Oliver Goldfinch

It was a dark and stormy night in the month of November, 18. To simply say it was dark and stormy, conveys but a faint idea of what the night was in reality. The clouds were pall black, and charged with a vapor which, freezing as it descended, spread an icy mantle over every thing exposed. The wind was easterly and fierce, and drove the sleety hail with a velocity that made it any thing but pleasant to be abroad. Signs creaked, windows rattled, lamps flickered and became dim, casting here and there long ghostly shadows, that seemed to dance fantastically to the music of the rushing winds, as they whistled through some crevice, moaned down some chimney, or howled along some deserted alley on their mad career. It was, take it all in all, a dismal night, and such an one as, with a comfortable shelter over our heads and a cheerful fire before us, is apt to make us thank God we are not forced to be abroad like the poor houseless wretches who have no place to lay their heads. It is too much the case at such times, that we congratulate ourselves on being far better off than they, without taking into consideration it is our duty, as human beings, to render them as comfortable as our circumstances will permit. But who thinks of the poor? God cares for them, say the rich, and that is enough.

Dettagli