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I< Hi PRINTING of every kind in Plain and Fan ,.,l!ors, done with neatness and dispatch. Hand- IJ- Blanks, Cards, Pamphlets, Ac., of every va- U and style, printed at the shortest notice. The , ,J;TEK OFFICE has just been re-litted with Power and every thing in the Printing line can , xeeuted in the most artistic manner and at the rates. TERMS INVARIABLY CASH. -idtvUd IVtnj. MARCHING HOME. • The orders for the return of our troops have ulv gone forth and the columns are beginning 1,1 move." \V. are marching home at last, Now the cruel war is past, And the time of peace draws near : We are marching home at last, NOW the cruel war is past, To the homes our hearts hold dear. With our banners stained and torn. That through uiauy a tight were borne. Where death rained thick and fast, Now our glorious work is done, Now the Union cause is won, We are marching home at last. Marching home to those we love, See the veteran columns move, Hear the drums and shrill lifes play. Hear our voices raised in song \s we proudly march along On our homeward way! With our trusty arms we come, I o the sound- of file and drum, Now the cruel war is past ; Light of heart and glad are we, Having served the cause, to be .Marching home at last. All day long we march till night, TLN n beside the camp-fire's light, t'mlerneath the starry dome, It is sweet to close our eyes, While the night-wind softly sighs, On our march toward home ; AMI in sleep to dream we hear Friendly voices sounding near, Bidding welcome as we come, 1 ill at length the morning breaks, And the happy dreamer wakes. To tin beating of the drum. I'lien once more upon the way, March we on at dawn of day, Now the cruel war is past ; Light at heart and glad are we, ; laving proved the Right, to be Marching home at last. Sad*. MISS PRECIOSA'S PRINCIPLES, iu the must precise of country villages, ia i' • primmest mansion ever built, dwelt tin- must precise maiden ever horn, Miss I'rt i in.sa Lockwood. Even in that serious I. \\ ii, where laughter was reckoned one of tin smaller sins, and the family in whose dwelling lights were seen burning after ten •'cluck were considered dissapated, there was a current juke regarding Lockwood 1 uttage, which giddy girls had dubbed The \ unnery," and some even went so far us to call Miss Preeiosa the " Lady Su [ici'iur." Certainly convent walls never closed themselves more grimly against mankind, gentle and simple, old and young. What • a many an excellent spinster has been an affectation was genuine with Miss Pre- Ci< Lung ago a pretty little cousin, who had been her confident and companion, had be cuutc acquainted with a rascal with a hand some face and a serpent's soul, and had eloped with him. They heard of her wear ing velvet and diamonds, but no wedding ring, and driving about New Orleans in a handsome carriage, wondered at and ad . mired tor her beauty and shunned for her ; 'in Ami, at last, after a long silence 1 ahoid her doings, a faded thing in rags came creeping at night to Miss Preciosa's cottage, begging for God's sake that she w mid let her in to die. Miss Preeiosa did (he reverse of what most women do. She gave a sister's hand to the poor victim — nursed her until she died, and buried her lucent ly, and thenceforth shut her spinster uiie to man. She was barely twenty seven, and lar from plain, but she argued ihus: Something in a stove-pipe hat and •"iots has wrought this ill—all who wear those habiliments must be tabooed. She kept her resolution. Prom the poor house she selected a small servant-maid, not yet old enough to think of "followers." As cook she kept a hideous old female, too far advanced in years to remember them, lite milk was brought by a German wo man The butcher's wife, by request, fought in the joints. Even a woman cut t'ae grass in the garden when it was too mug, and if man approached the gates an ant Deborah, the cook was sent forth to parly with and obstruct his approach. Having thus made things safe, Miss Pre* ■ansa went to New York and brought home dead sister's daughter, who had hitherto ' ceu iniinurred in u boarding-school, and - a arrangements were complete. Miss Lockwood took her niece to church, ds" to weekly meetings. They spent after* funis out with widow ladies with no grown up-nuns, or with spinsters who resided in S"litary state. La- old laity kept an Argus eye upon her "'filing niece, and bold indeed would ave been the man who dared to address Her. L j r her part, Miss Bella Bloom was an anii-hypocrite. She had learned that at here ingenuity is exhaus ' * iu deceiving the authorities, and doing .'.'"•D's exactly what is most forbidden.— fin Uh Kirn came to Lockwood Cottage 1" fleetly competent to hoodwink her aunt, did it. Preeiosa blessed her stars I,lt hi-r nieee waa well principled. She .''i llu '"- She wondered how any young I ' """hi walk and talk and ho sociable | l: "lid marry them And when she '"gut that stie lived in a home where | ■' > could not intrude, how thankful she Aunt Preeiosa could never guess. E. O. CiOODBICH, Publisher. VOLUME XX Y. And all the while Bella was dialing in wardly at her restraint, envying girls who had pleasant little flirtations at will, and keeping up a private correspondence with a certain " Dear George," who sent his let ters under cover to the butcher's wife, who | brought them in with the beef and mutton, and said, "Bless ye, nature will be nature for all old maids ; and I was a gal myself oust afore Cleaver courted me." Dear George was desperate. He could not live without seeing his Bella, lie wrote bitter things about spinster aunts. He al luded feelingly to those rendezvous in the back garden of the seminary, with Miss Clover standing sentry at the gate on the look-out for a governess and enemy. The first opportunity he was coming to Plain acres, and intended to see his Bella or die. Was he not twenty-three and she seventeen? Were they to waste their lives at a spin i ster's bidding ? No. Miss Preeiosa, with her Argus-eyed watchfulness, sat calmly hour by hour two inches from the locked drawer of a cabinet which contained the gentleman's letters, ; and dined from meats which had been the means of conveying them across the thres i hold, inculcating her principles into the minds of lur neiee and handmaiden, the latter of whom grinned behind her lady's chair without reseive. Charity Pratt, hav ing grown to besixteen, also had her se -1 cret. It was the apothecary's boy who, in his own peculiar fashion, had expressed ad ! miration at church by staring, i A few days after, Dr. Green, the bach i elor minister, called at the cottage. I)e --: borah went out to huff and snap, and was ; subdued by the big eyes. She came in. " Miss," said she, " the clergyman is out | there." " Where ?" gasped Preeiosa. "In the garden, Miss, wantin' you." "Me ! You said, of course, 1 was out?" " No, Miss. Every body receives their ! pastor." Bo the pastor was ushered in. He con versed of church affairs. Miss Preeiosa : answered by polite monosylables. Bella : smiled and stitched. Deborah sat 011 a hall chair 011 guard. Finally the best spec imen of that bad creature, man, was got i out of the house safely, and the ladies I looked at each other as those might who i had been closeted with a polar bear and j escaped unharmed. | " He's gone, aunty, " said the hypocrite. " Thank goodness !" said sincere Pre eiosa. " 1 thought I should have fainted. Never let it happen again, Deborah. Re member I'm always engaged. ; "But he seems a nice, well-spoken,good j behaved kind of a gentleman, " said Debo rah. " And a clergyman. " "So he does," said Preeiosa. "But ap perances are deciteful, I once knew a clergyman—" " Yes, Miss." " A Doctor of Divinity, Bella—" " Yes, aunt." " Ah ! who— who—" "Well?" " Who kitted a young lady of his congre gation in her father's garden." " Oh ! aunt !" "He afterwards married her. But T never could visit her or like him." " Bless you, 110," said Deborah. " Now the best thing you can do is to have a cup of strong green tea and something nourish ing to keep your sperits up. Cleaver's wife has just fetched oysters in. " (Private sig nal to Bella.) " lias she ? Oh,l so love oysters ! "cried Bella, and ran to get dear George's last. It was a brief one, and in it George vow ed to appear at the cottage when they least expected him and demand his betrothed. That evening, at dusk, Miss Preeiosa walked iu the garden alone. She was thinking of a pair of romantic big eyes, of a soft voice and a softer hand which she had been surprised into allowing to shake hers. " It's a pity men are so wicked ! " said she, and sighed. Although she was near thirty she looked very pretty as she walked in the moonlight, forgetting to put 011 prim airs and graces and to stiffen herself. Her figure was much like her niece Bella's, so much so that some one 011 the other side of the convent-like wall, with eyes upon a lev el with its upper stones,fancied it was that young lady. Under this belief he clamber ed up, stood at the top, and whispered, " My dearest look up, your best beloved is here ; behold your George ! " And Preeiosa, lifted her eyes, beheld a man on her wall, flung her hands in the air, and uttered a shriek like that of an enraged peacock. The gentleman discovered his mistake, endeavored to retreat, stumbled and fell headlong among flower pots and boxes,and lay there quite motionless. The shriek and the clatter aroused the house. Deborah, Bella, and Charity Pratt rushed to the scene, and found a gentleman in a sad plight, bloody and senseless, and Miss Preeiosa half dead with terror. Bella, recognized dear George, fainted in | good earnest. Preeiosa, encouraged by numbers, addressed the prostrate youth, " Get up,young man,and go ; your wick edness has been perhaps sufficiently pun ished. Please go. " " lie can t ; he's dead, " said Deborah. Uh, what a sudden judgement ! You're | sure he's dead ? " Yes, Miss." " Then take him into the house and call the doctor. " They laid him on the bed and medical ; aid came ; the poor fellow had broken a leg. " He'd get well. Oh yes. but lie couldn't lie moved." Miss Preeiosa could not murder a fellow creature, and she acquiesced. " He can't run oft' with the spoons until his leg is better," said Deborah. " He isn't able to elope with any one," ; said Miss Preeiosa; "and we should be , gentle with the erring. Who shall we find to nurse him. "Old Todds is competent, Miss," said Deborah. " Yes. Do send for that old person," said j the lady. And old Todds came, lie of course dwelt in the house. The doctor came every day. The apothecary's hoy invaded the hall with medicines ; and finally, when the young man came to his senses, he desired earnest ly to see his friend Dr. Green. "Our clergyman his friend," said Pre eiosa. "He must have been misled then ; j surely his general conduct must be proper. TO WANDA, BRADFORD POINTY, I'A., MAY 25, 1865. . Perhaps this is the first time he ever looked over a wall to make love to a lady. By all means send for I)r. Green. Thus the nunnery was a nunnery 110 more. Two men under the roof. Three visiting it daily ! What was the world coming to ? Miss Preeiosa darred not think. Bella was locked in her own room in the most deco rous manner while her aunt was in the house, but when she was absent Deborah and Charity sympathized and abetted, and she read and talked deliciously to dear George, lying 011 his back with his hand some face so pale, and his spirits so low, poor fellow ! Troubles always come together. Thnt evening Miss Preeiosa received information ! that legal a flairs connected with her prop [ erty, which was considerable, demanded her presence in New York and left the es tablishment, which never before so much needed its Lady Superior. She returned after three days toward evening, no one expecting her. "1 shall give them a pleas- I ant surprise," she thought, and slipped in the kitchen-way. There a candle burned, and 011 one chair sal two people—Cliairity Pratt anu the drugist's boy. He had his arm about her waist. Miss Preeiosa grasped the door frame and shook from head to foot. "I'll go to Deborah,"she said. "She can speak to that misguided girl better than I." She falter ed forward. Deborah was in the back area scouring tea-knives. Beside her stood old Todds. the nurse. They were talking. "Since my old woman died," said Todds, "I hain't seen nobody scour like you—and the pies you does make." "They ain't better than other folks," said Deborah, grimly coquettish. "They air," said Todds; and, to Miss Preciosa's horror, he followed up the com pliment by asking for a kiss. Miss Preeiosa struggled with hysterics and tied parlorward. Alas ! a liuinnur of sweet voices. She peeped in. Through the window swept the fragrance of honey suckle. Moonlight mingled with that of the shaded lamp. Bella leaned over an easy-chair in which reclined George Love boy. This time Preeiosa was petrefied. " Dearest Bella,"said George. " My own," said llolla. " How happy w;e are !" " Uh, to happy!" "And when shall we be together again ? You know I must go. YAur aunt won't have me here, Bella. I must tell her.— Why are you afraid of her?" "She's to prim and good, dear soul," said Bella. "Ah! you don't love me as I do you." "George!" "You don't. Would I let an aunt stand between us ?" "Oh, George, you know I've told you that nothing could change me. Why, if you had staid lame, and had to walk 011 crutches all your life, it would have made 110 difference, though I fell iu love with you for your walk. 1 don't deny it." "And I," said George, "would have al most been content had fate willed that I should be a cripple to have been so cher ished, to have reposed 011 so faithful a bos om." "Uh, oh, oh, !" from the doorway checked the speech. Those last awful words had well-nigh killed Miss Preeiosa Lockwood. Hysterics supervened, and in their midst a gentleman was announced. The Rev. Pe ter Green. "Show him in," said Preeiosa. "I need counsel. Perhaps he may give it." And for the first time iu her life she hailed the entrance of "a man." Mr. Loveboy left the room as stealthily and speedily as possible. Miss Bella fol lowed him. Cliairity was in the pantry hiding her head, and Deborah returned to the cellar. Alone the Lady Superior received the Rev. Peter Green. She faltered and blush ed. "You are, 1 persume, already aware of the fact that I am much disturbed in mind," she said. "Yes, Madam. That is perceptible." "You are my spiritual adviser, Sir. To you, though a man, I turn for advice," and she-shed a tear or two. "My own house hold has turned against me " And she told him all. The llev. Peter made big eyes at her, and broke the truth gently. "My dear Madam, you do not know that old Jonathan Todds and your faithful De borah intend to unite their fortunes in the bands of holy wedlock next Sabath?" "Know it! Uh the old, old sinners! Are they in their dotage!" '•'Or that Cliairity Pratt, who seems a likely' sort of girl, has promised to give her hand to Zeddock Saltz on Thursday?" "Oh, Doctor Green! What do I hear?" "The truth, Madam. Can you hear more?" "I hope so." "Then it is time that you should be in formed that Miss Bella Bloom and Mr. George Loveboy have been engaged a year. They have corresponded regularly. It was to see her he climed the garden wall and j met with his accident Don't give way, Madam—don't." "You're very kind," said Miss Preeiosa ; "but it is awful! What would you advise?" "1 should say: Allow Todds and Deborah to marry next Sunday." "Yes, Sir." "And Cliairity and Zeddock on the day they have fixed. And I should sanction the betrothal of your niece and Mr. Love boy, and allow me to unite them at some appointed day before the altar." "My own niece!" said Miss Preeiosa. "Uh! my own niece!" "Do you so seriously object to weddings?" asked the pastor. "N-no," said Preeiosa. "It's this awful courting I dislike." "1 agree with you," said the pastor "I have resolved, when 1 marry, to come to the point at once. Miss Preeiosa, the Parsonage needs a mistress. 1 know of 110 lady 1 admire and esteem as I do you. Will you make me happy? will you be my wife?" Preeiosa said nothing. Her cheeks burn ed ; her lids drooped. He came a little closer. He made bigger eyes at her than ever. At last his lips approached and touched her cheek, and still she said noth ing. In such a case "speech is silver, but si lence is gold." Deborah was married 011 Sunday, being her fortieth birthday. Charity on Tuesday. Miss Bloom gave her hand to George Love REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER. buy in a month ; and on the same day a brother clergyman united Freciosa and the Rev. Peter Green. And the Nunnery was broken up forever. REMEMBER ME.— There are not two other words in the language that can recall a more fruitful train of past remembrances of friendship than these. Look through your library, and when yon cast your eyes upon a volume that contains the name of an old 'companion, it will see, Hnnemher me. Have you an ancient album, the re pository of mementos of early affection ? Turn over its leaves, stained by the finger of time—sit down and ponder upon the names enrolled on them—each speak, each says Remember me. Go into the crowded churchyard, among the marble tombs, read the simple and brief inscriptions that per petuate the memory of departed ones ; they too have a voice that speaks to the heart of the living, aud says, Remember me.— Walk in the scenes of early rambles ; the well-known paths of the winning streams, the overspread trees, the green and gently sloping banks, recall the dreams of juve nile pleasure, and the recollections of youth ful companions ; they too bear the treas ured injunction, Remember me. And this is all that is left of the wide circle of our earthly friends. Scattered by fortune, or called away by death, or thrown without our rank by the changes of circumstances or .of character—in time we find ourselves left alone with the recollection of what they were. THE MAN OE INTEGRITY.— We love to gaze upon some beautiful planet in the heavens, and watch its course every night as in ma jesty it travels on among the stars. We are filled with admiration ; and like our selves thousands are gazing on the same I planet, filled with inexpressable emotions. Like a planet in a dark sky is a man uf | unbending integrity. We look upon him ; with the same feeling of love and admira tion, as we watch his daily course among his fellow men. In troubled times his light I goes not out, though it may burn feebly. He still exerts the same glorious influence, and hundreds gaze upon him with delight. No seats of honor dazzle him, no wealth se duces him. He pushes straight onward iu the path of duty. The fear of God is con tinually before him, aud he feels the impor tance of every moment's work to lead man kind tu the fountain of truth and purity. Behold the man thus filled with true love to God and his fellow creatures ! Every act tells nobly for the cause, justice and hu manity. Every deed is a living epistle to the truth. Would you share in his glory? Labor in the same field. Would you lessen the toils of humanity, and assist immortal be ings to reach the skies ? Imitate his ex ample, and walk iu the same virtuous path. THE EFFECT OF VIRTUE.— It is a peculiar effect of virtue to make a man's chief hap piness arise from himself aud his own com duct. A had man is wholly the creature of the world. He hangs upon favor, lives by its smiles, and is happy or miserable, in proportion to his success. But as to a vir tuous man, success in worldly undertakings is but a secondary object. To discharge his own part with integrity and honor, is his chief aim. If he has done properly what was incumbent on him to do, his miml is at rest ; to Providence he leaves the event, His witness is in heaven, and his record is on high, satisfied with the appro bation of God, and the testimony of a good conscious, he enjoys himself, aud despises the triumphs of guilt. In proportion as such manly principles rule your heart, you will become independent of the world, and will forbear complaining of its discourage ments. It is the imperfection of your vir tue which occasions you to he weary in well doing. It is because your heart re mains divided between God and the world, that you are so often discontented—partly seeking your happiness from something that is repugnant to your duty. Study to be more consistent in principle, and more uniform in practice, and your peace will be more unbroken. MEDITATION. — Go to the grave of buried love and meditate. There settle accounts witii thy concience fur every past benefit unrequitted—every past endearment unre garded, of that departed being who can never—never —never return to be soothed by thy contrition! If thou art a child and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affection ate parent ; il thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt oue moment of thy kindness or truth ; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee ; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold beneath thy feet—then be sure that every unkind look every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul —then be sure that you will lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard-groan, and pour the unavailing tear —more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing.— BWt ington Irving. THE CHANCES OF LIFE. — There are many griefs in this world, but many good and pleasant things also. We might be happy if we would; hut we are too selfish; as ii the world was made for us alone. How much happier should we be, were we to la bor more earnestly to promote each other's happiness. God has blest us with a house ! which is not dark There is sunshine ev | erywhere—in the sky, upon the earth— there would be in most hearts if we would ! look aroud us. The storms die away, aud the bright sun shines out. Summer drops her tinted curtain upon the earth, which is very beautiful,even when autumn breathes her changing breath upon it. God reigns in Heaven. Murmur not at a creation so beautiful, who can live happier than we ( Un one occasion, at a rehersal, Weber said to the performers, " I am very sorry yen take so much trouble." " No, not at all," was the reply. " Yes," he added, " but I say yes—dat is for why you take de trouble to sing so many notes that are not in de book ?" ONE OF MANY. 1 AM sitting by the open window and looking out upon the orchard, where the trees stand laden with apple-blooms, whose delicate perfume floats in this twilight ad just as it did four years ago to-night. There is nothing changed about this edd place as I look upon its picture now.— There stands the stone-curbed well, over which the long sweep hangs, with its dan gling bucket, moss-covered, and dripping water monotonously—just as ever. There is Carlo's kennel, and Carlo himself is lying there, with his nose upon his out stretched paws, and his eyes closed lazily; precisely thus he lay as I looked out of this window four years ago this hour. I can hear Kate and Bess and Dick and Duke stamping with their iron hoofs in their sta bles in the old red barn; and over the top of that same tree that bears the golden sweets peeps the wooden weather-cock on the roof of the hay-shed. The doves have been flying in and out of their cots over the wide door for the past hour; and the sAvallows, not yet gone to sleep, are squeaking and chattering in the eaves overhead. There dangles the swing under the oak. Yonder comes Philip whistling up the road. He has changed no more in i these four years than if he were an image, instead of being, as he is, a middleaged serving-man. Every thing my eye rests on is just the same—-just the same. I wish it were not. How ••■mi the world go on so unchanged? It seems as if 1 had been dreaming, here by the window iu the sun of the warm May afternoon, and had just awakened in the falling twilight. Was it ray wedding-night this night four years ago? Y r es. There, on the bed within this room, my hoy is sleeping. Here on iny fin ger is my wedding-ring, and I kiss it, and it is as cold to my lips as his forehead was. Here are my Widow's mourning garments. lam twenty-two. I was eighteen when Frank drew me to his heart, here in this very room, aud called me his darling, his brown-eyed bride. Uh, how I loved him! You ladies who live in cities, and whose lives are crowded with events—who have loved and unloved one man after another— whose hearts were older at eighteen than mine is this day, even after all of its deep joy and sorrow—you cannot know how I loved iny husband. He was the only man I ever loved re member—the only one. My father was so stern with me that him I never dared to love. My mother died when I was little, and uiy father kept me always under his eye, permitting me no such pleasure as those that country girls generally have,and books were my best companions. There were balls at the tavern at the cross-roads in winter, luvt 1 never went to them. There were picnic parties in the woods in summer, and husking-becs in autum, and other mer ry-makings of which 1 sometimes heard, but which I never saw. Almost my only knowledge of life outside iny own home was gathered from the glimpses 1 got of the neigboi-people on Sundays at the little church where all the farmers on Moreton Heights met to worship, and still do. It was there I first saw Frank—when I was a little curly-headed girl, and he was a blue-eyed boy five years mv senior. There I saw all I ever saw of him, till I was six teen, and he was home for the college va cation. I met him then, one afternoon as I was coining home from a neighbor's house and he walked along by my side. I loved him that hour with my whole soul; and du ring the two years following I learned to find my sweetest happiness in his smile, the thrilling touch of his hand, the soft words of love he spoke to me; and at last to sink in the tremor of unutterable happi ness upon his breast when he asked me to be his wife. Can you wonder, then, that the wedding night on which he made me his was daz zling in its brilliancy to my eyes? 1 was almost intoxicated with the novelty and the joy of that scene. The great rooms of Squire Moreton's house were like those of a palace compared to the humbler home where I had been reared, and it was there we were married, for Frank wished it so. The crowding guests, the gleaming lights, the marriage ceremony, the congratulations, the whispered joy of my husband as he beut over me, and the odor of the apple blooms, pervading all, seemed like a beau tiful dream then, seem like a dream now, with the orchard's perfume alone remain ing. Do you believe me exaggerating when I say that I would have yielded up my life unmurmuring for my husband's sake ? If you do, it only shows that you have no conception of a love like that I bore for Frank It was wrong to love a man so, perhaps; but oh, I was so happy! He was my all, remember. On him I lavished the long-hoarded affection of a nature whose depths no mortal being had looked into be fore him. My heart would leap with glad ness at the sound of his voice at a distance I knew his footstep so well that I would go far beyond the gate to meet him when he was coming up the road. His kiss was heaven to my lips, and the fond glance of his blue eye would thrill my being to the core. % You may wonder that I consented to part with Frank when I loved him so. It was because I loved him as I did that I could not oppose him when he told me, his face all glowing with enthusiasm, that he wanted to raise a compauy for the war.— Then he talked so eloquently about it, his eye shone with such a lustre, and his voice had such cheer in it, as he spoke of going forth with his comrads to fight in defense of the dear old flag how could I put in my selfish protest? But I clung to his neck with silent fear in the darkness of night, when he lay fast asleep; I pictured his loved form lying wounded aud bloody on the battle-field, and 1 hid my face on my pillow, and pressed his dear cheek with my hand, softly, so as not to wake him, while I wept as if my heart would break. But in the daytime I never let him know. I tried my best to cheer him, for I knew it was the old patri otic fire that burned in his manly breast, and no tears of mine should quench it. I was always proud of Frank; he was the prince of men to me; but now I was proud er of him than ever before. I was but the bride of a summer when he marched away. The harvest was ripe, and : the leaves were browning. He kissed me I again and again as we stood under the per Annum, in Advance. porch by the door, and i smiled a cheerful smile of adieu to him, and struggled to hide from him the quivering of in} - lips. Then he walked briskly away down the garden path, passed out the gate, and waved his gilded cap to me from the road; and when he was so far Way that he could not see me weep I leaned against a pillar and gazed long after him through the blinding rain of unavailing tears. I used to get such cheering letters from my hero! He found so many amusing things to write about in his new life, and seemed to relish so well the novelty and hardihood of the camp! lie would describe to me the minutist particulars of his sur roundings, tell me what he ate and how, where he slept and how, and drew for me such photographs of the scenes in which he moved, that I soon quite lost my foolish habit of picturing him lying bleeding on cold battle-fields, alone with the watching stars and the long night. Instead of this I soon began to share his dissatisfaction at having nothing to do through the long win ter, and I looked forward to the spring with his longing vision, and learned to glo ry in my husband's strength as lie himself did, and to feel certain that all perils must yield before the power of his arm. Our boy was born that winter too, and in him ! I found an object on which to pour out the j love of my heart, and a companion to make ! the time pass away. The spring came, and in the battle of | Fair Oaks my husband was taken prisoner. They shut him up in that fearful prison in | Richmond, and murdered him by inches.— ! Long, long months rolled away. My boy | grew till lie could run about the house and play with Carlo in the yard; and every day he seemed to grow more and more like his father as he was when he went away, with his fresh, round cheeks red with bloom, and his merry blue eye and ringing laugh. Last October they brought my husband home. Oh, what a pitiful semblance of the man who waved his gilded cap to me from the road as I stood in the porch that Sep tember morning so long ago! They left him alone in the parlor to wait for me, for I had fainted at sight of him from the win dow—my darling Frank—this skeleton with shrunken limbs and ghastly, fallen | cheek and dull eyes! Could it be he ? Only when 1 entered the parlor where he sat, and beheld the clustering black hair that shaded his white forehead could I see aught of the man I had married in that May night when the odor of the apple-blooms was in the air. He looked on me so piti fully, and raised his wan hands as if to embrace me. I flew to his breast, and kiss ed liis white cheek and colorless lips with despair in my heart, for I knew he had " come home to die." "Is this my husband ?" I murmured, in a tone of awe, as I looked upon the strange, strange face. " This is what they have left you of him," said he, smiling faintly ; and I hid my face in his bosom, " Where is my boy ?" he whispered, smoothing my hair with his bony hand. I went for little Frank, and held him up while his father wrapped him in his arms. The little fellow looked into the white and bearded face with a straight, earnest gaze, and then his eyes filled with tears and his lip began to quiver ; but it was with pity, not with childish fear, for he put up his lit tle hand to his father's mouth caressingly, and said, " Papa sick !" Next day the doctor came. He sat an hour with Frank ; prescribed cheerfulness, quiet, and generous food ; instructed me in the duties of my new office as nurse, for I would have no other ; pressed Frank's hand cordially, and left the room. I fol lowed him to the door. " How long can he live ?" I asked. The doctor shook his head. " All will depend on the care you take of him, Mrs. Moreton, With such care as 1 know you will give him, he may survive a month, or even two. But I could not pro mise him a week of life, lie has had a hard time. Damn the villains ! They'd be torn to pieces like carrion if I had my way with 'em !" When I went back to Frank he asked me what the doctor said. " Don't conceal any thing from me, dear wife," said he. " There is 110 need. I have been 011 familiar terms with death for many months. lam ready to go." Then I told him, and he smiled. There was a peculiar light in his eyes as he turn ed them 011 me, and said, " Mary, I shall live till spring." It was October then. So many months of life yet ? It seemed like a priceless boon. Nearly half a year to live? Oh what a world of love should be crowded into that time ! And I believed him, too. I don't know why, but I did. The winter rolled by slowly, and he did not die. Sometimes I would feel a wild I hope that he might recover, and he would ! see it shining in my eyes, and would smile j and shake his head in answer to the un-! spoken thought "In the spriug," he said, very often— j " in the spring I shall die." The spring came too soon. The robins ' began to sing in the sunshine—the starling came to his old nest in the apple-tree by the well. Sometimes Frank would bid me ; open the window, so that he could hear the plaintive note of the bluebirds and the twitter of the sparrows under the eaves.— Wrapped in heavy shawls, and sitting in his great arm-chair, he would gaze out the window with his dreamy blue eyes til! he j seemed to fox-get that I was there. " They are getting ready," he would murmur. " I shall hear from thern soon." j I thought he was talking of the angels j " What do you see out there, Captain | Frank ?" asked Doctor Thomas, one such day, as he entered the room. " I am looking southward !" whispered Frank. " There will be good news from the front very soon. That is what lam waiting for." Then we understood him. The window looks toward the south, and commands a view of the road leading to the village, ten miles away. And it was there he aat when he died. You must know that here on the Heights we get the news but once a week. We are on no high-road where travelers pass. The half-dozen farmers who live on the Heights with us, like us, go to the village 011 Saturdays, the common market-day.— Then we get the weekly newspaper which I is issued in the village 011 Friday morning, and contains all the events of the week that is past. Frank slept none on Thursday night, and Friday morning early he asked that Philip be sent to the village for the Republican. It was afternoon when Philip returned. Frank sat by the open window, gazing earnestly down the road. It was a beauti ful day. The air was as balmy as June, and the birds were flying about and twit tering joyously in the trees. Presently Philip came in sight around the hend in the road. He was waving the newspaper in the air, and seemed to he shouting some thing, hut we could not hear. The orchard shut iiim from view a minute .fter, and 1 j ran down stairs to meet him at the gate and get the Rtpvhlican. "Hooray !" cried Philip. "Victory !" I devoured the news with quick eyes, and then ran up stairs to Frank, and knelt by his chair. " Dear husband," said I, "the news is grand. Do you think you can bear to hear it ?" " Mary," said he, " f shall never l><- stronger than I am this hour. It is my last. Tell me the good news. I have ! waited long for it." Amidst my tears 1 read the news Rich ; inond was evacuated and our troops occu | pied it. Jeff Davis was flying for his life, j and Lee's whole army had surrendered to Grant. An order had been issued to stop recruiting and drafting. Peace hud already dawned He listened with closed ejes, uu expres sion of unutterable happiness ou his white face. " Glory !" he murmured, when I had done. " The night is past. Dear wife, 1 am happy now. 1 knew I should live to see the dawn." An hour later he passed away. I sat at his feet, clasping his hand in both mine. " Mary," lie whispered, " you know tin legacy I leave my boy. He is too young to understand now, but as he grows up teach him its priceless value. The day will come when lie will be prouder to know that his father died one of the martyrs in freedom's cause than lie would he if 1 made him heir to millions. / was a soldier, too ! / wore the army blue !" His breath came lainter and fainter. His hand grew lifeless in my clasp. Then he rose up in his chair, gazed with brilliant eyes out at the window toward the south, waved his bony hand in the air, and fell hack upon the cushions. I touched his cold forehead with my trembling lips, and heard his last faint whisper, " Mary—don't forget!—l wore the bine !" And he was one of many. MORAL COURAGE.— Have the courage to discharge a debt while you have the money in your pocket. Have the courage to speak your mind when it is necessary you should do so and hold your tongue when it is prudent to do so. Have the courage to speak to a friend in a " seedy " coat, even though you are in company with a rich one, and well attired. Have the courage to own you are poor, and disarm poverty ol its sharpest sting. Have the courage to " cut" the most agreeable acquaintance you have, when you are convinced that he lacks principle. A friend should bear with a friend's infirm ities hot not his vices. Have the courage to show your respect for honesty, in whatever guise it appears : and your contempt for dishonesty and du plicity, by whomsoever exhibited. Have the courage to wear your old clothes until you can pay for new ones. Have the courage to obey your own con science, at the risk of being ridiculed by men. Have the courage to wear thick boots in the winter and insist upon your wife and daughters doing the same. Have the courage to prefer comfort and propriety to fashion, in all things. GIRI.S SHOULD LEARX HOUSEKEEPING.— No young lady can be too well instructed in anything which will affect the comfort of a family. Whatever position in society she needs a practical knowledge of household duties. She may be placed in such cir cumstances that it will not he necessary for her to perform much domestic labor ; but 011 this account she needs no less knowledge than if she were obliged to pre side personally over the cooking stove and pantry. Indeed, I have often thought that it is more difficult to dii-ect others, and re quires more experience, than to do the same work with our own hands. Mothers are frequently so nice and particular that they do not like to give up any part of their care to their children. This is'a great mistake in their management, for they are often burdened with labor, and need relief. Children should be early taught to make themselves useful—to assist their parents in every way in their power, and to consid er it a privilege to do so. A gentleman who had married a second time indulged in recurring too of ten in conversation to the beauties and vir tues of his first consort. He had however barely discernment enough to discover that the subject was not an agreeable one to his present laxly. " Excuse me, madam," said he. "1 can not help expressing my regrets for the dear departed." " Upon my honor," said the lady, " I can most heartily affirm that 1 am as 'sincere a mourner for her as you can he." A judge out West has recently deci ded that it might be insanity to sign an other man's name to a check in place of your own; but when you draw the money on the check, and spend in, there is a great deal of sanity in the proceeding. IT is a mistake to suppose that time is money. We know of one or two railroad companies that make first rate time but no money. IT is a pleasant thing to see roses and lilies glowing upon a young lady's cheek, but a bad sign to see a man's face break out in blossoms. NEVER refuse to pay the printer when you have read his paper for a year or more A man who does this is mean enough to. steal rotten acorns bom a blind pig. MANY a man thinks it's virtue that keeps him from turning a rascal, when it is only a lull stomach. One should be careful, and not mistake potatoes for principles. A Traveler tells us that lie knows a fel j low down South who was so fond of a j young woman that he has rubbed his nose ! oft* kissing her shadow 011 the wall. NONSENSICAL— For the ladies and gentle ; men to beautify their faces by artificial I means. W r e pity the man who married the j paint on a woman's cheeks. I IN Si am the penalty for lying is to have ; your mouth sewed up. Suppose such a | law were in force here, what a number of ! mutes we would have. IT is not so very fortunate after all, to be born with a silver spoon in the month. ! A good many have been sooner or later j choked with the spoon, especially if a very ; arge one. NUMBER 52.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers