RMS OF PtJUiaCATIOJ*.
REPORTER I S published every Thursday Morn
. E O. GOODRICH, at $2 per annum, in ad
ing- •
exceeding fifteen lines are
1 at TEN CENTS per line fol first insertion,
IU ~I K IVH CENTS per line for subsequent insertions
#1 .v,j notices inserted before Marriages and
will be charged FIFTEEN CENT, per line for
1 "7* it ion All resolutions of Associations;
each IUNC" 11 "
• unications of limited or individual interest,
V', itices of Marriages and Deaths exceeding five
". ore charged TEN CENTS pr line.
1 Year. G mo. 3 mo.
One Column, §75 S4O S3O
out 10 25 15
Sail are 10 7i 5
1 -u .. lVi Caution, Lost and Found, and oth
advertisements, not exceeding 15 lines,
three weeks, or lesfe, $1 50
. ini-trator's and Executor's Notices.. .2 00
Auditor's Notices 2 50
Easiness Cards, five hues, (per year) 500
i,[ i chants and others, advertising their business
l>e charged S2O. They will be entitled to 4
~u „ , confined exclusively to their business, with
r. ilege of change.
' ,•■ 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.