' ’*s" Volunteer yOBLMHBD EVERY THURSDAY MORNING, .• ■ . r *' •' BT jolm B. Bratton. oF fj(d-BOXrrBMABKETBQVARE, dollftrs per year If paid strictly Two- Dollars and Fifty OonU If within three months, after which Three tolars -#lll ho charged. These terms will he ®° IJly ,au,r«a to In every ln»tance. ■No »ub- MrioUon dßoontlnned nnlU all arrearage, art gyS!,,.t the option bt U.. Editor. IMkaL UVEEWOETS. They are laughing In the meadow. They are smiling in the*deU Uhpn the woody hill-lops ~ . ; , • The'blWoy'od beauties dwell { And onto those who love them ▲ pleasant tale they tell. They speak of sonny weather. Of birds and babbling brooks. Of walks wllhlng the forest glens, And riest wltliln its nooks* • And many a dreamy fancy Recorded not la books* Trom failed leaves ahd withered ’. They mischievously peep. And laugh at later flowers ■ Awakened from their sleep, - While, tenderly they guard lh?m, ' 1 And loving vigil keep. In modest maiden beanty Some blush along the wav. While others flock the meadows, Or by the fountains stray,' In white or blue hoblllmenu To greet the Apriluay. TUey Aeem at frolic eror, • - *. wow biding from my sight, And then together clustering As If in half affright; Yet conaolo.ua of their holiday • And happy in the light. Wo other coming flowers . ■ To me are dear'aa they. ■ Of those that bloom In April, Or In the genial May; i would that thus to comfort me They evermore would stay I For tales of vanished childhood To me they Sweetly .sing. And to the fading memory They recollections bring Of home and loving faces— . A precloaa offering. ,' Unpluclced tleave them growing Fall thlch abent iny feet; I cannot call them townward From out thelr.falr retreat;. • For any thing so sweet. The story that they tell me Of pleasure and content,, Of hope and trusting confidence . However faith is bent— This lesson I can bear gway— . To teach If they were sent. • ’ —FVom th* Aldine/or April* ||K«Uptop. ELI PERKINS. Tifitito Bt. Albans—Ell, Perkins Describes tie" Bitnalistio 'Borrioa—Ha Country Churches to Ely from their Bun pie Belief—Candles against the °nn—Be i ligionNot Without Prise-Alexia at Christ Obnroh—Alexis at Ear. Mr. Bjemng s- What He Said, to Mr.. Smith How He Soratphed Hia Nose and Sneezed. (Correspondence of the Cbmnierriol Advertlur.) Fifth Avenue Hotel, 1 November 27. > ■ On Saturday I received the following letter from my mother ln t^® 1 ® oUn , tr f: My venerable mother is one of those dear •Id style Episcopalians who has not seen any of the: new church changes. She was confirmed a longtime ago by good •Id Bishop Delaney, who fell asleep In ’ the faith wheh'l-was a boy— l should say In 1859 Eaton, N. Yi'.Nov. 24. Mii Dear & on: . ‘ . We hear a good deal about ritualism Id ourohuroh In the city, and we read much in the newspapers about great Oranges Incur dear bid'Episcopalian faith. I hardly know what to believe; so, my dear boy, I wish you would go up to the new ebiirdb which. they call St. Albans, and eoe just what they do there and write to ns about It. We are all very much in terested in these things, and if.you write a nice letter, I will have oui; minister read it publicly In the church meeting on Saturday. • '' , Our dear old churoh remains Just tne same as when you were confirmed by the Bishop ten years ago. The Sabbath eohool is much larger and quite a num ber of new young ladles who hijve been oil to school haye joined the choir. Your Uncle Consider has been chosen Super intendent of the Sabbath school. ■ We are how raising money to take out the old galleries and get a now organ ; but I confess that I shall feel very sad to see the galleries go away. It will look 'so queer not to see that front rpw of vil lage boys whose happy faces have so long looked down upon us during the service. Now .write a'plain and simple letter, and don’t mix things up as they always do in the newspapers. . ■ From your affect" ’ ' This wa« my reply :. Fifth Avende Hotel, November 2T. Hu’Dear ■ Mother: Filled with revei'entlal feelings, and Wlthybdr dear letter folded In my pr»J irbMk; I went up yesterday to Bt._Al hans on East Forty-ninth street. Fifth Avenue was crowded with finely dressed younfr ladles and gentlemen. They had blue and gold prayer books In their hands, hot, alas! I learned that many of them did not ,go ttfchnrchi, They only 'hsade'tietieVe. >■' The #ellom;«W* out l ° ’ aee the girls, and the girls came out to gratify them. , . >qf|re new- railroad depot has made such a change In the street that I had very hard werk to get from Fifth Avenue to the little Church. X had to walk through, ever and under five trains of cars, but It . was. Sunday, and' there was no danger. .Two qien w,era killed here yesterday. • I found St. Albans to bo a little, qulet looklng stone ohuroh, With stained glass windows, which were all covered with . pletures uf saints and.martyrs, and queer old'Engileb letters.' ' ‘Does the' Rev. Mr. C. W. Morrill preach here?’ I asked of the sexton. He looked at, my. Clothes a moment and. then replied, ‘Father Morrill oon dnota the services, air; will you have a ssat T 1 . it* 1 said I would: but before passlpg in I asked him "If 'his' father had preached hero long. •Father Morrill Is not my father— »Ah 1 perhaps lie’s your fatber-In-law?* I Interrupted. ‘No, he’s the father of the whole Chnroh-1 ‘ ‘what I of all those people—every one of them ?’ X asked In amazement. ‘No, no,’ replied the sexton, ‘you don’t Understand. This Is the way we call our rector In the Catholic church.’ ‘fiutthls Isn't a Catholic church, Is It?* X asked, opening my eyes. •Yes,’ he said,.‘this Is a Catholic ohuroh —hut not the Roman Catholic Church.’ I didn’t understand what he meant. Indeed, X don’t think they knew them . ‘ n ” Rates of Ad the amerifflft Ifllnntw. 1 BY JOHN B. BRATTON. selves. Why, Dr. Ewer, who seceded from Christ Church the other (lay. and set up a little Jesuit Church on Seventh avenue, called the Church of, the Holy I (candle) Light, said that he was not a Protestant, but a Catholic, and yet he I claims to be still In the church, .O moth er, they are getting • things so 'mixed up I down here that I almost despair of mak-1 log you understand anything about it! * I In St. Albans I found everything dark I except at the farther end. There was no I pulpit aa at home, but there was a large I ‘red and gold thing coveted with'pictures, vases, crosses, statues, and a great many I .candles. Tney called this an altar. The | minister.did not stand with his face to-1 ward us as good old Elder Smitzer does I at home, but he turned hls-haok toward I the audience all the time, and seemed to 1 be mixing something In two glass gob lets. Then he would make the sign of I the cross,- look up at the candles, and I drink, and the audience would look at I I him. I 1 Lthought how much pleasanter it Is I at ; home, where the happy sunshine I comes pouring through the* -windows, I 1 and the dear, good minister with his I I great, benevolent face, looks down into I I our faces while he is talking. , ’ | Father Morrill wore a red-figured dress I with a yellow and gold stripe around the I bottom, and over his shoulder was thrown a, long .white silk cape, which had a large embroidered cross on the back. The { cross was in the ehape. of a large Y. They said this cape was made from a lady’s wedding dress. He had a great many boys around him, dressed up in black, blue and red dress' skirts, with white capes. Tthink.th'ere were eighteen of theso. (Some of them sang, and some of them kept carrying goblets and plates of: something to Father Morrill, who seemed to eat and drink a good deal with bis back always turned; toward us. On the • altar were thirty-six candles-all burning. 1 -Now I looked around the -church. 1 ‘Glory, Glory, Glory!' ‘Hallelujah, Hal lelujah, Halleluiah 1’ were written every | where, ■ Over one of the dark windows I read this inscription," which reminded me of Mr. Thomae Sapsea’s on the tomb of hie wife In ‘Edwin Drood TO THE GLORY Ol God, AND IN 10VIN0 MSMOKT OF JOHN W. O. BAUER. Deacon, who felt asleep In the lalth. MDCCCXXL I thought it would hove been a good I deal better If deacon Baker had never I ‘fallen asleep in the faith.’ I hope none of our deacons will ever fall asleep so. I hope Deacon Joslyn, Deacon Morse and Deacon Hunt won’t. But when a man falls asleep In our old home church, II don’t think they print his name on a glass window. There wouldn’t be win dows enough to do it, would there? On another window I saw that Mr. Job Bono had also fallen asleep in the faith. Alas! they have all fallen asleepl thought, like the political deacons of the White House. When the service commenced I opened my prayer book—the one the bishop gave me;but I could not keep the place. Where we used to stand up they all sat down, and where we used to respond, the boys all stood up In their long night-gowns, and tooted up a chant In high tenor. Alas 1 my early training Is of no aoaount, and now, my dear mother, I must learn it all over again; How can I ever be saved, and not know when to get up and down with'Father Morrill’s congrega tion? In the anguish of my soul I would that Ihadnever been born,lorwhat does It profit a man if bo gain the whole world and be Ignorant of the round dan ces, and not know when to got up dud down with Father Morrill ? So I went on. Now 1 turned to the choir, but there I wasn’t any. I didn’t see the pretty girls and boys -who whisper behind the cur tain during service, at home. I didn’t see the dear old face of the leader, with his head going up and down, but, when the singing came, all of the boys In night-gowns stood up, and I thought I heard Father Morrill say; ‘The director will now flddls, and the night-gowns will ohaunt the glory of St, Albans.’ • I looked around for the good old hymns of Dr. Watts, but Dr. WatU was not to bo found. I saw a book which was labelled ‘THB PSALMS OP DAVID, set to music by Wm. Brown, the organist of St. Albans.’ Wm. Brown had duo ceeded Dr. Wfitts. Now a collection was about to .be taken up, and I looked at my pew in front. I bbw two large notices like this tacked on to every pew In the church: , The seats of the church are all free up on the following conditions, a compli ance with which is an obligation bind log on each person occupying a sitting . I. To behave In the presence of AI “u^&ot o to leave the church during service, remaining until thb cleroy AND CHORISTERS HAVE RETIRED. ' 111, That each worshiper shall con tribute TO THE COLLECTIONS, Which are the only mesne of supporting the church. Those who are able to give abouldnot be willing; to ocqupy which might be availed of.JSy other®, i without contributing thrib just SHARE TO THE EXPENSES. I thought this was a ‘good Idea’ on the part of the management. This was the new kind of gospel-tbe new expensive , ospel, not without money and costing a big price. The old-fashioned gospel, which came • without money and without price, l Istoo cheap for Bt, Albans. The gospel of Bt. Albans is costjy. It Is a first-class.article— a No. J.—and no ex pense le spared to make It superior to any In the market. Thirty-six candles can not be burnt for nothing, and how can eighteen boy s In night-gowns train around without good pay 7 Then If Gersli Book wood charges $lOO for an ordinary suit of clothes, why Gersh would want at least $3OO for making ted chesubles with gold borders. . r ,1 tell you, my dear mother, that 1 am Itl favor of the high-priced kind always. Don’t I always buy the best coat? If Dr. Howland, in the Fifth avenue church, with the four beautiful brass an gels at great expense, charges more than Father Morrill, then I’m going there.- Don’t, please don't, mother, write to ms any more about your, rural ‘wlthput-mo -1 noy-amd-wlthout-prlce-rellgion’ don’t tall ms the story of the money-changers, end please don’t write mo any more about our meek and humble Saviour. It won’t do down, here. Dr, Bwer Bays so; and Father Morrill says ‘the only way to have our yoke easy, and burden light is to pay well,and ho will carry the load for us.’ But I must tell you about the service! ■ They don't have one minister here, as they do at home—they have two rectors and two assistants ; and when they all get together In their long-flowing white and red and blue gowns, with the boys and banners and candles, It Is a sight only equalled in one of our Sabbath school celebrations, or in Mr. Fisk's opera bouffe. ' They do not have communion once in four weeks any more, as you do in the country, but It comes here every Sunday. After the service commenced to-day, I could not keep track of It all. I did not know the names of things. It was all a maze to me. So I took out my note-book and wrote just what I saw. This was what they did aft er the collection: Father Morrill stood with back to au dlo'hcej boys In night gowns came In and ‘set a -iable,’ putting on white cloth. •Lighted two candles. Then little boy poured'Wine out of two canisters Into.a ’goblet. Father Morrill drank It up. Boy in blue dress held up Father Morrill’s dress train. Two boys In red gowns brought some more wine and a napkin, (green seal, I think.) Father Morrill drank wine and wiped lips on , napkin. Band fiddled, and boys In night-gowns tooted. Boys In red dresses lighted mote candles. Father Morrill drank more wine (Roederer.) Then they sang ‘Holy, Holy.Holy,’ twenty-eight times, and ‘Hallelujah’ fifty-six limes. Boys carried candles around the stage. More boys brought bread and wine. Father Mor rill drank It up. People got upand went to stage andknelt down. Father Morrill gave them some bread, and assistant gave them some wipe to wash it down with. Made'sign of X on forehead. People returned to audience with bands folded like Aminadab Sleek. Twelve boys now . knelt down. Father Morrill sang the ‘Tc Deum' with back to audi ence. People joined in. Little boy now brought nine or ten goblets. Father Morrill mixed and drank. Father Mor rll now makes signs of X. Four small boys in night gowns advance with four glasses of wine. Father Morrill pours them into a yase, and then dips out one goblet and drinks. Makes sign of X.— Drinks, more—drinks between drinks; Three boys in blue appear with a napkin. Father Morrill takes It; makes sign of cross, and wipes lips. Grand procession. Banners, candles, crosses and boys in long robes. Enter ten boys In red shirts with large X. Boys in black follow. Men In black and white gowns join In. More boys In blue with a large X. Four boys in red. Head of the band fiddles and all march off to the rear of the stage. End six boys in red come back and snuff out the candles. Ladles advance and ‘clear off table.’ Father M. comes back in a new suit of clothes, gossips and laughs with ladles. Everybody happy. People all go out; Everybody satisfied that thi proceedings have been carried on correct ly— ‘according to Hoyle,’ Now, dear mother, I have told youfjust as It was. I didn’t know the names df things, so I only described the services as they appeared to me. I confess I rather liked It. I think it Is a great Im provement on your simple faith in the country. For Instance, how sublime the idea to shut out God’s shabby sunlight and burn candles. It Is necessary to dar ken the. windows, for if a ray of.sunlight —one single ray of Goij’s light—should struggle in, thecandles would be eclipsed In’ a minute! At first I thought this candlelight itas like the. Ritualistic faith —they shut out the light of reason and faith and light up the miserable flickering candles of dogma to see by. But ! was wrong. When Calus Cmsar got mad at the Almighty because the thunder disturbed hie mimics, he inven ted a thunder machine, and tried to drown down the thunder of God. Calus was right, but when his old tin kettles sounded,and they whanged the hewgags, it was an unnecessary expense, and after all It did not succeed. Why didn’t Calus : stuff his ears with cotton, as we darken the windows of the soul at St. Albans. I do hope, mother, that you will change our old-fashioned ritual at home. Dis miss the girls from the choir, dress up fifteen of the farm ■ boys In night-gowns, tear out the old pulpit, and tell the old minister to quit preaching, but to dress np in red and blue and gold ohesublo and then turn his back on the audience and drink wine out of four goblets. Bar out God’s shabby sunlight and burn magnifi cent tallow candles to his glory—tear up old Dr. Watt’s hymn book, add get one set to music by the organlst-get three or four healthy men to stand around on lu crative salaries as Assistant Rectors; tear up your charts in the Sunday school, and fill tile old church with gaudy banners and the pomp of heraldry ; don’t ‘sing unto the Lord’ any more, I beseech you, mother, but chant the operas Indorsed by the organization, and set to the musio of the middle fiddler of a German band. Return, my dear mother, I beseech you, from the errors of your ways-repent and believe the new gospel of St. Albans, fpr the kingdom of mammon Is at band. With love to Uncle. Consider, and re gards to the brothers and sisters in the church, I am, Very affectionately, your p .^ kiNs CHRIST 1 CHURCH, Chrlat Church was crowded last night by many pious people, who came to wor ship the Lord and see the Grand Duke,- But Alexis didn't come, and the man agement’ are blamed for fooling the pious audience. THB GRAND DUKE visited-the Forty-first Street Greek Chap el yesterday. There. was a great crowd to see him. After the service the Grand Duke spoke to several Russian girls, and mining around sneezed twice. He sneez ed In an aristocratic manner. The re port In a morning paper that ho held his chapeau In his left hand, and scratched his nose with his tigh is untrue. As h. was going out of the church he stopped and Inquired'lf Mr. Smith, the reporter of the Commercial, was present. When they said no, the Duke expressed a re gret as he wished to thank him. Ha said he was going to Invite him to ride down to the Clarendon with hlm-then he winked with his left eye. Bid PttRKINB CARLISLE, PA., THURSDAY. APRIL 25.1872. rOETT YEASS. *lt won't do,* said old Tlbbets, aha king his head furiously. ‘I always have hated those Partridges, au<J yon shan’t marry Fanny.’ • ‘ A man’s affections ’ began Hora- tio. ■ ‘Nonsense,’ cried old Tlbbets. ‘ You talk like a boarding school girl. You’re of age, I know ; but I give you a warn ing, If you insist; I’ll 'take that clever little Johnson In to partnership, instead ofyou, and you may bog or starve as you please, for. the sake of a little red haired girl like Fanny Partridge.’ Off trotted old Tlbbets as ho uttered these last words. < Give up Fanny Partridge ?—never 1 said Horatio. Meanwhile Mrs. Partridge and Fanny were bard at it; Fanny in tears, Mrs, Partridge in a fury. . .‘.l’d rather see you in your grave, Fanny,’ cried Mrs. Partridge- ‘Old Tibbet’s son 1 Why didn’t.you choosea chimneysweep? It.was Tibbets that cheated your pa’s brother out of that piece of property. A bigger rascal nev er walked. No, Fanny; you walk over my dead body befor e yon go to church with him.’. ' - Fanny was seventeen and very sub missive. Horatio, though five and twenty, submissive likewise. Parental authority prevailed. One meeting was allowed, in which the two might bid good-bye to each other. Fanny wept.— Horatio held her hands in both of his, and kissed them fondly. «They may yield in time,’ said Ho ratio, ‘ or something may,happen to ai-, ter things. Be true to me for a little while, I shall never love any one but you.’ . , ■ ‘My heart is broken,’ said Fanny, believing it sincerely. , ‘ But,l Shall be true to you all my life.’ Then he kissed her. He never forgot how hard it was to take his lips away from her’s ; and their arms encircled each other, and it was really a wonder that the two young lovers did hot die then and there. Old Tibbets rewarded his son by making him a partner in the prosper ous firm of Tibbet & Co., forthwith, while mamma Partridge hurried Fan ny away to the north of France. Horatio did not forget easily. It had been a cherished plan of his to marry Fanny. He had a mind that was prone to dwell upon detail. All his little fan cies about the future had been perfectly finished pictures. It was hard to believe the little round table would never be set with painted China; that Fanny, as Mrs. Tibbets would never, sit beside hlmln the third pew from the front on Sunday morn ings; that he,would pot go with her to choose the color for the drawingroom furniture; that they would hot have their' portraits'painted,' to hang one on each side ofthe parlor mantle-piece. Fanny was his practical or general idea; that they might have walked to gether forever in the moonlight, was perhaps strongest with her. But had he been the most perfect hero of ro mance, she could not have placed him upon a higher pedestal. The match would certainly have been a happy one, had fate willed it to.be a match at all. They loved each othet too well to seek comfort in new lovers.— Horatio became very steady and shtmn ,ed ladies’ society; and Fanny, after re fusing an English baronet and, a Ger man baron, declined.going into society anymore, and settled down .with her mother in a little town upon the Con tinent, where the four or five English families dwelling there exchanged whist parties, and where there, were no young English people whatever. There, at thirty, she was still living; and then It was there came to the place an En glish traveler, who called upon her.— He was a frlqnd of Mr. Horatio .Tib bets, and had been commissioned to hand her a small parcel, and he was to tell Mr. Tibbets how. she looked and was; and that he was very well, quite bald for his years, and unmarried.— Then the traveler went away. The gift was a dainty, work box, with a good deal of money, and in the little nook where the thimble lay was also a ring. Its motto was, ‘ Dinna forget.’ Fanny never showed this gift to her mother, but she wore the ring against her heart under her dress. Now hope crept into her soul; and when, a year.after, a good looking weal thy widower offered her his hand, with a genuine love into the bargain, she re fused- it without hesitation. Forget I Never! Ho had not forgotten. But more years had passed, ten of them at least, and that memory of the old fam ily feud dwelt in the bosoms of the two old people. At last, at the age of eighty, Mrs. Partridge died; and Fanny,all alone in what had always remained a strange land, felt miserable, desolate.— youth had departed; friends were few. It had been her mothers Wish to remain in France; now her heart turned to England. She followed her heart’s dictates, and returned home. The first morning paper that she opened there, told her of the death of Mr. Tibbets, aged ninety. The. paper dropped from Fanny’s hand, and she sat quite motionless for more than twenty minutes. Then she began to cry very softly, and took the ring from her bosom and looked at it. ‘ Dinna forget,’ she sobbed, ‘I am aqre not forgotten;’ and she began to wonder what he -looked like now. ; Ho must, have altered. Perhaps he was portly like his father. Well, she was rather stout herself. One could not be a slender youth forever; and he had probably a streak of gray In his dark hair. Nothing could alter his eyes, how ever, or if he were altogether altered, she would love him still. Why Since it was the heart that loved, not the flesh and blood. ■ And so she managed that the news should reach him In a few days’ time, that she was there. Ho heard it as she meant he should. He was all alone, and very lonely. He hod been an obedient son, and an affectionate one, and loved the testy old man dearly. But now ho thought it could harm no one If he tried to realise Kla youthful dreams. He sighed and looked out of the win dow ; walked to the fireplace, and stood there unrelenting; brightened up, and began to make one of his old fancy pic tures of Fanny at the other side of the fire. ‘She’ll be older, of conrse,’ ho said.— * Thin—perhaps fragile and worn; pale, top'. No matter, it’s Fanny, and she’ll be beautiful to me.’ And he wrote her a letter on the spot, in which, however, he only told her that he was coming to see her. An elderly lady was walking in a green, lane near Hornsey, with two children and a poodle dog. The poodle was her own, the children her landla dy’s. She was a very stout lady, with four chins and a, red face, and no waist whatever. , . As she walked, there came up the lane a ,w®azen old gentleman, with a ■larg6;erbon umbrella under his arm.— His nose and chin met.' His head was as smooth as an egg, except just"at the nsipeof the neck, where six hairs still clung. His ears stood out on each side of his face, largo, yellow, and with frosty pinches on them. He had watery blue eyes, and a watt oh his forehead, just the kind of old man the stout lady hated! For his part, he hated fat wo men. ‘ A frowsy old creature,’ he thought; and just then poodle and children, all tied together with blue ribbon, tangled themselves about; his, legs, and nearly overset him. ‘ Come here my dears; don’t run against the gentleman that , way, ’ .said the fat,lady, In a falntvoice. ' ‘ People should teach their grandchil dren and dogs better manners,’said the old gentleman, testily. ‘-My grandchildren,’ panted the old lady; ‘What impertinence! I beg you’ll not kick that dog, sir. Cruelty to animals is forbidden by law, thank .heaven!’ ‘ If this dog is mad, as he seems tobe, I’ll have him shot,! said the old gentle man* 4 Come here, Fldo, darling,’ cried the elderly lady. ‘My dears run home to your ma.’ . And just then out stepped the land lady. To her the old gentleman ad dressed himself; > I beg pardon, ma’am ; can you tell me in which of these houses I can find a lady of the name of Partridge-Miss Fanny Partridge ?’ • Why, this is the house, sir,’ said the landlady ; ‘ and there’s Miss Partridge herself,’ ~ „ . • Will you hand her this ?’' said the old gentleman, looking eagarly around | in search of Miss Partridge, and never thinking of the stout lady. . 4 Here, ma’am,’ said the landlady, presenting the card to that very indi vidual. 4 This, sir, is Mrs. Partridge.’ The name upon the card was 4 Hora tio Tibbet.’ That hideous little old man, like a weasel, with a green cotton umbrella, and no hair, Horatiol- That overgrown woman, like a lob ster, Fanny. . Neither would believe It. But it was true as age is, and time, and change, and all the rest of it. -They sat on the black horsehair sofa in the parlor and tried to talk ; and as they did so, they discovered that the Fanny and Hora tio who loved each other were both dead—as dead as though the sods were over their poor hearts. Had they mar riod before, probably they would have been still dear to each other, still' pleasant to look upon in the blindness of affection ; but meeting as strangers, they repulsed each other. . 4 lf he should presume upon our old affection,’ thought Fanny; ‘such a very disagreeable old man.’ 4 lf she should expect me to remem ber the past, this dreadful mountain of flesh,’ thought Horatio; and then he told her ho was glad to see her so well, 4 and hoped they should be neighbors. She 4 thought that unlikely;’ the place did not agree with her. . Each dodged the past, not guessing how very glad the other was to dodge It also; and they parted forever, po litely hoping to meet very soon. That night two pillows were wet with tears. Fanny wept for the youthful lover of whose death she seemed to have heard that day. and Horatio for a lost Fanny, now only,a memory. But there was no thought of any present liking, of any new flashing up of the dead flame. Thoy did not even wish to meet again# There was a certain horror In that meeting not to be forgotten. They never met more; but when Fanny died, years after, the ring, with its motto of 4 Dlnna forget’-tho ring which no power could have placed on her fiat flnger-hung by Its ribbon over her heart, and Horatio had b uried with him a lock of hair severed from Fan ny’s head in that long ago when it was golden. Each heart was young and true; but forty years of comfortable, well to do life had been very cruel to their bodies —to their voices—to their manners.— Do you suppose that somewhere beyond the stars they have met, and are lovers again ? I hope so; for in their own way thoy suffered greatly, hero for no faults of their own. Be Oabbpoli.—'We areapproschlng the season when epidemics and rumors of epidemics may bo expected. Lime and water are great purlflers and capnot ha too-freely used as sanitary agents. The .-purity of the water employed for domes! tte consumption is a matter of the high-! „st public importance; quite as impor; taut as a full supply of the Indispensable element. It is now well established that dysentery, typhoid fever, cholera, etc., and other fatal diseases, are caused by animal and.vegetable substances dlssolv ed In the water, therefore all supplies for drinking, culinary or bathing purposes, should be carefully Inspected. One point to bo borae in mind Is, that wo may got accustomed to drinking Impure Water and no: Know It, unless othm Mnses than our taste are consulted. We should endeavor by every means to avoid a rate similar to that which overtook a neigh boring town a few months since. THE SUBALTERN'S LESSON, Seme five years ago I was a subaltern In a marching regiment, and quartered In & large garrison-town In England. My Julies consisted of the usual round of morning and afternoon parades, visit ing the men’s dinners’and teas, and other, regular work. In addition to this, we had occasionally to mount guard, and to pass twenty-four hours In a sort of half imprisonment. It is one of the regulations of the ser vice that when officers or men are on guard they should always be in a state of readiness to “fall In 1 ’ on parade at a mo ment’s notice. If you feel very sleepy, and desire rest, yon must take It whilst you are buttoned up to the throat and strapped down at the heels ; a lounge In an arm chair, or prob vbly a little horl-, zontal refreshment upon a sofa, are the extent of rest which an officer on gtlard Is supposed to Indulge in> Among my brother-subalterns In gar rison, it was our usual practice to Infringe upon this strict ie’ter of the law ; and, When the principal part of our duty bad been accomplished, we used to Indulge ourselves by divesting our limbs of their armor, and seeking refreshments between the sheets of a little camp-bed that was placed in the Inner guard room. It was the part of the duties of an offi cer on guard to visit all the sentries du ring the night, the lime of visiting them being usually an hour or so after the field officer had visited the guard;.the field of ficerbeing a colonel or major who was on duty for the day, and who came once by day and once by night to visit the guards, and to see that all, was as it should be. There was no exact limit to the number of times that this field officer might visit the guards ; but It was the usual thing, and had become almost a custom, for him to come once by day and once by night, so that after the last visit the .subaltern usually waited an hour or so, walked round the limits of bis post; visited all his sentries, and then turned Into bed. It was on d bitter cold morning In Jan uary that my turn for guard came on. I marched my men to their post, relieved the old guard, and then, having gone | through the regular .duty and dined, en deavored to pass the time until the field officer had visited me. The previous evening I had been at a bail in the town, and In consequence was very tired and sleepy, and looked with considerable longing to the period when I could re fresh myself by unrobing and‘%nJoylng a good snooze. At length I heard the welcome chal lenge: ‘Who comes there?’ which was answered by the response—‘Boundsl’ i What rounds V ‘ Grand rounds 1’ and ‘ Guard, turn out!’ was a signal which I willingly obeyed, for I knew that in about one hour afterwards I should bo In the arms of the god of sleep. . Slipping on my cloak and cap, and grasping my sword, I placed myself Ini front of the guard, and received the field officer, who briefly asked mo If all was correct, directed me to dismiss my guard and rode off without saying.'Qood night,’ a . proceeding that I thought rather for mal. Giving directions to the sergeant to call me in an hour, for the purpose of visiting the sentries, I threw myself Into my arm.chair, and tried to read a novel. The time passed very quickly, and. I had a nap or two, and the sergeant soon ap peared with a lantern to conduct mo round the sentries. It was a terrible night, the wind blow ing hard, whilst the snow and sleet were driving along before it. The thermome ter was several degrees below freezing, and I felt that I deserved much from my country for performing so conscientiously my arduous duties. The sentries were very much scattered, and I had to walk nearly two miles to visit them all. I ac complished. iny task, however, and re turned to the guard room, where I treated myself to a stiff glass of grog, and throw ing off my regimentals, I jumped into bed, feeling that I really deserved the luxury. In a few minutes I was fast asleep, not even dreaming of any of my fair partners of the ball, but sound asleep. Suddenly I became conscious of a great noise, which sounded liken drum being beaten. At first I did not realizen»y position, and could not rememUer where I was, but at last It flashed across me that something was the matter. Jumping out of bed, I called to know who was there. The sergeant answered in a great hurry, saying: ‘ The held officer of • the day is coming, and the guard is turning out.’ I rushed to my boots, _ pulled them on over my unetockinged feet; thrwst my sword-arm Into my largo regimental cloak, which I pulled over me ; jaoomed my forage cap on my head and, grafping my sword looked to the outward observer as though ‘fit for parade.’ I Was just In time to receive the field -officer, who again asked me If my guard was correct, l answered, rather in a tone of surprise, and gold—‘Yes, sir ; all cor rect. 1 I could not imagine why my guard should be visited twice, as such a proceeding waa very unusual, and per haps my tone seemed to imply that I was surprised. Whether it was that, or Whether a treacherous gust of wind re moved the folds of my cloak, and exhib ited the slightest taste In life of the end of my night shirt, I know not ; but the fleld officer, instead of rldln ? “ ff . he received my answer, turned hisi horse a head la the opposite direction «na Bald 'Now, air, I wont you to accompany mo hmdd the sentrlea.’ - Had he told me that he wanted me to accompany him to the region below. I {should soaroe have been more horror struck, for already I had founu the change of temperature between a warm room and the outside sdr; and to walk two miles on a windy, f rosty night, with no raiment besides booto, night shirt and cloak was really suffering for one’s coun try. and no mistake, t dared not show the slightest hesitation, however, for fear the state of my attire m.lght be suspected though I would have gUven a week s pay to have escaped for five minutes. A non commissioned officer was ready with a lantern, and wo stnrte don our tour of in aP The o fleld officer asked! several questions connected with the condition and duties of the sentries, which I answered as weU as thqohatterlngof my teeth would allow me. The most nervous work, however, wa. passing the gas Wimps, which were placed at Intervals of ome or two hundred yards. The Wind was blowing ao fresh that it was with diffi culty 1 could hold VOL. 58.—N0- 46. my cloak around mo, and conceal the ab sence of my undergarments. Every now and then an extra gust of wind come come round a corner, and would quite de feat all the precautions which I had adopted to encounter the steady gale. I managed to dodge In the shade as much as possible, and more than once ran the risk of being kicked by the field officer s horse, as I slunk behind him when the gas light might have revealed too much. It was terribly cold to bo sure, the wind and snow, almost numbing my limbs. I had a kind of faint hope that the field officer might think that I be longed to a Highland regiment, and If he did observe the scantiness of my at tire, ho might believe that the kilt would explain It, I struggled and shivered ou, knowing that air things must have an end, and that my ‘rounds’ must come to an end before long. But I feared that I should not again get warm during the nigh.. . , We had nearly completed our tour, and were within a. few hundred yards of the guard room, when'we parsed the field officer's-quartets. X foudly .hoped that he would not pass them, and that ho would dismiss me at the door, but I was rather surprised to . see a blaze of light come from the windows, aad to hear the sound of. music. It was evident that there was a 'hop' going on Inside, and I already began to tremble, from a sort of Instinct, that even worse misfortunes were yet to attend mo. My premonitions were true, for, upon reaching bis door, my persecutor, in Quite a cheerful tone, said : ‘Well, we’ve had a cold tour; you must now come In, and take a glass of wine, and perhaps a waltz will warm YOU.’ ■l'm really much obliged,’ 1 hastily answered; ’but I should not like to leave my guard.’ . ' ’ ■ , •Nonsense, nonsense, man ; the guard will be all right. You mutt come ln.- This ’must’ he said In quite a determined tone.’ . , . I felt desperate, and again declared that I thought It would be wrong to leave my guard. • jqi take the responsibility,’ said the demon; ‘socome along;’ saying which, he grasped my arm, and almost dragged me Into the porch of his quarters. When wo entered the house, and wore exposed to the light o( the ball lamps, I fancied I saw a slight twinkle In the eye of the officer, and I began to wonder whether be really knew of my predion ment, and wished to have his joke, Ho. however, gave no other Intimations that I saw, but quickly took off hlk cloak, and said that I had better do the same. See ing me hesitate, he .-said,; ‘ Come, look alive; off with It.’ ’ Further remonstrance, 3 found, would be useless, so that there was no help for me but a full confession. Summoning my courage, and fearing to hesitate, I blurted out: ‘ Colonel, I’ve no trousers The deuce you haven’t 1' be said.— ■Well, you’d better go and put them on, and then come here as soon as possible, and have a glass of something warm. I rushed out of bis quarters, half de termined not to return. X was fully awake now, and shivered like a half drowned dog; but no sooner bad I dressed myself than the colonel's servant came over to say that a quadrille was waiting for me. ... . I determined to put a bold face on the matter, and entered the drawing room, where a party of about fifty had assem bled. It was evident by the titters of the young ladies, the grins of the men, and the subdued smiles oftbe dowagere, that my story was known. The colonel bod told It as a good Joke to the major, who had whispered It to bis wife; she had brealWd It Into the ear of two of her blends, and in about ten minutes every person In the room knew that a young subaltern had unwillingly gone bis rounds in his night shirt. As long as I staid in that garrison I was a standing jdke. When the girls saw me they always looked away and smiled, and It seemed as Impossible for me to obtain a serious answer from any of them as tor a clown to preach a ser mon. They even seemed afraid to dance with me, (earing, as I afterwards heard, to look at my legs, lest I might be defi cient In some article of raiment. I soon exchanged, and went into another regl ment; and years afterwards heard my own ■ adventure related in t> crowded room, all the details of the story being true except the name of the performer my misfortune having been attributed to an unfortunate fellow who died In India. I never went to bed on guard after .that night. ' [From the Turf, Field and Farm.) A WOU STOET. A weird-like romance hangs over the heights that crown the river Rhine.— Tales of fuedal magnificence in ancient times rival the stories that lead roman tic history to scenes of the same char acter in Scotland, and the Rhine passes in its course through all the varied changes of ragged magnificence to the calm waters bounded by fertile valleys resembling rather the placid quiet of a lake than the progress of.a stream. The Upper Rhine formed a frontier department of France and Alsare, which belonged to the German Empire till 1508, after passing to the control of Austria, wafi finally annexed to France bv Louis XVL in 1697, and the pro vince is now the battle field of Prussia. In the west of this province are the chains of the Vosges and Jura moun tains These stretch in gloomy mag n iflcence, and with the exception of the noor Alsatian weavers, are rarely penetrated save by an adventurous hunter in pursuit of game. The cham ois here are sought by the sportsman or pursued by the wolf, who makes th s nimble footed courser of the forest their chief subsistence, save when In descent noon some fertile and cultivated spot in the plains they extend their forays to the sheepfnld of the peasant. Rarely, however, does the wolf make these incursions, unless impelled Jiy the stern dictates of hunger. This spurs the natural laziness of his dlspo onion and then becomes the most ravenous of animals, exercising all the ravonou with an insatiate Baß lcitv that leads him in extremity vertising. 1 o\ l A O > 1 col ■■ „ m IS w S _ V 00 »12 oo 522 in. >»■' S IJS 600 '9 00 MOO IB 00 200 400 Sv «00 11 00 10 00 30 CO Otn 3 M 676 ,*■ 76 12 GO WOO 32 U i , 3m Bso 050 760 MOO 20 00 36 00 i? <w fi'ii ilss’Ss II r; gs>°«sss %% Twelve line* constitute fe*ty*ro« ~ w For Kxeoatoiv and Adm’rs’, uj For Auditor's notice®, x _ 3 CO For Assignees’ ana similar Notices, “ JJJ For Yearly Cards, not exceeding sU linos, 7 00 , Eor Announcements five cents porjine, unito* contracted for by tho.ycat. For Business and Special Notices; 10 cents per column advertisements extra. woif: The fetid odor of hla body is so disagreeable that the dogs will hardly attack him, and the flesh refused to be eaten, oven by the bloodhound who pursues bis trail. •, > An old hunter relates a night’s expe rience in the forest of, the Vosges (when the presence of these'animals was more numerous than at the pres ent time) and how, by. an ingenious ruse, ho defended, himself and dogs from the onset of a pack of these rapa cious beasts, ~ , Night had overtaken the hunter - more than a league and a half from the nearest civilised border. Accustomed to the bivouac, he did not hesitate to spend the night in the forest,, rely mg upon the results of the day’s labor for a satisfactory meal, which with a huntsman’s providential .skill, was. duly prepared by the cheerful fire that contributed both nourishment and warmth. No sign of a lurking foe was remarked until roused by the instinct of his dogs, who crouched at,his feet, their hair bristling with terror, the expert hunter was warned of a present danger. An instant’s reflection, and if he had any doubt in the' cause, it was certified by the prolonged howl, rather than bark, which distinguishes the wolf from the dog. The hunter had ensconced himself in the Assure of a caverned rock, and he felt secure that he could be attacked' from one side • only. So he prepared himself against any surprise, and, casting fresh wood upon the Are, peered into the darkness, where tfee dark forms, with gleaming eyes, revealed the presence of his wolf ish assailants. The hunter felt that to make an open attack, or even forcibly resist assault, would be a useless hope. He well knew that the brightness of the Are would deter immediate assault. The only fear was, .that his supply of material falling short, this method of defence would be exhausted. At last a bright thought suggested itself to his hunter’s experience, and knowing that the nature of wolves was sometimes appalled by the scraping of a violin, he drew from his breast his flute, and struck upon it. the highest keys in the loudest notes. The eflfect was Instantaneous as re markable. A rushipg sound of flying feet sounded accompaniment to the notes of the flute, and the rustling of leaves in the distance died away as the ravenous pack fled to the inner recesses of the forest. The hunter slept no more that night, but vigilantly stood guard until the patrol of the moon had passed, and the gleam of day assured him of present safety. THE . SHOWMAN'S SIOE CHILD. Doctor Demon! was one of the most courtly and affable of Paris physicians. He was once called upon by an athletic, ruddy personage, who certainly seemed in no individual need of the distin guished Doctor’s advice ; the latter, too, in kind effort.to reassure his embar rassed, visitor, addressed him with his usual politeness and condescension. < Monsieur, I am the proprietor of a menagerie,’ said the square shouldered man, ‘and one of my children is SlC ‘Exactly, my friend. Of what nature is the dlsease ?’ • He ran a splinter into his thigh ; it is very ugly, monsieur, but. I am rich enough to pay well.’ . , ‘Very well, my man,’ replied the doctor, unable to suppress a smile at the simplicity of his visitor ‘we will talk of that after a while. Tell me exnlicitlj what is the matter with your child. ‘ Monsieur; the splinter has festered In his thigh, and ho will not let any one touch it; he is headstrong, for all ■ he is very gentle. It will be necessary, I know, to perform a slight operation ; but ho is violent and headstrong about i Leave his violence to me. How old is ho a 1 Four years only. But I am afraid he will bite or scratch you if you at tempt to touch him. You must admin ister chloroform.’ .... ‘ Not at all my good man. * our child cannot be very dangerous in the exer else of his temper if he is only four years old.’ , • But he is large for his age ’ • Ndf no ; I wiil go with you to see your boy. It were folly to administer chloroform In such a case.* • But monsieur, you do not know mm so well aa.l,’ continued the man, im portunately. ‘ I pray, I beseech you to lake the chloroform, all the same, In case you should need it. To dispel the anxieties of the nervous man. Doctor Lemoni carried with him the required anesthetic, and shortly ar rived at the hodse of the beast tamer. ‘ I have put him'up stairs, doctor, where the poor fellow would be undis turbed. Ascend with me, please. They mounted to a kind of loft. The doctor having entered, the showman followed, and closing the door behind him, quickly locked It. The former turning in some surprise, desaried a full grown lion slowly approaching them, with an' unquestionably wicked and menacing snarl. , ■ ' , The beast tamer grew pale pand when he addressed some soothing, brute lan guage to the animal, his voice trem bled. The doctor was not only ghastly pale but covered with a cold sweat.’ “ • For heaven’s sake, doctor, be quick 1 ■ whispered the beast tamer, hoarsely j *Stui.'slmwtog iss white teeth, the lion on crouched in an attitude preparatory to a spring/ He dashed the chloroform which he held in the animal’s face.- The latter recoiled, and began to droop under the effects qf the drug. This per mitted a still further administration of it. till he was finally stretched power less before them. The operation then required was made upon the wound, amt the proper restoratives applied. Neither fhe doctor nor showman spoke a word until they had. descended ■Mcmsicur,’ said'ttie’Bhowman, ‘you have saved, by yout wonderful presence of mind, a life whose value is incalcula ble to me. Permit mo to offer you my grateful thanks and to give -you your fee.’ And he handed the other a hun dred franc note. _ •Thank you, Monsieur Dompteur,’ replied the physician, ‘ and;when you again have need of service* for a simi lar case. I P™y you— ’' v • I will certainly call you In.’ • No, no, that Is not'what I intended —pray summon' Bomeiothat doctor.’ A bwmst young lady says that males are of no account from the time the ladles stop kissing them as Infants till they commence kissing them os lovew. >1 w
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