Bradford reporter. (Towanda, Pa.) 1844-1884, January 21, 1846, Image 1
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&