Site jgauaster gtttelUgeaeee, Published eveby Wednesday by H. O. SMITH * CO. H. G. SiiiTtf. A. J. Steinman TERMS—Two Dollars per annum, payable all oases in advance. OFFlCE— Southwest corner op Centre Square. 43-All letters on business should be ad dressed to H. G. Smith & Co. ftawjj. i From. Cornhill Magazine. 1 The Mystery of Sister leucatbea. Towards the end of the last century, when popular princes and governments engaged, with something of romantic eagerness, in the task of reforming or abolishing monastic institutions on the Continent, rnauy singular revelations took place of the mysteries which their walls had concealed ; mysteries so long guarded by the religious veneration of the multitude for those walls, and also by the jealous watchfulness of the State authorities, while their alliance with the Church subsisted. How much of substantial foundation there may be for the history disclosed in the following pages, the translator is unable to suggest. The events describ ed must evidently have taken place in Germany, though the German narrator has thought proper, apparently for pur poses of disguise, to envelope, in a thin Italian costume, the names and rank of • the personages concerned in them. This circumstance may also account I'orsome particulars of the convent, more in ac cordance with honest German ways than those of more suspicious Italy. “After I had received priests’ orders, I became curate in a small country vil lage. After three years’ duty there, I was removed to a cure in a large city. Jn my new line of life I had of course the opportunity of becoming more ex tensively conversant with my fellow creatures; yet not, perhaps, so famil iarly, because their hearts were less open to me thau those of the more child like rustics among whom 1 had hitherto dwelt. Passing from one office to an other, I was at last appointed spiritual director to the conveutof Ursuline nuns at . And iiere a new and a very painful,'if very instructive, field of ob servation opened itself to me. Jumy former avocatious, I had possessed op portunities of studying the heirts of women, of all ages and positions, from the peasant-girl to the lady of rank. But I had, as yet, no idea of those ter rible secrets which familiarity with the strlVings and workings of the female soul, under the unnatural compression of the cloister and the vow, was now to disclose to me. I carry about with me the burden of many such disclosures. They must remain buried in my solitary remembrance. My duty to Heaven as a consecrated priest, my duty to my confiding penitents as a man, impose on me equally a rigorous silence. One ex ception only I am about to make, be- cause, under the strange circumstances of the case, I feel not only permitted, but as J may say invited, by the tacit instigation of her who was concerned in it, to reveal its mysteries. I had won so thoroughly, and I must add, by honesty and uprightness, the confidence of the lady superior oi the convent, that siie would .undertake nothing without calling me first into counsel. One.day —it was the eve of the As sumption of tile Blessed Virgin —she sent one of the convent servants to fetch me. She received me, not in her chamber as usual, but in the passage leading to it. There was, she said, a stranger in her room. The portress of the convent, in opening the outer door that morning, had found a strange young woman sitting ou the stone bench outside. She hud apparently passed the night there. To the questions of tile portress, she replied that she wanted to be received into tlie convent. For what purpose? As a nun, lay sister, maid-ser vant even. “The portress admitted her to me. She gave me her name and place of birth, and repeated to me the requests she had addressed to the por tress. I explained to her the impossi bility of complying with them; liow our numbers were full, and other rules respecting admission could hot be com plied with in her case. She fell at my feet, wept bitterly, prayed me in God's' name to reeeive her. .She has, she says, no other refuge in the world, and if driven from the convent must only seek the way to the nearest deep water. “There is something*) earnest and determined in her manner,” said)the abbess, “that 1 really dare not repulse her us 1 had intended; and I have sent for you to ask your counsel ?” “ Before I can give it,” I replied, must talk with the maiden myself.”— The abbess led me to her room. I found there even more than I had conjectured. The vieitor was a young female of extraordinary beauty, and noble ligure. Her black eyes gleamed, even proudly, through her tears. Her black hair fell in abundant ringlets around a finely formed bust. Her dress was of the simplest burgher class. At first sight I set her down as a city dam sel of more than usual refinement, whom some mischance or other had moved to seek this refuge. “ Is it your serious purpose," I asked her, “ to be received into this convent ?” She answered with a steady look and voice, “It is my fixed, unchangeable purpose.” “ VVliut brings you to us? Is it pov erty, or unhappy love, or au unruly temper or caprice, or a real desire for the life of a recluse?" “ Only a longing toeonseurate my life in solitude to God.” “ That is a noble resolution, liutcau you answer for it, that your mind will • not alter. ” “ That ray year of probation ruusl show.” “ Aral have you -no refuge in the world but this couveut ?” “ None in tlie world.” “ Suppose our rules made it impossi ble for us to receive you?” “ My lot would be a pitiable oue.” 11 What would you do?” “ Throw myself into tlie first water I could iiud.” “ Then it is despair which brings you to the couveut? Such an offering could uot be acceptable to God.” ' “ Do not call it despair. Hut if it were so, tlie reSults would show that I can serve God in this state with a happy miud.” “Do you uot believe that one may serve God also out of tlie cloister?” 11 Surely. Hut tlie world is now nothing to me. I have uo ties to it.” “ Have you any crime on your soul, on account of which the world has re nounced you ?” (With a smile). “Oh, uo. I bring to God a pure conscience.” “ Do you know whether your friends would not disapprove of your resolu tion?” “ I have no friends.” “ Or your.parents ?” “I have no longer a father. My mother has been dead many years.” “ Who are you, and wheuce corue you ?” “lam a poor orphan, from . My father was a merchant; he met with misfortunes.” “ Your name?” “What matters a name? Johanna D “ You must pardon my next question; are you free from all attachment, lawful or "unlawful? Do you bring a virgin soul to the cloister?” “ Heaven knows my heart; lam an honorable maiden.” X was overcome, and yet hardly. I counselled theabbessto accept Johanna as fc a lay sister; and the girl thanked me on her knees.. “What do you think of her?” said the abbess, when we were alone. “Of nil the females whom I have received into this convent, none has appeared to feel such passionate gratitude towards me.” “I must confess,” I said, “that I ■suspend for the present my judgment on her. I willpnly say, she seems ex cited and enthusiastic.” “ lam the more glad that I received her” said the good abbess. “She anight have executed her threat. Tran quility here “win, at all events, calm her mind, and the rest time will show.” And time only confirmed the abbess’ satisfaction with her charitable resolu tion. Johanna, in her low estate of lay sister, became gradually the favorite, and example, of the convent. She was active, dexterous, obedient, persevering: most eager to execute, and, if possible, anticipate, every duty imposed upon Lancaster IntdlujciUTi: VOLUME 67. her Her accomplishments as a seam stress, and in other feminine work, were the marvel of the community. And the time not devoted to such occupation was spent in earnest prayer. Recreation she could scarcely be persuaded to take. Always amiable and helpful among the sisterhood, It was nevertheless noticed that she made no special friends; all her associates seemed to stand equally high in her favor. This particularly pleased the abbess, as it left no room for that petty partnership and cabaling which are the curse of convents, l had, myself, frequent occasions for conversa tion'with her; and I must own that I endeavored, by every little art, to sur prise her secret, for such I was con vinced she had. But her acuteness en abled her to evade all my endeavors. Her understanding, and even her knowl edge, surprised me ; and though I held her kt first for a little romantic, her quiet, sensible, unobtrusive demeanor, through a period of several months, ef faced to a certain exteDtthis impression. Johanna had been regularly admitted a novice, and I was now directed by the abbess to prepare her for taking the vows at the approaching end ot her probation. I had often performed this duty for others, and generally found that it was an easy task : a few com monplace exortations, easily given and readily received, sufficed to confirm the ordinary class of novices in their voca tion. I was not loug in preceiving tliaton Johanna’s quick understanding and energetic nature all such tn vialties had no effect whatever. And at the same time —now that the hour, for which she had to all appearance so much longed was approaching the cheerfulness which had hitherto dis tinguished her seemed to subside, aud a fitful but iucrea-ing melancholy took possession of her soul. She would pray for hair a day together in the chapel, before the picture of Santa Maria del Pianto, so rapt in her enthusiasm that 1 have stood close beside her without her perceiving me. Her bosom heaved tumultuously ; deep, long sighs seemed to force themselves from her heart, as if under the pressureoi a heavy burden. When she thus knelt, with folded hands and immovable, before the blessed im age, she seemed like one who was ex pecting to be addressed by a supernatu ral voice; and then her lips would move, as if iu answer to her unseen companion. She grew gradually sad der and more reserved, and her bodily frame seemed to suffer with her soul. The abbess and nuns held her for an incipient saint, and were proud of hav ing such an tataH-aa among them, and that in the person of so universal a favorite as Johanna. I, more amply conversant with the dark ways which led to religious insanity, looked on with deep concean and fear. On one occasion, having communi cated to the abbess my apprehensions on account of this strange and strangely interesting girl, I received a message to pay the venerable mother a visit. 1 re peated wiiat I had urged before. “Your anxiety comes too late,” said the abbess with a smile. “How?” said I, eagerly : “ You cannot mean that her reason has already given way?” “By no means,” said the abbess; “but she is here, aud shall speak lor herself.” She called her in, and Johanna entered. What was my astonishment, to see be fore me, not the melancholy enthusiast whom I had last seen, but the same bright, satisfied, cheerful creatufe that she had appeared to be during the first months of her sojourn ! Her modest smile, her color, her beauty, all had re turned to her. She brought with her a basketful of needlework. The abbess could not repress her astonishment at the amount, and the perfection, of the work thus executed. “It is wonderful, indeed.” she said. “ Take with you this new task to perform ; but mind not to over-exert yourself, or injure your eyes.” With a graceful reverence and light step, the lovely novice departed. “ I confess,” saidl to the abbess, “that I cannot tell what to make of her. The longer I observe, the less I understand her. I have learnt to know many human beings ; but all my experience is wasted here. Such profound melan choly—and then so sudden a return to good humor. “ I can understand it no better than yourself,” said the abbess. “ I can only wish all my nuns were as good, as obedient and attentive as she is. But she is a mystery. No oue from without mjikes inquiries after her. Shall we ever discover who she really is?” “If not by accident, I doubt it. I have made every effort, in vain, to learn anything from herself.” “So have I. But she always abides by her first answer: “lam of such a name and place ; I have no father, and my mother has been long dead.’ ‘Jo hanna!’ J have answered, 1 speak the truth ; I am very sure you have more to tell than this.’ ‘ X have said the truth, she would reply, in tears ; Tam an honest girl.’ I cannot make up my mind to torment her further. But that she is something more than she avows, X have uo doubt.” “Have you watched to find out whether she ever writes letters, or re ceives them ?” “X have. Xt is impossible she can have written a line. And all letters which arrive pass through my hands.!’ “ Y r et it is still possible inquiry may be made for her. Will you not delay a little longer the period of her taking the veil?” “I have delayed it already, until I have felt myself unjust towards one who longs so intently for the privilege, avd is so worthy of it.” “ At all events, permit me to put her through a further course of prepara tion.” And I devoted myself, most earnesl ly and most conscientiously, to this per plexing task. That I still sought, and even by artifice, to wind myself, if pos sible, 'into her secret, I cannot deny ; but all my elt'orts were in vain agaiust her sharp-sightedness and determi nation. She felt, or assumed, indig nation at my tactics. “ 1 am an honor able maiden,” she repeated, over and over again, 11 and you set to work with me as a detective with a runaway criminal,, an adventurer, a swindler. How can you expect me to returnopen hearted confidence for treatment like this, or to be other than you often see me —sullen and reserved?” Foiled in this direction, I tried her in another. That she was more familiar with the world than was consistent with her story, I had no doubt. Instead of fol lowing the confessor’s ordinary course of depreciating its attractions, I painted them in the highest colors. I adjured. | I implored her not to relinquish soci ety ; not to throw away innocent, earthly enjoyment in adelusivelongingforima ginary perfection ; not to mistake, as so many had done within my knowledge, to the destruction of soul as well as body, disappointment, or pique,, or grievous sorrow, for real vocation. All in vain. She listened to my eloquence with a slightly contemptuous smile; she did not doubt my kind intentions in thus warning her against an over hasty step ; she did not depreciate those secular pleasures which I depicted to her; but she had lost everything dear to her in this world, and with that loss all in interest in it, and her heart was solely set oil a religious life. Ouce—and once only—l seemed on the point of penetrating within the guarded boundary. I had been dwelling on some cases with which I was personally acquaint ed, where religious insanity had follow ed a rash taking of the vows. One of these victims belonged to our convent and was known by name to her. She asked me the cause of her calamity. “I believe,” I said, “that her affec* tions had been fixed, in the world, on some one of whose death she suddenly heard; that on this she became a nun, and afterwards, when too late, was ap prised that he still lived. She almost ptarted back, and the color left her face. “ That isindeedapitiable lot,” she murmured. “ And what more likely than that the sameterribledeceitshould occur again; if notprecisely in that form, in something resembling it? that the unhappy vic tim, just when the irrevocable vow had separated her from outer life forever, should discover that the overmastering regret which had driven her into the snare was unfounded —that the ship wreck, which she had deemed total, was partial only, or was altogether imaginary—that the clouds were about to clear away from her young life, just when she imagined them closing in utter darkness? How woald it be with you—oh Johanna —if you, too, were to make this fatal discovery when to make it could only light within you the never dying fire of disappointment and im pious despair?” “Then, indeed,” she muttered with a broken voice, “I should be of all women most miserable. But it cannot be.” And to all efforts of mine to open any farther the door, which I for a moment fancied I had unlocked, she remained utterly impassive. She only repeated her firm resolution to take the veil, and her entreaties that no further delay might be interposed. “I remain as undecided as before,” I said to the abbess. “Either Johanna is almost a saiut, or she is the most con summate hypocrite with whom I ever made acquaintance.” “I accept this alternative,” said the kindhearted superior. “ Heaven shall judge between me aud Johanna. I will not abandon the orphan, who has edi fied me for these many months by her obedience, her virtue, and her piety, sjhe shall have her wish.” The decisive ceremony soon followed; and Johanna went through it with calm resolution, and every appearance of deep devotion. All those who had as sembled to witness the proceeding were edified as they looked on her; the young were enchanted with her beauty; and matrons wept over her tears of joy and sympathy. If her voice for once faltered, and a convulsive effort of self restraint passed over her features, at the moment of pronouncing the awful vow, every trace of emotion had disappeared from face and forehead betore she lifted her eyes from the ground. Her nun’s attire became her infinitely, and she was pronounced by all the handsomest inmate of the convent. Soon after her admission, however, the melancholy fit returned upon her. But she performed all her new duties with the most zealous alacrity ; contin ued punctually obedient to the abbess, aud full of attentions for all her associ ates ; while at the same time she ap peared wrapt in devotion day aud night, aud even her hours of ordinary occupa tion were hours of prayer also, tor she sang psalms continually at her work. After half a year Llius passed, her cheerfulness seemed gradually to return. The portress of the convent was lately dead ; and the exemplary sister Eeuca- ; thea (such was the religious nfcme be- 1 stowed on Johanna by the bishop at her admission) was appointed to the vacant place to the satisfaction of all. She fulfilled its duties, for a long time, to equally universal admiration. They brought her, comparatively speaking, into much contact with the outer world. Her constant occupation in answering inquiries at the gate, conveying mes sages, discussing matters of business with strangers, and transacting no small share of the allairs of the convent, seem ed to leave her scarcely an opportunity for relapsing into that melancholy to which she had appeared subject. Her fits of sadness were forgotten by the sisterhood, and s>o was her questionable origin. One day, however, on advancing to greet her as usual, 1 was struck with the recurrence of the old ex pression, which. had so much sad d'ened and xierplexed me, on her countenance. “ Bhe is much altered,” said the abbess, iu answer to my ques tion ; “I fear a fit of her former depres sion is impending over her. The sisters whose cells are nearest to hers, hear her weep aud sob in the night, and talk as if in conversation with some one. She pra} f 9 more zealously than ever, and spends hours, as formerly, in a kind of raptuie at the feet of Santa Maria del Pianto.” , , Leucathea now entered with a letter for the abbess. I was looking fixedly at her mournful features, when sister Agatha and Lucia rushed suddenly into the room. “Venerable mother/’ they began—outsuddeuly lost the power of speech, as they stared, with open, terrified eyes, at Leucathea. “What is the matter, you hasty, noisy girls, that you frighten me so ?” Loth. —“O, God ! Leucathea!” Leucathea. —“What is this?” Abbess.—“ What have you to say against her ? Here she is—speak ; but one at a time.” “Nothing to say against her ; she is our dear, good sister ; but when we saw her just now, we were so frightened !” “You, Agatha, tell me the storv.” “I—l—we went, just now, tothealtar of Santa Maria del Pianto. There we saw Leucathea kneeling and praying so earnestly.” (I observed Leucatliea’s countenance strangely disturbed.) “She sank all at once to the ground. We hastened to her; she was cold, life less to all appearances; we thought she had fainted, and hastened to you to get cordials for her,” and here, to our terror, we find her standing beside you —her whom we had just left lying, as if dead, at the foot of the altar.” We all looked astonished at each other. “Are you sure, n said the abbess, “that your eyes did not deceive you ?” “We are ready to die in your pres ence, if we have not seen what we say.” “Did you go into the chapel, Leu cathea?” “She (composedly).—“Not a step.’ She moved as if to leave us. “ Stay here,” said the abbess, “and do not stir from your place. We will go together to the altar. If these girls’ story is true, she whom they have seen will be lying there still. She cannot have recovered so soon.” “ Leucathea trembled and shook; an anguish as of death made large drops of perspiration stand on iter brow. We wont into the chapel. A name- less feeling of dread overmastered me. , It was true. There was our Leucathea , —not in a lainting-fit, as described, but kneeling, in a rapture of devotion, be fore tlie image. The nuns crossed themselves in silence. At this moment tire Leucathea who was following us stepped in. When she beheld her double self, she uttered a scream of ter ror, and fell backward. We hastened to her help ; there was no sign ol'life in her; we raised her, to carry her to the bed; when we looked round, the other Leucathea, at the altar, had disap peared. “ Heaven help us !” said the abbess, “she has seen her wraith.' it is the token of her death.” She was removed to her cell, where she lay, apparently at death’s door, many days ; and yet during that time several nuns asserted that they had seen her, sometimes in thechapel.sometimesat her accustomed cate; but we set these revelations down to the credit of fancies excited by the strange scene which we had actual ly witnessed. Slowly she recovered, and prayed to be admitted to the sacra ments. Once more I had to undertake the t&k of confessing her, but she dis closed nothing but trifling every day faults, such as no one but a nun would ever think of con fessing at all. She denied, as obstinately as ever, the existence of any secret. I gave her absolution, and ex treme unction, which she received to the edification of all. But after the celebration she grew gradually better, and seemed as if inspired with a new life. She recovered. She was active and helpful as ever; lively, and full of spirit; quick even in her movements, which had not been observed in her before; she became once more the favorite of all, and the weird sight which we had once seen only haunted us like a half-forgotten bad dream. Such she remained for more than a year, and then (it seems trivial, yet it is indispensable for my purposes to chroni cle the vacillations of her mental condi tion,) the melancholy fit returned anew, and grew so on her in the course of an other twelvemonth, as to seem likely to end in the gloom of fixed despair. On the morning before the eve of Saint Peter and Paul, when I came to the convent to hear the confessions of , the nuns who wished to communicate ; in order to obtain the plenary indul i gence accorded for that day, I found LANCASTER PA. WEDNESDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 19,1866 a the sisterhood in the most frightful con fusion. Every one was running against another, the inmates were crossing and blessing themselves, and lamenting as if the last judgment was athand. They collected in groups in the corridors, talking vehemently and gesticulating to each other. I was taken to the superior. “ Only think, reverend father,” she said, “how one’s j udgment may be deceived. Could you have believed that the pious, de vout Leucathea—she who, though still living, was praised as asaint—she whom I set before all the members of the con vent as an example of holiness —has, after all, deluded the whole of us—that she is the greatest and most shameless of hypocrites?” “Inconceivable!” " So it was to me ; and I could scarce ly believe my eyes when they brought her to me to-day.” “What is her crime?” “This morning, when the saerista ness was going through the corridor to the choir, on her way to ring the bell for matins, she found our portress, this saint of a Leucathea, in a lady’s secular dress, just about to escape through the gate. She seizes on the fugitive, and pulls her back. Leu cathea falls on her knees, and prays her for God’s sake not to inform against her; she promises to return at once to her cell aud to keep quiet, if only she is not betrayed to the sisterhood. But the sacristaness would not attend to her, and called for help. The other nuns came hurrying in and dragged Leuca thea to me. Conceive my terror and astonishmeut when the hypocrite was brought before me in complete lay travelling attire, and made her confes sion to me! She could not deny that she had been out of the couvent, but declared that a restless conscience had made her return to it. The nuns heap ed reproaclies on Her, and some of them would have actually ill-treated her, had I not rescued her from them by order ing her into the convent prison. I will not and cannot decide on such a matter by myself. I mean to hold a solemn chapter with my nuns and judgment will be given according to the voice of the majority.” “ But are the majority always the wisest?” “Therefore I pray you, reverend father, not to abandon me, but to give me your assistance.” I accompanied the abbess to theebap ter, impressing on her the necessity of acting in sucli a matter with infinite forethought and consideration. How ever strong appearances might be on one side, asinglecircumstance forgotten or misreported, I said, might often suffice to alter the whole character of a transaction. We went into the chapter-room. The benches were covered with black ; on a red carpet stood a table, in the same sable attire. On it were placed a cruci fix, a death’s head, and a bell. Not far oil’was another table, with a chair and writing materials for the registrar of tlie tribunal. I’lie abbess addressed the assembled nuns solemnly and touchingly, praying them to give the accused the full bene fit of every doubt aud misgiving which might arise in their hearts, but at the same time to remember the awful pur poses of justice for which they were met together. And then followed.. an earnest prayer, in which we all took part. Two lay sisters now brought in Leucathea, and set her before the abbess, on the other side of the black table. She showed not the slightest confu sion. Her eye wandered freely round the scene. No sign of terror or anguish disfigured her beautiful countenance. She had on a white linen travelling robe, and a linen scarf, wound turban fashion round her head.* She stood undisturbed and unabashed, and awaited her doom with a calmness which astonished me, and which could only belong either to the most innocent or tlie most obdurate of her sex. “On what account are you here?” asked tlie abbess. “To answer such questions as may be put to me.” “ What induced you to leave the con vent, aud to commit perjury before God and the Holy Church?” “Whatinduced me? That I cannot fully explain to you. And the particu lars would needs be indifferent to you. I lied from the convent and my vows, because an earlier vow, which I had sworn on the altar of nature and of love, called me away. But my conscience soon awoke, and punished my apostacy so severely that I came back to you of my own accord.” All at once. —“ You came back?” Sister Lucia.—Did I not fortunately arrest you just as you were running away? Liar!” Leucathea, composedly.—“ No. When you thought I was escaping, I was in the act of returning. And I should have gone back quietly into my cell, unperceived by you or any one else.” Abbess. “ Then you were absent the whole night?” “ Yes.” “How long were you absent?” “Two years and six months.” They all looked confounded at each other. “ She does not know what she says; she has lost her senses; she is inventing a romance.” “No ; lam telling the truth. I re peat, that I have lived the last two years and six months outside the con vent.” “But where did you pass that time ?” “ That I may not and will not say.” A Nun. “ You perceive how she lies; she is mad ; she imagines she has been absent; the devil—Heaven defend us —has blinded her.” “Permit me to examine her,” said I. You will all allow that, during the years she has passed here, she has never up to tfiis hour shown the slightest sign of madness. That is not a calami ty which comes so suddenly and with out prognostics, especially on one so calm, so collected, as you now see her believe she was absent last nigh her meaning, in adding to her confes sion this impossible story about the length of her absence, must now be investigated.” Leucathea had looked at me, during my address, without altering a feature. .‘‘You give yourself much unnecessary trouble, reverend father,” she said, “in endeavoring to defend my understand ing from the suspicions expressed of it. I repeat, of my own accord, that I have been absent from the convent two years and a half.” “That is to say, by night, remaining there the day?” “No; day and night, without inter ruption. It was more than six and forty miles from thence.”* “Six and forty miles!” murmured the bewildered nuns. “Even so.” I. —“ And what was the name of the place?” “ That I will never disclose.” “ O, you Bhameless liar!” screamed one of nuns; “ Now I will tear off the mask from you before the whole chap ter. Can you deny that it was you who, yesterday, at vespers, stood by me, and joined me in tbe ‘ confitebor?”’ “ Was it not you who intoned the les son?” called another. Leucathea. —“ Not I. For two years and a half I have not even thought of vespers, much less sung a psalm.” A Nun.—“ Will you make fools of us before our very faces ?” Another.—“ Or could it have been your ghost?” Leucathea, with a scornful smile. — “ Perhaps.” The Saeristaness.- 11 Permit me, vener able mother, to put an end to this shameless imposture with asingle word. You all know that we had the tonsure last week. Sister Leucathea, did I not myself cut off your hair?” « Leucathea. —“ No.” The others.—“ How dare you deny it ? We were all present when she cut your hair.” Sacristaneßß.—“ Since she will speak * I infer from this costume, that the date of the occurrences described was aboul sixty or seventy yeais ago. • German miles—equal to two hundred English. falsehoods, remove the band from her Leucathea tore away the scarf her self, and her long, magnificent hair fell in sable masses over her shoulders and “ What is this ?” they—all cried indis majb We saw her hair cut with our own eyes ; and these locks ? This is magic; she is in league with Satan.” Leucathea.— 1 ’ Examine, if you wish, whether it is false hair.” The examination took place ; it was her own. “ This is the jugglery of hell!” they exclaimed with one voice, and their amazement seemed to have reached the utmost point. Just then we were in terrupted by the appearance of a body of the police, with its chief at their head. He excused himself with the ut- most courtesy for his boldness in in truding on such an assembly : but he was compelled to it, he said, by his duty, and in the interests of his estab lishment itself. At ten o’clock last night a carriage had stopped at the door of the convent. The door opened, and a person whom he recognized at once for the pious sister Leucathea, known to him as portress, attired in a white traveling dress, hurried out of it; a young gentleman lifted her into the carriage, and the coachman drove away immediately, with such swiftness that they had found it im possible to arrest him. The carriage went directly to the city gate, and thence, it was thought along the road to V . He had already sent offi- cers in pursuit, and hoped that the fugitives would soon be brought back. Who can describe the confusion aud terror which pervaded the whole as sembly ? Leucathea alone remained unmoved, without chaugiug place or at titude. “ How cau this be?” exclaimed the abbess, in the utmost perplexity. “ You declare that your people saw Leu cathea taken away ?” “ We declare it on our conscience and official duty.” Abbess—“ Nevertheless, here she stands ” The chief of the police looked round, aud shrank back in aifriglit. “ God for- give me!” lie said ; “ that is tlie very same person who eloped last night. Her dress, and her appearance, identi cal. How conies she here, wliiie my officers are in searcli lor her on all tlie roads?” I deemed it due time to put an end to tlie bewildering scene. I thanked tlie chief of the police for his attention to the concerns of the convent; aud lie was dismissed, with full powers obtain ed from the abbess to arrest and detain the fugitives wherever they might be >und. When the officers of the police had gone, the abbess said to me, — “ What is : the object of all this? why try to arrestany one? Is not Leucathea with us?” “ That,” said I, “ cannot be answered iu a moment; but, on reflection, you will perceive that the precaution is not superfluous.” The Abbess (to Leucathea)— I adjure thee by the everlasting all-merciful God say who art thou ?” Leucathea.—“ You know me. YoUr Leucathea for these years past.” “ Speak the truth. Alldependson it.” "So I believe, too. But what I have said is tlie purest truth. lam ready to die for it.” “ You, Leucathea, took the vows iu this convent?” “ I did.” “ Were you not carried off from night?” “No.” “ And you declare that you have been absent two years and six months ? Yet you lived all that time among us, and no one missed you for a single minute ?” “ I suppose so.” “ Is it possible you can be ‘ double ?’ “ I know myself only as one person. Whether it is possible that I can also be another living being in this material world, that I cannot tell." “Ifyou were absent; asyousay,then, in order to save your honor, you ought to tell us where. Name the place.” “ That I never will.” “Do you not believe that we could force you to it?” “No! not if you employed torture.” “What fate do you expect? “I am in your power, and abide all that waits me.” “Are you ready to swear, and upon that oath to take the holy communion, that you have in truth been absent from this convent two years and six months since your profession." “I can do so with a safe conscience.” Leucathea was remanded to her prison and eight days were given her to re flect whether she would undergo the fearful ordeal of solemnly swearing to the truth of her incredible tale. Mean while repeated announcements were brought us from the police,; that Leu cathea had been seen, sometimes at one post-station, sometimes at another, in company of a young cavalier. The de scription was so minute that it was im possible tiot to recognize the person de scribed as the same with her who was actually confined inourconventprison; but the authorities were always at fault —always just too late to catch the lugi tive. The captive endured her imprison ment with all. the patience, and with all those outward signs of piety, with which her former life had made us familiar. The day for the awful cere mony arrived at last. I did my utmost to render it as impressive as possible— to awaken the terrors of conscience, and bend the obstinate resolution of the sinner. With thp chalice in one hand, and a crucifix In the other, Leucathea repeated, with unfaltering lips and un changed demeanor, the long and cir cumstantial form of oath which I re peated to her, comprising the details of which she had asserted the truth. Thereupon she received, devoutly, the blessed sacrament; and I could perceive tears streaming from the eyes of many of the nuns as she did so. I addressed the chapter in a few words, in which I endeavored to give the event a color—l will not say of the mysterious, for deeply mysterious it was in truth to me —but of the supernatural; and advised that no further inquiry should be made, the accused having been admitted to pledge herself by the most solemn of all declarations to the truth of her tale. The chapter absolved her from all pun ishment. True, Leucathea had con fessed a breach of her vow and a long absence from the convent and had brought ocular proof in support of her confession; but then, all the time, Leu cathea had been in her place within its walls, and fulfilling assiduously all her duties. The whole event was suppressed and no one spoke more of it. At the end of the ceremony, Leucathea re quested the abbess to relieve her of the charge of portress; and implored that she might be spared further in trusion for the last few days of her life. She had vowed to God, she said, not to speak another word among the sisters after that day; and God had, in reply, revealed to her the day of her death, which would be on the feast of the patroness of the order —Saint Ur sula, the 31st of October. Amidst the awe-struck silence of the assembly, she gave back the keys of her office to the abbess, and retired to her cell. From that time forth she kept abso lute silence. I saw her several times ; she moved about like a living corpse. Early in October she became confined to her bed. On the thirtieth—the eve of SaintUrsula —shesent forme. “You,” she said, “have ever been considerate and tender towards me. Your behavior deserves my confidence. The mask now falls, and a fearful eternity opens upon me. I here impart to you the true history of my life. Think of me what and you please. Communicate the con tents of this paper to others, or whelm them in the dust of oblivion; it is all the Bame to me. Only promise me, not to open the packet which I give you, until lam buried.” I promised. I per formed for her the last offices of the church for the sinner. On the following morning—the day which she had pre dicted—she was mund dead in her bed. On the third day she was buried. Not until then did I open the packet. “You were in the right, reverend father,” —“ so the manuscript began — “ when you told the abbess that I was more than I appeared to be. When you read this, and the cold earth has covered me, you will know that I was the Princess Pauline, daughter ol the Duke of —-—.” The narrative then proceeded to re count in detail the particulars of the early life of the unfortunate writer. But I must abridge this portion of her story in order to come more quickly to that which connects itself with my own ob- servation and experience. Princess Pauline was destined by her father, in virtue of family engagements, to marry an ally of his house, the Prince ofT . He was a young aud accom plished cavalier, who, by his personal advantages alone, might well have gained the heart of a maiden; but hers was given inevitably, before she had at- :ained her sixteenth birthday, to a young nobleman whom she chose only to designate by a fictitious name, as the Marquis Montano. The tale which fol lowed was the usual one of passion aud paternal opposition. After violent scenes with her father who threatened her with his irreconcilable hatred un less she consented to become the bride of him for whom he destined her, she escaped from the duke’s palace in com pany with her lover. They found a priest who blessed their union in secret. They fled together, she in the dress of an ordinary citizen’s daughter, he, dis guised as one of his own servants, in order to avoid detection. This they succeed in doing; but as they ap proached the end of their day’s jour ney, driving through a wood to reach a small, secluded town where they in tended to rest, they were attacked by rob bers. The princess, in the terror of the moment, sprangoutof thecarriage, aud managed to conceal herself in tlie wood. She remained hidden there all night. In tlie morning she found herway back to tlie scene of the outrage. Theground was covered with blood. A horrible presentiment seized her. She made her way to a neighboring inn, aud there learned from the host that a young man had been killed iu the attack on the carriage. The description only too ex actly suited her husband, Montano. She visited the spot pointed out as his grave; for three days and nights she wept over the earth which concealed his beloved remains. Then the painful thought of suicide assailed her; but it yielded to that of devoting the remain der of her life to prayer aud sorrow, in any convent which she might find hos pitable enough to receive her. All thought of returu to her father’s court was cut off, not only by tlie feeling ex cited by the fresh memory of her be loved one, but by the fear of meeting that parent’s bitter hatred. Mother, she had none left to receive and forgive her. “ I had no money left after paying the landlord. I had no resources but to sit all night on the stone bench at the gate of vour convent, determined, if I was not received there, to throw myself into the nearest riVer. To your interces sion I owe it, reverend father, that this crime at least was spared me. You saved me from despair. You will bear witness, deem otherwise of your un happy friend how you may, that I did no dishonor to the humble office into which you caused the superior to receive me, that I performed my duties punctu ally, that I passed with unblemished Character through my period of proba tion. “My grief for my beloved one, to which I utterly abandoned myseif, was tlie reason which made me keep apart from all the sisterhood. I prayed day aud night for his soul. I cannot deny it, I prayed also frequently, unceasingly, for my own death, that I might t.i us become united with my Montano once more. What effect thi3 misery had at times on my outward demeanor, you know. But as the mere effect of time abated the sting of my grief, I became, at least to appearance, more cheerful and resigned. Such I remained, until one day reading through some accident —rare enough in these walls—a portion of a newspaper, 1 learned from it that, in consequence of his vexation at the elopement of his laughter, the Priucess Paulin®, with the Marquis Montano, the Duke of had undergone a stroke of apoplexy, and died on the spot. As he had only three daughters, and his duchy was a male fief of the crown, the King had invested theCouut of with it, Murderess of my father ! The thought breathed despera tion into my soul. Henceforward what could the world outside be to meexcept a prison-deprived of my love, abandoned by all, the cause, by my own wiliulness, of the death of a father? You know how I became the favorite of the abbess, and how she entrusted to me the key of the convent—that fatal key, which opened the door to my ruin and eternal perdition. “ Heaven is my witness, I endeavored to do my duties honestly. One day X was standing at the gate I expected to see you. A young man passed by. We recognized each other at the first glance. “Montano!” “Pau- I must here again reduce to a mere abstract the communication of the de ceased Leucathea. She dwelt only too complacently, and with all the particu larity of a memory concentrated within itself by long and violent repression of the feelings, on the one bright event which chequered the darkness of her unhappy history. The meeting be tween Montano and herself, at the gate of the convent, was simply acci dental. The belief in his death at the hands of the robbers was a mistaken one. He had, as has been al ready said, put on the livery of one of his own servants by way of disguise. His coachman, a young man of similar stature with himself, and clad in the same uniform, was killed by the shots of the assailants ; while he was himself wounded only, taken up senseless, and carried' to the house of a charitable neighbor. It is easy, therefore, to un derstand how the mistake arose which deceived the unfortunate Pauline. Mon tano, on the other hand, spent in vain his time and labor in endeavoring to acquire intelligence of his lost bride. After she had been traced to the inn, where she had last lodged before going to the convent, no clue could be found to her whereabouts. Slowly, and in de spair. he relinquished the search. He wandered, without aim or purpose, over many regions; and attracted back at last to the neighborhood of the spot where he and his love had been parted. Fate led him to her arms again. What was now to be done ? Although the union between them was sacred in their eyes, and as they deemed in those of Heaven ; yet the absence of parents’ consent and of other legal formalities would have rendered it impossible for him to set up his claim, against the claim of the Church; independently of the heavy punishment to which Pauline, as Leucathea, had exposed herself by her fraudulent misrepresentation to the convent authorities. Irresolute, and uncertain of their future des tiny, they lived for a time only in the present, under the enchant ment of a passion conscrated by the purest mutual devotion. They met in secret, availing themselves of the facili ties which Pauline’s control of the keys of the convent placed at their disposal. For many months, lost to the sense of danger, as well as of duty, Pauline abandoned herself to the enjoyment of her lover’s society. The consequences of their reunion now threatened to be come evident, and the prospect filled them with terror. They dared not ex pose their secret to the world; but Pauline’s temporary removal, at least, from the convent, became absolutely necessary. In this extremity a strange resource suggested itself. Pauline had a twin sister, the Puncess Eugenia; allied to her by one of those almost preternatural resemblances which defy, at times, even the ’perspicacity of the nearest relatives. Foiled by Pauline’s obstinate refusal to follow his wishes, her father, shortly before his death, had endeavored to set up again his favorite project of an union between his family and that of the Prince of T ,by substituting Eu genia as the latter’a bride for her sister, NUMBER 50 The prince, as had been said, was de serving of a maiden’s love; and Eugenia was brought with some difficulty to ac- cede with the project. They were affianced. But then came the death of the duke, the transfer of his fief to a distant male connexion, the dis ruption for the time, of the ties which bound his family together. The Prince of t , meantime, deeply involved in the political complications of'the period, found it necessary to postpone his nuptial projects. He departed, to lead for some years a wandering life of political missions and public business. Eugenia was living by herself, at a dis tant country-house of the family, forty six miles from the town in which the Ursuline convent was situated. Pauline relied on the tenderness and self-devotion of her sister, and she was not deceived. The plan arranged be tween them, in writing and through the intervention of Montano, was thus: — Montano was to bring Eugenia to the couvent. By the help of the portress’s power of admission, Pauline was to in duce Eugenia to her own cell. They were to remain a short time together— concealment for this purpose, although hazardous, seemed possible to one so well acquainted with the hiding-places of the convent as Pauline and witn the extreme regularity of its observances —until Eugenia had learnt the ways of the place, and could perform the part of Pauline without danger-of detection. Then Pauline was to put on the world ly dress of her sister, and remove to Eugenia’s country-house, until the ne- cessity for her absence was past; after which she was to return to the convent, resume her duties there until at least some change of plan could be suggested, and liberate her sister. The first part of the scheme was suc cessfully performed as it had been ar ranged. Pauline provided her sister with a nun’s dress, and for some days they remained together in the convent. Although they used every art to avoid detection; yet on one occasion their wit failed them; and in this manner the strange apparition of Sister Leucathea •kneeliugbeforethealtarof Maria del Pi anto, at the very same time that she was in attendance on the abbess in her room, was easily accounted for. Frightened at this narrow escape from detection, Pau line judged it best to affect a dangerous illness. For a few days longer, Eugenia remained concealed about the convent, but dared not keep in her sister’s cell; and this is the reason why she was oc casionally seen in the corridor, chapel, and elsewhere. At last they seized a favorable opportunity to effect the ex change. Eugenia remained in Pauline’s bed; Pauline, in her sister’s attire, hastened with her Montano to the dis- tant residence of Eugenia. It has been resolved, for further security, that not even the Prince of T himself should be admitted to the secret, and that his letters to his betrothed should, during the interval, be opened and answered by Pauline. 'SVhen her time approach ed, she and her husband removed to a neighboring town; here she was brought to the bed of a boy; and from thence she divided her time between acting Eugenia at the country-house and enjoying the society of her child and her husband in the retired spot she had chosen for her confinement. The remainder of the unfortunate nun’s avowals shall be given in her own words: “And now it would have been my duty to release my noble and devoted sister—her who had sacrificed freedom and happiness for me, who had entrust ed to me the secrets of her love, had voluntarily submitted formy sake to the yoke of the convent, aud saved me thereby from shame and destruction — out of voluntary imprisonment which she was suffering for my sake. Alas ! alas ! I was too happy. The feeling of my freedom intoxicated me. Enjoying life as exquisitely as I did, at the side of my beloved and of our child, I could not resist the infatuation which made me linger on day by day in that precarious Paradise which her self-abandonment had created for me. I was continually making resolutions to perform the necessary sacrifice. As continually my cowardice gave way at the last moment. A year had passed, it was the period be yond which I had bound myself fixedly iumy own mind not to delay ; the next year followed it; a third glided on, and duty; gratitude, sisterly affection, all were forgotten. But I was awakened, most justly awakened, out of my dream of unrighteous pleasure by a single crushing blow. “ A fearful epidemic visited the dis- trict in which we resided. My child — my beloved one—the object, above all others, for the sake of which I had com mitted this grievous sin towards Heaven and my sister, was one of its first vic tims. Its father, who would not leave its bedside during its rapid illness, was next attacked, andexpired in a few days in my wretched arms. I, the guilty one, saw them both perish, and remain ed untouched and unharmed. Such easy retribution as this wouldhavebeen, was not meant for me. “I was again alone in the world: I was standing bewildered beside the fresh gravesofmy two darlings, when astrange announcement recalled me tomysenses. The Prince de T had come in search, not of me, but of his Eugenia. Reports had reached him that his betrothed was fatherless; that she had yielded herself to another; reports, no doubt, arising from my sojourn in her former neigh borhood together with my deceased Montano. The error was, of course, easily removed, and my marvellous confession made. But, as soon as he had heard it, he would not admit of a day’s delay wihout my hurrying to the rescue of his unforgotten Eugenia. “ I was ready enough to execute his wishes. But, even in my utter desola tion, I could not bear the thought of returningto convent life. The coldness and oppression of that livinge tomb from which my Montano had taken me away in vain, weighed with a fearful load on my imagination. To pass the brief time now left me—brief indeed, as I hoped —anywhere in the world —any- j where, however secluded, in the free | air and light of heaven —this was all, X fancied, which was now left me to de sire. S “Accordingly it Was arranged between us, that after Eugenia had been safely removed, he would carry me off also. I should say that, following a precau tion which I had exercised duringMon tano’s visits, I had in my possession a second key of the outer gate. We trav elled together to our destination. We stopped at an obscure inn in this town. In the evening I went to the couvent gate. I found poor Eugenia still punc tually performing my office ; she had made no sign, though illness and de spondency had only lately brought her to a very low condition ; and no one had ever imagined a difference between her and me. I prepared her for the visit of her lover, and gave her a key and a white linen travelling-dress. At ten that night the prince went withthe carriage to the convent gate, where she was ready to join him. I remained, by his direction, at the inn. where he prom ised that they would call for me. I was dressed in asimilar costume to that with which I had provided my sister. I waited till two in the morning had struck ; but they returned not; in my despair and terror for Eugenia, I re turned once more to the convent. The rest you know. I should have slipped quietly into my cell, should have re sumed my nun’s habit, and all that has passed would have had existence forme alone, and for me only as a dream when one awakeneth, had it not been for the sacristaness’s discovery. Now youhave all my confidence. Deal with it, and with my memory, as you will. One circumstance only I have to explain— my exact prediction of my death. It scarcely needs such explanation. The resolute, to whom life no longer offers any prospect, save that of speedy re lease from it, can fix, and anticipate, their own destiny.” The Doora or the Church Kept Open. The Canadian Parliament has passed an act thatall church doors not opening outward Bhall be fastened open. It is not done from fears of the fire below, but fire on earth. " BATES OF ABTEBTISIIOi business alv Tzmfß(n,.tiS * per square of ten lines: ten per cent, increesefor fractions of a year. „ ESTATE, PebsonaL PBOnBBTTtUUIOZSr* ebal aptxxtibxiio. 7 cents » line tor tJae first, and 4 cents tor each subsequent inser tion. Special Notices Inserted in Local Column, 15 cents per line. Special Notices preceding marriages end deaths, 10 cents per line for first insertion, and 5 oents for every subsequent insertion. Business Gaels, of ten lines or less, one year, MM ..M.... M 10 Business Cards, five lines or less, one ye&r,... MM . 5 LsoAL Aim oth » a Notices— Executors’ -i0t1ce5.....~~....... 2.00 Administrators’ notices, —• 2.00 Assignees’ notices, —— 2.00 Auditors’ notloes, I*so Other.“ Notices, ’ten lines, or less, three times I*so My Plain LOTCr. I was a coquette. Many' a lover’s heart I had lacerated by refusing his offer of marriage after I had lured him on to a declaration. My last victim’s name was James Frazer. He was a tall, awkward, homely, ungainly man, but his heart was true as steel. I respected him highly, aud felt pained when I wit nessed his anguish at my rejection of him. But the fact was 1 had fallen in love with Captain Elliott, who had been unremitting in his attention to me. Mr. Frazer warned me against Mr. El liott, but I charged him with jealousy, and took his warning as an insult. A few days after Mr. Elliott and I were engaged, and my dream of roman tic love seemed in a fair way of realiza tion. I hada week of happiness. Many had not so much in a lifetime. Many awake from the bright short dream to find themselves in a life-long darkness and bondage, from which there is no escape. Thank (iod, I was not to be so miserable as they ! My mother was a widow of good cir cumstances, but having very bad health. She was also of an easy, listless, credu lous nature —hating trouble, and willing to take things just as they happen to present themselves. She therefore made no inquiries about Captain Elliott —but fondly believed ulint inasmuch as he was a Captain, he must necessarily be a man of honor also, especially as he had served in llie Crimea, aud in India, aud won medals. His regiment was quartered in the neighborhood, and lie had the reputa tion of beiug one of the wealthiest, as he was certainly the handsomest officer in it. I remember well the day we be came engaged. He was on duty, but he managed to ride over to our house in his uniform, and while we were walking into the house he made the tender avowal. I referred to mamma; he hastened to her—returned in three minutes, and led me iuto her presence to received the assurance that the maternal consent had been readily and freely given. My dear mother hated trouble, and moreover loved me ten derly, so that she was well pleased to find a husband presenting himself in a form and manner apparently so eligible for her beloved aud only daughter. Well, a week passed quite |delightful ly as I have said, aud at the expiration of this there might have been seen a gay equestrian party winding through our old Devonshire woods aud quiet country roads. Elliott and I led the cavalcade. I rode my own beautiful brown Bess. Captain Elliott was mounted on a handsome black horse that had been sent him from London. Following us was a bevy of merry girls aud their cavaliers ; and among them was tall; awkward aud silent James Frazer. His presence had marred all the pleasure of my ride, and I was glad to be in advanced' themallthat I might not see him. Aud so we rode on through the woods, and I listened, well pleased, to the low, animated words of the gallant Elliott, who wished himself a knight aud me a faire ladye of the olden Limes, that ho might go forth to do battle and compel all men to recognise the claims of his peerless love. Very eloquently bespoke of his inspirations of love, of the brave deeds aud perilous exploits it had prompted, wishing again and again that he might proclaim his love before the world. It pleased me to listen to this and believe it sincere, though I surely had no wish to put my lover to such a test. A shot suddenly rang through the woods, and a wounded bird darting past, lluttered and fell at the feet of Brown Bess. With a bound aud a spring that nearly unseated me, she was ofi'. Struggling to regain my seat, I had no power to cheek her, aud oven as she fiew, the fear aud madness of the mo ment grew upon her. I could only cling breathlessly to mane and bridle, and wonder helplessly where this mad gallop was to end. She swerved from a passing wagon, ami turned iuto a path that led to the river. In the sudden movement the reins had been torn from my hands, and I could not regain them. I clung to the inane and shut my eyes that I might not behold the fate that awaited me. How sweet was life in those precious moments that I thought my last! How all its joys, its affections, its last crowning love, rose up before me ? I thought of the pang that would rend Elliott’s heart as he saw me lying mangled and dead; and then the thought would come if he were pursu ing and trying to save me, even, as he said, at the risk of life and limb. I felt a sudden shock, a fearful rushing through the air, and I knew no more for days afterward, when I awoke to a faint, weak semblance of life in my chamber at home. I never saw Captain Elliott after wards. The last words I ever heard from his lips were those of a knightly king. The last action of his life, in connection with mine, was to follow in the train of frightened youths who rode after me, to contemplate the disaster from afar, and as soon as lie saw me lifted from the shallow bed of the,river, into which I had been thrown when my frightened horse stopped suddenly on its bank, to ride hastily ofi\ That evening he sent to make inquiries, and learning that 1 was severely, but it was hoped, not fatally injured. He thence forth contented himself with such tidings of my condition and improve ment as could be gained by mere rumor. At last it was known that I would never recover entirely from the effect of my injury, and that very day Captain Elliott suddenly departed from the neighborhood. He made no attempt to see me, norsentmeauy farewell. When I was once more abroad, and beginning with much unalloyed bitterness, to learn the lesson of patience and resigna tion that awaited me, I received a letter from him, in which he merely said he presumed my own judgmenthad taught me in my altered circumstances our engagement must come to an end j but to satisfy his own sense of honor (his honor!) he wrote to say that while en tertaining the highest respect for me, he desired a formal renunciation <Tf the claim. Writing on the bottom of the letter, “Let it be as you wish,’’ I re turned it to him at once, and thusended my brief dream of romance. I heard ere this of Mr. Elliott's cow ardly conduct on that day; but now I first bethought me to inquire who had rescued me from that imminent death. And then I learned that James Frazer, his arm)already broken by the jerk with which Brown Bess hadjtorn away from him as he caught at her bridle, had ridden after me, and was the first to lift me from the water. Many times daily lie had made inquiries concerning me; his had been the hand that sent me the rare flowers that had decked my room, his were the lips that breathed words of comfort and hope to my poor mother; his were the books that I read during the days of convalescence; and Ills, now, the arm that supported me, as slowly and painfully I paced the garden walls. X have been his wife for many ayear. I have forgotten that he is not hand some—or rather he is beautiful to me, because I see his grand and loving spirit shining through his plain features and animating his awkward figure. I have long since laid aside, as utterly untena ble, that beautiful spirits dwell only In lovely bodies. It may be a Providential dispensation that, in denying physical perfection, the soul is not dwarfed or marred by petty vanity or love of the world’s praise. Ilow to Select Your Poultry. A young turkey has a smooth leg and a soft bill, and if fresh the eyes will be bright and the feet moist. Old turkeys have scaly, stifffeet. Young fowls have a tender skin, smooth legs, and the breastbone yields readily to the pressure of the finger. The best are those that have yellow legs. The feet and legs of the old fowl look as if they had seen hard service in the world. Young ducks feel tender under the wings, and the web of the foot is transparent. The best are thick and hard on the breast. Young geese have yellow bills, and the feet are yellow and supple; the skin may be easily broken by the head of a pin, the breast is plump and the fat white. An old goose Is unfit for the human stomach.
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