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 '