SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor. VOLUME XXIX, NUMBER 7.] PUBLISHED EVERY SITURDAY MORNING Office in Northern Central Railroad Com pany's Bailding,north-we.stcorner Front ana Walnut streets. Terms of Subscription %toe COpy per onuum.if paid in advance, r4i. if not paid within three month from commencement attic year, 200 Coats a Copy. No subscription I eeeived Cora lei, time than six months; and no paper will be di4continued uuut all atrrsarages are paid, unless at the option of the pub 4-her. 117 Money may be remitted by mail at the publish 'er's risk. Rates of Advertising. I square [6 lines] one week, three weeks_ t each , uhsequentinsertion, 10 I " [l2lines] one week. 50 three weeks, t 00 id ear h +uh%equeniinsertion, 25 Lnrzeradverticement , in proportion. A. liberal di.counl will be t0.,0e to quarterly, hall yearly or yearly."' vertisers,who arc strietls confined to their basinetn. Vrittry. The Night before the Mowing. All shimmer.: in the morning shine, And dinmondell with dew, And quivering with the scented wind Tiot thrills its green heart through— The :tale field, the smiling field 'Milt all its flowers Mow happy looks the golden field The doy before the mowing! And still 'neath the departing light, Twilight—though void of 141111., Save where, low sveitering, Venus sinks Fran the red eye of Mors; Ifon peaceful sleeps the silent field, With all its beauties glowing, Usti Ztirring—like a eland in draw-ei— ne nizht before the mowing. Sharp steel. inevitable band, Cut keen—cut knall Our field We know full well cutest be lard low Before its fragrance 3 ield. Plenty and mirth. and honest gain Its blameless death bestowing— And yet we weep, and yet we weep, the night before the tnowtog! gthdinits. My First Love CHAPTER I. At twenty I was considered rather a hatasome man than otherwise; in fact, whatever may have been the opinion of cer taia of the envious and malignant, I had myself no doubt whatever on the subject. I was not rich, it is true, but my family was as old as the conquest, my father a laaronet, and myself a cornet of dragoons. I have no doubt that the generality of people would consider my position—except ing the fact of my possessing an elder brother—an exceedingly enviable one.— They aro mistaken. A younger son, with an estate strictly entailed, is no such envia: ble personage after all, as he himself soon discovers. Still I was happy. It was Christmas time, and Lady Maria Templeton was on a visit to my mother and sisters. I never did, and 1 never shalt again see such beauty as hers. It shed light as she walked. She was dazzingly fair in skin, and yet her hair was black. She was tall, slight, and sylph-like. and yet no man could venture to call her any other than a haughty beauty. But her eyes! talk of .eyesef most unholy blue, of sapphires beam ing with gem-like sparkles. I know not what to compa,Ve hers to. There was my brother Tom, the heir to the baronetcy, Fanny and Mary, Lady Ma ria, and myself. She was our cousin, and an heiress. She had five thousand a year. This I did not know at the time, or possibly much that followed might not have occurred. I was not old enough to be a fortune-hunter, while my pride would have prevented the chance of my falling in love under circumstances which might have made me suspected. But I did though, and up to the very ears. Tom was a hearty fellow, fond of his gun ,and his dogs, his horses and hounds, and not averse to indulge in those Bacchic revels which, even to this day, are not unpatron ,ized by some of the gentlemen of England. lle was, I have heard, also the terror of rural swains and the admired of every lady within ten miles of Courtney Chase. But even ho was struck by Lady Maria. I met her at eventide. We had met often before, but as mere children, when wo had ,quarreled and made it up, and been fast ) friends and bitter enemies within an hour. Ant now she was a lovely woman and I a Aornet of dragoons. X never was so taken aback in my life.— Young as I was, I had put down the imper Ainence of one or two older men, who had thought they had naught a green hand. I had made a decent figure at mess, and club, ,and Alrnack's, and generally, in fact, was supposed to know a thing or two. I had once stared a lady out of counte nance at the opera, but when I stepped up to Maria to compliment her, as everybody else was doing, I blushed, stammered„.and, Strati it en 7 ded in my mattering iOiCkethrrig, about "tiappy=irext dance?" "Certainly," said Lady Maria, in the most unaffected manner in the world, inking my arm as 213 e,,enokq. „":tio w t don't look so very Roe ' liegene, Mi•. Thomas, or I shall laugh. So, Harry, you aro in the, army. Why don't you come down in uniform, spurs and all?" There was something so easy, so whimsi cal, so bantering in her tone, that I could not help blushing up to the eyes. Was that merry, delightful laugh with me or at me? for the life of me 1 could not tell. "You aro aware, Lady Maria," I began in a somewhat stately tone, "that unless upon state occasions, we dispense with our uniform as much as possible." "Oh, yes, Mr. Cornet Harcourt," she re plied, "I am fully aware of the etiquette of the thing; but then I thought-l—you were so new to it—that you might like to make a sensation for once." $I 50 For once! I, the handsomest man in "ours" to be talked to in this way, and by a little girl who a year ago had been in pinafore! I could not reply on the instant; and so pre tended to pull my gloves on. Mil We danced. As we moved to the soft cadence of the music, my heart began to beat with unusual rapidity. In the dawn of manhood, while the feelings are fresh and virgin, when everything on earth appears bright and lovely, to find one's self support ing a beautiful woman in one's arms, the air balmy with fragrant odors, lights daz zling, and music intoxicating with its effem inate sounds, is to dwell awhile in a para dise of which we never, perhaps, again ob tain so perfect a vision. And then to talk with her afterwards! She was so full of animation and life, so really kind, with all her playful spirit of sarcasm, that I soon found myself at my ease, even answering some of her bantering remarks. I was no more carpet soldier. I longed for some field on which to distinguish myself. I burned for fame, fur world-wide renown. Lady Maria soon found this out, and then her bantering ceased altogether; her voice sank lower, her eyes sparkled, her bosom heaved, as in whispered accents she wished me success nod fortune. "You are of the favored of the earth, Harry," she said, drawing me on one side towards the conservatory; "poor us can do nothing but wish you men good speed. Oh, how I sometimes long to be a man, that I, too, might be a soldier, a suitor, an orator or s. statesman. It seems to me so sad a life to be born in a station where one can be nothing." "Oh, Maria!" cried I, enthusiastically, " 'tis far better as it is. If we wish to be great as soldiers, or sailors, or statesmen, why is it?" "Tell me," she said, smiling. "To win the love of such as you. Rely upon it, that is the prize man covets. It is the consciousness that woman will smile which impels us to great deeds." "Harry, Harry," she said, with something of a sigh, "at your age I believe some such feeling dues exist, but it soon fades away, and man covets success for its own sake." "Some few," I began. "Most men—there are those choice spirits who do great deeds from a sense of duty, but with most men ambition is the sole guiding impulse." I looked at her with surprise. She spoke warmly, and yet with secret bitterness. "A philosopher in petticoats!" said I, in a laughing tone. "I have lived more in the world than you have, Harry," continued Maria, smiling; "but here comes your brother Tom to claim his turn. We will continue our conversa tion by and by." It was my brother Tom, and looking rather surly, too, at our long tete a tete. A somewhat vicious glance which he cast at me convinced me that he was deeply inter ested in my beautiful companion. As I resigned her arm, a feeling of despair came over me. I knew I was in love. I retired behind some fragrant bushes, and reflected an instant, It was quiteclear to me that Lady Maria was intended for the heir to the baronetcy. He had, at all events, made the selection, and what hope was there fur me? He had title, position, a horns, ands goodly income on his side, while I was a poor adventurer, a younger son, an encumbrance on the estate. Arid with the law of primogeniture and the example it sets, people aro found to wonder at the dearth of early marriages, and at the fact that so many never marry at all. It is not that. they cannot afford to mar ry, but they cannot keep up the style they have been accustomed toat home. A wealthy nobleman's second son, while at home, en joys as many luxuries as the heir. . It.is hard, then, in his eyes, .to descend to the plebian 'villa and no carriage, even tho Ugh happiness be the result. The evil law of entail and the agglomer ation of wealth in the bands of the few, is the great cause of modern indifference to marriage. The middle classes, unfortunate ly, are too fond of apeing their betters. But why moralize, when I have so much to tell? I watched them narrowly. Tom was grave, even sulky, while Lady Maria was more than ordinarily gay. She fairly laughed nt him, and presently the grave el dest son of the house condescended to smile. This was just as the dance ended, and as Tom was naturally in request, I again joined her. "What made my brother so grave?" I asked. "Poor fellow!" she said, with-a burst of merriment, "he was lamenting the hard ships to which eldest sons are cabled," "What!" I cried. "Yes, he really did, poor fellow! Ile is obliged to dance with everybody, and there fore cannot show me that exclusive atten tion which, he was pleased to say, •my beauty, accomplishments, and so forth; de served." "Ha %via quite right," said I, dryly. "flow aol" "NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, AUGUST 21, 185 "Who can see any one in the room while you are present?" "Et ht, Brute!" cried Lady Maria, laugh ing; "don't be ridiculous. BecauSe we are old friends, and like to talk of old times don't try to flatter me. When is to be you] first campaign?" "There is talk of India," I said, "but nothing is decided." "India!" she cried, with something of start and a blush; "indeed!" "I have heard it said, but scarcely wisl, it so much as I did." "Why?" "I have met you" "Now, Harry, do not look so sentimental and make such tender speeches, or I shall laugh. I suppose you mean to dance, s, you had better ask me, as here comes John Powers, bent upon the same intent." I eagerly led - her to her to her place, to the great dissatisfaction of the Irish cap tain, who did knovi of her fortune. I never shall forget that evening. I had come down to Courtney Chase a young and happy subaltern in her majesty's service— light-hearted, merry, full of fun and frolic, without a care or thought of the morrow.— I gradually found myself becoming anxious, thoughtful—my brow was obscured'hy care my heart beat with painful rapidity. was in love. The boy had becoMe a man in one evening. And yet I was happy.— There was a delicious intoxication in the sound of her voice, in her soft white hand as it lay in mine. There was rapture in the waltz as her beaming eyes met mine. and our very hearts seemed to beat in unison. It is en hour of bliss when the senses are steeped in voluptuous languor, when nature seemes decked in wondrous' loveli ness, when all that is in the world smiles upon us, when emotions new and delicious come gushing to our hearts, we cannot find words to describe. It is as the opening of the portals of a new existence—it is love's young dream.. I handed her down to supper amid the groans of one or two of the men, and not without some spiteful look's from the dear young creatures I had totally neglected.—: But what eared I? EMlaiiii3l The next day, and one or two that suc ceeded, were spent in riding, driving, walk ing, or in home amusements, according to the state of the weather. But, no matter what the occupation which took. up our time, I continued my assiduities to Lady Maria, the daughter of the poor earl, but the heiress to a distant relative's wealth and estates. Tom was equally attentive, but I am bound to say his attentions were not equally well met. My heart began to beat as I found myself the favorite. Wild visions of the future began to cross my brain. I wanted a few months of being of age, when I should become my own master and that of a small property I held from my mother. No selfish reflection'on the folly of mar rying on three hundred a year entered my bead. That was precisely my income be sides my pay. I thought•l could live upon it; and even so blissful did the prospect seem, that I actually determined to sell out rather than delay my happiness. I was wild with passion; I reflected on nothing. I believed in but one thing—my love, ar dent, devoted, and sincere, for Maria. Men, and woman too, have the cruel courage to laugh at these early passions, and to cover them with ridicule. It'is pos sible that many, perhaps the majority of youths, are incapable of feeling love endu rable and eternal at so early a period of their career. On this' point lam incapable of giving an opinion. But this Ido know, that in my case it was the passion of life.— I felt as keenly, as deeply, es devotedly as ever mortal man did feel—more keenly, I do believe, than those whose blunted feel ings are in after life attracted by beauty and grace. Life bad no charm, existence no delight, save her. Others thought so, too; and. as I was aware of my brother's preference, I brought the affair to an ,issue. It was Christmas-eve. The day was lovely, snow was hard and crisp and dry.— Shakspeare's line would truly not have ap plied, for no n and wind, bent dark December." We had walked' out. I, as usual, by the exercise Of a little maneuvering, hrid Lady Maria on my arm. Tom, who was sloWer in his movements, was forced 'to content himself with sister Fanny. I suppose he did not wish to 'app'ear to watch us; so as We came to Dlicor Lane Tie turned to the right, as we turned to the left. The paths met about a mile 1)0107. ' Our path was downy valley with dark fir-trees on either side—a sheltered and pieastinC plaCe it was in summer, and not without its attractions in winter, even if its being free from gusty wind puffs were alone considered. About a quarter of Ore distance was passed ever in silence. I could not talk. Lady Maria tried'me once or twice. I answered in mono-yllables. At length she began the conversation in a tone so tender and considerate I could not but respond. "Dear Harry," she said, "are you not well?" "Well enough in body." "What!" cried Lady Maria, in her more joyous tone, "something preening on your mind? ' Cin'you find no physician? Can I Flo anything?" "You,- and you only," I said, gravely She looked up at me with a keen and oenetrating glance, which I shall never - brget. She turned pale as she did so, and 'Jent her eyes upon the ground. "Well, Harry?" she said, sadly. "Maria, it is no use of disguising the truth any longer. I love you—l love you with all my heart and soul. Nay, do not ntcrrupt me. From the very first evening came home my senses have left me. I am wild with intense, earnest passion.— \line is no buy's fancy. I have cast my whole soul upon this one issue—you or tothing. With you, this earth would be he most joyous of el.rths; without you, a lreary waste. I have not spoken without •eficction. Maria, I have said that I wish •o succeed in life, but I begin to fancy that love is worth all ambition. I ant swilling to leave the army. In a few months I shall be f age; my fortune is small; but if I dared to hope that you=yon—could but learn to love me, it would be enough for both. "Harry, is it possible," said the lovely girl with beaming eye 4, "that you know not of my wealth—of my fortune?" "Fortune!" I gasped, letting go her arm, and looking terror-stricken. "Go on," said Maria, kindly: "that would make no difference to me." "Dearest, beloved girl of my heart, par don my presumption. I had no idea that you were' other than the portionless girl I knew a year ago. Had I suspected this," I added, proudly, "I should have crushed the dawning passion within my heart: 'tis now too late--rich or poor, my heart is ir revocably gone. I should have hesitated— but I feared my brother might speak first. Ire is tomebody—l am nobody." '"Your brother, Harry, would have been rejected," said Lady Maria, dryly; "and now, dear Harry, I would not willingly of fend you, but you must let one think this but a burst of boyish passion." I staggered as she spoke. "No! I was a boy when I came here—a happy, merry, careless boy—l am now a man, and you have made me so. It remains for you to decide whether my manhood shall be one of glorious happiness, or whether I become a desperate and hopeless wretch, whose career upon earth Heaven in its mer cy will shorten." "Don't! don't!" sheeried; "don't say such wicked things!" "They are not wicked, Maria. It is even so. Like the gambler, I have unwittingly placed my whole existence on the hazard of adie—death or life upon a woman's smile.— You may try to deceive yourself, but you must believe me. When once a man's eyes have fixed themselves in love upon you, it is forever." "Harry Harcourt," said Lady Maria, quickly, "I would not believe it true for all the wealth or the Indies." "Why?" said I, tremblingaswith the ague. •'Because I can never be yours," she con tinued, with a deep sigh. "You do not love me," I gasped. "Harry Harcourt, why press me on this painful subject? I tell you plainly that I can never—no, never, be yours!" "But why?" "I am engaged to another, and shall be married in a month." "Ah! I suspected it—my brother!" I shrieked. "No; to ono whom you do not know, and whose name, in your present humor, I would rather not mention." "Heaven have merry on me! Is this reality, or some horrid dream? Can it be true?—another's!" "I fun very sorry, Harry!" she said, in her softest, tendereit tone. "I should not have come, had I suspected—" "Sorry! sorry!" I cried; "sorry, indeed! Why? 'Tis but n boy's heart broken—noth ing more. But—but—is this engagement irrevocable?" "I have been engaged this twelvemonth," falteren poor Maria, who really did feel for "And you love him?" "Ile is a man of noble elmmeter, a man to respect rather than love. Ile is much older than I am—and yet I had looked for wrirclwith delight to our union, as of one .wise and discreet, promisinggreathappiness —until just now." "Until just now," I repeated. ‘Yes, Harry—if that is any satisfaction to you—know that I regret my precipitancy. I should hare seen more of the world ere .1 tied myself. Do not mistake me. Your passion takes me by surprise; buthad I been free, gratitude, pride—fur you are a noble fellow, Ilarrywoulil probably have led me to return your generous, your disinterested affection.. It is now too late. My word is irrevocably given, and to talk even of what might have been is a crime. .Not another word. Harry, or I leave you. Calm your self, or everybody will be talking aboutys. I shall leave as soon as possible. Would that I had not come!" I was stunned, overwhelmed, annihilated. felt like some guilty wretch condemned to die. I knew that hope there was none.— Lady Maria Templeton would not havebeen sa hard- bet to temper her refusa I. Another's! It was fearful to think of—it was madden ing, and it nearly drove me mad! When I joined my brother and sister I tried to rally. It n•as but a faint attempt. It was no con solation to me to know that evening Lady Maria refused him also. I pitied him; I pitied any one whohad to endure the torture .of her smile, and know it was another's. I I believe earth has nu other such pain a , this. How I passed over that Christmas-eve and how I endured. that Christmas day, I know nut. I heard the siren's' voice, bu: I understood it not. It was very late, and the merry party wm about to break up. I had mado my arrenge ments to start at daybreak. "Lady Maria," said I, inas stately a man ner as I could assume—it was very unkiro: and very ungenerous, but I could not bell it—l am come towish you good•by. I leavi to-morrow morning to join my regiment!' "So soon," she replied, raising her eye: brimful of tears to mine. "Why go? The Christmas merry-makings are not over; and who knows, crc the new year you may be, heart whole or happy!" "Ncver—l must go," I said, coldly. "Harry," she replied, meekly, "do not go. Your father, brothers, sisters, will all blame me. You were to stay till Twelfth day." "I cannot endure this torture—it is too much," I cried. "Harry, Harry, stay for my sake—or ratb er I will go." "I will now allow it. My departure is ir revocably fixed—" "Infatuated boy!" sbe said, and turned away to bide her tears. Before a week I had exchanged into a regiment on the verge of departure to India. * * * * * * I spare thereader my campaignsin India. I arrived there in a desperate mood. I had rejected the advances of the young ladies who accompanied me on my journey. I hated the sight of a woman. I landed a misanthrope—disappointed, and glad to fol low a career which promised early death. I can safely say that during the four years' campaign in which I served, the image of Maria Templeton was never absent from my mind. Despite everything, I loved her still. At the end of this time I was invalided home. I was very ill—wounds and cholera had laid races low as they well could. Dur ing the whole time I never wrote home once, and received no letters. I had my 'income unspent at my banker's. I determined to die' comfortably, so traveled overland to Marseilles, and thence to Paris. I felt that I had not many months to live, so took up my quarters at the Hotel des Princes. As an invalid, I engaged:an apartment on the first floor—expensive, but very comfortable, I was selfish, morbid, valetudinarian, full of fancies and monomaniac; a tyrant to my servants, disagreeable to all around me.— What cared I? The world and I had no further relation. I was dying. On my arrival in Paris I had some spare cash but drew on my London agents for more, after advising them of my arrival. I bade them transfer any balancewhich might be due, to my banker in Paris. I received an answer by return of post: "The balance due to you and now in our hands is seventeen thotisand some odd pounds. Arc we to transfer the whole . amount to your account, or will you draw for whatever you may require? We shall feel highly honored by the latter course, which will show your intention of continuing our service." 'What on earth did they mean? The men must have lost their senses. I turned to the back of the letter—" Sir Henry Ilarcourt, Bart." "My father and brother dead?" I cried involuntarily. I hastened to my banker's. "Were you not aware, Sir Henry?" said L—, the banker. "Had not the slightest idea. Excuse me, I will call again." And I hurried back to my hotel in nmood of mind which maybemorereadily imagined than described. My father and brother had both died believing me an undutifulson and a bad brother, when I was but engrossed in the web of a hopeless passion. I had sisters, a Station to keep up. I coldly resolved to marry some quiet English girl, and in the peace and tranquility of n country life to forget my sorrows. Or would I get Fanny and Mary married, and be the good brother and uncle? At all events, I would do something. • Strange that I no longer thought of flying. My head• was, however, in a great whirl, and I felt rather faint. Hurrying on, I' reached my hotel, hastened up-stairs, opened the door, and sank upon a sofa. '"I be/iovel did not faint. but sleep soon overcame me. It was nearly evening when I awoke, and I saw I was not , alone. Two females sat i; conversation by the window. It must be my two sisters.— I started to any feet. "Sir Henry," said a low voice. • I shivered all over. "Lady Maria," I replied, in cold and freezing accents, "this is nn honor which I little expected, and one which I must say I cnn scarcely appreciate." "Nay, sir," said she, a little, and only a little haughtily, "it is I who have to demand an explanation. These are my apartments. I returned joist now, and you may imagine my bewilderment on finding a gentleman fast asleep on my sofa—my delight on find ing it Netts you." "Delight, madam!" I said, for I was firm and collected now; "I can scarcely under stand your delight at meeting with your vic tim, and lest you should find an explanation of your word difficult, allow me to retire." - "Stay one moment," exclaimed Lady Maria; though pale, she was more beautiful than ever, there was a soft melancholy in her eyes Which I dared not minutely examine; "one moment, Sir henry. Have you receir ed'no letter from Fanny!" $1,50 PEE YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IP NOT IN ADVANCE "Not one from living soul, madam. I lid not give my address to any one. I bur. :ied from place to place, and never, if :ould help it, visited the same localit3 OEM "Then why have you come here?" "To die?" "To•dic? Yon are as well as ever you sere in your life." "Madam, from that hour when in your seductive society I learned the fatal art of !ore, I have never known one moment's hap ,tiness or health. In sickness, in battle, on - he field, in the tent—l could find no rest. Your image was ever there. I have chased •lie tiger and the wild elephant in the hope ')3 , such savage amusement to blunt my ..eclings, but in vain. Behold, madam! for ,nce, a man who for four years has been lying for love—four years! During this time what have you been doing?" "Waiting for you, Harry," said the siren with her soft eyes full of tears. "Waiting for me, madam!" I cried, in a towering passion: "are you then a widow? Worse —worse—than a wife?" "I never married, Harry," she continued, meekly. "Never married!" I gasped. "Never married, infatuated boy! You little know that, young as you were you had awakened in my bosom feelings which I dared not avow. I was an affianced wife. Still I did not give up all hope. I deter mined to confess all to kim, to explain frank ly your offer and my altered sentiment., pledging myself, however, to fullfill my part of the contract if be held me to my vow. I could not even hint this to you, and yet I did not ask you to wait—l begged you to stay. I hinted what might happen. 1) 0 you not recollect? But you wildly disap peared. Had you paused and reflected, we might have been a steady old married couple!" It was a dream of joy I could not realize to myself. I sank on my chair half fainting. When I came to, I found Lady Maria, and her aunt, Mrs. Curt, bathing my temples. "But how came I here—in your room?" I said, after some whispered words. "Wait," said Lady Maria, blushing, "1 read in the Morning Post of your arrival at the Hotel des Princes, very ill. I thought you were hurrying home, in answer to a letter of your sister Fanny's, in which I had allowed her to tell you all; so I thought as you were very ill, the nurse you wanted was—was—" "Your future wife," said Mrs. Curt laugh ing while Maria Templeton blushed crimson. "Heaven bless you!" I muttered, and catch ing her in my arms, I imprinted on her lips the first kiss of love, though the aunt did frown a little. I need scarcely add that I did not die. I am happy, very happy; perhaps all the happier for my trials; yet I often regret the four years of misery I endured through my precipitancy.. Still I have great reason to be grateful that the genuine passion of my life should have terminated so well; and that, unlike so manyin thisworld, my wifeshould be "My First Love." The Ghost of the Black Friars It was a. dreary night in November, 18—, when Mr. Hawthorne, a Protestant English gentleman, rode up to the gates of the Ab bey of St. Baruabas, fifteen miles from the town of —, on the banks of the far-famed river Po. lie had started from Turin early in the morning, in company with a post chaise, containing his brother. and three friends; but having left the highway to in spect a ruin at some distance across the fields, had got bewildered and lost his road. As nightfall came on, the lights front the casements of the Abbey led hint, as his only protection front exposure, and the banditti who then infested the country, to seek hos pitality at its gates. It was only the sheer est necessity compelled him to do so. For Mr. Hawthorne was the son of an Evangeli cal minister, and his notions of monks and their persecuting spirit, were such as may be more easily imagined than describe).— As the sturdy lay brother cautiously un barred and opened the massive convent gate the traveller's spirit was somewhat re-as. sured by the honest good-nature which beamed from his face; but a thrill of dis trust ran through his veins as he swung back thehenvy portal,still eyeing the guest, who had dismounted, and stood bridle in hand, at the horse's head. The corners of the old monk's handsome mouth at that moment assumed something of a smirk, that seemed to speak a consciousness of having a high-mottled Briton in his power. The gravel creaked beneath their feet as they approached the stable, where the horse was duly cared for, and where his master I left him at the invitation of the monk, to repair to the strangers apartment and par take of some refreshment which he stood sadly in need of, after his solitary rambles. I Not long after supper, the Most Rever- 1 end Father Abbott was announced, and Mr. Hawthorne, on rising, confronted a tall, i commanding figure, in whose veins coursed ' some of the proudest blood of northern Italy's feudal chieftains. The mingled air of grace and majesty which formed the character of the Father Abbott impressed his visitor most favorably, and the paternal kindness with which he welcomed him to I the convent halls, and on taking leave bade him a cheerful "good-night, and God bless you," tended wonderfully to dispel his gloom and re assure his spirits. Still he could not but think that all this friendli- [WHOLE NUMBER, 1,464. nese might be only apparent, while the true end was to lull all anxiety, and put him completely off his guard. Ho had heard from travelers of individuals who had been known toentersimilarinstitutions and never left them. He knew that an English Protest ant would seem no better than a heretic in the eyes of the monks, whose blind zeal might lead them to any excess, against one whom they considered as an enemy of God and Holy Church. Ile retired to rest with a heavy heart, and bitterly repented having at all entered this strange abode. Mr. Haw thorne was, in plain truth, some w:,at super stitious. He had been led to belies o from early infancy that monks and friars held communion with the evil spirits of the air. lie believed, moreover, in presentiment, and now, do what he would, the firm con viction rested on his mind that some great mishap was going to berall him. He looked anxiously all around the room before even approaching his bed, and longer still before he laid his head on his pillow. Little did lie dream of what a night he was about to pass: He had not been asleep more than an hour when the wall opposite to his bed ex hibited a streak of light. Hawthorne fazed intently upon this unexpected 3 ision, so as to be sure it was not the work of fancy.— Ire was certain he did not dream, for the dark figure of a monk in the black friar's garb detached itself from the bright glare furmed on the wall, and glided with noise less tread toward his couch. For a moment the traveler's superstition got the better of him, his flesh crept, and his hair stood on end at the thought that this awful cisioa must be from below. The Ghost glided into a corner of the room, between the bed and the wall. Hawthorne, iu turning, made a slight noise, when the figure turned on him, and stood, as though shading a light which it held in its hands. Its jaws opened as its eyes rested upon the traveler. for a moment it delayed, then glided to the part from which it came, and vanished. "Heavens:" thought the Englishman, as he gradually recovered from his fright.— "[lave I truly gazed upon the guilty dead appearing again upon earth, or was this horrid visitor some emissary who precedes the appearance of a cowled assassin? The more he thought the less could ho under stand of so strange a mystery. He deemed it prudent not to sleep any more, and in spite of hunger, fatigue and cold, he paced up and down the room until morning. The room was not opened until a late hour, when the monk who had served bins while at supper, entered to inform him that a post-chaise had deposited at the gate four gentlemen, who had come expressly to in quire if a traveler answering the descrip tion of Mr. Hawthorne had stopped at the Abbey that night. 'When Hawthorne met them in the strangers' apartment, what was his ,joy en discovering that one of the four was the British Consul. Fearful of some foul play, Mr.' Hawthorne's brother had re quested that official to accompany him and his friends, when they left Turin. Haw thorne determined at once to have the mat ter of the unearthly vision which had dis turbed his slumbers probed to the bottom.— The Consul declared that he would take a judicial account of all the es idence. Tho Abbot was summoned, at Mr. I lawthorne's request, and as the Consul represented that the presence of all the residents of the in stitution would lead to a speedier solution of the mystery, the whole community WaA assembled in the convent refectory. The circumstances of the visit of either a ghost or an assassin, were repeated with7nervons aceuracyby Hawthornc,whowas now roused to a high pitch of excitement and eager de. sire of revenge When he had finished, the Abbot turned a searching look upon the bystin and charged any one present who knew of this dreadful occurrence, to speak out, in virtue of holy obedience. The Prior of the Con. vent was the only one who spoke, though what lie said gave little satisfaction; in feet, rather rendered the explanation more dif ficult. lie remarked that there was a door which led to theruom where Mr. Hawthorne had slept, from the corridor of the infirmary. A silence ensued, when Hawthorne was observed to grow pale and stagger back. An old monk, who hod a partial charge of the infirmary, stepped slowly from tin', ranks of his brethren and walked towards the Abbot. Hawthorne hail reeognized at once the thin. pale features, upon which the nocturnal lamp had glared. The old man bared his silvery head, and bowed tremb lingly nt his superior's feet. A dead silence ensued as he began in a husky voice: "Most Reverend Father Abbot, I confess that I know something of this last night's occur rence. I myself was the cause of the En glishman's alarm. I know that Brother Francis is a young and giddy lad, and after beads, on my way to bed, I stepped into the room to see if Brother Francis had re membered to put water in Me pitcher! When I got up to the corner where the washstand is, I saw the Englishman turn around, and for fear of waking him up, I ran again out of the room." The way to Cure Hatred At the foot of tho mountain Norkin, to the north of Pekin, and not far from the Yellow Sea, that is, in the northern part of Chins, there dwelt, beneath the shelter of a natu ral grotto. a bonze, whose name WWI Linn. lie was the eraele of the whole prey:n-7
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