ONE DOLLAR PER ANNUM INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE.
TOWANDA:
Thursday Morning, May 17, 1860.
j?clectcb .s)oetrg.
A DREAM OF SUMMER.
BV J. G. WHITTIER.
■Bland as the morning's breath of June,
The south-west breezes play,
And through its haze the Winter's noon,
Seems warm as Summer's day.
The snow-plumed angel of the north
Has drodped his icy spear ;
Again the mossy earth looks forth,
Again the streams gush clear.
The fox his hill-side den forsakes,
The musk rat leaves his nook,
The bine-bird in the meadow brakes
Is singing with the brook.
44 Rear up, O, mother Nature " cry
Bird, breeze, aud streamlet free,
" Our winter voices prophesy
Of summer days to thee.''
So in those winters of the soul.
By winter blasts and drear,
O'erswept from memory's frozen pole,
Will snnny days appear.
Reviving hope and laitli, they show
The soul its living powers,
Aud how, bcpeath the winter's snow
Lie germs of summer flowers.
The night is mother of the day,
The winter of the spring,
Aud ever, upon old decay,
The greenest mosses cling ;
Behind the cloud, the starlight lurks ;
Through showers the sunbeams fall,
For God, who ioveth all his works,
lias left his hope with all.
is clcc tc b £;tl c.
THE MIDNIGHT WATCH.
CHAPTER lit.
" Trifles light as air
Are to the jealous continual i >n ,-trong,
As proofs of holy writ."— Olheltu.
" Honest soldier,
Who hath relieved yon ?-
Bernardo hath my place."— Hamlet.
Left alone upon his post in the inner eourt,
Gerald revolved in his mind what could best
be done to aid his father. Everything was
already in preparation for the prisoners' es
cape, but the success or failure of the whole
enterprise turned solely npou the connivance
or opposition of the seutiiiel upon duty at the
hour when the escape was to be effected.—
Gerald did uot doubt, however, that should
lie himself not have the go.xl fortune to be
chosen .'or the midnight watch, he would not !
find much difficulty in persuading the comrade
to whom it should fall to exchange it for a
more commodious hour. He felt that there
could be none who would uot gladly accept
his offer, aud thus bo left to enjoy their night's
rest, iustead of enduring the fatigues of a te
dious uight watch. Of his own safety, of the
dishonor, the punishment that awaited him for
abetting the escape of a prisoner of such im
portance, he though not a moment. A'l such
considerations were lost in his hopes of rescu
ing his father. But still, in the vague un
certainty that hung over thp events of that
important uight, in the impatience of his mind
to arrive quickly at that awful hour—that
hour which was to decide so much joy or
misery for hiin—Gerald scarcely knew how to
conceal his feverish agitation. He was aware,
however, how necessary it was to avoid be
trayiug any feelings that might excite the least
suspicion ; and he determined to appear as
cold and as unconcerned as possible.
There was another also, although at this
moment a secondary torment, which added to
his trouble of mind. He was unable to dis
engage his thoughts entirely from those feel
ings of bitter aud scorching jealousy, which
various little indications of coquetry, displayed
by the evidently coquettish little Puritan, and
certain murks of desire to seek her presence,
and parade uuder her window, evinced by the
bated May wood, had placed iu his heart—aud
in a jealous and iinpatieut temperament like
Gerald's, such seed, once sowu, quickly grew
ttp with rank luxuriance, and spread on every
side, imbibing sustenance from every element
that approached it, living, iu want of better
nourishment, upon the very air itself. Per
haps the sight of Mistress Mildred for a mo
ment at her window, a passing word or mere
ly a kind smile, might have poured a balm up
on the nicer of jealousy, soothed the pain and
closed the wound—at least for the time. Put
during his loug watch Gerald looked at that
well-kuowu window in vain. There was not
a symptom of the fair girl's presence iu her
Chamber, and Gerald's fertile imagination—
the true imagination of the jealous lover—
suggested to him a thousand doubts and fears
of Mildred's truth, ingeniously invented self
tortures, weapons forged to be turned against
himself—all mere vague conjectures, but as
suming in his eyes all the solidity aud reality
of truth. If she were not in her chamber, he
argued, where could she be ? Perhaps with
her father ; and her father was dictating a
dispatch to that Mark Maywood, who served
him sometimes as secretary ; aud Mildred was
gazing on him with pleasure; and he was
raising his eyes from time to time to hers—or
perhaps she was in the other gardens or alleys
about the house, and that Maywood was fol
lowing her at a distance, not unobservid ; or
perhaps she passed close by him, and mutter
ed words of admiration or even of love, aud
she then listened with complacency ; or per
haps the haudsotne young recruit whispered in
her ear to ask her wheu be could see her pret
ty face again ; aud she smiled on lum aud said,
that wheu his watch should be beneath her
window she would come. Madness ! Gerald
woQld pursue his visiou no farther. But al
though the clouds of the vision rolled away,
*.ney left a dark, chilling mist of suspicion up
on his miud thai be could not, perhaps did not
Strive to shake off.
THE BRADFORD REPORTER.
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICH.
Relieved from his guard, Gerald returned
to the guard-room—his mind in that agony of
suspense and dread respecting his father, the
disquietudes of which his jealous doubts scarce
ly diverted for a moment, and only reudered
more hard to bear. Ou his way he agaiu
passed the detested Maywood. As he ap
proached he evidently saw the young soldier
crumple in his hand a paper he was reading,
and hide it hastily abont him. This was no
fancy, he repeated to himself; this was reali
ty. He had seen the look of confusion and
trouble npon Maywood's face, the haste with
which he hid that paper at his approach.—
There was no longer any doubt. Ilis hated
rival was iu correspondence already with bis
faithless mistress ; aud the contents of that
written paper, what could they be, if not uh
acquiescence in some demand, a rendezvous
granted, a meeting at her window? With
i rage iu his heart, Gerald agaiu longed tospring
upon his rival aud tear that paper from his
bosom. But again prudence prevailed over
passion. lit felt that the life of bis father
depended upon his caution—his father—his
father, whom lie alone perhaps could serve,
whose blessing was to be his recompense.—
Swearing to tear for ever from his heart the
vain, coquettish, heartless girl upon whom his
affections bad bceu so ill-disposed—for thus,
iu bis passion, he qualified his lady love —ha
crushed dowu within him the violence of his
angry feelings, and determined to defer his re
venge, defer it only, untii those few hours
should be passed, those hours which should
witness his father's safety—and then die will
ingly, if such should chauce to be his fate, in
securing his vengeance. Strange mixture of
noble feelings and base passious ! Where
were now the strictly religious principles of
his uncle and instructor? The tierce nature
of his hot blood prevailed for the time over
the better culture of his education.
At length the hour arrived when the sol
diers were mustered iu the outer court, before
the front of the mansion, and the names of
those called over who were appointed to the j
different watches of the night. How anxi
ously and eagerly did Gerald's heart beat as
the midnight watch in the tower-qoart was
named ! Was it by a gracious and happy
chance upon himself that the lot would fall ?
The name was pronounced. It was not his
own. The sentinel appointed to this post, the !
man upon whom depended the destiny of his
father, was another. But still, in spite of the
first pang of disappointment—for disappoint
ment would arise within him, although the
chances had been so greatly against him—hope
again revived iu bis heart. The sentinel whose
post he coveted, whom he had to seduce into
an exchange, whose watch he was to contrive
to take from liim as a luvor, was one of the
most easy of the whole troop to deal with, the
lazy, phlegmatic, somnolent Godlumb Gideon,
he whose very uickuame was an augury and a
warrant of success, the wight yclept Go-to-bed
Godlamb.
After waiting till the assembled soldiers bad
dispersed, and a proper time had elapsed be
fore seeking Gideon, Gerald again returned tc
the outer court before the house, where be knew
it was the habit of the indolent soldier to ba.-k j
and doze upon a certain sheltered bench, iu
the last rays of the settiug sun, absorbed, lie
himself would declare, iu Lis devotions. Aud
there, in truth, he found the man he sought.
But, confusion ! there was another by his side,
and that other was the man who, among all, j
he would have the most' avoided. It was '
Mark MuyWood. He stood by the side of
Gideon's reclining form, and was speaking
with much earnestness to the phlegmatic sol i
dier, whose widely-opened eyes seemed to ex
press more animation than of wont. No lime
however, was to be lost. The night was ap
proaching, and it was necessary to eome at
once to an arrangement with the allotted seu
tiuel of the midnight watch.
Overcoming his repugnance, and fully dc- j
tcrminea to act with caution, Gerald assumed (
an air of unconcern, and sauntered to the spot
where sat Godlamb GiJcon. Alter greeting
sulkily the handsome youug recruit, to whom j
Gerald's presence seemed in now ise pleasing, j
he commenced with affected indifference his I
attack upon the heavy soldier.
" Vou are ever zealous, friend, iu the good j
work." he said.
" Yes, and of a truth these crnrabs of com
fort have a blessed and pleasant savour in my
nostrils," replied Godlamb Gideon, pressing !
his book between his hands, turning up the J
whites of*his eyes, aud euulliug through his
nose, as though that member were stuffed up
by the pleasant savor of which he spoke.
" But have a care that your zeal be uot j
overmuch," continued Gerald ; " and that you
faint not by the way from the heaviness of i
your burden. Methinks your cheek is already
pale from exceeding watching and prayer." j
" A'erily I have fought the good fight, and
I have run the good race, and peradventure
• the flesh fuileth me," suorted the Puritan sol
d er.
" Yrur allotted post, then, falls heavy upon
you," said GeralJ, with an air of kind con
cern, "for you have the midnight watch, me
tbinks. ludecd, I pity you, my good friend.
Hear me. I will perform the duties of your
post, and.you shall rest this night from your
labors ; my mind is troubled, and I heed uot ;
the watching through the night. You will
rise from your couch ready for new outpour- 1
ings of spiritual thought, and refreshed "
"Asa giant refreshed with wine," inter
rupted Gideon with another suort ; "yea, and
so shall it be." Gerald's heart beat at what
he considered au aceeptaucc of his proposal ;
but Godlamb Gideon continued : " Thou art
kind, aud 1 thank thee no less that I refuse
] thy offer. Verily it would seem to be a gra
eicus aud au especial vouchsafing in uiy favor.
For, behold, another had released ine from my
task."
" Another !" cried Gerald with a tone of
consternation that overcame his cantion.
" Yes, this good youth hath proffered to re
lieve me of my heavy burden." Gideon point
ed to Mark Maywood.
Gerald started with angry surprise. May
wood bit bis iij), and turned hh> bend aside.
" RESARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER."
" He has taken thy post 1" said Gerald chok
ing with rage.
Gideon nodded his heavy head.
The blood boiled in Gerald's veins and rush
ed into his cheek, lie felt for a momeut near
ly suffocated with the violence of his passion.
Since the young recruit had been anxious to
obtain Gideon's weary post, there could be no
doubt what was his purpose. There, and in
the silence of the night, he would be able, un
der Mildred's window, to pour into her ear
those words of love which he dared not open
ly profess. It was true, then, that Mildred
had bid him try to obtain the post of sentinel
in the inner court. That was their hour of
rendezvous. Furious jealousy, joined to rage
at losing that post, on which his father's whole
fate depended, contributed to torture his miud.
Not only would his detested rival fiud a favor
able opportunity of-holding converse with that
faithless girl, but he wonid be there to pre
vent his father's escape—he, of all others—he,
that fierce and violent republican, that deter
mined enemy of all adherents to the royal
cause. If the vision of Maywood interchang
ing soft words with Mildred at her window
tormented the unhappy lover, far more agou
izing were the feelings that represented to him
the stem youug sentinel raising his musket up
on his shoulder to arrest the escape of the old
uiau—shooting him, perhaps, iu his descent
from the tower window.—bringing him bleed
ing to the earth. Horror 1 Couvulsed with
these accumulated feelings, he stood for a
time speechless, struggling with his passions.
When he looked again upon Maywood's face,
that hated individual's eyes were bent on him
with a stern but inquiring glance, and iu evi
dent discomposure. This very look was suffi
cient to confirm all the young lover's suspicions,
aud it was with the greatest difficulty that lie
could control his passion, lie mastered him
self, however, sufficiently to meet the glance of
Maywood without giving vent to his wrath,
, and turning to Gideon, he called him side.
The indolent soldier evidently rose unwill
ingly, but he followed Gerald to a little dis
; tauce, grumbling something about an "inter
ruption to the inward outpourings of the spirit."
" Hark ye, Master Gideon," said Gerald,
wheu they had got to some distance from Mark,
" you must not do mc wrong iu this. I own
that my request is not wholly disinterested.—
You know that I love our colonel's daughter,
that I am affianced to her. Iler chamber
looks into that court, and at midnight "
"Now, out ou thee. Master Lyle," drawled
Godlamb, with an hypocritical upturning of
his eyes. " Wouldst thou make my watch a
pretext for ungodly chambering and profane
love passages ? '
" How now, fellow !" exclaimed the young
man in wrath. " What mean you by this
insolence ?" and he gra>ped Gideon's collar
with violence. But immediately afterwards
repenting of his excitement, he continued with
a calm tone, although still in some irritation,
" This is mere fooling, Gideon. I know you
as you are —1 know you to be a thorough hyp
ocrite."
" Nay, but of a truth"—exclaimed the pa
cific God'amb, very sulkily.
"Hear me," interrupted Gerald. "It is
not a> you think—that Maywood loves her
too. He also would keep the watch at mid
night, in the hope to see her at the window—
by chance, man, by chance—no otherwise ;
but I would hinder this, aud
" Nay, but Master Maywood hath my word,'
again begau Gideon.
" Nay, but Master Gideon slept whilom
npou his po.-t," continued Gerald, mimicking
i him. "And if Master Gideon be reported to
his colonel, Master Gideou will have a week's
arrest upon bread and water ; but Master
Gideou may do what he listotb."
" For the love of heaven, exclaimed Gideon,
forgetting his Puritanical mask in his alarm ;
" you would not report me, comrade 1—
| S'wonnds, you would uot serve a poor fellow
[ so scurvy a trick ?*'
" Upon one condition, then/' replied Ger- (
aid. " Retract your word to that man ; give j
me up your post at midnight ; aud I will be I
j as sileut as the grave."
I " Lord have mcrey upon ns ! Thou art as
the cruel taskmasters of the children of Is
rael ; and thy heart is hardeued even as was
rharaoh's," whined Godlamb, again resuming
! his cautiug tone. "But be it ever as thou
wilt." ~
Gerald triumphed ; the midnight watch
was his ; and with it his father's safety aud
his father's blessing.
They returned to the spot where Maywood
still stood observing them, Gideon following i
| iu the rear, muttering something about " the
! baud of the ungodly beiug upon him."
" Speak, Gideou, said Gerald as they ap
■ peared, and thank your comrade here for his
; kindly proffered barter of hours ; since it is I
who take your post, you will uot need his well- j
meant and disinterested civilities."
There was something of a sneer on Gerald's '
lip as he pronounced tiiesc words, which prob- i
ably augmented the feelings cf auger that
now evidently flushed the usually cold face of
Maywood and darkened his brow ; for the
latter appeared to tremble with suppressed
passion as he advanced upon his rival with
the words—
" How now, you Master-wbat's-your name ?
What warrants you to interfere thus ill-advis-
I cdly in my concerns ? If this man has given
up "to me, at the midnight hour, the watch
over that offshoot of a rotten and corrnpted
stem of tyranny, is it for you to stand between
me and my purpose ?"
" Your purpose is doubtless of the best and
truest, and worthie-t," replied Gerald, with
another flickering surer upon his lip. " But,
this watch is mine now, by Master Gideon's
consent, aud these hours of the night I iuteud
to devote to the wateffiug of those whose se
curity may need my care."
Mark Maywood bit his lip, and clenched his
hauds together iu a vaia effort to suppress his
violent irritation.
" Hoity ! toity ! Here's a coil about an old .
inveterate Amalekite !" said Gideon, in a mix
ture of his natural aud assumed phraseology,
prudently withdrawing at the same time to
some distance from the angry young men, as if
afraid lest au appeal to himself should involve
him in the quarrel.
" Hark ye, sirrah," cried Maywood angrily,
"I am not about to resign the right this man
has yielded to me, at the caprice of the first
foolish fellow who chooses to cross my path
without making him repent his uncalled-for
interference. What is it to me, this post ! but
browbeaten by a bullying boy, I never will be."
" Nor will I yield to a base and treacher
ous hypocrite like thee, Mark Maywood," ex
claimed his angry antagonist.
The hands of both the youug men were in
stantly upon their rapiers.
" By the mass, what are ye about ?" excla
imed Gideou in alarm. "Trifle not with the
carnal weapon ! Would ye have us all in ar
rest before we can look abont us ? Forbear,
men of wrath I"
But the phlegmatic Gideon kept at a pru
dent distance.
At these words other considerations appear
ed suddeuly to strike both the young meu. In
spite of their passiou both paused irresolute.
Gerald reflected that were he involved iu a
quarrel he would necessarily be prevented in
any case whether victorious over his adversary
aud then consigned to prison, or himself disa
bled, from forwarding his father's escape. His
rival appeared actuated also by prudential
motives, perhaps by the conscientious scruples
of the party to which he belonged, perhaps by
the thought of Mildred.
" This is truly milling and brawling like
tavern haunters and drunkards," stammered
Gerald, as if seeking an excuse of withdraw
ing from the fray. " But the time will come,
Mark Maywood, when you shall not escape
me."
" So be it, comrade," replied the other,again
sheathing his half drawn rapier. " I know
you not, and can but barely divine your cause
of enmity. But I will not fail you at the night
time. Till then let this suffice. The midnight
watch is mine—mine by the first consent of
yonder soldier to my proposal of exchange."
" No ! mine," again urged Gerald, " mine
by his retraction of his prior eonsent, if such
he gave."
" Come hither, comrade," cried Maywood
to Gideon, who was-suddenly absorbed once
more in his devotions.
" Hear ye, Master Godlamb," said the oth
er. But Go-to-bed Godlamb stirred not. He
shrank from the appeal to himself.
"It is to me your post ha 3 been consigned,
is it not so ?" inquired the one.
"It is I who take it off your hands—speak,"
cried Gerald. "Remember, Gideon!" he
added, with upraised finger.
" Speak, who is it ?" said both at once.—
Gideou shuffled with his feet, and looked heav
ier and more embarrassed than ever ;but as he
caught sight of the warning finger, he absolut
ely shut his eyes in utter despair, and pointing
to Gerald, with the words, " Verily, and of a
truth, thou art the mau," he hasteued away as
fust as his indolent nature would permit, " be
fore he should full into the toils of the angry
Philistines," as he expressed it.
Gerald could not suppress a look of triumph.
Whatever were Mark Maywood's feelings, he ,
only expressed them by a dark scowl of disap
pointment, and then turned away without
another word.
CHAPTER IV.
" ' What hour now
• I think it lacks of twelve,'
' No, it is struck—'
' Indeed, I hcanl is not."'' ■ •
Ham ?f t.
The night had closed in—that night of so
vital au importance to his father's destiny—
and Gerald sat alone iu a small lower room,
his heart beating high with hope,that he should
contribute to his father's rescue.
He was lost iu thought, when a firm hand
laid on his shoulder roused him from his ab
stracted state. He turued his head and saw,
to Lis surprise, Mark Maywood by his side.—
The yourig maa wore a calmer, clearer brow,
ulth' uh his usual cold, stern, almost determin
-1 ed expression stiil pervaded it.
" Comrade," said Maywood with much ap
pearance of frankness in his manner. "I have
spoken you roughly without cause ; I crave
! yonr pardou."
Gerald heard this unexpected address with
great astonishment ; and before he answered,
paused iu much embarrassment.
" Let us be frank," continued Mark. " Had
we been so before, much ill will aud evil blood
might have been spared. I have only divined
your feelings from my own. You have not
seen the pretty daughter of our Colonel with
out admiration. Nor Lave I."
Gerald started with agaiu wrath, but his
rival interrupted him.
" Bear with me for a while," he continued, j
" and hear me out. You have been here long. ;
lam but a new comer. You have the prior i
claim. Perhaps she returns your love. Had
I known of this before—and as it is I have but
guessed it, on witnessing yonr anxiety to bold
this watch iu the court, beneath her window— j
I bad withdrawn, as is my duty. And now,
| comrade, I return to offer you the sacrifice of
my newborn admiration, and at the same time
; my friendship."
| " What yon say seems fair and straightfor
ward, Master Maywood," said Gerald, over
' eome by the frank manner of the young sol
dier, "and I thank for this generosity it truth
My suspicions, than, did not deceive me?—
You love her, aud yon sought to see her to
night ?"
" I did," said Maywood.
" And she—did she return yonr love ? Did
she herself accede to this meetiug ?"
Mark shook his head with a faint, doubtful
smile, bat gave no answer. Gerald's brow
again grew gloomy, and he sank his head be
tween his hands.
" Come ! come ! no more of this," pursued
the otaer young soldier, with a cordiality of
manner which Gerald had never before witnes-1
! sed in his dark, stern aspect. " Let all be j
forgiven and forgotten. Come, pledge me in
this one cop. These drinkings of toasts, as it
is called, these plodgings over liquor are con
sidered unseemly, aud even ungodly by many j
I know it well, but you caDnot refuse to drink
one cup with me, as earnest of oor kindly feel
ing for the future."
For the first time Gerald now observed that
Maywood bore uuder bis arm a flagon of ale,
and held in his left hand two caps of horn.
" I reject not your kindly feeling," answer
ed Gerald ; " but I am not wont to drink,"
and he repelled the cup which Maywo6d now
filled for him.
" Nay, nay I" said Mark, sitting down by
the table on which Gerald leant. " You wrong
me by refusing this first offer of reconciliation.
Come, comrade, this one."
Gerald took the cop of ale unwillingly, and
only raised it to his lips. Bnt Maywood shook
his head at him—aud Gerald, in compliance
with his newly-made friend's request, at last
swallowed the contents.
" I am not used to these strong drinks,"
said Gerald, setting down the horn with evi
dent distaste. " 1 like tbem not ; but I have
done this to show my willingness to meet you
on friendly ground."
Maywood raised, in turn, his enp, but at
the same moment calliog to a dog that had
followed him into the room, he said, " Down,
Roger, down," and stooped to repulse it;
immediately afterward he saised the horn, and
seemed to drain the ale to the last drop.
" One more, and then I will not urge you
again," said Mark to Gerald, eyeing him with
a sharp, inquiring look.
"No, no—not one," replied the young man
with disgust. " Already this unusual drink
has confused my head. lam accustomed to
water only—such was my uncle's mode of edu
cating me. It is strange how my brain turns
with this fermented liquor. I have done wrong
to driuk it," said Gerald rubbed his heavy
forehead, and strained his eyes. His powers
of vision became more and more confused, and
it was with difficulty that he could now see
before him the face of Maywood, which to his
intellect, disordered by the liquor, seemed to
wear a strange expression of cunning, and tri
umphant contempt. He made an effort, how
ever, to shake off this feeling and raise his
sinking head, but iu vain. A sensation of over
j powering drowsiness crep over him more and
more. The thought of his watch, however,
was still uppermost in his miud, and he had yet
power sufficient to reflect that there was still
some time to midnight, and that a little slurab
er might restore him ; and giving away to the
oppressive sleep which came over him, he laid
"bis head on the table, and was immediately
lost to all sense of u hat was passing around
him.
At first Gerald's sleep was heavy and com
plete. llow loDg it remained so, he had no
power to tell. At length, however, it became
lighter, aud grew more troubled aud coufused.
Wild dreams began to course each other
through his brain, at first of an indefinable aud
fantastic nature—then they assumed a more
defiuite shape. He dreamed of his fath—that
old, Grayheaded cavalier, with his long white
beard—aud before him stood Lazarus Seaman
who accused him of absurd aud imaginary cri
mes. And now tbey brought him into that
opeu court a file of soldiers were drawn up—
| their muskets were levelled at the old man's
heart—Gerald struggled, and sought to spring
between those deadly instruments and his doom
ed father, but his feet clove to theground—he
struggled in vain—the mu-kets were discharg
ed, and his father fell weltering in his blood
With the last struggle of a convulsive uight
mare, he started up, uttering a loud scream
It was bnt a frightful dream. And yet the
noise of those fearful muskets—that discharge
of artillery—still rang iu his ears. As he
opened his eyes, all was dark around him—
the darkness of deep night. It was ioug be
fore he couid sufficiently recover his senses to
remember what had passed ; and when slowly
the events of the day forced themselves upon
his mind, his intellects seemed still confused
and troubled. How strangely real now ap
peared the impressions of that dream ! It was
with difficulty he could persuade himself that
the firing had been imaginary ; and even now j
there seemed a strange confusion of noise and
voices around him ; but that surely, was the :
ringing in his head from the unusual draught
be had taken.
Slowly his whole memory returned to him, j
and he recalled to himself that it was necessary
for him to be ready to answer for Godlamb
Gideou when that worthy's name was to be
caded over for the midDight watch. lie stag
gered up nuto bis feet, and with difficulty found
his way into the open air. As he gazed, with
somewhat troubled brain, on the bright starlit
sky, two or three soldiers hurried past him.
" Hark ye, comrade," he said to one, "how
long is it yet to midnight f"
j " Midnight ! where have you been hiding
yourself, comrade ?" answered the man. "Mid
; night is long since past."
j " Long since past !" screamed GeralJ with
frantic violence. "No!no !it is impossible
—my post was at midnight in the tower
court"
" Then you have escaped by wonderful in
terposition, friend, from the consequences of
yonr nonseusc ; for I was there when the names
were called, and 1 present' was answered for
the sentinel at the tower court."
" Father of mercy 1" cried Gerald, in des
pair. " What, then, has happened ?"
" Happened !" echoed the soldier ; " why,
the prisoner has tried to escape ! But didu't
you hear the shots ? They bronght the old re
probate to the earth, of a surety."
Gerald uttered a loug groan, and fell against
the wall of the house ; but in another moment
he recovered himself by a desperate effort from
a feeling of sickness and death, and repulsing
violeutly the soldier who bad come to bis as
sistance. he rushed round the mansion with
whirling brain and clenched teeth toward the
i tower court. His father had been killed—
killed by his own folly. Rage, despair, con
trition, self-horror at having been so weak as
to accept Maywood's proposal to driDk that
I fatal drink which caused his deadly sleep, all
j tortured his heart, and drove him"almost to
i madness. He could not doubt that it was
that bated Maywood who had deceived him,
' drugged his lkyior, cheated him into a sleeypu
VOL. XX. —NO. SO.
order to be present undisturbed at his rendez
vous with Mildred ; and now it was by his
hand, by the hand of that villaiu, that his
father had fallen.
All was commotion in the fortress. Gerald
as he rushed forward, heard the noise of voices
and boats upon the water—the voice of Laz
arus Seaman—now the men calling to each
other. Horror stricken, overwhelmed with
despair, convulsed with passion, he bounded
through the vaulted passage. In the BJOODIU
court stood now but one figure alouc—the sen
tinel, who was bendiug over the parapet, and
seemed to be watching with interest the move
ment of the boats upon the water. With the
rage of a tiger, Gerald sprang upon him, and
seized him by the collar with frenzied rage. It
was indeed May wood—pale, agitated aad ex
cited.
"Villain! traitor! assassin !"screamed
Gerald madly frantic with passion and des
pair, "you have betrayed that grey-headed old
man ; you have murdered him ; but I will havo
revenge ! lie was my father, and it is you Lava
killed kim."
" Your father !" exclaimed the young senti
nel in a voice choked by emotion. "He was
mine, and 1 have saved him."
Gerald released his hold and staggered back
For a moment the young men stared at each
other in bewildered surprise. Then all at once
the truth flushed across them.
" Brother ! brother 1" burst simultaneously
from their lips. " Gerald ! Everard " they ex
claimed again ; and Everard Ciynton, flinging
himself into his brother's arms, gave way to
i his suppressed agitation, and burst into a flood
|of tears. At this moment a distant sound of
' a gun came across the water ; Everard sprang
up and grasped his brother's arm.
" Hush !" he said, " three shots from the
sea are the signal to me that he has escaped
in safety to the vessel that awaits him."
Another boomed faintly across the broad.
A pause of fearful interest followed, and thetf
auother. Ouce more the brothers fell into
each others arms.
In a few words Everard Clynton explained
to his brother, how, after his father's capture,
he had enlisted in the troop quartered in the
fortress, in order to save him. How lie had
known from their friends without the means
provided to effect his father's escape ; how he,
too, had sought, with desperation, the mid
night watch upon which depended his father's
delivery ; and, finding himself overcome by
bis supposed rival, he had administered to him
a sleeping draught in order to secure the post;
how his preteuded admiration for Mistress
Mildred had been assumed in order to forward
his views, and color his designs, by giving a
pretext to his desire to obtain the post of sen
try in the court ; how Mildred had never giv
en him any encouragement, Geralds unreason
able jealousy having supplied the rest.
lie bad assisted his father to escape, and
only long after his flight had given the alarm,
and fired upon the water, pretending to call
for a sudden pursuit.
Mark Maywood, however, was tried by a
court-martial for negligence upon duty on the
night of the prisoner's escape ; but the con
stantly exhibited violence of the Republican
principles which he had affcetod, as well as his
zeal and exemplary good conduct since he Lad
joined the troop, saved him in the Colonels,
eyes. lie was acquitted. Shortly afterwards
hit disappeared altogether from the fortress,
after au affectionate farewell to Gerald Clyu
ton, who had the good fortune to receive, in
due time, the assurance of bis brother's safe
escape to join his father in Flanders.
Not long afterwards, the death of Colonel
Lazarus Seaman learing his daughter au or
phan, Gerald Clynton married pretty littlo
Mistress Mildred, and, quitting the service,
retired to Lyle-Court, the estate bequeathed
to him by his ancle.
There is no doubt that pretty little Mis
tress Mildred's eyes were given to be coquet
i tish in spite of themselves ; but yet, notwith
standing sundry little symptoms of jealousy
j exhibited by Gerald, there is every reason to
believe that he was as absurd and misled in
his jealousy after as he was before his marriage,
and that she made him a most excellent wife.
I During the more peaceful times of the Pro
■ tectorute, Gerald received news from time to
time of the welfare of his father aud his
brother ; and, upon the Restoration, he had
the happiness of welcoming them to the Eng
lish shores once more.
Although Lord Clynton always preserved
a predilection for his elder son, yet he had
somehow found out that Gerald bore an extra
ordinary resemblance to bis deceased mother,
and always treated him with the utmost love,
lie never forgot, .also, the deep affection Ger
ald bad displayed in his efforts to save him
daring that never-to-be-forgotten Jlid night
Watch. *
LFT THE CHILDREN SLEEP. —We earnestly
advise that all who think a great deal, who
have infirm health, who are in trouble, or who
have to work hard, take all the sleep they can
get, without medical means.
We cantion parents, particularly, not to til
low their children to be waked up of mornings,
let nature wake tbem up, she will not do it
prematurely ; but have a care that they go to
bed at an early hour ; let it be earlier and ear
lier, uutil it is found that tbey wake up them
selves in full time to dress for breakfast. Being
waked up early, and allowed to engage in diffi
cult, or auy studies, late and just before retir
ing, has given many a beautiful aud promising
child brain fever, -or determined ordinary ail
ments to the production of water on the braiD.
Let parents make every possible effort to havo
their children go to sleep in a pleasant humor.
Never scold or give lectures, or iu any way
wouud a child's feelings as it goes to bed. Let
all banish business and every worldly care at
bed-time, and let slsepcome to a mind at peace
with God and all the world.
t&* Of that time which we call the present,
there : .s not an appreciable part belongs either
to a past which has fled, or to a future which
is still on the wfug ; it has perished, or it is,
not born ; it was, or it ii not.