THE BRADFORD REPORTER.
MLLW KB ANNUM INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE.
Ij^OW-AJST^DA.:
ftlir sday Morning, June 2, 1869.
f gtletttb loeirg.
_
I LIVE FOR SOMETHING.
| BY CHARLES SWAIN.
I Lr something, be not idle—
| [ t about thee for employ I
I fit n down to useless drewsto*—
I litr is the sweetest joy. # -
I hands am ev*.
I hearts u > , i y (
B Life ft thee
j Acti* be. „ -ou may.
■ uyp thw&y!
1 f . cheei ing smiles,
II - ,tur dm -Jd or si'ver,
| With t ir dispelling wiles.
HAs the t sunshine falleth
I Etc , the grateful earth,
and kindness
W well the darken*- h "th.
fre oppresseu * ear/,
' at of sympathy, V
1 srds of hope and eomfwflk
" i thy reward shall be V
. ;e soul returning. J
fi 9 perfect fonutain head,
i F thou freely givest,
$ stclla nt
Tiy di the Governs Faint!
W, werell ritttajtwil* fa '¥ """/"ft
.d nv sistj Fann'had b*" reading aloud
ie hid recall tl politic* articles, and all
tout bus*', tille had s*d he had heard
tm"\ an there as nothi/g in the papers
a-.i thin lid left t ro °m- iSo Fanny looked
ofer the mrriagesnd death, aud read about
toe tveathtf in NeYork fid Cjncago and
me otherthings it she iought w*ou d in
terest us mile we ere se*tig. Suddenly I
sed up towardfhere Jfss Ajs il(iS t>as sit
ur, far aVnv at e otherind of the room.
She was leaning b< in hefchair, and. all in
moment, 1 thght sheboked white, as
Iktttrh she had feted. 1 I not say a word,
bat got up and vit quietj towards her. I
found she had faied quite Way, and her lips
were pnie, and 1 ey s sbl 1 opened the
window bv her ;or the flit was cool, and
sil the windows' ere close There came in
little breeze o'frcsh air,fid then I ran to
fttch a alass of atcr. \V*n I returned, I
i'ocr.d Miss Apes reviviik little. The air
and water serrd to refresjer, and very grad
ually she cam jack to heif. As she opened
hr eves, sheiooked at mionderingly, then
rcncd tiie mom-then iiudder came over
her as if w/fi a ridden | jful memory.
"I'm better —hank u for the water,"
Kid she ; and ten she it up and went to
the window, andeaned i ,nst the casement
I had a glimpse f her f $ so sad a face I
had never seen tfore.
For Mi>s Agnss was often sad, though
the was quiet inler way nd manners. She
nuld be gay, whn it wt me to be gay. She
our governes—thai she taught Mary
and Sophy and ne. Fif was too old to be j
night by her, aid had (Italian master and ■
f ench teacher; but 3practiced duets for :
taepiano with Iliss Ad, and rend with her
-aid she made visits j her, for Miss Ag
nes was a favorite el*here. She had a
tied ivrd f or everyboind listened kindly
to ail Uiat was saidjlier. She talked to
"erybody at thesewinjieties.had something
to say to everyone, nrihen she came home
she hnd alvays sometl to tell that was en
tertaining. j often /ted I could be one-
T-arUr as amisiitg, never could sue eed
to my little exttrienc t all agreeable in the
Wtt y Miss A guvs di I have tried it often
since, but I always f Only the other day,
I quite prhied mysell it I had found out ali
stout Airs. Endieo to Europe, and
cntae home delight* ith my piece of news.
\ ,ie goiig with husband ; two of the
children shewas Have behind, and take
inebaby wit) her ; ' were to be gone six
audi even!' the name of the vcasel
P J gong in, the day they were to
My inteHfLjUtrenifcaa very quickly told ;
M Agnes ami many others would have
idea good deal npre of it. I had no soon
cooij to tl.e end ban Fanny said : "Who is
:ng p take care the children she leaves at ,
aef' I had ne\tr thought to ask ! I was I
-pointed;—my jews was quite imperfect ;!
as well nit have tried to bring any
j But it was liever so with Miss Agnes.
f eve 11 w s beciuse she was really inter-'
f' n *hat concerned others, that they al
■s her wHlingy about themselves ; and
ug i she never vus inquisitive about oth
affairs, yet sh e knew very well all that
; ?oing on.
rit . w j' s a valuable member of our
IJtjjircle, and wasvelcomed also among oar
p n 'e thtught her beautifal, too.
[ Very tall aid slender, and her light-
X 6? K Pre l ' e color of her liglit-brown
dJt *° Se her come into the room, j
a '' ,lce nude sunshine there ; and
<-'lnore to us tian a governess—she was
irie jf'Cnd.
&it '°oktd round at me, pale and
►re c suddenly saw that I looked aston
t , r > ar 'd she said : " I ain not well,
"we wiil not say anything about it. j
N3fl to >▼ ro °ni ; to-morrow 1 shall be
I ,e held her hand to her head, and
ih f^, cre raust be some heavy pain
'A \U looked so sad and pale. She
". iMt, WA d ni ght and went away.
the others what had happened
S ! i!;v!nv , said| 1 was ~ot in the
when- he witi at 8 J a ? P arl 'y because they
'* for BUTTER : "id not observed what
J. B TH found the paper
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. O'IIEARA GOODRICH.
were anything in what she had read that could
have moved Miss Agnes so much. I had not
been paying much attention to the reading,but
I knew upon which side of the paper to look.
Fanny told me it was time for me to go to bed,
however, and I left my search before I could
find anything that seemed to concern Miss Ag
nes. I stoped at her door, aud bade her good
night again ; and she came out to me, and
kissed me, and said—l was a good child, and
I must not trouble myself about her.
The next day she seemed quiet, yet the same
as ever. Though I said nothing to anybody
else about her fainting, I could not help tell
ing my friend Jessie of it—for I always told i
Jessie everything. Fanny called us the two I
Jays, we chattered so when we were together.
I knew she would not tell anybody, so I could
not help sharing my wonder with her—what
could have made Miss Agnes faint so sudden i
Iv ? She thought it must have been something '
in the newspaper—perhaps the death of some j
friend, or the marriage of some oLher. I was
willing to look again, aud this time remember
ed three things that Fanny had just been read
ing when I had looked up at Miss Agnes.—
One was about Paul Shuttuek—in descending
from a haycart, he had fallen upon a pitchfork,
and had seriously wounded his thigh. Anoth
er was the marriage of Mr. Abraham Black to
Miss Su3an Whiteomb, and Fanny had won- i
dered if she were related to the Whitcorobs of i
Hadley. Then she had read a singular adver
tisement for a lost ring, a seal ring, with some
Arabic letters engraved upon it. I was of opi
nion that Miss Agnes was somehow connected
with this signet-ring—that it had some influ
ence over her fate. Jessie thought that Miss
Agnes must have been formerly engaged to
Mr. Abraham Black, and that when she heard
of his marriage but I interrupied her in
this suggestion. Iu the first place, she could
never have been engaged to a Mr. Abraham
Black ; and then, nobody who could marry
Miss Agnes would think of taking up with a
Susan Whiteomb. So Jessie fell back upou
Paul Shattuck, and, to tell the truth, we had
some warm discussions on the subject.
Time passed ou, and it was June. One
lovely afternoon, we had quite a frolic with the
hay, the grass having been cut on the lawn in
front of the house. Miss Agnes had been with
us. We had made nests iu the hay, and had
huried each other in deep mounds of it, and
had all played till we were quite tired. I went
into the house in search of Miss Agues, after
she had gone in, and found her stting at one
of the side windows. I came near, then wish
ed to draw back again, for 1 saw tears in her
eyes. But when I found she had seen me, 1
tried to speak as if I had seen nothing.
" How high the cat has to step, to walk over
the grass," said I, as I looked out of the win
dow.
Miss Agnes put her arms about me. "You
wonder, because you see me crying," said she,
and looked into my face.
" I never before saw anybody cry that was
grown up," said I.
Miss Agnes smiled and said, " They tell
children it is naughty to cry ; but sometimes
yon can't help crying, can you ?" And her
tears came dropping down.
" Yes, it is very bad,'" she said, as she held
me in her arms, " it is very bad ; but you do
help me. You shall be my little friend."
That was all. She did not tell me anything
—yet I felt as if she had said a great deal,aud
I did not speak of this to Jessie.
A few days after, as I was passing the door
of the parlor, I fancied I heard a little cry,and
it sounded to me as if I heard the voice of Miss
Agues. I hurried in. A stranger had just
entered the room. But before me stood Miss
Agnes, pale, erect, her lips quivering. She
held fast a chair, which she had drawn up in
i front of her, as one would place a shield be
! tween one's self and some wild animal. llow
slender and defenceless she loooked ! 1 fol
; lowed the terrified glance of her eyes. There,
i in the middle of the loom stood a stranger—
not so terrible to look upon, for he was young,
■ and it seemed to me I had never seen so hand
j some a man. His black hair and and eyes
! rpiite pictured my romance, lie was strongly
built, and directly showed his strength by seiz
| ing a large marble table that stood near the
i centre of the room, and wheeling it between
j himself and Miss Agnes.
"If you are afraid of me," he said, " I will
; build up a barrier between us. Poor lamb,
you would like to be free from the clutches of
i the wolf !"
" I am afraid of you," said Miss Agnes,
slowly—atid the color came to her checks.—
" Your know your power over me. I begged
you, if you loved me, not to coine to me."
"AM for that foolish ring ! And the spir
its of mischief betrayed its loss to you,; it was
none of my work that published it in the pa
pers. Can you let a fancy, an old story in a
ring, disturb your faith in me ?"
"If the faith is disturbed," answered Mirs
Ajrnes, " what use in asking what has distur
bed it ? Earnest, as you stand there, yon
cannot say you love me as you once professed
to love me !"
" I can say that yon are my guiding star—
that, if you fail me, I fall away into ruin."
" Can my little light keep you fronf ruin ?"
said Miss Agnes, shoddering. "Do not talk
to me 60 ? Alas, you know how weak I
ana !"
44 I know that yon are an angel, and that 1
am too a wretch to dare to speak to yon. I
came hero to tell you I was worthy of yonr
deepest hatred. But, Agnes, when yon speak
to me of my power over yon, it tempts me to
wield it a little longer, before I fall below
your contempt."
He walked up and down the room, and pre
sently saw me standing there.
" A listener !" he exclaimed, "you are afraid
to be alone with rae !"
I was aboot to leave the room, bnt he called
me back.
"Stay, child P he said, " if I can speak in
ktr presence, it makes little difference that any
one else shoold hear me. Agnes, little Agnes,
yon woold like to be qnito alone ; —let the
child stay. Yet yoa know already that I am
faithless to yon. Too know wfcgt Tam going
"Pic-oloßaini Ptyle.** MI U., .. .. .
leat the ok/ii. KI*BTOKE STORE. Ibe
" REGARDLESS OF DENVNCIATIOS FROM ANY QUARTER."
to tell you. I love vou, as I have
always loved you. But there are other passions
hold to me tighter. Money, and position—l
need them—l cannot live without them. The
first I have already, and the claims I have to
reputation will follow soon. lam mad. iam
flinging away happiness for the sake of its
mask. Next week I marry riches—a fortune.
With a golden lady, I go to Europe. I for
sake home—my better self. I leave you, Ag
nes ; —and may thank God that I do leave
you ; I am unworthy of you."
She lifted herself from the chair on which
she was leaning, and walked towards him. She
luid her hand upon his shoulder, aud, white
aud pale, looked into his face.
"Do not go, Ernest I" said she. " You
are mine. A promise canuot be broken—you
are promised to me Stay, do not go away 1"
" My beautiful Agnes !" said he, " do you
come to lay your pure self down in the scale
against my follies and all my passions ? You
stand before uie too fair, too lovely for me. It
is only iu your presence that I can appear no
ble enough for you. Even here, by your side,
I see the life I must lead with you, the strug
gle that you must share. Iu that life you
would only see me fail. I am weak ; I can
never be strong. Let me go down the current.
Your heart will not break ; —I am not worth
such a sacrifice."
" You are desperate," said she. "You say
these cold, bitter words, and you must know
that each word cuts me. Oh, Ernest, you ure
false, indeed, if you come to taunt me with
your faithlessless !"
" I needed to see you once more," he said,
imperiously—" I needed it. But you were
true, Agnes—the ring was a true talisman. It
seemed to me that its letters had changed col
or. I carried it to an old Eastern scholar.
He declared that the letters could never have
formed the word " Faith,"—that the word
was some black word that meant death. I left
it with him, that he might study it. When I
saw him again, he declared he had lost it, and
had had advertised it. You see you can trust
your talisman soouer than you can trust me."
At this moment the outer door opened, and
presently Fanny came in, with one of her
friends. Miss Agnes looked bewildered, but
her visitor recovered his composure directly.
" Miss Fanny, I believe ; —I have met you
before. 1 have just been bidding good-bye to
Miss Agnes, before leaving for Europe. Cau
I be of service to you ?"
Before we had time to think, he had said
something to each one of us, and had ieft the
house. Fanny turned to speak to Miss Agnes,
but she had fallen to the ground before we
could reach her.
She was ill, very ill, for a long time. She
had the brain fever—so the doctor said. They
let me stay with her—she liked to have me
with her. I was glad to sit in the darkened
room all the long day. I never was a " handy"
child, but I learned to be useful to her. I
waited on all her wants. I held her hand
when she reached it out as if to meet some
kindly touch.
In the quiet of her room, I had not heard
the great piece of news, —of the terrible rail
road accident ; that Mr. Carr, the Ernest who
had been to see Miss Agnes, was among those
who were suddenly killed—the very day he left
our house ? I had not heard it ; so I wasuot;
able to warn Fanny, when she came into the
sick room of Miss Agnes, the first day she was
able to talk—J could not warn Fanny that
she must not speak of it But she did. How
could she be so thoughtless ? Miss Agnes, it
is true, looked almost well, as she was lying on
her couch, a soft color in her cheeks. But then
Fanny need not have told her anything so pain
ful. Miss Agnes looked quite wild, and turned
to me to as if to know whether it were true.
I could not say anything to her, but knelt by
her—and she seemed almost calm, as she ask
ed to know all that was known, all the terrible j
particulars that Fanny knew so well.
She was worse after that. We thought she
would die, one night. But she did not die.—
Either she was to weak or too strong to die
of a broken heart. Perhaps she w u s not
strong enough to love so earnestly such a one
as Mr. Carr, or else she had such strength as
could bear the trial that was given her to bear.
She lived, but life seemed very feeble iu her
for a long time.
One day she began to talk with ir.e.
" Yon would like to know, Jennie, thestory
of that ring," she said.
1 told her I was afraid to have her talk
about it, but she went on :
"It is an old heirloom, and all our family
history is full of stories about this ring. There
are so many tales connected with it, that every
one of us has looked upon it with a sort of su
perstition, and cherished it as a tulisman con
nected with our lives. It was always a test of
constancy, and the stories of these occasions
when it has detected falsehood have always
been remembered. I suppose there are many
when it has been quietly worn, undisturbed,
that have heeuforgotten. It has told many a
sad tale in my owu family. It came back, bro
ken, to my brother Arthur, and he died of a
broken heart. My sister Eveline gave it to
her young cousin, to whom she had engaged
herself. But afterwards, when she went to live
with a gay and heartless aunt of mine, she
broke her promise to him for the sake of a
richer match. The day that she was married,
onr cousin far away saw the black letter turn
red upon the signet ring."
" Oh, Miss Agnes ?" I exclaimed.
" And why should not letters change ?" she
asked, abruptly ; and I saw her eyes look out
dreamily, as if loooking at something I did not
see. " The letter clothes the spirit ; and the
spirit gives life to the form. A face grows
lovely or unlovely with the spirit that lies be
hind it. I cannot say if there be a spirit iu
snch things. Yet what we have worn we give
value to. It has an expression in onr eyes. Do
we give it all that expression, or has it some
life of its own 1"
She interrupted herself, and went on :
" I had known that Ernest was not true to
toe. I had known it by the words he wrote to
use. Tbey did not bave the risg of pure sil
ver ; there wae e dang to tbera. Then Fan
Raysrille, Sfarth 8, WJ3. I
ii v read aloud the loss of that ring, it spoke to
a suspicion that was lying in the depth of my
heart, and roused it into iifc. My little Jeauie,
I was very sad then.
" You do not know how deeply I loved Er
nest Carr. You do not know how I might
have loved your brother George—yes, the no
ble, upright George. He loved me, and trea
ted me most tenderly ; lie found this home for
me I did not banish him from it—he would
have stayed all these years in Calcutta, if had
not been for me—so he said. You cannot un
derstand how it was thut Eruest Carr, whom
I had known before, should nave impressed me
more. You do not know yet, that we cauuot
command our love—that it does not follow
where our admiration leads. I loved Ernest
for his very faults. The fascinations that made
the world, its prizes, its money, its fame, so at
tractive to him, won me as I saw tliera in him.
It is terrible to think of ruy last meeting with
him ; but his fate seems to me not so awful as
the fate towards which he was hurrying—the
life which could never have satisfied him."
She left off speaking, and dreamed ou, her
eyes aud thoughts fur away. And I, too,
dreamed. I fancied niv brother George com
ing home, aud that he would meet with that
ring somehow. I knew it must come back to
her. And it did ; and he came with it.
PATIENCE.—" Patience !" It is a lesson
taught us by winter.
The wind whispers it through the branches
of fir and pine, where, by and by, the oriole
and the red bird shall flutter their bright plu
mage The winds bring now no songs ol birds,
uo breath of roses, but the medicine of the
cold, wholesome air not less needful than the
perfume of the summer breeze. Patience !be
willing to be bardeued into vigor—be willing
to be made strong, that so every season may
minister to thee its owu keen aud peculiar de
light.
" Patience 1" The bare twigs of oak, and
maple, and willow, shape themselves into hire
oglyphics, to spell out the worJ. Every bough
imprisons a colony of living buds, sleeping
calmly iu their fetters tiil the appointed time
to unfurl the flag of liberty upon the sunny air.
Why should the untimely bud hurry out to
meet the death dealing frost ? Patience,
heart, neither were it well for ihte always to be
in leaf aud flower. For thee is the time of
biossomiug and fruitage fixed, as surely as for
the tree.
" Patience !" It is written upon the earth's
face, as she lies looking placidly up to the
heavens, through her veil of snow. Uow calm
she is, with her white mantle folded over her
bosom—over the seeds and roots she is keep
ing quiet for the festival time of spring—over
the graves where he our sealedup promises of
Paradise. Patience, soul ! Hold thy life
germs pure and sound through the loug days
of silence aud cold, content, since heaven is
above thee still, with its earnestness of truth,
is open radiance of love.
Patience ! for the seeds will burst, the buds
will unfold, the graves will open ! Wait in
quietness and confidence ! Let thy snow
robes of endurance lie light and beautiful
about tliee till winter passes, and up from the
deeus of thy being comes a murmur und per
fume of life ! Then patience may change into
joy, for it is tliy redemption that draweth nigh 1
Congregatiunaiist.
MORAL SUASION ON A llAM. —When a friend
of ours, whom we call Airricola, was a boy, lie
lived on a farm in Berkshire county, the owner
of which was troubled by dog Wolf. The cur
killed his sheep, knowing, perhaps, that he was
conscientiously opposed to capital punishment,
and he could devise no means to prevent it.—
" I can break him of it," said Agrieola, "if
you will give nie leave." "Thou art permit
ted," said the honest farmer ; and we will let
Agrieola tell the story in his own words.—
"There was a rain on the farm as notorious
for butting as Wolf was for sheep stealing, and
who stood in as much need of moral suasion as
the dog. I shut Woit up in the barn with this
old fellow, and the consequence was that the
dog never looked a sheep in the face again.—
The rain broke every bone in his body, literally.
Wonderfully uplifted was the ram aforesaid, by
his exploit ; his insolence became intolerable ;
he was sure to pitch into whomsoever went
nigh him. 'l'll fix him,' said I, and so 1 did.
I rigged an iron crowbar out of a hole in the
baru, point foremost, and hung an old hat on
the end of it You can't always tell when you
see a hat whether there is a head in it or not ;
how then should a rain ? Aries made at it full
butt, and being a good marksman from long
practice, the bar broke iu between his horns,
and came out under his tail. This little ad
monition effectually cured hiiu of butting."
THE BUCKET. —It is much easier fo to get
into a quarrel than to get out of it. In the
year 1005, some soldier of the Commonwealth
of Modena ran away with a bucket from a well
belonging to the State of Bologna. This im
plement might be worth a shilling, but it pro
duced a quarrel which was worked up into a
long and sanguinary war. Henry, the King
of Sardinia, assisted the Modcnese to keep pos
session of the bucket, and in one of the battles
he was made prisoner. His father, the Empe
ror, offered a chain of gold that would encircle
Bologna, which is ten miles in compass, for
his son's ransom, but in vain. After twenty
two years of imprisonment he pined away. His
monument is now extant In the Church of the
Dominicans. This fatal bucket is still exhibited
in the tower of the cathedral of Modena, en
closed in an iron cage.
A " HANDY" ARTICLE. —Adam S'onaker, a
nnmber of years ago, came to Huntingdon Fur
nace, and seeing there, for the first time, a pair
of snuffers, he asked :
"What's them for?" 1
"To snuff the candle."
The candle just then needed
Adam, with his thumb and unuf
tbe SDOFF, and carefully h baud*."
ffi, eaviug, " W*"
, —4L CO., dwego, W. Y. I A
Freaks of a Willicnalre.
William Beckford, oce of the most remarka
ble men of modern times, was the only son of
Alderman Beckford, of London, who died
when his son was only ten years of age, bo
qucothing him West India and other property
which yielded an annual income equal to hull
a million dollars. Young Beckford's mental
powers were good and uo pains were spared in
cultivating them by a refined education. Sir
William Chambers instructed him in architec
ture, while the great Mozart instructed him in
music. At twenty-one, with the income of a
prince, and accumulations in ready money to
the amount of about a million sterling (five
million dollars,) he launched upon the wide
world. The great talent for promoting bureau
happiness was placed within his reach ; but he
threw the goldeu opportunity away. Proud
and haughty, the youthful Beckford withdrew
from the active business of life, and retiring to
Portugal, there devoted himself to a life of
luxurious ease The firat outlay of his wealth
there, was the erection of a gorgeous palace.
During his residence in Portugal he visited,
under royal sanction, some of the wealthy and
luxuriant monasteries of that country. It is
difficult to convey an idea of the pomp aud
splendor of this journey, which resembled more
the calvacade of an eastern prince than the
tour of a private individual.
"Everything," he himself says, " that could
be thought or dreamed of, lor our convenience
or relaxation, was carried iu our train—no
thing was left behind but care and sorrow."
" The ceiling of my apartment iu the monas
tery," he adds, " was gilded and painted ; the
floor was spread with Persian carpets of the
finest texture ; the tables decked with superb
ewers and basins, of cliused silver."
The kitcheu iu which the dinner WHS pre
pared is thus described.
" A stream of water flowed through it, from
which were formed reservoirs containing every
kind of river fish. On one side were heaped
up loads of game and venison ; on the other
side were vegetables and fruit in endless va
riety. Beyoud a loug line of stores, extended
a row of ovens, and ciose to them hillocks of
wheatcn flour, finer than snow, blocks of sugar,
und jars of the purest oil, and pastry in various
abundance."'
The dinner which followed the preparations
was served in a magnificent saloon, covered
with pictures and lighted up with a profusion
of wax tapers in sconces of silver. " The ban
quet," he adds, "consisted of rurities and deli
cacies of every season from distaut countries."
Confectionary and fruits awaited the party in
a room still more sumptuous, where vessels of
Goa filigree containing the purest and most
fragrant spices, were handed round. Such was
Beckford's mode of life during this day.
Returning at the commencement of the pre
sent centurv, to his native country, Becktord
again abandoned himself to the selfish enjoy
ment of his wealth. Taking o capricious dis
like to a splendid mansion on his estate, which
had been erected by his father at a cost of
$1,400,000. he oidertd it to be pulled down.
He resolved that, phoenix like, there should
arise from its ruins a building which should
surpass in magnificence all that hitherto had
been known in English art. Fouthill Abbey,
once one of the wonders of the west of Eng
land, was the result of this determination.—
Whole galleries of the vast pile were erected,
solely for the purpose of enabling Beckford to
emblazon on their windows the crests of the
families from whom he boasted his descent.—
The wonder of tiie fabric, however, was a tow
er of colossal dimensions and great height,
erected somewhat in the manner and spirit of
those who once reared a similar structure on
the plains of JShiiuar : "Go to, let us ouild a
tower, whose top may reach unto heaven ; and
let us make us a name."
To complete the erection of Becktord's tow
er, 400 men were employed both night and day
through an entire winter, the torches u-ed by
the nocturnal workmen being visible to the as
tonished travelers at miles distant. Beckford's
principal enjoyment was watching the erection
of this structure. At nightfall he would re
pair to some elevate ! part of his grounds, and
there iu solitude would feast his senses for
hours with the singular spectacle presented by
the dancing of the lights and the reflection ol
their glare on the surrounding woods. The
building was indeed Beckford's idol—the ob
ject for which lie lived. He devoted the whole
of his energies to make it realize the most fas
cinating vicious of a vain imagination. The
tower was finally erected, but as might have
been expected, the mortar and cement used
had no time to set properly, ere a violent gale
of vind brought the vast structure to the
ground. Merely remarking that he should
have been glad to witness the sublime fall of
such a mass of materials, lie gave orders for
the erection of another tower of 267 feet in
height ; this also fell to the ground in 1835
' After the completion Beckford's conduct
was still more extraordinary. A wall nearly
two miles in circumference surrounded his man
sion, and within this circle scarcely any visitors
were allowed to pass. In sullen grandeur he
dwelt alone, shunning converse with the whole
world. Majesty itself was desirous of visiting
this wonderful domain, but was refused admit
tance. Strangers would disguise themselves
as servants, as peasants, or as pedlers, in the
hope of catching a glimpse ot its giories. Nor
was its interior unworthy of this curiosity. All
that art and wealth could give, to produce ef
fect, was there. "Gold and silver vases and
cups," says one who saw the place, "are so nu
merous here that they dazzle the eye ; and
when one looks round at the cabinets, candela
bra?, and ornaments which decorate the room,
we may nlmo-t imagine that wc stand in the
treasury of some oriental prince, whose richg*
consist entirely in vessels of gold anij t f' rom
richea with precious stones o* ~ '
the ruby to the
Such wj^ ore tj uin 100,000 par annom, he
iJWfffied above the reach of adverse fortune.—
Who would rentnred to have styled all
this etMnesv* at as the mirage 1 A
1 sadduk 'liou of ludia propertv
iril .
VOL. XIX.—XO. 52.
took place. Some law suits terminated nufu
▼orably, embarrassments poured in like a flood
on the princely owner. The gate* which bud
refused admittance to a monarch were rudely
thrust open by a sheriff's officer. The mansion
erected at so vast an expense, was sold. The
greater part of its costly treasures were scat
tered by the hammer of' the auctioneer ; and
Beckford driven, with the shattered fragments
of his fortune, to spend a solitary old age at a
watering place—there to moralize on the ina
bility of wealth, there to feel how little plea
sure the retrospect of neglected talents can
give, and to paint the oft-told moral of the
vanity of human affairs.
lie fell, it is said, unpitied by any. Tho
tower which he had erected at so great a cost
fell to the ground, and Fontbiii Abbey was
pulled down by its new owner. Thus melted
away, like frostwork before tho sun, the ex
travagant production of a man of wealth. HU
whole life had been a sad misapplication of tha
talent committed to his care, and in the end
he discovered that he had been cheated by the
mirage.
Though Beck'ord's princely lavishness had
caused him to be talked about a!! over the
world, his true claim to remembrance rests up
on his talents us an author, and his genius as
displayed in the wild and singular Oriental
tale of " Yathek," which is so splendid in de
scription, true to eastern costume, so wild aud
vivid in imagination, that Lord Byron consid
tred it d ili. ult to credit that it was written by
a European, and said, "even Dr. Johnson's
Rassclas must bow before it." Mr. Beckford
was the author of numerous other works. Ho
died in 1844, aged 84 years, leaving two daugh
ters, one of whom is the preseut Duchess of
Hamilton. His wife was Lady Margaret Uor
dou, daughter of the Earl of Aboyue.
SfSf A waggish chap whose vixen wife,
drowning, 10-l her precious lile, called out hia
neighbors ail around, and told them that his
spouse was drowned. He knew he 6aid the
very nook, where she had tumbled in the brook.
And he had dragged along the shore, above
the place a mile or more. Above the placa
the people cried. Above the place, the man
replied. Of course yon don't suppose I'd go,
uuil waste the time to look below. I've known
the woman quite a spell, and learnt her fash
ions very well ; alive or dead, she'd go, 1 know,
against the current anyhow.
THIS BEACTIFCL WORLD. —" Ah 1 thid beau
tiful world ? Sometimes it is all sunshine and
gladness, and heaven lies not far off—and then
it suddenly changes, and is dark and sorrow
ful, and the clouds shut out the day. In the
lives of tiie saddest of us there are bright
days like this when we feel as if we could take
the great world in our anus. Then coma
gloomy hours when the fire will not bum on
our hearts, and all within is dismal, cold and
dark Believe me. every heart has its secret
60irows which the world knows tot, and often
times we call a man cold when he is only sad."
Lovgftllow.
POWKR OK PRUTKR — A minister whose naraa
is not necessary to give, had a son who waa
quite a rogue, and withal something of a wag.
One day the boy hud been guilty of some mis
demeanor, for which the father called him to
on account, when the following dialogue took
place
"John, you have done wrong and I must
punish you."
"Very well s : r. just as you say."
"Thou take off your coat."
" Certainly, sir."
" Now take off your vest."
"Just as you please sir."
" Now, my dear son, it is my duty to flog
yon "
" Yes sir ; but. father, would it not be besl
first to engage in prayer ? "
This was ti o much for the minister, the wag
gery of the son completely overcame him, rn
without either prayer or flogging, he dismissed
the boy, while he turned away to relieve hit
risibles.
Mrs. Partington says that, just before tho
last war with England, "circumstances were
seen around the moon nightly, shooting stara
perambulated the earth, the desk of the snu
was c overed with dark spots of ink, and com
ments swept the horizon wi h their operie
tails. Evc.ybodv said it profligafed war, and
sure enonaJi it did come. Its costiveness wna
frit throughout the hind, but the bravery of
General Jackson expiated the x\merican citi
zens, ntic foreign dominces soou became a bye
word."
llow little is known of what is in the bo
soms of those around us ! We might explain
many a coldness could we look into the heart
concealed from ns : we should often, where we
hate, love, when we curl the lip with scorn and
indignation. To judge without reserve of any
human action is a culpable temerity, and of all
our sins the most nnferl.ng and frequent.
PTT" An old unloved Deacon in his last hour#
was visited by a neighbor, who said :—" Well
Deacon I hope you (eel resigned in going."—
"Ye-es," saul the Deacon, "II think I I am
resigned." " Well," other, " I tho't
]it might be consoling to to know that all
the neighborhood ore rcsigued also."
Q&r Yon may insert a thousand excellent
! things in a newspaper, and never hear a wor^
'• of approbation front the readers, b' *
I paragraph slip in, (byacrit)*-') one °rtwo
! lines, not suited to * 1 ""* ou
, sure to he®* ** ,l *
( i A STCDY FOR LAIHFS —Every girl who in
i tends to qualify for marriage, should go through
a course of cookery. Unfortunately, but few
wivrs are able to dress anything but themselves.
—Fit-nth.
IST" Birds are the poor man'e music, flow
ers the poor man's poetry.
Strawberries are se!liuj for 10 ceata
per quart it Nashville.