1.510:2 to
U 0 VW hl 55139.6t.13
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 21, UM
SCROOLNOTIII AlS104111:-T417 following is
copy of an advertisement taken from the door of a
in York County, Pe., by a friend, written by
the Town School Muter. It is a literal copy, taken on
.91,spot
" DEBUG SALE.
• Will b, Halt one Saterdsy they 23c day of March
next at teiioClock in Louor Wigaor 1 Harse and Gains
Shoe mill than Baron Wool Laters wagon Bab and
boss and Curdan backs and Otte shintles, and Hay &
sow Corn an urea by they Bushel and they Crain in
hey Crown Jacob Crosby
• fubruary thee 26th 1944"
[From the St. Lome Evening Quetta.]
Twenty Team Ago.
`l're wandered to the village, Tom, •
I've sat beneath the tree,
Upon the acbool-house play-ground, which
Sheltered you and me.
But none were there to greet me; Tom,
And few were left to know,
That played with us upon the green
Some twenty yesua ago.
The grass is just as green, -Tom; bare
Footed boys at play,
Were sporting, just as we did then,
With spirits just as gay.
But the Master sleeps upon-the hid,
Which coated o'er with snow,
Afforded us a sliding-place, just'
Twenty years ago.
The old school-house is altered
dutne; the benches are replaced
By new ones, very like the same our
Pen-knives had defaced.
But the mine old bricks are in the wall.
The lu ll swings tuand fro,
hs musie's just-the same, dear Tom,
was twenty years ago.
The bop were playing some old
Game, beneath that same old tree :
I do forget the name just now—you've
Played the same with me
On that same spot ; 'tiara played with
Knives, by throwing so and so;
The loser had a task to do—there,
Twenty year: ago,
The riser's running just as still,
The willows on its side
Are larger than they were, Tom; the
§tr:am appears legs aide ;
But the.grape-vine swing is ruined now
Where once we played the beau,
And !:rung our eweethearte—pretty girls—
' Full twenty years
The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill
'Close hy the spreading beech,
Is very low—'twas once so high that we
Could slmost reach—
And kneeling dowtito get a drink, dear
Torn, I started so,
To Fee hosv much that I have changed
Juice twenty years ago.
Sear by the spring, upon an elm,
You know lent your narne..
Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Torn, and
You did mine the same.
Some heartless wretch had peeled the
Bark; 'twas dying, sure but slow,
Just as that one, whose name you eut, died
Twenty years ago.
My lido have long been dry, Torn, but
Tears came in my eyes;
I thought of her I loved so well—those
Early broken ties.
I visited the old church-yard, and took
Some flowers to strew
-Upon the graves of those-we loved, some
Twenty years ago.
Some are in the church-yard laid,soms
Sleep beneath the sea;
But fret areleft of our old class, excepting
You and me.
And when our time has come, Tom, and
We are called to go.
I hope they'll lay us where we played
• Jost twenty years ago.
Misses Ens.—Seeing the following beautiful and
isenictise passage lately quoted by the North American,
take thetberty of asking a place for it in your paper.
It is a gem of the 'first water in literature, and not of any
lower quality in practical Theology. If the reader will
sabitilute earthly affection and passians, in:general, for
We tingle one to which the writer distinctly refers, he
will see with what more • loud sighings of an eastern
triad,' he must contend in his upward flight, and judge
whether it W policy to increase the storm by fresh in.
dingenties of folly. Truly yours, • C.
ON PRlNER.—Prayer is the peace of our
spirit, the stillness of our thoughts, the even
ness of recollection; the seat of meditation, the
rest of our cares, and the calm of our tempest;
Prayer is the issue of aquiet mind, Of untroub
led thoughts, it is the daughter of charity , and
sister of meekness; arid he thatprayi to God
with an angry, that is, with a troubled or dis
composed spirit, is like him that retires into
a battle to meditate, and sets op his . eloset, in
the out.qoarters of an army. Anger is a per.
feet alienation of the mend from prayer, and
therefore is contrary to that attention, which
Presents our prayer iii a right line to God.—
For so have I seen a lark rising from Ilia bed
of grass,- and soaring upwards-se he rises,
and hopes to get to heaven. and climb over
the clouds; . but ,the pour bird was beaten
back with the loud sighinga of an eastern
wind; and his motion made irregular and in-'
constant, descending more at every breath of
the tempest; than it could recover by the libra
tion and frequent weighing or his wings; till
th e little creature was forced to sit down and
pant, and stay till the storm was over, and
then, it made a.prosperous-flight, and did rise
2 aci ling as if it had learned music and mt.tion
from ao angel, as hepassed sometimes through
, r , .• - , ,
.•
.„
THE .,.._ . ... 8RAD . F.0 . 0,
the air about his mi nistri ess here below : so is
the prayer of a good man. . .
Prayers are but the body of the bird : de
sires are its angel's wings.—Biattop Tanoti.
Fanny li'Dermot.—A Tale of Sorrow.
BY MISS C. M. SEDOWICK.
1
Sickening with fatigue and disappointment.
Fanny; helped on her way by an omnibus, re
turned to the intelligence-office, where she had
left her bund'e. The official gentleman there.
on hearing her failure, said—••\Vdl, it's no fault
of -mine—you can't expect a good place without
a good referenie."
" Oh,l expect nothing." replied Fanny ; " I
hope for nothing but that my baby and I may
die anon—very soon, if it please God I"
I amt sorry for you, I declare I am," said
the man, who. though his sensibility was pretty
much worn away by daily attention, could not
look without pity upon this - pale. beautiful
yo - ung creature., humble and gentle and trem
bling in every fibre with exhaustion and des
pair. " You are tired out," he said,"and your
baby wants taking care of. There's a decent
lodging-house in the next street. number 65,
where you may get a night's lodging for a shill
ing. To morrow morning you'll feel better—
the world wall look brighter after a night's sleep.
Gome back to me in the morning, and I will
give you some more chances. I won't go ac
cording to rule with you." -
Fanny thanked ,him, kissed her baby, and
again, with trembling, wavering steps. went
fold'. She had but just turned the corner, when
overcome by faintness, she sat din on a door
! step. As she did so, a woman. coming from
the pump, turned to go down into the area of a
basement-room. She rested her pail on the
step, and cast her eye inquisitively at Fanny.
•• God save us !" she cried. '• Fanny McDer
mut, darling, 1)0 found you at last—just as 1
expected. God punish them that's wronged
you! Can't you spake to me, darlaut ? Don't
you know Biddy O'Rourke !"
Ob, yes," replied Fanny, faintly ; my
only friend in this world: - Indeed, I do know
yqu "
" And, indeed—and, indeed, you're welcome
as if you were - my own to every thing I have
_in_ the world. Rise up, my darlant ; give me
the !Libby. God's pity on it, poor bird !" and
taking the infant in one arm, and supporting and
nearly carryiiig the mother with the other, she
conducted Fanny down the steps and laid her
on her bed: With discreet and delicate kind
ness she abstained, for the present, from farther
inquiries, and contented herself with nursing the
baby, and now and then an irrepressible over
flow of her heart in expressioir of pity and
love to Fanny. and indi g nation and wrath against
hal craters, that had neither soul nor feel
ings. nor any such thing in them !" In the
course of the day. Fanny so far recovered as to
tell her friend her short, sad story, and to learn
that affairs had mended with the O'Rnorke's
that the drunken husband was dead. Pat and
Dien were out at service, and that the good
mother, with a little help from them, and by
selling apples and now and then a windfall. got
bread for herself and three little, noisy, thriving
children. The c•liiitiriess of tier larder was on
ly betrayed by ber repeated assurances to Fanny
that she had plenty—plenty. and to spare—
oceans, oceans;" and whe' Fanny, the next
morning, manifested her intention of going out
again to seek a place, she said—" Na—na, my
darlant ; it's-nut ye shall be after. Is not the
bit-place big enough for us all? les but little
ye're wanting to ate. Wait, any way, till yee's
stronger and the baby is big enough to wane.
and lave it here to play with Anny and Peggy."
Flinty looked round upon the " bit-place,"
and it must be confessed, that she sickened at
the thought of living in it, even with the sunny
kindness of its inmates, or leaving her little
snowdrop of a baby there. The windows were
dim with dirt ; the floor was unwashen ; a heap
of kindlings were in one corner, potatoes in an
other, and coals under a bed none of the tidiest.
'Broken earthern and broken victuals stood on
the table, and all contrasted to strongly with the
glossy neatness of her aunt7s apartment. Sure
ly, Fanny was not fastidious.
Olt, no, Mrs. O'Roorke," she said, "I can
never—never leave my baby. lam better; and
you are so kind to me. I'll wait till to-morrow."
And she did wait another day, but no persusa
sion of Mrs. O'Roorke, could induce her to
leave her infant. She insisted that she did not
feel its weight, and that " looking on it was all
that gave her courage to go among• strangers,"
and " that now she felt easier, knowing she had
such a kind friend to come to at night. '
Finding Fanny yesoly n ed, Mrs. O'Roorke
said—" Now, don't be after telling them your
misfortunes ; , just'send them to me for your . char
acter. It's ten to one if they'll not take the
trouble to come ; and ifthey do, I'll satisfy them
complatelyz"
" And lioW 'naked Fanny, with a faint
smile. ,
2NSODOEL
Why, won't I be after telling 'em just the
truth—how the good. ould lady brought you up
like a nun, out of sunshine and harm's way;
how you were alivsys working with your, nee
dle, and quiet-like and , dove-like . ; and how the
ould lady doated no . you, and that you were the
best and beautifullest that ever crossed a door-
,
44,H0t, oh, dear Mrs'. 011Coike, with all this.
hoWstvill you ever come to the dreadful truth!"
4.4 And I'll not tie afteijistdiat. If thev.bother
with giestione, can't I answer them civilly. Fan.
op McDermott How will it harm a body in all
the world just to tOuld that Yees monied your
cousin What died with
. consumption or the like
of that ?'
Finny shook her head.' •
44. Now, what's the use, Fanny McDennot,"
continued Mra, O'Roorke, 44 of a tongue, if we
can't serve ,a (rind -with it ? Lave all to me,
darlaut. You know I would not tell a lie to
wrong one of God's craters. . Would Ibe af
ter giving you a character if you did not desene
it!"
44 I know how kind and good you'ire Ine,
Mrs. &Hawke!' said Fanny. '''butt pray you
to say nothing for In but the truth. I have ask-
PUBLISHED EVERY WEDNESDAY, AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD
. COUNTY,,, PA., BY E. 0. & H. P. GOODRICH.
[CONCLUDED.]
fa' iiikliniCtATlON NEON /134 . 7 ,41141175 RP•
ed God's forgiveness and blessiog on me. and my
myibabv, and we must try to earnit.. Promise
me.. will you 1"
Oh, be aisy ; darlant, be aisy, and I'll be
after doing what you wish." She wrapped the
baby in its blanket, carried it up the, steps and
put it in the mother's arms. 1 here, God
guide you. Fanny IdcDermot. The truth !"
continued Mrs. O'Roorke. as her streami i 7 eyes
followed Fanny ; and what's trut good
for but to serve the like of her that's been
wronged by a false-hearted villian, bad luck to
him ?" •
It would take a very nice maid to analyze
the national moral sense of good Mrs. 0' Roorke.
Fite unescrupulous flexibility of the Irish tongue
is in curious contrast with the truth of the Irish
heart—a heart overflowing with enthusiasm,
generosity, gratitude, and all the emotions be
longing to the beet truth of life.
!. I am thinking," said the master of the in
telligence-office, as he was doling oat to two or
three references io Fanny. to familiev residing,
in different and distant parts of the city, " I am
thinking you don't know much of the world,
young woman?"
" 1 do pot," replied Fanny, mournfully.
- Well, then, I do; and give you a hint
or two. It's a world, child, that's looking dot
pretty sharp for number one—where each shows
their fairest side and looks all round their felloii
crelurs ; where them that have the upper hand
—you understand, hem what employs:others—
thinks they hav6 a right to require that they
shall be honest and true and faithful and so on
to the end of the chapter, of what they call
" good character ;" and not only that they be ao
all their lives. The man that holds the purse.
mind you, my dear, may snap his fingers, and
be and do what be likes. Now, there can't be
friendship in this trade, so what can the weak
party do but to make fight the best way they can.
I Rut I see you don't altogether take my ideas,"
lie continued, perceiving Fanny was but half at.
tentive, and replacing his spectacles, which he
had taken off in beginning his lecture on the sp.
cial system ; " but you'll see my meaning in the
application. Now, " I've asked .no questions
and you've told me no lies," as the saying is.
but I know pretty much what come and gone
by your beauty, by your cast down eye, with
the teats standing on the, eaves ; by the lips
that, though they are-too pretty for any thing
but smiles, look as if they would never smile
again ; by the—"
" Oh, please, sir, give me the papers, and let
me go."
tt Wait—l have not come to it. I feel like a
father to you. child-1 do. Now, my advice is,
hold up your head ; you've as• much right and
more. I can tell you, than many a mistress of a
fine house. Look straight forward ; speak
cheery, and say you're a widow."
Fanny looked up, with a glance that came
from a conscience y et void of offence ; and he
added, with a slight stammer— -
•• by should not you say so ? You are left
—and that is the main part of 'vino widow—
left to provide for yourself and your, young one ;
and that's thesnrrowfullest part of being one—
and every hotly pities the widow and orphan.
And I should like to have any body tell me
which is most a widow, a woman whose hus
band is dead or you ?—which the completest
orphah, a child whose father Ices under ground
of yours?"
Fanny stretched out her hand to true refer
ences and took them in silence, but when she
reached the door, the turned and said, with a
voice so sweet and penetrating that it - was oil
to the wounded vanity of the I thank
you, sir, lor wishing to help us; but, baby,"
she added, mentally. straining her little burden
to hor bosom," we will be true—we will keep
our vow to God, won't we ? He is merciful ;
"Jesus was merciful, even to that poor woman
that was brought befcre him by cruel men;
and if nobody will take us in on earth, God
may take us to himself—and I think he will,
soon."
She . walked on slo wly , and perseveringly,
turning many mtreets,' till she reached the first
address to which she had been referred. There
she was received and dismissed as she had been
on the previous day, and she went to leak for
the nest , ; but she soon began to feel sensations
she had never felt before—a pain and giddiness
in the head and general trembling. She drag
ged on a little way. and tben sat down. Grad
ually her mind became confused, and she de
termined to turn back at once and make the
best of her way to Mrs. O'Rorke, but to her
dismay, she could not remember the name of
the street where she lived. nor that of the intel
ligence office, b• Oh, lam going mad," she
thought, and they Will take my baby from
me !" and making an effort to compose herself,
she sat down on a door stem and to test her
mind, she counted the panes in the windows
opposite. " All is right vet." she thought. as
she went. steadily on and finished her task;
s• but why cannot I remember thatname? Do
you know." she asked. timidly. of a man who
was passing, and who looked line one of those
people who know every thing of the aort,—"do
you know any street beginning with an I' .
ir
*. Bless me. yes—fifty. - There'. Vandam
.and Vandewater; and--.." . • ' •
_ " Olt. stop thereit's one of those. .Are
they near together?" • .
. "As near as east and west—one is one side
of the city. and one the outer." and he passed
briskly on. - • , . -
Poor Fanny ,sat down. and• repeated to
herself the names till she was more -at n loss
than" ever. The passers by looked curi
ously at her, and two or three sildressifig inso
lent words to her. she could endure ,it ao lon..
ger. and she resolved to go to Vandam street.
hoping it might, be the right one. , Hr.head,
throbbed violently, and she felt that her lips.
were - parched, and her pulse beating quick and
hard. Her baby began to cry for food. and
seeing some boards resting against a house.she
crept under them to be sheltered froin abler
vatton while she supplied her child'i wants.-.
There was , too little girls'theris before her, eat:-,
ing
. Merrily :and voraciously from
Qh, My baby..' said Fanny, slow]; ”I am,
afraid this is die lait tittle you Will 'tier Ond
airy milk in your mothor's breast."
EMI
The time beggiti.girla !Molted at her• - pitiful•
ly.' and offered het bread and meat.
Oh; thank you," she said, "but I cannot
eat. II yciu would Only get me a drink of cold
water."
6, Oh, that.we can, as_ easy as not," said orie
of,them ; and fishing up a broken teacup from
the bottom' of her basket. she ran to a pump
and filles,l.it—and again and again filled it, as
Fanny 'drink it or emptied it on her burning.
throbbing head.
It's beginning to rain," said one of the girls,
" and I guess we had all better go home. You
look sick; we'll carry your baby for you if
your home is our way."
" 111 y home No, thank . you ; my home is
not your way."
The children went away, talking in a low
voice, and feeling as they had never quite felt
before.
It was early in Febrdary, and the dive, of
course, yet very short. the weather had been
soft and bright, but as the evening approached. ,
the sky became clouded and a chilling rain be.
gan. Fanny crept out of her, place of shelter,
after most anxiously wrapping up her baby.
and. `at first, stimulated by the fever, she walk
ed rapidly on. Now and then she sat down.
where an arched - doorway offered a shelter. and
remained half 'oblivious till urged .on again by
her baby'e'cries.
It was eleven o'clock, when she was pass.
ing before a brilliantly lightVd house. There I
was music within. an d a line of carriages with. I
out. A gentleman was at this moment alight
ing from his carriage. Fanny shrunk back and
leaned against the area-railing till he should
pass. He sprung quickly updhe step to avoid
the dropping eaves, and'when in the doorway.
turned so say. "Be punctual at twelve." She
loolied up; the light (thin ihe bright gas light
beside the door streamed in the Speaker's face.
" Oh. mercy. it is he !";:she exclaimed, and
darted forward and mouirted the step. It was
I he. Sydney. He left the door ajar as he en
tered, and Fanny followed in; and as she en
tered, she said Sydney turn the landing of the
staircase. Above'was the mingled 'din of voi
ces and muse:. Fanny inajinctively shrunk
(rem proceeding. Through an open door she
I saw the ruddy glow of the fire in the ladies' .
cloak-room. It was vacant. I might warm
my poor baby there." slie thought; "and it's
possible—it is possible I may speak with hint
when he comes down."—and she , obeyed the
ithpulse to enter. "Her reason was now too
weak to aid her, or she would not have placed
herself in a position so exposed to observation
and suspicion. When she had entered she
saw. to her, great relief, a screen that divided a
small portion of the room from the rest. She
crept behind it and seated herself on a cushion
that had been placed there for the convenience
of the ladies changing their shoes. flow
very fain you are sleeping, my baby," she said;
" and yet," she added, shivering herself, "how
very cold you are !" and twining around it a
velvet mantle that had fallen over the Screen,
she leaned her head against the wall, and, part.
ly stupefied by the , change to the warm-aprirt-
Ment, and partly from exhaustation, he feel
asleep. What a contrast was she, in her silent ' '
lonely desolation, with fever in her veins, and
in her cold, drenched; dripping garments. to
the, gay young • creatures above—thoughtlas
of any evil in life more serious than not having
a partner for the next Waltz ! She a homeless.
friendless wanderer ; they paSsed from room
to room amidst the rustling of satins and soft
pressure of velvets, and flaming of gossamer
draperies, with the luxury of delicious music
and atmosphere of the - costliest exotics. and
tables preparing for them whete Epicures
might have banqueted. And such contrasts,
and more frightful, are there nightly in our city,
separated. perhaps. by a wall, a street or a
I square; and knowing this, we sleep quietly in
our beds, and spend our days in securing more
comforts and planning more pleasures for our
aelves—apd, perhaps, complaining of our lot!
More titan an hour had passed away.. when
Fanny was awaked to imperfect consci ousness
1 1 by.the glimmering of two female voices outside
11the screen. Two ladies stood there, in their
chinks'. waiting.
tt How in the world," asked one, "did you
contrive to make her dance with him 1"
By getting her into . a dilemnia. She could
not refuse without rudeness to her hostess."
~Ana .mide, her ridQ With him yester
day. And so you hope to decoy her into an
engagement with him I"
**t Notte. I with .
mean to decoy her if
you choose thit word—into an intimacy. aia
then I will leave them to make out the rest be
tween them. Ile is very: irresistible.
ford Smith's wife was over head and ears in
love,with him t and you. know poor Ellen Cra-
I vertrua.de no secret of her.attichment to him."
" Why did . she not marry hint?",
"Lord knows," replied the lady. shrugging 1
her shoulders. ." She did not play her cards 1
well ; and.l ; believe the truth is, he has beeo.a
sadfellow . ,"
Di) von imagine there was any truth in,
that girl's , story_ yesterday. i"
". Very likely t pretty girls in her statio . n are
apt to go astray . you. know.. ,
.But here•is An•
gusts, Come in, Mr. Sydney; there is. po one
here b 4 ea. Arcryori.going.so early 1". ,
" YRS. Afterieeing , your to your carriage, I
!nivel no desire to stay.'.. . • , .
l'here was a slight, movement behind the
screen, but apparently not noticed'by the
par
ties,outside. • . .
"Oh., Miss Easily , allow Me." he enia.46o-
pliti.on' his, knee 'bellire. 4404 a,. who., the
dressintinsid riot tieing lit her post. was, at.;
terripting. to button. her iivershoe. - alciin
Me.' .
. No, thank you;, I always do these things
for,myself." -, „
. r . .
I,prniest !", and ingests Efinly = imp&
behindike screen. . . . ,
Sytlitei, with.. a 'reit of
,playlni 4tallatet4i,,
followed' her._ Between ;th em, both, the, screen
fell, ind theY:1111, siond.,silerkand'aghait. aaaf
thq earth bad opened beferetitein. - There still,
eat FatinY.leno most beautiful of
MuiFillot• paw Totiors? 'rite fever 40
left her cheek—it was 'as colorless as marble;
her lips were red; her eves beaming with a su
pernatural light, and her dark hair hung in
matted masses of ringlets to her waist. She
cast one bewildered glance around her. and"
then fixing her eyes on Sydney. she sprang, to
him and laid her hand on his arm, exclaiming.
Stafford! Stafford !" in a voice that vibrat
ed on the ears of all those who beard her, long
after it was silent forever.
Mrs. Emly locked the door ! Troly..the
children of this world are wise in their gener.
ation.
Sydney disengaged his arm, and said. in a
scarcely audible voice—for hie false words
choked him as lie uttered them—" Who do
you take me for? . The woman is mad!" -
" No—l am not mad yet t but—oh, my
head, it aches so—it is so giddy: Feel how it
beats. Stafford. Oh. don't pull -away your
hand from me. How many times you have
kissed these temples and the curls that bung
over them, end talked about their beauty.—
What are they now?- What will they soon
he ? You feel it throb, don't you T Stafford.
I am not going to blame you now: I have for
given you-1 have prayed to God to forgive
you. Oh, how deadly pale you are now,
Stafford. Now you feel for us. Now, look
at our poor little childt"
I:he uncovered the infant, and raised it more
from stupor than sleep. The- half-famished
little thing uttered a feeble. sickly moan.
" Oh. God—oh. God, she is dying! not
she dyin g?" She grasped Augusta Emly's
arm. " Can't something be done for it? I have
killed her-4 have killed my baby. It was
you that were kind to us yesterday—yes. it
was ton. I don't know where it was. Oh,
my head—my head !"
" Fur God's sake, mamma, let us take• her
home with us." cried Aulusta. and she rushed
to the door to look for her servant. As she
opened it, voices and footsteps were heard de
tieending the stairs. She heeded them not—
' her mother did.
•' Go now—instantly, Sydney." she said.
" Oh. no—no, do not go !" cried Fanny. at
tempting to grasp him—hut he eluded her, and .
unnoticed by them. passed through the throng
of servants at the'dintr, threw himself into the
first hackney coach he saw, and was driven
away. Fanny uttered one 'piercing shriek.
looked wildly round her, and darting through
the cluster of ladies pressing into the cloak
room. she passed, unobserved by her; behind
Miss Ethly. who stood regardless of the pour
ing rain, un the door-step, ordering her coach
man to drive nearer to the door. . When she
returned to the cloak-room, it was filled with
ladies ; and in the confusion of the shawling.
there was much talk among theni of the strange
apparition that had glided out of the room as
they
. entered.
Mrs. Emly threw a cloak around herdaugh
ter. " Saying nothing, Augusta." she whis
pered. imperatively; " they are both gone."
" Gone together?"-
Mrs. Emly did not, or afrecteil not to hear
her.
The next morning Miss Emly was twice
summoned to breakfast before she appeared.
She had passed a sleepless and wretched night
thinking of that helpless young sufferer,
er, ruined by the sin, and. in her extreme mis.
ery, driven forth to the stormy elements by the
pride of her fellow creatures.-
There is not a sadder moment in liTe than
that in which a young. hopeful. generous crea
ture, discovers unsoundness, worldliness and
heartlessness in those to .whom nature has
most closely bound her—than that, when, in
the freedom of her own purity and love of
her own purity and love of goodness and faith
in truth, o she discovers the compromising sel
fishness, the vain shows. the sordid calcula
tions, the conventional falsehood of the world.
Happy for her, if, in misanthropic disgust. she
dues not turn away Iron) it; happy if use dues
not bring her to stoop from her high position
—most happy, if like Him who ; came to the
sick, she fulfil her mission and remain in the
world, though* nut of it !.
Augusta went through the form of breakfast;
and taking up the morning paper and passing
her eye listlessly over it. her attention was fix
ed by the following paragraph : _
•• Committals at the Tomb:.—Fanny Me-
Dermot• a young woman so calling herseif,was
taken up by. a_ watchman during the violence
of the storm, with a dead infant in her arms.
A rich velvet mantle, lined with fur, was wrap.
ped around the cliild. Nothing but moans
could be extracted from the woman. She was
committed for stealing the mantle.' A jury of
inquest is callerSlo.sit upon the child. whiclr,
they have mat yet been able to force from the
mother's arms.
t• Good Heavens. Augusts. what is the mat
ter. Are you faint?" asked the mother.
Augusta shook her head, and rang the bell,
while she gave Mrs. Emly the - paragraph to
read. Daniel," she said, to the servant who
answered the.bell. "go to Dr. Edmunds and
ask him to come to me immediately. Stop.
Daniel—ask Gray au go along to send me
a carriage direetiv."
4 What now. Mize Emly. Are
ahe•unnbe 1"
" Yee."
1 , Not with my permission." •
i• Without it Men, ma'am unless you bolt
the doors upon me. 1 have,sent to my cousin.
and,he will go, with me: There is no impio
priety and no. Quixotism in my oing. and 1
shall never be happy again if .I do of go. Olt.
my dear mother." she continued. bursting into
tears, .. I have suffered agonies this night,
thinking of that poor, young woman.; but.they
are nothing- 7 nothing to,the misery
,of hearing
you. last night. defend that had Man. Sid bring
me reason upon reason why .! it itits.to be ex
,peeted.!', and what often happened," and 4t what
no, cipe tho9glat of contletniog a. man for;.that
that he.: loaded ,with God's good gifts, shOuld
mike a prey and victimof a trusting. loving.
defineelcsa 'women. and she. therefore. should
he east out of, the. pale" of ,humanity—turned
from oar donrs=driven ,forth to perish in the
storm. Oh, it is rionstroui !:—moristronal"
AuPour was t9lrflroll for her Pother—
She did not oppose, but merely murmured, in a
voice that did not reach her ear--0* Theredcies
seem to be an ineisteni•v, but different :when
one knows• the w0r1d." .. . ,
The door of Fanny Mak:mot'e cell was
opened by the turnkey. and Miss tally and
her cousin. the physician. ''admitted.-_
a room twice the size of those allotte tristn
gle occupants. and there were two worneri'of
the most hardened character in it. besides a
young girl, not sixteen. committed for infanti
cide. She. her eyes filled with tears, was ba
thing Fanny's head with cold water. while the
women. looking like two furies, were accusing
one of having stolen from Fanny, the one's
handkereheif, the l other a ring.
Fanny's dead infant, was on her arm. while
she, half raised on her elbow. bent over
She hod wrapped her cloak and Abe only blan
ket on the bed around it. •• It !Liao cold," she
said " I have tried all night to warm it. It
grows colder and colder."
Cannot this young woman be. moved toe
More decent apartment?" asked Misr Emly of
the turnkey.
Fanny looked up . at the sound of her voice.
Oh, you have come—l thought you- would."
she said. You will warm my baby,. won't
you!
Yee—indeed 1 tetll. Let me take it."
" Take it—away ? No—l can't. - I shall
never see her again. They tried ito pull her
away from me. but they could not—we grew
together. Bring me a little warm . millt for her.
She has not sucked since yesterday morning,
and then my milk' was so hot, that I think tt
scalded her. I agi sure it did not agreemith"
her."
••Oh, pray." Said Augusta. to the turnkey.
who had• replied to her inquiry that the next
room was just vacated and could be made quite
comtortable."—•• pray, procure a bed and
blankets, and whatever will be of any use to
het. I will pay you for all expense and trou
ble."
" Nothing can-he of use," said the physi
cian, whose fingers were on Fanny's pulse;
h er heart is fluttering with its last beats."
"Thank God !" murmured Augusta. -
" Put your hand on her head. Did yob ev
er feel such a heat ?" .
" Oh, dear—dear ; it was that dreadful heat
she felt in all her mental. misery last night."
A quick step was heard. along the passage:
a sobbing voice addressed the turnkey, and in
rushed Mrs. O'Roorke. She did'not; as her
people commonly do at the sight of avlying
creature, set up a howl. but she sunk on her
knees and pressed her hand to her lips as if to
hold in the words that were leaping'.from her
heart. . .
Fanny looked at her for a moment,in silence.
then, with a faint smile on her quitering tips,
she stretched her hand ) to her. " You have
found me. I could not find you-1. walked
and walked." She closed her eyes -end sunk
back on her pillow ; her face became calmer.
and when she opened her eye, it wait nieire
quiet. " Mrs. O'ltoorke," •she amid, quite
distinctly; directing her eye to Augueta, "this
kind lady believed the ; tell her about me."
"Oh. I will—l will—l will!"
"Hush—not now. Come here—my baby
is—dead. I—God is good—l forgive --.4.
God—Heaven is love. My baby—yes—.
God—is good."
In that unfailing goodness the mother and
the child reposed forever. ,
FILVAL GRATITUDE .- Gratitude is a princi
pal ingredient in filial affection. It often" re
veal. itself in a most striking manner, when
parents moulder in the dust. it induces obe
dience to their precepts, and tender love for
the memory. A little boy was once palling
the ornamental garden of a rich man. He was
observed to look earnestly and wishfully at
some sprouts that were germinating- on the
trunk of an olk poplar. On being asked. what
he wanted, he said, my mother loved flowers.
and every green looking' thing. She had been
dead two years, yet I have never planted one
where she sleeps. I was just thinking how
pretty one of those would look by her graie:"
The gentleman kindly gave him a rose bush,
and a fresh wand of weeping willow. Then
the poor little fellow lifted up his streaming
eves, and gave thanks in a broken voice foe
himself, and for his dear, dead mother.
A Cumax.—"W hat are tieing. my sow?"'
said:a termer to his boy Billy. -:-
Smoking a.ivreet fern sager,' father ; 1
made it. 7 • .
•• Throw it sway ,this minute. don't you.
know that a boy who
if
sweet fern will
smokelobareo, and if
_he smokii tobaccojte
will driiik. rum, and if he drinks r u m he will
lie, and if he lies he will and if he stealsi
he wilt murder, and if he murders lie will be
.
—acquitted.
WRSTERN Etoeuestee.—• Gentlemen of the.'
jury, said a western lasiver, • would 'you sera
rat trap to catch a bum? would' you made--d
tools of yourselreshy endeavoring to spear a brf '
fate with s knitting-ncedle 1? No, gentlemen, I
know you would now then how • can you be
guilty of the absurdity of finding my client goti.
ty of man-slaughter for taking the life of a see.
man ":
you going to
. .
Dawutrrtca.—Children should be required to
treat . domestics ._ with proptiety. Those. on
whom theemnfrots era family eo essentialy de- .
Pend. are entitled to kindness and sympathy.
.The.theary that industry' and good conduet,
are worthy feepeef. uhaterer rank iheY
may fie found, aannat.be too early illustrateatind
enforced 'on the members or s household..
-A Coop *trt.--Aidrew Je.hosiva, a intim.:
her of the Houle of Hansa of Representativei
from Tennessee; we see it stated in an .1:-
chase paper: wan tangiala real afie hie Mir.
rime!. Hers a tailor by trade,
`Ax Examen rot ins Latnei.=4Lydis U.
Sigoarney. the grealAtaerieen poetess, iciuls,
the prize et the tate Fair of the Atheriran Iu•
stituto for the best pair of silk 'stockings.
31= 1 / 1 31E3 ID&