Bradford reporter. (Towanda, Pa.) 1844-1884, June 07, 1866, Image 1
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They will be entitled to i ~ confined exclusively to their business, with of change. .g- advertising in all cases exclusive of sub ,;ption to the paper. !i)IS PRINTING of every kind in Plain and Fa n with neatness and dispatch. Hand- Blanks, Cards, Pamphlets, Ac., of every va • ,1 .-tvle, printed at the shortest notice. The - f !I OFFICE has just been re-fitted with Power • . C and everything in the Printing line can ■:u .1 in the most artistic" manner and at the TEEMS INYAKIABLY CASII. lOruimn] §?ortrg. For the Bradford Reporter. IIUENDS. ■ E KiTF I II V DEDICATED TO H. A. B. v-1 a friend? Are not all false or changing, ,tn;> u thediighway of my life, • v ■-h yi-ar this heart estranging r. m those whose love could enervate its strife? Have I a friend ? i i,. mi who often sat beside me, ... ..a whose eyes I though a true light shone ; : -nuiie came and sorrows to betide me, Ind when 1 looked again 1 was alone ; Was he my friend ? _ aiy treasures there is still a letter, protestations strong of friendship writ, one whose after silence burst the fetter Halt to his own my spirit closely fit. Was he my friend ? d the hand of one whose voice condoling, : •. red lue while lone upon affliction's bed, yester-month the battle sounds were rolling | ward me the enemy be fiercely led ; Was be mv friend? " . iv a lady fair and sweet and gentle, i'ho seemed to live upon the words I spoke ; . was my being in love's sentimental, But she was false, my heart adoring broke. Was she my friend ? j ■t those who warmest are in their profession, Experience this lesson true will teaah,) y will longest give the heart possession, Hut those who flatter not ia act or speech ! I have such friends. I wunda, May 2-TtLi. ME, THOMPSONS UMBKELLA. A BEAUTIFUL SKETCH. Augusta, I wish you would practice ■ I m's march. Mr. Thompson likes "a! liow sick I was of hearing about I fli mpson ! My poor aunt, she meant | v,-ry kindly, of course, but she little j w iiow she made me hate those single ! ; utienicn whom she so wished me to ;:ease. I was an orphan, and had forty | .•Is n year, and my aunt's annuity died .'A her ; so 1 suppose her anxiety to see j carried was both commendable and ' ,viral, hut to me it was dreadful. More- I perhaps because I was a proud girl, ; : chaps, too, because I was a foolish j the mere fact of a man, young ormid iged—for only the old and wedded : excluded— coming to the house on ;■ account, made him detestable in my - I should not wonder if that were i t the reason way I pleased none. I was j •i ito lie pretty —1 may say that now, 0 : it is so long ago —but plainer girls, j :ii no greater advantage than I had, ■at oil'at a premium in the marriage irket, and I remained Augusta Raymond, j wed and unsought for. I did not care, i I. I only lamented that my aunt j •Id worry these unfortunate gentlemen : 1 me with vain efforts to make me like | She was my best friend, however, j ■■ 1 loved her dearly. So 1 now sat '■• ii to the piano and played Chapin's | '••'b, and practiced for the benefit of the - 1 '! Mr. Thompson, who was to come * veiling, and who little knew, poor j I v, he had been invited to spend a j with us for the express purpose of 'g in ive with his second cousin's 1 had not seen him since 1 was a He was a young man then, tall, ■ - > i grave, and already on the road • r -perity. He was a rich man now—at rich fur a poor girl as I was, but he •> Mr. lumpson, and 1 hated him ; be ' he must be old, quite old. ■tight of all these things while 1 was . iig, and then I forgot them, for the di musie bore me away, and music was a !tn me then. " lived in the country, and a small but tiful garden enclosed my aunt's cot it was a low one, with broad rooms, : '-!e dark perhaps, yet strangely pleas- At least, they seemed so to me. 1 * ! .v liked the room in which I now sat 1 v Qg. It was our best room, but it was ' nr sitting-room. A central table was ■vn with books, some of which were 'ld friends, and others were pleasant new acquaintances. Flower-stands, ■baskets, and delightful chairs, chairs i to read or dream in, added to the at ions of this department. I enjoyed it j as I played ; but then, to be sure, the ws were all open, and every one gave * glimpse of the green garden, with a •''-ii of blue sky above its noddiug trees, the sweet scent of the mignonette came j vith every breath of air. Where are •Stt'jw, pleasant room and green garden? j ■■ ruthless hand of man has laid you > v and my eyes can see you no more, j ; '-if no home for lost places, no dream- | hke the Indian's hunting-ground, r " the tilings that have once been may )' u shadowy existence '! Are you real ver gone and lost, save when you j '-lack every time a woman, whose! ' ■ l!< turning gray, hears that grand, I v -rniul music to which your pleasant j •aim >s would seem so little akin? ;'*y dear ! Mr. Thompson 1" said my voice, as 1 closed the instrument. I 1 round and saw him; tall, dark,. "<•' very little altered, and not at all I "e had expected him for dinner, and j 4,i come for luncheon ; I forget how ; : ' l! stake arose. As he opened the gar- j -Ate, | le niet , U y UUI ,t. They heard me '• •> and stood by one of the windows 'i. \V hen 1 ceased they entered the 1 ; .^ : aud ' l was then that, as 1 said, I - • > . -• * ■' v■> - * -r* *. # E. O. GOODRICH, Publisher. VOLUME XXVII. I did not diiow it at the time, but I knew it later ; I liked him from that very mo ment. lam not sure that every girl would have liked Mr. Thompson. lie was decid edly good-looking, and he was both shrewd and pleasant ; but he had a quaint and ab rubt manner, which was apt to startle strangers. I liked it well, however. I liked that eccentricity which never took him too far, and that slight want of polish which gave flavor to everything he said or did. I liked all, excepting his umbrella. That 1 detested. It was large, massive and dreadfully obtrusive. lie had it in his hand on that bright, warm day, and long as our acquaintance lasted I never saw Mr. Thompson without it. Later, when our in timacy had progressed, I taxed him with this. "Yes," he said good-humoredly, " I confess it is my hobby. My earliest am bition as a boy was to possess an umbrel la, and my greatest happiness as a man is to go about with one." Uf course, we did not speak about his umbrella on this the first morning we spent together. Mr. Thompson praised my mu sic, and looking me full in the face, told me I played divinely. He said it without preamble, and I saw he meant it. My aunt was delighted, and I felt pleased ; but, somehow or other, I also felt that Mr. Thompson treated me like a little girl; and so he did, not merely then, but even after wards. Tiresome man ! I had thought him old before 1 saw him, and I could not make him think me old now that he saw me. Mr. Thompson did not stay a week with us, but a month. 0, that happy month, with long golden days and delicious even ings, and music and sweet converse ! shall I ever forget it ? If the wakening was bit ter, let me remember that the dream was very sweet. Mr. Thompson was to leave us next morn ing', and we were in the garden together. 1 knew by this time how I felt towards him ; and, kind though he was, I doubted if he cared much for me. And when he said, "Augusta, 1 have something to say to you," my heart began to beat. He used to call me Augusta now and then, having known me as a child ; but never had he said it so kindly as this evening. Ah, well ! I suppose many women have to go through the bitterness which came to me then. Mr. Thompson had met my cous in Jessie at Mrs. Gray's, proposed to her, and been accepted. From the moment lie mentioned Jessie's name, I knew my fate. Without seeking it, I suppose, she had ever stood between me and every good. She had taken the friendship of my best friend, the liking of my nearest relative—l was not really my aunt's niece, oily her late husband's—and now she had forestalled me in the love of the only man I had ever cared for. Surely she was not to blame in that, but, 0, how hard, how very hard, It seemed to me ? The nightingale sang in the trees above us, pure, brilliant stars burned in the sky, the garden was full of fragrance, and Mr. Thompson went on pour ing Jessie's praises in my ear. She was so handsome, so bright, so genial, and so de lightfully innocent ! And what do you sup pose he Told me all this for ? Why, because lie wanted me to go and live with them.— My Aunt's health hud been failing of late, and he was aware that I knew the worst might soon come, so he wanted me to be sure of a home. I burst iuto tears. " My dear, good child," he cried warmly, "if 1 were not going away, I would not have grieved you so. You have. I know, a true, warm heart. Your dear aunt may live for years : only, if she should not, Jessie and I—" "Fray don't!" I interrupted. I could not bear it. The more he praised me, the kind er he was, the more 1 wept and felt misera ble. At length, at my request, he left me. I grew calmer after a while, and went in. " Do play Chopin's march for us, my dear." said my aunt. Poor, dear aunt ! she wanted me to fascinate him to the last. She little knew that Jessie, whom she disliked so, had been beforehand with me there. I played it again. It was the knell of all my hopes. A gray twilight filled the room, and they could not see the tears which flowed down my cheeks. I played well, they said ; and I believe I did. Something from myself was in the music that evening was very sorrowful. Mr. Thompson came and sat by me when I had done. The servant brought in the lights and a letter for my aunt. While she was reading it, he said, softly— " You will think over it." " Pray don't," 1 entreated. " But you do not know how much I like you," he insisted ; ■' and then you will do my little heudless Jessie good—poor child ish darling ! Besides, 1 have set my heart on something." This crowned all. I guessed his mean ing ; lie had a younger brother for whom he meant me. He had all but said so this evening in the garden. "It would do John, who was rather light, all the good in the world.'' I could not bear it. I rose and went up to aunt " What news, aunty ?" I asked. " News, indeed !" she replied, amazed.— " There's Jessie going to marry my cousin, Mr. Xorris, old enough to be her father. 1 wonder what he will do with the little flirt ?" There was a pause. Mr. Thompson came forward. . I did not dare to look at him. " What Jessie is that ?" he asked. "Sure ly not Miss Raymond's cousin?" "Yea: the same. Do you know her?" " I have seen her at Mrs. Gray's." He spoke very calmly. I suppose he did not believe it. I pitied him ; from my heart I pitied him. " Perhaps it is not true !" I said. "Not true ! why she writes to me her self—there's her letter." I looked at him now. lie was pale as death, but very firm. Xeither troubled look nor quivering lip gave token of the cruel storm within. Something now called my aunt out of the room. " Augusta, may I look at it?" he asked, glancing towards the letter, which my aunt had handed me. I could not refuse him. I gave him the letter. He read it through with the same composure, then looked, for his umbrella, which he would always keep in a corner of the sitting-room, he said very calmly, " I think 1 shall go and take a walk." And he went out, and we saw him no more till the next morning, when he left us. My aunt was disappointed to find that Mr. Thompson had not proposed to me af ter all, and I was hurt to the heart's core by the coldness of his adieu. My value had gone down with my cousin's faithless ness ; mine had been at the best but a re flected light. I was liked because Jessie was loved. She became Mrs. Norris soon after this. She was married from my aunt's house, out of regard to Mr. Norris, who was related to her, and who disliked Mrs. Gray. "That busybody," he called her, and I am afraid she was a busybody. Jessie was very bright, and seemed very happy. She teased me unmercifully about Mr. Thomp son. She was sure, she said, he had made love to me, and she looked at me with cruel significance as she spoke. But I be trayed neither his secret nor mine ; and though she vexed me when she quizzed him to Mr. Norris, especially about his um brella, I did keep silent. " I am sure he will be married with his umbrella under his arm," she said, the evening before her own wedding. "Don't you think so ?" 1 did not answer her ; I went out into the garden, and wondered how she had charmed him. Alas ! I might have won dered how, without seeking it, how he had charmed me. Jessie's marriage was a blow to my aunt. She had always thought I should go <if first. She was also cruelly disappointed by Mr. Thompson's indifference, and per haps she guessed the meaning of my altered looks. I believe 1 got pale and thin just then. And 1 was always playing Chopin's march. "My dear," said my aunt to ine one evening, " is not that very mournful ?" " I like it, aunt," I replied ; but I re solved to play it no more. "Mr. Thompson liked it," she said, with a sigh. I wonder he did not propose to you," she added, abruptly. I was unite. " 1 wish I had never asked him here," she resumed ; " 1 cannot help thinking—" " Don't, pray don't !" I interrupted. She did not insist, but she made me go and sit by her. She caressed me, she coaxed me, and little by little she drew my secret from me. "My poor darling," she said, when I had confessed all, " he may value you yet." " No, aunt, he never will. But pray do not trouble about me. I mean to get over it, and 1 will." I spoke resolutely, and my aunt praised me. "You have always been the best of girls," she said, tenderly, "and I am glad you have had confidence in me. Ido not mean to leave home this year ; but now I will take you to the sea-side. You must have a change, my poor darling." She kissed me, and I remember how calm and happy I felt in that gray room, sitting by my dear aunt's side, and looking at the starry sky. The nightingale was singing again as on that sad evening when 1 had felt so broken-hearted ; tears rose to my eyes when I remembered it, and his last kindness, and my foolish withered hopes ; but the bitterness was gone from my sor row. " You must have a change," said my aunt again. Alas ! the change came with the morn. My aunt was late for breakfast. I went up to her room and found her calmly sleep ing. But, oh ! too calm, too deep, were those slumbers. The kind eyes which had rested on me in love were cl sed, the voice which had ever spoken in praise and en dearment was silenced for ever and ever. 1 suppose it was not Jessie's fault that her husband was my aunt's heir-at-law; but I found it very hard. Poor dear aunt, she always did mean to make a will in my fa vor, and she never did. Mr. Norris behaved very handsomely, I was told. He gave me the piano which had been bought for me, a few other articles of no great value, and all my aunt's wardrobe. He kept her jewels, which were fine,and the furniture,for which, as he said truly enough, I had no use. Moreover, he allowed me to remain in the cottage till Lady-day ; though perhaps, as he could not live in two houses at a time, and must pay the rent whether I stayed there or not, this was no such great favor after all. God forgive me, I fear I was very sinful during the dark days that followed. 1 had some friends who did, or rather who said their best, but there was one who nev er came near me, who gave me no token ol his existence, who had no kind word for nu , who let me struggle through ray hard trial, and who never ofiered a helping hand. He might at least have written, have condoled me in my sorrow, but he did not. And yet lie was in the neighborhood. He was fat at Mr Norris' house. Jessie herself told me so. True, he had business to transact with her husband ; but still, how could he do it ? He did it, and did more. Mr Norris was thrown ofi'his horse one morning and bro't liome dead. Jessie became a widow and a poor one, said the world. Mr. Norris was not a rich man after all, and he left many debts. I only went to see her once. I found her cold, callous and defiant, under her infliction ; yet I would have gone again if Mr. Thompson had not been Mr. No-iris' executor. He had business to settle with the widow, and I could only interfere ; be sides, I could not bear to see them togeth er. It was very wrong and useless, but it was so. Mrs. Gray often came to see me. I cannot say she comforted me much. She gave me a world of wearisome advice, and told me much that I would rather not have heard. What was it to me now, that accounts kept him so often and so late with Jessie ? They were both free ; and if he chose to forgive her and marry her, and if she chose to marry once more for money—l say it again—what was it to me ? And yet I suppose it was something, after all ; for when Mrs. Gray left me one afternoon in February, 1 felt the loneliest beiug on this wide earth. She had harped again on that hateful string,—that Mr. Thompson seemed quite smitten with Mrs. Norris. "And what do you think, my dear?" she added ; "he thought you were gone. He seemed quite surprised when I said I had seen you on Sunday. What,is she not gone ?' he asked—'gone to London ?' 'No, indeed ! What should she go to Loudon for V He did not answer that, but, fromjsomething he said,l saw he thought you were engaged to be married. 'I wish she were, poor dear,' I replied ; 'it ' is a hard case to be so young and so lone- REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER. TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., JUNE 7, 1866. ly.' I have no doubt be thinks so too, and so it is to prevent Mrs. Norris from being lonely that he goes to see her so often." Thus she rattled on, stabbing me with every word, till at length she left me to my misery. 1 sat looking at the fire ; it was bright and warm, but my loneliness was heavy upon me ; besides, it bad been snowing, and the gray sky and white gar den and silent air had something both lone and chill in them. Yet I was not quite alone. Early in the winter I had taken in a poor, half-starved, stray dog, and, though he was but a shaggy half-bred cur, I had made a pet of him. He had laid by bis vagrant habits willingly enough, and he now lay sleeping on the rug at my feet, — Boor Carlo ! he heeded not the morrow,and thought not of the future. Y r et how long could I keep him ?—and if I cast him away who would have him? He had neither youth nor beauty to recommend him—nothing but his old honest heart, anb who would care for that? "Pocrold Carlo !" I thought, and, perhaps because my heart was rather full just then, tears rose to my eyes as I thought of the fate that lay before him. I believe I thought of something else too. I remember a vision I saw in the burning coals ; how it came there Heaven knows. I saw them both, as no doubt they often were, bending over accounts which they read together,then looking up and exchang ing looks and smiles which no one could mistake. I wonder why I came back to images which tortured me—but it was so. I I do not know how long Mrs. Gray had i been gone, when Carlo gave a short bark ; the gate-bell rang ; I saw a.tall, dark form pass across the window, and my little maid opened the door, saying— "Mr. Thompson, ma'am." I rose. He came in with his umbrella as usual, and Carlo went up to him and wagged a friendly welcome. I could not say one word. I was dreadfully agitated. I felt sure he had corne to tell me that lie meant to marry Jessie, and to ask me to go and stay with them, or something of the kind. Nothing else could have brought htm. Or perhaps, as Jessie had. no doubt told him that I was gone, he had, 011 learn ing the truth, felt ashamed of his long cold ness, and had come to make some sort of excuse. He had none ; but he asked how I was, took a chair, looked rather hard at me, and without waiting for my answer, feared I was not very well. " 0, I am not ill, you know," I replied, a little carelessly. "I trust you are well, Mr. Thompson." He said he was very well, and he looked at the fire. For a while we were both si ledt. I spoke first. My remark was scarcely a gracious one. " I heard you were so much engaged that I scarcely expected to see you," I said. I was vexed with myself as I had said it. lie might think I was annoyed at his long absence, and, surely, I was not. But he took my implied reproach very well. He answered that he had, indeed, been much engaged, but that everything was over now. Mrs. Norris, he added, had left this morning. My heart gave a great throb ; but I was mute. " She left in no very contented mood, I believe," he resumed. " The balance in her favor was low—lower than 1 expected. Mrs. Norris has something like a hundred a year. This and a few jewels constitute the net profit she derives from her marriage. U luckily, these speculations cannot be repeated often, you see. The capital of youth and beauty has but a time—a brief one ; it is apt to wear out, and the first venture ought to be the best. Mrs. Norris, not having found it so, is disappointed. I suppose it is natural ; but you kuow /can not pity her very much." I supposed not ; but how all that cold, hard talk pained me. " I have a lancy," he resumed," that this kind lady expected some other ending to our accounts. This is not very flattering to my vanity, unless, indeed, as showing my marketable value ; is it, now ?" I would not answer that question. His tone, his manner, vexed me. Suddenly he raised his eyes to mine. " Did such a rumor reach you ?" he ask ed. I could not deny it. My face was in a flame. I believe I stammered, but Ido not know what. " Even you have heard it," he said look ing scarcely pleased ; " the world is very kind. And you believed it, too! I had hoped you knew me better." He seemed quite hurt ; but I offered no justification. Then he rather formally asked to be allowed to mention the busi ness that brought him. So it was business! I scorned myself for my folly* which was not dead yet, and I bade him speak. Was I asleep or dreaming ? Mr. Thomp son spoke of my aunt, her love for me, my forlorn position, and expressed the strong est wish to take care of me. " But," he added, with sorue hesitation, " I cau do so but in one fashion, as your husband. \V ill you overlook all these pe culiarities in my temper, which used to an noy you, I fear, and take what there is of true and good in me 1 Can you, will you, do this ?" He looked at me in doubt. Ah ! this was one of my bitterest moments. He cared so little for me, that he had never seen, never suspected, how much I loved him. And he expected me to take him so. I clasped my hands and twisted them nerv ously ; I could not speak at once. " And you, Mr. Thompson," I said at last —"and you —" " Well, what about me ? Do you mean, can I, too, do this ?" "Yes ; can you do it ?" " Why, surely, else I had never proposed it." He half smiled at the doubt my question implied, and he looked at me as he smiled. Both look and smile exasperated me. " Mr. Thompson," I said excitedly, " I have not deserved this. Carlo, come here." My poor shaggy Carlo came forward, wagging his tail. He laid his head on my knee and looked up at me wistfully and fondly, as only dogs can look when they vainly seek to read the meaning of a hu man face. " He was an outcast," I said, looking at Mr. Thompson; "he was starving; he came to this door ; I fed him, and he would not leave it. I took pity on him—l gave hiiu a mat to lie on, and a crust to eat. He loves me for it ; but Mr. Thompson, I am not quite so low as to be brought to this poor beast's level, I can take care of my self." Mr. Thompson threw himself back in his chair, and uttered a dismayed whistle as I made this free commentary upon his pro posal. " Well, well," he s iid, recovering slow ly, "I can understand that you should not care for me, but I did not expect you would take it so." " And how could I take it ?" I cried. — "You gave me pity, I scorn pity. Ah, Mr. Thompson, if I were not the poor, forlorn girl I am, would you feel or speak so ? Do you think 1 do not know how rich girls are wooed and wn ? If you cared an atom for me, would you dare to come to me with such language ?" " What language ?" " What did you mean by taking care of me ?" " What I said. Yes, Augusta, I wish to take care of you, true, fond, loving care ; nothing shall make me unsay it." He spoke warmly, and many a glow rose to his face : but I would not give in, and I said, angrily, that I did not want to be ta ken care of. "Do let us drop these unlucky words," lie entreated, "and do tell me whether you will marry me, yes or no. Let it be, if you like, that I want you to take care of me. I am much older than you are, you know." I don't know what possessed me. I said " No." Oh ! how I would have liked to I recall the word, but it was spoken, and he rose with a clouded and disappointed face. He lingered a little, and asked to know why it was No and not Yes. 1 said we could not be happy together. He bowed gravely and left me. I suppose he was hurt, for he did uot add a word. No assur ance of friendship, of good will, no hope that I would relent or change my mind, passed his lips. The door closed upon him. I heard the garden gate fall to, and I felt in a sort of stupor. It was over. What madness had made me banish him? Every step took him away farther from me--nev er—never again—should we meet. Per haps he would not have left me, then, if I could have spoken the truth. Ah ! if I could have said to him, " I cannot be hap py with you because I love, and you do not ; because my love and my pride would suffer all day long if I were your wife ; be cause it is easier to do without you than to have you on t ese terms." If I could have said all this, would our meeting have ended thus? It was too late to think of that now, but it was not too late to suffer. I buried my face in the pillow of the couch on which 1 was sitting, and cried aud sob bed as if my heart would break. Poor Carlo's cold nose, thrust in the hand which huug down by my side in the fold ot my dress, roused me. I looked up aud saw Mr. Thompson. He was very red and seem ed flurried. " I have forgotten uiy umbrella," he said, a little nervously. Yes ; there it was, in the corner, that horrible umbrella of his ! But, instead of going to look for it, he suddenly came and sat down on the couch by me. 1 do not know how I looked, but I felt ready to die with shame. lie took my hand and kissed it, "My dear Miss Raymond," be said, per suasively, " why should we not be happy together ? I cannot bear to give you up, indeed I cannot." I loohed at him in doubt. "Then do you really like me ?" I asked. "Do I really like you ? Why, what else have I been saying all along ?" "You said you wanted to take care of me." " 0, if we are to go back to that " he began resignedly. But we did not go back to that ; we went back to nothing, for a miserable girl suddenly became the happi est of woman. Still I was not quite satis fied. "You would not have come back, if it had not been for that horrible umbrella of yours," I said, with a little jealousy. " Very true," he replied, with his pecul iar smile ; "but I did come back, and I glanc d in through the window first, and saw you hiding your face on that cushion, and Carlo looking at you as if he thought it strange you should be so forlorn ; and so I came in for my umbrella ; and, to tell you the truth, 1 had forgotten it on pur pose." Perhaps he only said it to please me ; but as 1 looked in his face I did not think so then; and, though years have passed over us both. I do not think so now. Too LATE !—Alas ! how many hearts have ceased to beat with the wild pulsa tion of hope when those cruel, crushing words have falleu on the ear, leaving only the utter blankuess of despair ! How often have the struggles of long weary years re alized a fortune too late ! How often we have all found what we coveted most — friends, power, love—but TOO I.ATE ! How madly happy it would have made us once, before our trust had been deceived, and our spirit broken ! It sickens us now, for we had given up the thought of it long ago,and turn from it even as the dying beggar turns from food, the w T ant of which has kill ed him. PURITY OF FF.EI.ING—A life of duty is the only cheerful lifejfor all joy springs from the affections ; and it is the great law of nature that without good deeds, all good affection dies, and the heart becomes utter ly desolate. The external world then loses all its beauty ; poetry fades away from the earth ; for what is poetry, but the re flection of all pure and sweet, all high and holy thoughts ? WHERE HIS HEART WAS. —As a surgeon in the army was going his rounds examining the patients, he came to a sergeant who had been hit by a bullet in the left breast, right over the region of the heart. The doctor, surprised at the narrow escape of the man, exclaimed, " Why, my man, where •in the Dame of goodness could your heart have been ?" " I guess it mast have been in my mouth just then, doctor," replied the poor fellow, with a faint and sickly smile. HOPE for the shirtless. Boston is going to manufacture paper shirts at twenty five cents each. No excuse for shirtless persons, then. A lady, writing upon the subject, says : ' -When men break their hearts, it is the same as when a lobster breaks one of his claws—another sprouting immediately and growing in its place." #3 per* Annum, in Advance. SPRING. The yellow skies at eventide, The morning's crimson glow— The bare brown rocks that peep above The swiftly less'ning snow— The swelling buds npon the trees, The mellow heat at noon, Are sweet and subtile prophecies That Spring is coming soon. The sparkling brooks freed from the ice That bound their gentle flow— The stars are soft as the eyes of love— The Southern winds that blow— The breaths of balm from spicy climes, Like the sweet air of June— Spead unto us the welcome truth, That Spring is coming soon. The early robin on the elm, The blue bird in the hedge— The rippling of the forest spring Adown the mossy ledge— The purple haze that sails by night Between us and the moon— All, all suggest the pleasant thought That Spring is coming soon. For the Bradford Reporter. COMMON SCHOOLS- No 3- There are certain obligations we owe to ourselves and to society, the right perfor mance of which requires intelligence. In a government where the people are the rulers, i. e., make their own laws, educa tion is both an individual and a national necessity. An ignorant people never make wise laws. The community which allows ignorance to prevail in its midst, can never be a prosperous one. Every good citizen is interested in the cause of Education. The Common Schools are the only practical i means of affording it to the masses. These I place an education within the reach of every one, and if the people would give the Common School system their united, earnest support, we should soon see a mere virtuous, law-abiding, and successful com munity. It is a fact, however, that there is a species of opposition to the present school Law. This unfriendly feeling does not manifest itself in any well defined, tan gible manner, but is seen in that grumb ling, compl dning way, in which many in dulge when speaking of the schools. Hav ing received very limited benefits from the schools themselves, they denounce the whole system, in palliation of their own "intellectual poverty." Fault finding with some persons has be come a chronic disease, such a habit, that they do not stop to inquire into the reason ableness of the thing. The real friends of education are not of this class. The ground work of the above" opposition is found more I in the way the school law is executed,than in the law itself, We believe directors are frequently to blame for the unfavorable prejudices toward the system. They do not half execute the law, and there will always be more or less disloyalty to a law which is not enforced. Directors, we know, are a much abused class. Still this should not deter them from doing their duty. They have great responsibilities resting upon them. To them is committed the impor tant charge of educating the youth, and they should see to it that they prove faithful to the trust. Every motive of in terest and duty holds you to strict ac countability. To you, the friends of pop ular education look, to make the school system a success. You are the Executives of the laws. At the first meeting of direc tors for the coming year (first Monday in June) Resolved that you will make the law honorable by enforcing it. If the law requires convenient school houses, make them so. If good teachers are demanded, employ no others, and hold out proper in ducements to secure them. If uniform books are required, bring about a unifor mity at once. If the law says "visit the schools once a month," do so, or choose one of your members to do so. If the law makes you the guardian of the children "from six to twenty-one years o age," see if you are not robbing them by annually appropriating five per cent of the school fund for those the law says you are not the 1 guardians of. Where the law is faithfully administered by intelligent directors the ' schools will be found most prosperous. We J say, execute the laws. ALPHA BETA. TAKIXG COLD.—A " cold'' is not necessari ly the result of low or high temperature. A person may may go directly from a hot bath into a cold one, or into snow even, and not take cold by pouring a couple of tablespoonful of water upon some part ol his dress, or by standing in a door, or other opening, where one part of the body is cold er than the other. Let it be kept in mind that uniformity of temperature over the whole body is the first thing to be looked after. It is the unequal heat upon different parts of the body that produces colds, by disturbing the uniform circulation of some part. If you must keep a partially wet garment on,it would be as well perhaps to wet the whole of it uniformly. The feet are a great source of colds on account of the variable temperature they are subjected to. Keep these always dry and warm, and avoid draughts of air, hot or cold, wet spots on the garments, and other direct causes of un equal temperature, and keep the system braced up by plenty ol sleep, and the es chewing of debilitating food and drinks, and yon will be proof against a cold and its results. MRS. Partington is in New York. She came in from Boston as soon as she learned by tel graph that gold was falling rapidly in Wall street, but after several unsuccessful attempts to get into the shower is going back a disappointed woman. A young widow of very polite address, whose husband had lately died, was visited soon after by the minister of the parish, who inquired, as usual, about her husband's health, when she re plied, with a peculiar smile : "He's dead, I thank you." SUBLIME JIPECTAOLE. A COLUMN OK FIRE ONE THOUSAND FEET IN HEIGHT, AND A RIVER OK FLAMES THIRTY FIVE MILES LONG. A jet of lava or more stupendous propor tions than any ever conceived of, is descri bed by Mr. Co AN in the Honolulu Friend of February, in his account of the eruption of Manna Loa, on the Island of Hawaii : "The eruption commenced near the sum mit of the mountain, and only five or six miles southeast of the eruption of 1843. For two days this summit creter sent down its burning Hoods along the north eastern slope of the mountain ; then sud denly the vale closed,and the great furnace apparently ceased blast. After thirty-six hours the fusia was seen bursting out of the eastern side of the mountain,about mid way from the top of the base. NUMBER 2. It would seem that the summit lava had found a subterranean tunnel, for half way down the mountain,when coming to a weak point, or meeting with some obstruction, it burst up vertically, sending a column of incadescent fusia one thousand feet high into the air. This fire jet was about one hundred feet in diameter, and was sustain ed for twenty days and nights, varying in height from one hundred to a thousand leet. The disgorgement from the mountain-side was often with terriflic explosions, which shook the hills, and with detonations which were heard for forty miles. The column of liquid fire was an object of surpassing bril liancy, of intense and awful grandeur. As the jet issued from the awful orifice, it was white heat. As it ascended higher and higher, it reddened like fresh blood, deep ening its color, until, in its descent, much of it assumed the color of clotted gore. In a few days it had raised a cone some three hundred feet high around the burning orifice, and as the showers of burning min erals fell in livid torrent upon the cone, it became one vast heap of glowing coals, flashing and quivering with restless action, and sending out the heat of ten thousand furnaces in full blast. The struggles iu disgorging the liery masses, the upward rush of the column, the force which raised it one thousand vertical feet, and the con tinuous falling back of thousands of tons of mineral fusia into the throat of the crater, and over a cone of glowing minerals, one mile in circumference, was a eight to in spire awe and terror, attended with explo sive shocks which seemed to rend the mur al ribs of the mountain, and sound to wake the dead and startle the spirit in Hades.— From this fountain a river • 1 fire went rush ing and leaping down the mountains with amazing velocity, filling up basins and ra vines, dashing over precipices, and explo ding rocks, until it reached the forests at the base of the mountain, where it burned its fiery way, consuming the jungle, evapo rating the water of the streams and pools, cutting down the trees and sending up clouds of smoke and st am and murky col umns of fleecy wreaths to heaven. All Eastern Hawaii was a sheen of light, and our night was mined into day. So great was our illumination at night that one couid read without a lump, and labor, traveling and recreation might go on as in the daytime. Mariners at sea saw the light at '2OO miles distance. It was a py rotechnical display, more magnificent and marvelous than was ever made by any earthly monarch. In the daytime the atmosphere for thous ands of square miles would be tilled with a murky haze,through which the sunbeams shed a pale and sickly light. Smoke,steam, gases, ashes, cinders—furnace or capillary —floated in the air, sometimes spreading out like a fan,sometimes careering in swift currents upon the wind, or gyrating in everchanging colors in fitful breezes. The point from which the fire-fountain issued is ten thousand feet above the level of the sea, thus making the igneous pillar a distinct object of observation along the v hole eas tern coast of Hawaii. During the eruption the writer made an excursion to the source. After three days of hard struggling in the jungle and over lields, ridges and hills of bristling scoria, he arrived near sunset at the scene of ac tion. All night long he stood so near to the glowing pillar as the vehement heat would allow, listening to the startling ex plosions and the awful roar ol the molten colnmr., as it rushed upwards a thousand feet, and fell back in a fiery avalanche which made the mountain tremble. It was such a scene as few mortals ever witnes sed. There was no sleep for the specta tor. The fierce, red glare, the subterra neous mutterings and the rapid explosions of gases, the rushes aud roar, the sudden and startling bursts, as of crashing thun der—all, all were awe-inspiring, and all combined to render the scene one of inde scribable brilliancy and of terrible sublim ity. The rivers of fire from the fountain flowed about thirty-five miles, and stopped within ten miles of Hilo. llad the fountain played ten days longer, it would probably have reached the shore. FUN, FACTS AND FACETLZE, WHEN* does a man become a sugar-plant er ? When he buries his SWEET heart. LET no one overload you with favors, you will find it an insufferable burden. WHY does water boil sooner in an old saucepan than in a new one ? Punch takes it upon himself to answer this abstruse question by say ing, it's because the old un's used to it. A learned young lady, the other evening astonished a company by asking for the loan of a diminutive argenteous, truncated cone, convex on its summit, and semi-perloruted with symmetrical indentions. She wanted a thimble. DEAN Swift said, with much truth, It is useles for us to attempt to reason a man out of a thing he has never been reasoned into. A MULE driver iu the army was swearing at, and kicking a span of balky mules, when the general, who was annoyed at his profanity,ordered him to stop. "Who are you?" "Commander of the brigade!" "I'm commander of theso mules and I'll do as I please, or resign, and you can take my place." "WHAT did Mr. Hoke die of?" asked a simple neighbor. "Of a complication of disor ders," replied his friend, "How do you describe such a complication, my good sir?" -'He died," auswered the others, "of two physicians, an apoth ecary, and a surgeon." "WHAT is that dog barking at ?" asked a fop, whose boots were more polished than his ideas. "Why," replied a bystander, •-because he sees another puppy iu your boots." THE path of glory leads but to the grave, and the road of the whisky-swiller endeth in a bed in the gutter. PEOPLE perform the greater part of the voyage of life before taking on their ballast ; hence so many shipwrecks. A lawyer engaged in a case.tormentt d a witness so much with questions, that the poor fel low at last cried for water. "There, said the judge "I thought you'd pump him dry." THE man who courted an investigation, says it isn't half as good as an affectionate girl.— We expect not. A philosopher who had married n vulgar but amiable girl used to call her "llrowu Sugar," because, he said, "she was sweet, but unrefined. AN old lady being asked to subscribe to a newspaper, declined on the ground that when she wanted news, she manufactured it.