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Rates of Advertising. 'qua r itC laical:tile's:reek. ' . sO3B three weeks. 75 . - - each.uhscquentinsertion, 10 ~ 41 1 . 2 .inesioneweek7 . '- 50 , three weeks. . 100 , '.. .. , ' eneltrab+equentinsertlon. 25 4 i,,,rgertilverti.entento.tn proportion • AtiheralliscOunlwillbe made to quarterly half ~.„, 1v of 7 e,if I y olvertiscr . spotto arc strictl)coulned ,otheir business. . . lartvg. New or Never. RV OLIVER WENDELL lIOLIIES Lister, Young heroes! your country is calling! !Time strikes the hour for the brave and the true! Now, while the foremost ore fighting and fulling, ir.lll up the ranks they have opened for you. You whom the fathers made free and defended, Stain not the scroll that emblazons their lame! 'You whose fair heritage spotless descended, •Leave not your children a birth-right of shame! 'Stay not for questions while rreedom stands gasping! Wait not Mt (Toner lies wrapped in his pall! Brief the lips' meeting be, swill the hand's ea.ping,— "OtTfor the wars" is enough for them all ilreak rsom the arm, that would fondly caress you Hark! 'Lis the bugle Limn! sabres are drawn. Brothers shall pray for you, fathers shall bless you, Maidens shall weep for you when you are gone! Never or now! cries the blood of a tattoo Poured ou the turf where the red rove shook: bloom; Now is the day, and the hour of - salvation; Never or now! peals the trumpet at doom! Never or now: mars the hoarse:throated cannon Through the black canopy blotting the skieli Never or now! flaps the hell-blasted pennon O'er the deep ooze where the Cumberland Leg. Prom the foul dens where our brothers are dying, Altens it'd foes in the land of their birth, From the rank swamps where our martyrs are lyartr Pleriding in vain for a handful of earth. yroos the hot plain where they perish outnumbered purrowed and ridged by the buttle•fieid4 plow, Come. the loud vummonspoo long you have slumbered, Maar the lust Angel-trump—Never or Now! Up-Hill. BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI Does, the rood wind up•hitl all the way? to the very end. Will the dtty't.journey take the whole long dot? from morn to Meth my friend. But is there for the night a resting place? A roof for when the slow dark hou rs begin Nay cot the darkness hide it from my Nee? You cannot flints that inn. Shall I meet other evytarera at night? • , Those who have gone before. Thrn must 11.nock, or roll when just in sight ' They taslt not keep you standing at that door. Shalt I find comfort. travel-sore and weak? Of labor you Ault flint OM sum. Will there lie belle far me who sect? Yea, beds far all who come. gsitttino. After Long Years I= It must be more than sixty years ago, for I am Seventy-nine, and then I was only six teen, and bead girl at the Ravensbourne school, when one day my Lady Ravensbourne came in Vo speak to the matron. I call her my litdy, though by rights she was only Mrs. Ravensbourne, for to us sho was fur grander than any duchess, and all the vil lage spoke of her as "my lady." She wanted a kitchen-maid; and the matron called me up, and said a good word for me; and then my lady asked in her gentle way if I should like: to live at the llall. I hardly knevi what to say between pleasure and bashful ness, but somehow it seemed all settled, and three weeks after I went to Itaverishourne Perk. Well, that time has not much to do with my story,,but it was then that I first came to know and loco my lady so well. I goon grew quite happy there, in spite of missing Mother at first, for my lady was so and took such care that wo servants should be comfortable, that the place . was like another home to me. I did not care so Much about the squire, and was a bit afraid of him, for be had a loud voice and a sharp way-of ypeaking; but be was very fond of my lady, and let her persuade him into do ing a great many kind things that be never would gave thotight'of himself. • I had been at the Ball about ten years, and bad become one of the head housemaids, sad Master Edger--that was their only child—was just tbicteen,,!irtten there was a. sad change in.the kogse, My lady died. She had been ailing for long, bqt had still gone about, though.looking sadly white and ehin,.till one day the wan fonnd sitting in her arm-chair by the open. window, dead.— The squire would never see before how ill : she was, and now, when Chip great shock came, it seemed almost to ewe him; ho shut himself up alone; and whoa the funeral, wig over; had-his things packed, and vrithout a tVord to May one; set off for France with only , , his own Man with him, .4 week after . . blrs CioWes the housekeeper, had,a letter berldismistr most of bar &errantly since he should be away some time. . - Idasteitd was at Sitlicrl whim leis Wo other diva"; hut is the holiday* he Used to ,coma_ &Writ; to'ltie; reiialrame, and except for bins, we hardly oda- Wories`ficiii penis titirtol year's end. &was one of the few who stayed, and oh, how lonely it seemed; all my dear lady's rooms and the squire's shut up, and so many of the servants gone, ill sometimes I thought I . would give up: my place and seek another service; but then I knew I should pine to be back at Ravonsbourne, altered though it was. So it went on fur three years, while Master Edgar grew taller and handsomer every day, and so merry and pleasant, though he was a bit willful; and no wonder, left all to himself, with no ono to look lifter him, fur the squire never sent for. him, though he wrote often, and Muster Edgar always told us ho was coining home soon. News, came at last, but not such, as we had looked for. The squire was going to mayryogain. .I.lt.was a:FrenCh lady. whom ho had chosen to fill the place of our. dear mistress; and when we knew this, we were right glad that the squire did not intend; as his letter told us, to come to England at present, though he wished his late wife's apartments to be refurnished at once fur his new bride. How angry we felt, and so I think did Master Edgar, though he said nothing, fur a red flush came over his face When Mfe. Gower told him we had heard it, and he would frown and bite his lip when ever he caught sight of the carpenters and paper hangers at work in the house. We hated, the thought of the Frenchwoman who was to reign at Ravenabourne; but we need not have feared, for she never came. At the end of a year another little son was born to the squire, and at the same time his wife died. I fancy it was no very bitter grief to him, for Marston, his man, told us after wards that he thought it was a marriage made_ in haste, and repented at leisure; the squire looked so much more unhappy after it than before. however that might be, he seemed tired of France, and perhaps he wns afraid of being caught by another artful Frenchwoman, for home he came as suddenly as he had gone, leaving the babe with some of its foreign relations. Lle looked older and paler, btit 'he seemed 'very glad to be at Ituveosbourne, and with Master Edgar again. My lady's rooms were shuttered up again, and their gay furniture cover ed over, and the squire and his son lived in another part of the house, and were very happy, riding and shooting together. Only one thing came in time to be a sore grief to the old squire, and that was that his son would not marry. He had sot his heart upon it, and seemed to long to have a woman's gentle, loving ways about him again; but say what he would, the young squire only laughed, and made answer that there was plenty of time, and he want ed no change just yet. So the years went on, and at last his father seemed to give up the notion, and only gave a deep sigh.now and theft when he passed the emp ty rooms, or looked up at the great picture of my lady in the gallery. But at last, when the young master was nigh upon thirty, the news began to got about that he was to be married, and no one doubted it who saw his father's beaming face. The young squire was very little at Ravensbourne while the courting went on, for the lady lived far up in the North, where he had first met her and fallen in love while on a shooting visit. But in the bright sum mer weather they wore married, and ho brought her home. There were great re joicings, arches of flowers, and balls ringing and flags flying, and all the servants drawn up in the ouk hall, and the old squire walk ing up and down there, and not able to be still for an instant. When at last we heard the wheels, he was out on the stops in an instant, and steed there with his white hair waving in the wind, ready to lift his daugh ter-in-law from the carriage. They came in I together, she leaning on his arm, and her husband on her other side; and when they were in the hall the squire welcomed her to her new home, and then turned to us, and bade us all obey her as our mistress. She wore a veil when she came in, but while he spoke, she put it back, and oh, what a love- I ly, blushing fuco she had! She was very young—only nineteen, they said—but yet she looked as dignified and earnest as any woman could, while she said in a clear, sweat voice, that "she hoped to have strength given her to do her duty, and be a good mis tress to us all." The squire never looked sad now, and his eon seemed blither than ever, as he walked and rode with his wife. Often, too, she drove with the old squire, or read to him, and it seemed truly as if a new light had found its way into the old home. They had been married about two years, when Mae ter Jasper, the squire's other son, first came to England. His father had been to see him twice in. France, but never seemed to care mach for him, and when ho came to Haveabourne, no one wondered at this. Ile I was a sallow-faced lad of sixteen, with a lowering look, and , a foreign accent, that I grated sorely on English ears; bat for all that, and his sullen manner, I could not but pity him sometimes; be 'seemed so to stand alone atacvig those who loved each other so dearly.. 14y.lady.did. indeed.try :to be kind to ; hiele.but he shrank away from .her, and. :used„ to. wander all, day in the Selds.and woods- alooe.-,•:. Once 'when was brushing oot,my,lady'e beautiful hair, (for I was her ma id noir ) wo.saw* ter •Jaspcy crossing 'the park; She fullowe4 Wet her, ayes tiil he was out of..iiight,4o_ then sysid,yrith, a g1i,,r4,444.k1;1 4 144,be,fee,.d of. th at boy if he ` did not hatergy a haktauid,an-r -- I=l "NO ENTERTAINMENT SO CHEAP AS READING; NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING:, AUGUST 9, 1862. "Yea," she answered sorrowfully. "I have seen him watching him often; I have men the hatred in his face.. Oh, L wish he were not here." • "The squire would send him . away .at once, if you wished it, my lady," I said. "No, no," she answered hastily; "I could never wish it; it would not be right. This is where he ought to be, and I must learn to feel so." It happened, strangely enough, that two days after this I myself saw, for the first time, the look of which ho spoke. The young squire was going out riding, and was standing by the steps, with the horse's bri dle over his arm while he spoke to my lady; presently Master Jasper came down the steps, touched the horse sharply with his cane as he passed, and then strolled on, while the animal breaking from his master's hold, galloped down the road. Mr. Edgar called one of the stablemen to catch the horse, and then striding after his brother, struck him with his riding-whip, and asked how he dared to meddle with his horse. The lad made no answer, but I was standing near at the time, and the dark look on his face I never forgot. When his brother, two minutes after, turned round, and bolding out his hand, said he was sorry to have been so 'violent, the other silently put the out stretched hand aside. "I should not like you ever to be in Jas per's power," I heard the squire say after wards to his wife; and she answered calmly, "I hope I am never likely to be." That same evening Master Jasper was closeted for two hours with his father, and the next day we heard that by his own desire he was going back to his old home in France.— There was peace at Ilaveusbourne after he left; and when, five years later, a son and heir was given to my young master and mistress, their cup of blessing seemed filled to the brim. I think they had given up wishing; but I had known, in spite of my lady's cheerfulness, that it was a sore dis appointment to her to have no child; and now when it came she could not restrain her joy. We heard her singing in the gar den and the house, and her step was light, and her eyes sparkled from morning till night. Mow she loved that boy! She would sit by the hour dancing him on her knee, or watching him sleeping; and when be was in her arms, her beautiful face had such a glow of pride and pleasure. Alt, we were all happy then; fur until that time a fear had been with us that when Master Edgar died, Master Jasper would have Ravens bourne Park. Very soon the little follow's merry crowing sounded over the house; and his mother used to watch smilingly while the old squire mounted him on his foot, or his own father tossed him in his arms. I like to think of those days, the more, per haps, because even now I almost fear to bring back the memory of the time which followed, and changed my lady's life from joy to mourning. Fur that time Came only to soon! amain The little boy—Gerald They had called him—was just beginning to trot about the house, when one day my young'Master went out hunting. Ile was to be haute by sunset. But just as the sun dipped down among the trees the groom rode into the stable-yard alone. his horse covered vr;tli foam, and told us breathlessly that his master bad been thrown in galloping down a steep hill, and that sincd they lifted him up he bad neither moved nor spoken. My lady heard the news without a tear, though the look in her sweet face went to my heart. She only said AO would go to him at once; and she and the squire started off on horseback to the cot tage, fifteen miles away, where he lay sense less. Ho just revived to draw her to his breast, and murmur what a blessing she had ever been to him, and then breathed his last upon her shoulder. They brought her borne; and five days later she stood beside his grave, and then turned away, when all was over, still calm and quiet, striving to soothe his broken-hearted father. Bat when she put aside her long crape veil, and lifting bar boy, held him tightly to her heart, I knew by her face, and by her whispered words, that precious as he hnd been before, he was now the ono joy and comfort of her life; and the little fellow seemed to know it too, for loving as she had ever been to him, there was something in the clinging hold of her hand, and the fond, wistful look in her face, which had not been of old. The two were always together, wandering about the garden or park, or sit ting in the library talking in low murmur ing tones of the father he had lost, or often er still in the equire'sroom, for the old squire was failing fast; perhaps there bad been some signs of decay before his son's death, but if so, .we bed not ooticed them. Now, however, all saw the sunken cheek and uncertain step, and felt his days were drawing to an end. Things began to grow sadly wrong now; and though my lady's rule still kept order in the house,. in the stables and groandikall was very different to the days when the squire and_Master Edgar were riding in sod oqt with quick.egyesesd strong wills, Orte greatslistvirbsscs „there was, whezt,agroom came home drunk in the middle of the night, having galloped my lady's own horse through the darkness, and broker; its knees. , In some way, this came to the squire's knOwledge, and the groom was dismissed,audis; his place moles dark, harl7 loo .l4Fg 3 Pill,LrAPittffi b l t A s T a f• --,42 P in we . d: 1514P3444:41.0e71;c1.5.zulttit*DSh he Was quiet enough, and joined-in no eta ble riot. As time went on, and the squire grew weaker in body and mind, my lady and the little master hardly ever left him.— She had written , to Master Jasper, begging him, if he_wished to see his fathers:gain, to come-to England at once; but I saw that she was relieved when an answer came saying that he could net then leave France, and that be belieemd, besides, that his presence would he no comfort to his father. Just at this time ..there came a change in my life. whichlvevented my being as much with my Indy Mai bad been till now. Mrs. Gower, the hen:se-keeper, now very 'old, and worn by grief and the nursing, which she would yield to no ono but my lady, fell ill, and died. She was a great= loss, for a bead was much needed in that largo household, and there was no one to take her place. I was thinking of this one day as I sat over my work, when my lady came into the room, and noticing my anxious looks, naked me the cause. I told her, and she answered: "It has been on my mind too, Hannah, and I have thought of a plan. There is only one person I could trust as I have trusted Mrs. Gower, and whom I should be quite happy in putting at the head of everything. Will you take her place?" I was very much surprised, and at first I could not collect my thoughts or answer her. She went on earnestly, '!irou know how I shall miss you. No one else can be to me what you are; but you will be more comfort and help to me as housekeeper than even as my maid." And so we settled it, with many bitter tears on my part, when I gave up to a stran ger the work of waiting on her. My suc cessor was a pale little woman, with a star tled look in her light-blue eyes, and a ner vous, hurried manner. Her name was Sa rah Weston, and she had been a dress-maker in a small way in the village for some months; but when she beard that my lady wanted a maid she came to offer herself, saying that she had once before been lady's maid. She told us that she was a widow, with one little girl, who lived with some re lations far away, so she had no home tie; and as she seemed in many ways a likely person, my lady engaged her. Ono thing about her I thounht strange, and that was, that though she bad been eager and flurried in telling all she could do, yet she did not strike me as wishing to come; and when my lady engaged her, a shudder came over her fuoe, and a look of such distress that fur a moment I thought she was ill. It passed, however, and she thanked my lady, and took her leave. She came to us at once, and fitted quickly into her place, doing every thing for my lady in a quiet skillful way, and learning all her ways and fancies. Per haps this very cleverness of hers gave a jeal ous pang when I saw her busy in my in is tress's room; or else there was something in her timid voice and shrinking manner which angered me, for I never saw hoe with out a feeling of dislike rising up in my heart Yet she was very humble tome, and I never had an unkind word from her, as some times happened at first with the others. It would have been a gloomy house now, but for that bit of sunshine, Master Gerald. The little darling was just four years old, and go where he would, every face bright ened when it met his, and no one was too busy or too sorrowful for a game with him. His blithe voice was heard singing and shouting everywhere, except in the squire's room, and there it sank to a whisper. But he was little there now, for his mother fear ed lest the eight of illness and suffering should sadden Lis childish heart, and so he' ran about the garden, and rode the old pony about the park, and spent many an hour, too, with me, chattering and scrambling about, * while I made out accounts or looked over house-linen. The little window of the house-keeper's room looked out upon a stone court, and beyond it was n.strearn running close beside the house, and on beneath the terrace-wall, and down the hill-side between steep banks almost bidden by trees, till it ran into the Tees near Hillborough Bridge, a mile from ltavensbourne. It was deep and rapid, though not-wide, and' the rushing water was pleasant to bear one summer af ternoon, when Master Gerald eat in thedeep window-seat, bumming a baby song, and turning' over a picture-book. Presently he threw it doirn, and pressing his rosy cheek against the window, cried out: "Look, Han nah, do you see how the water shines? and there are the stones all wet and shining, too —one, two, three large stones that I never saw before." I came to his aide, and saw that the stream was low, and the rocks uncovered. "Yes," I, said, "the sun has dried up some of the water, and so those high rocks stand up above it." •'Oh, I should like to go down," the boy cried eagerly, "and sit upon the rocks, and put my feet in the water. I'll get through the window—let me go'," and he struggled to get free. The more be pulled, the fester I held him, while I raid that there were deep -holes, in which he would be drowned. and that, besides, the water was strong enough to throw him down and hart, him, terribly. Re only went on trying to get ; loose, and crying out passionately that bu would go to the bright water. A sudden sound behind made me look round, but it-was only Mrs. Weston potting a tnty.of hoes and meshes on the table. She started when. I looked at her„ and said hurriedly: "I only came to bring these. I bey your pardon,. I didn't I mum "Diddle- mean what?" I said, somewhat sharply. "Master Got:ald and I were talk ing no secrets; though," I added, looking at . him, "he may well be ashamed to let any one see him so naughty." The child 'hung his head, and let me lift him from the window' quietly enough,' and by the time•l put him on the floor Mrs. Weston had gone. This was not the first time I had found - that my dear little Master Gerald had a passionate epirit of his own, and long after he had left me I sat ponder ing whether I ought to tell his mother. I did not see my lady till lute that evening— about nine o'clock, I suppose—and then, as I was crossing the gallery, I saw her stand ing at the nurserydoor, beckoning to me.— fielding her finger to her lips, she led - the into the nursery, and up to the little crib where her boy slept. - A smile lighted her pale face as she pointed to him and-whis pered, "Look, isn't be beautiful? Ile was, indeed. The tangled curie lying upon the pillow, the fringed eyelids, soft, rosy cheeks, and half-open mouth, made a lovely picture; and as I looked back at my lady, I thought how like, ho was to her, and how happy and tranquil she was when near him. There were deep lines upon her brow, and many anxious thoughts, as I well knew, in her mind; but yet, as she bent over hor child, she seemed almost young again. I could not find it in my heart to disturb the peace of that hour by any tale of naughtiness, and I stood watching silently While she pushed a stray curl from his forehead, gave him one long lingering kiSs, drew the curtain, and with ajast look of intense, yearning love,. turned away. That look of love, I see it still!. Oh, my dear mistress, my own dear lady! I= We went down stairs together, she to the squire's room, and I down another flight to my own, which was at one end of a.stone passage, lighted by two large windows. At ' the other end wore the kitchees and the ser vant's ball, cud the back stairease;WaZjest outside the kitchen door. This evening all was unusually quiet there, for some of the servants were away on a holiday; anti the rest were at supper in the servant's hall. I was glad of the quietness, for I wanted, to write a long letter to my, married sister, whom I have not seen for years.. ,Once the silence was broken by the opening of a dis tant door, and a merry hiugh; then all was still again, till I fancied suddenly. that heard the sound of wheels near my window. I listened, then smiled at my own foolishness, and went on writing. I got on but slowly, and was in the midst of a message to my little unknown nephew, when the door han dle rattled violently round, the door flew open, and there stood my lady, deadly pale, and with blood flowing from a wound upon her forehead. I sat for a moment rooted to my chair; the next, I sprang towards her, crying out at her hurt. She pushed me aside, and then turning her ashy face fall on me, gasped out, "Nut that—that's noth ing—l fell down; but where i? my childr- A dreadful fear came upon me as I. gazed at at her Wild eye, and heard her panting breath 1 that sorrow and anxiety had . turned her brain. "Tell me, only tell me where he is!" she Still implored. I thought that the sight of the child might calm her, and not daring to leave her alone, hurried with her along the passage. One of the soriants opened the kitchen-door, and stood amazed at the sight of my lady. Hur riedly whispering to her to keep by her side for a moment, I rushed up to the nursery. A. shaded light burned on the table, and in the corner of the room stood the little crib; but when I bent over it, it was empty! I caught up the lamp, and threw back the bed-clothes; there was nothing beneath them. I looked around the room: the child's clothes lay on a chair, and near them were some of his playthings—a bill and whistle; but a little scarlet cloak, which had lain there an hour ago, was gone. Had be hidden, or where could he be? I dared not stay to think, but ran back to the kitchen. My lady was still crying wildly and passionately Tor her child; the servants stood huddled to gether in terror; and her own maid, white and trembling from head to foot, seemed more frightened than any one. I spoke at ence to them all: "Master Gerald is not in the nursery; he mustbave hidden somewhere; and we must search fur him; but first"—and I went up to the young nurse, who had just come into the kitchen, and was gazing at me, with wide open, scared eyes—"tell me, Jessie, when did you leave Master Gerald?" She was a Havensbourno girl, whom I had known from babyhood, and whose word I could trust. "Not an hour ago," she said. "Isn't he in bedl" She went on hurriedly, "I left him there asleep. Martha was not at home, or I should have asked her to sit by him; but he was fast asleep, and Mrs. Weston was in us' lady's dressing-room close by." "1 didn't stay." broke in Mrs. Weston with unusual sharpness. "I was only there for a few urinates, and could not watch the child." The nurse looked at me: "I oughtn't to bavo • left him:" she said, with a half. sob; "brit I °over thought of his movingrand-now 0 ma'am, if anything has happerie& to hi tol" etopped.•hee with a sign, for my lady was in no state for each words... be bad been loaning on, .the table, her face buried in par, halada; moaning, iron', dine to times— I wen; to Asers I.usdiss.l„ touched her a;shirer t%13 tht3vgh;hot frame. "Dearest madam," sl : so'Pn - YE/U1 ilt ADVANCE; $2.00 re" NOtilir ADVANCE I said, "we shall soon find him, I hope; we will look' together." ° , In a moment the svliole household were; scattered,. serching and* calling ecery room and passage, while I followed my lady , as she went from place to place, Or ali my fears, all my thoughts, were for her. I felt sure we should presently discover the boy; but then the joy after such s.ffering, how would she bear id But the iniriu tea wore on; room after room was explored, cupboards and corners ransacked, and then new fears began to crowd upon me,-lorthern were yet no signs of the boy. A thoeght struck met be might be in her grandfather's room. It was apart from the rest, and • on theground floor, and we had "avoided it, not liking. to alarm the limn. old man, but now we must look, and in we went.„ No. Squire Raisins bourne lay calmly sleeping, and do one was with him. Ile started up , in bed, aroused by our movements, - and asked what had bap-' pened; and his daughter-in-law let me take her to him, while I quietly told him all.— Ile said nothing, only held out his arms, and drew her into thorn; and as he did so, sobs nod tears for the first time came to her relief. The Squire looked at me. "Go and serch with the rest," he' said: "I will take care of her," and, in truth, her poor weary head sunk down upon the pillow; and gently putting her into a chair by the bedside, I left them together. I stood for f moment outside the door, listening to the squire's murmured words and the sound of her ez• hausted _weeping, ano then walked on into the hall. I was just pondering where next. to search, when one of the maids touched . me on the arm, and said in a ,low voice, "Can he have run out of doors?" The stream flashed across my miedlike lightning: Could he have awakened, remeratieriag his wish to go there, and stolen out? Vie bate thought madexne sick•that f sat do wn fur a minute to recover Myriele; therit went to the hall-door. The night vras,piteh dark, and to hunt without-doors mould have;heen madness; yet I .went back to the, kitchen door, and felt my way by the little path which led through the 'wire gate into the stone court ,beneath my window. There I called many, times. , No 'Answer _bat ..the rushing water and_ the sounds, within, the house. I crept on close•to the-edge , of the stream, but could see nothing: I listened; and then, with that .terrible doubt still in my mind,, went baek-tO the house.- All that weary night through we Wandered to - and_ fro, longing fur morning. From time to time I went to the squire's 'room. My lady still sat where I had, placed her, and the squire's hand still lay upon her shoulder. Each time Ito asked, "18 he • found?" and each time when I answered, "Not yet," my lady's bead, which had been raised when I came in, was bowed again upon her hands with a bitter groan. • At length the day broke, and then men set out on horseback to search the park, arid the women looked in greenhouses, and orch ard and garden. I went again to the stone court and the stream; the water still spark led round the rocks, but I could see no trace of the child. , I dared not go away from the house, lost my lady should need me, and I was turning in-door When the gate swung on its hinges, and the groom roster mime through. He had been ono of those making holiday the day before, and I called now to ask him if he had heard that the boy was lost. He answered in his cart way that he had. "Have you met any one? Is nothing found?" I went on. Ire shdok his head Sul lenly, and then began muttering something at being left to do all the work. T .is.was too much, and I said: "No one but you ,would think about horses when Master Ger ald is lost." "He'll be found," lie said sul lenly; "children ain't lost like that." I would not speak to him again, and went back to the kitchen, and there I stayed till the sound of voices took me into the hall.— As I opened the door, three or four of the servants came up the steps, and foremost among them the nurse Jessie. She could not speak fur weeping, but she hold up be fore my eyes a little scarlet cloak that I knew only too well. I gasped out, "Where?" and the answer came from many broken voices: "In the stream 'by the copse." A piecing shriek behind us, a heavy fall, and on the staircase lay the poor, poor mother, We raised her and laid her on her bed; ut terly senseless; her rather-in-law sat prop ped up by her, stroking her icy hands; but for two days those closed eyes never opened, those lips never moved. All the doctor's skill could do do nothing, till on the third morning a deep groan showed that memory was returning. On that same day, towards sunset, the old squire lay back upon his pillow, and painfully breathed his last. His strength had seemed to return to him when she lay ill, hut it was but the last dicker before the flame went out forever. linen ho was gone there was no -human being within many miles to whom I could look for guidance in the misery that had fallen on the house. My master and 'mistress 'had lived much to themselves, and among their tenants, and knew but slightly the few neighbors who were,withio reach of Havens bourne. I felt that I 'must rend fur joule one, and I omit about who it-should be.— Master Jasper came Into my mind..but I could not- bear the, thought; and than I re membered my lady's cousin, Mr. Barring ton, who had severai times been to Ravens. bourne. I - could hardly leave my lady for an instant, for her maid had never recover ' ed the shock 'of the first evening. and shrunk even from entering her mistress's room; but I managed to write by her bedside a little note .to Mr. Barrington, begging him to come at once. I knew his address; and when L had sent off, this note, there was nothing to be done bat patiently to writ his coming: [ro Sit COPTINVIZO [WHOLE NUMBER 1,668 Fell * cities ofa Regimental. ' ata3tar. - . . A correspondent of the Herald, with the, Army of the Potomac, says: _ _ In the present dearth of interesting: and exciting-news from Ibis section, I have been induCed ti record the ,trials and - miseries of. that much-abused class of officers knowttltta, quartermsters, that others may he Trar,ned . in time to avoid their fate. Stories have been told of large sums.. having been. pMd by deluded individuals for situations to Re- - gimental -Quartermasters. %hese stories! may have been true; but, lojudge fasseltats universal testimony of tke ,Quarteraraifera• hereabouts, it must have been done under some very singular hallucinations as to - the etnolarnents=to be derived from each a situa-' tion:' Look, for w' moment‘' upon' yonder man who wears a pair of First Lieutenant's shoulder-straps, and exhibits a -careworn' and despairin&costatesance, write, beattrid log a McClellan siddli on an anitiml cif the equine species, convoys a train of "long eared locOmotives,"' attabhed 'to arms wagons. In his breast-pocket he carries a huge' fills of papers, and a worried heart beneath it. Wall, that is a Regimental Quartermas ter, as is indicated by the mysterious "Q.,. D." upon the poor devil's shoulder-straps.— This is, howerer,, by no ,supans necessary , to identify him. Ws species is ,as plainly stamped upon his countenance as 'the mis eries of his situation are gene's.. The hor rors of the "inquisition" are nothing to„the horror of "requisition)". The •regimetttsm the one hand, and. the G overnment on th e other, are the 'Scylla and Charybdis—;the upper and the nether millstone, between which the pool Regimental 'Quartermaster is ground to powder. . The regiment demand the government raz ; tions in alltkeir variety and:bandana°, ner= der all circumstances and in all the platten.'; and the extra rations.of whisky to booth ' these are not forthcoming they takethe.re- • treant ,RegimentaL Quartermaster' by 'The" throat, with a. "pay uie:irhat thou owest:"< Should the regiment 'be mysteriously - set down in thenightin the midst of thei•great: desert of Sahara, after a grand skedaddle:: from some Oriental Richmoad, wbereirLall. their camp and garrison equipage should•bel lost, the Quartermaster woulkbe•snost fero- , ciously cursed •for not furnishing.at once • whisky and wall tents for the °flee* lz , ••• • Like "Pip," ho is the victim of !'great expectationit." , He is expected lb- commit , to memory; and-to have alwaystinlively re;; • collection, three-fourths of the• "Army-Reg-it ulations," which seem to have been printed for his especial benefit and delectation: Ifs is expected to sell clothing anti Commixeitry stores to the' officers on tick,And to forget' the same on pay day. - Ile is expected'oe perm:Mal favor for each of his 'Particuliti" friends—the thirty-seven field, Staff officers—to carry eighty pounds of extra bait gage, under the- guise of "fixed ansaumW Lion;" and he is expected by the goveinnient to nee only six sickly teams to do it with. " Ile is expected to purchase candiesand , ply headquarters gratis.. Ile is expeotedfto spend three hours per diem at,Adants'- press office, and pay all extra charges- for the privilege of getting packages for thii - re-': giment. He is expected to be on the ' in an engagement—to care for the wodaded , t —and at the same time to be drawing : lra,, tions to distribute to the men when thefighei is over. • ' In drawing goods from the Hoiernineit ho must produce ce tunny-names ne fill a respectable city directory, answer-all questions in the Quartermaster's. efitqler,, catechism with a pious meekness, and, after being Shadrached, throagh- the fiery furnace, learns that ho can only-draw.: a vulgar fraction of the articles required.— His regiment accuses him of fraud in•hie requisitions; while an indignant public st home, viewing the emaciated forms of re• turned soldiers, anathematize "the damned . Quartermasters." • My youthful friend, anxious, to.serve your country and win glory on the tented Add. when you join the army, enlist in the rent., or se: up as a sutler, sell the zu wspaperP. serve as an ostler or cook, turn reporter. • anything even to joining the crowded ranks of Brigadier Generalr• but don't, as you value your peace in the service sad your reputation at home, don't turn Regimental- Quartertiiaster. . Tax WOMLYANIIIIP Ivoxy.—NOtte of our manufacturers havi yet reached the °Oulu." mate skill of:the Chinese artists in the warka-- manship of ivory.- chiefly remarkable their concentric balls. chew pieces -and , models. Yet the adaptation to useful pite poses of this valuable sebitance is fully un derstood by those who do not undertake to ' rival the exquisite minuteness of Easteruart. The manufueturere of surgical instruments are in the habit of rendering ivory, EttOlile , for use as tubes, probes, etc., by acting Ott! the well-known fact 'that.' when - bones Inito sabjucted to the action of hydrochloric acid. the phosphate of lime, which formes ene'df their component parts,- is extracted; and ' thus bones _retain their .original form, abd• acquire great flexibility. After giving the , pieces of ivory thiii acquired form and pol ish, they are steeped in acid, either pore Or diluted; until they become supple anclelai 4 tic, and of a slightly . yellow Dolor. lash.;. course of drying, the ivory returns to its nal hardness, but its flexibility can be easily, , restored by surrounding it with wet lingo. It is now ascertained that the derair:OV articles in ivory can be effectually checked; even when its progress bas advanced so far . as to cause the specimens to crumble • away_ under the hands. Some of the works Ivory^, forwarded by Mr. Lazard from Nineveh, were ' found, on their arrival in England. iss-4:, state of rapid deoomposition. Prof. Xtusal, was consulted on the subject, and he eat:, gested remedy. which, on trial; proved eto be in the highest degree suosessfuL 4:kW' eluding that the decoy was owing: to-libe: loss of gelatine In the ivory. he.ressetrunentk - ed that the articles should be.boiled itse u solatioo of gelatine, and this treieted,". they became firm and solid. • • ; If ,. 4 Nu En %.•'ll MIE IMO
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