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' ... .. ~ ' . . - - • , .. . . ^ , . . , , ~,' : - • -•1. r . •.. • _. _. „... ~_:,.,- , . : • .4..„, _ . ...:•._. .. •." .: . .• , [~ sAMEELE7EIGHT, Editor- and Proprietor. VOLUIERNXXIVi - NUMBER 4.] PUBLISHED , EVERT SEFURDAY MORNING. Offceein Cia;:pet r Oall, lonia-westcorner of thloontaiid .acust streets'" '" • Terms of Subscription. Oa e Copy p cranrnn,i f paidin advance, if obi paid within three ; 'monthKromcommencementoftherear, .2 00 4 C7,033.tea dat. pap-sr. . . , . .. . No; übscriptiOn received tor'si'less time than six nnontbs; and no paper will be discontinued unit/ all atorcarsigesaicpatd,unlessat toe optionof the pub. isbee.. - .1. , . . • il:TMorteyataytteremitttedb ymai 1 Rub ep üblish ler s risk. Bates' of Advertising. marqs.,ineislone week, , , .038 -. three weeks, 75 ' : esteltiabsequentiniertion, 10 . ,{3.2,ineofoneareek - 50 . . ' - three weeks, ' 1 00 each.tubsequeniinsertion. 25 • ,r„erge raLaeitirenten Di n proportion a. i iheral tispfkontyvillhe made to onarterly.hallf „,,,,utv o veirly,itrertiseramho are stric.ll3confined Ottileir.busigkekiC.Z.• :; . ' • ; ; , , . ~ grtitttiOn4s. After Long Tears CONCLUDED r CIIAPTERVII did not. faint, though for a limit my brain whirled; and uiy senses seemed going; yet through-alit:had One'feeling—that each moment itrai - ,morerprecious than gold, 'and thlie brought thought amispeeCh baelc'toMe. s< lirfroed a¢ my - head,•and Ipassionittely. bade her tell:me • -There: was a moment's Si lence, which I could scarcely bear, and then Abe began: "Yon remember when I 'came to -Ravens bourne, and said•l -was a widow'and a dress- . maker. Bothwere lies,'for I' had never been a dressmaker,' and 'mybusband• was then Citing at •Rn:vensbourne, and hie - name was Foster.: You qaait;:vrait to hear. all,: and then say if you can pityznte. Wicked 'as am, if ithad alit been for.that man it might never have happened, for I was innocent and hippyln Ihetteys'whenl was a young farm-servant dovin-in the Weed; •but I mar ried him, and then my misery be-'an. • Yet I bore all patiently for the sake of two chit:, dren, till 4 he left me, and.took service as a gentleman's valet, and' front or- to France with him. I did sot know It till afterwards; and thereA• was.left in England penniless with my little' babies to keep,. I worked early and late for them, but I could-earn little; and very soon I heard them wail for bread, which I .eoold •not give them. My heart was nearly breaking, when a neigh bor offered to take the children for a year, while I went to earn a living in service, and, if possible, to find my husband. She was a hard, rough woman', and asked largo pay ments out. of my wages; but what 'could I do? So left ,my. precious children - with her, And easily found a place as maid tort lady jutt7giaitak to 'Paris. I told her toy story, and she was very kind in helpink Erie; and at'last, after long,seeking, I 'found niy husband.: Re had left his first master, and was now with an English gentleman living in Paris. lie was very angry with me for following him abroad, and swore that he would help neither me nor the children.— Still I stayed, hoping be might soften, Though I -seldom managed. to.see him; and at last,.,when I had been there about five months it seemed as if - my hopes bad come to pass, for' he came to me, and told me kindly that he wanted me to leave my mis tress, and engage myself to his master.—' How light my poor heart grew; and though my mistress distrusted .my. husband, and warned me, yet I went with him gladly. "Well, I saw •my new 'duster, Mr. Ra vensbourne,: and he took me at once, and for three days all went on quietly; and - then I spoke again to .my husband, and begged and prayed bins with. many tears ,to come hack to England with me. . lie said little at the time; bet the next day, when I was busy with. my work, my master sent for me, and when I went to, his study, my husband was with him. ...They : were talking together, but stopped as.l came in, and I stood silent and frightened, I don't know why.- My. master tiad i seemed stern and hard when first I saw him, but kihought him , more so now, as he told =On s harsh voice that he knew: my wishes . , and wouldangage that my husband would agree to them if I in return .would promise to dosomething for him:. . I listen ad with a fresh,hope la my heart; and an swered that would do anything Healy my. husband would come home with• me to olar children.: Ravenabourne looked at him, And then my husband came up to me and said tltatlte: would .do what pleasedif I ,obeyed, Mr. Ravensbourne. I.'sair there oras somathintstill to be , WIC - though I- lit ale dreamed:what:it was,-and' again I - ear; castly - promised to . do my utmost; ' -Then Mr. Itavensbourne walked to the door, bolted it, and ;corning up tome, said, that 1• must grit take au oath that, whether. or no I did wsl, never-reveal • it 'to living ,toan;!and ; oh, I•tceok that dawdled oith, and now I eau :break - legit, • "Ifoan't.tell yap Ito* ha thealold tae't be veieboPieed ba:1441 - pliinnad-Ahart shoold :steal a little algid from his horns:: I refused with horror, in , ° Of .9 1 :—PY 11 1 ° , 41/ Xs:Om. lion end Then thviArford ancOmrjriso; gsl 4 . 4 y a i n d, aed ent:l4 ; a4 , :allVdr e en,,and . Aeld Out fair : pai r mimes -df : :,y s une ~,ead! , sxaney reed,aild 4(sth t:g i ,Ti ..Y 6 °Pli"29l l Or. , Vold Rae Pe.Parf aed well cared for, and ii...4al t hel , f atited„,yrsi k t o get possession of Ravensh'oernerund---be- made me defilailihethseeentertiritrellioshoW?cibli chamois, 4;th:4:llea' olniehd Visa .tz>t;ll c:30,11:2 as - in wretchedness, away from my children, or whether I would do this, and have them with me. Then I yielded with bitter grief and shame; - and Mr. Ravensbourne told me I should be well rewarded; but looking darkly at, me,-added, ”Rat -if-you fail me nowloii eta suffer for it hitterli-ilitetigh your children." 0 the miserable days that followed; I dared not draw back, for. his fierce words made me tremble for my own boy and girl, over whom I know he could have poker through my husband, and yet the thought of the deed tube done was-with me day and night. Gradually I got used to it. Sorrowbad hardened me; and the re membrance of boil , little any one had cared when my 'children. were starving, made me harder still: At the end of three Weeks I came back to England, and there I found my darling boy dying. Ido not know that be bad been ill treated: hilt it was the last drop in - my cup; and I went down to Ra venstionine, longing to do my work, and have my. child with me, for I was well nigh desponding at leaving him.- I was to set up as,a dresi-inaker in the ,ritlage till I could get a plane at 'the ,bouse; and I was still there when my husband got engaged as groom,., Two months, after, I came; but my heart smote me afresh when I saw that gen tle ltidy and her child; and I. could never bear to look at them _afterwards. I think if My knobs:44 - Ind, aiit , bC'Enltherli I, &timid ;have given up my place, but . 1 feared him so. ' , Well, at last be told me it must be done at once, lest the old squire sllould-die first, and then there - might be suspicion. Ile would not tell .rue where he meant to take the child; but he-swore that he was not go iingqo harm 'it, and added, laughing, that neither Mr. Ravenebsurne nor he hid any notion of risking -their necks in the'matter. Re hadiasked frir ti holiday fur that day,and meant to :hiree'Ciirt atlfillborough; under pretence - of driving to York 'tied back, and then come and wait outside in - the darkness for me to bring theboy to him; and now, how was the child to be got grit of the house. 'When it mime to that mf'hustiald looked .at ' me and mkt "You 'are clever enough; you can plan itif 'you choose, and to-night you edest choose; so noir go, and 'let me know:within an hour exactly when I am to wait." We bad' been talking in an out, house; and I went slowly in, feeling that the hour had come. My husband was right; I had wit enough to find means, though hardly wickedness to use thein; and even as I walked, a way came into my bead. I stripped a little, but remembered my sick boy, and that some one else would do it if I did not and 'turning bank, bade my hes. band be at the laundry door at nine o'clock. "That afternoon, when I came to your room, Ibadbeard Master_9erald crying to go to the.water, and-that first put itinto my head to pretend that lie had dcowaed him self. The evening came, and I stayed in my lady's room, filling the large wicker-baskets With clothes. I. heard her go to the nursery and call you, and then she went down, and the nurse came and went again. Now was my timei, no' ono was likely to come up again just then, and then I knew the ser vants were at supper. I listened at the door: all was quiet, and catching up my baskets, I harried into the nursery: The child slept soundly, and hardly stirred as I lifted him from his crib, and laid him down in the basket among the clothes. Then I threw some more over him, and with des perate strength lifted the basket and carried it oil' to the laundry. As I put my burden down, the latch of this door was lifted, and my husband ,lo'oked in. I pointed to the basket, and he stepped up to it and tossed off the clothes:. The child was roused and turned partly round, but in an instant my husband bad caught him up, pressed him so close against his shoulder that he could neither struggle nor scream„ and ,carried him away. I could bear no more, and 'catching up the little scarlet cloak:which I had brought on purpose, I fled back, and threw - it blindly into the stream, and as'l did so", I heard thefaint rattle of the wheels, ' as the cart arrive off. ,Then I remembered that the light was still burning in .the laun dry, and running back, I turned all the clothes on to the shelf, put out the lantern,. locked the door, and - returned to the house. Itesemed weir a wild courage had come to me, for went calmly, into supper, and talked and laughed es though nothing had hapriened;'till I stiv;r7ier,end- then, then ,I felt the, agony that left me einee: My wickedness did net even do me the;potieser 'vice tbad belied, for the very next day, I 'beard that my boy Wes dead: Ile bad died 'While I was sielling *my Very soul for his Cialte. Ah, how often I longeicto tell, bit dared not r fpa my t hualand, told me:l6o9l4dr - never prit44 ft,lda4ll6lld4iff lie shut, `air al`ti. mad woman, since I could not. tell any , one whereto find the child, Then ble..Rii ireashourne gamete_ England, and gave me: vi 'house and meney,,and sent for Sally;-and, be said the came thingli to'ine when be first' Mime; and again'iifter Salifsaeciaent,.alA. 31 50 Alialcsiaaiiihin ba bad`beeri here, f;Dr they "baie 'alviskys doubted 'me; "and' - dared' not . wend me arty oat' of their , Sight. 4;13 1, 11 .used to f4r to sete'ro; lest hashauld keow,;' tid than 114 Weight" Of iht4'd4r,laly„rel kludriess to Sally was like a 'daigar to Isareita mien for thtie sear's; for Mr. Ravenslickittiieihought it safe that he t illgalaga;-iitid right' -ke rid ofsosep 'at r: Thera srasariruod„dowa.stairsi.; sital•Mra. ;Ae"cSAPrIPS AfF. in (bed:. ••• T• 1/. :mei" I „stud io "eaty,tell - os ir.herethes.hilsi tat::: Is!? eBt u«sefi: 11,4 rut "NO ENTERTALNIIIENT SO - CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLIMIBIA; PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY'IuORNINa. AUGUST 186.2 Iler eyes - were glazing, and ber.-breath came short. "lie is at Stapleford, it, llatep shire.. They- think I don't know; but it chanced that the post-boy.orie day gave lite a letter that was meant for my husband; and • I found out by that: ;Stay—Aook in yon chest—in the left-hand corner there's-a little box with a key in it." I found it, and brought it to her. She lifted the lid, and within lay a worn letter. She passed it into my hand. "Take it, and find him out; and oh, forgive me, and-be kind to my poor I hastily called the child, for the woman was going.fast, and did not know her. Once more she gasped: "Don't visit it on Sally;" and five minutes after she lay a corpse in my arms. I closed the eyes which had been looking so beseechingly .into mine; com posed her figure, and then turned to go, for I dared not delay a moment. I could not take. the poor sobbing child with me, but promised to send some ono at once; and then putting the precious letter in my bosom, I hurried out of the house. On I went as fast as- my feet - would go,.meeting no one, till just as I crossed the stile one of the keepers passed near and gave me good morn ing. • I had no voice to answer, and rushed ' on. .A,C first my mind was in such tumult that I could not....thittle, 3 .iin&could scarcely feel, but gradually it grew more clear; and by the time I unlatched the.garden-gate, I had decided what to do. I must. go and find the child. Hampshire seemed like the Indies to me; still I knew it was near Lon don, and must go at once there. 1 dared not write or lose an hour, fie. Mr. Ravens bourne might hear- of :my visit.- So I un locked the house-door, and went etraight to the kitchen, where Jessie was singing .over her _work. I only told her I twist go at ow on a journey, and begged her to ask no questions; and say nothing about it till I - came i;ack, only to take the greatest cure of my_lady. . 'Then,' went to my own room. "counted my.stock of money, made up a bun dle of clothes, and lest of all. knocked. at my lady's door. She was awake; and standing by her bedside.- I told her that I bad just heard news that would force ute'to leave her for a few days; and I asked her to spare me at once. I saw her surprise. "Can't you tell me ab.,ut it, Bann•ah?" she asked. "Not now, dear lady; some day perhaps I may. but I have no right to speak of it now: only I must make a long .j , mrney, and I have but very little money." She pointekto the table. "There is my purse, use it as you like; only come back soon, and kiss we before you go." • I bent over her, and for a moment I could scarcely keep back my tears, as I looked into her sweet, sad face. I had no gloomy fears for her now. She could not ho going to die just when I was bringing her .back. her child. I would not take a cart to Rill borough, lest it should raise a talk in the village; so I walked by quiet lanes as fast as I could, only stepping as I turned out of the main street, to beg a neighbor to go to the cottage in the park, for that Mrs. Wes ton had been very ill the night before. The sun shone brightly as I got into Ilillbor ough, and in an hour's time a ,cart was car 'bring me towards York; while I leaned back, trying to believe that Gerald was in deed alive; and thinking of all that bad hap pened. It seemed months since I slept so quietly' in my lady's room, and. now s how much there was still to ho done. I must make s niy way to London, find ,111 r. Har rington, and get him to help; but oh! if I should not be in time, and - again and again I looked back to see if I was followed. Late at night we' got into York. The coach started at s sis o'clock in the morning, so till then I must wait; and finding a de- Cent lodging, I tried to sleep. But it was hopeless; the thought that 'my lady might again be happy, that our darling was liv ing, made me dizzy; arid I paced the room, now picturing their meeting, now shudder ing as I remembered Jasper Ravensbourne. Ilia brother's words came to my mind, and I thought how _little he s „h4d,, drooped of such crueltY;tieibita At,lertglialte. morn ing dawned, apdwe,vrefe off; and drawing every minute nearer to London.. That day passed, and the night drew towards a close, and my mind was mere at rest. for we were only forty miles ^from London. The 'twi light was drawing on, and I had closed my eyes. , and leaned' beck to rest 'thy' aching bead, when a sheet front behind roused me. The coachrdrew' to ono aide, a traveling.ear ritige with four herses di'shed by, and with in it sat;' - as I saw in that •instant,' Mr.•Rai ensbourne..:. The tamp -shone full on his face; 'our eyes met, andl saw be . kneW me, and the nextmoment they were lost in "the darkness. • ' ,cIIATTER Vll,l, , • . The Inirible:despalr. of • ,that moment. I can never forget._ . To lose all when. it was almost in‘my grasp; to feel., that, my, jour- Pay winielshad 'Seined so successful., nous,' • 2 no hopeless., was more, iho,pl ; bens; and sick at heart. I pressed Eny_.forehead sitarist the window as the coach punblerl ' Seasuliesssort t unkthen stopped. and a'iOigh country lad & paps r i callingo him for,s,ppreon conch._ Pilstanall Rlarce.' l4 °, l 42l l ,"• l 4.V l A r . nP I I : 1 :4 4 0594 1 4.. it. `lnside werdr.,• ,4 Xy harps. taitei; ,than sours. jt,. is- Fun" s than n'iF,leB4fsFActusbDßothLtiptsi ing mpt ,42 0 tr o img 1 . 0 tbjeat pe_ta2ur - journey." Should I take the 'warning? I shuddered at his threat; for I felt that now, on the brink of discovery, he would stop at nothing. Yet I could not return home without an effort. I took out the letter which I had carried in my bosom, and looked at it. It was ill-spelt and ill-writ ten, and there was little in it beyond a de mand-for money for the child's keep, and at the end of the signature—"Redfern"— and the address. No, 1 must go on there, even if I arrived too late. I longed to I scream—to lash the horses, the men—any thing. Yet there I sat, my hands clenched; my eyes staring out into the darkness, while the coach•crept on, oh, so slowly! It was night now, and we were close on London, when in the road before us I heard shouts, and saw lights gleaming. A. number of dark figures were standing round a broken carriage and fallen horse, and as we drove up one sprang forward from the group and hailed the driver. I did not hear. his words, but I knew his voice well, and with intense thankfulness I heard the answer, "No room; after time." Another instant, and we were past. For a while I trembled lest we should atop for him; but no, the lights grew dim,and we were making our way to London, leav ing Jasper Ravensbourne behind. I heard one of my fellow passengers guess . thitt if he were' in haste the traveler would mount one of the horses and ride on. I knew • he might'even now be close upon us, _but I could think'no more—all seemed n'' . iireani to mt.' I remember dimly springing from the cOach, and nothing further," till I was fullowinten' guide through noisy, crowded streets, I suppose I had 'given "Min the right oddness. but I don't know, fur all was mist Ittl I st,s,l It, Mr. Herrington's dining rosin and my tale. first, I think, he faheird ow mad; hot when li. hod looked as the Inners he sprang up. "You have done writ, nobly; but now not a minute must be lost," [lo rang, - gave his orders, arid in an hour ho and 1 were 'on our way again.' 1 wits utterly' worn 'out now: past fearer hope, as I leaned buck hardly able even to answer Mr. Ilarringtuo's rapid questions. The -gray m, ruing light had dawned on us, when his„hand touched mine, and he said quietly, "We are ut Stapplefurd," and pointed to a peaceful country village that lay before us. We drew up at a roadside inn; he inquired of any person bearing the name of Redfern, and they showed us a fem. - thous() by the hillside. Then Mr. Har rinztot said lie would go on alone, and left me sitting in the carriage. . My "weariness was over now, and I sat up, every nerve quivering with impatience. Hours seemed to have passed over me, when I turned ray bead, fur the sixth time, to look along the road we had traveled; and there, there on the brow of the hill was Mr. Ravensbourne's carriage. It was far otr, but I knew the yellow wheels; and oh, if it should be here before we got off! The people of the house were his frien9f; they would never give up. the boy if lie resisted. I could `not wait there; and idding the, postboy drive up the narrow lane towards+ the farmhouse, I sat straining my eyes after the distant•carringe. The lane was shelter ed by trees, and they' could scarcely son our chaise, I knew, as yet; but they were coming on fast. What should I do? I dared not! go up to the farm, lest they should suspect; bat at last I heard welcome steps; there were - voices, and Mr. Harrington turned the corner with another, who seemed a farmer, and between them walked the boy we had mourned for three years—•-taller, browner, and in different dress,, but still my own little master. I dared make no sign, for ' the man was eying me with doubtful glances, while Mr. Harrington quietly help ed the boy in, and pressed something into the farmer's hand. Then he gave the order to drive on, and as we turned I saw the yellow wheels for an instant through the! trees. We were just off, when the man called after us with a question. Mr. Har riagton answered, and the carriage stopped; then it•was off again. and we - were driving down the lane. I clutched Mr. Harring ton's hand and hoarsely whispered; "Ile is coming up the lane: we can never gei'Past, unless we turn another way." lie under: stood•in a moment. 'A. little further on was another lane, branching off to the right, nod leading towards Londint. lf we could' only reach it in time! Mr. Iltirrington stood up,' bade the postboy whip on hie horses, and turn to the right. We reached it—we 'were round the corner; and' gallop ing on; then, we 'both looked back. , The yellow carriage passed theentrance' to the' lane before 'we' were Out'''of sight," but no one looked out of it, orosaw, us.- We were safe! and falling back in the chaise, fait ed away. It wa- , long before I . came to myself. feeb .log the cool air blowing on my, brow; and Kr. rlarringtotes voice speaking kindly :i opened niy iyesln lbeWilgerment, and bere sat.midayling Gerald, looking at.., me With, wondering, rOlglitene4 eyes. were near London, but we bad come by by-lanes„ part of the way, to avoid 111:r: Rayensbotirne. 7 All was safe, as . Mr. 11a - i-riagtOnsestured me; And I believed faqi r .. ,Gradually !seemed to know me, and clan.,,g,to me cybßr I.yissed. and fondled Joim,,looltipg , up at me with his mother? 'eyes. , nettled ',that libould: go hyme l firAkta prepare my, lady;. And acierAinkt4l4 rent as hfa -.Harringtop's I *arted,-andAs theAlzttkAreningArterAny ilepertura,l, again ,passed , the,dittleogreern -1 I g ate. auji pli„bAwa b:tppy.l weak a 24 , chtd • I. es cry of pleasure at-the bight%brati and holding out her hands, drew me to'her. She asked a few questions, but I only said that all was right, and I would tell her to morrow, and so we parted for the night, for I could not trust myself just then to speak the joyful news. - All the next miming I kept as ulna as passible away from her, lest the strange joy in my manner Shintld reveal anything too soon. I heard from Jessie thht Mr. Ravens bourne had been away, and had not yet re turned: but I' laid nothing to her; for t did not well know hew much of the story to tell; so I went about my usual work, and attend ed on my lady till late in the day, and then I went 'into the parlor with my work, and sat down by her side.• It was nearly sunset; and before the evening closed he would be with us; yet I knew not how to begin 'with out o shock, which•might kill her, for now as I looked in her face, I felt how little she could bear. The first words were from her. "Now, Hannah, tell me about yourjourney." I said that I had been called to see one whom I had never hoped to meet again. It bad been a great joy, a great 'surprise; and I went-on to say how startling even a glad surprise sometimes was—hOw much better it would be if we were prepared for anything. She answered me quietly,' and I saw that my words did not come home to her, and'l was troubled. Then 1 tried afresh, saying that a little surprise'was waitiug her, as Mr. Harrington would be'with her that evening: I had met bim town, and he wanted to see yon on business. -She answered that she should be glad, for he was always kind. "Indeed he is," I said "and ho has grieved sorely for you. He was speaking to me yesterday," •I pursued, trying to check the the trembling of my voice, "and he said hew strnngeit was that nothing had ever been found; He • said it sometimes gave him hope." • - My lady's hand was on my nrm instantly; and she whispered hoarsely: "Hannah, hoiv can you talk of hope! Do yon forget my an guish benne° I bear it silently? How can you be so cruel?" And leaning' for Ward she covered her face with her . hands.' My eye fell on the clock: it pointed to seven; in ten minutes they would be'here; yet she was the first to speak. "Forgive me, Hannah; but' you don't know what terrible suffering it'is. I have tried to be resigned ; but I cannot speak of hope." "Dear madam," I said, "I would rot speak of it without cause—but-strange thing; happen: the lost come home, and the dead There was a sautrd 'ofeemitt vvlincik; and my heart- 'tient •like•a hammer: '11Iy . :" lady looked at mo with a strange light in her blue eyes. "llannnh," , and.: her ,voice waif. almost fierce, "you •know something—you have heard of my child."_ The wheels camp nearer, then stopped, and bending over her, I said, "I do know. i lie is not drowned—he is alive and well." I looked up; two figures ,stood in the door , "lie is Here, dear lady; speak to him." _ way With a wild cry she started to her feet, and that same minute Mr. Harrington put the boy into her arms. There was d dead silence, and when she lifted her face it was almost ghastly. "Where am I?" she naked slowly. "Is he alive? Am I alive? Say it again," s le repeated, as we told her; and then she stooped over him pith passionate kisses and hungry looks at the bright boy face. • Suddenly• she tottered. • "How was it? Tell reel Oh, I am dying;" and as I throw my arm around het., she fell almost senseless against me. I laid her on the sofa, bathed her temples, and then as life came slowly back to her I whispered to Mr. Harrington that it' would be best to leave her alone with her boy. So 'ire two crept away, and left him sitting close by her side. His cousin • had told him much, and his blue eyes was full of 'pity and softness as he watched her. - 'We went and sat en the stairs, litsening anxiously, btit all was quiet, and after a while I - wont to the door and looked in. My lady lay, with a radiant'•smile on her white face, listening to the child's low talk, and 'never 'turning her eyes from him,' and 'I left them again.. 'When I came to - litok the second time, the boy • had fallen asleep ' with • his head against her arm, and she was watch ing him, her eyes 'bright with excitement. I dared not - dieturb her; and yet I feared; I feared, Once more I peeped •iri, - • and 114 time her bead had fallen-bauk -on !the pil low, and sheslept calmly,:with 'a half-smile upon her placid face. .S) we left them to •gether all that night; `arid thi rie•Xt MOrning, pale though she was, there was a 'ensile up: on her lip and asparkle in het; ityp'Whinh had not'seen far many a dip.' That 'morn ing a' letter was brought me; I' opei?ed 'it; and read: "Yon have triumphed at last, but Ihave bad a long 'revenge for old itittults and injuries; I shall not return to Raveni; bourne; You will hear of me no R.'!'• Men I showed -this' to 'my lady, she, ordfulaid that Ain svas• happy, and' for: 'gave him, now that'she' hid her boy' again. 41,,a . fewifeeka we all vi-ent• back to—itae pushourne. For the Sakti of 'Hits :campy buttoromy littlY/Oriibed that little ishould be told, and nothing was mint. ih the-village but'tltat the tidy Viinin Nei had thoughttdteir' *ld fait iwar ffbfft tame? 4 E'Per 7- fpiikiWri massy: Smitriente lWed theii mynletitzleArdiea:•iiVier• -• dieni 11;ine; au& with Iser 'liar:" P tlidt, cl; catine , potivamiAlfitrindetqfor4rliPlemba itlekifistirniiit4**orriON" ENE $1,50 PER. YEAR IIi,A.IirANCE; $2.00 IF, NOT IN ADVANCEit ways comes once,a weak to see me, when he's at Ravensbourne. Sally Weston came with me. She had always lived at the Llall in my lady's care till her death,-:and ,she was yeti' , fond of us both. -Before her, -we never spoke of old times. • •• Isuppose it must have been eight 'years' after we went back to Ravensbourne, 'that a letter came in a strange handwriting from America. Ibwas written by a backwoods man, to say that one who had worked as his comrade was lately dead, and that an old pencil bad been found on liim bearing the name of Jasper Ravensbourne, Ra vensbourne Park. No one. had known any thing of him, so they wrote to Ravensbourne; and this was the last we ever heard of him. Last Wards Not a few great men have, of course, de parted without giving utterance to any very remarkable last words, but still, generally speaking, their last recorded utterance will' be found—viewed by the light in which they uttered them—to be wise, suggestive, tender and profound. We append a few: Surely, there is something, very pathetic in those last words of Dr. Adam, of Edin burg, the High School head master: "It grows, dark, boys; you may g 9." Every one knows that the few last worAS which Goethe uttered Were truly nwlisable: "Draw back the curtains," said ho, ."and let in more light." , At the time of 'tomb°ldes death the sun was shining brilliantly into tlo room in which be was lying, anl it is stated that his last words, addressCd to his niece, wero these: "TVie harrlich diesc Straka, sic schie nen, die Erd, zwn liintmel Zil rufen ! " (llow grand these rays: they seem to beckon earth to Ilea - ren!) Slr'Walter Scott, during his last illness, more than once turned to ,Lockhart,, and .ex ; claimed with great. fervor to him, "Bo a good man, my dear." When we recollect the character of the man who uttered them, is not there a little sermon in these.words? Dr. Johtison's last words, addressed, to a ynting lady standing by his bedside, were: "God bless you, my dear." And "God bless you! Is that you, Dorar ,were Wood worth's last words. Thero is n singular iilentity,rilso, between the last utterances .of Mrs. flannall, More and of the historinn, Sir James Mackintosh. The last words of both .consisted of one word, and both alike breathe the same•spi rit of hripiiiness.. "Joy' was the last utter anco of the former, and "Happy" that of the latter. am ready," were the last words of thi• great actor, Charles,Mathews. John Knox, about eleven o'clock on the .night of his death, gave a deep sigh, and exclaimed, "Now, it is come." These were his last words, for in a few momenta later ho expired. General Washington'e last words were firm, cool, and, reliant as himself. ".1 am about to die." said he, "and l am not afraid to die." Noble words these! There is something in thew which reminds us of Ad dison's celebrated request . to those around him "to mark how a christian could die." Etty, the groat painter, quietly marked the progress of dissolution going on within his frame, * and coolly moralized thereon.— Hie last words were: "Wonderful—wonder ful, this death!" and ho uttered them, with perfect calmness. , Thomas Hood's last words were: "Dying, dying;" as though, says his biographer, "he was glad to realize the sense of rest implied in them. Amongst the last utterances of another great wit, Douglas Jerrold, was the reply. which ho made to the question "low he felt?" Jerrold's reply was quick and terse, as his conversation always. ways. I.le.folt, he said, "as one who was waiting, and wait. ed for." When we remember Charlotte Bronte's stormy and. sorrowful life, lightened for only n few brief months towards its close by her marriage with her father's curate, Mr. Nich olls, there is a melancholy plaintiveness in her last words: Addressing her husband, she said: "I am not going- to die, tom 1? Ile will not separate us; we have been so happy," Poor Oliver Goldsmith's last words era very plaitive. "Is your mind at ease?" asked the' doctor. it.is not,",vrati poor Goldsmith's melancholy, reply.: This was the last sentence be. over uttered, and it is ficirrowful,,like his life. .Ono orbleatsrlatest utterances is full ota Singular pathos and beauty. "I feel," he said, po ,his death bed,: "I feet the !loners growing aver. me." - .. -Tames lait words•—"rn =tins tans Domi ne," (into thy hands, 0 Lord, do I commit my spirit,) .are eminently religious. Tb'ep . were uttered by him with extitine'ditficelty, and immediately aftetwards•he expired: . • ~. 117apoleciffiatiXt words assuredly exhibit "the rnlirig paesioa ' strong in'death:", his death bed be became diddrione. - 711ii issued' orders' to his "troops, andimigin'ed that he'visieondiaini krittil'biittio:, d'arttien,"'We're tie lieVtiordiiirhiciisciPe ed:his lips. r: ' A retairtabra instance of, :ruling-passion 6Crong' in`' deith"l6.o t le 'tni - nd.ia the ac- count left its Of, tl'a death, cifiZr444 . mr,en -feeble& aTortaigiii:s 'lie"" feat that hcs t iasKrnomints Wereapproaci j irig,',hi4eSirett (whieti,wmt among thei)rilemit'et be innk filen; di% sq.ribt frtp4,4 reigirt et's' ta" enieVauiirder's theatre. EIVIINJE NUMBER 1,66:: Ile himself sang the alto part, Snaeknibti soprano, and Hofer the bass. Shortly'Afterd wards he expired. This= instance—of =the. "ruling passion," we opine,dins,! in . .P614- aliner's phrase, "been rarely :equalled 4 4enV ,:. never surpased." Who that ever-road them can forget WA: noble last words which Bishep dressed to his fellow-sufferer, Bishop, Rid ley, when both were about to flames at Oxford? Addressing Biehe - PRIV: ley, he said—"Be o( good ' cheer, Bitaiitil Ridley; this day we light a candle in Eng land which shall never be extinguished." 4 ' That great man and' incorrigible jeSte?'. i . Sir Thomas More, perished, it will be, re:' membered, on the scaffold. Observiiii, he was ascending the scaffold; that 'it.ap-' l . ; pared very weak, he turned to the' liciateri?, : Ant, and said to him merrily—"liiraile6pz Mr. Lieutenant, that you see me elifeup`" , ‘ and as for my coming down, why, shift for myself." Ring Charles IT. also died with a upon his lips; his death bail been ex'pecte'd` for sometime before it occurred, and'th'us ti many of his courtiers had been kept tip night. He apologized to those - who 'BEA: round his bed for the trouble he badCiiiise j e• them; ho had been, he said, a most uncon scionable time in dying, bat he hoped' they would 'excuse it. There is an incident relateiVer. ti;,; cletith'7 1 scene of Sir Charles Napier, the' great dine warrior, which is so ea-rictus gestive, that (although strictly "speitkleig;':', it does not come under the category of words;" since no word "wn9 Bpi:ace' ltiVr", Charles) we cannot resist referring4TOlV4 hero. .It appears, then, that thii-Twen,tx second Foot was , the regiment, tvitltbw9A,,,, Sir Charle's chief victories were.achkeytil, was et. and to which he most cItyl017„ 41 od- Just as 'the, r. 11T ' ATurdo , hie _ old warrior's spirit , ts it a passing swap, law,' seized the tattered, 'shot-torn t fritg-, ! meats of the colors. of the Twenty-sfeoßd Regint'ent, and waved them over _thn,.dfing,, warrior. A grim smile of„statisfactieet dt crossed Sir Charle's face as this ~vae . beiog;~ dope, and thus his spirit passed ayrpar,„,,,,„ Zwingle, the great (lonian yefo;meformh z killed in battle during the yets::. 1531,.",11M- la last words' are cool and brave. Gazingt,, 'calmly and with undaunted courage at the blood trickling from his denthmounde - v-his• calmly exclaimed: "What matteraibirmisa-e fortune?, • They may indeed .kill- the b0dr„ , ..1 but they cannot kill the soul." . And now that we are speaking about= tile- 1 . last words of warriors, who can Sail toteentel leet those noble last words of Nelsotif="Pre thank God," ,said ho, "that X have clOneter - Fr duty." And so, with the great gone betatz: . 1 ing overhead, proclaiming .the vieterY leirouat dearly bought, be died. • . In the year 1591, Sir Richard - GrenvilldV l was serving in an English fleet agsibiW" Spain. They were-assailed by 10" fleet of far 'superior force. The Revenge, (Sir Richard's vessel) was. taken, atigAiF s _ Richard Grenville himself was Carried,.mot.. tally wounded, on board the Spanish adnii- 1 . - -1 rat's ship. But in a few days he Telt theit t death was at hand, and spoke these stumpr. able words in Spanish, tliat all Who:beard him 'might bear witness to their -fervor:l-T , ' "Here diei, Richard Grenville,•inlfjoiTdl'et and a quiet mind; for that I have tilL 3 life, as ' good soldier ought to do, 'figliting.ad: 'for his.ceuntry, queen, religion aud..lonoti my soul willingly departing - trona thisi body; s'u leaving behind the lasting'fare - e' . of tworir:sg; : i' T behaved as every valiant soldieritilsa' duty?, I, bound to do.": . - A 11 USEFUL CONTRABAND.—AIady in warm ington desiring to procure a 'help," made,: application at tbo hcad•gaarters ,of; the 'contrabands,' on Capitol fill, when Abe:. ...„; following colloquy ensued between heiittdr, and a female contraband who had,lesicapedw from service, in Virginia: 77 _ Lady—Well, Dinah, you say ,you wool a place. What can you do? Can you : stook? k' Contraband—No, rn'm mammy, ette.stl.i v - itt lays cooked. • Lady—Aro you a good,chambermaid? , 7 • Contraband-Sister Sally. sTes : allamdia the chambers. : . Lady-Can you wait in the, dining-roots' and attend the door? Contraband—La, no, sn'ts;Jito,lintt wss ,11 ° his work. .Lody. 7 Cats,you wash and-iron?. , sw 'Contrablind—Well you :•see rutni,", Becky,-she allays Washed: - e,. Lady—Csia you sew? • 2 a. nahatvJa Controbatid-:-Charity, Lady—Then 'what in fhe World jidie ss v ins t , cm do? Llfll', Contraband—V:lly, ca Wes r.l , w , Tnos ki6aott 41T t et ". 3 o great gritndann- r —was a groom. 0a Saoldol‘moosta and hiti,eOn.Silirer, the lastmaleheir.otibetz ads forsilywin . terney,of_Lgadom !Saris/L[llEl;43aq the. Prottaitor's -grand daughter'cohildima ' , rad sank to the lowest class ofsocliety.-.o.oolofcrsoldt ter seeing her.huiband die imams:mm*ooogal auk% -OfL4 little .s?Ftlktlwn.4o4 beroolf,o+4lllo.Yt ads :ccaiing two daughters; the elder the . 04 , 1 4 wife of -a shoemaker: and the posing* Of adr batchir's t apu, who itackbeealser Isilobrustalath a root: Another of the Quist:o4ga &fatties* gran :43,atglkteet, heal two/ frehildran,s' 'mho's% parpektheir, c scaaty bread br-thsoblumbhist Zen 011patry E tho eon as asatallitterltingdsliibagal ads tha„daagitter gurtbaudetralls a:W*lMay al school at Itlildenhall. Ell -111 it il .....,,ow ,-. ;ir. E11:1 SIM INIMBEiIIiI -me:.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers