ONE D3LLAR PER ANNUM, INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE. TOWAXDA : Hlornmn. iannarp 22 1857. glutei) Ipottrn. THE SONG OF THE SNOW. My birthplace is the Arctic sky. Where reign* the northern bear ; On wings of wintry blasts I By, AraiU the frozen air : Though colli iny hoiuc my heart is warns— T.i j.igli duighter of the cheerless st irui. I'm mother of good cheer. Emblem of purity. I come To teach the hum.iu race There is above a blissful home. Where sin can find no place : A home for all the pure in heart. Froui which they never -hail depart. But see God face to face. 1 come with noiseless step, to spread My robe o'er hill and plain.— To -hielJ the plants (aleep, uot dead.) From winter's icy reign : To keep the lily's bulb from harm- Protect the snow-drop from the storm, Aud guard the golden grain 1 -ime. from loving he irt- to press Help for the stiff"ring poor ; The hnnpri and the naked bless With charity'* sweet store ; 1 come the widow's heart to cheer. From orphan*' eys to wipe the Uar. And bid them weep no more. I 'me. the vo ithful heart to till With friendship pure and free ; A: my approach their bosom* thrill With social iue! wh II .ik I how the merry sleigh-bells ring ! 1 how the cheerful voices ,-ing Toe song* of harmless glee ! The cl.ildreu too. their j >y display. In J ia-t their U>ys a*i>le ; " nil. lalhea. dear, get up the sleigh. ti.ie u* and Ma a ride I" With ro-y cheek- and -p.irkling eye*. Tiicv lb*-- iue a- they onward tiv And o'er my besom glide. The thrifty \e >Ollll hied- my call Ami liie- him to the wood : The -lately trees before hint fall Which 1 HI? iu pomp had -t->N,I ; Hi* hearth with fuel well supplied. He -it.- him l -wa in lordly pride, N r fear- he cold or flood. M au-o >u Ilea i* oueolljie T • you who dwell betw ; Mi Father i-tlie God above. From whom ail blessings flow , May He your gracious Father be Msy ; in Heaven hi* glory see, And an hi* good r.?i# know. 511 cr 11 b iL ;i Ir. \ i v: M o n s J:. The timj>est is raging wildly around my lonely dwelling. I can hear the mighty wave rear as they rise one ujion the other to dash firiously against tin* rock-", sending showers of -pray to mingle with the driving raiu which bt at- against my windows. It is a pitiles irglit—a night to draw ruuinl the fireside with those who are near and dear to one, aud to g-tlier to pray to Heaven out of loving hearts f r those who arc oa the broad seas at such a t nif. The more wild the scene without, the ore strongly do the |>eace and serenity of ae and home affections seem to apjieal to i t-, tigs : and truly this is a night to turn ; ciktaily with fond word- and looks to the I'lcs-cd c 1m of home. A i Low i- it with me this night ?—the -crake man who s.ts alone at his cheerless ifti. ? Til re arc dcej> lines of care on my -tan—mv haii is silvery white, and 1 am not Vet fifty year- of age. Mo loving eye watches ::) i wing heart beats for me ; my lot is y ,i- it is wretched The wi:dc.-tstorm it in rage i- caliu compared with the slot ra '. r. _< - ie. my losom. The death-agony ot • !;o are this night tossing on tlie |at a ea. ;.- as nothing compared With the • • i.te agony of my soul. I r. are terrible voices for my m tliese w.'>- w .'1 rej roaches, and passionate cries ! .at'i is preferable to life—and yet the v • t...ix says -o i- youthful, and life should ; rei u- to the young. Wild angry eyes ' ' h. -tar.tig ut me through the darkne-s ■. -toriu • and yet loose same eyes met ' • lovingly once w hen I gaged upon her, a e id cradled iu tuy arms. Oh! that I "get that ticue —that 1 could ban -It • - - my heart the memory of childiah toi.e.-<f c ..-b look- of tru-t. chtidisli caresses ' '* L won from me my misery and Icgtulei 1 r -t wretch tiiongh I had been—into happi- ' r a time. Mevcr again may one ray of ! v 1- . trate my de-pair ; never again may 1 Rent's calm still the tumult in my ! ; nev r again may I meet a trusting •t t•• 1 word. Alone I live, alone 1 suf ■j aloie I must die, when at last the ' fc gve way under the pressure of 'vrnhie suffering ' lv - -omewhere read that " remorse" is i "v. ■ vit.x grasp 0 f the mind ou the re- ! -pur.tics of the jest. It i well do-i -; ! r on-of the lea-t eud irable forms ri.gwh cli remorse brings to the hu ~4" -• r.rt :s that vain yearuiug for the old *•" 1 '■ feelings of liimx-ence which uo time, " - 'a ice cau ever restore to the oncasiu- I -oaf . " tell it because I have felt it. I can 1 ,v t re !.ave l>eeti days when my cease- j i latioa of IUJ gu.k and its con-e- j v "" h,.- tortured me into paroxysms, after ; C * fancied 1 had no power f f suf , _ - "• : and yet when I had laid down ex- I / ' ! ;-t : ng t<> gain forgctfolaess iu that * h'.ch nothing but exhaustion ever "" * me. ami the siuuiber has come, with : - me voice, ,-uiue Atuorr, out of " - a- arid 1 the care-worn man, b • 'etc more zprnuci by ' r ■•>• .1 to JBUMBI B O%J iwtaua . ' •, THE BRADFORD REPORTER. tliat old memory than by the constantly pre sent agony of brooding over my sin. I have heard mv mother's voiee at these times, and 110 spirit of evil could be so terrible to me as the memory of that gentle mother who little diearned ol such u life as this for the child on whom her looks rested with cipinl love and pride. Would that her care and tenderness had been less ! Would that I had died then ! Ala* ! mothers know not when they soothe their infants to rest, and still their murmurs with murmurs of love, how often thev are pre serving them for trial, for guilt, for uusbeuka ble misery ! I was an only child. I have little to say of my earlier life ; its history would be merely an account of affection and care lavished bv fond parents on an idolized son,the one hope of their proud tamily, the bearer of their ancient name. These years I may pass over. L uclouded sunshine streamed in my path until my mother died. I mourned her us sons do sometimes mourn that utterly irreparable loss. Darkness fell uj>ou my home the day she died. Mr father never held up his head again ; and on the day that 1 became of age— a day often fondly and proudly anticipated by those who never lived to see it—l was an or phan I do not mean to offer it as the slightest ex tenuation of my crime that I was left alone, uuguided, master of a princely fortune, and free to inuke what use of it I pleased ; and it is a position of trial and temptation. I believe 1 passed well through the ordinary trials ol such a lot. Dissipation had no charms for iue ; and whilst I associated with many whose tastes and pursuits were too often of a class to be condemned and shunned. I can still look back on that period of my life without self-reproach. Auiongst my many acquaintances I had one friend—one true friend. We had been at school and college together ; we had traveled togeth er. and the tie between us sceined drawn more trlo-eiy by the tact that he also stood alone in the world. He had lost both his parents iu his childhood. About three years after my father's death. Henry Mortimer was again troing to travel.— He wished me to joiu bun, hut i declined.— Home seeuied to have claims U|M>U my tiuie at the moment, and 1 resolved to devote mvsclf to the improvement of my estate and the wel fare of my tenantry. One year elapsed and Henry Mortimer w rote to tell me he was married ; that he had mar ried an Italian, and intended returning home immediately. H - estate was situated in a dis tant county, and he a.-ked me to go there to overlook the necessary preparations for the re ception of his wife and himself at home, and to meet theui there on their return. I gladly repaired to Castle Mortimer at his request. 1 carefully followed his many direc tions with regard to beautifying the house for his young bride's reception. I pleased myself by dt vising various arrangements in the gar dens and grounds calculated to please her eve and t.;*te. 1 superintended the re furnishing of h r private suite of apartments, which Mor timer had desired should be done in the most lavish manner. I was incessantly occupied in Ins service during the short jttriod that was to elapse before his return, and I have reuiem- Itered since that time with some little sur prise bow exclusively my mind was filled with thoughts ot him and his wishes, and how few thoughts even of a natural < uriosity traveled towards the companion he was bnugiug with him. It was ot: a glorious summer evening that ! they returned. Mortimer had particularly de sired that there should be no demonstration on j her arrival from his tenantry, and I awaited 1 their coo tin IT alone. \\ hil.-r I nm writing these words, the tem p--t -til! roaring round BIT dwelling—the 1 waves are -tiil furiously dashing against the ' rocks—the same v.uce is borne I y every blast ! to my ear—the same sir.to is raging st.il in my ' bo.-otu, and yet I can bow down my head, and closing my eyes I can lose for a moment the seust ol al: present things—the warfare of t!>e world Witi.out—the torture of the world with- j iu ; and 1 eau stand as I >tood that night.and } feel as i felt that night, when my glauee first I Tested ou I'ariolta Mortimer. 1 ean see still the raiiitj suiile with which she greeted me as ; her hus'iuitd- chosen friend. 1 can hear still ' her j you- exclamations a- -he gazed for tile j first time on tiie beauties of her English home. | I eau scv -t.il the child-like delight with wbieii s.I • passed Uom dower to tlower whii-t -lie ex cla.uied with itidig i it ion ..gainst the false tra velers who had -j-okeu of roi-.i England, who-e clievrh-ss breath eould never tempt forth the fragrance of a flower. lean -ee the glume with which she turned to her fond Husband as he bade her welcome to lirr home : and I eau hear still the words with which lie told tne that until I also found a life-companion I uiu-t make Castle Mortimer my home, and thus complete his happiness. Tlic influences of that evening are on me ; now. Tue red sunset is streaming on the old j trees of the jwrk ; the breath of summer is ( whispering among the leaves : the stillness and beauty or the house rest on everything I linger for one moment'-iu that n-jio.se. It •$ the closimr hour of that portion of my life which will bear dwelling upon. From that j scene in my memory I turn kick to the real scene of ttie present hour. From that jteace | and innocence to the guilt and woe which so | soon followed. 1 did make Castle Mortimer my home. Mor timer was much occupied at first with business j matters, and I staid at his earnest request to j prevent Carlotta wearying of the solitude in a j strange countrv to which -he would otherwise , have been consigned. I do u<t intend to dwell upon these mouths, j 1 do not iutend here to detaii the steps which ! insensibly led to frightful crime. I could aot ; do so if I would. 1 know not now how the pur e.-t soul that ever was breathed upoii by Ilea- j veil became cajable of admitting evil. She ■ was \ery young ; she was a child in yeurs ami 1 inexperience. The purity wa- the puritv of 1 Mature-, fir -he Lad bad little or no religions j chiwsr She a- iiiimi 1j untutored sate ' PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA. BRADFORD COUNTY. PA., BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICH. " REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FFTOM ANY QUARTER." where Nature had been her •ruble. The man whom she had married was singularly ill-calcu lated to watch over and guard her. Guileless and uususpicious himself, he knew no suspicion of others, i was to him as a dear and trust ed brother, and mouth after month passed away, and when he was often compelled to leave home on business be congratulated him self on having a brother to leave with Car lotla, who might otherwise have found even Castle Mortimer in its beauty a very soliturv home. I have said that I will not detail the steps by which we passed on tc destruction. It is enough to say that wheu Mortimer returned from an absence of unwonted duration, it was to find his home deserted, his wife faithless, his friend a villain. It I were willing to dwell on the scene and events which immediately ensued, I doubt whe ther my reader would believe that such things could be. I must hastily mention the mere facts. I will not undergo the torture of analvziug them. We went abroad, resolved that no trace should be left ot our movements. Oue mouth, oue lit tie month passed away. Does the reader believe that it was a month of guilty joy, where the voice of conscience was drowned iu the tumult of pass on ? It was a mouth of most unutterable misery. I s|teak not of my own sensations. I say not whether my passion would not have silenced my eon science, if her misery had been less intense.— Hut no words could describe the agonvof that young creature's mind. Helpless and hopeless, tossed by ceaseless despair, she refused to be comforted ; and there were hours duiing that mouth when I thought her sufferings must end iu loss of reason. She never onee reproached me. She uevtr once wished that she hud not left her home and liu.-hand. On the contrary, she said constantly that she had no right to remain there iu her sinful state of feeling. She could not have deceived him although -he deserted him Hut how piteously she would express herself in wonder how so sinful a pas sion could guin entrance into her soul !—how she wouhi call on Heaven to direct her, and pardon her and then, forgetting herself for the moment, she would return to me. weep ing bitterly, and implore my pardon for her sorrow. Oue month passed awv. We were in Italy, and she eutrcuted uiy JH rmissioii to absent herself troui me for a few days to revisit asj>ot known to her in childhood. I did not vleld willingly to her rt-qne-t I cannot now tell all that led me to grant it : she left me. aeeompa ! nied by an old arid attached tmr.-e who had! brought her up and followed her to England, and whom she had insisted on making the com panion ot her flight. Tnis woman's presence i enabled uie to give the desired perm.--ton. I knew that die loved her as her own child : I knew that she was safe with her. I bade them return iu one week ; I could not precisely as certain the r destiuatiou, but I fancied it mu-t be Curlottn's early home, and that she would not revi-it that with me, although she loaded to see it. She lett me—oue long gaze—one passionate embrace—and she left nre. I never saw her again. The week elapsed, and I received a few blotted lines fro.u her. telling me that she had resolved on leaving me. but she had no i courage to say so. lest my entreaties, added to those of her own sinful heart, should over coiue.her resolution. 6:ie said she felt that she was the most sinful and the most misera ble of human beings, and that the tuture must . IK- one of c> useless prayer lor pardon, and ti.at it was only in solitude she dared a>k it She told me not to attempt to seek In-r. She said it would IK- useless ; that h-r nurse. K ittca would remain w.tli her. and I must bau.sti her from my memory. She was dead to iue, and all the world. Mevertlicles-. 1 did seek her. I sought her uncea-itigly for many months. 1 resolvctl never to leave the -:K>t where wc had parted ; I felt as it she could i.ot be very far away. 1 fancied that a day mu.-t come when -lie would wi-h to recall me : her clinging nature would make it utterly imj>ossible for her to dwell alone. I never f ound any traces of her. I never > eased my search. 1 wandered in ai! direc tions. and I ever returned to the sjo; where f -!)<• liad left me. with a vague expectation of finding her there again. Months passed away. iu->st miserable momiis. duriug which 1 held companion-hip with no one. and endured mental sufferings which no language can describe. A change came at last. Be still, my throbbing heart ! \Vhv l>ent so wildly now for Those wfio-e pulses were still- [ ed so ioag ago? Loug years ha\e eoute and gone since that sunny day in Italy dawned uj>- on me. Why is the glare of its sunshine da/, zling my eyes now ? Why am 1 trembling a wth the agony of a new o r mw ? Why do I again seem to hear the words which told me all? Will the memories of that day and hour never die away as all huuiau tilings t-de ' and die ? I said that my search was ceaseless, that 1 never relaxed in my eff>>rt.s, and 1 said truly ! But I believe those wliose nuuds have ever been for a length of time strained to oue |>ur po-ekuow that moments of lassitude come wlu n ahno-t cuconsciously m'nd and !>ody give way. and one sinks down in laugonr until some chord of memory is t<wiched by the divtun- which that very laagour invites, and one starts agniu to the lull sen-e of nieajory, the qt ck throbbing of the great agony. Such a pause Lad come iu my search I was ill, I was weary. I had spent several days in a kind of apetbetic repose from which I could uot rouse myself. I had no one to watch inc. or attempt to roase me ; I had not seen a ser vant from amount my own people ; i was sur rounded by foreigners, aud I believe that I was regarded by them as strange even to iu sanity. The day Lad been oppressively hot, and I had not quitted the house. Evening came on i —soft bra zes rose from the waters of the glo rious bay ou which I gazed from tiie -haded i le' otv.- of :s'• Pa Th- villa wh-/-h To- u ' pied was beautifully situated. I had chosen it for Carlotta, and her presence was still there in the few trifling articles—books and music— which she had used during her short residence there ; her voice was ever echoing there ; but alas ! it came with tears and lamentations, for that room had witnessed little else. I gazed on the scene l>efore me. I thought of her—of her youth and beauty—of her suf fering and self-iui|>osi'd penance. Oh I how I yearned to see her that night—once to clasp her iu mv arms—once to implore her forgive ness—once to tell her that the crime was mine ouly—once to attempt to soothe the agony of her young spirit I I lost myself in thought t>f her. I covered my face with ray hands, and I started wheu a step beside iue roused me. Heavens I what did I see ? Bianca stood before me, her face streaming with tears, and in her arms she held an infant—a little infant —which opened wide its innocent eyes, and seemed to return the gaze of its most misera ble father. I hardly know now how Bianca told me hi r tale. I know that frotn that night I forbade her ever to mention Carlotla's name again. I told her that I could not hear it and live—and live I must for the sake of her child—of cur child. Carlotta was dead—and her dying words bade Bianca seek me, and bring to my care the infant she was leav ing motherless. She would not write. She told Bianca she dared not dis turb with earthly passion the calm that was stealing over her dying hours ; but she bade her bear iue her full and perfect forgiveness ; she bade her tell me that -lie believed Heaven had accepted her repentance, and -he bade her charge iue to give our child the tenderness ami devotion which she bad not dared to receive herself. And so she died—my victim and my idol. That a very terrible time. Alone I had to wrestle with that sorrow—no comfort—no hope on any -ide. Her image came unbidden be fore iue as she was in her husband's home iu England—loved and honored, so happy in her thoughtless innocence. Scene after scene rose up before nie in viv.d colors, till the fatal day came which changed her from a careless child to a miserable woman. She was before me as she left me—and then imagination saw her in her solitude ; suffering mentally and bodily, longing for uiy prest nee. yet resolute not to yield to the desire of calling me to her side.— Etch word tlint Branca had uttered seemed to iue the token of a scene of suffering and self denial. Siir had told me how she longed to place lur infant in my arms, and yet how per emptorily she forbade Bianca to seek inc.— She had told iue how she wept over the un conscious infant, and I felt that I knew she had sent murmured words of love and tender ness to me through that innocent medium. 1 sometimes felt as if I could not look on that child ; and then again my whole soul seenu-d I>ou:id up in her. and I vowed to devote uiv life to her happiness. It seemed the only offering I could make to her wronged mother's memory, and very solemnly I resolved to fulfil the trust she had committed to me. Then commenced a new {teriod of my exis tence. 1 cannot say that at first I ever found anything approaching peace or consolation in the ta-k. 1 wor?h:pj>ed Carlotta's child, but I never met her unconscious gaze without fan cying that there was something reproachful iu it. I cradled her in my arms, I surrounded her with uiy care ; -he soon welcomed me with a li.div <m. and h Id out her little arms to me ; but although my life was hound up in her life, and I could not endure her to be long out of my sight. I still trembled as I gazed I On her, and felt a- if in her sweet face 1 saw j ail mv guilt recorded. Yea; - p sed. n:J ! this feeling cradaallv les sened as inv idolatry for mv child increased When she was first laid in my arms—a i.tile infant—how I should have scorned any one who had told me that a day would come when even the memory of Cirlotta and lier early grave would gtow dim in the I;_:ht of the love that my child would bring to my tortured heart. Yet so it was. There were stilt hours and days of remembrance when even my child might not soothe me ; but they became rarer as she grew older, and my heart clung more and more to her. Siie was named Carlotta. Her mother had iteeu beautiful—a fairy child-like beauty which hardly seemed to have attained its height or developed its character when death came to her—but her child was more incomparably Ix-autifol than any painter's or {tout's dream She was more Italian than Iter mother had been, both in beauty and in character. Her large eyes flashed where the mother's had melt ed. Her impulses were rapid and vehement, and instantly acted upon, where the mother had turned for advice and support to whomso ever was nearest to her ; gentle and loving in her nature, as her child was impassioned and independent. I often ft It. whilst Carlotta grew up beside me, that when the moment came taut love entered her soul, it must be a decisive mo ment for the weai or woe of her whole future life. No emotion could come calmly to her— and so it proved. My child—my child—would that she had died with her mother ! Carlotta's infancy and childhood was spent in Italy. I formed my future plan of i.fe when she was brought to nit*. I hud sent instruc tions to England that my estates should IK* sold. I had changed my name, resolved that no trace of my existence should remain, aid I deter mined at that time that when Carlotta had passed from her childhood 1 should return to England and fix our home iu some remote place where I never might again with any one whom I luid known in early life. My fortune was very large. I knew that I could surround Carlotta u .th every luxury that taste could command, and after the interval of many years I trusted to being able to make a liome for her in our own country. unquestioned by any one as to our family or friends. I followed this |daa. Carlotta was just six teen when we t<x4 possession of oar home in the South of England. Wealth can do all things except bring pea.*c to the soul, and a-1 Installed my child a BiOTts? of my home; I I wearied myself in devising what I could pro cure or add to its ulrcady faultless arrange ( meats, to tnake it more worthy of her whom I I loved so much. It was with fear and trembling that I again entered iuto society, from which I had been so Jong excluded. I felt confident of remain ing unrecognized, even if I were to meet any acquaintance of former years. I knew well how greatly 1 was changed, and I had chosen ' a part of the country winch was entirely new I to iue, and w here I had had no friends iu early ! life. Still there were some whom I shuddered jat the baxe possibility of meeting. I knew ! that Mortimer lived ; but I also knew that be ' was a broken-hearted man, and seldom or ue j ver left his desolate home, j Carlotta entered eagerly into the society , which was open to her, and as the heiress of ! a very large fortune, aud endowed with rare | beauty and talent, she was much sought, and I speedily surrounded by those who would fain i have been encouraged to try and win her. I have suid that 1 knew Carlotta's love would come as an overwhelming passion. Does uiy reader think that I have already recorded sin and sorrow enough to till One life ? lam now approaching the most terrible crisis of my life, the most fearful result of my sin. The tempest is raging still—that young voice is heard above the storm, liow can I live amongst such memories ' Carlotta loved. She was sought in marriage by the heir to an earidoiu. Little cared she for the wealth and honors that were laid at her feet, but site loved him with all the passion of her nature, and he seemed to iue to merit her love ; but he had still to be tried. He came to ask my child from uic. I could not promise her hand until I had revealed her history, and I told him my tale. He was proud of his name and familv, an nusuiiietl name, an aucieut family. lie seemed stunned at my disclosure. 1 awaited his de cision with apparent calmuess, but I felt that my child's life would hang upon it. He left me, his proposals withdrawn. I ' could not blame iiim. I only requested him not to see my child again, to leave to me the task of telling her to stifle her love in its birth. He promised, and he left uie 1 sought Carlotta, and I bade her banish him from her mind. I told her he was unwor thy of her ; I was obliged to speak vaguely—• I told her that his proposals were withdrawn. tshe gazed at me iu wonder, and she required iue to tell her what had passed between iier lover and myself I answered her hesitatingly, and she H, rang from her place, and standing .before me with flashing eyes she told me that she never could ijelicvc that he had acted in any way unworthily of her, and that she would submit to no mystery on a subject v.hich in volved her whole happiness. I a.-k d her if the stranger whom she had only know n for a few weeks were more to be trusted than the father who had teuded her whole l.fe. She wept passionately, but she said she knew tie. re was a mystery, aud she iu -isted on knowing it. 1 did my be-t to calm her. I had ill-con sidered my ta.-k ; I knew not what to say. I s|K>ke of the pride, of his family ; I spoke of their ancient aud unsullied name. Suddenly siie broke Irom uie, and entreated that I would leave her alone for a time ; she said she could learn to bear it better in solitude ; so I left her, little thinking what her purpose was. I had never mentioned Bianca from the time that I said she brought uiy child to my anns ; but she h id never left her. and had becu to the happy child as she bad becu to the unhappy mother, a faithful and attached frieud. Something iu my hesitating attempts to ex plain what I dared not explain to Carlotta— something iu iuy allusion to a proud and un sullied name and ancestry had excited Ltr quick notice. Bianca was a garrulous old wo man. as most Italian nurses are ; and as I spoke, my child must have recalled Lints and words unheeded before, spoken by her old nurse, which, taken in connection iv.ih what I said, made her inquire of herself for the li.-st time what her family was—why we nad no family ties as other people had. Quick suspicion aroused, she -right B a lea. and a- I heard ufterwatds, insisted iu her most veheiiieut manner on know ing ail that her nurse could tell of her family. Bianca is uow terri tieil ; but Carlotta knew how to gain her ends She coaxed and she threatened : she felt a Mired that there was some mystery, though of w hat nature she never could have guessed ; and she was confirmed iu her resolution to h ar.. what it was by Bunca's evident embarrassment | ami terror lest she should come to me. I sat alone iu my room for an hour after I had left Carlotta I felt anxious aud tntser i- j ble. I knew not how inquiries were to be set j at rest. 1 should have foreseen such a wretch- ; ed state of things ; I should never have brought 1 her to E iglcnd. These were my thoughts ; when the door opened and Carliotta stood be fore me. She was [>ule as death, her eyes distended : aud fixed, an i her lip- colorless. 1 must draw a veil o.u the scene which fol- 1 lowed. rviid it be my gentle Carlotta"- chiLl who overwh he d her wrrtcbvi fither with; wild pa-donate reproaches—who a-kel him. with heart rending cries, why he had not let her die ia in fancy—why he had nurtured he r j with care, and mocked her witli tenderness, ! that -he might only iive to learn her shame, and hare hr heart broken ? Could it be mv gentle Carlotta's child who sjvoke thus, and under whose torrent of agony and reproach I bound myself down, a crashed and miserable . wretch, where hitherto—blessed in hr igno-' ranee—l had been a loved and honored fa tber ? Sac quitted the room, trembling wiih her wiiu pa-s on, maddened by her anguish. Reader —1 saw her once again. That same night heavy steps and slow, approached my door. 1 had never moved during the hours which had elapsed since she left me. 1 heard those >tep6—l heard whispering voices—l heard Bianca sari- k—l heard :be word "druwu ed r Power came with mv a gory, and I rushed j to th' - dvr I t ?rew it OJK'U wLost to- _ were 1 VOL. XVII. —XO. 33. consulting together how they dared reveal bis loss to the devoted father. I saw her. The flashing eyes were closed now ; the masses of raven ha:r hntig wet and heavy around her form, her quick pulse never beat again ! My second victim—my second idol ! Long years have passed since that awful night. I have chosen my home far from these scenes. It is a solitary dwelling upon a wild sea-snore. I have suffered here alone. I shall die here alone. Rage on, fierce tempest!—dash on, wild waves ! Ye are very terrible in your might and fury ; but more terrible still is the might of the gudty man's IiF.MOr.sK. Skt?" The Keening Post tells the following of a Thrifty Parson : " A donation party was given the other duy to a clergyman in one of our New England villages, and among the articles he received was a suj>erb ' tile ' from thy Genin of the place. The parson, much pleased with the hat. ventured to ask the donor what such a hat ought to he worth ? "That is an eight dollar hut," was the reply. The parson turned it over again, renewed his thanks to the but ter and remarked that it was " verv fine, very line indeed and so they parted. The next day the parson wended his wav to the hatters store, and after the customarv salu tation. took him aside, observed that he was not accustomed to wear hats worth eight dol lars ; that a tour dollar hut was good enough for h.m—a plenty. He concluded by propos ing to exchange the hat he iiad received for a a four dollar one, and to " take the baiunce in money."—Fact." £s£r~ " M iduw Mournful, what on airlli are you thinking about ?" " Nothing else in this world but my depart ed husbaud. He was such a devoted man, ul ways bringing home his little kindnesses to tue. I could'nt help thinking just now, when I heerd Mrs. Browu s sxs-ages sizzling, what poor Mr. Mournful used to do to me. He knowed I was foaJ of saxsages, and he hardly eversotn dever come home in his life without bringing me a sassage in his pocket. He was fond of eggs hiuistif, and would ecka-ioually fetch a few of them for himself. But he was always sure to lay a sassage on the table. Never laid his eggs there—never tiun'; of "cm ; and some time- I'd u-k, ' Simon, w lie re's your eggs Jest n- like as not he'd been a sittiii" on "cm." —liestcu Post. Coor.—While at Windsor I took cold, end was laid up with a fever. I had been in bed three days, when inv landlady came into ray room. " Well. Captain, how do yon find yourself by this time " Oa, 1 am little better, thank you,"' I re pled. " \\ ell, I am clad of it, because I want to whitewash your room, and if the color man stops to do it to-morrow he'il be charging us another quarter of a dollar.'' " But I am not able to leave mv room. Well, then, 111 sjeak to him ; I dare say ke xrosi t mind your being in bed ichde he vKite trashes.'' Gentility is neither in birth, wealth, manner nor fa-hion—but in the mind. A high sense of ho .or, a determination never to take a mean advantage of another, and au adhe rence to truth, delicacy and politeness toward those with whom we have dealings are its es sential characteristic's. 6sT A gentleman on the cars asked the man who come to collect the passage money, it there was any danger of being blown up. as the steam made such a_ horrid noise. " Not the least," vi i the collector, " unless you re fuse tj puy your fare." &JT A man waslateiv killed on the railroad, a crowd collected and a bv-stauder remark ed— " In the rai Ist of life we arc in death." An Iri-h i mistaking the last v.orJ for debt, i.-i-t lutly exclaimed— " Ye uiuy well say that, for he owed air two dollars. f"£T" Mrs. Partington says the ou'v vrgv to prevent -feamboat explosions is to " make the engineer- 'dc their water on shore" In h>;r opinion n:! the i>u-tiu' is done by cooking the steam on board. Tea ;iu:r.—How many kind of ox-s are there ? I>- y—Broad axe, narrow axe, axe, axe of the legislature, axing price, ami iXe of the Ajiastles. Teacher—Good I go to the head of your class. A sti k of phosphorus placed in a dry phial, will afford light enough to discern ob j in its immediate vicinity, and will last for a twelvemonth, fn- phial should be kpt in a c ud place, where there is no great current o air. £Ki"" It is sai l that a yankee baby will craw", ont of hi* cradle, tak a survey of it. invent a i :tnprov.-:rs-ut. and apply for a patent before ue ;s .-ix mouths >IJ. Life is the jailor of the soul in this fil thy pri-o i, and it- only deliverer is iP- th : what we caii life i- a journey to death, and what we call death is a passport to l.fc. Otr Tli" next question to lie debated by the Fariu-T-' Ci-ib i-. " Can goes! brea,' be ly wind, if the wind be ttrt f ' A FRFSCH Bat.— Paddy hr. a rival acr<v> the E igli-li Channel. In >peakirigof the T-tr, Ac., the Paris Coa-titotioane! -ays, " \Y - everywhere in France th* . •* Provhlrw '
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers