DIE DOLLAR PER ANNUM INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE.
TOWANDA:
Thursday Morning, April 5, 1860.
Scleifrt |loftrn.
GERMS OF THE BEAUTIFUL.
tv-atter the germs of the Beautiful—
Ily the way-side let them fall,
That the rose may spring l>y the cottage gate,
And the vine on the garden wall ;
Carer the rough and rude of earth
With a veil of leaves and flowers,
And mark, witli the opening bud andoup,
The march of summer hours.
Scatter the germs of the Beautiful
In the holy shrines of home ;
Let the pure and the fair a iu the graceful here,
lu the loveliest lustre conic ;
Leave not a trace of deformity
In the temple of the heart ;
But gather about its hearth the germs
Of Nature and of Art.
Scatter the germs of the Beautiful
In the temple of our God—
The God who starred the uplifted shy,
And flowered the trampled sod ;
When he built a temple for Himself,
And a borne for the holy race,
He reared each charm in symmetry
And covered each line with grace.
Scatter the germs of the Beautiful
In the deplits of the humble soul ;
TTiry shall btul and bloss-ra and bear the fruit,
While endless ages roll ;
Plant with the flowers of charity,
Hope, the portat of the tomb,
And the fair and the pure about thy path
in paradise shall bloom.
Stlttltfc fait.
I Ft sa Chambers' Jourml.J
HUSBAND AND WIFE.
IX TWO CHAPTERS.
* CHAPTER It.
When at length Isabel was sufficiently com
posed to return with uio to the drawing-room,
we found Mrs V ivian at the piano, and her
brother listening to her fine voice with evident
ly extreme enjoyment. I felt vexed to see
them thus engaged, for Isabel had no musical
talent herself, and I feared, under present cir
cumstances, the effect of the smallest injurious
comparison. As I sat and watched Mr. Lori
mer following note iry note with critical enthu
siasm and affection for the accomplished sing
•er., 1 regretted sAill more that tlus subtle way
of reaching her husband's heart was closed
against Isabel. Mrs. Vivian rose, however,
as soon as she liad finished her song, saying :
" I won't bore Mrs Loriui'r with my loud
voice ; I know she does not care about music;"
and the piano was closed, for neither host nor
hostess challenged her assertion. Mr. Lori
mer began to talk kindly and pleasantly to me,
informed me of his departure for Scotland,
Hiii mentioned incidentally that he must start
so early that he must breakfast by six o'clock
in the morning.
" Oh, well, said Mrs. Vivian, " I shall be
up to pour ou your coffee ; there is nothing
so cheerless as to set off on a journey with no
one to see that your great cent is buttoned,
and to wish yon " God speed V"
I looked anxiously toward Isabel, for I could
see she was trembling with suppressed indig
nation ; she commanded herself, however, ad
mirably, ant! sijokfe- quietly enough.
" l'ray, do not disturb yourself so early,
Caroline .; I have made my own arrangements
for the morn in he, and propose to breakfast with
iny husband alone."
Mrs. Vivian shrugged her shoulders, ex
pressive of scornful acquiescence in tliis new
caprice, and Mr. Lorimer appeared too intent
on the liradskuw he had taken up to hear the
remark.
About half past five on the following morn
ing, I was alikened by Isabel standing alrea
dy dressed by isy bedside. She wished me
to get up, and joiu her and her husband at the
breakfast-table.
" I do not know what I may be tempted
to say to bim, Aunt Sarah, but I feel as if I
could not let him go away in his present
estrangement, especially when I fear he lias
nch serious business for bis object. I have
thought for some time past he must takeme
to his heart again—speak to me kindly !"
" Hut, my dear child, had you uot better be
alone ?"
She thought not ; if I were present, I could
judge for myself, and I should be no restraint
upon her. I thought how lovely she looked
presiding at the table in her simple white
gown, aud felt persuaded her husband must
think so too wlieo lie came in. But wheu he
did, after a few civil speeches to me, he seem
ed too hurried and pre-oceupied to notice any
thing. He swallowed his bieakfast in five
minutes, and then rose at once and rung the
4>ell impatiently for the carriage to come
round.
" I must be off immediately," lie said,looking
at his watch ; " 1 would not tniss the train on
&uy acconnt. Good-bye, Isabel."
What could be done in the way of remon
strance or entreaty under such circumstances '!
A man under fear of losing the train is scarce
ly tolerant of conjugal embraces, much less of
conjugal reproaches." Isabel had timed her
npieal badly. She stood irresolute, her eyes
downcast, her brow clouded. I saw Mr. Lar
imer had made a movement toward her, as if
to kiss Ler, but turned shortly from her on re
marking bar a&jtudc. He evidently misuu
dcrstood her, for he compressed his lips with
an expression of such bitter feeling, thotigh it
was but trnusicut, that I felt how deep a cur
rent of suffering and disappointment rau be
neath his calm and ordinary manner.
" I hope you will not find the country very
dull," he said to cue ; " Isabel must do her
best to uiuusc you during my absence ; it is
very kind of you to come aud stay with her.
Take care of the children, Isabel."
lie turned aud was going. I touched Isa
bel's arm, and she sprang suddenly forward so
as to intercept his way to the door.
" Von will write to me V* she asked eagrr
ly—"you will let me know your movements ?
Are you likely to be long abseut ?—a month ?
—six weeks ? Lorimer, speak kindly to me
kindly before yon go away ?"
I saw the color rise angrily to Mr. Lori
mcr'a face.
" Why have you reserved your tender ap
peal till the last moment ?" he said. " Were
you anxious for a witness to your protest
against my neglect ? I shall write to you
duly. Don't attempt to delay me auother
moment."
lie spoke in a hard, severe tone —put her
gently on one side, as she blocked his passage
—and was gone. A moment after, we heard
the carriage roll from the'door. Isabel clasp
ed her hands.
"Am I not a blundering fool?" she cried,
passionately. " I never make un attempt to
heal but I widen the breach. He thinks,
uow, I am playing a part—wanting to con
vince you I am a neglected wife !"
She walked restlessly np and down the
room. I had not much to say in the way of
consolation. I had felt from the first that it
was impolitic to have insisted on my presence
during the interview, but she had overruled
my objection ; and I was deeply grieved to
see matters were worse between them than I
had thbught. I had hoped last night that Is
abel had exaggerated or mistaken her posi
tion.
" And it does not seem so very long ago,"
continued she, gloomily, "that he never left
me for a few hours without a tender farewell.
I never came into the room but he smiled and
gave me a seat near him. He could scarcely
pass me without a touch that was a caress ;
anil now"—
" Oh, child," I said, " you have acted verv
ill !"
"Have I not told yon so?" she returned
bitterly ; " and do I not suffer for it ?" lie
never lined me as I love him now. What
long patience he had with me—blind to my
selfishness, indulgent to my vanity, giving me
so much with such an ungrudging lavishness,
and only asking mo to acknowledge it and
love liiin ! Can I blame his sister that she
helped him to discover how unworthy I was ?"
" I fear," I said, " she still does you harm.
She will not be ln-re when your husband re
turns. 1 cannot believe, Isabel, that when
left alone to exercise a judicious influence, you
will not regain the place you have lost There
must be some tenderness left for you in his
heart ; your love mnst reanimate it."
She siiook her head. "No : I despair of
it. His love and pride have botli been too
deeply wounded. He does not believe that
what I feel is love, but caprice—the desire to
regain power and influence lost. He does not
think I love my children ; but we cannot con
tinue to live like this. If there is no change
for the better ou his return, we must part—
we"—
The entrance of Vivian arrested the con
versation ; she appeared in a most elaborate
morning toilet, and apparently in superabun
dant spirits.
" It was cruel of yon to forbid my wishing
my brother good-bye, Mrs. Lorimcr," she said
gaily. " i tried to hail him from my window •
but the tioise of the wheels, or his grief in
parting from his Isabel, made the effort vain.
I wish my engagements permitted my staying
a day or two longer with you til! your spirits
had rallied."
This was tot ended for sarcasm, for, of
course, poor Isabel was doing her best to ap
pear cheerful and unconcerned, and, as she
had always succeeded so well in this doubtful
ruse as effectually to deceive her husband as
well as her sister-in-law. Mrs. Vivian chatted
on while taking her leisurely breakfast, until
the effort of repartee became too much for
Isabel, and she left the room under the ex
cuse of going to her nursery. Left thus alone
with the stranger guest, a sudden resolution
seized inc. 1 had been studying Mrs. Vivian's
countenance for some time attentively, and 1
came to the conclusion that though her man
ners might not please me, there was no indi
cation of want of heart or intelligence in her
physiognomy, and that I, in my turn, would
make a sudden appeal. When she rose, to
excuse herself for leaving me, to make her
final arrangements for her departure, I begged
her to remain a few moments longer, as I had
a matter of importance about which I was
anxious to consult her. She reseated herself
immediately, with an air of undisguised sur
prise ; then, on a sudden, her brow clouded.
" it is about your niece * —about Mrs. Lor
imer and my brother. Do not let us speak of
it, my dear Madam. I should be really griev
ed to hurt yonr feelings on the subject ; but
it is one on which I caunot trust myself to
speak calmly."
She was going, her tactics of retreat evident
ly corresponding with those of Mrs. Lorimcr ;
but I intercepted her boldly.
" I)o let me speak," I urged. "I am so
thoroughly conrinced that Isabel is misunder
stood,wronged by both of you ; unconsciously,
of course, but still wronged. A little explana
tion."
lint I had chosen my expressions ill.
" Wronged !" Mrs. Vivian repeated with
flashing eyes—" wronged !"
" I beseech you to be patient," I said, half
smiling. "I am but a bungling old woman,
but I love my niece as my own child, and I
caunot witness her unhappiness without some
attempt, however awkward to arrest it. Do
you imagine she is happy, Mrs. Vivian ?"
" Yes, or at least 1 imagine her to have a
constitutional guarantee agaiust tine reverse,
was the reply ; " an entirely unmitigated hear
tlessness. Oh, my dear Madam, you touch a
sore place by your appeal! I cannot contain
myself when I think how my brother has sac
rificed himself to that girl! Wise men are the
greatest fools iu love," she pursued rapidly ;
" and when they married, he doted upon her
shadow. Nothing he could give her was too
good for her. or rather he never considered
how much he gave her. I never liked the mar
riage j but I would lii'.vc held my peace, aud
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICH.
" REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER."
received her as a sister, had she loved him.—
But she cared nothing for him ! Ilow dared
she sell hercself thus ? and except not only his
wealth and position, but his true noble affec
tion as mere tribute to her puerile attractions,
without baviug anything to give in exchauge
—not even a heart ? What-did she reckon
herself worth ? and, good Heavens ! how long
the man was befooled 1"
Mrs. Vivian paused, exhausted, and I tried
to seize my opportunity. " Granted that she
was guilty of marrying bim without loving him,"
1 said ; "consider the great temptations offer
ed, not by his position chiefly, but by the ardor
of his own passion ; and at least she was free
from the greater guilt of loving any one else.
Ah, I understand your sueer, Mrs. Vivian,
but I repeat you wrong Isabel. She may
have been selfish, weak, and vain, and have
hud her young head turned by flattery—her
husband's flattery more than any other—but
she lias a heart ; she feels deeply, passionately;
she repents the past ; she loves her husband
uow."
Mrs. Vivian shook her head scornfully.—
" She deceives you, perhaps she deceives
herself. She repents the loss of his love
I doubt not because it iuvolves the loss
of her power ; she may even, in the spirit of
coquetry, be anxious to possess herself of it
again. But love—that is,unselfish affection—
is beyond her. I think it probable she may
dread the consequences of this alienation, but
she need not lie afraid ; my brother is so chiv
alrous that, did he feel her a heavier burden
than he does, he would not shake her off at
the expense of her own humiliation."
My cheek flushed. I felt too indigant to
find words. Mrs. Vivian perceived it, and
continued more gently : " We view this mat
ter very differently, of course ; hut you must
remember I have this advautage over you—l
have been a witness of their married life—of
his de votiou,patience, and blindess, of her egre
gious vanity,exigence, and selfishness. But it is
over now ; she can never delude him again.—
From the moment he became couviuced all his
love had been wasted—that there had never
been a moment's response to his disinterested
affection—that, in fact, she had married, him
for iiis money—the enchantment was dispelled.
What lie has suffered, God only knows. 1
imagine I heard the tone.of his voice now as
when he said to me : "She never loved me,
Caroline ; she deceived me from her first kiss ;
and can you wonder that my indiguation is so
strong ?"
I was silent. I felt it would be vain to pro
test.
" I must go," she said, lising. "We will
not quarrel over this matter—you aud I
and she held out her hand with a suiile.
" Only one word more," I said, retaining it.
" 1£ —you may admit it as a possibility— if
there should ever be a hope of reconciliation,
! you will not mar it? I mean, you will not use
! your influence against the wife ?
" Impossible !"she said ; but my importunity
j succeeded in winning the promise from her.
When Mrs. Vivian came down stairs to
; take her departure, Isabel was, standing in the
hall, waiting to bid her guest farewell. Little
, Lily was clinging to her side, timid, tender,
! aud silent as seemed her wont. The sight of
the fair mother and child thus linked together
! seemed to touch Mrs. Vivian, Yielding to
what was evidently a sadden impulse, she went
up to Isabel, and took her hand.
" Good-bye, Mrs. Lorimer. I cannot help
fceJing a kind of pity for yon, in spite of your
; conduct—in spite, too, of your contemptuous
disclaimer," she added, smiling, for Isabel had
| winced at the expression, and drawing up her
graceful ucck, looked haughtily down upon the
sympathizer. " Have you any idea,'' pursued
Mrs. Vivian, after a moment's reflection,
" what btreiuess it is that fakes your husband
to Glasgow at this particular time? A'o? I
: hardly think Lorimer is right to leave you un
warned that there is a fearful chance of your
losing all flint you value highest. The shock
may be too much for you "
I feared an ebullition of passion from Isabel
, but she had learned many a lesson of self-con
trol since 1 had known her as a girl, aud she
| only looked contemptuous.
! "My husband's absence construius mo to
bear his sister's insults in silence," she replied,
with an air of dignity ; " and I wish to know
nothing that he chooses to keep back from me.
Kiss your aunt, Lily, and bid her good bye."
And so parted the sisters.
It was not entirely a melancholy time that j
Isabel and I passed together during the pro
tracted absence of her husband. The country
| was so beautiful, and all the elegant appliances
! of enjoyment which wc had at command were
so pleasantly new to mc. that I found it im
! possible to resist external influences. Besides
I have a passion for children, and even had I
not, I must have loved Isabel's Baby. Bella
i was a paragou of infantile vigor and beauty,
| and Lily had all the exquisite tenderness and
! sweetness of a child destiued to but brief pro
| bation. To Isabel it was a great relief to
have some one with her to whom she could
confide all the iucidents, faults and disappoint
ments of her married life, and who never wear
ied of speculating with her on her chances of
reconciliation and happiness. Besides, she was i
free to follow the bent of her feelings j she had j
no part to play, no spurious pride to maintain. ]
Mr. Lorimer's letters were not of a eheeriug
character ; they were cold and reserved in style
and spoke of lux business engagements as of a
momentous and disastrous character, without
further explanation. Isabel seemed 3trangely
indifferent on the subject, except as it might
affect her husband's happiness ; but I confess
I was not so unworldly. I wrote to my broth
er, aud requested him to let me know what ru
mors were afloat in London respecting the firm
of Glitter A Co. The answer I received
alarmed me. Hitherto, I had never heard
Robert express anything but the most extreme
admiration for the.vast extent, financial man
agement, and unlimited credit of the establish
ment • now he wrote as if it had been Irorn its
commencement a huge swindle. He said its
solvency doubted,its credit shaken, its immense
wealth a delusion. " I believe Lorimer is
the only moneyed man of the batch, and when
the crash cJraes, as come it will, as far as his
means go, he will have to pay the piper. Had
be been the prudent man aud affectionate hus
band I thought him, he would have settled
that line estate of his on Isabel and her child
ren at the time of his marriage. If he has not
taken the precaution of entailing it, which I
very much doubt, he and everything must go
to the dogs." The followed unreasonable and
selfish regrets for his daughter " who might
have done so much better," which I spare the
reader.
This letter made me miserable. I dare not
tell Isabel, for I did not feel at liberty to do
so, when her husband kept her in ignorance of
his affairs, added to which, I knew not what
measure of belief to yield to my brother's
statements. There was nothing for it but to
wait ; but every proof of wealth, every sign
of luxury around uif, became irksome aud in
tolerable, Door Lily's tiy pony chair, with
its miniature steed, to procure which from its
native island, no expense or trouble had been
spared—even the very baby's lace robes—as
sumed a melancholy and sinister aspect to my
morbid vision, Isabel's costly dresses, of
which she was so careless, distressed me ; the
daily elegance of the table appointments gave
me a pang. I went about under a cloud, or
rather under a painful illumination which 1
dared not shed ou my companion. The ordeal,
however, was not destined to last very long,
One morning, about a fortnight after I had
heard from my brcfther, Isabel dropped her
husband's bi-weekly letter with a sadden ex
clamation. I looked up, frightened, yet half
relieved at the sight of her pale face and ex
cited maimer. Hud the crash come ? Had
he told her ? I perceived she had stretched
out her hand eagerly for the morning paper,
which still lay unopened ou the table ; but her
agitation bewildered her. She took it up
aimlessly, then put it down, aud turned again
to the letter, which her trembling hand could
scarcely hold,
" Isabel, my darling, rr.y poor child !" I
cried, going up to her and kissing her with
fervor—" is—is Mr. Lorimer well ?"
She put the letter in my hand. " Read it; |
give me a few minutes, and then come to uie,
Aunt Sarah and she left the room.
Poor girl ! she could not but feel it.
Mr. Lorimer's letter began as follows :
" I take great blame to myself, Isabel, that
I have kept you the state of my
affairs until the public papers will announce
my ruin to the world at large this morning ;
but I have hoped against hope that this ca- I
lamity might have been averted, aud your
peace of mind undisturbed."
The Times of that morning curtly announced
that Messrs. Glitter of Loudon had stopped i
payment, and that their liabilities were sup
posed tG be enormous. There was no com
ment ; the public were to wait for detail and
criticism.
When I joiued Isabel, I found her walking
up and down her dressing-room, holding her
baby in her arms. She looked comparatively
calm, but there was an expression of deep aux
iety in her face.
1 began at ouce to euter on the subject, for
I wished to harden her for its discussion.
"Now the blow has fallen," she said, "I
feel it deeply. I feel it chiefly for my hus
band, who, I imagine, has never contemplated
the possibility of being poor. 1 cannot con
ceive how he will meet it. If there is any
disgrace attending it, it will kill bha, for he is
a prond man. Aunt Sarah," she added pas
cionately, " do you think this trouble will open
his heart to me ? Do you think he will allow
me to love him and console him ? There is
not a kind word in his letter, not a relenting
phrase. Oh ! 1 know how he feels—more bit
terly against me than e-ver, for he thinks he
has lost all I loved or cared for."
" But now, dear child, you will be able to
prove your love."
" How ? Have I anything I can give him
—any resource for bread-getting ? Oh, it is
hard ! Lily, my tender flower, will never
thrive as a poor man's child. And I—o aunt, j
1 love wealth and case dearly, dearly ! I'ov- 1
erty will be bitter"-—— Her tears choked
her.
"Too bitter a price to pay for your hus
band's love ?" I asked.
I had no wish to blame her inconsistency, |
or reproach her for her lack of heroism. I j
knew she was showing me the conflict of her j
heart, and it seemed to me but a natural oue. !
She was no disciplined, high-minded woman,
but a passionate, disappointed girl, shrinking .
at first sight, from the trouble which 1 firmly
believed she would, in the end, find strength
and courage to endure and overcome.
" Ah ! if I dared to hope that," she mur
mured, kissing her child, " I could bear any
thing. I shall soon know my fate. Oh ! how
shall I live till to-moriow 1"
Her endurance was not exercised so long ; i
that very evening Mr. Lorimer arrived unex
pectedly by a late train. The day had been 1
wet and chilly, and Isabel had ordered a fire
in her dressing room, over which she and I
were sitting iu melancholy mood, wearied of
the fruitless yet incessant discussion of chances
at the time of his arrival. Isabel sprang up
on hearing the sound of bis voice in the hall.
" What shall I do?" she exclaimed, clasping
her hands. "I am so araid of injuring my
cause by over-precipitancy, so afraid of being
misunderstood—repulsed. How shall I per
suade him that I love him ?"
" My darling, it seems to me it has become
a very easy task-"
We heard his voice approaching in the di
rection cf our room. "On no account disturb
your mistress," he was saying to Isabel's maid ;
" she had no idea I should return to night."
Isabel threw open the door, and stood smil
ing in the entrance, her dress, figure, and love
ly face touched with a cfiarmiug illumination
from the blazing pine logs. I thought what a
charming, iuyiting vision she must appear to
the harassed, wearied wanderer coming iu from
the dark night.
Mr. Lorimer stopped abruptly ; he did uot
j advance towards her. She bad not spokcu ;
I but though I couhl uot see 'the expressiou of
her face, the light fell upon his, and showed
me the intent, searching gaze.
" Maurice, dare I give you a welcome ?"
She sprang forward and threw her arms
around his neck Is it possible that he can
put her from him without a moment's return of
the old love—an involuntary response to the
thrilling embrace ? Yes; he frees himself
gently but coldly, and taking her by the baud,
leads her back without a word into the room,
lie has her now in the full blaze of the tire
light, and he still keeps his hold of her hand
—his scrutiny of her face. Ilow aUerctl has
his own become ; how pale and worn ! When
he spoke at length, the mingled restraint aud
anguish of bis voice made my heart ache.—
" You have not received my letter this morn
ing, Isabel ? You are always a careless stu
deut of the newspaper ( Y'ou do uot know ?"
' "Here is your letter ; there lies the news
paper. I am sorry, Maurice —I am deeply
| sorry. 1 love wealth, as you know ; I dread
I poverty ; but if it was the only prico at which
; your faith in uie could be bought, I am glad
we are poor. I have not always loved you—
but I love you now ; I have not done my duty
hitherto—l will try and do it uow. Believe
| me—help me J"
He turned from her aud covered his face
I with his baud.
"it is a woman's generosity !" he said ;
" the sex's passion for self-sacrifice !"
"It is a woman's passion, a wife's love,"
she answered, raising her glowing face.—
" Maurice, is it for me to plead?'' iShe made
as if she would have kuelt before him, and
threw her arms around his knees.
I waited just one half moment to assure
myself, with au old woman's love of demon
stration, that she did not plead in vaiu. I
saw him raise her in his arms, saw the pas
sionate kiss that sealed the renewed troth, and
indistinctly heard, us I liitted away through
the dim corridor, the tones of his voice tremu
lous with more than a lover's fervor.
Three months later, Mr. and Mrs Lorimer
sailed for Montreal, where the former had a
brother established as a merchant. There
were not many tears shed by either, for in
that time their love and mutual dependence
had grown so strong and intimate that no
grief seemed intolerable which they shared to
gether. In the arrangement of his affairs he
had been actuated but by one motive—to sat
isfy every claim as far as the most scrupulous
honor dictated, even to the last fraction of his
estate. Three hundred a year had been affix
ed to Isabel by marriage-settlement, but by
some legal inadvertency, the deed proved in
valid, and her little fortune went in the gener
al wreck. Mr. Lorimer regretted the loss,
but I know Isabel was glad of-it. Her last
words, as we parted on the deck of the vessel,
were to mc ; "We shall not come back to
Old England again," she said gaily, " till we
have grown rich enough to buy back Morton
Leas ; so don't fail to Jet us kuow when it is
in the market."
'jtitis was said ten years ago, and now my
old heart beats with the hope of seeiug them
once more. To-day I received my periodical
letter from Montreal, and what says Isabel ?
" We are comiug home, Aunt Sarah, to realize
my prophecy Morton Leas is Lu the market,
though you have kept a treacherous silence ;
nay, it is doubtless our own already. Tell my
father that Maurice says there shall be no de
lay in making a rigorous entail of the estate ;
and how proud shall you and I b#, my belov
ed aunt-mother, to watch cur boy Hying bis
kite over his inalienable acres.
THE EMBLEM OK SCOTLAND. —The following
is related as the origin of the use of the thistle
as the national emblem of Scotland ; When
the Danes invaded Scotland they availed them
selves of the pitch darkness of night to attack
the Scottish forces unawares. In approaching
them unobserved, and marching barefooted to
prevent their tramp being heard, one of (he
Danes trod upon a large prickly thistle, and
the sharp cry of pain which ho instantly ut
tered suddenly apprized the Scots of their
danger, who immediately ran to their arms and
defeated the foe with great slaughter. The
thistle was thenceforward adopted as the na
tional insignia of Scotland.
A BEAUTIFUL EXTRACT. —Beautiful is old
age, beautiful as the slow drooping mellow
autumn of a rich glorious summer. In the
old man, nature has fulfilled her work ; she
loads him with the fruits'of a well-spent life ;
and surrounded by his children, she rocks liira
away softly to the grave, to which he is fol
lowed by blessings. God forbid we should
not call it beautiful. There is another life,
hard, rough and thorny, trodden with bleed
ing feet and aching brow ; a battle which i;o
peace follows this side of the grave • which
the grave gapes to furnish before the victory
is won ; and strange that it should—this is
the highest life of man. Look back along
the great uaiues of history, there is none
whose life is ether than this.— Westminster
Review.
A HEART. —What a curious thing a heart
is—is it not, young lady ? There is as much
difference in hearts as in faces. A woman's
heart is a sacred thing, and full of purity.—
How proud a man ought to be to have it
placed in his keeping—to have a pretty girl
love liirn so well that she will give it to him,
aud tell him that it was his more than any
other ! Isn't it a curious thing, ladies ? We
might say of the heart us the old woman did
of the first rabbit ska ever saw i " La, how
funny !"
A DOUBLE FOOL. —A woman is either worth
a great deal or nothing. If good for nothing,
she is not worth getting jealous for ; if she be
a true woman, she will give no cause for jeal
ousy. A man is a brute to be jealous of a
good woman —a fool to be jealous of a worth
less one ; but is a double fool to cut his throat
lor either of them.
VOL. XX. —NO. 44,
Hero and There.
"The far of morning-bells swing down their
voices like a sweet, solemn under chorus to tho
tone of my heart; soft aud sweet as the cradla
songs of a new mother —now melting down
into a deep, low wall, that Is a blank groan of
misery, anguish—death."— V. E. TOWXSEXU.
The hills loom up blue in the distance, over
the rives, aud the wind surges through the tall
pines with a shivering wail, while down tho
valley the water gurgles aud ripples, dreaijy
on, between the icy banks. Anon, the night
shadows come pressing in tho window, and the
firelight glimmers and duuees merily ou the
wail.
While I listen to the moqruiog wiod, aud
listening, dream, there comes a tiny footfall,
aod a low, warbling voice calling—" Brother,•
and daiuty little fingers caress my hair, but,
when I stretch cut my arms with the longing
cry " little sister, little sister," f hear only tho
wailing night wiud and the "memory-bells"
down iu my heart, swinging, swinging to and
fro ; echoing the peals of childish laughter,aud
clear and silvery as though a score of years
had not pressed the damp earth down, down
over those tenderly curled lips, chilling thut
warm, Joying heart.
A score of years ! There were no gray locks
in the brown hair she erewbile caressed ; no
eare or pain in the heart against which she
nestled every twilight, while I listened to her
hirdlike prattle, and fondied the shiuing hair
that floated off from that sweet spiritual brow;
or sang old familiar hymns till her calm eyes
veiled themselves in sleep. Every twilight
she rested in my arms, and J dreamed of the
future for that precious one, so tenderly cher
ished, noting no change ; yet, while I dream
ed, there was a change ; for the fragile form
grew slighter, the little arms clasped my neck
closer, and there was a yearning tenderness in
her fond caresses.
Why should I linger over those sad, yet in
expressibly sweet hours ? As the dew drops
exhale, as the sunbeam fades, so she glided
frum me into the unseen. Yet I know the
last words those weet lips murmured were—
" Sing to me, brother."
Ah, little sister ; my voice cannot reach thea
out on that eternal sea where thiuo ear listeth
to tbe " choral singing 1"
And there was a grave made, down by the
river side, where the water gurgles and moans
so mournfully to-night, and every spring tin*
violets grow'up over that shining head below ;
every summer the birds warble "in the bouhgs
over head, answering to the water's ripple.
They told me she was gone, lost to me for
ever on .earth ; but she is ever a living Pri
sma to me. Those calm eyes guard me from
evil, and v.hen I migle with the gay and plea
sure-peeking, t'uere is a tiny liaud clasped close
in mine that leads me aright ; while the echo
of that voice, death stilled so long ago, keeps
my heart pure.
Aud 1 know that 1 lie down that long,dream
less sleep bv the river side, and my soul goes
over the returnles river, I shall know the voice
that greets me first, and she will uerer glide
from my arms Ijicre.
WHAT HAS HE BEEN. —What is that to
you? It is of no consequence if he has been
one of the most, abandoned of meu. He is
not so uow. We care not what evil a man
has done, provided he has heartily repented,
and now liws an upright, consistent life. lu
j stead of looking back a dozen or twenty years
i to know what a person is you should inquire,
i " What is he now ? What is his present
! character ?" If you find that his reformation
is sincere, and that he lameuts his past errors,
take him cordially by the hand a*d bid him
(Sod-speed in his noble purpose. We are no
friends to those who would take up past sins
and vices to condemn one who is resolved to
be upright and virtuous. Many a person is
driven back to the paths of vice, who might
have become au ornament to society, but for
the disposition too common among men to
rake up and drag to the light long forgotten
inquiries. We always admired the reply of a
daughter to her father, who was aeked re
specting a young man of lur acquaintance. —
" Do you know where he come from ?*'—
" No," replied the girl, " I do not know when*
he come from, but 1 know where he is going."
LET no one suppose that by acting a good
part through life Le will escape slandar.—
There will be those who hate him for the pos
session of the very qualities that ought to pro
cure esteem. There are some folks in tho
world who are not willing that others should
do any better than themselves.
SELF-SEARCH. —Read not hooks alone, but
men, and among them chiefly thyself ; if thou
findest anything questionable there, use tho
commentary of a severe friend, rather than
' the gloss of a sweet Opped flatterer ; there is
i more profit in a distasteful truth than deceit
ful sweetness.
tgyWecan well pity the "pheelinks of
the stranger who was seut up stairs in a Wes.
tern hotel to sleep with a back woodsman, wiio
j gave him this welcome: "Wall, stranger,
I I've no objection to your sleeping with me—
' none in the least ; hut it seems to me the bod
| is rather narrow for you to sleep, comfortable,
j considering how I dream of shootin'and scalp
! ing Injuns. At the place I stopped night bc
! fore last, they charged me five dollars extra,
I 'cause 1 happened to whittle up the headboard
' with my knife while I was dreaming. But
' you can come to bed if you like j I feel kinder
peaceable to-night."
COLLOQUY ON THE MISSISSIPPI. —" Boy, who
do you belong to ?" asked a gentleman as ho
stepped on board of a steamer of a " darky "
leauing on the guards.
" I did b'long to Massa William, sir, when
I come aboard ; but be is in do cabin playing
poker wid do captain, aud I don't kncic tcho /
b'long to note r