VOL. 49.
AMERICAN VOLUNTEER.
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY HORNING BY
JOHN B. BRATTON.
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poetical.
0 GOOD NIGHT.
Downward .sinks tbo sotting sun,"
Soft, the evening shadows fait;
Light is flying,
Day is dying,
Darkness stealeth over all, ■
- Good night I
Autumn' garners in her stores—-
Treasures of tho fading year,;
■ Loaves aro dying,
"Winds nro sighing—
Whispering of tho winter near,
Good night!
Youth is vanished, manhood wanes,
Age its forward shadows throw;
Day. is dying,
Years aro flying,
Life runs onward to tho close,
■' ■ , .Good night!
; THE SECBEI' (IF LIIUISE IUSm'GS. . .
1 Something must ho done ; I can bear this
no'longer.’
I remember just tbo spot whore, as I spoke
lliosc words, I paused between the table arid
tin! rug in my'small parlor—small, but pleas
ant and tasteful, as I bad often congratulated
myself, looking at the pretty lace curtains and
tin: Brussels carpet, its. dark moss-green
[Ti'uimd, (lushed and warm with hyipieal'rqsos.
I, Louise, Hastings, bail carried for a whole
week a slow, .-.(cady heartache. ■ Somali men
this selling had suddenly sprang into-a quick-
Ibr.ic life,-and pain which seemed- as though .
it would smother my lu'eath and drive my
rc;wm into a groat whirl.of madness; fJJut
that was' whgn I looted off to’ the future, and
remembered the past; and my will was stub
born'and my, pride was strong ; and'l hold
(bora memory and'imaginathm with rill tho
might of both, for i dreaded every recurrence
«f that fierce, choking pain as I would have
ilremk’d tongues of fire leaping suddenly
•lung my shrinking nerves. ,So I had borne
tmelf before, my .husband and. any, one with
viioi.l chanced't9 bo thrown steadily enough,
Maps with a littlo added dignity ; butthat
“jb.'t would be .Ilkolyj te-.pbservu who bad
• Iliad been . u wife, loving and deeply Ijo-
Jnyu.l lor n year, and 'that winter was • the
hronty-fourtii of my life.' .It was the thirtioth
nf that■ of 'Maurice Hastings, my .husband,
"■lio bad lieon. far four years, a physician in
l.iO-nld tiiwn of Woideottvillo, where we had
redded .ever si nee eiir in urriayo,
I was an ,only child, and my parents dioj.
Ijnforo niy reinombranoo. My liiint, who had
n-loptod me, was a childless widow in very
eiimfurtiihlo circumstances, and-sho was very
ioml of me, and-had indulged every wish of
"mine, so far as her fortune permitted! At
nineteen,' with-small knowledge of the.world
and smaller of my own heart, I had become
the betrothed wile of Henry Somers,whoso
mother was an old and beloved friend of my
aunt.
Harry was a spoiled child ; so was I. We
fancied that we adored each other. Ho had
nil those qliorms of conversation, those graces
of person and manner which are so apt to at
tract tli6 fancy of the young, .inexperienced
gir], he was intelligent, enthusiastic, full of
warm, generous impulses; but, I could not
penetrate., beneath these, and see that'tho
character of Henry Somers lacked moral force
and discipline. Tor a.while vve'got on very
smoothly together ; then certain antagonisms
■in our characters, began to develop them
selves. Both were high spirited, both uncon
sciously selfish,and exacting ; so, during the
second six months of our engagement, .we had
frequent .jars, recriminations, and reconcilia
tions. Then Harry wont West to survey
some lands in which his father had been spec
ulating. -
We wore to have been, married on his re
• ■trtrrt; and we parted with, mutual protesta
tions oT eternal fidelity. But Henry-Sinners
was impulsive and susceptible; bis absence
was necessarily prolonged ; and an old friend
«l Ins lather’s with whom he passed several
weeks had a young and beautiful daughter,
in whoso society,ho was constantly thrown.
I was grieved to find that his letters grew
loss frequent, and that there was a sensible
■unmnution in their first ardor.
My annt was’ not a woman to submit qui
liiinnh • 'T’l'• i l nd ,)een ! nn(l she soon oh
-1" “ ! evidence that Harry had
involved himself in a flirtation which was
most dishonorable, with the relations that wo
occupied to each other. - Her indignation was
keen ; her fears were aroused for the hanni
noss of-the child who wra dearer to her tlian
• i[e. She laid the facts before me"and atira-
Jatcd toy pride into dissolving our engage
a fm 1 ;!!, 10 k "°' vled ?:e of Harry’s perfidy was
li,„n 6 , stn)ko t 0 me . for my faith in him
.to .MW l, . om ' dles9 ’ and l,e was the idol of
ter a xil n • dretl , n 11,1,1 laneies. But the bit
low timTJi? 00 , n,e .S;' ,,d - That great sor
but it ', d ln n w,ld storm over my soul,
Mrongoi-Tnd as'Tl le,lv jPe better and
the aim , a 3 ,1 have I>™ d to know that
this 1 1 an ‘ , on , d 0 nl * llv,n g is to become
ferVe Imlflfttar I mot .my husband
Place “VT 0 ata c l uiot little, watering
con,. 'fm- i neal ‘ a oovo "fboro wo had
j. " r the sea an-imd bathing.
men'S 0 . llll9 tiiigs was unlike any of tho
, t . 'vliqm I had been thrown ; he was
studious; yet there was a
«narl/lni • i® n burner in his nature, which
r imin. (J-•, 1 3 deo P K rn y °, ves ftnd Unshod in
r, PP o ~t hght over t 7,c fine, grave face.
"’ as interested in the other from tho
uouti-n.)''’' ‘ 800nve Vsation formed a vivid
ever l; n , ' Vlt l that of any other man’s I had
in the "l ns wo walked down on the lieaoh
tho irrenf t ', !> ,i evenings, and watched
"P from ii Uto temples of mist rising slowly
''"lpiuklm h ool * l '’' and 'iftiUK their silver
r ywhcrn . 11 16 stars. Our talk ranged ovo
bp-y. io|i^;: i n "' lt T ' I 'f°,i' Ulart ’ pbilosophy, his
fpP'liiis- no i'• ”11 my whole nature ox
•iio eraT-nfm ,r, ten«ii;viii-g a" I listened, find
Ollier, I ill'jj,b'ttories and insipid talk with
Krinv vanhli’ r f? epl y boon entertained now
. 'PPPlami disagreeable.- Net that Mau
rice Hastings Was pedantic,' but ' to nio his
1 conversation was full of stimulation and sug
gestion.
It did not take as long to penetrate the mu
. tual interest which each took in the other.
Maurice was the sincerostand most candid of
men, and though be seldom flattered me still
the look of pleased interest and amusement
which flashed down on me ns we stood on the
[ yellow sands bordered with a great silver
; blossoming of spray, deepened into one of
tenderness before that fair chapter of my. life
i was closed. My aunt was pleased with Mau
i rice, still she was very ambitious about ray
future, and the thought that I should marry
n country physician with no prospect but his
profession, was not very gratifying to her
pride. But, spite of herself, Maurice daily
compelled mOre of her respect, and my en
gagement with Harry Somers had shown her
much better than wealth is it for a woman to
.have a strong, true, heart to depend on.
4 * ',‘VVooloottville was not so far from Now
York but that Maurice could see me for a few
days every month ; and' in a little while
those days had become preciousjewels strung
along the thread of weeks.
My mind and heart had found before they
had passed out from the gates of girlhood the
companionship which they had lingered and
thirsted for, and life had something better
than, the mere living for selfish enjoyment
and happiness. , And in one of those visits
Maurice told mo those most blessed and ten
der words whose memory still thrills’my
heart, and shakes, while I write, the eld,,
sweet tears into my eyes. ' ’
My aunt gave her consent to my choice, on
the whole, with’ cheerfulness ; and the .next
spring Maurice brought mo to bis home', the
small, graceful cottage lying like a white
shell among green surges of larches and
cedars, and here there went over my-head in
great light and love my first year of .wife-'
hood,. - - " -
. Sometimes there stole across my heart,
when I sat by the side of my husband,-a lit
tle shadow, and that was the thought that my
life had one secret from him, for I never re
vealed my engagement to Harry Somers. It
had been -iny intention to' doi.this, hut ,my
aunt had dissuaded mo from it., I was young,
and had groat faith in her wisdom and discre
tion, and I did not altogether perceive that
her standard was a worldly and. politic one ;
that she had no lofty stand-point, high ideals
of living; and, kind and generous though
she was, that her wisdom was only that of
her day and generation. - So when I turned
suddenly tl.) her otic morning, from the piano,
where I had h.eon practising my niusiclesson
for'the-day, .while she was carefully.-washing
some old-,fashioned china, which hail beoi
preserved ns heir-looms in the family, and
said to her: ‘ Au.nt Eliza-, don’t think it
is my duty to iulorui Maurice, of my engage
ment with Harry Somers?’ she answered
me
.’ Don’t do anything of the kind, my child ;
a man has no right to bo inqusitive about such
matters, so long as they is no wise concern'
himself, . You would only annoy and pain
.jiliitineq .by.jpakipg.miy. .allusion ~ts: . U>o-suiii.
'jeef;, arid -iti. would : 'bo'much wiser to -keep'
still. I have known serious trouble to result
from injudicious disclosures of this kind,’
’’ But, aunty,.it doesn’t seem quite honora
ble, somehow, IF Maurice were iri ray plaoej
I should want to know the whole truth.’
‘ t hat is quite natural, Louise ; but ho
would be wiser to look the secret up in his
own. heart. You will be glad if you tako my
advice.’
• And I took it, but I was not satisfied. Ono£
night, not long,before our marriage, I said to
Maurice; as wo sat together on the divan in
the alcove beyond the parlor ;
‘ I wonder what your faults aro ; I haven’t
found one yet,’
The grave face beniaon me - its sweet- and
tendercat smile, . ‘- ’-o|^^jteUl'■ come - soon,
enough, my littlo thW true
work and aim
other; to grow bettor,
arid living.’
But ovorybody, almost, fancies it is only
to bo happier in.one Way Or another, accord
ing to their tasto and feelings,’
‘I know 1 it;, but .vvo must got a higher
range pf vision than that.. As for my faults,
you’ll find them out soon arid fast enough, I’ll
promise you.’
. ‘Tell nio once, just one of them, Maurice;
please, now,’ —drawing closer to him.
‘ Why do you want to know ?’ drawing his
arm around my waist.
‘ Because—because I do.’
‘.Most satisfactory reason for a woman, but
you shall be gratified for this time.. One of
roy faults is, .Louise, that I am naturally
jealous—that is, if there is any cause for it.
I’ve tried to curb and control tills quality,
and you will never experience any trouble,
from it, my little girl. Then, as lam exclu
sive in my fancies and affections, I am apt to bo
exacting.’ ■"
My conversation with my nunt 'flushed at
tliis moment across iny memory. ‘ Maurice,
you must have perfect confidence in those
whom you love ?’ .
* Perfect; if that is onoo shaken, it is gen
erally never restored. If I am once deceived
there is not in my nature to trust again. I
can forgive much, but I must have faith in.
which there is no olnlnge, no shaking.’
- A confession' trembled on my lips ; but the
words of my aunt camo back to .me, and my
heart played mo' traitor.
It was the first anniversary of our wedding
day. Maurice and I had been out to ride,
"for it was tho time of the year’s awakening,
and her pulse wore full of the youth and the
joy of the soring. Maurice had set mo down
at the gate of our home, in the late afternoon,
and driven on furthoc to see a patient of his.
I had gone up stairs, and only removed niy
bonnet, when our solitary domestic put her
head in at my door, saying there was a gen
tleman in the parlor who wished to see me.
‘ Louise Carlton !’
I know him with tho first glance, and it
was not strange that my heart gave a quick
flutter, for the last time that I had looked on
that face and listened to the bright tone I had
boon the betrothed wife of Henry Somers. He
came forward now, with all the odd grace
and assurance of manner, and gave mo his
hand. My getting must have been awkward
and constrained, fertile thought of my hus
band made my guest an unwelcome one,.
‘I Was within a half a dozen. miles of
Woolcottvillo, and tho longing to look on
your face,- Louise, had grown strong that 1
oculd not go farther until I had been nearer
it.’ And a shadow crept over the handsome
face of Henry Somers and sitting in my
own parlor and listening to his tones, my
heart wont baok to the’ past for a ’moment,
and 1 almost, believed that I was a girl again!
But only for a moment; that heart had given
ho disloyal throb ; in its depths was not one
feeling of lurking tenderness for the man be
fore me; and I said, with a calmness and
dignity that Harry Somers could not haVo'ro
moriiboro'd • ‘ You forgot Mr. Sopiors,' that
our relations make a little less freedom uf
manner more acceptable to me.’
shadow darkened his face t he looked a
moment in mine. ‘All, Louise,’ he broke
out, ‘ have you no warmer welcome than
this for the man who has come to entreat your
pardon, and who must go mourning all his
days for the wrong which he has done you ?’
‘Mr. Somers, you, the husband of another
woman, I, the wife of another man, have bo
right to listen to words like these.’
' No, Louise, I am not the husband of an
other woman 1’
‘ Are you married ?’ I asked, bewildered
and amazed.
‘ No; f was a fool and a scoundrel, Louise,
and for a while ! was fascinated, bewildered
by the beauty and arts of one who penetrated
my weakness too well, and 1 took advantage of
it, But she never superseded you in my affec
tions, though I was too angry and too proud,
when I got your letter and your aunt’s, to
■tell you this. I lived on, after I awoke from
that mad intoxication, for which, I have
cursed myself in bitterness of soul ever since,
4n the’ hope that all would yet be restored be
twixt us, until, just as I had finished up my
business, and was about starting for home, I
hoard—oh, Louise; have pity upon mo fur all
that I have suffered !’
He came over to my side, and sat down by
me, and grasped my hand. The handsome
face was white with anguish, and, looking on
it_l pitied Harry Somers for his folly and
hTs weakness, and this feeling must;have fal
tered through my tones.
‘lt is sin for, me to listen to such words
from you,’ Harry Somers. 1111101 if my hus
band should hear, should know’—l. caught
and choked back the words, remembering.
‘ What, Louise, hove you never told him of
our ’engagement V. , ■
I did not answer with my lips, hut the pain
and anguish in,my face told Harry Somers
what ho asked. A look of gladness, triumph,
flashed over his face. I saw the hope which
ho had gathered from that knowledge, and it
galled mo its a great wrong done to my hus
band. But the next moment all other feel
ings were merged in the dread of his return.
What would he think, what would he say, if
he should return arid find Ilarry there?. Oh,
I saw rny mistake then, and all the misappre
hensions and misery to which it .might lead,
and I resolved that before Jr.slept Maurice'
should know all that I had td*tell him. But
every moment that mj guest remained was
dangerous now, I rose up.
‘Harry Somers, I forgive yon for all that
is past,- and with these words I -beseech -you
to leave me this moment. lam the wife of a
good and noble tnan, and I love him too well
to prolong o«r interview now. Forgot me
from this hour, and may the lesson which, it
teachfcs make you a wiser and a .better, man.
You have all that my heart, oan.givo you—its
best wishes-. Now go 1’ ' . ■ ” '■
lie rose 'up with'gfeat.relrietancoand great
pain-, in his face; be grasped both ,of my
hands, and kissed them wildly,
‘ Oh, Louise, of whom I was not : worthy,
farewell 1’ And he was gone. „
I drew ,a long breath of relief as the front
.gate opened and closed sharply. ‘ Thank
•msiatempiiiiw
great jets_of tears poured over my cheeks ;
but tbo bitterness in..them was the thought
of my husband, not of Harry Somers. I did
not weep, there long; it .would not do fur
Maurice to come in and find mo, thus, and I
■started to go up stairs.
My way crossed the sitting-room,. The
shadows had begun to steal into the.corners;
but in one of them was a shadow darker than
that of the early evening. It rose up aud
t'oame forward,
.’ Ob, Maurice, is that you V
‘ltis I, Louise.’ ■
He had heard all—the change,, strained
voice told me that, without , his uttering an
other word. \
I grasped his aym. ‘ Oh, Maurice, only
hear me; I can satisfy you, I can. explain
all!’
lie shook off my hand, ftnd stood stern and
still before me. Ilia lips were white as tho
lips which never give forth, sound or smile.—
‘ Louise Hastings, you wore once the be
trothed wife of that man who had just loft
you
.1 could not deny it ; and before ray lips
could,stammer out any words my face had
given answer.
‘And yeti have never told mo this; and ho
has dared to come into ray house and pour
into your ear the old story ofhis passion ; and
you have listened to-it, and only sent.him
away because of your I, your miser
able dupe, your wronged ami wretched hus
band, should know the truth.’
‘ Only hoar mo, Maurice ; only let rao ex
plain.’
He shook mo off again, and the anger in
his eyes was terrible enough to strike,mo to
the earth, if I had not the consciousness that
I was far loss guilty than ho supposed.- But
Hie facts were against rao, and Murico was a
jealous man.
‘ Out of your own mouth do I condemn you.
Louise Hastings; my confidence in you is
lost forever. Thq wife that I believed in and
loved better than my life, has gone out of my
heart forever. It would have been bettor for
us both if vvo had died liefore this hour.’
I shivered and, staggered under the terri
ble words, but there was no pity in Maurice's
face. Then ray pride roused itself.
‘ I shall not stand by and hoar sueh words
from your lips, Maurice Hastings, no matter
how tho facts may condemn mo, so long as
you will not listen to the explanation which
I could make. And as you send mo out of
youy heart forever, it is best that I should go
out of your home, also, to-night.’
‘ No, unless yori insist upon it; you can
stay hero if you like, and tvhat I have learned
this night, need never be alluded to by eith
er of us. Only remember my offhfidonop in
you has gone, and my love with it!’
I did not stay to hear another word. I
wont up stairs with a deep weight and pain
in my heart. I vvas proud ns well as Man
rioe, and I know that ho hud boon unjust to
me. No matter how strong -tho facts wore
against nio, an explanation of thorn was my
right and his duty., But for once anger and
jealousy had hardened tho noble heart of
Maurice Hastings, und his reproaches had
stung mo into silence and endurance. Wo
wore both in the wrong, God forgive usl
Of the week which followed I must write
briefly. Its long, slow days went down into
dark, slow nights, and brought neither rest
nor peace to my spirit. Maurice and I pre
served towards each other n grave reserve,
which would not have attracted the notico of
h stranger, and as we had company for throe
or four days nt this time, we were lefc but
Ijttlo nlpne. I managed to presißo at my ta
ble and supervise the housobold affairs in a
way which elicited no observation, and I
wondered often at my own self control and nt
tho_ calmness and ostensible interest with
widely I often found nfysotf discussing indif
feront’mntters with my friends, while I car
ried that pr in in my heart which leaped into
such vivid Jifo and anguish when I was alone.
As for Maurice, I could see thrtLbe grew
paler every dajr, and the grave kindly mouth,
“ OUR COUNTRY—MAY IT ALWAYS BE RIGHT—BUT RIGHT. OR WRONG OUR COUNTRY."
CARLISLE, PA., THURS&Y, DECEMBER 25, 1862.
prophecy that the summorjwaa at hand. But
for me this beauty had now neither.vojco nor
meaning, . The darkness.-in my heart lay
like a shadow on the fair face of the day,, nnd
when the first words.l,have written crept out
of.my.lips, my resolution vms taken. After-,
wards I did not hesitate lorig hr making up
my’mind what course I jshorild pursue; I
would go lip stairs, write my last letter to my
"husband,.pack, up my trunk, take the after
noon train for my mint's that very afternoon,
and leave forever the house .whose proud and
happy-mistress I had beorijfor a year.
‘Oh. Maurice, Maurice,piy heart will break
for leaving you !’ I sat in fiiy own room, be
fore tho. open window; arid the song'(if tho
spring birds, that had bung their nests on tho
green rafters of the old pear tree, surged sweet
ly in pud out of the room; The pen was in
my hand, mid the cry wasywrungfrom a heart
too weak to write the words which were to
part us forever. , „■ ' ' , 'i. ■
‘Oh, Mrs. Hastings, have you heard the
news?’
I was quite startled at.fhe' abrupt entrance
of my nearest neighbor, the wile of a lawyer,
with whom I had been on .quite intimate so
cial terms; but her'white,, Shucked face fully
apologized for her abrupt enftanee. ■,
‘No ; is it any thing Mrs. Maltby?’
as I rose up and offered niyjguost a seat.
. ‘Michael, bur gardener, qust brought me
the dreadful tidings, and'as thero was no one
in the house I ran over to share my hor
ror with you. The cars rah off the tiack this,
morning, oh the long bridge betwoonWool
outtville and Glencove. aud a large number of
passengers wore killed outfight or shockingly
mangled!’ . . ' ii
Glcnouve. Ho left aboWtwofn’fiurs agotovisit
a patient (hero 1’
I believe,! spoke those.words very calmly,
but I felt a cold tremor stesljiig over mb.
Mrs. Mnltby’s face grow- whiter as she
gasped out: ‘ Oh; Mrs. Hastings, have I killed
you too?’
‘ I guess you have,’ I said, as I passed my
hand across my forehead ; ‘ but it’s no mat-
ter ; Maurice wouldn’tjcaro!'
She ; thought the sudden shock had'driven
•me wild. She chafed my oold hands amid
great jets of tears, and begged me to grow
calm, and not yield until I kenvv the worst.
And at. last great cry rushed up from my
heart as the thought flashed across me that
Maurice might be. lying cold and stdrk on
that fair spring, day with the life suddenly
choked out of him. And we had parted in
siloneo and bitterness, and my last memory
of him-was not one of blessing and caress.
And then the wrong and sin of my conduct
for the last week rose up and reproached mo.
I did hot excuse" Maurice ; .1, know that be
fore God he had somewhat to answer for his
harshness when his young wife had hung
upon his arm and pleaded to be hoard, and
lie had repulsed her. But grief and despair
had well nigh maddened mo. I dashed Mrs.
Mnltby’s arms furiously away, wnen they
crept entreatingly about my neok. I stamped
my feet at her when site implored mo to bo
qpiet, and at last I dashed out of the house,
out of the front gate, and down the road,
where her cries followed me for a while, and
then grew faint, and were lost in the distance.
On,-on I rushed, for a resolution possessed
me to walk to the scene of the terrible disas
ter, five miles distant, and know for a cer
tainty whether my husband was among the
living or the dead. But in-descending a
steep hill on the way, I suddenly caught
sight of the familiar chaise approaching mo.
My heart stood still; so did my feet. The
inmate of the carriage must have discovered
mo, for ho suddenly spurred his horse, and a
moment later I caught sight of the face of ray
husband,.
* Why, Louise, are you gone wild ?’ And
Maurice sprang from the carriage, his face
white with wonder at the sight of me. <
The great joy of my heart must have its
way. 1 put my arms about Maurice’s neck ;
I shouted, and laughed, and cried. ‘Oh,
Maurice, I thought that you were lying there
cold, and white and dead I’ And I shook
him to and fro, as 1 hold his shoulders, in my
frantic joy.
‘My dear child, what has happened to
you ?’ And I felt the great tenderness and
the great fear which surged through the tones
of my husband ; and nsudden faintness went
all over mo. He lifted me into the carriage
ns though I was a little child, and drawing
one arm tightly around me, urged the horse
slowly homewards. And his words and his
voice were after the manhor of a mother
soothing her frightened child: ‘ There 1 don’t
be soared darling. Nothing shall harm my
little girl. Try and be quiet;’ for he evi
dently thought that I was partially demented.'
‘How came you to bo here, Maurice?’ I
gasped at last, ris long shudders wont over
and shook mo ns winds do autumn leaves.—
‘I thought that vou took the train lor Gleri
covo.’
1 1 intended to, but when I loft the house I
found a hasty messenger fora man who had
broken hia arm about three miles off. And
so I delayed my trip to Glencovo for the af
ternoon.’
'Thank God I thank God, Maurice I’
' What do you mean, my dear wife?'
‘ There was a terrible accident —the bridge
broke down—the dead and the lie
heaped together. Oh, Maurice, I thougi
that you might bp among them.
• lie.understood all now, my frantic fears,
my wild'flight, and, drawmg mo closer to
him, Mnuriso Hastings bowed his head, and
reverently repeated my prayer— Oh, thank
God, Louise, thank God !
We stopped at a tavern on the road homo,
where Maurice procured some cordial which
restored mo. And now all the barriers of my
had a look of fixedness aml’paiu which had
never homo its witness there before.
■ Sometimes a thought flatbed across mo that
I would leave my jiusbaniLaud go out from
his home, as he said that Jubod done from his
heart—forever; and thbn,;fooking off to my
future, it roso before mo bf hard, and bare,
and desolate that I had not'the courage to sot
my feet on its way_, and T|put the thought
back ; I coaM.not live witbput liim I Some
times, when. I caught tpfj’ glance of those
stern and gay eyes on myiWoe, a great temp
tation would sweep over Kfe to rush to bis
side and cling there fast, And compel Him to
hearken while I told himS’all tho truth re
specting my engagement-with Harry Somers.
But the harsh repulsei'thwblttor words which,
had once met mo came bat®'and steeled my
heart and silenced my iipßy' And I cried to
God, and there, came no aijfwer, and I did not
know that the sin of my pjwie lay darkening
betwixt my soul and Hi mm
I had uttered the wofcfj; with" which my
story commences half an hiftur after my guests
of tho three or four previous days had gone.
I had been pacing the flo;V’ to and fro-ever
since I had smiled and waijEd iny farewells to
them. It wns a .beautiful flay in the closing
up of May, the "windows like the breath of
sweet spices, tho year was full of the strength
and joy of her youth, and .tjie trees stood up
in their white fluting of l|lossnnis,. arid the
surishirio wrote on the earth tho old, now
pride were broken down. I knew that the
deep well in tho heart of Maurice Hastings
had not grown dry in tho last dreadful, week,
and that its springs had burst arid overflowed
his soul like the freshets of April.
■ ‘ Oh,-Maurice, it shall not bo ns it has been
between us any more?’ I whispered, in tho
old tavern parlor, whore we were left alone
with sunshine and tho singing of tho birds
of May.
‘ Never, Louise, never I’ for ho knew now
that my heart was his.
And laying my head down on his shoulder,
I told Maurice tho history of my engagement
With Henry Somers, and all the weight and
pain which tho knowledge of that one secret
hidden from him had caused me, until the
day on which ho presented himself in my
parlor, and Maurice coming into tho sitting
room a moment later had heard nearly nil
that had passed betwixt Henry and me. r My
disclosures set the whole matter in its true
light. There was no need that 1 should say
to Maurice—‘You will forgive and forget it
all?’ "
1 ‘All, Louise. It is I wlioliavesinriodmoro
in my anger, and harshness than you.’
Wo drovq. home in the golden May noon,
our hearts flooded’ with light and ’gratitude
fairer than its sunshine. On flic way. we;cm
countered Michael, Mrs- Mriltliy’s gardener,
whom she, had despatched in a fruitless scorch
for me. .
And so tlie only secret which my life had
held from Maurice Hastings, was revealed rit
last. It has’its message and its warning.—
‘Oh breathe,’ the ballad - saith, ‘ some Sweet
ness out of each.’— Oodey's Lady’s Hook. ■
Be Trnilifal Always,
[This little stojy,.cbpiod from an exchange
paper, is exeellent.pladead jt, boys,' and take
its lesson well to heart.")■ •
Two country lads Came at an early hour to
a market town, arid arranging their little
stands, sat down tbuyvait for customers. One
was furnished with vegetables of the boy’s
own raising, and the other supplied, with
clam's and hah. The market hours passed
along, and each little merchant saw with
pleasure his store steadily decreasing, .and
an equivalent in silver bits shining in his
money, cup! - The last melon lay on Harry's
stand when a gentleman came by, and plac
ing his hand upon it, said: ‘. What a large
melon ; I think I must have this for my din
ner. What do you ask for lit, my boy ?”
‘The melon is the Wst I have, sir; and
though it looks very fair, there is an unsound
spot on the other side,’ said i >th'B hoy, turn
ing it over. y yk v
‘So there is;’ said the man:;'.*’l think 1
will not take it.; But,’ hoadded, looking
into the'boy’s fine countenance} ‘ is. it very
business like to point out"the defects of your
fruit to customers?’
‘lt is better than being dishonest, sir,’
, said the boy, modestly.
‘ You are right,tiny. little fellow always
rememberAbat ’ " "
yot nflih.
i remember yourlittle stand la fiiiare
‘ Are' those, j
turning to Ben JVjlßQnfSjsrtaii^o/i^l^S,
‘ Yes, sir ; fresh thisdnoffurig-,' .tisiSSZd
them myself, was the reply ; and n ptirchnso
being made, the gentleman went away. ' -
‘Henry, what a fool you were to show the
gentleman that spot on the .melon. Now,
you can take it home for your pains, or
brow it away. How much wiser is he
about those clams that I caught yesterday.
Sold them for the same price I did the fresh
ones. Ho would never have looked, at the
melon until he had gone away.’ ,
‘Ben, I would not tell a lie, or a it', one
either, for twice what I have earned'this
morning. Besides, I shall bo better oil' in
the, end, for I have gained a customer, and
you have Ipst one.’ ' . ,
And so it proved, for lire next day the
gentleman bought nearly ad his fruit and ve
getables of Harry, but never invested anoth
er penny at the stand of his neighbor. Thus
the season passed ; the gentleman finding ho
could always get a good article of Iliirry,
continually patronized him, and somo'times
talked with him a few moments about his fu
ture hopes and prospects. To become
merchant was his ambition, and when the
winter came on, the gentleman wanted a
boy. a boy that lie Could trust for bis.shire,
giving Harry .the place! 1 Steadily
and surely he advanced in the confidence of
his employer, until having passed through
the various gradations of clerkship, ho be
came at length an honored partner in the
linn.
The Domestic Opera. —Since the night that
Ikd went to the opera he has becti, as Mrs.
Partington says, as Crazy as .a bed bug, and
the kind old dame had been fearful lest he
should become ‘non pompous nientus’through
his attempt at imitating the oporatics. The
next morning after the opera, at the, break
fast table, Ike reached over his cup, and in a
soft tongue sang—
Will you,'will you, Mrs. P.,
Help mo to .a cup of tea ?
The old lady looking at him with surprise,
his conduct was so unusual, and fora moment
sho hesitated. Ho continued in a far more
impassioned strain—
Do not, do not keep mq waiting,
Do not, pray, bo hesitating.
I am anxious to no drinking, ‘
So pour out as quick as winking.
She gave him the tea with a sigh, as sho
saw the excitement in his face. lIC stirred
it in silence, and in his abstraction took throe
spoonfuls of sugar. At last he sang again—
Table cloths, and cups and saucers,
Good white broad and active jaws, sirs, .
Toa—gunpowder and souchong—
Swoot enough but not too strong.
Bad for health to'cat hot biscuit,’
But I'll risk it—butter’ll fix it.
‘What do you mean, my boy?’ said Mrs:
Partington, tenderly.
All right, steady, never blearer,
. Hover loved a breakfast dearer,
lam not bound by witch or wizard.
So don’fffot your precious gizzard.
‘But, Isaac,’ persisted the dame. Ike
struck his lefthand upon the table, and swung
his knife aloft in his right, looking at a plato
upon the table, singing—
IVliat form is Hint to mo appearing?
Is it mackerel or is it herring ?
lot mo dash upon it quick,
Wo’or again Hint iish slmll kick—
No’or agniii, though thrloo as largo—
Charge, upon them, Isaac, charge 1
Before bo had a chance to make a dash up
on tbo fish, Mrs. Partington bad dashed a
tumbler of water into his fnoo to restore him
to ‘ conscientiousness.’ It made him catch
his breath for a moment, but ho didn’t sing
any more at the table,' though the opera favor
still follows him olsewhoro.
O’Always bequeath to your .wife, ns
much money as you can ; her second hiis
band, poor fellow, may not have a cent in his
pocket,
Talks with Charlie.
[From the Episcopal Recorder.]
A boy whom I had reproved for swearing,
and using other had language, came to my
house this morning of an errand;
As i mot him, I, of course, greeted him
kindly. His errand done, he went out, I
bidding him good morning.
The door had scarcely closed, when Charlie
pulled my dross, and with a tone and a look
of reproof, said, ‘ Mother, you know John
Gains swears.’
‘ Yes, dear, I know and regret it very
much/ ,
.‘Then what made you smile on him just
now ?'
Nut being conscious that I hail done so, I
hardly knew what reply to make ; hut re
flecting a moment, I recollected that my lit
tle sun never mistook the expression of my
countenance, I saw that he was under the
impression that I had approved of the con
duct of an evil-doer, and hastened to say,
‘ that John was not swearing uuw, and was,
perhaps, trying to he’good
‘ But ho did,swear, mother.’.
■Thinking jt’was a goal opportunity to
make a lasting impression upon his mind,
a id. knowing Unit it is the every day inci
dents- thill mould tile plastic character of a
child, I took, him iipon my lap, and said,
’Charlie you know tho other, day you dis
obeyed me 'about going out when it Was wet.
I looked very stern, and re'proyed you for
it. But after you .had asked my forgiveness,
saying,-‘you were sorry, and would try to re
member arid obey me ,next time,’-1 forgave
you, -and even smiled. You were happy,
again, arid laughed and kissed me too.
‘flow very unhappy you would.be i fid id not
smile when yon are good, , nnd try to do
what is,right. You would fed as though I.
did not lovo you, and after awhile you would
uot love me. •
Now when out, I presume ho thought, I
was not angry with him, il' I was firmed the
other day when ho was so winked. Ai.dj
when lie '-’t.hr Jiinkatf. ' “
repi'o'
he wi
giiml.'’
when
I wish
jjtPn
pray
grow
'when ..ny ou« . l{f
grievedis God and his dear Son (who never
have sintiedj.-.whon wo sin against them.
‘ You know I told you the other day about
the Holy Spirit; 'sometimes-called the'Com
forter.’ .
‘ Yes, mother,'' I' romemhor about that.’
‘ Well, when wo do wrong, the Holy Spirit
is .so grieved that we feel it moving Jn (iur
hearts as thimgh greatly troubled; so that.we
often say our heart aches.. And nothingSviil
make it ho still unless wo r;epeh,t. that ia.-vw-e
. ■ r;? 7
■
f&f f !'iy Vv.
;ypd is n.ut angKjiTmb -ua any “more. j. nun
•we arc' so just .as you are when
I forgive yon. ■ ; .
* ])nes the Holy Spirit take nWthe prayers
ap (n lieaven
4 JS r »), dear, the.re are a £roat many praj’ers
.that pound very, pretty, .but,they donpt rise
above this world. . J’he Holly Spirit,ia,never
deceived ; it knows?’which- are sine,ere,'’.that
is, the real, ones that come from,the--heart ;•
and It is only* those that he; listens., to;’and
takes to Jesus. •
4 Yon- know when ■
that you don'fc-r*
vou or not, jk
when youtjf
am in carnV
gratified, I always do so,
‘ Well, it is just so with our prayers. What
wa ask for in earnest, of our Heavenly Parent,
wo will receive, if,it is for our good to receive
it.’ ,
, ‘ Mother do yon think that if John Gains
would ask'the Holy Spirit, to keep, him Iro'm
swearing; he would do it ?’ :
‘ Yea, dear, if he was,really in .earnest in
asking; for every time lie was about to swear,
he would feel the Holy Spirit reproving him,
and it.would make his heart ache, so that ho
.would soon leave off the wicked habit.’ ;
.'■‘May I toll John about it when f. see
him ?’
‘ Yes, Charlie, and tell him. that ho contin
ues to swear, the JXoly Spirit will leave him,
and not come hack any more ; then he cannol
go to heaven when ho dies.’
1 Now, little oho“go to your play; hut ho
careful that you do not grievetho Holy Spir
it by getting angry, or by speaking unkindly
to any duo,to-day. ■ ■ ...
.‘l’ll try not to, mother, for I should not
like to have if leave me, for if it does make
my heart ache when I am bad, it makes me
very happy'Yvhea I am yood.’
Tlic liesi Ailvaniugc.
A countryman wont into a store in Boston
the other day, and told the keeper that a
neighbor of bis bad entrusted him with some
money to he spent to the best advantage, and
ho meant to do it where ho would be treated
the best. ....
He had been very well treated in Boston
by tho traders, and would not part with his
friends money until ho found a man who
w;onld treat him ahmit fight. With the ut
most suavity the trader says:
‘ I think I can treat yna to your liking,
how do yon want to ho treated ?’
■ Woli,’ says tho farmer with a leer in hia
eye. .
i, *ln (ho first place I want a glass of toddy,’
which was forthcoming. ‘Now I will have
a, nice cigar,’ says the countryman. It was
promptly handed him, leisurely I ighted, and
(ton throwing himself hack, with his foot as
high as hia head, he commenced puffing away
like a Dutchman.
‘ Now what do you want to purchase?’ says
the storekeeper
, ‘ My neighbor handed mo two cents when
I loft home to buy him a plug of tobacco,’ an
swered tho farmer, ‘ have you got tho arti
cle ?’
The storekeeper stopped mstanter, and the
next thing that wa't.heard from him was, that
his sides we"e shaking and hia face on fire, as
ho was relating tho sell to his friondo down
town.
DZ7"Jones, who was pretty successful inban
tcring an Irishman, when the latter, asked
him; ‘TIow came you to lose your leg?” said,'
tWell, on examining rov pedigree, aud look
ing up my descent, I found that there was
some Irish blood, in me, and becoming con
vinced that it If rid settled in my left log. I had
it cut off at once.” “Be labors,” said Pat,
“it ’ud bo a good thing if it had only settled
in yonr head 1”
'.~ x -■
1 v,v > <; f;
0. T. V. T
TZie Showman's Courtship.
There was many affeotin ties which made'
mo hanker arter Betsy Jane. Her father's 1
farm jined ourn ; their cows■ and our’n:
squenscht their .thlirst af the same spring;,
onr old mares both had 3tars iti their forrords ;
the measles broke out in both famcrlies at ’
nearly the same period; oar parents (Betsy's
and mine), slept regularly every Sunday in
the same mcetin house, and the nabors used ■
to observe, ‘ How' thick the Wards nnd Pens
leys air I' It was a sublime site, in : the
Spring of the year, to see our several moth
ers, (Betsy’s and mine) with, their gowna
pined up so they oouldn't'.silo 'em, affecshun
ately bilin soap together and aboozih the na
bers. .
Altho I banker intensely arter thdobjopk '
nf my affeoshuns, I darsunt tell her of.tho :
fires which wnsrajin in my mnnly Ruzznm.
I'd try'to do it but niy tug would
up again the roof of.my mowtb, and stick
tliaf, likn.deth to a deceased African, or a .
country postmaster to his ofuss, while my
heart whanged agin my ribs like a old fash
ioned h’lalc agin a barn. Core.
’Twas a carat still night in Jnon. : All na- ■
tur was husbt and nary zoffor disturbed the •’
screen silens; 1 sot with Betsy JamVoh the
fenso of her father’s pastor. AVe’d bin rom-.
pin threw the woods, kuUjii (lowers and driv
ih, the AVoodchuck from ffia Xativ'Laif. (so to
speak) with long sticks. AVall we sot there
on the dense, a swinging our feet two and
fro, blnshin as red ns the. Baldinsville skpol
house when jt-was fust painted, and lookiit
very ciniple. IVmake no doubt. My left’nrm
was ockepied in hallunsin myself on the
fense, while, my rite was wound idvinly
round her waste. „
I cleared.my,iliroat find tremblingly sod) •'
‘ Betsy, you’re n Sazelle.’ . . .
I thought that air was putty fine. ,1 wait- ■
ed to see'\\hnt effect it would have upou her,
It evidently didn’t fetch her, for she up atid ’
n sheep 1’ .
• r !yaaOTpßtetay,.l thiplc very.muchly of you.*
‘ ljdbn ! t*t , leeve a word you say—so there (4
now cum I’ with which übservashun she ‘
hitched away from me. ;
.‘1 ‘I wish tlmr was winders to my soul,’ sod. V
I, ‘so that you could-see some of’my fcelins.
There's fire enuff in here,’. sod I, strikin my.
buzzim with” niy fist, ‘to bile . all the cord,
beef and turnips i,h the naherhoofo. Verr
soovius and the .Critter ain't a circumstans.'
She bowed her. head down and cpmmenst •
chawin the strings to her sun bonnet.
‘ Or, could 3 T ou ltho\V the .ele.eplis.nitea T
worry threw with on your account, how vit
- ties has seaSCd to be attracktivo, and, how my
limbs has shvunik up, you wouldn’t doubt,,
ine. Guzd on this wastiii fenuand these ere
sunken cheiSka). —. _ ; , , ,
I ih'ouhj hav.e contidifefed on in this styano ...
prohly for sum time,-hut unfortunitly I Ipst
my halluna and fell over into the pastor k.Of’i
my. close and.eevherly dfttnstCri)?-
t-C'T'.Ttotieci
if y’pu .mean gettin hitched. I’m m
I qonsidored.that.on.ufi’for all pracical piir
. pusses, and we proceeded amojitly to the
pnrson.’s, iind was made one that very nite.'
Light, Heat and Motion'.— Tlie scien
tific doctrine is now very generally inculca
ted nnd believed, that heat is the" result of
motion, and that light is.also dire toi'an un
dulatorj' motion.'. Some confusion of ideas
has boon experienced by many persons with
respect to a correct understanding of tllia
subject.. It-should ho understood, when the
statement is made, that heat is caused .by mo
tion or is developed by motion, that these ore
simply expressions to convey hit ideh of, the
operations of nature. .Motion means the rel
ative change in place, position or condition of
bodies., The expression, “ force is tlie caviso
ot motion,” is also frequently used. Butthia
is also.a simple statement for the operations
of matter, and is. equivalent to saying “ an
apple.falls by gravitation;” In this use of
the term, gravity is the understood cause of
the motion ; it is a force of nature, .but the
great First Cause is beyond the coniprehen-,
sion of mau’s intellect.
. AHi n’t to the Gians.—Our girls will have
to fake care hereafter to paint their cheeks
ivitli nature’s ” blooms”.only ; to, take hoed
nnd .hot rinse the windows of the soul with
tincture of heladonna, nnd to guard against
looking interestingly pale. The highest
court ofEngland Inis ruled that want of
health in one or two engaged to bo married,
justifies the other in'a broach of his or her
promise; and ns the ruling of the English'
courts is often.mloptcd’in our own, it is very
probable this will become a principle with our
judges. Sn, young ladies look to your calis
thenics, Do hot paint your cheeks, dawdle
too long over n novel, or omit to take jour
morning walk.
Adapting Titemsei.tes to Chiciimstavces.
—A spruce young couple visited n 'neighbor
ing, western city’, one day last week, to tee
friends in the regiment. They ap
plied at a betel for lodgings, but word told
that all (lie rooms worn full except a small
one with a single bed. This embarrassed thoiq
I for n while, hut after whispering nq earnest
I consultation, those y’onhg Americans tpld the
(landlord they would take the room, as
they thought they could ‘adapt themselves
to , the oircusfnnces.’ went to the
clergymen nnd lin’d .the nuptial knot -tied, and'
then returned to their room rit ,the hotel,'
eminently satisfied with their relation.
A Pew Hints nr A Volunteer.— Ground
arms don’t mean grind them in a mill to pow
der.
A picket isn’t used in a fence.
When a man is an officer of the day, it
doesn’t moan that ho is n civilian at night.
Present arms is quite different from giv
ing your hand in marriage.
A countermarch is not a shop parade.-
firs'* A contraband being escorted to. tho
fortifications yesterday by a soldier : ho was
mot by another ‘ gemman oh color.’
‘ Hallow, like, whar ye gwine with dat
gard.?’ i .
‘ I’so gwino to reinforce fbo army.’
‘ Is dat so ?’
‘Yes, I’m gwine to do mortifications to
dig trenches.’ —Louisville Demoerai.
O* What a pooi-.world this would ho with
out women and newspapers—how would tho
nows get about ?
£SS“ Physicians should make good sailors,
they arc so thoroughly used -to sea sickness.
Tho times are getting so-hard that
people can’t pay attention.
NO. 29.