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VOLUME XXXIII, NUMBER 48.1
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gitettifoto.
The Brothers.
IMIII=M3
The cold Chistmas moon was shining on
the sleeping village of Cheriton. It lit up
the long, straglging street, and made every
object almost as distinctly visible as at noon
day. But in the spiritual light they ap
peared very different. A beautiful quietude,
solemn, yet serene, seemed to rest on all
things. The qtiaint houses, with their high
roofs, and oddly-clustered chimneys, looked
as if they brooded over the recollection of
the long-past times they had known; and
the grandold church looked doubly reverend,
with the frost-work glittering about its Nor
man-arched windows, and on the boughs of
the huge cedar which towered beside the
doorway. The moonbeams lingered loving
ly about the grey walls; they fell, too, on
the white gravestones in the churchyard,
and made each one shine as with a still,
calm smile—happy and holy. It was a
night upon which thoughtful Men might
gaze, and feel rising in their hearts simul
taneous hope for earth and aspiration to
heaven.
Very quiet was the place, as the moon
went on ber way, looking down with her
clear, chill lustre of gaze. And there was
one house, isolated from the others by a
somewhat extensive domain of shrubbery
and garden, about which the moonlight
seemed to play as if in curiosity. It was a
primitive, old-fashioned abode; window
shutters and blinds were few, save to the
lower rooms, and the moonbeams penetrated
unhindered into the chambers, and played
fantastic tricks ilium the walls and floors.
Into one little room the elfish rays darted
on a sudden, as the moon, rising - higher in
the heavens, escaped the shadow of a pro
jecting buttress in the wall; and the pale
light fell full upon a little white-draped bed,
wherein lay two young boys. One, the el
dest by some years, was asleep, and the
quivering light fell on his face—a face every
lineament of which was so full of nervous
energy, that even in sleep it did not wear an
expression of repose. His brother's pale,
delicate features were, on the contrary, dis
tinguished by a sort of sculptural calm. ❑e
bad a high, straight, thoughtful brow, and
that sensitive mouth, which to the most
masculine face always add an almost woman
like sweetness of expression.
The two boys seemed apt illustrations of
two differently-constituted beings. The one
all action, the other all thought; if the life
of the first might bo a picture, that of the
second would be a poem.
The younger brother was awake. His
eyes of dark, deep, liquid hazel were
thoughtfully fixed upon the sleeping face
beside him, and now and again, as with a
tender impulse, his bands gently put aside
the clustering brown curls from the broad
forehead of the sleeper. Presently ho drew
back the white curtain, and looked out at
the quiet, homely scene stretched out in the
moonlight—at the foreground of trees, leaf
less, but clothed in a fairy robe of rime, and
(in the far distance, strangely clear that
night) the wide wonder of the silent sea.
Ile looked—his face lit up—glowed with a
nameless rapture. Unuttered prayers swell
ed in the young heart—instinctive hopes—
blessed beliefs rose unbidden to his mind.
And even while he thus gazed, and felt,
and pondered in the stillness of that wintry
midnight, the stillness was broken. Vibrat
ing on the frosty air came solemn strains of
music, played with uutaught skill on two or
three oid-fashioned instruments. It was an
ancient English air, with a kind of patriar
chal simplicity in its character, half carol,
half hymn, which harmonized well with the
place and the time. As the very voice of
the quaint and peaceful village came tho
clear, sweet sounds blendin7 like a visible
actuality with the wintry stars dotting the
dark sky, with the snow-covered roofs, and
walls, and trees, and with the pure, passion
lees moonlight shining over them all.
"Laurence, wakel Listen to the wear!"
It was some time before the subdued
voice and the gentle touch disturbed the
sleeper from his dreams. When at last ho
was aroused, he started up suddenly, crying
aloud—
"Who calls? Oh, Willie, is it you?" he
added in a sleepy tone. "What did you
wake me for? " 'isn't morning!"
"Hush! speak low! Don't you hear the
music?"
There was a pause., Tho two boys lis
tened in silence.
"It's old Giles fleadforth with his violon
cello," at length broke in Laurence, "and
Johu Read with his cracked hautboy, and
little •
"Ah, don't!" cried the younger boy, with
a gesture almost of pain; "never mind who
plays. It sounds so solemn now, so —"
His words died away in the intentness of
Lie listening.
"Queer old tune, isn't it?" presently said
Laurence, "and queer old figures they look,
I'll be bound. standing in the street, whit'
red noses, and frozen eyelashes, and muffled
in worsted comforters up to tho chin."
He laughed, and then yawned.
"I think I shall go to sleep again. These
fellows don't seem Inclined to leave off. I
shall be tired of listening before they are of
playing, I expect."
"Keep awake a little longer, Laurence,
dear," pleaded the other. "It's only fur
one night, and 'tie so nice for us to hear the
music, and look out upon the moonlight
together."
"Very well, Willie," assented the elder
boy, nipping a fresh yawn in the bad, "any
thing to please you. old fellow."
"There—put your arm around me—so,"
pursued Willie, always in the same hushed,
whispering tone, "and let me lean my head
upon your shoulder. Now, that is pleasant.
We love each other; don't we, Laurence?"
And the tender, childish face looked up
, ward, askingly.
"I should think so—slightly! You're a
dear old chap, Will, though you hare rather
odd, old-fashioned notions."
Ile stooped down and pressed a hearty
kiss on his young brother's delicate face.
And then the twe boys remained silent,
watching the flickering moon-rays, and lis
tening to the simple music without. * *
There are some recollections, oftentimes
trivial enough in themselves, which yet re
main impressed on the mind through a whole
life, outlasting the memory of events far
more striking, and more recent in their oc
currence.
Lt 50
E3►A
Laurence and William Carr grew to be
men, went out into the world, end were bat
tlers fur fortune; and one of them, alas! in
fighting that hard fight became hardened in
nature, so that scarce a trait remained of
the generous, loving boy of yore. His soul
was chill in the st.my routine of that life
which is so scrupulously practical—one
might almost say, material—the life of a
London merchant, devoted, honrt and soul
to his calling, and to the ambitions of his
class. Ilis old instincts were almost dead
with'n him; his old aspirations, his boyi,l,
predilections were crushed out, effaced, ns
though they had never been. And yet, the
cold, hard, money-getting man of the world
never lost the vivid remembrance of that
Christmas night, years nod years ago, when
his little brother lay with his head leaning
on his shoulder, and they listened together
to the village waits. * 0 " *
Tho brothers were separated now—worse,
they were estranged. The world came be
tween them, and stifled the frank, free love
which each, though in so widely different a
way, had felt for the other, ever since the
childish days when they_ had played to
gether about the old house at Chericon, and
prayed night and morning at their mother's
knee.
The two boys were left orphans before
William was twenty years old, and with but
little with which to begin life. Laurence's
desires had been all for a life of change, ad
venture, and travel; but instead, he was
compelled to take the only opening which
offered to him; and, before his father's death,
was established in the countinghouse of a
wealthy relative. He soon learned content
ment with his fate. To pursue an object,
be it fame, or power, or wealth, seems an
inherent instinct in man's nature. It fills
his energies, satisfies his restlessness, and
insensibly, but gratefully, ministers to that
vague yearning for dominion which is the
inevitable birthright of every man since the
beginning of the world. Laurence, shut out
from worthier aspirations. found his ambi
tion run high—to be great in the sense by
which all those around him understood
greatness. He would be rich. lie would
work his way to fortune, to position, to in
fluence. Keeping that goal ever in view,
he would struggle through every difficulty,
force his way over every obstacle, but he
would gain it at last. So he said to himself,
silently, many times, during the weary time
of probation, when obscurity and hard work
appeared to be his allotted portion then and
always. But this dark period did not last
long, it was not likely that it should con
tinue. He had talents, quickness, vigor,
untiring perseverance, and unfailing health.
His progress was rapid. Ile climbed the
hill with footsteps swift as they were sure,
and when his father died the old man felt
easy on the score of his eldest son's pros
pects and ultimata success.
But meanwhile William hod remained at
home, pursuing his self-imposed and dearly
loved studies; reading, thinking, dreaming
his hours away in perfect happiness.
From this content he was rudely aroused
to the dread realities of death and poverty.
The pleasant home and the familiar faces
which made it so dear, seemed to slide from
him, and left him standing alone in the
bleak world, which was so new and strange;
like one who, reared in Arcadia, is nn a
sodden thrust into the midst of the fierce
turmoil of a battle.
Ile sought his brother—but the two na
tures, always different, were doubly so now,
when a life of active business had hardened
the one, rendering it more than ever uncom
promising; tclii le years of quiet retirement
had made the other yet more refined, more
visionary, more sensitive.* And from Lau
rence, the young,or brother met with no sym
pathy in nll those innermost feelings of his
soul; the closest, dearest portion of himself.
There was in William Carr that inexplica
ble, intangible sonic:Ad, which marks one
man among his fellows—the poet—even
though he be dumb to his life's end.
The man of business shrugged his shoul
ders, knitted his brows at "William's strange
fancies." Ile did not comprehend—he did
not core to do so, it seemed. The first step
towards their estrangement was taken when
William declined, gently and thankfully,
but decisively, a situation in tho same house
where Laurence was now high in trust.
"It it of no use, brother; it would not be
right to accept it. I am not fit for such a
responsibility. It would be a wrong to my
employers to burden '.em with my inca
pacity."
"lon will improve. You may leave them
to protect their own interests, believe me."
William shook his head.
And in brief, the elder brother found the
delicate-looking youth immutable in his de
cisions, and left him, with words of impa
tience and anger upon his lips.
Ills heart reproached him fur it afterwards.
Lie was not at all encrusted as yet with the
ossification of worldliness. The next day he
again went to his brother's lodgings. But
William was no longer there—he had left
London, they told him; and it was not till
lie reached his own haute that he received a
letter of explanation:
LA, ar:scin I thought it best to go. Forgive
me d you think it wrong. lam not able to struggle
with the fierce multhildit of monev.getters in this
dreary London. My old master, Dr., has offered
the a situation as Cilll.iCai tutor in his school. I have
accepted. It is the best thing I see to do. So fare
wed. Ever yours,
"And my brother will be the paltry usher
in a country school!" muttered Laurence,
as he crushed the letter in his hand. "Gone,
too, without consulting MC, his older, his
natural adviser. It is badly done."
And so tho cloud between the brothers
grew dni.k and palpable. They occasionally
corresponded; but each succeeding letter,
instead of drawing them nearer together,
seemed only to widen the gap. They did
not understand ono another. Besides, Lau
rence was becoming a rich man, and had
become partner in the house where once he
was a clerk; while William still remained
poor and obscure, with no prospect of his
circumstances improving. And when the
breech between two brothers or friends once
"NO ENTERTAINMENT SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JUNE 28, 1862.
exists, difference of worldly position fatally,
icily increa.es it.
Laurence married brilliantly, choosing
his wife from a noble but impoverished
family, who were glad enough to ally their
aristocratic poverty with his wealth, mer
chant and plebean though he was. It was
while on his wedding tour, with his hand
some but somewhatpassee bride, that he re
ceived a letter from his brother, forwarded
to him from Lyndon.
"From William—my brother," be remark
ed, explanatorily, as he opened it; "in answer
I presume, to the announcement of my mar
riage,"
The frigidly high-bred lady responded by
a slight bend of her long neck, and busied
herself with her chocolate and muffins, while
her husband perused the letter. When he
had flpiAbed, he refolded it carefully, and
placed it in his pocket, then turned in silence
to his breakfast. his wife never noticed
any peculiarity in his manner; she was one
of those by whom it is not considered good
ton to be observant of other people's emotions
even a husband's. Lady Henrietta Carr
was scrupulous in her attentions to such
points of etiquette. One more loving than
she was, might possibly , have divined how
much was concealed under the pale face, the
bent brow, end the remarkably quiet voice
of Laurence Carr that morning. One more
tender might even have drawn the secret
disturbance forth, and pleaded the cause of
the absent offender, instead of leaving the
wrath to ferment hiddenly in the stern
man's breast.
"I will never forgive him—never, never!
I will never look upon his face again. 1
will never give him help—we are strangers
from this hour. Let him travel his own
road—and starve."
These hard, terrible words the brother
passionately uttered, as he trod the room to
and fro, when he was alone, and after again
reading the letter.
"Dmat II entrurn LACRENC-1" (it ran)- 4 1rour letter,
with as brief announcement of your marriage,. gave
rate great pleasure, not only Inc the sake of the
but bee2lll 4 C in the kindly manner In whieh you
conveyed it at Inc. Perhaps, brother, it as an equal re
proach to both of us that the coati:ably was sir aitga u.
%veit as plea-nit. Let us be friends again, in 'wart as
in name: we were sn once—bin IL is a long while ago
In our now ha ppitiess may surely drown all past
odtnces. For I. also am married—not to a peer's
daughter; no Laarence with you alone trill rest all the
brilitante. and prandeur of lac: I only ask for a little
quiet—l am easily conlent. My wine you may remem
ber: we: till knew her when we were boys at school—
Mary Elliot, who, though her father was a vintage
tradesman, has had the ethic* troll, and Innately po—
,csse- the refinement of any lad,. in the land. I OaVe
loved be r, and she rite, for six years. :She is rut
orphan, ton, and has been in governess all that tine—
Vi e are rich enough to commence house.keeptlig,.
though on a modest stale. We are very happy;
pray that you wry he the same with my new .4-ter. to
whom I beg to offer my aflectionate regards. Mary
also Jobe, ale in the game 10 yourse it my dear brother.
And believe me ever yours Manfully. _ .
"The daughter of a country shop-keeper
and the daughter of the Earl of Tynford to
call each other sisters! And he has done
this. He will repent it; ho must, he shall.
He is a diograce, a shame to me. Ile might
have been en aid—he might have helped my
plans. But now, to marry thus!"
Such were some of Laurence's disjoined
exclamations, as ho tore The letter in pieces,
and flung them into the fire. Then he join
ed his bride. In the course of the day he
informed her that his brother had irreme
diably offended him, and that ho would
never speak to him or see him more. Lady
Henrietta elevated her handsome eyebrows
in a momentary amazement, then restored
her features to their habitual expressional
composure, andovithout any remark, suffer
ed her husband to turn the conversation.
Time passed on. The wealth of Laurence
Cnrr increased yearly; his name grew glori
ous in the cars of business men. llis house
was a palace; his wife was jeweled like a
queen. lie himself still burrowed daily in
(lusty city holes, whence all his riches seemed
to spring, and every year ho became harder
and more impassable, and more devoted to
the one end and aim of his life—money
7ettin7.
It was his sole ambition—he had no hope,
no joy beyond There was no happiness in
his gorgeous home, no tenderness in his ma
jestic and aristocratic wife. No ono who
looked on him would have immagined that
he felt the want of love; that there was any
remnant of the generous, warm-hearted boy's
nature still lingering in the old grim nmer•
chant—old before his time, but hard,and cold,
and piercing :is a steel poignard yet - . But
it was so. There were moments when his
thoughts wandered at their own will—when
he remembered. The face of his mother
shone oa him sometimes; and then would
come a flash of memory—of the old childish
days. And ah, how strange the childish
feelings of those days. Asd his two chil
dren. The boy ho often pictured to himself
as born to continue the greatness of his
family—as enjoying like a prince, the wealth
and luxury he had labored to acquire. And
the fair, gentle girl, whose progress to wo
manhood he had followed in the thoughts;
whose birth softened his harsh heart to ab
solute tenderness. She it was who would
cling to him lovingly in after years—whose
soft lips would press upon the wrinkles of
his worn face—whose gentle voice would
always have the power to win him out of
his harder, sterner self. If either of his
children had lived, Laurence Carr might
have been a different man; but both these
blessings which he had prayed for—dreamed
of as the solace and delight of his old age
—were only granted to him for a brief space,
and then left his sight forever.
The blow rent his heart sorely. It was
so deep a grief, even, that at first he forgot
the check to his ambition it involved. No
non of his would carry his name into future
ages—no descendants of his were destined
to make illustrious the plebian family ke
had first raised from obscurity. When this
remembrance came, it added to his affliction
a something that was cold. stony, and
almost defiant. Bereaved love mourns; but
blighted ambition erects its head in very
impotence of pride againts the hand that
chastises. Laurence's heart grew hardened.
He buried himself anew in his grim pur
suits; they seemed the be-all and end-all of
his existence now. He said to himself that
it was enough; ho would make it enough.
Yet, spite of all his inward protestntions,
he looked enviously, and somtimes with a
feeling less selfish than envy, at the happy
parents of blooming children. He would
have given well nigh his all hard-won wealth
for one such boon as was so freely granted
to many.. Against his will he often found him
self musing thus, sorrowfully,yearningly. Ile
would awake himself With stern resolve; the
one-half of his nature would shrink into it
self, while the other looked on with a ear
-1 donic kind of piety.
Yet again and again came these softening
reveries. It was in the midst of one of them
in the twilight of a December evening. that
he was roused by receiving a letter from
William. • ' • -
It was the first time since many years,
during which the stern elder brother had
suspended all intercourse, and had never
sought to know what had become of the
other. lie had known somewhat, however;
for William had come to London, and had
commenced the new life of authorship, and
Laurence had occasionally met his name in
passing periodicals. But direct communi
cation between the two had altogether ceased.
Ile frowned as ho recognized the hand.
Perhaps, had this letter come at any other
time, he might have returned it unopened.
Oh, men! ye who pray, pray for your fellow
men, ?chose hearts are hardened. Oh, angels!
plead for them, strive for them; for verily if
there be a place in nil llis we] ks where dod
does not dwell, and where no saving spark
of divinity can linger, it must be in the ster
ile heart of a world-hardened man. •
Laurence frowned; but ho tore the letter
open, so soon as the servant had left the
room, and ho read:
llnd almo , t sworn never to address yon again,
after that last letter you sent. In that you bade me
never to trouble you more; you told me that you
would neither listen to me nor assist me. however sore
my emit might be. I forgot you were my brother
when I read those words: the devil rose Within me,
and l had uttered—what hereafter it might have wttli
ere,' me to think of. only my wife came up to me, and.
God bless her, while her eyes rested on :no. I could
not speak, nor even think of winos was hissing nit my
heart. I tell you this that you may judge what II costs
me to write to you 110 W, • •I might starve." you said.
Laurence Cate, then I have learned what .iit r
vomit is like-1 have traveled very near its titnlo-1
it is u word the meaning of which I know
That would not ding me one quarter Inch towards
your thre•hltold; its wont agony is not within a twen
tieth part 01 that which even the thought of addressing
you or help would have cost me. But Mut ategn.ll
Is now swallowed in a greater. I eeek your help—l
current you, I beseech yoi to assist inc. Laurence.
we are brother;, the children of Oile mother; do not
deny me. Give to me as you would to a beggar—fling
me some money into the street. I care 1101 how, so
you do not lie dent to my cry—only be prompt, fon
Death is elides-.
••Itrnlher! God lonics on you an von head: en to me
ary child is dying for wont of food. I tt•nit
•• WILLIAM CAIIIO
Laurence rose from his gilded chair, and
traversed the luxurious chamber wherein
he had sate, stately and solitary. Ile opened
the door—there he paused. Then, as it
with new resolution, he steppes forth into
the hall.
In a remote corner, which even the bril
liant lamp failed clearly to illumine, he dis
tinguished a tall, thin figure—a pale, pinch
ed face, with gay hair falling tangled over
the broad brow. Did Laurence see then the
vision of the bright-haired child. who slept
on his breast one Christmas night long years
back? Who can tell.
Ilowbeit, ho retreated int^ tile room be
fore he was recognized, or even seen by his
brother; and it was by a servant that he
sent to William a small but heavy packet.
lie eagerly seized it, with a kind of smoth
ered cry, almost like a soh, and the nest in
stant had left his brother's house.
=1
The child *as saved; and then William
had time to think on the sacrifice he had
made to save it. His proud heart was torn
at theremembrance that ho had been a wait
ing petitioner in the hall of his brother's
house, and had been received at the hands
of his brother's lackey. He could not know
that Laurence, hard man as he was, had
tried to face him, but could not; that he
had watched him as he darted away through
the street; that ho had thought of him often,
since, with something almost aprroaching
tenderness.
Ile did not know this; so he strove and
toiled with desperate energy, till he could
give back his brother's gold, and 'hen .re•
turned it with a brief acknowledgment.—
lle added—"lt is hest for us both to forget
our humiliation, for you degraded both in
me. Let us be strangers again."
The returned money found Laurence Carr
a poor man. Sudden political troubles
abroad, with their inevitable consequences
—two or three mistakes in home commercial
policy—had wrought this great change, and
he was bankrupt. A day—two or three
hours in that day—saw the fall, saw the
ruin to its climax. The merchant prince
was worse than penniless; for there were
large debts which all his vast possessions.
all his accumulated wealth, would fail to
satisfy. Ills wife naturally incensed at his
misfortunes, betook herself and her liberal
jointure to the parental rloi", and ho remain.
cd alone to combat with ruin.
Then came out the finer part of his char
acter. With courage ho encountered the
host of difficulties that pressed crushingly
upon him. With scrupulous (some people
called it Quixotic) integrity he gave up all
ho bad, and quietly and simply announced
his intention of paying off the residue of his
debt to the uttermost farthing, if ho lived.—
Then with proud, silent bravery he accepted
a clerkship in some brother-merchant's office,
took an humble lodging, and began ngnin
the life ho had commenced in his early
youth.
The world—even the world of business
and money-getting—is not so wholly bad as
we rend of in novels. Laurence received
many offers of assistance, and one or two
good hearts persisted for a long time in fol
lowing him with their active friendship.—
But he was not great enough to feel grati
tude, or even to thoroughly appreciate their
goodness. Ilis pride was but the pride of a
strong, bold, determined man. lie disdained
sympathy, and sullenly repulsed all prof
fered generosity.
Tho wheel of fortune had made a com
plete revolution. While depressing one
brother, she elevated the other. William
was growing into that rarz aria, a flourish.
ing author. Ile was sufficiently far from
being wealthy, certainly, but he was at an
equally safe distance from want. And now
—oh, beware! Ye who lit tally write resent
ment—he felt as though he would gladly re
turn to his old poverty, if ho could only . re
call the few lines he had sent awhile since
to his nosy ruined brother.
It was long before he dared to approach
him with attempts at reconciliation. He
felt keenly with anguish. the fresh bitter
ness he had himself added to the former es
trangement. If desperate then, it was sure
ly hopeless now. Yet he tried. lie wrote
again and again, and his letters were re
turned with their seals unbroken. Ile laid
in wait often, and essayed to speak to him
—to grasp his band. Ile was coldly thrust
aside, without n word, without a look. He
was always denied admittance at the door,
when time after time he sought the poor
abode where the former niti/tonaire had his
shelter.
Ono less tender, less patient than William,
had been effectually repulsed with half the
rebuffs ho met with. But his exceeding
love and yearning over his brother, besides
the consciousness of having outraged that
brother's pride, now that he has fallen from
his high estate, smote him with an intense,
sharp remorse. Only a man can wholly
sympathize in a man's pride. William's
own heart different as it was, told him how
great was the barrier he had set before there.
At length IVilliam and his wife bethought
themselves of another plan. Their child,
the girl, that Laurence's assistance had
saved from death, was now grown into a
fair damsel, of some fourteen years. She
was like her father, with golden hair and
brown eyes, such as he had.
"lie cannot turn her from him," sa.;2 the
father and mother, as with glistening eye'
they watched her on her way. She led her
little brother by the hand, and these two
presented themselves before Laurence, as
be sat rending in the quiet sunshine of a
Sabbath afternoon.
"We aro Willie and Alice," said the girl,
timidly, looking in his face.
Qe knew them at once, though his eyes
had nerer rested on them before. Alice was
his mother's name. and his mother's face
seemed bout on him now, longingly yearn
ingly.
William and Lai wife wore right—he could
not turn her from him.
"Uncle won't you look at us?" Said the
pleading voice again; "won't you speak to
us—me and little Willie?"
"Papa's own little Willie," chimed in the
boy inopportunely.
"Go home to your father," said Laurence
in a harsh, constrained voice; "1 have noth
ing to say to you. Go home. I do not wish,"
he added in a softer tone, "to be unkind to
you, but—but--you must leave me."
The girl stood drooping and tearful; the
little boy gazed up at him with wondering
eyes. He was fain to escape from them,
and so passed from the room.
After that William grew hopeless. He
had exhausted his stock of expedients; all
his patience, endurance seemed in vain. He
despaired of ever softening the obdurate
heart.
Time passed on, and Laurence was un
troubled by his brother. nIS persevering
industry was working its own way, too, and
he was already clear of the barren poverty
he had at first experienced after his ruin.—
Each succeeding year found him advancing
to ease again, if not to affluence; and he
was stern, cold, and unbending as ever.
Another Christmastide drew near—forty
five years after that Christmas when the
moon shone on the little white bed at Cheri
ton. It was Chri-tmas eve, and Laurence
hail been detained late in the city, balancing
accounts. It was past midnight as he wend
ed his way homeward. It was a frosty
night, and moon-light, and suburban streets
were quiet and slumberous; Laurence's foot
steps, echoing on the pavement, alone break
ing the stillness. Somehow without his
own will, almost in spite' of it, indeed, his
thoughts turned back to old times, and there
arose before him a vision of the quaint
house in the country, where his boyhcol
hod been passed; the large rambling garden,
the big mulberry tree, and the wood near
the village where he and Willie had used to
Bother nuts. Lle and Willie—there he
frowned and sternly refused to dwell on the
retrospection. Ho walked quickly on, with
I lips sturdily compressed and brows knitted,
resolved to shut his mind on all softening
influences; but he could not--the thoughts
Caine again, and would not be repulsed.—
lle lifted his eyes to the sky, and the myriad
stars were shining down on him with a kind
of smile—the sante smile as that of long ago
* Ile coeld not sleep that night.
Ile lay very quiet, but with a world of busy
thought fluttering about his heart, striving
for entrance. The moonlight streamed in
through a crock in the blind, and lit up the
dreary, comfortless room. Laurence closed
his eyes suddenly. The moonbeams brought
a remembranco with them that ho would
not welcome.
There came a sound of music outside in
the frosty street.
The waits. And they played the nl.l, 01 , 1
tone two boys had listened to years ago at
Cheriton.
Very strangely it sounded on Laurence's
ears—strangest of all because it seemed so
familiar. With a mysterious, irresistable
power the sweet, solemn strain smote on his
cloned heart, and even before he recognized
it he hail yields I to its power, and, wonder
ing the while, felt the hot tears bubbling
thickly to his eyes.
And then came thronging the recollec
tions of the olden days—vanished the inter
vening years like an obscuring, emnke, leav
ing clear and vivid the memory of the flop
py, innocent time, when lie was a boy, arid
Willie was his dear brother. The pleasant
home, the kind father, and—gentlest thought
of nil—the mother who had been wont every
night to hang over her boys in Owl,: lit
tle white bed, and lingeringly kiss them ere
they went to sleep. flow plainly he re
membered all—the childish face with is
golden curls; he opened his eyes, almost ex
pecting to see it on the pillow beside him.
No! the moonlight only fell on his own thin,
wrinkled hand, worn and shrivelled with
the troubles and the cares of well nigh sixty
years.
Prayerful thoughts, long strange to him,
alas! came instinctively to his mind, and ho
heard, low and soft, but clear and blending
with the music in the street, the voice of his
mother, sounding ns of old when she read
to ber little sons from the large Book on her
knee. Ile heard solemn. slow, and sweet,
the Divine words—" And this Commandment
I lcare with you, that ye love one another."
Ile saw the dear mother's eyes as they
rested on her boys with such an infinite
yearning tenderness in their depths. Ile
could tell noir, what that earnest look meant.
He could ,guess, too, something of what were
her thought., when often in their childish
quarrels she would draw little Willie close
to her side, and then pass her arm around
the strong, active, vigorous Laurence, whis
pering, "Don't he harsh with Willie; take
care of Willie. Love each other always,
my boys—my darlings."
The waits ceaved—the air was silent—but
there was music in the heart of Laurence
Carr.
Christmas day at Cheriton was drawing
to its close. Thu evening bells were ring
ing—the stars shone in the dark colorless
sky. The murmur of the waves beating on
the - shore came ever and anon—a quiet
sound and happy.
Only two days before, William Carr had
come to live at Cheriton in the old house.—
It was nothing altered; there were the same
many paned windows, quaint corners, and
gabled ends; the same surrounding domain
of garden, with the grove of trees beyond,
behind which the icy moon was rising even
now.
At the bay window of the oak-pannelled
parlor sat William and his wife, with their
two children, watching the pale light trem
bling between the branches of the gloomy
fire. The.fire-light flashed and glowed within
the room, lighting up the pictures on the
walls, the book-s y nod prints, and drawings
*1,50 PER YEAS IN ADVANCE; MOO IF NOT IN ADVANCE.
scattered on the table, and the graceful
groups of winter flowers lavishly disposed
as women love to have them—everywhere.
Alice rested beside her father—his hands
wandered among her bright curls; but he
was looking towards the fir grove, and his
thoughts had traveled back many, many
years. His wife's eyes were fixed on his
face; she could read the language of that
sad wistful look; she knew how eloquently
everything he saw spoke to his heart of the
old happy childish days—tender, pathetic
memories that she also loved so dearly for
his sake. The children prattled gaily for
some time, but at length their voices ceased;
they were subdued into stillness by the un
wonted gravity of their father. Never had
they seen him so sorrowful, and they mar
velled in their innocent hearts; for he was
happy they knew, at coming back to Cheri
ton—to his old home. All the afternoon he
had been painting out to them his favorite
haunts—his garden, his tree with the seat
under it, and the little roam where lie u.ed
to sleep. Ile had been so smiling and glad
then. What could make papa look grieved
noel
Awed by the mystery, they gave their
good-night kiss with added tenderness, but
silently; and silently followed their mother
from the room. But she returned almost
immediately, and stole softly behind the
chair wherein her husband sat, still looking
forth with that silent, longing, regretful
look. Even when he felt arm around
his neck he did not turn. lint she spoke
softly—
" Dearest, I know. But be comforted. It
will be made right some day. Perhaps be
fore another Christmas. God has been so
good to us, lie will not deny this one bless
ing you so crave, so pray fur."
And William folded her to his heart, and
smiled. Mary's voice never sounded in his
oars but to create peace, cr to add to con
tent. When she left him again, the moon
light fell on his face, and showed it calm.
hopeful, and serene.
There came a heavy tread on the stone
steps, leading to the entrance door, and then
the great bell rang startingly through the
quiet house. William rose, and himself
went to meet the intruder. Fairly, clearly,
purely gleamed the moonlight in at the win
dow; warns and generous glowed the fire.
revealing the pleasant home-like aspect of
the room.
S-) William throw back his grey hair from
his brows—a boyish habit, continued ever
since the time of golden curls—and went to
the outer door, unbarred and opened it.
A gush of chill, sharp air—the sound of
the sea, like a far-off chant—the moonbeams,
white on the stone porch and pavement—
and a dark figure standing motionless there;
—this was what William felt, and heard,
and saw, the first moment.
The nest, a face looked on him, n hand
was stretched towards him, and a voice ut
tered only ono word—
" Brother:"
William's joyful cry answerel him; then,
like Joseph of old, "he fell upon his neck,
and wept."
And at the door where the two children
had so often entered from their play, the
two gray-haired moo stood, the Christmas
stars shining on their faces.
The Governor's Escape.
When the British and Tories attacked
New London, Connecticut, in 17—, and set
a price on the head of Governor Griswold,
the latter fled to the town of L—, where
his cousin, Mrs. Marvin, hid him for some
days in a secluded farm house. But at
length the subtle foe discovered his retreat;
and ono sunny afternoon in May, ho was
routed from his hiding place by the tidings
that a band of horsemen were approaching
to capture him.
his only chance of escape was to reach
the mouth of a little creek, which emptied
itself into the Connecticut river. just above
the entrance of the latter into Long Island
Sound. There he had a boat stationed, with
two faithful attendants, hidden beneath the
high banks of the creek. The distance from
the farm-house to the boat was two miles by
the usual traveled road. But a little shiNsi,
path across the farmer's orchards would
bring him to the read only a mile from the
boat, and seven quarter's length of his fear
ful.rtm for life.
Just where the narrow path from the
orchard opened into the road, Ifetty Marvin
sat with her dog Towser. tending the bleach
ing of the household linen. The long web
of forty yards nr more, which was diligently
spun and woven during the long winter
months, was whitened in May, and thus
made ready for use. This businet•s of bleach
ing economized, being usually done by the
younger daughters of the family, who were
not old enough to spin, tier strung enough
for the heavier work of the kitchen and
dairy.
Tho roll of linen was taken by the farmer
or his stout "help" to a grassy plat, beside a
spring or meadow brook. There it was
thoroughly wetted and spread upon the
green turf, to take the heat of the sun by
day, and the dew nt night. The little maiden
who tended it, would sit near it during the
day, with her knitting or her book, and as
fast as the sun dried its folds, she would
sprinkle the water over it with her gourd
shell dipper, and make it wet again.
Thus sat Betty Marvin, the younger
daughter of Governor Griswold's cousin,
when her hunted friend sprang past her into
the road to escape from his pursuers. Hetty
was a timid child of about twelve years:
yet thoughtful and wise beyond many of
her elders. She was frightened by the
headlong haste with which the Governor
rushed across the meadow. But she quickly
comprehended the scene: and instantly
quieted her faithful Towser, who, though a
friend of the family guest, thought it becom
ing to bark loudly at his hurried steps.
Her wise forethought arrested the Gov
ernor's notice, and suggested a scheme to
delude his pursuers. "Betty." he said.
earnestly. am flying for my life, and un
less I can reach my boat before I am over
taken. lam a lost man. You see the road
forks here. Now I want to run down this way
to the river. But you must tell the rascals,
who aro chasing me, that I have gone up
tho road to catch the mail wagon which will
soon bo along you know. Then they will
turn off the other war."
.. -
"Oh, cousin!" nail the little girl in nn
agony of distress, "I cannot tell alie: indeed
I cannot. Why did you tell me which way
you were going?"
"Hefty, dear child. surely you would not
betray me to my death! Hark! they arc
coming. I bear the click of their horses'
feet. Oh. Homy. tell them I hare gone tip
the road instead of down, and Heaven will
bless you."
"Heaven never blesses those who speak
[WHOLE NUMBER 1,60.
falsely, cousin. But I will not tell them
which way you go, even if they kill me; so
run as quickly as possible."
"It's of no use; unless I can deceive them,
I am a dead man."
"Cousin, cousin, hide under my web of
cloth; they'd never think of looking for you
here. Come get down as swift as you can,
and I'll cover you and stand eprinkling my
linen."
It's my only chance, child; I'll get dean
ns you say." And suiting the action to the
word, the Governor was soon bidden under
the ample folds of the cloth.
Angry that their expected prey had escaped
from the house where they hoped to secure
him, the six mounted Tories, headed by a
British officer, dashed along the road in
swift pursuit. At right of the little girl in
the meadow, the leader of the party paused.
"Child," he said, sternly, "have you seen
a man running away hereabouts?"
"Ves, sir," replied Betty, trembling and
flushing , .
"Which way did he go?"
"I promised not to tell, sir."
"But yen must, or take the consequences."
"1 said I wouldn't tell if you killed me,"
sobbed the frightened girl.
"I'll have it out of her," exclaimed the
furious officer with nn oath.
"Let me speak to her," said his Tory
guide, "I know the child, I believe. Isn't
your name !Jetty Nlarvin?" head( pleasantly.
"Yes, sir."
"And this man w•ho ran by you a few
minutes nc.,o, was your mother's cousin,
wasn't he?"
"Yes, sir, he was."
"Well—we arc friends of his—what did
he say to you when lie came along?"
lie—he told me—that ho was flying for
his life.''
'•Just so, Hefty; that was very true. I
hope lie wont have to fly far. Where was
he going to try to hide? you see I could
help him if I knew his plans."
Now 'Jetty was not a whit deceived by
this smooth speech. But she was milling
to tell as lynch of the truth as would consist
with his safety; and she wisely judged that
her frankness would nerve her kinsman
better than her silence. So she answered.
her questioner candidly. "My cousin said
that he was going down this way to tho
river, where he had a boat; and he wanted.
me to tell the men that were chasing him,
that he had gone, the other way to catch
the mail wagon."
"Why don't you do as ho bid you then.
when 1 asked you whore he had gone?"
thundered the oficer fiercely.
"I could not tell a lie, sir, was the tear
ful answer.
"Iletty," again began the smooth-tongued
Tory, 'you are a nice child. Everybody
knows you are a girl of truth. What' did
your cousin say,when you told him you could
not tell a falsehood?"
"110 said he shouldn't think I'd betray
him to his death."
"And then you promised him that you
wouldn't tell which way he went if you was
killed for it?"
"Yes, sir."
"That was a bravo speech; and so I sup
pose ho thanked you for it, and ran down
the road as quick as possible."
"I promised not to toll where ho went,sit."
"Oh, yes; I forgot. Well, tell us his last
words and we won't trouble you any more."
"llis last words were, 'lt's my only
chance, child, and I'll get down as you say.'
And overcome by a sense of her kinsman' s
danger, should they rightly interpret tho
language which she had reported, she sob•
bed aloud, and hid her face from sight.
Her tormentors did not stay longer to
soothe or question her. They had got, as
they supposed, the information which they
wanted: and pushed rapidly down the river.
NO'.7, the Governor had arranged a signal
with his boatmen, that a white cloth by day,
or light in the night, displayed from the
attic window of his hiding place, which was
jest visible at the mnuth of the creek, should
inform them if he were in trouble, and pat
them on the alert to help him. As soon,
therefore, as he started from his cousin's,
the signal floated from the window to warn
them. And when they saw the pursuing
party dash mealy clown the road to the river.
and recognized the British nuiform of tho
leader, they pulled swiftly nut to sea. Thn
letr.eman reached the shore only in season
to see the boat with two men in it, nearly
out of sight: and supposing their destined
trey eQesped, relinquished the pursuit.
Meanwhile the hunted victim lay safe
and quiet, where the simple shrewdness of
his little ettoQin had hidden him, until the
time for her return to the 'loose for supper.,
Then he kale her go as usual to her home;
tolling her to ask her mother to place the
sional lamp, as soon as it grew dark, in the
window tOr the hontman, and to send hint
there ,otne supper, with his valise, which in,
the hurry Lf his departure ho had left be-.
The .ignal recalled the boat, which after
twilight had ventured in sight of the shorts
and the farm house, and the Governor made
his way to the river in safety. Whoa ho re
Joined his family in a secure home, ho nam
ed his infant daughter, which had been born
in his nbccnce, “Iletty Marvin." that ho
inight be daily reminded of the little cousin,
whose truth and shrewdness had saved his,
life.
VANNEE CONTIIIVANCF. 1S VIECIMRCIMS nr
Dosrev.—lf the organ blower's occupation
is not already gone. there appears a fair
prospect that the period is not very remote
when the organist may dispense with the
services of his "assistant." In the new
Methodist Episcopal Church, on Tremont'
street, Boston. the organ blowing is per
formed by water power—a small stream of
Cochituate being introduced, which does thn
work admirably, without getting the "sulks"
and quarrelling with tho organist. All that'
the latter has to do is to turn a stopcock:
which lots on the water, and the organ bel
lows aro put in motion, and supply all the
wind desired. In the new church spire of .
Rev. Dr. Dannett. also in the City of 'Wo
tions, there is a chime of bells, which - Es - to
be played upon by means of electricity. .60
that the performer may cause them all to
sound exactly in the respective orderhe may
desire, while seated at a key-board similiatz
to that of an organ.
&ow nut. Stmt.—General Dix, when" w'
member of Bochanan's Cabinet, gave orders
to shoot any man who attempted 20 hrif4
down the American flag. General .Dntleg
improves upon 'this precept. :Instead
shooting down the offender he bangithisit'opL
and that, too, directly under the/ beetle
the sanctity of which he violated. e.k r year
and a half passed, but the puoiabineat Gangs
at last.