511 C Pittii . t . lio liAttkijient_tr; '
Pt= tsinED Mir'
. -
c0,0P.1.0. : 4 SA NOICOSON Olt CO.
J. M. COOPZIL,
S. G:
ALFRED SAI,IDERSON
Wei A. bloavni,
• _
TERMS—Two Dollars per irunam, payable
all eases In advanCe.
OFFICE. S' OONNEE. OF CENTER
421TAUE. . .
far Ali cin business shoul
reseed to letters
COOPER, SANDERSON & COd be ad
.-
Titeratl.
The Old Mill.
Rural ilfe has always a charm—a ro
mace which clings around it, especially
to one whose childhood was free and
happy amid the society of brooks and
vales and foliage and pleasing rural
haunts. Continually will some germ of
old remembrance uncover itself from
the dust of cobwebs of dim recollection
and come up fresh and possessing an
interest, with a kind of weirdness of
pleasure, causing pangs of severe re
gret that childhood had not always last-
ed.
A little stream which formed the out
let of a lake embowered among the hills,
as if to add only the charm of a ray of
sunlight to the beauty of the landscape,
ran, concealed along by the alders and
flags, the meadow and pastures, till at
last it crossed the highway and plunged
into a thicket forest and was lost to com-
prehension.
One summer day, I tired of wonder
ing where this trout stream ran to ; for,
like the " Brook " of Tennyson, there
was a poetic romance about it which
was irresistible. Tempted by the wil-
derness of the scene, I made a journey
to its course and wandered along its
fringed banks. A slight rushing sound
as of distant falling waters, or the has
tening of the wind through the foliage,
led me down the gradually steeping de
clivity and by the increasing rugged
banks, now across the stream upbn a
high-suspended log, or picking my foot
holds among the rocks which rose above
the rapids.
Over the bed of the stream, as it deep:
endd into the forest, hung the birch and
elm, forming a continuous shade and
vista down which my eyes peered with
all the admiration of a young poetic
soul. Here and there a white cascade
broke the regularity of the descent, and
wound around the base of jutting hill
(or rock, growing every step more wild,
varied and picturesque.
As the descent grew steeper, the
roughness of the banks compelled me
to leave the shore and - clamber around
a distance of a few rods, when I again
came full upon the stream and beheld
the pouring waters, the sound of which
had grown more and more distinct as I
approached. Turning suddenly to the
left around a projecting ledge, the
stream plunged down a height of a
hundred feet or more into a ravine still
more dark and wild, and forming a
beautiful cascade which broke in spray
and sprinkled the mosses and wild
flowers upon its banks with a delicious
coolness.
Upon the brow of the opposite shore
and the shelving rocks, the fir and hem- '
lock grew so close and dense as to com
pletely shut out all view of the scene
beyond. The vine and gooseberry inter
mingled with the dark grey rocks, while
over the fall the mingling branches of
the trees formed a beautiful gateway
from which the white cascade darted
like a thing of life, and fled away down
the deepening vista.
At the foot of the fall stood the rain of
an old mill, the stones growing over
with moss and weeds, while a little
green plot of grass and wild flowers
spread out before it. As I clambered
upon the ruins, lost in the roar of the
falling waters, and unconscious of outer
things, I discovered a pretty summer
hat, decorated with ribbons and wild
flowers, lying partially concealed by
some overhanging branches, and I sud
denly recollected having caught an in
distinct strain of a song as it mingled
. and seemed lost in the sound of the
waters, so as not to have before left a
distinct impression upon my ear. I list
ened and gazed about carefully, search
ing for some indication of the fair owner,
.but to no purpose.
Whether the wearer had noticed me
tand hastened away, fearing to stay to
-claim it, or whether some accident
might not have befallen her, were
thoughts which engaged my curiosity
.until near the sinking of the evening
:sunshine into twilight. The soft air
.grew cool and balmy, and the fall more
.beautiful in the contrast of the deepen
ing shade, but still I waited, thought
lessly carving a device upon a shelving
rock, and musing until the moon was
up and shining, when I wound along by
the ravine outward, bearing and admir
ing the hat, to my youthful fancy the
• embodiment of beauty and artless love
- .liness. I doubted not the waving tress
•es of the fairest flower of sixteen sum
mers had often been concealed beneath
.it.
Many a year later, I strayed again
to the thicket and the fall, still hidden
in the depth of a large forest. There
lay the old millstone—a tree of consider
able size growing through it, and the
•wild flowers and the brambles were
thicker and coarser. The ruins s:ud
denlycalled to mind the incidents of the
former visit, so long before that the pre
• else time was not recalled ; but before I
left my eye fell upon the following in
scription : ,
Ju:NE 15, 18-1.5
FOUND A HAT, AND LOST MI" HEART
S. S.
Just below, cut in a similar style, by
the chiseling of a piece of quartz, was—
MOST MY HAT, BUT FOUND NO HEART.
I called to mind my impression of the
time that the hat was of a style and
trimming unusually worn in the
country, and that it was no doubt that
of a visitor to the locality, who had un
attended strayed to gratify a curiosity
for romantic scenery, similar to my own,
and that rambling away" from the
locality had mistaken the place where
the hat was left.
It was in a moment, my full determi
nation to discover who was the fair "A.
B," and then for the first time in my
life I seriously thought of the idea of
choosing a companion to with me ad
mire the romance of nature.
"Yes," said I, "she could not have
come here unless tempted by the same
fancy, and if the germ budding so young
has been cultivated, she must be all I
could imagine, both in body and soul."
But the wide world spread out before
me, and with it a vista of uncounted
years, while how many times might the
fancied " A. B." have become A,—
any of the twenty-six letters of the al
phabet, yes,,and the " & " besides. And
I-was no longer a regident of the coun
try, and she might be abroad.
The meditation was well nigh dis
tracting, and the moments of sleep that
night were but snatches of wild song and
fairy nymphs just eluding my gaze and
grasp by the foaming spray. To free
myself of the effect the madness had
produceil, gnickened my departure to
a contemplated tour among the north
ern hills and hikes. The long absence
from these iicenea,haii.a.new-charm to
bine, or else the interruption ofing peace
!Wl:hind had suddenly ritadii - incrddre
gwpreciative. I pamed' ieweaCtirldhe
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VOLUME 66
hotel which had grown - upon the shores
of Willoughby Lake, which was now a
favorite resort.
My unsettled fancy led me to long
wanderings among the forest shores and
by the new found pastures, in search of
a wild flower or strawberry. One after
noon I came upon a party of ladies
wreathing garlands for a couple of
bright little girls, the very embodiment
of loveliness and health, and placing
them upon their summer hats, the
party strolled down to the lake to watch
the white-fringed waves as they laved
the shining sand.
I had not heeded the ladies, none
could be beautiful nor charming to me
but " A.. B.;" but a sudden remark
caught my ear, "How singular it is,.
Annie, that we never had a trace of
your lost hat."
I hardly understood the words at first
nor did I catch the reply, but I looked
up, startled with a pang of despair, as I
had no doubt from the appearance of
the group that one lady was the mother
of the children, and the other an aunt
or grandmother. I however caught a
hasty glance at the features of the mother
and beheld all my fancy ideal with but
a bearing of still greater loveliness and
grace than my feveredimagination ever
had pictured.
" Confound the fortune !" I ejacula
ted, and turned'away to the hotel to con
suit the record. But nothing satisfac
tory was gained. Mr. and Mrs. Bigelow
were there, and numerous other B's, but
no " A. 8.," although I was satisfied
that " Annie" was the real " A. B."
I cared not to learn further of my
fate, and came near quitting on theearly
stage for the Queen's dominions, when
the landlord accosted me and asked if I
would not make a party upon the lake;
"another gentleman was wanted, and
the ladies had proposed you." I con
sented, was presented to the good-na
tured company, but forgot the name in
my thoughtlessness until every indica
tion of attention on her part, and fre
quent raillery of my melancholy proved
to my satisfaction that she was not the
mother of the two lovely children I had
seen her in company with.
The boating party returned, and with
it my drooping spirits, while the ac
quaintance begun ripened into admira,
tion. The rambles were frequent and
the wreaths of wild flowers often sug
gested a subject which I could not sum
mon courage enough to touch upon.
One day when her hat received a few
flowers of my culling, I, while stopping
to pluck a flower, and with my face
turned away, mustered sufficient cour
age to say that I heard her once remark
that she had lost a hatdecked with flow
ers.
- -
" Yes," she replied, " I lost my trav
eling hat once when I was a little girl,
and I would give my heart to know who
found it."
"Why ?" suggested I, musing, and
learned that there was some mystery
which she concealed with playfulness.
" I found the hat," said I, as we sat
down upon a knoll, shaded by au over
hanging maple, "and I will take the
heart."
"You, Mr. Smith?'' said she, in sur
prise, " you found my'hat by that beau
tiful waterfall ?"
I did, Miss Annie, and lost my heart
* * *
There followed no 'surprise nor excla
mation at my last remark, but her hand
unconsciously dropped upon mine, as
we both at the same moment asked how
it came about ? As I divined, she had
thoughtlessly strayed away from the
spot where the hat was left until too
near night and too far away to return
for it. Upon returning with a com
panion the next rooming, the hat was
not to be found, but instead the inscrip
tion as I had made it. She added the
playful suggestion, and returned harbor
ing the same curiosity as I had done.
The hat had been carefully kept as a
bachelor relic, stowed in my garret,but
it has since been pulled out and em
bodies to two 'happy hearts a bright
page of childhood. We have both since
visited the fall and the mill ruins,
which somebody has added to the for
mer inscription :
"FOUND THE HAT, AND FOUND THE
HEART."
"And Then."
The following story is told of S
Filippo Neri. He was living at one
of the Italian universities, when a
young man, whom he had known as a
boy, ran up to him with a face full of
delight, and told him what be had been
long wishing above all things in the
world was at length fulfilled, his parents
having just given him leave to study
the law ; and that thereupon he had
come to the law school in this university
on account of its great fame, and meant
to spare no pains or labor in getting
through his studies as quickly and as
well as possible. In this way lie ran on
a long time, and when at last he came
to a stop, the holy man, who had been
listening to him with great patience
and kiudm•ss, said:
" Well,and when you havegot through
your course of studies, what do you
mean to do then ?"
"Then I shall take:my doctor's degree,"
answered the young man.
"And then?" asked St. Filippe Feri,
again.
" Andthen," continued the youth," I
shall have number of difficult and knotty
cases to manage, and shall catch people's
notice by my eloquence, my zeal, my
learning, my acuteness, and gain a great
reputation."
"And then? repeated the holy man."
"And then?" replied the youth, "why
then I shall be promoted to some high
office or other, besides, I shall make
money and grow rich."
"And then?" repeated St. GilippoNeri.
"And then," pursued the - younglawyer
—"then I shall live comfortably and
honorably in health and dignity; and
shall be able to look forward quietly to
a happy old age."
"And then ?" asked the holy man.
"And then," said the youth—" and
then—and then—l shall die."
Hew St. Filippo again lifted up his
voice and said, "And then?" whereupon
the young man made no answer, but
cast down his head and went away.
This last And then ? had pierced like a
flash of lightning into his soul and he
could not get rid of it. Soon after he
forsook the study of the law and gave
himself up to the ministry, and spent
the remainder of his days in goodly
words and works. .
—Daring the three months ending Sep
tember 30th, the-receiptsfrom cnstomswere
$443,237,217. The receipts for October were
overllo,ooo,ooo. , _
The Washinglon Monument Msotia
tion wishes 000,000 to complete the Montt
inept. During the past year the popkilak
contributions to the Itind was but - eleven
Brick and kJ-111sta.
BY " BRICK f ' POSIEBOY.
Those other girl of ours, as we are in
formed by letter, has done gone and got
well locked unto a tinkerist of the gos
pel, who attends prayer meetings, swops
horse's, stands chaplain in the army,
and gets drunk on the sly! Oh dear!
This is much misery! Wherefore shall
we flee go unto now? How we used to
do the courting for those girl. Candy,
peanuts, worm lozenges, peppermint
drops, little balls of honey soap, night
blooming for seriousness, and such evi
dences did we pour into them lap of hers
whereon at vesper chimes this head of
ours did erst so sweetly rest. Oh dear !
'Twas O! K—lista!
We used to blacken our boots, starch
our hair, grease our shirt and curl our
eyebrows for them girl. And we rode
horse for her paternal derivative to cul
tivate corn ; and we milked the brindle
heifer as what no other boy could milk ;
and we split oven wood, and who would
not for her ma ?
And at night when bats came forth,
and tumble bugs crawled over the lea,
and young pullets sat in maiden medi
tation fancy free, holding their heads
under one wing so as to learn love by
hearing their hearts beat, we would
hasten under Kalista's window, and
she would with her lily white hand snail
us up by the hair till we arrived at the
-bower of love, as she called her garret.
'Twas thus our hair became less and
our confectionary for Kalista increased.
When the week had busted on the
rock of Saturday night we used to
wander by the brooklet and let the brook
wander too. And.Kalista went forth
with us. Hand in hand like the Siamese
twinsters we roamed, and sat on the
dewy bank to catch cold in our heads
and luxuriated on the " bank wet with
dew !" And we used to recline against
a fatherly or motherly elm tree, and
squeeze our each other's hands as we
rolled our eyes and peeked upward into
the blue vault our spirits longed to vault
into but didn't. Oh, this sparking is
Heaven in two earthly volumes, with
the price mark omitted Did you ever
spark? If not, advance your works
upon a female crinoline-dear and com
mence active hostilities to onet !
Once we sparked Kalista when her
mother was looking. The old lady
stopped us, cause it reminded her of
other times, she said. But she didn't
keep us stopped. When we wanted to
repose our head, Kalista held her lap
and into it we went like an apple. When
we wanted a kiss we told Kalista such
was our desire, when she would lean her
amber head over upon our forces and
say, "Now, ' Brick,' tea is ready."—
You just can gamble we took tea from
that little table lots of times, and never
asked any one to help put back the
plates ! Kalista was a zephyr on a kiss.
It was pretty near her best holt. Mak
ing mush was Kalista's charm. When
the water did boil, how she did sprinkle
meal into the iron—iron—recepteaket
tle, and shake her locks in glee to see
the infant mush bubble and splutter
like a fellow kissing a baby with his
mouth full of beechnuts.
We courted, sparked and courted
Kalista seventeen long years. She grew
from sighs to greater size, and all went
merrily as a funeral bell. Kalista's
maternal author said we might, and we
intended to. We sat on rail fences, end
boards to wagon boxes, piles of pump
kins, heaps of potatoes, door steps, saw
logs, plow beams, pine stumps, where
we pined for each other and told our
love, and in anticipation, combed our
hair, peeled our potatoes, chopped our
hash, rocked our—well, never mind;
wore our old clothes except when we
had company and waxed fat on love,
and sich. Kalista's father said we
might, and there again we had things
begged. We counted our calves (and
Kalista had nice calves) and weighed
our pork and sold our veal, and churned
our little mess of butter, and took our
wool to market, and put up our little
preserves and revelled in that future
which is so much like an oyster, more
shell than meat.
One day a baulky steer slung one of
his back hoofs in among the old gent's
waistband, and after a series of severe
discomforts, the old rooster went hence
in February, when we all followed with
a march! Kalista was a sensitive plant,
measuring fifty-nine inches around her
afflictions, and so we murdered the steer
and made him into smoked beef. And
at supper table, and as we lunched be
tween the heavy courting, we (thawed
the beef, and thus Kalista and us got
satisfaction from the juvenile ox who
steered his foot wickedly.
Then Kalista's mother, who would
not partake of the beef, took cold in the
head, and went hence. It was autumn
—one of the fall months. The mother
of our heart's poison as we faniily-arly
called Kalista was of an enquiring dis
position. She always asked numerous
things. She asked the egg-man if chick
ens abided iu the shells of the hen fruit
she bought. She wanted to know why
rounds were put in ladders crosswise
instead of up and down! She wanted
to know why pants were made so that
a man could not take them off over his
headl She said in her innocence that
an eclipse was caused by a nigger con
vention between her and the moon!
But why the moon fulled, rather busted
the venerable mother of our Kalista,
and she sought to study it out. She
read Daboll's arithmetic, Sands' spell
ing book, Robinson Crusoe and the La
Crosse Democrat, but she could not get
her fork into the reason. The old lady
read in an almanac that on a certain
night the moon would full. We went
to see Kalista that night to see if our
love would full. The old lady deter
mined to watch it and see how a man
fulled, and when it fulled and what for
did it full. Night came, and she wrap
ped one leg of a pair of red flannel
drawers about her head, and when all
in the house was still she emerged into
the sitting room, and in her antique
costume, the old lady says "Brick, your
supper is ready !" So we went Into the
parlor and kissed the hours away. Very
fine supper! .
The old lady took an almanac, a New
York directory and a tallow candle out
on the back stoop. She anchored in a
big chair and waited to see the moon
change its clothes. She looked and
looked and at last fell asleep for a mo
ment, when, as she said, the darned
thing up and fulled, and she didn't see
it i
She was not au observing female, but
she never lost any children. Yet for all
that, the moon worried her—her candle
went out. Kalista was left to be her
own mother or do without. Kalista
took grief very ; healthy. She were •
mourning and looked well, as she wept
because the jeweler did • ,not • get her
rneurintig pin -done intim. She ironed
anew cotton handkerchiefcoma
lid ec'a4 to have some uee of tfie
LANCASTER, PA., WEDNESDAY MORNING; NOVFM - BER - 8, 1865
.
-tare ere it, was knocked down, and was 1
ready to wedlock then. Kailas was
lonesome when her authors were gone,
and we should have wedded then but
for the looks of the thing. ..
Then there came from the war a
journeyman converter, and be offered
Kalista all he had at once, and Kalista
being a lonesome girl, said she would
and she did. And her and the good
man went to the carpenter's and order
ed a graveyard fence for the loved rela—
tives, and the worker of wood threw in
a can dle,and the pair wedded at once, and
now Kalista is telling some other dele
gate that " supper is ready !" And
thus another of our hopes is spilled over
life's precipice, and we are left to mourn
for the candy we gave unto Kalista, who
has left us all alone for to die !
Desperation.
The following is a passage from the
very laughable tale of " Desperation,"
one of the rich articles which are em
braced in the literary remains of the
late Willis Gaylord Clark. It is only
necessary to premise that the author is
a Philadelphia student, who, after a
stolen fortnight amid the gaities of a
Washington season, finds himself,
(through the remissness of a chum) at
Baltimore, on his way home, without a
penny in his pocket. He stops at a
fashionable hotel nevertheless, where,
after tarrying for a day or two, he
finally, at the head of a great dinner,
" oinne so/us," in his private apartment,
flanked with abundant Champagne and
Burgundy, resolves to disclose all to
the landlord. Summoning a servant,
he said :
" Ask the landlord to step up to my
room and bring his bill."
He clattered down stairs laughing,
and shortly after his master appeared.
He entered with a generous smile, that
made me hope for " the best his house
afforded," and that just then, was credit.
" How much do I owe you ?" said I.
He handed me the bill with all the
grace of a private expectancy.
" Let me see—seventeen dollars.—
How very reasonable! But, my dear
sir, the most disagreeable part of the
matter is now to be disclosed. I grieve
to inform you that at present I am out
of money, and I know by Your philan
thropic looks, that you will be satisfied
when I tell you that if I had it, I would
give it to you with unqualified pleasure.
But you see my not having the change
by me, is the reason I cannot do it, and
I am sure you will let the matter stand
and say no more about it. I am a stran
ger to you, that's a fact, but in the place
I came from, all my acquaintances know
me as easy as can be."
The landlord turned all colors.
"Where do you live, and how ?"
"In Washin—l should say Philadel
phia.'
His eyes flashed with angry disap
pointment. -
-* • -
"I see how it is, mister; my opinion
is that you are a blackleg. You don't
know where your home is ; you begin
with Washington and then drop it for
Philadelphia, You must pay your
bill."
" But I can't."
"Then I'll take your clothes ; if I
don't blow me tight."
. _
" Scoundrel," said I, rising bolt up
right, "do that if you dare, and leave
the rest to me."
There were no more words. He arose
deliberately, seized my hat and my
only inexpressibles, and walked down
stairs.
Physicians say that two excitements
can't exist at the same time in one
system. External circumstances drove
away, almost immediately, the confu
sion of my brain.
I rose and looked out of the window.
The snow was descending as I drum
med on the pane. What was Ito do?
An unhappy suns culottes in a strange
city ; no money, and slightly inebri
ated.
A thought struck me. I had a large
full cloak, which with all my other ap
pointments, save those he took, the
landlords had spared. I dressed imme
diately, drew on my boots over my fair
drawers, not unlike small clothes ; put
on my cravat, vest and coat, laid a
travelling cap from my trunk jauntily
over my forehead, and flinging my fine
long mantle gracefully about me, made
my way through the hall into the street.
Attracted by the shining lamps of the
portico of a new hotel, a few squares
from my flrstlodgings, I entered, record
ed some name on the books and bespoke
a bed. Everything was fresh and neat,
every servant attentive, all augured well.
I kept myself closely cloaked, puffed a
cigar, and retired to bed to mature my
plot.
"Waiter, just brush my clothes well,
my fine fellow," said I, in the morn
ing, as he entered my room ; mind the
pantaloons - ; don't spill anything from
the pockets—there is money in both."
" I don't see no pantaloons."
"The devil you don't. Where are
they ?"
"Can't tell, I'm sure; I don't know,
s'elp we God !"
Go down, sir, and tell your master
to come here immediately."
The publican was with me in a mo
ment. I had risen and worked my face
before the mirror into a fiendish look of
passion.
" Landlord!" exclaimed I, with fierce
gesture, " I have been robbed in your
house—robbed, sir—robbed my panta
loons and purse containing three fifty
dollar notes, are gone! This is a pretty
hotel. Is this the way you fulfill the
injunctions of Scripture? I am a stran
ger, and have been taken in with a ven
geance. I will expose you at once if I
am not recompensed."
" Pray keep your temper," replied
the publican. " I have just opened this
house, and it is getting a good run ;
would you ruin its reputation by an ac
cident ? I will 'find out the villain who
robbed you, and I will send for a tailor
to measure you for your missing gar
ments. Your money shall be refunded.
Do you see that your anger is useless?"
_ "My dear sir," I replied " I thank you
for your kindness—l do not mean to
reproach you. If those trowsers can be
done to-day, I shall be satisfied; time is
more precious than money. You may
keep the others if you find them, and in
exchange for the one hundred and fifty
dollars which you give me, the contents
are yours."
The next evening, with new inex
pressibles, and one hundred and forty
dollars in my pocket. I called upon my
guardian in Philadelphia for sixty dol
lars. He gave it with a lecture. on col
legiate dissipation, that I shall not soon
forget. I enclosed the money back ,to
my honorable landlordlay theillstpost,
settled my bill at old Crusty's the first
publican, awl got my trunk by
—Yesterday ari — ott-eloth - factory was'
burned - . „
eat Biddeford, Mat* „ The was
1,80,000.
.Trusted and Trusty.;
"Over the side with ye, quick: one
minute's delay may.cost your life I",eX.
claimed Mr. Gray to a fellow'passenger,
a lad of about fourteen, who appeared
to hesitate about swinging himself down
by a rope into EL boat which rocked, in
the waves below the burning ship. The
flames were raging round mast and
yard, thick volumes of smoke hung
like a funeral pall over the vessel, and
the awful, red glare was reflected on the
sea, which glowed like a fiery furnace.
It -was no time for delay, indeed, and
yet Reginald drew back front the ves
sel's side. " I had forgotten it," he ex
claimed, and darted back toward the
cabin.
" Madness—he is lost !" muttered Mr,
Gray ; no money was worth such arisk.
" That life is thrown away."
Sailors and passengers with eager
haste lowered themselves into the boats,
but there was not room for all. Some,
under the direction of the captain,
whose brave spirit only rose with the
danger, hastily lashed spars together to
form a rude raft for the rest. Mr. Gray
laboring among these, gasping and al
most fainting as he was from the heat,
which had become well nigh intolera
ble. Often he glanced anxiously tow
ard the hatchway, with the faint hope
of seeing Reginald emerge again from
the burning cabin into which he had
so daringly ventured.
The raft, the last hope of the crew, is
floating on the crimson billows, the
crowded boats have sheered off, Mr.
Gray, half blinded and suffocated by
the heat and smoke, springs on the raft;
he is followed by the captain and all
who remain of the passengers and crew
except the poor orphan boy. Just as
they are about to push off—" Hold,
hold !" cries Mr. Gray, starting up from
his place, as a slight form, blackened
with smoke, and with dress singed and
burnt, appears on deck ; he springs
over the bulwark, missing the raft, and
the next moment is dragged out of the
billows to lie gasping and exhausted
with his head on Mr. Gray's knee.
" Thank God, my poor boy, you are
saved! •'
" Thank God," faintly uttered Regi
nald Clare.
A strange appearance was presented
by the lad. His hair and eye-brows
were singed, marks of burning were on
his hands and face, his dress hung in
tatters around him, but he held in his
hand a flat parcel wrapt up in oil cloth,
and a faint smile rose to his lips as he
murmured, "I'm so glad that I have it
all safe !"
It was not until the vessel had burnt
down to the water's edge, and the flames
had sunk at last from having nothing
further on which to vent their fury, that
the captain dared to raise a boat sail
which he had the foresight to carry
with him. By means of this he suz
ceeded, after long hours of painful anx
iety, in reaching soon after sunrise, the
coast, from which the homeward bound
vessel had been not many miles distant
when the terrible fire had occurred.
When the worst of the peril was over
and the raft, under a favorite breeze,
was floating toward the land, Mr. Gray,
who felt a strong interest in Reginald
Clare, asked the poor lad sonic ques
tions regarding his family and position.
He knew already that the boy was the
orphan of a missionary, who had died
at Sierra Leone; lie now found that
young Reginald was returning to Eng
land, to be dependent on an uncle
whom he had never seen.
" I am glad that you have succeeded
in saving something," said Mr. Gray
who had himself preserved a box con
taining his principal treasures ; "doubt
less that parcel, for which you risked
your life, contains something of very
great value."
" I do not know what it contains, sir,"
was Reginald's reply.
" Not know what it contains !" ex
claimed Mr. Gray.
" It is not mine," said the boy, in ex
planation, " it is a parcel entrusted to
my care."
" And you really rushed back in the
burning cabin to carry off that what
was not the slightest value to you, and,
perhaps, of little to any one else."
The pale cheek of boy flushed as if he
were almost hurt at the question, and
he made the simple reply, " I had been
trusted—l had promised—what else
could I have done?"
The party safely landed in England.
As the fire had left poor Reginald pen
niless, Mr. Gray liberally paid for his
journey to London. Reginald arrived
that evening at his uncle's house, when
he was received first with amazement
at his burnt and ragged state, till sur
prise was changed to pity, on the cause
of his strange appearance being known.
It soon became clear to the boy that
his uncle, Mr. Brown, and his wife,
were not in easy circumstances, and
they were likely to feel his maintenance
a very unwelcome burden. The thin,
sharp-featured lady, in her gown turn
ed and dyed, looked gravely at the tat
tered clothes which must at once be re
placed by new ones.
" Did you save nothing from the fire?"
inquired Mrs. Brown, as on the follow
ing morning she poured out at the
breakfast some very pale tea.
"Nothing but a parcel which I had
in charge for Mrs. Bates, of Eccleston
Square. Here it 4." And Reginald
laid on the table the flat parcel wrap
ped in oil cloth. " Could you kindly
tell me how to send it?"
There was no difficulty in sending the
parcel as Mrs. Bates happened to live
near ; but Reginald could see that his
aunt was provoked at this being the on
ly thing which he rescued out of the
flames/ Her impatience broke out into
open expressions, when, as the old cou
ple and the boy sat together, in the eve
ning by the light of a simple dip can
dle, a note was brought from Mrs. Bates,
thanking Mr. Clare coldly for bringing
the parcel of dried fern leaves, but in
formed him that they had been sadly
broken and spoiled on the journey.
"Fern leaves! trash!" exclaimed
Mrs. Brown, dropping the stitches of
her knitting in vexation. "If you had
only had the sense to carry out your
desk instead ; there was sure to be some
money in it. If you only had saved a
good suit of clothes and not come here
like a beggar !"
Mr. Brown leaned back in his arm
chair and laaghed. "Dried fern-leaves!"
he chuckled; "and spoiled ones to
boot! They've only been pulled out of
one fire into another!"
Poor O Reginald was mortified and vex
ed. The burns on his face and hands
seemed to pain him more than ever.—
"And yet," thought he, " need not
mind—l only did my duty. 'lad been
trusted-114nd Promised'. I could not
Ihtire "tirolien, my word HOW-couo
have known in _itkitt, lifix44.?"
Rattstl , It was the , kfloolcattheteve:.
ling' bnai: Aitalier leher.l6V-gegiq
nttlti Cfsti;3. " said . his sharp
featured aunt, "that it may contain
something better than the last. • Dried
fern-leaves, forsooth! What rubbish
Reginald "broke the seal and opened
the letter. His hand almost trembled
with exciteruent as he read. With a
sparkling eye he gavel, to his aunt, who
looked at it through her old steel specta
cies.
" Well, here is something odd," she
remarked ; " why, who writes this ?
John Gray; I never heard of the name."
" He was my fellow passenger—amer
chan*—and so kind !"
- "Kind, I should thinkso !" exclaim
ed Mrs. Brown, her sharp features relax
ing into a smile.
"What does he say, wife ?" asked
Mr. Brown, with impatience.
"Why, he offers to take this boy here
into his house of business without any
premium," exclaimed the wife, hand
ing over the letter to her husband, " be
cause, as he writes, he knows the lad is
to be trusted. It's the oddest fancy that
I ever heard of. What is Reginald to
him, that he should take him by the
hand—first pay for his journey to Lon
don, then offer—you see his own word
—offer to treat him as a son."
" Wife, wife," cried Mr. Brown, lay
ing his finger on the letter, and looking
with hearty kindness at the orphan as
he spoke, "you and I made a precious
mistake when we fancied that Reginald
had carried nothing away from the ship
but a trumpery packet of fern-leaves.—
He carried away something worth more
than all the gold and jewels of the
Indies—a character for doing his duty
to God and man. And depend ou't,"
continued the old man, raising his
voice, " a boy who has that, will never
long be in want of a friend."
Thought It Was My Mother's Voice.
A friend told me, not long ago, a beau
tiful story about kind words. A good
lady, living in one of the large cities,
was passing a drinking saloon just as
the keeper was thrusting a young man
out into the street. He was very young
and very pale, hut his haggard face and
wild eyes told that he was very fargone
in the road to ruin, as with oaths he
brandished his clenched fists, threat
ening to be revenged upon the man
who had so ill used him. The poor
young man was so excited and blinded
with passion that he did not see the
lady, who stood very near to him, un
til she laid her hand upon his arm, and
spoke in her gentle, loving voice, ask
ing him what was the matter.
At the first kind word, the young
man started as though a heavy blow
had struck him, and turned quickly
round, paler than before, and trembling
from head to foot. He surveyed the
lady for a moment, and then, with a
sigh of relief, he said :
" I thought it was my mother's voice
for it sounded so strangely like it. But
her voice has been hushed in death for
many years."
" You had a mother, then," said the
lady, "and she loved you?"
With the sudden revulsion of feeling
which often comes to people of fine ner
vous temperaments, the young man
bursts into tears sobbing out, "Oh, yes.
I bad an angel mother, and she loved
her boy ! But since she died all the
world has been against me, and I am
lost—lost to good society, lost to honor,
lost to decency, and lost forever."
No not lost forever ; for God is merci
ful, and his pitying love can reach the
chief of sinners, said the lady in her low
sweet voice ; and the timely words
swept the hidden chords of feelings
which had been long untouched in the
young man's heart, thrilling it with
magic power, and wakening a host of
tender emotions which had been buried
very deep beneath the rubbish of sin
and crime.
More gentle words the lady spoke,
and when she passed on her way, the I
young man followed her. He marked
the house where she entered, and wrote
the name which was on the silver door
plate in his little memorandum book.—
Then he walked slowly away, with a
deep, earnest look on his white face, and
deeper, more earnest feeling in his ach
ing heart.
Years glided by, and the gentle lady
had quite forgotten the incidents we have
related when one day a stranger sent up
his card, and desired to speak with her.
Wondering much who it could be,
she went down to the parlor, where she
found a noble looking well-dressed
man, who rose to meet her. Holding
out his hand he said:
" Pardon me, madam, for this intru
sion, but I have come many miles to
thank you for the great service you ren
dered me a, few years ago, said he in a
trembling voice."
The lady was puzzled, and asked for
an explanation, as she did not remem
ber having seen the gentleman before.
" I have changed so much," said the
man, " that you have forgotten ine ; but
though I only saw your face but once, I
am sure I should have recognized it
anywhere. And your voice, too—it is
so much like my mother's!"
"Those last words made the lady re
member the poor young man she had
kindly spoken to in . Alt of a saloon so
long before, and she mingled her tears
With those • which were falling slowly
over the man's cheeks.
After the first gush of emotion had
subsided, the gentleman sat down and
told the lady how those few gentle
words had been instrumental in saving
him and making hina what he was.
The earnest expression of "No, not
lost foreYer, followed me wherever I
went," said he, " and it always seemed
that it was the voice of my mother
speaking to me from the tomb. I re
pented of my many transgressions and
resolved to live as Jesus and my mother
would be pleased to have me ; and by
the grace and mercy of God I have been
enabled to resist temptation, and keep
my good resolutions."
"I never dreamed there was such a
power in a few kind words before," ex
claimed the lady, "and surely ever af
ter this I shall take more pains to speak
them to all the sad and suffering Ones I
meet in the walks of life."
A Tight Place
Brother G., in times of revival and
protracted meetings, always stepped in
and took charge of the singing. He
was very fondpf that interminable song
that begins with, " Where, 0 where, is
good old Adam?" and might end with
the last man. He had passed through
the patriarch and prophets of the olden
time, and the disciples and blessed
women of the New Testament, when
John • the Baptist ocv.ured to him.
"Where, 0 where is John the Baptist?
Safe In the promised land. He went
up"—but still there was a difficulty in
the Baptist's ascension. At
length, with desperate energy. he put
it through. • "Be went; up without any
ion, safe in thb`prendSed land..
NUMBER 44
Dow Discoloring a Thiel.
:After Lorenzo Dow had retired to bed
after a hard day:s"travel in the Western
part of Virginia, a number of persons
collected in the bar-room to enjoy their
usual revelries, as was the cuitom in
that part of the country. "At a late
hour in the night the alarm was given
that one of the company had lost his
pocket-book, and a search proposed,
whereupon the landlord remarked that
Lorenzo Dow was in the nouse, and
if the money was in the house, he knew
that Lorenzo would find it. The sug
gestion was instantly received with ap
probation, and accordingly Mr. Dow
was aroused from his slumber and
brought forth to find the money. As
he entered the room his eyes ran through
company with searching inquiry, but
nothing appeared that could fix guilt
upon any one. The loser appeared with
a countenance expressive of great con
cern, and besought Mr. Dow for heaven's
sake to find the money.
"Has any one left the company since
you lost your money?" asked Mr. Dow.
" None," said the loser.
"Then," said Lorenzo, turning to the
landlord, "go and bring me a large din-
ner pot.
This created no little surprise. But
as his supernatural powers were univer
sally conceded, his directions were un
hesitatingly obeyed. Accondingly the
pot was brought forward and sets n the
middle of the room.
"Now,'? said Lorenzo, "go bring the
old chicken cock from the roost."
This was also done, and at Lorenzo's
directions the cock was was placed in
the pot and covered with a board or lid.
" Let the doors be fastened and the
lights extinguished," said Mr. Dow,
which was also done.
" Now," said he, "every person in the
room must rub his hands hard against
the pot, and when the guilty hand
touches it the Cock will crow."
Accordingly all came forward, and
rubbed, or pretended to rub against the
pot—but-no cocked crowed.
" Let the candles now be lighted,"
said Lorenzo, " there is no guilty person
here. If the man had any money he
must have lost it somewhere else. But
stop," said Lcrenzo, when all things
were prepared, " let us now examine the
hands."
This was the important part of his ar
rangement. For on examination, it
was found that one man had not rubbed
against the pot. Theothers' hands being
black with soot from the pot was a proof
of thier innocence.
" There," said Lorenzo pointing to
the man with clean hands, " there is
the man who picked your pocket."
The culprit seeing his detection, at
once acknowledged his guilt.
Blucher and his Pipe
Here is an incident of 1815, which the
English journals are relating : On the
morning of the memorable battle of
Waterloo, Henneman had just handed •
his master (Blucher) a lighted pipe,
when a cannon-ball struck the ground
close by, scattering earth and gravel in
all directions, and causing the white
charger on which Blucher was mount
ed to spiing aside—a 'manceuvre that
broke the pipe into a thousand pieces
before the owner had time even to lift
it to his lips.
" Just keep a lighted pipe ready for
me; I shall be back in a few moments,
after I have driven away the rascally
French churls."
With these words Blucher gave the
command, " Forward, boys!" and off
he galloped with his cavalry. Instead,
however, of a chase of a few minutes, it
was a rapid march of nearly a whole
hot summer day, as we all know from
history. After the battle was over
Blucher rode back with Wellington to
the place where he first got a glimpse
of the combatting armies, and nearing
the spot where Blucher had halted in
the morning, they saw to their surprise
a solitary man, his head tied with a
handkerchief, one arm in a sling, and
calmly smoking a pipe.
"Donner and Blitz!" cried Blucher,
"why that is my Hennemau. How
you look, boy ; what are you doing here
alone ?"
Waiting for your speedy return
was the grumbling answer. " You have
come at last! I have waited for you
here, pipe in mouth, for the whole long
day. This is the last pipe in the box. '
The cursed French have shotaway every
pipe from my mouth, have ripped the
flesh from my head, and shattered my
arm with their deuced bullets. It is well
there is an. end to the battle, or you
would have been late even for the
ast pipe."
Saying which, he handed to Blucher
the pipe, to enjoy the remaining fumes
of the weed. Wellington, who had
listened attentively to the conversation,
here remarked to Blucher, "You have
just admired the unflinching loyalty
and bravery of my Highlanders, what
shall I say to this true and devoted soul?"
" But your Highlanders had no pipe to
regale themselves with, coolly replied
Blucher."
In the time of Agustus Caesar there
were two persons living in Rome called
Idusio and Secundilla, each Of whom
exceeded ten feet in height. Their
bodies, after death, were kept and pre
served as miracles of curiosity in a
sepulchre within the Sullustian gardens.
Pliny names a certain Gabara, who, in
the days of Claudius was brought out
of Arabia; and says he was about nine
feet nine inches high. The emperor
Maimin, originally a Thracian peasant,
measured eight feet and a half. His
wife's bracelets served him for rings.
His voracity was such that he consumed
daily forty pounds of flesh and drank
eighteen bottles of wine. His strength
was proportionable to his gigantic shape.
He could draw a loaded wagon without
help, and with a blow of his fist often
broke the teethin a horse's mouth. He
also crushed the hardest stones between
his fingers, and cleft trees with his
hands. Pliny and Valerius Maximus
speak of Polydamus, a clebrated athlete ,
son of Nicias, who exceeded all men of
his day in stature and strength; he aped
Herculus—not without pretension. In
Mount Olympus he killed a lion with
a blow of his fist, being unprovided
witli any other arms. He could stop a
chariot with his band in its most rapid
course. Once he singled out the largest
and fiercest bull from a whole herd;
took hold of him by one of his - binder
feet, and notwithstanding his struggles
to escape, grasped him with such
strength that the hoof remained in his
hand.
—The _Free Masons of Rockland, Maine
yesterday erected a monument over the re
mains of General Berry.
---Jefferspn Davis is preparing 'for a long
winter . stay at Fortress Monroe. He has
ordered a new overcoat. •
. _
During October the Internal Revenue
Rceipte were $20,457,983.
r~d,r.i.~i ■rr.~
&Mare of ten i• es• ten mat insgaretiasefoxr_
Peterof ex t -may:tpet-
EILt.L'AIDIVZOTXBIttG Iit '7 cents 41' 11710 - 101' the ,
nrst.anitt Gents for eats ittibinigitienrimier- -
Itsamm NM:4 Sid OttieN, tifitforsa Ay tne.
nottnni tr _ „ ,
Half oe 001WIitunn,III, /L year. ..
—,--,---, ;I
Third column, I year,....., R
..t•••"••••-••••••
Quarter 80
BunRESS CARDS, Of tea lines oriole.
one . ... • 10
Business CartriisFri:iiiiiesiirlesis,.4:);:e
Year. . , 5
Executors' 2 . 00
Administrators'2.oo
Assignees' notices,
Auditors' notioes,„_ „ 1.60
Other"Notices,"ren lines, or-less,
- Dled Poor.
" It was a sad funeral to me," said.the
sppaker, "the saddest I have attended
for years." -
"That of Edmonson ?"
it y es. ),
"How did he die?"
" Poor, poor as ,poverty ; his life . Was
one long struggle with• the world, at
every disadvantage. Fortune mocked
him all the while with golden promises
that were destined to never know fulfil
ment."
" Yet he was patient and enduring,"
remarked one of the company. -
" Patient as a Christian—enduring as
a martyr," was answered. " Poor man !
He was worthy of a better fate. He
ought to have succeeded, for he deserved
success."
"He did not sueeed ?" questioned the
one who had spoken of his perseverance
and endurance.
" No, sir ; he died poor, as I have just
said. Nothing that he put his hand to
ever succeeded. A strange fatality
seemed to attend every enterprise."
" I was with him in his last moments,"
said the other, " and thought he died
rich."
"No, he had left nothing behind,"
was replied. "The heirs will have no
concern for the administration of the
" He has left a good name," said one,
and that is something."
" And a legacy of good deeds, that
were done in the name of - humanity,"
remarked another.
And precious examples," said
"Lessons of patience in suffering; of
hope in adversity of heavenly confi
dence when no sunbeams fell upon his
bewildered path," was the testimony of
•
another.
- "And high trust, manly courage, he!
role fortitude."
"Then he died rich !" was the em
phatic declaration ; " richer than the
millionaire, who went to his long home
the same day a miserable pauper in all
but gold. A sad funeral, did you say?
No, my friend it was rather a triumph
ant procession! Not the burial of a hu
man clod, but the ceremonial attendant
on the translation ofan angel. Did he not
succeed? Why his wholelife NV ELS aseries
of successes. In every conflict he came
off victor, and now the victor's crown
is on his brow. Any grasping, selfish
soul may gather in money, and learn
the art of keeping it, , but not one in a
hundred can bravely conquer in the
battle of life, as Edmonson hasconquer
ed, and step forth from the ranks of
men a Christian hero. No, no ; he did
not die poor,'but rich—rich in neigh
body love, and rich in celestial affec
tions. Aud his heivs have an interest
n the a (ministration of the estate. A
litrge property has been left, and .let
them see to it that they do not lose the
precious things through false estimation
and ignorant depreciation."
" You have a new way of estimating
the wealth of a man," said the one who
had first expressed sympathy for the
deceased.
"Is it not the right way ? There are
higher things to gain in this world than
wealth that perishes ; riches of priceless
value, that ever reward the true mer
chant who trades for wisdom, buying in
with the silver of truth and the gold of
love. He dies rich who can take his
treasure with him to the new land where
he is to abide forever ; and he who has
to leave all behind on which he has
placed affection, dies poor indeed. Our
friend died richer than a Girard or an
Astor ; his monument is built of good
deeds and examples. It will abide for
ever.
Disorderly Children
It never fails to make an unfavorable
impression upon our mind when we
hear, as we sometimes do, parents com
plain of their children, as rough, dis
orderly, ill-mannered and disobedient.
Because in the first place if children are
such, it must to a great extent be the
fault of the parents, who ought better
to have trained them. And besides, we
think there Must be something radical
ly wrong in a father or mother who will
expose or gossip over the-faults of their
children. The sensibility of a genu
ine parents affection will hide the
faults of a child, unless honor
and rectitude require that they
shall be exposed. And then if they
must be confessed, it will be with a
shame and sincere sorrow, as for a mis
fortune in which the parent is impli
cated. We cannot think well of any
person who will make confldeuts of
strangers, for the purpose of revealing
to, and discussing with them, the faults
of their own families and relatives. We
receiVe their statements with caution,
and question whether they themselves
are not, in part at least, the cause of the
faults they condemn.
But as to disorderly children—and we
know there are many such—we have
observed this, that to some extent at
least they had disorderly parents. We
do not intend to charge everything to
parental' neglect or mismanagement.
But- when you see children rude about
the house, noisy, with loud voices and
harsh words, do not the parents pursue
the same course ? Has not the
father or mother, or both, been
accustomed to boisterous conversa
tion, reproving and blaming in
a threatening manner : harsh and head
long in their general deportment? How
can children be expected to be other
than disorderly, if disorder and confu
sion prevail in the family? And the
way to cure the evil in the children, is
not by blaming or threatening, but by
changing the whole system of domestic
management. This cannot be done at
once easily; but it can be done. Pa
rents must themselves become orderly
and self-controlled. Children willsoort
follow. Disorderly children cannot be
corrected in any other way.
Beauty in Women
A beautiful face and figure are the
two things in a woman that first attract
the attention of a man. The second is
a fine taste, both in dress and habits,
and the third is common sense. What
a man most dislikes in a lady is untidi
ness, slovenly habits and affectation.—
There is a medium between prudery and
relaxed behavior, which a man appreci
ates almost by instinct. place a man of
genial disposition, with a disengaged
heart, in the society of a woman of beau
ty, sense and spirit—not too much of
the latter—and the chances are of im
' mediately falling desperatately in love.
The poor wretch cannot avoid it and in
his frantic efforts to escape he falls on
his - knees at her feet and avows the
might and majesty of her beauty. All
you have to do will be to treat the poor
fellow as kindly as you can, and Make
no effort to please him. Let nature have
:her own wisu_way, atul alepend upon it,
you will be fpngly.pressed-to,the war
bosom of some generous hearfoidfe
j4OW.