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' ,•■ Advertising in all cases exclusive of sub notion to the paper. ji'iß PRINTING of every kind in Plain and Fa n, done with neatness and dispatch. Hand- Blanks, Cards, Pamphlets, Ac., of every va and stvle, printed at the shortest notice. The P R TER OFFICE has just been re-fitted with Power s. and every thing in the Printing line can , ut, d in the most artistic manner and at the TERMS INVARIABLY CASH. ftltrttd -Tof'try. From the Atlantic Monthly. TIIK DEAD SHIP OP II.AIIPSWELL. Nx JOHN U. vwnrriEß. What flecks the outer gray beyond The sundown's golden trail? [V white flash of a sea bird's wing, Or gleam of slanting sail ? 1 t young eyes watch from Neck and Point, And sea-worn elders pray,— , . ,st of what was once a ship is sailing up the bay. From gray sea-fog, from icy drift, From peril and from pain, The home-bound fisher greets thy lights, 0 hundred harbored Maine! liut many a keel shall seaward turn, And many a sail outstraud, when, tall and white, the Dead Ship looms i Against the dusk of land. Shi rounds the headland's bristling pines, She threads the isle-set bay ; No spur of breeze can speed her on, Nor ebb of tide delay. Old men still walk the Isle or Orr Who tell her date and name. Old shipwrights sit in Fret-port yards Who hewed her oaken frame. What weary doom of baffled quest, Thou sad sea ghost, is thine What makes thee in the haunts of home A wonder and a sign V No foot is on thy silent dock, Upon thy helm no hand; No ripple hath the soundless wind That smiles thee from the laud ! For never comes that ship to port lloweYr the breeze may be ; Just when she uears the waiting shore She drifts again to sea ls r tack nor sail, nor turn of helm, Nor sheer of veering side. Stern-fore she drifts to sea and night Against the wind and tide. la vain o'er Harps we 11 Neck the star Or evening guides her in ; In vain for her the lumps are lit Within thy tower, Seguin! In vain the harbor-boat shall hail, In vain the pilot call; No Laud sliidl reef lier spectral sail, Or let her anchor fall. SLak -. brown old wives, with dreary joy, Your gray-head hints ofill; And over sick-beds whisper low, Your prophecies fulfill. >• me home amid you birchen tree 3 Shall drape its door with woe ; And slowly where the Dead Ship sails, The burirl boat shall row! tram Wolf Neck and from Flying Point, From Island and from main, From sheltered cove and t.ded creek, Shall guide the funeral train The dual-boat with its bearers four, The mourners at her stern, — And out- shall go the silent way Who shall no more re turn ; And men shall sigh, and women weep, Whose dear ones pale and pine, And sadly over sunset seas Await the ghostly sign, i hey know not that its sails are filled !>y pity's tender breath, Nor si • the Angel at the helm ho steers the Ship of Death ! A HOPELESS CASE. i. A' rut THATCHER paced the room anxi- ' ' i"'s!y. lie was perturbed. He longed for tic- return of his adopted son ; he scarcely knew why, but he also dreaded it. He took : 1 b k ; he could not read. Gradually, lie sat before the fire, he fell into a rest r<s doze. The sound of a door opening J >1 the door-chain rattling awoke him. He ; sc and took the lamp into the hall. There '• v as his nephew, John Harkness, fevered, ; '-'i evidently with drinking. His face w as Hushed, his hat was crushed, his coat torn. " Why, Jack," said the Doctor, reproach lolly, "you've tired yourself in your rounds !l ' d then taken too much wine. You should t let those farmers tempt you. I used to find it hard." " There, that'll do," said Harkness, sul trily. "I've been with no farmer. I drank ■cause I'd lust at cards 1 tell you, and y ur cursed stinginess never leaves me a " ulling to try my luck with. I'll be kept under no longer. I'm over head and ears tn debt, and money I'll have. If Aunt i aiiuy won't stump up, you must. I'll get money somewhere, and I'll pay you out for ku ping me without a penny. No. I won't go to bed—go to bed yourself. 1 want bran ny Give me brandy !" Then, with a volley of oaths, Harkness threw himself on a sofa, and fell, in a few seconds, into a drunken sleep. lhe old Doctor stood over him, half par u'ysed with sorrow and surprise. Could rumors then be true ? No," he thought to himself ; " no, I W 'H not believe it. This is a mere youth en lolly. The poor boy has been led away L .v S'.ine of those farmers, who think they "show no hospitality unless they make their guest drunk. Poor boy, how sorry he will !fc to-morrow morning ! I shall lock him 111 bow, that the servant may not see him, Ul "i i will come myself and let him out, and h"-u lecture him well. Poor boy !" lb the morning, when Dr. Thatcher un " vked the door of the room where Hark -4,1 had slept, he found the window open the room empty. His old servant E. O. GOODRICH, Publisher. VOLUME XXVII. James informed him that Mr. John had come and ordered the gig at six o'clock, and started upon his rounds. " Poor boy 1" said the Doctor, "he was too ashamed to meet me. Daren't face me after the misconduct of last night. Gone out to work again, too, without his break fast, dear boy ! Won't dare to see his Aunt Fanny to-day, I'll be bound. Of course he meant nothing last night ; per haps I've been too close. I must call at the bank and draw a check for him. Ha ! I was bad enough at his age." An hour or two later found the rough but worthy Doctor driving at a ober pace to ward the bank. " There goes Old Murder !" cried the pert chemist's assistant to an associate, who was talking to him at the door of the shop in the High Street. "Yes. There goes old four miles an hour ! Did you hear of young Harkness, and how lie carried on last night at the billiard-room ? Swore he'd been cheat ed, got noisy drunk, and fought three of the men there with the but-end of a biliard cue. Oh, he's going the whole hog, he is ! How he flashes his money, to be sure." " Well, Thatcher," said the manager of the bank, as the Doctor alighted from his chaise, " what can we do for you ?" " 1 want this check, Miller, for one hun dred and fifty pounds, cashed, and I want to look at my book." " Certainly. Edward, get Dr. Thatcher's book from the parlor." " I am going to the post-office, and will call in a minute or two. Pshaw 1 how cold it is. Seen my son to-day?" " Drove by, Doctor, about half an hour ago, down Church Street." " Always at work. That's the way. — Early bird picks up the worm." " Thought he looked ill, Sir. Works too hard." " Yes, it is is dog of a life, ours. One gets old before one has leisure to enjoy what one has earned." The manager smiled dcprccatiugly, as | much as to say, " Rich people will have their joke." The Doctor came to the post-office. "Any letters, Mrs. Johnson ?" " Yes, Doctor. There's one for you." " Hand it out." The Doctor sat in the chaise and read it. It was from a hospital in London, a con sumption hospital, to which he annually subscribed twenty pounds. The secretary wrote to tell him that two year's subscrip tions were due. " Stuff about due !" growled the Doctor. " Sent Jack to pay it into their bank a month ago. He never forgets any thing." " Here is your book," said the manager, handing the small parchment-covered book to the Doctor as he entered the bank, where a larmer was scooping up a salmon-colored bag of sovereigns. " No, it is not entered," said the Doctor, in a startled way "Did not my boy Jack pay in twenty pounds the end of last month for Drummond's ? Surely? The last check he paid in. I've not sent since to you for any thing." " No, Dr. Thatcher, but he called last week for the hundred pounds for you." " The hundred pounds ?" " Yes, didn't he, Edward ?" " Oh yes, Sir, and the week before for the fifty pounds." " For the fifty pounds ?"the Doctor stam mered. " Let me see the checks, Mr. Mill er." The Doctor spoke quite calmly, but his voice trembled. " Will you allow me to sit down for a momeut in your back par lor till this gentleman has gone? There has been some mistake about a subscrip tion ; a quiet minute or so will set it right.' " Certainly, Sir. Edward, show Dr. Thatcher in and give him a chair. There, Sir, are tiie checks. Edward, put on a bit of coal, the fire's low." The Doctor, as the door closed behind the manager, looked closely at the checks, turned the signatures up aud down ; then he rested his head on his hands and hurst into tears. The signatures were forgeries. " I see it all," he murmured. " Oh, that unhappy boy ! and this, 1 fear, is not the worst. 0 Absalom, my son, my son !" " There's something up," said the clerk to the manager, as he took a hasty peep over the green curtain of the glass door. " Why, good gracious, Mr. Miller, the Doc tor's fainted !" ii. " Good-morning, Mr. Miller," said the Doctor, when he had recovered, and retaken his seat once more in the chaise ; " there is no blunder, after all. I see where the mistake lay. I have taken all the checks up to yesterday. Continue the draft. Young man, be kind enough to turn the chaise. Thank you." The Spartan boy kept the wolf hid till it gnawed into his heart. Dr. Thatcher had a secret whose teeth were sharper than even the wolf. In that half hour he had sufier ed the pangs of death itself. He drove straight to his sister's, Mrs. Thatcher's, whose neat little cottage was about a quarter of a mile from the town, and near the old parish church. As the Doctor's chaise drove up, Miss Paget ran out, looking very pale and anxious. " Well, Letty,"how's Fanny ?" " Very, very ill, dear uncle. No appe tite, very weak, no sleep." " That won't do ; and has Jack been ?" " Yes, and orders the same medicine, on ly larger doses ; but I'm sure—l'm sure it does not agree with her. Do give your ad vice, uncle." " I promised Jack, only two days ago, never to interfere with his patients ; but this once 1 will. Send some one, Letty, to take the mare round to the stables." Mrs. Thatcher; the Doctor's sister, was ! sitting up in bed, propped with pillows. ! Her handsome features were sharpened by illness, her cheeks were sunken, her eyes pale and anxious. "Well, Fanny, and how is it with you ?" "Bad, bad, John; perpetual pain, nausea no sleep, no appetite." The Doctor's face changed, a ghastly pal lor came upon his lips. " Let me see the medicine, Letty." Miss Paget brought it. The Doetor look ed at it eagerly, then tasted it. The next moment he had flung the bottle in the fire. A dew of nervous excitement broke out up on his forehead. " Uncle ?" " Brother ?" " The medicine is much too powerful for you in this week state. Jack is a clever fellow, but he does not know your consti* I tution as 1 do. You must not, however, I pain him by telling him you have not taken I his stuff, 60 I will send you some tonic that I resembles it in color, but less violent. This | was too much for you. Jack was right— he was right, but he has not taken into ac count your age, Fanny." " I could not take it yesterday, and Jack was very angry." " You take the medicine I shall send you when I return directly it comes ; take it every two hours till the sickness abates.— Now, come, lie back, Fanny ; you are very w ak." The pale worn face turned toward him and smiles on him, then the head sank back on the pillow, and the weary eyelids closed. " I cannot shake off this stupor, John.— Good-by, and bless you, dear John 1" The Doctor signed to Letty to leave the room. When she had done so, and the door closed, he sat down by I is sister's bedside, sorrow-stricken and thoughtful ; in that si lence, broken only by the tick of the watch at the head of the bed, and the deep breath ing of the sleeper, he fell on his knees, and prayed lor help and guidance from the Giv er of all Good. Then he took out his re peater and waited till the minute hand reached the half hour. It was three o'clock that had struck when Letty closed the door. Then he took his sister's hand and woke her. " What, John, are you here still ? How good of you ! I thought I was alone. I feel better now. It was that dreadful med icine that hurt me." " Fanny," said the Doctor, with all a wo man's tenderness, " when you made your will in the summer, you told me you left all j your money to Jack on his marriage with Letty. Now, I want you to do me a kind- 1 ness. " 1 left it all to dear Jack ; I told him so. I What kindness can I show you, brother, a poor, dyiiig old woman like mysell ?" " Alter the will this evening, and leave ! me the money during my liletirne. It will be a check on Jack, if he grows extrava- i gant or wild." " Ob, he won't, dear boy ! Yet, as you will, John. You have always some kind and good object in what you do." " 1 will bring a lawyer and witness in S half an hour. It might ruin even a well- i intentioned lad, and make him idle. Later j in life it will perhaps come better." In the room below the Doctor found Let ty, anxious and apprehensive of some evil, j but she scarcely knew what. " Oh, uncle, uncle !" she said, in tears, I "auntie is not in danger, is she? Oh, do I say she is not danger 1" " By God's help, Letty, she will be out | of danger in a lew hours. It is well 1 came. Letty, you love me, and you love j my son Jack ?" " I do ! I do ! j'ou know how 1 do, dear ly, uncle." " If you love us both you will then do as ! I tell you, and not deviate a single iota, for I much depends on what 1 am now going to- j say. But first let your man George ride j quick into town and get this prescription made up." What the Doctor's instructions were must 1 not at present be revealed. in. Three hours later the Doctor was in his ! surgery, examining a drawer of dangerous j drugs that was generally kept locked, lie j had just closed it, and was musing with j one elbow on his desk and his head on his i hand, when there came a step behind him. ! He looked round ; it was John. "John," he said, and he said no more.— But there was an infinite depth of reproach ful sadness in that one word. " Dear father," said his adopted sou, " I deeply regret the events of last night. I j was tempted to stay at a farmer's harvest- { home, and I talked nonsense (did I not?) about debt and wanting money. It was all wandering. Forget it all—it meant noth ing. It was foolish, wrong of me. I'm sorry for it." " Let it be the last time, Jack," said the Doctor ; "it is harder to come up hill one step than to go down twenty. Do- not break my heart by becoming a bad man. By-the-by, have you sent Aunt Fanny the med'cine, and how is she I" " Oh, pulling through all right She's as tough as nails." " What prescription are you using ?" "This," and John Darkness held up a bottle of simple tonic drops. " The old lady wants strength. Oh, she'll do if she can only get stronger !" The Doctor sighed, and said, ', The tonic is right." At that moment the surgery door open ed, and an old farmer presented himself. " Why, Farmer Whitehead, how are you ?" " Ailing Doctor, thank ye, with the fiin zy. Uncommon bad, to be sure ; and so is my missus." " Ah, I thought Jack here had been at tending you for months ; you are down in our books. How is this, Jack ?" The young man's color rose. "Itis a mistake of mine. Fm a regular duffer for memory ; it was Robinson at Woodcot I meant. I'll put it all right." "Just see to Farmer Whitehead then, now. Give him a diaphoretie and ipecacu anha to keep the pores open. I'll go and dress for dinner." " Steeped in lies," the Doctor muttered, as ho shut the surgery door behind him.— " I fed tqis serpent, and now he stings me ; but still no one shall know his shame, for I may still, by God's help, save him from crime, and leave him time and opportuni ties for repentance. Heaven have mercy upon him ! Yes, still—still I may save the boy I once loved so much." Dinner was over. The Doctor had been cheerful, as usual, and had made no further reference to the unhappy events of the night before. John Harkness had grown boister ous and social as ever, seeing the Doctor satisfied with so brief an apology. " Jack," said the Doctor, warming to the conversation, " go and get a bottle of that thirty-two port; I feel to-day as if I want ed a specially good bottle." John Henderson went, and returned in a few minutes with the bottle, carrying it carefully, with the chalk mark uppermost. " That's right, Jack. Don't do like the country butler, who, when his master said, 'John, have you shaken that wine ?'re plied, 'No, zur ; but I will,' and then shook it up like a draught. Ha, ha ! I'll decant it; I like doing it." The Doctor rose to decant the wine, stand ing at the buffet to do it facing a mirror, REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER. TO WANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, I'A., JUNE 14, 18(56. and with his hack to the table, where the young man had again sullenly Beated him self. In the round shining surface of the mirror the room was repeated in sharp clear miniature. The bottle was still gur gling out its crimson stores into the broad silver wine-strainer, when the Doctor, cast ing his eyes upon the mirror, observed John draw swiftly from his breast-pocket a little j flat black vial and pour a dozen drops of ! some thick fluid into the half-full glass i which stood beside his uncle's plate. lie took no notice of what he had seen, nor did he look round, but merely said : " John, I'm sorry to trouble you, but we shall waut some brown sherry ; there is ] hardl3* enough for to-day. Get it before we j sit down to the real business of the eveu "K- The moment John Darkness left the room 1 the Doctor, with the quickness of youth, | sipped the wine, recognized the taste of ! laudanum, threw open the door leading in ito the surgery, dashed the wine down a j # siuk, then shut the door, and refilled the glass to exactly the same height. " Here is the sherry, governor. Come, take 3'our wine." The Doctor tossed it off. " I feel sleepy," he said—" strangely sleepy." " Oh, it is the weather. Go into that green chair and have a ten minutes' nap." The Doctor did so. 111 a moment or two he fell back, assuming with consummate skill all the external symptoms of deep sleep. A deep apopletic snoring breathing convinced the Doctor's adopted that the laudanum had taken effect. A moment that hardened man stood watching the sleeper's face ; then, falling on his knees, he slipped from the Doctor's finger his massive seal-ke3*. The instant he turned to ruu to a cabinet where the Doctor's case-book was kept, the old man's stern eyes opened upon him with the swiftest curiosity ; but the old man did not move a limb nor a muscle, remaining fixed like a figure of stoue. " He's sale," said the coarse, uufeeliug j voice ; " and now for the case-book, to fix , it against him if an 3* thing goes wrong." As he said tin's the lost man opened the case-book and made an entry. He then lceked the hook, replaced it in the cabinet, j and slipped the key-ring once more 011 the j Doctor's finger. Then he rose and rang the j bell softly. The old servant came to the ! door. " The governor's taken rather too much j wine," he said, blowing out the candles ; ; •' awake him about twelve aud tell him I'm j gone to bed. You 8113* I'm out, if you dare; ; and mind and have the trap ready to-mor- j row at half-past nine. I'm to be at MfS. j Thatcher's." When the door closed upon the hopeless j profligate, the Doctor rose and wrung his j hands. " Lost, lost !" he said ; " but 1 will ' still hide his shame, lie shall have time ! still to repent 1 cannot—can not forget i how 1 once loved him." Sternly the Doctor set himself to that ; task of self-devotion—stern as a soldier j chosen for a forlorn hope. " To-morrow," j he said, " I will confront him, and tr}' if 1 can touch that hard heart." When the servant came at twelve the Doctor pretended to awake. "Joe," he said, "get 1113* chaise read}* to-morrow at a quarter to ten ; mind, to the moment. — Where's Mr. John ?" " Gone to bed, Sir. Good-night." " He makes them all liars like himself," said the old man, as he slammed his bed room door. IV. " How is your missus?" said the } T oting doctor, as, driving fast through Crossford the ucxt morning, he suddenly espied Mrs. Thatcher's servent standing at the post office window. The old coachman shook his head. " Very bad, sir ; sinking fast." John Darkness made 110 reply, but lash ed his horse and drove fiercely off in the direction of the sick woman's house. "It all goes well," he said, half aloud. " I had half a mind to stop the thing yes terda}* when I saw her ; hut these fellows press me so with their bills, and the gov ernor's so cursed sting}*. I really must press it on. It's no crime. What is it ? Onl}* sending an old woman two or three days sooner to the heaven she is alwa}*s whining for. Yet she was fond of me, and its rather a shame ; hut what can a fellow do that's so baggered ?" So reasoned this fa leu ruan, steeped in the sophistries which sin uses as narcotics to stupefy its victims. Arrived at the door he threw down the reins, tossed back the apron, and leaped out. He was excited and desperate with the brandy he had already found time to take. All at once, as he passed his fingers in vain through his whisksrs and shook his white great-coat into its natural folds, lie glanced upward at the windows. To his surprise, hut 11}* no means violent regret, he saw that the blinds were all down. " B}* the Lord Harry !" he muttered, "if ' the old cat hasn't already kicked the buck et 1 Vogue la galere, that'll do. Now theu for regret, lamentation, and a white cambric handkerchief." He pulled at the bell softl}*. In a mo ment or two the door was opened by a ser vant, whose e}*cs were red with crying.-- At the same instant Miss Paget stepped from a room into the hall. She had a hand kerchief to her face. " Oli, John, John," she sobbed ; "my dear, dear aunt." "Then she's really gone," said llarkness, ! with well-feigned regret. " Here, Letty, I come into the back parlor and tell me about I it. Why, I didn't think the old lady was I going so soon." " Not there, John, not there," said Letty, i as she stood before the door. " I'll go up and see her at once." " No, no, John, you must not. Not yet." " Why, what's all this fuss about, Let ty ?" said llarkness, angrily. " One would ! tlnuk no one had ever died before. Of course it's a bad job, and we're all very sorr}' ; but what must be, must be. It is as bad as cryiug for spilt milk." " Oh, John, }'ou never spoke like this be fore ! You never looked like this before. John, }*ou do not realh* love me !" And she burst into a passionate aud almost h}'s terical weeping. " Nonsense, nonsense, Letty ; }'ou know I do. We can marry now, now she's li ft me her money. I've got rather into a mess lately about tin. It's that old woman who lies up stairs, and my stingy hard old gov- ernor, who kept us so long from marrying and being happy. We will marry in a month or two now, let who will say nay.— By George ! if there isn't the bureau where she used to keep her papers. The will must be there. There is no harm in having a look at it. Where are the keys, Letty ? Go and get them from her room. She's no use, I suppose, for them now ? She kept them tight enough while she was alive.— Come, hurry off, Letty ; this is a turning point with me." Letty threw herself before the old bu reau, the tears rolling from her eyet. "Oh, John, John," she said, "do not be so cruel and hard hearted ! What evil spirit of greed possesses you ? You were not so once. 1 cannot get the keys. Wait.— Have you no love for the dead ?" " Stuff and nonsense. I want no whin ing sentiments. I thought you were a girl of more pluck and sense. Get away from that bureau. I'll soon prise it open. It's all mine now. Mind, I'm queer this morn ing. Things haven't gone smooth with me lately at all. Get away." lie pushed the weeping girl from the desk, and, thrusting in the blade of a large knife, wrenched open the front of the bu reau. A will fell out. As he stooped to snatch it up the door opened, and the old Doctor stood before him. There were tears in his eyes as he motioned Letty from the room. She gave one long look back, and the door was locked behind her. There was a terrible stern gravity in the old man's pale face, and his mouth was clenched as if fixed with the pang of some mortal ago ny. John llarkness stepped back and clutch ed hold of the shattered buieau, or he would have fallen. " John," said the old man, " you have de ceived me. I loved }'ou, loved you Heaven on y knows how tenderly. There was a time when 1 would have bled to death to save you an hour's pain. There was a time when 1 thought more of your smallest disappointment than I should have done for the loss of one of my own limbs. I foster ed you ; I took you from a bad father, and brought you up as my own son. I have been foolishly indulgent, and now, like Ab salom, you have taught me bitterly my fol ly. You have forged—you have lied Y r es, don't dare to speak, Sir. You have lied.— Blacker and blacker your heart became as you gave yourself to self-indulgence alid sin. Further and further you erred from/ the narrow path ; faster and faster you drove down hill, till at last, forsaken by the good angels, and urged forward by the dev il, the great temptation came, and 3ou fell into CRIME. Not a word, Sir ; 3'ou see I know all. Old as I ain,'twas love for 3*oo made me subtle. I found out your forger ies. 1 discovered your false entries of pa tients' names. I traced you out in all your follies and vices, and linally I saw you, when 3'ou thought me asleep, take the ke}*- ring from my linger, and make those entries in a forged hand in my case-book, that might, but for God's inhnite mercy, have led to m}* being now in prison as a murder er. You may start ; but even a horrible cold-blooded crime did not appall }*ou. It is fear, and not repentance, that even now makes 3'ou turn pale. The sin of Gain is upon you. Even now, eager faces are looking up from the lowest aLysses of hell, waiting for your coming ; while, from the neart st heaven, the pale sad face of one who loved 30U as a mother, regards 3*oll with sorrow and with pitv." "Father, father !" cried the unhappy aud conscience-stricken wretch, aud held out his hands like one waiting for the death blow 7 from the executioner. " Have mere}*! Spare me ! 1 did not kill her. She would have died, any how. lam young ; give me time to repent 1" " John, 1 will not deceive 3*oll as you have deceived me. My sister still lives. I discovered your intended crime, and gave her antidotes. She ma}* yet recover, if it seems good to the all-merciful Father ; still 3*ou had murdered her hut for me. Tell me not of repentance. Time will show that. I shall never hear in this world whether or not your repentance is true or false. Here is one hundred pounds. That will start 3*ou in another hemisphere for good or evil. I wish, for the honor of our family, to conceal your shame, and the last spark of love that is left urges me to con ceal your intended crime. Lett}* }ou will see no more. I, too, am dead to you for ever. It is now one hour to the next train. Spend that time in preparing lor your jour -1103-. At the nearest sea-port write to me, aud 1 will forward all that belongs to you. Your debts shall be paid. I shall tell peo ple that a suddeu spirit of adventure made you leave me and start for Australia." " But Lett 3* —one word," groaned the discovered crirai ial. " I love her—one word. 1 forgot her for a time in my cruel selfishness ; but I love her now—mercy— one—" " Nut one word. She is ignorent of 3*our crime, but she knows that you are un worthy of her love. Mind, one struggle, one word of opposition, and I throw you in to prison as a forgor, and a man who had planned a murder. Go ; wheu that door closes ou 3'ou it is as if the earth of the grave had closed over my eyes. We shall meet no more. Go. Speak to 110 one ; and remember, that the will you hold in your hand leaves not a single farthing to }*our self. Go. We part forever. If you write, 1 burn the letters unopened. Go." The young man stood for a moment as soldiers are sometimes said to do when a bullet has pierced their hearts. His face was the face of a corpse,but no tears came. The blood was frozen at its source. Then lie stood forward, kissed the old man on the forehead, and rushed from the house. In five minutes afterward the door softly opened, and Letty entered. The Doctor took her hand. They knelt. " Let us pray for him," he said, solemuly. " Letty, his fault you shall never know, but you must henceforward consider him as dead. Those who love me will never mention his name. Let us pray for him 1113' child, and may God's Spirit soften that hard and rebellious heart, for nothing else will. My hope and joy is gone. There is nothing lett me now but to prepare myself ; humbly for death. Come,Letty, let us pray, for prayer availetb much." v. ONE Jul3* afternoon, thirteen 3*ears later, a handsome burl3 T , black bearded man, in a fur cap and rough Australian coat, drove I up to the door of the King's Arms, seated I beside an older man even burlier and more #2 per Annum, in Advance. bearded than himself. He alighted and ordered lunch ; as he lunched he talked to the waiter about Crossford and old times. He bad once knowu Crossford, be said. " Has Travers not got this house now ?" "No, Sir ; he died three years ago, and his widow became bankrupt." " Where's Jones, the veterinary sur geon ?" " Dead, Sir—died in a fit four years ago." "Is Harris, the fat saddler, to the fore ?" "No, Sir—died last year of dropsy, and his son's dead too." The stranger sighed and drank down a glass of ale at a gulp. " Waiter, get me some brandy, hot." He hesitated for a moment, then he said, fiercely, "Is old Mrs. Teatcher still alive?" " What I old Mrs. Thatcher at the lawn? Oh, she died seven years ago, and left all her monev to her brother,the Doctor. There was an adopted son who would have had it, but be turned out a scamp." " Oh, indeed 1 This is shocking bad brandy. And the old Doctor—is still alive?" " Oh, Lord, no, Sir. Dead six years since. Why, Sir, you seem to remember the peo ple well ?" The stranger rested his head on his hand and thought for a moment ; then he said : " And Miss Paget, Mn . Thatcher's niece —is she living—married, I suppose ?" " Living—yes, Sir. Look, Sir ; why, there is her carriage standing at the bank door opposite ; wait, and you'll see her come out. Sheanarried a Lieutenant Price, of the Bomboy army " At that moment, as the stranger looked out of the window, a lady stepped into the carriage ; three pretty children—two boys and a girl—leaped in, laughing, after her. It was Letty, still beautiful even as a mat ron, her face wearing the old sweet amia ble expression. The skittish ponies rebell ed, but darted off amicably at a touch of their mistress's whip. " What, in the dumps old chum?" said the second stranger, going up to his friend, who still stood with his face fixed to the window. " Come, more liquor—l'll shout this time ; it's our last day in old Eng land." " Curse old England and all that are in it !" said the other man, turning round fiercely. " Come, let's catch the 11.20 and get back to Liverpool. If I once get to the old tracks in Australia—once on the back of a buck-jumper and after the kan garoos, I'll never set foot again in the old country. Here's your money, waiter. Come, Murray, let's be off 1" STORY OF A HORSE-SHOE. —A good country rnan was taking a rural walk with his son Thomas. As they walked slowly along the father saddenly stopped. "Look !" he said, "there's a bit of iron a piece of a horse-6hoe ; pick it up, and put it in your pocket." "Pooh !" answered the child, "It's not I worth stopping for." The father,without uttering another word | picked up the iron, and put it in his pock- i et. When they came to a village he enter- j ed a blacksmith's shop and sold it for three farthings, with which he bought somecher- i ries. Then the father and son set off again on their ramble. The sun was burning hot, and neither a house,tree or fountain of wat- ! er was in sight. Thomas soon complained j of being tired,had some difficulty in follow- j ing his father, who walked on with a firm i step. Perceiving that his boy was tired, I the father let fall a cherry as if by accident. Thomas stooped and quickly picked it up, and devoured it. A little further he drop ped another, and the boy pieked it up as eagerly as ever ; and thus they continued, the lather dropping the fruit and the son picking them up. When the last one was j eaten, the father stopped, and turned to the j boy, said ; "Look, my son I If you had cho- j sen to stop once and pick up a piece of j horse-shoe, you would not have been obliged at last to stoop so often to pick up the cherries." ABOVE HIS BUSINESS. —It is a serious evil that many a young man has fallen into to j be above his business. A person learns a ' trade and then he must go to shop-keeping, j or street loafin, or turn politician, Fool ! j If he cannot make a living at his trade, we 1 are sure he cannot any other way. And \ then young men brought up to shop keep- j ing must buy farms, or houses, or some \ other foolish thing they know nothing j about, and what is the result ? Head over heels in debt and certain failure. Multi tudes have been ruined by being above their business and branching out into what they know nothing about. A GENIUS out West, conceiving that a little powder thrown upon some green wood would facilitate its burning, directed a small stream from a keg upon the sraok ing pile ; not possessing a hand sufficiently quick to cut this off at a desirable moment he was blown into a thousand pieces. The coroner reasoned out this verdict: "It can't be called suicide, because be didn't mean to kill himself; it wasn't "visitation of God," because he wasn't struck by lightning; he didn't die for want of breath, for he hadn't anything left to breathe with. It's plain he didn't know what he was about; sol shall bring "died for want of common sense !" WHEN TO BEGIN. —"That you may find success," said Rev Charles Brooks, in an address to boys, "let me tell you how to proceed. To night begin your great plan of life. You have but oue life to live, and it is immeasurably important that you do not make a mistake. To-night begin care carefully. Fix your eye on the fortieth year of your age,and say to yourself. "At the age of forty 1 will be a temperate man, will, be an industrious man, an economi cal man, a benevilent man, a religious man, and a useful man. I will be such a one. I resolve and I will stand to it." My young friends, let this resolution be firm as adamant; let it stand like oath which can not be wind-shaken." thirds of the members of my church," says a pastor, "are honorary members. They don't come to prayer-meetings ; thes don't attend Sunday school; they don't add to the life of the church ; they are passengers on the gospel ship ; they bear no burdens ; add no strength ; their names are on our books ; they are honorary members." WHY are poultry the most profitable stock to keep ? Because for every grain they give a pick. AS OBIIBISS DISPOSITION It is several years since the following capital story made its last circuit of the papers, and we start it once more on its travels. It will find some new readers and many old ones who will enjoy it. There is nothing like an obliging dispo sition, I thought to myself, one day when travelling in a railway car from Boston to Worcester, seeing a gentleman put himself to considerable trouble to land anotlier gen tleman, who had fallen asleep at his desti nation. " Passengers for West Needhain ?" cried out the conductor—" the car stops but one minute." " Hallo !" exclaimed a young man in spectacles, at the same time seizing an old gentleman by the shoulders, who was sleep ing very soundly, " here's Capt. Holmes fast asleep, and this is West Needham, where he lives. Gome, get up, Captain Holmes, here you are." The gentleman got upon his feet and be gan to rub his eyes, but the young man forced him along to the door of the car, and gently lauded him on the roadside. Whiz went the steam and we began to fly again. The obliging young man took his seat again, and said with a good deal of satisfaction to somebody near him : " Well, if it hadn't been for me, Capt. Holmes would have missed his home finely. But here he has left his bundles and the young man picked up a parcel and threw it out. " Well," he said again, "it it hadn't been for me Capt Holmes would have miss ed his bundles finely." When we stopped at the next station, a lady began to rummage under the seat where Capt. Holmes had been sitting, and exclaimed in great alarm : " I can't find my bundle." " Was it done up in a piece of brown pa per ?" I asked. " Yes it was, to be eure," said the lady. " Then," said I, " that young man yonder threw it out of the window at the last stop ping place." This led to a scene between the obliging young man and the old lady, which ended by the former taking the address of the latter, and promising to return the package in a few days provided he should ever find it "Well," said the obliging young man, " catch me doing a good natured thing again. What can I do for that poor wo man, if I cannot find her bundle ?" Whiz went the steam, ding, ding, ding, went the bell, the dust llew, the sparks llew, and the cars flew, as they say, like lightning, till we stopped again at the next station, I forget the name of it now, but it would be of no consequence if I could re member it. An old gentleman started up and began to poke under the seat where Capt. Holmes had sat. " What are you looking for ?" I inquired. " Looking for ?" said the old gentleman, " why, I am looking for my bundle of clothes." "Was it tied up in a yellow handker chief ?" I asked. "Yes, and nothing else," said the old man. "Good heavens," exclaimed the obliging young man, "I threw it out of the car at Needham ; I thought it belonged to Capt. Holmes." "Capt. Holmes !" exclaimed the old fel low, with a look of despair, "who is Capt. Holmes ? That bundle contained all my clean clothes, that I was to wear at my son's wedding to-morrow morning. Dear me what can I do ?" Nothing could be done but to give his address to the obliging young man as be fore, aad console himself with the promise that the bundle should be returned to him, provide it was ever found. The obliging young man was now in despair, and made anotber solemn vow that he would never obliging again. The next station was his landing-plape, and as he went toward the door of the car, lie saw a silver-headed cane, which ne took hold of and read the inscription on it,"Moses Holmes East Need ham." "Well," again exclaimed the obliging 3'ouug man, "if here isn't Capt. Holmes' cane !" "Yes," said a gentleman, who got in at the last station, "and the old man is lame, too. He will miss his stick." "Do you know him ?" inquire the oblig ing young man. "Know him ? 1 should think so," replied the gentleman ; "he is my uncle." "And does he live at East Needham?" asked the obliging young man. "Of course be does. He never lived any where else." "Well, if it don't beat everything," said the obliging young man, "and I put him out at West Needham, a mile and a half the other side of his home." THE SECRET OF SUCCESS. —The basis of suc cess in all occupations which involve the relations of employer and employee and employed is, the employer should have an accurate knowledge of the work to be done, what it consists in how to do it and how long it should take. A man of busi ness who neglects this, place his interests entirely in the keeping of irresponsible agents, and human nature being what it is, arrives in due time at insolvency.— This is who the self-made man, who has been sternly initiated into the whole mys tery by having himself stood in the ranks of the employed, outstrips those who seem to start so fair from the vantage ground of education and capital, and builds a for tune where these kick one down. And the mistress of a household who neither under stands what a servant's duties are, (ex cept perhaps, those which, affecting her immediate comfort, force themselves upon her notice,) still less fiow and when they may be best fulfilled, will certaiuly not get them fulfilled in the best manner, or by the smallest number of hands, and hence will manage—or rather mismanage—her income in a wasteful, ineffectual manner. This is an inevitable result. THE SECRET OF BAD LUCK. —The secret of bad luck in our opinion, lies in bad habits or bad management, much more than in ac cidental circumstances. Generally those who complain most of Dame fortune's frowns, are those who have done the least to merit her smiles. A writer of much ex perience says : " I never knew an early rising, hard working, prudent man, careful of his earnings, who complained of bad luck. A good character, good habits, and iron industry, are impregnable to the as saults of all the ill luck that fools ever dreamed of. But when I see a tatter-de malion creeping out •fa tavern late in the forenoon, with his bauds stuck m his pock ets, the rim of his hat turned up, and the crown knocked in, I know he has had bad luck —for the worst of all luck is to be a sluggard, a knave or a tippler. PERFECTLY PLAIN. —" Sir," said an old Scotch woman to her minister, I didna ken a part of your sermon yesterday." "Indeed! what was it?" "You said the Apostle used the Ju/ure of cir cumlocution, and I dinna ken what it means." "Is that all? It's very plain. The figure of circumlo cution is merely a periphrastic mode of diction. ' <oh! ah! is that all'" said the good woman; "what 'a puir fool I were not to understand that!" NUMBER 3.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers