I -American 4n&Muutrrr.
" ' “ OUR COUNTRY—MAY IT A WAYS BE HIdHT—BUT, RIGHT OR WRONO, OUR COUNTRY.”
yOLUNTEEII. ( behaved f - '
Evnnv tuuusi>av MOIINISO HT
BRAT TOM. •
—One Dollar and Fifty Cents, paid
; Two Dollars if paid within tho year;
>Two Dollars andTifty Cents, if not paid witbia
These terms will bo rigidly.adhered to in
'oyeiryii'nstanco. No subscription discontinued until
I'arroaragoa are paid unless -at tho option of the
'Wife
Until'
•ifcijr
— Accompanied by tho cash, and
. ,; ;:>not exceeding one square, will bo inserted throe
£? 4i>ik rtimcs foT* One Dollar, and twenty-five cents for each
.4, insortion. , Those of a greater, length in
' as Hand-bills, Posting-bills,
4*Kmdl)Sts, Blanks, Labels, Ac. Ac., executed with
' : i|fhrsoy anil at the shortest notice.
FuiUr
, iDccr:
orgij:
urw
Rytnij'
Mattijj
■ Cali-
Ebetlj
roraVi
Wl
ilcoip.
to m,
Sul
Ai»k
prii{,'
iy asleep in the cold, wet ground;
And the. bleak winds blew,
And the dead loaves flew
l b earth with a rustling sound.
And all winter long
The tempest, its song;
funded dismally o’er its.bed?
But'the slumb’ring seed
Gave if no'more heed
tan if it wore utterly dead.
But the April came,
And tbc winds grew tamo;
The henVjna made loro to the earth;
, oho stray fuirnbcnm
IsroUc tli.ro’ tbo dreani
Of the seed, in ija lonely dearth. ;
Its fettora in grateful glee; . •
Anri upward grow.
Till it saw the blue
Of heaven’s immensity.
I am like that seed—
.As ugly, indeed, •
.Unable to feel or to see;
Lite’s bleak winds blow,
Its clouds bang low,
Hut Thou art the situ to me /
d- A BAD NAME.
iow why—except that I wore a
and seldom left my rooms—but
id to iStepchestorto write a book,
ht I was mad.
f all around mo, I worked on, day
ik after week, month after month,
Ist of April I walked into my lit
ind if I did not feel exactly as
bo great historian, Gibbon, when
the llise and Fill), I nevertheless
iron, from the bottom of my heart,
iness was at an end.
lowing morning I rose in high
'as os beautiful a day as ever was
now leisure to admire the flowers
joraing oround me and perfuming
to watch the wanton birds on the
; onoh other from bough to bough,
irs for the hair-dresser to be sum
a brief delaybo came. Tie was
inn, with a long, red nose, and a
oye. Ilis manner was so ncr
tess that I was half afraid to trust
me, and I was not a little glad
iration was over—his hand trem
itly, and ho looked at me in such
id terrified, fashion. Whilst ho
my hair I began to talk to him ;
I could extract from him was,
'es, sir; you are quite right, sir."
asked him a question—for in-
J you any idea how far it is from
igs by water his only response
1 in Him words above quoted.—
Vos, air; you are quite right,
bis man; loft the house, the im
iy mind was that he was insane ;'
'©i'i vT 98 Robert, my man
ismiled, and remarked,
be,- sir, for all I know.” ; '
lette completed, I sallied forth to min
tfle world.' It occurred to me that I
bho first instance, call at the shops
ideapeoplo witli whom I had dealt,
the agency of my servants, and ox
(hem some few words of compliment.
ie, took it for granted that they knew
and that I was one of their ousto-
ftoher’s shop was tho first that I was
and I looked in. “Good morning,
11, crossing tho portal,
itcher, whoso, size was ahout double
ipe, eyed mo with some concern; and,
lying to my salutation, removed from
.mis cleaver, 1 knife and steel, which
ist boon using, and then, in a somo
ifused manner, ho made his exit
back door, leaving me in sole pos
the shop. I waited a reasonable
'finding that ho did not’return, I
jparture, perfectly convinced that
was mad.
foriirnl.
TREASURES OF TIiOUGRT.
ou bast thrown a glorious thought
>«n Ufe’a common ways,
ild other.men the gain bavo caught,
*eb not to lose tho praise. • .
it thinker, often thou shall; find,
lulc folly plunders fame,
hy rich store tho crqwd is,blind,
>r knows thy very name.
it matters that, if thou uncoil
The soul that God has given,
in world’s mean oyo to toil,
it in the sight of Heavon ?
tou art true, yet in thee lurks
>r fume a human sigh ;
Future go, and soo how works
nit-handmaid of-the sky..
own deep bounty, Bho forgets,
) full of germs and seeds,
.glorifies herself, nor sets
ir flowers above Lor weeds. •
aides the modest loaves between,
10 loves untrodden roads; ■
dobest treasures are hot seen
any eye but God’s.
;pt the lesson. Look riot'for
ward; from out tbco chase
elfish ends, and ask no more
ihn to fulfil thy place..
M EMBLEM.
A iittlp brown seed,
Very ugly indeed,
It started at first,
Then finally burst
Mmllmmm.
visit was to the baker's—a very
man with a very intelligent coun
pbserved that ho, too, was rather
m l spoke to him, and to my as
, whenl casually took up a half
•ht which was on the counter, ho
splly rushed—into the street, and
opposite side thereof, There was
dusion at which I could arrive—
it the baker was as mad as the
ir, into whoso shop I next went,
behaved far hotter than either the butcher or
the baker, for, lie,talked to me for at least five
minutes.’ At the oxpiration of that time, how
ever, he asked me, very politely, if not abject
ly, to‘excuse him for a. few- minutes; and,
putting on his hat, ho took a hasty departure
into the street, and turned the corner. It is
perhaps needless for'ino to state that I did
not see.any raore of my grocer, of Whose sani
ty I then entertained but a very indilferennt
opinion.
Opposite to the grocer’s shop was that bf the
bookseller and stationer, whohad supplied mo
watli pens and ink, and.other little matters;—
On entering, I found the shop empty; but I
saw the bookseller and ids wife—partners in
alarm—staring at me through a small glass
window. I smiled blandly at them, bowed,
and evinced by my manner that I wished to
be served. But, in vain. The more I smiled,
the more solemn became the expression of
their countenances. " Becoming impatient, I
scowled, whereupon the bookseller and his
wife retired altogether.
Wondering what on earth the people meant,
I directed my steps towards the livery stable
keeper’s, where I intended to hire a horse, for
the purpose of taking a canter in some of the
quiet lanes in the vicinity. The livery stable
keeper, in the politest manner imaginable—
but keeping at a considerable distance from
me—said ho did not think that he had ahorse
that would suit me; that he would go and see.
lie did go.- But he did not come back again,
r then went up'the yard, and called out “ Ost
ler I” several times at the top of my voice,
(rather a loud one,) but as I received no an
swer, I doeriied it useless to remain any lon
ger, and made my way to the hotel opposite,
where I asked for a pint of Canterbury ale.—
I was served by a very pretty and engaging
young lady, to whom I desired to pay. a mod
est and dignified compliment. But, alas! no
sooner had she placed the ale before mo than
she rapidly vanished, and shut the coffee room
door after her.
When I had drunk the ale, I rang the bell.
It was not answered. I then made a noise on
the floor with my heavy walking stick. To
no purpose; I opened the door of the coffee
room and looked into the passage. . There
was no one there. I called aloud,. Waiter!—
There was no reply. I could hear no one;
not a sound; the house was seemingly-empty.
I left a sixpence and a piece of honeysuckle
near the empty tankard, and walked away in
utter disgust. ' ■
My watch required regulating; but I could
not get into the watchmaker’s shop, for he had
bolted his door when ho saw me approaching.
It was the same at the circulating library, to
which institution I was anxious to subscribe,
for during the winter I had grown to like this
little watering place, and resolved on spend
ing the. summer there.
What could be the meaning of the trades
people’s conduct was a question I put to my
self, over and over again, on my way to the
pier, fori now intended hiring a boat for a
sail. -But the fact, was, I could.not get a
boat. Every one of the men to whoni I spoke
made some excuse Or .other for not'taking;mo
on. tlio water. One said that the wind would
soon shift. and we should not ho able to get
backthat night ; anot]j£r told mo that his mast
was sprohg; a third, that the paint was not,
dry inside, and that I would spoil my clothes.
And, what was oven more provoking still, I
found myself surrounded by at least a score of
these amphibious animals, who listened to all
I said with much eagerness, though upon each
face there was a broad grin which struck mo as
very meaningless. '
I retraced my steps to my cottage—men,
women and children avoiding me, as I passed
through the few streets of the little town —and
summoned my man-servant Robert, to whom
I mentioned what had taken place, asking him
if ho could possibly account for such demeam
or; Robert smiled, and replied:
“ 0, yes, sir 1”
"Then-do so,” I said to him.
“The truth is, sir,” he went on to say, “ tha'l
all the people hereabouts think you are a mad
man, and that I am your keeper.”
“ What I” I exclaimed.
“It is quite true, sir; and, ns neither my
self nor my wife could disobey your order, we
could not tell the people who you were and
what you were, and what you wore doing.—,
All. they could judge by was what they saw •
and sometimes, when you wefe walking about
the garden,and talking aloud to yourself, you
certainly did look-rather queer; sir. By at
least forty or fifty people have I been asked
if you wore harmless. "Harmless?” ‘Yes!’
I said; “and there’s nothing the matter with;
him—he ain’t mad,” But-thoy only shook
their heads at that. I had, at one time, to go
round to the parents of the little boys and
girls who ran about the streets, and prevent
them allowing their children to shout after
you.”
“ Shout after mo 1”
“Yes, sir, After you passed them they
would follow in a body, shouting out, “ There
goes the raad’un 1” You did not notice them,
of course ?”
“ And you mean to tell me,” said I, " that
all the people in the place thought mo insane
aud thinks so still ?”
‘‘ Yes, sir; all, with only one exception.”
“"Who may.that bo?"
“ An old man, sir, who is eighty-nine years
of age. Passing the cottage one .morning,
when you were walking about the garden, the
old man said, “ Polks think your master mad;
but I know better, for I have listened to him
more than twice dr thrice, and I have come to
the conclusion that ho is writing a book, or
else that he is a lawyer working up some
groat cose that is coming on for trial.” On
asking him bow ho came to think that, air, he
said ho remembered Mr. Erskino; afterwards
the famous Lord Erskino, who used to come
down here often, and stay for a few days in
an old house that stood where this cottage now
stands.”.
To have a conyeraation with an old man
who could recollect Erskine, and answer my
questions anent that illustrious orator and ad
vocate, would indeed, I thought, be a groat
treat.
“Who is the old man? What is ho?” I
asked.
“ His name is Carding, sir. Ho was, in
former days, a bold smuggler; but he has now
an independence on which he lives.”
“Do you think he would .come and see
me?”'
“ I nm sure ho would, sir.”
“ Then bring him hero.”
In less than half on hour Robert returned
with old Mr. Carding, who was still very
erect, and whose faculties wore in excellent
preservation. His eyesight was good, he was
far from, deaf, and ho spoke with a rapidity
and distinctness that astonished me. I oskod
him to be seated, and after he had drunk a
glass or two of the sherry which I placed be
fore him, I came to the point by saying:
“I am told you remember the late Lprd
Erskine?”
“ Remember him well, sir," was his reply:
“ know him long before ho was the great man
that ho became. He was about nine or ten
years my senior. For a long time no ono
knew who he was, and -ho used-to go by the
name of the Rampant Madman. Most people
were frightened at him, andtho mothers used
to make a sort of Bogey of him to frighten
their naughty children. “ I’ll send for that
mad gentleman,” they used to say. He stay
ed in this very place where you are now. He
never stayed long at a time, but ho paid us a
visit pretty often.” '
“ What did lie do, that people thought him
mad?” , ■ ■
“Do sir? Why, ho. would stand at the very
edge of the cliff where the flagstaff now;is,
and talk by the hour—sometimes for two
hours or three hours together; and so loud
would he speak at times that you might hear
him a quarter, of'a mile off, his right arm mo?
ving about above his head, and his left hand
clenched firmly on hie hip.” (The old man
stood up and imitated the groat orator’s atti
tude.) “At low wafer he would go and stand
on those black rooks out yonder and talk seem
ingly to the waves. f When he once began he
never stopped till it was all over, and I have
seen the perspiration running down his fore
head, even in cool weather. Ho never kept
■ his hat on while he wgs speaking; but os soon
as ho was done he would put it on, and some
times laugh heartily. Ho used to talk like a
man who had something oh his mind which
lie could not divulge to his fellow-creatures ;
and yet' ho did not seem to care who heard him
speak. 1 and several other young meri have
booh within.six or seven yards of him, and,
although he saw us, he took no more notice of
us than if .wo had been a parcel of sticks or;
stones, and wont on just the same. He had
boon down here; off and bn, for more than two
years before it was known that he was the fa-:
mous barrister Erskino; and then it was only
by accident that wo knew he was not mad.”
/ “ How?”
■ “On one Saturday afternoon he brought
down with him a young gentleman of about
twenty years of age, who walked about the
pipr while Mr. Erskine was making a speech
out upon the rocks. , One of the men on the
- pier remarked to this young gentleman, ‘What
a pity that such a fine man, .and such, a plea
sant spoken man when, he is calm, should be
so mad 1’ Whereupon the young gentleman
roared with laughter, and then lot the cat out
of the bag by saying who liis friend was. It
was afterwards that I and several others then
here, but now gone to their account, came to
(.know him so well.. And a right merry gen
tleman be could be, top. Lord bless us, sir-!,
swift as time flies, it . seems only as yesterday
that lie. would come down here and; sa'y to us;
as ho made his way to the cliff, with his hands
in his breeches pockets, and walking like a
sailor, (he had been in the navy, you know,
sir;) “ Como along, my lads, and bo the jury 1
lam going to make- another speech." And
a most beautiful thing it was to listen to him.
One minute he. would, make'yon laugh hearti
ly, and the next minute he’d bring the water
into your eyes, by thp tender way in which
he’d allude to a fading flower or a sickly child;
.There was one case in particular, I remember.
■lt-was an action: brought against a Mr. Some-J
body or other by a lord’s eldest son, for carry
ing off the wife. It was most beautiful—as
we told him when ho asked us HJw we liked
it. Blest if ho didn’t make out as how the
defendant was the ill-used party, and not thp
man as had lost his wife, Expensive as tra
velling was in those days, five of us went up
to London to hear him speak that speech in
court, before the judges and the regularly
sworp jury; and such a crowd as there was
of lords and-gentlemen, to bo surd!”
“ And did ho speak that same speech ?” I
asked,
■ “Yes. In parts it was a little different,
and some things were added; hut it was, in
the main, just what he said standing out on
them rooks yonder. There was no-silly pride'
about Mr. Erskine, sir. As soon as the case
was over, and he was coming Out of court, his
quick eye caught sight of us; and up ho comes,
puts out his hand .to each of us, and says,
“Whatl you hero, my lads? Well, follow
me.” And he walks off to an old public house
hear the court, called the Chequers* and or
ders two bottles of port wine for us; and, while
wo wore drinking it, explained to us as how
it were not possible for him to win the day;
and that all the effect his speech would have,
would bo to reduce the damages. lie was
mighty pleased to hear himself praised, and
seemed just as proud of our approval as. of
anybody’s else. “ I don’t tnihk, sii7" contin
ued the’ old man, “ that Mr. Erskine felt any
of the fine things ho said in his speeches. It
was all acting with him; and I’ll toll you why
I think so. One day. ho was walking along
the sands, .spouting of poetry out of a book—
ho was learning.of it, for ho read it over and
over again—and while ho was doing so he
turned up his eyes, shook his head, and stretch
ed forth his right hand in such a way that
[ you might have taken him for a street parson.
It was a most serious sort of poetry. It was
something about ‘Farewell the drums and
fifes, the banners and the big guns—and the
plumes and the feathers, cocked hats and
swords, and the virtuous wars and the fair
fair women—honors, decorations and rewards!
0 farewell everything! Alas! the poor fel
low’s occupation’s gone!” All of a sudden,'
sir, he shuts up the book, claps it under his
arm, whistle’s a jig, and dances to it, and re
markably well, too, did ho come the double
shuffle. Another time, when he was reading
out poetry, I saw him work himself up till the
tears actually rolled down his cheeks; and not
two minutes aflorwasds he .was playing at
rounders with all the little boys on the beach.”
.“And did. Mr. Erskine know,” I asked the
old smuggler, “ that ,at first you all thought
that he was mad ?”
“ Yes; and was very much amused at it.—
And,it is to bo: hoped that you will not take
offence, because the people hero had the same
opinion of yourself.”' ,
“ But, my good sir,” I remarked, “ they are
still laboring undbr'tho impression.”
“ Very true,”jio rejoined; “but it will be
all right in a day or sol”/'•
On the following morning Robert’s wife was
taken suddenly ill; and I sent for the doctor,
a very able praotiohor, and a very gentleman
like mon. He came; and, after seeing his
patient, and assuring me that the case was not
one of a serious nature; wo entered into con
versation upon general matters, during which
I mentioned what had happened on the pre
vious day. The doctor laughed, and said:
“I hope you will not boi offended, but'do
you know that only till the' other day, when,
by the merest accident, I became acquainted
with the nature of your avocation, I too shar
ed the opinion of the inhabitants of the town?
Yesterday evening I hoard.of your peregrina
tions, and of the groundless alarm that you
had created. However, I have taken the lib
erty of disabusing the minds of the people of
their erroneous idea; and you will find that
when you next pay them a visit, you will
moot with a very warm reception, and most
probably have tendered unto you the most
ample apologies."
.. Reader such was the case j and I never en
joyed myself more' than I did at that little
watering place during the ensuing summer.
But amongst some of the rising generation
CARLISLE, PA, THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 29j 18G0.
thej original impression still holds, I fancy,
inasmuch as two years ago I was walking
down onopf the back streets—meditans nuga
tum—when I hcnrd'ki-littlo girl, of about ton
years of age, calLYfut"to n younger sister,
“ Como you here, PpllJrJ Don't you see that
mad gentleman.?’/, i fejy.-
The Missing Bracelet.
No, Walter, thbre oijri. bo no doubt about
her guilt; lam positive that I laid the baroo
lot with my othoi*-jolvols on my dresssing
table; none of tha . servants come.into my
room except Bath, aps -the bracelet is gone."
“Well, it does look;, suspicious,! confess.
Annette; but the girl has as honest a face as
I ever saw, and she is devoted to youl don’t
like' to .believe could do such a
thing.” , ■ i
“ You can’t think I am willing to believe
it; lam forced to. Yim know I shall miss
Buth sadly; but I think 1 know my duty to
myself ana other servants too well to allow a
thief to remain in the house.”-
“ Well, I can only say, don't do anything
rashly. It would be .a .serious. tiling to send a
young girl out into, the world with such a
taint upon her, character* Good morning, my
dear.” . ■ 1- '
Mrs. May bury stood by hor dressing-tablo
meditating several minutes after her husband
had left her ; and thbii, with mouth and eyes
settled 1 to a cold sternness, she rang the bell,
and seated herself to await the answer to her
summons. Mrs. Maybury was not hard
hearted, but like too maliy, surrounded by
refinements and safeguards of a happy and
elegant homo, she had no sympathy for those
who, exposed to so many and great tempta
tions, sometimes are overcome; and she had
little of that charity “which thiuketh no evil.”
Ruth soon made nor appearance, and stood
waiting her mistress’s commands.
“ Did you ring for mo, ma’m ?”
“Yes, I rang for. you,” and the cold eyes
were fixed, in a searching gaze, upon the
girl's face. She returned it an instant, won
deririgly, and then her byes fell, and a faint
flush mounted to’her forehead. “’I see you"
cannot bear my scrutiny. Guilt is ever cow
ardly.” , ’ ' ' - ’
“Guilt! what can you mean, Mrs. Mabu
ry ?" exclaimed Ruth, in a startled tone.
“Your downcast look told too plainly that
you know what I mean."! You will do well to
lay aside,all hypocrisy now, for it will'not
avail”’ ' '
“ Oh; what have I done ? Indeed you 'arc
mistaken. lam innocent; and Ruth passed
her .hand wildly dvor her eyes, as if to rouse
herself from a painful, dream. Something
like pity and misgiving stole into Mrs.Mabu
ry’s heart. Might she hot he mistaken, after
all, and Ruth bo innocent? No, there were
the. circumstances, and they wore all against
her., - ■ ■ ■
- “ Ruth, can you account for the sudden dis
appearance of a bi-acerC from my dressing
table, without hands rYTeturn late .fiprii a
, .party, and, leave my, jcwelapa4;&ha
al, for you to put in tlph. places in the morn
ing. As, usual, no .oniHT/iters my room except
yburself, and so far kt|ow, a« is bight.
In the afternoon you felLmffthat your mother
is worse, your hrothcHias porno for you, and
I Slv®, you leave to go to hor. In the evening
I open mv drawer, the key of which I have
had in my possession since you went out; look
| for tho bracelet, and lo!'it is gone!” She
paused and Ruth stood pale, trembling and
tearless. 1 She almost believed herself guilty,
the evidence was so strong, and only ejacula
ted hopelessly, “ I did not take it.”
“ Ruth, I am sorry for yon, and if you will
return the bracelet, I will keep you, on trial
as a lower servant. Of course, I could not
trust you as I have done. Will you do it?”
“I cannot,” she gasped; “I have not got
it—l never bad it—l did not soo it with tho
other things.”
Mrs. Mabury’s face grew cold and bard
again. _ “ Well, then, you must go, and I
must think of you, whom I have trusted and
befriended, ns hardened and ungrateful.—
Here is the money that is due you, and I hope
you will not go bn from bad to worse. Good
bye” '
Ruth’s band opened and closed on the mo
ney, and she turned and left the room without
a word. Mechanically she went up.'stairs
and gathered her scanty, wardrobe, tied on
her rusty black bonnet, wrapped her thin
shawl about her, and stood on the sidewalk,
all without any real consciousness of what she
was doing. The cold, damp air, sent a chill
through her frame, and then the question
came, where should she go ?, Not homo to
her mother; oh, no, not to her sick mother,
with such a burden of misery and disgrace.
She would believe in her innocence, but the
pain would kill her.. But what could she do?
She sat down dri a step—not of the house she
had left, but of one near by—to recover her
stunned senses, and to consider. Mrs. Chap
man—she had been very kind to Ruth’s moth
er, and always had a kind word for Ruth,
when she saw her at Mrs. Mabury’s. She
must do something—she would go to Mrs.
Chapman ; perhaps she would believe her in
nocent. She got up from her seat’and made
her way to street, and rang the bell at a
handsome four-story, brown front house, and
soon stood in the presence of Mrs. Chapman.
“Why, Ruth, what is the matter? You
look as if you eauld-not stand. Sit down,
child, and tell your orrand.s Is Mrs. Mabury
ill?” .. .. • - -
r have left there—have been sent away,”
Ruth said, with difficulty.
“You have been sent away, Ruth, for
what, pray I It must ho something very se
rious that would make Mrs. Mahury part
with you.”
And then slowly, and amid sobs and tears,
which burst forth for the first time; Ruth told
her stpry. Mrs. Chapman listened, in Won
der and pity, moved almost to tears by the
poor girl’s distress, and moved almost to say,
“ Ruth, I believe you are innocent. I will
give you a home.” But that would not do.
Mrs. Mnbury was a lady whose friendship she
prized too highly to risk losing it by taking
under her wing one whom she had pronounc
ed unworthy, and who, after all, might he
really guilty. So her kindness and sympathy
spent themselves in words, and Ruth wont
forth into the street moremtterly desolate than
ever, but still shrinking from the idea of go
ing home to pain her mother with her tale of
woo; though she longed to hide herself and
her shame from all but that same loving, gen
tle mother. Sho'must make on? more effort
to “ find a place," and there was but one re
sort, the *'lntelligence office.” With falter
ing step' and burning cheek she joined the I
motely group who were sitting and standing I
near the desk, “ What sort of work are you
Booking ?" said a sweet voice, and Ruth look
ing lip to find herself addressed by a kind
looking lady, with a little girl by her side.
I should be glad of anything, ma am,.
Ruth answered. • • „„
“ Can you take care .of children i
" Oh, yes, I tlftriH can, I am very fond of
look ns if you would be kind and gen-
tie with tliom,” said the lady. “ I suppose
you have references from your last place ?”
Poor Buth, how her heart sank within her,
and how she grew almost faint with dread;
“ No, ma’am, I have none.”
“flow is that?” asked the lady, looking at
Buth with surprise,, as she noted the quicken
ing breath, and thd color come and go. “Did
you leave of your own choice ?”
“ No, ma’am." ’ - t '
“ You were sent away?”
“Yes.” . •
“ Where did you live ?”
“At Mrs. Mabury’s, No. —, ■ street,”
answered Buth, with a choking voice, feeling
much as if she were sighing her own death
warrant. :
“ Ah, I know Mrs. Mabury slightly. It is
Strange,” she said, “ with such a face. What
can have boon the trouble? lam sorry you
have no reference; I think I should like you,
but I ought riot to take any one for the chil
dren who is not well recommended,” and she
turned away. .
Buth turned too, and as quickly as her
trembling limbs would allow, left the office,
“Oh, mother, mother,” was the cry of her
tom heart, and without a thought of, making
any farther effort, she bent her.steps .toward
home. A very lowly homo it was,-a single
room in a tenement bouse; but it contained
Buth’s mother and little brother, her only
earthly friends. Her mother bad a heavenly
friend, whoso grace was sufficient for her ut-
most need, and it was great. She had lost
her husband, a comfortable, though huirible
home, and had suffered from sickness and
want. But her faith had not failed; and she
believed that her friend would, in his own
time and way, load the child, her earthly
support, to'trust in his care as she did. Was
it thus, through such a -fiery trial, that her
prayers were.to be answered, she though!, ns
Buth, having told her griefs, lay sobbing by
her mother’s side. “ Qrily give her strength,
and let her-love the Giver, and then, “ Thy
■will be done.”, . '
“It-is well we cannot geo
What tbo end shall bo.”
Buth’s mother had reason to bless the lov
ing hand which drew a veil between her and
the sad future. She had prayed with heart
felt trust, “ Thy /will be done,” while that
will was hidden from her , view, and was led
.gently on, step by step, till “ the end” came,
and found her,still able to breathe those words
of submission. Through long days and night"
the mother herself ill, kept her anxious watch
by the bedside of her child, ns she tossed with
fever and pain, arid raved wildly of guilt, dis
grace, and all the events of that'terrible day;
At last the fever spent itself, and then came
days of,quiet consciousness, when Bath could,
listen to the soft tones of her mother's voice,
as'she told her, in simple language,of a Sa
vior; of his-willingness to receive her in her
utter weakness, when she .could do nothing
but commit -herself to- him. With.' childlike
faith she vested upon him and peacefully-fell
asleep, to awaken in her glorious home, where
n , nf. giiilt. cppU\,a®td]..-- her., pure
spirit,’ and',no sadness mingle with the joyous
strains.of her ever-swelling song, .
“ By tbo way, Mrs. Mabury," Mrs. Chap
man said to her dear friend, during a morning
call, “did you over find out'anything about
tbo bracelet -which Buth—which you thought
Buth stoic?” . .
“Oh, she did not etcal-it,.my dear. I ne
ver was so sorry for .anything in my life, as
that I sent her away.’ The very next tiriio I
wore my Magenta moire-antique—you, know
I wore that to Mrs., Clark’s soiree—l found ,
the bracelet in the pocket! - I remembered
nothing about it, but I suppose it became un
clasped in a dance, and I hurriedly took it
off." -
“ The poor girl came to my house after she
left hero, aud hogged me to take her into my
employ.”
“Did she toll you, why she left?” asked
Mrs. Mabury, quickly.
“ Yes, she told mo tile whole story; hut of
course I could not take her under the circum
stances. Is she with you now ?",
“ No ; tho fact is, I,had been so positive as
to her guilt, while Waiter believed her inno
cent, that I could not acknowledge myself so
much in ■ the wrong. In truth, I have not
told him yet that I found the bracelet; I sup
pose I shall some day, hut I may iis well give
him time to forget how earnestly he pleaded
the poor thing’s cause. Don’t you think so,
my dear ?” she asked, with a forced laugh.
“Oh, yes," Mrs. Chapman answered, ab
sently rising to take her leave. With sincere
regret for her selfishness and indifference, and
determined to, make ail the reparation in her
flower, Sirs. Chapman went nt once to what
tad been Ruth’s home. Her feelings may-he
better imagined than described, when she
found—not Ruth in need of her tardy kind
ness—hut a mourning mother and brother.
She listened, with an aching heart, to the ac
count of Ruth’s sickness- aud beheld with
something like awe, tho holy resignation so
apparent in the stricken mother’s looks and
words, as she talked of her child. Humbly
asking permission to visit her “again, and to
supply her with comforts while she was sick,
once more Mrs. Chapman drove to Mrs. Ma
hary’s house'; and interrupting her friend’s
lively expressions of surprise at seeing her
again so soon, and regardless of Mr. Mabury’s
presence, she said, “I have been to see Ruth,
but I was too late—she is dead.”
“Oh, no! you cannot mean it;” and Mrs.
Mabury sank pale, and nearly fainting, into a
chair.
“ When did the poor girl die?” asked Mr.
Mahury, and Mrs. Chapman described in a
few words her visit to Ruth’s mother.
“Walter, I want to speak to you—you will
despise me, but I must toll you alland Mrs.
Mahury, in faltering tones, and with many
tears, told of her harshness, her concealment,
and her cruel neglect to repair the wrong she
had done. At first her "husband felt only
fierce displeasure; and his wife’s anguish was
too great for him to add to it, by one word of
blaine, though ho could Kay nothing to'allevi
ate it. . Mrs. Chapman, had quietly with
drawn, and wo need only add that the two
friends never forgot the severe lesson taught
them by the illness and death of the unoffon-1
ding Ruth. . ■ I
Curious Simile.—Henry Ward Boeehor
delivered a harf-sermon, half-political harnnu
gue at his church-in Brooklyn on Sunday
night, in which ho used the following curious
simile:
As men growrich they grow mean. Why
I.know men—pious men—who actually por
iure themselves about the value of their prop
erty that they may save what is justly duo
the city for taxes. They'are ns moan as—
wo]i_meannoss has tunneled them from end
to end, nud the biggest one lies through
the heart, and the Devil daily runs his train
through and through! ;
Don’t you think I’ll get justice done
met” said a culprit to his counsel. “I don’t
think you will,” replied the other, “for I see
two men on the jury who arc opposed to hang
ing-”
From the Public Ledger.
li Politician's Experience.
Messrs. Editors : I have realized in the
short period of my political career the truth
of the old saying, that “ Bepublics are un
grateful.”'" Unlike many of my political
brethren, who nurse in sile'nco the recollec
tion of unrequited services, I have come to
tbo deliberate conclusion to anticipate the
verdict of posterity, and give to ihi world a
history of my wrongs.
If a summary of the distinguished services
I have rendered, the fatigues and struggles I
have endured, and the cruel neglect 1 have
suffered, fail to bring me a measure of tardy
justice, they will,'l; hope, excite that public
sympathy in my behalf so seldom shown to
the broken down politician.
A few months since I was in possession of
a situation as confidential clerk, which af
forded me a comfortable livelihood. The. sal
ary not only sufficed mo to support a wife
and child in a neat cottage in the suburbs,
but left me ri surplus, as I hoped, for a rainy
day. Moreover, I bad a pew in church,.and
had charge of a class in the Sabbath school;
was addressed by the minister as brother
Muggins, and, in short, for ought I know,
was in a fair way to become an exemplary
citizen, if not a true Christian. Thus matters
stood in July, Anno Domini, one thousand,
eight hundred and sixty, when I . received a
note from Bubbles, an ambitious young ac
quaintance of mine, informing riio, that in
view of the critical exigency of the times, arid
the “ impending crisis” in our national affairs,
it behoved every lover of liberty and true
friend,of ins. country to organize for active
"work jn the campaign just opening, and as
the country Would be vastly bonofittpd by my
(Muggins’) intellectual and physical services,
I was presaingly invited to attach myself to
the “ Stentorian Worm Fence Club,” of which'
ho was President and generalissimo. I lost
no time in seeking the rendezvous, which was
.a large building over a drinking saloon. I
was furnished witli a lager beer Zouave cap
and oil cloth capo,'.and a'pole with h coal-oil
lamp at the top, and was drawn up in lino
with a hundred other patriots, arid put through
•the manual of exercises, which consisted of
movements by files of four, six and. eight, in
open order, at the distance of ten feet apart,
which was. explained to me ,as intended to
magnify.our. numbers in presence of art ene
my, practising in blows from the shoulder, ■
and other artistic, movements .of--the manly ;
art, the whole; varied by different• species of ;
yells,'groans, cheers and “tigers,” the - most |
successful in the last named drill receiving
the..post of honor in parados and at public ae
seinldages.
My first night's expcr-ienco may bo thus
summed up: “ Was diverted,then felt enthu
siastic, then, grew patriotic, then became'bel
ligerent; passed,through the ordeal of the
clrill.with satisfaction to myself, and received
the post ofhonor for the loudest yelling.' 'fills
excited the envy of my comrades, to cnncili
ivtenvhjmvl-.-ateod-trcaVfor, the-party. ■ Went
Homo; found my wiflpalarmeil-at my long
absence. Made all ryflit .hy pleading business
engagements its-the lanso. . Went to bed—
dreamed of nothing/but politics; disturbed
by the glare of torches, .cheers and groans.
Next day bad several visits from uiy comrades
of the club, with , whom, for fear of being
thought -moan, I, drank and talked politics..
■'l'lius the first week was passed amid the ex
citements of controversy by day and heavy
campaign work by night, when the following
Sabbath found me physically disabled to en
dure tlie monotony of the sermon, and spirit
ually incompetent for the instructions, of the
Sabbath school,, illy wife for the first time
went to church alone. I improved her ab
sence by recruiting my exhausted energies at
the nearest bar
The first’Week was a type of the succeeding
ones; except ns the campaign neared its con
clusion, drills and parades wore more fre
quent, often continuing-through the greater
portion of the night, and taxing the physical
strength to the utmost, requiring frequent in
ternal applications of stimulating medicines
to keep up strength and enthusiasm. Tho.lasf
week of the campaign fdund our club swelled
to the numher of five hundred, less the boys
ivho had no votes, most of whom had been 11
traded by the splendor of our outfit and par
ade,' and the prospect of free drinks. By ref-,
oreneo to,my diary, I find that up to this time
I hnd_ drilled fifty times, paraded Over five
hundred miles of street, without reckoning
frequent trips to the interior on special trains ;
.wore out twenty-five pair of shoos, three capes
by the'fri.ction of the lamp pole, burnt up six
caps, and consumed ton gallons of.oil in my
single lamp. Iliad loi-t during that period
three hundred and sixty hours of sleep, spent
all my surplus change to pay for drinks, flags
and other decorations; had frequent family 7
jars on account of late hours, lost my pew in
church and my class in. the Sabbath school.
Am minus-three teeth, the result of a street
encounter with a political opponent; have a
cracked voice, tho result of over-exertion in
cheering; nml last, though not least, have a
.disagreeable hankering after “brandy smash
es” and : “ gin cocktails,” and a mysterious
’affinity for drinking saloons tpid their asso
ciations.
■ To-cbneludo the long story of my sufferings,
■I have lost my situation as confidential clerk,
and tho many letters I. have written to tho
man I have done so much to remain
unanswered. lam ready for rebellion..
Yours indignantly, Peter Muggins.
Kissing the Handsomest Gini.s.—A dis
tinguished candidate for an office of high
trust in a certain State, who is “up to a thing
or two,” and lias a keen appreciation of life
beauty, when'about to set off on an election
eering tour recently, said to his wife, who
was to accompany him for prudential rca-l
sons; . .
“My dear, inasmuch ns this cleotam is
complicated, mid the canvass will bo close, I
am anxious to leave nothing undone that
would promote my, popularity, mid so i
thought it would bo a good plan for me to kiss
n number of the handsomest girls in every
place whore I may bo honored with a public
reception. Don’t'you think it would bo a
good idea ?”
“Capital!” exclaimed the devoted wife,
“ mid to make your election a sure thing,
I while you are kissing the handsomest girls,
I will kiss an equal number of the handsom
est young men!” ,
T’ho distinguished candidate, believe, Ims
not since referred to this pleasing ' means of
popularity.
A slight mistake. —A Frenchman, having
a violent pain in his stomach, applied to a
physician (who was an Englisman) for relief.
The doctor inquiring 'whore his trouble lay,
the Frenchman,, in dolorous accents laying
his hand on his breast, said, “Yy, sare, I
have a ver’ bad pain in my portmanteau.
cCT’If truth and fearless integrity had no
other refuge in the world, they ought to have
in the pulpit an unconquerable fortress.
Walking a Baft.
There was a fellow once stopped out of the
door of a tavern on the Mississippi 1 , meaning
to walk n mile up the shorp to the next tavern.
Just at .the landing there lay a big raft, onbof
the regular old fashioned whalers—a raft a
mile long, ■
Well, the fellow.heard the landlord say tha
raft was a mile long, and he said to himself,
"I will go forth and see this great wonder,
and let my eyes behold the timbers'which the
hand cf man hath hewn." .So he got on at
the lower end, and began to ambulate oyer
the wood iu a pretty fairr.time. But just ae
he got started, the raft started too, and a's he
walked up the river, it walked down, both
traveling at the same rate. When he got to
the end of the sticks, he found they were pret
ty near ashore, and in sight of a tavern; so
he landed, and walked straight into the bar
room he’d come out of. The general same
ness of things took him a little, aback, but
he looked the., landlord steadily in the face,
and settled it in his own way.
“Publican,” said be, “are you giftodwith
a twin brother, who keeps a similar sized
tavern, with a duplicate wife, a comporting
wood-pile, and a corresponding circus bill,.n ’
'mile from herb?”
The tavern keeper was, fond of fun, and ac
cordingly said it was.just sol .
" Publican, have you among your dry goods
for the entertainment of man and horse, any
whisky of the same kind of that of your
brother’s?’
And the tavern man said, that from the ri
sing of the snu even unto the going down of
the same ho bad.
They took drinks, when the Stranger said,
‘'Publican, that twin brother of'your’s is a
fine young man-*-a very fine man, indeed.
But do you know, I’m afraid that he suffers a
good deal with the Chicago diptheria!” , ■
“ And what's that 1" asked the todd-stick
er. ■ ' ■ ,
“It’s when the truth settles so firm in'it
man that none of it over comes out. Com
mon doctors, of the catnip sort, (jail it lyin.’
When I left your brother’s confectionery,
there was a *aft at his door, which he swore
his life to was d mile long. Well, publican,
I walked that raft from bill to tail from his.
door to your’s. Now, Iknow my time, an’
I’m just as good for myself as for a boss, and
belter for that than any man you over did sea.
I always walk a mile in exactly twenty min- "
utes, on a good road, and I’ll be busted with
an overloaded Injin gun if I’ve been riioren.’
ten minutes coming bore, stoppiu’ over the
blamed logs at that.” ' , -
‘‘Very Proud To-Niglil.”
It was a cold night fin winter. The wind
blow and the snow, was whirled furiously
about seeking to hide itself beneath, cloaks
and hoods, and in the very hair of those who
were out. A distinguished lecturer' was to
speak, and, notwithstanding tho storin the
villagers ventured forth to hear him. Wil
liam Anncslcy, buttoned .up to the chin in
| his thick overcoat, accompanied his mother.
It was difficult to Walk through the new-fall
en snow, against the piercing wind, and Wil
liam said to his mother. •
“ Couldn’t you walk more easily if you took
my arm.” 1
“Perhaps I could,” his mother replied, ns
she put her arm through jiis, and drew up as
close : as possible to h'ira. Together’ they
breasted the storm, the mother and the boy
who had once been carried in her arms, but
who had grown up so tail that she could now
lean on his. They had not walked before he
said to her:
I "I hm very proud to-night, mother.”
“Proud that you cant take pare of mo?”
she said to him, with a heart gushing : with
tenderness.
“This is the first time you have leaned up
on me,” said the happy boy.
There will be few hours iu that child’s life
of more exalted pleasure than he enjoyed that
evening, dven if he should live to old age,-
and should, in his manhood, lovingly provide
for her who watched over him in his helpless
infancy. It was a noble-pride that made his
mother loye him, if it were possible, more
tlian ever mid made her pray for him with
new earnestness, ;hankful for his devoted
love, and hopeful for his future. There is no
more beautiful sight than affectionate, devot
ed, obedient children. I am euro lie that
commanded children to honor their fathorand
their mother, must look upon such with plea
sure. May He bless dear William, and every
o.thor boy whoso heart is filled with ambition
to be a blessing and “ a staff” to his moth
er.
Save the Leaves.—lf Bro. Jonathan were
fas saying of manures, as John Bull is, he
■would ho a hotter farmer. No one knows
until he has scon it. how careful English and
European fanners and gardeners arc pf every
thing which can bo converted into manure.
And this is one ground of their superiority in
agriculture.
Now, let us repeat, what we have often said
that few things, are more valuable for fertiliz
ing purpose than decayed leaves. They are
hardly.inferiordo barn-yard manure; Gather
them up, now, this very month of November,
before they are covered, by the snow. They
arc abundant everywhere, lying in heaps and
windrowsiu the forest and by the roadside,
and by the fences in every yard. The wood
lot should not.be striped clean of them; but
doubtless every farmer’s land contains more
of them bero and there, than he can find time
to cart home. Gather them up, by raking, or
by sweeping with a large birch broom. Stack
them and pack them in a large wagon, add
ing side-boards as high as convenient: you
will hardly get' too heavy a load; Cart them
homo, and u-sa them ns bedding for cattle and
horses; use them for compost in the stable
ynrd ; Use them to protect tender grape vines,
shrubs and plants, and Winter Strawberry
patches will fairly sing for joy under such a
feathery blanket. By all means, save the
leaves and use them.— Ante, AijricnUnriat.
Before the days of the teetotalers, a
neighbor of Mr. Bisbce saw him at an early
hour of the day crawling slowly homeward
on his hands and knees, over the frozen
ground. “ "Why don’t vou get up ahd walk ?"
said the neighbor. “1 w-w vyould, b-b-but
it’s so mighty thin hero that I’m afraid I
shill b-b-broak through.”
Life.—Though wo seem grieved at the
shortness of life in general, we are whishing
every pnio’d of it (it an end. The minor
longs to be of age, then to be n man of busi
ness, then to nuke up an estate, then to ar
rive at honors, then to retire.
A Connecticut editor, having got into a
controversy with a contemporary, congratula
ted himself that his head was safe from a
•‘donkey’s 1 heels.” His contemporary as
tutely inferred from this, that he 1 wad ' unable
to;mako both ends meet.
' DC7*Thero is a man who walks so slow that
they say he wears a pair of spurs to keep his
shadow from treading on his hods.
no. m.