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fdcrtttl ftodwj.
TUB DEATH OF SLAVERY.
liV I.IAM CT'LLF.N BRYANT.
0 Thou great Wrong, that, through the slow-paced
\ tars,
Didst hold thy millions fettered, and didst wield
Tin -co urge that drove the laborer to the field,
And look with stony eyes on human tears,
1 j,v cruel reigu is o'er ;
Ti v bondmen crouch no more
In terror at the menace of thine eye ;
For He who marks the bounds of guilty power,
Lcug-sufl'ering, had heard the captive's cry,
And. t'in hed his shackles at the appointed hour,
\iiJ lo ! they fall, and he whose limbs they galled
Stands in liis native manhood, disenthralled!
A shout of joy from the redeemed is sent,
Ten thousand hamlets swell the hymn of thanks;
Our rivers roll exulting, and their banks
Stud up bosannas to the firmament.
Fields, where the bondman's toil
No more shall trench the soil,
Su m now to bask in a serener day ;
The meadow-birds sing sweeter, and the airs
1 u Heaven with more caressing softness play,
Welcoming man to liberty like theirs.
A glory clothes the land from sea to sea,
For the great land and all its coasts are free.
Within that land wert thou enthroned of late,
And they by whom the nation's laws were made,
And they who filled its judgment-seats, obeyed
Thy mandate, rigid as the will of fate.
Fierce men at thy right hand,
With gesture of command,
Gave forth the word that none might dare gainsay; j
And grave and reverend ones, who loved thee not j
Shrank from thy presence, and in blank dismay,
Choked down, unuttered. the rebellious thought,
While meaner cowards, mingled with thy train,
l'leved. from the book of God. thy right to reign.
iire.it as tlii_.ii wert, and feared from shore to shore,
i'he wrath of God o'ertook thee in thy pride ;
I'hou sitt'st a ghastly shadow ; by thy side
Thy once strong arms bang nerveless evermore, j
\iul they who quailed but now
Before thy lowering brow
111-vote thy memory to scorn and shame,
And scoff at the pale, powerless thing thou art.
_\tul they who ruled in thine imperial name,
Subdued, and standing sullenly apart,
Scowl at the hands that overthrew thy reign,
Ami shattered at a blow the prisoner's chain.
Well was thy doom deserved ; thou didst not spare ;
Life's tenderest t.es, but cruelly didst part
11 sband and wife, and from the mother's heart '
I'.l-t wrest her children, deaf to shriek and prayer: j
Thy inner lair became
The haunt oi guilty shame ;
TLy lash dropped blood : the murderer, at thy side,
Showed his red bands, nor feared the vengeance j
due.
Thou didst sow earth with crimes, and, far and ]
wide,
A harvest of uncounted miseries, grew,
I'util the measure of thy sins at last
Was full, and then the avenging Bolt was cast.
Go thou, accursed of God, and take thy place
With baleful memories of the elder time.
With many a wasting pest, and nameless crime,
And bloody war that thinned the human race ;
With the Black Death, whose way
Through wailing cities lay,
Worship of Moloch, tyrannies that built
!h Pyramids, and cruel creeds that taught
1 avenge a fancied guilt by deeper guilt—
th at the stake to those that hold them not.
L the foul phantoms, silent in the gloom
: tt flown ages, part to yield thee room.
the better years that hasten by,
( any thee back into that shadowy past,
Where, in the dusty spaces, void and vast,
I • • graves of those whom thou kostmurdered lie.
Ihe slave-pen, through whose door
thy victims pass no, more,
then. and there shall the grim block remain
u which the slave was sold ; while at thy feet |
" urges and engines of restraint and pain
-Mulder and rust by thine eternal seat,
re. mid the symbols that proclaim thy crimes,
Ihvrll thou, a warning to the coming times.
[Atlanticfur July.
jlfkftd Mr.
A STORY OF NO MAN'S LAND.
(CONCLUDED.)
1 "in was not long in returning ; that
i the wood was very unfrequented, but
there was a sort of path not far beyond,
and he overtook some men going from their
work, one with his fork over his shoulder,
it was growing almost too dusk to see foot
marks, but a little moon was rising, and
thev could just see by it and the waning
sunlight, traces of broken boughs and fern
where something had been dragged along;
a sullen little dark boggy pool lay in the
I.- ather just outside the farthest trees, and
tlnther the tracks led.
1 lie woodmen began to tear down pieces
M hark and light them, and a number of
burning torches were soon moving about
I'-uiid the pool, llow does news, particu
larly had news, travel so fast ? there were
bow fifteen or twenty men about, coming
!ii in all sides ; a discovery of this kind
•• lus to he perceived long distances ofl" as
vultures scent a dead body. They began
with their rude pieces of stick to sound the
'"•looking pool, black with peaty soil.
I'oor Rachel could not stir : she watched
h'< glancing lights, the dark forms in and
"t among the giant trunks, the red glare
''b the water, as if it were not a horrible
reality, hut only a picture. Little Reuben
'•I taken his stand on a bank conunand-
! 1; g both positions ; the men hud abused
1 in lor getting between their legs in his
vehement curiosity, and lie now acted as
ti h graph to Rachel, who had buried her
ace in her hands, and besides, where she
E. O. GOODRICH, Publisher.
VOLUME XXVII.
sat could hardly see what was doing.—
" Master Tomkins sa3*s as how he feels
Bummat,—no, 't ain't only a log " ; then a
dead silence, and the gesticulating little
arms rose again. " They've afound un,
they've afound un" ; found him, found
whom ?—Rachel's heart stood still, " Oh !
not him, not Maurice, good God, nut him !"
Then she felt as if she were praying for
the death of another man, and besides was
it not better that he were the murdered
than the murderer ?
Her suspense seemed to make her live
hours in the minutes that passed, before
the boy who had gone down, in his mad
excitement, to the pond again to see for
himself, rushed back to her.
It was neither, Maurice nor Leverton, no
one knew the face, —it was a stranger's.
HI.
" The crowner sat upon the body," but
he did not elicit much. There was a vague j
rumor of a man of the same height and ap- ;
pearance having been seen at , ten
miles off, but it was a thriving aud fre
quented port, where many strangers came
and went, and nothing followed from the ;
clew. Old Lovel knew nothing of his son.
A night or two afterwards, however, !
Rachel was sitting sadly at the foot of her
little bed ; the moon threw the shadow of i
the quarries of the window-panes over her, '■
not a breath stirred, when a handful of thin j
gravel was thrown gently against the win-1
dow. She looked out; a dark figure was j
staudiug in the moonlight, and she flew ;
down stairs and gently opened the door. — j
Maurice was leaning sadly against the j
door-post, but st the sight of her he seemed |
for a moment to forget his troubles, and j
snatching hold ol her he covered her with j
kisses.
" O Maurice," she whispered, as lie drew
her into the little orchard, where they could j
see all round, " what has thee done ? j
Where's Leverton ?"
" Dost ask first for him, lass ?" he an
swered sadly. " lie's all right, for aught
I know."
" Dear, thee should remember n ighbors I
say thou hadst killed he, or lie thee, or both
3*on stranger."
" Nay, 1 know naught o' aii3* stranger, '
nor o' Leverton either. He's a hiding,
watching for me, I'll be bound ; he've agot
wliat'l! send me to prison any day. 1 were
a-coming home 'cross the beech grove, just
awhistlin' aud thinking o' thee, when I cum
across a snare and a hare in it. 1 never
laid it, Rachel. I'd aswore for tli3* sake to |
give up poaching, but fiesli and blood can
not stand a hare in on. 's path, and a' took !
it out ; when out lept Leverton and dree j
more. He could n't beat me running," he i
said, with a bit of his old smile ; " but, I
there he lias his proof. I'd go to prison an j
it would win thee, but Ul3* grandfather :
would alius be acastiug it up to me ; and
I'm acum to tell thee thou'rt free," and he |
shook with his own deep sob. " Thou must j
na think o' one as will not know where to j
lay his head."
" Nay," said Rachel, very quietly and j
steadil3*, " I'm troth-plighted to thee, Mau- j
rice. I feel all one as if we were married
i' Summerhurst Church. I'll not leave lov
ing thee nor forsake thought of thee till
death do us part. If thou'st courage to |
wait, come and seek when Ihe storms be |
overpast, and thou'lt find me the same."
He took her in his arms again. " Thou'rt
true and hol3*, like the augel in the church,
Rachel, aud I'm ua worth 3* o' thee. God
bless thee aud reward thee."
As they stood under the fruit-trees the i
white petals showered 011 them like snow
in the light breeze ; their hopes seemed j
falling as fast under the moonlight, which ;
looked tranquilly down on their sorrow.
" Art thou safe here ?" said Rachel at j
length.
" No ; I mun be gone," lie answered, j
peering anxiousl3* round. " Leverton will
leave no stun unturned to catch me, and
he'll seek me sooner here nor anywhere.—
God bless thee, darling, true heart and
brave " ; aud lie disappeared in the shadow
of the great trees.
A woman's share in such partings is
much the hardest; a man has to do battle
with life, and cannot brood over his sor- 1
rows, while with her "it walks up and |
down with her, sits with her, lies in her
bed, and talks with her " As she crept up
stairs she felt stunned. Her life had made
a plunge, indeed ; she felt ten years older
than four short da 3's ago. Leverton had
altogether vanished. The nine days' won
der of the murder and the disappearance
of the two young men died awa3*; the :
rather stolid life of No Man's Land did not
trouble itself about au3*thing for b ng,
and except to his father and Rachel, poor
Maurice was as if lie had never been. The
da3*s went on long and drearily to her. No ,
| one can conceive the utter solitude of dn
I outlying cottage in so thinly peopled a dis- j
trict, and " if it had not been for the little
white hen," Rachel thought sometimes she
should have gone out of her mind.
Maurice gave no sign ; he could neither
i read nor write. The posts were slow and
uncertain in those days, aud rarely used.
! Rachel herself could not write, and 01113*
I " read in Bible and Prayer-Book." Any oue
i who has had much intercourse with the
poor knows how, in almost every family,
| there has been a lost one, never heard of
since his departure into the wide world,
and expected vainly and patiently, some
' times " a matter o' fifty 3*ear."
At the end of about three years there
was a dull booming of cannon heard from
llurst Castle, Portsmouth, wherever, in
short, there were forts in reach, and a ve
hement ringing of bells at church, where
they heard there had been " a famous vic
tor 3* " ; and later more guns and more ring
j ing for the peace after it. Also, six weeks
after, the OUI3* result of it that seemed
much to concern No Man's Land, viz : Lev
erton's appearance. He hid been seized
by a press-gang he said, and sent off im
mediately to a distant station, and only re
leased when both ships and men were dis
banded.
■A few da3*s after he appeared at the
clerk's. Unwelcome as he was to Rachel,
she could not refuse a greeting and con
gratulation in such circumstances, particu
larly as he looked ill ami worn and de
pressed. He seemed to have some incom
prehensible pleasure in coining, for he
would sit an hour or two at a time without
speaking in the chimney-corner, smoking
with old Silas. Rachel* at first used al
wa3's to leave the room, but as he neither
spoke to her nor looked at her, and hardty
seemed conscious of her presence, she soon
went on with In r ironing' or her cooking as
|if he were not there. She had some sort of
soothing influence over him, however,
; though she did not know it ; if she stayed
. long away he grew restless aud uneasy.—
He said he was t>o ill to take to keeping
again, even if there had been a place va
cant. Altogether it was hardly possible to
recognize the high-spirited, overbearing
Ralph in the silent, almost sullen, depress
ed man. Rachel was surprised that peo-!
I pie did not remark it, but he exerted him- j
j sell more in public, and emotions are not i
delicately noted in village life.
As lor the murder, " it were a long time j
ago ; it warn't their business. The man
were none of theirs, and Ralph was ; and ;
most like he knew naught about it. He '
had brought his ship papers ell right home i
with him, which everybody might tee " ;
and so the matter dr pped.
And soon a ruuior arose that Maurice
was dead, no one could say how or when,
but Rachel utterly refused to believe it—
Lever to n went on coming, and the old man
consulted him about everything ; lie seem
ed to grow more cheerful as Rachel grew
more dispirited. At last, after some weeks,
she was struggling on a windy day with
some drying clothes, when he came out and
helped her.
" Ye work too hard, Rachel ; 1 wish ye'd
let me help ye. 1 wish ye'd let me help ye
through liie ; the thought o' ye has been
wi' me all these weary days. Why won't
ye hearken what I hae to say ?"
" O Leverton," she answered, wrenching
her hand away from him, " how can ye? I
feel as good as married to Maurice, aud I'll
never forsake him." " But if he's dead ?" i
said Leverton, sadly. "He be n't dead ; 1 i
dunna believe it. I shall ha' him back a- !
gain. I wanna b'lieve it."
Leverton set his teeth and went back in- '
to the house without a word. Still he came 1
as before ; the old man, apparently out of
sheer contradiction, seemed as if he could '
not do without him, and Leverton took it
all in good part.
He made 110 way with Rachel, but she
grew used to seeing him there, and, buried |
in her own thoughts, hardly seemed aware i
when he was by. He went on with a pa- j
tience and perseverance, which in a better |
cause would have been beyond praise, to i
save her and help her with her grandfather
to ward off trouble and anxiety ; and she
could not but be grateful to him when lie
turned off a scolding from the fierce and
sullen old man, and advised him always, as
Rachel saw, wisely and well.
The Forest has long been a favorite
haunt of gypsies, And the pale blue smoke
of their encampments is often seen among |
its grassy glades. Up one of these went i
Leverton in search, not for the first time, of j
the old gypsy grandam of the tribe, who 1
was held in fear and awe by the whole
neighborhood. The tents, with their com- ;
plement of carts and horses, were pitched i
in an open space where weird old pollard
oaks, covered with the long gray lichen
which waves like hair in the wind, fringed
a gravel-bank which shut out the wind ; a j
little stream ran below. An iron pot, slung !
on crossed sticks, hung over a small fire ; ;
the old woman, with a red handkerchief tied
over her grizzled elf-locks, that protruded
from under it, sat and stirred. There was
a pleasant savor of savory meat, which
was probably not the case with the stew of
the witches whom she resembled ; but she \
looked like a Fate us she lifted up her filmy
black eyes on him. " Well, mother, here I
am again,"
" And what do ye want, with me, Ralph
Leverton ? No good I'll be bound ;ye
won't get that, with yer years, I'm think
'"e",
" Nobody can't say as it's bad this time, j
I want to be married." She looked at him j
with her piercing eyes, but said nothing, j
" She'd marry me, I believe, now, but that's
she tied herself to that poor crettur Mau
rice Lovel, and he's 'dead ; I know he's ,
dead," he repeated, vehemently.
" And that's what you want me to incense j
her wi'," answered the woman, with a sort
of savage laugh, and raising herself with !
a long stick ; "you as makes yer bed ou I
better men's graves. Not bad ! Howev- !
er," she added, for it is pleasant to indulge j
your sharp tongue, and your love of gain j
at once, " pay for yer merchandise, and get
gone wi' yer."
A few days after, Rachel had gone on j
one of her rare expeditions to the little '
market-town. He grand-father was ailing,
and she was late in setting out ; the long
June twilight of a close, hot day had set I
in as she took a short cut across the forest, I
and she sut down weariiy by a sort of ford '
where the gravel had been washed away
from the roots of the fantastic old beech
tives, and bathed her hands and face in the
little stream, which made a pleasant ripple
among the stones. Presently she heard the
dull tread of a horse on the sward in the
still evening, and she drew back among the
holly-bushes, for it was a lonely place, and
she did not want to be seen. A man on a
bare-backed horse passed close beside her
and was turning his head over his shoulder,
j as if to see whether he were followed.
lie was so near that, though the light
j was last fading, she recognized him as a
i loose sort of a fellow who belonged to the
; parish, but had no regular work, and made
; his bread as he could. What was he doing
j with Farmer Baker's horse ? which she
' knew also, because Leverton had been dis
| cussing it with her father. Both horse and
I man, however, disappeared quickly over
| the hill, and Rahcel went- on. She made her
way back to the road as fast as she could,
I for she did not like the encounter. As she
came, however, to the turn which led up to
her grandfather's the old hag who was al
ways called Queen of the Gypsies barred
the way. She was standing iu an open
glade, under an arch of green boughs, with
her scarlet cloak and a staff iu her hand.—
There is a curious love of stage effect in
the race ; they are born actors. There
i seems to be no absolute truth in words for
them ; they are only used relatively to pro
j duce an impression on you.
She began, " I have a word to speak to
you, Rachel Russell." Rachel had been
| brought up in a righteous horror of gyp
| sies,"however, and she hurried on, a good
deal frightened, aud refusing to listen.
" Aud you're the more fool for your pains,
_ girl ; for none hut I could tell of the one
who is gone, aud where he is."
" If ye ha' any news o' Maurice," said the
poor girl, trembling, "tell me, in God's
name."
" Ah, now you want my news, when you
REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER.
TOW AND A, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., JUNE 28, 1866.
I have n't the manners to be civil to them old
enough to be your grandmother. Pay me
1 for my tale, then."
" I haven't got 110 money ; aud them's
; 1113* father's things," said poor Rachel,
wringing her hands.
"Then give me that shawl off o'your
shoulders," said the old woman, fiercely.
Rachel pulled it off and held it out pite
ously to her.
" I saw a dark place among the holes of
the earth, and there were great wheels and
fiery furnaces ; and as I looked, the young
man was struck down by the fierce heat,
and torn asuuder by the whirl ; and there
lie 1 113* dead."
Poor Rachel walked away, stunned, with
out a word. She hardly noticed a 3'ouug
man with a peaked hat and a peacock's
feather iu it, who came up in front of her
when lie saw the iutereiew was over.
The old hag looked slowly after her
" I've settlei' her," she muttered, " with a
pain in her heart and salt tears in her eyes.'
" Wll3* do you hate her, mother ?"
" The old clerk lias turned us out of the
church lane, and done us grief scores o' \
times," answered she ; "and I love to hurt j
them as hurt us."
That evening, as Leverton was sitting
with the old clerk. Rachel rushed breath- !
lessly iu. " Why, what's come to yer ?"
said her grandfather ; " and what's come
o' 3*er shawl ?" "It were the old gypsy
wife as said she had news o' Maurice, and
I gived it to her for to toll me " ; and she
burst into an hysterical flood of tears as
she wrung her hands Lever
ton swore a deep oath as he rose angrily at
the " rascally old randy queen." He had
robbed Rachel of what was more precious
to her than maii3* shawls, and yet he was
furious at the old woman for thus exacting
a double fee for her lie. Ills rage, like
David's, was all reserved for the minor of
fender.
The old clerk grew more infirm. Rachel
was th most patient and attentive nurse,
but whenever Leverton was awa3* for a
da 3* or two he kept up a whining complaint
against her of how " ill voke behaved to
him." A grievance with some people is
the dearest thing they possess, and they re
gard you with infinite ill-will if 3*oll rob
them of their property explaining it
away.
The following Sunday Silas got down
with great difficulty to the church. An as- \
sistant had been appointed, but the great -
dignitary, a clerk, cannot be removed ; lie
held to his rights, and whenever he was
able he hobbled down aud read the re
sponses, together with the remplacaiU, |
which did not improve the service. When
he and Rachel arrived in the churcli3*ard, j
tlic'3* found the parliament or talking-place j
of the village in great agitation about the 1
stealing of Farmer Baker's horse. The |
gyps 3* encampment was so near, that it !
was all laid to the door of Geord3* Stanle3*, ;
horse breaker and horse-dealer, grandson j
of the old queen. The gypsies had so
much the best of it in ordinaiy life, that
the whole community seized greedily on J
any opening for retaliation.
" But I saw Will Suell riding away on ■
the horse, that evening," said Rachel, sim- j
P'- v ;
She immediately found herself the centre !
of interest, to her great dismay ; she had j
to tell her ston* over and over again : they j
crowded round her " But could 3*o asay :
for certain sure it were Will ?" said the j
clerk, sterna*.
Rachel was .thankful when the bell car
ried off her tormentors.
The following week, however, poor Geor- j
d 3* was lodged in the county jail. The (
horse had been found at a great fair, farth
er down in the west, at which Geordy was
present, and though the link between the
two was still wanting, " society " consid
ered him guilty without more ado. A day
or two after, a tall g3*ps3*, with a sullen
look on her handsome f ace, appeared sud
denl3* at the door of the clerk's cottage,
having carefully watched him go out.—
Rachel was leaning against the chimney,
gazing sadl3* into the fire, and she shrank
back as she saw the red cloak.
" You've no call to fear me, Rachel Rus
sell," said the woman ; " it's 1 as come to
you for help. I hear ye sa3* 3*oll saw that
fellow Snell riding off on the horse that
they've lay at 1113* poor boy's door. lie's
as innicint of it as a babe unborn. Ye
saw him yersoll that night along wi' 1113*
mother at the tents, arter yc met Snell.— j
Will ye come up and swear so at the j
'sizes ?"
Rachel shuddered ; it was terrible to her
timid nature to think of standing up before
" Grandfa Judge" at the court.
" Rachel," said the woman, striding up
to her, and catching hold of her arm, " do
yc know what it is 1 ask? It's a hanging
matter to steal a horse ; hearken to me :
I'll swear by anything you please he didn't
do it. You know 3*ou saw him 3'ersell art
er the horse were gone. Will 3 c let him
be killed afore my e3*es ? What's all that
praying and singing for, if 3*o let the inui
i cent suffer aud the rascals go free ?" she
; added solemnly, standing over the chair
; where Rachel had sunk in her agitation.— !
1 It was against all her class prejudices ; the !
! gypsies were feared and hated b3* every '
one round her ; tho3* were considered be- j
I yond the pale, outcast, an eccursed race,
j and she knew she should encounter her j
grandfather's wrath if she activcl3* h Aped |
1 them, as well as the, to her, terrible ordeal j
1 of the trial.
" If you'd a mother," the woman went on, ;
the great veins swelling in her throat with j
her efforts to conceal her agitation, " 3*oll
would n't serve a mother so."
" I can swear I seed un after Will Snell ;
rode off. I'll bear true witness for you :
: God Almighty help us a'," said the poor
j girl with a gaspiug sob aud a white face.
"Is it God or the other as is the bad
un !" said the woman drearity, as sho seiz
ed her hands with a passionate expression
of gratitude, aud disappeared in the noise
less wa3* she came in.
At last the rheumatics grew so bad that
old Silas took to his bed, aud sore work
Rachel had in the nursing, till at last her
tried Mrs. Ten-boy (so called to distinguish
her from other of the name) interferred :
" Y'ou see, chile, ye can't mind uu alone
any longer ; he'd be much better wi' an
old liuss. He'd just apotter aud abother
wi' she, and she'd up and answer he, and
that 'ud stir uu and please uu like ; while
he goes on a-hammering and agrindiug at
you, and ye won't answer, and it be n't no
satidgefaction to a man as had alius had
his own way, and likes some un as 'll stand
up to un. I doubt Sally Skene would come
for her vittles and a shilling."
Mrs. Page was quite right ; and when
that lad 3* was established in the house, and
never gave him anything without " argufy
ing," aud held her own as obstinately as
Silas himself, he was twice as happy as
with the gentle, patient Rachel, obedient
to all his whims.
At last he drew near his end, and the old
rector came up to see the last of his an
cient co-partner, as the clerk considered
himself. When he chose, Silas had the
belles manieres of the old school, —a manner
self-respecting and respectful, which is fast
d3*iug out in these days, when each class is
trying to appear something above it ; and
their uneasy familiarity shows the little
faith they have in their assertion.
Silas was not a good specimen of his
class. His life was by 110 means that of a
true gentleman ; but security of position
is one element of manners. As clerk he
felt himself a truty great mau, aud his re
ception of the rector was perfect. He was
pleased with the attention (the rector was
not given to visiting his people,—it was in
the old days) ; he was not grateful ; he
knew that it was his due ; he liked to have
the reading aud prayers all proper. He
cons.dered tiiat he had done his dut3*, and
was no wise anxious about his state ; and
nothing could be more curious, contrasted
with his usual humors, than the dignified
farewell he took of his auoicut chief, aud
his dying hospitalities.
His end arrived a few da3 T s after. " He's
been right down fractious to be sure," said
the old nurse. " I weren't yable to do
nothing as was right, he were that uncom
mon queer, but he's as quiet as a lamb to
night, for I've ataken awa3* the feathers
pilla ; he'll die quiet enough now."
Nils. Ten-boy made an earnest but vain
effort in favor of his soul. She would have
brought in her good little husband, a Meth
odist preacher, but Silas was furious.
" Now, don't ye go afussing and abuzz
ing any longer. It ain't a mossel o' good. It
stami's to reason as I, as have been parish
clerk a matter o' forty 3'ear, and could ci
pher and write my name alongside the par
son's, must aknow amort more than aii3*
Methodic about my soul and my salvation,
aud all them things ; and 1 ain't agoing to
be worried 0' that fashion. My soul, —I
know all about 1113' soul," he muttered, an
grily ; and the familiar w id stirring the
old association, " Awake, 1113* soul," he sang
in a quavering voice, " and with the sun, —
Let us sing to the praise aud glory " ; then,
as uneasy sensation.- wandered over his
dying limbs, " There's fuzzeu iu the bed, tie
up tliae bavins " ; aud so the old recollec
tions mingling in death, the old heathen
passed away ; and let us hope his was a
true prophoc3*, and that his soul did awake
in that other morning,—it had been mostly
asleep here.
" It were very queer," moralized good
Mrs. Fage, " how I could n't get him for to
listen ; / likes to be alarmed "
" Have ye told the bees ?" she continued;
and she went out to perform that important
ceremony. If it is neglected they either
resent the discourtesy Ll3' fl3*ing away, or
take it to heart so much that they all.—
Why they require this attention, while the
horse, cow, and pig, to whom it is so much
more important, are left to liud it out for
themselves, is not known, " so't is."
It is a merciful dispensation that we nev
er see the faults of our own belongings in
the clear light which we dispense to those
of other people. The clerk died in the odor
of sanctity, as far as Rachel was concern
ed, and she missed hini very much. " I've
got uobod3* to scold me now," she said pit
ifully to Mrs. Fage.
She was uow a good deal thrown upon
Leverton, to whom her grandfather had in
trusted all iiis affairs. He never put him
self forward, 3*et he was always read 3* to
help her, and poor Rachel felt herself
obliged to be grateful, and obliged to de
pend upon hi n. She felt as if a net
were gradually closing round her, for his
feeling for her was so real and deep that
her gentle nature could not find it in her
heart to express her dislike to him •, and
his spirits rose as he thought he was mak
ing way with her.
The day for the trial came en. Leverton
had his own reasons for not going near" the
law," and Mrs. Fage volunteered to accom
pan3* Rachel, iu a small cart, on her weary
pilgrimage. " Don't 3*o get set down as a
witness for Geordy," was Levertou's last
recommendation as he helped her in.
She felt almost as if she were going to
executiou herself as the tall spire broke on
her sight. Mrs. l'age was chattering all
the way as she went, and greatly enjoying
the unaccustomed "ploy." "What a sight
o' housen," said she ; " where can a' the
voke come from ?"
" Here's the gypsy's witness," was whis
pered as they made their way through the
crowded court.
She listed without hearing till her turn
came, when she uttered the few sentences
required of her, and held to her story with
gentle iirmness through all the badgering
and bailing of the opposing counsel. Hut
the evidence was too strong against poor
Geordy, and was found guilty and left for
execution. The passionate grief and anger
among the gypsies was frightful to witness, j
As Rachel came out of court her arm was j
seized by the pour mother, who nearly j
wrung it off. " You've done what yer j
could, child, you've done what yer could.
Ye shall be the better for it ; 't ain't for i
nothing you harm or help the tribe," she !
said savagely.
Sadly and wearily the two women turned i
home again ; and hardly a word was said j
till they reached Suminerhurst, and Rachel I
returned to her desolate home, where the j
old nurse kept house for her.
A few nights after, as she slept a dis- ■
lurbod sleep, she was awakened by a wild
I cry, weird and shrill, on the still air, and
j she sprang to the window. There was
nothing to be seen, but the wonderful beau
ty of the early morning : the dead stillness
of the world just before a summer's dawn
is very striking ; not a breath, not a leaf,
not an insect stirring,—all that world of
life in the deadest of sleep, just before the
waking. Then the gradual growth of the
light,—the twilight of expectation,—so
different from that of night. She turned
away from the casement,' when suddenly
came the old signal, the handful of gravel
against the window, and a voice called
" Rachel." She could hardly believe her
eyes.
per Annum, in Advance.
" Let rne in, Rachel ; it's me in flesh and
blood," said he.
" What's yon ?" said old Sally, as she
heard Rachel preparing to go down. "An
he's halloaing and squealing in that way
he's no come back a C'hristiau man."
" And ye're not married to Leverton ?"
i said he, seizing her in his arms.
" And how could ye ever think it ?" she
answered, reproachfully ; " and wherever
ha' ye abeen all this long, long while ?"
" Working in the black country, as they
ca' it, digging iron and coal in Wales, hop
ing for to come back wi' money to satisfy
thy grandfather. Then I had a sore acci
dent as used up all my gains, and I lieerd
from the gypsies that thou wast amarried
to Leverton, and I did n't care what I did.'
" And no one for to nurse thee ! How
wast thou hurted ?" said she.
" A poor litt'e chap were smote by the
mill-wheel, and I dragged un out, and were
hit myself Howsoever, the day before
yesterday there came a fellow us atelled
me (and swore it too) that the gypsy queen
sent me word to come home directly, that
thou werst na married, and there was peril
near."
" And she were no that far wrong," said
Rachel, with her gentle smile ; " it's been
a sore time, Maurice."
"And it were all Leverton's doing, 1
know," muttered he.
" What weie that dreadful noise, Mau
rice," said she, "we lieerd a while back ?"
"'T were the gypsy queen as they were
wailing," said he ; "they to'led me she
were heart-broken when her grandson
were found guilty. She set such store by him.'
(The poor fellow years ofter was discov
ered to have been innocent, and his execu
tion was one of the last under the fierce
old law.)
Not many days after their marriage Rachel
was standing at the door one evening look
ing out for Maurice, when to her utter
amazement, Leverton came slowly up the
steep sandy path.
"You !" said she, in blank dismay.
" Ye need not be 'fraid o' me," he said.
" I'm away altogether. I thought I'd just
see thee and bid thee good by. Thou
couldst have amade a man o' me, Rachel ;
but that's gone now, and I'm but come
that thou shouldst say a good word to me
to end- wi,' and gie me a drink o' milk as
in the old days. Tell Maurice he's got
what must amake it easy to forgive." He
stood moodily gazing out on the distant
blue line of sea over the woodland, which
gives such peculiar charm to that country.
"I shall go-to sea again, in a merchant
vessel," he said, and added, dreamily, " I
think't would amake my mind cleaner to
tell some un, Rachel."
" 0 don't," said she.
" 'T ain't anything so bad," he answered.
" It's true I strove t<> get Maurice out o'
my way for poaching ; but lie were tuo
fleet and wary, and I were forced to seek
sutninat else. One day 1 chanced on some I
voke I knew, as were part of a press-gang,
and I promised to help take oil' Maurice." j
" And ye call that not so bad ?" said
Rachel, angrily.
" Ye young lass, as has never been temp
ted, what dost thou know '! 1 set a snare
wi' a hare in it, right in his path in the
beech grove, and we watched. I could 11a
think he'd 'scape four pair of legs, but
they come out afore he'd got hold o' the
trap, and 1 tripped over a snag. The I
others did n't know the wood, and he were 1
off like a deer.
"Ay, Maurice were always the fastest j
foot in these parts," said Rachel,with pride, j
" Then they began to abuse me, when
it were their own stupid fault," said he,
for etting to whom he was speaking ; "and j
one on uni broke out violent that if they
did n't ha' one, they'd ha' the other ; and I
lie sei/.ed my arms. My blood were up, I
and 1 got at my hunting-knife, and swore ;
I'd ha' the lile of the first as touched me. !
They all closed in and 1 hit out at the j
nighest. ITe fell hack in his blood, Rachel,
a'most wi'out a groan. 1 were just stun
ned. I'd scarce had time to feel angry
even, and they did their worst wi'me, and j
took me away bound, saying they'd gi'e i
me up for a murderer an 1 would n't walk j
wi' um, and put me aboard a king's ship (
They did n't care how they got men then'
in war time. I\l no heart to write home, j
thinking o' nights o' that horrid pool, when j
they should afiud the body. 1 must be j
going. Good by, dearie ; shake hands, — ;
you'll wish me well, Rachel ?"
" God bless ye and keep ye straight,
Ralph," said she, tearfully. "You've
made a poor hand o'lii'e ; you'll do better,
now,'' she went on, laying her hand on his
arm, anxiously.
He looked wistfully into her eyes, but
at that moment Maurice's whistle was!
heard, and he was off like a shot.
" You's a bad uu," said Maurice, moodily, j
as he caught sight of retreating enemy. j
" Poor fellow," said Rachel, " arter all, j
he have n't adone as much hurt, 80 we've !
acome together at last. 'T were like silver
tried in the fire, were our love, dearie.
Please God, past troubles is like the dead
leaves as falls off of a tree and nourishes
it again" : aud she turned his face towards
her, and held it till the cloud cleared away; '
and he smiled fondly at her as she told j
Ralph's stoiy.
" Well, thou wert worth serving long
| years for, like Jacob," he said at last, as he
took her in his arms ; "but I'm thankful I
sha'n't niver see um again, or I should do |
un a mischiei vet I"
_ _
MEETING DEATH. —Bonaparte died in his
military garb, his field-marshal's uniform
1 and his boots, which he had ordered to be
i put 011 a short time previous to his dissolu-1
; tion. Augustus Caesar chose to die in a
i standing position, and was careful in ar- j
1 ranging his person on the occasion. Siward,
' Earl of Northumberland, when at the point
of death, quitted his bed, put on his armor
i saying, that "it became not a man to die
j like a beast." A more remarkable instance
is that of Maria Theresa, of Austria, who a
1 short time before she breathed her last.hav
| ing fallen into a slight slumber, one of the
j ladies in attendance remarked that her Ma
i jesty seemed to be asleep. "No," said she,
I "1 could sleep if I would indulge in repose,
but I am sensible of the near approach ut
death. And 1 will not allow myself to be
I surprised by him in my sleep, I wish to
j meet dissolution awake." Such are the
1 | efforts of poor expiring mortality—stiil
1 clinging to earth—still laboring tor the
• breath of prosperity, and exhausting itself
in efforts to rise with gracefulness at the last.
THE EIOH AHD THE POOR:
WHO ESJOV THE MOST ?
I will Bay, for example, that you are a
working-man, earning a pound or two a
week, and that 1 am an iukependent person
with an income of ten thousand a year. I
will not take the example of king, because
I apprehended few persons in their senses
would aspire to that uncomfortable position.
Well, then, we are both men, with the
some senses and the same appetites. As
regards our animal natures, you eat, drink,
and sleep ; I can do no more. Provided
we both have suiheient, there is no real
I difference in the satisfaction we derive
from these indulgences. My meal may be
composed of the so-called •' delicacies of
the season," while yours may be simply a
steak and potatoes. When we have both
laid down our knives and forks and cried,
"Enough," the sensation is the same in
both cases. It you hanker after my delica
cies, you own to a desire simply to gh e
your plate a passing gratification. Your
food is really more wholesome and nourish
ing than mine, and, if you were content,
you would enjoy it quite as much. Tie
real fact is, that these "delicacies of
the season" are invented and concoct
ed for me, not because they are good
for me, or because there is any great
amount of enjoyment in the consumption
of them, but because I have a vast deal ol
money to throw away. I merely conform
to a fashion in ordering and paying for
them.
I began with salmon, for instance. You
think you would like to have salmon every
day for dinner. Try it three times running.
Why, in old days before railways estab
lished a ready and rapid communication
with the London markets, the servants of
country gentlemen residing on the banks
of tbe Severn, Tey, the Dee,and Spey, made
a stipulation in their terms of engagement
that they would not be fed upon salmon
more than three times a wek. Pheasant
and partridge are delicacies of the season ;
but always to dine ou pheasant and par
tridge would be less tolerable than perpet
ual bread and water. There is nothing tor
which a man should be more thankful than
an ever recurring appetite for plain boel
and mutton —nothing except the means of
indulging that appetite. Those highly
spiced dishes, called by fine French names,
which are set upon the tables of the rich
and great, are mere cooks' tricks to stimu
late the languid appetite. To hanker after
such things is to have a longing for physic,
not fur wholesome food. Many grandjfoiks
who habitually (at them them ate misera
ble creatures, who have to coax their
stomachs at every meal—pitiable victims
of dyspepsia and gout.
People who envy the luxurious feasts ol
the rich should know that the wise men
who sit down to them only make a pretence
of partaking of the so-called good things
that are placed before them. 1 have heard
that the cabinet ministers, before they go
into the city to the Lord Mayor's banquet,
dine quietly at home on some simple and
wholesome viand, knowing that there will
be many dishes on the g-oauing table- ■ 1
Guildhall which they dare not touch Ti c
Queen spreads her table with all the most
elaborate productions of the culinary ar •
but she herself makes her dinner off a cut
of simple mutton. Cook as you will, and
lavish money as you will, there is no ex
ceeding the enjoyment of that carter sil
ting by the roadside thumbing his bread
and cheese !— All the Year Hound.
AN ENGLISH NOBLEMAN AND HIS HOR
SES-
A correspondent of the Ecening Pod
writes :
Perhaps the most striking thing to an
American visiting England is the size and
perfection of the stables. For instance ;at
Knowsley, near Liverpool—the Earl of De r
by's estate —the stables are very complete.
They consist of a quadrangle two hundred
feet square, including a paved yard ; in
the centre a covered place for washing car
riages, and beyond this a circle in straw,
also under cover for exercising horses ;n
bad weather.
Lord Derby's stables consist of a series
of rooms from fifteen to twenty feet square
on two sides of the quadrangle, and room
fifteen by l'dty or seventy feet on the thin,
side. The fourth side, likewise divide.i
into apartments, is appropriated for t ar
riages.
The state carriage, which is very ornate,
has a room--parlor in fact—tujitself ; then
conns an endless succession oi cuupes,p:u k
and pony phaetons, Landaus, Alberts, \ m
torias, Ac.; and in a long hall beyond this
is an apartment filled with a gr at vanetv
of four-in-hand and park "drags," vans for
conveying luggage to and from the rad
ways, dog-carts, an omnibus for conveying
the servants to church, Ac. The prevailing
color for the state and dress carriages : -
NUMBER 5.
yellow,with crimson silk curtains to plat -
glass windows. All the drags and puk
carriages are scarlet, the rum ing-gear
ing picked with black.
The stables and rooms at Know-Icy are
paneled in dressed oak about six ieet high,
the walls and ceilings being hard-finish* d
and painted some light neutral tint: the
floors stone, pipe-clayed daily, a single
plate-glass lantern, with gas, being in i.it
centre of each. The rooms,fifteen by twen
ty feet square, each contains one pair oi
carriage horses, the room being sometimes
(generally) divided into two loose Lux* s.
There were fifteen pair oi these, all datk
brown, about fifteen hands three inches
high, except two pairs of slatc-colored i <
ses, each sixteen and half hards high, and
v. ith their names Haunted over their heads,
all beginning with I>—such as RoiicasU-r,
Diomed, Damon, Dancer, Douereil, Dust,
Doom, Ac.. Ac. There were all in superb
condition when we saw them,so far as liesh
and lustre oi coats were concerned,but with
many of them the legs were bandaged, the
animals having come down from town the
| day before "considerably knocked up," the
! groom said, by the hard work of the Ln
--| don season. Although the day was warn*,
they were all hooded and double-blanketed,
! the under blanket and hood being scarlet,
and the upper (half whip-blanket) being
! white cloth, with the earl's coronet an*i
i crest worked in scarlet and blue in tliecur
j iter. The single horses, hacks, riding !. >r
: scs, Ac., were in stables containing each
twelve stalls, six and one half feet wide
f)a) r and night the horses are kept w. 1!
: bedded with fresh, bright straw.
Everything is, of course, in tin* fir:; st
j possible order, there being a groom and
I helper allowed to four horses. There are
1 thirty-five grooms and six coachmen at
' Cnowsley ; thirty-five men and five women
in the gardens ; twenty-five lodges and
; gates in the Park, and fifty other cottag. s
for gardeners, game-keepers, foresters, A
There were about sixty horses here ; tin
carriage horses costing front three hundred
to eight hundred pounds a pair.
A NEW HAVEN LAUY has a little buy,
about two years old, of dark complexion, wbe
! was sent into the sitting-room to amuse Lin sell,
j Soon bis mother heard a crash, slid on going in
' to the room found a fine mirror broken int*
.; small pieces. On being asked what be had donr
j it for, he said he was not going to have that curly
head "brack" boy making up laces at htm