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i.et.ett ccipattrll..
TEEM EL.A.I" TIME.
BY ALEX. CLAM.%
'Tis beautiful May morning,
My life is glad and free,
And many playful voices,
Are calling unto me,
To wander 'mid the blossoms,
And breathe the honey'd air—
To roam across the meadows
Among the lilies fair.
To some secluded valley,
Adorned by flowers of. May,
Or far to forest wild-wood,
Oh let me haste away!
Where bright the streamlet bubbles
O'er beds of paoss and sand,
And where the warbling song birds,
Sing of the fairy-land.
Beside the sparklingtiver,
Whose faithful mirror-breast
Reflects a thousand beauties—
Shall be my noon-day rest.
aly soul is hero delighted
With the loveliness I see,
And I bless my gracious Father
For his tenderness to me.
And when the twilight lingers
Along the river shore,
I'll think of life's cairn evening,
When all our toils are o'er;
I'll think of coining day-dawn,
In the heavenly land above,
When we'll share the blissful sunlight,
Of a Saviors ceaseless love!
tLctt tug,.
ADELAIDE FAIRFAX ;
-OH,-
ROMANCE AND REALITY.
" Oh, mother ! mother !" said. Adelaide
Fairfax; and such a wailing, woeful moan
would have penetrated any heart but a heart
of stone ; but it made no impression upon
the one it was intended to melt.
" Adelaide, you disgust me, you make me
ashamed of you," said her mother. " What
more do you want? He is rich."
" Yes," said Adelaide ; " but—"
" He is a favorite," interrupted her mother.
"He is , courted by the first families in the
neighborhood. Ile could marry the richest
girl in our circle—"
" Oh, if he only would !" said Adelaide—
"if he only would !"
" Silence girl !" exclaimed the mother.—
" There is neither shame nor spirit in your
pretended aversion to one of the noblest men
ever created. Oh, you may shudder! Neith
er your tears nor prayers will move me in the
least. DJ you think lam blind? Do you
think I do not know the very secret reason
why you so oppose my . dearest wish ? Do
you think your stolen visits to the old stone
house have not been traced ? Shameless
girl ! It is my duty to see you well settled in
life before you are quite lost to honor and
decency."
" No, no, mother you cannot say that," re
turned Adelaide ; " or if you can, you shall
not ! I am your child—your only child.—
Up to this time, have I ever failed in duty to
you ? Have I not given you all the rever
ence, all the obedience, all the affection a
child could bestow upon a parent ? I tell
you, mother,
this is a case of life and death
—for sin is death—death to the heart, that,
reek les and tortured; leaps blindly into the
chasm of crime."
" Have you done ?" said her mother.
"Let me speak while the spell is on me,"
replied Adelaide. " You know I love Wil
liam Becket ; you knew it years ago. You
encouraged it, you gave it your sanction, you
used all your woman's arts to aid in its pro
gress—and why ? Then he was rolling in
wealth, was courted, feted, petted as Grantly
Thoinby is now. His father speculated wild
ly, failed, and in his ruin involved the ruin
of his only son. Still you played your cards
cautiously and well. You pitied him, you
pitied me; you trusted matters were not so
desperate, after all ; but you took good care
to remove me far away from his influene;
thinking that in separating us personally, you
could separate our hearts. It was not possi
ble—they had grown into one. Parted they
might be, but not divided in thought, act or
deed."
" You romantic simpleton," exclaimed her
mother. " Don't dare deliver any more of
this ridiculous twaddle in my presence ! So
surely as the sun rises, so surely shall you be
the wife of Grantly Thornby !"
"Then on your head be the sin, if sin should
come. On your head be the storm, and strife
and darkness which I see looming in the far
distant future ! On your head, then, be the
crime of a broken heart, a hopeless life 1—
I warn you—oh, I warn you, mother If I
have not your hardness of heart, I have a
portion of your determination ; and never
shall Grantly Thornby mould me to his de
testible liking. I will be his wife because I
cannot help myself; but the hand that
"blights my life shall not blight my love; so
tell niy husband that is to be."
Pale and exhausted, Adelaide Fairfax
-,sank down on the sofa, from which but a
•zxttoment before she had risen in her indig
•;nant scorn.
Her mother, a coarse-looking woman,
,-Zressed in the extreme of vulgar, costly taste,
.;and loaded with jewelry, sat opposite her,
"ler eyes fairly blazing with wrath and scorn.
7o be defied by her own child, who, until
-'that, bad been all meekness, all obedience !
`A. bomb-shell entering her apartment and ex
,Ailoding at her feet could not have started her
`. more. However, she had gained one tri
-umph—Adelaide had consented to become the
wife of Grantly Thornby. Wild as Adelaide
'liad spoken, she had no fear of the future.
Sbe knew the innate purity of her daugh
lies heart, and even had she doubted that,
the will and' strength of Grantly Thornby
, were sufficient to protect his own and wife's
honor.
1 insertion.
50
.... 1 00
1 50
2 do. 3 do.
,$ 37* $ 50
75 1 00
1 50 200
.... 2 25 300
WILLIA? LEWIS,
VOL. XIV.
The mother had scarcely left the room by
one door, when another was opened giving
admittance to a second party. It was in the
person of a singuiarly handsome man, tall,
stalwart in. frame, with eyes large, burning
and penetrating. The face was in keeping
with the form, the features regular and well
defined, the forehead broad and massive, the
mouth—ay, there lay the reading of that
strong man's nature—it seemed to say as
plainly as words could have done, "my will
is law." And so it was. Scarcely, in all
his life, bad he failed in accomplishing any
object that seemed to his erratic nature worth
of pursuit. And should he fail now, when
the prize to be obtained was only a simple,
stubborn girl? Not he. It was not so much
for the affection he bore her, yet even there
he had conceived a passion which he found
it impossible to subdue ; but she had defied
him, laughed . him to scorn. His blood was
on fire to . revetrge the insult. She should love
him. . •
Only ret him secure her to himself, only
let her become his wife, away from the influ
ence of her unfeeling mother, dependent upon
him for society, affection, and all the little
attentions women so yearn for and need, and
he defied fate itself to thwart him in his tri
umph. And yet. if he could only succeed
winning her now. A loveless and much
loved wife, it was a galling chain to forge,
yet he was desperate in his wooing. If ever
man won Woman to his love, he would yet
win Adelaide Fairfax. Thoughts such as
these flickered through his brain as he stood
there within the shadow of the door gazing
upon the fair face of her he desired to win.
Adelaide lost in sorrowful thought, did
not hear the opening of the door, nor was she
aware of his presence until a hand was laid
lightly on her shoulder. She looked up be
wildered, and for a moment a shriek was
nearly bursting from her lips ; but she was
a brave girl, and returned his gaze with one
almost as vivid and burning, until he found
voice to speak, ; strangely agitated was that
strong, determined, fearless man of the world.
Ho sat down by her side, taking her resistless
hand in his own.
"You have consented?" he at length asked.
You will be my wife ?"
"Consented—yes ! ! Be your wife—yes !"
ilard and cold indeed, was the voice -which
utttered these few sententious words.
" And you will try to love me ?" he asked.
"I cannot—oh, I cannot," she replied;
" you know it is impossible. Oh, why do
you insist upon this dreadful union? What
can I ever be to you, I who love another ?"
He bit his lips, but he did not interrupt her.
" Could any power bind my thoughts?—
Would they not follow him forever in his
lonely pilgrimage? Are they not part and
parcel of his existence ? Think what it
would be to live year after year, for death
does not come at one's bidding, the compan
ion of one whose heart, soul and existence
was wrapped in that of another 1"
" Stay, stay, Adelaide," ho cried grasping
both her hands. " Have mercy, if not on
me, at least on yourself. Think what you
are doing. You are scorning a love which,
though mine, is pure as ever woman won—
a love I never knew I possessed until your
beauty first dazzled my senses. I have been
a. reckless man—well, perhaps a bad man—
but you can mould me to your will ; you
can form a nature which is not all depraved,
into something worthy of your woman's
hand,"
" And yet I cannot love you," she re
plied.
" There is no personal sacrifice I would
not make for your sake," said he. "'There
is no deed of daring I would not accomplish,
if such deed would give you a moment's hap
piness. I would toil night and day for your
sake if need be; watch over your comfort
with the eye of a. fond husband and a jealous
lover. I would love you as never before was
woman loved ; I would cherish you as never
before was woman cherished. Ah, Adelaide,
think what it is to cast away such a strength
of affection as I offer you 1"
Grantly Thornby's face was of an ashy
paleness ; great drops of agony stood upon
his brow '
• and his lips trembled with the in
tensity of his emotion.
"Is there no hope ?" he asked at length,
finding Adelaide disinclined to continue the
conversation.
"None, alas, none 1" she replied.
" Will nothing nwve you, no kindness no
gentleness, no consideration for those you
love best ?"
" Nothing," she replied ; "do not hope
for it."
_
" Nor affection, fresh as the bloom of a
summer rose, for it never existed till you
called it into life?" _
" Nothing, nothing," she persisted. "Oh,
do not prolong this miserable contest of words.
It is useless, it wrings my heart and yours ;
oh, pray let it-cease I '
Thornby passed his hand over his brow
once or twice, as if trying to control some
wild thought. "Enough, enough," said he.
"No kindness will win, no devotion move you.
You will be my wife, no earthly power can
prevent that. You will hear no more of a
love which has been met with scorn. If you
think it degrading to be loved by me, I can
not help it—l would not help it if I could. I
have told you I never loved woman before ;
my life has been too busy, my thoughts too
much absorbed in the pursuit of happiness ;
but it is past ; be at ease, for it is the last
time I shall ever intrude my unwelcome, my
mad passion of love upon your notice."
He wrung her hand, and would have left
the room, but Adelaide detained him. "You
say truly," said she, "no earthly power can
prevent my being your wife. I know my
duty. You will trust to my honor, you will
feel that however my mind may be filled with
another's image, my life will be pure and sa
cred to you as if the union of our hands had
been as well a union of our hearts. You
will remember this ?"
lie pressed her hands and turned quickly
away. Adelaide caught one glance of his
face as he left the room, and saw what she
never thought to have seen—the glittering
tears in eyes not used to melting softness.—
Her heart pained her for having caused even
a moment's suffering. "How mortified he
must have been," she thought, "to have been
so decidedly rejected." But lOW could she
help it? She had looked for no such tender,
passionate appeal to her feelings ; hitherto
his wooings had been in bitter, burning words,
speaking more of a desire to triumph over
her will than her affection. She was begin
ning to pity him, and pity leads onward to
love. Had he been no suitor for her hand
she would long ago have admired him. His
indomitable power of character, his rock-like
determination, his strong unconquerable will,
were merits which under other circumstances
could not have failed in striking her woman's
eye.
Women like strength in man far more than
beauty ; it appeals to their dependence ; and
no greater contrast could be possibly made
than existed between the person of Grantly
Thornby and William Becket. The first,
muscular in person, some would say almost
to roughness ; but that could never be. Mr.
Thornby was a gentleman, and what would
have seemed heavy and unwieldly in some,
sat upon him with a grace which only a well
bred man of the world could acquire. The
other, effeminate to the last degree ;. pretty,
soft, womanly features; soft, white, lady hand,
soft, tender blue eyes, light hair, lying in
little rings around a forehead. which looked
as if the sun had never shone upon it,_ del
icate, slender frame, tapering off with a foot
that Cinderella might have envied, and you
have the picture of William Becket. Ade
laide was thinking of it now, and contrasting
it with the sturdy form, the bold features,
the piercing eyes of Grantly Thornby. She
was thinking too she wished Williain had a
little more manliness about him, at least
enough to make some exertion for a liveli
hood. She looked very pretty sitting upon
the sofa in deep thought, her fair hair falling
in waves over her shoulders, her dimpled chin
resting in her small white palm, her eyes full
of gentle, tender light, awakened there by
her woman's pity for an unloved man. Sweet
Adelaide! her thoughts were taking a strange
ly foreign shape, when the entrance of her
mother aroused all the antagonism of her
nature, and sent her pleasant images flying
to the four winds of heaven.
"Well!" said that amiable lady, looking
steadily at Adelaide.
" You have succeeded," said Adelaide ; "I
have given my word, and now let me have
peace. I've no more to do with it. Make
whatever arrangements you please, let the
sacrifice be complete, only give me peace."
The mother turned to reply, but Adelaide
had left the room.
It was now in the middle of July, and it
was settled that they were to be married in
the coming October, that golden month of the
year. Adelaide experienced no regret, nor
in fact seemed to take the smallest interest
in the progress of affairs. Mr. Thornby was
constant in his visits, but no common acquain
tance could have been more reserved or re
spectful. No word of love ever passed his
lips, no pressure of his hand denoted his
claim upon that little property, yet even Ade
laide could not help noting that his face, in
growing graver was also growing paler; still
her nature revolted against the enormity of
forcing her into a marriage rep ugnantoto her
feelings. Had he been in love with any one
else, no hand would have been outstretched
in sympathy and condolence. As it was, she
pitied him, and really began to exert herself
to banish something of the gloom which sur
rounded his life. "It wasn't his 'fault," "she
would think, "after all ; he couldn't help it,
poor fellow, and as I am to be his wife, I may
as well try to be agreeable."
From that day the scene changed at the
dwelling of Mrs. Fairfax. It was an old
rambling country mansion in which they re
sided, and Mr. Thornby's estate joined theirs.
Flowers grew all about in the greatest pro
fusion, and there was a, large sheet of water
just upon the verge of the wood, where the
lazy water-lilies lay with their white leaves
all the long summer. To this spot Adelaide
and Mr. Thornby made a daily pilgrimage.
Adelaide was astonished that she had never
before discovered what an amiable compan
ion her betrothed was - she rather liked lean
ing upon his arm and looking up into his
brilliant eyes while he explained to her some
of the wonders of nature spread before them.
He spoke too of travels made in foreign lands
of famous cities and monuments of the past;
of the wonder of architecture, of art, of paint
ing and statues, which she only knew from
prints; but which he had seen themselves,
and which in his description rose in her im
agination higher than the power of the gra
ver's art could make them. He pictured to
her Venice with its silent streets and funeral
like gondolars, its glorious palaces and
churches, its Bridge of Sighs, its secret crimes
and jealousies. He spoke too of, Rome and
what it was, of its walls and ruins, of its
monuments and churches • of Milan and of
Florence, of the golden Arno and orange
groves, of the treasures of literature and art
within the walls of the Pitti Palace.
It amused Adelaide to hear of scenes which
she never expected to see, though the thought
once did occur to her that perhaps when she
was his wife he would take her to a foreign
land, and give her an opportunity of witness
ing what he had been so graphically descri
bing. Now that he had ceased to torment
her with his love, she began to think a life
with such a companion would not be so disa
greeable after all.
Adelaide was sensible enough when the
romance which she had gathered from books
was not too powerful for her. She began to
compare the glowing, fascinatingdescriptions
which he knew so well how to relate, with
the silly, whining sentimentality of her for
mer lover, and for that matter lover still, for
she would have flushed with indignation had
any one suggested the idea of her having
turned truant to her first love. She never
dreamed of such an atrocity. She liked Mr.
Thornby because ho nets so kind to her, so
careful over her, so considerate for her com
fort, but never, no never could her heart wan
der from its allegiance to its first love. And
she was sincere in the belief. She wont in
deed, so far that once when she met William
Becket, she told him that bac] ho been a man
-PERSEVERZ.-
HUNTINGDON, PA., MAY 25, 1859.
of mind sufficient to bear up under the mis
fortunes which oppressed him, had he risen
"up under adversity and carved his way in the
world as other men had done, she would have
left all, in defiance of restraint, and shared
his fortunes whether for good or bad. But
it would be rushing into the face of Provi
dence to saddle a man with a wife and re
sponsibilities of a family when he had not
sufficient energy to support himself ; to all
of which he only whined a child, and
accused her of turning against him because
he was poor. No it was not, he knew it was
not that, but she had grown wiser and more
thoughtful, and saw more clearly what was
right and what wrong, and she was sure it
was wrong to waste life as he was wasting it.
October was fast approaching. The orch
ards were golden with their luscious fruit ;
the forest trees were all tinted with autumn
brown, while over all was that dreamy, hazy,
delicious air which seems redolent with .gen
oral joy of the season. You would scarcely
have known Adelaide again, so wondrously
had she changed. The gladness of her heart
seemed to have come out upon her face, mak
ing it radiant with beauty and bloom. No
longer did she sit passively looking on upon
the progressinc , t) of bridal appointments. Her
betrothed was large-hearted as he was large
brained. lie insisted upon furnishing the
troussau, and made a trip to town for that
purpose. Be sur:. ;litre was nothing forgot
ten that could please the eye or gratify the
taste. How long to Adelaide seemed the
days of his absence 1 She would not have
believed she could have missed him so much.
Did she love him? No, never; yet she was
sorry to have him love her. To be sure, he
had not spoken upon the subject since that
fatal morning on which she was so incensed
with the persecution of her mother. She al
most wished he would, that she might take
back some of those cruel words, and tell him
how she liked him, and how diferent she had
found him to what people described him.—
She was sorry she could not love him as a
wife should love a husband, but perhaps the
time would come when her mind would
change. At present she must be true to
William, from whom she was parted forever,
and whose woe-begone face would haunt her
while she lived. Yet spite of these sentimen
tal thoughts she was quite angry with her
self that she could not feel more real sym
pathy for her broken-hearted lover.
At length Mr. Thornby arrived, Adelaide
meeting him at the cross roads, where she
knewlie would take a short cut across the
farm. One single grain of encouragement
from him and she would have flung herself
into his arms ; but he merely took her hand,
placed it under his arm, and proceeded leis
urely to the house. Adelaide was chilled by
his singular coolness ; she was prepared to
give him so kind a reception, and had even
taken the pains to walk half a mile for the
pleasure of seeing him a few moments soon
er. It was not kind in him to say the least.
Then came over her with a great crash, "sup
pose lie does not love me." Such a possibili
ty had never before occurred to her. What,
after all those protestations, to overcome it at
last! The blood seemed to stagnate in her
veins ; she could not move if her life depen
ded upon it. Mr. Thornby felt the sudden
trembling of her hand and paused in his walk
to learn the cause. Adelaide was pale and
trembling, but it was only for a moment ; she
laughingly assured him it was customary
with her, the result of fatigue.
The bridal array had arrived before them
and was already spread out upon sofas, chairs
and tables, it was a splendid trousseau.—
Robes of such beautiful fabric, that it seem
ed dangerous to touch them, lay in juxtapo
sition with laces which an Empress might
envy. Jewels gleamed from their crimson
cases like stars, while lying upon the bridal
veil, itself not more pure, was a carcanet of
pearls of the rarest quality. Ah, Mr. Thorn
by had shown his taste as well as his liberal
ity ! After allowing Mrs. Fairfax due time
to admire them, ho explained to her that he
wished for a moment to speak apart with Ad
elaide.
"My poor girl," said he, when they were
alone, "did you think I would take the ad
va,ntake of circumstances to wed an unloving
wife ? Did you think I was monster enough
to drag you to the altar and force you to take
upon your pure lips an unholy vow ?"
Adelaide looked up into his face bewilder
ed, but she did not reply.
"I confess," he continued, "there was a
time when my mad passion and your obstina
cy, almost turned my brain, when my heart
grew dark, and I felt capable of almost any
wickedness to secure to myself my priceless
treasure—my peerless Adelaide. That time
has passed. I have seen you trying bard to
conquer that feeling against me, trying to
like me and amuse, and make some amends
for what you knew I must be suffering. I
determined you should have your reward.—
It was bard to give you up, for as I told you
then, I loved you as never before man loved
woman ; but your sweetness and patience
haVe triumphed. There is your bridal para
phernalia, here tho deed of an estate settled
upon yourself and children, now I resign you
to your younger and earlier lover, and may
he make you as happy as I would have tried
to do."
"Resign—not your wife—marry William
Becket! Oh, you cannot mean it, you would
not be so cruel I" exclaimed Adelaide, who
bad sprung up impatient of all restraint, and
thrown herself at his feet.
The eyes of Mr. Thornby burned with a
triumphant fire, but he merely clasped her
two hands, looking down into her frightened
face.
"If you could have loved me." said he, "if
it had been my fate to have met you when
youwere free and heart-whole, the world
could not have contained another so happy
as myself. But it is my fate to live alone, un
loved, uncared-for, and unblest, while you—"
" I will not leave you!" she cried, "you
shall not east me off. Ido love you, I never
knew how much until now ; I am not asham
ed to own it, lam proud of it. lam ashamed
of that childish folly which passed for love,
As you love me, so I love you, with all the
strength, power_ Arta force of my being. I
Editor and Proprietor.
will be your wife, and so being will devote
the rest of my life to your happiness."
Mr. Thornby waited to hear no more, but
taking her in his arms, folded her to his
breast, which was ever after to be her home.
Another week and they were married, and
Adelaide says it may be that men have second
loves, but she is very sure women never love
but once. So much for her romance.
The Decline of Life.
, 4 I often think each tottering form
That limps along in life's decline,
Once hold a heart as fresh and warm,
And full of bounding hopes as mine."
The above perhaps is not an exact quota
tion, but it embodies the idea, and it will
answer the purpose. The memory is a
wonderful faculty and yet it is by no means
infallible. And when does the decline of
life begin ? Who that still feels the rich
glow of health kindling in his veins, his frame
full of vigor, his step light and elastic, his
mind clear and buoyant, will venture to de
cide ? It often happens, that age and debili
ty steal on, before we have attained even
what is more ordinarily regarded as the me
ridian of life. The form begins to totter, the
hair to whiten, the imagination to dim, and
the physical as well as the mental man to de
generate. This arises sometimes because of
constitutional defects and infirmities, and in
other cases in consequence of living too fast,
and not paying due attention to the priceless
blessing of health. There are others again,
who pass on to three-score years and ten,
and are still in the possession of all their in
tellectual faculties. They can see, and hear,
and think, as well or nearly so, as in the
prime of manhood. These however, are the
exceptions to the rule. There is a time for
all things, and with the great multitude, the
season is inevitable, when life's current takes
a turn, so to speak and we begin gradually
to move towards that bourne from whence no
traveller returns. It is a wise law of Provi
dence, that we cannot penetrate into the fu
ture, lift the veil, and see the exact period,
at which, in the course of nature, we shall be
compelled to shuffle off this mortal coil.—
And yet, if we study ourselves closely, if we
watch our tastes, our habits, our weakness
es, and our infirmities, we shall find no dif
ficulty in ascertaining when we have arrived
at, or attained the full vigor of life, and there
fore be enabled to make enlightened calcula
tions as to the future. The average career
of man has been reduced to a demonstration.
The tables of mortality and of assurance are
full of admonitory hints upon this point.—
Nay, if we look around among our friends
and neighbors, our early companions and as
sociates, those who were born in the same
city, and who partook with us at the same
fountains of education, we shall find that ever
and anon Death singles out one and then
another, and thus the process of gathering in
the crop of human beings is constantly going
on. Disease is about and around us in a
thousand forms. It sometimes appears as an
epidemic and sweeps away its myriads. At
others it assumes a more stealthy step, and
health, and strength, and life gradually pass
away. But who stops to pause or inquire?
Who, as the service at the grave is uttered,
and as the narrow vault receives the coffin ;
who after the solemnities are over, the mour
ners are dismissed, and the busy world again
tempts with its delusions and excitements,
turns his thoughts inward, and ponders deep
ly and wisely as to the probabilities con
cerning his fate? Life even then may be on
its decline, disease may have planted its ger
minating seeds, and a few fleeting years may
be all that remain. But trade, ambition,
friendship, love, avarice, or some other excit
ing cause engrosses and absorbs for the time,
and thus it is impossible, so the argument
suggests, to think of the more serious matter
of exhausting years, approaching debility,
and another world. On the contrary, an effort
is made at self-deceit, and it too often hap
pens that we persuade, or endeavor to pur
suade ourselves, that the ordinary rules do
not apply to us, and that "all minkind are
mortal but ourselves." This is especially the
case if in a condition of high worldly prosper
ity. The scenes around us are then rose-col
ored and full of fascination, pleasure assumes
many a dazzling form and the idea of sick
ness or of death is shunned and avoided, as
at once unpleasant and repulsive. Is it not
so, gentle reader ? Have you not turned
away from the contemplation of the future,
simply because its images and its prospects
were associated with the earth-worm and the
grave ? Do you not repel, as something un
welcome and gainful, the still small voice
that ever and anon whispers that this world
is but a temporary place of abode, and that
all must, sooner or later, pass through the
valley of the shadow of death ? But we do
not desire to be too serious or too moody.—
Such a policy is not the precise course of a
journalist. Nevertheless, an occasional hint
as to the mutable and perishing nature of all
that is human, may not be regarded as ill
timed and out of place, and while we gaze
upon the tottering forms that limp along in
life's decline, let us extend to them kindness,
courtesy, assistance, and sympathy, and at
the same time remember that sooner or later,
we shall present a similar spectacle, and pass
with steps equally feeble and infirm, to the
silent city of the dead. Meanwhile, however,
we have duties to perform and obligations to
discharge, and if true to our position and our
mission, the approach of death will have no
terrors, for the change will be from a scene
of care and anxiety, of time and trial, to one
of eternal bliss and unending day.
Vir A Western editor once apologized to
his readers somewhat after this fahion :
" We intended to have a death and a mar
riage to publish this week, but a violent
storm prevented the wedding, and the doc
tor being taken sick himself, the patient re
covered, and we are accordingly cheated out
of both."
air Try to let everybody's faults be for
gotton, as you would wish yours to be.
Tho pleasure of ng good iti the only
that never wears o•
Holland, the funny editor of the Spring
field (Mass.) Republican, has been up to Ver
mont, where he came from, and thus sketches
what he should have been if he had not left
home and become an editor :
" Your correspondent would have grown
stalwart and strong, with horny hands and a
face as black as the ace of spades. He would
have taught school winters, worked on a farm
summers, and gone out haying fifteen days
in July, and taken for pay the iron work and
running-gear of a wagon. At two and twen
ty, or there-abouts, he would have begun to
pay attentions to a girl with a father worth
two thousand dollars, and a spit curl on her
forehead—a girl who always went to singing
school, and sat in the seats and sung without
opening her mouth—a pretty girl anyway.—
Well, after seeing her home from singing two
or three years, taking her to a Fourth of July
celebration, and getting about a hundred dol
lars together, he would marry her and settle
down. Years would pass away, and that girl
with the spit curl would have eleven children
—just as sure as you live—seven boys and
four girls. We should have had a time in
bringing them up, but they would soon be
able to do the milking and help their mother
wash days, and 1, getting independent at last
and feeling a little stiff in the joints, would
be elected a member of the Legislature, hav
ing been an assessor and on the school com
mittee for years. In the evening of my days,
with my pipe in my mouth, thirteen barrels
of cider in the cellar, and a newspaper in my
hands, I should sit and look over the markets,
through a pair of gold-mounted spectacles,
and wonder why such a strange silly piece
as this should be published."
NO, 48.
Will there be Flowers, in Heaven ?
Brightly the sun of a clear cold Decem
ber day shed its slant rays through the half
closed blinds of a sick room, glowing upon
the rosy curtains, and fantastic shapes upon
the carpet, but brought no gladness to the
sorrowing heart of the mourner there. A
mother sat with bowed head and breaking
heart, by the bedside of her darling first
born son, and that dark-eyed little girl moved
slowly about the room gazing thoughtfully
for a while in the bright fire, then kissing
the pale cheek of her brother, wondering how
long he would sleep. For hours he had lain
with closed eyes and white lips, and a breath
so short and low that it scarcely stirred the
white cover. The fever had left him, but na
ture was exhausted, and they told us that our
Charley must certainly die.
Sunlight faded, and in the gray twilight
we sat watching the little one passing gently
from our circle. At last the eyes slowly
opened, and a soft voice spoke the sweet
words :
" Mother, how long till summer time ?"
" Six months, my darling."
" Then your Charley will not see the flow
ers again. Don't cry mamma, I must go
pretty soon ; but I wish I could see the flow
ers once more. Will there be any in Heav
en ? Kiss, mamma. Cousin Anny, good
night, sweet sleep"—and Charley was with
the angels.
We then crossed his white hands over his
still heart, and smoothed back - his golden
curls from his temples, and there laid our
faded lilly upon the stainless snow. Our boy
was too frail and fair for earth, and God has
taken him to a holier clime.
Yes, there are flowers in Heaven, sweet
child ; such flowers as thou. Their petals
cannot bear our wintry winds, so angels
gather them, and they go to bloom in fade
less beauty in the garden of our Father in
Heaven.
CATO'S GRACE.-A pious old negro, saying
grace at the table, not only used to ask a
blessing on his board, but would petition to
have a deficient dish supplied. One day it
was known that Cato was out of potatoes, and
suspecting that he would pray for some at
dinner, a wag provided himself with a small
measure of the vegetables, and stole under
the window near which stood the table of our
colored friend. Soon Cato drew up a chair
and commenced :
" Oh, massy Lord, will dow in dy provident
kindness condescend to bresse ebryding be
fore us, and be pleased to bestow upon us a
few taters—and all the praised*"
Here the potatoes were dashed upon the ta
ble, breaking plates and upsetting the mus
tard pot.
" Dem's ern, Lord," said Cato with surprise,
"only just luff em down a leetle easier nex
time."
Way so .31fres BEAUTY IN POLAND ?—"Be
cause," says Bayard. Taylor, " there, girls do
not jump from infancy to young ladybood.—
They are not sent from the cradle to the par
lor, to dress, to sit still, and to look pretty.—
No, they are treated as children should be.
During childhood, which extends through a
a period of several years, they are plainly
and loosely dressed, and allowed to run,
romp and play in the open air. They take
in sunshine as does the flower. They are not
loaded down, girded about, and oppressed
every way with countless frills and super
abundant flounces, so as to be admired for
their much clothing. Nor are they rendered
delicate and dyspeptic by continual stuffing
with candies and sweet cakes, as are the ma
jority of American children. Plain, simple
food, free and various exercises, and abun
dance of sunshine during the whole period of
childhood, are the secrets of beauty in after
life."—S. Branch Inielligencer.
TUE BUCKET.-It is much easier to get into
a quarrel than to get out of it. In the year
1005, some soldier of the Commonwealth of
of Modena ran away with a bucket from a
well belonging to the State of Bologna. This
implement might be worth a shilling, but it
produced a quarrel which was worked upin
to a long and sanguinary war. Henry, the
King of Sardinia, assisted the Modenese to
keep possession of the bucket, and in one of
the battles he was made prisoner. His father
the Emperor, offered a chain of gold that
would encircle Bologati, which' is ten miles
in compass, for his son's ransom, but in vain.
After twenty-two years of imprisonment he
pined away. His monument is now extant
in the Church of the Dominicans. This fatal
bucket is still exhibited in the tower of tho
cathedral at Modena, enclosed in an iron cage,
fteiP'" Grandpa, did you know that the
United States had been in the habit of en,
couraging and acknowledging tories ?"
" What kind of tories ?"
" Terri-tories. Now give me some peanuts,
or I'll catch the measles and make you pay
for them."
geir In Italy, a lover at a ball places two
fingers on his mouth, which signifies to a lady,
"You are very handsome, and I wish to speak
to you." If she touches her cheek with her
fan, and lets it gently drop, that signifies, "I
consent ;" but if ehe turns her head, it is a
denial.
SEi'lf a man is happily married, his "rib"
is worth all the other bones in his body.
What He Might Have Been.