-
. =
Ls : ;
4
Sele rt oet. just of the room —s0 far away that in the |
: = < {dim light they can rather be imagined than
"ing, as though the dead Sir Oliver still Tay
pec
BELLEFONTE, THURSDAY MORNING, AUGUST 29, 1861.
.
{ the fire ; it 1s upon two figures at the other |
* seen, and their voices are inaudable. These
{are the daughter and pephew of my lady
Paterdaile.
By and by the conversation is finiched
and they come up and stand together oppo-
site my lady’s great chair on the hearth.
bot George Haughton,” said her ladyship,
“why are you looking like a caged lion 7”
¢ Twelve months ago,” replied the young
man, “‘my cousin bade me wait patiently a
y-ar—a whole long year. It expires to-day
and I’m here to know wy fate.”
“Speak lower. George Haughton.”
¢ She tells me,” he went on witha gesture
The battle-plain with gore was wet, j of impatience, “that she can not fetter her-
For, thick the wounded and the killed seller ; that Tam stilla boy, and must
Fell fast upon the murd’rous field. { serve yet another year for her.”
Wilder! more dreadful! grew the fray be To which you have agreed,” interposed
¥ rom moving HY the closs of dry; a softer voice. while a little white hand
When, lo! the northern army fled, torched Bi an
Leaving their dying and their dead. ; i Y J y
Next morn, upon the crimson ground, | *“To which I have agreed. It isno boy’s
Lying side by side. two youths were found. | love which I give you, Catharine, but my
Two strippling youths with forehoads bold, | whole life. You must not think I do not
Aud ghastly faces icy cold. ] {know you ; it is because you love admira-
With many a gash and i ie e > 2 tion—because you would be accounted free
ia os > to exercise your facinations over others—
No more to see the light of day. that you hold back from keeping your prom-
Sad news goes fast.’ The direful word ise. Ican wait; butdo not try me too
*: Her sons were dead” the widow heard, long, You are mine and I am yours for
Her noble song, belov’d and brave— { Bappiness or misery, and the one shall not
Both Siseping In ons 0 grave] suffer without the other.”
wy nd he Blow My lady Paterdaile bent her false eye-
That spilt the life-blood of cach son? brows into a frown as he finished.
Was't by bis brother’s hand 'twas dona?” * These are strange words for a lover,
And night and day this widow's prayer young Haughton.”
Is constant born upon the air : | Then the haughty face soficned with a
| sudden gleam of tenderness, and he took ]
{ both the hands of his betrothed in his own |
| strong. earnest grasp.
+0 Thou who lookest from afar
On this cruel fratricidal war;
| Catharine knows,” he said, “that I love
Thou who didst give my brave sons 1
| 3
. hier as my own soul.”
And segst them now lie cold in ¢
Smite him with thine avenging hu
Who brought thiscurse upon our land ;
Axd bia the angels whisper low, {He was gone. My lady’s book slipped
{For surely, Hesven, Thon wastiew.) [slowly down to the stool at her feet, for she
157 x bumior Han vss i was watching her daughter. A strange look
My boys upon the battle-plain? | : > ; : :
Ure for the “North,” one for the “South,” | came into the eyes of the young girl as she i
They fuced the belching,cannon’s mouth, pressed ker clasped hands together and felt |
And ench was learned the art to send | the touch of George Haughton’s ring.
il “You are wise, Catharine,” said her la-
0/00 1-0, angels! toll me low |dyship. “When we go back to town you |
Whorgave may sons the fatal blow? | will have many a better parti at your feet.” |
©, tell me, Heaven! 0, tell me God! ry Ro excialiod Cathar? |
Did either shed his) brother's blood. | That is not it,” exclaimed atharine
And enter with the mark of Cain {scornfully. «And the man does not hve
The dreary ren'ins of Death's domain ? { whom I should think worthy to compare
tiriet-wild, will not this widow's eries, | with him.”
With otijers, rench beyond the skies, { My lady bent her uncertain old eyes to
Pil te Brea Pian he {look into her daughter's face.
ae Tin toe Wie ° You are endowed with 2 singular power
Upon our own fair, native shore ? i of fascination,” she said. **You would flirt |
Sisters, who love the * Prince of Pease,’ | my daughter, in your shroud.” |
Plead in his name till war shall ccuse. A shudder passed over the beautiful
THE BROKEN HEART. j crouching figure, and the poor companion
ee {made a false mmve in her tatting. |
Br Ruston. | “But do not trust to it, my dear Kate; |
1 saw her ounce sud joved hor. | with youth and beauty it passes away—ah, |
Voi tier face and form were fair | So quickly !” |
No tasr was then within her eye, i Then my lady rang for lights, and began |
{toreckon up the days and weeks which
{ must elapse before she woud dare go back !
AFTER THE BATTLE.
BYL. B F.
Two youthful brothers, fired by Mars,
Enlisted in their country’s wars,
One for the * North,”’ one for the * South,”
Went forth to face the ¢annon’s mouth.
A widow's pride and prop were they;
She tried with prayers and tears lo stay
Thenr from the fratricidal strife,
Lest one should take the other’s life.
But vain her pleadings with each son—
Eaca felt that be was called upon
To battle in a righteous cause—
One for Lis home-—one for the laws.
Two great contending armies met—
ath.
¢ deadly ball some life to end. |
BY MES. W.
Nor on her brow a care.
I saw she loved another,
And envied him his lot ; 1
£ . ei and paveiv > |
Qhy how I madly worshipped her! to town and sayety, from the dreary place
jut ye: she knew it not. {in Blaodshive. :
| So that year also went by, and than an
other, and another. leaving the promise un-
!itled 1 and still George Haughton repeated
"ax firmly as ever, “I can wait !” while the
hope that had ripened his youth was with- |
Why did I let her give ber heart,
So trusting pure and kind,
Tu one who valued not the gift,
Nor the beauties of her mind.
He only loved her when she smiled,
Or when she looked most fair; | ering into manhood.
He sought not to retain her love : I Four years more had Le served for her ;
By a busband’s watchful care. (this was filth. And my lady was back
again at her place in Blankshire, but no
longer alone with her unread novel.
Wasit the dread of grief to come, | She had filled the house with fashion and
“Dr the memory of the past? | youth and beauty. There were daughters
I folt that she too soon had found {ona sons to be merry, and matrons to gather
Tn cau cherish her round tho card table of Lady Paterdaile,
Beneath the holy fane. and to squabble over the cards which she
touched lovingly with her trembling old
fingers, while the dancing went on around
her,
On such an evening it was that George
| Haughton again entered the Jdarge drawing
| room of the place in Blankshire. He stood
in the doorway watching the light clouds of
gauzy blue, and pink and white, with the
black coats that relieved them. George
Haughton’s head was bLigher than any there;
he leaned, in his lazy strength, against the
pr a wall, watching. with a smile to which years
TOO LATE : | of disappointed hopes had given a sort of
‘OR ; : | despairing bitterness, while his cousin drew
PARTED BY A HAIR'S BREADTH. [near and stopped with a gesture of surprise,
i George made her a low bow, and then offer~
ed her bis ungloved hand.
“Have you forgotten the day of the
month # .
‘ Let me speak to you a moment,’’ he
said, taking her apart from the rest,
When they came back she was looking up
at him laughingly.
“ When will you give mo up, George
Haughton 7”
1 saw her weeping and alone,
Why dropt those tears so fast ?
When last T saw her, ob, how changed
Wastha much neglected one!
Too proud to utter a complaint,
Sad, gilent, loving on.
I saw her press a tiny form.
And watched her parting breath;
Tow fondly was that dea= one held
In her cold embrace of death !
Misgyllanco
us.
BY UNKNOWN.
My lady Paterdaile sits in the large draw-
ing room of her place down in Blankshire : |
and listens to the rain which falls drip, drip,
upon the stone terrace without. My lady
is not there from chgice, but by reason of
her medical tyrants. Tn her listless hand is
a novel which she does not read. Now and
** Oh, yes—my dearest friend.”
+ Well, and the fair haired young fellow
leaning over the pric deau is a stranger to
you 2"
‘He was till last evening.”
“But not to ine. When I came in, you
were flirting with him. When I tell you
that he is engaged to your ‘dearest friend,’
will you spare him 27
With a laugh she broke from the light re-
straint of his hand. He looked after her,
and smiled at the folly of asking such a
question. He drew himself up, and press-
ed his knuckles together, and he muttered
to himself. fiercely, “I will ; Tswear 1t 2
So this year George Haughton did not take
himself and his answer away as usual,
but he staid on day after day, potent and
watchful, amongst the other guests of his
aunt.
One evening the poor companion knocked,
with her tatting in her hand, at the door of
Catharine’s dressing room, and entered
trembling at her own boldness.
«My dear,” said the poor lady, and all
the rows of curls ou her forehead quivered
with agitation, “forgive me, but T could not
help it.”
“Help what 2 asked Catharine, gen-
tly.
¢* My dear, my dear, an old maid’s life is
not always a happy one. Ido not say that
mine is unhappy, but others are differently
constituted —yourself, for instance if such a
thing were to happen.”
A laugh interrupted her; but clasping
her hands, with one point of the tat:ing nee-
dle running into thew, she went on most
earnestly :
“Alas! alas ! you would be so miserable!
Smile at me if you will for taking such a
theme on my old lips ; but I know what 1t
is to trifle with a man’s heart, and—Heaven
help we !—to lose it.”
The last words were but a faint murmur,
and the old lady was gone.
“An old maid!” Catharine laughed
again ; she sprang up lightly and stood be-
fore the glass, radiant and beautiful, repeat.
ing the words scornfully. r
Look once more, The laugh of the fair
cousin has ended in a little cry of amaze-
ment ; a look of horror has chased away the
radiant smile. What is it ? Only that she
has seen reflected there a white hair--only
one, but startlingly white, gleamirg like a
silver trail down the black locks.
She turned away, but still she saw 1t 3 —
everywhere she saw it—down the walls, on
the gilt frames of the pictures, on the door,
everywhere. It lay along the dark green of
the venetian blind ; and when she raised it
impatiently, it cut in two the prospect frem
the window. Then she threw herself on a
couch and covered her face. There scemed
to be before her, then, herself, yet not her-
clf, bearing a shadowy resemblance, but
orrible to behold ; a gaunt figure, a lonely,
desolate woman, unloving ; with nothing
but the bitter remembrance of past pleasures
to fill up the yearning in ker heart ; with
none to live for, no voice to answer hers, no
lips to smile for her ; alone with the phan-
toms of the past, which mocked her wretch-
edness.
Then the picture changed. Earnest eyes
were looking into her own ; a loving hand
the air around her, and tears came stealing
through the hands clasped over her face.
That evening George Haughton saw that
his cousin was more beautiful than ever ;—
that there was a new grace ahout her, a
something almost akin to hamility ; that
she was strangely quiet and reserved. But
thought of his vow.
Once only she addressed himi— when he
was passing her to leave the room. Never
looking at lum or even turning toward him,
she ventured to ask why he was going away
80 soon. He had letters to write, he said ;
he was going to the library,
But he did not write them. He stood on
the rug, leaning his elbow on the mantle.
piece ; he seemed to be weaving pictures
ont of the dull glimmer of the fire ; but
they could not have been pleasant ones, his
face was so stern and bitter.
He looked up impatiently as the door
opened, but it was the figure of his cousin
which stood there to interrypt him.
For a moment the old, long cherished love
clamored at the door of George's heart, and
cried out with piteous pleadings to be taken
in ; but the keeper of that door answered,
sorrowfully, “Too late.”
She was near him now --downeast, hut
resolute.
¢ The time has arrived, George Haughton.
I come to give you back your bond ; to set
you free.”
then she glances at the fire, which is there
not because.it is cold, but because the place
in Blankshire is dreary ; a dampness hangs
about it and a chill—a queer sort of crecp-
** When that beautiful black head is
streaked with silver,” retorted George, langh-
ingly.
She heard a new sound in his voice, and
shrank from it ; but the next moment all
her gayety came back, for she said to herself
imperiously, ‘he knows not my power ;--
be cannot forsake me.”
One word more,” said George. * You
call that young lady who left you just now
your friend, do you not,”
in state on the hearse like bed of crimson
velvet in the western chamber.
My lady’s own companion sits behind
lier, occupied ina mysterious fancy work,
called tatting © but it is not upon her that
those wandering glances fall as they leave
George looked at her earnestly.
‘Ts this all your pride can say to me,
| Catharine m
All! OR, no! it needed but a word from
| him to call forth the whisper of a better and
|& happier love than she had ever before
known, but thal word would never come, —
Looking into his face, she choked back the
half uttered “Forgive me.”
“TI remind you of your own declaration,
|
|
clasped her ; whispers of tenderness filled |
{ finally opened the doorund he was tumbled
be only smiled bifterly as he saw it, and |
Streak has come ; look here George Haugh |
ton. |
He saw it at once as she bent her head |
before him —the one white hair, glistening |
on the black locks. |
He said to ber, as calmly as he could, al- |
most looking down upon her, as she stood |
there. «This, then, has gained a eters |
which seven years of devotion could not
gain! Giveit tome. Catharine, 1 told you
once that it was not my love I offered you,
but my own life. You accepted it ; you |
took and offered it up to vanity and frivolity.
Think what it is to have withered a man’s |
life up.”
‘ Forgive me,” murmured Catharine.
“Ido. I accept my release at your
hands. Cathartne, when Icame here four
days ago, my heart was full of the old love.
Again you yet me off, as though I were, in-
deed, no better than a plaything. Then I
swore that I would free myself; but no ef-
fort was needed. I was free ; your voice
had no power to move me, nor your touch ;
you had withered up all I gave to you, and
nothing remained but bitterness—nothing.
The past is like a dream. which I can re-
member without being able to bring back
the emotions which filled it. They will nev-
er come to me again. These two, the sad
dest words a man’s tongue can utter, are all
that come to me as I look at you, and think
of what might have been—Too late.”
He paused, but there was no reply. Then
a sign and a trophy ; he holds it up—the
long, white hair.
‘This, then, brought you to me too late.
Catharine, good bye; for if ever we meet
again, it will rise up as a ghost between us,
and we shall be strangers !”
A REPUBLICANS HUMANITY.
Mr. Riddle.anember of Congress from Ohio,
writes a letter to the Oleveland Leader con-
cerning his experience at the battle at Bull
Run, from which we make some extracts..—
Mr. R. is the gentlemen who, in sundry
politizal campaigns of late years, professed
extraordinary sympathy for the poor slaves
of the South. We give this bit of his own
statement (because, being his own, its truth
cannot be questioned) merely to show how
much sympathy Mr. Riddle Las for the white
men :
¢ Well, the further they (the soldiers) ran
the more frightened they grew, and although
we moved on as rapidly as we could, the
fugitives passed us by scores,
The heat was awful, althongh now about
6 ; the men were exausted; their mouths
gaped, their lips cracked and blackened
with the powder of the cartridges they had
bitten off in the battle : their eyes starting
in frenzy —no mortal ever saw such 8 mass
of ghastly wretches.
As we passed the poor, demented, ex
hausted wretches ; who could not climb into
the high, close baggage wagons, they made
frantic efforts to get on to and into our car-
riage. They grasped it everywhere, and got
on to it and into it, and implored us every
way to take them on. We had to be rough
with them. At first they loaded us down
almost to a stand still, and we had to push
them off and throw them out, Finally
Brown and I, with a pistol each, kept them
out although one poor devil got wn in spite of
us, and we lugged the coward two miles. —
out.
———— ewe:
SINGULAR MEETING OF BroTrgrs AFTER A
Barrie. —A correspondent of the Richmond
Dispatch, writing from Camp near Manas.
sas, July 27th,” relates the follow ing aftect-
ing incident of the meeting, after a separa-
tion of seven years, between two brothers,
one a member of the New Orleans Wash-
ington Artilery, the other belonging to the
First Minnesota Infantry. De says, «We
went into a stable at Centreville, where thir-
teen wounded Yankees were, and upon en-
tering found a Washington Artillery man
seated by the sida of a wounded soldier, ev-
ident ministering to him with great care and
tenderness. He remarked that «it was
very hard to fight as he had fought, and
turn °nd find Ass own brother fighting against
him,” at the same time pointing to the
wounded soldier, from whose side he had
Just risen. 1 asked if it was possible that
it was his brother. « Yes, sir, he 1s my |
brother Henry. The same mother bore us,
the same mother nursed us, We meet the |
first time for seven years. I belong to the
LOCHIEL'S WARNING.
4 NEW VERSION, TRANSLATED FROM THE GER-
MAN OF DER TEUFEL-T0 PAY.’’
WIZARD —~LOCHIEL.
WIZARD.
Lochiel ! Lochiel! beware of the day
When the legions you've plundered shall at
length stand at bay !
For a terrible scene rushes red on my sight,
And your army contractors are scattered in
flight ;
In terror they fly for their lives everywhere,
And the hillsides resound with their shrieks
of despair.
And justice retributive awaits but the hour
When your cormorant erew—mwho, like hor.
ses leeches bold,
Suck the blood of the Nation, to coin into
gold—
Shall be driven from power to a traitor’s just
doom,
And their false forms stripped of the tartan
and plume.
But hark ! through the fast flashing light
ning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and
far!
"Tis thine. oh Glenullin'; whose bride shal!
await,
Like a love lighted watch-fire all night at
the gate.
A steed comes at morning ; no rider is thera,
But its bridle is red with the sign of de
spair !
LocHigL. ?
Go talk to the seruplous, thou conscience-
duped seer!
Or if scenes to thy vision so dreadful appear,
Draw, dotard, around thy old, wavering
sight
This blanket to cover the phantom of fright.
WiziRrp.
Ha! laughest thou, Lochicl, my vision to
scorn ?
This blanket, like those that thy soldiers
have worn,
Will not shield me from storm in the peril~
ous night,
Nor shut from my dimmed eyes this terrible
sight.
Why flames the far summit 2
to the blast
Those embers, like stars from the firmament
cast?
Why shoots
driven
From bis eyrie that beacons the darkness of
heaven.
Oh, misguided Lochicl ! now dauntless in
might,
Because you've been raised to an ualooked
for height, :
Heaven's fire is around thee,
burn.
Return to thy duty, all quickly return!
Drive forth from thy counsels those crea-
tures of shame,
Who would barter for wealth both thy hon-
or and fame-—
Who now, at this hour, while our country
lies bleeding, :
Thinks of nothing but profits on horses and
feeding.
They hear not the death shriek—they heed
not our woes—
But make sure of large profits on equipments
aud clothes.
Share no more of their gains, and return ere
too late
To the path of thy duty, and avert a dread
fate ;
Give thy thoughts to our country, now wail.
ing with grief,
And exert all thy powers to bring speedy
to blast and to
relief.
Locuier.
False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled
my clan,
They are numbered by thousands ; our in-
terests are one!
They are true to the last of their blood and
their breath,
And they'll carry me onward without risk of
death.
I care not for country while gathering pelf ;
One's duty has ever been first to one’s self.
Washington artillery, from New Orleans.
he to the First Minnesota infantry. By the |
merest chance I learned he was here wound |
ed, and sought him out to nurse and attend
him.” Thus they met—one from the far |
North, the other from the extreme South—
on a bloody field in Virginia, in a miserable :
stable, far away from their mother, home |
and friends, both wounded— the infantry |
man by a musket ball in right the shoulder, }
the artillery man by the wheel of a caisson |
over his left hand. Their names are Fred |
erick Hubbard, Washington Artillery, and |
Henry Hubbard, First Minnesota Infantry.’
nT |
All the mills in Dover, N. H., have now |
stopped work, a circumstance which has |
never befy
whether 1t was jest or earnest.
The silver | time in 185, .
Y occurred except for a short |
Who cares for a country, except for the
chance
That in giving us office our fortunes ad.
vance ?
With wealth in abundance, no matter the
doner,
Any country on earth will receive us with
honor. ’
The Rothchilds, in Europe, make peace and
make wars,
And receive every honor without wounds or
sears ;
So no more of your preaching —it never will
par.
Wizarp.
Lochiel, Lochiel, heware of the day !
For, dark and despairing my sight I may
seal,
But man cannot cover what God would reveal
? Lis the sunset of life gives me mystical lere,
And coming events cast their shadows before,
1 tell thee, our country’s dread echoes shall
ring,
With the blood hounds that bay thee, afu-
gitive thing.
Tis tHe fire-shower of rain, all dreadfully |
(Lo! annointed by Heaven with vials of
wrath,
Behold, where he flies, on bis desolate path!
Now in darkness and billows he sweeps
from my sight;
Rise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his
flight !
‘Tis finished The legions are gathering
| around ,
{The place where exhausted the fugitives
i found. 3
| But the ircn-bound prisoner, what ishisfate?
| The dark eye of destiny bids me but wait,
| Say, mounts he the ocean wave, banish'd,
forlorn,
Like a fimb from his country cast bleeding
and torn ?
Ah, no! for a darker depsrture is near ;
The war-drum is muffied, and black is the
bier ;
His death bell is tolling: Oh ! mercy, dispel
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs,
And his blood streaming nostril in agony
swims,
Accursed be the fagots that bluze at his fect
Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it
ceases to beat,
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the
gale—
Locuixt.,
Down, soothless iusulter ! I trust not the
tale,
For we've triumphed before and we'll tris
umph again,
With gold in our pockets we're sure of our
men.
Though my convicted tools should be strew.
ed in their gore,
Like ocean weeds heap’d on the surf beaten
shore, :
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,
While money can triumph o’er virtue and
brains,
Shall vietor exult, Who'er be the foe,
He must yield to my will, or in death be
laid Iow!
And whep leaving this world, though cursed
be my name,
My wealth shall procure me a death hed of
fame.
een
WHAT IS MAN?
Originally dust— engendered in sin—bro't
forth with sorrow —belpless in infancy —ex-
travagantly wild mn his youth—mad in hig
manhood —deerepid in age—his first voice
moves pity—his last commands grief.
Nature clothes the beast with hair —the
birds with fe thers, and the fishes with
rons ; but man is born naked—his hands
cannot handle— his feet cannot walk —his
| tongue cannot speak, nor his eyes see aright
—simple his thoughts—vain his desires—
toys his delight. As soon as he puts on hig
| distinguishing character, reason, he bursts
with wild fire passions—pain's it with
| abominable pride—tears it with insatiable
| revenge —dirts it with avarice and stains 1t
| with lust, His next state is full of miseries
| —tears—torments—hopes intoxicate—cares
perplex —enemies assault him—friends be.
| tray him—thieves rob him—wrongs oppress
him, and dangers waylay him. His last
scene is deplorable—his eyes dim—hands
| feeble—feet lame—sinews shrunk—bones.
Jory not days are full of sorrow —his nights
of pain—his life miserable—bhis death terri-
ble—his infancy is full of folly —youth of
disorder and toil —age of infirmity.
In other words—man isa dunghill blanch.
ied with snow-—a may-game of fortune—g
| mark for malice—a butt for envy—if poor,
| despised — if neh, flattered —if prudent, mis-
[ trusted —if simple, derided —bis beauty, a
|
|
| lower--his strength, grass—his wit, a flash -
—his wisdom folly—his judgement, weak-
--his art, imperfection--his glory, a blaze—
bis time, a span—himself, a bubble. He is
| born erying, lives laughing, and dies sigh-
ing. So much for man.
——————e-
| Havivg Four GOvERNMENTS. —Mr. Faulk.
| ner, late American Minister to France, who
is still at Paris, says that he considers his
political position the most anomalous on re-
| cord—for Leis claimed by fonr governments
| —the Government of the United States, the
| Government of the Confederate States, the
{ Government of Fastern and the (Government
of Western Virginia, while the two opposite
armies are marching around his farm. My.
Faulkner lives at Martinsburg, Va.
In the last number of Vanity Fair, is a
| picture representing a lady presenting a
gentleman in uniform with a pair of pistols,
and beneath, the following :—¢ I know it is
an odd gift from a lady, but Charley, I
thought when you were away, it might be
pleasant for you to —to—have my arms al-
ways about You. oer TY
GREELEY, of the Tribune, is very penitent
about his ery, ‘On to Richmond !” When
more of the Abolitiouists become penitent
we may commence to heve a hope for the
country.
People talk so eooly atont the ‘horrors of
war, that manslanghter might «5 well be
written man’s langhte:
20,000 Stontabony ten are out of employ-
ment on the Mississippi river, in congeqsnce
of the embargo at Cairo.
ns