

In a few days I told Alice and Matilda what had become of the savingsbank money. I narrated the whole story. My daughter was only happy that the money had been kept for this very crisis, and tears stood in her eyes at the thought of what I had undergone. Matilda was in a rage. She declared she would not have paid the man a cent, the sordid, contemptible creature; she would lie in prison all her life first. Why did I allow the scoundrel to frighten me? As to Devine, he ought to be hung - he would be hung. She wondered I could have been so misled; why did I have any thing to do with such a wretch?

In the midst of all this Warren came in.

'Tell him about it, Alice,' said Matilda.

Alice looked a little confused. She glanced at Warren, then at me. 'Yes, tell him,' cried Warren, smiling.

'I think I can repeat the story better than Alice,' said I.

So I told the whole over again. Warren listened attentively. 'I have heard of this Devine,' he said. 'He is an arrant knave, very ingenious and adroit. If you attempt to arrest him, he would be ready with straw-bail, and would swear you out of it in the end. But we will do one thing-stop the payment of the note. This may drive the scoundrel into a compromise before it falls due.'

During this conversation, I observed what I had never before noticed, a certain degree of confidence between Alice and Warren. I thought a moment. Why did not Matilda, who was usually impulsive and ready, open the note-subject ? Why did she call on Alice?

I experienced a feeling of satisfaction at the thought that the two were becoming interested in each other. Warren had now been admitted to the bar, and was struggling with might and main to get into practice. I had no fears for his success, as I looked at his resolute countenance, and ample forehead, and thought what he had already achieved for himself, and how. What a happiness, could I see Alice, dutiful, self-sacrificing Alice, married to such a man! What a contrast to that puny, insignificant Havens! Charley, too, who, as his health was delicate, became the more nice in his appreciation, was greatly attached to Warren. Anna liked him. Matilda liked him.

So the months sped away. I continued at my servile work in Wall-street drudging, toiling, slaving on. I made very few new acquaintances, while occasionally old ones died or disappeared. I thus became more and more isolated. As years passed, the inconveniences of age increased. I was now the oldest man in the street who employed himself in just my business. I seemed to have taken poor Downer's place, and presume I was called 'Old Parkinson,' as he was called 'Old Sol.' I began to find that I could not run about as readily as in former years. In ascending a flight of stairs, I had to stop at the top and take breath. In going up and down town, I was forced frequently to ride.

Two or three young men had latterly introduced themselves to my constituents, and threatened by their superior activity, and by being very unscrupulous, to supplant me. All this told very hard on me. But I nevertheless worked cheerfully on, grateful for life and health, happy if I might only support those who were dependent on me.

In August, 1857, came the Monster' Crisis.' Unlike the Monster' Cholera,' · 'Crisis' sprang fiercely at the rich, seizing them by the throat, tapping the jugular, making instant depletion of wealth. This time it came suddenly. Bankers, and brokers, and merchants at Newport, and Saratoga, and Sharon, and Cape May, were telegraphed to fly home and save themselves. They did fly home to find themselves not worth saving. What a fluttering! what a commotion! After that what changes! Those who occupied first seats moving down to the lowest benches. The old tale again, with renewed severity. I looked on. Twice I had been through similar scenes. Now I was impreg

nable. I had no friend or relative whose fortune was about to be lost. The

storm swept high. The humble, who had little to be anxious about, suffered no apprehensions. I was glad that Warren was not in any pursuit where the crisis could visit him. But a great many of my old acquaintances went down. Among these was the man who refused to credit my explanation about the note, and who caused my arrest. He was swept completely away. Screwtight and Company, and Gripeall, both went by the board. I am almost sorry to say, so did Oilnut. This bland creature had speculated largely in certain manufactures, which adverse affairs knocked completely in the head. He made a bad failure. My people were of a different stamp. It is true they lost a great deal of money, but then they had it to lose. From all I could learn, Frink sunk about fifty thousand dollars, not a large sum considering the amount he had invested, an evidence of the caution with which he operated. I will say one thing for Frink, I never saw a man lose money with such perfect nonchalance. He would work an hour with real concern to save or make a sixpence; and he would hear the loss of ten thousand dollars with entire equanimity.

Bank stock made a terrific tumble. Some fell over thirty per cent. Here was a rare chance for those who had money to buy with; for in a year the broken paper would be tinkered up, or in some way patched together, and the stock go back to the old figure.*

It seemed strange enough to me to be standing by, looking at all these changes. Even as I had been obliged to sell our house and furniture, so they who were lately so rich, some of them old acquaintances, others comparatively new men, were obliged to sell theirs. Some of these individuals exhibited remarkable cordiality toward me. They would stop and shake hands, and affect much candor in speaking of their failure, as if they would say: 'We are now one of you, and we may as well talk it all over.'

rear.

Meanwhile my own special work went on as usual, with the difference that I had to run longer and later, and for less pay. By degrees my rent got in arThe landlord, by virtue of my punctuality for so many years, was lenient, but I could not expect him to wait forever. Petty debts began to accumulate, incurred as a matter of necessity, with the hope that some fortunate day's work might sweep them off. But the fortunate days grew more and more infrequent, and the petty debts larger. I earned and paid as fast as I could, but it was evident that sooner or later I must go down. I was like a man struggling for life against a strong current, and gradually weakened by its force. Still I managed to go through that winter. As I look back to it, I can hardly say how. I sold one or two valuable articles from my house, and some choice books from my library, and so we kept on.

* OUR banks could not go into immediate liquidation at any time, and return more than half their capital to the stock-holders. This is of little consequence, since such an occurrence will never happen, for it presupposes a general liquidation of the whole mercantile community. Occasionally a bank gets a blackeye, is forced to settle up, and rarely pays over fifty cents on a dollar, often much less. The fact is, the banks represent the commercial interests. They are really special partners in the business of each one of their customers, and suffer accordingly.

Ir was a pleasant day in the month of September, 1858. I am brought to this period after encountering the same wretched routine which I have already described too often. Two quarters' rent remained due upon my house, and we are running into the third. The landlord has kindly but decidedly announced that we must prepare to vacate the premises in time for the Fall demand. There is no help for it, we must go. My own health begins to fail. This incessant, ever-present, never-ending anxiety, coupled with too much hard work, tells severely on me. But my spirit is tranquil, my mind serene, my heart strong.

It was a pleasant day in the month of September. I had started somewhat earlier than usual, thinking to walk the entire way home. I proceeded slowly up Broadway to its junction with the Fifth Avenue, and thence along that street of palaces. Not a trace of the last year's disasters could be noticed. It seemed to me that the carriages were more numerous than ever, the liveries more gaudy. This part of the town had been built up since I moved from my old home. In fact, we began to find ourselves almost within the fashionable precincts. Expensive houses had gone up in the adjacent streets and several near us in our own. Indeed, our landlord had more than once spoken of taking down the simple structure in which we lived, and the two adjoining ones, and erecting buildings more in accordance with the present surroundings.

While I pursued my walk along the avenue, a barouche drove by and stopped a little beyond me. Just as I reached it, Henrietta Stevenson - now Mrs. Havens descended, followed by a fashionably-dressed young woman, very affected, who put on a great variety of airs as she shook her dress into shape after reaching the side-walk.

Mrs. Havens stopped short on seeing me; offering her hand, she exclaimed: 'Why, Mr. Parkinson, is it possible this is you? What a long time since we have met. Don't wait for me, Maria,' to the supercilious article who stood by her. 'Do you know, Mr. Parkinson, I have been thinking of you all the morning? You never could guess why. Won't you come in a moment, I want to speak with you.'

She led the way into her fine house, purchased since her marriage, and newly furnished. Entering the front-parlor, she asked me to be seated.

'Now,' she said, assuming a confidential tone, ‘I am going to tell you something strange. Do you remember-oh! years ago, so many years ago it seems to me —one day, after calling at your house in Broadway, that you put me in the carriage, and just as I was driving off I saw a strange-looking little girl staring so fiercely at me that it nearly took my breath away? No, you do n't know that; but do you not recollect I asked you to speak to her and find out if she wanted any thing; and do you remember how she looked and how saucily she answered?'

I began to feel not a little curious to know what was coming, but I replied quietly 'Yes, I recollect it.'

'Now, will you believe it, Mr. Parkinson, I saw that same girl yesterday.'